CHAPTER 12

“CAPTAIN SISKO! You've been ignoring me!”

Benjamin Sisko snapped out of his reverie and sighed. He was sitting at an uncomfortable Klingon work station in his uncomfortable Klingon quarters on board the uncomfortable Klingon vessel, the Boreth. Kasidy Yates was looking out at him from the work station's main display screen. Her image was a stern, unsmiling portrait; it was the one that had been attached to her merchant master's license.

The annoyed voice haranguing him belonged to Quark. It came from the open doorway to Sisko's quarters.

“This isn't the time, Quark,” Sisko said quietly, and meant it. Nevertheless he heard the sound of Quark's brisk footsteps as the Ferengi crossed over his threshold.

“In case you haven't noticed, time is what we're running out of.” The irate barkeep was now at his side, hands on hips, looking quite ridiculous in his Bajoran penitent's robes of brown and cream.

“Everything will work out,” Sisko said, still not raising his voice, surprised at how little irritation he felt at Quark's ill-timed intrusion. Then again, he wondered, was it even possible that he would ever feel anything again?

“How can you say that?!” Quark exclaimed. “The whole universe has been turned upside down! Did you know the entire Ferenginar system has been under an Ascendancy trade blockade for the past seven years? No one on this frinxing ship will even let me try to get a message through to anyone back home.”

Sisko bowed his head, took a breath so deep he knew it would strain his chest, but still felt nothing. “Quark, we are all struggling with similar difficulties.”

“Ha,” Quark said. He pointed to the display. “At least you can access some sort of database to find out about . . .” Quark's verbal assault on Sisko suddenly ceased.

Sisko glanced up at him and saw that the Ferengi was reading the screen.

“I'm. . . sorry,” the Ferengi said quietly, all bluster gone from him. “You know, I . . . I always liked Captain Yates.”

Sisko nodded. “She was only one of many, Quark. So many people

died when Earth was destroyed.” He closed his eyes then, but Kasidy's face was still before him. At least, the old report said, she had gone out a hero, during her fifth run through Grigari lines to evacuate survivors.

“Captain . . . ?”

Sisko opened his eyes, looked up. “Yes, Quark.”

The Ferengi mumbled a few words that were unintelligible before finally getting to the point in a sudden rush. “We need you.”

Sisko contemplated Quark, curious. He couldn't remember ever having seen the Ferengi so uncertain, so obviously worried.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he told the Ferengi barkeep, “but if you listened to Odo's report about his run-in with Weyoun, I am the one person among us all who you definitely don't want.”

Quark rocked back as if surprised by the statement. “Are you saying you believeWeyoun about Starfleet wanting to kill you?”

Sisko pushed his chair back from the workstation and stood up, leaving Kasidy's image still on the display. He wasn't yet ready to erase it. The act would carry with it too much finality.

“Starfleet vessels were waiting for us when we reemerged from the timeslip,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his own awkward and confining robes, orange and brown like a vedek's, like Weyoun's. Weyoun. Sisko sighed. He must have been over the Vorta's words to Odo a thousand times in the past two days. “Starfleet vessels attacked us.”

“So did Riker in the Opaka,” Quark argued.

“The Opaka and the Boreth chased the Starfleet vessels away.”

With that reminder, Quark began to pace back and forth in frustration. “But I talked with Chief O'Brien. He said the Starfleet mines that were beamed onto the Defiant's hull had countdown timers.”

Sisko watched as Quark stopped his pacing and stared up at him, challengingly. “If Starfleet really wanted to kill you, then why didn't they use mines that exploded on contact?”

Silent, Sisko gazed at Quark, and the Ferengi slowly nodded, as if satisfied he finally had the hew-mon's undivided attention.

“Captain,” Quark said emphatically, as if to a novice who needed remedial training, “there's an old negotiating tactic that's even more basic than the Rules of Acquisition. If you can't convince a customer that your product is better than the competition's, then at least convince the customer that the competition's product is lethal.”

Sisko shook his head.

Quark threw up his hands in renewed frustration. “Oh, for—it's like when customers at my bar complain about the menu prices,” he sputtered, “and I tell them about the food-poisoning deaths at the Klingon Cafe.”

Sisko felt a wry smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Really, the Ferengi barkeep was shameless. “As far as I know, Quark, no one's ever died of food poisoning at the Klingon Cafe.”

Quark beamed with relief. “There you go, Captain. I'm so glad we finally understand each other.”

Before Sisko could say anything more, the work station buzzed peremptorily. He turned to it in time to see the unsettling transformation of Kasidy's image into that of Weyoun.

“Benjamin,” the Vorta simpered, speaking as usual with far too much familiarity, “may I call you Benjamin?”

As usual, Sisko ignored the request. “What do you want?”

Weyoun's smooth reaction was as if Sisko's own response had been nothing but a polite exchange in return. “We'll be arriving at Bajor within the next few minutes. I thought you might like to join me on the bridge. To see your adopted world in this glorious new age.”

The last thing Sisko wanted to do was to spend more time in Weyoun's company. But he was aware that a chance to examine the bridge might provide useful information about the organization methods and technology used by the Ascendancy . . . or whatever Weyoun's name was for the group that served him and ran this ship.

“Should I wait for an escort?” he asked.

But Weyoun shook his finger as if he'd just heard a clever joke. “Oh, my, no. As I'm sure you've realized by now, my crew has established an exceptionally comprehensive internal sensor system. Someone will be watching you the entire way, to be certain you don't get . . . lost.”

“Then I'll be on my way.”

Weyoun smiled expansively. “Very good. I do look forward to sharing your company again. Perhaps I can help you see Quark's lies for what they are.”

Discovering that Weyoun was aware of the conversation he had just had with Quark was not at all surprising to Sisko. He doubted there was a word any of the people from the Defiant had said on this ship that hadn't been recorded by internal security sensors.

With a slow and deeply respectful bow of his head, Weyoun faded from the workstation display, to be replaced by Kasidy.

With a sudden flash of anger, Sisko hit the display controls, turning

the screen black. He wished he could weep for Kasidy. That would be the appropriate response to his loss. But his chest felt empty, as if it no longer contained his heart. Only an unfeeling void where love had once reigned.

“If you'll excuse me.” Sisko moved past Quark, heading for the open door to the corridor.

But Quark apparently did not feel their conversation was over, and he moved to block his escape. “Captain! I don't care if that puny-eared sycophant heard every word I said and every word I thought. He's lying to you about Starfleet and who knows what else!”

Sisko stared down at the Ferengi who stood between him and the door. “Thank you for your input, Quark. I think you should join the others.”

“The others,” Quark muttered, defiantly holding his ground. “A crazed Cardassian, a frustrated changeling, my idiot brother . . . don't you get it, Captain? You're the only one who can get us out of this!”

“Quark, are you aware of the 85th Rule?”

“Of course I am,” Quark answered testily. “Never let the . . . oh.” His shoulders sagged beneath his robes. “Right. Never mind.”

Quark stepped to one side. The way was now clear.

“I'll see you with the others,” Sisko said, turning around in the doorway.

“Right,” Quark said darkly, shouldering his own way past Sisko and entering the corridor. “Maybe I'll organize a tongo tournament. That should help raise spirits.”

Sisko watched the Ferengi stomp off along the dark, rusty-walled Klingon hallway.

Never let the competition know what you're thinking, Sisko thought, completing the 85th Rule.

Perhaps Weyoun was lying to him about Starfleet.

Perhaps it was time to fight back with a few lies of his own.

He turned in the direction opposite the one Quark had chosen and headed for the bridge, fully aware that unseen eyes watched him, as always, keeping his thoughts to himself.

The Boreth's bridge was larger than Sisko had expected, at least three times that of even a Sovereign-class vessel. Even more unexpected, there was little to it that seemed Klingon. All the sensor screens and status displays he could see were, in fact, Bajoran, as were the muted metallic colors of the wall panels and friction carpet—perhaps the only part of the ship not marred by typical Klingon oxidation stains.

The main viewer, which showed computer reconstructions of stars passing at warp, took up most of the far wall. On the bridge's lower level, at least fifteen duty officers were seated at three rows of consoles facing the screen.

At present, Sisko was on the bridge's upper level where the turbolift had deposited him, and where Weyoun was awaiting him in his command chair, its outlines indistinguishable from those of a command chair that might be found on any Starfleet vessel. Unsurprisingly, Weyoun's throne took center stage. What did surprise Sisko was the fact that he wasn't Weyoun's only guest.

Standing beside the Vorta were Major Kira and Commander Arla. Like everyone else who had been captured with the Defiant, the two women were wearing robes typical of a Bajoran religious order. From the collar folds of the white tunics visible beneath their outer robes, Sisko guessed Kira and Arla had been given clothing of the rank of prylar. Their nearly identical expressions of discomfort indicated that neither woman was pleased with the outfit forced upon her, either.

Weyoun turned slowly in his chair, both hands upon its wide arms. Sisko caught the gratified smile that momentarily flashed across his host's face.

“Splendid—just in time.” Weyoun gestured for him to come closer. “Please, join us.”

Sisko glanced at the wall alongside the turbolift, where three stern Romulans stood, each with a hand on a long-barreled energy weapon holstered at his side. They made no move to stop him, so Sisko went to Weyoun, stopping beside Kira and Arla.

“We have just been having the most fascinating conversation about ancient Bajoran beliefs,” Weyoun said pleasantly.

“Is that so?” Sisko answered. His eyes kept moving around the bridge stations, finding so much that was familiar, so much that was different in this time.

“Major Kira was describing various punishments that some of the earlier, more . . . strident, shall we say, Bajoran sects would visit upon those whom they viewed as heretics.”

“Really,” Sisko said, only half listening.

“Really,” Weyoun agreed. “And it seems that two or three thousand years ago, at least in some sections of Bajor, I would have had my beating heart cut from my body as I watched. As punishment for professing belief in the True Prophets.”

Kira smiled tightly. “In some ways, our ancestors were more advanced than we are.”

Weyoun gave Kira a pitying stare. “Really, Major, how droll.”

Sisko brought his gaze and attention back to the center of the bridge and Weyoun. “Tell me,” he said, “what punishment do you inflict on those heretics who profess a belief in the Old Prophets of Bajor?”

Weyoun studied Sisko for a few moments before replying. “This may come as a surprise, Benjamin, but we inflict no punishment at all.”

“That is a surprise,” Sisko said mildly, “considering that you told Odo your crew would have killed him if they had heard a question he had asked about you choosing—”

Weyoun held up a hand to cut off Sisko before he could finish.

“Really, Benjamin. You should know better. Despite my best intentions, there are always those devoted few who sometimes act in the heat of passion rather than restrain themselves in the cool cloak of the law.”

Sisko felt rather than saw Kira bristle at that. Her dynamic presence had always been able to charge a room.

“Oh, really?” she retorted. “So everyone on Bajor is free to follow her own heart in choosing which religion to follow?”

“Of course,” Weyoun said testily. “The True Prophets created sentient beings in their own image. That doesn't mean shape or size or number of grasping appendages, it refers to our possessing free will. The one true religion of the True Prophets couldn't very well claim to represent the True Prophets if it had to enforce its beliefs on everyone, could it?”

“But isn't that what you're doing?” Sisko seized the chance to build on the emotion provoked by Kira. “By destroying whole worlds that don't agree with you?”

Weyoun's lips trembled. Sisko hoped the movement sprang from anger, however tightly controlled. An angry opponent could become vulnerable. “I cannot be responsible for what other people—other worlds—believe, Benjamin. By the dictates of my own conscience and the command of the True Prophets, I must allow everyone to come to the right decision—or not—by their own free choice. All I ask in return is that those who don't believe as I do allow my followers and me to adhere to our own faith. A simple request, really.” Weyoun's voice became calmer as his own words reassured him if no one else of the truth of his beliefs. “One that fits in nicely with that Prime Directive you used to be so proud of.

“Believe me,” the Vorta said piously, “the only time the Bajoran Ascendancy has been forced to prevail against other systems or groups of systems has been when our right to pursue our own beliefs has come under attack. We are quite capable of acting in self-defense.”

“Self-defense?!” Sisko said. “Is that what you call the destruction of the entire Earth?”

Weyoun sat back in his command chair, frowning as he picked at the skirts of his robe. “That, I fully admit, was a mistake.”

Kira snorted in what seemed to be a combination of disbelief and disgust.

“A mistake,” Sisko repeated.

“The Grigari trade delegation was not expecting the sensor barrage to which they were subjected. Their commanders thought they were under attack, and . . . they didn't realize that Earth's planetary defense system wasn't able to handle their warning shots. One thing led to another, and . . .” Weyoun held up empty hands. “It wasn't the first time a first contact has gone wrong.”

“I don't believe you.” Sisko made no attempt to lower his voice as he challenged Weyoun. He felt it might do some good if the Vorta's crew could hear what others thought of him.

But the Romulan guards gave no reaction, and Weyoun only adopted a look of profound sadness, a false expression like so many he affected. “And that is your right. Though in only ten more days, you—and everyone else in creation—will have the chance to learn the truth.”

“Weyoun,” Sisko said, “the universe is not coming to an end in ten days.”

“Of course not,” Weyoun agreed. “It will enter a new beginning. I knew you'd come to see it my way.”

The first thought that came to Sisko then was how much he'd enjoy simply punching Weyoun in his sanctimonious face. It would feel so good, Sisko thought. And then he remembered how he had felt when he had read of Kasidy's death, the shocking numbness, and the fear that he might never feel anything again.

Except, it seems, rage, Sisko told himself. Perhaps that was all that was left to him in this era. Rage against those who had caused him such loss, and, perhaps, anger at himself for all that he had left undone.

“Are you all right?” Weyoun inquired.

“What do you think?” Sisko asked.

Just then a voice behind him said, “Emissary?” and Sisko turned to see a Romulan in an ill-fitting Bajoran-style uniform hold up a gleaming metallic padd encased in what appeared to be gold.

“Yes?” Sisko and Weyoun said together.

The Romulan was speaking to Weyoun. “Emissary,” he said more emphatically, “we are entering our final approach.”

Weyoun smiled at Sisko as he gave his response. “Standard orbit.”

The Romulan bowed his head in respect.

Sisko felt his stomach twist.

“Please,” Weyoun said with a wave at the main viewer. Then he turned his chair around to face it.

Turning in the same direction, Sisko saw the streaking stars slow. Then a single point of blue light in the center of the viewer suddenly blossomed into an appreciable disk. Next, with only the slightest change in the background hum of the Boreth's engines, the stars abruptly froze in place and the planet Bajor grew until it filled the screen.

Sisko saw Kira's mouth open slightly, and he thought he knew why.

The sphere on the viewer, caught in the full glory of her sun's light, looked little different than it had in their own time. Bright blue oceans sparkled with brilliant light. Elegant swirls of white clouds traced the shores of the northern continent. A dark pinwheel flashing with minuscule bolts of lightning showed a tropical storm building majestically in the South Liran Sea.

And across the continents, verdant forests painted the land in an infinite shifting palette of greens. There was no trace of the dark scars left by the Cardassian Occupation and the final scourging they had inflicted on the Day of Withdrawal.

“Magnificent, isn't it?” Weyoun said. “Bajor restored. Reborn. Unblemished once more.”

Sisko wouldn't give the Vorta the satisfaction of a reply. But he was right. Bajor had never looked better, or more compelling.

“Keep watching,” Weyoun said.

The terminator passed through the screen, and a dozen cities were called out from the night by the blazing constellations of their streets and buildings. All of them seemed somehow bigger than in Sisko's memory.

“Is that Rhakur?” Kira whispered in amazement.

Sisko saw a sprawling web of light wrap around the distinctive dark shoreline of the inland Rhakur Sea. But the city was twice the size he remembered.

“It is,” Weyoun confirmed. “The universities there have attracted scholars from across the two quadrants, and the expansion of facilities has been most gratifying.”

Sisko turned his attention from the viewer to Kira. Her eyes glistened with moisture, as if she were about to cry. And again he knew why.

All her life, her world had been crippled and scarred.

Yet here it was before her, healed by time itself.

Sisko knew it was the future she had fought for, always dreamed of, yet never really expected to see.

But he refused to let the magnificent vision beguile her. She had to know the price her world had paid for such healing.

“And this is the world you want to destroy,” Sisko said to Weyoun.

The Vorta looked over at him, puzzled. “The Prophets will destroy nothing. This world will be transformed, along with all the others of the universe, into a true paradise, and not just a mundane and linear one.”

Sisko saw Kira abruptly rub her eyes, and he felt confident he had broken the spell of the moment. He glanced next at Arla, expecting to see a less emotional reaction, since Bajor had never been her home. But to Sisko's surprise, tears streaked the young woman's face.

“I never knew,” she said.

Weyoun nodded. “Of course, you didn't. Keep watching.”

In the middle of the main viewer, a new source of light slid into view and recaptured Sisko's attention. He squinted at the screen. It was as if a hole had been cut in some vast curtain to let an enormous searchlight bring day to the middle of night.

“Where's that light coming from?” Kira asked before he could.

“Orbital mirrors,” Weyoun said smugly. “Bajor-synchronous, tens of kilometers wide, constantly refocused so that the sun will never set on . . .”

“B'hala,” Arla breathed.

Weyoun shot a triumphant look at Sisko. “The jewel of Bajor Ascendant,” he said. “Home of our culture, the revelation site of the first Orb to be given to the Bajoran people. Lost for millennia, then rediscovered exactly as prophesied, by the Sisko. I hope you appreciate the importance of what you have given the Bajoran people, and the universe, Benjamin. Everything that has happened these past twenty-five years, everything that will happen in the days ahead, is all because of you.”

The Vorta inclined his head in Sisko's direction as if worshipping him.

Sisko's hands were balled into fists within the folds of his robes. “I refuse to accept responsibility for your perversion of the Bajoran faith.”

Weyoun tried and failed to restrain a sudden fit of amused laughter.

“Even your obstinacy in the face of truth was prophesied by the great mystics of Jalbador—Shabren, Eilin, and Naradim. Your life, your deeds, your great accomplishments—an open book, Benjamin. As if the mystics had stood at your side through all of it. Your protest is quite futile, I assure you.”

And then B'hala, bathed in perpetual sunlight, slipped from the viewer, and only a handful of small oases appeared, tiny clusters of lights strung out across the vast stretch of the mountains forming the Ir'Abehr Shield.

“Torse,” Weyoun said in a brisk, businesslike voice of command, “that's enough of the surface. Change visual sensors and show our guests our destination.”

Sisko looked back over his shoulder to see the Romulan with the golden padd, Torse presumably, obediently turn to a sensor station and make rapid adjustments to the controls. Then Sisko heard both Kira and Arla gasp, and he turned back to face the viewer.

To see Deep Space 9 again.

Ablaze with lights. Surrounded by a cometary halo of spacecraft of all classes. Each docking port filled. Each pylon connected to a different starship. He even recognized one of those ships as Captain Tom Riker's Opaka.

Sisko stumbled to voice his swirling thoughts. “The logs . . . on the sensor logs . . . DS9 . . . I saw it destroyed. . . .”

Weyoun stood up and with a flourish freed his arms from his robes. “Never doubt the power of the Ascendancy, Benjamin.” His face creased in warning. “Never.”

Staring at the home he had shared with his son and with Kasidy, and which he had never expected to see again, Sisko felt Weyoun's light touch on his arm. “As it was written so long ago: Welcome home, Benjamin. We've been waiting for you.”