Chapter 34

"This isn't going to work," Berry said quietly, as she studied Victor.

The words didn't seem to register on him for a few seconds. Victor just kept staring at the viewscreen, watching the image of the Felicia III slowly grow larger. Then, his eyes still seeming a bit unfocused, he swivelled his head toward her. He and Berry were sitting in the first two seats in the small shuttle, with Lieutenant Gohr and three Marines from the Gauntlet sitting in the shuttle's four other seats. Because the front row of seats faced backward, Victor and Berry were looking straight at the Manticorans.

"We can still turn back," he said. "All you have to do is say the word."

"I didn't make myself clear. I'm fine. The reason it's not going to work is because of you."

Victor frowned. Berry looked at Betty Gohr.

"I ask you, Lieutenant: does this man bear the slightest resemblance to a tutor for a royal princess?"

Lieutenant Gohr chuckled. "About as much as a falcon resembles a mouse. She's right, Officer Cachat. I was just thinking the same thing myself."

Victor shrugged irritably. "I'm not putting on the act now. Once we get aboard—"

Gohr shook her head. "Not a chance. If you were just going to be playing that role . . . maybe. I don't know how good an actor you are. But not even the best actor in the galaxy can play two parts at once. And the problem is that you're also preparing yourself for torture. Steeling yourself enough to stand up to at least two hours of it. Whatever it takes to give Lieutenant Palane the time she needs. And you'll give it to her, won't you? I don't much doubt you're one of those rare people who'll withstand torture until you simply lapse unconscious."

Victor repeated the irritable shrug. "I have a high pain threshold, that's all. Fourth highest ever recorded at the People's Republic's StateSec Academy, in fact." His lips twisted briefly. "Yes, that was part of the training. I understand they've dropped it nowadays, since Saint-Just was overthrown. Not sure if I approve or not, to be honest."

He still didn't understand, Berry realized. She and Gohr exchanged a glance. The Manticoran lieutenant took a breath, and continued.

"Look, Officer Cachat, as it happens—"

"Call me Victor."

"Victor, then. As it happens, I'm something of an expert on combat psychology. I did some research on the subject while I was attending London Point. And also some research on . . . interrogation techniques." Victor's eyes widened slightly.

So did Berry's. She knew that London Point was the promontory of Saganami Island where the Royal Manticoran Marine Corps ran one of the toughest finishing schools for small-unit combat commanders in the known galaxy. Her father Anton had once told her about it. So what, precisely, had a Navy officer been doing there?

Gohr obviously recognized their curiosity, but she only shook her head and continued. "I even published a couple of articles in scholarly psych journals. And," her mouth twisted wryly, "one in the Naval Proceedings, as well. That one got a bit wider readership, unfortunately."

She shook her head again, and her expression smoothed back to one of professional concentration.

"The important point is that, first, I know what I'm talking about, and, second, that I'm not talking about technical details like pain thresholds. I really don't think you understand what an unusual human being you are, Victor."

He scowled. "I'm not following you. Other than my personality quirks—everyone has them—I'm no different from anyone else." Harshly: "As a Manticoran, you'll probably disagree. But I recognize no distinctions of breeding or birth. There are no supermen in the world—nor any sub-humans, either."

She scowled right back. "Give me a break. And give your Havenite ideology a rest too, while you're at it. I wasn't suggesting you were either 'above' or 'below' the normal standard. But what you are—you do recognize the reality of human variation, I hope?—is a very unusual type of person. What's sometimes called a 'natural killer.' "

Victor looked away, not in shame but simply in suppressed anger. His scowl had faded; his mouth turning down in an expression of contempt.

"Thank you very much. I imagine it comes easily to a Manticoran naval officer to sneer at people like me. Not that you haven't turned thousands of people into so much molecular gas. Or won't, if you haven't already, when given the order. My killing is done up close—but it's only measured by the handful. Unlike your mass slaughter. How very ethical of you. Easy enough, when your murdering is done antiseptically, by pushing a button from a distance measured in—"

"Victor!" Berry half-shouted, loudly enough to break him off in mid-sentence. When Victor's eyes went to her, she shook her head.

"I don't think that's what she's getting at. And, anyway, it's rude of you to interrupt her."

Victor turned to look at Gohr. The Manticoran intelligence officer had a crooked smile on her face. "Victor, I wasn't making any moral distinction. I was just trying to explain that—yes, you're right. It is easy, relatively speaking, for people, with some training, to kill other people at a distance. And most people can manage to do it in person if they're in the grip of a powerful emotion like rage or terror. What we do, essentially, when we train infantry soldiers is train them how to harness and discipline those emotions. But the number of people who can kill up close, calmly and cold-bloodedly . . . There aren't very many, Victor, and that's the truth of it."

Victor started to say something, but she pressed on.

"I said I'm not making any moral distinctions—or judgments—and I'm not, because it would be stupid. Not to mention hypocritical as hell. Sure, people like you can be monsters . . . but so can the 'kill at a distance' crowd. It's not a matter of having a taste for it; it's simply a matter of being able to do it, and from what I've seen of you, you don't seem to enjoy it one bit, even when you know it's completely necessary.

"But the same kind of mentality that lets you do that is also one that can face torture with relative equanimity. What you might call clinical detachment, applied to yourself. Absolutely confident that you can stand up to the pain for quite some time before breaking. Most people can't do that either."

"What's your point, Lieutenant?"

"My point is that being able to do either one can't be combined with acting the part of an intellectual airhead. There's a direct connection—it's not simply 'psychological,' it's profoundly physiological—between your conscious behavior and your emotional symptoms and behavior. Or, to put it another way, you can't remain steadfast and courageous—or ruthless—while you're trying to act otherwise. Certainly not on your level of capacity. That's why—"

She gave Berry a somewhat apologetic glance. "I know how you got those security codes, Victor. Berry described what happened to me. Do you really think you could have intimidated those men so easily if you'd been acting? Not likely. You terrified them because you were exactly what you told them you were—a man who'd kill them instantly and unblinkingly. And it showed. If you'd been on medical monitors, I'm sure your pulse rate and blood pressure wouldn't have so much as blipped."

Lieutenant Gohr turned to the view screen. The Felicia filled it now, looming over the shuttle like an alloy cliff.

"We're almost there, Victor. There's still time to turn back. But whatever you decide, give up the plan you've got. It'll never work. Within two minutes after we come aboard, the men in that ship will understand—instinctively, if you will—that they just let a wolf into their cage. They'll kill you, Victor. Don't think they won't. Out of fear, if nothing else. They'll never believe a word of your story."

"She's right," chimed in Berry.

Victor took a deep, long breath. Then, to Berry's relief, nodded abruptly. "All right. We'll go with my other plan."

Her eyes widened. "What other plan?"

Victor smiled thinly. "The one I just came up with. Three seconds ago."

The shiver and hollow clang of the shuttle docking into one of the Felicia's entry bays echoed through the little craft.

"No time to explain now," he said, rising. "Just follow my lead. Say better, my improvisation."

I will never, ever, ever, ever do this again, Thandi thought grimly. For perhaps the twentieth time since they began their EVA, she'd been forced to correct their course due to one of her Amazons. Goddam stupid so-called "super"-women. Why can't they just act like limp sacks of potatoes? If a princess can do it, they should be able to as well. The idiots! 

Ironically, Ruth Winton—the one Thandi had worried about ahead of time—was proving to be the only one of her companions who wasn't giving her any trouble. The princess was doing exactly what Thandi had instructed all of them to do—absolutely nothing. Just ride along in their skinsuits as if they were comatose, allowing Thandi to control their course with the SUTs' slave circuits.

Alas, her Amazons still had more than a trace of that old Scrag sense of superiority. Whatever you can do, I can do better. Hence their continual, aggravating—downright infuriating—attempts to "help" Thandi.

Fortunately, they didn't have any control over their actual thrusters. Thandi had insisted on completely slaving the controls for the Sustained Use Thruster packs strapped over their standard-issue Marine skinsuits, much to their disgust. Good thing she had, too, she now realized, or this entire jury-rigged expedition would have wound up scattered halfway across Erewhon's orbit. But the Amazons were still able to make Thandi's life miserable by their "helpful" assumptions of whatever body positions they thought were needed. The end result was a course which consisted of a series of little jerks instead of the smooth, continuous trajectory which Thandi could have easily managed with Ruth Winton alone.

Not for the first time, Thandi regretted the fact that they had no way of knowing exactly what sort of off-the-books sensor capability might have been built into the Felicia. The odds were overwhelming that she had the off-the-shelf sensors of most commercial vessels. Which was to say, not a hell of a lot. If that were true, the Erewhonese Navy could have delivered her team to the ship aboard one of its stealthed assault boats without any worries. But if it wasn't true, if Mesa had given their slave ship upgraded passive sensors without mentioning it to anyone, they'd be almost certain to spot even a stealthed boat at this absurdly short range. And if the terrorists aboard her did that, there would instantly be eight thousand dead slaves—and two more people who had somehow become enormously important to one Thandi Palane.

Which was why she was essentially towing a long line of pods, all connected with a single, fiber optic-cored tether, instead of using a nice, convenient boat. Which still wouldn't have been that bad, except for the fact that these "pods" were so-called superwomen wearing SUT-equipped skinsuits, each and every one of whom—again, she left Ruth out of her general damnation—insisted on behaving like an intelligent pea in a pod. With just about the vegetable results you'd expect.

Never again!  

They were very near the Felicia, now. Thandi started to decelerate, wincing at the prospect of trying to control her charges as they "helped" her again. Slowly, one after another of them slid past her, as they maintained their previous velocity. On the plus side, none of them was clumsy, so there was no risk of collision. On the minus side . . .

Fortunately, the fiber optic tether gave her a completely secure link to her team's SUTs, and her gloved fingers flew over the panel on her chest, tapping in commands which overrode the Amazons' assistance before it could cause outright disaster. Equally fortunately, Thandi's com was switched off at the moment. She and her team could have chattered away with complete security, once again because of their connecting tether, but Thandi had insisted on com silence anyway. She did not need any distractions while she piloted—attempted to pilot—her Amazons to their destination. At the moment, however, she had an added and entirely different reason to be grateful that her com, like theirs, was temporarily locked down. Since no one could hear her, she was able to give full and verbal vent to her fury—in a stream of profanity which, had it been broadcast, would have peeled the paint off a superdreadnought—when the final approach to the slaver turned into just the tangled-up mess she'd feared it would be.

But, finally, it was done. Not with grace, granted. Thumpety-thump-thump-thump-thump-etc., ending with only Thandi herself landing on the Felicia's hull with silent and springy ease. (Although she did note that Princess Ruth came surprisingly close.) Fortunately, it made no difference. The five-million-ton mass of the ship would have been impervious to collisions which smeared the bodies across the hull, instead of just leaving half of them sprawling. The tiny vibrations which resulted would simply go unnoticed inside the ship, in much the same way a mountain would ignore the clumsiness of inexperienced climbers on its flank with lofty indifference.

Done. Thank God. She'd even managed—somehow—to land them all within a short distance of the personnel hatch they'd selected. Ruth was already unhooking herself and moving toward it. As they'd agreed, the Manticoran princess would do all the code work.

Now that it was over, Thandi's exasperation vanished within seconds. All that was left was a deep regret. She'd been so preoccupied that she hadn't been able to keep an eye on the progress of the shuttle taking Victor and Berry to the ship. By now, it was too late. The shuttle would have docked already, somewhere out of sight around the curve of the gigantic hull.

So, she'd not gotten the glimpse of Victor she'd wanted. Her last glimpse, quite possibly. It would be typical of her life to have finally fallen in love—just in time to have her man killed a few hours later.

She shook off the dark thought firmly.

You'll have something to say about that, woman. Not to mention— 

A grin finally came to her. A savage one, true. But it was enough to dispel all gloom and get her combat instincts back into their usual full and furious shape. When all was said and done, the new man in Thandi's life wasn't really all that easy to kill.

To put it mildly. There were advantages to having an alpha male for a boyfriend, after all—especially that one—even leaving aside Thandi's little kinks and foibles.

"That's her signal," said Watanapongse, sitting at one of the com stations in the control room of The Wages of Sin. "The strike force has landed."

He gave the display screen in front of him a look of grim satisfaction. "Fanatics, meet Thandi Palane. A Masadan's worst nightmare."

Standing by the shuttle's airlock, Betty Gohr gave Berry and Victor a last inspection. She held a pulse rifle, as did the Marines, in case the Masadans tried a last-minute double cross in the arrangement they'd negotiated. The deal had been simple: the Manticoran princess and one companion—both unarmed and wearing simple, tight clothing—in exchange for the Masadans holding off on their threat to blow up the Felicia. Further arrangements to be negotiated.

The Manticoran lieutenant was not happy about it, especially the clothing. Berry Zilwicki, like the real Princess Ruth she'd been transformed by nanotech to resemble, was not a beautiful girl by any stretch of the term. But she did have the kind of healthy, youthful prettiness which was perfectly capable of arousing any normal male's libido—the more so because her figure was set off quite well by the close-fitting jumpsuit she was wearing. The Masadans had insisted on clothing which couldn't possibly disguise any weapons. Unfortunately, the jumpsuit didn't do any better at disguising Berry's female characteristics. Given the Masadan reputation—a well-deserved one—for sexual predation . . .

"We can still call this off, Berry," she said abruptly, almost blurting out the words.

Serenely, the Zilwicki girl shook her head. "Don't be silly. I'm sure it'll all work out as well as possible." She shrugged. "And if it doesn't, it's just one or two lives measured against thousands. Please open the hatch, Lieutenant. Now, if you would."

For a moment, Gohr was disoriented. So were the Marines, judging from the alacrity with which they obeyed the girl's order.

And an order it was, however politely stated. No member of the House of Winton in its long centuries could have surpassed that regal assurance. The fact that Berry Zilwicki was an impostor simply didn't seem to matter.

Gohr's own reflex was automatic. "Princess," she replied, coming to attention. The Marines did likewise, as the hatch opened, bringing their pulse rifles halfway to the present arms salute.

Only halfway there, of course, because this was a possible combat situation. But the first in-person view the Masadans at the other end of the short connecting boarding tube got of Berry was of young woman they'd been told was Princess Ruth, with her Manticoran escort showing all the respect and deference you'd expect them to provide a member of their royal family.

It never once crossed their minds that it was all an act. How could it? In that moment, it was no act at all.

A princess came across. Somehow, she even managed the awkward transition from the boarding tube's weightlessness to the ship's internal gravity without losing her royal composure for an instant. Even the Masadans stepped half a pace back.

"She's in," Lieutenant Gohr said softly into her com, as soon as the hatch closed. The shuttle's pilot was already beginning to disengage from the Felicia. The lieutenant, like the House of Winton itself, belonged to the Second Reformation Catholic Church. "May the Virgin in Heaven watch over her."

Receiving the signal, Watanapongse grunted. Like most officers in the Solarian Navy, he was a hardboiled agnostic. "The 'virgin' be damned, and 'heaven' is in another universe. That girl's got something way better, in the here and now. Hell's Pure Bitch is coming—and she's not more than a kilometer distant."

"A kilometer full of corridors and compartments like a maze," Imbesi cautioned, "not to mention a spider's web worth of security barriers."

Watanapongse didn't seem impressed. "Hell's Pure Bitch, I said. There's a reason, you know, that Captain Rozsak wanted that Marine officer on his staff, once Colonel Huang brought her to his attention. She's not even thirty years old, but with her record—and decorations—she'd have been put on the fastest possible track and probably even been a major by now, if she didn't come from an OFS planet. You watch."

At the moment, as it happened, Berry Zilwicki's fate was in the hands of a young woman who, if not a virgin, wasn't really all that far from it. Like most young people in most royal families in history, Ruth had labored under a degree of chaperonage she'd often found exasperating. The fact that the Winton dynasty put all its youngsters through extensive sexual education and training made it downright frustrating—because the dynasty was just as careful to keep an eye on their children avoiding premature emotional entanglements. A lot of theory, and . . . not all that much in the way of practice. In a modern society whose members were usually sexually active by the age of sixteen, the fact that she was twenty-three and as inexperienced as she was—though not in the least bit naïve—was a source of considerable disgruntlement.

"And I'll be just as easy," she muttered, as she broke the security code on the entry hatch within fifteen seconds, "when the right young fellow comes along." Sourly: "Assuming I can get away from the eagle eyes of my mother and aunt."

She watched the hatch swing smoothly open. Pleased, by her easy success in the actual deed at hand; frustrated, by the symbolism of it all.

"What was that?" asked Thandi. There was a trace of amusement in her voice. Ruth had forgotten that Lieutenant Palane had restored the com circuits.

"Nothing," she said, flushing a little.

Her embarrassment increased when one of the Amazons chimed in.

"Must be man trouble. You want help, girl? Just say the word, and I'll hold him down for you. Help you get him up, too, if he's pretty enough."

Thandi led the way, gliding into the entry with a gracefulness that the Manticoran princess still found a little shocking, coupled to such a large and powerful body. Even in a skinsuit, in deep space maneuvers, Thandi Palane reminded Ruth of a two-legged tigress.

"This is no time for sexual fantasies," the commander of the strike force stated firmly. Sternly, even.

An odd little gurgle seemed to echo in the com circuits, as if several voices at once had just managed—barely—to suppress laughter.

Ruth was one of them. She'd seen Thandi at her fantasies, after all. And while she hadn't watched for the three minutes Berry had accused her of, she'd certainly not watched for a mere three seconds, either.

It had been . . . impressive.

And now, in its own way, also reassuring. Ruth made the transition from weightlessness to the ship's gravity field with the grace of someone who'd participated in deep space sports since she was a young girl. But since she'd followed directly behind Thandi, she'd watched the Solarian Marine officer make the same transition with something that went far beyond "grace." The sight, coupled with the one Ruth had gotten of Thandi at play, brought a different predator to mind.

If she's skilled and experienced enough, a human can be graceful passing through an airlock on her way to an assignment with violence. An anaconda simply pours herself through.