“But he gave me projections.” Now Mikka had Davies’ attention as well as Morn’s. “He had to—I couldn’t plan a course through the system until he told me when we would reach it. I don’t think there’s a complete chart on Massif-5 anywhere in human space, but even the ones we have would be useless if we didn’t know the time. We can just about estimate the positions of the twelve planets and Valdor itself, but without the time we couldn’t predict where even the twenty-five or thirty largest planetoids, comets, and asteroid swarms are in their orbits.
“He told me we’ll hit the edge of the system in”—she checked a readout—“9.3 hours. For the first fifteen or twenty hours of this trip, I thought he was crazy to take it so slow. But now I can see at least one advantage. If you don’t count a few hundred uncharted asteroids and maybe even a singularity or two, arriving nine hours from now is going to give us a relatively clear insertion into the system. We won’t have to start right out dodging major gravity wells and rock.
“After that—” She shrugged. “Then it gets messy.”
Everyone except Vector and Nick watched her while she spoke, letting her tell them what they already knew as if hearing it from her might help them get ready; defuse their fears.
“Massif-5 is a binary system,” Mikka said stolidly, “and all that stellar mass has attracted a staggering amount of rock and rubble. There are twelve main planets, all on different orbital planes. Some of them move at really astonishing velocities in loops around both stars, others circle just one or the other, and a couple circuit the whole well. They all have moons—some as many as thirty—and four of them have rings. In addition there are asteroid swarms flung in all directions like shrapnel. There are maybe a hundred planetoids, some of them with truly crazy orbits around the stars and several of the planets. We have nine comets on record, some of them pretty big. Then there’s the debris—everything from fist-size rocks burning at .2 or .3 C to the drifting hulks of wrecked ships.”
Angus growled to himself as he studied the problem. He wasn’t especially worried about his ability to navigate the system—he could do that better than anyone—but he hated the prospect of taking Trumpet through that maze slowly enough to be safe.
“All that would be a hell of a challenge in any case,” Mikka continued, “but unfortunately there’s more. Apparently singularities breed in the gravitic stresses of binary systems. The good news is that only five have been found. So far. The bad news is that their orbits are unstable—and they have so much pull that they distort the orbits around them. Which means,” she added grimly, “that any given piece of information in our databases could well become obsolete at any time.
“In other words, the system is a fucking nightmare.”
She knew what she was talking about. She and Ciro had been born on Valdor Industrial.
“Of course”—she shrugged again—“it’s also a treasure house. That’s why Valdor was put here in the first place. Massif-5 has resources on a scale you can’t imagine. But now there’s another reason. VI has become the main research facility in human space for studying singularities, trying to find some way to harness all that power.”
Her tone hardened. “Which is also why there are more pirates and bootleg operations in this system than in most of the rest of human space put together.”
Running commands with blunt ease, she brought up a 3-D schematic of the Valdor system on one of the displays. “We’re going there.” A couple of keys made a small swirl of dots roughly a third of the way across the system blink amber. “As you can see, it’s not exactly close to our point of insertion.
“It’s an asteroid swarm that doesn’t have enough inertia to escape the gravity well. Unless a singularity pulls it aside, it’ll curve inward and finally plunge into Lesser Massif-5 maybe twenty years from now. But in the middle of it, protected by several thousand other pieces of rock, is an asteroid big enough to be a moon.
“That’s where the lab we’re headed for is located.”
Davies was listening hard, but his manner no longer resembled Morn’s. She was focused on Mikka; but he looked repeatedly away to see what Nick was doing or to watch for Angus’ reaction. Angus suspected that he hadn’t slept much since he’d come aboard: he seemed to burn at too high a temperature for rest.
He held Morn’s zone implant control: he turned her on and off for every gap crossing. But what did he do while she was helpless?
Angus couldn’t refrain from imagining what Davies might do with his power; what Angus himself would do in his son’s place. The idea left him sick with desire.
Desire and dismay. He’d already proven that he couldn’t beat Morn: that his efforts to degrade and master her were nothing more than wasted attempts to get out of the crib. He’d spent his whole life in that struggle, but he’d never been able to break free.
He hardly heard Davies ask Mikka, “Have you been there?”
Mikka shook her head. “All I know is rumors and scuttlebutt—the kind of stories you would expect to hear in a system full of illegals. Nick says he went once. If he did, I haven’t heard him talk about it.”
Nick waved a hand dismissively, but everyone ignored him.
“The people who do talk,” Mikka said, “don’t give it a name. They just call it the Lab. But it’s more like a complete research facility.
“I don’t know if the cops know about it.” She didn’t wait for Morn or Davies to tell her. “I assume they do. It’s been there for twenty-five years. But they’ve never tried to shut it down. With all that rock running interference, it’s damn near impregnable. You have to go in slow—and some of those asteroids have matter cannon emplacements dug into them.
“In any case, it’s not a good target. It doesn’t have any dealings with the Amnion. It’s more like one of those med labs on Earth that researches ways to make rich people look richer by experimenting on protected animals—like human beings.
“In fact, this place does plenty of med research. They study zone implants. They make cyborgs. A lot of BR surgery was invented here. So were the techniques that let people survive self-mutilation. But it’s not primarily a med lab. That’s just a sideline to finance what they really do.”
Make cyborgs, Angus thought in a spasm of disgust. His anger was growing, accumulating hour by hour, but it had nowhere to go. No wonder the cops didn’t shut “the Lab” down. They probably sent their own researchers to work there, to help them learn how to perform the kind of surgery they’d done on him.
Mikka took a deep breath. As she went on, her scowl deepened until it seemed to clench the bones of her skull.
“The man who built it and runs it is called Deaner Beckmann, and he’s no ordinary illegal. According to his reputation, he’s more of a lunatic libertarian—or an anarchist. He doesn’t believe in the kind of laws that prevent him from doing whatever research interests him. And what interests him—so they say—is gravitic tissue mutation. He wants to evolve genetic adaptations that will allow organisms to survive the stress of working close to singularities. Eventually he wants to evolve human beings who can study singularities up close.”
“Why?” Ciro asked in surprise.
“Because,” Mikka answered tightly, “he thinks humankind’s future lies inside. I guess he thinks all the stuff black holes suck in must go somewhere. But people can’t go there if they can’t take the pressure.” She snorted sardonically. “So he wants to make a few changes.”
“Unfortunately for him,” Morn put in as if she were still trying to warn Angus, “that kind of research is illegal. As illegal as the unauthorized use of zone implants.”
Davies nodded like an echo.
Drifting around the bridge, Nick snickered satirically.
Mikka gave him a glare as if she wanted to hit him, then finished what she was saying.
“The story about Beckmann is that he got started with a grant from Holt Fasner. But he lied about what he actually wanted to accomplish—or where he intended to work on it. He’s been in
the middle of that asteroid swarm ever since. Since he doesn’t believe in anything that limits research, he lets other people come and work with him. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Sounds perfect,” Vector murmured without raising his head from his work. “He’ll have everything I need.”
Sib Mackern squirmed like a man who was trying not to throw up. “You actually want to go there?” he asked the engineer. “A place where they do BR surgery and make cyborgs?” Old fears twisted his face. “How is that different than being Amnion?”
“Because if they were Amnion,” Morn said stiffly, “they wouldn’t get to choose.” Her hand moved toward the back of her head as if she were remembering the ways her zone implant could be used against her.
“Don’t worry about it,” Vector told Sib. “It’ll be fun—I’ll be in my element.” A self-mocking smile crossed his face. “And I’ve always wanted to be the savior of humankind. I don’t care where I do it.”
“‘The savior of humankind.’ “Nick aimed a false grin at Vector. “I like that. You couldn’t save your way out of a sack of shit if they gave you the damn lab. The only time you ever do anything right”—just for an instant his grin cracked into a snarl—“is when you panic.”
Furiously Mikka swung the second’s station to face Angus. “Are you going to shut him up”—she jerked a vehement nod toward Nick—“or do I have to do it?”
Angus glowered back at her. Programmed inhibitions seemed to fill his throat, tightening until he felt that he was being strangled.
“Let him talk, Mikka,” Vector put in quietly. “He’s just trying to pretend he still exists. Sneering is all he has left.”
“I don’t care,” Mikka spat. “I spent too many years believing in his fucking superiority. I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
Angus hated it. More than anyone else aboard, he needed to rage and strike; needed the kind of violence which would break him out of his prison. He would willingly, gleefully, have killed Nick with his bare hands, raped Morn right there, or beaten his own head to pulp, just to prove he could do it. But everything was impossible. He couldn’t even explain why he’d let Morn and Vector persuade him to head for Massif-5.
“Then get off the bridge,” he told Mikka harshly. You’ve been betrayed. We all have. Do you think I like listening to people who can say whatever they want? “You’re relieved. Don’t come back until we reach Massif-5.”
Nick floated to a bulkhead, paused on one of the handgrips. His grin was so abhorrent that Angus howled to himself; but he made no sound.
“Angus?” Morn asked tensely. “What’s wrong?”
She knew him too well.
“We’ve got to do something about him,” Sib insisted, pointing at Nick. He sounded uncharacteristically determined. “If we don’t at least lock him up, he’s going to drive us all crazy.”
“Angus, this is backward,” Davies said earnestly. “Sib is right. Mikka’s not the problem. Nick is.”
Angus didn’t answer his son. He didn’t face Morn’s question, or respond to Sib, even though his own voiceless protests and appeals tore at his heart. His datacore declined to let him lock up a UMCPDA operative.
Mikka confronted him squarely, searching him with her hard scowl. When he refused to reply, she bit her lip suddenly, then gave a tight shrug.
“I need rest anyway.” She spoke to Morn without looking at her. “He’ll want my help later. Unless he decides to let Nick replace me. In that case there’s no reason for me to be here.”
Keeping her eyes to herself, she undid her belt and pushed out of the g-seat, floating in a precise somersault for the companionway. When she reached the handrails, she pulled along them and rose out of sight.
“Damn it.” Anchored with his other hand so that he wouldn’t drift away, Davies thumped his fist on the edge of the command console. “I thought we could trust you,” he rasped at Angus. “I thought you’d changed.”
“He has,” Morn said in a concerned tone. “He hates Nick. He wouldn’t do this.”
With a visible effort, she forced herself closer to Angus’ station. When she was directly in front of him, she raised her eyes to his. They were deeply bruised, dark with damage—and yet somehow inviolable, as if she could remain whole under any kind of assault.
“Angus, something is wrong. We need to know what it is. I need to know.”
She might have added, And I have the right to ask.
“Too bad,” he retorted as if he were sneering at her; as if he were capable of that. “You can go to your cabin, too. We’re going to hit tach in five minutes.”
Consternation pulled at the corner of her mouth. “But you said—”
“I changed my mind.”
He couldn’t win a test of wills with her: he wasn’t strong enough. If he tried to hold her gaze and face her down, he would end up whimpering like a baby in his g-seat. But his zone implants were more insidious than hers—and they were active. He scowled at her like the impact head of a mine-hammer until she dropped her eyes and turned away as if he’d beaten her.
“Come on,” she murmured to Davies. “It’s still his ship—he makes the rules.”
Davies looked like his chest was congested with shouts. He was full of fever and extravagance, which he fought to suppress. All his movements seemed constricted, as if he were holding himself back from some extreme act by sheer willpower. When Morn spoke to him, however, he bit his mouth shut and coasted after her up the companionway.
Angus didn’t watch her go. He didn’t meet Sib’s moist gaze, or Ciro’s immature outrage; didn’t answer Vector’s quizzical expression. Above all he didn’t look at Nick. He didn’t want to give any of them a reason to approach him.
If they did—if they came closer to the command station—they might notice that a scan blip had appeared on his board.
A ship.
Not close: the lag to the vessel was nearly eight minutes. But she had resumed tard almost directly behind Trumpet, as if she were on the same course.
As if she were following the gap scout.
No one else moved; but Nick left his handgrip and sailed toward Angus, catching himself at the last moment on the edge of the station. Deliberately he braced his arms on the console so that he could leer into Angus’ face.
“You know what your problem is?” he said in a casual, infuriating drawl. “You hate yourself. You don’t want friends. No, it’s more than that—you don’t even want allies. You don’t think you deserve them.
“You raped that bitch’s brains out. He remembers every bit of it. And still both of them want to be on your side. As for Mikka—she’s so jealous, she would form an alliance with a snake if it just despised me enough.
“They all want to help you.”
Angus looked straight at Nick; but with his peripheral vision he studied his readouts. The following ship was definitely on Trumpet’s course. And moving faster: scan and data estimated her velocity climbing past .3C. That wasn’t enough gain to give Trumpet any immediate problems. Still it made his heart squirm in his chest.
Who was she?
“But you won’t have it,” Nick went on. “You hate yourself too much. You can’t stand anybody who doesn’t treat you like you’re the foulest motherfucking sonofabitch in the whole created cosmos.”
Angus felt dangers crowding around him. A ship on his trail. At least one enemy who knew him too well.
Driven by electrodes deep in his brain, he tensed for action as Sib soared toward Nick, gripping his handgun in his fist.
Nick froze, deliberately made no effort to defend himself. Nevertheless his grin curdled, and his skin seemed to fade to the ashen color of his scars.
Sib stopped himself on the arm of Angus’ g-seat.
“But Morn and Davies and Mikka aren’t like that, Nick.” He touched Nick’s temple with the muzzle of his weapon; despite his fears, he held the gun steady. “And they aren’t alone. The only one I hate is you.”
He, too, was driven: his fears were
as deep as electrodes. In an oblique way, he might have been declaring his loyalties—not for Nick’s benefit, but for Angus’.
“Don’t forget me,” Ciro added, even though his voice quavered. “You hurt Mikka. I’m not going to forgive that.”
Like Sib, he spoke to Angus as much as to Nick.
The data scrolling in front of Angus clarified as scan improved its fix on the pursuing vessel. She was too big, emitted power on too many bandwidths, to be anything except a warship.
Was she UMCP?
Or was she an Amnioni, risking war to hunt down Trumpet?
While everything inside him stormed and wailed, Angus simply glared back at Nick and waited for his tormentor to go away.
Nick didn’t move until Sib lowered his gun and faded back. Then, however, he shoved himself off the console. As he arced to one of the bulkheads, then rebounded toward the companionway, he tightened his grin. He may have been trying to conceal relief.
“You’d better hit tach as soon as you can,” he told Angus. “We don’t want anybody to catch up with us.
“I’ll be in my cabin.”
Curling his lip at Sib, he left the bridge.
Angus swore to himself. Nick had seen the blip.
Too bad.
Determined and grim, he started running commands.
As he fed coordinates to the helm and power to the gap drive, as he charged matter cannon and focused scan, he announced, “Tach in thirty seconds.”
Vector, Sib, and Ciro would need that long to reach the relative protection of their cabins.
He wanted to cut the time short; wanted to go right now, while he still could. If he let a UMCP ship catch him, he was finished. Some cop would invoke his priority-codes, and then his brief, ambiguous freedom would end.
But his datacore didn’t let him cheat. He gave the people who relied on him their full thirty seconds before he sent Trumpet plunging into the gap.
MORTI
Morn came out of deep dreams with the vaguely disturbing sensation that someone had flipped a switch. One moment she was far down in slumber so delicious and comforting that it seemed to soothe her from the surface of her skin to the center of her aggrieved heart. The next she was awake, with her eyes open and her limbs weak; aching because her hurts were still there after all, unassuaged by dreams or rest.