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  He winced. Miles. He was up in ops with Finch. How long since they had called? Maxwell checked the time. Crap. He sighed and shoved the toilet back into place. You’re a terrible man, Ben Maxwell. He tapped his wrist communicator and asked for ops, but received no reply. This is bad. It meant Finch had set the privacy seals, which meant he was making a pitch. Which meant that he might be talking about her. Which meant that she might be invited out to meet someone. But who? Miles O’Brien? Maxwell shook his head and reset the toilet’s seals. I have to see this, he thought, and tossed the remaining tools into his kit, not taking as much care as he usually did. A terrible, terrible man.

  Ops Center

  Robert Hooke

  “I have some little friends,” Finch said. The holo displayed the image of the burned-out shoreline, still alight with the phosphorescent glow. But now, instead of fading into gray, the image brightened as the sky over the scene lightened, and the sickening radiance dimmed. “They don’t care for the Borg or their works. Indeed, they defy them. They consume them.” The phosphorescence disappeared as the line of the horizon glowed. In time-lapse splendor, the arc of the sun rose above the distant peaks and painted the sky a rosy pink, which quickly deepened into healthy and hearty blue. The line of shadows that defined the memory of a shoreline softened. Clouds gathered overhead, but, strangely, their shape and shade did not betoken despair, but a sense of hope and rebirth. The sensors cut to a close-up of a patch of pallid, ashy soil and lingered expectantly. Finch pitched his voice low and said, “And they make something new.”

  A drop of rain exploded into the center of the frame and excavated a tiny crater. More drops; more craters. The soil grew soft and malleable. The edges of the individual grains became indistinct as the sensors zoomed in farther and the resolution shifted to the microscopic, augmented with animation. Tiny beasts roamed across the field of the mote of earth and absorbed the sickly green blobs. The animators intentionally left the details vague, but the tenor of their movement seemed very deliberate.

  “They’re eating the Borg poison,” Nog said, as if on cue.

  Couldn’t ask for a better audience, Finch thought.

  “How is that possible?” O’Brien asked. “Federation scientists have tried every kind of bioremediation in existence, but the Borg toxins have been intractable.”

  “They can’t resist this,” Finch said, quite pleased to have the opening. “We’ve made something much smarter, much more fierce, than anything the Borg could ever ­create.”

  The young engineer grinned wildly. “This is incredible,” he said. “If it’s true, you’ve got to bring this to the Federation Science Council. They’ll go . . . they won’t know how . . .” He looked up at the station owner, the light from the display flashing on his gleaming teeth. “You’re going to be rich!”

  “Perhaps,” Finch said, rubbing his chin with his thumb. “That would be lovely. I can’t deny it. It’s not my primary goal, but, certainly, financial remuneration would be an acceptable outcome. But this isn’t even the primary project,” he continued. “These organisms are merely an offshoot of my research, an opportunity I saw to bring my creation to the attention of a larger audience.”

  Sabih shut off the holo and brought the main lights back up.

  “I’m confused,” O’Brien said, shaking his head. “What’s your primary project if not this? And, why are you showing this to us?”

  “I have to ask the same question,” Sabih said. The boy seemed annoyed, a mood Finch had never seen him display. “Aren’t you worried who they might tell? I thought we wanted to keep this all a secret until you’ve heard from some of your potential customers.”

  “Don’t worry, Sabih,” Finch said. “These gentlemen are men of honor. They won’t reveal what they’ve seen.”

  “Customers?” Nog asked. “So, you’re in discussions?”

  “With several interested parties, including the Federation. Though I fear all my labors may come to naught, and worlds will continue to lay in ruins.”

  “Why?” Nog asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can guess,” O’Brien said. “The genetic code.”

  Finch tipped an imaginary cap toward the chief as he wandered back to the trolley to see if any of the Stilton remained. Presentations always gave him an appetite. “They all want to know how the bread is baked. I say to them, ‘You all know what’s in bread. You don’t need to know the exact recipe.’ ”

  “What are you afraid of?” O’Brien asked. “The Federation has laws to protect intellectual property.”

  “The Federation,” Finch said, plucking a piece of cheese from the tray, “is in the business of governing, and any government is only one crisis away from either anarchy or totalitarianism.” He popped the morsel into his mouth and let it melt on his tongue. “Or haven’t you heard about the tenure of President Baras?” The Starfleeters exchanged anxious glances. Finch sensed he had scored a hit. Bacco had been assassinated on Deep Space 9. For all he knew, one of these men might have been nearby when she was felled.

  “This is all very interesting,” said Nog, withdrawing from his enthusiastic position in regard to Finch’s future earnings. “But I don’t see how anyone would be willing to let you use your organisms without knowing more about them.”

  “Perhaps if you vouched for me,” Finch said, his tone dry.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Perhaps if you vouched for me. You are Nog, son of Rom, the current grand nagus, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Nog admitted. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Really? Hmph. And I’m usually such a good judge of character. I thought you wouldn’t have to be dragged all the way into the river before you realized you were dying of thirst.”

  “What?” Nog demanded.

  “Or perhaps I should quote the Ninth Rule of Acquisition.”

  “ ‘Opportunity plus instinct equals profit,’ ” Nog said. “So?”

  “Wouldn’t your father look upon your visit as an opportunity? What are your instincts telling you?”

  “My instincts,” Nog replied, “tell me that you don’t know anything about my father.”

  “And mine,” Finch replied, “are telling me it might be time for you to meet the Mother.”

  “What?” Nog asked.

  “Who?” O’Brien asked.

  “No!” Sabih shouted, rising from where he sat. “No! That is a terrible idea! You can’t just . . .” He dug his fingers into his curly hair as if he was planning to tug out fistfuls. “I don’t understand you!” he continued, his tone nearing hysteria. “You can’t resist, can you? Every time!” Sabih threw his arms up into the air and shrieked. “That’s it! I’m through! I really wanted to be a part of this, Mister Finch, but I can’t stand this anymore. I’m going home! You can keep the damned credit!” He stalked to the turbolift, which, embarrassingly for Sabih, took several seconds to arrive, during which all he could do was fume.

  Finally, the lift arrived, the doors parted, and Sabih stormed off.

  No one spoke for several seconds until Finch said, “Apologies, gentlemen. I’ve had concerns about that one. He’s young, excitable . . .”

  “Where’s Ben Maxwell?” O’Brien asked. “I think I’ve had—”

  Ignoring his comrade, Nog asked, “Who or what is the Mother?”

  “The first question,” Finch replied, “I could answer if you’d like, with the touch of a button. The second question, if you really want to know, I can answer too, but you’ll have to come with me.” He pointed at one of the pair of stairways that led up to the topmost deck—his private lair. “Be prepared to have your life changed.”

  Chapter 6

  Three Years Earlier

  Nantucket Island, Earth

  “That’s all that’s left?” Maxwell asked.

  “That’s it,” Brody said.r />
  “Damn.”

  “Yeah,” Brody said, drawing out the word in a typical island fashion. He poked the toothpick he always seemed to have in the corner of his mouth into whatever crevice he was working at the moment. “Damn.” This last word he said like there was iron at its core, as if he possessed the power to really, truly damn something. He jammed both hands into his jacket pockets, burrowing for warmth. He hadn’t bothered to find gloves before escorting Maxwell over to the cottage. “Still,” he mused, “could be worse.”

  Maxwell stared at the remains of his mother’s house. He could barely see the outline of the foundation, but only a charred, blackened concrete slab. Any wood or plaster that had been part of the structure was gone, reduced to ash and blown out to sea. “How could this be any worse?”

  “She coulda died of old age,” Brody said. “Your mum, she wouldn’t have liked that. Struck by lightning, though. It suited her.”

  Maxwell carefully played back Brody’s words for any sign of sarcasm or insincerity or even just plain cruelty, but no . . . he couldn’t find any. Maxwell had known—or known of—Cyrus Brody, his mother’s best friend (and companion—he couldn’t ignore the possibility) for well over twenty-five years and was reasonably certain the man could not express an insincere sentiment. It wasn’t in his nature.

  “Your mother was probably content about being vaporized in a freak lightning strike on the day before her hundred twenty-eighth birthday.”

  Maxwell reflected, It would have been nice to hear something like regret.

  “She was a fine woman,” Brody continued. “Your ma was . . .” He exhaled, vapor puffing from his mouth and nostrils. He turned his head away and rubbed his cheeks with his surprisingly long fingers. Maxwell knew that in addition to being one of the best fishing guides on the island, Brody was also a fine pianist. He remembered a family get-together, almost fifteen years ago—one of the handful of times he had brought Maria to see his mother—when Brody had spent the evening sitting at the old upright in the parlor cycling through a program of Brahms, drinking songs, and Elton John, utterly charming Maxwell’s wife. Turning back into the wind, Brody rubbed the corners of his eyes with the tips of his index finger. “We miss her,” he said. “Everyone misses her.”

  Maxwell wanted to say—he truly, deeply, and sincerely wanted to say—“I miss her too,” but all he could manage was, “Thanks.” He knew that he loved his mother, always had, but he couldn’t honestly say that he had thought about her very often over the past thirty years except on the occasions when he needed to announce significant passages: when he had married, when the children had been born, when they died, when he was sent to prison. What a strange litany, Maxwell thought, absently counting the events by touching the tips of his fingers to his palm.

  When he was released from the penal colony, Maxwell had been forced to consider, Where do I want to go? Somehow, Nantucket had seemed like the best idea. There were two things he could count on there: the sound of the ocean and his mother’s comfortable silence. Never much of a talker, Maxwell knew he would have been able to sit on the porch or in the kitchen and just stare out at the water for as long as he liked without her asking him what he planned to do next. Mom had been good that way: she didn’t ask many questions because she didn’t care about the answers.

  He hadn’t been surprised when she didn’t respond. She rarely replied to any kind of communication unless she had something very specific to convey. Brody had been the one to meet him at the dock, which had initially pleased him, and then alarmed him, and then simply confused him when the old man began, “There was a storm last week.” A storm? Of course there was a storm: it was Nantucket. A freakish lightning storm in mid-winter? Unusual, but not unknown. Lightning striking a house? Also unusual, but not out of the ­question . . .

  All Maxwell could do was shake his head and say, “Was there anything left? In the house, I mean.”

  “Just bits and bobs,” Brody said. “What the fire didn’t take, the wind and the rain did. It was over a day before anyone even noticed what had happened, her living out here on her own.” His mother had lived on a lonely spur, a spot that Maxwell imagined as the closest she could come to being on the bridge of her tug as a land-bound structure could be. Brody pulled a small parcel from his pocket. “I saved this—pretty much the only thing I thought anyone might want.” He handed the package to Maxwell, who, feeling the rectangular shape and the four corners, guessed what the object might be, in general terms if not specifically. Brody didn’t say another word, but only stared at Maxwell as if waiting. Though he didn’t really want to do it, Maxwell felt like he was expected to open the package at that moment, so he carefully tore the paper away from one corner.

  It was a photograph, as Maxwell had suspected, a flat, two-dimensional image, the kind his mother had always preferred. She felt holograms were too fussy to take on an oceangoing vessel, so she never had much patience for them. He tore away another corner of paper, and a sudden gust of wind ripped it out of his hand so the scrap went skittering down the beach and out into the breakers. Maxwell stared at the half-revealed photo. He remembered the moment it captured, but couldn’t remember sending it to his mother, which meant Maria must have done it. He was kneeling on the ground, smiling up at the camera, his son and daughter both standing beside him. Carlo had that bad haircut he got when he was four, so Sofia must have been three. They were both pointing at the fourth pip on his collar, both of them grinning proudly, like they understood what it meant. Maria must have been the photographer.

  “This is from the day I was promoted to captain,” Maxwell said flatly. “The day I got the Rutledge.”

  “I know,” Brody said. “She had it on the mantel. Made sure anyone who came into the house saw it.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t remember ever seeing it.”

  Brody shrugged. “It was always there, long as I can remember.”

  Drops of rain wet the glass protecting the photo. Maxwell slipped the parcel into the big side pocket of his coat. “Thanks for saving it, Brody.”

  “No worries. Figured it belonged to you. Found a couple other things that I kept for myself—nothing that would mean anything to anyone else.”

  “Okay. Good.” He didn’t know what else to say and so, as his mother would have, Maxwell said nothing at all.

  Without another word, the two men turned away from the burned-out building and trudged back up the beach to where Brody’s small vehicle waited. Maxwell was thinking about jamming his feet up against the heater. After living in New Zealand for so many years, he had completely lost the ability to cope with the kind of cold weather you got on Nantucket.

  “So,” Brody asked, clearly having waited as long as he could to do so, “what’re you going to do now?”

  Maxwell chuckled, though the sound was probably lost in the wind. He rubbed his chin and felt the stubble. “I really have no idea,” he admitted. “Kind of thought I was going to stay here for a while, but, well . . . not much chance of that now, is there?”

  “No,” Brody allowed. “Guess not. Got any friends you can stay with?”

  In his head, Maxwell answered, Friends? You mean, like former shipmates? Colleagues? Men and women who I served with, commanded for twenty-five years? People who don’t think I betrayed their trust and nearly started a war? The friends I haven’t heard from or tried to contact for the past ten years? You mean those friends? To Brody, he said, “Yeah, probably. I’ll have to make a couple calls, but I can think of a couple.”

  “Because if you need someplace to stay, I have a room you’re welcome to use. Not much. Just a bed and a dresser and a chair, but it’d be nice to have some company.” He looked back at the spot on the beach where the cottage once stood. The island, Maxwell realized, was already taking back the spot. Except for the charred ribs of the cottage and the outline of the slab, it was
difficult to see where his mother’s home once had stood.

  “To be honest, Brody,” Maxwell said, reaching for the handle to the passenger side door, “I don’t think I could stand winter here anymore. My blood’s thinned out. I need to go someplace warmer.”

  Brody nodded and pulled open his door. When they were both in the vehicle, he pushed the heater up to maximum, much to Maxwell’s relief. Brody said, “Or you could go back into space, I guess.”

  “Space?” Maxwell asked.

  “Well, that was your job, wasn’t it? What you trained to do.”

  “Sure, but . . .” He let the words trail off, waiting for Brody to catch up to the obvious point.

  “You don’t have to be the captain, you know,” Brody said. “Ship only has one of those, but there are lots of other jobs. Captain wasn’t the only one you ever had. Just the last one.”

  Maxwell rubbed his hands together to try to get some circulation back into his fingers. He looked out at the surf as Brody revved the accelerator and the vehicle began the slow slog up the potholed road. He lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side, letting the idea sink in. “I guess that’s true,” he allowed.

  “Somebody somewhere needs something that you know how to do.”

  “Thanks, Brody.”

  Brody nodded his head and clamped both hands on the manual controls. The guidance system on a vehicle as old as his probably needed some help anyway. “And, just so you know, most people around here think you got kind of a raw deal.”

  “Thanks, Brody.”

  “Your mom, too,” he added.

  “Thanks, Brody.” Maxwell felt foolish repeating himself, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. Also, he was fairly certain that Brody was lying. It was nice of him to lie, though, and there was no reason, Maxwell decided, to abuse the courtesy. He also decided there was no good reason to point out how cold a person could get in space if one wasn’t careful.