Targ and helm had nothing to do but wait. Carmel kept herself busy pulling data out of the vacuum and passing it to Mackern for analysis. Mackern ran studies of the scan data, comparing it to Captain’s Fancy’s stored knowledge, refining his picture of the station and its control space. But neither of them paid any attention to the results.
Abruptly Lind croaked, “Here it comes.”
“On audio,” Nick snapped.
Lind complied with a touch to his board. At once a voice made mechanical by static and distance came from the speakers.
“Enablement Station to encroaching human ship. You are in violation of treaty and presumed hostile. Identification transgresses acceptable norms. Restate and explain.”
Presumed hostile. Mikka didn’t react; but Mackern groaned involuntarily, wiped sweat out of his eyes. Malda hunched over the targ board and began keying status checks.
“Interesting,” Vector murmured. “Do they mean we’ve identified ourselves in the wrong form, or as the wrong form?”
Lind looked to Nick for instructions.
Nick didn’t hesitate. If he was worried, he kept it to himself. “Repeat id. Tell them we’ve been here before—give them the date for confirmation. Tell them we need help for a medical difficulty, and we’re prepared to pay for it.”
Swallowing convulsively, Lind obeyed.
Morn thought that she would suffocate before the Amnion replied again. She knew Nick wouldn’t welcome questions at a time like this; but she felt that if she didn’t do something to counter her dread she would founder in it.
“Why did you do it?” she asked stiffly. “Why did you come here before?”
Mikka flicked a glance at Nick, then looked hard at Morn, warning her. “We had essentially the same problem. We needed repairs we couldn’t afford. That time we got paid well.”
Her scowl darkened as if she were on dangerous ground. “This time it may not be so easy.”
“The circumstances were a little different that time,” Nick commented laconically. “What made the deal so attractive was that we got paid by both sides. That was almost as much fun as beating Captain fucking Thermopile.”
“Which is why,” Mikka put in grimly, “it may not be so easy this time.” Like Nick, she spoke to Morn; but her words seemed to be addressed to him. “The Amnion may think we cheated them.”
The fever in Nick’s eyes flared, but his scars stayed pale. “Which is precisely why,” he countered, “they won’t be able to turn me down now.”
“Nick,” Lind gulped.
Enablement’s answer came in.
“Enablement Station to encroaching human ship. You are in violation of treaty and presumed hostile. Identification transgresses acceptable norms. Previous arrival and departure of the ship Captain’s Fancy is confirmed. The name ‘Nick Succorso’ is contrary to established reality and presumed false. Amnion defensive Tranquil Hegemony has orders to repel approach. Transmit acceptable identification.”
“‘Contrary to established reality,’” muttered Malda anxiously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Morn found that she was holding her breath again.
“You weren’t with us last time,” Nick answered with apparent ease. “These bastards don’t recognize people by name—and they sure as hell don’t recognize them by what they look like. As far as they’re concerned, appearance has nothing to do with identity. The only thing they recognize is genetic code. I think the slimy sods can actually smell each other’s DNA.”
He grinned fiercely. “They’ve got reason to think I can’t be here. If I’m not dead, I must be”—his teeth gleamed—“somebody else.
“Mackern,” he ordered, “you’ve got my gene data. It’s in my id file. Here’s access.” He tapped codes into his board. “Copy it to Lind.”
Sib went to work with his hands shaking.
“Lind,” Nick continued, “repeat the previous message. All of it. Add my DNA structure. Request instructions for approach deceleration and trajectory.”
“Right.” Lind tightened the receiver in his ear. After a moment he nodded to Mackern. “Got it.” Tensely he began transmission.
The bridge was so quiet that Morn could hear the click of every key; she could hear the almost subliminal hum of the air-scrubbers.
Mikka moved closer to Nick’s console and pointed at the intercom. “With your permission?”
Nick nodded.
She thumbed the toggle. “Liete?”
Liete Corregio’s voice replied, “Here.”
“Reassure me,” Mikka demanded brusquely.
“We’re all on station.” The intercom muffled whatever emotion Liete’s voice carried. “Alba feels sorry for herself. The rest of us are as ready as we’re likely to get.”
“Stay that way.” Mikka shut off the intercom.
“I don’t understand,” Morn said, breathing deliberately so that she wouldn’t stop again. “What kind of deal did you make with them? Why do they believe you would die—or turn into somebody else?”
She could think of an explanation herself, but it was so sickening that she didn’t want to consider it. She certainly didn’t want to say it aloud. Nevertheless she needed to know—
With an abrupt motion, Nick swung his seat to face her. A hint of color came into his scars, underlining his eyes with risks. “Take a guess.” His casualness sounded slightly ragged, frayed by strain. “If you think this is a good time to ask questions, you can help figure out the answers.”
Dread closed around Morn’s heart. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“Nick,” Vector interrupted mildly, “none of us like this, but she’s got more at stake than anyone else. She has two lives to lose. Even you’ve only got one. Naturally she wants to know what we’re up against.”
Nick wheeled toward the engineer. “What’re you doing here?” he snapped. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the drive space?”
Vector shrugged delicately. “What for? The thrusters are fine. And Pup can read an alert blip as well as I can. He’ll let us know if anything goes red.”
“Did I hear you right?” Nick said through his teeth. “Are you refusing an order?”
At once Vector unbuckled himself from his seat and pushed his sore joints erect. “Of course not. I’ll go wherever you tell me.”
His gaze held Nick’s calmly.
After a moment Nick relented. “Oh, sit down,” he growled. “Watching you move around makes my knees hurt.” Then he turned back to Morn.
“Why is it that whenever you come to the bridge I feel like I’m being interrogated? This is my ship. I’m the goddamn captain here. If I wanted to be questioned every time I do something, I would trade jobs with Pup.”
“Nick, I—” Morn tried to swallow the taste of dread in her mouth. But it wasn’t Nick she feared. Because she’d been false with him so often, she was honest this time. “I’m just scared. I ask questions so I won’t panic.”
Slowly the muscles around his eyes sagged as his irritation eased. He looked weary; almost scared himself. When he’d studied her for a while, he nodded. “There’s nothing secret about it—not here. We’re all in this together. You might as well know.
“Besides, you’re a cop,” he said in a dull rasp. His gaze drifted away from her as he started to talk. “You’ll like this.
“The Amnion want resources. Everybody knows that. They’re desperate for ores and metals, any kind of raw materials, as well as the hard technologies we’re so good at. Not because they aren’t capable of finding and processing their own materials, or building their own equipment. We wouldn’t have to deal with them if they couldn’t do things like that. But their techniques have drawbacks. They don’t have our”—he sneered the words—“mechanistic ingenuity. I’ve heard they make steel by feeding iron ore to a viral acid that digests it and then shits it refined. Compared to ordinary smelting, that’s wildly inefficient. They want everything they can get or learn from us.
“But the re
source they want most is human beings.” His tone sharpened. “Living, conscious, viable human protoplasm. They do things to it—they can transform it in ways that would make your skin crawl.
“They can make it Amnion, if they want to. That’s how they propose to conquer us.”
Morn listened so hard that her pulse throbbed in her temples and the bones of her skull ached.
“If you liked the work,” he drawled, “you could become as rich as the stars selling human beings to the Amnion. Hijack any ship you want, run it to one of the outposts. They’ll buy as many people as you can sell at prices you can’t imagine. And they always play fair—they always keep their bargains—because they don’t want to frighten off the people who supply them. Trade is so important to them it’s practically a religion.
“The last time we were here”—his face tightened with satisfaction at the memory, restoring the relish of his grin—“I traded them me. I let them give me one of their damn mutagens in exchange for enough credit to get Captain’s Fancy repaired. They thought it was going to be a hell of a deal for them. In the end, they would get my ship as well as me.
“But it didn’t work out that way.”
That was the answer Morn feared. She nearly asked him not to go on, not to say it: if he didn’t say it, she might not have to believe it.
Before he could explain, however—and before she could protest—Lind interrupted them.
“Here it comes, Nick.”
Nick spun his seat away from Morn.
The voice crackled in the speakers as if it were alien to Captain’s Fancy’s electronics.
“Enablement Station to encroaching human ship. You are in violation of treaty and presumed at hazard. Ship’s identification is confirmed. Captain’s identification is nonconforming to known reality, but is presumed accurate. Approach is acceptable. Instructions follow.”
A burst of numbers and codes filled the air like static; Lind routed the information to helm and data. Then the voice continued.
“Known reality and presumed identification must be brought into conformity. An account of the discrepancy is required. ‘Help for a medical difficulty’ will be offered in trade. Trade will be discussed when encroaching human ship Captain’s Fancy has complied with approach instructions.”
The voice stopped. For a moment the speakers relayed the empty, stippling noise of the vacuum. Then Lind switched them off.
Nick tapped his right fist once, twice, on his console, absorbing the implications of Enablement’s message. Quickly he reached his decision. He turned his seat again.
“Analysis,” he demanded from helm. “What do they want?”
The helm first raised his head from his readouts. “One more deceleration. It’s long for us, but not hard. Commencing in”—he tapped keys, read the answer—“four point one eight minutes. The instructions are exact. Braking intensity, duration, trajectory. When we cut thrust, we’ll be”—he hit more keys—“four hours off Station at normal approach speeds.”
“In other words,” Malda put in, “we’ll be a sitting target if they decide to blast us. We might get in a hit or two, but we won’t stand a chance of saving ourselves.”
“Nick,” Mackern murmured without looking away from his readouts, “that trajectory lines us up straight for one of the docking bays.”
“The same docks where those two warships are headed now,” commented Carmel.
“Are there other ships docked?” Mikka asked.
Carmel reported, “Half a dozen.”
The command second nodded sharply. “Then they aren’t going to blast us,” she asserted. “If they were, they wouldn’t give us a chance to hit that kind of target before we die.”
“They aren’t going to blast us,” Nick snapped, “because they want to make a deal.
“Set it up,” he told the helm first. “We’re going in by the numbers, exactly the way they want it.
“Mikka, secure for deceleration. Have your people ready to move as soon as we stop braking. I’ll take us in—you’ll have command after that.”
Without hesitation, Mikka keyed Nick’s intercom and started issuing orders.
Over his shoulder, Nick barked, “Morn, get back to your cabin. You’ve got about three minutes. If you go into Enablement gap-sick, this whole thing might fall apart.”
Morn needed answers; she needed to hear the truth, despite her dread. But she had no time. Stifling a groan of frustration and urgency, she asked, “How long are we braking?”
The helm first consulted his readouts. “Three hours eighteen minutes.”
She left the bridge at a run.
She cut it as fine as she dared: three and a half hours by the timer on her black box. Then she struggled off her bunk into Captain’s Fancy’s comfortable internal g and headed for the bridge.
Maybe she’d cut it too fine: her brain felt leaden in her skull, stunned by artificial sleep and lingering, destructive clarity. But she couldn’t afford stupidity now; or ignorance. And Nick was already fed up with her questions. To appease him, she detoured to the galley and prepared a pot of coffee and a tray of sandwiches. Then she made her way forward, carrying the coffee, the tray, and several mugs.
If she missed what Nick and the Amnion said to each other—if she missed their deal, or misunderstood it—
She stepped through the aperture just as Mikka Vasaczk called the seconds to relieve Nick’s watch.
The effects of strain and g filled the bridge.
Vector Shaheed was in worse shape than anyone else. His face was swollen and gray, the color of cold ashes: he looked like he’d come through a small but ominous cardiac incident. But he wasn’t the only one who appeared worn out, close to collapse.
Malda sprawled in her seat with her head back, sucking air raggedly through her nose. Lind stared at the screens without seeing them: he wasn’t aware that his eyes were crossed. The helm first kept massaging his face as if he were trying to bring back his chin; his palms made a raw sound against the stubble of his beard. Carmel’s gaze remained definite, uncompromised, but her posture slumped as if the pressure of braking had shortened her bones. Mackern rested his forehead weakly on the data console, dripping sweat over the keys.
Mikka moved with her usual dour certainty; her voice betrayed only fatigue, not exhaustion. Nevertheless the cost of her endurance showed in the lines of her face: her scowl looked deep and ineradicable, as if it had been etched into her skull with mineral acid.
As for Nick, the tense energy had gone out of his movements; every shift of his shoulders and arms was slow, heavy, freighted with stress. His eyes were dull, and the skin of his cheeks under his beard looked pale and stiff, as old as his scars.
Despite his weariness, he was busy calling reports from the other bridge stations to his readouts. At intervals he asked questions in a tone that made his people answer promptly.
After a moment he noticed Morn. With a grunt of acknowledgment, he took a mug and a sandwich, held the mug for her to fill it; then he nodded her toward the rest of his watch.
Mikka picked up a mug and a couple of sandwiches. So did Carmel. Vector accepted coffee with a wan, grateful smile, but declined food. Lind mumbled, “I don’t drink coffee,” as if that fact—or the fact of being served—embarrassed him; however, he snagged a sandwich with a hand like a grapple. Too tired to think about eating, the helm first and Malda ignored Morn. When she nudged Sib Mackern to get his attention, she found that he was already asleep.
Abruptly Lind clapped a hand to his receiver. Discarding his sandwich, he punched on audio.
“Enablement Station to presumed human Captain Nick Succorso.”
Now the transmission source was close enough to be clear. Without static, the voice sounded sharper and, paradoxically, more alien. It jerked Sib awake, pulled Malda and the helm first out of their respective stupors. Morn’s hands shook on the edges of the tray; she put it down so that she wouldn’t drop it.
Nick closed his eyes and waited for the message
to continue.
“You are in violation of treaty and presumed at hazard. You require ‘help for a medical difficulty.’ Sanctuary is offered. Unification with the Amnion is offered. Thus known reality and presumed identification can be brought into conformity. Hazards and difficulties will be resolved.
“Reply.”
Sanctuary. Unification. Brought into conformity. Morn shoved her hands into her pockets to steady them; she tightened her fingers around the reassuring shape of her black box. Captain’s Fancy was being offered mutagens that would put an end to her crew’s humanity.
Nick didn’t open his eyes. He also didn’t sound worried. “Copy this, Lind. ‘Captain Nick Succorso to Enablement Station. Deceleration stresses human tissue. We need rest. Reply to your proposal follows in thirty minutes.’
“Send it.”
While Lind obeyed, Nick stood up from his seat and tried to stretch some of the pain out of his muscles.
Mikka’s watch began arriving on the bridge. Malda Verone immediately turned over the targ board to her replacement and left. Scorz, a fleshy man with perennial acne, took Lind’s place. At a word from Nick, Sib gave the data station to Morn: Captain’s Fancy was done with heavy g, so Morn was safe.
Vector Shaheed stayed where he was.
The helm first surrendered his seat to the helm second, a twitchy woman named Ransum who tended to execute jerky maneuvers because her hands were too abrupt. Carmel also got out of her replacement’s way. But neither she nor the helm first moved to leave the bridge.
“Nick,” Carmel said bluntly, “I want to know what you’re going to do.”
Nick cocked an eyebrow at this demand as if he couldn’t decide whether to take offense or not.
“I know I need sleep, but I don’t want to miss anything,” she explained.
He gave her a piece of his familiar, malicious grin. “Too bad. Morn and I get to have all the fun.
“I’ll make a deal, and Mikka and Vector and I will set up some insurance. After we dock, Morn and I are going on Station. When we come back, we’ll have a kid with us—and enough credit to get the gap drive fixed. Unless somebody screws up. In which case, you’ll be back on watch because we’ll be running for our lives.”
The Gap Into Vision: Forbidden Knowledge Page 22
