Shar nodded. “You’re correct. The drain on the Defiant’ s replicator systems will be enormous. Setting up the transporter relay system will burn out the central replicator waveguides.”
“Meaning we’ll be without replicator technology for the rest of the voyage,” Nog said.
Vaughn appeared to take the news in stride. “It’s a small price to pay if it means restoring our friends. Besides, the cargo bays are adequately stocked with field rations and spare parts. If the plan works, I’m sure that we’re all prepared to ‘rough it’ until we’re back home.” He looked around the room, apparently looking for objections. There were none.
“The whole idea reminds me,” Bowers said, “of the self-replicating mines Starfleet set up outside the wormhole during the war to discourage the Dominion from bringing reinforcements into the Alpha Quadrant.”
Nog swelled with familial pride. Those mines had been conceived by his father, Rom, the year before he became the grand nagus of the Ferengi Alliance.
“That’s partly where I got the idea,” Nog said. “It’s also a natural extension of something I was already researching when we took the Sagan into the Oort cloud in the first place. Originally, I thought that the crystal lattice structures of the cloud’s comet fragments might be used as natural high-bandwidth enhancers for extending the range of our sensor beams. But when we almost collided with the alien artifact, we discovered that those crystalline bodies have another interesting property: Their subspace resonance patterns function like natural cloaking devices. Which is why we were almost right on top of the artifact before we even saw it.”
Shar set aside the padd he’d been studying, his eyebrows and antennae raised in evident admiration of Nog’s plan. “So this cloaking effect should prevent the Nyazen from detecting our away team’s transporter beam as it moves from relay to relay through the Oort cloud.”
“Possibly,” Nog said. “It’s a natural effect, so we can’t count on it working perfectly. But it should cover our tracks well enough to let us slip our away team onto the artifact from extreme range. If we’re lucky, the blockade ships will never even suspect what we’re up to. And we only need to be within transporter range of the first relay station to do it. The other relay stations in the series will take care of the rest of the transport.”
Tenmei looked skeptical. “As long as your figures aren’t off. You’ve got to take into account all of the mutual motions and gravitational interactions of all the comets and planetesimals in that part of the Oort cloud.”
“That was the hardest part,” Nog said, nodding. “But everyone seems to agree that my numbers check out.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “But we’re not going to know for sure until a real live away team steps into harm’s way.”
“So the first big question is, Who gets to join this away team?” Bowers said.
“The original Sagan crew, of course,” Vaughn said. “Ezri, the Dax symbiont, Nog, and Dr. Bashir.”
Bowers frowned. “I have to point out that we have no idea what’s inside that artifact. I’d feel more comfortable if some security or tactical personnel were going along. I’m volunteering, by the way.”
“I appreciate that, but no,” Vaughn said in a tone that did not invite debate. “Only the shuttle crew will beam over. I’m not going to put more people at risk.” Bowers subsided, though he still looked unhappy. Nog was mildly surprised to note that Vaughn had apparently taken to heart Sacagawea’s warning that only the original Sagan crew should venture onto the artifact.
On the other hand, what choice does he have but to believe? What choice does any of us have?
“The next big question is,” Ezri said, “Will it work?” Nog thought she sounded remarkably self-possessed. Still, his sensitive lobes detected a trace of well-concealed distress in her voice. He couldn’t help but admire her toughness.
“I am confident that this is going to work,” Nog said, his eyes locked with Ezri’s. “And we can be ready to deploy the first self-replicating transporter relay after Shar and I finish programming the prototype. It’ll take maybe three hours, tops.”
“The procedure is actually somewhat simpler than the mathematics would make it appear,” T’rb said.
“Unless you happen to be one of the people standing on the transporter pad,” Ezri parried gently. “Nog’s plan calls for the transporter relays to be beamed ahead of the away team by just a second or two. That’s pretty slim timing.”
“If we don’t beam the relays out at essentially the same time as we send the away team,” Shar pointed out, “the Nyazen ships are much likelier to discover what we’re trying to do and launch an attack before we can carry off the mission.”
“But it’s risky,” Ezri said. “The only test of the transporter relay series will be in actual use.”
Shar nodded, conceding her point. “I admit that there is a…nonzero possibility that one of the relays might fail during operation, or that the transporter beam carrying either a relay or the away team might be diffracted or scattered by the internal crystalline structure of one of the Oort cloud bodies. Either of those eventualities, of course, would immediately kill the away team. Also, if any of our coordinate lock calculations contain errors—”
“Just how much of a ‘nonzero possibility’are we talking about here?” Tenmei wanted to know.
Shar’s antennae were nearly flat against his head. Nog knew he hated to be pinned down like that, with so many chaotic variables at play.
“If I were a betting man,” Nog said, answering first, “I’d lay odds of seventeen or eighteen in twenty in favor of our surviving the process.” The riskier the road, the greater the profit.
“I agree,” Shar said.
Vaughn sat in silence, mulling it all over. He didn’t look happy with the odds, as good as they were. For a moment, Nog feared that he was about to be sent back to the drawing board again. Vaughn appeared to be about to speak—
—when Nog realized all at once that he was elsewhere. He was outside, standing on a city street, a warm rain running down his face. He looked up into the darkening sky and saw the Tower of Commerce looming above him.
“Come along, Nog!” the scowling woman in front of him said. She was middle-aged, and nude in the old-guard fashion of Ferengi females. He recognized her with a start.
Prinadora!
He looked down at his clothing, and saw that drab green Ferengi street clothes had replaced his Starfleet uniform.
Starfleet. He laughed at himself for even entertaining such a foolish hew-mon notion. Ever since his father’s death at the hands of the Cardassians had forced him to leave Terok Nor, he had been so busy cleaning up his mother’s financial messes that—
The Defiant’ s mess hall suddenly returned, and almost everyone’s face was a study in incredulity. Tenmei was opening up a tricorder.
“It wasn’t a bad place at all,” Bashir said, looking disoriented. “Not the way I expected.”
“I was back on the Destiny,” Ezri said, owl-eyed.
“What just happened?” Nog said, his voice a harsh whisper.
“The three of you,” Bowers said, almost stammering, “you, Lieutenant, ah, Tigan, and Dr. Bashir—you all just…vanished.”
Tenmei stood, carefully scanning the room with her tricorder. “For almost one second,” she said, “your quantum signatures synced up with some other nearby parallel universes. It’s another sign of your increasing quantum fluctuations. Fortunately you all snapped back to this reality as part of the oscillation. But there’s no guarantee you’ll be so lucky next time.”
“Well,” Vaughn said quietly. “We couldn’t have asked for a better demonstration of the consequences of doing nothing.”
“I don’t know about anybody else here,” Ezri said, “but I think I’d prefer the risk of scrambling my molecules to ending up in some random parallel universe. Or to the way I’m living right now, for that matter. I say we get on with it.”
Nog couldn’t see a
ny better alternative either. “I have to agree.”
Tenmei didn’t look convinced. “And once you’re aboard the artifact—what then?”
That question seemed to bring Ezri up short, at least for a moment. Nog realized then that he hadn’t thought that far ahead himself. He looked across the table at the inscrutable alien, as though the answer might reveal itself in the creature’s large, oil-black eyes.
“You will realign your worldlines,” Sacagawea said with surprising clarity. “Restore yourselves, you will. Or in the attempt, perish/disperse.”
No one spoke for almost another minute, and it was Commander Vaughn who finally broke the silence.
“There are times when we have to take certain things on faith. Considering our other alternatives—which consist of either doing nothing and losing the Sagan crew forever, or starting a fight with the Nyazen that we can’t win—I’m forced to conclude that this is one of those times. Mr. Nog?”
“Sir?”
Vaughn stood up, signaling that the briefing was coming to an end. “I want you and Shar to see to whatever technical preparations remain to be made. Let’s get busy.”
Bashir startled everyone by choosing that moment to speak. His earnest brown eyes were trained on Sacagawea as he said, “Why would anyone worship a thing that can destroy entire worlds?”
That struck Nog as an excellent question, though he hadn’t given the matter much thought before now. Sacagawea merely sat impassively, showing no overt evidence of having even understood the question.
“Many ancient Earth religions were built around some rather fearsome, angry gods,” Vaughn said. He sat once again, keeping a weather eye on the doctor as he continued. “Maybe the D’Naali and the Nyazen have developed similar belief systems.”
Ezri nodded in agreement. “That fits with everything we’ve seen so far. And it might explain their confusion about whether that artifact out there is a ‘cathedral’ or an ‘anathema.’ My guess is that they have a sort of love-hate relationship with whatever gods they worship.”
Again, Sacagawea said nothing, though the creature was looking in Ezri’s direction. The D’Naali either did not understand the drift of the discussion, or it was keeping its thoughts to itself.
Shar was scowling. “How much faith are we prepared to place in this alien religion?”
“Do we really have any other choice?” Vaughn said. Everyone rose, most of them clearly anxious to see Nog’s calculations finally put to some practical use.
“So the Kukalakans worship monsters,” Bashir said to Ezri in a plaintive, almost singsong voice. She took his hand again. “I wonder if any of them will be waiting for us inside the cathedral.”
Ezri’s reply was quiet, but not quiet enough to elude Nog’s sensitive Ferengi hearing. “I’ll be right beside you, Julian. And there aren’t really any monsters.”
Images of Taran’atar, Kitana’klan, and the Jem’Hadar hordes who took his leg at AR-558 sprang without warning to Nog’s mind. He wasn’t at all certain he agreed with Ezri’s reassurances.
Bashir didn’t look completely convinced either. But Nog saw no sign of panic on the doctor’s face. Despite his obviously stressed, diminished state, Bashir still seemed prepared to face whatever terrors awaited them all within the alien structure.
As Vaughn adjourned the meeting and dispatched everyone to their various tasks, Nog resolved that he could do no less. With Shar at his side, he walked briskly toward transporter bay one.
And tried very hard with every step not to think about his left leg.
Chief medical officer’s personal log, stardate 53580.3
While we were sitting in the place where Ezri and I eat, and where the captain sometimes calls meetings, I went away. There was a flash of light, and I was… gone. Sam Bowers says it wasn’t just a dream this time. He says we were actually off the ship, someplace else, for a second or two.
Sam says that Ezri and Nog went away, too. But they didn’t seem very happy about wherever it was they went. Nobody seems to want to talk about it much, so I’m telling the computer about it instead of worrying my friends with this. They already seem to have plenty to worry about.
It seems like I spent years in the place I vanished into during those few moments Sam said I was gone. It was as though I’d stepped into a whole different life for myself. I was still Julian Bashir—maybe nothing that doesn’t outright kill me can take that away—but I wasn’t the same Julian Bashir everybody here knows. I wasn’t a doctor, but I didn’t seem to mind that. My days were filled with plenty of interesting things to do and a great many wonderful people to speak with. I was living on Earth, where everything anyone needs pops out of replicators. Lack of professional credentials isn’t really a big issue in the heartland of the Federation the way it is in other places, after all. It was an alternate world, and I lived in it as an alternate Julian Bashir, although everybody there called me Jules, including my wife—who was also the mother of our two very happy, very healthy children, a boy of six and a girl of three.
It’s funny. I haven’t let anybody call me Jules since I first found out about my genetic enhancements as a teenager. That was when I started insisting that everyone call me Julian. From that time forward, I’d thought of Jules as dead, and never expected to hear from him again. But running into Jules again wasn’t the most unexpected thing about my little trip. The biggest surprise was discovering that Jules seemed to be a fairly happy man with a lot of friends and family who cared about him.
I can’t help but wonder which of us is better off, Jules or Julian. If I really am reverting into Jules, maybe I ought to stay this way.
18
Vedek Yevir had never paid much attention to his distaste for confinement, but he noticed that it had become unnaturally heightened ever since his visit to the crypts at the ancient city of B’hala months ago. Now, sealed into a bulky radiation suit and skulking about in the dust-choked streets and dim corridors of ruined Cardassia City’s Munda’ar Sector, he was becoming keenly aware of his burgeoning feelings of claustrophobia.
The entire group had come to the shattered core of this vast, secret storage facility. Garak explained to them that the building had formerly been maintained by the Obsidian Order, Cardassia’s powerful and deadly secret police. Nondescript from the outside, the squat gray building had apparently escaped obliteration during the Jem’Hadar bombing spree of the Dominion War’s final blood-soaked hours—but not by much. Still, Yevir was surprised at the extent to which the building, holed and broken though it was, remained intact and standing, given the utterly pulverized condition of the surrounding structures.
Most of the members of the Oralian Way who had come along had remained above, standing guard throughout the facility, alert for the inopportune appearance of any of the Way’s domestic political enemies. Only four of the combined group—Yevir, Macet, Garak, and Cleric Ekosha—had ventured into the subbasements. Yevir was quite surprised that the stout older woman was able to keep pace with the men, then reminded himself that neither he nor the two Cardassians were likely to be more than a decade and a half younger than she was.
Now the foursome was rappelling into the very bowels of the cracked and blasted structure—cautiously. Transporters were useless in this area, owing to the residual hard radiation levels, and not even Garak claimed to know for certain precisely what lay below them. The wrist-and belt-lights they all wore provided some illumination, but a dust-caked darkness seemed to close around them as they descended deeper. Every now and then, a fist-sized creature would come flying at them, apparently drawn by their lights—and obviously well adapted to radiation. Yevir hoped that the animals’ predatory-looking teeth couldn’t pierce their radiation suits, and that nothing larger awaited them further below. “They can’t smell us through these suits, can they?” he finally asked, after the sixth flapping creature dove past them.
“The utoxa? No, they can’t smell you,” Garak said, from the other side of Macet. “There could be some scot
tril down there, though, and they’ll be able to smell us easily, radiation suits notwithstanding. But phasers can stop them. Usually. If we see them before they see us.”
Yevir hoped that the Cardassian was smiling behind his face shield, but he couldn’t tell for certain. Prophets, protect me. You have not led me this far to allow me to fall to my death, or be eaten by a scottril. Whatever that might be. His prayer comforted him slightly. Enough to get his feet and hands moving again.
“The pattern of destruction seems to intensify as we descend,” Ekosha said, wonder and concern in her voice. “Are you certain anything could have survived this?”
“We have little more to proceed on than the word of Elim Garak, and our faith,” Macet said in a wry tone.
“I’m not at all certain whether to be wounded or flattered, Macet,” Garak responded. “But I must say I find your display of faith encouraging. There might be a place for you in the Oralian Way after all—if only you weren’t quite so ugly.”
Yevir heard Macet and Ekosha laugh, an incongruous sound filtering through their masks and the echoing darkness. Garak checked something on a wall panel, and a few meters below them several doors slid open. “We’re nearly there,” Garak said. “Drop down to the next level and I believe we will have arrived.”
Once all four of them had disengaged from their climbing ropes, they took stock of the room around them. There were numerous computer banks and monitors, all powered down but glowing with the dim light Yevir recognized as a still-functional emergency power source; evidently the radiation levels here were not so severe as up above. Three heavily armed Cardassian guards lay dead, their decomposing bodies scattered around the room, phaser burns visible precisely at the most efficient kill points.
As Garak powered up the computers, punching a number of buttons, it dawned on Yevir that DS9’s former tailor knew the system a little too well. He had clearly been here before. Had this been one of his previous postings, or had he been to this place more recently?
To their right, a few dim hallway lights came on, and a wall of interlaced metal bars shrank back into the walls. Down the hall, Yevir could see another dead guard near what was most likely the frame for a force-field barrier. It, too, was powered down. Finally, a giant metal door clanked partially open, spilling light from the chamber within.
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