Gap [1] The Real Story: The Gap into Conflict by Stephen R. Donaldson

throat closed. The glaze across her eyes was fading. She began to look sharper, more dangerous; her nipples were poised on her breasts as if they could do damage.
    Instinctively, Angus put his hand in his pocket, closed his fingers around the control. His grip was damp with sweat.
    But she was wrong. He had no doubt that she was wrong. Oh, the fucking cops would stop him if they could. They would gut his ship and kill him gladly. But not because of what he did to her—or to those miners. Reasons like that were only excuses, as empty as her tone. The UMCP didn’t protect people. Why should it? It protected money. It protected itself. It protected the power to despise people like Angus himself.
    The cops would try to stop and kill him, not because he shed blood, but because he cut into UMC profits.
    Under the circumstances, he had no idea why he’d left her alone so long; why he’d given her time to go looking for courage. He didn’t have any reason for it. Nevertheless he was either excited or angry; and that confusion held him. And he had the control to her zone implant in his pocket: he was secure. Let her find courage, if she could. The braver she was, the more pleasure he would get out of breaking her.
    When he thought about breaking her, he grew erect again.
    Instead of arguing with her, he removed his hand from his pocket. A twitch of his fists parted the seals on his shipsuit, allowing him to jut out.
    “They’ll never get the chance,” he rasped, showing his yellow teeth. “I told you. I’m a bastard. The worst bastard you’ll ever meet. And I’m good at what I do. I’ve been dancing circles around the fucking cops all my life. If they ever catch me, it’ll be long after you’re dead.
    “In the meantime, I’m going to have some fun with you. You’re my crew now. You’re going to learn to take orders. And I’ve got old scores to settle. A lot of them. I’m going to settle them on you. By the time I’m done, you’re going to want to run away so bad it’ll damn near kill you, but I won’t even let you scream.”
    She glanced down at his crotch. Her mouth betrayed an unmistakable desire to wail. And yet she fought not to let him appall her. Her withdrawal may not have brought her courage; nevertheless she possessed a strength of her own which had never been tested before. Her voice shook as she said, “If nobody else stops you, I’ll have to do it. I’ll get the chance somehow. I can’t fight a zone implant. You’ve got that on your side. But I can’t crew for you while you’re keeping me passive. You’ll have to let me move on my own—think on my own. I’ll get the chance.”
    Her defiance was secretly disturbing—and secretly stimulating. He wanted to hit her again; but he knew that would be an inferior pleasure. To crush her spirit would give him a positive joy. Furthermore, it was necessary. She was right: she wouldn’t be able to crew for him under the control of the zone implant. The requirements of the job were too complex—and the functions of her implant were too crude. If he had to tell her what to do all the time, she would be useless. If he needed her help with Bright Beauty , he would be vulnerable. He wouldn’t be able to leave his hiding place until he was sure she was broken.
    And yet her spirit was part of what made her so desirable.
    He didn’t hesitate, however. He’d already taken too many steps in a direction he didn’t understand. Still jutting from the seam of his shipsuit, he took out the implant control and snapped it on.
    Helpless to resist, she lapsed into a pliant state similar to hypnosis; a state in which she could no longer choose her own movements.
    He had to swallow several times to moisten his throat. As he tapped buttons on the control, he rasped, “Sit up.”
    Eyes disfocused, features slack, she sat up on the edge of the berth.
    He reached into one of the compartments along the bulkhead, selected a scalpel, and handed it toward her. “Take