A Dark and Hungry God Arises

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  More corners. Angus’ computer revised its estimates.

  Somewhere the creatures were marshaling their defenses—enough Amnion to simply overrun the human intruders. He had to hope that they were confused about the kind of danger which threatened them. Otherwise he could only believe that they knew what he was after—and knew how to stop him.

  Abruptly he found a wide passage running straight in the right direction.

  Dozens of other corridors T’ed off from it, every one of them as threatening as the mouth of a pit. Nevertheless it offered him a chance to make better progress. He couldn’t refuse.

  A winking red indicator inside his helmet told him that his suit’s climate controls had exceeded their tolerances. He was sweating too hard: they couldn’t process so much humidity. Soon he would be in danger of dehydration.

  Growling to himself, he sent Nick along the left wall, Mikka and Sib down the right. With his cannon he covered the view ahead. From the center of the passage he drew his companions along as fast as they could go.

  Nick, too, had been trained for fighting: he also had good instincts. At the first intersection on his side, he unclipped a grenade, armed it, and threw it hard along the corridor. Then he slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up his handguns. They made less noise.

  Mikka followed his example.

  Almost at once she triggered fire into the gullet of a corridor. When she was satisfied that her target was dead, she pulled Sib forward.

  The blast of the grenade sounded shrouded and small, too minor to do much damage.

  Ninety meters, Angus’ computer estimated.

  Seventy.

  With both guns Nick blazed a barrage down one of the side passages. “Got you, you bastards,” he growled softly.

  Sixty.

  “Time to start looking.” Angus’ voice seemed to scrape in his throat. He could hardly squeeze up enough spit to swallow. “Slow down. Watch for doors with guards.”

  He was too exposed, too easy to spot. Grimly he sent Nick and Mikka ahead of him; he waited for them to signal that the corridors were clear before he crossed the intersections.

  Where are you, Morn? How am I going to find you?

  Are you still human?

  Do you still want to kill me?

  He should have turned off his external pickup completely. Milos was here somewhere; he had to be. All he needed was an intercom or a loudhailer, and Angus would be finished.

  But his programming rejected that elementary precaution. He needed to hear what happened outside his suit.

  It’s got to stop.

  Goddamn you, Dios! If you really wanted me dead, you could have done it easier than this!

  Warned by nothing but instinct—the pressure of intuitive panic between his shoulder blades—he whirled suddenly, wrenched the mass of his cannon around and brought it to bear just as five Amnion surged into the passage. From fifty-five or sixty meters away, they hurtled in his direction. Their crusted skin and their quasi-organic weapons made them look more like engines of destruction than sentient beings.

  Like artillery his cannon howled at them. In an instant they were gone, effaced by rubble and dust.

  So much for stealth.

  The blast seemed to multiply in his ears as if he were at the bottom of a cavern, buried in reverberation. He barely heard Mikka hiss from the corner of an intersection, “Angus, here!”

  Thirst parched his tongue; his throat was clogged with sand. Slowly, disoriented by echoes, he lowered the cannon, took up his laser. As smooth as a cat, Nick came to his side; together they moved to the wall behind Mikka and eased forward.

  Past the corner he saw a short hall—thirty meters at most—open at the far end. Several doors marked the wall at regular intervals. Unlike the entrances he’d seen until now, these were heavily reinforced, as massive as the doors of cells.

  An Amnioni laden with weapons guarded the middle of the hall.

  The creature must have known the installation was besieged. It wore a headset which presumably kept it in contact with the sector’s operational center—and presumably the sector’s communications functioned separately from Billingate’s. But the Amnioni’s stance betrayed no anxiety.

  Maybe its understanding of its role was so precise that it didn’t worry about anything else.

  Or maybe it knew something Angus didn’t.

  He’d come too far to falter now. In any case his prewritten exigencies no longer left room for instinct. Before dread or doubt could interfere, he told Nick to shoot.

  Nick raised his gun and burned the Amnioni through the head.

  By the time the creature tottered to the floor, Angus was on his way to the door nearest it.

  Stupid, crazy, you asshole, you shit! As if he had no instincts and no fear, as if decades of mortal terror had taught him nothing, he put himself in his companions’ line of fire.

  They couldn’t shoot when Milos Taverner appeared at the far end of the hall.

  Joshua’s tormentor and nemesis; stun and interrogation, live nic butts and excrement—

  Angus knew instantly that Milos had been pumped full of mutagens. It showed in his eyes.

  Nothing else about him had changed. He looked as human, as pitifully ordinary, as ever. His hands were yellow with nic; his shipsuit slid across human skin when he moved. Distinct in the sulfurous light, splotches defined his scalp through his sparse hair. The smile on his pudgy features was calm, as if at last he’d come to terms with treachery.

  Joshua. I’m going to give you a standing order. Jerico priority.

  But his eyes were lidless and unblinking; they had deformed irises, as narrow as slits; their balls were the biting yellow color of mineral acid.

  When I tell you to open your mouth, you will always obey.

  And he breathed the air comfortably.

  After that you’ll chew and swallow normally.

  Helpless and appalled, Angus froze.

  Every lurch of his heart seemed impossibly slow; the gaps between the seconds were imponderable and vast. Events which must have taken virtually no time at all stretched and dilated as if they became infinite at the speed of light.

  Open your mouth.

  Use your laser, you shit, use your cannon, for God’s sake, blast him, fry him, burn him down! Before he says anything!

  Carefully Milos dropped his burning nic onto Angus’ tongue.

  Angus remained still, paralyzed, as if Warden Dios and Hashi Lebwohl had left him for dead.

  “Joshua,” Milos articulated contentedly. “This is a Jerico priority order.” His eyes fixed on Angus; despite their alienness, they were full of a malice so intense and pure it could only be human. “Stop. Turn. Kill the people behind you.”

  As if he’d already been obeyed, he added, “I knew you would come here. It was inevitable. Dios and Lebwohl cheated both of us. All I had to do was wait.”

  Angus lifted his laser slowly, as if it weighed dozens of kilograms.

  Open your mouth.

  While the gun came up—during the supernal gap between one second and the next—a link opened in his head.

  As if the message were emblazoned on his brain, he heard or saw or felt his programming speak to him.

  You are no longer Joshua.

  Jerico priority has been superseded.

  You are Isaac. That is your name. It is also your access code. Your priority code is Gabriel.

  Priority code is Gabriel.

  Gabriel.

  In that instant he was set free of Milos.

  Dios or Lebwohl had seen this crisis coming. They’d planned for it. When his life depended on it, they released him from all control but their own.

  The change must have warned Milos: he must have seen the sudden ferocity on Angus’ face, or the blaze of hate in his eyes. As Angus brought up his laser and fired, Milos pitched himself backward around the corner.

  Too late, Nick’s guns blared past Angus’ shoulder. Like Angus, he missed.

  Raging w
ith murder, Angus charged after Milos.

  He reached the corner in time to see a door across the next passage slam shut. Milos was gone.

  Angus would have chased after him, flamed that door to cinders in order to reach Milos. He felt sick with relief and fury: now more than ever he needed someone to kill. If he didn’t let the violence inside him out somehow, his heart would crack. But his datacore had other ideas. Turning hard—and trembling as acutely as his zone implants allowed—he strode back toward Nick, Mikka, and Sib; toward the door in the middle of the hall.

  “‘Joshua’?” Nick asked tightly. “‘Jerico’? What the hell was that all about?”

  Angus ignored the question. Aiming his laser, he burned out the door lock. Then he returned the weapon to his belt.

  Morn was here; she had to be. Milos had made no effort to lure him anywhere else: the Amnioni had probably assumed that Angus’ databases and detectors enabled him to know where she was. Therefore she must be here. That made sense, didn’t it?

  Didn’t it?

  Fuming to contain his fear, he pushed the door open.

  He saw a small, sterile cell full of light and need. Because of the polarization of his faceplate, he couldn’t identify any monitors; but he didn’t care about that. He didn’t care who saw him now: Milos would tell the Amnion where he was if the bugeyes didn’t. He cared only that the room contained nothing except a small san and a couchlike chair which was cushioned and adjustable like a sickbay table.

  Morn Hyland sprawled there as if she were dying.

  He recognized her instantly, despite the breathing mask that covered the lower half of her face. Her eyes staring at him were deep and damaged; bruises discolored her cheekbones; her torn and dirty hair straggled as if it were falling out, killed by uncontrolled chemical reactions. Since he’d last seen her, her whole body had become as scrawny as an anorexic’s: emotional and physical brutality had dismantled her poignant beauty in the same way that Bright Beauty had been dismantled.

  Nevertheless Angus knew her. He seemed to know her more intimately than he knew himself. Her addiction, her zone implant withdrawal, was plainly written in the stretched lines of her face and the stark anguish of her eyes. She was Morn Hyland: hurt beyond bearing, abused to the verges of madness and death; but still human.

  He had no idea why she was still human. At the moment the fact itself transcended everything else. He had no attention to spare for the explanation.

  When he saw the horror in her gaze, the presumption of more harm, his own eyes went blind with tears.

  Dismantled like Bright Beauty—

  His datacore ruled him in every other way, but it placed no restrictions on weeping. Apparently Lebwohl or Dios had never considered the possibility that he might be capable of grief.

  But like Bright Beauty Morn had been his; she’d served him utterly. Her beauty and her humiliation had belonged to him. Under his control she’d given to him and done for him anything he could name.

  That made her precious.

  And she’d saved his life—

  Until Hashi Lebwohl and zone implants ripped it from him, he’d kept his bargain with her.

  The sight of what that bargain had cost her sent tears as hot as blood scalding down his cheeks.

  On a literal level, Nick had done this to her. But the underlying truth was that Angus himself had caused it all. It was on his head.

  Caught and held by the sheer scale of her suffering, he remained still. For several seconds no one moved. Morn stared and stared at him as if she’d fallen into cerebral palsy. Nick had taken one quick look through the doorway and then withdrawn: now he stood like Mikka, guarding the ends of the hall. Sib’s arms and legs seemed to yearn toward the room; yet he didn’t take a step.

  Then Angus’ datacore compelled him to break his stasis. His time was running out.

  His zone implants eased some of the tension in his lungs. As if he were wincing he raised his hand to the controls on his chestplate and activated his external speaker. Blinking hard to clear his eyes, he husked softly, “Morn, listen. I’ve got a ship. And I’ve got Davies. He’s there—at the ship. We’re going to get you out of here.”

  When he said her son’s name, her head jerked up. Darkness smoldered in her gouged eyes, as if her head were full of the gap; as if her mind had gone into tach and couldn’t get out.

  “Can you stand?” he asked; almost pleaded. “Can you walk? We’ll carry you if we have to, but we’re all more likely to survive if you can walk.”

  Her eyes went on smoldering at him as if he spoke a language she no longer understood.

  “Morn, please. Say something. Answer me.”

  In another moment he was going to fall on his knees and beg her for a response.

  Without warning, Sib pushed past him into the room.

  “Morn,” he panted, “it’s me. Sib Mackern.” His tone was fraught with concern and fear. “We’re all here—all the ones who didn’t want Nick to sell you. Mikka, Vector, even Pup. Vector and Pup are with Davies. Angus is telling the truth. They’re guarding the ship.

  “Nick is here, too. We needed him. But he’s lost Captain’s Fancy. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

  “Morn, I helped you once. So did Vector and Mikka. We didn’t give you what you needed, but we did as much as we thought we could. Let us help you now.

  “Davies can’t hold the ship for long. If we don’t get back soon, we’ll lose him. We’ll lose everything.”

  Morn gave no sign that his words meant anything: she reacted only to her son’s name. Yet that was enough. Each time Sib said, “Davies,” she moved farther. First she sat up; then she shifted her legs off the chair; finally she stood.

  Muffled by her mask, her voice sounded as frail as mist.

  “Don’t let Nick touch him.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Angus grated. Morn’s words triggered a change in him: as soon as she spoke, his grief became a cold, settled, and familiar rage. He stepped out into the hall. Too quick to be stopped, he snatched the impact rifle off Nick’s shoulder, then reentered the cell and thrust the gun toward Morn. “Here. You don’t let Nick touch him.”

  She took the rifle and clutched it as if it were the only real thing in the room. Her fingers settled on the firing stud.

  “We have to go EVA, Morn.” Sib’s voice seemed to sweat concern. “It’s our only way back to Trumpet. I brought you a suit.” He opened his arms to show her his burden. “I’ll help you put it on.”

  Abruptly Angus swung away. He couldn’t watch anymore. And his programming had other requirements for him to satisfy. Ignoring his distress, databases opened in his head, feeding him everything the UMCP knew about fusion generations; everything he’d learned by mapping Billingate’s power systems.

  Charged with other men’s purposes and his own violence, he left the cell.

  At once Nick confronted him. “You sonofabitch. Now she’s going to kill me.”

  Angus had no attention to spare. “Not as long as she thinks you’ll help keep Davies alive.”

  Turning his back on Nick, he faced Mikka.

  She met his gaze with the bitter glare of a woman who was ready for anything. Her hands cradled her weapons as if she’d known how to use them all her life.

  “I’m leaving now,” he announced bluntly. “I’ve got other things to do. You’re in command until I get back.”

  Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t interrupt; didn’t protest.

  “It’s up to you to take her to Trumpet.” He meant only Morn. He didn’t care what happened to anyone else. “Get her aboard—her and Davies. Then seal the ship. I can open the airlock whenever I need to.

  “Remember, you’re in command, not him.” Angus jerked a nod at Nick. “Don’t let him get in your way. If he gives you any trouble, shoot him for me.”

  Nick’s chuckle sounded wild; a little crazy. “Captain Thermopile, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

  Angus ignored him.

&
nbsp; “I need an hour,” he told Mikka. “If I’m not back by then, leave without me. Rip Trumpet out of her berth and run. You won’t be able to defend yourselves worth shit, you don’t know enough about her, but you won’t have any other choice. If you stay here after that, you’re finished.”

  Mikka’s glower seemed to promise that she would obey him as long as she remained alive.

  “One hour,” he repeated harshly.

  Then he strode away as if he’d been turned loose.

  He was temporarily at peace with his programming. A keen joy like a paean of murder began to sing in his heart as he moved alone into the clenched, threatening emptiness of the corridors which led toward Billingate and destruction.

  MORN

  he couldn’t think. Words meant nothing: there were no words which could contain the long silence of her cell while the Amnion waited for their mutagens to transform her. And nothing else made sense.

  Angus was here—but of course that was impossible. How much suffering did she have to endure before she would be free of him?

  He said he came to rescue her. That wasn’t just impossible, it was stupid: a man like him would never place himself in this kind of jeopardy to rescue anyone, especially not a cop who knew so much about him.

  He told her where Davies was, he seemed to imply that he’d already rescued her son—which wasn’t so much impossible as entirely inconceivable.

  Yet Sib Mackern was here as well. That was true, wasn’t it? She could recognize him through his faceplate, couldn’t she? He was trembling to help her: solicitude seemed to pour off him in waves, despite the interference of mylar and plexulose. Unless the whole thing was an hallucination—unless the reality of what Nick had done to her and what she’d done to humankind had at last become so unbearable that she’d fled from it into dreams—

  Some of Captain’s Fancy’s people wanted to help her? They’d come to rescue her? With Nick? And Angus?

  She clung to her son’s name and the grips of the impact rifle so that she wouldn’t break into mad, lost sobs.

  Sib tried to help her; he urged her limbs into an EVA suit. She wanted his help, wanted the suit itself. But Angus had said, You don’t let Succorso touch him. She couldn’t release the rifle long enough to put on the suit.