Force and Motion (14 page)

“Right,”
O'Brien said, and gave a thumbs-up.

“If something goes wrong, if the
Wren
breaks up, hit the thrusters and get as far away as you can. I've got the
suit's beacon frequency locked in. That's an order, Mister O'Brien.”

“Aye, aye, sir,”
O'Brien said, no doubt attempting to sound jaunty and certain.
“Let's get moving. We don't know how long they have.”

“Coordinates locked in,” Nog said, and stepped away.

“Energizing,” Nog said, lifting his hand in salute as the beam encased the chief.

A moment later, Nog was alone in the
Amazon.
He checked the sensors to make sure the chief had materialized where they had wanted him to go—close to the
Wren
, but not too close. Everything looked good. Nog hailed O'Brien. “Chief,” he said. “Status?”

“Fine,”
O'Brien replied.
“I wish I had never touched that beer.”

“Should I beam you back?”

“No,”
O'Brien said.
“I'll be fine. Be on your way, Commander. I'll be here when you get back.
Well, hopefully not right
here
, but you get the idea.”

“Whatever you say, Chief. I'm . . .” He realized he was about to say
sorry
, but Nog bit his tongue. He
wasn't
sorry. He was doing what he was supposed to do. He was doing his
duty.
“Acknowledged.
Amazon
out.”

Open Space

En Route to Robert Hooke

O'Brien counted to ten
in his head and let his stomach settle. The suit's medical program must have sensed his
discomfort and pumped something into him. Nausea dissipated and his mind cleared. Activating the suit's sensors, O'Brien quickly swiped through several views: the Hooke; the
Wren
; the status of local space (no meteorites or other debris); and, finally, the
Amazon,
a distant white dot. Nog must have pushed her a little way off.

Manipulating the sensor feeds with a combination of the wrist interface and eye blinks, O'Brien zoomed in on the runabout. Just as he reached maximum magnification, a blue disk appeared, the runabout seemed to elongate, and then she was gone. Nog had gone into warp.
Good
, O'Brien thought.
No troubles, then.
He turned his attention to the next problem.

Mindful of working in zero g, O'Brien tugged on the cord that tethered him to the thruster pack, gently imparting a bit of spin. Both he and the pack twirled, though slowly and in opposite directions. O'Brien extended his arm and waited patiently for the pack to align with his suit's yoke. When they were close enough, the locking mechanisms found each other and activated. O'Brien bent his other arm and waited for the yoke to snug into place.

A green light indicated that the magnetic connection was complete and the yoke and thruster were talking to each other. The right control arm extended until it aligned with his hand. The throttle control unfolded. “All right,” O'Brien said aloud. “Let's see if I remember how to do this.”

“Repeat,”
the suit's computer droned.

“Belay,” O'Brien said. “Also, ignore my voice commands unless I address you directly. I'll say,
computer
. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“I just like to talk through things sometimes. Out loud.”

The computer, as instructed, did not reply.

Grasping the harpoon gun, O'Brien said, “Computer, turn me so I'm facing the
Wren
.”
Tiny chemical rockets puffed and spun O'Brien around ninety degrees until other chemical jets halted his movement. The
Wren
hove into view.

“Distance?” he asked, but then remembered the directive he had made only a moment earlier. “Computer, distance?”

“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 anticipated, 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 space station could only be considered “good news” under the most charitable circumstances).

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, hello!
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

“W
eren'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 glass. When she was finished with the pour, she handed the glass 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 glass. Bharad didn't believe in letting anyone drink alone, even if she only intended to have a small amount. They tapped glasses 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 circumstances 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 embarrassed. 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 glass. “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 ass end of space 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 glasses.

“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 glass against hers. “I'll drink to that.”

January 9, 2386

Open Space

En Route to Robert Hooke

Miles O'Brien 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 circumstances 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, “Hello, 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. “Flanges,” he resumed. “Don't worry.”

“I thought the tow cable might have torn loose.”

“No worries, Nita. Everything's secure.” O'Brien wanted to say something better, something more reassuring, but now he was thinking about his wife, wondering what Keiko would say if she knew what he was doing at that moment. Out in space with a thruster on his back, tugging a disintegrating spacecraft back to an infected space station. Most likely, she'd say, in a mildly disappointed tone, “Miles O'Brien, you're a damned fool.”

A sour knot twisted in his gut. When was the last time he had consumed anything that wasn't liquid and alcoholic?
Might not be any other options anytime in the near future.
He wondered if Nog had made it past the interference and was on his way back. He wondered whether the Hooke was holding together. He wondered if Captain Maxwell was still alive.

Feeling a lump of self-pity and woe forming in the pit
of his gut, O'Brien did what his mother had advised him to do. He began to sing:

“The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.”

A voice crackled over the comm channel.
“That's an awfully sad song, Chief.”

O'Brien turned to look to his left and then to his right. Nog was coming up beside him, skillfully piloting his own thruster pack. A second cable was stretched out behind him. He must have fixed his harpoon as he had flown past the
Wren
. When his cable went taut, O'Brien applied a little more thrust, confident that the two of them would be able to slow down the transport when the time came. He checked his velocity and did the mental calculation. He smiled, though only when his head was turned away from Nog. “Aye,” he replied. “It is a bit. It's a song we used to sing back in the day on the
Rutledge.
Captain Maxwell liked it.”

“Is there more?”

“There is, but it doesn't get any more cheerful.”

“Another time,”
Nog said.

They flew along in companionable silence for a few minutes, Nog nervously checking their velocity and course. O'Brien watched the stars until Nog settled, and then asked, “What happened with the
Amazon
? I saw her go into warp.”

“You did,”
Nog said.
“After you left the ship, it occurred to me that I could program the runabout to get clear of this distortion zone and send a message to the station. T
here was
another thruster pack—I'm going to find out who stowed two of these on a runabout when we get back—so I figured I'd come and lend a hand.”

“Ah,” O'Brien said. “Well, thanks. Appreciate it.”

“Should have thought of this sooner.”
He checked their course again, then added,
“I'm sure Doctor Bashir would have thought of it sooner. I'm just not as smart as he is.”

O'Brien let the sentiment echo around inside his helmet for a few moments. “Well,” he offered, “who is, Commander? Who is?”

“True,”
Nog agreed.

Neither spoke for what was probably a long spell, but O'Brien found that he didn't mind the quiet. At the appointed time, the pair of engineers began to shift their configuration in an attempt to bring the
Wren
to a safe stop. Before heading off on the necessary vector, Nog added,
“If we survive this, I swear I'm never going anywhere with you ever again.”

Ops Center

Robert Hooke

“There are a lot
of uncertainties here,” Maxwell said as he tugged the legs of the environmental suit up over his trousers. “A lot of things we don't know.”

“This is true,” Finch allowed. He was seated in the chair in front of the primary environmental control panel, which showed a slowly spinning schematic of the Hooke, replete with blinking colored swaths to indicate problem areas. There were, Maxwell noted, lots of blinking red and
orange blocks, and not very many yellow or green bits. The situation was rapidly going to hell.

The ops center had fared better than most of the rooms they had visited on the other decks, though this was likely because there were fewer pieces of fragile lab equipment here. “Just for fun,” Maxwell said, standing and slipping his arms into the sleeves, “let's list some of them. Seeing as we're not doing anything else.”