Ro wasn’t as knowledgeable as some about her planet’s history, but she certainly knew the high points—and it seemed that almost all of them were in the book that Istani Reyla had hidden just before her death, the events written about thousands of years before they happened.
And the way it’s written . . . With as much truth as there was in the text, its secular nature could be considered a threat to Bajor’s religious structure. Could be, although Ro wasn’t sure; between the bizarre, often twisted metaphors and the occasional rantings about persecution, whoever had written it had almost certainly been insane.
Insane but eerily accurate. Eyes burning and shoulders aching, Ro flipped to the next page on the padd, fascinated and more than a little awed. The writings in the book were almost random in terms of significance, from the grand building of B’hala, to a good kava harvest in 1423—but so far as Ro knew, all of it had come to pass. She’d checked out a few things against the station’s library, and hadn’t managed to find a single discrepancy. A lot of the names were different, the translation program unable to decipher quite a few of them, but the descriptions of the events were so clear that it didn’t matter. They were even roughly chronological, beginning with the adversarial relationship between the Prophets and the Pah-wraiths, and their war over the Celestial Temple. (“Temple” and “Prophets” seemed to be very close to the actual written words, but the term used for the Pah-wraiths translated to something like “fire-living spirits.”) It continued through the dissolution of the D’jarra caste system with what the book called “the coming of the gray warriors.”
Ro was just getting into the Occupation—the domination of the land and its children, in book-speak— when she realized she’d been sitting still for too long. She leaned back and stretched, rubbing her eyes, feeling excited and afraid and uncertain all at once.
“Computer, what time is it?”
“The time is 2512.”
Ro blinked, thinking it was no wonder she was so sore. She’d been hunched over the book for well over four hours. She stood up and walked to the replicator, ordering ice water and a small fruit salad with sugared protein sauce. She ate standing up, gazing blankly at the ancient book itself, her thoughts all over the place.
Istani knew how important it was—whether the writer was crazy or not, it’s a book of prophecy in which the prophecies are actually consistent and precise. She stole it from B’hala, and someone who knew it came after her and killed her for it, because . . .
Ro frowned, mentally backing up a step. How did anyone know Istani had taken it? The prylar had gone out of her way to hide it once she reached the station— but was that because she knew it was valuable, or because she knew someone was coming for it?
She signed out of B’hala, but didn’t get to the station until a day and a half later. Maybe she showed it to someone—Galihie S., for instance—before she left Bajor. And maybe Galihie wasn’t all that thrilled about her keeping the book for herself. He could have been an artifact collector, or a religious fanatic, or a business partner . . . maybe he was her lover, and he killed her simply because she left him.
Until I know something about Galihie, I can only guess about why he did it. Unless—
—unless it was something in the text itself, something that Galihie didn’t want to be known. Something that had happened and been written about, that could damage him somehow . . . or something that hadn’t happened yet, that he’d wanted to keep hidden.
Ro carried her half-finished salad back to the table and set it aside, picking up the padd again, her aches forgotten for the moment. She skimmed through the Occupation, pausing only long enough to read about what had to be the Kendra Valley massacre before reaching a series of prophecies regarding the Dominion war . . . and a man who could only be Captain Sisko. Several pages from the book had apparently been torn out from the time period immediately following the war, but a few pages were intact. Ro skipped around, hoping that something would catch her eye—and something finally did.
Ro read and re-read the prophecy of the Avatar, her stomach knotting, feeling really afraid for the first time since picking up the translation. Two of the pages leading up to the prophecy were gone, but there was enough—and if there was even a chance that it was true. . . .
It was late, but there was no getting around it. It was time to talk to Colonel Kira.
* * *
After Quark left him at the airlock—the bartender walking away with a few more strips of latinum than he deserved—Jake stepped aboard the Venture, a little shocked at how easy things were turning out to be. After about an hour of hanging around with Nog, Jake had returned to his quarters and packed a few necessities, reaching the airlock without running into anyone. Quark had overcharged him, but hadn’t asked any questions, either, and had managed to scrounge up a temporary registration license for a few extra strips. Although the personal craft was a little run-down accommodationwise, its warp and impulse engines were in decent shape.
It’s perfect. Or good enough, anyway . . . assuming I keep the lights down. Jake sat his bag down on a padded bench, smiling as he looked around at the gaudily upholstered cabin—everything was striped purple, gold, and green, even the floors. According to Quark, the twenty-year-old Bajoran-built Venture had been the private shuttle of a humanoid gambler once upon a time, a woman who had made some poor investment choices during the war and had been forced to auction her assets. In spite of the opulence of the décor, tired though it was, the replicator could only churn out simple proteins and carbohydrates and the bed was a string hammock, but it would get Jake where he needed to go.
Soon, Dad.
Just thinking it gave Jake a chill. It hadn’t seemed real before, working out his story back at B’hala, coming to the station and carefully stating his mistruths to the people he cared about. Throughout, it had all felt like some fantastic but distant dream. Even now, there was a dreamlike quality to the moment—he, Jake Sisko, was standing in a ship he had bought to take into the wormhole, to fulfill a prophecy written thousands of years before. “Crazy,” as Vic might say, and not for the first time, Jake had to wonder if the more popular connotation didn’t apply.
But if I’m wrong, so what? I’m out a few bars of latinum and maybe a little bit of hope, he reminded himself. Nobody gets hurt. Maybe it was crazy, but his feelings said otherwise. His feelings said that something big was going to happen when he reached the wormhole, because the prophecy was real. It was destiny, his destiny, and he wasn’t going to let it pass by just because it seemed like a crazy thing to do—
—not when a woman probably died because she gave it to me, or because someone was trying to stop her from giving it to me.
No, he didn’t know that. Maybe her death was because of something else she’d found, it was possible . . . but he couldn’t begin to convince himself of it, as hard as he tried. He was appalled by her death, and he was afraid that the prophecy was the cause, and he didn’t want to think that. Because he didn’t know what it meant, exactly, or what he should do about it.
Nothing, for now. Later, you can think about it later. Or perhaps he could talk to his father about it, a thought that drove his fears away.
Jake walked to the pilot’s seat and sat down, looking over the flight controls. For the most part, they weren’t that different from those of a Danube-class runabout, which he had learned to pilot not long after his disastrous science project adventure in the Gamma Quadrant. Then, he and Nog had been essentially trapped on the Rio Grande, unable to return to DS9 to get help for Jake’s father and Quark, who were being held by Jem’Hadar on the planet below. Though he’d only been a kid, Jake had sworn to learn basic piloting skills when they finally made it back to the station. He had, too, and the Venture was a much simpler version of the Federation ships he’d learned to pilot. There weren’t any weapons or complex sensor arrays for him to worry about, and it had everything else he needed—gravity net, a single transporter, and a standard Bajoran filter/recy life-support system.
He powered up the engines and the onboard computer, and spent a few minutes punching in numbers, double and triple checking coordinate possibilities for what he had planned. He’d had some concerns about getting into the wormhole without everyone on the station knowing about it, but like everything else so far, circumstances seemed to be working in his favor. His conversation with Nog had supplied him with the information he needed, and the wreckage from the Aldebaran would provide the means. It was almost as though he was being helped along in his quest, as though . . . but no, that really was crazy.
Why? The Prophets watch out for Bajor, and he’s with them. Why couldn’t he be watching out for me, influencing things so that I can get to him?
It was far-fetched, but perhaps no more so than what he was doing, no more than a dozen things he could think of that he had experienced growing up on the station. It was certainly no stranger than having one’s father turn out to be the Bajoran Emissary to the Prophets.
Or having him take off to live with the Prophets, leaving me alone.
Not for much longer.
Jake plugged two flight plans into the computer, ordering the autopilot to kick in with the second one as soon as he was out of the station’s sensor range. Avoiding the Klingon patrol ship would be tricky, but the debris field should be helpful there. After a few deep breaths, he transmitted the first flight plan, a mostly straight shot to Earth along a couple of major shipping lanes, to the departure log in ops. A few seconds later, he received vocal confirmation and clearance from an unfamiliar Militia officer who was working the panels. And just like that, he was ready to go.
He hesitated for a moment, the sane, rational part of his mind telling him that it still wasn’t too late. He could forget all this nonsense and just head to Earth, or go back into the station and see his friends, or even return to B’hala, to the pleasant monotony of dust and data entry. But he knew better. It had been too late the instant that poor, doomed Istani Reyla had walked into the catalog room where he’d been working and handed him the prophecy of his father’s return.
“Shuttle Venture departing from airlock 12 at 2524 hours,” Jake said. “Course confirmed, bearing oh-one-five mark two.”
“Received,” the male voice responded, and in a softer, quieter tone, he added, “Walk with the Prophets.”
Jake felt an instant of surprise and concern as he signed off, that the officer knew something of his plans—but realized in the next second that the man was simply a Bajoran wishing him luck. It was quite doubtful that he had any idea of how appropriate the farewell was.
The shuttle lifted smoothly away from the bay and eased out into space, carrying Jake a step closer to his reunion with his father. He could hardly wait.
* * *
Kira had stayed late at the party, later than she probably should have, but she returned to her quarters feeling like she might actually get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in almost a week. Even considering Kitana’klan’s arrival, it had been a good day; Yevir Linjarin had conducted a beautiful, uplifting service and Jake’s party had been a success, even if he had ducked out early.
He was probably tired, Kira thought, as she sat on the edge of her bed and kicked off her boots. Or just readjusting to station life, or preparing himself to leave for Earth. Any one of those would explain why he’d seemed so oddly distant. In any case, the party hadn’t been just for him. She didn’t expect one broadcast and a few free snacks to fix everything, or to make up for the losses that so many of the station’s residents had suffered, but it been a step on the path to recovery.
She undressed, changing into a loose, woven shift before laying out clothes for the morning. Wiping her face and hands with a cleansing cloth, she thought about how even a few small things could change one’s entire outlook on life. Knowing that she had Yevir’s support, sharing a few glasses of spring wine with Kas, seeing the hardworking men and women of DS9 relaxing and unwinding . . . it all made her feel that she was doing her job. She felt ready for the Federation and its allies, ready to make her case and make it stick; Kitana’klan’s presence helped, but more than that, the strong, positive feeling she had, that things were under control, was enough to allow her some peace. Everything would work out.
Pleasantly exhausted, Kira crawled into bed, determined not to let herself latch on to the things that had been keeping her awake. She needed to rest, and all of the sorrows and problems and complications of her life would still be around in the morning. She closed her eyes, offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the good things in her life, and was right on the verge of sleep when someone signaled at the door.
Dragging herself awake was painful. The station had better be on fire. . . .
“Who is it?”
“It’s Ro.”
Ro. Her sleepy anger dissolved and was replaced by a small knot of anxiety in her stomach; there was simply no way that Ro Laren would bother her at this hour unless it was important.
Reyla. She found something.
“Come in,” Kira called, sitting up and reaching for a coverall. She pulled it on in record time and stepped out of her bedroom to greet Ro, who seemed distinctly agitated. The lieutenant was pale and disheveled, her body language uncharacteristically tense.
“I’m sorry it’s so late, but I felt I needed to come to you right away,” Ro said. She held out a bulkily wrapped object, a padd sitting on top. “It’s a book, and a translation. The book was Istani’s. I believe she took it from B’hala, and that she was killed because of it.”
Kira took them from her, frowning as she set the padd aside and unwrapped a decidedly ancient tome from a soft piece of cloth. The cover was unmarked, but the ragged pages inside were covered in Bajoran from millennia past, the ink faded with time. “Where did you get this? And why do you think someone would kill her over a book?”
“It’s a book of prophecy. Istani hid it just before she was attacked, and I found it. I had it translated this afternoon—”
“This afternoon?” Kira interrupted, feeling a surge of anger. “Why didn’t you come to me earlier, Ro?”
Ro shook her head. “I didn’t know if it was important. I thought it was, but—maybe I should have, all right? If I made a mistake, I’m sorry. But this book . . . Colonel, the prophecies it contains have all come true. All of them.”
Kira’s anger subsided. Bajoran history was full of prophets and prophetic writings, most notoriously contradictory, but even the best of them had only been correct part of the time. “All of them?”
“Take my word for it. Or read it yourself,” Ro said. “But read the passage I have marked there, first. The first part of it’s missing, but I think it’s pretty clear.”
Kira leaned against the divider that separated the dining area from the rest of her living room and picked up the padd, reading from where a small cursor slowly blinked.
. . . with the Herald attendant. A New Age for Bajor will begin with the birth of the alien Avatar, an age of Awareness and Understanding beyond what the land’s children have ever known. The child Avatar will be the second of the Emissary, he to whom the Teacher Prophets sing, and will be born to a gracious and loving world, a world ready to Unite. Before the birth, ten thousand of the land’s children will die for the child’s sake. It is destined, but should not be looked upon with despair; most choose to die, and are welcomed into the Temple of the Teacher Prophets.
Without the sacrifice of the willing, the Avatar will not be born into a land of peace. Perhaps the Avatar will not be born at all; it is unclear. That ten thousand is the number, it is destined. Ten thousand must die.
Kira looked up into Ro’s unsmiling face and shook her head, unable to believe it. “This isn’t possible,” she said.
“Colonel, I’m not prone to leaps of faith, you probably know that,” Ro said. “But so far everything in that book has come true. Everything.”
She sat down opposite Kira, her face almost sick with unhappiness. “For better or worse, I’d be the first person to disregard a Bajoran book of prophecy. But this book . . . whoever wrote it was in touch with something real. They knew about the great war, and B’hala, and the Occupation. They even knew about the Founders, and the outcome of the Dominion war. And here it says—absolutely—that 10,000 people have to die before Kasidy Yates gives birth.”
Kira shook her head again, but inside, her gut was churning, explosions of darkness and fear going off in her mind and in her heart. She looked at the padd, at the book, and at Ro, still shaking her head, wanting more than anything to believe she was asleep and dreaming, painfully aware that she was wide awake.
Her earlier feelings of peace and possibility were gone, and Kira felt like she might never sleep again.