The War of the Prophets

by Judith

  Dukat said hi the awful silence. "You must accept the truth, Emissary. It is

  now, and you are very much here."

  "I don't believe you," Sisko insisted, feeling dazed and doubtful. Arla wasn't

  dying, couldn't be dying, not in the wormhole. "There was a flash of light in

  the trav-elpod," he told Dukat. "Like an Orb being opened. That's when all this

  started."

  "True," Dukat agreed. "Except that the light was my transporter, not an Orb."

  Sisko fell to his knees and placed a hand on Arla's throat. Nothing. No pulse

  this time. He struggled to re­member something Weyoun had said. "But

  transporters aren't allowed in the Bajoran system."

  "Have you asked yourself why that should be?" Dukat asked. "What Weyoun is

  really afraid of?"

  "He's afraid of attack." Sisko didn't know why he

  felt compelled to answer the madman—unless it was the influence of the Prophets.

  The light in Dukat's red eyes flared again. "Or is he afraid of escape?"

  "Escape to where, Dukat?' Sisko asked in frustration. Then Arla's pulse

  quickened to sudden life under mis hand. "You see," he said in triumph, "she's

  not dead!"

  "Emissary, I can't believe you're being this obtuse. Look where you are."

  "Deep Space 9!"

  "Yet that station was destroyed, was it not?'

  "The Defiant was restored! Obviously the station was too."

  Dukat shook his head ponderously. "But it wasn't"

  Sisko had had enough. Arla was alive. So was he. Where there was life there was

  something to fight for. "Then how can we be here?"

  Dukat's eyes glowed with insanity. "It's as easy as looking into a mirror and—"

  A silver beam sliced through the air, smashing Dukat to one side.

  Sisko recognized a directed-energy weapon attack when he saw one, and

  reflexively he grabbed Arla and pulled her back, to shield her.

  But she fought in his grip. "Let go of me! You're no better man—"

  Her body stiffened. Her protest ceased. She saw what Sisko saw.

  For all around them, in the ruins of what once had been Sisko's Deep Space 9,

  from every dark shadow and alcove...

  The dead walked.

  CHAPTER 17

  in the company of Dr. Bashir, Jake walked along the cor­ridor of the Utopia

  personnel dome heading for the plan­ning room, where they were to meet Jadzia

  and Worf.

  The doctor had said little since the mess hall, where Jake had told him about

  Nog's lie. At least what Jake had suspected was a lie.

  For once he had seen Bashir's reaction to what he had described, once he had

  realized the danger they all faced because of it, Jake had gone over his last

  conversation with his friend, reconsidering, worried that he might have jumped

  to an unwarranted conclusion.

  "What if he's not lying?" Jake asked Bashir.

  The doctor kept walking briskly. "I was waiting for you to say that."

  "No, really," Jake said as his long legs kept easy pace with Bashir. "What if

  Nog's changed in the past twenty-five years? What if... if I misread the signs?"

  'Think of it this way, Jake. There conies a time when each of us has to trust

  our instincts. And I trust your in­stincts from a time when you had no idea what

  the repercussions of your observations would be more than I trust your rather

  predictable second-guessing of your­self now that you're aware of the danger in

  which you've placed your friend."

  Jake was intimidated by Bashir. He knew the man was genetically enhanced, like

  some latter-day Khan Noonien Singh. How could he argue with someone whose brain

  was the equivalent of a computer?

  But he had to.

  "Dr. Bashir, I'm not doing this to save Nog."

  Without breaking stride, Bashir shot him an amused smile that let Jake know that

  was exactly what he was doing.

  "Look!" Jake finally said, and for emphasis he stopped dead.

  "I'll... I'll go tell Nog myself what you're—"

  It took a few steps before Bashir realized Jake was no longer beside him. The

  doctor turned and came back to him, looking irritated. "You will do no such

  thing!" Bashir hissed. "I know what it's like to lose a friend, Jake. But you

  have to accept that after twenty-five years you have lost Nog. You don't know

  what pres­sures he's been exposed to, what compromises he's had to make, all the

  little capitulations and loss of ideals that accompany adulthood. The fact is,

  you don't know Nog anymore. You can't know him."

  Jake felt his face grow hot. "Then why should you accept what I said about his

  maybe lying to us about the Phoenix's chances?"

  "Because that wasn't a conclusion based on friend-

  ship," Bashir said. "It was a straight observation, de­void of emotion."

  "You mean, like I was a Vulcan," Jake said, de­pressed at the turn this

  conversation was taking.

  "Say what you will, but Vulcans make the best wit­nesses. Now—shall we go?"

  Jake gave up and then fell into step beside the doctor again. He supposed Bashir

  had a point, though the guy was awfully cynical about the process of becoming an

  adult What sort of compromises would an adult ever have to make? Kids—even

  nineteen-year-olds—were the ones who were trapped by society and convention.

  Anyone could tell them what to do, force them to go to school, restrict their

  entertainment choices, and even, on the frontier where it was used, keep hard

  currency out of their hands.

  But adults, it seemed to Jake, had none of these re­strictions. Sure, there

  might be pressures associated with their jobs, but don't forget those pressures

  were taken on by choice. That choice, in his opinion, was the key difference

  between someone his age and someone Bashir's.

  As they neared the planning room, Jake took a side­long look at the doctor's

  face, trying to remember bis real age.

  Bashir paused beside the door. "What now?"

  The guy has eyes in the side of his head, Jake mar­velled. "I was just

  wondering... how old are you any­way?'

  Bashir sighed. "By our standards, or hi this time?"

  "By our standards, of course," he said. He knew that technically everyone from

  the Defiant was twenty-five years older than they had been a week ago.

  Bashir seemed to hesitate. "How old do you think I am?"

  Jake couldn't resist the opportunity the doctor had just given him. "I don't

  know," he said with a perfectly straight face. "Fifty?"

  Bashir's face twisted into an incredulous look. "Fifty? I'm thirty-four, Jake."

  "I said I didn't know," Jake said innocently. "You made me guess. I guessed."

  "Fifty..." Bashir rolled his eyes skyward, then punched in his code to open the

  planning-room door. Jake kept his smile to himself.

  The security condition light was still red. It didn't change to either amber or

  green. Then the computer voice said pleasantly, "This facility is sealed.

  Operating conditions gamma five."

  Bashir flashed a knowing smile at Jake. "Fortunately, I've read the security

  operations manual. Computer: Permit access to this facility, authorization

  Bashir, Ju­lian, operating condition beta one."

  This time the security light obediently turned from red to amber.

  Jake whistled, impressed. "How did you get a secu­rity clearance?"
>
  "I'm a physician," Bashir said smugly as the door began to slide open. "It comes

  with the job. Automati­cally it seems."

  A sudden crash and a strangled cry from inside star­tled them both.

  Bashir didn't wait, so neither did Jake. They both threw themselves at the door

  before it was fully open and pushed their way into the room where—

  —Jake felt his legs threaten to give out as he sud-

  denly found himself facing Lieutenant Commander Worf and Lieutenant Commander

  Dax, both of whom were, to put it politely, out of uniform.

  Bashir instantly spun around and with a quick apol­ogy literally leaped back

  into the corridor.

  A second later, open-mouthed, Jake felt Bashir's hand on his arm as he was

  hauled out as well.

  With a thunk, the door slid shut behind them. Only then did Jake risk looking at

  Bashir.

  "Well," Bashir said tersely, and Jake thought it was odd that a medical doctor

  would be disconcerted by the scene they'd just encountered, "they are married,

  after all."

  "I'll say," Jake added. He wanted to say something more. He wanted to ask if Dr.

  Bashir had known Jadzia's Trill spots went all the way down to... but something

  in Bashir's face told him that not talking about what had just happened was what

  adults did. If only Nog were still his age and—

  The door slid open again.

  "You may now enter," Worf growled at them.

  Jake set his face on neutral and followed Bashir into the planning room. Worf

  and Jadzia were both back in uniform, and the large schematic padds were back on

  the planning table.

  "Sorry to have ... intruded," Bashir murmured.

  Jake had a sudden flash of inspiration, as he decided that part of the reason

  for the palpable tension in the room was that Bashir had always been after

  Jadzia for himself. Now that was a complication of being an adult that was

  exactly the same as being a teenager—always wanting what couldn't be had. Maybe

  there isn't all that much difference between us after all, Jake thought, as he

  suppressed the nervous grin that threatened to expose

  his unseasoned youth. He filed the revelation in his mind for accessing later,

  when he could more comfort­ably turn this extraordinary experience into

  something for a book. He was already full of ideas about how he could

  incorporate the whole scenario of traveling into the future into Anslem, the

  mostly autobiographical novel he had put aside a few years ago and to which he

  still returned sporadically when inspiration hit him.

  "We have reviewed the schematics of the Phoenix," Worf said stiffly.

  A half-dozen different jokes sprang up unbidden in Jake's mind, but he pushed

  them down, followed Bashir's lead, and said nothing.

  "Its weapons systems are impressive and adequate," Worf continued. "However, its

  propulsion characteris­tics are... unusual."

  "They're Borg," Bashir said.

  "Transwarp?" Jadzia asked without the slightest trace of embarrassment in her

  manner or voice. Obvi­ously, being a conjoined Trill had its advantages, Jake

  thought enviously.

  "That's not how the engines were called out in the specs," she said.

  "Then maybe it's something beyond transwarp," Bashir suggested. "But believe it

  or not, an hour ago I met a Borg in the corridor. She's a Starfleet admiral."

  "They're our allies," Jake volunteered as he saw Worf's and Jadzia's surprised

  reactions. "They signed a treaty with the Federation."

  "Well," Jadzia said after a moment's thought, "if the Phoenix's warp engines are

  based on Borg transwarp principles, then from the time they attacked Earth we

  know they've already demonstrated the ability to chan-

  nel chronometric particles for propulsion. I would guess the ship is sound."

  Then Jadzia looked from Jake to Bashir, as if some­how her Trill senses or

  experience told her that the two of them could tell her something more about the

  Phoenix. "I'm going to guess you two have data we don't," she said.

  Bashir turned to Jake. "Mr. Sisko, tell it to them ex­actly as you told it to

  me."

  There was no way out, at least none that Jake could think of. So he told the

  same story he had told Dr. Bashir in the mess hall, about how he could always

  tell when Nog was lying, how he had sensed Nog was lying about his confidence in

  the mission of the Phoenix, and most importantly, that he thought he knew why

  Nog might have lied.

  "And why is that?" Worf asked.

  Feeling like a traitor and a turncoat, Jake stared down at the dirty floor of

  the planning room.

  "I think Nog... I think Nog actually believes that the universe will end."

  No one responded to this statement, and after a few moments Jake glanced up to

  see that they were all wait­ing for him to go on.

  "Just before that dinner we had," he said, "at Star­base 53.1 went up to him."

  "I remember that," Jadzia said. "I thought you were having an argument."

  "We were. Sort of," Jake confirmed. "Anyway, I told him that... well... that he

  hadn't really changed all that much in twenty-five years. That he was still the

  same old Nog—" Jake smiled briefly as he remem­bered that part of the

  conversation. "—well, older Nog.

  And that it was like things hadn't changed—I could still see when he was ...

  well, he used to call it adapt­ing the truth to close a sale."

  Bashir interrupted. "Jake—you told me that you told him flat out that he was

  lying."

  "I know," Jake said defensively. "Okay, so that's what I told him. I told him I

  could tell he was lying to us when he said he had confidence in the Phoenix

  com­pleting her mission."

  "And his response?" Jadzia prompted.

  "I... I wish I could remember the exact words, Commander. He kind of got mad at

  me then."

  'Told you to keep your ridiculous hew-mon opinions to yourself?" Bashir

  prompted.

  Jake nodded. "Yeah, something like that. And that there was really nothing to

  worry about. Then some­thing about how he had seen how the river flowed, and

  that the balance could be restored."

  "Was that a reference to the Great Material River of Ferengi myth?" Worf asked

  sharply.

  "I don't think they call it myth," Jake said. "It's more like their religion."

  "And in their religion," Jadzia said, "to say someone has seen how the Great

  Material River flowed is the same as saying they've seen the future."

  "That's right," Jake said.

  "And restoring the balance," Bashir added, "is what happens when the River

  returns to its source, having completed its course. It's nothing less than the

  Ferengi apocalypse. The end of time, as it were."

  "Maybe...," Jadzia offered. "Maybe Nog's just feeling discouraged."

  "It doesn't matter what he's feeling," Jake said

  glumly. "It's that he made a prediction, that he claimed to see the future."

  "I do not understand," Worf said.

  Jake didn't know where to begin. But Jadzia appar­ently did.

  "Everyone knows the Ferengi culture is steeped in business customs," she said to

  Worf. "Well, part of busi­ness is the ability to predict future market trends.

  So a Ferengi's business prowess—which would be the equi
va­lent of how Klingons

  judge their own ability in battle—is one of those characteristics that gives him

  his reputation. As a result, Ferengi usually only make definitive predic­tions

  about the future—about how they've seen the 'river' flow—when they're absolutely

  certain what the outcome will be. And from the Ferengi point of view, the best

  way to know the outcome is to... well, stack the deck."

  Worf narrowed his eyes at Jadzia. "You seem to know a great deal about Ferengi

  culture," he said heavily.

  Jadzia shrugged. "So I dated one once. Some of them are kind of... cute."

  Worf grunted. Then he glared at Jake. "Do you really believe your friend Nog

  will sabotage the Phoenix in order to ensure the universe is destroyed?"

  Jake held up his hands as if defending himself from a physical rather than a

  verbal attack. "Hey, I didn't say anything about sabotage!"

  "But that's the only logical conclusion we can draw from what you've said,"

  Bashir said. "If this was one of your stories, Jake, what other motive could Nog

  have for what he said?"

  Jake shook his head. "I... I don't know. But sabo­tage? That's different from

  just going into something without expecting it to succeed. Isn't it?"

  Bashir patted Jake's back. "Look, that's all right. You've told us what you

  needed to tell us, and... if you're uncomfortable, you can go."

  All at once, Jake felt as if he were eight years old again and his father was

  putting him to bed just as the dinner party conversation was getting

  interesting. He felt his face heat up again, but this time in annoyance, not

  embarrassment.

  "I'm not a kid anymore, Dr. Bashir. I want to get back home or stop this or do

  something as much as the rest of you."

  Jadzia put a restraining hand on Bashir's arm, and earned an annoyed look from

  her mate. "Jake, you do know that we can't go home, don't you?"

  "Yeah, I know."

  "So the Phoenix is the best option we have for stop­ping the Ascendancy's plan,"

  Worf said with a touch of impatience.

  "You mean, it might be," Bashir cautioned. "First we have to be absolutely

  certain about Nog's mo­tives."

  Jake rubbed his hands together in frustration. "If all of you are going to talk

  about motives, then what about this? If Nog had some plan to sabotage the

  Phoenix, why would he go to all the trouble of warping out to Starbase 53 to see

  us and then invite us onto the ship as its crew? I mean, we're a complication,