This Day All Gods Die

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  A cast covered her right arm: a sling held it loosely to her chest.

  Facing the ED director, her free hand seemed to move involuntarily toward a salute; but she aborted the gesture.

  Two men guarded her shoulders, Angus Thermopyle and a much younger man who nevertheless resembled him astonishingly.

  Angus stood with his arms relaxed and his palms forward, as if to show that he had no intention of challenging anyone. He seemed essentially unchanged since Min had last seen him. Perhaps the yellow malice in his eyes had deepened: perhaps his feral grin held more threats. In other ways he looked like the same strong, grubby, bloated man Hashi had reqqed and welded. A slight hitch in his stride suggested that he’d hurt a hip.

  The younger man must have been Davies Hyland: the damaged kid bore no resemblance to Morn. But Min had automatically expected Davies to look like Nick. She hadn’t guessed that Angus was his father. Only the hue of his eyes—exactly Morn’s color—indicated that he hadn’t been cloned from Angus.

  Yet that one detail was significant; crucial. Because of it, his expression reflected Morn’s rather than Angus’. The mind behind his father’s features hadn’t been cramped and clotted with his father’s hate.

  The other woman—Mikka Vasaczk—glowered harshly past Morn and Angus without meeting Min’s scrutiny. A bandage partially obscured her right eye: she’d injured her temple somehow. For that and other reasons, she reminded Min oddly of Warden Dios. She carried herself with an air of competence, and her compact frame and assertive hips gave the impression that she was stronger than she looked. Nevertheless she seemed almost eager to remain behind Morn and Angus, as if she didn’t want to call attention to herself. Or perhaps it was her brother, Ciro, she wished to conceal. She kept one hand on his shoulder as if he couldn’t move unless she pushed him; guided him.

  Knowing nothing about her, Min guessed that she habitually used anger to control her fear.

  Of the six, only Vector Shaheed looked relaxed. His blue eyes held a calm simplicity that contrasted markedly with the tension of his companions. His movements were obviously stiff, presumably painful: Min guessed that his joints hurt him in some way. Yet the pain didn’t appear to bother him. His work at Intertech had at last borne fruit. Now he may have been at peace with himself.

  “Ensign Hyland,” Dolph put in suddenly, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” His tone throbbed with deliberate anger. “Apparently you’re proud of your parents. Didn’t they teach you how to treat a superior officer? That’s Enforcement Division Director Min Donner you haven’t bothered to salute.”

  Min didn’t glance away from Morn. Morn kept her eyes on Min. The air between them grew more concentrated moment by moment, thickened by exigencies which hadn’t been named yet.

  More than ever Min believed that Warden’s game—the future he played to win—was at issue here. She felt in her burning palms and her clenched handgun that the outcome might be determined by what happened between her and Morn.

  At last Morn spoke.

  “Director Donner.” Her voice was low; gravid with complex intentions. “I’m Ensign Hyland. You know Captain Thermopyle. This is my son, Davies Hyland.” She indicated the young man at her shoulder.

  As if he couldn’t stop himself, Davies breathed quickly, “Director Donner.” His tone hinted at involuntary respect.

  But Morn wasn’t done. The hesitation in her eyes didn’t seem to affect her. “It’s my duty to inform you,” she went on, “that the others are under arrest. Vector Shaheed, Mikka Vasaczk, and Ciro Vasaczk are my prisoners.”

  Captain Ubikwe snorted like a mine-hammer. “That’s fascinating, Ensign. They sure don’t look like they’re under arrest. The last I heard, we use armcuffs when we’re outnumbered by our prisoners.”

  Min shook her head. “What do you mean, Ensign Hyland? What’s your point?”

  Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me what the hell’s going on.

  Morn held her head high. Only the darkness of her gaze shifted: nothing else wavered. “My point is that I’m responsible for them,” she answered firmly, “and I won’t tolerate any interference with them while they’re in my charge.”

  Slowly a fighting snarl pulled at Min’s lips. Without transition she no longer cared whose game she was playing, or why. She was the Enforcement Division by God director, and she was responsible here. No matter how much Morn Hyland—or Warden Dios—meant to her, she had no intention of letting anyone come between her and her oath of office.

  “It doesn’t work that way.” She made the words crackle like alarms. “You’re only an ensign. You have neither the authority nor the competence to present yourself to me like this.”

  Abruptly Angus bared his teeth. They looked as carious as his eyes. “I warned you,” he remarked to Morn as if they were alone.

  She turned to look at him. While a firestorm gathered in Min, Morn nodded slowly. “You were right,” she murmured softly. “We’ll do it your way.”

  Min had an instant of warning as the clenched tension of Morn’s group exploded into action. Just an instant: a fraction of a second; hardly long enough for the synapses of her brain to register the change.

  Nevertheless she was fast. Years of experience and training had honed her reflexes to lightning. Before the instant was over, her fist leaped up; aimed her impact pistol at Morn’s head.

  But Morn had already moved. The doubt in her gaze—and the cast on her arm—did nothing to slow her; hinder her. As soon as she spoke to Angus, she flung herself headlong at Min.

  During the thin slice of time while Min’s gun rose into line, Morn’s boots lifted from the deck, carried by the force of her spring. She couldn’t have stopped even if her reflexes had been as sharp as Min’s; even if she’d had time to see Min’s gun and recognize that Min was about to kill her.

  Other people moved as well—Angus, Davies, Mikka Vasaczk, Vector Shaheed; even Ciro. Their actions were too sudden for anyone else on the bridge to counter. But Min had no time for them. Scarcely a millisecond remained before she tightened her finger; blasted Morn in midleap.

  She changed her mind as swiftly as she raised her hand. Snatching the gun down, she stepped aside from Morn’s attack.

  The adjustment took too long, despite her speed. The interval of Morn’s leap simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate so many reactions. Before Min finished her sidestep, Morn crashed into her; hammered an acrylic-clad forearm onto her shoulder; grappled for her arm.

  Min could have handled that. The force of Morn’s blow struck her shoulder numb; but she didn’t need it. Plant her rear leg: cock her hip: twist her torso in the direction of Morn’s momentum: throw Morn past her. It would have been easy.

  Unfortunately Morn’s charge had already served its purpose. It was a feint, nothing more: a distraction. Angus reached Min before she recognized the true danger.

  If she’d focused on him from the beginning, she could have beaten him. Despite his augmented resources, she would have had time to draw her gun and fire before he closed the gap.

  But now—

  Now she didn’t stand a chance. His fist caught the side of her head with the force of a steel piston; and she went down like a sack of severed limbs.

  She didn’t lose consciousness. No. She positively declined. She was Min Donner, by God, Min Donner, and she was responsible for everything that happened here. She would not surrender to a mere punch in the head. Through pain that clanged and shivered inside her skull as if the bones were a gong, she clung to the deck and the bridge; refused to let the kind dark carry her away.

  For a while she couldn’t see anything: Angus had hit her hard enough to shock her optic nerves, her occipital lobes. But she felt the gun snatched out of her limp hand. With her cheek she sensed boots pounding the deck. From the fringes of unconsciousness she heard shouts and curses—Dolph’s roar of anger; Bydell’s involuntary wail; Glessen’s harsh cursing.

  Then a woman yelled.

  “If you touch that in
tercom,” the voice cried harshly, “I’ll blow your head off!”

  Not Morn. And not Bydell or Cray.

  That left Mikka Vasaczk.

  Min twisted her head to the side. The movement spiked more pain through her skull; but when it eased she could see again.

  Blinking frantically, she looked up from the deck.

  “All of you!” Mikka shouted again. “If anyone lifts a finger, I’ll kill him! First I kill him. Then Angus kills Director Donner!”

  Min couldn’t locate Morn or Angus: they must have been behind her. But the rest of Trumpet’s people had spread out around the bridge. Davies had positioned himself to guard the aperture to the bridge. He didn’t have as much bulk Or muscle as Angus; but he looked quick enough, driven enough, to hurt anyone who tried to get past him. Vector stood in front of Cray, holding his hands over her board so that she couldn’t reach the keys to summon help without fighting him for them. Ciro Vasaczk crouched on his hands and knees, crawling toward the nearest bulkhead.

  Mikka confronted the command station: a gun in her fist covered Dolph. She must have grabbed it from the bosun. He lay dazed on the deck; eyes dull; holster empty. Min knew at a glance that Mikka was both able and willing to use her weapon.

  Captain Ubikwe must have seen the same thing. Nevertheless her threat—and the attack on Min—left him almost apoplectic with fury.

  “I don’t have to touch the intercom, God damn you!” he raged like a bullhorn. “This is a UMCP cruiser! A ship of war! You can kill all of us. You can kill everyone who comes onto the bridge in the next ten minutes. But after that you’re finished!

  “By then the rest of my crew will have guns, too. And they aren’t stupid, no matter what you think of the cops. They’ll override everything from the auxiliary bridge. They’ll seal you in here, they’ll cut off your goddamn air. And you won’t be able to stop them because you don’t have the goddamn codes!”

  Only Punisher’s senior officers had the codes he meant—the cruiser’s essential priority-codes. Even Morn wouldn’t be able to prevent it if, say, Hargin Stoval invoked those commands in order to take over the ship from the auxiliary bridge.

  “Either shoot me or get that popgun out of my face,” Dolph demanded hotly. “I don’t deserve to be insulted.”

  “You fat asshole,” Angus drawled with a grin, “what makes you think we care?”

  Min was angry, too; as angry as Dolph. But her fury was cold and hard, like forged ceramic. Somehow she dredged her head up from the deck. With a brutal effort, she levered her good forearm under her.

  “You should care,” she croaked hoarsely.

  You’d better kill me now. Otherwise I’m going to crucify every one of you.

  Abrupt hands grabbed the back of her shipsuit. They were strong; impossibly strong: they jerked her upright as if she had no mass, no substance. They planted her on her unsteady feet, then released her with a negligent flick that nearly sent her sprawling.

  She flexed her knees against the weight of her pain and turned to face Angus and Morn. Her right arm dangled useless from her numbed shoulder.

  Angus held Min’s pistol aimed at the center of her chest. His free hand clenched and unclenched slowly, as if he were pumping it full of violence.

  “Why?” he jeered at her. “You’re the one who reqqed me from Com-Mine Security so Hashi fucking Lebwohl could play his little games with me. After that you pretended you didn’t like it, but you let him have me anyway. The way I see it, I owe you nothing but damage. Why should I care?”

  Min took a deep breath, reached inward to find a center of balance beyond the clamoring pain. Distinctly she answered, “Because I won’t let you do this.”

  Angus widened his eyes mockingly, then narrowed them into a scowl. “Oh, I get it,” he rasped. “You’re planning to stop me, aren’t you.” He sank his teeth into the words; seemed to tear them loose one at a time like shreds of meat. “You’re going to use my priority-codes, turn me back into a toy. Aren’t you.

  “Well, go ahead,” he challenged her. “Go ahead and fucking try it.”

  His manner warned her: everything Trumpet’s people had done since Punisher spotted the gap scout on scan warned her. Nevertheless she didn’t hesitate; didn’t second-guess herself.

  “Isaac, this is Gabriel priority.” Her voice recovered its force as she spoke, filling the air with compulsion. “Give me that gun.”

  Angus Thermopyle was a welded cyborg, ruled by zone implants and exigent programming; absolutely controlled. Hashi had assured everyone in UMCPHQ that he would never draw another free breath as long as he lived.

  But he didn’t surrender her weapon.

  Instead he laughed like the hunting growl of a predator.

  “Well, what do you know? I didn’t do it. Isn’t that amazing?” His eyes concentrated on her like coherent light.

  “And you know what’s even more amazing?” he went on. “I don’t have to hold back from hurting UMC-fucking-P personnel. Not now. Not ever again.”

  He turned his free hand as if he were aiming a punch in the direction of the command station. Without warning a ruby shaft as thin as a needle lanced between his fingers toward Captain Ubikwe’s feet. First the laser scored the deck, deliquescing metal with a plume of smoke, a stink of heat. Then it touched the side of Dolph’s boot.

  The captain sat like a stone in his g-seat. Not a muscle moved. If he felt so much as a lick of pain, he didn’t show it. But the glare he fixed on Angus promised murder.

  Through his teeth Angus told Min, “I already hit you hard enough to get your attention.” Slowly he shifted his laser away from Dolph’s boot. “I can amputate his damn legs if I feel like it.” At last he turned the beam off.

  A faint sigh crossed the bridge as Bydell, Porson, Cray, and even Glessen let themselves breathe again.

  “We changed my datacore,” Angus stated scornfully. “I don’t have to take your orders anymore, or let you turn me off, or make me break my promises. You don’t have any restrictions left on me. Do you hear me?” he raged suddenly. “I’m done with you! The next time you give me an order, I will push it back down your throat with my bare hands!”

  “Morn,” Davies put in, half demanding, half imploring, “tell him to stop. He’s made his point. We don’t need more threats.”

  Mikka’s grip on her gun held steady: her aim hadn’t wavered a centimeter. “Whatever it takes,” she muttered. “Whatever it fucking takes.”

  “But he is telling the truth, Director Donner,” Vector offered as if he wanted to placate her. “He doesn’t accept orders from us either.”

  Min stared back at Angus without moving. For a moment she thought her heart might stop. Her grasp on reality seemed to unravel in the face of his ability to disobey his priority-codes.

  Changed his datacore? How? That should have been impossible. Everything was impossible.

  Hashi, you miserable, goddamn sonofabitch, this is—

  But then another explanation struck her with the force of an electric shock.

  —your doing?

  No. It wasn’t Hashi’s doing. It wasn’t his game at all. It was Warden’s.

  Warden had used Punisher to convey a message to Trumpet. The text of the transmission had given Angus’ codes to Nick Succorso. But the plain words had been embedded in some kind of specialized programming language. And now Angus was free. Something similar to the one we use to program datacores.

  Warden’s doing.

  Beyond question the future he was fighting for depended on what happened here.

  Morn didn’t reply to her son’s demand, didn’t say anything to Angus; didn’t glance away from the ED director. Maybe Min was wrong: maybe it wasn’t doubt that darkened her gaze. Maybe it was grief.

  “We’re not going to kill anybody.” Her tone was full of resolve—and hints of sorrow. “Not unless you don’t leave us any other choice. We don’t want bloodshed. And we don’t mean to hurt you. We don’t even want to insult you.

  “
All we want,” she said firmly, “is command of this ship.”

  Porson gave a low gasp of surprise. Glessen swore viciously under his breath. Even stolid Emmett flinched.

  Dolph was too angry to keep quiet. “And you expect me to allow that?” he barked at Morn. “What are you, crazy as well as stupid? If you think I’m going to give up my ship just because you’re waving a couple of little guns around, you should go check yourself in to sickbay. You’ve gone too far over the edge to function without medical help.”

  Min held up her left hand, mutely commanding him to silence. This was between her and Morn—and Warden Dios, whose nameless needs hung over them like a shroud.

  “What for?” she asked sternly. “What do you propose to do if we let you take command?”

  “‘Let’?” Angus sneered. “‘Let’ has nothing to do with it. We don’t need your goddamn permission.”

  Snarling deeply, Dolph bit back a retort.

  Still Morn kept her attention on Min as if no one else had spoken; no one else mattered.

  “For a start”—her voice was low, but steady—“we’ll go home. Back to Earth.” She shrugged. “After that it depends on who tries to stop us.”

  Back to Earth. Exactly where Min would have taken them.

  All at once she seemed to feel a nagging burden of uncertainty and confusion drop from her shoulders.

  Between them Morn and her companions carried the most explosive body of information in human space. Morn could testify that Angus had been framed: that UMCPDA had conspired with Milos Taverner to steal supplies from Com-Mine so that the Preempt Act would pass. Vector Shaheed had analyzed the formula for an antimutagen which the UMCP had kept secret, despite its obvious importance to humankind. Mikka and Ciro Vasaczk surely knew about Nick’s dealings with the Amnion on DA’s behalf. They could describe the Amnion near-C acceleration experiments Angus had mentioned—experiments which might give forbidden space an insuperable advantage if the present uneasy peace turned to war. In some way Davies Hyland represented the knowledge the Amnion needed to create artificial human beings who would be indistinguishable from real ones. And Angus had changed his datacore: therefore everything Hashi Lebwohl had done with welded cyborgs—and, by extension, all humankind’s reliance on SOD-CMOS chips—was untrustworthy; founded on a false premise.