CHAPTER 5

HE WAS ONLY NINETEEN, but Jake Sisko already understood the inevitability of death. And on the hangar deck of this Starfleet vessel of the future he was, in his way, prepared to die.

Or so he told himself.

But even as the computer's warning was drowned out by the explosive burst of air that rushed over him, tugging him back against the linked arms of his fellow prisoners, Jake still didn't believe that the time of his death was near.

Part of the reason for his confidence in his survival came from his half-felt suspicion that the Bajoran Prophets might intercede, or that, at the very least, their existence implied that death might not be the end of his own awareness.

But as to whether it was faith in the Prophets or faith in Dr. Bashir's logical assessment of their situation—that they were merely being tested by the Vulcan captain of this ship—or simply the fire of his youth that at this moment made him unwilling to accept the final extinction of his intellect, Jake wasn't certain.

All he knew was that when a second blast of air rushed over him, and he realized that the ship's atmospheric pressure had been maintained and that he could still breathe—he wasn't really surprised.

Smiling broadly like most of the others at their close call, Jake glanced over in Bashir's direction. What he saw then did surprise him. The doctor was engulfed in an embarrassingly passionate embrace with Vash. Jake couldn't help gawking as a handful of excited conversations began around him and he saw Vash draw back from the doctor, look around, and he heard her say, “Guess you were right, Doc.” Bashir was looking decidedly flustered, and Jake felt himself experiencing an unexpected pang of jealousy. Vash was extremely attractive, in a dangerous, older sort of way.

Then his and everyone's attention was diverted to the personnel door as it opened once again and Captain T'len reappeared, accompanied by her two visored officers in the black Starfleet uniforms with red shoulders.

“Is the test over?” Bashir asked. Jake appreciated and mentally applauded the defiance in his tone.

“It is,” T'len replied.

But the doctor wasn't finished. “May I ask what the purpose of it was?”

“It was necessary to see if you had been altered by the Grigari. No Grigari construct yet encountered is capable of facing a life-or-death situation without attempting to bargain for its life.”

Jake vaguely recalled Kasidy Yates telling him stories of the Grigari, though she'd seemed to imply that few experts believed that the fabled lost species was real—merely a name given to an amalgam of legends that had accumulated over time.

Bashir was nodding at Vash, who was still standing beside him. “Not a very convincing test. Vash here was ready to bargain with you from the beginning.”

Jake regarded Bashir anxiously, wondering if it was a good idea to say anything that might provoke the captain, but the Vulcan seemed unperturbed by the doctor's identification of a logical flaw in her test.

“Vash is not a Starfleet officer. Her reaction was in compliance with historical records of her personality.”

At that the archaeologist broke away from the group of captives, heading straight for T'len. “Yeah, well what about this reaction?” she said threateningly, leading Jake to half-expect she'd try to deck the Vulcan captain when she reached her.

But before Vash could cross more than half the four meters that stood between her and T'len, what looked to be a phaser beam shot out from the visor worn by the officer on the captain's right. The silver beam hit Vash dead center, and she immediately crumpled to the deck as if stunned.

“Whoa . . .” Jake whispered. Then, as Bashir, Worf, and Jadzia rushed to Vash's aid, he took a closer look at those special clear visors of T'Len's officers, what he had at first thought were a type of safety eyewear. After a moment, he realized that if he looked slightly away from the two officers, he could just make out a pattern of glowing lights on their visors' surfaces, as if the visors were generating some sort of holographic display for their wearer. On the officer nearest him Jake also noticed a narrow black wire that ran from the arm of the visor and hooked over the Vulcan's pointed ear. The wire disappeared into the collar of the officer's uniform.

Not bad, Jake thought. A phaser that doesn't require anyone having to waste time to draw and aim it. He had no idea how the odd silver-phaser beam could have been generated in such a thin device, but he decided it was reasonable to assume that twenty-five years could have led to at least a few technological breakthroughs. He reminded himself to be on the alert for other hidden marvels of the day. They'd make for interesting details in the novel he planned to write after he returned to his own time. Because, just as he had not been ready to believe he was going to die, he was somehow sure that eventually he would return. All he needed to do was work out the details—or be sure that Dr. Bashir, Jadzia, and Worf worked them out.

For now, the doctor and the Trill were helping Vash to her feet. From what Jake could see of her, the archaeologist was unharmed, though the way she staggered made it clear she was still suffering from the effects of the stun.

Captain T'len continued coolly as if nothing unusual had just happened. “As I explained, your identities have been confirmed by DNA analysis. But do not think that changes your status on this ship.”

“Just what is our status?” Bashir asked. He had his arm firmly around Vash's shoulders to support her.

“Refugees,” T'len answered. “But that can change.”

“How?”

“The decision is not up to me.” The Vulcan captain then went on to explain that they would be taken from the hangar deck and given quarters, to which they'd be confined until their arrival at Starbase 53. During their confinement they would be provided with limited computer access in order to familiarize themselves with their new time period. “Make no mistake,” T'len concluded. “This time period will be your new home.”

As the refugees fell silent in the face of that blunt statement, Jake took advantage of the moment to shout out, “What happened to the Defiant?”

Captain T'len's dark eyes immediately sought him out, and Jake surprised himself as he held her intense gaze. “Your ship was captured by the Ascendancy. To answer the rest of your questions which must logically follow: So far as we know, the Defiant was captured intact. Though we do not have definitive knowledge, it is logical to assume that the crew has been captured. Whether or not they are subsequently harmed will depend on the degree of resistance they offer.”

“Then we should attempt to rescue them,” Worf said bluntly. “It is unacceptable to retreat.”

T'len's gaze shifted from Jake to Worf, but her next words had the teenager's full attention. “I can assure you that a rescue attempt will be made. Starfleet has no intention of letting the Ascendancy keep Benjamin Sisko in custody.”

Jake experienced a huge ups well of relief upon hearing the captain state Starfleet's objective so authoritatively, though he couldn't help also wondering why his father would have such importance in this time. But before he could get up his nerve to ask for clarification, one of the Bajorans changed the subject.

“Who are the Grigari?”

The captain's enigmatic response was ominous. “You'll find out.” She gestured to the open door, and Jake followed the rest of T'len's prisoners as they began their long march.

To Jake, T'len's ship, the Augustus, seemed half-finished. The dull-gray floors of the cramped corridors had no carpet—the decks were simply bare composite plates. And no attempt had been made to hide the ship's mechanical components. The cluttered ceilings were lined with so many differently colored pipes and conduits that Jake doubted there was a single Jefferies tube on the vessel. ODN conduits were everywhere, running along bulkheads and punching through decks and ceilings almost at random. At least, Jake assumed they were ODN conduits. Who knew if optical data networks were still being used in this future?

The ship appeared to have no turbolifts, either. He and the other fourteen prisoners from the Defiant had to change decks by using steep and narrow metal staircases that rattled alarmingly as so many pairs of feet pounded down them. For a ship of the future, the Augustus was reminding Jake more of the old walk-through exhibit of the U.S.S. Discovery, a Daedalus-class ship more than two hundred years old, at the Starfleet Museum in San Francisco. But even that old veteran, one of the first ships commissioned by the newly formed Starfleet, had had more room.

The environmental controls also seemed to be less precise than the ones Jake was used to. The hangar deck had been cool, but the first corridors the refugees had been led through were uncomfortably hot. On their enforced march they had already encountered a few more of T'len's crew, and they had all, without exception, been Vulcan. That made the heat make sense to Jake: It reflected the crew's normal and preferred ambient temperature.

But then, trudging along in the line of captives, Jake stepped off a stairway into a corridor that was so cold its gray metal walls were rimed with frost. With a shiver, he abandoned his earlier theory of acclimation for a Vulcan crew, and decided that the unsettling changes in temperature merely meant that the ship's environmental controls were faulty.

Finally they reached the end of their march, and their destination turned out to be a series of personnel cabins—they certainly didn't deserve to be called quarters. Jake was assigned to one that was little bigger than his bedroom on DS9 but which was crowded with two bunks, a fold-down desktop, what seemed to be a limited-capacity food replicator, and—crammed into one corner with no privacy screen—a small toilet-and-sink unit that appeared to be able to double as a sonic shower enclosure. Everything was in the same depressing shade of muddy gray.

Jake's roommate was Ensign Ryle Simons, a young human from Alpha Centauri with an almost pure white complexion topped by a startlingly bright-red crewcut. Simons was fresh from the Academy and had been on Deep Space 9 for only two days, waiting to join the crew of his first ship, the Destiny. After taking less than a second to assess the cramped nature of their room, both Jake and Simons peppered the Vulcan lieutenant who stood in their doorway with questions.

“How long will it take to get to the starbase?” Simons asked.

“And where's the computer terminal?” Jake added.

The Vulcan stepped past the two young men and folded down the desktop so that it blocked the doors of the storage lockers that took up one bulkhead. “Our transit time is classified,” she said, then busied herself with the desktop.

The surface of it was a large control surface, and the Vulcan swiftly tapped in a series of commands that quickly created what Jake recognized as a Starfleet computer input tablet not too different from the ones he was familiar with. What was different, though, was that the computer had no physical display. Instead, a holographic screen appeared a few centimeters above the desktop. For now, the modified Starfleet emblem appeared in the center of it.

No time like the present, Jake thought. “Lieutenant, why did the ship from the Bajoran Ascendancy also have a Starfleet emblem?”

The Vulcan frowned as she assessed him, shaking her head once. “The explanation is in the history briefings that will be made available to you.”

“Then the explanation isn't classified?”

“No.”

Jake refrained from showing amusement at the Vulcan's poorly disguised impatience. “So there's no reason why you can't tell us, is there? It would be more efficient.”

“Then the efficient answer is: propaganda.” The Vulcan abruptly stood up and moved toward the open door.

“I don't know what you mean by that,” Jake said truthfully.

The Vulcan hesitated on the threshold, then looked back at Jake and Simons. Apparently she made some sort of decision, for she then delivered her explanation rapidly, without pause. “At the time the Ascendancy was formed, it initially sought new members from those worlds waiting to accept admission to the Federation, just as Bajor had been. One of the chief advantages to Federation membership is the opportunity to take part in Starfleet operations and to benefit from its defensive forces. Thus, in its attempt to sway the governments of the nonaligned worlds, the Ascendancy claimed to be the new political master of Starfleet. Since many Ascendancy vessels had been pirated from our fleet over the years, in a limited sense the claim was correct.”

“Now I really don't understand,” Jake said seriously. “How could any group simply say they're the ones responsible for Starfleet?”

“Following the destruction of Earth,” the Vulcan said, her expression remaining completely neutral, “Starfleet's lines of command and control took several weeks to be reestablished. In some regions where political turmoil further complicated communications, some task forces and battle groups were cut off from command for months.”

Jake couldn't speak, let alone think of any new question. Which was just as well, because the Vulcan had no intention of answering further inquiries.

“Use your computer,” she said. “All your questions will be answered.” Then she stepped back into the corridor, and the narrow door slipped shut and locked.

Jake looked at his roommate. The Centaurian ensign's white cheeks were splotched with red, while the rest of his face was almost luminescent in its paleness. “That . . . that can't be true,” Simons said faintly.

But Jake knew better. The Vulcan had had no problem refusing to answer a question when the answer was classified. Thus, she had no motive for lying to them. “Let's check the computer,” he said. He went to the desktop and placed his hand on the flashing yellow panel labelled USER IDENTIFICATION. At once the panel turned green, and the holographic display switched from a static image of the Starfleet emblem to that of a Bolian in the new version of the Starfleet uniform. Jake checked the square tabs on the Bolian's rank badge and saw that the blue-skinned alien was an admiral.

“This briefing,” the Bolian admiral began, “has been prepared for the refugees rescued from the Starship Defiant. It consists of a twenty-two-minute presentation of the key events that have occurred since the destruction of Deep Space 9 and the loss of your ship until the present day, focusing on those events which have led to what is commonly known as the War of the Prophets. At the end of this briefing, you will be given an opportunity to examine files detailing the current status of any relatives you may have in this time period. The briefing will commence on your verbal request.”

Jake stared at the image. “I don't get it,” he said, turning to Simons. “We only showed up here less than two hours ago. How did they have enough time to make a briefing tape for us?”

Simons shook his head, puzzled. “Their computers are faster?”

Jake wasn't convinced. But he folded his arms across his chest and prepared himself for the worst. “Computer: Start the briefing.”

The image of the Bolian admiral disappeared, replaced by that of a Starfleet sensor-log identification screen announcing that whatever images were about to be shown had been recorded by the U.S.S. Garneau on stardate 51889.4, in the Bajoran sector.

Jake felt his chest tighten even before the sensor log began.

He recognized the date.

He was about to see the events that, according to history, had led to his death.