Force and Motion (17 page)

Stepping out of the
Wren
, Nog was greeted with the sight of a half-dozen weary, frightened, sticky scientists either lying on the hangar deck or perched precariously on packing crates. No one spoke, but their eyes followed Nog and O'Brien as they crossed to a wall-mounted unit where they could replenish their suits. Nog didn't enjoy the sensation.

The replenisher pumped asthmatically, and the gauges on Nog's suit took forever to turn green again. Speaking low and attempting not to betray any emotion, Nog asked, “Should we bring the thruster packs?”

O'Brien shook his head. “It would send a bad signal,” he said. “Besides, they're pretty close to tapped out.”

“And heavy.”

“Very heavy.”

“How long could we last in these suits in open space?”

O'Brien squinted, calculating. “Six hours. Maybe a little longer if we really squeeze down on the nitrogen mix.”

The hangar deck shuddered and the supine scientists, as one, briefly levitated. Nog's feet left the deck for a second, and his stomach lurched. Behind him, Ginger chittered in agitation.

“We really have to go,” O'Brien announced loudly enough for everyone to hear. “We'll be back soon.”

“How soon?” asked a random researcher.

“As soon as we can,” Nog replied.

One of the scientists shouted, “And what if you can't?”

The corner of Nog's mouth twitched in annoyance,
and he briefly, involuntarily, closed his eyes. “We will,” he said when he looked back up. “One way or another.” No one responded and Nog felt their collective disbelief.

Behind them, another scientist emerged from the hatch of the
Wren,
blinking, disheveled, and covered in threads. Nita Bharad guided the besieged soul to a resting spot, then addressed O'Brien and Nog. “We know you'll do everything you can.” She held up the plasma torch. “I'll keep everything together here until you get back.”

O'Brien disconnected his suit. “Thanks.” He jogged toward the doorway to the main stairwell where Nog was waiting.

One of the researchers called, “And what do we do if the gravity goes off again?”

Nog was surprised by O'Brien's reply. “Ask Ginger to stick you to the deck.”

“It doesn't look like Ginger is planning to stay with us,” Nita replied, pointing at a spot behind Nog. The commander looked up. Ginger was dangling from a thread just above the doorway, her eyes fixed on him. “She appears to have taken quite a shine to you.”

“Wonderful,” O'Brien said.

“Oh, come on,” Nog said. “I bet she could be really useful.”

“Sure, if we run into some giant houseflies,” O'Brien said, but then stopped short. “Which, considering this place, we shouldn't dismiss out of hand.” He slapped the switch that unlatched the hatch into the station's core and peered into the gloom. He beckoned to Ginger and said, “Ladies first.” The arachnoform obeyed without hesita
tion, dropping to the deck and skittering into the darkness.

“See?” Nog asked, following his new friend. “She just wants to help.”

“I am thrilled and delighted,” O'Brien said. “Look at my face. Can't you tell?”

Ops Center

The image of the gerbil
flickered in Maxwell's mind's eye, shimmied, and melted into a close-up of Finch's round face and heavy brow. Maxwell's head throbbed and his throat was dry. He tried to move his hands, but the fingers were numb and swollen. His shoulders ached. Licking his lips, Maxwell tried to think of something witty and disarming to say, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was an indistinct whine of misery.

“You're awake.”

It had been, Maxwell reflected woodenly, a very long time since someone had knocked him unconscious. There had been a time when this would happen often enough that Maxwell had become familiar with the sensation of struggling back to consciousness while the world shivered and pulsed around him. Back during his Starfleet days, especially during the Cardassian conflict, the experience was commonplace enough that, when it occurred, Maxwell was able to get through the stomach-lurching wretchedness by thinking,
Oh, right—this again. I can do this.
And he could, too, usually with his dignity intact.
Starfleet officers needed to be able to take a blow without vomiting on their shoes.

But you're not Starfleet anymore, are you, Ben?

Maxwell turned his head to the side, opened his mouth, and emptied his gut.

To his great surprise, Finch held a bottle of water to Maxwell's mouth. Maxwell sipped, swished, and then spit. He drank some more, grateful. His stomach settled and his head cleared. When the room stopped surging, he saw that his arms were bound to the chair's arms with repair tape, probably from a roll that had come from Maxwell's own tool box.

Finch stepped away, holding the now empty bottle aloft. “More?” he asked.

“No,” Maxwell said, shaking his head. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Feeling better?”

“I have a bit of a headache. Also, I'm tied to a chair.”

“Just a precaution,” Finch said. “I felt the need to keep you in one place until I've had a chance to explain.”

“You don't have to explain anything to me,” Maxwell said.

“I don't?” Finch seemed both confused and surprised. Also, Maxwell noted, he had taken off his jacket—one of the rare occasions Maxwell could recall seeing Finch without one—and had sweated through his shirt. There were two large stains under Finch's armpits and perspiration dripped off his forehead. Maxwell realized that he, too, was perspiring heavily, though his environmental suit was attempting to compensate. Without the helmet, there was only so much the suit could do.

“No,” Maxwell said, attempting to sound calm. “You
don't. I understand what's happened. You've made some bad choices. Events have gotten out of control and you're trying to compensate.”

Finch's mouth screwed up and his brow furrowed. “You're talking to me like I'm crazy,” he said. “You're trying to keep me calm. Like I might lose control any moment.” Finch took a step closer and laid his hands on the tops of Maxwell's arms, near enough that when the beads of sweat dripped off his nose they landed in Maxwell's lap. “I'm not going to lose control,” he said, his voice quavering. “And I don't have to compensate for anything.”

“Okay,” Maxwell said, trying to hold Finch's gaze. His legs weren't taped to anything. The chair was fixed in place by a central pillar that he could use to spin around, though for many reasons—including his unsettled ­stomach—Maxwell decided he wouldn't. There wasn't much point in kicking Finch in the groin at just that moment, though it could arrive soon.
Time enough for violence.
“I believe you.” Maxwell swallowed hard and turned away. The reek of fear rolling off Finch was too much to bear. “Am I correct that the environmental controls are offline?”

Finch pulled away and looked around the room. “I don't know,” he said. “I hadn't noticed.”

“It's a little warm in here.”

“Is it? I thought that was just me. I've been busy.”

Yes,
Maxwell thought.
Dragging me into this chair and taping me to it. That must have been exhausting
. On the best of days, Finch was not an impressive physical specimen. On the kind of day he was having today, the station owner was probably close to passing out. “If the environmental systems are down, we only have whatever air was pumped
into this room,” Maxwell explained. “It may start to get stuffy in here soon.” He looked around at the debris on the deck. The room looked like someone had scattered every loose object off every flat surface. Maxwell recognized the pattern. “And the artificial gravity has turned off and on. At least once.”

“Yes,” Finch admitted. That probably accounted for some of Maxwell's queasiness. Also, a mild concussion was probably a factor. “I've rerouted the power to our deck to compensate.”

“And the rest of the station be damned.”

Finch swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bouncing like a rubber ball. His eyes flicked from side to side. “I'll be leaving soon. After I leave, you can readjust the grid however you like.”

“You've arranged for a ride?”

“No,” Finch said, wiping his shirtsleeve across his brow. “Not exactly. But I can't imagine he'll mind giving me a lift. Especially after he sees what I've done. And I'll be able to pay him. Oh, yes.” Finch drifted over to the sensor station, which appeared to still be functioning. “Not picking up anything yet,” Finch mumbled. “Not that I would, I suppose.”

“Subspace interference still pretty bad?”

“What?” Finch asked, distracted. “No. I mean, yes, but clearing out. Things should settle soon. That's not what I meant. Never mind. Shut up. I'm not talking to you.”

Maxwell groaned.
If he's not talking to me, then who?
“Who's coming, Finch?”
Keep him focused.
Maxwell dissected Finch's comments. “Especially after
who
sees what you've done?”

Finch spun around. For a moment, Maxwell worried that he had pushed the wrong button. Maybe Finch would decide he didn't need company. He grimaced, light from the console flashing disturbingly on his teeth. No, not grimacing.
Grinning
. Finch was very pleased about something. “My customer!” he crowed. “My
first
customer. Maybe a bit of a loss leader when you factor in the loss of . . . well . . .” He waved his arms dramatically to take in the entirety of the Hooke
.
“. . . all this. But acceptable. Acceptable.”

“Customer?” Maxwell repeated. He'd spent enough time in mental health facilities and knew enough therapists. He even counted some of them as friends. He knew their techniques. Repeat the last significant word, and let the patient do the rest.

“
First
customer,” Finch repeated. “And when others find out what I've done, the first of
many
!”

“First customer for what? The Mother?” He couldn't help himself. Maxwell knew he should just let Finch talk, but there was the urge, the damnable desire, to set things
right.
“She's eating your station, Finch. She did something terrible to Sabih.”

“Or is she trying to
fix
Sabih?” Finch rebutted. “I think . . . I think that's what she's doing. Maybe . . .” He rubbed his hands together in what Maxwell imagined was supposed to be self-assured glee, but there was no conviction behind it. Finch knew the truth as well as he did.

“More likely the Mother is trying to talk through him. Could you read his lips from in here? I could.” Maxwell strained against the tape, trying to get the blood flowing. Finch had wrapped him too tight. He knew that Finch
was getting too agitated, but he couldn't help it.
Bad air,
a part of his brain told him.
You're getting stupid
. “I
could
read his lips. You know what he was saying, Finch? You want to know what Sabih was saying?”

Finch stood stock-still, his arms at odd angles, his hands limp, like he might reach forward and grasp Maxwell by the throat. “What was he saying?”

“He was saying, ‘Let me out.' Over and over again. His dead lips. In the airless room. And that . . . that
thing
with its tendril jammed into the back of his head. Like a puppet.”

“Or a communicator,” Finch said softly, his eyes suddenly bright with wonder. “Or a translator.”

Maxwell knew he had gone too far. He tried to reel Finch back in. “No,” he said. “No. Not like that. She . . .
it . . .
is not trying to talk to us. It's not alive. It's not intelligent. It was just repeating the last thing that went through Sabih's mind,
his
last thought. Even if it
is
talking through him, it's the only thing a creature in a cage would say! ‘
Let me out!
' ”

But Finch was no longer paying attention to him. Something on the console flashed. Maxwell studied Finch's face, watching as the grin bloomed again. “Then the Mother is getting what she wants,” Finch said, eyes gleaming in victory. “Her ride is here.”

Chapter 16

Eleven Years Earlier

Quark's

Deep Space 9

“S
o,” Julian Bashir asked as he carefully settled onto his barstool, “what is the best day you've ever had?” The doctor attempted to perch his foot on the bar rail, but he was either too bruised or too deep in his cups to get good purchase. Instead, he contented himself with planting his elbow on the edge of the bar and his head on his fist. He grinned happily at his friend Miles O'Brien.

The chief, obviously equally sore and equally inebriated, placed his half-empty pint on one of the six coasters Nog had deposited in front of him. He squinted thoughtfully and rubbed his palm over the front of his leather coat. Looking from side to side, O'Brien continued to look contemplative until he spied his broad-brimmed hat, which he carefully retrieved and placed on his head. “Well,” he said, and then repeated, “Well . . .” He looked at the fingernails of his left hand, which were all purple, as if his fingers had been nearly crushed. He grinned at some memory. “Well, I know I'm supposed to say something like, the day I met Keiko. Or, my ­wedding day. Or, the day my daughter was born.” He held up his hands. “And, to be sure, all good days.
Very
good days.”

“I'm sure,” Bashir said, grinning. “Was I there for any of those?”

“No,” O'Brien said. “Son being born,
yes
. As I recall, you were instrumenta . . . instrumentative . . .” He collected himself. “You were vital.”

“It was a good thing I was there.”

“Yes!”

They both retrieved their glasses, clinked them together, and drank deeply. “Happy I could help,” the doctor said.

Bashir looked around as if suddenly remembering where they were. “Ah,” he said, pleased. “Nog!”

Nog, who had been leaning back against the shelf where the liquor bottles were stowed, waved. They were the only ones still in the bar, the rest of the patrons having been shooed out an hour earlier, at closing time. It had not been a very busy night—not many patrons to shoo. Bashir and O'Brien would have made up for the evening's slow trade
if
Nog made them compensate Quark for their drinks, which he didn't. Maybe he would make up the difference out of his own pocket. He hadn't decided. He was having too much fun.

“Nog!” O'Brien cried. “We're out of drinks! Be a good lad and find us something adequate to our needs! One more round!”

“Just one. Something special. While you answer my question.”

“Nog, something special,” O'Brien agreed.

Nog reached around behind him and retrieved a bottle. “On the rocks, gentlemen, or straight?”

“Straight!” O'Brien cried.

“Rocks!” Bashir exclaimed.

“One of each, then.” Nog poured. He knew what they wanted before either of them knew. He didn't get to play bartender often, but he knew he was good at it. He knew he could tend bar as well as the station's power plant or the
Defiant
's engines. He poured them each a shot of the very old, very real precious whiskey, one over the rocks and one not. He set down the drinks on new coasters. After a moment's consideration, he poured himself a half a dram, though he didn't usually much care for Terran spirits.
Special occasion.

“So, pray continue, sir,” Bashir said. “Love, marriage, children, and et cetera. Best day ever . . .”

“Yes, as I was saying. I know what I
should
say. I know what I probably will say any other time anyone ever asks me this question for the rest of my life, but I also know that, in some small way, I'll be lying a little bit if I don't admit that the best day I ever had”—O'Brien raised his glass—“was the day we saved the Alamo.”

Bashir lifted his glass and sloshed about half of the very precious liquid on the sleeve of his torn, stained wool shirt. “The Alamo!” he saluted.

Nog lifted his glass an inch or two, though he knew better than to intrude on the moment. He sipped the amber liquid. Wincing, he felt it burn down the back of his throat and up into his sinuses. “The Alamo,” he said softly while the two men laughed and pounded each other's backs.

January 9, 2386

Central Core

Robert Hooke

“So,” Nog asked
as he and O'Brien jogged up the stairs to deck four, “is this day reminding you of anything?”

“What?” O'Brien asked, his panting echoing loudly off the hard walls and stairs. “Reminding? What?”

Nog, younger, carrying less mass, and, honestly, fitter, breathed through his nose and pumped his legs. “The Alamo,” he said.

“The Alamo?”

“Sure,” Nog said, reaching the next landing and pausing, pretending to be winded to give O'Brien a moment to lean on the railing and pant. “Remember the Alamo?”

“Well,” O'Brien said, obviously confused, “of course. I mean, that's the whole point.”

“I'm not following you.”

“ ‘Remember the Alamo.' That's the quote. That's what everyone says.” The chief shook his head. “You're supposed to remember it. The day they all died defending it. Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, William Travis. All of them . . .”

“Except that one time,” Nog said. “Back on the station . . . toward the end of the war. You and Doctor Bashir closed down the bar. You were . . . well, very happy. I remember you had been in the holosuite, and you were very pleased because I thought you'd finally won.”

“Won?”

“The one you'd been playing for so many weeks,” Nog said, suddenly aware that he may have made a misstep. “The one based on the Alamo”

O'Brien squinted as if looking off at a foggy and distant horizon. He wiped his perspiring forehead with his gloved hand and then smiled wanly. “No,” he said, looking away. “I mean, yes, I remember. That was a strange day.” Standing straighter, collecting his thoughts, the chief continued, “But everything was strange in those days. The Dominion closing in. Victory seemed like a dream. And there we were right at the center of it all, right on the anvil.” O'Brien paused, momentarily lost in memory, and then continued. “I don't remember whose idea it was to change the Alamo simulation. Probably Julian's.” He shook his head. “He didn't always play fair, you know. Anyway . . .” O'Brien looked directly at Nog and, for a moment, just a moment, Nog felt as if
he
was actually being seen
.
“I guess you didn't know. Did you?”

“Know what?”

“Didn't you wonder why we changed it?”

“Because you were tired of losing.”

“Right,” O'Brien said. “Exactly right. Sometimes you just want a win. Especially when times are dark. You want the bright sunrise over the mountains, the birds singing, and the sap rising. I think Julian was feeling it more than anyone back then.” He laughed. “So, he changed the parameters. Davy Crockett lived. Bowie lived. Everyone . . . well, mostly everyone lived.” O'Brien unclipped a water bottle from his leg and took a sip. “The good guys won.”

“Oh,” Nog said, embarrassed, though not entirely certain why. “I always wondered. I was glad to be there that night.”

“Julian felt terrible afterward. And not just because of the vodka or rum or . . . bourbon?”

“Whiskey.”

O'Brien reclipped the bottle to his thigh. “Though it's really very . . . well, it's kind of you to remember it. Haven't thought about that night for a long time.” He grinned. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome, Chief,” Nog said. O'Brien looked like he was ready to tackle another couple flights of stairs, and Nog turned to recommence their ascent, but was suddenly struck by a thought. “Where's Ginger?”

O'Brien shook his head. “Don't know. Lost track of her. Probably run off, doing whatever it is she does. Hunting something. Trapping it. Wrapping it up in webbing.”

“I don't think they do that,” Nog said. “Besides, what's here that she could hunt?”

O'Brien leaned out over the stairway railing and studied the gloom. “I don't know. Lost lab animals?” They had only climbed a couple decks, yet the lighting was so poor that the deck was barely visible. O'Brien straightened and flexed his back. “She'll find us if she wants to. Don't worry.” O'Brien mounted the first step. “All ready now? Got your second wind?”

“Sure,” Nog said.

“Good,” O'Brien said. “Let's be off. Find Captain Maxwell.” Nog did not detect any sign of condescension or irony.

Ops Center

The large viewscreen
Finch had used to show O'Brien and Nog his presentation flickered and flipped from
display to communication mode. Finch fiddled with the control panel and tried to sharpen the signal. Maxwell squinted at the screen, still feeling woozy. A face appeared, though the features were poorly defined, either intentionally scrambled or badly tuned.

“Finch,”
said a deep and resonant voice.

Klingon?
Maxwell wondered, trying to place the accent.

“
What transpires? What happened to your station? Is the product safe?” Definitely not Klingon,
Maxwell decided.
Too polite.

“There was an accident,” Finch said, attempting to sound blasé. “But the product is fine. Better than fine, actually. Performing admirably.”

“In what version of reality,” Maxwell said, attempting to project his voice, “could anything that's happening here today be described as ‘performing admirably.' ” Or, at least, that's what he intended to say. He got as far as “In what version—” before Finch struck him across the face with the back of his hand.

Maxwell was unprepared for the savagery of the blow. Something in his neck popped, and he felt a bright spark of pain inside his mouth. He might have blacked out for a second, because there was a sense of a gap in the flow of time. When he awoke, Maxwell felt his head hanging down and watched a thin stream of pinkish saliva drip from his mouth down onto his lap. “Ow.” That single word cost him. Maxwell tentatively probed the inside of his mouth with the tip of his tongue and found a large gash on the inside of his left cheek, probably where he had bitten himself.

Finch had returned to speaking to the face on the screen. “. . . disgruntled employee,” he was saying. “Really no way I could have seen it coming, though, looking back, he was an unstable sort. Fidgety.”

“Fidgety,”
the face intoned. Maxwell blinked away the pain and the fog. The image must have been intentionally garbled.

“But, as I have so often said,” Finch continued, sounding more and more like his old self with every word, “any setback should be viewed as an opportunity. In this instance, this is doubly true. I've collected a great deal of data on the Mother's responses to adverse conditions and she, as I said, is performing admirably. The Shedai metagenome data you provided has been
invaluable
in finding solutions to problems that otherwise would have taken—”

“Finch,”
the voice intoned.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, but I do not care.”

“As you say,” Finch said, head back. He rubbed the back of one of his hands against the front of his shirt.

Probably hurt it when he hit me,
Maxwell thought.
Good.

“I do tend to overshare when I'm excited.”

“Yes,”
the face agreed. It appeared to turn as if it was reading something, possibly a sensor output.
“Readings indicate the product—”

“The Mother,” Finch added.

“Yes,”
the face agreed.
“The product is
not
in a containment device. How am I to transport it to my ship?”

“Ah,” Finch said. “Valid question. I need to—how
shall we say?—wrangle it? I may require some assistance on that score.”

“Then I suggest you ask one of your associates,”
the voice said.
“My scans say you've several to choose from. I am prepared to wait for—”
He paused, either to check a chronometer or to convert the right unit of time.
“—one half hour. Before I entered this area of localized interference, my long-range scanners detected vessels headed to this sector. Were you expecting visitors?”

Maxwell listened carefully to the speaker's intonation. He'd met so many individuals from so many worlds that he felt that he had a pretty good ear for accents, but the speaker's world of origin eluded him. There were some strange sibilants at the ends of words, but he couldn't place the long consonants.

“None that I wish to receive,” Finch explained. “I may require a lift.”

“A
lift
?”

“A ride. I'd like you to bring me along with you.”

“You do not wish to go where I am bound.”

“Probably not, but you can drop me somewhere along the way. I can compensate you.”

The pilot of the spacecraft paused as if considering his options. Finally, he said,
“Prepare my delivery. I'll consider your request.”

“A half hour,” Finch said. “I'll be ready.”

The screen went blank.

“And he's been so polite up until now,” Maxwell said.

“Be silent, Ben.”

“He clearly wants your product, whatever he thinks it is.”

“Be silent. I'm thinking.” Finch looked as if he was, indeed, thinking hard. Hand on his chin, staring in the general direction of the stairway to the lab, he appeared to be pondering options.

“What's a Shedai metagenome?” Maxwell asked.

“You wouldn't understand even if I explained it to you.”

“Try me,” Maxwell said. His head was clearing, and he was attempting to subtly put pressure on the tape. If he kept at it, he thought he could stretch it enough that he might be able to yank his arms free. “I'm a very clever fellow.”