Force and Motion (4 page)

He looked at the two other tiny containers, both burnished to a gleam, even in the low light of the ship's tiny makeshift chapel. All three containers would remain there until the
Rutledge
reached Earth and Maxwell could bring Maria home. He would bury the containers on the hillside near Maria's parents' home. Her brothers would help him. Marco and Miguel would cry all afternoon as they carved out the graves and squared them off. They would cry through the funeral—quiet, manly tears—and
cry afterward when they filled in the graves and replaced the sod they had carefully removed. They would cry some more at the dinner and all the time they were getting gently yet deeply inebriated on the tequila they distilled in the garage behind Marco's house.

They would give Maxwell a shot of the tequila and tell him to drink, which he would. They would tell him, in low tones, that it was all right to weep, to release his grief, to wail and curse God. Maxwell would smile and thank them. He would, too. He would when the time was right. “I'll cry,” he promised, “when the tears come.”

But he knew that he never would. Tears had to come from someplace inside you, but there was nothing left inside Benjamin Maxwell except perhaps ashes. He felt them there, inside him.

He studied the small silver containers in his ship's chapel, but he didn't dare touch any of them. His hands were too heavy, too clumsy. He knew he would break the containers open if he tried to handle them, and the ashes, the ashes, they would fill the room and be sucked away by the air scrubbers until they were shot out into space. His wife and children shot out into space, disbursed, and never to be recovered.

January 9, 2386

Ben Maxwell's Quarters

Robert Hooke

Maxwell opened his eyes
and silently counted backward from ten. He tried to remain still, not wanting his cabin's
motion sensor to detect him and turn on the light. He wanted the dark to remain dark.

. . . Seven, six, five . . .

Years of therapy kept him in the moment, experiencing the feelings, letting them wash over him.

. . . Four, three, two . . .

He heard the voices of his counselors in the back of his mind, all of them speaking in low tones, offering encouragement:
Stay with it. Feel it. Don't deny the emotions.

Maxwell thought about the ocean, thought about surfing. Despite living in New Zealand for years, he had only tried surfing a couple times, and only in curated areas. Having spent most of his childhood living near or on the water, knowing what dwelled beneath the waves, he had too much respect for those creatures to play on the roof of their home. He had told Doctor Gunther, “There are great whites down there.” Gunther had been one of the best surfers at the hospital, he and his sons. “You know what one of them can do, don't you?” Maxwell had asked. Gunther had only laughed. Of course he knew. He'd lived his whole life on the waves. He knew everything about the water, everything above and below. He respected the hunters, but never worried.

. . .
One, zero . . .

The dream was locked down. He had it, the gist of it, in any case. Not so much a dream, Maxwell knew, as a distillation of memory. He reflected on his feelings, about those days: discovering the bodies, bringing them home, and laying them to rest. His wife. His children. Maxwell remembered how he had felt, or, in truth, hadn't felt anything at all.

Counselors had asked, back when he woke up every night, chest heaving, sheets soaked with sweat.
Only in the hospital or at the colony, though.
Never when he was on his ships, not the
Rutledge
or the
Phoenix
.

“How did you sleep back in those early days?” every counselor had asked.

“Like a rock,” Maxwell had said.

He almost laughed now to think about it.

He hadn't had that dream in years. He thought about that day. His wife and children, dead now for so many years, were never far from him. But did he dream? No. Not so much.

“So why today?” Maxwell said aloud. The cabin sensors heard, naturally, and the tiny light in the corner near the hatch flickered on just in case he needed to go to the head. He rolled over onto his back and put his hands behind his head, considering the bulkheads.
Oh,
he thought.
Of course.

And, naturally, just at that moment, the intercom chimed. Anatoly Finch intoned, as if from the heavens (which was, in a sense, true),
“Ben? Are you awake?”

Maxwell replied, as one does to a minor deity, with respect and good grammar. “I am,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”

“You have some visitors, Ben. Starfleet. They're asking about you. Do you want to see them?”

Them?
Maxwell wondered.
Who did Miles bring with him?
He shrugged. It didn't matter. He sat up and massaged some of the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. The Hooke beds were too soft. “Of course,” he said. “Where would you like me to meet them?”

“The hangar bay, I suppose,”
Finch replied.

“Can't right now. Both bays are being used.” Finch never paid any attention to log entries that didn't involve the labs.

“Ah,”
Finch said.
“Of course they are. I suppose we'll have to receive them up here then, shan't we? Ops, in five minutes?”

“Make it ten, please.” Maxwell said. “I need to tidy up.”

“Very well,”
Finch drawled.
“And Ben?”

“Sir?”

“We will be having a discussion about your having guests show up unannounced, won't we?”

“Check the logs, Mister Finch,” Maxwell said, repressing his irritation. “It's all there.”

Finch paused, but did not sign off. Clearly, he was checking his log.
“Of course it is, Ben. But still . . .
”

“If you say we're going to have a discussion, Mister Finch,” Maxwell conceded, “we'll have a discussion. It's your station, after all. I just work here.”

“Indeed,”
Finch intoned.
“Indeed.”

Chapter 3

January 2, 2386

Quark's

Deep Space 9

“T
hank you both for agreeing to meet me here,” Nog said.

“Hey,” Danny said. “Glad to help.” He tugged on the knot of his necktie, loosening it just enough that he could slip a finger down his collar and scratch his neck. Then Danny tilted his head to one side, moved his mouth in a way that might have been interpreted as a smile, and said, “Sorry I couldn't find Vic for you. He's . . . ah . . . busy?”

“That's okay, Danny,” Nog said. “It's always good to see you. How's business been?”

Danny squinted and looked down at the inside of his wrist like he was reading something very tiny someone had written there. “Business has been okay. We've been knocking around a couple possibilities. Rusty has an idea.”

“Rusty?” Nog asked.

Danny shrugged wearily, like he didn't have the strength to comment, and sat back in his club chair. The hologram flickered once and then again.

“My brother's still having problems with his holosuites?”
Rom asked from where he sat. Nog's father fidgeted, first rubbing the arms of the chair, then touching the lobes of his ears, and finally tugging on the cuffs of his expensively
tailored shirt. Despite having been the grand nagus for more than a decade, Rom still did not present any evidence of being comfortable with the higher-quality fabrics his wife, Leeta, rightly insisted he wear while serving in his official capacity.

“What kind of suites?” Danny asked.

Rom, seated in front of his personal holographic array in his office on Ferenginar, grinned, remembering that
this
hologram was not self-aware like Vic Fontaine.
“Danny, you look good.”

“You too, Rom,” Danny replied. “How're the wife and the kid?”

Rom smiled hugely, showing his back teeth.
“The treasures of my life.”

Danny dipped his head and turned away as if he was embarrassed by the display of unbridled happiness. “How is it,” he asked wryly, “that a guy like you is in charge?”

Rom's grin faded.
“I think,”
he said uncertainly,
“because the economic indicators are up one point six percent over projections for the quarter, largely on the basis of the depreciated tariffs we've introduced for both Federation and Cardassian goods. In the past three quarters, we've seen slightly smaller increases, though we've managed to leverage the improved reputation of Ferengi mining so that—”

“Father?” Nog asked.

“Yes?”

“Please don't get started on economic reforms. Beaming in your hologram from home is very . . . costly.”

“
I
can afford it,”
Rom said brightly.

“I mean, Uncle Quark is bound to notice sooner or later and wonder what we're doing.”

“Oh,”
Rom said, shrinking slightly, which seemed so ridiculous to Nog. His father had infinitely more wealth and prestige than his uncle, and yet Rom still acted like he was afraid Quark was going to walk in at any moment and tell him to clear a dirty table.
“All right, then, what
are we doing?”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “What's the deal?”

“I need some advice,” Nog began.

“Oh,”
Rom said, and sat up straighter.
“Of course, son. What can I help you with? I mean, what kind of advice do you need? Financial information? Questions about career options? Uh, decorating suggestions? You do have new quarters, don't you?”

“This isn't about women, is it?
”
Danny asked. “If it is, I can go get Rusty.”

“No. No,” Nog said. “No, and definitely
no
,” he said. “It's just that . . .” He searched for the right words despite the fact that he'd been rehearsing the conversation for the past couple days. Crossing his arms over his chest, he lowered his head and said, with as much meaning as he could muster, “Life has been very
odd
lately.” He looked up from under his brow to see what kind of response his statement had generated. His father was now leaning forward in his chair, palms of his hands resting on his knees. Now that Rom had something to do, a task to engage in, he had ceased fidgeting. Danny maintained a demeanor of polite, modulated concern. Interestingly, a small table had materialized beside his chair and Danny was sipping from a tumbler of brown liquor.

No one said a word for several seconds.

His father looked back and forth between Nog and
Danny.
“So?”
Rom asked, apparently mystified.
“You're on Deep Space 9. Life is
always
odd there.”

Danny pointed toward Rom without taking his eyes off Nog. “I concur.”

“It's been
extra
odd,” Nog amended. “As in ‘more so than usual.' I . . . I'm afraid I can't tell you about all of it.” He shook his head, an indication of his frustration. “Orders.” Rom frowned at him as if to say,
So?
Nog added, “From the top. The
very
top.”

“But you're okay?” Danny asked.

“Nothing physical,” Nog explained. “Nothing permanent, anyway.” He rubbed his forehead and stood up straight. Besides the two chairs and the table, the room was starkly simple, with paneled walls and a lush wall-to-wall carpet based on the kinds in gentlemen's clubs a person like Danny might have frequented back in the twentieth century, though purely for business reasons, naturally. Nog enjoyed walking around on the carpet. He felt like the soles of his feet were being massaged by tiny, furry springs.

“Then what?”
Rom asked.

“Yeah, kid. What he said.
Then what?
” Danny asked. “Afraid you're being a bit too cryptic.”

“There's no one to talk to!”
Nog said, surprised by his own words. He had been thinking about this conversation for some time, but now that he had arrived at the crux of the matter, he was surprised—and not a little bit ­embarrassed—to hear the words come out of his mouth. This was the source of his spiritual malaise? That he didn't have anyone who would listen to him complain?

Danny and his father looked at each other. Two over
lapping but competing thoughts blipped through Nog's mind:

These two glancing askew at each other is costing an astonishing amount of latinum.

The holograms look
great
.

“Well . . . ,” Rom began.

“You could . . . ,” Danny hemmed. “Ah . . .”

Both fell silent and became very intensely interested in their manicures, waiting for the other to continue.

“You could call me anytime,”
Rom said, rising and spreading his hands.

“All you have to do is drop in,” Danny added, uncrossing and recrossing his legs.

Nog waved them both away. “This isn't about making you feel guilty. Or worrying about me. I know how I sound. I know this is kind of . . . ” He searched his feelings for the correct word. “ . . . pathetic.”

“Not at all,” Danny said. “It's important. And something you need to get all the kinks out of because if you don't, it can turn nasty.”

“He's right, son,”
Rom said.
“It is important. Everyone needs someone to talk to about this sort of thing. If I didn't have Leeta, I don't know what I'd do. Thoughts whizzing away at warp speed, one way or another. A million things to ponder every day. It's enough to make a man's lobes throb.”

“What did you do before you met Leeta?” Nog asked.

Rom sat down again and slumped into his chair. Nog was touched by the momentary expression of wistful sadness on his father's face.
“Well,”
he said,
“I had you.”
He furrowed his brow.
“And Quark, who can be a surprisingly
good listener when you pay him enough.”
He frowned, but then brightened.
“And Morn!”

“Morn?” Danny asked.

“I miss him,”
Rom said, momentarily lost in the mists of nostalgia.

“Sure,” Danny said, playing along.

His father remained quiet for a count of four and then asked,
“What about Jake?”

Well,
Nog thought
. Here we are.
He kept his answer brief. “Married. Baby.”

Both men shrugged and looked at opposite corners of their virtual room.

“No counterproposal for that,”
Rom said.

“It happens,” Danny added.

“Yeah,” Nog sighed. “And I'm happy for him.”

“Of course you are,”
Rom said.
“But I understand what you're saying,”
his father added.
“What it means. But it's one of those things that happen to everyone. People change. They grow up. And sometimes . . .”

“People get left behind,” Danny concluded.

No one spoke. They all stared for what seemed a very long time, but was probably only ten strips of latinum.

Finally, Nog asked, “So, what do you do?”

Rom looked at Danny, who looked back. They shrugged as one.

“Move on,” Danny offered.

“Make new friends.”

“Or see a shrink,” Danny added.

Nog shook his head at the last suggestion. “No. This isn't that sort of thing. I'm not looking for therapy. Just someone who wants to . . . I don't know. There's a word . . .”

“Hang out,” Danny offered.

“That's two words,”
Rom corrected.

Nog rolled his eyes.

“What about the chief?”
Rom asked.

January 9, 2386

Ops Center

Robert Hooke

“What about
this Chief O'Brien?” Finch asked.

“What
is
a chief?” Sabih asked, scrolling through large chunks of data at rapid speeds. One of his skills—his
only
skill, he would admit when he was being honest with himself—was his ability to quickly and efficiently search for and retrieve data from a variety of nonintegrated databases. Starfleet, he knew, was all about cohesive, curated databases, but not everyone else in the Federation (and definitely not outside it) was fortunate enough to possess its refined resources. Sabih also knew he could look up the answer to his own question before Finch could reply, but he wanted to buy himself some time. Also, sometimes he enjoyed listening to his employer pontificate.

“A
chief
,”
Finch began, leaning back with fingers steepled, “is a noncommissioned officer, which means he or she has been promoted up through the ranks of enlisted personnel and did not receive a commission. There are many types of noncommissioned officers—or noncoms, as they are sometimes called—but most of
them share the distinction of being particularly talented in some complex, specialized skill, such as piloting a particularly nasty form of craft or mastering a weapons system. Chiefs frequently know more about the actual subject than the lieutenants and captains to whom they report.”

Finch exhaled, as he often did when completing one of his complex and perfectly phrased sentences. Inhaling, he began anew. “Now, our
Chief
O'Brien is likely some sort of engineering specialist—the most common use of the term in Starfleet—and holds sway over some section of specialists . . .”

“Actually,” Sabih said, having located O'Brien's public records, “he's the chief engineer of Deep Space 9. In fact, he's one of the primary designers and architects.”

“. . . Or, as I was about to say,” Finch continued without missing a beat, “sometimes the title is retained by individuals who, in fact, have a much wider swath of responsibility and authority. Obviously, such is the case with our erstwhile visitor. And his associate?”

“Nog? Hang on, let me check.” As Sabih had immediately recognized the name as Ferengi, he needed little time to find a Starfleet lieutenant commander from that world. There was, in fact, only one, named Nog or otherwise. “Lots of impressive information here, assuming I'm reading this correctly. But one fact stands out: Lieutenant Commander Nog is the son of the current grand nagus, Rom.”

Finch was not often rendered speechless. Sabih observed the spectacle from the corners of his eyes, not
daring to stare directly at a minor miracle. Finch's gaze, meanwhile, appeared to be flickering from one imagined vista to the next. He lifted his chin and rubbed the underside with the tip of his thumb. “
Really
?” he breathed. “How very
interesting
.”

“It is, isn't it?” Sabih commented. “Why would the son of the grand nagus waste his time working for Starfleet? He must be worth more latinum than, well, the space station he works on.”

“The newly built space station,” Finch said. “And our nearest neighbor of any note if you don't count Bajor.”

“Don't you count Bajor?”

“No,” Finch said. “Bajor is too concerned with
Bajor
to have much interest in our activities. But a Starfleet station . . . I've been meaning to focus some thought on them, but, you know . . .” He gestured significantly in an “up-there-thataway” fashion. “Busy, busy.”

“But now they've come to us,” Sabih added, and then corrected, “To
you
. They've come to you.”

“They
have
,” Finch growled. “But
why
?”
He suddenly remembered. “Ah, yes—Ben. Ben the janitor.”

“You know, he's not really exactly a
janitor
,” Sabih said, wishing to present a fair and balanced perspective.