| abstract | - “So let me get this straight,” Gaarra says as the Shoemaker claws its way skyward the next morning. “The Terrans’ portal looks like the Celestial Temple on a subspace level, so Starfleet Science thinks the Prophets have something to do with it, and the attacks only started after we got the Orb of Possibilities back from the Cardassians last year, so they think that has something to do with it, too. And they think we can go on an alternate reality excursion with the Orb and knock out the portal.” “Are you going somewhere with this?” I prompt, adjusting our course a couple degrees as we aim for a suborbital arc. I haven’t flown the Type-8 shuttle in a while but it’s coming back to me, and it practically flies itself anyway. “I’m just saying, there seems to be a lot of ‘Starfleet Science thinks’ in this plan,” he comments in a sardonic tone. “Yeah, well, hopefully we can get some confirmation when we get to Ashalla and I can speak to Kai Kira in person.” “Why’d they want the Bajor for this? I thought we were persona non grata.” “My best guess? A, we’re the heaviest ship Marconi’s got—” “Seriously? I thought he had an Odyssey-class.” “The Valentine bought it against the planet-buster at Cardassia. He’s supposed to be getting the USS Phinda to replace her but she got shot up pretty bad at Qo’noS and won’t even get out of the yard until Sunday. Anyway, B, we’re both Bajoran so they think the church’ll be less inclined to raise a stink when we borrow the Orb.” “Prophets, this sounds like Schrödinger’s Butterfly all over again.” “No kidding.” The sky darkens enough for the stars to become visible and I shift in my chair as the shuttle tips forward to enter the flat part of the suborbital course. Kendra Province is in Bajor’s southern and eastern hemispheres, about 34 degrees south latitude, while our destination, the planetary capital Ashalla, is almost on the other side of the planet. The autopilot handles the navigation for the most part—the ship can fly and land itself on simple trips like this one and its trip back out from DS9—and my job is mostly just to monitor it. I can see Derna and Endalla hanging in the blackness and I can just make out the constellations of the Five Brothers and Hamren’s Gift as we cross the terminator to the night side. Ashalla Traffic Control hails us as we begin our descent twenty minutes later. “Incoming shuttlecraft, please state your identity and destination.” “Ashalla Control,” Gaarra answers, “this is Starfleet shuttle Shoemaker NCC-97238-slash-02 out of Priyat, Kendra Province, requesting routing to Temple District, over.” “Copy, Shuttle Shoemaker. Confirm control handoff for routing to Temple District shuttlepad, over.” A new dialog box appears on my screen. I confirm that it’s for them to take remote control and press it, and the shuttle smoothly descends into the atmosphere over the capital. Ashalla’s air lanes have gotten busy since the end of the Dominion War. Thirty-odd years ago nearly everybody still used groundcars. Aircars were a luxury item and there wasn’t much call for spaceship landing space. Now, though, as our shuttle careens through a layer of thunderclouds and into the pouring rain below, we can see the lights hundreds of aircars moving people and cargo between points in the city. The space traffic has picked up, too, and our shuttle slides in behind a larger Romulan Kestrel-class runabout. I pay close attention to the readouts and controls, ready to take over on manual if necessary. Theoretically it’s impossible to have an accident with every air vehicle in the city fully computer-piloted, but if I had a credit for every time the phrase “theoretically impossible” was juxtaposed with some version of “oh, phekk”, I could retire. After passing the Chamber of Ministers building about fifty meters below and to the right, the shuttle peels out of its lane and cuts left around the Central Bank of Bajor tower, turning northward to the compound containing the central authority of our religion. There’s a landing pad on the far side of Ashalla Gorge for aircars and small starships and the shuttle smoothly sets down. I unbuckle and straighten my uniform and pull on a poncho against the rain, then press the door panel. The landing pad is well-lit with floodlights, illuminating a dark-skinned, part-Cardassian ranjen standing in front of the shuttle holding an umbrella for an older Bajoran. Brown eyes, long, straight nose, silver hair still kept in a short bob cut. I approach and snap into a Bajoran Militia salute, palm facing out, for Kira Nerys, former commander of Deep Space 9 and now the Kai of Bajor. “You can stop doing that, Captain Kanril,” she says in a mildly amused tone. “I retired over thirty years ago.” “Ma’am, you fought in the war of liberation, and I’m former Militia.” It’s become a tradition for any Militiaman to salute anyone from the Resistance. But I let my hand down anyway because it’s ten degrees and pouring and my sleeve’s getting wet. “Are you, now? That I hadn’t heard.” “I was a blacksider, NCO. Went to Starfleet OCS when they shut down the fleet. Uh, this is my operations officer, Lieutenant Commander Reshek.” “Eminence,” Gaarra says, clambering out of the shuttle in a poncho and hitting the lock panel to close it up. “Commander,” she greets him back. She turns back to me. “Let’s get you two inside before this storm gets any worse.” “Did Vedek Armen get in touch with you, Eminence?” I ask as we follow her to a waiting groundcar. No frills, just a dark-colored Honda Spectre three or four years old. “Yes. Interesting request, Captain. You’ve got the Vedek Assembly almost as angry as they were about Schrödinger’s Butterfly.” The ranjen opens the front passenger door for the Kai and she clambers in, while Gaarra and I sit in the back. That’s when I discover that the door feels oddly weighty. Maybe I was wrong about ‘no frills,’ so I ask. She groans. “True Way took a shot at me a couple years ago. They missed but the Assembly didn’t want to chance it and had my car armored. Anyway, the worst one’s Vedek Taibo. He’s calling you a heretic and wants you excommunicated.” The car starts moving and we approach the bridge across the canyon. Gaarra asks, “Isn’t he the same guy who—” “—who tried to excommunicate the First Minister over the Butterfly mission? The same. Reactionary zealot,” she says with disgust. “He was part of Kai Winn’s cadre decades ago. He’s not even comfortable with letting ships travel through the wormhole, though I think he’s figured out that ship has sailed.” “And he wants me excommunicated?” I repeat in disbelief. “I think Admiral Quinn was right when he said I’ve got a talent for creating political shitstorms.” “When was this?” Gaarra asks, raising an eyebrow. “Debrief after Qo’noS.” “If it makes you feel any better, Captain,” the ranjen says, “Her Eminence and I don’t share Taibo’s opinion and neither do most of the other vedeks. I’m Tes Keettu, by the way.” “Nice to meet you.” The Shikina Monastery is situated on the edge of a sheer cliff down to the River Taaj that runs through Ashalla. The car trundles across the hundred-meter drop and Ranjen Tes pulls up under an overhang on the building, out of the rain. Kira, Gaarra, and I let ourselves out, and Tes leaves to park the car. “Come on inside,” Kira says. Gaarra and I peel off our ponchos and hang them up, following her into a sitting room where a roaring fire is going in a wood stove. She takes off the peaked cap and an acolyte walks in with a tea service. “Thank you, Fili.” “That better not be Earl Grey,” I comment. “Tried it once, can’t stand it.” “It’s deka.” She pours cups for the three of us. “I’ve considered your request, Captain, and I’m rejecting it.” “Phekk, I thought you said—” “It’s not church politics,” she interrupts, taking a sip of tea. “It’s that you don’t have a plan. You’re just going to be wandering around the other reality until the Terran Empire blows you and the Orb back to the Prophets.” “It’s crossed my mind, Eminence. But I have my orders.” “To Hell with your orders,” she says dismissively. “Starfleet has a lot of power, but they don’t get to dictate terms to the church any more than they do to the President. The Orb of Possibilities is the sovereign property of the Bajoran people, not Starfleet, and it will not leave this building without my express approval,” she says with finality. “All right, so give us a Plan B,” Gaarra counters. “We can’t afford to garrison one star system in the middle of nowhere forever just to keep the Terrans out.” She puts her teacup down as Fili and Ranjen Tes walk in carrying an ornate wooden case on a stretcher between them. “This is my Plan B, Commander Reshek. Our dear captain is going to ask the Prophets for advice.” The two men lay the case down on the table and leave without a word. “This is the Orb of Wisdom, Kanril Eleya.” I look to the box, its gems glowing faintly purple, then back to the Kai. “Eminence, I can’t. When Vedek Armen, Prylar Armen back then, had me use the Orb of Prophecy and Change, nothing happened.” She gets up, walks around the table and sits next to me, then reaches her right hand out and takes hold of my left ear, pinching it hard between her thumb and forefinger. The dull pain makes me wince. “That was then,” she says in a quiet, motherly tone. “This is now. You have traveled into the Celestial Temple. You have been touched by prophecy. I can feel Captain Sisko’s hands on your pagh.” She lets her hand fall and I reach up and rub my ear. “Clear your mind. Look upon the Orb. Find the answers you need.” I don’t mind telling you, I’m afraid. Afraid to fail again. That lack of an Orb experience was one of the reasons I stopped keeping some of the holy days and turned more secular. But once again it comes down to this: I’ve got people depending on me to do a job, and by the Prophets I will do it. So I shove the fear into a deep, dark, corner of my mind, take a deep breath, and carefully open the doors of the Orb’s casket. I get a glimpse of a glittering violet crystal hourglass, then there’s a blinding flash behind my eyes and I’m standing on the bridge of the Bajor. The air is hazy, just like it was when I met the Emissary. I look around and suddenly there are people standing in a circle around me. The Prophets. I’ve read about them doing this, taking the forms of people you know. Tess. Gaarra. My sister Teri. Admiral Quinn. Professor Atani Dukat. My last CO, Alfred Detweiler. Oh, god, one of them took the shape of the Orion matron who nearly killed me ten years ago. “The Kanril comes, as the Sisko said,” the Detweiler Prophet intones. “It is of Bajor,” Gaarra notes. “As we are of Bajor,” Teri adds. “I’m here, Prophets. How may I serve?” “There is an imbalance,” the Orion states. Tess says, “The Orb of Possibilities is not of this Bajor. It is not of your reality.” From Atani Dukat, “Not this time. Not this place. It is wrong.” From Admiral Quinn, “What happened to Bajor should not have happened.” I take this in. “What must I do?” From my sister, “The Orb has a Mirror. Tess continues, “A Twin.” From Gaarra, “A Reflection.” Captain Detweiler adds, “Cross over to the other side. Bring the Orb and its Mirror together. Bajor will be as it should be.” Dukat continues, “The Sisko has convinced us to leave this task to you.” The matron finishes, “Find the Mirror. Restore the Balance.” “Will I succeed?” “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” a warmer, less formal voice says behind me, and as I turn the Detweiler and Tess Prophets part to let the Emissary through. “Remember what I told you once about the importance of free will?” “Yes, I do, Emissary.” “The game grows more complex by the day. The Xindi have emerged from isolation, the Organians are moving, and the Metrons have attacked the Iconians directly.” “Who’s winning?” He looks saddened. “The Metrons are holding for now, but they are not as they once were, and they are weaker in subspace. Once the Iconians defeat them, they will return their attention to the Milky Way. Which means you must act as soon as you can.” “Should I tell that to Starfleet Command?” “No, the Prophets have other pieces in the game.” Detweiler speaks, “The Kanril has been given its task.” From my sister, “It has duties to execute.” From Gaarra, “To its crew.” Dukat adds, “To Bajor.” The matron finishes, “And to itself.” I absorb this and turn to Sisko. “Captain, do you ever…” I pause to consider my phrasing. “Do you ever regret what got you here?” He smiles faintly. “Some of it. I’m not proud of some of the choices I made in the Dominion War. My biggest regrets, though? I wasn’t able to see my daughter grow up, or see Jake get married and have my grandchildren. But I couldn’t be prouder. Rebecca’s in Starfleet now, did you know that?” “I heard something about it. She’s a lieutenant commander, CO of the Heinlein.” He nods. “We all have our duties. I visit them when I can, in visions.” “But it isn’t the same.” “No, it’s not. I envy you, Captain Kanril. You are of Bajor, but you have a chance to have a duty and a life. Never forget that.” Another flash and I’m back in the Kai’s living room. I close the Orb’s casket reverently and sit back for a moment. “Are you okay, Captain?” I grab his collar and pull him over for a forceful kiss, and out of the corner of my eye I see Kai Kira twitch in surprise. I break the kiss and tell him. “I’m fine, I’m better than fine. I’ve got an actual plan now.” “So,” Marconi says, scratching the scar on his jaw as I explain everything to him on Deep Space 9 that afternoon. “You expect to be able to just waltz into a Terran military installation with no backup, steal an Orb, and waltz right back out the front door?” “Actually I think I have to blast my way in and out, but yeah, that’s the basic idea. Quite frankly sir, I’ll have to make most of this up as I go,” I admit. “But at least it’s something resembling a plan, which is more than I had when Riker called me back to duty. I mean, hey,” I add with a shrug, “it beats just wandering around in an alternate universe waiting for the Terrans to catch up and put two in my head.” Captain Kurland grunts, “Point.” “I’ve also got an idea or two on the ‘no backup’ part. Maybe we can contact the Ferengi or the Breen, possibly even the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance.” Kurland starts, “Are you sure that’s a good—” The door slides open. “Ah, welcome to the party, General Brokosh.” I turn in my chair to see an orange-hued Lethean in heavy-duty Klingon plate armor with a blue-and-white cape. “Good to see you again, Captain Kurland.” Then he looks over at me. “Captain Kanril, good to finally talk to you; we didn’t get a chance at Tuvok’s conference. You were a little busy cussing out my ambassador.” I roll my eyes. “Am I ever going to live that down?” His mouth twists into what I think is supposed to be a smile but the horns on his face render it a little creepy. “Probably not. Don’t worry, though, I agree with you that somebody needs to get rid of J’mpok. He’s an asshole, and my House has always been allied to Martok anyway.” He steps into the room and sits down next to me. “Don’t know if you know, but we’ve met before.” I’m drawing a blank, so he prompts, “Bird-of-prey at Regulus IV? You were in the Hammond?” “Which bird?” “The B’Rotlh-class, mupwI’.” “That one? I thought Tess shot you up pretty good.” He snorts. “Nothing permanent. And you only got me after my XO was injured and the targ-fucker who took over decided it would be fun to fly right in front of your forward battery. I didn’t catch it in time.” “Huh. So what’s with the getup?” “Oh, this?” He gestures at the cape and grins rather frighteningly. “I’m the head of the House of Chel’toK now.” “You’re a merc; how did you manage that?” Kurland’s XO, Commander Anasa Iymur, asks. “By not being dead,” he deadpans. Off my look, “Old Man Chel’toK got vaped by that Iconian and Kidu bought it on the Khorazhar over Qo’noS, so that left me the closest living male family member. And since I’m not a ridgeface I can’t sit on the Council myself, so my wife Ba’woV got that job as heir presumptive. It’s also why I’m a general now. A couple ships from the House of Woldan decided to defect to a house that’d ‘won greater honor’.” This last part with air-quotes. “General,” Kurland interrupts, “where’s everyone else?” “Turbolift was full; they were waiting for the next one.” The door slides open again. “There they are.” There’s some familiar faces in the bunch. A big Gorn stoops to get under the doorframe and takes a seat, then I see Admiral Amnell Kree and Captain Bronok Zell from the Badlands mission, Commander—no, Captain Chuba, she’s been promoted since I last saw her, and— I get up from my chair, run up, and sweep the short, black-haired Vulcan into a bear hug. “T’Var, they didn’t tell me you were coming! It’s great to see you!” “Mmf, it is good to see you again as well, Captain Kanril.” I grab her by the arm and guide her to the chair on the other side of me from Brokosh. “How’s the Eighth Fleet treating you?” “I’m sorry,” Brokosh interrupts. “Who is this?” “I was operations officer under Captain Kanril until late last year.” She turns her head to me and answers, “It is not. Vice Admiral Ben-David attempted to intercept the Undine near Epsilon Eridani and the fleet was effectively destroyed.” That puts a hole in my good mood. “I’m sorry.” “Thus is the nature of war, Captain,” she says matter-of-factly. “The Olokun and five others survived intact and thirty-four of the other ships are under repair or awaiting dockyard space.” “92% casualties, ouch,” Brokosh remarks, wincing. “They sacrificed themselves to give Earth a fighting chance, and we inflicted significant damage to the Undine armada before we were swept aside. I am satisfied with our performance, General.” He shakes his head. “I don’t get you pointy-ears. I just … don’t.” T’Var lets that pass. “Rear Admiral nd’Ashalef volunteered the remnants of the Olokun’s wing for this operation, and here I am.” “How many people have we got, anyway?” I ask the table. Admiral Kree answers, “General Brokosh has three ships in his task force, although his is by far the heaviest. We also have a Gorn battle squadron under General S’Trenk, a Negh’Var-class and support vessels, and parts of the Cardassian Second and Fifth Orders. Jagul Macet has overall command.” “What is he, ninety?” Brokosh interrupts. “Did they haul him out of retire…ment…” then he trails off as Kree glares at him. A white-haired, mutton-chopped Cardassian at the opposite end of the table from us snickers and I stifle a chuckle. I’ve been on the receiving end of the Kree Glare™ before. Kree continues, “As for Starfleet, we’re using all of Marconi’s reserves—Yes, Captain Kanril?” she says as I raise a hand. “Just curious, why isn’t Marconi commanding this? It’s his jurisdiction.” Marconi answers, “I’m fine back here on Deep Space 9 as an operational director for BUFA and part-time diplomat, but Kree’s a better field commander. Plus we’re diverting several of my ships for this operation so I need to stay here and keep an eye on things in case the True Way or whoever tries anything.” Kree continues, “I’m forming the Olokun, Patrick Henry, Dervish, Laporin, and Defiant into a Galaxy wing centered on Kanril’s Bajor. Admiral nd’Ashalef will command. This wing will travel through the portal into the alternate reality and attempt to locate the missing Orb.” “I’ll get a holodeck set up as a flag bridge for him.” Kree acknowledges me with an appreciative nod and brings up a plot on the screen. “According to Gul Antos’ flyby the Terrans have about ten heavies and forty light units. The main base is heavily shielded and has two additional defense satellites. It’ll be a tough nut to crack.” Brokosh grins. “Not a problem, Admiral. You want them disabled or plain gone?” “The sats, gone. Just get the station’s shields down. We’ll handle the rest with boarders.” “Aye, aye.” He gives a sloppy salute and Kree raises a distinctly unamused eyebrow at him. “Any other questions?” Marconi asks. “I have a request, sir,” I say. “I want a full unit of MACOs attached to the Bajor. We may need them.” His head rocks forward. “Not sure Command will sign off on that. If it were anyone else—” “They don’t technically have to sign off on it, sir. Going strictly by the letter of the regs, I just have to get the regional commander’s approval. Roxy owes me a favor.” “What favor, if I may ask?” Kurland says. “My apologies, sir,” T’Var states in her usual controlled tone of voice, “but that is classified. Suffice to say we extracted her unit from a predicament eighteen months ago.” “All right, zero hour is 2200 hours sharp. If you can get her approval in eight hours, more power to you.” “Thank you, sir.” “Anything else? No? Then man your ships, and Godspeed.” I got the MACOs I wanted: Unit 92 under Lieutenant Commander Jason Gardner got itself squared away aboard the Bajor by 2130. Rear Admiral Eviku nd’Ashalef turned out to be an Arkenite. Started in science in the late ‘70s before switching to command track. Nice guy. Park undocks the Bajor from DS9 with his usual surplus of care and moves us out to the rendezvous, fifteen kilometers off the station and out of the flight lanes, where a motley assortment of fifty-two capital ships, nine runabouts, and two full Peregrine wings hang in the darkness, waiting impatiently for the word go. “This is Admiral Kree. All fleet elements, report in.” “Gray Leader, standing by.” “Gold Leader, standing by.” These two from the Peregrine wings. “Jadzia Dax, standing by.” “Amaterasu, standing by.” ”Olokun, standing by.” “Please nobody say ‘lock s-foils in attack position’,” I mutter to no one in particular. “What?” from Tess. “Skip it.” The comm system chimes for our turn. “USS Bajor, standing by.” “Gul Antos, Fifth Order, ready.” “Gul Ekoor, Second Order, ready.” “IKS QarchetvI’, standing by.” I suppress a shiver at the sound of that name. Km’prala, daughter of Koloth, has a well-deserved reputation for cruelty. She half-destroyed the USS Hamburg and left them for dead, and she kept blasting the Hammond even after I tried to surrender. I was lucky the Shran turned up when it did. “GHS S’slee and Gorn forces, standing ready.” “IKS HoSbatlh here,” Brokosh’s rough voice comes through. “Time’s a-wasting.” “All units, all units,” Admiral Kree orders. “Commence operation. Captain Kurland, bring the transwarp conduit online.” The fleet moves towards the green glow of Deep Space 9’s link in the Federation Transwarp Network. It’ll get us close—there’s a Ferengi-built private gate in the Vanden system that we’ve shanghaied—but it’ll still be over a day at warp 9 before we hit the target. A lot can happen in 30 hours.
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