“Fine.” Min slammed down her spoon so hard the stew slopped over the edges of the bowl. “You be sick.” She stuck out her hand. “I’ll read the message.”
Abruptly she caught a glint of malicious humor from his eyes. “Here.” He dropped the hardcopy on the table beside her hand. “After you read it, you can be sick on the floor. The bosun doesn’t mind—he’s used to messy galleys by now.”
Stifling obscenities, Min picked up the sheet and smoothed it out so that she could see what it said.
He was right: the transmission was from Warden Dios. And coded for Punisher. As if he didn’t trust her to obey him—
The first part of the message contained warnings. Sorting through the codes and the official locutions, she gleaned the information that Free Lunch was a mercenary working for Hashi Lebwohl. Contracted to DA as an observer, Captain Scroyle had returned from Thanatos Minor just ahead of the carnage. Now, however, he had a new assignment. For reasons which Warden didn’t bother to explain, Free Lunch was now under contract to destroy Trumpet.
Hashi, you sonofabitch! You God damn son of a bitch.
Punisher was instructed to take any steps necessary to protect the gap scout.
In addition, Min learned that Soar, a ship reported in the vicinity of Thanatos Minor by Captain Scroyle, had been tentatively identified as Gutbuster. Gutbuster had been an illegal armed with super-light proton cannon, formerly presumed dead or lost; but now Hashi or his people thought she might be operating as Soar, with stolen id and a retrofit gap drive.
Warden guessed she might be the vessel heading out of forbidden space in pursuit of Trumpet. If that were true, she was an enemy to fear: Gutbuster had several kills to her charge, and only the lack of a gap drive had prevented her specialized cannon from doing even more damage.
All that was bad enough. What followed was worse.
With the highest possible priority, and on Warden Dios’ personal authority, Punisher was commanded to flare a signal to Trumpet as soon as she could get within reach.
The text of the signal was brief.
It said:
Warden Dios to Isaac, Gabriel priority.
Show this message to Nick Succorso.
That was all. The words were embedded in coding that Min didn’t recognize and couldn’t read—some kind of machine language, apparently, intended to enforce compliance from Isaac’s computer. But those twelve words were enough to make her vision go gray around the edges and fill her heart with gall.
Succorso wasn’t stupid. He would figure out what the signal meant. He might not know why it was sent to him, but he would know how to use it.
Morn Hyland was aboard Trumpet with the two men who had abused her most. And her only protection was the fact that a programmed UMCP cyborg was in command. Because of who he was, Angus wouldn’t let Nick hurt her. Because he was welded, Angus wouldn’t hurt her himself.
But after he got this message—
Succorso would take command. In his own way, he was about as trustworthy as Milos Taverner. With a ship like Trumpet—and with a cyborg backing him up—he might be impossible to stop.
Morn certainly wouldn’t be able to stop him.
Warden. Warden. You’ve betrayed us. Morn. Angus. Me. Humankind. You’ve betrayed us all.
“The truth is,” Dolph said abruptly, “I trust you.” He made no effort to keep his voice down: he might have been making an announcement to the whole mess. “I’ve always trusted you—I can’t stop now. And at the moment Warden Dios’ ‘personal authority’ doesn’t mean shit to me. He let Hashi Lebwohl hire a mercenary to attack his own people. I don’t know what that means—or what this means”—he slapped a gesture at the sheet of hardcopy—“but I can guess who’s behind it. Holt Fasner. Or Cleatus Fane doing the Dragon’s dirty work.
“So it’s up to you. You decide. We’ll do whatever you tell us. And fuck the consequences.”
Min held his gaze with her eyes burning and her palms afire; she clutched her handgun as if it were the only thing left that made sense to her. In her name he was prepared to defy a direct order from the director of the UMCP—
“You know,” she murmured, nearly whispering, “I could court-martial you right here for saying that.”
A grin bared his teeth. “I know. But you won’t.” For the second time he told her, “You aren’t that much of a hypocrite.”
Oh, really? Full of sudden disgust, she had to clench her teeth and grip her gun hard to prevent herself from flinging her stew across the galley. Then what was she? What did all her years of dedication and loyalty come to now?
Warden was forcing her to commit an act of treason. Treason to humankind. Or treason to her oath of service.
What did he want from her? Did he assume that the faithful Min Donner, so faithful that some people called her his “executioner,” would blindly go ahead and carry out his orders? Or did he believe, hope, pray that her commitment to the ideals which the UMCP supposedly served would compel her to disobey him?
How could she decide without knowing what he wanted?
Who was she?
While Dolph waited for her reply, she found an answer. It was there in his face, although he didn’t know it—and might have disavowed it if he did. At a word from her, he was willing to commit a crime which would doom him and his whole command. And he was willing for the simple, sufficient reason that he knew her. She was the UMCP Enforcement Division director in the purest sense of the term: as disinclined to treason as to lies; and passionately loyal to her own people.
For that same reason, she had no choice now. She was Enforcement Division, not DA or Administration, Command Operations or PR. Put crudely, she was the fist of the UMCP, not the brain; not even the heart. And a fist that imposed its own decisions on other people was only a bully, nothing more.
If there was treason here, it was Warden’s, not hers. She didn’t make policy. It would be a crime of another kind—a violation of her essential commitments—if she arrogated to herself the responsibility for choosing humankind’s future.
So she knew what to do. She hated it; but she did it.
“You’re right,” she told Dolph. “It’s up to me.”
She seemed to feel pieces of her heart breaking off as she announced, “I want you to flare that signal to Trumpet before she reaches Massif-5.” Each raw chunk she lost had Morn’s name on it, or Warden’s. “Which means you’re going to have to catch up with her first.”
Which in turn would put even more pressure on his ship and his crew. With displacement affecting navigation, Punisher would have to work hard to gain on the agile, undamaged gap scout.
“The sooner you get started, the better.”
Dolph Ubikwe’s name may have been on one of the pieces which cracked away.
He didn’t appear lost, however. Under his fat, his features hardened; his shoulders hunched up as if he were absorbing blows. But he didn’t protest or complain: the glare in his eyes held no grievance. He appeared to be measuring her—or measuring himself against her, wondering if he could match her.
After a moment he let out his breath in a long sigh. “Shit, Min. And all this time I thought being one of the good guys was supposed to be fun.”
Puffing out his cheeks lugubriously, he heaved his bulk out of the chair.
The acceptance behind his sarcasm touched her more than she could bear to show. In plain gratitude, however, because he’d given her one less bereavement to carry, she made an effort to respond in kind.
“One more thing, Dolph.” She didn’t look up at him: she didn’t want him to see her face. “The next time something like this happens”—she flapped Warden’s message—“don’t keep it to yourself. It just upsets you, and when you’re upset you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Aye, sir, Director Donner, sir.” He sounded like he was grinning. “Whatever you say.”
She longed for the ability to grin herself, but she was too full of grief. She’d made her decision. If humankind suffered
for it, she would shoulder the responsibility.
Nevertheless as Captain Ubikwe left the galley to carry out her orders, she couldn’t shake the conviction that she’d sent him to do Morn Hyland more harm than any mortal man or woman could sustain.
ANGUS
Once Trumpet had attained a steady course and velocity away from the Com-Mine belt, and he and Mikka Vasaczk had recovered from the immediate effects of g-stress unconsciousness, Angus began taking his ship by easy stages across the light-years toward the Massif-5 system and Valdor Industrial. He didn’t rush her between crossings. And he made no effort to pick up more velocity so that she could cover greater distances. Instead he waited—sometimes half an hour, sometimes an-hour or more—after Trumpet resumed tard before he reengaged her gap drive and sent her leapfrogging the void.
As a result, a trip which might have been accomplished in twelve hours was going to take the better part of two days.
He told Mikka and the rest of his passengers that he did this to minimize the strain on Morn. Every time Trumpet resumed tard, the ship had to be ready for emergency maneuvers. The chance always existed that navigational imprecision might drop her down a gravity well, or place her uncomfortably close to an obstacle. And of course no astrogation database could possibly include every rogue lump of rock prowling the vast dark. In consequence Davies had to put Morn to sleep before each crossing so that sudden g wouldn’t send her into gap-sickness.
Angus told his companions that he wanted to spare Morn the ordeal of being paralyzed by her zone implant control all the way to Valdor Industrial.
And he used the same excuse to explain why he did nothing to evade pursuit from any of the three ships which Trumpet’s sensors had recorded when she’d come out of the gap on the edge of the Com-Mine belt. One of those ships was parked right over the listening post Angus had used; another drove toward human space from the direction of Thanatos Minor; the third showed every sign of being a UMCP warship primed for battle. Any or all of them might come after Trumpet—yet Angus did nothing to confuse his trace.
He didn’t want to subject Morn to evasive maneuvers, he said. Not after what she’d been through. And Trumpet would be difficult to follow in any case. A pursuer would have to quarter the vacuum for hours after each crossing in order to pick up her particle trail. And even that effort would be wasted if the pursuer couldn’t estimate accurately how far the gap scout went with each crossing. On top of that, even if the pursuer guessed Trumpet’s destination and simply headed for Massif-5, there was no guarantee—perhaps no likelihood—that the gap scout could be located in that huge, complex, virtually unchartable system.
Nick sneered at this explanation. Mikka faced it with a scowl of disapproval. Morn insisted that she was willing to spend as much time locked in artificial dreams as necessary to help Trumpet reach Massif-5 safely.
Angus ignored them.
It was all bullshit, of course. In fact, it was stupid. It outraged his instincts, appalled his fears. He could feel ships of every kind harrying him like Furies across the dark as if they were already within reach of scan; perhaps within reach of fire.
But the truth was that his programming wouldn’t let him either hurry or dodge. As if Trumpet’s homing signal weren’t enough of a betrayal, his datacore required him to behave with the mindless predictability of a moron; to ensure that any ship that followed him would find him impossible to lose.
With every passing hour, the taste of freedom turned more sour in his mouth. What good did it do him to make his own decisions if he had to carry them out like an idiot?
The men who’d programmed him scorned his desire for escape. Even when they loosened their control over him, they didn’t let him go.
Warden Dios had said, It’s got to stop. We’ve committed a crime against your soul. He must have been lying: every transmission from Trumpet’s homing signal proclaimed that this particular crime was far from over. Yet why had he lied? He’d called Angus a machina infernalis. What kind of man lied to a machine?
Angus wanted to believe that Dios hadn’t lied. He needed to believe something. But each slow, imposed step of Trumpet’s voyage to Valdor insisted that he was deluding himself.
And cowards who deluded themselves paid for it with abuse, humiliation, and death.
Eventually he stopped talking to the people around him or answering questions—even when Morn asked them. If he couldn’t say, You’ve been betrayed, we’ve all been betrayed, he couldn’t bear to speak at all.
From time to time Ciro brought him sandwiches and coffee. Under pressure from his sister, Ciro had taken on the duties of a cabin boy. Apparently he considered this a demotion, and he didn’t like it. Nevertheless he was plainly capable of discipline as well as loyalty. And he’d already shown that he had courage. He only allowed himself a hint of sullenness as he served Angus and Mikka at the command stations, or offered food to anyone else who happened to be on the bridge.
Mikka remained at the second’s station for several hours after Trumpet left the Com-Mine belt behind. If Angus wanted a little help, she gave it. The rest of the time she spent familiarizing herself with the ship. When she reached the end of her stamina, he sent her off the bridge to sleep and ran the ship alone until she came back.
He could have asked almost anyone aboard to take her place, but he didn’t. He had no intention of giving Nick access to Trumpet’s databases and programming again. Morn couldn’t stay on the bridge while Trumpet went into tach; and she needed Davies with her. Between crossings, Vector virtually lived at the auxiliary engineering console, belted to the stool so that he wouldn’t drift away, but he wasn’t working for the ship. Instead he used the console to reconstruct as much as he could of his research at Intertech, and then to write programs which would help him analyze Nick’s antimutagen. And Sib Mackern had assigned himself the job of guarding Nick. He was no good with a gun—Angus had already seen him in action—but he seemed to consider Nick the worst danger Trumpet was likely to face, and he was determined Xo prevent Nick from doing any more damage.
As for Nick, he appeared to have slipped into a state of cheerful lunacy. He understood what was said in his presence well enough to sneer at it, but he didn’t talk himself. When he wasn’t in his cabin, he floated the bridge, bobbing around and around the command stations like some frail old fool who’d lost contact with gravity or reality. At intervals he smiled to himself as if he’d slipped into senility while his medtech wasn’t looking. His scars were pale under his eyes, the color of cold ash. Despite the fact that Sib was always with him, always watching, he ignored the nervous man as if Sib were invisible.
Angus trusted none of this. For one thing, he didn’t believe that Sib was actually capable of handling Nick. And for another, he felt sure that Nick’s amiable dissociation was nothing more than a pose. Nevertheless he didn’t lock Nick away. His datacore didn’t give him that option. Instead he was forced to rely on Sit)—and anyone else who happened to be nearby.
Twelve hours passed; then twenty-four; thirty. Mikka’s calculations and Angus’ agreed that Trumpet was still roughly ten hours from the fringes of the Valdor system at her present pace. Five minutes after he informed his passengers that he intended to coast for an hour before the next crossing, Morn and Davies came to the bridge.
Perhaps by coincidence, everyone else was there as well. Mikka had resumed the second’s station. Nick orbited her seat and Angus’ under Sib’s anxious stare. Ciro had just brought another light meal from the galley. And Vector concentrated on the auxiliary engineering console as if he’d forgotten that he was human and needed rest—as if his awareness had shrunk down to his hands and the small screen, precluding people and distraction; precluding sleep. While he worked, his mouth pursed and relaxed, pursed and relaxed, according to some rhythm of its own. Angus had the impression that the geneticist whistled soundlessly through his teeth as he entered data or wrote programs, then paused when he considered the results.
Morn surveyed the b
ridge; she and Davies accepted foodbars and g-flasks of coffee from Ciro. In the absence of internal spin, they couldn’t stand anywhere. But her training had taught her the knack of floating in a stable position. Apparently Davies had the same ability.
After a bit of her foodbar and a sip of coffee, she turned to Angus.
“How is it going?” Her tone was carefully neutral. “Where are we?”
She didn’t look much better than she had a day or two ago. She hadn’t yet had enough food and rest to cure her core exhaustion. However, she wasn’t suffering from withdrawal; and the release of that particular strain showed in the small muscles around her eyes, the shape of her mouth, the lessened fever of her movements. In addition, she’d used the san until her hair and skin gleamed with cleanliness. She might have been trying to scour away her hours as a prisoner of the Amnion. Or perhaps it was Nick’s touch she wanted to scrub from her nerves.
Or the memory of what Angus had done to her.
Simply seeing her made his stomach hurt like knives twisting inside him.
Instead of speaking, he keyed an astrogation plot to one of the main screens and let her interpret it for herself.
She looked at it, glanced toward Davies. The two of them nodded like twins: they both drew on the same education and experience to understand the display.
“When will we get there?” she asked Angus.
He scowled without replying. I’ve been betrayed. You’ve been betrayed. Something has got to stop, that’s obvious, but it sure as hell won’t be the crimes of the fucking UMCP.
“Angus—” Morn began as if she meant to warn him; threaten him.
Davies swam closer to the command station.
“I don’t know what his problem is,” Mikka put in brusquely. “At a guess, I would say sleep deprivation is making him psychotic.” Nick snorted at this, but didn’t interrupt. Flashing a glare in his direction, Mikka continued to Morn, “He doesn’t answer questions anymore.