Force and Motion

by Jeffrey Lang

  “Ah,” O’Brien said, “Captain. Could you use a bit of help?” He stepped through the gap, staying as far away from the still writhing Mother as he could.

  Behind him came Commander Nog and after him scrambled the all-too-familiar eight-legged silhouette of an arachnoform. By her markings and general demeanor, Maxwell knew it was Ginger. The three of them were tied together with a cable composed of, Maxwell guessed, Ginger’s silk. Maxwell pointed at Ginger. “They go EVA?”

  “Apparently,” Nog replied, “yes.”

  “Wish I’d known that. Probably could have been a big help.”

  “She didn’t really like it,” Nog said. “I think it made her dizzy.”

  Maxwell glanced at O’Brien for an explanation, but the chief just shook his head.

  “And the Mother doesn’t like fire,” Maxwell added. “Not surprising, but good to know.”

  O’Brien tossed the thruster pack down onto the deck. “Tapped out.”

  “Not that there’s really anywhere to go.”

  Now it was O’Brien and Nog’s turn to exchange confused glances. They both turned to Maxwell. “Nowhere to go?” O’Brien asked.

  Nog pointed out through the crack in the hull. “How about that Romulan ship?”

  Chapter 20

  Nineteen Years Earlier

  U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701-D

  “What’s this, Lieutenant?” Maxwell asked. Worf, the Enterprise’s chief of security, had escorted him from the transporter room and through the ship’s wide corridors to what Maxwell had assumed would be the brig. Instead, they were standing in the doorway to a cabin more luxurious than his quarters back on the Phoenix.

  “These are your quarters, Captain Maxwell. Captain Picard has assigned them to you for the duration of our transit to Starbase 8.”

  Maxwell leaned in and studied the room. “Isn’t this a bit posh for a prisoner?”

  “You have not been charged, Captain,” the lieutenant said, his voice deeply resonating even in the large space. “You are detained. Until a board of inquiry has met.” The Klingon cleared his throat. “The situation is murky.”

  “Legally, you mean,” Maxwell said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But not morally.”

  “It is not my place to say, Captain.” Worf lifted his arm, indicating Maxwell should enter first. The gesture did not imply Maxwell had any choice in the matter, so he complied.

  Feeling it was inappropriate to sit, Maxwell looked around at the furnishings and said, “This looks very comfortable, Lieutenant. Please tell Captain Picard I thank him.”

  Worf nodded and replied, “I will, sir. If you require anything, inform the computer, and it will be brought to you.”

  With the replicator taken offline, Maxwell knew he was in a cage, no matter how plush. “Thank you, Lieutenant. How about a fifth of bourbon and a noose?” The words popped out before Maxwell had any awareness that he was going to say them.

  The Klingon tilted his head and regarded Maxwell carefully. “I can bring you synthehol, if you like. Suicide is a dishonorable response to your situation. Chief O’Brien has spoken highly of you, Captain Maxwell. You do not strike me as being a dishonorable man.”

  Maxwell was humbled. “Thank you, Mister Worf. I’m not sure why I said that. Please pardon me.”

  Worf nodded in acknowledgment. “It has been a stressful day, sir. You should rest.”

  Maxwell looked around the room, thinking that all the furniture looked very, very comfortable and also about how much happier he would be sleeping on a hard cot in the brig. “I suppose,” he said. “I’m inclined to think I’m going to get a lot of downtime in the near future. Lots of time to rest.”

  “Perhaps,” Lieutenant Worf said. “May I speak freely, sir?”

  Maxwell nodded.

  “The universe is an unpredictable place and none of us knows what the future may hold.”

  Chuckling, Maxwell replied, “I’ve heard quite a lot about you over the past few years, Mister Worf, but I hadn’t heard you were a philosopher.” Worf grunted, but did not otherwise reply. He turned away as if to leave, but Maxwell realized he had one more request. “One more thing, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, Captain?” Worf asked.

  “Would you have done what I did?”

  “Sir?”

  “Attacked the Cardassian ships. Would you have done it, knowing what I knew?”

  Worf turned back toward Maxwell, saying, “I do not think that this is an appropriate topic for discussion, ­Captain.”

  “Then let me put it another way: Would a Klingon captain have done what I did?”

  The lieutenant considered the question. After a time, he said, “I am not sure what a Klingon captain would have done under the circumstances. Klingons are not all of a kind, any more than humans or Romulans or even Cardassians.” Worf paused. “I can conceive of a situation where a Klingon captain might attack a civilian vessel, especially if he was convinced it was transporting war matériel. It might be an honorable course of action.” The security chief looked up and locked eyes with Maxwell. “But I do not think he would sleep well.”

  Maxwell let the words sink in and then nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Lieutenant Worf. I appreciate your frankness.”

  “You’re welcome,” Worf said. “Would you still like the bourbon?”

  “No,” Maxwell said, shaking his head. “I’ve never really liked bourbon. Or any kind of alcohol, really. I find drinking makes it difficult for me to sleep. And I have enough trouble with that as it is these days.”

  “Understood,” Worf said, and left the room. Maxwell remained where he was standing and stared at the featureless surface of the door for what seemed like a very long time.

  January 9, 2386

  Finch’s Lab

  Robert Hooke

  “Romulan ship?” Maxwell asked.

  “Absolutely,” Nog replied. “Kestrel-class, I think. Or a shuttle. We’ve seen more than a few of those on DS9. Hard to say for sure since it cloaked right after we spotted it.”

  “Cloaked?” Maxwell asked.

  “It was and then it wasn’t and then it was. Were you talking to it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that explains it. They had to decloak to talk to you. Poor power distribution. Or the pilot doesn’t know what he’s doing. You always have to consider that possibility.”

  “Of course,” Maxwell said.

  “What is it, sir?” O’Brien asked. “What’s troubling you?”

  “I talked to him,” Maxwell said, staring into the middle distance, thinking. “I talked to him and he didn’t sound like any Romulan I’ve ever talked to.” He glanced up at the chief. “And stop calling me sir.”

  O’Brien grinned. “Sorry, Captain.” The smile disappeared when the entire deck squirmed under their feet. All of them, except Finch (who was lying on his back) and Ginger (who was clinging to the wall), stumbled against consoles and waved their arms around, searching for stability, their inner ears punishing them. “That’s not good,” O’Brien said, and began searching for the environmental controls console. “We have to push whatever power we still have into the gravity generator or we could all . . . Oh, crap.”

  Maxwell and Nog steadied each other. “I know,” Maxwell said. “Already did that. Pushed it as far as it would go. If it’s bucking now, we don’t have much time left.”

  “Make that no time, Captain,” O’Brien said. “And if it’s this bad up here, then what must it be like on the hangar deck?”

  Hangar Deck

  “We’re too old for this, Nita,” Newsham groaned as the deck lurched and bucked beneath them.

  Down on her knees, retching and clutching her gut, Bharad tried to sound jaunty. When the gravity had shut off, the rope that kept her from flying off the deck had torn the flesh aroun
d her forearms. When it came back on, both her knees cracked against the rail. “Oh, come on, Wendy,” she said. “Didn’t you tell me you used to ride bucking broncos back in the . . . in the . . . Hang on!” The deck receded again. This time, Bharad was ready, having wrapped the rope around both her hands. When she dropped again, she was able to cushion her fall with a roll. Judging by the groans and cries she heard around her, not everyone had figured out how to fall. “Back in the Montana?”

  “Wyoming,” Newsham said. She was lying on her back, head lolling to one side, a thin stream of blood trickling out her nose.

  “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  Newsham rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you ever looked at a map of North America?”

  “Have you ever looked at a map of India?”

  “Shut up!”

  “You shut up!”

  “Do you have any idea why this keeps happening?”

  “What do you mean?” Bharad asked.

  “The gravity bucking. If it’s just getting shut off, shouldn’t we simply float away?”

  “Rather than being battered?” Bharad added. “Probably. Something cycling? Who knows? Ben could probably explain it.” Bharad looked to her left and found a woman—the last one she had cut out of the webbing inside the Wren—lying on her side, staring at the two of them, eyes wide but unblinking, her head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. “Oh, no,” Bharad said.

  “What is it?” Newsham asked, but she must have seen Bharad undoing her ropes and scrambling toward the prone woman. “Nita,” she cried. “Don’t! That’s a bad idea! If the gravity kicks again . . . !”

  The gravity kicked again.

  Finch’s Lab

  “Sir, what were you saying about the Romulan?” Nog asked. “What did you mean that he didn’t sound like any you’ve ever talked to? You mean like an accent?”

  “No,” Maxwell said, shaking his head. The ill-fitting helmet rattled as he moved. “Not how he sounded, but the words, the phrasing.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it!”

  “What?” Nog asked.

  “Working man.”

  “Sir?” O’Brien was wrestling with the feeds from the dying reactor, so he couldn’t look at Maxwell.

  “He’s not military,” Maxwell said. “Not service, not a bureaucrat.” He pointed a bulky finger at O’Brien. “He’s a guy who does a job.” He swung his arm around until he was pointing at Finch, who was lying on the deck, though something about his posture suggested he was awake and listening. Maxwell took three giant steps toward his former employer and effortlessly lifted Finch’s sagging bulk into a sitting position. “Isn’t he? Not a government representative, not a praetor, not a diplomat, not a spy.”

  Finch snorted and grinned horribly. Because of ­Maxwell—or the deck—his head must have struck the facemask, as his gums were bloody and, when he smiled, a spray of pink spittle blemished the interior of his helmet. “A farmer,” Finch said. “Just a grubby little farmer. You forget that about the Romulans, don’t you? And the Klingons too, I imagine. Only so much can come out of replicators. If you do it right, planting something in the ground and letting it grow is ever so much more efficient.” He chuckled, but his ribs must have hurt, because the laugh turned into a groan. Finch sagged down onto himself. Muttering, talking to himself as much as to Maxwell, Finch added, “Mother’s people were farmers. She hated farmers. Hated mud and weather and . . . and . . . pollen. Trees. Hated them. Hated them.”

  Maxwell shook Finch, probably harder than he really needed to, or so Nog thought. Captain Maxwell has some anger issues.

  “Get him back on the comm, Finch!” Maxwell snapped. “Get him back and tell him the truth! The least you can do is tell him that there’s no miracle here! You can’t save him or his family or his farm or his planet! You give back his money and you say—”

  “No,” Nog said, reaching out and clasping Maxwell on the shoulder. “No,” he repeated, more calmly. Like an officer. Or a businessman. “That’s a mistake.”

  “What?” Maxwell asked.

  “What?” Finch repeated, relieved or, possibly, surprised.

  Nog did not reply to either of the men, but looked back over his shoulder at the chief, who, unexpectedly, said, “First Rule of Acquisition?” He grinned. “What’s the play?”

  Romulan Ship

  Cretak fumed, uncertain how to proceed. This was supposed to have been a simple transaction: go to the station, get the organism, go home, save his planet. He’d been selected to make the run for the simple fact that he was the only one, besides Lareth, who could pilot the ship. Lareth was disabled, his mind fried by despair and longing and ale. “Don’t be unkind. Poor Lareth has suffered so,” Hexce, Cretak’s wife, would say over and over again and then shake her head.

  Cretak always wanted to reply, “He’s suffered?! We’ve all suffered! I’ve suffered!” He knew better. Hexce wouldn’t have it. She was a better person than he was. He knew this and it ate at him, but not too much and not all the time.

  So now, here he was, hiding behind the infernal, energy-sucking cloaking device, watching the station and wondering what to do next. Finch, the shart, had failed them. Taken their money—all that his community had been able to scrape together—and then lied to them. No miracle was forthcoming. The soil would stay poisoned, and they would have to leave their planet. If they were lucky. Cretak had spent the best part of the last five years hating the Borg and the horror they had rained down on his world, but, at that moment, he decided he hated Finch more.

  The comm chirped again. Cretak ignored it. Should he beam over to the station and attempt to wrest something from Finch? He skimmed the sensor readings and shook his head ruefully. Cretak knew he wasn’t a scientist, engineer, or metallurgist, but he recognized the signs of impending disaster when he saw it. Many terrible things were happening in or near Finch’s station. Cretak knew he wasn’t qualified to understand them, but when chunks of plating peeled away from a hull and atmosphere vented into space—that was bad. He scanned the reactor output, but the readouts were confusing: peculiar spikes followed by power-downs. Gravitons and other more exotic particles geysered out of cracks and broken seams. His ship’s computer explained it was time to leave.

  A part of Cretak really wanted to stay and watch Finch’s bloated corpse pinwheel through open space when the station blew, but the brief satisfaction would canker and turn into existential horror. Damn you, Finch. A distant part of his mind, a part that spoke with his father’s weary voice, told him he was as much to blame as the human.

  The comm chirped once more.

  Cretak slapped the console and opened the channel. “Damn you, Finch!” he shouted, surprising himself.

  “Too late,” a voice responded. “I think that’s been taken care of.”

  Cretak knew he wasn’t an authority on humans or their whimsies, but he also recognized that the speaker didn’t sound human. For that matter, he didn’t sound like someone who was inside a crumbling space station. He sounded . . . amused? Disaffected? “Who is this?” Cretak asked.

  “Turn on your viewer,” the speaker said.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I like to look a man in the eye when I’m making a deal.”

  Deal? Cretak wondered. What in the names of the D’ravsai? But he couldn’t resist turning on the viewer.

  The speaker must have been sitting very close to the pickup, because his features—particularly his flat, ridged nose and his thick brow—seemed to fill the screen. He smiled very briefly, showing a row of sharp teeth, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “My name is Nog.” The image shimmered and, for a moment, Cretak thought something was wrong with the signal, but then he realized the effect was due to the fact that Nog was wearing some kind of environmental suit.

  “What do you want, Nog?” Cretak asked.

  Once again, Nog—a Ferengi, C
retak guessed—grinned, but only very briefly, as if he couldn’t resist enjoying a private joke. “It’s not about what I want, friend. I’m contacting you to discuss what you might want. Or perhaps I should say need.”

  “What do you know of my needs?” Cretak asked, taking control of the conversation. He knew about the Ferengi, about their much-vaunted ability to extract wealth from the unwary. Cretak almost chuckled to himself, though ruefully. How can he take something from someone who has nothing?

  “All too much, I’m afraid,” Nog said. “I have some very bad news for you, sir.” He shook his head, his voice filled with what Cretak knew he was supposed to believe was regret. “Very, very bad.”

  “If you mean that Doctor Finch has reneged on our deal, that I’m to return home without the aid he promised—” Cretak snorted. “I have been informed.”

  The image on the monitor appeared to jump, like the signal had dropped and then quickly been reestablished. The Ferengi appeared briefly disconcerted, but quickly regained his composure. “Ah, yes. Of course. Finch’s bug. Does that translate?” he asked. “Do you know what a bug is?”

  Cretak was on the verge of being insulted, but he was also curious about what the Ferengi was saying. “Of course I know what a bug is. I live out in the land, the sky over my head, soil in my hands every day. Back when there was soil . . .”

  “No, no,” the Ferengi said. “I mean the other kind of bug. It might not translate.” He lifted his hand, huge in the pickup, and held his thumb and forefinger so that there was only the tiniest space between them. “Microscopic. A pest . . . No, wait, not a pest. Nuisance? No.” He waved his hand. “Wait. I meant plague. Finch’s plague.”

  Now Cretak was very confused and unable to conceal it. At first, he had thought the Ferengi was attempting to weave a tapestry of lies, but now he sounded as if he was having problems even finding the correct terms. Or maybe the translator was flawed? “Plague?” he asked. “What plague?”

  “The one that’s enveloping your ship,” the Ferengi said. “They’re like a swarm of locusts. Does that word translate? Do you have locusts on your world? Yes? How about a swarm that can survive in space? Can you imagine that? Or that it’s on your hull now, burrowing into the seams? Our sensors are offline, but yours might still be functioning. For a little while longer. You should be able to find the swarm if you know where to look.”