Force and Motion

by Jeffrey Lang

  The pungent aroma of industrial chemicals wafted out into the corridor, dogged by the florid stench of artificial lavender. Both Maxwell and Finch held their noses.

  Finch crossed the corridor and peered into ­Zerkowski’s lab. The inconstant gravity had tossed about containers and experimental arrays, but, overall, the damage was nothing compared to what they had seen in the rest of the station. “Doctor Zerkowski is a very organized fellow,” Finch observed.

  Maxwell crossed the room, careful not to step in any of the puddles that dotted the deck, and stopped before a wide, high cabinet. He slid open the door and extracted a neatly wrapped cube, a half meter on each side. “Helmet,” Maxwell said, tossing it to Finch, who caught it with two hands. Maxwell extracted a second, smaller package. “Suit.” And a third of similar dimensions. “Exchanger.” Leaning into the cabinet, he saw another set of cubes stacked farther back: a second suit. He turned back to Finch and smiled. “Doctor Zerkowski is a very organized and very cautious fellow.”

  Runabout Amazon

  “What do you figure the mass of the Wren is?” the chief asked as he removed the foam padding from the thruster pack. Nog was certain O’Brien already knew the answer and was simply making idle chatter.

  “With passengers? Forty thousand kilos,” Nog said. “Forty-five, tops.”

  “What’s this thing rated?” O’Brien shifted his shoulders inside the suit. It was a one-size-fits-all model, and the intelligent material was expanding and contracting around the chief’s limbs and torso, seeking an optimum configuration.

  “It’s a type four,” Nog recited. “Meant to be used to shift cargo in low-g environments. I’ve seen them used to tow small barges.” He concluded, “It should work. Maybe. Assuming you can find a spot on the Wren to attach a tow cable.”

  “I don’t want to get too close.” He hefted the harpoon gun. “What’s the range on this?”

  Nog wanted to grind his teeth. Again, he had no doubt the chief knew the answer, but the question-and-answer session must be helping somehow. “One hundred meters maximum. You’ll only get one shot that way, but you won’t need more than one. The Wren is a big target. Also, I would recommend you use the epoxy tip. The magnetic grapple might tear a hole in the hull if it’s been compromised.”

  “Good thinking,” O’Brien said, and adjusted the settings on the launcher accordingly.

  Every Academy cadet, especially those aiming toward an engineering degree, spent hours wearing thruster packs, though usually in the relatively safe environs of a spacedock. Heading out into open space was another matter. “When was the last time you used one of these?” Nog asked.

  The chief answered, “When we were building the station. Didn’t I?” He tugged on the gauntlets, then cycled through the diagnostic programs. “You?”

  “Inspection tours,” Nog said.

  “Right. Help me with this,” he said, indicating the helmet and yoke assembly. Nog lifted it while O’Brien squatted as low as he could in the snug spacesuit. The helmet slid into the power pack and Nog felt locking mechanisms click into place.

  O’Brien straightened and shifted the weight on his back. He spoke, but all Nog heard was a faint murmur. O’Brien touched his thumb to the tip of his forefinger, activating the suit’s pickup. “Why do these things always smell like someone was storing their old socks in them?”

  Nog shrugged. He liked the way spacesuits smelled.

  “Give me a once-over,” O’Brien said as he slowly turned. Nog checked seams and connections while the suit’s diagnostics ran one more check.

  “Looks good,” Nog said, and then repeated a question he had asked a couple times. “Are you sure you don’t want to bring a phaser?”

  “We’ve been through this,” the chief said. “Anything with that kind of energy signature might draw the Mother. I’d rather not take any chances. Besides, what would I shoot at?”

  “Still,” Nog said, but wasn’t able to finish the thought. “It’s your decision. You should be okay for up to four hours. If I’m lucky and find help quickly, I might even be back before you’ve finished towing the Wren back to the station.”

  “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.”
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  “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

  “Weren’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.”