A Dark and Hungry God Arises

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The door slid open.

  The room was bigger than his cabin aboard Trumpet, but not much. The air was no better than the atmosphere outside Ease-n-Sleaze: apparently the room had recently been occupied by someone who liked to smoke nic laced with dorphamphetamines. The nacreous walls were rank with stains; some of the splotches looked like old grease or blood. Two ersatz stainless steel chairs slumped against them. A ratty fabric like exhausted Velcro covered the floor. Light the color of defeated neon spread from reflectors in the corners of the ceiling. A data terminal set into one wall gave him the means to contact people—or spend money—without leaving his quarters. The bed probably knew almost as much about desperation and hate as he did.

  Before his heart beat again, he was sure that the room was safe. It had its own bugeye, sure—privacy was an ambiguous concept anywhere in the Bill’s domain. But the room itself wasn’t dangerous. He could do whatever he wanted here—as long as he didn’t mind being watched.

  For completeness he checked the bathroom. Then he returned to Milos.

  “Home sweet home,” he announced. “Let’s see if yours is any better.”

  Compelled by his zone implants to take care of his second, he confirmed that there was no material difference between his room and Milos’. Only the shade of the stains varied.

  Milos hardly glanced at the room. He studied Angus’ face, looking for dangers; hints of alarm.

  Concerned that Milos might feel driven to demand reassurance by issuing a Joshua order in the Bill’s hearing, Angus growled sourly, “It’s like living beside a bugger. Everything’s recorded. You’re safe—as long as you never do anything.” By now he was sure that Milos knew enough about buggers to understand him.

  Milos shrugged stiffly, as if he could feel the bugeyes pressing against his shoulder blades. Nevertheless he made an effort to play his part. “If we never do anything,” he asked plaintively, “how are we going to have any fun?”

  Angus snorted. Torn between what he wanted and what his programming required, he said, “You should have thought of that before you got yourself on DA’s shit list.” Then, as if he were relenting, he added, “We can at least get drunk. We probably won’t get in trouble doing that. The Bill doesn’t trust us, but he’ll let us spend your money.”

  Just for a second, Milos looked so cornered and exposed, so full of self-pity, that Angus thought he might burst into tears like a whipped brat. An instant later, however, his features tightened, and darkness gathered behind his eyes. He’d remembered his anger.

  “I’m ready,” he said flatly. “Let’s go.”

  Good, Angus sneered to himself because his programming wouldn’t let him say the words; wouldn’t let him gibe at his second in a public place. I love it when you’re pissed. That’s when you make your worst mistakes.

  Chewing useless fantasies in which Milos begged for death while Angus played cat’s cradle with his guts, Captain Thermopyle led his second down to the bar.

  Nick Succorso was waiting for them at a table in one of the dim, dirty corners.

  ANGUS

  he bar itself was a long stretch of simulated wood, old with stains and gouges. Both men working back and forth in front of the ranks of vats, dispensers, and vials had the vacant look of null-wave transmitters: men who couldn’t cheat anyone because they’d given up or lost the ability to make that kind of decision. Light reflected in smears from the grimy fixtures and fittings, the glasses and metal.

  The bar had been set against one wall, so that it seemed to lead toward the stage at the far end of the room. No one was performing at the moment: the acts playing there were between sets. That was too bad. The din and glare of a performance would have hampered the Bill’s bugeyes. Inevitably the pickups and cameras would have been less discerning. A show might cover the audience enough to make private conversation safe—

  —might cover Angus enough to let him ease forward and stab a laser into the base of Nick Succorso’s brain without being effectively recorded.

  But he didn’t care whether he was recorded. He didn’t give a shit who knew what he did. As soon as he saw Nick, his brain went black with hate, and he started forward with bloodshed in his mouth and murder in his fists. Fuck the Bill. Fuck Milos and Lebwohl and zone implants. Nick Succorso was the man who’d caused Bright Beauty’s destruction. He’d trapped Angus, deprived him of space and choice. The fact that Angus was here now, welded and cursed, was a direct result of Nick’s treachery.

  Worse than that, Succorso had taken Morn. Angus refused to admit his pain, even to himself; nevertheless the thought of Morn with Nick hurt him as acutely as the dismantling of his ship. Morn had wanted Nick from the first moment she saw him, Angus never doubted that, and after Angus was framed she’d given Succorso the one thing Angus had failed to extort or coerce from her: her willingness; her self.

  Because he denied the laceration of his heart, he didn’t realize that losing her to his betrayer had only reinforced the abject fidelity with which he’d struggled to keep his end of their bargain.

  In his mind he was already moving. A few steps to reach the tables. Between them toward the corner where Succorso sat. A look of slaughter on his face so that Captain Sheepfucker would know what was about to happen. A quick grab, at microprocessor speeds; too fast to be stopped: a fist to the side of Succorso’s neck, aiming a laser while he fought and failed to break loose. Then one quick mental command, one fierce squeeze of will, and Nick would slump in his hands, all that brave buccaneering superiority and manliness turned to dead meat in an instant of coherent light.

  Angus did it, he did it. No inhuman lump of circuits and restrictions could stop him; no zone implant could defuse this hate. No matter how much it cost him, no matter what neural excruciation it exacted, he did it. Succorso hung lifeless in his fists, and he was free again, free, alive at last to kill or connive for his own survival—

  But of course he didn’t do it. The whole idea was a mirage. He could see it in his mind as if it were real: his datacore and his zone implants paid no attention. While he faced Nick’s mocking grin and his scars across the bar, Angus couldn’t move or speak; could hardly breathe. He would have been unable even to sweat in his agony if his programming had decreed otherwise.

  “Maybe,” Milos breathed as if he’d recovered his smugness, “this is going to be fun after all.”

  A sound like a wail squalled in Angus’ head; but his datacore stifled every hint or whimper of his distress.

  His mouth against Angus’ ear, Milos whispered, “Come on, Joshua. Do your job.”

  Involuntarily, as bloated with mortality as a toad, Angus lumbered into motion.

  Entirely against his will, he located the bugeyes, then began scanning the room for wires. He spotted only two. One, a man perched at the bar itself, sat hunched over a pair of mechanical hands as if the fact that they also served as transmitters nauseated him; he was out of range to eavesdrop on Nick. The other, a woman with virtually no clothes and an unmistakable EM signature, sat at a table near Nick’s corner. She wasn’t alone: two men huddled beside her, alternately buying her drinks, whispering in her ears, and fondling her breasts. But they were nothing; she was the only danger.

  Angus’ datacore advised him to get rid of her. But it didn’t say how—and didn’t exert any pressure.

  Nick remained sitting as Angus and Milos approached. His back was in the corner so that he could watch the room. Angus would have preferred that position himself; however, his programming made other decisions. He’d already identified the emission traces from the wall which showed where the wiring for the nearest bugeyes ran. He would be closer to those traces if he took the seat on Nick’s left.

  “Milos.” Nick went on grinning. “Captain Thermopile. It would be nice if I could pretend I’m surprised. Unfortunately every fucker on this rock who isn’t brain dead already knows you’re here. It might have been better,” he added to Milos, “if we could have talked on my ship.”

  Nudged in that d
irection, Milos sat down on Nick’s right. Angus took the chair on Nick’s left and reversed it so that he could straddle it with his back against the wall.

  “Better for you, maybe,” Milos answered warily. “Not for me. I’m already compromised enough.”

  Nick’s scars looked the way Angus’ tongue felt, ashen and hurt. “I offered to come to you. You turned me down.”

  Milos frowned unhappily. “This is safer. The Bill doesn’t trust us. It helps if we’re all behaving normally.” Only his tone hinted at the truth: according to Angus’ datacore, Milos had been ordered to avoid situations in which he might be tempted to expose his power over Angus. And Angus’ awareness of the order made it compulsory. Keeping his head down and his voice low, Milos informed the tabletop, “Angus has a talent for spotting guards. He says. He says he can keep us out of trouble. Since he’s got his neck in the same noose we do, I believe him.”

  “Are you sure?” Nick didn’t glance at Angus. “A lot has happened since the last time we talked. I’ve been busy—and you sure as hell look like you have. How do you know he’s got his neck in the same noose?”

  “Drinks, Milos,” Angus put in roughly because he wasn’t allowed to scream. “What the fuck are we sitting here for, if we aren’t going to get drunk?”

  Milos was Angus’ second; he was supposed to take orders. Nevertheless he let a little of his anger show in his eyes before he stood up and moved toward the bar.

  “Captain Thermopile,” Nick drawled, “you’re getting rude in your old age. I get the impression you don’t want Milos to answer my question. Now why is that, I ask myself? Have you got a game of your own going on the side?”

  Angus was busy assessing the dangers of this conversation. The bugeye in the ceiling above him could see well enough, but might not be able to hear accurately. On the other hand, the nearly naked woman and her companions were only a couple of tables away; definitely in range for her pickups. That wasn’t a problem yet: he had things to say which he and his datacore didn’t mind letting the Bill overhear. But the hazards would increase rapidly—especially when Nick and Milos broached the subjects they were presumably here to discuss.

  “You’ve got it wrong, Captain Sheepfucker,” Angus rasped. “Milos is my second now. I don’t know what you clowns said to each other, and I don’t care. The question isn’t what game I’ve got going. It’s what are you two playing at.”

  “Fascinating.” Nick sneered. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not believing you. If you’re telling the truth, something pretty serious has changed since the last time I saw him. He’s had the shit kicked out of him. Maybe it would help if you spent a while trying to convince me you’re capable of making a deputy chief of Com-Mine Station Security take on the job of being your second.”

  He sounded as cocky and casually dangerous as ever; but Angus wasn’t fooled. He had a coward’s intuitive hearing: he registered the stress hidden in Nick’s tone. It was like the pallor of Nick’s scars and the almost febrile way he watched the bar; a symptom of fear. Something essential was unraveling inside him.

  Angus couldn’t express his fury in any other way; but his programming let him show it in his voice. Like concentrated mineral acid, he retorted, “I’m on the level here, Captain Sheepfucker. I made Milos my second the same way I made him get me out of lockup. I had proof”—he snapped the word like a blow to the head—“you spaceshits framed me, you and him together. You’re fucking right he’s had the shit kicked him out him. I got him by the balls. After I twisted them for a while, he agreed to do what I wanted.”

  No matter how much he unraveled, Nick wasn’t easily intimidated. “You’re talking, Captain Thermopile,” he snorted, “but I don’t hear anything. If you want to sit around passing gas, why don’t you go to another table and do it by yourself? You didn’t have any proof If you did, you would have used it to keep yourself out of lockup in the first place.”

  “Wrong.” Angus wanted to crush the superiority off Nick’s face; wanted that so acutely it made his hands hurt. “It took months. I had proof, but I couldn’t get anybody to listen. Milos blocked me. I didn’t get an ear until I was reqqed to UMCPHQ.”

  Milos had obtained three drinks from one of the bartenders; he was turning away. The wire at the bar had apparently fallen asleep with his face in his mechanical hands.

  Without transition Angus hammered his fist on the table, snarled a curse, and jumped to his feet. Surging between the tables, he moved to confront the wired woman and her groping companions.

  “Sister,” he grated at her bare skin and her drink-stupid expression, “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”

  She didn’t need to be alert to serve the Bill; she hardly needed to be alive. In all likelihood she was a hooker who’d been offered a better deal, one which spared her the necessity of actual sex. In exchange for being wired, all she had to do was float around in public places like this and let men think she was available long enough to buy her drinks.

  Startled by Angus’ attack, she tried to focus her eyes on him, but couldn’t; so she muttered thickly, “Fuck off, asshole.”

  Angus was in his element—and his hate had nowhere else to go. He lashed a fist at each of the woman’s companions, knotted his fingers in the fronts of their dock-suits. With reinforced ease, he hauled both of them up out of their chairs.

  “I said,” he blared like a klaxon, “I don’t like the way she looks at me!”

  That got their attention. They were small, lost individuals, probably minor machinists or tool handlers who worked for the shipyard; too drunk to want anything except a chance to screw their companion—and probably too drunk to do anything about it if they got the chance. Angus’ strength seemed to frighten them witless. One of them looked like he was going to faint. The other blurted out, “What do you want us to do about it?”

  From the vicinity of the bar, Milos gaped as if Angus had initiated self-destruct. Both bartenders stood like statues: Angus could see their fingers poised over the keys which would summon guards. The wire at the bar remained in his slump; everyone else stared at Angus.

  He put the men down. When they recovered their balance, he released them. Then he pointed toward a vacant table farther away; out of range. In a calmer tone he articulated precisely, “I want you to take this collection of female body parts and”—abruptly he began yelling again—“go sit over there!”

  “I wasn’t looking at you,” the woman protested. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  She didn’t appear to notice the difference as her companions pulled her to her feet and tugged her away, stumbling drunkenly among the tables. Obviously neither of them had the vaguest idea what she was doing here.

  Milos came toward Angus anxiously. Ignoring him, Angus turned his back and moved to rejoin Nick.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Nick asked sardonically. “Do you have a death wish, or do you just like making everybody want to shoot at you?”

  Angus ignored that as well. When he’d straddled his chair again, he resumed, “I wasn’t sitting on my hands while we were on Com-Mine.” His rage was harder now, more focused, as if venting some of it had made it stronger. His pulse racketed in his veins; but his respiration was steady and slow despite his exertion. “I may not have been smart enough to keep you from framing me, but that doesn’t mean I was stupid. While you and Milos were dicking with each other, I went EVA.”

  With one finger, he traced the word “wire” on the tabletop.

  Nick’s eyes widened slightly, perhaps because of what Angus said, perhaps because of what he wrote.

  “I went to your ship,” Angus continued, “and I put a current sensor on your cables until I found the one that carried your computer link to Com-Mine. Then I wrapped a magnetic field around it and ran a line back to Bright Beauty. That way I was able to read the fluctuations in your data stream. I recorded an echo of everything you and Milos said to each other.”

  Milos arrived at the table and stopped as if
he’d been hit with a paresis dart. He hadn’t heard this explanation before; but he couldn’t betray his surprise without also betraying Angus—and Hashi Lebwohl as well.

  The intensity of Nick’s attention gave Angus a grim satisfaction. Nick looked like he’d just discovered that his ship’s computers no longer answered his priority codes.

  “I couldn’t break your cipher, but I didn’t need that for proof.” Angus’ voice sounded like breaking bones. No words were enough to articulate his outrage; but he did the best he could. “The routing was embedded in the messages. It always is. And my recording was copied in Bright Beauty’s datacore. The proof was there. All I had to do was convince somebody to look for it. Then Milos was finished.

  “So don’t make the mistake of thinking you can plot with him behind my back. That’s over. You fucking nailed me once. I’m telling you now, you are fucking never going to nail me again. If you want Milos for something, you include me—or you forget him.”

  Record that, motherfucker, he told the Bill. Make something out of it if you can.

  Nick stared at Angus for a moment. Then he threw back his head and started laughing. He wanted Angus to believe that he couldn’t be touched; that his superiority was a gap Angus couldn’t cross. But Angus knew better. In Nick’s laugh he heard fraying nerves and shaken confidence—the muffled hysteria of a man who was being eaten alive by doubts.

  You’re mine, Captain Sheepfucker, Angus promised. Remember that. Somehow, somewhere, I’m going to get you. You can count on it.

  With a shudder, Milos thunked his drinks down on the table. His fingers trembled as he dug a packet of nic out of his pocket, took one, and stuck it between his lips. Trying to sound calm, he said, “I should have known better than to leave you two thugs alone. The next time I turn my back, you’ll probably kill each other.”

  “Oh, shut up, Milos,” Angus said. “The next time you turn your back, we’ll probably kill you.”

  Milos’ gaze threatened a variety of complex retributions as he sat down and lit his nic.