Chapter 2

"So, did you learn anything interesting?"

Delenn sat down at the seat opposite Sheridan, and glanced briefly over her shoulder at the holograph, who had launched into a jazzy tune on the narrow stage. "Interesting?" She paused and considered, her eyes unfocusing the tiniest bit. "Yes," she finally said. "But not very informative. He is a very interesting person, but confined to a single room, his perspective would naturally be limited."

"He's not a real person, Delenn, just a computer program," Sheridan said with a faint touch of asperity.

She studied him for a moment, almost reprovingly. "John, do you remember something I once told you? The greatest secret in the universe, I called it."

Sheridan thought back to a brief conversation they'd had, more than a year ago now, he realized with some surprise. "You said," he began, trying to remember her exact words, "that we were all the same, the universe made manifest in us, and that all of the molocules and atoms that make up our bodies are the very same ones created in stars billions of years ago. So we are all..."

"Starstuff," she finished, smiling warmly. "That being the case," she continued resolutely, "where do you think that the energy that he is made of came from?"

Opening his mouth to reply, and coming up with nothing better than stammering, "but, but," he cut himself off with a laugh. "Remind me not to try and argue with you when you've got your mind made up." He paused, noting the mischiveous sparkle in her eyes, and replayed their conversation in his head, then smirked. "And now that you've made me forget the question I just asked, how about you tell me what you learned from Mr. Fontaine."

Two tables over, Ivanova turned curiously as Delenn's delighted laughter carried through the increasing volume of the background murmur, and Vic's singing.

"What do you think is so terribly amusing over there?" Marcus murmured, glancing curiously in that direction.

Ivanova shrugged. "Whatever it is, it's not one of the Captain's 'knock-knock' jokes." Noticing Marcus's blank look, she explained, "I'd like to think Delenn has better taste than that."

She looked up as the song finished, and watched Vic come down from the stage, while the small band nestled in an alcove next to it set down their instruments. Turning to survey the rest of the increasingly crowded lounge, Ivanova did a double-take, returning her eyes to the band. "Hey, Marcus," she said, tugging on his sleeve, and pointing, "doesn't that guy there look familiar?"

He turned to see the trombonist rest his instrument against the back of his chair, and walk into the main room, where he claimed a seat opposite a dark-haired woman, also in a uniform. In the subdued lighting, Marcus was startled to see the glint of a chevron pin and Starfleet uniform tunic among the otherwise tuxedoed band members. He searched his memory... Susan was right, that man did look familiar. Then it clicked, as he thought back on their brief meeting before Delenn turned the universe upside down with her revalations about Babylon 4. "That would be this ship's first officer, Commander... well, Commander something or other," he supplied lamely. "He wasn't at the briefing this morning. Come to think of it, neither was she," Marcus added, noting the woman.

Ivanova squinted at the officer, and was forced to agree with Marcus's identification. Riker. The name swam through her mind instantly; part and parcel of an edetic memory. She hadn't even seen either of them come in, though, and now that she looked around, there did seem to be an awful lot of people, some in Starfleet uniforms, and others wearing clothes as dated as Vic Fontaine's. She chided herself for not being more attentive aboard a starship crewed by people who's intentions she still didn't entirely trust. Studying her surroundings more carefully, she realized that many of the tables had been filled by Starfleet officers, people who were probably also holodeck characters, and even, to her surprise, a small cluster of white-robed Minbari come over from the White Star. The latter had congregated about a single table in a corner, and were being regaled enthusiatically by Vic.

In one booth tucked in along a finished wooden wall, in even dimmer lighting, Geordi LaForge, Data, Lennier, and one other man who Ivanova didn't recognize, were poring over a small pile of padds and readout screens scattered on the table between them. This time, more aware of the bustle of the crowd, Ivanova glanced at the far wall mid-way between the booths and the stage, where a distinctly out of place doorway arch suddenly appeared, seeming to flow from the paneling.

Marcus must have seen the look on Ivanova's face, because his eyebrows knitted, and he asked, "What?" The question died in his throat as he turned to follow her eyes. Behind him, two very distinctive figures were sillouetted against the brighter light of the outside corridor.

Nearly filling the archway shoulder to shoulder, Worf and Garibaldi stepped into the comfortably low light of the old-fashioned lounge, blinking while their eyes adjusted to the change. After a cursory glance, with Garibaldi's hand propped firmly on the butt of his holstered PPG, they drank in the scene, and began making a beeline towards the table Marcus and Ivanova were seated at.

As they approached, Ivanova waved and called, "Chief, we were just talking about you!"

"Saying something flattering, I trust?" Garibaldi returned, glowering down at the commander. When they both started to laugh, he swung his hand around, in a gesture encompassing the entire room. "So what is this place, anyway? This has got to be the first of these holoprograms I've seen that isn't trying to shoot, stab, spindle, fold, or otherwise mutilate me."

Worf's heavy brows gathered, and his eyes narrowed. "Unless I am mistaken, this is the Vic Fontaine program." His voice developed a tinge of confusion. "However, I do not believe there is more than one copy of the program, and the holosuites in Quark's bar were offline for maintenance." Dawning comprehension. "...Doctor Bashir," he growled.

"And this is a problem?" Ivanova asked.

"It is a breach of station security." The response was snapped, almost as if unconciously rehearsed. But the Klingon's tone grew conciliatory as he conceeded, "As I am no longer Chief of Strategic Operations, and no longer have any authority over Deep Space Nine, it is... not my problem." The words were forced, and Garibaldi had the distinct impression that Worf was arguing with himself about whether or not to arrest the good doctor.

Vic himself broke the awkward pause that followed, coming up behind them, and clapping Worf heartily on the back – an action few others would dare. "Long time, no see, Worf. No, wait, that's Mr. Ambassador now, isn't it?"

Worf exhaled slowly, something rumbling in his throat, as he looked over his shoulder at the affable hologram. "It is... good... to see you again, Vic. But 'Worf' will suffice. I do not care for the title."

"Say no more, palie-boy," Vic said, making a zipper motion across his lips. He looked like he was about to say something further, but the band struck up another tune – minus Riker, Ivanova noticed – and Vic Fontaine inclined his head sharply. "That's my cue," he said, ambling off between tables towards the stage.

"I was going to ask if you'd like to join me for a drink," Worf said, turning back to Garibaldi, and jerking his head in the direction of the bar, where several empty seats were available beside someone, who from Ivanova's perspective, appeared only as a shiny orange cranium, framed by an impressive set of ears.

Shaking his head, Garibaldi declined. "Sorry Lieutenant Commander, but I'm a teetotaler. No alcohol at all."

Looking faintly nonplussed, Worf also shook his head. "I did not mean we should share a barrel of bloodwine. The replicator cannot do it justice, and I did not bring any of my own supplies on this mission. However, we did set a new record in that tactical simulation, so I would be honored to share a true warrior's drink with you."

Not liking the sound of something called 'bloodwine,' Garibaldi swallowed, picturing something thouroughly revolting. On the other hand, having seen the Klingon hurl a gunslinger up on to, and through, a stable roof, he wasn't inclined to offer Worf any insult. "What kind of 'warrior's drink' did your people come up with anyway?"

Worf scowled, as if perplexed. "It is ironic, but it is a human beverage. It is called 'prune juice.'"

Garibaldi winced. That's almost as bad as I was imagining. Not quite, but nearly. "Thanks, but no thanks. My intestinal tract is working just fine." Groping for some excuse, so that he could refuse without sounding petulant, he tacked on, "Besides, I think prune juice is specifically barred by the food plan Doctor Franklin has got me on. So it's really out of my hands." He spread those hands in false apology.

When Worf appeared to be on the verge of making the same offer to Ivanova and Marcus, Ivanova blurted, "I'm on the same... uh, food plan, that Mr. Garibaldi is."

Marcus looked around, and shrugged. "I'll take you up on that, Mr. Worf, if these two don't have the stomach for it."

"You are a warrior?" Worf asked suspiciously.

Shrugging modestly, Marcus replied, "In a manner of speaking. I'm with the Anla'shok. The nearest English equivalent is 'Rangers.'"

"Mercenaries."

Marcus's mouth twisted at Worf's assertion. "Not exactly. Come on, I'll tell you all about it over that glass of – " he swallowed hard – "prune juice." Suiting action to words, he pushed back his chair, and followed the Klingon to the bar.

As they strode away, Garibaldi grimaced, and grabbed a chair from the adjacent unoccupied table, turning it backwards with a practiced twist of the hand. He pushed it up against the table, next to Ivanova, and straddled the seat so he could lean forward into the backrest, and peer at her. He'd noticed that her face was teeming with unasked questions from the moment he'd walked in. She returned his scrutiny with a hooded glare, but he could see she was forcing the expression – the corners of her mouth twitched upwards as she wrestled with a grin.

"So," Garibaldi began, just trying to make idle conversation, "what exactly's going on here anyway?"

Ivanova's burgeoning smile dried up instantly, and Garibaldi cursed himself for having said anything. "I gather this is supposed to be some kind of informal reception," she explained, looking vaguely troubled.

"What's the problem then?"

"What problem?" Ivanova countered sharply. "What makes you think I have any problem at all with being dragged through time, dumping Jeff a thousand years in the past, then getting sucked along into another universe with a bunch of kooks and their flashy ships? I'm. Just. Peachy."

"Right," Garibaldi snorted. "And Atilla the Hun was just a little cranky." He lowered his voice, his tone turning serious. "Listen, Commander, I can't say I like this whole situation any better than you do, but flying off the handle is not gonna help. My gut says we can trust these people; 'course, my gut's been wrong before." Even as the words left his mouth, his back twinged painfully where the scars of a PPG burn still marred the skin. "For now, follow the Captain's example. We go along with this, until we either figure out how to get home on our own, or these people do something we don't like."

Ivanova sighed gustily, but relented. "Fine. I still don't like this, Michael. Something's going on behind the scenes, and I intend to find out exactly what." She glanced up at him, looking oddly vulnerable. "But you're right. For now, we play along."

Garibaldi smiled, and allowed his shoulders to relax. "Good. Besides," he added with a grin, waving his hand at their surroundings, "these particular kooks and their flashy ships have some extremely cool toys."

A laugh forced itself out of Ivanova's throat, and she favored him with a half-smile. "Glad to see you're keeping our priorities straight. Coffee, steak, then the way home."

"Hey, one of us has to have some perspective." He looked around again, more appraisingly. "I wonder if we could get one of these holodecks installed on the station."

It was Ivanova's turn to snort. "Sure, no problem. This place would make the ritziest holo-brothel on Earth look positively sad in comparison."

"Well, granted, we'd probably have to shove Londo out an airlock to keep him from taking up permanent residence... but I don't see the problem there."

Ivanova laughed again, harder, while Garibaldi chuckled, easily picturing Londo's reaction to this technology. When they recovered, neither said a word, prefering a few moments of companionable silence amid the low hum of activity around them. So both were startled when a third voice asked, "Excuse me, mind if I join you?"

Looking up at the newcomer, they both reflexively jumped to their feet. Their reactions to rank were deeply ingrained, and held sway, even if the rank in question wasn't Earthforce, nor the person bearing it in a uniform of any type.

Picard smiled, and waved them back into their seats. Feeling their eyes on him, he self-conciously tugged his jacket straighter in a move more suited to his uniform tunic than to the white tuxedo he was wearing.

"Uh, no, no problem, Captain, have a seat," Ivanova said, trying not to stare. She gestured to the chair recently vacated by Marcus.

Taking the seat gracefully, Picard smiled again, doffed his battered leather fedora, and set it on the table in front of him. "Thank you. I thought we might be able to put off more pressing concerns for the time being. What do you think of the holodeck so far?"

"It's just great!" Ivanova said quickly. "But ah..." she trailed off, trying not to look completely foolish as she studied the Starfleet captain's choice of wardrobe.

"What's with the getup?" Garibaldi asked more bluntly.

Picard looked down at himself, as if noticing his odd clothing for the first time. "Oh, these. I borrowed them, in a manner of speaking. I normally wear these in my Dixon Hill persona." He shrugged in an amused gesture, adding, "I thought I might try and fit in a little. This program of Doctor Bashir's seems to be from the same era."

"You're about twenty years out of date," Garibaldi cut in smugly.

"I beg your pardon?"

Grinning with the chance to show off some of the trivia he'd picked up from hours spent in front of 20th century vids, Garibaldi said, "Your clothing is about twenty years old. Dixon Hill was from the nineteen-thirties, and early forties. This program has got to be late nineteen-fifties, maybe the sixties."

Ivanova turned her stare on him, full force, but Picard grinned delightedly. "You've heard of Dixon Hill?"

Garibaldi snorted, as if his intelligence was being questioned. "You better believe it. Though speaking for myself, I like Mike Hammer's style better."

Picard chuckled softly. "Yes, I would think so, based on what Worf has told me."

With a surreal feeling, Ivanova shook her head, breaking into the conversation before it could get off the ground. "Doesn't this bother you?" She directed the question to a point midway between the two men. "I mean, I'm amazed that most of your crew doesn't live in these things permanently."

His smile fading, Picard nodded more seriously. "Most of us can readily tell the difference between reality and this," he said, cocking his head, to encompass their surroundings. "But sometimes, that does become a problem." He cleared his throat, not saying any more, though his thoughts invariably turned to Reginald Barclay, who, from what he'd heard, had reverted to his holo-addiction during his tenure on Earth.

Shifting uncomfortably, Garibaldi never heard what Ivanova's reply might have been.

Marcus was standing over them, casting a faint shadow across the table in the candlelight. His face was drawn and pale, and somehow managing to look unmistakably green at the same time. "Bathroom?" he choked out, swaying, then swallowing hard.

They exchanged glances at the Ranger's queasy appearence, but Ivanova, who'd thought to check on that detail earlier, pointed him in the right direction.

"Thanks Susan," he gasped. Then, shuddering, he clapped a hand over his mouth, and raced off in the indicated direction, stumbling between several tables, and nearly plowing into a chair in the process.

"Do I dare ask what just happened?" Picard asked with a slightly amused inflection.

Garibaldi shrugged. "Beats me. He left a little while ago to share a round of prune juice with Worf."

Picard mused on that, developing a fairly clear picture in his mind of what must have transpired. He decided to confirm it, as the Klingon covered the distance between the bar and their table. "Mr. Worf?"

"Captain." Worf spoke the greeting with an even tone, already knowing what his commanding officer was going to ask. "Mr. Cole said he was interested in sampling some basic Klingon dishes. I do not believe the gagh agreed with him." He only allowed slight disapproval to color his tone. The Ranger had, after all, tried the rokeg blood pie and heart of targ without much hesitation.

"Gagh?" Ivanova repeated, only belatedly realizing she'd spoken out loud.

"Klingon serpent worms, Commander Ivanova," Picard answered, before the Klingon could comment on her painful pronounciation. "Usually served live. It is considered a sign of strength to be able to eat food that does its best to return the favor. It's an... acquired taste."

Feeling his stomach knot, Garibaldi hoped the description would stop there, or he'd end up in the head with Marcus, relieving himself of everything he'd eaten during the day. From the look on Ivanova's face, he gathered that she was trying to mask a similar reaction.

Worf apparently saw as much, and nodding to the captain, stalked off between the tables towards the front of the room, where Vic had just finished another song.

"Why don't the two of you tell me more about what is going on in your timeline?" Picard remarked casually, dragging their attention away from Klingon cuisine.

"Under one condition," Ivanova said, bringing Picard's eyebrows up. "First, you tell us more about yours. You spent four hours checking our history tapes yesterday, and we know almost next to nothing. I don't like not knowing."

Picard's lips formed a wry smile. "That is true enough," he said. "Where would you like me to begin?"

On stage, Vic Fontaine broke into a haunting rendition of "All the Way," while Worf sank into an empty chair nearby, his face tensed, and expression unreadable.

*****

Sipping her raktajino contentedly, Ezri leaned back in her chair, and stared into Bashir's eyes as he wrapped up his story. He'd begun by explaining how he'd "liberated" Vic's program from Quark's holosuites while work was being done on them – Vic's constantly running program finally causing enough wear-and-tear that even Quark agreed it was time for an overhaul. Then he'd gone on to describe the things he'd seen aboard Babylon 5 in vivid detail, from the spectacular wraparound landscape visible from the core shuttle, to the sprawling Medlab complex – going into more detail there than she really wanted to know – and the mingling of dozens of completely unheard-of races in the Zocalo. Her expression of rapt attention covered the pang of jealousy she felt on hearing about things she'd much rather being seeing in person. Well, other than Medlab, that is, she added in a moment of irreverence.

He ended his tale with his account of fleecing the Centauri ambassador in a game of darts... something Miles O'Brien could have sympathized with. He said as much. Ezri grinned with him, easily able to picture the scene, having witnessed similar dart games at Quark's. But behind his laugh, she could see an unpleasent shadow lurking.

Covering one of his hands with her own, she waited for his smile to fade before asking, "You miss him, don't you?"

Bashir started, then ducked his head guiltily. "Yeah," he admitted, "Back on the station, both of them, I kept thinking about how much he'd have loved a chance to poke around in there. It would have been just like old times."

Ezri snorted at that. "Julian, as I recall, on not a few away missions, you two ended up nearly killing each other."

"Now that's an exaggeration!" he protested.

"Is it?" She grinned wickedly, and for a moment, he saw a spark of Jadzia's devious sense of humor in her eyes. "What about the time where you two were trying to deactivate those harvesters, on T'Lani Three? Or how about the time when you two ended up prisoners of some rogue Jem'Hadar? And then there's – "

"Alright!" He held up his free hand to stop her. "That's not really fair, you know," he added petulantly, "you weren't even there for any of those."

"Concession accepted," she murmured sweetly. "Sorry, but the thought of you two working on a time machine is something that would give a Breen chills."

He opened his mouth to point out that that neither were exactly unheard of, but decided better of it. Instead, he settled for squeezing her hands, and using his free hand to take a sip of his martini on the rocks, shaken, not stirred. He had only grudgingly decided not to enter the program as his secret agent persona, and remain in his uniform. Having seen Picard's outfit, however, he was again regretting that decision.

Preoccupied with his recollections of the last time he'd actually used that program, where his only help was the scathingly amused commentary of Elim Garak, he barely noticed as Vic launched into another song. That is, he didn't really take note until he felt Ezri's hands tense under his own, and looking up, startled, saw her stiffen suddenly, the smile vanished from her features.

"Oh Worf..." She whispered the words with infinite sadness behind them. Abruptly pulling away from Bashir, her expression was torn as she hesitated. Then inhaling sharply, stood and nearly ran out the door into the corridor beyond, leaving the holographic fantasy behind.

Stunned, Bashir jumped up and followed her out, trying to understand what had just happened. Catching up to her in the hall, which was fortunately empty – everyone who might have had an excuse to be there already in Vic's – he caught her by the shoulders, and spun her around to face him. "Ezri! Ezri, what happened?" He was appalled that she looked as close to tears as he'd ever seen her.

"I'm sorry, Julian," she said, choking off a sob. "Didn't you recognize that song?"

Frowning, because he hadn't noticed, he tried to lighten her mood. "No, I wasn't paying attention. I was a bit distracted by my charming and witty companion."

She didn't rise to the bait, but sniffled and blinked hard a few times. It wouldn't do for anyone to see a trained counselor break down in public. "That was Jadzia's favorite song Worf requested back there. He still misses her."

Bashir felt a momentary surge of anger, at Worf for being insensitive enough to ask for that song while Ezri was in the room, at Vic for actually singing it, and at himself for not having been able to protect her from the painful rush of emotions she was going through as a result. But his mind cleared quickly; he couldn't blame Worf for missing Jadzia... hell, he still missed her. And he couldn't blame Vic for not refusing a request, nor himself for failing to do the impossible.

Sighing helplessly, he did what he could to ease her pain, throwing his arms around her, and simply holding her to him. Here he was, one of only two doctors along on this insane mission, and there was little he could do to heal the one person he cared most about. He felt her relax into his embrace, and her trembling cease. They were standing like that when the holodeck doors rumbled open.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Deanna Troi said with no trace of embarrasment at seeing them that way. "I saw you leave that way, and came to see if there was anything I can do to help."

Ezri flashed her a grateful smile, but shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine, really." She took a deep breath, and composed herself. "Thank you for the offer. But, ah, you know... physician, heal thyself. I can deal with it."

With a concerned glance, Troi nodded, but said, "I've noticed that those who live by that phrase are the ones who generally need the help the most. If you need to talk, feel free to make an appointment."

"How about we call it a night," Bashir suggested, leading Ezri down the corridor.

"But what about Vic?" she protested, weakly.

"He can take care of himself. I'll drop by tomorrow and apologize for walking out so early, how about that?"

"Alright," she agreed reluctently. "So," she said, developing a mischevious grin, "your place or mine?"

Troi watched them departing down the hall, smiling, then turned back towards the holodeck. She laughed softly, hearing Bashir say, "Why not both? We won't get to Earth until late morning," before the heavy doors rolled shut behind her. Her smile briefly disappeared as she resolved to have a talk with Worf, then returned full force as the atmosphere in the room washed over her.