Warden’s human eye burned, dangerously close to blurring. He blinked it clear; scanned his readout of the station’s resources. After a moment he found what he wanted.
“There.” Swiftly he copied one of his displays to Servil’s console. “Cargo 11.” A hold out at the rim of the torus: a bay so big Punisher could have docked in it. “Those ore cans.” The computer reported five of them. “They’re empty. If you do it right, you can use them.”
Before it became UMCHO, the core of this station had been the home of Space Mines, Inc. Holt’s vast empire had begun as a small ore smelting operation, orbiting Earth to take advantage of the asteroid belt. Since then HO had grown tremendously; but the platform still performed some of SMI’s functions. Smelting was no longer done, but a certain amount of ore transshipment took place.
Ore cans were huge cylinders, too large for most ships to carry; designed to be towed rather than transported. And they were airtight, sealed against vacuum to protect their contents, not during shipment, but at their transshipment points and destinations. Some of the metals, isotopes, and rare earths that humankind mined could only be processed if they hadn’t been contaminated by atmosphere.
“You can probably get two hundred fifty people in each of those things,” Warden explained as Servil went to work. “With enough air for at least a couple of hours. When they’re sealed, you can open the bay, use station rotation to spin them out. If you time it right, you can aim them at UMCPHQ.
“I’ll tell UMCPHQ Center what’s going on. Their tugs should be able to tow those cans in before the air runs out.
“That should take care of almost everyone,” he finished. “When they’re on their way, you and whoever else is left can use the last ejection pods.”
“What about you?” Servil asked in a small voice.
“Somebody has to stay here,” Warden answered harshly, “and make sure nothing goes wrong. That’s my job.”
With an effort of self-control, he didn’t add, Unless you want to watch me turn Amnion.
Servil nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he wanted to force the uncertainty out of them. Then he started typing.
His fingers gathered speed and assurance as he ran commands to route power and air for the hold, confirm that the ore cans were empty, prepare the bay doors. He called up a platform rotation schematic; calculated the hold’s window on UMCPHQ; then activated an intercom so that he could issue orders to the whole station in Holt Fasner’s name.
Despite his relative youth, he obviously knew his job.
Warden allowed himself a moment of profound relief—a brief pause of appreciation for Servil’s aid. That was all the time he could afford. Almost at once he threw his hands at his board; tackled the problem of making UMCHO destroy itself.
In order to wrest an explosion from the power cells and generators, he would have to route a feedback loop which would drive them past their tolerances. That should have been impossible. Stations were too vulnerable: therefore they had safeguards. Under normal circumstances, the cells and generators were well protected from any destructive tampering.
But Min’s guns had damaged a number of the systems. Some of the safeguards had failed: others weren’t stable. And Red Priority security locks gave him access to codes which in turn released controls he wouldn’t ordinarily have been able to touch.
In addition, he’d recently spent a number of hours studying every available detail of HO’s design and construction; preparing himself in case this day ever came. He probably knew a great deal more about how the platform worked than the young tech did.
He could do it; cause a blast to gut the station. The explosion wouldn’t be as powerful as he wanted: not powerful enough to catch and crush Motherlode with its wavefront once the gap yacht was launched and away. But at least he could do it without endangering any of Min’s ships.
If he worked fast enough: if he didn’t make any mistakes. If he blew the platform before UMCPHQ or any other station sent out craft to answer HO’s distress flares.
His hands flew on the keys as if he’d spent his life studying self-destruct sequences.
Where was Angus? Could he reach the yacht? Get aboard? Or would he be caught on station? Warden had no idea. He wished now that he’d arranged a signal of some kind; a means for Angus to communicate success or failure. But he hadn’t thought of it.
How many other crucial details had he neglected? He couldn’t afford to worry about that. Couldn’t afford to let his visceral desire to see Holt die distract him. He’d reached the end of his life. Circuits and relays sprang to life under his hands, filling HO strand by strand with a web of ruin. Holt’s download would end soon. The time had come to trust other people with humankind’s future. Min and Angus, Morn and Koina, Hashi: they would have to pick up any pieces he might have dropped.
Servil would need at least half an hour to arrange his evacuation—if HS helped him organize the survivors; if HS believed his orders came from Holt. Otherwise the process might take much longer.
Warden had to communicate with UMCPHQ. He couldn’t put it off anymore. And he’d promised Angus—But he couldn’t bear the prospect of actually speaking to Center; hearing those familiar voices remind him of the life he’d compromised and abandoned. And his heart might break if any of the people he trusted and loved tried to talk to him. He preferred to face the culmination of his old shame alone.
Instead of risking voice transmission, he wrote out a message, warning Center that HO was about to die. He urged men and women he’d once commanded to keep ships away from the station; out of danger. He asked his former officers and friends to rescue Servil’s ore cans as soon as they cleared the wavefront.
Finally he added a series of quick personal messages—one for Min and another for Hashi; one for Morn. He gave each of them the best farewell he could. Then he set HO’s dish to broadcast his transmission automatically, repeat it as long as possible.
When his console informed him that Motherlode had been launched on an escape vector which kept her safe from attack or pursuit, he cursed her blip as if he believed in the power of words to wreak transcendent harm. But his anger at Holt had become curiously abstract. It no longer drove him. For good or ill, he’d left the Dragon to Angus. Now he found that he was content to have done so. None of the people he’d trusted had failed him so far. Even Servil hadn’t failed him. And he’d come to the end of himself. He’d completed his Web of circuits and relays, of complicity and subterfuge: there was nothing left for which he could take responsibility—except his own tainted soul. An unfamiliar peace eased through him as he watched the gap yacht recede in the direction of her fate.
As soon as Servil sent the cans on their way, Warden gave him ten minutes to reach an ejection pod. But he actually waited longer than that; until he was sure the tech had escaped.
Then, however, he didn’t hesitate. He’d told Angus that he’d passed sentence on himself a long time ago. Now he carried it out.
With a few keystrokes, the discredited director of the United Mining Companies Police closed his final relays and tore the foundation of Holt Fasner’s malign empire to shreds.
HOLT
Finally humankind’s last and greatest visionary was safe. He’d made mistakes: he acknowledged that freely to himself, although he might not have admitted it to anyone else. One was that he’d trusted Ward too long; let the man go too far. Another was that he’d attacked Suka Bator without first gaining control over the Donner bitch and her cordon. And mistakes were always dangerous. They were often fatal. He should have fired Ward as soon as his mother had named his own fears by warning him that the UMCP director would get him into trouble. Failing that, he should have made sure Calm Horizons would extirpate the votes for him, instead of risking the attempt himself.
He still didn’t understand why Calm Horizons hadn’t blasted Suka Bator when the shooting started. Apparently Ward’s treachery ran deeper than he’d imagined. Or
Donner and Morn Hyland had conceived some ruse to trick the Amnioni—
Nevertheless Holt told himself that he had no regrets. In spite of his mistakes, he was safe. A visionary’s advance planning—and a visionary’s contempt for lesser beings—had saved him. He and all his essential data were safely aboard Motherlode. And Motherlode had already put a couple hundred thousand k between her and HO, accelerating gently toward the gap and deep space on a trajectory which protected her from Dormer’s ships.
In addition, of course, Motherlode was more than just a luxury gap yacht, furnished, appointed, and supplied to transport him in a monarch’s opulent comfort. She had the guns of a cruiser; the drive-power and range of a battlewagon; the shields, sinks, and defenses of a space-fortress. Personally he had no particular taste for luxury. When he’d commissioned Motherlode, he’d lavished so much wealth on her accommodations because he meant to daunt and manipulate his occasional guests, not because he himself liked ostentation. On the other hand, he valued his own survival highly. If Donner’s ships had attacked him at this range, his shields would have shrugged their fire aside like so much solar wind. And if he chose to run not one of them could have kept pace with him.
There was nothing to stand in his way. He was safe—as safe as riches and forethought could make him. Protected from death by every resource of human ingenuity: entirely beyond harm. When Motherlode finally began to skim the light-years toward forbidden space, he would be close to immortality.
She didn’t go into tach, however. Not yet. For some reason, he was reluctant to give the order. Instead of hurrying his escape toward the visionary triumph of force-grown bodies and imprinted minds, he watched Motherlode’s screens and waited for something to happen.
He was on the bridge; at the command station. His entire crew—three men—sat at their boards in front of him, facing the same screens. His yacht could have used a crew of ten, but she only needed that many when she carried passengers—and the passengers happened to be demanding. The ship herself required no more than three. In fact, any one of her officers could have handled her alone. Holt could have run her by himself. But he was intimately familiar with the weaknesses of his old body. He’d brought the crew with him for the same reason that he didn’t risk hard acceleration: he distrusted the condition of his heart. He’d felt his pulse fluttering ever since Donner opened fire on him. A new tightness in his chest refused to go away, despite the drugs which had kept him alive for so long.
Because he feared the strain of running Motherlode alone, he needed a crew. The three of them could take turns; rest enough to stay alert.
Yet he didn’t trust ordinary men any more than he trusted his own mortality. They might have questioned him. Might have made the mistake of thinking their lives were more important than his. These three were special.
They all had zone implants. Their zone implant controls were also implanted. And the controls were voice-activated; keyed specifically to his voice. With a word he could fill them with enough pleasure to drive them mad; enough pain to kill them. They would do anything for him.
For that reason, he didn’t trouble with code-locks for the bridge consoles. His crew would obey him absolutely—and kill anyone who tried to give him trouble.
He was completely and utterly safe.
Nevertheless he withheld the order for tach. Despite the fluttering and pressure in his chest—warning signs that he should try to reach forbidden space quickly—he kept Motherlode within reach of Earth’s scan net. Instead of fleeing, he used the net to watch what happened to UMCHO.
Something would happen: he was sure of that. He just hoped he would be able to recognize it; grasp what it meant.
As soon as Donner had restored the scan net after Calm Horizons’ astonishing death, Holt had seen Trumpet approach HO. Punisher’s command module had headed for UMCPHQ, but the gap scout had braved Holt’s station. Well before Motherlode’s launch, Trumpet had docked in the hub.
Now that was an unexpected development. Beyond question something was about to happen.
Who was aboard the gap scout? What did they want? What did they think they could accomplish?
For a while he’d received no hint of an answer. Certainly nothing had interfered with Motherlode’s launch, or her gradual acceleration. Nothing had threatened him. But then in surprise he’d watched the platform loft a series of ore cans toward UMCPHQ. And he’d seen UMCPHQ send out tugs to receive the cans.
The answer was there, if he could figure it out.
Casually he asked his crew, “Any idea what’s going on?”
The man at the scan station also handled communications. “Yes, sir,” he replied without hesitation—or interest. “They aren’t keeping it secret. It’s on all the in-system relays. Those cans are fill of people. They’re evacuating HO.”
Evacuating, hell, Holt snorted to himself. That wasn’t just evacuation. It was desperation. Nobody who wasn’t desperate would leave a stable station in a goddamn ore can.
What were they afraid of?
Apparently they believed the platform wouldn’t remain stable much longer. Either Dormer’s bombardment had done more damage than Holt had realized, or—
Holt’s eyes widened in surprise.
—or this was another of Ward’s by God oblique, malicious gambles. The final ploy in his vast, impenetrable charade of service to the UMC and humankind.
Holt found the possibility so amazing that he believed it instantly.
Suppose the command module had taken Ward off Calm Horizons before the defensive died. What did he have to live for? Why had he bothered to arrange his own survival?
His attack on his rightful master before the Council had destroyed his reputation, his career. He’d given his charges weight by confessing his complicity. By now the votes must be convulsed with self-righteousness. They would almost certainly have him executed. So why had he done it? What was this whole elaborate exercise for?
Ah, but what if it had all been for this: to give Ward access to HO? He could probably handle HS. If nothing else, he could say Donner was about to gut the station. He could organize a desperate evacuation—and virtuously offer to remain behind, pretending he cared that everyone else got away safely.
Then he would be free to take Holt’s data. For himself. And with that lever he could defy them all—the UMCP, the GCES, the other stations; the whole planet. He would have the power, the evidence, to topple corporations, platforms, governments.
If he used it carefully, he could make the votes pardon him.
And after that there would be virtually no limit to what he might acquire—
The mere idea almost stopped Holt’s heart. He blinked astonishment at the screens, whistling thinly through his teeth. By God, he’d made another mistake. He should have deleted his data as he copied it. His mother had warned him and warned him—and yet he’d left all that power intact for his worst enemy.
If he’d listened to her, he wouldn’t have lost his empire. Or his station. Instead of being forced to flee alone, he would have been able to take his species with him on his visionary journey toward the only future which would allow it to endure.
For a moment his bitterness and regret were so acute that he could barely contain them. Outrage accumulated in his veins. His heart limped from beat to beat, staggering when it should have throbbed safely. Ward’s victory was intolerable. Holt should have strung him up by his balls at the first hint
Fortunately one of the crew broke into his thoughts. “Sir,” the man at the targ station announced quietly, “I’m getting a malfunction alert.”
At once Holt snatched himself back from his mounting fury. Grateful for the distraction, he asked, “What is it?” His frailty had reached frightening proportions. He was in no condition for so much anger: he had to take better care of himself.
“Routine diagnostics, sir.” The targ officer wasn’t worried. “We aren’t in a hurry, so I took the time to run a few checks. One of the airlock servos doesn’t respon
d. The lock is sealed. There’s no danger. But that servo ought to read green, and it doesn’t. May be a faulty circuit. It’s probably been that way since the last diagnostic.”
Since before Motherlode had left HO.
Holt nodded. Caution of all kinds was a standing order aboard the yacht. Whatever else happened, he meant to survive.
“Can you fix it?”
The man inclined his head. “Whenever you like, sir. But I’ll have to go down to the airlock.”
“Do it later,” Holt ordered. “I want you here.” Just in case Ward had more surprises for him.
Whatever happened would probably happen soon. The ore cans were on their way to safety. There would be plenty of time for minor repairs after Motherlode’s first gap crossing.
As his distress receded, however, and his pulse recovered a more familiar rhythm, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about Norna. The truth was that he’d been thinking about her all along: he just hadn’t wanted to recognize it.
He missed her. He’d kept her alive so long—and had profited so much from her hostile insight—that he felt bound to her in ways he couldn’t describe. He liked her, despite her grim hunger for his ruin. Over the decades her malice had helped him stay alert; helped him thrive. Without her—
Without her he made mistakes. And mistakes might kill him.
He couldn’t have brought her with him. That was out of the question. But now he began to wonder how he would live without her.
“Sir!” the scan officer called sharply.
Holt jerked his attention to the screens in time to see an explosion tear through HO.
In a rush of brisance the whole steel skeleton pf the platform crumpled like hardcopy. All the generators and power-cells must have blown simultaneously. Soundless across the kilometers, HO’s death seethed on the screens, as poignant and immedicable as a rupturing heart. Incandescence and fire shone briefly through the shattered ribs of the infrastructure, then were sucked back into darkness. Within seconds empty space had swallowed the debris and corpses, leaving only a few charred steel bones to mark the station’s place in the affairs of humanity.
This Day All Gods Die Page 74
