Her voice sounded painfully thin, as if she were close to collapse. As she bled, the damage to her forehead looked worse. Yet she managed to support both Sib and Ciro, one on each side of her. They were conscious, pallid with strain; but they couldn’t control their bodies well. Small jerks and twitches shook them as if their nerves were still under attack.
“We’re following orders,” she murmured defensively. “It’s hard for people to move after they’ve had that much stun.”
“Really?” Nick sneered. “I had no idea.” Then he added, “Get down here before I ask Angus to do a little surgery on your internal organs.”
Like a kid about to cry, Ciro buried his face in Mikka’s shoulder. Sib may have wanted to do the same, but he fought the impulse. Instead he flopped an arm onto the railing and used it to help Mikka propel the three of them to a handgrip across the bridge from the auxiliary engineering console.
Slowly they settled to the deck. Still twitching, Sib separated himself from Mikka to find another grip, leaving her to hold her brother alone.
“Good.” Nick relaxed in his g-seat, at home and unassailable at the command station. “Now we can get started.”
Deliberately Mikka turned away from him. Across the length of the screens, she asked Vector, “What happened to you?”
“He broke Morn’s zone implant control,” Angus put in before Vector could reply; before Nick could stop him. “Smashed it—cut up his hand. He—”
“Angus, shut up,” Nick snarled quickly. “Don’t say anything. If I want you to talk, I’ll ask you a question.”
At once Angus’ jaws locked together as if they’d been wired closed. Murderous and thwarted, his eyes ached like wounds.
“God, Vector,” Mikka breathed. She made no effort to conceal her relief. “You’re a genius. I should have thought of that myself.”
Vector gave her a crooked gray smile like a line drawn in a sheet of ash.
Grinning again, Nick drawled, “No, Mikka. You’ve got it wrong as usual. You should stop talking and listen. I’m about to explain the facts of life to you mindless, mutinous shits, and this is your only chance to understand them.”
“Fine,” Mikka shot back at him. “You do that.” She might have been taunting him, trying to provoke him into an attack. Despite her bleeding face and her weakness, she held his gaze. “Let’s see if the ‘facts’ make you look as good as you think.”
For a moment Nick tightened as if he meant to spring at her. But then he eased back against the cushions. His eyes glittered with ominous restraint.
“Angus, if she says another word—any word at all—I want you to use that little laser of yours on her. Cut off one of her fingers. If she screams or swears or even groans, cut off another finger. Cut them off one at a time until she learns how to keep her mouth shut.”
Ciro wrenched his head away from Mikka’s shoulder, turned his face toward Nick. His eyes were aghast; white with horror.
Involuntarily Sib hunched over his stomach, trying to vomit again; but he had nothing left to bring up.
Overhead Morn floated motionless, lost in fear and desolation.
“Don’t push him, Mikka,” Davies warned urgently. “He means it. And Angus will do it.”
We need you. Morn and I need you.
And we need to hear what Nick’s going to say.
Mikka bit down on a retort. She could see Angus’ face as well as Davies could: she could see that he would do exactly what Nick ordered. With an effort she closed her eyes, let her shoulders sag; took a deep breath and released it softly.
When she opened her eyes again, she didn’t speak.
“Shit,” Nick said to her. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you morons. Don’t you ever learn anything? Davies came in here with a broken arm. Your skull is in splinters. And you both still think you can mess with me.
“Well, I’ve got news for you. Your messing days are over.” He snapped the words between his teeth. “I don’t need you. Angus is mine—that’s what counts. Vector I’m going to keep. He can be useful. But the rest of you—You can all go disembowel yourselves, and it won’t make any difference to me. The only reason I haven’t killed you already is because I might be able to think of something better.”
Davies ignored the threat. He knew it was real, but it changed nothing. And he ignored Morn as well, although she pulled at his heart: she had to wait. With his good arm, he hugged his ribs and waited for Nick’s explanation.
“In the meantime,” Nick went on sardonically, “I’m going to tell you a little story. I want you to understand what’s going on here, so you’ll know I don’t need you.
“Remember Com-Mine?” He settled himself in his g-seat. His familiar, dangerous poise made him seem comfortable, completely at ease. Nevertheless his tone betrayed a raw edge of bitterness and anger. “Remember framing Angus? Milos and I did that, but it wasn’t our idea. We had orders from Hashi Lebwohl. From Data fucking Acquisition. They wanted to get their hands on the infamous Captain Thermo-pile.”
Angus didn’t react. Clotted with distress, his eyes showed nothing except malice.
“After we left Station, they reqqed him from Com-Mine Security, and Milos with him. Took them both to UMCPHQ. Then they did a little surgery on him—what the poor old Bill would have called ‘bio-enhancement.’ Made him into a cyborg. He has needle lasers installed in his hands, UV prostheses built into his eyes. He can emit jamming fields”—Nick glanced at Davies—“which explains how he managed to get you past all those bugeyes and guards. He has the strength of a fucking ape.
“But here’s the important part. His skull is full of zone implants. You feel sorry for Morn because she has one. He must have at least six. And they’re all run by a computer. Every neuron in his ugly skull is run by a computer. He has a datacore somewhere that tells him what to do, tells him everything. The fucking bastard can’t take a piss without Hashi’s permission.
“Look at him.” Nick flicked a gesture at Angus. “You can see I’m telling the truth.”
Davies looked; but he already knew. Nick’s revelation fit. And he could see the truth in the congealed blackness of Angus’ expression, the pressure of dark blood straining against the skin. Angus might have been a fanatic, a kaze; a madman who could set himself off at any moment, blasting the people around him to pulp. And yet the sheer lost extremity in his eyes showed that he had no choice.
“He wants to butcher me.” Nick made a determined effort to sound casual, but his anger still scraped and sawed in his voice. “If hate could kill, there wouldn’t be anything left of me but grease. But he can’t do it. His computer controls him. “Angus,” he rasped abruptly, “say, ‘Yes, master.’ “Past the helpless clench of his jaws, Angus pronounced, “Yes, master.”
Sib gaped as if he couldn’t imagine the kind of programming which would make Angus do that. Ciro turned a face full of questions at Mikka, then grabbed her arm to remind her not to speak.
God! Davies groaned past the pain in his head and arm and chest. Is it that bad? His father was ruled by Nick; absolutely under Nick’s control. Nothing Angus had ever done to Morn was worse than that.
Nick nodded in brutal satisfaction. His scars were as dark as Angus’ face.
“So why did DA do all this?” he demanded rhetorically. “You know why. To blow up Billingate. And rescue Morn. Who else could they send? Who could get in? They needed an illegal so slimy he wouldn’t be questioned.
“But that’s not all they needed. They also had to give him cover—a believable explanation for how he managed to get away from UMCPHQ in a UMCP ship. And they had to be sure they could keep their grip on him. No matter how good they are, they couldn’t write an instruction-set for every contingency.
“So they needed Milos. To cover him. And keep him under control. They gave Milos priority-codes that would force Angus to do what they wanted.”
Fighting dismay, Davies concentrated for his life on every word Nick said.
Nick’s voice
trailed away briefly. As if he were talking to himself, he murmured, “I thought Milos was going to help me. I thought that was why Hashi sent him.”
Davies imagined he could see Captain’s Fancy in Nick’s eyes.
Almost at once, however, Nick came back to his explanation. “Lucky for us, they had a pretty accurate idea how far they could trust Milos.” His bitterness sharpened as he spoke. Words seemed to grate against each other in his mouth. “Hashi expected problems. When Milos went over to the Amnion, his priority-codes were automatically replaced.
“Are you with me so far?” He didn’t appear to be aware that he’d raised his voice. “Angus does his job on Thanatos Minor. He rescues Morn—and us with her only because he needed us to break her out. We get away. But now what? Everything he does, even everything he says, is being run by instruction-sets that are more obsolete by the hour. As far as Hashi and DA are concerned, he might be dangerous. He can’t escape his programming—but it’s conceivable his programming could fail. If something unforeseen creates a logic loop, he might go into a cyborg’s version of meltdown. Or he might get loose.
“DA can’t risk pulling him in until they’re sure he’s safe.”
Nick paused, looked around the bridge. “In other words”—he made an unsuccessful attempt to sound triumphant—“they need a replacement for Milos.”
Of course they did.
“Don’t say it,” Vector put in unexpectedly. His pain-dulled eyes met Nick’s glare. Although his voice was as pale as his face, it hinted at firmness; a refusal to be cowed. “We can see it coming.
“DA chose you.”
Morn remained locked in herself, as small and hard and lost as she could be.
An involuntary snarl twisted Nick’s mouth. “As it happens, there’s a ship after us. UMCP cruiser Punisher. She’s pretty far back—but about an hour ago, right before we went into tach, she managed to catch us with a transmission.” He showed his teeth. “The cops have given me Angus’ new priority-codes.
“If you saw that coming, you know what comes next. Now I run him. He’s mine. And he can’t disobey or ignore or even threaten me because his programming won’t let him.
“Are you listening!” Nick flared around the bridge. “Do you get the message? I’ve already ordered him to protect me. You bastards may think you can team up against me, but you’re dreaming. You can’t touch me unless you get past a cyborg with machine reflexes and lasers first.
“And I’m not quite helpless myself.” He waved Milos’ small stun-prod, then used it to slap at the command console. “I have his codes for the ship. She’s mine, too.”
He couldn’t sit still any longer; couldn’t sustain his relaxed pose. He’d been too badly beaten: no amount of power could turn him back into the man who never lost. Driven by his bereavements, he made short, punching gestures with his fists as he spoke, as if he were fighting an invisible enemy. His voice sounded shrill and bloody, like the cut of a drill through bone.
“I’m sure Hashi Lebwohl in his infinite wisdom thinks he can reason with me. Or outmaneuver me. Or at least bargain with me. So that I’ll do what he wants. And maybe he’s right. I won’t know until I hear what he has to offer.
“But if he thinks he can persuade or trick or pay me to give up what I’ve got now, he’s out of his goddamn contorted mind. I’ve got a ship with enough firepower to take on a battlewagon. I’ve got a second who can do tricks nobody’s ever heard of before—and who can’t argue with me. Once Vector does his job at the Lab, I’ll have something I can sell for enough credit to buy my own station.” His whole face seemed to concentrate around his scars. “Then I’m going to start teaching you and a few other people what real revenge is all about.”
Darkly Davies muttered, “If you don’t go crazy and get yourself killed first.”
Nick swung his station hard, brought his anger directly to bear on Davies. “You I’ll probably keep alive. You’ll make good bait.” Then he raised his head so that he could rage more easily. “But the rest of you better start trying to think of ways to convince me I need you. You better figure out some way to make me forgive you.
“And that goes for her, too.” He stabbed the stun-prod in Morn’s direction. “I want her compliant, you got that? No more of her fucking self-righteousness, no more lies, no more resistance. Otherwise I’ll blow the whole shit-faced lot of you out the airlock and never look back.”
Sib released his handgrip, let himself float in the air beside the screens. Nick’s demand for Morn seemed to be more than he could bear. He was as pale as Vector, but his twitching had stopped. The nausea in his eyes wasn’t physical.
He’d assigned himself the job of guarding Nick. And he’d failed.
“Do it now,” he said softly. “What are you waiting for?”
Nick turned again until he faced Sib, Ciro, and Mikka. Instead of shouting, however, he spoke almost casually; almost as if he’d recovered his self-possession.
“Right now I don’t have time. We’re too near our insertion window for Massif-5. And after that I’ll be even busier. Until we get to the Lab.
“Besides,” he added in a fatal drawl, “I want to watch you suffer. I want to see you sweat yourself dry trying to come up with some way to persuade me I shouldn’t make you go EVA without a suit.”
Davies couldn’t keep quiet. He had to do something—had to get off the bridge, away from Nick, so that he could try to reach Morn. She needed him, and he’d given her nothing.
Everyone needed him. Sib’s shame had pushed him as far as he could go. Mikka knew Nick too well to ignore his threats. Ciro was plainly out of his depth, appalled by what was left of a man he’d once idolized—and maybe also by how easily he’d been bested. And Vector looked too weak to move, much less make decisions.
“In that case,” Davies put in stiffly, “how much time is there? Vector can’t do lab work with that hand. Mikka can’t survive heavy g without treatment. I might not be able to stand it myself. And if you want Morn ‘compliant’ “—that word hurt like a violation, but he used it in an effort to sway Nick—“you’d better let me take her to sickbay. Cat might bring her back, but I can’t measure the right dose myself.”
Nick started to say something that may have been, I don’t care. But then he thought better of it. “All right.” His eyes were full of schemes—schemes which apparently left Trumpet and his immediate victims far behind. He glanced at his readouts. “You have twenty minutes. If you aren’t strapped down by then, you can kiss yourselves good-bye.
“But”—he cocked a fist in warning—“don’t think you can use anything in sickbay against me. I can monitor you from here. I’ll know it if you try to arrange any surprises. And you aren’t going to like what happens if Angus has to defend me again.”
Davies didn’t waste time on a retort. Twenty minutes. He was in a hurry. Releasing his anchor on the auxiliary engineering console, he pushed off from the deck; floated up over the bridge stations toward Morn.
Mikka nudged Ciro to follow. Sib and Vector were already moving.
As he passed overhead, Davies caught one more glimpse of the stark excruciation in Angus’ eyes. His father needed him, too.
DAVIES
Needed him—and would kill him if he did anything to help. No. Davies couldn’t afford to think about that. First things first. Twenty minutes until Trumpet went into tach. Twenty minutes to treat Mikka’s injuries, and Vector’s, and his own. Twenty minutes to try to reach Morn somewhere inside the protective ball of her body.
As carefully as he could, he wrapped his good arm around her and moved her in the direction of the companionway.
He couldn’t control his movements, however—not with one arm broken and Morn hugged in the other. Awkwardly he tried to stop at the head of the companionway by hooking his leg on the nearest handrail, but his inertia pulled him over the rail toward an impact with the treads. He was useless like this, useless, couldn’t even navigate zero g, when he hit it was going to hurt—
> Sib Mackern crowded up the companionway behind him. At the last moment Sib managed to tuck a shoulder between Davies and the hard steps. Bright flares of pain burst across Davies’ vision as his and Morn’s combined mass landed on his broken bones. Nevertheless Sib’s body absorbed most of the collision.
Apparently Sib wasn’t hurt. As Morn and Davies rebounded, he lifted with them. Gripping the rail with one hand, he caught hold of Davies’ shipsuit with the other.
“Thanks,” Davies murmured through a clamor of flashes.
Sib didn’t bother to respond. His face was etched with misery.
Steered by Sib’s hold, Davies carried Morn toward sickbay.
Pressure swelled in his chest: he might have been bleeding internally. With his sight confused by neural eruptions, the passage resembled a tunnel, long and dim, ending in darkness. The small sickbay was toward Trumpet’s stern, out of the way of traffic between the galley and the bridge, the cabins and the lift. Surely it was possible to get there somehow. Pain was only pain: he ought to be able to ignore it for a minute or two.
Angus’ zone implants and computer explained his quickness, but they didn’t account for the superhuman force of his blows. Strength of a fucking ape. He must have other resources as well.
Abruptly Morn raised her head. Before Davies understood that she was moving, she extended her arm and snagged a handgrip.
In surprise Sib instinctively clung to Davies’ shipsuit. Pivoting around her, they bumped to a stop against the bulkhead.
Davies croaked out a whisper. “Morn?” Then in panic he jerked his head around, scanned the passage. He didn’t want to risk being overheard; exposing her. Where was the nearest intercom? Outside each of the cabins, of course: here; there; there. Others farther away. But they weren’t active. All their indicators were blank.
“Morn?” he breathed again. For an instant his relief was so childlike that he feared he might break into tears.
She flicked a glance at him—a swift, urgent appeal for support. Then she turned away.
Vector and Ciro reached the passage, herded along by Mikka. As soon as they saw Morn, however, they all grappled for handgrips or each other, anything they could use to stop themselves. In a moment they were clustered around her, shoulder to shoulder with Davies and Sib.