“Why haven’t you at least tried to warn anyone, Dax?” Emony said, her words dripping with bitter accusation.
Dax felt genuine confusion. I don’t know what any of you are talking about.
“Perhaps you don’t.” This voice belonged to Joran Belar, a man whose sense of aesthetics had been matched only by his psychotic bloodlust. Dax had been well rid of that joining, late in the previous century.
You’re the last person I’d expect to encounter, Dax said. Here or anywhere else.
“You see what you want to see, Dax,” Joran said. “You always were a master of repressing whatever parts of yourself you’d rather not face.”
“It’s pure denial,” Ezri said, using her best counselor-to-patient tones.
“Why have you been holding back?” Tobin said.
Holding back? Holding back what?
Jadzia spoke up. “Your nightmares, Dax.”
Dax recalled the post-Lela visions of slashing jaws, and the terror and the helplessness that had always accompanied them.
And it remembered something else as well. Something that Dax hadn’t considered since Audrid’s lifetime—something it never wanted to consider. The part of Dax that was Ezri wondered, just for a moment, if its persistent apprehension regarding the pools was indeed somehow bound up with the events of that horrible day so long ago. If it bore any relationship to the tenebrous, obscene nightmare that had swallowed poor Jayvin Vod whole and had riven Audrid’s life and family for so many years…
Then Verad’s cold rage welled up from deep within. How dare his old hosts dredge such things up? My nightmares are my own affair.
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Curzon said. “Soon, half the galaxy will be living your nightmares.”
“Unless you rejoin with Ezri,” Audrid said. “And warn everyone.”
Why Ezri?
“Because we’re both aboard the Defiant,” Ezri said, her anger palpable. “Look, I don’t like this joining thing any better than you do. But we’re a long way from home. And we can’t afford to wait until a better match turns up.”
But your thoughts are so…jumbled. Disorganized. Unsubtle. I am better off without you.
“Ibid and op. cit. what I just said, slug,” Ezri said. “But I’m willing to take one for the team if you are.”
Tobin laughed, but without any evident humor. “‘Unsubtle thoughts’ ought to be an asset this time, Dax. It seems to me that too much subtlety is what created our mutual problem in the first place.”
“Or at least allowed it to remain hidden for so long,” added Curzon. “Perhaps past the point where it can ever be dealt with. But we gain nothing by waiting.”
“You know what you have to do, Dax,” Audrid said. And with that, all nine of them broke away, swimming in leisurely fashion back into the depths, dwindling and finally vanishing entirely from Dax’s sensorium.
Lost in troubled thought, Dax failed to notice the approach of a multitude of other shapes until they were very close. This time, there were dozens. More naked humanoids, none of whose faces Dax recognized. Among them were many Trills of both sexes, as well as members of various non-Trill species. From what little it could glean of their specific morphologies, Dax concluded that humans, Vulcans, Andorians, Tellarites, Rigelians, Orions, Ferengi, Romulans, Klingons, and even Vorta, and Jem’Hadar were among the bizarre press of flesh. There were also scores of others, from inside and outside the Federation. Members, allies, and enemies, as well as species Dax did not immediately recognize.
And all of them were dead, their bodies shredded and torn by forces Dax had seen on only one previous occasion, long ago. It could scarcely bear to think about it.
A body stirred among the corpses, then swam rapidly toward the symbiont. Dax wondered briefly if its predatory nightmare had finally returned for a day of reckoning.
Then he recognized the approaching being as Ezri Tigan. She had returned.
“So how about it, slug?” she said.
Acceding to the rational impulses of Curzon and Jadzia, Dax came to the decision that it knew could be put off no longer. The time for concealment is past. We will confront the old lies directly. Together.
Ezri’s answering smile was lost in a spray of bubbles as the universe suddenly turned inside out.
22
Ro Laren couldn’t recall a time when she’d been more tired and on edge, at least since she had left the Maquis. Just as in those days, sleep came in brief snatches, and the rest of her time in bed had been spent pondering her future, her evolving relationship with Quark, the religious schism on Bajor, the political rift between Bajor and Cardassia, the upcoming Federation signing, the health of Dizhei and Anichent, the whereabouts of the missing Jake Sisko, the flirtations of Hiziki Gard, and the effect she knew her announcement had had on Kira Nerys. Small wonder that slumber did not come easily.
Still, knowing that today’s proceedings were probably the most significant events she would ever witness, Ro found her body buzzing with energy. She made sure to press her back-up dress tunic, in case the one she was already wearing got stained or damaged. She even carefully styled her hair and applied a modicum of makeup, something she was generally loath to do.
Her morning had so far consisted of three security meetings. The first was the private briefing, held in her security office, that she had promised Hiziki Gard, who somehow managed to be charming despite the horrendous earliness of the hour. The next meeting was held in the wardroom, where she gave a final briefing to almost all of the guards and deputies serving on the station; those who were on duty and could not attend the meeting were given earpieces and a holofeed to enable them to follow the presentation. Sergeants Shul and Etana were tremendously helpful, and she knew she’d be able to rely on them implicitly.
Ro’s third meeting—also held in the wardroom—was with the various security contingents and representatives from the visiting dignitaries. As she surveyed the room, she saw the true diversity of the Federation and its allies; present were Vulcans, a pair of Bynars, two burly Klingons, a jovial-looking Bolian woman, a transparent-skulled Gallamite man, a voluminous female Denobulan, two diplomats from Skorr—and the ever-attentive Gard. Ro was surprised that no Cardassians were in attendance, but given the current impasse in the peace negotiations between her world and theirs, perhaps they were deliberately maintaining a low profile.
The representatives had asked a wide variety of questions, all aimed at safeguarding their respective delegates to the signing. Several of them were concerned about the previous evening’s disturbance in the Bajoran shrine, but Ro explained clearly that the Ohalavaru had been making a religious statement, and that they had expressed no interest whatsoever in interrupting the proceedings today. Most of them, in fact, had already left the station, since there had been little justification for keeping them in custody.
Gard had asked more probing questions, reviewing the capabilities of Ro’s security scanners, the types of weapons being screened, making sure that all personnel were alert for changelings or shrouded Jem’Hadar, and inquiring about the readiness and training of Ro’s deputies. Ro might have taken umbrage at some of the questions had they come from anyone else, but since she knew of Gard’s police background, she felt relatively at ease with his highly specific interrogation.
After being assured that the station’s shields would be up throughout the ceremony as an added precaution, most of the visiting security teams seemed satisfied with Ro’s elaborate measures. Even the Klingons grumbled only slightly, mainly at having to leave their bat’leths, d’k tahgs, and other bladed weapons in their quarters. Ro made a point of going out of her way to prepare each security contingent not to overreact at the sight of Taran’atar. She wondered if the war-weary peoples of the Alpha Quadrant would ever learn to be at ease in the presence of a Jem’Hadar soldier, however benign his current mission.
“Are there any further questions?” Ro asked, winding up the morning’s final security briefing. Seeing none, she
was about to adjourn the meeting and release everyone, when she saw Etana reenter the room, an unreadable expression on her face. The deputy made a subtle hand gesture, part of a set of prearranged signals which were well known to every member of Ro’s regular staff. Ro acknowledged Etana with a small nod. Something big is happening, but no lives are in danger.
“Thank you all for your attention and your help in making this historic event go smoothly and safely for all involved,” Ro said, adjourning the meeting. Etana quickly approached her as the wardroom emptied, and they partially turned their backs to the people still leaving.
“The Trager has just returned without calling ahead,” Etana said quietly. “Vedek Yevir is aboard. He and Gul Macet are awfully excited about something, but they won’t tell us what it’s all about yet.”
Ro sighed heavily. The last thing she needed right now was another complication.
23
I know this place, Julian thought a moment after the transporter beam released him. And he felt some genuine surprise that this should be so, given everything else he knew he’d forgotten.
Clad only in paper slippers and one of the loose, robe-like garments he recognized from his childhood doctor visits, he stood alone on the shattered stone steps that led to the entrance of the Hagia Sophia. But sixth-century Istanbul’s grandest cathedral was much smaller than it had been during his last visit. Its gleaming dome was far shallower than he remembered it, and now lay many meters closer to the sun-baked street. The structure gave the impression of a scale model, its entire physical footprint now scarcely larger than a Starfleet runabout.
Shrunken down, just like me.
Julian gazed around at the tumble of block buildings flanking the ancient cobblestone streets. Except for the faint echoes of some distant, semimusical noise, the city was utterly still. No people at all were in evidence, not Ezri, Nog, or anyone else. This realization made the small hairs on his neck stand up like vigilant soldiers.
At least Ezri was right about the monsters, he thought, seizing the notion for whatever small comfort it provided.
Perhaps, he thought, his friends had already gone inside the cathedral. That was where they’d said we were all going, after all. Into the cathedral. He knew that they had come here with him in search of healing. And this place was where he kept every cure and remedy he had ever studied.
Whatever he had not yet forgotten was either here, or nowhere.
Julian had to crouch to get through the door to the gallery at the cathedral’s perimeter. Once inside, he bumped his head painfully on the ceiling when he tried to stand up straight. The great gallery was cleared of the rubble he recalled from his previous visit, and it was as empty of people as the surrounding city. But the gallery was now only a narrow corridor, lined with makeshift walls of bricks and plywood. The low ceiling forced him to walk stooped over as he made his way toward the now-tiny staircase—
—which he now saw led up to a library doorway so small that not even Kukalaka would have been able to wriggle through it. There’s no help here, Julian thought, looking back over his shoulder at the way he had come. He saw that the door through which he had entered was now impossibly small as well.
Panic electrified him. Trapped!
He turned his head toward where he remembered a large external window ought to be. It was boarded up, but the wood didn’t look very strong. Curling into a fetal position on the marble floor, Julian braced his back against a gallery wall and pushed his feet against the wood with all his strength. He heard the building itself groan, as though its ancient bricks and mortar were actively struggling against him.
The wooden barrier suddenly gave way in a shower of chips and flinders, and his own momentum launched him like a missile through the window frame—
—and into a large, white, brightly lit chamber. He looked up and saw three people, two human women and a dour-faced Vulcan male, sitting behind a long table, gazing at him in expectation. All of them wore blue Starfleet uniforms.
“Well, Mister Bashir?” the Vulcan said. He sounded impatient, and not very much fun. “Which is it? A preganglionic fiber, or a postganglionic nerve?”
Starfleet Medical School, he thought, recalling a particular variety of panic he thought he’d locked safely away years ago. The oral exams.
“I…I’m afraid I don’t know…I can’t recall the answer to that, sir.”
One of the women, a brassy redhead with bright cherry-colored lipstick, glared at him as she pressed a large red button on the side of the table. “Another defective,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “He needs to be placed with the others.”
A pair of burly, white-clad hospital orderlies were suddenly flanking him, as though the woman had conjured them from thin air. They took his arms in a firm grasp, lifting him between them so that his feet couldn’t touch the ground. Before he could protest, they had whisked him out of the room and into a long, sterile-looking white corridor.
“This way, sir,” said the one on his right. Julian saw that the man’s collar bore stitching in the shape of three letters: DEE.
“We’ve got the perfect place for you,” said the other one. DUM was stenciled onto his collar.
They came to a stop before a small, open room whose broad entryway crackled with the telltale blue glow of a security force field. Four people stood, sat, or reclined in the chamber. As the orderlies placed Bashir on his feet and set about lowering the force field, one of the figures in the cell, a black-clad, goateed young man, leaped up onto a table. Atop his head was a wide-brimmed top hat. Tucked into the hatband was a large card bearing the inscription IN THIS STYLE 10/6. He regarded Julian in nervous silence, his eyes brimming with suspicion, his body bowstring-taut.
Julian knew he’d seen the hat before, as well as the lettering on the orderlies’collars. He supposed he’d seen both images, and perhaps some of the other oddities he’d encountered here, in the illustrations from some beloved children’s book whose title he could no longer recall.
The man in the hat, however, he recognized immediately.
“So who’s the new plebe, hmmm?” said the goateed man, his words spilling out like rapid-fire projectiles. “This is a private club, hmmm? We’re not accepting pledges at the moment. Try us again in a few months, hmmm?”
“Take it easy, Jack,” said one of the orderlies, standing in the entryway, the force field now down. Turning to address the other three people in the room, he said, “I want you all to meet Jules. You and he will be seeing a lot of each other from now on.”
“I’m not Jules,” Bashir said to the orderlies, who did not appear interested in responding. “My name is Julian.”
“Hi,” said a rotund, sixtyish male with a fringe of wild white hair who stood in the center of the room. He was smiling beatifically and holding a bottle whose neck bore a tag emblazoned with the words DRINK ME.
“I’m Patrick,” he said to Bashir. “Don’t mind Jack here. They say he’s antisocial.” Patrick punctuated the last word by turning the first two fingers of both hands into pantomime quotation marks. “But Jack’s not like me. Or Lauren.” He gestured toward a corner divan on which a young, dark-haired woman was sprawled in a languorous pose.
“Charmed,” said the woman, her body’s contours concealed very little by her tight-fitting scarlet jumpsuit. She smiled up at Julian with a predatory glint in her eyes that made Julian blanch. A silver tea service was arranged on a table beside the divan, and she sat up and began filling a quartet of delicate porcelain cups. “Welcome to our little tea party.”
“I don’t belong here,” Julian said to the orderly nearest him, stammering as he groped for the right words. “These people are having…unintended side effects. From…from their genetic, ah, resequencing.”
The orderly smiled condescendingly. “That’s right, Jules. Just as you are. Or have you already forgotten why you’ve come here?”
Then Julian noticed the silent, sandy-haired young woman who sat alone on a straight-b
acked chair in the opposite corner. Her eyes were vacant, set in a delicately structured face as pale as a classical marble statue. Sarina Douglas, Julian thought, recalling how someone who looked very much like him had once helped her regain the ability to speak and interact with the world. The romance that they had almost shared now seemed dreamlike, as though it were a memory that belonged to someone else.
Sarina abruptly lifted her eyes and looked around the cell. “I wasn’t asleep,” she said, smiling broadly though her voice was hoarse and weak. “I heard every word you fellows were saying.” Then she locked her gaze with Julian’s. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to join us, Jules.”
“Get in, Jules,” said the smiling orderly.
“Now,” said the other one, who was scowling dangerously.
“No,” Julian said. He took a step back.
“You’re one of us now, Jules,” Lauren said. Jack and Patrick grinned.
“No!” Julian screamed, backing away from the open cell. The two orderlies approached him. Both were scowling now, their thick biceps rippling beneath their short sleeves. The larger and meaner of the two grabbed for him. Julian twisted to the side without thinking, allowing the big man to overbalance himself and plunge hard onto the tile floor.
Before Julian could move farther, the second orderly had clasped him from behind in a bear hug, holding him fast as the first man began to regain his feet. Julian struggled, but simply didn’t have enough power or leverage to break free.
Suddenly, the orderly’s weight shifted, and the big man sank to his knees, releasing his grip. Julian pushed himself free, fell to the floor, and rolled into a crouch.
Jack gave out a long, ululating war whoop, his arms and legs wrapped around the orderly’s back and shoulders. Though the big man struggled to dislodge his rider, the wiry patient held on with the tenacity of a Tiberian bat.
The force field is still down, Julian realized as he regained his feet. The lunatics are out of the asylum.
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