Cathedral Michael Mangels (free ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📖

Vic’s program is always on, and sometimes he crosses over into other programs.”

Quark thought Taran’atar’s expression had grown even stonier than usual, if that was possible. “Why is this Vic always left running? That seems inefficient and wasteful.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Quark said. “Blame my nephew.”

Taran’atar now seemed truly astonished. “Nog is an engineer. Surely he knows that holograms are extremely energy intensive. Leaving them running perpetually is a frivolous use of the station’s resources.”

I’ll make a Ferengi of you yet, big guy, Quark thought. Aloud, he said, “Not to mention expensive. But since Vic more or less saved Nog’s life last year, I’m willing to cut him a little slack.”

“For whom? Nog or Vic?”

Quark had to think about that for a moment. “You know, I’m not sure.”

“How can a mere hologram save a man’s life?” Taran’atar asked. Quark had never seen a Jem’Hadar exhibit such curiosity. Of course, Odo had ordered him to learn everything he could while living among Deep Space 9’s diverse humanoid population. Quark wondered if Taran’atar was merely carrying out his people’s genetically imprinted penchant for obedience to the Founders.

“Vic seems to be a great deal more than just another hologram,” Quark said. “And he always comes up with just the right advice to help anyone with any problem. Just ask anybody who’s ever visited him.”

Taran’atar grunted. “A counselor.”

“Not exactly. He’s a lounge singer.”

“He sings lounges? I’m not familiar with that musical form.”

No wonder these guys lost the war.“He sings in a lounge, Tarannie. In a scenario set on ancient Earth.”

“Are you saying that you believe this Vic to be alive? That he has what the Bajorans call pagh, or what the humans term a soul?”

Quark hadn’t expected the conversation to veer so abruptly from treacly Federation drinks to the hinterlands of quantum philosophy. “Whoa, there. I just pour the drinks around here. I make it my policy to leave the philosophizing to the people who leave their latinum behind.”

The Jem’Hadar’s next words appeared to be for his own benefit. “Do you believe a holographic entity can have a soul?”

Seeing how hard Taran’atar appeared to be struggling with the idea, Quark decided to step outside his usual conversational boundaries. “I dunno. Do you have one? Do I? In my experience, if the commodity can’t be bought, sold, or rented, it’s probably not even worth discussing.”

Taran’atar downed the rest of his drink, in the process washing off half of the sticky ice cream smeared above his mouth. He stood, placing his final tankard on the counter beside its emptied brethren.

Taran’atar moved to depart, then turned back to the bar, tapping his finger on its smooth surface as he addressed Quark. “I have two requests to make of you, Quark.”

Quark grinned, finally feeling that he had begun to connect with the dour Jem’Hadar on something approaching a personal level. “Name ’em.”

“I would like to book some holosuite time today, to see this Vic. I wish to hear how he saved Nog’s life.”

“Done. Just as long as you’re cleared out by twenty hundred tonight. And please try not to kill anything while you’re in there.”

Taran’atar nodded solemnly. “If nothing attacks me, I’ll do as you ask.”

Quark felt relieved to hear that. He wanted Vic’s establishment to be in perfect working order tonight for his date with Ro. “What’s your other request?”

The Jem’Hadar’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t ever address me as ‘Tarannie’ again.”

The Ferengi barkeep watched as the behemoth left his establishment, and only then noticed that his knees were quaking. You try to be friendly to someone and what does it get you?

He shook his head, then noticed a patron whose Alterian fizz was almost empty. He rushed over with another, the encounter with Taran’atar almost forgotten.

Almost.

By the afternoon, Ro Laren had ceased personally welcoming the Federation dignitaries aboard the station, allowing Starfleet Lieutenant Costello and some of the other junior officers to greet the arriving lower-echelon diplomats. Ro accompanied Kira to meet the higher-level guests. Several of these officials evidently knew of Ro’s past run-ins with the Starfleet hierarchy, and her subsequent imprisonment, as well as the time she had spent fighting alongside the anti-Cardassian Maquis guerrillas. A few of the dignitaries, most notably the scowling martinet who represented Kostolain, hadn’t tried very hard to disguise their disgust at having to be in her presence.

So this is the sort of abuse Kira has to deal with every day from her fellow Bajorans, Ro thought, her soul rendered desolate by the hours-long drumbeat of subtle disapproval. She wondered how much of it Kira had perceived, and to what extent the colonel was reining in her own reactions. But Ro didn’t feel inclined to discuss it. All she wanted was to get away before she complicated her life even further by sending someone plunging over the Promenade railings.

She recalled the words of one of her Starfleet tactical training instructors. Welcome to the future. It’s where we’re all going to spend the rest of our lives.

As the afternoon wore on, and an opportunity to get away presented itself, she decided to spend at least a few minutes relaxing at Quark’s. She fervently wished there was time to get gloriously, obstreperously drunk.

Perhaps a minute or two after she had taken a seat behind one of the place’s more unobtrusive back tables, Frool, one of Quark’s waiters, appeared as though by magic. The obsequious-mannered Ferengi set a tall glass of dark, steaming liquid onto the table before her.

“Thank you, but I didn’t order this,” she said. “And I’d really prefer to be left alone.”

“It’s a gift,” said Frool.

Ro lifted the glass by its heat-resistant stem and sniffed its contents. Hot Pyrellian ginger tea. Quark must have read my mind.

It felt good to receive a kind gesture, however small. She smiled politely at Frool. “Sorry for snapping at you, Frool. Please pass my thanks along to your boss.”

“Quark wasn’t the one who sent this,” Frool said, gesturing over his shoulder toward one of the tables in the far corner of the bar. Only