This Day All Gods Die (49 page)

you heard him dur-

ing the video conference. His back is against the wall. I pushed him there.

"Now he's trying to protect his position by convincing us we can't afford to threaten him. He wants us to think the risk of probing and questioning him is too great at a time when we face the possibility of war.

"And he would have succeeded, except for one fatal mis-calculation. The actions of Captain Thermopyle and Deputy Chief Taverner were too extreme. They were so extreme that Calm Horizons didn't stop when Trumpet escaped from Massif-5. Prevented from following by Punisher, the Amnioni didn't withdraw, as Director Dios no doubt intended—

pre-

serving her own survival, as well as the possibility that peace could eventually be restored. Instead Calm Horizons came here.

"Do you think I'm wrong?" the Special Counsel demanded in the hard tones of a prophet. "Then tell me how you account for the fact that Punisher broke off her engagement with the defensive. Min Donner is famous for her unswerving sense of duty. She's also notoriously belligerent. Why would she break her oath as the Enforcement Division director of the UMCP, if she hadn't been given orders to let the defensive live?

"Warden Dios wants the threat of a full-scale war, not the actuality. Calm Horizons' destruction might have been more provocation than the Amnion could endure."

"Punisher was damaged," Sixten objected weakly.

"Calm Horizons has super-light proton cannon."

"I'm sure that's true," Maxim assented. "It only confirms my point, however. Why was a damaged ship chosen for this mission? Why not this new battlewagon, Sledgehammer?

Why not Vehemence, a cruiser already assigned to Massif-5?

"I think it was because Punisher could plausibly claim that she couldn't destroy the defensive.

"Ask yourself why Director Dios has gone alone aboard Calm Horizons. Don't you think it's likely he hopes to convince the Amnion that he didn't mean for events to go so far?

Don't you think he's offering them restitution for whatever Trumpet did?

"It's possible that because of his dereliction the UMCP is no longer able or willing to prosecute a war."

Koina stifled a protest. She would have loved to shout at the Special Counsel, Dereliction has nothing to do with it! We don't have enough ships! Or enough people. We don't have the budget for a war. Fasner hasn't given us that much money.

But that wasn't what Warden had ordered her to say. He hadn't offered her any excuses. His intentions were more subtle. He didn't want to be let off the hook: he wanted to use that hook against the Dragon.

And he wanted Koina to do it for him; to him.

Without evidence—

Tel Burnish had surged to his feet: he may have been trying to counteract Igensard's grip on the Council. "No, Special Counsel," he insisted. "You're going too fast. You're getting ahead of yourself. Your argument only makes sense if you assume Warden Dios knew there would be an incursion. Otherwise all this talk about 'treason' and 'dereliction' is just so much paranoia."

The VI Member had reason to defend Warden. More than any other station except Com-Mine, Valdor had seen the UMCP's ships—

and integrity—

in action.

But Maxim wasn't daunted. "Exactly," he countered.

Triumph rang like iron in his voice. Heavy with power and accusation, he turned toward Koina.

"Director Hannish."

She met his glinting gaze squarely. "Special Counsel?"

"I have some questions I want to ask you."

She opened her mouth to say, Of course. That's what I'm here for. I have orders—

But her throat closed on the words. It

was too late: Hashi and Chief Mandich had taken too long.

Without substantiation the things she had to reveal would make Igensard sound sane.

Abruptly Cleatus put his hand on her arm; tugged at her attention. He made no effort to keep his voice down.

"You don't have to submit to this," he told her. "I'll answer his questions. Save us all the strain of dragging this out. The UMC is responsible for the UMCP in any case. I'll just have to cover the same ground when you're done."

He sounded sure of himself: patronizing and impregnable.

His face belied his tone, however. Instead of looking at her, he flicked his eyes around the room like a man searching out enemies. His cheeks had lost color, as if his blood had run gray. He held his head cocked slightly toward the PCR in his ear. Concentration clenched the corners of his mouth.

Before Koina could reply, one of her techs murmured,

"Director," and thrust a small communications board into her hands. Apparently the tech didn't want to chance being overheard. Instead she pointed at a message on the board's readout.

Instinctively Koina held it so that Cleatus couldn't see it.

Blinking hard to focus her eyes, she read the transmission.

It was from UMCPHQ Center.

It reported that Punisher had arrived.

Resumed tard not far from UMCPHQ and Calm Horizons.

With Ensign Morn Hyland in command.

In command—

?

The readout also stated that Hashi Lebwohl had stepped down as Acting Director in Warden Dios' absence. Still aboard Punisher, Min Donner had taken his place.

Acting Director Donner had ordered the shutdown of Earth's vast scan net.

In command—

?

None of it made any sense. Min Donner was Acting Director? Even though she was stuck aboard a ship she didn't command? And she wanted the scan net shut down?

Somehow Morn had—

?

Koina couldn't begin to guess what it all meant.

Nevertheless it explained why Cleatus didn't want her to answer Maxim's questions. The fact that Morn Hyland was here—

and in command of Punisher—

must have appalled Holt

Fasner. She was dangerous to him; far more dangerous than Koina herself. In Warden's absence, Morn was more dangerous than anyone.

Fasner knew he'd lost control of the UMCP. Cleatus knew.

They knew they couldn't trust Koina.

And without the scan net, HO—

like UMCPHQ—

had to

rely on its own instruments. To that extent, the Dragon had been blinded. He could no longer see everything that happened.

"Director Hannish," Maxim rasped sternly. "We're waiting."

At once Koina rose to her feet. As if she were as sure as the FEA, she answered, "I'm ready, Special Counsel."

That was a lie. She wasn't ready. Without evidence, she would never be ready. Yet she accepted Igensard's demand as if he'd challenged her to personal combat: a test of honor.

Warden had given her his orders. And Cleatus Fane wanted her to remain seated; silent. Now that the crisis was upon her, she had no difficulty choosing between them.

ties as Acting Director,

Hashi left Center and headed for Lane Harbinger's lab.

Despite his shambling gait and his air of distraction, he moved quickly: by his own standards, he was running. In the past hour crises had multiplied around him at an alarming rate.

Quantum uncertainties expanded in chain reaction. At the same time—

and by the same logic—

the window during which

he could hope to help shape events shrank. Endorphins and necessity burned in his synapses: his blood felt rich with urgency. He had work to do.

UMCHO had charged its guns. However, they were pointedly not aimed at Calm Horizons. The great worm in his lair wished Marc Vestabule to know that he was prepared to defend himself, but that he would not treat the huge defensive as an enemy unless he was forced to do so.

Time had become exquisitely short.

In subtle ways this pleased the DA director. Lesser men and women, lesser minds, had already been left behind by the burgeoning emergency. Now only genius might suffice to fend off ruin.

Hashi Lebwohl was eager to prove himself equal to Warden Dios' vast and dangerous intentions.

Lane's lab was several levels and several hundred meters away from Center. Lifts and service shafts shortened the distance, however, and Hashi knew them all. He reached her workroom scant minutes after confirming Min Donner as Acting Director.

But when he entered the lab—

a large space by the con-

stricted measure of an orbital platform—

he stopped in sur-

prise.

Lane was alone. Apart from the complex clutter of tables and terminals, instruments of all kinds, sterile chambers and autoclaves, retorts and flasks, probes and sensors and keypads, packets of stim and hype, pots of coffee, bowls overflowing with ash and butts, the room was empty. The numerous aides and techs he'd assigned to her were gone—

sent away, he as-

sumed, since he declined to believe that any of his people would have abandoned a project so vital.

And Lane herself was sitting down. In itself that was profoundly uncharacteristic: Hashi wasn't sure he'd ever seen her in a chair of her own volition. As a rale she consumed enough stimulants of all kinds to make a block of wood hyperactive.

Yet her condition was worse than uncharacteristic. She sat with her legs sprawled gracelessly in front of her as if she had no further use for them. Her head hung down, unclean hair dangling before her face: he couldn't tell whether she'd glanced at him; whether she'd noticed his arrival at all. Only her mouth moved as she sucked, arrhythmic as a limping heart, on one of her foul nics. Smoke curled up into her face and filtered away through her hair as if she were exhaling her life.

For a moment Hashi was stunned. He lacked Warden's talent for responding to the emotions of his people. Indeed, he seldom cared to let them distract him. By nature he was unprepared and ill equipped to deal with any woman in a state which resembled catatonia.

He had no time for Lane's despair; no time at all. Yet he knew instantly, intuitively, that he would be unable to reach her unless he attended to it. Without warning he discovered that he would be lost unless he could prove himself Warden's equal in completely unexpected ways.

"My dear Lane," he asked softly, "what on Earth has gone wrong?"

She didn't react. Smoke seeped out of her hair as if the mind under it had been burned to the ground.

Before he could decide how to approach her, the lab intercom chimed. "Director Lebwohl?" a voice asked nervously.

"Director Lebwohl, are you there? This is Center. Director?"

Hashi swallowed an arcane curse. Briefly he forgot where Lane's intercom was. The voice from Center seemed to arise from a source he couldn't locate. Then he remembered that the console where she usually worked held her pickup and speaker.

Four vexed strides took him around a worktable to her terminal. With a jerk of his thumb, he toggled the pickup.

"Director Lebwohl," he announced like a wasp. "Did I mention that I'm busy?"

"Sorry, Director," the nervous voice replied quickly. "I have a flare for you. From Director Hannish. At the emergency session.''

Hashi wanted to retort, I know where she is. I stepped down as Acting Director. I wasn't fired for incompetence. But he restrained himself. He didn't have time to indulge his ire.

Instead he drawled, "Then perhaps you should tell me what it says."

"Yes, Director." Hashi heard the sound of keys. "To DA Director Hashi Lebwohl," Center reported. "From PR Director Koina Hannish. 'I'm running out of time here.' That's all.

"Any response, Director?"

Hashi flapped his arms. The urgency in his blood needed an outlet. At the same time he couldn't justify covering a mere communications tech—

or Koina herself—

with his exaspera-

tion.

"Inform Director Hannish," he said brusquely, "that I do not wish to be disturbed."

At once he silenced the pickup and turned back to Lane.

Past her hair he caught the glint of one eye. Her nic had been smoked out. She dropped it to the floor beside her, produced another from somewhere, lit it with a small magnesium torch hot enough to start a fire which would gut the station.

He concealed a thin sigh. Not comatose, he thought. Not unreactive. So much was encouraging.

On impulse he reached up, removed the glasses he wore for obfuscation, folded them carefully, and dropped them into a pocket of his labcoat. A feigned absence of pretense was the easiest stratagem he could devise on short notice.

"Lane, I can't afford this." He filled his voice with a vibration of sincerity. "I need you. Director Hannish needs you. You heard her message. It would be impossible to over-state how sorely you're needed.

"I have no time to play therapist for an autistic child."

At first he feared she wouldn't answer. And what if she didn't? What then? He could log on to her terminal, access her notes and records, attempt to reconstruct her results. But such a task might require hours. Even if he accomplished miracles of celerity, it would take too long—

Fortunately she'd heard him. She may have been overwhelmed by despair—

or perhaps just utterly exhausted—

but

she was possessed by a mind which had always responded to the demands he'd placed on it. Her voice seemed to ache with reluctance as she murmured past the screen of her hair, "I failed."

"What, failed? You?" Deliberately he stifled the avuncular tone he normally used in times of stress. Nor did he reveal his relief. Despair was in some sense unanswerable—

a neuro-

chemical wound which no words could heal. Mere failure was an altogether simpler issue. Perhaps she experienced something akin to the shame he'd felt when he'd realized that Warden's game was far deeper than he'd imagined: the wound to his self-esteem. "Forgive my doubt. You could only fail by trying to answer the wrong questions. If you appear to have failed, it must be because I have misnamed your assignment in some way."

After a moment she shook her head—

the only movement

she'd made except for those required by smoking. "I can't find any proof," she murmured listlessly. "Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that what you need?"