by Jeffrey Lang
O’Brien opened his mouth to issue the order, but then snapped it shut as he remembered that Nog was, officially speaking, the senior officer and entitled to give the command.
“Computer,” Nog said, “beam us to the Hooke.”
The transporter replied, “Energizing,” and the interior of the Amazon dissolved.
Chapter 4
Thirty-Seven Years Earlier
U.S.S. Rutledge
Miles O’Brien rolled over onto his stomach and searched the deck for his bedside chrono. Naomi Chao cursed when his movement yanked the sheet off her chest. “Why do you keep this cabin so cold?” she griped.
“It’s not cold,” O’Brien replied, patting the deck. “You just need to eat something besides broccoli and soy paste.”
“I like broccoli and soy paste,” Chao muttered, and half-heartedly socked O’Brien in the back.
“I’m going to make you some mutton stew,” O’Brien said. “And you won’t be cold anymore. My mother loves mutton stew, and she’s never cold.” This, strictly speaking, was not true. O’Brien suspected that his mother, like most women he had encountered so far in his life, was always cold, but like any good Irish countrywoman, she knew the virtue of thick wool socks.
“What is mutton?” Chao asked. “It’s sheep, isn’t it? Or baby cows. Which? Never mind. They’re both disgusting and I won’t eat it.”
“Then you’ll always be cold.”
“Not if you would turn up the heat!”
O’Brien chuckled, pleased with the reaction. Though they’d only been lovers for a few weeks, he enjoyed knowing he could get under Chao’s skin when needed. He found his chrono and held it up so she could see it. “Oh-two-thirty,” he said.
Chao groaned. “I can’t believe you did this to me again. I have to get up in four hours.”
“So do I,” O’Brien protested.
“Right,” Chao said, dragging the sheet back to cover her chest and legs. “You sit at tactical and pretend you’re looking at sensor readouts for a few hours. I actually have to work.”
“Staring at sensor screens is work,” O’Brien said, mentally adding, Especially if you’re waiting for a Cardassian ship to pop out of warp and run the blockade.
“Not compared to ops,” Chao said. O’Brien had to admit this was probably true, especially when Captain Maxwell was on the bridge. The captain was, as everyone who served on his ship agreed, a genial and gracious commander, but he did not tolerate shoddiness or incompetence. Chao leaned over and began to search the deck for her discarded uniform.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want,” O’Brien said. “Marcus is on leave, so I have the cabin to myself.”
“That’s not the problem,” Chao said, standing and pulling on her undergarments. “It’s one thing to be seen leaving your cabin in the middle of the night and something entirely different stepping out into a busy corridor just as alpha shift is beginning. Especially if my uniform looks like it probably does.” She sighed and said, “Lights. One-quarter.” The lights came up, though only barely. She was holding up her uniform blouse, inspecting the creases. “I hate this fabric.”
“I hear they may be changing them again,” O’Brien said off-handedly. “One-piece.”
Chao slipped on the uniform blouse. “I heard,” she moaned. “What genius do you suppose came up with that idea? It wasn’t a woman, I can tell you that much. I mean, how are we supposed to go to the bathroom without completely disrobing?”
O’Brien considered possible solutions. “Snaps?” he offered.
Chao pulled on her jacket and tugged the flaps snuggly over her breasts. “Hey, mister,” she warned. “Don’t get snappy with me. Not if you ever want to see any of this again without a uniform.” She waved her hand in an all-inclusive motion. O’Brien didn’t tug on the dangling thread of her metaphor. He most definitely did want to see Chao without her uniform again. While he was reasonably sure she enjoyed some warm feelings about him, he also sensed that the balance of power in their still-new relationship was decidedly in her favor. O’Brien knew she could live without ever seeing him again.
He watched silently, arms crossed over his chest, as Chao gathered together and donned the last straying bits of uniform. She worked quietly and efficiently, the same manner in which she approached most tasks.
After she had shaken out her second sock and was slipping it over her foot, O’Brien asked quietly, “You want to have dinner tonight?”
Chao slowed her movements as if suddenly worried she might be making too much commotion or noise. Without looking at O’Brien, she said, “I don’t know, Miles. This seemed to work when we were just . . . when it was just a casual.” She paused to consider her words. “When we weren’t breaking any major rules . . . any of the captain’s major rules. You know what I mean. He gets it—that people need to blow off steam.”
“And eat dinner,” O’Brien reminded her.
“Yes, but . . . if you eat dinner together every night and then slip away to someone’s cabin every night, people begin to notice.”
“They’ve already noticed, Naomi.”
“I know they’ve already noticed,” Chao said through clenched teeth. She inhaled once deeply and then released the breath slowly. “That’s my point.”
O’Brien was surprised by how much effort it required to continue breathing at a regular rate. After three exhalations, he said, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
Chao sighed, finished tugging on her second boot, and stood. She looked at the mirror, attempted to rake her hair into some presentable shape with her fingers, but then seemed to surrender. “I’m not sure how I feel, Miles. I know that I like you. I know that I have fun with you.” She paused, clearly searching for a third item to complete the set. “And I know that I’m never going to try mutton. Do you think you can accept that for now?”
Understanding that he had just been given parameters gift wrapped in a reprieve, O’Brien smiled and nodded. “I think I can do that.”
“Good.” She came back to the bed, leaned down, and kissed O’Brien on the cheek. “I appreciate it. Maybe when things settle down here we can figure this out.”
“Settle down?” O’Brien asked skeptically. “You think the Cardassians are going to just give up and go back home? Do you think we’re going to pack up and leave, especially after what they’ve done?”
Chao sat on the corner of the bed and laid her hand on O’Brien’s chest, not with any sensual intent, but simply, he thought, to comfort or, perhaps, to take measure, or to see whether she could read his thoughts through his skin. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose not. When you put it like that.” To O’Brien’s great surprise, Chao folded backward so that her head landed on his shoulder, then pulled his arm up around her like she was tugging on a blanket. They lay there together for a good few minutes, neither one of them speaking. Then, so softly that O’Brien could barely hear her, Chao asked, “How do you think he does it?”
O’Brien was fairly certain he knew what Chao meant, but he was sure this was one of those times when he should have his pronouns sorted out. “How,” he asked, “does who do what?”
“The captain,” she said. “Keep it together. How does Captain Maxwell keep it together—keep all of us together—so well after what he’s been through? After what those . . . Cardies . . . did to his family.”
And everyone else on Setlik, O’Brien added silently, but decided that this was not Chao’s point.
“I don’t know,” O’Brien replied gently. “But I also don’t know anyone else who possibly could.”
“Me either,” Chao said. Suddenly, O’Brien understood that there might be another reason why she had some second thoughts about spending her meals and nights with him (regulations notwithstanding). To his great surprise, O’Brien found that he did not feel particularly slighted by the realization. She squeezed his hand,
the one she had pulled around her shoulder. “You come pretty close,” she said with something like her familiar bravado. Kissing him again on the cheek, this time with a little more commitment, Chao sat up and rolled off the bed. “See you on the bridge.”
“And later?” he asked. O’Brien couldn’t help himself.
“Later’s later,” Chao said as the door to the main corridor snapped open and she stepped through. “Let’s worry about it when it gets here.”
January 9, 2386
Engineering Deck
Robert Hooke
Not enough sleep, not enough sleep, not enough sleep, Maxwell thought, jogging up the stairs that lined the inner wall of the Hooke central module. I’m getting too old to just shake it off like I once did. He moved easily enough despite his eighty-plus years, lifting each foot just enough to clear the top of the riser, not scraping the bottom of his thin shoes or putting any more stress on his knees and ankles than absolutely necessary. The muscle and bone parts still seem to be doing okay, he decided, though he was a little concerned about the twinge in his lower back. The mushy stuff in my skull—there’s the area of greatest risk.
Maxwell didn’t have to climb the stairs. He could have taken the turbolift just like everyone else. The turbolifts worked—more or less—primarily because Maxwell made sure the turbolifts worked. Essentially, everything on the Hooke that wasn’t controlled or managed or owned by the individual researchers continued to function because of Maxwell’s cajoling, insults, and—when required—willingness to make shameless promises that he had no intention of keeping. Thus, the life-support system continued to support life, and the toilets emptied when the levers were pulled.
As he puffed up the stairs, Maxwell listened to the Hooke expand and contract around him just the way he had once listened to the surge of his ship’s warp engines. It pleased him to note that nothing sounded like it was going to break down anytime soon. It was, Maxwell had to admit, the most fulfilling relationship he had managed to maintain for several years.
And now Miles has come by to say hello. Maxwell groaned involuntarily and almost stumbled on a step.
During his years of incarceration and treatment following his crime, many of Maxwell’s former colleagues and crew—everyone from mission specialists to admirals—had come forward to offer assistance and support. Most of them had been genuinely concerned and not merely morbidly curious to observe a precipitous fall from up close. As weeks became months, which in turn became years, Maxwell’s story mutated from a news story to a teaching moment or cautionary tale, depending on who was telling the tale.
Over time, most of the observers had fallen away, not the least because Maxwell had encouraged them to do so. Did he not want their support or had he simply grown weary? Or, as Doctor Clark had suggested, “Have you simply changed into another person?” Maxwell wasn’t sure, but there was one fact about which he was certain: Miles O’Brien had been a constant, gracious presence. The chief never intruded, but Maxwell always knew he could count on his old tactical officer for a moderately raucous note and a bottle of real Bushmills on his birthday.
O’Brien’s constancy was an inspiration. Maxwell knew he should be grateful. He knew this in his heart of hearts, but, for reasons he couldn’t satisfactorily articulate, the idea of O’Brien coming for a visit felt like an intrusion. “You’re a terrible man, Ben Maxwell,” he mumbled as he reached the landing. “A terrible, terrible man.”
Far below, in the depths of the core, the Hooke’s overburdened atmosphere reclaimers chugged, scrubbing out the carbon dioxide and spewing forth breathable air. One deck below the scrubbers, and the station’s primary reactor, was the hangar bay where the Wren and the Aubrey awaited last touches of paint before Maxwell considered their refits completed. He had come to love both spacecraft: rugged workhorses with the same basic engineering of the Federation’s Erewon-class transports, but smaller and more manageable. Keeping the craft healthy was one of Maxwell’s principal joys. If one of the ships was outside the bay, as was usually the case, O’Brien might have brought his runabout in and given them a chance to chat briefly before encountering Finch. Perhaps that would have been the kind thing to do. Finch Without Warning felt like it could be the title of a moderately disturbing children’s book.
Maxwell pressed his thumb against the electronic lock, but suddenly froze. He looked out of the corners of his eyes, right and left, without moving his head.
He was, he knew, being watched.
She’s here, Maxwell thought. Great.
He felt her eyes on him. If he moved his head and looked around, then there was a chance she might drop down on him. Sometimes, though, when these spells of watchfulness were on her, if Maxwell didn’t challenge her by locking gazes, she would simply let him pass. It was a game to her, Maxwell thought, though there was more to it than simply that. She considered the central core to be hers and mildly resented Maxwell for using the stairways. He mentally conceded the point: the core was hers or, at least, she had been made for such spaces. Well, Maxwell thought, mentally shrugging, her and her sister. But I never see her down here.
He sighed and tilted his head back to look up at the underside of the stairway slanting off over his head. Eight jewel-like beads, two much larger than the other six, glittered back at him. “Hello, Ginger,” Maxwell said. A pair of delicate chelicerae parted and clicked back together, a motion that Maxwell had learned to interpret as a kind of nod, a greeting. She dropped out from under the staircase on a slender, deceptively fragile-looking thread and allowed the air current in the core to spin her slowly in a clockwise direction. The grayish-green marking on her exoskeleton made it very difficult to see Ginger in low light, but now that she had slipped into the relatively modest illumination provided by the staircase lamps, she was easy enough to spot.
She dropped lower, and then lower, until she hung less than a meter above Maxwell. He had to tilt his head so that his neck was completely exposed, the muscles tight, so that he could look up into the arachnoform’s complex eyes. If she, for any reason, decided to release her hold on her thread, she would undoubtedly land so hard on Maxwell that he would be sent tumbling back down the stairway or, conceivably, over the rail to the bottom of the core. But she wouldn’t do that, Maxwell knew. Ginger loved him.
Well, Ginger loved Maxwell as much as a giant spider weighing roughly thirty kilos could love a man. He suspected this was a lot.
“Where’s your sister?” he asked. Ginger and her sister, Honey, were near-constant companions, the one exception being Ginger’s periodic forays into the core of the Hooke in search of Maxwell. It wasn’t that Honey disliked Maxwell (or so he hoped). They had a cool, professional relationship. They knew—and were respected by—a lot of the same people. In brief, Maxwell believed that Honey considered them to be colleagues, which seemed a desirable state of affairs. The exceptions, naturally, involved the moments when Maxwell worried whether Honey might feel some personal animosity, which their creator, Nita Bharad, claimed was impossible.
Whenever he had voiced his concern, Nita had simply stated, “I like you, so they like you. That’s the way it is.”
“But, Nita,” Maxwell frequently replied. “One of them likes me a lot more than the other. What about that?”
“Sometimes I like you more than at other times,” Nita explained. “It’s complicated. Emotions are complicated. They’re complicated for us with all this squishy gray stuff up here . . .” At this juncture, Nita would usually point to her skull with two fingers (which Maxwell always found curiously endearing). “Imagine how it is for them!”
“Because they’re spiders?”
“They’re arachnoforms,” Nita said matter-of-factly. “Not spiders. And, no, imagine what it’s like for them being so smart.”
“Smarter than we are?” Maxwell always asked, at which point Nita would always shrug and finish her drink.
“They won’t
tell me,” she would say. “I keep asking, but they’re being coy.”
“Do you need something, Ginger?” Maxwell asked, tapping his thumb against the electronic lock. She swayed in the breeze. She chittered, a mild gurgling kind of sound that, fortunately, never produced moisture. Streams of drool would be more than Maxwell could handle, though he believed Ginger too polite to drool.
She continued to spin above his head. Usually, if Ginger spent this much time near him, it meant one of two things: she was worried about him or she thought Bharad needed something. Maxwell asked, “Does Nita need help with something?”
Chelicerae clicked.
“Ah,” Maxwell said. “Well, I have to go meet some people in ops. Can I go see Nita after I take care of the visitors?”
Ginger exhaled sharply. Annoyance. The tips of her long hind legs touched the thread from which she dangled and contracted three times in rapid succession, pulling her back up into the shadows under the stairway. There was a vent cover there, Maxwell knew, that Ginger must have pried away and stuck to the wall with her silk. The sounds of the core covered most of her movement, but Maxwell was able to just barely detect the clink and clatter of the arachnoform squeezing into the vent and replacing the cover. He briefly considered turning around, going back down the stairs, and returning to the storeroom/bolt-hole he had set up as his private lair. It was secure against every manner of intrusion—Ginger, O’Brien, Finch, everyone. He looked back down the stairs and considered his options. Why not?
His wrist communicator chirped and Maxwell tapped it. “Go ahead,” he said.
“Hey, Ben. This is Uchiha on deck four. You know, toward the back?”
“Sure,” Maxwell said. Uchiha worked with complex decahydric polymers—something to do with either construction material or long-term food storage. “Hi, Ken.” Maxwell always tried to address everyone by his or her first name. “What’s up?”
“Uh, something with the toilet.” Uchiha sounded embarrassed. “I think someone tried to flush something down it that maybe they shouldn’t have. Could you come take a look? When you have a second?”