The Gap into Madness: Chaos and Order (73 page)

Soar’s
course kept her hidden from her own outbound particle trace. If
Retledge declined to help her, Sorus would have to rely on the assumption that
Trumpet
meant to track her outward. Succorso would want to come after her. And even if
sanity prevailed — even if Succorso decided not to risk his ship against
Soar
—
he would still try to follow her: he couldn’t count on avoiding her
unless he knew where she was. So Sorus had left him the clearest emission trail
she could. Now she doubled back, intending to get on his tail when he began to
trace her.

Unless
Retledge gave her something more concrete to go on.

For
once, Milos Taverner didn’t question her. He stood beside her command station,
mutely superintending everything that was said or done on the bridge, but he
kept his thoughts to himself. Whether Retledge helped her or not, the Amnioni
had already given her his orders. If she didn’t return to the vicinity of the
Lab, she couldn’t carry them out.

She
recognised the chief of Security’s voice over the bridge speaker before he
identified himself.

“Captain
Chatelaine? Chief Retledge. This is a surprise. I thought you were heading out.
Didn’t you tell me you don’t want trouble with Captain Succorso?”

Sorus
took just a moment to summon her waning resources. Her bridge crew was
frightened: she could see that. All her people were scared. To varying degrees
they seemed to wear the same fear she’d inflicted on Ciro Vasaczk.

Now
more than ever she had to sound confident; needed to be sure of what she did.

Retledge
knew her voice as well as she knew his. “That’s what I said,” she told him
without preamble. “I didn’t want trouble — not on your turf. Other factors
aside, I would rather not make myself unwelcome the next time I decide to
visit.”

Involuntarily
she glanced at Milos; but his face revealed nothing. He still wore the
eyeshades she’d given him earlier. Had he forgotten to take them off? Was that
possible for an Amnioni? Even if he removed them, however, his pudgy face and
alien eyes would have masked his thoughts. The cost of human slaughter no
longer had any significance to him.

“But I
also told you,” she went on, speaking into her command pickup, “that leaving
him alive was the worst mistake of my life.” She paused long enough to inhale. “I
want you to help me correct it.”

Her
signal bounced along half a dozen or more relays until it reached him. Distance
and static flattened out his reply.

“How
can I do that?”

“Give
me clearance to come back in,” she answered promptly. “And answer a couple of
questions.”

Then
she waited.

Out of
the dark, Retledge inquired, “Such as?”

“Such
as, has he left yet? How long ago? And what course did you assign him?”

Exactly
where in this seething tumult of doomed rock was
Trumpet
? How much time
did Sorus have to do all the things the Amnion wanted from her?

“Captain
Chatelaine” — a burst of static distorted Retledge’s tone — “you know we don’t
give out that kind of information. We’re a stationary target here. Our guns
give us some protection, but we need more than that. As a matter of policy, we
do what we can to stay on good terms with the ships that visit us. Even if
those ships aren’t exactly friendly with each other.”

Did he
sound angry? She couldn’t tell. Just in case, however, she gave her voice a
placating tone.

“I
understand that, of course, Chief Retledge. Unfortunately I still have a
problem. Succorso is sure to come after me. He’s going to be a threat as long
as he lives.” Gently she concluded, “What can I offer you that might make you
feel like helping me?”

Milos
watched her, listened to her, as if he were blind and deaf.

“Captain
Chatelaine,” the speaker replied, “you’re cleared to return, if that’s really
what you want. Approach course and protocols follow.”

The
helm first studied his board, then murmured, “Got it, Captain,” as codes and
routing came in. Apparently Retledge wasn’t angry.

Nevertheless
he added a warning. “But if you intend to pick a fight with Captain Succorso,
don’t waste your time coming back here. We don’t want any part of your petty
feuds. Go away and leave us alone. Retledge out.”

Centre’s
transmission fizzled to silence.

You
self-righteous sonofabitch, Sorus thought harshly. Damn you, don’t you know I’m
desperate? Do you think I would do
any
of this if I had a choice?

You’re
already dead. It wouldn’t cost you anything to help me.

After a
moment an ache in her fingers made her aware that she was clenching her fists.

Damn
you all to hell.

Sighing,
she instructed helm, “Take us in. And don’t forget to be careful. But make it
as quick as those protocols will tolerate.” More for her own benefit than for
his, she remarked, “I assume Retledge would have said so if
Trumpet
was
still in dock. Time is precious.”

She
turned to Milos. “Looks like we’re on our own.” A rasp of weariness crept into
her voice: he had that effect on her. “I don’t like the odds. You’ve given me
conflicting priorities. If I concentrate on one, I risk losing the other.

“You
told me you can call for help.” The Amnioni had said that when
Soar
had
left her rendezvous with
Calm Horizons
. “Maybe you’d better do it.”

As if
he were performing an act of courtesy, Milos shifted his stance slightly toward
her.

“Why do
you need help, Captain Chatelaine?”

“Because,”
you Amnion bastard, “if
Trumpet
left the Lab too soon after we did, she
might get out of this swarm before we can catch up with her.” God, she hated
explaining herself to this former human being. She was
tired
of it. “Once
she has a clear line of acceleration, she can go into tach. Then we’re going to
have hell’s own time trying to find her again.

“We
need another ship out on the fringe to turn her back if she tries to run.”

Milos
shook his head — an atavistic gesture which meant nothing. “I do not
understand. Do you now believe that Ciro Vasaczk will not sabotage
Trumpet’s
drives, as you instructed?”

With an
effort, Sorus kept her obscenities to herself. “I’ve already answered that
question. I believe it’s stupid to assume nothing will go wrong. That’s why I
want
help
.” A moment later she added sourly, “Although you haven’t
bothered to mention what kind of
help
you think you can whistle up in
the middle of a system like Massif-5.”

The
Amnioni appeared to consider the implications of her sarcasm. Then he announced
impassively, “I am in contact with
Calm Horizons
.”

“What?”
Sorus couldn’t contain her incredulity — or her indignation. “All the way from
here to forbidden space? Don’t bullshit me, Milos. Even with drones you would
need at least a day just to get a message there — and you haven’t been using
any drones. But that’s not all. A tub like
Calm Horizons
might take as
much as two more to reach us. Two more
days,
Milos.

“You
told me you can get us help when we need it. You didn’t say anything about
having to wait for three
days
.”

Milos
studied her. Like his eyes, his emotions — if he had any — were hidden.

“I am
in contact with
Calm Horizons
,” he repeated evenly. “The contact is
instantaneous. I am able to transmit and receive communication without
measurable delay. The device which makes this possible was brought aboard from
the defensive after the destruction of Thanatos Minor.

“At
present its range has not been perfected beyond 2.71 light-years. For that
reason
Calm Horizons
began an encroachment into human space when we set
course for this system.”

Sorus
fought an impulse to gape at him. Her bridge crew were already staring.

“A
covert encroachment,” he said without emphasis. “Marc Vestabule is confident
that
Calm Horizons
has not been detected.

“The
defensive’s position is presently 1.38 light-years from ours. Only course and
velocity require adjustment.
Calm Horizons
can attain any position you
desire outside this asteroid swarm in approximately three hours.”

He
stunned her. Amnion technology was capable of achievements she could barely
conceive. Deep in her belly, despair and frustration seethed and spat, as hot
as outrage.

“‘Instantaneous
contact’?” she snarled. “And you didn’t tell me you could do that? You didn’t
think I might need to know?”

The
Amnioni remained still. Somehow his immobility suggested a shrug.

Sorus
growled her disgust, but there was nothing she could say that would make a
difference. All her dealings with the Amnion were like this. They could listen
to reason — or to her human, unreliable version of reason — but they offered
nothing, exposed nothing; ignored every appeal.

“Just
tell her to get here,” she sighed roughly. “I’ll give you an exact position
when I know what course
Trumpet
took away from the Lab.”

Milos
bent forward from the waist: he may have been trying to remember how humans
bowed. Then he turned to leave the bridge.

Apparently
his instrument for “instantaneous contact” wasn’t an implant. He must have kept
the device in the quarters she’d assigned to him when he came aboard.

Before
Milos completed his exit, however, the communications first spoke.

“Captain,
it’s the Lab. Chief Retledge wants to talk to you again.”

Sorus
held up her hand, advising Milos to wait. “Let’s hear it,” she told the woman
on communications.

The
snap of a toggle brought the bridge speaker to life.

“Captain
Chatelaine?” the chief asked. “This is Retledge.”

Sorus
faced her pickup, took hold of her waning courage, and said firmly, “Now it’s
my turn to be surprised, Chief Retledge. I thought you’d already explained your
position.”

Retledge
cleared his throat. “Sorry about that, Sorus. Too many people listening in
Centre. Now I’m alone. This is a secure transmission.”

“I see.”
She softened her tone. “In that case, it’s nice to hear from you. Can I assume
you’ve reconsidered?”

The
chief didn’t answer directly. Instead he said, “As it happens, there
is
something you can offer me.”

“Name
it,” Sorus returned promptly.

Retledge
took a moment to choose his words. “You think Captain Succorso is a threat. You
want to put a stop to it. That gives us something in common.”

She
glanced over her shoulder to be sure Milos was still there, then replied, “I’m
listening.”

Carefully
Retledge said, “Dr. Beckmann made a deal with Captain Succorso. More
particularly, he made a deal with Vector Shaheed. He doesn’t break those kinds
of agreements. He figures no one will come here if we start taking sides in
feuds like yours. And he has quaint ideas about ‘professional courtesy’. He
wouldn’t consider mistreating a ‘colleague’ like Shaheed.”

The
chief paused. When he continued, his grimness was plain, despite the distance
and static.

“But
Security is
my
problem, not his. I have to worry about keeping us alive.
And I don’t think we can survive the secrets
Trumpet
is carrying.

“They’re
— explosive, Sorus. Take my word for it. When they go off, we’re going to get
caught in the wave front.”

You’re
already caught, she thought. You’re already dead. But she didn’t say that
aloud.

“I’ll
answer your questions,” he finished, “if you promise me you’ll destroy that
ship. Completely. No survivors. Nothing left but dust.”

Sardonically
he added, “I’ll tell Beckmann Succorso suffered a ‘navigational mishap’.”

Sorus
didn’t believe him. He didn’t care whether Shaheed’s “secrets” were explosive:
he cared whether they were exclusive. What Beckmann had learned from Shaheed
would be far more valuable if no one shared it.

But his
reasons didn’t matter. His information did.

“My
friend,” she said before he could think that she was hesitating, “you have a
deal. Complete destruction. No survivors.” Including you. “Nothing left but
dust.”

Like
her heart.

“Then you’d
better get started,” Retledge responded quickly. “Shaheed finished his research
faster than I was expecting. Succorso is already on his way.”

“I’m
still coming in,” Sorus warned. Images of slaughter twisted like nausea in her
stomach. She and the chief of Security had been lovers once. At the time the
experience had been a pleasure; nothing more. But now the memory scraped like a
dull knife across the strings of her despair. “I want to get behind him. Once I
reach you, I’ll turn and trail him until we’re out of your range. That way you
won’t know anything embarrassing.”