A Dark and Hungry God Arises

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The intercom gave the duty officer’s voice a flat, metallic timbre. “Sir, he looks like he’s headed for the Amnion sector.” After a pause the man asked, “Should we stop him?”

  “No!” the Bill jerked out convulsively. “Let him go. If the Amnion are involved, we don’t know what’s at stake. This may not have anything to do with us.”

  Without transition he broke into a roar of anger and alarm. “Just don’t lose him! If he doesn’t go straight there, grab him!”

  Then he regained his self-control. Quiet and deadly, he continued, “Put a team together. Get aboard Trumpet—cut your way in if you have to. Bring me everybody you find.” His teeth chewed out the words like hunks of raw meat. “Except Nick Succorso. I want to see what he does with his freedom. He can go wherever he wants—but not back to Captain’s Fancy. Do you hear me? Bar him from his ship. I don’t care how many guards it takes. I’m going to put pressure on him until he cracks. Then I’m going to toast his testicles and make him eat them.

  “Don’t fuck up!” he warned the duty officer. “Don’t dare. If you do, you won’t have to worry about what I’ll do to you. The Amnion are going to devour us all.”

  Stabbing off the intercom, he faced Sorus again.

  Through the gloom surrounding her, he said, “Go. Fast. You may be my only hope. I want you out where your guns can do some good before this mess gets any worse. What I need is answers. But if you have to start shooting I’ll back you up with everything I’ve got.”

  Sorus Chatelaine nodded sharply. She was finished here anyway: Billingate had become as dangerous as a pit of vipers for her. Once Succorso’s rumor had a chance to spread, she wouldn’t be able to set a foot on this rock without risking her life. Eventually the Amnion themselves would come after her.

  Unless she went to them with the truth first.

  Unless she convinced them she hadn’t turned against them.

  Grimly she left the strongroom to save herself and her ship.

  MILOS

  f anyone had asked, Milos Taverner might have admitted that he was scared shitless.

  His heart beat so hard that it hurt his chest, and the pressure seemed to cramp his lungs, so that he had trouble breathing. At times he swallowed convulsively: at times an odd giddiness came and went in his head, making him feel that he was about to lose his footing. Sweat ran incessantly into his palms; so much sweat that he couldn’t rub his hands dry no matter how hard he tried.

  Even though his entire life, from the guttergangs of Earth to his ambiguous position on Com-Mine Station, had been ruled by fear, he had never been as afraid as he was now.

  He was on his way to the Amnion sector; toward an encounter with creatures that appalled him.

  The mere idea made him want to cower and moan.

  He had no choice, however. Of course not. He would never have done something like this, never, if he’d had any imaginable alternative.

  Oh, talking to the Amnion was all right. He could handle that. How else did buggers survive, when every guttergang was a natural enemy? By talking to them, that was how. By helping and betraying them all. And space wasn’t substantively different from a city ruled by guttergangs. On one side stood Com-Mine Security; over there, the UMCP; over there, pirates like Nick Succorso; and over there, the Amnion. Why shouldn’t a man like Milos profit by playing them off against each other?—especially since otherwise they all would have been quite willing to crush him?

  Now, however, he’d run out of choices. His simple, reasonable, and above all secure buggery had been turned against him. Min Donner had taken him off Com-Mine. Hashi Lebwohl had selected him to control and protect Angus. Warden Dios had sent him here, to the living hell of Billingate and the cruise.

  And then they’d changed all the rules—

  You’ve just been given a rather nasty shock. I regret that, but it was necessary.

  They’d lied about the reasons he and Angus were here. Worse than that, they’d built loopholes into Angus’ welded priority commands—loopholes which effectively emasculated Milos.

  On this one subject, you were misled.

  Ignorant of those loopholes, he’d lied to the Amnion.

  Everything else you were told concerning Joshua, your mission, and yourself remains true. Joshua has not diverged from his programming. Your command codes still function. You have not been betrayed.

  Milos would have found Dios’ reassurances easier to believe if the UMCP director had been here to deliver them in person. But he didn’t believe them; not for a second. The fact that his command codes still worked didn’t convince him. Where there was one lie, there was more than one. Always. Without exception.

  He’d been set up.

  Now he had nowhere else to turn except the Amnion.

  And he had nothing left to offer them—nothing to purchase his survival with—except the truth.

  Every step he took was tight with dread. Why didn’t Angus come after him? Why didn’t the Bill’s guards stop him? Why didn’t Nick appear out of nowhere, blazing with outraged virility and self-destruction, and attempt to work one of his legendary wonders? Didn’t they know what they were doing when they risked Milos Taverner in their plots and counterplots?

  Apparently not. No one interfered with him as he walked the corridors and rode the lifts toward the place which the Amnion had constructed for themselves at the edge of the installation.

  He was scared shitless in more ways than one. Even his limited repertoire of obscenities had been frightened out of him.

  At last he reached the Amnion sector.

  The entrance was only a door in an unmarked wall. Nevertheless this was the location he’d obtained from the data terminal in Reception. And the door had the heavy look of an airlock: when it closed behind him, it would seal him off from the human atmosphere of Billingate.

  There was an intercom with a keypad under it beside the door. After rubbing his damp hands uselessly one more time on the thighs of his shipsuit, he punched in the id code he’d been given for his transmissions to forbidden space.

  The silence which greeted him was so complete that he could taste it.

  A minute passed; maybe two. Waves of giddiness rolled and faded through him until he had to brace himself on the wall. Why was the Bill letting this happen? If Angus or Nick had come after him, they would have caught him before this: therefore they weren’t coming. But the Bill could send guards at any time. Surely he knew Angus and Milos had taken Davies, even if he didn’t know how? And surely he had recordings of the time Angus and Milos had spent in Ease-n-Sleaze? So where were the guards?

  Was the Bill this afraid of the Amnion? As afraid as Milos?

  Scarcely able to breathe, he entered his id code on the keypad again.

  The intercom crackled. “Human, your name is required for confirmation of identity.” The alien voice sounded pitiless and unreachable through the tiny speaker.

  Milos’ throat refused to work. He swallowed spasmodically several times. After a moment he managed to croak out his name.

  Another silence. Then the voice said, “Enter the airlock, Milos Taverner,” like a distant promise of death. “You are welcome among the Amnion.”

  With a hum of servos, the door cycled open.

  A man stood waiting inside the lock as if he’d arrived from the pit of one of Milos’ nightmares.

  He was only partially Amnion. One eye and half his face were human, as were his chest, one arm, and most of his legs. But his other eye was lidless, formed for the sulfurous illumination the Amnion preferred. Pointed teeth with no lips over them filled half his mouth. Rust seemed to cover his inhuman arm; rust clogged his knees so thickly that his strange black shipsuit had been cut away to enable him to walk.

  In his human hand he held a breathing mask.

  “Milos Taverner, welcome.” His voice sounded like friction along oxidized iron. “For convenience my name is Marc Vestabule. To spare yourself discomfort, you must wear this.”

  He offered
the breathing mask.

  Involuntarily Milos flinched backward.

  “Milos Taverner”—the nearly human voice scraped like torn fingernails against Milos’ nerves—“we do not know why you have come to us. You may speak here if you wish. Surely, however, it is preferable to ensure against the espionage of this installation’s surveillance monitors.”

  Surely. Of course. That made sense. With a fierce effort, Milos fought down his urge to turn and run. If what he had to say was overheard, Angus, Nick, and Davies were as good as dead; the Bill would kill them. And that might make the Amnion unhappy: very unhappy. Milos’ last chance would be wasted.

  Somehow he forced himself to step forward far enough to accept the breathing mask.

  Marc Vestabule withdrew toward the back of the airlock. Giddiness surged through Milos again as he pulled on the mask; he stumbled as far as the door. But there he caught himself. Clutching his panic to the edge of the entrance, he stopped; couldn’t force himself to go on.

  Vestabule’s human eye blinked as if he wanted to wink but had forgotten how. “Milos Taverner,” he said carefully, “you are afraid. What frightens you? Have you not dealt honorably with the Amnion?”

  Dealt honorably? Milos wanted to scream. When did any of you ever let me deal honorably?

  He couldn’t say things like that, however; not if he wanted to survive. Defensively he muttered, “I’ve always told you the truth.” The mask muffled his voice. “It’s not my fault some things I thought were true have turned out to be lies.”

  The Amnioni appeared to consider the implications of this assertion for a moment. Still blinking, he replied, “But now that you have learned the truth, you have come to offer it to the Amnion. Therefore you are welcome among us, as I have said. Please enter the airlock.”

  Nearly gagging on the pressure in his chest, Milos Taverner pushed himself past the door.

  The lock closed behind him, cutting him off from his humanity. Now he had nothing left to hope for, except that the Amnion would value the things he’d come to tell them.

  At once a complex light washed over him: sulfur, scanners, and decontaminants. As far as anyone knew, the Amnion were proof against human diseases and parasites. Nevertheless they didn’t believe in taking chances.

  He didn’t either. On that basis he might still be able to negotiate with them.

  Marc Vestabule stared at him stolidly while the light did its work. After a minute or two the inner door of the airlock opened. Milos winced, expecting to see a phalanx of Amnion waiting to horrify him. But the corridor beyond the door was empty. The Amnion trusted Vestabule to do their work for them.

  Moving stiffly, as if his joints were rusted inside as well as out, Vestabule motioned for Milos to follow him. “Accompany me, please. I will take you to a chamber where you will feel secure. There you may make your requirements known so that we can discuss how they may be satisfied.”

  Feel secure. Sure.

  Struggling to swallow the labor of his heart, Milos stumbled after the Amnioni.

  The chamber Vestabule mentioned wasn’t far away. That was fortuitous: Milos couldn’t have walked far. Anoxia or stress seemed to gnaw at his balance, chewing it to shreds. If he hadn’t caught himself on the strange pheromonic metal of the walls, he might have fallen several times.

  When Vestabule ushered him into a room as impersonal and featureless as the corridor, he was dimly grateful to see that it contained chairs. At least he would be able to sit. If he could set aside the breathing mask occasionally, he might even be able to smoke.

  Without waiting for an invitation, he lowered his failing limbs into the nearest seat and dug out a packet of nic.

  Vestabule studied him as he found a packet, took out a nic and his lighter. The expression on the human half of the Amnioni’s face suggested that he didn’t understand what Milos was doing. But as Milos repositioned the breathing mask to make room for the nic in his mouth, Vestabule said abruptly, “That is hazardous, Milos Taverner. Doubtless the spark of your lighter—it is magnesium, is it not?—is small. Nevertheless the air of your breathing mask is rich in oxygen—perhaps rich enough to make the spark greater than you anticipate. It is possible that you will harm yourself.”

  For a moment Milos’ brain went blank. He wanted nic, needed it: it was the only form of courage he had left. Yet at Vestabule’s warning he seemed to see his lighter blaze like a flare, flash-burning his face and eyes—Magnesium was wildly incandescent, usable for lighters only in tiny quantities—and in appropriate atmospheres.

  Trembling, he stuffed the nic back in its packet, shoved both packet and lighter down into his pocket. Again he felt a wan gratitude. Vestabule had saved him from hurting himself; perhaps blinding himself. Maybe the Amnion valued him after all.

  Light-headed with fear and relief, he insisted through the obstruction of the mask, “I’ve never lied to you knowingly. You’ve got to believe that. Everything I’ve ever told you was the truth—as far as I knew. But there’s nothing I can do to prevent other people from lying to me.”

  Slowly Marc Vestabule picked up another chair, placed it facing Milos, and sat down. When he was settled, his alien knees were only centimeters from Milos’. Fortunately he didn’t lean forward: Milos felt sure he wouldn’t be able to stand having the Amnioni that close to him.

  Folding his human arm and his rust-covered limb across his chest, Vestabule proposed, “Then perhaps it would be well to begin with the lies and truths which have brought you to speak to us directly.”

  Milos thought it would be better to start by naming what the Amnioni called his “requirements.” At the moment, however, he could hardly imagine what they were. Protect me. Keep me alive. Get even for me. Such things were too nebulous; yet his fear prevented him from thinking of anything else. He understood nothing about the Amnion. How could he ask them to protect him when he didn’t know how they would react to his “lies and truths”?

  If they were a guttergang—in essence if not in name—why didn’t they act like one?

  Sweating inside the constriction of his mask, he said, “Maybe you already know. That’s a possibility I have to consider. There’s too much treachery here. Too many people are lying. For all I know, you’re all in it together. Plotting together, using people—”

  “Milos Taverner,” Vestabule ventured in his rough, oxidized voice, “I cannot respond to these suggestions until you inform me of their content. Clearly you are concerned. However, you have made no mention of the specific issues which concern you.”

  As if the words had been triggered out of him, Milos retorted, “Why aren’t you doing anything about Thermopyle?”

  The Amnioni gazed back at him expressionlessly. Only the lid of Vestabule’s human eye moved.

  “I warned you about him,” Milos went on in a rush. “The UMCP reqqed him from Com-Mine Security, just like they reqqed me, and they welded him, I told you that. They gave him computers and zone implants and lasers and God knows what else. And they sent him here to destroy this place. I positively told you that.

  “Why aren’t you doing anything about him?”

  Why aren’t you afraid of him?

  What’s going on here?

  Now Marc Vestabule nodded. “I see. Our response—or our lack of response—to the threat posed by this Angus Thermopyle causes you anxiety. That is a subject we may discuss.

  “Is it your belief that the Bill’s defenses are inadequate to deal with this threat?”

  “I know they are,” Milos snorted. “Aren’t you aware that Davies Hyland—that kid you want so badly—was taken right out from under his nose? Hasn’t he told you?”

  Vestabule nodded impersonally. “He has.”

  “Well, Thermopyle did it,” Milos went on quickly. “I was with him the whole time. We simply walked into the cell and grabbed Davies. We took him back to Trumpet. And the Bill didn’t do anything to stop us. He couldn’t—he didn’t know what was happening. He hasn’t got a clue where that kid is now.”<
br />
  An expression which may once have been a frown plucked at the human half of Vestabule’s face. “That statement is not strictly accurate.” Turning his head slightly, he touched his left ear. For the first time Milos noticed that the Amnioni wore a small receiver jacked into his ear. “The Bill has been speaking to us from the moment of your arrival,” Vestabule explained. “He has reason to believe that Davies Hyland was abducted by Angus Thermopyle and yourself. Presumably he also believes that Davies Hyland is aboard Trumpet, for the same reasons. He demands that we deliver you to him, so that he may learn the truth of what has transpired.

  “He makes no reference to enhanced capabilities. However, he is aware of your power over Angus Thermopyle. Therefore he believes that you—and perhaps by extension the Amnion, because you have come here—stand at the heart of this treachery.”

  Milos winced convulsively. Nevertheless, in spite of his alarm, he stuck to the point on which his survival depended. “That doesn’t explain why you haven’t done anything.”

  He needed to understand the Amnion—and show them how vulnerable they were—before he could offer them anything that might save his life.

  Vestabule didn’t hesitate. “Like the Bill,” he scraped out as if the Amnion had no secrets from Milos, “we are aware of your dealings with Nick Succorso. Unlike the Bill, however, we know that you do not stand at the heart of this treachery. We believe that the ‘plotting,’ as you call it, exists between Nick Succorso and Angus Thermopyle.

  “We have taken no action concerning this threat for several reasons.

  “First, we lose nothing by allowing the Bill to confront Angus Thermopyle on our behalf. Ultimately he is”—Vestabule appeared momentarily uncertain of the word he wanted—“expendable. We are not harmed if he is challenged and made insecure. On the contrary, we gain a greater understanding of the threat itself.

  “In particular we hope to gain a greater understanding of Nick Succorso’s treachery.”

  In bitterness and fear, Milos admitted privately that he wanted to understand Nick’s treachery himself.