"Ninety meters."

He hefted the harpoon gun and checked the sights. "Computer, fix target. Epoxy tip. And keep me in place when the harpoon is fired."

"Understood."

"Computer, fire harpoon."

O'Brien couldn't hear the chemical charge fire, but felt the recoil through his gauntlets. Chemical jets mounted on his back kept him in place as a thin, silver cable unspooled in a long, lazy arc behind the rocket-powered harpoon. To the naked eye it appeared fragile, but O'Brien knew it was woven from monofilaments and sheathed in flexible plasteel. Nothing shy of a plasma torch could cut it.

As the harpoon neared the transport's hull, a mechanism in the head cracked open the tiny heated chambers that held the various resins so they would be stirred together on impact. If the timing and thrust were accurately calculated, the harpoon's head would crack open just as it was kissing the transport's hull.

All O'Brien had to do was wait and find something to keep his mind busy. He decided to count stars.

At the count of nineteen, the cable ceased unspooling. The computer announced, "Contact made." A small display on the harpoon gun lit up and told O'Brien that the resins had mixed as antic.i.p.ated, the line was secure, and the transport's hull unpierced. He doubted anyone inside the ship even knew the tow cable was in place.

O'Brien had hesitated contacting the Wren again before he felt there was a reasonable chance his plan could succeed. All things considered, the odds were looking better. It was time, he thought, to share some good news (though he appreciated that the idea of being towed back to a disintegrating s.p.a.ce station could only be considered "good news" under the most charitable circ.u.mstances).

Checking the background radiation, O'Brien confirmed his suit could transmit a signal the Wren could receive. He smiled. I don't know how much more good news I can take.

"O'Brien to Wren," he said. "Wren, Nita, are you receiving?"

"Yes! Yes, h.e.l.lo! This is the Wren!" The signal dissolved for a moment, and O'Brien thought he detected someone whispering, "Leave that alone, Javi!" The signal cleared again and Bharad's voice came through clearly. "Is that you, Miles? Have you figured out a way to beam us back to the station? Things are getting rather, uh, dicey here. Ginger and Honey are exhausted." Whispers again, but of a more tender sort. "Yes, my darlings, you're exhausted, aren't you. Just rest. Please rest. You've done beautifully."

"I can't beam you back," O'Brien said. "But I think I can give you a tow."

"No!" Bharad said. "The hull can't take a tractor beam!"

"Not a tractor beam," O'Brien said, using his calm, reasonable I'm-just-a-simple-engineer voice. "More like a tractor."

"What?"

"I said," he began, but then stopped. If she hadn't gotten the joke the first time, repeating it wouldn't help. "Just hang on. I'm going to get you back to the station as fast as I can. Commander Nog went for help, so there should be a Starfleet ship heading our way soon. If we're really lucky, we'll just be settling in for our next round when the cavalry comes up over the hill."

"Cavalry?"

O'Brien was stymied. How could you not know about cavalry? But then he considered his wife's admonishment whenever he made this sort of observation in front of her: Not everyone has fought in the Alamo as many times as you have!

"Stand by."

"All right, Miles. But, tow gently, please."

"Will do. Gently. I'll be monitoring your hull integrity. But once we get moving, Isaac Newton will be doing most of the driving, so don't worry."

Bharad didn't reply for a long moment, but then asked, "Didn't Robert Hooke and Isaac Newton hate each other?"

"I'm sure that's a myth," O'Brien replied.

Chapter 13.

Two Days Earlier Public House, Robert Hooke "Weren't you supposed to tell me the story of your life last night?" Nita Bharad asked as she pulled on the tap and let stout flow into a pint gla.s.s. When she was finished with the pour, she handed the gla.s.s to Maxwell, who admired the artful swirl she had drawn in the head.

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked.

"I told you last week," she replied, drawing a smaller amount into what had probably started its life as a juice gla.s.s. Bharad didn't believe in letting anyone drink alone, even if she only intended to have a small amount. They tapped gla.s.ses and both said, "Cheers."

"Remind me," Maxwell said, setting his padd on the bar. He had a vague recollection of a rambling conversation-the only kind with Bharad-about the circ.u.mstances that had brought her to the Hooke.

"I did post-grad work at Trinity. You learn a lot about pouring beer in Dublin."

"Ah, right."

"You may also recall that after our conversation, you said you'd share some of the details of your no-doubt extremely interesting life story. Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Recall?"

"Alas, no." He sipped his beverage. "I can't imagine why. Was this the same evening where I proclaimed my undying affection for you?"

Bharad chuckled and turned away while tucking a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. "No," she said. "And has that line ever succeeded in distracting a woman from what she was saying?"

"Only the one time," Maxwell said, thinking of Maria, despite the fact that such comments had as little effect on her as they seemed to have on Bharad. Maria had tucked her hair behind her ear too, when she was mildly embarra.s.sed. The memory of her doing so made him smile.

She leaned forward, elbows on the bar, and peered at Maxwell. "I'm not sure if I've ever seen that before."

"Seen what?"

"A smile. A genuine smile and not that fake grin you pull when you want people to think you're listening to them. You should try it more often. It works for you."

Maxwell smiled again. He couldn't help it. Bharad's no-nonsense manner was irresistible. He asked, "Where's your entourage?"

"I don't know. That's half the reason I came here. I thought you'd be here and figured Ginger would be hovering."

"Where do you think they go when they're off on their own?"

"I have ideas," Bharad said, taking the tiniest sip from her gla.s.s. "I think they watch people: not just you, but everyone. I think they may be a lot smarter than they let on sometimes."

"How smart do you think they are?"

She considered comparisons. "Smarter than a dog," she said. "And smarter than many university administrators I've met." Maxwell laughed. "But, seriously, I'm not sure. Sometimes I find them poking at things on my workbench like they want to pick them up."

"Tool-using intelligence. Like apes and ravens?"

"Maybe."

"And you made them."

"I did." She smiled. "Makes you want to treat me with more respect, doesn't it?"

"I respect you," Maxwell said.

"Mmmm." Bharad crossed her arms, but did not comment. She nodded at his padd. "What are you reading? Anything good?"

He shook his head and groaned. "No," he said. "Nothing good."

"Bad book?"

"Bad news."

"Oh," Bharad said, and her eyes went soft. "Something wrong? Everything all right at home?"

"No. I mean, yes, everything's fine at home. It's here. Someone's coming to visit."

Bharad's eyes went back to flinty. "Really?" she asked, her voice flat. "You're complaining because someone is willing to come out here to the a.s.s end of s.p.a.ce to pay you a visit?"

"He's checking up on me."

"You need checking up on. I'd do it more often myself except you live in the bowels of the station where no one can find you."

"Except Ginger."

"Except Ginger."

They clinked gla.s.ses.

"Why is he checking up on you?" Bharad asked.

Maxwell winced. "I think he feels responsible for me."

Bharad's eyes changed again. They narrowed, wary and distrustful. "You mean," she asked, "this is someone who actually knows you? And likes you?" Her mouth twisted into a skeptical moue. "I don't believe you. It doesn't make sense. Are you sure you don't owe him?"

"Possibly, but that's not the point." Maxwell's neck and shoulders ached. He recognized, from several years of psychological counseling, that the ache was likely more due to psychic factors than physical ones. "We served together."

"This is part of that life story you aren't going to tell me, isn't it?"

"Yes," Maxwell said. "No. Possibly. I don't know."

"Is it the part where I find out how a man who is obviously capable of doing pretty much anything he wants is instead burying himself in the bowels of a research station filled with second-rate nut jobs?"

"Present company excluded, naturally."

"Naturally," she said. "I note that you aren't disagreeing. You haven't answered any of my questions."

Maxwell shrugged and surveyed the nearly empty room. He rubbed his hands together, then said in low tones, "I'm fairly certain he saved my life-my correspondent."

"And he feels responsible for you," Bharad said, rolling her eyes. "In that way that men do."

"Yes," Maxwell agreed. "I guess we do."

"Will he try to pry you out of here?"

"What?" Maxwell asked. "I don't think so. Why would you even ask something like that?"

"Because those of us with eyes can see that you've pretty much buried yourself here. I thought maybe your friend was coming to do an excavation."

"I thought I was keeping the place held together," Maxwell said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You are, Ben," Bharad said. "And as much as I appreciate it, I can't help but think there are more worthwhile places to keep together."

Maxwell tapped his gla.s.s against hers. "I'll drink to that."

January 9, 2386 Open s.p.a.ce En Route to Robert Hooke Miles...o...b..ien thought about his mother. He did not think about her often or, at least, no more often than he thought proper. He had been sad when she died, mourned her, and then moved on. O'Brien had always considered his love for her to be, as she had been, voluminous and well balanced. Thinking back on it, the only thing about her death that bothered him had been the obituary: Megan O'Brien died quietly in her sleep after a short illness. Inside his helmet, O'Brien shook his head. His mother had never done anything quietly in her entire life. If there was a state of mind that could be defined as quietly, Megan O'Brien had always existed on the opposite pole from that theoretical condition.

He wasn't sure why he was thinking about his mother, other than the plainly obvious reason that there had been a great deal of discussion about the Mother over the past few hours. Since firing the thruster and getting under way, O'Brien had been thinking about his entire family-wife, children, parents, brothers, and sisters-but, more than any of them, his thoughts kept circling back to Megan. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was the only one of his immediate family who had died. Or maybe it was because he was once again facing the possibility of his own death.

No one who had been in battle let the prospect of death slow them down when confronted with enemies to fight, comrades to protect, or machines to repair. Unfortunately, none of these circ.u.mstances described his current situation.

The thrust against his back was barely perceptible. The same, alas, was true of the glimmer of light that he knew to be the Hooke hull.

O'Brien checked his velocity and distance to his destination. He checked the remaining fuel in the thruster pack and the remaining oxygen in his suit. He did the math in his head, then mentally erased it, and then did it once more. This may have been a mistake, he thought.

The communicator chimed. O'Brien said, "h.e.l.lo, Nita."

"How much longer?" Bharad asked.

This was the fourth time in twenty-five minutes she had asked. The math was still the same, so the answer had not changed. "Another twenty-three minutes," O'Brien replied.

"Can't we go faster?"

"Like I explained earlier, yes, we can. But then I can't guarantee that we'll be able to brake so that your transport doesn't just tear out the bottom of the station. It's going to be dicey as it is."

"Something just peeled away from the hull," Bharad said. "Something large."

"I'm sure it wasn't anything important."

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

In his head, O'Brien thought, Because if it was important, you wouldn't be calling me. To Bharad, he said, "Ships like the Wren have lots of extraneous parts on the hull: sensors, communication arrays . . ." He stumbled. "f.l.a.n.g.es," he resumed. "Don't worry."

"I thought the tow cable might have torn loose."