A Dark and Hungry God Arises

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Right now, in fact.

  “It’s a complex issue. Please stop me if I’m boring you, Mother. I had the distinct impression that Ward didn’t want to obey when I told him to set up that frame on Com-Mine. Our Ward is still too much of an idealist. He doesn’t like to get involved in the practical side of politics. I’ve actually heard him make speeches against ‘descending to the level of our enemies.’ But he did it because he could get something he wanted out of it—which was this Angus Thermopyle. As far as I can tell, he didn’t actually want more authority for its own sake.” As if to himself—but watching his mother closely—Holt mused, “I wish I knew how hard I would have had to push him to make him follow orders if he hadn’t wanted Angus.”

  If Norna said anything, he didn’t hear it.

  “The point, however,” Holt resumed, “is that Ward did follow orders. He is following orders. The next few days should produce some interesting developments on the fringes of forbidden space.”

  Now Norna muttered something that sounded like, “Why does that bother Godsen?”

  “Good question!” her son exclaimed jovially. “As usual, Mother, you’ve cut right to the heart of the matter. Why does that bother a dedicated public servant like Godsen Frik?

  “Well, of course, we wouldn’t have been able to frame this Angus Thermopyle if we hadn’t had someone working for us inside Com-Mine Security. But it would be”—Holt considered his choice of adjectives—“unfortunate if any local investigation uncovered the truth. We passed the Preempt Act on the assumption that local Security couldn’t be trusted—that Com-Mine had a traitor working for forbidden space. If word got out that the traitor was actually working for us—well, I could probably keep station votes in line, but the rest of the Council would go absolutely shit-faced.

  “To protect against that eventuality, Ward reqqed our traitor at the same time as Angus—a sadistic little bureaucrat named Milos Taverner. All well and good, so far. But here comes the part that upsets Godsen. Angus is a cyborg now, programmed down to his toes. He can’t clean his teeth without permission from his datacore. But he still needs a control—someone who can adjust his programming to meet unforeseen circumstances. In addition, he needs crew. And on top of that, he needs cover. He needs an explanation for why he’s free, how he got out of lockup, where he got his ship.”

  Holt paused for effect, then said, “Ward has chosen Milos to go with Angus.”

  Norna chewed her silence. Traces of saliva leaked past her lips instead of words. Her eyes flicked rapidly across all her screens, but never toward her son.

  “Am I making this clear enough for you, Mother?” Holt asked in a tone of cheerful solicitude. “We know Milos has the soul of a traitor because he betrayed Com-Mine Security for us. Ward says he won’t turn against us because we’ve got him by the short hairs.” That was another phrase Holt Fasner especially enjoyed. “If he reveals anything we don’t want him to reveal—or does anything we don’t want him to do—he’s cooked. But Godsen has a different perspective. A more ‘public’ perspective. If these activities become known, what are ‘the people,’ ‘the great unwashed masses’”—such words rolled almost gleefully off Holt’s tongue—“going to think of sending out a known murderer and rapist under the control of a known traitor? What are the votes on the GCES going to think of Ward’s belief that Milos won’t turn against us?

  “And what are the chances, really, that Milos won’t turn against us? He can probably make a stellar fortune by selling everything he knows about us—not to mention about Angus,” although Milos couldn’t literally sell Angus himself, since the programming which made Angus loyal to the UMCP was unalterable.

  “Our Godsen knows his duties. It’s his job to become hysterical and froth at the mouth in situations like this. And it’s his job to come to me.

  “I haven’t backed him up, however. I don’t want him to forget his place—I don’t want him to think he has the power to tell me what to do. And I don’t want to undermine Ward.” Not in a case like this, where the potential benefits were large—a dramatic victory against forbidden space and piracy, wonderful for the credibility of the UMCP—and the likely risks were small. After all, if Milos misbehaved Ward could always order Nick Succorso to kill him. “He has a talent for this kind of delicate manipulation. And he’s the best UMCP director I could ask for. He may be the only man I know who might be able to threaten me—if I didn’t own him down to his soul.”

  In fact, Holt would have feared Ward if he hadn’t gained a kind of absolute complicity from Ward by winning Ward’s acquiescence in the suppression of Intertech’s immunity drug.

  A small voice whispered out of Norna’s husk. “But you’re still worried.”

  “How right you are, Mother,” Holt agreed. “I’m still worried. No matter how careful Ward is, he’s still taking a risk—and you know I don’t like risks. That’s the reason I suppressed Intertech’s antimutagen. It had at least the theoretical potential to shift the balance of power across human space. Any effective defense against the way the Amnion impose mutation could conceivably undercut Ward and the whole UMCP by making them appear less vital, less necessary. That might have weakened my position with the votes.”

  He shrugged judiciously. “Or not. Maybe none of those things would have happened. But I didn’t want to take the chance. So I made sure that only Ward and Hashi know the drug actually exists—and that only Hashi can use it. To protect Data Acquisition’s covert operations, don’t you see?

  “Now Ward’s taking a risk of his own. Not without consulting me, of course. His reasons for doing it are pretty persuasive,” if only because Angus Thermopyle would have a chance to eliminate the problem of Morn Hyland. She was a UMCP ensign with an unauthorized zone implant and—presumably—knowledge of the immunity drug; and if she ever left forbidden space to tell what she knew, PR and the whole of the UMCP would have a disaster of mega-proportions on their hands. “It’s what you might call a surgical strike.” Holt licked his lips. “Extirpate a melanoma before it spreads.

  “So he’s taking this particular risk with my blessing. But I’m still worried about it. I think Ward is getting himself in trouble.”

  Norna’s words were no more than a low growl against the blurred mutter of the screens, but for some reason Holt heard them as clearly as if her voice were the only sound in the room.

  “I think he’s getting you in trouble.”

  Holt chuckled automatically. “Come now, Mother. Don’t be an alarmist. You’ll get yourself all excited for nothing. This is Warden Dios we’re talking about. I made him—he’s my right hand. He can’t use the san without doing it to benefit me.”

  He might have gone on; but his blather trailed away as he saw Norna pointing a gnarled and tremulous finger at one of the screens.

  At first he couldn’t tell which one. A romance? No, one of the news broadcasts. Somewhere in the midst of the intolerable babble a male face with an authoritative voice and no mind was saying, “… this special bulletin.”

  Special bulletin? What special bulletin? Nothing happened—nothing was allowed to happen—in human space unless Holt Fasner knew about it first.

  “A highly placed source in the office of the UMCP director of protocol on UMCPHQ Station has confirmed that Angus Thermopyle has escaped.”

  Without warning, a tingle ran down Holt’s nearly strong spine and tightened around his scrotum.

  “Captain Thermopyle,” said the male head as if he were anything more than a ventriloquist’s dummy, “is an illegal captured and convicted approximately six months ago on Com-Mine Station, and later transferred to UMCPHQ by the orders of Hashi Lebwohl, Director of Data Acquisition. No explanation has ever been released for Data Acquisition’s interest in Captain Thermopyle. However, as this news team reported at the time, he is no ordinary illegal. The circumstances of his arrest and conviction are widely held to be the precipitating factor in the recent passage of the so-called Preempt Act by the Governing Council for Earth and
Space. Apparently Captain Thermopyle was assisted in his piracies by a traitor within Com-Mine Station Security. Doubts about the integrity of station Security across human space persuaded the members of the GCES of the necessity of the Preempt Act.

  “That Captain Thermopyle was able to escape from UMCPHQ itself is sufficiently disturbing. However, our source in the office of the UMCP Director of Protocol has confirmed that the situation is worse than it appears.

  “The difficulties revolve around a man who was at one time the Deputy Chief of Com-Mine Station Security, Milos Taverner.”

  Oh, shit, thought Holt. Anxiety spread from his groin up into his chest. His lungs hurt as if they were getting old.

  Like all dummies, the male head in the news broadcast was implacable. “Because he was responsible for the interrogation of Captain Thermopyle on Com-Mine Station, Deputy Chief Taverner was brought to UMCPHQ along with Captain Thermopyle, again on orders from the Director of Data Acquisition. Ostensibly Deputy Chief Taverner was reqqed by Data Acquisition to continue his interrogation of Captain Thermopyle. He was considered to have a unique and invaluable knowledge of the prisoner.

  “Now, however, our source has confirmed that Deputy Chief Taverner was brought to UMCPHQ, not because of his specialized knowledge, but because he was thought to be the traitor who had betrayed Com-Mine Station Security. He was brought to UMCPHQ so that Data Acquisition might learn the truth about him—and so that the threat he represents would be neutralized.

  “For reasons which are not clear at this time, Deputy Chief Taverner was not adequately guarded. Now, it appears, he has succeeded at breaking his former partner, Captain Thermopyle, out of confinement. Together they have stolen a ship and escaped UMCPHQ.

  “The implications of this apparent incompetence on the part of the UMCP are vast and frightening for a species already threatened with extinction by the Amnion—a species protected only by the same men and women who have just allowed a convicted pirate and his most dangerous accomplice to slip through their fingers.”

  There was more: a recap of Captain Thermopyle’s arrest and conviction, and a summary of Deputy Chief Taverner’s record, followed by an exhaustive analysis of events by a whole panel of self-appointed experts—genophobes, libertarians, free-market crazies, native Earthers; every political fringe group that wanted votes on the GCES and didn’t have them. Holt Fasner had stopped listening, however. He was already on the intercom, securing a channel between the home office and UMCPHQ—putting the fear of the Dragon into every technician and secretary between his mother’s sickchamber and Godsen Frik.

  His hands shook the entire time.

  WARDEN

  rom his personal Command Operations Room in UMCPHQ Center, Warden Dios watched Trumpet run out smoothly through Station control space. Except for Min Donner, his Enforcement Division director and occasional bodyguard, he was alone: he’d sent everyone else away, even the communications techs who were supposed to keep him in instant contact with every department and activity of the United Mining Companies Police. He hadn’t locked the door, but he had silenced all the CO Room pickups, monitors, and logs.

  Solitude was rare for the UMCP director. Silence was even rarer. Being with Min may not have been the same thing as being alone; but at least she didn’t talk unless she had something important to say.

  So far Trumpet’s departure was meticulous. The ship hadn’t filed any kind of destination report, and hadn’t been asked for one; but her blip on the screens showed that she was following her assigned trajectory exactly: on course at the correct speed; responding precisely to the data and demands from the navigational buoys which managed UMCPHQ’s—and Earth’s—heavy in-system traffic.

  Had Warden Dios expected anything else? Not really. Trumpet had only two men aboard, and neither Angus Thermopyle nor Milos Taverner was likely to begin improvising so early. Angus was as perfectly welded as Hashi Lebwohl could make him—and Hashi was a wizard of cybernetics. The idea that Angus would ever diverge from his programming was almost inconceivable. In any case, Milos would keep him in line.

  And whatever actions Milos’ uncertain loyalties might inspire, they certainly wouldn’t be of a kind to attract attention—or doubt—this close to Earth and UMCPHQ. He’d been too well trained, too thoroughly threatened. In addition Warden had arranged to burn Milos’ bridges behind him. The news bulletin which Protocol had released through one of Godsen Frik’s subordinates, announcing Angus’ “escape” and Milos’ “complicity,” enforced Milos’ cooperation. The former deputy chief of Com-Mine Station Security might eventually dare many things; but he wouldn’t dare them here.

  The UMCP director had no reason to stay where he was. He was a busy man. He should already have gone on to other duties. Still he valued the silence and the near solitude. Alone with Min Donner, he remained in the privacy of his CO Room, watching Trumpet—and a piece of his own fate—pass out of his control.

  He believed the whole human species was at issue. Otherwise he would not have been able to do what he did.

  He was a strong man, with a thick chest and powerful arms. The lines of his face and jaw seemed hard enough to have been cut from metal. And the patch glued over the prosthesis of his left eye, like the crookedness of his nose, only made him look stronger. But sometimes he needed more than strength to stand the strain of his oblique intentions. He needed to remind himself of the consequences if he failed.

  If he failed, Holt Fasner would win.

  Warden Dios had done too much to help create the Dragon’s power: he couldn’t turn his back on his responsibility now that he finally understood the danger of what he and Holt together had made.

  For a moment the outgoing blip blurred slightly as navigational transmission shifted from one buoy to the next. In another hour, Trumpet would reach her assigned gap range—considerably closer to Earth than other ships were allowed, but well within the priority zone restricted for the UMCP’s use. Then she would be gone. And Warden would have to live with the outcome.

  Min adjusted her weight slightly; her fingers stroked the butt of the handgun she carried everywhere. Warden suspected that she wore her impact pistol to bed. Without lifting her eyes from the screens, she asked quietly, “Do you really think this is going to work?”

  He glanced over at her. The strictness of her mouth never altered; her jet hair had been marked by exactly those streaks of gray ever since she’d become his most valued assistant. Her gaze was hot enough to scorch men with less iron in their souls—or less scar tissue.

  In an oddly impersonal way, he loved her. More personally, he respected her moral clarity, her loyalty to her people in ED; her commitment to the law and power which preserved the fragile integrity of human space. Years ago those qualities used to swell his heart. Now they made him grieve.

  Because he was grieving, he was less cautious than he should have been. “I think,” he replied, “if it doesn’t, the Dragon is going to force me to commit seppuku.”

  That brought her around to face him. Her eyes burned into his—the artificial orb behind its patch and the human one. Her whole body blazed with infrared emissions. “Then why are you doing it?”

  “Min—” No question about it: he should have been more circumspect; should never have given her this opening. She was already in enough danger, simply because she was the Enforcement Division director—and honest. “What do you suppose my choices are?”

  “You could send me,” she said promptly, tightly. “Or you could let me put together a team. Instead of sending out a cyborg and a traitor, not to mention sacrificing Morn Hyland”—Min was not a woman who feared to speak her mind—“you could have let somebody you trust try to do both jobs. Put Billingate out of business and rescue Morn.

  “It’s suicide to leave her there,” she pursued before he could respond. “The Amnion might get their hands on her. And she doesn’t deserve to be abandoned like that. She doesn’t deserve to just be put out of her misery along with that shipyard. If you think A
ngus and Milos are too chancy to rescue her”—Min’s tone was acid; her body, the color of mineral acid—“if you think asking them to pull her out is too complex, try something else. Let me organize a team. Or go myself.”

  Abruptly she stopped. Dios could see the flux of tension along her jaw as she bit down on the other things she was tempted to say.

  “Because,” he replied falsely, hiding his sorrow, “she doesn’t matter now. I don’t care whether you understand or not. And I don’t care how much it hurts to let go of her. Only Angus and Milos matter. Everything depends on them. If I give them a reason to fail—if I make their job too difficult by ordering them to rescue Morn—they might as well not go at all.”

  And if they fail us, we’re doomed.

  Min must have known that she couldn’t conceal her distress from him. Nevertheless she turned her head away so that he couldn’t see her eyes, her expression.

  He was tempted to ask, Min, do you still trust me? Are you going to back me up? But he knew she would tell him the truth—for reasons which had nothing to do with his ability to distinguish lies—so he allowed her to keep her answers private. She had that right. Instead he took his next step along the path of culpability and sacrifice that he’d chosen for himself.

  “There’s something I want you to do for me,” he told her. “It can’t come from me, but it’s got to be done.”

  She waited without moving.

  Stifling a sigh, Warden asked, “Have we got any supporters on the Governing Council—I mean, supporters who are also opponents of the UMC? I should know the answer, but I have a hard time forcing myself to think about things like this.”

  He read her puzzlement as she thought. After a moment she inquired, “Are you talking about a bloc of votes? Or individual voters?”

  “Individuals. Council members.”

  She let out a breath like a small snort. Facing him again, she said, “Captain Vertigus.”