A Dark and Hungry God Arises

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He exploded out of his g-seat.

  Before Nick reached four, Angus caught him by the back of his shipsuit, snatched him into the air, and pitched him against the rear bulkhead.

  Nick hit; twisted to land on his feet. Wild and desperate, at the end of his endurance, he charged at Angus as if he meant to prove that he never lost.

  Snarling avidly, Angus punched him straight in the forehead with a fist reinforced by implanted struts and plates—a fist as effectively massive as a block of stone.

  Nick dropped to his knees like a bull in an abattoir.

  He didn’t fall; but his eyes glazed, and his head lolled. His hands thrashed like dying fish at the ends of his arms.

  Angus felt a rush of raw pleasure as acute as lasers, as clean as matter cannon fire. “That’s twice, Succorso.” Twice he’d beaten Nick physically. “The third time, I won’t just tap you. I’ll split your fucking skull.”

  Panting for violence, he bent over Davies to see what shape the boy was in.

  Despite his bloody breathing and stunned gaze, Davies was conscious. His hands groped for Angus, plucked at Angus’ sleeves. His mangled lips moved dumbly, as if they were trying to form words.

  After a moment he managed to moan, “My father—All of them—” Then he choked. “Oh, God.”

  Roughly Angus picked Davies off the deck. He considered sickbay; dismissed the idea. He needed answers, and he needed them now. Half carrying the boy, he moved back to Milos’ station, seated his son there.

  With his hands braced on the arms of the g-seat, he peered into Davies’ face.

  “Pay attention. Try to keep it straight. That was then. This is now. And that was Morn. This is you. Just because you remember her past doesn’t mean the same things happened to you.

  “All right?”

  Davies twitched his head. He may have been trying to nod.

  Angus pulled away. The pleasure rush was gone. Seeing his son beaten and bloody was too much like seeing himself in the same state. A sudden pressure filled his throat. Swallowing it harshly, he rasped, “Then let’s start making sense. You don’t want me to let Captain Sheepfucker leave. I figured that much out. So I won’t. He’s going to stay until we’re done with him.

  “Now tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing.”

  Davies groaned softly. A bubble of blood formed on his lips and burst. With a heart-wrenching effort, he brought his eyes into focus.

  “I know him. We didn’t spend all our time fucking. He talked. I wanted to kill him just to make him stop talking.”

  A new pain pulled like a laceration through Angus’ chest. “I said, keep it straight!” As if he were telepathic, he understood Davies perfectly. “That was Morn. The kind of fucking he gave you was completely different.”

  Davies tried to nod again. Abused and urgent, his eyes clung to Angus. “But I know him. He doesn’t have her.”

  Angus froze. Milos seemed to be strangling on smoke.

  Nick took a breath like a shudder and lowered his head as if he were waiting for the axe.

  As clearly as he could, Davies articulated, “He can’t trade her for me. He already gave her to the Amnion.” A spasm of pain stopped him. When it passed, he finished, “The Bill told me.”

  Milos covered his face with his hands.

  Morn!

  Angus’ fury was nearly as fast as his microprocessor; nearly fast enough to lash out before his datacore could stop him.

  Gave her to the Amnion.

  That was the point of Nick’s distractions; the real cheat. He’d turned her over to mutagens and ruin. And then he went on using her as a bargaining chip as if he still had her.

  Angus would have been willing to die for a chance to hit Nick again.

  But his passion slammed into the neural wall of his zone implants: he couldn’t move. Outraged and heartsick, he couldn’t do anything except stand still and let his programming make Warden Dios’ decisions.

  Madness crowded his head. Like Nick, he’d come to the end of his endurance. He was on the verge of breaking—right on the edge of his personal abyss—when he heard himself say, “In that case, we’ll have to get her back.”

  “Oh, shit,” Milos breathed. He didn’t seem to have any other words for his dismay.

  “That’s crazy.” Nick brought the words up from the pit of his stomach as if he were coughing. “She’s in the Amnion sector. You’ll have to fight them and the Bill and two warships just to find her. And they’ve already given her their mutagens. She’s already one of them.”

  And you did that to her! Angus howled at him. She gave herself to you, she gave you everything I wanted, and you turned her over to them!

  At the same time he said calmly, “We still have to get her back.” He sounded as lucid as a machine. “If she’s one of them now, we’ll kill her. Otherwise we’ll rescue her.”

  She was a cop: Dios couldn’t afford to let the Amnion have her.

  “Yes,” Davies gritted through his teeth. Behind his mask of blood, his eyes glittered. “Yes.”

  “I’m going to sickbay,” Milos announced stiffly. He sounded like he was grieving. “I’ll get some swabs and antiseptic.”

  Keeping his face turned away, he went to the companionway and moved upward out of sight.

  “You’re both crazy.” Unsteadily Nick gained his feet. “You’re going to get her away from the Amnion, sure.” His eyes were recovering focus, but his balance remained unreliable. Stress tugged at his cheek like an erratic heartbeat. “You and what army? There’s a warship with her guns lined up on us right now. Super-light proton cannon. Even if you can get into the Amnion sector and get her out”—weakly he tried to hammer the words—“you’re never going to get away.

  “You’re as dead as I am.” He attempted a grin, but the effort failed, pulled apart by the tic in his cheek. “Unless you let me give them your brat.

  “Then some of us might survive.”

  Even though he was beaten, even though Davies had exposed his treachery, he went on groping for an exit to the cul-de-sac.

  “No.” Angus dismissed the idea as if he’d considered it seriously for a moment; as if he understood or cared about the need in Nick’s voice. “That won’t work.” He didn’t understand or care, however. He paid no attention to Nick’s appeal. He was simply talking to fill the silence while he waited for Dios’ instructions to come through the gap in his mind. “If I let you take Davies there while I went after Morn, it might be useful as a diversion. But as soon as they lost her, they would keep both of you.”

  “That isn’t what I—” Nick began. But then he stopped. He must have been able to see that Angus wasn’t listening.

  Squinting through blood and fear, Davies watched Angus. Carefully, trying not to put pressure on his hurts, he straightened himself in the g-seat. In a voice like a metal rasp, he asked, “Why do you want her back? Didn’t you get enough out of her the last time?”

  “That isn’t it.” Nick made a thin effort to sound sarcastic. He, too, watched Angus closely. “He likes hurting women—don’t you, Captain Thermopile?—but not enough to risk himself for it. He’s too much of a coward for that.

  “He has a different reason.” He glanced briefly at Davies. “You’ve got the mind of a cop. You’ll love this. The real reason is, your dear father works for the UMCP. He doesn’t want to, of course, but they’ve got his neck in a noose. He’s doing this little job for them to keep them from snapping his spine.”

  He seemed to think this revelation might upset Angus.

  It didn’t: Angus hardly heard it. As if Nick’s words were a code or a catalyst, the window in his head opened, and data streamed into his mind—a torrent of preconceived plots and needs, exigencies and questions.

  “Milos is probably just here to keep track of him,” Nick concluded, “report on him if he doesn’t do what he’s told.”

  Frowning around his cuts and contusions, Davies asked Angus, “Is that true?”

  Abruptly Angus’ atte
ntion snapped back into focus. He was alive on disparate planes again, existing in separate realities; multi-tasking urgently. But now the data which poured and processed through him required him to concentrate on Nick.

  “Well, there’s one thing sure,” he muttered while his datacore filtered possibilities through the back of his brain, testing options against his experience with Billingate and the Amnion. “‘Report’ is what Milos does best.” He glanced up the companionway to be sure his second was out of earshot. “You may be interested to hear, Succorso”—his programming kept him too busy for obscenities—“that you aren’t the only one he talked to while we were coming in. He also sent messages to Tranquil Hegemony.

  “They answered before you did.”

  Nick flinched and turned pale as if he’d been hit in the stomach. His mouth shaped curses which were inaudible because they had no breath behind them.

  Angus liked that. He wished he’d done it of his own free will.

  “What did they say?” Davies asked. Angus shrugged. “The codes are too good. I couldn’t break them.”

  The boy didn’t take Milos’ betrayal as hard as Nick did: maybe he didn’t understand it. He pursued the matter impersonally. “Then what’s going on? What’s he doing?”

  “Playing some kind of bugger game.” That was obvious. “Me and Succorso and the UMCP and the Amnion, all against each other.” Fears and alarms roared in Angus’ ears as he thought about the damage Milos could do. Thanks to his zone implants, however, he spoke with untroubled confidence. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle him.

  “Succorso”—he turned sharply on Nick—“it’s time to make up your mind. Shit or get out of the head.” For an instant the discrete operations taking place inside him came together. “We’re going after Morn. Are you in or out? The truth is, I need you. I need all the help I can get. But I’m not going to force you. It’ll be too easy for you to give us away.

  “Say yes or get off my ship.”

  Davies tensed. He may not have understood Milos’ betrayals, but he knew too much about Nick’s. Leaning forward despite the pain in his ribs, he protested quickly, “Angus, don’t let him go. He’ll tell them we’re coming. That’s the way his mind works. He’ll think if he shows them his ‘good faith’ they’ll let him off the hook.”

  Angus didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take that chance.”

  “But—” Davies began.

  “Shut up,” Angus told the boy calmly. His datacore imposed calm. He kept his gaze on Nick. “I said I’ll take the chance.”

  Cocking his fists on his hips, he showed Nick his teeth. “Yes or no, Captain Sheepfucker. Pick one. Pick it now.”

  Again Nick tried to laugh, but the attempt sounded hollow and beaten—as damaged as his eyes. “You’re crazy. I guess I have to keep saying that. You’re crazy. No, you stupid, suicidal sonofabitch. No. Is that clear enough? I’m not going to help you. I just hope I get to see you again someday—after the Amnion have had time to play with you for a while.”

  “In that case”—Angus raised the fist gripping Morn’s id tag—“get the hell off my ship.”

  “You’re crazy,” Nick repeated. “Completely.”

  Nevertheless he obeyed. His boots stamped loudly up the companionway treads and along the passage until he reached the midship lift. A moment later Angus heard the lift doors close; heard servos hum as the lift descended toward the airlock.

  He turned back to Davies. Now he had to fight his way through half a dozen programs, all running simultaneously, in order to talk to his son. Obviously his datacore didn’t care how frightened Davies felt.

  “He won’t warn the Amnion. He thinks that’s what he’s going to do, but he’ll change his mind—as soon as he has time to think about what Milos might be doing.”

  Davies studied him bleakly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Demands and instructions thronged in Angus’ brain. He was full of scenarios played out against the backdrop of his experience; of possibilities raised and discarded; of outcomes analyzed: simultaneous hope and despair. Tight with stress, he retorted, “I haven’t got time for long explanations. We need to get ready. Whatever we decide to do, we need to do it and be done before the Bill figures out where you are. As soon as that happens, we’re out of choices.”

  But Davies couldn’t let go of his fear. It came from too many different sources inside him: he’d remembered too many horrors. His hands made small, incomplete movements; his gaze pleaded for Angus’ attention.

  Surprised at his own tolerance—and at his ability to act on it—Angus watched his son and waited. Although he’d spent his life hiding it, he knew exactly how the boy felt.

  “It’s too much—” Davies murmured. “Too many plots. Too much to remember. I don’t know who I can trust.”

  He shook his head; swallowed roughly, as if he were fighting tears. “Did I—” he asked like a scrape of pain, “did she really blow up Starmaster?”

  Angus had to resist inexorable machine pressure to continue facing his son. His datacore had other things for him to do. Nevertheless the men who’d designed his commands and compulsions valued his knowledge of illegals, his familiarity with Billingate, his training in extreme situations. On some occasions, to some extent, he was allowed to exercise a little discretion.

  He gave Davies a sharp nod. “That’s the only reason I’m still alive. And it’s the only reason I got her. She was too horrified to defend herself.

  “You Hylands need to stop letting yourselves react like that. It makes you too vulnerable.”

  Drying blood slowly crusted around Davies’ eyes. After a moment he said, “Yes,” as if he were accepting a legacy.

  That was all the time Angus’ zone implants let him have. Stiffly he pulled away.

  “Where the hell is Milos?” he growled. “We’ve got to get you to sickbay.”

  Too late he realized the truth. Like Nick, Milos had left the ship.

  SORUS

  orus Chatelaine walked into the Bill’s strongroom and found him fulminating like a vial of phosphorus.

  “Have you heard already?” he snapped as soon as he saw her. “Does everybody on this bloody rock already know what those bastards did to me?”

  Surrounded by computer stations, data terminals, and display screens, he prowled the tight circle of his command center. The rest of the room was as dark and empty as a cavern: every light focused on him and his equipment. In the intense illumination he looked like he was burning. Lean as an ascetic, he might have been a martyr splashed with tallow and set aflame.

  She moved closer, stopped just outside his circle. “How can I answer that?” she asked steadily. She had her own reasons for anger—even for fear—but as a matter of policy she never let the Bill see her vulnerabilities. “You haven’t said which bastards you’re talking about.”

  “This is your fault!” he barked, sounding more than ever like an outraged child. “You were supposed to be interrogating him.” For an instant he paused to glare at her. “Hell, Sorus, I gave you permission to torture him. What more did you need?”

  “All right.” She faced the Bill squarely. “We’re talking about Davies.” Her rich contralto betrayed nothing. “But I still don’t understand. You said ‘bastards,’ plural.”

  “And Davies Hyland himself is a bastard, I know, I know.” Fluttering his hands, the Bill resumed his prowl. His eyes hunted his screens and readouts for answers they didn’t provide. “Spare me your sense of humor at a time like this. Why weren’t you with him, doing what I told you?”

  Sorus permitted herself a small sigh. “I needed time to think. I wasn’t sure how to tackle him. And”—she skipped a beat or two in order to focus the Bill’s attention on her—“I still wasn’t sure what Succorso was up to. I’ve tried to tell you he might be plotting something more complex than we realize. I wanted to learn more about that, if I could. It would be worth knowing in any case—it might be crucial—but it would also help me decide how to approach Davies.”


  Unnecessarily she concluded, “I wasn’t particularly interested in torturing him just for the fun of it.”

  The Bill snarled through his teeth. “Then why are you here, at this particular moment, if you haven’t already heard?”

  “Heard what?” she countered. Her private anger and alarm took the form of exasperation. “You aren’t making much sense.”

  “Sorus!” he retorted loudly, “I need answers!” His long fingers pointed at screens and terminals all around him. “I already have enough questions.”

  “All right. All right.” It was obvious that she would have to go along with him. She acceded because she wanted to know what had happened. “I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. The only thing I’ve heard. That’s why I’m here.

  “There’s a rumor in circulation that I’m”—she needed more emphasis—“that I am dealing in mutagen immunity drugs. Me!”

  The Bill stared at her while she explained.

  “Some of my crew overheard two spacers talking about it. In a bar-and-sleep on the cruise. I tried to get my hands on them, but they were gone.

  “I want to know who they are. That’s why I’m here. I want you to identify them for me, so I can find out what’s going on. Is that enough, or do I need to act as upset as you?”

  “Oh, spare me your histrionics.” The Bill studied her with a seriousness which belied his sour tone. “You’re too emotional as it is.” He was talking to give himself time to think. “A mutagen immunity drug? Are you sure?”

  She shrugged. “That’s what my people heard.”

  “What a coincidence.” The Bill raised his hands to his head like a man who meant to pull out his hair. “What a fucking coincidence.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she returned shortly.

  “I mean, look at it,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “First Davies Hyland plants the idea of an immunity drug. Well, he’s a desperate kid. He might say anything he could think of, just to make me reluctant to sell him. But still the idea is a provocative one. Naturally I want to learn the truth, so I ask you to get it for me.