He turned down the gain on his pickup so that Nick and the others wouldn’t hear him panting. EVA terrified him, small places and vast ones terrified him, but his zone implants didn’t give him any choice. Biting his lower lip hard, he faced the ladder to the outer door and waited for the airlock to open.
When Trumpet’s servos pulled the door aside, he climbed up to it, stuck his head out, and got a glimpse of what Nick’s treachery entailed.
The whole region of the visitors’ docks was awash in stark white light. This was normal: as fierce as fire, arc lamps on tall poles blazed in all directions, giving incoming ships visual confirmation of their approach attitudes and trajectories.
Etched in illumination so intense that it seemed nearly phosphorescent, the landscape was at once ordinary and strange. For kilometers across the surface of the planetoid, Thanatos Minor’s native rock had been replaced by concrete—the reinforced outer face and abutments of Billingate.
Unlike the cargo docks and shipyard, this section was unmarked by gantries or cranes, loading-or service-or power-bays, airlocks for freight haulers or stevedores. Instead the only features were the berths themselves, cones inset in the concrete and surrounded like maws with banks of grapples and cables; a couple of huge radio dishes positioned to cover this quadrant of Billingate’s control space; scan antennae and receptors, as tall and brittle as burned trees; occasional access hatches for the emergency airlocks; and a number of gun emplacements, offering matter cannon fire to the void.
By themselves the emplacements looked massive and murderous, immeasurably destructive. However, seen next to the fathomless dark which covered Thanatos Minor instead of sky, they appeared no more distinct or effective than the old stone they’d replaced.
The light—or the contrast between the unnatural, human light and the natural, inhuman void—gave the landscape its strangeness. Against this black and absolute background, any arc lamp, no matter how intense, was nothing more than a small flare. Human senses insisted that so many millions of tons of concrete, so much fusion-generated power, so much evidence of conscious intention, should have been large enough to mean something. The surrounding emptiness disagreed.
Angus wore EVA suits for the same reason that he wore ships and stations: to protect his body and his life from the vacuum, of course; but more to protect his sanity from the abyss. Space itself appalled him.
It may have been the only thing he truly understood.
Because of the light, he could see Captain’s Fancy clearly, even though she was a hundred meters away.
He caught sight of her just in time to see her rip herself out of her berth. Riding a spray of lost air and torn grapples, a corona of sparking power lines, she drifted away from the docks as if she were lost.
LIETE
elted in her g-seat at the command station, Liete Corregio rode jolting thrust and complex winds as Captain’s Fancy blasted loose of her berth and sailed free.
At once new forces pulled at her: acceleration; maneuvering thrust; internal spin. They tugged her body from side to side, hauled against each other inside her like nausea. She didn’t need internal spin: the ship’s movements would be easier to stomach without it. But she engaged it because the magnetic field generated by centrifugal g would be legible to Billingate Operations; to Tranquil Hegemony and Calm Horizons; to Soar. It would make Captain’s Fancy look less threatening. A ship that intended to do battle wouldn’t hamper herself with internal spin.
Liete was concentrating too hard on other things to name the wind in her ears. It felt like the mistral of urgency, but it might have been the long black pressure which called her to doom.
The emptiness of the engineering and data stations nagged at her. The bridge was incomplete; Captain’s Fancy was incomplete. Liete had to make up the lack caused by Nick’s absence and his secrets out of herself.
“Operations is screaming,” Lind reported from communications. His own urgency made his voice crack and his larynx bob. “They aren’t threatening us yet. They’re too incoherent.”
“Ignore them,” Liete ordered. “Cut them off if you have to—you’ve got too much else to do.
“Have you sent Nick’s message to that listening post?”
“Don’t bullshit us,” Pastille put in, nearly cackling with tension. “You mean, has he sent Nick’s message to the UMCP? That won’t do any good. We’ll be dead before it reaches them.”
Liete ignored the helm third; waited for Lind’s answer.
Lind checked a readout. “It’s done. Tight-beamed to the same coordinates he used last time.”
“Then concentrate on the ships,” she told him. “Trumpet, Soar, Calm Horizons, Tranquil Hegemony. We’re going to hear from at least one of them.”
The air around her felt leaden, humid with stress. The scrubbers seemed unable to keep up with it.
“What am I listening for?” Lind asked.
“Nick’s priority codes—the old ones.” Liete accessed them on her board, relayed them to him. “Tell me the second you hear them. I want to know immediately, exactly, what the orders are.”
“But Nick won’t—”
“No, he won’t,” she snapped. “He’s already told us what to do. He won’t change his mind. And if he does, he’ll use the new codes. But when you hear the old ones, I want to know what the computers are being instructed to do. Give that precedence over everything else.
“Don’t waste time talking about it. Route it straight to me.
“Right.” Hunching to his console, Lind tapped keys as fast as he could.
With every tick of the command chronometer, the wind in Liete’s ears felt more like the mistral. Nevertheless it didn’t unclog the atmosphere of the bridge.
“Malda, weapons status,” she demanded.
“Up and ready,” the targ first replied. “Give me a target, and I’ll hit it.”
Hardly pausing for breath, Liete turned toward scan. “Carmel, it’s your job to keep us alive. Watch those ships, watch Billingate. If anybody decides to fire, we need warning. If anything comes after us, we need warning.”
“I’m on it,” Carmel muttered stolidly. She didn’t glance at Liete: her attention was focused on her readouts. “Speaking of warning, there are people coming out of Trumpet. I count five—six—now seven.”
People, Liete thought with her heart in her throat.
Coming out of Trumpet.
How could that be?
How could there be so many?
Which one of them was Nick?
But such questions had no bearing on what she had to do; they changed nothing. She let the wind carry them away; tug them to tatters and disperse them like smoke.
Slowly, controlling herself so that she wouldn’t panic, she turned her g-seat to face the helm station.
“Pastille, you’re insufferable. You’re undisciplined and insulting, and you smell bad. This is your chance to prove you’re really worth what you cost.
“I want one-g acceleration, no more. We’re not trying to go anywhere fast. Follow Soar—she’s our target.” Her nerves still burned cold whenever she thought about Sorus Chatelaine. “Whatever else happens, we’re going to make sure she ends up dead.
“But stay between her and the installation,” Liete warned. “Right between. Make sure she and Billingate can’t try to hit us without hitting each other. That should protect us from Calm Horizons as well. Soar will block their targ.
“I want to make it as dangerous as possible for any of them to fire on us.”
Pastille obeyed without looking at his hands. G changed vectors; Captain’s Fancy’s attitude and trajectory shifted; but he didn’t drop Liete’s gaze.
“You know that can’t work, don’t you?” His tone was at once sarcastic and insinuating. “As soon as we hit Soar, Billingate won’t have any reason to hold fire. We can’t stand up to those guns—not this close.”
Liete glared at him while darkness and necessity gathered around her. “Go on,” she told him softly, as
if she were calm. “Say it all—get it out of your system.”
Tell me whether I can trust you.
Abruptly the helm third lowered his eyes to his board as if his hands had lost their place. In a thin voice he articulated, “This is a suicide mission. Nick doesn’t want us to come back.”
Lind’s fingers paused; his larynx lurched as he swallowed convulsively. Malda looked at Liete with a frozen expression on her face. Even Carmel raised her head to listen.
Liete surprised and pleased herself with a short laugh. “Does that sound like him to you? Has he ever done anything that made you think he wouldn’t mind seeing his ship destroyed?” Prompted by the scorched and hungry memory of Nick’s touch, she added, “Have you considered the possibility that he’s one of the people who just left Trumpet? That he’s got Mikka and Sib and Vector and Pup with him, and they’ve gone EVA to sabotage the guns?”
Pastille continued running helm commands. Liete’s stomach twisted as g altered in several directions simultaneously. One of the display screens showed tracking blips for Captain’s Fancy, Soar, and Calm Horizons. Soar continued moving steadily, unhurriedly, toward the Amnion warship. By degrees Captain’s Fancy swung into line behind her. In moments Captain’s Fancy’s course and speed would match Soar’s.
Defensively Pastille muttered, “Well, somebody had to say it. So we can all stop worrying about it.”
“I think,” Carmel put in like the cut of a shovel, “it’s unexpectedly considerate of you to take such good care of us.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Pastille retorted.
The scan first acted like she hadn’t heard him.
The desert blast of Nick’s lovemaking held Liete; it went moaning past her ears, ruffling her hair, drying her eyes.
“Just to be on the safe side, Malda,” she said in the same tone, “fix targ on Tranquil Hegemony. If worse comes to worst, we can always use a stationary target.”
As Malda complied the clicking of her keys sounded dull, muted by the weight of the atmosphere.
“I don’t know what they’re doing down there,” Carmel remarked impersonally. “They’ve split up. Three of them are going in one direction, four in another.”
At once Pastille asked, “Are they heading for the guns?”
At this range Billingate had only two emplacements which could be brought to bear on Captain’s Fancy.
“Maybe,” Carmel grunted, “maybe not. It’s too soon to tell.”
“Liete”—Lind sounded like he’d just swallowed his Adam’s apple—“here it comes.”
“Analysis!” she barked. “Fast!”
Lind was fast. Almost instantly one of her readouts sprang clear.
The message came from Calm Horizons.
It invoked Nick’s priority codes, the ones Morn had given Enablement Station.
Using the authority of those codes, Calm Horizons instructed Captain’s Fancy to lock open this communications channel and link it directly with her command computer.
Then the Amnion warship ordered Captain’s Fancy to shut down her drive and kill all power to the weapons systems.
As if her synapses were on fire, Liete hit overrides which disabled both helm and targ.
New g crawled through her guts as the ship lost thrust. She could almost hear the impalpable groan of the matter cannon and lasers powering down.
“Shit!” Malda cried involuntarily. “What—?”
Pastille’s protest smothered the targ first’s. “What the fuck are you doing, Liete?”
Liete couldn’t breathe. Her nerves still burned; spasms locked the air in her chest. Does that do it? she asked the silence. Was I fast enough? Do they believe me?
Nick, tell me I was fast enough!
“Orders from Calm Horizons,” Lind explained in a high, tight voice. He was too frightened to keep his mouth shut. “They told us to shut down drive and weapons. They used Nick’s priority codes—the old ones.”
Malda slumped in chagrin or relief.
“And you did it?” Pastille protested wildly. “They used the old codes, and you obeyed? Are you out of your mind?”
A shudder ran through Liete. She took one tentative sip of air, then another. Abruptly her muscles unclenched, and she could breathe again.
“They think we’re helpless,” she said hoarsely, as if she were losing her voice. “Now we can really go to work.”
The wind in her ears had become as black and fatal as the gap.
ANGUS
winging his matter cannon up with him, Angus climbed out of the airlock to stand on Trumpet’s hull.
The surface was complex: deformed with receptors, antennae, and dishes; warted with gun ports designed to look like supply hatches. Thruster tubes splayed at the ship’s tail, arising from the heavy bulge of the drive housing. Only to a spacer’s eye did she look swift or beautiful. Her lack of sleekness as well as any obvious symmetry would have crippled her as an atmosphere craft; nevertheless it meant nothing while she sailed the vacuum—or the gap.
Angus wished he could see the starfield. Even little lights billions of k away would have given the encompassing dark features, softened its utterness; ameliorated the abyss. But the arc lamps, like small suns, blinded him to any other stars.
Adjusting his faceplate’s polarization to improve his depth of field, he scanned the docks quickly, searching for guards or witnesses. Of course, he had no guarantee the other berthed ships wouldn’t see him. If they thought to use their sensors, they could pick him out easily. That was unlikely, however. Thanatos Minor’s visitors trusted the Bill for security. The more obvious danger came from Operations; but that, too, was unlikely—at least for a few more minutes. The installation was trained and equipped to protect itself from threats which emerged from the gap and the dark, not from men crawling like mites across the surface of the rock.
White under the burning lamps, Billingate’s blunt concrete looked as empty and inhuman as a wilderland.
Angus kept one eye on Captain’s Fancy as he moved away from the airlock to make room for his companions.
Belying the violence of her undocking, Nick’s frigate moved as if she followed routine departure protocols.
Mikka Vasaczk swarmed up the ladder, burst out of the lock to stand beside Angus. Like him, she scanned the area. When she caught sight of Captain’s Fancy, she bit down so hard on a curse that her voice sounded like she’d drawn blood.
So she hadn’t known this was going to happen. Nick hadn’t taken her into his confidence: he trusted his own crew to roughly the same extent that he trusted Angus.
Nick himself came next: from the airlock he executed a neat flip and landed on his feet. Then Vector and Ciro emerged. Hampered by the burden of an extra EVA suit, Sib climbed more slowly. And his awkwardness delayed Davies.
Angus didn’t wait for them. Their suit communications would pick up everything he said.
Grabbing Succorso’s arm, he pointed out Captain’s Fancy.
“What the fuck are you doing, Nick? Answer a civil question while it’s still civil.”
“I’m not doing anything.” In the constriction of Angus’ helmet, Nick’s tone cut like mockery. “Liete’s in command—she’s doing it.”
Angus ground his fingers into Nick’s arm as if he meant to rupture the suit. His welding made him strong enough to pull a wince from Succorso’s face.
Obeying the pain, Nick explained tightly, “It’s a diversion. I’m giving the Bill something else to worry about. He knows I have a grudge against Sorus. I told Liete to make it look like she’s going after Soar. He’ll believe that. And it’ll scare him—he depends on Sorus. Meanwhile Liete can cover us.”
This had to be a lie. It was too pat, too convenient. Nevertheless Angus’ programming accepted it.
In any case it might work.
He let go of Nick and turned toward Vector and Ciro.
“We’re in a hurry now. Every minute counts, so don’t fuck up.” He gestured toward the nearest radio dish. “Th
at’s your target.
“Here.” Quickly he moved to an access hatch he’d unlocked earlier, while he and Davies were getting ready. Set inside the hatch was a high-tension cable a hundred fifty meters long—a line thick enough to carry the power for a dozen ships. It was already connected at one end and rolled on a drum so that it would feed out when it was pulled.
He picked up a tool kit and the free end of the cable, and shoved them at Vector.
“Take this to the dish, wire it in. Let me know as soon as you’re done. We’re going to short out the Bill’s communications so badly it’ll take him hours to unscramble it. Once you’re clear, I’m going to hit that dish with every gigawatt a fusion generator can pump down this cable.”
When power on that scale slammed into Billingate’s communications, every failsafe in Operations would shut down to protect the computers from being slagged.
As a diversion, that would make Captain’s Fancy’s gambit look trivial.
Vector accepted the cable, the tools, and stood staring at Angus. Angus could see his mouth moving, but no sound came from his pickup.
“Great idea,” Nick sneered. “Too bad it can’t work. Didn’t you hear the Bill say he’s cutting you off from installation power? All by herself this little ship of yours can’t generate enough jolt to do him any real damage.”
“That’s what he thinks”—Angus sounded mechanically calm—“but he can’t do it. He doesn’t know how much I know about his computers. I’ve been embedding codes in my operational transmissions—ordering his computers to give Trumpet emergency priority. They won’t accept a command to cut her off until he figures out what I’ve done and cancels her priority.”
His datacore didn’t require him to mention that he’d done all this in the past half hour; or that it was a gamble which might easily fail. If the codes were inaccurate—or if Operations had already noticed them—
Vector made a whistling noise through his teeth.
In a frightened voice, Ciro asked the engineer, “Can he do that? I mean, can he really trick the Bill’s computers?”
“We don’t have time to discuss it,” Angus snapped. Every passing second seemed to increase his visceral alarm, as well as the compulsions of his programming. “You’ll never find out what I can and can’t do if you don’t hurry.”