But now she felt that anger. One of her compartments cracked open, and a passion hotter than the zone implant’s enforced yearning leaked out.
It guided her hand as she reached under the mattress and switched off the control.
The transition was hideous. She was going to have to learn how to manage transitions, or else the shock of them would ruin her. They hadn’t been this bad when Angus held the control. Whatever he’d imposed on her, she’d always been eager for it to end, frantic to regain some sense of herself. But now the functions of the zone implant were hers to choose. That made a profound difference.
Earlier, waiting for Nick, she’d tried to prepare herself for the flood of weariness which poured through her when the implant was switched off. To some extent, she was ready for that. But she wasn’t prepared for the grief she felt now, for the keen pain of resuming her ordinary mortality. She’d lost something precious and vital by ending her abandonment.
However, the transition was swift. Or else it was more complex than she realized. Faced with the knowledge that she was only human after all, she started to crybiting her lip for silence, so that she wouldn’t wake Nick. But then, almost immediately, her rage came back to her. And it was followed by her revulsion. If she was only human, then Nick Succorso was only another version of Angus Thermopyle: male; therefore ultimately interested in sex only as a masque of rape and degradation.
Now she had to bite her lip hard to keep herself from crying out or flinching; to master the electric jolt of her reaction against what Nick had just done to her. She had to think, and think quickly—
Not Angus. Not like Angus. Even if Nick was essentially the same, he was effectively different. His passions were less naked than Angus’: he was caught up in the masque. No, more than that: he liked the illusion that his personal virility and magnetism were capable of making her respond so utterly.
And if he remained caught up in the masque, if she could keep him there—if he liked the illusion enough—
He would be blinded to the truth.
Without realizing it, she’d stopped biting her lip. Her need for that small hurt was over: her need to fling herself away from Nick was receding. He looked vulnerable now, asleep, and that had never been true of Angus. Despite the long, clean line of his muscles, despite his unmistakable grace and strength, he looked like he could be killed before he woke up. That eased her revulsion.
Now, perhaps, she could have rested. Most of the immediate intensity of transition had declined: the weariness remained. The external reality of her body, as opposed to the internal reality of the zone implant, was that Nick had used her extravagantly. She was acutely sore in some places, and there was a price to be paid for all those endorphins. Sleep would be good for her, if she could sleep without dreaming about Angus. If she could sleep without waking up back aboard Bright Beauty.
But she didn’t trust sleep. Nick had said, That’s not good enough. She had that threat hanging over her. You can tell us all the rest later.
She had more getting ready to do.
Of course, the “getting ready” she needed most involved further experimentation with the zone implant control. That was too dangerous, however. If Nick caught her at it, she was finished. She left the zone implant control where it was.
Instead she tried to guess what “tell us all the rest” meant. Did he mean, “tell us all,” the whole crew? or “all the rest”?
None of us is safe while you’re aboard.
There were too many unknowns. She only knew one thing about Nick, had only that one lever. Everything else was blank. How much had he learned about her through his contact in Com-Mine Security? What had the UMCP told Com-Mine? How many of his secrets did he share with his crew? What was their loyalty to him based on: personal gain? success? reciprocity?
Who was he, that he could get Com-Mine Security to help him betray Angus Thermopyle?
Since she had no way to approach any of her other questions, she concentrated on that one.
Angus Thermopyle was guilty of almost any illegal act imaginable—and yet he was innocent of the specific crime for which he’d been arrested. She knew the truth: she’d been there when he was framed. That was disturbing enough. But even more disturbing to her—considering that she was UMCP born and trained—was Security’s complicity.
Why would Security risk vital Station supplies to help one known pirate betray another?
No, worse than that: what on earth possessed Security to trust Nick Succorso against Angus Thermopyle?
And here was another question, now that she thought about it: Why did Security let Nick take her?
It was one thing to leave her alone with Angus. After all, she’d used her UMCP authority to demand that Com-Mine keep its hands off her. But it was something else entirely to risk Station supplies to help one pirate betray another, with a UMC cop in the middle, and then to simply let that cop depart unquestioned. Why had Security allowed her to leave its jurisdiction?
Yet the issue was even more complex than that. Under any circumstances, Com-Mine Security must have sent a message to UMCPHQ when she first appeared with Angus. Security would have relayed everything she said and did to UMCPHQ as a matter of course. Why hadn’t Enforcement Division replied? Granted, communication across interstellar distances was no instantaneous business. Nevertheless gap courier drones could have carried messages to UMCPHQ and back in a few days. Ordinary ship traffic could have done the job in a couple of weeks. Surely her time with Angus hadn’t been too short to permit a reply? And surely, if ED had replied, Security wouldn’t have let Nick take her?
She was lost in it. If Min Donner, the director of Enforcement Division, had instructed Com-Mine Security to let Nick Succorso take her—Morn couldn’t get past that point. There were too many levels involved, too many implications of treachery. And she’d trusted the UMCP from the day she was born: it was the same thing as trusting her father.
She had to stick with what she knew, or else she would paralyze herself. She had to focus on the present; on survival and the zone implant.
She had to concentrate on Nick Succorso.
Before she could get any further, the cabin intercom chimed. A voice that sounded like Mikka Vasaczk’s said neutrally, “Nick.”
As if he’d never been asleep, Nick sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the berth. Ignoring Morn, he scrubbed his hands up and down his face for a second or two: that was all the time he needed to collect himself. While Morn was still trying to decide how to react, how to play her role now, he stood up and keyed the intercom.
“Here.”
“Nick, you’re wanted on the bridge.” The intercom flattened the voice, made it sound impersonal; untouched.
Nick didn’t reply. Instead he keyed off the intercom and reached for his shipsuit and boots.
He still hadn’t glanced at Morn.
She was too vulnerable, too much at risk: she had to say something. Swallowing weariness and old fright, she asked with as much naturalness as she could summon, “What is it?”
He finished sealing his shipsuit and pulling on his boots before he turned to her.
His eyes were bright; they focused on her with a keenness, an inner intensity, which she might have loved, or at least desired, if she’d met him before she met Angus—if she’d never met Angus. Despite the easy way he carried himself, he conveyed a tense, coiled quality, as if his physical relaxation were a part of what made him dangerous.
He was smiling—even his tone of voice smiled—as he said, “We’re pretty casual here. Not like the UMCP.” And yet she knew she was being warned; perhaps threatened. “We’ve only got a few simple rules. But they aren’t negotiable. Here’s one of them.
“When you hear the word ‘want.’ you don’t ask. It isn’t up for discussion. You just do.
“Understand?”
Morn was definitely being threatened. Keeping her face as blank as a mask, she nodded once, firmly.
“Good,” he said.
/> The door hissed open, and he was gone.
When the door shut itself after him, she stayed where she was and stared at his departure as if he’d turned her off—as if he’d taken away her reasons for doing anything.
Nick was “wanted” on the bridge. And want had a special meaning aboard his ship. It was the command that couldn’t be questioned, the absolute imperative, like the coded order her father might have given her if he’d decided Starmaster had to self-destruct; if she’d let him live, and the occasion to issue such an order had ever arisen.
Something had happened.
Captain’s Fancy was on a routine departure trajectory out from Com-Mine Station. Presumably. What could have happened? What was conceivable? What kind of danger or exigency could have come up after only a few thousand kilometers; still within Station’s control space?
Almost certainly, the explanation involved Com-Mine in some way. It involved Security and Angus.
Morn couldn’t stop staring at the door, at the spot where Nick had left her; she couldn’t move. What was she going to do now? She was losing control of her compartments: pieces of doubt and black horror bled together, combining like elements of a binary poison. She wanted to flee, but she had nowhere to go. There was nothing around her except panic.
Riding a visceral tremble, as if she were caught at the epicenter of a quake and needed to get away from it, she decided to leave the cabin.
Half expecting a shift in Captain’s Fancy’s g which would indicate a change of direction—to return to dock, or to meet interceptors from Com-Mine—she left the berth and began hunting through the built-in lockers for a clean shipsuit.
She found one easily: Captain’s Fancy was equipped for guests. Female guests, judging by the cut of the shipsuits. But Morn hardly noticed the comfort of wearing clothes that fit. She was in a hurry, and the only thing she cared about was the tremors driving through her—or the danger that they might make her do something foolish.
She sealed the shipsuit; located her boots in the san. Because of the nature of her panic, she went back to the berth and retrieved the zone implant control. She didn’t want to be separated from it.
But then she stopped herself. The part of her which had been shaped by Angus Thermopyle responded to fear in ways which were new to her. Mere physical possession of the control was dangerous. If she carried it with her, anybody who searched her or simply bumped against her could find it.
Her cabin was the only simulacrum of privacy available to her. She had to conceal the control somewhere here.
Under the mattress was convenient, but too easy. With the right tools, she would have preferred to open either the door’s panel or the intercom and bury the black box among their circuit boards and wiring. Unfortunately she only had the mending kit to work with.
Inside her the tremble built so that every movement felt unsteady as she went back to the san, to the mending kit. She tossed some of the patches and velcro into the disposal to make room; then she put the control in the bottom of the kit and covered it with the remaining supplies.
That would have to do. If she stood where she was and tried to imagine the perfect hiding place, the trembling would break down her defenses, and she would panic.
Almost in a rush, she left the cabin.
Exploring, that’s what she would do, she would go exploring. Nick hadn’t told her to stay where she was. And anybody would understand her desire to familiarize herself with a new ship. As long as she didn’t accidentally gain the bridge.
In part to keep her hands from shaking, and in part to make the action habitual, so that no one would consider it unusual, she shoved her fists deep into her pockets. Then she started hurrying along the passage in the opposite direction from the lift Vasaczk had used to take her to her cabin.
No, she shouldn’t hurry. She couldn’t afford to be caught hurrying. That would lead to questions.
She could feel her willpower fraying under the strain, but she forced herself to slow down, attempt a more casual stride.
She passed four or five doors, all of them identical to hers; presumably Captain’s Fancy had that much accommodation for passengers. Then she reached another lift.
There was no way to leave this section of the ship without using a lift. Bulkheads sealed both ends of the passage. And the movement of all the lifts would be monitored and controlled by Captain’s Fancy’s maintenance computer. She couldn’t use one without the risk of attracting attention.
She didn’t want to be noticed.
Her shaking grew more violent. Without realizing it, she pulled her hands out of her pockets and covered her face. For several moments she stood frozen in front of the lift with her palms clamped over her eyes while her shoulders quivered.
She couldn’t do it. Angus hadn’t left her enough courage. Nothing was safe enough. She should have stayed in her cabin and worked with the zone implant control until she found a cure for her fear.
But in this state she might not have been able to make her fingers hit the buttons she chose. And, in any case, the computers could watch her door as easily as the lifts. She’d already put herself in jeopardy by leaving her cabin.
Slowly she pulled her hands down from her face. When she’d succeeded at pushing one of them back into a pocket, she used the other to key the lift.
If the different levels served by the lift had been labeled, she might have been able to make a neutral choice. If she’d been able to think clearly, she might have been able to reason out some of the ship’s internal structure. Since she didn’t have anything else to go by, she took the lift down one level and got out to look around.
Almost at once she smelled coffee. By good fortune she’d arrived near the galley. At a guess, this level was the crew’s: it contained the galley and mess, wardrooms and cabins, used by Nick’s people. It might also hold the sickbay—a possibility she set aside for future exploration. As soon as she smelled the coffee, she realized that something as simple and ordinary as hot, black caffeine might be what she needed to steady her.
She followed the smell away from the lift without pausing to consider the likelihood that the galley was already in use.
She could smell coffee because the galley had no door: it was essentially a large niche in one of the interior bulkheads, with equipment built into the three walls and a round, easily reached table. She noticed a particularly luxurious foodvend, quite a few storage cabinets for staples and special supplies, and, of course, a coffee maker. The pot steamed richly in the ship’s dry atmosphere.
She also noticed a man sitting at the table.
At the sight, she froze again. She didn’t know whether to retreat or move forward. Everything was dangerous, and she didn’t know which risk was preferable.
But she remembered to keep her fists in her pockets.
The man had his hands wrapped around a hot mug as if he wanted the warmth. His fingers looked fat because they were stubby, and his face looked fat because it was almost perfectly round; nevertheless he was only compact, not overweight. Like his face, his eyes were circles. They were a gentle shade of blue Morn had never seen before. Combined with his fine, sandy hair and steady smile, they made him look friendly.
He glanced up as soon as she appeared. When he saw her, his eyes and his smile showed mild surprise. She obviously didn’t disconcert him, however. He gave her a moment to move if she could. Then he said, “You look like what you need most is sleep, but you’re too scared to get it.” His voice was mild, too. “Come have a cup of coffee. It’s fresh. Maybe I can give you a reason or two to be less scared.”
Morn stared at him. She wasn’t prepared to trust anything aboard Captain’s Fancy—especially not mildness from a total stranger. It might be camouflage, like Nick’s air of relaxation. She stood where she was, with her elbows locked and her hands buried.
Controlling her voice as well as she could, she said, “You know who I am.”
The man’s smile held. “I should,” he replied without s
arcasm. “I saw you in Mallorys often enough. And you’re the only passenger Nick invited to go with us this time.
“That’s one reason you’re scared. We all know who you are—we know that much about you. You don’t know any of us. You only know Nick, and that may seem like it’s not much help.”
He paused, giving her a chance to say something or move. When she didn’t do either, he resumed.
“Well, let me introduce myself, at any rate. I’m Vector Shaheed. Ship’s engineer. Off duty at the moment. My second is a pup off Valdor Industrial, where they don’t teach you anything, but he’s competent to keep us going under this much thrust. So I’ve got time to exercise my only real talent, which is making coffee.”
Morn continued staring at him. Her hands were damp with sweat, but she kept them curled in her pockets.
Stiffly, as if all his joints hurt—but still smiling—Vector Shaheed stood up to get a mug from one of the cabinets. He filled it at the steaming pot and set it on the table for her. Then he seated himself again.
“That’s not a reason to trust me, of course,” he continued. “We’re all illegals, and you’re UMCP. You would have to be crazy to trust any of us. But we’re alone here, and I’m willing to talk. You really can’t afford to miss an opportunity like this.”
That made sense. Morn shook her head—not rejecting what he said, just trying to break herself out of her paralysis. She felt a visceral desire to pull away from him. His mildness was seductive: he was a trap. But she was trapped anyway; and whatever he chose to reveal might be useful.
With a stiffness of her own, she entered the galley.
She didn’t take her fists out of her pockets until she was sitting at the table. Then, abruptly, she pulled up both hands and cupped them around the coffee mug. She needed something to steady her so that she could think. The coffee was seductive, too, but she was prepared to trust it.
He was right about one thing, anyway: he had a talent for coffee. A couple of hot sips made her feel almost instantly stronger. In simple gratitude, she said through the steam, “Thanks.” Then she sipped again.