CHAPTER 3

“THERE WERE too many hells,” Jadzia said.

Sisko wasn't sure what she meant. He was still having difficulty concentrating, and the flickering emergency lights in the Defiant's sickbay weren't helping. Beneath his Bajoran robes, his ribs continued to ache from the crushing and compressing that he—

“Benjamin? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Old Man.” It was unimportant to Sisko whether or not he would ever find time to reflect on his own experience of hell. He had a ship. He had a crew. His duty was clear. “But for an illusion, the, uh, Venusian Firebeast . . . packed quite a wallop, as Mr. Russell might say.”

Jadzia's smile indicated her commiseration. She had crossed into Sisko's illusion, and he knew she had seen exactly what he had experienced. In fact, when she had first appeared, she had been part of it, complete with a bizarre outfit that appeared to be comprised of an extremely abbreviated two-piece bathing costume incongruously made of hard, gleaming metal, in combination with a spherical, transparent breathing helmet. The mid-twentieth century had certainly given rise to some odd ideas about environmental suit requirements.

Sisko reached up a hand to the side of the diagnostic bed that had just examined him and pulled himself to his feet. “You were saying something about too many hells?”

“Think of it, Benjamin. You had to face the realization that you were only an imaginary character in a series of twentieth-century scientifiction stories. Julian felt responsible for the universe's destruction. Jake couldn't write. You all had a single worst nightmare hidden in your psyches, and that's what . . . what I presume the Pahwraiths focused on and brought to life, creating an individual hell for each of you.

“But for me—” Jadzia placed her hand over her abdominal pouch. “—for us, there wasn't one hell, there were eight. One for each of Dax's hosts, plus one for Dax. And because we experienced our nightmares all together, all at the same time, it turned into one huge confusing jumble. Which reminded me exactly of what you and I experienced the first time we entered the wormhole six years ago.”

Sisko understood at once. “Of course. That first trip. You saw a paradise . . . I saw a raging storm and barren rocks.”

“Exactly. The wormhole was a completely subjective experience for both of us. And as soon as I made that connection, I woke up on the bridge of the Defiant, surrounded by the rest of you.” She looked over to the main treatment bed and the patient still physically strapped to it—with the ship's primary power grid shut down, the confinement field generator was inoperative. “And him.”

The patient, the prisoner, was Weyoun. Of the sixteen others onboard the Defiant, he alone remained in whatever subjective hell to which the Pah-wraiths had consigned him. The bed's diagnostic display indicated his lifesigns were within Vorta norms, except for the confused tracings of his brainwave patterns that revealed him to be in both deep sleep and a hyperalert state of consciousness at the same time.

“What do you suppose his nightmare is?” Jadzia asked.

“I don't want to know.”

Sisko looked up as the sickbay doors scraped, then opened awkwardly as they were forced apart by powerful hands. The corridor beyond was almost pitch black, lit only by two palm torches.

Worf's tall form filled the doorway, moving stiffly. The Klingon was still suffering from the disruptor shots he had taken from the Romulans while on Admiral Picard's Phoenix. Immediately behind the Klingon was Ensign Ryle Simons, a young human from Alpha Centauri whose skin was as startlingly white as his hair was flame red. Sisko recalled that Simons had graduated the Academy two weeks before arriving on DS9 to await the arrival of his first ship, the Destiny. But only a few days later, the lost Orbs of Jalbador had been found and brought into alignment in Quark's bar.

Then, as the Bajoran system's second wormhole—or Celestial Temple—had opened inside DS9, destroying the station, the young human ensign had been one of the thirty-three Starfleet personnel, Bajoran militia, and handful of civilians beamed to the Defiant and subsequently tossed twenty-five years into the future. When Jadzia had entered young Simons' personal hell, she had found him floating in deep space, abandoned by his Academy classmates during a zero-G evacuation drill, his environmental suit improperly sealed, perpetually within three minutes of losing all life support.

Since Ensign Simons had taken a minor in Warp Theory, he had been the closest thing to an engineer the Defiant had—which explained why Sisko had dispatched Simons with Worf to assess engineering.

Though it was at the very bottom of his list of priorities, in addition to restoring power, Sisko hoped the young ensign would also be able to do something about bringing the ship's replicators online. Sisko was more than ready to discard the Bajoran robes Weyoun had forced him to wear. He envied Worf, Jadzia, and Simons their Starfleet uniforms, even if they were wearing the versions adopted in the year 2400.

From the look on young Simons' face, it seemed to Sisko that the ensign had something to say. Simons was just as clearly waiting for Worf's permission to speak. Until the ship's internal communications system was restored, all reports had to be delivered in person.

Sisko turned to Worf, but the Klingon's attention was focused firmly on Weyoun.

“If we have indeed experienced the end of all existence,” Worf said, “the Vorta must be killed.”

Appealingly simple and direct as that Klingon approach to their situation was, Sisko did not agree with it. “He might be the only one who knows what's happened to us.”

Worf kept his attention on Weyoun, took several cautious, shallow breaths as if even the slightest movement of his chest was painful. “Perhaps. But it might be that our fate is not in question. Under the circumstances, it is possible that we are in Ko'th. Limbo. A state of non-being between Sto-Vo-Kor and Gre'thor. In human mythology, it is the equivalent of being the damned.”

Sisko was uncertain if Worf truly believed in what he was saying, or if he was just describing a Klingon tradition which held no special significance for him. “Is there anything that those in Ko'th can do to change their fate?”

Worf's tone and expression remained neutral though he held himself unnaturally rigid. “They must commit an act of vengeance, for right or for wrong, in order to proceed to one destination or another—Sto-Vo-Kor or Gre'thor. Killing Weyoun could be our act of vengeance. If we are the damned.”

Sisko suspected that Worf himself did not know the answer to the question he had raised. “Are you that eager to proceed to eternity, Commander Worf?”

“If the universe has ended, Captain, what else awaits us?”

“But we don't know it's ended for certain,” Sisko argued.

“Actually, Benjamin,” Jadzia interrupted, “we do know. Our sensor

net is still down, but I checked the logs for what was recorded just before we lost power. According to those logs, the Defiant entered the blue wormhole three point two seconds before it completely merged with the red wormhole. From the final readings of conditions outside the wormholes at that moment, subspace had already degraded by more than eighty percent. Basic astronomical observations showed wavelength disruptions entirely consistent with the emergence—the unraveling—of the hidden dimensions of space-time.

“While it's true we can't be certain that the incident of broken symmetry that triggered the vacuum fluctuation that became our universe was initiated by the splitting of this wormhole pocket we're in, it is certain that—based on the sensor logs and the Starfleet research I reviewed on Mars—when the two Bajoran wormholes were rejoined, our universe's originating vacuum fluctuation was negated. Space-time just . . . rolled in on itself, compressed to a singularity, and ceased to exist—returning to the quantum foam that underlies any concept of reality.”

The elegant explanation might have made sense to his old friend Dax, but Sisko still felt a connection to reality. “Then why are we still here?” he asked, slapping his hand against the side of the diagnostic bed to physically emphasize his point. “This ship exists. We still exist.”

Jadzia nodded in understanding but not acceptance. “Only as an echo, Benjamin. Think of this ship as one last reverberation of mass and energy from our universe. In time . . . whatever time means now, we'll fade out, too.”

Sisko thought of his son. “How much time?”

Before Jadzia could answer, sickbay was plunged into darkness as the emergency lights abruptly cut out, only to flash on and off and on again as the Defiant shuddered violently in the grip of some unknown new assault.

In the harsh, pulsing light, Sisko saw Jadzia grab hold of Worf's arm as the decks and bulkheads creaked and groaned, then fell silent as the ship steadied and the emergency lighting stopped flickering.

Sisko tried to focus on the impossible situation. “Does anyone know where Jake is?” The last Sisko had seen of his son had been on the bridge, just before entering the wormhole.

“He is on the bridge,” Worf answered. “Working on restoring the computers.”

“Thank you,” Sisko said. He looked at Jadzia. The Trill had released her husband's arm. “What we just felt—a theory? Anything?”

The Trill sighed. “Benjamin, every wormhole Starfleet has ever charted, every wormhole for which records exist, is a tunnel. A tunnel that joins two separate points in four-dimensional space-time. What we're in now, it's not connecting anything. I can't even make a wild guess about how verterons can exist in an unconnected environment, let alone normal matter and energy.”

“Something exists other than us, Old Man. For what we just felt, there have to be other forces at work on us.”

Jadzia shook her head. “Until we restore some kind of sensor capability, we're blind.”

Sisko turned to Simons. “What about it, Ensign? What shape are we in?”

Pale cheeks blotched with red, the young human was still staring upward at the sickbay ceiling, as if fearing it would crack open. He lowered his eyes, cleared his throat. “Uh, there's no warp core—”

“Weyoun had it removed so we couldn't slingshot around the red wormhole's maw and go back to our own time,” Sisko explained.

“That makes sense, sir. Without warp capability, temporal relocation is impossible. But we still have all our power converters. And about thirty percent of our matter/antimatter reserves. If it's true we don't have anywhere to go in here and we can use all that power for life support for the eighteen people onboard, my, um, estimate is the Defiant can easily function for at least . . . twenty years.”

Sisko grimaced at the thought that they were all trapped in a single

hell now. Twenty years in a starship with nowhere to go and no hope. No crew could last that long under those conditions.

“Twenty years is out of the question,” Jadzia said, making it clear that in her opinion Simons's estimate wasn't going to be an option. “Whatever bubble of space-time we're protected in for now will . . . evaporate. That's the best analogy I can think of. And then . . . then there won't be anywhere for us to exist, so . . .” She shrugged. She didn't have to finish.

But Sisko was tired of talk, anyway. “This isn't doing us any good,” he said, starting for the sickbay doors. “We need to know what the conditions are out there. We need to know how long we have so we can look for a way out.”

But Worf stood between Sisko and the doors.

Sisko halted. He faced the Klingon. “A question, Mr. Worf?”

“What if Jadzia is correct, and there is no way out?”

Sisko didn't want to even consider that question. But he wasn't going to lie to Worf and suggest it wasn't possible. “I don't know.”

“But if she is correct,” the Klingon said slowly, as if considering each word before saying it aloud and bringing more pain to his chest. “And if our existence ends before we have killed our enemy—” He glanced at Weyoun's still form. “Then we will remain in Ko'th forever, knowing neither victory nor defeat.” He held Sisko's gaze now. “Captain, even Gre'thor is preferable to limbo.”

Sisko didn't intend to argue with Worf. But he also didn't intend to endanger Weyoun when the Vorta might be needed to provide information. So long as Worf remained true to his Starfleet oath, Sisko knew no officer more loyal, even in the face of death. But under the extreme conditions they faced now, Sisko also knew a point could come where Worf might feel he had to choose between his duty to an organization that no longer existed in any meaningful form and the needs of his Klingon heritage. Indeed, in the same situation, Sisko did not know if in all good conscience he could order his crew to place duty before their deepest spiritual beliefs. So he decided to make it a bit more difficult for Worf to choose to harm Weyoun, in case that conflict arose.

“Dax,” Sisko said, “you're responsible for Weyoun.”

“I'd be able to do more on the bridge,” Jadzia replied.

Sisko glanced at Worf, whose expression remained neutral as he stepped outside, out of Sisko's way. “Commander, you will accompany Ensign Simons and me to the bridge.” He looked back at Jadzia. “As soon as we're there, together, I'll send Commander Arla down to watch over Weyoun, and then you can join us. Until then, Old Man, whatever happens,” Sisko concluded with a nod to Weyoun, “don't leave his side.”

Jadzia pursed her lips as if to remind Sisko that if anyone had seniority in this situation, it was she with her three hundred years of experience. But all she said was, “Where would I go?”

“Maybe I'll find out on the bridge,” Sisko said grimly.

Then the ship creaked again, and he wrenched open the sickbay doors and waited for Worf to switch on his palm torch and step into the corridor. The Klingon did so, without hesitation, though his heavy brow was more deeply furrowed than usual with thought.

“Um, what should I do, sir?” Simons asked, switching on his own palm torch as he followed after Sisko and the sickbay doors rattled shut behind them.

All three officers were now standing in the dark corridor, along which only the faint glow of emergency lights could be seen.

“First, get the lights on so we can restore the sensors.” Sisko looked down at his Bajoran robes. “Then do what you can to get at least one uniform replicator working.”

“Yes, sir!”

Simons's palm torch quickly disappeared around the curve to the left.

Worf led the way to the right, halting when he reached the first intersection. With only emergency power available, they would have to use the access ladder by the central turbolifts to get to Deck 1.

But Sisko stopped at Worf's side, not as his commanding officer but as a fellow being facing the same overwhelming, almost impossible-to-comprehend disaster.

“Worf, I do understand your concerns. I'm just not willing to admit defeat until we know more.”

In the scattered uplighting from his palm torch, Worf's heavy features took on an ominous appearance. “I understand, sir. But if we discover that no other options are available, remember that there is no shame in accepting the inevitable, provided we behave honorably. And there is no honor in refusing to acknowledge that events have gone past our ability to control them.”

“I'm not refusing to accept that. I'm just not convinced it's true.”

Sisko sympathized with Worf. Starfleet protocol had little meaning

in this era.

Because Starfleet—the epitome of life's best intentions—had come face to face with life's worst fears—total annihilation and meaninglessness. And in this future, in Starfleet's long deep stare into the abyss, those fears had won. Even the Prime Directive had been abandoned.

But in this future, Sisko had not been part of the battle that had raged during the past quarter century. As this time's Starfleet and its Federation had made concessions to the Ascendancy, small ones at first, only in the last years becoming an unstoppable movement toward appeasement and defeat, Sisko and his companions had been insulated—out of time—traveling in a single instant within their frame of reference from the year 2375 to the year 2400.

The optimistic hope for the future that had once been the cornerstone of the Starfleet known to him and the other temporal refugees from 2375 had been slowly crushed by 2400 during the war with the Ascendancy. But that dream still was alive within Sisko, undiminished. And he had to believe that in some way it still existed in his crew.

Even Worf.

“When the time comes, Worf, I will not stand in the way of you doing what your beliefs demand. But I will ask you to consider if the murder of a defenseless being is truly an act of honor, whether vengeance is required or not.”

Worf studied Sisko for long moments in the darkness of the corridor, clearly wrestling with the difficult decision to place his fate for all eternity in the hands of an alien who could never truly understand his Klingon heart. “Captain, how will you know when that time has come?”

“I have faith that we will arrive at that decision together.”

Sisko held out his hand.

“If we don't have hope, Worf, if we don't work together, then the Pah-wraiths really will have won for all time. The greatest battles demand the greatest risk.”

Warrior to warrior, Worf reached out and clasped Sisko's hand.

“Heghl'umeH QaQ jajvam,” he said gruffly.

Then, together, through the darkness, Sisko and Worf ran for the bridge.