The Real Story: The Gap Into Conflict

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Really? Did that make sense?

  Maybe not; but it was good enough to ease Angus’ distress a little. Rolling heavily out of his bunk, he scratched at the itch of sweat and grime inside his shipsuit, used the head, dabbed antiseptic from the sickbay on his swollen lip, and lumbered into the command module.

  Almost at once, he saw the blip signaling automatically on his board.

  He froze.

  It was one of the alerts he’d programmed to warn him if Morn tried anything off-limits at her console.

  For a moment—just for a moment—he didn’t care what the alert actually was. He was stunned by the impossibility of the situation. He’d never given her a chance to do anything. He watched her all the time. When Bright Beauty was shut down, there wasn’t any blip. Was that right? He scoured his memory. Yes, that was right. No blip then. And after that he’d put her to sleep. When could she have set it off?

  No. The recognition hit him harder than the alert itself. He was remembering wrong. He had given her a chance.

  He’d left her alone in the command module while he went to let the inspectors aboard. And again when they went away. And after that he hadn’t so much as glanced at his own controls. He’d been too busy with the inquiry—too tired—

  Too beaten—

  Oh, shit.

  Jerking into motion, he stabbed buttons on his console to identify the alert.

  It was so far from what he expected that at first he couldn’t believe it. The computer must be making a mistake. Surely she’d done something worse than that? Wasn’t she trying to kill him, get even with him? Didn’t she want to sabotage Bright Beauty?

  But of course the computer wasn’t making a mistake. It showed clearly that Morn had jimmied the locks on one of Bright Beauty’s exterior hatches, fixed them so they didn’t seal. Then she’d disconnected the automatic signal which warned of an unlocked hatch.

  That was ridiculous. His brain reeled, groping. Unselfconsciously he wiped blood off his chin. What had Morn accomplished? The hatch still closed securely. His ship still had integrity against the void.

  But now—

  —now the hatch could be opened from outside.

  Anybody with an EVA suit could sneak aboard.

  Anybody with an EVA suit could have sneaked aboard while Angus was asleep.

  Shitshitshitshit.

  He was so surprised and lost that he jumped to all the wrong conclusions. He checked on Morn first, half-expecting to discover she was already gone. But she still slept where he’d left her under the influence of her zone implant. So then he tuned Bright Beauty’s life-sign scanners to read the whole ship for stowaways, hidden murderers, saboteurs.

  There was no one else aboard: just Morn and himself.

  You’re beaten. Remember that. I warned you.

  Finally panic brought him a burst of inspiration. He went to look in his secret holds.

  They were full from deck to ceiling with food, equipment, and medicine.

  Every crate and carton bore the seal which identified it as the property of Com-Mine Station—the kind of supplies Com-Mine received from Earth. The kind of supplies a supply ship would carry.

  When he went back to the command module and scanned around him, he saw Captain’s Fancy in dock hardly fifty meters away. She’d come in while he was asleep.

  He was trapped. Finished. Dead.

  The perfection of it astonished him. No wonder Nick had seemed more than willing to encounter him in the doorway of Mallorys. That gave Nick the chance to say the word “hatch” in front of Morn. And with that slender link between them they found a way to destroy the man they hated.

  “Slender” was too strong a word for it. It was slim to the point of nonexistence. Nevertheless Angus believed it instantly.

  You’re hatching something.

  What else had she ever had to hope for?

  Why don’t you open up about it?

  What else did she have left?

  Let someone in to help you.

  From the moment when she’d heard those words, she must have clung to them, searching them for meaning, chewed them inside and out. In her place, he would have done the same thing. Desperate for rescue, she must have worked like a maniac to find some interpretation which could save her.

  And Nick’s attack showed her he was serious, showed her she had reason to hope.

  That was all she needed. When she got the chance, she did something about it.

  No, it wasn’t enough. It might have been enough for Morn in her desperation, but it wasn’t enough for Nick. He would need to know she understood him.

  What else had he said?

  You’ve got it in your pocket right now. Or are you playing with yourself?

  Angus had assumed that was a reference to the zone-implant control; a lucky guess. But now another possibility occurred to him. Like everything else Nick had said, it was aimed at Morn.

  There had been plenty of time during the scuffle for Nick’s people to put a note in Morn’s pocket. A note she would have found later, read, and then destroyed.

  A note which told her what Nick wanted her to do.

  That was why Nick had allowed Angus to arrange their encounter so easily. So that his people could give Morn his message.

  The rest of the plot was simple.

  There never was a supply ship. No, of course not. The distress call was a fake, engineered by Nick Succorso and his ally in Security. If the supply ship had been genuine, Security could have given him advance warning; but the emergency on which the plot depended couldn’t have been predicted. Therefore the whole thing hadn’t happened. The distress call had been faked to lure Angus away from Com-Mine—to set the stage for his ruin.

  With a way to sneak aboard Bright Beauty, did Nick have Angus killed? Did he simply kidnap Morn? Of course not. A murder would have caused serious trouble for Nick. Despite Angus Thermopyle’s reputation, Security would have done everything possible to nail his killer—if for no other reason than to demonstrate its own integrity. And if Morn disappeared from Bright Beauty while Angus was left alive, Nick would never be able to rest for fear of Angus’ revenge.

  No, the trap was perfect. By filling Bright Beauty’s holds with supplies provided—no doubt—by his ally in Security, Nick was able to arrange for Angus’ destruction without risking Morn. Or himself.

  Now all he had to do was give the inspectors some evidence that a crime had been committed. Then they would have the legal right to appropriate Bright Beauty’s datacore. That would enable them to find the secret holds. It would inform them of the murder of those miners. And it might give them a clue about Morn’s zone implant: the sickbay log was blank; but the datacore contained evidence of the parallel control he’d programmed into his board.

  A life sentence for the theft of Station supplies. And the death penalty for murder, if not for the use of a zone implant.

  And Morn would go free, of course. Straight to Nick Succorso.

  The trap was perfect and horrible. Stark panic rushed through Angus: every instinct he had gibbered for action. Without pausing to think—without really realizing what he did—he strapped himself into his g-seat and began to warm up Bright Beauty’s engines.

  Get away: escape: run. He was a coward; his instincts were compulsory. Undock and get out of here before Security had time to make a formal arrest. They were going to kill him, kill him. Get away now.

  But he’d been forbidden to leave. If he tried to pull away without permission, Com-Mine would fire on him. With a holed thruster tube, he would never be able to evade the station’s guns.

  Bright Beauty would be destroyed.

  Morn would be killed.

  Get away! You fool, you shithead, go, GO!

  Morn would be killed.

  Dismay twisted a cry out of him. He was willing to risk Bright Beauty. He’d done it before, when he had to. But Morn—

  The last time he hit her, blood welled in her cheek; blood trickled from the cuts of her teeth inside
her mouth. Her beauty was marked red. Thinking about her made his guts heave with terror and desire. She was his, his, his, and if he tried to save himself, she would die.

  So what? he demanded of his lonely, forsaken life. She’s a bitch, and she did this to me so she can go whore with Nick Succorso. Butcher her now, while she’s asleep. She deserves it.

  That was what he wanted. Every instinct in him wailed for it. Kill her and go! Better to get blasted fighting for your life than sit here and let them give you the death penalty while Nick motherfucking Succorso watches and laughs!

  Unfortunately, his body refused to do it.

  Shaking wildly, scarcely controllable, his hands discontinued the warm-up, shut Bright Beauty down again. For a long time he sat where he was with his palms clamped over his eyes while instinct and terror fired back and forth inside his head like meteors across the dark.

  Then, still shaking, he reached out and erased the parallel zone-implant control from his command computer.

  He verified that his sickbay log contained nothing incriminating.

  He made a few slight adjustments to his datacore, elisions which were theoretically impossible as well as actively illegal, but which he was able to accomplish because his techniques were so subtle.

  After that, he woke up Morn Hyland.

  She didn’t meet his eyes. That wasn’t unusual, not in itself; but this time he knew what it meant, oh, he knew what it meant. Briefly she struggled to shake off the effects of sleep.

  However, she didn’t get out of bed.

  With an effort, her mouth produced a crooked smile. If she noticed his stretched and haggard expression, she gave no sign. Instead, she extended her arms toward him as if she’d been dreaming about him.

  As if she wanted, actually wanted, to make love to him, despite his power over her; despite the things he’d done to her.

  Involuntarily he recoiled. Behind her smile, her face was studiously empty; blank and beautiful; determined to give nothing away. She couldn’t know what was going on, of course; not for sure: she could only guess. She had little to pin her hopes on except one short note and the few sentences he and Nick had exchanged in the doorway of Mallorys. And yet she fought for those hopes.

  She was trying to distract him, in case he hadn’t yet realized what she’d done.

  When he saw that, something inside him broke.

  For a moment, he hated her. Somewhere, she’d found the one thing he’d always lacked, the courage to meet her doom head-on, to do what she could to control it. And it was Nick she wanted, Nick she did it for; not Angus. Now, however, it made no difference whether he hated her or not; whether he feared her or loved her. He was no longer in command of his own actions. What he said and did came to him like impulses from outside, abject and unpremeditated.

  If he tried to get away, he would be killed.

  If he didn’t try to get away, he would be killed.

  “Get up,” he rasped without anger or conviction. “We’re going to Mallorys.”

  Somehow she managed to keep her features expressionless; she accepted his rejection and rose from the bed without so much as a flicker of surprise or fright. Watching her, he felt unexpectedly outclassed, as if the things he had done to her had made her greater than he was.

  It might be too late. Station Security might already be on the way to arrest him. The control to her zone implant felt like a grenade in his pocket, primed to destroy him. Nevertheless he went ahead without hurrying.

  After she’d used the head, they left Bright Beauty for the last time and went to DelSec.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Mallorys was crowded. The time was Station evening; rats and cynics of every description had come out of the bulkheads to cadge drinks or sell secrets, share loneliness or court oblivion. Nevertheless Angus Thermopyle didn’t have any trouble finding a table. His reputation was bad enough already: nobody wanted to be near him, not while he was suspected of looting a supply ship. If any shooting started, Mallorys’ patrons didn’t want to get caught in the cross fire.

  Most of the crowd probably desired nothing more complex than companionship or peace; or maybe satisfaction for their guesses about what was going on. That night was a bad one for quiet, however.

  Angus and Morn looked much the same as usual, as unsuited to each other as ever. Still they emitted an expectant tension which affected everyone around them, making calm men uneasy and uneasy men nervous. Angus glowered violence at anybody who crossed his gaze; blood from his swollen lip marked his chin. Pale, blank, and unsure, Morn held herself like a coiled spring, restrained only by willpower and circumstance from doing something wild.

  The mood in Mallorys thickened steadily around them.

  Then Nick Succorso and some of his people came in.

  He was in a cheerful humor, laughing and joking, but no one was reassured. The way he ignored Angus and Morn didn’t make anybody relax: the scars under his eyes were too dark. Something was going to happen.

  The people who didn’t wish to know what that was left as inconspicuously as possible. Everyone else got ready for sudden movements.

  When Security broke into the bar, some of the observers were surprised. The ones who’d probed a bit below the surface and thought they knew what was going on weren’t.

  Tables and chairs clattered back hastily: people milled around, jeering, cheering, trying to clear the way: a squad of guards drove into the confusion as fast as they could, determined to get their hands on Angus before he escaped.

  So quickly that most people didn’t see her do it, Morn Hyland left him and started through the crowd in Nick’s direction.

  But Angus was braced for her flight. He had good reflexes, and fear made him fast. This was the reason he’d brought her to Mallorys, the moment on which his life depended. He was a coward; and like a coward, he wanted to go on living even though his heart was broken. He hardly saw Security: he took note of the confusion around him only as a screen for his own actions.

  Quick as a snake, he caught Morn by the wrist.

  She struggled as well as she could. He was too strong. While she thrashed against his grip, she looked at him: the loathing and fright in her face were as loud as screams. Or maybe what she felt was incomprehension; maybe she thought he’d decided on a particularly brutal form of suicide. She’d been hoping, pleading, aching for an escape with every gram of her spirit—and now he’d caught her.

  If he didn’t release her—

  He wanted to say something, but there were no words for it. And no time. His doom gathered against him. Security charged in from the door: Nick and his crew thrust forward from the other side, wedging a path for Morn through the crowd.

  Holding her by the wrist, he slipped the control to her zone implant into her hand.

  “I accept. The deal you offered. I’ll cover you.

  “Remember,” he hissed as if he were pleading with her, begging her, “I could have killed you. I could have killed you anytime.”

  Then he let her go.

  For a second, her eyes flared, and she stared at him.

  During that moment, she seemed to understand him. Recognition passed between them. He had brought her here for this. To let her go. To give her what she wanted. And to ask her to spare his life.

  Inside himself, he was stark naked with terror.

  She had only a second to make her choice. Then Nick’s people reached her, snatched her away.

  But by that time she’d already shoved the zone-implant control like a small piece of immortality into one of her pockets, where no one could see it and take it to use against Angus Thermopyle.

  Or against Morn herself.

  After that, she was gone.

  CHAPTER

  18

  So the fair maiden was rescued. The swashbuckling pirate bore her away with all her beauty, and her tormentor was left to pay the price of his crimes.

  Angus was convicted of nothing more than stealing Station supplies. The evidence of
Bright Beauty’s datacore was curiously imprecise. And the techs who examined Starmaster couldn’t find any indication that the UMCP ship did anything except blow herself up; whether by sabotage or self-destruct was unclear. Without Morn’s testimony, nothing else could be proved against Angus Thermopyle. Nevertheless that was enough to put him in lockup for the rest of his life.

  Morn must have had an easier time with Nick than with Angus. Almost certainly he would have treated her better than Angus did—especially if he knew nothing, or could never be sure, about the zone implant. With the control in her own hands, she was effectively as free as if the implant had been removed. A timer and a little common sense made it possible for her to take care of her own gap-sickness.

  The fact that he’d rescued her so cleverly only enhanced Nick Succorso’s reputation. The way he’d framed Angus was too perfect to be criticized. After all, the Station recovered its supplies. And the arrival of the real supply ship on schedule revealed just how clever Nick had been.

  The real story however, was that Angus never complained he’d been framed. He never mentioned there was a traitor in Security; he made no effort to defend himself. For the most part, he betrayed no reaction at all to his doom. When he heard Bright Beauty was going to be dismantled, he howled as if he were in agony; but he let Morn and Nick go. He had that much courage, anyway.

  Despite his horror of imprisonment, he was condemned to stay in lockup until he rotted.

  This is the end of

  The Real Story.

  The story continues in

  The Gap into Vision:

  Forbidden Knowledge.

  AFTERWORD

  Most writers hate the question, “Where do you get your ideas?”

  This is because the answer tends to be at once ineffably mysterious and excruciatingly mundane. We are all in love with the magic of the imagination—otherwise we wouldn’t be able to survive as creative artists—but none of us can explain how it works. In a sense, writers don’t get ideas: ideas get writers. They happen to us. If we don’t submit to their power, we lose them; so by trying to control or censor them we can make the negative choice of encouraging them to leave us alone. But we can never force ourselves to be truly creative. The best we can do is to teach ourselves receptiveness—and trust that ideas will come.