This Day All Gods Die

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “If I tell Igensard all this, it’ll ruin Warden. He won’t have anything left to stand on. Even his honor. Igensard will have him up on charges in a matter of hours. Dereliction. Malfeasance. Tr”—the word caught in her throat briefly—“treason. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t find himself facing execution.

  “What does he think he’s doing?”

  Despite its softness, her tone betrayed her. She, too, was grieving.

  Earlier she’d refused to tell him something he had very much wanted to know. Now he took his revenge, although it gave him no pleasure. Warden wouldn’t thank him for revealing what he guessed. And her sorrow would only be increased.

  “My dear Koina, if I answer you, you will believe that we have both lost our minds.”

  So that she would not pursue the matter, he disengaged his arm and walked away from her. Whatever happened, he meant to keep his own emotions as private as Warden’s.

  The Amnion had committed an act of war.

  The director of the UMCP had chosen a terrible moment to stake all their lives against the Dragon.

  ANGUS

  He didn’t scream; could not have screamed if he’d wanted to. But for a time that might have been long or short his body screamed for him.

  Asteroids and static crashed in mad ecstasy through the dark void, shattering against each other and recoiling in their rush to answer the singularity’s hunger. The black hole sucked down energy in jagged bolts like lightning; swallowed matter lurid with Doppler shifts. Forces which he’d unleashed with his own hand seemed to tear him apart.

  Dehydration. Intolerable g. Strange concussions of all kinds. EM violence intense enough to fry every circuit in his head. He was trapped in a crib of weight and pain so extreme that they crushed out every flicker or spasm of awareness. All his nerves became one long voiceless and unanswerable shriek.

  There was no escape as long as the belt of his suit remained anchored to the ship—and no escape if it failed. Mortal bone and tissue couldn’t survive the weird translations of the singularity’s event horizon. Like the stars and the gap, so much gravity transcended human existence.

  Infinite loss. Complete extinction. Every cell in his body wailed at the nearness of ultimate things. Perhaps he tried to twist against the strain, ease it somehow. He didn’t know: his body understood only screaming.

  But then his hurts began to shut down like systems going off-line. Behind its shields, his datacore registered the scale of his distress and engaged its last prewritten defense: the one protection which might keep him alive—if not sane—when he suffered this much damage. It put him into stasis. Every iota of energy which his body and his power cells could supply was focused on sustaining his autonomic functions: pulse and respiration. Everything else was canceled.

  His flesh stopped its screaming because it was no longer accessible to pain. He was neither conscious nor unconscious: his mind occupied a place where such concepts had no meaning; a place beyond change or interpretation. If g crushed him to a bloody smear inside his EVA suit, he didn’t know it. If the pressure released him entirely, he couldn’t tell the difference. Time and space passed him by.

  And there was no one who could command his zone implants to release him.

  Pulse.

  Respiration.

  Stasis.

  Nothing else.

  If he could have identified where he was, he might have considered it Heaven.

  At some indefinable point—after instants or aeons of intervening peace—vestiges of recognition returned. On some level which seemed to have nothing to do with his mind, he understood that he was no longer outside the ship. His head wasn’t confined by a helmet. Perhaps he knew that he was alive. The knowledge had no significance, however. It conveyed nothing; required nothing.

  When the DA medtechs had put him into stasis during the days and weeks of his welding, he’d been able to hear what they said in his presence. When Warden Dios had switched his datacore, the UMCP director’s words had reached him clearly.

  Technically, we’ve done you a favor. That’s obvious. You’re stronger now, faster, more capable, effectively more intelligent. Not to mention the fact that you’re still alive—

  In some sense he’d been aware of what he heard.

  In every other way, we’ve committed a crime against you. We’ve committed a crime against your soul.

  But he could not have reacted. Comprehension and recognition were irrelevant. No reactions were permitted to him.

  It’s got to stop.

  Asteroids and singularities and the cold dark transcended him. The compulsions of machine logic transcended him.

  After all Heaven was indistinguishable from Hell.

  Gradually he came to the perception that he wasn’t alone. Two or three dark shapes hovered somewhere around him. From time to time they smeared themselves across his vision as if to prove that they weren’t like him; weren’t imprisoned in his skull.

  Yet their presence changed nothing. He still couldn’t react. He would never react again. Even the small effort of focusing his eyes was beyond him: an exercise of choice which his welding rendered unattainable.

  So impalpably that there was no point at which the change could have been detected, the utter gulf outside his EVA suit had become a blank white light, sterile and unforgiving. How much time had passed? Stupid question. Or stupid to ask it. His datacore never gave him answers when he was in stasis. Counters in his head had measured the interval to the last microsecond, but they kept their data to themselves. When he was in stasis, he was presumed to need nothing except breath and blood, sustenance and elimination.

  There was no one who could command his zone implants to release him. He himself, Angus Thermopyle, had erected barriers against the codes which could have coerced a response from his datacore.

  Were the shapes speaking? He couldn’t tell. They remained around him. He heard voices. But he had no way of knowing whether the voices came from the shapes.

  “I’m trying,” one of them said. For no particular reason, Angus recognized Mikka Vasaczk. “The computer says he can’t wake up.”

  Apparently he was in sickbay. Someone must have gone outside to bring him in.

  While Trumpet was held by a singularity? Impossible.

  “How bad is he hurt?”

  That was Vector Shaheed. Savior of humanity. The man who’d analyzed UMCPDA’s antimutagen and made the formula available. If anybody survived to pick up his broadcast.

  “Severe dehydration,” Mikka reported. Fatigue and bitterness rasped in her voice. “IVs have taken care of that. Hemorrhage—shit, he’s lost liters of blood. But the IVs are handling that, too. And most of the bleeding’s stopped. One of his hips was dislocated—he must have tried to use his suit jets against the pull. That’s been taken care of.” The surgical table was almost prehensile: it could apply traction in any direction necessary. “He’s responding to the drugs. Metabolins. Coagulants. Analgesics. Stim.

  “But the systems can’t wake him up.”

  Of course not.

  Trumpet’s sickbay had been designed and programmed especially for him. The cybernetic physicians knew him intimately: special instruction-sets and diagnostic resources had come on-line the instant he was attached to the table. They could have repaired his welding. They could have compensated for any damage the electrodes might have done to his brain. Within limits they could have corrected faults in some of his equipment.

  But first they required the right codes.

  “What about EEG?” Vector asked.

  Maybe he didn’t realize he was wasting his time.

  Mikka answered shortly, “No readings.”

  “You mean he’s brain-dead?”

  Davies. The voice was unmistakable. Angus knew it well. Under the right kind of stress, it sounded like his own.

  Three voices. Mikka, Vector, and Davies. Presumably that meant there were three shapes instead of just two.

  Where was Morn?

  Dead?
Lost in gap-sickness?

  Angus went away inside his head. He promised himself that he was never coming back. Morn’s pain hurt him too much. He didn’t want to know what had happened to her. He was afraid it would be more than he could bear.

  But if he couldn’t turn himself back on, he also couldn’t retreat, use stasis to protect him. Like a black hole, the machine logic of his equipment gave nothing; permitted nothing. No time passed before he heard Mikka reply, “That’s not it. I mean the systems can’t get a reading. Apparently his zone implants are blanking out neural activity. Or masking it. As far as sickbay can tell, his head’s full of white noise. He could be screaming at us in there—telling us what to do—and we wouldn’t know it.”

  “Angus, wake up!” Davies croaked. A jolt which might have been a slap rocked Angus’ head from side to side on his slack neck. “God damn it, we need you!”

  “Stop that.” Mikka sounded sick with weariness. “He can’t hear you. He probably can’t feel anything, either.”

  Unfortunately she was wrong.

  “Can we short out the noise?” Vector asked distantly. “Set up some kind of interference? So the systems can get a reading? Maybe apply direct stimulation to wake him up?”

  Mikka snorted. “We might kill him. We don’t know what kind of synergy connects him and his equipment. He’s a cyborg. Maybe he’s dependent on his computer. Maybe his zone implants are what keep him alive.”

  Again she was wrong. The white noise in his head was his prison. The electrodes attached to his computer held him more tightly than arm cuffs and manacles. But she was right, too: Vector’s suggestions wouldn’t work. The bond between his brain and his zone implants was too intimate to be disrupted by any simple means.

  Mikka and Vector and Davies could try to save him by ordering sickbay to remove the electrodes from his head. Or cut the leads from his computer. Turn him back into a human being. Fuck the synergy. But he didn’t think that would work, either. Sickbay’s programming wouldn’t obey a command to unweld him, dismantle him, without authorization.

  No one aboard Trumpet—perhaps no one within a hundred parsecs of the gap scout—knew the codes for that.

  And if by some miracle sickbay obeyed—

  All his new strengths and capabilities would be lost. Enhanced reflexes, lasers, EM vision, jamming fields, databases, computational power: he would forfeit them all. His zone implants would no longer protect him from pain; no longer focus his mind; no longer give him sleep or power or numbness when he needed them. He would be free at last, truly and completely free-at the cost of everything which made freedom attractive.

  What would he do then? How could he survive? He wasn’t sure that he could handle the gap scout effectively without his computer’s support. He would be at the mercy of anyone with more muscle or knowledge than he possessed.

  That was the way he’d lived before he met Morn; before he fell into Warden Dios’ hands. Preying on those who were weaker than he was so that he could avoid those who were stronger. Hating everybody, weak and strong alike, because of his own weakness. Tied to the slats of the crib—

  Oh, perfect. A cackle like the laughter of a ghoul echoed in his skull. Abso-fucking-lutely perfect.

  Don’t do it, he told the blurred shapes around him, even though his silence was so vast that no sound could cross it. Don’t even try. Find some other answer.

  If he laughed much harder, he was going to weep.

  Don’t make me go back to what I was.

  Please.

  Morn herself had never chosen to have her zone implant removed or neutralized. She was dependent on the artificial stimulation which had tortured and exalted her. The emissions that controlled her also gave her strength.

  Abruptly Davies announced like a cry, “No! He isn’t unconscious. His zone implants are doing this to him.”

  Two of the shapes gave the impression that they turned to face the third.

  “He’s in stasis,” Davies explained hurriedly. “He warned Morn and me about that. Before he edited his datacore. He said some of the commands were hardwired. His zone implants obey automatically. He told us, ‘The whole system will freeze if you pull the chip.’ That’s why we had to wire him in to the ship’s datacore before he could work.

  “Something he did outside—or something that happened to him—maybe being hurt so much—It triggered those commands. Sent him into stasis.”

  Very good, Angus chuckled desperately. You’re smarter than you look.

  What’re you going to do about it? Tell me what in hell you think you can do about it.

  “But if you’re right—if it’s hardwired—” Mikka’s voice trailed away.

  “If it’s hardwired,” Vector finished for her, “we don’t know how to countermand it.” After a moment he added, “I was always pretty mediocre as an engineer. I can use systems like these”—he must have meant sickbay’s—“but I don’t really understand how they work. I’m out of my depth here. Sorry.”

  Passing responsibility to someone else.

  “Don’t look at me,” Mikka muttered. “I thought I was at least competent as a programmer, but I didn’t know it was even possible to edit a datacore.”

  Only the Amnion could tamper with SOD-CMOS chips. The Amnion and Angus. But he was in no position to offer suggestions.

  “Shit,” Davies said through his teeth. “Morn’s going to wake up soon. When she does—I can’t tell her this. I just can’t. After what she’s been through—

  “He’s the only one who can repair the drives.”

  Repair the drives?

  “We don’t know that for sure.” Mikka didn’t sound hopeful. “Vector and I haven’t tried yet.”

  Repair—?

  “So what?” Davies protested bitterly. “Even if you can, we’re helpless without him. We don’t know enough about the ship. We don’t know enough about what’s going on. Who’s he working for really? Why did they give him to Nick—and then let us take him back? Why are we on the run?”

  Angus breathed a nonexistent obscenity. What happened to the drives?

  “The cops are coming after us,” Davies went on. “You know that. We’re sending out a Class-1 UMCP homing signal. I can’t figure out how to turn it off. If they chase us long enough, they’ll catch us.

  “When that happens, we’re finished. We may not die out here, but we won’t be able to make any choices.

  “Whose side is that cruiser on? The side that sent Nick Angus’ codes? The side that wants to suppress our antimutagen? The side that let Nick have Morn in the first place? Or the side that gave us the chance to set Angus free?

  “We need to know what’s going on.”

  Davies’ young voice rose as if he wanted to wail. “I can’t tell Morn that the only man who stands a chance of helping us is stuck in fucking stasis.”

  “Try his priority-codes,” Vector suggested. His habitual calm sounded frayed.

  “They’re blocked,” Davies retorted.

  “Try them!” Mikka snapped. “What the hell do you think we have to lose?”

  Fiercely Davies complied. “Isaac,” he rasped. “Gabriel. Wake up. End stasis. Wake up!”

  Angus waited in suspense. But of course the commands couldn’t reach him. He’d erected a wall against them.

  The Amnion had taught him well.

  “Nothing.” Despair roughened Mikka’s tone. “No change. He can’t wake up.”

  Inside his head, he laughed until tears ran down his soul like sweat.

  Davies reacted as if she were taunting him.

  “God damn it!” he raged. “What the fuck is wrong with Ciro? What was he doing? Didn’t you tell him he’s been cured? Didn’t you at least try to convince him he doesn’t have to take orders from goddamn Sorus Chatelaine?”

  Ciro did it? Sabotaged the drives? Well, damn. That sounded like something Angus might have done himself.

  “Of course we told him,” Mikka replied wearily. “Of course we tried to convince him. Vector show
ed him the tests, for God’s sake. The hurt’s just too deep, that’s all. We can’t reach the place where she damaged him. I can’t.” She may have shrugged. “There isn’t anything worse than what she did to him.”

  A paroxysm of fury took hold of Davies. “I don’t care!” he yelled. “I’m not interested in excuses! We’ve got to do better than this! I would be a fucking Amnioni myself right now if Morn hadn’t found a way to do better. She was alone on Captain’s Fancy, Nick had her locked in her cabin! She still saved me.

  “Don’t tell me how bad Ciro’s been hurt! Tell me—”

  Angus heard a sound like a blow. Davies stopped suddenly, as if he’d been struck. As if he’d struck himself—

  “What is it?” Mikka breathed tensely.

  Without transition Davies’ voice changed. It became at once lighter and sharper. More like Morn’s? His intensity gave him focus; seemed to give him authority.

  “Vector,” he commanded, “let’s turn him over.”

  “What?” Vector asked uncomprehendingly.

  In silence Angus echoed, What?

  “Turn him over,” Davies insisted. “Put him on his stomach.”

  Hands jerked along Angus’ sides. He couldn’t tell how many there were. After a moment the restraints fell away, releasing him into zero g.

  “Mikka,” Davies went on at once, “set the systems to open up his back.”

  “Why?” she demanded. Vector may have been swayed by Davies’ passion; but she was tougher.

  Don’t ask stupid questions! Angus shouted uselessly. Just do it!

  “So we can pull his datacore,” Davies retorted. “He said the stasis commands are hardwired. Taking out the chip freezes the whole system. Maybe if we unplug his datacore and then put it back, the computer will reset itself.”

  Aping Mikka, he growled, “What the hell do you think we have to lose?”

  Shit! Abrupt amazement shot through Angus’ trapped mind. It might work. It might—

  This time he hadn’t been ordered into paralysis. His programming had imposed it on him because he’d gone down one of its logic trees too far to recover. Under the circumstances, anything which forced or enabled his computer to reevaluate his condition might set him loose.