Worf inhaled dust when he took a shuddering breath and regained consciousness, laying facedown on the dirt floor of a small hut. Coughing, he tried to pull himself to a sitting position and discovered that his hands and feet were tied, so he had to settle for wriggling around until he could roll onto his back. His head swam with the effort, an unpleasant and detrimental side effect of a phaser on stun. Sunlight filtered through the thatched roof, so it was still daytime. He apparently hadn't been out that long.

With great difficulty, Worf slid a hand down into his boot and felt a surge of anger when his fingers met only his ankle. His mek'leth, the mek'leth that had been his father's and his grandfather's before that, was gone. A glance at his chest showed that his comm badge was missing, too. Cursing in Klingon as he tested his bonds, he discovered that they weren't made of virtually unbreakable synthetic material but primitive twisted fibers. He began to work at them with his fingers, feeling the end start to unravel.

Suddenly the door flew open and a Jem'Hadar marched in, flanked by a Cardassian. Without speaking, the latter unsheathed a knife and grabbed Worf by the shoulder. For a moment the Klingon thought he was going to be stabbed through the heart, but all the Cardassian did was use the blade to slice through the ropes and allow him to maneuver stiffly into a sitting position. A bundle of fabric was tossed unceremoniously in his lap.

Upon shaking one of the pieces of cloth out so it unfolded, he discovered it was a prisoner's uniform, identical to the ones he had seen on the people working outside. The Jem'Hadar finally rumbled, "Put it on, Klingon."

Smoldering at the soldier but remaining silent, wary of the weapons they still held, Worf quickly removed his Starfleet uniform and donned the oversized, drab, shapeless clothing he had been given, retaining his boots. The Cardassian moved past the Jem'Hadar and collected his uniform, then stepped out again and disappeared around the corner.

The scaly guard indicated with a sweep of his phaser that Worf should get up and precede him as they walked out the door. The Klingon blinked, eyes unaccustomed to the sudden brightness, and half-walked, half-stumbled down the wide main road as directed by the Jem'Hadar. It came as no surprise when they wound up in front of the row of worker barracks.

Worf was hustled past the first six stone buildings and yanked to a halt at the seventh. The phaser jabbed painfully into his bruised back, causing him to grit his teeth.

"In here."

By "here" the guard meant the wooden door of the tiny structure. Suddenly feeling possessed by hatred and frustration, Worf refused to move. This angered the Jem'Hadar, who slapped a hand down on his shoulder. "I said -"

But he didn't get the chance to repeat his order. The Klingon whirled around and punched him in the face with all his strength. He just had to hit something, to vent all this pressure that had been accumulating until he felt like a bomb ready to detonate. He couldn't have picked a worse time. If he'd been thinking clearly, he would have taken into consideration the fact that his usually formidable strength had been depleted by the phaser blast he'd taken earlier and that he was in no shape to challenge a Jem'Hadar.

The Dominion soldier regained his balance quicker than seemed possible and smashed Worf in the forehead with the butt of his weapon. Worf fell to his knees, the world spinning around him, images blurring together like a kaleidoscope. Reaching past him, the Jem'Hadar shoved open the door to the barracks and kicked him inside. Through his dizziness, he could see that there were other people in the room.

No one moved until the soldier had yanked the door shut and the sound of his footfalls fading indicated that he had left. When the room was silent, a figure jumped up from a bunk and hurried over, grasping his arm and helping him sit up.

"Are you all right?"

Fighting for breath with his solar plexus, still bruised from the Romulan's blow a few days earlier, Worf raised his gaze to meet the speaker's and was shocked to see the Klingon girl who he'd rescued from the Cardassian guards not long ago. She evidently recognized him as well, for her eyebrows shot up and her eyes, set in dark skin and the same deep, velvety brown as his own, widened in surprise. Then she gave a smile and a short, somewhat sarcastic laugh.

"I didn't expect to see you again."

"Neither did I."

He paused. "Are you all right?"

For a moment she seemed confused, then she answered, "Oh, I'm fine. They do that all the time, you know. So far someone higher-ranking has shown up or I managed to fight my way out, but I didn't think I was going to be so lucky this time."

The girl slung one of his arms over her shoulders and pulled him to his feet. She was stronger than she looked. "Thank you, by the way."

"You are welcome."

Now that Worf had time to study her, he could see why the guards were so insistent about harassing her. She was very attractive for such a young age, and already possessed an impressive figure and slender waist, outlined by the tight jumpsuit she wore, an extreme contrast to his own. Her long black hair hung to her waist and shone dully in the light from the few tiny, filthy windows.

Another man might have felt as the Cardassian guards did in this situation, holding the assumption that this young Klingon was merely a young, inexperienced child and easy to take advantage of. The thought didn't even cross his mind. He saw her as an ally, one of his own to side with in times of chaos and confusion. Besides, her earlier prowess while hitting the Cardassian had proved her to be anything but inexperienced.

The girl deposited him on the bunk where she'd been laying. Worf swept the barracks with his eyes, taking in the other people crammed into this tiny living space.

On the top bunk next to the side wall lay a lanky, blond Human man with his face turned in the other direction, presumably asleep. Reclining on the bunk directly beneath him was a Romulan, whose face bore a long scar from the corner of his right eye to the underside of his pointed chin.

A Bolian sat cross-legged on the floor in the dusty corner with an array of bottles spread out in front of him, transferring liquids from one flask to another and making notations on a scrap of something Worf hadn't seen for ages- paper. Occasionally he would mumble incomprehensibly to himself or shake his head as if disagreeing with someone.

There was a tiny desk under one of the dirt-stained windows. At it sat a Bajoran woman, hunched over, squinting to see in the dim light. She was also writing something on rarely seen paper. The sleeves of her prisoner's outfit had been ripped off, exposing her sinewy arms. Her earring was plain gold metal, in the shape of a triangle.

Worf guessed she was about the same age as Colonel Kira, which meant she'd fought in the Occupation as a teenager. She was relatively young if his estimate was correct, but she looked like she had many more years under her belt. The skin under her eyes was creased and shadowed, and her thin lips were pressed in a hard line. But her most striking feature was her hair. It was about half as long as the Klingon girl's and a vibrant, flaming red.

"Are you going to tell me your name, or should I call a guard to interrogate it out of you?"

Worf's attention was abruptly drawn back to the girl, sitting on the bunk beside him.

"I am Worf, son of Mogh." Usually when introducing himself, he used his rank instead of his father's name, but since this wasn't Starfleet, rank didn't matter, and he was addressing a fellow Klingon, he chose to use the traditional greeting, as did she.

"Tonika, daughter of Dhu'vel."

"How long have you been here?"

She shifted and raised a sharp-fingernailed hand to push her unruly hair back.

"For about five months now. They brought me here at the very beginning. I was one of the first 'workers'." She gave that sarcastic laugh again. "That's their word for 'prisoner.' It's a convenient illusion they have, that we actually want to be here, building their damned city."

Worf stopped her. Finally- someone who knew what was going on!

"Who are 'they?'"

"The crazy Pagh'Wraith worshippers who run this place. It's strange. I thought the Pagh'Wraiths were supposed to be Bajoran gods, but I've seen a lot of different races here that aren't Bajoran. Us, for one." Tonika indicated the different people in the room as she spoke. "Humans, Romulans, Bolians, Vulcans, Deltans, Ferengi…the majority are Bajoran, though."

Worf had noticed this.

"What about the guards? The Cardassians would never worship Bajoran gods, and I did not think the Jem'Hadar practiced any type of religion."

She sighed.

"It's a long story."

"Tell me."

She tucked her long legs beneath her and began, "The cult calls this place Bal'gurna, if you haven't heard the name before. I don't know what it means; it's some ancient Bajoran word. They refer to it as a city, but it's really just a glorified labor camp for anyone they can round up, regardless of race or religion. We build temples, each devoted to worshipping the Pagh'Wraiths for something different. One for matters concerning health, one for occupations, family problems, and so on. It's supposed to be an entire city of shrines once it's complete. Prisoners that are sick or disabled build small houses. The guards think they're doing them a favor by assigning them easier work, but all they're doing is sending them to an early death. There's no modern medicine here, so don't get sick."

"I have noticed a lack of machinery, presumably because anything large would be detected by the Dominion sensors."

Tonika confirmed this with a nod.

"They can't bring anything bigger than phasers and tiny comm systems in here, which makes it especially hard on the miners."

"Miners?"

"To get material for the temples and houses, the prisoners go up on the mountainside and chop off pieces of the rock, then bring them down and chip smaller pieces off to give them a somewhat regular shape so they stack easily. We only use hand tools like hammers and pickaxes. Sometimes we have crude explosives."

That explained the caves Worf had seen from the pinnacle of the mountain. A noise made both Klingons look toward the bunks. The human on the top bed had stretched and sat up and was now gazing at them.

"Hey, Tonika, who's this?"

She gestured for him to join them.

"Worf. He came in with the new group of prisoners earlier today." The man was staring at him.

"Not Lieutenant Commander Worf? From DS9?"

The Klingon was surprised to hear his rank spoken here. He didn't acknowledge the question, but instead warily asked,

"Who are you?" The human came over, hand outstretched.

"Commander Daniel Callahan. Call me Dan; it would be safer if we didn't use ranks here. I served on the U.S.S. Parthenon before I was captured on an away mission."

Worf shook his hand.

"How many Starfleet officers are here?"

Callahan sat on the dusty floor.

"Six now. You, me, and the other four officers from the team I was leading. They're in different barracks. We were together originally-coincidence or not I don't know- but I was moved here."

"Why?" Worf inquired. Tonika answered for Callahan.

"For the same reason we're all here, you included. For being extreme rebels who refuse to cooperate with the guards, attempt to lead rebellions, and generally raise hell in Bal'gurna. We're known as "Barrack 7" or sometimes just "Seven". We have quite a reputation."

She tapped her chest. "I'm here because I killed three Romulans." Tonika was obviously proud of this accomplishment. "I taunt the guards, refuse to work, start fights, and insult the Master."

Here was what he was looking for! Who was the clandestine man who'd ordered him brought here?

"Who is the Master?" Worf demanded. The female Klingon shrugged.

"I don't know, exactly. No one does, but he's supposed to be the supreme ruler. He lives up in that house on the mountainside with a few servants. The cult sees him as holy and a very touchy subject, so I use every obscenity I can think of against him to get a rise out of the guards."

Callahan said, "I'm here because I led an escape attempt during one of the scheduled bathing times. Once a week, they take groups of prisoners down to a nearby lake, where we can clean up and wash our clothes. My officers and I tried to swim under the water until we got out of sight."

The blond, freckled commander smiled ruefully. "I still have bruises from that beating." Judging by the practiced cool with which Molina had doled out corporal punishment during the hike to Bal'gurna, beatings and executions were normal practice here when a prisoner got out of line.

Worf asked, "Do they enforce rules heavily?"

At this question Tonika and Callahan exchanged solemn glances. After a moment Callahan gave a nod and said, "Show him."

Silently, Tonika stood up, turned around, and pulled her shirt over her head. Worf's eyes widened in shock as her skin was exposed. Her entire back was covered in twisted, ugly scars, some obviously recent. Red and black splotches that could have been burns mottled her dark skin. She glanced over her shoulder.

"Plasma burns," she explained. "The Jem'Hadar guards were issued plasma whips. They seem to enjoy watching us squirm while the sparks eat away at us." She readjusted her shirt. Suddenly one short, sharp whistle sounded outside. Worf glanced up quickly, but Tonika and Callahan seemed to be accustomed to it.

"One whistle means work is over for the day," explained the Klingon. "The cult would love to have us work longer, but it's too risky after the sun goes down. Not enough light. It's too easy to chop off a finger or foot if you can't see where you're swinging your pick."

The sun was setting, Worf saw. The light coming through the tiny windows was becoming more of a muted glare. "In ten minutes, they'll blow the whistle twice, meaning you'd better be in your barracks or there'll be trouble."

"Why have you been in here instead of out working? I would think the guards would come looking for you when you did not report to your assigned areas."

"Every once in a while we try coming back early," said Callahan, "but only if there's a new guard on duty who doesn't know us all. He's so busy trying to impress his superiors by abusing the prisoners that he doesn't notice if a couple of us sneak off." He stood. "I'm going to turn in. Again." Climbing back up into the bunk he'd been asleep in before, he yawned, "'Night, Tonika."

"Goodnight, Dan." The female Klingon flopped onto the bed beside Worf once more.

"I guess I'd better tell you a little more about us. Callahan's an engineer. He's got a wife, Commander Michelene Callahan, on Starbase 375. Underneath him is Pradak. He worked aboard an exploratory science vessel and was captured while the ship's shields were down, taking ore samples from asteroids. That scar on his face came from one of his frequent fights with the Jem'Hadar guards." She paused to pry off her boots. Pointing to the Bolian on the floor, she continued, "That's Jeric. He's a doctor. Remember earlier, when the Cardassian hit me?" Tonika touched her ridged forehead, where the injury should have been. All that was left to indicate she had ever been assaulted was a crust of dried blood along her hairline. "This is his handiwork. He managed to smuggle in some medical supplies from his ship. I admire him, really. The man has the most focused mind of anyone I know. Once he decides to do something, you can't stop him with an armada of Klingon warships."

As they watched the Bolian tinker with his vials, Worf noticed that his left hand seemed abnormally stiff. Suddenly his grip slipped and sent a bottle clattering to the ground. A yellowish liquid seeped out of the bottle's mouth and began to soak into the dirt floor. Jeric swore and began to mop it up with a cloth that appeared from inside his sleeve.

"What is wrong with his hand?" Worf whispered to his companion.

"The nerves in three of his fingers were severed in an accident. His other hand is incredibly steady, though. He gets along fine, and the guards still have him working with the rest of us."

Tonika lowered her voice as she gestured to the Bajoran, still squinting at the papers spread out on the desk. "That's Molina Kavira. Everyone calls her Kavi."

That was as far as she got before Worf interrupted urgently,

"Molina? There was a man among the guards that brought me here by that name."

Tonika nodded sadly. "That was Elij, her twin brother. Kavi's very sensitive about him, so I wouldn't mention his name." She scooted closer and lowered her voice even more. "You see, Elij didn't start out as a guard. He and Kavi came here together, after their transport back to Bajor was hijacked. At first he hated Bal'gurna as much as she does, but he hadn't fought in the Resistance as long or as hard as her. He wasn't as strong as she is and couldn't take the constant work and abuse. So he acted on the only option he had. He converted."

"He began to worship the Pagh'Wraiths?" She shook her head.

"Not at first. In the beginning he pretended to worship them, but he still prayed to the Prophets when no one was around. I would see him sometimes, kneeling down when the guards weren't watching, and mouthing words with his face turned to the sky. After he'd been fooling everyone for a while, he actually started to believe that the Pagh'Wraiths were the right gods. The bastard actually had the nerve to come in here and try to convince Kavi to join him when he went up to the Master's house and begged to be allowed to serve him. She was heartbroken when he told her of his decision. For about a week, anyway. Then she turned to hating him."

Worf was silent as Tonika's story sunk in. The two of them sat on the bunk, watching Kavi. In the flickering glow of the candle that the Bajoran had lit to get more light, her eyes were steely and cold. He sympathized with her. It wasn't easy to be betrayed by someone you loved. Luckily, he'd never had to worry about that with Jadzia. Nothing could have persuaded her to abandon Worf, no matter how tempting it might have been to someone else.

And he had felt equally devoted to her. Having never found anyone else like her in his whole life, he had intended to hold onto every last incredible inch of her until their time in this world was up.

"Can anyone convert and be an overseer?" he asked. The girl abruptly slapped a spot on her arm.

"Damn bugs. Yes, but most of those who convert are like Elij- just faking it to end their suffering. Some genuinely begin to believe."

The shrill whistle sounded again, then once more.

"Better get into bed, kiddies," Callahan quipped dryly from his bunk. "You know what'll happen if Daddy comes around and finds you up past your bedtime."

Tonika threw a boot at him before turning to Worf. "Dan's right, though. It's important to stay rested if you want to survive here. You never know when an opportunity may arise, and if you're dead on your feet you won't be able to take advantage of it."

Worf stood so he could keep her in his sights as she hoisted herself onto the top bed of the bunk on which they had been sitting. Behind him, Kavi had blown out the candle, stacked her papers, and was rolling into a bottom bunk, settling her head on her folded arms.

The Bolian had risen from the floor after putting away his bottles and felt his way through the dark to the bunk above Kavi's. The Klingon suddenly felt exhausted.

"What will we be doing in the morning?" he asked, only partially curious.

"Building," Tonika said around a yawn, and scrunched the thin blanket around her wiry frame as she stretched out and closed her eyes.

Sisko brushed past a Bajoran deputy on his way into Odo's office, too deep in thought to acknowledge the man's "Excuse me, sir."

Odo looked up from a display on his computer screen.

"Is there something I can do for you, Captain?"

"Yes, Constable. I need you to locate Gul Dukat."

Odo made no effort to hide the incredulity he felt at this request.

"Captain, Gul Dukat hasn't been heard from in months. He's obviously very deep in hiding and doesn't want to be found. If the Dominion hasn't been able to locate him, what makes you think I will?"

"I know. Just try." Odo nodded.

"May I ask why the sudden interest in vanishing Cardassians?"

The captain sighed.

"There's something I haven't told you."

A suspicious look appeared on the changeling's face. He continued, "Belay that order for now and come up to Ops. I'm calling an emergency meeting. Everyone needs to hear this."

Within ten minutes the two of them were in the wardroom, accompanied by Kira, O'Brien, Bashir, and a bleary-eyed Ezri. Sisko felt guilty for having to postpone her nap. She had just fallen asleep when the meeting was announced and looked like she could use a lot more rest, but he needed her help to explain this situation to the crew. As an afterthought, Garak reclined comfortably in a chair at the end of the table. When everyone was settled, the captain began,

"You all know about the incident with Worf five days ago."

"Has there been any word?" asked Kira immediately. He looked toward his first officer, who perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped tightly on the table.

"Not yet. But the morning he took the Shenandoah to Empok Nor, a message came in from Dominion space for him, sent by Gul Dukat. Ezri thinks Worf went to kill him." The room froze with surprised silence. Finally Kira spoke.

"What could the message have said that angered Worf so much that he wanted to kill Dukat? Not that I have anything against it, of course." No one disagreed with the sentiment. Sisko corrected,

"He didn't go because of the message. It came in an hour after he left, so there was no way it could have been what motivated him."

Bashir piped up, "Then why did he run off like this?"

Ezri answered quietly, "Why do you think?"

Everyone exchanged glances, thinking of his wife.

"You think he wants to kill Dukat to avenge Jadzia?" asked O'Brien. Ezri nodded with sudden conviction.

"I'm sure of it!"

When asked by Bashir how she knew, the Trill explained what had happened when she had gone to investigate Worf's quarters. As she had done with Sisko, she omitted the parts where she'd lost total control, not wanting them to think she was crazy, telling them only about the absent mek'leth and what she'd felt when gazing at the wedding photo. Only Odo looked skeptical when she'd finished. Addressing Sisko, the changeling said,

"So we assume Commander Worf went to find Dukat. As I said in the Security office, he hasn't been heard from in months, other than this message. What did it say?"

Sisko relayed the contents of the transmission. Upon hearing his words, Odo cupped his chin thoughtfully in his palm.

"Has Worf had any other contact with Dukat? Any other messages revealing his location?"

Sisko shook his head. "No. He didn't even know about this message, as I mentioned before. It was actually Weyoun who contacted me, right before Worf stopped back to transport the relay aboard." Sisko ran through everything that had happened since his talk with the Vorta and his startling accusation that they were hiding Dukat.

When he had finished, Bashir said in his lilting British accent, "What does Starfleet think about this?"

Again, the captain was reminded that he had neglected his duty.

"I haven't contacted them as of now. As soon as this meeting is over it's the first thing I'm going to do."

Garak, whom everyone had since forgotten about, interrupted, "Excuse me, Captain. This is all very fascinating, but what does it have to do with me? A tailor's life is a busy one, you know, and I don't have the time to-"

Sisko cut him off. "I'm getting to that, Mr. Garak." He scanned the table and commanded, "Odo, read through recent Starfleet Intelligence reports and see if you can dig up anything else about Dukat. Chief, try to trace the Shenandoah's ion trail, see if you can figure out where Worf was headed. Colonel-," He hesitated. "I'd like to see you in private. Old Man, keep searching Worf's quarters."

It was evident from the expression on her face that she hated that idea, but thankfully Ezri didn't complain.

"After you rest, of course," he appended. "Mr. Garak," he addressed the Cardassian, "If you could contact your sources on Cardassia. See if they know anything about Dukat's disappearance." Garak nodded and displayed his famous charming smile.

"I'll see what I can do."

Sisko stood and nodded to his crew.

"Dismissed."

Colonel Kira lingered as they all filed out. The captain stepped to her side, uncertain how to broach a subject that might cause her some emotional discomfort.

"Would you be able to get in touch with anyone you know that worships the Pagh'Wraiths?"

Kira didn't seem surprised or disturbed.

"To see if they know where Dukat is?" He pointed a finger at her.

"Exactly."

"I'll get right on it." She nodded and exited, with Sisko following her.

While the Bajoran strode into the turbolift, he climbed the stairs into his office and sent a transmission to Starbase 375. A woman in a burgundy uniform introduced herself as Commander Callahan and instructed him to wait as she transferred him to the admiral's office.

Within moments he was face-to-face with Admiral Ross. After he'd told his story again, Ross said,

"I'm going to have to confer with Starfleet Command on Earth. I'll get back to you as soon as possible, but in the meantime, have your people do all they can to find both Commander Worf and Gul Dukat."

"Yes, sir." Sisko cut communications and sat back at his desk. Now all he could do was wait.

Worf rolled over onto his back on the tiny bunk in his quarters on the Defiant. Even though he was under orders to get some rest, sleep just refused to come. Times like these, when they began a mission in the middle of the night, were hard on everyone aboard. Captain Sisko insisted that his bridge crew be awake and alert, so he'd sent them to get some sleep before they arrived at their destination. The Klingon couldn't pry his mind from the upcoming battle. They were endeavoring to destroy a closely guarded Ketracel-white facility in Cardassian territory.

He couldn't wait to get his hands on the phaser controls, to marvel at the pure, devastating energy that he was unleashing. But at the same time, he felt a tincture of the same anxiety being experienced by the rest of the crew. The base was heavily fortified. What if something went wrong? What if the mission failed? What if they didn't make it back? His thoughts turned to Jadzia, also attempting to sleep in separate quarters not far down the hall.

Being alone in bed had become a foreign sensation ever since their marriage; now Worf felt strangely cold and alone. The two of them normally shared quarters on the Defiant, but this time all of the rooms with multiple bunks were taken, so they'd been assigned to different quarters. Worf hated it. So did Jadzia, apparently, for after a few more minutes the door slid open. She stood there, silhouetted against the light from the hall, clad in Starfleet-issue undershirt and boxers, a more modest and appropriate choice than the revealing nightgowns that the Klingon was used to, and peered into the dark room.

Jadzia stepped over the threshold and into the uncomfortably small, stark quarters, letting the door close behind her before announcing,

"I can't sleep." Worf propped himself up on an elbow.

"Nor can I."

Without waiting for an invitation, the Trill padded barefoot over to the bunk and slid in, crawling over him to wedge her slender frame in between him and the bulkhead.

"I don't care how small or hard these damned things are," she griped, shoving him. "Move over."

He complied gladly, laying back and slipping an arm around his parmach'kai as he did so. Her loose hair brushed his arm teasingly. Jadzia settled familiarly against him, and Worf began to believe that he could actually forget the war and the upcoming combat.

"Nervous?" he inquired.

"No. Lonely." She sighed. "I've gotten used to you." Resting her head on his shoulder, she danced the tips of her fingers across his chest. "I'm not tired. You want to sing a Klingon opera?"

Worf couldn't contain a smile.

"I do not think the rest of the crew would approve."

Grinning, Jadzia negotiated, "We'll make it something appropriate for going into battle."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"I'll sing by myself, then."

"Go to sleep, Jadzia."

The Trill pretended to pout. "I can't."

Worf leaned over and lightly kissed her eyelids. "Close your eyes." She complied, and soon they both slept.

Go to part Part VII