Forbidden Knowledge by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

insane.
    The zone implant control was her only hope. She’d retrieved it from its hiding place; she had it in her hand. But which function should she use? She couldn’t guess what part of her brain had been damaged, where her vulnerability lay; which complex of neurons was responsible for the utter clarity with which the universe spoke to her, commanding ruin.
    She couldn’t think.
    Goddamn it, she swore at Angus, where are you when I need you?
    Without warning Captain’s Fancy reduced spin; internal g drained out of the cabin. Standard procedure: it saved wear on the equipment and spared the crew the distress of being pulled in more than one direction at once; it also freed the thrust drive from fighting the inertia of spin.
    She had no more time. Frantically she reached her bunk, rolled herself into it, pulled up and sealed the blanket so that she wouldn’t fall out when shifting g reoriented the furniture. That way the berth would serve her as a kind of g-couch, absorbing as much of her body’s stress as it could.
    Almost at once a low rumble came through the hull—the muffled, sudden thunder of the thrusters.
    In desperation she jerked up the control and hit the button which would flood her with rest, wash her away into sleep and oblivion. Then she jammed the black box under her mattress.
    Right or wrong, that solved all her problems—at least for the time being. Panic and consciousness left her as if they were squeezed away by the sudden pressure which made her as massive as death. She filled up with relaxation as she filled up with weight; g itself felt like irrefusable slumber.
    Nevertheless she went on cursing while her mind lasted.
    Fool.
    Nobody could stand the strain of full thrust for long: nobody aboard would survive unless Nick reduced g at regular intervals. If she’d asked somebody on the bridge how long burn would last, she could have set the control’s timer to let her go when acceleration eased.
    But she hadn’t done that, not her, fool , fool , and now it was too late. She was lost. She wasn’t going to wake up until somebody found the control and switched it off.
    Until somebody found the control—
    —and switched it off—
    The next thing she knew, the walls were moving on either side of her. Which didn’t make sense—and in any case her cabin didn’t have walls like that. But apparently it was true.
    Other details also didn’t make sense. What was she doing upright? Why did she feel like she was hanging by her arms? She couldn’t account for those things. Yet they appeared as true as the walls.
    But of course the walls weren’t moving: she was. Her boots dragged the deck. She was being carried forward; she could feel hard shoulders braced under her arms.
    That pressure brought back her panic.
    By the time she reached the lift, she was awake enough to struggle.
    She was too weak. Immeasurable sleep still clung to her, sapping her strength; her muscles were clogged with transition. Nevertheless she continued to fight, feebly but stubbornly, until a voice nearby said, “Let her go. Let’s see if she can stand.”
    The shoulders removed themselves.
    She nearly fell on her face.
    More by luck than anything else, she managed to catch herself against the door of the lift.
    “Hang on,” the voice said. “You’ll be all right. We’re taking you to sickbay.”
    It was starting to sound familiar.
    Holding her breath for stability, she turned around and forced her eyes to focus on the two men who stood an arm’s length away, watching her.
    One of them was Vector Shaheed.
    The other may have been the same man who’d sat at the data console while she was on the bridge. She couldn’t be sure. He was large enough. And not very well put together—
    Neither of them had the zone implant control. At least not out in their hands where she could see it.
    Vector’s voice was the one that sounded familiar.
    “Morn, say something,” he urged gently. “Convince us you aren’t crazy.”
    She