Part 17 (1/2)
”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 gla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s, studied the color, and adjusted. ”She's too good for you, you know.”
Jake lifted his half-empty gla.s.s in acknowledgment. ”Punching out of my weight cla.s.s.” 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 cla.s.sified 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 relations.h.i.+ps 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 gla.s.s. His ears felt warm. He set the gla.s.s 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...b..ien 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 sc.r.a.ped against the edge of the hatch. O'Brien watched flakes of paint and hull plating flutter out into s.p.a.ce. Peering past the s.h.i.+p'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, Chief.”
O'Brien, positioned beside the hangar controls, slapped a big red b.u.t.ton. 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 b.u.t.tons.
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 a.s.sistance. ”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 pa.s.sengers and crew.
Nog tapped a control (not a big red b.u.t.ton, alas). The Wren did not respond immediately. O'Brien sensed a shudder in her frame, as if the s.h.i.+p 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?”