He had to move his head; had to.
The pain of tipping his head forward brought tears to his eyes. That helped: when he’d blinked the dampness away, he was able to see more clearly.
His readouts answered his first question. Trumpet was running on automatic, and her failsafes had overridden helm. Too much rock in the way: Morn’s preset instructions would have killed the ship. In self-defense the automatic systems held Trumpet stationary in the swarm, shifting her from side to side only when an asteroid threatened collision.
But she was still in reach of the black hole. Its hunger called to her constantly, urging her backward. She couldn’t refuse unless she used thrust to counter the commanding tug of the gravity well. Fortunately her failsafes provided for that.
Thank God Morn had thought to activate them before she lost consciousness.
Where was the gap scout? Where in relation to Soar and the other ship?—to the singularity and the swarm? Davies hunted scan for information.
No sign of Soar; of any ships at all: that was good. And the black hole was precisely there. But—He gaped, and his heart stung, as he realized that Trumpet had covered less than five k since he’d blacked out. No wonder the black hole still gripped her.
Trumpet was a sitting target.
Scan insisted that there were no other ships within range of its instruments. But there would be, Davies thought—slowly, painfully, his mind obstructed by the wrong neurotransmitters—if the gap scout didn’t move soon.
Or maybe he didn’t need to worry about other ships. Maybe the black hole’s event horizon was the only real danger. As the singularity fed, it grew. It was a small thing as such phenomena were measured. Before long it wouldn’t be. Given enough time, it would grow large enough to devour the entire swarm.
Long before that, it would become too strong for Trumpet to resist.
At least now he knew why stones streamed constantly past the gap scout. They were diving into a ravenous maw of g.
But why couldn’t scan tell him where she was?
Of course. Slow, he was too slow. His brain wasn’t working worth shit. Of course scan couldn’t identify the ship’s position—except in relation to the black hole. There were no referents. Every identifiable object in the area had already been sucked down. And the surrounding swarm was still far too thick to permit any conceivable access to the starfield. This deep in the torrent of asteroids, even Greater and Lesser Massif-5 didn’t register on the instruments.
Well, fine. In that case Davies would simply have to assume that Trumpet’s present orientation bore some resemblance to the heading Morn had chosen before she lost consciousness. The ship needed to go straight forward. He hadn’t studied her helm. In fact, those functions hadn’t been routed to his board. But his training in the Academy would enable him to cope. Somehow he could make Trumpet go where he pointed her. All he had to do was unclip his belts, carry his mass across the deck to the command station, secure himself there. When he was safely settled, he could figure out how to increase thrust until Trumpet finally pulled herself out of this gravity well.
But first he needed rest. Right now the effort of getting out of his g-seat was beyond him.
The sounds of battered, limping respiration continued, as if two or three people were dying on the bridge behind him; breathing their last—It didn’t make sense. Scrubbers couldn’t produce that kind of noise. If Trumpet were losing atmosphere in distant gasps, the decompression klaxons would have warned him.
He was altogether too slow. His thoughts seemed to struggle and stagger under their own weight: his head might have been full of cat. Something he’d forgotten—Had Morn finally gone to sickbay, drugged herself to protect the ship from her gap-sickness? And was he really her, cloyed with her drugs as well as her memories, stricken by her illness?
Was this what clarity felt like, when the universe spoke?
Somewhere nearby a panted exhalation became a small groan of pain.
Involuntarily, fearing to see what he’d forgotten, Davies turned his head.
Apparently he’d forgotten everything he truly cared about.
Morn sprawled in the command station g-seat. Trails of blood ran from her mouth across her cheeks in streaks drawn by g: she must have bitten her lips or tongue. Her breathing came in little gulps of distress, barely audible. Davies seemed to see her eyelids fluttering as if she were in the grip of a seizure.
Another faint groan made him think that she was recovering consciousness.
That wasn’t the worst of it, however, oh, not the worst at all, if that had been the worst he might have been able to forgive himself for forgetting her. But as soon as the pain of turning his head cleared, he saw that her bleeding, her unconsciousness, her disturbed eyelids were trivial. There was other damage, worse—
Her chest twisted painfully on the edge of the seat back, as if she’d tried to squirm out of her restraints under hard g. And she was held in that tortured position by the impossible angle of her right arm.
No human limb could hang like that and be whole.
While Trumpet burned against the singularity’s pull, Morn must have pushed her arm past the cushions until the force of Trumpet’s escape caught it; nearly ripped it off—
Without transition, as quick as a gap crossing, Davies Hyland became a different person. Endocrine extravagance transformed him in an instant. Noradrenaline vanquished pain: dopamine and serotonin sloughed off weight. He didn’t waste time shouting her name, or panicking. Instead he slapped open his belt clips and pitched out of his g-seat.
He was half again too heavy. Under other circumstances, he would have been able to manage his effective mass; but not easily. Now he thought he could feel his ribs grinding together. Nevertheless he ignored the extra kg as if they didn’t exist. He hit hard, but didn’t feel the sting in his soles, or the jolt in his knees:
Trumpet’s bridge had been designed to gimbal in heavy g, orienting the g-seats to protect their occupants as much as possible. But now the ship had attained a stable orientation. The deck was level under his boots.
Two strides reached the command station. Morn would be in agony as soon as she woke up. Simply looking at the deformed line of her arm made his joints ache. What could he do to help her? He was no medtech. Did he dare move her?
Yes: that was better than leaving her like this.
Carefully, quickly, he lifted her arm and shifted her toward the middle of the seat back.
A groan seemed to bubble past the blood on her lips like a drowned whimper. Her eyelids stopped fluttering: instead they squeezed tight as if she had to fight a wave of nausea. A weak cough leaked blood onto her chin. Then, slowly, she began to open her eyes.
Now he whispered fearfully, “Morn. Morn? Can you hear me?”
Did it work?
Intuitively he knew that she’d done this to herself on purpose. If she was filled with pain, she might have no room left for gap-sickness. And if it did take hold of her, she would be too crippled to obey it.
She lifted her eyes to his face. Her mouth shaped a word, although she made no sound.
Was she trying to say his name? No. When she tried again, she found enough breath to be heard.
“Angus.”
He nearly cried out. Did she think he was his father? Was Angus all she cared about?
Then a worse thought struck him.
Shit, Angus! He’d forgotten Angus, too, forgotten both his parents, even though the two of them had just saved his life.
Angus had been outside the ship; had used his portable matter cannon to detonate the singularity grenade. The black hole must have sucked him down; must have snatched him off Trumpet’s side as lightly as a pebble. Even a cyborg’s strength would have been far too puny to resist that g.
But Davies had heard more than one hoarse, dying sound. Like a wince, he lowered his face to the command station intercom, put his ear to the speaker.
Shards of pain twisted between his ribs as he bent over.
Faint as a whisper of static in the vacuum: respiration. From Angus’ suit pickup came the low, hollow scrape of excruciated air, in and out—
Davies jerked up his head. “He’s alive. Morn, he’s alive. He’s still outside,.” somehow Angus must have anchored himself in time, cleated his belts to hold him, “but I can hear him.”
The muscles in Morn’s cheeks tugged: she may have been attempting to smile. Almost inaudibly she murmured, “That’s good. I can’t do this again.”
“Morn?” Davies bent over her, straining not to miss her words. “Morn?”
“When I’m in trouble,” she said like a sigh, “the only thing I can think of is to hurt myself. Self-destruct—I need a better answer.”
Her voice trailed away like the fall of her eyelids. Gently tension seemed to let go of her as if she’d dropped off to sleep.
He stared at her in dismay. Self-destruct? What the fuck are you talking about? Wake up, damn it! I need you!
Trumpet had to move; he had to move the ship. Already g had increased as the gravity well deepened and the failsafes brought up more thrust to counter it. Angus was still outside, my God, still alive, and Soar could be anywhere. Free Lunch had been sucked down, but Soar had been farther from the black hole; could have survived it. She might be closing for the kill right now.
Yet Morn was desperately hurt. Davies didn’t have time to rouse her. And he didn’t have the heart—
A new rush of urgency snatched him into motion.
With the heel of his palm, he slapped the command intercom, silencing Angus’ faint respiration. A stab of his fingers keyed open a ship-wide channel.
“Mikka?” he shouted. “Mikka? Do you hear me? I need you.”
He had his father’s voice: his fear sounded like rage.
“And don’t tell me you can’t leave Ciro!” he snapped as if his anger was aimed at her. “Let him do his own suffering for a while! I need you. I’m alone here!”
He didn’t know whether she would answer or not. He didn’t give her a chance. Still on the same channel, he barked, “Vector? Vector, move! I can’t do this many jobs at once. I’m alone here! If I don’t get some help, it’s all going to be wasted” everything Angus and Morn and the ship had endured would go for nothing.
“I hear you.” Vector’s voice sounded unnaturally loud over the hull-roar of thrust. Davies had turned the gain on the intercom too high. The geneticist’s tone was tight with suppressed distress; all this g must have brutalized his sore joints. Nevertheless his reply was prompt; ready. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do it.”
Davies didn’t hesitate. “Angus is outside!” he fired back. “He went out with his cannon—” The situation was too complicated to explain. “He shouldn’t be alive. But he left his pickup open. I can hear him breathing.
“Put on a suit. Go get him—bring him in. But be careful! This g is trouble. And it’s going to get worse. We’re caught in a gravity well. We need more thrust to break loose. If you don’t; keep yourself anchored, we’ll lose you.”
We’ll lose you both if you try to hold Angus yourself.
“I’m on my way,” Vector replied. He might have been obeying an order to take his turn in the san. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll take every precaution there is. I’ll bring him in somehow.”
Without pausing he added, “I’ll set my suit for this channel. That way I can still hear you. Can you talk to me? Tell me what’s happened? How’s Morn?”
Punching the toggle, Davies closed the intercom. “I haven’t got time,” he rasped to the bridge. “I need help.”
Or he needed Divine inspiration, so that he could save the ship without taking time to study helm first.
The bulkheads answered with the muffled fire of Trumpet’s drive. God didn’t say anything.
“I’m here,” Mikka croaked from the head of the companionway. When the bridge gimballed, the stair automatically retracted itself to keep the space clear, but it came back into position as soon as g stabilized. “What’s going on?”
She wobbled on the treads, hampered by too much weight. Her damaged forehead hadn’t had time to heal, despite the best sickbay could do for her. And Ciro and g had hurt her more: Nick’s treachery had attacked her at the core of her being. Even calling on Morn’s memories, Davies had never seen her look so weak.
Yet she advanced down the steps, gripping the handrails on both sides to keep herself upright. Carrying her flesh like a bur den which had grown too heavy, she reached the foot of the companionway and stopped, waiting for Davies to speak.
She was exhausted; nearly beaten. But he couldn’t afford to care. Trumpet was no better off. Angus might well die before Vector could bring him in; might be hemorrhaging inside his suit, filling all its space with blood torn out of him by the black hole he’d created. And Morn was in too much pain to hang on to consciousness.
Mikka had done some of the navigating until Nick had taken over Angus. She’d already studied the board—
“Take helm,” Davies ordered harshly. “Get us out of here. We’re caught in the gravity well of a black hole. Don’t ask me how that happened. I’ll tell you later. Or you can read the log in your spare time.
“Morn needs sickbay bad. I’ll get her there—then I’ll come back. Don’t worry about g. I’ll handle it somehow.” He had no idea how. Trumpet might double or triple her effective mass before she broke the singularity’s grip. “Straight ahead,” he went on, “until scan tells you where we are. Then try to find a way out of the swarm.”
He didn’t wait for Mikka’s response. Grimly, dreading how much he would hurt her, he unclosed Morn’s belts In one motion, he leaned her forward, set his shoulder under her torso, and heaved her up from her g-seat; braced her by gripping one of her legs and her good arm. The pain in his ribs seemed to pierce his chest as he stepped clear of the command station so that Mikka could sit down.
She hadn’t moved from the companionway. Her face was empty of questions: her attention had turned inward. Davies feared that she would refuse him. She would say that Ciro needed her too much, or that she was too worn-out to function. Groaning inside, he marshaled his strength to yell at her, curse or beg—
But he’d misread her immobility. She seemed to be thinking aloud as she murmured, “Or I can reconstruct our position from the log and the location of the black hole. Look at g vectors in relation to where the rocks used to be around us. I should be able to put us back on the same course Lab Center gave us.”
Damn it. Damn it. Why hadn’t he thought of that? What was wrong with him?
No. He didn’t have time to waste on his own inadequacies. “Do it,” he panted. “Otherwise we’re finished.”
Gasping under the pressure of so much weight, he stepped cautiously toward Mikka and the companionway.
She shifted out of his way; watched him reach the support of the rails before she moved to the command station.
The black hole and Trumpet’s thrust loaded him down with at least a hundred kg more than he was accustomed to carrying. His damaged ribs and bound arm throbbed with stress. The companionway looked frightfully high, impossible to climb.
But perhaps this was what he was good for; perhaps his conditioning in Morn’s womb had prepared him to succeed now. His enhanced endocrine system made him stronger than he had any structural right to be.
Clamping Morn’s limbs in the crooks of his arms, he grasped the rails and started upward.
Yes, he could do this. He could do it. If Mikka didn’t add thrust too soon, he would be able to gain the head of the companionway. Then all he had to do was stagger along the passage until he came to sickbay.
That part would be dangerously easy. Trumpet’s orientation in the gravity well gave the passage a sharp downward slope.
Two steps. Five. Seven. Yes. The muscles of his thighs burned as if they were tearing, but they didn’t hurt enough to stop him.
As soon as he achieved the last tread, Trumpet’s drive began to howl more deeply. At once Da
vies and Morn took on another twenty kg; thirty—
In an instant he changed his mind about carrying her. The passage looked as sheer as a cliff. Straining to handle her gently, he lowered her to the deck, then held her by her good arm and let her slide downward. At the extent of his reach, he followed her. By catching at handgrips and the corners of doorways, wedging his heels between the deck and wall, he kept their descent under control.
He saw Vector ahead of him, at the suit locker. Vector had almost finished struggling into his EVA suit. While Morn and Davies slid toward him, he sealed his helmet, closed the faceplate, activated the suit’s systems. Then, anchored on a handgrip, he crouched near the wall to help Davies stop Morn at the sickbay door.
More g. Davies was barely strong enough to straighten his legs. How much did he weigh now? Twice what he should? More?
With Vector’s assistance, he climbed to his feet at the door, levered Morn high enough so that he could lock his arms around her chest.
The external speaker on Vector’s suit crackled. “I’ve never done this before,” he said distantly. “I hope there’s no hurry. I won’t be able to reach Angus and bring him in quickly.”
“Do what you can,” Davies grunted. “Sickbay needs time to take care of Morn.”
Now Vector didn’t ask what had happened to her. G increased by the second: soon movement would become impossible. He keyed open the sickbay door for Davies, then turned away to heave himself up the handgrips toward the lift.
Davies staggered backward into sickbay, dragging Morn with him.
The lower wall of the room seemed to loom under him, as deep as the singularity’s well. If he and Morn fell down there, he would never have the strength to raise her to the surgical table.
But if he hesitated, the danger would only get worse—
He gasped a hard breath, tensed his legs. A desperate lunge carried him across the gap between the door and the end of the table, missing by millimeters a plunge which might have broken his bones as well as more of Morn’s. The impact of the table on his ribs snatched a cry from his clenched throat.