by Jeffrey Lang
“I have no idea,” O’Brien said. “And Finch appears to have, uh, temporarily vacated the premises.”
Bharad cocked her head to the side, momentarily confused, but then straightened and nodded. “Oh, I see.” She returned to the previous line of questioning. “But how did the Mother reach the Aubrey?”
“We’re not sure, but our best guess is part of the Mother was vented into space when Sabih inadvertently activated Finch’s emergency procedures. Contrary to expectations, the Mother survived in the vacuum. The Aubrey must have passed through it when they left the hangar and the Mother hitched a ride, then found a way into the ship and then the warp core. Broke down the containment field or caused the reaction to go critical.” He turned to Nog and asked, “Can you run some scans and see if there’s any way to know more about what happened? It might not be important now, but maybe later . . .”
“Oh,” Bharad said, strangling on her words. “It’s important now.”
“Why?” O’Brien asked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Bharad said, her voice dropping again, “that our transport is falling apart around us.” She looked down at the console before and must have manipulated some setting on the communication station, because it slowly pulled back to show the passenger cabin. A few of the researchers were sitting, but just as many were clustered near Bharad. Every thirty seconds or so, a dark shape moved through the top edge of the frame: Ginger and Honey moving from side to side. The scanner made it difficult to see exactly what was happening, but it appeared that the arachnoforms were spinning a frothy web that was slowly filling the cabin.
“What are they doing?” O’Brien asked. “What’s happening?”
“The Wren’s internal sensors told us that she’s losing hull integrity. I explained it to the girls and they, well, you can see. I think they’re preventing the ship from falling apart. If nothing else, we have atmosphere to breathe. For now . . .”
Nog whispered, “Good girls.”
“Can you get us out of here?” Bharad asked, her voice cracking. “We’re afraid to activate the engines. Even impulse might—”
“Stand by,” O’Brien said, cutting the audio feed. “What do you think? Can we break through the interference?”
“I’ve been trying to get a lock on something . . . anything,” Nog said. “But the transporter beam won’t stabilize. Frankly, I’m amazed you can even talk to them. There’s so much radiation.”
“Can you scan their hull? Is she really breaking up?”
Nog peered at the sensor readouts, but shook his head in frustration. “I can’t be sure. Something is happening to the hull’s structural integrity. It’s eroding, but not like it’s being bombarded. Something slower . . . more like digested.”
“Should we risk the tractor beam?”
“You heard what Captain Maxwell said. We might tear the ship in half.”
“Can we just go over and bump it back toward the station?” O’Brien asked. It was a ridiculous suggestion, and the chief clearly knew it.
Nog shook his head. “Even if there isn’t a cloud of Mother cells around the Wren now, risking physical contact would be bad. We just don’t know enough about how this thing functions. Sometimes, it seems to be responding like a simple colonial organism. Sometimes, it seems to be acting with intention.”
O’Brien and Nog stared at the image of Nita Bharad as she looked from side to side and then back over her shoulder, talking to her fellow refugees, clearly attempting to reassure them. She was also waiting for O’Brien and Nog to come back with a solution or a lifeline or just a good old-fashioned miracle.
Nog’s mind raced, working through their tools and options, but no casually brilliant solution came. Finally, with all the authority he could muster, he said, “I think our duty is clear here, Chief.”
“Which is?”
“To alert Starfleet to this very rapidly evolving—” He stumbled, realizing his phrasing may have been inopportune. “Okay, degrading . . .” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. “Never mind. This is bad, Chief. And not just for these people. We need assistance to help them, and the only way we’re going to get any relief is if we can get clear of this interference.”
“But by the time we do and get back here,” O’Brien said through gritted teeth, “the transport may come apart at the seams.” He looked at the monitor. Bharad was talking to someone behind her, trying either to fend off or reassure an off-screen personage. “They’ll panic soon, try something stupid.”
“Which is another good reason for us to get out of range,” Nog insisted. “I don’t like this any better than you do, but we’re out of options.”
O’Brien appeared as if he very badly wanted to use harsh language. Then he sighed and his face went slack. “If Julian was here, he’d think of something clever.”
Turning away, Nog said, “He probably would. This would be the point where the two of you would come up with some improbable solution, something crazy, something that just might work.” He sighed. “I wish he were here, Chief. I really do. And I wish I were back on the station. We’d all be a lot happier. I think this is one of those times, though, when we all do”—he waved his hands helplessly—“what we have to do.” He turned back to the chief, hoping he had set his face in a look that said the conversation had to end.
On the screen, Bharad was speaking sternly to someone off-screen, waving them away. One of the arachnoforms descended into the frame, stared into the pickup for a count of three, and then leaped away. Another person’s hand flapped into the frame, but Bharad roughly shoved its owner back. Nog actually felt like he was watching the tumblers inside O’Brien’s mind click into place. Flatly, he said, “That’s actually a very good idea, Nog.” He tapped the comm and said in his very best everything is going to be fine voice, “Wren, please stand by. We’re coming to get you.”
Bharad turned back to the monitor. “How? Are you transporting us—” she began, but O’Brien cut her off.
“Stand by,” he said, “and tell everyone to calm down. Amazon out.” Before Bharad could ask another question he wasn’t prepared to answer, O’Brien closed the channel. Spinning on his heel, he strode purposefully to the runabout’s storage lockers, which he began opening one by one until he found what he was seeking.
When Nog saw what O’Brien was lifting out of the locker, he squinted at it with mingled curiosity and something that might have been awe. “What are you planning, Chief?”
“Nothing clever,” O’Brien said. “Probably something very stupid.” Falling back into one of the passenger seats, he began to undo the fasteners on his uniform. “If I survive,” he added, “please don’t tell Keiko what I did. She’d kill me.”
Chapter 11
Two Years Earlier
Otahuhu Police Station, Auckland
Doctor Michael Clark sat in the waiting area, struggling with the urge to prop his feet up in the chair across from his. His left knee ached, the remnant of a recent hiking injury, the sort of thing that could have been set right with a judicious application of an anti-inflammatory. His wife had been pestering him to visit the infirmary and have the strain treated, but Clark was precisely the sort of doctor who hated to be poked and prodded by other physicians. Instead, he rubbed the knee and took another sip of the lukewarm tea the desk sergeant had been thoughtful enough to bring him a half hour earlier, along with the promise that the processing would take “only a few more minutes.”
Only a few more minutes. Clark let the phrase roll around in his head as he studied the empty waiting area. Otahuhu District, he decided, is not in the grip of a crime wave tonight. He patted his raincoat folded over the back of the neighboring chair. The fabric was almost dry. Looking out the window, he could see the trunks of the palm trees bending in the wind, their tattered crowns rattling and shivering in the cold rain. He thought about his warm bed and
his equally warm wife. He thought about Ben Maxwell and the mistake he, Michael Clark, made when he gave Maxwell his personal contact information and the instruction to “please call if you ever need a hand.”
His trip to Otahuhu District was a result of the third call he’d received over the past four months. The first call—from Maxwell—had been a pleasant surprise (despite coming at a late hour), and they had spent a mostly enjoyable hour catching up on recent events. The second call had been annoying, though fortunately the police hadn’t required him to come downtown, but only vouch for Maxwell. When the officer had called this time, she had politely insisted that Clark come retrieve Maxwell personally. “And perhaps consider getting him into some sort of treatment program.”
“I’m not his doctor,” Clark had explained. “Not anymore, at least.”
“You might want to reconsider that,” she had said firmly. That was five hours ago. Clark rubbed his sore knee.
A red light embedded in the wall beside the innocuous door that led from the waiting area into the mysterious inner workings of the police station blinked twice. The door slid open. Ben Maxwell emerged looking much as he had the last time Clark had seen him: fit and trim, though sporting a two-day growth of stubble on his chin. Some of the whiskers, Clark noted, were growing in gray. He was standing in profile to Clark and speaking to someone on the other side of the door, who then handed Maxwell something that looked like a sack of wet laundry. Clark couldn’t see precisely what it was, but it was heavy enough that Maxwell made an oof noise and reset his legs to compensate.
“Thanks,” Maxwell said. “Really, thanks a lot. Thanks for taking care of him. Did anyone check? No?” He shook his head questioningly, but did not appear to be receiving an answer. “Okay. Well, thanks.” Maxwell stepped aside so the door could slide shut. Through the low-level force field where the desk sergeant sat, Clark heard the sound of what might have been muffled laughter. Possibly a moan. Neither was a good sign.
Maxwell turned around and saw Clark. He smiled his damnably charming smile. “Hey, Doc,” he said. Unable to extend a hand because of the load he was carrying, Maxwell gave a slight bow. “Thanks for coming. Sorry for the trouble. I didn’t think they’d call you in the middle of the night when I gave them your name. They said they needed to speak to someone local, but I thought they meant tomorrow morning.”
Clark was only half listening to what Maxwell was saying. He was too intent on what Maxwell was carrying to be able to give anything else his full attention. “That,” he said, “is the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen.”
Maxwell nodded. “Can’t argue with you there.”
The dog appeared to be some kind of dachshund, though its coat was longer and scrubbier than anything Clark had ever seen on the breed. The dog’s body hung down over Maxwell’s forearms in a manner that indicated it had no bones. The front and rear paws dangled limply. For a moment, Clark thought it might be unconscious or even dead, but then it opened its eyes, which were bloodshot. The dog looked at him and then looked away, staring into the middle distance as if it was watching its own death approaching, which, Clark judged, was entirely possible. It yawned, exposing yellow teeth. A rancorous stench emerged, penetrating every nook and cranny of the room. It closed its mouth and appeared to fall back asleep or, possibly, into a coma.
“Is it yours?” Clark asked, praying for a denial.
“As much as it belongs to anyone.” Maxwell shrugged. “Sure.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long a story,” Maxwell said.
“Does it have a name?” Clark was reasonably sure he didn’t want to hear the story, so his brain was manufacturing evasion techniques. Interestingly, his knee didn’t hurt anymore. The dog’s overwhelming stench had driven away every other sensory input.
“The attendant in the holding area was calling him Horrible.”
“Horrible.”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Clark said. “Let’s get you and Horrible back to wherever you belong tonight.”
“Well,” Maxwell said. “About that . . .”
In the end, after much double-talk and fudging of forms, Maxwell and Horrible settled in one of the guest cottages. “While not exactly a patient,” Clark explained to the matron, “neither is he a member of the staff.”
The matron looked dubious, though she had the good manners not to point out how ludicrous this sounded. “So, then, an alumnus?”
“Let’s go with that for now.”
The next day, after sleep and the scrubbing of the stench of Horrible from his hands, Clark paid them a visit. Maxwell had shaved and showered, but was still wearing the same clothes, though they had obviously been cleaned or at least blotted. Horrible was curled up on a small rug near an open window. A layer of filth might have been removed—he looked less matted than before—and the cleansing made it possible for Clark to see large patches where the dog’s fur had been rubbed away or, possibly, scratched off. Clark bent down over the dog, feeling it was incumbent on him to offer some kind of greeting.
“I wouldn’t,” Maxwell said. “I don’t think he likes to be touched.”
Clark withdrew his hand. “Oh,” he said, “that must have made washing him an interesting experience.”
“It was. I already told the matron that I’ll clean up the bathroom,” Maxwell explained. “Bit by bit. When my strength returns.”
“Lovely.” Clark sat down in the single guest chair. Maxwell was already seated on the small couch, sipping at a mug of tea. The doctor noted that his left hand was very pink, as if a knitter recently repaired the flesh. He hadn’t recalled seeing an injury the night before, though Maxwell had been carrying the dog in his arms. “I think it might be time for your story. I’ve cleared my schedule for the afternoon just in case . . .”
“No worries,” Maxwell said. “I’ve been rehearsing the condensed version.”
“Good,” Clark said, crossing his legs. “Pray commence.”
Maxwell inhaled deeply and then let the breath out slowly. He steepled his fingertips, then parted them, presenting his palms as if he was holding an offering. “I’ve been in Auckland for a couple weeks. I came here because I wanted a beer. I’d been staying in a common house, but I lost my billet because I came home late one time too many. I like walking the streets at night, so that’s not so bad, but finding a place to sleep during the day has been difficult.” He folded his hands on his lap.
“Last night,” Maxwell continued, “it rained, as you probably noticed. I was hunkered down in a doorway, weathering a squall, when I heard a sound. It was distant, but piercing. Eventually, I decided it was a howl.”
“Horrible,” Clark said.
“No,” Maxwell said. “Not Horrible. Another dog, a bigger dog. I could see him from where I was camped out, sitting near a streetlamp. This was back near the waterfront, close to the docks, the small warehouses out by—”
“I know where you mean,” Clark said. “The police told me.”
“Okay, fine. The bigger dog was sitting under a streetlight, his head back, howling. I went over to check it out, to make sure no one was hurt. When I got close enough for him to notice me, the howling stopped. This dog, he was a healthy specimen, probably forty kilos or more. Big. Head like a cement block. Couldn’t tell what breed, but powerful looking.” Maxwell paused, interrupting his narrative. “Did you grow up with dogs?”
“Yes,” Clark said. “My father loved dogs. We always had at least one. Did you?”
“No,” Maxwell said. “There was a succession of cats that hung around our house whenever my mother was on shore for more than a few days, but that was mostly because we always had fresh fish. They were like our garbage collectors. But dogs?” He shook his head. “So, honestly, I’m a little cautious with dogs. And this fellow looked like the kind of dog that was accustomed to having his way. He watched me as I came closer, the rain
running off his head and dripping down his back. He waited until I was within a few meters, and then he looked down at the street, at the curb. He stood up and pointed his nose at the grate where the rainwater was rushing down. Then, he looked at me like, I swear to you, like he was saying, ‘Okay, this is yours now. I’m going home.’ And then he turned away and trotted off down the street.”
“And you looked down into the grate?”
“Yes.”
“And there was Horrible.”
“Yes.”
“How did you get him out?”
“It wasn’t easy. I had to remove the drain cover, which must have set off some kind of sensor, which is probably why the police came to investigate. Apparently, there’ve been some burglaries in the area. One of the break-ins must have been through the sewer system.”
“I’ll take your word for that. How did you get the grate off? That must have been a challenge.”
“I had a probe,” Maxwell explained. “And the clamps holding the grate in place were worn.”
“A probe?” Clark asked. “You mean you had exactly the kind of tool a burglar might carry?”
Maxwell shrugged. “That, more or less, is what the police officer said.”
“My question would be, why didn’t he also arrest you?”
“I think it’s because my story held up.”
“Your story?”
“Yes, my story: that I was rescuing a dog from a sewer.”
“Why would he believe that?”
“Mostly because I had a dog dangling from my hand.” He held up his left hand, the one with the recently repaired skin. “When I reached down to get him, the damned dog must have decided that the best way to get out of the sewer was to grab hold and not let go. When the police arrived, I was sitting on the curb trying to pry his mouth open.”
