This Day All Gods Die

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Not so long ago Nick held Angus’ priority-codes. He commanded Trumpet. With Angus to back him up, he ruled that ship. But now there’s no sign of him. And Angus is free of his codes.

  “Isn’t it obvious how crucial that is?”

  For a moment Vestabule considered the question. His unreadable study of the UMCP director didn’t waver. The process by which he reached decisions—whatever it was—didn’t involve any discernible emotion, any alteration in his aura; any consultation with his fellow Amnion.

  When he was done, he acquiesced. Without preamble he stated, “Captain Nick Succorso was slain by Captain Sorus Chatelaine. I find this incomprehensible. By some means he contrived to board Soar, where he threatened her with death. She killed him instead.” His head moved meaninglessly from side to side, as if he’d forgotten how humans expressed bafflement. “Then she betrayed Calm Horizons.

  “I remember desperation, but I can remember nothing which would account for her actions.”

  Apparently it was Sorus Chatelaine he didn’t understand, not Nick—a woman who’d served the Amnion for years before turning against them.

  Under other circumstances Warden might have been fascinated by this hint of how an Amnion mind worked. Now, however, he hardly noticed it. He barely absorbed the information that Nick was dead. The manner of Nick’s death distracted him.

  Abruptly he recalled Hashi’s discovery that Soar had once been known as Gutbuster. In her previous identity Soar had killed Morn’s mother, Bryony Hyland. And she’d also destroyed the original Captain’s Fancy, leaving only her cabin boy, Nick Succorso, alive.

  A fatal coincidence, for Sorus as well as Nick. And yet the outcome was that Morn and Trumpet remained alive. Something in the tangle of hunting Trumpet, being hunted by Nick, and serving the Amnion had turned Captain Chatelaine against her masters.

  Hashi had theorized that Nick and Sorus were working together; but he was wrong. Nick had hated Captain Chatelaine too much for that; hated her so much that even after he’d lost everything else he’d “contrived to board” her ship so that he could try to kill her: an act of such raw need and loathing that it took Warden’s breath away—

  In some sense, Hashi Lebwohl—like the Amnion—didn’t truly understand desperation.

  But Vestabule wasn’t done. “Remembering desperation,” he continued, “I will tell you another thing for the sake of your effectiveness with Trumpet’s people. I am acquainted with Captain Angus Thermopyle.”

  As soon as he heard the Amnioni say Angus’ name, Warden’s attention snapped back into focus.

  “In my former life,” Vestabule explained, “I served as crew aboard a human ship named Viable Dreams. Perhaps your records have revealed this to you.”

  Warden nodded slowly while a strange new alarm bloomed in his heart like an evil flower.

  “Our ship was captured,” Vestabule said. “It was taken to Thanatos Minor, where its surviving humans were sold to the Amnion. I was one among twenty-eight men and women delivered for experiment and mutation.” His tone didn’t waver. “This was done by Captain Thermopyle.”

  Then Warden Dios needed every gram of discipline and abnegation he could muster to conceal his reaction. In brutal self-denial he kept his expression flat and his gaze hooded while a singularity grenade of dismay went off in his chest.

  Angus had sold twenty-eight men and women to the Amnion.

  Vestabule didn’t say what Angus had purchased with so much human blood and horror, but Warden could guess. Twenty-eight—

  Somehow Angus had concealed that fact during his interrogation by Hashi and DA. Despite the intrusion of zone implants into his head, the mental rape, he hadn’t let slip any hints: he’d only answered the questions which his tormentors had known to ask. Even when he was helpless, he’d found the strength to preserve one secret. And Warden, who’d guessed the existence if not the nature of that secret—Warden had said nothing to put Hashi on the track of this appalling revelation.

  Angus had sold—

  And now he had the sheer effrontery to say, We’re waiting for you to keep at least one of your promises; the malign and colossal gall to suggest, Personally, I want to see you keep the one where you stop the crime you’ve done to me.

  So he could do what? Help deliver Trumpet’s people—Morn as well as Davies and Vector—to Calm Horizons so that he could escape himself? Thumb his nose at everything Warden had hoped for from him? or from Morn?

  Twenty-eight men and women!

  He wanted to be set free?

  While a black hole of nausea and chagrin ate at his heart, Warden asked himself whether he had any choice. Millions of lives hung in the balance. He and no one else had chosen Angus; arranged his capture; designed his welding; maneuvered him into his plight. There was no one else Warden could blame. Or hold responsible. Or ask to make this decision for him.

  Blinking unsteadily, Vestabule inquired, “Is this information of use to you?”

  Apparently he remembered more about being human than Warden would have thought possible.

  But the UMCP director was determined to conceal all his personal desperation. He had no intention of letting the Amnioni watch him shrink and die inside himself And he’d promised years ago that he would bear the full cost of his mistakes, regardless of how high it ran.

  “It helps,” he told Vestabule through the baffle of his mask. “Now I have a better idea what I’m up against.”

  Hashi had given him a code to kill Angus: to induce a cyborg’s version of self-destruct. For the first time he began to believe that he would have to use it.

  DAVIES

  Finally Morn raised her head. In a thick voice, as if she felt like weeping, she breathed, “Somebody say something.”

  Davies tried. He wanted to. Director Donner, tell me—But he couldn’t find the words. He still didn’t know how to name what he needed from her.

  Neither Min nor Captain Ubikwe spoke. Min watched Morn impersonally, as if she’d taken an oath to do or say nothing that would influence Morn’s thinking. And Dolph’s shrouded gaze hid his thoughts.

  Davies was obliquely surprised that Angus kept quiet. Angus looked like he was charged with sarcasm; primed to sneer or jeer. Yet he kept it to himself.

  Bydell and Porson pretended that they were busy with nonexistent duties. Cray concentrated like death on managing the complex flow of transmission back and forth between Punisher and UMCPHQ Center. Glessen glared truculently at Mikka as if he wanted to club her unconscious.

  At last Vector took a step or two forward. “I’ll go.”

  A spasm of dread clenched Davies’ heart. A wail filled his chest: a cry so primitive and profound that it seemed like the voice of his DNA. Go? Go there? Submit to that?

  Morn and Dolph wheeled their g-seats toward the former engineer. Angus raised his head; bared his teeth at Vector.

  Vector made an attempt to smile, but he’d lost his familiar calm. “They probably want me because they think they can use what I know about our antimutagen,” he explained unnecessarily. “But if Vestabule is an example of how much humanity they can retain, they won’t get much out of me.”

  “Vector—” Morn began; then seemed to choke on her own protest. Clenched around herself, she fell silent.

  “Don’t argue with him, Ensign,” Dolph muttered darkly. “If he has the guts for it, you shouldn’t stand in his way.

  “Personally I want to give him a medal. Although he probably won’t appreciate it once the Amnion finish with him. We might have to pin it to his chest with matter cannon fire.”

  “Shut up, Dolph,” Min ordered softly. “I’m not in the mood for your sense of humor.”

  Glowering, the captain subsided in his g-seat.

  Vector ignored him and the ED director: he ignored everyone except Morn. She was the pivot on which his life had turned. Her arrival aboard Captain’s Fancy had changed him, just as it had deflected Mikka and transformed Sib—and destroyed Nick. The only response he cared about was h
ers.

  “I don’t want to be mutated,” he admitted. “The idea makes me feel like puking. But to be honest I haven’t exactly enjoyed the way we’ve spent our time recently. A chance to help save a few million lives seems”—he shrugged painfully—“better than the alternatives.

  “Who knows? Maybe I’ll finally get rid of this arthritis.”

  Go? Davies panted to himself. Go there? He was stuck: his distress repeated itself as if fear were the only message his genetic code contained. Submit to that?

  “This isn’t what I had in mind,” Morn groaned. “When I said I wanted to come here.” Emotion cramped her throat; tightened her chest. “I didn’t intend to sacrifice you.”

  Again Vector tried to smile. “That’s all right. I’ve always wanted to be the savior of humankind.” But his effort to soften the situation failed into a grimace. “Narcissism, I suppose. Or megalomania. But it looks like this is as close as I’m likely to get.”

  Slowly Morn nodded. “I understand.”

  Davies understood as well. But he couldn’t match Vector’s courage—or resignation. The Amnion wanted Vector to help them counter Intertech’s antimutagen. They wanted him, Davies, to help them destroy humankind.

  Morn scanned the bridge; looked into Angus’ eyes, and Min’s; studied Mikka and Ciro. Apart from Cray’s murmured responses to Center, and Min’s occasional statements, no one said anything. By degrees Morn’s moist gaze cleared. Determination like anger whetted her gaze; pulled her forehead into a knot between her brows.

  “I can’t go,” she announced grimly. “I won’t. I came here to tell my story. I want to talk to the Council. I want to give Director Hannish my evidence. I want to put a stop to things like suppressing antimutagen research, or framing and selling people to get legislation passed.” She tapped the arms of her g-seat with her fists. “I can’t do that unless I’m here.”

  She hadn’t stated her purpose in Min’s hearing before, or Dolph’s, but they didn’t react to it.

  “We aren’t to blame for what Calm Horizons does,” she asserted.

  She was talking to Davies: he knew that. He could hear the way she pitched her voice to reach him. She sounded like Captain Davies Hyland as he remembered her father, explaining his wife’s death to his young daughter; trying to convey across the gap of recollection and death that Morn wasn’t at fault.

  But the Davies who stood on the bridge of Punisher facing Min Donner and ruin also heard Bryony Hyland in Morn’s voice: the targ officer who’d stayed at her post and died to save the ship she served.

  Morn was saying, “We aren’t the ones who decided to play manipulation games with the Amnion. None of us knew what might happen when Nick took us to Enablement so you could be born. It isn’t our responsibility. It belongs to Warden Dios. We don’t have to help him carry it around.”

  Davies wasn’t persuaded. He simply couldn’t find enough conviction inside himself to answer his fear.

  “But telling our story is a different question,” Morn went on. “That’s my responsibility. Whether millions of people live or die today, the cops will still be corrupt. And saving those lives now won’t help them in the long run. The only thing we can offer humankind that might make a difference is the truth.”

  From now on, nobody has any secrets.

  She’d told Davies that she needed a better answer. An alternative to self-destruct. Was this it? Was risking wholesale slaughter preferable to sacrificing herself? Was “the truth” that powerful? Or was her answer something else?—something Davies hadn’t grasped?

  Director Donner, tell me—

  Go? Go there? Submit to that?

  Tell me what’s so bad about self-destruct.

  He had Min’s gun. He could choose the future for his entire species. Kill himself: force Calm Horizons to open fire and die: abandon humankind to Holt Fasner. Or surrender—

  When no one else responded, Vector replied as firmly as he could, “I agree. You should stay here. There are worse things you can do to people than killing them. Like making them believe lies. Or letting them believe lies when you know the truth.”

  Morn nodded again, but she didn’t reply. Instead she watched Davies as if she feared that he would break her heart. Vestabule wanted four of them: Angus and Vector, Morn and her son. Vector had consented. Angus had said, We’re waiting for you to keep at least one of your promises. Morn herself had made up her mind to refuse. Only Davies remained in doubt.

  “Davies,” Morn breathed softly. She might have been begging. “You have to decide. I can’t do it for you.”

  Then she waited. Even Angus appeared to wait. All the tension on the bridge seemed to revolve around Davies as if his uncertainty were a form of gap-sickness.

  The Amnion might accept Angus’ refusal. They might conceivably accept Morn’s. But if Davies rejected their requirements, they would begin to kill—

  At last Min looked him in the face. “Say it,” she ordered dispassionately, as if she didn’t care whether he obeyed or not. “Whatever it is. Nobody can help you if you don’t say it.”

  Tell me—

  If I gave back your gun, would you kill me? Spare me? Or would you point it at my head and make me do what Warden wants?

  Abruptly Cray interrupted, “Director, Center is relaying a transmission from UMCHO. From CEO Fasner.”

  Min cocked her head like a woman going into battle. Without hesitation she told Cray, “Put it on the speakers. Let’s hear what he has to say.” Then she turned toward the command station. “With your permission, Morn, I think I should talk to him.”

  Morn swallowed at an obstruction in her throat. “Go ahead.”

  Frustration and alarm pulled tighter around Davies’ heart. What the hell did Fasner want? What did he want now?

  “I can’t wait,” Dolph grumbled sourly. “This is going to be such fun.”

  As soon as Cray tapped her keys, an angry voice crackled and spat in the bridge speakers. “Min Donner? God damn it, answer me. This is Fasner. Holt Fasner. United Mining Companies Chief Executive Officer Holt Fasner. I’m tired of being shuffled around like a poor relation. I want an answer.”

  His voice was as sharp as poison; as corrosive as ruin. It sank like pain into the open wound of Davies’ heart.

  Min smiled harshly to herself. “CEO Fasner,” she replied, “this is UMCP Acting Director Min Donner. I’m sorry Center gave you the impression you’re being shuffled around. They’re trying to manage a catastrophe.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” The force of Holt’s retort distorted the speakers like static. “You think I don’t know who caused it? I’m tired of bullshit, Donner. I want action.”

  Min showed her teeth. Anger glittered in her eyes. Nevertheless her tone remained calm; impersonal.

  “What ‘action’ did you have in mind, sir?”

  “For a start,” he announced at once, “I want you to aim a dish over here. It is intolerable that everything I say has to be routed through those officious prigs in Center.”

  “And what else?” Min asked as if her compliance were a foregone conclusion.

  Holt shot back, “That madman you work for still hasn’t bothered to tell me what Calm Horizons wants, but I think I can guess. Under no circumstances, Donner, absolutely none, are you to deliver anything or anyone from Trumpet to that warship. Am I being clear? Calm Horizons gets nothing from you.

  “Put everything and everybody you found aboard Trumpet on a shuttle. If you don’t have a shuttle, detach your damn command module. Send all of it to me.”

  Send—

  Angus’ face tightened: he rose like a warning from his g-seat. Vector shook his head with dismay in his eyes. Both Morn and Dolph sat rigid, staring their apprehension at Min.

  “I wasn’t thrilled when you shut down the scan net,” Holt went on, “but maybe you were right. You can arrange an occluded launch. Calm Horizons won’t see anything. Your shuttle or the module can go around the far side of the planet. It’ll get here soon e
nough.” Traveling opposite HO’s orbit would shorten the journey considerably. “Just do it soon.”

  Send all of it—

  That’s crazy, Davies thought. Did the Dragon want Trumpet’s people that badly?

  What did he want them for?

  Quickly Min consulted the scan displays. “It’ll still take time, sir,” she returned carefully. “I don’t think Calm Horizons will wait much longer. Have you considered what might happen? Are you prepared to sacrifice the Council?”

  Holt swore viciously. “Get one of your God damn dishes aimed at me, Donner. I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do. When we have a secure transmission.”

  Min muffled her pickup with one hand. Contained fury seemed to pour off her in waves, but it didn’t show in her voice. Ignoring everyone else, she grinned at Captain Ubikwe.

  “Pay attention, Dolph,” she advised. “This may turn out to be more fun than you thought.”

  Then she uncovered her pickup.

  “With respect, sir,” she replied disingenuously, “that’s going to be impossible. I’m only the acting director. I don’t consider it within my mandate to hear or say or do anything that isn’t on the record.” She permitted herself a note of stiff piety like a hint of scorn. “I want to be able to face anybody who questions what I do with a clear conscience.

  “Center has recorded and logged your orders. But as it happens,” she remarked, as if she trusted the Dragon to agree with her, “you can’t actually give me any orders. Under conditions of war, only Director Dios has the authority to command the defense of human space. The next time I talk to him, I’ll ask him if he wants me to do what you tell me.

  “At present I have no instructions to surrender anyone or anything from Trumpet to you.”

  Again she justified Davies’ desire to believe in her.

  Angus watched her with a twisted frown, as if he didn’t know how to interpret what she said. But Morn knew. Deliberately she raised one fist in the air; taunting Holt—or cheering Min.