“The point,” Vector sighed as if he were hardening himself against Morn’s urgent stare, “is that if you don’t give them Davies just to recompense them for being cheated, we’re all finished. We haven’t got a prayer.”
“Who is he?” Davies asked Morn, none too quietly, as if he were making up a list of enemies and wanted to include Vector.
—possession of the new human offspring—
“Not now,” she hissed to him. “Please.”
Nick ignored her and Davies. Instead he countered Vector, “What if we trade them for repairs on the gap drive?”
“I thought of that.” Despite his slumped posture and slack features, Vector didn’t flinch from facing Nick. “But it won’t work. It’ll take too long. From what I’ve heard, their equipment has all the same pieces ours does, but the designs are incompatible. We’ll have to let them tinker with our drive until they can rig a fix. We could be here for days. And that gives us another problem. We’ll have to let them aboard. We’ll have Amnion on the ship the whole time. We’ll be too vulnerable. They could sabotage us—or just take over—whenever they want.”
The engineer made Captain’s Fancy’s ruin seem inevitable; but Nick dismissed that. Still more casually, as if he were arriving at a point he’d foreseen all along—as if he were springing a personal trap—he asked, “What if we trade them for parts, and you do the repairs?”
Vector continued to hold Nick’s gaze; but his mouth slumped open. After a moment he murmured, “Nick, I’m not that good.”
“You’d better be,” Nick replied almost cheerfully, “because that’s the only shot we’ve got. I’ll give you three hours.”
At the edges of her vision, Morn saw sweat suddenly beading on Vector’s face, reflecting small, wet bits of light from his round visage. But she wasn’t thinking about him now, or about what he said. He was right, of course: without a usable gap drive, Captain’s Fancy was as good as dead; too far from human space to escape when Nick’s cheat was discovered. But that dilemma had nothing to do with her now. Her problem was entirely different.
Nick was going to do it; he was serious. He had every intention of giving Davies back to the Amnion.
Only her zone implant enabled her to swallow a wail. For a moment she hung right on the edge of attacking Nick—of performing some mad act which would get her killed right away, while she was still human and safe; which might get Davies killed as well when he tried to defend her. Better to die in a fight on the bridge of Nick’s ship than to become Amnion—
But her implant’s artificial clarity held her. Instead of crying out or attacking, she went further.
The influence of her black box was a form of insanity; and from its neural stimulation, its coerced impulses, she began to weave a fabric of recourse so extreme that it made wails and violence look sane by comparison.
She could do it. If she was careful, she could do it.
And if she failed—
If she failed, nothing on Captain’s Fancy or Enablement Station would prevent her from exacting retribution. She would let nothing prevent her.
Liete stood too close: Morn couldn’t speak to Davies without being overheard. She had to trust that he would be able to retain his own sanity when Nick gave him back to the Amnion.
Despite the extremity of her intentions, she still had the capacity—her zone implant gave her that—to be shocked when Mikka Vasaczk brought Enablement’s emissary to the bridge.
Either the creature at Mikka’s side had once been human and had been given a mutagen which wasn’t entirely successful, or it had begun as Amnion and its people had failed in their attempts to make it appear human. Morn guessed the former, if only because the human parts of the creature were so convincing.
In general, as well as in some details, it—or he—was recognizably a man. He had one human arm, and most of his chest was unflawed. Above his boots, the skin of his shins was pale and ordinary. Half his face looked and moved like any other man’s. And he breathed the ship’s atmosphere with only a modicum of respiratory difficulty.
But his shipsuit—like Davies’, made from an alien material which shed light—had been cut away to accommodate the thick knobs of Amnion skin that had taken over his knees. His other arm was also bare: Amnion tissues needed no covering. And the inhuman half of his face was made for the sulfuric light and acrid air of Enablement Station. An Amnion eye stared unblinking from that side; some of the teeth under it, revealed by a partially lipless maw, were pointed like the guards’.
“Nick”—Mikka spoke tonelessly, all her emotions clamped down—“this is the Amnion emissary.
“That,” she said, pointing Nick out to the creature at her side, “is Captain Nick Succorso.”
Still holding her gun, she stepped back to stand watch beside the aperture.
“I wish to sit,” said the creature in a voice like flakes of rust.
Everyone stared at him. Davies scowled like the smoke from an oil fire, disturbed for reasons he might not have been able to name. A look of nausea twisted Alba’s face. Vector’s sweat and pallor gave him the appearance of an invalid. Ransum drummed her fingernails on her board as if their staccato beat kept her tension in check. Karster and the scan second were plainly appalled; maybe they’d never seen anything Amnion before. Gripping the arms of his seat, Scorz muttered dumb obscenities to himself.
The scars under Nick’s eyes appeared to curve like little grins. “Too bad,” he replied. “We don’t have any extra seats.”
The human half of the emissary’s face twitched at this announcement; the Amnion side didn’t. With exactly the same inflection, he repeated, “I wish to sit.”
Nick leaned forward as if his hostility made him eager. “Are you deaf? Is that why they gave you this job? Because you can’t hear? That’ll make you a tough sonofabitch to negotiate with. I said we don’t have any extra seats.”
The creature turned his head. He seemed to take note of Liete’s gun as well as Mikka’s. His discrepant eyes followed the curve of the bridge around in a circle. If he had any particular interest in Davies, or Morn, he didn’t show it.
As if he were unalterable—as if the Amnion had made him incapable of change—he said, “I wish to sit.”
“In that case,” Nick snapped, letting his anger show, “you might as well leave. If you’re going to waste our time demanding courtesies we haven’t got, we don’t have anything to talk about.”
The emissary’s nod suggested complete incomprehension. Again he said, “I wish to sit.”
A glare of bloody mirth filled Nick’s eyes. “All right, Mikka. Shoot off its legs. Then it can sit on the fucking deck.”
Mikka raised her pistol and took aim.
The Amnioni must have understood what he was hearing. He turned to regard Mikka. His human eye blinked rapidly, signaling agitation; his inhuman eye stared blankly. Then he returned his gaze to Nick.
“I wish to sit.”
Nick confronted the emissary as if he were perfectly willing to have the Amnioni dismembered. But the creature didn’t flinch or betray any other reaction—except by the semaphore of his human eye—and after a moment Nick flung up his hands. “Shit Almighty!” he groaned. “If this is the way you do business, we’re all going to die of boredom before we get anywhere.
“Sit there.” He stabbed a gesture at the helm station. “Ransum, out. Deactivate your board and let our guest fucking sit.”
Ransum jumped up; her fingers skittered across her console. As soon as all the indicators were dead, she backed out of the emissary’s way.
Expressionlessly the creature moved to the helm station and sat down. As if he were composing himself, he folded his mismatched hands together on the console.
“For your purposes,” he said like oxide being rubbed off old iron, “my name is Marc Vestabule. As you can see, I’m something of an experiment. I was once—one of you. The Amnion wished to see if we could alter my genetic identity without changing my form. The attempt was imperfectly successful.
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“However, my original identity gives me certain advantages in dealing with humans. I can”—he paused—“understand them.
“A few concepts fade, and at intervals I lose blocks of language. It appears that certain forms of knowledge and perception are genetically rather than neurologically encrypted. I mention this to account for myself in case my responses occasionally lack precision. Nevertheless I am normally proof against the denotative confusion which hampers our efforts to interpret human speech and thought. Therefore I have been invested with decisiveness. I am empowered to make commitments in this situation.
“What are your requirements?”
In his own way, Nick had been “invested with decisiveness.” Unwilling to appear hesitant, he said promptly, “As it happens, I’ve got several. Here’s the first one.
“I want an explanation.”
The emissary blinked and stared. “It is likely that I am able to understand you. However, it is clearly preferable that you do not rely on my ability to guess your meaning. Please be specific.”
“I want to know why this so-called ‘human offspring’ is suddenly so important. You weren’t interested in him earlier. Now you act like he’s something special. I want to know why.”
Vestabule remained momentarily silent, perhaps to suggest that he was considering the question. Then he replied, “Surely this is of no concern to you. For your purposes, our reasons can have no relevance. Your interest here has to do with the scale of our motivation, not its content. You want to know how much we are willing to pay.”
“Not necessarily,” Nick retorted. “I’m not sure I care how much you’re willing to pay. This deal is your idea, not mine. I’ve already got what I came for. And that includes the ‘human offspring.’ But I don’t like surprises. I don’t like mysteries. I want to know why you’re here. What makes this particular human valuable to you?”
“Very well,” the emissary conceded. Nick’s insistence didn’t cause him any discernible discomfort. “I will tell you that he represents an anomaly. He does not conform to established reality.
“Of course, the source of the anomaly is the human female.”
When she heard that, a fire as consuming as an orelaser seared through Morn. The source—The Amnion knew her secret. The doctor had discovered it while she was helpless in the crèche.
“The source does not interest us, however,” Vestabule continued. “We are interested in the ontology of the anomaly—its development and consequences.”
“Why not?” demanded Nick. “That sounds backward. Why aren’t you interested in the source?”
The answer was simple. “Because we understand it.”
“Be specific.”
No, Morn pleaded, don’t say it, don’t say it.
“We know why her condition does not conform to established reality. In your terms, we know why she did not go crazy when her mind was copied.”
Nick pursued his question unrelentingly. “Why?”
The emissary may have shrugged. If he did, his shipsuit disguised the movement. “Her mind was protected.”
“How?”
As if he were announcing Morn’s doom, Vestabule replied, “If her defenses were organic, they would interest us. But they are not. Her brain contains a radio electrode. Its emissions served to inhibit the particular neurochemical transmitters which relay fear.” Doom and rust. “Crudely put, she was unable to experience her own terror. We have some knowledge of these devices, but we were unfamiliar with this application.
“Surely you were aware of this. We speculate that your reason for coming here was to test her immunity. Otherwise you would not have risked her among us—unless you have some overriding purpose which concerns the human offspring.”
Nick was already out of his seat, surging at Morn. Even her artificial reflexes weren’t quick enough to dodge him—or to prevent Davies from trying to save her.
Jumping in front of her, Davies lashed a fist at Nick’s head.
Nick slipped the blow aside and charged past Davies as if he meant nothing.
At almost the same instant, Liete came up behind Davies, clubbed him to the floor with her handgun.
Nick plowed into Morn; he drove her back against the bulkhead. In a howl of rage and loss, he cried, “A zone implant! You’ve got a fucking zone implant! It was all a lie, all of it!”
Davies struggled to reach his feet, but his limbs were jelly; he collapsed to the floor again. Making sure of him. Liete knelt on his spine and pressed her gun against the base of his skull.
Energy and panic flamed in Morn; she burned to use it, ached to hit Nick in the face until his features were pulp and his own blood blinded him. But she forced herself to stand still. Her intentions were too extreme for simple violence. While he cocked his fist to hammer her head at the wall, she braced herself to duck; but she didn’t struggle.
“Nick!” Mikka’s yell cracked through the air. Her pistol jabbed between Morn’s face and Nick’s: its muzzle jammed into his scars. “Not now! Not here!”
Nick recoiled as if the command second had set a stunprod to his heart.
In an instant he regained his self-control. Slowly he raised one hand until his index finger pointed between Morn’s eyes.
“Kiss him good-bye. This is going to cost you everything. Starting with your son.”
His look was a blaze of murder, as bright and fatal as the scalpel Angus had once forced her to hold against her breast; deep blood made his scars seem new, as if she’d just caused them.
Lithe and feral, he returned to the command station and took his seat. Facing the emissary, he growled, “So you aren’t interested in the source. That’s good, because you can’t have her. What do you want to do with her brat?”
Vestabule appeared baffled, as if he didn’t know the word “brat.” Then his gaze clarified, and he answered, “Analyze him.
“We wish to determine what effect her immunity has on him, on the integrity of his knowledge, his memories, his reason. If humans—if I could have been spared my fear of the Amnion, my own mutation might have been more successful.”
Nick jerked a nod as if he understood—or didn’t care.
Davies made small whimpering noises, but Liete didn’t let him up.
Without inflection, the Amnioni asked again, “What are your requirements?”
Nick was in control of his movements, but his emotions were another matter. Ire crawled across his features. “What do you think?”
The emissary waited as if he considered the question rhetorical. Nick didn’t answer it, however; so Vestabule said, “A scan probe was sent to the point at which your ship emerged from the gap. Analysis of your particle trail suggests that you have suffered what might be called a tachyon accident. Certain emissions far surpass established norms. We speculate that your gap drive has failed. We speculate that you cannot depart Amnion space.”
“And since we’re stuck here,” Nick snarled, “no doubt you want to make us feel welcome. In fact, you probably want to make us all think we belong here.”
Vestabule’s human eye blinked like the shutter of a signaling lamp.
With an effort, Nick smoothed out his expression until only a taut grin remained. Almost casually, he asked, “Vector, what’re our requirements?”
The engineer had said that he wasn’t good enough. In addition, his manner earlier had suggested that he was distressed by the idea of trading Davies to the Amnion. Nevertheless he was one of Nick’s people: he didn’t let his doubts show in front of Marc Vestabule. Crisply he announced, “We need a hysteresis transducer and a modulation control for our gap field generator.” Then his tone sharpened. “And we need customized adapters to interface human and Amnion equipment.”
The emissary nodded. He’d come prepared for this deal. “It is acceptable. Conformity of purpose will be achieved through the mutual satisfaction of requirements.”
Nick didn’t echo the ritual. Instead he demanded, “When?”
Again Vestabule
may have shrugged. “The equipment itself can be delivered immediately. And suitable adapters are nearly ready. We have an interest in the ability to conform human and Amnion technologies. Efforts have already been made in design and preparation. If your engineer will provide mounting, contact, and load specifications, the growing of the adapters will be completed promptly.”
Keeping his face from Morn so that she couldn’t see his expression, Nick accepted the offer. “All right,” he muttered. “Conformity of purpose will be achieved through the mutual satisfaction of requirements.”
From the deck, Davies tried to snarl a curse. But Liete’s gun seemed to nail him down; he was helpless to move or protest.
More distinctly, Nick went on, “My engineer will transmit the specs in ten minutes. When the equipment and adapters are ready, the exchange will take place in our airlock. One Amnioni will bring what we need to the lock. The human offspring will be waiting there with one guard. We’ll trade. Then we’re going to seal the ship. As soon as our repairs are done, we’ll leave. Is that clear? No delays, no obstacles. You’ll assign us a departure trajectory, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”
“It is acceptable,” repeated Vestabule.
“Then what’re you waiting for?” Nick snapped harshly. “Go away. Just looking at you makes me feel like I’ve got hives.”
Without hesitation or haste, the emissary pushed himself out of the helm seat.
“Morn,” Davies groaned. He may have been asking her for help. Or he may have been lost in her memories, trying through the pain in his head and the pressure on his spine to figure out who he really was.
Closing her heart, Morn turned to Mikka.
The command second had resumed her post beside the aperture. Before anyone could interfere, Morn approached her. In a voice loud enough to carry, she told Mikka, “I’m going to my cabin. I presume you’re going to lock me in. You can do that from here.”
Mikka’s eyes were dark, almost bruised, but they didn’t waver.
More softly, Morn continued, “Let me know when the trade happens. Please. I can’t save him—and I know Nick isn’t going to let me talk to him. But even if he can’t hear me, I want to be able to say good-bye at the right time. I need that.”
Forbidden Knowledge: The Gap Into Vision Page 28
