by Judith
save your crew and the Defiant."
Riker's eyes flickered in warning. "That's not how it happened and you know it
Starfleet tricked me into that camp, and the Emissary freed me. And the more I
studied the Bajoran texts, the more I realized that the Emissary was right. I
owe him everything. We all do," he said emphatically.
From Riker's overly intense response, Sisko realized that the man must have
created an elaborate cover story to gain Weyoun's trust. And if Weyoun's
supporters had undertaken any efforts to double-check that story, men it must be
that Starfleet had altered its records of Tom Riker's attempt to hijack the
Defiant from DS9 and his subsequent selfless surrender, in order to confirm his
story. To Sisko, mat suggested that Riker was supported by the highest levels of
Starfleet.
Sisko looked past Riker to Arla. She was still unconscious. The Bajoran
physician was in the midst of meticulously arranging blinking neural stimulators
on Arla's forehead and temples. "Where's your... your brother, I suppose you'd
call him these days?"
"You mean my transporter duplicate," Riker said. "He made captain finally. The
Enterprise. Took over from Picard."
"The Enterprise is a fine ship."
Riker frowned. "It's probably not the one you're thinking of. The E was lost in
the Battle of Rigel VU An unknown terrorist group attempted to alter the
gravitational balance between Rigel and its moon. Caused them to collide.
Starfleet claimed it was agents of the Ascendancy, but we don't do that kind of
thing. It was probably Starfleet agents .attempting to make us look bad.
"Anyway, no one told Picard about Starfleet's in-
volvement, and he sacrificed his ship to destroy the gravity generator.
Reconfigured the deflector dish or something, so that the ship and the generator
together formed an artificial black hole."
Riker cleared his throat. "Starfleet held another hearing—three starships is an
awful number to have lost— but there were precedents, so they gave Picard me
Enterprise-F. First of its class, for once. Incredible ship. Think of the
Defiant to the tenth power. Multivector assault capability. Built specifically
to fight the Grigari. Fired the first shot in the... unfortunate
miscommunica-tion incident that resulted in the Sector 001 disaster—"
"You mean the destruction of Earth," Sisko said, appalled that such a hideous
event should be referred to as an "incident."
"Completely avoidable," Riker said. "But my transporter duplicate seemed to be
looking for a fight that day. First hint of trouble he went to battle stations,
fired at the Grigari flagship, and—the Enterprise-F lasted all of three minutes
in battle."
"So... he's dead," Sisko said.
"They all are. Troi. La Forge. Krueger. Paris. My duplicate's wife. End of an
era."
"End of a world, you mean."
Riker nodded almost subliminally, as if to let Sisko know that he shared the
captain's outrage, though he could not admit it publicly.
Sisko knew he and Riker had to talk free of surveillance. "I want to find out
more about what happened on Earth," he said. "Is there a time we could talk
again?"
Again, Riker's signal to him was barely perceptible. "There'll be time enough
for study after the Ascension," Riker said. "Every being will have all
questions
answered then. I think a better use of your remaining time hi the linear realm
would be to visit B'hala."
"Would that be permitted?"
"I believe it's demanded." Riker held Sisko's gaze. "Portions of the city have
been restored to what they were tens of thousands of years ago, exact in every
way. No computers, no communications systems..."
No surveillance, Sisko thought, understanding. "I'd like to see that," he said.
"I think the Emissary has already started making plans."
Frustration swept over Sisko again, because there seemed to be nothing more to
say. Yet if Riker was telling the truth with his revelation about working for
Starfleet, then both he and Riker were committed to stopping Weyoun before the
Vorta could merge the wormholes.
After a few minutes of silent waiting, the Bajoran physician joined them to let
them know that Arla would recover from Dukat's attack. And then he asked them to
turn their backs, because a new patient was arriving.
Riker complied with the physician's instruction at once. After a moment, Sisko
followed his lead. Then the glow of a transporter filled the room, and Sisko
detected the sounds of quick movement among the medical staff along with the
irregular, rasping exhalations of someone having difficulty breathing.
Sisko risked a quick, surreptitious glance over his shoulder in time to see
Weyoun—floating in an antigrav field, his naked body in a glistening coat of
blood, his flesh disfigured with gaping wounds and charred patches of tissue. As
his face turned to one side, Sisko saw that one of Weyoun's long ear ridges was
missing, ripped out of place.
Frantic Bajoran physicians clustered round the Vorta's body, working rapidly,
their huddle preventing Sisko from seeing exactly what treatment they were
attempting to apply, though he caught glimpses of them cleaning out the gashes,
abrading crusted skin, and wiping off blood.
Sisko felt Riker tap his arm, saw him shake his head in warning, as if he
shouldn't be watching. But just then the physicians stepped back, and Sisko
clearly saw Weyoun's most damaging wounds decrease in size until they were
little more than minor skin scrapes any home protoplaser could heal.
And then even those signs of battle damage faded. Weyoun had been restored.
To Sisko, what he had witnessed was like watching Starfleet sensor logs of Borg
ships undergoing self-repair.
He suddenly became aware that even Weyoun's hoarse breathing had eased. And with
that realization, he saw the Vorta's head slowly turn in his direction. Then
Weyoun's eyelids fluttered opened, and the Vorta looked at him—into him—as a
soft red glow pulsed once in his eyes.
Sisko didn't look away.
Weyoun smiled.
"What is he?" Sisko asked Riker.
"No one knows," Riker replied in a low voice, "unless he's like the Grigari."
Riker's words made sudden, terrible sense to Sisko.
Defeating Weyoun had just become much harder.
Because how could Sisko stop an enemy who was already dead?
CHAPTER 19
nog adjusted his tunic, checked to see that his combadge was on straight,
then—out of habit—turned to the automated transporter console and said
"Energize," as if the U.S.S. Phoenix actually needed a transporter technician
for such a simple task.
Ten columns of light swirled into life on the elevated transporter pad, then
coalesced into the temporal refugees snatched from the Defiant, including his
friends: Jake. Lieutenant Commander Worf. Lieutenant Commander Dax. Dr. Bashir.
Nog also noticed three others in the group who were unfamiliar to him—a young
Centaurian ensign and two other Starfleet officers—as well as two hew-mon
civilians. And, of course, Vas
h.
He wasn't at all surprised that it was Vash who spoke first, complaining as
always.
"I said I didn't want to volunteer for this stupid mission!"
Nog watched, amused, as the archaeologist angrily pulled away from Bashir, who
was vainly trying to calm her. But then Vash jumped off the pad to confront him.
"You!" she snapped. "Who's in charge up here?"
Nog resigned himself to the confusion someone like Vash could bring to a ship as
complex as the Phoenix. As he saw it, he really had no choice. Even the
conscientious objectors from Bajor who thought they'd be spending the rest of
their lives—and the life of the universe—in prayer chambers on Mars would be
brought aboard this ship soon enough. And they wouldn't be any happier about it
than Vash was.
"I am," he told her.
Vash laughed mockingly. "You. In charge of all this?"
"As far as you are concerned, yes." Nog regarded her with some annoyance. His
schedule didn't allow for annoyance. By now, T'len might already know the
refugees were missing.
"Well, I want off." Vash said.
"That is not going to happen."
"You can't kidnap me like this!"
Nog sighed. The universe was scheduled to end in a little over seven days. "It's
not as if you have time to lodge a formal complaint."
Vash made a threatening fist. "Then I guess I'll just have to lodge this up
your—"
"Enough!"
Worf's commanding voice froze every movement hi the transporter room. Though the
Klingon stepped down to a position beside the belligerent archaeologist, he
still towered over her. "As we agreed with Captain T'len, you are in our custody
until we depart on the Phoenix. You will then be held in your quarters in the
personnel dome until..." Worf stopped speaking, as if embarrassed to continue.
"Yeah, right," Vash sneered. "Until the 'end of hostilities.' " She glared at
Nog. "Don't think I don't know what's going on in that swollen little skull of
yours. You have no intention of letting me off this ship, do you?"
Nog kept his expression completely neutral. "Of course I'll let you off.
Everyone will return to Mars today for further training. The Phoenix is not due
to depart for another forty hours."
And then, knowing he had delivered another adaptation of the truth, Nog
couldn't stop himself from glancing at Jake.
He saw the frown on Jake's face. Did he know? Had he guessed?
Nog turned away. He knew he wasn't that transparent How could he have succeeded
as a Ferengi if any... manipulation of the facts he resorted to was that easy
to detect? No, there wasn't anything wrong with him. It was Jake. Had to be.
Either Jake was upset about something completely unrelated to Nog's action, or
his frown, if it indicated he was on to Nog, was the result of some non-hew-mon
blood in the Siskos' family history. Something that could give Jake some kind
of... of telepathy. That's it! Nog thought. The only way Jake could know for
sure what Nog was doing was if Jake were a mind reader— even of Ferengi minds.
And that was just impossible.
Feeling much better already, Nog clapped his hands, motioned toward the door.
"Well, let's get this tour under way. I'm sure you'll find the Phoenix is a most
impressive vessel."
The doors slid open to reveal the wide corridor beyond. Like every other
habitable area on the Phoenix,
the bulkheads, deck, and ceiling were unfinished, In keeping with Starfleet's
wartime priorities.
"We already know the ship's impressive," Jake said, hanging back as the refugees
entered the corridor. "We've seen the schematics, remember?"
Vash halted beside Jake, folded her arms defiantly. "Yeah, the kid's right. Why
do we even need this tour anyway?"
Nog sympathized with Jake as he saw the resentful look that had settled on his
friend's face at that "kid" reference. But being no kid himself, Nog addressed
Vash sternly. "In case you haven't noticed, all the shipyard's holodecks are
off-line. To understand mis ship, you have to see it firsthand."
It didn't matter to Nog that neither Vash nor Jake believed his explanation.
The important thing was that Jake, for whatever reason, had yet to challenge
anything he had said so far.
But if he really is a mind reader, Nog thought, then at least he'll understand
why I have to do this.
Vash, on her part, was whining so much about everything that no one was even
listening to her anymore. Nog wished he didn't have to, either.
"Let's join the others," he suggested in a firm voice, and led the way without
waiting for a response.
As they made their way toward a bank of turbolifts, Nog told his followers about
the ship's construction. For all its great size, interestingly enough, the
Phoenix had less habitable space than the Defiant. In fact, eighty-two percent
of the ship's volume was taken up by its power generators, including an
unprecedented array of forty-eight linked transwarp engines, any thirty-six of
which would be sufficient for their voyage into the past
As he and his party waited for the lift cars to arrive, Nog heard Bashir say, "I
find it difficult to believe that a ship with forty-eight engines could even get
out of spacedock with a crew of only twenty-two."
Nog smiled expansively. This was something he could explain. "Actually, Doctor,
the operational crew is even smaller—fourteen. The other eight crew members are
the engineers who will deploy the deep-time charges at B'hala. Or at the site of
what eventually will become B'hala."
"Fourteen," Bashir said. "Even with full automation, how is that possible?"
The lifts arrived. "It's possible," Nog said, "because forty-four of the engines
are designed to be used only once. Repairs and maintenance won't be necessary,
so neither is an engineering crew."
Nog ushered the refugees into two different cars, joining Jake and four others
in one of them. "Bridge," he said. The doors closed, and with a sudden jolt the
car began to move.
"Don't you have inertial dampeners?" Jadzia asked him.
Nog coughed nervously. "The structural integrity field is still being aligned,"
he said. "So the dampeners are off for the moment." This time, he didn't dare
look at Jake.
With another jolt, the car stopped and the doors opened onto the bridge of the
Phoenix.
Nog stepped out, and though it was so familiar to him, he tried to see the
bridge through the eyes of the temporal refugees. Certainly, he thought, they
would recognize its near-circular layout, despite the fact that
most of the wall stations were still obscured by tacked-up plastic sheets and
dust shields. And there was a main viewer dead ahead, switched off for now,
providing a central focus for the overall layout.
But the chairs and workstations would be different to old eyes, he knew. Almost
alien, in fact.
There were fourteen chairs in total on the bridge, one for each of the
operational crew, arranged in wide rows facing the viewer. Unlike the simple
seats his guests would remember from their starship duties, these were enclos
ed
units, with curving sides and tops, full body-web restraints, fold-down
consoles, and holographic displays.
Worf was the first to deliver his assessment of the design. 'This is not a ship
built for battle."
Nog knew that the Klingon meant that by confining the crew within those chairs,
he could see there was little chance for carrying out the swift replacement of
injured personnel.
"But twenty-five thousand years in the past," Nog told Worf, "there will be no
one for us to fight."
Worf didn't look at all convinced. "We must still get to Bajor in this time."
"And to do that, we will be protected by the largest task force Starfleet has
ever assembled," Nog said.
"Hold it," Jake said suddenly. "I don't understand. If this ship can take us
into the past, why don't we just slingshot around Earth's sun, go back
twenty-five thousand years, and then go to Bajor without having to fight
anyone?"
"It's a question of temporal accuracy," Nog said stiffly to his childhood
friend, who was still so close to childhood. "The farther we are from Bajor when
we
travel back in time, the greater the error factor we introduce into our final
temporal coordinates at Bajor itself. Stardates aside, time really is relative
to different inertial frames of reference. If we were to follow exactly a
twenty-five-thousand-year slingshot trajectory around Earth's sun, we might only
travel back twenty thousand years in regard to Bajor—and land when Bajorans had
already settled the B'hala region."
"Then let's go back fifty thousand years," Jake said. "A twenty percent error
would still bring us to a time before the site was settled."
As Nog tried to think of the best way to answer, Jadzia came to his rescue.
"Jake, I think they're facing two difficulties with that idea," the Trill said
helpfully. "First, I don't think anyone could build a ship capable of going back
much more than thirty thousand years. Not without a radical new theory of
temporal physics. And second, just from the geological data I've seen
describing the proposed placement of the deep-time charges, I'd say the B'hala
area was subjected to severe earthquakes or volcanic disruptions a thousand
years or so before it was settled, significantly disturbing all the underlying
strata. Is that right, Captain Nog?"
