The Gap into Madness: Chaos and Order (61 page)

Once again
Amnion thinking had been inadequate to deal with human cunning and treachery.
Without Sorus to help them, the Amnion would have lost
Trumpet
. In all
likelihood they would also have lost the present, unstable peace. Their
undeclared war against humankind would have been doomed.

But
Sorus had guessed well when she’d selected her position near the frontier. And
after that her guesswork had risen to the level of pure inspiration.

She’d
seen a UMCP cruiser arrive near the belt — presumably intending to meet and
protect
Trumpet’s
return to human space. She’d seen the cruiser pause
unexpectedly to exchange transmissions with some other vessel, one
Soar’s
scan couldn’t reach through the intervening rock of the belt.

And
then Sorus had seen
Trumpet
arrive out of the gap, flare her own
transmission in the direction of the hidden ship, and head away, plainly making
no effort to contact — much less join — the UMCP cruiser. Almost immediately
the cruiser had turned in pursuit of the gap scout. If Sorus had remained where
she was, she might have caught sight of the hidden ship if or when that vessel
emerged from the belt. But
Trumpet
would have been lost.

Soar
hadn’t remained there, however.
Trumpet’s
strange behaviour had given her the information she’d needed — the kind of
information which made exalted guesswork possible.

“Give
chase,” Taverner had ordered her. “
Trumpet
must be caught. The ship must
be stopped. If you do not act now, they will attain reinforcements. Your
weaponry will enable you to defeat the warship.”

The
weaponry he’d referred to was
Soar’s
super-light proton cannon.
Apparently he assumed — as Sorus herself did not — the cops didn’t know that
Soar
had formerly been
Gutbuster
: that the space-normal illegal which had
once done so much damage with her proton gun now ran under another name — and
was gap-capable. Sorus hadn’t bothered to argue with him. Or to obey him.
Instead she’d issued orders of her own, building up velocity as hard as she
could for an entry into human space and the gap.

“Captain
Chatelaine,” Taverner had asked then as he asked now, “what is your intention?”

She’d
answered him then — but only after
Soar
was well under way.

If
Trumpet
was acting directly — and willingly — for the UMCP, why hadn’t the gap scout
simply tucked herself into the cruiser’s shadow and let the warship protect her
all the way back to Earth? Sorus hadn’t been able to think of a reason.
Therefore she’d jumped to the conclusion that either Succorso or Thermopyle had
his own ideas.

Ideas
which might not please the cops.

Instinctively
she’d dismissed Thermopyle, not because he was insignificant, but because he
was a welded UMCP cyborg, incapable of initiative or disobedience.

So what
in hell was Succorso doing?

Taverner
had told her that Succorso had a mutagen immunity drug which Hashi Lebwohl had
given him.

What
would she have done in his place?

Knowing
that the Amnion couldn’t follow her — and that the cops couldn’t follow fast
enough to stop her — she’d have headed for the best and most secure bootleg lab
she knew, so that she could try to analyse and profit from her precious cargo
before the cops or anyone else interfered.

Only
one place fit that description. And it just happened to lie on
Trumpet’s
heading away from the Com-Mine belt.

Driving
her crew to their limits, Sorus Chatelaine had brought
Soar
by great
leaps to the Lab. To Deaner Beckmann’s brilliant — and brilliantly defended —
exercise in futility.

Yet
now, here, where any fool could see the benefits of leaving matters in her
hands, Milos Taverner challenged her to justify herself again.

She
didn’t expect him to understand her retort, but she stood by it anyway, grimly
claiming responsibility for her own damnation.

At
first he didn’t appear to comprehend her question. “‘Believe’ is not an Amnion
concept,” he answered in his inflectionless voice. His mutation had taken place
scant days ago, yet already he seemed to be losing his ability to think like a
human — the very ability for which he’d been assigned “decisiveness” aboard her
ship. But a moment later he added, “In your terms, however, it might be correct
to say that we did ‘believe’ you. You are human. Among humans false dealings
are endemic. Perhaps they are congenital — an organic flaw. Yet we have the
means to ensure that you are not false to us.” He placed no stress on the
threat. He didn’t need to: it had been a fact of her life ever since she’d
stumbled into the hands of his kind. “And I acceded to your judgement in this
matter. Does that not indicate ‘believe’?”

Sorus
snorted to herself. She wasn’t interested in Amnion hair-splitting.

“Was I
right?” she demanded.

Taverner
considered the question as if it weren’t rhetorical.

“Your
prediction of Captain Thermopyle’s actions has proved to be accurate. Your
perception of his motives may also be accurate.”

“Then
leave me alone,” she rasped. “Let me work. I’m still human. I know how to go
about this. Having to explain myself all the time just wears me out.”

Taverner
studied her for a long moment. His unblinking eyes and pudgy face gave no hint
of what might be in his mind. Then, however, he surprised her by stepping
closer to the command station, bending forward, and crooking one index finger
as if he wanted her to put her head near his.

Taken
aback, she leaned to comply.

In an
oddly conspiratorial, almost human whisper, he breathed so that no one else
could hear him, “Captain Chatelaine, you must be made aware that the Amnion
have developed airborne mutagens. These are slow acting and somewhat crude, but
they suffice to meet the present need.”

She
stared at him. Airborne — Panic clutched her stomach. Only years of dark
resolve and bitter discipline enabled her to keep herself from grabbing her gun
and blasting him in the face so that he wouldn’t say what came next.

“Sacs
of them,” he went on quietly, almost inaudibly, “have been set upon the
scrubber pads of this vessel.” That must have been done while equipment and
supplies were being loaded from
Calm Horizons
. “I am able to trigger
their release. If you deal falsely with us, I will provide that your crew does not.”

Constricted
rage and hopelessness boiled inside her, blocked from any outlet. “You bastard,”
she murmured through her teeth, “that wasn’t part of the deal.”

What
did I do it for, all these years of betrayal and harm, if you’re going to take
even my crew away from me?

But her
protest was a lie, and she knew it. She hadn’t done it for them: she’d done it
for herself.

His
response was as low as the murmur of
Soar’s
support systems. “Your
statement is not correct. We did not enter into a ‘deal’ with you. You are
ours. Until now your crew has been left human so that they might function in
human space effectively. However, the present need transcends former policies.

“You do
not wish to explain your intentions. Very well. Do not. Your humanness remains
necessary. But understand the consequences if you deal falsely with us.”

Sorus
understood. Oh, she understood. The Amnion had owned her for years. Taverner
had only raised the stakes, not changed the nature of the game.

A sense
of fatigue as crushing as stone settled into the curve of muscle where her neck
met her shoulders. She couldn’t make him go away, so she sighed instead, “I
told you. I know what I’m doing.” For a moment grey weariness seemed to fray
the edges of her vision. Then she added, “And if I’m wrong, we’ll still have
time to do it your way.”

Taverner
appeared to accept her assertion. Nevertheless he stayed at her side while she
waited to hear from Chief Retledge.

 _

 _

“Captain Chatelaine?”

The
Security chiefs voice on her intercom sounded clipped and sure of itself.
Retledge was like Beckmann in that respect: he didn’t try to second-guess his
decisions when he made them.

Sorus
shook herself alert. “Chief Retledge. Thanks for calling. Am I allowed to ask
what’s going on?”

Milos
Taverner gazed at her incuriously, as if he didn’t care what she did.

“Dr.
Beckmann has given Captain Succorso and Dr. Shaheed permission to use one of
the labs,” Retledge reported crisply. “The rest of
Trumpet’s
people are
here, too. My men are keeping an eye on them.”

There:
confirmation. Sorus had been right all along. Vector Shaheed was going to
analyse Lebwohl’s mutagen immunity drug so that Succorso could start selling
the formula. She resisted an impulse to shake her fist in Taverner’s face.

But
Retledge couldn’t know what his information meant to her. His thoughts were
elsewhere. He paused for an instant, then went on, “Captain Succorso didn’t
mention you.” A note of grim humour came across the intercom speaker. “A
curious omission, I think. If you believe him, the enemies he worries about are
all somewhere else.”

Sorus
cocked an eyebrow in surprise, but didn’t respond.

“Of the
two of you,” Retledge went on, “I know which one I would rather trust. But I’m
not going to let anything happen.
Trumpet
came in. She does what she’s
here for. Then she goes. Clean and simple. Is that clear, Captain?”

Sorus
controlled a retort. Life is trouble. Nobody gets out alive. If you don’t cover
your own ass, don’t expect me to do it for you. Instead she drawled, “Sure,
Chief. Leaving that sonofabitch alive was the worst mistake of my life.” Her
mouth twisted on the lie, but she kept her tone casual. “I don’t want to make
any more.”

Succorso
hadn’t mentioned her? What the hell did
that
mean?

Retledge
said, “Good.” Her intercom clicked as he silenced his pickup.

She
felt too tired to move. Lowering her head, she closed her eyes and fell into
fatigue as if she were plunging down the gravity well of her buried despair.
But Taverner didn’t take his gaze off her: she knew that without looking to confirm
it. His attention leaned on her, making demands she couldn’t refuse.

What
game was Succorso playing
now?

She
didn’t know. After half a minute she pulled the ragged pieces of herself
together and sent out her team.

 _

 _

Forty-five minutes later
she met their return in the airlock which connected
Soar
to the Lab.

Milos
Taverner stood beside her. She would have preferred to leave him behind, but
she hadn’t wanted to argue with him. However, she’d insisted that he wear
eyeshades to conceal his alienness.

The
four members of the team weren’t necessarily her best people, but they were
well suited for this assignment. One of them, her targ second, was so large and
loud that his friends said of him that he couldn’t sneeze without setting off
proximity alarms on nearby ships. Another,
Soar’s
cabin boy, was simply
the most beautiful youth she’d ever seen — a flagrant invitation to pederasty
enhanced by his own rapacious appetites. The third, one of the engineers, was a
woman with a weird talent for appearing demure while nearly falling out of her
shipsuit.

Sorus
had chosen them because they were good distractions. Without much effort they
could hold every eye around them almost indefinitely.

The
fourth member of the team was her command third. She’d put him in charge
because he was quick, decisive, and knew how to make total strangers do what he
told them.

As
ordered, her people had brought a boy with them. He might have been fourteen or
sixteen years old, but the white fear on his face made him look younger.

Grinning
harshly, the command third saluted Sorus. “Captain.” Then he pointed at the
boy. “According to
Trumpet’s
manifest, his name is Ciro Vasaczk, but
Succorso calls him Pup.”

He was
exactly what Sorus needed.

Pup was
stocky, a bit too wide in the hips. A plain shipsuit a size too large for him
rumpled at his wrists and ankles, but at least it was clean. The pallor of his
skin seemed to emphasise the whites of his eyes; his mouth hung slightly open.
Nevertheless he didn’t struggle or shake. His gaze attached itself to Sorus as
if he knew immediately that his life was in her hands; hers and no one else’s.
If she didn’t take pity on him, no one would.

Just a
kid, she thought, gripped by a self-disgust she couldn’t afford. Perfect.

“Pup?”
she said quietly. “I prefer Ciro.”

One of
his eyebrows twitched. He looked too frightened to speak. But then he surprised
her by saying through his fear, “Captain Succorso won’t like this.”

She
studied him gravely. “Of course he won’t. That’s the point.