Force and Motion

by Jeffrey Lang

  One Month Earlier

  Wellington, New Zealand

  “To old acquaintances,” Nog said, lifting his glass.

  “Not forgotten,” Jake replied, and tapped his glass against Nog’s.

  Despite the fact that (or possibly because) he had spent much of his youth working in a bar, Nog had never developed a taste for alcoholic beverages, though he had never lost his love for root beer. On the occasions when Nog visited Jake Sisko on Earth, his old friend always made sure to lay in a couple of cases of the soft drink. If the two of them ever wanted something a bit stronger, they would mix in a bit of sanar, which, his uncle (who was a bit of a snob on such matters) used to say, was nothing more than Terran vodka, but with none of the complexity. Neither Jake nor Nog cared. It was the inebriant that the two of them had first shared as boys, and the ceremony of its consumption meant a lot to them. They clinked their glasses together and the ice cubes jingled merrily.

  Both smacked their lips, admired their frosty tumblers, and settled back into their chairs. They grinned at each other, but neither spoke for a time, not wanting to spoil the moment. Finally, Nog couldn’t resist and exclaimed, “Happy New Year!”

  Jake smiled like he had won a bet and said, “And to you.” For more than a decade, assuming they were in the same sector of space, Nog and Jake made it their practice to seek each other out on the turning of the Earth year and toast each other.

  “To twenty-three eighty-five,” Jake declared, taking another sip of his drink.

  “Good riddance,” Nog added.

  “Really? That bad?” Jake set aside his beverage and eyed the spread of snacks he’d prepared, a cross section of goodies that both men had either tolerated or enjoyed for the other’s sake since they were boys.

  “That bad,” Nog said, scooping up a handful of pistachios and cracking the shells. He wasn’t crazy about pistachios, but enjoyed the cracking.

  “The station opened.”

  “And the president was assassinated there.”

  “Garak became castellan.”

  “And Doctor Bashir was court-martialed.”

  “He saved the Andorians.”

  “Only by doing something so illegal that we don’t even know what it is.”

  “But . . . wait. Never mind,” Jake said. “No matter what I say next, you’ll think of something terrible to counter it.”

  “Probably,” Nog allowed, brushing the wisps of pistachio shells off his uniform. “It doesn’t take much to think of bad things.”

  Jake studied his friend out of the corner of his eye. “Or one bad thing,” he added. “The one you’re not telling me about.”

  Nog didn’t reply, focusing all of his attention on the snack selection. Korena had raised a rueful eyebrow at the glaringly mismatched items before slipping out of the house to visit some friends.

  “Or,” Jake continued, “can’t tell me about.”

  Nog shrugged, picked up his drink, and sipped it.

  “Ah,” Jake said. “Okay. Must be pretty bad.”

  “Pretty,” Nog replied.

  “Did something you regret?” Jake asked. “Or . . . ?”

  “Almost,” Nog said, feeling like he was skirting the edge of the permissible. “But close enough that I felt . . . what’s the right word?”

  “I’d say rattled covers it.”

  “Right. Rattled.” He nodded. “I’m rattled.” He shook his empty glass, making the ice tinkle. “I’m also empty.”

  “The mixings are over there,” Jake said, pointing at a low table where bottles and a bucket of ice were artfully arranged. “Korena set that up for us.”

  Nog went to the table, splashed liquids into his glass, studied the color, and adjusted. “She’s too good for you, you know.”

  Jake lifted his half-empty glass in acknowledgment. “Punching out of my weight class.” He took a sip. “I recommend it, by the way.” Nog was certain his reaction was being carefully recorded.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Having any leanings in that direction?”

  Nog settled back down in his chair and stretched out his legs.

  “Nog?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Leanings?”

  Nog didn’t know how to reply. This wasn’t like his classified work for Active Four, the Federation black ops team. He knew what he wanted to say about that incident, but Nog also knew he shouldn’t and wouldn’t. He knew his friend’s casual question about potential relationships was meant to sound boyish, even silly, but Nog felt his tongue swelling up in his mouth and his shoulders tense. Finally, he said, “It would be nice, but it doesn’t seem to be in the cards these days.”

  “No prospects?”

  “Oh, well, sure,” Nog said. “Prospects. Always prospects. The station is busier than ever and you know . . . the uniform.”

  “It’s very flattering.”

  “It is,” Nog agreed. “Remind me to tell you later about this little Arcadian I ran into last month.”

  “Little?” Jake asked.

  “By Arcadian standards, yes.”

  “Okay. Though I gather that’s not your point.”

  Nog looked at his friend—his oldest, closest friend—and then looked down into his again-empty glass. His ears felt warm. He set the glass aside, suddenly mindful of the too-many beings he had watched drown their sorrows (and their cerebral cortexes) at his uncle’s bar. He looked back up at Jake, who was leaning forward, a slight frown on his face. He hadn’t bothered to shave that day (or maybe the one before), which, Nog thought, must be one of the perks of being a writer. Or maybe Korena liked her husband with a little stubble. Before I leave, he thought, I’m going to have a long talk with her. Every time we see each other, I say that and yet it never seems to happen. “No,” he said. “Nothing to do with leanings. Just frustration. Just . . .” Nog thought, No one to talk to, but then, in a fit of generosity, decided this comment might make his friend feel guilty. And he didn’t want Jake to feel guilty, and most certainly not about following his dream, finding a life, or falling in love. Why should anyone ever feel bad about that? And so he said, “Not enough time. Too much work! And no one to complain to!” He laughed and thought it sounded like a pretty convincing laugh.

  Jake laughed too. Rising, he walked over to the table and poured himself another drink. “Sounds like you just need someone to hang out with,” he observed and then, as if struck by inspiration, added, “Hey, what about the chief?”

  January 9, 2386

  Hangar Deck

  Robert Hooke

  Fortunately, the evacuees had left the Hooke hangar doors open. If they hadn’t, O’Brien wasn’t sure what they would have done. Maybe he or Nog could have raced ahead of the slowing transport and found a manual override, though, naturally, there was no guarantee that there was an override or, if there was, that it would still function.

  As it turned out, using the thruster packs to brake the Wren hadn’t been as difficult as O’Brien had imagined. He might have even been able to guide her in using only one pack, given that they got lucky and approached the station on the side with the hangar door and not the other. Luck might have gotten them through. But probably not, O’Brien admitted. Without Nog, the Wren would have been doomed, and O’Brien would have been faced with the painful choice of abandoning her or dying along with the researchers. Does he know that? O’Brien wondered, and then conceded, He probably does. He can do the math as well as I can.

  The transport’s port nacelle scraped against the edge of the hatch. O’Brien watched flakes of paint and hull plating flutter out into space. Peering past the ship’s stern, he saw a couple of flares from Nog’s thruster as he brought the Wren to a gentle stop, her bow barely bouncing off the rail at the back of the hangar.

  Nog glided into the hangar and grabbed one of the security railings. “Go ahead, Chi
ef.”

  O’Brien, positioned beside the hangar controls, slapped a big red button. He was momentarily surprised by the wave of nostalgia that washed over him for times in his life when important bits of machinery were controlled by big red buttons.

  To the chief’s surprise, the hangar doors silently slid shut. Overhead lights brightened. As soon as the hatches met and a seal was established, atmosphere hissed into the hangar. Artificial gravity activated and O’Brien’s feet touched the deck. Sitting down clumsily, he slapped the harness buckles and gasped gratefully as the thruster’s weight dropped away. A second thud made the deck shudder: Nog had likewise freed himself.

  Thumbing the catch on his helmet, O’Brien listened to the suit shutting off the flow of air into his helmet. He lifted it away and inhaled deeply, gratefully, smelling lubricant, the sharp tang of liquid fuel, and oxygen that had been recycled one too many times through an inferior scrubber. Heaven, he thought.

  Struggling into an upright position, O’Brien walked ponderously over to where Nog still lay and extended his hand, proffering assistance. “Could have been worse.”

  Nog puffed out his cheeks and rubbed his brow with his gauntleted hand. “Speak for yourself, Chief. I was almost out of air.”

  “Huh,” O’Brien said, “it must have been low to start. I still have a quarter left.”

  “No,” Nog said. “It was full. I checked it. I, uh, just breathe heavily.”

  “Right.” He decided not to pursue the point. “Let’s check on these folk.”

  As they crossed the deck to the Wren’s primary hatch, both men tapped connection points on their sleeves and left bits and pieces of their suits, the parts they needed to interface with the thrusters, in their wake. Without discussion, both had decided to stay in their suits, helmets clipped awkwardly on their backs.

  “Were you able to stay in contact with the pilot?” Nog asked.

  “Nita wasn’t the pilot,” O’Brien said. “But no. The signal kept dropping out. Last I heard from her was ten minutes ago.”

  “No damage to the hull,” Nog said.

  “Not on this side either,” O’Brien agreed. “But the hole wouldn’t have to be very big to . . .”

  “I know.”

  They both knew. Death by decompression or suffocation was a death in fear and darkness—not an end that O’Brien would wish on anyone.

  They checked the hangar deck’s interfaces. “Power’s on,” Nog said, studying the compact display. “And it seems to be interfacing with the Wren.”

  “Open her up,” O’Brien said, adding a silent benediction for the passengers and crew.

  Nog tapped a control (not a big red button, alas). The Wren did not respond immediately. O’Brien sensed a shudder in her frame, as if the ship was considering whether to wake or crumble into dust. Instead, the hatch popped, releasing a burp of stale air, but not opening completely. “Give me a hand with this,” O’Brien said. Nog knelt low for maximum leverage. “Okay, heave.”

  While the door didn’t slide open easily, neither did it fight them. “No lights,” Nog said, and flicked on the small, bright torch on his suit’s left wrist. “Interior hatch.”

  A second hatch had opened just enough for them to grip its lip, but it resisted more than the first. O’Brien worried that decompression may have warped the frame, but then remembered the puff of air. Could have been caught between the hatches, he thought, but then decided he needed to take control of his imagination.

  The interior hatch slid aside, but reluctantly. “It’s not warped,” Nog said, huffing. “It’s more like something is holding it on the other side.”

  “Wait,” O’Brien gasped. “I think I know what this is. Hang on.” He pressed his mouth to the narrow gap and said, trying to project his voice without shouting, “Can anyone hear me?”

  He tilted his head, ear close to the gap. Muffled shouts and expletives. “There’s someone alive in there.”

  “Why can’t we open the door?”

  “Someone gummed up the works.”

  “What?”

  “Well, webbed it up.”

  “What?” Nog repeated.

  “Help me move this just a bit more,” O’Brien said, ignoring the question. Answers would be forthcoming soon enough anyway. He hoped.

  Both engineers shoved at the door, Nog cursing under his breath as he tried to avoid being stepped on. O’Brien knew he was being clumsy, a combination of exhaustion and the bulky suit causing him to flail when he knew he should be trying to think strategically. What time is it? he wondered. How long have we been here?

  It moved a few centimeters, enough so that the light from Nog’s torch illuminated the space just beyond the hatch, a space filled with white threads. O’Brien cautiously pushed a finger into the cottony mass. “Ginger and Honey have been busy,” he murmured.

  “What?” Nog asked. He was, O’Brien thought, sounding progressively less patient.

  “The spiders, uh, the arachnowatis . . . Nita’s creatures,” O’Brien explained. “I think they may have filled up the passenger cabin with . . . what should I call it? Uh? Webbing?”

  “Really?” Nog said, though he had lost the impatient tone. “Interesting . . . but why? They’re not planning to, uh, you know . . . eat them?”

  “No!” O’Brien exclaimed, yanking his hand away from the hatch, his long-dormant arachnophobia flaring to life. “I mean, of course not. I don’t think they even eat . . . living things.”

  “They don’t,” said a muffled voice.

  O’Brien turned to the gap and asked, “Nita?”

  “Yes,” the voice said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I suppose.” A pregnant pause. “I can’t move.”

  “Okay,” O’Brien said, trying to sound calm. “Why?” He knew why, but thought Nita might need to talk it out.

  “The girls got a little enthusiastic.”

  “Right,” O’Brien said, trying to be agreeable. “We can’t open the hatch.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Nita replied. “The webbing is everywhere. And it’s very sticky.” O’Brien felt certain he heard the sounds of struggle. “And very strong.” The last statement had a note of pride in it.

  “Any ideas what we can do to get you out?”

  “Find something very sharp?”

  Another voice from within shouted, “Use a plasma torch!” Other voices added suggestions. “Electricity!” “Phasers!” “A pointed stick!”

  “Shut up, Winslow!” Nita shouted. “Always with the pointed stick!”

  “I’ll just go see what I can find,” O’Brien said, and withdrew from the hatch. As he stepped back, with Nog at his heels, the chief thought he saw a set of green and gold orbs glowing through the gap in the hatch. “Ideas?”

  “A plasma torch would work,” Nog suggested.

  “Unless the filaments are flammable.”

  “Hmm. Good point. We should cut off a sample and see.”

  “A knife might be best to start. Something sharp.”

  “But not pointy.”

  “No, not pointy.”

  Nog drew the short work knife from the sheath in the suit’s leg. “I’ll see what I can do with this.”

  “Okay,” O’Brien agreed. “I think I saw a workshop at the other end of the hangar. Captain Maxwell will have something useful there.”

  O’Brien headed for the shop, but only got a few steps away before Nog asked, “How much time do you think we have?”

  “Until what?”

  “Until this all falls apart?”

  O’Brien shook his head. “No idea. We don’t know enough about what’s happening. We have to get those people free first. Then we find out what’s happened to the captain and to Finch.” He bit down harder on the name than he had expected. Shrugging it off, he pointed back to the hatch a
nd said, “Be careful back there. I think I saw one of them—Ginger or Honey—looking out. If you come at them with a knife, they might think you mean them harm.”

  Nog shook his head dismissively. “I’m not worried,” he said, and smiled. “I think they know better. They’re smart. You can see it in their eyes.”

  O’Brien shuddered. “Sure,” he said. “In their eyes.”

  Finch’s Lab

  Robert Hooke

  Sabih’s body lurched forward, his mouth moving mechanically. Maxwell responded as he had been trained: he sidestepped to the right, grabbed his attacker’s arm in both his hands, and used its momentum to propel Sabih into a bulkhead. The only sounds Maxwell could hear inside his helmet were his own accelerated breathing and the disconcerting crinkling sound the still-stiff suit made when he moved.

  And then, joy of joys, Finch was there inside the helmet too, sounding (inexplicably) like he was genuinely concerned. “Ben! What’s wrong?!”

  The Sabih-thing careened off the bulkhead, then stopped, stunned possibly, and stared straight ahead, unresponsive. Maxwell had seen the posture before and expected his knees to buckle. In a moment, he would be facedown on the deck.

  This did not occur.

  Instead, the head twisted to the side like there was a crosshair on Maxwell’s chest and the broken nose was the tip of a bowman’s arrow. A thin stream of what Maxwell thought was blood seeped out, and then, to Maxwell’s surprise, curled away from his lip to sway from side to side like a serpent preparing to strike.

  The Sabih-thing bounced on his toes and snapped his body around to align with his head. His lips and tongue, black with burst subcutaneous vessels, continued to move in recognizable patterns, mouthing the same thing over and over: Let. Me. Out.

  Maxwell took a step back and tried to clear his head, unsure what he was seeing. He wanted to keep his wrist-mounted lamp trained on the Sabih-thing but he couldn’t suppress the fear that there was something else waiting in the shadows to either side of the beam, something worse, something unthinkable. Let who out? Maxwell wondered. And where would he go?

  “Ben!” Finch shouted. “What’s happening?!”

  “Lights, Finch! If you can find them! Lights!”