This Day All Gods Die

by Stephen R. Donaldson

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?

  “We’ve got damage over here, Ensign Hyland. We can’t protect you. We’re in no condition for another battle.

  “Turn it off,” she finished with all her authority. “Turn it off now.”

  Don’t force me to board you at gunpoint. Don’t make me take you prisoner. You deserve better.

  Dolph nodded to Min, showing her that he understood. Glancing around the bridge, he remarked generally, “Makes sense to me,” just in case any of his people agreed with Morn.

  Min whitened her knuckles on the butt of her handgun and waited for a response.

  When Morn answered, her voice sounded more distant than ever: she might have been whispering. For no apparent reason, she asked, “Do you remember my parents, Director Donner?”

  Min’s eyes widened. What? Your parents?

  She recalled them vividly. Not because she had Hashi’s eidetic memory: she didn’t remember faces or names well. To some extent her ferocious loyalty to her own people was an attempt to compensate for a lack in herself. But years of service overcame that inadequacy. And men and women whose names or faces she sometimes forgot while they worked for her were unalterably etched in her mind by death.

  Morn was testing her in some way she didn’t understand.

  She wasn’t a woman who hesitated under pressure, however. “Your father was Captain Davies Hyland,” she replied promptly, “commander, UMCP destroyer Starmaster. He died with his ship while he was hunting Angus Thermopyle in the Com-Mine belt. You probably consider yourself responsible. And your mother was Bryony Hyland, targ second, UMCP cruiser Intransigent. She died saving her ship during an engagement with an illegal armed with super-light proton cannon.

  “I delivered a whole satchel full of commendations and decorations for her in person when you were just a kid.” Min scowled at the memory. She hated all the duties that fell to her when her people died. For that reason she never shirked them. “The way I remember it, you refused to look at them. You were too angry to let someone like me comfort you.”

  Is that it? Is that really what you want to know?

  Maybe it was. Out of the void Morn breathed softly, “What I remember is that they trusted you.”

  Cray adjusted the receiver in her ear. She didn’t look at Min: her eyes were busy tracking signals on her board. Abruptly she jerked up her head. “They did it, Captain! They’ve stopped broadcasting.”

  Min began a low sigh of relief—and realized suddenly that she wasn’t relieved at all. If anything, her nerves burned hotter. An intuitive alarm she couldn’t name squalled in her head. There was danger here—

  What danger? Trumpet’s drives were dead: she couldn’t charge her guns; couldn’t avoid Punisher. And this whole sector of space was empty of other ships.

  Morn’s distrust ran deep. Why had she acquiesced?

  Angus killed her with a singularity grenade.

  If he could do that, he could do damn near anything.

  No! Min told herself grimly. It didn’t make sense. Any singularity which could threaten Punisher would swallow Trumpet as well. The gap scout’s people had fought and suffered all this way from Billingate for no apparent purpose except to make DA’s antimutagen public. They wouldn’t commit suicide now—not for the small satisfaction of damaging Enforcement Division.

  She looked over at Dolph. His expression was speculative, searching; but he didn’t offer any comment.

  No one else said anything. The bridge crew knew even less about what was going on than she did.

  “We’ve complied, Director Donner,” the speakers announced unnecessarily. “Now it’s my turn.”

  Did Morn sound scared? Or was that just more suspicion?

  “What else do you want?” Min asked the pickup. How much more do you think you can get away with?

  Morn had her answer prepared.

  “There are six of us.” Her voice seemed to resonate softly across the gap between the ships, hinting at threats. “Mikka and Ciro Vasaczk. Vector Shaheed. Davies Hyland. Angus Thermopyle.” If she was scared, she didn’t falter or flinch. “I want you to take us aboard.”

  Min’s whole body tightened in surprise.

  Bydell looked almost cross-eyed with perplexity. Glessen cracked his knuckles over his board as if he were limbering his fingers to recharge his guns. Cray gazed vaguely at Min with her mouth hanging open.

  “Well, shit.” Captain Ubikwe threw up his hands, then slapped them on the sides of his console. “Is that all?

  “What in hell’s the matter with her? If we aren’t going to shoot her, we for God’s sake sure didn’t come all this way just so we can watch her coast.” He paused, then wondered, “Or is she afraid we’ll only take some of them? Leave the rest to die? Does she think we’ve sunk that low?”

  Min punched her pickup silent. “I know what you mean,” she told Dolph sourly. “The more she says, the less sense she makes.”

  Who was Morn talking for? Who was really in command over there?

  Did she have Angus’ codes? Was that possible?

  “But we still have the upper hand,” Min went on, even though her nerves flamed with warnings. “We have guns and thrust. And Angus is alive. We know his priority-codes.” If worse came to worst, she could order him into stasis. “We want those people.” Warden Dios wanted them. “If we don’t bring them aboard when we get the chance, they may do something really crazy.”

  Like commit suicide.

  Dolph spread his palms as if he were disavowing responsibility. “You’re the ED director, Min. I’m just here to follow orders. And right now,” he admitted, “I don’t want your job.

  “You make the decisions.” He chuckled quietly. “I’ll be content complaining about you behind your back.”

  Min had no time for his sense of humor. With a movement like a blow, she toggled her pickup.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Ensign Hyland.” Despite her apprehension, she kept he
r tone neutral. “Of course you can come aboard. That’s what we’re here for.

  “Just give us time to come alongside and match velocities. We’ll use limpets to pull you to our airlock,” so we don’t need to try any tricky maneuvers in our condition.

  “We’ll be ready,” Morn replied promptly; distantly. Apparently she’d received the answer she expected. “Trumpet out.”

  The speakers gave a pop of static as the gap scout ended her transmission.

  “I’ll bet you will,” Min muttered as Cray closed the communications channel. “I’ll just bet you will.”

  Morn Hyland was only an ensign, nothing more. But she’d been to the far side of hell—and come back. Now she was trying to play a game of her own: against Min and Punisher; against the Amnion; even against Warden Dios.

  In the secret core of her heart the ED director didn’t know whether to feel proud or appalled.

  Punisher eased carefully toward Trumpet and nudged braking thrust to pace the gap scout. Emmett had brought the cruiser to within two hundred meters of her target.

  He could have done better: Sergei Patrice probably could have done much better. But two hundred meters was close enough for limpets. With a damaged ship and an exhausted crew, Captain Ubikwe didn’t want to push his luck by moving nearer. If Punisher’s core displacement worsened suddenly—if misalignment froze the bearings, halting internal spin with a screech of tortured metal and any number of injuries—she would be thrown out of control, at least temporarily. A collision was possible.

  Dolph kept a safe distance; let limpets close the gap for him.

  Magnets on flexsteel cables coiled out from Punisher’s sides toward the little ship. Guided by sensors from the cruiser’s auxiliary bridge, the limpets were aimed along Trumpet’s flank until they reached suitable positions bracketing one of her airlocks. Then the magnets were charged, locking the limpets to Trumpet’s hull. After that it was a relatively simple matter to reel the gap scout in like a hooked fish.

  The final adjustments took time. Trumpet’s airlock and Punisher’s had to meet and mate securely so that they could seal against each other. But eventually the auxiliary bridge reported that Trumpet was in place: status indicators green; the airlock pressurized.

  Captain Ubikwe blew a sigh through his lips, then turned to his intercom.

  “I know you’re tired, bosun,” he said into the pickup, “but I think this might be a good occasion for a little ceremony. Muster a guard, meet our guests at the airlock. Let me know when they’re aboard.” He paused for a heartbeat, then added, “Go armed, bosun. But don’t threaten anybody. I’m not expecting trouble. I just want our guests to know we’re prepared to stand up for ourselves.”

  “Aye, Captain.” The young man tried to stifle his weariness, but the strain in his voice was clear.

  Dolph silenced the intercom.

  “You don’t suppose, do you,” he drawled to Min, “that they’re going to keep us waiting? After they made such an issue out of getting permission to join ship?”

  Min paced the bridge to contain her impatience while other people worked. At Dolph’s question she shook her head. If she’d been able to guess any of the moves Morn—or Warden—would make, she would have been better prepared for them.

  “Apparently not,” Captain Ubikwe answered himself a few minutes later. His status readouts told him what was happening. “They’re in their airlock already. They’re keying our side now. We’re cycling our lock for them.”

  Abruptly, as if he felt a sudden need for reassurance, he asked scan, “We’re still alone, aren’t we?”

  “We’ve lost our scan sweep, Captain,” Porson answered. Punisher had been forced to stop her rotation so that she could grapple with Trumpet. “I can’t be sure. But I haven’t seen any hint of another ship.”

  Dolph’s mouth twisted. “Charge the guns anyway, Glessen,” he ordered. “Maybe we can believe Free Lunch is dead. But I don’t trust Calm Horizons to leave us alone.”

  At once Glessen’s hands jumped to the task. “Aye, Captain.”

  “As soon as our lock seals, Emmett,” the captain went on, “resume rotation. We need that scan sweep.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Emmett responded stolidly.

  “Cray,” Dolph finished, “tell the auxiliary bridge to hang on to Trumpet. We’ll piggyback her home with us.”

  Cray reached for her intercom. “Right away, Captain.”

  He looked around the bridge as if to assure himself that he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then he settled his back more comfortably against his g-seat while he waited.

  Min feared that she was losing her self-command. At intervals she caught herself grinding her teeth as she paced. Trumpet’s people were playing some kind of game: she was sure of it. And she wanted to know what the hell it was.

  Fortunately she didn’t have to wait long. After another minute or two, the intercom snapped to life.

  “Captain,” the bosun reported softly, “they’re here.”

  Dolph toggled his pickup quickly. “All six of them, bosun?” he asked in a deep growl.

  “Aye, Captain. But, Captain—” The bosun faltered, then said more loudly, “One of them—it’s Captain Thermopyle—he’s pretty angry. He says we’re still treating them like the enemy. Because we’re armed.”

  The captain’s eyebrows arched on his forehead. He flicked a glance at Min. “What does he want you to do about it, bosun?”

  “He wants me to disperse the guard, Captain. He says they’ll find their own way to the bridge.”

  For reasons she couldn’t name, Min’s sense of danger worsened. With his welded resources and his native hate, Angus was a kind of singularity grenade.

  Dolph’s rumble took on an unmistakable edge. “Is Captain Thermopyle threatening you, bosun? Has he mentioned what he intends to do if you don’t comply?”

  “No, sir,” the bosun replied. “He hasn’t gone that far.”

  Captain Ubikwe tapped his fingers on the arms of his g-seat. Glancing at Min again, he asked, “Now what, Director?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I want them in front of me, Captain. I want to see their faces when they talk.”

  Dolph nodded slowly. To the intercom he said, “Remind them that an honor guard is a sign of respect, bosun. Assure Captain Thermopyle I’ll dismiss the guard as soon as he and his companions are safely here. Then bring them to the bridge.

  “When he gets here, he and I can discuss the protocol of joining a superior officer’s ship in person.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The intercom clicked silent.

  Questions she didn’t have permission to ask filled Bydell’s face. Glessen seemed unnaturally busy at his board, giving Punisher’s weapons more attention than they needed. Porson whistled thinly through his teeth while he hunted the dark with his instruments. Repeatedly Cray lifted her shoulders and dropped them as if she’d developed a twitch.

  They’d all been under too much pressure for too long. Only Emmett sat at his station as if he had nothing to worry about.

  Dolph aimed a frown in Min’s direction. “Now what do you suppose is going on?”

  She shrugged. “Sounds like a gesture. A warning. He doesn’t intend to let us push him around. He’s still a cyborg. He can defend himself. Or he wants us to think he can.”

  She had no confidence in that explanation. She just didn’t know what else to think.

  Grimly she resumed pacing the bridge.

  By chance she happened to be on the far side of the curved space when the bosun and his honor guard escorted Trumpet’s people onto the bridge. From her perspective they appeared to be walking on the ceiling; standing upside down.

  She was familiar—more than familiar—with the strange orientations caused by the g of internal spin. Nevertheless she strode rapidly along the curve so that she would be able to meet the new arrivals face-to-face; study every glare and falter in their eyes.

  The bridge crew watched in silence as Morn Hyland and her comp
anions approached the command station.

  “Captain,” the bosun announced formally, “may I present the captain and crew of UMCP gap scout Trumpet?” His voice shook despite the determination on his features.

  With an impersonal scowl, Captain Ubikwe studied Trumpet’s people. “Thank you, bosun,” he rasped. “You can dismiss your guard now. But I’ll ask you to stick around. There may be something you can do for our guests.”

  The bosun and the honor guard saluted somewhat raggedly. As soon as Dolph returned an acknowledgment, the bosun sent the others off the bridge. Apparently unsure of what to do with himself, he remained a step behind Trumpet’s people.

  Min reached the group; stopped. Gripping the butt of her handgun, she cocked her other fist on her hip and confronted six pairs of eyes, six strained, tired faces, as if she were daring them to challenge her.

  Between one heartbeat and the next she scrutinized them all, first together, then individually.

  Two women. Four men—or two men and two boys. She had no difficulty recognizing some of them. The names of the others became obvious by default.

  Morn had positioned herself a little ahead of the others; leading them; taking responsibility for them.

  One of the boys, an ash-pallid kid with grieving eyes and an unsteady mouth, looked like he might throw up if anyone offered to harm him; like he’d already suffered enough harm to sicken his soul. But the rest of the group—

  In their various ways, most of his companions were vivid with tension. Their postures shouted of dangers Min didn’t know how to evaluate.

  She remembered Morn well, not just as a little girl, but as a cadet at the Academy. Primarily because of who her parents had been, Min had paid unusual attention to her. But the woman who stood here now was dramatically changed.

  As a cadet, Morn had been so beautiful that Min had considered her almost featureless: perfect and bland; with only a hint of chagrin and—perhaps—stubbornness in her gaze to give her face character. Now her airbrushed loveliness was gone. She’d lost weight, a lot of it, as if she’d been burning herself for fuel. And her experiences had chiseled at her features, chipping the blandness off her cheeks and forehead; cutting lines like gutters for pain between her brows, at the corners of her eyes, along her nose and mouth. Her eyes were dark with doubts and hesitations which the sharp demarcation of her mouth belied.