He can have Trumpet?
Caught by fear and wonder, Warden stared at the console speaker. The place where her words reached him was all he could see of her.
Have Trumpet? Are you serious?
That’s brilliant!
Or insane.
She was saying, “Punisher doesn’t have a shuttle. Vector and Davies will be using the command module. But that’s not a problem. The module can piggyback Trumpet at the same time.”
Crisply she finished, “Tell Vestabule that’s our best offer.”
Before Warden could reply, Vestabule silenced the pickup. He faced the UMCP director squarely. His human eyelid fluttered with discomfort in the acrid air. Colors which might have indicated distress seethed through his aura.
“It does not suffice,” he pronounced.
At once Warden cried, “It must!” He no longer cared how much desperation he betrayed. The time had come to show it.
You inhuman bastard, are you bluffing?
Vestabule shook his head. “You cannot control your cyborg,” he stated inflexibly.
Perhaps he meant to accuse Warden of lying. Earlier Warden had said, There are codes I can use that will affect Angus. He’d deliberately misled the Amnioni. Now he had to accept the outcome.
Nevertheless he protested falsely, urgently, “Something happened when he edited his datacore.” Protecting Angus as well as he could. “He made changes I don’t know about. They must have corrupted parts of his programming. Are you going to throw away Davies and Vector and millions of lives over that?”
Through his teeth, he countered, “I’m not the one who taught him how to edit a SOD-CMOS chip. You are.”
Again Vestabule shook his head. That motion of denial may have been the last remaining vestige of his former identity.
“There is human treachery here.”
If he knew that, he wasn’t bluffing.
Still Warden tried to argue. As if he were breaking under the strain, he croaked, “What do you want from me? You can have Davies. You can have Vector. You can have Trumpet, for God’s sake. You’ve even got me. What more do you think I can do?”
Vestabule didn’t use his throat pickup; didn’t speak to any other Amnioni. Apparently he felt no need to consult with his kind. He’d been invested with decisiveness.
Slowly he extended his human hand, palm upward, toward Warden. “Give me your suicide capsule.”
Your humanity—
Quietly, as if he no longer needed it, Warden’s heart seemed to stop. He stared at Vestabule for a long moment, trying to guess how much treachery the Amnioni understood.
But Vestabule’s features made it clear that he’d come to the end of his capacity for negotiation. He gazed blank, brutal ruin into Warden’s face.
When he saw that there was no other way he could save his kind from Holt Fasner and war, Warden jerked up his breathing mask, took Hashi’s black capsule out of his mouth, and placed it in the Amnioni’s palm.
Vestabule accepted it stolidly. His conflicted features gave no hint of triumph.
For the last time he activated the console pickup. “Tell Morn Hyland that her offer has been accepted. We require that Punisher’s command module will be detached to convey Davies Hyland, Vector Shaheed, and Trumpet here within ten minutes.
“If you are wise, you will remind her that the consequences of any false dealing will be extreme.”
Warden nodded dully.
He’d seen Vestabule dispose of the “slow” mutagen with which he’d been threatened earlier. Maybe that particular mutagen was in short supply aboard Calm Horizons. Maybe there was none left.
The man responsible for humankind’s future had nothing else to hope for.
DOLPH
Six minutes later Captain Dolph Ubikwe sat where he belonged: at the command station on the bridge of the UMCP cruiser Punisher.
His restoration pleased him.
Everyone else was out of place, however. Only Davies Hyland and Vector Shaheed kept him company. All his duty officers had left the bridge, taking the rest of Trumpet’s people with them. They’d passed through the aperture to the main body of the ship as the cruiser’s command functions were transferred to the auxiliary bridge. Even Min Donner and the woman who’d usurped him, Morn Hyland, were gone.
Now servos whined as they closed bulkhead doors to seal the aperture, isolating the module. At the same time the module’s separate maintenance systems and power came to life. Between the hulls, relays unclipped instrument and computer leads, shut down atmosphere connectors, disengaged communications channels. When the module’s thrust drive had warmed enough to take over from the energy cells, and diagnostics had confirmed her integrity, her spaceworthiness, the massive clamps which gripped her to the rest of the cruiser would release, and she would drift free.
Then she would begin the short voyage which would deliver her lonely human cargo to the doom of the Amnion.
In a sense, nothing was as it should have been. Calm Horizons’ guns held Suka Bator, UMCPHQ, and much of the planet hostage. And Director Dios was effectively a hostage as well. Grimly he bartered human beings to satisfy the Amnion. Meanwhile the new PR director, Koina Hannish, had been sent to Earth to level appalling accusations against the organization Captain Ubikwe served—charges which were apparently true. Morn Hyland intended to contact the GCES so that she could add her testimony to the specifications of malfeasance and corruption.
On top of all that, Dolph had nothing except the command module. Ensign Hyland still held the rest of his ship. And the UMCPED director, Min Donner herself, had given her loyalty to Trumpet’s people, despite the personal harm they’d done her.
Beyond question the whole situation was an atrocity. Captain Dolph Ubikwe, a good cop, and Punisher’s rightful commander, should have writhed in chagrin and outrage; seethed with counterplots to recover his place in the moral order to which he’d committed his life.
Well, he must have lost his mind. All this stress—chasing Trumpet and fighting Calm Horizons, dodging betrayal, absorbing terrible revelations, losing his ship—must have stripped the gears of his cerebral mechanism. He wasn’t upset. Hell, he wasn’t even angry. While he ran his board, prepared the module for detachment, a song seemed to tug at the edges of his heart. From time to time he caught himself whistling through his teeth.
Separation from Punisher freed him from an essential conflict. He no longer needed to oppose events, or suffer indignities in silence, or watch passively while other people played for humankind’s future. He was back where he belonged. His insubordinate spirit surveyed a solar system crowded with terrors and treachery, and approved.
From the simpler, cleaner perspective of the command module, Dolph saw that Min was doing the right thing. By her own standards, so was Morn. The decision which both Vector and Davies had made to surrender themselves showed a kind of courage which left Dolph in awe. And that damn cyborg, Angus Thermopyle—
Angus was doing the right thing absolutely.
While they’d repaired Trumpet’s drives together, Angus had revealed quite a bit about how his mind worked. Apparently he had a talent for desperation, an instinct for extreme solutions, which Dolph couldn’t help admiring. When Angus explained how he proposed to rescue Warden, Punisher’s captain had been the first to approve.
Despite the danger, Dolph Ubikwe was positively delighted to offer that malign, welded rapist and butcher all the support he could.
Now he ran helm, scan, data, and communications—the only functions the module still possessed—from his board alone. He didn’t need help. All the other stations had been shut down. The module was no more than a shuttle; almost a cripple. But her commander had no complaint. Small as she was, this vessel was his. Angus had given him that, and he was satisfied.
Perhaps Angus had recognized the piratical nature of Dolph’s approach to law enforcement. In a situation like this, the cyborg could trust Dolph completely.
When the last of his diagnostics sho
wed green, Captain Ubikwe looked up at his companions and growled happily, “Christ on a crutch. If my dear, departed mother had known I was going to end up in a mess like this, she would have drowned me at birth. It’s a good thing she couldn’t see the future. One look at the entrails of a chicken would have sent her off her head. Then they probably would have had to tie her down to keep her from killing my father, too.”
Neither Davies nor Vector laughed. They were in too much peril for jokes: if anything went wrong, they would be the first to pay for it. Nevertheless the geneticist mustered up a wry smile. “If I may say so, Captain,” he murmured, “your mother must have been a remarkable woman.”
“Say what you like,” Dolph allowed expansively. “There aren’t any rules here. This is about as down-and-dirty as it gets. If you worry too much about being polite, you’ll just wear yourself out.”
After a moment he asked more seriously, “Do you have everything you need?”
Vector had settled himself into the helm station g-seat. Davies sat at the blank targ board. Both of them had already put on their EVA suits, leaving only the helmets and gloves aside. Vector’s expression was calm, but wan; worn by fatigue and the old pain of severe arthritis. He rested as much as possible, husbanding his strength.
For a while earlier Davies had conveyed the impression that he’d been exhausted by the moral strain of making his decision to surrender. But now his features had recovered some of their intensity. His gaze showed better focus: the lines of his face were sharper: he paid more attention. Paradoxically, the change seemed to increase his resemblance to both his parents. He’d inherited Angus’ calculation as well as Morn’s conviction: he, too, understood extreme solutions.
He didn’t answer Dolph’s question with words. Instead he picked up his left glove, reached into it, and pulled out one of the weapons Angus had given him. It was a meter of monofilament line weighted at both ends and crusted with fused polysilicate granules as sharp as diamond chips—a tool normally used to saw steel in small spaces. Then he opened his belt pouch to reveal a shard of rigid plastic whetted like a dirk. According to Angus, they would escape detection, but anything more useful—especially a gun—would be caught.
Davies returned the coil to his glove, sealed his pouch, and referred Dolph’s question to Vector.
Shaheed also carried a dirk; but he didn’t appear to consider it important. Instead he held up a vial. “This is the antimutagen Hashi Lebwohl gave Nick,” he said slowly. “What’s left of it, anyway. We’ve used more than I thought we would.” He shrugged. “We’re down to two capsules. They’re good for roughly four hours each.
“Davies will get one when we reach Calm Horizons. I’ll take the other.” He cleared his throat. “Just in case Marc Vestabule turns out to be more treacherous than we are.” Then he looked squarely at Dolph. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t leave any protection for Director Dios. We’ll have to hope he can defend himself with his suicide pill.”
Dolph frowned. Warden’s vulnerability worried him. Ever since he’d heard about the mutagen which had ruled Soar’s captain and damaged Ciro, he’d felt a visceral alarm on Warden’s behalf. The bare idea of such a mutagen made his skin crawl. The possibility that Warden might be injected with it—
But Warden’s fate was out of Dolph’s hands, at least to that extent. He was doing everything he could for the UMCP director by transporting Davies, Vector, and Trumpet to Calm Horizons.
“All right,” he told Vector. Deliberately he turned back to his board. After scanning his alerts and readouts, he announced, “Secure for detachment.”
A couple of keys opened a communications channel. “Trumpet,” he said to his pickup, “this is Captain Ubikwe. You about ready? I got the impression Vestabule is in no mood for delays.”
“We’ve been ready, fat man,” Angus broadcast at once. His voice rasped in the speakers: a concentrated threat. “Sealed and drifting. You can pick us up as soon as you’re clear.
“But for God’s sake,” he warned, “watch your attitude. And leak as much emission as you can. Once we’re piggybacked, I want to be occluded all the way. Make Calm Horizons think that’s normal. The scan net is down, so they won’t be able to see us until we get close. I want to hide the fact that our systems are live as long as possible.”
Occluded all the way. That was going to be a tricky piece of navigation. Dolph had his work cut out for him.
He didn’t hesitate. Keying another channel, he announced, “Punisher, the command module is secure for detachment. Give me the word, and I’ll hit the clamps.”
After no more than a heartbeat, Morn answered distantly, “We’re ready here, Captain. Trumpet is clear. You can go anytime.” She paused, then added, “Just be careful.” Her tone hinted at fervor and loss.
Before Dolph could reply, Davies surged out of his g-seat and approached the command pickup. Without asking Dolph’s permission, he answered, “Don’t worry about us, Morn. You do your part. We’ll be okay.” His voice echoed Angus’ harshness. “Vestabule isn’t as human as he thinks. No matter what happens, we’ll give him a few surprises.”
He glanced at Dolph, then stated distinctly, “I didn’t say it before, but I think this is the right answer.”
“I hope so, Davies.” For what may have been the first time since she’d boarded Punisher, Morn sounded like she was smiling. “I sure don’t have a better one.”
As far as Dolph was concerned, she didn’t need one. He liked this answer just fine.
Davies returned to his station. He and Vector closed their belts. Dolph confirmed that his companions were secure, then began typing the commands to initiate detachment.
The metallic clangor of the locking clamps as they released sounded like the opening salvo in the battle for humankind’s survival.
MIKKA
Crowded with sorrow, Mikka Vasaczk sat at Trumpet’s command station while Captain Ubikwe maneuvered to grapple onto the gap scout’s hull, and Angus transmitted his last instructions to both the module and Punisher.
Her brother meant to die. If Angus understood that, he didn’t admit it. Instead he made bizarre, implausible provisions for everyone’s survival. But Morn knew. Mikka had recognized the knowledge in Morn’s eyes when Morn had asked her if she would aid Angus. And she suspected that Vector knew as well. Sadly, awkwardly, he’d hugged Ciro before they parted; and Ciro had smiled his demented smile, but he hadn’t returned Vector’s clasp.
Yet they all—and Ciro more than any of them—wanted Mikka to help him end his life.
“We’ve been ready, fat man,” Angus had told Captain Ubikwe aboard the module.
When the module reached them, the grapples would take hold of Trumpet and position her so that one of her airlocks met an emergency access port in the module’s hull. There magnetic clamps would grip her while Captain Ubikwe conveyed her across the fatal gap between Punisher and Calm Horizons. But there was nothing Mikka could do to secure the gap scout; nothing for her to do along the way. Her duties wouldn’t begin until they reached the warship, and Angus and Ciro left the ship.
Ciro meant to die. Somehow Angus had offered him a way out of the distress Sorus Chatelaine had inflicted on him, and he intended to take it.
He wanted Mikka to help him. When Morn and Angus had asked her to run Trumpet’s command board, they were asking her to assist as well as condone her brother’s suicide.
“if this works,” Angus transmitted to Morn while the gap scout drifted, “I’ll get my ship back.” Presumably he meant Trumpet, not Bright Beauty. His old tincan vessel was dismantled months ago. “That makes it worth the risk.”
Did he think the cops would let him go? Turn a welded cyborg loose, with all those enhancements, all that capacity for destruction? If he did, Min Donner didn’t contradict him. Maybe she trusted Warden Dios to control him.
“I hope so,” Morn replied distantly. “This whole gamble is your idea. If you don’t see it through—” She paused as if she couldn’t find an ad
equate threat, then finished like a shrug, “I’ll kill myself.”
Angus snorted a guttural laugh. “No, you won’t. Not anymore.” At once he added, “But you better jump like hell when the excitement starts. Even if everything goes right, there’s going to be a gap where Calm Horizons can take a crack at you. You can bet your ass she’ll do it.”
His life depended on that gap. So did everyone else’s. Even his useless provisions for Ciro’s survival depended on it.
“I understand,” Morn answered. “I think Patrice can handle it.”
That was all the farewell they said to each other.
It was more than Mikka and Ciro had done.
Earlier—long hours of exhaustion ago—Angus had taken Ciro and Captain Ubikwe aboard Trumpet, ostensibly to repair the gap scout’s drives. By the time they’d returned to Punisher’s bridge, Ciro’s fractured mind had found a focus. He’d learned how to name the death he desired.
Before Angus could stop him, he’d announced, He showed me how to use the singularity grenades. And when Mikka protested, he’d answered, You don’t have any idea what it’s like, feeling like you have to kill everybody you care about. Although Morn must have known. Then he’d referred to Angus. But he does.
In turn Angus had defended him. Ciro is working for me now. None of you understand what Sorus Chatelaine did to him. As if he considered it an act of compassion, Angus had told the bridge, Instead of kicking him into a corner like a goddamn puppy, I’m giving him something to do.
At the time Mikka had been too stricken to argue. Or fight. Trapped by dismay, she’d made no effort to tear Angus’ head off. And perhaps she truly had not understood. But later, while she’d watched over Punisher’s targ, brutalizing herself to perform that small service because everything else was beyond her, she’d learned to understand.
Angus was right. Ciro’s plight was worse than Morn’s.
In the end it wasn’t the fact that Soar’s captain had forced a mutagen into him which had broken Ciro. It was his own compulsory terror. After he’d revealed what she’d done to him—and after Vector had flushed the mutagen out of his cells—he’d taken his first opportunity to obey her; sabotage Trumpet’s drives. At the time he must have believed that was necessary. He was no geneticist: any evidence Vector had shown him to convince him he was safe probably seemed too abstract to outweigh his fear. Involuntarily, instinctively, he must have believed Sorus’ threat more than Vector’s reprieve.
This Day All Gods Die Page 48