What the men in the bars and sleeps of DelSec talked about most often, however, was women. Women were rare on mining stations. Single women were even rarer. And available women were so rare that they were prohibitively expensive; which meant that most of them lived in AlSec. Men with nothing better to do rarely thought about anything else. Gorgeous women. Astonishing women. Women with zone implants, who did everything a drink-fuddled or cynical mind could imagine. Because they didn’t have any choice, no matter how much they may have hated what was happening to them.
Women like Morn Hyland.
So what must have happened was that Angus Thermopyle found a way to follow the Hyland ship when it left Com-Mine Station.
After all, who knew how much sophisticated tracking equipment he had hidden away aboard his scruffy, rattletrap freighter? With all the mines he was said to have jumped, all the ore he was believed to have pirated, all the ships he was reputed to have wrecked, his financial resources must have been enormous. He could surely afford things over which even a successful swashbuckler like Nick Succorso could only drool. Obviously, he wasn’t spending the money on himself. Anybody who had to sit near him in Mallorys would have sworn he hadn’t changed his shipsuit since the invention of the gap drive. He never bought expensive drinks—or more than a few cheap ones. And he absolutely never bought expensive women. As for his ship, which he called by the odd, inapt name, Bright Beauty, no one ever saw inside her; but her exterior plate and ports and antennae and scanners looked like they had been driven through a meteor shower and then left to corrode. In fact, the only discernible care he took of her—the only hint he gave that he had any interest in her at all—was to keep her name freshly painted in crisp black letters on either side of her command module.
What was he doing with all that money?
What else? He must be investing it in his “business,” using it to buy the kind of vacuum sniffers and particle sifters and doppler sensors that most pilots who frequented Com-Mine Station only knew about by rumor; the kind of equipment which would allow him to follow the Hyland ship without making either her or the Station itself suspicious.
There were still questions unanswered. Everyone knew that a ship the size of Bright Beauty needed at least two people and preferably six to run her. Assuming that Morn Hyland worked for him on his return, Angus must still have had a crew of some kind when he left on Starmaster’s trail. Who was it? Presumably, it must have been someone who had managed to get on and off Com-Mine Station without id processing, since Bright Beauty had no crew of record in the computer. So what happened to him? Or them?
What happened to the Hyland ship and all the rest of her people?
No one knew. But Angus Thermopyle must have followed them to their strike. He must have jumped them somehow—wrecked the ship, marooned or murdered the family. And spared Morn because under the persuasion of the zone implant she was as desirable as any vision.
Because—so speculation ran—he hated her.
It was nothing personal, of course. He hated everything. He hated everybody. The people who watched for such things could smell it on him. His life was a stew of hate, destructive and unpredictable. Now his hate was fixed on her, and he desired the thing he hated. He wanted her to be what only a zone implant could make her.
Beautiful and revolted. Capable of any degradation his filthy appetites could conceive—and able to be hurt by it.
The few men in Mallorys who realized what they considered the truth about her were sickened by it. Being of various moral characters themselves, some of them probably considered it evil. The rest no doubt considered it evil that the control to her implant was in Angus Thermopyle’s pocket.
On this subject, Nick Succorso kept his opinion to himself. Perhaps his attraction to Morn was so strong that he didn’t think about anything else.
Despite his attraction, however, and his reputation for success, he was probably restrained from immediate action by the prospect of what Angus might do if he were challenged. To Morn Hyland, of course. But also to whoever challenged him. He had a history of getting rid of his enemies. So instead of leaping to her rescue, Nick waited and plotted. He may have been a criminal or a rogue hero, an operative or a mercenary; but he certainly wasn’t stupid. And he had no taste at all for defeat.
What he wanted—so the discerning cynics assumed—was to have Angus arrested by Security with the control to Morn’s zone implant in his pocket. Angus would get the death penalty; the implant would be removed; and then Morn Hyland would be free to give Nick Succorso the only reward he could possibly want.
Herself.
The hard part was to arrange for Angus to be arrested. He wasn’t an easy victim. Piracy, treachery, and murder were what he did best.
Nevertheless Nick arranged it.
Once again, the only explanations available were purely speculative. In the Station lockup, Angus wasn’t talking to anybody. And Nick Succorso and his crew were gone, taking Morn Hyland with them. But here speculation was on fairly solid ground. Knowing Nick, it was possible to guess with considerable confidence what he would do.
His background was vague. His id files managed to look both perfectly legitimate and plainly spurious, revealing nothing. All most people knew was that one day he docked his pretty frigate, Captain’s Fancy, in Com-Mine Station, passed inspection, led his crew into DelSec, selected Mallorys Bar & Sleep apparently at random, and became a regular whenever he was on station. Only the men in the corners, the men who pried below the surface, heard how he had passed inspection.
Being neither asleep nor blind, the Station inspectors had noticed almost immediately that Captain’s Fancy had a hole the size of a gaming table in her side.
You’ve been hit, they said. That looks like matter cannon fire.
It is, he replied.
Why were you being shot at?
I wasn’t.
No? The inspectors suggested intense skepticism.
No. I was trying to get inside one of those awkward asteroids—too small for heavy equipment, too big to be chewed up by hand-cutters. So I decided to try blasting it apart. Somehow, the beam dispersion hit a glazed surface and reflected back. Nick grinned amiably. I shot myself.
That doesn’t sound very plausible, Captain Succorso. Hand over your computer’s datacore, and we’ll verify your story.
No, he said again. Now his grin didn’t look so amiable. I’m not required to let you look at my datacore unless you have evidence of a crime. That’s the law. Has there been a crime?
In the end, Nick passed. The ship that shot him must have been burned out of space in return, so it was never able to report that a crime had been committed.
Smiling to make DelSec’s women’s hearts flutter, basking in the devotion of his crew, and spending money as if he had a UMC credit line, he settled into Mallorys and concentrated on enjoying himself while Captain’s Fancy was repaired. He seemed to have a talent for enjoying himself, and his good humor—like his unmistakable virility—was infectious. Only people who watched the scars under his eyes could tell that he was engaged in anything more serious than a continuous carouse. And in Mallorys that “anything” could be only one thing: he was listening, sifting, sorting, evaluating; making contact with sources of information.
Whenever he left Com-Mine Station, he left suddenly. And when he came back, he celebrated.
By some coincidence, unfamiliar ships had a tendency to go “overdue” while he was away.
Even a null-wave transmitter could have predicted that everything inside Nick would leap up at the sight of Morn Hyland. If he was a pirate, he was the glamorous kind, the kind who slashed and burned his way to virtue in romantic videos. And she was beautiful and pathetic—a maiden in distress if ever there was one, abused and helpless. Not to mention the fact that she belonged to someone else, a pirate rumored to be even more successful than Nick Succorso himself. But only the people who didn’t know any better were surprised that he didn’t try to rescue her right away. Th
e men in the corners could guess what he would do.
He wouldn’t try to steal her directly. He was too smart for that. In other words, he had too much respect for Angus Thermopyle’s defenses. And Angus kept his vulnerabilities—as well as his debaucheries—private by sealing them safely aboard Bright Beauty. Station Security itself would have come to his assistance if Nick had tried to get past his alarms.
No, Nick would sit and listen, watching Morn Hyland until his scars turned black and waiting for his chance; waiting for Angus Thermopyle to make a move.
He wanted to see that move coming and know what it would be. He wanted to do what Security had never been able to do—penetrate Angus’ secrecy. And when he knew what Angus’ move would be, he would follow it so that he could betray it. The moment in which Angus was arrested might be Nick’s only realistic opportunity to carry Morn away.
He wanted her.
He also wanted to prove himself against Angus Thermopyle.
If he had other reasons, he never gave a hint of them to DelSec.
As it happened, his chance came sooner than he may have expected. Maybe Angus felt cocky with Morn beside him and wanted to show off. Or maybe he was getting greedy—if in fact he could conceivably be any greedier than he was already. Or maybe the bait was just too attractive to be ignored. Whatever the reason, he made his move scarcely two weeks after he first brought Morn into Mallorys.
The incoming supply ship from Earth—arriving several weeks early for some reason—was in trouble. Every receiver in or around the Station picked up the distress call before it went dead. Apparently one of the crew had been taken by gap-sickness. As the ship reentered normal space, this unfortunate individual had become entranced by the idea of installing a crowbar in the memory bank of the navigational computer. By the time his shipmates got him under control, the ship could no longer steer and had no idea where she was. The fact that the distress call went dead seemed to imply that the damage to the computer—perhaps a fire—had spread to the communication gear.
In other words, a full standard year’s worth of food, equipment, and medicine was floating out there somewhere against the background of the stars, ripe to be rescued, salvaged, or gutted.
Of course, as soon as the emergency was understood, Com-Mine Center slapped a curfew onto the docks, forbidding any ship to leave until she could be sworn in as part of the official search; until Security personnel could be put aboard to watch the actions of the crew. That was standard procedure. And it was generally respected, even by pirates and jumpers. Ships that shared in the search also shared in the reward, regardless of which vessel actually performed the rescue, while ships that violated curfew, refused to cooperate, or went off on their own became targets by law and could be fired on with impunity.
This time, only Bright Beauty and Captain’s Fancy took that chance. Somehow, both Angus Thermopyle and Nick Succorso managed to uncouple from their berths seconds before the injunction of the curfew, thus preserving at least the illusion of authorized departure.
Center wasn’t impressed by illusions, however. Commands to return and redock were broadcast: warning shots were fired.
With contemptuous ease, Captain’s Fancy winked off the scanners of the Station.
Nick Succorso disappeared by performing a delicate maneuver called a “blink crossing.” No one in Mallorys doubted his ability to do this. In essence, he engaged his gap drive—and then disengaged it a fraction of a second later, thereby forcing his ship to “blink” past fifty or a hundred thousand kilometers. It was risky: there was always the chance that dimensional stress would tear the ship apart, or that he would come out of the gap in a gravity well he couldn’t escape. But it worked. He got away.
From the look of her, Bright Beauty would never have withstood that much pressure. In any case, she had no gap drive. Angus Thermopyle took a completely different approach. As soon as the first warning shots were fired, he started transmitting a distress call of his own.
Every receiver in or around the Station picked that one up, too. There’s a short somewhere. Smoke. Controls are locked—I can’t navigate. Don’t shoot. I’m trying to come around.
No one believed him, of course. But Center couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility that he might be telling the truth. That idea had to be considered, at least for a few seconds. And during those few seconds Angus cut in thrust boosters no one knew he had. No one thought he had them because no one believed Bright Beauty could survive that kind of acceleration.
Like Nick, he got away.
After that, there were no more answers for a while. The people who were following the story could speculate, but for two days they had nothing to base their speculations on.
Then Bright Beauty came limping back. Her sides were scarred with matter cannon fire, and her thrust drive stuttered badly. Nevertheless she passed inspection. Angus Thermopyle faced down a board of inquiry. After a few hours, he brought Morn Hyland back to Mallorys. Neither of them gave anything away.
Captain’s Fancy coasted into dock later the same day. She also had been hurt, but Nick Succorso didn’t seem to care. He talked her past inspection. He laughed circles around a board of inquiry. He and his crew also returned to Mallorys free and eager, ready to enjoy themselves.
The official search was still going on. So far, no trace of the supply ship had been found. After this much time, there was little chance that any trace would ever be found.
But that night Station Security broke into Mallorys to arrest Angus.
They had evidence that a crime had been committed. So they said. That gave them the right to board Bright Beauty without permission and take the ship’s datacore. The datacore enabled them to find her secret holds. And in the secret holds were food, equipment, and medicine which could only have come from the missing supply ship.
Arrests in DelSec were few. The people who frequented places like Mallorys Bar & Sleep were prone to resent the intrusion of overt law and order into their lives. Even in groups, Security couldn’t always pass through DelSec without harassment.
But a supply ship had been robbed—presumably gutted. Com-Mine Station needed those supplies to live. DelSec needed those supplies. Every man and woman in Mallorys would have suffered for this particular crime. And every one of them disliked or feared or even hated Angus Thermopyle.
At first, the arrest didn’t go smoothly. Before Angus was taken, he and Morn Hyland began to scuffle: he was apparently trying to hold her back. Nevertheless she managed to break away just as Security closed on him. At once, the crowd opened for her, pried apart by Nick Succorso’s crew. And then she and Nick were gone; they disappeared as effectively as a blink crossing.
Captain’s Fancy was allowed to slip out of dock unmolested; but that wasn’t hard to explain. Nick must have done a certain amount of bargaining with Security before he handed over his evidence against Angus. Obviously, his right to leave was part of the bargain.
So the fair maiden was rescued. The swashbuckling pirate bore her away with all her beauty. For weeks, the sots and relics in Mallorys could hardly talk about anything except what the maiden and the pirate were doing with each other. People who were accessible to romantic emotions contemplated what had happened with a lump in their throats. And even the cynics sitting in the corners were gratified by the outcome. Nick Succorso had done exactly what they expected of him.
There were only two flaws in this story.
One was that the supply ship from Earth arrived on schedule. It hadn’t had any trouble along the way. And it reported that there hadn’t been any other ship.
The other was that the control to Morn Hyland’s zone implant was never found. Angus Thermopyle didn’t have it on him when he was arrested. That was why he was rotting in lockup instead of facing execution.
The first matter was easily explained. Nick Succorso must have arranged the whole thing—faked the distress call, stolen Station supplies himself, planted them on Bright Beauty. That was the kind of thing he did
. It made the people in Mallorys admire him even more.
The second issue was more disconcerting, however. It didn’t make sense. Angus could not have gotten rid of the control earlier: if he had done that, she would have been able to escape him—or, more likely, to butcher him with her bare hands for the things he had done to her. And yet he must have gotten rid of it earlier. Otherwise he would have been caught with it.
The only other explanation was less satisfying. After all, the zone implant and its control were hypothetical, not proven. Perhaps they had never existed.
But in that case the entire sequence of events degenerated into incomprehensibility. Why did she stay with him, if he had no power over her? And if his power was of some other kind, why did he give it up? What warned him that he was in danger?
No one knew the answers. However, the people who asked them were only interested out of curiosity. The main thrust of the action was clear enough. Details that didn’t make sense could eventually be forgotten.
The crowd at Mallorys would have found the real story much harder to live with.
CHAPTER
3
There were parts of the story that would always remain obscure, unless Angus Thermopyle explained them; and he refused.
By the end of his trial, Bright Beauty didn’t have any secrets left. Despite her pretense of being a prospector’s ship, she was indeed equipped with sophisticated particle sifters and doppler sensors, tools that no legitimate prospector would ever need. She was too heavily shielded, too heavily armed. Under boost, her thrust drive could have shifted the orbit of a planetoid. She had cargo holds hidden in places the Station inspectors never imagined. And she had so many relays and servos, compensations and overrides, that it was actually possible for one man to run her alone—although the experts who examined her agreed it would be suicide for any individual to take on that kind of complex strain for more than a few hours at a time.
The Real Story: The Gap Into Conflict Page 2
