Force and Motion (11 page)

“One of the transports is still out there,” Nog said, frowning at the readouts. “Not moving, but not adrift, either.”

“Is it intact?” Maxwell asked.

“Impossible to say with local interference, but I think so.”

“Why do you say that?”

The commander shrugged but didn't look at Maxwell. “Not reading any biological matter in space.”

Maxwell nodded, grasping Nog's point. If the hull had ruptured, there would be bodies or parts of bodies. “Has it got power?”

“Some,” Nog replied, but shook his head as he said it. “But not much. Whoever is flying the transport knew to take the core offline. They're on batteries.”

“Which means they've got about two hours of life support, if they split up the personnel fifty-fifty,” Maxwell said. “What can we do from here? What are our options?” Somewhere deep inside him, Maxwell knew it wasn't his place to ask these questions—at least not in the tone he was asking them—but he couldn't help himself. And he also couldn't deny that he was experiencing a sensation like walking out of the ocean after an unexpectedly long and difficult swim. He felt leaden, but light, every muscle stretched, but relaxed.

Neither of the Starfleet officers objected. Maxwell wasn't sure whether this pleased or alarmed him.

“Do we have transporters?” Nog asked.

O'Brien had already run a diagnostic. He shook his head. “Whatever's happening, it's already all through the station. Hull integrity is down. Can't really say exactly how much. These stations were built to endure a lot, but they weren't equipped with the kinds of external sensors that you'll find on a Starfleet vessel.”

“Or station,” Nog added.

“Plus, there are at least three big holes in the outer hull. Probably microfractures all through the structure at this
point. Power is down or unreliable. Targeting sensors . . .” O'Brien trailed off, aware that he hadn't answered the question. “Transporters are down.”

“What about your runabout?” Maxwell asked. “Can you patch into it and order it to transport over any life signs it can detect?”

“When the interference dies down,” O'Brien said. “Which shouldn't be too much longer. Twenty-three minutes by my estimate.”

Maxwell wanted to say,
They might not have twenty-three minutes!
But he had known Miles O'Brien long enough to not say anything so stupid out loud. The chief knew exactly how much time they had left.

“And,” Commander Nog began, but then stopped to clear his throat. “Maybe,” he resumed hesitantly, but then sat up straight and spoke clearly. “No, not
maybe
. We
should
think very carefully about transporting
anything
onto the
Amazon.
Or at least, anything that may be contaminated.”

“Do we believe him?” O'Brien asked, pointing at Finch. The station's owner had stopped giggling. The only motion Maxwell detected was a slow rising and falling of his chest. Finch appeared to be asleep.

“Meaning?”

“That his blob . . . Mother . . . is somehow responsible for all of this?”

“Any other theories that fit the facts?”

“I can think of a few,” O'Brien replied. “An attack. Finch may have irritated some people at some point in his life. People who may have lost patience with him.”

Maxwell pulled a chair in front of the sensor console and began to run scans. “Possibly,” he said, urging O'Brien to continue with a small wave of the hand.

“Space debris. An experiment gone wrong. Not
his
experiment, but some kind of explosive. Who knows what else was being done here?”

“Good point,” Maxwell said. “I tried to keep track of as much as I could, but someone may have been hiding something dangerous.”

“There were giant spiders,” O'Brien continued, leaning into his thesis.

“Arachnoforms,” Nog corrected.

“Right, arachnoforms,” Maxwell agreed. “Spiders could never get that big. No lungs.”

“And they shouldn't,” O'Brien said. “Who knows what other things that shouldn't have been were happening here?”

Maxwell concluded his scans. “Probably a lot.” He pointed at the readout. “But that wasn't the problem. Look.” Biochemical data scrawled across each of their stations, all of it notated for the nonbiologists. The engineers tipped their heads down and scanned the text. Nog restarted the feed. Finally convinced, he sat back in his chair.

“Son of a bitch,” O'Brien murmured.

“Agreed,” Maxwell said. “The sensors' range is limited, thanks to the explosion, but they don't need it.” He tapped the monitor. “It's out there. The Mother. In space. On the hull. Probably working its way into the station too. Disparate parts working independently, but all following the same impulse: find energy.”

Nog pulled a tricorder off his belt and scanned the room. “But not in here.”

“No,” Maxwell said, unsurprised. “Ironically. We're clean. Maybe it's scared of this room, given everything that happened close by.”

“Scared
?” O'Brien asked. “You think it has emotions?”

“No. Not really. I don't know what to think. Maybe because the room is filled with antiseptics?”

O'Brien shrugged.

“But we could beam to the
Amazon,
” Nog said excitedly. “Once the radiation dies down.”

“Maybe,” Maxwell replied. “And then what?”

“Contact Deep Space 9,” Nog exclaimed. “Explain the situation. Get help.”

“It would be too late for the people in the transport.”

“We could try beaming them back here,” Nog said. “That would give them some time.”

“Or we could tow them,” Maxwell said. “The
Amazon
has a tractor beam.”

“Could the transport endure a tractor?” O'Brien asked.

“No way to know,” Maxwell admitted. “But my guess is no.”

“The Mother has not gotten to the
Amazon
,” Nog added.

“Not yet, anyway. But there's a cloud all around the station expanding outward. It might grow weaker the more tenuous it gets, but as soon as it found the
Amazon
, it would begin chewing through the hull,” Maxwell said. “At least, that's the theory I'm working with until something better comes along.”

“How could it have mutated so quickly?” Nog asked.

Behind him, Maxwell heard Finch stir. He spun his chair around in time to see the geneticist rise from his chair, arm extended, like a hammy actor chewing on the scenery. “She doesn't mutate,” Finch declaimed. “She
adapts.
”

“Into an anaerobic creature?” O'Brien asked. “An extremophile that can survive in a vacuum and survive—no,
thrive
—on hard radiation?”

“I'm a
genius,
” Finch said, grinning maniacally.

“You're a monster,” O'Brien corrected. He rose and, for a moment, looked as if he might rush forward and strike Finch. Maxwell tensed, ready to intervene if necessary, but O'Brien subsided, then finished, “Or a monster maker, at least.”

“We need a plan of action, gentlemen,” Maxwell said, looking at the Starfleet officers. “First order of business: save the people on the transport, or determine if there's anyone worth saving. Second order of business: find out if anyone saw what happened.” He turned to Nog. “Do you think the runabout's sensors could pierce the interference and get a better read on the transport?”

The commander considered. “Probably,” he said. “And we might even be able to speak to them. Do you think we should head back to the
Amazon
?”

“I do,” Maxwell said. “And do whatever you think is appropriate. Miles, just do me one favor?”

“If I can.”

“Let me know if you decide to leave.”

Nog interjected, “We're not leaving without you . . .” He almost said, “Captain.” Maxwell heard it in his voice.

“All right, then,” Maxwell concluded, grabbing Finch by the sleeve of his jacket. “Good luck to all of us. Now, please, move like you have a purpose.”

As he was guiding Finch to the deck where they would (hopefully) find a couple of environmental suits, Maxwell heard, just below the low hum of the transporter, O'Brien say, “
That's
what I was talking about.
That's
Captain Maxwell.”

Chapter 10

Nineteen Years Earlier

Ready Room

Starship Phoenix

“W
hat did you do to the captain?” Naomi Chao asked, entering the ready room.

O'Brien hadn't been prepared for the anger in the first officer's tone. He hadn't known she was aboard. When Captain Picard asked O'Brien to stay on board the
Phoenix
and brief the new commander, the chief had no idea that he would be relaying the disturbing news to his former shipmate. “What did
I
do to the captain?” O'Brien asked, retreating half a step and banging the backs of his legs into Captain Maxwell's desk. “I didn't
do
anything,” he said, trying to recover his composure.

“He just walked past me on the bridge, calmly announced I was in command, and stepped into the turbolift,” Chao snapped. “Five minutes later, the transporter chief called to say the captain has beamed to the
Enterprise
.”
Chao looked around the room and wondered aloud, “Why does he always keep it so dim in here? Lights up one-third.” The room brightened.

O'Brien watched as Chao brought up the captain's log and scanned the latest entries. “Damn,” she whispered. “He stepped down. He's in custody.” She looked up at O'Brien. A lock of dark hair fell out of her hairclip, and
she brushed it away from her face. “Miles,” she asked, voice cracking, “what's happening? Why did . . . ?” Chao touched her collar, the tips of her fingers stroking the pips, and then jerked her hand away.

Willing her back straight, Chao took a deep breath. The panic left her eyes and she said, “Chief O'Brien, status report. We were in pursuit of a Cardassian vessel, which we believed was carrying weapons and matériel. The captain ordered us to break off pursuit. The
Enterprise
appears to be preparing to go to warp with Captain Maxwell in her brig and I'm in command. The crew . . .
my
crew . . . is in shock. What can you tell me that will help them?”

O'Brien had not seen Chao for several years, not since a chance encounter and a quick drink on a starbase, how many years ago? Seven? Eight? She appeared largely unchanged from their days on the
Rutledge
. Still round-faced, still trim and athletic, she seemed tougher now, with an edge, though that could be the anger and exhaustion boiling out of her. “Commander,” he said, but found it difficult to know where to begin. “Perhaps . . . maybe.” O'Brien hesitated, feeling a fool. “It might help if you told me what Captain Maxwell has been telling you for the past few days. About your mission . . .”

“Our mission?” Chao cocked her head to the side. “Our mission is to intercept the Cardassian supply ships and stop them. They're starting another war, Miles. The captain had intel. The brass at Starfleet Command wanted proof. What? What are you doing? Stop that . . .”

O'Brien realized he was shaking his head, unconsciously attempting to stop Chao before she said any
more. “No, Commander,” he said. “Naomi, listen: that's not what happened.”

The lines around Chao's mouth tightened. “What are you saying? We had our orders. He said, ‘We have orders.' ”

Without thinking, O'Brien stepped around the desk and gripped Chao by the shoulders. It was a terrible breach of protocol—she was the captain of a starship now—but he couldn't think of any other way to break through her denial. “Listen,” O'Brien said, and slightly tightened his grip. “There were no orders. I'm sorry, but there weren't. It was all just him.”

Chao's eyes widened and her mouth hung open. For the first time, O'Brien could see the lines of exhaustion around her eyes and mouth. The commander flinched and collapsed into the chair—the captain's chair—covering her mouth with one hand and gripping the edge of the desk with the other.

Pushing with her feet, Chao spun the chair away and stared out the port at the
Enterprise
, her hand still over her mouth. The strand of hair had come loose again and swung back and forth as she breathed deeply. Thirty seconds passed. A minute passed. The only sound in the room was Chao's breathing. And then, speaking in very low tones, she said, “Shit, Miles.
Shit
. I knew it . . . I knew it . . . I did. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't . . . I didn't . . .
dammit!
”

O'Brien knew that the ready room's sensors were likely recording everything being said, so he had to think quickly. “You couldn't have known everything,” he said, trying to steer Chao away from destroying her career.

“I knew enough,” she groaned. “Enough that I was
able to keep the crew placated when they began to come to me with their questions, their suspicions.” Chao pinched the bridge of her nose, and O'Brien heard her snuffle back a sob. “Dammit, Miles. I knew . . . enough. Enough to be scared, but I didn't ask him. I didn't demand to see the orders or—”

“That's not your job,” O'Brien said.

“No?” she snapped, lifting her head. “Then what
is
my job? I'm the second-in-command. It's not
one
of my jobs, it's the
main
job: you watch the center chair. You ask questions. You keep him honest, to himself if no one else . . .” She gasped and then let the breath out slowly. As the air left her lungs, Chao drew into herself. “Shit,” she said again. “Just . . .
shit.
”

O'Brien stepped away, retreated to the other side of the desk, the side where chiefs stood.

By the time he was in his spot, Chao had spun her chair back around and was looking the chief in the eye. “Mister O'Brien,” she said, “could you see that any relevant information that may help the crew understand what's happened is transferred to our central database?”

“I'm sure that's already been done,” O'Brien replied. “Captain Picard is very conscientious about protocol, but I'll be happy to confirm.”

“Thank you.” She nodded. “Please ask Captain Picard whether I can speak to Captain Maxwell before we go into warp. I'd like to check if he has any . . . I don't know . . . recommendations? Requests?”

“I'll ask,” O'Brien said. “I'm sure there are regulations about this sort of thing, but I'm damned if I know what they are.”

“Me too,” Chao sighed. “I suppose I'll find out soon.”

“Anything else?” O'Brien asked, but then felt embarrassed by his informal attitude. “I mean, excuse me . . .” He straightened. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“No, Chief,” Chao said. “Thank you. You're dismissed.”

“Thank you, Captain,” O'Brien said, and turned to leave.

Before he reached the door, Chao spoke again. “Miles,” she said, her tone softer, more familiar. “Did I hear correctly that you got married?”

O'Brien turned, surprised, but pleased by the moment of familiarity. “Yes. Just a couple months ago.”

“How's married life treating you?”

He laughed. It felt inappropriate, considering the circumstances, but he couldn't help it. When O'Brien recovered, he rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger and said, “Well, so far, so good, I guess.”

Chao smiled, which made her look even more exhausted, though she seemed genuinely pleased. Folding her hands in her lap, she asked, “Is that a recommendation?”

The chief thought about the question, inspected it for booby traps, but found none. “Yes.”

Chao nodded and then, almost as an afterthought, said, “Dismissed.”

The chief headed for the transporter room and returned to the
Enterprise
.

O'Brien volunteered to appear
on Maxwell's behalf at the court-martial, as did Chao. Whenever he tried to find her and speak with her, Chao seemed to disappear, like a
spirit or ghost who could fade into the neutral gray paint of any interior room.

Despite Starfleet Command's request that she remain as captain of the
Phoenix
, Naomi Chao resigned her commission after Benjamin Maxwell was sentenced.

January 9, 2386

Runabout
Amazon

As soon as
the transporter released him, Nog asked, “What do you mean, ‘That's Captain Maxwell'?”

“What I mean,” O'Brien said, “is at that moment, you were seeing the man I remember from my days on the
Rutledge
.”

“Oh,” Nog said. “I thought that's what you meant.” He cleared his throat, then asked, “Computer, any unusual or unknown microorganisms in the transporter filters?”

“Define
unusual
,”
the computer requested.

“Anything . . . dangerous?” Nog added.

“The transporter filters removed four different forms of virus that are considered a nuisance to seven species and fifty-seven known varieties of bacteria or related microorganisms that are considered infectious in two hundred fifteen species. None of these is classified as
dangerous
under current Starfleet protocol.”
The computer paused, as if gathering its thoughts. Nog cocked an ear. He knew the computer would leave the best for last.
“Also, two uncataloged species of microorganisms were detected and isolated. Genetic scans will be sent to Starfleet Medical, though initial sensor readings indicate they are benign to most known species
.”

O'Brien nodded in satisfaction and moved toward the cockpit. Nog, less easily assured, asked, “Nothing dangerous to the runabout?”

The computer paused, possibly because it was having difficulty parsing the question. Finally, it answered,
“Affirmative.”

“Good,” Nog said, satisfied. He moved to the cockpit and sat down in the copilot's seat. The primary engines came online as the chief studied whatever data the sensors were able to read about local space. “Anything?” Nog asked.

O'Brien grunted the all-purpose dissatisfied grunt of the seasoned engineer, followed by the similarly all-­purpose, “Let me try something.” He pushed the pilot's seat back, squatted under the console, and removed an access panel. A couple tweaks of a probe and a yanked isolinear chip later, the chief was pulling up a fuzzy map of local space. A moment's study and he slid the display over to Nog's station. “It isn't pretty,” he said.

Nog studied the scan. “No,” he agreed. “It's not.” The good news—the
only
good news—was that the transport's warp core hadn't cracked until it was a decent distance away. Otherwise, Nog realized, they wouldn't be having their current scintillating conversation.

“As it is,” O'Brien continued, “no subspace communications to Deep Space 9 until we're out of this interference. Look at that ripple.” He pointed at the crescent-shaped wave of disrupted subspace extending from the explosion's point of origin out toward the edge of the sector.

“Do you think the station's sensors will pick up the explosion?” Nog asked.

“Eventually,” O'Brien said, pulling up the communications interface. “They'll send out a probe to investigate. Hopefully, we'll be home before the probe returns to explain what happened.” He tapped in the code to unlock the subsystems and swiped past a couple of graphical interfaces until he found the subspace transmitter's guts. After bypassing a couple of safety lockouts, he knit up the system and pointed the runabout's primary comm dish directly at the still-stationary transport.

“How do you think they're doing?” Nog asked nervously.

“Let's find out,” O'Brien said, and sent a hail.

Nog wasn't sure what he expected to hear in response to the hail, but he was unprepared for the squelch of white noise followed by the timorous,
“Hello?”

The chief responded in kind. “Hello?” he said. He cleared his throat and continued in a more decisive tone, “This is Chief Miles O'Brien. Who am I addressing?”

The respondent also cleared her throat and replied, still softly,
“This is Nita, Chief. Nita Bharad. You might remember we had a drink earlier today with Ben.”

“Of course,” O'Brien said. “How are you, Nita? What's your status?”

“Our status, C
hief,”
Nita replied breathily, and Nog imagined her looking around at her colleagues, all of whom would have nodded in agreement.
“Yes. We're all really, really scared.”

“I'm only getting audio, Nita. Can you send an image?”

“Oh,”
Nita said.
“Hold on a moment. How's that?”

The viewscreen blinked on. Bharad's face filled the
center of the screen. In the fuzzy middle ground, Nog saw what must have been the bodies of a couple of other passengers. The background was a milky white, like the cabin was filled with cotton fibers. There were stress lines around Bharad's mouth and eyes. The doctor looked like she might have been weeping or, perhaps, perspiring heavily. Under the circumstances, either would have been entirely understandable.

“That's fine, Nita. How many people are with you? Are any of you injured?”

“
Twelve people,”
Bharad said, still speaking very softly.
“And Ginger and Honey. They're here with me too. Could you pass that along to Ben when you have a chance? Tell him we boarded the
Wren
and not the
Aubrey
, like he suggested. I'm sure he's right about the chairs on the
Aubrey
, but it looked like so many people were boarding her,
and I didn't want to crowd Ginger and Honey. And I figured, how long are we really going—”

“I'll tell him, Nita. What about injuries?”

“No injuries. We're all fine. For now
.
We saw what happened. We're not idiots
.” Her voice went higher, and her words more staccato.
“Until this thing flies apart and we all
—”
Bharad bit down on her words and looked away.
“Dammit,”
she said, speaking even more softly.
“I said I wouldn't do that. I said . . .”
She closed her eyes and Nog watched as a single tear trickled down from the inner curve of her eye, following the laugh lines down around her mouth. She did not appear to be the sort of person who cried often.
“What happened to the
Aubrey
, Chief? What's going to
happening to us? Don't mince words, please. We're all scientists here. Well, most of us.”
Without warning, the
eyes and mandible of one of the giant spiders loomed large in the screen. It must have been down on the deck or on Bharad's lap and suddenly decided it was time to see what was happening, like a dog waking up from a nap while riding on its mistress's lap.