The Gap Into Ruin: This Day All Gods Die

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “He hasn’t told me what his game is. Are you going to say he’s wrong?” She challenged Dolph squarely. “Are you going to claim he isn’t doing exactly what his oath of office requires?”

  No, Dolph wasn’t going to make that claim. She could see it on his face. His resistance slumped like heated paraffin on his heavy frame. Like her, he’d been under Warden’s spell for years. He would have followed Warden through the gates of hell as willingly as any of Punisher’s people would have followed him.

  He spread his hands to concede defeat. “Then I guess we’d better find out what’s happening aboard that gap scout.” A glint of humor came back into his eyes. “Before Director Dios decides to chew off anything the alligators haven’t already eaten.”

  Finally.

  Min made no pretense that she wasn’t in a hurry. Slapping off her belts, she flung out of her g-seat and strode swiftly toward the communications station.

  By the time she reached it, Cray had already opened a channel so that she could hail Trumpet.

  MIN

  The ED director hailed Trumpet for fifteen minutes, using every authorization she could think of—except Angus’ priority-codes. Then she gave up in disgust.

  The gap scout wasn’t answering.

  All the explanations she could think of were bitter.

  Trumpet’s people didn’t trust her.

  Or everyone aboard was dead.

  If Morn and her companions had been killed by Trumpet’s brutal acceleration away from the asteroid swarm, the small ship’s scan would remain active. Shaheed’s broadcast would continue automatically. But failsafes would have shut down the drives after the vessel resumed tard.

  “Keep at it,” Min told communications darkly. “Hail her yourself. Or just play back what I’ve been saying for the past fifteen minutes. If they don’t answer—if they don’t let us know they’re alive—that’s all we can do for now.”

  “Aye, Director.” Cray set to work at once.

  Min turned to the command station. “Dolph, how soon can we catch up with her?”

  “And match velocities?” he asked. “I assume you want to board her?”

  Min nodded. Damn right she wanted to board the gap scout.

  Captain Ubikwe referred the question to the helm officer who’d relieved Sergei Patrice. “Emmett?”

  Emmett was a stolid man with a round face and unnaturally pale skin. His unreactive manner conveyed the impression that he was no match for Patrice. Nevertheless he knew his job: he already had the figures Dolph needed on one of his readouts.

  “That depends on how hard you want to brake, Captain. We’re overhauling her at a good clip. At this rate, we’ll be alongside in an hour and a half. But if we’re going to match velocities for boarding, we have to decelerate first.”

  “And if we brake too hard,” Dolph muttered, “we’ll probably fall apart.”

  “We can take it, Captain.” Apparently Emmett had a literal mind. “I can put us right beside her in two hours if we start a two-g deceleration in”—he glanced down at his board—“make it seventy-eight minutes.”

  Double the effective mass of everyone aboard for forty-two minutes. They could bear it. They’d all endured much worse. Recently.

  Dolph cocked an eyebrow at Min. “Good enough?”

  She acquiesced unhappily. “But watch her. If she shows any sign of life, we’ll have to be ready.”

  “I’m on it, Captain,” Porson said unnecessarily.

  “Go ahead, Emmett,” Captain Ubikwe instructed.

  After a moment’s consideration he toggled his intercom to inform Punisher’s people that they had seventy-eight minutes in which to eat something, relieve themselves, and complete their duty rotation before the ship began braking.

  Because she needed to manage her tension, Min paced the bridge, working the cramps and helplessness out of her muscles, damping the fire in her hands; trying to center herself so that she wouldn’t scream if she found Morn and Angus and Vector dead.

  Despite the self-discipline she’d learned from years of action and experience, she felt the unexpected crackle of the bridge speakers like a jolt of stun.

  “Punisher,” a woman’s voice said distantly, “this is Trumpet. We hear you. Can you hear us?”

  Trumpet was too close to sound so far away. The voice in the speakers gave the impression that the woman was reluctant to stand near her pickup. Reluctant to take this risk.

  Instinctively Cray moved to reply; but Captain Ubikwe stopped her with a sharp gesture. “Let Director Donner do it,” he told her. His deep voice had a warning tinge.

  Min threw a quick look at the nearest chronometer. Punisher was thirty-one minutes from deceleration.

  A few swift strides carried her to the communications station. Poised over the console, she answered as soon as Cray keyed the pickup.

  “Trumpet, this is Enforcement Division Director Min Donner aboard UMCP cruiser Punisher, Captain Dolph Ubikwe commanding. We hear you.” Full of complex relief, she added, “I’m glad you’re alive.” Then she went on more carefully, “Who am I talking to?”

  There was a delay. Not transmission lag: hesitation. After a moment the voice in the speakers said, “Director Donner, I’m Ensign Morn Hyland.”

  Morn was alive. After all this time: against incredible odds. Despite the fact that Nick Succorso had been given the power to use Angus against her. Min closed one fist on the butt of her handgun to steady herself. Suddenly she thought that anything was possible. The UMCP and humankind might survive. Warden might actually win—

  She was in focus now, primed with flame. Her excitement and alarm seethed beneath the surface; hidden. Nothing except authority showed in her tone.

  “Who else is with you, Ensign Hyland? Where’s Captain Succorso? I thought he was in command.”

  Again Morn paused. Afraid to answer? Wondering where Min’s loyalties lay? That was likely: she had reason to be suspicious. Plenty of reason.

  But when she replied, her voice had more force. She must have moved closer to the pickup.

  “Meaning no disrespect, Director Donner,” she said distinctly, “but I have some questions of my own.”

  “No disrespect?” Dolph muttered under his breath. “Who the hell does she think she’s talking to?”

  Min ignored him. Morn was saying, “When we left Massif-5, you were engaged with an Amnion warship. Calm Horizons. What happened to her?”

  “Calm Horizons,” Dolph repeated. “We’ve got id. Finally.

  “File that, Bydell,” he ordered. “Add it to our records on that defensive. UMCPHQ might find a name useful.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Bydell returned softly.

  At the same time Min countered, “Ensign Hyland, I’m prepared to make some allowances here.” She concentrated exclusively on her pickup and Morn’s voice. “After what you’ve been through, you probably deserve them. But I want answers, too. Where is Captain Succorso?”

  She could almost hear Morn leave the pickup: the sense of withdrawal from the speakers was palpable. Morn didn’t close the channel, but she moved out of range. Consulting with someone? Trying to decide how much to say?

  Did she think she could bargain with the ED director?

  What did she have to bargain with?

  When it came, her response was stark and unrevealing.

  “Nick Succorso is dead.” For no apparent reason, she added shortly, “So is Sib Mackern.”

  Dead? That explained a lot—and raised more questions. Succorso held the priority-codes for a UMCP cyborg. Who could possibly have gotten past Angus to kill him?

  But Min didn’t pause to consider the implications.

  “I’ll ask how he died later.” I’ll ask you why you’re talking for Trumpet. Why Angus is willing to let anyone else speak for his ship. “First I’ll answer your question.

  “Calm Horizons survived. We had to choose between trying to kill her and coming after you. She was on her way out of the system as we left. Her course didn
’t reveal where she was headed.”

  In the background of the transmission, a harsh male voice growled, “Shit.”

  Morn’s reaction was silence.

  “Well,” Dolph put in casually, “now we know she isn’t the only survivor. She may have killed Succorso and this Sib Mackern, but she didn’t get everybody.

  “You recognize the voice, Director? Was that Thermopyle?”

  Maybe. Maybe not. Min couldn’t tell.

  She waited while her heart beat eight or ten times. Then she prompted, “Ensign Hyland?”

  Abruptly Morn’s voice came back across the narrowing gap between the ships.

  “Don’t you care that Calm Horizons must have heard Vector’s broadcast? Don’t you care that she’s probably burning for forbidden space?”

  “Of course I care.” Min’s tone dripped acid. “I’m Min Donner,” God damn it. “But Calm Horizons isn’t my only problem.”

  “You mean us.” Morn sounded like she was talking to herself. “We’re too dangerous. I knew we were in trouble. But it’s worse than I thought.”

  Dangerous? The ED director knew what Morn meant. But she didn’t comment on that. Instead she offered, “And it could get even worse. One of my other problems is a mercenary called Free Lunch. She has a contract to kill you. Have you seen her?”

  Another pause: more hesitation. Min restrained an urge to shout while she waited.

  Captain Ubikwe shifted forward in his g-seat as if he hoped that might urge Morn to answer. Cray frowned relentlessly past Min’s shoulder. Glessen drummed his fingers on the edges of his board like a man who wanted to start shooting.

  At last Morn replied, “Free Lunch is dead, too. We met her in the swarm. Angus killed her with a singularity grenade.”

  “Captain,” Porson whispered excitedly, “that must have been the kinetic reflection anomaly we picked up. Director Donner was right.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Dolph grumbled.

  An edge of anger crept into Min’s voice. “Damn it, Morn, you’re talking, but you aren’t telling me what I need to know.”

  She wanted to ask, demand, With a singularity grenade? How in hell did he manage that? But she cautioned herself, No, keep it simple. Don’t get distracted.

  Deliberately she pushed her ire down.

  “Never mind, Ensign. Free Lunch is something else I’ll ask you about later.

  “What’s your condition? Have you lost anyone besides Captain Succorso and Sib Mackern?”

  Why are you coasting? Who’s really in command there?

  Morn responded with another maddening silence.

  Min allowed herself to rap the communications console with the knuckles of one fist—a small outlet for her tension.

  “For a mere ensign,” Dolph observed dryly, “that woman is certainly mistrustful of her superior officers.”

  She glared at him. “We gave Succorso those priority-codes,” she retorted. Hell, we sold her to him in the first place. So he would go along with one of Hashi’s misbegotten plots. “How much do you expect her to trust us?”

  “That’s a good question.” Captain Ubikwe adjusted his bulk against the arm of his g-seat. “You called this ‘Warden Dios’ game.’ Do you think she knows whose side she’s on? Do you think she or that cyborg or any one of them has a clue what Director Dios wants them to do?”

  Min didn’t reply. She held herself ready for Morn’s response.

  The speakers emitted a whisper of static.

  “Director Dormer,” Morn’s voice said, still muffled by her personal distance, “what are your intentions? You have us on targ. Are you planning to open fire?”

  The ED director swallowed a hot protest. “That depends,” she snapped back, “on whether you try to get away again.”

  Who in hell do you think I am?

  Now Morn spoke without delay. She’d already made this decision. “We can’t,” she returned flatly. “Our drives are dead.”

  Still she contrived to supply answers without telling Min what she needed to know.

  Captain Ubikwe looked quickly at scan.

  Porson shrugged. “It’s probably true, Captain. I can’t see anything that says otherwise. Her guns aren’t charged, that’s for sure.”

  “What if she’s faking?” Dolph suggested. “What if she shut down her drives, and now she risks cold ignition?”

  This time Min made Morn wait. For a moment she wanted to hear what was being said around her.

  The scan officer’s face showed a perplexed frown. “I can’t imagine what good that would do her, Captain. Thrust will be unstable while her tubes are cold. She’ll hardly be able to maneuver until the tubes heat. That’ll give us plenty of warning. We can probably react to whatever she does.”

  “We already have her at point-blank range, Captain,” Glessen put in without being asked. “I don’t think I could miss if I wanted to.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, targ,” Dolph warned sharply. “She may be telling the truth. Stranger things have happened.

  “What about her gap drive, Bydell?” he pursued. “Can she get away from us if she just uses thrust to power her into tach?”

  Bydell’s eyes widened at the idea. She seemed to find it frightening. “Not until her thrust stabilizes, Captain,” she said hurriedly. “Otherwise it’ll be like hitting the gap at random. If she can’t generate reliable hysteresis, she can’t be sure she’ll ever resume tard.”

  “And as I say, Captain,” Porson repeated, “we’ll get plenty of warning.”

  Min had heard enough. She turned her attention back to the communications pickup.

  “Listen to me, Ensign Hyland. We’re talking to each other, but we aren’t getting anywhere. We need to do better.

  “You’ve been through quite an ordeal. And you probably think you have good reason not to trust me. I understand that. So let’s not make this any harder than it has to be. Tell me what you want us to do.”

  Tell me how I can keep you from fighting me.

  Apparently Morn was done with hesitation—at least for the moment. Her answer returned from the speakers almost at once. “Drop targ,” she said clearly. “Drain your matter cannon. Stop treating us like the enemy.”

  Min raised her head as if she’d been stung; faced Captain Ubikwe across the bridge.

  She expected umbrage: instead he rolled his eyes humorously. “Hell, Min,” he drawled, “if she thinks this is how we treat the enemy, she should see us when we’re in dock.”

  The fire in Min’s palms was as acute as a decompression klaxon, warning her of trouble. Morn’s attitude didn’t make sense to her. Trumpet’s drives were dead: the gap scout was helpless; doomed. Under the circumstances, what sane ship would insist on trying to bargain with her rescuers? What in hell did Morn think she had to bargain with?

  Nevertheless Min put on authority as if it were confidence.

  “Just do it, Captain,” she ordered.

  He gave an exaggerated sigh; but he didn’t argue. “You heard the Director, Glessen. Cancel targ. Drain the guns. At least we don’t have to worry about Free Lunch anymore.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Glessen muttered disapprovingly.

  “We’re relying on you, Porson,” Dolph went on. “If that damn ship lets out so much as one flicker of drive emission, I want to hear about it.”

  “I’m on it, Captain,” the scan officer promised.

  Min bent to the pickup again. “We’re complying now, Ensign Hyland,” she said acerbically. “Watch scan. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

  For half a minute the bridge speakers brought in nothing from the void except random particle noise. The silence seemed hollow, devoid of life; vaguely ominous. Then Morn’s voice returned.

  “Thank you, Director Dormer.” She sounded faint with relief or dread. “That helps.”

  Then she sighed audibly. “There’s just one more thing.”

  “No, Ensign Hyland,” Min snapped. She meant to be cautious, but she’d come to the end of her
patience. “Now it’s my turn.” Morn’s palpable suspicion grated on her nerves—perhaps because she knew she deserved it. “I’m trusting you. It’s time for you to trust me. Then we’ll consider whatever it is you want next.”

  Morn sighed again. “I’m listening.”

  Gritting her teeth, Min ordered, “Stop broadcasting Vector Shaheed’s formula.”

  Morn made a hissing sound—indignation or dismay. Again Min thought she could hear a male voice swearing in the background.

  Dolph cocked an eyebrow at Min, pursed his mouth. Apparently he hadn’t expected this. He was caught up in the needs of his ship; hadn’t thought beyond the immediate situation.

  When Morn spoke again, her voice was closer: as acute as a knife. It flayed bitterly from the speakers.

  “Why am I not surprised? You’ve been suppressing this drug ever since it was developed. You took it away from Intertech, and now you’re keeping it to yourself. You would rather use it for a few covert operations once in a while than make it public and take the risk it might actually scare the Amnion into a retreat. Because”—Min tried to interrupt, but Morn overrode her—“if the Amnion backed off, the UMCP wouldn’t be so crucial. And then people might start asking questions about you.”

  “Stop that, Ensign Hyland,” Min commanded harshly. “You’re talking about Data Acquisition, not Enforcement Division. I don’t play those games.”

  She probably wouldn’t be playing Warden’s game right now if he’d ever told her what it was.

  “I swear to you on my honor as the Enforcement Division director that I am not going to suppress Shaheed’s transmission. I have no intention of suppressing it.

  “Even if Director Dios orders me directly to bury it,” she added for emphasis, “I can’t do it. VI has already heard it. It can’t be suppressed.”

  She was confident Warden wouldn’t give that order. But it didn’t matter whether she was right or wrong. He wasn’t here.

  “Then why—?” Morn began, then faltered to silence.

  “Because,” Min rasped, “it’s too goddamn loud! You can’t control who’s going to hear it. You say Free Lunch is dead. Fine—I hope you’re right. But what if some illegal picks it up and decides to come after a prize like that? What if Calm Horizons swings around this way and uses it to locate you?