And more than that. He turned slowly, scanning across the field. A regulation holosuite, untouched by the CI technology, was a dead thing, even when populated by the ghosts of famous ballplayers; a replicated Louisville Slugger remained inanimate wood in one's hands. Here, in this illusory place, a malign intelligence could be detected in each broken twig on the ground. Through the shifting screen of leaves, Sisko could feel the sun watching him with an unblinking gaze.
Inside . . .
Everything here, the bright daylight, the breeze that smelled of dust and pollen, the sounds of water rippling nearby—it had all been inside Jake's head, too. As well as the small white bones and the broken things that leaked red into the dirt, and the face that could almost be seen from the corners of one's eyes, smiling as it regarded the world it had made in its image. The thought of that made the blood simmer a few degrees hotter in Sisko's veins.
"Yeah? And what're you going to do about it?"
From the direction of the creek, beyond the trees' edge, came a voice he recognized.
He wished he hadn't.
Ducking beneath the lowest-hanging branches, the glade's green fringe, Sisko stepped into the sunshine again, the reflections off the narrow path of water brilliant as heated coins. He winced as the light stabbed at his eyes.
He could just make out the figure sitting on the broad, flat rock, knees hugged to the thin chest. A boy, gazing at the creek's tumbling motion with a sullen intensity.
Sisko felt his heart stumble in his chest as the boy turned and looked at him. The face, as had been the voice, was Jake's.
"What're you looking at?"
But different—the slitted eyes held a burning malice that he had never seen in his son's eyes, could never imagine seem there.
He stood a few meters away from the image. "Who are you?"
"Don't you know?" A smile twisted one side of its face. "I'm your son Jake."
"No, you're not." He had to struggle against the impulse to stride forward and knock the smirk away with a sweeping backhand. "You're nothing. A hallucination. A fiber in my brain being tugged at. That's all."
"Oh, you want to discuss metaphysics, do you?" Another voice, deeper and harder, entwined around the words. "Or is it neurophysiology? It doesn't matter. In that other world—" The squatting figure pointed toward the horizon. "Your percept system detects a certain pattern of light and shadow, sounds at your ear, even molecules of sweat upon the atmosphere . . . and you immediately say Hello, Jake, my darling boy, true offspring of my loins. Don't you?" The image's head tilted, studying him from another angle. "The same processes happen here, sensory throughput and pattern recognition, all adding up to the same thing—and you reject it." The voice became that of a young boy again. "You're breaking my heart, Dad. I feel like an orphan."
A wave of nausea rose inside Sisko, his body and mind fighting to reconcile the gap between what was perceived and what was known to be real. "This is a waste of time," he said angrily. "I came here to speak to McHogue. But you . . . you're just an illusion."
"Ah." Jake's image nodded. "Who was it who said that reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, it still exists? Look at this." The image kneeled and leaned over the water; one hand darted down, inhumanly fast, striking below the creek's surface. Something silvery bright wriggled in the image's fist as it turned back toward Sisko.
He knew what was going to happen, what he would be shown. The awareness of this world's malign intelligence grew closer around him, as though the sun's gaze had darkened in a cloudless sky.
"Come on, watch—"
Sisko closed his eyes; he could still do that. He had caught just a glimpse of the fish struggling in the image's grip, the round eyes staring, the mouth open and gasping as the fingers had tightened.
"You're no fun."
The image of the boy stood up on the rock; Sisko watched as the mess in its hand was thrown into the water, snared by the current and sluiced away. The image wiped its palm on it tattered jeans. "Just like your stupid kid. I mean, just like me."
He made no reply; there was no point.
"All right, all right, I'm going." The image shot another murderous glance at Sisko. "Sheesh." Balancing from one small stone to another, the image crossed the water and plunged into the tall, dry grasses on the other side. A notch-eared cat left off its stakeout of a field mouse's burrow and darted away, a ripple through the stalks marking its passage.
"You didn't want to see that . . . but you did. Whether you believed in it or not. The bit with the fish, I mean."
Sisko looked over his shoulder and saw McHogue then, the narrow face still touched by its mocking smile. He stood at the edge of the holosuite's glade, his black garb almost of a piece with the trees' darkening shade.
"I'll assume," said Sisko dryly, "that you're real. In some way, at least."
"That's good of you." McHogue's expression grew even more amused. "It would certainly expedite matters if you did. I'd hate to think that you believed you were standing here all alone, talking to yourself."
"Was that something you cooked up to scare me?" He pointed to the boy's image, now almost at the limit of his sight. A wavering row of parted grasses traced a path leading to a distant wooden barn. "Something to rattle me a bit?"
"Why would I want to do that?" McHogue stepped forward. "Really, Commander Sisko, we should be friends. Or let's just say that it would be in your best interests if we were. We have a great many interests in common. The ongoing welfare of Deep Space Nine, for instance."
"You should be concerned about that." Sisko studied the figure standing before him. The other man looked as real, as flesh-and-blood, as himself—though here, he knew, that proved nothing. "I could pull the plug on you in ten seconds. If I had to—or even if I just wanted to—I could jettison every holosuite aboard DS9 out one of the airlocks. You'd be the one talking to himself . . . if you existed at all."
McHogue nodded in approval. "That's a good attitude to maintain, Commander. True friendship is really only possible between equals, don't you think? A certain measure of reciprocity is needed. If you feel you have your hand on my throat, and I have mine on yours . . ." He shrugged. "Well, if we can't be friends, then at least we can respect each other." The smile grew wider. "Though actually, getting rid of the holosuites wouldn't affect me much, or my plans. It's far too late for that. Surely you don't believe that this is the only place I exist?" He gestured toward the sky and the surrounding fields. "It's comfortable enough, and it serves my purposes—or at least some of them—but I have to admit I find it a bit dull. But then I have a standard of comparison; I've traveled quite a bit in my career—I'm sure by now you've had a look at the various files on me. Whereas the boy you just met, that rather interesting variation on your own son Jake—I'm pretty sure he doesn't exist anywhere else. He was born here, so to speak. Or at least I think so."
"Why aren't you certain?" Sisko regarded the other with deep suspicion. "This world is yours. You created it."
“My dear commander—it's not as simple as that."
McHogue slowly shook his head. "The cortical-induction modules represent a very powerful technology. I know more about it than any living creature, and I've only begun to explore its possibilities. My experiences outside this realm have suited me for a life as an entrepreneur, a businessman such as our mutual acquaintance Quark—though I believe the scope of my ambitions always somewhat outstripped his. Consequently, I have no training as a scientist; I deal only with what can be accomplished with something profitably, that is. I can only speculate about how some of these things work. That boy . . . he really is your son Jake, you know; or at least part of him. The CI technology isn't just a one-way street; it observes and learns from everyone that comes into it. It creates what you might call echoes of the various users of the modified holosuites. The characteristic patterns of identity are preserved—the essences, if you will—and, in time, they acquire a certain life of their own. They become . . . different. But still with an inner truth about them; they reveal interesting qualities about their original sources." McHogue shrugged, his smile becoming that of an indulgent parent. "There's even an echo of me here, as a boy just about your own son's age. He's quite a rascal."