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Nog had been thinking.
    â€œI didn’t know that Starfleet used these anymore,” Nog said.
    Seventy or eighty years ago, just as it was beginning its second great age of exploration, the Federation had constructed scores of Helios stations and dropped them off as pickets where the newly commissioned fleet could stop and refuel and resupply. The upper decks, or the mushroom’s cap, housed the bridge and officer quarters, while the thick stalk was comprised of anywhere from four to ten decks of quarters, labs, work space, and stowage. A bulb at the base of the stalk contained the station’s reactor and, just below, the hangar deck. As one of Nog’s professors at the Academy had explained, “Every expense was spared.”And then she had added mysteriously, “Spam in a can.” Nog had always remembered that comment.
    â€œThey don’t,” O’Brien said. “This is privately run.”
    â€œBy whom?”
    The Amazon ’s comm chirped. The station was hailing them. “This is the Federation runabout Amazon. I’m Lieutenant Commander Nog. Please identify.”
    â€œNo,” a male voice replied. “Or, wait, yes. This is the Robert Hooke. Who are you again? No, wait. Don’t answer. We don’t care. Just go away. We’re busy. We don’t want any. That’s all you need to know. Go.”
    Nog muted the feed. “Friendly,” he said. “Do you want to reply? Or just turn around and go home?”
    O’Brien made a sour face. “Not exactly what I was expecting.” He tapped the companel. “This is Chief Miles O’Brien of Deep Space 9 . I filed a flight plan for these coordinates earlier today. Is there a problem?”
    Whoever was manning the comm board either didn’tknow or didn’t care to use the mute button. “They say they’re from Deep Space 9. What should I say?”
    A second voice, deeper, but muffled, answered, “Ask them why they’re here. Politely.”
    â€œAll right,” the male sighed, and then cursed, perhaps realizing he hadn’t muted his pickup. “No problem, Amazon. We’re just not used to visitors. Sorry, but I don’t know anything about a flight plan. Is there something I can help you with? You understand this is a private station, right?”
    â€œI’m aware of that,” O’Brien replied. “This isn’t Starfleet business. I’m just, that is, we’re just here to visit a friend.”
    â€œWe are?” Nog asked sotto voce .
    â€œWe are,” the chief replied.
    â€œA friend?” Hooke asked. “Who?”
    â€œYeah,” Nog asked softly. “Who?”
    â€œBenjamin Maxwell,” O’Brien said. “I believe he’s employed here.”
    â€œBenjamin Maxwell?” Clearly, he no longer cared that he didn’t know how to use a mute button. “Who’s that?”
    The second, deeper voice said, “Ben. He means Ben.”
    Realization took its sweet time. “The janitor? Ben the janitor?”
    â€œYes,” the second voice drawled. “Ben the janitor.”

Chapter 2
    Three Years Earlier
    Starfleet Penal Colony
    T he giant strode across the island. With every step, its wide feet compressed the topmost branches of the olive trees, which sprung back again as the giant marched on.
    Doctor Clark cupped his hands around the top half of his face to protect his eyes from the bright midmorning sun and laughed appreciatively as the behemoth strolled down the shoreline. Above the waist, the giant was nothing more than a bare armature, a sketch of a torso: just enough structure to hold the sensor array and the tiny antigrav engines. The legs were the magic, each one over forty meters high, and, though massive in appearance, constructed of superlight materials that didn’t have more than a couple hundred kilos of mass.
    At the last minute, just before unleashing it, Maxwell had thought