Vector tapped the side of his head with one forefinger. Loud enough for Angus to hear, he said, “It’s all here. If I had the facilities, I could start mass-producing it.” His smile was positively beatific.
After a moment Angus answered, “I’m almost done.” Harsh strain twisted through his voice. “Come on up.”
Davies turned to Morn. A grin of his own spread across his face. All at once he looked inexpressibly young—much younger than his father; decades younger than Morn felt. A jig seemed to gleam in his eyes, as if he were dancing inside. “What’re we waiting for? Let’s go.”
Morn shook her head. Her relief had begun to curdle, soured by withdrawal and comprehension. Her nerves felt the touch of acid again. And the pain was growing: organic adrenaline couldn’t feed her hunger for artificial stimulation. Nick was only one of her personal demons. Others still harried her, defying exorcism. “First we need to talk.”
Everything she and her companions did mattered too much.
“We’ve got Nick. That’s a step in the right direction. But let’s not forget to be cautious.”
Let’s not forget what’s at stake. Or how precarious it is.
Trusting Angus came hard.
“I agree,” Vector said promptly. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m so glad I can hardly think. But I still want to know how you got past Angus. I thought Nick had him”—the geneticist hunted for an adequate expression and couldn’t find one—“under control. What did you do to him?”
Morn put that question aside. “It’ll be easier to explain when you see him. But there are things Davies and I need to know right now.” Things we might not want Angus to hear, if he isn’t being honest with us. “For a start—
“Mikka said Nick and Beckmann were ‘dickering.’ What did Nick want?”
Sib referred the question to Vector, but Vector passed it back with a gesture.
“When we first went in,” Sib began, “Nick said we needed supplies. Which didn’t make sense—but I guess that’s not the point. As soon as Vector was done, Nick told Dr. Beckmann he’d changed his mind. He wanted something else.
“He gave Dr. Beckmann the formula. For confirmation he let him have some of the capsules.”
Vector nodded. Mutely he held up Nick’s original vial. Only five or six capsules were left.
“We got permission to leave,” Sib went on. “And this.” He bent over Nick, rummaged in his pockets, and produced a small metallic rectangle like an id tag. “It’s a data-jack. According to Dr. Beckmann, it holds everything the Lab knows about the swarm. The best chart they can put together. Composition. Internal vectors. External stresses.” He offered the data-jack to Morn, but she waved it to Davies. “If it’s accurate,” Sib finished, “we ought to be able to navigate out of here blind.”
“Sounds good.” Davies closed the data-jack in his fist. His eyes asked Morn as clearly as words, Can we go now?
No, she answered soundlessly. Small tremors of withdrawal rose in her. She hadn’t accepted the data-jack because she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her hand shake.
Facing both Sib and Vector, she said, “It seems pretty straightforward. What went wrong? What happened to Mikka and Ciro?”
Vector glanced at Sib, then returned his gaze to Morn. “I was hoping you could tell us.”
She shook her head. “She and Ciro came aboard like she thought he was dying. But she didn’t explain anything.”
Ciro and I need to talk, so leave us alone.
Sib grimaced. After a moment he offered, “Maybe she thinks he is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Davies put in. Being reminded of Mikka and her brother renewed his tension.
“It was strange,” Sib answered in a perplexed tone. “As soon as Vector got permission to work, Nick separated us. He sent Ciro off to req food stores we don’t need. He told me to put in a list for other supplies—which we also don’t need. And he didn’t let Mikka go with either of us. Instead he ordered her to stand guard outside the lab where Vector was working.
“She didn’t obey.” Sib shrugged. “I guess she couldn’t. She went looking for Ciro.
“But he was gone. Security said he ‘wandered off’ somewhere. So she came to find me. We were getting ready to start a search of our own, but then Security found him. They said he wasn’t hurt, just ‘scared out of his mind.’ But they wouldn’t let us go to him. We had to wait until Vector was done. We never got a chance to talk to him.”
“Go on,” Morn murmured.
Sib paused like a man who needed to clear his head. Then he admitted, “I don’t know why any of this happened. But Mikka—
“She thinks it’s because of Soar. She thinks Nick used Ciro as bait. Otherwise why did he make up that lie about needing supplies? He’s trying to trick Sorus Chatelaine, trap her somehow.”
Sib spread his hands to show his bafflement.
“Because she’s the woman who cut him,” Morn breathed softly.
“That’s right. Soar had a different name then, and maybe Sorus Chatelaine did, too. He didn’t know it was her until he saw her on Billingate. But I guess now all he can think about is getting revenge.”
“Wait a minute,” Davies demanded. His eyes darkened expectantly. “What name?”
Sib shrugged anxiously. “I don’t know what she called herself. Nick didn’t say.
“But in those days Soar was called Gutbuster.”
Without warning a new pain struck through Morn. It was as visceral as withdrawal, but it was a different kind of hurt altogether—an intuitive and primal anguish so acute that she nearly gasped and might have fallen to her knees. Even though she hadn’t known it was there, it had crouched like a predator in the core of her heart for years, waiting its chance to spring—
Waiting for this moment to tear her completely apart.
Gutbuster.
She hardly heard Davies’ strangled shout; didn’t know that she herself had cried out. Gutbuster! Vector reached for her. Sib groaned, “Morn, what’s wrong, what did I say?” But she couldn’t understand either of them. Old bereavement ripped her open, and nothing else could reach her.
“Gutbuster,” she and Davies breathed in unison—the nearly voiceless wail of lost children, umbilically linked by her past.
The memory returned like the acid of withdrawal; it filled her head with vitriol.
She was a little girl held in her father’s arms while he told her of her mother’s death.
His voice was steady and clear—the voice of a man who valued what his wife had done too much to protest against it. Yet tears ran from his eyes, collected along the certainty of his jaw, and dropped like stains onto Morn’s small breast.
We picked up a distress call from the ore transfer dump off Orion’s Reach. An illegal came in on them hard—
She called herself Gutbuster. She wasn’t fast, and she didn’t show gap capability. But she was heavily armed—as heavily armed as a battlewagon.
Her first blast ripped one whole side of Intransigent open.
A pure super-light proton beam.
We immediately lost targ. Another beam like that would have finished us.
Your mother was on station in targeting control. And targeting control was in the part of Intransigent Gutbuster hit. That whole side of Intransigent had been ripped open to vacuum. Targeting control began to lose atmosphere.
She could have saved herself But she didn’t. While her station depressurized and her air ran out, she worked to reroute targ function so that we could use our guns.
That’s why Intransigent survived. She restored targ in time. We hit Gutbuster with everything we had.
But your mother was lost.
She gave her life—
Then her father had made his promise. No one in the UMCP will ever rest until your mother has been avenged. We will stop Gutbuster and every ship like her.
By the time his story ended, Morn had decided in his arms that she, too, would be a cop. She, too, would never rest. She’d b
een too ashamed of herself to make any other choice.
That was the defining moment of her childhood, the center of her losses: the moment which had made her into what she was when Starmaster died—a cop who couldn’t defend herself against Angus. Her shame was too old; ran too deep.
She hadn’t seen Davies move, but he stood in front of her now. His hands gripped her shoulders as if he were lifting her out of herself. Except for his eyes, his face was a younger version of his father’s—squat and bitter, congested with venom. Nevertheless his eyes transformed him.
They flamed with her memories. Fed on the same fuel which burned her.
Through his teeth he told her, “We’re going after her.”
And she answered, “Yes.”
But her heart cried, No! No.
Revenge was too expensive. She’d learned that the hard way. Hadn’t she? She’d seen what it cost Nick: his ship and his reputation; the only things that kept him sane. And ever since Starmaster died she’d been paying the price of her old grudge against herself. It didn’t matter who Sorus Chatelaine was; what Soar had once been. Only Vector’s research was important: only making his antimutagen known meant anything. Revenge was for lost souls. No one else could afford it.
Why else had she decided to risk freeing Angus?
And yet she couldn’t give Davies any answer except, “Yes.” Her mouth refused to form any other response. She was ruled by her losses. Without them she had no idea who she was.
No one in the UMCP will ever rest until your mother has been avenged. We will stop Gutbuster and every ship like her.
Maybe that wasn’t wrong. Davies obviously didn’t feel the way she did—and his mind was almost hers. The fire which ate at her seemed to have the opposite effect on him: he burned with certainty, purpose; life. Maybe she’d been prey too long; had spent too many days and weeks thinking like a victim. Maybe it was time for other predators to hunt.
She could have saved herself. But she didn’t.
Remembering her mother, Morn found that she could stand on her own: her legs were strong enough. The neural sobbing of withdrawal didn’t control her. Abruptly she laughed—a mirthless sound, raw with the harmonics of strain and regret. “We don’t need to. She thinks she’s coming after us.”
Slowly Davies nodded. His hands let go of her. He was ready.
“Morn?” Sib asked apprehensively. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
Nick was still unconscious, breathing thinly against the deck. That helped. With an effort, she forced herself to look at Sib and Vector.
Vector shared Sib’s uncertainty. Nevertheless he didn’t appear alarmed. He had sources of calm his companion lacked.
“Davies and I have a score to settle with that ship,” she murmured weakly. “Gutbuster. We’re going after her.”
Sib’s mouth shaped questions he didn’t voice. Instead he observed tensely, “That’s what Nick wants.” His gaze brimmed with fears.
“Too bad,” she sighed. “This isn’t for him. It’s for us.” But she didn’t believe that, in spite of her efforts to convince herself.
“Let’s go,” Davies insisted. “The longer we delay, the more time she’ll have to trap us.”
Morn nodded.
At once Davies took Sib’s arm and pulled him toward Nick.
Sib’s anxiety remained in his eyes, but he didn’t hold back. Together he and Davies heaved Nick up so that they could drag him between them into the lift.
Morn gestured Vector ahead of her. She entered the lift last, keyed shut the airlock, then sent the lift sliding upward to the core of the ship.
By the time they all reached the bridge, her scant strength had begun fraying. The memory of her mother wasn’t enough to fend off her fear of Angus.
Davies had been born with her mind, but they didn’t think alike. His months in her womb had conditioned him to levels of stimulation which would have killed an ordinary kid. In that sense his physiological state resembled her zone implant addiction. Nevertheless the difference between them was profound. His needs could be met by his own organic endocrine resources; hers required external intervention.
Doubts nagged at her.
She couldn’t forget Mikka and Ciro.
She couldn’t forget that the conflicting messages which had betrayed Nick as well as everyone else aboard were intended to serve unexplained purposes in a larger conflict; purposes she didn’t understand and couldn’t evaluate.
Above all she couldn’t forget that she didn’t know how to trust Angus Thermopyle.
As Davies opened the door at the head of the companionway, she saw Angus sitting exactly where they’d left him: directly in front of—almost under—the command board.
“Shit,” Sib croaked. “What did you do to him?”
Angus’ bare back was a mess. Cut and torn tissues oozed blood the same way his face oozed sweat; trails of blood ran down his spine into his shipsuit. From the wide wound Davies had made between his shoulder blades, fine silver leads webbed him to the underside of the command board—a delicate and apparently random tracery protecting him from stasis.
Small tools, keypad modules, a first-aid kit, and wiring were scattered around him within easy reach, but he wasn’t using any of those things now. Instead his fingers held a computer chip in front of his face. He studied it as if he might penetrate its secrets by sheer divination.
His datacore.
Davies ignored Sib. “Are you done?” he asked Angus harshly.
“One way or the other.” Angus’ voice was a frail sigh, scarcely audible. The desperation which had driven him to this gamble was gone; burned out. He sounded like a small boy who was too frightened to hope. “I can’t—” His throat closed. A moment passed before he was able to say, “I can’t do any more.”
Pulling Nick with him so that Sib had to follow, Davies started down the treads. “Then let’s try it.”
Angus continued holding his datacore up to the light; but his head slowly sank until his neck bent as if he were waiting for the ax.
Davies and Sib dropped Nick behind the second’s station. Davies gave his impact pistol to Sib, then immediately moved to stand in front of his father. If he wanted to hunt Gutbuster, he needed Angus.
Vector glanced at Morn. When she didn’t move, he shrugged and descended the companionway behind Sib.
She thought that she would go after him. Yet she remained where she was, immobilized by uncertainty. She told herself that she hesitated because she wanted to go check on Mikka and Ciro. The truth was that she suddenly wanted to flee; ached to get out of here before Angus recovered the power to harm her.
“Morn?” Davies asked; urged. He stood poised beside Angus, waiting for her permission.
No! her fears answered. No! He’s a murderer—a rapist. He broke me. I’m a zone implant addict because of him. I would rather see him dead. I would rather be dead myself.
But she knew better.
Revenge was for lost souls.
You’re a cop, she’d once told her son. From now on, I’m going to be a cop myself Cops were predators, but they didn’t hunt for vengeance. If she went after Soar, it would be because Sorus Chatelaine was humankind’s enemy, not because Gutbuster had killed her mother.
Even though Angus terrified her, and every moment of anguish he’d ever caused her stuck in her throat, she’d said to him, We’ll trust you.
Now or never.
Gripping the handrail for support, she started downward.
“Go ahead,” she said through her terror. “We’ve come this far. There’s no point in stopping now.”
“Yes!”
Davies plucked the datacore from Angus’ fingers, moved around behind his father, and dropped to his knees.
“Go ahead with what?” Sib objected. He sounded nauseous with ignorance and anxiety. “I don’t understand any of this. What are you doing!”
Morn finished descending the steps. As she left the railing, she put her hand on Sib’s sho
ulder, partly to reassure him, partly to help her keep her balance.
“Angus says he knows how to edit datacores.” This was the best answer she could give: she didn’t have the bravery for a complete explanation. Sib would have to fill in the gaps as best he could. “We’re going to find out if that’s true.”
“Ah,” Vector sighed in comprehension. “You don’t believe in half measures, do you. This is the old kill-or-cure treatment with a vengeance.” He paused, then asked, “Could I persuade you to tell us how? Editing datacores is supposed to be impossible.”
Later. Morn raised a palm to put him off. If we survive. And if we have time.
Davies studied Angus’ back; swore under his breath; withdrew. From the first-aid kit he snatched up swabs and began blotting the welter of blood so that he could see the chip’s socket.
Angus’ head hung hopelessly. He endured Davies’ pushing and prodding as if the removal of his datacore had deprived him of all normal sensation.
Abruptly the bridge speakers snapped to life.
“Trumpet, this is Lab Center. We’re waiting.”
Waiting? Oh, shit! In an instant Morn’s brain seemed to go numb. Waiting for what?
Davies froze.
Panic flared in Sib’s eyes; but before he could say anything, Vector intervened.
“You’d better talk to them, Sib.” His calm suggested that he had complete confidence in the former data first. “They’ll be surprised to hear from you, but there’s nothing we can do about that. Morn, Davies, and Angus can’t do it—they aren’t supposed to be here. And Center won’t believe me. I’m just a geneticist. As for Nick”—Vector smiled phlegmatically—“he looks like he’s going to be tied up for a while. That leaves you.”
Sib couldn’t stifle his alarm. His face seemed to sweat failure. Nevertheless Vector’s confidence steadied him in some way. Or perhaps he remembered that without his help Morn and Davies wouldn’t have beaten Nick. Despite his fear, he moved to the second’s station.
While Morn still groped to imagine what Center was waiting for, he punched open a communications channel.
Vector didn’t pause. “If you’ll give me that data-jack,” he said to Davies, “I’ll start feeding it in. I can do that from the auxiliary engineering board. Then we’ll be able to get out of here”—he glanced at Angus—“no matter what happens.”
Chaos and Order: The Gap Into Madness Page 47
