The Gap Into Power: A Dark and Hungry God Arises

  “But if you don’t kill us,” Mikka continued as Nick stared at her, “you won’t be able to prevent us from talking to anybody we want. Captain Chatelaine for one.” Like his scars, her eyes were full of blood. “Captain Thermopyle for another.”

  Despite the danger of the guards, Nick stood still, let his heart beat two or three times while he met her fierce glare. She’d always been the best of his crew—the most capable and intelligent; the most loyal. If only she’d been better looking, she might have held his interest longer. He still didn’t understand how he’d lost her.

  Abruptly, as if he could do such things without effort, he twisted his arm free. In the same motion he shifted a few steps to the side. Involuntarily Mikka, Vector, and Sib turned to face him; they moved as if he were steering them, positioning them between him and the corner.

  Lazily he swung up his hand and pointed his index finger into Mikka’s face. “I’m not going to try to kill you,” he said distinctly. “I told you—I need you. We’ve got work to do.

  “You don’t really want to talk to the Bill. He hasn’t got anything to offer you except a grubby life in this stinkhole. Personally I don’t think he’s going to be able to offer even that much longer.”

  Are you listening, you bastard? Are you sure you want to bar me from my ship?

  “And you don’t want to talk”—Nick sneered the name—“to Captain Chatelaine. She works for the Amnion. Directly for the Amnion. Before she changed the name, her ship used to be called Gutbuster. She did covert operations for forbidden space back in the days when Billingate didn’t exist.”

  Another small step to the side. Now Pup was in range. He would make a good hostage. A quick grab; quick pressure on the carotid arteries in his neck. Then Mikka would do anything Nick wanted. For a minute or two, anyway.

  Her brother pressed against the wall as if he were cowering. His eyes flinched back and forth between Nick and Mikka.

  “As for Captain Thermo-pile—”

  Sib took Nick by surprise. Nick had decided long ago that Mackern was no threat: the same fear which enabled him to go beyond the limits of his training and talents at the data station would also paralyze him. So Nick focused his attention exclusively on Mikka. He couldn’t react in time as Sib whipped forward, caught Pup’s wrist, and jerked the kid out of reach.

  Mikka swung Pup behind her and faced Nick as if she meant to hurl herself at his throat.

  Nick adjusted his balance slightly, let her see that he was ready. Like an avatar of the man he used to be, he remarked, “I think I’ve finally figured this out. You’re the ones who let Morn out of her cabin so she could rig that ejection pod. You’ve all been working against me at least that long.

  “But you know something? I don’t care. I really don’t give a shit. You still haven’t got a clue what’s going on here. You’re floundering around in the dark, instead of using your brains to keep yourselves and maybe Captain’s Fancy and all the rest of us alive.”

  “Why don’t you tell us, Nick?” Vector countered steadily. “Why don’t you give us one of your so-called clues”—he compressed more venom into that one word than Nick had ever heard from him—“instead of keeping them all to yourself?”

  “Because,” Nick drawled back, “I don’t want the Bill to hear me.

  “But you mentioned Captain Thermo-pile. As it happens, I’m on my way to see him right now. Why don’t you come along? Once we’re aboard his ship, you’ll get more clues than you know what to do with.”

  “Mikka, no,” Pup panted urgently. “It’s a trick. You said yourself this stinks. Why are Thermopyle and Taverner together? What’s going on? He’s trying—”

  “Answer the kid,” ordered the gorilla as he stepped past the corner, waving his impact rifle, “asshole. Tell everybody what’s going on.”

  Gasping, Sib jumped to the illusory protection of the wall. As if he were sliding, Vector eased out of the way.

  As solid as a boulder, the guard planted himself beside Mikka and Pup, and aimed his gun at Nick’s belly.

  Nick was ready for that, too. Even the pain in his head had receded: he felt ready for everything. All he cared about was that the guard was alone. The gorilla had left his companion behind to keep watch on Captain’s Fancy.

  “Mikka,” he said in a conversational tone, “I’m only going to give you one more order. This is the last—then we’re quits.

  “Take this shithead’s gun and stick it up his ass.”

  At once Mikka moved.

  Not to obey: she pulled back to show her empty hands, avoid the line of fire, cover Pup.

  Nevertheless it was enough. Ponderous and brutal, the gorilla wheeled to track her with the muzzle of his rifle.

  By then Nick was already in motion.

  He took two lightning strides and leaped.

  Swinging up his left knee to lift him higher, he snap-kicked the toe of his right boot into the guard’s larynx.

  Convulsively the guard flung his gun away as if the metal had shocked him. Gagging on crushed cartilage and torn muscle, he slammed to the floor.

  With negligent ease, Nick caught the rifle out of the air. His hands settled on the barrel and the firing stud.

  “Goddamn it, woman,” he growled at Mikka, “I told you what I wanted.”

  Instinctively she braced herself. Pup seemed to thrash at her shoulder, trying to get in front of her. Vector held Sib so that he couldn’t move.

  Nick would have loved to shoot her. She deserved it: they all did. But he needed her.

  “I figure,” he breathed maliciously, “you’ve got about ten seconds to reach a decision. After that the Bill won’t let you make any choices ever again.”

  Despite the fact that his head suddenly hurt as if someone had hit him with an ax, he turned and ran for Trumpet as smoothly as a hunting cat.

  With his peripheral vision, he saw Soar’s id display flash red: SHIP UNDOCKING.

  Crimson and pain seemed to fill his ears. He couldn’t hear anything except the hammer of his boots and the labor of his lungs. Until he reached Trumpet’s access passage and turned, he didn’t know that Mikka and Pup, Vector and Sib, were all following him, running hard.

  “Nick,” Mikka panted before he started down the passage, “there are more guards coming. A lot of them.” She stopped so abruptly that Pup blundered into her. Sib’s boots skidded out from under him; he nearly fell. Vector was ten or fifteen meters back: his arthritis made him slow. “They would be here already, but they’re lugging some kind of heavy equipment. Looks like mining lasers.”

  Nick reeled for a second; caught his balance. “They’re not going to Captain’s Fancy? They’re coming here?”

  “I don’t know.” Mikka shrugged stiffly. “They’re headed in this direction.”

  Which meant the Bill knew where Angus and Milos were. He knew where Davies was.

  Racing ruin, Nick dashed along the access passage and across the scan field to Trumpet’s airlock.

  With the heel of his hand, he toggled the external intercom.

  “This is Nick.” In spite of his urgency, he managed to sound almost relaxed. “Let me in. I’ve changed my mind. And I’ve brought some help.”

  No one answered. The speaker emitted an impalpable whisper of static. The lock didn’t open.

  Bootheels thudding, Mikka came to his side. Sib and Pup joined her; Vector doggedly brought up the rear.

  “If I were you,” Nick drawled into the intercom, “I would listen to me. You could use help.

  “Oh, by the way, I think I should mention that there’s a platoon of guards heading this way. They’ve got mining lasers. The Bill is going to peel you open like a vein of cesium.”

  You flagrant sonofabitch, you’d better know what you’re doing!

  With a whine of servos, the lock began to cycle.

  Mikka shoved Pup headlong through the opening; nearly dived after him. Nick nodded Vector and Sib ahead of him as if he meant to cover them with his rifle; as if he cared wha
t happened to them. Pirates with swashbuckling reputations did things like that. As Mikka keyed the lock to close the outer door and open the inner, he stepped briskly inside.

  Before the lock sealed, he caught a glimpse of guards at the end of the access passage.

  They were definitely coming this way.

  “Now what?” Mikka demanded, breathing hard.

  Nick didn’t bother to answer. As soon as the inner door opened on Trumpet’s lift, he entered the car. What was left of his crew, the surviving remnant of his ship, crowded after him. He sent the lift upward.

  Mikka and her group weren’t literally all that was left of his crew. But the rest had become even more expendable than she was: Captain’s Fancy herself was expendable. The Bill had made that necessary.

  Nick imagined that he would exact more recompense than anything the Bill could afford to pay.

  The lift let him out into Trumpet’s core passage amidships. Moving with long, confident strides, he led his people to the bridge companionway and ran smoothly down the treads.

  Angus and Davies stood between the command stations, facing him. Except for their shipsuits and the swelling bruises on Davies’ face, they looked like a video trick—time-elapse replicas of each other.

  Mikka clattered down the companionway, with Pup, Sib, and Vector behind her. Because they didn’t know what they were getting into—or perhaps because they’d always known Angus Thermopyle as a dangerous enemy—they arrayed themselves at Nick’s back as if they were on his side.

  Nick met Angus’ glare, Davies’. Angus’ was yellow with old, irreducible malice. But Morn’s limpid eyes in Davies’ face made the boy look more intimately murderous. His father hated everybody: Davies hated only Nick.

  With all the insouciance he could produce, Nick asked, “Where the hell is Milos?”

  “Captain Sheepfucker.” Angus didn’t move a muscle. “If you think you can walk in here and take over with only one gun and four people to back you up, you’ve been eating your own shit too long.”

  Nick glanced down at the impact rifle; he nearly giggled. With a shrug, he tossed the gun to Angus.

  Angus caught it; held it as if he didn’t need it.

  “You were right,” Davies muttered to Angus as if that were the worst insult he could level at Nick.

  Nick ignored the boy.

  “You’ve got it wrong,” he said steadily. “I told you I changed my mind. I didn’t want any part of this operation because I didn’t think it had a chance. I didn’t feel like getting killed for the sake of your gonads. But now we’ve got help.” He nodded at Mikka and her companions. “Seven of us might actually be able to do it.

  “I’m willing to give it a try. Unless you want to pretend you can pull it off on your own.”

  “Pull what off?” Mikka demanded harshly. “What operation? What the fuck are you bastards talking about?”

  Angus gave a brutal grin. His eyes didn’t shift from Nick’s. “These your people?”

  Nick nodded.

  Angus snorted through his teeth. “I don’t think they like you very much anymore.”

  “I said, what operation?” Mikka yelled. Her anger and desperation seemed to burn in the air of the bridge.

  Nick didn’t look at her. He met Angus’ grin with a smile of his own.

  “You’ll like it,” he answered as if he were happy at last. “We’re going to rescue Morn.”

  Mikka’s stunned silence at his back was as loud as a shout. Sib Mackern took a shuddering breath like a man on the verge of tears. Softly Vector whispered, “Oh, my aching joints.”

  Nick stood still, waiting for Angus to reject his help; daring Angus to say no.

  But Angus didn’t. Over his shoulder, he said to Davies, “He’s right. We need the help.”

  Nick went on smiling like his scars.

  ANGUS

  ngus watched Nick smile and tried to find some way to squeeze murder through the interstices of his programming.

  It was insufferable that Captain Nick bloody Sheepfucker stood there smiling as if he’d just won again, beaten Angus again. It was intolerable that Nick brought his own people aboard Angus’ ship; that Angus had to accept them because he needed them. It was utter and absolute craziness to let them in here, to trust them—

  Nevertheless his datacore issued its instructions, and he obeyed, ruled by the pitiless compulsion of his zone implants.

  Nick’s UMCP connection made him effectively immune to any real harm from Angus. And his offer to help satisfied the prewritten logic of Dios’ exigencies. Rescuing Morn took precedence over everything—Angus had no idea why.

  It’s got to stop.

  He didn’t understand that either.

  He was so full of hate that his blood seemed to steam and boil in his veins; so eager to break Nick’s neck that his hands burned and his temples throbbed. Hate was all that sustained him in the cage which his mind had become—hate and a strange, ineffable terror at the thought of Morn Hyland. He paced inside himself like an imprisoned predator, driven and helpless; haunted by killing.

  Unfortunately his passions meant nothing.

  “So who the hell are they?” he demanded of Nick. “What’re they good for?”

  The intercom interrupted him. From outside Trumpet’s airlock, a voice blared, “Captain Thermopyle, open up. We’re coming aboard. You get to choose how we do it—that’s as much courtesy as the Bill has left—but we’re going to do it. If you don’t let us in, we’ll cut our way. We’ll do a little BR surgery on your ship, free gratis no charge. You can get it repaired when you have enough money—if you’re still alive.

  “You hear me? I said open up! You’ve got one minute. Then we start cutting.”

  Davies flinched involuntarily. He’d been through too much in too short a time. Eyes like Morn’s pulled away from Nick, came to Angus’ face as if they were wincing: eyes exactly like Morn’s, full of fear and need and revulsion. Swelling and contusions distorted his features.

  Angus stepped to his command board, tapped a key which silenced the external intercom. Then he turned back to Succorso.

  A woman, two men, and a kid about Davies’ age stood behind Nick: his people. At a glance, the woman looked too hostile to admit she was out of her depth, and one of the men had the round, calm appearance of a cat addict. But the other two were scared out of their skins. The kid twitched nervously from one foot to the other; he was practically holding the woman’s hand. The man with the abject mustache sweated and gaped as if he was being rendered down for grease.

  “Come on, Nick.” Angus’ programming left him no more space for insults. “I’m waiting. They look like you picked them at random on the cruise. What makes you think they can help me?”

  Nick’s gaze sharpened. Behind his grin, the lines of his face tautened across their bones. Color ebbed from his scars.

  “Angus,” he said softly, “don’t you think you should do something about those guards? They aren’t bluffing. We saw mining lasers.”

  “Nick,” Angus returned, you shit-faced fucker, “we haven’t got time for this. We can’t get started until I know who your people are and what they can do.”

  For an instant Nick seemed to lose control. “Then do something about those guards!”

  Angus rolled his eyes, shrugged. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the rifle to Davies. Then he leaned over his board and typed in a quick command.

  A moment later a recording of his voice played over the bridge speakers.

  “This is Captain Angus Thermopyle. I’m not aboard right now. To protect the security of my ship and my associates, I’ve rigged Trumpet for self-destruct as soon as her sensors detect any forced entry. The simultaneous explosion of her thrust and gap drives and other power systems will produce destructive force on the order of—the recording recited a number which sounded too high, but which Angus knew to be conservative. “I estimate that will reduce approximately one third of Billingate installation to powder. If you want confirmation, a
nalyze my incoming particle trace.” This is no ordinary Needle-class gap scout, you sonofabitch. “Codes to enter and leave Trumpet safely are known to my associates. Codes to disable Trumpet’s self-destruct are known only to me. Until I return to my ship, I can do nothing to save you if you try to break in. My associates—if they’re unlucky enough to be aboard—can do nothing to save you in my absence.

  “Message repeats.

  “This is—”

  Angus silenced the playback. “That’s on automatic. I set it when you came aboard. Those guards have been hearing it ever since they arrived.” To Nick he growled, “Thanks to you and Milos, the Bill thinks I’m here. But he can’t be sure. And he probably thinks I’m bluffing—but he can’t be sure of that, either. Which buys us a little time. Maybe it’ll be enough.”

  Everyone around him could see that Trumpet’s systems were up and active. Operations had the same information.

  Nick couldn’t hold Angus’ gaze. To conceal his relief, he glanced at his people, scanned the bridge. Without bringing his eyes back to Angus, he asked, “So where is Milos?”

  He may have been trying to regain the upper hand.

  Angus’ programming didn’t require him to answer that question. Its logic moved in another direction—toward possibilities of coercion which made Angus’ veins throb with hunger.

  “Nick, you’ve got a bruise the size of my fist on your forehead. When it’s done swelling, it’s going to turn purple.” The mildness imposed by his zone implants amazed and appalled him. “You’ll look like you lost an argument with a steel piston. Stop asking questions. Start answering them.”

  Abruptly the woman muttered a curse and pushed past Nick. Despite his reputation as a man for whom women were willing to drop dead, she shouldered him aside contemptuously so that she could confront Angus and Davies herself.

  Fury flickered like a static discharge in Nick’s eyes, but he didn’t try to stop her.

  “Captain Thermopyle,” she announced in a voice made for shouting, “I’m Mikka Vasaczk, command second, Captain’s Fancy—or I was until recently. He”—she indicated the frightened man with the mustache and the staring eyes—“is Sib Mackern, data first.” Next she nodded at the cat addict. “Vector Shaheed, engineer.” That left the kid. “Ciro Vasaczk is Vector’s second. Also my brother. Nick wants to get rid of us. He was planning to abandon us here.