Force and Motion by Jeffrey Lang

could and standing on his dignity (which appeared to be quite profound), “choose your words more carefully . ”
    The chief shot his fellow engineer a sidelong glance, the kind that Nog knew meant “Get this guy.” Nog cocked his head at a neutral angle, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He was trying to be politic. He studied the Mother and found her, on the whole, to be quite beautiful.
    The tank was ten meters long and wide and perhaps half that high, meaning it was (he did the math in his head) five thousand liters. The liquid—presumably some kind of nutrient solution—was completely clear and the sides of the tank were utterly and completely unstained, which meant Finch took very good care of the Mother’s enclosure and Nog’s view of her was unobstructed. She floated tranquilly in the exact center of the tank, approximately half its length and breadth and height, a rosy red tinged with lilac highlights. In simple terms, she was a blob. Shapeless, she undulated, a study in soft curves. Eddies in the tank—probably from some sort of exchanger—made her ripple and shimmy, but whenever a tendril or globule moved too near the tank’s inner surface, an invisible agent gently pushed her away. Some kind of force field, Nog thought. Or maybe just an antigravs supporting the mass.
    â€œWhat is it?” O’Brien asked.
    â€œAnd why do you call it Mother?” Nog added, though, in the safety of his own head, he wondered what other name she could be called.
    â€œI am in the business of creating designer microbes,” Finch began, caught in the grip of a sales pitch. “Not a new concept by any stretch of the imagination, but still an expensive and laborious one. And, in the Federation especially, there are certain—how shall I say it?—­prejudices against genetic enhancement.” Nog sneaked a glance at O’Brien to see how Finch’s comment landed, given the chief’s friendship with Doctor Bashir, one of the few genetically enhanced humans either of them knew. But the chief appeared to be unmoved, except for a raised eyebrow, a sign for Finch to continue. “The microbes I demonstrated earlier—the Borg-waste consumers—normally would have required years of development and an intensive breeding program to ensure stability and longevity, but, using my new process, I’ve shortened that time frame considerably, all thanks to the Mother.”
    O’Brien shook his head. “I’m still not following you.”
    â€œOr why you call it Mother,” Nog added.
    â€œIt’s my little joke,” Finch said, smiling and smoothing the front of his jacket over his considerable midriff. “Are either of you gentlemen familiar with how vinegar is made?”
    â€œVinegar?” Nog asked, who knew of the substance from his years of working in his uncle’s bar.
    â€œIn theory,” O’Brien replied. “Wine gone bad?”
    â€œMore or less,” Finch said. “A fermenting liquid will produce a substance composed of cellulose and acetic acid bacteria. It’s a gel-like substance that can be added to wine or cider, which will in turn transform it into more vinegar. These acetobacters, propagated and maintained over many generations, are called mothers because of their boundless fecundity and giving nature.”
    â€œI’ll never look at fish and chips the same way,” O’Brien said.
    â€œNor should you,” Finch replied, unfazed by the chief’s tone. “My grandfather made vinegar. Perhaps that was the beginning of my fascination with microbiology. I remember his mother, a grand creation of unfathomable depth and maturity. When I completed my work and gazed upon my creation hovering elegantly in her watery abode, I was struck by how much this Mother reminds me of my grandfather’s. And so she was named.”
    â€œBut I still don’t understand what it . . .