Force and Motion (18 page)

“Perhaps,” Finch said, turning toward Maxwell. “But are you clever enough to know when you may be looking at your last chance? We may die here if we're not careful.” As if to prove Finch's point, the artificial gravity briefly blinked, just long enough that Finch's feet left the deck and Maxwell felt the strain on his arms.

“I thought you said you rerouted power to this room's grid.”

“I did,” Finch said, rising from a crouch. He had landed badly when the gravity returned, and Maxwell saw him wince. “Imagine what that must have been like in the rest of the station.”

“I am.”

“Your friends, whoever made it back to the station, they may not like it if we have too many more of those.”

“You're probably right.”

“So what,” Finch asked, limping closer to Maxwell, “if I can convince my friend in the ship to bring them along with me?”

Maxwell suddenly saw where the conversation was headed. Still, he had to ask, “You think he would do that?”

“I think,” Finch said, rubbing his chin with the tip of his thumb, “that the only way I'll be able to ask is if I contain and deliver the Mother. I can't do it alone.”

“You're a bastard, Finch,” Maxwell said.

“I am,” Finch replied. “So very true. And you, Ben Maxwell, are a very good man.” He stood in front of Maxwell's chair and leaned down over him, gripping the arms in his hands. “And if you swear to help me in exchange for my offer to try to get us all off the station, I have faith you'll do as you say. You were a good Starfleet officer, I would warrant. A man of honor. A man who kept his word.”

Maxwell couldn't help himself. He brought one of his knees up as fast and hard as could. Finch crumpled to the ground, groaning and gasping imprecations. Speaking loud enough that Finch could hear him through what he was sure was a high-pitched internal screech, Maxwell said, “Cut me loose. I'll help. You've got my number.” He paused to better enjoy Finch's muffled whimpers. “Well,
mostly
 . . .”

Hangar Deck

“You're the last one,”
Bharad said, leaning in with the plasma torch. She handed the trussed-up researcher a set of welding goggles someone had found in cabinet. The torch had a little shield that Bharad could use to keep herself from being blinded by the glare, but the ensnared
scientists seemed to feel better if they could watch what she was doing and not be forced to shut their eyes against the light.

Bharad had become fairly proficient in the use of the torch over the past hour and hadn't done anything worse than lightly sear one or two wriggling scholars. The researcher—Bharad couldn't recall her name—watched her work and even seemed to relax a bit when the filaments began to singe and snap.

“Just another minute,” Bharad said, happy to be almost finished with her task. The doctor was vexed that she would no longer have a distraction from the problem they were facing. They were stranded on the Hooke with whatever menace Finch had unleashed. When her gut began to surge, Bharad stepped away from the almost-free researcher and waited for the gravity fluctuation to subside. It was a long one this time, and she was glad to be in a confined space. Out in the hangar, everyone had taken to standing near a fixed object that they could grab hold of at a moment's notice. One or two of her colleagues, ironically, had tried to cut strips of the webbing, roll them into thicker cables, and lash themselves to railings, but the silk had begun to dry out and become brittle, a condition Bharad mentally noted to investigate if she had the opportunity.

“I really hate that,” the researcher said when Bharad started in with the torch again.

“Of course you do. But I'm being careful.”

“Not the torch.” She lifted the goggles to cover her eyes. “The gravity.”

“Don't fidget. Almost through.”

“Do we know if anyone's coming to help us?” The researcher (
What was her name?
) didn't sound frightened, just mildly concerned.

“Our Starfleet friends have gone off in search of Finch and Ben Maxwell. They sent for help, but weren't sure how long it would take to get here.”

“Or if this old rust bucket will stay together until then.” The researcher dragged her left arm out of the tangle of burned webbing. “What in seven hells did Finch release?”

Bharad shook her head and helped the woman to her feet. Fortunately, she had close-cropped hair, so it wouldn't be necessary to cut any off to get loose of the filaments. Poor Mary Ratinoff had had to chop away most of her very nice, long, red hair with a pair of work shears. “I'm not sure,” Bharad said. “Commander Nog explained it was some sort of tailored bug—you know the kind of thing Finch liked—that's supposed to eat contaminants. It got out. Seems to like radioactive material best. Chews through whatever might be in the way to get to them, including hull plating and reactor shielding.”

“Then why isn't it eating this old thing's warp core?” She indicated the
Wren
with a wave of her hand.

“Not sure. Probably because we tamped down the core. Maybe it's just preoccupied with the main course and is saving us for a snack. Who knows?”

“Why does the gravity keep cutting out?”

“The hull is breached on several levels,” Bharad explained. “I don't think the Hooke environmental systems are meant to stand up to this much abuse. If I know Ben, he's probably trying to keep the catastrophes bal
anced out, which means systems are burping from time to time.” She had no idea what she was talking about, but Bharad figured there was no reason why anyone else had to experience the fear and indecision she was. Besides, for all she knew, she was right and Ben
was
behind the disruptions. As far as she could tell—whether anyone else knew it or not—his was the hand that kept the Hooke from flying apart at any given moment.

“So, we're probably best off staying down here for now?”

“I think so,” Bharad said. “The hull appears to be intact. We have atmosphere and power.”

“And if things start falling apart, we have your spiders to help keep things together.”

“They're not spiders,” Bharad said peevishly. “They're
arachnoforms
.”

The researcher—Bella (her name suddenly popped loose from the depths of Bharad's memory)—made a rude noise and shuffled stiffly out of the transport to join her colleagues.

Bharad switched off the plasma torch, saying, “I have no idea where the girls are.”
Off with their boyfriends,
she thought ruefully.
Typical.

Chapter 17

Four Years Earlier

Starfleet Penal Colony

“I
had a weird dream last night,” Maxwell said.

“Oh?” said Doctor Clark, reaching for his padd. Over the years of psychoanalysis, Maxwell had gone from being a person who almost never remembered his dreams to someone who not only dreamed vividly, but also could recall the dreams in excruciating detail. Clark liked to take notes, possibly because it helped him to keep the particulars straight in his own mind.

“There wasn't much to it.”

“What do you recall?” Clark asked.

“A gerbil.”

“A gerbil?” Scratching on the padd. “That's what you recall, or that's all there was?”

“That's all there was: a gerbil.”

“Not much.”

“No.”

“Was it doing anything?”

“No. Standing on his hind legs. Sniffing. The usual gerbil stuff.”

“Not much of a dream, is it?”

“I guess,” Maxwell said, and stared out the window. He was sitting in a chair today, so he could watch the
clouds out over the ocean. “Oh,” he added. “And he was wearing a red shirt.”

“A red shirt? Like a T-shirt? Or a pullover?”

“No, I mean a uniform . . . a Starfleet uniform. The kind they wore when Kirk was commanding the
Enterprise
, before they redid the uniforms.”

“Oh. Please excuse my ignorance, but what does a red-shirted Starfleet uniform indicate?”

“Back in Kirk's day, it meant engineering, service divisions, and security.”

“Security?”

“Security officers.” Maxwell grinned. “There was even a joke about that. A very old joke about redshirts.” To his surprise, Maxwell felt the grin leave his face. He was feeling very, very sad and wasn't sure why.

“What is it, Ben?” Doctor Clark asked. “What are you thinking about?”

“Redshirts,” Maxwell said. “I was thinking about the joke about redshirts.”

Doctor Clark said, “Why don't you tell it to me?”

“No,” Maxwell said. “No. I don't want to.”

January 9, 2386

Deck Two

Robert Hooke

“Have I mentioned,”
Nog asked, his voice crackling in the intercom in O'Brien's helmet,
“how very much I'm not enjoying this?”

“Yes,” O'Brien replied, punching the giant undead
rat in the face. “You've mentioned it
several
times.” The giant undead rat spun away in the indifferent gravity and crashed into a bulkhead. “Have I mentioned how happy I would be if we had thought to bring phasers?”

“By my count, ten times.”

Only ten?
O'Brien thought, mildly surprised.
Would have expected it was much more than that.

Nog was doing well against his giant undead rat, though he had the advantage of receiving training in low- or zero-g battle while (presumably) the giant undead rat had not.
I must stop thinking “giant undead rat,”
O'Brien thought.
Probably not technically accurate. Also . . .
He wound up and booted the third giant undead rat down the corridor, its hairless gray tail twitching, glassy eyes whirling in their sockets. It careened off the ceiling and spun away.
Probably an insult to giant undead rats everywhere.

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.
H
e 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 acceleration 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 com
pletely 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.