CHAPTER
20

“GUL!” SHOUTED THE weapons officer on board the Ravage. “They’ve launched a runabout!”

“Now, I know I told them not to do that,” said Gul Dukat, sounding hurt. “Shields up. Phaser at three-quarter strength. Fire.”

 

Sisko made it back to Ops just in time to hear Dax call out, “They’ve raised their shields! Power to their forward phasers!”

Sisko and Kira said at the same time, “Raise shields!” Kira glanced at the commander and promptly deferred to him as Sisko said, “Get me Gul Dukat on the—”

The Ravage cut loose, hammering the just-raised shields of Deep Space Nine. The station shook under the pounding, but Sisko knew immediately that something wasn’t right. “That wasn’t full strength,” he muttered.

“No, Commander,” Dax informed him. “Their phasers were only at three-quarter strength.”

“Warning shots,” said Kira.

“Get that runabout back here!” snapped Sisko. “Now!”

“Tractor beams activated!” said O’Brien.

The tractor beams lashed out, snaring the runabout. The small craft struggled in the grip of the beams, fighting to put distance between itself and the station.

And Odo, exposed to the vacuum of space, held on for dear life.

 

Mencar, commander of the Edemian Holy War vessel Zealous, saw the Cardassian ship fire upon the station. A most volatile and holy wrath seized him.

“Those Cardassian slime!” he snarled. “How dare they intercede in the holy business of the followers of K’olkr! Tactical! Target the Cardassian ship!”

“Disruptors on line!”

“Fire!”

The disruptors of the Zealous lashed out, striking the Cardassian ship square across the starboard shields.

 

Gul Dukat was astounded when the bridge trembled around him from the impact. “The nerve of them! This is a Galor-class warship of the Cardassian second order! Who in the seven hells do they think they’re mucking with? Sentor, return fire, full strength!”

The Ravage ripped at the Zealous, hammering its forward shields. The Zealous fell back a short distance as the Edemian tactical officer rerouted power to shore up the main deflectors. The Zealous would have been sorely pressed to defend itself at that moment, but fortunately for the Edemians, Gul Dukat was abruptly distracted by something else.

“Gul Dukat!” declared Sentor at Tactical. “The station has caught the runabout and is trying to pull it in. But . . . sir, I think you should see this!”

“Full magnification,” said Dukat, puzzled at Sentor’s tone of voice.

The runabout appeared on their screens, and Dukat’s eyes went wide.

Security Chief Odo was clinging to the front of the runabout. Oblivious, it seemed, of the fact that he was in space, Odo was pounding on the exterior of the runabout with single-minded determination.

“Is he out of his mind?” said Dukat incredulously. “What could possess Odo to . . . ”And then the light dawned. “Of course,” he whispered and then, louder, “Of course! The murderer must be piloting the runabout! Trying to get away! That’s got to be it! Only Odo would be that obsessive!”

“Orders, sir?”

“Sentor,” Dukat said with relish, “bring phasers to bear on the runabout. Prepare to fire.” He added as an afterthought, “Sorry, Odo, but I’m sure that you, of all people, would understand the things that must be done in the name of justice.”

 

“The Cardassians are no longer firing on the station, sir,” Dax said. And then in alarm she said, “Benjamin! They’re locking on the runabout!”

There was no more time, no more options. “Chief,” said Sisko firmly. “Full phasers in short bursts. Distract them. And . . . fire!”

“Firing phasers, sir,” said O’Brien.

 

Phaser blasts danced along the shields of the Ravage, shaking up the war vessel and angering Gul Dukat. “Sisko, you idiot! I would have left you alone! It’s Gotto’s murderer I want!”

And then the Ravage shook again, but the blasts had not come from the station.

“Edemian vessel at two one one mark nine!” warned the tactical officer.

Gul Dukat wasn’t sure where to look first. The Edemian vessel was clearly the more immediate threat, but he could not, under any circumstance, let the attack from the station go unanswered. “Bring us about at a heading of four one eight mark six,” ordered Dukat. “Lock photon torpedoes on the Edemians, and return phaser fire on Deep Space Nine! And try to hit that damned runabout while you’re at it! Torpedoes and phasers, fire!”

The Cardassian war vessel fired in all directions, erupting like a star gone nova.

 

The runabout, a small target, was still twisting and writhing in the grip of the tractors. Consequently, and slightly miraculously, the phaser blasts missed the vessel.

They did, however, strike Deep Space Nine. And since it had previously been a Cardassian station, the war vessel knew exactly where to strike in order to cause the greatest damage.

“Damage to the inertial damping field!” O’Brien bellowed over the ruckus in Ops as DS9 was being pummeled by the Ravage. “Damage to the subprocessor modules! Shields at thirty percent and dropping!”

 

In the infirmary, debris started to fall from the ceiling. Bashir threw himself over the unmoving form of Rasa to shield him. Azira shrieked, convinced that the wrath of K’olkr was going to bring death and destruction to them all.

Del, still asleep, rolled off the med table. He hit the floor and continued snoring.

 

In Ops, Dax delivered the worst news of the afternoon. “We’ve lost cohesive power on the tractors! The runabout is breaking loose!”

 

*  *  *

 

And indeed it was.

Meta howled in triumph as the runabout shook loose the station’s tractor beams and lunged toward safety.

But then safety was suddenly blocked by the looming image of the Cardassian war vessel.

Meta banked the runabout hard around, angling away—and there, right in its path, was the staggering but still functional Edemian holy war vessel Zealous.

Odo hung on, helpless, furious at the situation he’d gotten himself into. He had let his opponent lure him into a situation that was in no way advantageous to Odo. Grimly he thought that next time, he . . . 

Next time?

What in hell made him think there was going to be a next time?

Meta’s hands flew over the navigational systems. The runabout went hard about, dropping in a cloverleaf maneuver, and gracefully steering through the obstacles, scampering toward safety.

And then Odo realized where the runabout was heading. Indeed, he realized it before Meta did, because the metamorph was less familiar with this area of space than Odo was.

But Odo knew, beyond any question, that if the runabout did not change its course, it would hurtle into the heart of the Bajoran wormhole in less than thirty seconds.

And then he saw it—the muzzle of the microtorpedo launcher, one of the runabout’s few armaments.

It was a dangerous move, but he saw no alternative. Odo oozed up the side of the runabout, heading for the muzzle. He caught the briefest glimpse of the metamorph’s puzzled expression, and then he got to the muzzle. In a flash, driven by desperation, he was inside, making his way through the inner workings of the ship. He stretched his mass to its utmost, barely molecules in thickness.

He seeped into the cabin, then pulled himself together as fast as he could. The metamorph heard him and turned to face him, a look of amusement on his features.

Odo reached for him, drawing his fist back, ready to overpower him and commandeer the vessel . . . 

And then the world exploded around them.

 

“The runabout’s been hit!” shouted Dax.

Indeed it had. A stray disruptor bolt from the Edemian ship had struck the small vessel broadside, rupturing the hull. The atmosphere of the ship rushed out as the vacuum of space pushed in, and within seconds the runabout blew apart.

“Sensor sweep!” ordered Sisko, remaining as cool as possible under the circumstances. “If there’s any hope—”

“Got ’em!” crowed Dax. “Reading two life-forms.”

And then Deep Space Nine shook once more.

“The two ships are firing at each other!” said Kira. “We’re getting the stray shots!”

“We can’t beam Odo and the morph aboard while we have shields up!”

“That won’t be a consideration much longer, Lieutenant,” O’Brien informed Dax. “Shields at twenty percent and still dropping. And as soon as we don’t have shields—”

“Get me the Edemians and the Cardassians on subspace! Now! And get me full magnification on Odo and the morph!”

The viewscreen shifted, and there, indeed, was the chief of security. His body was flowing, shifting, the pressures of space threatening to rip it apart . . . 

And still he was battling. Battling with the morph, who was undergoing the same stress. Not conceding anything, even the likelihood of imminent death, the two shapeshifters were outside the wreckage of the runabout, intertwined, hammering at each other, struggling with everything they had and more than they had.

Insanely, Sisko thought, the Constable is the most single-minded individual I have ever met.

“Get me both ships!” he shouted again. And then, before the order was even acknowledged, he had them on line. “This is Sisko!” he snarled. “I am ordering both of you idiots to stop firing at this station and at each other immediately! Do you hear me? Unless we can safely drop our shields to operate the transporters, someone is going to die! And if that happens, Starfleet and I are going to hold you both personally responsible. And I can assure both of you, with utter certainty, that if there is one thing in this galaxy that you do not want, it’s to have me angry at you!”

 

The shapeshifters hurtled through space. As per the laws of physics, bodies in motion tended to stay in motion unless acted upon by another force.

And then another force started to act upon them. The force known as the Bajoran wormhole.

Odo and Meta started to pick up speed. Odo knew what was happening, but Meta did not—not at first. His attention was fully focused on Odo. A hand sprouted from his chest and swept toward Odo, clawing him.

Odo tried to shout at him that this was insane, that this was the wrong move, but there was no air for his voice to carry through. He lost his grip, and Meta kicked away from him, putting some distance between himself and Odo.

Clearly Meta’s plan was to float in space, hope to be picked up by a passing ship . . . something. He was a survivor. He knew things that Odo did not, tricks that Odo had not learned. The vacuum of space held no terrors for him.

He saw Odo spiraling away from him, and he grinned to himself.

And then he became aware of space starting to distort around him.

He looked around, twisting in confusion as dim alarms sounded in his mind. Something was not right, most definitely not right. He felt odd, light-headed. Suddenly nothing seemed natural, and the depths of space no longer seemed quite so fear-free.

And then it was all around him.

It roared into existence, its mouth yawning around him—an incredible array of colors, and sound that was not sound . . . sound that could not be heard but could be felt, howling through him, pounding him, assaulting every molecule of his form.

The Bajoran wormhole drew him in. Even under the best of circumstances it would have been nearly impossible for Meta to survive a trip through the wormhole unprotected. Still, it might have been vaguely, remotely possible.

Under the best of circumstances.

These, however, were the worst of circumstances.

This was the Bajoran wormhole while it was undergoing subspace compression, the galactic phonomenon that had shredded a Borg ship without difficulty.

One unprotected shapeshifter was no challenge at all.

Meta twisted around, besieged inside and out. He twisted around, caught a last glimpse of Odo in the distance, and stretched out his hand. . . .

 

Odo saw it.

As the metamorph was sucked down into the maw of the wormhole, Odo saw the renegade reach for him. They were too far apart, and besides, Odo was hardly in a position to help anyone. In a few moments he, too, would be yanked into the wormhole to meet a dismal and terminal fate.

Still, just for a moment he saw, or sensed, the panic in the metamorph. Meta knew what was about to happen, would have done anything to avoid the hideous destiny that was his. And in that extremity, he sought aid from the one being who was like him.

And Odo would have done anything at that moment to save him.

Unfortunately there was nothing to be done.

 

Meta descended into the swirling pit of the Bajoran wormhole. He screamed into the airlessness of space, not out of pain but out of awareness of what was happening.

His body was ripped apart, atom by atom, scattering in a million directions at once. He felt himself being disassembled, being scattered all along the inner walls of the howling god that was the wormhole. He fought against it, but he had no chance in hell, because he was in hell, splintered like shards of glass.

Images—of all those he had killed, of the life that he had led, of the waste and self-satisfaction and murderous enjoyment that had constituted his existence—flashed before him, and suddenly he wanted to take it all back, all of it. Please, anything. Just make it stop. Give him back his life. . . .

And when he realized the futility of that wish, as he felt the last of himself being torn apart, his consciousness clinging to him, he begged the great howling god that if he couldn’t have his life back, then at least end it now. End it. . . .

But it didn’t end.

His consciousness did not flee, could not. Every molecule of his body was independently aware. Ripped apart, scattered all along the interspatial conduit of the wormhole, every bit of him was aware that he had lost his body, lost his existence, and was waiting for it to end, in the name of God, waiting for consciousness to vanish and oblivion to claim him.

It didn’t happen.

It never happened.

His awareness of nonexistence, of being everywhere and nowhere at the same time, was embedded throughout the wormhole. He tore through the space-time continuum, assaulted by images, assaulted by himself. And moments later, his molecules blew into the Gamma Quadrant, and he would never, given a million million lifetimes, be able to pull himself together. A cosmic Humpty Dumpty.

He would remain forever on the cusp of death, suffering, screaming in a voice that only he could hear. Or maybe he could not hear it, but it was nowhere and everywhere, and the voice kept saying, Let it end. Let it end. . . .

And it never would.

 

The wormhole beckoned to Odo.

It roared into existence around him as he passed the outer perimeter, and a thought passed through his mind, one searing and infuriating awareness: Dammit! Who’s going to keep an eye on Quark?

And then he felt something surround him. At first, he assumed it to be an effect of the wormhole. But no . . . this felt familiar somehow, and since his personal experience with falling into wormholes was, naturally, limited, he concluded that this was something that must have happened to him before.

Then the wormhole disappeared, as did the depths of space.

He felt something hard beneath him, and the familiar smell of stale air—because O’Brien still hadn’t gotten the damned air filters to work properly. He squinted against the light, and then the faces of Kira and Sisko were in his field of vision, smiling at him.

“Welcome back, Constable,” said Sisko.

Odo nodded . . . but only once.

Then his head slid down into his chest. He had been leaning on his arms, but now his elbows dissolved, his biceps and triceps merging.

His feet were swallowed by his legs, which in turn blended with his hips . . . and before the astonished eyes of everyone in Ops, Odo became a very large puddle of red goo.

Sisko and Kira stepped back, treading carefully so as not to get any of Odo on their boots. They looked at each other questioningly, and then with a shrug Sisko tapped his comm unit.

“Sisko to Maintenance,” he said calmly. “We need a cleanup in Ops. Please bring a mop . . . and a fairly large pail.”

 

“I am impressed, Commander,” said Gul Dukat. “Such forcefulness in your tone. Such anger. Such . . . What is the word?”

“Arrogance?” suggested Mencar.

Both commanders were on the DS9 viewscreen, conference together by Sisko. Sisko, the picture of calm, had his hands behind his back.

“Yes! Exactly so,” said Gul Dukat. “In many ways, Commander, you would make a creditable Cardassian.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Sisko said. He heard O’Brien mutter, “I wouldn’t,” but he let it pass. “It was necessary to get your attention, gentlemen, since both of you were fighting over an entity whose fate was being attended to outside the confines of this station.”

“Indeed, the matter did become rather moot rather quickly,” agreed Dukat. “And it would have been a pity to sacrifice Odo on the altar of the Edemians’ stubbornness.”

“Our—” Mencar bristled.

Sisko spoke quickly before matters could escalate again. “Fortunately it has been attended to. It is not the way I would have liked it, gentlemen.”

“Nor we,” said Mencar.

“Nor I,” concurred Dukat. “Then again, I suppose we must settle for justice—justice handed down, perhaps, by someone greater than ourselves.”

“K’olkr,” Mencar said reverently. He didn’t notice Gul Dukat rolling his eyes upward, but continued, “Which reminds us . . . Mas Marko—”

“Is being released from his . . . enforced accommodations even as we speak,” said Sisko. “He will be able to leave at his convenience. My science officer informs me”—and he glanced once more at Dax, who nodded confirmation—“that the wormhole has settled down. The subspace compression has reversed itself. If Mas Marko wishes to continue his mission, he may do so.”

“Perhaps,” said Dukat slowly, “the wormhole was hungry . . . and its appetite has been sated.”

“I tend to be more pragmatic in these matters, Gul,” Sisko said.

“As do we all,” Dukat replied. “Is Odo all right, by the way?”

“Last I saw him, he was looking rather pail,” said Sisko, ignoring the low moans this prompted from his crew.

“Well, tell him we salute his courage,” said Dukat.

“As do we,” put in Mencar. “He has acted in the name of K’olkr . . . as do all things.”

“I’ll tell him. Sisko out.”

They both blinked out, and Sisko turned to see that Kira was standing almost toe to toe with him.

“Commander,” she said in a low voice, “I must protest.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I believe that you are taking unseemly delight in Odo’s exhaustion, which has led to his current . . . difficult state,” she told him stiffly. “It’s not appropriate, it’s not respectful, and it’s not fair.”

“I will admit to some degree of amusement,” allowed Sisko. “The constable, for all his good points, has made his impatience with the Federation in general, and with me in particular, fairly evident. Still . . . I apologize, Major. If you find it upsetting, I will not make such disrespectful comments about the constable again.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Kira. “We should count ourselves fortunate that he wasn’t killed.”

“Yes,” Sisko agreed solemnly. “I would have hated to see him kick the bucket.”