The War of the Prophets

  The cloning facility, you see, had... outlived its usefulness."

  "You mean, you destroyed it."

  "You know very well it was in Cardassian territory, so—technically—the

  Cardassians must take the blame for its loss, because they would not surrender.

  Believe me, Odo, I would have preferred to have kept at least some other Vorta

  around to help me through these diffi­cult years."

  "You're sure you're the last of your kind?"

  Weyoun nodded. "Just as you are the last of yours. At least in the Alpha

  Quadrant. Isn't that reason enough that we should be united in our purpose?"

  "And what purpose would that be?" Odo steeled himself to continue the discussion

  with the odious crea­ture before him. The more Weyoun babbled on, the more

  information he would supply that might suggest a way out of this intolerable

  situation.

  "Think of the suffering you've endured, Odo."

  Odo loathed the false concern in Weyoun's oily voice, but gave no outward

  indication of his feelings, waiting to see what the Vorta really wanted from

  him.

  Encouraged, Weyoun wanned to his argument that he and Odo were soulmates. "Cast

  out by your own people. Forced to become a plaything of Bajoran and Cardassian

  scientists. Never really belonging to any world, even your own when you returned

  to the Great Link. But you and I... we share so much pain. Isn't it right and

  proper that we should dedicate our lives to eliminating pain forever?"

  "Pain is a necessary part of life," Odo said gruffly. "It enables us to

  appreciate pleasure."

  Weyoun gazed at him thoughtfully. "I never knew you had such a philosophical

  streak hi you."

  "Do you really want to end my pain?" Odo asked skeptically. "And the pain of all

  the others from the De­fiant?"

  Weyoun bowed his head as he had done countless times in Odo's presence, but not

  this time to Odo. "The cessation of pain, the onset of joy ... that is the will

  and the one goal of the True Prophets," he intoned.

  "Then free us," Odo said.

  Weyoun sighed, lifting his head. "You're not being held prisoner here. You're

  being protected."

  "It seems some words have changed their meanings in the past twenty-five years."

  "Not words, Odo. The galaxy has changed. The Fed­eration has become an

  abomination. Starfleet an organi­zation of brutal murderers. If I gave you a

  shuttlecraft and sent you to ... to Vulcan... or Andor, do you know how long

  you'd last?" Weyoun didn't even pause before answering his own question. "They'd

  shoot you out of space before you finished opening nailing frequencies."

  For no distinct reason he could articulate, Odo was beginning to feel that he

  really wasn't in immediate danger from Weyoun. It was obvious that the Vorta had

  been changed in some way. Whatever set of neurons in his brain had been

  programmed to revere changelings had somehow been reconfigured to revere the

  Pah-wraiths instead. Recalling that once even the Ferengi Grand Nagus Zek had

  been altered beyond recognition, having entered the first wormhole, only to

  reemerge as an altruist determined to give away his fortune. As a re­sult, Odo

  now had little doubt that alteration of funda­mental personality traits was well

  within the capability of wormhole beings.

  But still it somehow also appeared to Odo that Wey­oun maintained a type of

  residual respect for him. The Vorta seemed anxious that he talk with him, listen

  to him, perhaps even come to understand him. And just as Weyoun's worship of him

  had been advantageous in the past, Odo decided that in this situation, it was

  still worth capitalizing on any remaining shadow of that be­havior, no matter

  how distasteful it was.

  "Weyoun," he began, without a trace of his previous challenging attitude,

  choosing instead to play along al­together with whatever Weyoun was up to, "I

  acknowl­edge there is a great deal about this time I don't understand. But if

  there is just one question you can an-

  swer for me now, then tell me: Why are the people from the Defiant so dangerous

  to the Starfleet of this time that they would kill us on sight?"

  Odo was gratified by the effect of his changed tone on Weyoun, who responded by

  lowering the inhibitor and no longer making a point of threatening him with it

  "Rest assured it's not you, Odo. It's Captain Sisko."

  Odo kept his surprise to himself. "Why him?"

  The Vorta regarded Odo earnestly. "Because he's the False Emissary to the False

  Prophets. And according to prophecies of Jalbador, the One True Temple cannot be

  restored until the False Emissary accepts the True Emissary."

  Weyoun's face became grave. "There are those in Starfleet who have determined

  that if they can prevent Captain Sisko from being present when the two halves of

  the Temple at last open in conjunction, the Day of Ascendancy will be postponed

  for millennia."

  It was beginning to make sense to Odo. "So every­one knew that the Defiant

  hadn't been destroyed along with DS9. That the snip had been caught in a

  temporal rift."

  Weyoun nodded. "Not at once, of course. But as the Ascendancy regained its

  rightful position of primacy on Bajor—oh, I tell you, Odo, no world has ever

  seen such a cultural flowering. You would not believe the treasures those

  Bajoran monks concealed over the centuries, be­cause they contradicted the

  teachings of the False Prophets. It is only now that ancient texts thought lost

  forever have been brought out into the light. Together with all of the writings

  and prophecies that... that the world had forgotten even existed, all of them

  hidden in caverns, walled-up in temples...."

  Odo forgot himself for a moment. "And these texts, these writings, described the

  Defiant's return, did they?"

  But Weyoun just smiled, and waggled a finger at him. "I hear that skeptical

  tone. And, no, the ancient texts didn't say that a twenty-fourth-century

  starship named the Defiant would be caught in a temporal rift only to reappear

  twenty-five years later."

  "Didn't think so."

  "Ah, but several texts did say that the False Emissary would arise from those

  who had perished at the fall of the gateway, just as I explained to Captain

  Sisko. The three great mystics of Jalbador—Shabren, Eilin, and Naradim—they had

  to describe their visions hi the con­text of their time, you know."

  "Weyoun," Odo said, choosing his words with care, "I have no doubt that ancient

  mystical texts can be in­terpreted to support recent events. Humanoids have been

  doing that for millennia on hundreds of worlds. What I find troubling is that

  you say Starfleet has also accepted these interpretations."

  "What's left of Starfleet. Yes."

  "Then what I don't understand is why Starfleet would accept that the writings on

  which you base your faith are true, yet not then also accept your faith."

  Weyoun's smile faded from his face, and for just an instant Odo thought he

  detected the flash of a red shift in the Vorta's clear gray eyes. "In the final

  battle to determine the fate of the universe," Weyoun said passionately,

  "Starfleet, for reasons which no sane mind can comprehend, has chosen to support

  th
e wrong side. Could we say they are afraid of that which they don't

  understand? That they're afraid of change? Or is it something simpler, Odo? Can

  we

  simply say that in a universe in which all sentient be­ings have been given free

  choice, some, invariably, will choose evil?"

  The Vorta paused as if in contact with something or someone of which Odo was

  unaware, and then discon­certingly began speaking again as if there had been no

  interruption in his speech. "These same questions have been asked since the True

  Prophets created sentient be­ings in their own image, and I doubt we will answer

  them here in engineering."

  Even though he sensed Weyoun becoming threaten­ing again, Odo pushed on.

  "Weyoun, all things being equal, how can I know that it's not you who've

  chosen... evil?"

  The Vorta studied him for a moment before respond­ing. "You know, if my crew had

  heard that question come from you, Odo, not even I could have acted fast enough

  to save your life. If anyone else had asked that question, I would not even try

  to save him. But you and I... ?" Weyoun sighed deeply. "I will make al­lowances.

  But just this once. Do you understand?"

  Odo nodded. "I understand I'm not to question you like that again."

  An appreciative smile touched Weyoun's mouth. "Spo­ken like a Vorta." And then

  he was deadly serious again. "If you truly want to know who has allied

  themselves with the forces of evil, consider this, Odo: My forces res­cued you

  and your ship from a Starfleet attack wing."

  "Only," Odo interjected, "because you need Captain Sisko to fulfill your

  prophecy."

  "Exactly!" Weyoun said, apparently unoffended by the interruption. "I do need

  Captain Sisko alive. But the ancient texts say nothing about you, Odo. Or about

  the

  others I saved with your captain. If I were serving some evil purpose, would it

  make sense for me to keep you all alive? Or would I simply have you killed? Just

  as those Starfleet ships tried to do?"

  The Vorta held up his inhibitor device and checked its energy level. "It's time

  for you to go back to the oth­ers now, Odo. Tell them what we've talked about.

  Be especially sure to tell Captain Sisko that if this ill-conceived escape

  attempt by some unimaginable set of circumstances had worked, all he would have

  been es­caping from was my protection, while at the same time delivering himself

  up to those whose only goal is to kill him."

  Weyoun twisted a control on the inhibitor and, shockingly, Odo felt his outer

  surface instantly begin to lose its integrity, shifting from his Romulan

  disguise to his usual humanoid form.

  Weyoun waved the inhibitor at him. "I think you would agree, Odo, that my

  scientists have made a great many advances in the time you've been gone. Just

  re­member I can use this to turn you into a cube of dura-nium and have you

  thrown out an airlock if I have to."

  Odo shivered in spite of himself. In a way, the expe­rience of forced

  transformation had been nice being in the Great Link. But in that surrender of

  individuality he himself had made the choice. Weyoun's machine had just chosen

  for him.

  Weyoun's voice again filled his ears. "Tell Sisko what I've told you," the Vorta

  said with finality. "If you want to live, I am the only hope you have."

  CHAPTER 11

  it had been two years since he had had a new uniform. These days, replicator

  rations for nonessentials were nearly impossible to obtain. But while the words

  "nearly impossible" might be a roadblock for some Starfleet captains, to a

  Ferengi Starfleet captain they were a challenge. So two days ago, beginning with

  a priceless bottle of Picard champagne—vintage 2382, the last great year before

  the Earth's destruction—Nog had begun a complex series of trades that had not

  only resulted in his obtaining enough priority replicator ra­tions to

  requisition ten new uniforms, but he had also acquired use of one of the last

  remaining private yachts in Sector 001.

  Technically, the Cerulean Star was the property of the Andorian trade

  representative in New Berlin. But since the trade mission didn't have access to

  adequate civilian antimatter supplies, the yacht had not been

  used in ten months, and the New Berlin representative was certain that no one at

  her consulate would miss it—provided Nog returned it in three days and left

  enough Starfleet antimatter in the ship to reach Andor.

  Given his transit time to Starbase 53, that left Nog thirty hours to pick up his

  passengers and warp back to Mars. There would then be ten days left until the

  end of the universe.

  "But at least I'll face it wearing a new uniform," Nog said aloud.

  He stood in the surprisingly large stateroom of the Andorian yacht, in standard

  orbit of a heavily-shielded Class-B asteroid in the lifeless Largo system,

  checking his virtual reflection in the holographic mirror that cir­cled him.

  Over the past year, he had noticed how his old uniforms had begun to fray, but

  not how the color at his shoulder had faded. This new uniform was an

  im­pressively rich black—it showed every speck of dust and lint—and its shoulder

  was a vivid, saturated crim­son. Not quite a dress uniform, but it would do.

  Be­cause for what he was about to attempt, he was determined to look his best.

  Satisfied that the uniform was as perfect as he had time to make it, Nog donned

  a matching crimson head-skirt and tapped his combadge.

  "Captain Nog," he said. "One to beam down."

  There was no verbal acknowledgment of his request, but he was on schedule, and

  three seconds later the An­dorian stateroom dissolved into light, then reformed

  as the transporter room in Starbase 53's main ground in­stallation, deep within

  the asteroid's core.

  As Nog had arranged, Captain T'len of the Augustus was waiting for him.

  "Captain," Nog said as he stepped down from the pad, "it is good to see you

  again."

  T'len kept her hands folded behind her back. "This is most irregular."

  Nog hid a smile. He liked Vulcans. They never wasted time—an attribute he had

  come to appreciate during his Starfleet career. "I agree," he said.

  T'len raised an eyebrow. "I refer to your request, not the overall situation."

  Nog was ready for that. "If it were not for the overall situation, I wouldn't

  have made my request."

  T'len angled her head slightly in the Vulcan equiva­lent of a shrug. "Point

  taken." She gestured to the door, and Nog hung back a step to let her lead the

  way. Though they shared the same rank, T'len was also a starship commander, and

  hi the subtle, unwritten tradi­tions of the Fleet, that gave her greater

  privilege.

  Nog followed in T'len's wake as she turned left out­side the transporter room

  and walked toward the turbo-lift. Automatically, he noticed yet discounted the

  poor state of repair of the walls—sizable dents, repair patches of differing

  colors, irregular stains from cracked conduits mat had leaked in the past.

  Starfleet had been operating under extreme wartime conditions for more than ten

  years. Mere appearance, like frayed uniforms, was not at the top of anyone's

  list of problem
s to solve.

  "How have they adjusted?" Nog asked T'len, as they neared the turbolift alcove.

  "Impossible to characterize except on an individual basis."

  "So, some of them have adjusted better than others?"

  Nog caught T'len's swift sideways glance at him. "If their state of adjustment

  varies according to each indi-

  vidual, then logic suggests that of course some have ad­justed better than

  others. You will find out for yourself in just a few minutes."

  "I'd like to be prepared."

  The Vulcan seemed to accept that explanation. "Then you should be prepared for

  the human civilian Vash. I have recommended that she remain in custody here,

  until... the end of hostilities."

  What a euphemism, Nog thought, and he wondered who had first used it.

  Hostilities would end in less than two weeks, either with Starfleet's being

  successful in obliterating most of Bajor or with the end of the uni­verse. At

  the end of hostilities, either Vash would be re­leased, everyone would have new

  uniforms, walls would be painted, planet-wide celebrations would be held... or

  else nothing would ever matter again.

  But the end of the universe was not a topic of con­versation in which Starfleet

  officers engaged. Quite properly, official directives stressed that all

  personnel were to focus on the mission, not the consequences.

  "What's Vash likely to do?" Nog asked. "Escape?"

  "In a manner of speaking. She is intent on returning to her own time."

  Nog knew better, but couldn't resist. "Would that be so bad?"

  T'len stopped and turned to him. "If Vash returned to her time and revealed what

  she had learned of our time, history would be changed."

  "I ask the question again: Would that be so bad?"

  Nog was not naive enough to interpret T'len's ex­pression of surprise as

  evidence of her abandonment of all pretense of Vulcan self-control. "Captain

  Nog, you are the Integrated Systems Manager for the Phoenix."

  Though not quite sure why T'len was stating some­thing so obvious, Nog waited,

  gambling on her explain­ing herself without his having to interrupt.

  "Thus you understand the logic of time travel," she said.

  Nog frowned. "Some would say there is no logic to time travel."

  T'len looked away for a moment as if gathering her thoughts—as if a Vulcan ever

  needed to do that. "If Vash—or indeed, if any of the crew of the Defiant—are