"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.