MORN

The quiet she experienced when she made the decision to trust Angus with her son’s life, and Warden Dios’, comforted her; but it didn’t last long. First came a rush of activity as everyone hurried to their places: Captain Ubikwe, Vector, and Davies with the command module; Angus, Ciro, and Mikka aboard Trumpet; Min Donner, Punisher’s duty officers, and Morn herself on the auxiliary bridge. Then followed the tense work of detaching the module and releasing Trumpet. Min stood impatiently at the communications station while Cray routed Center’s transmissions to her PCR and throat pickup. Patrice activated the helm console swiftly. Restored to his post at last, Glessen ran targ with grim satisfaction. Porson and Bydell working together brought up the main displays—scan schematics, orbit and course vectors, targ windows—and added blips for the command module and Trumpet as Dolph began transporting the gap scout along his cautious route toward Calm Horizons.

Among them Morn settled into the command g-seat. The auxiliary bridge felt like a completely different place than the one she’d just left: oriented differently in Punisher’s deceleration g; with different sounds and pressures. And the air was colder for some reason. It seemed closer to the outer dark; the absolute chill of space. More exposed—

Unlike the people around her, she had no duties. The cruiser would have obeyed her orders, but she had none to give. Captain Ubikwe’s officers took care of Punisher: Min handled everything else. And Morn had no part to play in Angus’ plots, or Davies’ risks. Finally she’d arrived at the position she’d sought ever since she’d returned to consciousness beyond Massif-5. She was free to do what she’d come here for.

Tell the truth. Accuse the men and women she’d been raised to serve of crimes she abhorred.

That crisis loomed ahead of her like the last gap crossing of her life; the ordeal she dreaded most. She’d talked about it as if she were certain of herself; believed completely in what she meant to do; as if she had no room for doubt. But now she feared it might prove to be a new form of gap-sickness—a more fatal form.

Possibilities of ruin seemed to throng like furies about her, calling for blood. She would have to bare her soul to the Council; open her shame for every Member of the GCES to see and condemn.

Because she needed Min’s help, she looked for some way to catch the ED director’s attention; encourage Min to leave Center’s demands aside for a moment and talk to her. But Min’s link to Center—and, through Center, to the planet—required harsh concentration. She was responsible for Earth’s defense in every sense: both planet-side and out in space. At times she appeared to answer multiple questions simultaneously; issue orders on several different subjects at once.

A nagging itch troubled Morn’s sore arm—a sign of healing, she supposed. Grateful for it, she scratched at it occasionally while she awaited her opportunity.

After a while the command module and Trumpet finished their last transmissions. Then Porson confirmed that Trumpet was well occluded, her telltale electromagnetic activity masked by the module’s emissions. Still Morn didn’t speak. Despite her complex fears—and a mounting sense of urgency—she waited until Min made time to glance in her direction.

But then she found that the words she required were hard to say. Once they were spoken, she wouldn’t be able to call them back: simply articulating them would make them irrevocable; a promise she had to keep. In chagrin she stalled for courage by asking the first question she could think of.

“How’s your hand, Director?”

If Min considered that an odd question, she kept her reaction to herself. She may have understood why Morn asked it. Flexing her fingers, she inspected the bandage Glessen had applied for her.

“Funny thing,” she muttered, frowning. “That damn cyborg has good aim. Hitting him hurt worse than getting shot.” Her mouth twisted. “Someday I’ll learn to keep my temper. But that probably won’t happen anytime soon.”

The auxiliary bridge was definitely colder than it should have been. Morn checked her maintenance readouts; saw that a couple of temperature sensors and air circulation relays weren’t working properly. They must have been damaged somehow.

She tried again.

“Director—” Her throat closed. Min—

“You know about my gap-sickness. You know what Angus did to me.” She didn’t wait for Min’s assent. “But I never told you that Vector broke my black box. My zone implant control. Angus gave it to me. But Vector broke it to keep me from killing myself. When Nick had Angus’ priority-codes.

“Since then,” she explained lamely, “my gap-sickness has been more of a problem.”

The lines of Min’s face became sharper. “I wondered why Angus hit you when we hit hard g. At the time that seemed”—she frowned at the memory—“excessive.”

Ignoring her duties, she waited for Morn to go on.

Morn swore at herself. Why was this so hard? Hadn’t she grown accustomed to her shames yet? Surely by now she might have come to understand that Starmaster was gone?—that no amount of self-torment would bring her family back?

With an effort she set her reluctance aside.

“I need your help, Director,” she admitted unsteadily. “I want to talk to the Council. Tell my story.” Give my testimony. Now or never. “But I can’t do it alone. Center doesn’t take orders from me. GCES communications certainly doesn’t. I need you to open a channel for him. If you don’t, I’m helpless.”

Her request didn’t surprise Min. The ED director must have heard enough hints to guess what Morn had in mind. Perhaps she approved: perhaps this was why she’d let Morn

take command in the first place. Deliberately she removed her PCR, lifted the pickup off her throat. Her eyes searched Morn like a hawk’s.

“You don’t have to talk to them.” She sounded distant, noncommittal, like a woman withholding judgment. “They need to hear your story, but you don’t have to tell it in person. You can record it. Then I’ll talk to them for you. Give them a playback. Answer their questions.”

“In your spare time?” Morn countered ruefully. She’d already observed how tightly Min’s responsibilities stretched her. The strain was palpable every time Min addressed her pickup.

“I can do it,” Min insisted. Then, more gently, she added, “You’ve already done enough. More than any of us.”

Morn bowed her head. The unexpected kindness of Min’s offer touched her; but she wasn’t tempted to accept it. “It’s my job, Director,” she sighed. My story. “I think they should hear it from me.”

When she looked up again, she saw a gleam that might have been pride or hope in the ED director’s gaze.

“In that case—” Min shrugged. “Give me a few minutes. Suka Bator isn’t exactly calm at the moment. And even when they are calm, what they do best is dither. I may have to put the fear of God into a few techs before they’ll do what I tell them.”

Without hesitation she returned her attention to her PCR and pickup. Morn heard her issuing crisp instructions in a tone that left no room for argument.

A few minutes.

Morn was glad for the delay. Despite the pressure of events, she felt now that she could use every moment Min gave her. Gripped by her gap-sickness, she’d killed her whole family. In order to protect her shame, she’d bartered Angus’ life for her zone implant control. And then she’d driven herself into zone implant addiction so that she could lie to and seduce Nick Succorso. If her pregnancy and Davies’ birth hadn’t changed the way she made decisions, she might have continued ruining herself until she joined her mother and father.

The Council needed to hear her story.

She needed all the time Min gave her to harden her heart.