Part 11 (1/2)

”Six,” Maxwell said. ”Look for the icon at bottom left.”

”Right. Six. Oh, and seven.”

”Mother . . .” Maxwell began, but snapped his jaw shut as more and more lights began to blink. ”What is happening?”

”Could it be the sensor grids?” O'Brien asked. ”Some kind of flaw in the system giving false readings?”

As if annoyed by his question, the entire station lifted and bucked beneath them.

Nog, who had been leaning too far forward, fell out of his chair and landed face-first on the console. Maxwell tumbled backward and landed hard on his tailbone. Struggling to stand, clutching his lower back and grimacing, he grunted, ”Decompression.” O'Brien knew he was right. Nog nodded even as he peeled his face off the console, a trail of mustard-brown blood dripping from one nostril. Both of them had felt that unmistakable heave enough times in their careers.

”The breaches,” Finch said, speaking in a monotone, ”are not coming from inside the station.”

”Someone's shooting at us?” O'Brien pulled up the exterior sensors and scanned the s.p.a.ce around the station. No sign of a s.h.i.+p, though there were plenty of potential a.s.sailants who could have cloaking devices. But, no, there was no trace of any energy weapon. Ballistic projectiles? He scanned for chemical trails, but found none.

”No one is shooting at us,” Finch continued. ”Those labs-all of them had small reactors. Not terribly well s.h.i.+elded. Didn't need them to be. They weren't dangerous to humans.”

”So?” Maxwell asked. ”Did they blow?”

”I said,” Finch hissed, lurching to his feet, ”that the breaches are starting outside, so, no, the reactors did not blow. They were merely . . . appetizing.” He giggled as if he had just said something singularly witty.

The overhead lights flickered off and then back on again. O'Brien heard Nog's breath catch in his throat, or maybe he was simply trying to clear blood out of his sinuses.

”What are you talking about, Finch?” Maxwell snapped, not looking at his employer as he worked the consoles, trying to make sense of the readings.

Finch carefully picked his way over to the tray of leftover food, snagged a morsel of dried-out cheese from the cutting board, and popped it into his mouth. He brushed together the tips of his fingers, removing invisible crumbs. ”It's simple,” he said. ”She's hungry.”

”What?” Nog said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

”Not what,” Finch said, chortling. ”But who.”

”Stop playing games, Finch,” Maxwell snarled. ”What are you talking about?”

”It's Mother,” the scientist said proudly. ”She's outside the station, but she wants to come back inside for a snack. She's hungry.”

Maxwell and Nog both stared at Finch slack jawed.

O'Brien wanted to ask a question, an obvious question like, ”What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?” But some part of his brain, maybe a flywheel, was spinning around and around, not catching.

Maxwell spun and slapped a control on the console he had been using to speak to the transports. ”Do not launch! Aubrey! Wren! This is Maxwell! I repeat: Do not launch!”

But it was already too late. O'Brien saw the blip on the sensor readout from the corner of his eye go from green to blue to bright orange and suddenly bloom a b.l.o.o.d.y red rose. A warp engine had been initialized-a bubble of sculpted s.p.a.ce-time elegantly building-and then folded catastrophically in on itself.

One of the transports had been flattened out into a bright trail of radioactive matter smeared across a crumpled tear in s.p.a.ce.

”Which one?” Maxwell wanted to say, but he didn't because a part of him knew it was the wrong question. He felt the words in his brain, felt them traveling down his spine and into his gut. Which one? Maxwell thought, but, instead, he asked, ”Status?”

Nog and O'Brien exchanged a meaningful look. They've been through this before, Maxwell thought. One way or another, they've been through this many, many times. He remembered the experience from his years on the bridge of a stars.h.i.+p, the way a crew coalesces, becomes a shared mind. These men had learned to work a problem together effortlessly, wordlessly. To a civilian, the engineers' brief glance might have looked like hesitation, or even confusion, but an old hand like Maxwell knew differently: they were exchanging ideas.

Both blinked and almost imperceptibly nodded. Nog returned to the sensor console and ran his hands over the controls, collecting and collating data. O'Brien checked the communications console and attempted to raise the remaining transport, but, predictably, no luck. Local s.p.a.ce-time had just ruptured. It would take time for the warp and weft of subs.p.a.ce to settle down before any communication was possible.

”One of the transports is still out there,” Nog said, frowning at the readouts. ”Not moving, but not adrift, either.”

”Is it intact?” Maxwell asked.

”Impossible to say with local interference, but I think so.”

”Why do you say that?”

The commander shrugged but didn't look at Maxwell. ”Not reading any biological matter in s.p.a.ce.”

Maxwell nodded, grasping Nog's point. If the hull had ruptured, there would be bodies or parts of bodies. ”Has it got power?”

”Some,” Nog replied, but shook his head as he said it. ”But not much. Whoever is flying the transport knew to take the core offline. They're on batteries.”

”Which means they've got about two hours of life support, if they split up the personnel fifty-fifty,” Maxwell said. ”What can we do from here? What are our options?” Somewhere deep inside him, Maxwell knew it wasn't his place to ask these questions-at least not in the tone he was asking them-but he couldn't help himself. And he also couldn't deny that he was experiencing a sensation like walking out of the ocean after an unexpectedly long and difficult swim. He felt leaden, but light, every muscle stretched, but relaxed.

Neither of the Starfleet officers objected. Maxwell wasn't sure whether this pleased or alarmed him.

”Do we have transporters?” Nog asked.

O'Brien had already run a diagnostic. He shook his head. ”Whatever's happening, it's already all through the station. Hull integrity is down. Can't really say exactly how much. These stations were built to endure a lot, but they weren't equipped with the kinds of external sensors that you'll find on a Starfleet vessel.”

”Or station,” Nog added.

”Plus, there are at least three big holes in the outer hull. Probably microfractures all through the structure at this point. Power is down or unreliable. Targeting sensors . . .” O'Brien trailed off, aware that he hadn't answered the question. ”Transporters are down.”

”What about your runabout?” Maxwell asked. ”Can you patch into it and order it to transport over any life signs it can detect?”

”When the interference dies down,” O'Brien said. ”Which shouldn't be too much longer. Twenty-three minutes by my estimate.”

Maxwell wanted to say, They might not have twenty-three minutes! But he had known Miles...o...b..ien long enough to not say anything so stupid out loud. The chief knew exactly how much time they had left.

”And,” Commander Nog began, but then stopped to clear his throat. ”Maybe,” he resumed hesitantly, but then sat up straight and spoke clearly. ”No, not maybe. We should think very carefully about transporting anything onto the Amazon. Or at least, anything that may be contaminated.”

”Do we believe him?” O'Brien asked, pointing at Finch. The station's owner had stopped giggling. The only motion Maxwell detected was a slow rising and falling of his chest. Finch appeared to be asleep.

”Meaning?”

”That his blob . . . Mother . . . is somehow responsible for all of this?”

”Any other theories that fit the facts?”

”I can think of a few,” O'Brien replied. ”An attack. Finch may have irritated some people at some point in his life. People who may have lost patience with him.”

Maxwell pulled a chair in front of the sensor console and began to run scans. ”Possibly,” he said, urging O'Brien to continue with a small wave of the hand.