Milos Taverner sighed, ran his hand back across
           his mottled scalp as if to verify that what
           remained of his hair was still present, and lit
another nic. Then he glared again at the transcript hard-
copy on his desk and tried to imagine an approach that
might work - without getting himself into so much
trouble that the people he was paid to please would turn
against him.
  He was responsible for the ongoing interrogation of
Angus Thermopyle.
  It wasn't going well.
  That pleased some people and infuriated others.
  Angus' trial had been a simple enough affair, as such
things went. Com-Mine Security had recovered the
pirated supplies. The search which located the supplies
aboard Angus' ship, Bright Beauty, had adequate legal
justification. With a number of vague, troubling ex-
ceptions, the evidence of the ship's datacore supported
the charges against him - the less damning ones. He



mounted no defense, apparently because he knew it was
futile. Everything was correct and in order; Angus
Thermopyle was guilty as charged.
  On the other hand, despite provocative rumors con-
cerning zone implants, rape, murder, and the wrecked
UMCP destroyer Starmaster, no evidence had turned up
to convict him of anything more serious than the bur-
glary of Station supplies. He was sentenced to life impris-
onment in Com-Mine Station's lockup; but the law
simply could not be stretched to include his execution.
  Case closed.
  Station Security had no intention whatsoever of letting
matters rest there.
  Milos Taverner had mixed feelings about that. He had
too many conflicting priorities to juggle.
  As Deputy Chief of Com-Mine Station Security,
interrogation was his responsibility. True, the present
charges against Angus Thermopyle had been adequately
proven - and true, the evidence didn't justify any other
charges. But Security knew Angus of old. His piracies
were a moral, if not a provable, certainty; his dealings
with illegals of every description, from druggers and psy-
chotics to the bootleg ore industry in all its guises, were
unquestionable, if indemonstrable. His crew had a dis-
tressing tendency to disappear. Additionally the un-
explained chain of circumstances which brought him
back to Com-Mine accompanied by a UMC cop who
should have died aboard Starmaster was profoundly
intriguing - not to mention disturbing.
  All things considered, Taverner couldn't question the
decision to keep after Angus Thermopyle until he broke
or died.



  Nevertheless the Deputy Chief didn't really want the
job. For a number of reasons.
  Because he was personally fastidious, he found Angus
repulsive. As far as anyone knew, an addiction to nic was
Milos' only vice. Even people he made no effort to please
would have admitted that he was clean, circumspect, and
correct in all his dealings. And no sane observer would
have ascribed those virtues to Angus.
  More than anything, he looked like a toad bloated by
malice. His bodily habits were offensive: he only took a
shower when the guards forced him into the san cubicle,
only put on a clean prisonsuit at stun-point. That and
the way he sweated made him smell like a pig. The color
of his skin was like ground-in grime. His mere existence
made Milos feel vaguely ill: his presence inspired a sense
of active nausea.
  In addition his eyes glared yellow with a belligerent
wisdom that made Milos feel exposed; dangerously
known.
  Angus was cunning, crafty; as insidious as disorder.
And people like that were risky to work with. They lied
in ways which confirmed their interrogators' illusions.
They learned from the questions they were asked, they
gained as much knowledge as they gave - as much or
more, in Angus' case - and they used that knowledge to
perfect their lies; to work for the ruin of their interrog-
ators even when they had nothing tangible to work
with and had themselves been worked over regularly by
experts to encourage cooperation. When they should
have been at their weakest, they became most malignant.
  Angus caused the Deputy Chief to feel that he himself



was the one being tested, the one whose secrets might
be laid bare; the one put to the question.
  And, as if all that weren't enough to contend with,
Milos had to wrestle daily with the fact that his interrog-
ation was potentially explosive. Angus Thermopyle was
an ore pirate. Therefore he had buyers. He had obtained
Bright Beauty by illegal - if unproven - means; had
outfitted her illegally. Therefore he had access to bootleg
shipyards. Some of his technology smelled alien, and his
records were patently too clean, even though they were
unimpeachably recorded in his ship's datacore. And all
those conclusions, all those strands of inference, ran in
only one direction.
  Forbidden space.
  Angus Thermopyle had dealings - direct or indirect
- with secrets destructive enough to shift the balances of
power everywhere in the United Mining Companies' vast
commercial empire. Those secrets could threaten the
security of every Station; perhaps they could threaten the
security of Earth.
  Milos Taverner wasn't sure he wanted those secrets to
come out. In fact, as time passed he became more and
more convinced that he needed them to remain hidden.
Angus' silence infuriated some of the people Milos was
paid to please: his secrets, if they were revealed, would
infuriate others. But the people who hated Angus' silence
were less immediately dangerous.
  On the other hand, every moment he spent with Angus
Thermopyle was recorded. Transcripts were regularly
reviewed on-Station. Copies were routinely forwarded to
the UMCP. The Deputy Chief of Com-Mine Station
Security couldn't tackle this assignment with anything



less than complete diligence and expect to get away with
it.No wonder he couldn't give up nic. He found the
habit disgusting in other people - and yet he couldn't
quit himself. Sometimes he thought nic was the only
thing that enabled his nerves to bear the stress.
  Fortunately Angus Thermopyle refused to participate
in his own interrogation.
  He faced down questions with unflagging hostility and
silence. He absorbed stun until he puked his guts out,
and his entire cell stank with ineradicable bile; but he
didn't talk. He suffered hunger, thirst, and sensory depri-
vation relentlessly. The one time he cracked was when
Milos informed him that Bright Beauty was being dis-
mantled for scrap and spare parts. But then he only
howled like a beast and did his best to wreck the interrog-
ation room; he didn't say anything.
  In Milos' opinion, telling Angus about Bright Beauty's
fate had been a mistake. He'd said so openly to his
superiors - after taking considerable pains to plant the
suggestion in their minds. It would reinforce Angus'
intransigence. They'd insisted on the ploy, however.
After all, nothing else seemed to work. The outcome
was about what Milos had expected. That was one small
victory, anyway.
  In other ways, most of the interrogation sessions were
unenlightening.
  How did you meet Morn Hyland?
  No answer.
  What were you doing together?
  No answer.



  Why would a UMC cop agree to crew for a murdering
illegal like you?
  No answer.
  What did you do to her?
  Angus' glare never wavered.
  How did you get those supplies? How did you get
into the holds? Computer security wasn't tampered with.
Nothing happened to the guards. There's no sign you
cut your way in. The ventilation ducts aren't big enough
for those crates. How did you do it?
  No answer.
  How did Starmaster die?
  No answer.
  How did Morn Hyland survive?
  No answer.
  She said she didn't trust Station Security. She said
Starmaster must have been sabotaged - she said it must
have been done here. Why did she trust you instead of
us?No answer.
  Why were you there? How did you just happen to be
in the vicinity when Starmaster's thrust drive destructed?
  No answer.
  You said - Milos consulted his hardcopy - you were
close enough to pick up the blast on scan. You implied
you knew a disaster had occurred, and you wanted to
help. Is that true?
  No answer.
  Isn't it true that Starmaster was after you? Isn't it true
she caught you in the act of some crime? Isn't it true
you crashed when she chased you? Isn't that how Bright
Beauty got hurt?



  No answer.
  Sucking nic so he wouldn't start to shake, Milos
Taverner studied the ceiling, the stacks of hardcopy in
front of him; he studied Angus' stained face. Angus'
cheeks used to be fat, bloated like his belly; not anymore.
Now his jowls hung from his jaw, and his prisonsuit
sagged down his frame. The punishment he received had
cost him weight. Nevertheless his physical deterioration
didn't weaken the way his eyes fixed, yellow and threaten-
ing, on his tormentor.
  Take him outside,' Milos sighed to the guards. 'Soften
him up. Again.'
  Shit, the Deputy Chief thought when he was alone.
He didn't like foul language: 'shit' was the strongest
expletive he used.
  You shit. I shit. He shits. We all shit.
  Now who am I supposed to be loyal to?
  He went back to his office and made his usual reports,
dealt with his usual duties. After that, he rode the lift
down to Communications and used Security's dedicated
channels to tight-beam several transmissions in his pri-
vate code, none of them recorded. Just to reassure him-
self, he put through a data req which - when an answer
came - would tell him the balance of the bank account
he held on Sagittarius Unlimited under an alternative
name. Then he resumed Angus Thermopyle's interrog-
ation.
  What else could he do?
  His one and only definite opportunity to break his
prisoner came when Angus attempted to escape.
  In spite of his personal intransigence, his plain soci-
opathy, Angus was hit hard by what Milos told him about



Bright Beauty. When his burst of grief or fury was over,
he didn't crumble in any obvious sense. He was failing,
of course, worn down by the physical stress of interrog-
ation and stun; but in front of Milos Taverner, at least, he
preserved his uncooperative demeanor. Nevertheless his
behavior when he was alone in his cell changed. He began
eating less; he spent hours sitting on his lean bunk,
staring at the wall. Observers reported that his manner
was listless, almost unreactive; that when he stared at the
wall his eyes didn't shift, didn't appear to focus on any-
thing. As a matter of course, Milos ran this information
through Security's psy-profile computer. The program
paradigms suggested that Angus Thermopyle was losing,
or had already lost, his will to live. In the absence of
that will, the use of stun as an aid to questioning was
contraindicated. Angus could die.
  Milos thought Angus was faking his loss of will in an
effort to get his punishment eased. The Deputy Chief
decided to ignore the computer.
  That was another small victory. His judgment was
confirmed when Angus contrived to beat up his guard
and break out of his cell. He got as far as the service shaft
which led into the labyrinth of the waste processing plant
before he was recaptured.
  Shit, Milos said to himself over and over again. He
was using the word much too often, but he didn't have
any other way to express his visceral disgust. He didn't
want Angus' interrogation to succeed - but now he had
a lever he could use, and he would never get away with
not using it.
  When he'd issued certain very explicit instructions, so
that his own plans wouldn't be compromised, he let the



guards have Angus for a while to vent their frustrations.
Then he had Angus brought in front of him again.
  In a sense, stun wasn't a very satisfying outlet for frus-
tration. Its effects were strong, but it felt impersonal; the
convulsions it produced were caused by mere neuro-
muscular reaction to an electric charge. So this time the
guards hadn't used stun: they'd used their fists, their
boots, perhaps a sap or two. As a result, when Angus
reached the interrogation room he could hardly walk. He
sat like a man with cracked ribs; his face and ears oozed
blood; he'd lost a tooth or two; his left eye was swollen
shut in a grotesque parody of Warden Dios.
  Milos found Angus' condition distasteful. Also it
scared him because it increased his chances of success.
Nevertheless he gave it his approval before he dismissed
the guards.
  He and Angus were alone.
  Smoking so hard that the air conditioning couldn't
keep up with it, he left Angus to sit and sweat while he
keyed a number of commands into his computer console.
Let Angus' resolve erode under the pressure of silence.
Alternatively, let him use the respite to recover his deter-
mination. Milos didn't care. He needed the time to take
the risk on which he'd decided to stake his own safety,
even though the dangers made his fingers tremble and
his guts feel like water.
  He was preparing the computer to provide two record-
ings of this session. One would be the actual recording:
the other would be a dummy designed to protect him in
an emergency.
  When the session was over, he could use whichever
recording he needed. He was the Deputy Chief of Secur-



ity: he knew how to take all trace of the other recording
out of the computer.
  But if he were caught before then-
  The rather imprecise nature of his loyalties would be
exposed. He would be ruined.
  Deep in his guts, he hated Angus for putting him in
this position.
  He couldn't afford to falter, however. Once his prep-
arations were complete, he hid his hands behind the
console and faced Angus across the table. Covering his
anxiety with assertiveness, he didn't waste any time
coming to the point.
  That guard died.' This was a lie, but Milos had made
certain no one would betray the truth to Angus. We've
got you for murder. Now you're going to talk. I won't
even try to bargain with you. You're going to talk, you're
going to tell me everything I want to know, everything
you can think of, and you're going to hope we consider
what you're saying valuable enough so that we won't
have you executed.'
  Angus didn't reply. For once, he didn't look at his
interrogator. His head hung down; it seemed to dangle
from his neck as if his spine had been broken.
  'Do you understand me?' Milos demanded. 'Have you
got the brains left to know what I'm saying? You are
going to die if you don't give me what I want. We're
going to strap you down and stick a needle in your veins.
After that, you'll just be dead, you won't even feel it
happen, and nobody will ever care what happens to you
again.'
  That last sentence was a mistake: Milos felt it as soon
as he said it. For a moment, Angus' shoulders twitched.



He should have been crying - any other prisoner with a
scrap of human frailty would have been crying - but he
wasn't. As soon as Angus raised his head, Milos saw that
he was trying to laugh.
  'Care what happens to me?' Angus' voice sounded like
his face, bloody and beaten. 'You motherfucker.'
  Unfortunately 'motherfucker' was a word Milos par-
ticularly disliked. Helpless to stop himself, he flushed.
He tried to conceal his reaction behind another nic, but
he knew Angus had seen him. He couldn't control the
tremor in his hands.
  The damage to Angus' features made him look
maniacal. Glaring at Milos, he said, 'I'll talk, all right.
As soon as you file your murder charge, I'll talk. I'll talk
to everybody.'
  Milos stared back at Angus. Angus was the only one
of them sweating, but Milos felt that he himself was the
only one afraid.
  'I'll tell them,' Angus said, 'there's a traitor in Security.'
He said the words as if he could prove them whenever
he wanted. 'I'll even tell them who it is. I'll tell them how
I know. I'll tell them how to be sure I'm telling the truth.
As soon as you file your charge.
  'I'll trade his name for immunity. Or maybe' - Angus
was sneering - 'I'll try for a pardon.'
  Tensing against the distress in his bowels, Milos asked,
Who is it?'
  Angus' glare didn't waver. When you file your charge.'
  Milos did the best he could to face down the danger.
'You're bluffing.'
  'You're bluffing,' Angus retorted. 'You aren't going to
file that charge. You don't want to find out what I know.



You never have.' Then he concluded happily, 'Mother-
fucker.'
  Milos bit down on his nic. Because he was fastidious,
he felt no desire to assault his prisoner physically. He
didn't want the sensations of Angus' sweat and pain on
his hands. Instead he keyed a command that brought the
guards back. When they arrived, he instructed them to
take Angus away. Then, abruptly, he became calm.
  The trembling was gone from his fingers as he dumped
the actual recording from the computer and substituted
his dummy. After that he stubbed out his nic, thinking,
Filthy habit. I'm going to quit. Remembering that he'd
made similar commitments in the past, he added, I mean
it. Really.
  At the same time, in a part of his mind which had
suddenly become a separate compartment, like a com-
puter file that couldn't be accessed without a secret com-
mand, he was thinking, Shit. Shitshit. Shitshitshit.
  He appeared quite normal and perfectly correct as he
went down to Communications to make two or three
tight-beam transmissions which weren't recorded,
couldn't be traced, and might have been impossible to
decipher if they were intercepted. Then he returned to
his office and continued working.
  The recording of his session with Angus attracted no
particular attention, and deserved none.
  Angus resumed his yellow-eyed and irreducible silence.
  On Com-Mine Station, nothing changed.
  Milos Taverner might as well have been safe.
  Nevertheless when the order came through to have
Angus Thermopyle frozen, Milos heaved a sigh of
entirely private and malicious relief.



Morn Hyland didn't open her mouth from the
           moment when Nick Succorso grabbed her
           arm and steered her through the chaos in Mal-
lorys to the time when he and his people brought her to
the docks where his frigate, Captain's Fancy, was berthed.
His grip was hard, so hard it made her forearm numb
and her fingers tingle, and the trip was a form of flight;
frightened, almost desperate. She was running with all
her courage away from Angus even though Nick never
moved faster than a brisk walk. Nevertheless she clung
to the zone implant control in her pocket, kept both fists
buried in the pockets of her shipsuit to mask the fact that
she was concealing something, and let Nick's grasp guide
her.The passages and corridors were strangely empty.
Security had cleared them in case Angus' arrest turned
into a fight. The boots of Nick's crew struck echoes off
the decking: the knot of men and women protecting
Morn from Station intervention moved as if they were



followed by a suggestion of thunder, metallic and omin-
ous; as if Angus and the crowd in Mallorys were after
her. Her heart strained against her lungs, filling her with
pressure. If anybody stopped her now, she would have
no defense against a charge which carried the death
penalty. But she fixed her gaze straight ahead of her, kept
her mouth shut, clenched her fists in her pockets; let
Nick's people sweep her along.
  Then they reached the docks. Beyond the clutter of
tracks and cables between the gantries lay Nick's ship.
She missed her footing on a power line and couldn't use
her hands to catch herself; but Nick hauled her up again,
kept her going. Here the danger of being stopped was
gravest. Station Security was everywhere, guarding the
docks as well as the cargo inspectors, dock-engine drivers,
stevedores, and crane operators. If Nick's deal with
Security fell apart-
  But nobody made any move to stop her, or the people
protecting her. The Station lock stood open; Captain's
Fancy's remained shut until one of Nick's crew keyed it.
  Nick took Morn inside, nearly drove her through the
airlocks with the force of his grip.
  After the expanse of the docks, she had the sensation
that she was entering a small space - almost that she was
being cornered. The frigate's lighting seemed dim and
cloying compared to the arc lamps outside. She'd done
everything she could think of to get away from Angus:
she'd committed herself to this when she accepted the
zone implant control. But now she caught her first
glimpse of the place she was escaping to, the constricted
passages of an unknown ship, and she nearly balked.
  Captain's Fancy was a trap: she recognized that. For a



moment the knowledge that she was going aboard
another ship, another ship, where there was little hope
and certainly no help, came close to seizing her muscles,
paralyzing her like a spasm.
  Then all Nick's people were aboard; and she had no
time for paralysis. The airlock cycled closed. Nick Suc-
corso took hold of her by the shoulders: he was about to
put his arms around her. This was what he'd rescued her
for - to possess her. The first crisis of her new life was
upon her, when she was so full of alarm that she wanted
to strike at him, drive his touch away.
  Nevertheless she had the presence of mind to stop him
by saying, 'No heavy g.'
  Morally more than physically, Morn Hyland was
exhausted to the core of her bones. Under the circum-
stances, perhaps the best that could be said about her was
that she was half insane from rape and gap-sickness, from
horror and panic and Angus' manipulation of her zone
implant. During her weeks with him, she'd done and
experienced things which would have sent her into cater-
wauling nightmares if she'd had the strength to dream.
And then, despite everything, she'd saved his life. To
all appearances, she'd been conquered by the desperate
vulnerability which made the victims of terrorists fall in
love with them.
  Appearances were deceptive, however. She hadn't
fallen in love: she'd made a deal. The price was that she
was here, aboard Nick's ship, at his mercy. The rec-
ompense was that she had the control to her zone implant
in her pocket.
  Saving Angus may have been the only cold-bloodedly
crazy act of her relatively young life.



  But if she'd lost her mind, she was still only half insane.
No one who was totally mad could have come through
that ordeal with the presence of mind to protest to Nick
Succorso, 'Please. No heavy g. Not without warning me.'
  She may have been cornered, but she wasn't beaten.
  Her gambit succeeded. He stopped, stared at her
oddly. She could see that he was suspicious. He wanted
her. He also wanted to know what was going on. And
he needed to get his ship away from Com-Mine.
  What's the matter?' he demanded. 'You sick or
something?'
  'I'm too weak. He-' She managed a shrug as eloquent
as Angus' name. 'I need time to recover.'
  Then she forced her mind blank, as she'd done so often
with Angus, so that her visceral abhorrence of any male
contact wouldn't make her do anything foolish - like
kneeing Nick in the groin when he embraced her.
  He was accustomed to women who dropped dead with
pleasure when he took them. He wouldn't have been
amused by the truth of how she felt about him.
  He also wouldn't have been amused by the real reason
she dreaded heavy g.
  That was the key to her gap-sickness, the trigger which
made her truly and helplessly insane. It had caused her
to wreck Starmaster, to attempt a total self-destruct, even
though Starmaster's captain was her father and much of
the crew was family; even though Starmaster was a
UMCP destroyer which had just watched Angus
Thermopyle slaughter an entire mining camp.
  Gap-sickness was the sole justification of any kind for
the zone implant Angus had placed in her brain - or for
the zone implant control she now held. And that control



was her only secret; her only defense when she went
aboard Captain's Fancy. She would have tried to kill any-
body who took it away from her.
  To deflect his suspicions, she was prepared to tell Nick
as much about Starmaster as he wished, even though the
ship was entirely classified and Morn herself was a cop.
As a last resort, she would tell him how Starmaster died.
But she would never tell him that Angus had given her
a zone implant - and then let her have the control.
  Never.
  She was a cop: that was the problem. She was a cop -
and 'unauthorized use' of a zone implant was the single
worst crime she could commit, short of treason. The fact
that she was helping Angus Thermopyle by hiding the
control to her own zone implant only made matters
worse. She'd dedicated her life to fighting men like him
and Nick Succorso, to fighting evils like piracy and the
unauthorized use of zone implants.
  But she knew what the control could do for her. Angus
had taught her that, inadvertently but well. It'd become
more important than her oath as a UMC cop, more
precious than her honor. She would never give it up.
  Rather than betray the truth about herself, she did her
best to go blank so that she wouldn't react as if Nick
were Angus when he kissed her.
  Fortunately her ploy worked. He had more immediate
exigencies to consider. And, after all, the idea that Angus
had left her sick and damaged was plausible. Nick
released her suddenly and wheeled away.
  Over his shoulder, he told his second, 'Assign her a
cabin. Get her food. Cat if she wants it. God knows what
that bastard did to her.'



  As he strode away, Morn heard him say, We're leav-
ing. Now.' He had hunger in his voice and a livid flush
in the scars under his eyes. 'Security doesn't want us to
hang around. That's part of the deal.'
  Morn knew what his hunger meant. But now she
would have a little time to get ready for it.
  Inside her shipsuit she was sweating so fearfully that
she reeked of it.
  Nick's second, a woman named Mikka Vasaczk, was
in a hurry. Maybe she was eager to get to the bridge
herself. Or maybe she knew she was being supplanted,
and didn't like it. Whatever the reason, she was brusque
and quick.
  That suited Morn.
  Riding the soft pressure of hydraulics, they took the
lift down - 'down' would become 'up' as soon as Cap-
tain's Fancy undocked and engaged her own internal-g
spin - to the cabin deck which wrapped around the ship's
holds, engines, databanks, scan- and armament-drivers.
Captain's Fancy was luxurious by any standards, and she
had more than one cabin for passengers. Mikka Vasaczk
guided Morn to the nearest of these, ushered her inside,
showed her how to code the lock and key the intercom.
Then the second demanded, not quite politely, 'You want
anything?'
  Morn wanted so many things that her desire left her
weak. With an effort, she replied, 'I'm all right. I just
need sleep. And safety.'
  Mikka had assertive hips; she moved like she knew
how to use them in a variety of ways. The way she cocked
them now suggested a threat.



  'Don't count on it,' she grunted sardonically. 'None of
us are safe while you're aboard.
  'You'd better be careful. Nick has better sense than you
think.'
  Without waiting for a reply, she left. The door swept
shut behind her automatically.
  Morn felt like weeping. She felt like curling herself into
a ball and cowering in the corner. But she had no time
for tears and cowardice. Her bare survival was in doubt.
If she couldn't find a way to defend herself now, she
would never get another chance.
  First she tapped a code into the keypad of the lock, not
because that would keep people out - the ship's computer
could override her instructions whenever Nick wished -
but because it would slow them down; it would warn
her when somebody was about to enter.
  Then she took out the control to her zone implant.
  That small black box was her doom. It showed how
much Angus had cost her, how deep the damage he'd
done her ran. Her ruin was so profound that she was
willing to turn her back on her father and the UMCP
and every ideal she'd held worthy - and turn her back,
too, on rescue by Com-Mine Security, which would have
led to every form of help and comfort the UMCP had at
its command, as well as to Angus' execution - for the
sake of control over her own zone implant.
  But she also knew the control was her last hope. That
was true no matter where she went: it was only more
obvious aboard Captain's Fancy, not more true. With the
zone implant, Angus Thermopyle had made her less than
she could bear to be. He'd taught her that her physical
and moral being were despicable; mere things to be used



or abused with impunity, and then discarded if they failed
to satisfy him; ill-made objects with no claim on respect.
By the same logic, however, the zone implant was the
only means by which she could become more than she
was. It was her only way past her smallness, past the
contemptibility of her own resources. It was power - and
she'd been powerless too long. Without it she would
never recover from the harm she'd suffered. Nothing
else could counteract the lessons Angus had taught her.
  Therefore she was dependent on it - and therefore she
had to avoid any kind of external help. Com-Mine Station
and the UMCP would have done everything they could
think of for her; but they would have taken the control
away. In effect they would have abandoned her to her
unworth.
  Once she'd said to Angus, Give me the control. I need it
to heal. But he'd refused her then, and now her needs
were altogether more absolute.
  At the moment, however, they were simply more
immediate.
  If Nick knew - or guessed - that she had a zone
implant, how long would she be able to keep the control
itself secret? More than anything, she needed energy.
Energy to force down her fear; energy to face him.
Energy to distract him.
  The zone implant could give her that. It could suppress
her brain's necessary ability to acknowledge fatigue.
Unfortunately she only knew what the implant could do:
she didn't know how to use it. Of course, she could read
the labels imprinted above the buttons; but she didn't
know how to tune them, how to combine them to pro-



ducc specialized effects. She could only make her implant
function at its crudest.
  That had to change. She would be fatally vulnerable
until she gained complete mastery over the control, over
herself; until she could play her own nerves and synapses
the way Angus Thermopyle had played them.
  To learn that kind of mastery she needed time. A lot
of time.
  Right now, the best she could hope for was a few
hours.
  None of us are safe while you're aboard. She ignored that.
You'd better be careful. Nick has better sense than you think.
She dismissed everything except her immediate problem.
Her cabin had a private san cubicle and head - and one
of the cabinets beside the head held a guest supply of
toiletries and personal items; even a small mending kit
for torn shipsuits. She took tweezers and used them to
open the cover of her zone implant control. Then, with
a needle from the kit, she scraped a gap in a tiny section
of the control's circuitry - the section which enabled the
control to render her helpless by blocking the link
between her brain and body. Angus had used that func-
tion often: it allowed him to do what he wanted to her
flesh while her mind could only watch and wail.
  As well as she could, she made sure that nobody would
ever again have the power to simply turn her off. Her
electronics training in the Academy was good for that,
anyway.
  Her fingers were trembling by the time she was done,
and she was terrified that she'd made a mistake. But she
couldn't afford to be terrified. None of us are safe while
you're aboard. She also couldn't afford mistakes. Nick



wanted her. But to her 'wanting' meant Angus; it meant
brutality and rape. Nick has better sense than you think.
Fighting the shakes, she closed the control cover. Delib-
erately circumspect, she returned the evidence of what
she'd done - the tweezers and needle - to the san. Then
she sat down on the berth with her back braced against
the bulkhead, raised the control, and touched a button.
  At once a wonderful lassitude washed through her.
Her body seemed to fill up with rest as though she had
a syringe of cat plugged into her veins. Drowsiness
spread balm along her limbs, soothed ravaged nerve-
endings, denatured old and essential anxieties. She
relaxed slowly down the bulkhead; her head nodded over
her chest.
  Healing. Safety. Peace.
  She was nearly asleep before the desperation she'd
learned from Angus came to her rescue.
  That sting of panic gave her the strength to turn off
the control.
  When reality flooded back into her muscles and
neurons, sheer visceral disappointment brought tears to
her eyes.
  But she already knew that living with a zone implant
wasn't easy. She didn't expect it to be easy: she expected
to be in command of it.
  She had a nagging sense that she was asking too much
of herself, that no human being could do what she
intended and get away with it; that the law against 'un-
authorized use' was absolutely reasonable. In order to
make the zone implant serve her effectively, she needed
something akin to prescience - a kind of crystal ball.
The control included a timer, and that would help. But



suppose she decided to risk the rest her body craved.
How could she know how long it was safe to sleep?
Suppose she turned on energy by suppressing fatigue in
an attempt to get through heavy g without going mad.
How could she know how much was necessary, or how
long her flesh could stand the strain? For that matter,
how could she know which centers of her brain were
involved in her gap-sickness, which parts of herself she
should stifle in order to avoid that state of lunatic calm
when the universe spoke to her and told her what to
destroy?
  She would be guessing every step of the way. And
every guess was dangerous. Any mistake, any miscalcu-
lation, any accident might betray her to Nick.
  But the problem went deeper. Angus' use of her had
left her half insane and profoundly weary, even though
he'd frequently imposed rest on her. How could she
know that madness and exhaustion weren't endemic to
the use of a zone implant? How could she know that her
efforts to save herself weren't about to damn her?
  She couldn't know. She wasn't wise enough to tamper
with herself this way.
  On the other hand, she was here because Angus had
driven her half insane. There was no escape that didn't
also involve insanity.
  A small thunk carried through the ship's hull - the
characteristic jolt of undocking. When the grapples and
cables snapped clear, everyone aboard always knew it.
  Morn was running out of time.
  As Captain's Fancy floated free, g disappeared. The
involuntary contraction of her muscles, bracing herself
against undock, sent her adrift in the cabin.



  In moments, however, the intercom piped a warning,
and the bridge crew engaged the spin that produced
internal g. The berth reoriented itself; Morn settled to
the new floor.
  Such maneuvers were familiar to her. Instead of dis-
tress, she felt simple gratitude that Nick engaged g so
soon. Most captains liked to run a considerable distance
out from dock - to be sure they were clear, and to refresh
their recollection of zero g - before they took on the
inertia! inflexibility of spin.
  Grimly she pushed another button.
  Wrong one, wrong one, this button brought pain, the
entire surface of her skin seemed to catch flame. Angus
had told her that her father was flash-blinded when she
blew up Starmaster's thrust drive. His face must have felt
like this, all fire and agony, every nerve excoriated beyond
bearing.
  Her muscles convulsed in a spasm of fire and remem-
brance. She stabbed wildly at the control, trying to hit
CANCEL.
  She missed. Instead, she got the button she'd already
tried, the one that made her rest.
  The effect astonished her. In an instant, she was trans-
formed.
  It was magic, a kind of neural alchemy. Out of absolute
pain, it created something she needed more than energy,
something which would enable her to deal with Nick -
something which Angus had never tried on her, either
because he didn't know what it would do or because he
didn't want it.
  In a sense, the combination she'd keyed didn't ease the
pain, not entirely. Instead the hurt was translated almost



miraculously into something quite different - a sensual
ache which focused itself in the most sensitive parts of
her body, so that the tips of her breasts burned as if they
could be quenched by kisses, and her mouth and loins
became hot and damp, hungry for penetration.
  For several moments she was so overwhelmed by the
sensations of desire that she couldn't stop them. She
didn't realize she was writhing hungrily on the berth until
thrust ran through Captain's Fancy and caught her off
balance, toppled her to the floor.
  Not much thrust: just enough to get the ship
underway. Nevertheless the fall restored Morn's self-
awareness; she grabbed the control and canceled it.
  Then she clung to the berth and breathed hard, trying
to absorb the shock of sensation and discovery.
  She'd found it, the answer to her immediate problem:
a way of responding to Nick that wasn't predicated on
revulsion. For the time being, she now had the means
to endure his touch.
  And if, like Angus', Nick's lust included the desire to
inflict pain, she would be able to experience it as pleasure.
She would be protected-
  No wonder Angus had never used this particular func-
tion. It would have made her paradoxically invulnerable:
accessible to everything his hate required; inaccessible
to terror.
  Now she could rest. At the moment, the only guess
she had to make was, when would Nick come? how much
time did she have? Thrust complicated the direction of
Captain's Fancy's g; it made movement around the cabin
awkward. All the more reason to roll into the berth,
velcro herself secure, and let her exhaustion take her



away. When he arrived, she would have to face his sus-
picions. Whatever they were. Until then-
  She didn't do it. Angus Thermopyle had taught her
more things than either of them realized. There were still
precautions she could take, ways to camouflage the truth.
  She went back to work on her door lock.
  This time she keyed the door to open on request -
after a five-second delay, and a chime to warn her that
someone wanted in.
  Then, bracing herself against the tug of complex g, she
moved into the san, peeled off the ill-fitting shipsuit
Angus had given her, consigned it to the disposal chute,
and took a long shower. She didn't emerge until her arms
felt leaden from scrubbing herself, and the san's suction
had dried her pristine. She couldn't wash away her
crime, but the shower made her skin more comfortable.
  After that, she stretched out naked on the berth and
hid her zone implant control under the head of the mat-
tress; she pulled the blanket up to her chin and sealed
the velcro strips.
  While thrust took the ship away from Com-Mine
Station - away from sanity and any conceivable help -
she settled her clean body in the clean berth and began
doing what she could to evolve contingency plans.
Under the influence of the zone implant, she wouldn't
be able to think effectively. She had to prepare herself
now for whatever might happen.
  Maybe it was a good thing Angus had given her so
much enforced rest. No matter how her head - or her
soul - felt, her body really didn't need sleep.
  Captain's Fancy would do a certain amount of maneuv-
ering when she left dock, getting clear of Com-Mine's



gear and grapples, the antennae and ports and gantries,
the tugs and other ships; assuming attitude and trajectory
for departure. That, presumably, would occupy Nick's
attention for a white. Of course, he wouldn't be obliged
to oversee any of this personally: his bridge crew could
handle it. Mikka Vasaczk looked like she could handle
almost anything. But most captains enjoyed the business
of running out from Station. All that communication
with center and all those routine decisions could be made
by habit; but it was good to refresh the habits, good to
renew the priorities and necessities of command. In fact,
most captains wouldn't consider leaving the bridge until
they were well outside Station control space, beyond the
likelihood of encountering other ships. Morn didn't
expect that much diligence from Nick Succorso; but she
did expect him to make sure Captain's Fancy got away
clean before he turned over the bridge to anyone else.
  She would have that much time before he put her to
the test.

She was right. Whether he intended to or not, he gave
her that time.
  When he came for her, she was as ready as possible,
under the circumstances.
  She had to compartmentalize her mind to do it. Angus
Thermopyle in one box; everything he'd done to her in
another. The harsh death of Starmaster. Her gap-sickness.
Revulsion. Fear of discovery. Everything dangerous,
everything that could paralyze or appall her, had to be
separated and locked away, so that she could be at least
approximately intelligent in her decisions.



  Will-power was like the zone implant: it dissociated
mind and body, action and consequence.
  Angus had taught her that, too, without knowing it.
  When the door chimed, she felt a new shock wave run
through her, the brisance of panic. Nevertheless by her
own choice she'd entered a world of absolute risk, where
nothing could save her except herself. Before her door
opened, she reached under the mattress and hit the com-
bination of buttons her life depended on. Then she rolled
over to face the man who'd rescued her.
  Nick Succorso looked like he belonged in the romantic
stories people told about him back on Com-Mine; like
the stories were true. He had smoldering eyes and a buc-
caneer's grin, and he carried himself with the kind of
virile assurance that made every movement seem like an
enticement. His hands knew how to be gentle; his voice
conveyed a caress. Those things alone might have made
him desirable. But in addition he was dangerous - notori-
ously dangerous. The scars under his eyes hinted at
fierceness: they showed that he was a man who played
for blood. When his passions made those scars turn dark,
they promised that he was a man who played for blood,
and won.
  He entered her room as if he were already sure that
she could never say no to him.
  Morn Hyland knew virtually nothing about him. He
was a pirate, a competitor of Angus Thermopyle's; as
illegal as hell. And, like Angus, he was male. In fact, the
differences between him and Angus were cosmetic, not
substantive. He'd only been able to trap Angus by
making use of a traitor in Com-Mine Security. That was
all she had to go on.



  Nevertheless she was in no danger of seeing him in
romantic terms. She knew too much about what piracy
- and maleness - cost their victims.
  But instead of nausea, or panic, or the deep black
horror which had lurked in the back of her mind, waking
or sleeping, since the destruction of Starmaster, she felt
a yearning heat arise. Her blood became a kind of liquid
need, and the nerves of her skin seemed to leap into focus
like avid scan. That sensation helped her raise her arms
as if she wanted Nick to come straight into her embrace.
  He replied with a smile, and his scars intensified his
eyes; but when he'd stepped into the cabin and locked
the door behind him, he didn't approach closer. He
studied her hard, although his manner was relaxed. After
a moment he said easily, We don't have any choice about
heavy g. That bastard did us damage. My engineer says
we've got a gap flutter. We might go into tach and never
come out. If we want to get anywhere, we'll have to use
all the thrust we've got.'
  He paused; he seemed to want Morn to say something.
Better sense than you think. But she didn't respond. The
problem of g could wait: it didn't scare her now, not
with this warm ache surging through her veins and every
inch of her skin alive. As long as Nick was in her cabin,
she was safe from gap-sickness. Captain's Fancy wouldn't
increase thrust now: his hunger wasn't something he
could satisfy under hard acceleration.
  She held out her arms and waited. She couldn't see
her own face; but the way she felt must have been plain
to him.
  He came nearer, balancing against the ship's move-
ment effortlessly. With one hand, he unsealed the



blanket's velcro and flipped it aside. In one of the com-
partments of her mind, she flinched and tried to cover
herself again. But that compartment was closed; shut off.
All of her body aspired to his caress. She arched her back,
lifting her breasts for him.
  Still he didn't touch her; he didn't come into her
embrace. Instead he reached for the id tag on its fine
chain around her neck.
  He couldn't read the codes, of course, not without
plugging the tag into a computer. And he couldn't access
any of her confidential files without plugging her tag into
a Security or UMCP computer. However, like virtually
everyone in human space, he knew what the embossed
insignia meant.
  'You're a cop,' he said.
  He didn't sound surprised.
  Didn't sound surprised.
  Through the pressure mounting inside her, she
thought, He should be surprised. Then she realized: No.
He had an ally in Com-Mine Security. He could have
known from the day he first saw her that she was a cop.
  That possibility might help protect her. It would
encourage him to think about her in terms of covert
operations and betrayal, not helplessness and zone
implants.
  'You rescued me.' Her voice was husky, crowded with
desires which transcended reason or fear. 'I'll be anything
you want me to be.'
  For the moment that was true. The zone implant made
it true. She took hold of his hand, drew it to her mouth,
kissed his fingers. They left a trace of salt on her tongue



- the sweat of his concentration when he ran Captain's
Fancy out from Station; the sweat of his hunger.
  And yet, despite the way her whole body urged him,
he still held back. The demands of the zone implant
mounted in her; synapses she couldn't control fired out
messages of need. She didn't want him to talk; she
wanted him to come to her, come into her, quench him-
self in the center of her.
  'Is this the approach you used on Captain Thermo-
pile? Is that why he kept you alive?'
  'No,' she said automatically, 'no,' without thinking.
But she needed to think, had to think, because the next
words she would say without thinking were, He didn't
use this combination.
  Her own hunger seemed like a roar in her ears.
Swallowing hard to muffle it, to equalize the pressure,
she offered the cheapest answer Nick might accept.
'You've seen him. I left him for you. I couldn't feel this
way about him.'
  She knew nothing about him. Maybe he would be
vain enough to accept that.
  He wasn't. Or his vanity was too profound to be satis-
fied cheaply. He didn't move; his smile was crooked and
bloodthirsty. Try again.'
  Try again. Try again. She couldn't think. She wasn't
supposed to think, not while the zone implant did this to
her. What could she tell Nick that would be true enough
to be believed and false enough to protect her?
  'Please, Nick,' she said, almost whimpering with
urgency, 'can't we talk about this later? I want you now.'
  He smiled and smiled but he didn't relent. Instead, he
ran his hand down her chest and circled her breast with



his fingertips. Involuntarily this time, she arched her back
again. His smile and his eyes gave her no warning as he
nicked her nipple hard with one of his fingernails.
  Just for an instant the balance of the zone implant
shifted toward pain. She gasped; she nearly screamed.
  'Your name is Morn Hyland,' he said almost kindly.
'You're UMCP. And Angus Thermo-pile is the slimiest
illegal between forbidden space and Earth. He's sewage
- and you're one of the elite, you work for Min Donner.
He should have obliterated you. He should have taken
you apart atom by atom, and never risked coming back
to Com-Mine. Tell me why he kept you alive.'
  Fortunately the functions of the control recovered their
poise almost immediately. Her scream evaporated as if
it'd never existed.
  'Because he needed crew,' she answered. True enough
to be believed. 'He was alone on Bright Beauty. And I
was alone on Starmaster -I was the only survivor.' False
enough to protect her. There was nothing I could do
to threaten him. So I made a deal with him. He could
have left me to die.' She couldn't think - but she'd made
herself ready to answer him. 'He kept me alive to crew
for him.'
  Perhaps because she burned for him so hotly, she
seemed to see Nick struggling with himself. His scars
were black with blood; everything he looked at was
underlined by primal and acquisitive passion. His fingers
stroked her nipple as if to wipe away the hurt. She felt a
tremor in his muscles as he bent over her and lightly
kissed her breast.
  That's not good enough.' His voice seemed to stick
far back in his throat; it came out in a rasp. 'But it's a



start. Right now, I want you. You can tell us all the rest
later.'
  When Morn heard him unfasten his shipsuit, what was
left of her mind went blank with anticipation.
  Now at last she had a chance to learn what she needed
most to know about him.
  She had no conception of the romantic way her escape
from Angus Thermopyle to Nick Succorso was viewed
back on Com-Mine. The idea that anything about her
situation was romantic might have made her hysterical.



The first thing she learned was that Nick Succorso
        had limits. He could be exhausted.
           During the hours they spent wrapped around
each other in her berth, their roles were ones he set for
them: artist and instrument. He played her nerves as
though they were alive to his will, responsive to nothing
except his private touch. In her turn, she replied with a
kind of blind, willing ecstasy that bore no resemblance
to anything she'd ever felt with Angus Thermopyle - an
abandonment so complete that she seemed transported
into a realm of pure sex.
  For a while that terrified her: in one of her locked
compartments, she dreaded his effect on her. If he could
do this to her, if he could make her feel this and this, then
she was lost, useless; she had no hope.
  But then she discovered that 'artist' and 'instrument'
were only roles. She and Nick were acting out an illusion.
She was the one with the zone implant: she could have
kept going no matter how absolutely she responded to



his desires, how completely she abandoned herself. Until
the moment when her brain or body burned out, and her
synapses consumed themselves in an endorphin confla-
gration, she could do everything Nick required and
more.
  He, on the other hand-
  In a final burst, his intensity expended itself. Groaning
with pleasure, he collapsed suddenly into sleep.
  As his passion drained out of them, his scars lost their
fierceness. Without hunger behind them, they became
only pale and aging tissue, old wounds; the marks of
defeat.
  The artist ended, but the instrument endured.
  A little while passed before she understood what had
happened. When he slumped beside her, her first reaction
wasn't satisfaction or even triumph: it was disappoint-
ment. The need which drove her couldn't be satisfied by
anything less than a kind of neural apotheosis. She
wanted to ride the zone implant's emissions until she
went nova.
  But short of suicide he was the one who had limits.
She didn't.
  Because of that, the entire experience was an illusion.
  And the illusion was aimed squarely at him. She per-
formed it for his benefit: he was its victim. The appear-
ance that she abandoned herself, that she was wholly his,
was false.
  She had that much power.
  It might be enough to protect her. The thing she'd
dreamed and prayed and suffered for when she accepted
the zone implant control from Angus was starting to
come true.



  Then she felt a touch of satisfaction - and then a hint
of feral and necessary rage. In its concealed compart-
ment, her fury received its first taste of the food it craved.
When she'd betrayed Angus - when she'd enabled Nick's
people to plant Station supplies aboard Angus' ship by
disabling the blip which would have warned him
Bright Beauty's holds were unlocked - she hadn't felt any
rage. She'd been too caught up in the risk of what she
did; the danger of Angus' response, and her helplessness
against it.
  But now she felt that anger. One of her compartments
cracked open, and a passion hotter than the zone
implant's enforced yearning leaked out.
  It guided her hand as she reached under the mattress
and switched off the control.
  The transition was hideous. She was going to have to
learn how to manage transitions, or else the shock of
them would ruin her. They hadn't been this bad when
Angus held the control. Whatever he'd imposed on her,
she'd always been eager for it to end, frantic to regain
some sense of herself. But now the functions of the zone
implant were hers to choose. That made a profound dif-
ference.
  Earlier, waiting for Nick, she'd tried to prepare herself
for the flood of weariness which poured through her
when the implant was switched off. To some extent, she
was ready for that. But she wasn't prepared for the grief
she felt now, for the keen pain of resuming her ordinary
mortality. She'd lost something precious and vital by end-
ing her abandonment.
  However, the transition was swift. Or else it was more
complex than she realized. Faced with the knowledge



that she was only human after all, she started to cry -
biting her lip for silence, so that she wouldn't wake Nick.
But then, almost immediately, her rage came back to her.
And it was followed by her revulsion. If she was only
human, then Nick Succorso was only another version of
Angus Thermopyle: male; therefore ultimately interested
in sex only as a masque of rape and degradation.
  Now she had to bite her lip hard to keep herself from
crying out or flinching; to master the electric jolt of her
reaction against what Nick had just done to her. She had
to think, and think quickly-
  Not Angus. Not like Angus. Even if Nick were essen-
tially the same, he was effectively different. His passions
were less naked than Angus': he was caught up in the
masque. No, more than that: he liked the illusion that
his personal virility and magnetism were capable of
making her respond so utterly.
  And if he remained caught up in the masque, if she
could keep him there - if he liked the illusion enough-
  He would be blinded to the truth.
  Without realizing it, she'd stopped biting her lip. Her
need for that small hurt was over: her need to fling herself
away from Nick was receding. He looked vulnerable
now, asleep, and that had never been true of Angus.
Despite the long, clean line of his muscles, despite his
unmistakable grace and strength, he looked like he could
be killed before he woke up. That eased her revulsion.
  Now, perhaps, she could have rested. Most of the
immediate intensity of transition had declined: the weari-
ness remained. The external reality of her body, as
opposed to the internal reality of the zone implant, was
that Nick had used her extravagantly. She was acutely



sore in some places, and there was a price to be paid for
all those endorphins. Sleep would be good for her, if she
could sleep without dreaming about Angus. If she could
sleep without waking up back aboard Bright Beauty.
   But she didn't trust sleep. Nick had said, That's not
good, enough. She had that threat hanging over her. You can tell us all the rest later.

   She had more getting ready to do.
   Of course, the 'getting ready' she needed most
involved further experimentation with the zone implant
control. That was too dangerous, however. If Nick
caught her at it, she was finished. She left the zone
implant control where it was.
   Instead she tried to guess what 'tell us all the rest'
meant. Did he mean, 'tell us all', the whole crew? or, 'all
the rest"?
   None of us are safe while you're aboard.
   There were too many unknowns. She knew only one
thing about Nick, had only that one lever. Everything
else was blank. How much had he learned about her
through his contact in Com-Mine Security? What had
the UMCP told Com-Mine? How many of his secrets
did he share with his crew? What was their loyalty to him
based on: personal gain? success? reciprocity?
   Who was he, that he could get Com-Mine Security to
help him betray Angus Thermopyle?
   Since she had no way to approach any of her other
questions, she concentrated on that one.
   Angus Thermopyle was guilty of almost any illegal act
imaginable - and yet he was innocent of the specific crime
for which he'd been arrested. She knew the truth: she'd
been there when he was framed. That was disturbing



enough. But even more disturbing to her - considering
that she was UMCP born and trained - was Security's
complicity.
  Why would Security risk vital Station supplies to help
one known pirate betray another?
  No, worse than that: what on Earth possessed Security
to trust Nick Succorso against Angus Thermopyle?
  And here was another question, now that she thought
about it: why did Security let Nick take her?
  It was one thing to leave her alone with Angus. After
all, she'd used her UMCP authority to demand that
Com-Mine keep its hands off her. But it was something
else entirely to risk Station supplies to help one pirate
betray another, with a UMC cop in the middle, and then
to simply let that cop depart unquestioned. Why had
Security allowed her to leave its jurisdiction?
  Yet the issue was even more complex than that. Under
any circumstances, Com-Mine Security must have sent a
message to UMCPHQ when she first appeared with
Angus. Security would have relayed everything she said
and did to UMCPHQ as a matter of course. Why hadn't
Enforcement Division replied? Granted, communication
across interstellar distances was no instantaneous busi-
ness. Nevertheless gap courier drones could have carried
messages to UMCPHQ and back in a few days. Ordinary
ship traffic could have done the job in a couple of weeks.
Surely her time with Angus hadn't been too short to
permit a reply? And surely, if ED had replied, Security
wouldn't have let Nick take her?
  She was lost in it. If Min Donner, the Director of
Enforcement Division, had instructed Com-Mine Secur-
ity to let Nick Succorso take her- Mom couldn't get



past that point. There were too many levels involved, too
many implications of treachery. And she'd trusted the
UMCP from the day she was born: it was the same thing
as trusting her father.
  She had to stick with what she knew, or else she would
paralyze herself. She had to focus on the present; on
survival and the zone implant.
  She had to concentrate on Nick Succorso.
  Before she could get any further, the cabin intercom
chimed. A voice that sounded like Mikka Vasaczk's said
neutrally, 'Nick.'
  As if he'd never been asleep, Nick sat up and swung
his legs over the edge of the berth. Ignoring Morn, he
scrubbed his hands up and down his face for a second or
two: that was all the time he needed to collect himself.
While Morn was still trying to decide how to react, how
to play her role now, he stood up and keyed the intercom.
  'Here.'
  'Nick, you're wanted on the bridge.' The intercom
flattened the voice, made it sound impersonal; un-
touched.
  Nick didn't reply. Instead he keyed off the intercom
and reached for his shipsuit and boots.
  He still hadn't glanced at Morn.
  She was too vulnerable, too much at risk: she had to
say something. Swallowing weariness and old fright, she
asked with as much naturalness as she could summon,
What is it?'
  He finished sealing his shipsuit and pulling on his
boots before he turned to her.
  His eyes were bright; they focused on her with a keen-
ness, an inner intensity, which she might have loved, or



at least desired, if she'd met him before she met Angus
- if she'd never met Angus. Despite the easy way he
carried himself, he conveyed a tense, coiled quality, as if
his physical relaxation were a part of what made him
dangerous.
  He was smiling - even his tone of voice smiled - as he
said, We're pretty casual here. Not like the UMCP.' And
yet she knew she was being warned; perhaps threatened.
We've only got a few simple rules. But they aren't nego-
tiable. Here's one of them.
  When you hear the word "want", you don't ask. It
isn't up for discussion. You just do.
  'Understand?'
  Morn was definitely being threatened. Keeping her
face as blank as a mask, she nodded once, firmly.
  'Good,' he said.
  The door hissed open, and he was gone.
  When the door shut itself after him, she stayed where
she was and stared at his departure as if he'd turned her
off- as if he'd taken away her reasons for doing anything.
  Nick was Svanted' on the bridge. And want had a
special meaning aboard his ship. It was the command
that couldn't be questioned, the absolute imperative, like
the coded order her father might have given her if he'd
decided Starmaster had to self-destruct; if she'd let him
live, and the occasion to issue such an order had ever
arisen.
  Something had happened.
  Captain's Fancy was on a routine departure trajectory
out from Com-Mine Station. Presumably. What could
have happened? What was conceivable? What kind of
danger or exigency could have come up after only a few



thousand
  Almos  kilometers
            t certainly, ;
                        th  stil
                         e l within
                               explanatio  Station'
                                         n involve s
                                                  d  control space
                                                        Com-Mine in ?
                                                                  some way. It involved Security and Angus.

  Morn couldn't stop staring at the door, at the spot
where Nick had left her; she couldn't move. What was
she going to do now? She was losing control of her
compartments: pieces of doubt and black horror bled
together, combining like elements of a binary poison.
She wanted to flee, but she had nowhere to go. There
was nothing around her except panic.
  Riding a visceral tremble, as if she were caught at the
epicenter of a quake and needed to get away from it, she
decided to leave the cabin.
  Half expecting a shift in Captain's fancy's g which
would indicate a change of direction - to return to dock,
or to meet interceptors from Com-Mine - she left the
berth and began hunting through the built-in lockers for
a clean shipsuit.
  She found one easily: Captain's Fancy was equipped
for guests. Female guests, judging by the cut of the ship-
suits. But Morn hardly noticed the comfort of wearing
clothes that fit. She was in a hurry, and the only thing
she cared about was the tremors driving through her -
or the danger that they might make her do something
foolish.
  She sealed the shipsuit; located her boots in the san.
Because of the nature of her panic, she went back to the
berth and retrieved the zone implant control. She didn't
want to be separated from it.
  But then she stopped herself. The part of her which
had been shaped by Angus Thermopyle responded to
fear in ways which were new to her. Mere physical pos-



session of the control was dangerous. If she carried it
with her, anybody who searched her or simply bumped
against her could find it.
  Her cabin was the only simulacrum of privacy available
to her. She had to conceal the control somewhere here.
  Under the mattress was convenient, but too easy. With
the right tools, she would have preferred to open either
the door's panel or the intercom and bury the black box
among their circuit boards and wiring. Unfortunately she
only had the mending kit to work with.
  Inside her the tremble built so that every movement
felt unsteady as she went back to the san, to the mending
kit. She tossed some of the patches and velcro into the
disposal to make room; then she put the control in the
bottom of the kit and covered it with the remaining
supplies.
  That would have to do. If she stood where she was
and tried to imagine the perfect hiding place, the trem-
bling would break down her defenses, and she would
panic.
  Almost in a rush, she left the cabin.
  Exploring, that's what she would do, she would go
exploring. Nick hadn't told her to stay where she was.
And anybody would understand her desire to familiarize
herself with a new ship. As long as she didn't accidentally
gain the bridge.
  In part to keep her hands from shaking, and in part to
make the action habitual, so that no one would consider
it unusual, she shoved her fists deep into her pockets.
Then she started hurrying along the passage in the op-
posite direction from the lift Vasaczk had used to take
her to her cabin.



  No, she shouldn't hurry. She couldn't afford to be
caught hurrying. That would lead to questions.
  She could feel her will-power fraying under the strain,
but she forced herself to slow down, attempt a more
casual stride.
  She passed four or five doors, all of them identical to
hers; presumably Captain's Fancy had that much accom-
modation for passengers. Then she reached another lift.
  There was no way to leave this section of the ship
without using a lift. Bulkheads sealed both ends of the
passage. And the movement of all the lifts would be
monitored and controlled by Captain's Fancy's mainten-
ance computer. She couldn't use one without the risk of
attracting attention.
  She didn't want to be noticed.
  Her shaking grew more violent. Without realizing it,
she pulled her hands out of her pockets and covered her
face. For several moments she stood frozen in front of
the lift with her palms clamped over her eyes while her
shoulders quivered.
  She couldn't do it. Angus hadn't left her enough cour-
age. Nothing was safe enough. She should have stayed
in her cabin and worked with the zone implant control
until she found a cure for her fear.
  But in this state she might not have been able to make
her fingers hit the buttons she chose. And, in any case,
the computers could watch her door as easily as the lifts.
She'd already put herself in jeopardy by leaving her cabin.
  Slowly she pulled her hands down from her face. When
she'd succeeded at pushing one of them back into a
pocket, she used the other to key the lift.
  If the different levels served by the lift had been labeled,



she might have been able to make a neutral choice. If
she'd been able to think clearly, she might have been able
to reason out some of the ship's internal structure. Since
she didn't have anything else to go by, she took the lift
down one level and got out to look around.
  Almost at once she smelled coffee. By good fortune
she'd arrived near the galley. At a guess, this level was
the crew's: it contained the galley and mess, wardrooms
and cabins, used by Nick's people. It might also hold the
sickbay - a possibility she set aside for future exploration.
As soon as she smelled the coffee, she realized that some-
thing as simple and ordinary as hot, black caffeine might
be what she needed to steady her.
  She followed the smell away from the lift without paus-
ing to consider the likelihood that the galley was already
in use.
  She could smell coffee because the galley had no door:
it was essentially a large niche in one of the interior bulk-
heads, with equipment built into the three walls and a
round, easily reached table. She noticed a particularly
luxurious foodvend, quite a few storage cabinets for
staples and special supplies, and, of course, a coffee
maker. The pot steamed richly in the ship's dry
atmosphere.
  She also noticed a man sitting at the table.
  At the sight, she froze again. She didn't know whether
to retreat or move forward. Everything was dangerous,
and she didn't know which risk was preferable.
  But she remembered to keep her fists in her pockets.
  The man had his hands wrapped around a hot mug as
if he wanted the warmth. His fingers looked fat because
they were stubby, and his face looked fat because it was



almost perfectly round; nevertheless he was only com-
pact, not overweight. Like his face, his eyes were circles.
They were a gentle shade of blue Morn had never seen
before. Combined with his fine, sandy hair and his steady
smile, they made him look friendly.
  He glanced up as soon as she appeared. When he saw
her, his eyes and his smile showed mild surprise. She
obviously didn't disconcert him, however. He gave her a
moment to move if she could. Then he said, 'You look
like what you need most is sleep but you're too scared to
get it.' His voice was mild, too. 'Come have a cup of
coffee. It's fresh. Maybe I can give you a reason or two
to be less scared.'
  Morn stared at him. She wasn't prepared to trust any-
thing aboard Captain's Fancy - especially not mildness
from a total stranger. It might be camouflage, like Nick's
air of relaxation. She stood where she was, with her
elbows locked and her hands buried.
  Controlling her voice as well as she could, she said,
'You know who I am.'
  The man's smile held. 'I should,' he replied without
sarcasm. 'I saw you in Mallorys often enough. And you're
the only passenger Nick invited to go with us this time.
  That's one reason you're scared. We all know who you
are - we know that much about you. You don't know
any of us. You only know Nick, and that may seem like
it's not much help.'
  He paused, giving her a chance to say something or
move. When she didn't do either, he resumed.
  Well, let me introduce myself, at any rate. I'm Vector
Shaheed. Ship's engineer. Off duty at the moment. My
second is a pup off Valdor Industrial, where they don't



teach you anything, but he's competent to keep us going
under this much thrust. So I've got time to exercise my
only real talent, which is making coffee.'
  Morn continued staring at him. Her hands were damp
with sweat, but she kept them curled in her pockets.
  Stiffly, as if all his joints hurt - but still smiling -
Vector Shaheed stood up to get a mug from one of the
cabinets. He filled it at the steaming pot and set it on the
table for her. Then he seated himself again.
  That's not a reason to trust me, of course,' he con-
tinued. We're all illegals, and you're UMCP. You would
have to be crazy to trust any of us. But we're alone here,
and I'm willing to talk. You really can't afford to miss
an opportunity like this.'
  That made sense. Morn shook her head - not reject-
ing what he said, just trying to break herself out of her
paralysis. She felt a visceral desire to pull away from him.
His mildness was seductive: he was a trap. But she was
trapped anyway; and whatever he chose to reveal might
be useful.
  With a stiffness of her own, she entered the galley.
  She didn't take her fists out of her pockets until she
was sitting at the table. Then, abruptly, she pulled up
both hands and cupped them around the coffee mug. She
needed something to steady her so that she could think.
The coffee was seductive, too, but she was prepared to
trust it.
  He was right about one thing, anyway: he had a talent
for coffee. A couple of hot sips made her feel almost
instantly stronger. In simple gratitude, she said through
the steam, 'Thanks.' Then she sipped again.
  'That's better.' To all appearances, Vector Shaheed's



approval was genuine. 'I don't like to see anybody scared
- especially not a woman like you. Out here, there's many
an old spacer who thinks women are worth dying for. I
myself' - his smile became rueful for a moment - 'am
gratified just to have you sit here and drink my coffee.
  What would you like to know about us?'
  Without thinking, Morn asked, 'Where are we going?'
  Vector's smile lost none of its soft ease, but the muscles
around his eyes tightened. He drank some of his coffee
before he replied, 'You can probably guess that that's not
one of the subjects I'm prepared to talk about.'
  She shook her head again, chagrined by her own weak-
ness. She shouldn't have asked that question: it exposed
too much. And she certainly couldn't ask what exigency
had called Nick to the bridge. Groping for some sense of
poise, of being in control of herself, she tried again.
  'How bad is the gap drive?'
  His eyes relaxed. 'Bad enough. Bad enough so I can't
fix it myself, anyway. If I had to stake my reputation on
it, I would say we can get into tach and out again one
more time. If I had to stake my life on it' - he chuckled
gently - 'I would say it's too dangerous.'
  'How long can you last without it?'
  'At least a year. We've got that much food and stores.
Not to mention plenty of fuel. At the rate we're traveling,
we'll starve before we run out of fuel.'
  Vector's manner didn't give the words any special
importance. Nevertheless Morn knew they were import-
ant. As long as Captain's Fancy used only this gentle
thrust, there was only one destination Nick could reach
in a year: the belt. And of course there was no place in
the belt to get a gap drive repaired. But even at much



higher velocities, Captain's Fancy had nowhere else to go
in human space.
  Forbidden space was another matter. Its proximity to
the belt and Com-Mine Station was a large part of what
made them so crucial to the UMC - and to all human-
kind. Running hard, the ship could probably get there
in a few months. But then what? The possibility that Nick
might be headed for forbidden space was too complex for
Morn to evaluate. In any case, Com-Mine Center would
never have authorized a departure trajectory in that
direction.
  Vector watched her think for a while. Then he started
talking again. 'I offered you a reason or two to be less
scared. I can see that wasn't one of them. Let me try
again.
  There are twenty of us aboard, and from your point
of view we probably all look like reasons to be scared.
But that isn't true. I don't mean you can trust us. I mean
you don't need to worry about whether you can trust us.
The only one of us you need to worry about is Nick. You
see' - Vector spread his hands - 'he isn't just the captain
here. He's the center, the law. None of us is a threat to
you, as long as he's happy.
  'And I'll tell you something else about him. He never
gives away his castoffs. You don't need to worry that he'll
get tired of you and pass you off to one of us. You're his.
On this ship, you're either his or you're nothing.
  That's why it doesn't matter whether you can trust
any of us. We're no danger to you. We never will be. All
you have to worry about is Nick. Everything else will
take care of itself.'
  Morn was stunned. Hearing her dilemma stated so



nakedly made her brain go blank. He's the law. He never
gives away his castoffs. It doesn't matter whether you can trust
any of us. But because Vector was smiling at her, and she
knew she couldn't afford to be paralyzed, she forced
herself to ask, 'Is that supposed to help me feel better?'
   'It should,' he replied promptly. 'It simplifies your
situation.'
   Her mind was practically useless. 'I guess you're right,'
she said slowly, struggling to think, to articulate her
incomprehension in some way. 'But it would help me
more if I understood it. Why-?' Why are you so loyal
to him? Why is he my only problem? You're all illegals,
you said that yourself. I don't know why you do it, but
you all want to get away from law somehow. That's got
to be true.' The only pirate she knew personally, Angus
Thermopyle, would have committed any conceivable
atrocity to make sure nobody else had power over him.
'You don't want rules, you want opportunities. So why
is he the law? Why do you let him do that? Why does
what he wants take precedence over what the rest of you
want?'
   Vector Shaheed seemed to consider that a good ques-
tion. His eyes appeared inordinately blue and clear as he
answered, 'Because he never loses.'
   Then he grinned like a man with a secret joke. 'Besides,
it's axiomatic that nobody likes law more than us illegals
do. It's a love-hate relationship. The more we hate the
UMCP, the more we love Nick Succorso.'
   Morn blinked at him. That doesn't make sense.'
   Vector lifted his shoulders in a mild, humorous shrug.
   A moment passed before she noticed just how
smoothly he'd distracted her from his first answer.



  While she was still trying to collect her thoughts, how-
ever, the intercom in the galley chimed. The same neutral
voice she'd heard earlier said, 'Morn Hyland, come to the
bridge.'
  A moment later Vasaczk added, 'Acknowledge.'
  Morn didn't move. She was frozen again; taken by
surprise and snared in fright.
  Vector's stiffness seemed constant. His movements
gave such an impression of resistance in his joints that
Morn expected him to wince as he got up from his chair
and went over to the intercom. Nevertheless his ex-
pression remained as calm as blue water: any pain he may
have felt remained far below the surface.
  Keying the intercom, he responded, 'She's with me.
I'll make sure she doesn't get lost.' Then he clicked off
the pickup.
  By way of explanation, he told Morn, This will give
me an excuse to be on the bridge. I want to know what's
going on myself.'
  She hardly heard him. No, she insisted to herself, no,
don't panic, not now. Any risk she failed to face might
kill her: she could only hope to survive if she met each
danger as it came. Don't panic now.
  Nevertheless she was suddenly afraid right to the
bottom of her belly. And the zone implant control was
back in her cabin; she had no defense. She could feel what
remained of her will crumbling. Her reserves drained out
of her as if she were a broken vessel. Without her black
box, she was only the woman Angus had raped and tor-
mented, nothing more. If Vector Shaheed had left her
alone, she would have put her arms down on the table
and hidden her face against them.



  He didn't do it. Instead he touched her shoulder
gently, urging her to her feet.
  She stood as though she were under his control.
  'Come on,' he said. 'You don't want to miss this. It
might be interesting. You can be scared later.'
  His hand on her shoulder guided her out of the galley.
  'I told you you don't need to worry about whether
you can trust us. That's true. But there are a couple of
people you should watch out for. Mikka Vasaczk is one.
She can't hurt you - but she would if she could.'
  A moment later, in the same tone of secret humor he'd
used earlier, he added, 'Hell, we all would.'



 Hell, we all would.
               For several minutes nothing else penetrated
             Morn Hyland's distress, although Vector kept
talking while he led her through Captain's Fancy.
Retailing information and descriptions like a tour guide,
he steered her to the nearest lift and down to one of the
outer levels; he may have thought that the sound of his
voice would steady her.
  But she only heard, We all would.
  She was sure she'd guessed the truth. Nick had been
summoned from her cabin to deal with some urgent
development which involved her. It involved Com-Mine
Security and Angus. Something had gone wrong with
the deal Nick had made for his departure - with the deal
Security's traitor had arranged for him.
  Or some hint or rumor about her zone implant had
been passed to Nick, and now he meant to expose her;
ruin her.
  Surely there were other, less fatal possibilities? If there



were, she couldn't imagine them. Angus had burned that
capacity out of her. She had to brace herself for the worst
and face it.
  Somehow.
  All would.
  Her training in the Academy must have been good for
something. Hadn't it taught her enough toughness to
pull her brain into focus? Hadn't Angus taught her
enough desperation? She needed the zone implant con-
trol, wanted it so badly that she almost begged Vector
to let her detour to her cabin; but she knew the risk was
too great, she couldn't hazard having the proof of her
falseness in her possession. And she couldn't go to her
cabin, switch on the control, and then leave it behind. It
wouldn't work if she moved out of its range, and its
transmitter wasn't powerful enough to reach more than
ten or twenty meters.
  She had to face the bridge with nothing but the tat-
tered and unreliable resources she had left.
  It wasn't far from the lift. Captain's Fancy was a frigate,
not a disguised destroyer like Starmaster - or even a mas-
querading orehauler like Bright Beauty, with much more
space for cargo than crew. Except for her luxuries, Nick's
ship was built to a more compact scale. The outer levels
converged on an opening like an aperture in the structural
bulkhead; through the aperture was the command
module.
  At need this command module could be sealed, even
detached, from the main body of the frigate. In fact, the
module could almost certainly function as a separate craft
while the rest of the ship was operated from the auxiliary
bridge.



  Urged gently ahead by Vector Shaheed, Morn crossed
the aperture and entered the compact circle of the bridge.
  The perspective would have disoriented her if she
hadn't been familiar with it. She stood in a space like the
cross-section of a cylinder, with her feet on the inner
curve and her head toward the axis. In that respect, the
bridge was no different than the rest of Captain's Fancy:
it was simply smaller. The floor swept up and arched over
her head on both sides. Some of the bridge crew sat at
their stations beside her, almost level with her; others
appeared to hang upside down above her. But, of course,
wherever she or anyone else stood, the floor was 'down'
and the axis of the cross-section was 'up'. The big display
screens for scan, video, data, and targ were built into the
concave wall opposite the aperture. Their status lights
winked green, but the screens themselves were blank.
In all likelihood, Nick didn't want Morn to have the
information she could have gleaned from the displays.
  Vector and Morn gained the bridge beside Nick's com-
mand station. Like everyone else on the bridge, Nick
was in his g-seat; his hands rested on his board, tapping
buttons occasionally with accustomed ease. Nevertheless
Morn noticed at once - even before she tried to take an
inventory of the people arrayed against her - that he
hadn't strapped himself in.
  Vasaczk stood near him, defenseless against any change
in g.
  Which meant Captain's Fancy was in no immediate
physical danger. Otherwise Nick would have been plan-
ning maneuvers of some kind.
  'Nick,' Vector said with a nod like a little bow. Appar-
ently nobody aboard called Nick 'Captain'. 'I was trying



to seduce her with coffee. If you hadn't interrupted me,
I might have succeeded.' His smile remained mild, almost
impassive.
  Nick's was altogether different. It was fiercely happy;
it gave the impression that he was baring his teeth.
  'That doesn't worry me,' he said like a cheerful tiger.
'If I didn't do it, you would find some way to interrupt
yourself. You like the process of seduction too much.
You never actually want to succeed at it.'
  Vector didn't attempt a rejoinder; he seemed absorbed
by the implications of Nick's insight. Still smiling, he
walked up the curve to an empty seat and sat down in
front of what was probably the engineer's console.
  Morn was left alone beside Nick and Mikka.
  Belatedly she tried to take in the rest of the bridge.
  Apart from Nick, Vasaczk, and Vector, she counted
five other crewmembers. Vector's presence wasn't
necessary to the normal operations of the ship. That
left six essential bridge positions: command, scan, com-
munication, targeting and weapons, helm, data and
damage control. First, second, and third for each pos-
ition: eighteen people altogether. Vector and his
second brought the crew total to twenty. Vector's 'pup'
was probably on duty in the drive space, monitoring
the thrusters directly.
  None of the bridge crew had anything urgent to do.
They were all staring at Morn.
  'Carmel.' Nick continued to focus on Morn while
he addressed other people. What's scan got from
Com-Mine?'
  Carmel was a gray-haired, chunky woman who looked
old enough to be Morn's mother. 'No change,' she



reported. 'Routine traffic. They haven't sent anything
after us yet.'
  'Lind?' Nick asked. As he watched Morn, the hue of
his scars deepened.
  We're getting regular demands for acknowledgment,'
replied a pale, wispy, nearly walleyed man with a com-
munications receiver jacked into his ear. They want to
know if we hear them. And what we're going to do. But
they aren't making threats.'
  'All right.' Nick slapped his hands on the arms of his
seat and pivoted his chair away from Morn. We've got
a decision to make, but we have time. They know we
took damage. The longer we put on velocity this slowly,
the more they're likely to figure we can't trust tach. And
if we can't go into tach, they probably figure they can
chase us down. If it's that important to them. Which
might encourage them to postpone their own decision
for a while.'
  That, Morn thought, might be the real reason Nick
had acceded to her request for no heavy g.
  'But whichever way they jump,' he went on, 'we need
to be ready to jump ahead of them.'
  Abruptly he swung around to face Morn again. We've
got a problem.' But his tone wasn't abrupt: he spoke
laconically, as if all he wanted was to engage her in con-
versation. 'Our deal with Com-Mine Security isn't hold-
ing - the deal we made to get you out. They want us to
come back. If we don't, they may decide to come after
us.'Why?' she asked neutrally. The crisis was upon her,
but it didn't surprise her: it was just what she'd feared.
To that extent, she was ready for it. Yet hearing Nick



state it caught her in a new way, despite her alarm. Was
it possible he'd made a mistake? Was it possible that he
could lose?
  She already knew he had limits-
  He replied casually, but there was nothing casual
about his scrutiny as he said, They think you've got
something they want.'
  She couldn't help it: her whole body flushed with
panic and remembered passion. Shame burned on her
skin, as if he'd stripped her naked and offered to sell her
to the highest bidder. The entire bridge crew was staring
at her; even Vector watched her. Mikka Vasaczk's ani-
mosity was palpable at her back, even though she was
held by Nick's gaze and couldn't look away.
  The zone implant control, of course; that's what
Com-Mine wanted. Angus didn't have it on him when
he was arrested. By now, Security had had time to search
Bright Beauty; they knew the control wasn't there. They
must have figured out she had it.
  They wanted to arrest her. And they wanted an excuse
to execute Angus.
  As if in confirmation, Nick concluded, They want us
to return you.'
  In a small voice, like a bird horrified by a snake, she
asked, What are you going to do?'
  That's easy.' The darker Nick's scars became, the more
he smiled. We're going to get the truth out of you. Then
we'll be able to decide.'
  What "truth"?' Suddenly she hated the way she
flushed, the way her body betrayed her. She hated Nick's
bold hunger and Mikka's hostility. She had rage in her,
and it began to leak past her defenses. 'You already know



I'm UMCP. You knew that before you picked me up.'
She gathered strength as she went along. What other
secrets do you think I've got? What "truth" are we talking
about here?'
  Nick's manner remained perfectly nonchalant; only his
eyes revealed the intensity of his focus on her. We'll take
it one "truth" at a time. What makes you think we knew
you were a cop when we rescued you? If we'd known
that, we would have known you didn't need rescuing.'
  'Because,' she retorted, You're got a connection in
Com-Mine Security. There's no other way you could
have framed him.' Angus' name wouldn't pass her lips;
she couldn't force it out of her throat. 'I helped you
plant those supplies, but you couldn't have stolen them
in the first place without inside help - without somebody
in Security who was willing to take risks to help you.
  'Maybe that's what's going on now. Maybe your con-
nection is feeling the heat - maybe he needs to get me
back to distract the rest of Security from the way those
supplies were stolen.
  'But that's beside the point. Whoever he is - whatever
reasons he's got for helping you - he would have told
you who I am.'
  Nick didn't contradict her. He may or may not have
liked intelligence in women, but he accepted hers. He
spread his hands expressively. 'So you see our problem.'
  'No,' she began, 'I don't. I've got a problem of my
own to worry about. I don't understand why-'
  'I'll spell it out for you,' Vasaczk interrupted, as harsh
as mineral acid. 'You're a cop. Maybe that's why you let
us take you. Security got Thermopyle. Now you want to
make sure the UMC Police get us.'



  Morn allowed her mouth to fall open. Anybody who
believed her capable of making decisions like that knew
nothing about the experience of being Angus Thermo-
pyle's victim.
  Which was of course true for everyone aboard Cap -
tain's Fancy.
  Which in turn meant that they had no reason to guess
the existence of her zone implant. Their preconceptions
and anxieties ran in an entirely different direction. They
were misled by the knowledge that she was a cop; by the
assumption that she had a cop's reasons for what she did.
  Keeping her back to Mikka, facing only Nick, she
replied scornfully, 'I'm not suicidal. If I wanted to betray
you, I wouldn't put myself in this position. As soon as
Security arrested him' - despite her anger, she still
couldn't say Angus' name aloud - 'I would have flagged
a guard and told him not to let you leave Station. Then
I would have had all the time I needed to talk to Security.
Safely. You and Security's traitor would have been
arrested.'
  Her answer silenced the command second, but it didn't
shift Nick's study of her. Again he said, 'So you see our
problem.'
  'No.' Her fear and fury continued to grow; she could
barely refrain from shouting. 'I'm not a mind-reader. I
don't know what problems you've got unless you tell me.
  'My problem is figuring out what you want a cop for.'
  When she said that, Lind let out a satirical chuckle,
and the woman at the targ board snorted, 'Crap.'
  Nick threw back his head and laughed.
  'Morn,' Vector remarked like a man discussing routine
traffic trajectories, 'if you think about it, you'll under-



stand why we need to know what made you stay with
Captain Thermopyle.'
  'You're a cop.' Mikka's tone was soft and vicious. 'He's
a pirate and a butcher - he's slime.' She might have been
quoting Nick. 'But you crewed for him. You stayed with
him when he got to Station. You backed him against
Security. The only thing you did against him was unseal
his hatches.
  'If you don't tell us why, we're going to put you in an
ejection pod and jettison you back toward Com-Mine.
Let them have you, and good riddance.'
  Morn could feel the hostility on the bridge build-
ing against her. In an unexpected way, it reassured her.
Vasaczk and the others wanted to uncover her secrets:
therefore her secrets were still hidden. She couldn't
imagine why that might be true, but she staked herself
on it.
  'I told you,' she said, speaking to Nick, always speaking
to Nick. 'Starmaster was wrecked. I was going to die out
there. He found me - and he needed crew. So I made a
deal with him. To save my life. I gave him immunity -
as much immunity as I had. Starmaster's captain was my
father. Half the crew was my family. I didn't want to die
in their tomb.'
  'If that were true,' Mikka countered harshly, 'you
would have left him as soon as you reached Com-Mine.'
  'Jettison her,' Carmel pronounced. We don't need
this.'
  The large, misshapen man at the data console spoke
for the first time. In an unexpectedly timid voice, as if he
were asking a question, he said, 'I agree. If she stays, she's
going to cause trouble.'



  Nick glanced around the bridge, then returned his gaze
to Morn. Still laughing inside, he said, 'You see? You're
simply going to have to do better.
  'And don't tell me' - she heard the threat in his tone
- 'you did it because of your passion for me. I've heard
that before. Women like that are fun to play with on
Station. I don't take them into space with me.'
  Morn was cornered. But nobody had mentioned the
zone implant control yet. And she'd spent hours trying
to prepare herself for this. She went on fighting.
  'You're right,' she said, not weakly, not as if she were
defeated, but angrily, exposing as much of her outrage
as she dared. 'He knew something about me you don't.
  'He knew I wrecked Starmaster.'
  Except for the faint hum of air scrubbers, and the low
pressure of thrust through the hull, the bridge was silent.
  She didn't say any more until Nick drawled, 'Now why
in hell would you do a thing like that?'
  Morn glared straight at him. 'Because I've got
gap-sickness.'
  That startled him. She could see the blood drain from
his scars: in surprise, he turned as still and ominous as a
ready gun. Someone she didn't know muttered a curse.
Mikka Vasaczk drew a hissing breath; Vector watched
her solemnly.
  'It comes on under heavy g.' The memory - and the
fact that she was forced to admit it - filled her with
bitterness; but she used gall and self-loathing to focus
her anger. 'It's like a commandment, I don't seem to have
any choice about it. It makes me engage self-destruct. I
would be dead myself, but my father managed to abort
part of the sequence. Only thrust blew, the gap drive



didn't. The auxiliary bridge held. I was the only one
there.
  'I did the same thing when Bright Beauty went after
you. But he knew about the problem - he stopped me
in time.
  That's why I stayed with him. I didn't have anywhere
else to go. If I can't do heavy g, I'm finished as a cop.
Until I destructed Starmaster, I could have hoped for a
Station job, UMCPHQ maybe. Now the only thing I
can hope for is that they'll give me a zone implant to
keep me under control.
  'Do you want a zone implant?' she demanded. 'Do you
want somebody to hit buttons that turn you on and off?
I don't. So I let him rescue me. I stayed with him. I
promised not to turn him in. I backed him up when he
needed it. And I came to you when I got the chance
because' - she nearly choked on the recollection -
'because he is what he is. And you'd already beaten him.
I didn't have anywhere else to go.'
  'You bitch!' Lind was practically frothing; his walleye
rolled. What makes you think we want a gap-sick crazy
here?
  'Jettison her!' he shouted at Nick. 'Blast her back at
Com-Mine. Let them have her - let her try her sickness
on them. She's a time bomb.'
  'She'll paralyze us,' Mikka put in. We can't trust the
gap drive. With her aboard, we can't trust thrust either.
We won't be able to maneuver at all - we'll be a sitting
target for anybody with ambitions against us.'
  'Mikka's right,' asserted Carmel. 'Com-Mine wants
her. If she's gap-sick, that's all the excuse we need to give
them what they want.'



  'That's enough,' Nick said before anyone else could
object. He didn't raise his voice, but his tone demanded
compliance. 'You aren't thinking. You're crazy yourself,
Lind - that's why you hate crazies so much. Carmel,
you've argued against every risky decision we've ever
made. Sometimes you're so cautious you blind yourself.
And you-' He flicked his attention like the end of a
whip at Mikka. 'You're just jealous.
  'There are a couple of interesting points here you seem
to have missed,' he went on more nonchalantly. The first
is that Captain Thermo-pile must have known how to
handle her problem, or else he wouldn't have kept her.
She would have been too dangerous. If he could do it,
we might find it worth our while to try the same thing.
  The other is that she must have a reason for telling us
all this.
  'Personally,' he concluded, studying Morn with his
scars pale as if he'd never been hungry for her, and never
would be, 'I would like to know what it is.'
  Morn tasted bile and triumph. No one had mentioned
the zone implant control. That meant Com-Mine Secur-
ity hadn't mentioned it when they demanded her return
- and nobody aboard Captain's Fancy had guessed the
truth. Not even Nick.
  As long as her fundamental secret remained safe, she
could answer the challenges thrown at her.
  'Actually,' she replied with more steadiness than she'd
felt for days, 'I'm not hard to handle. As far as I can
determine' - she tried to sound as clinical as she could -
'my gap-sickness is specific to self-destruct sequences. I
don't feel driven to hurt myself or attack anyone else.
And it passes pretty quickly when g eases. You can lock



me in my cabin. Or you can do what he did - you can
dope me up with cat until the ship is safe. The rest of the
time, there's nothing to worry about. I might even be
useful.
  'I told you about it' - she tightened her grip on herself
and concealed her triumph with bitterness - 'because I
think I can trust you. You weren't planning to send me
back when you called me to the bridge, and you aren't
going to send me back now. Unless I do something to
make you change your mind - like hiding a problem that
could be a danger to you.
  'I think there's a reason you took me away from Secur-
ity, and it doesn't have anything to do with' - she
fumbled because she couldn't say the right words - 'with
me.' With sex or hunger. 'It has to do with the fact that
I'm UMCP.'
  'Go on,' Nick remarked. His smile had recovered its
fierceness. 'Crazy or not, you're as entertaining as hell.'
  'You're a pirate,' she answered boldly. 'Your reputation
is better than his, and after the things he did to me I'm
sure the difference is justified - but you're still a pirate.
And you knew I was a cop. You knew that before you
rescued me.
  'So what kind of pirate deliberately takes a cop on
board? As long as I'm here, I'm a danger to you. I can
testify to any crime you commit. Eventually you'll have to
kill me. And even that can get you in trouble. Everybody
knows you took me. If I end up dead, you'll have to
account for it the next time you dock anywhere in human
space.
  Why would you put yourself in that position?'



  'I give up.' Nick flashed his smile around the bridge.
Why?'
  Without hesitation she replied, 'I can only think of two
reasons. One is that you're a pirate. Whether you admit
it or not, that means you do business with forbidden
space. And that means I'm valuable to you. You can
make quite a deal for me. If you can hand over a cop
with her brain intact, you'll end up so rich you'll never
have to do anything illegal again.
  'If that's true, you've obviously got no intention of
returning me to Com-Mine. Getting me here was the
whole point of framing him.
  'But there's a problem with that explanation. If you
were planning to hand me over to forbidden space, you
wouldn't be traveling this slow, no matter what I wanted.
You wouldn't give Security time to reconsider your deal
- you wouldn't take the risk that they might change their
minds and come after you. You would be using every
kilo of thrust this ship has. You might even be willing to
gamble on tach.
  That leaves only one other possibility.'
  'Are you sure you want to go on?' Nick asked conver-
sationally. 'You've probably said enough. I like your first
explanation fine. After all, I must want to protect my
"connection" in Security. Assuming I really have one.
The more I look like I'm running, the worse things look
for him. Or her.'
  Morn didn't stop. If he was warning her, she ignored
it. 'If you're the kind of man who sells human beings to
forbidden space,' she retorted, 'you probably don't care
what happens to your connection. I'm worth losing a
traitor or two for.



  'I like my other explanation better.
  'Maybe,' she said, 'you're a pirate - and maybe you
aren't. Maybe your reputation is fake, and piracy is just
cover. Maybe you rescued me because you're under
orders.
  'It's common knowledge that Data Acquisition is a
euphemism for sabotage and trickery. I'm Enforcement
Division - I don't know anything about DA. But that's
Hashi Lebwohl's department. I've heard rumors about
him.' In fact, in the Academy she'd heard any number of
rumors about Hashi Lebwohl. 'He likes spies. He likes
operatives who have access to bootleg smelters and ship-
yards and maybe access to forbidden space.
  'Maybe you work for him.'
  A low voice said contemptuously, 'Shit.' No one else
interrupted her.
  That would explain how you were able to get what
you wanted from Security - why they trusted you with
Station supplies, why they let you go, why they let you
have me.
  'In which case, maybe you took me so you can turn
me over to DA - so they can find out what happened to
Starmaster, or what I know about Bright Beauty.'' She'd
accused Com-Mine Station of sabotaging Starmaster. If
that report reached UMCPHQ, Min Donner - or poss-
ibly Hashi Lebwohl - might not trust Security enough
to leave Morn there. 'But you had to do it in a way that
didn't blow your cover - and wouldn't ruin the case
against him. If anyone ever found out he was arrested
for a crime fabricated by the UMCP, he would be
released, and the UMCP would lose credibility,
authority.'



  Morn herself was dismayed by the concept. Almost
from birth, her idea of the UMCP had included incor-
ruptible honesty; integrity instead of treachery. But when
she engaged Starmaster's self-destruct, she'd blown her-
self into a completely different set of presuppositions and
exigencies.
  Grimly she concluded, Tour connection in Security is
a UMCP agent. You aren't going to send me back to
Com-Mine because you don't want me to tell anybody
there the truth.'
  By the time she stopped, Nick was no longer looking
at her. He'd fallen into a reverie, gazing at the blank
screens as if he didn't see them. The muscles of his face
relaxed; they were almost slack, almost vulnerable, as
they'd been when he slept. Nobody said anything, and
Morn didn't glance around. She kept her attention on
Nick.
  Then Vector Shaheed broke the silence. 'She's got you,
Nick,' he said calmly. 'If you send her back now, she'll
be convinced you aren't either a pirate or a cop. Your
reputation will be ruined. You'll probably cease to exist.
Hell, we'll all probably cease to exist.'
  Somebody above Morn muttered, What the fuck's that
supposed to mean?' She ignored him.
  Darkness flushed into Nick's scars as he glared at the
engineer, but he didn't retort. Instead he held Vector's
gaze until it became obvious that Vector wasn't going to
look down. Then Nick faced Morn again.
  He wasn't smiling now. His expression was intense
and congested, as if she'd thwarted or exposed him in
some way. His threats were plain in his voice as he said,
'Give me your id tag. I can tell them you aren't coming



back, but if I don't give them your codes they'll chase us
for sure.'
   Involuntarily Morn winced a little. Nick's manner
scared her - and she didn't want to give up her tag.
Even Angus had let her keep that much of her identity.
Without it, she would never be able to use a UMCP - or
Security - computer or communications network again.
Even ED might not believe that she was Morn Hyland,
Captain Davies Hyland's daughter.
   Wouldn't it be better if I did that?' she offered, trying
not to sound frightened. 'I know verification codes they
can't argue with. And if they run a scan on my voice,
they'll have proof I'm doing my own talking.'
   Fortunately Nick didn't have to think long about her
suggestion. After a couple of moments he nodded once,
stiffly.
   'In that case,' she went on, in a hurry to finish before
she ran out of adrenalin and began to shake again, 'I need
to know what they want, what they think I've got - why
they want me back.'
   Behind his threats Nick's tone was sulky. 'Lind, give
us playback.'
   Lind knew his captain well enough to obey quickly.
He danced fingertips across his console, and a flat voice
slightly frayed by distance came over the bridge speakers.
   Although she had reason to think she was safe, Morn
listened in dread, irrationally afraid to hear words that
would doom her.
   The voice identified itself by name, position, and
authorization code: apparently it belonged to Milos
Taverner, Deputy Chief of Com-Mine Station Security.



It specified Captain's Fancy by name and registration.
Then it said:
  'Captain Succorso, you have a woman aboard, UMCP
Ensign Morn Hyland, active assignment UMCP
destroyer Starmaster. She has evidence material to our
case against Angus Thermopyle, captain and owner,
Bright Beauty.'
  For completeness, the voice cited Bright Beauty's regis-
tration.
  'Bright Beauty's datacore may have been altered. Data-
core evidence against Captain Thermopyle is inadequate.
We suspect a memory chip was removed. We suspect
Morn Hyland has it in her possession.
  'Return Ensign Hyland to Station for questioning.
  'Acknowledge.
  'Repeat.'
  The voice began again at the beginning. Lind silenced
it.'Is that true?' Nick demanded before Morn had a
chance to gauge the scale of her reprieve. 'Are you still
working for him? Is he using you to smuggle the evidence
away, so he can't be convicted?'
  Morn could hardly think. A reprieve. A gift. Security
didn't know about the zone implant control. Nobody
knew. Her secret was safe.
  'No,' she replied, forcing herself to talk in order to
conceal her relief. 'He never let me near his datacore. He
didn't give me anything. If he pulled a chip,' which ought
to be inconceivable - not physically difficult, of course,
but effectively useless - since it was impossible to know
which chip contained what data, in addition to which
the removal of a chip could always be detected, and



removing a chip was enough of a crime to cost Angus
his license to own and operate Bright Beauty, 'he must
have disposed of it himself.'
  'They can prove that themselves,' Vector observed
unnecessarily. They don't need Morn's testimony.'
After a pause he added, There's no other way to tamper
with a datacore. That's the whole point of having them.
If what they record could be changed, they wouldn't be
good for anything.'
  'So they're lying.' Carmel had a penchant for assertive
statements. They have some other reason for wanting
her back.'
  Unexpectedly Mikka put in, 'No. That's too risky.
She's UMCP. They can't silence her. If we took her back,
and she found out they were lying, they would be in shit
up to their eyebrows. The tampering must be real. They
just don't know how it was done yet. They think maybe
she can tell them.'
  'Or maybe,' Morn said to Nick, so giddy with relief
that she was willing to take risks, 'this is a smoke-screen.
Your connection knows you won't take me back. He can
say anything he wants. He's trying to cover his ass.'
  Nick aimed a black glance at her, then looked away.
After a moment he started to laugh harshly. That fucking
bastard,' he said in grudging admiration. 'If I knew how
to tamper with my datacore, we would all be safe forever.
And rich. We could make enough credit selling that secret
to buy our own station.'
  Before anyone else ventured an opinion, he pointed
Morn toward communications and commanded Lind,
'Record her. If we like what she says, we'll send it.'
  Still obeying promptly, Lind got his console ready.



  Sustained by her reprieve, Morn walked the curve of
the bridge to Lind's post. He ignored her, kept his eyes
on his hands, as she lifted her id tag over her head and
plugged it into his board. There, just for a second, she
hesitated. She was taking a dangerous step: as soon as
she said her verification code, Nick would have it; he
could use it and her tag however he wished. She would
be that much more isolated, that much more exposed to
him and his crew.
  Nevertheless she'd created this situation: she couldn't
afford to falter now. When the board had copied what it
needed, she put the tag back around her neck inside her
shipsuit. Then she spoke as if she were saying a final
good-bye to herself and all her old life.
  This is Morn Hyland, Ensign, UMCP.' Distinctly she
articulated the verification code. 'I have authorized busi-
ness aboard Captain's Fancy, which does not fall under
your jurisdiction. If you need acknowledgment, query
Min Donner, Enforcement Division, UMCPHQ.'
  That was safe to say, since Com-Mine was certain to
query Min Donner in any case.
  'I have no evidence in Com-Mine Station's case against
the captain of Bright Beauty.' Her inability to utter Angus'
name eroded her stability, but she kept going. To my
knowledge, datacore tampering is impossible. I did not
witness the removal of any chips. If they were removed,
they were not given to me. My grievances against the
captain of Bright Beauty are personal, and I do not choose
to prosecute them publicly.'
  In that way, she kept faith with Angus Thermopyle.
She may have betrayed everyone else, but she was true
to him.



  'Captain Nick Succorso of Captain's Fancy has my sup-
port and cooperation. Refer all further inquiries to
UMCPHQ, Enforcement Division.'
  To her own surprise, she added, 'Farewell, Com-Mine
Station.'
  After that her throat closed, and she couldn't say any-
thing else.
  That'll do,' Nick told Lind. 'Send it. No repeats. If
they miss part of it, let them sweat.
  'Vector, I want you in the drive space. We're going to
give Station about ten minutes, so they'll decide we
aren't running. Then we're going to burn.'
  Without warning Morn's stomach turned over. Again
she felt the brisance of panic, compressing her heart and
lungs against her rib cage. 'Burn' meant heavy g. The
hardest acceleration Captain's Fancy's thrusters could
produce.
  If Nick feared her gap-sickness, he didn't show it.
Instead he snapped out orders. 'Mikka, take her back to
her cabin. Lock her in. Be sure she can't get out while
we burn. I want her secure until we're out of g - and she
can convince us she's sane.' Pivoting his seat, he faced
Morn with a feral grin. 'Staying alive is her problem.'
  Before Morn could think or react, Vasaczk grabbed
her arm and pulled her through the aperture, off the
bridge. A few minutes later she was back in her cabin.
Outside, Vasaczk locked the door.
  Nick's second left her alone with the gap-sickness
which had killed her father and most of the people she'd
ever loved.



For convenience, history is often viewed as a conflict
between the instinct for order and the impulse toward
chaos. Both are necessary: both are manifestations of
the need to survive. Without order, nothing exists: with-
out chaos, nothing grows. And yet the struggle between
them sheds more blood than any other war.
  The instinct for order is an expression of humankind's
devout desire for safety (which permits nurture), for stab-
ility (which permits education), for predictability (which
permits one thing to be built on another) - for equations
of cause and effect simple enough to be relied upon.
Indeed, without resistance to change, growth itself would
be impossible: resistance to change creates safe, stable,
predictable environments in which change can accumu-
late productively.
  The instinct for order is therefore aggressive. It actively
opposes any alteration of circumstance, any variation of



perspective, any hostility of environment or intention. It
fights to create and defend the conditions it seeks.
  The impulse toward chaos is a manifestation of human-
kind's inbred knowledge that the best way to survive any
danger is to run away from it. This instinct focuses on
the resources of individual imagination and cunning,
rather than on the potentialities of concerted action. Its
most common overt expression involves an insistence
upon self-determination (freedom from restriction), indi-
vidual liberty (freedom from requirement), and noncon-
formity (freedom from cause and effect). However, such
insistence is primarily a rationalization of the desire to
flee - to survive by escape.
  Therefore the impulse toward chaos is also aggressive.
The very act of escape breaks down systems of order: it
contradicts safety, avoids stability, defies cause and effect.
Like the instinct for order, it fights to create and defend
the conditions it seeks.
  Nevertheless stability and predictability themselves
would be impossible without chaos. Chaos exerts the
pressure which requires order to shape itself accurately.
Without accuracy, order would self-destruct as soon as it
came into being.
  For these reasons, the struggle between order and
chaos is eternal, necessary - and extremely expensive.
By nature, human beings are at their most violent and
belligerent in self-defense. The cost of their survival
would be prohibitive in any less fecund universe.
  In this context, the importance of datacores is easily
understood.
  Both metaphorically and actually, they were powerful
tools for order. They gave the governments of Earth -



and their effective enforcement arm, the United Mining
Companies Police - the ability to find out what happened
to any ship anywhere in human space. Ultimately any-
thing that could be known could be controlled - or at
least punished.
  Of course, this was not their rationalization when they
were first introduced. Then the rationalization was
simply that space was vast; the gap, mysterious; acci-
dents, common. If the future wanted to learn from the
past - in order to make space travel safer - it needed to
know what the past was. Therefore a record was required
of what every ship knew, did, and experienced, so that
its past would be available for analysis and understand-
ing. And, naturally, this record had to exist in some
unalterable form, so that it couldn't be falsified by dam-
age or self-interest, by stupidity or malice. Surely it stood
to reason that every ship should carry the technology to
make such recordings - for the sake of all future space-
farers.
  However, the possibilities for control were so obvious
that enforcement of these records was not left to reason.
It became an absolute requirement: no ship could be
built and registered unless it carried, in effect, an auto-
matic and permanent log which would keep track of
everything that ship did or encountered: every decision,
every action, every risk, every malfunction, every crisis.
  The codes which unlocked these logs belonged to the
UMCP.
  The datacores designated for use as permanent and
automatic logs were a development of CMOS (comp-
lementary metal oxide semiconductor) technology. The
great advantage of CMOS chips was that they drew



power only when they changed state: that is, when infor-
mation was written to them. Because of this, they could
store data in a physically permanent form, without a
sustained energy supply. Like any other chip, however,
they were accessible to electronic emendation: once
power was applied to the source and drain, the chip's
state could be altered; its data could be changed.
  The invention of SOS (silicon on sapphire) CMOS
chips was a step in the direction of real permanence.
However, true datacores were not possible until the
development of silicon on diamond semiconductors.
SOD-CMOS chips were too intractable for ordinary
computer use; but they were ideal for storing data in
an unalterable form. Crudely put, SOD semiconductors
never changed state at all: they added state. Instead of
storing data in the normal on-then-off binary form, they
stored it in an accumulation of on-then-off sequences.
Therefore the 'on' which preceded the 'off' remained
transparent when the data was accessed.
  Not only was the data unalterable, but any attempt to
alter it was unalterably recorded. In effect, this provided
a kind of Write Only Memory: with the proper UMCP
codes, it could be read; but it could never be rewritten.
  Inevitably the impulse toward chaos took exception to
the whole idea of the datacore.
  At this period, however, the instinct for order was
ascendant. The threat of forbidden space gave it an
unprecedented legitimacy. For that reason, the require-
ments of the UMCP - backed by the imponderable com-
mercial muscle of the United Mining Companies - were
usually granted. No economically vulnerable govern-
ment of a genophobic species could refuse - especially



when the requirement sounded so reasonable. By law,
every human ship carried a datacore. If it did not, it was
denied registration; which in turn meant that it would
be denied dock anywhere in human space.
  Vehement protestation founded on arguments for
self-determination and individual liberties gained only
two compromises in the final legislation. First, since the
Police were given sovereignty over all datacores, they
were prohibited from seizing access to any datacore
unless they possessed evidence that some crime had been
committed. Second, to protect the privacy of ordinary
citizens, any non-UMCP - or non-Security - ship was
permitted to keep its sickbay log separate from its data-
core; in effect, to operate its sickbay systems hermetically.
Ordinary citizens might not be able to travel without id
tags from which their files could be read by any UMCP
or Security computer; they might not be able to control
the contents of those files; but at least aboard ship they
could sedate their insomnia or treat their warts without
making that information available to the Police.
  The impulse toward chaos feared - loudly - that it was
only a matter of time before the instinct for order began
to supply ships with datacores which contained program-
ming designed to override anything the ship or its captain
might decide to do; programming intended to limit the
ship's choices, control the ship's actions. In most circles,
however, this fear was considered implausible. For the
UMCP to prejudge the exigencies which a ship might
encounter a thousand light-years from Earth would
involve carrying the instinct for order to suicidal
extremes.
  Even the most frightened nonconformists, the most



paranoid libertarians, had no cause to think that either
the United Mining Companies or the United Mining
Companies Police were suicidal.



She had so little time - and no idea what to do.
      Nick had said ten minutes, heavy g in ten min-
      utes. And she knew almost nothing about her
gap-sickness; she didn't know how to control it.
  She'd already disabled her zone implant's capacity to
simply shut her off, render her catatonic.
  Fool.
  Something else. She had to do something else, and do
it fast. Nick wasn't going to wait for her to master her
panic. He was punishing her for her small triumph on
the bridge, that was one reason he'd decided to go into
full acceleration so quickly, even though he risked burn-
ing her brain away-
  He had a gift for revenge.
  At most only a minute or two remained. A minute
or two before heavy g drove her completely insane.
  The zone implant control was her only hope. She'd
retrieved it from its hiding place; she had it in her hand.
But which function should she use? She couldn't guess



what part of her brain had been damaged, where her
vulnerability lay; which complex of neurons was respon-
sible for the utter clarity with which the universe spoke
to her, commanding ruin.
  She couldn't think.
  God damn it, she swore at Angus, where are you when
I need you?
  Without warning Captain's Fancy reduced spin;
internal g drained out of the cabin. Standard procedure:
it saved wear on the equipment and spared the crew the
stress of being pulled in more than one direction at once.
  She had no more time. Frantically she reached her
bunk, rolled herself into it, pulled up and sealed the
blanket so that she wouldn't fall out when shifting g
reoriented the furniture. That way the berth would serve
her as a kind of g-couch, absorbing as much of her body's
stress as it could.
  Almost at once a low rumble came through the hull -
the muffled, sudden thunder of the thrusters.
  In desperation she jerked up the control and hit the
button which would flood her with rest, wash her away
into sleep and oblivion. Then she jammed the black box
under her mattress.
  Right or wrong, that solved all her problems - at least
for the time being. Panic and consciousness left her as if
they were squeezed away by the sudden pressure which
made her as massive as death. She filled up with relaxation
as she filled up with weight; g itself felt like irrefusable
slumber.
  Nevertheless she went on cursing while her mind
lasted.
  Fool.



  Nobody could stand the strain of full thrust for long:
nobody aboard would survive unless Nick reduced g at
regular intervals. If she'd asked somebody on the bridge
how long burn would last, she could have set the con-
trol's timer to let her go when acceleration eased.
  But she hadn't done that, not her, fool, fool, and now
it was too late. She was lost. She wasn't going to wake
up until somebody found the control and switched it off.
  Until somebody found the control-
  And switched it off-

The next thing she knew, the walls were moving on either
side of her. Which didn't make sense - and in any case
her cabin didn't have walls like that. But apparently it
was true.
  Other details also didn't make sense. What was she
doing upright? Why did she feel like she was hanging by
her arms? She couldn't account for those things. Yet they
appeared as true as the walls.
  But of course the walls weren't moving: she was. Her
boots dragged the deck. She was being carried forward;
she could feel hard shoulders braced under her arms.
  That pressure brought back her panic.
  By the time she reached the lift, she was awake enough
to struggle.
  She was too weak. Immeasurable sleep still clung to
her, sapping her strength; her muscles were clogged with
transition. Nevertheless she continued to fight, feebly but
stubbornly, until a voice nearby said, 'Let her go. Let's
see if she can stand.'
  The shoulders removed themselves.
  She nearly fell on her face.



  More by luck than anything else, she managed to catch
herself against the door of the lift.
  'Hang on,' the voice said. 'You'll be all right. We're
taking you to sickbay.'
  It was starting to sound familiar.
  Holding her breath for stability, she turned around
and forced her eyes to focus on the two men who stood
an arm's length away, watching her.
  One of them was Vector Shaheed.
  The other may have been the same man who'd sat at
the data console while she was on the bridge. She
couldn't be sure. He was large enough. And not very
well put together-
  Neither of them had the zone implant control. At least
not out in their hands where she could see it.
  Vector's voice was the one that sounded familiar.
  'Morn, say something,' he urged gently. 'Convince us
you aren't crazy.'
  She blinked at him and tried to think, but she couldn't
understand his question. She had too many of her own,
too much fear: her brain was full of hubbub, like the
sound of a mob coming closer. Her whole body ached;
she felt like she'd spent hours in a slag pulverizer. G did
that - g and helpless sleep.
  With an effort, she croaked, Why-?'
  Why am I here?
  Why am I awake?
  We need to know if you're still gap-sick,' Vector
explained. 'If you are, we're going to take you to sickbay
and run some tests. See if we can find a way to bring you
out of it.' His smile was stretched too thin: he looked
exhausted. This is Orn Vorbuld.' He indicated his com-



panion. We don't have a medtech aboard, but he has a
lot of experience with sickbays.'
  Still Morn missed the point; her brain was running
too far behind her circumstances. She couldn't get past
the dilemma of being taken to sickbay.
  Any routine examination performed by any decent
sickbay's cybernetic systems would reveal her zone
implant. And Captain's Fumy surely had a decent sickbay.
If Vector took her there, he would learn the truth.
  He already knew the truth. Didn't he? Why else was
she awake? He must have found the control and switched
it off.
  Helpless, weak, as good as beaten, she groaned on the
verge of tears, 'No sickbay. Please.'
  Why not?' He studied her closely, but without
impatience.
  In contrast, his companion stared at her as if he feared
she were about to burst into flames.
  Abruptly the stress of her conflicting panics - she was
already caught, she was about to be caught - seemed to
create a clear space between them like the eye of a coriolis;
a place where she could think.
  Maybe Vector hadn't found the control. He didn't act
like he knew about it. Maybe she was awake because he'd
taken her out of its range.
  Maybe she wasn't lost.
  Sick with relief, she almost let herself sink to the floor.
But she didn't; she couldn't afford to look that weak.
Instead she cleared her throat and lifted her head to face
her escorts.
  'I don't like sickbays. I'm not crazy. I just took too
much cat. I didn't know how long' - she could feel pain



in all her muscles - 'how long we were going to burn.'
  Orn Vorbuld continued staring at her dumbly.
  Who gave you cat?' inquired Vector. His manner
concealed the danger of the question. Nick hadn't
ordered drugs for her.
  'I had it with me. From Bright Beauty's stores. When
I found out I had gap-sickness, I stole some.' Unnecess-
arily she added, 'I didn't trust him.'
  Vector could probably guess that she meant Angus
Thermopyle.
  The engineer still scrutinized her. 'You said heavy g
brings it on. How do you know when it's over?'
  To protect herself, she managed a wan smile. 'Do I
look like I'm trying to engage self-destruct?'
  Vector's smile was habitual, almost inflectionless; she
couldn't tell whether he believed her or not.
  Apparently he did. After a moment he stepped past
her to the intercom beside the lift.
  'I think she's all right,' he reported. 'I'll take her to the
galley and get some food into her.'
  Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he turned to
his companion. 'You're due for sleep, Orn. If you don't
get some soon, you're going to fall down.'
  Orn Vorbuld didn't seem to realize he'd been dis-
missed. He squinted at Morn as if she were growing
brighter in some way; soon she would be too bright to
be looked at directly. With the air of a man reaching a
difficult decision, he said to her, 'You're too much for
Nick.' His tone was timid; it made the words sound like
a question.
  One of his thick hands reached out and stroked her
hair.



  Then he walked away.
  Morn ignored him. As soon as Vector said the words
'galley' and 'food', she realized that she hadn't had any-
thing to eat since she'd left Bright Beauty. Her sleepiness
was nearly gone, but her weakness remained. She needed
food.
  Vector took her arm gently and keyed the lift. As the
door opened and he steered her inside, he remarked
casually, 'Orn is a genius of an odd sort. He's a good
data first, primarily because he can make computers walk
on water. And you can tell just by looking at him that
he knows too much about sickbays.
  'Unfortunately he has the glands of an ape.'
  Was the engineer trying to warn her? Morn dismissed
the question. Her brain could only handle one thing at
a time. Vector hadn't found the control. He wasn't taking
her to sickbay. That was enough. Now she wanted food.
  When they reached the galley, it was empty. Captain's
Fancy must have stopped burning some time ago, and
the rest of the crew had already had a chance to eat.
Vector seated her at the table, tapped his orders into the
console of the foodvend, then went to begin making
coffee.
  Peripherally she noted how stiffly he moved. The rest
of her concentrated on the thought of food and the smell
of coffee. One thing at a time.
  As soon as he placed a steaming tray in front of her,
she ate without caring how good the meal was. At the
moment she didn't even care what it was.
  He ate across the table from her. He must have been
hungry himself, but he didn't hurry. She finished well
before he did.



  Seeing she was done, he got up, filled two mugs with
coffee, set them on the table, and sat down again. But he
continued to eat in silence, giving her time to collect
herself. Maybe he was trying to calm her for reasons of
his own. Or maybe he was naturally courteous; or even
kind. Whatever his motives, she took advantage of the
opportunity he provided.
  By the time he pushed his tray aside, she was ready.
  She couldn't match his mildness, but she tried to
sound relaxed as she asked, 'How long did we burn?'
  'Four hours.'
  Morn raised her eyebrows. That's a lot of g.'
  Vector took a sip of his coffee, then agreed, 'It's about
as much as some of us can stand - even with drugs. Too
much, really. But we don't want to get caught. We shut
down thrust an hour ago. Right now, we're scanning like
mad. If anybody comes after us, we'll have to burn again,
whether we can stand it or not. So far-' He spread his
hands.
  'When we reduced g, Mikka tried to rouse you over
the intercom. You didn't answer. She knew you were still
alive, she said, because' - his smile broadened slightly -
'she could hear you snoring. But she couldn't make you
wake up. Nick wanted her to take the bridge so he could
get some rest himself. Orn and I volunteered to see what
we could do for you.'
  Morn didn't respond. She was busy thinking. Four
hours at full acceleration was a hell of a lot of g. People
died under that kind of pressure. Nick wasn't just in a
hurry: he was urgent; perhaps desperate.
  And yet she'd survived the crisis. She'd slept through
her madness; discovered a way to cope with it. That was



hope - more hope than she was expecting. For a moment,
it was enough.
  To fill the silence, or to give her time to think, Vector
continued talking.
  We've reached roughly two-thirds of our theoretical
maximum speed. If we burn for another two hours, we'll
zero out thrust. For a ship this size, our drive is pretty
powerful, but any engine can only produce so much
push. After that, we'll coast. Unless,' he added, 'they
chase us. In that case, we'll all learn more than we ever
wanted to know about heavy g. Without a reliable gap
drive, our options are limited.
  'Even if they don't chase us, we're still going to wish
we had a reliable gap drive. No matter how much speed
we generate, it won't be enough. We'll be coasting for a
very long time.'
  That comment pulled Morn out of herself. It sounded
remarkably like an offer of information. Scrambling
inside, she moved to take advantage of it.
  'How long? Weeks?'
  Vector studied his coffee. 'More like months.'
  She mouthed the word, Months?
  We have to go the long way around. If anybody
follows us - Com-Mine Security or the UMCP - we're
in big trouble. Actually, we're still heading away from
where we want to go. But if you knew the ship better -
or if you had a particularly good inner ear - you could
tell we're running a course correction right now. It's very
gradual. We aren't going to take the risk of encountering
any other ships - or of getting caught - while we curve.'
  The course correction was certainly gradual. Her sense
of balance was normally sensitive enough to tell her when



she was experiencing g along more than one vector. She
had to wonder if he were telling her the truth - and, if
so, why.
   'For a ship with no gap drive,' she commented, 'we're
trying to cross a lot of space. Where are we going?'
  'Repairs,' the engineer answered succinctly. We need
to reach a shipyard where we can get the gap drive fixed.'
  Morn faced him in surprise. Discounting Com-Mine
Station itself, she couldn't think of any shipyard in
human space that Captain's Fancy could reach using only
thrust. The ship's speed might well go as high as 150,000
kps; but even that much velocity was trivial compared to
the light-years between the stars.
   Forgetting caution, she asked, What shipyard? Where
is it?'
  Vector's eyes were as clear as clean sky, 'You know I
can't tell you that.'
   'No, I don't,' she retorted. 'As far as I can see, you
shouldn't be talking to me at all. As long as you're doing
something I don't understand, you can't expect me to
guess where your limits are.'
   He smiled, unperturbed. 'As I say, we're going to be
coasting for a long time. That means we're going to see
so much of each other we're likely to turn homicidal.
We'll all have an easier time if we try to be friendly.'
   She didn't smile back. Vector Shaheed, she thought,
was male. Like Nick Succorso and Angus Thermopyle.
If he was 'friendly', he wanted something from her.
   She was prepared to give Nick what he wanted. For
her own survival. That's what the zone implant control
was for.
  But nobody else. Nobody. Ever.



  Deliberately cold, she said, 'And we're doing all this
on UMCP orders. We're doing it to keep Hashi Leb-
wohl's nose clean for planting Station supplies on Bright
Beauty. Loyalty is a good thing, but this is ridiculous.'
  Just for a moment, Vector appeared perplexed. Then
his expression cleared. 'Ah. Your theory that Nick is a
DA operative. Now I understand.
  'Listen to me.' He leaned forward to emphasize his
words, and his round face gave up its smile. 'I wouldn't
count on that assumption if I were you. I wouldn't even
repeat it. It's too dangerous. You took enough of a
chance when you mentioned it the first time.'
  She scowled at him. Why? I'm a cop myself.' She had
no reason to trust him - and no reason to let him think
she did. Why else did Nick decide to keep me, if he
didn't have UMCP orders?'
  Abruptly Vector stood up; he went to the coffee maker
and refilled his mug. All his movements were wooden,
as if his joints had frozen while he sat.
  Not facing her, he said, 'Nick kept you for his own
reasons. He'll tell you what they are - if he ever feels like
it.'As for the rest of us-
  There isn't anybody aboard this ship who doesn't hate
the UMCP.' An undercurrent of vehemence ran through
his mild tone. 'And we've got cause. We can just barely
tolerate you as it is. If you try to taint Nick with your
own crimes, we'll use your guts for thruster fuel.'
  '"Crimes"?' His anger stopped hers; but it didn't stop
her questions. What are you talking about? I didn't ask
you to frame Bright Beauty. I never got the chance. That
was your crime, not mine.'



  The crime of being a cop,' Vector returned without
hesitation. However, his vehemence was gone: it van-
ished as suddenly as it came. The UMCP is the most
corrupt organization there is. It makes piracy look like
philanthropy.'
  While Morn stared at him, he returned stiffly to his
seat. With his mug in front of him, he faced her, smiling
and mild, like a man who knew nothing about anger.
'Let me tell you a story.'
  Reeling inwardly, she nodded. She'd been shocked by
the bare concept of UMCP complicity in Angus' false
arrest; but the step from betraying a pirate to being 'the
most corrupt organization there is' was a large one. If it
were true, it made lies out of her own reasons for becom-
ing a cop. It stained her father, whom she considered the
most incorruptible man she'd ever known; it transformed
her mother's death to something foolish, pitiful. If it were
true-
  She listened to Vector Shaheed as if - for the time
being, at least - every other question or consideration
had ceased to exist.
  'You may not realize,' he said evenly, 'that piracy is an
unusual vocation for a man like me. I'm not violent. I'm
not rebellious - or even larcenous. The truth is, I'm not
even a particularly good engineer. If you'd had time to
think about such things, you might have wondered what
I'm doing here.
  I'll tell you.
  'By training, anyway, I'm a geneticist, not an engineer.
Engineering is something I picked up later, after I
decided to change careers. Before that, I worked for
Intertech. In genetics.



  'Actually, that's where I met Orn. He was the com-
puter expert for our section. He was prone to accidents
even then, and some of his surgical reconstructions were
more successful than others, but he was in better shape
then than he is now. At first I didn't care for him. He
was too - too unscrupulous for my taste. We used to say
he'd fuck a snake if it just opened its mouth wide enough.
But he was a wizard with computers, and we all depended
on him.
  'Anyway, I was a geneticist, and as soon as I proved I
was good enough I got assigned to some top-priority
research. The kind of research where they check the gaps
between your teeth and the slush in your bowels to make
sure you don't take anything classified home with you
when you leave work. Intertech was always twitchy about
security - you've probably read about the trouble they
were in years ago, the riots and so on - and they were
getting worse all the time.'
  He paused to drink some of his coffee. Morn may have
done the same: she was concentrating too hard to notice.
  'From our point of view, that was understandable.
Intertech's charter forbids genetic tampering. You prob-
ably know that.' Morn nodded. 'It's a universal prohib-
ition. Even the United Mining Companies charter says
the same thing. Intertech could have been dismantled if
the things our section did were looked at the wrong way.
  We were working,' he said as if the statement had no
special significance, 'on a defense against genetic warfare.
An immunization for RNA mutation.'
  Morn's throat closed in shock; she almost stopped
breathing. An immunization for RNA mutation. She may
have been only a UMCP ensign, but no space-going man



or woman could have failed to recognize the impli-
cations. A defense against genetic warfare. If that were
achieved, it would be the most important single discovery
since Juanita Estevez stumbled on the gap drive. It would
transform human space. It would defuse - and conceiv-
ably resolve - the peril of forbidden space. It might even
end the problem of piracy, if the pirates were deprived
of what was by far their largest market.
  No wonder Intertech was 'twitchy about security. The
patents alone on such a discovery might make the com-
pany rich enough to buy out the UMC.
  But Vector was still talking. While she struggled to
catch up with him he went on, 'As you can imagine, we
had to be pretty good at tampering ourselves before we
could find a way to protect genetic coding against alter-
ation. And we were good. The truth is, we were close.
We were so close I used to dream about it at night. It
was like climbing a ladder where you can't see the top
because it disappears into a cloud. I couldn't see the end,
exactly, but I could see every rung along the way. All I
needed was a handlight, and I could have guessed my
way past the rest of the rungs to the answer.
  What I dreamed, you see,' he said half apologetically,
'was that I was going to be the savior of humankind. We
were all part of it, of course, our whole section - and
we wouldn't have been able to do that kind of work
without Orn - but 7 was the one who could see the
rungs. / was the one who knew how close we were to
the end of the ladder.'
  Then his smile twisted ruefully, as if he were amused
by his own regret. That's as far as I got.'
  What happened?' asked Morn. A few short weeks ago,



she'd been a young officer on her first mission, with ideals
she'd adopted from her family, and enough experience of
loss to know that such ideals were important. The idea
of an achievement as vital, as tremendous, as a mutagen
immunization - the idea of being able to do that many
people that much good - still touched her, despite Angus
and gap-sickness.
  Vector shrugged stiffly. 'One day, when I went in to
work, I found I couldn't call my research up on the
screen. We didn't do that kind of research in a bio lab.
It was too complex and time-consuming to be run physi-
cally. We did it all with computer models and simu-
lations. And my research was just gone. The whole
project was gone, everything the whole section was
doing. No matter whose authorization we used, or what
priority it had, our screens came up blank.
  'It was Orn who figured out what happened. He rigged
his way into the system and found it was full of embedded
codes none of us knew anything about. When those codes
were activated, they closed down the project. Sealed it
off. None of us could get the smallest fraction of our data
back. The system wouldn't even recognize our names.
  Those codes were UMCP.' As he spoke, his voice
resumed its undertone of vehemence, harsh and bleak.
'Not UMC. This wasn't just a situation where the United
Mining Companies wanted to protect itself in case
Intertech became too powerful. Orn knew that because
the codes included source- and copy-routes. They came
from a dedicated UMCP computer over in Adminis-
tration, and they copied everything we did to the same
place.'



  She listened as if she were transfixed. What he was
saying made her skin crawl.
  That computer was DA. It wasn't supposed to have
the capability to do anything except scan Intertech
research, looking for developments the cops might find
useful. But when Orn got into the system, he learned
that computer had the power - and the authority - to
blank the entire company.
  'You're young,' he said to Morn abruptly. 'You haven't
been out of the Academy, or away from Earth, very long.
Have you ever heard one rumor about an immunization
against RNA mutation? Has anyone ever given you a
reason to believe we don't need to spend the rest of our
lives in terror of forbidden space? Have the cops - or the
UMC - ever released our data?'
  Stunned, she shook her head.
  We had the raw materials for a defense, we had all the
rungs. And they took it, they suppressed it.' Vector's eyes
were so blue they seemed incandescent. They don't want
us to know that the way we live now isn't necessary -
and it sure as hell isn't inevitable. Forbidden space is
their excuse for power, their justification. If we had an
immunity drug, we wouldn't need the United Mining
Companies fucking Police.'
  He made an effort to control himself, but it didn't
work. Think about it for a while,' he broke out. 'At
least a dozen billion human beings, all condemned to the
terror and probably the fact of genetic imperialism, and
for what? For nothing. Except to consolidate and extend
the power of the cops. And the UMC. In the end the
whole of human space is going to be one vast gulag,



owned and operated by the UMC for its own benefit,
with the cops for muscle.
  'I'm one of the lucky ones.' Now at last Vector's anger
began to recede; but his smile didn't come back. 'I got
out. Intertech shut down our section and transferred all
of us, but I kept in touch with Orn. Mostly because he
has so few scruples, he tends to meet people with none
at all. I quit Intertech and apprenticed engineering on
one of the orbital smelters. Then Orn got me a job on a
small, independent orehauler, along with a few other'
- at last he permitted himself a mildly sarcastic grin -
'disaffected souls. We took over the ship and went into
business for ourselves. Eventually we met Nick. Orn
understands illegals, and I understand brilliance, so we
joined him. We've been here ever since.'
  There he stopped. Maybe he could see how profoundly
he'd disturbed her. Or maybe he was just exhausted him-
self, worn out by too much mass and too little rest. He
stood up as if he had to fight resistance in every joint,
apparently intending to leave her alone with the impli-
cations of what he'd said.
  But he wasn't done after all. Halfway out of the galley,
he paused to ask, 'Do you know why I move like this?'
  Morn shook her head dumbly.
  'Arthritis,' he told her. 'Once I made the mistake of
interfering with one of Orn's less scrupulous pleasures.
He beat me up. Rather severely. Quite a few of my joints
were bruised or damaged. That's where arthritis starts. It
gets a toehold on old wounds or scar tissue. Then it
spreads. Heavy g is - agony.
  'G is agony, agony g,' he said as if he were quoting,
'that is all ye know in space, and all ye need to know.'



  As he left, he concluded, 'I prefer it that way. As far
as I'm concerned, the pirates are the good guys.'
  She stayed in the galley alone for a long time. She'd
just survived a bout of gap-sickness: for the first time
since Starmaster sighted Bright Beauty, she'd discovered
a reason for hope. Nevertheless she felt none: she felt
abandoned and desolate. She'd become a cop because
she'd wanted to dedicate herself to the causes and ideals
of the UMCP; perhaps, covertly, because she'd wanted
to avenge her mother. But if Vector was right - if he was
telling the truth-
  In that case, the UMCP had perpetrated an atrocity so
colossal that it beggared her imagination; so profound
that it altered the meaning of everything she'd ever
valued or believed; so vile that it transformed the moral
order of human space from civilization and ethics to
butchery and rape, from Captain Davies Hyland to
Angus Thermopyle.
  Now what was she supposed to hope for? That Vector
was lying? If so, she would never be able to prove it. And
she would never be able to eradicate what he'd told her
from her brain: it would always be there, tainting her
thoughts, corrupting her as surely as forbidden space. No
matter how much personal integrity her father - or she
herself - had possessed, he and she may have been
nothing more than tools in malign hands.
  Alone in Captain's Fancy's galley, with a mug of cold
coffee in front of her and nowhere to go, Morn Hyland
spent an hour or two grieving for her father - and for
everything he represented in her life. She'd only killed
his body; and only because of an illness she hadn't known



about. Vector Shaheed had damaged his image, his
memory.
  That grief was necessary. Until it was done, she
couldn't summon enough anger to return to her cabin
and the zone implant control.



When she tried to return to her cabin, however,
              she discovered that she had a problem she
              hadn't anticipated. Her black box was still on,
transmitting sleep to the centers of the brain. As soon as
she re-entered the control's range, she began to grow
drowsy.
  And her door lock was set to a five-second delay. Her
zone implant had that much more time in which to over-
whelm her.
  Fool! she swore at herself. Fool. Her lack of foresight
was going to ruin her. If she fell asleep before she could
reach the box and switch it off, she would be unconscious
until somebody rescued her again. Nick or his people
would inevitably grow suspicious. And she couldn't
simply avoid her cabin. Nick would insist on taking her
there for more sex.
  In any case, she needed the control.
  Too angry and desperate to hesitate, she retreated
down the corridor until she reached the point where her



zone implant let go of her. Then she headed for her cabin
at a run.
  Angus had taught her to do such things.
  Key the lock.
  Wait: five interminable seconds. Her urgency frayed
away, and her self-command sank toward the bottom of
a quagmire of helpless rest. By the time the door slid
open, she was staggering, barely able to hold up her head,
keep her eyes open.
  Plunging forward, she hit the edge of the berth, thrust
her hands under the mattress.
  The control wasn't there.
  Yes, it was. She'd misjudged its position. When she
hunted, her fingers touched it; grabbed it.
  As she toppled to the floor, her thumb caught the
button which canceled her implant's emissions.
  For several minutes she lay still, breathing hard while
she drifted up out of panic and sleep. Then she resumed
her quest for survival.

When Nick brought his hunger back to her cabin, she
was busy experimenting with the zone implant control:
training her fingers to reach the buttons she wanted;
testing the effect of the control's various functions.
  Her door barely gave her enough warning. She was
engrossed in trying to tune the zone implant subtly and
accurately enough to speed up her brain, her ability to
think, without making herself obviously hyperactive.
Nevertheless a part of her mind was listening for the
lock's chime. Just in time she snapped off the control and
thrust it deep in her pocket.



  Nerves jangling from the stress of too many tran-
sitions, she turned to face the door.
  Nick came in grinning, jaunty and relaxed. Nothing
in his eyes, or in the suffused hue of his scars, suggested
anger. Apparently he'd satisfied his desire for revenge and
was willing to forget about it now.
  That eased one of her many fears.
  'Scan's still clear,' he remarked as he re-locked the door.
'I'm pretty sure we aren't being chased. If anybody
wanted to catch us, they wouldn't be this casual about it.
We can afford to wait a while before we burn again.'
  Morn did her best to smile at him. That was hard
without the zone implant's help. If anything, the nausea
she tasted when she thought about his hunger was grow-
ing worse. Vector's attack on the UMCP made every-
thing worse. And the strain of jumping through synaptic
hoops left her as ragged and drained as a long, bad hal-
lucination.
  Fortunately her hand was still in her pocket. Moving
cautiously, her fingers found the buttons she needed.
  'Maybe I was too tired to think straight last time,' he
went on, grinning satyrically, 'or maybe I've had so much
on my mind since then that I don't trust my own
memory. But I could have sworn you're the best woman
I ever had.' His scars were so dark that they seemed to
stand out from his face - three black welts angling under
his right eye, two under his left. 'I want to see if you can
do that again.'
  Morn swallowed hard because her throat was full of
bile, and said in a husky whisper, Try me.'
  She engaged the zone implant control, took her hand



out of her pocket. Then she unsealed her shipsuit and let
it fall.
   When he saw her naked, he breathed once, softly,
'Morn.' Sweeping her into his arms, he bore her back-
ward to the bunk.
   This occasion was a reprise of the last one. He was the
fooled artist, exalted by her unquenchable and misleading
response: she was the false instrument, pretending it was
his manhood which drove her wild. What they did
together didn't diverge from the template she'd estab-
lished earlier until he'd expended his hunger in a climax
so poignant that it brought tears to his eyes.
   This time, however, he didn't fall asleep afterward.
Instead he lay beside her and held her tightly in his arms
while his breathing slowed and his tears dried on his
scars. At last, he murmured at her ear, 'I was right.' His
tone was almost tender. There's nobody like you. No
woman has ever wanted me enough to give herself up
like that.'
   'Nick,' she replied, 'Nick,' rubbing her breasts against
him and caressing his penis because the control was still
on and he'd left her short of the neural apotheosis which
would have cauterized her brain, brought her true desire
and rage to an end.
   His tone was almost tender: his smile was almost fond.
'If I didn't know better,' he told her, 'you might make
me believe there really is such a thing as love.'
   She began to grow frantic. Until he was ready to let
her get dressed, she couldn't reach the zone implant
control. It was still in the pocket of her shipsuit. So she
took the risk of pushing him too far: even though he was



sated, she ran her mouth down his belly and began to
lick him between his legs.
  Her ploy worked. Grinning again, he said, 'Later,' and
rolled off the bunk.
  She was afraid he wouldn't leave. If he didn't - if he
lingered for any reason - she might expose herself. She
couldn't suppress the passion which the zone implant
imposed on her.
  Fortunately he didn't linger. Perhaps he didn't yet trust
her enough to want her for anything more than sex. As
he slipped back into his shipsuit, he said, We're going
to burn for two more hours. That'll be about as fast as
we can go and still have thrust left if we need to
maneuver. Then we'll be done with heavy g. We'll all
have time to relax.' At the door, he added, 'Don't let
yourself get sick. You and I are going to do a lot of
relaxing together.'
  The moment he left, she flipped off the bunk, found
the control, and canceled it.
  This transition wasn't as damaging as the last one. Just
recently she'd learned how to vary the intensity of the
zone implant's functions. Now she engaged rest at a low
level to soften her neural distress.
  A short time later the bridge crew gave her an acceler-
ation alert. When Captain's Fancy stopped internal g, she
sealed herself in her blankets and set the control's timer
for two hours and ten minutes. As soon as she felt thrust
ignite through the hull, she put herself to sleep.

She passed that crisis as well.
  She might conceivably have passed it without the zone
implant. She had no way of knowing exactly how much



g was required to trigger her gap-sickness. Any thrust
drive was ruled by the law of diminishing returns: the
faster Captain's Fancy went, the smaller became the differ-
ence between her velocity and the pressure of her
thrusters; therefore the same amount of thrust produced
steadily less acceleration, until velocity and pressure
achieved a state of balance. After that the drive was just
a waste of fuel: Captain's Fancy could coast as fast without
it. In consequence the second period of burn was
inherently less stressful than the first.
  If Morn had stayed awake, she might have learned
what her own limits were.
  When the control timer clicked off, however, and she
drifted back to consciousness, she was glad she hadn't
risked the experiment. Her body ached as if she suffered
the same arthritis which stiffened Vector Shaheed, and
her head felt sodden and sore, like the aftermath of being
drunk. She didn't believe she could have stayed sane with-
out her zone implant's protection.

The rest of Captain's Fancy's people experienced a com-
pletely different kind of relief.
  They'd escaped Com-Mine Station without additional
damage. They were done with the ordeal of heavy g for
the foreseeable future. And they were almost certainly
not going to encounter any other ships out here, not
traveling at space normal speeds this far from Station -
a distance too small for gap drives, but rapidly becoming
too great for any ordinary traffic that relied on thrust.
  To all appearances, they were safe.
  Of course, there was always the danger that a pursuit
ship would attempt a blink crossing. Nick's people had



performed that maneuver themselves: they knew it was
possible. But any pursuer who went into tach to close
the distance was in for a surprise. Captain's Fancy had
already veered far off any trajectory Station could have
plotted for her; she was veering farther all the time.
Directional thrust sank its teeth into the vacuum steadily,
bringing the ship by slow degrees around to her eventual
heading.
  Nick Succorso left only a skeleton crew on the bridge:
command, scan, data. For the rest of the ship, he threw
a party.
  To celebrate the rescue of the lovely and astonishing
Morn Hyland, he said. From the vile clutches of Captain
Angus sheepfucker Thermo-pile, he explained. And to
commemorate the start of the first vacation this ship and
her crew had ever had, he added. Captain's Fancy's stores
offered a large array of recreational drinks and drugs.
Before long nearly everybody aboard was either drunk
or stoned.
  That kept some of Morn's problems at bay for a while.
  Carousal was only a stopgap, however; a way for men
and women without zone implants to effect transition.
When it was done, and its aftereffects had been endured,
Nick's people had to face a new difficulty.
  They had to think of some way to pass the time.
  They weren't accustomed to long voyages. Captain's
Fancy was a gap ship, not an in-system hauler. In all
probability, she'd never spent more than a month out of
port since Nick first acquired her. Her crew had to think
of some way to occupy themselves.
  And most of them had volatile temperaments. They
were illegals - better trained to fight for their lives than



to fend off boredom. For them, a 'vacation' without
expensive sex or bars or intrigue or any of the other
resources a station offered soon lost its attractions. A
week of mood-altering substances, sleep, and mutual har-
assment was all right. After that trouble and tempers
began to fester.
  Once in a while, Morn heard sounds like blows in
the halls. At awkward moments obscenities were piped
throughout the ship, filling Captain's Fancy with manic
humor or fury. The people she encountered when Nick
took her to the galley or the mess seemed to grow more
slovenly, truculent, and damaged every day.
  Toward the end of the second week, Vector Shaheed
made an occasion to remark to Nick, 'I think we're about
ready.'
  Nick grinned confidently and shook his head. 'Soon.'
  Vector shrugged and went away.
  A few days later Mikka Vasaczk took the risk of coming
to the door while Nick was in Morn's cabin. Nick left
Morn naked and panting on the bunk to let his second
in.Mikka entered with a glare, but it wasn't aimed at
Morn. She had a dramatic bruise over one eye; the
knuckles of both hands bled. Before Nick could speak,
she snapped, This has gone on long enough. That damn
libidinous null-wave transmitter you installed as data
third clubbed me with a spanner. She said I was keeping
men away from her. Me. If half these people weren't your
abandoned lovers, we wouldn't be having this problem.'
  She scowled at Nick balefully.
  He flashed a smile back at Morn, then said to Mikka,
'All right. I guess they're ready for a little discipline.



  'Round them up. Use a gun if you have to. I don't
care if they're asleep or dead drunk. I'll talk to them in
an hour. We'll put them to work.'
  His second didn't salute or reply. Wheeling her hips,
she turned and left.
  When his people were assembled, Nick talked to them
about their behavior and attitudes as if he found the
whole subject secretly hilarious. Then he ordered a com-
plete overhaul of every part of the frigate which could be
worked on outside a shipyard.
  'It's going to take you at least a couple of months,' he
concluded, 'so you'd better get started.'
  That solved the ship's problems for a while. Not every-
one accepted the order graciously, but even the angriest
and most discontented crewmembers didn't want to cross
Nick Succorso. And soon they were too busy to cause
any more trouble.
  Unfortunately Morn's difficulties were only made
worse.
  For one thing, Nick now had even more time to spend
with her. The work could be left to Mikka's supervision:
he personally had nothing to do except test the limits of
Morn's responsiveness. There were days when he hardly
left her cabin.
  At first, he stayed with her only for sex and sleep: that
was bad enough. But gradually, as he grew accustomed
to her response - as he began to trust it - deeper hungers
rose toward the surface in him. He started talking to her;
as days passed into weeks, he talked to her more and
more. She had to keep her black box concealed under
the mattress and hope he didn't find it: he left her so few
opportunities to turn herself on and off that she was



forced to perform most of her functions while he slept.
  At times she sensed a need in him so deep that it was
virtually bottomless - a need for his own efficacy or vir-
ility which could only be temporarily assuaged, never
truly relieved. It showed, not only in the way he went
about sex, but in the way he talked. Apparently what he
enjoyed most was repeating stories other people (so he
said) told about him - stories of escapes and rescues,
victories and acts of piracy; buccaneering stories, dra-
matic and brave. He never confirmed whether these
stories were true, but his relish for them remained con-
stant. He needed them - and his need drove him to her.
In fact, the more she fed his hunger, the more compul-
sory it became: the more she listened to him and
responded to him, the more he desired her.
  She hated that: she hated him and everything he did.
Sometimes her revulsion grew so acute that she lay awake
while he slept, gritting her teeth and imagining how
good it would feel to cut his guts open and pull his
testicles out through his abdomen.
  Nevertheless she suffered his presence; she burned
with passion at his touch; she encouraged him to talk.
She could see what the things he did meant.
  She was becoming valuable to him.
  Despite her increasing nausea, she protected her own
survival by giving him what he wanted.
  And his attachment did have one apparent benefit: as
long as he was pleased with her, she had the freedom of
the ship. As long as she was always available for him,
she could go where she wished, look where she wished.
Nobody stood in her way. Even Mikka Vasaczk left her
strictly alone.



  When she took advantage of her freedom, she found
Vector immured in his engines, or Carmel and Lind up
to their elbows in wiring; video showed her people in
EVA suits crawling across Captain's Fancy's shell; lifts
were regularly out of service while they were taken apart
and put back together again by the second engineer, a
gangling youth with unruly hair and bad skin whom
everybody called 'Pup', even though he obviously hated
it.Familiarity with her surroundings wasn't enough to
ease her distress, however. She wanted something more.
  She wanted access to the ship's computers - to the
logs; even to the datacore. From them she might be able
to learn where she was, where she was going. She
couldn't test Vector's story one way or the other, but
she might find evidence of UMCP complicity in Angus'
arrest. She might be able to learn who Nick Succorso
really was.
  That knowledge might conceivably have helped her;
but she didn't get it. Because of the overhaul, the com-
puters were always attended. Even the auxiliary bridge
was never deserted, although it was tucked out of the
way in the drive space, next to the console room where
Vector monitored his engines.
  In fact, her freedom of the ship was really a disadvan-
tage. It didn't provide her with what she wanted. On the
other hand, it subjected her to a nerve-racking series of
encounters with Orn Vorbuld.
  Vector's badly repaired friend must have been watch-
ing her all the time: that was the only explanation she
could think of for his ability to locate her whenever she
was alone. He was the ship's computer expert: he was



probably capable of rigging the maintenance computer's
sensors to keep track of her. Eventually she began to
hesitate when she had an opportunity to leave her cabin
because she knew that, sooner or later, she would have
to fend him off.
  He seldom spoke to her; but he never let her pass
without touching her. On the first occasion, he only
repeated the caress he'd once given her hair. But on the
second, he managed to rub a hand across her breasts
before she moved out of his reach. On the third, he
squeezed her breasts so hard that they ached for an hour
afterward.
  Later he caught hold of her and kissed her like a lam-
prey. She wasn't able to break loose until she contrived
to slam the heel of her boot against the back of his knee.
  She hurt him enough to make him let go - but not
enough to make him stop stalking her.
  This was a crisis of another kind. She could have iso-
lated herself in her cabin, of course. Or she could have
told Nick what was happening: she knew him well
enough now to believe that he wouldn't tolerate Orn's
actions. But both those options stank of defeat - and
she'd already suffered more defeats than she could bear.
  She didn't tell Nick. And she didn't hide in her cabin.
  Instead she went to talk to Vector Shaheed.
  She found him, as usual, in the drive space. She
couldn't see him, but she heard him working inside the
heavy shell of the gap field generator, still trying to repair
the drive himself. To attract his attention, she pounded
on the shell with her palm and shouted, 'Vector!'
  A variety of clunking noises answered her. Then the



engineer emerged painfully from the service hatch, a cir-
cuit probe in one hand.
  'Morn.' His round face was pink with exertion, but his
manner was as mild as ever. What can I do for you?'
  She felt no need to pretend she wasn't angry. She
required anger. Without it, she would be at the mercy of
her fear and revulsion.
  What's the matter with that so-called "friend'' of
yours?' she demanded harshly. 'I think he's going to rape
me.'
  Vector blinked at her for a moment, apparently unable
to guess whom she meant. Then his eyes cleared. 'Oh,
Orn.
  'I told you,' he commented. 'He has the glands of an
ape - and no scruples. If you convinced him you had
syphilis, I don't think even that would slow him down.
As far as I can tell, he has no physical fears. Sickbay can
fix anything.
  'Of course, Nick won't like it.' He paused, considering
the situation, then added, 'You don't really have a
problem.'
  Morn tried to replicate the lash she'd sometimes heard
in her father's voice. 'I don't?'
  Vector smiled as if his thoughts were already back in
the shell with the gap drive.
  'You're a big girl now. All you have to do is stop him.'
  All those hours with Nick had left her primed for an
explosion. 'I'll stop him, all right.' Fuming, she turned
and strode away.
  But she had no idea how to do it.
  She'd been trained in the Academy: she knew how to
defend herself. On the other hand, Orn Vorbuld was



bigger; much stronger. And she couldn't risk using the
enhanced resources of her zone implant: quickness, con-
centration, numbness to pain. To do that, she needed to
carry the control with her - and she could too easily
imagine that it might be discovered.
  She wanted a gun. A good impact pistol would be nice.
Even a laser-cutter would suffice. But nobody aboard
Captain's Fancy was likely to give her a weapon without
Nick's permission; and that would necessitate an expla-
nation.
  Fulminating like a vial of acid, she went to the galley
for a mug of coffee and a chance to think.
  As a precaution, she sat at the table with her back
to the foodvend, facing the outer corridor so that Orn
wouldn't be able to take her by surprise.
  He arrived so promptly that she almost believed Vector
had told him where to find her. But of course the
engineer hadn't known where she was headed when she
left the drive space-
  Orn came into the galley, a flush of anticipation on his
face. Not for the first time, she noticed how big his hands
were; they looked like slabs of meat.
  She stood up sharply.
  He stopped. For a moment they confronted each other
over the table.
  Like his voice, his eyes were incongruously timid; he
stared at her in apprehension, as if she were hot enough
to scald him. But she already knew there wasn't anything
timid about him. She wasn't misled when he said like a
frightened boy, 'I want you.'
  Too bad,' she retorted. 'I don't want you.'



  If he had any ear at all for disgust, he would know she
was telling the truth.
  Obviously he wasn't worried about her disgust. 'Yes,
you do,' he said with as much certainty as his voice could
convey. Women are like that. They don't care who they
get it from. They think they do, but they don't. They just
want it.
  'Nick's too soft on you. I'll show you what it's really
like.'
  Remembering Angus, Morn wanted to spit in Orn's
face. 'You're wrong about that,' she snapped. 'I already
know. I promised myself the next man who tries it is
going to end up dead.
  'Does Nick,' she countered before he could move,
'know you're like this?'
   Orn's grin bore no resemblance to his voice, or his
eyes: it was bloodthirsty and unconcerned. 'Nick knows
something more important than that,' he returned, still
sounding afraid. 'He knows he needs me. He just doesn't
know why. He doesn't know I put a virus in the com-
puters - the same day I came aboard. I'm the only one
who knows how to work around it. Usually I put it on
hold. But it isn't on hold now. Anybody who tries to get
into the systems without me will trigger a complete wipe.
Everything will disappear.
   'Unless you keep your mouth shut and give me what
I want, one of us is going to have to tell him about that.'
   Despite her anger, he shocked her. A complete wipe!
That was as good as suicide: it would kill Captain's Fancy
and everybody aboard. Despair surged up in her; despair
and loathing. He was like Angus. He had more weapons
than she could face, more ways to control her-



  When he stepped forward and reached across the table
to take hold of her, she flung her coffee into his eyes.
  Take that and be damned, you sonofabitch!
  Rounding the table while he yowled, she hammered
him across the bridge of his nose with her mug. Blood
spattered down his cheeks. As fast as she could, she fol-
lowed that blow with a spear-hand jab for the base of his
throat.
  Although he was blinded by coffee and blood, he
somehow managed to catch hold of her wrist.
  That was all he needed.
  She tried a whirling turn. If she could spin hard
enough, catch him on the temple with her elbow, she
might stun him; make him let go.
  But he turned with her. Using her own momentum,
he slammed her head-first into the wall.
  When she hit, her brain went to jelly, and all her
muscles failed.
  She kept on flailing randomly, but to no purpose.
Gripping her wrist, he hit her again and again; she
thought he was going to hit her until she broke. Then,
abruptly, he stopped. He didn't want her dead. He
wanted her alive; he wanted her in pain. Like Angus.
Releasing his hold, he snatched at her shipsuit with both
hands and ripped it off her shoulders.
  Voices came from somewhere, but they meant
nothing; they didn't make a difference. She fought for
control of her limbs. The sleeves of her shipsuit were
down around her elbows, binding her arms so that she
couldn't use them. And Orn was too strong for her. He
drove her out of the galley, shoved her against the
opposite wall. She was headed for the floor.



  'Get her, Orn,' someone said happily. 'Show her you
won't take no for an answer. Show her you don't care
what Nick thinks.'
  'Fuck her!' another voice demanded. 'Fuck her hard!
Make her bleed!'
  When he closed his fists on her breasts and tried to
clamp his mouth over hers, she dropped into a crouch.
  Despite her blank brain and her weakness, she coiled
herself under him and brought her knee up into his groin.
  With a gasp, he recoiled.
  'Again!' a voice called like a cheer. 'Hit him again!'
  Staggering along the wall, she turned and tried to run.
  He tackled her before she went three steps. His weight
landed on top of her as she struck the floor. The impact
paralyzed her. She couldn't resist as he rolled her over
and began to tear her shipsuit the rest of the way open.
  'Clear the mess.' Nick spoke in a conversational tone,
but his voice cut through Morn's hurt and Orn's frenzy.
We're going to need some room.'
  Orn froze.
  Morn heard boots running. Then Nick said casually,
'Orn, I think you've just made a serious mistake. In fact,
I think it's the last mistake you're ever going to make.'
  Morn caught a ragged breath as Orn scrambled off her
and jumped to his feet.
  'She damaged you,' Nick commented. That's good.
Let's go to the mess. You can wash the blood out of your
eyes. Then we'll see if there's any way you can survive
this.'
  'Nick-' Orn began. His voice was full of incongruous
panic and threats.
  'Come on, Orn,' Vector said. When Morn sat up,



closed her shipsuit, and raised her head, she saw the
engineer standing beside his friend. 'You must have
known this was going to happen. At least he's giving you
time to think. Maybe you can think of something to save
you.'
  Drawing Orn along by the arm, Vector moved in the
direction of the mess.
  Belatedly someone offered to help Morn. She threw
the hands off and levered herself stiffly to her feet.
  Nick glanced at her. 'How bad is it?' he asked as if he
had no particular interest in her answer.
  She shook her head. 'Let me have a gun.' Her legs
were frail, and her head reeled; she had to lean on the
wall to keep her balance. 'I'll kill him myself.'
  Nick chuckled harshly and followed Orn.
  In moments virtually the entire crew was assembled.
If anyone was left on the bridge, it had to be somebody
Morn didn't know. The tables and chairs had been moved
out of the center of the mess; men and women stood
among them around the walls. While Vector cleaned
Orn's face, Nick walked out into the middle of the floor
alone and stood waiting. He was surrounded by grins
and frowns, excitement and fear, but nobody said any-
thing. Morn's strained breathing was the only sound in
the room.
  Abruptly Nick remarked, 'Orn, you've given me a
problem.'
  Orn turned to face his captain. 'No, I haven't.' His
voice was more timid than ever. Nevertheless the way he
turned, the way he moved, reminded Morn that Vector
had said of him, He has no physical fears. 'If you want her
for yourself, all you have to do is keep her locked up. I



told you -I warned you she would cause trouble. Since
you decided to let her run around loose, I figured you
didn't mind sharing her.'
  'You don't understand.' In contrast to Orn, Nick
sounded smooth and easy, as if he ran on frictionless
bearings. 'I'm not talking about her, I'm talking about
you. You're good with computers - maybe the best I've
seen. Now I'm going to have to replace you.'
  There was fright in Orn's eyes, if not in his stance.
'You don't have to replace me.'
  'You know better than that,' Nick replied. 'You've been
with me a long time. You know the rules.'
  'But you never brought a woman like her aboard!' Orn
protested. 'Not a woman who looks like her. You should
have kept her locked up. I'm only human, Nick. I'm just
a man - like you. What do you want from me?'
  Nick's grin was as feral as a predator's. 'I want you to
say good-bye, Orn.'
  At last some of the fearlessness Vector had ascribed to
Orn showed in his voice. 'Nick, don't do this,' he said
almost firmly. 'If you touch me, you're a dead man. I
won't have anything left to lose.'
  As soon as he said that, Morn knew she would have
to intervene. The virus: a complete wipe. Somebody had
to tell Nick-
  Somebody had to tell him he couldn't afford to kill
Orn.
  Hugging her sore ribs, she glared at Orn Vorbuld and
said nothing.
  'You're going to end up dead,' Orn concluded. 'Even
if you beat me. Which I don't think you can do.'
  In response, Nick threw back his head and laughed.



  He was still laughing as he kicked Orn in the temple.
  Orn saw the blow coming in time to slip the worst of
it past his ear. Despite his ungainly appearance, he was
fast. The ease with which he'd mastered Morn was no
accident. And he was bigger than Nick by at least twenty
kg; he had heavier muscles. The punch that countered
Nick's kick looked powerful enough to topple a gantry.
  Nick caught the punch with a rising block, snapped a
short blow into Orn's belly, then danced away before the
bigger man could grapple with him.
  Orn shrugged off the pain as if it were trivial. 'You
fucker,' he panted. 'You've got a death-wish.'
  Unsealing his shipsuit, he reached inside it and pulled
out a knife with a long, black blade. Steady in one fist,
he held it poised for Nick's vitals. With his other hand,
he wiped fresh blood off his face.
  'Now aren't you ashamed of yourself ?' asked Nick sar-
donically. 'Knives are against the rules. Do you think a
little gut-sticker like that is going to scare me?'
  Fast and deadly, he kicked again.
  This time Orn was ready - and this time the kick was
a feint. When Orn tried to slash Nick's leg, Nick hooked
his kick around and ripped the knife out of Orn's hand
with the heel of his boot.
  The knife skittered away.
  Stolidly Mikka Vasaczk stepped forward and picked it
up.Orn spat at her, 'Bitch? and flung himself at Nick.
  For a moment Orn's attack was so hard and furious
that he seemed to have Nick on the defensive. Nick
blocked with his fists and elbows, ducked and bobbed to
avoid blows. One punch clipped his jaw with enough



force to jam his teeth together loudly; another rocked his
head back; a third made him stagger. He appeared to be
going down-
  Two or three people shouted warnings or encourage-
ment - but not to Orn. Vector stood with his arms folded
across his chest, shaking his head for his friend.
  Morn watched the fight helplessly, so sick with anger
that she could hardly stand. She was doomed either way.
If Orn won, he would kill her - she was sure of that.
Unless she found some way to give him what he wanted
without being killed for it. And if Nick won, the whole
ship was finished.
  A complete wipe.
  So why didn't she do something? Why didn't she try
to stop the fight? Wasn't it better to risk being raped a
few times than to die? She'd saved Angus, hadn't she?
Why did she care how many other men who wanted to
brutalize her she kept alive?
  No, not again; not after Angus.
  Let them die, she thought coldly. Let them all die.
  Panting in hoarse, raw spasms, Orn drove Nick back
against one of the tables. Nick was still on the defensive;
he couldn't retreat farther. He blocked hard and fast,
misdirecting most of Orn's force; but he didn't land any
blows of his own. No matter how well he protected him-
self, Orn was able to hurt him. One clear, solid hit would
break his skull, or his neck-
  'Stop playing with him!' Mikka barked suddenly. 'He
might get lucky!'
  As if that were his cue, Nick lashed out with one foot;
the side of his boot struck Orn's shin.
  The kick was hardly more than a slap: it was too short



for power, had too little weight behind it. Nevertheless
it made Orn shift his balance backward.
  During that small instant, Nick hit him with three
sharp uppercuts to the belly, three blows that had all the
strength of his legs and all the torque of his shoulders
behind them.
  Orn stumbled - and Nick slammed the heel of his palm
straight into Orn's throat.
  Gagging, Orn fell.
  He tried to roll and rise. Nick promptly kicked him
once in the stomach, once in the ribs, once in the fore-
head. The last kick was surgically precise: it lifted him up
onto his knees and left him there with his head lolling as
if he'd been positioned for execution.
  Nick paused to evaluate his handiwork.
  Orn couldn't move. He could hardly breathe: he had
broken ribs, and his larynx may have been damaged. His
eyes were glazed;his mouth hung open, drooling blood.
Blood made most of his face look like pulp.
  With an air of formality, Mikka Vasaczk stepped away
from the wall and handed Nick Orn's knife.
  Orn didn't move as Nick Succorso slashed his face,
three times under one eye, twice under the other. More
blood streamed from his jaw and splashed onto his knees.
  'Morn,' he gasped as if he were drowning. 'Morn,
please.'
  Orn's appeal made Nick turn to look at her.
  She came close to saying, Give me the knife. Let me
finish him. Her wish to see Orn dead was so intense that
it nearly swept all other considerations away. She wanted
him dead, wanted to kill him herself. Seeing him beaten
now didn't satisfy her; not at all. Instead his helplessness



seemed to stoke a dark fire inside her, feeding her hunger
for his blood.
  Let me finish him.
  But then a strange dislocation of consciousness came
to her rescue. She could feel Angus Thermopyle in her,
thinking her thoughts, saying what she wanted to say.
Give me the knife. Let me finish him.
  That stopped her.
  As if she were recoiling from a precipice, she panted,
'He told me you can't kill him. You can't afford to.'
  Nick's bruises made his face look congested with fury;
he might have been planning to hit her himself. Like his
eyes, his grin was sharp and murderous.
  'He says he planted a virus in the computers,' she
explained. 'And he's the only one who can work around
it. He put it in the first day he came aboard. You've been
at his mercy ever since. If you try to do anything without
him, you'll trigger a complete wipe.'
  Her words stung everyone around her like a stun-prod.
Mikka and Pup went pale; Vector closed his eyes as if he
were ill; men and women Morn didn't know stared
horror and dismay at Orn.
  Blazing, Nick wheeled back to the data first. As if he
didn't understand, he demanded, 'You did what?
  With his remaining strength, Orn nodded once. The
cuts Nick had given him ran like tears.
  'If that happens,' Morn finished, 'we're lost. We'll never
arrive anywhere. We won't be able to find our way. We'll
coast out here until we go mad. Or starve.'
  Poised in front of Orn, Nick asked Vector dangerously,
'Is he capable of that?'
  The engineer shrugged without opening his eyes.



'Sure.' As always, he spoke mildly. Nevertheless he
looked old and bleak, almost haggard despite the round-
ness of his face. 'From his point of view, it was a reason-
able thing to do. Like buying life insurance.'
  Abruptly Nick started laughing again - a rough sound
with death in it. There's no question about it, Orn, you
motherfucker. I don't get mad easily, but you have defi-
nitely found a way to piss me off.'
  'Nick-' Mikka said. She may have been trying to warn
him. Or stop him.
  He ignored her. Whirling suddenly, he kicked Orn's
head so hard that everybody in the mess heard Orn's neck
break.
  'Nick.' This time Mikka said his name like a moan. But
he still ignored her.
  Grimly he left the room. As he passed her, he said to
Morn as if he held her accountable, 'I hope they taught
you something about computers in the Academy.'
  Morn hugged herself and tried to believe that she
wasn't going to be the next person Nick killed.



In the aftermath of the fight, Mom Hyland felt weary
    and sore, drained to the bone.
         She couldn't seem to take her eyes off Orn's
corpse. Like everyone else in the mess, she studied him
as if she were praying to see him move, hoping for some
sign that he wasn't dead. But he lay with his face in a
small puddle of the blood from his smashed nose and the
cuts Nick had given him. Everyone had heard his neck
snap.
  They were all going to die because of him.
  Unlike the crew, however, she didn't regret his death.
Such men didn't deserve to live, no matter how expensive
it was to get rid of them.
  And Nick had said, I hope they taught you something
about computers in the Academy. At last she was going to
get access to the ship's systems - which meant that she
might learn the answers to some of her questions.
  The idea failed to lift her spirits.
  How could she help save Captain's Fancy? She was no



computer wizard. And it wasn't worth the effort. If the
ship survived, so would she - and then she would have
to go on dealing with men like Orn Vorbuld and Nick
Succorso; fighting them off or surrendering to them until
her black revulsion cracked its containers and devoured
her mind. She should have thought of some way to save
herself from Orn. She should have - but she hadn't. It
was beyond her.
  'All right, boys and girls,' Mikka Vasaczk said harshly,
'the party's over. We've all got work to do. You know
what the stakes are, so pay attention.'
  Around the mess, people raised their heads. Some of
them plainly wanted orders; they wanted to be told what
to do, as a defense against their fear. Others were already
too scared.
  What work?' The woman who spoke was an artificial
blonde with sullen features. 'I don't know how to cure a
computer virus. None of us does. We just use the systems,
we don't design them. Orn was the only one who could
do that.'
  Mikka replied with a smile as humorless as the blade
of Orn's knife. 'Fine. If you think Nick's beaten, you go
tell him. All I want is a chance to watch. He'll make you
think Vorbuld got off easy.'
  Without warning her voice cracked into a shout like a
cry from her dour and unyielding heart.
  'Have any of you EVER seen Nick beaten?'
  Now she had them: every eye in the mess was fixed on
her. There were no more protests.
  Mikka took a deep breath to steady herself, then
repeated, We've all got work to do. I want the firsts on
the bridge. Mackern, you're promoted to data first.'



  Mackern was a pale, nervous man with a nearly invis-
ible mustache. His only apparent reaction to his pro-
motion was a desire to disappear into the bulkheads.
  'That makes you second, Parmute,' Vasaczk continued
to the artificial blonde.
  The rest of you, get back to the overhaul. Shut it
down - secure everything. I want us tight and ready for
maneuvers in an hour. Anybody who isn't done by then
can trade jobs with Pup.'
  The boy they called Pup met her threat with a flash of
hope. For him, any trade would be an improvement.
  'Do it now,' Mikka finished grimly. The timer is
running.'
  Still looking ashen and old, Vector Shaheed pushed
his swollen joints away from the wall. At once the whole
crew started to move as if he'd broken them out of a
stasis-field.
  In ten seconds Morn and Mikka were alone with Orn
Vorbuld's body.
  With an air of grim restraint, Mikka turned to Morn.
Her eyes held a fierce gleam, fanatical and deadly. This
is your fault,' she rasped. 'Don't think I'm going to forget
that. Don't ever think I'm going to forget.'
  Morn held Mikka's glare without flinching. Everything
was beyond her; for the moment, she didn't care whether
she survived.
  'God damn it,' Mikka chewed out, 'what do you use
for brains? Do you do all your thinking with your crotch?
Any imbecile could have told you not to tackle Orn alone.
Hell, Pup could have told you. You should have talked
to Nick before things got this bad. If you'd warned him
in time, we might have been able to avoid this mess.'



  Morn shrugged. She had no reason to justify herself
to Nick's second. And yet she found that she couldn't
refuse. The nature of Mikka's anger touched her. She
could imagine her mother being angry in just that way,
if someone had threatened Morn.
  Stiffly she asked, 'How many times have you been
raped?'
  Vasaczk dismissed the question with an ungiving
scowl. We aren't talking about rape. We're talking about
brains'
  Morn wasn't deflected. 'After a while,' she said, 'you
hurt so bad that you don't want to be rescued anymore.
You want to eviscerate that sonofabitch for yourself.
Eventually you don't even care that you haven't got a
prayer. You need to try.
  'If you don't try, you end up killing yourself because
you're too ashamed to live.'
  Nick's second opened her mouth to retort, then closed
it again. For a moment she continued to frown as if
nothing could reach her. When she spoke, however, her
tone had softened.
  'Go to sickbay. Don't come to the bridge until you've
done something about those bruises.' Unexpectedly she
dropped her gaze. 'If you feel better, you'll think better.
Maybe you can think of some way to limit the damage.'
  Turning on her heel, Mikka left the mess.
  Limit the damage.
  Morn remained with Orn for a minute or two. She
wanted to see if it was possible to feel any grief or regret
for him.
  No. For him her only regret was that she hadn't been
able to beat him herself.



  Think better.
  Because she saw no danger in it, she obeyed Mikka.
After all, she was alone. Under the circumstances, no one
was likely to intrude on her. She could easily erase the
results of her examination from the sickbay log before
she went to the bridge. And she needed the stim sickbay
would probably give her: she needed artificial help to
counteract her accumulating despair. Since she still didn't
feel reckless enough to carry her zone implant control
with her, she would have to rely on stun.
  Dully she went to sickbay and stretched out on the
table to let the cybernetic systems supply whatever treat-
ment they decided she required.
  She got stim, as well as an analgesic which softened
her hurts. In addition, one of the drugs stilled the nausea
which had become a constant part of her life, so familiar
that she was hardly aware of it. Distracted by that simple
relief, she almost forgot to take the elementary precaution
of checking the results of the examination before expung-
ing them.
  At the last moment, however, she remembered.
  What she learned hit her as hard as Orn; revolted her
as much as Nick; threatened her as acutely as Angus.
  The records informed her that she was pregnant.
  Her child was a boy.
  The computer told her exactly how old he was.
  Too old to be any son of Nick Succorso's.
  In her womb like a malignancy, dark and inoperable,
she bore the child of Angus Thermopyle.
  Well, she thought on a rising note of hysteria, that
explained the nausea.
  It was insane. What was she doing pregnant? Most



spacefaring women made sure they were infertile,
whether they wanted children or not. Life in space was
too fragile: any risk to themselves was a risk to the entire
ship. In any case, no ship - except, perhaps, the most
luxurious passenger liners - had the facilities for rearing
infants. Most women found the whole prospect too hor-
rible to contemplate. If they wanted children, they had
them on Station.
  But for Morn the problem was infinitely worse. Like
Captain's Fancy, her baby was doomed. The end would
almost certainly not be quick, however: it would be pro-
tracted and appalling. Once the computers wiped, the
ship would lose astrogation, navigation. The vessel itself
might coast the black void until the end of time - a sailing
coffin because everyone aboard had died of thirst or
hunger. But that wouldn't happen for many long
months. In the meantime Morn's plight would deterio-
rate steadily.
  As her pregnancy progressed, she would become less
attractive to Nick - less worth preserving. She would
become physically more vulnerable. And the closer Nick
and his people came to death, the more they would blame
her for it. In all likelihood, she and her baby would be
the first to die.
  And this was Angus' son, Angus Thermopyle's child.
The fetus was already as brutal as his father, damaging
her survival in the same way that Angus had damaged
her spirit.
  How could she be pregnant? What had happened to
the long-term birth control injections she'd accepted rou-
tinely back in the Academy? They were supposed to be



good for up to a year, and she'd had her last one only -
only-
  Only a year ago.
  Without warning she began to weep.
  Oh, shit!
  She'd forgotten all about getting another injection.
Her periods had never been particularly difficult. And
from the Academy she'd been assigned to Starmaster, her
father's command, a ship on which most of the people
she'd lived and worked with were family. She hadn't
wanted sex with anybody aboard. Engrossed in the
excitements and responsibilities of her first post, she
hadn't given much thought to sex at all.
  An immediate abortion was the only sane solution.
The sickbay systems could do it in a matter of minutes.
  But she couldn't force her hands to key in the necess-
ary commands. She couldn't force herself to lie back
down on the surgical table.
  As suddenly as it flared up, her weeping subsided.
  Instead of fear or dismay or outrage, she was filled by
a strange numbness - a loss of sensation as inexorable as
the effects of her zone implant. She was in shock. Orn's
attack; the fight; the danger to Captain's Fancy: her
emotional resources were exhausted. The decision to
have an abortion was beyond her.
  Fortunately it could be postponed. Nothing had to
be decided right this minute. The sickbay could rid her
of the fetus whenever she wanted.
  Angus' son.
  Numb or not, she was too ashamed - and too afraid
- of what she carried to risk letting anyone else find out
about it. However, Angus had taught her more than she



realized. She didn't expunge the sickbay log. That was
too risky: it might attract suspicion. Instead she edited
the records so that whoever chanced to check them would
see she'd come here as ordered, but wouldn't find any
evidence of her zone implant, or her baby.
  Like Angus, Nick had disconnnected his sickbay from
Captain's Fancy's datacore. The sickbay log had no copies.
Soon nothing incriminating remained to threaten her.
  Temporarily safe, she left sickbay.
  Maybe she should have gone by her cabin to pick up
her black box. Nick would expect her to help tackle the
problem of Orn's virus, and she was too numb to think:
she needed help. But she needed her numbness as well.
If she used the zone implant to sharpen her brain, she
would have to face the dilemma of her pregnancy.
  Cradling the sense of shock as if it were an infant in
her womb, she went to the bridge.
  Nick was there, sitting in his command seat, drumming
his fingers on his board while he waited for his people
to check their systems. When Morn crossed the aperture
to stand beside him, he gave her a quick, fierce grin like
a promise that he didn't regret killing Orn for her; that
he was too excited by the challenge of saving his ship to
fear failure. For once, his scars throbbed with a lust which
had nothing to do with her. Instead of marring him, his
bruises seemed to accentuate his vitality.
  Then he shifted his attention back to his crew.
  Morn looked at the display screens for information.
But they were blank, probably because the ship's speed
made them effectively useless. So she scanned the bridge.
  Only the engineering station was vacant: Vector and



his second were probably in the console room. All the
other firsts were at their posts.
  'Status,' Nick commanded in a tone of veiled eagerness,
as if he were having a wonderful time.
  His mood ruled the bridge. The dread Morn had
observed in the mess had no place here. Even Mackern,
occupying Orn Vorbuld's seat for the first time, worked
his board with a degree of concentration which approxi-
mated confidence.
  Almost immediately Carmel answered. 'Scan checks
out fine. At this velocity, we might as well be blind ahead.
We're outrunning our effective scan-time. And the star-
field is dopplering noticeably. But the computer compen-
sates for that. We can fix our position well enough.'
  'Communications the same,' reported Lind. There's
nothing out there to hear except particle noise,' the
residual crackle and spatter of deep space, 'but if there
was, we could pick it up.'
  Targeting and weapons the same,' put in a woman
named Malda Verone. She sounded vaguely disin-
terested; under the circumstances her systems were the
least vital ones aboard.
  Nick nodded and waited.
  Hunching over his board, Mackern said, 'I'm running
diagnostics. We've got all the usual debug programs.' He
pulled at his mustache while he worked. 'So far, they
don't show anything.'
  Nick shook his head. 'Orn knew what our resources
are. He wouldn't leave us a virus we could cure that easy.'
  As if in confirmation, Mackern scowled at his read-
outs, then sat up straight. 'Done. Diagnostics say we're
in good shape.'



  Carmel snorted scornfully. No one else bothered to
comment.
  After a moment a man with a husky voice and no chin
said a bit apprehensively, 'Sorry for the delay. I wanted
to dummy helm to Vector before I ran any tests. That
way, if anything shuts down on me, he can hold our
course correction. We won't drift.'
  Casually Nick replied, 'Good.'
  'Helm checks out,' the man continued. We're green
on all systems. Except the gap drive, of course.'
  Nick nodded again. Morn glanced at his board and
saw that all the command status indicators were green as
well.
  Orn's virus was still dormant.
  Grinning more sharply, Nick swung his seat around to
face Morn. 'Any suggestions?'
  She was supposed to help save the ship; she knew that.
But she was profoundly numb, almost unreactive, as if
beneath the surface her priorities were undergoing their
own course correction. For the time being, she had no
real attention to spare for Captain's Fancy's problems.
  'In the Academy,' she said from a distance, responding
only so that Nick wouldn't probe her, 'they taught me
to do two things for a computer virus. Isolate the systems
- unplug them from each other so the virus can't spread.
And call Maintenance.'
  Nick chuckled sardonically. 'Good idea.' To all appear-
ances, he didn't actually want her help. He was at his best
here, matching his wits and his ship against his enemies.
What he wanted was an audience, not advice. Over his
shoulder, he asked, 'You got that, Lind?'



  They don't answer,' Lind retorted with a sneer. 'Must
be on their lunch break.'
  Gratified, Nick spread his hands and swung back
toward the bridge screens.
  'You heard the lady. Isolate the systems.'
  Around the bridge, his people hurried to obey.
  Left alone, Morn made a vague effort to think about
the situation. At a guess, Captain's Fancy had seven main
computers protected deep in her core: one to run the ship
herself (lifts, air processing, internal g, waste disposal,
intercoms, heat, water, things like that); five for each of
the bridge functions (scan, targ and weapons, communi-
cations, helm, data and damage control); and one, the
command unit, to synergize the others. That design was
inherently safer than trusting to one megaCPU - and in
any case few ships had any need for the raw computing
power a megaCPU could provide. So the immediate
problem was to determine where Orn's virus resided.
Without risking the spread of the infection.
  Of course, he could have planted his virus in more
than one computer. Or in all of them.
  If she hadn't felt so far away, she might have been
dismayed at the sheer scale of the problem. No one
aboard knew how to cure a virus once it was located. If
they had to track it through all seven systems-
  Nick ran a few commands on his board, presumably
to set the maintenance computer on automatic. Then,
unexpectedly, he turned to Morn again. As they swelled,
his bruises seemed to sharpen the focus of his eyes.
  As if he were resuming a conversation which had been
interrupted just moments ago, he remarked, There's only



one problem with your theory that I'm a UMCPDA
operative.'
  That remark cut through her numbness. All at once,
the protection wrapped around her womb was gone; she
felt like she'd been kicked in the belly. Why bring that
up? Why bring it up now? What was going on here? What
had she missed?
  What new danger was she in?
  What, she thought before she realized it, would hap-
pen to her baby?
  Grinning at her incomprehension, he said, 'I'm out of money,' as if that explained everything.

  Lind, Carmel, and the helm first all laughed, not in
disbelief, but in recognition of a difficulty so constant
that it had become a joke.
  Morn stared at Nick and tried to recover her numb-
ness; tried to conceal herself behind veils of shock.
  He enjoyed her stunned expression for a moment.
Then he relented.
  Where we're going, they don't do work on spec. The
fucker who runs the place calls himself "the Bill" because
he gets paid before anything else happens. And I'm
broke. Captain's Fancy is broke. We can pay the docking
fee, that's all. We can't afford to get the gap drive
repaired. And we sure as hell can't afford to get a virus
flushed out of our computers. Assuming we're able to get
there at all - which at the moment looks problematical.
  'As long as we don't lose thrust, life support, and scan,
we've got a chance. For one thing, I can do algorithms
in my head. That makes me a pretty fair blind-reckoning
navigator. And for another, there are ships patrolling to
make sure people like us don't miss our destination.' This,



too, was a joke which the bridge crew understood, but
which was lost on Morn. 'But none of that is going to
do us any good without credits.'
  'I still don't see-' Morn murmured dimly. What does
this have to do with me?
  'If I'm some insidious UMCPDA operative,' Nick said
with a flourish, 'what the fuck am I doing in this mess?
Why haven't I got money? Why is the almighty Hashi
Lebwohl willing to risk losing me like this, when all he
had to do was have us met off Com-Mine by a courier
drone programmed to tight-beam credits?
  There's something you may not understand about me,
Morn.' His grin was full of relish - and other obscure
perils. 'I won't work for a man who doesn't pay.'
  This time, everyone on the bridge chuckled appreci-
atively.
  Yet Morn continued to flounder. 'I don't get it.' She'd
lost her defenses. Angus' child seemed to use up her
mind: she couldn't understand any other danger unless
it was spelled out for her. 'What's the point? Why are we
doing this, if we can't afford repairs in any case?'
  Nick looked positively delighted - as happy as he did
when he was having sex with her, driving her to trans-
ports she couldn't resist. 'I'm out of money,' he repeated.
'But I've got something I can sell.'
  She held her breath, afraid to guess what was coming.
  'I can sell you.'
  There it was at last, the truth; the reason he'd taken
her, the reason he kept her. To buy the kind of repairs
he couldn't get anywhere legally.
  'You're UMCP,' he added unnecessarily. 'You've got
a head full of valuable data. As long as you're alive and



conscious and at least marginally sane, you're probably
valuable enough to buy me a whole new ship.'
  Just a few hours ago, she might have lashed out at
him. He was planning to sell her like a piece of cargo.
Everything she'd forced herself to endure in order to
procure safety had been wasted. Driven by accumulating
revulsion and stifled rage, she might not have been able
to contain herself.
  After a while, she'd told Mikka, you hurt so bad that you
don't want to be rescued anymore.
  But the knowledge that she was pregnant changed her.
A baby. Angus' son. Her father's grandson. And in the
whole of vast space she had no other family: she'd killed
them all.
  She would kill this infant too, as soon as she got the
chance. He was malignant inside her, male and murder-
ous: she would flush him down the sickbay disposal and
be damned for it. Why should she give him any better
treatment than she'd given her father? - or than his father
had given her?
  In the meantime, however, the baby was hers; he was
all she had left. If she didn't defend him, he was going
to die. Or he would be used against her. Either way, his
life or death would be out of her hands. But he was hers:
whether he lived or died was hers to decide. If she gave
that up - if she surrendered her right to make this one
choice for herself- she might as well lie down and die.
  Caught by surprise and unexpectedly vulnerable, she
gave her child the only protection she had available. For
the second time, but deliberately now, she let herself
burst into tears.
  It was easier than she would have believed possible.



  She heard more laughter, but she ignored it. She didn't
care how many people sneered at her. All she cared about
was Nick's reaction.
  He ignored the laughter as well. His mouth went on
smiling crookedly, but his gaze lost its relish. Suddenly
his eyes looked haunted and lost, as if he, too, were
helpless in a way that unnerved him.
  'I didn't mean you.' He was barely able to keep his
voice steady. 'I meant your information. Your id tag. All
those access and security codes. That's what I need to sell
- that's my price for saving your life.'
  Abruptly he was angry, almost shouting. 'I don't work
for Hashi Lebwohl or any other rucking cop, and neither
do you. Not anymore. You're mine - and, by hell! you're
going to prove it by giving me something I can sell.'
  Then his tone softened again. 'So I can get my ship
fixed.'
  In an effort to stop crying, Morn raised a hand to her
mouth and bit her knuckle. Crying made her ugly; she
knew that. And she couldn't afford to be ugly in front
of Nick Succorso. Not now; maybe not ever. But her
whole heart was full of tears.
  She was pregnant. Carrying a baby.
  For a moment her grief was so intense that she
couldn't fight it down.
  Then, however, she tasted blood on her tongue.
Swallowing a sob, she regained her self-control.
  'Just get us there,' she said in a gulp. 'I'll do my part.'
  That promise was the most sincere response she'd ever
given Nick.
  As if he couldn't face her expression, he swung away.
His fists closed and unclosed in his lap, working for calm.



  As soon as he could produce his familiar nonchalance,
he scanned the bridge and commented, 'The next time
you spaceshits feel like laughing at her, try to remember
you're laughing at me, too.'
  Lind flinched visibly. The woman at the targ board,
Malda Verone, ducked her head, hiding her face behind
her hair.
  Poised and dangerous, Nick held his people until they
were all still, almost frozen. Then he moved. Keying his
intercom, he said, 'Mikka, I want you. If you can spare
the time.'
  The intercom didn't work. He'd already disengaged
the controls.
  That small mistake seemed to restore his equilibrium.
The grin came back into his eyes. 'Morn, stop snuffling,'
he ordered casually. 'You're ruining my concentration.'
  When he chuckled, some of the tension around him
dissipated.
  Morn felt him watching her with his peripheral vision,
but she didn't look at him.
  A minute later Mikka Vasaczk came onto the bridge
of her own accord. Clipped to her belt, she wore a hand-
corn, as well as a coiled lifeline with a small magnetic
clamp on one end - emergency equipment in case
internal g failed.
  Scowling impartially, she paused beside Morn. At the
sight of Morn's swollen eyes and damp face, she asked in
a neutral tone, 'Feeling better?'
  Morn rubbed the blood off her mouth and nodded.
  'It shows,' Mikka remarked.
  Then she dismissed the question of Morn's condition
and went to stand on the other side of Nick's seat.



  We're ready,' she reported. The rest of the seconds
are down in the core with the computers. They've all got
handcoms. They aren't wizards, but they can do resets.
If you want, they can unplug everything, isolate the
systems physically.'
  Nick accepted the information with a nod. Leaning
forward, he said to the bridge, 'All right, let's get started.
The sooner we locate our virus, the more time we'll have
to work on it.
  We aren't going to lose function. All the equipment
is hardwired.' Everybody aboard already knew this: he
was speaking to clarify his own thoughts. The worst that
can happen is that we'll have to reset everything. But if
we get wiped, we'll lose anything soft. Including all our
data. That means we'll lose the last of our credits.' He
grinned fiercely. 'Maintenance will work, but the system
won't know how many of us there are. It won't be able
to balance out heat and air comfortably. We'll lose our
logs. We won't know how much food we've got left.
  Targ will lose ship id,' he continued. That's not
minor. We won't be able to program weapons accurately
if we're attacked. Communications will lose all our codes.
Which will make it hard for us to talk to anybody. But
scan and data are the most vulnerable. Scan will still bring
in information, but the computers won't be able to inter-
pret it. And we'll lose everything we need for astrogation
- star id, charts, galactic rotation, Station vectors, ship-
ping lanes. Hell, we won't even be able to tell where
forbidden space is.'
  Nick's second snorted harshly. The other crew-
members kept their reactions to themselves.
  We can't hardcopy the data. We haven't got that much



paper. They probably don't have that much paper back
on Com-Mine. And we would need months to re-enter
everything - which might not solve our problem any-
way. If the virus is still resident, it would just re-wipe the
data as soon as we restored it.
  'So here's what we're going to do. I'll run some com-
mands. If my board goes down by itself, it's an easy fix.
We can dummy it back from the auxiliary bridge. In fact,
we might be able to erase the virus that way.
  'If my board stays up, we'll reconnect the other systems
one at a time and try them until we hit trouble.
  'Questions?' he asked. 'Comments? Objections?'
  Scan and helm shook their heads. Everybody else sat
and waited.
  Morn's mouth had gone dry, and she seemed to have
difficulty breathing, as if life support were already out
of balance. Any spacefaring vessel was computer-
dependent. Her visceral dread of a complete wipe was even
greater than her fear of puncture or detonation, her fear
of vacuum. On that point, she knew, everybody aboard
agreed with her.
  But she didn't expect the command board to crash. As
Nick had said, that might be an easy fix - and she felt
sure Orn hadn't left Captain's Fancy anything easy. No,
the virus probably resided in the data computer itself,
where it could do the most damage; the computer to
which Orn had had the most regular access.
  So she wasn't surprised when Nick's board stayed up
and green. In simulation, he reversed thrust, slammed
Captain's Fancy to the side, opened hailing channels, shut
down internal g, fired matter cannon, ran spectrographic
analyses of nearby stars: everything worked.



  'That damn motherfucker,' he swore amiably. Why
did he have to turn out to be such an insidious bastard?'
But he wasn't discouraged. 'All right. Helm is relatively
secure at the moment. We'll leave it alone. I'm going to
take maintenance off automatic.' His eyes glinted with
combative amusement. 'Let's see how they like it when I
turn off the heat in the core.'
  Malda giggled nervously.
  They won't notice any difference for a while,' Mackern
said. 'The whole ship insulates them.'
  Carmel rolled her eyes. In exasperation, Mikka
retorted, 'That's why it's a safe experiment.'
  'Mackern,' Nick drawled, 'you have no sense of
humor.' He was already at work, keying the functions of
his board, running programs to bring the internal
systems back under his control. In a minute or two he
was ready.
  Morn couldn't taste any improvement in the air. It
still felt tight in her lungs, congested with CO2. Not for
the first time, she thought about the black box back in
her cabin. It could help her tone down her anxiety.
  Anxiety wasn't good for babies-
  'Belts,' Nick said crisply.
  His people checked their belts. Mirroring each other
unconsciously, Morn and Mikka gripped the arms of
Nick's g-seat.
  He glanced around the bridge. Then he announced,
'Core heat off,' and tapped a couple of his buttons.
  The faint click of the keys was clearly audible.
  With a distant groan of servos, Captain's Fancy lost
internal spin.



  At the same instant every spacefarer's worst nightmare
came true.
  All power to the bridge failed.
  Readouts, boards, illumination: everything went
black. The whole ship plunged into a darkness as deep as
the blind gap between the stars.
  Mute in the void of her own mind, Morn wailed as if
Starmaster had just gone down again; as if she'd killed
her ship again, and everyone she loved.



Intertech, a strong research and exploration company
based on Outreach Station orbiting Earth, was both the
precipitating cause and the primary victim of one of the
definitive events in humankind's history: the Humanity
Riots.
  In one sense, Intertech's two functions - research and
exploration - were an odd combination: in another, they
fit naturally. Of course, the company was originally
chartered for pure research. However, its use of the con-
ditions and technologies available in space was highly
successful. Focusing on matters of biology and genetics,
the company first established itself by developing a germ
which fed on plastics, effectively reducing a wide range
of polymers to compost. This proved a lucrative contri-
bution to waste- and pollution-management on Earth.
Later research provided a variety of medicines, including
one with benefits for people suffering from a well-
publicized form of smog-linked leukemia. Another



project developed rejuvenation and longevity drugs.
Intertech's most profitable discovery, however, was the
catecholamine inhibitor - popularly considered a 'cata-
leptic', therefore called 'cat' - which soon replaced most
tranquilizers, l-tryptophan derivatives, sedatives, and
lithium compounds in the treatment of stress disorders,
insomnia, adrenalin poisoning, and depression.
  Cat alone brought in enough money to enable
Intertech to expand its function into exploration.
  The relevance of exploration to research was unpredict-
able, but clear. Thanks to the development of the gap
drive, vast numbers of star systems were now within
reach, each evolved out of its own particular nuclear
soup, each with its own special isotopes and chemicals
and materials, each composed of new resources and
opportunities. In fact, one of Intertech's first probe ships,
High Hope, brought back a new radioactive isotope (sub-
sequently named Harbingium for the nuclear chemist
aboard High Hope who first identified it, Malcolm Har-
binger) which proved astonishingly useful in recombi-
nant DNA: Harbingium's emissions were so specific to
the polymerase which bound nucleotides together in
RNA that they made possible genetic research which had
until then remained stubbornly theoretical.
  Intertech's stock - like Intertech itself - was booming.
Until the onset of the Humanity Riots.
  The Humanity Riots themselves were an interesting
demonstration of genophobia. That humankind dis-
trusted anything different than itself had always been
common knowledge. As a species - as a biological
product of its own planet - humankind apparently con-
sidered itself sacred.



  In this, Earth's dominant religions were only more
vocal than other groups. No other fundamental distinc-
tion prevailed. Life had evolved on Earth as it was sup-
posed to evolve: the forms of life provided by this
developmental process were right and good; any alter-
ation was morally repugnant and personally offensive.
On this point, conservationists and environmentalists
and animal-rights activists were at one with Moslems
and Hindus and Christians. Prosthetic surgery in all its
guises, to correct physical problems or limitations, was
acceptable: genetic alteration to solve the same problems
was not.
  As one crude example. Humankind had no objection
to soldiers with laser-cutters built into their fingers or
infrared scanners embedded in their skulls. On the other
hand, humankind objected strenuously to soldiers geneti-
cally engineered for faster reflexes, greater strength, or
improved loyalty. After all, infrared scanners and laser-
cutters were mere artifacts, tools; but faster reflexes,
greater strength, and improved loyalty were crimes
against nature.
  For this reason, genetic research was routinely con-
ducted in secret: in part to cloak it from commercial
espionage; but primarily to protect the researchers from
public vilification.
  However, humankind's reaction went far beyond
public vilification when Intertech's 'crime against nature'
became known. That crime precipitated the Humanity
Riots.
  This happened because the Intertech probe ship Far
Rover brought humankind its first knowledge of the
Amnion.



  The knowledge itself was contained in a cryogenic
vessel, in a mutagenic material which - so the theorists
finally decided - represented an Amnion effort to estab-
lish contact. At the time, it was considered fortuitous
that the vessel had been discovered by an Intertech ship:
after all, Intertech was uniquely qualified at the time to
unlock the code of the mutagen, learn its meaning.
Eventually, however, the discovery proved disastrous.
  By definition, the material sent out by the Amnion was
mutagenic. That meant its code could only be broken by
geneticists. But it also meant that the code was contained
in the mutagen's ability to produce change, to effect fun-
damental genetic alterations - alterations so profound
that they restructured nucleotides, rebuilt RNA, trans-
formed DNA; so profound, in fact, that any Earth-born
life-form became essentially Amnion.
  Unfortunately - from Intertech's point of view - con-
tact with alien life could hardly be kept secret. The com-
pany was forced to study the mutagen under intense
scrutiny. And that study naturally involved applying the
mutagen to rats, monkeys, dogs, and other test animals,
all of which quickly grew to be as alien as the mutagen
itself. This generated genophobia of seismic proportions.
Humankind was already in a state of bedrock outrage
when the decision was made within Intertech to test the
mutagen on a human being.
  When the results of that experiment became known
- when the woman who volunteered for the job was
transformed like the animals and died horribly in a state
of spiritual shock - the Humanity Riots began.
  Death to genetics and geneticists.
  Death to Intertech.



  Death to anything which threatened pure, sacrosanct,
Earth-born life.
  By the time the Riots ended, Intertech was a corporate
wreck.
  Yet the company's problems remained. The Amnion
still existed. The need to understand the mutagen still
existed. By default, Intertech had become a crucial player
in a galactic drama - the contest between humankind and
the Amnion. Without capital or credit, the company was
expected to deal with the challenge Far Rover had
brought to Earth.
  Under the circumstances, Intertech had no choice but
to seek acquisition by some more viable corporate entity.
Reluctantly, a bid was accepted from Space Mines Inc.
(later the United Mining Companies). Aside from the
necessary cash, the only obvious price SMI had to pay
was an amendment to its charter, requiring SMI as a
whole to forswear genetic engineering, and to protect
humankind from genetic corruption by the Amnion.
  If Intertech had been able to preserve its integrity,
much of the history of human space might have been
different.



When the order came to have Angus Thermo-
            pyle frozen, it arrived by gap courier drone
            straight from UMCPHQ, tight-beamed to
Com-Mine Station Security as soon as the drone resumed tard.

  The order was signed by Hashi Lebwohl, Director,
Data Acquisition, United Mining Companies Police.
  Angus had suddenly become a very special prisoner.
  Even Milos Taverner could only speculate why that
had happened after all this time. Any number of people
discussed the subject with him: his Chief; most of his
fellow officers in Security; several members of Station
Center; two or three people who, like his Chief, sat on
Station Council.
  They all asked the same questions.
  Did you know this was coming?
  No, Milos hadn't known this was coming. He could
say that honestly. During the months since Angus' arrest
and conviction, UMCPHQ had paid only the most



routine attention to his case. Copies of his files had been
reqqed: that was all. Even the information that a UMC
Police ensign, Morn Hyland, had arrived with Angus
and left with Nick Succorso had prompted no particular
response - not even from Min Donner, who had a repu-
tation for almost fanatical loyalty to her people in
Enforcement Division. No action had been taken on
Morn Hyland's accusation that the UMCP destroyer
Starmaster had been sabotaged by Com-Mine Station.
Security's requests for instructions concerning Ensign
Hyland had been ignored.
  Well, then, what makes him so special?
  Milos had no new answer. Angus Thermopyle was
exactly what he'd always been. He was valuable for his
purported knowledge of piracy and smuggling, of boot-
leg shipyards, of merchants who could handle stolen ore
and supplies in vast bulk, even of forbidden space. He
was no more and no less special than ever.
  So what did change? Is this what UMCPHQ wanted
all along? Were they just waiting for the authority?
  That's my best guess, the Deputy Chief replied can-
didly. Unquestionably it was a change that the authority
for such a demand now existed. The recent passage of
the Preempt Act had granted jurisdiction over all human
space, including the separate Security entities of each
individual Station or Company, to the United Mining
Companies Police. Prior to the Act, Com-Mine Security
had been required to supply the UMCP with nothing
except cooperation. Now Hashi Lebwohl - or any
UMCP Director - could demand the cryogenic encapsu-
lation of as many convicts as he liked.
  Unfortunately the passage of the Preempt Act shed



no light on the reasons for UMCPHQ's interest in this
individual convict.
  All right. So they must have wanted him all along.
They just didn't have the authority to take him. Why do
we have to freeze him? Why go to all the expense of
cryogenic encapsulation? Why can't we just armcuff him
and turn him over to the next ship that happens to be
heading for Earth?
  That question made Milos' stomach hurt: it came too
close to things he shouldn't have known. He rubbed his
scalp helplessly and reached for his packet of nic.
  To preserve him? he ventured.
  What for? Who in hell would want to preserve the
likes of Angus Thermopyle?
  Milos had no safe answer. He tried again.
  To transport him?
  Why bother? With an armcuff and a few precautions,
he could be carted like cargo anywhere in human space.
That would be as safe as some damn freezer.
  Most of the men and women Milos had conversations
with concentrated on that issue. Com-Mine Station's
Chief of Security simply had more right to demand an
explanation.
  'Why? Why freeze him?'
  Because he felt he had no choice, Milos risked a degree
of honesty. Squirming inside, he replied, To silence him?
Keep him from talking to us? UMCPHQ is delighted we
haven't been able to break him. They don't trust us. They
don't want us to know the things he might tell us.'
  To Milos' relief, his superior had come to essentially
the same conclusion. Fuming, the Chief said, 'By hell, I
won't have it. That bastard has been making life miserable



around here ever since I can remember. He's committed
so many crimes, and gotten away with them so com-
pletely, it makes me sick. If anybody takes him apart, it's
going to be us.'
  That wasn't exactly what Milos wanted to hear. He
wanted to be rid of Angus, and the sooner the better.
Stifling a twinge of nausea, he asked, What will you do?'
  Talk to Center,' said the Chief. His personality was as
harsh and simple as his loyalties. Talk to Council. They'll
back me up - at least for a while. They don't like this
kind of treatment any more than I do.
  That damn Preempt Act is new. We can pretend we
don't understand it. We can claim we don't know the
right procedures. We can even demand confirmation.
UMCPHQ might not let us get away with it for long,
but we can buy a little time.
  'Goddamn it, Milos, break that bastard.'
  'I'll try,' Milos promised, groaning inside.
  He relayed this decision to people who were interested
in it. Then he and his subordinates redoubled their efforts
to crack Angus' silence.

Of course, no one mentioned any of this to Angus him-
self. He experienced a sudden upsurge in beatings of all
kinds; in the use of drugs which reduced his skull to a
hive of skinworms; in the application of sleep deprivation
and sensory distortion. But he was given no explanations.
He was left to draw whatever conclusions he could from
the change in his treatment.
  Nevertheless through abuse and deprivation, damage
and pain - and despite his visceral horror of incarceration
- he persisted in his intransigence by the simple heroism



of cowardice. He believed that as soon as his tormentors
got what they wanted from him they would kill him.
Therefore the only way he could keep himself alive was
by keeping his mouth shut.
  And he'd made a pact with Morn Hyland. It was tacit,
but he stood by it. She hadn't betrayed him. Instead she'd
escaped Com-Mine with Nick. He knew this because no
one had accused him of imposing a zone implant on her.
And no one had accused him of the crime which had
caused the Hyland ship, Starmaster, to go after him in
the first place. If she'd remained on Station, he would be
dead by now - and not necessarily because she testified
against him. The simplest routine physical would have
revealed the presence of the implant. Therefore he knew
she'd kept her part of the bargain. So he didn't betray
her.In this stubborn refusal to speak, he had certain advan-
tages which no one could take away from him.
  One of them was the life he'd lived, the long years
which had taught him more than even his roughest
guards would ever know about the uses of brutality. The
beatings which stressed his bones and the stun which
made him puke were, for the most part, no worse than
the abuse he'd received throughout his childhood and
adolescence, or during extended periods of time since
then. Indeed, his present mistreatment was no worse than
some of the things he'd done to himself, in order to stay
alive when the odds were large against him. The years
may have weakened his body, but they hadn't diminished
his understanding of pain - or his dedication to survival.
  Man for man, he was tougher than anybody who hurt
him. And he was accustomed to being ganged up on. He



was at his best when he was most afraid. His dread of
his own helplessness made him almost superhuman.
  Another of his advantages was that he knew how to
make his interrogator break into a sweat. The same
degraded and costly intelligence which grasped what the
sudden increase in his tortures meant - Com-Mine Secur-
ity had run into an unexpected time-limit, and if they
didn't break him soon they would lose their chance -
also guessed a great deal about Milos Taverner's role in
this protracted questioning.
  The primary charge against Angus was a fabrication.
Prior to his arrest, he'd learned that Nick Succorso had
dealings with Security. And of course Nick couldn't
have used Station supplies to frame him without Station
connivance-without the help of a double agent in Secur-
ity. Taverner's behavior during the months of interrog-
ation made Angus sure he knew who the double-agent
was. He had a coward's intuitive hearing: he could tell
when the man asking him questions didn't really want
answers.
  So he clung to his silence, despite the new ferocity of
his treatment, and waited for the Deputy Chief to run
out of time.
  The pose he took in the meantime was that of a beaten
man ready for death. His guards naturally distrusted this
pose; and they had reason. But he didn't care. Now all he
cared about was conserving his strength until something
shifted.
  Months earlier he'd used the pose for other reasons.
  At first, immediately after his arrest - during the pre-
liminary interrogations, as well as his trial and convic-
tion - he'd had no need for a pose. Ordinary truculence



had sufficed to defeat every challenge, every demand. If
he felt anything beyond his normal black hate, it was
relief. He'd managed to avoid a sentence of execution.
And hidden inside his relief was a helpless, visceral grati-
tude toward Morn Hyland for keeping her part of the
bargain.
  But that was before they'd told him Bright Beauty
would be dismantled for spare parts. When he'd heard
that his ship, bis ship, would be destroyed, that it would
cease to exist, the logic of his emotions was altered. Any-
thing resembling relief or gratitude vanished in a hot
seethe of horror and outrage; a distress so intense that
he howled like an animal and went berserk until he was
sedated.
  After he recovered from the initial shock, he adopted
the pose that he'd lost the will to live.
  He continued to glare unremitting malice at Taverner
during their sessions together: he didn't want to let his
questioner off the hook. When he was alone, however,
he became listless, unresponsive. From time to time he
neglected his food. Sitting slumped on his bunk, he
stared at the strict, almost colorless walls of his cell, at
the floor, at the ceiling - they were indistinguishable
from each other. Occasionally he stared at the lighting as
if he hoped it would make him blind. He didn't so much
as flinch when the guards came after him with stun. They
had to manhandle him into the san to keep him clean.
  They were suspicious of him. That was inevitable. But
they were also human - susceptible to boredom. And
he had a coward's patience, a coward's stubborn will
to endure. Despite the incessant, acid seethe of his
emotions, he could wait when he had to. On this



occasion, he waited for two months without showing
anything except doomed resignation to anyone except
Milos Taverner.
  Finally the idea that he was slowly dying took hold.
By degrees, his guards became careless around him.
  At last he took his chance.
  In the small hours of station night - although how he
knew that it was night was a mystery, since the lighting
in his cell never varied - he tore a strip off his sheet and
tied it around his neck so tightly that his eyes bulged and
he could scarcely breathe. Then he collapsed on the bunk.
  He was monitored, of course; but the guard who
came to check on him was in no hurry. Suicide by self-
strangulation was difficult, if not impossible. Only
Angus' general weakness gave him any chance of success.
  He was retching with anoxia and practically insane
when the door opened and a guard came in to untie him.
  Lulled by weeks of boredom, the guard left the cell
open.
  He had a handgun holstered on his hip, a stun-prod
in his fist. Such things didn't deter Angus. He took the
stun-prod and blazed the guard in the face with it. By
the time the observers at the monitor realized what was
happening, he'd freed his neck, helped himself to the
handgun, and jumped through the doorway.
  The gun was an impact pistol, a relatively low-powered
weapon primarily intended to shoot down prisoners at
close range; but it sufficed to deal with the only people
Angus encountered in the corridors outside his cell, a
patrolling guard and a minor functionary, probably a
data clerk. He was still monitored, of course. However,
Security knew he couldn't escape. He had nowhere to



go - they thought. So they were quicker to check on the
guards he'd stunned and shot than to give chase.
  As a result, he almost reached his goal. He came that
close-
  For months while he stared at the walls and ceiling
and floor as if he were dying, he'd been busy studying
Com-Mine in his mind, collating what he knew about
the station's infrastructure with what he'd observed about
the layout of the Security section. With an accuracy that
made him seem almost prescient, he'd deduced the gen-
eral location of the nearest service shaft which led to the
waste processing plant.
  If he could get down into that shaft, he had a chance.
By its very nature, the plant itself was a labyrinth of shafts
and pipes, crawlways and equipment. He might be able
to elude pursuit for days - or kill anybody who came
after him. In fact, the only sure way to deal with him
would be to gas the entire plant; and something like that
would take days to set up. Which would leave him time
to do the station itself as much damage as he wished. It
might even leave him time to escape into DelSec or the
docks. And from there he could hope to stowaway on
some departing ship.
  If he could just get down into the service shaft-
  The guards caught him while he was trying to force
the shaft cover.
  They shot at him: he returned fire. For a moment he
achieved a standoff.
  Unfortunately one of their shots hit the shaft cover
and bent it, jammed it. Without an avenue of escape,
he was lost. When his gun ran out of charge, he was
recaptured.



  Predictably enough, the abuse he received became
much worse after that. He'd humiliated his guards, and
they required him to pay for it. And his pain was made
all the more excruciating by the knowledge that he would
never get another chance. Even terminally bored guards
wouldn't fall for the same ruse twice.
  On the other hand, his first session with the Deputy
Chief after his escape confirmed his suspicions about
Milos Taverner. The fact that he wasn't prosecuted for
killing one of his guards demonstrated that he still had
a lever he could use. If he needed to, he could trade
Taverner for his life.
  Despite everything Com-Mine Security had done to
him, he still wasn't broken.
  Eventually the beatings and deprivation and drugs
eased back to their former levels. When they increased
again later, he knew how to interpret the change. So he
resumed his listlessness, his pose of self-abandonment.
He let himself grow thinner and weaker as if he'd lost
the capacity to care - and to hell with whether anybody
believed him or not. That no longer mattered. He was
simply conserving his strength.
  Pain was something which was done to his body; but
its power was a function of his mind. He couldn't stop
his guards from hurting him, but he could defuse the
effect of the beatings and drugs. By an act of will, he
withdrew into himself until his brain existed in a different
place than his distress. If he lost weight or muscle, that
meant nothing. Let his physical self suffer: he'd never
counted the cost of the things he did to survive. Precisely
because he was determined to live, he risked growing so
weak that he might die.



  The truth was that Angus Thermopyle had never tried
suicide, not once in his whole life. He'd done horrible
things to himself, things which could easily have resulted
in his death; but he'd always done them in order to sur-
vive. During all the time he was held prisoner on Com-
Mine Station, he never thought about killing himself.
  Later he wished he had.
  Nobody told him what was in store for him. Increased
abuse was his only hint of his doom until the day when
Milos Taverner visited him in his cell.
  That in itself was a surprise. Angus had always seen
Taverner in the interrogation room: the Deputy Chief
was too fastidious to have much taste for the state in
which the guards kept Angus - or the state in which
Angus kept himself. Except for his nic-stained fingers,
Taverner was so clean that Angus wanted to puke on
him, just for laughs.
  Nevertheless Taverner's unexpected visit wasn't as sur-
prising as the fact that the Deputy Chief wasn't alone.
  He had a woman with him.
  She was tall, handsome, and lean, with streaks of gray
in her jet hair, an uncompromising mouth, and hot eyes.
The way she moved left no doubt in Angus' mind that
she was a match for him: even the small flexing of her
fingers was at once smooth and tense, poised between
relaxation and violence - a balance she'd acquired
through years of training. On her hip, she carried a
handgun, a sleeker and far more powerful version of the
impact pistol Angus had used in his escape. Her gaze gave
the impression that she could see everything without
shifting her eyes. Although she had an air of authority,
she wore nothing more elaborate than a plain, blue ship-



suit. It was unmarked by any ornament or insignia except
an oval patch on each shoulder: the generic star-field
emblem of the UMCP.
  Before she entered the cell, she turned to the guard
who'd accompanied her and Taverner.
  'Switch off your monitors,' she said crisply. 'I don't
want any record of this.'
  Taverner nodded in confirmation, but his support was
probably unnecessary. Her tone was that of a woman
who knew she would be obeyed. And the nervous alacrity
of the guard's salute guaranteed compliance.
  When the guard left to relay her order, she came into
the cell and closed the door.
  Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she surveyed Angus
and his quarters. 'You don't waste care on your prisoners,
do you, Milos.'
  Taverner's shrug looked vaguely helpless. He wasn't
happy. As if involuntarily, he pulled a packet of nic out
of his pocket. Then he caught himself. Scowling, he
shoved the packet back.
  'He does this deliberately,' he replied with an effort.
The psy-profile indicates he's suicidal, but he's faking it.
The only time we believed him, he nearly got away from
us.'The woman nodded dismissively. 'I know. I've read
the file. Assuming the data you sent us wasn't doctored.'
Her sarcasm had a light touch: that was all she needed.
Which of course I assume it wasn't.'
  Milos winced. 'Do you want to talk about this here -
in front of him? I've got a private office.' The blotches
on his scalp were curiously distinct. 'He remembers



everything. Don't think he doesn't. He's already trying
to figure out how he can use you.'
  Angus watched with his yellow eyes hooded and kept
his malice to himself.
  That's the point.' The woman's anger was complex.
'He's got the right. After what you've put him through,
he's got the right. You already have enough advantages.
I'm not going to give you another one.'
  But then the sight of the Deputy Chief's discomfiture
seemed to soften her ire. As if to be fair, she added,
We've trusted you this far. You haven't let us down.'
  Milos' retort had a curious dignity. 'I don't care
whether you trust me or not. Just take him - shut him
up, get him off Station. Before we both take damage.'
  The woman cocked an eyebrow. 'If you're in such a
hurry, why didn't you comply with Hashi's order?'
  Hashi's order. A stun-prod of panic touched Angus'
guts. Hashi Lebwohl, DA Director, UMCP. Every illegal
who ever worked the belt knew Hashi Lebwohl by rumor
and reputation. They said he was a madman.
  You already have enough advantages. I'm not going
to give you another one.
  What the hell was that supposed to mean?
  But Taverner didn't react to the name. He kept his
unfamiliar dignity as he explained, 'Security was
offended. Even Center was offended. If they weren't try-
ing to return the insult, you wouldn't be escorted here
by a mere Deputy Chief. You would have an entire reti-
nue. But they'll still give you what you want. All you
have to do is tell them in person.'
  Thanks to you.'



  The woman spoke facing Angus. Angus couldn't
determine whether or not she was talking to him.
  'How so?' Milos asked. His moment of dignity had
passed. Now he just looked uneasy. He may not have
trusted his subordinates to turn off the monitor.
  'The Preempt Act,' she answered. 'How do you sup-
pose we got that passed? Why do you suppose we asked
you to help Captain Succorso frame him?' Her tone made
no distinction between asked and ordered. That was the
lever we needed - a traitor in Com-Mine Security, some-
body who was willing to help a pirate like Captain Suc-
corso steal Station supplies. Morn Hyland's accusation
that Starmaster was sabotaged here helped, but we
needed more. We needed corroboration. When we were
able to demonstrate that Security on Com-Mine Station
- the Station closest to forbidden space - couldn't be
trusted, most of our opposition crumbled.'
  The Deputy Chief nodded. His features showed
depression rather than surprise. In a morose voice, he
said, 'As long as you're determined to crucify me-'
  'I'm not going to crucify you,' the woman put in. 'You
don't care what he hears. He isn't going to tell anybody.
He won't get the chance.'
  Then answer a question,' Milos continued. 'Did you
ever care whether Starmaster was really sabotaged? Did
you do all that just so you could get your hands on him?'
  'Of course not.' The woman was angry again. 'But it's
the only reason that concerns you.' After a moment she
added, 'I care about Starmaster. But we're pretty sure
Hyland's accusation was a lie.'
  Taverner searched for his packet of nic, stopped him-
self again. 'How do you know that? Why would she lie?



Why would she do that for him? What's going on here?'
His voice betrayed a tremor. What kind of hold did he
have on her?'
  Angus could hardly breathe. How did they know
Morn lied about Starmaster? Had they caught her?
Caught her and discovered the zone implant?
  Was that the time-limit Security was up against? Were
they in a hurry to break him before he was fried for
giving Morn Hyland a zone implant?
  This time, however, the woman ignored Milos' ques-
tions - and Angus'.
  Under his hooded gaze, he saw her move so that she
stood directly in front of him. Maybe she wanted a better
look at him. Or maybe she wanted him to be sure she
was talking to him.
  'I'm Min Donner,' she said, 'Director, Enforcement Division, United Mining Companies Police.

  'From now on, you're going to work for us.'
  When she said her name, Angus' heart froze. Min
Donner. Involuntarily he raised his eyes to her face, and
his mouth hung open. Min Donner herself. The woman
who sent out Starmaster-the woman they called Warden
Dios' 'executioner'. He believed her instantly - there were
no lies hidden anywhere in her strict face - and the con-
viction appalled him.
  Things were bad enough if he was in danger of the
death penalty for what he'd done to Morn Hyland. He
still had a defense against that. But if the likes of Hashi
Lebwohl and Min Donner had taken an interest in him
- if he was going to be turned over to them-
  'Don't touch me,' he rasped. Fear gave him strength;
he faced her with his hate blazing in his eyes. 'Leave me



here. If you try to take me, I'll talk. I'll tell everybody
I was framed. I'll tell them how. When that gets out,
you and your precious Preempt Act won't be worth
shit.'
  Min Donner didn't reply. Apparently she was done
with Angus. For a moment she held his gaze, just to
show him she could. Then she turned back to Taverner.
  Now she sounded distantly amused as she said, 'Get
packed. You're coming with us.'
  That hit the Deputy Chief hard. At least Angus wasn't
the only one being threatened. Milos was suddenly terri-
fied. All the color dropped out of his face. His mouth
shaped words, protests, appeals, but he couldn't make a
sound.
  'I'll keep it simple,' she said. 'You've been reqqed.
Under the Preempt Act. Officially, we want your knowl-
edge of him - to help us deal with him. But the real
reason is for your own protection. You're too vulnerable
here. If somebody stumbled onto your' - she sneered -
'extracurricular activities, you would take real damage.
  'So would we.
  'Come on.' Abruptly she strode to the door and
slapped it once with her palm. 'You probably have a lot
of getting ready to do.'
  Weapons poised, expecting trouble, a guard opened
the door. When he saw Donner, however, he stood out
of the way and snapped to attention.
   Ignoring the guard, she walked away.
  Taverner remained in the cell; he struggled for breath
as if he'd been jabbed in the stomach. His face was so
pale, and his expression so apoplectic, that he might have
been on the verge of an infarction.



  He and Angus stared at and through each other, as
horrified together as if they'd just learned that they were
brothers.
  Without warning, the Deputy Chief lurched forward
as if he were about to swing his fist at his prisoner.
  Angus didn't know what Milos intended: he didn't
care. He was too scared. He caught Milos' arm, jerked
him off balance, and hit him in the lower abdomen hard
enough to fold him in half.
  Before the guard could reach him, Angus grabbed
Milos by the ears and raged straight into his face, 'You sonofabitch! What have you done to me?'

  Then a stun-prod caught the back of Angus' skull, and
he fell backward, convulsing like an epileptic.
  By the time he'd regained control over his limbs and
stopped retching, he was armcuffed between two angry
guards and being forced along a corridor into an
unfamiliar part of the Security section. He thought he
glimpsed a sign that said 'MEDICAL', but he couldn't be
sure because of the sickening way the walls yawed on
either side of him. Hopeless and vicious, he tried to break
free; but of course the cuffs and the guards held him,
and stun left his muscles so elastic that he couldn't
control them; there was nothing he could do to save
himself.
  'Listen,' he gasped, 'listen to me, you don't know
what's going on, you've got a traitor, they-'
  The guards stopped long enough to slap a strip of gag
tape over his mouth. Then they dragged him into motion
again.
  Because of the tape, he almost strangled on his own
yells when the guards pushed him into a large, sterile



room and he realized that it was full of the equipment
for cryogenic encapsulation.
  The nightmares he'd spent his life fleeing had caught
up with him.



Darkness.Darkness as complete as black space; separ-
          ated from black space by a fragile hull which
had vanished as though it never existed. The void was
inside, vacuum and the utter cold of death.
  Darkness and gasping; atavistic panic.
  Morn clung to the arm of Nick's g-seat, clung so hard
that her own force lifted her legs from the deck, sent her
body drifting. She was supposed to be tougher than this.
She was UMCP: the Academy had trained her for such
emergencies. But when the dark came upon her it was
a thing of such absolute certitude that she had no defense
against it. It was like gap-sickness. She'd killed all of
them, her whole family; she had no one left except the
child. There could be no defense against the fathomless
abysm between the stars.
  None of the people around her had any defense.
  Except that she could still feel g.
  Not the centrifugal g of spin; nothing that definite.



This was linear, soft but persistent, g along a vector that
opposed the pull of her arms.
  The course correction- Helm had been dummied to
engineering. The steady and delicate lateral thrust which
curved Captain's Fancy toward her eventual heading was
still at work.
  The ship was still alive.
  Abruptly Mikka's voice barked across the bridge.
'Liete! Liete Corregio! Reset maintenance! We need light
up here. We need air!'
  Liete Corregio was command third. Mikka must have
left her in the core to take charge.
  Words that sounded like gibberish to Morn crackled
back from Mikka's handcom. Nick's second retorted,
What the fuck do you think happened? I said reset?
  Light flickered into a nearly instantaneous blaze across
the bridge. With a palpable whine, Captain's Fancy
resumed internal spin.
  Caught by her own weight, Morn hit the deck sharply;
the soles of her feet stung, and she came close to hyper-
extending her left knee. Only her grip on Nick's seat kept
her upright.
  The gasping around her changed to relief.
  That sonofabitch!' Carmel growled. What a place to
put a virus.'
  Nick shook his head. A small grin still drew at his
mouth, but he was frowning hard. He didn't appear to
be aware of what his hands did as he disengaged the
maintenance computer from his command board.
  Vasaczk snapped into her handcom, Thanks,' then
clipped the unit to her belt. Facing Nick, she asked, 'You



don't think so? Then what the hell caused us to power-
down like that?'
  'Oh, it was the virus, all right,' he said thoughtfully.
'But it's too easy. We can run the internals on automatic
indefinitely, if we have to. Orn knew that. It isn't enough
of a threat. The real problem is somewhere else.'
  Morn had to agree. Her visceral dread of the void left
her convinced that she couldn't get enough air into her
lungs, even though the scrubbers had gone down for less
than a minute; yet she felt sure Nick was right. A virus
that couldn't paralyze the ship more effectively than this
wouldn't have contented Orn.
  Irrationally concerned, she tried to feel the baby inside
her, estimate his condition. But of course he was too
young to make himself tangible.
  Grimly she determined to have him aborted at her
earliest opportunity. She couldn't afford to be confused
by fear for a baby she hadn't chosen and didn't want.
The idea that he might have been damaged by the sudden
loss and return of g - or by her own trepidation -
brought her nausea back.
  'My God, it's a bloody plague!' Lind cackled on the
verge of hysteria. Opening channels across his board, he
shouted into the dark, 'Antibiotics! We need an-ti-
bi-otics!'
  At once Mikka strode up the arc of the bridge to cock
her hips ominously in front of Lind's station. 'You want
a demotion?' she demanded. 'Scorz would love your job.'
  Lind bit down his distress, jerked his head from side
to side.
  'Then shut up. The rest of us are trying to think.'
  What's next?' Malda Verone asked carefully. 'Do you



want to try to isolate this virus, or should we test some-
thing else?'
  Nick gave her a dangerous smile. 'Let's test targ.
  'Reactivate your board. Charge one of the cannon. Put
targeting up on the screen.'
  Malda started to obey, then paused to comment, 'I'm blind without scan.'

  'Reactive, Carmel,' Nick commanded without hesi-
tation. 'Link with targ.'
  'Link goes through your board,' Carmel observed. We
might lose scan data as well as targ. We might lose
command.'
  'Just do it.' Nick's tone left no room for argument.
'You want to try shooting blind at this velocity?' A
moment later he added, We've already tested my board.'
  'Nick' - Mikka faced him with her unflinching scowl
- 'maybe it would be better to take this more slowly.
We've got time.'
  Nick didn't raise his voice. 'I want to find that virus.'
  His second shut her mouth.
  No one else spoke. Carmel and Malda worked in
silence, concentrating fiercely.
  Now that she'd made up her mind about her baby,
Morn felt curiously eased, relieved of difficulties; almost
light-headed. The decision was like abandoning herself
to her zone implant: it freed her from her fears and limits,
her deep and corrosive revulsion. She was no longer
afraid of what might happen next.
  Weak from prolonged strain, she left Nick's side and
moved to the vacant engineer's station; she fitted her back
to the contours of the g-seat and belted herself down.
Mikka glared at her distrustfully, and Nick gave her a



quick glance, covertly uncertain; but nobody protested.
  'Ready,' Carmel announced.
  'Here.' Malda tapped keys, and a targ-grid sprang to
life on one of the big screens. Green phosphors outlined a
simulated attacker, a ship on a parallel course. Readouts
across the screen showed distance, velocity, ship id,
weapons status: Morn stared at them. Malda had chosen
a target configuration with a distinct resemblance to
Starmaster.
  Starmaster had been designed to look more like an
orehauler than a fighting ship. The simulated target was
a freighter of some kind.
  Morn couldn't shake the odd, dislocated sense that
she was about to watch her family die again.
  'Fire,' Nick ordered.
  Malda hit her keys.
  Morn thought she heard an impalpable electronic sigh
as the screen went dead.
  From where she sat, she could see the targ board past
Malda's lowered head and swinging hair. All the status
indicators had gone out; the readouts were blank.
  'Shit!' snarled Carmel. We've lost scan!'
  Lind emitted a crackle of alarm.
  Shouting into her handcom, Mikka Vasaczk instructed
the seconds in the core to reset targ and scan.
  Nick brandished a grin full of fight and desperation.
The light in his eyes was hot; feverish past his bruises.
'Status,' he demanded harshly. 'Give me status.'
  Hardwired systems resumed function. Malda's board
came back up almost instantly; Carmel's did the same.
The scan first began typing as fast as scattershot, testing



equipment and information. More slowly, less sure of
herself, Verone went to work as well.
  Nick couldn't contain himself. 'Goddamn it!' he
barked, 'give me status!'
  Carmel punched the side of her console with one fist
and swung her seat to face him. 'I'm wiped,' she said in
a hard voice. We can see, but we can't identify any of it.'
  She didn't need to explain that scan was useless with-
out spectrographic star id; without the ability to compen-
sate for doppler shifts; without filtering for interstellar
ghosts and shadows; without the vast database which
identified the differing reflections of ships and planets,
asteroid belts and solar winds.
  'Same here,' Malda added in a strained tone. 'I can't
even call up simulations.'
  'Mackern' - Nick wasn't asking a question-'you've
got backup on that data.'
  Concentration drew sweat from the new data first's
forehead. His voice sounded like it might crack under
the stress. 'I've got backup.'
  'Restore,' Nick commanded. 'Scan first, then targ.'
  Morn shook her head. Not good enough. Her head
was so light that she could shake it easily. Even if the
restore worked, it would solve nothing, reveal nothing.
  Unless the virus had wiped itself.
  She didn't believe that.
  What Nick was doing could only make the problem
worse.
  Nobody asked her opinion, however.
  But Mikka may have been thinking the same thing.
She repeated Carmel's earlier objection. That goes
through your board. We might lose data itself this time.'



  Nick's eyes blazed fever at her. Dangerously calm, he
asked, 'Have you got any better ideas? Or do you just
like running blind and defenseless?'
  'No.' Mikka didn't back down. 'I just don't think we
need to be in a hurry about this. We've already lost scan
and targ. If we lose data, too, we're finished.'
  Morn shook her head again.
  For a moment Nick looked poised to erupt at Mikka.
His scars pulsed hotly, and his teeth flashed. His bruises
were growing livid. Captain's Fancy was being attacked;
Orn had attacked him. He was driven to defend his ship.
  But his ship needed the people who worked for her;
he needed his crew. Instead of raging, he put on casual-
ness like a cloak.
  'She,' he commented, nodding at Morn, 'doesn't think
we're finished.' His tone was amiable and ominous.
  Then he turned to Mackern.
  'What are you waiting for?'
  Sweat streaked Mackern's face; it dripped from his jaw
onto his hands and console. With the sleeve of his
shoulder, he tried to wipe his eyes. 'It takes a minute to
set up.' His fingers trembled over the board. 'I've got to
identify the data and route it.' In a weak voice, he added,
'I've never done this before.'
  Rhetorically Carmel asked, 'How in hell did you get
to be data first on a ship like this?'
  Nick grinned like his scars. 'On-the-job training. It's
good for you.'
  Mackern didn't respond.
  Detached from the tension around her, Morn con-
sidered her situation. She wasn't concerned about the
danger to Captain's Fancy's data, not in any immediate



sense. For some reason, she hadn't realized earlier that
she could solve this problem. Perhaps she'd been con-
fused by Orn and violence; or by the fact that she was
pregnant. But she knew now that she held the solution.
  She was UMCP. She still had her id tag - and her
codes.
  She didn't need to think about that. The ship's prob-
lems had lost interest for her. Instead she considered the
implications of her decision to abort her son.
  Externally there were no implications. No one knew
she was pregnant: her child's demise would change
nothing. All the implications were internal.
  Like any woman, she'd often thought about having
children. The excitement of life growing within her - the
necessary pain and release of birth. From time to time,
she'd imagined wanting a son. She'd imagined naming
him after her father.
  But not like this. This baby was Angus Thermopyle's
last crime against her. He'd been conceived in cruelty and
rage: a simple command to the sickbay systems would
destroy him. That was just.
  And yet she'd lost her initial sense of shock and
betrayal. Instead her determination to be rid of her baby
left her feeling light-headed and detached, like a woman
who'd decided on suicide.
  A minute later Mackern said tightly, 'Ready. I think.'
  'Then do it,' Nick replied.
  Mackern took a deep breath and entered the command.
  Both scan and data went down simultaneously.
  Unable to stop himself, Mackern groaned and covered
his head with his arms.
  Malda looked like she was hyperventilating.



  'We're finished,' Lind said, wide-eyed and appalled.
We're lost. We're lost.'
  Helplessly the man at the helm echoed, 'Lost.'
  'Oh, shut up.' Mikka's shoulders slumped; she sounded
beaten. 'Reset,' she said into her handcom. 'Scan and
data.'
  As soon as her board came back up, Carmel tested it
and reported that she was still wiped.
  With an effort, Mackern pulled his arms down. But
then he hung fire; he couldn't seem to decide which keys
to hit. Staring through his sweat, he gaped at his board
and didn't move. His lips trembled as he asked, 'Did I
do that? Is it my fault?'
  Muttering obscenities, Mikka Vasaczk started around
the bridge toward the data station. She may have
intended to slap him. Or maybe she knew enough about
data to relieve him.
  Nick stopped her with a small slash of one hand - a
gesture so self-contained that Morn nearly missed it.
  Mikka confronted Nick from almost directly over his
head. Offering the handcom, she asked, 'Should I call
Parmute?'
  Nick shook his head slightly, dismissed her inter-
vention. He was fighting for Captain's Fancy's life. That
meant he had to take care of his people.
  'Mackern.'
  The data first sat up straight, as if Nick had run a lash
along his spine. 'I'm sorry, Nick,' he said without looking
at his captain. 'I'm not Orn - I'm not good enough. I
don't know anything about viruses.'
  'Mackern,' Nick repeated, as distinct as a filleting knife.
'I want a report.'



  'Yes,' Mackern winced out. 'I'm sorry. Yes.'
  Tremors ran through his shoulders as he jabbed his
fingers at the keys in front of him.
  When his equipment resumed function, he began test-
ing Captain's Fancy's data. Hardwired systems running
at microprocessor speeds reported back to him almost
instantly.
  'It's gone.' His voice sounded hollow in the silence;
haunted. 'All our data - everything.' He may have
wanted to cry out, but he was too scared. 'It's all been
wiped.
  'We're lost.'
  'Goddamn it, Nick!' Mikka Vasaczk rasped, 'I warned
you.'
  Surrounded by swelling, Nick's scars were as bright as
an ooze of blood under his gaze.
  For the third time, Morn shook her head.
  The danger was real; she knew that. She understood
the nightmare of a blind voyage down the endless gullet
of the galaxy. But it didn't touch her. As long as the
ship's position could be fixed - as long as the ongoing
course correction could be measured against Captain's
Fancy's destination - she wasn't doomed. None of them
were.
  Someone must have spoken to her. If so, she wasn't
aware of it: her true attention was focused elsewhere.
After a moment, however, she realized that everybody
was looking at her.
  Mackern's lips trembled with dismay. Mikka and
Carmel glared their distrust. Lind's eyes bulged, and his
larynx worked like a piston. Malda Verone held her hair
back with both hands, as if that enabled her to restrain



her fear. The way the helm first stared made him look
like he'd swallowed his chin.
  'I said, why? Nick repeated. He had no patience for
her preoccupation. 'Mackern and Lind keep saying we're
lost. You keep shaking your head.' Threats were plain in
his voice. 'I want to know why'
  Morn made an effort to bring herself back from the
calm, unconcerned place where her decision of death
resided. 'I'm sorry.' Her voice was like her head, light
and separate. 'I thought you understood. You talk about
the fact that I'm UMCP. I didn't realize I needed to
explain.'
  Nick contained his exasperation with difficulty.
'Explain what?'
  'I don't know anything about viruses. I can't cure what
Vorbuld did. But you don't need to worry about a wipe
like this. You haven't lost anything. The problem isn't
data, it's function. You can look at anything you want.
The virus doesn't prevent you from looking. You just
can't take action without crashing your systems.'
  You may not even be able to stop this course correc-
tion without wiping helm.
  'Morn-' Nick began; he was close to fury.
  'Have you lost your mind?' Mikka cut in, fuming at
her. 'Function is hardwired! The data is already gone!'
  Morn still shook her head. 'No, it's not.'
  For one heartbeat, everybody stared at her; two; three.
  Then a light like a burst of joy shot across Nick's face.
'Because you're UMCP!'
  She faced him squarely. 'I can access your datacore.' It
was a temporary fix, but it would work. 'Every scrap of
data you ever had is copied there. Automatically. Con-



stantly. And that's hard memory. It can't be wiped. It
can't be tampered with.
  'I can access it for you. I've got my id tag. I know the
codes. I can copy everything back into your systems. It
may take a day or two' - the sheer volume of information
in the datacore probably ran to thousands of gigabytes -
'but you'll have everything back where it was a few
minutes ago.'
  'Amazing!' the helm first breathed as if he were in awe.
  Nick's eyes shone at her with plain delight.
  'Wait a minute,' Mikka said. Wait a minute.' She
sounded stunned, as if she'd been hit in the sternum.
'What about the virus?'
  Morn shrugged without dropping Nick's gaze. 'I pre-
sume it's recorded in the datacore.' She was hardly aware
of her own certainty. 'It'll come back with everything
else.'
  'So we'll still have the same problem.'
  'But you can navigate,' answered Morn. 'You can tell
where you are.'
  What more do you want from me?
  Abruptly Nick rubbed his hands together, then slapped
his console. He'd recovered his relish. 'By hell, we're
going to beat this thing. I don't give a fuck about viruses.
Let the Bill flush the damn thing for us. While we've got
it, we'll work around it. We can leave the internal systems
on automatic. We may not be comfortable, but we'll be
alive.
  We'll use the computers to run our calculations, plan
what we need to do. Then we'll cut them out of the loop
and enter commands manually. It'll be sloppy as shit, and



we won't be able to fight our way past a signal-buoy, but
at least we might get where we're going.
  'All right?' he asked. 'Is everybody happy?' But he obvi-
ously didn't expect an answer. 'Let's get started.
  'Mackern, let her at your board. She can set it up. Then
you and Parmute can run it.'
  With an expansive sweep of his arm, he gestured Morn
toward the data station.
  Light-headed and certain, guided by new priorities,
she unbelted herself from the engineer's seat and walked
past Mikka, Carmel, and Lind toward the data first.
  Lind grinned at her like a puppy; Carmel frowned
noncommittally. Mikka scrutinized her hard as she
passed, then asked Nick, 'Do you trust her?'
  'What harm do you think she can do?' he countered.
We're already wiped. Without that data, she's as lost as
we are.'
  That was true. On this point, Morn had no treachery
in her. Angus himself might have been honest now.
  But he wouldn't have lifted a finger to save his son. If
she were still under his control, he might have used some
of the more esoteric functions of her zone implant to give
her the most painful abortion possible.
  As she moved, she pulled the chain of her id tag up
over her head.
  Mackern stared at her. His skin had a gray, strained
tinge, and his gaze was rimmed with sweat.
  Because he seemed to have nothing whatever in
common with men like Orn Vorbuld and Nick Succorso
and Angus Thermopyle, she smiled at him as she jacked
her tag into his board.



  He didn't smile back. He couldn't: he was afraid to
hope.
  With her tag and her access codes, she tapped into
Captain's Fancy's datacore; she set it to provide the same
kind of playback Com-Mine Security would have used
to search for evidence which might convict Angus of
something worse than stealing Station supplies. Then she
told Mackern, 'Before you initiate, you'll have to route
the data and set the computers to copy it. You know how
to do that.'
  He nodded once, carefully, as if he didn't trust the
muscles in his neck.
  When playback ends,' she continued, 'all you have to
do is unplug my id tag. That resets the datacore. And it'll
release your board. Then you can get back to work.'
  He mumbled something which may have been,
'Thanks.'
  Still smiling for his benefit, she turned away.
  Nick watched her across the bridge with passion in his
eyes and blood in his scars.
  Riding the moment, as well as the nameless change
within her, she said without premeditation or anxiety,
'Nick, I'm tired of being a passenger. I want to work.
Let me be data third. I've got some of the right training
- and I can learn the rest.'
  Let me into the systems. Let me find out what we're
doing, where we're going. Give me a chance to learn the
truth.
  Trust me.
  Mikka started to protest; but when she saw the
expression on Nick's face, she stopped herself, clamped
her mouth shut.



  His grin intensified. As if he were playing an elaborate
game, he said, 'I'm like a genie in a bottle.' His tone was
a mixture of insolence and lust. 'Rub me the right way,
and I grant wishes.' Abruptly he waved his arms in a
flourish around his head. 'Poof! You're data third.'
  Tight with strain and uncertainty, Lind, Malda, and
the helm first laughed nervously. Mikka and Carmel
frowned their suspicions. Mackern let out a small sigh, a
thin gust of relief.
  Morn gave Nick a crisp salute like the ones she'd so
often given her father. Playing the game back at him, she
kept the echoes of death and loss off her face.
  'Captain Succorso, permission to leave the bridge.'
  'Permission granted,' he replied as if she'd just made a
suggestion lascivious enough to quicken his pulse.
  Still riding the moment, Morn Hyland crossed the
aperture and left the command module.
  Without her id tag; almost without any identity she
knew or recognized. She'd given that up to purchase
something she was in no position to evaluate.
  But she didn't go to sickbay. Filled by a strange,
thorough calm, she felt no urgency to act on her decision.



She didn't go to sickbay. She also didn't go down
          to the ship's core in search of Parmute, the data
          second, who would be responsible for making sure
she knew her duties.
  Instead she went to her cabin to prepare herself for
Nick.
  She felt sure he would come as soon as he had the
chance: as soon as he confirmed that the datacore play-
back was proceeding normally; as soon as he and Mikka
Vasaczk had made their plans to 'work around' the virus.
She'd seen the lust in his eyes and scars. The more she
proved herself worth having, the more he would want
her; would want to prove his power over her.
  She was ready for that. The zone implant made her
ready.
  But when she was alone in her cabin, lying naked on
her bunk with her black box poised under the mattress,
she found herself thinking strange thoughts.



  What would it be like to have a baby?
  She studied her belly to see if the life within her was
noticeable. She probed her breasts to learn if they'd
begun to swell and grow tender. What sort of pressure
would she feel, that would make the pain of childbirth
desirable? On an intellectual level, she knew such ques-
tions were months premature. Yet they interested her
because she was anxious, curious - and lonely. She would
never have chosen to be pregnant. But now that preg-
nancy had been imposed on her, it began to surprise her
more and more.
  What effect would the zone implant have on her baby?
  Would it drive him mad? Could all those inappropriate
hormones and endorphins damage him? Would her
feigned and limitless lubricity make him more like his
father, or less?
  Oh, shit.
  Without warning, her detachment melted away; her
calm streamed out of her, deliquescing like wax. Fright-
ened by the direction of her thoughts, she shook herself,
tried to recover her sense of sanity. What the hell did she
care what the zone implant did to her unwanted fetus?
No matter what happened, she was going to have an
abortion. Wasn't she? Sooner or later - when she had
time and privacy to visit sickbay again. Wasn't she? The
clot of chemicals and malice in her womb was just one
more consequence of being raped. Like rape, it violated
her right to make her own choices. The sooner she rid
herself of it, the better.
  That was true. It was true, damnit.
  But if it were true, what did she make of the fact that
she'd already chosen a name for her baby?



  Without noticing it, as if while her back was turned,
she'd decided to call him Davies Hyland. After her father.
  Shit!
  She wanted to weep again, in frustration and grief.
Abruptly she sat up, swung her legs off the bunk to meet
her distress standing. At once she began to pace as if
she'd been caught and caged. Was she truly so reduced,
so damaged, so lost, that she could consider keeping the
offspring of Angus Thermopyle's hate? Did she place her
own value so low that she was willing to give Angus'
corrupt seed room in her own body, to grow and thrive?
  No! Of course not. Of course not. She would go get
an abortion as soon as Nick expended himself and fell
asleep.
  And when she did that, she would be alone: as alone
as she'd been after she'd killed her family; as alone as
she'd been with Angus at his worst. That small worm of
protoplasm gnawing its way toward parturition within
her was all she had left. When she killed it, too, her
bereavement would be complete.
  The child was a boy, a human being. Her father's grand-
child. And he was a reason to live. A reason that didn't have
anything to do with rage or hate - or with whether the
UMCP was as malign as Vector said. A reason which con-
tradicted the lesson Angus had worked so hard to teach
her: that she deserved to be utterly alone and helpless for-
ever, sustained only by the neural chicanery of the zone
implant, and by her own stubbornness.
  If she kept Davies, she would no longer be alone. She
would have a family again; someone who belonged to
her-
  Someone who deserved better than to be blown up



because she couldn't tell the difference between sanity
and self-destruct. Or to be flushed down the sickbay dis-
posal because she couldn't face the danger of keeping
him alive. No matter who his father was; no matter what
dark legacy his progenitors left him.
  She'd believed things like that once, back in the days
when she was truly a cop, and the UMCP was honest.
Maybe some part of her still did.
  Keeping the child would be like surrendering to Angus Thermopyle.

  Which was exactly what she'd done by trading his life
for the zone implant control. She'd chosen to let his
crimes against her go unpunished rather than to face the
consequences of those crimes without the aid of the black
box. The question of how reduced or damaged or lost
she was had been answered long ago. The only issue that
remained was at once simpler and less ponderable.
  This fetus threatened her survival aboard Captain's
Fancy, her value to Nick. How much was survival worth
to her?
  Was it worth more killing?
  How much loneliness could she endure?
  Caught and caged by her past, abandoned by calm, she
paced back and forth as if she didn't know which way
to turn, clenching her fists together and knotting her
shoulders as if to strangle someone. Despite her fiercest
efforts, however, she couldn't recapture the suicide's
light-headed certainty which had taken over her when
she'd decided to abort her son.

She was still pacing when her door chimed. True to pre-
diction, Nick had come for her. She barely had time to



dive onto the bunk and key her zone implant control
before the delay programmed into the lock let the door
open. As a result, she was flushed and panting as he
entered, apparently avid.
  At once she saw that he'd changed since she'd left the
bridge. His scars continued to throb under his eyes, but
his grin was gone; his elation had faded. His bruises
made him look battered and uncertain. He'd discovered
a doubt of some kind.
  Not a doubt of Captain's Fancy's safety or survival: that
would only have sharpened his focus, made him fight
harder. It must have been a doubt of himself.
  Because he was here, she assumed the doubt had some-
thing to do with her.
  When the door closed behind him, he paused. In a
distant voice, he asked, Why do you do that?'
  A compulsory ache rose in her: she could hardly think.
Already the change in him was no longer clear to her.
'Do what?'
  Why do you make me wait five seconds before your
door opens?'
  She'd prepared herself for that question long ago.
Husky with need, she replied, 'I don't want you to catch
me doing anything' - she nicked a glance toward the san
- 'ungraceful.'
  Apparently that answer was good enough: the subject
didn't really interest him. Dismissing it, he moved closer.
At his sides, his fingers worked, curling involuntarily into
claws and then straining straight.
  If the zone implant's control over her had been less
perfect, she would have been afraid.
  Abruptly he surged forward, caught her by the wrists,



jerked her half-upright on the bunk. His eyes burned at
her.'Do you know how I got these scars? Have you heard
that story?'
  She shook her head. The realization that she'd engaged
the control too soon, that she'd made herself helpless at
the wrong moment, brought a moan up from her throat.
  'A woman did it. She was a pirate - and I was just a
kid. Normally she would have merely sneered at me and
walked away. But I had information she wanted, so she
didn't sneer. Instead she seduced me to help her catch a
ship. And I believed her. I didn't know anything about
contempt - or about women. I thought she took me
seriously.
  'But after she got that ship, she didn't need me any-
more. That was when she started laughing at me. She
butchered all the crew, everybody she found aboard, but
she left me alive. First she cut my face. Then she aban-
doned me, left me alone on that ship to die slowly, so
that I would understand just how much contempt she
had for me. Maybe she thought I would kill myself or go
crazy before I died of thirst.
  'Are you laughing at me?'
  Morn stared back at him. She should have at least tried
to look frightened or indignant, but she was stupid with
inappropriate desire.
  Why did you stay with Captain fucking Thermo-pile?'
His hands twisted pain through her wrists, and his eyes
blazed. Why did you come to me? What kind of plot is
this? How are you going to betray me?'
  At last she understood. He feared that he was growing
dependent on her. Women were things he used and then



discarded when he'd had enough of them. If they had
useful abilities, he made them part of his crew. But he
didn't invest himself in them; he didn't need them.
  Until now.
  Now he'd begun to realize how much power she had
with him. And he was scared.
  'Answer me,' he demanded through his teeth, 'or I'll
break your goddamn arms.'
  Try me,' she whispered from the depths of her false
and illimitable passion. 'Find out if I'm laughing. You
know what that feels like. You'll be able to tell the dif-
ference.'
  A sound like a throttled cry came out of him. Releasing
one of her wrists, he drew back his arm and hit her so
hard that she slammed to the mattress, and the walls grew
dark around her.
  Then he flung off his boots, ripped his shipsuit away,
and landed on her like a hammer.
  Artificially responsive, she accepted the way she was
hurt and answered it with ecstasy.
  Take that and be damned, you bastard!
  She hated him far too much to laugh at him.

When he was exhausted and asleep, she took out her
control and changed its functions to soften her wounds,
numb her revulsion; ease the horrors of transition. After
that she climbed past him out of the bunk, put on her
shipsuit, hid the black box in her pocket, and went to
sickbay.
  She didn't encounter anyone along the way. That was
probably a good thing; but she didn't care who saw her
like this.



  Reaching her destination, she locked herself in. Then
she instructed the medical systems to treat her black eye
and swollen face, her bleeding lips, her bruised arms and
ribs, her torn labia. She didn't turn off her zone implant
until sickbay had done its best to take her hurts away.
  But she didn't get an abortion. And she didn't try to
hide her pregnancy. The only information she deleted
from the log pertained to the exact age of her fetus - and
to the electrode buried in her brain.
  That done, she returned to her cabin. Shivering with
transition and disgust, she stripped off her shipsuit,
scrubbed herself in the san until her skin was raw, then
got back into the bunk.
  She hadn't decided to keep little Davies. She simply
wanted to preserve the evidence that Nick Succorso had
beat up a woman with a baby.
  In case she needed it.

Apparently she didn't need it. As soon as he woke up,
she saw that his doubt was at rest. His eyes were clear,
his scars were as pale as whole skin, and he'd recovered
his grin. The bruises Orn gave him had started to
fade.
  He was mildly surprised at her condition: she should
have looked much worse. He approved of her expla-
nation, however. At peace with himself, entirely un-
chagrined, he instructed her to go to the auxiliary bridge
so that Alba Parmute could begin teaching her her duties.
Then he headed for the bridge to learn how the datacore
playback proceeded.
  Morn was ready to get to work: she was full of readi-
ness and murder. She had decisions to make, and



decisions required information. She left her cabin
immediately.
  At Nick's orders, Parmute was waiting for Morn when
she reached the auxiliary bridge.
  It was up in the drive space beside the engineering
console room, where Vector Shaheed or his second
monitored Captain's Fancy's relatively gentle navigational
thrust. The auxiliary bridge itself was narrower and less
vertiginously curved than its counterpart, since it was
formed around the bulkheads of the ship's core; but it
contained all the same g-seats, consoles, and screens. Past
its arc, the walls of one end were visible from the other.
Sitting in front of the data board, Morn could see all the
other stations without craning her neck.
  The habitual sullenness of Alba Parmute's face and
manner reinforced the impression that she was another
of Nick's discarded lovers. Nevertheless her desire to find
somebody else to share her bed showed in the artificiality
of her hair and makeup, as well as in the blatant way she
displayed her body: she wore her shipsuit only half
sealed, and her breasts bulged ominously in the gap.
Morn had no sympathy for her, however. Disgusted at
the thought of Nick and all things male, Morn found her
obvious hunger pathetic.
  Unfortunately Alba's pouting mood - and her appar-
ently perpetual state of libidinal impatience - failed to
conceal the fact that she wasn't particularly bright. She
was able to explain Morn's responsibilities in only the
most concrete terms: how the duty-rotation worked;
who she took orders from; which buttons to push; which
codes engaged the various data functions; what damage-
control utilities Captain's Fancy had available. Any under-



  Reaching her destination, she locked herself in. Then
she instructed the medical systems to treat her black eye
and swollen face, her bleeding lips, her bruised arms and
ribs, her torn labia. She didn't turn off her zone implant
until sickbay had done its best to take her hurts away.
  But she didn't get an abortion. And she didn't try to
hide her pregnancy. The only information she deleted
from the log pertained to the exact age of her fetus - and
to the electrode buried in her brain.
  That done, she returned to her cabin. Shivering with
transition and disgust, she stripped off her shipsuit,
scrubbed herself in the san until her skin was raw, then
got back into the bunk.
  She hadn't decided to keep little Davies. She simply
wanted to preserve the evidence that Nick Succorso had
beat up a woman with a baby.
  In case she needed it.

Apparently she didn't need it. As soon as he woke up,
she saw that his doubt was at rest. His eyes were clear,
his scars were as pale as whole skin, and he'd recovered
his grin. The bruises Orn gave him had started to
fade.
  He was mildly surprised at her condition: she should
have looked much worse. He approved of her expla-
nation, however. At peace with himself, entirely un-
chagrined, he instructed her to go to the auxiliary bridge
so that Alba Parmute could begin teaching her her duties.
Then he headed for the bridge to learn how the datacore
playback proceeded.
  Morn was ready to get to work: she was full of readi-
ness and murder. She had decisions to make, and



decisions required information. She left her cabin
immediately.
  At Nick's orders, Parmute was waiting for Morn when
she reached the auxiliary bridge.
  It was up in the drive space beside the engineering
console room, where Vector Shaheed or his second
monitored Captain's Fancy's relatively gentle navigational
thrust. The auxiliary bridge itself was narrower and less
vertiginously curved than its counterpart, since it was
formed around the bulkheads of the ship's core; but it
contained all the same g-seats, consoles, and screens. Past
its arc, the walls of one end were visible from the other.
Sitting in front of the data board, Morn could see all the
other stations without craning her neck.
  The habitual sullenness of Alba Parmute's face and
manner reinforced the impression that she was another
of Nick's discarded lovers. Nevertheless her desire to find
somebody else to share her bed showed in the artificiality
of her hair and makeup, as well as in the blatant way she
displayed her body: she wore her shipsuit only half
sealed, and her breasts bulged ominously in the gap.
Morn had no sympathy for her, however. Disgusted at
the thought of Nick and all things male, Morn found her
obvious hunger pathetic.
  Unfortunately Alba's pouting mood - and her appar-
ently perpetual state of libidinal impatience - failed to
conceal the fact that she wasn't particularly bright. She
was able to explain Morn's responsibilities in only the
most concrete terms: how the duty-rotation worked;
who she took orders from; which buttons to push; which
codes engaged the various data functions; what damage-
control utilities Captain's Fancy had available. Any under-



lying how or why she ignored: she did all her work by
rote herself, and expected Morn to do the same. By com-
parison, the self-doubting and ill-equipped data first,
Mackern, was a wizard.
  Nick and his ship had been more dependent on Orn
Vorbuld than Morn had realized.
  She was no wizard herself; but she soon found it easy
to believe that she could be more valuable to Captain's
Fancy than Alba Parmute was.
  After enduring the general uselessness of Alba's
instructions for half an hour, Morn grew frustrated
enough to dare asking to be left alone on the auxiliary
bridge. So that she could 'practice her duties'.
  She was UMCP: she may have been untrustworthy.
But Alba was bored - and anyway Morn wasn't male.
The data second shrugged and went away.
  That was Morn's chance, her first chance. She was
determined not to waste it.
  The compartments where she kept the black pieces of
her hate were breaking down. Nick's violence - and the
fact that she was pregnant - damaged her defenses. Bits
of revulsion and self-loathing, outrage and dire need,
leaked together inside her, fomenting bloodshed. Alone
on the auxiliary bridge, in front of the data console as if
its readouts could display her fate, she risked looking for
answers.
  But she didn't neglect the caution she'd learned from
Angus. Careful and bitter, she keyed the intercom to the
bridge and asked permission to activate the auxiliary data
board so that she could study the equipment.
  'Go ahead,' Nick answered. With his doubts at rest, he
was in an indulgent mood. 'Study as much as you want.



Just don't do anything. If you trigger another wipe, you're
fired.'
   Beating her knuckles against the console for self-
control, she replied as cheerfully as she could, Thanks.'
She had no intention of doing anything which might
activate Orn's virus. She wasn't going to lay a finger on
Captain's Fancy's data: she was just going to look at it.
  The system was unfamiliar, but not much different
than the ones she'd used in the Academy, or aboard
Starmaster. And Alba had given her the basic codes. As
soon as the auxiliary board was ready, she checked on
the progress of the datacore playback.
  The information she needed had already been restored.
   Navigational data. Astrogation and scan.
   Like any new computer, this one had programming
ticks and quirks she didn't know about. For five or ten
minutes, she floundered around in the system, flashing
only gibberish across the displays. But then she found
her way into a summary of the programming parameters,
where she quickly learned the things Alba Parmute had
neglected or been unable to tell her.
   After that she began to obtain useful results.
   Navigational data enabled her to plot Captain's Fancy's
trajectory away from Com-Mine Station. Astrogation
and scan enabled her to fix the ship's present position,
and to call up a list of possible destinations - places which
could be reached along this course.
   The list was long. It included everything from points
dead ahead around in a vast curve back to Com-Mine
itself. But she restricted the field considerably by as-
suming that Nick intended to maintain lateral thrust for at
least two more months; and by discounting any goal that



would take more than seven or eight more months to
reach - in effect, by eliminating from consideration
everything past the mid-point of the huge circle implied
by Captain's Fancy's arc.
  When she was done, the list had become short.
  So short that it made her blood run cold.
  It included only: a red giant with no significant satel-
lites; the farthest tip, virtually uncharted, of the asteroid
belt served by Com-Mine Station; one of the hostile out-
posts which guarded forbidden space; and a hunk of
dead rock as big as a planetoid, hanging a few million
kilometers inside the borders of forbidden space - far
enough inside to be absolutely off-limits for any human
ship, and yet far enough away from the outpost to be
accessible to any human ship willing to risk the conse-
quences.
  That rock had a name: Thanatos Minor.
  Morn had heard of it. Its name made her shiver as
though her heart were freezing.
  She'd heard it in the Academy, whispered by people
who were appalled by what it represented: a depth of
betrayal so unfathomable as to work toward the destruc-
tion of the human species for mere gain.
  Thanatos Minor. No wonder forbidden space sheltered
it, condoned it, despite diplomatic protests, ambassa-
dorial outrage; despite the fact that its very existence was
prohibited by signed treaty. Forbidden space threatened
every human being alive, even though the threat was
genetic rather than military; even though no human ships
were ever attacked, and no alien vessels ever crossed the
border outward, and no accords were ever broken -
except by such telling omissions as the refusal to extirpate



Thanatos Minor. And Thanatos Minor served that threat
more effectively than warships and matter cannon.
  At least by reputation, the rock was a shipyard and
clearing house for pirates. Ships were built there (ships
like Bright Beauty?): ships went there for repairs. And
pirates like Nick Succorso and Angus Thermopyle took
their plunder there, to one of the few markets rich
enough to buy ore and supplies on the scale they offered;
a market fueled by forbidden space's unquenchable appe-
tite for human resources, human technologies, and - if
the rumors were true - human lives.
  Morn ignored the red giant, the outpost, the asteroid
belt. As surely as if Nick had given her the answer himself,
she knew where Captain's Fancy was headed.
  Thanatos Minor, where he would sell her secrets for
money and repairs; where everything she knew about
the UMCP would, in effect, be sold to forbidden space.
  That wasn't just crime: it was treason. A betrayal of
humankind.
  She had no loyalty to the United Mining Companies
Police. Vector had argued that her superiors and heroes
to the highest levels were corrupt - and it was at least
conceivable that he was right. He certainly believed his
own evidence. Whether they were corrupt or not, how-
ever, she'd already turned her back on them: she'd
accepted the zone implant control from Angus and gone
with Nick instead of giving herself up to Com-Mine
Security. She was no longer a cop in any effective sense.
  But none of that mattered here. She couldn't know
whether the UMCP had betrayed humankind. She had to
consider whether she was prepared to betray humankind
herself.



  And if she answered, No! - what then? Then the ques-
tion became: How could she prevent Nick from forcing
that betrayal on her?
  Automatically she calculated the remaining distance:
nearly six months at half the speed of light along Cap-
tain's Fancy's present course, including deceleration time
- more heavy g.
  What could she do?
  What else, besides sabotage Captain's Fancy''.
  The best she could hope for was self-destruct, immedi-
ate death. Any other form of sabotage would leave her
adrift in black space with a ship full of people who knew
that she'd effectively killed them all. But the mere thought
of self-destruct filled her with dark, cold terror. It meant
murdering herself so absolutely that everyone connected
to her died as well.
  Or she could simply kill herself and let Nick go on
without her.
  She felt so trapped and cold that she was hardly able
to go on breathing. Involuntarily her knuckles hit the
edge of the data console until they cracked, and both her
hands turned bloody. There was no way out of this mess
that didn't involve self-murder; a surrender to the moral
gap-sickness which had consumed her life ever since
Starmaster had first sighted Bright Beauty and gone into
heavy g.
  No, she thought. No. It's too much. I can't bear it.
  She hadn't come all this way just to kill herself. She
hadn't suffered Nick's touch all this time, endured beat-
ing and revulsion, just to kill herself.
  Trapped.
  Finally the cold in her heart grew so intense that she



had to clamp her arms across her chest and huddle over
her stomach for warmth.

She was still in that position - hunched down as if to
protect her baby - when Vector Shaheed found her.
  He must have been passing outside on his way to his
console room. From the doorway, he asked, 'Morn?'
  She should have said something to make him go away.
She should at least have concealed her hands. But she
couldn't.
  'Morn? Are you all right?' He came closer; he touched
her shoulder. Then his grip tightened. What the hell are
you doing to yourself?'
  Like a flare of cold fire, she rose to face his look of
mild surprise, mild concern.
  'You should have told me,' she rasped thickly. 'Back
when I first asked you. You should have told me where
we're going.'
  Turning her back on him, she left the auxiliary bridge
and went back to the artificial courage of her zone
implant.

When a chime from the intercom informed her that it
was time for her to take her turn on the bridge, she
obeyed, even though her fingers were so stiff with crusted
blood and pain that she could hardly move them. Reck-
less and uncaring, she carried her black box switched on
low in her pocket, not to numb her physical hurt, but to
muffle her emotional distress. The damage to her
knuckles was useful: it helped keep her in the present.
And her zone implant prevented the present from over-
whelming her.



  Muted by subtle electronic emissions, she stepped onto
the bridge to take her place as Captain's Fancy's data
third.
  Liete Corregio was command third: this was her
watch. Nevertheless Nick met Morn as she arrived. He
gave her a sharp grin which she hardly knew how to
answer, but he didn't say anything. Instead he dangled
her id tag by its chain for a moment, then flipped it to
her.That told her the datacore playback was finished.
  It might have told her other things as well, but she
was in no condition to notice them.
  Wincing involuntarily, she caught her id tag and closed
it in her fist.
  Then she did her best to keep her features blank against
his reaction when he saw the state of her hands.
  His eyes turned instantly hard; his grin locked into
place. Without transition his body passed from move-
ment to poised stillness. Casually - too casually - he
asked, 'Morn, have you been fighting again?'
  For a heartbeat or two, the effects of her zone implant
almost broke. She'd been fighting, all right. And nothing
was resolved. But the control held. A shade too late, she
shook her head.
  'I fell. Caught myself on my fists.'
  As if that were the end of the matter, she pulled the
chain over her head and dropped her id tag into her
shipsuit.
  He didn't appear to know whether to believe her or
not. Noncommittally he said, 'Go to sickbay. Liete can
wait for you.'
  Again Morn shook her head. 'If it hurts enough, it



might teach me to be more careful next time.' Then she
added, 'I want to do my job.'
  Slowly the danger eased out of him. He may have
decided to believe her. Or he may have believed that she
hadn't lost whatever fight she'd been in. Her black box
helped her look like she hadn't lost. With a shrug, he
dismissed the subject.
  To the command third, he said, 'You're on.' Then he
left the bridge.
  Morn looked at Liete Corregio, received a nod, and
went to seat herself at the data station.
  Every time she touched the keys in front of her, her
knuckles hurt as if they were broken.
  That was what she desired.

Liete was a small, dark woman with blunt features and a
voice that barely carried across the bridge. In addition
her manner conveyed so little obvious authority that at
first Morn wondered whether Corregio had obtained her
position by being another of Nick's discarded lovers. But
the command third looked too plain to suit Nick Suc-
corso's romantic tastes. And before long Morn became
convinced that Liete Corregio was nearly as competent
as Mikka Vasaczk. She lacked Mikka's overt aggressive-
ness, but not her certainty or skill. Apparently Nick's
tolerance for women like Alba Parmute didn't extend to
the command positions aboard his ship.
  Despite Liete's competence, however, Captain's Fancy
was in serious trouble.
  Part of the problem, of course, was that Liete's people
were the weakest members of the crew. Regardless of
Morn's opinion of Lind, for instance, she had to admit



that he was orders of magnitude better than the com-
munications third. The men who handled scan and targ
were, respectively, an habitual drunk who understood
demolition better than spectrography and a huge brawler
so ham-fisted that he could scarcely hit one key at a time.
And helm was managed by a malodorous weasel at once
erratic and brilliant: he seemed capable of anything
except following orders. Liete's ability to make such indi-
viduals function together grew increasingly impressive to
Morn as time went on.
  Unfortunately there was a larger difficulty. It involved
Nick's decision to 'work around' Orn Vorbuld's virus.
  None of Liete's watch had the least idea how to make
their equipment operate manually. In fact, no one aboard
could do it, except Vector, Pup, and Carmel; Mikka,
Liete, and Morn; and Nick himself. Ships had been run
cybernetically for so long that most spacefarers had no
experience with anything else. Overrides existed, of
course; and men and women who'd been trained in
places like the UMCP Academy or Aleph Green under-
stood them. But of necessity pirates attracted crew with
motley histories and oblique skills, imprecisely relevant
to the ship's needs. Nick's people simply didn't know
how to do their jobs without exposing their computers
to the virus.
  Liete Corregio's assignment when Morn joined her
watch - and for a number of weeks afterward - was
to teach the thirds how to run Captain's Fancy without
triggering wipe.
  The process went badly from the beginning. Morn was
on only her third watch when the drunk at the scan
station contrived to erase all his data. That cost the ship



twenty hours while she ran another datacore playback.
  A day or two later, Mikka Vasaczk's targ second,
Karster, accidentally triggered a random matter cannon
barrage which scorched a ten-meter-wide strip of Cap-
tain's Fancy's skin and vaporized a doppler sensor before
it was stopped. That cost the crew a week in EVA suits,
working to replace the sensor.
  And before anyone had a chance to recover, Alba Par-
mute, who considered EVA a personal affront, neglected
to deactivate her board at precisely the same time that
the scan second forgot to override while configuring the
new sensor. That caused another complete wipe and
more delays.
  Mikka was in a fury. Since she hated stupidity more
than she distrusted Morn, she demoted Alba to data third
and promoted Morn to her own watch.
  Liete accepted Alba with resignation. On Captain's
Fancy, as on most ships, the true function of the com-
mand third was to endure problems which had defeated
everyone else.
  Nick watched all this with a smoldering glower which
said as plainly as words that he was deciding whom to
replace when - or if - he reached Thanatos Minor.
  Every time Morn plugged her id tag back into the data
board to run another playback, she asked herself why she
was doing this. But she knew the answer: it was because
she had no choice. Nick wouldn't have tolerated a refusal.
  Caught by her bitterness at being helpless and her
revulsion at sharing her bed, she tried to comfort herself
by researching self-destruct. That solace failed her, how-
ever: Captain's Fancy had no built-in or preprogrammed
way to blow up.



  Nick was going to use her to betray all human space.
She couldn't bear it - and she couldn't prevent it. Her
belly had developed a small, tight bulge which would
soon grow unmistakable; her nausea disappeared as her
body learned to enjoy its new hormonal mix. And yet she
was unable to achieve a decision. Her baby was becoming
more and more real to her. The idea of keeping him made
her want to weep: the idea of aborting him made her
want to puke.
  Gradually her two dilemmas became blurred: the need
to kill herself or Captain's Fancy; the need to kill her son.
They were separate, but they depended on each other.
She couldn't make up her mind about one until she
resolved the other.

Because she spent so much time under the influence
of her zone implant, emotionally muted so that she
wouldn't try to disembowel Nick whenever he ap-
proached her, or to disable the entire data station while
Mikka Vasaczk watched, she was slow to recognize that
there were changes at work in her.
  Nick was predominantly gentle in her cabin, as if he'd
been cured of doubt. Daunted by Orn's example, other
men left her alone - even the targ third, who looked like
he was accustomed to kill for sex. She had work to do,
steady and demanding work which filled her time and
deflected her distress. And Mikka's trenchant authority
kept her concentration sharp.
  Such things gave her time in which to pull herself
together. On a level below her own awareness, inspired
by hormones or old loyalty, or perhaps by some blind,
intransigent unwillingness to let the Angus Thermopyles



and the Nick Succorsos in her life break her, she began
gathering up the ragged strands of herself and plaiting
them into something new.
  In retrospect, she wasn't quite sure when she'd stopped
carrying her black box. One day she experimented with
leaving it behind: after that she kept it hidden in her
cabin. Soon six weeks had passed since Orn Vorbuld's
death, and the time-limit for a safe abortion was running
out. Captain's Fancy was almost prepared to attempt
minor manual course corrections.
  And Morn was no longer the same woman.
  The difference took effect one day when Nick came to
the bridge during the change-over between Mikka's
watch and Liete's. He nodded normally to Mikka as Liete
relieved her; he gave Morn a grin that was only a little
sharper, a bit more deeply tinged with blood, than usual.
Yet his presence itself was unusual: ordinarily he waited
for Morn in her cabin while Mikka's watch was relieved.
As Morn followed the rest of the seconds off the bridge,
he gestured the communications third away from his
station and seated himself there.
  She hardly had time to be sure she'd seen him accu-
rately. She was already on her way to the auxiliary bridge.
  She was in a hurry: she could be sure she didn't have
much time. Nevertheless the distance to the auxiliary
bridge gave her a few moments for consideration. She
felt that she was thinking for the first time in weeks. Her
original idea was to activate the auxiliary communications
board and dummy it to its counterpart. That would
enable her to observe what he did. Even if she missed his
actual transmission, she might discover in which direc-
tion he'd beamed his message.



  As soon as she analyzed the idea, however, she realized
that Liete would know as soon as she activated the auxili-
ary communications board. Liete would tell Nick - and
Nick wouldn't have any trouble guessing what Morn was
up to.
  But she had an alternative.
  Nobody could edit a datacore. Every fact Captain's
Fancy possessed, every action she took, was permanently
stored. And that meant-
  It meant that no matter how much information Nick
purposely deleted from his transmission history, the data-
core remained whole. Therefore playback restored the
ship's information in an unedited condition.
  If he hadn't thought of that - if he hadn't repeated
all his deletions after each playback - she could look at
whatever he'd tried to suppress.
  From the auxiliary data station, she could copy the
message he was sending right now.
  That she'd activated the auxiliary station would show
on Liete's command board. But what she was actually
doing wouldn't. And she wouldn't have any trouble
explaining away her desire to make use of the auxiliary
data station. She could think of an excuse that fit within
her duties.
  Under other circumstances, she would have kicked her-
self for not grasping all this earlier. Now she didn't have
time.
  The auxiliary bridge was fortuitously deserted. She had
her id tag jacked into the console as soon as she hit the
seat. To cover herself, she opened the intercom and asked
Mikka's permission to do some research; but she didn't
wait for an answer. Her fingers ran the keys. When Mikka



asked her what kind of research she had in mind, she
replied that she wanted to see if she could identify the
defaults or protocols Orn's virus used to wipe the
systems. By the time the command second said, 'OK,'
Morn had already begun restoring the transmission Nick
had just erased.
  What she learned struck her as hard as one of Nick's
blows; but it didn't paralyze her; it didn't make her
freeze, or stop.
  The message itself was ciphered, of course. She
couldn't read it - and had no time to try. But she recog-
nized its destination and security codes, the codes which
insured it would be received by the right person, and no
one else. In addition, the resources of the data board
enabled her to plot its transmission vector. In moments
she saw that the message had been tight-beamed to a set
of coordinates she knew well.
  The coordinates of a UMCP listening post.
  One of the thousands of listening posts which had
been set to help guard the border of forbidden space.
  She was a cop: she knew how those listening posts
worked. At intervals determined by UMCPHQ's priori-
ties, a courier drone arrived at the post. The post dumped
its accumulated data to the drone. The drone crossed the
gap back toward Earth. It gave up its data to the UMCP
transmission relay coasting outside Pluto's orbit; pos-
itioned there so that hundreds of drones serving thou-
sands of listening posts - not to mention Stations and
colonies - could avoid the planets, satellites, rocks, and
ships which cluttered the solar system. The relay in turn
beamed the data to UMCPHQ. Under the right con-
ditions, the entire process could be astonishingly quick:



significant delays occurred only when the courier drone
had to carry its data at space normal speeds.
  And Nick had left his dish aimed at the listening post.
  He was expecting an answer.
  The implications chilled her. She felt that she was
losing contact with reality, as if g had disappeared from
under her - as if Captain's Fancy had lost internal spin,
or gone awry in her trajectory across the void. Nick had
sent a message to the UMCP. He was expecting an
answer.
  Oh my God.
  But she wasn't given a chance to sort her way through
the morass. Before she could try to gauge the extent of
Nick's treachery, she heard him ask sardonically, 'Any
luck?'
  Blanking her readouts, she swung her seat to face him.
  He leaned in the doorway, grinning at her. After all
this time, the sight of her still pulled his lips back from
his teeth, darkened his scars. Maybe her disconcertion
made her look frightened: maybe the idea that she was
frightened excited him. Or maybe he was so caught up
in the masque of her passion that he couldn't break free.
  But she wasn't frightened; not now. She had gone
past that without knowing it. And past trying to second-
guess the consequences of her actions. She was thinking
for the first time in weeks, and her questions were about
to be answered. Deliberately she stared straight at him.
Her tone was neutral with concentration.
  'You sent a message to the UMCP.'
  Instantly his whole body became still and ominous,
poised like a bomb.
  As if the subject were one of purely intellectual curi-



osity, she asked, 'Does your crew know you do things
like that?'
  His gaze was as steady as hers; his grin had no love in
it. 'You're the only one who isn't in on the secret. And
you still aren't - so don't push your luck.'
  She ignored that. It was either true or false - and she
doubted he would tell her which. Instead she said, 'I
thought you were planning to sell me on Thanatos
Minor. My information, anyway. Have you changed
your mind?'
  Only his mouth moved. Every other muscle held its
poise; as far as she could tell, he didn't so much as blink.
  "Who told you we're going to Thanatos Minor?'
  'Nobody,' she said evenly. 'I figured it out.'
  'How?'
  She shrugged and indicated the auxiliary data console.
'I had to learn the equipment before I could do my job.
Studying what astrogation says about our trajectory was
good practice.'
  His grin stretched a little tighter. 'And how did you
find out I "sent a message to the UMCP"?' He made the
name sound like an obscenity.
  She told him.
  He received the information without moving. When
she was done, he demanded, 'How long have you been
spying on me?'
  She answered that question as well. On this subject,
she no longer had any reason to lie.
  'This is the first time. I didn't realize I could do it until
a few minutes ago.' She let a hint of bitterness into her
tone as she added, 'I've had a lot of other things on my
mind.'



  Then she repeated her own demand. Why are you
talking to the UMCP?'
  As if she'd gained her point, he shifted his weight off
the door-frame. Casually, like a lazy predator, he moved
to the command station and sat down. She turned to face
him all the way, tracking him like targ.
  For a moment his fingers massaged his scars as if he
wanted to rub the blood out of them. Then he said,
'I can get more money for what you know if I hold
an auction. But you can't hold an auction unless you've
got at least two bidders. I'm giving your old buddies a
chance to keep what you know secret by paying for the
privilege.'
  That was a lie: she recognized it immediately. It was
plausible in itself; but it didn't explain how he knew the
location of the listening post.
  She didn't challenge his dishonesty, however. Let him
think she was taken in: she had other issues to consider.
Flatly she countered, 'They won't do it.'
  Why not?' he asked as if he weren't particularly
interested in her answer.
  'Because they can't be sure you won't take their money
and still sell me when you get to Thanatos Minor.'
  He shrugged. 'I already thought of that. I told them
if I accept their bid I'll give you access to communi-
cations. You can report to them - tell them I'm keeping
my end of the bargain. In fact, you can tell them anything
you learn while we're getting our repairs done.'
  She shook her head. 'Not good enough. An offer
like that doesn't guarantee anything. They'll want a
guarantee.'
  Her argument didn't appear to bother him. 'It's worth



a try. If they turn me down, we haven't lost anything.'
  Oh, yes, you have, Nick Succorso, she thought. By
God, you have.
  But she didn't say that. As the change in her came into
focus, she found herself thinking faster, more clearly.
  Carefully, neutrally, she offered, 'I've got a better idea.
Tell them if they pay enough you'll take me somewhere
else. And you'll let me report to them that you really
have changed course. Let me convince them you're keep-
ing your part of the bargain.'
  Between one heartbeat and the next, he lost his air of
nonchalant disinterest. He stiffened in his seat; his gaze
sharpened on her. In a harsh, slow drawl, he asked, 'Now
why would you want me to do a thing like that?'
  If he thought he could make her falter, he was mis-
taken. Facing him as squarely as ever, she replied,
'Because I don't want to go to Thanatos Minor.'
  Why the hell not? Do you think you're still a cop? Do
you think you've got a right to cure who I sell your secrets
to? You gave that up several billion kilometers ago. What
makes you so fucking scrupulous all of a sudden?'
  There her dilemmas came together. In his hot glare
and her own danger, she saw how they depended on each
other; and her intuitive indecisiveness vanished. Abruptly
certain, she held his gaze as if he were the only one of
them who had any experience with doubt.
  'I'm pregnant,' she announced distinctly. 'I'm going to
have a boy. He's due about the time you're planning to
get your gap drive fixed - and I don't want to have him
on Thanatos Minor. We'll both be too vulnerable. He
could be used against me. Either one of us could be used
against you.'



  Praying that he would believe her - that he wouldn't
demand an examination in sickbay to confirm what she
said - she concluded, 'Nick, he's your son.'



From the auxiliary command seat, Nick met her
       gaze. His tone was as deadly as the one he'd used
       with Orn Vorbuld.
  'Abort it.'
  Morn was glad that she'd never made the mistake of
thinking he would welcome any child, even a son. And
she was glad for a chance to defy him at last. In fact, she
was delighted - so keenly pleased that her heart sang.
Her greatest danger at the moment wasn't that she might
back down: it was that she might let too much visceral
joy show.
  Softly she said, 'I don't want to.'
  'I don't give a fuck in hard vacuum what you want,'
he retorted. His grin looked bloody and threatening. 1
said, abort it.'
  'Why?' Her reply was almost sarcastic in its sweetness.
'Don't you want a son? Reputation is only one kind of
immortality. And it fades after a while. People forget



what you've done. They forget the stories about you.
You can have more than that. A son will preserve your
genes.'
  'Fine. Terrific. With my luck, the bastard will grow up
to be a cop.' Nick had swung his seat toward hers: his
hands gripped the contoured armrests. 'In any case, you
can't raise a kid on a ship like this. You'll have to feed it,
take care of it. You'll always be thinking about it - you
won't be able to work. It'll get in the way. I'll be stuck
with it for years.
  'It'll be impossible. I'll have to leave you behind.
  'Listen to me, Morn. I'm only going to say this once.
I want you to abort that little shit.'
  There it was: want. His command word. When you
hear the word 'want', you don't ask. It isn't up for discussion.
You just do. She was glad that she'd been able to drive
him to this point so easily.
  Without flinching, she answered, 'No.'
  He snatched in a deep breath: he was about to explode.
His pulse throbbed in his scars, making them as dark as
the core of his passion. He'd killed people for defying
him like this: she was sure of that.
  But she was also sure he wouldn't kill her. Not yet;
not while she was so valuable to him; not while he
believed the masque. She sat still and waited for him to
blast her. Or to restrain himself.
  He let his breath out with a discernible tremor. 'Just
this once,' he rasped between his teeth, 'I'm going to let
you tell me what your reasons are.'
  The time had come for lies. Because she was glad, they
came readily.
  'Nick, you know what they are. You don't need me to



explain them. 'I'm a woman. And I love you. I want to
have your baby.
  'You aren't used to women who love you. You've been
betrayed too often. But you've seen how I feel about you.
I catch fire every time you touch me. Even when you hit
me,' she added because she was gleeful enough to take
any risk, 'I go wild.
  'And I haven't got anybody else. I killed them all - I
killed them all, Nick. I've got gap-sicknesss, remember? I
aborted my whole ship. I'm not going to do that again.
  'Right now, you're all I have. And I already know I
won't have you for long.' This was part of the masque -
the false instrument playing on the deluded artist. 'No
man is ever satisfied with just one woman, and you're
more of a man than anyone I've ever met. Sooner or later,
I won't be enough for you. The same way Mikka wasn't
enough, and Alba, and all the others. In the end, you'll
replace me. But I'll never be able to replace you.
  When you're gone, I want to have something left. I
want to have your son. I want to bear him and raise him,
so that I'll always know you were real.' She emphasized
her want in opposition to his. 'No matter how much time
passes, or my memory fades, I'll know I didn't dream
you. He'll remind me that at least once in my life I knew
what passion was.'
  Her lies touched him: she saw that. His hands flexed
on the armrests; an oblique grief moistened the fire in
his eyes. He believed the masque: he was accessible to
this appeal.
  At the same time he was too stubborn, too suspicious
- and too intelligent - to lose his way so easily. He had



to swallow twice before he could find his voice. Then he
said, 'Crap.'
  She wasn't daunted. Without hesitation, she
responded, Try me.'
  'I intend to,' he growled. What did you have in mind?'
  Her defiance affected her like rapture; it almost made
her laugh. After all this time, she finally had a use for
her revulsion. But laughing would have had the wrong
effect. Instead she leaned forward earnestly and braced
her elbows on her knees, shifting her appeal that much
closer to him.
  'Nick,' she answered, nearly whispering, 'you need me.
You want to sell me - or what I know - so you can pay
for repairs. And you want me to have an abortion. We
both know you can get what you want. You can hit me
right now - you can knock me out and take me to sick-
bay. I couldn't stop you. You don't even need to worry
about how I'll feel about it. You don't need my
cooperation to sell me. You can just dope me with cat
until we get to Thanatos Minor, and then hand me over.
I'm sure they've got drugs that will make me tell them
everything I know.
  'But you don't have to go that far. You can just ignore
me. I say I want to keep your baby? I say I don't want
to have him on Thanatos Minor? That's my tough luck.
When we get there, you can dope me, baby and all, and
sell me the way I am. If you're afraid I'll do something
to Captain's Fancy in the meantime, you can take my id
tag. That'll paralyze me pretty effectively.'
  As she spoke, he watched her with growing steadiness,
confidence. Deliberately she reminded him of his power
over her. To set him up.



  The things he could do to her no longer scared her.
  When the fury had begun to fade from his scars, and
his eyes were calmer, she sprang her trap.
  'But if you do either of those things - if you force me
to have an abortion, or if you force me to have my baby
on Thanatos Minor - I'm going to tell whoever you
try to sell me to that you've been bargaining with the
UMCP.'
  His sudden stillness told her that she'd hit him where
he could be hurt.
  Then,' she continued, 'what I know won't be worth
shit. There isn't anybody in space stupid enough to think
that people like Min Donner and Hashi Lebwohl will
just sit on their hands while you sell their secrets. The
minute you tried to get the UMCP into the auction, you
warned them of the danger they're in, and everything I
know became obsolete.'
  She went on leaning toward him as if she were begging
rather than threatening: he leaned away from her as if he
were appalled. Remorselessly, reveling in his distress, she
explained, 'Every code, every route, every listening post
will be changed. Every agent and ship will be warned. It
doesn't matter what was really in that message of yours.
It doesn't even matter that I can't prove anything. Just
the doubt will be enough. That's something you can't
take away from me - not unless you destroy my mind,
and then I won't have any secrets left.
  'All I have to do is tell whoever wants to buy me that
you beamed a message to a UMCP listening post, and
you won't be able to get enough for me to buy new
scrubber pads.'



  She had him: she bad him. She was so sure of it that
she nearly cheered.
  And as soon as she had him, he got away.
  Nick Succorso was a survivor - a man who always
found a way to keep himself alive. But he was more than
that, much more. According to his reputation, he was a
pirate who never lost. Once Mikka Vasaczk had swayed
the entire crew by shouting, Have any of you EVER seen
Nick beaten?
  He wasn't beaten now.
  He absorbed the worst Morn could do to him; he was
hurt by it. When she was done, he sat still and stared at
her for a moment, holding himself as if he couldn't
breathe; as if she'd hit him so hard that all the air was
knocked out of him.
  But then the fighting light came back into his eyes. A
wild grin bared his teeth.
  Abruptly he laughed - a harsh sound like an act of
violence.
  Frozen with sudden alarm, Morn returned his stare
and couldn't move.
  'You think you've got me, don't you,' he grated. 'You
think you've given me a choice I can't refuse. I can let
you keep your baby - I can stay away from Thanatos
Minor. Then you'll go on loving me. My ship won't get
fixed, but I'll have all the fucking sex I can stand. Or I
can force you to abort. In which case you'll sabotage me
so bad I'll have to sell my soul to the Bill just for supplies,
and my ship still won't get fixed.
  'I can't imagine why I don't fall all over myself to take
you up on an offer like that.'
  Now Mom was the one who held her breath.



  'Maybe it's because I don't want a woman who thinks
she can push me around.
   'Or maybe,' he said in fierce, combative exultation, 'it's
because I've got options you haven't considered.'
   For a moment her brain reeled; then it snapped back
into clarity. She didn't try to speculate on what he meant.
Instead she asked, 'Like what?'
  With a surge as if he were moving to attack her, he
shifted forward in his seat, thrusting his face toward hers,
mimicking her posture. The inflexible skin of his scars
pulled his grin into a grimace.
   'Forbidden space has an outpost in this sector,' he said
like a wash of mineral acid. 'You know that. You noticed
it while you were "figuring out" where we're headed.
We've still got a window on it - just barely. We can go
there if we change course now.
   'Do you know what they pay for live human beings?
I can sell you outright, no matter how obsolete your
information happens to be, and get enough cash to flush
out that damn virus. While I'm at it, I can sell a loser like
Alba Parmute and get enough more to repair my gap
drive.'
   That threat was worse than anything she'd expected,
anything she'd imagined. Sell her? To forbidden space?
Would he do that? She couldn't tell: she still didn't know
him well enough to guess his limits. Fighting panic, she
hurried to contradict him.
   'And as soon as you start selling your crew, they'll
never trust you again. Even illegals like yours are going
to take exception. They may mutiny. You can't watch
your back twenty-four hours a day. At the very least,
they'll talk. They'll ruin your reputation. You won't be



the Nick Succorso who never loses. You'll be the Nick
Succorso who sells his own people to forbidden space.'
  That won't happen,' he replied like a knife, 'if I just
sell you. You're UMCP - you're the enemy. Selling you
will make me a goddamn hero.'
  'But' - Morn felt that she was laboring against heavy
g to keep up with him - 'you still won't have enough
money. You'll be able to flush out the virus, or get your
gap drive fixed, but not both. You won't have anything
else to sell.'
  Nick's eyes burned at her. He nodded once and
dropped back in his seat. His scars had lost some of their
color: they were pale and livid, like old bruises.
  Yet his grin looked more ferocious than ever as he
pronounced, 'Stalemate.'
  He was right. They had each found the flaws in the
other's position. Their threats canceled each other.
  'Nick,' she said slowly, 'I want to keep my baby. And
I don't want to be sold to forbidden space.' The idea
was profoundly terrifying. She would have preferred to
attempt EVA with a faulty suit. 'If you've got any sugges-
tions, I'm listening.'
  At that, he laughed again like a promise that she would
never be safe. Then he leaned forward once more and
pointed his index finger like the barrel of an impact pistol
straight between her eyes.
  Almost in a whisper, he said, 'You're damn fucking
right I've got a "suggestion".
  This is your problem. You refused a direct order. So you get to solve it.'

  Still aiming his finger at her, he left his seat to move
toward her.



  'Give me a cure for that virus.'
  She gaped at him, unable to retort.
  'If you do that,' he went on, right in front of her now,
'if you fix my ship so that she can maneuver and fight
again, I'll let you keep your baby. I won't sell you to
forbidden space. We'll go somewhere besides Thanatos
Minor.
  'If you don't-' He let the ultimatum hang for a
moment. Then he breathed, 'You'll give yourself an
abortion. And you'll keep your mouth shut about mes-
sages to the UMCP.'
  'Nick-' Her throat knotted; she had trouble dredging
up words. 'What makes you think I can cure a computer
virus?'
  Without warning, he moved his finger; he flicked her
hard in the tender junction of nerves under her nose.
While her eyes filled with involuntary tears, he said softly,
'What makes you think I care?'
  Then he got up and walked off the auxiliary bridge;
left her alone at the data station with tears streaming
down her cheeks as if she were beaten.

She had options, of course. It would be easy to activate
the auxiliary data board and trigger another wipe. Then,
if she were quick enough, she might be able to snatch an
EVA suit and get off the ship before anyone caught her.
That would give her a chance to ditch her id tag outside,
where no one could ever find it. If she succeeded - and
if she used the suit's maneuvering thrusters to put as
much distance as possible between herself and Captain's
Fancy - she might avoid the horrible things Nick and his
crew would do to her before they died.



  She would die herself when the suit's air ran out: she
would suffocate alone in the vast dark. But at least her
death would accomplish something.
  It would put a stop to Nick Succorso.
  As recently as two or three weeks ago, she might have
tried that. She might have been desperate enough.
  Now she dismissed it.
  She'd changed too much to consider suicide.
  Faced with Nick's ultimatum, she wanted to know
what was at stake. Whatever his message to UMCPHQ
contained, she was sure it had nothing to do with
auctioning. His knowledge of the listening post's
coordinates proved that he'd had dealings with the
UMCP for some time - the kind of dealings which
required them to remain in contact with each other.
  Vector Shaheed had cause to believe the cops them-
selves were corrupt; treasonous to humankind. If he was
right, it implied that Nick was engaged in something
worse than simple piracy.
  And if she killed herself little Davies Hyland would die
with her.
  Her desire to save him surprised her. On a conscious
level, her claim that she wanted to keep him had been a
smoke-screen to disguise her real reasons for resisting
being sold on Thanatos Minor. But now she saw that the
claim was true. Maybe she wanted her son as a way of
defying Nick; maybe she wanted him for himself; maybe
she was overcome by the desire not to add Davies' name
to the list of her victims; maybe she was under too much
pressure to refuse the logic of her hormones: she didn't
know. Whatever the explanation, however, the con-



elusion was clear: she had become prepared to fight for
her baby's life.
  Which meant she had to find a cure for Orn's virus.
  That was the decision she reached. Aware of what she
was doing, and galvanized by it, she accepted Nick's
terms, just as she'd once accepted Angus'.

The proposition was absurd on its face. She knew no
more about such things than Nick himself did. Where
could she start? What could she do that hadn't already
been tried? How far could she push herself before she
failed - before Nick forced her to accept defeat?
  Nevertheless she put everything she had into the
attempt.
  Once again she took to carrying her zone implant con-
trol with her, regardless of the danger.
  She needed it to deal with Nick, of course. Caught
up in his anger over her defiance, and perhaps intending
to help her fail, he pursued sex with her as mastery rather
than pleasure; he took her brutally in unexpected places,
at unexpected times, when she needed to concentrate on
other things. And yet as always her survival depended on
her ability to preserve the illusion that she hungered for
him whatever he did, that even rape only made her love
him more. Without her black box, she would have been
unable to maintain the masque for as much as five min-
utes - certainly not for all the long days which followed.
  But she also needed the control to keep her attention
sharp, to suppress her fatigue, to hold her fear at bay.
She had to do her job on Mikka's watch - and she had
to respond to Nick whenever he came at her. That left
relatively few hours each day in which she could tackle



the problem of the virus; too few. As much as possible,
she elected to go without sleep.
  Alive with artificial energy, she spent virtually all her
spare time on the auxiliary bridge poring over Captain's
Fancy's programs - running every available diagnostic
test on them; scrutinizing their logic; dividing them into
their component parts and dummying each part separ-
ately to her board so that she could see how it functioned.
When she slept, she did so not because she felt the need,
but because she knew her body had limits which her zone
implant ignored. Her baby had limits. On some days,
however, she forgot about limits and worked continu-
ously. Frequently she neglected to eat. Her mind was like
a thruster on full burn, consuming its resources in a
white, pure fire that seemed to deny entropy and thermo-
dynamics.
  After several days of that, she looked as haggard and
gap-eyed as a casualty of war; but she didn't know it.
  A week passed, and part of another week, before she
thought of an answer.
  When it occurred to her, she spent no time at all
wondering why she hadn't conceived of it earlier - or
cursing herself for being so dense. She was too busy.
  A datacore time-study.
  More accurately, a study of Captain's Fancy's basic pro-
gramming as it was recorded over time in the datacore.
That would enable her to compare the original program-
ming with its present state. Then a simple comparison
test would locate the changes Orn had written into the
operating systems.
  The job was horrendously complex to prepare, how-
ever. A plain one-to-one comparison between the present



state of the ship's data and its state before Orn came
aboard would have taken months to run and reported
millions of discrepancies, the record of everything Cap-
tain's Fancy had seen and done since the starting date of
the comparison. So Morn had to write a filter through
which she could play back the data so that everything
irrelevant to the condition and function of the program-
ming itself would be excluded. Then she had to go over
that body of information almost line by line in order to
delete anything secondary, anything which would bog
down the comparison to no purpose.
  All that took most of four days. She could have done
it in three if Nick hadn't insisted on using her so hard.
  When she was finished - when she'd run her time-
study and obtained its results - she finally felt an
emotion so organic and spontaneous that it overwhelmed
the zone implant's emissions. Her artificial burn shut
down, leaving her at the mercy of her mortality.
  The comparison was conclusive. From the day before
Orn came aboard to the present, no substantive changes,
elisions, or amendments had been made to Captain's
Fancy operational programming.
  According to her study, there was no virus.
  Several moments passed before Morn noticed that she
was hunched over the auxiliary data board, sobbing like a
bereft child. Caught between physical exhaustion, natural
grief, and imposed energy, she couldn't seem to do any-
thing except cry.

After a time, Vector Shaheed heard her and came to the
auxiliary bridge. She had no idea what he was doing as
he pulled her to her feet and dragged her out; no idea



how much the strain hurt his joints, or where he was
taking her. Weeping was all she had in her, and it
wouldn't stop.
  He took her to the galley, propped her in a chair at
the table, and set a steaming mug of coffee in front of
her.'Don't worry about burning your mouth,' he
instructed. 'Burns heal.'
  The aroma rose into her face. Obedient to his order -
or to an instinct she no longer knew she had - she
swallowed her sobs long enough to pick up the mug and
drink.
  The coffee scalded her tongue and throat. For an
instant pain broke through her helplessness.
  Between one gulp for air and the next, she stopped
crying. The zone implant began to reassert control.
  That's better.' Vector's voice seemed to reach her
through a veil, as if it were muffled by kindness. 'Any
minute now you'll be able to think again. If you don't
fall asleep first. Or just drop dead. You could kill yourself
the way you're going.
  'Do you play cards?'
  She didn't react. All she cared about was the black heat
of the coffee, the flaming hurt in her mouth.
  'I know this seems like an inopportune moment for
conversation,' he explained in his mild way, 'but I want
to reach you while you're still - still accessible. You've
been deaf and blind for weeks now. This may be my only
chance.
  'Do you play cards?'
  The retreat of her grief left her exposed to exhaustion.



Numbly she nodded. 'Poker. A little. In the Academy.I
wasn't good at it.'
  Apparently she'd given him some kind of permission.
He seated himself, picked up a mug of coffee, and said
casually, 'It's interesting how some games endure. Chess,
for example. And poker - as a species, we've been playing
poker practically forever. And then there's bridge. I've
seen gaming encyclopedias that don't mention whist -
which is where bridge came from - but back when I
worked for Intertech we used to play bridge for days.
Orn was particularly good at it.
  'Bridge and poker.' Vector let out a nostalgic sigh. The
only time life is ever pure is when you're playing games
like that. That's because they're closed systems. The cards,
and the rules - and the ontological implications - are
finite.
  'But of course poker isn't really a card game. It's a
game of people. The cards are just a tool for playing your
opponents. That may be why you weren't good at it.
Bridge comes much closer to direct problem-solving -
the extrapolation of discrete logical permutations. You
can't ignore who your opponents are, naturally, but you
win with your mind more than your guts.
   'You're trying to win this one with your guts, Mom.
You need to use your mind.'
  Morn drank more coffee. She didn't say anything: she
didn't have anything to say. Instead she concentrated on
the pain in her throat.
   We have a maxim in bridge,' he continued. 'If you
need a particular card to be in a certain place, assume it is.
If you need a particular distribution of the cards, assume it



exists. Plan the rest of your strategy as if you have a right
to be sure of that one assumption.
  'It doesn't always work, of course. In fact, you can
play for days without it working once. But that's not the
point. The point is, if your assumption is false you were
going to fail anyway. That assumption represents the one
thing you have to have in order to succeed, so you might
as well count on it. Without it, there's nothing you can
do except shrug and go on to the next hand.'
  Morn was adrift in a void of exhaustion and over-
driven synapses, anchored only by coffee and her burned
tongue. Nothing Vector said made any sense. His little
lecture sounded oddly purposeless, unmotivated. And yet
he delivered it as if it were important somehow; as if he
thought she needed it. With an effort, she resisted the
impulse to switch off her black box and let herself
collapse.
  The electrical coercion in her brain seemed unable to
master her fatigue. Nevertheless it reduced her numbness
a bit. She cleared her throat and murmured thinly,
Whose watch is this? I don't even know what day it is.'
  Vector consulted a chronometer built into the food-
vend. 'Liete's on for another hour. Then it's Nick's turn.'
He hesitated momentarily before adding, 'You missed
your last watch, but Nick told Mikka to let you stay with
what you were doing. He may treat you like shit, but
he's counting on you.'
  Treat you like shit. That touched a sore place in her.
A small sting of anger spread outward from the contact.
The effect of the zone implant grew stronger. Nick did
indeed treat her like shit. She had every intention of
making him pay blood for the privilege.



  'So your advice' - she was too tired to speak distinctly,
but she did her best to articulate every word - 'is to just
assume I can cure this virus. Assume there's something I
can do that doesn't depend on skills or knowledge I
haven't got.'
  In response, Vector raised his mug like a salute. Smil-
ing gently, he said, 'If you heard me say all that, there's
hope for you yet.'
  'In that case,' she replied, trying not to mumble, 'our
entire approach has been wrong from the beginning. We
have to assume that everything we've done so far is
wrong.'
  He nodded noncommittally. 'Do we? Is that the only
assumption that gives us a chance?'
  She ignored him. Maybe fatigue was what she needed
to take the edge off the zone implant's effect: maybe
she'd been blinded by her own urgency, artificial and
otherwise. Now she seemed to feel neurons which had
been pushed to the point of shutdown come back on
line. She was starting to think again.
  'Where's Mackern?' she asked as if she had a right to
expect Vector's help.
  He studied her without adjusting his smile. 'He's on
with Nick in an hour.'
  So what? If Mikka could do without her, Nick could
do without Mackern. 'I need him.'
  Vector shrugged. Lifting himself stiffly to his feet, he
moved to the intercom.
  With your permission, Nick,' he told the intercom,
'Morn wants to talk to Sib Mackern. She says she needs
him.'



   Obliquely Morn realized that she'd never heard
Mackern's first name before.
   Nick's voice came back: Where?'
   'In
   'I'l th
          l e galley.
           send        '
                    him.' The intercom clicked off.

  The data first arrived only a minute or two after Vec-
tor sat down again. He must have been somewhere
nearby when he received Nick's orders.
   'You wanted to talk to me?' he asked Morn. The idea
appeared to aggravate his uncertainly. Whatever he used
instead of self-confidence to keep him going was as nearly
invisible as his pale mustache.
   She needed time to get her thoughts in order. For a
moment she said nothing. Vector urged Sib Mackern to
sit down: he offered the data first coffee. Sib preferred
to remain standing; he refused the coffee.
   Both men watched Morn as if they wanted to witness
the exact moment when she fell asleep.
   Sleep, she mused. Rest and death. She needed both -
not necessarily in that order. But not yet.
   'Sib.' She pulled up her attention with a jerk. What
kind of name is that?'
   'It's short for Sibal,' he replied, too nervous to give her
anything except a straight answer. 'My mother wanted a
girl.'
   'Oh, well,' Vector sighed. 'If you were a girl, she would
have wanted a boy. None of us ever win with our
mothers.'
   'Sib, I need you.' Morn had no energy to spare for
Vector's sense of humor. 'Nobody trusts me. Nobody is
going to do what I tell them. I haven't got access or
authority. And I'm' - she could hardly hold up her head,



despite the zone implant's emissions - 'too tired to do
anything myself. I need you.'
  He didn't commit himself. 'Nick told me to help you.'
  'Sib, you know more about computers than I do.' She
brushed aside a demurral he didn't make. 'If you wanted
to plant a virus aboard, how would you go about it?'
  His gaze flicked to Vector, back to her. 'I don't
understand.'
  Unable to explain herself better, she repeated, 'How
would you go about it?'
  'If I knew how to plant a virus,' he objected, 'I might
be able to cure this one.'
  Morn stared her desperate and conflicted weariness up
at him and refused to let him off the hook.
  'But if I knew how-' He faltered; his mustache
looked like a streak of dirt bleeding into his mouth at the
corners. After a moment he began again more strongly.
'If I knew how, I could just sit down at the data board
and write it in. But that would be the hard way.'
  Why?'
  'It's an incredibly complicated job. I would have to
study the entire system to find the right place for the
virus. That takes time. A lot of time. And the coding for
the virus has to be enormously complex - as well as
enormously subtle. Otherwise it shows. Or it doesn't do
what it's supposed to. Which takes more time. Somebody
would almost certainly catch me.'
  Rather helplessly, he added, 'You know that.'
  She dismissed the issue of what she did or didn't know
with a twitch of her hand. 'What would be the easy way?'
  Write it all ahead of time,' he said more promptly.
'Bring it aboard on tape - or in a chip. Then I could just



copy it into the system whenever I had a minute to
spare.'
  'Fine,' Morn murmured as if she were dozing. 'You
can write it all ahead of time. You can copy it in seconds.
But you still need to study the system. You can't design
your virus until you know the system.'
  The data first nodded. 'Sure.'
  'Vector, did Orn ever have a chance to study Captain's
Fancy's systems before you joined ship?'
  The engineer's gaze was quizzical. 'Not that I know
of. I can't be sure, but I don't think so.' Then he added,
'Nick would know.'
  She also dismissed the issue of what Nick did or didn't
know. 'Assume it. Assume he couldn't write the virus
until he knew the system - and he couldn't get to know
the system until he joined ship.'
  A small frown creased Vector's round face. 'You're
saying he must have written the virus after he and I came
aboard.'
  'No. Sib's right.' Fatigue made everything hard to
explain. 'He was new. Nobody trusts new people.
Nobody would let him spend five or ten uninterrupted
hours at the computers without challenging him.' Not
Mikka Vasaczk. And certainly not Nick, whose instinct
for trouble was as searching as a particle sifter. 'He would
have to do the work in little bits and pieces, while nobody
was looking. It might take him weeks.
  'But he said' - it was astonishing how clearly she
remembered this - 'he said, "I put a virus in the com-
puters - the same day I came aboard." The same day, not
weeks later.'



  'He may not have been telling the truth,' Vector
observed.
  'Assume he was. Now we have a virus that couldn't
have been written earlier and wasn't written later.'
  Vector studied his coffee as if it could cure his perplex-
ity. 'So what are the alternatives?'
  'Hardware,' Mackern breathed. He sounded like he
was about to be sick.
  Morn turned her tired gaze on him and waited.
  'But that's impossible,' he protested to himself. 'I
mean, it's not technically impossible. He could hardwire
a virus into a chip or a card. Or a mother-board - that
would be the most versatile. It would do the same thing
as a program virus. He could order it dormant or activate
it whenever he wanted.
  'He could do the work before he came aboard. Then
he would only need five minutes alone in the core to
substitute his chip, or whatever.
  'But it's still impossible.'
  Vacillating between sleep and concentration, Morn
asked, Why?'
  'For the same reason he couldn't write the virus ahead
of time,' Sib replied. There are too many different kinds
of computers, as well as too many different kinds of pro-
grams to run them. He couldn't hardwire a compatible
chip unless he already knew exactly what equipment we
have. And we're assuming he couldn't know that before
he joined ship.'
  'Not to mention the expense,' Vector put in. 'Ordinary
sods like us can just about afford a hard-memory chip or
two for systems like these - if we've got steady jobs, and



we like to save. Mother-boards might as well be on the
other side of the gap.'
  'But not,' Morn murmured as if she'd decided on sleep,
'interface cards.'
  The data first opened his mouth; closed it again.
A wince in his eyes made him look like he was afraid of
her.What do you mean,' Vector inquired tentatively,' "not
interface cards"?' He gave the impression that he doubted
she could answer the question.
  'Not everything.' Without quite realizing it, she'd
slipped her hands into her pockets; her fingers rested on
the keys of the zone implant control. She was so familiar
with it that she could use it without looking at it. 'Not
expensive.' Probably she should have felt brilliant, victori-
ous: she should have felt that she'd achieved a break-
through that would redeem her. But she lacked the
energy for so much emotion. As soon as she finished
what she was saying, she would turn off the control and
let herself rest. 'And not impossible.'
  'Morn' - Vector leaned forward, touched her arm -
'you're drifting. Try to stay with us a little longer.'
  With an act of will which the zone implant itself made
possible, she took her fingers off the control.
  They aren't expensive,' she said dimly. 'If they were,
"ordinary sods" couldn't afford to expand or upgrade
their systems. And they can be hardwired like a chip, or
a mother-board.' Especially in this case, when all that was
needed was a relatively simple embedded wipe command
with an on-off code. 'And there's no compatibility prob-
lem. Interface cards are standardized. That's why they
can be cheap. They plug into standard slots - they run



on standard operating systems. If you want to interface
two computers, all you have to do is look at them, see
what they are. Then you set a few dip-switches on your
cards, plug them in, and connect the leads.'
  As she spoke, Sib began to nod, ticking off points in
his mind when she made them.
  She forced herself to continue. 'All our computers seem
to function fine independently. And they all wipe when
we link them up. He could probably change out every
interface card in the core in fifteen minutes.
  'Has anybody searched his cabin?'
  Vector's eyes were wide and round, as blue as surprise.
'Not that I know of. Why bother? He wasn't likely to
leave a virus-owner's manual lying around.'
  Waves of sleep rolled through her and receded again
as the zone implant fought them. She waited until one
of them passed; then she said, 'You might find something
interesting if you did.'
  Mackern went on nodding as if he couldn't stop.
  'It's worth a try.' Vector was back at the intercom
before Morn noticed that he'd moved. She eased her
fingers onto her black box again as he keyed the intercom
and said, 'Mikka?'
  The command second took a minute or two to
answer. When she replied, she sounded grim and un-
reachable. 'I'm sleeping, goddamn it. Leave me alone.'
  Unflappable as ever, Vector said, "We're in the galley.
I don't think you want to miss this, Mikka.'
  By the time Mikka Vasaczk arrived, Morn was deep in
dreams, cradling her head with her arms on the galley
table.



When Vector nudged her awake, her brain was gone,
lost in unnavigable weariness. She could focus her eyes on
him - she was able to recognize Mikka and Sib standing
behind him - but she had no idea what they wanted.
  'Come on,' the engineer said gently. 'You don't want
to miss this.'
  Where had she heard that before? She couldn't
remember.
  There were other things she couldn't do as well. She
couldn't protest. Or resist: all her resistance, every bit of
her independent self, had fallen away into a black abysm
of sleep. Numb and disconnected, she let Vector urge
her up from her chair; she let him and Mikka take her
out of the galley between them.
  Out of the galley to the bridge.
  Nick was there with his watch - Carmel and Lind,
Malda Verone, the helm first. Sib Mackern's place at the
data station was empty, but he didn't move to take it; he
stayed beside Mikka with Vector and Morn as if the four
of them were joined in an obscure pact.
  Nick faced them tightly. Morn couldn't read his
expression, and didn't try. If Mikka and Vector had let
go of her, she would have slumped to the deck.
  That took you long enough,' he said. She couldn't
read his tone, either. What the hell's going on?'
  'I'll spare you the details,' Mikka answered brusquely.
'Morn thinks she's figured out this virus. She convinced
Vector and Mackern. They persuaded me to search Vor-
buld's cabin.
  Tor some reason, he kept a box of interface cards in
his locker. They look normal to me, but Mackern says
he thinks they've been doctored. He thought we should



replace all the interface cards in the core.' Morn felt the
command second shrug. 'He's data first. I let him do it.
  'He got a new set of cards from stores and changed
out the old ones. Just to be on the safe side, I watched
him do it. The old cards are all out. The new ones were
sealed before he opened them, so they haven't been tam-
pered with.
  'If he's right - if Morn is right - the virus is gone.'
  'If you don't mind' - now Morn could hear Nick's
sarcasm - 'we'll test that a few times before I believe it.
  'Mackern,' he ordered, 'the rest of you, get to work. I
want to re-create the tests we ran the first time - I want
to do exactly the same things that triggered those first
wipes.'
  Maybe he went on talking. Or maybe not. Morn
couldn't tell: she was asleep again.
  Vector and Mikka kept her on her feet; they held her
approximately at attention while all the original tests
were set up and repeated. But she didn't return to a state
which resembled consciousness until Vector shook her
and said into her ear, 'Everything works, Morn. You
were right. You did it.'
  Did it. Oh, good. She wasn't sure she knew what he
was talking about.
  But then the odd, constricted glare Nick fixed on her
pulled up her head, made her take notice of him.
  'You win.' He looked at her as if winning were the
most dangerous thing she could have done. We had a
bargain. You kept your end of it. I'll keep mine.
  'You can have your damn baby.' The concession came
out as a snarl. 'And you won't have to do it on Thanatos
Minor. Vector says the gap drive will get us into tach



and out again one more time. He doesn't want to stake
his life on it, but he's willing to risk his reputation.'' Nick
rasped the word like a curse. 'I'm going to do both for
you.'His eyes blazed with murder or wild joy, she couldn't
tell which.
   'I'm going to take you to Enablement Station.'
   As soon as Morn heard the name, she stopped
breathing.
   The entire bridge seemed to stop breathing.
   They'll help you have your baby, all right. And we
won't have to put up with some squalling brat for the
next decade or so. They'll give you a full-grown kid in
about an hour.
   'Maybe that way I won't have to leave you behind.'
   His last words reached her, but she didn't absorb them.
She was thinking, Enablement Station.
   Forbidden space. The Amnion.
   She may have heard Nick's vindictive laughter. He'd
intended this from the moment he first made his bargain
with her.
   In spite of Vector's support, and Mikka's, she fainted
as if she were dying.



Opinion is divided as to what should be formally con-
sidered 'first contact' with the Amnion. Some believe that
humankind's relations with the only other (known) sen-
tient - not to mention spacefaring - life-form in the
galaxy cannot be considered to have begun until the first
human met the first Amnioni. By some standards, this
occurred aboard the Amnion ship Solidarity, when Sixten
Vertigus, captain of the Space Mines Inc. probe ship
Deep Star, on his own authority, and against strict SMI
instructions, took the risk of an EVA transfer to Soli-
darity's airlock, and was assisted through the locks by a
being which he later described as 'a humanoid sea-
anemone with too many arms'.
  His instructions had been to establish proximity with
any alien vessel or base, broadcast incessantly the tape
which Intertech, a subsidiary of SMI, had prepared for
the occasion, tape any returning broadcast his equipment



could receive as long as possible without jeopardizing his
mission, and then escape into the gap in a way that would
confuse pursuit. SMI Chairman and CEO Holt Fasner
professed himself unwilling to risk Earth for the sake of
profit: he did not wish to reveal too much to beings
whose intentions were unguessable.
  Sixten Vertigus' disinclination to follow instructions
assured him of his place in the history of human-
Amnioni relations.
  He was an idealist.
  He had also been on this mission for a very long time -
and Earth was so many light-years away that his decisions
were in no danger of being countermanded.
  However, the being which assisted him aboard Soli-
darity was a relatively minor functionary. Therefore
analysts with a keener sense of protocol argue that 'first
contact' took place when Vertigus met the 'captain' of
Solidarity (in this context, 'captain' is an imprecise trans-
lation of an Amnion term which means, literally,
'decisive').
  In a concrete sense, nothing much was accomplished
during this meeting. Captain Vertigus' instruments
established that the atmosphere aboard Solidarity was one
he could breathe - if his life depended on it. This merely
confirmed information which he had received much
earlier from Intertech: specifically that the Amnion were
oxygen-carbon based, with metabolic processes at least
analogous to humankind's. His attempts at speech with
Solidarity's 'captain' gained only the preliminary tapes
from which translations were eventually made.
  However, Sixten Vertigus had no unrealistic expec-
tations. His only goal - aside from his prohibited desire



to lay eyes on at least one Amnioni - was to hand over
to someone the tape which he had been instructed to
broadcast, along with a player which would enable the
Amnion to scrutinize the message at their leisure.
  This tape contained a basis on which the Amnion could
begin to translate human speech, mathematics, and data
coding. Not incidentally, the tape included a message
offering alliance and trade with SMI itself. Preferably
exclusive.
  The Amnion reacted with gestures and noises which
meant nothing to Captain Vertigus. They were, how-
ever, not unprepared for his gift. And perhaps they
understood the significance of the fact that he had come
to them alone and unarmed. In exchange for the tape and
player, they offered him a sealed canister which contained
- research discovered this shortly after his safe return to
Deep Star - mutagenic material nearly identical to the
stuff that had brought him into this quadrant of space in
the first place.
  In their own way, the Amnion were attempting to
communicate.



When Morn finally awoke - in her cabin,
           sprawled face down on her bunk - she had
           the sensation that a frightening amount of
time had passed.
  She'd dreamed of Amnion and horror; of rape worse
than anything Angus Thermopyle had done to her. Her
own screams would have awakened her long ago if she
hadn't been clamped in sleep, bolted down by utter
exhaustion. Screaming and nightmares made her slumber
seem interminable.
  In her dreams, Nick sold her to the Amnion.
  That wasn't what he'd said he would do, but he did it
anyway. And the Amnion pumped her full of mutagens
until she grew transformed and monstrous; entirely non-
human; alien, unrecognizable, and insane. People who
were given Amnion mutagens always went mad - that's
what she'd heard in the Academy. They forgot their
humanity altogether: they became Amnion.
  That was her punishment for winning her gamble with



Nick Succorso. Nobody else was allowed to win when
they played with him.
  No wonder she screamed. She should have died.
Merely dreaming such a thing should have stopped her
heart. After the crazed and cruel overexertion of the past
weeks, she should have been unable to sustain the shock
of those visions.
  Nick was taking her to Enablement Station. To the
source of her horror.
  Yet she was still alive. Time had passed, and she was
waking up. The impersonal material of the pillow rubbed
her cheek: the mattress supported her body's weight. She
could feel her black box lumped under her hip; it was
still in the pocket of her shipsuit.
  If Nick meant to betray her, he hadn't done it yet.
  He'd said, They'll help you have your baby, all right.
They'll give you a full-grown bid in about an hour.
  He'd said, Maybe that way I won't have to have you
behind.
  She didn't understand. She had no idea what he was
talking about. In the space of about thirty seconds on the
bridge, he'd become as alien and fatal as the Amnion.
  She seemed to wake up because she could no longer
bear the terror of her dreams. But consciousness held
other terrors. She didn't know how to face them.
  'If you're coming around,' Mikka Vasaczk said stiffly,
'you might as well admit it. I can't keep Nick waiting
forever.'
  The sound of the command second's voice didn't sur-
prise Morn. Her capacity for surprise was gone, exhaus-
ted by Nick and nightmares. Everything was a betrayal of



one kind or another. There was nothing to be surprised
about.
  Nevertheless she rolled her head to look at her visitor.
  Sitting in a chair near the door, Mikka appeared as
ungiving as the bulkhead behind her. She held her arms
folded under her breasts; her posture was rigid, as if she'd
locked down all her joints. Yet an emotion which might
have been hostility or need darkened her eyes.
  Morn made an effort to swallow the dryness of long
sleep. After a moment she mumbled, 'What's he waiting
for?'
  'He wants to be sure you're all right.' Mikka's tone was
like her posture. 'We need to start deceleration, and he's
worried about your gap-sickness. He's waiting for me to
tell him you're awake and safe. And under control.'
  Deceleration, Morn thought without surprise. Heavy
g. Clarity. The idea made her want to turn away.
  But Mikka's gaze held her. She swallowed again.
'Where are we?'
  The command second didn't hesitate. 'A couple of days
off Enablement. Which barely gives us time to slow
down. If we go in too fast, the fucking Amnion are likely
to vaporize us on general principles.'
  Morn blinked at this information. A couple of days off
Enablement. Already. While she slept all her choices had
been taken away from her. She'd even missed the chance
to hope that she and the whole ship might die in tach.
  Dully she asked, 'The gap drive worked?'
  'Just barely,' Mikka answered. 'Vector got us through.
I didn't know he had it in him. The drive went critical
and shut down when we hit the gap. He overrode the
safeties - forced enough power into the field generator



to bring us out again. And he was fast. We only missed
our target re-entry by a million kilometers.
  'That's still too close. We don't want to look like we're
going to attack. Which is why we're in a hurry to deceler-
ate.' She paused, then added, 'All that power slagged the
drive. Too bad.' She may have been trying for sarcasm,
but the words conveyed an ache of dismay. 'If Nick can't
pull this off,' she concluded harshly, 'we'll never get out
of forbidden space.'
  'I don't understand.' Morn couldn't think about the
gap drive; about getting out of forbidden space. Why
would they let us approach at all?' Captain's Fancy was a
human ship - an enemy by definition; in violation of
treaty. Why aren't they going to vaporize us no matter
what we do?'
  'Oh, the Amnion don't care who goes into their space.'
Mikka had a swelling outrage locked tight inside her.
'They might stop a warship, but nobody else. I'm not
even sure they would do that. All they care about is who
leaves.'
  'I still don't-'
  They want human beings,' Mikka rasped. 'You never
have to pay for the privilege of getting near them. But
you better be damn ready to pay for the privilege of
getting away.'
  Morn seemed to hear screams echoing through her
visitor's tension. Afraid of dreams, she swung her legs off
the bunk and sat up. For a moment she rubbed her face,
trying to remove the sensation of helplessness from her
nerve-endings. Then she put a hand into her pocket to
feel the reassurance of the zone implant control.
  'How do you know so much about them?'



  'Because,' Vasaczk growled, 'we've been here before.'
  She didn't elaborate. That memory was locked inside
her: it may have been the source of her outrage.
  Morn tried a different approach. Well, if what you say
is true,' she asked, 'why are we doing it? Why is Nick
doing this?'
  'He's perverse, that's why.' The muscles at the corners
of Mikka's jaw clenched and unclenched. 'He's always
been like this. He's fine as long as we're in enough
danger. Then he's the best- But if things get too easy
- or,' she added mordantly, 'if somebody solves too many
of his problems for him - he goes off on wild tangents.
Just when you think you're safe, he jerks g out from
under you.
  'I don't care what kind of deal he made with you. He
didn't have to keep it.' Her tone hinted at a shout of
protest. 'As soon as you figured out that virus, he could
have changed his mind. There was nothing you could
do about it. We had a nice, secure job set up for Thanatos
Minor. The usual UMCP double-dealing. He has a talent
for giving them what they want and getting paid for it
before they find out that it causes them more problems
than it solves. We've had a lot of success that way, off
and on. And we like letting the goddamn police pay us
for screwing them.
  That's what we did when we got you off Com-Mine.
We were just in too much of a hurry to make sure we
got paid.'
  Morn blinked at her dumbly, trying to absorb this
information. But Mikka went on talking.
  'All Nick had to do was ignore you - go to Billingate,
do the job, get paid, have Captain's Fancy repaired, and



leave before you cops realized you were in worse trouble
than ever. But that would have been too easy. Instead
we're stuck on the ragged edge of survival, hoping he
can work enough miracles to keep us all alive one more
time.'
  Her bitterness was plain. However, her manner gave
Morn the impression that she was bitter about something
else entirely.
  It made no difference. That's what we did. Mom didn't
care why Mikka was bitter. She only cared that no one
had ever talked to her this openly about Nick's dealings
with the UMCP before. When we got you off Com-Mine.
There was more going on here than she knew. She wasn't
the only one being betrayed. And she could still make
choices. If she keyed all the functions of the zone implant
simultaneously at full intensity, she could probably burn
out her brain in an instant: she had that one, last defense
against being sold. She could afford to see how far the
command second would go.
  Her eyes drifted around the cabin for a moment; she
considered the walls and the door and intercom with a
frown of puzzlement, as if she didn't quite recognize
them. Then she brought her gaze back to Vasaczk's.
  'Nick is waiting for you.' Her tone was carefully neu-
tral, unchallenging. 'You're supposed to make sure I'm
all right - and under control - so he can start deceler-
ation. There isn't much time left. Why are you telling me
all this?'
  Mikka didn't hesitate. Her hostility and her need came
to the same thing. Stiffly she replied, 'I want you to trust
me.'



   Morn raised her eyebrows. Trust you? Nick's second?
She stared mutely at the woman and waited.
   After a moment Mikka explained as if she were taking
a personal risk, 'I want you to tell me how you do it.'
   The dryness had come back into Morn's throat. Her
voice caught as she asked, 'Do what?'
   'All of it,' Vasaczk retorted. She seemed to hold herself
rigid so that she wouldn't pace violently or pound the
walls. Perhaps it was her fear of the Amnion that made
her so vulnerable. The whole thing. How you survived
Angus Thermopyle. How you got away from him. How
you're able to go for weeks without rest, and carry a
workload that would kill a cyborg on permanent stim
until you look like an animated null-wave transmitter,
and still solve a problem that the best of us have been
beating our brains out over. How you make Nick-' For
an instant she faltered. Her jaws clenched. But then she
tightened her self-command. 'How you make him need
you.'He's never done anything like this before. He's per-
verse, all right - but not for women. He doesn't fuck
women he trusts. If he starts to trust one, he stops rucking
her and finds somebody else. Or if he starts fucking one,
he stops trusting her. Or he just gets bored.
   'You've done something to him. None of us recognize
him. Half of us are in shock. The rest are so scared we're
shitting in our suits. I would have staked my life that he
would never risk himself like this - or his ship - for any
woman. He as sure as hell didn't do it for me, the last
time we were here. But you've got him doing it. Just so
you can have a baby.
   'I want to know how.'



  The bile in Mikka's voice was as thick as nausea. Facing
her, Morn answered softly, What makes you think I've
got a choice? If I did anything else, I would be dead by
now.'
  A scowl like a spasm twisted Vasaczk's features. 'Listen
to me, Morn.' By an act of will, she kept herself still.
'Until you came along, I was the most competent woman
I've ever met. If you don't count Nick and one or two
other men, I was the most competent person I know. I
can run every station on this ship. If I have to, I can run
them for days. If Captain's Fancy fell apart, I could weld
her back together from core to skin. I know to the hour
how long our scrubber pads will last, or our food. I can
handle anybody aboard except Nick in a fair fight. I'm
good with guns.' Grimly refusing to falter again, she said,
'In bed I've got the stamina of a sex-addict. My hips are
too big, but I've got good breasts and great muscle tone.
Nick dropped me when he started trusting me - but at
least I know he trusts me.
  'And you make me look like a gap-eyed starlet in a bad
video.'
  Deliberately setting aside her defenses, Mikka said, 1
need to understand you. Otherwise I'm finished.'
  Morn could have responded, As soon as I explain it,
I'm finished. But instinctively she knew that wasn't true:
not at this moment, when Mikka had chosen to expose
so much of herself. And Morn had been alone for too
long: she had told too many lies, suffered too many
losses. Like her visitor, she needed to set aside her de-
fenses - if only for a minute with an honest enemy.
  Without trying to second-guess the consequences,
she said, There's nothing wonderful about it. There's



nothing wonderful about me. When he found out I had
gap-sickness, he' - once again, her throat refused Angus'
name - 'the captain of Bright Beauty gave me a zone
implant. That's how he made me stay with him - how he
made me do what he wanted. But he knew that if Com-
Mine Security found the control on him, they would
execute him. So at the last minute he offered it to me.
   'I took it. I traded his life for it.'
   Mikka was stunned. She dropped her arms, and her
mouth fell open; her eyes went out of focus as if she were
staring at the implications of Morn's revelation. Shock
registered on her face, along with what looked like a flare
of dismayed compassion. She stood up as if she were
suddenly in a hurry to leave the cabin. Just as suddenly
she sat down again and refolded her arms.
   For a moment the only response she could muster
was an inarticulate grunt, as if she'd been poked in the
stomach.
   Then, slowly, her gaze came back to Morn. She took
a deep breath, let out a sigh, and lowered her arms to
her sides.
   Well, that's a comfort,' she murmured. 'It's good to
know you aren't really four times better than I am.'
   Almost casually, Morn asked, 'Are you going to tell
Nick?'
   'Hell, no!' Mikka said at once. 'If he can't tell the differ-
ence between real passion and - and what you give him
- that's his problem.'
   Abruptly she stood again. 'I've been here too long.
He's going to ask awkward questions. I've got to lock
you in so we can decelerate. Is there anything you want
first?'



  One piece of honesty led to another. Morn didn't
gauge the risk: she simply answered, 'I want to talk to
Nick.'
  The command second's eyes narrowed. 'He isn't going
to like that. He's under a lot of pressure.'
  Morn shrugged. 'So am I.' Apparently he'd made a
deal with the UMCP to rescue her from Angus. Appar-
ently, also, the UMCP were corrupt. It was therefore
conceivable that the UMCP wished him to take her to
Enablement Station - that they intended him to sell her.
She wanted an explanation from him. She was no longer
afraid of his anger. Her only fear now was that he would
give her to the Amnion.
  She got to her feet, facing Mikka expectantly.
  Mikka frowned. 'If you tell him about your zone
implant,' she said sternly, 'he'll feel betrayed. He may kill
you.'
  'I know,' Morn replied. 'But there are other things that
scare me worse right now.'
  Vasaczk grunted again. But she stood and gestured
toward the door. 'After you.'
  Morn wrapped her fingers around her black box and
gripped it hard. It was her last resort - and her last hope.
As long as she had it, she could still kill herself: she could
still escape whatever Nick might try to do to her.
  With Mikka she went to the bridge.
  When they entered, Nick wheeled his seat to face them
as if he were about to fling curses. His face was tight
with tension; his eyes hinted at urgency. As soon as he
saw Morn, however, he halted. 'What're you doing here?'
he demanded. Abruptly he turned on Mikka. 'What did
you bring her here for?'



  His second cocked her hips and raised her palms, dis-
avowing responsibility. 'She wants to talk to you.' Her
tone was no more trenchant than usual. 'Since she's the
reason we're here, I thought you might give her a few
minutes.'
  Around the bridge, everyone stopped work. Carmel
kept her head bent over her board, but Lind, Sib Mack-
ern, and Malda Verone craned their necks to watch, and
the helm first pivoted his seat for a better view.
  Nick aimed a look like pure hate at Mikka; but his
scars were as pale as old bone. He faced Morn again.
  We haven't got time for this.'
  With his strained features and murderous eyes, he
seemed as dangerous as a charged matter cannon. Never-
theless Morn was no longer afraid of him.
  'It's my life,' she said, answering a question he hadn't
asked. 'And my baby's. I've got a right to know.
  'You burned out the gap drive to get us here. Unless
you've got resources you haven't mentioned, you'll never
get back to Thanatos Minor. It's too far away. And you
don't have anywhere else to go. Even if the Amnion let
you leave Enablement Station, you'll never see human
space again.
  This is an unholy mess, Nick. I want to know why
you're doing it.'
  I want to know what's at stake.
  Like Mikka, he looked like he'd been driven to honesty.
'Don't you understand?' he snarled. He seemed cornered
and frantic, trapped by his own foolhardiness; yet he
wasn't beaten. Being trapped fired a deep, combative rage
inside him. 'I want to keep you. This is the only way I
can do it.



  This is the choice you gave me. If I don't let you keep
your fucking baby, you're going to sabotage me. You
made that perfectly clear. But if I do let you keep it-'
  With his fist, he made a gesture of fierce negation.
That's impossible. We're illegal! We run and fight, and
half the time we take damage. We can't spend the next
ten or fifteen years nursemaiding your brat - or covering
for you while you do it. If you have a baby, I'll have to
ditch you.
  This is the only answer I've got left. The Amnion.'
  Mackern's face ran sweat. Malda looked like she
wanted to throw up. Lind made obscure clinking noises
with his teeth.
  Nick ignored them all to concentrate his fury on Mom.
  They can force-grow babies. Maybe you didn't know
that. The cops want you to be a nice little genophobe -
they wouldn't want you to understand what real genetic
engineering is good for. The Amnion can take that piece
of garbage out of you and give you back a physically
mature kid while you take a fucking nap.
  'All I have to do is make a bargain that'll stick. The
Amnion keep their bargains. They never cheat when it
conies to money. Or DNA. All I have to do is offer them
something they want badly enough.
  'Have I made myself clear?' he concluded savagely.
'Now get off the goddamn bridge. We need to decelerate.
Go back to your cabin. If you don't, I'll have Mikka
pump you so full of cat you'll think you're never going
to wake up.'
  Morn hardly heard the command. She hadn't known
the Amnion could force-grow babies; but the infor-
mation didn't surprise her. She couldn't think about



such things. If she felt any surprise, it was of an entirely
different order.
  Could it be that everything she'd done to herself with
her black box, all her efforts to stifle her nausea and
abhorrence, were going to pay off?
  'I still don't understand,' she murmured. 'You've had
hundreds of women. Why do you want to keep me?'
  Nick bared his teeth as if he were about to howl. 'Are
you really this stupid? Do I have to draw you a goddamn
map?
  'I'm Nick Succorso. People talk about me for parsecs in
all directions. I'm the pirate, the one they tell stories
about, the only man who does what he wants in the
whole galaxy. I'm the man who makes his own laws, the
man who sneers at station Security, the man who makes
idiots out of the UMCP, the man who dances with the
Amnion and gets away with it. Hell, I even beat Captain
Angus sheepfucker Thermo-pile. I beat everybody.' As
he spoke, the lust came back into his scars, pulsing darkly;
his rage was transported. 'I can go anywhere in human
space because nobody's ever been able to prove anything
against me, and when I walk into a bar they whisper
my name into all the corners. Total strangers pass my
reputation along. Total strangers want to give me what-
ever they have, just so that they can hope to be included
in one of the stories.
  'I like that. I deserve it.'
  The helm first bobbed his head. Carmel chuckled
appreciatively. Mikka watched with a congested ex-
pression, all her conflicts hidden.
  Nick didn't notice them. He stabbed a finger at Morn.
'You're already included. A cop who gave up the whole



UMCP to be with me - you're already part of one of the
best stories. But this one's going to be even better. People
are going to be talking about Nick Succorso, who risked
his life and his ship and everything against the Amnion
so that Morn Hyland could have his son. They're going
to tell that story long after the United Mining Companies
spaceshit Police have become as extinct as the humpback
whale.'
  He stopped, breathing hard, his scars black, as if he'd
identified a personal apotheosis.
  Morn couldn't face him. Down in the bottom of her
heart, a small hope had begun to sing. She believed him
at last. He wasn't going to sell her. Or her baby. A man
who lived for the kind of stories that were told about
Nick wouldn't betray her or anyone who belonged to
him to the Amnion.
  She had won: more than he knew; more than she
would have thought possible.
  Because of her small hope, she failed to hear that there
was more than exaltation in Nick's voice. There was also
an undertone of acid, a gnawing doubt. A man who lived
for the stories told about him shouldn't have to tell them
himself. He was the artist, dependent on his absolute
mastery of his tools. For him, it would be intolerable if
he'd been fooled; if his tools were false; if the story
became that of Nick Succorso, who risked his life and his ship
and everything so that a woman who didn't love him could
have her baby.
  It would be intolerable if anyone - even total strangers
- ever had reason to laugh at him.
  Morn missed that. In a faint voice, as if to test him,



she replied, 'But I still don't understand. Why me? Why
do all this for me?'
  Without meaning to, she hit the sore place in him.
Sudden rage and violence boiled up in him, seething
from an old core of betrayal.
  'I'lll show you,' he grated. Take off your shipsuit.'
  Abruptly Carmel raised her head, slapped keys on her
board. 'Nick, we've got traffic. Amnion ships - warships,
by their configuration.'
  Mikka Vasaczk wheeled to the scan first. 'Course?'
  Carmel hit more keys. 'Not toward us. They're con-
verging on Enablement.'
  'Hailing?' Mikka demanded of Lind.
  Lind tightened the receiver in his ear, ran commands
on his board. 'Nothing. If they're talking, it isn't beamed
out here.'
  Mikka spun back to Nick and Morn. 'Nick, we've got
to decelerate. Enablement serves all the outposts. War-
ships go in and out all the time. The ones we've spotted
could be routine. But we can't risk coming up on them
at this velocity. They won't believe anything we say until
we slow down.'
  Nick ignored her: he ignored the bridge. His gaze held
Morn's, as unwavering as death; his scars throbbed as if
they might ooze blood.
  'I said, take off your shipsuit.'
  Here. In front of the whole bridge. He wanted to
prove himself against her here.
  Only minutes ago she would have refused him almost
calmly. Inspired by a transcendent fear of the Amnion,
she would have risked defying him. She would have had
nothing left to lose. While she lived, she loathed him.



His every touch revolted her. He was a pirate and a
traitor; he was male. That he wanted to humiliate her by
fucking her in front of his watch would have been more
than she was willing to bear.
  And her zone implant enabled her to escape him-
  But he'd given her reason to hope that she might not
die; that she might still be able to save herself and Davies;
that the Morn Hyland who had once cared about such
things as treason and children wasn't altogether doomed.
Long before she'd decided to keep her baby, she'd named
him after her father because she'd wanted to recover the
things her father represented - the conviction and com-
mitment. On an intuitive level, she'd wanted to care
about and believe in herself. That, she now realized, was
why her decisions about her baby's fate and her own had
depended on each other.
  In a sense, Nick had given her back her life.
  Now everything was different.
  When she didn't obey, he came out of his seat at her,
launched by fury and doubt.
  She faced him without flinching.
  But he didn't touch her, didn't hit her, didn't tear the
fabric from her shoulders. Blazing like a laser, he stopped
inches away from her; his face twisted savagely.
  Between his teeth, so softly that no one else could hear
him, he breathed, 'Morn, please' - begging her to let his
people see that his power over her was complete.
  Then she knew that she was safe. He'd swallowed the
lie: he was addicted to the masque. As long as she helped
him keep his doubts at bay, he would never give her up.
  For the sake of her safety, and Davies' - for the sake
of the Mom Hyland who had been broken and nearly



killed by Angus Thermopyle - she reached into her
pocket and brought up a surge of artificial lust from her
zone implant control. Then she unsealed her shipsuit and
stepped out of it.
  A delicate pink hue flushed her skin, but it wasn't
shame.
  With everyone on the bridge watching, she gave herself
to Nick like a woman who would have bartered her soul
for his caress.
  He took her on the deck; hard and fast and desperate.
From that position, she couldn't see anyone else's face
except his - and Mikka Vasaczk's.
  Mikka's eyes bled tears, grieving involuntarily: perhaps
for herself; perhaps for Morn, or for Nick; perhaps for
them all.



Captain's Fancy had to decelerate hard. Never-
         theless she didn't undergo as much g as she did
         when she left Com-Mine. Nick felt he had
 more time to work with. He believed that as long
 as Enablement could see Captain's Fancy braking, the
 Station would probably listen to what she had to say
 before deciding whether or not to destroy her.
   So he fired reverse thrust at less than full burn for two
 hours at a time; then he let his ship coast for two hours
 before decelerating again, so that his people could at least
 try to recover from the strain. For the same reason, his
 crew rotated watches on a four-hour cycle.
   In that way, alternately braking and coasting, he took
 Morn Hyland toward her first meeting with the Amnion.
   Because of her gap-sickness, she was virtually useless
 most of the time. While the ship slowed, she had to
 remain in her cabin, blanked out by her zone implant.
   That made the hours hard to bear.
   If she could have worked, she might have been less



vulnerable to her growing apprehension. But as she drew
closer to Enablement Station, her dread increased - a
dread so visceral that it was almost cellular; her genes
themselves might have been crying out in fear. Despite
Nick's assurances, she was terrified of the Amnion. They
were a threat to the integrity of her membership in the
human species. They had the power to change the most
fundamental thing she knew about herself.
  The idea of submitting herself to them - of letting
them take Davies from her and 'force-grow' him in one
of their labs - filled her with horror.
  Of course, she could have eased her dread by putting
herself to sleep for the entire approach. Appeased by
her submission on the bridge, Nick had given her exact
information about his plans for g. She could have set
the timer on her black box and slept for eighteen or
twenty-four hours without fear that anyone would need
her in the meantime.
  For some reason, she was acutely reluctant to escape
in that way.
  She told herself this was because she wanted to know
what was going on. She wanted to know how Nick
would protect his ship. And she wanted to know what
he and the Amnion said to each other, what kind of
bargain he would strike with them. All the details on
which her survival depended might be worked out during
those rests between decelerations. If she weren't present
when Nick talked, she wouldn't hear anything.
  So each time the thrusters fired she set her timer for
slightly more than two hours; and each time when she
woke up she headed for the bridge. As an excuse for
being there, she took along coffee or food for the watch;



then she lingered unobtrusively, hoping that Nick or
Mikka or Liete wouldn't send her away. Whenever poss-
ible, she provided Sib Mackern or Alba Parmute with an
hour or two of relief.
  Yet gradually she became aware her reluctance grew
from another source.
  She was beginning to distrust the effects of her zone
implant.
  At the moment of her greatest triumph over Nick Suc-
corso, some of her revulsion for him had perversely trans-
ferred itself to the means by which she'd bested him.
She'd become ashamed of the way in which she'd won.
He'd never intended to sell her to the Amnion: therefore
he deserved better.
  Her zone implant control gave her power over herself.
It made her valuable to Nick. It enabled her to survive.
But it did nothing to heal her lacerated opinion of her-
self. Precisely because its resources were artificial, it
eroded her self-esteem.
  If she wanted to believe in herself, she needed the
things her father represented in her life. She needed
honesty and integrity; courage; the willingness to die for
her convictions.
  She needed her son.
  Which meant that she needed the Amnion.
  This realization scared her so profoundly that she
began thinking more and more about leaving her black
box switched off during deceleration. The idea of spend-
ing two hours locked up alone and conscious with her
gap-sickness came increasingly to seem like the lesser evil.
If she did that, she might learn something about the
severity or duration of her illness. She might discover the



limits of the destructive clarity with which the universe
spoke to her. She might even find out how cunning she
could be when she was sick-
  Putting herself to sleep felt like a surrender to genetic
terror. Each time she went back to her cabin, she had to
exert a greater force of will to overcome her impulse to
leave her zone implant control alone.
  Nevertheless she coerced herself. If she wanted her son
- if she wanted conviction and commitment - she had
to face her fear.
  Morn switched herself off while Captain's Fancy
decelerated. She haunted the bridge while Captain's
fancy coasted.
  With nothing to stop it, her dread multiplied, rep-
licating itself from cell to cell inside her like a malignant
neoplasm.

When Nick had cut two-thirds of his ship's velocity, he
started talking to Enablement Station.
  By this time, two of the Amnion warships had reacted
to his arrival. One altered course to a trajectory that
would intersect Captain's Fancy's just outside her attack
range: the other assumed a defensive attitude between
her and Enablement. But still no demands for identifi-
cation or explanation had been beamed at her. Lind had
begun to receive the kind of traffic data - control space
coordinates, ship vectors, docking approach lanes - any
Station might transmit for the sake of vessels arriving out
of tach. Nothing else had come in.
  'They're waiting to hear from us,' Nick said, settling
himself more firmly in his command seat. 'We're the
aliens here -I guess they figure it's up to us to go first.'



  He looked strong and sure of himself, eager for the
chance to measure himself against whatever happened. A
stranger would have said that he was rested and well,
ready for anything. Morn knew him better, however. She
could see that fatigue and the aftereffects of doubt affec-
ted him like a low-grade infection. Strain made his grin
inflexible, like a rictus; his hands did everything too
quickly; his eyes hinted at emergencies. He didn't object
to Morn's presence, but he glanced at her sidelong at
unexpected moments, as if he feared what she might do.
  Mikka Vasaczk was on the bridge as well, looking as
angry as ever - and competent to the bone. And Vector
Shaheed occupied the engineer's station. He smiled at
Morn with impersonal geniality from time to time, but
he didn't say anything. Everyone else belonged to Nick's
watch: Carmel, Lind, the helm first, Sib Mackern, Malda
Verone. The rest of Mikka's people were presumably
resting. Liete's watch had been ordered to battle stations
around the ship.
  'Send them standard id,' Nick told Lind. 'Ship, captain,
registry, last port. Don't beam it too tight. We want
those warships to hear everything.'
  Lind jerked a nod. Like Nick's, his nervousness showed
in the speed of his hands; but his ringers didn't fumble.
After a moment he reported, 'Done.'
  Enablement would presumably take some time to
decide on a response. Morn knew better than to hold her
breath. Nevertheless she had to force herself to breathe:
dread and uncertainty seemed to close her lungs. She'd
never heard of 'force-growing' babies, had no idea how
it was done or what its dangers were. And she couldn't



imagine why Nick thought he could trust the Amnion to
deal honorably.
  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. Identi-
fication transgresses acceptable norms. Restate and
explain.'
   Presumed hostile. Vasaczk 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 prob-
lem. 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
Thermo-pile.'
  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. Identifi-
cation 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 accept-
able 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, appear-
ance 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 processing.
  Mikka moved closer to Nick's console and pointed at
the intercom. With your permission?'
  Nick nodded.



  She thumbed the toggle. '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 wher-
ever 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 irri-
tation 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 resource 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 accu-
rate. 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. Com-
mencing in' - he tapped keys, read the answer - 'four
point eighteen 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 dock 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 ignor-
ance. 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 Vas-
aczk 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'd 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, grate-
ful 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. Dis-
carding 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 Mackern 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, Mackern
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 any-
thing,' she explained.
  He gave her a piece of his familiar, malicious grin.
Too bad. Morn and I get to have all the fan.
  '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.'
  Carmel nodded, satisfied. 'Come on,' she said to the



helm first. 'You're even worse off than I am.' Taking him
by the arm, she drew him off the bridge.
  Nick swallowed the last of his coffee and gestured
Mikka into the command seat.
  'Routine approach,' she told her people as she took
over Nick's board. There's nothing special about this.
The Amnion gave us instructions. We'll follow them.
  'Karster' - Karster was targ second, a taciturn man
with the size and unformed features of a boy - 'rumor
has it the Amnion can detect weapons - even weapon-
status - at incredible distances. Shut everything down.
Then set your board to power up on one key. I want to
be able to go combat-ready as fast as possible.'
  Without a word, Karster began to work.
  Trying to distract herself from her apprehension, Morn
tapped keys across the data board, pulling everything
from scan, helm, and communications together. But she
was in no condition to concentrate on it. She couldn't
keep her mind away from Nick and dread.
  He'd begun to walk the bridge like a man who needed
exercise to focus his mind. Again and again he passed in
front of Morn; he passed in front of all the stations. But
he didn't glance at her or anyone else: his attention was
fixed inward. Nevertheless on each circuit Morn saw the
vitality slowly come back into his eyes, the energy return
to his movements.
  'Vector,' he said without looking at the engineer, 'we
need insurance. I want you to rig a self-destruct. Key the
thrust drive to explode - tie in the fuel cells, torpedoes,
matter cannon, anything that can generate brisance. Give
me enough force to take out a big chunk of the Station.



If something goes wrong, I want to be able to hold
Enablement hostage.
   The Amnion,' he commented sardonically, 'don't like
destruction.
   'If you need help, ask Morn. She's got access to the
way we arranged it the last time.
   'Set it up to Mikka's board.'
   That'll take a while,' Vector replied evenly. The
engineer I apprenticed with didn't teach suicide.' His
smile widened. 'I've never wanted to kill myself. I would
rather be dead.'
   'You've got until we dock,' Nick snapped.
   Then I'd better get started.' Lifting himself upright
with his arms, Vector limped through the aperture.
   Around the bridge, scan, helm, and communications
handled the ordinary business of approach. They passed
information and adjustments back and forth. Scorz mur-
mured into his pickup in a voice like machine oil.
   Ignoring them, Nick continued with his instructions.
   'Mikka, you've done this before. It's your job to make
them believe the threat. If you hear me call for help - or
if you just think we've been gone too long - tell them
what Vector did. Send them diagrams, tell them what
to scan for, anything that will convince them we can
self-destruct on a prohibitive scale. Demand us back in
one piece. And a safe departure.
   'Make them believe it. The whole point of a gamble like
this is to make it so real that we don't have to use it.'
   Mikka nodded once, roughly. 'I'm not like Vector,' she
grated. 'I've studied suicide.'
   Grinning, Nick asked Morn how much time he had
left.



  She checked her log and told him, 'Five minutes.'
  'Scorz.' Nick stopped beside the communications con-
sole. 'I want you to tight-beam this to the precise source
of their last transmission. No leakage, no eavesdropping.
Let me know when you're ready.'
  Morn could hardly read her board. Pressure mounted
inside her; in spite of coffee and adrenalin, her brain felt
swollen, almost tumorous, in her head. She wished she
could get Enablement Station on video. She wanted to
know what the place she dreaded looked like. Scan told
her only that it was shaped like a huge globe, instead of
the torus preferred by human designers. But there were
no stars near enough to illuminate the Station, and its
own lights were still out of range.
  The ship was being nudged slightly off trajectory by
Enablement's gravitation. The helm second made a jerky
correction.
  Scorz reported, 'Ready.'
  Unable to do anything else, Morn watched as Nick
keyed communications himself and said, 'Captain Nick
Succorso to Enablement Station. I have a reply to your
proposal.'
  Then he stopped and waited.
  The fighting gleam was back in his eyes; the lines of
his face had regained their eagerness.
  He was answered almost immediately.
  'Enablement Station to presumed human Captain Nick
Succorso. Reply is required. Conformity of purpose must
be achieved. You will be repelled otherwise.'
  As if he were reciting a formula which he found pri-
vately ludicrous, Nick replied, 'Conformity of purpose is
mutually desirable. Sanctuary is not. Hazard to us will



disappear if we can achieve conformity of purpose.' His
tone made a sneer out of the alien cadences. 'You require
an account of the discrepancy between known reality and
presumed identification. We require medical assistance.
We also require credit.' He named a sum large enough
to pay for an entirely new gap drive. 'I propose that
we achieve conformity of purpose through the mutual
satisfaction of requirements.'
  A pause hummed gently in the speakers. Then the
voice returned.
  The sum you require is large.'
  Nick shrugged. 'The knowledge I offer is precious. It
has relevance to all Amnion dealings with human space.'
  Another pause.
  'What is the nature of your medical difficulty?'
  Nick turned his grin on Morn. 'We have a pregnant
human female. Her fetus is unacceptable among us. We
require a fully mature human child.'
  This time there was no pause. 'Presumed human Cap-
tain Nick Succorso, all your requirements are large.
Specificity is necessary. How do you offer to account
for the discrepancy between known reality and presumed
identification?'
  'Blood-sample,' Nick replied succinctly.
  'In sufficient quantity?' demanded the voice.
  'One deciliter.'
  After a moment of rumination, the voice said, The
quantity is sufficient.'
  'My requirements are indeed large,' Nick continued at
once. What I offer is also large. You require specificity.
This is my proposal. The human female and I will enter
Enablement Station. We will be taken to the place where



the child may be matured. I will concede one deciliter of
my blood. Then the child will be matured, and I will be
given an acknowledgment of credit. When these matters
have been accomplished, the human female with her child
and I will return to our ship. Captain's Fancy will depart
Enablement Station immediately. We will depart
Amnion space at our best speed.
  'In this way, conformity of purpose will be achieved.'
  Without delay, the voice commanded, 'Await decisive
reply. Continued approach is acceptable,' and stopped
transmitting.
  Nick didn't switch off the pickup or bridge audio. He
stood with his head cocked to one side, grinning as if he
expected an answer right away.
  Morn forced herself to turn her head, scan the bridge.
Like her, Karster on targ and the scan second wanted
to ask questions; Mikka scowled her concern; Ransum
twitched nervously; Scorz shifted his weight as if the
seat under him were slick. Nevertheless Nick's expectant
stance kept them all quiet.
  Seconds passed, measured out by the ship's chron-
ometers. Known reality and presumed identification must
be brought into conformity. What did that mean? What
could it mean, except the thing she feared?
  Ransum, the helm second, couldn't endure the
silence; she was too tense. 'Nick-' she began.
  Instantly livid, Nick fired a glare at her that withered
her in her seat. Like the crack of a whip, he barked, 'Shut
up!'Just as instantly, he resumed his attitude of calm poise.
  Morn felt that the bridge was collapsing around her,
sinking into Nick as if he were a black hole.



  Then the speakers came to life; they seemed to blare
as if Scorz had inadvertently turned up the gain. Nick
snapped alert, balancing on the balls of his feet with his
hands ready.
  'Enablement Station to presumed human Captain Nick
Succorso,' the Amnioni voice said without preamble,
'your proposal is acceptable. Conformity of purpose will
be achieved through the mutual satisfaction of require-
ments. Immediate acknowledgment is required.'
  Nick jabbed a punch at the empty air; his teeth flashed
like a predator's. Distinctly he recited the formula.
  'It is acceptable. Conformity of purpose will be
achieved through the mutual satisfaction of re-
quirements.'
  Then he reached across the communications board to
switch off the pickup.
  Brandishing his fists, he shouted triumphantly, 'Got
you, you sonofabitch!'
  Only the reassuring shape of the zone implant control
in Morn's pocket kept her from whimpering.

Enablement Station loomed into video range, but now
she had no time to study it. For the better part of two
hours, she channeled information to Vector, who wasn't
inclined to suicide, and suggestions to Karster, who
didn't know enough about his board to set up an
adequate batch command. And then Captain's Fancy
began to receive docking instructions from Station.
Data research was required to determine the degree of
compatibility between the ship's equipment and
Enablement's.



  She was too busy to panic - or to ask any more
questions.
  Dock was less than half an hour away when Nick
ordered Alba Parmute to the bridge and told Morn to
leave the data board.
  As she got out of her seat, she hid her hands in her
pockets so that he wouldn't see them shaking.
  'Give Mikka your id tag,' he ordered. 'I don't want
Enablement to know they've got a chance at a UMC cop.
They don't normally cheat - but that might tempt them
to make an exception.'
  Morn hated to surrender her tag. But she also couldn't
deny that he was right. And the time when she could
have opposed his intentions was long past: it was on the
other side of the gap.
  She pulled the chain over her head and handed her id
tag to the command second.
  Nick gestured her to accompany him off the bridge.
  Clenching her teeth in an effort to hold her voice
steady, she asked, What now?'
  'Meet me at the suit lockers,' he replied briskly.
'Amnion air is breathable - sort of- but we're going to
treat this like EVA. That gives us some extra protection.
They can't trick or force mutagens into us while we're
wearing those suits. And suit communications can reach
Mikka from anywhere on Enablement.'
  Before she could reply, he strode away.
  She almost went after him; she didn't want to be alone,
not now, with a crisis she dreaded ahead of her, and no
idea how far she could trust anyone. The thought of an
EVA suit gave her an odd comfort, however. She was
grateful for a chance to carry her own atmosphere with



her; grateful to wear a layer of impermeable mylar and
plexulose between her skin and anything Amnion.
  The only problem was where to put her black box.
She considered that difficulty as she hurried toward the
lockers. EVA suits had plenty of pouches and pockets; if
she put her control in one of them, she could reach it at
need.
  But what if the Amnion required her to take off her
EVA suit in order to force-grow little Davies?
  The idea chilled her like ice down her back.
  It was plausible - even predictable. How could she
reach the control then, in front of witnesses? probably in
front of Nick?
  And how could she bear all her fears without the help
of her black box?
  Trembling from the core of her bones to the tips of her
fingers, she decided to keep the control in her shipsuit.
  In fact, she needed its hup now. When she reached
the lockers - before Nick could catch up with her and
see her change - she combined functions and intensities
to cast a haze over her emotions; a haze which numbed
her dread, but still allowed her to think. Then, while false
neural relief eased her tremors, she selected an EVA suit
in her size, checked its status indicators to be sure it was
ready, and began putting it on.
  Nick was only a minute behind her. He approached
the lockers grinning, his eyes alight with risks. As he
pulled open his personal locker and took out his suit, he
remarked in a tone of grim pleasure, 'You're going to
have a hell of a story to tell your kid. He'll be the only
brat in the galaxy whose parents thought he was worth



taking chances like this for. I don't even want the little
bastard, and yet here I am.'
  'Nick-' Her zone implant could only calm her
incrementally: tight layers of fear had to be peeled away
before they could be numbed. And he hadn't yet
answered the most important question gnawing at her.
Carefully she asked, 'What do they mean, "Known reality
and presumed identification must be brought into con-
formity"? I don't understand.'
  He didn't look at her; he was busy with his suit. But
his grin sharpened. Away from the bridge and other
people, he was willing to explain.
  'I told you I let them give me one of their mutagens,
but it didn't take. "Known reality" is that when human
beings get that mutagen, they turn Amnion. Pure
Amnion - RNA, loyalty, intelligence, everything. "Pre-
sumed identification" is that I'm apparently the same man
I was before they "treated" me. What I've offered them
is a chance "to account for the discrepancy" - to find out
why their mutagen didn't take.'
  Only the emissions of her black box enabled Morn to
pursue her question.
  Why didn't it?'
  His laugh was harsh enough to draw blood.
  'I've got an immunity drug. Your precious Hashi Leb-
wohl gave it to me. Data Acquisition at its finest. The
real reason I came here before was to test it for him.'
  That was the reply she'd dreaded. UMCP corruption.
And a betrayal of humankind so profound that its impli-
cations shocked her out of her calm. Her zone implant
might as well have been switched off. Abysms of treach-



ery seemed to gape around her like the gaps between the
stars.
  Not Hashi Lebwohl's treason: not the UMCP's.
  Nick's.
  'And you're going to let them have it?' she demanded.
'You're going to let them take it out of your blood and
study it, so they can learn to counteract it?'
  His laugh sounded like a snarl. His tongue twisted
inside his cheek: between his teeth, a gray capsule
appeared.
  'I haven't taken it yet.'
  He shifted the capsule back against his gum.
  'It's not an organic immunity. It's more like a poison
- or a binder. It ties up mutagens until they're inert.
Then they get flushed out - along with the drug. The
immunity is effective for about four hours.
  'I'm not going to take it until after they sample my
blood. That way they won't learn anything. The drug
won't be in my system yet. And if we're lucky we'll be
long gone before they finish their tests.'
  He was planning to cheat the Amnion.
  Abruptly his gaze slid away from hers. 'I can't give it
to you. They'll need your blood, too, or else they won't
know enough about you to force-grow your brat. I can't
take the chance that they'll find the drug.'
  Before Morn could react, the intercom chimed, and
Mikka's voice said, 'Five minutes to dock, Nick. Secure
for zero g.'
  The zone implant seemed to take forever to gain con-
trol over Morn's wailing nerves.



For a while she drifted as Captain's Fancy cut
       internal spin; she and Nick clung to the zero g
       grips and floated together. Like him, she'd left
her faceplate open. But she couldn't meet his gaze. He
was focused on her acutely. Congested blood darkened
his scars, and his gaze burned. Her eyes stared past his
as if she were stunned.
  She should have set her zone implant higher. Its effects
weren't enough. She was about to meet the Amnion for
the first time. It was possible that she was about to lose
her humanity altogether, that the genetic core of her
identity would be taken from her. She should have set her
implant's emissions high enough to make her completely
blank. Then at least she might have been spared this
visceral, human dread.
  But the control was in the pocket of her shipsuit, inside
her EVA suit. She couldn't reach it now.
  She and Nick had lost the floor as if they were in
freefall, but that was an illusion. The Station's mass



plucked at them, urging them to let go of the grips; the
bulkhead past her boots began to feel like the floor. Still
she and Nick held on. The floor would shift again when
Captain's Fancy docked - when the ship surrendered her-
self to Enablement's internal g.
  'One minute,' Mikka Vasaczk's voice announced from
the intercom. 'No problems.'
  Morn's identity was already under attack. Even with-
out mutation, her understanding of her self and her life
was being altered; force-grown to a different shape.
  Nick had an immunity drug for the Amnion mutagens.
  It'd been given to him by Hashi Lebwohl - it belonged
to the UMCP.
  And the UMCP had withheld it from humankind. The
cops, her people, had left all human space naked to alien
absorption, when they had the means to effectively end
the threat.
  What kind of people did such things? What kind of
men and women had she and her father committed them-
selves to?
  Vector Shaheed was right. The UMCP is the most cor-
rupt organization there is.
  How could she have been so wrong? How could her
father and her whole family have been so wrong?
  A jolt shuddered through the hull: impact and metal
stress. The contact relayed the hum of servomechanisms,
the clamp-down of grapples and transmission cables, the
limpet attachment of Enablement's sensors. On a human
Station, Morn would also have heard the insertion of
air-lines, the brief hiss of equalizing pressure. Not here:
human and Amnioni only breathed each other's air when
they had no other choice.



  She and Nick dropped to the new floor.
  Mikka said, 'Dock secure, Nick. Vector confirms drive
on standby. We're keeping power up on all systems. They
won't like that, but without it we can't destruct.'
  Nick nodded as if he were replying, but he didn't key
the intercom. To Morn, he muttered, 'Don't look so
terrified. Nothing is going to happen to you unless it
happens to me first.' Then he grinned sourly. 'If you
don't count having a baby.'
  'Message from Station,' Mikka reported.
  Nick turned away to toggle the intercom. 'I'm listening.'
  At once a mechanical voice said, 'Enablement Station
to presumed human Captain Nick Succorso. Drive shut-
down required. System power threatens dock integrity.'
  Nick didn't hesitate. Tell them, "Storage cell damage
prevents adequate power accumulation. Drive standby
necessary to sustain support systems."'
  After a moment Mikka said dryly, 'Done.'
  The reply was prompt. 'Drive shutdown required.
Enablement Station will supply power.'
  Tell them,' Nick snarled, '"Conversion parameters too
complex. We desire prompt departure. We resist delay."'
  'Ain't that the truth,' Mikka muttered as she complied.
  She relayed the answer when it came.
  'Enablement Station to presumed human Captain Nick
Succorso.' Nick mimicked the words with a sneer as the
voice spoke. 'Amnion defensives Tranquil Hegemony and
Calm Horizons are ordered to exact compensatory damage
for any breach of dock integrity.'
  'Acknowledge that,' Nick instructed Mikka. 'Remind
them we have a deal. "Conformity of purpose will be
achieved through the mutual satisfaction of require-



meats." Point out we have every reason to protect their
interests as long as they protect ours.'
  That response took a little longer. Then Mikka said
again, 'Done.'
  Nick flashed a grin like a glare at Morn. '"Compen-
satory damage", my ass. Those bastards haven't seen a
"breach of dock integrity" until they see us self-destruct.
There won't be anything left of those fucking warships
except particle noise.'
  Or of us, Morn thought. But she didn't speak. Bit by
bit, the zone implant reduced her to a state of dissociated
calm, in which numbness and panic coexisted side by
side.
  In addition to the usual tools and maneuvering jets for
EVA work, Nick had an impact pistol clipped to his belt.
While he waited for what the Amnion would say next,
he detached them all and stowed them in his locker.
Morn's suit carried no weapons, but she automatically
did the same with her tools and jets. She would have
liked to take at least a welding laser in self-defense; how-
ever, she knew the Amnion wouldn't react favorably.
  Abruptly Mikka said, 'Here it is, Nick,' and switched
Enablement's transmission to the intercom.
  'Enablement Station to presumed human Captain Nick
Succorso,' the alien voice articulated. Two humans will
be permitted to disembark Captain's Fancy, yourself and
the pregnant female. You will be escorted to a suitable
birthing environment. There you will concede one deci-
liter of your blood. When you have complied, you will
be given confirmation of credit, and the female's fetus
will be brought to physiological maturity. Then you will
be returned to Captain's Fancy.



  'Acknowledgment is required.'
  'Do it,' Nick told Mikka tightly.
  'Your airlock will be opened now,' said Enablement.
  Nick looked over at Morn. 'You ready?'
  Instead of screaming, she nodded dully.
  'Mikka,' he said into the intercom, 'I'm switching to
suit communications. Make sure Score knows what he's
doing.'
  He snapped down his faceplate, secured it, and
powered up his EVA systems. By the time Morn had
followed his example, he was talking to the communi-
cations second.
  'How am I coming in, Scorz?'
  'Clear and easy, Nick.'
  'Mikka, do you hear me?'
  'You're on broadcast,' Mikka answered. 'Everybody
can hear you.'
  'Morn?' Nick asked.
  'I hear you.' Morn's voice sounded both loud and
muffled in her own ears, simultaneously constricted by
the helmet and masked by the hiss of air.
  'Good. If you miss one word, Scorz, I'll have your
balls. And watch for jamming. Mikka, if they try that,
get us out.'
  'Right,' Mikka said.
  We're going now.' Nick hesitated fractionally, then
added, 'Keep us safe.'
  As if the admonition were an insult, Mikka growled,
'Trust me.'
  'If I have to,' he retorted.
  'Come on, Morn.' He was already at the door which



opened from the suit locker into the access passage of the
airlock. 'Let's get this over with.'
  The note of strain in his voice compelled her. So numb
that she was no longer sure what she did, she followed
him.With her suit sealed, she felt a moment of dizziness, a
crawling in the pit of her stomach. The polarized plexu-
lose of her faceplate seemed to bend her vision, twisting
Nick out of shape, causing the walls to lean in. She knew
from experience, however, that the effect would quickly
become unnoticeable.
  It wouldn't protect her from what she was about to
see.At the control panel, Nick verified that the airlock was
tight, then tapped in a sequence to open the doors.
Taking Morn by the arm, he pulled her into the airlock.
  The space was large enough to hold half Captain's
Fancy's crew. Nick went to the inner panel and shut the
doors. At once a warning light came on, indicating that
Vasaczk had sealed the ship.
  He hit more buttons, and the outer door slid aside.
  Beyond the Station-side access passage, Enablement's
airlock was already open.
  Two Amnion stood just outside it, waiting.
  Stumbling between fear and calm, as if she were going
mutely insane, Morn let Nick lead her forward.
  In the Station airlock, they crossed a scanning grid that
looked more like a tangle of vines than a technological
apparatus. She and Nick were tested for weapons and
contaminants, then let pass.
  She moved as if she were wading through mire. Every
step took her closer to the Amnion and horror.



  She wished she could blame her faceplate for the way
they looked to her; but she knew she couldn't. Polariz-
ation and plexulose weren't responsible for the terror
which her heart pumped instead of blood - a terror
thickened to sludge by her zone implant.
  The guards were hominoid in the sense that they had
arms and legs, fingers and toes, heads and torsos, eyes
and mouths; but there all resemblance to Homo sapiens
ended. Their racial identity was a function of RNA and
DNA, not of species-specific genetic codes. They played
with their shapes the way humans played with fashion,
sometimes for utility, sometimes for adornment.
  They wore no clothing: they had developed a protec-
tive crust, as rough as rust, which made garments irrel-
evant. Keen teeth like a lamprey's lined their mouths.
Their viscid eyes - four of them spaced around their
heads for omnidirectional vision - didn't need to blink.
Both Amnion were bipedal: however, one of them had
four arms, two sprouting from each side; the other had
three, one at each shoulder, one in the center of its torso.
Their strangeness made them loom like giants, although
they were only a little larger than Nick or Morn.
  Draped from their shoulders were bandoleers support-
ing unfamiliar weapons.
  Both of them wore what appeared to be headsets. That
made sense. Translation was a complex process, and
probably wouldn't be entrusted to guards in any case; so
all communication would be patched between the auth-
orities on Enablement and Captain's Fancy. This was
confirmed when the alien voice came over Morn's ear-
phones, although neither guard had spoken.
  'Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso, you are



accepted on Enablement Station. You will be escorted to
the birthing environment.'
  One Amnioni gestured toward a transport sled parked
out in the dock.
  'Let's go,' Nick said.
  The way the guards moved their heads suggested that
they could hear him.
  Morn felt another piece of her reality detach itself and
slip away. In this place, nothing was fixed; all nightmares
became possible.
  Light fell like sulfur from hot pools in the ceiling. She
stared around her as if she were fascinated; but all she
wanted was to avoid focusing her eyes on her guards.
  The dock itself was generically similar to the dock of
any human Station: a huge space crisscrossed with
gantry-tracks and cables; full of cranes and hoists and
lifts. Nevertheless all the details were different. The
straight lines and rigid shapes of human equipment were
nowhere in evidence. Instead each crane and sled looked
like it had been individually grown rather than con-
structed; born in vats rather than built. The same bio-
technologies which made steel by digesting iron ore pro-
duced gantries which resembled trees, vehicles which
might have been gross beetles. She'd been taught in the
Academy that Amnion scan and detection systems were
considerably more accurate than anything available to
humankind; their computers ran faster; their guns were
more powerful. The Amnion had no lack of technical
sophistication: what handicapped them was the in-
efficiency of their manufacturing methods.
  Like her black box, thinking about such things did



nothing to heal her dread. Inside her, hysteria beat
against the walls erected by her zone implant.
  What was about to happen to her son violated the
most fundamental tenets of her flesh. A baby not carried
to term in a woman's womb was deprived of the basis
of its personality, the core experience on which human
perception rested: tests with fetuses gestated in artificial
wombs had proven this over and over again. A baby
who went incomplete from his mother's body to physical
maturity in the space of an hour might be deprived of
human personality and perception altogether.
  And Nick had an immunity drug for Amnion
mutagens. The UMCP was corrupt-
  The zone implant had lost its effect on her mind. Yet
it controlled her body. Lassitude filled her limbs like
peace: she was no more capable of opposing Nick or
fighting for her life than she was of fending off the
mounting pressure of lunacy.
  Still holding her arm, he led her between the guards
toward the transport sled.
  It appeared to be made of the same rusty material
which formed the skin of the Amnion. One guard
stepped into the splayed beetle and sat at the incompre-
hensible controls; the other waited behind Nick and
Morn. He, too, stepped over the side, then turned to
help her join him. Almost forcing her down beside him,
he seated himself in one of the crooked seats.
  The other guard climbed into the rear.
  With a liquid gurgle and spatter, as if it were powered
by acid, the sled began to move.
  'Nick,' Morn said, 'I want to name him after my father.'



  'What?' Nick's head jerked toward her; through his
faceplate, his eyes glared angry astonishment.
  'I want to name him after my father.' She'd never said
this to him before. 'Davies Hyland. I want to name him
Davies Hyland.'
  'Are you out of your mind?' Confined by the helmet,
his voice hit her ears loudly. This is no time to discuss
it.''It's important to me.' She knew this was no time to
discuss it: not now; not here. Everybody aboard Cap-
tain's Fancy could hear her; so could the authorities of
Enablement Station. But she couldn't stop. Her fear was
making her wild. And her memory of her father was the
only thing left that she could still trust; the part of her
that valued him was all she could fight for. 'I didn't mean
to kill him. I loved him. I want to name my baby after
him.'
  'Goddamn you, Morn.' Nick sounded suddenly dis-
tant, as if he were receding from her. Wet, sulfuric light
reflecting down his faceplate hid his expression. 'I don't
give a flying fuck at a black hole what you name the little
shit. Just keep your fucking mouth shut.'
  For the first time in what seemed like hours, she caught
a glimpse of relief.
  Davies.
  Davies Hyland.
  At least she would be able to recognize that much of
herself in him, no matter what else happened. Maybe his
name would make him human.
  As if it ran on oil, the sled glided across the dock into
a hall as wide as a road. Black strips in the floor took
hold of the sled and guided it like rails. Other strips could



have handled other traffic; yet the hall was empty. The
fluid noise of the sled's drive was the only sound from
either direction. The Station kept everything except its
walls secret from alien eyes. The hall curved steadily, and
she thought it declined as it curved, as if Enablement
were designed in spirals, helixes, instead of concentric
circles - down and around in a tightening circuit, like
the descent into hell.
  The damp yellow light was more intense here. It played
and gleamed across Morn's EVA suit like a decontami-
nation beam, burning away undetectable micro-
organisms; burning away reality; at last burning away
fear. Somewhere deep within her, she surrendered slowly
to the zone implant.
  Nick's voice was abrupt in her ears. 'Where are you
taking us? I don't like being this far from my ship.'
  Both guards looked at him. From the earphones,
Enablement's mechanical voice said, 'Conformity of pur-
pose will be achieved through the mutual satisfaction of
requirements. Your requirements necessitate a suitable
birthing environment.'
  He growled a curse under his breath, then insisted
harshly, 'Delay doesn't conform to your purpose or
mine.'
  'Time,' came the reply, 'is not accessible to manipu-
lation.'
  As if out of nowhere, Vector Shaheed asked amiably,
'Is that philosophy or physics?'
  Morn began to relax more completely.
  'Goddamn it-!' Nick began.
  'Vector!' snapped Mikka, 'I told you to be quiet.' A
moment later she added, 'Sorry about that, Nick.'



  'Oh, hell,' Nick retorted, 'let's all talk at once. If we're
going to turn this into a farce, we might as well go all
the way.'
  For a moment the earphones went silent. Then the
alien voice inquired, 'Presumed human Captain Nick
Succorso, what is "farce"? Translation is lacking.'
  Nick's fingers dug into Morn's arm. 'Ask me later,' he
rasped. 'If I like the way you conduct this trade, I'll give
you "farce" as a gift.'
  'Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso,' countered
the voice immediately, "you claim humanity. Thereby you
claim enmity to the Amnion. Also your identity does not
conform to known reality. That also constitutes enmity
to the Amnion. Understanding is necessary for trade.
What is "farce"?'
  Before Nick could reply, Vector spoke again. '"Farce"
is a form of play in which humans make themselves rid-
iculous for the amusement of other humans. Its purpose
is to reduce tension and provide community of feeling.'
  Clenching his free fist and Morn's arm, Nick waited.
The sled ran fifty meters down the hall before the voice
answered, Translation is acceptable.'
  After a long pause, he said, 'All right, Vector. I'll call
us even this time. But don't try me again.'
  No one from Captain's Fancy responded.
  As smooth as a frictionless bearing, the sled eased to a
stop in front of a wide door.
  The door was marked with a black strip. To Morn it
was indistinguishable from the strips on the floor. But it
must have been coded in some way only the Amnion
could read: perhaps by pheromones; perhaps by spec-



trum variation which the sulfuric light made visible to
Amnion optic nerves.
  The guard in the rear stepped out of the sled, spoke
into its headset. At once the door slid aside.
  Inside was a large room, unmistakably a lab: at a
glance, Morn saw computers and surgical lasers, hypos
and retractors, retorts, banks of chemicals, gurneys that
looked like they'd been grown from Amnion skin, and at
least two enclosed beds similar to creches. This must be
the 'suitable birthing environment' - the place where she
and little Davies would live or die.
  Almost calm, she looked at the Amnioni waiting for
her and Nick.
  It resembled the guards to the extent that it had the
same red-brown crust for skin and the same cutting teeth;
also it wore a headset. But its eyes were large and trinocu-
lar. The arm reaching from the center of its chest was the
primary one, both longer and stronger than the several
limbs around it. The Amnioni's three-legged stance made
it as solid as a pedestal.
  One secondary hand - how many fingers did it have?
six? seven? - gripped a hypo fitted to a clear vial. Another
held what may have been a breathing mask of some kind.
  The Amnioni spoke. 'This is the birthing environ-
ment,' Morn heard through her helmet. 'Here conformity
of purpose will be achieved. Enter.'
  Who are you?' Nick demanded as if he were having
second thoughts.
  The Amnioni tilted its head, perhaps as an expression
of curiosity. The question lacks precision. Do you
request genetic or pheromonic identification? Humans
are not known to be capable of processing such infor-



mation. Or does your question pertain to function?
Translation suggests the nearest human analogue is
"doctor".
  'You have expressed a desire for haste. Why do you
not enter?'
  Nick looked at Morn.
  From her angle, a wash of sulfur across his helmet
erased his face. Dumbly she nodded. Her circumstances
and her own actions gave her no choice. And her brain
was sinking steadily under the influence of her zone
implant. There was nothing left for her to do except
follow the dictates of instinct and biology: focus what
remained of her will on the well-being of her baby, and
let everything else go.
  Holding her arm as if he feared to let her go, Nick
moved her through the doorway into the lab.
  The guards followed.
  When the doors closed behind them, they positioned
themselves on either side of Morn and Nick.
  The doctor scrutinized each of them in turn: it may
have been trying to guess which one of them was 'pre-
sumed human Captain Nick Succorso'. Then, with a
decisive movement, it transferred the hypo to its central
hand.
  'It has been agreed,' said the voice in Morn's ear-
phones, 'that you will concede one deciliter of your
blood.' The doctor presented the hypo. When you have
complied, you will be given confirmation of credit.' One
of its secondary hands opened to reveal a credit-jack,
similar in size and shape to Morn's id tag - the form of
financial transfer specified by the United Mining Com-
panies' treaties with the Amnion. 'Then the female's fetus



will be brought to physiological maturity.' Another arm
gestured toward one of the creches. 'As a courtesy, the
offspring will be supplied with garments.'
  Steady as a pillar, the doctor waited for a response.
  For a long moment Nick seemed to hesitate.
  'Has it not been agreed?' asked the Amnioni.
  Roughly Nick stuck out his hand. 'Permit me to
inspect your hypo.'
  The doctor spoke into its headset. This time no sound
reached Morn.
  In silence the Amnioni handed Nick the hypo.
  He held it up to the light, studied it from several
angles. When he was sure that the vial was empty -
innocent of mutagens - he returned the hypo.
  Still roughly, as if each movement cost him an effort,
he unsealed his left glove and pulled it off, then peeled
the sleeve of his suit back from his forearm.
  'I have always believed that the Amnion trade
honestly,' he announced. 'Should that belief prove false,
however, I have arranged to spread the knowledge
throughout human space.'
  In a dim way, Morn hoped that the Amnion weren't
equipped by culture or experience to recognize the bluff
of a frightened man.
  'Conversely,' replied the mechanical voice, 'human
falseness is established reality. The risk of trade is
accepted because what you offer has value. Nevertheless
the satisfaction of requirements must be begun by you.'
  'Oh, hell,' Nick muttered to no one in particular. 'It'll
make a good story even if I lose.'
  With a jerk, he offered his forearm to the hypo.
  At once two of the doctor's secondary hands gripped



Nick's wrist and elbow. Efficient and precise, the
Amnioni pressed the hypo over the large veins in his
forearm; rich blood welled into the vial.
  In a moment the vial was full. The doctor withdrew
the hypo.
  Snarling at the way his hands shook, Nick tugged
down his sleeve; he shoved his fingers into his glove and
resealed it. Morn imagined him biting into the capsule
of the immunity drug and swallowing it. But the idea no
longer disturbed her. A mad, clean calm that seemed to
border on gap-sickness filled her head. She felt that she
was floating a few inches off the floor as she watched the
Amnioni give Nick the credit-jack, watched Nick shove
it into one of his suit's pouches.
  Like a mantra, she murmured her son's name to herself.
  Davies. Davies Hyland.
  If any part of her was worth saving, this was it.
  'Now,' Nick rasped, 'the baby.'
  The doctor was speaking again. The efficacy and safety
of the procedure is established. All Amnion offspring are
matured in this fashion. Certainly the human female is
not Amnion. Yet even with a human the efficacy of the
procedure has been established. Her blood will provide
the computers with information for the necessary
adjustments. The genetic identity of her offspring will
not be altered.
  'What are your wishes concerning her body? Will you
trade for it? Suitable recompense will be offered. Or do
you wish to dispose of it in your own fashion?'
  Morn heard the words as if they were in a code she
couldn't decipher.
  At her side, Nick went rigid.



   'What do you mean,' he demanded dangerously,' "dis-
pose of it"? What are you talking about? I want to take
her with me as alive and healthy as she is right now.'
   That is impossible,' replied the doctor without dis-
cernible inflection. 'You were aware of this. It is pre-
sumed that your requirement contains the knowledge of
its outcome. Among Amnion, the efficacy and safety of
the procedure is established. Among humans, only the
efficacy is established.
   The difficulty involves' - the Amnioni cocked its head,
listening - 'translation suggests the words "human
psychology". The procedure necessitates' - the doctor
listened again-'"a transfer of mind". Of what use is
a physically mature offspring with the knowledge and
perceptions of a fetus? Therefore the offspring is given
the mind of its parent. Among Amnion, this procedure
is without difficulty. Among humans, it produces' -
another cock of the head -'"insanity". A total and irrep-
arable loss of reason and function. Speculation suggests
that in humans the procedure instills an intense fear
which overwhelms the mind. The female will be of no
further use to you. Therefore the offer is made to trade
for her.'
   Total and irreparable loss- Morn did her best to con-
centrate on the danger, but her attention drifted side-
ways. Trade for her. No doubt the Amnion still wanted
her because her sanity or madness was irrelevant to the
mutagens. She should have been terrified.
   But she was too far gone for that.
   A transfer of mind. Little Davies would have her mind.
He would be truly and wholly her son. There would be
nothing of Angus Thermopyle in him.



  Her struggle to find a better answer than rape and zone
implants and treason wouldn't end here. The things her
father represented to her might still survive.
  She was only aware of Nick peripherally, as if he
existed at the edges of a reality which contracted around
her moment by moment, making everything clear.
  He was close to violence. Releasing her arm, he
clenched his fists in an unconscious throttling gesture.
Sulfur glared from his faceplate. Through his teeth, he
gritted, 'That is unacceptable.'
  After a momentary pause the voice said, 'Presumed
human Captain Nick Succorso, it is acceptable. You have
accepted it.'
  'No, I didn't!' he shouted back. 'Goddamn it, I didn't
know! I wasn't aware that I was asking you to destroy
her mind!'
  'Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso,' countered
the voice implacably, 'that is of no concern. An agreement
has been reached. That agreement will be acted upon.
  'The agreement involves the human female, not you.
Her acceptance is indicated by her presence. And your
enmity to the Amnion is established. You are suspected
of falseness in trade. It is presumed that you will return
to human space and report that the Amnion have failed
to act upon an agreement. Trust in the Amnion will be
damaged. Necessary trade will be diminished. That is
unacceptable. Without trade, the goals of the Amnion
are unobtainable.'
  'Right!' Nick retorted. 'And your precious trade will
be diminished when human space hears that you
destroyed one of my people against my express wishes!
I don't care what you think she does or doesn't accept.



I'm not going to let you do it. I didn't know what the
consequences are!'
  'On the contrary' - the voice was remorseless - 'records
of this event will demonstrate Amnion honesty. They will
demonstrate that the female accepts the agreement. You
are betrayed by your ignorance, not by the Amnion.
Human caution will increase, but human trade will not
diminish.'
  Nick wheeled to verify the positions of the guards as if
he were measuring his chances of escape. Then he barked,
'Mikka-!'
  Morn stopped him.
  'Nick, it's all right.' If he ordered Mikka to begin self-
destruct, the command second would obey; and then
everything would be wasted. 'I'm not afraid.'
  He turned on her as if he were appalled. 'You're what?
  We've come too far to back out now.'
  It must have been her black box talking, not her. She
was still sane, she was, and 'a transfer of mind' dismayed
her to the core; the consequences for little Davies
shocked her spirit. He would be born thinking he was
her, his brain would be full of rape and treason when
nature intended only rest and food and love. The whole
idea was intolerable, abhorrent; she knew that because
she wasn't crazy.
  And yet she wanted it. If her mind was transferred to
her baby, it would be transferred without the corrosive
support, the destructive resources, of her zone implant.
  'You need to get Captain's Fancy repaired, and I need
my son. I don't care what it costs. I'm not afraid. I don't
mind taking the chance.'
  'It'll finish you,' he hissed through her earphones,



bringing his head closer until his faceplate touched hers.
'"Total and irreparable loss of reason and function." I'll
lose you.'
  Vector Shaheed said her name, then broke off.
  'Morn,' Mikka Vasaczk breathed softly, 'you don't have
to do this.'
  'I don't mind taking the chance,' she repeated,
listening to the sound of ruin like an echo in her helmet.
  Before Nick could interfere, she turned to the Amnioni
and said, The agreement is acceptable.'
  The doctor replied, 'It will be done.'
  Nick let out a short, frayed howl like a cry of grief.
  She walked away from him, leaving him to the guards.
  At the nearest creche, she stopped and began to unlock
her faceplate.
  The doctor offered her the breathing mask it held. She
shook her head and murmured, 'Not yet.'
  When she opened the faceplate and took off her
helmet, acrid Amnion air bit into her lungs, as raw as the
stink of charred corpses; but she endured it. She had one
more thing to do to complete her surrender.
  Stripping off the EVA suit, she stood, effectively
naked, beside the creche. Then she reached into the
pocket of her shipsuit and grasped her black box; she
adjusted the intensity of its emissions until they brought
her right to the edge of a serene and unreachable uncon-
sciousness.
  Nearly fainting, she accepted the breathing mask.
  As she pressed it to her mouth, oxygen and anesthesia
enveloped her in the attar of funerals and old sleep.
  'Morn!' Nick cried again. But now she could no longer
hear him.



Unnecessarily gentle, since she was in no condition to
know what anyone did, the Amnioni kept her asleep
while it worked. It stretched her out in the creche; with
its deft secondary arms, it removed her shipsuit and set
it beside her.
  Blood was drawn. Electrodes were attached to her
skull, to the major muscle groups in her arms and legs.
  Then an alien serum was injected into her veins, and a
biological cataclysm came over her.
  In minutes her belly swelled hugely. A short time
later, water burst between her legs; her cervix dilated;
contractions writhed through her.
  As careful as any human physician, the Amnioni
accepted Davies Hyland from her body. The doctor
bound and cut the umbilical cord, cleaned the struggling
little boy - struggling for human air - with monstrous
tenderness, then set the child in the second creche,
attached electrodes corresponding exactly to the ones
which held Morn, inserted IVs, and closed the creche.
  At once a normal O/CO2 mix surrounded the baby,
and new respiration turned him a healthy pink.
  At the same time more chemicals were injected into
Morn to smooth her recovery. Plasma replaced lost
blood; coagulants and neural soothers enriched her
body's responses to damage.
  In the second creche, a form of biological time-
compression began. A potent amino soup, full of recom-
binant endocrine secretions and hormones, fed every cell
in Davies' small form, triggering in seconds DNA-
programmed developments which should have taken
months to complete; sustaining a massive demand for



nutrients and calories; enabling his tissues to process
growth and waste with an efficiency at once ineffable and
grotesque - as wondrously vital and consuming as cancer.
  Under the subtle distortions of the creche's cover, his
body elongated itself, took on weight and muscle; his
features reshaped themselves as baby-fat spread across
them and then melted away, and their underlying bones
solidified; his hair and nails grew impossibly long, until
the doctor trimmed them. At the same time, the elec-
trodes copied Morn's life and replicated it in him: the
neural learning which provided muscle-tone, control,
skill; the experience which gave language and reason
reality; the mix of endocrine stimulation and memory
which formed personality, made decision possible.
  As Nick had promised, the process was finished in an
hour.
  In effect, Morn Hyland gave birth to a sixteen-year-old
son.



The contrary argument - that 'first contact' had taken
place years previously - is based on the fact that Captain
Vertigus learned nothing new (aside from the matter of
appearance) or vital about the Amnion. That they were
technologically sophisticated, especially in matters of bio-
chemistry; that they were oxygen-carbon based; that they
were profoundly alien: all could be deduced from the
contents of the satellite which an Intertech ship, Far
Rover, had discovered in orbit around the largest planet
in the star system she had been sent to probe.
  This occurred prior to the Humanity Riots - and to
Intertech's absorption by SMI. Far Rover had been study-
ing that system for nearly a standard year when the satel-
lite was discovered. She continued her studies for several
months afterward - but now with a radically altered
mission. At first, of course, she had been looking for any-
thing and everything: primarily resources, habitability,



and signs of life. But since until now no one had ever
found signs of life, her attention had been fixed on more
mundane matters. However, after the discovery of the
satellite, she forgot the mundane. She stayed in the
system long enough to be certain that the satellite was
not of local origin. Then she crossed the gap back to
Earth.
  Her arrival surely had enough scientific, economic,
and cultural impact to qualify as 'first contact'.
  Far Rover made no attempt to open or examine the
satellite: she lacked the facilities. The alien object, un-
touched, was transported to Earth in a sterile hold, where
it remained until the Intertech installation on Outreach
Station was able to activate a sterile lab for it. Then, as
carefully as anyone knew how, the satellite was opened.
  It proved to contain a small cryogenic vessel, which
in turn contained a kilo of the mutagenic material that
comprised - although no one knew it at the time - the
Amnion attempt to reach out to other life-forms in the
galaxy.
  Study of the mutagen went on for three years at a
frenetic pace before Captain Vertigus and Deep Star were
commissioned.
  That the substance in the vessel was a mutagen was
discovered almost routinely. In the normal course of
events, scientists of every description ran tests of every
kind on minute samples of the substance. Naturally most
of the tests failed to produce any results which the scien-
tists could understand. Earth science being what it was,
however, the tests eventually included feeding a bit of
the substance to a rat.
  In less than a day, the rat changed form: it became



something that resembled a mobile clump of seaweed.
  Subsequently any number of rats were fed the sub-
stance. Some of them were killed and dissected. Pathol-
ogy revealed that they had undergone an essential
transformation: their basic life-processes remained intact,
but everything about them - from their RNA and the
nature of their proteins and enzymes outward - had been
altered. Other rats were successfully bred, which showed
that the change was both stable and self-compatible. Still
others were put through the normal behavioral tests of
rats; the results demonstrated conclusively, disturbingly,
that the mutation produced a significant gain in intel-
ligence.
  Experiments were attempted with higher animals: cats,
dogs, chimpanzees. All changed so dramatically that they
became unrecognizable. All were biologically stable, able
to reproduce. All were built of fundamental enzymes and
RNA native to each other, but wholly distinct from any-
thing which had ever evolved on Earth.
  All showed some degree of enhanced intelligence.
  By this time, Intertech as a corporate entity was posi-
tively drooling. The potential for discovery and profit
was immeasurable, if the mutagen could be traced to its
source. Theorists within the company and out agreed
that the satellite must have been designed to accomplish
one of two things: communication or propagation. The
propagationist theory, however, suffered from one
apparent flaw: the mutated rats, cats, dogs, and chimps
were not reproductively compatible with each other; they
retained species differentiation. In an odd way, the alien
wizards who designed the mutagen respected the original
forms of the rats, etc. Or else their biochemical tech-



nology was not equal to the challenge of replicating them-
selves across incompatible species. In either case, the
mutagen was clearly inadequate to propagate its makers.
  Nevertheless by either theory a source existed - some-
where - not just for mutated Earth-forms with higher
intelligence, but for entirely new sciences, resources, and
possibilities.
  But how could the satellite be traced to its source? As
'first contact' with alien life, the object was exceptionally
frustrating in this regard. Hence the emphasis placed on
Sixten Vertigus and his experiences. Except for its cryo-
genic workings, the satellite contained nothing which
could be analyzed: no drive; no tape; no control systems;
certainly nothing as convenient as a star chart.
  If the satellite were intended as a means of communi-
cation, its message had to lie in the mutagen itself.
  It did.
  The course of Earth's history was changed when the
decision was made within Intertech to risk the mutagen
on a human being.
  The woman who volunteered for the assignment prob-
ably hoped for some kind of immortality, personal as
well as scientific. After all, the rats, etc., which had been
permitted to live were viable, hardy, and intelligent. They
were also benign: they could reproduce with their own
kind, but could not spread the mutagen. If her intelli-
gence increased similarly, she might become the most
important individual humankind had yet produced. And
she might open the door to discoveries, opportunities,
and riches which would earn her enduring reverence.
  Unfortunately she only survived for a day and a half.
  During that time, she changed as the animals had



changed: she became, according to observers, 'a bipedal
tree with luxuriant foliage and several limbs'. But the
only sign of advanced intelligence was that, an hour or
so before she died, she wailed for paper. As soon as she
got it, she spent several minutes scribbling furiously.
  When she collapsed, heroic efforts were made to
resuscitate her. They failed utterly. The medical tech-
nology was all wrong: it had little relevance to her new
structure.
  An autopsy showed that she had become genetically
and biochemically kin to the mutated rats and chimps -
a product of the same world. She had been transformed
from her RNA outward. Nevertheless she was the only
mutated life-form to die quickly of 'natural causes'. In
the opinion of the pathologists who studied her corpse
from scalp to toenails, she died of 'fright'.
  Conceivably the mutation had produced an uncon-
trollable adrenalin reaction.
  Equally conceivably the knowledge of what she had
become - the knowledge she gleaned from the mutagen
- terrified her beyond bearing.
  Whatever the explanation, her 'immortality' could be
gauged by the fact that few texts on the subject mention
her by name.
  Or it could be gauged by this, that her final scribbles
eventually led humankind into a fatal relation with the
Amnion.
  Mostly she had written numbers, strings of figures
which had no meaning to anyone - or to any of
Intertech's computers - until a young astronomer as cru-
cial, and as forgotten, as the volunteer herself thought to
analyze them as galactic coordinates.



  Those coordinates enabled Captain Sixten Vertigus
and Deep Star to establish contact with the Amnion for
the first time.



Morn began drifting toward consciousness
           when the Amnioni eliminated anesthetic
           from the mix of air she took in through the
breathing mask.
  The process seemed to require a long time. Controlled
by her zone implant as well as by alien drugs, she was
helpless to bring herself back. Gradually she became
aware of the numb ache in her loins - the stress of partur-
ition muffled by some powerful analgesic. She felt the
distention of her belly: the elasticity of her muscles had
been strained away. But those things weren't enough to
focus her attention; she couldn't concentrate on them.
  Yet her body continued to throw off the effects of the
anesthetic. Eventually she realized that she could hear
Nick's voice.
  'Morn!' he demanded, 'wake up! You said you weren't
afraid. Prove it. Come back!'
  Some part of her heard his fury, recognized that he
was in a killing rage. She could feel his hands shaking



her shoulders, shaking her heart. She remembered that
she hated him.
  Those bastards cheated us! They did something to
him!'
  He broke into a fit of coughing.
  Another piece of her, a separate compartment, under-
stood that she shouldn't have been able to hear him. He
was wearing an EVA suit, and she had no earphones.
Nevertheless it wasn't his voice or his coughing that
snagged her attention.
  They did something to him.
  Him? Who?
  Like a momentary gap in dense smoke, a glimpse of
light, the answer came to her.
  Davies. Her son.
  The Amnion had done something to her son.
  She lay still, as if she were deaf; as if she were lost.
Nothing external showed that she was fighting urgently
for the strength to open her eyes.
  She had the impression that Nick pulled away from
her. His voice went in a different direction as he snarled,
'You cheated, you fucking sonofabitch. You did some-
thing to him.'
  Davies Hyland. Her son. The reason she was here -
the reason she'd surrendered herself.
  Nick was answered by another voice she shouldn't have
been able to hear. It was full of pointed teeth and sulfuric
light.
  'Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso, that is a
false statement. The Amnion do not accept false state-
ments. You charge a betrayal of trade. It is established
that the Amnion do not betray trade. Your own tests will



demonstrate that the offspring is human. The genetic
identity is exactly what it was in the female's womb. Your
statements are false.'
  Another fit of coughing tore at Nick's lungs. When
he could talk again, he rasped, Then why does he look
like that?
  The alien voice conveyed a shrug. 'Your question can-
not be answered. Is there a flaw in the offspring's matu-
ration? It is not apparent. Tests indicate no genetic defect.
However, if you wish the offspring altered, that can be
done.'
  'You bastard,' Nick spat, nearly retching. 'He doesn't
look like me.'
  'Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso,' the voice
explained with what may have been Amnion patience,
'your genetic identity has no point of congruence with
that of this offspring. He is not your - translation
suggests the word "son". Therefore resemblance would
be improbable.'
  Nick's silence was as loud as a shout.
  With an effort that seemed to drain the marrow from
her bones, leaving her as weak as paper, Morn opened
her eyes.
  For a moment a flood of sulfur from the ceiling blinded
her. But once her eyes opened they blinked on their own.
Tears streaked the sides of her face, leaving damp, delicate
trails that were more distinct to her nerves than any of
the consequences of giving birth. She felt naked from
her scalp to her toes; yet something kept her warm. By
increments she moved closer to true consciousness.
  Soon she was able to see.
  A shape in an EVA suit with the faceplate open stood



several paces away, near the other creche. Sour yellow
light gleamed up and down the mylar surface.
  Nick.
  He confronted a rusty and monstrous shape which
must have been the Amnion doctor.
  Towering over the creche, the Amnioni said into its
headset and the acrid air, The offspring resumes con-
sciousness. In humans a period of adjustment is required.
The transfer of mind produces - translation suggests the
word "disorientation". For a time the mind will be unable
to distinguish itself from its source.
  'Data is inadequate to predict the course of this dis-
orientation. Speculation suggests that adjustment can be
rapid with proper stimulation.'
  The doctor moved one of its arms along the side of
the creche, and its protective cover opened.
  Morn saw bare limbs twist, heard a wet cough. The
sound was weak; it seemed to come from a baby who
couldn't get enough air.
  Her baby.
  She tried to move.
  Some weight held her down. It wasn't heavy, but it
was too great for her. She couldn't understand it. Had
the Amnioni put her under restraint?
  With an effort, she shifted her gaze to her own form.
  There were no restraints. The weight was only the light
fabric of her shipsuit. Presumably the doctor had stripped
her so that her baby could be born. Then it must have
dressed her again.
  She was too weak to carry the burden of a mere ship-
suit. Like an infant, she needed to come naked back to
herself.



  Somehow she turned her head so that she could look
at the other creche again.
  The doctor put a breathing mask to the mouth of the
body in the creche; secured the mask with a strap. The
coughing stopped, but the frail, uncertain movement of
the limbs continued.
  With three of its secondary arms, the Amnioni lifted
her son into a sitting position. For a moment he remained
there, breathing strenuously; then the doctor helped him
move his legs off the creche so that he could stand.
  Except for the mask over his mouth and the relative
slightness of his build, he might as well have been Angus
Thermopyle.
  The sight would have shocked her, if she'd been
capable of shock. But her zone implant held her so close to
blankness that she couldn't reach to the image of the man
who'd ravaged her flesh, shattered her spirit.
  He was only an hour old, and already he appeared like
a bloated toad, dark and brutal. His arms' and chest were
built for violence; he stood with his legs splayed as if to
withstand the abuse of the universe. His penis dangled
from his crotch, as ugly as an instrument of rape.
  Only his eyes betrayed the heritage of his mother. They
were Morn's color - and full of her dread.
  His fear made him look as helpless as a child.
  Davies Hyland. Her son.
  Her mind in Angus' body.
  He needed her. For him this moment was worse than
it could ever be for her. He suffered everything that had
ever terrorized her - but he had no zone implant.
  His extremity gave her the strength to slide one hand
into the pocket of her shipsuit.



  'Again,' said the Amnioni, 'the offer is made to accept
the female. A suitable recompense will be negotiated.
Her usefulness to you is gone. The only means by which
her reason can be restored requires alteration of her gen-
etic identity.'
  'In other words,' Nick snarled, 'you want to make her
Amnion.' His voice was raw with coughing. Through
his open faceplate, Morn saw that his face was slick with
sweat or tears, the result of the bitter air he breathed so
that she would be able to hear him.
  Too weak and still too close to unconsciousness for
subtlety, she didn't try to adjust her black box; she simply
switched it off.
  Then she rolled over the edge of the creche.
  While the jolt of impact and transition slammed
through her, she heard the doctor intone, 'The procedure
produces a total and irreparable loss of reason and
function.'
  At the edge of her vision, she saw Nick's boots stamp
toward her. He stopped at her side; his knees flexed.
  'Get up,' he gasped.
  She tried, but it was beyond her. Like a stretched elas-
tic cord when it was released, her mind seemed to snap
away - out of the void where it'd been held; toward the
need of her son. In her thoughts, she surged upright,
hurried to his aid. For him an incomprehensible awaken-
ing would be made more terrible when he saw her and
believed that she was himself. He would need help to
absorb the truth; help to counter his fear; help to under-
stand who and what he was, and not go mad.
  Yet her body only lay on the floor, trembling. She
braced her arms, but couldn't lever her chest up. The



pressure on her swollen breasts made them ache imper-
sonally, like distant fire.
  Coughing until his voice nearly failed, Nick croaked,
'Get up, you bitch!'
  She couldn't.
  As if she were weightless, he caught her by the fabric
of her shipsuit and hauled her off the floor; he flung her
against the edge of the creche, then spun her to face him.
From inside his helmet, his eyes glared: black; beyond
appeal. His scars were flagrant with blood and rage.
  'Goddamn it! You put me through all this, and he isn't
even mine! That's Thermopyle! He isn't even miner
  Then he went down because Davies had come off the
other creche and punched him in the back with all Angus'
harsh force.
  Unable to catch herself, Morn flopped on top of Nick.
  Gasping, he arched his back and tried to squirm away
from the pain as if his ribs were broken.
  When she rolled off him, she found Davies stooping
over her. As soon as she stopped moving, he bent closer,
dropped to his knees. His eyes searched her face as if he
were transfixed with horror.
  More Amnion were there - the guards. Between them,
they picked Nick up and held him so that he couldn't
attack. He struggled like a man whose ribs weren't
seriously damaged. Nevertheless the raw air ripped at
his lungs, and every exertion made him cough harder,
draining his strength.
  'Restore the integrity of your suit,' the doctor told
him, 'so that breathing will be easy. Your words will be
broadcast to each other.'
  'He was going to hurt you,' Davies breathed. His vocal



cords were sixteen years old, but his voice had the inno-
cent inflections of a child; he sounded like a young, lost
version of his father. Dismay as deep as the dimensional
gap stared out of his eyes. 'I couldn't let him do that.
  'You're me.'
  She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and hug
him against her sore breasts, but she was too weak. And
other things were more important. 'No,' she said through
her mask and her frailty and the stress of transition.
That's not true. You've got to trust me.'
  His instinctive crisis snowed on his face, the conflict
between the impulse to believe in her because she was
him and the need to reject her because she shouldn't have
been separate from him. It was the fundamental crisis of
maturation made grotesquely, extravagantly worse by the
way it came upon him - all in minutes, instead of slowly
over sixteen years.
  Reaching up to him, she gripped his arms - arms like
his father's; arms so strong that they'd once beaten Nick.
'None of this makes sense to you,' she said as if she were
pleading. 'I know that. Everything feels wrong. If you
think hard you may be able to remember what happened.
I'll explain it all - I'll help you every way I can. But not
now. Not here. You've got to trust me. You think you're
Morn Hyland, but you're not. I'm Morn Hyland. You
know what she looks like. She looks like me. You don't.
  'Your name is Davies Hyland. I'm your mother. You're
my son.'
  Nick's voice boomed as if it were playing over speakers
large enough to fill an auditorium. 'And Angus goddamn
Thermo-pile is your fucking father!'
  While he raged, the doctor - or the Enablement auth-



orities - turned down the volume of their broadcast. He
seemed to fade as he cursed.
  Davies' eyes flicked toward Nick. Morn saw them nar-
row with inherited revulsion. Then he looked back down
at her. At once his disgust returned to panic.
  'I don't understand,' he whispered past his mask.
"You're me. You're what I see in my head when I see
myself. I can't remember- Who is Angus Thermo-pile?'
  'I'll help you,' she insisted urgently. 'I'll explain every-
thing. I'll help you remember. We'll remember it all
together.' Her own mask seemed to hamper her voice;
she couldn't make it reach him. 'But not now. Not here.
It's too dangerous.
  'Just trust me. Please.'
  This does not conform to established reality,' said the
doctor. Morn heard strange Amnion cadences with one
ear, language she knew with the other. The procedure
produces total and irreparable loss of reason and func-
tion. Analysis is required.' As if speaking to one of the
computers, the Amnioni instructed, 'Complete physio-
logical, metabolic, and genetic decoding, decisiveness
high.'
  Abruptly Davies took her in his arms and lifted her.
He set her on her feet and started to let go of her; but
when her knees buckled, he caught and supported her by
her elbows. Like his father, he was an inch or two shorter
than she.
  Almost strangling on his distress, he murmured, 'I'm Morn Hyland. You're Morn Hyland. This is wrong.'

  'I know,' she replied from the bottom of her heart. 'I
know. It's wrong.' Desperately she tried to confirm his



grasp on reality, so that he wouldn't go mad. 'But I didn't
have any other way to save your life.' Or my soul.
  He continued to stare at her with his eyes full of bleak,
unremitting fear.
  'You better believe her,' Nick snarled viciously. 'She's
never told me the truth, but she's telling it to you. She
damn near got us all dispersed to infinity in the gap so
she could save your shit-miserable life.'
  Morn ignored him. Her son needed her, her son; her
mind in Angus' body. His dread was as palpable to her
as her own. She had no attention to spare for Nick's
outrage - or his grief.
  The doctor came to stand beside her and Davies. 'You
wish to be clothed,' it said. 'It is understood that humans
require garments.' One of its arms offered a shipsuit and
boots made of a strange material that appeared to absorb
light. 'The frailty of human skin is conducive to fear. This
is a racial defect, correctable by Amnion.'
  With a small shock, Morn realized that the doctor may
have been trying to comfort Davies.
  'Do it,' she urged him softly. 'Get dressed. We'll go
back to Captain's Fancy. We can talk there.'
  Then she stepped back to show him that she could
stand without his support.
  He complied, not because he believed her, not because
he set his fear aside in order to trust her - she knew this
in the same way that she knew herself - but because his
nakedness made him feel vulnerable to harm and manipu-
lation. Awkwardly, as if his brain weren't entirely in con-
trol of his movements, he accepted the shipsuit and put
it on; he shoved his feet into the boots. The fit was
approximate, but adequate.



  The sulfuric light didn't appear to touch him anywhere
except on his face and hands; his clothes shed it like
water. But it gave his face a jaundiced hue, and the con-
trast made him look at once more and less like his father:
more malign, and less certain of it.
  'Are you done?' Nick rasped. 'I want to get out of
here.'
  The return to your ship is acceptable,' said the
Amnioni. 'You will be escorted.' An instant later it added,
'Further violence is not acceptable.'
  The guards let go of Nick's arms.
  Tell him to leave me alone.' Davies' appeal sounded
like that of a scared child - of the scared child inside
Morn.
  'I'm not going to touch you, asshole,' retorted Nick.
'Not here. You're coming back to my ship. Once you're
aboard, I'll do anything I fucking want to you.'
  Davies' eyes turned to Morn in alarm and supplication.
  'I can't tell you not to be afraid,' she said unsteadily.
'I'm scared of him, too. But we can't stay here. You know
that. Somewhere inside, you know that.' She was frantic
for strength, for the ability to make her words reach him
and be believed. 'Somewhere inside, you know how to
defend yourself. And I'm on your side. Completely.' She
spoke to her son, but she wanted Nick to hear her and
understand that she was threatening him. 'I'll do every-
thing I can to help you.'
  Davies held her gaze for a long moment as if without
her he would drown in his dread. Then, slowly, he
nodded.
  One of the guards opened the door to the outer hall
and the transport sled.



  'Come on.' Nick turned and strode out of the lab.
  The doctor picked up Morn's EVA suit, gave it to her.
She bundled it under one arm so that her other hand was
free to reach into her pocket. Still wavering, she followed
Nick.
  The entire center of her being, from her crotch to her
heart, ached dully, as if something essential had been
torn away. She concentrated on that so she wouldn't be
overwhelmed by her concern for her son.
  Ahead of her, Nick stepped into the sled. She did the
same.
  So did Davies.
  Staring straight past the shoulders of the Amnioni
driver as if he could no longer bear to look at her, he rode
with her back through Enablement Station to Captain's
Fancy.
  By the time they reached the high emptiness of the
dock, he couldn't conceal the fact that he was trembling.
Already, she guessed, his grasp on what little he knew
about himself had begun to fail, eroded not only by the
shock of seeing himself in someone else and hearing his
identity denied, but also by his father's physical legacy -
by testosterone and male endocrine balances. And then
there were the unguessable aftereffects of his mother's
use of a zone implant while he was in her womb. In a
short time, Morn realized, he would cease to think in
ways she could predict or even understand.
  She had to resist an impulse to put her arms around
him as if he really were a child.
  Instead she eased her hand into the pocket of her
shipsuit.
  She needed to be ready for whatever Nick might do



when they boarded Captain's Fancy. Yet she couldn't risk
betraying her zone implant by regaining strength too
easily. When her fingers felt sure on her black box, she
tapped the functions which would supply her with
energy; but she set them at a low level.
  The effect wasn't a relief. The same neural stimulation
which sharpened her mind and quickened her reflexes
also counteracted the drugs she'd been given to numb
her pain. But she accepted that. Pain, too, was a resource:
like her apprehension for Davies and her fear of Nick, it
helped bring her into focus.
  The sled eased to a halt near Captain's Fancy's outer
lock. The lock still stood open, waiting.
  Both Amnion got out.
  Nick and Morn did the same. After a moment's hesi-
tation, Davies swung his legs over the side of the sled.
  One of the guards spoke into its headset. To Morn's
surprise, Enablement continued broadcasting voices so
that she and Davies could hear them and their translation.
  'You may re-enter your ship,' the speakers announced.
'Departure will not be permitted.'
  Nick wheeled on the guards. What?'
  The Amnioni voice spoke again. 'You may re-enter
your ship. Departure will not be permitted.'
  'You sonofabitch, that violates our agreement. Depar-
ture is part of the trade.'
  Neither of the guards answered.
  'Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso,' replied the
alien voice, 'departure has been agreed. It will be per-
mitted. Delay is necessary. Established reality is in flux.
Events do not conform. Consideration is required.
Departure will be postponed.'



  'No!' Nick shouted back. 'I don't agree! I want out of
here!'
  There was no response. The air was as empty as the
dock.
  Both guards pointed toward Captain's Fancy's locks.
  Neither of them touched their weapons.
  They didn't need to.
  'Goddamn it!' snarled Nick.' Trade" with the Amnion
is like swimming in the fucking sewer of the universe.'
  Nearly running, he headed for his ship.
  'Come on.' Morn took Davies' arm and urged him
forward. Whatever he does to us, it'll be better than
being abandoned here.'
  Deliberately, as if he were making a point, Davies dis-
engaged his arm. But then he accompanied Morn
through the station's scan- and decontamination-lock.
  Doom haunted his eyes. Yet with every passing
moment his movements grew more secure as his brain
and body adjusted to each other.
  In the ship's airlock, Nick pounded impatiently on the
control panel, muttering, 'Do it, Mikka. Seal the ship.
Let me in.'
  Almost on Morn's and Davies' backs, the door swept
shut. Panel lights indicated that the Amnion air was being
pumped out, replaced by the ship's human atmosphere.
Another light showed that the inner doors were being
unlocked.
  Nick couldn't wait for the air to clear. Roughly he
knocked loose the seals of his helmet, pulled it off his
head, then jabbed open the intercom and hissed, 'Let me
in:Morn understood. Suit communications might still be



patched through Enablement. However, the intercom
was safe.
  'Nick,' Mikka demanded as the control panel went
green, and the inner doors opened, 'what the hell's going on?'

  Ripping open his EVA suit, he strode into his ship.
'How in shit should I know?' he retorted; but he was too
far from the lock intercom pickup to be heard. When
he'd kicked off his suit, he toggled the nearest intercom.
  'Don't ask stupid questions. You heard everything I
heard. Those bastards! If they make us stay long enough,
they'll have time to test my blood. They'll know I
cheated.
  'Keep self-destruct ready. Start nudging drive off
standby. Ease some charge into the matter cannon. And
disconnect communications. Don't let Station hear any-
thing unless I'm talking to them.
  We're coming up.'
  Leaving Morn to close and seal the inner doors, he
headed for the bridge.
  Quickly she pulled the breathing mask off her head;
dropped it and her EVA suit beside Nick's. Then she
keyed in the close-and-lock sequence for the doors and
started after him.
  But she stopped as soon as she realized that Davies
wasn't with her.
  He sat hunched with his back to the doors and his
knees hugged against his chest. His forehead rested on
his knees.
  In that posture, he was so unlike Angus Thermopyle
that she nearly wept for him. He urgently needed his
father's obsessive and brutal instinct for survival.



  She went back to him. After she said his name, how-
ever, her throat closed, and she couldn't go on.
  'I don't understand this.' His thighs and the mask
muffled his voice. 'I can't remember anything.
  'He's going to do something terrible to me.'
  Harsh because of her own grief and desperation, she
snapped, 'That's probably true. He's not a nice man. But
we've got to face it. We don't have any choice. He can
leave us here - he can leave us to the Amnion. Then we'll
lose everything. We won't be human anymore. They'll
pump mutagens into us, and we'll become like them. If
we're lucky, we won't even notice that we've joined a
race that wants to get rid of the entire human species.
  'Davies, listen to me. As far as I'm concerned, you're
the second most important thing in the galaxy. You're
my son.' You're the part of me I need to believe in. 'But
the first, the most important thing is to not betray my
humanity. As long as I've got life or breath to fight with,
I won't let that happen to me. Or anybody else.'
  She knew how to reach him: she knew the motivational
strings that pulled his will. They were still the same as
hers; he hadn't had time to change. And now she had
the strength to convey conviction. Her zone implant pro-
vided that.
  Slowly his head came up. The look in his eyes
reminded her of something she'd once loathed and
feared.
  'If he tries to hurt you,' Davies said, 'I'm going to tear
his arms off.'
  She gave a sigh of relief and dread. 'It doesn't work
that way. He doesn't care about you, so he won't try to



hurt me. He's more likely to hurt you as a way of getting
even with me.'
  Despite his expression, he still sounded like a child,
singsong and uncomprehending. 'What did I do to him?
I mean, what did you do to him when I was you?'
  As firmly as she could, she renewed her promise. 'I'll
tell you. I'll tell you everything. And you're going to
remember a lot of this, when you get the chance. But not
now. We need to go to the bridge. If we're going to
defend ourselves, we need to know what's happening.
  'Can you do it?'
  Just for a moment, past his dark, distended features
and threatening gaze, she caught a glimpse of her own
father in him; the man he was named for.
  'I can do it.'
  Then the glimpse was gone. He looked like no one
except Angus Thermopyle as he threw off his mask and
rose to his feet.
  Her heart shivered with love and abhorrence as she led
him away.
  When they reached the bridge, it seemed crowded.
Mikka's watch was still in place, and Vector Shaheed
occupied the engineer's station. But Nick had taken the
command seat from Mikka, which left her nowhere to
sit. And she wasn't the only one on her feet. Liete Cor-
regio stood nearby, along with the huge, clumsy brawler,
Simper, who served as targ third, and Pastille, the rank,
weaselly helm third.
  Heads swiveled as soon as Morn and Davies stepped
through the aperture. Vector's mouth dropped open,
perhaps in surprise at Davies' resemblance to Angus;
Alba Parmute gave the boy a quick glance of sexual



appraisal. But Morn's attention was instantly on Nick.
At first she missed the way the other people looked at
her: the hard glare in Mikka's eyes; Liete's shielded gaze;
the targ third's hunger; Pastille's frank sneer.
  Until she felt the force of their stares, she failed to
notice the fact that all four of them wore guns.
  'Are you sure this is necessary?' Mikka asked Nick.
They aren't going anywhere. Hell, they aren't trying to
go anywhere.'
  'Do it,' Nick snapped without turning his head. 'Lock
them up. Separately. I haven't got time to worry about
them right now. And disable their intercoms. I don't
want them talking to each other.'
  'Nick-!' Shock snatched a cry of protest out of Morn
before she could stop herself.
  In unison, Mikka, Liete, and the two men drew their
impact pistols. Simper leered like he'd been given per-
mission for some deliciously nasty self-indulgence.
  'Nick' - Morn tried again, more carefully - 'don't do
this He can't be alone right now. Let me at least talk to
him. We need to talk. He still thinks he's me. If he has
to be alone with that, he'll lose his mind.'
  'Let him,' snarled Nick. 'I don't care how many minds
he loses. You aren't going to talk to him until I find out
why you've been lying to me. In fact, you aren't going
to talk to him until I find a way to make sure you never
lie to me again.
  'If you don't shut up and go, you'll pay for it.'
  The targ third grinned harder.
  'Nick,' Scorz said unsteadily, 'message from En-
ablement.'
  Everyone froze.



  'Audio,' Nick ordered through his teeth.
  Scorz keyed his board. At once the mechanical voice
said, 'Enablement Station to presumed human Captain
Nick Succorso, prepare to receive emissary.'
  Nick sat up straighter.
  Trade is necessary. Speculation suggests negotiation
will be' - a momentary pause - 'delicate. Emissary
will speak for the Amnion. To encourage negotiation,
he will board your ship alone. Conformity of purpose
will be achieved through the mutual satisfaction of
requirements.'
  Nick leaned forward. 'Scorz, copy this. "Further expla-
nation is necessary. No Amnioni will board Captain's
Fancy if I am kept in ignorance. What are your require-
ments?" Send it.'
  Hands quivering slightly, the communications second
obeyed.
  Enablement's reply was almost instantaneous. The
Amnion require possession of the new human offspring
aboard your ship.'
  In that moment, Morn felt the bottom drop out of her
heart.
  Wheeling his seat, Nick swung around to face her. His
eyes burned with malice and triumph. Tell them,' he told
Scorz, '"Your emissary is acceptable."'
  Then he flung a burst of laughter straight into her
panic.
  Clenching his fists, Davies took a step forward.
  At once Mikka aimed her gun at his head; Liete
pointed hers into his belly.
  'Oh, hell,' Nick chuckled to Mikka, 'let them stay. I



want them to hear what this "emissary" says. That should
be the most fun I've had all day.'
  Liete kept her thoughts to herself; but a mixture of
relief and anguish twisted Mikka's features as she lowered
her weapon.
  As hot as a welding laser, Nick's gaze held Morn's.
  'I don't really care that much about making you tell
the truth,' he said softly, almost sweetly. His mouth
stretched tight over his teeth. 'I prefer revenge. Some-
thing tells me you're about to find out what it costs when
you lie to me.'
  The only thing that kept her from jumping at Nick
and trying to claw his eyes out was the look of dumb,
desperate terror on Davies' face.



         The Amnion require-
           The targ third was disappointed: he liked rape
         as much as demolition, and he wanted Morn to
himself. But Pastille was smart enough to see broader
possibilities of distress. He laughed soundlessly, like a
mute echo of Nick, showing his unclean teeth.
  No one else except Nick looked at Morn.
   - require possession-
  Liete's voice held a barely audible rub of tension as
she dismissed Pastille and Simper from the bridge. They
obeyed, handing their guns to Mikka on the way. Liete
walked off around the curve, dissociating herself from
Morn and Davies - or perhaps from Nick and Mikka.
  Mikka stowed two of the impact pistols in a gun locker.
Like Liete, she kept her own weapon.
  Scorz concentrated on the communications board. Par-
mute studied Davies some more; deliberately she pulled
the seal of her shipsuit an inch lower. Ransum, the helm
second, made a show of testing her station, her hands



fluttering like scraps of paper in a breeze. The man on
targ, Karster, stared at the back of Nick's head. With
nothing to do, the scan second sat in a meditative pose
- hands folded in his lap, eyes closed.
  Vector, too, had his eyes shut; the muscles of his face
were slack. Without his phlegmatic smile, his face seemed
to lose some of its roundness, sagging over its bleak,
underlying bones.
   -possession of the new human offspring-
  Ignoring Nick, Morn said to her son, 'Hang on.' Her
throat worked convulsively, jerking out words. We're in
this together. He's just making threats to scare you. He
wants to punish you for not being his.'
  Try me,' Nick put in harshly.
  Morn stepped between him and Davies; she turned
her back on Nick to aim all her artificial conviction at
Davies. 'He can't hurt you without hurting me. And he
can't hurt me without hurting himself.'
  'If you believe that' - anger throbbed in Nick's voice
- 'You're sicker than I thought.'
  'I'm his lover,' she continued to Davies, 'the best lover
he's ever had. He'll have to give me up if he hurts you.
He'll lose me completely. He can always kill me, but he'll
never be able to make me do what he wants again.'
  'You lied to me!' Nick shouted.
  Morn nearly turned on him; nearly retorted, You bas-
tard, I've never told you the truth about anything. -
require possession- She was frantic to deflect Nick's malice
from her son; frantic enough to take any risk-
  But the sight of Davies held her.
  As she watched, his resemblance to Angus increased.
Catalyzed by fear and incomprehension, he seemed to



take on the inheritance of his father by an act of will. The
color of his eyes was wrong, but their porcine squint
became pure Angus; and the darkness behind them, the
fathomless dread, mimicked exactly the old, acid seethe
of fear which drove Angus' brutality.
  She'd sold her soul to the zone implant in an effort to
survive the consequences of that brutality. Simply seeing
Angus' image in front of her cramped her heart, as if she
no longer had enough room inside her for her own pulse,
her own blood.
  But he wasn't Angus Thermopyle, he wasn't, he was
Davies Hyland, her son. He may have had Angus' genes
and body; his perceptions may have been flavored by
Angus' particular endocrine stew; his knowledge of him-
self may have been tainted by her memories of Angus.
Yet he'd received his mind from her. All his starting
points were different than his father's. She had to believe
that he would also reach different conclusions.
  'Nick.' Scorz's voice reached Morn through her tur-
moil. 'Enablement's talking again.'
  Morn heard a slight susurrus of bearings and servos as
Nick pivoted his seat. Instinctively she turned as well.
  Again he commanded, 'Audio.'
  'Enablement Station to presumed human Captain Nick
Succorso,' reported the bridge speakers, 'the Amnion
emissary awaits acceptance aboard your ship.'
  'Tell them' - despite his fury, Nick had resumed his
nonchalant, dangerous poise - '"The Amnion emissary
will be accepted as soon as an escort has been arranged."
Send it.
  'Mikka,' he went on immediately, 'you're the escort.
Don't let that thing aboard until you're sure there's only



one of it. Keep it covered the whole time - we don't have
to pretend to be nice about this.
  'Liete, it's your job to make sure Morn and the asshole
here don't do or say anything to get in my way.'
  A small spasm like a clench of protest tightened
Mikka's scowl. Nevertheless she grunted an acknowledg-
ment and left the bridge. Liete responded by coming
down the curve to stand behind Morn and Davies with
her hand on her impact pistol.
  Davies was still too naive to keep his thoughts to him-
self. And his mind had been formed from Morn's: his
thoughts grew from her need and revulsion. 'Someday,'
he muttered, 'I'm going to give him a new asshole to
remember me by.'
  Nick snorted another laugh.
  The Amnion require possession-
  Morn put her hand in her pocket and increased the
intensity of her zone implant's emissions.
  With Davies at her shoulder, and Liete Corregio's gun
at her back, she waited for the emissary.
  Abruptly Nick said to the bridge, 'All right, listen.
We've got things to think about before Mikka gets back.'
He'd set his fury aside for the moment. The Amnion
want to make a deal. I would hate,' he drawled, 'to miss
an opportunity like this. But we've already got every-
thing we asked for. Including' - he held up the credit-jack
- 'enough money to repair the gap drive. Hell, we've got
enough money to replace that fucker. So what're we going
to bargainer?'
  Liete didn't hesitate. 'A chance to get out of here.'
  Why?' he demanded. They've already told us we can



go. Why should we ask for something they've already
promised?'
  Vector opened his eyes. 'No, Nick. Liete's right.' His
gaze was dull, and he didn't smile; if anything, the flesh
of his face seemed to droop more heavily from its under-
pinnings. 'It's not that simple. You said yourself, if they
keep us long enough, they'll have time to finish testing
your blood. But the situation is worse than that. If we
leave slowly enough, they'll still have time. And then
they'll come after us.
  They'll catch us.' His voice sounded as arthritic as his
joints. 'Right now, we couldn't outrun a lifeboat - if it
had a gap drive. And we're' - his hands opened and
closed on his board - 'half a light-year from Thanatos
Minor. A full year for us at our best speed. They'll have
that long to hunt us down, while we're trying to survive
on six or nine months' worth of food.'
  'Get to the point,' Nick said with the same insouciant,
ominous drawl.
  The point,' Vector sighed as if he were hardening
himself against Mom'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 hey 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 in-
evitable; 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 were careful, she could do it.
  And if she failed-
  If she failed, nothing on Captain's Fancy or En-
ablement Station would prevent her from exacting retri-
bution. 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'd 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 accom-
modate 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 sonofa-
bitch 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 incomprehen-
sion. 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 crea-
ture didn't flinch or betray any other reaction - except
by the semaphore of its 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.
  'However, my original identity gives me certain advan-
tages in dealing with humans. I can'-he paused - 'under-
stand 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 decis-
iveness. I am empowered to make commitments in this
situation.
  What are your requirements?'
  In his own way, Nick had been 'invested with decis-
iveness'. 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 ore-laser
seared through Morn. The source- The Amnion knew
her secret. The doctor had discovered it while she was
helpless in the creche.
  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 neuro-
chemical transmitters which relay fear.' Doom and rust.
'Crudely put, she was unable to experience her own ter-
ror. 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. Other-
wise 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.
   cNick!' 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 stun-
prod 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 every-
thing. 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 emo-
tions 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 estab-
lished 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 modu-
lation 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 re-
quirements.'
  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 speci-
fications, 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 trans-
mit 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 tra-
jectory, 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 him-
self 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 ap-
proached 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.'
  Mikka held Morn's gaze; the corner of her upper lip
twitched toward a sneer or a snarl. After a moment she
nodded stiffly.
  Several strides ahead of the Amnion emissary and the
command second, Morn left the bridge.
  Nick knew about her zone implant. Her son had been
traded away.
  There was nothing left to restrain her.



Hurrying, she chose a route to her cabin that
          took her past one of Captain's Fancy's tool
          lockers.
  As she opened the locker, she began to tremble. If
someone caught her doing this, she was finished. But she
couldn't afford to hesitate: she had too little time,
Despite the risk, she helped herself to a circuit probe, a
small coil of wire, a simple screwdriver, and a wiring
laser; she hid them in her pockets. Then she moved on
toward her cabin, nearly running.
  She wasn't worried about what Nick might do to her
in the next few hours. He was being challenged on too
many sides at once. He had the Amnion to deal with, and
the danger that his ship might never get out of forbidden
space. In addition he had to consider the reactions of his
people to the fact that he was willing to sell human
beings. When he traded Davies away, he gave the entire
crew reason to distrust him. If he didn't do something



to restore confidence in himself- and do it soon - Cap-
tain's Fancy might be crippled by doubt.
  At the same time, he'd just received his first true
glimpse of the masque Morn played against him. Now
he had to recognize that everything he'd felt for her and
every decision he'd made regarding her was founded on
a lie.
  Under the circumstances, he would leave her alone
until after Captain's Fancy escaped Enablement; until he
was far enough from the Station to feel safe. And that
time might be days away; it might never come. She
would face it when or if it happened.
  No, her main worry where he was concerned had to
do with her black box. Had he realized yet that her zone
implant was meaningless unless she also had a zone
implant control? Was he too busy to bother taking it
away from her?
  As long as he let her keep it, she retained her
advantage.
  When she reached her cabin and keyed the panel, the
door swept open.
   She felt certain Nick wouldn't neglect to lock her in as
soon as the computer told him she'd entered her cabin.
Nevertheless she went in and let the door close.
  At once a small amber light on the interior panel indi-
cated that she was a prisoner.
   Now she didn't need to hurry. The Amnion could
deliver the equipment immediately, but not the adapters.
And even in his worst fury, Nick wouldn't hand over
Davies until the Amnion fulfilled their part of the bar-
gain. She might have an hour - or she might have five.
Plenty of time.



  She hurried anyway. Desperation and the effects of her
zone implant made her manic.
  With the screwdriver, she pried open the door's control
panel.
  She was as careful as her internal frenzy permitted. Any
mistake would alert the computer; would alert Nick. But
she'd gone beyond restraint, and the electrical pressure
in her brain left no room for uncertainty. Driven by cold,
visceral horror and absolute rage, she felt immune to
error.
  With the probe, she tested the circuits until she under-
stood them. Then she positioned pieces of wire - as
crooked and yet legible as handwriting - to by-pass both
the locking mechanism and its sensor, so that the com-
puter would always report that the door was shut and
locked. When she'd welded her wires into the circuits,
she burned out the by-passed controls.
  Now the door couldn't be opened or closed elec-
tronically; but she could shove it aside with the friction
of her palms.
  She was ready.
  The time had come for her to wait.
  That should have been impossible. Her son was being
traded to the Amnion. They would run tests on him until
his psyche tore and his spirit snapped. Then they would
make him one of them. They might very well turn him
into an improved version of Marc Vestabule. Waiting
should have been inconceivable.
  It wasn't. Her zone implant made her capable of
anything.
  On some level, she knew that its emissions were as
addictive as any drug, and as destructive. But that didn't



matter: they were also effective. With them, she could
have put herself to sleep. Or she could have tuned her
body to the pitch of orgasm until her brain went into
noradrenalin overload, and everything she would ever
think or feel boiled away.
  However, she had a more complex form of suicide in
mind.
  After a few adjustments to her black box, she sank into
a trance of concentration in which her mind was charged
simultaneously with vitality and peace: a trance that
allowed her to remember everything she'd ever learned
about Captain's Fancy - every code, every command
sequence, every logic-tree - as well as every precaution
Nick had taken for Enablement Station.
  Instead of going hysterical with apprehension and
helplessness, she spent her time preparing to fight the
entire ship.
  Try to stop me now. Just try.
  There was nothing left to restrain her. At last she
could be utterly what Angus Thermopyle had made her.
  The zone implant left no room for doubt. In her con-
centrated trance, she saw only one thing which might go
wrong.
  What if Mikka didn't tell her when the trade took
place?
  Then she and Davies were both lost. He would be
abandoned to the Amnion, and she would be at Nick's
mercy until she died.
  The fear that Mikka might fail or betray her should
have been enough to tip her over the edge.
  But it wasn't. Dread was human: hysteria and revulsion



belonged to flesh and blood. She'd left such emotions
behind.
  The only one she retained was her long, unappeased
rage.

And Mikka didn't let her down. Nearly two and a half
hours after Morn had entered her cabin, the intercom
chimed.
  'Morn?' the command second asked softly, as if she
were whispering. 'Morn?'
  Nearly two and half hours. Was that enough time for
the Amnion to run their tests on Nick's blood? Morn
didn't know. How they cultured and examined their
specimens was a mystery to her.
  'Morn?' Mikka repeated. The intercom's tiny speaker
conveyed only a hint of anguish. 'He's gone.'
  Nearly two and a half hours. That may or may not
have been all the time the Amnion needed, but it was
enough for Morn. Keying herself out of her trance, she
brought up energy and strength that made her feel like a
charged matter cannon.
  "We've got the equipment and adapters,' Mikka con-
tinued uncertainly. 'Vector was impressed. He says they
look perfect. He's already in the drive space. He says if
they're as perfect as they look he can have us ready for
thrust in half an hour' - Captain's Fancy couldn't use
either of her drives while he was inside the engines - 'and
tach in an hour.'
  She may have been trying to comfort Morn. You didn't
lose your son for nothing. At least now we'll have a
chance.
  Morn didn't answer. She owed Mikka that: as long as



she didn't answer, Mikka was protected. No one could
prove that the command second had spoken to her.
  Bracing her hands on the door, she pressed it aside and
stepped past it. Then she closed it to disguise her absence.
  If someone saw her now, she would have to silence
whoever it was. She was ready for that. But the passage
was empty. By this time, Liete's watch should have
relieved Mikka's; Nick's should be on emergency
stations around the ship. However, Morn was artificially
sure those things hadn't happened. Nick's best people
would be with him on the bridge. And while Captain's
Fancy was docked no one was needed on emergency
stations. The rest of the crew would be in the galley or
the mess, listening to the intercom for anything Nick let
them hear.
  If they weren't, they were dead.
  Or she was.
  Morn went down to the auxiliary bridge.
  Liete Corregio was there.
  In a sense, it was fortuitous that Morn's certainty had
only misled her to that extent.
  And Liete was alone; she sat in the command seat with
her back to the doorway; she'd activated her board so
that she could keep track of what was happening to the
ship: more good fortune.
  But she still wore her handgun.
  Morn would have to deal with the command third
somehow.
  She didn't hesitate. Her zone implant inspired her.
Deep within herself, she'd reached a place of madness
and focus where there was no doubt.



  Silent as oil, she eased across the deck and punched
Liete once, hard, behind the right ear.
  Liete snapped forward; her forehead cracked against
the console. When she slumped to the side, she left a
smear of blood on the board.
  Quickly Morn checked her pulse, her eyes: she didn't
want to kill the command third. But Liete was barely
unconscious. Good. Hurrying because she couldn't pre-
dict what the Amnion would do to Davies, or when,
Morn took Liete's handgun. Then she unsealed the com-
mand third's shipsuit, pulled her arms out of the sleeves,
and resealed the suit with her arms pinned inside. Not as
good as a straitjacket, but good enough so that Liete
couldn't do anything sudden to surprise Morn.
  Morn dragged Liete to the wall near the door, propped
her there. She closed the door and locked it. After that
she seated herself at the command station and repo-
sitioned it to face the door - a precaution in case Nick
tried to force his way in while she worked.
  A small groan trailed between Liete's lips. Blood from
her forehead dripped past her nose and around her
mouth.
  Morn ignored her.
  Now.
  She felt that she'd arrived at a moment of apotheosis.
She'd been alone on the auxiliary bridge of Starmaster
when she'd killed her father, killed most of her family.
  Now.
  Self-destruct.
  Perhaps this was what gap-sickness felt like. Perhaps
circumstances and her black box had re-created that par-
ticular abrogation of sanity.



  No matter. This time she was going to save somebody
who depended on her. If it could be done, she was going
to save her son.
  Clear and confident, she set her fingers to the keys of
the auxiliary command board.
  First she opened her intercom so that she would hear
anything Nick chose to share with the rest of the ship.
Then she went to work.
  Her instructions to the command computer had to be
both subtle and compulsory, so that they wouldn't attract
attention while they took precedence over other oper-
ations. She needed to dummy Vector's jury-rigged
destruct sequence to her board: that required her to tap
into targ, engineering, and maintenance, as well as into
Nick's console. Then she had to issue codes which would
deactivate those functions from the bridge, re-route them
to her. Along the way, she also needed to commandeer
control over the auxiliary bridge doors and life-support
- not to mention the airlock which connected Captain's
fancy to Enablement Station. In addition, she required
communications: she would be useless if she couldn't
talk. And she had to achieve all this in a way that couldn't
be countermanded.
  The destruct sequence was easy: it wasn't integral to
the ship's systems, had no built-in overrides. Nick had
obviously intended to dismantle it as soon as he escaped
Enablement. Besides, she'd helped Vector design it; she
remembered it exactly. But the rest demanded an almost
eidetic recall of everything she'd learned from her time
as Captain's Fancy's data second; from the ordeal of her
attempt to cure Vorbuld's virus.



  The state which her zone implant imposed on her mind
gave her the necessary recall.
  The most crucial thing, the real trick, was to disable
Nick's priority-codes. This was his ship, programmed to
let him supersede all other instructions no matter who
issued them. As matters stood, he could shut her down
the instant he realized what she was doing.
  And yet she'd already conceived a simple solution to
the problem - a solution so simple that he might never
figure it out.
  She wrote an intervening batch command to his board,
a command which his priority-codes would activate
before they took effect; a command which altered his
codes by transposing a few digits so that none of the
computers would recognize them.
  He would be unable to countermand her until he
erased the batch command. And that wouldn't happen
until he realized what she'd done.
  Now. When she keyed in his priority-codes herself, all
the control she needed would switch to her board. It
would belong to her until she gave it up.
  Liete groaned again, twitched, opened her eyes. Like
the trickle of blood from her forehead, she breathed,
What the hell are you doing?'
  As if he were answering, Nick's voice came over the
intercom. 'Liete, check on Vector. He can't hear me in
there. I want a status report. Find out when we can get
out of here.'
  'Nick,' Liete moaned, so weakly that he couldn't hear
her, 'Morn's here. She's taken over the auxiliary bridge.'
  It didn't matter if Nick heard Liete. Morn was ready.
  No, she wasn't. There was one more precaution-



  Nick waited for Liete's answer. The intercom stayed
open: it picked up Lind's voice in the background.
  'Nick, something's happening to my board.'
  Morn was out of time. Precautions would have to wait.
  With a few keys, a few codes, she risked everything.
  Indicators articulated her board: instructions and con-
firmations sped across her readouts. A subliminal shift in
the ambient power-hum of the auxiliary bridge seemed
to promise that the systems she needed belonged to her
now.
  She had communications.
  She had life-support.
  She had doors and airlocks.
  She had self-destruct.
  She could make herself feel like singing; but that wasn't
necessary.
  'Liete!' Nick demanded, 'what the fuck are you doing down there?'

  Morn silenced the intercom. 'Shut up and sit still,' she
told Liete. 'I've got your gun.' She raised the impact
pistol. 'I don't want to kill you, but I won't let you
interfere.'
  Liete licked her lips and tried to swallow, but her
mouth was too dry. After a moment she nodded.
  Now.
  Morn snapped the intercom back on.
  'Nick, this is Morn. I'm on the auxiliary bridge.'
  'Morn, you-!' he began.
  She cut him off. 'I've got the self-destruct. It's primed
and ready. And I've canceled your priority-codes. You
can't override me.
  'If you leave me alone, there's a chance we may all



survive. I'm even going to protect your credibility with
the Amnion. But you sold my son, and I won't stand for
that. If you get in my way, this ship and most of
Enablement will end up as atomic powder.'
  Her zone implant enabled her to concentrate on as
many different things as necessary. While she talked, she
wrote in her last precaution - another batch command.
  This one would work off her board. When it was ready,
she could press down on the toggle which displayed the
ship's chronometer on her readouts, and if anything hap-
pened to her - if anything made her take her finger off
the toggle - the self-destruct would be engaged. Captain's
Fancy would blow in milliseconds.
  'Cut her off!' Nick shouted to somebody else. 'Cut
power to the auxiliary bridge! Override her - get your
boards back!' He hit his keys so hard that the sound
carried over the intercom, punctuating his rage.
  Nothing wavered on her board. Her control held.
  'Nick?' she asked conversationally from the depths of
her own fury. 'Don't you want to know what I'm going
to do?'
  'Mikka, get down there!' he yelled. 'Cut through the
door - cut her to pieces, if you have to!' But a second
later he changed his mind. 'No, I'll do it. You take the
bridge. I want my ship back! I'm going to tear her fucking
guts out with my hands?
  'Mikka,' said Morn, grinning back at Liete's horrified
stare, 'he isn't listening. Maybe you will. I've got the
self-destruct on a batch command.' This was now true.
'It's set to the chronometer toggle. My finger is on the
toggle.' Her finger pressed the key firmly to the surface
of the board. 'If I'm attacked, or threatened - or even



surprised - and my finger comes off the toggle, the ship
will blow.
  'You can't stop it. There aren't any overrides. And I
really have canceled his priority-codes.' One lie more
or less made no difference to her. Let everyone wonder
whether her programming skills were that good. 'You'd
better make him understand that. He sounds like he's
gone off the deep end.'
  'Morn!' The command second's shout cracked over the
intercom. What in God's name are you trying to do?'
  Save us all. Believe it or not. Even sweet, desirable
presumed human Captain Nick fucking Succorso.
  'Just listen,' she replied. 'You can't cut off my com-
munications output, but you can hear it. In about a min-
ute, you'll understand everything.'
  Including why you need to keep Nick from messing
with me.
  She left the intercom open. Part of her brain continued
to process the gabble of voices from the bridge - Malda
Verone's distress and Carmel's anger, Sib Mackern's
inchoate protests, Lind's near-hysteria. From the
engineer's station, Pup kept whimpering, 'Get out of
there, Vector, please, get out of there,' as if proximity to
the thrusters were Shaheed's only peril. But none of that
deflected Morn.
  How long would it take Nick to grab a cutting laser
and a gun, and reach the auxiliary bridge?
  That didn't deflect her, either.
  With a few quick taps on the command console -
  pressing the chronometer toggle flat to the board
  - she opened communications with the Amnion.
  'Enablement Station, this is Morn Hyland. I'm the



human female who gave birth to the offspring you just
took from Captain's Fancy. I want my son back.'
  There was no answer.
  It was possible that Enablement couldn't hear her -
that she'd committed an error of some kind, or that the
Station had simply cut reception. She didn't believe either
of those things; she didn't worry about them. Extremity
and artificial strength made her certain.
  'Enablement Station, I've taken control of this ship.
I've rigged a self-destruct - it ties both drives and all our
fuel into the weapons systems. You know enough about
us to guess how much damage that can do. An explosion
like that will probably take out twenty-five to forty per
cent of the Station.
  'I'm going to blow us all up unless I get my son back.'
  Still no answer.
  Morn chuckled as if she were delirious. 'Enablement
Station, if you don't reply, I'm going to assume your
answer is negative - and then I won't have anything left
to live for. Captain Succorso will kill me, if you don't.
You have five seconds. Starting' - she kept time with the
toe of one boot - 'now.
  'Five.
  'Four.
  Three.'
  'Enablement Station to presumed human Captain Nick
Succorso,' said the mechanical voice of Amnion auth-
ority. What occurs aboard your ship? Answer immedi-
ately. There is falseness here. Do you seek to annul the
mutual satisfaction of requirements?'
  Oh, there's falseness here, all right. Humans are like



that. You can't begin to guess just how much falseness
there is.
  'Enablement,' Mikka snapped rapidly, 'this is com-
mand second Mikka Vasaczk. Captain Succorso is
unavailable. He's trying to find a way to stop this Morn
Hyland.
  What she says is true. She's sabotaged bridge function
- she has control from the auxiliary bridge. Our instru-
ments indicate she's created a self-destruct.' Apparently
Mikka also was willing to lie. 'She's turned the whole ship
into a bomb, and she's got her finger on the detonator.
  We urgently request you reply to her. Don't give her
an excuse to blow us up. She's that offspring's mother.
Losing him has driven her insane. She's going to kill us
all if you don't at least talk to her.'
  Well, good for you, Mikka, Morn thought. Nick may
have gone into meltdown, but you're still using your
head.
  'Morn.' Over the intercom, Vector sounded tense,
almost frightened. 'Christ on a crutch, woman! What do
you think you're doing?
  Good. Vector was safe. He couldn't have heard what
was going on unless he'd finished hooking up the
Amnion replacements and come out the engine space to
begin testing them.
  'Vector,' she answered, 'we're hanging by a thread
here. Maybe we'll make it, maybe we won't. At the
moment I'm not sure I care which. But I think you'd
better get that gap drive functional as quick as you can.
If the thread holds, we'll need to get out of here fast.''
Just to make everybody nervous, she asked, 'How good
are you at going into tach cold?'



  If he replied, she didn't hear it. Instead she heard ham-
mering on the door of the auxiliary bridge -
  - and Nick's voice over the intercom, shouting, 'God
damn you, Morn! This is my ship! MY SHIP!'
  - and an Amnioni saying, 'Enablement Station to
Morn Hyland. What is the purpose of this threat? The
Amnion emissary Marc Vestabule reports that trade for
the new human offspring was negotiated directly with
presumed human Captain Nick Succorso. His require-
ments have been satisfied. It has been stated repeatedly
that the ship Captain's Fancy may depart Enablement
Station freely. This is - translation suggests the word
"honorable" trade. Why do you seek to dishonor your
dealings with the Amnion?'
  'Listen to me!' Morn spat back at Enablement. Sudden
fury fired through her, and she flung every gram of it
into the communications pickup. 'I'm only going to say
this once.
  'Captain Succorso may have traded directly with you,
but he didn't do the same with me\ That "offspring" is
my son. Do you hear me?. My son. Captain Succorso didn't
have the right to give him away, and I refuse to give him
up!'As she watched, a hot, red spot like a flower bloomed
near the lock of the door. Almost at once, a trickle of
slag started down the surface. A smell of ozone charged
the air.
  Liete Corregio began struggling inside her shipsuit,
writhing to get her arms free.
  'Maybe I'm insane,' Morn raged at the Station. 'Maybe
that "force-growing" process just cost me reason, not
function.' That idea might give her threat credibility. 'I



don't know, and I don't care. 7 want my son back! I want
him back now. If I don't get him, I'm going to blow
myself up, and this ship, and as much of your goddamn
Station as I can take with me, because I just don't give a
shit?
  With her free fist, she pounded off the communications
pickup. Into the intercom, she shouted, 'Mikka! Stop
Nick! Do you hear me? Stop him!'
  When the command second replied, she sounded
worn-out and beaten. 'Have you ever actually tried that?
I'm not sure it can be done.'
  'Enablement Station to Morn Hyland. Your behavior
is a violation of trade. For this, you have earned the
unending enmity of the Amnion. As soon as you depart
Enablement Station, the defensives Tranquil Hegemony
and Calm Horizons will hunt you until you have been
destroyed.'
  Furiously Morn punched the pickup back on.
'"Unending," my ass,' she snarled. 'It's going to end in
about five minutes if you don't give me my son back.'
  At the same time Mikka protested from the bridge,
'Enablement Station, that's not fair! We didn't do this!
She's threatening all of us, not just you. You can't punish
us for what she does. If you start doing business like that,
no human is ever going to trade with the Amnion again.'
  The command second was still thinking, still fighting
for Captain's Fancy's survival - and, incidentally, for
Davies'.
  The Amnion authorities ignored her. 'Enablement
Station to Morn Hyland,' said the flat, alien voice. 'Proof
of your self-destruct is required.'



  Morn was ready for that, too. 'Here it comes,' she
rasped; ozone filled her throat. 'Don't miss it.'
  Stabbing a few keys, she dumped a literal copy of every
instruction and sequence in the auxiliary command board
along Enablement's transmission line. Everything.
Including Nick's priority-codes. She was in no mood to
be selective. Even with that information, the Amnion
wouldn't be able to stop her: they had no link to Captain's
Fancy's internal systems.
  Liete forced the seal of her shipsuit apart a few centi-
meters. Jamming her fingers into the gap, she began tear-
ing the suit open.
  Morn dropped her free hand to the impact pistol.
  Abruptly the lock failed. A beam of red, coherent light
flicked, then vanished. The door swept out of Nick's way.
  He blazed into the room like a solar flare. The cutting
laser was his only weapon - the only weapon he needed.
His scars were dark acid eating at his face; his eyes were
black holes. He came one step past the doorway, two. As
steady as steel, he aimed the laser at Morn's chest and
switched it on.
  He missed because Liete threw herself across the barrel
of the laser.
  Red ruin hit the screen beyond Morn's shoulder. The
display melted blank before the beam was cut off.
  With her weight on the laser and Nick's arm, Liete
pulled him to the floor. He tried to drive her aside with
the butt, but she squirmed out of the way, twisted herself
on top of him.
  'Nick, listen to me!' she shouted into his face. Small
drops of her blood splashed onto his features. 'I'll tackle



her myself, if you tell me to! I'll walk over there and jump
at her. But hear me first. Listen!
  'She's keyed self-destruct to the chronometer toggle -
and she's got her finger on the toggle!'
  When her warning reached him, Nick froze.
  'If you touch her,' Liete continued, 'if anybody touches
her, she'll lift her finger. She doesn't have to be alive to
do it. And we can't stop her. She won't let us get that
close.'
  'Besides,' Morn commented in a tone of murderous
satisfaction, 'I've got a gun.' She held up the impact pis-
tol. 'I'm not going to miss. Not at this range. Not when
I've got a chance to kill the man who sold my son.'
  'Then kill me!'
  Nick swung the laser across his body, hammering Liete
off him. Gasping as if he'd broken her ribs, she rolled
away.
  'Kill me now!'
  He surged to his feet. Facing straight down the muzzle
of Morn's gun, he pointed the laser between her eyes.
  'I'm not going to let you have my ship!'
  But he didn't fire.
  She didn't either.
  She would have loved killing him. She relished the
bare idea of tightening her finger on the trigger. She
wanted to see his face crumple and spatter from an
impact-blast - wanted it so intensely that the desire made
her giddy.
  Nevertheless she restrained herself.
  'You bastard,' she sighed as if she no longer cared what
he did. With a negligent flick, she tossed her gun at his
feet. 'Stop thinking with your gonads and use your brain.



We're all going to live or die in the next few minutes,
and the only thing you can do about it is make us die
faster.' She nodded at her finger on the toggle. 'But if
you'll leave me alone, I might just get us out of here in
one piece. If Vector does his job right.'
  Awkward with pain, Liete climbed to her feet. New
blood seeped from a gash on her cheek, joining the ooze
from her forehead. Her eyes were glazed, barely con-
scious. She was able to stand, however.
  Nick's gaze widened as Morn discarded her gun; but
his grip on the laser didn't waver. Almost without tran-
sition, however, his scars had gone as pale as his face. He
looked like all the blood was draining out of his heart.
  Through his teeth, he breathed, 'You're bluffing.'
  That's what Enablement thinks,' she retorted. That's
why we might end up dead. But you don't have to believe
it. Talk to Mikka. She's still got most of her command
functions. She can look at what I've done. She just can't
change it without your priority-codes - and I've made
them useless.'
  Nick's cheeks and forehead had turned ashen, the color
of old bone. His eyes grew bleak, haunted by memories
of despair and contempt. 'Morn,' he said to her softly, 'I
don't lose. I don't lose. If you beat me here, I swear to
you I'll make you and fucking Thermo-pile's son pay so
much for it that you'll wish you'd sold yourselves to the
Amnion.'
  She wanted to spit at him. She wanted to sneer, Don't
underestimate yourself- I've been in hell and agony ever
since you first touched me. Yet she resisted those desires,
just as she'd refrained from shooting him. Instead she
made a sacrifice which seemed more expensive, and



infinitely harder, than killing herself. She offered him a
way out of his dilemma; a way to salvage his ego.
  She said, 'I'm not trying to beat you. I'm trying to beat the Amnion.'

  He muttered, The shit you are.' But his scorn-ridden
gaze betrayed an appeal, as if despite his outrage he were
begging her to make what she said true.
  'Enablement Station to Morn Hyland.'
  Morn turned away from Nick. Keying communi-
cations, she answered harshly, 'I hear you.'
  'False trade is unacceptable,' said the mechanical voice.
'You have been dealt with honorably. Therefore the
human offspring belongs to the Amnion. This is unalter-
able. He must belong to the Amnion.'
  She started to retort; Nick surprised her by holding up
his hand, demanding silence. Still clutching his laser, he
walked toward her.
  She pressed the chronometer toggle hard enough to
whiten her knuckles. But when he reached her station,
he dropped the laser. Instead of attacking, he leaned so
close to her that she could smell the fury on his breath,
as acrid as Amnion air.
  'Enablement,' he rasped to the communications
pickup, 'this is Captain Succorso. You'll get your damn
offspring. I'll make sure of that.'
  While he spoke, his gaze held Morn's, daring her to
contradict him. 'You're right - you traded for him
honorably. But she's calling the shots at the moment. She
can blow us up, and there's nothing I can do about it.
  'But she's only human,' he snarled. 'She's got to rest
sometime. And she can't do that unless she releases
self-destruct.



  'I'll get my ship back,' he promised. 'And when I do, you can have the offspring.'

  'Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso,' said
Enablement promptly, 'you have made a commitment
which you will be required to fulfill.'
  As if his words had freed the Amnion from an impasse,
the Station announced, 'Morn Hyland, your offspring
waits outside your airlock. You will be permitted to take
him aboard.'
  Permitted -
  Nick, you shit.
   - to take him aboard.
  Without her zone implant, she might have sagged in
relief; might have lost control of herself or the situation.
Fortunately the charge in her brain held. Silencing the
pickup, she told Nick, 'Go back to the bridge. Get us out
of here. When I feel secure, I'll tell you how to restore
your priority-codes.
  'Liete,' she continued as if she were still certain, 'take
your gun and get Davies. Make sure he comes alone -
and they haven't planted anything on him.' For instance
a tracking device to help them find him again. Tell Nick
when it's safe to go.'
  Liete nodded dumbly. Half stumbling, she retrieved
her impact pistol and left.
  Nick had recovered his grin. Still leaning close to Morn
as if he wanted to smother her, he said, 'You're finished.
I hope you know that -I hope it breaks your heart. You
aren't human, not with that rucking electrode in your
head, and for all I know you can go for years without
rest. But you're still finished. Gap-sickness will get you.
  'We're going to head for human space. As soon as



Vector says we're ready, we'll start accelerating. That's
how much time you've got left. You mentioned going
into tach cold, but you know we can't do that. Stationary
objects in gap fields tend to reappear near where they
started. Slow-moving objects tend not to go where
they're aimed. We need a certain amount of speed - and
that means hard g. Unless you want to spend weeks
picking up velocity.'
  And hard g triggered her gap-sickness.
  'You can't get around it. You didn't go through all this
just so you could blow us up an hour from now. Before
we hit the gap, you'll have to give my ship back.
  Then you won't have any way to make me do it. You
won't be able to prevent me if I decide to stop and give
them that asshole. We're just marking time here - just
going through the motions. As soon as you come up
against your gap-sickness, you're mine.'
  Morn laughed in his face.
  What he said was true, of course. But she meant to
overcome that obstacle as well. She was already as dose
to gap-sickness as she intended to get.
  In the meantime, she had the satisfaction of seeing
doubt run like lightning across the dark background of
his gaze.
  He pulled back in dismay. 'You're crazy,' he rasped;
but the words carried no conviction. Once again her zone
implant made her more than he was; enabled her to
outdo him.
  Wheeling away to hide his chagrin, he strode off the
auxiliary bridge.
  Left to herself, Morn Hyland cackled like a mad-
woman.



  She knew that in the end she couldn't win this contest.
She probably wouldn't survive it. He would regain con-
trol of his ship: her gap-sickness made that inevitable.
But she and her son would be safe from the Amnion.
When they died, their deaths would be as brutal as Nick
could make them - and they would be human.
  And there was still a chance that she could change
Nick's mind. His doubt was a tectonic fault running
through the core of his personality. If she could find the
keystone, she might be able to shift it-
  For some reason, tears streamed down her cheeks as if
she were weeping.
  Later. She would worry about things like that later.
Right now, she had other problems.
  'Nick,' Liete reported over the intercom, 'he's aboard.
He says they didn't have time to do anything to him. As
far as I can tell, he's clean,'
  'Lock him up somewhere,' Nick ordered immediately.
'I don't want him wandering around the ship.'
  'Davies,' Morn inserted, nearly choking on a grief she
couldn't name, 'are you all right?'
  Sounding preternaturally like his father, he replied, 'If
you call being this helpless "all right".'
  Just for a moment, her relief was strong enough to
overwhelm the zone implant's emissions.
  She considered demanding that he be allowed to join
her, then dismissed the idea. She couldn't credibly insist
that she was willing to blow up Captain's Fancy and
Enablement Station simply to spare Davies incarceration.
  Take care of yourself,' she told her son, even though
she wasn't sure he could still hear her.
  With her free hand, she called up the self-destruct batch



command to one of her readouts and began editing it.
  'Enablement Station, this is command second Mikka
Vasaczk. Prepare to disengage.'
  First things first. Carefully she removed the sequence
which keyed self-destruct from the chronometer toggle.
When she'd replaced the old batch command with this
new version, she was able to lift her finger.
  More relief. Her imposed capability seemed to be fail-
ing. She wanted to put her head down on the console.
  With an audible thunk and jolt, Captain's Fancy separ-
ated from dock.
  At once g changed. Suddenly insecure in her seat, she
paused to belt herself down. Then she went back to work.
  Mikka's intercom remained open. Morn heard her ask,
'Drive status?'
  Thrust is green.' Pup's voice had a note of fright which
made him sound even younger than he was. 'Vector says
you can have it whenever you want. He's still working
on the gap drive. The new equipment functions fine, but
the control parameters need adjustment. And some of
the tests don't seem to run right.'
  'Take us out of here,' Mikka instructed the helm first.
'Follow their protocols exactly. They already have too
many reasons not to trust us. Don't give them another
one.''Are you getting this, Morn?' Nick put in. 'You're run-
ning out of time.'
  He'd left the intercom open, hoping to torment her.
  The first small touch of thrust nudged her against the
side of her seat. They were leaving Enablement Station;
escaping the Amnion. She and her son. No matter what
Nick did to her later, she was winning now.



  With an effort of will, she continued her preparations
for the crisis of g.
  She'd learned this trick from Angus. No, 'learned'
wasn't the right word for it. She'd seen him do it; she'd
experienced its results; she'd even looked at it, in the files
he'd let her see. But to remember it now, remember it
well enough to reproduce it after so many months, so
much intervening pain-
  She had to make the effort.
  While her artificial clarity gradually frayed and faded,
she wrote a new batch command. Not for the self-
destruct this time: for her black box itself.
  As Angus had once done, she created a parallel zone
implant control, using the circuits of the auxiliary com-
munications station. Through the command board, she
switched the functions of her black box to those circuits,
then shoved the box itself into her pocket for what may
have been the last time. After that, she programmed the
parallel control to put her to sleep the moment Captain's
Fancy experienced g higher than 1.5 - and to wake her
up again when it dropped below that.
  Even 1.5 was a risk; but she had to assume that her
flawed mind could stand at least a little strain. If she set
her sleep threshold any lower, she would be unconscious
while g was still soft enough to let Nick's people move
against her.
  If this worked - if she remembered it right, did it right
- she could avoid her gap-sickness without being forced
to relinquish the self-destruct. Nick had never been in
her cabin with her during acceleration or deceleration:
he didn't know how she took care of herself. Before he
could risk challenging her, he would have to discover -



or guesss - what her defenses were. And that might take
time.
  It might take long enough for Captain's Fancy to cross
the gap.
  Once he reached human space, he might reconsider
the commitment he'd made to the Amnion.
  Her arrangements took a long time to set up. They
were complex - and she was losing recall. Emotional
exhaustion drained her despite the pressure of the elec-
trode in her brain.
  At the fringes of her awareness, she noticed the steady
increase of g as Captain's Fancy took on thrust.
  From the bridge, Carmel's report reached her: Tran-
quil Hegemony and Calm Horizons were following Cap-
tain's Fancy outward.
  Abruptly Mikka entered the room. Without hesitation,
she sat down at the auxiliary scan station. Scowling
impersonally, she announced, 'Nick sent me to keep an
eye on you. Don't worry, I won't get in your way.'
  A new threat. Mikka would see her helplessness under
g. To protect herself, Morn slid her finger back onto the
chronometer toggle. But her attention was contracting:
her window of clarity shrank. She struggled with her
preparations. If she made a mistake, g would drive her
mad-
  Then, over the intercom, she heard Vector say, 'I don't
know about this, Nick.'
  'I'm in no mood to guess,' Nick snapped back. 'Say
what you mean.'
  The new equipment checks out fine, as far as I can
tell,' Vector answered. 'I've got it powered up, and it
looks stable. But, Nick' - the engineer faltered momen-



tarily - 'some of the tests don't run. They come up blank.
The rest are absolutely green, dead-center tolerances. But
these ones- There must be fifty possible explanations.
I'll need a month to try them all.'
  'Chance it,' Morn croaked into the intercom.
  'No!' Nick shot back, 'I won't do it. Morn, you're out
of time. You can't stay awake on that toggle for another
month. And I'm not going to risk tach. We need too
much g - you'll blow us up. And if the drive fails, we'll
fry in the gap.
  'Face facts, Morn! There's no way out of this one.'
  A visceral dread, cold and familiar, closed her throat.
She had to force herself to reply. 'And if we run tests for
a month, Enablement will have plenty of time to find out
you cheated them. Then those warships are going to start
shooting.'
  He would listen to that: he had to.
  Grimly she continued, 'I'll give you ten minutes to
pick up velocity. I'm setting the timer now.' Her fingers
keyed commands. 'After that, I'm finished with you. I'll
self-destruct.'
  'Morn!' Vector protested, 'what about your gap-sickness?'

  As hard as she could, she kicked Nick in the keystone
of his doubt. 'Goddamn it!' she shouted because she was
terrified, 'what the hell do you think I've got a zone
implant for?'
  Let him believe she wasn't helpless. Let him believe
she didn't need unconsciousness to protect her. Please let
him believe that.
  She could tell by the way Nick cursed that he did.
  'Secure for burn!' he yelled at his ship. 'You've got



thirty seconds!' At once he began barking instructions
for Vector and the helm first.
  Thirty seconds. Time for one last bluff- one last, des-
perate attempt to keep herself and Davies alive. Fear
mounted like a storm in her as she turned to Mikka.
  'You know what's at stake for me,' she said as firmly
as she could. 'You know I'm out of choices. I'm going
to turn my seat so you can't see how I take care of myself.'
So Mikka wouldn't see her go to sleep; wouldn't see her
release the chronometer toggle. That's for your protec-
tion as well as mine.'
  Please don't try to jump me. I beg you.
  Mikka shrugged distantly. 'It's your neck. I'm not the
one who has to face him when this is over.' A moment
later she added, 'I'm reasonably sure you're not going
to blow us up now. And I want out of Amnion space
myself.'
  As time ran out, Morn swung the command station so
that the back of her seat concealed her from Mikka.
  Then the tactile howl of full thrust fired through Cap-
tain's Fancy's hull, and Morn's mind went away.



Progress in science is often a matter of discovering what
works first and discovering why it works afterward. Dr
Juanita Estevez of SpaceLab Station developed a func-
tioning gap drive five years before she had any idea what
it was.
  By some standards, her greatest achievement was her
demonstration that it was possible to design and build a
gap drive without ever having been aware that the gap
existed. Her ignorance was indicated by the fact that,
when she finally learned what her invention did, she
referred to the effect as 'going into tach' and 'resuming
tard', as though tachyon/tardyon principles were some-
how involved. Plainly they were not - and yet her termin-
ology persisted. A century after the first gap ship returned
successfully from its first mission, people still talked about
'going into tach' when the gap drive was engaged and
'resuming tard' when the gap crossing was complete.



  Of course, Dr Juanita Estevez was a genius - or, as
some of her colleagues insisted, 'a major loon'.
  The device which eventually proved to be a gap drive
prototype, she built believing it to be a 'matter dis-
assembler': objects of various kinds were placed within
the field of the device; power was applied; the objects
disappeared, 'disassembled' into their component par-
ticles and, presumably, dispersed into the atmosphere.
Because she was a private individual with a strongly
developed instinct for self-protection, Dr Estevez was in
no hurry to attract attention for her work. Instead she
concentrated her research in two primary areas: she
attempted to measure the emission of disassembled' par-
ticles into the atmosphere; and she strove to discover the
limits of the 'disassembling' process by experimenting
with objects of various weights and structures.
  The former produced no results. The latter - eventu-
ally - opened the frontiers of the galaxy.
  Until coincidence intervened, however, she had no way
of knowing that her test objects did indeed go some-
where, not 'disassembled' but whole; or that where the
objects went involved a complex interaction between the
strength of the field, the potential strength of the field,
the mass of the object, and the direction and velocity in
which the object was moving when the field was ener-
gized (in this case, SpaceLab Station spin provided both
direction and speed). She knew only that the objects were
in fact gone, and that they left no measurable emissions.
  But one day she energized her field to 'disassemble' a
block of solid titanium. At virtually the same instant, an
explosion occurred in one of SpaceLab Station's bulk-
heads - fortuitously, a redundant cargo hold bulkhead



intended to protect the occupied regions of the Station
if, through accident or terrorism, the cargo should deton-
ate and the hold decompress. The cause of the explosion
became apparent when the block of titanium was found
in the hole of the bulkhead: the block had come through
the gap into a physical space already occupied by the
bulkhead; and since the block was solider, harder, the
bulkhead tore itself loose.
  Of course, no one realized the event's significance
until Dr Estevez rather sheepishly admitted that the block
was hers.
  From that moment, it was only a matter of time before
human beings began to venture beyond their own solar
system.
  The initial research was, inevitably, confused and cau-
tious. Dr Estevez was chagrined by her misunderstanding
of her own experiments; and embarrassment made her
even more protective and territorial than she might have
been otherwise. SpaceLab Station's Administrator of
Research was torn between his desire to pursue Dr
Estevez' experiments and his wish to wrest control of
the invention away from her. And the Administrator of
Facilities was opposed to the entire project on the
grounds that SpaceLab's ecology was too fragile to
absorb the risk that more bulkheads or perhaps even the
Station's skin might be damaged.
  Nevertheless Dr Estevez' research had become too dra-
matic to be thwarted; and eventually its potential benefits
became too obvious to be denied. New versions of the
'disassembler' (now called the 'Juanita Estevez Mass
Transmission Field Generator') were built; more objects
were passed through the gap and relocated; vast com-



puter analyses of the experiments and the result were run.
Then predictions were made, and more tests were run to
verify the predictions.
  The gap drive worked before any but the most abstruse
thinkers had conceived of the gap itself. Interdimensional
travel became a reality as soon as the interactions of the
gap field (primarily mass, velocity, and hysteresis) were
adequately quantified - long before any theoretical
understanding of the gap itself achieved broad acceptance
within the scientific communities of Earth.
  As usual, humankind took action first and considered
the consequences later.
  Dr Estevez should have expected - but did not - that
as soon as a theory of the gap became current scientific
coin, her name for her own invention would fall out of
use. The 'JEMTFG' became, first, 'the interdimensional
drive' , and finally, 'the gap drive'. In a sense, she was
only remembered for her mistakes: references to 'tach'
and 'tard' endured; and the term, 'an Estevez', referred
to 'a major blunder with beneficial results'.
  She died an extremely bitter, as well as an extremely
wealthy, woman.



  Angus Thermopyle woke up many times, and
       remembered none of them. The nightmare he'd
        spent his life fleeing had hold of him. There was
nothing he could do to make it let go.
  He didn't wake up while he was frozen, of course.
He'd been frozen for a number of reasons, and that was
one of them: so that he wouldn't wake up. While he
slept, he couldn't talk.
  However, there were other reasons as well. Cryogenic
transportation was safer than numbing him with seda-
tives or doping him with cat. It offered less risk of neuro-
logical damage - and Hashi Lebwohl didn't want one
synapse or ganglion harmed. The UMCP Director of
Data Acquisition had complex intentions for Angus, all
of which depended on preserving the integrity of what
Angus knew, remembered, and could do.
  So he was kept frozen while Min Donner completed
her business on Com-Mine Station: the meetings
demanded by protocol; the elucidation of policy; the



discussions concerning piracy, forbidden space, and the
Preempt Act. Then he and Milos Taverner were taken
back across the gap to UMCPHQ.
  Soon after that, he began waking up - and forgetting
it. Before they could do anything else, UMCPDA's sur-
geons had to unfreeze him. Until they did so, his body
and brain were as intractable as permafrost. So he was
shifted from the cold tomb of his cryogenic capsule to the
warmer helplessness of cat and anesthetics and surgical
restraints. On brief occasions, he was allowed to rise
toward consciousness so that the surgeons could test their
work. But those occasions were too brief to cling to -
and the pain he felt until the drugs took him back down
into the dark was too acute. In self-defense, he edited
them out of his mental datacore.
  As a result, he had no understanding at all of what the
surgeons did to him; what form his nightmare had taken.
  He wasn't aware that they peeled back his flesh like the
skin of a fruit in order to install utility lasers as keen as
stilettos along the bones of his forearms and hands. When
the operation was done, there was a strange gap between
the third and fourth fingers of each hand, a gap over
which his fingers couldn't close. Connected to their
power supply, those weapons would be able to cut open
locks and thoraxes with equal facility.
  He wasn't aware that his hips and knees and shoulders
were taken apart and reinforced to double or even triple
the effective strength of his muscles; or that struts to
support and shield his spine were installed in his back;
or that another shield was molded over his ribs; or that
a thin, hard plate was set under his shoulder-blades to
anchor and reinforce his arms, protect his heart and lungs



- and to hold the power supply and computer which
would eventually become part of his identity.
  He wasn't aware that his eyes were removed and fitted
with prostheses which were then wired into his optic
nerves, thus enabling him to see electromagnetic spectra
that no organic vision could perceive - spectra relevant to
such diverse applications as alarm systems and computer
circuitry.
  He wasn't aware that zone implants were installed in
his brain: not one electrode but several. When they were
activated, they would control him with a subtlety that
made the things he'd done to Morn Hyland look like
hatchet-work.
  And he certainly wasn't aware that weeks went by
while all these operations were performed. In fact, only
advanced surgical procedures and potent curative drugs
enabled the doctors to do such things to him in weeks
instead of months or years. Making cyborgs wasn't easy;
and the difficulties were increased in his case because his
designers had to assume that he would be unalterably
opposed to his own technological enhancement.
  Not because he had moral or visceral objections:
nothing in the UMCP files suggested that Angus
Thermopyle would reject being made a cyborg for its
own sake. No, he would fight forever against his own
enhancement because he would never be allowed to com-
mand it. The same technology which made him superior
to his former self would also rule him; deprive him of
volition completely. When the surgeons were done,
Angus would be nothing more than a tool, a biological
extension of the UMCP's will.
  With luck, he would be the perfect tool. He would



retain his mind, memory, and appearance - retain every-
thing which made him dangerous to the UMC and
human space. He could go everywhere he used to go, do
everything he used to do. But now his every action
would serve his new masters.
  In their own way, the surgeons worked to transform
him as profoundly as an Amnion mutagen.
  If all the operations were successful.
  That was the crucial question: if. Neural probes and
metabolic modeling could only provide so much infor-
mation. They couldn't prove whether or not the sur-
geons' efforts succeeded. And the computer which would
control him could only be calibrated in reference to his
specific electrochemical 'signature', his unique endocrine/
neurotransmitter balances.
  Eventually the doctors needed him awake.
  So they began withdrawing their drugs from his veins;
began sending delicate stimulations into his brain. By
careful degrees, they urged him out of the sleep which
gave him his only protection against horror and pain.
  When he regained enough consciousness to thrash
against his restraints and scream, they began teaching
him who he was.
  You have been changed.
  You are Joshua.
  That is your name.
  It is also your access-code.
  All the answers you will ever need are available to you.
Your name gives you access to them. Find the new place
in your mind, the place that feels like a window, the place
that feels like a gap between who you are and what you
remember. Go to that place and say your name. Joshua.



Say it to yourself. Joshua. The window will open. The
gap will open. All the answers you need will come to
you.
  Joshua.
  Say it.
  Joshua.
  Angus screamed once more. If weeks of surgery hadn't
left him so weak, he might have been able to burst his
restraints. But he couldn't, so he curled into a fetal ball
and did his best to turn himself into a null-wave trans-
mitter. The link between his brain and his temporary
computer remained inactive. If he thought anything, if
he ever let himself think again, he would remember his
nightmare - remember that they'd dismantled his ship;
remember the large, sterile room full of equipment for
cryogenic encapsulation; remember the crib - and then the
abyss from which he'd fled all his life would open under
his feet.
  Nevertheless he was already cooperating with his
doctors. Every internally generated whimper and twitch
provided them with exactly the data they required - the
neural feedback which allowed them to verify their
assumptions and calibrate their instruments.
  When they were satisfied with what they'd gained this
time, they let him sleep again.
  The next time, they pushed him harder toward con-
sciousness.
  You have been changed.
  You are Joshua.
  That is your name.
  It is also your access-code.
  All the answers you will ever need are available to you.



All you have to do is say your name. Think it to yourself.
Accept it.
  Joshua.
  Say it.
  Joshua.
  No.
  Say it.
  I won't.
  Say it!
  With a savage twist, Angus pulled his right arm out of
its restraints. Punching wildly, he knocked away one of
the doctors, smashed a monitor, ripped down all his IVs.
He might have succeeded at injuring himself if someone
hadn't hit the buttons on his zone implant control,
switched him off.
  The link between his brain and the computer remained
inactive.
  Goddamn it, a doctor muttered. How can he fight?
He isn't awake enough. He ought to be as suggestible as
a kid.
  But Angus didn't need to be awake to fear his night-
mare. In the end, all the various and violent fears of his
life were one fear, one great rift of terror which reached
from his perceptual surface to his metaphysical core. He'd
never hesitated to fight anything, destroy anything,
which threatened to open that abyss -
  sprawled in his crib
  - anything except Morn Hyland. But that was because,
by the insidious logic of rape and possession, she'd come
to belong to him, in the same way that Bright Beauty
belonged to him. Like Bright Beauty, she'd become



necessary, even though that necessity made her infi-
nitely more threatening -
  with his scrawny wrists and ankles tied to the slats
  - but they'd dismantled his ship. With Morn it was
different. They'd taken her away. Now, like his horror,
she was somewhere where he couldn't control her, she
might be anywhere -
  while his mother filled him with pain
  - she was everywhere, hunting him with his doom in
her hands, stalking him to open under his feet -
  jamming hard things up his anus, down his throat, prying
open his penis with needles
  - so that he would begin the long plunge into terror
and never be able to climb out again, never be able to
escape the complete, helpless agony which lurked for him
at the center of his being -
  and laughing
  and afterward she used to comfort him as if it were him
she loved, and not the sight of his red and swollen anguish or
the strangled sound of his cries.
  Because he had nowhere else to go, Angus Thermopyle
fled into himself to escape himself.
  The doctors didn't let him get away, however. With
sleep, they confused his escape; and as soon as he lost his
way, they prodded him toward consciousness again,
using new drugs, new stimulations.
  You have been changed, they said.
  You are Joshua.
  That is your name.
  It is also your access-code.
  All the answers you will ever need are available to you.
All you have to do is say your name.



  This time, his fear of what he remembered, or might
remember, was greater than his fear of their coercion. In
the end, every fear was the same; but until that end was
reached, he could still make choices. And the right choice
might postpone the abyss.
  'My name,' he croaked, retching against the dry disuse
of his vocal cords, 'is Angus.'
  At the same time, another name formed in his mind,
as clear as a key.
  Joshua.
  A choice. To preserve the possibility that he might
someday be able to make other choices.
  The link was activated.
  'That's it,' said a distant voice. 'He's welded. Now we
can start to work.'

'Work,' in this case, meant intensive physical therapy and
long hours of tests, as well as more interrogation. And
Angus had no choice about any of it.
  His zone implants gave the doctors complete mastery
over his body. They could twitch any of his muscles at
will; they could make him run or fight or accept abuse
or lift weights; they could certainly require him to endure
their tests. This appalled and enraged him, of course.
Nevertheless, when he understood how totally they could
control him, he started obeying their instructions before
they could resort to compulsion. For him, the distress of
coercion was worse than the humiliation of compliance.
Obedience only made him wail with rage, with desire for
revenge: helplessness restored his nightmare.
  His doctors had no idea that he was wailing. On their
readouts, they could see the intensity of his neural ac-



tivity, but they couldn't interpret it. So they amended
the programming of his computer to watch for that activ-
ity as a danger-sign. If his electrochemical spikes and
oscillations became too intense along certain parameters,
the computer would use his zone implants to damp them.
As long as he remained cooperative, however, they left
the inside of his head alone.
  Interrogation was another matter.
  It bore no resemblance to the treatment he'd received
from Milos Taverner and Com-Mine Security. This ques-
tioning was entirely internal. In fact, while his computer
ran its inquiries, no human questioner needed to be pres-
ent. The computer simply elicited answers and recorded
them.
  It did this by the plain yet sophisticated application of
pain and pleasure. While the interrogation programs ran,
the gap in his head seemed to open, and a set of restric-
tions and possibilities entered his mind. He thought of
them as a rat-runner's maze, although the walls and alleys
weren't physical, or even visual. If he violated the restric-
tions, his pain-centers received stimulation: if he satisfied
the possibilities, he was flooded with pleasure.
  Naturally the restrictions had to do, not with the con-
tent of his answers, but with their physiological honesty.
If he could have lied without betraying any symptoms of
dishonesty, his answers would have been accepted. But
his computer and zone implants scrutinized his symp-
toms profoundly. They could measure every hormonal
fluctuation; they could distinguish between noradrenalin
and catecholamine in the function of his synapses. In
practice, lies were always detected.
  Angus struggled against his interrogation for what felt



like a long time - a day or two, possibly three. The
computer couldn't control his mind as it did his body;
it could only exert pressure, not coercion. And he'd
always been able to resist pressure. Milos Taverner cer-
tainly hadn't broken him. Grinding his teeth, swearing
pitilessly, and sweating like a pig, he tried to endure the
interrogations as if they were psychotic episodes brought
on by too much combined stim and cat; as if their horrors
were familiar and therefore bearable.
  Unfortunately his flesh betrayed him.
  In contrast to his physical therapy sessions, which
induced a mental surrender, his interrogations brought
on a bodily yielding. His brain was a physical organ: it
hated the pain and loved the pleasure on an organic level,
entirely independent of his volition. His autonomic being
responded only to sensation. Instinctively it rebelled
against being subjected to so much pain when so much
pleasure was available.
  Using zone implants and the computer-link, his
interrogators broke Angus Thermopyle. They made it
look easy.
  The only thing he was able to do in his own defense
was to break selectively - to answer questions in ways
that allowed him to skip some of the facts.
  What happened to Starmaster?
  Self-destruct.
  Who did it?
  Morn Hyland.
  Why?
  Gap-sickness. Heavy g makes her crazy.
  So you were lying when you accused Com-Mine of
sabotage?



  Yes.
  Why?
  I wanted to keep her with me.
  Why was Starmaster under heavy g?
  Chasing me.
  Why?
  Because I ran. I knew they were cops. As soon as I saw
them, I ran. They came after me.
  That was true. Like Bright Beauty's datacore, it con-
tained only a few elisions. He was a known illegal: his
impulse to run from cops didn't require explanation.
  How did you know they were cops?
  Field mining probe. I looked at their hull. Nobody but
the cops could afford a hull like that.
  Then how did you end up with Morn Hyland?
  I needed supplies. My air scrubbers were shot. Water
was bad. When Starmaster blew, I went back for salvage.
Found her alive.
  She was a cop. Why did you keep her alive?
  I needed crew.
  How did you make her work for you?
  How did you make her stay with you?
  Why did you want to keep her with you?
  Angus didn't fear that question. He wasn't worried
about being executed for his crimes; not anymore. After
all the expense and trouble of making him a cyborg, the
cops weren't likely to kill him. They wanted to use him:
from their point of view, his crimes made him valuable.
The information he needed to protect, the question he
needed to avoid, was a different one.
  I gave her a zone implant. That was the only way I



could trust her as crew. And it was the only way I could
make her let me fuck her.
  He reported this with so much satisfaction that none
of his doctors ever doubted him.
  What did you do with the control?
  Got rid of it. So Com-Mine wouldn't execute me. They
didn't find it. I don't know where it is now.
  His body reported the accuracy of this statement to
the computer. No one doubted him.

Perhaps it was his satisfaction more than his elisions that
misled the people who designed and studied his interro-
gations. He was questioned long and often. His crimes
were probed and analyzed. His treatment of Morn was
studied. He was required to account for her escape with
Nick Succorso. His suspicions of Milos Taverner were
recorded. Everything he said was factual - physiologically
honest.
  And yet he contrived to protect himself. Time and
again, he led the interrogation programs away from the
questions he feared. As a result, he never said - was never
required to say - anything which didn't conform to the
evidence which Bright Beauty's datacore had supplied
against him.
  No one learned from him that Bright Beauty's datacore
had been edited; that he was capable of editing his ship's
datacore.
  Conceivably none of the people involved in designing
and training and interrogating him ever understood how
dangerous he was. Their equipment had him under con-
trol: that control couldn't be broken: therefore he was
safe.                         *



Because he was safe, the traffic through his quarters
increased as more and more people came to take a
look at him: technicians in related fields, motivated by
professional curiosity; doctors and other experts who
wanted to observe him for themselves; random person-
nel interested in nothing more than a glance at Hashi
Lebwohl's pet illegal. To all appearances, Angus ignored
them. The old malice of his gaze was turned inward.
As much as possible, he dismissed everything that
wasn't an instruction or a question with coercion or
pressure behind it.
  Nevertheless he noticed immediately when Hashi Leb-
wohl himself, DA Director, UMCP, began visiting him.
  Of course, he'd never seen Lebwohl before. And the
rumors he'd heard didn't discuss Lebwohl's appearance;
they didn't go beyond the insistence that the DA Director
was crazy - and lethal. Yet he found this visitor instantly
recognizable.
  In contrast with the clean doctors and immaculate
technicians, Lebwohl wore a disreputable lab coat and
mismatched clothes over his scrawny frame like a signa-
ture. His old-fashioned shoes refused to stay tied. Glasses
with scratched and smeared lenses sagged down his thin
nose; above them, his eyes were the theoretical blue of
unpolluted skies. His eyebrows twisted in all directions
as if they were charged with static. And yet, despite his
air of having wandered in from a classroom where he
hectored Earth's slum kids, everyone else deferred to him.
When people passed by him, they gave him a wide berth,
as if the charge in him were strong enough to repel them.
  Angus knew intuitively that this man was responsible
for what had been done to him - and for worse to come.



  Hashi Lebwohl visited several times without speaking
to him. He conversed with the doctors and techs in an
asthmatic wheeze, sometimes asking questions, some-
times making suggestions, which revealed his intimacy
with their work. But he didn't say a word to Angus until
the evening after the physical therapists had declared him
fit for whatever UMCPDA had in mind.
  The time was station night. Angus knew that because
his computer had began to answer simple, functional
questions when it wasn't otherwise occupied; also
because the techs had just told him to take off his daysuit,
put on lab pajamas, and get into bed. Two of them were
still in the room, apparently running a last check on his
equipment before putting him to sleep. When Hashi
Lebwohl entered, however, one of the techs immediately
handed him the remote which served as a zone implant
control. Then both men left.
  At the same time the status lights on all the monitors
winked off.
  Hashi peered at Angus over his glasses. Smiling
benignly, he tapped buttons on the remote with his long
fingers.
  Involuntarily Angus got off the bed and stood in front
of Lebwohl with his arms extended on either side as if
he were being crucified.
  Lebwohl tapped more buttons: Angus urinated into
his pajamas.
  As warm salt spread down Angus' legs, Hashi sighed
happily.
  'Ah, Joshua,' he wheezed, 'I think I am in love.'
  Angus wanted to take off his pajamas and ram them
down the DA Director's throat. However, he wasn't



given that option. He was simply required to stand still
with his arms outstretched, hoping that his reinforced
body could stand the strain.
  Someone knocked at the door. Without glancing away
from Angus' legs, Lebwohl said, 'Come.'
  Two more people came in, closing the door behind
them.
  Angus had no difficulty identifying Min Donner: the
Enforcement Division Director hadn't changed since
he'd last seen her. The lines of her face and the fire in her
eyes were as strict as ever. Even here, she wore a
handgun: without it, she might have considered herself
naked.
  But he'd never seen the man with her before. Donner's
companion had a nourish of white hair atop his leonine
head, and a smile which Angus instinctively loathed -
the smile of a pederast who found himself in charge of a
boys' reform school. Fleshy and sure of himself, he joined
Donner and Lebwohl as if he were the first among equals.
  A name patch over his left breast indicated that he was
Godsen Frik, Director of Protocol, UMCP.
  Sweet shit! Protocol, Data Acquisition, Enforcement
Division. Who was left? Was every important fucker in
the entire UMCP going to come watch Angus piss on
himself?
  After a glance at Angus, Frik commented, 'You've been
playing, Hashi.' His voice was a confident rumble. 'He
isn't a toy, you know.'
  'Is he not?' Lebwohl took Frik's remark as a form of
flattery. 'If you are wrong, then he exists to be played
with. If, on the other hand, you are right, then I am
bound by duty to ensure that you and the estimable



Donner are safe in his presence. How better to verify his
tractability than to - play with him?'
  'And you're sure he is safe?' asked Frik.
  'My dear Godsen,' wheezed Lebwohl, showing the
remote, 'he will stand that way until he dies, unless I
instruct otherwise.'
  Min Donner made no effort to conceal her distaste. A
sneer twisted her mouth as if Angus weren't the only
man in the room who smelled bad. Impatiently she said,
Tour report claims he's ready.'
  'Physically ready,' amended the DA Director equably.
'His interface with the computer is well developed, but
must be refined. And his programming has not yet been
written to his datacore. When those things are ready, he
will be also.
  'He will be tested, of course, but no difficulty will be
encountered. I state that categorically. We have been
ready to do such work for some time.'
  'Good,' rumbled Godsen.
  But Hashi wasn't done. 'Are you?' he asked the PR
Director.
  'Are I what?' Frik countered humorously.
  'Are you ready for that unfortunate but inevitable day
when what we do here becomes known?'
  'Hell, Hashi,' Godsen chuckled, 'I've been ready for-
ever. This ain't recombinant DNA. We all hate the
Amnion with a pure and simple passion, but nobody gets
the collywobbles when they think about technological
enhancement. Human beings are used to it - we've been
doing things like this ever since crutches and splints. And
he's illegal. The slime of the universe. Hell, just the smell
of him would take the starch out of a virgin. I'm prepared



to argue' - his voice took on an orotund cadence - 'that
the technological reclamation of men like Angus
Thermopyle is the best alternative imaginable. He has
spent his life opposing the UMC and all it stands for.
That he should now be used to help preserve humankind
from the gravest threat it has ever known is only just.'
He chuckled again. 'Or words to that effect.'
  Hashi wheezed a hum of approval. 'My dear Godsen,
I have always said that you are good at your job.'
  'When?' the ED Director demanded. Apparently she
had no tolerance for the game Lebwohl and Frik were
playing. 'When is he going to be ready?'
  'What's your hurry?' asked Godsen promptly. 'We've
been waiting a long time for this. We can wait a little
longer.'
  'As I recall,' she retorted with plain bitterness, 'you
said the same thing about Intertech's immunity drug -
and we're still waiting.' her rebuff appeared to silence
Frik, so she turned to Hashi. This little meeting was
your idea. If you aren't going to tell us he's ready, why
are we here?'
  Lebwohl offered a small shrug. 'I wish to explain how
he works, so that you can provide your own input for
his final programming. Any requirements or restrictions
which occur to you, any difficulties that you foresee -
these can still be taken into account.'
  'And you couldn't do this through normal channels?'
  'My dear Min, I can hardly wish everyone in UMCPHQ
to understand the details of our work.'
  'On the contrary,' Min snapped, 'I think you do wish
everyone to understand. You didn't call us here to tell us
how he works. You just want to show him off.'



  'So what?' put in Godsen. 'It's reassuring. Nobody's
going to trust the "slime of the universe" unless we say
he's safe - and you, for one, won't be able to say that
unless you believe it. This is our chance to see how safe
he is.'
  However, the DA Director took Min Donner's atti-
tude more seriously. Angus stood there crucified as Hashi
murmured, 'My, my, you are in a hurry.'
  'You bet your ass I am.' Except for the sneer around
her nose, her features remained blank, controlled. Yet her
whole face seemed to take fire from her eyes. 'Have you
read his interrogations?'
  'Oh, please,' Godsen responded as if he didn't want to
be left out. We've all read them. Eventually we're going
to go blind reading them.'
  Min ignored Frik. 'Do you,' she continued, 'understand
what he's done to her?'
  'Her?' Lebwohl's blue eyes shone with knowledge, but
he waited for Min to continue.
  'He gave her a zone implant so he could rape and use
her. And that's after she came down with gap-sickness
and destroyed her own ship, killed her whole family. He
broke her. None of us could stand up under that kind of
abuse. Nobody could.
  'And then he gave her the zone implant control.'
  Locked in his own mind, Angus snarled obscenities
that his computer couldn't hear. Morn was like Bright
Beauty: he'd used and tormented her horribly; but he'd
also been faithful to her. The failure of his promise to
her raised his rage to a new level.
  Wait a minute,' Godsen objected. 'How do you know
that?'



  'He broke her,' Donner burned into Hashi's gaze, 'and
he gave her a case of zone implant addiction, which is
another kind of rape entirely, and then he handed her the
control.'
  The PR Director raised his voice. 'I said, how do you
know that?' '
  'But she doesn't have it now,' Min went on as if Proto-
col didn't exist; as if only ED and DA mattered. 'She
probably kept it just long enough to complete her addic-
tion. Craziness and zone implant addiction - those kinds
of problems show. Succorso must have noticed them
almost immediately. And when he did, he took the con-
trol away from her.
  'Now what kind of trouble is she in? She's got gap-
sickness, she's been broken, she's a raving addict, and
she's owned by a man who's only slightly more charming
than Thermopyle here.' She slapped the back of her hand
in Angus' direction. 'I want her back, Hashi. She's one
of my people, and I want her back.'
  'Listen to me!' Godsen roared like a klaxon. 'How do
you know he gave her the control?'
  Together Hashi and Min turned on Frik. 'Because, my
dear Godsen,' Hashi said placidly, 'Com-Mine Security
did not find it.'
  Gritting her teeth, Donner explained, 'If they did, they
would have executed him before we could stop them.
Taverner wouldn't have been able to stop them. They
hate him too much.'
  'But that's terrible!' Godsen protested.
  'So I've been saying,' drawled Min sardonically.
  'If word gets out, if people hear about this-' Frik
sounded genuinely distressed. 'One of our people, with



gap-sickness and a zone implant, wandering around loose
- under the control of a known pirate. People are going
to ask why we let that happen. We've got to get her back.'
  'I agree,' Donner rasped. We've got to get her back,'
She turned on Lebwohl again. That's why I'm in a hurry.
I don't like any of this - and I'm liking it less by the
minute.' The passion in her voice blazed higher as she
spoke. 'I want him ready and on his way. He's my only
chance to rescue her. If she isn't past hope already.'
  This time Hashi looked a little nonplused. 'My dear
Min,' he said as if he were breathing sand, 'I am not
certain that his programming can accommodate your
wishes.'
  She poised herself as if she were about to draw her
gun. What do you mean?'
  'Forgive me. I spoke imprecisely. I mean, I am not
certain that his programming will be allowed to accom-
modate your wishes.'
  That's outrageous,' snorted Godsen. 'Of course he's
got to rescue her. You aren't listening. I tell you, we've
got a disaster on our hands. The only way we can salvage
the situation is by rescuing her.'
  'I understand your concern,' Hashi replied placatingly.
'However, you must realize that our position is not so
simple. I mean, the position of those of us in this room.
Let me explain with a question. When our Joshua was
arrested by Com-Mine Security, your Morn Hyland fled
with Captain Succorso. Why did we permit that to
occur?'
  'We weren't there,' Frik said. 'We couldn't stop it.'
  But Min had a different answer. 'Orders,' she snapped.
  'Naturally,' said Lebwohl. 'Of course. But that is not



an answer. Why were those orders given? What reasoning
lies behind them?'
  The ED Director grew more bitter by the moment. 'I
don't know. He's keeping it to himself.'
  Hashi agreed with a nod. 'So we must speculate.
  'Consider the hypothesis that Morn Hyland was a con-
dition for Captain Succorso's cooperation. He wanted
her, and we want him. Therefore we had no choice but
to let him have her.
  This is plausible, but unsatisfactory.
  'It is certain that Com-Mine Station could not be
allowed to keep her. If they did, they would inevitably
have learned the truth - that our Joshua was innocent
of the charge against him. Indeed, that the charge was
invented by Captain Succorso and our valued ally,
Deputy Chief of Security Milos Taverner. Then we
would have been exposed. The Preempt Act would have
failed, and our Director of Protocol would have been
faced with a disaster of - his eyes gleamed - 'astro-
nomical proportions.
  'However, to relieve the dilemma by allowing Captain
Succorso to take her is altogether questionable. Person-
ally I would have preferred to terminate her. She is a
random element - and Captain Succorso himself is a
rogue. Together they will cause more difficulties than
they resolve.
  'I cannot persuade myself that we have placed ourselves
in this position merely to satisfy Captain Succorso's
wishes.'
  'In other words,' Donner said angrily, "you think
there's something else going on here. You think "Joshua"
won't be programmed to rescue her for the same reason



we let her get away with Succorso - and we won't be
told what that reason is.'
  'In essence,' Hashi said, 'yes.'
  Angus' arms had begun to burn with strain, but he
didn't have the choice of letting them drop.
  We'll see about that,' Godsen proclaimed. 'Protocol
isn't going to take this lying down. Sure, I'm all in favor
of Joshua here. I hope he nukes Thanatos Minor to slag.
And Captain Succorso with it. You're right - he's a
rogue. Having an agent like him isn't worth the risk.
  'Some risks I'm willing to take. You know that. Using
illegals like Succorso and traitors like Taverner to help us
pass the Preempt Act and give us Joshua - that was worth
the danger. In fact, it was my idea. If word got out, we
were all cooked. But I don't think we could have passed
the Act any other way.
  This is another matter. We have nothing to gain by
taking the chance that Succorso and Hyland might go
critical on us. We should have blasted them to powder
as soon as they left Com-Mine. But we didn't, so now
we've got to accept the consequences.
  'I'm going to fight this one.' He faced Donner as if he
expected applause - or at least gratitude. 'You can count
on my support. If we don't at least try to rescue your
Morn Hyland, we're too vulnerable.'
  Min wasn't grateful. She snorted, What makes you
think he'll listen?'
  He? Angus thought. He? Were they talking about
Warden Dios? The UMCP Director?
  Who else could give these three people orders?
  Did the most powerful man in human space force them
to let Morn go with Succorso?



  Godsen Frik's voice had a petulant, almost defensive
tone as he retorted, 'I can go over his head.'
  Both Hashi Lebwohl and Min Donner looked away
from the PR Director as if they were shocked - or
shamed. Studying the floor, Min said softly, 'The way
you did about the immunity drug.'
  Dangerous red flushed across Godsen's face; but he
didn't respond.
  Still addressing the floor, Donner muttered, 'I don't
like playing this dirty.'
  Now Frik spoke back. 'Oh, don't go all virtuous on
us. You've got as much blood on your conscience as
anyone else. Probably more. Why else do they call you
his executioner?
  'You brought Joshua here, didn't you?'
  'I obey orders,' she replied as if to herself. 'I trust him.
I have to. But we're supposed to be cops. What good are
we if we aren't honest?'
  Hashi shrugged delicately. 'What is honest? We define
a goal. Then we devise a means to achieve it. Is this not
honest?'
  Some of the blood on Min's conscience showed in her
eyes as she glared at Lebwohl. 'I'm getting nauseous,' she
growled. 'You said you're going to tell us how he works.
Do that, so I can leave.'
  A smile quirked the corners of Hashi's mouth. 'I will.
  'But I must warn you,' he said to both his fellow Direc-
tors. 'If you disapprove of the possibility that our Joshua
will not be programmed to rescue Morn Hyland, you
will certainly not be comforted by what I tell you now.'
  What's that supposed to mean?' demanded Godsen.



  'I will spare you the technical details,' Lebwohl replied.
'A general outline is sufficient.
  When Joshua's programming has been designed, and
all its priorities and variables have been approved, it will
be written to the datacore of his computer. In effect, it
will become an integral part of him. The interface
between his mind and his computer will allow him to act
on the basis of his experience and knowledge - as long
as he attempts nothing which in any way violates his
programming. He will have the moral equivalent of two
minds. One, ours, will impose our instructions on him.
The other, his, will act on those instructions.
  Within its limits, the system is reliable. Because of the
control supplied by his zone implants, he will be entirely
unable to perform any action which does not conform to
his programming.
  'Unfortunately the system is limited. Simply put, the
difficulty is that we can never envision every situation or
exigency which Joshua will confront. And if his circum-
stances become such that they are not adequately covered
by his programming, he will be able to take independent
action - action which might conceivably damage us or
our interests. This you already know.'
  'Of course we know it,' Frik rumbled. We aren't
stupid.'
  Hashi's blue gaze appeared to reserve judgment on
that point, but his tone conveyed no insult. The solution
we have devised is that Joshua will not work alone. He
will be accompanied by a "partner". This partner will
appear to be his subordinate, but will have the capacity
to amend his programming as needed. Joshua's computer
will recognize his partner's voice, and when his partner



speaks the proper codes his new instructions will be writ-
ten directly to his datacore.
  'Naturally, if we see reason to adjust Joshua's program-
ming ourselves, we need only contact his partner.
Changes can be made in a few moments.'
  Both Min and Godsen waited as Hashi studied them.
After a moment, the DA Director said, 'Joshua's partner
has already been selected, and is now being trained. As
you may imagine, he cannot be controlled as Joshua him-
self is controlled. If he were, his own programming limi-
tations might well hamper Joshua's effectiveness. But we
have selected a man whom we consider peculiarly well
suited for the task. And I can assure you that his training
has been intensive.'
  Donner gritted her teeth and went on waiting.
  Angus didn't have the capacity to clench his jaws;
nevertheless, he, too, waited.
  'Don't drag it out, Hashi,' said Godsen. Who is he?'
  Hashi Lebwohl beamed.
  Why, none other than our trusted ally and colleague,
Milos Taverner.'
  Somewhere in the back of Angus' mind, a small hope
flickered to life.
  Taverner?' Frik spat. 'Are you out of your mind?
You're going to trust this entire operation to a man like
Taverner? He has the scruples of a trash recycler. He's
already sold out Com-Mine Security. All we had to do
was pay him enough. He's probably selling us, too. If he
isn't, he'll do it as soon as he's offered enough credit.'
  'I think not.' Lebwohl was unruffled. We have several
safeguards.
  'First, of course, a datacore is unalterable. Our Milos



cannot effectively issue instructions which run directly
counter to Joshua's programming. And every instruction
he gives - indeed, every word he utters in Joshua's pres-
ence - will be permanently recorded. Our Milos will be
unable to conceal what he has done.
  'In addition, his unreliability is known. We have all the
evidence we require. If our Milos seeks to betray us, he
will be destroyed. We have left him no doubt of this.'
  Hashi smiled benevolently, then continued.
  'In any case, whatever your objections, you must con-
sider the question of credibility. Joshua's partner must
appear to be Angus Thermopyle's subordinate. The Cap-
tain Thermopyle who is known upon Thanatos Minor
would never serve under another - and would never
accept as a subordinate any man who was not demon-
strably illegal. His programming will allow him to expose
his partner's treacheries, to explain - and thereby protect
- him. That will leave Milos helpless to do anything other
than serve us.'
  Frik wasn't satisfied, but Min didn't give him another
chance to protest.
  'No, Hashi.' She sounded almost calm. 'It's untenable.
You can't do it. I wondered why we took Taverner away
from Com-Mine, but I assumed it was to cover all of us
if he got caught. I never thought you wanted him for
something like this.
  'He's an impossible choice. You can't give a known
traitor control over a weapon like Thermopyle. One of
my people is at stake here. I'm going to fight you on this.'
  And delay the operation? Angus argued in his para-
lyzed silence. No, don't do it, you don't want that.
  Hashi faced Donner squarely. 'It has been decided,' he



asserted. The Director approved the order weeks ago.'
He paused, then added happily, 'I am proud to say that
the suggestion was mine. I consider our Milos the perfect
choice.'
  Min bunched her fists, raised them in front of her. But
she didn't have anyone to strike. Through her teeth, she
snarled, 'Lebwohl, you're a shit.'
  Hashi's eyes narrowed. In a prim wheeze, he retorted,
'It will not surprise you, I think, to hear that I hold you
in similar esteem.'
  'Come on, Min.' An apoplectic flush covered Godsen's
face. 'I'm going to talk to the Director. I want you with
me.'
  Min flashed a scathing glare at him, turned away
roughly, and strode out of the room.
  'And when the Director refuses to alter his decision,'
Lebwohl said to Godsen, 'you will again attempt to "go
over his head". This time, you will not succeed. The game
is deeper than you understand, and you will drown in it.'
  Sputtering, the PR Director hurried after Min.
  When Donner and Frik were gone, Hashi spent some
time playing with Angus before putting him back to bed.
But Angus did his best to ignore the humiliation. He
had no choice, of course - but now he suffered the way
his arms and penis burned with less rage and old terror.
He had been given something to hope for, something
which helped him dissociate himself from his nightmare.
  He concentrated on that because he was physically
powerless to castrate the DA Director.



When Captain's Fancy hit the gap, she began to
              come apart.
              According to her chronometers, the emerg-
ency was brief; so brief that its extremity became almost
incomprehensible. As soon as she gained the velocity he
wanted, Nick engaged her gap drive, and she went into
tach. And as soon as she went into tach, dimensional
physics started undoing her atom by atom, pulling her
to nothingness like smoke in a slow wind.
  For a few seconds she drifted along the rim of non-
existence.
  The gap field generator had failed at exactly the wrong
instant.
  The crisis was too quick for logic. Only imagination
and intuition were fast enough to save Nick's people.
  Specifically Vector Shaheed saved them: not because
he was a wizard at his job, but because he panicked.
Inspired by imagination or intuition, he panicked in the
right way.



  He was already afraid. The new Amnion equipment
had passed most of his tests perfectly - and had come up
blank on others. Those few tests had simply refused to
run. And that scared him.
  Alone in the drive space, with Captain's Fancy's survival
riding on him - with Morn Hyland's finger pressed to
the ship's self-destruct, and equipment he couldn't trust
in his gap field generator - calm, phlegmatic Vector
Shaheed lost his nerve.
  When Nick ordered tach, Vector's hands leaped like
intuitions at his control board. Milliseconds after the gap
field was engaged, he hit his overrides, trying to cancel
the ship's translation from Amnion to human space.
  In theory, that was the wrong thing to do. It had never
been done before: no one who survived the gap had ever
tried it. Captain's Fancy should have winked away; should
have become a phantom, a ghost ship sailing unchartable
dimensional seas.
  However, in this case the theory itself was wrong. The
gap field generated by the Amnion equipment was anom-
alous: open-ended in a way no sane gap field was ever
intended to be. Instead of hastening Captain's Fancy's
extinction, Vector's overrides snatched her back into nor-
mal space.
  They also burned out all the control circuits and several
components of the drive. Captain's Fancy resumed tard
with her gap drive slagged.
  She came out of the gap like a blast from a matter
cannon; hit normal space with a dopplering howl, as if all
the stars around her wailed. Instantly scan and navigation
went crazy. Her velocity was so great, so far beyond
anything her thrusters could have produced, that her



computers weren't programmed for it. Time-dilation
effects distorted everything; sensors broke into elec-
tronic gibberish. The computers took long minutes to
recalibrate themselves - to deduce the ship's condition
and begin compensating for it.
  When at last they were able to make sense of the new
data, they reported that Captain's fancy was traveling at
*9C: roughly 270,000 kilometers per second.
  That should have been impossible. No human ship was
built to attain such speed. On the other hand, there was
no g involved, no stress. Internally the ship might as well
have been drifting. The dilemma was all external; and
for the present it involved no immediate hazards. The
computers were simply ill-prepared to interpret the infor-
mation Captain's Fancy's probes and sensors received
from the starfield and the deep dark.
  Nearly an hour passed before astrogation could tell
Nick where he was.

Morn Hyland had a similar problem. Long before she
actually recovered consciousness, she had a nagging sense
that something was amiss. Something physical: her body
was in the wrong place, or the wrong posture. Anxious
as delirium, her dreams made her thrash from side to
side, whimper in her sleep, strain to reach controls which
weren't there.
  Self-destruct. If something had gone wrong, she
needed to push the button. Her threats were wasted
unless she could carry them out, no one would ever
believe her again, the little power she'd gathered for her-
self would fray through her fingers like smoke.
  If she pushed the button, Davies would die. Her son



would die. While he was still half insane with dislocated
identity and flawed memories. He would never have a
chance to become himself; the part of her she considered
worth redeeming.
  That was better than letting Nick give him to the
Amnion.
  She stabbed at the self-destruct until her whole hand
hurt, and the strain made her arm quiver; but nothing
happened.
  The button was gone.
  The auxiliary command console was gone.
  Her hands were empty. Powerless and doomed.
  Oh, God.
  Fighting her eyes open, she saw the familiar walls of
her cabin.
  She lay on her berth with her hands clenched over her
sternum. They fought each other as if her right struggled
to prevent her left from ruin.
  Nick knew about her zone implant.
  He'd promised Davies to the Amnion.
  All her power was gone.
  'Are you awake?' a voice asked. She should have been
able to recognize it. 'I've been worried about you. Mikka
must have hit you pretty hard. I would have taken you
to sickbay, in case you've got a concussion, but Nick said
no. Can you hear me? If you can, try to say something.'
  If she couldn't recognize his voice, she should have at
least been able to look at him and see who he was. But
when she made the attempt, pain like impact rifle fire
punched the back of her head, and the cabin dissolved in
a blur of tears.
  Mikka must have hit her hard, all right. In the end, the



command second had declared her loyalties. But how
could she have done it? Captain's Fancy must have been
under heavy g: otherwise Morn wouldn't have been
asleep. Then how had Mikka been able to leave her seat?
  There must have been a delay of some kind. Morn
must have been too profoundly exhausted to wake up
quickly when thrust cut out and her zone implant
released her. And during that delay, Mikka had come up
behind her-
  'Come on, Morn,' the voice said. Try. You need to
wake up. Don't make me shake you. I might damage you
- and you're hurt enough already.'
  As if she'd known who he was all along, she identified
the speaker.
  Vector Shaheed.
  Try. All right. She could do that. It was necessary.
  Swallowing pain and tears, she struggled to ask,
Where-?'
  'You're in your cabin,' he answered. We're all alive -
at least for the time being. I'll probably never understand
how, but we survived.'
  Despite a blinding series of detonations from her
occipital lobe, she shook her head. That wasn't what she
needed to know.
  Where-?'
  Had they escaped forbidden space? Were they safe
from the Amnion?
  Where is your son?' Vector inquired. 'Is that what
you're asking? Nick has him locked up. The last I heard,
he's all right. He looks as murderous as his father, but
nobody's done anything to him. Nobody's had time.'
  Morn knotted her fists to keep herself from moan-



ing. Past the detonations, she croaked, Where are we?'
  'Ah, shit,' sighed Vector. 'I was afraid that's what you
wanted to know.
  'Oh, well. You've got a right to an answer.
  We didn't make it, I'm sorry to say. The new
components failed. We came out of the gap so fast that
we exceeded our operational parameters. For a while we
couldn't get astrogation working. The computers
couldn't make sense out of the scan data. But I just
talked to the bridge a little while ago. Nick-'
  He faltered, then said, 'Nick wanted me to report on
your condition. When I called the bridge, he told me
they've finally been able to fix our position.
  'We're still in Amnion space. That's the bad news. The
good news is that we've covered most of the distance to
Thanatos Minor. In fact, we're so close that we'll have to
start decelerating in a day or two. Somehow we managed
to turn a disaster into a blink crossing.
  'But I guess that isn't good news from your point of
view.'
  Morn shook her head again. Now she was crying
because she needed to. Still in Amnion space. Still in
reach of Amnion warships. Nick had made a deal for her
son. The warships would demand that he keep his end
of the bargain.
  Her only hope had been that the Amnion wouldn't
follow if Captain's Fancy crossed far enough into human
space.
  Like her power, her hope was gone.
  'If I were you,' Vector said softly, 'I wouldn't give up.'
  That surprised her. She hadn't expected him - or any
of Nick's people - to know or care how many hopes she



lost. In fact, she didn't understand why he was here at
all: keeping her company, answering her questions;
comforting her.
  In a small voice, like a damaged child, she asked, 'What
do you mean?'
  What can I do to save him? What's left?
  The engineer shrugged distantly. 'Nick is - well, in the
absence of full psychoanalysis, let's just say he's relatively
heartless. Under normal circumstances, trading away
your son wouldn't cause him any sleepless nights. But
under any circumstances, trading away your son and get-
ting cheated would make him livid. And the Amnion
cheated us. That's pretty obvious.'
  Cheated? Obvious?
  Morn stared at Vector and waited for him to go on.
  'Nick probably hates you right to the bone. If he
weren't so busy, he'd be hunting for ways to hurt you.
Your son is his best chance. But no matter how much he
hates you, he isn't going to keep his end of that bargain
when he knows he's been cheated.'
  Still Morn waited.
  'Actually,' Vector mused as if he were digressing, 'he
should have seen this coming. I guess he hates you too
much to think straight. Nobody who was thinking
straight would have talked the way he did in front of that
"emissary". He made it too obvious that he wanted to
get rid of your son. So why didn't Vestabule try to
dicker? Why did he accept Nick's terms?
  'I think it's because they don't really want your son.
He was just an excuse for another deal. What they really
wanted was to give us those gap components.
  'Those components weren't flawed. They weren't



imperfectly compatible. They were designed to fail when
we went into tach. The Amnion sold them to us to get
rid of us - to erase us.'
  Ignoring the twisting of her vision and the pain as
keen as splinters of bone inside her skull, Morn propped
herself on her elbow in an effort to face Vector more
directly.
  'Are you telling me you think they believe we're already
dead, so they won't come after us?'
  Vector nodded.
  The idea was too seductive to accept. 'But why?' she
demanded. 'Why did they try to kill us?'
  'Presumably because they know Nick cheated them?
  'But he didn't, did he?' she protested. 'Not really. I
mean, he offered them a chance to test his blood when
he knew the results would be useless, but he never
promised they would be anything else. He can always
claim he kept his end of the bargain exactly.'
  That's their dilemma,' Vector agreed. 'He kept the
bargain and cheated them at the same time. They don't
want to get a reputation for acting in bad faith them-
selves, and yet they don't want to let him get away with
cheating them.
  'And how he cheated has got to be of overwhelming
importance to them. How can he be immune to their
mutagens? If they can't answer that question, all their
dealings with human space are suspect.
  What they wanted most, probably, was to capture us,
so they could learn the truth - and get a fresh supply of
human beings at the same time. But they couldn't do
that. They could never be sure we didn't have a gap



courier drone ready to take word of what happened to
us back to human space.
  'So erasing us in the gap was by far their safest choice.
That way, no one would ever know we were killed or
cheated. And the secret of Nick's immunity might die
with us.
  'By the time they learn we're still alive, we should be
safe on Thanatos Minor - if you call that safe. It's public,
at any rate. We'll have illegals from all over the galaxy as
witnesses. The Amnion won't be able to attack or even
capture us without ruining their own reputation.'
  Morn didn't want to trust Vector. She didn't want to
leave herself that open, that vulnerable. But she couldn't
quench the flicker of hope which he fanned to life. If the
Amnion were not an immediate problem, then she only
had Nick to deal with-
  Oh, please. Let it be true. Let it be true.
  She had never feared Nick as much as she feared the
Amnion.
   She still couldn't see the engineer accurately. Tears
kept smearing her vision. But now they weren't simply
tears of pain and despair.
  'Vector, why?' Her voice was thick with frailty. Why
are you doing this? I threatened your life. For a while, I
was willing to kill you all. Why are you doing this for
me?'She should have been listening more closely to the
undercurrents in his voice. She should have found some
way to blink her sight clear so that she could read his
expression. Then she might have been prepared for his
answer.
  When he replied, he sounded bleak and arthritic;



speaking damaged him like heavy g. 'I'm keeping you
sane. So he can hurt you more.'
  Vector.
  Stiffly he climbed to his feet. 'I've fixed your door,' he
said in the same tone. 'You won't be able to rig it again.
  'I'll go tell him you're awake.'
  The door hissed open for him, swept shut. The status
lights on the control panel told her it was locked.

By the time it opened again, and Nick Succorso stalked
into her cabin, her vision had improved. The back of her
head still felt like the site of a thermonuclear accident,
but her tears had stopped, and she was able to concen-
trate. Her vulnerability had gone to ice; at the core, she'd
become hard and untouchable, like supercooled rage.
  She needed to be hard. Otherwise the sight of his
strained features and flagrant scars would have cracked
her courage.
  He had reason to look like that, she reminded herself.
He was the fooled artist, betrayed by a tool he'd thought
belonged to him body and soul. She'd given him some-
thing which touched him at the heart of his dark and
complex needs - and now he knew that the gift was false.
  And he was perfectly capable of murdering people for
less cause.
  He paused briefly just inside the door, letting her see
what she was up against; giving her a chance to gauge
her danger by the intensity of his expression. Then he
came at her like the slam of a piston and struck her so
hard across the cheek that she crumpled to her bunk.
  Fires like novas blazed through her head. Incandescent
pain paralyzed her: white conflagration blinded her. She



couldn't defend herself as he rummaged through her
shipsuit until he found her black box; she couldn't do
anything to stop him as he took control of her life away
from her.
  Gripping the box, he stepped back. Holding it up so
that he could watch her while he studied it, he read the
function labels.
  Ablaze with pain, she was helpless to react when he
pressed one of the buttons.
  It did nothing to her.
  'There,' he rasped as he buried her zone implant con-
trol in his own pocket. 'Now it's off.
  'Get up.'
  She couldn't. She heard the command in his voice;
she understood her peril. But she was too weak to obey,
too badly hurt. Without artificial help, she was only
human - a woman who was already exhausted, already
beaten.
  'I said,get up.'
  Somehow she levered her arms under her, pried herself
into a sitting position. Confused and drained by the
clangor of suns, that was as far as she could rise.
  'You're mine now, you bitch,' he snarled. 'You've
diddled me and lied to me for the last time.
  'For a while there, I thought you'd turned Vector
against me. I even had doubts about Mikka. But you
couldn't manage that. You have limits, don't you. I'm
going to make sure you keep them.' He slapped his
pocket. 'I'm going to make you suffer - I'm going to
make you bleed and die like an ordinary human being,
instead of some goddamn superwoman.
  'This is your last chance. Get up?



  'Why?' Despite the pain, her core of ice held solid. 'So
you can hit me again? I'm done with that. I'm done acting
like one of your toys. If you want to make me "bleed and
die", you'll have to come get me. I won't help you.
  'And I'll make you pay for it. I swear I'll make you pay
for it.'
  Somehow.
  Like the lash of a solar flare, he caught hold of her,
snatched her to him. Almost spitting into her face, he
demanded, 'How do you think you're going to do that?'
  She glared back at him, ice against his fire.
  'You can't dismantle that self-destruct. Your priority-
codes are still useless.' That was a guess, but a safe one:
he hadn't had time to solve the problems she'd left him.
'Your ship is a bomb waiting to explode. And you don't
know how I've programmed it. Maybe I've set it up to
blow if I don't input to it every couple of hours.
  'You can probably figure out what I did to your codes.
Or you can use my control to make me tell you. But you
might not be able to do it in time. Thanatos Minor works
for the Amnion. You illegals always think you work for
yourselves, but you serve them. As soon as we're in scan
range, that shipyard will tell them we're still alive. Then
you'll have warships after you.
  'If you aren't quick enough, you'll have to face them
with a live self-destruct and no priority-codes.'
  She could see that he heard her. His rage didn't dimin-
ish, but it changed character. His instinct to fight for his
ship and his own survival took precedence over his need
to hurt her.
  That's temporary,' she went on. 'You can solve all
those problems without me. But until they're taken care



of, you'll have to keep me alive - you'll have to keep my
brain intact. Maybe that'll give you time to realize there's
a better reason why you don't want to hurt me. Or
Davies.'
  He heard her. He couldn't help himself. She was talk-
ing about issues he couldn't ignore. And she still had
one advantage over him, even without her zone implant:
she knew him better than he knew her. He was the one
who'd been blinded by their masque of passion. It had
revealed him - and concealed her.
  Rage turned his skin the color of his scars; the cords
of his neck knotted. But he didn't hit her. Through his
teeth, he grated, What reason?'
  'Because,' she articulated distinctly, as if she didn't care
that he was angry enough to extinguish her, 'you're Cap-
tain Nick Succorso, and you never lose.'
  He glowered at her like the muzzle of a gun. His fists
didn't release her.
  'You want people to believe that. You want every
illegal or cop who's ever heard of you to believe it. But
it's bigger than that. You need your crew to believe it.
They don't love you for your charm. Even your women
don't. They love you for your reputation. They love the
Nick Succorso who never loses.
  'So how do you think you look right now? How do
you think your reputation looks? For the sake of a woman
who was "diddling" you, a woman you couldn't figure
out because she had a zone implant, you risked your life
and your ship in forbidden space - and the result was a
disaster. You got yourself in so much trouble that you
had to let the Amnion cheat you. In fact, you got yourself
in so much trouble that you had to sell them a human



being just so they would have the chance to cheat you.
And then the mother of that human being took over your
ship. She put her finger on the self-destruct and forced
you and the Amnion to do what she wanted.
  'For a man who never loses, that was a real triumph.'
  As she spoke, Nick's face set like concrete, hardened
to blankness. His scars faded; the fury in his eyes receded.
In that way, she knew her threat was potent. She'd driven
him to regain his self-mastery.
  His rage had been something she understood. But now
she couldn't read him. He was dangerous in a new way,
as if the peril in him had become absolute.
  She was absolute herself, on the edge of her resources
- and her doom. She didn't falter.
  What do you think you'll accomplish by torturing or
killing me - or my son? Is that going to restore your
reputation? You know better. You'll still be the Nick
Succorso who lost, but now everybody will know that
when you lose you punish helpless women and children
for it.
  'That story will spread, just like all the others. People
aren't going to talk about you as the hero in a war against
corrupt cops.' Her voice rose, hinting at bloodshed.
They're going to talk about you as if you're Angus
Thermopyle.'
  That was the first time she'd said Angus' name aboard
this ship. It was only the second time she'd ever said it
aloud.
  'Or what?' Nick countered with an impersonal snarl,
leaving his rage in the background. 'You wouldn't have
brought this up if you weren't going to offer me an
alternative.'



  Like Captain's Fancy in the gap, Morn rode the rim of
nonexistence and fought to save herself.
  'Or,' she told Nick, 'you can change the story.'
  'How?' His face was concrete; but his quickness
betrayed the intensity of his attention.
  'You can accept me,' she replied without hesitation,
'welcome me, put me back on duty. You can smile and
look like a hero. You can even act like we've been fucking
each other's brains out for hours.'
  He started to sneer a retort; but she overrode him.
  'You can give your people a chance to think that we
did it together - that we planned this to get Davies and
Captain's fancy away from the Amnion without ruining
your credibility, and without being blasted. How could
you have done it otherwise? You didn't have anything
except my son to sell for those gap drive components.
But if you sold him, you couldn't get him back without
breaking your bargain. Your only hope was to run a scam
- to use me against the Amnion.
  They won't believe it at first. But they'll start to
wonder. And I'll back you up. Eventually they'll have to
believe it. As long as you treat me like we did it together.
And you don't hurt Davies. You don't have to pretend
you like him - or want him around. He isn't your son.
Just leave him alone.
  Think about that story for a minute,' she urged,
steaming like dry ice. 'Is there anyone in human space
who's ever had the nerve to run a scam like that on the
Amnion?'
  As far as she was concerned, all the glamorous tales
about Nick Succorso were lies anyway. Why should this
one be any different?



  Abruptly he let go of her and pushed her away. Her
legs failed; she fell back on the berth. Standing over her,
he breathed so heavily that he seemed to be shuddering.
The lines of his face were remorseless.
  After a moment he whispered, 'I'll kill you for this.'
  She met him squarely. 'I know.'
  'But I'll pick a better time. Unless you don't back me
up. Then I won't have any reason to wait.' He took
another hard breath, let it out slowly. Tell me how to
restore my codes.'
  Morn held his glare. 'I want to see Davies. He needs
me.''No chance,' Nick growled at once. 'He's the only hold
I've got on you. I don't trust this.' He slapped his pocket
again. 'For all I know, it's a dummy, and you've got half
a dozen others hidden around the ship.'
  She shook her head. She didn't care what he believed
about her black box: she was suddenly afraid for her son.
  'Nick, listen,' she said as steadily as she could. 'He'll
go crazy by himself. Maybe he's crazy already. He's got
my mind - he thinks he's me.' For the second time, she
pleaded, 'At least let me talk to him.'
  'No,' Nick retorted harshly. 'You've been lying to me.
You've been lying from the moment I first saw you with
Captain rucking Thermo-pile. And I believed you. I
thought you really gave yourself. But you were just using
me. Like all the others.' He'd become as cold as she was
- and as unreachable. Tell me how to restore my codes.'
  In hope and despair, she told him.
  He nodded once, acknowledging the effectiveness of
her gambit. Then he turned to the door.
  When it opened, he faced her as if for the last time.



There was a look of farewell in his eyes. Nevertheless his
tone was raw and malign.
  'You're back on Mikka's watch. But when you're not
on duty, I want you here. I'm going to keep you out of
trouble. As soon as I can afford the time' - he indicated
his pocket and bared his teeth - 'we'll find out how you
like being on the other side of this thing.'
  After he left, the door locked behind him.
  Nursing the pain in her head, Morn stretched out on
her bunk and tried to keep herself from wailing at the
thought of her son's plight.



Half an hour later, the intercom chimed, sum-
            moning Mikka Vasaczk's watch to the bridge.
              After a moment the door control status indi-
cators in Morn's cabin winked green. Nick had unlocked
her.She hurried out into the passageway before he could
change his mind.
  She should have gone to sickbay. The pain in her head
abated too slowly: each beat of her heart knifed through
her as if she were in the grip of a cerebral hemorrhage.
At alarming intervals her vision slid double; and the effort
required to bring her eyes back to single focus made her
sweat and tremble with old, familiar nausea. Stress or
numbness caused her ringers to tingle. Maybe one of her
occipital bones was cracked. Or maybe the top of her
spine - or her brain itself- was bruised. If she developed
a hematoma inside her skull, or along her spinal cord,
she might drift into paralysis as the swelling grew.
  Nevertheless she headed for the bridge, not sickbay.



  She was urgent to get her hands on the data board.
  Without the support of her zone implant, she was so
weak that she felt invalid, hardly able to walk. From time
to time she blundered against the walls. In one of the
surviving compartments of her mind, she wondered how
deep her addiction to her black box had become; won-
dered whether she would have to go through withdrawal
on top of her other problems. The weight of her limits
threatened to overwhelm her. But she kept going.
  She had too few chances left. She couldn't afford to
miss any of them.
  When she crossed the aperture to the bridge, Nick met
her with a grin that might have looked lascivious if it
hadn't been so bloodthirsty - or if his scars hadn't been
the pale gray color of cold ashes.
  She was the last of Mikka's watch to arrive. Except for
Sib Mackern and Nick himself, the firsts had already left
- no doubt desperate for rest. But everyone on the bridge
turned to stare at Morn.
  Obviously Nick hadn't told them that she was about
to resume her duties.
  Mikka's glower was unreadable, effectively blank.
Maybe she could guess what Morn's arrival meant - or
maybe she didn't care. The knuckles of her right hand
were swollen and discolored, but she gave no sign that
they hurt.
  Scorz stared with his mouth open, as if he'd forgotten
to breathe. The scan second's eyes flicked between Morn
and Nick; he seemed to wish he had a doppler sensor to
gauge the meaning of Morn's presence. The twisting of
Karster's features made him look like a boy with a math
problem he couldn't solve.



  Involuntarily, caught by shock, Mackern murmured, 'I
don't believe it.' A crisis of doubt stretched his features.
'Morn, are you all right? He said - but I assumed-'
Abruptly the data first shut his mouth as if he were
appalled by his own thoughts.
  'Are you serious, Nick?' demanded the twitchy helm
second, Ransum. She was too tight with anxiety to keep
quiet. 'Do we have to work with her? She just about got
us all killed.'
  'You're going to work with her,' Nick replied like his
grin, 'and you're going to like it. If you think anything
else, you don't know me very well.'
  'But what about the self-destruct?' put in Scorz. 'If you
let her touch the computers, she can still blow us up.'
  'I told my watch,' Nick retorted flatly. 'Now I'll tell
you. I've got my priority-codes back. Vector has already
dismantled the self-destruct.' Only the knotted muscles
in his neck betrayed the strain of self-coercion. 'It served
its purpose. We don't need it anymore.'
  'Holy shit!' Karster breathed as if he'd been struck by
a revelation. 'You did it deliberately.'
  Then he realized what he'd said. Turning back to his
board, he began working studiously, pretending he was
busy.
  The implications in the air were too dangerous to be
faced directly. The rest of Mikka's watch followed Kar-
ster's example. Suddenly only Nick and Mikka were left
looking at Morn.
  Nick, Mikka - and Sib Mackern.
  Uncertainty tangled around the data first: he couldn't
find his way out of it. He seemed more distressed by
Morn's presence on the bridge than by anything else



she'd done. As if the words were being forced out of
him, he asked her, Were you bluffing?
  The question sounded like an accusation. Apparently
he preferred to think of her as an enemy.
  Her head throbbed horribly, and she was tired of lies.
For Davies' sake, however, she faced Mackern squarely.
We needed those gap drive components. And I need my
son. How else would we do it?'
  Mikka might have challenged the lie. She'd been with
Morn on the auxiliary bridge: she'd seen the truth for
herself. Nevertheless she said nothing. Instead she folded
her arms across her chest and went on glowering impar-
tially. Earlier she'd supported Nick with her fist: now she
supported him with her silence.
  For a moment Mackern's mouth opened in protest;
sweat or tears filled his eyes. But then, looking suddenly
frightened, he mastered himself. In a fumble of move-
ments, as if he'd lost the habit of his limbs, he left the
data station and made his way off the bridge.
  Nick's nod hinted at satisfaction as he turned to Mikka.
  'You're on,' he said, standing up from the command
console. 'If I'd known we could go this fast, I would have
tried it long ago. Just hold us steady. Monitor everything.
And work up a status report we can trust. I don't want
any surprises at this velocity. We'll start thinking about
deceleration tomorrow.
  'Morn,' he continued almost casually, 'try to analyze
what happened. You've got our science data - Vector
can give you whatever engineering has. If we understand
this, we might be able to control it. We might even be
able to do it on purpose. Knowing how to hit speeds like
this would be worth a fortune.'



  Morn accepted the order; but she didn't move toward
the data station. With the best approximation of nonchal-
ance she could manage, she asked, 'Nick, how is Davies?'
  She was pushing her luck. A grimace twisted Nick's
face, and he growled, 'How the hell should I know? I
haven't exactly had time to hold his hand.'
  A tremor started up in her, threatening her self-
command. She fought it down. Needles of pain probed
her vision: she ignored them. Carefully she said, That's
what I mean. You've been too busy to worry about him.
Did you tell anybody else to take care of him? How's he
doing?'
  Nick flashed a savage glare at her. He didn't break the
pact, however. Snarling under his breath, he slapped the
command station intercom. 'Liete!'
  The command third answered a moment later, 'Nick?'
  'Morn is concerned about our guest,' he sneered. On
this subject, he didn't need to hide his anger. 'He's your
problem. He probably wants food. He can have that.
And he probably wants companionship. He can't have
that. If he gets loose, I'll take it out of your hide. I've got
enough problems without having to play foster parent
for somebody else's bastard.'
  Quietly, so that her voice wouldn't shake, Morn said,
'Thanks.' Then she went quickly to the data station, sat
down, and belted her fear to the seat.

She was in trouble.
  Her head throbbed unconscionably. She couldn't pro-
duce enough saliva to keep her mouth and throat work-
ing. Her fingers were numb and imprecise, resisting the
data board. Under pressure, her eyes slid out of focus;



and when that happened, her stomach twisted queasily.
Her duties alone threatened to be too much for her -
and yet she also had other problems to tackle.
  She needed help; needed her zone implant. Every dif-
ficult thing she'd accomplished aboard Captain's Fancy
had been done with artificial strength and concentration.
But now those benefits were denied her: she was left with
only their cost.
  Addiction. Limits. And the knowledge that without
her black box she might never prove equal to the chal-
lenge of saving herself, or her son.
  Sometimes her vision failed because she'd been hit so
hard. Sometimes it failed because she was weeping. The
board in front of her blurred, and the display screens
dissolved in streaks.
  Nick would call it a betrayal if she let anyone see her
weep. But she couldn't tell whether any of the people
around her noticed her condition.
  She had to do better.
  She had to try. That necessity held: it was the cold,
hard core of what kept her going. Davies was even more
helpless than she was. Unless she found some way to
reach him, he was lost.
  She had to try.
  At first the effort was beyond her. By themselves, the
tests and data Mikka required would have been enough
to use up her resources; but in addition she had to work
on the analysis Nick wanted. She had no time to get
anything else done; no concentration to spare; no
strength at all.
  But then, as unexpectedly as if he'd just come out of



the gap, Pup appeared at her station with a mug of coffee
and a plate of sandwiches.
  'Vector said,' the boy mumbled, 'you haven't had time
to eat anything. He sent this for you.' Self-consciousness
affected him like chagrin. When she didn't move to accept
Vector's offering, he added awkwardly, 'He asked Mikka.
She says it's OK.'
  'Hell,' Scorz drawled, 'if I'd known I could get my
meals delivered just by threatening to blow up the ship,
I would have done it long ago.'
  Ransum giggled nervously.
  Morn took the coffee and food. Hiding behind her
hair, she murmured, Thank you,' and waited for Pup to
leave.
  When he was gone, she ate and drank, and became a
little stronger. Some of the life returned to her fingers.
  After a few minutes she started working on her per-
sonal problems.
  She put the tests and information Mikka wanted up
on one of the big screens and kept them moving to show
that she was busy. On another display, she ran a search-
and-compare program to look through Captain's Fancy's
data for analogues to what had happened in the gap.
  But her console readouts she used for research which
had nothing to do with her duties.
  Simplest problems first. Without much difficulty, she
discovered where Davies was being held.
  His cell was one of the passenger cabins. In fact, his
room was only two doors from hers. That didn't make
him physically accessible: he would be monitored - and
Nick would make certain that she had no chance to sneak
out of her cabin. But just knowing where her son was



eased her distress. And his circumstances could have been
worse: Nick could have decided to secure him by sealing
him in one of the ejection pods Captain's Fancy used as
lifeboats. In a cabin Davies could at least move around;
keep himself clean; be comfortable.
  She still didn't know how to reach him. But trying to
think about that problem stunned her sore brain. To
distract herself, she went to work on the ship's communi-
cations log.
  That research was harder. She had to study the log
without letting Scorz - or Mikka - catch what she was
doing. And her duties still demanded her attention. The
command second wanted to test alloy fatigue hypotheses,
to learn what effect time dilation and particle stress might
have on Captain's Fancy's hull. Some theorists had argued
that as a physical object approached the speed of light it
would bleed substance until it was reduced to light. If
Captain's Fancy was bleeding, Mikka wanted to know
about it. And Morn's search-and-compare programs
repeatedly came up empty, requiring her to redefine
their parameters. For an hour she was unable to nudge
the information she desired out of the communications
computer.
  Then she got it.
  Nick had sent only one message since resuming tard.
  It hadn't been aimed at Thanatos Minor. Instead it'd
been beamed at the nearest UMCP listening post.
  It was a demand for help.
  Nick reported his position, direction, and velocity, and
claimed - without explanation - that he was being pur-
sued by Amnion warships. He reminded the UMCP that
they couldn't afford to let him be captured. He urged



them to send a destroyer into forbidden space to save
him.No chance, Morn muttered as she read the message. If
you think you're worth that, you'd better think again.
The UMCP may have been willing to conceal an Amnion
mutagen immunity drug from the rest of humankind;
but for that very reason no one at UMCPHQ would
have approved the risks Nick had just taken. He'd proven
himself too foolish to live. Any ship the UMCP sent out
would come as a threat, not as help.
  After that, however, she couldn't go on. Nick's deal-
ings with UMCPHQ didn't give her any leverage with
him, any way to make him let her talk to Davies. And
she couldn't imagine how to reach Davies on her own.
Her watch wore to an end without the answer she needed
most.

When Mikka signaled for Liete's people, Nick arrived to
escort Morn back to her cabin.
   The fever in his eyes and the strain in his grin told her
what his intentions were: she didn't need to interpret the
leer he forced toward her, or the significant way he
tapped the pocket of his shipsuit. Without warning, her
eyes filled with tears again, and the last energy seemed to
run out of her muscles. Only her zone implant had
enabled her to bear his touch; and now that control
would be used against her.
   'I hope she's worth it,' Scorz muttered - not to Nick,
but for Nick to overhear.
   'You'll never know,' Nick retorted a little too harshly.
   Just for a moment Morn recovered her anger. She
couldn't smile for Nick, or act pleased, so she kept her



part of the pact by making an obscene gesture in Score's
direction.
  Karster and Ransum laughed tightly as she left the
bridge.
  As soon as she and Nick were through the aperture,
he stopped grinning.
  He held her arm as if he thought she would try to get
away. Because she couldn't, she tried to tell herself that
she would be able to endure whatever he did to her; that
for her son's sake she could face being under Nick's
power the same way she'd been under Angus'. But she
knew she was lying.
  When they reached her cabin, he rasped, This is where
the fun starts,' and thrust her through the doorway.
  Somehow, against the edge of her bunk, she turned to
face him.
  The door slid shut. He held her black box like a gren-
ade, gripped it so hard that the cords on the back of his
hand stood out.
  He may have wanted her to plead with him. Fall on
her knees and beg. That may have been what he needed.
  If it was, he didn't get it. Without control over her
zone implant, she couldn't do anything else for herself;
but she could refuse to beg.
  His fist started to shake. His scars were the color of
dried bone, all the passion desiccated out of them.
  Morn faced him, waiting for him to explode; waiting
for her ordeal aboard Bright Beauty to begin again.
  Abruptly he said, 'I told you about the woman who
cut me.'
  His voice quivered like his hand.



  She waited without blinking; almost without
breathing.
  What you did was worse.'
  She held his aggrieved gaze. Maybe she should have
said something, but nothing came to her. Her refusal to
plead was all she had left.
  His hand tightened and shook until she thought her
black box might break. But he didn't touch any of the
buttons. His skin stretched across his features, as pale as
his scars. His lips looked like the edges of an old wound.
  'The thing is,' he panted, still quivering, 'now that I've
got you, I don't want you. I never wanted you. What I
wanted was to be wanted.'
  While she stared at him, refusing him, he put her con-
trol back in his pocket. 'You can be pretty sure I'll take
care of your brat. I need him. Just turning him over to
the Amnion wouldn't be good enough. I want to be able
to make you watch while they change him.
  'After that, I'll probably let them have you, too.'
  He turned on his heel and left.
  As soon as the door closed, its lights indicated that it
was locked.
  Davies. Oh, Davies, she prayed. Help me.

She needed rest desperately. Whenever she fell asleep,
however, she plunged directly into nightmares that made
her sweat like Angus and scream like the damned.
  They were all the same. In them, the universe suddenly
opened around her, giving her clarity, filling her with
perfection. When it spoke, its message was absolute truth
- and absolutely necessary. Her obedience was so clear
and perfect that it felt like joy.



  Her father or her son stood in front of her. They were
also her mother, and her father's sisters; they were Min
Donner and several of her instructors at the Academy;
they were herself, raped and desolate. But that confusion
only made them clearer, more perfectly comprehensible.
They were all saying
  Morn, save us
  like utter anguish
  so she took small, perfect explosives, and attached them
to her father's heart, or her son's, or her own, and
watched with clear, vindicated joy as the detonations tore
everyone she'd ever loved to bloody bits.
  Then her cries woke her up in a welter of sweat, as if
her bones were being squeezed dry.
  After Liete's watch, and Nick's, she took another turn
on the bridge. This time Vector didn't send her food or
coffee; but when her watch was over, Nick escorted her
to the galley and let her fix herself a meal before he led
her back to her cabin and locked her in.
  Perhaps because food made her stronger - or perhaps
because more time had passed since she'd lost the protec-
tion of her zone implant - her nightmares got worse.
  I'm going crazy, she thought while hoarse terror
echoed in her memory. I'm finished.
  But this time she had an idea.
  Craziness had its uses. It was unpredictable: no one
would expect it. And since she was already finished, she
had nothing else to lose.
  She was almost calm as she took her place among
Mikka's watch. Her nightmares had left her haggard, but
drained; her fears had been temporarily appeased. Hiding
behind the work Nick and Mikka wanted done, she



tapped into Captain's Fancy's maintenance computer.
  She didn't tamper with the lock on her door - or on
Davies'. That would be too obvious: Nick or Mikka
would surely catch her. But they might not be so careful
about the intercoms-
  Concealed by stress reports and gap studies, she routed
a channel between her cabin and Davies', and fixed it
open. That was risky. If Nick entered her cabin, Davies
would hear everything he said: if Davies made a sound,
Nick would hear it.
  She accepted the danger because she had no
alternative.
  She might be crazy and doomed, but at least she would
get a chance to speak to her son.

Unless Davies was beyond reach-
  That could easily be true. He was locked up, alone with
his fundamental confusion of identity. But that confusion
was more than just psychological turmoil: it was a state
of complete hormonal chaos. Driven by his imponderable
transition from fetus to young manhood - and from his
mother's artificially intense sexual stew to his own male-
ness - his physical state must be wildly out of balance.
  Human beings weren't made to survive that kind of
stress. In the Amnion sense, they weren't designed for it.
They could never replace the years of love and nurtur-
ance which nature required. Without those years, Davies
was as lost as his father.
  The urgency of her desire to help him rose in Morn's
throat like a scream. But she had to wait until she reached
her cabin.
  Nick continued to escort her; continued to grip her



arm as if he thought she would run away. She dreaded
him doubly now: he might hear that her intercom was
open. However, he'd become calmer during the past day.
He didn't look like a man who suffered from nightmares.
And the approach to Thanatos Minor gave him things
to think about which must have engaged or satisfied him
more than Morn did. He didn't say anything as he took
her to her cabin. He simply steered her to her door and
locked her in.
  When she was alone, she began to tremble.
  She couldn't imagine how much stress Davies was
under. Her mind hadn't exactly been in its natural state
when it was copied. The effects of her zone implant must
have altered the electrochemical data imprinted on his
neurons. So he had to be different than she was, even
though every learned component of his identity came
from her. But would that make him weaker or stronger?
The little contact she'd had with him suggested that there
were blind patches among his memories. Were they tem-
porary? Would those absent places help or harm him in
his isolation and confusion?
  For several minutes she was too afraid to speak.
  But he needed her. If she didn't help him, no one else
would.
  She went into the san for a drink of water to clear her
throat. Then she braced herself against the wall beside the
intercom and said softly, as if she feared eavesdroppers,
'Davies? Can you hear me?'
  At once she heard a grunt of surprise, the sound of
boots.
  'Don't touch the intercom,' she told him quickly. 'I
fixed this channel open. If you key anything, you'll switch



me off.' And Nick or Liete will realize what you're doing.
  'Morn?' he asked. 'Is that you?'
  Her son's voice. He sounded exactly like his father -
if his father had been younger, and less violently defended
against his own fear.
  Where are you? What's going on? Why is he doing
this to me? Why does he hate me?
  'Morn, what have I done? What am I?'
  Her son.
  'Davies, listen.' She tried to reach him through his
distress. 'I want to answer your questions. I want to tell
you everything. But I don't know how much time we
have. If nobody notices what I did to the intercom, we'll
be able to talk for a long time. But anybody who checks
might catch us. We need to make this count.
   'Are you having trouble remembering things?'
   She heard his breathing as if he had his mouth pressed
to the intercom. After a long pause he said like a small
boy, 'Yes.' Then, more fiercely, he added, 'I don't even
know who I am. How can I remember anything?'
   Be patient, she ordered herself. Don't rush him. What
kind of trouble?'
   'It just stops.' The pickup flattened his voice: he might
have been feeling grief or fury. 'I'm a girl. I remember
that, Morn. My home is on Earth. I've got a mother and
father, just like everybody else. Her name is Bryony, his
is Davies, that's my father, not me. They're both cops -
but she died ten years ago, their ship was crippled and
almost destroyed in a fight with an illegal, he was lucky
to survive. I'm a cop myself, I went to the Academy, I
was assigned to my father's ship. None of this makes any
sense.'



  'I know.' Mom throttled her own sense of urgency in
an effort to comfort him. 'I can explain it all, but I need
to know where it stops. What's the last thing you
remember?'
  Maybe he couldn't hear her. As if the gap between
them were light-years long, he croaked, Whenever I
think about you - I mean, about you separate from me
- I feel like I'm being raped.'
  'Please.' Sudden weeping rilled her throat. She had to
swallow hard before she could force up words. 'I want
to help you, but I can't until I know where your mem-
ories stop.'
  Davies was silent for a long time - so long that waiting
for him nearly broke her heart. But at last he spoke. From
across the gap, he said, The ship was Starmaster. She was
a UMCP destroyer, but we were covert, pretending to
be an orehauler. We'd just left Com-Mine Station for the
belt, and we spotted a ship called Bright Beauty. We'd
been warned about her. Her captain was Angus Thermo-
pyle' - he stumbled over the name as if he didn't know
why it was familiar - 'and we were told he was one of
the worst, but nobody could prove it. We saw him' -
Davies' tone conveyed a shudder - 'burn out a defenseless
mining camp, so we went after him.
  'I was at my combat station on the auxiliary bridge.
We started after Bright Beauty. That's the last thing I
remember.'
  Listening to him, Morn didn't know whether to feel
relief or regret. His memories cut out at the moment
when she'd first been hit by gap-sickness. At least for
the time being, he'd been spared all the horrors she'd



experienced. That was probably why he was still sane
enough to talk.
  If she could help him before those memories returned,
he might be able to deal with them.
  Nevertheless she was left with an appalling burden of
explanation.
  'All right,' she said, ignoring her own dismay because
his need was so much greater. 'Now I know where to
begin.
  'This is the most important thing. Nothing that you
remember - or ever will remember - about being Morn
Hyland happened to you. You know that's true because
you're obviously not a girl. You don't resemble your own
memories. They aren't yours. That's my past. I'm Morn
Hyland. You are Davies Hyland, my son.
  'When I found out I was pregnant, I decided not to
abort you. But I couldn't have you aboard this ship.
She's an illegal's ship, Davies. Her name is Captain's
Fancy, and she belongs to that man who acts like he hates
you, Nick Succorso. We were on the run. Our gap drive
was damaged - we couldn't reach any safe port.' She
edited her account drastically, not to falsify it - he would
never be able to trust her if she lied now - but to make
it bearable. 'So Nick took us into forbidden space. To
Enablement Station - to the Amnion.'
  Davies' silence sounded worse than swearing or pro-
tests. He had enough of her memories to understand
her.'They have a "force-growing" technique, a way to make
fetuses physiologically mature fast. I agreed to that
because I couldn't think of any other way to keep you.
But a fetus has no experience, no learning, no mind.



The Amnion can grow a body, but they can't create an
intelligence, a personality. So they copy it from the
mother.
  That's why you think you're me. When you were born,
you were given my past - my memories, my training -
to make up for the fact that you didn't have your own.
  The man you remember is my father, Captain Davies
Hyland of Starmaster. He's your grandfather. I named
you after him because I loved and admired him - and
because I want to keep some part of him alive.'
  I killed all the rest.
  But she couldn't say that: she couldn't risk triggering
the memories he'd been spared. Not until she'd given
him a context for them; until she'd convinced him that
they belonged to her, not to him.
  'Nobody hates you,' she continued, urging him to
believe her. 'Not you personally. I told you that. Nick
treats you like this because he hates me.
  That's why he traded you to the Amnion, You didn't
do anything. You aren't to blame. He's just trying to find
ways to hurt me.'
  As if from an immeasurable distance, Davies asked,
Why?'
  Still editing, Morn replied, 'Because he's an illegal, and
I'm a cop. That's one reason. There are others - better
ones - but I don't want to talk about them until you're
ready.'
  Davies, what're you thinking? What're you feeling?
What do you need?
  The wall was too hard, too impersonal. She needed to
see her son's face, wanted to hold him in her arms; ached
to place herself between him and his crisis.



  She expected him to ask what those other reasons were.
When it came, his question surprised her.
  'Morn, why do my memories stop? Your life didn't.
You got pregnant. You left Starmaster and ended up here.
You got yourself in so much trouble that you had to go
to the Amnion for help. Why don't I remember any of
that?'
  'I'm not sure,' she replied slowly, feeling her way. 'I'm
not an expert on force-growing.' Or psychic trauma. 'But
I think it's because the memories are so bad. I won't lie
to you. What happened was - hideous.' And to save her
mind from her terror of the Amnion, she'd used her zone
implant to blank her fear. Maybe that had inhibited the
transference of the memories which scared or hurt her
most. What you remember,' she said as bravely as she
could, 'stops right at the point where I first came down
with gap-sickness.
  'That's my problem, not yours,' she added, hurrying
to reassure him. 'You don't have it. For one thing, it's
not an inherited trait. For another, you've already been
through the gap. If you were susceptible, it probably
would have shown up by now. I'm a rare case - my
gap-sickness stays dormant most of the time. It only
becomes active when it's triggered by heavy g.
  When Starmaster started chasing Bright Beauty, we
had heavy g for the first time. After that, terrible things
started happening. If you're lucky, you'll never remember
them.'
  The intercom made Davies' voice sound like it came
from the far side of the galaxy. They're the reason Nick
Succorso hates you.'



  'Yes,' she answered thinly, as if his assertion left her
faint. 'Some of them.'
  'Morn, I need to know what they are.' He was sud-
denly urgent. 'Maybe you're the one he hates, but I'm
the one he's taking it out on. He gave me back to the
Amnion. Now he's got me locked up - he's just waiting
for his chance to do something worse to me.
  'I need to know why. Or I won't be able to stand it.'
  His demand hurt more than she would have believed
possible. He was her son; the surviving remnant of her
father's beliefs and commitments. He would judge her
by standards to which she'd dedicated her life - until
gap-sickness and Angus Thermopyle had degraded her.
To tell him the truth would shame her utterly.
  So what? she asked herself. What does it matter now?
If you were stuck where he is, you would feel the way he
does.
  Baring her soul, she answered, 'Because I lied to him.'
  That's all?' Davies rasped like his father. 'He hates you
because you lied to him?'
  'Yes. Because I lied to him where it hurt the most.'
Every word set claws of chagrin and remorse into her
heart, but she forced herself to go on. 'He's a tormented
man, and I used that against him.
  'He never wanted me to have you. He wanted me for
sex, that's all. So he ordered me to abort you. He could
have forced me - he could have done anything to me. I
told him every lie I could think of that might change his
mind.
  'I told him you're his son.'
  'But I'm not,' Davies said across the gap. 'My father is



Angus Thermo-pile. He said so. Angus Thermopyle. The
man who slaughtered those miners.'
  The intercom muffled his implicit accusation, yet Morn
heard it like a shout. You're a cop, and you got pregnant
with a man like Angus Thermopyle! You gave me him
for a father!
  But her son was too frightened to accuse her.
Nothing in her background prepared him for his plight.
'Is that really why he hates you?' he asked as if he were
pleading. 'They're both illegals. I thought they might be
partners. I thought my father was somewhere aboard.
  'I thought he might come see me' - Davies' voice broke
like a kid's - 'might come help me.'
  'No,' Morn answered miserably. 'He isn't here. He's
in lockup back on Com-Mine. They didn't get him for
what he did to those miners, but they found a charge
they could make stick.
  'He's the only man in human space that Nick hates
worse than the cops. If Nick had known before you were
born that'- she said the name again - 'Angus Thermo-
pyle was your father, he would have aborted you with
his bare hands.'
  Without any warning at all, the door slid open, and
Nick strode into her cabin.
  Dark blood filled his scars, underlining his gaze with
fury. A snarl uncovered his teeth. Both his hands
clenched into fists.
  'Morn?' Davies asked anxiously. What was that?'
  His voice over the intercom didn't surprise Nick.
  'You like to live dangerously,' he sneered at Morn.
'Doesn't it ever occur to you that you can't afford to mess
with me? I don't have to put up with you' - abruptly he



faced the intercom - 'or with you, either, you fucking
bastard.' His anger flashed like a cutting laser. 'I can have
you both shot, and nobody here or back at UMCPHQ
will even bother to wince.'
  Try it,' Davies retorted, instantly belligerent - like his
father - and too inexperienced to restrain himself. Try
letting one of your illegals get that close to me.'
  Nick toggled the intercom with a blow of his fist.
  'Liete,' he snapped, 'disable Davies' intercom. From
now on, he's deaf, understand? I don't want him to hear
anything.'
  'I understand,' replied Liete calmly.
  Nick punched the intercom off and swung back toward
Morn.
  He was going to hit her: she knew that. She could
read the particular tightness in his shoulders, the knotted
lines of his stance. He had no other outlet. He was going
to wait and stare at her until her own fear paralyzed her.
Then he was going to hit her hard enough to break
bones.
  He might shatter her ribs, or her jaw. If she were lucky,
he might burst her skull.
  She almost said, Oh, get it over with. I'm tired of
waiting for you to go out of control.
  The intercom stopped her.
  'Nick.' Tension had replaced Liete's usual stoicism.
'You're wanted on the bridge.'
  That got Nick's attention. He spun to the intercom
again, keyed it with his thumb. What's going on?'
  We've got company,' the command third reported.
'An Amnion warship. She just resumed tard right on the
edge of our scan.



 'She's between us and Thanatos Minor.'
  Nick slapped off the intercom and hit the door at a
run.Morn followed before he had a chance to lock her in.



   A s soon as Nick noticed her, he wheeled on her.
        'God damn it-!'
           'Nick,' Morn urged, breathless with intensity,
'you need me.' The passage was empty: no one was likely
to overhear what she said. As fast as she could find words,
she argued, 'Maybe you can survive the Amnion. You
can't survive a crew that doesn't believe in you. You need
me with you. To keep alive the idea that we're in this
together. As long as you can make them think we're on
the same side, they'll believe you're still the Nick Succorso
who never loses.'
  'In other words,' he fired back at her, "you want me to
trust you. You just disobeyed my direct orders, and now
you want me to risk everything I've got left that you'll
back me up.'
  That was private,' she retorted. His interruption of
her efforts to help Davies had left her terrified and furi-
ous; careless of consequences. This is public. Even you
can understand the difference.'



  With an inarticulate snarl, he swung at her.
  But he didn't hit her; he snatched hold of her arm.
Nearly flinging her off her feet, he impelled her toward
the lift.
  'Make it good,' he rasped as he rushed her along. The
harder you push me, the less I have to gain by keeping
you alive.'
  Make it good. She no longer had any idea what that
meant. Minute by minute, she knew less and less about
her own decisions; about the implications of her own
actions. She'd lost control in more ways than one. The
gap between what she thought or planned and what she
did was growing wider. Everything about her had a tight,
feverish quality, as if she were going into withdrawal.
  Nevertheless she answered his demand as if he could
count on her - as if she were sure of herself.
  Together they hurried through Captain's Fancy to the
bridge.
  Relief showed through Liete Corregio's blunt com-
petence at their arrival. Unlike Morn, she'd been to sick-
bay: her injuries had been treated. In addition, she'd had
a certain amount of rest. And she'd never lacked confi-
dence in her fundamental abilities. Yet she plainly didn't
want command of the ship in this situation. Her relief
indicated that she no longer knew how to regard her
captain. She didn't want to face an Amnion warship with-
out him because she couldn't count on his approval.
  Nick ignored her reaction, however. Scanning the dis-
plays, he snapped, 'Status.'
  Liete nodded at one of the screens. 'She showed up
five minutes ago. Popped out of tach just inside our
range. Scan data on her isn't very good yet. For one



thing, we're still fumbling with real-time distortion across
our sensors. For another, we simply aren't programmed
for this much doppler. We're having to oversample eight
and ten times just to filter out the noise. At the moment,
I can't even tell you which direction she's going.
  'But she's Amnion. We're sure of that. And the
emission signature resembles one of those warships we
left back at Enablement. Calm Horizons.
  'By some monumental coincidence, she's between us
and Thanatos Minor. I mean, right between. Unless one
of us shifts, we're going to hit her.'
  Frowning at the screens, Nick asked, 'How is that
possible?'
  Liete nodded at the smelly and carnivorous helm third.
  'Easy,' Pastille answered, twitching his whiskers. He
was glad for a chance to show off his expertise. 'Alba and
I could do it.' His grin implied that the computational
problem was simple, not that he thought highly of Alba
Parmute. 'Give them our velocity, acceleration, and vec-
tor, an accurate mass reading, reliable hysteresis par-
ameters, and a good estimate of how much power our
gap field generator can handle, and they can plot our
theoretical crossings from Enablement to infinity.
  'If they had to guess at our hysteresis parameters and
power capacity, they couldn't do it. But they supplied
the components, so they had exact information. If they're
pessimistic enough to think we might survive their brand
of sabotage, they wouldn't have any trouble knowing
where to look for us - as long as we resumed tard on
their side of the border.'
  Morn knew all this. She was sure Nick did, too. But



hearing it gave him time to think - and gave the bridge
crew time to absorb her presence with him.
  Abruptly he turned to communications. 'Are they
sending?'
  The communications third, improficient at the best of
times, looked badly flustered now. 'I don't know,' he
stuttered, 'I'm not sure. There's so much static.'
  'Live dangerously,' Nick drawled ominously. Take a
guess.'
  The targ third, Simper, sniggered behind his heavy fist.
  The flustered man turned pale. Looking at Liete as if
for protection, he said in a small voice, 'I don't think so.
If they are, the computer can't make sense out of it.'
  'It's still early,' Liete put in. 'As I say, we don't know
yet which direction they're heading. We can't measure
the distance accurately enough. Even if they started send-
ing as soon as they hit tard, we might not get it yet.'
  'Does it work both ways?' Morn asked quickly. 'Are
they having the same trouble tracking us?'
  Liete considered the question. 'I don't see why not. At
any rate, I think we can be sure they aren't expecting to
see us like this. They're probably surprised to see us at
all. They should be astonished to see us moving so fast.'
  'Right!' Now Nick was ready. He began to issue
orders. 'You' - he stabbed a finger at Morn - 'take the
data board.' Grinning harshly, he added, 'No offense,
Alba, but I want someone there who doesn't think with
her crotch.'
  Alba Parmute pouted like her swelling breasts, but she
obeyed.
  Nick hit the command station intercom. 'Lind. Malda.
I want you on the bridge.' He seemed to be turning



up an internal rheostat, intensifying himself to meet the
challenge. Moment by moment, he looked more like the
Nick Succorso who never lost. 'Right away would be
good. Right now would be better.'
  On her way to the data station, Morn passed Alba.
The data third tried to sneer, but she couldn't conceal
her speculative sexual awe at Morn's hold on Nick.
  Morn grinned back - and was shocked when she re-
alized that her grin was the same as Nick's. She was
becoming more like him all the time.
  Like him. And like Angus.
  For a moment, the recognition stunned her. Automati-
cally she sat down at the data board, belted herself in. But
the readouts and lights in front of her meant nothing.
Without the defense of her zone implant, her identity
was being transformed by stress; deformed beyond
recognition.
  Then Nick's voice reached her.
  'Morn, let's assume we've identified that fucker right.
Pull up everything we have on Calm Horizons. Let's start
calculating what we're up against.'
  As if he'd hit a switch in her, her ability to function
clicked back on. She began tapping keys, executing com-
mands; pouring data across the displays.
  Shortly Malda Verone arrived to replace Simper. Mut-
tering to himself, Lind assumed the communications
station, screwed a pickup into his ear, and began applying
filters to the blurred noise of the vacuum.
  'Don't miss anything,' Nick told him. We need to
make decisions fast. At this velocity, lateral thrust is going
to be like cracking eggs with a sledgehammer. We need
to keep our course corrections as small as possible. But



until we know what they want, we can't decide what to
do about it.'
  'I'm on it,' Lind reported without shifting his concen-
tration. 'If they fart, I'll make music out of it.'
  'Just be sure it still stinks,' gibed Pastille.
  Nick ignored the riposte. 'Malda, I want everything
ready. Matter cannon won't do us much good - unless
we get a chance to shoot broadside - but I want them
charged anyway. The same for the lasers.' Captain's Fancy
was well equipped with industrial lasers: they were
invaluable for unsealing pirated ships. Like the matter
cannon, however, they were light-constant - too slow
relative to Captain's Fancy's present velocity. From that
point of view, her speed was a disadvantage. It would
reduce the effectiveness of her weapons. 'And prime the
static mines.'
  Malda Verone didn't acknowledge the order: she was
already working on it.
  'Allum,' Nick continued to the scan third, 'I want more
information. I want to know whether that fucker's
coming or going, and how fast.'
  'So do I,' Allum responded in a discouraged tone. 'But
the readings just aren't clear. If my board works any
harder, it's going to smoke.'
  But a moment later he said excitedly, Wait a minute.
The computer's catching up.' Staring at his readouts, he
reported, 'She's going the same way we are. Exactly the
same heading. Speed' - he hit a key or two - 'approxi-
mately -4C.'
  Which meant that Captain's Fancy was overtaking the
Amnion warship at half the speed of light.



  Eagerness focused Nick's attention. 'Morn, what do
we know about that ship? What can she do?'
  Morn sorted data. 'That class of warship uses a slow
brisance thrust. They can go as fast as we can - I mean
under normal circumstances - but they can't generate as
much g. So they aren't very agile. That fits with our
readings on Calm Horizons. That's the good news.'
  Abruptly her mouth went dry.
  The bad news is that she's big enough to carry super-
light proton cannon. That's one of the advantages of slow
brisance thrust - it allows spare power capacity.' Morn's
mother had been killed by a super-light proton beam.
We can't survive a hit. If we have to fight, agility is about
the only thing we've got going for us.'
  Her feverish sensation began to feel more like chills.
Adrenalin out of control. Withdrawal-
  If Nick did any heavy g evasive maneuvers, she was in
serious trouble. He had her black box.
  Her mother had been killed.
  Lind's voice cracked as he announced, They're
sending!'
  Nick sat forward tensely. 'Let's hear it.'
  Lind keyed the speakers. With a burst of black static,
they came to life.
  'Amnion defensive Calm Horizons to human ship Cap-
tain's Fancy.' The flat voice came through particle noise
as loud as a rattle of nails in a drum. 'You are required to
decelerate. Conformity of purpose has not been achieved.
Amnion requirements have not been satisfied. If they are
not satisfied, you will be presumed hostile. Calm Horizons
will destroy you.
  To survive, you must decelerate.'



  A sting of panic went through Morn. Requirements
have not been satisfied. Phosphene bursts made it imposs-
ible for her to focus on the displays. Her mouth was so
dry that she couldn't swallow. The Amnion still wanted
Davies.
  Or they were after the secret of Nick's immunity.
  Nick chewed his knuckle for a moment. What's the
lag?' he demanded. 'How far away are they?'
  'Five minutes,' Lind reported promptly. That's an
estimate, but it should be about right. The computers are
getting a better picture all the time.'
  'Five minutes,' Allum verified from scan. That
checks.'
  Ninety million kilometers. And closing at a relative
velocity of 150,000 kps. Space enough to maneuver in.
Time enough for desperation.
  The ship's scan wasn't that good. Of course not. The
Amnion warship could function because her equipment
was superior to anything human: no human scan had
that kind of range. Captain's Fancy was reading old infor-
mation - particle traces dispersing across the vacuum -
and extrapolating from it. Ironically the velocity she'd
been given by sabotage was what enabled her to interpret
scan data over such distances; gave her a chance to defend
herself. A station like Com-Mine would have been blind
to Calm Horizons' presence.
  'Nick,' Morn said, forcing up words from her desic-
cated throat, 'tell them we've got damage. Tell them
when the gap drive blew it burned out the thrust control
systems. We can't decelerate.'
  He shook his head. They'll know that isn't true.' His
concentration was so pure that he didn't react to the



message underlying her suggestion. They designed those
components. They know exactly how our gap drive
failed.
  'Lind, copy this. "Captain Nick Succorso to Amnion
warship Calm Horizons. I have regained command of my
ship. I regret that the satisfaction of your requirements
was prevented by mutinous action among my subordi-
nates. However, I am unwilling to decelerate. My own
requirements were not satisfied. Gap drive damage
necessitates urgent arrival at Thanatos Minor. Because
of the nature of our damage, the satisfaction of your
requirement is no longer compelling."' Carefully he
refrained from accusing the Amnion of cheating. '"We
will alter course to avoid collision." Send it.
  'Pastille, this is your chance to prove you've got a right
to be such a smartass. I want a one degree correction.
And I want it soft. Less than one g. At this speed, that
vector will miss them by a wide enough margin.'
  What good will that do?' asked the helm third. They'll
shift to compensate.'
  Calmly Nick returned, 'Did I ask your opinion?'
  'No.'
  Then just do it. If you can't calculate your own algor-
ithms, get the computer to figure them for you.
  Tell me as soon as they start to alter course,' he
instructed the scan third.
  To conceal his irritation or chagrin, Pastille turned to
his board.
  Instinctively Morn clenched her hands on the edges of
the data console and waited for g - for the burst of clarity
which would destroy her.
  But Pastille was good at his job, when he chose to be.



She felt a sudden pressure as her weight tried to sink
across the centrifuge of Captain's Fancy's spin; however,
it only seemed heavy because it rotated in and out of
phase with the ship's internal g. And it was over in a
moment. It left her giddy and feverish; but that was relief,
not gap-sickness.
  'Done,' Pastille reported petulantly.
  'You all right, Morn?' asked Nick.
  The intent of his question was complex, but its import
was simple. She nodded.
  Five minutes lag. Ten for a message to go and an
answer to come back. No, not that long. Captain's Fancy
was closing the gap at half the speed of light, not count-
ing the minute decrease in relative speed caused by the
course correction. The lag was shrinking fast.
  She didn't have much time.
  'Nick,' she offered tensely, 'what about a bluff?' As her
sensation of fever mounted, she began to think that clar-
ity would have been an improvement. She couldn't trust
Nick - and the symptoms of withdrawal would only get
worse. We can tell them we've already beamed a report
to Thanatos Minor and human space. If anything else
happens to us, the word of how we were betrayed will
spread. The only way they can save their reputation for
honest trade is by leaving us alone.'
  'That might work,' Liete commented thoughtfully.
  'Or it might convince them they don't have anything
to lose by killing us,' Nick countered. 'If their reputation
is already damaged, why not give themselves the satisfac-
tion of blasting us?
  'I've got a better idea.'



  Again he toggled the intercom. 'Mikka, how do you
feel about going EVA at 270,000 kps?'
  Mikka took a moment to respond; when she did, her
tone was noncommittal. 'I would rather break my knee-
caps. What have you got in mind?'
  'Static mines,' he said crisply. 'I want a cloak of them
around us - twenty or thirty at least. But if we launch
them from targ, Amnion scan might be good enough to
read the power-flash. I can't risk that. We need a manual
launch.'
  What good will that do?' asked Pastille for the second
time. 'If we surround ourselves with static, we'll be blind.
We won't see it coming when they hit us.'
  Nick shot the helm third a curdling look. Pastille closed
his mouth.
  If the same question troubled Mikka, she kept it to
herself. 'I won't have to go outside,' she answered. 'I can
do it from one of the locks. How much dispersion do
you want?'
  'I don't care about the distance - not at this range. I
just want it slow. And thin. I don't want to cast a shadow
on their scan.'
  When?' the command second asked.
  Nick glanced at Malda; when she nodded, he told
Mikka, They've been primed. Get them ready fast. But
don't launch until I tell you.' With a fierce grin, he added,
'Make sure you're secure. I don't want to lose you when
we maneuver.'
  Snapping off the intercom, he turned back to Pastille.
  'If you think I don't know what I'm doing,' he said
distinctly, 'you'd better put on a suit and jump ship. We
won't miss you.'



  Pastille ducked his head. Biting his lips, he murmured
bitterly, 'Sorry, Nick. It won't happen again.'
  'Just for the record,' Nick continued in a snarl, 'how
do you suppose that fucker's targ is going to handle our
velocity? They're too far away for real-time tracking. If
they want to hit us, they'll have to hypothesize our pos-
ition. I intend to make that difficult.'
  Morn wasn't listening. Her throat kept getting drier,
and she had more and more trouble breathing. All she
cared about was how the Amnion would respond to his
message.
  Which one of their requirements were they determined
to satisfy?
  'Nick, they've shifted,' Allum reported from scan.
  Morn reached for the data from scan so that she could
plot it; but Pastille was faster - probably trying to redeem
himself. Quicker than she could work, with her eyes
dazzled by random neural blasts, and her fingers going
numb, he processed the information. Then he barked,
'Intercept course. If we stay on this heading, they'll cross
our line just in time for impact.' He hesitated, then
asserted, We've gained about two minutes.'
  Lind's voice caught as he said, 'Message coming in.'
  'Audio,' Nick instructed.
  'Amnion defensive Calm Horizons to human Captain
Nick Succorso.' Decreasing distance had marginally
improved reception from the warship. 'You are required
to decelerate. This is mandatory. If you do not comply,
you will be destroyed.
  'Your speed makes communication difficult. Therefore
negotiation is not feasible. You state that gap drive dam-
age causes the satisfaction of Amnion requirements to be



"no longer compelling". This statement is unclear. You
transgress Amnion space. Therefore all Amnion require-
ments are "compelling". Speculation suggests that you
consider the Amnion culpable for gap drive damage.
Very well. You are considered culpable for the failure of
Amnion efforts to resolve uncertainty concerning your
identity. If you accuse the Amnion, you will be accused
in turn. The Amnion accusation predates yours.
  'If you wish to effect repairs and depart Amnion space
safely, you must deliver the human offspring, Davies
Hyland, as agreed.'
  In recognition and horror, Morn hissed, 'Nick, you
can't!'
  He silenced her with a slash of his hand.
  Deaf to her protest, the impersonal voice went on,
The "mutinous action" of your subordinates has post-
poned this requirement, not canceled it. You will concede
him as recompense for safe-conduct from Amnion space
- and for Amnion credit which you have obtained by
culpable means. To accomplish this, you must
decelerate.
  'You are instructed to match velocity with Amnion
defensive Calm Horizons. When you have done so, you
will transfer the human offspring, Davies Hyland. Then
you will be escorted to Thanatos Minor - or to the
borders of human space, if you prefer.'
  Nick, no.
  The alien voice continued implacably, 'Unless Amnion
requirements are satisfied, you will be destroyed. No
reply or protest will be heeded. Only deceleration is
acceptable.'



  'Lag!' Nick demanded as soon as the transmission
stopped. What's the lag?'
  Lind was prompt. 'Nine minutes there and back, give
or take. They heard us in five. We got their answer in
four.'
  'So they've been committed to their new course for at
least four minutes?'
  'Right,' Allum and Pastille said in unison.
  'Lind, copy this.' Nick grinned savagely. '"Captain
Nick Succorso to Amnion warship Calm Horizons. Get a
horse." Send it.'
  Morn sat staring at him, as light-headed as if she were
about to pass out.
  He hit the intercom. 'Mikka, you ready?'
  'Standing by,' she answered.
  'Don't launch yet. Secure for maneuvers.'
  At once he faced Pastille again. 'All right, ace. Do it
again. Gentle course correction, no more than one g. Put
us back on a straight line for Thanatos Minor.'
  'But they'll just-' the helm third began. Morn could
see him sweating in his whiskers.
  '"Slow brisance thrust,"' snorted Malda. 'Get it
through your head.' She may have been trying to spare
Pastille Nick's ire. 'Even if they can accelerate forever,
they do it slowly.'
  We're using their first course correction against
them.' Nick's tone was casual, but the look in his eyes
suggested that Pastille wouldn't live much longer. Their
own inertia will prevent them from being able to inter-
cept us.
  'Are you satisfied' - he made the word sound Amnion
- 'or do you want to be relieved?'



  In other words, Morn thought dumbly as Pastille
worked, the only way Culm Horizons could stop Captain's
Fancy was with a long-range broadside.
  Nick had set that up. He'd forced the Amnion into a
position where their only choice was to fire. And their
target was moving at an unprecedented speed.
  He had no intention of surrendering Davies.
  For some reason, she couldn't breathe. When the
course correction hit, she nearly flopped out of her seat,
not because the g was hard, but because her head was
already reeling.
  'Done,' Pastille said for the second time, sounding
scared.
  Through the intercom, Nick told Mikka, 'Now!'
  Almost immediately she replied, They're launched.
Give me twenty seconds to seal the lock.'
  'Do it,' he said, and clicked her off.
  Then he addressed the bridge. 'Now we're committed.
It's too late to back down. If anybody screws up, we're
all fried. Morn, figure out how much time that fucker
needs to get in firing position. Once they see us shift,
they'll know they can't catch us. I want you to calculate
their best shot at us.
  'Allum, tell me the exact instant you see them start
shifting themselves.
  'Pastille, when I give the word, I want straight one g
braking thrust. No more than that. I want it for exactly
ten seconds. Then cut it.
  'Malda, the instant those ten seconds are up, fire the
static mines.
  'Morn?'
  Morn had difficulty pushing herself upright. She tried



to say, 'I'm all right,' but the words didn't make any
sound. Adrenalin seemed to go off in her head like small
suns, distorting her vision, cramping her lungs. With-
drawal- Dependent on artificial control, her synapses
had apparently forgotten how to manage themselves. She
couldn't tell the difference between her readouts and her
nightmares
  her father or her son begging
  Morn, save us.
  Oh, sure. How could she do that? She couldn't even
save herself. She was being torn down to her subatomic
particles, dispersed by betrayal into the immedicable gap
between her addiction and her mortality.
  'Morn!' Nick yelled in sudden alarm, 'don't touch that
board!'
  She wasn't gap-sick; but he reached her before she had
a chance to say so. He caught hold of her wrists, jerked
them away from the console, shoved her back in her seat.
  At the same time Liete Corregio said stolidly, 'It's up
to you, Pastille. Show us you're worth having around.
Calculate what that warship has to do to get their best
shot at us. If you can pull it off, I'll ask Nick to forgive
you.''I'm all right,' Morn whispered into Nick's strained
face.
  'No, you're not,' he retorted.
  Too light-headed and wracked to lie, she murmured,
'It's not gap-sickness. It's withdrawal.'
  You think I've played dirty with you. What do you
think I've done with myself?
  'I can do my job,' she croaked past her thick tongue.
  'The hell you can.'



  All she could see was the pale blur of Nick's face.
  'Four minutes.' She snagged the number out of her
whirling head. They need four minutes.'
  Pastille was talking in the background. 'Here's a guess.
They'll see our shift three and a half minutes after we
did it. They'll need five minutes to haul that tub around
into position.'
  'Four,' Morn insisted, 'if their computers are better
than ours.'
  'They're better,' Nick said out of the blur.
  'All right, four,' Pastille put in. 'A broadside will take
only another minute to hit us. We'll be that close. Say
eight and a half minutes from our course correction.
That's all approximate. I can do a first-order hypothetical
countdown to improve the guess.'
  'I can do it.' Morn fought to focus her eyes. 'Let me
do my job.'
  Nick held her hard, as if he were trying to estimate her
condition by the tension in her arms. Then, abruptly, he
leaned close to her, put his cheek to hers. 'You bitch,'
he breathed against her ear. 'It's nice to see you suffering
for a change.'
  Dropping her wrists, he walked back around the
bridge to stand beside Liete at the command station.
  Morn braced herself on the sides of the console and
tried to find the still place in the center of her spinning
mind.
  A first-order hypothetical countdown. An estimate of
the moment when Calm Horizons would fire - an estimate
in which the only allowed variable was time-dilation.
Captain's Fancy's computers had been working for at least



a day now to gauge that variable. She ought to be able
to run a countdown that was reasonably accurate.
  If she could think.
  But 'reasonably accurate' wouldn't be good enough.
She had to do better than that.
  She couldn't think. Whenever she tried, anxiety
slammed through her, and her vision jolted out of focus.
  She didn't need to think. Somewhere in her computer
were programs that could think for her. All she had to
do was use them.
 Morn, save us.
  Utter anguish.
  Hoping to counteract the phosphene dance, she
rubbed her eyes roughly. Then she began calling data to
her board.
  Start the countdown from the moment of course cor-
rection: anchor everything on that instant. How much
time was left? Seven minutes? Six? She could check, but
she didn't bother. Watching her life slip away would only
increase her panic.
  The speed of light: that was constant. Take as constant
everything Captain's Fancy knew about Amnion war-
ships in general; about Calm Horizons in particular. Take
as constant the decision to destroy Captain's Fancy - and
the need for the best obtainable angle of fire. And time-
dilation itself was constant: the two ships' respective
abilities to cope with it were the only true variables. Treat
them as one.
  Muster the data. Initiate the calculations.
  Hit all the right keys.
  Please.
  'Got it,' she said, although she wasn't sure she spoke



loud enough for anyone to hear her. 'It's on the screen.
It might not run steadily. I've put in an automatic self-test
and correction. The computer will estimate the accuracy
of its own time-dilation compensations. Then it'll adjust
the countdown.'
  All her joints had begun to ache. The sensation of
fever was growing stronger, and her head throbbed. She
needed water, but didn't have the strength to ask for it.
She closed her eyes to give herself a moment's rest.
  Like a voice in a dream, she heard Liete say, 'Better
check it, Pastille.'
  Almost immediately the helm third responded, 'It
looks right. I don't know how she does it. The last time
I went through withdrawal, I couldn't find my head
with both hands. That "self-test and correction" is a great
idea.'
  Involuntarily Morn went to sleep -
  - and thrashed awake again as if someone had set a
stun-prod to her chest. When she squeezed her sight clear
enough to see the screens, she found that the moment
she'd predicted for Calm Horizons to fire had almost
come. If she were right, the broadside would be on its
way in ninety seconds.
  One hundred fifty seconds to destruction.
  Super-light proton fire was light-constant; as fast as
scan. Captain's Fancy would get no warning before the
barrage arrived.
  Pastille and Malda hunched over their boards; Allum
scrutinized his scan readouts. Everyone else studied the
screens. But nobody had anything to do. Except wait.
  As they watched, the computer's self-correction pro-
gram took the countdown ahead by fifteen seconds.



  Without shifting his gaze, Nick said, 'Pastille, I hope
you're ready.'
  'If I get any readier,' the helm third muttered thinly,
'I'll pass out.'
  'Malda?' Nick asked.
  The targ third jerked a nod.
  'Isn't this fun?' Nick sounded suddenly happy. 'If we
aren't going to survive, we won't know it until we're
already dead.'
  One minute forty seconds.
  Nick, Morn said. Let me talk to Davies. Let me say
good-bye. But her dry throat locked the words inside
her.The countdown kicked ahead another eight seconds.
  'On my word, Pastille,' Nick warned. ''Exactly on my
word.
  'Malda, you're on your own.
  'Have you noticed,' he remarked conversationally, 'that
every time the countdown shifts, it gets shorter? Never
longer. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Maybe our figures
are too generous. Maybe we're closer to dying than we
think.'
  One minute ten.
  Morn had the impression that she'd given up breath-
ing. It didn't seem worth the effort. For one clear
moment she could say honestly that it made no difference
to her whether she lived or died. The Amnion were wel-
come to whatever remained after the broadside hit.
  There were still twenty seconds left on the screen when
Nick said like the crack of a whip, 'Now.'
  Pastille hit braking thrust so fast that Morn sprawled
onto her console.



  The static mines swept ahead, taking Captain's Fancy's
place in the warship's projections.
  Ten.
  Nine.
  The new g wasn't much; Morn knew that. It felt strong
because it pulled her at right angles to the ship's gravity;
but it wasn't heavy. Surely it wasn't heavy enough to
make her sick. And yet she couldn't lift her head off the
board.
  Eight.
  Seven.
  Six.
  Complex g and zone implant addiction withdrawal.
Together they were too much for her. She felt herself
spreading out and away, ahead into the dark; riding a
flight of primed static mines. When they went off, her
brain would burst.
  Her mother had died like this.
  Five.
  Four.
  Three.
  Nothing was clear now. She must have been breath-
ing: otherwise she would have lost consciousness. But
she couldn't remember doing it. Maybe gap-sickness was
preferable after all. Her life was out of her hands. It
would have been nice if she could have chosen her own
death.
  Two.
  One.
  Malda set off the mines.
  At once discernible space disappeared in a blast of
electronic chaos.



  Only a heartbeat or two later - seven or eight seconds
ahead of her projection - a barrage ripped through the
heart of the static. If Captain's Fancy had been hit, the
blast would have stripped her down to her welds and
blown her away along the winds of the vacuum. But it
never touched her. In fact, blinded by her own mines,
she never actually saw the Amnion fire. She only knew of
its existence because its intensity transcended the static,
drove her sensors white and then blank as their circuitry
shut down to protect them. She never knew how nar-
rowly she'd been missed.
  As Nick had intended, all Calm Horizons saw was dis-
tortion.
  By the time the Amnion sensors penetrated the static
accurately enough to determine that Captain's Fancy
hadn't been hit, his ship was beyond reach.
  'Well,' he announced in a tone of grim satisfaction,
'now we know they're serious.'
  Serious, Morn thought with her head resting on her
board. Serious enough to destroy Captain's Fancy rather
than let Davies get away. She probably ought to sit up,
but she didn't really want to. Thanatos Minor was in
Amnion space.
  Apparently without transition, Nick stood in front of
her. 'Come on.' He began unbelting her from her seat.
'You're useless here. I'll take you back to your cabin.'
  She found herself clinging to his neck. For some
reason, she couldn't tell which direction was up.

When they reached her cabin, he set her down on the
bunk and took out her black box.
  'I don't like doing this.' He was flushed with his success



against Calm Horizons, and he wanted to take it out on
her. 'I would rather watch you go through withdrawal
for a while. But I can't risk it. You might go crazy. And
my only alternative is to take you to sickbay for a dose
of cat. That won't work because I don't know yet how
long I'll want to keep you helpless. The sickbay computer
won't accept a command to dope you indefinitely. So
this is my only choice. Let's see how you like being null-
wave for a while.'
  As he reached for the buttons, a recognition of her
own plight reached her through the static of withdrawal
in her head. She croaked weakly, 'Wait.'
  'Why?' he growled.
  Survive. If she let him kill her - or drive her into
gap-sickness - she would never be able to help Davies.
The Amnion weren't likely to give up now. She fought
to speak clearly.
  'It's a short-range transmitter. You can't turn it on
and take it with you. It'll lose effect.' Please understand.
Please. You'll kill me. 'If you don't leave it here, it won't
work.'
  That made sense. Surely he could see that she was
telling the truth?
  'Tough shit,' he rasped as he keyed the function that
was designed to render her catatonic.
  Closing her eyes, she slumped inert.
  When she was limp, he stretched her out on the bunk
and sealed her into its g-sheath so that she wouldn't be
battered to death when Captain's Fancy began braking.
Although he probably couldn't spare the time, he stood
over her for a moment, studying her. Then he breathed
like a benediction, 'Fucking bitch.'



  But he must have believed her. As he left the cabin, he
put her zone implant control away in one of the lockers.
  Trembling, she forced herself out of the sheath and
struggled to her feet.
  This was her chance.
  No, it wasn't.
  She had to let him think that his control over her was
complete. Whatever it cost her, she needed to preserve
her last secret - needed to conceal the fact that she'd
disabled this function. No matter how much she craved
the power to possess herself again, she had to refuse it.
  So she didn't try to hide the black box for herself. And
she didn't try to sneak out of her cabin. There was heavy
g ahead. She couldn't know when it would begin, or
how long it would last. And she needed rest in the same
way that her addiction needed a fix. Without much
trouble, she found her zone implant control. In despair,
she tapped the buttons that would put her to sleep.
  She didn't set the timer.
  Replacing the box where Nick had left it, she dove
back to her bunk and managed to reseal the g-sheath
before her mind disappeared into the involuntary dark.



The United Mining Companies Pre-Emptive Enabling
Act for Security', known for convenience as The Preempt
Act', was passed over the strenuous objections of liber-
tarian politicians on Earth and against the opposition of
the local administrations of most human stations: Ter-
minus; Sagittarius Unlimited; SpaceLab Annexe; Out-
reach; Valdor Industrial; but, notably, not Com-Mine.
Behind its legalisms and jargon, the thrust of the Act was
plain: it gave the UMC Police jurisdiction and authority
over local Security everywhere except on Earth itself.
  Prior to the Act, local Security was required to give
cooperation, information, and support to UMCP officers
and agents whenever they were on-station; but UMCP
'turf' only began at the perimeters of Station control
space - i.e. at the effective limits of Station fire. The
rationale for this restriction had to do with the UMCP
Articles of Mission. According to the Articles, the UMCP



existed to 'combat piracy and secure the lawful use of
space'. Nothing more.
  For some time, however, interpretation of the Articles
had been predicated, not upon 'nothing more', but upon
'nothingless'. In particular, no intelligent effort could
be made to 'combat piracy' without confronting the
problem of the Amnion. As the personnel, resources,
and determination of the UMCP expanded, so did its
Mission, which soon came to include the defense of
human space against any threat.
  Once this interpretation of the Articles became current,
its extension in the Preempt Act grew to seem more and
more inevitable. In order to 'combat piracy and secure
the lawful use of space', the UMCP naturally needed
to reach inward (toward human illegals, most of whom
perforce based their operations on one Station or
another) as well as outward (toward the Amnion).
Within the hierarchy of the UMCP, passage of the Pre-
empt Act was a major priority for a number of years.
  Several factors conspired to make the Preempt Act
seem necessary despite opposition to it. Increasing
dread of the Amnion was one; the relative intransigence
of the piracy problem was another. And to those was
finally added doubt about the integrity of Security on
particular Stations. The Thermopyle case on Com-Mine
Station, in particular, while thankfully benign in its
immediate consequences, was disturbing in its impli-
cations. There Security had apparently conspired with one
suspected illegal to trap another - and had done so in a
way which could have proved disastrous for Com-Mine
itself. That the operation had not, in fact, proved disas-
trous was merely fortunate: that Com-Mine Security



was actively involved with illegals, to the risk of its own
Station, was irresponsible and dangerous.
  Additionally, of course, station Security was so far
away, so completely cut off from any communication
which was not relayed by ship - in short, so difficult to
control - that it was easily distrusted.
  Faced with a choice between the vigor and clarity of
the UMCP on the one hand and the problematical
reliability of station Security on the other, a majority of
the Governing Council for Earth and Space eventually
accepted the United Mining Companies directors' rec-
ommendation to pass the Preempt Act.
  In some circles, the Preempt Act was considered minor
legislation, just another part of the United Mining Com-
panies' ongoing efforts to secure the safety of space on
behalf of Earth and their own interests.
  In others, it was viewed as the capstone of Warden
Dios' and the UMCP's quest for power. The passage of
the Preempt Act made the UMCP's hegemony complete.



She awoke as if she were dying.
           The transition moved her from oblivion to sick-
         ness and mortality; to terminal weakness and a
sense of discomfort as profound as disease. In the dark
nothing existed except her zone implant and the long
unconscionable seethe of her dreams. But as she was
dredged toward consciousness, frailty and despair rose as
if they were being created for the first time. She was
urgently thirsty, wan from hunger - and too stunned,
poleaxed by sleep, to know what those things meant. The
transition itself was hurtful, a disruption of the imposed
neural order of her brain and body. Her limbs and joints
felt brutalized by strain. A clammy sensation clung to her
skin, as if she were lying in blood. And she stank - a
particular reek, nauseous and sweet, which reminded her
of Angus and corpses.
  She wanted to finish dying. She wanted to get it over
with.
  'Come on,' Nick urged as if he were anxious for her.



'I turned it off. The effects aren't supposed to be perma-
nent. You didn't tell me this thing could paralyze you
permanently. You can't get away from me like this.'
  Of course. He thought she was blank with catatonia,
not immersed in sleep. He expected to see a difference in
her as soon as he switched off her black box.
  Even now, while she was dying, she couldn't afford
to let him guess the truth. She forced her eyes open.
  That's better,' he remarked.
  Her eyes refused to focus. They were too sore, too
dry. But blinking didn't help. Her eyelids rubbed up and
down like sandpaper. The pain in her throat - or the
smell - made her feel like gagging. Her mouth stretched
wide, but she was too weak to retch; too empty.
  'You stink,' Nick said like Angus. Exactly like Angus.
  He had her zone implant control.
  A thin sigh that should have been a wail scraped past
her tongue.
  'You've been out too long. You're thirsty and hungry,
but what you need first is a shower. You smell like you've
got five kilos of shit in your suit.
  'Here. I'll help you get up.'
  She felt the g-sheath loosen and pull away as he un-
sealed it. Then he took hold of her arms and pried her
upright.
  The shock of transition would have been strong
enough to unhinge her mind, if she'd been strong enough
to feel its full force. Fortunately he was helping her in
more ways than one. His support got her to her feet -
and when he said 'shower', she heard 'water'. Her need
for water galvanized her, despite her weakness. Past the



blur of his face and the blur of the walls, she fumbled
toward the san.
  Without touching her, he pulled open the seals of her
shipsuit. Then he pushed her into the san and turned on
the jets.
  Water.
  She gulped at it, swallowed as much as she could get
into her mouth. The jets sprayed life at her. It filled her
eyes, eased her throat; her body seemed to absorb it
before it reached her stomach. After a moment so much
of it had gone into her shipsuit that its weight pulled the
suit off her shoulders. The stained, rank fabric clustered
around her boots. Water ran inside her and out; it
washed her flesh and her nerves. In a short time it
restored her enough to realize that if she drank too much
at once she might make herself sick.
  Nick had come back. He'd switched off her zone
implant control, thinking he was bringing her out of
catatonia.
  Captain's Fancy must be done decelerating. She
wouldn't have been asleep long enough to get this thirsty
and hungry, to foul herself this badly, if the ship hadn't
finished braking.
  Or something else had happened.
  She needed to be awake. She needed food and
strength.
  Nick's voice reached her through the spray. 'Don't go
to sleep in there. I'm in no mood to wait around.'
  He didn't sound impatient.
  Leaning against the wall, she bent down and removed
her boots, shoved her shipsuit off her ankles. Transitional



shivers ran through her like a chill: she raised the tem-
perature of the water to warm them away.
  An automatic buzzer warned her that the san's suction
drain was blocked. To clear it, she pushed her sodden
shipsuit out of the way. She would have liked to wash
her hair, scrub herself thoroughly; but Nick was waiting
for her, and she had no idea why. Although she was
barely able to stand, she turned off the water and stepped
out of the cubicle.
  There was a clean shipsuit ready. Nick must have
gotten it out of the locker for her.
  Why was he doing all this?
  She dried herself weakly, put on the shipsuit, and went
back into the main room of her cabin to face him.
  She found him in a state of demented calm.
  His eyes met hers unsteadily and nicked away; roved
the cabin; returned to her body and the outlines of her
face. Traces of passion licked and faded through his scars.
At intervals, a muscle twitched in his cheek, pulling his
lip back from his teeth. And yet his stance, the way he
held his arms, even the angle of his neck suggested a deep
repose, as if he were at peace with himself to an extent
she'd never seen before.
  As if he'd achieved a profound victory - or accepted a
complete defeat.
  'That's better,' he said while she stared at him, trying
to guess where she stood with him. 'Now for some food.'
  A tight, calm nod indicated a tray on a table beside
him.
  'Sit,' he continued. 'Eat. I'll tell you what's been hap-
pening.'
  Why are you doing this?



  She couldn't imagine what his intentions were. Never-
theless he was right: she needed food. The smell of coffee
and Captain's Fancy's version of hot oatmeal drew her.
For the time being, at least, she'd been rescued from the
ordeal of withdrawal; but that relief only left her more
hungry. Like a convict taking her last meal in the presence
of her executioner, she sat down to eat.
  Nick stood over her while she tasted the oatmeal,
sipped the coffee.
  Abruptly he said, 'You can probably guess we're done
decelerating. If you were the kind of woman who shits
in her suit, you would have done it a long time ago.' His
voice was like his demeanor: calm, at peace, but with
flickers of passion running through it like distant light-
ning. The Bill likes ships to come into Thanatos Minor
slowly, so we're doing that. At this speed, we're roughly
twenty-four hours out of dock.
  That much braking was hard on all of us. By the time
we got past Calm Horizons, we'd missed our chance for
a leisurely deceleration. I couldn't spare the time to take
care of you until we'd achieved approach velocity - and
established our "credentials" with the Bill. I mean ident-
ity, intentions, and credit. He's perfectly capable of call-
ing in the Amnion, if he feels threatened enough, but
he's got plenty of other ways to defend himself when he
needs them.'
  Morn couldn't meet the strange unsteadiness of his
gaze. She concentrated on her food while he talked. The
oatmeal had been liberally sweetened. Despite her need
for calories, she ate slowly so that she wouldn't overbur-
den her abused digestion.
  'For one thing, he's got a real arsenal on that bloody



rock. And there are other ships in. I mean, aside from
the Bill's. Anybody who does business with him will fight
for him. He insists on that - but those ships would do
it anyway. Illegals like that need him too much not to
defend him.
  'You've never been to Thanatos Minor. You're in for
a surprise. It's practically civilized. The Bill must have
five thousand people there, all working for him.'
  Into her coffee, Morn murmured, 'All working for the
Amnion.'
  'No.' Nick sounded amused rather than offended.
They're just taking advantage of what the Amnion are
willing to pay. "War profiteering" is an old and honorable
profession. It isn't their fault it only works one way. It
isn't their fault the Amnion don't have any illegals who
want to do the same kind of business with human space.'
  Without transition, as if he were still on the same sub-
ject, he said, 'Morn, I want you to make love to me. No
zone implants, no lies. I want you to show me what you
can do when you aren't cheating.'
  Alarm jolted through her so hard that she dropped her
spoon. It clattered on the floor, as loud as if it were
breaking.
  'If you can make me believe you want me enough,' he
finished, 'I'll let you go.'
  Oh, shit. So that was it. For an instant she shivered on
the verge of weeping.
  Then her dismay turned to fury.
  Raising her head so that he could see the darkness in
her eyes, she said, 'In that case, you'd better switch me
off right now. You'd better kill me. The idea of touching
you makes me want to puke.'



  For some reason, her vehemence didn't disturb his
calm. His gaze met hers and skittered away; returned;
fled again. His cheek twitched, and brief hints of blood
stained his pale scars. Yet his physical repose remained
complete. His smile was soft, almost forgiving. Triumph
or defeat had carried him past his doubts.
  Then I'll offer you something else,' he said peacefully.
'If you'll make love to me with your whole heart - just
once, so I can find out what it's like - I'll let you talk to
your brat. Hell, I'll let you see him. You can spend the
rest of the day just holding his hand.'
  Davies! she thought in a storm of suppressed dismay
and grief. A chance to talk to him, see him - a chance to
do what she could to keep him from going mad - a
chance to defend the legacy of her father.
  Straight at Nick, she said, 'I guess I underestimated
you. You're starting to make Angus Thermopyle' - sud-
denly that name was easy to say - 'look pretty good.'
  For an instant the small spasm in his cheek turned his
smile into a snarl. His tranquillity held, however.
  'I guess you did,' he remarked as if that were the
friendliest thing he'd ever said to her. With a slow,
relaxed movement, he took her black box out of his
pocket. 'Oh, don't worry,' he reassured her involuntary
chagrin, 'I'm not going to use this. I don't want to take
the chance of turning you into a null-wave transmitter.
And I'm not going to force you to have sex me. I've never
needed a woman that badly. This' - he gestured with the
control - 'is just a precaution. Now that I know how you
feel about me - how much you hate me' - his smile was
easy, unthreatening - 'I want to be sure I can protect
myself.'



  Without shifting his feet, he stretched out his arm and
toggled her intercom. 'Mikka?'
  Mikka's voice came from the speaker. 'Here.'
  No hint of malice showed in his tone as he said, 'Givrn
a closed channel to our other guest. They need a chance
to talk privately. She's worried about him. And that poor
sonofabitch is probably worried about himself.'
  'Right,' Mikka answered.
  When he left the intercom, its status lights indicated
that it was still on.
  Strolling casually, he went to the bunk. With the pil-
low propped to support his back, he sat down, rested his
legs in front of him. He looked comfortable enough to
take a nap. Smiling at Morn's astonishment, he pointed
her toward the intercom with his free hand.
  She had trouble clearing her throat. Coffee, food, and
water weren't enough: she wasn't ready for this. Swallow-
ing convulsively, she asked, What's the catch?'
  'If you weren't so busy underestimating me,' he
replied, at peace with himself, 'I would say, you are. But,
under the circumstances, you can't afford to worry about
things like that.'
  Urging her, he pointed at the intercom again.
  'Morn?' Davies asked anxiously. 'Are you there? What's
going on? Is he going to let you talk to me?'
  Paralyzed by fear, Morn sat and stared horror at Nick.
She couldn't speak - couldn't think. She wanted to fling
herself at him, try to kill him; not because she believed
she could succeed, but because when he defended himself
her despair and dread would come to an end.
  Nick raised his voice. 'Davies, this is Nick. Morn is
with me - we're in her cabin. I've given her permission



to talk to you. It's a private channel. Nobody can hear
you, except me. But I guess she doesn't trust me.
  'Maybe you can reason with her.'
   Davies-
   'Morn,' Davies said immediately, 'don't trust him. He's
up to something.' That was his father talking. 'Maybe
there's something he needs to know, something he thinks
you might tell me. Don't say anything unless you're sure
it's safe.'
   He sounded certain, as sure of his judgments as a kid.
But he was also lost and lonely, as only a kid could be.
As if he couldn't help himself, he asked, 'Morn, are you
all right? You're all I've got. Don't let anything happen
to you.'
  Oh, my son. It's already happened. Can't you tell that?
I just don't know what it is.
   Nick went on smiling. 'Did you have any trouble dur-
ing deceleration? I don't know if Liete remembered to
warn you. You could have been banged up pretty badly.'
   'Nobody warned me,' Davies snapped back. 'You
probably told her not to. If I slammed up against a bulk-
head and broke my skull, that would solve a lot of prob-
lems for you. But I knew something was going to happen
when you turned off internal g.'
  Nothing disturbed Nick. 'Good for you.
  'How's the state of your memory?' he continued
pleasantly. His scars gave little glimpses of malice, which
his tone denied. 'Have you been able to get past any of
the blank spots? Are you starting to remember your
father at all?'
  'Nick Succorso' - Davies' intensity made the speaker
crackle - You're garbage. You're illegal, and everything



you do stinks. I don't have anything to say to you. If you
want to ask me questions, come do it in person. Take
your chances.' Precocious with an adult's mind in a teen-
ager's body, he rasped, Take them like a man.'
  'No,' Morn breathed, too softly for her son to hear
her, 'don't provoke him. Don't give him an excuse. All
he needs is an excuse.'
  Nick's cheek twitched. 'You don't mean that, Davies.
You think you do, but you don't. You're alone. You've
got a mind you don't understand - and a body your mind
doesn't fit. You need to know who you are. Where you
come from. What you're made out of. That means you
need to know about your father.
  'You've probably got more of your mother in you than
you can use, but you're your father's son, too. You need
to know about Angus Thermo-pile. There's a lot I can
tell you. I've learned a lot about him myself in the past
few days.'
  'Stop,' Morn hissed at Nick. 'Stop.'
  'Did you know he's an illegal - one of the worst? Sure
you did. You can probably remember that part. He's a
pirate and a butcher and a petty thief. Right now, he's
serving a life sentence in Com-Mine Station lockup for
stealing supplies. They would have given him the death
penalty, but they couldn't prove enough of his crimes.
  That may not make you think very highly of your
mother. She's a cop. She's supposed to arrest men like
Captain Thermo-pile, or kill them, not fuck them until
she gets pregnant.
  'But it wasn't like that. Your mother didn't start fuck-
ing illegals until she met me. Before that, she was actually
quite innocent. You see, Captain Thermo-pile gave her



a zone implant. I'll bet you can remember what that is.
After she demolished Starmaster, he rescued her from the
wreckage. But she was a cop, so he couldn't trust her.
He gave her a zone implant to keep her under control.
That's how he got her pregnant.
  'It's a pathetic story. He turned her on until she would
have been willing to suck her insides out with a vacuum
hose, and then he fucked her senseless. For weeks, he
made her do everything he'd ever dreamed a woman
could do.
  'That's your father, Davies. That's the kind of man you
are.'
  'Morn?' Davies said as if he were begging. 'Morn?'
  Morn surged to her feet. 'I said, stop it!' Dismay filled
her chest, crowded her throat: she could hardly breathe.
That's enough!'
  Nick studied her dispassionately while he went on talk-
ing to her son.
  'But here's the interesting part of the story. Giving
somebody a zone implant - an "unauthorized" zone
implant - is a capital crime. Why wasn't your father con-
victed? If she had a zone implant, he must have had a
zone implant control. Why wasn't it found on him when
he was arrested? How could he keep her from turning
against him, if he didn't have her under control?'
  'Nick-!'
  He overrode her. His smile was sweet with affection.
  The answer is, she'd learned to like it. He'd degraded
her so much that she fell in love with it. She wanted it,
Davies. Eventually she wanted it so much that he could
trust her with her zone implant control. It wasn't found



on him because he'd already given it to her. She loved
using it on herself.
  'So what did she do with it when he was arrested? She
didn't turn it over to Com-Mine Security like a good
little cop. They would have removed her zone implant -
and your father would have been executed. She couldn't
do that.
  'Oh, I don't think she cared what happened to him.
But she was a zone implant junkie. She couldn't let them
take it away from her. So she hid the control and escaped
with me. Instead of doing anything a cop should have
done, she kept what she loved most.' Still his tone held
only peace, no malice. 'She used it to seduce me so that
I would rescue her - not from Captain Thermo-pile, but
from Com-Mine Security.'
  'Morn?' Davies protested.
  'All she's done since then,' said Nick, 'is perfect her
addiction.'
  'Morn?' The intercom gave out hints of anguish.
  'Did she tell you she refused to abort you because she
wanted to keep you? That isn't strictly true. The only real
reason she insisted on keeping you is that she couldn't
get an abortion without letting the sickbay test her. It
would have recorded her zone implant. If she'd had an
abortion, I would have learned the truth about her.
  That's your mother, Davies. That's the kind of woman
you came from.'
  'Davies!' Morn cried. 'He's lying! He's got it wrong!'
  She did her best to shout, Of course I didn't want him
to know about my zone implant! That was the only way I
could keep myself alive. With all her strength, she struggled



to tell her son, But that's not why I refused an abortion! I refused because I wanted you!

   Unfortunately none of those words came out. As soon
as she started to say them, Nick touched one of the but-
tons on her black box; and pain as hot as a welding laser
seared through all her nerves simultaneously. The only
sound she managed was a thin shriek as she fell writhing
to the floor.
   'Morn!' Davies bellowed. 'MORN!'
   Smiling, Nick scrutinized the zone implant control.
After a moment he found the function which allowed
him to adjust the intensity of the emissions. Slowly he
reduced her imposed agony to a simmer - hot enough
to make her squirm and twist and whimper, not
so hot that she couldn't hear Davies calling for
her.'All right,' Nick articulated. Through a haze of pain,
Morn saw that his eyes were underlined with darkness.
His tone made Davies go suddenly silent. 'I want you
both to listen. When you hear what I have to say, I'm
sure you'll agree it's important.
  There's one little detail about our situation that I
neglected to mention. Must have slipped my mind.' His
smile had become a predatory grin. 'As I told you, we're
about a day out from Thanatos Minor. At this velocity,
that's an easy distance for scan and communications.
What I didn't tell you is that there's an Amnion warship
almost exactly halfway between us and dock. Tranquil
Hegemony. And they want the same thing Calm Horizons
wanted. They want Davies.'
   Morn gasped and groaned, but couldn't force words
through her excruciation.



  The sound of hoarse breathing, strained and hollow,
came from the intercom.
  'Superficially,' Nick explained as if he were chatting
casually in the galley, 'it's a complex problem for all of
us. On the one hand, they want Davies. On the other,
they don't really want to fight for him. Not with the
whole of Billingate watching. I'm sure they're sure they're
in the right - but they know enough about ordinary
human distrust to realize that none of their justifications
will repair the damage to their credibility. And they can't
be entirely sure they'll win in a fight. At these velocities,
we can maneuver rings around a lumbering tub like that.
We might cripple them. We might even destroy them.
  'And if we couldn't do it alone, we might get help.
It's one thing to do business with the Amnion. It's some-
thing else entirely to sit still and watch them blast a
human ship. Some unexpected allies might turn up on
our side.
  They don't want a fight if they can avoid it.'
  Through her teeth, Morn gritted, 'You bastard. You
fucking-'
  Nick tapped buttons on the zone implant control.
  She didn't have time to flinch. Before she could expect
more pain, a wave of cold washed through her. At once
she began to shiver so hard that she lost her voice. Her
temperature plummeted, plunging her into hypothermia.
Her efforts to curse Nick came out as an unintelligible
judder.
  'As for us,' he said comfortably, 'well, I think I can
beat them. And I know I can outmaneuver them. Are you
listening, Davies? This is your life I'm talking about.'



  A harsh rasp came from the speaker, but Davies didn't
reply.
  Nick shrugged. There's just one difficulty,' he con-
tinued. That fucker Calm Horizons is coming up behind
us as hard as it can go - and I know I can't beat two
Amnion warships. The best I can hope for is to get out
of this part of space on the run. But if I do that - if we
get away from here alive - what have I accomplished?
We'll be an appalling distance from nowhere, with no
gap drive, and no chance for repairs. We'll die slowly
instead of quickly, that's all.'
  Morn was nearly in shock; yet he didn't let her go.
A further experiment with her black box brought her
temperature back up. After a few unsuccessful attempts,
he managed to take charge of her limbs. Pulling up her
arm, he jabbed her fingers into her mouth, forcing her
to gag herself.
  'Do you think Hashi Lebwohl will send help?' he asked
her amiably. 'You believe that, if you can. I think he's cut
me off. Before we ever went into forbidden space, he
told me I was on my own. By now, he must have figured
out that we made an "unauthorized" visit to Enablement.
I think he's finally decided I'm more trouble than I'm
worth. He hasn't answered any of my transmissions -
and I've made them as urgent as I know how.
  'As I say, it's a complex problem.
  'Superficially.'
  Grinning, he watched Morn choke.
  'But when you think about it, it's really pretty simple.
Because, you see, I don't want to keep Davies. I've been
trying to get rid of him ever since he was born.
  'So that's what I'm going to do.



  'I've already thrashed out all the details with Tranquil
Hegemony. Twelve hours from now, when we're along-
side, I'll send Davies to them in an ejection pod. Then
they'll let us dock in peace. In fact, they've agreed that
both warships will go back to Enablement, just to dem-
onstrate their good faith. We'll be able to get our repairs
without having the Amnion breathing down our necks.
  'It's the best solution all the way around.'
  Through his calm, he sounded proud of himself.
  Involuntarily Morn retched oatmeal and coffee past
her fingers.
  What a shame,' he murmured happily. 'Just a minute
ago you were clean. You almost looked good enough for
some man to want - if he were desperate enough. But
now' - he chuckled - 'I'm afraid all you look is bulimic.'
  What are you doing?' The flat tone of the speaker
couldn't conceal Davies' distress. What are you doing
to her?'
  Abruptly Nick swung his legs off the bunk. He stood
up and stepped over Morn to the intercom. His scars
gleamed like black gashes across his cheeks as he snarled,
'You little shit, it's called "revenge".'
  Davies began to howl.
  Then his voice vanished as Nick toggled the switch.
  'Mikka,' Nick said.
  Impartially grim, the command second answered,
'Here.'
  'I'm afraid things have gotten out of hand. I had to
tell her about Davies. She isn't taking it well. You'd better
close the channel to his cabin. No, disconnect his inter-
com completely. If they talk, they'll just make each other
worse.'



  Davies' howl echoed in Morn's mind as if she could
still hear it.
  'Anything else?' Mikka asked.
  Nick grinned. 'Just make damn sure she can't get out
of here. I'll deal with her when I've got time.'
  He clicked off the intercom.
  Nearly strangling on her own vomit, Morn watched as
he opened the door and closed it behind him without
canceling the emissions from her black box.
  She wasn't able to drag her fingers out of her mouth
until he carried her zone implant control beyond its trans-
mission range.



Gagging to clear her throat, Morn fought her way
          to her hands and knees. One of her hands
          braced itself in a puddle of oatmeal, but she
ignored the sticky mess. She needed air, needed to
breathe; yet every inhalation seemed to suck acid and
vomit into her lungs. Transition wrenched through her.
Anoxia dimmed her vision to a phosphene swirl. The
cabin spun around her as if Captain's Fancy had lost
internal g.
  Breathe.
  Acid cut into her esophagus, chewed on her vocal
cords.
  Breathe.
  Straining her mouth wide, she began to draw air in
small gasps.
  Davies-
  It wasn't bad enough that he was locked up; helpless;
that he'd been sold to the Amnion. It wasn't bad enough
that he had to face alone a crisis of identity so profound



that it could have destroyed anyone. No. That didn't
suffice for Nick. To satisfy his old, personal outrage, he'd
undermined Davies to the core.
  It's called revenge.
  All her son had to work with, to use against the threat
of madness, was what he could remember: his inherited
self. Nick had made those memories, that self, look
treacherous. He'd given Davies reason to believe that his
worst enemies, the people who had hurt him most, were
his mother and father; that his mind itself was a crime
against him.
  How could he hope to survive that kind of stress? How
could she hope that for him? By the time the Amnion
got him, they would be the only sanity he knew.
  Morn reeled upright on her knees.
  Another breath.
  Another.
  With her stained hand, she smeared vomit across her
face, trying to wipe it away. She was insane herself, in
the grip of a frantic and surreal clarity which understood
everything and revealed nothing. She didn't know what
she was going to do until it was already done.
  Pulling as much air as possible into her lungs, she
stumbled to her feet.
  Nick had told Mikka to disconnect Davies' intercom;
but he hadn't said anything about this one. And he
wouldn't have reached the bridge yet. Surely Morn hadn't
knelt in her vomit long enough for him to reach the
bridge.
  Unsteady and thick-headed, blind to herself, she
lurched to the wall and snap-punched the intercom



toggle as if she could make the equipment function by
force.
  Indicators lit: a channel opened.
  A background murmur came from the speaker, a sense
of depth or ambience too great for the constricted space
of the bridge. Somehow she'd reached - or been given -
a general channel to the rest of the ship.
  Someone wanted her to be heard.
  'Listen to me,' she croaked, hoarse with acid and need.
'He's going to give them my son.'
  Why should they care? Most of them - maybe all of
them - already knew what Nick was doing. And she was
a cop: she was the enemy. What did she hope to gain?
  Who wanted to grant her this chance?
  She took it without trying to understand. Frantic and
clear, she put everything she had left into her voice.
  'I know why you're here - some of you. I know why
you do this. For some of you, it's just freedom, license.
Being illegal gives you more choices, fewer hindrances.
You've lost too much, missed too much. Now you can
take what you want.'
  She didn't know what to say. She was too weak - and
had no eloquence. To steady herself, she imagined her
voice reaching all the rooms and cabins of the ship, echo-
ing inescapably in the corridors. She imagined herself
being heeded.
  'Is this what you want? Do you want to turn human
beings over to the Amnion? Have you thought about
what that means? It means you could be next. This time
it's all right to give them my son. Next time it could be
all right to give them you. Isn't that right, Alba? Pastille?
Do you think Nick considers you worth keeping? Are



you sure?. What if he finds somebody on Thanatos Minor
who can do your job better - or fucks better - or
worships him more?
  'Is that what you want?'
  Spasms of coughing rose from her damaged throat
and esophagus. But she couldn't afford to stop. She had
no time: Nick would silence her as soon as he gained the
bridge. In her mind, she could see him running to put
an end to her appeal.
  Weeping at the effort, she continued.
  'But some of you have other reasons. You're here
because the cops are corrupt - the whole damn UMC is
corrupt - and this is the only way you can oppose them.
Vector? Sib? Mikka? Can you hear me? The cops are
corrupt. I didn't know that, but I know it now. I don't
like it any more than you do. I became a cop because
pirates killed my mother, and I wanted to fight. I wanted
to fight anything that threatened human life and liberty
and security. The things I've learned make me sick.
  'But that's no reason to give my son to the Amnion!
It doesn't hurt the cops, because they don't care anyway.
It just betrays humanity, all humanity, you and me and
every man or woman or child who's still alive.
  'You've all got families. You all came from somewhere
- you must have had mothers and fathers, brothers and
sisters, relatives and friends. How about them? What
would you sell them for? How would you look at yourself
in the mirror afterward?
  'Don't let him do this.' Until she'd said it, she didn't
realize that she was urging mutiny. 'Find some other
answer. There's got to be some other answer.'
  She had no idea what that might be. In an important



sense, Nick wasn't just the captain of his ship: he was the
ship itself. His codes ruled every function; he made all
the decisions; his skills kept his people alive. Everyone
who heard her was dependent on him.
  Anyone who challenged him might end up where
Davies was now.
  Abruptly the intercom picked up her antagonist.
  'I told you she wasn't taking it well,' Nick drawled.
He sounded perfectly sure of himself; impervious to her
threats. 'You've heard enough to know what I mean. You
can cut her off now, Mikka.'
  He'd been on the bridge the whole time. He'd been
allowing Morn to speak; allowing the ship to hear her in
order to prove himself. He was that secure.
  She abandoned language and started screaming.
  Raw with acid and strain, her visceral howl rang
throughout Captain's Fancy until the indicators on her
intercom went dead.
  Because she wasn't done, she continued screaming. But
now the walls of her cabin were all that heard her.
  She didn't stop until her throat gave out.
  Then she collapsed in the chair and covered her face
with her hands.
  Patience.
  The part of her that understood everything and
revealed nothing didn't explain why. It simply told her:
patience.
  Wait.
  Davies wouldn't be ejected to the Amnion for nearly
twelve hours. A lot could happen in twelve hours. Entire
lives might be won or lost. Hope and ruin could be as
quick as gap-sickness.



  First things first.
  The first thing was to wait.
  But not like this. From this position, she couldn't see
her intercom.
  Without knowing why, she moved the chair so that
she had a clear view of the intercom's status indicators.
Then, although she stank of hydrochloric acid and
undigested oatmeal, and could probably have spared the
time to go to the san and wash her face, she sat down
again and waited.
  Patience.
  Every passing second brought the end nearer. The end
of her son - and of herself. Nevertheless she was patient.
  The sure, surreal part of her knew what it was doing.
Nick was too curious about her, too interested in the
progress of his revenge, to ignore her. When she'd been
waiting, as motionless as catatonia, for an hour or so, the
intercom status suddenly turned green.
  He wanted to check on her by eavesdropping.
  At once she began to whimper and mewl like a dying
cat.The strain of her earlier screams helped her sound
broken and pathetic, demented beyond recognition. That
was true, wasn't it? As far as she knew, she was telling
him the truth.
  She kept it up until he switched off the intercom. Then
she got to her feet.
  Unsteadily she went to the san and picked up every
hard object she could find: brushes; the mending kit;
dispensers for lotions, depilatories, hair treatments. Back
in her chair, she piled her collection on her thighs and
resumed waiting.



  An hour?
  More?
  Less?
  The advantage of her insane, uncomprehending clarity
was that it didn't punish her for the passage of time. It
told her to be patient - and it enabled her to obey.
  Tranquil Hegemony and Thanatos Minor must have
been looming on scan. By now, Calm Horizons was surely
near enough to take part in whatever happened. She
could think about such things, but she couldn't worry
about them. Her capacity for worry was gone - buried
or burned out. Davies' image was vivid to her, as if she
could see every muscle of his face respond to the torment
of his thoughts; but it didn't distress her.
  Right now - waiting as if she'd been left null by a
stun-prod - she was doing everything she could for her
son.Try me, she cackled in the silence of her skull. Try to
beat me. I dare you.
  What you keep forgetting is that Angus beat me long
ago. There's nothing left for you.
  He taught me everything I know.
  When the intercom came on again, she burst into sobs
and began flinging her pile of objects around the cabin;
hailing the pickup with dispensers and brushes. Between
sobs, she panted, 'Nick! Nick!' as if she'd ruptured her
lungs. As soon she ran out of things to throw, she stood
up, grabbed the chair, and used it to batter the walls.
  'Nick!'
  By the time the intercom switched off, she was sobbing
with exertion, as well as with mad, unexplained cunning.



  But now she was done waiting. It was time to take the
next step.
  Gasping for air, she staggered into the san.
  No, first she needed shipsuits and bedding. She
returned to her room, jerked open the lockers, hauled
their contents to the floor. With her arms full, she went
back to the san.
  She jammed a pillow into the suction drain of the
shower. She turned on the water and sealed the door.
  Almost immediately she heard warning buzzers.
  She wadded up a shipsuit and used it to plug the head.
With a nail file, she wedged the flushing button so that
it couldn't stop.
  While a sterile wash full of recycling chemicals pumped
into the head and began to overflow, she forced a pair of
panties into the drain of the sink and turned on the water
there.
  The alarms became louder. Inarticulate and imper-
sonal, Captain's Fancy's internal systems shouted at her to
stop. If she put enough strain on them, the maintenance
computer would cut off the supply of water to the entire
ship.
  Water was only water. A nuisance, nothing more; one
small annoyance for Nick Succorso while he was busy
with other things.
  But he had to wonder what she would do next.
  If she thought of water, would she think of fire? That
would be another matter entirely. Every ship was vulner-
able to fire in some way. Could he be sure that she had
nothing in her cabin which would let her start a fire?
  Walking through runnels of water from the sink and



sterilizing chemicals from the head, she left the san and
sat down in the middle of her mess on the floor.
  Ignore me, Nick. Ignore me now.
  Just try.
  He couldn't do it. The part of her that understood
knew he couldn't. He wasn't done with her yet. He
couldn't take the chance that she would be able to sur-
prise him with something so bizarre that it might kill her.
And even if she didn't die, how much pleasure could he
get out of torturing someone who'd gone irremediably
crazy?
  All she had to do was wait until the door swept open,
and he stood in front of her.
  After a time she realized that she was sitting on the
floor for a reason: so that he would think she wasn't
going to attack him.
  The door-
  He-
  She would have been afraid that she was imagining
him, that he wasn't really there; but the expression on
his face wasn't one she would have envisioned. It was a
look of consternation, almost of shock. Whatever he'd
anticipated would happen to her here alone, he hadn't
expected this.
  Therefore his presence was real. She was clear about
that.
  'I've been enjoying this,' he said tightly. 'I like
listening to you lose your mind.' The dead pallor of his
scars contradicted him. 'But it's gone on long enough.
You're disturbing my concentration.'
  In response, she picked up a depilatory dispenser and
hurled it at his head.



  He batted it away with one hand. The other plunged
into his pocket and came out holding her zone implant
control.
  'I didn't want to do this, but I guess I'll have to turn
you off. Before you wreck the plumbing.'
  Try me.
  Deliberately Morn raised her hands and began clawing
at the skin of her cheeks.
  Try me, you sonofabitch.
  In a hurry to prevent her from maiming herself, he
pointed her black box at her and thumbed the buttons.
  Off balance, she sprawled backward into the stream
from the san.
  For some reason, he kicked her bare foot. He may have
wondered if she would react to the blow. But she didn't.
Instead she lay as limp as a woman with a broken neck.
Water trickled into the corner of her open mouth.
  'I thought you were done hurting me,' he whispered
because he knew she couldn't hear him. 'It looks like I
was wrong.'
  In disgust, he tossed her control into one of the lockers
and strode out of the cabin.
  The door closed after him.
  He didn't neglect to lock it.
  As if of their own accord, the streams from the san
stopped. Someone on the bridge must have shut off her
cabin's pumps and plumbing.
  Only the water in Morn's mouth prevented her from
laughing hysterically.
  She jerked her head up, spat out the water, climbed to
her feet as fast as she could. As if she feared that her black
box would vanish into the gap of her nightmares, she



rushed to pick it up. But it was real in her hands, tangible
and true. Her fingers cupped its familiar outlines
lovingly; her respiration shuddered as she studied its
transcendent possibilities.
  Now.
  Trembling, she tapped the buttons which sent a low
wash of energy and strength along her nerves. Then she
closed her eyes and spent a moment simply treasuring
the artificial bliss of the sensation.
  But it wasn't enough. She needed to soften her hurts.
There. She needed better reflexes, better concentration.
There. Soon she would need a lot more strength, but for
now a slight increase was sufficient. There.
  Fundamental hungers eased in her. The anguish of her
limits sloughed off her shoulders. The ship's atmosphere
became cleaner, sharper. She felt that she was restored to
herself, that she was Morn Hyland again at last.
  That, too, was a form of insanity. Nevertheless she
embraced it like a lover.
  She didn't realize that she'd actually damaged her
cheeks until a drop of blood fell onto her hands.
  Oops. She clenched her teeth to suppress a giggle.
  Carefully quiet, because catatonics made no noise, she
went to the san to look at herself in the mirror.
  At the sight, she lost her impulse to laugh.
  Her eyes were deeply sunken, bruised by abuse and
withdrawal. New lines marked her face, as if she'd been
scowling for months. Drying vomit stained one side of
her mouth. Her skin was pallid, the color of illness, and
the way it sagged against her bones seemed to indicate
that she'd lost a lot of weight.



  Against her paleness, the oozing welts on her cheeks
resembled a grotesque parody of Nick's scars.
  Her zone implant didn't free her from her limitations.
It merely gave her the capacity to push herself past the
boundaries of her own survival.
  That's enough, she thought in a tone of cold certitude.
That's all I need.
  She turned away from the mirror.
  All right. No more maundering. She'd recovered her
black box. Her next problem was to find a way out of
her cabin.
  But now she began to falter.
  For some reason, her zone implant eroded her sureness
as it filled her with strength, with capability. It blocked
her connection to the part of her that understood every-
thing and revealed nothing. How could she get out of
her cabin? At one point, she'd known the answer; she'd
prepared herself for it. Now it eluded her.
  Strength: that must be it. Her zone implant made her
strong - and gave her nothing else which could possibly
be of any use here. No quickness of thought or action
would free her from her prison. But if she applied enough
strength-
  The door had been designed to withstand pressure at
right angles to its surface - decompression or battering
- not in the direction of its own movement. The servo-
mechanisms which opened and closed it would reverse
themselves if they sensed an obstacle. So the problem was
one of force and traction; of pushing hard enough in the
right direction to engage the feedback circuits. Then the
door would open itself.
  And an obstruction alarm would tell the bridge exactly



what was happening. Nick would come himself to stop
her. Or he would send his people with guns-
  No, she couldn't afford to be concerned about that.
One thing at a time. First she had to get out of her cabin.
Then she could worry about how to evade capture.
  Standing at the door, she set her artificial strength as
high as it would go - so high that the rush of endorphins
and dopamine in her brain seemed to make a sound like
a high wind, and her chest heaved because she couldn't
take in enough air to support that much adrenalin. Then
she planted her palms on the door, braced her body
against the bulkhead, and shoved.
  Shared.
  Pressure rose in her until her ears were full of wind,
and her eyes started to go blind. Her arms shuddered like
cables with too much tension on them: she was probably
strong enough to break her own bones. Small pains like
vessels bursting mounted in her lungs.
  Abruptly the skin of her palms tore. Slick with blood,
her hands skidded across the door.
  Helpless to catch herself, she lurched forward and
cracked her head against the opposite bulkhead. From
there, she fell to the floor.
  The imposed neural storm was too intense: if she didn't
diminish it, her synapses would fail like over-burdened
circuit-breakers. Apparently locking the door deactivated
its feedback sensors. Trembling on the verge of a seizure,
she grasped her black box and reduced its emissions.
  Her hands left blood on the keys.
  So much for getting out of her cabin.
  Hunched over her torn palms, she began to cry with-
out realizing it. Possession of her zone implant control



wasn't enough: she needed something to hope for - and
there was nothing. Some limits were absolute. No mat-
ter what she did to herself, she couldn't make her body
pass through the solid door. Quickness, strength, concen-
tration, freedom from pain - none of those advantages
was of any use to her.
  The part of her that understood hadn't planned for
this.
  Or it wasn't able to reach her through the effects of
her zone implant.
  Yet it kept her from crying loud enough to be heard
over the intercom.
  How much time did she have left? Blinking back her
tears, she glanced at the cabin chronometer. Less than
six hours. Was that all? She'd lost two or three hours
somewhere. But it made no difference. Six hours or six
hundred were the same.
  She couldn't get out of her cabin.
  She couldn't do anything to help Davies. He was lost.
The next time she saw him - if she ever saw him again
- he would be an Amnioni. He would remember
nothing of their brief importance to each other. Unless
he was given the same kind of mutagen which had trans-
formed Marc Vestabule. Then he would be able to use
his memories against her - and the UMCP - and all
human space. By giving him birth, she'd betrayed him
and her entire species; and there was nothing she could
do about it.
  She didn't know how to bear it.
  But - the idea came with a jolt like an electric shock -
she could kill Nick.
  Eventually he would come to check on her; perhaps to



turn off her supposed catatonia. He wouldn't expect to
find her awake and charged with violence. If she hit him
fast enough, hard enough, she might get past his de-
fenses. All she needed was to land one blow-
  All she needed was to drive the nail file through his
throat.
  She got up, went to the san, and unwedged the file
from the head.
  Her hands were sticky with blood, but they didn't
hurt; her bruised head didn't hurt. Her zone implant
stifled those pains. Gripping the nail file, she returned to
the door and tried to compose herself for more waiting.
  To kill Nick. To exact at least that one little piece of
retribution for her long anguish.
  But she couldn't wait; not when she was primed with
so much energy. Her muscles and her mind were
incapable of stillness. She needed decisions, action;
bloodshed.
  Like her door, that was a conundrum she couldn't
shove aside. She could wait: of course she could. All she
had to do was reset the functions of her black box, put
her self into a state of rest. Yet if she did that she wouldn't
be able to react when Nick came. For him, she needed
this harsh, compulsory keenness - and she didn't know
when he would come. She meant to kill him: therefore
she had to wait for him. But she couldn't wait without
imposing an unnatural calm which would make killing
him impossible.
  There was no way out. The gap between what she
needed and what she could do was impassable.
  She was on the floor again, huddled among scattered



shipsuits and sodden bedding. Unable to stop, she kept
on crying uselessly.
  But it didn't have to be this way. She'd lost herself
somehow when she'd turned on her zone implant. Before
that, a lunatic and cunning part of herself had known
what to do. She needed to recover that. She needed to
restore her link to the part of her which revealed
nothing.
  There was only one way.
  She had to face the remaining six or six hundred hours
without artificial support.
  No, she couldn't do it. It was too grievous to be
borne. The bare idea set up a keening wail in her heart.
Only her zone implant kept her alive: nothing but its
emissions protected her from the consequences of rape
and gap-sickness, treason and bereavement. She couldn't
give that up. If she turned off her black box, she would
be left defenseless in the face of what she'd become.
  But she had no choice. There was no other way across
the gap.
  In silent grief, as if she'd come to the end of herself,
she began to cancel the functions of her black box, one
at a time.
  She did it slowly, to minimize the stress of transition.
One function after another, she reduced their inten-
sity by minor increments until their sensations were
lost: one function after another, she switched them off
only when she'd had time to accustom herself to the
loss.
  In that way, she surrendered herself to despair.
  The cabin became dim around her, not because the
light - or her vision - failed, but because it no longer



mattered. It was simply the outward sign of an inward
imprisonment; a tangible manifestation of her irreducible
mortality. Such limits were absolute. They couldn't be
overcome or outflanked or avoided by hope - or by
neural chicanery. In a plain test of power, Nick Succorso
had beaten her, despite all the lies she'd told him, all the
secrets she'd used against him. Her son, and her hu-
manity, had been betrayed by her inability to ever be
more than she was.
  The part of her that understood everything refused to
reveal its intentions. In the end, there was nothing left
for her except the aggrieved and restless serenity of
madness.
  But be quiet about it. Go ahead, lose your mind. Just
do it quietly.
  Ignoring the blood that crusted her hands, she began
to play slowly with locks of her hair. For a while she
curled them around and around her fingers, wrapping
them into delicate Mobius strips; endless metaphors.
Later she separated them into finer and finer strands.
When they were fine enough to take hold of one hair at
a time, she started pulling them out.
  In that way, she sank though the bottom of her despair
into an autistic peace.
  Like her cabin, which imprisoned her; and her body,
which had brought her so much anguish; and all other
external hindrances, which had demonstrated her futility:
like those things, time itself lost its meaning. It passed
her by, unregarded. Her hands and eventually her scalp
hurt; but pain, too, was meaningless.
  She had no idea what was happening when her door
opened. Nothing was revealed to her.



  Furtive and frightened, as if he sought to hide from
a host of furies, Sib Mackern came into the room and
closed the door.



 'Morn.' Mackern's whisper was as acute as a cry.

               She regarded him dully, as if she had no idea who he was.

  'Morn.' Sweat beaded on his pale face, darkened his
thin mustache. 'Get up.' He panted unsteadily, not in
exertion, but in fear. 'You haven't got much time.' The
way his eyes flinched away from her and returned, around
the cabin and back again, evoked the beating wings of
his furies. 'Oh, God. What has he done to you?'
  She felt a nameless agitation. The cabin was cluttered
with disaster. When his gaze flinched, the whites of his
eyes caught the light and gleamed sickly. She didn't shift
her position; she hardly seemed to breathe. Her face was
as haggard as madness. But the rhythm of her fingers in
her hair accelerated. She pulled out the strands with a
hint of vehemence.
  'Listen.'



  He dropped to his knees in front of her as if he were
falling. Now his face was level with hers.
  'You haven't got much time.'
  She looked at him flatly, like a woman who'd gone
blind.
  Tentatively, nearly wincing, his hands moved toward
her shoulders. He touched her - and jerked back as if she
were hot enough to scald him. His gaze dropped to his
knees; his mouth clenched crookedly. With an effort, he
raised his eyes. Then he took hold of her arms.
  'He doesn't know I'm here. It's not my watch. I waited
until everyone was busy, so nobody would see me. But
before I left the bridge, I deactivated his door control
command circuits. The only thing his board shows is that
you're still locked. He won't notice what I've done unless
he tries to open your door.'
  She blinked at the data first with blind, uncaring
incomprehension. Everything he said sounded as familiar
and indecipherable as the gap.
  'You can get out.' Desperation mounted in him.
'Morn, you've got to hear me. I don't know what he did
to you, but you've got to hear me. You can get out.'
  That reached her. Something stirred in the dark core
of her silence. You can get out. The lost or buried part of
her that understood everything emitted a precise shiver
of recognition. Get out.
  Faster and faster, she curled hair around her fingers
and pulled it out.
  'Oh, Morn.'
  The sweat on his face looked like tears. He wasn't a
courageous man - or perhaps he simply didn't think he
was - but he was frantic. Convulsively he snatched back



one of his hands and slapped her face. Then he winced
and bit his lips, terrified that he'd hurt her.
  She let go of her hair, lifted the tips of her fingers to
her stinging cheek. Soft as a dying breeze, she breathed,
'He can hear you. On the intercom.'
  Mackern gasped. In panic he looked up at the
intercom.
  When he lowered his eyes again, they were haunted
with strain. 'It's off,' he whispered. 'He isn't listening.'
  She inhaled like a shudder.
  Hints of his urgency glinted through her. What had
he said? She'd already forgotten. Something- Had he
said she could get out of her cabin?
  Had he said she didn't have much time?
  She couldn't remember his name.
  Distress knotted in her guts. Her mouth stretched
wide, as if she were about to wail.
  'Morn, please,' Mackern begged. 'He'll kill me when
he finds out. Don't waste it. Don't let it be for nothing.'
  She heard him. By degrees, her alarm subsided. Intelli-
gence rose to her in slow bubbles from the depths. She
swallowed, and her eyes lost some of their blindness.
  "Time",' she murmured. 'You said "time".'
  'Yes!' he urged at once, encouraged and febrile at her
response. We're almost alongside that warship, Tranquil
Hegemony - twelve hours out of Billingate. He promised
them an exact launch time. You've got' - he flung a glance
at the cabin chronometer - 'twenty-six minutes.'
  Once again his words slipped away from her. Billing-
ate? Tranquil Hegemony? They were familiar, but she'd
lost their meaning. Why was he talking about being
killed? She still had twenty-six minutes left.



  Deliberately she brought his name back from the place
where she'd mislaid it. 'Sib Mackern. What're you doing
here?' Pieces fit as she articulated them. 'He'll kill you for
this.'
  'I just can't stand it, ' he replied as if he suddenly
understood her, knew what she needed; as if his fear
enabled him to follow her struggle out of despair. She
needed words she could recognize, words that might
restore her connection to sanity.
  When he sold your son the first time,' he explained,
'back on Enablement - I was ready to mutiny then. If I
hadn't been alone. If I weren't such a coward.' His image
of himself held no room for courage. 'Since I joined him,
we've done things that made me sick. They gave me
nightmares and made me wake up screaming. But
nothing like that. Nothing like selling a human being to
the Amnion.
  'I've seen them, Morn,' he insisted as if he were the
only witness. Those mutagens are evil. What they do
is-' His whole body shivered with revulsion. No
language sufficed for his abhorrence. 'You were right.
Any one of us could be next.
  'I thought then that I couldn't stand it. I had to do
something about it, even if I was alone, and he killed me
for it.
  'But you saved me. You saved my life, Morn.' He was
telling her the truth about himself: she could see that.
The sweat on his face and the hunted fright in his eyes
made his honesty unmistakable. 'You rescued Davies
yourself.
  'After that I was ready to do anything for you, anything
at all, all you had to do was ask. But I didn't get a chance.



He let you out. He acted - you both acted like you'd
planned it together, like it was all just an elaborate trick,
a rase, to get away from Enablement. You confused me
so badly, I didn't know whether to be grateful or
appalled.'
  Grimly he kept his voice at a whisper. 'I wanted to be
grateful. You gave me a reason to keep working for him.
You made me think he had limits, there were some crimes
he wouldn't commit. But I was afraid that this was the
real trick, that acting like you planned it together was the
real ruse. That he didn't have limits. And if he didn't,
you must be paying a terrible price to protect yourself
and Davies.
  When we came in range of that warship, I learned the
truth.
  'I can't stand it. That's all. I just can't stand it.
  'I want to help you,' he finished. This is the only thing
I can do.'
  It was working: as he spoke, he created links for her,
spans across the vast space of her loss. More knowledge
came up from the depths, new pieces of understanding.
Nevertheless his presence in her cabin still refused to
make sense.
  Why?' she asked again. What good will it do me when
he kills you?'
  'Morn.' Dismay twisted his face. 'Have you forgotten?
Did he hurt you so badly that you can't remember?
  'He's going to give them your son. He's going to
launch Davies to them in an ejection pod in' - his eyes
jerked to the chronometer and back again - 'twenty-one
minutes.'



  That was it: the keystone; the piece she needed. When
it slotted into place, she was restored.
  For the first time her eyes came fully into focus on her
rescuer.
  Stay calm, counseled the part of her that understood.
Don't rush it. You've got enough time. Don't make any
mistakes.
  Intensely quiet in a way that left no doubt of what she
meant, she asked, 'Where is he?'
  Mackern wasn't calm. They took him to the pod, oh,
twenty minutes ago.' She seemed to see the time drain-
ing from his face. 'I had to wait for that. Liete guarded
this hall until they moved him. She said she didn't trust
you to stay locked up. I couldn't risk coming here until
she reported he was in the pod.
  'She said-' He swallowed hard to make his throat
work. 'She said, "He didn't give us any trouble. He seems
to be in some kind of shock. Like he knows what we're
doing to him, but he's too demoralized to fight it."'
  Nineteen minutes.
  She didn't think about Davies. She didn't need to.
He was already the reason for everything. Instead she
focused one last question on Sib Mackern.
  'Has he changed his priority-codes?'
  The data first shook his head. 'He hasn't had time,'
  No, of course not. And why bother? The only person
who might dare use those codes in his place was safely
imprisoned, out of her mind.
  That answer fit everything she'd planned and prepared
without knowing it.
  With an effort that made her joints ache, she climbed
to her feet. 'Go back to your cabin,' she told Sib as she



took out her zone implant control. 'You're braver than
you think.'
  Blood and injury had stiffened her palms. Her finger-
tips were sore. But none of that mattered.
  One function started to fill her limbs with strength.
  'If either of us survives this, we'll owe it to you.'
  Another steadied her nerves, restored her reflexes.
  'I'll do whatever I can to protect you.'
  Another enabled her to move her damaged hands as if
they were supple.
  'Be sure to re-lock this cabin.'
  Sixteen minutes.
  There was nothing she could do here to protect him.
His life depended on his own precautions. Nodding her
thanks, she keyed her door and moved into the corridor
at a steady run.
  'Good luck!' Sib hissed after her softly. 'Don't worry
about me!'
  She left him behind as if he'd ceased to exist.
  The corridor was empty. Good. Already she felt full of
force, charged like matter cannon. She would kill any-
body who got in her way.
  At any rate, she would try. But she didn't want that.
She wanted no more blood on her hands. Her own was
enough.
  Silent on bare feet, she reached the lift and hit the call
button.
  Stay calm.
  She was calm. Nevertheless she braced herself to attack
anyone who might be using the lift.
  No one was. The lift answered her almost immediately,
as empty as the corridor.



  She got in and ascended toward the ship's core -
toward engineering and the auxiliary bridge.
  If Nick were watching for her, he would have no
trouble keeping track of where she was. The maintenance
computer could tell him which doors opened and closed,
which lifts were used; it could analyze the gradient drain
on the air processing to tell him how many people occu-
pied which corridors or rooms. But it wouldn't do any
of those things unless he asked - and he wouldn't ask
unless he were suspicious.
  If Sib hadn't betrayed himself in some way-
  If Tranquil Hegemony and the preparations for launch
kept Nick occupied-
  Fifteen minutes.
  The lift stopped. The door opened.
  Mikka Vasaczk stood there.
  The command second stared at Morn in surprise.
  No, not her, Morn couldn't attack her. She was the
one who'd captured Morn for Nick. Yet Morn was in
her debt, for courtesy and silence if not for active help.
Someone else would have captured Morn eventually, if
Mikka hadn't done it.
  But Davies was helpless; he couldn't defend himself.
If Morn didn't fight for him, he would go to the Amnion.
  Coiled with the quickness of her zone implant, she
sprang at Mikka just as Mikka backed away and raised
her hands, palms outward to show that she was unarmed.
  Morn stopped herself in mid-stride.
  Stay calm. You've got enough time.
  Still holding up her hands, Mikka retreated to the wall.
A scowl clamped her features, ungiving and austere.
  'This is strange,' she articulated harshly. 'I could have



sworn he said you were helpless. Things have gotten
pretty bad when the captain of a ship like this can't be
trusted to turn on a radioelectrode.'
  'Don't interfere,' Morn breathed through her teeth.
'I'm not your enemy.'
  A sneer lifted Mikka's lip. The bleakness of her face
was complete. In the same tone, she said, 'Did you know
that Pup is my brother? When our parents died, he didn't
have anywhere else to go. In any case, they were too poor
to leave him any good choices. I got him this job so I
could keep an eye on him.
  'He can't be more than a couple of years older than
Davies.
  'You told me the truth once when I needed it. You
took the chance that I might betray you. It's too bad I
didn't see you down here. If I did, I could have tried to
hit you again.'
  Fourteen minutes.
  Morn had no time for gratitude. Her heart labored too
hard in her chest. The settings on her black box must
have been too high: she could hardly get enough air to
support them.
  She turned and ran for the auxiliary bridge.
  It wasn't far: partway down the length of the ship;
partway around the core. The deck became an upward
curve when she turned: she paid no attention to that.
She only noticed the doors she passed - the ones which
she knew were safe; the ones which might open on
trouble.
  The door to the engineering console room and the
drive space stood wide. That was the one she needed.
The primary circuits for the ejection pods were there.



Another failsafe: if all other systems died, the lifeboats
could still be launched from the engineering console.
  She looked inside.
  Vector Shaheed stood at one of his boards with his
back to her.
  Thirteen minutes.
  Urgency and hyperventilation mounted in her. Stay
calm. She had to go in there, had to get past Vector
somehow. Yet she didn't want to hurt him. For his own
reasons, he'd treated her decently. And he already had
enough pain of his own. The thought of damaging him
in order to help her son brought the taste of vomit back
into her mouth.
  Stay calm!
  But there was something else she needed to do as well.
She still had time. If she did it first, he might be gone -
into the drive space, or out to the bridge - when she
came back.
  To save him - or to save what was left of herself- she
flitted past him and entered the auxiliary bridge.
  It shouldn't have been empty. This close to an Amnion
warship, the entire crew should have been at combat
stations. But of course Nick had no intention of fighting.
He'd already negotiated a peaceful 'satisfaction of
requirements' with Tranquil Hegemony. That was his only
practical hope: he couldn't defy both Tranquil Hegemony
and Calm Horizons; not at these speeds; not in Amnion
space. Why put more strain on his people, when they
were already exhausted?
  Morn went straight to the data station.
  Directly under Alba Parmute's nose, trusting her own
skills and Alba's diffused attention, she engaged the



board and used it to reactivate bridge control over her
cabin door. That was for Sib Mackern. Now nothing
showed that he'd ever done anything to help her.
  Eleven minutes.
  Keying off the data console, she left the auxiliary
bridge and returned to Vector's domain.
  No luck: he was still there; still working. In fact, he
stood at the primary pod board. The readouts she could
see past his shoulders seemed to indicate that he was
running status and diagnostic checks, verifying the oper-
ational condition of the pods; testing life-support; con-
firming programmed thrust for navigation and braking.
  Making sure that the pod which would carry her son
to his doom could be trusted.
  Ten minutes.
  If her inner countdown were accurate-
  She couldn't wait. She would have to get past Vector
somehow.
  She stepped into the room and closed the door behind
her.At the sound, he turned.
  She stopped to let him look at her - to let him see that
she wouldn't attack him if she didn't have to.
  He betrayed no surprise at the sight of her. His phleg-
matic stoicism was equal to her unexpected arrival. More
in greeting than in distress, he cocked an eyebrow. 'Ah,
Morn.' If he felt anything unpleasant, it showed only in
the faintly unhealthy flush which covered his round face.
He looked like a man who'd been exerting himself against
the advice of the sickbay computer. 'I suppose I should
have guessed this would happen. Nick never seems to
know the difference between what you can and can't do.'



  He smiled as if he were mocking her; but she saw no
mockery in him as he asked, 'Have you come to see
Davies off?'
  'Vector,' she said tightly, 'get away from that board.'
  I don't want to hurt you. Don't make me hurt you.
  Nine minutes.
  He went on smiling. 'Oh, I don't think so. Nick
specifically told me to make sure nothing goes wrong.
On this ship, it doesn't pay to disobey orders - even
implied ones. Since he never imagined that you could
break free of your zone implant, he didn't order me to
stop you. Still his intent was clear enough. I can't afford
to let you touch anything.
  'In any case, you've got nothing to gain. If you stop
the launch and pull Davies out, Nick will simply capture
both of you and start the whole process over again. He'll
apologize for the delay. Then he'll probably send both of
you to that warship, just to demonstrate his "good faith".
Everything you've done will be wasted.'
  'Vector, I mean it.' Remaining still cost her an effort.
'Get away from that board.' She needed movement,
action: her black box was set too high, and her son was
running out of time. 'I've come too far to stop now. I'll
sacrifice anything.'
  She'd been prepared for days. Ever since Davies was
born - and sold to the Amnion.
  'I recognize that.' Nothing could have been less sarcas-
tic than the mild scorn of Vector's smile. 'Unfortunately
I don't have any choice. If I don't get out of your way,
you'll probably kill me. At the moment, you look like
you could do that with one hand. But if I do get out of
your way, Nick will kill me.'



  His stiffness as he folded his arms reminded Morn of
the arthritis which threatened to cripple him; of his
loyalty to his friend Orn, who had inflicted him with
arthritis by beating him up.
  Eight minutes.
  'No doubt this was inevitable. I mean, the whole thing
was doomed from the beginning. I don't belong here -
I'm not the right kind of man for this life. I chose it
because I couldn't live with the alternatives, but it never
fit me. Or I never fit it. Outraged idealism seems like as
good an excuse as any to turn illegal, but it doesn't work.
The contradiction had to catch up with me eventually.
You might say the only thing I've accomplished here is
that I've given the moral high ground back to the people
I hate.
  'I'll be better off if I can end it now.'
  'Vector, stop this! I haven't got time for it!' Her hands
felt like they must surely give off sparks when she flexed
them. She should have been gasping for air, but the fer-
ocity of her need held her steady. ' "Outraged idealism"
is a shitty excuse for giving human beings to the Amnion.
You know that. But you don't want to face the logic of
your own decisions, so you're trying to avoid it by despis-
ing yourself. You're trying to prove you deserve what the
UMCP did to you. Who's going to question withholding
an immunity drug from an illegal like you? Who's going
to respect Orn Vorbuld's friends? But it's not that simple.
Don't you see where that kind of reasoning leads?
  'It leads to genocide, Vector. The destruction of the
entire human species.
  'Look at me. You think I'm here to save my son - and
you're right. But I would do the same thing if you were



in that pod. I would do the same thing for Nick.' That
was the truth, regardless of her loathing for him. 'I've
got more reason to hate the UMCP than you do. I've
got more reason to be afraid of Nick. But I will see every
one of us dead before I allow this kind of absolute treason.'
  Seven minutes.
  She took two steps forward, surging like a burst of
flame.
  'Get out of my WAY!'
  Slowly he unfolded his arms. His gaze had gone
inward: his face revealed nothing except its unhealthy
flush. 'You're still a cop,' he murmured. 'No matter what
you've done. At bottom, you're still a cop. One of the
few. You say you would take the same risks if I were in
the pod. I suppose I believe you. That's worth
something.
  'You're right, of course. I made the decisions that got
me into this mess, and now I don't want to face the
consequences. Those of us who truly and profoundly
hate the cops really ought to do better than that.'
  Shifting himself aside, he gestured Morn toward the
ejection pod board.
  She went for it so fast that she didn't see him plant his
feet, settle his weight; she didn't see him draw back his
arm. She barely caught a glimpse of his fist as he swung
it at her head with all his mass behind it.
  The blow slammed her against the wall, then dropped
her to the floor as if she'd been nailed there.
  Six minutes.
  'Sorry about that.' Something muffled Vector's voice.
He may have been sucking his cracked knuckles. 'You



don't deserve it. I just had to be sure you didn't force me
to do this.'
  Apparently he glanced at the chronometer. 'You've got
five minutes and forty-eight seconds.'
  Her skull rang like a carillon. For a moment her zone
implant couldn't catch up with the pain. Through a
racket of agony, she heard the door open and close.
  Still a cop.
  Force me to do this.
  Five minutes-
  Forget calm, a voice said to her, as distinct as a chime.
You're out of time.
  Clawing at the air, she nipped herself over, got her
hands and knees under her.
  Her zone implant saved her: its emissions fought down
the pain and weakness, cleared her head; did everything
except give her adequate air. Gasping on the verge of
unconsciousness, she struggled to her feet.
  The board seemed to reel in front of her; her vision
swam out of focus. Nevertheless she fumbled her way
forward, found the controls to the door and locked it.
To delay anyone who might interfere.
  Then an artificial stability took charge of her misfiring
neurons. Her gaze sharpened on the readouts.
  There.
  The board told her which pod had been activated. It
gave her a launch countdown, life-support status, depar-
ture trajectory, braking parameters, A plot from scan
showed her Captain's Fancy and Tranquil Hegemony;
showed her the pod's programmed course between
them. The pod would decelerate straight into one of the
warship's holds.



  The scan plot was automatic. She wasn't on the auxili-
ary bridge: she didn't have access to scan itself, or to
helm. She would have to rely on guesswork. But since
the plot was automatic, it also showed Thanatos Minor
looming in the background. And it gave her Captain's
Fancy's velocity and heading - which in turn enabled her
to estimate the distance and course to that lonely rock.
She ought to be able to guess well enough.
  The problem was time. Re-programming the pod was
complex. She only had four and a half minutes left, and
she hadn't started yet. No time to paralyze Nick's com-
mand board. In any case, that could only be done from
the auxiliary bridge. So anything she did might be
countermanded - if Nick caught her at it.
  She couldn't chance that.
  Springing to the thrust board, she hit the overrides,
cutting off drive control from the bridge; then she
initiated the shutdown sequence. Now Captain's Fancy
couldn't brake or maneuver. That in itself posed no
threat to the ship, not this far from Thanatos Minor. But
it would distract Nick-
  In fact, he was already on the intercom, shouting, 'Vec-
tor? Vector! What the fuck are you doing?'
  Three and a half minutes.
  She slapped the intercom silent and returned to the
pod board.
  Now. No time for accidents or mistakes. If she could
re-program the pod before it launched, it would be out
of reach as soon as it left the ship's ejection bay.
  Her zone implant made her unnaturally fast as she
tapped in Nick's priority-codes.
  She had no intention of canceling the launch - of try-



ing to save Davies aboard Captain's Fancy. Vector was
right: that would achieve nothing. What she had in mind
wasn't much better; but at least it would prolong her
son's life for a while.
  She didn't have anything else to strive for.
  First she copied the pod's programming to one of her
readouts. Carefully overriding the status indicators which
would report a change to bridge, she erased the program-
ming from the pod. Then she began to write in new
instructions.
  Two minutes.
  Accumulated stress frayed her breathing. Unable to
pull in enough oxygen for its demands, her body seemed
to burn itself as fuel. Spots swirled in front of her eyes,
distorting the readouts, confusing her fingers. Her black
box was set too high. At some point it would kill her.
  She didn't falter.
  Initially her orders were identical to the original ones.
Launch unchanged. Trajectory unchanged. Those things
gave her a starting point for her guesswork. Her instruc-
tions diverged at the moment of deceleration. Instead of
braking, she told the pod to generate full burn and
change course, away from Tranquil Hegemony. Toward
Thanatos Minor. If no one warned the Amnion of what
she'd done, they wouldn't have time to react: the pod
would skip past them and away before they could try to
reach it.
  And they wouldn't shoot at it, no, definitely not, not
after going to all this trouble to obtain Davies alive-
  One minute.
  But at that velocity it would crash fatally on the rock.
Unless Billingate shot down the pod to protect itself.



Either way, Davies would die in a helpless fireball. The
pod had to decelerate enough to survive the impact;
enough to show Billingate it posed no threat. And she
had to estimate that - when to initiate deceleration, how
much thrust to use.
  She wasn't Nick: she couldn't do algorithms in her
head.
  Her son would die if she estimated badly.
  No matter. Better to kill him by accident herself than
to let him be subjected to Amnion mutagens.
  Fifteen seconds before launch, she finished her pro-
gramming and copied it to the pod.
  That was the best she could do. She didn't expect to
live long enough to find out whether it was good enough.
  But just in case-
  By the time the ejection pod nosed out of its bay and
passed beyond recall, she'd already unlocked the door
and left the engineering console room.

On the bridge, Nick stopped cursing Vector's silence
long enough to watch the pod across the distance to
Tranquil Hegemony.
  It wouldn't take long. The two ships were only five
thousand kilometers apart - and the pod had slightly
more than Captain's Fancy's velocity, thanks to the short
thrust of launch. Just a few more minutes. Then he could
start to breathe again. The Amnion kept their bargains.
They may have felt justified in giving him flawed gap
drive components, but they wouldn't try any tricks or
treachery here. Not this close to Billingate.
  Nevertheless as he studied the displays he felt a pre-



monition clutching at his scrotum. He knew in his balls
that something was about to go wrong.
  'Why would he do that?' Carmel asked with her usual
blunt temerity. We're sitting targets without thrust.
From this range, they can take us apart in tidy little
pieces. Hell, they can knock off the command module
and leave the rest of the ship intact.'
  'I don't know,' Nick growled irritably. 'Figure it out
for yourself. Or go find him and ask him. That'll be his
last chance to say anything before I disembowel him.'
  We don't need thrust at the moment,' ventured the
helm first on Vector's behalf. 'And we've got plenty of
time to restart the drive before we approach dock.'
  In a neutral tone, Malda Verone said, 'I've got every-
thing locked on them, Nick. If they fire, we should be
able to hit them once or twice before we disintegrate.'
  Nick ignored her. The pod was a quarter of the way
to Tranquil Hegemony.
  'He must be afraid they're going to fire,' Lind said
abruptly. 'Maybe he thinks they'll hold off if we're
helpless.'
  Nick ignored that as well. He was viscerally certain
that the warship wouldn't fire at him - so certain, in fact,
that he hadn't bothered to get Captain's Fancy ready for
a fight.
  'But why?' protested Alba petulantly. Why wouldn't
they kill us if we're helpless?'
  Carmel shook her head. 'I've got a better question.
Why does he think they're going to fire?'
  That was it. Why would those fuckers fire? What
excuse did they have?
  What excuse were they about to get?



  Suddenly Nick's premonition sprang into clarity.
Swinging away from the screens, he barked, What has
he done to the pod?'
  Carmel and Malda stared in a shock of comprehension.
Lind gaped as if he were about to drool.
  As if answering a summons, Vector Shaheed came
through the aperture onto the bridge.
  His face had gone pale, as pallid as Nick's scars, as if
his heart were about to fail him. Yet his smile remained
characteristically mild; his composed manner revealed
nothing.
  'Vector,' Nick said, soft and deadly, 'I told you to
watch the engineering console room.'
  The engineer paused between one step and the next.
His eyes widened slightly. 'What went wrong?'
  Nick leaned over his board, aimed his fury straight at
Vector. 'I ordered you to make sure nothing did.'
  'I know. It didn't. I mean, it can't. It couldn't.' That
was the closest Nick had ever heard Vector come to
sounding flustered. There was nothing that could go
wrong. I waited until I was sure of that.
  'I know I shouldn't have left. But I had to get to sick-
bay - I had to get something for the pain, Nick. Other-
wise I was going to be useless.
  'You can check the computer. There were only five
minutes left before launch. I was sure nothing could
happen. So I locked the console room and went to
sickbay.'
  Carefully he repeated, 'What went wrong?'
  Nick didn't answer. His premonition had moved from
his crotch to his face. It felt like acid under his eyes.
  He swung back to look at the screens.



  The pod was close enough to Tranquil Hegemony to
begin deceleration.
  It should begin right now.
  Scan reported thrust.
  Too much thrust.
  The pod veered off its programmed heading and
started to pick up speed. At full burn, it moved past the
warship. In moments it was effectively beyond reach.
  Crying out from the core of his doubt and need, Nick
howled, 'MORN! Yon fucking BITCH!'
  'Nick,' Lind said in a strangled voice, 'Tranquil Hege-
mony wants to talk to you. I think they're shouting.'
  Instantly Nick swallowed his dismay. He would have
time for it later. He would make Morn pay for it later.
Right now he had about ten seconds in which to save
himself and his ship.
  Without transition, he shifted into his emergency
mode - the state of whetted creative concentration on
which his reputation rested. Relaxing in his seat despite
the consternation around him, he resumed his air of non-
chalant competence.
  'Acknowledge that,' he told Lind. Tell them an
immediate response follows. Then copy this.
  '"Captain Nick Succorso to Amnion defensive Tran-
quil Hegemony. We have sabotage. Repeat, we have sab-
otage. We've lost thrust. Scan our power emissions for
confirmation. We can't maneuver.
  "The ejection pod containing the human offspring
Davies Hyland has also been sabotaged."' He checked
the displays.' "It will impact Thanatos Minor-" Carmel,
give Lind an ETA. "If the sabotage includes adequate
deceleration programming, he may survive.



  ' "Sabotage was done by Morn Hyland."' For a second,
his fury surged out of control. I'll tear her fucking guts
out!' Then he caught himself. Taking a deep breath, he
instructed Lind, 'Don't copy that. Message continues.
"She escaped imprisonment. I can't explain it. When I
learn how it was done, I'll tell you.
  '"Your requirements have not been satisfied. I regret
this. I regret the appearance that I've dealt falsely with
you. To dispel this appearance, I'll comply with any new
requirements you wish to satisfy - if they don't threaten
my own safety. Inform me what must be done to rectify
Morn Hyland's treachery.
  "To demonstrate that my intentions are honest, I
won't restart thrust until you grant permission."
  'Send that. Put it on audio when they answer.'
  Vector had recovered from his disconcertion. Will that
work?' he asked quietly.
  'You don't care,' Nick snarled over his shoulder. 'You
aren't going to live long enough for it to make any dif-
ference.'
  For the rest of his people, however, and to steady
himself, he added, 'But they don't want to blast us, if
they can help it. It'll make them look bad. Billingate can
see we haven't got thrust. They can hear us trying to
cooperate. And I'll bet we still have something those
fuckers want' - he grinned murderously - 'something I
would have given them for nothing.
  'Malda,' he ordered sharply, 'put targ on standby. I
want them to see us reduce our power emissions. The
meeker we look, the better.'
  Without waiting for a reply, he hit his intercom.
  'Mikka. Liete. Organize a search. Make it fast - and



thorough. Use everybody. I want you to find Morn. She
got out of her cabin somehow. Don't ask me how. If
somebody helped her, I'll castrate the sonofabitch.
  'Start in engineering and the auxiliary bridge. Then try
the drive space. Try the core - try the infrastructure. She
might even be hiding in the hull, if she took an EVA
suit.
  'Find her, but don't let her kill herself. Don't let her
arrange for you to kill her. We're going to need her. She
won't do us any good dead.'
  Snapping off the intercom, he rasped at the screen
which displayed Tranquil Hegemony's position, 'Come on,
you bastards. Give me an answer. Tell me you're going
to let us live. Tell me we're going to get out of this with
a whole skin.'
  'Who would help her?' asked the helm first. He was
out of his depth and foundering. Who would dare?'
  Because he couldn't keep himself still, Nick turned
back to Vector. What did she offer you?' he demanded.
Was it something perverse, like "immunity from pros-
ecution"? Or was it just sex beyond your wildest dreams?'
  The engineer met Nick's glare without any apparent
difficulty. 'Check the sickbay computer,' he said steadily.
The hostility around him didn't intimidate him. 'It'll tell
you how bad my arthritis is. The truth is, there's nothing
she could offer me. We're in no danger of "prosecution"
out here. And' - his smile conveyed a suggestion of sad-
ness - 'I'm in no condition for sex. I hurt too much.'
  Swearing to himself, Nick swung away.
  He couldn't wait. If the Amnion didn't answer soon,
he would have to go find Morn himself. Or he would
have to kill Vector right here on the bridge. The effort



to remain in command of himself was too much. He
needed violence.
  He needed to make the woman who'd cut him pay.
  'Here it comes, Nick,' Lind jerked out as the speakers
crackled to life.
  No one around the bridge breathed.
  'Amnion defensive Tranquil Hegemony to human Cap-
tain Nick Succorso. You have dealt falsely. Amnion
requirements have not been satisfied. However, your
thrust drive status is confirmed. Speculation suggests
that sabotage is plausible. Your failure to confine the
saboteur Morn Hyland is culpable. Nevertheless your
destruction will not advance Amnion interests.
  'You will dock at the human installation called "Bil-
lingate". If the human offspring Davies Hyland survives
impact on Thanatos Minor, you will retrieve him and
deliver him to the Amnion. In addition, you will deliver
the saboteur Morn Hyland.
  'If these requirements are not satisfied, your credit will
be revoked. Billingate will be instructed to deny you
repair and supply. Unable to cross the gap, you will die.
  'Indicate your acceptance of these requirements.'
  Nick cocked his fist above his board, threatening the
air. Mordantly he asked his people, 'Any of you want to
haggle? This is your last chance.'
  Everyone watched him. No one spoke.
  His fury rose like demonic glee as he said, 'Lind, tell
them their requirements are accepted.' And with it came
a burst of inspiration, a blind intuitive flash. Tell them
I'll do everything in my power to make sure they get
what they want.' He could hardly contain his excitement.



'Tell them we'll restart thrust as soon as they grant per-
mission.'
  All his best decisions were made intuitively. That was
what gave his reputation its air of romance, almost of
enchantment. He never hesitated to act on his inspi-
rations.
  When you're done with that,' he went on to the com-
munications first, 'tight-beam a message to UMCPHQ.
Use the coordinates and codes I gave you last time.
  'Copy this.
  '"I rescued her for you, goddamn it. Now get me out
of this. If you don't, I can't keep her away from the
Amnion."
  'Send it.'
  I'll teach you to cut me off, he told Hashi Lebwohl
silently. And I'll give your fucking requirements more
satisfaction than you can stand, he added to the nearby
warship.
  And you are going to foot the bill, he promised Morn.
  Vector's eyes glittered wetly, as if he were holding back
tears. The helm first ducked his head. For reasons she
probably didn't understand, Alba giggled tensely. Malda
continued staring at Nick as if she were transfixed.
Carmel's frown didn't express much approval.
  'Mikka?' Nick snarled at the intercom. 'Liete? Have
you got her yet? Do you need help?'
  Neither Mikka nor Liete had found Morn.

If he'd told them to look in his cabin, they would have
found her immediately. While he negotiated with the
Amnion, and her son sped toward Thanatos Minor, she
was there, searching with meticulous care for his store



of the drug which rendered him immune to Amnion
mutagens.
  However, she wasn't recaptured until later, when she
tried to conceal herself in one of the ejection pods.
  Bitter and inarticulate, Mikka clamped Morn into an
armcuff as Liete called the bridge to report.
  Take her to sickbay,' Nick snapped like a spatter of
acid. 'Put her to sleep. I won't have time to deal with her
until after we dock. And get that goddamn zone implant
control away from her!'
  Morn shrugged as if she'd learned how to die.
Expressionless and doomed, she put up no resistance as
Mikka and Liete manhandled her to sickbay, stretched
her out on the table, and filled her veins with cat.



Now that he knew where he was going, Angus
         Thermopyle found the waiting harder to bear.
         He wanted to get away from this place: away
from the sterile rooms and corridors of UMCPDA's sur-
gical wing; away from doctors and techs, therapists and
programmers, who pretended that they had valid pro-
fessional reasons for playing with him. The thought that
he would be sent to Thanatos Minor affected him like a
promise of escape. And the idea that he would be alone
in deep space with no one except Milos Taverner to tor-
ment him felt like hope.
  Get it over with, he snarled at Hashi Lebwohl's staff,
even though they couldn't hear what he said in the
silence of his mind. Let me out of here.
  Ignoring him, they did their jobs with meticulous care.
In theory, their control over him was perfect. The com-
puter between his shoulder-blades mastered him absol-
utely. Nevertheless they worked to ensure that he was as



helpless in practice as in theory; that any hope he held
out for himself was mere illusion.
  So they spent hours putting him through simple feed-
back tests - for instance, measuring the differences in his
reactions to the commands, 'Run,' and, 'Run, Joshua.' If
they said, 'Run,' he could choose whether or not to com-
ply: if they said, 'Run, Joshua,' he ran, driven by his
computer's control over his zone implants. Then their
neurosensors and computer-links measured his com-
pliance or resistance in order to refine his programming.
  Other tests were made, not by external instruction, but
directly through his computer. The links were used to
send him complex physical and mental tasks; and every
detail of his response contributed to the perfection of his
programming.
  Still other tests involved giving him external, compul-
sory commands which violated his enforced internal exi-
gencies. 'Joshua, break my arm.' Because he was outraged
to the core of his being, Angus fought to obey: he would
have loved to inflict a little pain. But his computer said,
'No,' and so his worst savagery came to nothing. He
couldn't damage anyone known to his programming as
a member of the UMCP.
  Hope as a concept had no relevance under these con-
ditions. He was a tool, nothing more: a sophisticated
organic extension of an electronic device. As long as he
lived, he would never make another important choice for
himself.
  If he'd been prone to despair, he would certainly have
given way to it - and that self-abandonment would have
accomplished nothing. Neither his programming nor his
programmers cared about his emotional condition. Like



escape and disobedience, suicide wasn't available to him.
No matter how much he might feel like lying down and
dying, his computer wouldn't allow it.
  However, Angus wasn't prone to despair. An over-
riding passion kept him away from his personal abyss.
Precisely because he had so much fear in him, he was
able to endure it when a less damaged or malignant mind
would have crumbled.
  Since he had no choice, he concentrated on under-
standing and utilizing his new capabilities as fully as he
could. On some level, his lasers and his increased
strength, his computer and his augmented vision, all
belonged to him. Within the narrow range allowed by
his programming, they were his to use. As with Bright
Beauty and Morn Hyland, he wanted to know what they
were good for.
  While Lebwohl's people tested him, he also tested
himself.
  Eventually he learned that his programming was in fact
all that prevented him from getting away. In every other
sense, he might as well have been designed and built to
break out of UMCPHQ. The new dimension of his sight
enabled him to identify and analyze alarms and locks.
With his lasers, he could change circuitry or cut open
doors - or kill guards. He was as strong as a great ape;
as quick as a microprocessor. And his computer recorded
everything for him. In fact, it was more useful than an
eidetic memory, since it held a wide variety of indepen-
dent databases which were gradually made accessible to
him as his programmers trusted their control over him
more and more.



  If he'd been his own master, he could have dismantled
his prison and fled.
  But his zone implants held him. He was required to
wait.

In time, no doubt, the strain would have proved too
great for him. However, his masters had exigencies of
their own. Beyond the walls of Data Acquisition's surgi-
cal wing, events moved at a separate pace; out of reach;
out of control.
  One morning - his computer informed him that the
time was 9:11:43.17 - a group of techs and doctors came
into his room. One of them said, 'Sit on the edge of the
bed, Joshua.'
  He obeyed because he couldn't do anything else.
  Another said, 'Stasis, Joshua.'
  Involuntarily he went into one of the null states they
used when they wanted to deactivate his computer: a
state in which his detached mind continued to work while
his body became an inert lump, capable only of sustaining
its own autonomic functions. As long as he was in that
state, they could have torn off his fingernails, or cut his
testicles, or driven spikes into his brain, and he would
have been unable to do anything with his horror except
perceive what they did - and remember.
  But if they'd intended to harm him physically, they
would have done so long ago. As they took off his lab
pajamas and began to swab his back with antiseptics, he
was appalled, not by their unexplained intentions, but by
his own utter immobility.
  With their customary efficiency, they made an incision
between his shoulder-blades to access his computer.



When they unplugged his datacore, the gap in his mind
which represented his computer-link turned as black and
cold as the void between the stars. Now he was held in
stasis by hardwired commands which were part of the
computer itself.
  Moments later, however, the doctor plugged in a new
datacore. As soon as it came on-line, he felt the dis-
turbing, insidious sensation of having been re-booted. A
piece of his brain had just gone into a cyborg's equivalent
of tach.
  Then they disconnected all their links and leads and
neurosensors. For the first time since his welding started,
he was severed from all external equipment - from every
compulsion or requirement which wasn't recorded in his
datacore.
  Finally they sealed their incision with tissue plasm and
covered it with a bandage to protect it during the few
hours it would take to heal.
  'End stasis, Joshua,' one of them said.
  Angus Thermopyle raised his head and looked around.
  His observers were irrationally tense. A couple of the
techs winced. The doctor closest to him turned a shade
paler. He was perfectly under control: they knew that.
Yet they were afraid of him. They couldn't forget who
he was.
  He hated them all. If he could have done anything to
confirm their anxiety, he would have. Deliberately he
took a deep breath, stretched his arms, cracked his
knuckles as if he were free to do such things at last; as if
for him the idea of freedom could ever be anything more
than an illusion.
  Softly he muttered, 'It's about time.'



  The time, his computer informed him, was
9:21:22.01.
  One of the doctors went to the intercom and reported,
We're done. Tell the Director.'
  'Here.' A tech tossed a shipsuit and a pair of boots
onto the bed. 'Put these on.' The shipsuit was a dirty
gray color, devoid of insignia - indistinguishable from
the ones Angus had habitually worn aboard Bright
Beauty. 'You've got about five minutes.'
  In a clump, as if they wanted the safety of numbers,
the doctors and technicians left him alone.
  Every monitor in the room focused on him as if he
might suddenly go berserk.
  If he could have emitted electronic fields as well as
perceiving them, he would have burned out the monitors
- if his programming had allowed him that option.
  No chance.
  But that didn't matter. What mattered was that it had
come. Whatever his masters wanted him for, it was about
to start.
  For the first time since he'd arrived here, his doctors
couldn't tell how fast his heart was beating, how
urgently his lungs called for air. So that the monitors
wouldn't see any sign of his eagerness, he got up from
the bed slowly; pushed his limbs into the shipsuit and
his feet into the boots with an insolent lack of haste.
Then he stretched back out on the bed, propped his head
on the pillow, and folded his arms over his belly as if he
were capable of waiting forever.
  Fortunately nobody challenged his patience to see if
he were bluffing. Less than a minute later, Min Donner
strode into the room.



  More than ever, she looked as ready as a hawk. Walk-
ing or still, her hand swung past her gun, instinctively
poised. Her weight was always balanced; her muscles
seemed permanently charged with relaxation, as if she
were nanoseconds away from an explosion. As far as
Angus knew - his new vision could supply him with
hints - she had no technological augmentation. And yet
she gave the impression that he was no match for her.
  She made him feel that he'd better look away before
she took offense at his scrutiny.
  He would have resisted the impulse on general prin-
ciples; but the fact that she wasn't alone caught his
attention.
  Milos Taverner was with her.
  The former Deputy Chief of Com-Mine security fol-
lowed the ED director into the room and met Angus'
stare with a dull glower.
  He didn't look well. Considering his fastidiousness, he
seemed as unwell as if he'd been on a binge for weeks.
His gaze was dissipated as well as dull; his cheeks - in-
adequately shaved or depilated - had the color of a corpse
which had been left in water too long. The mottling on
his scalp resembled the marks of an obscure disease. A
nic hung from his lips, curling smoke into his eyes and
dropping ash down his shipsuit. He kept his hands in his
pockets as if to conceal the way they shook.
  This was the man who held the keys - at least the
external ones - to Joshua's future.
  Angus grinned savagely. "What's the matter?' he asked.
'You look like shit. Hell, you look like me. Didn't you
enjoy the training? Learning to take orders from me must
have been murder for a prissy cocksucker like you.'



  Milos didn't shift his stance or move his hands. Around
his nic, he said in a tone of sour hostility, 'Apologize,
Joshua.'
  Like a docile prisoner threatened by a stun-prod,
Angus said at once, 'I'm sorry. Please forgive me.' Com-
plex emissions from his electrodes compelled him.
  Inside himself, however, he snarled, Enjoy it. Do as
much of it as you can. I'll remember it all.
  'Stop that, Milos,' Donner ordered. 'That's not what
he's for.'
  Milos ignored her. 'But since you ask,' he continued,
'no, I didn't enjoy the training. I didn't enjoy learning to
look and act like a man who would crew for you. But
there are compensations. I'm planning to get a certain' -
he pursed his lips - 'satisfaction from the remainder of
this assignment.'
  'I'm sure you will,' Angus retorted. Traitors like you
always do.'
  The ED Director held up one finger like a command.
  Taverner flicked a glance at her and shut up.
  Grinning again, Angus did the same.
  She nodded once, grimly.
  In no doubt of her authority, she told Angus, 'Come
with me.' Then she turned her back on him and strode
out of the room.
  Shoving his hands into his pockets to taunt Milos,
Angus followed.
  This was the first time he'd been out of his room with-
out the attendance of guards and techs; without being
attached to external computers and monitors. The experi-
ence increased his illusory sensation of freedom. Oh,
there were guards in sight - and Min Donner herself



served the same function. Yet the change behind the sen-
sation was real. He was done with being tested - done
with being cut and measured and coerced like an animal
in a lab. For better or worse, his programming was com-
plete. Now at last he would get out of this sterile,
inhuman place. He would be given a chance to take
action.
  By its very nature, action involved movement into the
unknown. Unknown to Angus himself, certainly; but
also, in a more subtle and perhaps hopeful sense,
unknown to his programmers.
  The first thing he needed to do, in order to give that
hope substance, was to get rid of Milos. That would have
to wait, of course. Nevertheless he had every intention
of tackling the problem as soon as possible.
  In moments, Min had led him and Taverner out of
DA's surgical wing into parts of UMCPHQ he'd never
seen before. Impersonally helpful, his computer inter-
preted the wall-coding which enabled people to navigate
the vast complex. If he'd known where he was going, he
could have found the way himself. However, Min didn't
explain anything. And Milos - who probably knew the
answer - kept his thoughts to himself. When his nic
expired, he dropped the butt on the floor and lit another.
That and the way he hid his hands in his pockets were
the only outward signs that he realized his safety was at
an end.
  Out of Data Acquisition. Across a section of Enforce-
ment Division. Into Administration.
  Angus' pulse increased. More and more, his eagerness
resembled alarm.



  Abruptly Donner stopped outside a door marked
'Conference 6'.
  Sardonically pleasant to mask his fear, Angus asked,
'Now what? I thought you were done torturing me.'
  Again she held up one commanding finger. But she
spoke to Milos rather than to Angus.
  'Keep it simple,' she advised him. 'You'll live longer.'
  Opening the door, she ushered the two men inside.
  Angus found himself in a room like an interrogation
chamber in an old video. Lit by a single light, a long
table surrounded by hard chairs stood in the center of
the space. The light was so bright, so narrowly focused,
that the middle of the table gleamed as if it were hot; but
its ends remained dim, shrouded, and the walls were
barely visible. A quick glance told him that the corners
with thick with monitors of all kinds. However, none of
them were active. Apparently no one would eavesdrop
on or record him this time.
  That made his anxiety worse.
  Min Donner pointed him into a chair within the circle
of light. Milos she instructed to take a seat opposite him.
Then she sat down at one end of the table. In the gloom,
she looked as hard and unreachable as her reputation.
  This is fun,' Angus muttered. 'What do you want us
to do now? Make friends?'
  Min watched him from the dimness. Milos' dull gaze
revealed nothing.
  Impelled by mounting apprehension, Angus de-
manded, 'Did I tell you how he betrayed Com-Mine?
How he and that glamorous fucker, Succorso, set me
up? Hell, if more cops were like him, there wouldn't be
anything left for me to do.'



  The ED Director didn't move a muscle.
  'Personally,' another voice remarked, 'I would be more
interested in hearing how you acquired a name for such
despicable crimes without accumulating evidence against
yourself in your ship's datacore.'
  Angus jerked his head to look at the other end of the
table.
  A man sat there.
  Angus hadn't heard him come in. And he definitely
hadn't been in that chair a moment earlier. Yet he was
there now. Maybe he'd been hiding under the table. Or
maybe the purpose of the contrasting dazzle-and-gloom
was to let him come and go with as much stealth as he
pleased.
  He was hard to see, but Angus made out enough detail
to perfect his fear.
  The man had a chest as thick as a barrel, short, sturdy
arms, strong fingers. Despite the dimness, the lines and
angles of his face appeared as exact as if they'd been
machine-tooled; his mouth, jaw, and forehead might
have been cut from a block of steel. Gray hair uncompro-
misingly cut spread stiffly across his scalp. Only the
crookedness of his nose moderated his features: it gave
the impression that it'd been broken several times.
  Glints of light reflected piercingly from his single eye,
the right one. Over the socket of the left he wore a syn-
thetic patch glued to the skin.
  Warden Dios.
  UMCP Director.
  In effect, he was the most powerful man in human
space. Holt Fasner, UMC CEO, wielded the political
influence, the economic muscle. But the fighting force



intended to protect humankind from the Amnion took
its orders from Warden Dios.
  Oh, shit.
  That patch was the clue which identified him. All the
stories about Dios which circulated across space men-
tioned it. For reasons which varied according to the
source of the story, Dios' left eye had been replaced by
an infrared prosthesis which enabled him to read people
as accurately as a vital stress monitor. He'd become a man
to whom no one could lie.
  Someone else, with different goals and priorities,
would have had the prosthesis added like Angus' to his
natural vision, so that it didn't show. Not Dios. He
flaunted his augmented sight as if daring anyone to mis-
lead him. According to some of the stories, he wore the
patch as a courtesy to his subordinates, so that they
wouldn't be disconcerted by having to look into a mech-
anical eye. Others said that he wore it because it made
him appear more dangerous. Still others insisted that it
concealed, not an eye, but a gun.
  In any case, the patch would be no obstacle to the
prosthesis. That material wouldn't stop either infrared
wavelengths or impact fire.
  Angus was on the verge of hysteria. Nevertheless his
fear steadied him: he was at his best when he was terri-
fied. 'Most of the time,' he answered as if he were calm,
'I did it by interrupting scan. My ship' - memories of
Bright Beauty gave his voice a vibration of anger - 'didn't
record what she couldn't see.'
  Because his computer was no longer programmed to
interrogate him, it let his statement pass.
  Then the interrupts should have been recorded.' Dios'



tone was mild and firm. He didn't threaten anyone
because he had no need of threats. 'I don't have your
transcripts in front of me,' he said to Milos. What did
you find in his datacore?'
  Milos twisted as if he were squirming. Perhaps because
he, too, feared the UMCP Director, he took the nic out
of his mouth. There were glitches. We decided they were
interrupts. We couldn't think of any other explanation.'
  Dios smiled like a piece of steel. They were fortuitous
at any rate. I commend your foresight, Angus. Without
those "glitches", Com-Mine would almost certainly have
gathered enough evidence to execute you. Then neither
of you would be available to us now.
  'As it happens, we need you.' His eye glittered at
Angus and Milos alternately. 'In fact, the need is so acute
that you'll be leaving in about an hour. This will be your
last briefing.'
  Milos opened his mouth to speak, then changed his
mind. Instead he put his nic back between his lips.
  'From here,' the Director continued, You'll be taken
to your ship. She's a Needle-class gap scout. Crew of
two, space for eight. According to her official records,
she has no armaments - just some rather sophisticated
shielding and defenses. However, we've concealed a few
refinements that will probably interest you.
  'Actually' - he fixed his gaze on Angus - 'you know
all about her. You could rebuild her from scrap, if you
had to. But you haven't accessed the data yet, for the
simple reason that we haven't told you her name. We call
her Trumpet. You'll find a complete database coded under
that name.'
  Deliberately Angus resisted the temptation to call up



the information and look at it. He couldn't afford to be
distracted.
  Dios resumed. 'You'll depart on your mission as soon
as you've familiarized yourself with Trumpet. You already
know what your mission is. That is, you know, Milos.
Angus, your programming will tell you what you need
as you go along. But I'll say this.
  'I intend you to destroy the shipyard called "Billingate"
on Thanatos Minor. That's your destination.'
  A new pang shot through Angus. He blinked to dis-
guise his outrage. Destroy Billingate? The Director's
arrogance offended him. He'd been dependent on places
like Billingate more often than he cared to remember.
Without them, he would have died long ago. Or been
caught and convicted.
  If you think I'm going to do that kind of bloody work
for you-
  On the other hand, it would be better to destroy
Billingate than to be destroyed himself.
  'Of course,' Dios added as if he were responding to
Angus' emotion, 'it would be simpler to send a
battlewagon and blast that rock to rubble. But our
treaties with the Amnion prevent it. I don't want to pre-
cipitate an open war. In any case, it's likely that Thanatos
Minor is fairly well defended. All in all, a covert approach
is preferable.'
  'Director.' Milos stiffened his resolve. 'I've said this
before - often - but I'll say it again.' He kept his nic in
his mouth as if it gave him courage. Light made the stains
on his scalp vivid. 'I'm not the right man for this mission.'
  Dios fixed Taverner with his single stare and waited
for Milos to go on.



  Exhaling smoke, Milos said, 'You've trained me for it.
You probably don't have a substitute handy. But I'm still
the wrong man. For one thing, I've had no experience
with covert operations - or combat, either. A couple of
months of training can't take the place of real experience.
And for another' - he glanced at Min Donner as if he
had an irrational desire to ask for her support - 'the
experience I do have is all from the wrong side. Lying
isn't my job.' Angus snorted at this, but Milos ignored
him. 'Breaking down liars is. My experience - the training
of my life - isn't just inadequate. It's wrong for this
mission. It'll work against me. I'll make mistakes I won't
even notice. I'll betray you - I won't be able to help
myself
  'In other words-' Angus began.
  'You underestimate yourself, Milos,' put in Warden
mildly. 'You aren't the wrong man.'
  '-you're scared shitless,' Angus went on. The mere
thought of being alone with me makes you crap your
suit.'
  'Nor are you the perfect man,' Dios continued as if he
hadn't been interrupted. 'You're the only man.
  'As I'm sure you've been told, we can't simply let
Angus Thermopyle loose on an unsuspecting galaxy.
Why is he free? How did he get his hands on a ship like
Trumpet? We have to account for him somehow. He
must be able to account for himself. He'll never be trusted
otherwise.
  'You are the answer. You're his cover, Milos. When
you realized that Com-Mine Security was about to nail
you for your - shall we say, indiscretions? - you broke
him out of lockup. Precisely because you aren't trained



for space, you needed him. Together you stole Trumpet.
  'Without you, Milos - without you and no one else -
I'm afraid he'll be totally ineffective.
  'However,' the Director said to Angus, 'Milos makes
an important point. If I were you, I wouldn't rely too
heavily on his reflexes in emergency situations. His
instincts haven't been ' - Dios' eye gleamed - 'as well
honed as yours.'
  He sounded so clear and irrefutable - and so
untouched by the dull panic glowering in Milos' eyes -
that Angus couldn't resist challenging him.
  Harshly he said, 'You probably think I'm grateful
you're going to put me on a ship with a coward and a
traitor who has bad reflexes as well as the power to shut
me down whenever he panics. If I wanted to get away
from you, he's the man I would choose to be in charge
of me.'
  For the first time, Min Donner spoke. 'Angus, nobody here makes the mistake of thinking you're grateful for anything.'

  Angus ignored her. 'But that's beside the point, isn't
it. You're throwing up static mines. You want me to be
so keen on outmaneuvering this lump of shit that I won't
think about what's really going on.'
  'And what,' Dios asked steadily, 'do you imagine is
"really going on"?'
  'You tell me. We've both been here for months. Now
all at once we're in a hurry. What makes your fucking
"need" suddenly so fucking "acute"?'
  In the dimness, Dios' mouth twisted; he may have
been smiling. 'Events converge. Everything you need to
know about them is already in your datacore. You'll be



given access to it in due course. However' - he glanced
down the table at Min, then returned his gaze to Angus
- 'I'll just mention that people you know are involved.
Nick Succorso and Captain's Fancy should be arriving at
Billingate - oh, any time now.'
  Calmly, as if the details had no special meaning, he
added, 'He has Morn Hyland with him. We don't know
where they've been, but an analysis of their transmission
vectors suggests that they're approaching Thanatos
Minor from the direction of Enablement Station.'
  Morn.
  They've spent some time in forbidden space.'
  Angus sagged in his chair. He didn't care about for-
bidden space. He cared about Morn Hyland. She was the
only person alive who could betray his last secret; his last
hope.
  He was alive because he'd made a deal with her. Had
she kept it? Would she keep it?
  'Min,' the Director continued, 'what did Nick's last message say?'

  'It was short,' Min answered as if she were restraining
an impulse to snarl. 'It said, "I rescued her for you, god-
damn it. Now get me out of this. If you don't, I can't
keep her away from the Amnion."'
  For Angus, the gravest danger wasn't that she might
be given to the Amnion. It was that he might be pro-
grammed to rescue her, bring her back to the UMCP -
and she wouldn't keep her promise.
  And yet the thought of seeing her again seized his
heart like a clutch of grief.
  Behind his nic, Taverner looked like he was about to
vomit.



  'I'm afraid,' Dios remarked, 'Nick Succorso isn't par-
ticularly trustworthy. But we really can't ignore the
possibility that a UMCP Ensign is about to fall into the
hands of the Amnion.'
  Without shifting his posture or his tone, he said to
the ED Director, Take Milos to Trumpet. Make sure he
remembers his instructions. Remind him of the conse-
quences if he violates them. Don't worry about boring
him - a little repetition won't do him any harm.
  'I want to talk to Angus for a few minutes. I'll bring
him to you when I'm done.'
  Min's gaze narrowed. 'Do you think that's safe?'
  'Do you think it isn't?' Dios countered.
  At once she got to her feet. Her face looked closed and
hard in the gloom. 'Come on, Milos.'
  Taverner's hands shook feverishly as he took the nic
out of his mouth, dropped it on the floor, and stood up.
He moved toward Min as if she would escort him to his
execution.
  They were at the door when Warden said softly, 'It
isn't an insult, Min. Even I have to do without protection
sometimes. If I'm not willing to take a few risks for my
convictions, what good am I?'
  'I ask myself that question,' she retorted in a rough
voice, 'almost every day.'
  As she and Milos left, the Director smiled after her.
  It didn't make him look happy. It made him look like
he was about to condemn someone. The glittering of his
eye conveyed the impression that he hated doing that;
loathed it with a passion too strong to be articulated.
  Maybe, Angus thought, inspired by panic, Warden
Dios was about to condemn himself. Maybe he was about



to make a mistake that would improve his, Angus',
chances.
  That didn't seem very likely.
  Alone with Warden Dios, he sat and sweated. The
Director studied him, saying nothing. He could feel
Dios' eyes on him, the hidden one probing for his secret.
He wanted to duck his head - wanted to get out of the
room. He wasn't the right man to face the Director of
the UMCP: he had too much panic bred in his bones.
Let him go with Milos aboard Trumpet. Let him get back
to people and places he understood. Then he would have
a chance. Here he was lost.
  Nevertheless his fear had taught him to hate - and
hate gave him strength. He hated Warden Dios; hated
everything the UMCP Director stood for. He hated cops
and law-abiding citizens; hated romantics and idealists.
He hated them because they had always hated him.
  His hate enabled him to look Warden Dios in the eye.
  'You're wasting time,' he rasped. The "need" is
"acute", remember?'
  'Tell me the truth, Angus,' Warden replied as if he
weren't changing the subject. Those glitches aren't scan
interrupts.' His gaze was fixed, not on Angus' face, but
on his chest - on the IR emissions of his heart and lungs.
They're elisions. You edited the evidence against you out
of your datacore.'
  Because he was already full to the teeth with fear and
hate, Angus didn't flinch; he didn't so much as drop his
eyes. Instead he gaped. 'You're crazy. If I could do a trick
like that, I wouldn't be here at all. I would be sitting
someplace like Billingate, making myself rich by doing
that trick for every illegal ship in human space.'



  'No, you wouldn't.' The Director was certain. 'You
aren't that kind of man. You hate too much - you hate
everybody. You wouldn't protect people like Nick Suc-
corso, even if it made you rich.'
  A moment later he sighed. 'But you can calm down.
Believe it or not, your secret is safe with me. I won't ask
you how you do it. I can't afford to know. That "trick",
as you call it, is the most explosive piece of knowledge
since Intertech's immunity drug. I was out-played then.
I don't propose to be out-played again. It would be
suicide for me to reveal what you know.'
  Without transition, as if everything he did were part
of a whole, unified by some principle Angus couldn't
grasp, Warden said, 'Stasis, Joshua.'
  A fire-storm of panic had hold of Angus when his
zone implants shut him down. Still staring at the UMCP
Director, he slumped forward until his head rested on
the table, displayed like a sacrifice under the light.
  There are two ways to look at this,' Dios remarked as
he rose to his feet. 'One is that I sent Min away for her
own protection.' In one hand he carried a large black
box. 'If she knew what I'm going to do, she might not
be able to hide her relief.' He may have had it in his lap
all along. 'Sooner or later, she would give herself away.'
  Opening the box, he moved around the table. When
he was behind Angus, he put the box down and began
peeling Angus' shipsuit off his shoulders.
  Although he couldn't focus his eyes, Angus recog-
nized the box. It was a first-aid kit.
  'I could probably recover if she made Hashi suspicious
enough to figure out what I'm doing. He's dangerous -
not because he comes to the wrong conclusions, but



because he gets to the right ones for the wrong reasons.
That's what he did when he suggested using Milos to
control you.'
  As soon as he reached the sore place between Angus'
shoulder-blades, he stopped pulling down the shipsuit.
With a jerk, he removed the bandage. His hands were as
steady as stones as he took a scalpel from the first-aid kit.
Quickly he made a new incision. With a swab, he mopped
blood away from Angus' computer.
  Angus would have yelled if he'd been in control of his
mouth - or his vocal cords.
  'It's Godsen I'm really worried about,' Warden con-
tinued, talking to himself. 'If Min did anything to make
him suspicious, she and I would both be finished. From
that point of view, I really ought to keep this risk to
myself.'
  All at once, a strange cold void filled Angus' mind. The
datacore had been unplugged from his computer.
  'The other way to look at this is that I'm protecting
myself Dios dropped the datacore unit on the table and
lifted another out of his box. 'If Min knew why I'm doing
this, she'd turn against me herself.' As soon as the new
unit was plugged in, Angus felt his programming come
back on-line. 'I probably wouldn't live long enough to
worry about what happens when Godsen betrays me.'
  No hesitation or insecurity slowed Warden's move-
ments as he pinched the incision closed, sealed it with
new tissue plasm. From his first-aid kit, he selected a
clean bandage and applied it carefully to Angus' back.
  When he'd put the old datacore and bandage away, he
pulled Angus' shipsuit back up and redid its seals. Then
he moved.



  A few steps took him into Angus' field of vision.
Unable to see clearly, blinking autonomically, Angus
watched as the Director rounded the end of the table
and re-entered the light, walking toward the chair where
Milos had sat.
  Angus lost sight of him for a moment. Then Warden
reached across the table and shifted Angus' posture so
that the UMCP Director and his newest tool could look
at each other.
  Dios sat down in Milos' chair - in the light - as if he
wanted to be sure that Angus could see him as accurately
as possible. Nevertheless Angus still slumped with his
neck exposed like a man in an abattoir.
  'Angus,' Warden said distinctly, facing Angus with his
tooled jaw and his broken nose, his patch and his human
eye, 'I've replaced your datacore. You know that - your
mind is still alert, even if you can't move. You won't be
able to tell the difference. In any case, most of the changes
are extremely subtle. But even if they weren't, you
wouldn't recognize them because you can't compare the
two programs. As far as you're concerned, the datacore
you have now is the only one that exists.'
  Angus blinked because his brain-stem decided he
should. His heart and lungs continued functioning.
Something in Dios' manner told him that what he was
about to hear was crucial, the crux of the whole situation.
  'I wonder,' the Director continued, musing as if to
himself, 'if you understand what we've done to you. We
call the process "welding". When a man or woman is
made a cyborg voluntarily, that's "wedding". "Welding"
is involuntary.
  Technically, we've done you a favor. That's obvious.



You're stronger now, faster, more capable, effectively
more intelligent. Not to mention the fact that you're still
alive, when you should have been executed years ago.
And all you've had to give up is your freedom of choice.
  'But I'm not talking about technical questions. In every
other way, we've committed a crime against you.' As he
spoke, his tone became more and more like his earlier
smile - the tone of a man who couldn't begin to express
how intensely he loathed his power, or perhaps his obli-
gation, to inflict condemnation. 'In essence, you're no
longer a human being. You're a machina infernalis - an
infernal device. We've deprived you of choice - and re-
sponsibility.
  'Angus, we've committed a crime against your soul.
You may be "the slime of the universe", as Godsen says,
but you don't deserve this.
  'It's got to stop.' Warden folded his hands together on
the table as if he were about to pray. 'Crimes like this
one - or like withholding the immunity drug. They've
got to stop.'
  Angus went on breathing. His heart went on pumping
blood. Occasionally he blinked. Those were the only
responses available to him.

Eventually Warden Dios got back to his feet. When he'd
picked up his black box and tucked it under his arm, he
said, 'End stasis, Joshua.'
  Then he took Angus out to the docks to join Milos
Taverner and Min Donner aboard Trumpet.