by Jeffrey Lang
“Cretak saw a spike on the sensors, and there was a flash. We saw it from here.” He pointed at the monitor and suddenly realized his hands and face felt numb. I’m in shock, O’Brien thought. How can I be in shock?
“You should sit down, Chief,” Nog said, guiding him toward a tiny jump seat, the sort of thing a copilot would use.
“Sorry,” O’Brien said, not sure why he was apologizing. “I just . . . I guess I thought we would make it back in time. It never occurred to me that . . .”
“I’m sorry, Chief,” Nog said.
“He was a brave man,” Cretak said. “Did he know what could have happened?”
“He did,” Nog said, nodding. “He knew. He saved us all.”
O’Brien looked at the screen, at the swath of beautiful, remorseless stars. “He did, didn’t he?” He would not say it aloud; maybe, later, when discussing the day with Keiko, the chief would tell her, “All things considered, not the worst way to go.”
Nog pushed his way through the throng of researchers, telling each of them softly what had happened to the station and Ben Maxwell. He made sure to tell them that they had contacted Starfleet and a ship was in transit. All of them thanked him, patted him on the back, and then let him pass. As he worked his way aft, Nog heard weeping and whispering, the sounds of relief and sorrow.
Bharad was at the rear of the shuttle, lying down on the deck with Nog’s balled-up environmental suit pillowing her head. She had more space than the others, not only in deference to her injuries, but because Ginger was dangling from a thread above Bharad, occasionally reaching down to touch her creator with one of her long forelimbs.
Nog knelt beside Bharad. She had a frightening split in her scalp, but that injury was more terrifying-looking than life-threatening. Nog was more concerned about possible internal injuries, but there was nothing he could do for her except monitor her vitals. Her eyes were barely open, but he saw the light of consciousness in them. “Doctor Bharad?” he asked, touching her shoulder.
“Nita,” she said. “Any friend of Ginger’s can call me Nita.”
Nog smiled. “Okay, good. Nita, then.”
“My head hurts.”
“Yes, I know. I told you that you might have a concussion.”
“Did you? Oh, right, you did.”
“Nita, I have some news.”
“Tell me your news.”
“We’ve contacted Starfleet. A ship is on its way.”
“They’ll have to figure out some way to get us off this ship without spreading Finch’s bug.”
“True. If the bugs are even here at all. But we’re good at this sort of thing.”
The doctor reached up and patted Nog on the cheek. “You’re a good man,” she said. He liked the way her hand felt there. “I’m going to bring Ginger to visit you when I’m better.”
“I’d like that,” Nog said. He hesitated, unsure if he should continue.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Bharad asked. “Those aren’t happy noises I’m hearing.”
“No,” Nog said. “We’re pretty sure the station was lost. And . . . and Captain Maxwell, he stayed behind to keep the reactor from blowing before we were clear.”
“Honey?” she asked. “What about Honey?”
Nog shook his head, unsure what words were appropriate under the circumstances.
Bharad closed her eyes and reached up to clutch Ginger’s dangling limb and then turned her head away. Nog pawed through his medkit until he found a suit patch, which was the closest thing to a hankie he could locate. He handed it to Bharad, who mumbled something that might have been “thank you.” She didn’t dab her eyes, as Nog had expected, but held on to his hand. Around them, the other scientists spoke in low tones, but none of them turned to look at the strange trio—the Ferengi Starfleet officer, the geneticist, and her creation.
When Bharad was cried out, her breathing slowed, she dabbed at her eyes and regarded Nog suspiciously. “I must have a concussion,” she said. “I thought I heard you say Captain Maxwell. Which is about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Ben was a janitor.” She smiled gently. “A very good janitor.”
Nog couldn’t suppress a smile. “I have no doubt,” he said. “None at all.”
Deep Space 9
In the end, getting everyone back to Deep Space 9 and through quarantine turned out to be both much simpler and much, much more difficult than Nog had anticipated. A cargo vessel, the Kirby, had been rerouted when Nog’s message was received. The Kirby tractored the Romulan shuttle back to the station without incident and the researchers were moved to a quarantine area in Sector General. Using information grudgingly provided by Finch, the quarantine team quickly confirmed that there were no traces of the organism on or in any of the survivors of the Hooke disaster. Even Ginger, after some initial hesitation, by both parties, was processed and allowed to remain with her creator.
Twenty-four hours into the surprisingly relaxing observation period, Nog realized that he was enjoying himself. Chief O’Brien was on the mopey side at first, but after a visit from Keiko and his kids (outside of the sterilization field), he bucked up. He took charge of organizing an Irish wake, not only for Maxwell, but for all the lost. Beverages were consumed. Tales were told, many of them flatly unbelievable, though none were challenged. There was laughing and crying and even some dancing. Nita Bharad, much improved after some treatment, demonstrated a dance step called Visharu Adavu to the wonder and delight of all, but most especially Ginger, who spun appreciatively on a strand.
The next day, during a debriefing, someone must have uttered “Shedai metagenome.” Starfleet Intelligence descended like an avenging god. Everyone was moved and kept in separate areas, they were questioned gently, but relentlessly. Finch, who had been seen skulking through the corridors of the quarantine area late at night, usually spewing dire imprecations under his breath, disappeared and was never seen again.
During one of his interviews, Nog asked if a team had been sent to investigate the fate of the Robert Hooke. After much rumination, the captain in charge revealed that a ship had been dispatched. Nog was told that the evidence largely corroborated his account of events: an almost-healed patch of subspace and background radiation readings that were likely the result of the rupture of a matter/antimatter generator. There was no sign of any survivors.
A week later, the researchers were released and each received a stern warning to never speak of the Robert Hooke. Nog and Bharad exchanged contact information, promising to stay in touch. Ginger appeared to be confused about why they were boarding a ship without Nog, but Bharad shooed her down the gangway like a mother hen herding a chick.
O’Brien and Nog were held for an extra week. No one ever told them why. The chief’s family was waiting for him when he and Nog were finally released, all of them appearing happy and relieved to see him again. Quark was waiting for Nog, his concern well concealed under a mask of aggravation and impatience. As they headed for their quarters, O’Brien said, “Let’s never, ever, ever leave the station together.”
“Agreed,” Nog said, nodding.
Neither of them seemed quite ready to go. O’Brien looked down at Nog and asked, “What time does your shift start tomorrow?”
Nog thought for a second, “Zero-nine-hundred.”
“Yeah,” the chief said. “Me, too.”
“Good,” Nog said. “See you then.”
O’Brien nodded. “Sure. Or . . .”
“Or?”
“Or we could meet at Quark’s around zero-eight-thirty. Get a coffee?”
“I don’t like coffee.”
“Raktajino?”
“I like raktajino.”
“What is the difference between coffee and raktajino?”
“It’s the spices,” Nog said. “It’s all about the spices. I’m surprised you don’t know that, Chief.”
“It’s not something I’ve really paid a lot of attention to up till now,” O’Brien said, falling into step. “But I’m willing to try.”
Epilogue
Four Months Later
Brigantine, New Jersey, Earth
Bharad woke up early, much earlier than she would have liked, and padded around the house in her bathrobe and wool socks. It’s May, she thought. It shouldn’t be cold. Back in February, given everything that had happened on the Robert Hooke, the idea of living near the ocean and watching the sun come up over the horizon every day had seemed very appealing, but Bharad was having second thoughts. The weather wasn’t what she had expected: foggy and cold some days, windy and dry on others. She decided she would give June and July a chance—to see what a real summer season was like—and then consider new options. She could go anywhere she pleased—the research grants were portable; however, she knew she would have problems with Ginger, who appeared to love the marshes of Absecon and the nearby dunes.
Loading the French press with ground coffee, Bharad flicked on the kettle and leaned her back against the counter to consider her options for the day. Lots of gene sequencing results to review, though that was drudgery and best left to the lab’s automated systems. Maybe a drive up north to the Pine Barrens would be a better use of her time. Ginger was beginning to lose some of her anxiety about trees. Bharad had just assumed that Ginger would like trees, but that was not the case. On first viewing them, she had been awed, even intimidated, and hid under their vehicle.
Ginger, who typically stayed up late and woke late, surprised Bharad by poking her head through the kitchen door and waving her front legs excitedly. “What are you doing up?” Bharad asked as she poured the hot water into the press. Ginger disappeared, only to return a moment later, once more waving her forelimbs. Bharad set the kettle down and tightened the sash on her robe. Something was wrong. “What is it, girl?” she called. The arachnoform didn’t return. Cautiously approaching the door, she heard Ginger slipping on the tile floors as she scurried away.
Bharad followed. A visitor? At this hour? Ginger liked visitors if she recognized them, but was wary of strangers. A curious local? A kid making good on a dare? That seemed unlikely, as the security system would respond to anything that appeared moderately threatening. Turning the corner to the back door, Bharad was briefly dazzled by the first ray of sunshine glittering on the ocean. She had to turn away, cover her eyes, and blink the swimming motes. Though temporarily blinded, she heard the tick-tick-tick sound of Ginger tapping at the window glass beside the door. Just on the other side of the door was the long porch that ran along the back of the house, the one where they spent hours after their return to Earth, the place where they both nursed their wounds over their mutual loss.
When she finally felt she could open her eyes, Bharad did so carefully, shielding them from the glare with her right hand cupped over her brow. Squinting, she peered out onto the porch. Then the breath left her body and her knees grew watery when she was sure she was seeing what she was seeing. It didn’t seem possible, but there wasn’t anyone else it could be. Ginger tapped, tapped, tapped on the glass, so sharply that Bharad worried she might break it, but Bharad understood her excitement.
Her sister was home: Honey, twirling serenely on a web strand, hung from one of the porch’s joists.
She needed a moment to remember how the door’s lock worked. As Bharad fumbled with the mechanism, she heard herself burbling incoherently. Ginger had ceased poking at the window and was now poking at Bharad’s legs, the sharp tips of her tarsus no doubt making tiny holes in the pajama pants. Finally, the lock surrendered and she flung wide the door. Ginger leaped past her, collided with her sister, and carried them both over the porch railing. Neither fell far. Web lines snagged a post, and they were both back up on the porch in a moment, bounding around each other, inspecting one another with their pedipalps. Bharad launched herself into the fray, and both sisters embraced her. Twenty limbs of various shapes and sizes were wrapped around and through one another. One of them wept loudly. No doubt, the neighbors were alarmed.
When the greetings and the tears finally subsided, Bharad felt at a loss. As she ushered the sisters into her house, all she could think to say, over and over again, was, “This doesn’t make any sense. How is this possible?” And, of course, it didn’t and it wasn’t. The Hooke had been destroyed. Starfleet had accounted for nearly every scrap of debris, and the bits they hadn’t were too small to have carried Honey to safety.
Bharad fell into her routine. She fed the sisters, both of whom ate ravenously, and then poured herself a cup of insanely strong coffee (it had steeped for quite a while). Sitting in one of the two kitchen chairs, she stared at the arachnoforms as they groomed each other and tried to account for all the possibilities. Only one made anything even close to sense. “Ben.”
Honey ceased grooming her sister and looked up at Bharad. Then, with an air of having been interrupted, she rose, stretched, and clattered over to a desk Bharad had designated as her workstation. Very deliberately, Honey pulled the single chair away from the desk and clambered up into it.
Sunlight spilled in through the bay window beside the desk, and Nita noticed a couple of things she hadn’t in the blurred haste of reunion. First, Honey’s carapace was much more chipped and dented than her sister’s, as if she had been through some kind of battle or violent explosion. “Well,” Bharad said aloud, “I suppose you were, weren’t you?” Second, Honey was wearing a belt. She wasn’t surprised she had missed it, as the belt was quite thin, almost the same color as her carapace and strapped around the flexible membrane between Honey’s abdomen and cephalothorax. The belt was festooned with tiny pockets.
Honey reached down under her body with her pedipalps and fished something out of one of the pouches. When the pedipalps reemerged, the tips were covered in tiny plastic caps. Then she reached up and tapped on the face of one of Bharad’s padds. The padd’s face lit up and displayed the passcode request screen.
Honey tapped the padd again, meaningfully.
Not sure what was happening, Bharad leaned forward and entered the passcode. Honey swiped at the screen until she found the text program and then opened it. A keypad appeared and Honey tapped away at it quickly and precisely. Feeling her breath coming in short gasps, Bharad leaned forward again and looked at the screen. Honey had typed, “Hello, Mother.”
Bharad sat down on the floor. She hadn’t planned to do so, but her knees had suddenly given out. Still perched in the chair, Honey gazed down at Bharad, patiently waiting for her creator to collect herself. “You can talk,” was all Bharad could think to say.
Honey tapped on the padd, and then carefully carried it down onto the floor so Bharad could see the screen. “No,” it said. “But Honey can type.”
“Since when?”
Honey paused to consider a reply and then typed, “Since merging with the Other.”
“The Other?”
“Finch’s Other.”
A score of questions flitted through Bharad’s mind. For no particular reason, she settled on, “Can Ginger talk?”
Bharad couldn’t say why, but she had the distinct impression Honey liked this question. “No,” she wrote. “Not yet. But Honey has ideas.”
Feeling one of her eyebrows creep upward, Bharad asked, “You’ll be sure to run those ideas past me before you try anything, won’t you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Feeling a bit calmer, Bharad leaned her back against a hassock and pondered her next question. Unaccountably, she worried she might only be able to ask a few and needed to make them count. She asked, “What does Ben have to do with all of this?”
Honey needed to type for a couple minutes to complete her reply. Bharad was surprised to see that the arachnoform hit the backspace key several times, as if she was editing her reply. “Ben saved Honey. And Honey saved Ben. The Wren stayed together, because of Hon
ey and Ginger. Ben had a rocket.”
“The thruster pack,” Bharad said.
Honey typed, “Yes.”
“But you’ve been gone for months. What happened?”
Honey seemed to think about her reply for a time. Or, at least, she didn’t start to type immediately. When she did, she wrote, “Ben and Honey were found by men. At first, we liked them, but then we didn’t. Fighting. Adventures.”
Bharad ran her fingertips over the dings and dents in Honey’s carapace. “I see,” she said. “Where’s Ben?”
“Ben brought Honey home. Said he had to go.”
“Well, I look forward to hearing his version of this story when he returns.”
Honey typed, “Ben won’t return.”
“Why not?”
“Ben said he likes being dead. Ben says he likes being new.”
Bharad thought about Honey’s statements for a long minute and then replied, “Not a janitor anymore. Nor a starship captain.”
“No,” Honey wrote. “No.”
Rubbing the tiny dent in the back of Honey’s head, a long scarred-over battle wound, no doubt, Bharad asked, “Is there anything else you want to tell me right now?”
Honey typed, “Honey wants to go back to cleaning Ginger. She is very dirty.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“All right,” Bharad said, “but we’ll return to this topic when you’re finished.”
Honey shoved the padd over to Bharad and returned to grooming her sister.
Bharad stood up slowly, clutching the padd to her chest. She glanced at the time and saw it was just a few minutes before nine. Looking out the window at the sky and the billowing clouds, Bharad knew it was going to be a fine day. Maybe they would go to the beach instead of the Pine Barrens.
Five Months Later
Starfleet Penal Colony
Michael Clark opened his eyes and was instantly, completely awake. He glanced at the chrono on the nightstand, moving only his eyes, wary of making too much noise. Zero-six-thirty.
