by Jeffrey Lang
“Interesting.” Nita was peering into the hatch.
“What?”
“She’s warmed up to you quickly. Ginger usually likes to watch people for a while before she lets them get that close.”
Nog felt unexpectedly self-conscious, like he may have broken some unknown taboo. “She came up to me after I hit my head.”
“You’ll have to let me record your interactions later.”
O’Brien raised both of his hands, fingers pointed up, a gesture designed to end all unnecessary conversation. “Nita,” he said, “we have to go. You’ll need to finish cutting out the rest of the passengers. Nog, can you show the doctor how to use the plasma torch?”
“I know how to use a plasma torch,” Nita replied. She plucked the tool from Nog’s hand and set about adjusting the flame, all the time grumbling to herself about ingratitude and “just wanting to do some damned science.”
Stepping out of the Wren, Nog was greeted with the sight of a half-dozen weary, frightened, sticky scientists either lying on the hangar deck or perched precariously on packing crates. No one spoke, but their eyes followed Nog and O’Brien as they crossed to a wall-mounted unit where they could replenish their suits. Nog didn’t enjoy the sensation.
The replenisher pumped asthmatically, and the gauges on Nog’s suit took forever to turn green again. Speaking low and attempting not to betray any emotion, Nog asked, “Should we bring the thruster packs?”
O’Brien shook his head. “It would send a bad signal,” he said. “Besides, they’re pretty close to tapped out.”
“And heavy.”
“Very heavy.”
“How long could we last in these suits in open space?”
O’Brien squinted, calculating. “Six hours. Maybe a little longer if we really squeeze down on the nitrogen mix.”
The hangar deck shuddered and the supine scientists, as one, briefly levitated. Nog’s feet left the deck for a second, and his stomach lurched. Behind him, Ginger chittered in agitation.
“We really have to go,” O’Brien announced loudly enough for everyone to hear. “We’ll be back soon.”
“How soon?” asked a random researcher.
“As soon as we can,” Nog replied.
One of the scientists shouted, “And what if you can’t?”
The corner of Nog’s mouth twitched in annoyance, and he briefly, involuntarily, closed his eyes. “We will,” he said when he looked back up. “One way or another.” No one responded and Nog felt their collective disbelief.
Behind them, another scientist emerged from the hatch of the Wren, blinking, disheveled, and covered in threads. Nita Bharad guided the besieged soul to a resting spot, then addressed O’Brien and Nog. “We know you’ll do everything you can.” She held up the plasma torch. “I’ll keep everything together here until you get back.”
O’Brien disconnected his suit. “Thanks.” He jogged toward the doorway to the main stairwell where Nog was waiting.
One of the researchers called, “And what do we do if the gravity goes off again?”
Nog was surprised by O’Brien’s reply. “Ask Ginger to stick you to the deck.”
“It doesn’t look like Ginger is planning to stay with us,” Nita replied, pointing at a spot behind Nog. The commander looked up. Ginger was dangling from a thread just above the doorway, her eyes fixed on him. “She appears to have taken quite a shine to you.”
“Wonderful,” O’Brien said.
“Oh, come on,” Nog said. “I bet she could be really useful.”
“Sure, if we run into some giant houseflies,” O’Brien said, but then stopped short. “Which, considering this place, we shouldn’t dismiss out of hand.” He slapped the switch that unlatched the hatch into the station’s core and peered into the gloom. He beckoned to Ginger and said, “Ladies first.” The arachnoform obeyed without hesitation, dropping to the deck and skittering into the darkness.
“See?” Nog asked, following his new friend. “She just wants to help.”
“I am thrilled and delighted,” O’Brien said. “Look at my face. Can’t you tell?”
Ops Center
The image of the gerbil flickered in Maxwell’s mind’s eye, shimmied, and melted into a close-up of Finch’s round face and heavy brow. Maxwell’s head throbbed and his throat was dry. He tried to move his hands, but the fingers were numb and swollen. His shoulders ached. Licking his lips, Maxwell tried to think of something witty and disarming to say, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was an indistinct whine of misery.
“You’re awake.”
It had been, Maxwell reflected woodenly, a very long time since someone had knocked him unconscious. There had been a time when this would happen often enough that Maxwell had become familiar with the sensation of struggling back to consciousness while the world shivered and pulsed around him. Back during his Starfleet days, especially during the Cardassian conflict, the experience was commonplace enough that, when it occurred, Maxwell was able to get through the stomach-lurching wretchedness by thinking, Oh, right—this again. I can do this. And he could, too, usually with his dignity intact. Starfleet officers needed to be able to take a blow without vomiting on their shoes.
But you’re not Starfleet anymore, are you, Ben?
Maxwell turned his head to the side, opened his mouth, and emptied his gut.
To his great surprise, Finch held a bottle of water to Maxwell’s mouth. Maxwell sipped, swished, and then spit. He drank some more, grateful. His stomach settled and his head cleared. When the room stopped surging, he saw that his arms were bound to the chair’s arms with repair tape, probably from a roll that had come from Maxwell’s own tool box.
Finch stepped away, holding the now empty bottle aloft. “More?” he asked.
“No,” Maxwell said, shaking his head. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Feeling better?”
“I have a bit of a headache. Also, I’m tied to a chair.”
“Just a precaution,” Finch said. “I felt the need to keep you in one place until I’ve had a chance to explain.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Maxwell said.
“I don’t?” Finch seemed both confused and surprised. Also, Maxwell noted, he had taken off his jacket—one of the rare occasions Maxwell could recall seeing Finch without one—and had sweated through his shirt. There were two large stains under Finch’s armpits and perspiration dripped off his forehead. Maxwell realized that he, too, was perspiring heavily, though his environmental suit was attempting to compensate. Without the helmet, there was only so much the suit could do.
“No,” Maxwell said, attempting to sound calm. “You don’t. I understand what’s happened. You’ve made some bad choices. Events have gotten out of control and you’re trying to compensate.”
Finch’s mouth screwed up and his brow furrowed. “You’re talking to me like I’m crazy,” he said. “You’re trying to keep me calm. Like I might lose control any moment.” Finch took a step closer and laid his hands on the tops of Maxwell’s arms, near enough that when the beads of sweat dripped off his nose they landed in Maxwell’s lap. “I’m not going to lose control,” he said, his voice quavering. “And I don’t have to compensate for anything.”
“Okay,” Maxwell said, trying to hold Finch’s gaze. His legs weren’t taped to anything. The chair was fixed in place by a central pillar that he could use to spin around, though for many reasons—including his unsettled stomach—Maxwell decided he wouldn’t. There wasn’t much point in kicking Finch in the groin at just that moment, though it could arrive soon. Time enough for violence. “I believe you.” Maxwell swallowed hard and turned away. The reek of fear rolling off Finch was too much to bear. “Am I correct that the environmental controls are offline?”
Finch pulled away and looked around the room. “I don’t know,” he said.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“It’s a little warm in here.”
“Is it? I thought that was just me. I’ve been busy.”
Yes, Maxwell thought. Dragging me into this chair and taping me to it. That must have been exhausting. On the best of days, Finch was not an impressive physical specimen. On the kind of day he was having today, the station owner was probably close to passing out. “If the environmental systems are down, we only have whatever air was pumped into this room,” Maxwell explained. “It may start to get stuffy in here soon.” He looked around at the debris on the deck. The room looked like someone had scattered every loose object off every flat surface. Maxwell recognized the pattern. “And the artificial gravity has turned off and on. At least once.”
“Yes,” Finch admitted. That probably accounted for some of Maxwell’s queasiness. Also, a mild concussion was probably a factor. “I’ve rerouted the power to our deck to compensate.”
“And the rest of the station be damned.”
Finch swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing like a rubber ball. His eyes flicked from side to side. “I’ll be leaving soon. After I leave, you can readjust the grid however you like.”
“You’ve arranged for a ride?”
“No,” Finch said, wiping his shirtsleeve across his brow. “Not exactly. But I can’t imagine he’ll mind giving me a lift. Especially after he sees what I’ve done. And I’ll be able to pay him. Oh, yes.” Finch drifted over to the sensor station, which appeared to still be functioning. “Not picking up anything yet,” Finch mumbled. “Not that I would, I suppose.”
“Subspace interference still pretty bad?”
“What?” Finch asked, distracted. “No. I mean, yes, but clearing out. Things should settle soon. That’s not what I meant. Never mind. Shut up. I’m not talking to you.”
Maxwell groaned. If he’s not talking to me, then who? “Who’s coming, Finch?” Keep him focused. Maxwell dissected Finch’s comments. “Especially after who sees what you’ve done?”
Finch spun around. For a moment, Maxwell worried that he had pushed the wrong button. Maybe Finch would decide he didn’t need company. He grimaced, light from the console flashing disturbingly on his teeth. No, not grimacing. Grinning. Finch was very pleased about something. “My customer!” he crowed. “My first customer. Maybe a bit of a loss leader when you factor in the loss of . . . well . . .” He waved his arms dramatically to take in the entirety of the Hooke. “. . . all this. But acceptable. Acceptable.”
“Customer?” Maxwell repeated. He’d spent enough time in mental health facilities and knew enough therapists. He even counted some of them as friends. He knew their techniques. Repeat the last significant word, and let the patient do the rest.
“First customer,” Finch repeated. “And when others find out what I’ve done, the first of many!”
“First customer for what? The Mother?” He couldn’t help himself. Maxwell knew he should just let Finch talk, but there was the urge, the damnable desire, to set things right. “She’s eating your station, Finch. She did something terrible to Sabih.”
“Or is she trying to fix Sabih?” Finch rebutted. “I think . . . I think that’s what she’s doing. Maybe . . .” He rubbed his hands together in what Maxwell imagined was supposed to be self-assured glee, but there was no conviction behind it. Finch knew the truth as well as he did.
“More likely the Mother is trying to talk through him. Could you read his lips from in here? I could.” Maxwell strained against the tape, trying to get the blood flowing. Finch had wrapped him too tight. He knew that Finch was getting too agitated, but he couldn’t help it. Bad air, a part of his brain told him. You’re getting stupid. “I could read his lips. You know what he was saying, Finch? You want to know what Sabih was saying?”
Finch stood stock-still, his arms at odd angles, his hands limp, like he might reach forward and grasp Maxwell by the throat. “What was he saying?”
“He was saying, ‘Let me out.’ Over and over again. His dead lips. In the airless room. And that . . . that thing with its tendril jammed into the back of his head. Like a puppet.”
“Or a communicator,” Finch said softly, his eyes suddenly bright with wonder. “Or a translator.”
Maxwell knew he had gone too far. He tried to reel Finch back in. “No,” he said. “No. Not like that. She . . . it . . . is not trying to talk to us. It’s not alive. It’s not intelligent. It was just repeating the last thing that went through Sabih’s mind, his last thought. Even if it is talking through him, it’s the only thing a creature in a cage would say! ‘Let me out!’ ”
But Finch was no longer paying attention to him. Something on the console flashed. Maxwell studied Finch’s face, watching as the grin bloomed again. “Then the Mother is getting what she wants,” Finch said, eyes gleaming in victory. “Her ride is here.”
Chapter 16
Eleven Years Earlier
Quark’s
Deep Space 9
“So,” Julian Bashir asked as he carefully settled onto his barstool, “what is the best day you’ve ever had?” The doctor attempted to perch his foot on the bar rail, but he was either too bruised or too deep in his cups to get good purchase. Instead, he contented himself with planting his elbow on the edge of the bar and his head on his fist. He grinned happily at his friend Miles O’Brien.
The chief, obviously equally sore and equally inebriated, placed his half-empty pint on one of the six coasters Nog had deposited in front of him. He squinted thoughtfully and rubbed his palm over the front of his leather coat. Looking from side to side, O’Brien continued to look contemplative until he spied his broad-brimmed hat, which he carefully retrieved and placed on his head. “Well,” he said, and then repeated, “Well . . .” He looked at the fingernails of his left hand, which were all purple, as if his fingers had been nearly crushed. He grinned at some memory. “Well, I know I’m supposed to say something like, the day I met Keiko. Or, my wedding day. Or, the day my daughter was born.” He held up his hands. “And, to be sure, all good days. Very good days.”
“I’m sure,” Bashir said, grinning. “Was I there for any of those?”
“No,” O’Brien said. “Son being born, yes. As I recall, you were instrumenta . . . instrumentative . . .” He collected himself. “You were vital.”
“It was a good thing I was there.”
“Yes!”
They both retrieved their glasses, clinked them together, and drank deeply. “Happy I could help,” the doctor said.
Bashir looked around as if suddenly remembering where they were. “Ah,” he said, pleased. “Nog!”
Nog, who had been leaning back against the shelf where the liquor bottles were stowed, waved. They were the only ones still in the bar, the rest of the patrons having been shooed out an hour earlier, at closing time. It had not been a very busy night—not many patrons to shoo. Bashir and O’Brien would have made up for the evening’s slow trade if Nog made them compensate Quark for their drinks, which he didn’t. Maybe he would make up the difference out of his own pocket. He hadn’t decided. He was having too much fun.
“Nog!” O’Brien cried. “We’re out of drinks! Be a good lad and find us something adequate to our needs! One more round!”
“Just one. Something special. While you answer my question.”
“Nog, something special,” O’Brien agreed.
Nog reached around behind him and retrieved a bottle. “On the rocks, gentlemen, or straight?”
“Straight!” O’Brien cried.
“Rocks!” Bashir exclaimed.
“One of each, then.” Nog poured. He knew what they wanted before either of them knew. He didn’t get to play bartender often, but he knew he was good at it. He knew he could tend bar as well as the station’s power plant or the Defiant’s engines. He poured them each a shot of the very old, very real precious whiskey, one ove
r the rocks and one not. He set down the drinks on new coasters. After a moment’s consideration, he poured himself a half a dram, though he didn’t usually much care for Terran spirits. Special occasion.
“So, pray continue, sir,” Bashir said. “Love, marriage, children, and et cetera. Best day ever . . .”
“Yes, as I was saying. I know what I should say. I know what I probably will say any other time anyone ever asks me this question for the rest of my life, but I also know that, in some small way, I’ll be lying a little bit if I don’t admit that the best day I ever had”—O’Brien raised his glass—“was the day we saved the Alamo.”
Bashir lifted his glass and sloshed about half of the very precious liquid on the sleeve of his torn, stained wool shirt. “The Alamo!” he saluted.
Nog lifted his glass an inch or two, though he knew better than to intrude on the moment. He sipped the amber liquid. Wincing, he felt it burn down the back of his throat and up into his sinuses. “The Alamo,” he said softly while the two men laughed and pounded each other’s backs.
January 9, 2386
Central Core
Robert Hooke
“So,” Nog asked as he and O’Brien jogged up the stairs to deck four, “is this day reminding you of anything?”
“What?” O’Brien asked, his panting echoing loudly off the hard walls and stairs. “Reminding? What?”
Nog, younger, carrying less mass, and, honestly, fitter, breathed through his nose and pumped his legs. “The Alamo,” he said.
“The Alamo?”
“Sure,” Nog said, reaching the next landing and pausing, pretending to be winded to give O’Brien a moment to lean on the railing and pant. “Remember the Alamo?”
“Well,” O’Brien said, obviously confused, “of course. I mean, that’s the whole point.”
“I’m not following you.”
“ ‘Remember the Alamo.’ That’s the quote. That’s what everyone says.” The chief shook his head. “You’re supposed to remember it. The day they all died defending it. Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, William Travis. All of them . . .”