If the displacement didn’t get worse. And nothing else went wrong.
In the meantime Punisher’s drone required a certain number of hours to reach UMCPHQ. And Warden Dios wouldn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t: he would have to wait to reply until UMCPHQ attained a window on a listening post within effective reach of Punisher’s presumed course. After that, more hours would pass while the answering drone raced to its destination.
Better to rest now.
Once Punisher gained velocity comparable to Trumpet’s, the cruiser needed thrust only for course correction. Trumpet’s signal enabled Punisher’s helm to set gap parameters which would slowly draw the cruiser closer to the scout without overrunning her. As long as Trumpet didn’t accelerate, Punisher could coast in pursuit using only her gap drive.
Because she was who she was, Min woke up for every course shift, every slight change in Punisher’s ambient vibrations. Nevertheless she was able to sleep for the better part of eight hours without being disturbed by hard g.
Once again her intercom awakened her.
“Director Dormer, this is the bridge. Director?”
This time she roused easily. Everyone else aboard needed days or weeks of rest, not hours; but until recently she hadn’t been under anywhere near as much strain as they had.
As she slid out of her bunk to answer the intercom, she discovered that most of her aches were gone, and her ears no longer registered everything against a background of pain. Nevertheless her anger remained.
At the last Warden had told her that Morn Hyland might survive. Before that—for months before that—he’d let, no, encouraged her to believe that Morn would be left to die.
What could she trust now?
How could she be sure that Morn’s rescue was anything more than a prelude to another betrayal?
Well, she was glad that Morn was alive, glad from the back of her throat to the pit of her stomach. Still she was in no mood to be forgiving.
While her ears, the soles of her feet, and the nerves of her skin sensed Punisher’s condition, she toggled her intercom. “Bridge.” By small increments the internal spin displacement was getting worse. “Captain Ubikwe?”
“Director Dormer,” the voice which had awakened her replied, “I’m Command Fourth Stoval, Hargin Stoval.” Unlike most of the other officers, he sounded phlegmatic; immune to fatigue. “Captain Ubikwe wants to talk to you. He’s in the galley.”
“Fine,” Min answered. “I’m on my way.” But she didn’t want to wait that long for news. “Where are we? What’s going on?”
“With respect, sir,” Stoval replied stolidly, “I think you should talk to Captain Ubikwe.”
Min didn’t bother to respond. She punched off the intercom, then stood glaring at it for a moment. Dolph, you goddamn prima donna, what’re you doing? What’re you afraid of?
Why don’t you want your people to talk to me?
But she knew why. His ship and his people were damaged, raw with weariness, alone. He was chasing a UMCP gap scout, of all things, with at least one hostile vessel presumably in pursuit. And Min hadn’t told him what was at stake.
Dolph Ubikwe was not a man to take such treatment calmly.
For his sake, as well as for her own, she made a particular effort to regain her own poise before she left her cabin to find the galley.
One of the innovations she’d imposed on the UMCP fleet when she became ED Director was the elimination of separate facilities for officers and crew. She desired hierarchies, chains of command, which were founded on respect and commitment, not on privilege—or isolation. Everyone aboard Punisher, including her captain, was served by the same foodvends and dispensers, ate in the same mess.
As a result, the galley was not a place Min would have chosen for a private conversation.
She suspected, however, that Captain Ubikwe wanted to talk to her there precisely so that their conversation would not be private. He intended to make her take responsibility for what she revealed, as well as for what she concealed. And he wanted his people to know that he withheld nothing from them which affected their chances of survival.
Min respected his attitude without sharing it. She hated the position Warden had put her in too much to like the prospect of discussing it openly.
She felt a small relief, quickly suppressed, when she found Dolph alone in the galley. The door to the mess stood open, of course, and half a dozen of the crew sat there at the tables, eating or talking; in easy earshot. But at least if they overheard her they might not see her squirm.
Captain Ubikwe sat at the galley table with a mug of coffee steaming between his hands. The table was intended to hold trays and plates while the dispensers and foodvends were being used, but a couple of chairs were kept available for people who needed to eat fast and leave. Dolph hunched in one of them, propping himself up with his elbows as if he needed the support. When he caught sight of Min, he nodded her toward the other chair.
“Get yourself something to eat, Director,” he rumbled. “Sit down. We have to talk.”
Min needed food, but she was in no mood for it. Instead of asking, Why now? What’s changed? she countered, “You want to talk here?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I’m not the one who keeps this ship alive. I don’t make her run. Her crew does that. So I don’t keep secrets from them.”
Standing, she towered over him. She hardly noticed the way her fingers alternately stroked and gripped the butt of her handgun. “You know,” she muttered softly, “I could order you to discuss this with me in my cabin—and keep it to yourself afterward. I have the authority, Dolph.”
“Sure,” he responded with a show of confidence which belied his tension. “But you won’t! You aren’t that much of a hypocrite.”
The man was insufferable; but Min stopped herself on the verge of telling him so. In truth what she found insufferable wasn’t him as much as the pressure he exerted on her; the way he pushed her to acknowledge the ambiguity of what she was doing. He didn’t deserve her anger. It belonged to Warden Dios.
Nevertheless it refused to go away. She helped herself to a mug of coffee from the dispenser, a bowl of stew from the food-vend, then thumped them down on the table and took the chair Dolph had indicated. Glaring at him like a hawk, she murmured harshly, “Damn it, Captain Ubikwe, I wish you would stop treating me like the enemy. I’m Min Donner, not Maxim Igensard. And I’m as sure as hell not Holt Fasner. For a change of pace, why don’t you give your sense of outraged victimization a rest and just tell me why you wanted your command fourth to wake me up?”
Dolph didn’t look away: he had anger of his own to match hers. When he spoke, however, he lowered his voice enough to keep his accusation between the two of them.
“You may not be the enemy,” he rasped, “but you sure as hell are a problem. You ordered me to turn my back on one ship which may very well be committing an act of war, and another which looks like she might be engaged in some kind of high-level treason, just so we could go haring off after one of our own ships. She arrived out of forbidden space, and you know why she went there, you were expecting her to show up when she did, so I presume you also know where she’s going. But you haven’t told me why. Why we’re here, why you’re here, why she’s here. “Do you know where she’s going?”
The vehemence of his demand took Min aback. She shook her head, sat as still as a gun while she waited for him to explain.
“In that case,” he growled more loudly, “I’ll tell you.” Perhaps it was a mark of respect that he didn’t call her a liar. “Massif-5. Valdor Industrial. Which by some amazing coincidence happens to be where we just came from.”
Oh, shit, Min groaned to herself. No wonder Dolph was angry.
But he wasn’t done. “You may have forgotten,” he went on with more and more vitriol in his tone, “so I’ll remind you that we were holed twice. We’ve got internal spin displacement playing hob with navigation, we’ve got micro-leaks in some of the hydraulic systems, one of o
ur scan banks is useless, and four of my people are dead, Director.” He visibly restrained an impulse to pound the table. “Eleven more are hurt too bad to work. And that’s where this gap scout of yours is headed. Unless she changes her mind, she’ll reach the system in twenty-four hours.
“Once she gets there, even a Class-1 UMCP homing signal may not be enough to help us follow her—which we’ll have to do if you really want us to keep that Amnion ship from catching her.
“Do you think we haven’t suffered enough? Are you planning to make us sail that damn Sargasso until navigational displacement if not ordinary bad luck contrives a head-on collision with an asteroid?
“Director Donner, I want to know what this is all about.”
Min let out a sigh of recognition. “I can see why.” Under the circumstances, she couldn’t think of a reason to keep what she knew to herself. “I’ll give you the best answer I can.
“But I have to warn you. What I tell you may not be complete.” The euphemism tasted like bile in her mouth. “ED is peripheral to this operation. Hashi Lebwohl and Warden Dios planned it together”—I assume they planned it together—“without paying much attention to my opinion. So there could easily be things I don’t know about it.
“I presume you read Trumpet’s flare?” Dolph faced her squarely. “Sure.”
“Then you don’t need me to draw you a map. I told you we—that is to say, DA—launched a covert attack on Thanatos Minor. That was Trumpet. We put out the story she’d been stolen, but the truth is we gave her to a former illegal named Angus Thermopyle.
“I say ‘former’ because once Hashi got his hands on him, Captain Thermopyle stopped making his own decisions. He’s-been welded—he’s a cyborg, complete with zone implants and a datacore. And he’s been programmed to do whatever Hashi tells him. He could approach Thanatos Minor because he was an illegal in a stolen ship, but we sent him there to blow up the whole planetoid.”
Dolph opened his mouth to ask a question, then bit his lip and remained still, letting Min tell the story in her own way.
“But we knew going in,” she went on, “that the situation on Thanatos Minor wasn’t simple. A man named Nick Succorso was there, along with his ship, Captain’s Fancy. He’s one of Hashi’s less reliable operatives. Most of the time he pretends to be illegal, but actually he works for DA. That’s why he has a ‘mutagen immunity drug’ in his possession.”
Mordantly Dolph growled, “I didn’t know mutagen immunity drugs existed. That’s a hell of a discovery to keep secret.”
Scowling, Min shrugged. “I’ll get to that. Let me finish this first.
“Succorso went to Thanatos Minor from Enablement Station. Don’t ask me why—I don’t know what the hell he thought he was doing. But that, I assume, is why the Amnion now know about the drug—and why he knows about their near-C acceleration research. What must have happened next is that Thermopyle managed to rescue some of Captain’s Fancy’s people before Thanatos Minor blew.
“If that were all, it might be enough to make the Amnion risk an encroachment. But you read the flare—you know it gets worse.
“Captain Thermopyle has a rather special group of people aboard. Just the fact that Succorso is with him is a surprise, considering that Hashi never would have gotten his hands on Thermopyle if Succorso hadn’t framed him for a crime he didn’t commit. But there’s more.
“Morn Hyland is an ED ensign.”
Dolph dropped his jaw in surprise; but Min didn’t stop.
“Thermopyle captured her off Starmaster when that destroyer went down. Then Succorso took her from Thermopyle. One of them must have gotten her pregnant, which is why she now has a son—‘force-grown,’ whatever that means.” The thought made Min want to spit. “Apparently something about the process has implications the Amnion didn’t foresee. Now they want him back because they think he holds the key to replicating Amnion as human beings. Which could be the only weapon they need to destroy us.”
Grimly Min held Dolph’s stare. “Does that sound like enough? Do you think Trumpet needs protection? Do you think the Amnion would risk an act of war for stakes like that?”
He cleared his throat with a guttural rasp. “I would. If I were them. Which I’m beginning to think I might be.”
Min forced her hand off her gun to pick up her mug. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No, please,” Dolph retorted sourly, “you first. Finish your story. Then I’ll take a turn.”
“All right.” Deliberately she studied her coffee as if she thought it might quiet her apprehension. “Have it your way.”
What happened while I was asleep? What else is going on?
“The reason I’m here is simple enough.” On the surface, anyway. “The UMCP needs somebody on the spot who can make decisions and back them up. Somebody who has the authority to demand help and get it anywhere.
“You’re here because you were the only ship available.
“I didn’t know Thermopyle was going to head for Massif-5. But I can tell you how it happened, and I can guess why.
“He’s a cyborg. He’s also one of the worst illegals I know—which means no one actually wants to let him make his own decisions. He was sent out with a man who was supposed to control him, adjust his programming as circumstances changed. That was Milos Taverner—the one who turned traitor.
“Well, Hashi knew that might happen. Hell, I knew it might. So safeguards were built into Thermopyle’s datacore. In effect, Taverner’s priority-codes were erased. New codes were initiated. Unfortunately they’re useless unless he has somebody with him who knows what they are. For the time being, at least, Thermopyle is out of control to some extent.
“But Hashi anticipated all this. Thermopyle’s programming has instructions that require him to report. And activate that homing signal. Then the only thing he has to do is stay away from Earth and UMCPHQ—and stay alive. He can go wherever he wants until we have time to determine how dangerous he is and issue new orders.
“That’s another part of our job. As soon as Director Dios says so, we’ll maneuver close enough to Trumpet to invoke Thermopyle’s new codes.”
Captain Ubikwe frowned darkly, but didn’t interrupt.
“Anyway,” she continued, “he chose to head for Massif-5 on his own. Maybe he just thinks he’ll be safe there—but I doubt it. He doesn’t know that system. So it’s my guess he picked Massif-5 because he has Succorso and Shaheed aboard,”
And maybe because Morn is there.
“Go on,” Dolph muttered.
“Do you recognize the name Vector Shaheed?” she asked, although she had no reason to think he would. “He’s a genetic engineer—he used to work for Intertech, back in the days when Intertech was doing research into mutagen immunity drugs. As far as anyone knows—publicly—the research was shut down because it involved dangerous genetic tampering. But the truth is that the research was turned over to DA. Hashi completed it. He’s been using people like Succorso to test it—and maybe to play a few mind games with the Amnion. After the Intertech project was stopped, Shaheed ended up with Nick Succorso. A case of ‘disaffected loyalty,’ according to the psy-profile in his id file.
“I think that’s why Thermopyle is heading for Massif-5. Succorso has an immunity drug, and Shaheed knows how to analyze it. Where else could Thermopyle find a bootleg lab to study that drug, and keep himself alive in the process?”
A sneer of disbelief twisted Dolph’s face. “You think he wants to duplicate this drug? And do what with it? Mass-produce it? Go into business selling it—to illegals, I presume? Hashi Lebwohl’s pet cyborg?”
Min resisted an impulse to snarl back, What do you think I am, a mind reader? Instead she returned, “I think that’s what Succorso has in mind. He’s capable of it. Maybe Shaheed is, too. Thermopyle isn’t. But he is capable of going along with it be cause he doesn’t know what else to do until his computer gets new orders.”
“I see.” Captain Ubikwe chewed his lip for a moment, consu
lted his empty mug. “Unfortunately that just makes matters worse.”
“How?” Min was tired of oblique gibes. “What do you care what Succorso has in mind? Thermopyle’s in command—and we can control him as soon as we get close enough to send him a message.”
Dolph snorted to himself. Still studying his mug, he asked, “Are you done? Is there anything else I should know?” She shook her head brusquely.
“In that case”—he put his palms flat on the table like a man who meant to start shouting—“it’s my turn.”
Here it comes, Min thought. Because she needed the discipline, she forced herself to begin eating her stew as if nothing he could say would hurt her.
“I suggested,” he began harshly, “that I feel like I might be working for the Amnion without knowing it. Turning my back on alien incursions has that effect on me.” He appeared to swell with outrage as he spoke, taking on bulk as well as passion from his own words. He didn’t raise his voice: nevertheless it seemed to resonate off the walls. “Turning my back on ships that might be engaged in treason has that effect. And hearing that I work for an organization that develops mutagen immunity drugs and then keeps them secret so men like this Captain Succorso can have them to play with produces the same goddamn sensation.
“But I’ll tell you what really makes me feel like I enlisted on the wrong side.” He shoved a fist into one of his pockets, pulled out a crumpled sheet of hardcopy. “While you were sleeping, we passed a UMC listening post.”
For a second Min choked on her stew. But she didn’t lift her head; didn’t let him see her struggle to swallow.
“Not UMCP,” he insisted, “United Mining Companies. What the hell it’s doing out here, I can’t tell you. You could probably tell me, but I’m not sure I want to hear any more secrets right now.
“The post log was holding a message for us. Not you—us. It’s coded for Punisher.” Which was his only conceivable excuse for not waking her up right away and giving her the message directly. “But it’s not from Command Operations. Hell, it’s not even from Center. It’s from Warden Dios himself. “It makes me sick.”