by Judith
small situation room to display its menu hi Ferengi tallyscript. "Our current
position is within this system's main asteroid belt."
"Ah, a spy vessel." Nog glanced around the spartan room, trying to identify any
obvious recording sensors. But all he saw was a blank tactical screen, a
conference table with nine chairs, and on the table a small packing crate with
reinforced locking clamps.
Karon didn't confirm or deny his definition of her term. "High-speed multiple
transmorphic cloaks. But limited shields and weapons."
Nog was impressed. "With transmorphic cloaks you don't need shields. I had not
realized you had perfected them."
A grim expression flashed across Karen's stern features. "Our engineers found
they could solve their impasse with certain... biogenic components."
Nog understood and shared her distaste. The Romulans had again employed Grigari
technology. Which meant the ship's state-of-the-art cloaking device was
controlled in part by engineered tissues taken from captives.
Then, without preamble Karon said, "The Star Empire is collapsing."
Startled, Nog attempted to hide his shock the only way he could. He looked away
from her, to the replicator.
"Are you surprised?" Karon asked.
"By the news? Or by the fact that you are telling me?" Nog concentrated on the
replicator's talleyscript. There were no Ferengi selections available. The only
non-Romulan food and drink he recognized were Vulcan, and he wasn't enamored of
Vulcan cuisine. There were never enough beetles.
"You don't believe me." Karon folded her arms and drew herself up, making her
posture even more erect than it had been. She was a few centimeters taller than
Nog but very slight, even in chainmail. Nog had grown to his maximum height as a
teenager on DS9, but he knew a decade of desk work had added more than a few
kilograms of bulk to his small frame, giving him a much more substantial
presence than Karon.
Nog saw little risk in answering her truthfully. "I haven't decided," he said.
"For a collapsing power, you did not seem to have much trouble overwhelming
Utopia's defenses."
"It was a Tal Shiar operation. They are the last to feel the deprivations of the
Empire's eroding capabilities."
Nog allowed his face to reveal a slight degree of interest at her mention of
the feared Romulan intelligence service. But the revelation was a calculated
one, to make her think that he appreciated her candor. The centurion might
believe she was engaged in a frank conversation with a fellow warrior, but to
Nog, he and she were engaged in negotiations—everything was always a
negotiation. And sometimes—most times—it was best not to let the other party
know it.
"Why did the Tal Shiar want to kidnap Admiral Picard?"
"They didn't," Karon said. "The Utopia Yards are
your last major shipbuilding center. The Tal Shiar wanted to cripple them. My...
group saw a chance to make contact with Admiral Picard during the confusion."
Nog made a note of her hesitation at mentioning whom she was working with. That
could mean she hadn't yet determined if she could trust him. It could also mean
that there was no group, and that she and the handful of crew on this ship made
up the whole of the Romulan resistance.
'Two questions," he said. "First, if the Tal Shiar accepts the Ascendancy's
teachings, why bother attacking the yards this late?"
Just for a moment, it seemed to Nog that Karon sensed he was hiding something
from her, but if so, it did not stop her from answering him. 'This was one of
fifteen attacks scheduled to... to keep the Federation off-balance. We know
about Project Phoenix and Project Guardian. Even Project Looking Glass. But we
can't be sure you don't have other last-moment operations planned."
Now Nog really was impressed. For obvious reasons, Project Phoenix had been
impossible to completely hide. But Guardian was one of the most highly
classified operations in Starfleet's history. Even he had been told only a few
details about it, and those only because of how they might relate to the timing
of the Phoenix's mission. As for Looking Glass, that was a code name even he had
never heard before.
Karon seemed to understand that Nog wasn't going to order anything from the
replicator, so she reached past him to punch in some selections of her own. "As
to what the Tal Shiar does or does not believe, I don't know anymore. I think at
first our politicians consid-
ered the Bajoran Ascendants to be fanatics. The reason the Star Empire supported
them was because the Ascendants' goal was to destabilize the Federation—always
a worthy endeavor in Romulan eyes."
"But now?" Nog asked, trying not to let his voice sound too eager for details.
A tray with two tall glasses of brown liquid appeared in the replicator slot.
Each glass was topped by a froth of foam.
"I don't know how much access Starfleet Intelligence has to events on Romulus,
but as the Federation and the Klingon Empire suffered outright acts of
terrorism and overt military strikes, we ourselves suffered from key
politicians succumbing to mysterious diseases and accidents."
The centurion handed him a glass. "You were being attacked from without. We,
from within."
Nog sniffed at the drink in surprise. Root beer. It smelled delicious. "By the
Ascendants?"
"You said you had a second question." Karon held up her glass in an age-old
gesture of salute, drank deeply from it, then wiped the foam from her upper lip.
Nog took a tentative sip from his glass. The subtle interplay of sarsaparilla
and vanilla was missing, of course. In years of study, he had yet to find a
replicator version of the drink that could match that made on Ces-tus III. In
fact, he had been surprised to learn that root beer had not been invented there,
considering that the versions from everywhere else were but a pale imitation.
But he wasn't here to discuss brewing methods. He set his glass down on the
tray. "Why did you want to speak to the admiral?"
Karon sighed. "We know about the Phoenix."
Nog made his shrug noncommittal. Such knowledge was not surprising. Almost
everyone knew something about the ship. "You said that."
"We know its mission."
Perhaps in general, Nog thought, still unconcerned. It was unlikely even the Tal
Shiar had managed to uncover all the details of the audacious plan the Old Man
had put in motion almost five years ago.
"And we know that mission will fail."
Nog picked up his glass again to cover his shock and took another quick sip of
its aromatic liquid. Swiftly, he considered all the possible reasons Karon might
have for telling him this. His first thought was that she was also part of the
Tal Shiar and it was an attempt to sow disinformation. But then, he reasoned,
why hadn't she just killed him and Picard? Surely their deaths would have a
greater chance of disrupting Project Phoenix than would their being swayed by
her influence.
"For whatever it might be worth to you," he said carefully, "there are those in
Starfleet who
believe the same."
Karon shook her head. "You misunderstand. I did not say we believe your mission
will fail. I said, we know your mission will fail."
Nog drank the last of his root beer and regretfully placed the empty glass on
the tray. "How is it possible to know the fate of something which has yet to
happen?"
He meant his question to be a challenge, and expected the Romulan centurion to
respond in kind. But instead— surprisingly—Karon pulled out one of the chairs
and sat down at the conference table. Her whole being seemed to Nog to be
enveloped in an air of inexpressible sadness.
"Captain Nog, twenty-five thousand years ago, three Bajoran mystics set down
their visions: Shabren, Eilin, and Naradim. All except the tenth of Shabren's
prophecies have proved true, and that one can be read as a warning and not a
firm prediction. The Books of Eilin unequivocally describe the rediscovery of
the Orbs of Jalbador, just as it occurred twenty-five years ago. And Naradim's
Eight Visions—"
"Are ancient poetry," Nog interrupted, as he took a chair facing her. "All the
writings of the mystics are. Written with allusions and veiled references that
every generation has reinterpreted and applied to their own unique
circumstances."
Karon's gaze settled on Nog so intently he had the unsettling feeling that she
had some alien power to read his mind. "You really don't believe that any of
what's happened this past quarter-century has been foretold?"
Nog emphatically shook his head. "Of course not," he said firmly. "What has
happened is the result of secular fanatics who have appropriated obscure
religious writings in an attempt to justify brutal oppression and bloody
conquest The so-called War of the Prophets is a war of politics—not religion."
Karon's hands betrayed her inner tension as she twisted them together tightly,
and she leaned forward, urgent "But you work for Admiral Picard. He understands
what's happening."
Nog spoke with pride. "Admiral Picard is a scientist An explorer. A historian.
Of course he understands."
"Perhaps not it seems, in the same way you do. Captain Nog, are you aware that
Naradim's Third Vision has been fulfilled?"
Nog groaned with impatience. He'd thought his presence here might give him a
chance to launch a new attack against the Ascendancy. But instead, it appeared
even the Romulan resistance was as caught up in religious nonsense as the
fanatics who had enslaved Bajor and now threatened the universe.
'To be honest," he said, "I can't keep that drivel straight. What is Naradim's
Third Vision?"
"It's the reason why the Tal Shiar launched fifteen attacks against the
Federation and Starfleet in the last five hours."
Nog frowned. 'To keep us off-balance, you said."
Karon drew back, studying him, puzzled, as if amazed that he still didn't
understand her. "Captain, Admiral Picard understands even if you don't. He told
us that he told you what had happened."
"What?" Nog rubbed at his aching temple. The centurion wasn't making any sense
at all.
"The Defiant, Captain. It reappeared in deep space near the border of—"
"What!" Nog suddenly had trouble breathing.
"—the Bajoran Central Protectorates."
It was as if she'd shot him with a polywave all over again. "Is ... is anyone on
board?"
Karon's hands were still now. They lay flat on the table between them. "You know
there's only one person who counts. And yes, he is on board. Benjamin Lafayette
Sisko. Emissary to the False Prophets."
Nog felt the sharp heat of anger in his cheeks and ears, compounding the shock
he felt. "Captain Sisko was one of the greatest beings I have ever known."
"For the False Prophets to have chosen him—indeed, if the new findings from
B'hala are true, for them to
have arranged his birth—how could he be anything else?"
Nog gripped his splinted finger in an effort to use the distraction of pain to
regain his focus. "Who else?" he asked. "Who else is on the Defiant?"
"We haven't been able to intercept a complete list Apparently, there's at least
one Cardassian—"
"Garak?"
"I wasn't given names. Also a changeling—"
"Odo!"
"Eighteen in all."
"Eighteen ... ?" Nog took a deep breath. The number was appallingly small. More
than two hundred people had been reported missing when Deep Space 9 was
destroyed. "Are there... are there any Ferengi on the ship?'
"I don't have that information."
"What about Captain Sisko's son?"
"Captain Nog, how do you know these people?"
Nog told her.
"That explains a great deal," Karon said when he had finished. "You served under
Sisko. You traveled many times through the false wormhole. You even have
experienced a temporal exchange on your trip to Earth's past."
Her tone made Nog uncomfortable. "What does that explain?"
"I apologize in advance, Captain. But by your own admission, you have had
several encounters with the forces of the False Prophets. I believe that could
explain why you remain so resistant to the truth."
Nog clenched his fists, despite his splinted finger. "My mind is open!"
"Captain Nog, given the power of the Prophets, true or false, how would you know
if it were not?"
Nog jumped to his feet, knocking his chair back. 'This discussion is over. I
want you to return Admiral Picard and me to the closest Starfleet facility."
"You haven't heard my proposition," Karon said, looking up at him.
"I am not interested."
"Are you interested in stopping the Ascendancy? Saving the universe? Preserving
the memory of the great Jean-Luc Picard?"
That last question stopped Nog. Twenty-four years ago, just after the
destruction of Cardassia Prime, he had been assigned to the U.S.S. Enterprise
under then-Captain Picard. That was when the Old Man had become his mentor, and
had given him the new direction he had so badly needed after the loss of so many
people who had been close to him. In truth, Nog admitted to himself, his career
today was as much dedicated to Picard as it was to Starfleet.
"How can you do all that?" he asked the centurion.
"By myself," Karon said, as she pushed back her chair and got to her feet, "I
cannot. But together, we can accomplish all that and more."
Nog held her gaze. "My question stands. How?"
The centurion spoke slowly and deliberately, as if the words she were about to
say were the most important she had ever spoken. "Give us the Phoenix."
Nog stepped back in shock. "Never."
He saw Karon's lips tremble, as if she were restraining some great emotion.
Then she turned sharply away from him and tapped her finger on the keypad of the
small packing crate. With a hiss of mechanical move-
ment, the thick locking clamps released and the crate opened to reveal a
battered, discolored sheet of coppery-colored metal, a hand's breadth high and
slightly wider.
Nog leaned closer. The metal sheet was supported in a nest of semi-transparent
packing gel. Two of its edges were smooth,
and a jagged break showed where it
had been shattered, so that it seemed that at least half of it was missing.
Karon reached into the crate, lifted out the metal, and gave it to Nog. Even as
she did so, he realized he was looking at a Starship's dedication plaque.
"Read it," she said quietly.
Nog turned the metal over, and felt as if the gravity web had failed again.
He had seen mis plaque a thousand times before. The last time—three days ago—was
when it had been pristinely mounted on the bulkhead beside the primary turbolift
on the bridge of Jean-Luc Picard's greatest achievement u.s.s. PHOEN...the
remaining letters read.
Beneath that, hi smaller type: first of its class.
Beneath that, a list of the engineers and designers Nog had worked with every
day.
And then, at the bottom, the ship's simple motto, chosen by the Old Man himself:
"... Sokath, fas eyes uncovered... "
Nog spoke without thinking. "It's... a bad forgery."
But Karon's next words seemed to come to nun from a terrible distance. "Captain
Nog, that plaque is twenty-five thousand years old."
The plaque shook in Nog's hands. How could anyone know the target date?
"Where... where did you...."
The Romulan centurion completed his question. "Find it? At the bottom of a
methane sea on Syladdo."
Nog shook his head. The name was unfamiliar.
"Fourth moon of Ba'Syladon."
Nog's pulse quickened. "The Class-J gas giant...."
"The largest planet in the Bajoran system. Correct." Karon's eyes remained fixed
on him. She was making no attempt to take back the plaque. "And twenty-five
thousand years ago, the Phoenix died there, before her mission could be
completed."
"You can't know that. Not... absolutely."
"We can know that. We do know that. We can show you sensor records of all the
wreckage recovered to date. Wreckage that includes enough of the deep-time
components to know they were never deployed as planned."
Nog looked down at the evidence in his hands. The metal plaque burned his
fingers, froze them, the confusion of sensations occurring all at once.
"Don't let the Phoenix die uselessly, Captain. Don't throw away Jean-Luc
Picard's greatest dream on a mission that cannot succeed."
And then he finally understood. "You want the ship for another mission."
"When the ship is completed. Yes. We do."
