“I don’t know,” she said, studying the tricorder. “Based on the readings of the wreckage, I’d guess about a day.” She looked up. “But I can’t really tell how close it would be able to get us to the pulse,” she admitted.

Vaughn turned his head away from her and peered off into the distance, integrating her comments into the framework he had already developed for the continuation of their mission. His eyes found the still-burning husk of Chaffee’s cockpit, and he watched the bounding flames as they persisted in birthing the rising black smoke. Not far from there, he saw the fire-suppression canister still lying where he had dropped it earlier.

Finally, Vaughn looked back up at Prynn. “Yes, try to get the transporter working,” he told her. “If the pulse can’t be stopped, we have no idea what effect it will have on the surface of the planet, but it’d probably be a good idea to get as far away from it as possible.”

Prynn’s brow knitted in obvious puzzlement. “You don’t want to use the transporter to try to get closer to the pulse?” she asked.

“If you can make it work in time to make a difference,” Vaughn said, “then yes, you should try it.”

“Ishould try it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “In the meantime, I’m going to try to get there on foot.”

“You’re going to walk there?” she asked, her voice rising in surprise. “Alone?”

“Somebody needs to tend to Ensign ch’Thane,” he said, glancing over at the unconscious Andorian. “And you’ll also be working on the transporter.”

Prynn seemed to consider this, and then she asked, “How far is it?”

“Based on the levels of the interference,” he said, “I think somewhere between fifty and two hundred fifty kilometers. But it’s impossible to know for sure.”

Prynn let out a long, heavy breath. “Two hundred fifty kilometers in two and a half days?” she said doubtfully. “You’ll never make that, even under the best conditions.”

“Which is why I’m hoping that the distance is closer to fifty kilometers,” he said. He chose not to address the fact that, even if he made it to the location in time, he still had no idea how—or even if—he would be able to prevent the next occurrence of the pulse; all along, they had known that they would have to learn what they could when they got there, and hope that they could improvise a solution.

Vaughn stood up and faced Prynn. “If you succeed with the transporter, and if you can beam yourself close to the pulse, then do so,” he said. “Otherwise, get yourself and Ensign ch’Thane as far away as possible. Whether or not we stop the pulse, the crew will finish repairing Saganin a few more days, and they’ll send it down to look for us.” He did not bother to add that if they could not stop the pulse they would have to survive its effects in order to be rescued, something far from sure, considering that the planet was completely devoid of animal life.

“All right,” Prynn said, accepting his orders. Her features fell still, her expression unreadable.

“If I can stop the pulse, or if I can’t but I somehow survive it,” he said, “then I’ll come back here.”

“All right,” she said again, still stone-faced. Vaughn wished he knew what she was thinking. He understood the familiar and troubling echo she must be hearing from seven years ago. It doesn’t matter,he told himself. Not now.They each would do what was required of them in order to try to save the Vahni Vahltupali. “When will you go?” she asked.

“Now,” he said. “I just need to gather some provisions.”

“I’ll get the rations,” she said. She went over to the survival cache, opened the lid of the locker, and reached inside. Vaughn watched her for a moment, then gathered the few items he had decided to take with him on his trek: a bedroll, a beacon, one of the metallic blankets; he already carried a tricorder and a phaser. He wrapped the beacon and the blanket inside the bedroll, then affixed the lightweight bundle to his back, fastening with bands across his shoulders. Prynn returned with a dozen thin, metallic envelopes, along with two containers of water. Vaughn deposited the rations envelopes in various pockets of his coat, and slipped the carry straps of the water containers over his shoulders.

“I’ll report approximately every hour,” he said. Although Vaughn’s combadge had been the only one not lost in the crash, they had found several others in the survival cache, and Prynn now wore one on her jacket. “With the interference from the energy, I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to communicate.”

“I understand,” she said simply. A silence fell that Vaughn found awkward, and he found himself at a loss for something to say. Finally, Prynn said, “Good luck.”

“You too, Prynn,” he said. He looked in her eyes, her injured sclera changing her appearance dramatically. He pulled out his tricorder and began scanning. He studied the readout, then turned with the tricorder held out in front of him, searching for the highest level of interference. When he found it, he started walking in that direction, leaving Prynn behind him.

For the first time in a very long time, he did not look back.

37

Dax drifted through the pools in the Caves of Mak’ala.

No, not drifted. Floated. Swam.Pushed.

Daxpushed through the murky waters, the usually gentle, welcoming pools now impeding progress. The cool, damp air above stagnated as well, resisting any movement through it. A difficult tranquillity reigned.

Dax sent out a message, but the blue-white veins of energy died quickly, reaching nowhere, and nobody. The pools sat strangely still, absent not only of other symbionts, Dax realized, but seemingly of existence itself. Somehow, the life-carrying waters, and perhaps even the caves, had slipped beyond the universe.

A shadow fell, gray and mysterious. Dax felt it as it stole light and heat, an unexpected eclipse. The darkness descended on the pools, and Dax dived down—pushed down— suddenly desperate to escape the clutches of the unsettling pall. But the dim mantle pushed down too, roiling the waters. A distant siren sang, a lonely echo in the churning flow of this other existence. Dax tumbled, end over end, side over side, tossed about by the pulsing movements. The memory of the motion sickness that once afflicted Ezri rose and—

Ezri.

Ezri was here, Dax knew. Ezri Tigan. The next host. Or the previous one. Dax could not remember. The current host… the current host…

There was no current host. Dax was Dax, and only Dax.

But how could that be? There had been hosts, and if they had gone, then there could only be death. Pain, and then death.

Dax reeled, mentally, emotionally, physically. The beclouded pools spun, eddies and gyres pulling Dax down deep into the gray waters. Pulling Ezri down—

Ezri was drowning.

And Dax knew. Death enveloped Ezri, surrounded her, and yet Dax would go on. But that was not the compact Dax had made. Ezri would protect the symbiont, and Dax would protect the host.

The waters grew heavy with their motion, oppressing even as they promised release. A new life, a new existence called… acherished existence… but none of that mattered. Only Ezri mattered.

Dax drifted upward. Floated. Swam.Pushed.

Dax struggled, understanding that the struggle would be the life or death of both of them. Accepted that.Cherished that.