Forbidden Knowledge (43 page)

“We don’t need thrust at the moment,” ventured the helm first on Vector’s behalf. “And we’ve got plenty of time to restart the drive before we approach dock.”

In a neutral tone, Malda Verone said, “I’ve got everything locked on them, Nick. If they fire, we should be able to hit them once or twice before we disintegrate.”

Nick ignored her. The pod was a quarter of the way to
Tranquil Hegemony

“He must be afraid they’re going to fire,” Lind said abruptly. “Maybe he thinks they’ll hold off if we’re helpless.”

Nick ignored that as well. He was viscerally certain that the warship wouldn’t fire at him—so certain, in fact, that he hadn’t bothered to get
Captain’s Fancy
ready for a fight.

“But why?” protested Alba petulantly. “Why wouldn’t they kill us if we’re helpless?”

Carmel shook her head. “I’ve got a better question.

Why does he think they’re going to fire?”

That was it. Why would those fuckers fire? What excuse did they have?

What excuse were they about to get?

Suddenly Nick’s premonition sprang into clarity. Swinging away from the screens, he barked, “What has he done to the pod?”

Carmel and Malda stared in a shock of comprehension. Lind gaped as if he were about to drool.

As if answering a summons, Vector Shaheed came through the aperture onto the bridge.

His face had gone pale, as pallid as Nick’s scars, as if his heart were about to fail him. Yet his smile remained characteristically mild; his composed manner revealed nothing.

“Vector,” Nick said, soft and deadly, “I told you to watch the engineering console room.”

The engineer paused between one step and the next. His eyes widened slightly. “What went wrong?”

Nick leaned over his board, aimed his fury straight at Vector. “I
ordered
you to make sure nothing did.”

“I know. It didn’t. I mean, it can’t. It couldn’t.” That was the closest Nick had ever heard Vector come to sounding flustered. “There was nothing that
could
go wrong. I waited until I was sure of that.

“I know I shouldn’t have left. But I had to get to sickbay—I had to get something for the pain, Nick. Otherwise I was going to be useless.

“You can check the computer. There were only five minutes left before launch. I was sure nothing could happen. So I locked the console room and went to sickbay.”

Carefully he repeated, “What went wrong?”

Nick didn’t answer. His premonition had moved from his crotch to his face. It felt like acid under his eyes.

He swung back to look at the screens.

The pod was close enough to
Tranquil Hegemony
to begin deceleration.

It should begin right now.

Scan reported thrust.

Too much thrust.

The pod veered off its programmed heading and started to pick up speed. At full burn, it moved past the warship. In moments it was effectively beyond reach.

Crying out from the core of his doubt and need, Nick howled, “
MORN! You fucking BITCH!
”

“Nick,” Lind said in a strangled voice, “
Tranquil Hegemony
wants to talk to you. I think they’re shouting.”

Instantly Nick swallowed his dismay. He would have time for it later. He would make Morn pay for it later. Right now he had about ten seconds in which to save himself and his ship.

Without transition, he shifted into his emergency mode—the state of whetted creative concentration on which his reputation rested. Relaxing in his seat despite the consternation around him, he resumed his air of nonchalant competence.

“Acknowledge that,” he told Lind. “Tell them an immediate response follows. Then copy this.

“‘Captain Nick Succorso to Amnion defensive
Tranquil Hegemony.
We have sabotage. Repeat, we have sabotage. We’ve lost thrust. Scan our power emissions for confirmation. We can’t maneuver.

“‘The ejection pod containing the human offspring Davies Hyland has also been sabotaged.’” He checked the displays. “‘It will impact Thanatos Minor—’ Carmel, give Lind an ETA. ‘If the sabotage includes adequate deceleration programming, he may survive.

“‘Sabotage was done by Morn Hyland.’” For a second, his fury surged out of control. “
I’ll tear her fucking guts out!
” Then he caught himself. Taking a deep breath, he instructed Lind, “Don’t copy that. Message continues. ‘She escaped imprisonment. I can’t explain it. When I learn how it was done, I’ll tell you.

“‘Your requirements have not been satisfied. I regret this. I regret the appearance that I’ve dealt falsely with you. To dispel this appearance, I’ll comply with any new requirements you wish to satisfy—if they don’t threaten my own safety. Inform me what must be done to rectify Morn Hyland’s treachery.

“‘To demonstrate that my intentions are honest, I won’t restart thrust until you grant permission.’

“Send that. Put it on audio when they answer.”

Vector had recovered from his disconcertion. “Will that work?” he asked quietly.

“You don’t care,” Nick snarled over his shoulder. “You aren’t going to live long enough for it to make any difference.”

For the rest of his people, however, and to steady himself, he added, “But they don’t want to blast us, if they can help it. It’ll make them look bad. Billingate can see we haven’t got thrust. They can hear us trying to cooperate. And I’ll bet we still have something those fuckers want”—he grinned murderously—“something I would have given them for nothing.

“Malda,” he ordered sharply, “put targ on standby. I want them to see us reduce our power emissions. The meeker we look, the better.”

Without waiting for a reply, he hit his intercom.

“Mikka. Liete. Organize a search. Make it fast—and thorough. Use everybody. I want you to find Morn. She got out of her cabin somehow. Don’t ask me how. If somebody helped her, I’ll castrate the sonofabitch.

“Start in engineering and the auxiliary bridge. Then try the drive space. Try the core—try the infrastructure. She might even be hiding in the hull, if she took an EVA suit.

“Find her, but don’t let her kill herself. Don’t let her arrange for you to kill her. We’re going to need her. She won’t do us any good dead.”

Snapping off the intercom, he rasped at the screen which displayed
Tranquil Hegemony
’s position, “Come
on
, you bastards. Give me an answer. Tell me you’re going to let us live. Tell me we’re going to get out of this with a whole skin.”

“Who would help her?” asked the helm first. He was out of his depth and foundering. “Who would dare?”

Because he couldn’t keep himself still, Nick turned back to Vector. “What did she offer you?” he demanded. “Was it something perverse, like ‘immunity from prosecution’? Or was it just sex beyond your wildest dreams?”

The engineer met Nick’s glare without any apparent difficulty. “Check the sickbay computer,” he said steadily. The hostility around him didn’t intimidate him. “It’ll tell you how bad my arthritis is. The truth is, there’s nothing she
could
offer me. We’re in no danger of ‘prosecution’ out here. And”—his smile conveyed a suggestion of sadness—“I’m in no condition for sex. I hurt too much.”

Swearing to himself, Nick swung away.

He couldn’t wait. If the Amnion didn’t answer soon, he would have to go find Morn himself. Or he would have to kill Vector right here on the bridge. The effort to remain in command of himself was too much. He needed violence.

He needed to make the woman who’d cut him
pay.

“Here it comes, Nick,” Lind jerked out as the speakers crackled to life.

No one around the bridge breathed.

“Amnion defensive
Tranquil Hegemony
to human Captain Nick Succorso. You have dealt falsely. Amnion requirements have not been satisfied. However, your thrust drive status is confirmed. Speculation suggests that sabotage is plausible. Your failure to confine the saboteur Morn Hyland is culpable. Nevertheless your destruction will not advance Amnion interests.

“You will dock at the human installation called Billingate. If the human offspring Davies Hyland survives impact on Thanatos Minor, you will retrieve him and deliver him to the Amnion. In addition, you will deliver the saboteur Morn Hyland.

“During the interval, the Amnion will take steps to ensure your compliance.

“Indicate your acceptance of these requirements.”

Steps? What steps?

No, don’t ask.

Nick cocked his fist above his board, threatening the air. Mordantly he asked his people, “Any of you want to haggle? This is your last chance.”

Everyone watched him. No one spoke.

His fury rose like demonic glee as he said, “Lind, tell them their requirements are accepted.” And with it came a burst of inspiration, a blind intuitive flash. “Tell them I’ll do everything in my power to make sure they get what they want.” He could hardly contain his excitement. “Tell them we’ll restart thrust as soon as they grant permission.”

What steps?

All his best decisions were made intuitively. That was what gave his reputation its air of romance, almost of enchantment. He never hesitated to act on his inspirations.

“When you’re done with that,” he went on to the communications first, “tight-beam a message to UMCPHQ. Use the coordinates and codes I gave you last time.

“Copy this.

“‘I rescued her for you, goddamn it. Now get me out of this. If you don’t, I can’t keep her away from the Amnion.’

“Send it.”

I’ll teach you to cut me off, he told Hashi Lebwohl silently. And I’ll give your fucking requirements more satisfaction than you can stand, he added to the nearby warship.

And
you
are going to foot the bill, he promised Morn.

What steps?

Vector’s eyes glittered wetly, as if he were holding back tears. The helm first ducked his head. For reasons she probably didn’t understand, Alba giggled tensely. Malda continued staring at Nick as if she were transfixed. Carmel’s frown didn’t express much approval.

“Mikka?” Nick snarled at the intercom. “Liete? Have you got her yet? Do you need help?”

Neither Mikka nor Liete had found Morn.

If he’d told them to look in his cabin, they would have found her immediately. While he negotiated with the Amnion, and her son sped toward Thanatos Minor, she was there, searching with meticulous care for his store of the drug which rendered him immune to Amnion

However, she wasn’t recaptured until later, when she tried to conceal herself in one of the ejection pods.

Bitter and inarticulate, Mikka clamped Morn into an armcuff as Liete called the bridge to report.

“Take her to sickbay,” Nick snapped like a spatter of acid. “Put her to sleep. I won’t have time to deal with her until after we dock. And get that goddamn zone implant control away from her!”

Morn shrugged as if she’d learned how to die. Expressionless and doomed, she put up no resistance as Mikka and Liete manhandled her to sickbay, stretched her out on the table, and filled her veins with cat.

ANGUS

N
ow that he knew where he was going, Angus Thermopyle found the waiting harder to bear. He wanted to get
away
from this place: away from the sterile rooms and corridors of UMCPDA’s surgical wing; away from doctors and techs, therapists and programmers, who pretended that they had valid professional reasons for playing with him. The thought that he would be sent to Thanatos Minor affected him like a promise of escape. And the idea that he would be alone in deep space with no one except Milos Taverner to torment him felt like hope.

Get it over with, he snarled at Hashi Lebwohl’s staff, even though they couldn’t hear what he said in the silence of his mind. Let me out of here.

Ignoring him, they did their jobs with meticulous care. In theory, their control over him was perfect. The computer between his shoulder blades mastered him absolutely. Nevertheless they worked to ensure that he was as helpless in practice as in theory; that any hope he held out for himself was mere illusion.

So they spent hours putting him through simple feedback tests—for instance, measuring the differences in his reactions to the commands “Run” and “Run, Joshua.” If they said, “Run,” he could choose whether or not to comply: if they said, “Run, Joshua,” he ran, driven by his computer’s control over his zone implants. Then their neurosensors and computer-links measured his compliance or resistance in order to refine his programming.

Other tests were made, not by external instruction, but directly through his computer. The links were used to send him complex physical and mental tasks; and every detail of his response contributed to the perfection of his programming.

Still other tests involved giving him external, compulsory commands which violated his enforced internal exigencies. “Joshua, break my arm.” Because he was outraged to the core of his being, Angus fought to obey: he would have loved to inflict a little pain. But his computer said, “No,” and so his worst savagery came to nothing. He couldn’t damage anyone known to his programming as a member of the UMCP.

Hope as a concept had no relevance under these conditions. He was a tool, nothing more: a sophisticated organic extension of an electronic device. As long as he lived, he would never make another important choice for himself.

If he’d been prone to despair, he would certainly have given way to it—and that self-abandonment would have accomplished nothing. Neither his programming nor his programmers cared about his emotional condition. Like escape and disobedience, suicide wasn’t available to him. No matter how much he might feel like lying down and dying, his computer wouldn’t allow it.

However, Angus wasn’t prone to despair. An overriding passion kept him away from his personal abyss. Precisely because he had so much fear in him, he was able to endure it when a less damaged or malignant mind would have crumbled.

Since he had no choice, he concentrated on understanding and utilizing his new capabilities as fully as he could. On some level, his lasers and his increased strength, his computer and his augmented vision, all belonged to him. Within the narrow range allowed by his programming, they were his to use. As with
Bright Beauty
and Morn Hyland, he wanted to know what they were good for.

While Lebwohl’s people tested him, he also tested himself.

Eventually he learned that his programming was in fact all that prevented him from getting away. In every other sense, he might as well have been designed and built to break out of UMCPHQ. The new dimension of his sight enabled him to identify and analyze alarms and locks. With his lasers, he could change circuitry or cut open doors—or kill guards. He was as strong as a great ape; as quick as a microprocessor. And his computer recorded everything for him. In fact, it was more useful than an eidetic memory, since it held a wide variety of independent databases which were gradually made accessible to him as his programmers trusted their control over him more and more.

If he’d been his own master, he could have dismantled his prison and fled.

But his zone implants held him. He was required to wait.

In time, no doubt, the strain would have proved too great for him. However, his masters had exigencies of their own. Beyond the walls of Data Acquisition’s surgical wing, events moved at a separate pace; out of reach; out of control.

One morning—his computer informed him that the time was 9:11:43.17—a group of techs and doctors came into his room. One of them said, Sit on the edge of the bed, Joshua.

He obeyed because he couldn’t do anything else.

Another said, Stasis, Joshua.

Involuntarily he went into one of the null states they used when they wanted to deactivate his computer: a state in which his detached mind continued to work while his body became an inert lump, capable only of sustaining its own autonomic functions. As long as he was in that state, they could have torn off his fingernails, or cut his testicles, or driven spikes into his brain, and he would have been unable to do anything with his horror except perceive what they did—and remember.

But if they’d intended to harm him physically, they would have done so long ago. As they took off his lab pajamas and began to swab his back with antiseptics, he was appalled, not by their unexplained intentions, but by his own utter immobility.

With their customary efficiency, they made an incision between his shoulder blades to access his computer. When they unplugged his datacore, the gap in his mind which represented his computer-link turned as black and cold as the void between the stars. Now he was held in stasis by hardwired commands which were part of the computer itself.

Moments later, however, the doctors plugged in a new datacore. As soon as it came on-line, he felt the disturbing, insidious sensation of having been rebooted. A piece of his brain had just gone into a cyborg’s equivalent of tach.

Then they disconnected all their links and leads and neurosensors. For the first time since his welding started, he was severed from all external equipment—from every compulsion or requirement which wasn’t recorded in his datacore.

Finally they sealed their incision with tissue plasm and covered it with a bandage to protect it during the few hours it would take to heal.

End stasis, Joshua, one of them said.

Angus Thermopyle raised his head and looked around.

His observers were irrationally tense. A couple of the techs winced. The doctor closest to him turned a shade paler. He was perfectly under control: they knew that. Yet they were afraid of him. They couldn’t forget who he was.

He hated them all. If he could have done anything to confirm their anxiety, he would have. Deliberately he took a deep breath, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles as if he were free to do such things at last; as if for him the idea of freedom could ever be anything more than an illusion.

Softly he muttered, “It’s about time.”

The time, his computer informed him, was 9:21:22.01.

One of the doctors went to the intercom and reported, “We’re done. Tell the director.”

“Here.” A tech tossed a shipsuit and a pair of boots onto the bed. “Put these on.” The shipsuit was a dirty gray color, devoid of insignia—indistinguishable from the ones Angus had habitually worn aboard
Bright Beauty.
“You’ve got about five minutes.”

In a clump, as if they wanted the safety of numbers, the doctors and technicians left him alone.

Every monitor in the room focused on him as if he might suddenly go berserk.

If he could have emitted electronic fields as well as perceiving them, he would have burned out the monitors—if his programming had allowed him that option.

No chance.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had come. Whatever his masters wanted him for, it was about to start.

For the first time since he’d arrived here, his doctors couldn’t tell how fast his heart was beating, how urgently his lungs called for air. So that the monitors wouldn’t see any sign of his eagerness, he got up from the bed slowly; pushed his limbs into the shipsuit and his feet into the boots with an insolent lack of haste. Then he stretched back out on the bed, propped his head on the pillow, and folded his arms over his belly as if he were capable of waiting forever.

Fortunately nobody challenged his patience to see if he were bluffing. Less than a minute later, Min Donner strode into the room.

More than ever, she looked as ready as a hawk. Walking or still, her hand swung past her gun, instinctively poised. Her weight was always balanced; her muscles seemed permanently charged with relaxation, as if she were nanoseconds away from an explosion. As far as Angus knew—his new vision could supply him with hints—she had no technological augmentation. And yet she gave the impression that he was no match for her.

She made him feel that he’d better look away before she took offense at his scrutiny.

He would have resisted the impulse on general principles; but the fact that she wasn’t alone caught his attention.

Milos Taverner was with her.

The former deputy chief of Com-Mine Security followed the ED director into the room and met Angus’ stare with a dull glower.

He didn’t look well. Considering his fastidiousness, he seemed as unwell as if he’d been on a binge for weeks. His gaze was dissipated as well as dull; his cheeks—inadequately shaved or depilated—had the color of a corpse which had been left in water too long. The mottling on his scalp resembled the marks of an obscure disease. A nic hung from his lips, curling smoke into his eyes and dropping ash down his shipsuit. He kept his hands in his pockets as if to conceal the way they shook.

This was the man who held the keys—at least the external ones—to Joshua’s future.

Angus grinned savagely. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look like shit. Hell, you look like
me.
Didn’t you enjoy the training? Learning to take orders from me must have been murder for a prissy cocksucker like you.”

Milos didn’t shift his stance or move his hands. Around his nic, he said in a tone of sour hostility, “Apologize, Joshua.”

Like a docile prisoner threatened by a stun-prod, Angus said at once, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” Complex emissions from his electrodes compelled him.

Inside himself, however, he snarled, Enjoy it. Do as much of it as you can. I’ll remember it all.

“Stop that, Milos,” Donner ordered. “That’s not what he’s for.”

Milos ignored her. “But since you ask,” he continued, “no, I didn’t enjoy the training. I didn’t enjoy learning to look and act like a man who would crew for you. But there are compensations. I’m planning to get a certain”—he pursed his lips—“satisfaction from the remainder of this assignment.”

“I’m sure you will,” Angus retorted. “Traitors like you always do.”

The ED director held up one finger like a command.

Taverner flicked a glance at her and shut up.

Grinning again, Angus did the same.

She nodded once, grimly.

In no doubt of her authority, she told Angus, “Come with me.” Then she turned her back on him and strode out of the room.

Shoving his hands into his pockets to taunt Milos, Angus followed.

This was the first time he’d been out of his room without the attendance of guards and techs; without being attached to external computers and monitors. The experience increased his illusory sensation of freedom. Oh, there were guards in sight—and Min Donner herself served the same function. Yet the change behind the sensation was real. He was done with being tested—done with being cut and measured and coerced like an animal in a lab. For better or worse, his programming was complete. Now at last he would get out of this sterile, inhuman place. He would be given a chance to take action.

By its very nature, action involved movement into the unknown. Unknown to Angus himself, certainly; but also, in a more subtle and perhaps hopeful sense, unknown to his programmers.

The first thing he needed to do, in order to give that hope substance, was to get rid of Milos. That would have to wait, of course. Nevertheless he had every intention of tackling the problem as soon as possible.

In moments, Min had led him and Taverner out of DA’s surgical wing into parts of UMCPHQ he’d never seen before. Impersonally helpful, his computer interpreted the wall-coding which enabled people to navigate the vast complex. If he’d known where he was going, he could have found the way himself. However, Donner didn’t explain anything. And Milos—who probably knew the answer—kept his thoughts to himself. When his nic expired, he dropped the butt on the floor and lit another. That and the way he hid his hands in his pockets were the only outward signs that he realized his safety was at an end.

Out of Data Acquisition. Across a section of Enforcement Division. Into Administration.

Angus’ pulse increased. More and more, his eagerness resembled alarm.

Abruptly Donner stopped outside a door marked
CONFERENCE
6.

Sardonically pleasant to mask his fear, Angus asked, “Now what? I thought you were done torturing me.”

Again she held up one commanding finger. But she spoke to Milos rather than to Angus.