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 shutdown 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 requirements.’ 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. “‘Compensatory 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; however, 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 deciliter 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 Scorz 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 communications 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 plexulose 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 lock.
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 Mikka 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. Polarization 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 protective crust, as rough as rust, which made garments irrelevant. 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 bandoliers supporting 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 authorities on Enablement and Captain’s Fancy. This was confirmed when the alien voice came over Morn’s earphones, 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 constructed; born in vats rather than built. The same biotechnologies which made steel by digesting iron ore produced 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 inefficiency of their manufacturing methods.
Like her black box, thinking about such things did nothing to heal Morn’s 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.
The sled 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 incomprehensible 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 Captain’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 distant, 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 decontamination beam, burning away undetectable microorganisms; 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 purpose 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 manipulation.”
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 ridiculous 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 spectrum 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 at 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 crèches. 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 trinocular. The arm reaching from the center of its chest was the primary one, both longer and s
tronger 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 environment,” 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 information. 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 “presumed 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 earphones, “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 Companies’ treaties with the Amnion. “Then the female’s fetus will be brought to physiological maturity.” Another arm gestured toward one of the crèches. “As a courtesy, the offspring will be supplied with garments.”
The Gap Into Vision: Forbidden Knowledge Page 24