by Jeffrey Lang
“Of course,” Maxwell said, tapping his thumb to the lock. “I’ll be right there.” The door to the corridor swooshed open, and he stepped through. “Duty calls.”
Ops Center
Robert Hooke
Old-school, Nog thought. I like it. The Robert Hooke’s operations center had obviously been designed using the tried-and-true circular design aesthetic of most Federation command centers. Judging by the way the walls curved upward into an arch and the pair of auxiliary stairways to his left and right, Nog decided there was one more deck above them.
From where he stood on the transporter pad, Nog could see that the workstations all appeared utilitarian and moderately well-maintained by civilian standards. Lights blinked; sensors pinged; indicators pulsed in predictable patterns; and the fabric covers for the furniture, while worn thin, were not rubbed raw or sprouting foam. Everything about the setting made Nog feel at home.
The only problem, he decided, was the people. To be more precise: the lack thereof. As he and the chief stepped off the pad in unison, each of them looked to his left and right, both searching for a sign of life. They found none. The ops center purred and ticked around them, but was otherwise indifferent to their presence.
“This can’t be good,” O’Brien murmured.
“That’s supposed to be my line,” Nog said. “This is why I never want to go anywhere with you.”
The doors to the turbolift snapped open, nearly causing Nog to jump. A tall, thin man stepped out carrying a tray laden with several beverage containers. The thin man nearly tripped as he stepped out of the lift, moving as if propelled from behind; the beverage containers swayed precariously. Both O’Brien and Nog bounded toward him to see if they could steady the load, but were forced back when the thin man did not check his pace. A deep voice boomed out from behind the thin man, “Forward, my lad. Forward, forward, ever forward. Now step to the side. And halt. Good.”
A large man stepped out of the lift pushing a trolley before him. One of the trolley’s wheels wobbled and squeaked as it rolled. Several plates, each protected by a domed cover, rattled as the trolley rolled to the only open space large enough to accommodate both it and its driver. “Gentlemen,” the man intoned. “Please excuse our tardiness. Just as we broke off communications, it occurred to me that you might require some form of repast. Not knowing what time of day it is for you, we—my associate and I—decided we should try to assemble several different options.” He pointed at the thin man. “Sabih, please set the tray down over there.” He indicated the console to the thin man’s right. At a glance, Nog decided the thin man was setting down a tray of drinks on the atmospheric control console, which worried him.
The large man—Finch, Nog assumed—lifted lids off plates, describing the contents of each in brisk tones. “A bit of smoked krelt, which, if you’ve never had, it’s a bit like haddock with a troubled past. Please try the Stilton, though let it warm up to room temperature.” He retrieved a cheese knife from the platter and carved off a chunk, which he popped into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Definitely a few minutes. I just took it out of the preserver. As I said, we weren’t aware you were coming.” He lifted another lid. “And these are . . .” He studied the morsels carefully.
Nog inhaled. “Yak-ja?”
“Ah, yes.” Finch poked at it. “It rather catches the light nicely, doesn’t it?”
“When it’s properly writhing,” Nog said, “yes.”
“Ah, a connoisseur! Excellent! Sabih, offer them beverages!”
Sabih asked, “Can I get you a beverage?”
Chief O’Brien, who Nog could see was casting a skeptical eye at the proceedings, said, “I appreciate the consideration, gentlemen, but I’ve really come to see Ben Maxwell. If you could page him, we’ll clear out of here and . . . is that Guinness?”
“It is a dry stout, sir,” Finch said, tugging a stopper from the mouth of a large brown bottle. “Made in my own lab. One of the advantages of knowing a great deal about microbiology is you can always find the means to get the little buggers to dance when you call the tune. Can’t claim it came all the way from Dublin, but it’s a fair approximation of the venerable beverage. Would you care for a half-pint? It should pair nicely with the duck.”
“Well,” the chief hemmed, “to be polite. Seeing as you’ve gone to the trouble.” He watched the large man carefully pour the beverage into a glass. “No, that’s too much. No, wait. Very nice pour, yes.” O’Brien accepted the proffered glass and sipped appreciatively. “That’s lovely, thanks. But, about Ben Maxwell . . .”
“He’s on his way, Chief O’Brien. He’ll be with us as soon as possible. He might even want to join us, though I believe it’s rather early in his day for him to want to enjoy a libation.” He slurped the foamy head off his own glass and smacked his lips. “But perhaps not. I’m afraid I don’t know as much as I might about Ben’s proclivities.”
Nog looked down and was mildly surprised to see he was now holding a mug of something deep red and slightly foaming. He took a sip and found the flavor pleasant, though this might have been partly because his upper palate had gone immediately numb. “What do you think of that, Commander Nog? It’s a wine made from ungaberries. I’ve never developed a taste myself, but some of my Ferengi investors swear by the vintner.”
“Ith verra nith,” Nog said, but then stopped speaking to concentrate on sucking on his tongue so he could get some feeling back into it. “Thank kew,” he continued. “Ith . . . it’s very nice of you to greet us in this fashion, but I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage. You know who we are, but . . .”
“Of course!” Finch bellowed. “Of course, of course! How ridiculous of me! Introductions! Just because your fame has preceded you doesn’t mean we should make any such presumptions. Well, in my case, anyway. I can’t think of a reason in the world why you should know Sabih.” He presented his associate. “Sabih Ali, my director of communications and marketing. Recently of . . . where are you from, Sabih?”
“New Samarkand,” Sabih offered.
“Nice town,” Finch added. “Good restaurants.”
“Yes,” Sabih agreed flatly. “And universities, hospitals, shipyards, my home . . .”
“Yes, yes,” Finch said, waving his hand dismissively, already moving on. Sabih frowned and narrowed his eyes. “And I, of course, am Anatoly Finch, the director and owner of this temple of inquiry.” He bowed at the waist with his arms extended out to each side like a pair of wings. Finch was surprisingly flexible for such a large man, the crown of his head dipping down as low as his knee.
“Owner,” Nog said.
“Yes,” Finch replied, a small smile—practically a smirk, Nog thought—playing around his lips.
“It’s always strange to hear a . . . well, a hew-mon use that word,” the Ferengi said. “At least, with any depth of conviction.”
“Is it?” O’Brien asked, lowering his glass from his mouth. He had a small foamy mustache on his upper lip.
“It is,” Finch said. “I know precisely what you mean, Commander Nog. Precisely. Sometimes, I feel I have to apologize when I use the word in the presence of humans. Well, Terrans.” He nodded toward Sabih. “And Alpha Centaurians. It feels practically salacious somehow. Perhaps a Ferengi soul became lost and found its way into this somewhat ample frame after its last incarnation.”
“The majority of Ferengi don’t believe in reincarnation,” Sabih began. “Inasmuch as there can be said to be a major religion, it’s basically an extension of their nearly religious belief that the value of a life is measured in material gain. In fact—”
“Stop,” Finch said, snapping his fingers together like he was pinching Sabih’s lips together. Sabih ceased speaking. Finch never stopped staring at Nog. “One of the virtues of a liberal arts education,” he said, “is that one can drone on endlessly about so many topics. Wouldn’t you agree, Commander Nog?”
“You don’t have to call me Commander Nog,” Nog said, embarrassed. “Just Nog is fine. Or Commander.”
“You honor me, sir,” Finch said, sitting upright, his back straight. The front of his jacket pouched out a bit, bumped from the inside by his belly. “And, please, call me Anatoly.”
“This is lovely,” Chief O’Brien said, wiping away his foam mustache. The pint glass was one-quarter empty. “And you made it here?”
“Indeed yes, Chief,” Finch said. “Only one of our wonders. A minor miracle. Would you care to hear about some of the major ones?”
Nog looked down at his beverage, which was still foaming, though in a much more desultory fashion than a couple minutes earlier. He set it down on the tray and wiped his hands together, checking to see if he had splashed any liquid on himself. “Sure,” he said. “Why not? It’s not like we’re doing anything else right this moment.”
Chapter 5
Ops Center
Robert Hooke
“Most of my tenants are what I like to call freethinkers,” Finch said, running through his recitation more or less on autopilot. The holodisplay unit at the center of the main comm unit lit up on cue and images began to flicker into focus: first, the thoughtful faces of individuals clearly engaged in rigorous intellectual exercises. “Beings who discovered they didn’t fit neatly into the scientific or academic institutions of their homeworlds. Or, sadly, discovered that their talents, or their work, wasn’t valued.” A new set of images followed, these more abstract: complex data displays, mathematical and chemical formulas, engineering schematics. “Lab time is always an issue, even on worlds where they claim resources do not come between a researcher and his work. We understand each other here, do we not, Nog?” The Ferengi, who had been watching the display, turned slightly to meet Finch’s gaze. He nodded in a polite, but neutral, manner.
Finch resumed his spiel. “Amongst my cohort are a Tellarite cyberneticist who is developing a means for telepathic communication with autonomous robots. Do not chuckle, Chief O’Brien. Consider the applications in deep-space engineering.” A brief video of a Tellarite, wearing an elaborate telepresence rig on his head and focusing his gaze meaningfully, twinkled past.
“One of our great successes—Doctor Nita Bharad of Earth—can be seen here with her greatest achievements.” The image of a small, dark-skinned woman with a round, cheerful face and bright eyes, materialized. Finch winced inwardly. Bharad was, by any objective measure, a successful and appealing researcher, with scores of highly cited papers to her credit, but she insisted that any promotion that included her also prominently feature Ginger and Honey. O’Brien and Nog reflexively smiled back at Bharad’s image when she appeared and then recoiled as the surreal visages of her “pets” dropped into the frame, multiple eyes glimmering, mandibles flexing.
“What the hell?” O’Brien exclaimed.
“Wait,” Nog cried. “What? The spiders—”
“Arachnoforms,” Finch corrected.
“—they’re what?”
Sabih paused the presentation, but did not—could not—roll it back to show Bharad and her creations. Finch explained, “They’re artificial life-forms. Arachnoforms. They’re really quite . . . unique?” He was momentarily at a loss for words. “Really remarkable. Highly intelligent. Mildly telepathic or empathic, the doctor can’t decide which it is. She believes they’d be very useful for assisting disabled individuals or working in low-gravity environments. Actually, the applications are endless if you can get past the fact that . . . well . . . . Really, only some people have problems with the fact that they’re . . .”
“They’re remarkable,” Nog said. “I’d have to get a better look at them. Can we meet them?” The engineer looked back and forth between Finch and O’Brien, eyes bright.
“Really?” Finch asked.
“Yeah, really?” O’Brien whispered. “I mean, Nog, come on. They’re giant spiders, for mercy’s sake. I mean . . .” He shuddered.
“They remind me of a dhara I had when I was a boy, back before we came to the station.” The Ferengi held his hands up, wrists together, so that his fingers dangled to each side. He wiggled them. “You know . . . a dhara? No?” All of the humans, Sabih included, shook their heads in the negative. “Well, they’re adorable. And so affectionate. Their suckers can . . .” Nog intuited he wasn’t going to receive the reaction he expected. “Never mind.”
“I’m sure Doctor Bharad would be happy to have you meet her creations,” Finch said. “Thank you, Nog, for your enthusiasm. Your response has confirmed a belief I’ve had since we met—you truly are able to appreciate what we’re attempting to accomplish here on the Hooke.”
O’Brien cleared his throat while putting down his pint. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry. Never mind. Carry on.”
“Yes,” Finch said. “I will.” He stood, attempting to convey his excitement. Sabih cleared the holodisplay, but now Finch was lit dramatically from below. “I think, Nog, that you would take a keen, keen interest in my work: a project that has consumed me for the better part of the past five years. Allow me to demonstrate. Sabih, show us Deneva. First, as it was.”
Light from the holodisplay dimmed, then flared. An image coalesced: a blue and green world as seen from high orbit, its northern pole crowned with an iridescent icecap. Bands of cirrus clouds streamed over the verdant continents. The lights of mighty cities twinkled far below. “Home to five billion souls. Long considered the most gracious, the most cultivated, the kindest world in the Federation. Deneva was a jewel, a beacon of civilization and civility, an abode of balance, humor, and grace.” Finch paused meaningfully.
The edges of the blue and green world blurred and faded into a soft gray. When the image sharpened again, all color had disappeared. Deneva was now nothing more than a chunk of charcoal, all but indistinguishable from the sea of black in which it floated.
“And then the Borg,” Finch intoned. He watched as expressions hardened and lines appeared around the Starfleeters’ mouths and eyes. Not desk jockeys. They were, if not warriors, soldiers. “Now Deneva is nothing but a memory,” he continued. “As are many other worlds.” The cinder that was Deneva disappeared and was quickly replaced by fleeting glimpses of a half-dozen other planets, some completely stripped of life, others only partially ravaged.
“Despite the best efforts of the Federation and her allies, Barolia, Acamar, Ramatis, Korvat, and Deneva were ravaged. The Borg weapons not only crushed and burned, but also left behind a putrefying malaise. They became diseased sepulchers where nothing would ever live again.” The view dove down into the atmosphere of one of the planets and showed what appeared to have been a continental shoreline, but the land was no more than an ember and the ocean only a sickening phosphorescent sludge. Finch had searched long and hard to find this particular landscape. It tells our story, he had said to Sabih, who had wordlessly agreed.
“Chief O’Brien was on the Enterprise,” Nog murmured, his voice almost too low to be heard. “The first time they encountered the Borg. He—”
“We know all of this,” O’Brien snapped. “Everyone knows this. The Borg didn’t want to assimilate us—they wanted to annihilate us. And they might have . . .” Stopping himself, the chief studied Finch, wondering if he was playing them.
“They might have,” Finch agreed. “But they didn’t, thanks to brave people such as yourselves. I thank you.” He bowed stiffly. “But the Borg have taken their toll. Worlds lie burning, their citizens not even given the grace and dignity of a peaceful resting place, their lands toxic, their atmosphere defiled, their oceans venomous. And, these worlds can never be healed . . .”
The image of the wasted shoreline faded into an ashy gray and then went blank.
Finch waited, counted down in his head, Three, two, one . . . The display blinked back on. Finch thought, Let there be light, as he always did at this point in the presentation, and said,
“Or can they?”
Deck Four
Robert Hooke
“Well, here’s your problem,” Maxwell said, extracting the bolus of congealed resin from the mouth of the drainpipe with ceramic tongs. He let the fist-sized glob touch the mat he had laid on the deck and watched to see if there was a reaction, chemical or otherwise. One of the first things he had learned during his tenure on the Hooke was to never assume substances yanked out of toilets, drains, or ventilator shafts were inert. Back in his first month, a blob—not unlike the one he had just extricated—had burst into flame when exposed to light. Maxwell knew he should routinely scan everything with his tricorder, but he wasn’t patient enough or, frankly, worried enough to make the effort.
“I didn’t do that,” Uchiha said.
“Didn’t say you did,” Maxwell replied, carefully rising to a standing position. “Something like this had to accrete over a long time. Enough of the right things have to get disposed or, you know, flushed.”
“You think it’s organic?” Uchiha eyed the bolus carefully.
“Well, partly, sure. The question is how much?”
“Do you mind if I take it?”
Maxwell suppressed a shudder. He replied, “As long as you promise to dispose of it properly when you’re finished doing . . . whatever.”
Uchiha fished a pair of heavy gloves out of his lab coat pocket and picked up the sticky, irregularly shaped object. “Of course,” he said, carrying the bolus in one hand, rubbing his chin with the other, and not watching where he was walking. “Thanks, Ben.”
“No problem.” Maxwell wiped down the tongs with a dry cloth and replaced them in his tool chest. Resetting and resealing the head would be the work of only a few minutes. Once again, Maxwell found himself admiring the designers of the Helios-class stations. Nothing on the station was fussy or overcomplicated, and most of the problems he encountered in his daily routine could be fixed with a hammer, a sonic driver, and a couple of self-sealing stem bolts. Was the same true for a starship? he wondered. Hard to recall for sure since mostly I just pointed at things. He chuckled at the mental picture. I must have done something else. I’ll have to ask Miles . . .
