Force And Motion Part 25

"No," Maxwell said, shaking his head. The ill-fitting helmet rattled as he moved. "Not how he sounded, but the words, the phrasing." He snapped his fingers. "I've got it!"

"What?" Nog asked.

"Working man."

"Sir?" O'Brien was wrestling with the feeds from the dying reactor, so he couldn't look at Maxwell.

"He's not military," Maxwell said. "Not service, not a bureaucrat." He pointed a bulky finger at O'Brien. "He's a guy who does a job." He swung his arm around until he was pointing at Finch, who was lying on the deck, though something about his posture suggested he was awake and listening. Maxwell took three giant steps toward his former employer and effortlessly lifted Finch's sagging bulk into a sitting position. "Isn't he? Not a government representative, not a praetor, not a diplomat, not a spy."

Finch snorted and grinned horribly. Because of Maxwell-or the deck-his head must have struck the facemask, as his gums were b.l.o.o.d.y and, when he smiled, a spray of pink spittle blemished the interior of his helmet. "A farmer," Finch said. "Just a grubby little farmer. You forget that about the Romulans, don't you? And the Klingons too, I imagine. Only so much can come out of replicators. If you do it right, planting something in the ground and letting it grow is ever so much more efficient." He chuckled, but his ribs must have hurt, because the laugh turned into a groan. Finch sagged down onto himself. Muttering, talking to himself as much as to Maxwell, Finch added, "Mother's people were farmers. She hated farmers. Hated mud and weather and . . . and . . . pollen. Trees. Hated them. Hated them."

Maxwell shook Finch, probably harder than he really needed to, or so Nog thought. Captain Maxwell has some anger issues.

"Get him back on the comm, Finch!" Maxwell snapped. "Get him back and tell him the truth! The least you can do is tell him that there's no miracle here! You can't save him or his family or his farm or his planet! You give back his money and you say-"

"No," Nog said, reaching out and clasping Maxwell on the shoulder. "No," he repeated, more calmly. Like an officer. Or a businessman. "That's a mistake."

"What?" Maxwell asked.

"What?" Finch repeated, relieved or, possibly, surprised.

Nog did not reply to either of the men, but looked back over his shoulder at the chief, who, unexpectedly, said, "First Rule of Acquisition?" He grinned. "What's the play?"

Romulan s.h.i.+p Cretak fumed, uncertain how to proceed. This was supposed to have been a simple transaction: go to the station, get the organism, go home, save his planet. He'd been selected to make the run for the simple fact that he was the only one, besides Lareth, who could pilot the s.h.i.+p. Lareth was disabled, his mind fried by despair and longing and ale. "Don't be unkind. Poor Lareth has suffered so," Hexce, Cretak's wife, would say over and over again and then shake her head.

Cretak always wanted to reply, "He's suffered?! We've all suffered! I've suffered!" He knew better. Hexce wouldn't have it. She was a better person than he was. He knew this and it ate at him, but not too much and not all the time.

So now, here he was, hiding behind the infernal, energy-sucking cloaking device, watching the station and wondering what to do next. Finch, the shart, had failed them. Taken their money-all that his community had been able to sc.r.a.pe together-and then lied to them. No miracle was forthcoming. The soil would stay poisoned, and they would have to leave their planet. If they were lucky. Cretak had spent the best part of the last five years hating the Borg and the horror they had rained down on his world, but, at that moment, he decided he hated Finch more.

The comm chirped again. Cretak ignored it. Should he beam over to the station and attempt to wrest something from Finch? He skimmed the sensor readings and shook his head ruefully. Cretak knew he wasn't a scientist, engineer, or metallurgist, but he recognized the signs of impending disaster when he saw it. Many terrible things were happening in or near Finch's station. Cretak knew he wasn't qualified to understand them, but when chunks of plating peeled away from a hull and atmosphere vented into s.p.a.ce-that was bad. He scanned the reactor output, but the readouts were confusing: peculiar spikes followed by power-downs. Gravitons and other more exotic particles geysered out of cracks and broken seams. His s.h.i.+p's computer explained it was time to leave.

A part of Cretak really wanted to stay and watch Finch's bloated corpse pinwheel through open s.p.a.ce when the station blew, but the brief satisfaction would canker and turn into existential horror. d.a.m.n you, Finch. A distant part of his mind, a part that spoke with his father's weary voice, told him he was as much to blame as the human.

The comm chirped once more.

Cretak slapped the console and opened the channel. "d.a.m.n you, Finch!" he shouted, surprising himself.

"Too late," a voice responded. "I think that's been taken care of."

Cretak knew he wasn't an authority on humans or their whimsies, but he also recognized that the speaker didn't sound human. For that matter, he didn't sound like someone who was inside a crumbling s.p.a.ce station. He sounded . . . amused? Disaffected? "Who is this?" Cretak asked.

"Turn on your viewer," the speaker said.

"Why should I?"

"Because I like to look a man in the eye when I'm making a deal."

Deal? Cretak wondered. What in the names of the D'ravsai? But he couldn't resist turning on the viewer.

The speaker must have been sitting very close to the pickup, because his features-particularly his flat, ridged nose and his thick brow-seemed to fill the screen. He smiled very briefly, showing a row of sharp teeth, though the smile did not reach his eyes. "My name is Nog." The image s.h.i.+mmered and, for a moment, Cretak thought something was wrong with the signal, but then he realized the effect was due to the fact that Nog was wearing some kind of environmental suit.

"What do you want, Nog?" Cretak asked.

Once again, Nog-a Ferengi, Cretak guessed-grinned, but only very briefly, as if he couldn't resist enjoying a private joke. "It's not about what I want, friend. I'm contacting you to discuss what you might want. Or perhaps I should say need."

"What do you know of my needs?" Cretak asked, taking control of the conversation. He knew about the Ferengi, about their much-vaunted ability to extract wealth from the unwary. Cretak almost chuckled to himself, though ruefully. How can he take something from someone who has nothing?

"All too much, I'm afraid," Nog said. "I have some very bad news for you, sir." He shook his head, his voice filled with what Cretak knew he was supposed to believe was regret. "Very, very bad."

"If you mean that Doctor Finch has reneged on our deal, that I'm to return home without the aid he promised-" Cretak snorted. "I have been informed."

The image on the monitor appeared to jump, like the signal had dropped and then quickly been reestablished. The Ferengi appeared briefly disconcerted, but quickly regained his composure. "Ah, yes. Of course. Finch's bug. Does that translate?" he asked. "Do you know what a bug is?"

Cretak was on the verge of being insulted, but he was also curious about what the Ferengi was saying. "Of course I know what a bug is. I live out in the land, the sky over my head, soil in my hands every day. Back when there was soil . . ."

"No, no," the Ferengi said. "I mean the other kind of bug. It might not translate." He lifted his hand, huge in the pickup, and held his thumb and forefinger so that there was only the tiniest s.p.a.ce between them. "Microscopic. A pest . . . No, wait, not a pest. Nuisance? No." He waved his hand. "Wait. I meant plague. Finch's plague."

Now Cretak was very confused and unable to conceal it. At first, he had thought the Ferengi was attempting to weave a tapestry of lies, but now he sounded as if he was having problems even finding the correct terms. Or maybe the translator was flawed? "Plague?" he asked. "What plague?"

"The one that's enveloping your s.h.i.+p," the Ferengi said. "They're like a swarm of locusts. Does that word translate? Do you have locusts on your world? Yes? How about a swarm that can survive in s.p.a.ce? Can you imagine that? Or that it's on your hull now, burrowing into the seams? Our sensors are offline, but yours might still be functioning. For a little while longer. You should be able to find the swarm if you know where to look."

"What?" Cretak asked. His stomach shriveled in his abdomen. "What are you talking about? What swarm? What bugs?"

"I'm really very sorry," Nog said. "I a.s.sure you that I had nothing to do with this situation." He must have manipulated the viewer controls, because the camera pulled back and the Ferengi's whole face filled the screen. He was wearing a helmet, though it was one of the larger sorts, so it was possible to see his entire face. That was it. No uniform was visible, but he recognized the suit. Starfleet. The Federation. Nog continued, "I was sent here to try to resolve the problem, but have run into some additional problems." He smiled and, this time, Cretak sensed a genuine warmth and sincere desire to a.s.sist. "Fortunately, I think we can help each other."

Finch's Lab Nog put the transmission briefly on hold and looked back over his shoulder at the chief and Maxwell. "I think I have his attention," he said.

O'Brien and Maxwell both nodded appreciatively. Maxwell said, "I believe you do at that."

Hangar Deck Nita Bharad lay on her side, staring into s.p.a.ce. She panted hard. The back of her jumpsuit was damp, probably from perspiration, but possibly from blood, too. It clung to her skin. The air in the hangar had grown cold, and she shuddered miserably.

The last round had been the worst. She was fairly certain one of her colleagues had lost her grip and been bucked up into the air and then dropped, but Bharad was too tired to look around. Tired and thirsty, she thought. I would sell my mother for a gla.s.s of water. She closed her eyes and felt her mind drift toward exhausted slumber, though she got hung up on an odd thought as she so often did before sleep: Gla.s.s of water. Why a gla.s.s of water? Had she ever really drunk water out of a gla.s.s? Growing up, they had drunk out of mugs and tumblers and metal bottles, but a gla.s.s? Ever? Such were the thoughts that kept her restless mind astir at night.

What was the fate of her girls? Bharad rolled onto her back and groaned. Something was sprained or torn. Opening her eyes, she stared up into the gloom (everything but the emergency lights was out) and tried to imagine Ginger and Honey sliding down on their threads to find her, bind her up, and carry her away to her bed, safe and protected. In her mind's eye, the girls floated like a pair of soap bubbles.

No soap bubbles floated before her. The only thing she saw were motes of debris-flecks of plasteel and insulation-whirling in eddies and currents of thinning, increasingly toxic atmosphere. They were strangely beautiful. She began to drift away with them.

And then Bharad's right wrist began to vibrate, and the movement jerked her back into the here and now. She lifted her arm and stared blankly at the comm device on her forearm. It vibrated again. Unable to lift her left hand to activate the comm, Bharad dropped her wrist onto her forehead and the vibration ceased. "Who's there?" she asked dourly.

"h.e.l.lo, Nita," Maxwell said. "How're things?"

"Get me a beer, Ben," Bharad replied, grinning.

"For you, anything," Maxwell said. "But I can do you one better."

"Better than a beer?" Bharad asked, and, despite her dehydration, felt her eyes moisten. "What could be better than that?"

"How about a way off this station?"

Bharad smiled. "You shouldn't make promises you can't keep, Ben Maxwell." Somewhere nearby, someone worked up the energy to moan loudly, and Bharad silently wished whoever it was would kindly please shut the h.e.l.l up.

"Listen to me, Nita," Maxwell said. "I promise you, there's a way. We've got it figured out. I wanted you to know because people are going to start being transported away any second now."

Off to her right, Bharad heard the telltale sound of a transporter beam grabbing someone. She had only transported a couple times herself and hadn't either particularly liked or disliked the experience. It is, she thought, a wonder, but not a mystery, if there is a difference between the two. "Thanks for the notification," she said, her voice cracking. "Any idea where they're being sent?"

"A s.h.i.+p," Maxwell said. "A pa.s.serby. A Samaritan."

"Oh, lovely," Bharad replied. "And why isn't this Samaritan's s.h.i.+p falling apart?" And added, "Like the others?"

"We're not entirely sure it won't," Maxwell said. "Their engines are different. We believe it won't attract Finch's bugs." He chuckled. "At least, that's the theory. Not that we're telling him that . . ."

"What?" Bharad asked, feeling, for a brief moment, outraged on behalf of their Samaritan. She suspected, knowing Maxwell, that the Samaritan wouldn't be quite so generous if he knew the Complete and Entire Truth. "And why aren't we telling him that?"

Maxwell didn't acknowledge the question. Instead, he continued, "It's going to be pretty cramped. Just so you know." Another transporter beam locked and whirred off to the left.

The dust motes spun before Bharad's eyes. "Any sign of my girls?" she asked softly. "I'm worried about them. Something may have happened . . ."

"One of them is right here with me," Maxwell said. "Ginger. With her new best friend."

"Not Honey?" she asked.

"No sign of her," Maxwell said. "But I'm sure she's fine. She's smart, Nita. As smart as her mom." Another transporter beam activated.

And then Bharad felt the deck below her buck. As she was flung up into the dank and dreary s.p.a.ce, she briefly-very briefly-found herself thinking about playing with soap bubbles, the kind you made with a dish full of soap and glycerin. She tried to imagine she was one of those iridescent globes-s.h.i.+mmering like an oily rainbow, carried along by a breeze-and that she would either float away or pop.

Chapter 21.

Eleven Years Earlier Starfleet Penal Colony "Let's talk about firsts," Doctor Gunther said. He was sitting in his overstuffed chair and Maxwell was sitting-not lying, but sitting-on the couch. They had met several times since he had been a.s.signed to the colony. Most of their interactions had been cordial, however Gunther found Maxwell to be a frustrating patient. Insufficiently invested in the therapeutic process, he had written in the patient file.

"Firsts?"

"Firsts. The first time something happened. Personal firsts."

"Oh," Maxwell said. "Like, first time sailing a boat or first kiss or first day of school. That sort of thing."

"All good examples," Gunther agreed. "Pick one of those."

"Or first child born or first time in s.p.a.ce or first time drunk."

"Also good examples. Excellent. You've got the idea."

"Or," Maxwell continued, "first s.e.xual encounter or first fight or first funeral."

Gunther sighed. "Sure."

"Or first time in battle or first time someone died by your hand or-I don't know-first time I thought I was going to die."

Gunther set aside his padd, asking, "First time you thought you were going to die?"

"Sure," Maxwell said.

"How many times have you thought you were going to die?"

Maxwell looked confused. "How many?" He turned and looked out the window. It was a typical summer morning. Heavy gray storm clouds scudded along the horizon. Shafts of golden light streamed down between the banks so that the ocean's surface was alternately glittering and gloomy. "I spent most of my career out there. It's part of the job."

"How many?"

Maxwell turned his head to stare out at the ocean. Gunther noted that his cheeks were darkened by black and gray stubble. It was the first time he could recall seeing the former officer appearing in anything less than perfect wardroom condition. "Times I thought, I might die today?"

"Yes."

Maxwell shrugged and turned back to look at Gunther. "More than I can count."

"That must be exhausting."

"I suppose," Maxwell agreed. "You get used to it."

Gunther let the words hang in the air for a few moments and then retrieved his padd. He knew he had just made a tiny inroad and wanted to take notes. "Tell me about the first time."

January 9, 2386 Ops Center Robert Hooke "Nita?" Maxwell called. "Nita?" He flicked the communicator control stud on his environmental suit's gauntlet on and off several times. Since returning to ops, Maxwell had tried to contact Bharad, with no success. His frustration was becoming palpable to Nog, even through the environmental suit. He turned to Nog and asked, "What's happening? What's the pilot doing?"

Nog moved closer to Maxwell, careful to make sure his back was to the screen in case the Romulan was watching their interaction. "Exactly what we asked him to do," Nog explained. "He's beaming the scientists out of the hangar and onto his s.h.i.+p. He can't beam them all at once. A shuttle that size, the transporter probably has only one pad."

Maxwell said, "We've convinced him that his s.h.i.+p may start falling apart any second, so he's probably more than a little nervous."

Nog glanced at the screen from the corner of his eye, but all he saw was the pilot's forearm and shoulder. The Romulan was busy, presumably manipulating transporter controls. "Probably," he agreed.

"But we are reasonably sure the Mother won't be attracted to his engine?" Maxwell asked. "Aren't we?"

Both O'Brien and Nog remained mute.

"You think," Maxwell asked, "Nita was just caught up in the transporter beam?"

O'Brien pointed at the environmental controls console. "Based on the sc.r.a.ps of data I can get out of this thing, yes. The hangar had some hull integrity up to a couple minutes ago. Now? Systems are failing all over the station." Waving a hand, taking in the bulkheads and deck below their feed, he added, "It looks like you were rerouting a lot of the power up here."

Maxwell nodded toward the still-rec.u.mbent Finch. "His doing, not mine."

"We're probably alive now because he did," O'Brien said.

Maxwell grunted, clearly experiencing mixed emotions. "Let's just make sure we've got everyone we can. Then, he can beam us over and we can jump to warp."