Force And Motion Part 24

O'Brien turned the sentiment around in his head for a minute or two and then laughed, using, he knew, precious oxygen. "Okay," he said. "Fine. You win. Let's get on with this. I can't feel my toes anymore."

Nog hesitated. "Hang on a second, Chief. We're all the way down here at the bottom again. Maybe we should go back to the hangar and get something that might help us."

"No phasers there," O'Brien said. "Remember that conversation?"

"I do," Nog sighed. "And no, there aren't any phasers. But maybe there's something that could be almost as useful."

Finch's Lab "People are stranded here," Maxwell said. "Civilians." He wasn't sure if the word would have much impact on Finch's customer. Was he a military man? Maxwell still couldn't place the accent; he couldn't detect anything in the customer's cadence that screamed military. While he didn't subscribe to the idea that there was such a thing as a military personality, he believed that being part of a service organization enhanced certain modes of behavior. If nothing else, military personnel were polite when there was no cause not to be, and Finch's customer was being a rude a.s.s.

"I do not care," the speaker replied. "I've come for my product. I paid in advance. It's mine and I want it now."

In his corner, Finch, who had been rolled up into a ball, uncurled just enough to correct, "Only half." Maxwell had reopened the channel to Finch's suit, but considered shutting it off again.

The customer must have heard Finch, too. "If it isn't ready, it doesn't matter if I've paid for half, all, or nothing at all. Any way you look at it, I have no reason to stay. Except, perhaps, to have the satisfaction of watching this place explode. It will soon, too. My scans have revealed several structural flaws."

"And you could just watch that happen?" Maxwell asked. "To innocent bystanders?"

"Would Finch be one of the 'innocent' bystanders?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with a reply."

"So, then the answer is: yes, absolutely."

Maxwell nudged him with the toe of a boot. "Finch," he said, attempting to keep his voice under control.

"Leave me alone."

"I need information. Some kind of leverage."

"Leave me alone. I'm ready to die."

Maxwell grabbed the loose cloth of Finch's environmental suit and attempted to roll him over. "I'm not," Maxwell said. "And there are a dozen people down in the hangar who might have an opinion."

Surprisingly, Finch relaxed and turned his head so that he could look Maxwell in the eye. One of Finch's eyebrows was c.o.c.ked up. Something had amused him. Maxwell guessed what it was: his desperation. "Not ready to die yet?" Finch asked. "I'm surprised to hear you say it. Ever since you've come here, it seemed to me that you've been watching for it just out of the corner of your eye. Didn't want to see it coming head-on, but you've been bracing for it, when the moment came. Why else come to a place like this?"

"I'm the only thing that's kept this place from falling apart."

"Hmmm," Finch said. "But only just enough. Just enough so that it wouldn't fly apart all at once. Just enough so that no one would think to blame you. You made things nice enough that your 'friends' thought well of you, clapped you on the back, shared their home brew with you. Couldn't be too obvious, could you?"

Maxwell was compelled to ask, "Too obvious about what?"

"About how much you want to die. Out here. In the inky black. You just needed to find the right place to do it. Somewhere no one would even notice." Finch pointed at the center of Maxwell's head with his stubby finger. "You live here, out in the black. Even when you're not here, you're here."

Ben Maxwell's face felt numb and his eyes burned. He tried to recall what time it was and how long it had been since he'd slept, but couldn't get the numbers to add up. He couldn't think of anything clever to say, so he did the simplest thing he could think to do under the circ.u.mstances and told the truth. "You might be right, Finch. The evidence is stacked up behind your theory. Some days." He shook his head. "But not today."

Finch smirked, showing his pearly, white teeth. "Doubt there's much you can do about it," he said. "At least without my a.s.sistance."

Movement at the opposite side of the lab caught Maxwell's attention. He was afraid to take his eyes off Finch, not believing the big man had given up. Indeed, Finch's entire monologue seemed designed to distract Maxwell and, if that was true, the ruse had almost succeeded. Now, across the room: signs of life.

Finch was on the deck with equipment lockers and consoles blocking his view of the Mother. He couldn't see what Maxwell was seeing, a fact that made Maxwell just a tiny bit sad. The creature's tentacles waved in agitation. The cl.u.s.ter of limbs that were thrust out through the cracks in the lab's hull were pulsing and throbbing as if the Mother was attempting to retract them into its body. The Mother was not happy.

A bright light flared outside the hull. Maxwell shut his eyes against the flash and turned away. When he looked back again, the light had faded and Miles...o...b..ien was standing in a wide gap in the bulkhead. Under one arm, he awkwardly held what appeared to be the still glowing nozzle of an ion thruster pack. Miles must have been using the thruster as an a.s.sault weapon or bludgeon or maybe both.

"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...b..ien 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 s.h.i.+p?"

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 s.h.i.+p's wide corridors to what Maxwell had a.s.sumed 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 a.s.signed 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 s.p.a.ce. "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 furnis.h.i.+ngs 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 Carda.s.sian s.h.i.+ps. 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 circ.u.mstances. Klingons are not all of a kind, any more than humans or Romulans or even Carda.s.sians." 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 materiel. 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 s.h.i.+p?" Maxwell asked.

"Absolutely," Nog replied. "Kestrel-cla.s.s, 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 punis.h.i.+ng 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, c.r.a.p."

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 around 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 cus.h.i.+on 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 p.r.o.ne 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?"