The Gap into Madness: Chaos and Order (94 page)

Thrust
still clawed the gap. scout to the side. Morn’s arms strained in their sockets
as if they were being torn out. Without the support of her belt, she would have
lost her grip. On his board Angus ran commands like lightning; instructions so
swift that they seemed to have no effect.

Scan
took forever to clear: two seconds; three. Then the screens went wild as
Trumpet’s
systems raced to catch up with new input.

An
instant later the displays resolved into fatal precision.

Their
images froze Morn’s heart. Involuntarily, uselessly, she cried out, “Angus!”

One of the
static mines had already gone off, leaving an area of distortion like a
migraine aura at the edge of scan. Past it, however, the sensors read
Soar
plainly,
still driving toward her prey. Violent energies scorched along one flank, and
her hull wore a corona of dissipating forces: a near miss from
Trumpet’s
cannon. Plasma blossoms studded the void around her. But she was whole: her
shield and sinks had shrugged the assault aside. And she had a clear field of
fire ahead of her.

That
wasn’t the worst of it, however. As scan cleared, the surrounding swarm became
visible again.

The
screens showed that Angus’ efforts to evade
Soar’s
attack had sent
Trumpet
with lethal momentum straight at an asteroid so massive it threatened to crush
her.

Angus
didn’t answer Morn’s cry. He may not have heard it: he was too busy. As
Soar’s
targ readings spiked for another barrage, he cracked like a whip at Davies, “
Dispersion!
”

Wordless
rage rose like a scream through Davies’ clenched throat. Desperately he keyed
his defences.

For the
second time scan collapsed in the heart of a boson storm as the dispersion
field transformed matter cannon fire to chaos.

“Yes!”
Angus brandished his teeth at the screens; pounded the side of his board with
his fist. At once, however, he attacked his console again, entering commands
Morn couldn’t follow or interpret.

A jolt
of thrust slapped her around her handgrip; her other shoulder thudded the
bulkhead. She clung for her life: her hands and her belt were all that kept her
from being thrown at the screens. Maybe the jolt was enough; maybe Angus could
wrench the gap scout off the asteroid looming at her; maybe —

With a
palpable lurch,
Trumpet’s
thrust died.

G
suddenly vanished. At once the pressure of Morn’s arms lifted her into the air.
Then her belt snatched her back.

Without
thrust—!

Blinded
by the storm, proximity alarms went off only a heartbeat before
Trumpet
stumbled against the side of the rock.

An
appalling screech seemed to pull Morn loose from her handgrip. She dangled from
her belt as the pressure tried to fling her across the bridge. The ship’s hulls
and skeleton cried out in metal agony. Davies was tossed like a doll back and
forth between his g-seat and console. In contrast, Angus’ inhuman strength
protected him: braced against his station, he locked himself rigid to endure
the collision.

G
doubled Morn over. Her forehead smacked on her knees.

Her
belt seemed to be tearing her in half. She couldn’t breathe —

Caterwauling
with damage and protest,
Trumpet
settled to rest as if she were embedded
in the asteroid. Several different alarms continued to squall: damage-control
alerts; power failure warnings; systems fluctuations. Metal groaned and rang as
the hulls and infrastructure adjusted themselves.

Morn’s
hips and knees wailed as if they’d been dislocated; pain and threats of rupture
burned in her abdomen; shards of pressure threw themselves like spears at the
walls of her head.

Nevertheless
she was alive. After a moment she was able to draw breath.

And the
ship was alive. Morn still didn’t hear the terrible, whooping klaxon of
breached integrity.

But
Trumpet’s
thrust drive had failed. Without thrust she had no power to run her systems; no
power to charge her guns. Energy cells might keep life-support and maintenance
running for a time, but they couldn’t help the gap scout defend herself.

Couldn’t
lift her away from the rock.

Without
transition the asteroid had become her tombstone.

“Angus
—” Davies panted; groaned. His voice limped like a crippled thing out of the
centre of his chest. “Oh, my God. Angus —”

Angus,
what’re we going to do?

As soon
as
Soar
recovered scan, she would hammer the helpless gap scout to
scrap.

“
Stop
it!” Angus flamed back. Terror or rage crackled in his voice: he blazed
with fear or fury. “Pull yourself together. God damn you,
pull yourself
together!
I
need
you!”

One
brutal slap undipped his belts. With acrobatic ease, he flipped backward up and
out of his g-seat, heading for the companionway.

Leaving
—

No.
A shout of absolute protest echoed among the shards piercing Morn’s
skull.
No!
Not now: not like this. Not while she and her son were too
nearly broken to save themselves.

Through
a whirl of lacerations and keening, she straightened her torso and legs. G didn’t
hinder her now: the asteroid had very little;
Trumpet
, even less.
Bobbing against her belt, she reached for Angus. Her fingers strained like
prayers.

He was
already out of reach. On the far side of his immeasurable desperation.

Yet he
stopped on the rails of the companionway as if she’d caught his arm; dragged
him around to face her. His yellow eyes seemed to strike at her like fangs,
carious and poisoned.

“Angus,”
she insisted, pleaded. His name seemed to rise up from an abyss of abasement
and horror. “Angus. What are you going to do?”

“Don’t
ask!” he shouted as if demons raved inside him. “I haven’t got
time!
Succorso is crazy. He’s also a fucking genius!”

Violent
as bloodshed, he hauled his bloated distress up the handrails and left the
bridge.

“Morn?”
Davies croaked. “Morn? My God, I don’t know what to do. We can’t try to fix the
drive — there’s no time. Pull myself together? What’s he talking about? What
does he want?”

His
dismay accumulated into a yell. “
I don’t know what to do!
”

The
boson storm would dissipate soon.
Soar
would be able to see. She would
hammer the helpless gap scout —

No,
that was wrong. She wouldn’t try to kill
Trumpet
.
Trumpet’s
thrust was dead: she couldn’t defend herself. Sorus Chatelaine had no reason to
kill her.

Soar
would come alongside, fix grapples. Her people
would force their way aboard. Capture Davies. And everyone else. Recover the
immunity drug. Silence Vector’s transmission. Put an end to every threat the
gap scout represented.

Waste
every pain and passion which Morn and Davies and Mikka and Vector and Sib and
Ciro and even Angus had spent on their humanity.

Because
the thrust drive was dead.

Ciro
might as well have sabotaged it —

Morn
felt her heart stumble against her ribs as if
Trumpet
had run into the
asteroid again.

Ciro
hadn’t sabotaged anything. Vector had cured him. In any case, Mikka would have
stopped him.

Succorso
is crazy.

He’s
also a fucking genius!

Hurts
filled Morn’s head like glimpses of clarity. As if she understood, she
uncleated her belt. When she was free, she coasted to the back of Angus’
g-seat. Gripping one of the arms, she swung around and into the g-seat; secured
herself with the belts; put her hands on the console.

While
Davies watched with anguish gathering in his stricken eyes, she assumed command
of the ship.

ANGUS

H
e only had a small window of time to work with; an unpredictably
small window. He needed to be in position and ready before
Soar’s
scan
cleared. After that, if he kept his profile low enough, Chatelaine’s people
might not spot him. But if they had a chance to catch sight of him while he was
still moving —

One
little laser pop would fry him.

In that
case,
Trumpet
was finished. He’d left her effectively defenceless.

From
the companionway he headed straight for the suit locker.

He’d
done everything he could think of to make this work. He’d used static mines and
plasma torpedoes to confuse the effects of
Trumpet’s
dispersion field so
that
Soar
would be less likely to grasp what had really happened. Then
she might not realise that the blindness which the field produced was itself a
gambit. And in the meantime he’d used the field to cover his next actions.

Without
scan
Soar
had no way of knowing that
Trumpet
had lost thrust, not
because the drive had failed, but because he’d shut it down — or that before he
powered down the drive, he’d fired thrust to soften
Trumpet’s
impact.
Chatelaine would see only the outcome of
Trumpet’s
collision: scored and
dented hulls; torn receptors and dishes; dead systems.

Exactly
what she would expect to see if Ciro had sabotaged the drives.

Then
she might succumb to the temptation to capture
Trumpet’s
people instead
of killing them.

Might
come close enough for Angus to destroy her.

His
shipsuit still hung around his waist. He didn’t bother to pull it up. When he
reached the locker, he stripped his shipsuit off, tossed it aside. He might
sweat less unclothed; might be in less danger of dehydration. Naked as a baby,
he opened the locker and took out his EVA suit.

His
datacore commanded none of this. His computer was at his service. His zone
implants gave him what he asked for — speed, accuracy, strength; self-control.
But his programming held no provision for what he was doing now. He’d stumbled
into a place where he was free to make his own choices.

Neither
Warden Dios nor Hashi Lebwohl had foreseen just how desperate Angus could be —
or how extreme he became when he was desperate.

Because
he’d chosen to take this risk, it appalled him to the marrow of his bones. He
would never
never
do it of his own free will. Nevertheless he didn’t
hesitate. When had he ever done anything of his own free will? Fear was more
compulsory than will. The abyss cared for nothing but pain, horror, and the
most abject loneliness.

Pulse
pounding with terror, as if he were voluntarily submitting himself to the crib,
he hauled on his EVA suit, settled the harness around his hips, shoved his arms
into the sleeves and gloves, closed the chestplate, set and sealed the helmet.
At machine speeds he ran through the checklists to test the suit’s equipment,
confirm its integrity. Then he slapped the door of the compartment shut and
moved to the weapons locker.

The
miniaturised matter cannon was the only gun he took; the only one he would get
a chance to use. Lasers and impact rifles, handguns of every kind, blades,
mortars — all were useless to him. The matter cannon should have been useless,
too: wildly effective inside closed spaces, but essentially trivial against a
ship with
Soar’s
sinks and shields. Nevertheless he jerked the gun from
its mounts, inspected its indicators, made sure it was charged.

It was
ready. Readier than he was. He was never going to be ready for this.

He did
it anyway. Cursing the inadequacy of his zone implants because they couldn’t or
wouldn’t spare him from horror, he closed the weapons locker and headed for the
lift.

Neither
Warden Dios nor Hashi Lebwohl could have imagined how extreme Angus became when
he was desperate.

In the
lift, he sent the car upward.

His
respiration rasped and echoed in his ears, raw with fear. He was breathing too
hard, and his helmet constricted the sound. He could feel the slats of the crib
rising on all sides, confining and vast; his whole, narrow world. In another
minute he would start to hyperventilate.

while
his mother filled him with pain

He
should talk to the bridge. It was time. He needed Davies.

Without
help nothing would save him. Or
Trumpet
. If
Soar
didn’t get them,
that other ship would.

Yet he
didn’t want to open his mouth. As soon as he did, his dismay would pour out — a
flood of darkness deep enough to drown him. He dreaded the lost, pitiful sound
of his own voice in this enclosed place.

He had
to do it. All his risks would be wasted if he didn’t talk to the bridge.
Savagely he keyed his transmitter.