Warped (star trek)

by K. W. Jeter

  "Any sedation?" As much as Bashir had agreed to assist with Dax's investigation, the welfare of the subject was still a priority with him.

  She shook her head. "I felt it was contraindicated, given the amount of pharmaceuticals already present in his bloodstream. Plus, the nonstop verbalization seemed to have had a significant cathartic effect on the subject; he had ceased struggling against the restraints as he had been doing before, and there was much less of the contorted facial grimacing he had previously displayed."

  "All right. I'll check on him and make sure of his condition." Bashir raised the data padd again and studied the transcription of Ahrmant Wyoss's drug-induced rantings. The voice was still echoing inside his head.

  . . .red and dark . . . bright it hurts . . . good . . .

  With an effort, he forced the memory back into silence. "Have you already done an analysis on this material?"

  Dax nodded. "I had the station's computer do a preliminary breakdown and cross-indexing of key phrases and imagery. As I suspected, there's quite a lot of underlying structure here; it's not just a chaotic profusion of fragments unrelated to each other. The concept formation is admittedly unpleasant, but it is consistent."

  "So I see." His initial repulsion, triggered more by the violence than the words' overt graphic nature—a doctor was used to seeing blood—had abated enough that he could begin studying the transcription. "It's really as if the subject is describing the contents and experiences of another world. There's parallels, of course, to our normal shared universe but everything's skewed toward . . . I don't know . . ." He searched for a means of description. "A rage-filled hurtling into death. Or is that too baroque a construction?"

  Dax looked sympathetic. "Actually, that's rather well put, Doctor. The toxic nature of these obsessions goes beyond anything else I've ever encountered. It's as if this other universe's inherent entropic nature is not a blind, unconscious process, but something actively malign. And intelligently so."

  "More's the pity, at least for poor Wyoss and the others. There may or may not be a God in our universe, but they found a universe in which there certainly is. Just their bad luck that it turned out to be a murderous one." Bashir fell silent; these theological musings were something new for both himself and Jadzia, an indication of how deep the abyss was that they had each discerned beneath the subject's onslaught of words. He took a deep breath, as if physically drawing himself back from the edge that he had looked over. "What about the attack on the commander? Any clue what brought that about?"

  She nodded. "That's a perfect example of how this delusional fantasy world seems to operate: it distorts an element of reality into something altogether different. It appears that Ahrmant Wyoss previously had a normal awareness of Benjamin Sisko as an authority figure, the tip of DS9's hierarchical pyramid, as it were. The process of the change in that conception can actually be traced in the transcript; it becomes a full-fledged obsession, a monomania centered around a vision of Sisko as the malign universe's controlling deity. In a sense, Wyoss's intended murder of the commander was a desperate attempt at autotherapy; he was trying to cure himself of the perceived evil that had taken over his psyche. "

  Bashir had enough psychiatric experience to recognize the pattern: a spiral whose turns moved claustrophobically tighter and tighter, until the inevitable lashing-out. Without intervention, the result was always some form of death . . . either for the one undergoing the psychotic collapse, or for the target of his fixated attention.

  "And you're sure that these so-called CI modules are the source of the psychosis?" He pointed to the rectangular black boxes arrayed on the workbench. "After all, even if Odo has established that Wyoss and the others were all frequent users of the altered holosuites, it's still remotely possible that it was only a coincidence. Or their attraction to the holosuites was a consequence, rather than a cause, of their mental aberrations. We could waste a lot of valuable time here, if the epidemic's triggering agent is actually something for which we should still be looking."

  "A valid concern, Doctor, but at this point I estimate the chances of finding any other source as being well below operational significance." Dax turned the larger computer panel on the bench toward him. "I created a simulation of a functioning holosuite and then downloaded the additional programming from one of the modules into it. With the run time accelerated by a factor of ten, the culminating effects of the CI technology could be seen relatively quickly. Even the most benign holosuite programs are subsumed into a toxic psychological environment. And that effect is consistent, no matter what the initial programming might be; these modules have a defining orientation, what might be termed a constant gravitational pull toward that dark experiential universe. The one that Ahrmant Wyoss is in right now."

  "The question is, how much damage has he suffered already? Computer, give me a visual scan on the subject Wyoss." He saw on the panel's screen an overhead view of the isolation chamber, with the unconscious figure still in restraints. To all appearances, the man now seemed peaceably asleep. "Vital indicators." Across the bottom of the screen the lines tracing the subject's respiratory and cerebral functions appeared.

  "I wish that were our only concern," said Dax. "But it's not. Odo informed me that there were others who were exposed to the altered holosuites. The effects upon them, and the consequences for the station, will need to be determined. What actions we take will depend upon—"

  "There's something wrong here." Bashir tapped the screen with his fingertip. "This brain-wave trace—there's something funny about it."

  Dax looked over his shoulder. "The monitors are set to sound an alarm if there's any crisis, such as a stroke."

  "That's not it. This is something happening below the physiological threshold. Look at how smooth the wave's become; there's no jags or spikes to it, no irregularities at all. It's all just steady-state, like a sine wave with no modulation." He turned away from the panel. "Come on, we'd better take a hands-on look at him."

  The isolation chamber was only a few meters away from the lab. Within seconds, Bashir was bending over the raised pallet, drawing back the subject's eyelids with his fingertips, as Dax watched.

  "Pupil dilation seems normal. There's some level of cerebral activity going on, but . . ." Bashir glanced behind him. "Give him some more of the drug."

  They both stood back and waited, the minutes freezing into silence.

  Dax shook her head. "He should have started talking by now."

  "I don't think he's going to." Bashir stepped forward; brushed the hair back from the subject's sweating brow. "He's gone. Wherever he was, he's found his own way out."

  * * *

  Just as Quark finished pouring a drink and setting it with a flourish before one of his customers, Deep Space Nine's chief of security stepped behind the bar and grabbed the Ferengi by the collar.

  "Let's go." Odo had lifted his startled quarry off his feet. "We have a lot of talking to do." He began dragging Quark toward the end of the bar and the private booths beyond.

  "Hey—" The customer pointed to the drink, a frothing blue concoction. "I haven't paid for this yet."

  "It's on the house," growled Odo.

  "No, it's not!" Quark's natural instincts overcame his panic. "I'll be right back—"

  Odo slammed the Ferengi down in a booth and drew the security curtain. Quark shrank back as the security chief loomed over him from the other side of the table. "Now you can tell me everything you should have told me to begin with."

  "What?" Confusion tightened Quark's voice to a squeak. "I don't know what you're talking about." He peered anxiously through the translucent curtain; the bar's patrons could be seen leaning toward each other and buzzing about this interesting event. "What are people going to say, your hauling me in here like this . . ."

  "I did you a favor." Odo sat back in the booth, his unamused gaze pinning the Ferengi. "Anything less gentle would only have triggered the suspicions, among your less-than-savory companions, that you're alway
s worrying about. This way, they'll merely think you've run afoul of the law—again—and thus incurred my wrath. I'm sure this will make you even more trustworthy in their eyes. Or as much as any of you ever trust one another."

  "That's a fine way to speak to an honest businessman." Quark ignored Odo's snort of disgust, as he straightened his jacket, his wounded dignity reassembling itself. "I'd lodge acomplaint about some of your patently biased remarks, if I thought it would do any good."

  "You'll have a lot more to complain about, if you don't tell me what you know."

  Quark sighed wearily. "About what?"

  "An individual named McHogue."

  A few seconds of silence went by. Odo detected a minute contraction of the dark pupils at the centers of Quark's eyes.

  "Never heard of him," said Quark at last. He made a show of racking his memory, looking up at a corner of the booth, then back to Odo with an apologetic expression. "Sorry, the name doesn't ring a bell for me."

  "Now, that is odd." Odo's voice was uncharacteristically gentle and thoughtful for a moment; then it turned to steel again. "Inasmuch as the Starfleet criminal-investigation files have records of your business dealings with this certain McHogue, going back fifteen years before your arrival here at DS9."

  "Oh." Quark turned on his attempt at an ingratiating smile. "Oh, that McHogue. Well, my dear Odo . . ." He spread his hands apart. "I meet so many people in my line of work—as do you. We can't be expected to remember them all, can we?"

  "So you only had some minor connection with this person?"

  "Who knows?" Quark shrugged. "Perhaps we went in together on a Trilantine lottery ticket. Some small thing like that. It's all lost in the proverbial mists of time, I'm afraid." He slid toward the booth's exit. "Now, if you'll allow me to return to my customers . . ."

  Odo reached over and hauled him back by his lapel. With his other hand he took out a data padd and with a press of his thumb brought up a screenful of information. "According to the files, you and this McHogue were equal partners in an Arcturan chartered corporation that was found to be selling worthless stock certificates to the natives of several nondeveloped planets—"

  "Now, wait a minute. We told those people that there were risks involved in any financial investment—"

  "So, stock fraud; charges were dropped upon seizure of the corporation's assets and a pledge by the principals not to return to the Arcturus system."

  "As if I'd ever want to." Quark looked grumpy.

  "Let's see, what else do we have . . ." Odo pulled up another screen on the data padd. "Quark and McHogue, joint ownership of a transit-station bar that was determined to be a front for various smuggling operations; a shared indictment on tech-running charges—now, that's interesting. I might want to look into that a little deeper, given the nature of the case I'm currently investigating. Those charges were quashed on a technicality. . . ."

  "Why is it that when people like me are found innocent, people like you always say it's 'on a technicality'?"

  Odo didn't look up from the data padd. "That's because, as we both know, there is the law . . . and then there are the lawyers. What else . . ." He slowly shook his head. "This is a very long list, Quark. Impressive in its own way. You've been a busy person over the years—but then Ferengi are noted for their industrious personalities, aren't they? I'm amazed that you were able to find a non-Ferengi partner who was able to keep up with all your energy." He laid the data padd down. "Is the point I wish to make sufficiently clear to you now? Let's just say that if we were to go into a courtroom, and you made this claim of barely knowing our mysterious McHogue, you'd quickly be found guilty of perjury."

  Each detail from the files had hammered Quark farther in his seat. "Give me a break," he pleaded. "All right, I knew the man—all right, all right, I did business with him, even—but all that was years ago."

  "I assume that the two of you must have had some sort of falling-out. I'm not surprised; it would be difficult to imagine anyone who could stay hooked up with you for very long, Quark."

  The Ferengi seized on the security chief's remark. "That's right," he said quickly. "A big, big falling-out. Why, we wouldn't have anything to do with each other now if our lives depended upon it."

  "Is that so?" Odo mulled over the statement for a few seconds. "Then you certainly shouldn't have any reluctance about providing information against someone who's no longer your partner, but has actually become your competitor."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Don't waste my time, Quark. Let's just say there's a certain matter of the holosuites that you run here on the Promenade, and a number of holosuites elsewhere in the station that are not yours. That make your operation look hygienic by comparison."

  "Oh." Quark's expression turned glum. "You know about those, huh?"

  "You were the one who as much as complained to me about the 'unfair competition' they represented to your own enterprises."

  "I did? Well, in that case—" Quark's face brightened. "Complaint withdrawn. I've decided that unrestricted free enterprise is, after all, the Ferengi way. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ." He started to scoot out again, but stopped when he saw Odo's hand coming for him.

  "This is a little more serious than your business problems. Odo laid his hand flat on the table between them. "Two things you should consider: first, there's been an epidemic of murder aboard the station, and we've determined that it's related both to those altered holosuites and to your former partner McHogue."

  Quark looked puzzled. "What's the second thing?"

  "The second thing is that I've reached the end of my patience with you. Start talking."

  "All right, all right." Quark took a deep breath. "There's somebody aboard the station and he's been walking around, claiming to be McHogue. He even came here to my bar and talked to me."

  "What about?"

  "His latest scheme. It was something to do with the holosuites; he wanted to use mine for whatever he had up his sleeve. Told me he'd cut me in on the profits. But I didn't even want to hear whatever it was he'd cooked up; I eighty-sixed him right out of the place. He gave me the creeps."

  "Why?"

  Quark leaned across the table. "Because he's not McHogue. I should know, right? I spent a lot of time with the real one. I don't know who this person is, but he's no former partner of mine."

  Odo frowned. "But he does look like McHogue. Correct?"

  "So? That sort of thing can always be faked." A thin smile lifted the corners of Quark's mouth. "You have to remember, my dear Odo, that Ferengi can see into other people's souls—well, a certain part of them, at least. It's what makes us so good at what we do. I looked into this pseudo-McHogue, and there was nothing that I recognized. There wasn't even anything that I wanted to deal with."

  "That's an unusual display of morality on your part."

  "I have my standards." Quark drew himself up, as if offended. "Of practicality, if nothing else. This imposter didn't fill me in on what his plans were for the holosuites—I cut him off before he could even start to tell me. And now it appears as if my assessment of this person—whoever he is—was right." Quark shook his head. "I mean, after all—a murder epidemic? Turning your patrons into killers—how you build up any repeat business that way? Let alone what'll happen to your other customers."

  For a moment, Odo was silent, trying to piece this datum in with he had already discovered. "There was no visual ID of McHogue in the Starfleet files—"

  "Isn't it amazing what can be accomplished with a little bribery?"

  He ignored that. "Can you give a description of McHogue? Or this person claiming to be him?"

  "Oh, I can do better than that." Quark reached into a pocket of his coat; on the tabletop he deposited a small, glimmering data disk. "As you're no doubt aware, I'm in the habit of recording everyone who comes into my establishment here—for security purposes."

  "And the occasional blackmail."

  "If people lead such messy lives that they wind up embarrass
ed to be seen patronizing a harmless entertainment facility, that's their problem. In this case, I think you'll appreciate the results of my precautions." Quark pushed the disk across the table. "I was debating with myself whether I should turn this over to you. Fortunately, my sense of responsibility, as one of DS9's leading citizens, seems to have prevailed."

  "Fortunately," said Odo dryly. He picked the disk up between his thumb and forefinger and studied it.

  "I think you'll find everything you need on there. So I'll just be . . . running along . . . if that's all right with you."

  Deep in thought, Odo made no reply.

  "I'm going now. Always a pleasure having a chat with you . . ."

  Odo glanced over as the booth's security curtain fell back into place. Through it, he could see the Ferengi heading at high speed back to the security of his bar.

  Alone in the booth, Odo fed the disk into his data padd. The only thing on it was a video clip some fifteen seconds long. The concealed lens near the entrance to Quark's establishment had caught the individual in question; he had actually stopped, looked up, and smiled, as though he had known the camera was there.

  Odo didn't recognize the man. A lean, vulpine face and a relatively tall, wide-shouldered physique clad in somber black; the partnership with the diminutive Quark must have been a study in contrasts.

  He froze the image on the data padd's screen, then magnified it, drawing in upon the right eye.

  There had been one item of identification in the Starfleet files on McHogue. "Computer," he said aloud. "Call up and compare retinal patterns, onscreen subject and name index McHogue, security office working file area."

  The screen divided, showing a circle of distinctive markings on either side. Even before the computer spoke, he knew.

  "Confirm match between patterns," came the measured voice. "Onscreen subject identified as McHogue."

  "Possibility of error?"

  "Below estimation threshold. Not statistically significant."