The War of the Prophets Page 7

  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.
/>   The surface of it was a large control surface, and the Vulcan swiftly tapped in

  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