CHAPTER 19

NOG ADJUSTED his tunic, checked to see that his combadge was on straight, then—out of habit—turned to the automated transporter console and said “Energize,” as if the U.S.S. Phoenix actually needed a transporter technician for such a simple task.

Ten columns of light swirled into life on the elevated transporter pad, then coalesced into the temporal refugees snatched from the Defiant, including his friends: Jake. Lieutenant Commander Worf. Lieutenant Commander Dax. Dr. Bashir. Nog also noticed three others in the group who were unfamiliar to him—a young Centaurian ensign and two other Starfleet officers—as well as two hew-mon civilians. And, of course, Vash.

He wasn't at all surprised that it was Vash who spoke first, complaining as always.

“I said I didn't want to volunteer for this stupid mission!”

Nog watched, amused, as the archaeologist angrily pulled away from Bashir, who was vainly trying to calm her. But then Vash jumped off the pad to confront him.

“You!” she snapped. “Who's in charge up here?”

Nog resigned himself to the confusion someone like Vash could bring to a ship as complex as the Phoenix. As he saw it, he really had no choice. Even the conscientious objectors from Bajor who thought they'd be spending the rest of their lives—and the life of the universe—in prayer chambers on Mars would be brought aboard this ship soon enough. And they wouldn't be any happier about it than Vash was.

“I am,” he told her.

Vash laughed mockingly. “You. In charge of all this?”

“As far as you are concerned, yes.” Nog regarded her with some annoyance. His schedule didn't allow for annoyance. By now, T'len might already know the refugees were missing.

“Well, I want off.” Vash said.

“That is not going to happen.”

“You can't kidnap me like this!”

Nog sighed. The universe was scheduled to end in a little over seven days. “It's not as if you have time to lodge a formal complaint.”

Vash made a threatening fist. “Then I guess I'll just have to lodge this up your—”

“Enough!”

Worf's commanding voice froze every movement in the transporter room. Though the Klingon stepped down to a position beside the belligerent archaeologist, he still towered over her. “As we agreed with Captain T'len, you are in our custody until we depart on the Phoenix. You will then be held in your quarters in the personnel dome until . . .” Worf stopped speaking, as if embarrassed to continue.

“Yeah, right,” Vash sneered. “Until the ‘end of hostilities.’ ” She glared at Nog. “Don't think I don't know what's going on in that swollen little skull of yours. You have no intention of letting me off this ship, do you?”

Nog kept his expression completely neutral. “Of course I'll let you off. Everyone will return to Mars today for further training. The Phoenix is not due to depart for another forty hours.”

And then, knowing he had delivered another adaptation of the truth, Nog couldn't stop himself from glancing at Jake.

He saw the frown on Jake's face. Did he know? Had he guessed?

Nog turned away. He knew he wasn't that transparent. How could he have succeeded as a Ferengi if any . . . manipulation of the facts he resorted to was that easy to detect? No, there wasn't anything wrong with him. It was Jake. Had to be. Either Jake was upset about something completely unrelated to Nog's action, or his frown, if it indicated he was on to Nog, was the result of some non-hew-mon blood in the Siskos' family history. Something that could give Jake some kind of . . . of telepathy. That's it! Nog thought. The only way Jake could know for sure what Nog was doing was if Jake were a mind reader—even of Ferengi minds. And that was just impossible.

Feeling much better already, Nog clapped his hands, motioned toward the door. “Well, let's get this tour under way. I'm sure you'll find the Phoenix is a most impressive vessel.”

The doors slid open to reveal the wide corridor beyond. Like every other habitable area on the Phoenix, the bulkheads, deck, and ceiling were unfinished, in keeping with Starfleet's wartime priorities.

“We already know the ship's impressive,” Jake said, hanging back as the refugees entered the corridor. “We've seen the schematics, remember?”

Vash halted beside Jake, folded her arms defiantly. “Yeah, the kid's right. Why do we even need this tour anyway?”

Nog sympathized with Jake as he saw the resentful look that had settled on his friend's face at that “kid” reference. But being no kid himself, Nog addressed Vash sternly. “In case you haven't noticed, all the shipyard's holodecks are off-line. To understand this ship, you have to see it firsthand.”

It didn't matter to Nog that neither Vash nor Jake believed his explanation. The important thing was that Jake, for whatever reason, had yet to challenge anything he had said so far.

But if he really is a mind reader, Nog thought, then at least he'll understand why I have to do this.

Vash, on her part, was whining so much about everything that no one was even listening to her anymore. Nog wished he didn't have to, either.

“Let's join the others,” he suggested in a firm voice, and led the way without waiting for a response.

As they made their way toward a bank of turbolifts, Nog told his followers about the ship's construction. For all its great size, interestingly enough, the Phoenix had less habitable space than the Defiant. In fact, eighty-two percent of the ship's volume was taken up by its power generators, including an unprecedented array of forty-eight linked transwarp engines, any thirty-six of which would be sufficient for their voyage into the past.

As he and his party waited for the lift cars to arrive, Nog heard Bashir say, “I find it difficult to believe that a ship with forty-eight engines could even get out of spacedock with a crew of only twenty-two.”

Nog smiled expansively. This was something he could explain. “Actually, Doctor, the operational crew is even smaller—fourteen. The other eight crew members are the engineers who will deploy the deep-time charges at B'hala. Or at the site of what eventually will become B'hala.”

“Fourteen,” Bashir said. “Even with full automation, how is that possible?”

The lifts arrived. “It's possible,” Nog said, “because forty-four of the engines are designed to be used only once. Repairs and maintenance won't be necessary, so neither is an engineering crew.”

Nog ushered the refugees into two different cars, joining Jake and four others in one of them. “Bridge,” he said. The doors closed, and with a sudden jolt the car began to move.

“Don't you have inertial dampeners?” Jadzia asked him.

Nog coughed nervously. “The structural integrity field is still being aligned,” he said. “So the dampeners are off for the moment.” This time, he didn't dare look at Jake.

With another jolt, the car stopped and the doors opened onto the bridge of the Phoenix.

Nog stepped out, and though it was so familiar to him, he tried to see the bridge through the eyes of the temporal refugees. Certainly, he thought, they would recognize its near-circular layout, despite the fact that most of the wall stations were still obscured by tacked-up plastic sheets and dust shields. And there was a main viewer dead ahead, switched off for now, providing a central focus for the overall layout.

But the chairs and workstations would be different to old eyes, he knew. Almost alien, in fact.

There were fourteen chairs in total on the bridge, one for each of the operational crew, arranged in wide rows facing the viewer. Unlike the simple seats his guests would remember from their starship duties, these were enclosed units, with curving sides and tops, full body-web restraints, fold-down consoles, and holographic displays.

Worf was the first to deliver his assessment of the design. “This is not a ship built for battle.”

Nog knew that the Klingon meant that by confining the crew within those chairs, he could see there was little chance for carrying out the swift replacement of injured personnel.

“But twenty-five thousand years in the past,” Nog told Worf, “there will be no one for us to fight.”

Worf didn't look at all convinced. “We must still get to Bajor in this time.”

“And to do that, we will be protected by the largest task force Starfleet has ever assembled,” Nog said.

“Hold it,” Jake said suddenly. “I don't understand. If this ship can take us into the past, why don't we just slingshot around Earth's sun, go back twenty-five thousand years, and then go to Bajor without having to fight anyone?”

“It's a question of temporal accuracy,” Nog said stiffly to his childhood friend, who was still so close to childhood. “The farther we are from Bajor when we travel back in time, the greater the error factor we introduce into our final temporal coordinates at Bajor itself. Stardates aside, time really is relative to different inertial frames of reference. If we were to follow exactly a twenty-five-thousand-year slingshot trajectory around Earth's sun, we might only travel back twenty thousand years in regard to Bajor—and land when Bajorans had already settled the B'hala region.”

“Then let's go back fifty thousand years,” Jake said. “A twenty percent error would still bring us to a time before the site was settled.”

As Nog tried to think of the best way to answer, Jadzia came to his rescue. “Jake, I think they're facing two difficulties with that idea,” the Trill said helpfully. “First, I don't think anyone could build a ship capable of going back much more than thirty thousand years. Not without a radical new theory of temporal physics. And second, just from the geological data I've seen describing the proposed placement of the deep-time charges, I'd say the B'hala area was subjected to severe earthquakes or volcanic disruptions a thousand years or so before it was settled, significantly disturbing all the underlying strata. Is that right, Captain Nog?”

“Exactly,” Nog said. He held his hands together as he took over the explanation for Jake. “You see, Jake, we're actually trying to arrive within a very narrow window of time. We can't arrive any later than twenty-five thousand years, because someone might see us. But we can't arrive any earlier than twenty-six thousand years, because before that there were a series of powerful crustal upheavals that would probably destroy the deep-time charges. That means we're attempting to achieve an error factor of plus or minus two percent on our first try. To even have a chance at that level of accuracy, we have no choice but to slingshot around Bajor's sun—and no other.”

“You people are just crazy,” Vash muttered.

“Excuse me, but we are attempting to save the universe,” Nog said.

“Yeah, in the most bureaucratic, bungling Starfleet way you can.” Vash threw her arms in the air. “What's wrong with you people?! Don't any of you get it? Do you know how many things have to go right for this ridiculous scheme to work?”

“It is not ridiculous!” Nog said.

Vash stared at him long and hard. “You know what, Captain? I don't believe you. Your heart—or your lobes or whatever it is you Ferengi invest with meaning—just isn't in it.”

Nog was terrified. Was Vash a mind reader, too? Or could everyone tell what he was thinking? “I suppose Q gave you the power to read my mind,” he said sarcastically.

“No one can read what passes for a Ferengi mind,” Vash said with a rude smirk. “And I don't have to be a mind reader to know that you're not on the level. Oh, I've negotiated my share of deals with Ferengi. I know how you operate.”

Thoroughly rattled though he was, Nog knew he had to act quickly. He couldn't risk any of the others following Vash's line of reasoning, even if there didn't seem to be much reason to it for now.

“Vash. Please. I understand what's really upsetting you and I guarantee you'll be able to leave the ship.”

Then Nog was aware of Jake stepping to his side. “Nog,” his friend said in a low voice. “We have to talk.”

“Frinx,” Nog sputtered. “What's wrong with you people?!”

“That's what I said!” Vash chimed in.

“STOP IT!”

Everyone stopped talking and stared at Nog.

Nog felt the sweet rush of power. He had given an order and had it obeyed. Instantly. Just like Worf.

“Much better,” he said. “Now, to continue our tour, I'd like everyone

to take a chair.” He directed Worf to tactical, Jadzia to main sensors, Bashir to life-support, his chest swelling with pride as all three complied without protest. He then quickly polled the Starfleet personnel on their specialties and assigned them also to appropriate chairs.

Soon only Vash, Jake, and the three civilians were left without places.

“Can we go home now?” Vash asked without much conviction.

Nog pointed to the back of the bridge, where a series of padded half-cylinders were inset into the bulkhead.

“There's an awful lot of crash-padding on this ship,” Vash said darkly as she backed into one cylinder, then jerked as autorestraints snaked around her. “What the hell's going on, Captain?”

“Our trajectory around Bajor's sun will be very rough. I want everyone to get a chance to try out the restraint devices.”

Vash glared at him, but she was firmly secured against the bulkhead.

Nog looked around the bridge. Now he was the only one standing. It was going to work.

“Don't worry. We'll have plenty of time to talk later,” he said to Jake as Jake adjusted his cylinder's restraint harness. Then he said “Very good” to everyone else as he walked around to the front of the bridge, where they'd be able to see him. “Now we're going to try out the holographic displays. You'll be able to see the status of any station on the bridge without leaving your—”

With a rush of static and a sudden glare of light, the main viewer came on behind Nog.

Nog felt his lobes shrivel. It could only be one person.

“Captain Nog, what are you doing on the Phoenix?”

As Nog expected, T'len's face filled the viewer. Judging from the equipment behind her, she was in the main flight-control center deep below the nanoassembler facilities on the surface. Nog took that as a good sign. She'd be on the bridge of the Augustus soon enough.

“I'm conducting a familiarization tour for the crew.”

“They'll have two days for that en route to Bajor. Why have you pulled the work crews from engineering bay four?”

“Their work was done,” Nog said, with what he hoped was the proper amount of surprise.

“Not according to the computer records,” T'len said.

“It's not unusual for the records to lag,” Nog pointed out.

“Report to me at ground control at once.”

He held up his hand. “May I finish the tour first?”

“At once,” T'len repeated. She reached for something out of sight, and the viewer went dark.

Nog turned back to face his crew. “Well, I think that brings this part of the tour to a close.”

He braced himself for the first complaints.

“Captain Nog!” Worf said indignantly. “The restraints will not release.”

“That's odd,” Nog said in what he hoped was an offhand manner. “Let me check with the master control.”

Nog walked quickly to the side of the bridge, straight to the transporter control station. The small clusters of transporter pads to either side of the bridge had been his contribution to the design of the Phoenix. He'd remembered how convenient it was to have similar facilities in Ops at Deep Space Nine. So much time had been saved. Like now.

Nog put his hand on the control station's security plate. “Computer, run Nog Five and Nog Alpha. Command authority Alpha Alpha One.”

The starboard pads came to life first, and the five Bajorans from the past suddenly appeared. Civilians and militia alike, they were all in believers' robes. Two were kneeling in prayer. Everyone looked confused by what had happened.

“Quickly!” Nog commanded. “Go back to the crash cylinders!”

The other temporal refugees, who by now could have no doubt that Nog was acting on his own, started calling out to the Bajorans to release them.

But Nog slapped a red panel on a tactical station, and instantly a siren sounded and red lights flashed as the ship went to General Quarters.

“Hurry!” Nog shouted at the Bajorans. “We're under attack!”

Then the port pad flashed into life, and Nog was running for it, even before the frail form of Admiral Picard had fully materialized.

“My word,” the Old Man said, as he half-stumbled from the pad. He was in his uniform, but it was wrinkled, as if he'd been asleep in a chair. “Is everything all right, Will?”

“Perfect,” Nog said. He looked up at the graceful sweep of the illumination ceiling. “Computer: activate all shields. Rotating pattern Nog One.” Gently he guided Picard to the captain's chair and helped him settle in. Nog also took the precaution of disabling the control console.

Now everyone was secure, and the Phoenix was impenetrable to attack. Nog knew that there was no turning back.

He was stealing a starship.

The only starship that might save the universe.

He ran back across the bridge, ignoring the clamor of the sirens and the shouted protests of those trapped inside their crash chairs. According to a time readout on the navigation substation, he had three minutes left to clear the spacedock and go to transwarp. In three minutes and one second, every simulation he had run for this operation had ended with the arrival of a Starfleet task force that could keep the Phoenix pinned in position until commandos came aboard.

Nog swiftly checked to see that the shields were still flashing off and on in the preset pattern, then began overriding the security codes on the transwarp station. He gave fervent thanks that given his position as Integrated Systems Manager it was not a difficult procedure—merely a time-consuming one.

Then the navigation displays came up, free of security blocks. Nog checked the time. Ninety seconds. He was going to make it. All he had to do now was wait for—

Nog squealed, as a large hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him away from the bridge station. He tumbled head-over-heels and came to a stop, sprawled on his stomach, watching as Worf's huge boots clomped toward him.

“No!” Nog gasped. “You don't understand!” He looked over at the chair Worf had been confined to and saw smoke rising from its cracked protective covering. Obviously a redesign would be in order.

But Nog's protests did no good, because Worf's powerful hand was already crushing his right ear, dragging him back to his feet as he squealed again.

“For your betrayal, you have brought dishonor not only to your house, but to your species,” Worf thundered at him.

“I haven't betrayed anyone!” Nog squeaked. “You really don't understand!”

“Do you deny that you have joined the Ascendancy?”

“No-o!” Nog's hands scrabbled ineffectually at Worf's, vainly trying to dislodge the Klingon's brutally painful grip on his sensitive lobe. His entire head throbbed with agony. The intense pain robbed him of all reason.

“Then why are you attempting to steal this starship?”

“I can explain later! I will explain later!”

Without even seeming to expend any physical effort, Worf lifted him high in the air until their faces were a centimeter apart. “You will explain now.”

Even to his own ear, Nog's voice was reduced to the high-pitched yowl of a cat. “Commander, please, you have to put me down before—” Nog started gagging, the pain was becoming unbearable.

“Before what?” Worf bellowed deafeningly.

And before Nog could answer, before Nog could warn Worf about what was about to happen—

It happened.

Nog saw three flashes of light flicker in the Klingon's dark, enraged eyes. He saw Worf look up, past the Ferengi in hand, and react in shock.

Then three more flashes reflected from Worf's sweat-covered skin. The odd rhythm of the light's appearance, Nog knew, was matched with the pattern of the rotating shields, timed to create transporter windows every few seconds.

Worf looked at Nog with unbridled disgust, then threw him to the deck.

Nog shivered with relief as he rubbed his crushed ear. He saw Worf slowly raise his hands as if in response to an unspoken order.

“I'm sorry,” Nog croaked, but his throat was too raw for his voice to be heard over the GQ sirens that continued to blare.

And then Worf pivoted suddenly and launched himself to the side and—

—was hit on three sides by disruptor beams.

The Klingon fell heavily to the deck, his massive body motionless, smoke curling from each beam's impact on his uniform.

Nog shuddered. Everything was all wrong. It wasn't supposed to have happened like this.

Another hand took hold of his arm, pulled him to his feet.

Nog looked up. He was getting tired of this. Everyone tugging him one way, then another.

Then he recognized the person who stood before him.

Centurion Karon.

Three more Romulans beamed in behind her. They quickly ran to join the five others scattered around the bridge.

“How much time?” Nog gasped.

“Twenty seconds to spare,” Karon said. “Congratulations, Captain. By turning over this vessel to the New Romulan Star Empire, you have guaranteed there will be a future.”

Nog nodded, dazed. Then he felt a sudden drop in the deck as the inertial dampeners came on.

“Transwarp is enabled,” a Romulan called out over the sirens.

“Activate,” Karon ordered. “Transfactor twelve.”

A deep rumbling came through the deck and reverberated through the bridge.

“Screen on,” Karon said, as if she had flown this ship for years.

The main viewer came back to life, and on it stars flew past in stuttering flashes of color, too fast for the ship's computers to render in smooth lines.

“We have decided to call this vessel the Alth'Indor.” The Romulan centurion smiled at Nog again. “It means ‘phoenix.’We have the same story in our mythology.”

Nog no longer cared—and he was sure his expression showed it.

“Don't worry,” Karon said briskly, as if she also had no trouble reading his mood, if not his mind. “You have done the right thing.”

That sentiment Nog could agree with, even though he knew his reasons were not the same as hers.

The stars sped by even faster.

The ship sped toward its journey through time.

Some of those on board the Phoenix would survive, Nog knew. That much was inarguable.

But not even Nog knew who those few would be.