"I bet he is," Sisko replied grimly. He looked across the expanse of yellow grasses, then back to McHogue. "So you've already started to populate your little self-contained world. That should make it very pleasant for you—or at least not as lonely. Inasmuch as I'm going to make sure that not just my son—my real son—but no one, absolutely no one else, will be coming in here to join you in your twisted little games. If what you wanted was to be lord and master of your own pocket universe, then congratulations; you've achieved that. I hope it makes you happy." The last words were spoken with a vehemence that made his hands clench into fists at his side.
A fragment of McHogue's smile remained, but his eyes had turned steely. "As I told you, Commander, I consider myself to be a man of rather large ambitions. Now, you may be satisfied—perhaps even fulfilled—to be the great, high-and-mighty emperor of a rusting steel ball floating in the vacuum, with all your Starfleet minions carefully arrayed around you. You enjoy having millions of petty decisions to make, don't you?—it eats up so much of your time that you might otherwise spend thinking about things you don't want to. Remembering things. The problem is that you find ruling a little world so much to your liking, you tend to assume that's hat everybody wants. But that's not the case with me. I didn't come here to turn myself into the tin god of a private universe. These fantasies—" McHogue gestured again, with a wide flourish of his arm; his voice rose. "I have no use for them, except . . ." He stopped, then made a small parodic bow toward Sisko. "Except as a means of achieving my ambitions in your world, Commander. And all the ones beyond it."
"We've already seen some of your 'ambitions.'" Sisko allowed the contempt he felt to register in his own voice. "The murderers you unleashed on DS9—are there echoes of them here as well? I'm sure they must make delightful company for you."
McHogue dismissed the last remark with a wave of his hand. "Oh, they're here, all right . . . somewhere or other. Not in this bright summer that you and your son have always enjoyed so much. But someplace darker, someplace a little more suited to their limited temperaments." He feigned an expression of concern. "I hope you didn't take all that personally. Your 'epidemic,' as I believe you've been calling it—these kinds of tiny mishaps always happen with a start-up operation like this. I admit that we seem to have got things rolling with a few . . . less than desirable individuals—unstable types, really—but what can you do?" He gave an elaborate shrug. "Actually, Commander, I'm somewhat disheartened by the triviality of your complaints. If all you ever had to gripe about were a few people trying to kill you every now and then, you'd be a lucky man." The unpleasant smile showed again on McHogue's face. "Believe me, there are far worse things."
"Indeed." Sisko's expression remained unamused. "And what might those be?"
"If we're friends, Commander, then you won't ever have to find out. But unfortunately, I'm afraid you will." McHogue glanced up at the sun. "Time's a-wastin'—not that you'd know it in a place like this. This perpetual noon you programmed does have its disadvantages."
"There's still plenty of time for you to tell me about these great plans of yours."
"You'll find out soon enough. But right now, I must be on my way." McHogue held up his hand and rolled the fingers one by one into his palm. "Good talking to you—we'll do it again, I promise. But now I have to pull the plug on you."
The smiling figure disappeared; a moment later, so did the trees that had been behind him.
Sisko turned, watching the yellow grass fade away, the creek dwindling to a mist. The distant hills became steel walls studded with the holosuite's optic transmitters.
The sun went last of all.
CHAPTER 8
"I would've thought you'd been put on major restrictions. For screwing up like that. Didn't your father get mad and stuff?"
Jake shook his head in reply to the Ferengi youth's question. "No, he was pretty cool about it." There were things he hadn't talked to Nog about—things he didn't want to talk about. On the outside, the part that other people could see, he let on that the trouble he'd gotten into, all that stuff with the holosuites and what happened there, it was all no big thing. But on the inside, he still felt kind of sick and dizzy; he had to be careful not to think about those things too much. It was easier, a lot less scary, to just hang out with Nog, here in the solid and real world of the station.
Right now, as Nog walked alongside Jake, his eyes had widened in disbelief. "My uncle would have flipped out, if it'd been me. Nobody would've even seen his vapor trail, he would've come down on me so fast."
Nog was virtually the same age as him, so they had a lot of the same problems—most of them dealing with the adults in their lives and the positions they held aboard Deep Space Nine. What with his own father being the station's commander, and Nog's uncle Quark being the undisputed number-one wheeler-dealer on the Promenade, they were both connected to a couple of DS9's leading lights. There was even some debate—and a series of arguments of varying ferocity between him and Nog, that had finally simmered down to an agreement not to talk about it anymore—as to whether his dad or Nog's uncle possessed the greater status. Benjamin Sisko wore a Starfleet uniform, while Quark was a private entrepreneur, something that Ferengi would just naturally think a lot more of.
"It's not such a big deal. They all make a lot of noise; that's what they're supposed to do." Jake shrugged. "What could your uncle have done to you, anyway?"
"You'd be surprised." Nog gazed down glumly at the corridor's flooring. "I don't know. Maybe put a leg shackle on me and chained me behind the bar; I'd be washing out glasses and mugs for the rest of my life."
"Don't worry." From his shoulder, Jake lifted the baseball bat he carried. "I would've come and busted you out."
"Yeah, thanks. You'd be a big help, all right." Nog raised his head, looking a small measure more cheerful. "But then again, I didn't screw up, so it's okay. You know, I think it was different with your dad, because he always let you use the holosuites—the regular ones, that is. He'd even go in there with you, and everything. But they've been off-limits to me from the beginning. My uncle always said the holosuites were just for the suckers—the customers, I mean."
"You haven't missed anything. Not really." The outfield mitt had slipped down the length of the bat and now rested against his shoulder. With the mitt that close to his face, Jake could smell the sharp mingling of leather and sweat it gave off. He didn't know whether the mitt was genuine, something that had come all the way from Earth itself, or an exact recreation, something that one of the holosuites' replicators had cookd up. In one way it didn't matter, and in another way it did.