by Jeffrey Lang
January 9, 2386
Finch’s Lab
Robert Hooke
“What the hell is that?” the chief asked.
“That—she—is the Mother,” Finch declared in what Nog considered to be a defensive tone. He let it pass. One should be defensive about a Mother, any Mother.
“It’s . . . it’s,” O’Brien said in a tone that mingled disgust and awe.
“Sir,” Finch said, drawing himself up as tall as he 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.
“What is it?” O’Brien asked.
“And 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.
“I 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.”
“Or why you call it Mother,” Nog added.
“It’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?”
“Vinegar?” Nog asked, who knew of the substance from his years of working in his uncle’s bar.
“In theory,” O’Brien replied. “Wine gone bad?”
“More 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.”
“I’ll never look at fish and chips the same way,” O’Brien said.
“Nor 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.”
“But I still don’t understand what it . . . she . . . is,” Nog admitted.
“She is a ready template,” Finch said. “A source of life, but herself alive.”
“Less poetically, it’s a baseline that he can program similar to how a replicator rearranges matter,” O’Brien said.
“Nothing 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.”
“Correct,” Finch said, grinning.
“And you just have to make sure you don’t harm anything when you create the specialization.”
“You have grasped the fundamental concept correctly.”
“That’s wonderful,” Nog said, genuinely impressed.
Finch bowed.
“I’m not a biologist,” Nog said, “but it’s obvious when you think about it, so . . .”
“Why 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.”
“But you figured it out,” O’Brien said.
“Indeed I have,” Finch said, preening.
“But you won’t explain to anyone how you’ve done it.”
“Not unless they pay my price.”
“That’s not science,” O’Brien stated, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Perhaps 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.”
“That is an old business model,” O’Brien said, his anger evident. “One I’ve heard plenty of times: ‘First taste is free.’ ”
“Chief,” Nog said, surprised by the tone of his voice, “we’re guests.”
“I 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—”
“And 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 and took Maxwell’s hand. “Heard about me? From whom?” Maxwell glanced meaningfully at the chief and then shrugged as if to say Who else? Nog laughed, confused but d
elighted.
“Well, I have to talk about something when I write,” O’Brien said.
“I take it Doctor Finch has been keeping you entertained while you waited?”
“I guess that’s a word for it,” the chief said. “Good beer, anyway.”
“No room for another one?” Maxwell asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then come with me. I know someplace we can go and get caught up. Unless you had something else you needed me to do, Doctor Finch?”
Finch waved him off. “As we both know, Ben, you know more about what needs to be done around here than I. If you’re going to take Chief O’Brien with you, perhaps you’d like to chat a bit more, Commander Nog?”
“Oh,” Nog said. “Uh, sure. I guess.” He had thought he was going to accompany O’Brien and Maxwell, but suddenly he became aware that he might not be welcome at just that moment. It made him wonder again, Why am I here?
“I’ll come find you, Commander,” the chief said. “Just a bit of a chin wag first. Talking about people you don’t know and wouldn’t care about.”
“Sure,” Nog said, as graciously as he knew how. “Not a problem. Have a good time.”
O’Brien and Maxwell departed immediately in a cloud of bonhomie and chatter. Two old friends, reunited, they spoke in their mutual language. Nog felt deflated and a little trapped, like he was a small child who had just been dropped off at a dreaded relative’s house for an unknown length of time.
“Perhaps,” Finch said, drawing nearer, his face wreathed in purple light reflected from the liquid in the tank, “you’d like to hear more about the Mother?”
“Sure. That would be . . . great.” Nog’s mind raced, but he didn’t feel as if any gears were catching. An image of friendly faceted eyes popped into his head. “Or maybe we can go see the giant spiders?”
Chapter 7
Twenty Years Earlier
Benjamin Sisko’s Quarters
Deep Space 9
“What’s the worst day you ever had?” Jake asked.
“What?” Nog said, surprised by the question. The two of them had been lounging in Jake’s living room, Nog in the big easy chair and Jake sprawled on the couch, each of them with their padd propped up on their knees, neither of them talking or really paying attention to the other.
“I said, ‘What’s the worst day you ever had?’ ” Jake repeated.
Nog turned to look over at Jake, just to be sure he was asking a serious question. Hew-mons, he knew, had a tendency to harass each other, sometimes out of boredom, as a sort of test that Nog didn’t really understand, but nothing about Jake’s expression or demeanor indicated he was teasing. “I don’t know,” Nog replied. “I’d have to think about that. Why do you ask?”
“It came up in school today. Mrs. O’Brien told us a story about when she was a girl, when her family went to a park on a picnic.”
“Where?”
“Where what?” Jake asked, confused.
“Where was the park?” Nog replied. “If you’re going to tell a story, set the scene.”
“Oh. Sorry. In Japan, I guess. She grew up in Japan. Do you know—”
“I know where Japan is,” Nog said. “Okay, Mrs. O’Brien was telling you all . . .”
“Not all of us,” Jake said. “Just the older kids. She breaks us up into groups sometimes, by age. And we’d been reading this short story called ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish.’ Have you ever heard of it?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s old. Like, from the twentieth century. It’s about this guy who was in a war, he comes back, gets married, and goes to a resort with his wife. And then—I’m not too sure about this part—he has a conversation with this little girl on the beach about bananafish.”
“What are bananafish?”
“I don’t know. I think he made them up. Or they’re extinct. One or the other. Anyway, then he goes back to his hotel room, where his wife is taking a nap . . .”
“Yeah?” Nog was suddenly more interested. Were the man and his wife going to have sex?
“And then he takes out a gun and shoots himself in the head.”
“Oh,” Nog said, startled. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“No. Me either. I think that’s the point.”
“What happens then?”
“Nothing. That’s the end.”
“Really?”
“Really. But that’s not what I was going to tell you. Mrs. O’Brien was talking to us about this story—the historical background and the critical reaction and why it’s important, you know—the kinds of things teachers tell you.”
“No, I really don’t,” Nog said, “as you already know.”
“Right, right, sorry.” The situation with regard to Nog and not attending school was already a sore topic. “But then she suddenly stops and tells us how when she was a little girl, she went with her family on this picnic and wandered off into the woods and found this man hanging from a tree limb.”
“Hanging? Like, what? Holding on to a branch?”
“No. Not hanging, like grasping, but hanged. With a rope around his neck. Just dangling there a few feet off the ground. She said there was a little stool nearby on the ground. Kicked over. Mrs. O’Brien said she always remembers that detail because she saw the stool first, before she saw the man, and wondered, Why is there a stool on the ground out here in the forest? And then when she saw the man, she said she wasn’t scared—I think she was like five or six years old—but confused. She thought it was part of a show or a play and that she had accidentally wandered onto a stage.”
“What did she do?”
“She ran back to find her parents and told them what she found. Her father went to see, and when he came back his face was wet, like he had been crying, but she didn’t understand why. Mrs. O’Brien said she kept asking him why he was so sad, but he wouldn’t tell her, even after the police came.”
“Was she scared?”
“No,” Jake said, leaning back into the couch. He had been leaning forward, the telling of the tale lifting him up out of his seat. “She said that mostly she was just mad because they didn’t get to have their picnic, and when they finally got home—there were lots of people talking, she said, some of them asking her questions—the little tea cakes they’d gotten for the day had gotten all runny from the heat. The icing dripped off, I guess, and she had really been looking forward to having hers.”
“Oh,” Nog said, unsure what the appropriate response was. “Did she ever find out what happened?”
“I asked her that too. She said her parents told her that the man had been very sad and had died. For a while after, she had thought they meant you could die from being sad. Which is true, if you think about it . . .”
“Sure. I guess.”
“But, then, when she was older, she finally figured out she could look up the police records on the database and find out who he was. The man had had a family, two kids and a wife. They died in an accident. ‘A toxic event,’ whatever that means. Two years before.”
“Two years. Huh. That’s a long time.”
“Mrs. O’Brien said she figured he gave it some time, to see if he would get over it. Probably what the counselors and his friends would have said. But he couldn’t get over it, so he killed himself.”
“That’s really sad,” Nog said, surprised at how the tale was affecting him. Working in a bar, he had overheard people from many worlds tell every manner of miserable story imaginable, but their sorrow had bounced off him. Nog had just assumed it was part of being a Ferengi and a businessman. People were despondent. His role was to profit from it.
“It is,” Jake agreed. “But the worst part was knowing he had probably tried to get over it, tried to feel better, and he just couldn’t.”
“I’m surprised the counselors couldn’t he
lp him.”
“Counselors can only help you if you let them,” Jake said. “You have to be willing. I . . . I know something about that.” He looked down at his padd, scrolling through the menus like he was looking for something important. “After my mom died, I remember my dad, he spent a long time—a long time—hurting and he didn’t want to do anything about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure I understand it myself,” Jake said. “It was like he was there, but he wasn’t really. He was somewhere else, sometime else. I remember thinking he was going to drift away someday, like a balloon when the string breaks.”
“Huh,” Nog said, picturing the moment. “What happened? He’s not like that.”
“No, not now. The opposite, if you know what I mean.” He laughed. “I don’t know exactly. We came here. He had his encounter with the Prophets, and when he returned, well, he was back again. Back in the now. He tried to explain it to me once, what they said to him, but, honestly, I’m not sure I understand it yet. Not sure if I ever will.”
“So was that your worst day?” Nog asked. “When your mom died?”
Jake jerked his head back. He looked at Nog like he wasn’t sure how to reply, but, after a pause, said, “Yeah, was it yours?”
Nog shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I barely knew my mother. Even if my father had stayed married to her, I probably still wouldn’t know her. That’s how things are.”
“Oh,” Jake said. “I didn’t know that.” He frowned. “Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen a female Ferengi.”
“And you probably never will,” Nog said.
“Why?”
Nog threw his hands up. He knew that this was a concept most hew-mons had trouble grasping. “Because you won’t,” he said. “They rarely leave Ferenginar. It’s cultural.” He had learned that this word carried a lot of weight with hew-mons, some kind of pass. Not much got past cultural if you didn’t want to let it.