Forbidden Knowledge (39 page)

Almost immediately the helm third responded, “It looks right. I don’t know how she does it. The last time I went through withdrawal, I couldn’t find my head with both hands. That ‘self-test and correction’ is a great idea.”

Involuntarily Morn went to sleep—

—and thrashed awake again as if someone had set a stun-prod to her chest. When she squeezed her sight clear enough to see the screens, she found that the moment she’d predicted for
Calm Horizons
to fire had almost come. If she were right, the broadside would be on its way in ninety seconds.

One hundred fifty seconds to destruction.

Super-light proton fire was light-constant; as fast as scan.
Captain’s Fancy
would get no warning before the barrage arrived.

Pastille and Malda hunched over their boards; Allum scrutinized his scan readouts. Everyone else studied the screens. But nobody had anything to do. Except wait.

As they watched, the computer’s self-correction program took the countdown ahead by fifteen seconds.

Without shifting his gaze, Nick said, “Pastille, I hope you’re ready.”

“If I get any readier,” the helm third muttered thinly, “I’ll pass out.”

“Malda?” Nick asked.

The targ first jerked a nod.

“Isn’t this fun?” Nick sounded suddenly happy. “If we aren’t going to survive, we won’t know it until we’re already dead.”

One minute forty seconds.

Nick, Morn said. Let me talk to Davies. Let me say good-bye. But her dry throat locked the words inside her.

The countdown kicked ahead another eight seconds.

“On my word, Pastille,” Nick warned. “
Exactly
on my word.

“Malda, you’re on your own.

“Have you noticed,” he remarked conversationally, “that every time the countdown shifts, it gets shorter? Never longer. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Maybe our figures are too generous. Maybe we’re closer to dying than we think.”

One minute ten.

Morn had the impression that she’d given up breathing. It didn’t seem worth the effort. For one clear moment she could say honestly that it made no difference to her whether she lived or died. The Amnion were welcome to whatever remained after the broadside hit.

There were still twenty seconds left on the screen when Nick said like the crack of a whip, “
Now.
”

Pastille hit braking thrust so fast that Morn sprawled onto her console.

The static mines swept ahead, taking
Captain’s Fancy
’s place in the warship’s projections.

Ten.

Nine.

The new g wasn’t much; Morn knew that. It felt strong because it pulled her at right angles to the ship’s gravity; but it wasn’t heavy. Surely it wasn’t heavy enough to make her sick. And yet she couldn’t lift her head off the board.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Complex g and zone implant addiction withdrawal. Together they were too much for her. She felt herself spreading out and away, ahead into the dark; riding a flight of primed static mines. When they went off, her brain would burst.

Her mother had died like this.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Nothing was clear now. She must have been breathing: otherwise she would have lost consciousness. But she couldn’t remember doing it. Maybe gap-sickness was preferable after all. Her life was out of her hands. It would have been nice if she could have chosen her own death.

Two.

One.

Malda set off the mines.

At once discernible space disappeared in a blast of electronic chaos.

Only a heartbeat or two later—seven or eight seconds ahead of Morn’s projection—a barrage ripped through the heart of the static. If
Captain’s Fancy
had been hit, the blast would have stripped her down to her welds and blown her away along the winds of the vacuum. But it never touched her. In fact, blinded by her own mines, she never actually
saw
the Amnion fire. She only knew of its existence because its intensity transcended the static, drove her sensors white and then blank as their circuitry shut down to protect them. She never knew how narrowly she’d been missed.

As Nick had intended, all
Calm Horizons
saw was distortion.

By the time the Amnion sensors penetrated the static accurately enough to determine that
Captain’s Fancy
hadn’t been hit, his ship was beyond reach.

“Well,” he announced in a tone of grim satisfaction, “now we know they’re serious.”

Serious, Morn thought with her head resting on her board. Serious enough to destroy
Captain’s Fancy
rather than let Davies get away. She probably ought to sit up, but she didn’t really want to. Thanatos Minor was in Amnion space.

Apparently without transition, Nick stood in front of her. “Come on.” He began unbelting her from her seat. “You’re useless here. I’ll take you back to your cabin.”

She found herself clinging to his neck. For some reason, she couldn’t tell which direction was up.

When they reached her cabin, he set her down on the bunk and took out her black box.

“I don’t like doing this.” He was flushed with his success against
Calm Horizons
, and he wanted to take it out on her. “I would rather watch you go through withdrawal for a while. But I can’t risk it. You might go crazy. And my only alternative is to take you to sickbay for a dose of cat. That won’t work because I don’t know yet how long I’ll want to keep you helpless. The sickbay computer won’t accept a command to dope you indefinitely. So this is my only choice. Let’s see how you like being null-wave for a while.”

As he reached for the buttons, a recognition of her own plight reached her through the static of withdrawal in her head. She croaked weakly, “Wait.”

“Why?” he growled.

Survive. If she let him kill her—or drive her into gapsickness—she would never be able to help Davies. The Amnion weren’t likely to give up now. She fought to speak clearly.

“It’s a short-range transmitter. You can’t turn it on and take it with you. It’ll lose effect.” Please understand. Please. You’ll kill me. “If you don’t leave it here, it won’t work.”

That made sense. Surely he could see that she was telling the truth?

“Tough shit,” he rasped as he keyed the function that was designed to render her catatonic.

Closing her eyes, she slumped inert.

When she was limp, he stretched her out on the bunk and sealed her into its g-sheath so that she wouldn’t be battered to death when
Captain’s Fancy
began braking. Although he probably couldn’t spare the time, he stood over her for a moment, studying her. Then he breathed like a benediction, “Fucking bitch.”

But he must have believed her. As he left the cabin, he put her zone implant control away in one of the lockers.

Trembling, she forced herself out of the sheath and struggled to her feet.

This was her chance.

No, it wasn’t.

She had to let him think that his control over her was complete. Whatever it cost her, she needed to preserve her last secret—needed to conceal the fact that she’d disabled this function. No matter how much she craved the power to possess herself again, she had to refuse it.

So she didn’t try to hide the black box for herself. And she didn’t try to sneak out of her cabin. There was heavy g ahead. She couldn’t know when it would begin, or how long it would last. And she needed rest in the same way that her addiction needed a fix. Without much trouble, she found her zone implant control. In despair, she tapped the buttons that would put her to sleep.

She didn’t set the timer.

Replacing the box where Nick had left it, she dove back to her bunk and managed to reseal the g-sheath before her mind disappeared into the involuntary dark.

ANCILLARY
DOCUMENTATION

THE PREEMPT ACT

T
he United Mining Companies Pre-Emptive Enabling Act for Security,” known for convenience as, “The Preempt Act,” was passed over the strenuous objections of libertarian politicians on Earth and against the opposition of the local administrations of most human stations: Terminus; Sagittarius Unlimited; SpaceLab Annexe; New Outreach; Valdor Industrial; but, notably,
not
Com-Mine. Behind its legalisms and jargon, the thrust of the Act was plain: it gave the UMC Police jurisdiction and authority over local Security everywhere except on Earth itself.

Prior to the Act, local Security was required to give cooperation, information, and support to UMCP officers and agents whenever they were on station; but UMCP “turf” only began at the perimeters of station control space—that is, at the effective limits of station fire. The rationale for this restriction had to do with the UMCP Articles of Mission. According to the Articles, the UMCP existed to “combat piracy and secure the defense of space.” Nothing more.

For some time, however, interpretation of the Articles had been predicated, not upon “nothing more,” but upon “nothing less.” In particular, no intelligent effort could be made to “combat piracy” without confronting the problem of the Amnion. As the personnel, resources, and determination of the UMCP expanded, so did its mission, which soon came to include the defense of human space against any crime.

Once this interpretation of the Articles became current, its extension in the Preempt Act grew to seem more and more inevitable. In order to “combat piracy and secure the defense of space,” the UMCP naturally needed to reach inward (toward human illegals, most of whom perforce based their operations on one station or another) as well as outward (toward the Amnion). Within the hierarchy of the UMCP, passage of the Preempt Act was a major priority for a number of years.

Several factors conspired to make the Preempt Act seem necessary despite opposition to it. Increasing dread of the Amnion was one; the relative intransigence of the piracy problem was another. And to those was finally added doubt about the integrity of Security on particular stations. The Thermopyle case on Com-Mine Station, in particular, while thankfully benign in its immediate consequences, was disturbing in its implications. There Security had apparently conspired with one suspected illegal to trap another—and had done so in a way which could have proved disastrous for Com-Mine itself. That the operation had not, in fact, proved disastrous was merely fortunate: that Com-Mine Security was actively involved with illegals, to the risk of its own station, was irresponsible and dangerous.

Additionally, of course, station Security was so far away, so completely cut off from any communication which was not relayed by ship—in short, so difficult to control—that it was easily distrusted.

Faced with a choice between the vigor and clarity of the UMCP on the one hand and the problematical reliability of station Security on the other, a majority of the Governing Council for Earth and Space eventually accepted the United Mining Companies directors’ recommendation to pass the Preempt Act.

In some circles, the Preempt Act was considered minor legislation, just another part of the United Mining Companies’ ongoing efforts to secure the safety of space on behalf of Earth and their own interests.

In others, it was viewed as the capstone of Warden Dios’ and the UMCP’s quest for power. The passage of the Preempt Act made the UMCP’s hegemony complete.

CHAPTER       
19

S
he awoke as if she were dying.

The transition moved her from oblivion to sickness and mortality; to terminal weakness and a sense of discomfort as profound as disease. In the dark nothing existed except her zone implant and the long unconscionable seethe of her dreams. But as she was dredged toward consciousness, frailty and despair rose as if they were being created for the first time. She was urgently thirsty, wan from hunger—and too stunned, poleaxed by sleep, to know what those things meant. The transition itself was hurtful, a disruption of the imposed neural order of her brain and body. Her limbs and joints felt brutalized by strain. A clammy sensation clung to her skin, as if she were lying in blood. And she stank—a particular reek, nauseous and sweet, which reminded her of Angus and corpses.

She wanted to finish dying. She wanted to get it over with.

“Come on,” Nick urged as if he were anxious for her. “I turned it off. The effects aren’t supposed to be permanent. You didn’t tell me this thing could paralyze you permanently. You can’t get away from me like this.”

Of course. He thought she was blank with catatonia, not immersed in sleep. He expected to see a difference in her as soon as he switched off her black box.

Even now, while she was dying, she couldn’t afford to let him guess the truth. She forced her eyes open.

“That’s better,” he remarked.

Her eyes refused to focus. They were too sore, too dry. But blinking didn’t help. Her eyelids rubbed up and down like sandpaper. The pain in her throat—or the smell—made her feel like gagging. Her mouth stretched wide, but she was too weak to retch; too empty.

“You stink,” Nick said like Angus. Exactly like Angus.

He had her zone implant control.

A thin sigh that should have been a wail scraped past her tongue.

“You’ve been out too long. You’re thirsty and hungry, but what you need first is a shower. You smell like you’ve got five kilos of shit in your suit.

“Here. I’ll help you get up.”

She felt the g-sheath loosen and pull away as he unsealed it. Then he took hold of her arms and pried her upright.

The shock of transition would have been strong enough to unhinge her mind, if she’d been strong enough to feel its full force. Fortunately he was helping her in more ways than one. His support got her to her feet—and when he said “shower,” she heard “water.” Her need for water galvanized her, despite her weakness. Past the blur of his face and the blur of the walls, she fumbled toward the san.

Without touching her, he pulled open the seals of her shipsuit. Then he pushed her into the san and turned on the jets.

Water.

She gulped at it, swallowed as much as she could get into her mouth. The jets sprayed life at her. It filled her eyes, eased her throat; her body seemed to absorb it before it reached her stomach. After a moment so much of it had gone into her shipsuit that its weight pulled the suit off her shoulders. The stained, rank fabric clustered around her boots. Water ran inside her and out; it washed her flesh and her nerves. In a short time it restored her enough to realize that if she drank too much at once she might make herself sick.

Nick had come back. He’d switched off her zone implant control, thinking he was bringing her out of catatonia.

Captain’s Fancy
must be done decelerating. She wouldn’t have been asleep long enough to get this thirsty and hungry, to foul herself this badly, if the ship hadn’t finished braking.

Or something else had happened.

She needed to be awake. She needed food and strength.

Nick’s voice reached her through the spray. “Don’t go to sleep in there. I’m in no mood to wait around.”

He didn’t sound impatient.

Leaning against the wall, she bent down and removed her boots, shoved her shipsuit off her ankles. Transitional shivers ran through her like a chill: she raised the temperature of the water to warm them away.

An automatic buzzer warned her that the san’s suction drain was blocked. To clear it, she pushed her sodden shipsuit out of the way. She would have liked to wash her hair, scrub herself thoroughly; but Nick was waiting for her, and she had no idea why. Although she was barely able to stand, she turned off the water and stepped out of the cubicle.

There was a clean shipsuit ready. Nick must have gotten it out of the locker for her.

Why was he doing all this?

She dried herself weakly, put on the shipsuit, and went back into the main room of her cabin to face him.

She found him in a state of demented calm.

His eyes met hers unsteadily and flicked away; roved the cabin; returned to her body and the outlines of her face. Traces of passion licked and faded through his scars. At intervals, a muscle twitched in his cheek, pulling his lip back from his teeth. And yet his stance, the way he held his arms, even the angle of his neck suggested a deep repose, as if he were at peace with himself to an extent she’d never seen before.

As if he’d achieved a profound victory—or accepted a complete defeat.

“That’s better,” he said while she stared at him, trying to guess where she stood with him. “Now for some food.”

A tight, calm nod indicated a tray on a table beside him.

“Sit,” he continued. “Eat. I’ll tell you what’s been happening.”

Why are you
doing
this?

She couldn’t imagine what his intentions were. Nevertheless he was right: she needed food. The smell of coffee and
Captain’s Fancy
’s version of hot oatmeal drew her. For the time being, at least, she’d been rescued from the ordeal of withdrawal; but that relief only left her more hungry. Like a convict taking her last meal in the presence of her executioner, she sat down to eat.

Nick stood over her while she tasted the oatmeal, sipped the coffee.

Abruptly he said, “You can probably guess we’re done decelerating. If you were the kind of woman who shits in her suit, you would have done it a long time ago.” His voice was like his demeanor: calm, at peace, but with flickers of passion running through it like distant lightning. “The Bill likes ships to come into Thanatos Minor slowly, so we’re doing that. At this speed, we’re roughly twenty-four hours out of dock.

“That much braking was hard on all of us. By the time we got past
Calm Horizons
, we’d missed our chance for a leisurely deceleration. I couldn’t spare the time to take care of you until we’d achieved approach velocity—and established our ‘credentials’ with the Bill. I mean identity, intentions, and credit. He’s perfectly capable of calling in the Amnion, if he feels threatened enough, but he’s got plenty of other ways to defend himself when he needs them.”

Morn couldn’t meet the strange unsteadiness of his gaze. She concentrated on her food while he talked. The oatmeal had been liberally sweetened. Despite her need for calories, she ate slowly so that she wouldn’t overburden her abused digestion.

“For one thing, he’s got a real arsenal on that bloody rock. And there are other ships in. I mean, aside from the Bill’s. Anybody who does business with him will fight for him. He insists on that—but those ships would do it anyway. Illegals like that need him too much not to defend him.

“You’ve never been to Thanatos Minor. You’re in for a surprise. It’s practically civilized. The Bill must have five thousand people there, all working for him.”

Into her coffee, Morn murmured, “All working for the Amnion.”

“No.” Nick sounded amused rather than offended. “They’re just taking advantage of what the Amnion are willing to pay. ‘War profiteering’ is an old and honorable profession. It isn’t their fault it only works one way. It isn’t their fault the Amnion don’t have any illegals who want to do the same kind of business with human space.”

Without transition, as if he were still on the same subject, he said, “Morn, I want you to make love to me. No zone implants, no lies. I want you to show me what you can do when you aren’t cheating.”

Alarm jolted through her so hard that she dropped her spoon. It clattered on the floor, as loud as if it were breaking.

“If you can make me believe you want me enough,” he finished, “I’ll let you go.”

Oh, shit. So
that
was it. For an instant she shivered on the verge of weeping.

Then her dismay turned to fury.

Raising her head so that he could see the darkness in her eyes, she said, “In that case, you’d better switch me off right now. You’d better kill me. The idea of touching you makes me want to puke.”

For some reason, her vehemence didn’t disturb his calm. His gaze met hers and skittered away; returned; fled again. His cheek twitched, and brief hints of blood stained his pale scars. Yet his physical repose remained complete. His smile was soft, almost forgiving. Triumph or defeat had carried him past his doubts.

“Then I’ll offer you something else,” he said peacefully. “If you’ll make love to me with your whole heart—just once, so I can find out what it’s like—I’ll let you talk to your brat. Hell, I’ll let you
see
him. You can spend the rest of the day just holding his hand.”

Davies! she thought in a storm of suppressed dismay and grief. A chance to talk to him, see him—a chance to do what she could to keep him from going mad—a chance to defend the legacy of her father.

Straight at Nick, she said, “I guess I underestimated you. You’re starting to make Angus Thermopyle”—suddenly that name was easy to say—“look pretty good.”

For an instant the small spasm in his cheek turned his smile into a snarl. His tranquillity held, however.

“I guess you did,” he remarked as if that were the friendliest thing he’d ever said to her. With a slow, relaxed movement, he took her black box out of his pocket. “Oh, don’t worry,” he reassured her involuntary chagrin, “I’m not going to use this. I don’t want to take the chance of turning you into a null-wave transmitter. And I’m not going to force you to have sex with me. I’ve never needed a woman that badly. This”—he gestured with the control—“is just a precaution. Now that I know how you feel about me—how much you
hate
me”—his smile was easy, unthreatening—“I want to be sure I can protect myself.”

Without shifting his feet, he stretched out his arm and toggled her intercom. “Mikka?”

Mikka’s voice came from the speaker. “Here.”

No hint of malice showed in his tone as he said, “Give Morn a closed channel to our other guest. They need a chance to talk privately. She’s worried about him. And that poor sonofabitch is probably worried about himself.”

“Right,” Mikka answered.

When he left the intercom, its status lights indicated that it was still on.

Strolling casually, he went to the bunk. With the pillow propped to support his back, he sat down, rested his legs in front of him. He looked comfortable enough to take a nap. Smiling at Morn’s astonishment, he pointed her toward the intercom with his free hand.

She had trouble clearing her throat. Coffee, food, and water weren’t enough: she wasn’t ready for this. Swallowing convulsively, she asked, “What’s the catch?”

“If you weren’t so busy underestimating me,” he replied, at peace with himself, “I would say, you are. But, under the circumstances, you can’t afford to worry about things like that.”

Urging her, he pointed at the intercom again.

“Morn?” Davies asked anxiously. “Are you there? What’s going on? Is he going to let you talk to me?”

Paralyzed by fear, Morn sat and stared horror at Nick. She couldn’t speak—couldn’t think. She wanted to fling herself at him, try to kill him; not because she believed she could succeed, but because when he defended himself her despair and dread would come to an end.

Nick raised his voice. “Davies, this is Nick. Morn is with me—we’re in her cabin. I’ve given her permission to talk to you. It’s a private channel. Nobody can hear you, except me. But I guess she doesn’t trust me.

“Maybe you can reason with her.

Davies—

“Morn,” Davies said immediately, “don’t trust him. He’s up to something.” That was his father talking. “Maybe there’s something he needs to know, something he thinks you might tell me. Don’t say anything unless you’re sure it’s safe.”

He sounded certain, as sure of his judgments as a kid. But he was also lost and lonely, as only a kid could be. As if he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “Morn, are you all right? You’re all I’ve got. Don’t let anything happen to you.”

Oh, my son. It’s already happened. Can’t you tell that? I just don’t know what it is.

Nick went on smiling. “Did you have any trouble during deceleration? I don’t know if Liete remembered to warn you. You could have been banged up pretty badly.”

“Nobody warned me,” Davies snapped back. “You probably told her not to. If I slammed up against a bulkhead and broke my skull, that would solve a lot of problems for you. But I knew something was going to happen when you turned off internal g.”

Nothing disturbed Nick. “Good for you.

“How’s the state of your memory?” he continued pleasantly. His scars gave little glimpses of malice, which his tone denied. “Have you been able to get past any of the blank spots? Are you starting to remember your father at all?”