Forbidden Knowledge (38 page)

To conceal his irritation or chagrin, Pastille turned to his board.

Instinctively Morn clenched her hands on the edges of the data console and waited for g—for the burst of clarity which would destroy her.

But Pastille was good at his job, when he chose to be. She felt a sudden pressure as her weight tried to sink across the centrifuge of
Captain’s Fancy
’s spin; however, it only seemed heavy because it rotated in and out of phase with the ship’s internal g. And it was over in a moment. It left her giddy and feverish; but that was relief, not gap-sickness.

“Done,” Pastille reported petulantly.

“You all right, Morn?” asked Nick.

The intent of his question was complex, but its import was simple. She nodded.

Five minutes lag. Ten for a message to go and an answer to come back. No, not that long.
Captain’s Fancy
was closing the gap at half the speed of light, not counting the minute decrease in relative speed caused by the course correction. The lag was shrinking fast.

Morn didn’t have much time.

“Nick,” she offered tensely, “what about a bluff?” As her sensation of fever mounted, she began to think that clarity would have been an improvement. She couldn’t trust Nick—and the symptoms of withdrawal would only get worse. “We can tell them we’ve already beamed a report to Thanatos Minor and human space. If anything else happens to us, the word of how we were betrayed will spread. The only way they can save their reputation for honest trade is by leaving us alone.”

“That might work,” Liete commented thoughtfully.

“Or it might convince them they don’t have anything to lose by killing us,” Nick countered. “If their reputation is already damaged, why not give themselves the satisfaction of blasting us?

“I’ve got a better idea.”

Again he toggled the intercom. “Mikka, how do you feel about going EVA at two hundred seventy thousand kps?”

Mikka took a moment to respond; when she did, her tone was noncommittal. “I would rather break my kneecaps. What have you got in mind?”

“Static mines,” he said crisply. “I want a cloak of them around us—twenty or thirty at least. But if we launch them from targ, Amnion on scan might be good enough to read the power-flash. I can’t risk that. We need a manual launch.”

“What good will that do?” asked Pastille for the second time. “If we surround ourselves with static, we’ll be blind. We won’t see it coming when they hit us.”

Nick shot the helm third a curdling look. Pastille closed his mouth.

If the same question troubled Mikka, she kept it to herself. “I won’t have to go outside,” she answered. “I can do it from one of the locks. How much dispersion do you want?”

“I don’t care about the distance—not at this range. I just want it
slow.
And thin. I don’t want to cast a shadow on their scan.”

“When?” the command second asked.

Nick glanced at Malda; when she nodded, he told Mikka, “They’ve been primed. Get them ready fast. But don’t launch until I tell you.” With a fierce grin, he added, “Make sure you’re secure. I don’t want to lose you when we maneuver.”

Snapping off the intercom, he turned back to Pastille.

“If you think I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said distinctly, “you’d better put on a suit and jump ship. We won’t miss you.”

Pastille ducked his head. Biting his lips, he murmured bitterly, “Sorry, Nick. It won’t happen again.”

“Just for the record,” Nick continued in a snarl, “how do you suppose that fucker’s targ is going to handle our velocity? They’re too far away for real-time tracking. If they want to hit us, they’ll have to hypothesize our position. I intend to make that difficult.”

Morn wasn’t listening. Her throat kept getting drier, and she had more and more trouble breathing. All she cared about was how the Amnion would respond to his message.

Which one of their requirements were they determined to satisfy?

“Nick, they’ve shifted,” Allum reported from scan.

Morn reached for the data from scan so that she could plot it; but Pastille was faster—probably trying to redeem himself. Quicker than she could work, with her eyes dazzled by random neural blasts and her fingers going numb, he processed the information. Then he barked, “Intercept course. If we stay on this heading, they’ll cross our line just in time for impact.” He hesitated, then asserted, “We’ve gained about two minutes.”

Lind’s voice caught as he said, “Message coming in.”

“Audio,” Nick instructed.

“Amnion defensive
Calm Horizons
to human Captain Nick Succorso.” Decreasing distance had marginally improved reception from the warship. “You are required to decelerate. This is mandatory. If you do not comply, you will be destroyed.

“Your speed makes communication difficult. Therefore negotiation is not feasible. You state that gap drive damage causes the satisfaction of Amnion requirements to be ‘no longer compelling.’ This statement is unclear. You transgress Amnion space. Therefore all Amnion requirements are ‘compelling.’ Speculation suggests that you consider the Amnion culpable for gap drive damage. Very well. You are considered culpable for the failure of Amnion efforts to resolve uncertainty concerning your identity. If you accuse the Amnion, you will be accused in turn. The Amnion accusation predates yours.

“If you wish to effect repairs and depart Amnion space safely, you must deliver the human offspring, Davies Hyland, as agreed.”

In recognition and horror, Morn hissed, “Nick, you can’t!”

He silenced her with a slash of his hand.

Deaf to her protest, the impersonal voice went on, “The ‘mutinous action’ of your subordinates has postponed this requirement, not canceled it. You will concede him as recompense for safe conduct from Amnion space—and for Amnion credit which you have obtained by culpable means. To accomplish this, you must decelerate.

“You are instructed to match velocity with Amnion defensive
Calm Horizons.
When you have done so, you will transfer the human offspring, Davies Hyland. Then you will be escorted to Thanatos Minor—or to the borders of human space, if you prefer.”

Nick, no.

The alien voice continued implacably, “Unless Amnion requirements are satisfied, you will be destroyed. No reply or protest will be heeded. Only deceleration is acceptable.”

“Lag!” Nick demanded as soon as the transmission stopped. “What’s the lag?”

Lind was prompt. “Nine minutes there and back, give or take. They heard us in five. We got their answer in four.”

“So they’ve been committed to their new course for at least four minutes?”

“Right,” Allum and Pastille said in unison.

“Lind, copy this.” Nick grinned savagely. “‘Captain Nick Succorso to Amnion warship
Calm Horizons.
Get a horse.’ Send it.”

Morn sat staring at him, as light-headed as if she were about to pass out.

He hit the intercom. “Mikka, you ready?”

“Standing by,” she answered.

“Don’t launch yet. Secure for maneuvers.”

At once he faced Pastille again. “All right, ace. Do it again.
Gentle
course correction, no more than one g. Put us back on a straight line for Thanatos Minor.”

“But they’ll just—” the helm third began. Morn could see him sweating in his whiskers.

“‘Slow brisance thrust,’” snorted Malda. “Get it through your head.” She may have been trying to spare Pastille Nick’s ire. “Even if they can accelerate forever, they do it slowly.”

“We’re using their first course correction against them.” Nick’s tone was casual, but the look in his eyes suggested that Pastille wouldn’t live much longer. “Their own inertia will prevent them from being able to intercept us.

“Are you
satisfied
”—he made the word sound Amnion—“or do you want to be relieved?”

In other words, Morn thought dumbly as Pastille worked, the only way
Calm Horizons
could stop
Captain’s Fancy
was with a long-range broadside.

Nick had set that up. He’d forced the Amnion into a position where their only choice was to fire. And their target was moving at an unprecedented speed.

He had no intention of surrendering Davies.

For some reason, she couldn’t breathe. When the course correction hit, she nearly flopped out of her seat, not because the g was hard, but because her head was already reeling.

“Done,” Pastille said for the second time, sounding scared.

Through the intercom, Nick told Mikka, “Now!”

Almost immediately she replied, “They’re launched. Give me twenty seconds to seal the lock.”

“Do it,” he said, and clicked her off.

Then he addressed the bridge. “Now we’re committed. It’s too late to back down. If anybody screws up, we’re all fried. Morn, figure out how much time that fucker needs to get in firing position. Once they see us shift, they’ll know they can’t catch us. I want you to calculate their best shot at us.

“Allum, tell me the exact instant you see them start shifting themselves.

“Pastille, when I give the word, I want straight one-g braking thrust. No more than that. I want it for exactly ten seconds. Then cut it.

“Malda, the instant those ten seconds are up, fire the static mines.

“Morn?”

Morn had difficulty pushing herself upright. She tried to say, “I’m all right,” but the words didn’t make any sound. Adrenaline seemed to go off in her head like small suns, distorting her vision, cramping her lungs. Withdrawal—Dependent on artificial control, her synapses had apparently forgotten how to manage themselves. She couldn’t tell the difference between her readouts and her nightmares

her father or her son begging

Morn, save us.

Oh, sure. How could she do that? She couldn’t even save herself. She was being torn down to her subatomic particles, dispersed by betrayal into the immedicable gap between her addiction and her mortality.

“
Morn!
” Nick yelled in sudden alarm, “
don’t touch that board!
”

She wasn’t gap-sick; but he reached her before she had a chance to say so. He caught hold of her wrists, jerked them away from the console, shoved her back in her seat.

At the same time Liete Corregio said stolidly, “It’s up to you, Pastille. Show us you’re worth having around. Calculate what that warship has to do to get their best shot at us. If you can pull it off, I’ll ask Nick to forgive you.”

“I’m all right,” Morn whispered into Nick’s strained face.

“No, you’re not,” he retorted.

Too light-headed and wracked to lie, she murmured, “It’s not gap-sickness. It’s withdrawal.”

You think I’ve played dirty with you. What do you think I’ve done with myself?

“I can do my job,” she croaked past her thick tongue.

“The hell you can.”

All she could see was the pale blur of Nick’s face.

“Four minutes.” She snagged the number out of her whirling head. “They need four minutes.”

“Four,” Morn insisted, “if their computers are better than ours.”

“They’re better,” Nick said out of the blur.

“All right, four,” Pastille put in. “A broadside will take only another minute to hit us. We’ll be that close. Say eight and a half minutes from our course correction. That’s all approximate. I can do a first-order hypothetical countdown to improve the guess.”

“I can do it.” Morn fought to focus her eyes. “Let me do my job.”

Nick held her hard, as if he were trying to estimate her condition by the tension in her arms. Then, abruptly, he leaned close to her, put his cheek to hers. “You bitch,” he breathed against her ear. “It’s nice to see
you
suffering for a change.”

Dropping her wrists, he walked back around the bridge to stand beside Liete at the command station.

Morn braced herself on the sides of the console and tried to find the still place in the center of her spinning mind.

A first-order hypothetical countdown. An estimate of the moment when
Calm Horizons
would fire—an estimate in which the only allowed variable was time-dilation.
Captain’s Fancy
’s computers had been working for at least a day now to gauge that variable. She ought to be able to run a countdown that was reasonably accurate.

If she could think.

But “reasonably accurate” wouldn’t be good enough. She had to do better than that.

She couldn’t think. Whenever she tried, anxiety slammed through her, and her vision jolted out of focus.

She didn’t need to think. Somewhere in her computer were programs that could think for her. All she had to do was use them.

Morn, save us.

Utter anguish.

Hoping to counteract the phosphene dance, she rubbed her eyes roughly. Then she began calling data to her board.

Start the countdown from the moment of course correction: anchor everything on that instant. How much time was left? Seven minutes? Six? She could check, but she didn’t bother. Watching her life slip away would only increase her panic.

The speed of light: that was constant. Take as constant everything
Captain’s Fancy
knew about Amnion warships in general; about
Calm Horizons
in particular. Take as constant the decision to destroy
Captain’s Fancy
—and the need for the best obtainable angle of fire. And time-dilation itself was constant: the two ships’ respective abilities to cope with it were the only true variables. Treat them as one.

Muster the data. Initiate the calculations.

Hit all the right keys.

Please.

“Got it,” she said, although she wasn’t sure she spoke loud enough for anyone to hear her. “It’s on the screen. It might not run steadily. I’ve put in an automatic self-test and correction. The computer will estimate the accuracy of its own time-dilation compensations. Then it’ll adjust the countdown.”

All her joints had begun to ache. The sensation of fever was growing stronger, and her head throbbed. She needed water, but didn’t have the strength to ask for it. She closed her eyes to give herself a moment’s rest.

Like a voice in a dream, she heard Liete say, “Better check it, Pastille.”