Chapter Text
Dukat seemed to be…vibrating, somehow. It was like seeing double, back when Odo was a Solid, each image just slightly displaced. Like a string pulled taut.
That was new. But the burning red eyes weren’t. He looked like Kosst Amojan.
Was this what the Prophets had failed to stop?
During the Reckoning, the one that had possessed Kira had mentioned a “false vessel”—was that Dukat?
His deputies had phasers trained, but their aim was wavering. Odo himself wasn’t sure, if he were to lash out with a tentacle of his substance, he would manage to strike his target.
His deputies were afraid, too. Steadily backing with Dukat’s equally slow advance, eyes flickering side to side, hands trembling where they grasped their phasers.
“Steady!” Odo ordered, keeping a close eye.
He couldn’t lose their focus.
Dukat himself seemed…distant. Unseeing. There was no glint of danger in his eyes, no rage twisting his features. As if he were merely a vessel. His muscles were coiled, but it seemed all the intent in the body before Odo was that of a Pah-wraith, not the former prefect of Bajor.
A turbolift hummed nearby. Footsteps rushed. A Starfleet tricorder whirred.
“Confirmed,” Dax reported. “There are two separate entities inhabiting his body.”
“I know that, Commander!” Odo said. “Why is he—?”
“Checking.” A few tricorder beeps. Then, “You’re right—he is temporally displaced.”
“Dax, report,” Kira ordered.
Dax tapped her combadge, even as she backed with Dukat’s advance at Odo’s side, flanked by the deputies. “His cellular structure’s been altered. He’s deflecting the chroniton radiation before it can reach the Pah-wraith.”
As she spoke, Dukat’s mouth twisted into a grimace of pain.
“Then the generator won’t work,” Kira said.
“Negative,” Dax said.
“Find me another solution. Kira out.”
Dax’s tricorder whirred again. She kept backing alongside Odo, past one of the promenade kiosks. They were drawing near the shrine.
Dax tapped rapidly at her readout. “There!”
“Commander?” Odo asked.
Dax’s gaze hardened. Then Dukat stopped mid-stride.
“What are you—” Odo started.
“Give me a minute,” Dax said, still working furiously at her tricorder.
Dukat’s face twisted into a snarl; his eyes were wide and his brow ridges pinched with pain, and that, Odo thought, was all him. His form seemed to vibrate even harder, its frequency rising and yet…tightening, somehow, like it was being squeezed into just one place but shuddering in protest.
“I’m generating a interference signal,” Dax said. “Confining his temporal amplitude.”
Odo had no idea what that meant. “Just tell me it’s working!”
“So far,” Dax answered.
Dukat had yet to step them closer to the shrine. His teeth were gritted, hands fisted tight at his sides, his brow ridges lowering over his eyes in fury.
And then he thrust out a hand, fingers splayed.
Dax flew backward, head over heels, crumpling when her body struck a kiosk.
“Commander!” Odo shouted.
Dukat spoke then, his voice deep and resonant. “Move aside.”
Odo’s deputies were quaking with terror, glancing at him and each other in panic.
“Stand where you are!” Odo ordered.
Dukat’s vibrations built in intensity. Odo found himself fiercely grateful he wasn’t humanoid; he was better able to keep his gaze locked on this entity.
“Commander?” he called, his gaze still fixed on Dukat.
“I’m alright!” Dax said.
He heard her roll to her feet, then registered the distant whir of her tricorder.
Dukat bellowed.
There was no other way to describe the sound that emitted from his chest at a deep, inhuman register, more befitting of the sound within a great horn than any organic being. His eyes flashed a brilliant, burning red, and flames curdled across his body, leaping and spiraling. The air itself seemed to shudder.
“Commander…?” Odo called.
Dax’s tricorder whirred. “I’ll try to—”
Then his arm thrust forward again, emitting a column of flame that struck her square in the chest. Odo’s eyes blew wide as Dax’s body convulsed and her own eyes rolled back, pain and fear painting her features. Dukat bore down, his features twisting into pure, dark hatred.
“Commander!” Odo shouted.
Dukat’s gaze flashed his way. Without lessening his onslaught on Dax for a second, he lifted his other arm and Odo was thrown backward to impact the bulkhead.
He rolled upright just in time to see Dax convulse violently before her body slammed to the floor.
She tumbled over, limp.
The column of flame withdrew.
“Commander?” Odo checked.
No answer.
He tapped his combadge. “Dr. Bashir to the promenade. Medical emergency.”
“On my way.”
Dukat scanned the promenade left and right; Odo’s deputies backed away, and Odo found himself at a loss for how to stop them.
What orders could he give, anyway?
How could they stop a Pah-wraith?
Dukat stepped past him, indifferent now, even as his form still seemed to vibrate in place. He advanced steadily toward the shrine.
Odo tapped his combadge. “Major, he’s headed for the shrine. I’ve been unable to stop him.”
“Dax…?”
“She’s down.” He glanced across the promenade; Dax had yet to move. “No movement.”
“Acknowledged.” Kira paused. “Follow him, but keep your distance. If you see any opportunity—”
“I will, Major.”
Odo rolled to his feet and started after Dukat, just as he stepped through the shrine archway.
“He’s inside,” Odo reported.
“Be careful, Constable.”
Cautiously, Odo followed. As he stepped through the archway himself, he caught sight of Dukat standing before the altar, his hands raised; the forcefield flickered beneath his palms, then disengaged.
Dukat reached for the ark doors.
“Major, he’s opening the orb,” Odo said.
“Can you stop him?”
Desperately, Odo scanned his surroundings, but came up empty. “I don’t see how.”
Dukat opened the ark. The orb’s light filled the chamber, pale blue and ethereal.
Then Dukat’s elbows tensed down to his sides. He spasmed—once, twice.
The space in front of him was illuminated with red flame.
Odo watched, transfixed, as the Pah-wraith’s energy poured into the orb—as Dukat’s head tipped back on a terrible scream that filled the shrine and grated against his cells.
Then Dukat slumped to the floor.
The orb upon the altar was dark, black and shriveled as coal.
Odo rushed forward, hesitating only briefly when a Dominion transporter effect shimmered, and Dukat’s body was beamed away before his eyes. He darted to the orb, his gaze flickering over it, around it, searching for some sign or clue he could understand.
“Major.” He cleared his throat, forced his voice to work. “The orb is…dark.”
There was a beat of silence.
“What do you mean, dark?”
“I don’t know.” Odo’s breath hitched. “If I were a ranjen, or a vedek, or even a science officer, then maybe—”
“Odo, just tell me what you see.”
“It looks…dead.” He winced at Kira’s sharp, involuntary inhale. “Shriveled. Like coal.”
Again, there was only silence.
This time, though, it lasted longer than a beat. It swelled over the comm.
“Major?” Odo asked.
“The wormhole,” Kira gasped. “It just…collapsed.”
*
USS Defiant
Sisko shuddered and leaned against the crest of his chair, suddenly dizzy.
For the briefest of moments, it was as if something had reached for him and tugged, something displaced from this time. Something…familiar.
Then it was gone, as if it had never been there.
“Dad, what is it?” Jake asked.
His son’s words barely registered. Neither did the shudder of the bridge beneath phaser fire.
“I’m not sure,” Sisko murmured. “I think I felt the Prophets…reaching out to me.”
Now, he couldn’t feel them at all. There was a strange, unnameable emptiness spreading through his chest, cold and hollow.
“Something’s wrong,” he murmured.
“Sir, I found it,” O’Brien said suddenly. “There’s a subspace power generator on a small moon orbiting the far planet. It’s transmitting energy to the weapon platforms.”
But the Chief’s words wouldn’t land.
The Chief swiveled. “Captain?”
Sisko’s head was still spinning.
“Lay in a course,” Worf ordered; dimly, Sisko registered him take the captain’s chair.
“Aye, sir,” Nog said.
“Mr. Sisko,” Worf said to Jake, “take your father to his quarters.”
Sisko barely registered his son squeeze his shoulder and guide him off the bridge.
*
“Approaching the target,” Nog reported.
“On screen,” Worf ordered.
A small, misshapen moon appeared on the viewscreen, riddled with conduits and transmitters, even as the Defiant shuddered beneath incoming weapon fire.
“Target locked,” T’Sorra reported.
“Fire,” Worf ordered.
The fleet came in for a pass, phasers scorching.
“No effect,” T’Sorra said. “We can’t penetrate the moon’s defensive grid.”
The bridge shuddered.
“Sir,” O’Brien said, “I have an idea.”
“Report,” said Worf.
“Maybe we can’t destroy that power generator,” O’Brien said, “but I bet those weapon platforms could.”
T’Sorra cocked a brow. “They will not fire on their own power source.”
Garak turned, catching on. “They might, if we could fool the platform’s targeting systems into thinking the generator’s an enemy ship.”
“We can use our deflector array to imprint a Federation warp signature on the generator’s energy matrix,” O’Brien said.
“That…” T’Sorra tilted her chin. “…could work.”
Worf nodded. “Proceed.” The bridge shuddered again; sparks flew from the consoles. “Evasive maneuvers! Pattern theta!”
The Defiant swerved side to side as the fleet passed across the moon. A Klingon warbird blew.
“Induction stabilizers set,” O’Brien reported. “Booster modulators synchronized. Ready to activate deflector!”
“Now!” Worf ordered.
One minute, the Defiant was dodging phaser beams as it passed between several of the weapon platforms. The next, all the platforms in sight rotated to aim at the moon. Torpedoes fired at the central power generator—and the entire array across the moon’s surface blew in a brilliant fireball.
“We did it!” Nog cried.
As the fleet cruised on, the platforms began to fold and shut down. Phaser beams blasted the now-defenseless structures to pieces.
The comm beeped. “Martok to Defiant.”
“Go ahead, General,” Worf answered.
“Excellent work,” Martok said. “We will begin transporting ground troops to both planets immediately.”
The comm disengaged—only to beep again.
“Captain,” O’Brien reported, “we’re receiving a priority one transmission from Deep Space Nine.” He paused. “Medical emergency.”
*
Dominion Headquarters | Cardassia
Weyoun watched the tactical readout with alarm as the Federation fleet tore through Chin’toka’s armaments.
The weapon platforms were destroyed, their power source obliterated—so much for Damar’s confidence. He was proving to be too much like his mentor. Overconfident, blustering, arrogantly self-assured. His people were a disappointment.
Then the door slid open, and Rivun entered.
“Well?” Weyoun demanded. “Where are our reinforcements?”
Rivun’s eyes flicked side to side.
The Founder stepped forward. “Answer him.”
“They won’t be coming,” Rivun said quietly.
Weyoun advanced a step. “What do you mean they won’t be coming?”
Rivun shifted on his feet. “The experiment failed. The Pah-wraith was unleashed on the wormhole, but…the wormhole has sealed shut.”
“What?” Weyoun said.
The Founder spoke up. “You were instructed to ensure that Bajor’s gods were destroyed, but that the wormhole would remain open.”
“Yes, Founder.” Rivun bowed his head. “I beg forgiveness.”
There was a pregnant beat, during which Weyoun’s gaze flicked ever so briefly to the Founder, awaiting his god’s judgment.
The Founder spoke to the Jem’Hadar. “First, execute him.”
Rivun barely had time to sink to his knees before he was vaporized.
“I beg the Founder’s wisdom,” Weyoun said. “Without the wormhole—”
“You will hold Cardassia for the Dominion,” the Founder said. “Continue breeding Alpha Jem’Hadar. Reinforce our deployment in key zones. Ensure our shipyards are protected.”
Weyoun bowed his head. “Yes, Founder.”
“And,” the Founder added, “keep a close watch on Bajoran space. I suspect we may soon spy an opportunity.”
*
Deep Space Nine
Kira paced back and forth in the infirmary. Odo stood at her side, stalwart, his arms folded across his chest.
Even before she’d fallen in love with him, she’d always drawn such strength from his steady, rigid presence. The firm wall at her back. Now, as he watched her with that fathomless mix of concern and devotion in his eyes, she appreciated him even more.
The doors opened, and Worf barged in, headed straight for the surgical suite.
Neither Kira nor Odo stopped him.
Then, minutes later, the Emissary himself entered, followed by his son. T’Sorra was right on their heels, her hands clasped tightly behind her back.
Odo glanced up. “I have it handled, Commander.”
T’Sorra hesitated. “Sir—”
“Dismissed.”
After a moment’s pause, T’Sorra nodded sharply and exited the infirmary.
Then the door to the surgical suite hissed open and shut. Julian emerged, dressed in full orange surgical garb.
Kira started forward. Odo’s hand at her arm—not quite touching her, not physically restraining her, but reminding her of his presence—stopped her.
She held her breath as Julian approached.
His face was dark, grim.
His movements, slow.
Kira’s heart stopped before he could utter a word.
“I managed to save the Dax symbiont.” His voice was dull, toneless. “We have to get it to Trill as soon as possible.”
Cold dread prickled across Kira’s skin. She was grateful when Odo’s hand covered her shoulder, warm and grounding.
“There was, um…” Julian swallowed. “…nothing I could do for Jadzia.”
Kira stared at him, sure that if she could just turn his words over in her head enough, she could make them mean something else.
Jadzia wasn’t gone.
She couldn’t be.
The Emissary pushed past Kira, leaving the air cold at her side. Odo filled the space behind her, resting both his hands reassuringly on her shoulders.
Numbly, distantly, she reached up to squeeze his fingers.
He had to be reeling too, didn’t he? He hadn’t been as close to Jadzia as she’d been, but they’d still been friends, comrades in arms who’d trusted one another with their lives.
And he’d been there, when it happened. He’d seen Dukat strike the fatal blow.
But inevitably, Kira’s duty registered.
“I’ve, um…” She sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ve got to get to Ops. Contact Trill. Jadzia’s family.”
Odo squeezed her shoulders. “I’ll be in my office.”
Kira managed a tiny smile.
Of course he would be in his office. Duty called. But she knew it was his way of offering an ear, letting her know he was there, without interfering with what they both knew needed to be done.
Gratefully, Kira squeezed his fingers again. “I’ll be there.”
*
In the quiet before the funeral, Kira finally found a moment to just be.
She lit the candles of her prayer mandala and raised her palms, letting her eyes fall shut, relaxing to the sound of her own heartbeat and opening her pagh to the Prophets.
If they were there.
The wormhole was…gone, it seemed. The most similar sensor readings in the station’s logs were of the first time it had closed, six years ago now—back when the captain had first made contact with the beings Starfleet called “wormhole aliens.”
The vedeks, for once, corroborated Starfleet’s readings. The Celestial Temple had simply vanished. There was no trace.
All across Bajor, the orbs were dark, shriveled.
The place in Kira’s chest where she had always felt she could feel their presence, their love, was cold and empty.
Her hands trembled before the altar.
Then, distantly, she registered the chime of her door.
She didn’t answer at first. She didn’t want to see anyone. In this moment, she didn’t want to put on the mask of duty, or even engage with a friend—she just wanted to be Nerys, believer in the Prophets, grieving friend to Jadzia Dax.
Then there was a voice through her door. “Nerys?”
Odo.
She smiled. “Come in.”
The door hummed open, shut. His booted footsteps padded toward her.
He didn’t speak.
He simply crept up behind her, cupped her shoulders, slid his arms around her.
Kira sighed, leaning back into his embrace.
For a long moment, she just breathed, focusing on the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
“You alright?” she finally murmured.
There was a pause, before his breath whispered at her ear. “I might ask the same of you.”
“And I asked about you.”
He hesitated.
“I’ll be alright, Nerys,” he said quietly. “I’m more concerned about you, right now.”
Her breath hitched.
It was so much easier to focus on him. Easier to hold him, to revel in his trust in her, than to think about her own loss.
She’d lost friends before—not that she wanted to crack open that particular Pandora’s box. But then, she’d always had the Prophets.
She could trust that, no matter how much her own world spun—no matter how much grief tore at her—they had a plan.
Now…
Against her will, a tear slipped down her cheek.
She brushed it away.
Another took its place—and then another, and another, until she was crying silently in Odo’s arms, her shoulders jumping unsteadily as she held back her sobs.
“Nerys.”
Gently, he turned her around until she could rest her head on his shoulder and bury her face in the crook of his neck. His arms wrapped around her, solid and steady.
She clutched weakly at the fabric of his uniform.
In her mind’s eye, she was back in Ops—watching as the Celestial Temple burst open, only for its outer swirls to fade to faint wisps of color as its core burned bright and imploded in a spectacular fireball.
A tiny sob hitched in her throat.
Where had the Prophets gone?
Why had they turned their backs?
Would they ever—
She froze.
Her eyes blew wide, staring unseeing over Odo’s shoulder, as fear clawed its way up her insides and lodged in her throat.
“…Nerys?”
She gulped a sharp, shaky breath.
No, she couldn’t think about that.
Couldn’t entertain that notion.
The Prophets would return. She had to believe that. If she didn’t—what could she do?
“Nerys,” Odo murmured.
She couldn’t speak.
His hands rubbed over her back, holding her close, a steady counterpoint to her racing heart.
“I’m here, Nerys,” he said quietly. “We’ll get through this. Together.”
She pulled back. Looked into his eyes.
Searched his face.
She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. But as she took in the bottomless love that sparkled in his gaze, shining so brightly it could light the stars, she found it.
That wasn’t just love.
It was admiration, awe, tenderness, devotion. Respect.
Faith.
That. That was what she needed to see.
His faith wasn’t in the Prophets—it was in her. And maybe that was exactly what she needed right now.
Kira laid her head back on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing hard.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Odo’s arms tightened around her. “I love you, Nerys.”
Kira closed her eyes.
*
Minutes before the funeral, Sisko stood in the dark of the cargo bay, staring down at the long, black torpedo tube.
It was draped with the customary Federation flag—all the dressings of rank and ceremony. Of duty. Of Starfleet.
That duty was once his guiding light.
“The funeral service is due to begin in a few minutes, Jadzia,” he said, “but I need to talk to you one last time.”
He took a deep breath.
“When I first met you,” he said, “you told me that my relationship with Jadzia Dax wouldn’t be any different than the one I had with Curzon Dax. Things didn’t work out that way.” He sighed. “I had a hell of a lot of fun with both of you. But Curzon was my mentor. You…you were my friend, and I am going to miss you.”
His voice wavered.
“I should’ve listened to the Prophets,” he murmured, “and not gone to Cardassia. Then maybe you’d still be alive.”
An ache—nameless and consuming—tightened his chest, burning him from the inside out.
“Damn it!” he hissed, placing his hands on the torpedo tube. “Why aren’t you still here, Jadzia? I need you to help me sort things out. Something’s happened to the Prophets—something…that’s made them turn their backs on Bajor, and I’m responsible—and I don’t know what to do about it…how to make…it right again.”
He didn’t know how to be the Emissary. He’d never known—he’d just taken it day by day, tried to feel his way through.
But he knew how to be a Starfleet officer.
That was straightforward.
A matter of orders, protocol, command responsibility.
But it went beyond that. He believed in the Federation, in Starfleet. He always had. There was little he wouldn’t do to safeguard the dream he and his compatriots all stood for. He would, and had, sacrificed a great deal—paid high prices that had tested his deepest convictions—all in the name of the oath he was sworn to uphold.
He’d thought, if he had to shirk one duty, he couldn’t go wrong by choosing Starfleet.
And, somehow, he’d failed in both.
“I’ve failed as the Emissary,” he murmured, “and for the first time in my life…I’ve failed in my duty as a Starfleet officer.”
He heaved in a shaking breath.
“I need time to think,” he said. “Clear my head…but I can’t do it here, not on the station, not now. I need to get away…and find a way to figure out how to make things right again.”
His sense of duty burned—stronger than ever before, and yet desperate, impotent.
“And I have to make things right again, Jadzia,” he murmured. “I have to.”
*
Sisko emerged from his office, his bag slung over his shoulder, and descended the steps into Ops.
“The station’s all yours, Major,” he said.
Kira nodded. “She’ll be here when you get back.”
“This leave of absence you’re taking, sir,” Bashir said. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Sisko said.
“We’ll be waiting,” Odo said.
Sisko took a step past them, but O’Brien’s voice stopped him.
“Good luck, sir.”
Sisko shook his hand. “Thanks, Chief.” He turned to face the rest of them. “My thanks to all of you.” Then he clasped his son’s shoulder. “Let’s go home, Jake.”
Home.
Not too long ago, her Emissary had thought of this station—and Bajor—as his home.
Now, he was speaking of Earth instead.
He and Jake boarded the turbolift. Kira watched with the rest of the senior staff as it descended out of view.
Kira allowed herself only a moment of melancholy before ascending the steps to the captain’s office—her office, for now—and stepping through the doors, Odo close on her heels. She had only just rounded the desk to sit when something—or, rather, something’s absence—caught her eye.
She slumped, sighing. “I was afraid of that. He’s not sure he’s coming back.”
“What makes you say that?” Odo asked.
Kira nodded to the empty desk surface. “His baseball. He took it with him.”
Odo squeezed her shoulder.
She looked up at him, caught sight of the boundless love that shone in his eyes.
To think, a year ago, she had doubted that love.
Doubted his devotion.
Now, as her lips quirked into a smile, she knew—the path ahead was uncertain, but whatever they faced, they could face it together.
*
In the dark of space, a passenger transport disembarked from Deep Space Nine and set course for Earth.
The Emissary stared out one window, his eyes searching, his mind a million miles away.
Though he was seated amidst rows of passengers—and though his son sat next to him, a worried furrow in his brow—he may as well have stood alone.