This Day All Gods Die (94 page)

A moment passed before he realized he could hear one voice which lacked the transmission quality of the video channels. With an effort, he looked away from the screens to finish scanning the room.

At once he saw her. The screens shone full on her mum-mified face; reflected from her staring eyes. The phosphor glow emphasized her apparent lifelessness: she looked like an effigy of death carved in old flesh. But she wasn't dead. Her eyelids blinked sporadically. At intervals she tried to swallow some of the saliva leaking from the corners of her mouth.

She lived because machines refused to let her die. IVs festooned her arms: some tapped directly into her neck. A device that did her breathing for her enclosed her chest; circulated her blood. Below the equipment her legs protruded along her medical crib like rolls of antique hardcopy.

So swiftly that he hardly noticed what he did, Angus moved to leave the room. But at the door he caught himself; stopped on the edge of fleeing for his life. Shit, the crib! An autonomic terror had taken hold of him before he could control it. She was in the crib. If his computer hadn't helped him, he wouldn't have been able to control it now.

There was nothing to be afraid of. He told himself that harshly while panic roared in his ears, throbbed in his temples.

She was in the crib. He wasn't. He wasn't. Morn and Warden had set him free. He didn't need to be scared. Instead of feeling all this terror, he ought to gloat over her, glad to see someone else in that position for a change.

But she was in the crib. His mother had tied his wrists and ankles to the slats. IVs and equipment nailed this woman in place. His mother had twisted his whole life with pain which Holt Fasner's mother understood absolutely.

He couldn't feel glad: that malicious pleasure was beyond him. His fear ran too deep. At one time he'd been perfectly capable of selling twenty-eight men and women to the Amnion. For all he knew, he might still be able to do it. But he believed that even in his worst and most brutal rages he could never have done that to another living being.

No, he was wrong: he had done it. Even that last perception of himself was false. Didn't he think of his welding as a kind of crib? And hadn't he forced a zone implant into Morn's head? Imposed his own version of welding on her? Reduced her to a machine?—

a thing that lived only to satisfy him?

Now finally he understood that terrible moment aboard Bright Beauty when he'd wept over the damage Starmaster had done to his ship—

or over the damage he'd done to Morn.

Even then he hadn't been sure which caused him the most pain. But he knew now.

Murder was a small crime by comparison.

He remained, paralyzed, at the door until he heard the woman mutter insistently, "Is someone there? I thought I was alone." Repeating herself for the second or third or tenth time.

Still awake: still conscious inside her terrible prison.

As if the situation had suddenly become simple, he left the doorway and crossed the room to stand in front of Holt Fasner's mother. She was still conscious; still suffered the torment he'd fled all his life. That changed everything. Violent tremors ran through him like spasms of revulsion; but his zone implants concealed them. Nevertheless they couldn't stifle the grief and rage that congested his face as he looked at her.

"You're not alone," he answered her hoarsely. "I'm here."

As far as he could tell, she didn't so much as glance at him. Her eyes flicked past him from side to side, hunting her screens for sanity or death.

"Captain Angus Thermopyle." Her voice was a husky whisper. "Killer. Rapist. Illegal. I recognize you.

"You're in my way."

The sound made his scalp crawl; sent skinworms of distress along his spine.

"I know." He wanted to step aside; wanted to hide his distress in the gloom beyond the screens. Ruled by his computer, his body stayed where it was.

Her toothless gums chewed over his refusal to move for a moment. "In that case," she breathed thinly, "you must want something. What is it?"

The taste of her helplessness sickened him. He bit down hard so that he wouldn't gag on it.

"Tell me where Fasner is."

Her eyes went on searching past him, picking up grains of comprehension from the screens. "What do I get out of it?"

His throat closed. He fought down bile. "What do you want?"

A small gust of mirthless laughter pulled through her.

Spit drooled down her chin. "I can't tell you. I've been living this way too long."

Involuntarily Angus matched her strained whisper.

"That's all right," he assured her. "I know what you want."

She might not have heard him. She was silent for a while.

Then she remarked obliquely, "Warden is doing better. But it's still not good enough."

Angus had no idea how much she knew; what she understood. She was probably crazy. Yet he believed instinctively that she'd grasped everything.

Pressure mounted in him. Clenching his fists, he retorted,

"Will it be 'good enough' if he brings this station down around your ears?"

The woman's eyes showed a hint of moisture. Small bits of light and images from the screens reflected in her gaze.

"Only if he does it in time."

"Then let me help him," Angus urged quickly. "Tell me where Fasner is."

She laughed again. "Promise me first." That may have been as close as she could come to sobbing. "Give me your word of honor. As a gentleman."

He knew why she hesitated; why she feared him. She knew too much about him—

and too little.

He moved closer to her, pushed his face at hers. "I'm not a gentleman," he rasped grimly. "I don't know what honor is.

I don't even know your name. But I wouldn't leave a fucking Amnioni like this."

That was true now.

"You hate him," he told her. "Because he did this to you. That's what keeps you alive. If you don't help me stop him, he's probably going to live forever."

For the first time the woman looked straight at him.

"Warden was right," she breathed. A damp film distorted or purified her vision as she studied him past the confines of her crib. "He staked everything on you. And that Hyland girl.

I thought it was a mistake. But I was wrong."

In a voice he could barely hear, she told him how to find Motherlode's berth.

Without hesitation he snatched both rifles from his shoulders. No flinch or flicker marred his resolve as he aimed his guns at the machine which breathed for her and smashed it to scrap; blasted her imposed life out of her.

At once her old eyes filled up with rest, then glazed to darkness as her torment finally let her go. But he didn't stop there. Instead he blazed fire like a saturation barrage around the room, ripping apart the rest of her equipment, pulverizing her video screens, tearing chunks of plaster out of the walls and ceiling. He didn't release the firing studs of his rifles until he'd reduced the whole place to gloom and debris.

He kept that promise. In some ways he was becoming more like Warden Dios all the time.

Leaving ruin behind him, he burst from the room at a run to keep another.

lift or two; a few corridors.

One more crime: the most spectacular—

but by no means the

worst—

crime of his compromised life. The place where he and Angus had separated was closer to UMCHO Center than to Norna Fasner's sickchamber. Angus probably had less time than Warden did. On the other hand, the cyborg was much faster. And he killed more easily.

In spite of everything, Warden Dios still wanted to keep his own body count to a minimum.

UMCHO Center wasn't the real nexus of Holt's vast empire. But Red Priority security locks would give Warden access to Holt's data from any board in the HO network. And Center had resources he needed; resources which would be easier to use there than from some remote console. In addition, he was hoping for help. If he couldn't persuade or coerce at least one Center tech to assist him, his last crime would be much more difficult to carry out. A lot more people would die—

He ran steadily, but didn't push himself; tried to balance speed and caution. It would be too pitiful for words if he came all this way only to let some nameless HS guard kill him prematurely. But he didn't encounter any guards. The few people he met were unarmed and scared; consumed by the danger; no threat to him. He reached the corridor outside Center without firing at anyone.

The Center doors were guarded, however. He'd been sure they would be. In general Holt didn't inspire the kind of loyalty that would hold men and women at their posts when he'd obviously abandoned them. The guards were there, not to keep other people out, but to keep the techs in.

Left to themselves, HO's civilians would have welcomed anyone who suggested rescue or escape. Unfortunately a darker commitment drove Home Security. The guards knew that if they were taken they would be held accountable for any number of Holt's actions. Their only hope was to believe that the CEO might still find a way to save them.

Warden knew they were mistaken: Holt had no intention of saving any of them. But he was also sure these guards wouldn't listen to him if he tried to argue the point. Before they spotted him, he flipped a concussion grenade at their feet; ducked around a corner while it went off. Then he hurried to the doors.

As a precaution, he slung the guards' rifles over his shoulder, shoved their sidearms into his belt. Armed like a guerrilla, he thrust open the doors and strode into HO Center.

The hall itself was hardly distinguishable from any center of operations in human space. Function dictated form. Displays ranked the walls: rows of consoles lined the deck: flat, impersonal lighting washed out shadows and ambiguities. Except for its size, this could have been UMCPHQ Center.

It was built to a larger scale, however. The staggering amount of data processed here dwarfed UMCPHQ's operations. Holt could have run a planet from this room—

if he

hadn't been so busy trying to manipulate all of human space.

But the place was practically empty. As he came through the doors, Warden counted five techs and a guard. That was all, in a room where hundreds of men and women usually worked. If the rest had fled, and a guard was required to keep these five at their consoles—

Warden jumped to the conclusion that the techs weren't working for HO. They weren't directing an evacuation, running support systems, allocating resources, restraining panic; weren't doing any of the jobs a damaged station full of terrified people needed. Otherwise more of the techs would have stayed.

So they were processing Holt's download. Whether they knew it or not, they were helping him copy the data which would enable him to bargain with the Amnion.

Warden had his rifle in the guard's face before the man could reach his weapons.

"I'm Warden Dios," he barked even though anyone who worked for Center or HS would recognize him, "UMCP Director Dios. I'm taking command. From now on you're all under my authority." He jabbed his rifle at the guard. "You, drop your guns. Techs, stay at your consoles."

Fatigue or despair turned the guard's features gray. Sweat gleamed on his upper lip. Apparently he lacked the courage—

or the desperation—

for suicide. His IR aura twisted with defeat as he dropped his rifle; tossed his handgun aside.

Warden heard the doors bang shut. He wheeled toward them, swept his rifle into line; but saw nobody.

One of the techs had fled.

Damn! He jerked back to cover the guard again.

The man hadn't moved. The other techs remained at their stations.

Warden took a deep breath, held it to steady his heart.

When he let it out, he told the guard, "You can go. If you think this is a good time for HS to attack me, you're stupider than you look. We're going to begin arranging evacuation procedures, get people off this platform as fast as we can. If you interfere—

if HS starts a firefight that cripples this room—

you'll all die here, and you won't have anyone to blame but yourselves.

"Do you understand me?"

"I understand, Director," the guard sighed.

Warden read his aura clearly; saw his resignation. The man wanted to live. He would leave Warden and Center alone.

As soon as the guard left, Warden turned to the techs.

All four of them were on their feet. A show of respect?

He doubted it. They radiated too much fright. More likely they wanted to run—

Their boards stood in a row partway across the room: the guard had probably ordered them to work side by side so that he could watch them comfortably. Warden moved toward them, letting the muzzle of his rifle drop to diminish the threat he projected. He hated the sight of their fear. He'd become a cop because he wanted to reduce the perils of being human, not because he liked scaring relatively innocent men and women half to death. But he had no reassurance to give the techs unless they agreed to help him.

One of them took him completely by surprise.

A young man stepped past the others toward Warden. He was a kid, really; couldn't have been more than twenty. He had blond hair so pale it was nearly invisible: patches of sweat on his scalp showed through it like stains. His eyes gaped as if he'd gone blind with alarm.

The id patch on his worksuit identified him as "Servil."

From one of his pockets he produced a projectile gun and aimed it at Warden's chest.

"I'm sorry, Director." His voice shook, but his hand didn't waver. "I can't let you interrupt us. We have work to finish."

Warden froze. He'd completely misread the nature of the young man's fright. The other techs may have needed a guard to keep them at their posts: this kid didn't. He was still young enough to believe in Holt—

as young as Warden had been

when he'd first fallen under the Dragon's spell.

He could have taken Servil easily. As soon as the kid brought out his handgun, the other techs scattered; ducked away among the stations; hurried crouching along the rows toward the doors. That distracted him. He took his aim off Warden, instinctively looking for a way to make the other techs return. Warden could have snatched the gun from him without effort.