“No, afraid not,” Candlewood said.
Nog shook his head. “We don’t know enough about what’s happened to Vic,” he said. “We need to take a more direct approach.” Nog headed for the wide walkway that connected the casino to the hotel.
Candlewood hurried to catch up. “Wait,” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to see if we can speak to—” Nog stopped walking and turned to face Candlewood. He looked around to ensure that nobody would overhear them, then decided on discretion. “I’m going to see if we can speak to the man Cool Papa pointed us to.”
“Nog, we don’t even really know if Vic is mixed up with Bugsy Calderone.”
So much for discretion. “Calderone’s involved,” Nog said. “Vic gave me a clue pointing to him.”
“That’s what we think, but we don’t know,” Candlewood said. “What if we’re wrong, and you go marching in to accuse a major criminal of something he didn’t actually do. We could invite more trouble than we already have.”
“We’re not wrong,” Nog said, projecting more confidence than he actually felt. “But if we are, we need to know that as soon as possible. Our time in the program is limited.”
“All right,” Candlewood said. “Let’s assume you’re right. That could be even worse. What do you think is going to happen when you confront a mobster about one of his crimes?”
“Listen, John, I would prefer to be stealthy about this, but we just don’t have time,” Nog said. “We need to find out what we’re up against and start doing something about it. We can’t spend all of our days here figuring out Vic’s circumstances.”
“All right,” Candlewood said. “I’m just . . . I’m just concerned.”
“I appreciate that,” Nog said. “Especially since I know you think Vic is just a hologram.”
“It’s not Vic I’m concerned about,” Candlewood said. “It’s you. I know you consider Vic a friend, and since you’re my friend, I want to help as best I can.”
“Thank you, John,” Nog said. “I really think we need to take direct action now.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Nog entered the large hotel lobby—to which the mining theme had been extended—and approached the concierge. The older man—thin, with silvering, perfectly coiffed hair, and dressed in an elegant black suit—looked up from his desk. “May I help you, sir?” A large, framed mirror adorned the wall behind him.
“Yes,” Nog said. “We’d like to see Mister Calderone.”
One corner of the concierge’s thin lips curled almost imperceptibly upward, as though the man wanted simultaneously to both conceal and convey his amusement. “We should go,” Candlewood said. He took Nog by the arm and lightly urged him away, but the operations chief held his ground.
“A meeting with us will be of financial benefit to Mister Calderone,” Nog said.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mister . . . ?”
“Nog.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mister Nog,” the concierge repeated. “Is there anything else?”
“Nog, come on,” Candlewood said. “Let’s go.”
Nog ignored the advice. Instead, he stepped forward, placed his hands on the concierge’s desk, and leaned in over it. He’d seen his uncle take such a pose before, in the face of some very powerful people. “If we walk out the door,” he said, pitching his voice low, “we’re never coming back.” A bluff, of course, but one Nog thought he could sell. “Before we leave, you might want to tell Mister Calderone that we can provide him what Vic Fontaine can’t.” Nog reasoned that if Calderone didn’t want something from Vic—or possibly for him, as in a ransom of some kind—he wouldn’t have sent his thugs to abduct the singer; he would have sent them to kill him.
The eyes of the concierge squinted for just an instant, as though he had chosen to adjust his focus on the Ferengi. A moment later, he stood up in a long, languorous movement that suggested that he had no intention of assisting Nog. “Pardon me for one moment,” the concierge said. He retreated through a door in the wall behind the desk, into what looked like a dimly lighted office. Nog realized that the mirror must be one-way, allowing observation of the lobby.
When the concierge closed the door behind him, Nog asked, “What do you think?”
“I think he might be contacting security,” Candlewood said. “I think we might be getting escorted out of here shortly.”
“Maybe,” Nog said. “But I think he might be checking with his boss.” They waited, one minute, then another, and Nog wondered if he had made a mistake. He started to consider what he and Candlewood should do next if they were turned away.
Then the door opened, and the concierge returned. “Mister Calderone has graciously agreed to squeeze you in to his busy schedule, tomorrow at six p.m.”
“Tomorrow?” Nog said, painfully aware of the hours drifting away. “That won’t do. We need to see Mister Calderone immediately.”
The concierge smiled tightly. “I suggest that if you wish to see Mister Calderone at all, you will beat a hasty retreat.”
Nog locked eyes with the man, trying to evaluate him. A lower-level employee, he thought, but a gatekeeper when necessary for the big boss. He doesn’t want to mistakenly chase us away, but he also doesn’t trust that we have a legitimate reason to meet with Calderone. Nog thought about the cash in his pocket and briefly contemplated the possibility of offering the concierge a bribe, but dismissed the idea as unlikely to work. Instead, he simply thanked the man.
The concierge leaned forward over the desk, as though wanting to impart confidential information. Nog moved closer, as did Candlewood. In a whisper, the man said, “You’d better not be wasting Mister Calderone’s time, or you’ll find yourself in a far worse situation than Vic Fontaine.”
vi
* * *
Candlewood didn’t care for the concierge’s threat. The science officer wondered once again why the holoprogram had become so antagonistic. Back on the old station, he hadn’t visited Vic’s often, but the few times he had, the atmosphere had been rather . . . jaunty. The style of music didn’t suit Candlewood’s tastes, but he could still appreciate the musicianship of the band and the silky voice of Vic Fontaine.
Of course, we’re not sitting in a lounge listening to a singer belting out songs, Candlewood thought. Maybe that change in setting had something to do with it. Still, he continued to believe that something had gone wrong with the holoprogram, presumably during its confinement to the simulation tester. Perhaps the code contained a bug—or more than one. Nog asserted that he’d run diagnostics verifying the program’s normal ongoing execution, but the more Candlewood experienced it, the more it seemed somehow off.
Does it, though? he asked himself as he and Nog exited the Silver Lode hotel and started across the drive beneath the porte cochere. In truth, the historical Las Vegas setting impressed Candlewood with its level of detail and realism. Theoretically, the program could contain one or more bugs, either native to the original code or that had developed in the simulator, and they could be constrained to some portions of the projected environment—such as the run-down Fremont-Sunrise Hotel—or to some of the characters—or to just one of the characters. Candlewood feared that, if they did manage to find and free Vic, the singer would no longer be the friend Nog remembered him to be.
The two did not speak on their way across the parking lot. Candlewood worried that their conversation with the concierge had distressed Nog. Once they reached the sidewalk and joined the river of tourists strolling toward Las Vegas Boulevard, he stole a glance at his friend in an attempt to gauge his emotional state. To his surprise, Nog smiled. “His threat didn’t upset you?” Candlewood asked, pointing back toward the Silver Lode.
“Why would it upset me?” Nog said. “We already know that Vic is in trouble, and this just confirms it. But it also confirms that we’re
on his trail.”
“What do you plan on saying to this Bugsy Calderone?” Candlewood asked. “Cool Papa Owens told us he’s a mobster. That doesn’t make me think that he’s just going to hand Vic over to us.”
“No, probably not, but we can find out the reason he kidnapped Vic,” Nog said. “Whatever problem Calderone has with him, we’ll have to figure out how to resolve it.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Candlewood said, “but I’m not sure that—” He stopped speaking when he saw that Nog no longer walked beside him. He looked back and saw that the operations chief had fallen a few steps behind, his face a mien of concentration. “What is it?”
Nog quickly hurried to rejoin Candlewood. “Let’s keep walking,” Nog said, his voice tense.
Candlewood resumed his pace. Nog fell in beside him, his attention still clearly focused elsewhere. “What’s the matter?” Candlewood asked.
“We’re being followed,” Nog said quietly.
Candlewood resisted the urge to turn and search among the crowd of pedestrians for whoever might be trailing them. “How do you know?” he asked Nog.
“I can hear the footsteps.”
Candlewood listened, but he could not distinguish among the many pairs of shoes beating against the pavement. With the ambient noise, he could barely make out his own footfalls. He nevertheless trusted Nog’s instincts—his instincts, and his ears. The operations chief had impressed Candlewood with his auditory abilities on more than one occasion. “How many people are following us?”
“Just one,” Nog said. “Just one, but . . .” He tilted his head to one side for a few seconds, as though adjusting the position of his ears to better hear the object of his attention. “It’s just one set of footsteps, but they’re familiar.”
“Familiar?” Candlewood said. He thought about whom Nog had interacted with enough that he could recognize a holographic character by their stride. The concierge? Cool Papa Owens? Maybe the thugs Nog had seen abduct Vic? “Who is it?”
Nog didn’t seem to hear the question. Instead, he asked one of his own. “John, do you see the entrance to the next parking lot up ahead?”
Candlewood looked past the people on the sidewalk. To the right, automobiles drove up and down the roadway. To the left ran a tall manicured hedge, which ended at a drive where a large sign trumpeted the entry to the Desert Palm Casino. “I see it,” he said.
“When we get there, turn left and go up the drive toward the casino,” Nog said. “Keep walking and talking as though I’m right beside you.”
“All right,” Candlewood said, guessing what Nog had in mind, and being cautious enough not to ask about it.
When they reached the drive, they left the main flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk and headed toward the Desert Palm. Nog immediately ducked behind the hedge, while Candlewood kept walking and talking. “By the way, Nog, did you notice some of the dealers in the Silver Lode?” he asked. “There were some very handsome men in there.” He felt a bit silly speaking to empty air. Except that, with those ears, Nog can probably still hear me. “I don’t know the full capabilities of this holoprogram, but if we can save Vic, I might just have to come back here and—”
“Hey!”
Candlewood heard the feminine shout, and he turned to see that Nog had emerged from his hiding spot behind the hedge to grab a woman by her arm. She wore a long green dress and an elegant beige hat. A handbag dangled on gold straps from her shoulder. She looked familiar to Candlewood, but he couldn’t quite place her.
As he rushed toward Nog and the woman, she yanked her arm free of his grip. Candlewood expected her to dash away, but she didn’t. Several people in the parking lot looked over, but Candlewood assured them they had nothing to worry about, and the woman waved onlookers away.
“What are you doing here?” Nog asked as Candlewood reached the pair. Up close, the science officer noticed the creases on the bridge of the woman’s nose. Either something had gone terribly wrong with the holoprogram, or she was a real person who’d entered the holosuite after them.
“I just wanted to see what sort of progress you were making with Vic’s program,” the woman said, lending credence to her status as a user, not a character. “I told you months ago that I wanted you to bring me here. I guess I just got too anxious.”
“Who are you?” Candlewood asked.
Before she could reply, Nog answered. “This is Ulu Lani,” he said. “She works for my uncle.”
“You’re a dabo girl?” Candlewood asked.
“Waitstaff,” Ulu said.
“And a spy,” Nog charged. He spoke the words as though they tasted bitter in his mouth.
“Nog—” Ulu started to say, but the operations chief interrupted her.
“Don’t try to deny it,” he said. “I heard you last night outside the Shining Oasis. You followed us to Cool Papa Owens’s place.”
“Wait a minute,” Candlewood said. “Who would this woman be spying for? Not Calderone; that wouldn’t make any sense.” The notion of a holographic character enlisting the aid of a real person sounded ridiculous. Except isn’t that essentially what happened when Vic Fontaine needed help with the jack-in-the-box threat?
“No, not for Calderone,” Nog said. “For my uncle.”
“But why?” Candlewood asked.
“That’s a good question,” Nog said. “If I know my uncle, it’s because he wants to prevent me from saving Vic so he doesn’t have to dedicate a holosuite to the program around the clock. Is that it?”
“I don’t know,” Ulu said. “I don’t think he wants to stop you from restoring the program. I think he’s just anxious for the situation to resolve one way or the other. He would prefer to have Vic’s lounge back, but he doesn’t want to keep waiting. Now that his business is doing so well, he has a greater need than ever for the holosuites.”
“Business before family,” Nog said. Candlewood wondered if he had quoted a Rule of Acquisition.
“I don’t agree,” Ulu said. “You’ve been working on Vic’s program since the new starbase began full operation, almost five months ago. Quark has let you do that.”
“But he doesn’t trust his own nephew enough not to spy on him,” Nog said. He sounded hurt, which struck Candlewood as odd. Nog loved his uncle, and Candlewood assumed that Quark loved his nephew, but they lived very different lives. The elder Ferengi remained ensconced in the world of capitalism, while the younger had moved from there to the more idealistic world of Starfleet. Nog and Quark had a familial relationship, but from what Candlewood had seen, neither really expected much from the other.
“You say that about Quark,” Ulu told Nog, “but you don’t trust him either.”
“Of course I trust my uncle.”
“Really?” Ulu said. “Is that why you’ve had Vic’s program running for a month and a half, but haven’t told Quark yet?”
“Well, I . . . I . . .” Nog seemed at a loss.
“I think the words you’re looking for are: I don’t trust my uncle,” Ulu said.
“I just didn’t want him tampering with Vic’s program until I could set things right,” Nog said.
“I understand,” Ulu said. “You didn’t trust that Quark wouldn’t tamper with the holoprogram.”
Nog gazed down toward his feet, obviously abashed, but then he looked up at Ulu. “You lied to me,” he said quietly to her. Candlewood didn’t know to what Nog referred.
“I didn’t,” Ulu said. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“You lied,” Nog said again, and then he looked to Candlewood. “She’s been flirting with me from the night I started working to upload Vic’s program from the tester—obviously so she could follow my progress and report back to my uncle.” Nog appeared crestfallen. “I should have known better.”
“What?” Ulu said, suddenly angry. “Why should you have known better?
Because you think I’m beautiful, and you think a beautiful woman could never be genuinely interested in you? Maybe you should tell that to your father’s wife. Maybe you should tell Captain Ro.”
“Don’t try to sell me your lies,” Nog said.
“I’m not trying to sell you anything,” Ulu said. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“So it’s just a coincidence that you flirted with me while you were spying on me,” Nog said.
“No, it’s not a coincidence,” Ulu said more calmly. “Quark wanted me to check on your work, but he didn’t ask me to flirt with you.” She reached forward and took Nog’s hands. “I flirted with you because I liked you. I still like you.”
“Really?” Nog said in a tone that somehow mixed melancholy and hope.
“Really,” Ulu said. “And I can prove it to you.” She opened her handbag. “Yes, I’ve been observing your efforts in the holosuite, but I’ve also been doing what I can to figure out what’s happened to Vic.”
“You know about what’s happened to Vic?” Candlewood asked.
“You two talked about it in the Replimat,” Ulu said. She plucked a small device from her ear, tugged the attached wire, and pulled a box from inside the back of her dress. “Audio pickup,” she said, “though this doesn’t work as well as a twenty-fourth-century model.” She stuffed the device into her purse, then pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Nog. “Here’s what I found out.”
As Nog started to examine the papers, Candlewood stepped up to take a look at them as well. The science officer saw a lot of numbers, but when he began reading the terms next to them, he didn’t know what they meant. Nog glanced at the second sheet, and then the third, and then he hurriedly paged through the rest.
“What are we looking at?” Candlewood asked.
“They’re financial transactions,” Nog said. “Mostly real-estate usage deals and monetary transfers.”
The Long Mirage Page 17