Angus hadn't told Nick how to replace Morn's zone implant control. He may have been saving that for himself.

"You try him if you want to, Mikka," Vector said unexpectedly. The blue calm in his eyes disturbed Davies, like a glimpse of something unfathomable. "I'm going to take orders like a good boy."

Ciro's eyes widened as if he were dismayed; as if he expected Vector to resist. Mikka shifted her weight so that she could confront Vector without putting pressure on her neck.

"The truth is," Vector continued, "I don't really care what he does with this antimutagen. a.s.suming I can actually figure out the formula. I just want to know if I was on the right track-if the research I did for Intertech could have worked."

"Do you mean mean that?" Sib protested. "You really don't care what he's going to that?" Sib protested. "You really don't care what he's going to do!" do!"

The former engineer shrugged gently. "It's not as callous as it sounds. By itself the formula is useless to him. I could give him every chemical miracle in the galaxy, and he couldn't synthesize one of them. He doesn't have the equipment. The formula means nothing until he sells it.

"And every sale is a form of dissemination. Maybe it's not as good as actually making the drug public, but it goes in that direction. The more people who know about it, the closer it comes to being common knowledge. A discovery like this does good simply by existing. I'll spread it any way I can."

He was out of his mind. Apparently he believed Morn's insistence that there was something else going on. something else going on. Something to hope for. But Nick had given Morn and Davies to Angus to Something to hope for. But Nick had given Morn and Davies to Angus to play with. play with. There was nothing left. There was nothing left.

Through her teeth, Mikka told Vector softly, "That's not good enough."

"Shut up, Mikka," Nick snapped. "I don't have time for this. You're going to take orders, and you're going to start now." now." He closed his fingers threateningly around the b.u.t.t of his handgun. "Center knows we have injuries aboard. That's why they aren't hara.s.sing us already-they think we need time to pull ourselves together. But if we don't go soon, they'll start asking questions. The wrong questions. I don't want that. He closed his fingers threateningly around the b.u.t.t of his handgun. "Center knows we have injuries aboard. That's why they aren't hara.s.sing us already-they think we need time to pull ourselves together. But if we don't go soon, they'll start asking questions. The wrong questions. I don't want that.

"Are you going to do what I tell you do what I tell you, or do I have to shoot a few chunks out of your brother to convince you?"

For a moment Mikka stiffened. She leaned toward Ciro as if she meant to step in front of him. From under her bandage her good eye flashed a glare of belligerence. But she must have been able to see that there was nothing she could do. Gradually her instinct for combat faded.

"I'm sorry, Morn," she sighed. "I don't know what else to do. It's too much for me."

"Don't worry about it." Morris tone held firm, even though her gaze ached with doom. "I would make the same decision."

Davies wanted to protest, I wouldn't. I wouldn't. But he knew better. He had no idea what else any of them could do.

Without warning the bridge speakers came to life.

"Trumpet, this is Center," a tense voice announced. "We thought you were going to disembark. Is there a problem? Do you need help?"

Nick swore impatiently. Bounding back to the command station, he keyed his pickup.

"Center, this is Captain Succorso. I don't mean to keep you waiting. I just wanted to give sickbay time to finish with Vector and Mikka. They're ready now. We'll be opening our airlock in five minutes."

Palpably insincere, Center replied, "Take your time. We're We're in no hurry." in no hurry."

With the pop of a toggle, the communication channel closed.

Nick silenced his pickup.

"Now. Let's do it."

Unexpectedly slow almost languid in his movements, he turned for the companionway. He seemed completely at ease; altogether sure of himself. Nevertheless his scars looked like streaks of acid under his eyes, burning deeper and deeper into his cheeks. Heat poured off him as if he were overflowing.

"The lift," he told Mikka and Vector, Sib and Ciro. "Go."

Mikka and her companions hesitated for a second. But after a quick glance at each other they shoved off from the handrails and began drifting backward along the pa.s.sage.

Davies couldn't let Nick go. His fear was Morn's: he had to do something about it. "Wait a minute," he objected; insisted. "You still haven't told us what happened. What are you so excited about? What's going on?"

He thought Nick wouldn't answer. Nick had gone too far into his strange personal exaltation: he might not be able to hear ordinary questions-or deal with them if he heard them.

His reaction surprised Davies. He squinted up the companionway to be sure that Mikka and the others were out of earshot. Then he gave a burst of febrile laughter, a quick, spasmodic clench of his fists. "Sorus," he announced. He began with a chuckle; but almost at once the name seemed to stick in his throat. "Sorus f.u.c.king Chatelaine." For a moment he gaped as if he couldn't breathe. Then he croaked, "She's here."

He might have been strangling on joy.

Davies wanted to demand, Soar? Soar? Here? Doesn't she work for the Amnion? But memories of the woman who'd helped the Bill interrogate him stopped him. She was the same woman who'd cut Nick because she despised him-and hadn't considered him worth killing. The Bill had told her to question Davies. Torture him, if that was what it took. She hadn't done that: apparently she didn't go to those extremes unless she was sure they were necessary. But he'd believed that she would do it. Here? Doesn't she work for the Amnion? But memories of the woman who'd helped the Bill interrogate him stopped him. She was the same woman who'd cut Nick because she despised him-and hadn't considered him worth killing. The Bill had told her to question Davies. Torture him, if that was what it took. She hadn't done that: apparently she didn't go to those extremes unless she was sure they were necessary. But he'd believed that she would do it.

She would have done it, if Angus hadn't rescued him- -the same Angus who was now under Nick's control. Who had been given permission to play with play with Davies and Morn. Davies and Morn.

The same Angus who sagged over his board as if his spine or his spirit had snapped.

Still moving slowly, Nick coasted toward the companionway. Then, suddenly, he grabbed for the back of Angus' g-seat, pulled himself around beside his second. His whole body seemed to emit malice as he leaned forward to pat Angus' cheek as if Angus were a kid of whom he'd become inordinately fond.

"Have fun," he said cheerfully. "Opportunities like this don't come along every day, you know."

Grinning at Morn and Davies, he somersaulted to the treads as if he were showing off, handed his way up the railing, and disappeared toward the lift.

A moment later Davies heard servos hum as the lift opened; closed. Hydraulic systems gave off a nearly inaudible whine while the lift moved. Nick and his involuntary crew were about to unseal the airlock. About to go meet Deaner Beckmann.

Davies and Morn were alone with his father-the man who'd first ripped her life apart.

Deliberately he shifted his position so that he stood between Morn and Angus.

She put one hand on his shoulder. She may have intended her touch to comfort or restrain him in some way; remind him of his importance to her. But slowly her fingers dug into his flesh, gripping him as if she couldn't find any other strength to support her.

Angus hadn't moved. He leaned like a broken thing over his board, a puppet with his strings cut-severed from will and pa.s.sion and hope by the inexorable demands of his datacore.

"Come on, Angus," Morn said abruptly. Her voice was harsh with dread and raw, helpless defiance; full of memory. "Get it over with. Show us your worst."

Davies' heart struggled against his ribs like a prisoner. Instinctively he braced himself to fight.

Released by Morn's words, a tremor ran through Angus. Shuddering, he raised his head. For a time he fumbled at the catch of his belt: his hands appeared to be stiff with cramps. Then, one painful muscle after another, he pulled himself upright.

Unsteady as a derelict, he turned to face his victims.

The sight of them seemed to shock him. They were only two meters away, but he squinted at them as if they were almost out of sight; beyond comprehension. He began breathing harder: his chest heaved as if he were trapped in an EVA suit with no air. Damage glazed his yellow eyes. By degrees pressure blackened his face. His hands crooked into claws, straining for bloodshed.

Abruptly Angus jerked up his arms and hammered both sides of his head with the heels of his palms.

Davies flinched involuntarily. Morn's fingers gouged his shoulder.

As if his life depended on it, Angus struggled to say something. But he couldn't articulate the words through his hoa.r.s.e gasping; couldn't force them out clearly enough.

Davies watched in dismay while Angus. .h.i.t himself again; and again.

Then the pressure inside him appeared to burst and fall away. Grinding his teeth, he rasped like an obscenity, "I'm not your son."

His voice rose into a rending shout, as if his throat were torn by clarion triumph or wild despair.

"I am not your f.u.c.king f.u.c.king SON!" SON!"

At once he broke into a fit of coughing that sounded like sobs.

MORN.

Angus' cry shocked her like stun. Charged with fear, her muscles turned to jelly; the marrow seemed to bleed from her bones. She wanted to protest, What?

What?

What are you talking talking about? about?

But she couldn't find the words. Words were strength-anything she might have said, any response was a kind of strength-and all the strength had burned out of her. The torn triumph or pain in Angus' voice had left her helpless.

I'm not your son.

Frantically she glanced at Davies.

He, too, had been hit hard. He remembered Angus as well as she did. And his ability to distinguish himself from her was fragile: he'd only had a few days in which to try to re-create himself as a separate human being. Something labored in him, strove to rise against the blow-some defense or rejection, some instinct for intransigence or violence. She could see the struggle on his face. Nevertheless for the moment he was caught the same way she was; trapped and held by the sheer extremity of Angus' shout.

I am not your f.u.c.king f.u.c.king SON! SON!

Now he, Angus, broke into coughing as if he'd ripped open his lungs- -and stopped. Just like that: between one heartbeat and the next. Tears of pain smeared his cheeks, but he ignored them. Maybe he didn't know they were there. He looked as stunned as Davies, as stunned as Morn herself.

Slowly, as if he, too, had only jelly to support him, he turned back to the second's station.

Morn recognized that instant transformation. His datacore had taken control: emissions from his zone implants had stifled his coughing, forced down his despair, smothered his triumph. He was a welded cyborg, ruled by decisions made for him days or weeks ago by men who didn't care what he felt or how he suffered; who cared only how he could be used. Briefly his raw human distress had burst its bounds! But now the inexorable pressure on the neural centers of his brain had recaptured him.

Whatever he did here, it would be because Warden Dios or Hashi Lebwohl-or their proxy, Nick Succorso-required it of him, not because he chose it.

She understood from experience. Oh, she'd never been welded. But Angus had imposed the same kind of submission on her. Later, voluntarily, she'd imposed it on herself. Time and again she'd felt an appalled outbreak of need and pain collapse in the face of electromagnetic coercion.

I'm not your son.

Davies opened his mouth. He was going to say something hostile; try to defend her by attracting Angus' malice to himself; she saw it on his face. With an effort that caused her to shudder as if she were shaken by fever, she brought up her hand in a warning gesture, cautioned him to silence.

He looked at her with his father's fear and fury clenched in his features. Nevertheless he clamped his jaws shut. The only sound from him was a low, visceral snarl.

Artificially steady, Angus began tapping keys on the second's board.

Morn couldn't do anything except gape as a flimsy sheet scrolled from the console's printout.

Angus tore off the hardcopy slowly, as if it were precious. His datacore demanded precision. Ineffably meticulous, he pivoted in the asteroid's slight g and left the second's station. Despite the pressure of his zone implants, he appeared almost at ease, almost graceful, as he moved.

His boots touched the deck in front of Davies. He stopped himself with a palm on Davies' shoulder.

Davies didn't move. Stiff with incomprehension, he bore the contact without flinching; without striking out. His attention was fixed on the sheet Angus carried.

Still slowly, as if the situation had become too urgent for haste, Angus handed the sheet to Davies.

For no reason she could name, Morn found herself holding her breath like a woman who wasn't sure whose son Davies truly was, hers or Angus'.

Davies peered at the hardcopy. He seemed unable to read it. Perhaps he was having trouble focusing his eyes. Or perhaps he simply couldn't believe what he saw.

"Jesus," he sighed-a long, soft exhalation, as if he were draining out of himself. By degrees he turned toward Morn.

Angus turned with him: they faced her together. The resemblance between them was uncanny. Davies was less bloated: he had less muscle, less fat. His black shipsuit contrasted strangely with Angus' grimy outfit. But those differences were trivial. Only Davies' eyes-eyes like Morn's-distinguished him from his father.

Suddenly Davies flailed his arms at the ceiling and yelled as if he were crowing, "We've got him! We've got "We've got him! We've got him!" him!"

She jerked backward involuntarily. She couldn't help herself: his unexpected savagery hit her like an attack. His shout echoed in her ears. For a moment she couldn't hear anything else. Between them, he and his father had deafened her.

Angus' cheeks were still wet: his eyes bled tears he couldn't control. He didn't glance at Davies. Instead his yellow gaze clung to her as if he were begging her for something.

Understanding? Forgiveness?

Help?

Her heart labored for several beats before she was able to find her voice.

"What is it? What does it say?"

With an effort Davies forced himself to speak more quietly. "It's from Punisher." Punisher." Yet his eyes burned, and his whole body appeared to emit a furious joy. "We've got his codes. Angus' codes. Now we can beat Nick!" Yet his eyes burned, and his whole body appeared to emit a furious joy. "We've got his codes. Angus' codes. Now we can beat Nick!"

Dumb with supplication, Angus stared at Morn like a beaten animal.

The words were plain enough. We've got his codes. We've got his codes. Yet she couldn't grasp what they meant. Yet she couldn't grasp what they meant. Angus' codes. Angus' codes. Panic and hope and old pain filled her chest until she could hardly breathe, crowded her heart while it struggled to beat. Panic and hope and old pain filled her chest until she could hardly breathe, crowded her heart while it struggled to beat.

Now we can beat Nick!

What do you mean?

Her question was inaudible. She'd asked it of herself, not of her son. Or of Angus.

And she didn't know the answer.

She tried again.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean"-Davies' hand shook with eagerness as he shoved the flimsy sheet at her, urging her to take it-"we can countermand countermand him. We can cancel his orders. We can give Angus new ones. him. We can cancel his orders. We can give Angus new ones.

"We can beat beat Nick." Nick."