Force and Motion

by Jeffrey Lang

  Nog dislodged the giant undead rat’s teeth from his gauntlet, braced his back against a doorframe, and then shoved the creature away. O’Brien had noted the thin purple tendrils poking out of the skulls of the two creatures he had fought, and this last one was no exception. The sudden acceleration imparted by Nog tore the tendril loose. The rat ceased flailing, though whether the reason was because of the kick or the tendril being torn loose, O’Brien could not say.

  The tendril continued to move, waving back and forth in a probing motion. Its movement reminded O’Brien of one of those seemingly harmless sea creatures that clung to barrier reefs, eyeless, without discernable musculature, stirred only by the churning tide right up until the moment they struck.

  Nog pushed himself off the wall and confidently soared past the creature to the door. He peered in, his head only a meter away from the tendril. O’Brien was impressed by how quickly Nog had adapted to the unstable gravity. “Dark. Power’s out. Hang on.” He jammed his arm through the crack. “Hull breach. Not a big one, but big enough. And I think the rats—or whatever they are—came from here. There are cages on the ground, but they’re tiny. Much too small for these monsters.”

  “Do you think the Mother made them grow?”

  “The Mother broke into the small reactor in here. I can see the damaged casing.” The Mother’s tendril must have sensed Nog’s proximity. The tip turned in his direction. “Or something else that was here in the lab,” Nog continued, oblivious. Maybe a biological agent? Or a combination of all of the above?

  O’Brien tried to cry out in warning, but decided direct action was required: he pushed off from the wall and angled his trajectory so his wide heavy boots landed squarely on the tendril’s “neck.”

  Nog looked back over his shoulder, surprised that O’Brien was suddenly so close. He looked down and saw the tip of the tendril squirming slightly. O’Brien half expected it to contract, to try to withdraw, but, apparently, the Mother didn’t work that way. “Thanks.”

  “No worries,” O’Brien replied. “We should get moving.”

  “I was just wondering if there might be something in there we could use as a weapon, but I don’t think we could get these doors open.” He looked down. “What do you think it will do when you take your foot off it?”

  “Want to stick around and find out?”

  “Not really, no.” Nog withdrew from the door and landed gently on the deck. Suddenly, O’Brien felt the gravity come back. The tendril squished under his boot and broke off.

  Stepping away hastily, O’Brien asked, “What has Finch made?”

  “A monster,” Nog said. “If it’s responsible for what happened to these creatures, possibly a very dangerous one.”

  “And who knows what else is in this place it may have affected.”

  “We’ll have to contain it.”

  “We may have to destroy it.”

  “Destroy it? But if it’s a new life-form . . . ?”

  “I don’t like the idea either. But what if it gets free? Spreads? We don’t know what it could do and we’re not in a position to study.”

  “Still,” Nog said. “I’m tired of death, Chief.” The corner of his lip curled. “It’s been a bad year.”

  “I know,” O’Brien said. “Let’s see if we can keep it from getting any worse.”

  Nog nodded and turned back toward the stairwell. O’Brien knew they should have stayed in the core, but the signs of movement had been too tempting to ignore. “I think I’d like to punch Finch if we find him again,” Nog said. “Really hard. In the face.”

  O’Brien laughed, surprised but delighted. “You’re starting to sound like me. Not officer material at all.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Nog said, fighting a grin. “I just wanted to hear how it sounded when I said it out loud.”

  Ops Center

  Fortunately, the environmental suits were accommodating and Finch was able to squeeze into the second suit despite his unorthodox frame. Maxwell noted, though, that his employer had curiously small feet. Sealing the front of the suit, Finch asked, “What’s that you’re holding? Not a weapon! I won’t see her harmed!” Finch’s insistence on giving the purple blob a gender designation was getting on Maxwell’s nerves.

  “Not a weapon,” he said, speaking loudly so Finch could hear him through the helmet. Looking at the device he held, Maxwell understood why Finch might think it was a weapon. He hefted it by its stock, pointed it at the deck, and carefully pulled the trigger. A thick blob of glue squirted out of the barrel. “Glue gun. Used to seal hull breaches and suchlike. Found it in the repair locker. Should come in handy.”

  “For what?” Finch said, shaking his head.

  “Put on your helmet and you’ll find out.”

  Finch did as he was bid, though he needed Maxwell’s help to slot the helmet in the yoke. “This way,” Finch said unnecessarily, pointing toward the stairway to his lab. Maxwell followed without comment, the glue gun in a ready carry.

  In the airlock, the two men awkwardly stood on either side of the small window, both of them trying to peer inside without bumping helmets. The lighting was worse than when Maxwell had been there. A few emergency lamps still burned, casting muted shadows. “Sabih” was nowhere in sight.

  “Where is he?” Maxwell asked.

  “I have no idea,” Finch replied peevishly. “In a broom closet, perhaps? Clinging to the ceiling?”

  Maxwell ignored the attitude and focused on practicalities. “Looks like there’s power to the door. I’m going to push the button, step in, and take two large steps to the right. You hang back a minute and wait to see if anything jumps out and says, ‘Boo.’ ”

  “There’s no atmosphere in there,” Finch said. “Nothing is going to say, ‘Boo.’ ”

  “I didn’t mean literally.”

  Finch gave Maxwell a sidelong glance, which was difficult with a helmet, but he managed it.

  Maxwell didn’t wait for permission to continue. He pushed the button and the door swooshed open. He did what he said he would, except instead of moving to the right, he shifted to the left. No sense in giving Finch the option to anticipate his movements.

  He scanned the room. Nothing stirred, at least not within the limited sphere of illumination, which meant he needed to inspect only about ninety percent of the remaining available space. “Do you know how to activate the torch on your wrist?” Maxwell asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Light it up. Point it toward the tank.”

  With only the slightest pause, Finch did as he was asked. The light did not waver or shake. Whatever fear or uncertainty had gripped the station owner earlier, clearly his anxiety had eased. He thinks he has a plan, Maxwell thought. That’s bad.

  As before, the Mother floated serenely in its tank. It had more tendrils extended than the last time. A bad sign. Now it resembled a sea anemone rather than a blob of mucus.

  “Swing it around,” Maxwell ordered. “Light the whole room.”

  Finch followed his order, perhaps because he wanted to rather than he was obeying Maxwell. Moving from left to right, he paused every couple meters to inspect and marvel. “Astonishing!” he gasped. “Breathtaking!” The Mother had been busy. Tendrils clung to the side of the tank and oozed down onto the deck. They crisscrossed the room and poked into panels. Some had climbed the walls and probed ventilator openings. It looked like it was trying to find a way out of the lab. Maxwell was certain it had succeeded.

  As Finch moved the light, Maxwell followed, the glue gun raised to his shoulder. In his head, he counted off the quadrants: One, nothing. Two, nothing. Three, nothing. A shadow shifted unexpectedly. There.

  The thing that had been Sabih a few hours ago lurched out of the shadows, stiff-legged, arms extended, mouth open wide, and purplish ooze extruded from every orifice. Maxwell let it take three steps, judging its rate of acceler
ation and direction. “Sabih” was headed toward Finch. Maxwell briefly considered letting it catch its quarry, just so he could listen to whatever sound came out of Finch when cold, cold hands closed around his throat. Sadly, more was at stake than his very temporary satisfaction. Maxwell crossed the room in three strides, pivoted, and kicked the ghoul squarely in the chest.

  Bone crunched. The Sabih-thing crashed into the bulkhead. Its legs crumpled, probably because the synovial fluid in its joints had long ago turned into sludge. Purple tendrils flailed.

  Stepping forward, Maxwell inserted the barrel of his glue gun between the wall and Sabih’s back. He depressed the trigger. Despite the cold, the glue flowed freely. Thank you, internal heating unit. The epoxy set and “Sabih” was stuck.

  “Ah,” Finch said, impressed. “Clever.”

  Maxwell pivoted, the glue gun’s barrel level and steady. “Don’t think I didn’t consider cementing you in place too.”

  “But then how would you have gotten your friends off this station before the inevitable happened?” Finch stepped into the center of the lab, claiming it like a conquering hero.

  Maxwell was annoyed. He tried—but failed—to think of a way to get the researchers off the station without Finch’s assistance. “Let’s finish this, Finch.”

  “Doctor Finch,” Finch said. “Not Finch.”

  Maxwell hefted the glue gun. “I’m considering changing my mind.”

  Finch tilted the torch up so Maxwell could see the expression on his face. He was smiling. Fearlessly. Maxwell decided to let Finch enjoy the moment.

  The station owner turned his light to study the Sabih-thing, which continued to struggle, though stiffly and without much energy. Its eyes were dead and useless, dried out and desiccated in the vacuum. And no brain behind the eyes to interpret whatever they were seeing even if it still had them, Maxwell thought. He realized that he had completely given up on the idea that there might some small spark of a human being inside the husk of Sabih. Which is probably for the best. Maxwell had never fought the Borg hand to hand—he had been incarcerated when last they invaded. From reading accounts, he understood that one of the difficulties the combatants faced was the fear that some small part of the drone’s original persona was still there.

  Maxwell studied the Mother’s pulsing tendrils. Into the vents, into the bulkheads, he thought. Why? Finch’s monster must be mindless, despite whatever a meta-genome might be. It was doing the things all organisms do: looking for a safe environment, eating, excreting, and making little baby monsters.

  Maxwell looked at the tendrils again. He smacked his forehead—or tried to, but the helmet stopped him. “Crap!” he shouted.

  “What?” Finch said. He was standing near—but not too near—the tank, admiring his work, watching the Mother expand and contract.

  Finch would not share his dread. He would be delighted at the thought of Little Mothers, assuming he wasn’t already thinking about them. Maxwell decided to sidestep the topic. “Just realized how much time has gone by. Your friend in the ship is going to get impatient.” He pointed at the tank where the Mother serenely floated. “How do we box it up?”

  “You’re the handyman,” Finch replied. “Recommend something handy.”

  Maxwell fumed. I could just leave, he thought, but there was the remote possibility that Finch would actually figure out some way to crate up his monster. He pointed at a row of storage lockers. “What’s in these cabinets?” Maxwell asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He yanked open doors and drawers.

  “Most of that is lab supplies or materials needed to sustain the Mother.”

  “Back before it became self-sustaining.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I don’t have time to go get anything. If we remove these cabinet doors, we could glue them in place around the tank frame. What do you think?”

  “What about her tendrils?”

  “We’ll have to sever them. Hell, I’d prefer to sever them. Who knows what it can do with them? Or what they’re currently attached to?”

  “I would like to preserve as much of the Mother as possible,” Finch said. “And I find your use of the word sever distressing. Alas, I cannot think of a better idea at present. All right, then—hurry.”

  Maxwell set to work on the first set of doors. Fortunately, they slid off their hinges easily enough when loosened with a probe. Within a matter of minutes, Maxwell piled up eight large slabs of lightweight, durable plasteel composite. Eyeballing the tank, he felt confident that he had almost enough material. One more set of cabinet doors would do the trick. He crossed to the last set of unused doors, but, when approached, they did not open. “This is locked,” he said. “Any reason? Something in there I don’t want to disturb?”

  Finch looked back over his shoulder to see what concerned Maxwell. “Ah,” he said, and waved his hand. “The device.”

  “The one that was supposed to sterilize the lab if the Mother escaped?” Maxwell took a respectful step back, then carefully tapped the door with the probe. He tugged on the door handles and they parted easily. While the rest of Finch’s lab equipment was disabled, this device’s control panel still appeared active. Status lights blinked on and off, suggesting life and purpose. Maxwell studied the controls, looking for something that obviously said, “Push me.”

  “Stop worrying with that,” Finch snapped. “It’s useless. Help me with the Mother. Our time is almost up.”

  “Useless?” Maxwell asked. “Why?”

  “It’s been deactivated,” Finch said absently, fussing with the cabinet doors. “Long ago, in fact.”

  “Long ago?”

  “Of course. Why would I want to destroy the Mother?”

  Why indeed? Finch was still staring at his creation, not paying Maxwell the least mind. I could just walk right up behind him, he thought. He wouldn’t even think about me being there, wouldn’t give it a moment’s thought. He straightened up from the spot where he had been crouching and mentally measured the gap between him and Finch. Just a shove, he thought. And he’d be in the tank with his monster. Who knows what it would do to him? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. The Mother’s tendrils waved in the void, as if beckoning. Maxwell took a step forward. Maybe it’s time to end this, he thought. Time to take the leap.

  Central Core

  A dozen purple tendrils protruded from an open hatch at the top of the stairway. They waved back and forth, though Nog couldn’t tell if they were beckoning or warning him back. He took a step down without looking back and bumped into the chief. Risking a look back over his shoulder, he briefly spied the mob of giant undead rats massing on the landing at the bottom of the stairway. Their naked, pink tails twitched expectantly. O’Brien changed his grip on the club he had fashioned out of a small crowbar, a mallet, and some duct tape. Nog lifted his fire ax, feeling the ache in his biceps. “Chief,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Remember what I said earlier about never leaving the station with you again?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m amending that.”

  “To?”

  “Never going anywhere with you. Ever. Not even to lunch. Not even if Keiko asks me nicely.”

  Nog risked another peek over his shoulder. The band of rats had edged closer, tails and the purple tendrils flailing. Nog felt queasy.

  “Actually, Commander,” O’Brien said, “I understand. You’re just being sensible. If we never go out anywhere again, the probability of another situation like this arising will be much lower.”

  “Exactly. No hard feelings?”

  “None,” O’Brien said, but then was silent for a minute because he was busy waving his club at something that had approached. “I would be happy to shake your hand in acknowledgment of our newfound agreement.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Right.” O’Brien paused, trying to steady his bre
athing after having fought off his attacker. “Any chance we can make it down past your lot and regroup on deck two?”

  Nog assessed. More tendrils had appeared, including a couple really big ones. “Doesn’t look good. Any other ideas?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Over the rail?”

  O’Brien tugged the small grapple hook from the reel on his belt and freed a meter of cord. “Over the rail.”

  Nog glanced down into the abyss. Six decks below was a hatch back into the hangar, the very one they’d left less than an hour ago. “These were meant to be used in low or zero gravity,” he said, tugging out his own grapple. “Any chance they’ll hold?”

  “Of course,” O’Brien said brightly. “There is definitely an infinitesimally small chance that they’ll hold. Or that the gravity will shut off while we’re falling. Better chance of the latter, actually.”

  “Always the optimist,” Nog said. “We’ll have to climb the stairs again if we want to find Maxwell.”

  “One problem at a time, Commander,” O’Brien replied, setting one foot on the rail.

  “Understood,” Nog said. “I agree with your recommendation, Chief.” He placed one foot on the lower rung in the metal railing.

  The tendrils and the undead rats both surged forward. Nog and O’Brien quickly wrapped their grapples around the railing. Tipping back, O’Brien said, “I’ve been looking around for a new activity. Something to get me out of the quarters. Don’t know why I didn’t think of BASE jumping.” He fell back into the abyss.

  Nog took a deep breath and tried hard not to think as he released his grip on the rail. “Can’t imagine how you overlooked it.”