Force and Motion (5 page)

“He is if I say he is,” Finch replied, pulling his cuffs through the sleeves of his jacket. “But clearly there's more to our Mr. Maxwell than was unearthed by his background check. How does he command the attention of two such eminences?”

“I'm not sure,” Sabih said, scrolling as fast as he could. “I'm not finding anything actionable. It's not exactly the
easiest name in the word to disambiguate.
Benjamin No-Middle-Initial Maxwell.
He could be anyone.”

“Check for a Starfleet connection.”

“I thought of that,” Sabih said, mildly insulted. “I found a stub of a record about an officer named Benjamin Maxwell.”

“A stub?”

“Something left after something has been edited. Or purged.”

“Purged. An interesting term, my lad. Why
purged
?”

“It doesn't say. That's more or less the point of a purge. So no one knows. Again, I note that Benjamin Maxwell is a common name.” He knew he would pay for these last comments—Finch did not appreciate being the target of sarcasm—but Sabih was tired and hungry and had been working for more than sixteen hours with neither rest nor consuming anything he considered real food. This internship was not working out the way he had hoped. If only he had worked a little harder at university, maybe he wouldn't be in this ridiculous situation, forced to kowtow to every whim of this strange, strange man.

“Hmph,” Finch grunted. “Yes.”

Oh, yes,
Sabih thought.
I'm definitely going to pay for that last comment. Unless I can distract him?
“They're waiting for a reply.”

“Of course they are,” Finch said, standing up straight and tugging his jacket down over his barrel chest. “Where are our manners? Lower the ramparts and invite the venerated inside. And, as soon as they're comfortable, we'll take them up to meet
her.
”

Runabout
Amazon

“And who is this fellow
Finch
when he's not at home?” O'Brien asked.

“Well,” Nog said, “to start, he
is
at home. The Hooke is his home, his only home
.
Or at least it's his only known address.”

“He owns it?”

“He's the landlord. An Orion bank owns it. He didn't have much of a down payment. The loan terms are not optimal. Interest rates are . . . well, my uncle would need to have a lie-down with a damp cloth on his forehead if he ever had to pay these rates.”

O'Brien glanced at the column of numbers Nog indicated. “Or have a little private party if he was the lender,” the chief observed.

Nog grinned. “He might invite a close friend or two with these kinds of rates.”

“So he's a landlord. What else?”

“A scientist,” Nog recited. “A researcher—genetics and biotechnology. An entrepreneur.”

“Not a term you hear much these days,” O'Brien said.

“But not a very good one,” Nog said. “Finch has had his successes.” He pulled up a long list of filed patents. “And some failures.” He pulled up an even longer list of lawsuits.

“Aren't lawsuits one of the operational hazards of aggressive capitalism?”

“Not if you're doing it right.”

“Hmmm,” O'Brien said, realizing that while Nog was the least Ferengi-like Ferengi he had ever met, he was still steeped in the arcane workings of finance. “So, Finch
managed to purchase—well,
mortgage
—this station out here in the middle of nowhere and lured some other researchers to come along. Why? How?”

“Because they couldn't find anyone else who would let them do their work?” Nog theorized.

“Possibly,” O'Brien said. “Do we have any data about Finch's tenants?”

“No,” Nog said, having obviously attempted several searches. “Not public information.”

“So they could be crackpots.”

“Crackpots?”

“Fringe scientists.”

“Ah,” Nog said. “High-risk researchers. Understood. Then, if I may ask, do you have any idea why Captain . . . I mean . . .
Mister
Maxwell . . . is out here with them?”

O'Brien was reassured by the fact that he wasn't the only one tripping over what to call Ben Maxwell. “I think,” he said, “because he believed he didn't have anywhere else to go.”

The comm cheeped.
“Gentlemen,”
boomed the deeper male voice, presumably Finch's.
“My sincere apologies for keeping you waiting. We've contacted Ben—Mister Maxwell—and asked him to meet you here in our operational center. The transporter platform has been cleared. Please be aware that we use a slightly older integrator, so set your pattern buffer to—”

“Got it,” O'Brien said, checking the schema on the transporter panel and finding it mildly alarming.
Maybe I should offer to do an upgrade while I'm here,
he thought. “Thanks for the warning. We'll use your coordinates but
our
transporter”

“I apologize for not being able to let you use our docking facility,”
Finch continued.
“But both of our transports are in for minor repairs.”

“No worries,” O'Brien said. “Give us a minute to secure our ship and we'll be over.
Amazon
out.”

O'Brien pointed at the transporter schema and Nog winced. He stood, brushed off the front of his uniform tunic, and then sighed deeply. “I hope you won't mind, but I have to ask you this, Chief.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why am I here?”

O'Brien answered, “Like I said, you've had a rough couple months and Captain Ro thought you looked like you needed to take a little trip.”

“Remember where we went the last time we ‘took a little trip' together?”

“No,” O'Brien said uncertainly.

“Empok Nor.”

“Oh,” O'Brien recalled. “Right. That could have gone better.”

Nog walked to the transporter pad. O'Brien joined him. Neither of them commented further.

O'Brien opened his mouth to issue the order, but then snapped it shut as he remembered that Nog was, officially speaking, the senior officer and entitled to give the command.

“Computer,” Nog said, “beam us to the Hooke
.”

The transporter replied,
“Energizing,”
and the interior of the
Amazon
dissolved.

Chapter 4

Thirty-Seven Years Earlier

U.S.S. Rutledge

M
iles O'Brien rolled over onto his stomach and searched the deck for his bedside chrono. Naomi Chao cursed when his movement yanked the sheet off her chest. “Why do you keep this cabin so cold?” she griped.

“It's not cold,” O'Brien replied, patting the deck. “You just need to eat something besides broccoli and soy paste.”

“I
like
broccoli and soy paste,” Chao muttered, and half-heartedly socked O'Brien in the back.

“I'm going to make you some mutton stew,” O'Brien said. “And you won't be cold anymore. My mother loves mutton stew, and she's never cold.” This, strictly speaking, was not true. O'Brien suspected that his mother, like most women he had encountered so far in his life, was
always
cold, but like any good Irish countrywoman, she knew the virtue of thick wool socks.

“What is mutton?” Chao asked. “It's sheep, isn't it? Or baby cows. Which? Never mind. They're both disgusting and I won't eat it.”

“Then you'll always be cold.”

“Not if you would turn up the heat!”

O'Brien chuckled, pleased with the reaction. Though they'd only been lovers for a few weeks, he enjoyed know
ing he could get under Chao's skin when needed. He found his chrono and held it up so she could see it. “Oh-two-thirty,” he said.

Chao groaned. “I can't believe you did this to me
again
. I have to get up in four hours.”

“So do I,” O'Brien protested.

“Right,” Chao said, dragging the sheet back to cover her chest and legs. “You sit at tactical and pretend you're looking at sensor readouts for a few hours. I actually have to
work
.”

“Staring at sensor screens is work,” O'Brien said, mentally adding,
Especially if you're waiting for a Cardassian ship to pop out of warp and run the blockade.

“Not compared to ops,” Chao said. O'Brien had to admit this was probably true, especially when Captain Maxwell was on the bridge. The captain was, as everyone who served on his ship agreed, a genial and gracious commander, but he did not tolerate shoddiness or incompetence. Chao leaned over and began to search the deck for her discarded uniform.

“You don't have to go if you don't want,” O'Brien said. “Marcus is on leave, so I have the cabin to myself.”

“That's not the problem,” Chao said, standing and pulling on her undergarments. “It's one thing to be seen leaving your cabin in the middle of the night and something entirely different stepping out into a busy corridor just as alpha shift is beginning. Especially if my uniform looks like it probably does.” She sighed and said, “Lights. One-quarter.” The lights came up, though only barely. She was holding up her uniform blouse, inspecting the creases. “I
hate
this fabric.”

“I hear they may be changing them again,” O'Brien said off-handedly. “One-piece.”

Chao slipped on the uniform blouse. “I
heard
,” she moaned. “What genius do you suppose came up with that idea? It wasn't a woman, I can tell you that much. I mean, how are we supposed to go to the bathroom without completely disrobing?”

O'Brien considered possible solutions. “Snaps?” he offered.

Chao pulled on her jacket and tugged the flaps snuggly over her breasts. “Hey, mister,” she warned. “Don't get snappy with me. Not if you ever want to see any of this again
without
a uniform.” She waved her hand in an all-inclusive motion. O'Brien didn't tug on the dangling thread of her metaphor. He most definitely
did
want to see Chao without her uniform again. While he was reasonably sure she enjoyed some warm feelings about him, he also sensed that the balance of power in their still-new relationship was decidedly in her favor. O'Brien knew she could live without ever seeing him again.

He watched silently, arms crossed over his chest, as Chao gathered together and donned the last straying bits of uniform. She worked quietly and efficiently, the same manner in which she approached most tasks.

After she had shaken out her second sock and was slipping it over her foot, O'Brien asked quietly, “You want to have dinner tonight?”

Chao slowed her movements as if suddenly worried she might be making too much commotion or noise. Without looking at O'Brien, she said, “I don't know, Miles. This seemed to work when we were just . . . when
it was just a casual.” She paused to consider her words. “When we weren't breaking any major rules . . . any of the captain's major rules. You know what I mean. He gets it—that people need to blow off steam.”

“And eat dinner,” O'Brien reminded her.

“Yes, but . . . if you eat dinner together every night and then slip away to someone's cabin every night, people begin to notice.”

“They've already noticed, Naomi.”

“
I know they've already noticed
,” Chao said through clenched teeth. She inhaled once deeply and then released the breath slowly. “That's my point.”

O'Brien was surprised by how much effort it required to continue breathing at a regular rate. After three exhalations, he said, “I'm sorry you feel that way.”

Chao sighed, finished tugging on her second boot, and stood. She looked at the mirror, attempted to rake her hair into some presentable shape with her fingers, but then seemed to surrender. “I'm not sure how I feel, Miles. I know that I like you. I know that I have fun with you.” She paused, clearly searching for a third item to complete the set. “And I know that I'm never going to try mutton. Do you think you can accept that for now?”

Understanding that he had just been given parameters gift wrapped in a reprieve, O'Brien smiled and nodded. “I think I can do that.”

“Good.” She came back to the bed, leaned down, and kissed O'Brien on the cheek. “I appreciate it. Maybe when things settle down here we can figure this out.”

“Settle down?” O'Brien asked skeptically. “You think the Cardassians are going to just give up and go back
home? Do you think
we're
going to pack up and leave, especially after what they've done?”

Chao sat on the corner of the bed and laid her hand on O'Brien's chest, not with any sensual intent, but simply, he thought, to comfort or, perhaps, to take measure, or to see whether she could read his thoughts through his skin. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose not. When you put it like that.” To O'Brien's great surprise, Chao folded backward so that her head landed on his shoulder, then pulled his arm up around her like she was tugging on a blanket. They lay there together for a good few minutes, neither one of them speaking. Then, so softly that O'Brien could barely hear her, Chao asked, “How do you think he does it?”

O'Brien was fairly certain he knew what Chao meant, but he was sure this was one of those times when he should have his pronouns sorted out. “How,” he asked, “does who do what?”

“The captain,” she said. “Keep it together. How does Captain Maxwell keep it together—keep all of
us
together—so well after what he's been through? After what those . . .
Cardies . . .
did to his family.”

And everyone else on Setlik
, O'Brien added silently, but decided that this was not Chao's point.

“I don't know,” O'Brien replied gently. “But I also don't know anyone else who possibly
could
.”

“Me either,” Chao said. Suddenly, O'Brien understood that there might be another reason why she had some second thoughts about spending her meals and nights with him (regulations notwithstanding). To his great surprise, O'Brien found that he did not feel particularly slighted
by the realization. She squeezed his hand, the one she had pulled around her shoulder. “You come pretty close,” she said with something like her familiar bravado. Kissing him again on the cheek, this time with a little more commitment, Chao sat up and rolled off the bed. “See you on the bridge.”

“And later?” he asked. O'Brien couldn't help himself.

“Later's later,” Chao said as the door to the main corridor snapped open and she stepped through. “Let's worry about it when it gets here.”

January 9, 2386

Engineering Deck

Robert Hooke

Not enough sleep,
not enough sleep, not enough sleep
, Maxwell thought, jogging up the stairs that lined the inner wall of the Hooke central module.
I'm getting too old to just shake it off like I once did.
He moved easily enough despite his eighty-plus years, lifting each foot just enough to clear the top of the riser, not scraping the bottom of his thin shoes or putting any more stress on his knees and ankles than absolutely necessary.
The muscle and bone parts still seem to be doing okay,
he decided, though he was a little concerned about the twinge in his lower back.
The mushy stuff in my skull—there's the area
of greatest risk
.

Maxwell didn't have to climb the stairs. He could have taken the turbolift just like everyone else. The turbolifts worked—more or less—primarily because Maxwell made
sure the turbolifts worked. Essentially, everything on the Hooke that wasn't controlled or managed or owned by the individual researchers continued to function because of Maxwell's cajoling, insults, and—when required—­willingness to make shameless promises that he had no intention of keeping. Thus, the life-support system continued to support life, and the toilets emptied when the levers were pulled.

As he puffed up the stairs, Maxwell listened to the Hooke expand and contract around him just the way he had once listened to the surge of his ship's warp engines. It pleased him to note that nothing sounded like it was going to break down anytime soon. It was, Maxwell had to admit, the most fulfilling relationship he had managed to maintain for several years.

And now Miles has come by to say hello.
Maxwell groaned involuntarily and almost stumbled on a step.

During his years of incarceration and treatment following his crime, many of Maxwell's former colleagues and crew—everyone from mission specialists to ­admirals—had come forward to offer assistance and support. Most of them had been genuinely concerned and not merely morbidly curious to observe a precipitous fall from up close. As weeks became months, which in turn became years, Maxwell's story mutated from a news story to a teaching moment or cautionary tale, depending on who was telling the tale.

Over time, most of the observers had fallen away, not the least because Maxwell had encouraged them to do so. Did he not want their support or had he simply grown weary? Or, as Doctor Clark had suggested, “Have you
simply changed into another person?” Maxwell wasn't sure, but there was one fact about which he was certain: Miles O'Brien had been a constant, gracious presence. The chief never intruded, but Maxwell always knew he could count on his old tactical officer for a moderately raucous note and a bottle of real Bushmills on his birthday.

O'Brien's constancy was an inspiration. Maxwell knew he should be grateful. He knew this in his heart of hearts, but, for reasons he couldn't satisfactorily articulate, the idea of O'Brien coming for a visit felt like an intrusion. “You're a terrible man, Ben Maxwell,” he mumbled as he reached the landing. “A terrible, terrible man.”

Far below, in the depths of the core, the Hooke's overburdened atmosphere reclaimers chugged, scrubbing out the carbon dioxide and spewing forth breathable air. One deck below the scrubbers, and the station's primary reactor, was the hangar bay where the
Wren
and the
Aubrey
awaited last touches of paint before Maxwell considered their refits completed. He had come to love both spacecraft: rugged workhorses with the same basic engineering of the Federation's
Erewon
-class transports, but smaller and more manageable. Keeping the craft healthy was one of Maxwell's principal joys. If one of the ships was outside the bay, as was usually the case, O'Brien might have brought his runabout in and given them a chance to chat briefly before encountering Finch. Perhaps that would have been the kind thing to do.
Finch Without Warning
felt like it could be the title of a moderately disturbing children's book.

Maxwell pressed his thumb against the electronic lock, but suddenly froze. He looked out of the corners of his eyes, right and left, without moving his head.

He was, he knew, being watched.

She's here
, Maxwell thought.
Great.

He felt her eyes on him. If he moved his head and looked around, then there was a chance she might drop down on him. Sometimes, though, when these spells of watchfulness were on her, if Maxwell didn't challenge her by locking gazes, she would simply let him pass.
It was a game to her
, Maxwell thought, though there was more to it than simply that. She considered the central core to be
hers
and mildly resented Maxwell for using the stairways. He mentally conceded the point: the core
was
hers or, at least, she had been made for such spaces.
Well,
Maxwell thought, mentally shrugging,
her and her sister. But I never see her down here.

He sighed and tilted his head back to look up at the underside of the stairway slanting off over his head. Eight jewel-like beads, two much larger than the other six, glittered back at him. “Hello, Ginger,” Maxwell said. A pair of delicate chelicerae parted and clicked back together, a motion that Maxwell had learned to interpret as a kind of nod, a greeting. She dropped out from under the staircase on a slender, deceptively fragile-looking thread and allowed the air current in the core to spin her slowly in a clockwise direction. The grayish-green marking on her exoskeleton made it very difficult to see Ginger in low light, but now that she had slipped into the relatively modest illumination provided by the staircase lamps, she was easy enough to spot.