CHAPTER 7

IF SISKO CLOSED his eyes, he could almost believe he was on Bajor, in the kai's temple, in his own time. The gentle splash of water on stone in the meditation pool. The sharp peppermint-cinnamon smell of the b'nai candles. Even the cool breeze that brought with it the rich, loamy scent of the contemplation gardens. All these sensations brought back to him the world he had hoped someday would become his adopted home.

But even these sense memories faded when he opened his eyes and looked out through the curving viewports of the Boreth's observation deck to see the Defiant being pulled through the stars at warp speed, ensnared in the purple web of a tractor beam and trailing half a kilometer behind the angular engineering hull of the advanced technology Klingon battle cruiser.

At his right, he saw in Kira a reflection of his own distress at the sight of their ship—so distant, so powerless. At his left the tall, lean form of Arla Rees stood rigid, tense, though Sisko knew the defeat of the Defiant could not inflict the same emotional toll on her. The Bajoran commander had only served on Deep Space 9 for a few weeks, and she had not served on the Defiant before the events of the station's last day—or of the last twenty-five years.

“How do you think it happened?”

Sisko knew what Kira was really asking him. His conclusion—that the Dominion had won its war with the Federation—had been shared by all the others on the Defiant once they saw or heard of Weyoun's appearance in vedek's robes. And now, the fact that they had been been transported to Weyoun's Klingon ship and had discovered a Bajoran meditation chamber reconstructed to the last detail in its observation lounge was more proof. There could be no doubt that in this future the Dominion had won the war, and had assimilated the cultures of the Alpha Quadrant as omnivorously as had the Borg.

“Maybe it was Deep Space 9,” Sisko ventured. “Once the station was gone, Starfleet had no forward base to guard the wormhole.”

Kira sighed. “So we really were accomplishing something. This isn't the way I'd like to find out, though.”

Arla turned away from the Defiant. “I thought the wormhole was no longer an issue in the war, because the aliens kept Dominion forces from using it.”

Sisko saw Kira stiffen at the Bajoran commander's casual use of the term “aliens” to describe the beings in the wormhole.

“The Prophets,” Kira said emphatically, “chose to stop one fleet of Jem'Hadar ships from traveling through their Temple. But if the Bajoran people failed in their duty to protect the Temple's doorway, then it is entirely possible that the Prophets withdrew their blessing—just as they did when the Cardassians invaded.”

Arla persisted. “Major, if the wormhole aliens are gods, how could they let the Cardassians inflict such evil on our world?”

Kira's smile was brittle. “I won't pretend to understand the Prophets, but I know everything they do is for a reason.”

Before Arla could further escalate what was for now merely a discussion, Sisko intervened to keep it at that level. This argument could have no end between the two Bajorans of such dissimilar background and belief.

Kira had been born on occupied Bajor. She had grown up in relocation camps, and had fought for the Resistance since she was a child. The only thing that had enabled her—and millions of other Bajorans—to survive the horrors of the Cardassian Occupation of their world was a deep and unquestioning faith in their gods—the Prophets of the Celestial Temple.

But Arla Rees, only a few years younger than Kira, had been born to prosperous Bajoran traders on the neutral world of New Sydney. She had enjoyed a life of privilege in which the Cardassian Occupation, though an evil to rally against, had never been experienced firsthand. For Arla, now a Starfleet officer, as for many Bajorans of her upbringing, the Prophets were little more than an outmoded superstition perversely clung to by her less sophisticated cousins on the old world.

Sisko knew that as fervently as Kira believed in the Prophets and their Celestial Temple, Arla held an equally strong belief that the Bajoran wormhole was inhabited by aliens from a different dimensional realm, and that their involvement in the history of Bajor had been more disruptive than benevolent.

He himself had been wondering of late if reconciling these two opposing beliefs was one of the tasks that he, in his ill-defined and unsought role as the Emissary to Bajor's Prophets, was supposed to be able to accomplish. If so, then he was still unable to see how one could ever be reconciled with the other.

“That's enough,” Sisko said to both Kira and Arla. “This debate is nothing we're going to resolve here and now.”

“Oh, but we are,” Weyoun proclaimed from behind them.

Sisko and the two Bajorans turned as quickly as if shot by disruptors, to see that the Vorta had apparently beamed into the observation deck behind them, just beside the meditation pool. Across the deck, the doors to the corridor were still closed, and there was no other obvious way in.

“Captain Sisko,” Weyoun purred, “Major Kira, you have no idea how delighted I am to meet you again after so many years. And Commander Arla, it is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The Vorta smiled ingratiatingly at his guests and clasped his hands eagerly before him. “I trust you've found your quarters to your liking.”

Sisko forced himself to control his initial impulse to angrily demand an explanation for everything that had happened to them. Weyoun's irritatingly obsequious manner had simply—like everything else about him and his species—been genetically programmed by the Founders in order to better serve the Dominion as negotiators, strategists, scientists, and diplomats.

In this sense, this latest version of Weyoun had changed not at all over the past twenty-five years. The clone's thick black hair, brushed high above his forehead, showed no trace of gray. His smooth, open face, framed by dramatically ribbed ears that ran from his chin halfway up the sides of his head, showed no sign of age-related lines or wrinkles. Indeed, the only aspect of the cloned Vorta that had changed from the time Sisko had last crossed his path was that this Weyoun now wore a Bajoran earring, complete with a gleaming silver chain.

But at the moment none of these details was important to Sisko. There was only one thought that claimed his mind. “What happened to my people who were beamed off the Defiant?” He did not add that his son Jake had been among them.

“Sadly,” Weyoun began mournfully, “we must consider them dead. The attackers are not known for taking prisoners. And those they do take do not live for long.”

Kira's outraged question filled the terrible silence that followed the Vorta's pronouncement. “What are you doing in those robes?”

Weyoun glanced down at his saffron-and-white vedek's robes, as if to be sure his clothing hadn't changed in the last few seconds. “Why, they were a gift. From the congregation of the Dahkur Temple. I believe that's in your home province, Major.”

Kira's face tightened in disbelief. “None of the monks I know would ever accept a Dominion lackey as a vedek.”

Weyoun gazed at Kira in hurt sadness, as if her words had wounded him cruelly. “The Dominon,” he said, almost wistfully. “A name I have not heard in many years.”

Kira's quick glance at Sisko revealed her lack of understanding, but he was unable to offer her any of his own.

“Why not?” Sisko asked Weyoun. “Did the Founders change its name?”

“Founders,” Weyoun repeated, as if that word hadn't crossed his lips for a long time, either. “To be honest, I don't know how the Founders reacted to their loss.”

“What loss?” Sisko asked. Now he needed enlightenment.

“Of the war, of course,” Weyoun answered. “With the Federation.”

Kira shook her head. “Wait a minute. The Dominion lost the war?”

Weyoun looked troubled. “In . . . a manner of speaking.”

“And what manner would that be?” Sisko demanded.

Weyoun nodded thoughtfully. “I understand your confusion, Captain. Twenty-five years is a long time. And I will see to it that you have access to briefing tapes that recount the thrilling historic events you've missed. But for now, simply to put your minds at rest, I will try to . . . get you up to speed. Isn't that what you say?”

“Just start at the beginning,” Sisko said. “Who won the war?”

The Vorta's smile was vague. “In a technical sense, no one—but the war is over,” he hastened to add, as Sisko took a step toward him. “In fact, it ended almost one year to the day after the loss of Deep Space 9 and the beginning of your . . . miraculous voyage.”

Sisko was no longer interested in even pretending to be patient. “How did it end?”

The Vorta pursed his lips. “With the destruction of Cardassia Prime, I'm sorry to say. A terrible battle. A terrible price to pay for peace. But the Cardassians were a proud people. And Damar and the Founder he served refused to surrender. Then, when—”

Arla interrupted suddenly. “What do you mean, the Cardassians ‘were’ a proud people?”

Weyoun fixed his remarkably clear gray eyes on hers. “I don't play games with my words, Commander. At all times, you can be sure I mean exactly what I say. Today, the Cardassians as a species are virtually extinct. Cardassia Prime. The Hub Colonies. The Union Territories. All destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Sisko repeated. “We are talking about planets?”

Weyoun nodded. “Entire worlds, Captain. Laid waste. Uninhabitable. A death toll in the tens of billions. . . . A mere handful of Cardassians left now. Traders. Pirates.” He paused, then added with unexpected anger, “Madmen.”

Kira sounded as shocked as Sisko felt. “But you—you somehow escaped all that destruction?”

Weyoun's facial expressions disconcertingly flickered back and forth between an overweening smile of pride and an exaggerated frown of sorrow. “No, Major. In a sense, I brought about that destruction.”

Now Sisko, Kira, and Arla all began to speak at the same time. But Weyoun ignored their questions and protests alike.

“No, no, no,” he said, tucking his hands within the folds of his robes. “Whatever you think of me, you're wrong.” He stood with his back to the observation windows and their backdrop of warp-smeared stars. “Captain Sisko, you must believe me. I begged Damar to accept the inevitable. I implored the Founder to accept that it was time she and her kind accepted their fate to be partners in a new cause, not the leaders of a dying one. Yet—”

Sisko regarded him with disbelief. “Are you saying you turned against the Founders?!”

“But . . . they were your gods,” Kira said.

Weyoun shook his head. “The only reason the Vorta believed the Founders to be gods was because that was programmed into the basic structure of our brains. Our belief in the Founders was achieved through the same genetic engineering that raised us from the forests of our homeworld.”

“But you've always known about your programming,” Sisko said.

“True. And our belief, engineered or not, did sustain the Vorta—sustained me —through the most difficult times. But then . . .” Weyoun withdrew his arms from his robes and spread them wide, as if to embrace Sisko and the others. “. . . The day came when those difficult times ended and . . . and I met the true Gods of all creation—the Prophets.” His transformed face shone with bliss.

Sisko stared at the triumphant Vorta. “You . . . met the Bajoran Prophets?”

Weyoun nodded, his beatific smile never wavering.

“Through an Orb experience?” Kira asked doubtfully. “Or—”

“Face to face,” the Vorta said in a humble voice. “In the True Celestial Temple. I traveled through it. A desperate expedition to see if it led to the Gamma Quadrant.” He laughed quietly to himself in remembrance. “The Founder herself ordered me to go. Two Cardassian warships. A wing of Jem'Hadar attack cruisers. Yet . . . I was the only one to return.”

And then, an icy hand gripping his heart, Sisko made sense of Weyoun's astounding story. “You traveled through the second wormhole.”

The Vorta held a finger to his lips. “Oh, Captain, I must caution you. I have a very devoted, very religious crew. We don't call them . . . ‘wormholes’ anymore.”

“Two Temples, then,” Sisko said. “Just like the legend of the Red Orbs of Jalbador.”

Weyoun stared at Sisko, abandoning all traces of the false veneer of a genetically engineered negotiator he had always maintained in their previous encounters. “In your time,” he said seriously, “the legend of Jalbador existed in many different forms, distorted by the inevitable accumulation of error over the millennia of its retelling. But in essence, Captain, each variation of that legend possessed a fraction of the truth. A truth which you helped bring back to a universe that had lost its way.”

“And that truth would be?” Kira asked grimly.

Weyoun's response was uncharacteristically to the point. “The Prophets are the Gods of all creation, and the True Celestial Temple is their home.”

Then, pausing as if to compose himself, the Vorta studied his audience of three before focusing his attention on Arla. “Now I know this is not what you believe, Commander. I overheard what you were saying before I joined you. If the Prophets are Gods, then how can they let evil exist? That is a valid question. And it has a valid answer.”

Weyoun stepped closer to Arla, addressing her as if Sisko and Kira were no longer present in this reconstruction of a meditation chamber. “You see, Commander, the Prophets do not wish their children to be afflicted by evil. But uncounted eons ago, when the universe was a perfect ideal contained within the Temple, some Prophets rebelled. Oh, they believed they had a just cause. They thought that a universe within the Temple could only ever be a reflection of perfection, not perfection itself. And so they fought to free creation from its timeless realm. And in that great and terrible battle—beyond the comprehension of any linear being—the One Celestial Temple was—” Weyoun clapped his hands together unexpectedly, startling his three listeners, “—split asunder!”

The Vorta smiled apologetically at Arla. “The battle between the two groups of Prophets ended then. But the damage had already been done. The stars, the galaxies, the planets . . . everything the Prophets had created in their image of timeless perfection spilled out into the void created by the Temple's destruction. And in that void, perfection was unattainable. Evil was loosed upon the face of creation. And all because of the pride of one group of Prophets, who thought they knew better.”

“The Pah-wraiths,” Arla whispered.

Weyoun brightened at Arla's response. “Ah, so you have had some religious instruction, Commander. Yes, of course. But the Pahwraiths you know from your time are those poor beings who spilled from the Temple at the time it was torn in two. They could not carry on the fight in the False Temple, neither could they join their fellows in the True Temple. Instead, they sought shelter near the entrance to both shards of the One Temple, deep in the Fire Caves at the core of Bajor, lost and abandoned by both sides.”

“This is all blasphemy!” Kira protested. “There was no battle in the Temple! There are no fallen Prophets! There is no second Temple!”

Undisturbed, Weyoun pointed an accusing finger at the livid major. “Then how do you explain your presence here and now, exactly as foretold by Naradim's Third Vision as recorded on the tablets of Jalbador?”

“What do you mean ‘our presence’ was foretold?” Sisko asked quickly, before Kira could interrupt Weyoun again.

“Behold,” the Vorta intoned as if reciting from some ancient text, “you shall know the final prophecy of Jalbador is fulfilled when the False Emissary shall rise from among those that did die in the destruction of the gateway, to face the final battle with the True Emissary of the Prophets, and to bow before his righteousness at the time the doors shall be opened and the One Temple restored.”

Weyoun's voice trembled with ecstasy as he concluded, “And by his return, and by his defeat, this shall you know as the True Reckoning, which shall come at the end of all days, and the beginning of that which has no beginning.”

Sisko was unable to restrain Kira from another outburst. “More Pah-wraith heresy!” she exclaimed. “The Reckoning took place less than a month ago! And Kai Winn stopped it!”

Weyoun regarded her with pity. “Major, do you really believe any corporeal being could defy the will of the Prophets? Especially a nonbeliever such as Winn?”

Sisko could see the conflict in Kira. Winn was not the religious leader she had preferred, but neither did Kira doubt that the Kai had faith. “Kai Winn is not a nonbeliever. She is . . . sometimes misguided in her attempts to reconcile her spiritual duties with her political ones.”

“Was,” Weyoun corrected her. “Winn was misguided.”

“She's dead?” Kira asked in a disbelieving voice.

“One of the first to be hung.”

“Hung?!”

Weyoun sighed and bowed his head. “You missed so much. The end of the war. The Ascendancy of Bajor. The collapse of the Federation—”

Sisko, Kira, and Arla all said, “What?” at the same moment.

“Near-

collapse,” Weyoun amended. “Oh, there's still a council that meets . . . somewhere. Ships here and there that claim to be part of Starfleet. But all of it is little more than the twitching of a corpse, I'm afraid.”

“What about those ships that attacked us?” Sisko asked.

“Oh, they weren't attacking you, Captain. They were attacking Captain Riker's ship in order to capture yours. Or, more to the point, to capture you.”

“Why me?”

“Isn't that obvious? Without you the True Reckoning can't take place.”

Sisko stared at Weyoun, afraid to draw the only conclusion that seemed logical.

Weyoun nodded as if reading his mind. “That's right, Captain. You are the False Emissary. Risen from among those who died at the destruction of the gateway to the Celestial Temple, that is, your late lamented Deep Space 9.”

“But if I'm the False Emissary . . .”

“Exactly.” Weyoun bowed. “I am the True Emissary to the True Prophets of the One Temple, now Kai to all the believers of the Bajoran Ascendancy.”

“Kai?!” To Sisko, Kira sounded as if she were about to choke. “You're a pawn of the Pah-wraiths!”

Weyoun's smile faded. “True, I am their servant. But consider this, Major. Even in the fringe beliefs you cling to, when was evil visited upon the universe?”

Whatever uncertainty Kira felt, it didn't prevent her from standing up to Weyoun. “Bajorans don't presume to speak for the universe. But evil came to Bajor when the people first turned away from the Prophets.”

“And when was that? In your beliefs?” Weyoun added condescendingly.

“I don't think anyone knows the actual time period.”

“Then approximately . . . how long ago?”

Kira shrugged. “At the . . . the very beginning of our time on our world.”

Weyoun leaned forward, his manner suggesting to Sisko nothing so much as a spider about to complete its web. “Exactly. At the very beginning of time. And what will eliminate evil from the universe—or, at the very least, in your beliefs, from the people of Bajor?”

Sisko couldn't help feeling that the Vorta was about to spring his trap, and it seemed by the slowness of Kira's reply that she sensed the same possibility. “When . . . when all the people of Bajor return to the Prophets and . . . accept them as our Gods.”

The Vorta nodded as if Kira had just answered her own question. “Then I ask you, Major, what better way to bring the people of the universe—or of Bajor—back to the Prophets than by bringing them back to the One Celestial Temple? And in all the ‘blasphemous’ and ‘heretical’ text that you refuse to accept, what is the one thing the Pah-wraiths always want to do?”

“Return to the Temple,” Kira said reluctantly.

“Because by doing so the One Temple will be restored, and all the people will be returned to the Prophets.”

“But the texts clearly state that the Pah-wraiths want to destroy the Temple!” Kira insisted.

Weyoun's reply was unexpected. “I agree. That's what your texts—inspired by the False Prophets—say. Because the False Prophets don't want the Temple to be restored. The False Prophets want to delude the people of Bajor into thinking that the Pah-wraiths are demons.” The Vorta's voice began to rise accusingly. “But answer this, Major: Why is it that the Prophets you worship hide themselves in their Temple, refusing to come out, refusing to do anything except sow confusion with the Orbs they inflicted upon your world, while the Pah-wraiths—even in your own texts —are known to walk amongst the people of Bajor and to constantly struggle to open the Temple doors?”

“Lies!” Kira said. “I refuse to listen to more of your lies!”

“Listen to yourself, Major. Where are your arguments, your reasons? You are simply denying the truth out of habit.” Weyoun was almost taunting her. “I expected so much more of you.”

“Heretic!” Kira shouted as she rushed forward to strike Weyoun.

Sisko lunged after her but before he could reach her—

—a brilliant flash of red light flared from around Weyoun, and Kira was thrown back onto the flat stones that covered the deck.

Sisko dropped to his knees, supporting Kira as she gasped for breath, her dark eyes wide and unfocused. Arla moved to Sisko's side to add whatever aid she could give.

Weyoun's voice floated over them. “Forgive me. Major Kira's attack was quite unexpected, and in the years since we last met I have perfected my control of . . . telekinesis, I suppose you would call it. A little too well, it seems.”

Sisko turned to Weyoun, who still stood in front of the observation windows. “Do you have a medkit or a tricorder—anything?” Kira shuddered in his arms, each hard-won breath shallower, as if her throat were closing.

“I'm afraid we have no medical equipment of any kind on board this vessel,” Weyoun said apologetically.

Sisko was appalled. Klingon ships were not known for their medical facilities, but still they carried some supplies, if only for the command staff. “Then beam us back to the Defiant!” He felt Kira's body arch, then go rigid as she opened her mouth and made no sound, as if her airways were now totally obstructed. “She's dying!” Sisko shouted at Weyoun.

Weyoun moved away from the windows and leaned down to observe Kira. “No, she's not.” He waved one arm free of his robes, then placed his thumb and forefinger on the lobe of Kira's left ear. “Her pagh is strong. She did not journey all this way to die so close to the end. . . .”

And then Sisko watched, uncomprehending, as shimmering red light sprang forth from the Vorta's pale hand and spread across Kira's distorted features, until suddenly her entire body trembled, she inhaled deeply, and—

—went limp, breathing easily as if she had merely fallen asleep in his arms.

Sisko looked up at Weyoun, and for just an instant saw the Vorta's eyes flash red as well.

“Yes, Captain?” Weyoun said, as his eyes returned to their crystal-gray clarity.

Sisko looked down at Kira, whose eyes remained closed. Her chest rose and fell with normal regularity.

“What did you mean . . . ‘so close to the end’? The end of what?”

The Vorta smiled like a child with a secret. “Why, not the end, Captain. The beginning. Didn't you hear what I said? The reason you've been returned from the dead is so the final prophecy of Jalbador can be fulfilled.”

Sisko struggled to recall the exact words Weyoun had used when he seemed to be reciting sacred text to Kira. “The end of all days, and the beginning of that which has no beginning?”

“Exactly,” Weyoun said, beaming as if at his favorite pupil. “When we shall all be returned to the Temple, and this imperfect creation shall at last come to an end.”

Had he heard anyone else speak in that way, Sisko would have assumed the speaker was insane. But he had seen the red glow in Weyoun's eyes. The same glow that had been in Jake's eyes when a Pah-wraith had possessed his son's body and controlled his son's mind.

Arla got to her feet, her voice uncertain, colored by fear. “You're both talking about the end of the universe, aren't you?”

Sisko felt the chill of madness fill the room, as Weyoun bestowed a smile of blessing upon the Bajoran Starfleet officer. “Oh, Commander, nothing as drastic as that. Merely the end of material existence. But at that time, you—” The Vorta smiled at Sisko. “—and the captain—” He brushed his fingers along the side of Kira's face. “—and even the nonbelievers will ascend to a new level of existence, wrapped for all time in the love and the wisdom of the Prophets.”

Glow or no glow, Pah-wraith or no Pah-wraith, for Sisko, Weyoun had gone too far. He eased Kira onto the floor and stood up to face the Vorta. “You're insane,” he said.

Weyoun merely shrugged. “Of course that's what you must think. It is demanded of your role as the False Emissary. But rest assured that even you will ascend to the Temple when you fulfill the final prophecy and acknowledge the True Prophets.”

“Never,” Sisko said. But even as he spoke, Sisko was aware that not even he, the Emissary of Kira's Prophets, knew what he must do next to stop Weyoun and the Pah-Wraiths from whatever terrible action they were planning. He still needed to learn more about this future before he could help anyone change it.

“Ah, but never doesn't mean what it used to,” Weyoun replied. “Not when all you have left is fifteen days.”

“Fifteen days . . . till what?” Arla asked.

Weyoun closed his eyes, as if at total peace with himself and the universe. “Fifteen days until the doors of the two Temples shall open together, and the final battle of good and evil shall be fought . . .” He opened his eyes, sought out Sisko as he continued, “. . . and won, and this cruel, imperfect universe shall at last pass, and we shall all ascend to the Temple for eternity.”

Apprehension swept over Sisko. It was obvious that despite the complete insanity of Weyoun's proclamation, the Vorta believed every word he spoke.

And when the universe did not end in fifteen days, Sisko did not doubt there would be, quite literally, hell to pay.