CHAPTER 11

SOMETIMES SISKO felt that he had never left the wormhole after his first meeting with the aliens. That after his first encounter with the Prophets in their Celestial Temple, everything that had happened since—or that appeared to have happened—was somehow already a memory. A memory he was merely reliving.

Standing before the sink in the tiny kitchen alcove of his quarters on Deep Space 9, Sisko whisked at the eggs in their copper bowl, smearing out the streaks of dark pepper sauce, frothing the egg mixture into a whirlpool just as the wormhole frothed the quantum foam of normal space-time.

How many times had he done this—made an omelette? How many times had he made this omelette? Or could it be they were all part of the exact same moment in time and—

—he was a child standing on a low wooden step stool in the kitchen of his father's New Orleans restaurant. His father—Joseph—stood behind him, his large, comforting hand guiding his son's small hand on the whisk as it swept through the eggs, teaching him as his father had taught him, and—

—he was a father looking over his own son's shoulder. Little Jake-O was standing on a low wooden step stool in the cooking corner of that cramped apartment he and Jennifer had rented in San Francisco as they waited for the Saratoga to return to port so they could finally share their careers, and their dreams, as a family. He held Jake's small hand in his, guiding it as his father had guided him, as Jake might someday guide his own child's hand—

—all the same moment, these memories of things long ago and of things still to be, yet all bound up together in the soothing traditions of those kitchens.

He laughed, softly, caught up in his discovery.

“That sounds nice,” Kasidy Yates said.

Drawn suddenly from all moments to this moment, Sisko turned to Kasidy Yates where she sat on a chair at the dining table set for breakfast. Her lithe form was draped in one of his caftans, a textured cotton with a bold brown and white blockprint pattern from Old Zimbabwe. Her long brown fingers gracefully cradled a cup of morning coffee, her soft dark hair still mussed from bed, her clear brown eyes not quite yet open. Her infectious smile transfixed him, as it had from the first day they'd met.

“I've missed that,” he heard her say. “You laughing.”

Sisko held the copper bowl against his hip as without conscious thought he continued to fluff the eggs. “I was thinking that the reason the Prophets made me their Emissary is because I already knew about nonlinear time.”

Kasidy frowned, didn't understand.

Sisko's smile widened. “The kitchen!”

Kasidy nodded with sudden understanding. “Cooking does seem to carry you away,” she said with an answering smile.

Sisko leaned over to give her a kiss on the forehead. “But it always brings me back to you.” The light moment transformed when he did not move away.

Kasidy put down her coffee, Sisko his bowl, as Kasidy reached up to his face and kissed him as they had not kissed in weeks, in months, perhaps ever.

“I . . . thought I had lost you,” she whispered, her breath soft against his cheek.

Sisko felt her body tremble, as if she were fighting back tears.

He knew why.

A week ago, they had been on the Defiant. Kasidy had volunteered to be a convoy liaison officer for Starfleet escort duty to Vega. So they could be together.

It had been a terrible mistake. And the mistake had been his.

In loving Kasidy, he had made her a part of his life that was separate from Starfleet and the Dominion War. In tearing down the barriers between his life and his duty, he had only succeeded in putting her in harm's way—at his side.

Once before, he had done that to the woman he loved, and it had cost her her life. Surviving the consequences of that mistake had taken him twelve years and the intervention of beings beyond human comprehension.

And he had.

Yet even now he could still see Jennifer, motionless on the deck of the Saratoga, her soul forever lost to him except in memory.

As protection from the cruel uncaring universe that might still end the existence of Kasidy Yates, Sisko now took refuge behind a different shield around his heart, a shield he had begun constructing the moment he and Kasidy had found themselves in active service together on the Defiant.

If Kasidy died under his command, the only way he could be certain he could still function to save his ship and his crew was to see her already among the dead, to mourn her before the fact, to be prepared for the awful day he might lose her. But even as he tried to reduce his vulnerability, Sisko knew it was impossible. He was in love and he was loved.

He stroked her hair, knowing how wrong it all was. First to put her at risk, and then to try to remove her from his heart.

“You can't lose me. Nothing will keep me from you,” he murmured. For whether it was a memory of a past dream or a memory of something still to come, at the very end of whatever pain and whatever tragedy this universe and this war held for him, Sisko knew—knew with a conviction of faith and hope and love that would outlast the stars—he would always come back to the arms of Kasidy Yates.

And somehow, through some living bond still to be formed between them, he knew that Kasidy accepted his vow.

“Does this mean you're going to make me breakfast?” she teased even as her eyes told him she knew what he felt.

“Eventually.” Sisko leaned down to kiss her again.

And as their lips met, their eyes closed, and time became nonlinear once again. Until—

A discreet throat-clearing cough.

Sisko opened his eyes at the same moment as Kasidy, brought back to this moment by—.

“Hey, guys.”

Sisko couldn't resist reaching out a hand to tousle his son's hair as Jake, smiling sheepishly, skirted past them to the replicator. He remembered when he had had to bend down to touch the top of his son's head. Now it seemed he had to touch the stars to do the same.

“Hey, Jake-O,” Sisko said as his son ordered and retrieved and drank in one gulp a tall glass of orange juice.

“I heard you went on a treasure hunt,” Kasidy said.

Sisko saw Jake's swift glance at him, but he had no recriminations for his son. He and Jake had talked at length about Jake's actions—and his lack of action—last night. And Sisko had been deeply gratified to learn that almost everything he had to say to his son had already been in Jake's mind. Jake's and Nog's omission, not telling anyone about the mysterious Cardassian holosuite, was simply a leftover piece of business from when the two young men were little more than children.

Jake knew he had been wrong, and Sisko knew that doing the wrong thing and learning from it was what the process of maturing and growing was all about. All life was about such learning. What was important to Sisko, and what made him feel so proud of his son, was that for all the missteps the boy did make—and some days their number was truly astounding—he seldom made the same misstep twice.

As long as Jake kept that same spirit, Sisko could never really be angry with him—or disappointed.

“Buried treasure,” Sisko said, picking up the copper bowl to give the eggs a final flourish. “Buried and forgotten.” He set the bowl on the counter, cut a square of Imolian butter, and turned away to heat the empty omelette pan.

He could see that Jake heard and understood his tone of voice. The past was the past. They had moved on. They must always move on.

Jake pulled up a chair to sit down beside Kasidy at the table. “I was really surprised no one else had found that room by now.”

Kasidy looked over at Sisko. “Do you think there could be other sealed-off sections in the station?”

Sisko dropped the butter into the hot omelette pan, then swirled it around to melt it evenly. “If there are, Chief O'Brien will know about them in a week. He's going to use the Defiant's tactical sensors to conduct a full survey scan of DS9, then correlate that scan with the Cardassian's blueprints to look for deviations. He says he should have done it years ago.”

“Any reason why the holosuite was sealed off?” Kasidy asked.

Sisko poured the beaten eggs from the copper bowl into the pan, tilting the pan expertly to lightly coat the top of the egg mixture with the melted butter. “We don't even know that it is a holosuite,” he said.

“What else could it be?” Jake asked.

Sisko reached for a handful of grated jack cheese and trailed it perfectly along one side of the gently bubbling mass of eggs. “Just because we don't know the answer doesn't mean we have to settle for a guess.” Biting his bottom lip in concentration, he sprinkled in chopped scallions, and then added a dusting of the secret ingredient in all the great recipes of Sisko's Creole Kitchen—the Cajun spices his father sent him on a more or less regular basis. “That would be too easy.”

The door announcer chimed.

Sisko prodded the edge of the cooking eggs and glanced at his son. “I can't leave the pan now. . . .”

He heard the door to his quarters slide open just as he judged that the texture of his creation was perfect. With a rapid twist and a flip of the pan, he held his breath as he slid the golden disk toward the forward edge of the pan, then folded it expertly over on itself, achieving a half moon of Creole perfection.

“Uh, Dad . . .” Jake said.

Sisko looked up, saw Jadzia, was delighted. “Old Man! You're just in time for breakfast.”

But Jadzia didn't share Sisko's enthusiasm—not today. She frowned. “Sorry, Benjamin, but . . . Quark's gone.”

Sisko's sense of disbelief changed quickly to dismay, betrayal. “He's left the station?”

“I can't be sure. If he did, he did it in disguise. There's a chance he's simply hiding out here. But . . . well, maybe you should come down to the bar and . . . see for yourself. I think the situation's more complicated than we first thought.”

Sisko's wrist jerked as he sharply snapped the pan again and the omelette flipped over with Starfleet precision. The bottom was an elegant combination of rich yellow and crispy brown. Sisko sighed. “Jake, it's up to you to uphold the family honor. You know what your grandfather always said.” He slipped the omelette onto a plate already warmed by the inductor oven.

His son stepped into the alcove as Sisko stepped out. “No one leaves the table unsatisfied,” Jake said.

“Do I have time to put on my uniform?” Sisko asked Jadzia.

She nodded. “This is going to be a Starfleet matter.”

Sisko had been afraid of that. Somehow, when Quark was involved, situations always became more complicated.

Quark's bar looked normal for this early in the morning. The dabo table was silent. A rambunctious group of young Starfleet fighter pilots from the Thunderchild who hadn't yet switched over to station local time were ending their duty day around a large collection of bar tables they'd pulled together. A handful of the station's Bajoran morning-shift personnel were eating replicator breakfasts, a handful of night-shift personnel were eating replicator suppers. And faithful Morn was on his stool—so much a part of the place that he was sometimes easy to overlook, except for the nonstop droning of his voice.

“So far so good,” Sisko said to Jadzia.

She gestured to the bar. “Let me buy you a raktajino.”

They chose stools as far away from the loquacious Morn as possible. “When did you find out Quark was gone?” Sisko asked.

“Odo told me he finished questioning Quark early this morning, around four. So I went to Quark's quarters at nine—I thought I'd let him get some sleep.”

“And?”

“He wasn't there. Isn't anywhere.”

“Anything missing? Signs of a struggle?”

“Nothing I could see. Odo's people are going through it now.”

“That's not like Quark.”

Jadzia almost laughed. “Not like Quark to run away from trouble? Benjamin, that's exactly like him.”

Sisko shook his head. That wasn't what he had meant. “He and I had a deal. And . . . Quark usually keeps his deals. At least with me.” He saw Jadzia's look of amazement. “Oh, he'll look for and exploit every loophole he can find. And just making the deal can be . . . an adventure in frustration. But when all is said and done, Quark, in his own Ferengi way, is one of the most honorable people on this station. Not,” Sisko added quickly, “that I would ever tell him that to his face. It could undercut me in future negotiations.”

“Let's hope there are future negotiations,” Jadzia muttered.

A sudden worrisome thought struck Sisko. “He didn't run into trouble with the Andorian sisters, did he?”

Jadzia shook her head. “Odo has them under twenty-six-hour surveillance. They've been keeping to themselves.”

“Then what is it you suspect, Old Man?”

His old friend merely answered his question with another. “Do you have your raktajino, yet?”

Sisko looked around. Though the establishment was open for business—he recognized the usual servers managing the tables—no one was behind the bar. Yet he had heard the rattle of glasses in the recycler trays, and the hum of the replicator. That was why he hadn't noticed the absence of anyone—because it still sounded as if someone was present.

“All right,” Sisko said, “I'll admit it. I'm confused. Care to enlighten me?”

Jadzia nodded. Tapped on the bartop. “Barkeep! We want to order!”

Sisko blinked with surprise as a Ferengi jumped up into view from behind the bar.

A very small Ferengi.

His skull and features were the size of any other adult of his species, complete with an unusual black headskirt, but the rest of his body was dramatically foreshortened. A meter tall at most.

“What do you want?” he snarled.

“Benjamin,” Jadzia said, “meet Base. Base, meet Captain Benjamin Sisko, commander of Deep Space 9.”

“Yeah, yeah, right, whatever,” Base snapped. “You want to order? Or you want to stop bothering me?”

“Two raktajinos, please,” Jadzia said.

“You actually drink that crap?” Base gargled in disgust, then whirled around and dropped below the level of the bar again.

Sisko couldn't suppress his curiosity. He stood up and leaned over the bar to see that a series of stools had been arranged behind it, presumably so the small barkeep could jump up to serve—if that's what such an unwelcoming manner could be called—the customers.

Sisko sat back down. “Base?” he asked Jadzia.

“Rom says he's an old friend of the family, helping look after the family's interests during . . . Quark's troubles.”

“Does Rom know where Quark is?”

Jadzia rolled her eyes. “Here's where it gets interesting. Rom claims that he didn't know Quark had been released. Odo, on the other hand, says that Quark told him he was going directly here after he was released. And all the servers say that Rom sent them home early last night.”

“Ah,” Sisko said, rubbing the fingers of one hand against his temple to forestall the headache that Quark could so easily provoke. “So Quark could have come here, and the only witness would have been Rom.”

“Exactly.”

Sisko sat up straighter with a sigh. “All right. I see how this might complicate matters. But why do you think it might be a Starfleet matter?”

“Base isn't your ordinary Ferengi.”

Sisko gave Jadzia a look of mock surprise. “No.”

“Settle down, Benjamin. He's a smuggler.”

“A Ferengi smuggler. That is unusual.”

“Who operates in the Klingon Empire.”

Sisko toned down his skepticism, recalling that the dismemberment and vivisection penalties Klingons assessed on captured smugglers tended to keep most Ferengi from becoming involved in illegal shipping in that region of space. “That makes him either the bravest Ferengi I've ever heard of, or the stupidest.”

“Or,” Jadzia added, “the most desperate. He has a number of warrants outstanding among the Ferengi Alliance, so by law he can't conduct business with any other Ferengi.”

“Yet he's here,” Sisko said, drumming his fingers on the bartop. There was still no sign of the raktajinos. “Presumably working for Quark.”

“ ‘Helping Quark,’ is what Rom said.”

Sisko saw Jadzia staring at his fingers and forced himself to stop fidgeting. “Helping him do what, is the question. Clearly, he's not experienced in bartending. Is there any connection between Base and the Andorians?”

“Odo's working on it,” Jadzia said. “Though I think he has other things on his mind.” She nodded for Sisko to look down the length of the bar.

Sisko did, and this time he did not have to pretend to be surprised.

“Vash?!”

“The one and only.”

The calculating archaeologist, known for her questionable ethics as much as for her beauty, was seated at the last stool at the bar, leaning forward and having an intense conversation with Quark's diminutive replacement.

“I bet she's not ordering raktajino,” Sisko said.

“Shall we?” Jadzia asked as she rose to her feet.

Sisko followed Jadzia down to the end of the bar, until they both stood behind Vash. At that same instant Base looked up and saw them. A fierce scowl darkened his face. “Go away, go way. I'll get your stupid drinks when it's your turn. I have other customers, y'know.”

Her conversation interrupted, Vash turned around on her bar stool to see the cause of Base's displeasure.

Sisko caught the naked look of shock that illuminated Vash's pale face before she turned on her spectacular smile. “Captain Sisko, what a pleasure. I heard you'd been promoted.”

His return smile equalled hers in sincerity. “And I'd heard the Siladians had put a price on your head for desecrating their burial moons.”

“A misunderstanding,” Vash said airily. “All the artifacts were returned.”

“I'd heard that as well. Counterfeits, every one.”

“They were counterfeits when I . . . retrieved them, Captain. The Siladians have been looting their own burial moons for generations, and replacing what they steal with replicas so they can keep the tourists coming. It's a rather clever operation.”

“Or a rather clever story,” Sisko said. He knew better than to trust a word she said. “Are you here on your own this time? Or . . . ?”

“No Q, if that's who you mean. He did come back a few times.” For a moment, her face took on a strange expression, as if she were remembering things that were inexpressible. “But . . . I haven't seen him for . . . centuries, it feels like.”

Sisko studied the wayward archaeologist thoughtfully. The way Vash said it, it sounded as if she really did mean centuries. He wondered what other types of adventures the superbeing known as Q had taken her on.

“Then what can we do for you?” he asked.

“I said, go away!” Base thumped the base of a glass tumbler on the bartop for emphasis.

“Why don't you look after your other customers?” Jadzia said with an easy smile.

“Why don't you and the captain take one of those barstools and—”

“Base!” Vash interrupted. “Captain Sisko is in command of this station. He can shut Quark's down anytime he feels like it.”

“That barstool'd give them both something to feel,” Base muttered, his small dark deep-set eyes burning into Sisko's.

“Why don't we take a walk?” Vash slipped off her bar stool and companionably took Sisko's arm in hers.

Jadzia locked eyes with the Ferengi barkeep. “Good idea, Benjamin.”

“I'm still going to charge you for the stinkin' raktacrappos!” Base huffed as Jadzia and Vash walked out of the bar with him, one on each side.

Once out onto the Promenade, Sisko tugged at the collar of his duty jacket, puzzled by the Ferengi's anger—and over nothing. “How can anyone stay in business with an attitude like that?”

“He does business with Klingons,” Jadzia reminded him.

“It's a bit more peculiar than that,” Vash said as she quickly scanned the Promenade, both levels, right and left. “Did you notice Base's headskirt?”

Sisko thought back. “It was black. I don't often see that color.”

Vash shot him a glance. “It isn't a headskirt. It's hair.”

Sisko and Jadzia glanced at each other. “On a Ferengi?” Sisko asked. They had hair enough in their ears, Sisko knew, especially as they grew older. But he couldn't recall ever having seen a Ferengi that wasn't bald.

Vash's sharp eyes studied the customers at the gift shop. “Obviously neither of you is aware that on Ferenginar, the civil standardization authorities use Base as an example of what happens when pregnant Ferengi females travel in space and are subjected to radiation: They give birth to something like . . . well, Base.”

“His mother left the planet?” Sisko knew that Jadzia's curiosity was warranted. Off-planet travel was still most unusual for a Ferengi female. Only in the past two months had Grand Nagus Zek introduced any gender-related reforms in Ferengi Society. Decades ago, when Base was born, it would have been almost inconceivable for a female to leave her family compound, let alone her homeworld.

Vash turned abruptly and began walking antispinward, leading Sisko and Dax toward what used to be the school, away from the gift shop. Sisko wasn't certain, but it was possible Vash had recognized someone at the gift shop. “Oh, Ferengi females leave the planet all the time,” she said, in answer to Jadzia's question. “Always have. Otherwise, how would they have colony worlds?”

“By transporting their females in stasis,” Jadzia said.

“And sometimes things go wrong.” Vash gave Sisko a sly smile. “Stasis fields break down. A colony ship is raided on the outskirts of the Klingon Empire and one lone Ferengi female sets off on her own. Or, a lonely Ferengi businessman on a trip to Qo'noS decides to partake of the local pleasures. . . .”

“Are you suggesting Base is a Ferengi-Klingon hybrid?”

Vash innocently widened her eyes at him. “Captain Sisko, with the enmity between those two species, and their physical differences, that would be impossible. I'm surprised you'd even think such a thing.”

“Then why go to such detail explaining Base's origins?”

“Just because something is impossible doesn't prevent people from speculating. You mentioned Base's attitude. Well, imagine how'd you feel if you were a Ferengi and everyone else thought you were half Klingon. You might have a bad attitude, too. Don't you think?”

“I think you're avoiding the question I asked back in the bar.” Sisko looked at Jadzia and both of them stopped walking at the same moment. “How can we help you?”

Vash paused and Sisko saw her look past him, back in the direction they had come from. “Tell me, Captain, do you take such a personal interest in all the visitors to this station?”

“Only when they're thieves and scoundrels.”

Vash nodded appreciatively. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Captain.” She started forward again, turning toward the entrance to Cavor's shop.

Sisko put out a hand to hold her back, outside Cavor's display window. The featured floating antigrav balls were a popular attraction on the Promenade, and several other visitors were standing enthralled in front of the display. “I'm serious, Vash. We are in the middle of a war zone here, and I have no time for games. Either convince me that you are on DS9 for a legitimate reason, or you're on the next shuttle leaving for Bajor.”

“Now who has an attitude?”

“You want to understand my attitude? Very well. Last week, three Andorians came to this station—Andorians with troubled legal histories involving smuggling. Then Base shows up in Quark's bar, and now you. The last time we had so many smugglers onboard at one time was, coincidentally enough, the last time you were here. When Quark was going to hold an auction of your stolen Gamma Quadrant artifacts.”

“They weren't stolen,” Vash said virtuously.

“Excuse me? What about the energy creature's crystalline offspring?”

“Well, not all of them . . .” she amended.

Sisko turned to Jadzia. “I think I see what's going on here. Quark was going to hold another auction. Which means that either he came into possession of something he thought would be of interest to the likes of Vash, the Andorians, and Base—” He looked at Vash. “—And whoever else it is who's on this station that you seem to be so concerned about. Or that you, the Andorians, or Base, or whoever, have come into possession of something you want Quark to sell.”

Vash's studied silence told Sisko he was close.

“Ordinarily,” he continued, “I really wouldn't care about what you people are up to. I'd leave you all to Odo and the Bajoran authorities. But in this case, I have one Andorian visitor dead, and one Ferengi inhabitant of this station missing. And that makes what you're doing here my business.”

Vash turned away from her contemplation of the window display. “Who's missing?”

Sisko kept his expression carefully neutral. He didn't even risk looking at Jadzia. “Rultan. One of Quark's servers.”

Vash shrugged. “Don't know him.”

“When are you and Quark supposed to meet?” Sisko asked, as if he had just suddenly thought of the question.

“I had no plans to see Quark,” Vash said.

“Not even for old times' sake?” Jadzia asked.

Vash looked at Jadzia, looked back at Sisko, and it was as if Sisko could hear isolinear circuits at work in her mind. “Quark's the Ferengi who's missing?”

Sisko didn't see the point in continuing the deception. He nodded.

“How missing?”

Sisko didn't understand.

“Any sign of foul play?”

“Nothing apparent,” Jadzia said. “But he disappeared last night—which is when Base appeared.”

Vash shook her head. “Base wouldn't hurt Quark. There'd be no profit in it.”

“Vash,” Sisko said, “this is your last chance. What's going on here?”

The way Vash looked at him, he could tell she knew at least part of the answer. This woman was maddening in her infernal duplicity. What would it take for her to share what she knew?

But, first, Vash had a question of her own. “The Andorian . . . Dal Nortron? How was he killed?”

“Lethal exposure to microwave radiation,” Jadzia answered. “Odo believes it was a weapon. I think there's a chance it might have been accidental.”

Vash nodded and turned back to Cavor's window display.

Though it was a struggle, Sisko succeeded in keeping his patience because it appeared Vash was in the midst of thinking something through. Finally, she turned and looked directly into his eyes. “Captain, do you believe what they say about Quark? That he killed Nortron?”

Sisko met her sharp gaze directly. “No.” Believing that Vash was reaching her own moment of truth and would act on it momentarily, he offered no further qualifications.

“Do exactly as I say,” Vash suddenly said in a low voice, confirming his supposition. “I'm going to walk away from you. I'm going to look angry. You're going to grab me and say that you don't believe me, and that you're taking me for questioning. Then do it, and make it look good. Understand?”

Sisko signaled his understanding by making no move to look around to see who might be watching. He felt certain that Vash knew who their charade was going to play for. So, he gave her the reason she needed to walk away. “That's not good enough, Vash,” he said harshly. “I want answers.”

Vash threw up her hands. “What's wrong with you people?! I've already told you everything I know! Now leave me alone!”

She spun around and started to walk away.

Sisko took two quick steps and then took her arm.

“Let me go!” Vash shouted. “You have no right to hold me!”

Jadzia took Vash's other arm. “Yes, he does.”

Sisko hit his communicator badge. “Sisko to security. I need a team on the Promenade, Main Floor South, now.”

Vash tugged back and forth between Sisko and Jadzia. “You can't be serious! I haven't done anything!”

All signs were good that they were putting on a convincing show. By the time two Bajoran security officers hurried around the curve of the Promenade, they were surrounded by an inquisitive crowd that was growing by the minute.

“I want this woman held for questioning,” Sisko said loudly. He let go of Vash as the security officers took her. And just in that brief instant, Vash slapped a hand to the side of her neck and staggered, losing her balance.

Startled, Sisko caught her as she began to fall. On the side of her slender neck, he saw a small bronze-metal dart, no larger than a fingertip. He grabbed it, pulled, and a half-centimeter-long needle emerged from Vash's neck, dripping a fluorescent blue fluid.

Vash shuddered uncontrollably as Jadzia called Worf for an immediate transporter evacuation to the Infirmary. Sisko swiftly scanned the crowd, but there was nothing to see except the concerned faces of onlookers. Discovering whoever had fired the dart would have to wait until the station's security recordings could be studied.

“Quark . . .” Vash whispered urgently, her voice slurred. “. . . the auction. . . .”

Sisko bent nearer, cradling her as he waited for the transporter lock. “They're on their way, Vash. You have to hold on.”

“Must listen . . . was going to sell. . . .”

Sisko leaned closer, put his ear to her lips. “What, Vash? What was he going to sell?”

Vash's eyes rolled up and her eyelids fluttered, and what she said next made Sisko's blood run cold.

“. . . an . . . Orb . . .” Vash gasped. “. . . Jalbador. . . .”

And then the transporter took them.