Force and Motion by Jeffrey Lang Page A

she . . . is,” Nog admitted.
    â€œShe is a ready template,” Finch said. “A source of life, but herself alive.”
    â€œLess poetically, it’s a baseline that he can program similar to how a replicator rearranges matter,” O’Brien said.
    â€œNothing so ignoble,” Finch said, “though correct in concept. The Mother is the basis for all the programmable cells I create. She is modular, undifferentiated, but it takes only a few adjustments to create viable descendants.”
    Understanding finally dawned for Nog. “You’ve already solved ninety percent of the problems in nurturing a new life-form.”
    â€œCorrect,” Finch said, grinning.
    â€œAnd you just have to make sure you don’t harm anything when you create the specialization.”
    â€œYou have grasped the fundamental concept correctly.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful,” Nog said, genuinely impressed.
    Finch bowed.
    â€œI’m not a biologist,” Nog said, “but it’s obvious when you think about it, so . . .”
    â€œWhy hasn’t it been done before?” Finch completed the question. “It has been tried. Endlessly, in fact. Maintaining a stable yet open genetic code is a complex business. The organism is extremely susceptible to free radicals and environmental degradation. And the inclination of cell lines is to differentiate and specialize. Suspending that propensity, yet keeping the organism viable, is difficult.”
    â€œBut you figured it out,” O’Brien said.
    â€œIndeed I have,” Finch said, preening.
    â€œBut you won’t explain to anyone how you’ve done it.”
    â€œNot unless they pay my price.”
    â€œThat’s not science,” O’Brien stated, crossing his arms over his chest.
    â€œPerhaps not,” Finch said, “but it is good business. I can demonstrate the efficacy of my tailored organisms if given the chance. I would even be willing to donate my services if that led to an agreement. But I will not open my notes to the scrutiny of bureaucrats and functionaries.”
    â€œThat is an old business model,” O’Brien said, his anger evident. “One I’ve heard plenty of times: ‘First taste is free.’ ”
    â€œChief,” Nog said, surprised by the tone of his voice, “we’re guests.”
    â€œI know. But I didn’t come here to see this.” O’Brien nodded toward the tank and the oily blob floating in its center. “I came to see my—”
    â€œAnd he’s here,” said a voice from the stairwell. “Sorry I’m late. Had to tend to a small problem. Well, not that small. Just big enough to clog the waste extraction system.”
    A man stepped out of the shadows and strode forward, hand extended. “Hello, Miles. How are you? It’s good of you to come all this way.” Maxwell was smaller in stature than Nog had expected, accustomed as he was to craning his neck back to look most hew-mons in the face. He was fit, compact, and stood with his shoulders back and chin up in the manner of most career Starfleet officers. He glanced at Nog as he crossed the room, grinned, and nodded, and the engineer felt as if he had actually been seen and not merely viewed. For just a second, Nog imagined what this man must have looked like standing on the bridge of a starship and thought, I would follow him. All this, despite Maxwell’s stained shirt, wet boots, and the lingering smell of a potent disinfectant.
    Maxwell and O’Brien shook hands enthusiastically. The chief grinned and looked for a moment like he might try to embrace his former captain, but Maxwell took half a step back, then turned to Nog. He nodded again and said simply, “How do you do, Commander? I’m Benjamin Maxwell. I’ve heard a bit about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
    Nog was startled, but pleased. He reached out