Vestabule may have retained significant vestiges of his human mind, but he was impervious to insult. “You have made similar references in the past,” he observed, “but their applicability is imprecise. Correctly speaking, only humankind has ‘sewers.’ Our techniques for processing waste are different.”
“Forget it,” Nick snapped. “Forget I ever mentioned it. Now we’re alone—just you, me, the intercom, a few bugeyes, and your pet bozo with the gun. Ask your questions, so I can figure out what my chances of being able to use that credit-jack are.”
Fiercely he rubbed at his cheek, trying to quiet the spasm. But the muscle went on clenching and releasing convulsively, twisting his expression into a grimace.
“Captain Succorso”—Vestabule moved his arms as if he were attempting a gesture of appeal which his body had forgotten how to perform—“we have only one question, although it is complex.
“Why did you come to Enablement Station?”
Nick knotted his fists to contain his anger and waited for the emissary to explain.
“Your stated reason,” Vestabule said flatly, “was that you required ‘help for a medical difficulty,’ in addition to credit that would enable you to repair your ship. Plainly, however, the credit itself was not the primary reason. Our data indicates that you were within reach of this installation before you left human space. This implies that you were on your way here to obtain repairs—which in turn implies that you had the means to pay for them—until you altered course and risked crossing the gap.
“Superficially we are left with the matter of your ‘medical difficulty.’
“We can understand that in only one of two ways. Perhaps your desire or need for the human offspring Davies Hyland was genuine. That is difficult for us to understand. However, we do not need to understand it, for you have proven it false. Your willingness to sell the offspring demonstrates that he was not your motive. Therefore we must speculate that your true interest was not in the offspring himself, but rather in the ability to produce him.”
Urgent with fury, Nick wanted to shout, Get to the point get to the point! But he held himself rigid, betraying nothing, while fire throbbed in his scars and burned in his eyes.
“More specifically,” Vestabule continued, “we speculate that you wished to test the usefulness of what you call a ‘zone implant’ in protecting a human mother from the normal consequences of force-growing her fetus.” A total and irreparable loss of reason and function, the birthing doctor had said. “Yet that proposition has also been shown to be false. You have made it clear that you did not know of the existence of the female’s zone implant when you brought her to us.
“We must conclude that all reference to a ‘medical difficulty’ was spurious.
“Yet what remains?” Vestabule asked before Nick could protest. “Only your offer to permit us to test your blood. We are forced to conclude that this offer represents your true reason for coming to Enablement Station.
“That is not satisfactory, however. During your previous approach to us, you voluntarily submitted to the administration of a mutagen which should have transformed you much as I was transformed. Obviously it did not. Returning to us, you made us aware of that fact. Further, by permitting us to test your blood you showed us that your ‘immunity’ to our mutagens is not inherent. Your blood differs in no meaningful particular from other human blood. Thus you have made us aware that you possess the technical or medical means to block our mutagens, to render them ineffective.
“Captain Succorso, why did you do this? You are not a friend to the Amnion. And we judge that you are not self-destructive, despite the hazardous nature of your conduct. What explanation remains? What conclusion should we draw in order to resolve our difficulties successfully?”
Vestabule faced Nick without expression. At his side, his companion or guard was completely immobile, like a creature that had been turned to salt.
Nick glared at the two of them, watching his hope that his credit would be restored fray away like smoke.
“I get it.” He was so full of violence that he could hardly contain it, but he forced a harsh laugh. “For a minute there I didn’t know what we were talking about, but now I get it.
“You think I’m playing some kind of deep covert game for the cops. You think this is all a ploy—I was ordered to make you aware that we can neutralize your mutagens. As a way of convincing you to scale back your ambitions against human space. Let you know we’re ready for you, it’s too dangerous to challenge us. And what you’re afraid of”—involuntarily his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, aching for Vestabule’s throat—“is that it’s a trick. That the immunity doesn’t really exist—or doesn’t work well enough to be much good.
“Then the cops would have a reason to make you aware of it. They’re using me to bluff you. Encourage you to worry about a threat that isn’t real.
“Is that about right?”
Even Vestabule’s human eye didn’t blink as he stared back at Nick.
If Vestabule had set fire to Nick’s hands and feet—if the Amnioni with the gun had flamed open his belly, spilling his guts to the deck—Nick would not have told them the truth. I loved her, goddamn you! I thought letting her have her brat was the only way I could keep her! Vestabule probably wouldn’t have believed him anyway. Some hurts were too human for any Amnioni to understand.
“You’re half-right,” he rasped, wishing that every word were keen enough to draw blood. “I do jobs for the cops once in a while. That’s why I went to Enablement the first time. Test their new immunity for them. But I hate them. Do you hear me, you asshole?” Are you human enough to remember hate? “I hate them. When I do jobs for them, I like to make sure the results aren’t quite what they were expecting. I like to do work for them that looks good and turns out bad.” Otherwise the bastards on my ship would have cut my heart out long ago. “That’s why I went back this time. To make sure the job I did for them last time turned out bad.”
The emissary considered Nick for a long moment before he said passionlessly, “Captain Succorso, this is unsatisfactory.”
Do you think I don’t know that, you disgusting lump of shit? Do you think I don’t know you’re going to assume I’m betraying you, too? The truth is worse.
Turning on his heel, daring the Amnioni to shoot him in the back, Nick strode away in the direction of Captain’s Fancy.
Taverner, you dishonest shit-licker, where are you?
By the time he reached his ship, his anger had failed. Like hope, it eroded and was washed out of him. Instead he felt an acute longing to be with someone who adored him.
Once the doors were safely locked behind him, he went, not to the bridge, but to his private quarters. Ignoring Mikka’s hostility—and his own doom—in the same way that he’d ignored the Amnioni with the gun, he used the cabin intercom to ask Liete Corregio to join him.
MILOS
ilos had to wait. It was time for him to crush out the spark of dangerous enthusiasm in Angus’ eyes, time for him to erase the look of malign hope on Angus’ face. The longer he allowed Angus to experience anything other than hopeless domination, the more precarious Milos felt.
Nevertheless he was forced to wait while Angus obtained permission to approach Billingate. He had to trust Angus’ core programming that long. By some standards, the next few hours were the most vulnerable part of Angus’ mission. Thanatos Minor had the firepower to laugh at any gap scout, no matter how many secret weapons she carried. Human ships all around the installation would protect it. And—Milos had already gleaned this information from scan, as well as from Billingate’s routine navigational transmissions—there were two Amnion warships in the vicinity of the rock.
If Operations refused to let Trumpet dock, Angus was in trouble.
Milos could solve that problem himself, if Angus failed. But he didn’t want to. It would force his hand; coerce him to commit himself when he wanted to keep all his options open.
While Angus dealt w
ith Operations, Milos lit a nic and fretted.
Angus had sent out the data that Operations needed: ship id and registration, the names of her captain and crew. He’d requested a visitor’s berth. Now he ran arcane sequences on his board, comparing them to the databases hidden inside him, and murmuring softly under his breath as if he were humming.
But Operations hadn’t answered.
What was the delay?
Time lag was negligible. And Angus had been here any number of times before: presumably he knew how to approach the shipyard. So where was the reply? What was Operations doing?
No, Milos couldn’t wait. He should, but he couldn’t. In the privacy of his bowels, he feared Angus too intensely, despite Hashi Lebwohl’s reassurances.
Smoke dissipated into the air-scrubbers as he exhaled. First he checked to be sure that Trumpet wasn’t sending anything, that all her broadcast channels were silent. Then he unbelted himself from his g-seat and floated free.
The ship was too small to use internal spin for g. He’d received some zero-g training at UMCPHQ, however. He steadied himself on the back of his seat, then thrust gently in the direction of the command station.
“Sit down,” Angus muttered over his shoulder. “I’m concentrating.”
Milos coasted the two meters to Angus’ side. Carefully he pulled himself close to Angus until their heads almost touched.
“Joshua.” His voice was soft, but distinct. “I’m going to give you a standing order. Jerico priority.” That was the highest authority Milos could assign to his instructions. According to Lebwohl, only the most fundamental commandments in Angus’ datacore would override a Jerico priority order. “When I tell you to open your mouth, you will always obey. You won’t wait to hear the word ‘Joshua.’” To be on the safe side, he added, “After that you’ll chew and swallow normally. And you’ll follow this order without letting it interfere with anything else you have to do.”
The idea that these words were being recorded in Angus’ datacore—that Dios or Lebwohl might find out about them—didn’t bother Milos. He was more interested in the extent to which Angus’ programming allowed him to protect himself from damage. Jerico priority was supposed to override any instinct less compelling than self-preservation.
Angus tapped a couple of keys on his board and checked one of his readouts as if he weren’t listening.
An uncharacteristic grin stretched Milos’ face as he breathed, “Open your mouth.”
Angus opened his mouth.
Carefully Milos dropped his burning nic onto Angus’ tongue.
A flash of recognition lit Angus’ eyes—a black glare of hate. His toadlike face twisted in a spasm of pain. Autonomic revulsion made his hands twitch.
Nevertheless he chewed the nic briefly; swallowed it. After flexing for a moment, his hands went back to his board.
“Enjoy it,” he whispered thickly, as if the pain stiffened his tongue. “It won’t last.”
“Yes, it will. You know it will.” For some reason, Milos still felt endangered. His power over Angus should have calmed him, but it didn’t. Deep in his guts, where common sense and rationality never reached, he feared that Angus’ essential malignance was indomitable. Unfortunately he couldn’t undertake a more elaborate reassurance right now. “Bluffing me is a waste of time,” he asserted in an effort to disguise his apprehension. “I’ve never been as stupid as you think I am.”
“Is that right?” Angus slurred. “Then I guess you knew all along that I could have proved you were in collusion with Succorso whenever I wanted. I guess you knew I was doing you a favor by keeping my mouth shut. That’s why you were so fucking grateful. All that stun and beating and abuse was just your sweet way of saying thanks.”
“Oh, stop it.” In disgust, Milos drifted back to the second’s station. “I tell you, you can’t bluff me. DA trained me for this. I know what you can do and what you can’t. Probably better than you do.” He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Angus: if he’d been willing to miss Operations’ answer, he would have left the bridge. Pulling his weight down by the straps, he secured himself in his g-seat. “If you could have proved anything like that—if you even suspected it—you would have sung your head off about it.”
As he tapped one of his readouts, Angus Thermopyle laughed—a sound like the pulping of flesh and the breaking of bones. “Operations’ approach protocols give us id and status on every ship here—illegals don’t like to come in when they can’t tell who’s in the vicinity. It looks like Captain’s Fancy has already docked. Maybe we’ll get to discuss what I knew and didn’t know with Captain Succorso him-fucking-self.”
“You’re a liar,” Milos retorted because he was viscerally sure that Angus was telling the truth. “If you could have rescued yourself that easily, why didn’t you? What are you using for a reason today?”
Angus started to laugh again, then stopped abruptly to read a screen. “Here it comes.”
“Trumpet, this is Billingate Operations.” In spite of distance and distortion, the voice on the bridge speakers sounded laconic, humorously cynical. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider? You might be safer if you got the hell out of here.”
With a snap, Angus toggled his pickup. “Operations, I hear you.” He spoke slowly to overcome the pain in his tongue. “If you said something that made sense, I might even understand. What’s the problem? Do you want me to start over? I’m Captain Angus Thermopyle. My second is Milos Taverner. There are only two of us aboard. Ship id follows—”
“We have your ship id,” Operations cut in. “Come on, Captain. You’re supposed to be smart—if you really are Angus Thermopyle. You know what the problem is.”
“Give me a hint,” Angus retorted. “I’ve been out of circulation for a while. I don’t know what’s changed since the last time I was here.”
“It’s your ship id.” Operations and Angus might have been playing a game which they both secretly enjoyed. “That’s what the problem is. Trumpet. A Needle-class gap scout. Unarmed. A UMCP ship, it says here. Are you getting the picture, Captain? Do you understand now?”
“What I understand,” Angus replied in a tone of belligerence which may have been feigned, “is that you aren’t doing your job. I’ll talk real slow so you can get a good recording. I’m Angus Thermopyle. I’ve been here before, so I know you can do a voiceprint comparison to verify that. My second is Milos Taverner. Until recently”—Angus grinned fiercely at Milos—“he was deputy chief of Com-Mine Station Security. You can talk to him if you want, but it won’t do you any good. He hasn’t been here before.
“Call me back when you’re sure who I am. Then maybe you’ll ask some questions smart enough for me to answer.
“Trumpet out.”
Milos lit another nic and inhaled hard so that he wouldn’t do or say anything to show Angus how scared he was. He waited until he was sure he could keep his voice steady before he asked, “Now what?”
“Now nothing. They’ll call again when they’re ready to talk.” Angus didn’t sound worried. “They’ve already done their voiceprints. They’re just shitting us to see how we react.”
Milos sucked on his nic and did his best not to worry. Of course Billingate was suspicious. So of course Angus’ programming had been written to deal with Billingate’s suspicions. There was nothing to worry about.
Milos worried anyway. His neck was already in the noose. The tighter the rope pulled, the more risks he would have to take to extricate himself.
A slight intensification of Angus’ posture warned him an instant before the speakers relayed, “Trumpet, this is Billingate Operations. It’s time for answers. And you’d better make them good. We’re in no mood for crap.”
Angus snapped a toggle. “Operations, this is Captain Thermopyle. Of course you’re in no mood for crap. You’ve already got yourself to put up with. But it would help if you gave me a hint what you want me to say.”
“You bloated bastard”—Operations di
dn’t sound particularly offended—“you know perfectly well what we want you to say. We want you to account for yourself. The last we heard, you were in Com-Mine lockup. Now suddenly here you are, in a UMCP ship, with Com-Mine Security’s deputy chief for crew. Call me a gap-eyed dreamer, but that sure as hell sounds like a setup to me. We want you to give us a reason why we shouldn’t fry you down to your pubic hair as soon as you’re in range.
“Is that enough of a hint, or do you need more?”
“Oh, it’s enough,” Angus snorted without hesitation. “I can fill in the blanks. You think I’ve done a deal with the cops. They let me out of lockup, and all I have to do in return is take one of their ships into forbidden space, with one of their pets for crew, and do some kind of job for them. Like blowing you up, maybe? Is that about right?
“How fucking stupid do you think I am? How stupid do you think they are? Has the Bill gone null-wave in his old age?”
“Captain Thermopyle,” Operations retorted tartly, “we’re going to believe what we damn well please until you offer us something better. You’ve got three choices. Get the hell out of here. Come on in and let us fry you. Or start talking. We don’t care which one you choose—but I personally guarantee that you’re going to choose one of them.”
“Bullshit!” Angus grinned like a sneer. “Who says you don’t care what I do? Even if the Bill is brain dead, he’s bound to realize he needs to know what’s going on here. If you fry me, he won’t learn anything. And if I decide to go somewhere else, he won’t learn anything. Either way, you’ll be a prime candidate for some BR ‘improvements.’ If you haven’t already had them.
“So pay attention. I don’t want to go through this more than once. And put a stress monitor on my transmission so you can at least guess I’m telling the truth.
“I was in lockup on Com-Mine. A life sentence for stealing Station supplies. You heard that part right. But Security was pissed because they couldn’t convict me of anything worse. They assigned Deputy Chief Milos Taverner to break me. Tear me apart and dig out”—Angus snarled the words—“my innermost secrets.