“Wait a minute,” Morn interrupted. She put her hand on his arm as if she thought he might not stop for her. “Did you say Calm Horizons? The same warship we got away from when we escaped Thanatos Minor?”
Davies nodded without opening his eyes. He didn’t know why she thought this was important. Surely the incursion was the crucial point, not the identity of the intruder. But he didn’t have the energy to ask for an explanation. His ability to tell his own story was too fragile.
Slumping deeper into the dark, he resumed, “Calm Horizons would have killed us.” Like Bryony Hyland. “She had us on targ. We didn’t have time to burn. We couldn’t go into tach. Not even for a blink crossing. But Soar showed up again. She must have avoided the black hole somehow. Just when I thought we were dead, she opened fire on Calm Horizons.”
He didn’t try to understand Captain Chatelaine’s actions. They were a mystery, like the attack by Free Lunch, or the ability of the Amnion to locate the gap scout; impenetrable. As incomprehensible as the oblique physics of the gap.
“Calm Horizons had to hit her instead of us, or else the warship would have been destroyed. The Amnion couldn’t take the chance they might miss us with their last shot.
“That gave us time. And Punisher was covering us. We burned like crazy. Then we went into tach. That brought us here.” He shrugged weakly. “Wherever here is.”
He expected Morn to ask why Soar had turned against her masters; braced himself to say, “I have no idea,” without sounding angry. But her attention remained focused on concerns he couldn’t grasp.
As she climbed out of her long, drugged slumber, she recovered her urgency. Her grip on his arm tightened. In a sharper tone she demanded, “Did Punisher kill Calm Horizons?”
He sighed. “I hope so.” He didn’t have the strength for this. He needed sleep, not more questions. “But we didn’t see it. Calm Horizons was hurt. Soar took her by surprise. Punisher was starting to get through. Then we went into tach. I don’t know what happened after that.”
Pulling on his arm, Morn raised herself to sit beside him. He felt her draw her legs out of the g-sheath and hook them over the edge of the bunk. Her shoulder and her grasp conveyed a palpable tension.
“Calm Horizons is too big,” she murmured distantly, as if she were thinking aloud; trying to brace herself against a threat he couldn’t see. Surely the Amnion couldn’t track UMCP homing signals? “She has too much firepower. If Punisher didn’t kill her right away, she’s probably still alive.”
Maybe not, Davies countered in silence. He was too weary to argue aloud. She was practically stationary. She doesn’t accelerate fast. And Punisher must have called for help from VI. If more ships came—if they caught Calm Horizons before she could go into tach—
He wanted to finish; needed to finish. After that he would be able to rest. For a moment he put his free hand over his eyes in an effort to increase the darkness so that he could concentrate. Then he continued.
“Angus is still alive. God knows how he survived being outside in all that.” He hadn’t suffered any more g than anyone else. But he hadn’t had the support of a g-seat or bunk. And he’d been exposed to all the forces of the singularity and the swarm. If nothing else, he could easily have been crushed by rock rushing to answer the black hole’s hunger. “But Vector brought him in before we left the swarm. Sickbay says he’s going to be all right.
“Other than that—”
His voice trailed away. He had more to relate; but now he needed her to ask him what it was. He didn’t think he could go on unless she prompted him; pushed him.
Slowly she loosened the pressure of her grip on his forearm. He seemed to feel some of her tightness easing. Maybe at last she’d become enough aware of him to realize that he was near the end of his resources.
“What’s the bad news?” she inquired more gently. “When people tell you what the good news is, there’s always bad news.”
Again he nodded blindly. He hardly heard himself speak.
“Ciro went haywire. I guess that mutagen made him crazy. Even though he was cured, he still thought he had to do what Sorus Chatelaine told him.”
Morn shifted at Davies’ side. She may have winced. Or she may have simply nodded. He didn’t look to see.
“When Mikka came to help me on the bridge, Ciro left their cabin and found his way into the drive space. He must have been in there when we burned—All that g with no protection banged him up pretty good. He’s lucky he didn’t break any bones.
“But it slowed him down. He took too long. That saved us. Before anything failed, we were able to go into tach, get away from Massif-5.”
Davies waited while a wave of fatigue nearly washed him out of himself. Then he went on.
“He took too long, but he did it right. We’ve lost both drives. That’s why we’re coasting. There’s nothing else we can do. We still have navigational thrust, that’s all. We can’t even decelerate. And we sure as hell can’t cross the gap again.
“We haven’t tried to rig any repairs yet,” he added as if he were drifting. “Top busy taking care of our wounds.” Too tired. “But I don’t think we can do it.” Or do it in time. “Without Angus, we can’t get into the damage control databases. We don’t know the codes. And his zone implants have put him to sleep so he can heal. At least that’s Vector’s theory. He won’t wake up until they let him go.”
Davies stopped. The hollow dark inside his head seemed louder than his voice, and for a moment he feared that he might start to whimper or moan without realizing it. But he probably didn’t have the energy.
After a while he heard Morn ask, “Is that all? Is there anything else I need to know?”
He shook his head. Carried by its own momentum, his head continued rocking from side to side on his weak neck.
“Well, it’s bad,” she said judiciously, as if she wanted to comfort him by not panicking, “but we’ve had worse. I was afraid we were still in the swarm. Angus was dead, and we were stuck in the swarm because without him we couldn’t escape.”
She paused, then mused more to herself than to him, “I guess it’s possible Calm Horizons is finished. That would help.”
To his surprise he found that he had enough strength left for a small pang of vexation. What was so important about Calm Horizons? Was that all she cared about? Didn’t she understand the consequences of what Ciro had done?
He opened his eyes so that he could glare at her.
“Before he went EVA,” he rasped sourly, “Angus activated our homing signal again. None of us can get deep enough into the command systems to turn it off. Eventually someone will come after us.” That was a safe bet. “Maybe Punisher. Maybe some other UMCP ship, or one from VI.
“If that happens before Angus wakes up,” he explained with as much force as he could muster, “or before he can fix the drives, we’re out of choices. We’ll be at the mercy of whoever takes us.”
The UMCP was corrupt. Vector’s mutagen immunity drug proved that. Whether or not Min Donner—and therefore Punisher—was honest, she had to obey orders: orders which could easily come from the same source as the corruption. Holt Fasner. Possibly Hashi Lebwohl. More likely Warden Dios himself.
“They might still want to suppress what we know. No matter who they are, we’ll be pawns in somebody else’s game. And we can’t run or fight. We don’t have any realistic defense except self-destruct. But if we kill ourselves, Vector’s formula dies with us.”
He sagged as another surge of exhaustion broke through his thin ire. “Out here,” he finished as if he were giving up hope, “nobody’s going to hear that broadcast anyway.”
Morn’s sore gaze held his glare without flinching until he looked away. She may have been battered and abused to the core; but at least she’d had a little rest. He couldn’t match her.
“I understand,” she said quietly. “I guess I’ve been afraid all along that this would happen.
“So in the end it comes down to whether Punisher manag
ed to kill Calm Horizons.”
Davies couldn’t help himself: he gaped at her as if her obsession with the Amnion warship were making her alien.
Yet she must have been human enough to realize that he couldn’t grasp what she meant. She smiled at him ruefully, touched his forehead as if she wanted to smooth away his incomprehension. Then she began to explain.
“Someone somewhere in the VI system is going to hear our transmission. We can’t know if they’ll care. Or if they’ll believe us. Or if they’ll try to do anything about it. At least they’ll hear it. We’ve accomplished that much, even if we can’t do more.
“But if Calm Horizons is still alive—”
Painful memories darkened Morn’s eyes. Frowning at the hurt, she said more bitterly, “They heard the broadcast, too. They have the formula. On top of that”—dismay at the recollection twisted her expression like a touch of nausea—“I’m pretty sure they have samples.
“When I was their prisoner—back on Billingate—they tried to mutate me. But I didn’t change. I was full of Nick’s immunity drug. So they took some of my blood.”
Now Davies caught a glimpse of what she was getting at. He’d forgotten about her time in the Amnion sector of Billingate. She’d lived through horrors which for him were only nightmares; endured an experience which would have destroyed him.
“That means if they survive—if they reach Amnion space—they can figure out how to counteract Vector’s formula.”
Grimly she concluded, “Then if the wrong people get their hands on us, stop us, everything we’ve done is wasted. Even if VI hears our broadcast and takes it seriously enough to follow up on it, it’s still wasted. Because the Amnion will have the formula. The drug won’t be safe anymore.”
Davies may have nodded. He wasn’t sure: he couldn’t feel his head moving. And he was no longer able to tell the difference between exhaustion and hopelessness. He’d brought Angus back from stasis: surely that counted for something?
With a thin sigh, he asked, “What’re we going to do?”
For a moment she didn’t reply. Then he felt her tighten and shift against his side as if she’d made a decision.
“You’re going to rest,” she announced in an easier tone. “That’s enough for right now. There’s no point in trying to make any plans yet. We don’t know how much time we have. Or who they’ll send after us. Or how badly Angus is hurt. Maybe his equipment’s been damaged. Maybe his brain’s been damaged. He may have more tricks up his sleeve. Or he may not. And if he does, he may or may not be willing to do what we want.
“It’s too much to worry about when you can’t even keep your eyes open. You can leave it to me for a while.” She snorted softly, as if she were amused. “If the safety of human space depended on my talent for worry, we wouldn’t need cops at all.”
When he didn’t respond, she left the edge of her bunk, pulling him with her.
All the resistance had drained out of him. He was weightless: only his fatigue had substance. Floating, he let her pilot him to his bunk and ease him into the g-sheath.
Her lips brushed his cheek. Close to his ear she whispered, “Thank you. It helps to know what you were so angry about.”
Without transition he dropped into the dark as if she’d kissed him to sleep.
MORN
I need a better answer.
For some reason those words were all she remembered from the time Trumpet had spent in the grip of the black hole. For a while she’d regained consciousness—just long enough to speak to Davies; see that he was alive. Then the pain of her shattered arm had forced her back down into the dark. And afterward—
I can’t do this again. When I’m in trouble, the only thing I can think of is to hurt myself.
Someone must have taken her to sickbay. Davies, presumably. The cast on her arm and the straps holding it across her chest were unmistakable. And the muffling of the hurt was also unmistakable. Drugs: lots of them. Otherwise she wouldn’t have slept so long.
She remembered none of it, however. Only the unexpected promise she’d made to herself remained. Despite her conversation with Davies, her thoughts still moved slowly, wandering through veils of sleep and medication.
I need a better answer.
Saying that was easy. Doing it would be more difficult.
Forces she didn’t know how to evaluate and couldn’t control hunted the gap scout. With a Class-1 homing signal to guide them, they could hardly fail. And Trumpet had been damaged: sabotage. Poor Ciro—Angus surely knew how to repair her. But after his ordeal outside the ship he might not be in any condition to make the attempt. He may have been harmed in ways sickbay couldn’t treat. Or his programming—or his own perversity—might interfere.
Eventually someone would have to deal with the pursuit. At the moment Morn couldn’t imagine any way to do that which didn’t involve sacrificing herself; buying the lives of her companions with her own.
Her arm should have hurt more than this.
If she meant to come up with a better answer, she’d better get started.
Nevertheless she spent a few minutes in her cabin with her son while he slept, reminding herself that he was alive and still relatively whole; worth fighting for.
Nearly cocooned in his g-sheath, he lay motionless, heavy with exhaustion. For a while, at least, the tension which usually drove him was gone. From time to time a brittle snore caught in his throat, then sank away.
Asleep, he looked more like a kid, less like his father—more vulnerable and unformed, less accustomed to brutality. More like he needed cherishing. Yet his parentage was clear: she saw Angus in him more than she saw herself.
Looking at him, she felt a complex pang, despite the drugs. Angus had raped and abused her; done everything in his considerable power to break her spirit. This was the result. She had a son who was precious to her. In addition she had friends now—Vector and Mikka and lost, brave Sib Mackern—who were willing to stand by her.
Yet Angus himself was still the only person aboard who might be able to save her.
The pang in her heart was complex with a vengeance. It seemed to twist simultaneously in all directions.
Driven by the necessities of his tormented soul, Angus had allowed her to guide his decisions. First he’d rescued her from the Amnion. Then he’d let her convince him to take Vector to the Lab—and to broadcast the results of Vector’s analysis. During the time he’d spent taking Nick’s orders, anguish had poured off him like the raw sweat of his soul.
I didn’t defend myself he’d told her, trying to persuade her to free him from his priority-codes. Com-Mine Station Security had failed to find enough evidence to convict him of a capital crime; but still Milos Taverner had tortured him while he was in lockup, hurt and humiliated him to extract his secrets. And yet he hadn’t revealed anything which might have eased his plight. I let them do whatever they wanted to me. So you could get away.
Why? Because I made a deal with you. I gave you the zone implant control You let me live.
And I kept my end. Whether you kept yours or not.
That was true. It had to be. He’d known too much about Milos. If he’d betrayed any of it, UMCPDA’s plotting with Nick and Milos would have been exposed. Then Angus wouldn’t have ended up as a UMCP cyborg controlled by the man who’d tortured him.
She couldn’t deny that in his own way and on his own terms he’d kept faith with her.
When I hurt you, he’d told her painfully, I hurt myself.
And since she and Davies had freed him, he’d done everything possible to keep her and the people she cared about safe.
She didn’t know whether or not letting, helping, him edit his datacore constituted a better answer. That decision might yet prove to be an oblique form of self-destruct. But she didn’t think so. And even if she was wrong: where else should she begin her quest to reinvent herself, if not with the man who had laid bare the shame in the core of her heart?
Unaccustomed to maneuvering in zero g wit
h only one arm, she moved awkwardly toward the door.
At first she couldn’t figure out how to anchor herself so that she wouldn’t rebound from anything she touched. But then she found that she could shift her right arm a few cm, despite its cast and straps—just enough to hook those fingers around a handgrip. Grateful for the analgesics remaining in her body, she held herself still while she dimmed the lights so that Davies might sleep more deeply. Then she left the cabin and pulled herself one-armed in the direction of sickbay.
The unnatural silence of the ship struck her almost immediately. The low, steady hum of the thrust drive was gone. At the moment Trumpet’s energy cells held more than enough capacity to run the support systems—lights, warmth, air-processing, sickbay. Presumably most of the electronic equipment remained alive as well: the command boards, scan, communications, damage control. But power for the whole ship—including the gap field generator—was normally supplied by the thrust drive. The absence of that hull-noise made Trumpet seem irrationally desolate, almost dead, despite the obvious illumination and heat: a drifting tomb, or a derelict haunted by ghosts.
How long would the cells last? Surely no more than a day or two. If Angus couldn’t repair the drives, everyone aboard might end up praying to be found, no matter who came after them.
A new urgency sharpened Morn’s concentration. She began to move faster.
When she reached sickbay, she forced her right hand into another handgrip so that she could key open the door. At once she swung around the edge of the frame into the room.
Vector was there with Angus. As she stopped her momentum on the side of the surgical table, the geneticist turned away from the control panel and smiled at her.
“Morn. It’s good to see you among the living. I’m sorry about your arm. On the other hand, I’m glad you’re well enough to move around.”
She ignored him involuntarily: she simply had to look at Angus first.