The Real Story: The Gap Into Conflict

  So he made sure Nick saw Morn as often as possible. Secretly, cunningly, so that no one grasped what he was doing, he flaunted her in front of Nick, urging him, goading him.

  At the same time, darkness swirled around in Angus’ head and his hands itched for blood because he knew that behind her blank expression, her wounded and necessary emptiness, Morn was on fire for his enemy.

  Each time he put her where she and Nick could see each other, he swore to himself, promised, that as soon as he got her back to the ship he was going to rip out her female organs and feed them down the garbage processor, so that no man would ever have any reason to desire her again.

  And each time, when they returned to Bright Beauty, he couldn’t control the gentleness which came over him. He flung obscenities at her with his mouth; but his touch was soft, nearly tentative. The things he made her do were strangely decorous, almost considerate, as if after depriving her of will and hope and humanity he wished her to forgive him.

  She tried to hide it, but she couldn’t conceal her perplexity. He knew her too well: he could read the color of her eyes, the small muscles in her cheeks. She felt the change in him, the distress, and didn’t know what it meant.

  Gentleness? From Angus Thermopyle? She knew him too well.

  She watched him as if she could see that he was doomed.

  Was she gloating? He believed she was. He believed that she already counted on Nick Succorso to rescue her and destroy him. He believed that she was already measuring out his blood in drops of pain. The thought made all his limbs knot with the force of his need to tear her apart.

  Yet he didn’t hurt her. She was too precious. And too perplexed. Her confusion had implications he couldn’t begin to understand. He wasn’t the kind of man who could imagine that she might be reconsidering her hate. He could never have understood that his fear and gentleness might have touched her in the very place which his abuse had made vulnerable.

  Alone in the command module, he had to grind his teeth to keep from howling.

  Damn you completely to hell and horror! What have you done to me?

  He told himself he was ready. He’d been a match for men like Nick Succorso since he was twelve. And he knew everything he needed about Nick except the content of those coded messages. He was ready. Of course he was ready.

  But the clenched ache deep down in his gut told him he wasn’t ready. He felt that he was never going to be ready again.

  What have you done to me?

  He spent all the time his enemy allowed him feverishly trying to break that secret code. But whenever Nick left Captain’s Fancy, Angus also took Morn out of Bright Beauty so that no one would know—so that he himself wouldn’t know—how fundamental and compulsory his fear had become.

  Finally he reached the end of his endurance. He’d waited and plotted and struggled for a week, and still Nick did nothing. Angus never doubted that some harm was being planned against him: he simply couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. Any day now, he was going to fall on his knees and beg Morn to pardon him. And if that happened, he was ruined.

  Fear and desperation made him do things that looked brave—or at least foolhardy.

  With Morn, he spent an inordinately long time in Mallorys, buying drinks that only tightened the knot in his stomach, glowering ferociously at everyone who addressed him, seething under Nick’s gaze and ignoring it. But when Nick got up to leave with his crew, his retinue, Angus also heaved upright, snarled Morn to his side.

  Without much difficulty, he contrived to arrive in the doorway in time to block Nick’s way.

  In fact, it seemed a little too easy. Angus’ instincts were shrill with alarm. Nick seemed to want this encounter as much as he did.

  But he couldn’t back down; not now. He was too scared.

  “After you, Captain Succorso,” he growled, making no effort to disguise his malice. “I know you’re in a hurry.”

  Nick bowed gracefully, but didn’t move. “On the contrary, Captain Thermo-pile.” Except for his scars, his expression was bland. “I’m in no hurry at all. Please”—he gestured expansively—“after you.”

  His gaze and his bow and his gesture were all aimed at Morn.

  “Ther-mop-a-lee,” Angus retorted. “Ther-mop-a-lee. Get it right, Succorso.”

  “Really?” Nick cocked a self-assured eyebrow. Apparently he liked the situation. Perhaps it was a kind of stim he especially enjoyed, an adrenaline rush. “Right here in the door? Extraordinary.

  “You’re plotting, Captain Thermo-pile. You’re hatching something. You’ve got it in your pocket right now. Or are you just playing with yourself?

  “Why don’t you open up about it? Let someone in to help you.”

  In one way, Angus seemed to go blind with rage. Playing? Playing? But in another, he’d never been clearer, calmer. I’ll show you who’s playing.

  He was at his best when he was terrified.

  Nick and his retinue—three men, two women—were unarmed; otherwise they wouldn’t have been allowed into Mallorys. But they didn’t need needle-lasers or old-fashioned shivs against one man. And they were ready to fight for their captain, at any time, in any place. What he’d done to deserve that kind of loyalty, Angus couldn’t imagine. But he didn’t doubt that the six of them would relish beating him into the deck-plates.

  Outside Mallorys, the wide public passages of DelSec were deserted. It was the time of day when most people either drank or stayed in their quarters. Assuming that anybody on Com-Mine Station would have been willing to help Angus in a fight, that help wasn’t available now.

  He let Nick see him swallow, hesitate. Then he said, “Let’s talk about it outside.” Deliberately he copied Nick’s gesture. “After you.”

  “No, I insist.” Nick grinned. “I’m after you.”

  “The hell you are,” Angus muttered. “You don’t care about me. You’re after her.” Then he shouldered ahead of Nick through the doorway.

  In his pocket, one of his fingers tapped Morn’s zone-implant control, sending a spasm through her muscles, a neural storm that looked like violence. As a result, she blocked the exit behind Nick as if she was on Angus’ side and wanted to fight for him.

  At the same time, Angus pivoted on Nick, grabbed him by his shipsuit, and slung him like a duffel bag around and against the wall.

  Surprise and strength gave him all the advantage he needed. With the back of his hand, he struck Nick across the side of his head—a blow that cracked and echoed in the passage like a rivet shearing under stress. The blow made Nick crumple; but Angus held him up and struck him again.

  Then he was out of time.

  Nick’s retinue burst out of Mallorys, knocking Morn to the deck. They were hot for blood.

  Angus faced them as if he were calm. With his hands, he dangled Nick’s unconscious form in front of them. His fingers were wrapped around their captain’s neck.

  “Go fucking back inside.” His voice sounded like an amiable mine-hammer. “Leave me fucking alone. I’m not fucking done with him.”

  For a second, Nick’s crew faltered, chagrin on their faces.

  Then the two women jerked Morn up from the deck and clamped hands to her windpipe.

  Morn continued thrashing. Now she looked like she was seriously fighting for her life. Her eyes took in everything; she understood how Angus was using her. But she couldn’t stop her struggles.

  “Standoff,” a man said. “You kill him, we kill her.”

  The danger wrenched Angus’ heart. The need to remain still was so acute it nearly broke him. He wanted to drop Nick and charge at the women, hit and crush everybody who stood in his way, everybody who threatened Morn. But that would be suicide. He couldn’t beat all five of them before one of them got him. Or Morn. Somehow, he stood where he was and pretended he didn’t care.

  “You’ve got it wrong. You kill her, I kill him. I don’t want him dead. I’m just protecting myself. Shits like you like six-to-one odds. I don’t.”

  Abrupt
ly he roared with all the force of his rage, “Put her fucking down!”

  They obeyed. They wanted to save Nick. And—Angus guessed—they didn’t want the responsibility of killing the woman Nick desired. They let go of Morn and backed away.

  She dropped convulsively to the deck.

  While he was still wrestling with his wish to attack them all, Angus’ nerve-beeper tingled, warning him that Captain’s Fancy had sent out a call for Nick Succorso.

  He didn’t hesitate. If what he’d just done didn’t provoke some action, nothing would. Carelessly he opened his fists and let Nick fall. With the efficiency of long practice, he keyed the commands on the zone implant control which brought Morn back to her feet, restored her control of her limbs. Then he released her.

  The way her gaze sprang involuntarily to Nick’s sprawled form hurt him worse than anything Nick could have done in a fight.

  But Captain’s Fancy’s crew ignored her now. They didn’t try to stop Angus from leaving. Surely they had their own beepers. And their captain needed them.

  Without interference, Angus returned Morn to Bright Beauty and sealed the hatches.

  This time he was determined to do her serious harm. The blows he’d already struck flamed in his arm, burning for repetition. Violence made him hungry for more. He meant to damage her, needed to damage her. She deserved it.

  But first he checked the computer monitoring Captain’s Fancy’s Station communications. He wanted to know why Nick was being summoned.

  The explanation was in code. Captain’s Fancy had received one of those messages from Security and immediately requested Nick Succorso’s return to his ship.

  Cursing as foully as he knew how, Angus Thermopyle abandoned his purpose against Morn Hyland. Something was about to happen. His instincts were shouting at him, yelling at him to leave, go at once, escape before Nick could take revenge. But he ignored that warning. There was no way to leave; he was already committed. He ordered Morn to her g-seat, ordered her to strap herself in. Then he keyed his monitor to display current data from Captain’s Fancy.

  He knew it when Nick got aboard.

  After that, for some reason Captain’s Fancy cleared all channels and stopped talking to Station.

  Because his instincts clamored like klaxons, Angus snapped at Morn, “Warm up. Get ready. I think we’re going somewhere.”

  She obeyed the way he liked: correctly, without question or delay. Bright Beauty’s systems came alive. Function lights winked awake on his console. Checklists and verifications flickered across the screens. Scanners started to feed running data into the computers: automatic navigational input from Station; information about the presence and movements of ships in Com-Mine Station’s control space.

  While Morn worked, Angus concentrated on Captain’s Fancy.

  What was Nick doing?

  Getting ready. Of course. Getting ready to leave.

  But why?

  Because Security had told him something.

  What?

  Angus sucked his upper lip. What had Security told Nick Succorso?

  His boards and screens cleared. Bright Beauty was prepared to go. Morn sat still, staring at nothing, her hands resting on her console so they could do whatever he told her quickly.

  Indecision paralyzed him. He didn’t know how to go against his instincts. They’d saved him too often. If he didn’t listen to them, he was lost.

  He felt the pain; but until he tasted blood, he didn’t realize he’d bitten into his lip.

  Muttering obscenities automatically, as if they no longer had any meaning, he disconnected his ship from the dummy line which fed him Captain’s Fancy’s data-stream.

  Bright Beauty’s communication systems crackled awake. Like every receiver in and around Com-Mine Station, his gear caught the codes and frequencies of a distress call. Immediately his speakers broadcast the call.

  It froze him in his seat. One part of his mind went completely blank with surprise and alarm as the incoming supply ship from Earth cried for help. Navigational computer wrecked. Somebody on the crew crazy with gap-sickness. Coordinates lost. Control lost. Crisis urgent. Triangulate and pursue. Distressdistressdis—

  But the rest of him was thinking furiously.

  Incoming supply ship. The richest treasure this side of an asteroid full of pure cesium. And it was weeks early. Probably a trick to protect it from pirates.

  That was what Security was talking to Nick Succorso about. Telling him the ship would be early. So he would have a clear shot at it. The change of schedule would backfire. The ship wouldn’t be expecting his attack.

  But nobody could have predicted this emergency. Any second now, Station was going to slap a curfew on the docks, forbidding anyone to leave—making it a life offense for anyone to leave—until an official rescue mission could be organized. If he didn’t move fast, Nick would lose his chance—

  With his heart triphammering and a rush of sweat soaking his shipsuit, Angus snapped into action.

  The distress call went dead only a few seconds later. Apparently the damage to the navigational computer had spread to communications. But by that time he’d already dropped all his lines and uncoupled from Station. By some definitions, he was no longer in dock; he still had to obey Center, but he wasn’t legally bound by Security.

  His scan told him Captain’s Fancy was doing the same.

  Station took a different view of the situation, of course. Center wanted absolute command over every ship in its control space; Security wanted authority over any rescue or salvage. Angus’ receivers picked up a burst of static; the orders blared in his ears.

  “Bright Beauty, this is Station Center. You must redock. An emergency has been declared. Emergency procedures are in force. You may not depart.

  “If you ignore this instruction”—Angus heard satisfaction in the metallic voice—“we will be forced to consider you illegal. You will be fired upon.”

  Typical authoritarian attitude—arrogant and unjustified. Like the UMC cops and Security, Station Center was in love with muscle. Unfortunately, that didn’t change anything. Angus would still die when the Station started shooting.

  Captain’s Fancy must have received the same orders. Nick ignored them. Blithely, as if she were deaf or invulnerable, his ship pivoted into her normal escape attitude for departure; under easy thrust, she ran out a few dozen kilometers from Station—directly into point-blank range for Com-Mine’s cannon.

  She waited for the first warning shots to be fired. Then she winked off Angus’ screens; disappeared as completely as if she’d ceased to exist.

  He watched and swore, helpless to stop her.

  At the same time, however, he didn’t let anything interfere with his own actions. Bright Beauty was already in her escape attitude, and he was pulling her out from the Station with all the thrust she was known to have.

  The shit-eaters in Center had that one chance to kill him, but they missed it. As required by law, they sent their first shots across his trajectory, to warn him.

  At once, he fed stutter into his drive and started transmitting his own distress call.

  There’s a short somewhere. Smoke. Controls locked—I can’t navigate. Don’t shoot. I’m trying to come around.

  That froze Center. They didn’t have any choice: they had to wait to see whether he was telling the truth.

  While his call went out, he growled to Morn, “Brace yourself. This is going to hurt.”

  Steeling himself in his g-seat, he engaged Bright Beauty’s power boosters.

  After that, Com-Mine’s guns couldn’t track him. He wasn’t literally moving too fast for their capabilities: he was simply moving faster than anyone could believe. Surely his ship wasn’t built for that kind of acceleration? By the time Center adjusted its preconceptions—and its targ programming—Bright Beauty was out of range.

  Angus and Morn were unconscious, of course. The stress was too much to sustain. But the ship’s boosters cut off after a preset interval, reducing g to
more tolerable levels; and in the meantime, Bright Beauty’s automatic helm set her course by tracing the supply ship’s distress call back along its transmission vector.

  Angus recovered first. He stayed where he was, however, breathing deeply and trying to clear his head. Made it. Once again, his ship had saved him. Hurt as she was, she was his. If he had to, he would make the entire Station pay for the damage done to her. No one was allowed to harm anything his.

  A short time later, Morn twitched, groaned, lifted her head. Unconsciousness and the strain of g took a moment to fade from her eyes. Then, without hesitation, she put her hands on her console and started tapping in instructions.

  He was too stunned and relieved; and too much time had passed: he’d forgotten the danger. He wasn’t looking at his own console, so he didn’t see the blip which began to flash as soon as she set to work.

  Luckily, he glanced over at her and saw the look of rapture on her face.

  That look was unmistakable.

  The whole inside of my head was different. I was floating, and everything was clear. It was like the universe spoke to me.

  In sudden panic, he slapped at his console, identified the alert.

  She was trying to feed a self-destruct sequence into Bright Beauty’s engines.

  Bitch. Fucking daughter of a fucking whore.

  Gap-sickness.

  He was too tired to swear at her aloud. The thought of her illness made him weary and slightly nauseous. A strange burning sensation filled his eyes. He should have gone over to her and hit her, of course, should have pounded her back into her right mind. But he was too tired for that. And anyway, Bright Beauty was running under spin. Sighing as if he were sad, he activated the zone-implant control.

  Morn’s hands fell off the console, and she slumped in her g-seat.

  That was necessary; he had to do it. When he engaged Captain’s Fancy, he couldn’t take the risk that she might interfere somehow, hamper or weaken him. There was no reason why he shouldn’t switch her off like a robot with its power supply cut.

  And yet he felt about her gap-sickness the same way he felt about Bright Beauty’s wounded side.