Part 7 (1/2)
”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 c.o.c.ked 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 un.o.bstructed. 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 s.h.i.+mmy, 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 ma.s.s.
”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 friends.h.i.+p with Doctor Bas.h.i.+r, 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 ign.o.ble,” 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. ”h.e.l.lo, 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 stars.h.i.+p and thought, I would follow him. All this, despite Maxwell's stained s.h.i.+rt, 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 delighted.
”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.”