“DO YOU BELIEVE?” Gul Dukat shouted, and his voice echoed in the darkness of the charnel house that was Deep Space 9.
Sisko fought to breathe as the Cardassian’s deadly chokehold tightened on his throat. He struggled to get a grip on his attacker’s arm, but it was as if Dukat’s hand were forged from neutronium, and Sisko began to despair of surviving this possessed creature, who was something other than an ordinary life-form.
“DO YOU?” Dukat spat into Sisko’s face, his foul breath so much stronger than the malodorous air surrounding them that it seemed to Sisko the Cardassian himself could be the source of the terrible stench. “Before you are thrown into the Fire Pits to burn for your sins, will you not confess your unworthiness?”
Sisko flailed uselessly, at last pointing to his gasping mouth, trying to form the words, “Can’t speak,” before he lost consciousness.
Dukat’s glittering eyes flickered. He angled his head. His hand began to reduce its pressure on Sisko’s swollen throat. Sisko’s heartbeat no longer thundered in his ears.
And then something dark streaked through the air above Sisko’s head, and he heard a thick thud of impact as Dukat’s hand released him, and the Cardassian fell back into darkness.
In the same moment, Sisko collapsed to his knees, gulping air, gagging, massaging his bruised throat. In his relief to finally get a breath into his strained lungs, the air no longer seemed as dreadful as it had earlier. Breathing almost normally, he looked up to see Arla at his side, the arm of one of the pod’s acceleration chairs balanced in her hand like a club—the weapon she had used against Dukat. She was peering into the dark shadows of the station, the only light on her the backglow from the pale yellow light in the airlock behind them, and beyond that the distant light from their travel pod.
She looked down at Sisko. “Are you all right, Captain?”
Sisko nodded and forced himself to his feet, half-stumbling on the ill-fitting robes he wore.
“Was that Gul Dukat?” Arla asked.
His throat still burning, Sisko shook his head in agreement.
And then a shriek came from the darkness. “… Unbeliever….”
“Dukat!” Sisko croaked. “We don’t want to fight you!”
“Then that makes it much easier for me!” Dukat screamed back, and from nowhere a solid fist struck Sisko in the side of the head, knocking him away from Arla, toward the open airlock.
Before Sisko could recover his balance, a shaft of bloodred light sprang from the open palm of Dukat’s hand and reached out to engulf Arla, five meters away, in a scarlet corona of energy.
The tall Bajoran cried out as sparks flew from her earring and she was lifted into the air, her body writhing, arms swinging, legs kicking furiously.
“Leave her alone!” Sisko jumped to his feet again, commanding Dukat to obey him.
The Cardassian turned and stared at him, head still cocked, its outline framed in a wild frothing spray of white hair in the radiantred backscatter of energy pulsing from his outstretched hand.
“Emissary,” Dukat intoned ominously, “you know I can’t do that. She’s Bajoran.”
“She’s no threat to you!”
Dukat drew his hand back and its red halo of energy cut off as if a switch had been thrown. Arla’s body fell at once, striking the deck heavily. She moaned, then lay still.
Sisko moved quickly to her side, checked for a pulse, felt it flutter in her neck.
Then he became aware of Dukat towering over him. Sisko looked up, for the first time noticing the red armband the Cardassian wore, and understood what it meant.
“Follow me,” Dukat ordered. For now his hollow eyes were shadowed, dark.
“Why?” Sisko said, cradling Arla in his arms.
The white-haired figure shrugged. “Because, Emissary, you have already come back from the dead, just as I have. What more can I do to you that the Prophets have not already done? Yet think what you might learn….”
Then, with a flourish of the dark robes he wore, the Cardassian whirled around and walked into the shadows. The movement caused a rush of evil-smelling air to wash over Sisko, and he swayed back beneath its force. Recovering, he glanced at the open airlock, though he knew the damaged travelpod could not be used again.
He had no choice now.
He lifted up Arla’s unconscious form and followed after Dukat, the path taking him deeper into the unknown darkness of a Deep Space 9 he did not know.
Sisko emerged onto what once had been the Promenade, though there was little now that was familiar to him.
In the half-light of a handful of flickering yellow fusion tubes, Sisko could see no sign of any stores or kiosks, only a circular sweep of bare metal deck puddled here and there with dark liquid and framed by empty, open storerooms.
And there were the corpses, too, of course. The reason why the air was so awful here and throughout the station.
From what was before him, Sisko guessed at least a hundred had died, more if the scattered, haphazard piles of robed figures were the same in the other sections of the Promenade that he couldn’t see.
And the slaughter must have gone on for some time. A few of the bodies were little more than skeletal remains. Some were still covered with flesh, though that was black and shriveled. And others were only a few days old, fresh like those to be found on battlefields, already swelling with the potent gases of decay.
The only thing they shared, other than the silence of the dead, was a thin band of red cloth, tied around each arm—just like Dukat’s.
“My congregation,” Dukat proclaimed proudly.
He stood on a platform, a pulpit that was little more than a hull plate balanced on top of a battered metal bench and half-covered by a filthy white cloth.
“Can you hear the applause?” Dukat cried as he closed his eyes briefly in bliss. “The cheers and the joy?”
Sisko shifted his deadweight burden, trying to change Arla’s position within his tiring arms, to ease his aching back. The Bajoran was half a head taller than he was, and well muscled. And heavy. She stirred and gave a faint cry, but he didn’t want to put her down here. There was no clear space that had not been fouled by the dead.
He called out to Dukat. “Do you follow Weyoun? Or does Wey—”
“SILENCE!” Dukat thundered, and a ruby bolt of fire shot from his hand to scorch the deck at Sisko’s feet. In an instant, the dark metal there turned dull red with heat and a nearby puddle of unidentifiable liquid became steam, filling the air with a choking, noxious cloud of what smelled like sewer gas.
“Weyoun.” Dukat spat the name out contemptuously. “The Pretender. The Puppet. A mindless plaything of those unfit to dwell within the Temple.”
Sisko looked around, confused. Whatever Dukat had been up to here, it had been going on for months at least, if not years. So why had Weyoun brought Sisko and the other survivors from the Defiant here? Unless …
“Dukat—where are we?”
Dukat gestured grandly to each side of his makeshift pulpit. “In my domain: as it was, as it always shall be, Terok Nor without end. Amojan. Can I hear an Amojan?” He peered down at Sisko, his eyes aflame once more, his terrible gaze stopping on Arla. “Ah, I see you’ve brought a sacrifice. An innocent. To die like all the others you condemned so long ago, to bless this station.”
“No,” Sisko said quickly. He nodded at the bodies that surrounded them. “Is that who these people are? What they became? Sacrifices?”
Dukat held out his arms, hands cupped, as if seeking and receiving the adulation of a crowd. “Can you not hear them, Emissary? They have such courage to resist the beguiling promises of the False Prophets. As you well know.”
“Which Prophets are those?” Sisko grunted, as he had to let Arla’s body slip down, resting it full length against his to support her upright though still unconscious form. “Weyoun’s Prophets from the red wormhole? Or those from twenty-five years ago, in the blue wormhole?”
Dukat reeled back, as if startled by the question. Then he leaped down from his platform, advancing on Sisko, his scaly, bare feet splashing through the murky pools of liquid on the metal decking of the Promenade.
“You still don’t know, do you?” Dukat crowed in amazement.
“Know what?”
Dukat’s gap-toothed smile was almost a leer. This close to his old adversary, Sisko now saw how cruelly the years had treated him, not only turning his hair white but deeply furrowing his skin, whose loose folds now hung from his chin and jowls, emphasizing his gray reptilian knobs and plates.
“I’ve missed you,” Dukat sneered. “Oh, the times we had, the places we’ve been.”
“You were going to tell me something.”
Dukat nodded gravely. “I was going to kill you. Back then. Before the war was over. I had traveled so far, learned so many things, and then I returned. Did they tell you that? I returned to Damar and Weyoun, determined to obtain from them a simple carving … a trifling piece of wood, really. But it had the power to drive the False Prophets from their Temple. To restore Kosst Amojan and the Pah-wraiths to their realm of glory. And to destroy you so utterly ….” Dukat’s grin was terrifying. “So imagine my surprise when Damar told me you were already dead, swallowed by a wormhole. End of story. End of revenge. End of everything.
“Do you understand the irony of that moment?” Dukat snickered, and spittle flew from his open mouth. Sisko turned his face away to avoid breathing the same air. “I came back with plans for my ultimate triumph, but you had already taken it from me, defeating me before you even knew the battle had begun. And then, just to prove that the False Prophets have a sense of humor like no other, since Damar had no other use for me, he had me arrested. For treason.”
“But not killed,” Sisko said, drawing Arla closer to him. “How merciful.”
Dukat reached out to pat Sisko’s shoulder and trail a horn-like fingernail along Arla’s insensate cheek. “Oh, I’ve died a thousand times since then, Captain. I’m dead now. In a way, I suppose, I always have been.” He frowned at Arla. “Isn’t she tiring you? I could take her if you’d like.”
“I can manage. Why was Weyoun bringing me to see you?”
Dukat exploded with laughter. This time there was no way to avoid the spray. Sisko closed his eyes just in time. “He was doing no such thing, Emissary! He needs you to end the universe. But I saved you! Brought you here, out of his reach. And as long as you stay here, the universe cannot end. It’s such a simple plan, don’t you think? And all you have to do …” And here, Dukat’s voice dropped deeper, became louder. “… is remain here forever, like all my congregation.”
Sisko edged back, keeping Arla close to him, as the red light in Dukat’s eyes began to grow in intensity.
“Do not be afraid,” Dukat commanded, raising his hands so that Sisko could see the sparks of crimson that were beginning to crackle across his fingers and palms like milling insects of light. “I have eaten the heart of Kosst Amojan. I have crushed the foul Pah-wraiths who dwelled in the Fire Caves. I am on your side now, Emissary! We serve the same lost Prophets!”
Then double rays of red light slammed into Sisko and Arla, driving her inert body into his so the two of them fell backward and into a slushy mound of soft bodies.
In the explosion of decomposed tissue and fluids that erupted around them, Arla slipped from Sisko’s grasp. But the pungent smell finally awoke her, and she flailed about in the ghastly detritus as, half-conscious and confused, she tried and failed to get to her feet.
Dukat ignored her and held out his fiery hand to Sisko. “Join me,” he roared in his demonic voice, “and the universe shall be saved for all time!”
And despite the absolute horror of Dukat’s temple and the nightmare world that Deep Space 9 had become, Sisko at last heard something in the ghastly Cardassian’s entreaty. Something offering hope.
Sisko took a deep breath. Why couldn’t he join Dukat? Why couldn’t he reach out to the Cardassian’s hand and thereby change the fate of the universe?
After all, Sisko thought, I already know I’m lost. Everyone who had come forward in time with him on board the Defiant was lost. And if things continued as Weyoun and even Starfleet seemed to believe they would, then all of existence was lost as well.
It would be so simple. So easy. So … worthwhile.
Sisko got to his feet, took a step forward.
“HERETIC!”
The cry had come from Arla. Sisko had forgotten she was even present. “What are you saying?”
Stained and disheveled but standing once again, the Bajoran pointed a shaking finger at Dukat. “Look at him, Captain,” she shouted accusingly. “He’s wearing the robes and armband of a Pah-wraith cult.”
Sisko stared incredulously at Arla. He knew about the Pah-wraith cults because of what had happened to his son when the Reckoning had played out on Deep Space 9. But how did Arla, a nonbeliever, know about such things?
“She’s a lost child,” Dukat crooned. “You don’t have to pay any attention to her. Take my hand, Emissary. Take my hand and save existence.”
The Reckoning, Sisko thought wildly. So many questions swirled through his mind. Why couldn’t he voice at least one of them?
“You’ll be able to hear them cheering,” Dukat said silkily as he gazed at the bodies around them. “You’ll be able to feel their love ….” His eyes flashed scarlet, went dark, flashed again.
Love, Sisko thought hazily. He had lost Kasidy. He had lost … “My son—what about Jake?”
“He’s a lovely boy,” Dukat said. “And he’s waiting for you. Take my hand …. You’ll see him for yourself.”
“You can’t believe him, Captain,” Arla warned.
“Whose side are you on?” Sisko demanded of her. He looked at Dukat. “Whose side are you on?”
“The side of truth,” they both answered together.
Then they looked at each other and hurled the same word at the same time, “Liar!”
Sisko stepped back again, clarity suddenly freeing him. “I know where we are!” he exclaimed. “The wormhole!” He looked from Dukat to Arla. “This is some sort of Orb experience! You’re … you’re both Prophets!”
Dukat howled with scornful laughter. “Really, Emissary. How naive. Can Prophets die?”
And then, as if brushing dust from his robes, Dukat lifted his hand and a blast of energy felled Arla. She crumpled with a terrible finality to the floor. A thin trickle of blood trailed from the corner of her mouth.
“No one’s had an Orb experience since Weyoun returned from the second Temple,” Dukat said in the awful silence. “You must accept the truth, Emissary. It is now, and you are very much here.”
“I don’t believe you,” Sisko insisted, feeling dazed and doubtful. Arla wasn’t dying, couldn’t be dying, not in the wormhole. “There was a flash of light in the travelpod,” he told Dukat. “Like an Orb being opened. That’s when all this started.”
“True,” Dukat agreed. “Except that the light was my transporter, not an Orb.”
Sisko fell to his knees and placed a hand on Arla’s throat. Nothing. No pulse this time. He struggled to remember something Weyoun had said. “But transporters aren’t allowed in the Bajoran system.”
“Have you asked yourself why that should be?” Dukat asked. “What Weyoun is really afraid of?”
“He’s afraid of attack.” Sisko didn’t know why he felt compelled to answer the madman—unless it was the influence of the Prophets.
The light in Dukat’s red eyes flared again. “Or is he afraid of escape?”
“Escape to where, Dukat?” Sisko asked in frustration. Then Arla’s pulse quickened to sudden life under this hand. “You see,” he said in triumph, “she’s not dead!”
“Emissary, I can’t believe you’re being this obtuse. Look where you are.”
“Deep Space 9!”
“Yet that station was destroyed, was it not?”
“The Defiant was restored! Obviously the station was, too.”
Dukat shook his head ponderously. “But it wasn’t.”
Sisko had had enough. Arla was alive. So was he. Where there was life there was something to fight for. “Then how can we be here?”
Dukat’s eyes glowed with insanity. “It’s as easy as looking into a mirror and—”
A silver beam sliced through the air, smashing Dukat to one side.
Sisko recognized a directed-energy weapon attack when he saw one, and reflexively he grabbed Arla and pulled her back, to shield her.
But she fought in his grip. “Let go of me! You’re no better than—”
Her body stiffened. Her protest ceased. She saw what Sisko saw.
For all around them, in the ruins of what once had been Sisko’s Deep Space 9, from every dark shadow and alcove …