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  “What? Why?”

  The Sabih-thing pitched forward, arms extended, black fingernails clawing at Maxwell’s helmet.

  Maxwell sidestepped to the right. Instead of grabbing the arm, he squatted and extended his left leg. The Sabih-thing’s legs became entangled in Maxwell’s and it tumbled forward. With a sweep of his leg, Maxwell brought the creature down. Gasping for breath, laboring against the environmental suit’s substandard exchange, Maxwell spun on the ball of his foot and snapped forward, intent on bringing the heel of his hand down on the base of the skull. If he aimed well, he would snap the Sabih-thing’s spine. That was usually the solution in all the old horror stories, wasn’t it? Break the connection to the undead brain.

  Aiming with his torch, Maxwell cocked his arm and, encumbered by the suit, punched down as hard as he could. The heel of his hand stopped an inch from the base of the skull, his conscious mind finally recognizing what his unconscious had registered a second earlier: a black cord was coming out of the back of the head, exactly where Maxwell intended to strike him.

  Maxwell froze.

  The cord pulsed.

  Maxwell shone his torch on it and followed its arc to the cracked face of the tank.

  Finch picked that moment to find the light controls. A single light activated over the tank, casting the Mother in an ominous glow. The creature writhed, though whether because of the sudden light or some subtler stimulus, Maxwell could not say.

  His knee collapsed, and he turned the movement into a clumsy roll.

  “Ben!” Finch shouted. “I found a light control!”

  “I know,” Maxwell said, keeping his voice low and even.

  “And I’ve got a sensor feed.”

  “Good. Super.” Maxwell glanced at what used to be Sabih. He had managed to place his palms on the deck and was trying to push himself up. Without thinking, Maxwell scuttled away until he felt the bulkhead behind his back.

  “My god,” Finch murmured. “Do you see?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Maxwell said. “I see.” There was enough light to track the Mother’s movements and to see the Mother’s tendrils extending from cracks all around the tank, each one stretched out in a different direction. Maxwell stopped counting when he got to eight tendrils, though he was sure there were more. Some were very, very thin, no more than cilia, probably just sampling the immediate environment. Others were thicker, ropier, and poking into ventilation and electrical outlets. One was plugged into what Maxwell assumed was a hole in the bulkhead. Another was plugged into a hole in the back of Sabih’s head.

  “It’s astonishing!” Finch said.

  Maxwell permitted himself a brief sigh. Of course, he thought. Of course. Why not? “I’m going to get out of here,” he said, attempting to sound calm and reasonable.

  Sabih—or the thing that now lived inside of him—figured out the correct series of movements and managed to get up on his knees. He—it—did that thing where he twisted his head around and fixed its sightless eyes on Maxwell again. Sabih’s mouth moved. The tendril of the Mother that had come out through his nose seemed to move in time with his mouth. A couple of his teeth, Maxwell noted, had broken when he face-planted onto the deck, and thinner tendrils oozed out of the splintered remains.

  Staring at what remained of the young man—Finch’s lackey, Finch’s minion—all he could think to do was murmur, “I’m so sorry.” It came out of his mouth in one breath: “I’msosorry.” Meaningless.

  The Sabih-thing’s mouth moved in the same rhythm, over and over, the movement just as meaningless as Maxwell’s words.

  Maxwell pressed his back against the bulkhead and levered himself up into a standing position. For a moment, he was moving so fast that he wondered if the artificial gravity had failed again, but his old friend’s logic and training laughed at him and his middle-aged bones. That’s just fear. Fear and adrenaline.

  He ran through the hatch and punched the control with the side of his hand, too hard, as it turned out. That’s going to leave a mark, he thought, cupping the side of his right hand and breathing through his teeth.

  The airlock cycled, and, faster than it felt like it should have, the second hatch opened. Maxwell lurched through it, expecting any moment to feel the grip of a tendril around his waist, but the second hatch slid shut.

  Finch stood before Maxwell, offering his hand for support, gibbering. Sound was muffled. I used to be good at this, Maxwell thought. I used to be good in a crisis. What happened to that guy?

  Maxwell took Finch’s proffered hand and waited for the deck to stop swaying. As soon as he felt steady, he removed his helmet, clenched his fist, and brought his arm back. He wasn’t sure when he had formed the idea, but Maxwell had known for the last couple minutes that as soon as he saw Finch, he was going to punch him in the face. Damn warnings or fair play.

  Finch, obviously, had also been thinking ahead. The hook jaw of a very large wrench met Maxwell’s temple.

  Blackness swam up or Maxwell dove down to meet it. He wasn’t able to say for sure. Just before the darkness swallowed him, the strangest image swam up to meet Maxwell: a gerbil. Its shiny black eyes glittered and its tail twitched. Maxwell thought—just for a moment—I know you, but, before he could remember how, the darkness folded in over him.

  Chapter 15

  Nineteen Years Earlier

  Judge Advocate General, Starfleet Headquarters

  Captain Amelia Rojek tossed the padd on her desktop and frowned, disappointed. “So, that’s it?” she asked. “No defense? Not even a statement?”

  The defendant’s attorney, Commander Vincent Zugay, settled into the visitor’s chair. Rojek had always made it a point to make sure the opposition had a comfortable chair. She believed it made them sloppy, but this tactic never seemed to work with Zugay. He laced his fingers, cupped the back of his head, and stretched the muscles in his neck. “You’re complaining? Be happy. Take the win and call it a day.”

  “Win?” Rojek laughed once, a short, sharp bark of derision. “It’s hard to think of this one as a win.” She shook her head, then brushed back her bangs, which, she knew, were getting a touch too long. Rojek disliked feeling unkempt. “I thought he’d fight it.”

  Now it was Zugay’s chance to laugh. He took off his glasses (Rojek believed they were an affectation, but had not bothered to confirm her suspicion) and wiped the corners of his eyes. Noting the dark circles under the commander’s eyes, the captain wondered if he had been working as many hours as she did. She wondered if they should work out a deal, one where they could each work a little less on certain cases in exchange for naps. Rojek shook her head sharply. You need to get some rest, Amy.

  “There’s no fight left in him.” Zugay asked, “Do you really think that he’d have stood a chance?”

  Rojek picked up her padd again and attempted to focus. Captain Maxwell’s confession was a freely made admission of sole guilt and a request for clemency for the Phoenix’s crew for their actions that led to the deaths of approximately six hundred Cardassians, as they were “totally unaware that I was acting on my own.” She shrugged. “No. There’s too much evidence. It’s all there in the logs. And I would have called Captain Picard as a witness. Have you ever heard him speak?”

  “Yes,” Zugay said. “If Jean-Luc Picard told me I was responsible for blowing up Praxis, I’d believe him.”

  She chuckled. Zugay was a pretentious ass, but he could be funny when the mood struck him. And he had nice hands. Rojek had always liked his hands.

  “It’s just that, well, even during the interview, I found myself thinking, I like this man. This is a good, decent man . . .”

  “Who has confessed to killing over six hundred ­people.”

  Rojek stopped, appalled. “Aren’t you supposed to be his attorney?”

  Zugay pointed at the padd. “Not anymore,” he said. “He fired me. The captain will offer no d
efense and will accept whatever the court-martial decides.” The commander rubbed his head in exasperation, which made a mess of his usually carefully styled hair. “My role at this juncture is to deliver documents to the court. Tomorrow, I’ll report and get a new case, hopefully, this time, for someone who will actually want me to defend them.”

  “And hopefully not be guilty,” Rojek added.

  Zugay waved away the idea. “That’s not the point.”

  “Of course not.” Rojek settled back in her chair. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Zugay stared at his glasses, which he still was holding. Rojek looked at her padd. No one, she guessed, wanted to get back to work.

  “But I know what you mean. Maxwell has it, that air of command. You want to believe what he says. If he’d really wanted to defend himself, if he had been willing to get up in a courtroom . . .”

  The captain nodded. “Maybe.” She understood what Zugay was saying. He might not have won, but Captain Maxwell might have changed a few minds. He might have, as her mother used to say, stirred the pot. The peoples of the Federation were wary of conflict; they welcomed the truce with the Cardassians. But if a man of Maxwell’s character came forward and presented evidence, a justification for what he had done—there was no telling what the repercussions might be.

  “What do you think will happen to him?” Zugay asked.

  Pointing at the padd, Rojek said, “With this? He’ll be stripped of all honors and rank. Sent to New Zealand for treatment. If the panel is feeling particularly merciful, they’ll wipe this from the public records so it won’t follow him around for the rest of his life. Given time, maybe he’ll be forgotten, maybe even forgiven, if that’s possible.”

  Zugay nodded in agreement. “Ever been to New Zealand?”

  “The penal colony?” Rojek asked, amused and aghast. “No.”

  Zugay put his glasses back on his face. “Not the penal colony. I meant the country. New Zealand.”

  “Never.”

  Rising, Zugay retrieved the slim attaché case he always carried. His uniform, Rojek noted, was well tailored, but the slacks were wrinkled, like he had slept in them. Maybe he had. “You should go sometime. It’s beautiful.”

  Rojek indicated the pile of padds before her with a wave of her hand. “Yes,” she said flatly. “I’ll get right on that as soon as I’ve taken care of a few things.”

  “There will always be things that need tending,” Zugay offered. “But we all need to take a break sometime.”

  “Let me know the next time you’re going,” Rojek said, sounding a little more defensive than she wanted. “And I’ll tag along.”

  Zugay nodded as if a deal had actually been struck. “Deal. I’ll let you know. Pack a swimsuit if you’re not afraid of sharks.”

  “I’m afraid of sharks.”

  “Well, that’s just sensible, but you’ll still want to bring a swimsuit.” The door slid open as Zugay approached. Rojek wasn’t sure if they were still kidding around, or if she had just agreed to go to New Zealand with this man. This irritating man. Who has nice hands. And a nice smile, she admitted, if she was willing to be completely honest with herself. “You’ll get all the sign-offs and forward that to the court?”

  Rojek shook her head, momentarily confused. Right. Back to work. She was fairly sure she was blushing, and so did her best to keep her head down so her cheeks were in shadow. “No worries.”

  “Shame about him, though,” Zugay said. “I hate seeing anyone just . . . give up that way.”

  “Really?” Rojek asked.

  “Maybe Maxwell should have taken a few vacations.”

  “It’s a thought.”

  “See you.” Zugay left and the door slid shut.

  “See you.”

  Three months later, Zugay called Rojek to tell her he was headed to New Zealand for a week and left the address where he would be staying. With some family, he said. A family thing. If she had some time and the means to make it, he said, she should come and visit. “We have lots of room,” Zugay said. “My brother-in-law has a house down there. Very nice. Big.” Rojek listened to the message fourteen times before she thought, What the hell? Why not?

  January 9, 2386

  Hangar Deck

  Robert Hooke

  The webbing, or the silk or whatever you wanted to call it, was an engineering marvel. Nog couldn’t get over it: light, pliable, and very strong. And sticky. Very, very sticky. He learned about the stickiness right away. Attacking the stuff with a knife was folly. How do they make this stuff? Nog wondered, watching the arachnoforms chasing each other around the interior walls of the hangar and among the struts. They had squeezed out of the exceedingly small opening in the main hatch. Their carapaces appeared to be the only thing their threads didn’t stick to. Now, one of them—Ginger, he thought—was chasing the other, like she was playing a game of tag, while the second, Honey, seemed to only want to put as much distance between herself and her sister as was possible. Sisters, Nog thought, are the same everywhere.

  He turned his attention back to the webbing. Fortunately, the plasma torch was working where a knife had not. A test had proved the webbing wasn’t combustible. It appeared to Nog that the strands with a lot of adhesive were actually flame retardant (what could be done with that?), while the ends of the strands, the last bit that the arachnoforms spurted out, were not. When the plasma torch hit one of those bits, only a tiny percentage of the total, it would disappear in a puff of blue flame and leave behind an aroma like burned sugar.

  Every flare of blue flame produced a squeak or squeal from one of the Wren’s passengers.

  Nog couldn’t blame them. As he reached each scientist, he had to explain what had happened. Each had been cut off from everyone else, ensnared and muffled in a sticky cocoon. Every one of them had likely expected Ginger or Honey to inject them with venom or attempt to extract their bodily fluids. But that didn’t appear to be what the arachnoforms were. They had simply done what Nita had instructed: keep the transport from breaking up and doing whatever they could to protect the passengers. The girls had performed spectacularly. Nog couldn’t imagine how many meters—scratch that, kilometers—of thread the arachnoforms had extruded.

  O’Brien bent down over Nog and asked, “How’re we doing?” Since there was only one torch, the chief was reduced to assisting newly freed passengers out of the Wren and periodically asking Nog the same question. “Progress?”

  “About halfway back now.”

  O’Brien hovered a step and a half behind Nog, close enough to converse in low tones, but not so close as to be in the way. Not physically in the way.

  “I think we can turn this over to Nita. We should get a move on.” Without warning, Nog felt his feet leave the deck. The crown of his head cracked against the transport’s low overhead. Behind him, O’Brien shouted, “Whoa! Whoa!” and felt fingers rake his back. All around, Nog heard the scientists, muffled yelps of fear and surprise.

  Just as suddenly, Nog was on his knees, panting, his Ferengi metabolism pumping life-saving flight endorphins into him. Nog had been in enough similar situations to know that running away at top speed wouldn’t improve his chances of survival (despite Ferengi instincts to the contrary).

  Why after all this time, Nog mused as he forced his breathing to slow, do I still feel this way? It was a fleeting thought and likely would have been forgotten if he hadn’t felt a gentle, reassuring touch on his right arm.

  Nog turned around, expecting to see the chief, but, no, it wasn’t O’Brien. One of the arachnoforms—Ginger, he thought—crouched on the deck beside Nog, lightly touching him with one of her slender forelimbs. She turned her head from side to side, her jewel-like eyes glittering in the low light. Nog had the distinct impression from the way her mouth pieces were moving that Ginger was asking a question, perhaps inquiring about his well-being. He said, “I’m fine. Just a bump on the head
.” He patted the top of his skull. “Ferengi have thick ones. Nothing to worry about.”

  Satisfied, the arachnoform withdrew a half step. When Ginger pulled the tip of her forelimb away from his arm, tiny hooks or suction cups pulled lightly at the fabric of his environmental suit. Nog carefully reached out with his free hand and gently patted the creature on the head. Ginger appeared to enjoy the contact.

  Behind him, O’Brien cleared his throat, and then said, “We need to get moving. That was the artificial gravity generator being, er . . . irresolute. We’re lucky it only lasted a moment.”

  “Agreed,” Nog said, standing. He heard the tips of Ginger’s legs tapping along behind him. “What’s our play?”

  The chief stepped into the hatchway and raised his hand, signaling to Nog to stay in the transport so they could speak in relative privacy. Ginger climbed the bulkhead beside them and appeared to be listening carefully to their exchange. “We head for ops,” O’Brien said, speaking in low tones, “and hope the captain is still there. Maybe he’s managed to break through the interference or has spotted someone headed our way.”

  “If not?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “And?”

  O’Brien shook his head. “If the station begins falling apart, we’ll have to put everyone back on the Wren and push her out the hangar. Hope for the best. Before we go, make sure your suit’s been recharged. We may need them.”

  Nog hated to admit it, but he couldn’t think of a better plan. “We don’t really know if the Wren has been compromised, do we? I mean, it seems to be holding together.”

  O’Brien snorted. “With all that gunk on the inside? I doubt if it could fall apart if we wanted it to.”

  Beside them, Ginger clicked and chittered. Nog wasn’t sure if she felt like she was being insulted or complimented, but O’Brien took a half step back. Nog very respectfully reached out again and rubbed the knob of chitin over the cluster of Ginger’s smaller eyes. He was pleased when she seemed to be pressing back.