Part 3 (1/2)

. . . One, zero . . .

The dream was locked down. He had it, the gist of it, in any case. Not so much a dream, Maxwell knew, as a distillation of memory. He reflected on his feelings, about those days: discovering the bodies, bringing them home, and laying them to rest. His wife. His children. Maxwell remembered how he had felt, or, in truth, hadn't felt anything at all.

Counselors had asked, back when he woke up every night, chest heaving, sheets soaked with sweat. Only in the hospital or at the colony, though. Never when he was on his s.h.i.+ps, not the Rutledge or the Phoenix.

”How did you sleep back in those early days?” every counselor had asked.

”Like a rock,” Maxwell had said.

He almost laughed now to think about it.

He hadn't had that dream in years. He thought about that day. His wife and children, dead now for so many years, were never far from him. But did he dream? No. Not so much.

”So why today?” Maxwell said aloud. The cabin sensors heard, naturally, and the tiny light in the corner near the hatch flickered on just in case he needed to go to the head. He rolled over onto his back and put his hands behind his head, considering the bulkheads. Oh, he thought. Of course.

And, naturally, just at that moment, the intercom chimed. Anatoly Finch intoned, as if from the heavens (which was, in a sense, true), ”Ben? Are you awake?”

Maxwell replied, as one does to a minor deity, with respect and good grammar. ”I am,” he replied. ”What can I do for you?”

”You have some visitors, Ben. Starfleet. They're asking about you. Do you want to see them?”

Them? Maxwell wondered. Who did Miles bring with him? He shrugged. It didn't matter. He sat up and ma.s.saged some of the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. The Hooke beds were too soft. ”Of course,” he said. ”Where would you like me to meet them?”

”The hangar bay, I suppose,” Finch replied.

”Can't right now. Both bays are being used.” Finch never paid any attention to log entries that didn't involve the labs.

”Ah,” Finch said. ”Of course they are. I suppose we'll have to receive them up here then, shan't we? Ops, in five minutes?”

”Make it ten, please.” Maxwell said. ”I need to tidy up.”

”Very well,” Finch drawled. ”And Ben?”

”Sir?”

”We will be having a discussion about your having guests show up unannounced, won't we?”

”Check the logs, Mister Finch,” Maxwell said, repressing his irritation. ”It's all there.”

Finch paused, but did not sign off. Clearly, he was checking his log. ”Of course it is, Ben. But still . . .”

”If you say we're going to have a discussion, Mister Finch,” Maxwell conceded, ”we'll have a discussion. It's your station, after all. I just work here.”

”Indeed,” Finch intoned. ”Indeed.”

Chapter 3.

January 2, 2386 Quark's Deep s.p.a.ce 9 ”Thank you both for agreeing to meet me here,” Nog said.

”Hey,” Danny said. ”Glad to help.” He tugged on the knot of his necktie, loosening it just enough that he could slip a finger down his collar and scratch his neck. Then Danny tilted his head to one side, moved his mouth in a way that might have been interpreted as a smile, and said, ”Sorry I couldn't find Vic for you. He's . . . ah . . . busy?”

”That's okay, Danny,” Nog said. ”It's always good to see you. How's business been?”

Danny squinted and looked down at the inside of his wrist like he was reading something very tiny someone had written there. ”Business has been okay. We've been knocking around a couple possibilities. Rusty has an idea.”

”Rusty?” Nog asked.

Danny shrugged wearily, like he didn't have the strength to comment, and sat back in his club chair. The hologram flickered once and then again.

”My brother's still having problems with his holosuites?” Rom asked from where he sat. Nog's father fidgeted, first rubbing the arms of the chair, then touching the lobes of his ears, and finally tugging on the cuffs of his expensively tailored s.h.i.+rt. Despite having been the grand nagus for more than a decade, Rom still did not present any evidence of being comfortable with the higher-quality fabrics his wife, Leeta, rightly insisted he wear while serving in his official capacity.

”What kind of suites?” Danny asked.

Rom, seated in front of his personal holographic array in his office on Ferenginar, grinned, remembering that this hologram was not self-aware like Vic Fontaine. ”Danny, you look good.”

”You too, Rom,” Danny replied. ”How're the wife and the kid?”

Rom smiled hugely, showing his back teeth. ”The treasures of my life.”

Danny dipped his head and turned away as if he was embarra.s.sed by the display of unbridled happiness. ”How is it,” he asked wryly, ”that a guy like you is in charge?”

Rom's grin faded. ”I think,” he said uncertainly, ”because the economic indicators are up one point six percent over projections for the quarter, largely on the basis of the depreciated tariffs we've introduced for both Federation and Carda.s.sian goods. In the past three quarters, we've seen slightly smaller increases, though we've managed to leverage the improved reputation of Ferengi mining so that-”

”Father?” Nog asked.

”Yes?”

”Please don't get started on economic reforms. Beaming in your hologram from home is very . . . costly.”

”I can afford it,” Rom said brightly.

”I mean, Uncle Quark is bound to notice sooner or later and wonder what we're doing.”

”Oh,” Rom said, shrinking slightly, which seemed so ridiculous to Nog. His father had infinitely more wealth and prestige than his uncle, and yet Rom still acted like he was afraid Quark was going to walk in at any moment and tell him to clear a dirty table. ”All right, then, what are we doing?”

”Yeah,” Danny said. ”What's the deal?”

”I need some advice,” Nog began.

”Oh,” Rom said, and sat up straighter. ”Of course, son. What can I help you with? I mean, what kind of advice do you need? Financial information? Questions about career options? Uh, decorating suggestions? You do have new quarters, don't you?”

”This isn't about women, is it?” Danny asked. ”If it is, I can go get Rusty.”

”No. No,” Nog said. ”No, and definitely no,” he said. ”It's just that . . .” He searched for the right words despite the fact that he'd been rehearsing the conversation for the past couple days. Crossing his arms over his chest, he lowered his head and said, with as much meaning as he could muster, ”Life has been very odd lately.” He looked up from under his brow to see what kind of response his statement had generated. His father was now leaning forward in his chair, palms of his hands resting on his knees. Now that Rom had something to do, a task to engage in, he had ceased fidgeting. Danny maintained a demeanor of polite, modulated concern. Interestingly, a small table had materialized beside his chair and Danny was sipping from a tumbler of brown liquor.

No one said a word for several seconds.