CHAPTER 18

IN THE NIGHTMARE of the defiled ruins of Deep Space 9, now more like an ancient decaying fortress of war than an orbital station, Sisko felt Arla shudder in his arms.

He understood why.

The dead of this mad prison were coming to life.

Skeletal creatures emerged from the shadows, their gaunt torsos little more than cages of skin-wrapped bones, curved ribs that swept from a central exposed spine to encompass . . . nothing.

Bone feet clattered on the Promenade deck. Bone joints and bone hands creaked and clicked as the dead came ever closer, trudging over bodies that had not yet stirred.

“Is that the best you can do?” Dukat's voice suddenly echoed.

All the skeletons in Sisko's view stopped at the sound of that challenge. Each of their heads snapped to the side, the dark eye sockets of their inhumanly elongated skulls seeking the source of Dukat's voice.

And then Sisko noticed something that had no place among a walking army of the dead.

The skeletons were carrying weapons—sleek rifles, long and fluid, shining like cooled and captured strands of melted silver.

That was when Sisko realized these beings were not remnants of the dead, nor were they exactly dead.

They were Grigari.

A flash of red light set the shadows aflame, and a Grigari near Sisko flew apart violently. A skeletal arm fell at Sisko's feet, bending and flexing, leaking a thick yellow liquid from a web of coolant tubes—or were they blood vessels? Sisko couldn't be certain.

Whether Grigari were alive or dead, machine or animal—such questions had not been answered in his time, and he doubted they'd been answered in this one.

The remaining Grigari lifted their weapons and fired. Silver lightning pierced the air with high-pitched static. More red bolts sought out white-boned targets, dropping one after another of the walking skeletons in shattering explosions of flying limbs and dripping components.

As the battle raged, Dukat stalked through it, invulnerable, defended by a flickering ovoid of red energy that responded like a starship's shields, intensifying in color wherever Grigari weapons fire connected with it.

Sisko crouched down, and then dragged Arla off with him to find refuge in an alcove on the outer ring of the Promenade. The silver and red blasts of energy flew back and forth nonstop now, illuminating the darkness like lightning, causing the metal to sing in time with their impact strikes.

But the battle was ultimately one-sided. The Grigari weapons could not penetrate Dukat's personal shield, nor did they appear to be weakening it.

“I don't understand,” Arla muttered as she huddled by Sisko.

“A minute ago, you seemed to understand everything,” Sisko said.

Arla looked at him, confused. “Did I?” She shook her head so that her earring chain swayed. “I remember Dukat attacking you by the airlock . . . I know I swung at him . . . and then . . . we were here. Is this the Promenade?”

Sisko didn't try to explain what he couldn't yet explain. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on Dukat. The Cardassian was now standing in the very center of the Promenade concourse firing energy blasts at the attacking monstrosities as if he were a living phaser cannon. And Sisko still had no idea where he and Arla were, or why Weyoun would deliver him into Dukat's hands.

A familiar glimmer of light at the far curve of the concourse caught his eye. Then another and another. And then Sisko comprehended just where the Grigari were coming from. Not from among the piles of dead bodies as he had first thought. They were being beamed into the station. But from where?

Sisko involuntarily blinked as a second intense source of crimson energy joined the Grigari fusillade of silver beams, and Dukat was blasted from behind by a meter-thick shaft of translucent fire that deformed the ovoid shield surrounding him.

The Cardassian stumbled forward, recovered, spun around, reached out both hands and shot his own energy blasts back toward the source of new attack.

Weyoun.

The Vorta was striding purposefully along the concourse, encased in the same type of flickering personal forcefield that protected Dukat and firing the same type of red energy bursts from each outstretched hand.

“BETRAYER!” Dukat screamed, as he seemed to gather his strength to withstand Weyoun's onslaught.

“MADMAN!” Weyoun shouted in reply.

Like sorcerers of legend, the two beings advanced on each other on an unstoppable collision course, energy shields blazing with power, energy beams crisscrossing the air in spectacular bursts.

And the eyes of both Vorta and Cardassian glowed with the red madness of the Pah-wraiths.

Ricocheting shafts of energy leaped from the two forcefields—searing piles of corpses, setting still-fleshed bodies on fire, and mowing down the relentlessly marching rows of Grigari, whose weapons' silver fire embroidered the air of the red-blasted battleground.

Dense smoke began to fill the Promenade, replacing the breathable atmosphere. Sisko knew he and Arla had to make their move now. Their eyes met in complete understanding, though each knew there was nowhere to go on the station.

A new glimmer of light appeared behind Arla, and two Grigari materialized. Sisko pushed her aside, tensing, ready to leap, stopping only in shock as he recognized a third figure now joining the Grigari.

Tom Riker.

But he was a surprise that Sisko did not intend to question.

“Come with me!” Riker shouted.

Sisko could barely hear the words above the lightning-like crackle and sizzle of the energy exchange on the concourse, but he had heard enough. He yanked Arla around to show her Riker and gestured for her to run ahead of him, behind the two Grigari guards. Then, before he followed after her, Sisko took one last look back at the concourse.

Now Dukat and Weyoun were locked in physical combat, encased within the same ovoid shield of red energy, both bodies inexplicably rippling and distorted by intermingling layers of flame. Their tangled bodies tumbled and spun like an airborne gyroscope, as if gravity were no longer of any importance to them. Their single shield trailed bright cascades of sparks and oily smoke wherever it struck the walls and decks of the Promenade.

Sisko called out to Riker ahead of him. Perhaps he would have the answers. “What's happening?”

The answer that floated back to him was less than satisfying. “That fight's been going on for millennia, Captain. It won't end here.” Riker stopped to allow Arla and Sisko to catch up to him and his Grigari guards. Then he reached down to his side, and Sisko saw a slender silver tube attached to Riker's belt. “Take hold of me,” Riker instructed. “Both of you.”

Immediately Sisko gripped one of Riker's arms, Arla the other; Riker nodded at the two Grigari, and the guards marched forward like machines, adding the fire of their own weapons to the lethal struggle still continuing undiminished.

Now it seemed to Sisko that half the infrastructure of the Promenade was melting, coagulating into glowing pools of superheated hull metal, reflecting blazing pyramids of corpses. Yet the joined forms of Dukat and Weyoun were still locked in battle, glowing hands around each other's throats, the two opposing forces oblivious to the destruction they were causing.

“Has this happened before?” Sisko asked, tightening his grip on Riker's arm.

Riker tapped a control on the silver cylinder. Lights on it began to flash, slowly at first, then faster. “Not here,” Riker said cryptically. “We were surprised that Dukat had actually brought this station within range. It seems you were the perfect bait to force his hand.”

“What do you mean, bait?”

But before Riker could answer, everything flashed around them, and then Sisko and Arla and Riker were standing on—

—the Promenade again.

A different one.

Brightly lit. Carpeted. With clean, breathable air.

Storefronts lined the outer and inner rings. Customers—all Bajoran—walked slowly by the storefronts, looking at Sisko, Riker, and Arla, curious but not breaking their pattern, as if strangers beamed into their view every day.

And then Sisko remembered Dukat's words about looking into a mirror.

“That other station,” he said to Riker, who was paying close attention to what appeared to be the small medical scanner he held close to Sisko, then to Arla. “It was in the Mirror Universe.”

“That's right,” Riker said, distracted, reacting with surprise to something he evidently saw on the scanner's small screen. “Dukat used his energy beam against you?”

Arla, still groggy, frowned at Riker's question. “Yes. Is there long-term—” But she didn't have a chance to finish her own question. Riker had touched the medical scanner to her neck, and after a soft hissing noise, she at once fell backwards.

Sisko caught the Bajoran before she could hit the deck of the Promenade. He glared at Riker. “Hasn't she been through enough?”

Riker slipped the scanner back into his belt. “We take possession very seriously around here. She wasn't showing signs of being currently inhabited by a Pah-wraith. But she has been. Quite recently. Probably a low-level transference when Dukat attacked her.”

Sisko rubbed at his temples, as if by doing so he could rid his brain of the disturbing thoughts Riker's news provoked in him. Possession. “I thought you people worship the Pah-wraiths.”

Riker regarded him with surprise. “Not the ones from the Fire Caves. There was a reason why Kosst Amojan and those who followed him were expelled from the True Temple.”

“And that would be?” Sisko asked wearily, angrily. Would no one tell him what was going on here?

Riker declined to enlighten him. “Something for you to discuss with the Emissary.” He nodded at Arla, supported once again in Sisko's arms. “Let's get her to the Infirmary.”

Sisko struggled to control his impatience as he followed Riker along the concourse, distracting himself by trying to identify landmarks from his past. But the layout had completely changed from his day. The Infirmary was where Garak's tailor shop had been, and all the equipment within it was Bajoran. In fact, except for the basic architecture, everything about the station now was Bajoran in design and color.

Riker had Sisko put Arla on a diagnostic bed, then turned her over to the care of a young Bajoran physician.

“Now what?” Sisko asked, as he followed Riker to an office area near the Infirmary's entrance.

“We wait for the Emissary.”

“If he survives.”

Riker smiled grimly. “He always does. The struggle among the Pah-wraiths is as old as the war between the Pah-wraiths and the False Prophets. It won't end until the universe ends.”

Sisko wanted to grab Riker by his white beard and shove his face against the closest wall. Weyoun's followers were insufferable. This entire situation was insufferable. He longed for his own time. His son. Kasidy. His station. His life.

Riker appeared to sense Sisko's mood. “You have a problem with that?”

“I didn't think the universe was ending,” Sisko said bluntly. “I thought it was being . . . transfigured.”

Riker kept his eyes locked with Sisko's. “You've spent time with the Emissary. What do you believe?”

“I believe the Emissary is insane.”

Riker appeared to consider Sisko's statement for a few moments, as if trying to uncover hidden subtleties, then he withdrew his medical scanner again and moved it around Sisko's face, then around the sides of his head.

“What are you looking for now?” Sisko demanded.

To his surprise, Riker leaned closer as if to read the scanner's display screen, and whispered, “I'm working for Starfleet. The real one.”

Sisko's anger vanished at once. He caught Riker's eyes, and in an instant an unspoken, blessedly sane, and understandable communication had flashed between them.

Tom Riker had just placed his life in his hands. And Sisko knew he wouldn't—couldn't—betray that trust.

After an awkward moment, Sisko looked at the small medical scanner. “Is everything all right?”

“No sign of possession,” Riker said loudly. “Of any kind.”

“Good to know.” Sisko waited before saying anything else, hoping

Riker would give some clue as to how they were to proceed.

But Riker gave none.

Sisko gestured at the station around them, not knowing what else to say. “Can I ask how the station was restored?”

Riker looked puzzled.

“Deep Space 9,” Sisko said.

“Oh! No, no,” Riker answered. “This isn't Terok Nor. It's Empok Nor. The Emissary had it towed here from the Trivas system. One of the prophecies of . . . I believe it was Eilin, was that the True Emissary would restore the Gateway. So . . .”

Sisko needed to act on what Riker had told him, but it was clear that Riker felt they were under some type of surveillance.

“I'm not familiar with the prophecies of Eilin,” he said carefully.

Riker didn't seem to think that was too important. “How about Shabren?”

Sisko nodded. Shabren's Fifth Prophecy was one with which he was especially familiar.

“Eilin was a contemporary of Shabren. And of Naradim. The three great mystics of Jalbador. Though Eilin and Naradim were considered apocryphal by the religious leaders of your time. Until recently, most of what they wrote was known only to scholars.”

Despite his earlier relief, Sisko felt now as if he were drowning in a sea of small talk. He looked around the Infirmary, trying to see where surreptitious sensors might be hidden. “But not Shabren.”

Riker smiled. “People used to say that Shabren's writings were never censored because no one could be certain what he was saying.”

Sisko didn't want this to go on any longer. “When will Arla be released?”

“That will be up to the Emissary.”

“Where are the rest of my crew and the people from the Defiant?”

“The Emissary has made arrangements for them all to be quartered here, until . . . the ceremony.”

Sisko stared at Riker until Riker acknowledged the unspoken question.

“At the end. When both halves of the Temple will open their doors at the same time and in the same place, and . . . they will be rejoined, praise be to the True Prophets of the One True Temple.”

“In what now—nine days?”

Riker nodded.

“How'd you come to work for Weyoun?” Sisko asked. “And not Starfleet?”

“When Cardassia fell, the camp I was imprisoned in at Lazon II was liberated by the Grigari. It was Starfleet that abandoned me to that camp. Starfleet cowardice and—”

“As I recall,” Sisko interrupted, “you willingly sacrificed your freedom to save your crew and the Defiant.”

Riker's eyes flickered in warning. “That's not how it happened and you know it. Starfleet tricked me into that camp, and the Emissary freed me. And the more I studied the Bajoran texts, the more I realized that the Emissary was right. I owe him everything. We all do,” he said emphatically.

From Riker's overly intense response, Sisko realized that the man must have created an elaborate cover story to gain Weyoun's trust. And if Weyoun's supporters had undertaken any efforts to double-check that story, then it must be that Starfleet had altered its records of Tom Riker's attempt to hijack the Defiant from DS9 and his subsequent selfless surrender, in order to confirm his story. To Sisko, that suggested that Riker was supported by the highest levels of Starfleet.

Sisko looked past Riker to Arla. She was still unconscious. The Bajoran physician was in the midst of meticulously arranging blinking neural stimulators on Arla's forehead and temples. “Where's your . . . your brother, I suppose you'd call him these days?”

“You mean my transporter duplicate,” Riker said. “He made captain finally. The Enterprise. Took over from Picard.”

“The Enterprise is a fine ship.”

Riker frowned. “It's probably not the one you're thinking of. The E was lost in the Battle of Rigel VII. An unknown terrorist group attempted to alter the gravitational balance between Rigel and its moon. Caused them to collide. Starfleet claimed it was agents of the Ascendancy, but we don't do that kind of thing. It was probably Starfleet agents attempting to make us look bad.

“Anyway, no one told Picard about Starfleet's involvement, and he sacrificed his ship to destroy the gravity generator. Reconfigured the deflector dish or something, so that the ship and the generator together formed an artificial black hole.”

Riker cleared his throat. “Starfleet held another hearing—three starships is an awful number to have lost—but there were precedents, so they gave Picard the Enterprise-F. First of its class, for once. Incredible ship. Think of the Defiant to the tenth power. Multivector assault capability. Built specifically to fight the Grigari. Fired the first shot in the . . . unfortunate miscommunication incident that resulted in the Sector 001 disaster—”

“You mean the destruction of Earth,” Sisko said, appalled that such a hideous event should be referred to as an “incident.”

“Completely avoidable,” Riker said. “But my transporter duplicate seemed to be looking for a fight that day. First hint of trouble he went to battle stations, fired at the Grigari flagship, and—the Enterprise-F lasted all of three minutes in battle.”

“So . . . he's dead,” Sisko said.

“They all are. Troi. La Forge. Krueger. Tom and B'Elanna Paris. Torres. My duplicate's wife. End of an era.”

“End of a world, you mean.”

Riker nodded almost subliminally, as if to let Sisko know that he shared the captain's outrage, though he could not admit it publicly.

Sisko knew he and Riker had to talk free of surveillance. “I want to find out more about what happened on Earth,” he said. “Is there a time we could talk again?”

Again, Riker's signal to him was barely perceptible. “There'll be time enough for study after the Ascension,” Riker said. “Every being will have all questions answered then. I think a better use of your remaining time in the linear realm would be to visit B'hala.”

“Would that be permitted?”

“I believe it's demanded.” Riker held Sisko's gaze. “Portions of the city have been restored to what they were tens of thousands of years ago, exact in every way. No computers, no communications systems . . .”

No surveillance, Sisko thought, understanding. “I'd like to see that,” he said.

“I think the Emissary has already started making plans.”

Frustration swept over Sisko again, because there seemed to be nothing more to say. Yet if Riker was telling the truth with his revelation about working for Starfleet, then both he and Riker were committed to stopping Weyoun before the Vorta could merge the wormholes.

After a few minutes of silent waiting, the Bajoran physician joined them to let them know that Arla would recover from Dukat's attack. And then he asked them to turn their backs, because a new patient was arriving.

Riker complied with the physician's instruction at once. After a moment, Sisko followed his lead. Then the glow of a transporter filled the room, and Sisko detected the sounds of quick movement among the medical staff along with the irregular, rasping exhalations of someone having difficulty breathing.

Sisko risked a quick, surreptitious glance over his shoulder in time to see Weyoun—floating in an antigrav field, his naked body in a glistening coat of blood, his flesh disfigured with gaping wounds and charred patches of tissue. As his face turned to one side, Sisko saw that one of Weyoun's long ear ridges was missing, ripped out of place.

Frantic Bajoran physicians clustered round the Vorta's body, working rapidly, their huddle preventing Sisko from seeing exactly what treatment they were attempting to apply, though he caught glimpses of them cleaning out the gashes, abrading crusted skin, and wiping off blood.

Sisko felt Riker tap his arm, saw him shake his head in warning, as if he shouldn't be watching. But just then the physicians stepped back, and Sisko clearly saw Weyoun's most damaging wounds decrease in size until they were little more than minor skin scrapes any home protoplaser could heal.

And then even those signs of battle damage faded. Weyoun had been restored.

To Sisko, what he had witnessed was like watching Starfleet sensor

logs of Borg ships undergoing self-repair.

He suddenly became aware that even Weyoun's hoarse breathing had eased. And with that realization, he saw the Vorta's head slowly turn in his direction. Then Weyoun's eyelids fluttered opened, and the Vorta looked at him—into him—as a soft red glow pulsed once in his eyes.

Sisko didn't look away.

Weyoun smiled.

“What is he?” Sisko asked Riker.

“No one knows,” Riker replied in a low voice, “unless he's like the Grigari.”

Riker's words made sudden, terrible sense to Sisko.

Defeating Weyoun had just become much harder.

Because how could Sisko stop an enemy who was already dead?