Read Online Force and Motion by Jeffrey Lang - Free Book Online

suggested, “Have yousimply changed into another person?” Maxwell wasn’t sure, but there was one fact about which he was certain: Miles O’Brien had been a constant, gracious presence. The chief never intruded, but Maxwell always knew he could count on his old tactical officer for a moderately raucous note and a bottle of real Bushmills on his birthday.
    O’Brien’s constancy was an inspiration. Maxwell knew he should be grateful. He knew this in his heart of hearts, but, for reasons he couldn’t satisfactorily articulate, the idea of O’Brien coming for a visit felt like an intrusion. “You’re a terrible man, Ben Maxwell,” he mumbled as he reached the landing. “A terrible, terrible man.”
    Far below, in the depths of the core, the Hooke’s overburdened atmosphere reclaimers chugged, scrubbing out the carbon dioxide and spewing forth breathable air. One deck below the scrubbers, and the station’s primary reactor, was the hangar bay where the Wren and the Aubrey awaited last touches of paint before Maxwell considered their refits completed. He had come to love both spacecraft: rugged workhorses with the same basic engineering of the Federation’s Erewon -class transports, but smaller and more manageable. Keeping the craft healthy was one of Maxwell’s principal joys. If one of the ships was outside the bay, as was usually the case, O’Brien might have brought his runabout in and given them a chance to chat briefly before encountering Finch. Perhaps that would have been the kind thing to do. Finch Without Warning felt like it could be the title of a moderately disturbing children’s book.
    Maxwell pressed his thumb against the electronic lock, but suddenly froze. He looked out of the corners of his eyes, right and left, without moving his head.
    He was, he knew, being watched.
    She’s here , Maxwell thought. Great.
    He felt her eyes on him. If he moved his head and looked around, then there was a chance she might drop down on him. Sometimes, though, when these spells of watchfulness were on her, if Maxwell didn’t challenge her by locking gazes, she would simply let him pass. It was a game to her , Maxwell thought, though there was more to it than simply that. She considered the central core to be hers and mildly resented Maxwell for using the stairways. He mentally conceded the point: the core was hers or, at least, she had been made for such spaces. Well, Maxwell thought, mentally shrugging, her and her sister. But I never see her down here.
    He sighed and tilted his head back to look up at the underside of the stairway slanting off over his head. Eight jewel-like beads, two much larger than the other six, glittered back at him. “Hello, Ginger,” Maxwell said. A pair of delicate chelicerae parted and clicked back together, a motion that Maxwell had learned to interpret as a kind of nod, a greeting. She dropped out from under the staircase on a slender, deceptively fragile-looking thread and allowed the air current in the core to spin her slowly in a clockwise direction. The grayish-green marking on her exoskeleton made it very difficult to see Ginger in low light, but now that she had slipped into the relatively modest illumination provided by the staircase lamps, she was easy enough to spot.
    She dropped lower, and then lower, until she hung less than a meter above Maxwell. He had to tilt his head so that his neck was completely exposed, the muscles tight, sothat he could look up into the arachnoform’s complex eyes. If she, for any reason, decided to release her hold on her thread, she would undoubtedly land so hard on Maxwell that he would be sent tumbling back down the stairway or, conceivably, over the rail to the bottom of the core. But she wouldn’t do that, Maxwell knew. Ginger loved him.
    Well, Ginger loved Maxwell as much as a giant spider weighing roughly thirty kilos could love a man. He suspected this was a