Chapter 1Perhaps it starts like this. A man goes on a journey, to an island in the sky. He brings his son with him; and he also brings his sadness. It takes him time, but, surrounded by strange people, and their even stranger ideas, he learns many things. He grasps that he can put the past aside; he learns to live with it; he begins to hope for the future. And that is not all that he learns from the strangers around him. He finds, as well, that he can do things differently.
Or perhaps it starts later than that. A stranger comes to town, to the island in the sky. He brings suspicions with him, and so it does not take much time for him to grasp that he has been deceived. He leaves in anger, but it is not until later -- not until far too late -- that he realizes he has not seen everything. He has failed to see the full extent of the deception.
But perhaps it all started much earlier. A man goes on a journey. He has been cast out of his home, and now he is stranded on an island in the sky. He brings regrets with him, and scores as yet unsettled (and some not yet even made). He knows that the past cannot be wholly put aside, and he bides his time, and he watches, and he waits for his opportunity. And when he sees it, he grasps it with both hands.
And where does it start right now? A message is sent out, perhaps, summoning someone to a rendezvous, or giving someone her instructions. A message is received, instructing a path to be diverted, foretelling events to come. Slower than messages, ships set out, and pass; and, as they journey, other communications are sent, weaving between them, weaving them together. In time, it's hard to see how they're connected; like looking at a picture of old friends found in a drawer, it is hard to guess exactly where it is that they would go. But this is how it always starts. Some men go on a journey. Some strangers come to town.
What is it about a tuxedo?
Jadzia smiled as she saw Julian catch a glimpse of himself in the two-way mirror, stop, and smooth away some of the creases in the dark jacket. He started playing with the bow tie. His other hand was holding the gun.
"Is that a real one?" she said.
He looked down at the gun and then up at her. "Of course not."
"I meant, is that a real bow tie?"
"Well, of course it is!" He sounded piqued.
"Aren't the ready-made ones less trouble?"
"They are," he said, "but they don't look as good. Garak said that wearing a fake bow tie was like taking someone on a date to the Replimat. You might as well not bother."
"Oh, well," she murmured, turning away to gaze out beyond the mirror, "if Garak said so..."
Jadzia sighed and lifted up one aching foot, squeezed into a sparkling and thoroughly unreasonable shoe. On the other side of the glass, the banquet was well under way. Soft strains of some exquisite music floated round the hall, to the clatter of silver and the tinkle of crystal. A lavish, fabulous occasion, attended by lavish and fabulous people -- politicians, diplomats, ambassadors, even the odd scion of some royal family tree here and there, very odd -- and all of them upstaged by their surroundings. The hall was wide enough that there were rows of chandeliers hanging from the gilded ceiling and, beyond the huge table, in front of the long row of windows, a line of golden candlesticks, each almost as tall as a man and crowned in glass lamps. The light glanced and shimmered off every surface, seeming to fill the room with jewels. From where they were hiding, Jadzia couldn't even see the hall's most spectacular feature. Seventeen huge mirrors lined one wall, facing the long windows, and reflecting all the opulence back upon itself, duplicating it. And behind one of them, looking out through a piece of fake glass, stood Julian Bashir, Secret Agent, and his beautiful assistant, Jadzia Dax, waiting to make their entrance.
She switched feet. The other was hurting just as badly. So much for glamour.
"Julian," she whispered, "when are things going to start happening?"
"Sssh..."
"Are we going to be standing here much longer? My feet are killing me!"
Julian looked down at her shoes, and relented. "Not long now," he said. "In about two minutes, the main course will be served. Just after the waiters have finished, but before the doors close, five armed and masked terrorists will burst in and fire at the ceiling -- "
Jadzia glanced upward. "I don't hold out much hope for those chandeliers."
"They're only holograms, Jadzia."
"Still, they're very impressive. It seems a shame to ruin them."
"Can I carry on?"
She lowered the fake eyelashes at him, granting him permission.
"As I was saying, the terrorists will come in and take all those very prestigious guests hostage. But a moment or two after that, we burst through this false mirror, I shoot the ringleader, and then swing round to take out the other four gunmen before they know what's hit them." He stopped and frowned. "I should probably make a quip about coming through the looking glass, but that still needs a bit of work...."
"Don't worry about it," Jadzia advised. "They'll all be too busy admiring your bow tie."
He gave her a cool look, and then went back to staring through the glass. Jadzia rocked onto her toes. How she was supposed to leap through a false mirror wearing these shoes she wasn't sure. She had a vision of herself falling flat on her face. The evening gown she was wearing was a fabulous emerald green affair, but seemed unsuited for acrobatics, and, despite everything, there was nothing in Emony's memories which might help in a situation like this....Maybe I'll let Julian do the leaping, and I'll just do some elegant strolling.
This had seemed such a good idea at the start of the evening. Julian had been so moody recently; preoccupied. She had thought asking him to take her round his spy program might cheer him up a bit. She had even hoped it might take her own mind off the casualty list she had read that morning. She certainly hadn't expected to find herself hiding behind a mirror and teetering on ludicrous heels. She wondered, mischievously, what he would say if she suggested swapping shoes, but when she turned to speak to him, she caught sight of his face, and stopped herself.
Julian was looking down at the gun. He was running his thumb along it. After a moment, he switched the gun over to his other hand, and pressed his free palm against the back of the mirror. It left a print there, the image of his fingers splayed out across the glass. He stared at it, seeming almost to be entranced by it. Jadzia frowned -- and then, from the corner of her eye, she caught the door at the far end of the banqueting hall open. It was all about to start happening....
"Computer," Julian said, from beside her, his voice soft, "end program."
Everything went very quiet. Jadzia looked round. It was all gone. The mirrors, the hall, the great and the good; all the glitz and all the glamour. All of it fake. All that remained was the blank wall of the holosuite, gray-green and a bit scuffed from overuse. From too many fantasies, and too much fiction.
"Julian?" She turned to him. The gun had gone too. He was standing with both arms slack by his side, staring at the holosuite wall. "What's the matter?" she said.
With an effort, he roused himself. "I don't know....All of a sudden it seemed a bit...well, childish. Not the real thing." He shrugged. "You know, I think I may have outgrown it all." He gave her a smile. "Sorry about your shoes," he said, nodding down at them. "And sorry to break up the evening. Shall we just go and have a drink?"
"If that's what you want," she said. She followed him as he made his way out of the holosuite. She felt that she had missed something crucial, but she was not sure how to ask him what had just happened.
Out in the comfortable bustle of the bar, Worf was waiting for them. "Did you have a good time?" he asked, reaching for his wife's hand.
"Fine," Julian said, before Jadzia could speak.
"What do you want to drink, Julian?" she said instead.
He fumbled with the bow tie and looked around the bar. "You know, I'm actually feeling a bit tired. I think I'll just head off to bed. Thanks for a nice evening, Jadzia."
They said goodnight, and Jadzia watched him cross the bar, and worried. She reached out to lean on Worf's shoulder, supporting herself against him, and began fiddling with the strap at her ankle. Worf watched her struggle impassively.
"I do not like those shoes," he said.
"Don't worry," Jadzia replied, still watching Julian as he disappeared onto the Promenade. "I don't think I'll be wearing them again."
The cargo ship Ariadne threaded its way through space, small and purposeful, casting a line between Lissepia and Yridia. On its cramped bridge, its youngest crew member yawned and stretched and checked the time. Still an hour to go before the end of his shift, and Auger was having trouble staying awake. He thought about going to get another coffee, but decided it was too much effort. He eased back into his chair, a slight young man who twitched, with pale eyes that did not always seem to be quite focused on the here and now.
Auger stuck his legs out on top of the console in front of him, crossing his booted feet at the ankle. It was something he had seen Trasser do; he was trying the habit out to see if it fit, but it made his feet get in the way. He stared past them at the screen beyond, at the bright lights, at the specks of stars against the darkness. He picked out patterns in them; tried to see the shapes that Steyn had just taught him. One set of stars made up a club, another was like a diamond -- if you ignored the missing point. He wondered what they were called. He could always check, he supposed, but a set of figures and letters wasn't really what he wanted to know. Did people on different planets see them differently, he wondered. Did they give them their own names? Make up their own stories about them? Connect up the dots in their own particular ways --
"Those boots have an impressive shine, Auger. I bet y...
