Forbidden Knowledge (29 page)

The emissary’s nod suggested complete incomprehension. Again he said, “I wish to sit.”

A glare of bloody mirth filled Nick’s eyes. “All right, Mikka. Shoot off its legs. Then it can sit on the fucking deck.”

Mikka raised her pistol and took aim.

The Amnioni must have understood what he was hearing. He turned to regard Mikka. His human eye blinked rapidly, signaling agitation; his inhuman eye stared blankly. Then he returned his gaze to Nick.

“I wish to sit.”

Nick confronted the emissary as if he were perfectly willing to have the Amnioni dismembered. But the creature didn’t flinch or betray any other reaction—except by the semaphore of his human eye—and after a moment Nick flung up his hands. “Shit Almighty!” he groaned. “If this is the way you do business, we’re all going to die of boredom before we get anywhere.

“Sit
there.
” He stabbed a gesture at the helm station. “Ransum, out. Deactivate your board and let our guest fucking
sit.
”

Ransum jumped up; her fingers skittered across her console. As soon as all the indicators were dead, she backed out of the emissary’s way.

Expressionlessly the creature moved to the helm station and sat down. As if he were composing himself, he folded his mismatched hands together on the console.

“For your purposes,” he said like oxide being rubbed off old iron, “my name is Marc Vestabule. As you can see, I’m something of an experiment. I was once—one of you. The Amnion wished to see if we could alter my genetic identity without changing my form. The attempt was imperfectly successful.

“However, my original identity gives me certain advantages in dealing with humans. I can”—he paused—“understand them.

“A few concepts fade, and at intervals I lose blocks of language. It appears that certain forms of knowledge and perception are genetically rather than neurologically encrypted. I mention this to account for myself in case my responses occasionally lack precision. Nevertheless I am normally proof against the denotative confusion which hampers our efforts to interpret human speech and thought. Therefore I have been invested with decisiveness. I am empowered to make commitments in this situation.

“What are your requirements?”

In his own way, Nick had been “invested with decisiveness.” Unwilling to appear hesitant, he said promptly, “As it happens, I’ve got several. Here’s the first one.

“I want an explanation.”

The emissary blinked and stared. “It is likely that I am able to understand you. However, it is clearly preferable that you do not rely on my ability to guess your meaning. Please be specific.”

“I want to know why this so-called ‘human offspring’ is suddenly so important. You weren’t interested in him earlier. Now you act like he’s something special. I want to know why.”

Vestabule remained momentarily silent, perhaps to suggest that he was considering the question. Then he replied, “Surely this is of no concern to you. For your purposes, our reasons can have no relevance. Your interest here has to do with the scale of our motivation, not its content. You want to know how much we are willing to pay.”

“Not necessarily,” Nick retorted. “I’m not sure I care how much you’re willing to pay. This deal is your idea, not mine. I’ve already got what I came for. And that includes the ‘human offspring.’ But I don’t like surprises. I don’t like mysteries. I want to know why you’re here. What makes this particular human valuable to you?”

“Very well,” the emissary conceded. Nick’s insistence didn’t cause him any discernible discomfort. “I will tell you that he represents an anomaly. He does not conform to established reality.

“Of course, the source of the anomaly is the human female.”

When she heard that, a fire as consuming as an orelaser seared through Morn. The source—The Amnion knew her secret. The doctor had discovered it while she was helpless in the crèche.

“The source does not interest us, however,” Vestabule continued. “We are interested in the ontology of the anomaly—its development and consequences.”

“Why not?” demanded Nick. “That sounds backward. Why aren’t you interested in the source?”

The answer was simple. “Because we understand it.”

“Be specific.”

No, Morn pleaded, don’t say it,
don’t say it.

“We know why her condition does not conform to established reality. In your terms, we know why she did not go crazy when her mind was copied.”

Nick pursued his question unrelentingly. “Why?”

The emissary may have shrugged. If he did, his shipsuit disguised the movement. “Her mind was protected.”

“How?”

As if he were announcing Morn’s doom, Vestabule replied, “If her defenses were organic, they would interest us. But they are not. Her brain contains a radio electrode. Its emissions served to inhibit the particular neurochemical transmitters which relay fear.” Doom and rust. “Crudely put, she was unable to experience her own terror. We have some knowledge of these devices, but we were unfamiliar with this application.

“Surely you were aware of this. We speculate that your reason for coming here was to test her immunity. Otherwise you would not have risked her among us—unless you have some overriding purpose which concerns the human offspring.”

Nick was already out of his seat, surging at Morn. Even her artificial reflexes weren’t quick enough to dodge him—or to prevent Davies from trying to save her.

Jumping in front of her, Davies lashed a fist at Nick’s head.

Nick slipped the blow aside and charged past Davies as if he meant nothing.

At almost the same instant, Liete came up behind Davies, clubbed him to the floor with her handgun.

Nick plowed into Morn; he drove her back against the bulkhead. In a howl of rage and loss, he cried, “A zone implant! You’ve got a fucking
zone implant
! It was all a
lie, all
of it!”

Davies struggled to reach his feet, but his limbs were jelly; he collapsed to the floor again. Making sure of him. Liete knelt on his spine and pressed her gun against the base of his skull.

Energy and panic flamed in Morn; she burned to use it, ached to hit Nick in the face until his features were pulp and his own blood blinded him. But she forced herself to stand still. Her intentions were too extreme for simple violence. While he cocked his fist to hammer her head at the wall, she braced herself to duck; but she didn’t struggle.

“
Nick!
” Mikka’s yell cracked through the air. Her pistol jabbed between Morn’s face and Nick’s: its muzzle jammed into his scars. “
Not now! Not here!
”

Nick recoiled as if the command second had set a stun-prod to his heart.

In an instant he regained his self-control. Slowly he raised one hand until his index finger pointed between Morn’s eyes.

“Kiss him good-bye. This is going to cost you everything. Starting with your son.”

His look was a blaze of murder, as bright and fatal as the scalpel Angus had once forced her to hold against her breast; deep blood made his scars seem new, as if she’d just caused them.

Lithe and feral, he returned to the command station and took his seat. Facing the emissary, he growled, “So you aren’t interested in the source. That’s good, because you can’t have her. What do you want to do with her brat?”

Vestabule appeared baffled, as if he didn’t know the word “brat.” Then his gaze clarified, and he answered, “Analyze him.

“We wish to determine what effect her immunity has on him, on the integrity of his knowledge, his memories, his reason. If humans—if I could have been spared my fear of the Amnion, my own mutation might have been more successful.”

Nick jerked a nod as if he understood—or didn’t care.

Davies made small whimpering noises, but Liete didn’t let him up.

Without inflection, the Amnioni asked again, “What are your requirements?”

Nick was in control of his movements, but his emotions were another matter. Ire crawled across his features. “What do you think?”

The emissary waited as if he considered the question rhetorical. Nick didn’t answer it, however; so Vestabule said, “A scan probe was sent to the point at which your ship emerged from the gap. Analysis of your particle trail suggests that you have suffered what might be called a tachyon accident. Certain emissions far surpass established norms. We speculate that your gap drive has failed. We speculate that you cannot depart Amnion space.”

“And since we’re stuck here,” Nick snarled, “no doubt you want to make us feel welcome. In fact, you probably want to make us all think we belong here.”

Vestabule’s human eye blinked like the shutter of a signaling lamp.

With an effort, Nick smoothed out his expression until only a taut grin remained. Almost casually, he asked, “Vector, what’re our requirements?”

The engineer had said that he wasn’t good enough. In addition, his manner earlier had suggested that he was distressed by the idea of trading Davies to the Amnion. Nevertheless he was one of Nick’s people: he didn’t let his doubts show in front of Marc Vestabule. Crisply he announced, “We need a hysteresis transducer and a modulation control for our gap field generator.” Then his tone sharpened. “And we need customized adapters to interface human and Amnion equipment.”

The emissary nodded. He’d come prepared for this deal. “It is acceptable. Conformity of purpose will be achieved through the mutual satisfaction of requirements.”

Nick didn’t echo the ritual. Instead he demanded, “When?”

Again Vestabule may have shrugged. “The equipment itself can be delivered immediately. And suitable adapters are nearly ready. We have an interest in the ability to conform human and Amnion technologies. Efforts have already been made in design and preparation. If your engineer will provide mounting, contact, and load specifications, the growing of the adapters will be completed promptly.”

Keeping his face from Morn so that she couldn’t see his expression, Nick accepted the offer. “All right,” he muttered. “Conformity of purpose will be achieved through the mutual satisfaction of requirements.”

From the deck, Davies tried to snarl a curse. But Liete’s gun seemed to nail him down; he was helpless to move or protest.

More distinctly, Nick went on, “My engineer will transmit the specs in ten minutes. When the equipment and adapters are ready, the exchange will take place in our airlock. One Amnioni will bring what we need to the lock. The human offspring will be waiting there with one guard. We’ll trade. Then we’re going to seal the ship. As soon as our repairs are done, we’ll leave. Is that clear? No delays, no obstacles. You’ll assign us a departure trajectory, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

“It is acceptable,” repeated Vestabule.

“Then what’re you waiting for?” Nick snapped harshly. “Go away. Just looking at you makes me feel like I’ve got hives.”

Without hesitation or haste, the emissary pushed himself out of the helm seat.

“Morn,” Davies groaned. He may have been asking her for help. Or he may have been lost in her memories, trying through the pain in his head and the pressure on his spine to figure out who he really was.

Closing her heart, Morn turned to Mikka.

The command second had resumed her post beside the aperture. Before anyone could interfere, Morn approached her. In a voice loud enough to carry, she told Mikka, “I’m going to my cabin. I presume you’re going to lock me in. You can do that from here.”

Mikka’s eyes were dark, almost bruised, but they didn’t waver.

More softly, Morn continued, “Let me know when the trade happens. Please. I can’t save him—and I know Nick isn’t going to let me talk to him. But even if he can’t hear me, I want to be able to say good-bye at the right time. I need that.”

Mikka held Morn’s gaze; the corner of her upper lip twitched toward a sneer or a snarl. After a moment she nodded stiffly.

Several strides ahead of the Amnion emissary and the command second, Morn left the bridge.

Nick knew about her zone implant. Her son had been traded away.

There was nothing left to restrain her.

CHAPTER       
15

H
urrying, she chose a route to her cabin that took her past one of
Captain’s Fancy
’s tool lockers.

As she opened the locker, she began to tremble. If someone caught her doing this, she was finished. But she couldn’t afford to hesitate: she had too little time. Despite the risk, she helped herself to a circuit probe, a coil of fine wire, a simple screwdriver, and a wiring laser; she hid them in her pockets. Then she moved on toward her cabin, nearly running.

She wasn’t worried about what Nick might do to her in the next few hours. He was being challenged on too many sides at once. He had the Amnion to deal with, and the danger that his ship might never get out of forbidden space. In addition he had to consider the reactions of his people to the fact that he was willing to sell human beings. When he traded Davies away, he gave the entire crew reason to distrust him. If he didn’t do something to restore confidence in himself—and do it soon—
Captain’s Fancy
might be crippled by doubt.

At the same time, he’d just received his first true glimpse of the masque Morn had played against him. Now he had to recognize that everything he’d felt for her and every decision he’d made regarding her was founded on a lie.

Under the circumstances, he would leave her alone until after
Captain’s Fancy
escaped Enablement; until he was far enough from the station to feel safe. And that time might be days away; it might never come. She would face it when or if it happened.

No, her main worry where he was concerned had to do with her black box. Had he realized yet that her zone implant was meaningless unless she also had a zone implant control? Was he too busy to bother taking it away from her?

As long as he let her keep it, she retained her advantage.

When she reached her cabin and keyed the panel, the door swept open.

She felt certain Nick wouldn’t neglect to lock her in as soon as the computer told him she’d entered her cabin. Nevertheless she went in and let the door close.

At once a small amber light on the interior panel indicated that she was a prisoner.

Now she didn’t need to hurry. The Amnion could deliver the equipment immediately, but not the adapters. And even in his worst fury, Nick wouldn’t hand over Davies until the Amnion fulfilled their part of the bargain. She might have an hour—or she might have five. Plenty of time.

She hurried anyway. Desperation and the effects of her zone implant made her manic.

With the screwdriver, she pried open the door’s control panel.

She was as careful as her internal frenzy permitted. Any mistake would alert the computer; would alert Nick. But she’d gone beyond restraint, and the electrical pressure in her brain left no room for uncertainty. Driven by cold, visceral horror and absolute rage, she felt immune to error.

With the probe, she tested the circuits until she understood them. Then she positioned pieces of wire—as crooked and yet legible as handwriting—to bypass both the locking mechanism and its sensor, so that the computer would always report that the door was shut and locked. When she’d welded her wires into the circuits, she burned out the bypassed controls.

Now the door couldn’t be opened or closed electronically; but she could shove it aside with the friction of her palms.

She was ready.

The time had come for her to wait.

That should have been impossible. Her son was being traded to the Amnion. They would run tests on him until his psyche tore and his spirit snapped. Then they would make him one of them. They might very well turn him into an improved version of Marc Vestabule. Waiting should have been inconceivable.

It wasn’t. Her zone implant made her capable of anything.

On some level, she knew that its emissions were as addictive as any drug, and as destructive. But that didn’t matter: they were also effective. With them, she could have put herself to sleep. Or she could have tuned her body to the pitch of orgasm until her brain went into noradrenaline overload, and everything she would ever think or feel boiled away.

However, she had a more complex form of suicide in mind.

After a few adjustments to her black box, she sank into a trance of concentration in which her mind was charged simultaneously with vitality and peace: a trance that allowed her to remember everything she’d ever learned about
Captain’s Fancy
—every code, every command sequence, every logic tree—as well as every precaution Nick had taken for Enablement Station.

Instead of going hysterical with apprehension and helplessness, she spent her time preparing to fight the entire ship.

Try to stop me now. Just try.

There was nothing left to restrain her. At last she could be utterly what Angus Thermopyle had made her.

The zone implant left no room for doubt. In her concentrated trance, she saw only one thing which might go wrong.

What if Mikka didn’t tell her when the trade took place?

Then she and Davies were both lost. He would be abandoned to the Amnion, and she would be at Nick’s mercy until she died.

The fear that Mikka might fail or betray her should have been enough to tip her over the edge.

But it wasn’t. Dread was human: hysteria and revulsion belonged to flesh and blood. She’d left such emotions behind.

The only one she retained was her long, unappeased rage.

And Mikka didn’t let her down. Nearly two and a half hours after Morn had entered her cabin, the intercom chimed.

“Morn?” the command second asked softly, as if she were whispering. “Morn?”

Nearly two and a half hours. Was that enough time for the Amnion to run their tests on Nick’s blood? Morn didn’t know. How they cultured and examined their specimens was a mystery to her.

“Morn?” Mikka repeated. The intercom’s tiny speaker conveyed only a hint of anguish. “He’s gone.”

Nearly two and a half hours. That may or may not have been all the time the Amnion needed, but it was enough for Morn. Keying herself out of her trance, she brought up energy and strength that made her feel like a charged matter cannon.

“We’ve got the equipment and adapters,” Mikka continued uncertainly. “Vector was impressed. He says they look perfect. He’s already in the drive space. He says if they’re as perfect as they look he can have us ready for thrust in half an hour”—
Captain’s Fancy
couldn’t use either of her drives while he was inside the engines—“and tach in an our.”

She may have been trying to comfort Morn. You didn’t lose your son for nothing. At least now we’ll have a chance.

Morn didn’t answer. She owed Mikka that: as long as she didn’t answer, Mikka was protected. No one could prove that the command second had spoken to her.

Bracing her hands on the door, she pressed it aside and stepped past it. Then she closed it to disguise her absence.

If someone saw her now, she would have to silence whoever it was. She was ready for that. But the passage was empty. By this time, Liete’s watch should have relieved Mikka’s; Nick’s should be on emergency stations around the ship. However, Morn was artificially sure those things hadn’t happened. Nick’s best people would be with him on the bridge. And while
Captain’s Fancy
was docked no one was needed on emergency stations. The rest of the crew would be in the galley or the mess, listening to the intercom for anything Nick let them hear.

If they weren’t, they were dead.

Or she was.

Morn went down to the auxiliary bridge.

Liete Corregio was there.

In a sense, it was fortuitous that Morn’s certainty had only misled her to that extent.

And Liete was alone; she sat in the command seat with her back to the doorway; she’d activated her board so that she could keep track of what was happening to the ship: more good fortune.

But she still wore her handgun.

Morn would have to deal with the command third somehow.

She didn’t hesitate. Her zone implant inspired her. Deep within herself, she’d reached a place of madness and focus where there was no doubt.

Silent as oil, she eased across the deck and punched Liete once, hard, behind the right ear.

Liete snapped forward; her forehead cracked against the console. When she slumped to the side, she left a smear of blood on the board.

Quickly Morn checked her pulse, her eyes: she didn’t want to kill the command third. But Liete was barely unconscious. Good. Hurrying because she couldn’t predict what the Amnion would do to Davies, or when, Morn took Liete’s handgun. Then she unsealed the command third’s shipsuit, pulled her arms out of the sleeves, and resealed the suit with her arms pinned inside. Not as good as a straitjacket, but good enough so that Liete couldn’t do anything sudden to surprise Morn.

Morn dragged Liete to the wall near the door, propped her there. She closed the door and locked it. After that she seated herself at the command station and repositioned it to face the door—a precaution in case Nick tried to force his way in while she worked.

A small groan trailed between Liete’s lips. Blood from her forehead dripped past her nose and around her mouth.

Morn ignored her.

Now.

She felt that she’d arrived at a moment of apotheosis. She’d been alone on the auxiliary bridge of
Starmaster
when she’d killed her father, killed most of her family.

Now.

Self-destruct.

Perhaps this was what gap-sickness felt like. Perhaps circumstances and her black box had re-created that particular abrogation of sanity.

No matter. This time she was going to save somebody who depended on her. If it could be done, she was going to save her son.

Clear and confident, she set her fingers to the keys of the auxiliary command board.

First she opened her intercom so that she would hear anything Nick chose to share with the rest of the ship. Then she went to work.

Her instructions to the command computer had to be both subtle and compulsory, so that they wouldn’t attract attention while they took precedence over other operations. She needed to dummy Vector’s jury-rigged destruct sequence to her board: that required her to tap into targ, engineering, and maintenance, as well as into Nick’s console. Then she had to issue codes which would deactivate those functions from the bridge, reroute them to her. Along the way, she also needed to commandeer control over the auxiliary bridge doors and life-support—not to mention the airlock which connected
Captain’s Fancy
to Enablement Station. In addition, she required communications: she would be useless if she couldn’t talk. And she had to achieve all this in a way that couldn’t be countermanded.

The destruct sequence was easy: it wasn’t integral to the ship’s systems, had no built-in overrides. Nick had obviously intended to dismantle it as soon as he escaped Enablement. Besides, she’d helped Vector design it; she remembered it exactly. But the rest demanded an almost eidetic recall of everything she’d learned from her time as
Captain’s Fancy
’s scan second; from the ordeal of her attempt to cure Vorbuld’s virus.

The state which her zone implant imposed on her mind gave her the necessary recall.

The most crucial thing, the real trick, was to disable Nick’s priority codes. This was
his
ship, programmed to let him supersede all other instructions no matter who issued them. As matters stood, he could shut her down the instant he realized what she was doing.

And yet she’d already conceived a simple solution to the problem—a solution so simple that he might never figure it out.

She wrote an intervening batch command to his board, a command which his priority codes would activate before they took effect; a command which altered his codes by transposing a few digits so that none of the computers would recognize them.

He would be unable to countermand her until he erased the batch command. And that wouldn’t happen until he realized what she’d done.

Now.
When she keyed in his priority codes herself, all the control she needed would switch to her board. It would belong to her until she gave it up.

Liete groaned again, twitched, opened her eyes. Like the trickle of blood from her forehead, she breathed, “What the hell are you doing?”

As if he were answering, Nick’s voice came over the intercom. “Liete, check on Vector. He can’t hear me in there. I want a status report. Find out when we can get out of here.”

“Nick,” Liete moaned, so weakly that he couldn’t hear her, “Morn’s here. She’s taken over the auxiliary bridge.”

It didn’t matter if Nick heard Liete. Morn was ready.

No, she wasn’t. There was one more precaution—

Nick waited for Liete’s answer. The intercom stayed open: it picked up Lind’s voice in the background.

“Nick, something’s happening to my board.”

Morn was out of time. Precautions would have to wait.

With a few keys, a few codes, she risked everything.