Forbidden Knowledge (15 page)

The guards caught him while he was trying to force the shaft cover.

They shot at him: he returned fire. For a moment he achieved a standoff.

Unfortunately one of their shots hit the shaft cover and bent it, jammed it. Without an avenue of escape, he was lost. When his gun ran out of charge, he was recaptured.

Predictably enough, the abuse he received became much worse after that. He’d humiliated his guards, and they required him to pay for it. And his pain was made all the more excruciating by the knowledge that he would never get another chance. Even terminally bored guards wouldn’t fall for the same ruse twice.

On the other hand, his first session with the deputy chief after his escape confirmed his suspicions about Milos Taverner. The fact that he wasn’t prosecuted for killing one of his guards demonstrated that he still had a lever he could use. If he needed to, he could trade Taverner for his life.

Despite everything Com-Mine Security had done to him, he still wasn’t broken.

Eventually the beatings and deprivation and drugs eased back to their former levels. When they increased again later, he knew how to interpret the change. So he resumed his listlessness, his pose of self-abandonment. He let himself grow thinner and weaker as if he’d lost the capacity to care—and to hell with whether anybody believed him or not. That no longer mattered. He was simply conserving his strength.

Pain was something which was done to his body; but its power was a function of his mind. He couldn’t stop his guards from hurting him, but he could defuse the effect of the beatings and drugs. By an act of will, he withdrew into himself until his brain existed in a different place than his distress. If he lost weight or muscle, that meant nothing. Let his physical self suffer: he’d never counted the cost of the things he did to survive. Precisely because he was determined to live, he risked growing so weak that he might die.

The truth was that Angus Thermopyle had never tried suicide, not once in his whole life. He’d done horrible things to himself, things which could easily have resulted in his death; but he’d always done them in order to survive. During all the time he was held prisoner on Com-Mine Station, he never thought about killing himself.

Later he wished he had.

Nobody told him what was in store for him. Increased abuse was his only hint of his doom until the day when Milos Taverner visited him in his cell.

That in itself was a surprise. Angus had always seen Taverner in the interrogation room: the deputy chief was too fastidious to have much taste for the state in which the guards kept Angus—or the state in which Angus kept himself. Except for his nic-stained fingers, Taverner was so clean that Angus wanted to puke on him, just for laughs.

Nevertheless Taverner’s unexpected visit wasn’t as surprising as the fact that the deputy chief wasn’t alone.

He had a woman with him.

She was tall, handsome, and lean, with streaks of gray in her jet hair, an uncompromising mouth, and hot eyes. The way she moved left no doubt in Angus’ mind that she was a match for him: even the small flexing of her fingers was at once smooth and tense, poised between relaxation and violence—a balance she’d acquired through years of training. On her hip, she carried a handgun, a sleeker and far more powerful version of the impact pistol Angus had used in his escape. Her gaze gave the impression that she could see everything without shifting her eyes. Although she had an air of authority, she wore nothing more elaborate than a plain blue shipsuit. It was unmarked by any ornament or insignia except an oval patch on each shoulder: the generic starfield emblem of the UMCP.

Before she entered the cell, she turned to the guard who’d accompanied her and Taverner.

“Switch off your monitors,” she said crisply. “I don’t want any record of this.”

Milos nodded in confirmation, but his support was probably unnecessary. Her tone was that of a woman who knew she would be obeyed. And the nervous alacrity of the guard’s salute guaranteed compliance.

When the guard left to relay her order, she came into the cell and closed the door.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she surveyed Angus and his quarters. “You don’t waste care on your prisoners, do you, Milos?”

Taverner’s shrug looked vaguely helpless. He wasn’t happy. As if involuntarily, he pulled a packet of nic out of his pocket. Then he caught himself. Scowling, he shoved the packet back.

“He does this deliberately,” he replied with an effort. “The psy-profile indicates he’s suicidal, but he’s faking it. The only time we believed him, he nearly got away from us.”

The woman nodded dismissively. “I know. I’ve read the file. Assuming the data you sent us wasn’t doctored.” Her sarcasm had a light touch: that was all she needed. “Which, of course, I assume it wasn’t.”

Milos winced. “Do you want to talk about this here—in front of him? I’ve got a private office.” The blotches on his scalp were curiously distinct. “He remembers everything. Don’t think he doesn’t. He’s already trying to figure out how he can use you.”

Angus watched with his yellow eyes hooded and kept his malice to himself.

“That’s the point.” The woman’s anger was complex. “He’s got the right. After what you’ve put him through, he’s got the right. You already have enough advantages. I’m not going to give you another one.”

But then the sight of the deputy chief’s discomfiture seemed to soften her ire. As if to be fair, she added, “We’ve trusted you this far. You haven’t let us down.”

Milos’ retort had a curious dignity. “I don’t care whether you trust me or not. Just take him—shut him up, get him off station. Before we both take damage.”

The woman cocked an eyebrow. “If you’re in such a hurry, why didn’t you comply with Hashi’s order?”

Hashi’s order.
A stun-prod of panic touched Angus’ guts. Hashi Lebwohl, DA director, UMCP. Every illegal who ever worked the belt knew Hashi Lebwohl by rumor and reputation. They said he was a madman.

You already have enough advantages. I’m not going to give you another one.

What the hell was
that
supposed to mean?

But Taverner didn’t react to the name. He kept his unfamiliar dignity as he explained, “Security was offended. Even Center was offended. If they weren’t trying to return the insult, you wouldn’t be escorted here by a mere deputy chief. You would have an entire retinue. But they’ll still give you what you want. All you have to do is tell them in person.”

“Thanks to you.”

The woman spoke facing Angus. Angus couldn’t determine whether or not she was talking to him.

“How so?” Milos asked. His moment of dignity had passed. Now he just looked uneasy. He may not have trusted his subordinates to turn off the monitor.

“The Preempt Act,” she answered. “How do you suppose we got that passed? Why do you suppose we asked you to help Captain Succorso frame him?” Her tone made no distinction between
asked
and
ordered.
“That was the lever we needed—a traitor in Com-Mine Security, somebody who was willing to help a pirate like Captain Succorso steal station supplies. Morn Hyland’s accusation that
Starmaster
was sabotaged here helped, but we needed more. We needed corroboration. When we were able to demonstrate that Security on Com-Mine Station—the station closest to forbidden space—couldn’t be trusted, most of our opposition crumbled.”

The deputy chief nodded. His features showed depression rather than surprise. In a morose voice, he said, “As long as you’re determined to crucify me—”

“I’m not going to crucify you,” the woman put in. “You don’t care what he hears. He isn’t going to tell anybody. He won’t get the chance.”

“Then answer a question,” Milos continued. “Did you ever care whether
Starmaster
was really sabotaged? Did you do all that just so you could get your hands on him?”

“Of course not.” The woman was angry again. “But it’s the only reason that concerns you.” After a moment she added, “
I
care about
Starmaster.
But we’re pretty sure Hyland’s accusation was a lie.”

Taverner searched for his packet of nic, stopped himself again. “How do you know that? Why would she lie? Why would she do that for him? What’s going on here?” His voice betrayed a tremor. “What kind of hold did he have on her?”

Angus could hardly breathe. How did they know Morn lied about
Starmaster
? Had they caught her? Caught her and discovered the zone implant?

Was that the time limit Security was up against? Were they in a hurry to break him before he was fried for giving Morn Hyland a zone implant?

This time, however, the woman ignored Milos’ questions—and Angus’.

Under his hooded gaze, he saw her move so that she stood directly in front of him. Maybe she wanted a better look at him. Or maybe she wanted him to be sure she was talking to him.

“I’m Min Donner,” she said, “director, Enforcement Division, United Mining Companies Police.

“From now on, you’re going to work for us.”

When she said her name, Angus’ heart froze. Min Donner. Involuntarily he raised his eyes to her face, and his mouth hung open. Min Donner herself. The woman who sent out
Starmaster
—the woman they called Warden Dios’ “executioner.” He believed her instantly—there were no lies hidden anywhere in her strict face—and the conviction appalled him.

Things were bad enough if he was in danger of the death penalty for what he’d done to Morn Hyland. He still had a defense against that. But if the likes of Hashi Lebwohl and Min Donner had taken an interest in him—if he was going to be turned over to them—

“Don’t touch me,” he rasped. Fear gave him strength; he faced her with his hate blazing in his eyes. “Leave me here. If you try to take me, I’ll talk. I’ll tell everybody I was framed. I’ll tell them how. When that gets out, you and your precious Preempt Act won’t be worth shit.”

Min Donner didn’t reply. Apparently she was done with Angus. For a moment she held his gaze, just to show him she could. Then she turned back to Milos.

Now she sounded distantly amused as she said, “Get packed. You’re coming with us.”

That hit the deputy chief hard. At least Angus wasn’t the only one being threatened. Milos was suddenly terrified. All the color dropped out of his face. His mouth shaped words, protests, appeals, but he couldn’t make a sound.

“I’ll keep it simple,” she said. “You’ve been reqqed. Under the Preempt Act. Officially, we want your knowledge of him—to help us deal with him. But the real reason is for your own protection. You’re too vulnerable here. If somebody stumbled onto your”—she sneered—“extracurricular activities, you would take real damage.

“So would we.

“Come on.” Abruptly she strode to the door and slapped it once with her palm. “You probably have a lot of getting ready to do.”

Weapons poised, expecting trouble, a guard opened the door. When he saw Donner, however, he stood out of the way and snapped to attention.

Ignoring the guard, she walked away.

Milos remained in the cell; he struggled for breath as if he’d been jabbed in the stomach. His face was so pale, and his expression so apoplectic, that he might have been on the verge of an infarction.

He and Angus stared at and through each other, as horrified together as if they’d just learned that they were brothers.

Without warning, the deputy chief lurched forward as if he were about to swing his fist at his prisoner.

Angus didn’t know what Milos intended: he didn’t care. He was too scared. He caught Milos’ arm, jerked him off balance, and hit him in the lower abdomen hard enough to fold him in half.

Before the guard could reach him, Angus grabbed Milos by the ears and raged straight into his face, “
You sonofabitch! What have you done to me?
”

Then a stun-prod caught the back of Angus’ skull, and he fell backward, convulsing like an epileptic.

By the time he’d regained control over his limbs and stopped retching, he was armcuffed between two angry guards and being forced along a corridor into an unfamiliar part of the Security section. He thought he glimpsed a sign that said
MEDICAL
, but he couldn’t be sure because of the sickening way the walls yawed on either side of him. Hopeless and vicious, he tried to break free; but of course the cuffs and the guards held him, and stun left his muscles so elastic that he couldn’t control them; there was nothing he could do to save himself.

“Listen,” he gasped, “listen to me, you don’t know what’s going on, you’ve got a traitor, they—”

The guards stopped long enough to slap a strip of gag tape over his mouth. Then they dragged him into motion again.

Because of the tape, he almost strangled on his own yells when the guards pushed him into a large, sterile room and he realized that it was full of the equipment for cryogenic encapsulation.

The nightmares he’d spent his life fleeing had caught up with him.

CHAPTER       
7

D
arkness.

Darkness as complete as black space; separated from black space by a fragile hull which had vanished as though it never existed. The void was inside, vacuum and the utter cold of death.

Darkness and gasping; atavistic panic.

Morn clung to the arm of Nick’s g-seat, clung so hard that her own force lifted her legs from the deck, sent her body drifting. She was supposed to be tougher than this. She was UMCP: the Academy had trained her for such emergencies. But when the dark came upon her it was a thing of such absolute certitude that she had no defense against it. It was like gap-sickness. She’d killed all of them, her whole family; she had no one left except the child. There could be no defense against the fathomless abysm between the stars.

None of the people around her had any defense.

Except that she could still feel g.

Not the centrifugal g of spin; nothing that definite. This was linear, soft but persistent, g along a vector that opposed the pull of her arms.

The course correction—Helm had been dummied to the auxiliary bridge. The steady and delicate lateral thrust which curved
Captain’s Fancy
toward her eventual heading was still at work.

The ship was still alive.

Abruptly Mikka’s voice barked across the bridge. “Liete! Liete Corregio! Reset maintenance! We need light up here. We need air!”

Liete Corregio was command third. Mikka must have left her in the core to take charge.

Words that sounded like gibberish to Morn crackled back from Mikka’s handcom. Nick’s second retorted, “What the fuck do you
think
happened? I said
reset
!”

Light flickered into a nearly instantaneous blaze across the bridge. With a palpable whine,
Captain’s Fancy
resumed internal spin.

Caught by her own weight, Morn hit the deck sharply; the soles of her feet stung, and she came close to hyperextending her left knee. Only her grip on Nick’s seat kept her upright.

The gasping around her changed to relief.

“That sonofabitch!” Carmel growled. “What a place to put a virus.”

Nick shook his head. A small grin still drew at his mouth, but he was frowning hard. He didn’t appear to be aware of what his hands did as he disengaged the maintenance computer from his command board.

Mikka snapped into her handcom, “Thanks,” then clipped the unit to her belt. Facing Nick, she asked, “You don’t think so? Then what the hell caused us to power down like that?”

“Oh, it was the virus, all right,” he said thoughtfully. “But it’s too easy. We can run the internals on automatic indefinitely, if we have to. Orn knew that. It isn’t enough of a threat. The real problem is somewhere else.”

Morn had to agree. Her visceral dread of the void left her convinced that she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs, even though the scrubbers had gone down for less than a minute; yet she felt sure Nick was right. A virus that couldn’t paralyze the ship more effectively than this wouldn’t have contented Orn.

Irrationally concerned, she tried to feel the baby inside her, estimate his condition. But of course he was too young to make himself tangible.

Grimly she determined to have him aborted at her earliest opportunity. She couldn’t afford to be confused by fear for a baby she hadn’t chosen and didn’t want. The idea that he might have been damaged by the sudden loss and return of g—or by her own trepidation—brought her nausea back.

“My God, it’s a bloody plague!” Lind cackled on the verge of hysteria. Opening channels across his board, he shouted into the dark void, “Antibiotics! We need an-ti-bi-otics!”

At once Mikka strode up the arc of the bridge to cock her hips ominously in front of Lind’s station. “You want a demotion?” she demanded. “Scorz would love your job.”

Lind bit down his distress, jerked his head from side to side.

“Then shut up. The rest of us are trying to think.”

“What’s next?” Malda Verone asked carefully. “Do you want to try to isolate this virus, or should we test something else?”

Nick gave her a dangerous smile. “Let’s test targ.

“Reactivate your board. Charge one of the cannon. Put targeting up on the screen.”

Malda started to obey, then paused to comment, “I’m blind without scan.”

“Reactivate, Carmel,” Nick commanded without hesitation. “Link with targ.”

“Link goes through your board,” Carmel observed. “We might lose scan data as well as targ. We might lose command.”

“Just do it.” Nick’s tone left no room for argument. “You want to try shooting blind at this velocity?” A moment later he added, “We’ve already tested my board.”

“Nick”—Mikka faced him with her unflinching scowl—“maybe it would be better to take this more slowly. We’ve got time.”

Nick didn’t raise his voice. “I want to find that virus.”

His second shut her mouth.

No one else spoke. Carmel and Malda worked in silence, concentrating fiercely.

Now that she’d made up her mind about her baby, Morn felt curiously eased, relieved of difficulties; almost light-headed. The decision was like abandoning herself to her zone implant: it freed her from her fears and limits, her deep and corrosive revulsion. She was no longer afraid of what might happen next.

Weak from prolonged strain, she left Nick’s side and moved to the vacant engineer’s station; she fitted her back to the contours of the g-seat and belted herself down. Mikka glared at her distrustfully, and Nick gave her a quick glance, covertly uncertain; but nobody protested.

“Ready,” Carmel announced.

“Here.” Malda tapped keys, and a targ-grid sprang to life on one of the big screens. Green phosphors outlined a simulated attacker, a ship on a parallel course. Readouts across the screen showed distance, velocity, ship id, weapons status: Morn stared at them. Malda had chosen a target configuration with a distinct resemblance to
Starmaster.

Starmaster
had been designed to look more like an orehauler than a fighting ship. The simulated target was a freighter of some kind.

Morn couldn’t shake the odd, dislocated sense that she was about to watch her family die again.

“Fire,” Nick ordered.

Malda hit her keys.

Morn thought she heard an impalpable electronic sigh as the screen went dead.

From where she sat, she could see the targ board past Malda’s lowered head and swinging hair. All the status indicators had gone out; the readouts were blank.

“Shit!” snarled Carmel. “We’ve lost scan!”

Lind emitted a crackle of alarm.

Shouting into her handcom, Mikka Vasaczk instructed the seconds in the core to reset targ and scan.

Nick brandished a grin full of fight and desperation. The light in his eyes was hot; feverish past his bruises. “Status,” he demanded harshly. “Give me status.”

Hardwired systems resumed function. Malda’s board came back up almost instantly; Carmel’s did the same. The scan first began typing as fast as scattershot, testing equipment and information. More slowly, less sure of herself, Verone went to work as well.

Nick couldn’t contain himself. “Goddamn it!” he barked, “give me status!”

Carmel punched the side of her console with one fist and swung her seat to face him. “I’m wiped,” she said in a hard voice. “We can see, but we can’t identify any of it.”

She didn’t need to explain that scan was useless without spectrographic star id; without the ability to compensate for doppler shifts; without filtering for interstellar ghosts and shadows; without the vast data base which identified the differing reflections of ships and planets, asteroid belts and solar winds.

“Same here,” Malda added in a strained tone. “I can’t even call up simulations.”

“Mackern”—Nick wasn’t asking a question—“you’ve got backup on that data.”

Concentration drew sweat from the new data first’s forehead. His voice sounded like it might crack under the stress. “I’ve got backup.”

“Restore,” Nick commanded. “Scan first, then targ.”

Morn shook her head. Not good enough. Her head was so light that she could shake it easily. Even if the restore worked, it would solve nothing, reveal nothing.

Unless the virus had wiped itself.

She didn’t believe that.

What Nick was doing could only make the problem worse.

Nobody asked her opinion, however.

But Mikka may have been thinking the same thing. She repeated Carmel’s earlier objection. “That goes through your board. We might lose data itself this time.”

Nick’s eyes blazed fever at her. Dangerously calm, he asked, “Have you got any better ideas? Or do you just like running blind and defenseless?”

“No.” Mikka didn’t back down. “I just don’t think we need to be in a hurry about this. We’ve already lost scan and targ. If we lose data, too, we’re finished.”

Morn shook her head again.

For a moment Nick looked poised to erupt at Mikka. His scars pulsed hotly, and his teeth flashed. His bruises were growing livid.
Captain’s Fancy
was being attacked; Orn had attacked him. He was driven to defend his ship.

But his ship needed the people who worked for her; he needed his crew. Instead of raging, he put on casualness like a cloak.

“She,” he commented, nodding at Morn, “doesn’t think we’re finished.” His tone was amiable and ominous.

Then he turned to Mackern.

“What are you waiting for?”

Sweat streaked Mackern’s face; it dripped from his jaw onto his hands and console. With the sleeve of his shoulder, he tried to wipe his eyes. “It takes a minute to set up.” His fingers trembled over the board. “I’ve got to identify the data and route it.” In a weak voice, he added, “I’ve never done this before.”

Rhetorically Carmel asked, “How in hell did you get to be data first on a ship like this?”

Nick grinned like his scars. “On-the-job training. It’s good for you.”

Mackern didn’t respond.

Detached from the tension around her, Morn considered her situation. She wasn’t concerned about the danger to
Captain’s Fancy
’s data, not in any immediate sense. For some reason, she hadn’t realized earlier that she could solve this problem. Perhaps she’d been confused by Orn and violence; or by the fact that she was pregnant. But she knew now that she held the solution.

She was UMCP. She still had her id tag—and her codes.

She didn’t need to think about that. The ship’s problems had lost interest for her. Instead she considered the implications of her decision to abort her son.

Externally there were no implications. No one knew she was pregnant: her child’s demise would change nothing. All the implications were internal.

Like any woman, she’d often thought about having children. The excitement of life growing within her—the necessary pain and release of birth. From time to time, she’d imagined wanting a son. She’d imagined naming him after her father.

But not like this. This baby was Angus Thermopyle’s last crime against her. He’d been conceived in cruelty and rage: a simple command to the sickbay systems would destroy him. That was just.

And yet she’d lost her initial sense of shock and betrayal. Instead her determination to be rid of her baby left her feeling light-headed and detached, like a woman who’d decided on suicide.

A minute later Mackern said tightly, “Ready. I think.”

“Then do it,” Nick replied.

Mackern took a deep breath and entered the command.

Both scan and data went down simultaneously.

Unable to stop himself, Mackern groaned and covered his head with his arms.

Malda looked like she was hyperventilating.

“We’re finished,” Lind said, wide-eyed and appalled. “We’re lost. We’re lost.”

Helplessly the man at the helm echoed, “Lost.”

“Oh, shut up.” Mikka’s shoulders slumped; she sounded beaten. “Reset,” she said into her handcom. “Scan and data.”

As soon as her board came back up, Carmel tested it and reported that she was still wiped.

With an effort, Mackern pulled his arms down. But then he hung fire; he couldn’t seem to decide which keys to hit. Staring through his sweat, he gaped at his board and didn’t move. His lips trembled as he asked, “Did I do that? Is it my fault?”

Muttering obscenities, Mikka Vasaczk started around the bridge toward the data station. She may have intended to slap him. Or maybe she knew enough about data to relieve him.

Nick stopped her with a small slash of one hand—a gesture so self-contained that Morn nearly missed it.

Mikka confronted Nick from almost directly over his head. Offering the handcom, she asked, “Should I call Parmute?”

Nick shook his head slightly, dismissed her intervention. He was fighting for
Captain’s Fancy
’s life. That meant he had to take care of his people.

“Mackern.”

The data first sat up straight, as if Nick had run a lash along his spine. “I’m sorry, Nick,” he said without looking at his captain. “I’m not Orn—I’m not good enough. I don’t know anything about viruses.”