CHAPTER 20

GARAK SAVORED the satisfying crunch his boots made as they crushed the ancient stones of B'hala. They had something of the same consistency as sun-bleached bones. At least so he had heard, and now, happily, he could confirm it for himself.

In this future, he thought, Bajoran boots had very likely walked through the rubble of Cardassia Prime, as the Bajorans had reveled in the destruction of his world. Somehow, that made his sense of anticipation for the coming destruction of everything else more reasonable. Especially this holy city, which had unleashed on the universe the ultimate means to the ultimate end.

“Garak? Are you all right?”

Garak turned and held up his hand to shield his eyes from the excruciating glare of the space mirror, which was low on the horizon and in his line of sight. At any given time, he recalled being told, there were two of those mirrors illuminating B'hala, making the city always appear as if it were high noon on a world with binary suns, even in the dead of night. The double shadows were disconcerting, giving as they did to everything the unreal look of artificiality. There was, however, another apparition that was even more unusual.

Garak smiled at the sight of Odo in penitent's robes. “Tell me, Odo. Are those robes part of you? Or did our charming hosts make you put them on like the rest of us?”

Odo adjusted his robes with impatience. “The ones I formed weren't proper, I was told. I am actually wearing these. I don't know how you solids stand it.”

“Ah, if I had known you were amenable to wearing clothes, I would have offered you a discount at my shop. Believe me, there is nothing like the kiss of Argelian silk to soothe the troubles of the day.”

Odo folded his arms—an oddly bulky gesture, Garak observed, given what the changeling was wearing. “Don't think I haven't noticed that you've changed the subject,” Odo said gruffly.

Garak bowed his head in a sign of respect. And he did respect Odo. In a way, as an adversary, more often than not. Though sometimes as an ally. The apparent contradiction did not trouble Garak. He was quite comfortable with the fact that his relationships with others were often as fluid as the politics of Cardassia. What was life, after all, but change?

“I am fine, Constable. And I do appreciate your concern in asking.”

Garak could see that Odo was unlikely to accept his statement as the final word in the matter. While he waited patiently for whatever it was that Odo would decide to do next, Garak turned his attention to the surrounding restored buildings of heavily eroded stone blocks, noting that no structure appeared to be more than two or three stories high, and that most were still supported by crude wooden scaffolding lashed together by vegetable-fiber rope. Intriguingly, it was as if he and Odo were thousands of years in the past. Except for the weapons carried by their Grigari guards, who had taken up positions far in the distance, Garak could detect no sign of technology or any other indication that this city was the wellspring of an interstellar movement that had brought the Federation to its figurative knees.

Odo coughed. From experience, Garak knew the awkward gesture was the changeling's way of changing the subject. Odo wasn't much of a conversationalist.

“Garak, I really don't know any way of saying this that doesn't sound completely inadequate, but I am sorry for your loss.”

Garak felt quite sure that Odo's statement was false. The Cardassians had never been a friend to Odo. But social discourse did require the lubrication of lies.

“Thank you, Odo. I appreciate your good wishes, as well.”

Odo cleared his throat. “If I had heard my world had been destroyed, I don't think I'd be taking it like you.”

“What would you have me do, Odo? We're all terminal cases. Even our cultures. Even our worlds. A hundred years for an individual and he's gone, only a memory for a hundred more, at most. Perhaps longer if he's someone to whom they build statues. But after a thousand years, whom do we really remember? Garak shrugged, enjoying the rustle of the robes he wore. On some backward worlds of his acquaintance, such garments would be considered quite fashionable.

“You must remember that as nation states rise and fall, each one is always eager to erase its predecessor from the records. I doubt if Cardassian historians even knew the names of more than a few of the warlords who ruled our world, or parts of it, at least, one after the other. And each of those worthy souls fought mighty battles, brought death to tens of thousands, gave life to tens of thousands more. Yet their empires are gone, their deeds forgotten.

“And worlds, my dear Odo, are no different from people or countries. Had the universe continued, Cardassia's sun would have swollen into a red giant, or gone nova someday. And then the whole planet, the sum total of every pre-spaceflight Cardassian who had ever lived, warlords and rabble alike, would have returned to the elemental gas from which the planet had condensed in the first place. Five billion years from now, perhaps some of my parents' atoms would come back to life in the bodies of aliens we can't imagine. Aliens who would never know of the glories of Cardassia, because they would be too busy fighting mighty battles of their own. The same would happen to Earth. And to Vulcan. Even to your Great Link.”

Garak smiled at the changeling. “Death is never a surprise, Odo. Only the timing of it.”

Odo snorted. “I wish I had your blunt outlook on life.”

“No you don't,” Garak said amiably. He pointed ahead, to where the others were gathering around an excavation site with Sisko and Weyoun. “Shall we continue? The Emissary did say he had something of interest to show us. I can't imagine what it might be.”

“We'll continue,” Odo said. “For a while at least.”

Garak appreciated the changeling's flair for the dramatic. So many people lacked it these days.

As they walked on together, Garak decided that Odo would be an ally today. At the same time as he made that decision, he found himself idly wondering which number was greater—the grains of sand that covered B'hala or the number of stars in the sky, somewhere beyond those infernal space mirrors.

He took a moment to contemplate, in honest wonder, the idea that something—some physical process as yet unknown and undefined—might actually have the power to erase every star from the heavens.

The very concept was astounding.

And to be present, to see it actually take place . . .

In truth, the possibility was making him feel privileged, even humble.

And considering how few things had actually had that effect on him in his lifetime, the experience was novel, and one he fully intended to enjoy exploring.

As far as exploring other things, however, it appeared Weyoun had been a busy Vorta.

He had obviously invited all eighteen prisoners from the Defiant to see B'hala before the end. Garak recalled that back in his present, B'hala had been merely a series of tunnels deep beneath the mountains. But here and now, the great lost city was exposed to the sky—at least, according to the briefing they had been given, a third of it was exposed. The rest apparently was still buried, and was destined to stay that way until the end of time.

Despite the fact that the end of time was only seven days and some few hours away, Garak couldn't help being fascinated, as he and Odo approached the other prisoners who stood beside Weyoun, that the Bajoran workers under the Vorta's command were diligently continuing their digging and tunneling, and recording every detail of the flayed site—as if any of it would or could matter anymore.

But the latest excavation in B'hala was a very special one, or so Weyoun had said when he had offered his invitation.

Right now, in fact, the Emissary to the True Prophets was crouched down at the lip of the deep pit—its opening was almost twenty meters across—peering with great interest into its depths, which were crisscrossed by wooden ladders and catwalks and only dimly lit by flickering combustion torches. The angles of the space mirrors appeared to be set too low to provide any appreciable downward illumination.

Behind the kneeling figure of Weyoun, Garak recognized Captain Sisko, Major Kira, and Commander Arla. Their only apparent guard was Captain Tom Riker. He was also the only member of this gathering who was not wearing religious robes. Instead he was dressed in what Garak considered to be a most inelegant uniform, a hodgepodge of Starfleet severity and Bajoran pomp.

All it would take is one gentle push, Garak mused to himself, as he and Odo joined the outer edges of the group. A simple nudge and Weyoun would tumble into the depths faster than Riker could run forward to save him. In his mind's eye, Garak watched the Vorta's arms thrashing, heard his wheedling voice receding in a doppler shift of death.

If Weyoun could only be removed from the events to come, it was entirely possible the universe could be saved.

Garak was familiar enough with Sisko and Kira to know that both possessed the courage to take such action—even if it meant immediate death. So the fact that they were choosing not to take advantage of their opportunity revealed to Garak that the two knew something he didn't. Most probably, that Weyoun couldn't be stopped by a fall.

“Such a fascinating time,” Garak said aloud.

“I'm sorry?” Odo asked.

“A private musing, Odo. Not important. What do you suppose is down there?” Garak gestured to the yawning pit.

“With our luck,” Odo grumbled, “more red orbs.”

Garak nodded. How interesting. He himself hadn't thought of that. “Now, that would be a delightful complication.”

Beside him he heard Odo sigh.

Then a shout echoed up from the excavation floor. Someone reporting that “it” was under way.

As Odo leaned forward to stare downward, frowning, Garak amused himself by turning to study the other prisoners clustered beside them. People had always been of more interest to him than things.

And the most interesting grouping was that of the two Ferengi—Quark and Rom—with the human engineer, O'Brien. These three had single-handedly come up with the plot to escape from the Boreth, sending Odo out on his fool's errand to overload the ship's powergrid. Garak had tried to explain that no one in their right minds would put all of their hostages in one location without arranging surveillance. But humans had this hopeless notion, that if they whispered softly enough no one would overhear what they were saying.

Surprisingly, Odo had not been executed. In fact, Weyoun had taken no reprisals against the prisoners at all. In Garak's experience, that was a sign of a sloppy leader, or perhaps of someone who could not conceive of anyone's challenging his authority. From events that had transpired since, Garak was leaning towards presuming Weyoun to be one of the latter. No one who could command Grigari could be considered sloppy.

Someone in the crowd jostled Garak, as several of the prisoners edged forward to the lip of the excavation and began pointing down. With a sigh, Garak pushed forward to look down into the gloom as well.

And saw Weyoun staring down at a large object, perhaps four meters long and two meters across, that was rising from the depths. Given the absence of ropes and pulleys, Garak concluded that the Vorta had relaxed the rules of B'hala's restoration to allow the use of antigrav lifters.

A few meters down from the lip of the excavation, it became apparent

that the object was nothing more than a large boulder, the same pale color as the sand and stones that surrounded everything here.

“It must have some special significance,” Odo said expectantly.

“After all this work, I should hope so,” Garak said.

They watched with the others, as the enormous rock floated easily

upward from the excavation, then shifted sideways through the air to a barren clearing to one side of the spectators. By the time the boulder had settled—without the slightest disturbance of the dry soil beneath it—Weyoun had scaled its summit so that he could speak to his audience.

As he did so, Bajoran workers swarmed the base of the rock, detaching from it blue devices the size of Garak's forearm—obviously the antigravs.

“My dear friends,” Weyoun said. “What we are gathered here to witness today—or should I say, tonight—is the last preparation we must undertake before the ceremony of the Ascension can begin. Now, I know this rock doesn't look like much. It's certainly not a sacred stone, and there are no mystical carvings upon it. But it has fulfilled a very special function for us all.

“You see, the events that will lead to the transformation of the universe are—and always have been—very well known to Bajoran scholars. True, in the past those scholars made misguided attempts to censor the revealed truths of the True Prophets, and were reluctant to share their knowledge of the transformation with the people who trusted in them.

“But we have changed all that. Now we know the steps that must be undertaken before the transformation can begin.”

Here Weyoun pointed down at Sisko. “First, the False Emissary must rise from the dead who fell when the Gateway vanished—and I'm so glad to have your own Captain Benjamin Lafayette Sisko with us here today.” In a moment which Garak felt was amusingly surreal, Weyoun began to applaud, gesturing for his audience to join in. But no one did.

Weyoun made a show of adjusting his robes before continuing. “In the days ahead, I can promise you all that there will be further ceremonial activities conducted here in B'hala, and eventually up on the Gateway—and then at the doors of the sundered Temple itself.” The Vorta smiled broadly, and Garak could see he was trying to make eye contact with every prisoner. Garak nodded in acknowledgment when Weyoun's gaze fell upon him. But he heard Odo's harrumph of disapproval, and saw the changeling look down when the Vorta's attention settled on him.

Garak caught the flicker of disappointment that touched Weyoun's face at Odo's dismissal of him. How strange that someone with such power could still want for something.

“In these troubled times,” Weyoun began again, “we of the Ascendancy must admit that we have enemies. Doubters we can accept. Nonbelievers we can coexist with. But enemies . . . they're not interested in either our acceptance or coexistence, only in destruction. Our destruction, my dear friends.

“To date, I can tell you that our enemies have tried to destroy our ships, our worlds, our places of prayer. So we have fought back, as is our right. While our enemies have used their most sophisticated weapons against us, filled subspace with their lies, even tried to subvert us from within.”

Garak was intrigued to see that at this point in his speech Weyoun bestowed a most meaningful look on Sisko, although even Garak could not understand how anyone could accuse the captain of duplicity. Sisko had never made any effort to disguise his fierce opposition to Weyoun and the Ascendants.

“But, dear friends, we have withstood their assaults, and in only seven days we will never have to endure them again.” The Vorta paused, as if allowing time for his audience to cheer his words, but again there was no response.

“However,” Weyoun said after a moment, “these next seven days bring special risks. Because the enemy will now be provoked into using its most fearsome weapons against us. And one of their greatest perversions of technology is the ability to travel through time itself.”

A current of reaction raced through the gathering. It seemed to Garak that all but Sisko, Kira, and Arla were whispering to each other. He himself glanced at Odo, and the two of them silently shared their sudden interest in whatever it was Weyoun was building up to.

“In fact,” Weyoun said, his voice ringing across the excavation site, “the scientists of the Ascendancy have said that it is even possible that our enemies would go so far as to travel back in time to before any of this existed.” He spread his arms wide, and Garak knew the Vorta's reference was to the city of B'hala, revealed and unrevealed.

“And there and then,” Weyoun said, “they could bury bombs of immense destructive power . . . bombs that would be hidden through the ages among the lost treasures of B'hala . . . bombs that would not detonate until after their timeships had set off on their blasphemous journey, so that our enemies could falsely claim that they had not wreaked havoc with the timeline.”

“What an absolutely splendid concept,” Garak murmured admiringly to Odo. “To change the past without changing the present . . . only the future. I'm truly taken aback with admiration. I wish I had had a chance to employ a similar technique when—”

“Be quiet,” Odo hissed.

Undeterred, Garak cast his eye across the group again, wondering

who the specific audience for Weyoun's performance was. Because that's exactly what this invitation to the excavation was—a performance, pure and simple, for the benefit of one or two of the prisoners.

His eye fell on Rom. Certainly the midlevel Ferengi technician had astounded everyone with his savant abilities in engineering. In fact, after Rom had come up with the audacious technology of selfreplicating mines, seemingly in defiance of the laws of physics, Garak himself had even gone so far as to risk contacting some of his old . . . business acquaintances. He'd been curious to find out if any brilliant Ferengi scientists had disappeared in the past decade, perhaps predisposed to find a new and simpler life in some kind of disguise.

But this investigation had turned up no evidence regarding the possibility that Rom was something other than what he claimed to be, though Garak still had his suspicions.

However, he reminded himself, even if it was Rom who had conceived of the delayed temporal warfare Weyoun had described, it still seemed improbable that Starfleet could have moved on the idea so quickly, or that someone as lowly placed as Rom could have passed word to the correct authorities to begin with.

And that problem of communication likely ruled out Chief O'Brien as well. A stolid, boring sort of fellow to be sure, but also dedicated and forthright. Just the sort to have under one's command in case a grenade someday came through a window and required someone to throw his body upon it and save his betters. People like O'Brien had their uses.

But not in this case.

Which meant, Garak reasoned, that Weyoun's performance could only be intended for the one person present who could have had ample opportunity to be in contact with Starfleet—the real Starfleet—in time either to suggest preparing an attack in the past or to have learned that such an attack was planned.

Captain Thomas Riker.

Someone who—beyond any doubt—would be dead before this gathering was over.

Garak straightened his robes, pleased with the realization that of all the people here, only he knew what Weyoun was thinking.

Garak's attention returned to the Vorta, who was still emoting up there on his rock. Effortlessly picking up the thread of Weyoun's speech in progress, Garak wondered precisely how many heartbeats Riker had left. Such a fragile thing, life.

“Of course,” Weyoun whined self-righteously, “knowing our enemies' plans, we had to take action. Yes, we could have sent our own forces into the past, to set up a shield of justice around our world. But the possibility that some unforeseen accident might change the past made us rule against it. Instead, our scientists concluded that we should let our enemies do their worst: Let them stand revealed as the monsters that they are.

“Let them take their sordid voyage into our history, plant their bombs, and be done with them, but”—Weyoun broke off unexpectedly to wave to a group of workers who had been waiting at the far edge of the excavation—“be certain that whatever cowardly action they take in our past cannot be hidden from the eyes of the Prophets.”

The Vorta's smile was smug. “Which brings us to this rock.” He stamped his foot against it. In seeming response to Weyoun's action, a few of the workers below him gathered around one end. They all held small tools, whose purpose Garak couldn't quite make out.

“A year ago, dear friends, our scientists constructed this rock—that's right, constructed. And then a group of brave believers traveled back through the Orb of Time to an age before the founding of B'hala, and there buried this rock in stable ground.”

Suddenly the workers jumped back from Weyoun's pulpit rock, as a section of it fell off with a loud pop as if something under pressure had just opened. Garak leaned forward with the others to see the hollowed-out area now visible in the boulder.

“You don't suppose . . .”

“Will you be quiet,” Odo said.

Weyoun was still atop his pulpit. “As you can see, this is not just a rock. Instead, our scientists carved into it with microtransporters and then installed within it the most stable and precise passive sensors. Sensors that could not be detected by our enemies' scans. Sensors that for almost twenty-six thousand years have waited patiently for us to reclaim them.”

Weyoun slid down the artificial boulder to join the workers at its open end. He glanced over at Sisko, and then spoke loudly enough for the rest of the prisoners to hear. “Now, I can tell what you're worried about, Benjamin. What if we're altering the timeline by opening this prematurely? Could we be setting a predestination paradox in motion?” The Vorta shook his head. “Of course not. The Ascendancy has far more respect for the natural order of things than does your Starfleet.”

Weyoun's workers busied themselves removing long, metallic cylinders from the boulder's interior. The silver objects gleamed in the blinding light from the space mirrors, as if they were freshly minted and not millennia old.

Garak was exhilarated by the spectacle the Vorta had provided for their enjoyment. But he decided against sharing his delight with Odo. Really, the changeling just had no idea how to enjoy the moment.

“No, Benjamin,” Weyoun proclaimed. “The reason we are opening

the deep-time sensors today is because yesterday, Starfleet's timeship began its voyage. And interestingly enough, your son was on it. Jake. Should give him something interesting to write about, don't you agree?”

It was impressive to Garak just how well Captain Sisko was controlling his anger. The human had never appreciated his offspring's involvement with the more difficult events on Deep Space 9. Garak wondered if he would have an opportunity to remind Sisko that perhaps it was for the best that Jake escaped the coming end of everything by being safely ensconced in the past.

“So,” Weyoun said triumphantly; Garak was relieved to sense the Vorta was finally coming to his conclusion—despots so rarely understood there were a few occasions on which less was more. “What Starfleet has done was done long ago, and because of our patience the timeline is intact. And as we play back the sensor records of the past, we will be able to chart the location of each bomb the crew of that ship placed beneath us—here, in the unexplored regions of B'hala. And though Starfleet's plan was undoubtedly to ignite those bombs during the final ceremony to be held here, destroying half of Bajor in the process, even now ships of our own Ascendant Starfleet are in orbit above us, waiting to transport each bomb away and disperse it into deep space.”

Weyoun bowed his head in pride. Held his fists to his shoulders. “Praise be to the True Prophets, may they show our enemies the errors of their ways.” He looked up and nodded at the workers with the sensors. “You may examine them now.”

“This should be very interesting,” Garak said to Odo.

“Why? Because Weyoun has figured out a way to stop a lastditch plan to save us all?”

“The plan's not ruined yet,” Garak admonished the changeling. “After all, if I had designed the bombs Weyoun is looking for, I'd have buried them in pairs so that any chance observation would make someone think there was only one to each location. And then I'd make certain they were all set to go off the instant any of them was hit by a transporter beam. This entire city could be reduced to molten slag any moment now—a bracing thought, wouldn't you agree?”

Garak relished the sudden look of consternation that disturbed Odo's smooth features.

“Oh, relax, Constable. If we do go up in a fireball of apocalyptic proportions, at least you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that the universe has been saved.”

“You're right,” Odo muttered acidly. “I feel so much better.”

“That's the spirit.” Garak beamed as he watched Weyoun's workers

hold all manner of tricorders and other devices near the deeptime sensor arrays. From time to time, he glanced over to see Sisko in intense conversation with Kira and Arla.

Rom and O'Brien were also engaged in a fevered conversation, no doubt reverse-engineering the sensors just from their appearance and Weyoun's description of their capabilities. But Quark was looking positively bored and stood to one side, alone.

“What a remarkable day,” Garak said aloud, not intending the words for anyone but himself. “What a remarkable life.”

“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?” Odo asked.

“Often,” Garak conceded. “Though after we've discussed it in private, it turns out they always have meant it in jest. Interesting how people can be persuaded to change their minds, wouldn't you say?”

Odo rolled his eyes, obviously not willing to be baited. Garak joined him in watching the work on the sensors.

It was over in less than twenty minutes.

And then Weyoun turned to Sisko with an expression of sadness, and again spoke loud and clear for posterity. “Oh, dear Benjamin, I am so sorry. But the sensors show that no bombs were ever planted here. There are no transporter traces, no residual tractor-beam radiation trails, no sudden alterations in the gravimetric structure of the region . . . nothing. It appears that Starfleet's mission has failed, and your son Jake . . . well, I am so sorry. But the wages of disbelief are—”

Sisko threw himself at Weyoun, and Garak's pulse quickened. There was nothing quite so uplifting as seeing what a parent would do for its child.

But before Sisko could reach the Vorta, Riker had tackled the captain, bringing him down in a cloud of dry dust.

The two humans wrestled for a few moments on the edge of the excavation, but it soon became disappointingly apparent to Garak that Sisko was merely venting anger, and that Riker had no desire to make an example of him.

In less than a minute, Riker was back on his feet again, brushing sand from his atrocious uniform. Sisko sat still on the ground for a moment.

And then, quite unexpectedly—or so Garak thought—Weyoun went to Sisko and offered him his hand.

It also appeared that Weyoun was saying something to the captain, but this time the Vorta's words were intended only for Sisko. And most unfortunately, the angle of Weyoun's face was such that Garak couldn't read his lips.

“What a charming gesture,” Garak said, annoyed. The Vorta was playing by the rules.

But then, predictably, Sisko rebuffed Weyoun's offer of help and pushed himself to his feet without assistance, in a whirl of dancing dust.

Garak's eyes narrowed as the Vorta reacted graciously by simply clasping his hands to his chest and bowing to Sisko, as if to say no offense had been taken.

But just then a giant gasp arose from all the prisoners and the workers, as Captain Tom Riker threw himself across the two-meter distance between himself and Weyoun and propelled the Vorta howling into the pit—

“Well done!” Garak exclaimed. He'd underestimated Riker.

Transporter hums filled the air, and waves of Grigari soldiers suddenly materialized, surrounding the area. Their bone-spur claws dug into the prisoners' robes, forcing all back from the pit that had claimed Weyoun and Riker.

“So much for Ragnarok,” Odo said.

“A bit anticlimactic, though,” Garak observed critically.

And then Weyoun rose up from the depths of the excavation, floating, arms outstretched, supported, it seemed, only by a softly glowing halo of red light.

“What is that?” Odo asked in shock.

Garak frowned. “What else? A Pah-wraith inhabiting the vessel of a linear being. Riker should have anticipated that.”

Predictably, Odo glared at him. “A good man has died trying to save us!”

Garak was hardly in the mood for an argument. But then, neither did he intend to let Odo have the last word. “That ‘good man’ once worked for the Maquis. And knowing what I know about the Pahwraiths, he is not dead yet.”

As if on cue—a happy accident of timing but which Garak much appreciated all the same—Weyoun then dropped a hand to the pit below, gesturing as if giving a command for something else to arise.

That something was Tom Riker. Breathing hard. The bright blood streaming from a long gash on his head turning his white beard red.

Riker's left leg was also not hanging straight, and Garak could see a small, sharp glimmer of white against his dark, red-stained trousers.

“Compound fracture of the femur,” Garak explained helpfully to Odo, who of course lacked any bones whatsoever. “Quite painful, I believe.”

Weyoun drifted to the side of the pit and stepped gracefully onto solid ground. Riker remained suspended in midair, above the pit, his body in spasms, bubbles of blood forming at the corners of his mouth. A possible punctured lung, Garak thought. He turned to share this observation with Odo, but the changeling was looking elsewhere.

Sisko had his hands on Weyoun and they were having a heated conversation. At least, the human was heated. The Vorta looked detached.

But it seemed even a Pah-wraith did not have unlimited patience, and finally Weyoun flicked his hand at the human and a blinding flash of red light sent Sisko flying backward into the sand.

Then Weyoun imperiously gestured again into the pit, and a moment later a red strand of rope shot up and coiled out of it like the unfurling tongue of an immense unseen amphibian. Another rapid hand movement from the Vorta, and the sinuous rope snaked around Riker's neck.

The floating human grabbed at the rope, tore at its tightening coils, his one good leg kicking out for freedom.

A gasp from the horrified onlookers caught Garak's ear and he turned to see Quark suddenly stagger back, hands at his own neck. The Ferengi was obviously reliving some unpleasant memory. Garak frowned. An interesting development to be sure, but not in the end as intriguing as the one featuring Weyoun and Captain Riker. He turned his back on Quark.

To see Weyoun raise his hand high and Riker float higher, his struggles lessening, the mysterious rope looping in the air beside him.

Weyoun dropped his hand, and Riker dropped but the rope did not. It flexed and snapped tight, breaking only as its burden was sundered at its weakest point, and Riker's head and body plunged into darkness—separately.

“Showy, but no subtlety,” Garak murmured.

Odo's face leaned menacingly into Garak's. “I don't want to hear another word out of you!”

Garak sighed. He had been intimidated by experts, rarely successfully, and certainly never by a mere changeling sworn to uphold justice. Swearing such an oath, in fact, had worked to undercut a great deal of Odo's authority, Garak had always believed.

“What I meant, Constable, is that there was no need for Weyoun to behave so crudely. After all, he has won. He can't be killed. And Starfleet's attempt to travel through time has obviously failed. He could have left Riker at the bottom of the pit to bleed to death in a dignified fashion. Instead, we've all been treated to a quite unnecessary look inside a troubled mind.”

Odo stared at Garak in disgust. “You see something like . . . like that and analyze it?”

“Someone has to,” Garak said. “And I do think it might be worth pointing out to Captain Sisko that Weyoun clearly has a weak spot in his personality. One that might conceivably be exploited to our benefit.”

“And what weak spot would that be?” Odo growled, as if he couldn't believe he was engaged in this conversation.

“I think it might be wise to let the emotions of the moment dissipate,” Garak said kindly. “You've been through a considerable strain.”

Odo drew back as if he'd been slapped. “And you haven't, I suppose?”

Garak was tired of being questioned in this way. Tired of Odo's attitude. He looked from side to side and put on his best bland face—the kind that struck such terror into poor, sweet, gullible Dr. Bashir. “Odo . . . whatever we saw here today, remember this. I've seen worse.”

Odo clenched his jaw, clearly wanting to say something more but just as clearly unable to bring himself to.

And Garak, oddly, found himself struggling not to add the words And so have you—on the Day of Withdrawal.

Now, why would I think that? he wondered. There was no way he could know what Odo might have seen or not seen when the Cardassians had withdrawn from Bajor. Unless . . .

“No,” Garak said aloud.

Odo looked at him, not understanding.

But even Garak didn't understand this time.

The universe was coming to an end.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Not the death of Tom Riker.

Nor the Day of Withdrawal.

Nor even how his own lost memories from that final day on Terok Nor—

—when the Obsidian Order had come for him . . .

—when Terrell had taken him to the room . . .

—where . . .

“Garak?”

Garak stared at Odo, and for a moment it was as if the changeling was wearing his old clothes, the short cape and rough fabric from the time before he had donned the uniform of the militia, from the time before . . .

“Garak? What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Garak forced himself to smile. “A touch of vertigo. Nothing a good apocalypse can't extinguish.”

Odo's eyes narrowed. “It seems you're not as tough as you let on.”

“I'm not,” Garak said firmly. “I'm tougher.”

And then Weyoun summoned the Grigari guards to come for them and the other prisoners, to lead them away from the pit back to the shuttle that would return them to Empok Nor, the restored Gateway.

And Garak, who knew there was no point in thinking of the future, and who could not think of the past, devoted himself to thinking about only the moment and the glorious view of Bajor, as the shuttle climbed above the clouds and into space.

There might well be many good things in this universe, he knew. But in his experience, bad things had far outweighed them.

The end of everything would be a good thing.

He would finally be free of the horrors of his past.

Maybe he wouldn't tell Sisko about Weyoun's weak spot after all.