"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.
"Damages? 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.
"On what charge?"
"Disturbing the peace. Your premises are, after all, part of this station and thus under my authority as well."
"Hmph." Quark straightened the lapels of his jacket. "Just the sort of reaction I expected from an alleged public servant. For this I pay my lease and license fees." He stowed the box of glass fragments under the bar. "I don't suppose the problems of a relatively honest man trying to make a living around will be very high on the agenda of this big meeting you're having with Commander Sisko."
"What do you know about that?"
Quark looked smug as he stood back up. "Oh, one hears things." He rolled the baseball around with one finger. "Talk travels fast, you know."
"Especially when one pays to have it come this way." It was a constant annoyance to Odo, that a Ferengi innkeeper would have an information source on the station's Ops deck.
"Well . . ." Quark shrugged. "Nobody would tell me these things otherwise."
Odo turned away, watching the flow of traffic on the Promenade. "I think you can rest assured that we won't be dealing with your petty concerns."
"Just talking about McHogue, huh?"
He glanced back at the Ferengi. "Why would we discuss him?"
"Come on. What else is there? Everybody knows he's been made the new Bajoran Minister of Trade. Quite an interesting development."