Force and Motion (3 page)

“Looks like a mushroom,” O'Brien said, which is exactly what Nog had been thinking.

“I didn't know that Starfleet used these anymore,” Nog said.

Seventy or eighty years ago, just as it was beginning its second great age of exploration, the Federation had constructed scores of
Helios
stations and dropped them off as pickets where the newly commissioned fleet could stop and refuel and resupply. The upper decks, or the mushroom's cap, housed the bridge and officer quarters, while the thick stalk was comprised of anywhere from four to ten decks of quarters, labs, work space, and stowage. A bulb at the base of the stalk contained the station's reactor and, just below, the hangar deck. As one of Nog's professors at the Academy had explained, “Every expense was spared.”
And then she had added mysteriously, “Spam in a can.” Nog had always remembered that comment.

“They don't,” O'Brien said. “This is privately run.”

“By whom?”

The
Amazon
's comm chirped. The station was hailing them. “This is the Federation runabout
Amazon.
I'm Lieutenant Commander Nog. Please identify.”

“No,”
a male voice replied.
“Or, wait, yes. This is the Robert Hooke. Who are you again? No, wait. Don't answer. We don't care.
Just go away. We're busy. We don't want any. That's all you need to know. Go.”

Nog muted the feed. “Friendly,” he said. “Do you want to reply? Or just turn around and go home?”

O'Brien made a sour face. “Not exactly what I was expecting.” He tapped the companel. “This is Chief Miles O'Brien of Deep Space 9
.
I filed a flight plan for these coordinates earlier today. Is there a problem?”

Whoever was manning the comm board either didn't
know or didn't care to use the mute button.
“They say they're from
Deep Space 9. What should I say?”

A second voice, deeper, but muffled, answered,
“Ask them why they're here. Politely.”

“All right,”
the male sighed, and then cursed, perhaps realizing he hadn't muted his pickup.
“No problem,
Amazon.
We're just not used to visitors. Sorry, but I don't know anything about a flight plan. Is there something I can help you with? You understand this is a private station, right?”

“I'm aware of that,” O'Brien replied. “This isn't Starfleet business. I'm just, that is,
we're
just here to visit a friend.”

“We are?” Nog asked
sotto voce
.

“We are,” the chief replied.

“A friend?”
Hooke asked.
“Who?”

“Yeah,” Nog asked softly. “Who?”

“Benjamin Maxwell,” O'Brien said. “I believe he's employed here.”

“Benjamin Maxwell?”
Clearly, he no longer cared that he didn't know how to use a mute button.
“Who's that?”

The second, deeper voice said,
“Ben. He means Ben.”

Realization took its sweet time.
“The janitor? Ben the janitor?”

“Yes,”
the second voice drawled.
“Ben the janitor.”

Chapter 2

Three Years Earlier

Starfleet Penal Colony

T
he giant strode across the island. With every step, its wide feet compressed the topmost branches of the olive trees, which sprung back again as the giant marched on.

Doctor Clark cupped his hands around the top half of his face to protect his eyes from the bright midmorning sun and laughed appreciatively as the behemoth strolled down the shoreline. Above the waist, the giant was nothing more than a bare armature, a sketch of a torso: just enough structure to hold the sensor array and the tiny antigrav engines. The legs were the magic, each one over forty meters high, and, though massive in appearance, constructed of superlight materials that didn't have more than a couple hundred kilos of mass.

At the last minute, just before unleashing it, Maxwell had thought to clothe his creation in loose trousers, which flapped merrily in the steady breeze off the water.
Next time
, he thought,
I'll use colored cloth. Something really bright. Rainbow patterned
. But, for the apparatus's first real run, white cloth seemed appropriate.

Clark asked, “How do you keep it from crushing anything?”

Maxwell winced, unsure whether the doctor was merely woefully ignorant of any principles of modern engineering or was simply being a good therapist and giving his patient plenty of room to reply. In either case, he decided, the reply would be the same. “It's pretty simple,” Maxwell said. “Microsensors are slaved to the antigravs, and the main processor makes sure the structure maintains enough buoyancy to not come down too hard.”

“The feet actually do make contact?”

“Yes,” Maxwell explained. “So, the treetops bow a little. There are footprints in the sand. Otherwise, it would look odd. You might not be able to spot exactly why, but some part of your brain would tell you it was all a trick. This way—”

“It looks like a giant pair of legs walking around the island.”

“
Strolling
around the island. I worked hard to make sure the gait was correct.” He shaded his own eyes with his hand. Stupid to have forgotten his sunglasses. “He's taking it easy. Not in any hurry. He's just . . . taking it all in.”

“And isn't that a lesson for us all?”

Down on the beach road, Maxwell watched pedestrians and cyclists stop short as the legs came into view. The rolling landscape, even down by the muddy shoreline, meant it was difficult to spot the giant legs coming from more than a couple hundred meters away. He couldn't see the people's expressions (he should have sent out some probes), but their posture signaled their reactions: awe, confusion, wonder, amusement. No one appeared to be frightened, which was good. It meant Maxwell had cor
rectly calibrated the timing of the legs' pace: no one was alarmed because who could be alarmed about a man out for a stroll?

Colony staff and inmates (
No,
Maxwell corrected himself,
not inmates, patients
) were coming out of the administration buildings and dormitories. Maxwell had timed the event well: just after breakfast, but before the first round of group therapy sessions. People were asking, “What is it?” and “What does it mean?” No one sounded alarmed; most were delighted or, at worst, confused. He flicked his gaze over to Doctor Clark, who was studying him as best he could under the glare of midmorning.

“Well, Ben,” Clark asked, smiling slyly, “what
does
it mean?”

“It means I have a degree in engineering with a specialty in repulsor field dynamics,” Maxwell replied, watching as the legs briefly paused to avoid a foolhardy pedestrian who wandered too close to its foot pad.

“That's all?” Clark asked, crossing the lawn to stand closer. “Nothing else? No other message?” The wide lawn rolled down before them. Beside Maxwell, a small silver and ivory box chirped and ticked in time with the giant's steps.

“I'm not sure what you're trying to say, Doc,” Maxwell said with all the sincerity he could muster. In the months since Gunther had left the colony and Clark had become Maxwell's primary counselor and (he had to admit it) confidant, they had developed a friendly, if contentious, give and take. Maxwell pretended to be ignorant of the
doctor's therapeutic ripostes, and Clark pretended not to be annoyed.

“I think you're trying to tell us something,” Clark said. “Or maybe only yourself.” Maxwell remained silent. Clark sighed. “You're usually not this obtuse, Ben.”

“I usually haven't released a pair of giant legs into the wild. I might be distracted.”

“And you might be ready to leave, Ben,” Clark said, laying a hand on his shoulder. He tightened his grip for a moment and then released it. “It might be time to go for a walk.”

“A stroll,” Maxwell corrected. “I keep telling you: a stroll.”

“Then go for a stroll. I think it's time.”

Maxwell stood a bit straighter, crossed his arms, and tilted his head to the left as he regarded his creation. The giant's legs had briefly come to a halt just at the edge of the mucky shoreline. Its posture suggested contemplation and rest. Its white pants fluttered like banners. A tern swerved around the left leg, banked, and landed atop the hip armature, happy for the vantage point, a new place to study the water for his midday meal. Maxwell said, “Maybe you're right. Not much left to do here, is there?”

“That's what I've been telling you.”

“It's a penal colony, though. I might need some more penalization.”

“It's a therapy center,” Clark said. “And we're long past the point where there's any more therapy we can offer.” He laughed. “Hell, most of the other patients think you're on the staff.”

“I do have an air of command,” Maxwell noted. “I keep trying to get rid of it, but can't seem to shake it.”

“Stop trying,” Clark said. “It's baked in.”

The giant legs marched south and west, along the shoreline, and disappeared behind a low hill covered in grape vines. “So, time to go?” Maxwell asked as the spectators at the bottom of the hill returned to their chores and errands.

“Yes,” his therapist said. “Time to go.”

“Just one question.”

“Only one?”

“Only one important one: Where?”

January 9, 2386

Ops Center

Robert Hooke

Finch leaned forward,
briefly entering Sabih's personal space, and tapped a control stud on the comm panel. Being in Finch's orbit always meant coming into a complex mélange of aromas: sandalwood, green tea, and something metallic. It was pleasant, but unexpected.

“This is the mute button,” Finch rumbled. “Pray learn to use it.” He sat back in his padded chair with a huff. “What are you planning to say to our Starfleet friends?” Anatoly Finch was a large man. His generous frame was hard on furniture, especially furniture as old as some of the pieces in the Hooke common areas. “Quickly now, lad,” he prodded. “They'll be getting suspicious right around now.”

“Go away?” Sabih suggested, fidgeting with the closer on his jacket. He had only worked for Finch for a few months and didn't always know what his employer wanted when he posed questions of the sort he was flinging at him. Life would be ever so much simpler if Finch just
told
Sabih what he wanted to happen.

Finch shook his head and rubbed the neatly trimmed whiskers on his chin with the ball of his thumb. “While they have no formal jurisdiction here, our Starfleet friends will no doubt find some pretense for boarding. Try again.”

“Tell them Ben isn't here?” Sabih asked, wishing there was someone—
anyone
—else in the ops center who might offer an opinion. But it was late in the station's workday, and the communications center typically wasn't manned in the “evening” hours.

“Unrealistic,” Finch sighed. “Especially since they could contact him directly. I suspect that may occur at any moment. Their contacting him through us may be only a courtesy.”

Sabih's mind raced. His palms were sweating. Getting rid of the 'Fleeters didn't seem to be an option, so the other logical option was . . . “Invite them aboard?”

Finch smiled and raised his hands in mock salute. “Well done, lad.”

“And hope they don't see anything they shouldn't see?”

To Sabih's utter dismay, Finch grinned so broadly his molars showed. His eyes narrowed mischievously. “Oh, no,” he said, his deep baritone voice reverberating off the ops center's dingy walls. “Show them
everything
and ask
them what they think. But, before we do, let's find out more about our Lieutenant Commander Nog and Chief Miles O'Brien.”

Runabout
Amazon

“What is this place?”
Nog asked, though he had already submitted a search to the computer. “And who is Robert Hooke?”

“You've never heard of Robert Hooke?” the chief asked.

“No. Should I?”

“Have you heard of Isaac Newton?”

“Of course,” Nog replied. “He was a physicist.” His mind raced.
Or a baker?

“Well, you wouldn't have heard of Isaac Newton if not for Robert Hooke,” O'Brien replied. “Hooke figured out most of the rules for the motion of planets, work that Newton later completed.”

“
Most
of the rules? Why not all? That seems like something you'd want to finish.”

O'Brien shrugged like he was making excuses for a friend. “Hooke was easily distracted. He had lots of other interests: microscopy, experimental physics, surveying. You know the type.”

“I know the type,” Nog said. “So he asked his friend Newton to take over?”

“They hated each other. I don't think Hooke wanted Newton to finish his work. He just did. Newton was like that.”

“How do you know all of this?” Nog asked, impressed despite himself.

“Ah, well. No trick to it. I looked it up when Captain Maxwell told me he was stationed . . . well,
working
here.”

“
Captain
Maxwell?”

“I should be more careful,” O'Brien admitted. “He hates it when I call him that.”

Captain Benjamin Maxwell
. The name rang a bell.
And not a good bell,
Nog thought
.

“Look it up, Nog,” the chief said. “It's quicker than me telling you.”

The computer had already retrieved the search about the Robert Hooke, but Nog nudged the results to the side and opened another search pane. Official Starfleet reports were the first results, including an image of Benjamin Maxwell, a middle-aged hew-mon, slight of build, gray-haired, with pleasant features and warm blue eyes. He was smiling slightly in the image—unusual for official Starfleet portraits—and there were crinkly lines around Maxwell's eyes that made Nog want to smile back.

“The image is old,” O'Brien said. “Almost twenty years.”

“Captain of the
Phoenix
,” Nog said, quickly scanning the article.

“And the
Rutledge
before that,” the chief added. “He was my commanding officer.”

Nog scrolled through the high points. Most were very impressive. The last one was not. Nog didn't need to read the details; he remembered hearing the story in the Academy, a cautionary tale of a captain who lost his way and
decided he knew better than the admirals and analysts. “You were on the
Enterprise
then.”

“Just a couple years before I went to the station,” O'Brien added.

He skimmed through the text and stopped to read the brief of the court-martial in more detail. “Maxwell claimed the Cardassians were rearming for another push into Federation space. The science station was a supply depot?”

“Probably,” O'Brien said. “It was never proved definitively, but Captain Picard said the evidence strongly suggested that Captain Maxwell . . . that Mister Maxwell . . . that he was probably right.”

“Captain Picard even offered to testify on his behalf at the court-martial.”

“I would have spoken too,” O'Brien said. “But they never called me. He'd already confessed to everything. There was no need, but I would have. He didn't have anyone left.”

Thirty-eight Years Earlier

Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, Earth

There hadn't been much left
to bury, not that Maria would have wanted to be buried on Setlik III. “This isn't home,” she had said on more than one occasion and never in earshot of the kids. They'd only lived at the colony for two years, but it was the longest either Carlo or Sofia had stayed in one place—the itinerate life of a Starfleet brat—so they considered it home, but not Maria. Earth
was home, or, more accurately, Mexico, and his wife had every intention of settling there someday. The operative word was
someday
, as she was happy to say given any opportunity.

Maxwell looked at the tiny container that held his wife's remains: mostly just ash and a few bone fragments. Cardassian torpedoes were legendarily brutal, designed to instill maximum terror and damage. “If it helps,” the recovery specialist had told Maxwell, “if it means anything at all, they never knew what hit them. These things burn so hot . . .”

He knew the specialist had been lying. They were trained to lie, trained to conceal and comfort and help the bereaved find some modicum of peace. Maxwell knew this because, being a captain, you just know these things. It was the curse of being a captain—knowing things, even the worst things. You had to know because you had to make sure you could be prepared, prepare your crew, prepare the people who depended on you.

“Thank you,” Maxwell had said. “That . . . helps.” For good measure, he added, “And at least they were all together in the end.”