This Day All Gods Die (97 page)

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 respond. 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 of 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 af-fairs of humanity.

Norna was dead.

But so was Ward. The man's ambitions had failed in the end, sabotaged by the platform's vulnerability. Some resourceful HS guard had set that explosion. Or Ward had triggered it himself by accessing the station's computers clumsily. Holt didn't care which. He cared only that Ward had at last suffered the ruin he'd tried so hard to bring down on Holt's head.

And Norna's wish for her son's destruction had also failed.

Her death was a small price to pay.

In addition, Holt's now-exclusive data had just experienced an exponential increase in value.

He released a long sigh of satisfaction. "Well, that takes care of the high-and-mighty Warden goddamn Dios," he drawled to the bridge. "The sonofabitch finally got what he deserves, I wish I could have seen his face when he realized HO was about to explode. All that plotting to get his hands on my data, and suddenly he finds he's going to die for it. I'll bet he shat blood when he—

"

Without warning a hand closed in Holt's thin hair, wrenched his head against the back of his g-seat. "I'll bet he didn't," a voice he'd never heard before snarled cheerfully.

"I'll bet he did it himself. I'll bet he was just so sick of you he couldn't bear to let anything you've ever touched survive."

The crew swung their stations, gaped in shock past Holt at the intruder.

"He kept his promises," the man went on. "All of them.

That's supposed to be a good thing, but it's really the shits. It makes a bastard like me feel like he has to do the same."

The pressure on Holt's scalp threatened to choke him; break his neck. He couldn't speak.

Without orders his men didn't move.

"Vestabule cursed me. Can you believe it?" The stranger spoke in a cruel drawl. "He threatened to eliminate my DNA from the galaxy. I guess he didn't think I would end up with a ship like this, just full of interesting secrets. But a mistake is a mistake. Since I can't make any more deals with forbidden space, there's really no reason why I shouldn't do what Dios wants."

Terror labored in Holt's old chest. Frantically he twisted against his g-seat to ease the strain on his throat. Nearly strangling, he croaked out the word that sent his men into combat mode.

They reacted instantly, obedient to his compulsion. As one they slapped at their belts, jumped to their feet, reached for their guns—

and died. The intruder let go of Holt's head.

One thin ruby beam burned a hole into the targ officer's forehead, then slashed across the throat of the man on scan, spill-ing a scorched spray of blood. A second laser devoured most of the helm officer's face.

"Nice trick," the harsh voice remarked. "Most men can't move in unison like that. Did you use voice-command zone implants on them? Oh, dear. I'm afraid that's against the law."

A heavy hand turned Holt's station.

When he saw Angus Thermopyle's face, recognized it from newsdog broadcasts and Ward's files, he started screaming.

Governing Council for Earth

and Space met formally to consider recent events, Morn Hyland watched the proceedings on a video screen.

President Len had insisted on convening this session in the Council's kaze-damaged meeting hall. He'd announced that he considered the venue symbolically important: he wished the split doors and cracked floor, the concussion-gouged plaster and paint, to serve as tangible reminders of the cost of what had transpired. In other words—

according to Min

Donner—

he meant to rub the Members' noses in the mistake of trusting Holt Fasner and the UMC. So humankind's GCES

representatives sat in their assigned places around the large, half-oval table which occupied much of the floor, with their aides, advisers, and secretaries ranked behind them in tiers of seats rising to the walls. Morn recognized the scene, although she'd never been to Suka Bator: it was familiar from any number of news broadcasts and UMCP briefings.

Within the oval, chairs had been arranged for the Council's guests. Davies and Mikka sat there, accompanied by UMCP Acting Director Min Donner, PR Director Koina Hannish, Captain Dolph Ubikwe, ED Chief of Security Mandich, and Hashi Lebwohl. The former DA director currently had no title: he was officially under suspension pending a review of his role in Warden Dios'—

and Holt Fasner's—

crimes.

Morn wasn't with them because she'd refused to attend.

She'd already told her story; laid bare her shame and pain in front of these same people. And she felt weighed down by loss. Ciro's death, and Vector's, and Warden's, seemed to lie on her heart like slabs of lead. The memory of Sib Mackern's abandoned end ached like a bruise. For a time even Angus'

disappearance had troubled her in ways she couldn't name.

She was afraid she might start to weep under the eyes of the Council—

and once she began crying she wouldn't be able to stop.

That crisis would come. It had to. But when it did, she meant to confront it in her own way; at her own time.

Somewhere Mikka Vasaczk had found the strength to face the assembled authority of humankind, despite her injuries.

And Min Donner could do the same, even though she'd lost the man she served. But neither of them had accepted the control to a zone implant from a killer and rapist—

or believed

they couldn't survive without it. Morn Hyland was no longer willing to endure the anguish of answering questions, or standing up under scrutiny.

Fortunately Min had accepted her decision; supported it.

The acting director had assigned her a suite of rooms in UMCPHQ, given her codes to lock her doors against anyone.

The suite was supplied with video screens and data terminals, if she wished to use them. She even had her own food-vend.

And the entire station had standing orders to leave her alone; let her come and go as she pleased.

As much as possible, she was allowed to make her own peace with what had happened.

She didn't think that she would ever be at peace again.

Nevertheless she was deeply grateful for Min's consideration.

Real privacy comforted her even when it failed to relieve her pain. She didn't keep to herself all the time, however. During the two days since Calm Horizons' death and UMCHO's destruction, she'd spent hours with Davies and Mikka, talking about what they'd done—

and how they bore it. And she'd

given Min as much time as Min asked for; done her best to explain and describe everything so that Min would understand the whole story.

But she found no solace in words, no matter how much she cared about the people who said them. Mikka's courage and Davies' desire to help did nothing for her. Messages of congratulations, thanks, and praise from the GCES and Koina Hannish, Earth's planetary governments, other stations, even corporations once owned by the UMC: all arrived at her data terminal stillborn. She felt no triumph over what she and Trumpet's people had accomplished; no vindication. The way Warden Dios had used her and the others—

the way he'd

trusted them—

neither incensed nor gratified her. Apparently only solitude could reach her where she grieved. She clung to the loneliness of her quarters, unwilling to venture forth until she was ready.

During those two days, only one small bit of news lifted the edge of her sorrow. UMCPHQ had received a flare from Motherlode, tight-beamed moments before the gap yacht had disappeared into tach. Min had shared it with Morn as soon as it came in.

Dios told me to stop Fasner, Angus had sent. So I did. But I'm going to keep his ship. I like it.

Tell Morn that Fasner was easy. Dios did the hard part.

And tell her I told him to say good-bye.

For reasons she didn't question, Morn was pleased that Angus hadn't died on HO.

Min allowed her a moment to absorb the message. Then the acting director remarked, "You know what this means.

Angus has Holt's data."

According to one of HO's surviving techs, a man named Servil, the Dragon had downloaded all his essential files to Motherlode before leaving the station.

Quietly Morn asked, "Does that worry you?"

Min chuckled without much humor. "Not really. We have codes to fry his brain. He knows that. I don't think he'll want to call attention to himself by using that data.

"And Hashi assures me he still can't come here. He's been freed in other ways, but his datacore won't let him do that. Which limits the amount of damage he can do."

Then she added, "On the other hand, those secrets give him a lever. We don't want to risk provoking him. If he thinks he's being hassled, he might decide to strike back. It's a stand-off of sorts. We'll all be happier if we leave each other alone."

Morn was glad that he was alive. She was even glad that he had the means to defend his freedom. And she was profoundly glad that he was gone. At last she could let go of the sore, conflicted part of herself which cared what happened to him.

For the rest of the time before she began to watch this session of the Council, only being alone helped her; protected her. The lock on her door was all that held back the consequences of her ordeal while she tried to gather her courage.

Shortly after Punisher had reached UMCPHQ, Min had informed Morn that Warden Dios had sent her a message before he died. He'd sent one to Min as well—

and to Hashi

Lebwohl. Morn's was available on her terminal whenever she wanted to look at it. But she hadn't read it. For two days she'd told herself that nothing Warden could say to her would make a difference now. In fact, however, she needed to isolate herself from him as much as from the GCES and most of UMCPHQ. She feared his message would break down the fragile barrier which prevented her from collapsing into her grief.

After a certain number of formalities, President Len began the session by describing briefly the aftermath of Calm Horizons' incursion. The entire intricate complex of the UMC

was in disarray, he explained, with staggering implications for the financial structure of human society; but few lives had been lost. Most of the deaths were the result of Acting Director Donner's necessary strike against UMCHO—

and of War-

den Dios' more ambiguous destruction of the platform.

Financial structures could and would be repaired. Considering all the dangers that had been averted—

by actions of almost

unimaginable valor and resourcefulness—

the planet should

deem itself enormously fortunate.

Other issues were more disturbing. Len was sure that Calm Horizons must have communicated with forbidden space before approaching Earth. Therefore the Amnion possessed the Shaheed formula. And therefore it was only a matter of time before the formula was rendered ineffective.

For that, at least, Morn had forgiven herself. Long before Vector had begun to broadcast his formula, the Amnion had obtained it from her blood. She'd placed her entire species in danger for the sake of her own survival. But she'd preserved her humanity. Her only alternative had been surrender: a kind of self-destruct. She'd come to believe that the need for a better answer was more important than keeping Nick's antimutagen secret.

Some of the Members, President Len now proclaimed, would argue that humankind should attack the Amnion immediately, while the Shaheed formula remained viable. A decision would be made in a few days. But he warned that he would strenuously oppose any hostile response. In his view, an assault on forbidden space would be desperately shortsighted: too unsure of success; too expensive to carry out. War was the worst possible solution to interstellar conflict, and he meant to stand in its way as long as he held office.