by K. W. Jeter
Sisko turned toward the general. "And is that how you see it? After spending your whole life fighting against Cardassians, you'd be willing to let them back into Bajoran affairs?"
"If it was on our terms, then yes." Aur's hardened gaze back at Sisko. "In a minute. I don't think you appreciate how desperate conditions are on Bajor. We're a broken, starving people, Commander; we have little left to us besides our hunger. If we have to climb back into bed with the devil to feed ourselves—to feed our children—then it's going to happen no matter what. I'm just trying to create a situation where we call the shots, and not Gul Dukat. Or you and the Federation."
"Do you really think your fellow Bajorans have a moral sense as flexible as yours, General? What happens to your new government when the people you lead find out that you've been making deals with their sworn enemies, the exploiters who raped their world in the first place? I imagine that their reaction will be disgust, and then a wrath that you won't be able to survive."
A thin smile formed on Aur's face. "Your estimation of my people is very flattering, Commander. But you speak of a finely principled disdain, and that's an expensive indulgence—and one that the Bajoran people cannot afford any longer. If Bajor should wind up wealthy from the indulging of other peoples' vices—and the Cardassians made it possible—I don't think anyone's going to complain too loudly." He leaned back in his chair. "Read your history books, Commander. Or just look around at your fellow Starfleet officers—you'll see that yesterday's enemy is often today's friend." The smile widened. "Why shouldn't Bajorans be as wise—and flexible—as you are?"
With evident pleasure, McHogue had listened to Aur's speech. "You see, Commander, I didn't have to make any sales pitch to the new Bajoran government; they're perfectly capable of seeing the advantages to a straightforward proposition—one that pays off now, rather than at some remote pie-in-the-sky time in the future. If then. So your big talk about an embargo doesn't scare us much. Quite frankly, I don't think the Federation would even have the nerve to try it. There's so many reasons why the various members of the Federation would want to continue dealing with Bajor—mainly to get access to the wormhole—that any embargo would be widely disregarded by them. As the general has pointed out, history can be very instructive; it shows that if you've got something people want, they'll find a way to do business with you. That's why black markets were invented. The Federation would find itself in the rather embarrassing position of turning a blind eye to violations of the embargo, or trying to enforce it with various sanctions against its own members. Do you think the Federation would really want to risk a split in its ranks? Though of course, there's always the military option; Starfleet could ring Bajor with battle cruisers, to try and prevent anyone coming in from outside. Would you like to be the one in charge of that operation, Commander?—especially when it would inevitably lead to a full-scale confrontation with the Cardassians. And Gul Dukat would love to have an opportunity to represent the Cardassians to the galaxy as the heroic defenders of the Bajorans' right to self-determination against the meddling Federation. Whatever the Cardassians didn't win in battle, they'd more than make up for on the field of public opinion. In some ways, that's a pity—I'm really afraid you'd come out looking like the villain of the story."
It was difficult to come up with a reply; the smugness apparent on McHogue's face, as he had delivered his spiel, had thrown a flaring spark upon the tinder of Sisko's anger. A few moments of glaring silence passed before he spoke. "If you've managed to convince the Bajorans that they could trust their interests to the Cardassians, then you're an even better salesman than I had previously thought."
Aur's voice was mild by comparison. "Diplomacy, Commander, is the art of arranging as many things as possible beforehand—and then pretending to be surprised afterward when things just happen to work out the way you want. Let's just say that the Severalty Front has been in touch with Gul Dukat for some time now—long before we were ready to take over the government. Agreements have been made, of which you have absolutely no awareness." Aur smiled. "It might almost be fair to say that we've all become business partners now."
"And we can't wait to get started, can we, General?" With his hands clasped behind his head, McHogue tilted his chair back. "This is the deal of the millennium, Commander. Everything I've done up until now looks pretty small next to it. On top of everything else, we've got an arrow in our quiver that nobody has ever had before—and that's the cortical-induction modules. Well, nobody's had the CI technology since the Federation yanked it out of the holosuites' original design and banned it."
"It was banned for good reason," snapped Sisko.
"Yes, right; whatever. Just more Federation prudishness, as far as I'm concerned."
"Gentlemen—I think we've talked long enough." A degree of McHogue's smugness had transferred to General Aur's face. "Commander Sisko, I just wanted to be sure that you had been made fully aware of the new Bajoran government's intentions. I don't imagine that we can expect much cooperation from you, but I'd also like to hope that there will be no futile attempts at interference. These matters have gone far beyond the point where you could do anything to change them. It's a wise man who knows when he's been presented fait accompli." He turned to McHogue. "We should be getting back to Bajor. There are other arrangements that need to be taken care of."
"I'll join you at the ship in a few minutes. I wanted a little time alone with the commander."
When the door had slid shut again and the two of them were alone in the office, McHogue gazed up at the ceiling before speaking. "You know, the general is exactly the kind of business partner I like to have. Very forthright; he believes everything should be out in the open."
Sisko studied through narrowed eyes the figure remaining before him. "It's obvious to me that your preferred business partner is one that you've managed to keep in the dark about your actual intentions. I can't imagine that someone such as Aur would go along with your plans, if he was aware of the true nature of the CI modules and what they can do."
"Perhaps." McHogue shrugged. "But at this point, you'd have little chance of informing him about that. Why should he trust anything a Starfleet officer would tell him?"
"Because—unlike yourself—I'd tell him the truth."
"Commander . . . you're flattering yourself, if you think you know the truth. All of it, that is. When the Federation banned the CI technology, they hadn't even yet determined the limits of its potential—if they could see what I've done to make it even more powerful, they'd really go out of their minds. Just like our customers are going to. People from all over the galaxy are going to flock to Bajor, not just to experience Cl-generated hallucinations, but to actually live them—in this reality. The holosuites on Bajor will be the ultimate advertisement for what we're actually going to be selling. Experiences that our customers will be able to get nowhere else."
"Even if those experiences lead to the destruction—physical or psychological—of the person involved?" Revulsion swelled in Sisko's gut.
"Caveat emptor, Commander." McHogue shrugged. "We can't hold everybody's hand, and prevent them all having a good time. We just want to make sure that they that good time—maybe the ultimate good time—from us. And that's what we're ready to do." His smile turned into a teeth-revealing grin. "Whatever happens, I can promise you that it's going to involve a major drain on credit accounts all across the galaxy."
Sisko contemptuously regarded the figure. "You're certainly open about revealing your intentions. To me, at least."
"Perhaps . . . but then again, I do like to keep a few cards close to my chest. Force of habit, really; the beauty of this setup is that there isn't anything you, or all the rest of Starfleet and the Federation, can do about it. That's why I have no objection to Starfleet retaining control of DS9—though of course, I'd just as soon not provoke the Federation into any rash attempt at interfering with my plans. It's just good business practice to leave your opponent with at least something." McHogue nodded
slowly, mulling another thought over. "Actually, I'd like to think that I'm doing the same for you. You personally, that is. Giving you an opportunity that you might not have had otherwise." The self-amused malice had faded from his voice. "Maybe you'd feel better about all this if you just looked at it the right way."
"Oh?" Sisko felt like bodily throwing the man out of the office, but restrained himself as before. "And how's that?"
"I think we'd both agree that a successful salesman—or con man, if you'd rather—is always something of a psychologist as well. I have to know what you want before I can provide you with it. And I know a great deal about you; I've made it my business to. The way I see your problem, Commander, it's that you want two different things. Part of you wants to run your little empire here aboard Deep Space Nine . . . and part of you might just want to quit and go home to Earth to raise your son." McHogue tilted his head and smiled. "Am I getting close? It'd be hard for anyone to choose between two desires—two duties—like that; the choice would have to be made by someone else. And that's what a debacle such as losing the Federation's control over Bajor and the wormhole would be good for; the only possible outcome after that would be for you to be transferred to a safe desk job back on Earth. And maybe that's what you really want."
He said nothing. He couldn't; the words had been like a finger tapping against a secret chamber of his heart.
"Look on the bright side, Commander." McHogue pushed himself up from the chair and took a few steps away from the desk, then stopped and turned back around. "You can start packing your bags now."
The door slid open and he was gone, leaving Sisko in the office's enfolding silence.
He woke, not even knowing what time it was. The data padd on which he had been entering his homework assignment dropped onto the bedroom floor as he sat up. Listening, he could tell that someone else was in the living quarters.
Jake looked around the room's door and down the short corridor. He could see his father sitting on one of the couches in the main area, gazing ahead of himself as though deep in thought. One of his father's hands rested on the wooden crate that had been brought back by Major Kira from Bajor. The crate hadn't been opened yet, but Jake knew what was in it; his father had told him that it was all stuff that had belonged to the Kai Opaka. She had been his father's friend, and was missed by him now that she was gone. There had been things that his father had discussed with the Kai, that he didn't talk to anyone else about. Not so much important things—important in the big sense—but things that were inside him. It was no wonder that he missed her.
Barefoot, Jake walked out to the main area and sat down on the edge of the couch. His father looked tired, eyes closed, head slumped forward as though pulled by some invisible weight.
"Dad—"
Sometimes his father came back here to their living quarters and kept on working on stuff that he should have left back at his office on the Ops deck. Sometimes Jake could almost see it all stirring around inside his father's head, as though he could look right through his father's skull.
The heavy-lidded eyes opened and glanced over at Jake. His father hadn't been asleep. "Dad, maybe you should go to bed." If he didn't take care of him, who would? "It's late."
"Is it?" His father's voice was a murmur. The outstretched hand brushed across the surface of the crate. "I suppose you're right. . . ."
He watched as his father drew a deep breath, shoulders lifting and then falling. His father spotted something on the floor beside the couch, reached down, and picked up the baseball bat that Jake had left propped in one of the room's corners. He studied it for a moment, the polished wood lying across his broad palms.
"Jake . . ." His father didn't look up at him. "Have you ever thought what it would be like . . . to go home?"
That puzzled him. "What do you mean? We are home."
His father smiled sadly and shook his head. "No, I meant your real home. I meant going back to Earth." His gaze lifted to Jake's. "Would you like that?"
The question made him feel uncomfortable. "I don't know. . . ." He couldn't be sure what his father was really asking. "I guess it'd be okay."
"Just okay?"
Jake shrugged. "If that's what you wanted. But I'd miss being here."
His father peered more closely into Jake's eyes. "You'd miss the station?"
"Well . . . sure." He was trying to think of some way of explaining it. "You know how we'd always go into one of the holosuites together, and there'd be all that grass and trees and stuff, and the blue sky?"
Slowly, his father nodded.
"I always went in there with you," said Jake, "because it was what you wanted. Because that's your home. Earth and everything." He glanced around the dimly lit living quarters In his mind's eye, he could see all the richly intricate spaces and corridors beyond. A little world. A big world. He looked back at his father. "This is my home."
His father was silent for a long time. Then he nodded. "It's my home too, son. Now it is." He set the baseball bat down on the table in front of the couch, then tapped the comm badge on his uniform. "Computer, give me Ops."
The voice of one of the Ops deck staff responded. "Yes Commander?"
"Notify all senior officers that I wish to see them in my office in four . . . no, make that six hours. Top priority—we've got a lot of strategy to work out."
Jake's father stood up. "Come on—" He reached a hand down. "We better get all the rest we can. Might be the last chance for a while."
MOAGITTY
CHAPTER 11
He looked at the spheroid object, unable to recall exactly what it was. It seemed to be made of some kind of treated organic matter—most likely the skin of an animal—and stitched together with what appeared to be crude surgical sutures.
"Just what is that?" Odo pointed to the sphere in Quark's hand.
On the other side of the bar, Quark had been contemplating the object as well, but not with any visible mystification. Rather a brooding sullenness, the focus of his attention deep that part of his Ferengi brain that calculated both revenge and profits. His ridged thumb rubbed across the stitches like an unhealed wound.
"This?" Quark drew himself back to real time. "I believe it's what is known as a baseball. Used in a certain primitive athletic endeavor. Though I'm not quite sure what you're supposed to do with it." He held the ball up on the tips of his fingers. "Maybe throw it at someone." He ventured an experimental tap with it against his own skull. "Doesn't seem very efficient. Now the other thing that's used in the game, what they call the bat—a nice big heavy stick—I can see the point of that." He nodded in satisfaction. "Maybe I should get one."
"Really?" Odo peered at the Ferengi. "I would never have imagined you being interested in these so-called sports. Though I approve—it might burn up some of the energy you devote to less savory pursuits."
"There's nothing unsavory about making money. Actually—" Quark scowled. "It's everything else I can't stand. That's why I thought it might be handy to have a baseball bat around; I could use it to clear out some of my so-called customers who think I'm running a social parlor and not a drinking establishment."
"Spoken like the genteel host I've always known you to be." Odo looked across the tables and booths filling the space; as at any moment of a shift, the place was well stocked with patrons, all of them downing Quark's synthale and more elaborate concoctions at a steady rate. Any faster, and Quark would have had the problem of them keeling over backward in their chairs. Odo brought his stern gaze back around to the Ferengi. "However, I don't advise you to add assault and battery to your menu here. That's still against regulations."
"Merely a joke, my dear Odo." The ball was left on top of the bar as Quark spread his palms in a mollifying gesture. "You should try to maintain your sense of humor—the way I have to. No one saw me getting all upset when this thing came bouncing in here." His expression clouded. "Not very upset, at any rate. Considering the damages . . ." His voice had sank to a mutter.
"D
amages? You didn't report anything like that to the security office."
"Oh, sure—just as if that would do any good. Nobody on this station cares about the problems of the poor, beleaguered businessman."
"I think I've heard this line from you before—"
It didn't matter; Quark was on a roll. "Just look at this!" He stooped down and pulled a box from behind the bar, setting it down with a jingling thump in front of Odo. "There must be at least a dozen broken glasses here, a bottle of imported arrak that was nearly full when it got hit by this stupid baseball . . ." Quark poked a finger through the shards of glass; the sharp odor of spilled alcohol wafted up. "Not to mention that I wound up paying the cleaning bills for the two Klingons who were sitting right here when it happened."
"That was decent of you."
"They were going to pull my head off. As if it were my fault!" Quark's expression grew even gloomier. "Though how anyone's supposed to tell the difference between a Klingon who's had his laundry done and one who hasn't, is beyond me." Like a suddenly released spring, he leaned past Odo and shouted. "Come on, you campers, drink up! I've got bills to pay!"
Odo pushed him back with a gently restraining hand. "You're not doing yourself any favors by badgering your patrons."
"Why not?" Quark looked sincerely puzzled. "They're a captive audience. Where else are they going to go?" Across the establishment, faces had turned toward the bar and the irate figure behind it; then shoulders had been shrugged and conversations resumed.
"Perhaps you could regain your equanimity while sitting in one of the security office's holding cells." Odo drew his hand back from the Ferengi's chest.