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
She 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?”
“Nick Succorso”—Davies’ intensity made the speaker crackle—“you’re garbage. You’re illegal, and everything you do stinks. I don’t have anything to say to you. If you want to ask me questions, come do it in person. Take your chances.” Precocious with an adult’s mind in a teenager’s body, he rasped, “
Take them like a man.”
“No,” Morn breathed, too softly for her son to hear her, “don’t provoke him. Don’t give him an excuse. All he needs is an excuse.”
Nick’s cheek twitched. “You don’t mean that, Davies. You think you do, but you don’t. You’re alone. You’ve got a mind you don’t understand—and a body your mind doesn’t fit. You need to know who you are. Where you come from. What you’re made out of. That means you need to know about your father.
“You’ve probably got more of your mother in you than you can use, but you’re your father’s son, too. You need to know about Angus Thermo-pile. There’s a lot I can tell you. I’ve learned a lot about him myself in the past few days.”
“Stop,” Morn hissed at Nick. “Stop.”
“Did you know he’s an illegal—one of the worst? Sure you did. You can probably remember that part. He’s a pirate and a butcher and a petty thief. Right now, he’s serving a life sentence in Com-Mine Station lockup for stealing supplies. They would have given him the death penalty, but they couldn’t prove enough of his crimes.
“That may not make you think very highly of your mother. She’s a cop. She’s supposed to arrest men like Captain Thermo-pile, or kill them, not fuck them until she gets pregnant.
“But it wasn’t like that. Your mother didn’t start fucking illegals until she met me. Before that, she was actually quite innocent. You see, Captain Thermo-pile gave her a zone implant. I’ll bet you can remember what that is. After she demolished Starmaster, he rescued her from the wreckage. But she was a cop, so he couldn’t trust her. He gave her a zone implant to keep her under control. That’s how he got her pregnant.
“It’s a pathetic story. He turned her on until she would have been willing to suck her insides out with a vacuum hose, and then he fucked her senseless. For weeks, he made her do everything he’d ever dreamed a woman could do.
“That’s your father, Davies. That’s the kind of man you are.”
“Morn?” Davies said as if he were begging. “Morn?”