The Long Mirage

by David R. George III

  Exhausted but still seeking answers about Morn, Ro peered across the conference table and regarded the woman seated opposite her. Dressed in bland, utilitarian clothing, she had dark hair, dark eyes, and a tawny complexion. She had introduced herself as Doctor Ceylin Remzi, a scientist from Jupiter Station, in the Sol system. As Ro looked on, the woman continued to consult a padd, then made a few quick notes on it with the tip of her finger. A small box sat on the table in front of her. Finally, she looked up at Ro.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Captain,” Remzi said. She spoke with an accent that heavily emphasized each syllable. To Ro, her voice had something of a lyrical quality to it.

  “Of course. We’re all here to help Federation Security.”

  “Actually, in this case, Federation Security is helping us,” Remzi said. “I’d like to speak with you about Vic Fontaine.”

  Ro felt her brow crease. Of all the names Remzi could have asked about, Vic’s would have been one of the last the captain would have predicted. “I’m sorry. You said that you’re from Jupiter Station. What exactly is it that you do?”

  “I am an associate director at Starfleet’s Holographic Image and Programming Center,” Remzi said—which lent at least a degree of sense to her asking about a character in a holosuite program. The issue of why anybody would be interested in Vic Fontaine was another matter.

  “What is it you want to know?” Ro asked.

  “How much interaction have you had with the hologram?”

  Ro shrugged. “Some,” she said. “Not a lot. I’m not much of a holosuite user.”

  “When was the last time you used the program that hosted Fontaine?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t know precisely,” Ro said. “It’s been quite a while . . . years, in fact. It was back on the original Deep Space Nine, so I’d say at least three years, maybe four.”

  “How many members of your crew use the program?” Remzi asked. The nature of her questions bewildered Ro.

  “I honestly have no idea,” Ro said. “I know that the program was popular. I can think of maybe ten or twelve of my crew who used it, but there were probably more than that.”

  “The program ‘was’ popular?” Remzi asked. “Am I to infer that it is no longer popular?”

  “It’s not that,” Ro said. “It’s that the program is no longer available.”

  “What?” Remzi asked, and for the first time, her even demeanor changed. She suddenly appeared anxious. “What happened to the program? I was given to understand that it ran continuously.”

  “Yes, it did,” Ro said, “but that was aboard the original Deep Space Nine, before the station was destroyed.”

  Remzi wrinkled her forehead, showing her confusion. “Then the program was lost as well?”

  “No,” Ro said. “It was uploaded into a holographic simulation tester and executed there.”

  “But it wasn’t uploaded to another holosuite somewhere?” Remzi asked. “On a ship, or on Bajor, or on the new starbase?”

  “No,” Ro said. “As I understand it, there were technical issues with uploading it to older holosuites, and when the new Deep Space Nine became operational, there were other compatibility issues with the new ones. I know that there’s been some effort to resolve whatever the problem is, but as far as I know, the program is still running in the tester.”

  “How can that be?” Remzi said, though more to herself than the captain. She looked off to the side, but Ro suspected that she no longer saw the conference room around them. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Pardon me, Doctor Remzi,” Ro said, “but none of this makes any sense to me. Why are you asking me questions about a character in a holosuite program? How do you even know about that program? And what does any of this have to do with Morn?”

  Remzi refocused her attention on Ro. “The Federation Security agents didn’t tell you? You have sufficient security clearance.”

  “I was told only that Morn had been arrested for possession of restricted technology.”

  “Twenty-ninth-century technology,” Remzi said. Ro momentarily stopped breathing. The idea of people traveling through time and potentially wreaking indescribable havoc across the galaxy greatly disturbed her.

  “Morn is a time-traveler?”

  “No,” Remzi said. “At least, not that I know of. But he somehow learned about a piece of technology brought to our time from the future. It employs materials and science unknown in our time, and it is therefore irreproducible—or so we thought. Morn appears to have developed plans for such a device using contemporary technology, and then he hired a rogue Milvonian engineer named Bayal Sego to construct it.”

  “Construct what?” Ro asked. “What does this futuristic piece of technology do?”

  Remzi reached for the small box in front of her, opened it, and withdrew the wide silver band that Agent Toulet had confiscated from Morn. The director held it up before her. “It is called an autonomous self-sustaining mobile holo-emitter,” Remzi said. “When connected to a holographic character, it allows that character to exist independent of holographically enabled environments.”

  “What does that mean?” Ro asked. “That a hologram with this device could just walk out of a holosuite?”

  “Yes, it means exactly that,” Remzi said. The director placed it back in the box, which she then closed. “Although Morn had this device created so that a holographic character could also be downloaded directly from its source code.”

  “And . . . what?” Ro asked. “You think Morn had this device created so that he could take Vic Fontaine out of his program?”

  “That is what Federation Security tells me,” Remzi said. “Morn has refused to talk until he has consulted with his legal representation, but a search of his personal communicator revealed several messages he sent that referenced Vic Fontaine.”

  “Who did he send the messages to?”

  “An individual aboard Deep Space Nine,” Remzi said. “A Bajoran woman named Ulu Lani.”

  Ro nodded. “She’s one of Quark’s waitstaff.”

  “What is her relationship to Morn?” Remzi asked.

  “None that I know of,” Ro said, “but I really don’t know anything about the woman.”

  “And has she ever entered Vic Fontaine’s program?”

  “It’s possible,” Ro said, “but she never lived on Deep Space Nine prior to its destruction, so I’m not sure if she ever had the chance. Perhaps if she visited the station at that time.” Ro thought about the questions Remzi had asked her. “I understand why the Federation would restrict the creation, possession, and use of twenty-ninth-century technology, but why are you asking about Vic Fontaine? I mean, even if Morn wanted to use the device on him, it’s Morn who’s committing the crime.”

  “From what Federation Security has seen on Morn’s personal communicator,” Remzi said, “we have reason to believe that he might have been asked—or maybe even somehow coerced—to do all of this by Vic Fontaine.”

  “How would that even be possible?” Ro said. “Vic’s a hologram.”

  “That’s why I wanted to speak with you,” Remzi said. “You’re somebody who has had direct contact with Fontaine. Would you characterize him . . . would you say that he is . . . that he might be . . . conscious?”

  “Vic? Conscious?” Ro said, unable to hide her incredulity. “I know that there are members of my crew who like spending time in his program . . . who enjoy interacting with him. And they say he talks about being a hologram, in a holosuite, but I always assumed that was just part of his programming.”

  “A great deal of work has been done in the field of artificial intelligence,” Remzi said, “but it is still difficult in many circumstances to determine consciousness, or even sentience. An android or a hologram might be made to look humanoid, and they might be programmed to emulate self-awareness, but that doesn’t a
ctually make them conscious beings.”

  “But you think Vic might be a conscious being? And that he wants to be freed from the holosuite?” Ro said. “How would he even know about the technology you’re discussing?”

  “Although the specific instance of twenty-ninth-century technology is restricted information,” Remzi said, “the existence of autonomous holo-emitter tech is public, if not widespread, knowledge.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Ro wanted to know.

  “That depends on what we find out,” Remzi said. “We need to learn if this device—” She tapped the box containing the mobile holo-emitter. “—actually works. And both the Federation Security agents and I want to speak with Vic Fontaine.”

  “That may be difficult,” Ro said, “considering that his program is stuck running in a simulation tester.”

  “Not according to Quark,” Remzi said. “During his interrogation, he revealed that his nephew entered a holosuite weeks ago to use Vic’s program.”

  Ro hadn’t known that, and it made her wonder what else Quark had kept from her. In the next moment, though, she realized that, prior to their trip to Mericor, she hadn’t given him much opportunity of late to talk to her about anything. “What is it that you expect to learn from Vic?” she asked.

  “Federation Security wants to know how he learned about the mobile emitter in the first place, and whether or not he somehow persuaded or forced Morn to have one constructed,” Remzi said. “And I want to find out if Vic Fontaine is a sentient being.”

  Seven

  Balance Sheet

  i

  * * *

  Candlewood picked up the final bundle of bills and set it inside the long canvas duffel, atop the rest of the money already piled there. He zipped the bag closed, then stepped back to stand beside Nog and Ulu. Together, they stood near the door of Candlewood’s room in their Shining Oasis suite, gazing at the three canvas bags laid out on the bed. Each contained more than four hundred thousand dollars.

  “We did it,” Candlewood said. The three of them had spent the previous thirty-six hours all over Las Vegas. Ulu used one of Nog’s improvised devices to win numerous slot-machine jackpots, while the two men traded off using the second device—at least in the beginning. He and Nog also played blackjack, but the operations chief enjoyed far more success counting cards than Candlewood, so at some point, they divided up the work accordingly.

  For the most part, they’d stayed out of trouble by moving frequently from casino to casino, trying not to win too much in one venue. A couple of hours earlier, Ulu got escorted out of the End of the Rainbow Casino after winning a third jackpot, a mistake she chalked up to fatigue. In the end, they collectively banked more than one point three five million dollars.

  Throughout their day and a half of almost nonstop gambling, they had each periodically returned to the Shining Oasis with their winnings. On one trip, Nog brought the canvas duffels, which he purchased at a sporting-goods store. The bills—some of them in twenty-dollar denominations, some in fifty, some in one hundred—fit easily within the bags.

  The telephone rang, and Candlewood jumped—­probably because he’d been thinking about what would come next. Nog crossed the room to the nightstand and picked up the receiver. “This is Nog,” he said, and then he proceeded to have a brief conversation. When he hung up, he said, “That was Mister Arden, calling from the lobby. He’s waiting for us downstairs.”

  It had been Candlewood’s idea to hire a guard from a local security company to shepherd them on the taxicab ride from the Shining Oasis to the Silver Lode for their meeting with Bugsy Calderone’s accountant. Although Candlewood, Nog, and Ulu could come to no harm in the holosuite program, they still had to protect against their funds being stolen from them. To that end, they had retained a man named Charlie Arden from Strip Security Services.

  “How much are we going to take?” Candlewood asked. They had debated whether or not to bring the full sum required to procure Vic’s freedom. Ulu thought that they should, simply to bring an end to the situation as quickly as possible. But after all that they’d learned about ­Calderone—some of the newspaper articles they’d read painted him as a vengeful man—both Candlewood and Nog had reservations about giving him everything he wanted without them being able to ensure that the mobster would release Vic.

  “Just one bag,” Nog said. “We’ll bring Calderone a third of his money. That will be enough to demonstrate how serious we are, and it will leave him with enough to lose that we can insist on him releasing Vic.”

  “What if he doesn’t care for that?” Ulu said. “What if he decides to take the money you bring him and then shoot you?”

  “I don’t think he’ll do that,” Nog said, “not with two-thirds of Vic’s debt still outstanding.”

  “But should we even take a chance?” Candlewood asked. He had initially agreed with Nog, but he thought Ulu did have a point.

  “If we bring two-thirds of the money, or even all of it, we risk the same thing,” Nog said. “I think doing it this way will provide us with the most leverage.”

  “What if . . . what if only one of us went to see Calderone?” Candlewood suggested. “That way, if only one of us is there and he does have his thugs shoot, there will still be two of us here to try to free Vic.”

  Nog did not immediately respond. He seemed to roll the idea around in his mind. Finally, he said, “You’re right.” He went to the end of the bed and hauled one of the duffels up onto his shoulder by its straps. The bag hung horizontally along his hip. “If I’m not back here within one hour, contact Calderone yourself.”

  Then Nog strode into the living area and toward the front door of the suite.

  ii

  * * *

  With the duffel slung across his shoulder, Nog stepped away from the elevator at the Silver Lode hotel just as he and Candlewood had two days before: led by one thug named Sperano and followed by another named Spinelli. The operations chief proceeded down the wide corridor feeling vulnerable—not because he could come to any harm, but because Vic’s safety and freedom remained in doubt. He had actually considered bringing along his hired guard—a mountain of a man with sandy hair and a stoic demeanor—but in the end decided that such an act would send the wrong message to Calderone’s men. Nog wanted the mobster’s representatives to understand not only his seriousness of purpose, but that he had no interest in any sort of violent confrontation.

  The two thugs escorted Nog to the same set of elaborately carved doors, and Sperano again pushed them open. Once more, Calderone’s accountant, Herschel P. Steinberg, sat at the long table in the richly appointed meeting room. He had traded his gray three-piece suit for one in pinstriped navy blue. Also as before, another pair of guards stood in the room, in either of its far corners.

  “Good evening, Mister Nog,” Steinberg said in his tinny voice. He waved a hand to one side, a seemingly nondescript gesture, but Sperano immediately moved to close the room’s doors. Unlike in the meeting two days earlier, both Sperano and Spinelli remained inside the room, not far behind Nog. “What have you got for me?” The accountant smiled thinly.

  Nog stepped forward and hoisted the duffel bag onto the conference table. “This is four hundred sixteen thousand dollars,” he said. “One-third of the sum Vic owes Mister Calderone.”

  Steinberg’s unconvincing smile faded quickly. “I am a certified public accountant, Mister Nog, and have practiced my skills for many years, but it does not require a person of my training and experience to know that one-third of the money owed to Mister Calderone is not the same as all of the money owed to Mister Calderone.”

  “No, it’s not,” Nog said, “but I do possess all of those funds.” He reached for the duffel, ran its zipper open, then overturned the bag and spilled the packets of paper currency it contained onto the table. “I happen to be skilled with numbers myself, and with finances,” Nog went on. “Maybe
that’s why I realized that if I paid the entire sum owed to Mister Calderone, I would have no guarantee that he would release Vic, and I would have no power to compel him to do so.”

  Steinberg wordlessly pointed to the heap of cash, and Sperano immediately strode to the table beside Nog and began to stack it neatly, and also, presumably, to count it. “Mister Calderone’s word is his bond,” the accountant said.

  “That may be,” Nog said, “but you are not Mister Calderone, are you? You are merely his representative. I’d rather hear it from him.”

  “Hear what, precisely, Mister Nog?” Steinberg asked. “That Mister Calderone insists that the debt owed to him be repaid in full? No matter whether I or somebody else makes that claim, you can rest assured that it’s true. Surely, you can see that.”

  “What I can’t see is Vic Fontaine,” Nog said. “I can’t see that you actually have him, or that he is in good health. I can’t see that, once I hand over one and a quarter million dollars, that Mister Calderone will consider the debt settled in full and release Vic.”

  Very deliberately, Steinberg stood up. He made another motion with his hand, but that time, Sperano did not move. Instead, he said, “What?”

  “Pack it back up,” Steinberg snapped, clearly frustrated that the meeting was not proceeding as he’d hoped. Sperano grabbed the duffel and righted it on the table, then began stacking the packets of bills inside it. “Mister Nog, I will take this money and apply it to Mister Fontaine’s debt. If you bring the remaining sum, I will apply that as well, but as you know, you only have the rest of the day to do so. Otherwise, your business here is done.” Steinberg looked past Nog and issued a curt nod. An instant later, Spinelli grabbed the operations chief by his upper arm. The man’s grip felt like a steel band around Nog’s biceps.

  Nog flung his shoulder backward to break Spinelli’s hold on him. It didn’t work. Nog didn’t care. “I am prepared right now to pay off the entire sum due Mister Calderone, but if I walk out of here, you’re not getting it.” It was a bluff, of course—Nog would do whatever he could to save Vic—but he didn’t feel he had much choice but to negotiate hard; other than the funds he, Candlewood, and Lani had managed to collect, he had nothing else with which to bargain.