Quark recalled the time, not so very long ago, when Dominion forces had controlled the station. Jem’Hadar soldiers could get pretty testy when their white didn’t arrive on time. But they had never ordered root beer floats. Or anything else for that matter.

“There you go, then,” Quark said. “Judging from the root beer habit my nephew Nog developed since joining Starfleet, maybe this stuff is just the Federation’s version of the white.”

“I’ve found that your root beer floats energize me. Are you telling me that this beverage also creates a chemical dependency?”

Quark wondered if he hadn’t tweaked Taran’atar’s nose a little too hard this time. Shaking his head, he said, “I’m only saying that you’re drinking like a man who has a problem.”

Taran’atar downed half of his fifth root beer float in one gulp, then turned to Quark, a foamy white mustache on his upper lip. “Perhaps I do. During my last holosuite exercise, I encountered something unexpected.”

Quark tried not to stare at the ice cream that clung to the Jem’Hadar’s upper lip. He couldn’t imagine what Taran’atar might have encountered during his holo-battles that could possibly have surprised him. Those 331ultraviolent programs he used were pretty straightforward hack-and-slay scenarios.

“What do you mean, ‘unexpected’?” Quark said, frowning. “Was there a glitch of some kind?” He hoped that Taran’atar wasn’t ramming those sharpened targ-stickers of his into the imaging hardware again. And that another one of those holoprogrammer’s “jack-in-the-box” subroutines hadn’t popped up in the combat software.

“I’m not certain. During combat, a man appeared. A human. He was dressed in black, and had silver hair. He called me ‘pallie.’”

Quark grinned. “Oh, that’s just Vic. He’s a Las Vegas entertainer.”

“Curious. He told me that the noise from my combat scenario was disturbing others in an adjacent holosuite. I didn’t think that was possible.”

Quark chuckled. “It’s not. Unless you’ve started jamming pointy things into the mechanisms again, there’s no way even youcould make thatmuch noise.”

Taran’atar looked as baffled as his inexpressive face would permit. “Then why did this Vic ask me to ‘keep the noise down to a dull roar’?”

“Vic has probably taken an interest in you, and thinks you need to unwind a bit,” Quark said with a grin.

“Unwind?”

Quark leaned toward the Jem’Hadar and whispered conspiratorially, “You probably strike Vic as a bit…tense.”

“Then he’s mistaken,” Taran’atar said, a little too quickly. “But I am curious. I thought that all holographic characters were confined to particular programs or holosuites.”

“Not this one. 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 ina 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 youhave 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.