Forbidden Knowledge (14 page)

“That damn motherfucker,” he swore amiably. “Why did he have to turn out to be such an insidious bastard?” But he wasn’t discouraged. “All right. Helm is relatively secure at the moment. We’ll leave it alone. I’m going to take maintenance off automatic.” His eyes glinted with combative amusement. “Let’s see how they like it when I turn off the heat in the core.”

Malda giggled nervously.

“They won’t notice any difference for a while,” Mackern said. “The whole ship insulates them.”

Carmel rolled her eyes. In exasperation, Mikka retorted, “That’s why it’s a safe experiment.”

“Mackern,” Nick drawled, “you have no sense of humor.” He was already at work, keying the functions of his board, running programs to bring the internal systems back under his control. In a minute or two he was ready.

Morn couldn’t taste any improvement in the air. It still felt tight in her lungs, congested with CO
₂
. Not for the first time, she thought about the black box back in her cabin. It could help her tone down her anxiety.

Anxiety wasn’t good for babies—

“Belts,” Nick said crisply.

His people checked their belts. Mirroring each other unconsciously, Morn and Mikka gripped the arms of Nick’s g-seat.

He glanced around the bridge. Then he announced, “Core heat off,” and tapped a couple of his buttons.

The faint click of the keys was clearly audible.

With a distant groan of servos,
Captain’s Fancy
lost internal spin.

At the same instant every spacefarer’s worst nightmare came true.

All power to the bridge failed.

Readouts, boards, illumination: everything went black. The whole ship plunged into a darkness as deep as the blind gap between the stars.

Mute in the void of her own mind, Morn wailed as if
Starmaster
had just gone down again; as if she’d killed her ship again, and everyone she loved.

ANCILLARY
DOCUMENTATION

INTERTECH

I
ntertech, a strong research and exploration company based on Outreach Station orbiting Earth, was both the precipitating cause and the primary victim of one of the definitive events in humankind’s history: the Humanity Riots.

In one sense, Intertech’s two functions—research and exploration—were an odd combination: in another, they fit naturally. Of course, the company was originally chartered for pure research. However, its use of the conditions and technologies available in space was highly successful. Focusing on matters of biology and genetics, the company first established itself by developing a germ which fed on plastics, effectively reducing a wide range of polymers to compost. This proved a lucrative contribution to waste- and pollution-management on Earth. Later research provided a variety of medicines, including one with benefits for people suffering from a well-publicized oped rejuvenation and longevity drugs. Intertech’s most profitable discovery, however, was the catecholamine inhibitor—popularly considered a “cataleptic,” therefore called “cat”—which soon replaced most tranquilizers, 1-tryptophan derivatives, sedatives, and lithium compounds in the treatment of stress disorders, insomnia, adrenaline poisoning, and depression.

Cat alone brought in enough money to enable Intertech to expand its function into exploration.

The relevance of exploration to research was unpredictable, but clear. Thanks to the development of the gap drive, vast numbers of star systems were now within reach, each evolved out of its own particular nuclear soup, each with its own special isotopes and chemicals and materials, each composed of new resources and opportunities. In fact, one of Intertech’s first probe ships,
High Hope
, brought back a new radioactive isotope (subsequently named Harbingium for the nuclear chemist aboard
High Hope
who first identified it, Malcolm Harbinger) which proved astonishingly useful in recombinant DNA: Harbingium’s emissions were so specific to the polymerase which bound nucleotides together in RNA that they made possible genetic research which had until then remained stubbornly theoretical.

Intertech’s stock—like Intertech itself—was booming. Until the onset of the Humanity Riots.

The Humanity Riots themselves were an interesting demonstration of genophobia. That humankind distrusted anything different than itself had always been common knowledge. As a species—as a biological product of its own planet—humankind apparently considered itself sacred.

In this, Earth’s dominant religions were only more vocal than other groups. No other fundamental distinction prevailed. Life had evolved on Earth as it was supposed to evolve: the forms of life provided by this developmental process were right and good; any alteration was morally repugnant and personally offensive. On this point, conservationists and environmentalists and animal rights activists were at one with Moslems and Hindus and Christians. Prosthetic surgery in all its guises, to correct physical problems or limitations, was acceptable: genetic alteration to solve the same problems was not.

As one crude example, humankind had no objection to soldiers with laser-cutters built into their fingers or infrared scanners embedded in their skulls. On the other hand, humankind objected strenuously to soldiers genetically engineered for faster reflexes, greater strength, or improved loyalty. After all, infrared scanners and lasercutters were mere artifacts, tools; but faster reflexes, greater strength, and improved loyalty were crimes against nature.

For this reason, genetic research was routinely conducted in secret: in part to cloak it from commercial espionage; but primarily to protect the researchers from public vilification.

However, humankind’s reaction went far beyond public vilification when Intertech’s “crime against nature” became known. That crime precipitated the Humanity Riots.

This happened because the Intertech probe ship
Far Rover
brought humankind its first knowledge of the Amnion.

The knowledge itself was contained in a cryogenic vessel, in a mutagenic material which—so the theorists finally decided—represented an Amnion effort to establish contact. At the time, it was considered fortuitous that the vessel had been discovered by an Intertech ship. After all, Intertech was uniquely qualified at the time to unlock the code of the mutagen, learn its meaning. Eventually, however, the discovery proved disastrous.

By definition, the material sent out by the Amnion was mutagenic. That meant its code could only be broken by geneticists. But it also meant that the code was contained in the mutagen’s ability to produce change, to effect fundamental genetic alterations—alterations so profound that they restructured nucleotides, rebuilt RNA, transformed DNA; so profound, in fact, that any Earth-born life-form became essentially Amnioni.

Unfortunately—from Intertech’s point of view—contact with alien life could hardly be kept secret. The company was forced to study the mutagen under intense scrutiny. And that study naturally involved applying the mutagen to rats, monkeys, dogs, and other test animals, all of which quickly grew to be as alien as the mutagen itself. This generated genophobia of seismic proportions. Humankind was already in a state of bedrock outrage when the decision was made within Intertech to test the mutagen on a human being.

When the results of that experiment became known—when the woman who volunteered for the job was transformed like the animals and died horribly in a state of spiritual shock—the Humanity Riots began.

Death to genetics and geneticists.

Death to Intertech.

Death to anything which threatened pure, sacrosanct, Earth-born life.

By the time the riots ended, Intertech was a corporate wreck.

Yet the company’s problems remained. The Amnion still existed. The need to understand the mutagen still existed. By default, Intertech had become a crucial player in a galactic drama—the contest between humankind and the Amnion. Without capital or credit, the company was expected to deal with the challenge
Far Rover
had brought to Earth.

Under the circumstances, Intertech had no choice but to seek acquisition by some more viable corporate entity. Reluctantly, a bid was accepted from Space Mines, Inc. (later the United Mining Companies). Aside from the necessary cash, the only obvious price SMI had to pay was an amendment to its charter, requiring SMI as a whole to forswear genetic engineering and to protect humankind from genetic corruption by the Amnion.

If Intertech had been able to preserve its integrity, much of the history of human space might have been different.

ANGUS

W
hen the order came to have Angus Thermopyle frozen, it arrived by gap courier drone straight from UMCPHQ, tight-beamed to Com-Mine Station Security as soon as the drone resumed tard.

The order was signed by Hashi Lebwohl, director, Data Acquisition, United Mining Companies Police.

Angus had suddenly become a very special prisoner.

Even Milos Taverner could only speculate why that had happened after all this time. Any number of people discussed the subject with him: his chief; most of his fellow officers in Security; several members of Station Center; two or three people who, like his chief, sat on Station Council.

They all asked the same questions.

Did you know this was coming?

No, Milos hadn’t known this was coming. He could say that honestly. During the months since Angus’ arrest and conviction. UMCPHO had paid only the most routine attention to his case. Copies of his files had been reqqed: that was all. Even the information that a UMC Police ensign, Morn Hyland, had arrived with Angus and left with Nick Succorso had prompted no particular response—not even from Min Donner, who had a reputation for almost fanatical loyalty to her people in Enforcement Division. No action had been taken on Morn Hyland’s accusation that the UMCP destroyer
Starmaster
had been sabotaged by Com-Mine Station. Security’s requests for instructions concerning Ensign Hyland had been ignored.

Well, then, what makes him so special?

Milos had no new answer. Angus Thermopyle was exactly what he’d always been. He was valuable for his purported knowledge of piracy and smuggling, of bootleg shipyards, of merchants who could handle stolen ore and supplies in vast bulk, even of forbidden space. He was no more and no less special than ever.

So what
did
change? Is this what UMCPHQ wanted all along? Were they just waiting for the authority?

That’s my best guess, the deputy chief replied candidly. Unquestionably it was a change that the authority for such a demand now existed. The recent passage of the Preempt Act had granted jurisdiction over all human space, including the separate Security entities of each individual station or company, to the United Mining Companies Police. Prior to the act, Com-Mine Security had been required to supply the UMCP with nothing except cooperation. Now Hashi Lebwohl—or any UMCP director—could demand the cryogenic encapsulation of as many convicts as he liked.

Unfortunately the passage of the Preempt Act shed no light on the reasons for UMCPHQ’s interest in this individual convict.

All right. So they must have wanted him all along. They just didn’t have the authority to take him. Why do we have to
freeze
him? Why go to all the expense of cryogenic encapsulation? Why can’t we just armcuff him and turn him over to the next ship that happens to be heading for Earth?

Those questions made Milos’ stomach hurt: they came too close to things he shouldn’t have known. He rubbed his scalp helplessly and reached for his packet of nic.

To preserve him? he ventured.

What for? Who in hell would want to preserve the likes of Angus Thermopyle?

Milos had no safe answer. He tried again.

To transport him?

Why bother? With an armcuff and a few precautions, he could be carted like cargo anywhere in human space. That would be as safe as some damn freezer.

Most of the men and women Milos had conversations with concentrated on that issue. Com-Mine Station’s chief of Security simply had more right to demand an explanation.

“Why? Why
freeze
him?”

Because he felt he had no choice, Milos risked a degree of honesty. Squirming inside, he replied, “To silence him? Keep him from talking to us? UMCPHQ is delighted we haven’t been able to break him. They don’t trust us. They don’t want us to know the things he might tell us.”

To Milos’ relief, his superior had come to essentially the same conclusion. Fuming, the chief said, “By hell, I won’t have it. That bastard has been making life miserable around here ever since I can remember. He’s committed so many crimes, and gotten away with them so completely, it makes me sick. If anybody takes him apart, it’s going to be us.”

That wasn’t exactly what Milos wanted to hear. He wanted to be rid of Angus, and the sooner the better. Stifling a twinge of nausea, he asked, “What will you do?”

“Talk to Center,” said the chief. His personality was as harsh and simple as his loyalties. “Talk to Council. They’ll back me up—at least for a while. They don’t like this kind of treatment any more than I do.

“That damn Preempt Act is new. We can pretend we don’t understand it. We can claim we don’t know the right procedures. We can even demand confirmation. UMCPHQ might not let us get away with it for long, but we can buy a little time.

“Goddamn it, Milos,
break
that bastard.”

“I’ll try,” Milos promised, groaning inside.

He relayed this decision to people who were interested in it. Then he and his subordinates redoubled their efforts to crack Angus’ silence.

Of course, no one mentioned any of this to Angus himself. He experienced a sudden upsurge in beatings of all kinds; in the use of drugs which reduced his skull to a hive of skinworms; in the application of sleep deprivation and sensory distortion. But he was given no explanations. He was left to draw whatever conclusions he could from the change in his treatment.

Nevertheless through abuse and deprivation, damage and pain—and despite his visceral horror of incarceration—he persisted in his intransigence by the simple heroism of cowardice. He believed that as soon as his tormentors got what they wanted from him they would kill him. Therefore the only way he could keep himself alive was by keeping his mouth shut.

And he’d made a pact with Morn Hyland. It was tacit, but he stood by it. She hadn’t betrayed him. Instead she’d escaped Com-Mine with Nick. He knew this because no one had accused him of imposing a zone implant on her. And no one had accused him of the crime which had caused the Hyland ship,
Starmaster
, to go after him in the first place. If she’d remained on station, he would be dead by now—and not necessarily because she testified against him. The simplest routine physical would have revealed the presence of the implant. Therefore he knew she’d kept her part of the bargain. So he didn’t betray her.

In this stubborn refusal to speak, he had certain advantages which no one could take away from him.

One of them was the life he’d lived, the long years which had taught him more than even his roughest guards would ever know about the uses of brutality. The beatings which stressed his bones and the stun which made him puke were, for the most part, no worse than the abuse he’d received throughout his childhood and adolescence, or during extended periods of time since then. Indeed, his present mistreatment was no worse than some of the things he’d done to himself, in order to stay alive when the odds were large against him. The years may have weakened his body, but they hadn’t diminished his understanding of pain—or his dedication to survival.

Man for man, he was tougher than anybody who hurt him. And he was accustomed to being ganged up on. He was at his best when he was most afraid. His dread of his own helplessness made him almost superhuman.

Another of his advantages was that he knew how to make his interrogator break into a sweat. The same degraded and costly intelligence which grasped what the sudden increase in his tortures meant—Com-Mine Security had run into an unexpected time limit, and if they didn’t break him soon they would lose their chance—also guessed a great deal about Milos Taverner’s role in this protracted questioning.

The primary charge against Angus was a fabrication. Prior to his arrest, he’d learned that Nick Succorso had dealings with Security. And of course Nick couldn’t have used Station supplies to frame him without Station connivance—without the help of a double agent in Security. Taverner’s behavior during the months of interrogation made Angus sure he knew who the double agent was. He had a coward’s intuitive hearing: he could tell when the man asking him questions didn’t really want answers.

So he clung to his silence, despite the new ferocity of his treatment, and waited for the deputy chief to run out of time.

The pose he took in the meantime was that of a beaten man ready for death. His guards naturally distrusted this pose; and they had reason. But he didn’t care. Now all he cared about was conserving his strength until something shifted.

Earlier he’d used the pose for other reasons.

At first, immediately after his arrest—during the preliminary interrogations, as well as his trial and conviction —he’d had no need for a pose. Ordinary truculence had sufficed to defeat every challenge, every demand. If he felt anything beyond his normal black hate, it was relief. He’d managed to avoid a sentence of execution. And hidden inside his relief was a helpless, visceral gratitude toward Morn Hyland for keeping her part of the bargain.

But that was before they’d told him
Bright Beauty
would be dismantled for spare parts. When he’d heard that his ship,
his ship
, would be destroyed, that it would cease to exist, the logic of his emotions was altered. Anything resembling relief or gratitude vanished in a hot seethe of horror and outrage; a distress so intense that he howled like an animal and went berserk until he was sedated.

After he recovered from the initial shock, he adopted the pose that he’d lost the will to live.

He continued to glare umremitting malice at Taverner during their sessions together: he didn’t want to let his questioner off the hook. When he was alone, however, he became listless, unresponsive. From time to time he neglected his food. Sitting slumped on his bunk, he stared at the strict, almost colorless walls of his cell, at the floor, at the ceiling—they were indistinguishable from each other. Occasionally he stared at the lighting as if he hoped it would make him blind. He didn’t so much as flinch when the guards came after him with stun. They had to manhandle him into the san to keep him clean.

They were suspicious of him. That was inevitable. But they were also human—susceptible to boredom. And he had a coward’s patience, a coward’s stubborn will to endure. Despite the incessant, acid seethe of his emotions, he could wait when he had to. On this occasion, he waited for a month without showing anything except doomed resignation to anyone except Milos Taverner.

Finally the idea that he was slowly dying took hold. By degrees, his guards became careless around him.

At last he took his chance.

In the small hours of station night—although how he knew that it was night was a mystery, since the lighting in his cell never varied—he tore a strip off his sheet and tied it around his neck so tightly that his eyes bulged and he could scarcely breathe. Then he collapsed on the bunk.

He was monitored, of course; but the guard who came to check on him was in no hurry. Suicide by self-strangulation was difficult, if not impossible. Only Angus’ general weakness gave him any chance of success.

He was retching with anoxia and practically insane when the door opened and a guard came in to untie him.

Lulled by weeks of boredom, the guard left the cell open.

He had a handgun holstered on his hip, a stun-prod in his fist. Such things didn’t deter Angus. He took the stunprod and blazed the guard in the face with it. By the time the observers at the monitor realized what was happening, he’d freed his neck, helped himself to the handgun, and jumped through the doorway.

The gun was an impact pistol, a relatively low-powered weapon primarily intended to shoot down prisoners at close range; but it sufficed to deal with the only people Angus encountered in the corridors outside his cell, a patrolling guard and a minor functionary, probably a data clerk. He was still monitored, of course. However, Security knew he couldn’t escape. He had nowhere to go—they thought. So they were quicker to check on the people he’d stunned and shot than to give chase.

As a result, he almost reached his goal. He came
that
close—

For months while he stared at the walls and ceiling and floor as if he were dying, he’d been busy studying Com-Mine in his mind, collating what he knew about the station’s infrastructure with what he’d observed about the layout of the Security section. With an accuracy that made him seem almost prescient, he’d deduced the general location of the nearest service shaft which led to the waste processing plant.

If he could get down into that shaft, he had a chance. By its very nature, the plant itself was a labyrinth of shafts and pipes, crawlways and equipment. He might be able to elude pursuit for days—or kill anybody who came after him. In fact, the only sure way to deal with him would be to gas the entire plant; and something like that would take days to set up. Which would leave him time to do the station itself as much damage as he wished. It might even leave him time to escape into DelSec or the docks. And from there he could hope to stow away on some departing ship.

If he could just get down into the service shaft—