Force and Motion

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  This one is for Tristan.

  Thanks for all the walks and talks.

  Historian’s Note

  The main events in this story take place in early ­January 2386, just after the discovery of the falsework on the Bajoran moon of Endalla (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—Ascendance).

  Prologue

  February 10, 2381

  Starfleet Penal Colony, Waiheke Island

  New Zealand, Earth

  Ben Maxwell sat on the low stone wall that marked the border between the campus and the not-campus. He stared into the west, out into Half Moon Bay, and watched the sun settle into the sea, painting both the water and the sky crimson and gold. He was too far up the hill to hear the surf, but, from where he sat, the bay looked as smooth as the ice on a skating rink. Maxwell imagined what it might be like to step off the sand and onto the ocean’s surface, push off with his left foot, and slide on west until he hit Auckland. In his prime, he knew he could have covered the twenty-five or thirty kilometers in a few hours. If I get tired, he thought, I’ll stop at Motutapu Island and take a breather. Have a beer.

  Maxwell tipped his head back and stared up into the darkening sky. He rubbed his chin and felt the bristles of his day-old beard. It was a cloudless night, like most were during the roiling days of late summer. Well, Maxwell thought. I guess that’s a good thing: with a sky like this, we’ll see them coming from a long way off. He paused to consider: Do Borg cubes have running lights? Are they visible from a distance? He had read the reports about the Borg back in the day—any good ship’s captain would have—but never had the opportunity to see a cube up close, having missed out on the imbroglio at Wolf 359 back in ’67. The Phoenix had been on patrol on the other side of the quadrant that dark day, and some Starfleet analyst had decided his ship was too far away to arrive in time to make a difference.

  I’m probably still alive today because of that analyst, Maxwell decided. I should track him down and beat him with his abacus. He chuckled, knowing he would have to mention the image—abacus beads exploding upward as the wooden frame connected with someone’s temple—in tomorrow’s therapy session (assuming there was a tomorrow). No doubt, Doctor Beeman would ask, “Why an abacus?”

  “Wow,” Maxwell muttered, “therapy must finally be taking hold.” He heard something skitter away. Speaking aloud must have startled some small creature that had been enjoying the heat of the baked rock. He stood up and lightly brushed the backs and palms of his hands on his trouser legs, a move designed to dislodge small things without coming into contact with them. Maxwell had spent enough time in New Zealand to know to be cautious of its creeping, crawling denizens.

  A speck of light blinked into existence on the horizon and crossed swiftly from south to north, then disappeared in a wink of blue-shift. Interesting, Maxwell thought. Someone must have gone into impulse much too close to the atmosphere. How could that happen? The airspace around Earth was usually so tightly monitored no one would think to do such a thing. Whoever it was at the ship’s controls must have been woefully ignorant of both common sense and procedure. “Or maybe just very, very desperate,” he added aloud.

  “Who?”

  Maxwell looked back over his shoulder and was surprised to find a figure standing no more than a few meters away, just on the edge of the gravel path that led from the main administrative building down toward the beach. It was Doctor Clark, one of the younger staff members. Like most of the therapists, Clark’s taste in garments ran to the simple, even utilitarian, likely because of some colony edict that the staff not be too distracting, as not to agitate the inmates. Occasionally, Maxwell had noted, Clark would wear large, handmade belt buckles inscribed with peculiar logos or symbols that clearly had meaning to him and some sub-sub-subgroup of fellow travelers, but were meant to be mysteries to all others. Maxwell liked him for that.

  Shall I answer truthfully or make something up? It probably didn’t matter, he decided, so he went with the truth. “Someone did something they’re not supposed to do. Went to impulse.” He pointed toward the now-dark horizon. “The streak of light. Unless EarthNav has completely thrown up their hands in despair, which I suppose is possible.” He couldn’t tell if Clark was following him, so he added, “Because of the Borg?”

  Clark jerked backward suddenly. He flicked on the torch he was carrying and pointed the beam up into the sky. “Have they arrived?”

  Maxwell was confused. He peered at Clark and said, “You would probably know better than me. I’m just an inmate.” By the light of the torch, Maxwell could see the deep lines of stress etched into Clark’s face. He wasn’t being obtuse; he was simply exhausted. And probably terrified. They were, after all, residents of a planet that was the target of the pointy end of a Borg armada. Likely, neither of them would live to see another day.

  The doctor’s therapeutic training kicked into place. He assumed the soft, compassionate voice. “You’re a patient, Ben, not an inmate.”

  Maxwell knew he shouldn’t go down any bumpy rhetorical roads since Clark was new to the staff and, as near as he could tell, a fundamentally decent person. But then the truth shone forth: Oh, hell. The world is coming to an end. What have I got to lose? “Oh, great. Then I’d like to check out. I’m cured.”

  “You know you can’t,” Clark said, shaking his head.

  “Because?”

  The doctor paused and Maxwell guessed that the therapist was weighing the same kind of internal math that he had a moment before and, laudably, came to the same conclusion. “Because you’re not a patient, you’re an inmate.”

  Spreading his arms wide in welcome, he asked, “Was that so hard?”

  “No, Ben,” Clark replied, smiling. “It wasn’t. Thanks for taking it easy on me.”

  “But I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today . . .”

  Clark waved off the sarcasm. “No more fencing, please. Doctor Gunther sent me to look for you.”

  Maxwell’s spine stiffened. A moment before he had been sitting with his hands on his knees, his shoulders rounded down and forward, comfortable with the way gravity was pulling at him. And then, suddenly, he was standing at attention, pushing against the ground with the balls of his feet, toes biting into the surface. His shoulders were back and his knees were locked. Swallowing once loudly, jaw clenched, he asked, “What did he say?”

  Apparently startled, Clark took a half step away. “What I just said,” he replied, trying not to sound rattled. “He asked me to find you. You know, Ben, you’re supposed to carry your communicator at all times.”

  But Maxwell wasn’t listening anymore. He was running. The flimsy shoes had no support, and the soles of his feet crunched painfully into the gravel, but he didn’t slow. He pointed toward the administration building as he ran. Calling back over his shoulder, he shouted, “There? In his office?”

  “Yes,” Clark called. “But don’t run! The sentries will think you’re trying to escape!”

  Maxwell ran faster, arms pumping, knees high. When was the last time he ran like this—not a jog, but a sprint? He couldn’t recall. He thought back to his cadet days, running wind sprints, but then battle scenes flashed through his memory. I ran then, he thought, but not a sprint. Mad dashes. Scrambling. Running for my life. The brightly illuminated portico of the main adminis
trative building swam into view, blurry through his tearing eyes. I’m not trying to escape, he thought. I’m not. The sentries will be able to tell the difference. His breath came in sharp gasps. They’ll know I’m not escaping. They’ll know I’m going home.

  Abram Gunther’s office was on the second floor of the main administrative building and was reached by one of two wide, sweeping marble staircases that framed the building’s lobby. Usually the lobby was a busy place, a natural spot for counselors and inmates to meet and converse, but it was late in the evening now, well past the end of even the latest therapy session. Also, Maxwell reminded himself, there was the whole “Borg coming to eliminate us and our way of life” thing. That was the sort of event that motivated even the most devoted doctor to consider heading home for a little family time or to the nearest pub, depending on their predilection. The inmates, the ones who couldn’t arrange some form of evacuation, were hunkered down in their quarters sitting in pairs and trios, talking in low tones or trying to contact their families and friends, if they had any left.

  Gunther, to his credit, hadn’t left his office, despite having a family in Auckland, a husband and two children. A part of Maxwell felt bad about the fact that the head of the colony was still in his office at this late hour, but not so bad that he wished that Gunther had left.

  This is it, Maxwell thought as he skidded to a stop in front of the director’s formidable desk. As ever, the desktop was a model of tidy organization: a pair of padds lying side by side, a neat pile of isolinear chips aligned nearby. A pair of tasteful holograms floated serenely on each of the corners nearest the two visitor chairs—one an image of what Maxwell had recognized as an antique music player called a Victrola and the other a portrait of the doctor and his family. In the image, the children appeared to be eight and ten years old, though Maxwell knew they were much older.

  Maxwell started to speak, but had to lay a hand on the desktop while he caught his breath. Gunther rose and waved Maxwell toward a chair. He continued, “Take a moment, Ben. Take two. You’ll need them.”

  Unlike most of the doctors and counselors who worked with the inmates at the colony, Abram Gunther had served in Starfleet, a line officer for twenty years. Though he had never commanded a ship of his own, he understood the demands of the service. He had never mentioned Maxwell’s former rank—such references were taboo—but Gunther always treated the former captain with the respect of a fellow officer. Part of that respect, Maxwell realized, came in the form of the courtesy to not sugarcoat or prevaricate. He was about to receive bad news.

  Maxwell did as he was told and sat down, though he leaned forward, all his weight on the balls of his feet, hands clenching the chair’s arms. He managed to ask, “What did they say?”

  “What do you think, Ben?” Gunther said, sitting down in his own chair, though he pushed his back into the cushioned fabric. He sighed and rubbed the stubble on his jawline. “They said no.”

  “Dammit!” Maxwell groaned. “I could help!”

  “Of course you could,” Gunther said, but had the courtesy not to say more. Instead, he leaned across the desk and handed Maxwell a padd.

  Dear Abe,

  I only have a moment to respond to your request regarding Benjamin Maxwell. I can only imagine how strongly you feel about this situation, given the other challenges you must be facing at this time.

  While I understand he has been an inmate of good standing at your facility for the past several years and acquitted himself well in the time since his court-martial, we cannot accept his offer to serve even given the current crisis.

  Please extend my thanks to Mister Maxwell and tell him that this is not my decision. I am not making excuses, but merely explaining as best I can in consideration of our history. Tell him I remember our days in the service together fondly. He was one of the finest officers I ever had the privilege to know, despite any actions he may have taken.

  Unfortunately, this is not his day. Forgiveness is hard won. Given our current situation, Ben Maxwell may have to face the possibility it may never come at all, at least not in this lifetime.

  My best to you and your family, Abe. I understand Mark is in the vanguard, serving on the Constitution. I have no doubt he will make you proud.

  In haste,

  Jason Mark Stratham, Adm.

  Highest possible priority via subspace channel

  Maxwell’s fingers grew numb, and he almost let the padd drop to the floor. Then he remembered that the message had not been addressed to him. It belonged to Gunther, and losing his grip on the padd would be disrespectful in the extreme. He handed it back to the director.

  “I’m genuinely sorry, Ben. I thought they’d let you, considering what we face.”

  “I only want to serve,” Maxwell said. “Why not let me?”

  “I don’t know,” Gunther said. “But I can guess.” He retrieved a tiny control from a drawer and pointed it at the wall to his right. Panels parted and a large viewscreen appeared. Images flickered as Gunther worked the control. Finally, he stopped on a grainy image: several bright blobs of light in a dark field. In the lower right-hand corner of the screen was the gentle curve of a mass that Maxwell immediately recognized as a planet. He was looking at a long-range sensor image.

  Gunther rose wearily and approached the screen. “There are some advantages to having friends in the service,” he said. “I have some codes. I found out where the fleet was massing. You probably recognize the planet just from this blurry image, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Maxwell said. “Of course I do.”

  “And you see that white blob up there in the left ­corner?”

  “Yes. Deneva.”

  “And that,” Gunther said, circling a blob with red light. “That’s the Constitution. My son Mark serves on her. First lieutenant. His first rotation on a starship. Weapons officer. From what he’s said in his messages, it’s not his favorite job ever.”

  “I’m sure he’ll do it well.”

  Gunther pointed at the blobs nearer the lower edge of the screen. “And you see this one, this one, this one . . . well, most of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any ideas what they are?”

  “Cardassian. Galor-class? They still use those?”

  Gunther squinted at the blob and shook his head in mild disbelief. “They’re using everything. Everything Cardassia has, they’re throwing at the Borg. And do you know why?”

  “No,” Maxwell said. “I don’t. Why?”

  “Because we asked them. Despite everything, despite the Dominion War, despite the disasters that have been visited on them, the Cardassians are coming to our aid. Of course, they probably know the Borg would come for them too, but probably not right away. They could be using those ships, even the Galor-class, to get their people out, off, away. But they’re not. They’re helping us.”

  Maxwell inhaled and sighed deeply. “Makes you ­wonder.”

  “What does?”

  “Why I hated them so much.”

  Gunther smiled. He almost laughed. “Ben, I think we both know you had a very good reason to hate them. And, by the way, they hate you too. Your name has not been forgotten. Which is, I suspect, why your offer was rejected. If the Cardassians ever found out you were on a starship . . .” He shrugged and flicked a switch. The display darkened.

  “So,” Maxwell said, collecting himself, “I guess I get to stay here and see what happens.”

  “Just like the rest of us.”

  Maxwell rose, his legs still a little shaky. He laid the tips of his fingers on the top of Gunther’s immaculate desk and looked at the holo of the family. “Which one is Mark?” he asked.

  “The older one.” He smiled. “His brother, Arin, isn’t interested in Starfleet. He’s studying at the University of Sydney. He’s coming home tonight. In fact, I have to go meet him at the station.”

  “
Of course,” Maxwell said. “Thank you, Doctor Gunther, for your help and consideration. I guess I knew it was a long shot.”

  “I thought they’d take you, Ben,” Gunther said. “ ‘Every hand to the lines when the storm is breaking.’ ”

  “Is that a line from a poem?”

  “No,” Gunther said. “Just something my dad used to say.”

  Maxwell smiled, but only for a second. No sooner did the smile fade than the weariness descended. He turned his back on the director’s desk and shuffled through the door, down the steps and outside.

  Behind him, the lights of the administration building dimmed.

  Above him, clouds began to roll in, obscuring the stars.

  Maxwell slept like the dead and rose with the sun the next morning to learn that the Earth, miraculously, had survived and would continue to spin for one more day.

  The Borg destroyed the fleet sent to defend Deneva, including the Constitution and her Cardassian allies.

  All hands were lost.

  Chapter 1

  January 9, 2386

  Runabout Amazon

  “And then I found some leather straps out in the barn—I think they had been traces for a ­carriage harness my da made for one of his historical reenactments—and threaded them through the eyebolts I’d screwed into the head jamb—”

  Lieutenant Commander Nog rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. “Wait,” he said, “Chief—stop. Please. You know what that sounds like to me, don’t you? ‘I went to the blah-blah and found some blahs and tied them to the blah in the blah.’ ”

  “What do you mean?” Miles O’Brien said, crossing his legs, folding his arms, and pushing his back deeper into the copilot seat. “What part didn’t you understand?”

  “Let’s start with traces.”

  “Traces—leather straps. Long leather straps. You use them to control the horse or bullock or whatever you have drawing your cart or carriage.” He held his hands out in front of him at chest level and grasped something imaginary that Nog assumed he was now supposed to be able to visualize. O’Brien jerked his hands back and smiled, as if this was supposed to make everything clear.