In his hands he held the biggest laser rifle she’d ever seen. Its muzzle pointed straight at her head.
He may have been almost too weak to stand, but he held his rifle steady.
“You bitch,” he rasped, “I’m going to burn your head off.”
He looked like he wanted to scream; but his throat couldn’t sustain the extremity of his vehemence. He broke into a fit of coughing. The black hole’s g may have damaged his lungs.
Between spasms he forced out words.
“Then I’m going—
“—to cut your fucking heart out—
“—and eat it.”
His aim still didn’t waver.
He must have abandoned his attack on Soar’s proton cannon just in time to avoid being caught by the blast when Sorus jettisoned the gun. After that it was easy to guess what he’d done. Impossible to understand—but easy to guess.
He’d reached the relative protection of the breached cargo bay before Soar met Trumpet; fought Free Lunch. Even then he should have died. If nothing else, the energies of all that matter cannon fire should have fried his suit’s systems. So he must have cut the airlock wiring and forced his way inside before the battle. Must have found some wall or bulkhead to support him while Soar was in the terrible grip of the singularity
Then he’d worked his way to the bridge, moving slowly, cautiously; trusting that Sorus would be too busy to study her maintenance status readouts.
Cold fury kept her firm. Her people flung mute consternation and alarm at her from all sides, but she ignored them. Concealed from Succorso by the back of her g-seat, she undipped her impact pistol from her belt, even though she knew she would never be able to raise her gun and fire at him fast enough to prevent him from killing her.
He retched for air.
“Did you think you could beat me?” he demanded. “I’m Nick Succorso. I’m Nick Succorso! You can’t beat me! I could rip—”
Again coughing broke him into fragments.
“—your goddamn ship apart—”—
“—all by myself.”
“I could do it in my sleep!”
Helm and targ stared at him as if they were afraid to take their eyes off his rifle. Scan faced Sorus with pleading in her gaze.
Sorus forgot nothing. She forgave nothing. “You’re wrong, Succorso,” she retorted. “You’re asleep now—you’re already dreaming.” Rage held her hands and arms steady, but her voice shook. “Beating you is easy. It’s putting up with you that’s hard.”
So that he wouldn’t fire, she went on quickly, “There’s something I should tell you. Before you kill me. I don’t know why.” She scowled darkly. “Honor among illegals? Or maybe it’s just pity.”
You fucking sonofabitch—
“You see Milos Taverner?”
—if you think—
“You see that strange box he’s carrying?”
—I’m going to—
“It’s a detonator.”
—let you—
“He’s put mutagens in the scrubbers. Mutagen mines. They’re airborne. If you breathe, you’re finished.”—
stop me now—
“If you kill me, he’ll set them off. He has to. He can’t control the ship without me.”.
—you didn’t learn anything when I cut you.
“Too bad you got rid of your helmet.”
Exhaustion must have slowed his brain. He needed a moment to understand her.
Then his face seemed to break open. He wheeled toward the Amnioni with a howl in his throat, turned his rifle—
In that instant she whipped her hand and arm over the back of her g-seat and fired.
Force that could buckle plate steel and powder stone caught him in the center of his chest. He’d already begun to clench the firing stud of his rifle, but her fire kicked him backward, flung his arms up. His laser scored the ceiling for an instant: then he dropped it.
Blood spouted from the hole in his suit. He looked down at the wound. When he raised his head, his features were contorted with grief. A lifetime of hunger underlined his gaze.
Like an accusation, he breathed, “You did this. You did this to me.”
Then he toppled.
“Morn—” he sighed as he fell. “God—”
After that he was gone. His blood settled slowly around him, staining his EVA suit.
“Good riddance,” Sorus growled to herself. “I should have done that the last time I had the chance.”
Around her, her people let out their shock and fear in gasps and curses.
“Captain Chatelaine—” A moment of humanness seemed to overtake Milos Taverner. He had to clear his throat before he could say, “That was well done.” Then he added, “It will not be forgotten.”
She grimaced her disgust. “It’s history. Nothing’s changed.” Other issues were more important. Raising her head, she told the bridge, “We have work to do. Let’s get on it.”
She forgot nothing. She forgave nothing.
In a flurry of whispers and keys, her people obeyed. Taverner didn’t comment when she put her pistol back in her lap.
Still slowly, despite the best helm could do for her, Soar slipped forward.
Sorus resisted an impulse to hold her breath.
Succorso didn’t matter to her. He was gone; trivial. Behind her his corpse dripped its last blood into his suit. She cared about other things.
Death or victory were only minutes away; but she was no longer sure that she could tell the difference between them. Maybe there was no difference. Or maybe it didn’t matter. Years of excruciating subservience had brought her to this.
Despite the cost, however, her heart was high. Violence and joy seemed to swell in her veins. At last she’d conspired with her doom to bring Soar to the edge of her personal abyss. Death or victory. She would be happy with either one.
“Captain,” scan reported, “Calm Horizons and that cruiser are hitting each other hard. They’re frying space out there.”
Fine. Sorus nodded. Let them.
If Taverner hadn’t been watching her, she would have grinned fiercely.
“Swarm’s thinning, Captain.” The scan first sweated on her keys. “Scan range improving by the second.”
Muttering over her board, communications observed, “Shaheed’s message must be set for automatic broadcast. It repeats constantly. And it’s loud. That little ship has one hell of a powerful transmitter.”
Sorus nodded again. Fine. Let her.
Death or victory.
“Can you triangulate yet?” she asked.
“I’m trying,” communications returned. “Give me two more minutes. I’ll find her as soon as I can calculate the reflection vectors.”
Taverner turned away from Sorus. “Calm Horizons also seeks to triangulate,” he stated. “Your coordinates and hers will identify Trumpet’s location.”
Releasing his grip on the command station, he drifted to communications. Anchoring himself there, he instructed the woman to display everything she could glean about Trumpet’s broadcast.
The communications first looked quickly at Sorus.
“Fine,” Sorus said aloud. “Let him.”
As soon as the data appeared, he entered it on his SCRT.
“Better slow down, helm,” Sorus warned while Taverner was too busy to contradict her. “We need to stay in the fringes. That’s our cover. If we overshoot it, Trumpet might be able to hit us before we spot her.”
Or the cruiser might.
“But make sure Calm Horizons can see us,” she went on. “We don’t want her confused about where we are or what we’re doing.”
Helm nodded. He was working too hard to speak.
A moment passed before Sorus realized that she, too, was nodding. Her head bobbed up and down as if she couldn’t stop.
“Ready, targ?” she asked.
“Ready as I’m likely to get, Captain,” the man replied, “considering the damage.” Considering that Succorso had cost Soar her best gu
n. “Matter cannon charged. Torpedoes primed. Lasers on-line.”
Sorus swallowed an impulse to repeat, Fine. Fine.
One k at a time, Soar eased into position. Helm did his job perfectly. When she settled to wait and watch, she had a clear view of Calm Horizons, but caught only glimpses of the cruiser.
One by one communications identified the reflection vectors for Vector Shaheed’s broadcast. They converged on one of the screens, guiding scan—
“Got her!” scan cried suddenly. “That’s Trumpet. No mistake.”
A blip appeared on the screen in front of Sorus.
Like Soar, Trumpet waited in the fringes of the swarm, where she could still use a few big asteroids to occlude her from Calm Horizons. Was the gap scout also concealing herself from the cruiser? Sorus couldn’t tell: the scan image wasn’t precise enough to make that detail clear.
“Open fire,” Taverner commanded immediately.
“Can’t,” scan and targ retorted at the same time.
“Too much rock in the way,” targ explained. “We don’t have a clear line on her.”
“Of course,” scan followed, “that also means she doesn’t have a clear line on us.”
The Amnioni didn’t argue. The displays made it obvious that scan and targ were telling the truth. Rapidly he tapped new data into his SCRT.
Sorus found that she was nodding again. She had the impression that she’d been holding her breath for some time.
That was important. Nod. Hold her breath. Keep herself under control. Until Calm Horizons knew Trumpet’s position exactly—until the big defensive attacked the gap scout—any action would be premature; fatal.
Trumpet had set herself behind a substantial piece of rock, obviously hoping to block Calm Horizons’ fire. The asteroid was four times the size of the gap scout. Was it big enough to protect the ship from a super-light proton blast? Just one?
Yes.
Good.
Sorus wondered how long she would have to hold her breath.
Then she knew.
The defensive’s proton gun blazed. Without transition the asteroid shattered, hailing shards like shrapnel at the gap scout.
Trumpet’s shields held. She survived.
But now she had no cover. As soon as Calm Horizons recharged her cannon, Trumpet was finished.
“Captain!” scan called, “the cruiser’s increased her rate of fire. Matter cannon, lasers, torpedoes—she’s throwing everything she has at Calm Horizons!”
Trying to defend Trumpet.
Fine.
Now.
Sorus let herself breathe.
“Oh, Milos,” she murmured sweetly. “Milos Taverner, you lump of Amnion shit. I have something for you.”
Her tone must have touched a nerve in the human residue of his mind; an atavistic instinct for panic. Despite his growing inflexibility, he turned sharply, nearly flung himself around to face her. His fingers danced on his SCRT.
In one motion Sorus swept up her impact pistol and fired straight at his face.
His skull exploded like a smashed melon. Gray brain and greenish blood splashed past the communications station, hit the screens, spread like ruin across the displays. Carried by the blow, he tumbled backward; crumpled against the screens; rebounded drifting in zero g over the bridge stations. More blood formed a streaming green corona around his carcass until it made contact with his shipsuit and skin. Then it stuck to him, prevented from spreading outward by surface tension.
Got you, Sorus panted, you God damn, treacherous, murdering son of a bitch!
Her people stared at her. Data and targ looked shocked. Communications seemed to fear that some of Taverner’s blood might have touched her. But scan’s face shone with savage glee. Helm grinned as if he wanted to start cheering.
In an instant of pressure on the firing stud of her handgun, Sorus had changed everything.
“Now,” she announced to the bridge. “This is our chance.” She sounded wonderfully calm. “Everything we need to get away from the fucking Amnion is on Calm Horizons. All we have to do is help that cruiser beat her. It doesn’t matter how many charges the cops are holding against us. If we help them beat an Amnion defensive in human space, we’re heroes. At the very least they’ll let us salvage anything we need.
“We have until Calm Horizons finishes charging her proton cannon. Maybe a minute. Let’s not waste it.”
Calm Horizons absorbed the cruiser’s onslaught too easily. The defensive must have cross-linked her sinks so that she could use them all to bleed off force from the point of impact.
In that case, she was vulnerable on this side.
“Targ,” Sorus ordered clearly, “I want you to hit that Amnion bastard. Hit her with everything we’ve got.
“Hit her now.”
The man gaped at Sorus for a few seconds. His eyes were full of terror and death.
But then he gulped, “Yes, Captain,” and his hands sprang at his board.
Yes.
Victory or death.
A moment later Sorus Chatelaine’s only hope spread sizzling echoes through the hull as Soar opened fire.
MIN
Helpless in one of the support personnel g-seats, Min Donner watched Punisher fight her way toward an intersection with the line of fire between the encroaching Amnion defensive and that part of the asteroid swarm where the cruiser’s sensors had spotted a kinetic reflection anomaly.
If Punisher could reach that intersection in time—if she could put herself between the big defensive and the place where Trumpet was most likely to emerge from the rocks—she might be able to give the gap scout enough covering fire to escape.
She still had a long way to go. Twenty-five minutes, according to estimates posted on one of the displays. Too slow. The alien had silenced her proton cannon. Obviously she expected to acquire a new target almost at once. Certainly not twenty-five minutes from now.
Yet even Min Donner, with all her fierceness, her instinct for extreme actions, knew Punisher couldn’t go any faster. Patrice on helm had to work his board like a madman simply to gain this much velocity without sacrificing the evasive maneuvers which frustrated the Amnioni’s cannon—or the rotational thrust which enabled targ to maintain a steady assault. Min feared that if his burdens were increased one iota, he might crack.
Secretly she believed that she herself might have already broken if she were in his place.
The limitations which, slowed Punisher—which might cause her to fail—were human ones. No ship could outperform the people who ran her.
At the best of times, Min had an uneasy relationship with mortality. Now she positively hated it. Humankind needed a better defense than the one Punisher had provided so far.
Apparently Dolph Ubikwe felt otherwise. If his faults and failings bothered him, he didn’t show it. Preternaturally secure in his g-seat, he rode the thrashing cruiser as if nothing could trouble him. His orders were cheerful: his manner, almost merry. At intervals he produced soft, subterranean sounds like tuned groans, as if he were humming to himself.
He might have been a tension sink, absorbing strain and apprehension and bleeding them away so that the people around him could concentrate.
“News, Porson,” he rumbled equably as Punisher strained ahead. “I want news. I get bored if I’m not inundated with information. Where is Trumpet!”
“I can’t see her yet, Captain,” the scan officer admitted apologetically. “All these vectors—the computer has to collate too many new coordinates with too many different instruments. We’re giving it fits. Half my readouts show error alerts.
“Sorry, Captain.”
Captain Ubikwe grumbled or hummed. His fingers tapped the edge of his console. “Then what does that damn defensive see?” he countered rhetorically. “How does she know so much more than we do? So what if she has better scan? We’ve had time to catch up. If she can locate Trumpet, why can’t we?”
Maybe, Min refused to say aloud, somebody aboard Trumpet is talking to
that Amnioni. Maybe they’ve already given her their position. Maybe Nick bloody Succorso is even more treasonous than I thought.
That probably wasn’t true. Punisher would almost certainly hear any message Trumpet sent. No tight-beam transmission could get through all that rock: only a general broadcast would bounce around enough to leak out of the swarm.
Despite the cruiser’s distance from the region of the kinetic reflection anomaly, she was fractionally closer to the outer asteroids than the alien was. If anything, she should be able to hear better than her enemy—
Matter cannon fire echoed like scorching in the hull. The sinks gave off a keen, palpable whine, as if they were crying. G kicked the ship from side to side, up and down, around in circles. Spacesickness tugged at the lining of Min’s stomach, despite her experience and training.
Out of the confusion, Cray barked, “Captain, I’m picking up a transmission!”
Oh, shit.
Dolph cocked his head. “VI? I hope it’s good news. I could use some.”
“No, Captain,” Cray gulped as she studied her readouts. “Down there.”
He opened his mouth lugubriously. “What, from the swarm?”
“Aye, Captain.”
He made a show of swallowing his astonishment. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who’s sending it?”
Cray gaped at her board for a couple of seconds, then wheeled her station to face his.
“Captain, it’s from Vector Shaheed.” Her voice was hoarse from overuse. “Aboard Trumpet.”
Dolph steepled his fingers, pursed his mouth. “Maybe,” he mused, “that’s how our friend out there knows where she is. We’d better look into this.
“What does Dr. Shaheed have to say for himself?”
Cray bent to her readouts again. “He isn’t talking to the Amnioni,” she reported. “Or he says he isn’t. He claims this is a general broadcast. For anyone who can hear him.
“Captain”—she struggled to clear her throat—“he says he’s developed a mutagen immunity drug. He says he’s been working on it ever since Intertech shut down their research. Now he’s succeeded. Then—” Cray’s voice failed momentarily. “Then he gives a formula.”
Chaos and Order: The Gap Into Madness Page 74