CHAPTER 23

FROM THE second level of the Promenade, Sisko stared down into the hell Terok Nor had become—a tumultuous pocket universe of heat and noise and anarchy.

The security gates that had bisected the Promenade were collapsed, twisted by hammers and wirecutters and the frantically grasping hands of slaves set free. The glowing restraint conduits that once had bound the gates now cracked and sparked and sent strobing flashes into the dense blue haze that choked the air, still Cardassian-hot.

Hull plates resonated with the violent release of multiple escaping

shuttles and ships. A thrumming wall of sound sprang up as departing soldiers phasered equipment too heavy to steal.

Decks shook as rampaging looters forced internal doors and shattered windows. Turbolifts whined and ladders rattled against their moorings. Officers shouted hoarse commands. Soldiers cursed their victims. In counterpoint, a calm recorded voice recited the orders of the day: “Attention, all biorganic materials must be disposed of according to regulations. Attention . . .”

But the only response to that directive that Sisko could hear was the high-pitched shriek of a Ferengi in fear for his life. A Ferengi whose shriek Sisko recognized.

“A compelling display, wouldn't you say, Captain?”

Sisko jerked away from the safety railing as another familiar voice whispered unexpectedly in his ear.

“Garak! Where have you been?”

The Cardassian knelt beside Sisko, the mangled decorative wall panel that leaned against the railing providing the two of them a semblance of cover from the combatants one level below. Sisko saw that Garak wore a uniform obviously replicated from the Boreth —an odd combination of Starfleet and Bajoran militia designs that was completely out of place in this time.

“Oh, here and there, reliving history, as it were.”

Sisko had no patience for Garak's infamous perversity right now. “Get up to Dukat's personal shelter, beneath his office. Dax set up a transporter that will beam you to the Rio Grande, six years into the future.”

“Ah, good,” Garak said. “Then everything's working out.”

“What do you mean?”

But Garak ignored the question and pointed past Sisko to the level below. “Look, there's Quark and Glinn Datar.”

Sisko looked down to see Quark's struggling form being lifted by an ODN cable that was wrapped around his neck and attached to a rising antigrav cargo lifter. All around Quark's suspended form, a crowd of angry Cardassian soldiers chanted and jeered.

Sisko's automatic reaction was to try to do something to stop the outrage. But Garak put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don't do anything foolish, Captain. You know as well as I that our Ferengi friend survives this day.”

So Sisko forced himself to remain hidden, flinching as Quark kicked so desperately hard that one of his boots flew off.

“The soldiers didn't like Quark,” Garak explained. “They decided to use the absence of the command staff to obtain some justice of their own.”

Sisko was appalled by the treatment Quark endured. No wonder the Ferengi had been packing up and eager to leave when Sisko had arrived on the station.

Then a lance of blue phaser fire sliced into the antigrav. The machine burst in two and fell, dropping Quark flat on his back in the middle of the Promenade. At the same time, another round of phaser bursts killed Datar and scattered the soldiers who had gathered to see Quark punished.

“What now?” Sisko asked, sickened.

“Ah,” Garak said, “this is where it gets interesting. I believe you know the group approaching just down by the gem store? Leej Terrell's associates?”

Sisko caught a glimpse of three Cardassians through the haze, and though he couldn't recognize them at this distance, he remembered Terrell had told him what she had sent three Cardassians to do on this day.

Right now in this timeframe, the Red Orb that the Cardassian scientist had studied was in her hidden lab in the station's lower levels. And whatever equipment she had connected to the Orb to amplify its powers was at this moment creating a precursor field that would eventually lead to the opening of the red wormhole. Sisko knew that several of Terrell's scientists had already stepped through that field and had disappeared, tempted by the red wormhole entities themselves.

So, to retrieve her Red Orb safely on the Day of Withdrawal, to keep it from the Bajorans without sacrificing any more of her staff, Terrell had decided she needed a Ferengi to fetch the Orb, because Ferengi brains were resistant to most forms of telepathy—including, Terrell hoped, the influence exerted by wormhole entities.

More phaser beams shot forth below. Sisko peered down through the railing. A Cardassian soldier was crouched protectively by Quark, but he was drawing heavy fire from Terrell's three cohorts.

“Now someone's trying to save Quark,” Sisko told Garak.

“Glinn Motran,” Garak said with an unconcerned nod. “One of Dukat's personal bodyguards. There is considerable bad blood between Terrell and Dukat. And many others, I might add. In any case, from the communications I've managed to intercept today, it appears Motran's assignment is to delay Terrell's departure by any means possible.”

“Why?”

“So she'll still be on the station when the self-destruct countdown reaches detonation.”

Sisko turned to Garak in amazed alarm. Terrell had told him that Dukat had set the station to self-destruct. But why the system had failed was still unknown.

Garak misread Sisko's reaction. “Why so surprised, Captain? Of course Dukat set the self-destruct timer when he left. I believe there is something on the order of slightly less than two hours remaining.”

“Who stops it?” Sisko asked.

“Ah,” Garak said with a smile. “That remains to be seen. So many mysteries to be solved this day.” He pointed down again as if commenting on a passing parade. “Oh, look, there goes Motran . . .”

Glinn Motran was suddenly hit by multiple shafts of disruptive energy and his body flew backward across the Promenade. At the same moment, Quark scurried into his bar and out of sight of the second level.

But Sisko knew the Ferengi barkeep wouldn't remain there for long. The three Cardassians who served Terrell were marching forward, shoulder to shoulder, along the ruined Promenade toward Quark's bar.

“I can handle it from here,” Sisko told Garak. “Go up to the transporter and get out of here.”

But Garak shook his head. “Remember, Captain, you're on my station now. For the next few hours, this is still Terok Nor, and I would be most remiss if I did not do all in my power to see that you survived your visit.”

Six years after the Cardassians withdrew from Bajor, in the back room of his bar, Quark stared at the empty space where Odo had been just an instant before. Then he looked down at Dukat, sprawled on the floor at his feet.

Gingerly, Quark rapped his foot against Dukat's arm.

No reaction.

Quark escalated from a tap to a kick.

Still nothing.

With a sigh of relief, Quark realized he could walk out of his storeroom, leave Dukat behind, and not feel the slightest bit guilty. The insane Cardassian had been removed from the equation by DS9's own constable. If he woke up later and caused any trouble, then it definitely would not be Quark's fault.

“Thank you, Nagus,” Quark said softly, then returned to the main room of his bar.

He knew exactly what he was going to do.

First, he was going to clean out his floor safe. True, the Quark of this timeframe might be upset at losing his working capital so mysteriously, but it belonged to Quark as much as it belonged to Quark. “Or . . . however that works,” Quark told himself. “It's all mine no matter how you calculate it.”

Then Quark planned to open up the long-hidden, long-forgotten alcove behind his towering, stylized, stained-glass portrait of what Gul Dukat had once believed to be a Tholian general but Rom had identified as that part of a Tellarite not to be mentioned in polite company. And then he was going to take out that frinxing third Red Orb and . . . and . . . throw it into Bajor's sun.

That way, the red wormhole would never open. The station would not be destroyed. And everyone and the universe would be saved. All because of one selfless Ferengi, Quark.

Quark repeated the description to himself, relishing the sound of it. Really, he mused, it was a mystery how the people on this station could ever think they could get along without him.

Cleaning out his floor safe was a simple matter. He had rehearsed the operation often enough, and he always kept inside the safe a variety of belts and a vest with custom pockets for latinum bars and slips so he'd be able to carry as much as he could.

The only unfortunate thing, Quark thought as he now retrieved his vest and belts, was that he could carry a lot more than he had in the floor safe.

But what he did have would be enough to put him on an equal footing with the second Quark who already inhabited this timeframe. Perhaps they could even become partners. Quark filled his vest pockets to bursting with latinum and then paused for a moment before fastening his belts. It was an absolute certainty he'd make a much better brother to himself than Rom had ever been.

With that self-satisfied thought, Quark closed the empty floor safe. Then he leaned behind the bar counter and took out a small deconnector tool and ran—actually, with the tightly belted, latinumstuffed vest, it was more like waddled—over to the large frame that held the orange, yellow, and red mural that was the centerpiece of his main room. Making his gait even more awkward was the slant of the deck caused by the still-unrepaired gravity generators.

Quark awkwardly squatted down behind the mural's frame and removed the connectors holding an access panel in place. The opening it revealed and the space it protected within were no larger than those of a typical Bajoran Orb Ark.

“Marauder Quark saaaves the universe,” Quark cackled as he reached inside, past the sensor mask.

He reached a bit farther, hit the back wall.

Moved his hand back and forth. Hit the side walls. The deck. Even the top of the compartment.

“I know you're in there,” Quark said. “I saw Sisko find you six hours from now.”

But even as he frantically waved his hand back and forth until it moved like the clapper of a bell, no Red Orb was found or magically materialized.

“Odo,” Quark said in growing outrage. The changeling was the only one on this station who would deliberately change history in order to make life more miserable than it already was for Quark.

“When he comes back . . .” Quark vowed hotly. “I am—”

He heard someone move behind him. Froze. Cringed. Turned slowly, barely breathing, expecting to see the mad Dukat reaching out for him.

But it was someone else.

Quark let out his breath. He patted down his vest to be sure that none of its precious cargo showed.

“I'm sorry, but I'm not open yet,” he said politely as he got to his feet, never one to annoy a customer—unless the customer deserved it. “But I'm sure the cafe just down the—”

Quark never finished his sentence.

Because the third Red Orb of Jalbador, swung like a club by his unexpected visitor in prylar's garb, smashed against his head much too fast and too hard.

Quark's body hit the floor and stayed there, every bit as limp as yesterday's gagh.

Jake read the master console's time display.

Thirty-two minutes.

O'Brien had thought of nothing that could be accomplished in the time remaining. Not that the Chief hadn't been trying, endlessly suggesting ways to gain control of the Defiant's shields.

If Jake had been elsewhere on the Defiant, the Chief might have been able to induce a minor matter-antimatter explosion, disabling the ship's entire power grid so the shields would drop and Jadzia could attempt to blindly beam Jake from the unprotected vessel. But even Jake knew that while he was sealed in engineering, any attempt by O'Brien to explosively damage the Defiant's generators would prove fatal.

Even Bashir had tried to save him. The doctor had provided his authorization codes so Jake could report to the computer as the ship's chief medical officer. But that hadn't worked, either. The computer was not that easily fooled.

“How's my dad?” Jake asked, needing a short break from the relentlessly hopeless attempts.

“He and Garak still aren't here,” Jadzia radioed back. “But we've got a little time.”

Then Kira's voice came over the channel. “Commander Arla, are you still there?” she asked firmly.

“Major Kira,” Arla answered breathily, her voice continuing its gradual decline that Jake had noticed earlier but could not explain.

Jake was guessing that Arla was still on the bridge. Though with a combadge, he knew, she could be anywhere else on the ship. He shivered.

Kira's voice was commanding, persuasive. “Arla—why won't you let Jake go? You've heard what's going on. If Sisko and Garak don't return to this time, history will change. You'll have won.”

“And what if they do return?” Arla asked.

Jake was troubled by Arla's deep, rough tones. It was as if her throat had changed in size or configuration. He didn't want to think about what the Grigari nanites might be capable of doing to her. And perhaps, soon, to him.

“Then Jake's death accomplishes nothing but to add to the sorrow of the universe,” Kira argued. “I know there's enough of you left inside, beyond what the Grigari have done, to know I'm right. Let him go, Rees. Please. As a Bajoran. For the sake of our people.”

“You are the dead,” a new voice said.

Jake jerked back from the console in a reflex action.

Weyoun was back. But where?

“Oh, yes,” Weyoun continued in a voice that froze Jake's ability to think. “I'm still here. On the Boreth. Exactly where you placed me against my will.”

Jake heard the change in Kira's tone. “Is that what this is going to take?” she demanded of Weyoun. “A trade? Your life for Jake's?”

Jake stared at his communications screen, listening, hoping, dreading. He didn't want to die on this Defiant. But he didn't want Weyoun to go free because of him.

“What life, Major?” Weyoun said over the comm link. “There's less than an hour remaining by whoever's timeframe you measure it. Arla is doing the right thing.” Then he added for Arla's benefit, “You are doing the right thing, Commander.”

“It is the will of the True Prophets,” Arla chanted tonelessly.

Jake leaned over his console, rested his head in his folded arm. He'd been right before. There was no way out of this.

“Weyoun,” Jadzia suddenly suggested, “I could beam you from the Boreth to the Defiant. You and Arla could be together at the end.”

Jake did not lift his head, but he listened in spite of himself.

“What a splendid idea,” Weyoun answered. “Then, when the Defiant's shields drop to let me beam onboard, why, you could beam Jake off, too. Do you really think that's going to happen?”

Jake lifted his head. He had heard that tone of voice before, back in his school days on Earth. It was the sound of a bully. Someone who enjoyed creating pain because he drew strength from it. “You're not talking about the will of the Prophets anymore,” Jake said accusingly to Weyoun. “You're just mad at my father.”

“I assure you, Jake, I am quite beyond such petty emotions.”

“You want me to die out here because you want to hurt my father.”

“Jake, it doesn't matter to me where you die. The whole universe is coming to an end.”

“But not because you want it to!” Jake said. He sat up in his anger.

“Jake, it is the will of the True Prophets. I am sorry that—”

“It's not the will of the Prophets!” Jake cried out. “Don't you understand, it's the will of those lousy little nanites in your skull. Rearranging your brain cells. Making you think whatever the Pahwraiths want you to think.”

Weyoun's voice hissed with menace. “If you were within my reach, Jake, I would settle this now. You would die for your blasphemy.”

“Blasphemy,” Jake muttered. “Ha! Don't you remember anything about the ‘discussions’ you used to have with me on DS9 when you were in control? You never used to care if I didn't agree with you. You might have clamped down on what I could write, but you never had a problem just listening to me!”

“That was another time,” the Vorta said. “And another Weyoun.”

“Why? Because the Grigari nanites have . . . have reconfigured you! Just like they crushed Arla's skull and rebuilt her brain in their image!”

“Jake, I can tell you're working yourself into a regrettable emotional state. It would be a shame if you were to miss what is likely to be the defining moment of your life's experience.”

“You know what my defining moment is?” Jake shouted at the console. “I love my father! Who the hell have you ever loved?!”

There was no reply on Weyoun's channel. Nor anything from Arla on the intraship link.

Jake rocked back and forth as he breathed deeply to steady himself.

He checked the readout.

Twenty-four minutes.

The end wouldn't be so bad, Jake thought, if only he could talk to his father one more time.

If he was a condemned man, that was his last wish.