Force And Motion Part 4

". . . Or, as I was about to say," Finch continued without missing a beat, "sometimes the t.i.tle 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 a.s.sociate?"

"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, a.s.suming 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 s.p.a.ce station he works on."

"The newly built s.p.a.ce 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" fas.h.i.+on. "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, wis.h.i.+ng to present a fair and balanced perspective.

"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 interns.h.i.+p 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 rea.s.sured 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 s.h.i.+p 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 ent.i.tled 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 Miles...o...b..ien 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 knowing 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 Carda.s.sian s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "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 relations.h.i.+p 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 Carda.s.sians 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 p.r.o.nouns 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."