“Koina.” Warden’s voice sounded distant, muffled by tension. “Let’s keep this short. I’m in a hurry.
“Len has called an emergency session,” he said without preamble. “It starts in six hours. Your shuttle leaves in two. You have that long to brace yourself for Igensard.”
Something had happened.
She scrambled to catch up. “I take it this means you’ve told the President there’s been an act of war.”
“Yes,” he replied. He’d bypassed Protocol entirely—which of course was exactly what he would be expected to do in this kind of crisis. “As I said, I’ve been waiting to make a formal announcement until I had a better idea which way events were headed. But now I can’t put it off any longer.”
Something had happened. Koina held herself still, hoping that her silence would encourage him to go on.
“Another drone just came in,” he explained promptly. He wanted her to know this. “It’s from Punisher. She’s still in the Massif-5 system—or she was when she launched the drone. But she’s on her way out. Chasing Trumpet.
“Why Trumpet is running from her I can’t tell you,” he rasped. “That’s one problem. Nick Succorso has the codes to control Angus. He should have stopped trying to get away from Min by now. But the rest of the news is worse.
“That Amnion defensive was definitely hunting Trumpet. Apparently Trumpet tried to hide in an asteroid swarm. Massif-5 is littered with them. Even though the defensive was under hard fire from Punisher, she parked herself outside the swarm and waited for Trumpet to show up.
“Which is another problem,” he muttered. “How the hell did an Amnioni know Trumpet was in there?”
And what was Trumpet doing there in the first place? What bizarre breakdown of reason or self-interest had inspired Nick Succorso to head for Massif-5, instead of turning himself over to the protection of Director Donner and Punisher?
But Warden didn’t raise that question. Sourly he went on, “When Trumpet finally showed herself, the defensive tried to hit her. Not just with matter cannon. She used a super-light proton gun. It’s a miracle Trumpet is still alive.
“The miracle was that another ship appeared. She must have followed either Trumpet or the defensive all the way from forbidden space. And, no, I can’t explain that, either,” he growled, although Koina hadn’t asked him to. “But she attacked just in time to help Punisher overload the Amnioni’s sinks.”
He paused as if he were swallowing indignation or shame, then said, “Now it gets even worse. When the defensive had to choose between killing Trumpet—which was presumably her whole reason for being there—and saving herself, she saved herself. She used her proton gun to destroy the other ship instead of Trumpet. Which gave Trumpet time to get away.”
At last Koina did interject a question. “Why is that bad?” She was foundering in new information; implications she couldn’t assimilate. “Aren’t we glad Trumpet is alive?”
“Of course we’re glad,” he retorted heavily. “What’s bad is that the defensive made that decision. It raises the rather frightening possibility that she—or the Amnion—have other responses available, responses we don’t know about.”
Like what? Koina wanted to ask; demand. She couldn’t imagine what they might be. Despite everything she’d learned recently, she still had no idea what the real stakes were.
What did this have to do with the meaning of her life?
“Anyway,” Warden resumed, “Punisher has been too badly hurt to finish the defensive on her own. She broke off the engagement to go after Trumpet. The Amnioni got away.”
On that point, at least, Koina understood him. “I guess you’re right,” she muttered. Sorrow made her sound bitter. “That is even worse.”
Min Donner’s decision may have been justified, correct, but it would taint the UMCP’s already tarnished image.
“The risks are too great,” he concluded. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to tell Len what was happening.”
More and more, Koina’s grief came out as sarcasm. “Did you also tell Holt Fasner?”
“Actually, no.” Warden’s tone was stiff, but he didn’t pause. “For some reason I’ve been too busy to contact Holt.”
Which must have made the Dragon positively apoplectic. Warden was already a dead man: the CEO simply hadn’t had time to carry out his execution yet.
“That makes sense,” she said trenchantly. “I guess.” Of course Warden didn’t want to give the Dragon a chance to countermand his suicide. “Well, for what it’s worth, I concur. You did the right thing. It was time to inform the Council.”
For a moment her intercom emitted a troubled silence. Then Warden asked uncomfortably, “Koina, what’s bothering you?”
She wanted to retort, Nothing, I’m fine, what makes you think something bothers me? But she swallowed the impulse. She was tired of lies. The thought of lying to protect Warden sickened her as much as ruining him with the truth.
“Do you still want Director Lebwohl to attend the emergency session?” she asked. Indecision weakened her: she could hardly keep the bereavement from her voice. “Can he take my place?”
Hashi might enjoy appalling Maxim Igensard with revelations.
“No,” Warden returned. “I changed my mind. I need him here. And Fane might arrange an ‘accident’ for him down there. I don’t want to risk that. Not until he finishes his investigation.”
Cleatus Fane, Holt Fasner’s First Executive Assistant, was still on Suka Bator. He would certainly be present for the emergency session.
“I think you’re safe,” Warden added in a hard tone. “But even if you aren’t, I want you there.”
Koina bit her lip. If she meant to tell the truth she would have to go further.
“Director Dios—” she began awkwardly. “Warden—” For a moment she couldn’t put her pain into words. But then she forced herself to say, “Don’t ask me to do this. Send someone else. Anyone—”
“Why?” he demanded at once. “I thought you were glad for a chance to finally do your job right.”
Come on, Koina, she told herself grimly. Say it. Get it off your chest. Then maybe you’ll be able to make up your mind.
When she spoke, her voice was as clear as keening.
“Because this is going to finish you. It’ll probably kill you. No matter what else happens, you’ll be ruined. When he hears what I have to say, Igensard will cut you to pieces. And the Council won’t help you—they’ll just sharpen the knives. You won’t have any allies left.”
Even brave old Sixten Vertigus, who trusted the UMCP and believed in Warden—
“I don’t want to be the one who makes that happen. There must be some other way to accomplish”—emotion thickened in her throat, and she faltered—“whatever it is you’re trying for.”
Still Warden didn’t hesitate. He must have come to the end of his personal uncertainties. All his choices were plain.
“Listen to me, Koina,” he ordered sharply. “Listen hard, because I’m only going to say this once.
“I’ve earned the right to pay for my crimes.” His voice seemed to echo with absolute commitment. “All I want you to do is help me pay for them effectively. Help me bring something good out of all these lies and betrayals.
“There’s a question you haven’t asked me,” he went on before she could demand, cry out, What good? “You haven’t asked if I know why the Amnion are so intent on killing Trumpet. They must be terrified of something. They wouldn’t risk an act of war if they didn’t think the alternatives were worse.”
He was right. She’d been so taken aback by the things he’d explained earlier that she hadn’t pursued this obvious point.
“Angus has given us several answers,” he grated. “I’ll tell you one.
“Nick Succorso had a mutagen immunity drug. Hashi gave it to him. But the Amnion don’t know that’s where he got it. I think they want to destroy it before he makes it public. And I think—or Min thinks—Trumpet went to Massif-5 to fi
nd a bootleg lab so Vector Shaheed could analyze the drug.”
“Wait a minute,” Koina protested in shock and chagrin. Wait a minute. “A mutagen immunity drug?” Hashi gave it to him? “Are you saying we have the formula for a mutagen immunity drug”—the idea was too horrific for words—“and we’ve been suppressing it?”
Hints of ferocity glinted in Warden’s tone. “On direct orders from Holt Fasner, yes. In fact, he would have destroyed the research completely if I hadn’t agreed to keep it secret. For the covert use of DA.
“But ever since Trumpet left that asteroid swarm, she’s been broadcasting the formula. That’s something else I’ve kept from Holt. If he finds out before you talk to the Council, he’ll get rid of me so fast you won’t see it happen.”
Oh, Warden, Koina moaned. Her heart trembled in her chest: it seemed as fragile as a goblet which was about to shatter on the floor. Fasner ordered you to do that, betray your entire species—and you went along with it?
But he wasn’t done yet. “Don’t you think that should be made public?” he challenged as if he wanted her to pass sentence. “Don’t you think Igensard needs to know about it?” He might have been asking, Don’t you think that’s more important than what happens to me? “What else is PR for, Koina?”
She couldn’t answer. What was PR for, if not for this? Her duty was obvious: to tell the truth about the organization she served—and to hold that organization accountable for its actions. Why else had she come to work here in the first place?
After a moment she pulled herself together long enough to say, “I’ll be on that shuttle, Director Dios. I’ll do my job.”
Just make damn sure you do yours.
Then she silenced her intercom so that she wouldn’t have to hear him thank her for agreeing to ruin him. But she didn’t move to get ready. Instead she put her head down on her arms and let herself grieve.
MAXIM
Special Counsel Maxim Igensard was an ambitious man. Behind his carefully nurtured appearance of nondescript diffidence, he burned with an incandescent hunger. Everything he did, he did for one reason, and one reason only: to satisfy that blaze.
Scruples and doubts rarely troubled him.
His goals seemed so right and necessary to him that he never questioned them. In fact, he seldom thought about them: they were too essential to require consideration. Nevertheless he labored to achieve them with a relentless and single-minded determination which endured no obstacles. Waking or sleeping—although by the standards of his underlings and colleagues he slept little—he worked for what he wanted.
To put what he wanted into words oversimplified it to the point of falsehood. Mere language gave short shrift to the intensity of his desires, as well as to the prospective glory of achieving them. However, if he could have been lured or persuaded to name his goals, he would have said that he meant to become the director of the United Mining Companies Police.
He belonged in that position: it was his natural place. He’d been born to enforce the future of humankind—the vast majority of whom were nothing more than a clot of stupid sheep. And to supplant Warden Dios seemed the finest accomplishment to which a human mind could aspire.
Unfortunately he was still a long way—a long way—from attaining his ambition. For that reason his energies were focused exclusively on the how rather than the why of his goals.
His appointment as the Special Counsel charged with investigating the Thermopyle case on Com-Mine Station was an important step in the right direction: it gave him leverage. Now he could proceed to larger matters.
What he intended, in its baldest terms, was to tarnish Warden Dios, either directly or through his subordinates, so thoroughly that Holt Fasner would have no choice but to replace the UMCP director. This, however, would inevitably incur Fasner’s wrath—which would in turn militate against Maxim’s appointment in Dios’ place. To diminish Holt Fasner’s anger, therefore, as well as to subtly demonstrate his own trustworthiness, Maxim was resolved to attack the UMCP director in ways which cast no taint on the UMC CEO.
Thus he was outraged by that old fool Sixten Vertigus’ Bill of Severance. It transformed his investigation of the UMCP into an assault on Holt Fasner: it forced him into the position of appearing to support a threat which could only increase the UMC CEO’s hostility.
He considered—and discarded—the possibility that he might reach his goal without Holt Fasner’s sponsorship. If the UMCP were severed from the UMC, it was of course conceivable that Maxim might find himself selected to replace Warden Dios: conceivable, but unlikely. Taken together, the GCES Members were as stupid a clot of sheep as Maxim had ever seen. They were perfectly capable of ignoring his superior knowledge of the UMCP—as well as his superior abilities—for the sake of investing some fatuous figurehead with Warden Dios’ authority and power.
Because of this, he was personally and viscerally furious at Warden Dios and Hashi Lebwohl. Their recent video conference with the Council had dealt him an insidious blow. His ambitions required that he extract evidence of malfeasance or defalcation from reluctant, stonewalling opponents. The importance, the sheer stature, of his investigation was undermined when his opponents voluntarily justified his accusations. That trivialized him. He wanted to ruin Dios in person: he gained nothing by simply allowing the UMCP director to effect his own end.
When the announcement that the Amnion had committed an act of war reached him—albeit indirectly—from GCES President Len’s office, his first action was to call Cleatus Fane. Although such contact was premature, sudden crises required special risks. He wanted to assure Holt Fasner’s First Executive Assistant that he would do everything in his considerable power to keep the UMC CEO’s reputation clean in the forthcoming emergency session.
To his acute consternation, however, Fane declined to speak with him. Too busy, one of the FEA’s aides explained: under the circumstances the Special Counsel surely understood. In other words, Maxim Igensard lacked the significance to gain Fane’s notice at a time like this.
Bitterly Maxim queried GCES Communications to learn the truth. But he was informed that for a fact Cleatus Fane was busy: the FEA had reqqed every uplink channel which hadn’t been reserved by Security, and—according to Communications—was “emitting enough microwaves to cause sunspots.”
Maxim didn’t need to ask whom Fane addressed so feverishly. The answer was obvious. UMC Home Office. Holt Fasner.
Regardless of “the circumstances,” Special Counsel Maxim Igensard had no intention of diminishing himself by explaining his concerns to a mere aide. Seething like magma beneath an almost featureless surface, he went to see Abrim Len in person.
The GCES President had been cast from a different mold than FEA Fane—if a man so malleable and apprehensive could be said to have been “cast” at all. “Can’t this wait, Maxim?” he muttered peevishly as he admitted Maxim to his office suite. “I don’t have the time. My intercom is flashing like a strobe. Suddenly every constituent on the planet wants to flare his elected representative—God knows why, the newsdogs haven’t picked up on this yet. I just finished talking to Tel Burnish”—the Member for Valdor Industrial—“who has a lot more at stake than any of the rest of us, but I didn’t know what to tell him except what we’ve heard from Warden Dios. And I haven’t even started getting ready. Do you have any idea how much preparation goes into an emergency session? More than I know how to handle, and that’s a fact. We’ve never had an emergency session. At least not since I became President. Not since Captain Vertigus first made contact with the Amnion.
“This is going to turn out badly, Maxim. Mark my words. We’re in serious trouble.” Circuitously he arrived back at his point. “I really have no time to talk to you.”
Maxim gave President Len’s sense of harassment the attention he thought it deserved: in effect, none. On the whole island the only thing larger than Len’s palatial suite of offices was his staff of aides, advisers, secretaries, receptionists, PR officers, and—Maxim suspect
ed sourly—therapists. Nevertheless he offered commiseration while he diffidently steered the President toward one of the more private regions of the suite, away from the flashing intercoms and the tense scurry of subordinates.
“This is difficult for you, I know, Mr. President,” he murmured. “Your responsibilities must be enormous. That’s largely why I came to see you. If you’ll give me ten minutes of your time, I may be able to simplify your position slightly.”
From Maxim’s perspective, Abrim Len was fatuous to the point of brain-death. He was an intelligent man, however, after his fashion. “‘Simplify’?” he retorted as he and Maxim reached a quieter room. “‘Simplify,’ Maxim? You must be joking. In my experience, when a Special Counsel uses a word like ‘simplify,’ what he means is that he’s about to make my life miserable.”
Maxim managed a thin smile, although he was in no mood for Abrim Len’s sarcasm. “It may seem so at first,” he admitted. “But if you’ll hear me out, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the point I want to make.”
“Fine.” The President folded himself onto a deep sofa like a man who wasn’t sure what to do with his limbs. His teeth seemed to protrude over his weak chin. “I’ll listen. At least this way I won’t have to take any more calls for a while.”
Maxim sat also. As a matter of policy he kept his physical profile low: at times he appeared to compress himself into the smallest possible space. He found he often gained an advantage by giving the impression that no one needed to fear him.
He began at once. A mind like his seldom hesitated.
“Mr. President, you expressed a concern that ‘this is going to turn out badly.’ As you say, we are in ‘serious trouble.’ But you may not yet have had time to grasp just how ‘serious’ the trouble is. My overriding motivation is to prevent the situation from growing worse—within the context of my duties as Special Counsel, of course.”
“Your sentiments do you credit,” Len remarked sententiously. Perhaps he knew that such vacuous comments irritated Maxim.
The Special Counsel didn’t allow himself to be distracted, however. Instead he became unnecessarily pedantic—an oblique form of retribution.
This Day All Gods Die Page 20
