This Day All Gods Die

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Fortunately Holt was at his most lucid in emergencies. His powers of concentration helped make him dangerous. He didn’t waste time with useless demands or impossible orders. One of the FEA’s techs delivered a verbatim report of the proceedings: Cleatus supplied explanations and commentary. On that basis Holt grasped the situation as accurately as Cleatus did. He didn’t expect Cleatus to work miracles; didn’t hold Cleatus accountable for the actions of others.

  Not in an emergency.

  Nevertheless the CEO’s precise pragmatism made Cleatus’ guts clench in alarm. More than anyone else in this room—or anyone else in human space, for that matter—Cleatus knew how far Holt’s grip on practical reality might take him.

  From his seat beside Dios’ pet PR director, Cleatus Fane projected outward calm and stewed inwardly while the sheep blundered about the business of achieving a vote.

  The process took longer than it should have; much longer. Len acted like a man who wanted to be sure each word he said was unimpeachable. The supercilious twit insisted on dotting every legislative i, crossing every procedural t—which used up time. In addition several of the votes did their best to turn the session into a true debate.

  That promiscuous slut from Betelgeuse Primary harped endlessly on the emotional observation that Dios risked his humanity aboard Calm Horizons. After all, he had no real reason to think the Amnion would ever release him. She’d figured that out. So the accusations against him were pointless, she insisted, since he obviously gained nothing from his so-called crimes except this chance to suffer mutation.

  In his most effete tones, the Council’s resident intellectual snot, Silat, advanced the more ominous argument that if the UMCP were dechartered Dios would lose his authority to make deals—surprise, surprise—in which case any arrangement he conceived would be meaningless. The new director would have to start from scratch, which would take time. And time worked against the Amnion. They might conclude that proton cannon fire would serve them better than protracted renegotiations.

  And useless Tel Burnish pointed out that the entire UMCP organization might rebel if both Warden Dios and Min Donner were replaced. Loyalties within UMCPHQ, and aboard UMCPED’s ships, might be strong enough to leave Earth—not to mention Suka Bator—defenseless.

  Even that defeated idiot Vertigus added his irritating voice and scrawny objections to the obstacles which slowed the sheep’s progress toward a vote. Hannish obviously admired his willingness to flog a lost cause: her eyes shone every time he opened his mouth, as if she considered him honorable, or even heroic. But Cleatus felt otherwise. He would have cheerfully had the old captain shot.

  In fact, he hated them all—Manse, Silat, Burnish, Vertigus; Hannish and Len. He would have been generously, magnanimously delighted to see every one of them dead.

  Manse probably isn’t worth the trouble, he told his pickup. Neither is Silat. But we ought to kill Burnish.

  He already knew what Holt thought of Vertigus.

  Weil worry about that later, Holt replied crisply.

  The good news was that Hannish couldn’t do anything to encourage all this obfuscation. Like Cleatus, she had to sit and watch. And he’d done everything in his power to undermine her credibility. The votes couldn’t believe a thing she told them unless they were prepared to side with Dios against Holt.

  A few minutes ago she’d accepted a PCR from one of her techs. Presumably she was listening to her dedicated downlink from UMCPHQ. If so, Center must have told her about the command module and Trumpet. But she didn’t announce the information. She may have realized that she’d reached the end of her string. Or—the thought wrung Cleatus’ intestines—she may still have hoped someone would rescue her.

  The sheep were taking too long. He interjected comments and offered arguments whenever he got the chance, but he lacked the clout to force a conclusion. Meanwhile the chronometer was running. If the Council didn’t vote soon, Holt would give up on legal solutions to the problems Dios had caused.

  Terrible—

  Grimly Cleatus reminded himself that he still had at least ninety minutes. Surely that would suffice? God, it ought to! If no more surprises hit the Members, Holt was going to win. And his First Executive Assistant would live.

  He nearly lost control of himself when he saw an aide leave a console near the chamber doors and hurry toward the dais, waving his arm to attract Len’s attention.

  Damn, this was bad news. Had to be. Otherwise the man wouldn’t have been in such a hurry, stumbling against chairs and tripping past legs in his rush to reach the dais.

  Len scowled at the man; shook his head to reject the interruption. Good boy. But the aide sprang up to the dais, caught Len’s arm, drew him back from the podium, and began whispering tensely in his ear.

  One after another, the votes stopped talking. A clutch of suspense froze them. Nameless fears crowded the room: proton cannon; war and mutagens; the fatal dark of space. Cleatus felt them himself. He rose half out of his seat, then thought better of it and stayed where he was, murmuring worry into his pickup.

  Holt said nothing.

  Vertigus covered his face. That raving fanatic Sen Abdullah gaped as if he were choking on vexation. Poised on the edge of his chair, Igensard sat ready to leap up and fling objections; trying to be helpful—

  Damn. Len nodded abruptly to the aide, gestured the man back to his console. More delays. While the aide hurried away, Len returned to the podium. Despite the rank dread around him, he took his time: bowed his head; drew, several deep breaths; gripped his ceremonial mace carefully. Then, still slowly, he straightened his spine, lifted his chin, settled his shoulders.

  His eyes held a look Cleatus couldn’t read. It might have been desperation or resolve.

  “Members,” he announced unevenly, “Director Hannish, First Executive Assistant Fane, this vote will have to wait.”

  Cleatus felt a knife bite into his guts. He barked a protest like a yelp of pain. At the same time Igensard shouted something Cleatus didn’t hear; something about voting first—

  The next moment he watched in amazement and horror as Len raised his mace and hammered it against the podium as if he wanted to shatter one or the other.

  “I said this vote will have to wait!”

  The blow—and Len’s unexpected vehemence—jolted the sheep like a shot of stun. Several Members jerked in their seats. Some of the aides lost flurries of hardcopy. Even Len flinched as if he’d shocked himself; as if he hadn’t known how much strain he was under, or how deep his revulsion ran. He recovered quickly, however. In a milder tone, he explained, “One of my aides has just informed me that we’re receiving a transmission from Ensign Morn Hyland. Aboard Punisher.”

  Damn! Damn it all—! Cleatus couldn’t think of an oath powerful enough to express his terrified fury. Dios and his lackeys were going to get everyone on this island killed!

  Subvocalizing furiously, he reported to Holt.

  Stop them, Holt instructed. I don’t care how.

  In an instant Hannish reached her feet. Like a woman galvanized by hope, she blurted out, “Let’s hear it.”

  Then she seemed to remember her place. “Forgive me, Mr. President,” she added breathlessly. “I don’t mean to in trade. But Morn is there. Where the decisions our survival depends on are being made. You must talk to her. It’s vital.”

  “I agree.” Somewhere Len found the strength to produce asperity. “That’s why I said—”

  “But I do not agree!” Cleatus blared. Stop them? Stop them? He bounded upright; shoved past Hannish to put himself between her and Len. “What’s vital is dechartering the UMCP! That woman has no business being alive, much less presuming to contact us. After what she’s been through, she’s probably insane. Or she and your Captain Succorso want to run some scam. She’s just an ensign, for God’s sake! Let her wait until we finish saving humanity!”

  “Don’t you understand?” Hannish shouted at His back. “She knows what’s going on!

  “Puni
sher has detached her command module. The module is headed toward Calm Horizons. And she’s towing Trumpet.” Without the Hyland woman, apparently. “Director Dios has made some kind of deal with the Amnion, and Ensign Hyland knows what it is! If she wants to talk to us, we have to hear her. We must!”

  Cleatus didn’t waste time cursing her for that revelation. He had a more urgent fear.

  Morn might want to give evidence.

  For God’s sake, he told his pickup. Open fire on Punisher.

  What’s the point? Holt retorted. If I go that far, I’ll have to go farther.

  Igensard also was on his feet. “No, Mr. President!” He didn’t take frustration well: he looked like he was on the verge of a paroxysm. “This is inexcusable! We are the Governing Council for Earth and Space”—he’d conveniently forgotten that his status as Abdullah’s proxy was temporary—“and we’re making the most important decision of our lives! You have no right—”

  With a sweeping motion, Len raised his mace like an ax over his head and aimed it at the podium.

  Oh, shit! Cleatus bit back his outrage. Igensard clamped his mouth shut in midspate. Even Hannish stopped. What had happened to Len’s instinct for conciliation?—his cowardice? He seemed to be losing his mind.

  If he suffered a breakdown right here in front of the votes, they would lose more time—

  When he was sure of the silence, he lowered his arms; dropped his mace like a rock onto the podium.

  “Mr. Fane.” His voice cracked with strain, but he didn’t waver. “You’re a guest here. You’ve already had your say. If you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll have you removed from the room. Forcibly, if necessary.”

  What, removed? Holt Fasner’s representative? “You wouldn’t dare—” Cleatus fumed.

  “I would,” a guard barked from his station against the back wall. Forrest Ing, Deputy Chief of UMCPED Security. Another Donner lackey. “My men and I would consider it an honor to obey President Len.”

  Cleatus flung a murderous glare at the man, but he could see Ing was serious. The blunt threat on Ing’s face promised that he would enjoy manhandling the FEA. Shaking with anger, Cleatus hid a bitter retort behind his beard.

  Hannish looked like she could hardly restrain a cheer.

  Accept it, Holt ordered. We’ll find some other way. She can’t connect us.

  Len didn’t wait for Cleatus to answer. He wheeled on Igensard.

  “As for you, Special Counsel—” Unprecedented anger burned in his eyes. “Don’t talk to me about ‘right.’ I’ve had enough. When you told me why you wanted Sen Abdullah’s proxy, I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. Now I can.

  “If you had a gram of professional integrity, you would leap at a chance to hear anything Morn Hyland might say. She pertains to your investigation. But apparently you care more about crucifying Warden Dios than learning the truth.

  “If that’s true, get out of here and let the rest of us carry out our responsibilities,” Len commanded harshly. “I’m sure Senior Member Abdullah is more than qualified to speak for himself. He doesn’t need you.”

  Jesus! Cleatus groaned. What in God’s name had happened to Len? Where was the timid, weak, and above all manipulable President Cleatus knew?

  Was he taking sides?

  “For reasons I don’t understand,” Len told Igensard and the Council fiercely, “Ensign Hyland has been forced to suffer in ways we can’t imagine. She’s been abandoned and sold by people she should have been able to trust, and”—his voice rose—“we are going to hear her!”

  Igensard gaped like a fish at the reproof. Involuntarily he turned an appeal toward Cleatus. Stupid—He may have been an ally of a sort, but Cleatus had no help to give him. Slowly he shrank back to his seat; dwindled like a deflated bladder.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” he murmured thinly. “Of course we should talk to Morn Hyland. I’ll wait my turn.”

  Hannish was obviously delighted.

  For a moment, amazement or chagrin held the room. Then Vertigus lurched to his feet. Raising his thin arms high, he began to applaud. At once Manse jumped up and joined him enthusiastically. Burnish contributed a hard, rhythmic clap, like impact pistol fire. After a brief hesitation, Vest Martingale—who should have known better—added her approval.

  The rest of the votes had better sense. Abdullah snarled whining curses. Sigurd Carsin covered her face. Even Punjat Silat studied Len with a noncommittal expression on his stubby features. Others consulted their aides in urgent whispers, or buried themselves in their notes, as if they suddenly needed bits of information they couldn’t recall.

  Suffer in ways we can’t imagine, Cleatus thought bitterly. So that was it. Len had always been a sentimental bastard. Now he’d been seduced by the idea of Hyland’s pain. He’d lost himself to a woman he hadn’t even met.

  Through the applause a look of weakness washed over the President. For a moment Cleatus hoped Len was about to faint. It was possible he’d never been so forceful in his life: the effort may have exhausted him. Leaning closer to the podium, he propped his elbows under him for support.

  Hannish resumed her seat like a good girl. Manse and Vertigus did the same. At first Cleatus remained stubbornly on his feet: he wanted to confront Morn standing. But then he reconsidered. Accept it, Holt had told him. We’ll find some other way. Subvocalizing tensely, he retreated to his chair and sat down.

  “Unfortunately we weren’t expecting this,” Len said weakly. “We aren’t set up for it. But my aide is routing a channel through the newsdogs’ speakers and pickups. We should all be able to hear Ensign Hyland. She may be able to hear all of us.”

  He made an effort to sound more assertive. “Strict rules of order, Members. This woman has been through hell. No matter what you think of Warden Dios—or Holt Fasner—she’s one of the victims. I won’t let her be harassed.”

  Then he told his aide, “When you’re ready.”

  That emasculated twit has turned against us, Cleatus muttered to his pickup. He thinks Hyland is some kind of martyr. If he gets a chance, he’ll let Vertigus reintroduce Severance.

  Not if you do your job, Holt retorted.

  My job? Cleatus thought—but didn’t say. What do you think I’m doing?

  “I’m ready now, Mr. President,” the aide answered promptly. Bending over his console pickup, he said, “Ensign Hyland, stand by for President Len and the Governing Council for Earth and Space.” Then he keyed in a quick series of commands.

  The room speakers clicked to life.

  They seemed to expand like a window into deep space. The background hum of thrust distortion muffled by noise-reduction circuitry gave an impression of depth, size; cold and uncomprehended distances just out of reach. Cleatus had the strange sense that he was listening to the interstellar mutter of a solar furnace as it broadcast unattainable light and heat across the void.

  Len mustered the energy to lift his voice into the deep. “Ensign Hyland? Can you hear me? I’m Abrim Len. President of the Council.”

  “President Len,” a woman’s voice answered. “I’m Morn Hyland. Aboard Punisher.”

  Cleatus had never heard Hyland speak; but he was instantly sure the voice was hers. The strain in the speakers grated across his nerves like nails on slate. There was no one in human space he wanted to listen to less.

  His guts fumed with acid and anguish as he braced himself for disaster.

  “I’m sorry you had to make me wait,” she continued sharply. “This is urgent.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Ensign.” Len sounded sincere. “Representative government is unwieldy sometimes.

  “The whole Council is here. I think we can all hear you. And I suspect we all have questions we want to ask. But if your reasons for contacting us are urgent, perhaps it would be best if you simply go ahead. When you’re done—if you’re willing—we’ll ask our questions.”

  At once the woman inquired, “Is Director Hannish there?”

  Cleatus saw Hannish cock an eyebro
w in surprise. She hadn’t expected this. Nevertheless she didn’t presume to respond.

  “Yes, she is,” Len acknowledged.

  “Has she spoken to the Council?”

  He, too, was surprised. He frowned uncertainly. “Does it make a difference?”

  “Time.” Static whetted the edges of Hyland’s tone. “That’s the difference, Mr. President. If I know what she’s already told you, I can save time.

  “Trumpet and Punisher’s command module will reach Calm Horizons in seventy-one minutes. I don’t know what’ll happen then. But I’m pretty sure whatever we do after that won’t change anything. If we want to affect the outcome of this crisis, we have seventy-one minutes.”

  Cleatus’ PCR confirmed this.

  “Tell me what Director Hannish told you,” Hyland demanded.

  Len looked past the votes at his aide, slid one finger across his throat. At once the man silenced the pickups and speakers.

  “Opinions?” Len asked. His manner warned the Members to be brief.

  Silat spread his hands. “It seems a reasonable request, Mr. President.”

  Cleatus couldn’t let that pass. “Unless she wants to make sure her story fits what we’ve already heard.”

  Vertigus and a few of the sheep shook their heads. But none of them ventured to contradict Cleatus. His authority to speak in Holt’s name still carried that much clout, anyway.

  Len winced; rubbed his hands unsteadily up and down his face. Then he signaled his aide to open the channel.

  “Forgive me, Ensign Hyland. I don’t mean to make your circumstances more difficult than they already are. Please believe me when I say that anything you tell us will be more useful if it hasn’t been edited to fit what we expect to hear.”

  Chewing his lip in suspense, he waited for a reply.

  After no more than a heartbeat of hesitation, Hyland conceded, “All right. I want to talk to you. That’s why I’m here. Nobody told me to do this. I’m not under any pressure. I just think you need to hear what I know.”