by Judith
realized that if he looked slightly away from the two officers, he could just
make out a pattern of glowing lights on their visors' surfaces, as if the
visors were generating some sort of holographic display for their wearer. On
the officer nearest him Jake also
noticed a narrow black wire that ran from the arm of the visor and hooked over
the Vulcan's pointed ear. The wire disappeared into the collar of the officer's
uniform.
Not bad, Jake thought. A phaser that doesn't require anyone having to waste time
to draw and aim it. He had no idea how the odd silver phaser beam could have
been generated in such a thin device, but he decided it was reasonable to assume
that twenty-five years could have led to at least a few technological
breakthroughs. He reminded himself to be on the alert for other hidden marvels
of the day. They'd make for interesting details in the novel he planned to write
after he returned to his own time. Because, just as he had not been ready to
believe he was going to die, he was somehow sure that eventually he would
return. All he needed to do was work out the details—or be sure that Dr. Bashir,
Jadzia, and Worf worked them out.
For now, the doctor and the Trill were helping Vash to her feet. From what Jake
could see of her, the archaeologist was unharmed, though the way she staggered
made it clear she was still suffering from the effects of the stun.
Captain T'len continued coolly as if nothing unusual had just happened. "As I
explained, your identities have been confirmed by DNA analysis. But do not think
mat changes your status on this ship."
"Just what is our status?" Bashir asked. He had his arm firmly around Vash's
shoulders to support her.
"Refugees," T'len answered. "But that can change."
"How?"
"The decision is not up to me." The Vulcan captain then went on to explain mat
they would be taken from
the hangar deck and given quarters, to which they'd be confined until their
arrival at Starbase 53. During their confinement they would be provided with
limited computer access in order to familiarize themselves with their new time
period. "Make no mistake," T'len concluded. "This time period will be your new
home."
As the refugees fell silent in the face of that blunt statement, Jake took
advantage of the moment to shout out, "What happened to the Defiant? "
Captain T'len's dark eyes immediately sought him out, and Jake surprised himself
as he held her intense gaze. "Your ship was captured by the Ascendancy. To
answer the rest of your questions which must logically follow: So far as we
know, the Defiant was captured intact. Though we do not have definitive
knowledge, it is logical to assume that the crew has been captured. Whether or
not they are subsequently harmed will depend on the degree of resistance they
offer."
"Then we should attempt to rescue them," Worf said bluntly. "It is unacceptable
to retreat."
T'len's gaze shifted from Jake to Worf, but her next words had the teenager's
full attention. "I can assure you that a rescue attempt will be made. Starfleet
has no intention of letting the Ascendancy keep Benjamin Sisko in custody."
Jake experienced a huge upswell of relief upon hearing the captain state
Starfleet's objective so authoritatively, though he couldn't help also
wondering why his father would have such importance in this time. But before he
could get up his nerve to ask for clarification, one of the Bajorans changed the
subject.
"Who are the Grigari?"
The captain's enigmatic response was ominous.
"You'll find out." She gestured to the open door, and Jake followed the rest of
T'len's prisoners as they began their long march.
To Jake, T'len's ship, the Augustus, seemed half-finished. The dull-gray floors
of the cramped corridors had no carpet—the decks were simply bare composite
plates. And no attempt had been made to bide the ship's mechanical components.
The cluttered ceilings were lined with so many differently colored pipes and
conduits that Jake doubted there was a single Jefferies tube on the vessel. ODN
conduits were everywhere, running along bulkheads and punching through decks and
ceilings almost at random. At least, Jake assumed they were ODN conduits. Who
knew if optical data networks were still being used hi this future?
The ship appeared to have no turbolifts either. He and the other fourteen
prisoners from the Defiant had to change decks by using steep and narrow metal
staircases mat tattled alarmingly as so many pairs of feet pounded down them.
For a ship of the future, the Augustus was reminding Jake more of the old
walk-through exhibit of the U.S.S. Discovery, a Daedalus-class ship more than
200 years old, at the Starfleet Museum in San Francisco. But even that old
veteran, one of the first ships commissioned by the newly formed Starfleet, had
had more room.
The environmental controls also seemed to be less precise than the ones Jake was
used to. The hangar deck had been cool, but the first corridors the refugees had
been led through were uncomfortably hot. On their enforced march they had
already encountered a few more of T'len's crew, and they had all, without
exception, been Vulcan. That made the heat make sense to
Jake: It reflected the crew's normal and preferred ambient temperature.
But then, trudging along in the line of captives, Jake stepped off a stairway
into a corridor that was so cold its gray metal walls were rimed with frost.
With a shiver, he abandoned his earlier theory of acclimation for a Vulcan crew,
and decided that the unsettling changes in temperature merely meant that the
ship's environmental controls were faulty.
Finally they reached the end of their march, and their destination turned out to
be a series of personnel cabins—they certainly didn't deserve to be called
quarters. Jake was assigned to one that was little bigger than his bedroom on
DS9 but which was crowded with two bunks, a fold-down desktop, what seemed to be
a limited-capacity food replicator, and—crammed into one corner with no privacy
screen—a small toilet-and-sink unit that appeared to be able to double as a
sonic shower enclosure. Everything was in the same depressing shade of muddy
gray.
Jake's roommate was Ensign Ryle Simons, a young human from Alpha Centauri with
an almost pure white complexion topped by a startlingly bright-red crewcut.
Simons was fresh from the Academy and had been on Deep Space 9 for only two
days, waiting to join the crew of his first ship, the Destiny. After taking less
than a second to assess the cramped nature of their room, both Jake and Simons
peppered the Vulcan lieutenant who stood in their doorway with questions.
"How long will it take to get to the Starbase?' Simons asked.
"And where's the computer terminal?" Jake added.
The Vulcan stepped past the two young men and
folded down the desktop so that it blocked the doors of the storage lockers that
took up one bulkhead. "Our transit time is classified," she said, then busied
herself with the desktop.
a series of commands that quickly created what Jake recognized as a Starfleet
computer input tablet not too different from the ones he was familiar with. What
was different, though, was that the computer had no physical display. Instead, a
holographic screen appeared a few centimeters above the desktop. For now, the
modified Starfleet emblem appeared in the center of it.
No time like the present, Jake thought. "Lieutenant, why did the ship from the
Bajoran Ascendancy also have a Starfleet emblem?"
The Vulcan frowned as she assessed him, shaking her head once. "The explanation
is in the history briefings that will be made available to you."
"Then the explanation isn't classified?"
"No."
Jake refrained from showing amusement at the Vulcan's poorly disguised
impatience. "So there's no reason why you can't tell us, is there? It would be
more efficient."
"Then the efficient answer is: propaganda." The Vulcan abruptly stood up and
moved toward the open door.
"I don't know what you mean by that," Jake said truthfully.
The Vulcan hesitated on the threshold, men looked back at Jake and Simons.
Apparently she made some sort of decision, for she then delivered her
explanation rapidly, without pause. "At the time the Ascendancy
was formed, it initially sought new members from those worlds waiting to accept
admission to the Federation, just as Bajor had been. One of the chief
advantages to Federation membership is the opportunity to take part in
Starfleet operations and to benefit from its defensive forces. Thus, in its
attempt to sway the governments of the nonaligned worlds, the Ascendancy
claimed to be the new political master of Starfleet. Since many Ascendancy
vessels had been pirated from our fleet over the years, in a limited sense the
claim was correct."
"Now I really don't understand," Jake said seriously. "How could any group
simply say they're the ones responsible for Starfleet?"
"Following the destruction of Earth," the Vulcan said, her expression remaining
completely neutral, "Starfleet's lines of command and control took several weeks
to be reestablished. In some regions where political turmoil further
complicated communications, some task forces and battle groups were cut off from
command for months."
Jake couldn't speak, let alone think of any new question. Which was just as
well, because the Vulcan had no intention of answering further inquiries.
"Use your computer," she said. "All your questions will be answered." Then she
stepped back into the corridor, and the narrow door slipped shut and locked.
Jake looked at his roommate. The Centaurian ensign's white cheeks were
splotched with red, while the rest of his face was almost luminescent in its
paleness. "That... that can't be true," Simons said faintly.
But Jake knew better. The Vulcan had had no problem refusing to answer a
question when the answer
was classified. Thus, she had no motive for lying to them. "Let's check the
computer," he said. He went to the desktop and placed his hand on the flashing
yellow panel labelled user identification. At once the panel turned green, and
the holographic display switched from a static image of the Starfleet emblem to
that of a Bolian in the new version of the Starfleet uniform. Jake checked the
square tabs on the Bolian's rank badge and saw that the blue-skinned alien was
an admiral.
'This briefing," the Bolian admiral began, "has been prepared for the refugees
rescued from the Starship Defiant. It consists of a twenty-two-minute
presentation of the key events that have occurred since the destruction of Deep
Space 9 and the loss of your ship until the present day, focusing on those
events which have led to what is commonly known as the War of the Prophets. At
the end of this briefing, you will be given an opportunity to examine files
detailing the current status of any relatives you may have in this time period.
The briefing will commence on your verbal request."
Jake stared at the image. "I don't get it," he said, turning to Simons. "We only
showed up here less than two hours ago. How did they have enough time to make a
briefing tape for us?"
Simons shook his head, puzzled. "Their computers are faster?"
Jake wasn't convinced. But he folded his arms across his chest and prepared
himself for the worst. "Computer: Start the briefing."
The image of the Bolian admiral disappeared, replaced by that of a Starfleet
sensor-log identification screen announcing that whatever images were about to
be shown had been recorded by the U.S.S. Garneau on Stardate 51889.4, in the
Bajoran sector.
Jake felt his chest tighten even before the sensor log began.
He recognized the date.
He was about to see the events that, according to history, had led to his
death.
CHAPTER 6
"what's wrong with him?" Centurion Karon demanded.
Nog awoke with a start. He instantly moved his hand to the side of his head in
response to a dull pain in his temple. Then he reacted to the shock of
realization that the little finger of his right hand was broken. And then to the
fact that he could move at all. Until he remembered where he was and how he had
come here.
The Romulan centurion's voice was insistent. "Admiral Picard. Has he been
injured?"
Nog pushed himself up on the medical bed. He rubbed at his head again, this time
careful to keep all pressure off his broken finger. "Irumodic Syndrome," he
said. His throat was painfully dry. He started to cough.
But Karon wasn't interested in his discomfort. "Tosh!" she snarled.
Nog didn't know what that word meant, but from the
way the sharp-featured Romulan had said it, he could guess. And he could also
guess that it meant she knew very well what Irumodic Syndrome was.
"Does that mean Starfleet's not serious about Project Phoenix?' Karon asked.
"I am not answering any questions until I see Admiral Picard."
Karen's dark eyes considered him. Their highlights seemed to shine out at him
from the shadows of her deep brow and precisely-cut black bangs. "Who are you?"
she asked.
Nog hesitated. Considering his present circumstances, he could be a prisoner of
war, which meant he should say nothing, even though he knew his eventual fate
would be to become a bion. Then again, it was possible that Karon had been
truthful when she said the crew of this ship no longer supported the Ascendancy.
Romulans had been the Federation's allies in the war against the Dominion. Was
it possible they could be allies again? More to the point, Nog wondered, this
close to the end, was there really anything to lose?
"I'm the Integrated Systems Manager for Project Phoenix," he said. "Captain
Nog."
Karon looked gratifyingly impressed. "So you're in charge," she said with a
slight incline of her head.
"I manage the project," Nog replied. "The Admiral is in charge."
Karon pursed her lips and nodded. "I understand personal loyalt
y. Odd to see it
in a Ferengi, though. Perhaps our mission hasn't been wasted after all."
"What mission?" Nog said, deliberately ignoring her insult It was the fate of
the Ferengi to be misunderstood by all but their own kind.
Karon's cool gaze swept over him. "Perhaps you'd prefer getting dressed."
Nog looked down and felt his ears flush. He was still in his sleep shorts. His
pressure suit had apparently been removed as he slept. "Yes, I would," he said
stiffly. "But more than that, I would appreciate having someone look at this."
He held up his little ringer, trying not to grimace as he saw the strange angle
it took from his hand.
It required an agonizing twenty minutes to get his finger straightened and set
in a magnetic splint, and Karon apologized for the Altanex carrying no tissue
stimulators suitable for Ferengi biology. Her explanation for his injuries
seemed quite reasonable—that he'd broken his finger and bruised his temple when
he fell to the deck after being paralyzed.
Once he'd been treated, Karon offered him a change of clothing, and Nog quickly
pulled on a Romulan utility uniform—gray trousers, a tunic unfortunately
intended for a taller person, and black boots that were, surprisingly, the
perfect size. Then the Romulan centurion escorted him to Admiral Picard's guest
quarters.
To Nog's relief, the Old Man was asleep, not in a coma or dead. And in response
to his pointed questioning, Karon assured him that Picard's interrogators had
not used any force or psychological pressure, especially—here Karon paused and
fixed Nog with a measuring look—when it had become so quickly apparent that the
admiral was not in full command of his legendary faculties.
With the Old Man's condition confirmed, Nog allowed Karon to lead him to a
situation room three decks up. As he followed the Romulan, Nog studied what few
details the short passage revealed about the
vessel he was in. He wasn't certain what class of ship the Altanex was, but it
was obviously cramped and confined, and the paltry number of crew members they
passed suggested that it was also extremely small.
Lacking any other ready source of information, Nog had no reservations about
directly asking his escort about her ship.
"We're a listening post," she explained, as she adjusted the replicator in the