by Judith
The cloning facility, you see, had... outlived its usefulness."
"You mean, you destroyed it."
"You know very well it was in Cardassian territory, so—technically—the
Cardassians must take the blame for its loss, because they would not surrender.
Believe me, Odo, I would have preferred to have kept at least some other Vorta
around to help me through these difficult years."
"You're sure you're the last of your kind?"
Weyoun nodded. "Just as you are the last of yours. At least in the Alpha
Quadrant. Isn't that reason enough that we should be united in our purpose?"
"And what purpose would that be?" Odo steeled himself to continue the discussion
with the odious creature before him. The more Weyoun babbled on, the more
information he would supply that might suggest a way out of this intolerable
situation.
"Think of the suffering you've endured, Odo."
Odo loathed the false concern in Weyoun's oily voice, but gave no outward
indication of his feelings, waiting to see what the Vorta really wanted from
him.
Encouraged, Weyoun wanned to his argument that he and Odo were soulmates. "Cast
out by your own people. Forced to become a plaything of Bajoran and Cardassian
scientists. Never really belonging to any world, even your own when you returned
to the Great Link. But you and I... we share so much pain. Isn't it right and
proper that we should dedicate our lives to eliminating pain forever?"
"Pain is a necessary part of life," Odo said gruffly. "It enables us to
appreciate pleasure."
Weyoun gazed at him thoughtfully. "I never knew you had such a philosophical
streak hi you."
"Do you really want to end my pain?" Odo asked skeptically. "And the pain of all
the others from the Defiant?"
Weyoun bowed his head as he had done countless times in Odo's presence, but not
this time to Odo. "The cessation of pain, the onset of joy ... that is the will
and the one goal of the True Prophets," he intoned.
"Then free us," Odo said.
Weyoun sighed, lifting his head. "You're not being held prisoner here. You're
being protected."
"It seems some words have changed their meanings in the past twenty-five years."
"Not words, Odo. The galaxy has changed. The Federation has become an
abomination. Starfleet an organization of brutal murderers. If I gave you a
shuttlecraft and sent you to ... to Vulcan... or Andor, do you know how long
you'd last?" Weyoun didn't even pause before answering his own question. "They'd
shoot you out of space before you finished opening nailing frequencies."
For no distinct reason he could articulate, Odo was beginning to feel that he
really wasn't in immediate danger from Weyoun. It was obvious that the Vorta had
been changed in some way. Whatever set of neurons in his brain had been
programmed to revere changelings had somehow been reconfigured to revere the
Pah-wraiths instead. Recalling that once even the Ferengi Grand Nagus Zek had
been altered beyond recognition, having entered the first wormhole, only to
reemerge as an altruist determined to give away his fortune. As a result, Odo
now had little doubt that alteration of fundamental personality traits was well
within the capability of wormhole beings.
But still it somehow also appeared to Odo that Weyoun maintained a type of
residual respect for him. The Vorta seemed anxious that he talk with him, listen
to him, perhaps even come to understand him. And just as Weyoun's worship of him
had been advantageous in the past, Odo decided that in this situation, it was
still worth capitalizing on any remaining shadow of that behavior, no matter
how distasteful it was.
"Weyoun," he began, without a trace of his previous challenging attitude,
choosing instead to play along altogether with whatever Weyoun was up to, "I
acknowledge there is a great deal about this time I don't understand. But if
there is just one question you can an-
swer for me now, then tell me: Why are the people from the Defiant so dangerous
to the Starfleet of this time that they would kill us on sight?"
Odo was gratified by the effect of his changed tone on Weyoun, who responded by
lowering the inhibitor and no longer making a point of threatening him with it
"Rest assured it's not you, Odo. It's Captain Sisko."
Odo kept his surprise to himself. "Why him?"
The Vorta regarded Odo earnestly. "Because he's the False Emissary to the False
Prophets. And according to prophecies of Jalbador, the One True Temple cannot be
restored until the False Emissary accepts the True Emissary."
Weyoun's face became grave. "There are those in Starfleet who have determined
that if they can prevent Captain Sisko from being present when the two halves of
the Temple at last open in conjunction, the Day of Ascendancy will be postponed
for millennia."
It was beginning to make sense to Odo. "So everyone knew that the Defiant
hadn't been destroyed along with DS9. That the snip had been caught in a
temporal rift."
Weyoun nodded. "Not at once, of course. But as the Ascendancy regained its
rightful position of primacy on Bajor—oh, I tell you, Odo, no world has ever
seen such a cultural flowering. You would not believe the treasures those
Bajoran monks concealed over the centuries, because they contradicted the
teachings of the False Prophets. It is only now that ancient texts thought lost
forever have been brought out into the light. Together with all of the writings
and prophecies that... that the world had forgotten even existed, all of them
hidden in caverns, walled-up in temples...."
Odo forgot himself for a moment. "And these texts, these writings, described the
Defiant's return, did they?"
But Weyoun just smiled, and waggled a finger at him. "I hear that skeptical
tone. And, no, the ancient texts didn't say that a twenty-fourth-century
starship named the Defiant would be caught in a temporal rift only to reappear
twenty-five years later."
"Didn't think so."
"Ah, but several texts did say that the False Emissary would arise from those
who had perished at the fall of the gateway, just as I explained to Captain
Sisko. The three great mystics of Jalbador—Shabren, Eilin, and Naradim—they had
to describe their visions hi the context of their time, you know."
"Weyoun," Odo said, choosing his words with care, "I have no doubt that ancient
mystical texts can be interpreted to support recent events. Humanoids have been
doing that for millennia on hundreds of worlds. What I find troubling is that
you say Starfleet has also accepted these interpretations."
"What's left of Starfleet. Yes."
"Then what I don't understand is why Starfleet would accept that the writings on
which you base your faith are true, yet not then also accept your faith."
Weyoun's smile faded from his face, and for just an instant Odo thought he
detected the flash of a red shift in the Vorta's clear gray eyes. "In the final
battle to determine the fate of the universe," Weyoun said passionately,
"Starfleet, for reasons which no sane mind can comprehend, has chosen to support
th
e wrong side. Could we say they are afraid of that which they don't
understand? That they're afraid of change? Or is it something simpler, Odo? Can
we
simply say that in a universe in which all sentient beings have been given free
choice, some, invariably, will choose evil?"
The Vorta paused as if in contact with something or someone of which Odo was
unaware, and then disconcertingly began speaking again as if there had been no
interruption in his speech. "These same questions have been asked since the True
Prophets created sentient beings in their own image, and I doubt we will answer
them here in engineering."
Even though he sensed Weyoun becoming threatening again, Odo pushed on.
"Weyoun, all things being equal, how can I know that it's not you who've
chosen... evil?"
The Vorta studied him for a moment before responding. "You know, if my crew had
heard that question come from you, Odo, not even I could have acted fast enough
to save your life. If anyone else had asked that question, I would not even try
to save him. But you and I... ?" Weyoun sighed deeply. "I will make allowances.
But just this once. Do you understand?"
Odo nodded. "I understand I'm not to question you like that again."
An appreciative smile touched Weyoun's mouth. "Spoken like a Vorta." And then
he was deadly serious again. "If you truly want to know who has allied
themselves with the forces of evil, consider this, Odo: My forces rescued you
and your ship from a Starfleet attack wing."
"Only," Odo interjected, "because you need Captain Sisko to fulfill your
prophecy."
"Exactly!" Weyoun said, apparently unoffended by the interruption. "I do need
Captain Sisko alive. But the ancient texts say nothing about you, Odo. Or about
the
others I saved with your captain. If I were serving some evil purpose, would it
make sense for me to keep you all alive? Or would I simply have you killed? Just
as those Starfleet ships tried to do?"
The Vorta held up his inhibitor device and checked its energy level. "It's time
for you to go back to the others now, Odo. Tell them what we've talked about.
Be especially sure to tell Captain Sisko that if this ill-conceived escape
attempt by some unimaginable set of circumstances had worked, all he would have
been escaping from was my protection, while at the same time delivering himself
up to those whose only goal is to kill him."
Weyoun twisted a control on the inhibitor and, shockingly, Odo felt his outer
surface instantly begin to lose its integrity, shifting from his Romulan
disguise to his usual humanoid form.
Weyoun waved the inhibitor at him. "I think you would agree, Odo, that my
scientists have made a great many advances in the time you've been gone. Just
remember I can use this to turn you into a cube of dura-nium and have you
thrown out an airlock if I have to."
Odo shivered in spite of himself. In a way, the experience of forced
transformation had been nice being in the Great Link. But in that surrender of
individuality he himself had made the choice. Weyoun's machine had just chosen
for him.
Weyoun's voice again filled his ears. "Tell Sisko what I've told you," the Vorta
said with finality. "If you want to live, I am the only hope you have."
CHAPTER 11
it had been two years since he had had a new uniform. These days, replicator
rations for nonessentials were nearly impossible to obtain. But while the words
"nearly impossible" might be a roadblock for some Starfleet captains, to a
Ferengi Starfleet captain they were a challenge. So two days ago, beginning with
a priceless bottle of Picard champagne—vintage 2382, the last great year before
the Earth's destruction—Nog had begun a complex series of trades that had not
only resulted in his obtaining enough priority replicator rations to
requisition ten new uniforms, but he had also acquired use of one of the last
remaining private yachts in Sector 001.
Technically, the Cerulean Star was the property of the Andorian trade
representative in New Berlin. But since the trade mission didn't have access to
adequate civilian antimatter supplies, the yacht had not been
used in ten months, and the New Berlin representative was certain that no one at
her consulate would miss it—provided Nog returned it in three days and left
enough Starfleet antimatter in the ship to reach Andor.
Given his transit time to Starbase 53, that left Nog thirty hours to pick up his
passengers and warp back to Mars. There would then be ten days left until the
end of the universe.
"But at least I'll face it wearing a new uniform," Nog said aloud.
He stood in the surprisingly large stateroom of the Andorian yacht, in standard
orbit of a heavily-shielded Class-B asteroid in the lifeless Largo system,
checking his virtual reflection in the holographic mirror that circled him.
Over the past year, he had noticed how his old uniforms had begun to fray, but
not how the color at his shoulder had faded. This new uniform was an
impressively rich black—it showed every speck of dust and lint—and its shoulder
was a vivid, saturated crimson. Not quite a dress uniform, but it would do.
Because for what he was about to attempt, he was determined to look his best.
Satisfied that the uniform was as perfect as he had time to make it, Nog donned
a matching crimson head-skirt and tapped his combadge.
"Captain Nog," he said. "One to beam down."
There was no verbal acknowledgment of his request, but he was on schedule, and
three seconds later the Andorian stateroom dissolved into light, then reformed
as the transporter room in Starbase 53's main ground installation, deep within
the asteroid's core.
As Nog had arranged, Captain T'len of the Augustus was waiting for him.
"Captain," Nog said as he stepped down from the pad, "it is good to see you
again."
T'len kept her hands folded behind her back. "This is most irregular."
Nog hid a smile. He liked Vulcans. They never wasted time—an attribute he had
come to appreciate during his Starfleet career. "I agree," he said.
T'len raised an eyebrow. "I refer to your request, not the overall situation."
Nog was ready for that. "If it were not for the overall situation, I wouldn't
have made my request."
T'len angled her head slightly in the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. "Point
taken." She gestured to the door, and Nog hung back a step to let her lead the
way. Though they shared the same rank, T'len was also a starship commander, and
hi the subtle, unwritten traditions of the Fleet, that gave her greater
privilege.
Nog followed in T'len's wake as she turned left outside the transporter room
and walked toward the turbo-lift. Automatically, he noticed yet discounted the
poor state of repair of the walls—sizable dents, repair patches of differing
colors, irregular stains from cracked conduits mat had leaked in the past.
Starfleet had been operating under extreme wartime conditions for more than ten
years. Mere appearance, like frayed uniforms, was not at the top of anyone's
list of problem
s to solve.
"How have they adjusted?" Nog asked T'len, as they neared the turbolift alcove.
"Impossible to characterize except on an individual basis."
"So, some of them have adjusted better than others?"
Nog caught T'len's swift sideways glance at him. "If their state of adjustment
varies according to each indi-
vidual, then logic suggests that of course some have adjusted better than
others. You will find out for yourself in just a few minutes."
"I'd like to be prepared."
The Vulcan seemed to accept that explanation. "Then you should be prepared for
the human civilian Vash. I have recommended that she remain in custody here,
until... the end of hostilities."
What a euphemism, Nog thought, and he wondered who had first used it.
Hostilities would end in less than two weeks, either with Starfleet's being
successful in obliterating most of Bajor or with the end of the universe. At
the end of hostilities, either Vash would be released, everyone would have new
uniforms, walls would be painted, planet-wide celebrations would be held... or
else nothing would ever matter again.
But the end of the universe was not a topic of conversation in which Starfleet
officers engaged. Quite properly, official directives stressed that all
personnel were to focus on the mission, not the consequences.
"What's Vash likely to do?" Nog asked. "Escape?"
"In a manner of speaking. She is intent on returning to her own time."
Nog knew better, but couldn't resist. "Would that be so bad?"
T'len stopped and turned to him. "If Vash returned to her time and revealed what
she had learned of our time, history would be changed."
"I ask the question again: Would that be so bad?"
Nog was not naive enough to interpret T'len's expression of surprise as
evidence of her abandonment of all pretense of Vulcan self-control. "Captain
Nog, you are the Integrated Systems Manager for the Phoenix."
Though not quite sure why T'len was stating something so obvious, Nog waited,
gambling on her explaining herself without his having to interrupt.
"Thus you understand the logic of time travel," she said.
Nog frowned. "Some would say there is no logic to time travel."
T'len looked away for a moment as if gathering her thoughts—as if a Vulcan ever
needed to do that. "If Vash—or indeed, if any of the crew of the Defiant—are
