The Gap into Madness: Chaos and Order (13 page)

“I don’t
care what the rest of you do,” Angus added. “Just leave me alone for a while.”

He
started to silence the intercom, then changed his mind. “Davies,” he went on
more quietly, “wake Morn up if you want to. Otherwise let her sleep. She looks
like she can use it.”

He
could only guess what she’d been through aboard
Captain’s Fancy
— not to
mention in the Amnion sector of Billingate — but it was obvious that she needed
more than sleep to heal what Nick had done to her.

He
wanted to heal her. She’d belonged to him once — been totally in his power, to
use or abuse or adore as much as he desired. That made her part of his heart.
He hoped —

No.
Cursing again, he stopped himself. Hope was dangerous. He’d known that all his
life; but in the confusion of his welding and mission he’d let himself forget
it. Now it came back to him, however, as vivid as the warnings from his
datacore. Nick wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on him, hurt him like this,
if he hadn’t been distracted by his hunger for hope. Fear kept him alive.
Heroes were all dead men: only cowards survived.

Carrying
the damage to his skull as if it were the reason for his fear — as if it had
nothing to do with his hope — he climbed the companionway and headed for
Trumpet’s
sickbay.

DAVIES

W
hen Angus finally answered him over the intercom, Davies began to
burn like hard thrust.

In a
sense, he was always on fire. The endocrine intensity which his body had
learned to accept as normal in Morn’s womb kept his nerves hungry, his heart
hot. He lived on the edge of combustion. Yet when he heard Angus’ voice the
flame in him leaped higher.

Sometime
earlier, perhaps only half an hour ago, he’d taken Morn from the bridge into
the first cabin he could find. It might have been Angus’: it might once have
been used by Milos Taverner, for all he knew. He didn’t care. It had what he
needed — two bunks equipped with g-seal webbing and sheaths to protect their
occupants during high acceleration. As more and more of her memories came back
to him, he found that he knew how to use her black box. If he’d trusted
himself, he could have put his fingers on the right buttons with his eyes
closed. When he was sure that she was deeply asleep, he’d secured her in one of
the bunks, then done the same for himself. After that he’d waited for
Trumpet
to live or die.

More
helplessness; more waiting.

He’d
already lost track of how long he’d been alive. He’d spent too many of his few
hours just like this, waiting in one kind of prison or another while other
people somewhere else decided his survival. He couldn’t distinguish this day or
this moment from their predecessors. In a sense, Morn’s past was more precise
than his own; more distinct, as if it were more recent. Nevertheless, when g
came slamming through
Trumpet’s
hull, he’d been grateful — briefly — for
the restraints which kept him from being beaten to pulp against the cabin
walls.

Once
the ship appeared to have settled on a stable course, however, with clear
gravity under her and no pressure from the thrust drive, larger questions had
loomed. He’d waited as long as he could stand; then he’d risked leaving his bunk
in order to reach the intercom and ask Angus what was happening.

The
fact that Angus hadn’t answered — that the intercom had gone dead under his
thumb — made this prison no different than any of the others; as comfortless as
his cell aboard
Captain’s Fancy
, or his constricted ride in the ejection
pod, or his room in Billingate. Because he wanted to live, he’d returned to his
bunk, resealed the g-sheath and webbing. He could make that choice; but no
others were allowed to him.

Then
the intercom chimed, and Angus spoke at last.

“All
right, listen.” His voice was guttural with stress or pain. “For the next eight
hours or so we should be about as safe as we’re likely to get. Mikka, Davies, I
want you on the bridge to keep an eye on Nick. He just tried to kill me. If he
hadn’t fucked it up, you would all be as good as dead.

“I don’t
care what the rest of you do. Just leave me alone for a while.”

Angus
paused. More quietly he finished, “Davies, wake Morn up if you want to.
Otherwise let her sleep. She looks like she can use it.”

Davies’
heart responded like a magnesium flare. Without transition the questions became
larger with a vengeance.

He
flung himself out of his bunk. He needed movement; freedom from restraint.
As
safe as we’re likely to get
. How safe was that?
For the next eight hours
or so
. Where were they — where had Angus taken them?
He just tried to
kill me
. How safe could any of them be with Nick aboard?

But
when he turned to consider Morn, he stopped; froze.

All the
essential questions of his life were there in her abused face and imposed
sleep.

She
didn’t look like she could “use” sleep: mere slumber was too fleeting to meet
the scale of her need. She looked like she required the solace of physicians
and psy-techs and utter peace, months of rest and healing.

She
hadn’t had time to lose much more weight since he’d first seen her in the
Amnion birthing environment where he’d been force-grown. Nevertheless she
seemed frailer, more emaciated, as if strain and zone implant addiction caused
her to consume her own flesh for fuel. Her eyes had sunk deep into her skull;
the sockets were as dark as wounds. Grime and unlove clogged her hair, but
couldn’t conceal the fact that patches of her scalp had been pulled bare: she
might have just been through a failed course of chemotherapy. Despite the
insulation of her g-sheath, her slack lips quivered as if she were freezing —
or as if even the coercive emissions of her zone implant couldn’t protect her
from dreams of terror and loss.

She’d
been a beautiful woman once. Now she looked spectral and condemned, stricken by
mortality.

She was
his mother. And she was virtually everything he knew about himself. His past
and all his passions were hers.

The
sight reminded him that she looked like this because she wanted him to live;
that she’d exposed herself to Amnion mutagens and Nick’s brutality — that she’d
taken on all of
Captain’s Fancy
alone and risked putting herself back in
Angus Thermopyle’s power — for him.

And he,
Davies Hyland, held the black box which ruled her.

He didn’t
have time to stand over her, absorbing her pain — not if he wanted to help
Mikka handle Nick — and yet he couldn’t do anything else until this was done.

A sound
like a palm slapped the cabin door. Muffled by bulkheads, Mikka Vasaczk called
out, “Come on, Davies! If we don’t stop that bastard, nobody else will.”

Frustration
and fire rose like a conflagration in Davies’ chest until he heard Sib Mackern’s
voice.

“Take
care of Morn, Davies. I can help Mikka. I’ve still got the handgun.”

A rush
of relief deflected the pressure. “I’ll be there in a minute,” Davies answered.
He didn’t know whether Mikka and Sib could hear him.

Gripping
the zone implant control, he turned back to Morn.

She’d
committed a crime.

Angus
had done this to her. His violence and the sickness of his lust came back to
Davies easily. Whenever he let himself remember them, they filled him with so
much visceral loathing and disgust that he wanted to puke. Angus had put the
electrode in her head, initiated her addiction.

But
then he’d handed her the black box. She’d struck a deal with him, and he’d
given her this small tool which made her simultaneously so much more and less
than human. Instead of turning herself over to Com-Mine Security and the UMCP
so that they could help her, she’d sold her soul to obtain Angus’ power over
her.

Davies
remembered how she’d felt and what she’d thought well enough to understand her.
Nevertheless he didn’t share her addiction — or rather he was unaware of the
nature of his own dependencies, his developmentally programmed appetite for
levels of noradrenaline, serotonin, and endorphins which might have killed an
ordinary man. He couldn’t stop thinking like a UMCP ensign.

You’re
a cop
, she’d told him for Nick’s sake.
From now
on, I’m going to be a cop myself. We don’t do things like that
.

He
should pick her up, carry her to sickbay; program the cybernetic systems to
remove the electrode from her brain. Then he could help her face the
consequences of her addiction. Surely he knew her well enough to get her
through any crisis, even one that massive and personal.

Or else
he should turn her over to the UMCP. They wouldn’t punish her: they would
acknowledge the circumstances which extenuated her crime. But they would be
able to give her the kind of rehabilitation she deserved as well as needed.

Then he
should arrest Angus. Nick had told him that Angus worked for the cops.
He
doesn’t want to, of course, but they’ve got his neck in a noose. He’s doing
this little job for them to keep them from snapping his spine
. And Angus had
confirmed it, at least indirectly, by admitting that his former second, Milos
Taverner, was a bugger for the UMCP. But that justified nothing. If for no
other reason than to make them account for the fact that they’d chosen a rapist
and butcher to do their work for them, Davies should deliver Angus to the
police.

Yet
Morn’s lips still quivered as if she struggled to say his name through a veil
of dreams and weeping. The fine muscles around her sore and sunken eyes
twitched as if her dreams were full of pleading.

While
he looked at her, he realised that he couldn’t do any of the things he should.
Could not. Not because Angus controlled the ship, controlled the lives of
everyone aboard, but for entirely different reasons.

Morn
was his mother; she was his mind; she’d performed miracles and suffered
torments in his name. As far as he was concerned, she’d earned the right to
choose her own fate. And Angus was his father. Angus had rescued him from the
Bill — fought Nick for him — done everything possible to keep him safe.
Regardless of what the cops or the law said about it, Davies was in Angus’
debt.

Without
warning, the intercom chimed. “Davies,” Mikka said tightly, “you’d better get
down here. You won’t believe this if I just tell it to you. You need to see it
for yourself.”

That
was true, he thought, looking at Morn. He needed to let her and Angus determine
their own dooms. See for himself what they would do.

A
strange sadness filled him as he touched the button which cancelled the zone
implant’s emissions; but he didn’t let it stop him. Gently he eased one of Morn’s
arms out of the g-sheath. The marks on her forearm appeared to be healing. As
if the act were a caress, he folded the black box in her fingers and slid her
hand back into shelter. For a minute grief clogged his throat; then he
swallowed it down and moved toward the door.

“Davies.”

She
woke up more quickly than he would have believed possible. Exhaustion and
prolonged dread turned his name into a croak.

Caught
by sorrow — and by a touch of his father’s unreasoning fear — he wheeled to
face her.

With an
effort, she blinked her dull gaze into focus. Slowly she forced her mouth to
shape words. “Where are we?”

“I don’t
know.” Like a kid, he wanted to go to her, comfort her; let her comfort him. “I’m
going to find out.”

Shaking
with strain, she propped herself up on her elbow.

“Take
me with you,” she breathed in a hoarse whisper.

“You
need rest,” he protested. “You’ve been through hell. I think we’re done with
heavy g, but you still need sleep. Wherever this is, we’re probably going to be
here for a while. You can afford —”

She
shook her head. For a moment her head went on wobbling on her neck as if she
lacked the strength to stop it. “I don’t know what Angus thinks he’s doing,”
she said like the rustle of hardcopy. “I don’t trust him. I can’t” — she
faltered and closed her eyes as if she were praying, then forced them open
again — “can’t let him make all the decisions.”

Weakly
she began to pry herself out of the g-sheath.

Davies
started forward to help her, then stopped. Her weakness was painful to see:
maybe if he let her struggle alone she would exhaust her little energy and drop
back to sleep.

But
when she got her hands out of the sheath, she found the zone implant control in
her grasp.

“Oh,
Davies.”

Sudden
tears spilled down her cheeks. Hugging the black box, she huddled into herself
as if she were about to break.

He
couldn’t bear it. A brief flash of killing rage at Angus and Nick and all men
like them burned through him. Then he strode to the side of the bunk and took
her in his arms. While she clung to her control, he unsealed the g-sheath and
webbing, and lifted her out. After that he held her upright until she could
remember how to stand.