The Long Mirage

by David R. George III

  The emphasis on rushing the resettlement of a Dominion population to a location in or near Federation space concerned Blackmer, although such decisions would ultimately be made in the highest levels of the civilian government, probably in consultation with Starfleet officers far above the first officer’s own rank and position. “I have contacted Starfleet Command,” Blackmer said. “Admiral Herthum, the chief of Starfleet Operations, subsequently met with the Federation’s External Affairs Council, and they quickly referred the matter to the Bureau of Interplanetary Affairs. The BIA has placed the director of their Displaced Persons Agency in charge.”

  Odo’s already flat expression somehow became more dour. “That sounds like a tremendous amount of bureaucracy,” he noted, readily conveying his distaste for officialdom.

  “I’m afraid I can’t disagree with that,” Blackmer said. “But I will point out how expeditiously the BIA was engaged. We just received word that the DPA is sending Director Barash and a support team to meet with you about the needs of the prospective émigrés.”

  Odo’s eyes darted to one side for a moment before he responded. “I do not speak for the people aboard this ship,” he said.

  “I am only relaying what I was told,” Blackmer said. “I imagine that the BIA must think that you can handle the situation because of your familiarity with the Dominion and your role in determining the intentions of those aboard the Jem’Hadar vessel.”

  “I can discuss my experience here and what has been communicated to me,” Odo said, “but the people aboard this ship should be permitted to speak for themselves.”

  “I’m sure that will be the case,” Blackmer said. “They must have prepared to conduct diplomatic relations once they made it through the wormhole and into the Alpha Quadrant.”

  “No, I don’t believe they have,” Odo said. “Their focus was on fleeing from Dominion tyranny. Their collective goal would not have been to then subjugate themselves to the will of some other power.”

  Blackmer could hear the frustration in his words, which sounded like an argument against unfairness. The first officer did not know the Changeling well, but during the time Odo had spent on the starbase, Blackmer had read through the file Starfleet kept on him. From what the exec read, Odo had a well-deserved reputation for diligently pursuing the interests of justice.

  “Odo, the Bureau of Interplanetary Affairs is asking that the battle cruiser remain at Deep Space Nine until Director Barash and his diplomatic team arrive,” Blackmer said. “My understanding is that they want to work with the refugees to understand why they have fled the Dominion, what their status is, what they need, and how the Federation can work with them to find a peaceful resolution.”

  “Pardon me, Commander,” Odo said, “but that sounds a lot like the Federation deciding that it can’t trust a group of people who only want to escape a totalitarian regime.”

  Blackmer could see the Changeling’s point, but he also remembered his time on the Trieste and his encounters with Dominion forces. “I don’t think the BIA has made a choice to distrust the people aboard the Jem’Hadar vessel, but they do want to ensure that this is not some sort of plot by the Dominion, or, short of that, that it will reignite tensions between them and the Federation.”

  “The war ended more than a decade ago,” Odo said. “We shouldn’t live in the past.”

  While Blackmer believed the Changeling’s interest stemmed from a genuine desire to help people in need, his last statement angered the first officer. Because of that, he took a beat before replying, taking care to steady his voice. “The war might be in the past, but its toll was more than a billion casualties; that means that there are many who are still suffering from those losses.” He paused, then said, “Odo, the Federation just wants to talk before these refugees find a home in or near our territory. As long as we treat them fairly and with compassion, that’s not unreasonable.”

  Odo took a long time to respond, and when he did, he sounded cautious. “Very well,” he said. “I will speak to Rotan’talag and Weyoun and explain the situation. I will encourage them to wait. Shall we dock at Deep Space Nine?”

  Blackmer hesitated. “For now, it would be advisable for the Defiant to escort the Jem’Hadar ship to a place out of the regular space lanes,” he finally suggested. “It might be wise to avoid stirring up public concerns before the Federation and the refugees even have a chance to talk.”

  “Of course,” Odo said, though his tone made his disapprobation plain.

  “I’ll have Commander Stinson contact you,” Blackmer said. “Deep Space Nine out.”

  Ensign Melijnek took the cue and ended the transmission. The viewscreens above the sit table went dark. Blackmer climbed the steps to the raised outer deck of the Hub and walked back to the command chair. As he stood beside it, he peered over to the communications console. “Open a channel to the Defiant,” he said.

  Ensign Melijnek worked his controls, but almost at once, he looked back over at Blackmer. “Commander,” he said, “we’re being hailed by Captain Ro.”

  v

  * * *

  Ro led Agents Corvok and Toulet, along with Doctor Remzi, out of the turbolift. As they swung from the radial corridor onto the wide outer walkway of Deep Space 9’s Plaza, the captain noticed that, even though they headed for his bar, Quark had fallen to the back of the group. Ro worried about him. Beyond everything that had taken place between the two of them, she knew that he had no interest in Federation Security nosing around his business, though she also hoped that he had nothing he needed to hide from them—or, for that matter, from her.

  The Federation Security interceptor, Balju, had raced from Mericor to DS9 at a speed far greater than Quark’s Quest could have achieved, making the journey in just one day, rather than in two. Corvok and Toulet wanted to question Vic Fontaine, as well as inspect his code, all in an attempt to verify their understanding of events, to determine how Morn had learned of the existence of a mobile emitter, and to judge the singer’s culpability in the Lurian’s scheme. Remzi sought to interview Vic to learn the level of his advancement, and she also hoped to test Morn’s bootleg mobile emitter—she carried it with her in a small box—though not on the singer, but on some random holographic character.

  During the trip from Mericor, Ro had contacted Blackmer. He reported to her about a group of Dominion refugees seeking to relocate to the Alpha Quadrant, information that prevented her and the Federation Security officers from being surprised at the appearance of a Jem’Hadar battle cruiser keeping station with Defiant on the outskirts of the Bajoran system. Ro knew that she would have to deal with that situation just as soon as she finished with Corvok, Toulet, and Remzi.

  And, of course, the Department of Temporal Investigations will be sending an agent to Deep Space Nine as well, Ro thought. She dreaded the hours of detailed questioning to which she would likely have to submit, as well as all of the documentation they always required to complete their investigations.

  Already past the start of gamma shift, an evening crowd bustled about the Plaza. When she reached the bar, Ro saw past its outer half-wall that customers jammed all three of its levels. A great mix of sounds emanated from within, comprising mostly voices, but she could also make out the chirping spin of the dabo wheel and the many noises of the dom-jot table. Ro turned to ask the Federation Security officers and Director Remzi how they wanted to proceed, but Quark had already hurried from the rear of the group to face them.

  “Welcome to Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy to Bajor,” the barkeep said. “What can I get everybody? A Warp Core Breach? A Finagle’s Folly? A Scalosian Sling?” Though it might have seemed otherwise, Ro doubted that Quark offered the drinks for free.

  “We told you what we need,” Corvok said. “Take us to a holosuite and load the Vic Fontaine program.”

  Quark muttered something beneath his breath, but
he dutifully marched into the bar. He expertly weaved his way through his customers, leaving Ro and the others bogged down as they tried to follow. By the time they reached the lustrous silver bar that dominated the establishment, Quark had already moved behind it, where he stood speaking with Treir. After a moment, he peered over at Corvok. “My idiot nephew and your science officer—” He pointed to Ro without actually looking at her. “—have been running the program continuously for the last five days. According to Treir, they haven’t left.”

  “So they’re in there right now?” Ro asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go find them,” Corvok said.

  vi

  * * *

  As Nog walked down the corridor of the Shining Oasis, he tried to glance back to get a look at Vic. For his effort, he felt the barrel of a firearm jammed into his back. “Eyes front,” Spinelli said. Nog obeyed.

  Back at the Silver Lode, Bugsy Calderone had ordered three of his thugs—Sperano, Spinelli, and the man guarding Vic, whom he called Delvecchio—to accompany him, Steinberg, and Nog to retrieve the rest of his money. When they made their way out of the hotel and into the fenced-off parking area, another pair of large, muscular men in suits joined them. Nog recognized them as two of the three who had abducted Vic from the Fremont-Sunrise Hotel.

  “Hey, Mister Calderone,” the square-jawed thug had said. He had been in charge during Vic’s kidnapping and had knocked Nog from his feet. “Dat’s duh guy I was tellin you about. He was outside Fontaine’s hotel room when we went to snatch him.”

  Calderone had nodded, but he’d said nothing. Sperano and Spinelli loaded Nog into the back of a long black ­automobile—an Eldorado, Nog noted—and then climbed in on either side of him. Square Jaw drove. Calderone took Vic, Steinberg, and the other thugs in a second vehicle.

  Nog had given thought to directing Calderone and his men to some location other than the suite at the Shining Oasis, where Candlewood and Lani kept guard over the rest of the money, but he had seen no reason to do so. Without twenty-fourth-century technology, he couldn’t overwhelm the mobster and his men, but even if he could, what good would it do? The only way to liberate Vic and allow him to resume his everyday life would be to buy his freedom from Bugsy Calderone. Nog only wished that he could have notified Candlewood and Lani of their impending arrival.

  When Nog reached the door of the suite, he said, “This is it.”

  “Open it,” Calderone said.

  Nog took the key out of his pocket, but before he slid it into the door, he said, “Two of my colleagues are inside.” He did not want Calderone or his men to be surprised to see Candlewood and Lani.

  “They armed?” Square Jaw asked.

  “No,” Nog said.

  “Then open it,” Calderone said again.

  Nog pushed the key into the lock, turned it, then pushed the door open. He saw Candlewood and Lani across the living area of the suite, sitting at the large round table by the window. As Nog stepped inside, Lani got up and started toward him. He held up his hands. “Stop,” he said. “I’ve brought . . . guests.”

  Nog felt a hand on his shoulder push him forward. He stumbled across the room, but Lani caught him and helped him to right himself. Candlewood stood up as though to do something, but Nog waved him back. When the operations chief turned around, he saw Calderone and his entourage entering the suite. Two of them, Square Jaw and Sperano, drew weapons from their suit jackets and moved to the two bedroom doors, where they looked inside and declared them empty. Nog looked at Vic, and for the first time that night, the singer made eye contact with him—with the one eye not swollen shut. Nog tried to read his expression, searching for any sign of energy or hope, but he saw only the reverse: fatigue and despair.

  “Let’s see the money,” Calderone said, “and let’s see it now.”

  “John, get the money,” Nog said. “All of it.”

  “All of it?” Candlewood asked, and Nog nodded. The science officer crossed to the door that led into his bedroom.

  “Hold it,” Calderone said, and Candlewood wisely stopped. The mobster pointed to Square Jaw. “Go with him.”

  Together, Candlewood and Square Jaw went into the bedroom. They appeared again seconds later, each of them carrying a duffel. Candlewood walked over to the table and set his bag down. Square Jaw did the same.

  “All right,” Calderone said. “You three, step aside.” He pointed at Nog, Candlewood, and Lani and waved them away from the table. Nog did as they’d been instructed, and Candlewood and Lani followed his lead. “Open them,” Calderone told Square Jaw. The thug unzipped the first bag, peered inside, then held it open toward Calderone so that the mobster could see the bundles of bills inside. He repeated the operation for the second duffel.

  Calderone looked to Steinberg. “Make sure it’s all there,” he told the accountant. Steinberg crossed the room to the table, where he began pulling the cash from one bag and stacking it up in piles. Everybody waited as he emptied the first duffel and tossed the empty canvas bag to the floor.

  “Four hundred fifteen thousand,” Steinberg said.

  “Eight hundred thirty-one K,” Calderone said. “Four hundred sixteen to go.”

  Steinberg began extracting money from the second duffel, stacking it up on the table in new piles. Even though Nog knew all the funds were there, that they would in just a few moments fully settle Vic’s debt to Calderone, his lobes went cold. He knew he would not relax until the mobster and his men had departed.

  Finally, Steinberg removed the last packet of bills from the second bag. He set it down with the rest of the cash, then dropped the duffel onto the floor with the first one. “It’s all here,” he said. “Four hundred sixteen thousand dollars.”

  Calderone turned his gaze to Nog. “You’re a man of your word,” the mobster said. “And I’m a man of mine.” Calderone looked over his shoulder, to where Delvecchio held a firearm against Vic’s side. “Let him go.”

  Delvecchio hesitated, and for an instant, Nog thought that the thug might just defy Calderone’s order. But then he grabbed Vic by the upper arm and led him forward. Halfway across the room, Delvecchio stopped and shoved the singer ahead. He stumbled, and Nog reached out to steady him. They gazed at each other, and then Vic said quietly, “Thanks, kid.”

  At the table, Steinberg bent and picked up the two duffels. He put one on a chair and one of them on the table, where he began loading the bills back into it. “Sperano, Spinelli, help him,” Calderone said. The two men rushed across the room and did as they’d been ordered.

  When they finished, Steinberg zipped the two duffels closed. “That’s it, Mister Calderone,” the accountant said. “We’re done.”

  The mobster nodded, then looked at Nog. The operations chief waited for Calderone to say some final words or simply to leave. When he did neither, Nog said, “It’s been good doing business with you.”

  Calderone took a single step forward. “We’re not quite finished yet,” he said, his voice low and menacing. Nog’s heart seemed to stop in chest. “I have my money, but I also need my reputation.”

  “And how much will it cost us to restore that?” Nog asked. He knew that he, Candlewood, and Lani had ultimately won a hundred thousand dollars more than Vic had owed Calderone. Nog would gladly turn all of it over to the mobster. “Ten thousand dollars? Twenty?” He wanted to leave himself enough room to negotiate.

  Calderone smiled. “I will ignore that insult,” he said. “That my reputation can be worth any amount of money, let alone one so paltry.”

  “I meant no insult,” Nog said at once, understanding that he had miscalculated. “I just wanted to compensate you for whatever damage you feel your reputation has suffered.”

  Calderone slowly walked across the room. He picked up one of the duffels and handed it to Sperano, then picked up the other and gave it to Spinelli. He pointed back toward the
front door, and the two men carried the bags of cash over there. Steinberg followed along after them, and then so did Calderone. Nog hoped again that they would just leave, but then the mobster spoke again.

  “A reputation isn’t something you can buy,” he said. “It takes years to build up, and an ongoing effort to maintain. Me, I’m not a man known for being soft on people who cross me. That includes men who don’t pay their debts.”

  Vic stared with his one functioning eye at the mobster, but he remained quiet, for which Nog felt grateful. “With all due respect,” the operations chief said, “we have paid Mister Fontaine’s debt to you in full.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Calderone said, “but the debt was not repaid in a timely manner. If I don’t do something about that, it will diminish my dignity.”

  “Where I’m from, Mister Calderone,” Nog told the mobster, “it’s said that ‘Dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack.’ ”

  Calderone laughed. “I like that,” he said. “I suppose it might even be true, but I don’t find the sentiment very satisfying.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Mister Benedetti.” The square-jawed thug came forward to stand beside Calderone, who regarded Nog once more.

  “Your reputation is also based on your word,” Nog said. “You told me that you wouldn’t kill Vic if we paid his debt. We did that.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to kill him,” Calderone said. “I’m just going to make an example of him. He paid me back, so he can live, but he paid me back late, so he’s never going to sing again.” Calderone reached into his suit jacket and pulled out something black that fit in the beefy fingers of his hand. He pressed a button with his thumb, and a blade sprung into place. He handed it to Benedetti. “Cut out his vocal cords.”

  vii

  * * *

  Ro stood in front of the door as Quark worked the controls of the holosuite. When the panel slid open, she strode forward into a large, carpeted room, presumably somewhere in 1960s Las Vegas. Remzi and the Federation Security agents followed her inside.