Stalling for time, Warden asked, “What’s Punisher doing?”
Again Vestabule spoke incomprehensibly into his pickup, listened to his receiver. Then he answered, “Her targ is fixed on us, as ours is on her. However, she has withheld fire. The orientation of her communications dishes suggests that she is in contact with your station.”
Good. Hashi would brief Punisher. He would tell Min what was at stake, here as well as in the GCES emergency session.
Warden had already made the decision to stake his hopes on Hashi’s good faith.
He resisted an impulse to fold his arms across his chest. He did that too often; closed his heart. Instead he braced his palms on his thighs for support.
“Why don’t you hit her now? Kill her while you can?”
Vestabule’s shoulders attempted another unconvincing shrug. “Your vessels have not arrived in a manner which we deem threatening. And we believe that our requirements will be better satisfied by your intervention.” He paused, then added, “Doubtless Punisher will enforce your orders if Trumpet opposes them.”
That may have been true. If Min’s loyalty had limits, Warden had never reached them. And her example inspired loyalty in her people. Even Dolph Ubikwe would obey her in an emergency, despite his insubordinate nature.
But Warden believed that she was also capable of refusing—
He needed to take control of his circumstances before they became untenable. For Trumpet’s sake, and Punisher’s, as well as his own, he countered, “I don’t know what ‘manner’ you’re talking about. I guess that’s beside the point. Here’s the point.
“I won’t do it.”
Vestabule’s Amnion stare revealed nothing. His human eye seemed to flutter in distress. His heritage of humanity may have been difficult to access, but it remained a part of him: the part which made bargains with lies; sealed them with coercion.
“I know why you want Morn and Davies,” Warden went on bitterly. “They’ve sent messages explaining the situation. You haven’t risked a war over mere ‘property.’ You want them because you think they represent the knowledge you need to win. Wipe out humankind completely.” Anger thrummed in his voice. “And you want Vector Shaheed to help you develop defenses against us.
“It’s too much.” At last he let himself shout. “I will not threaten my entire species by asking or ordering them to turn themselves over to you!”
Despite his outrage and dismay, however, his assertion was dishonest; a lie to match Vestabule’s. Humankind’s survival was more important than a few million lives. But Warden had reason to fear that losing those lives would lead to Holt Fasner’s elevation in the Council’s place. Holt might become the government; the only power. And if that happened it also would endanger the survival of humanity.
To keep those few million people alive—and give Koina her chance at the Dragon—might be worth the peril of letting Calm Horizons have Morn and Davies, Angus and Vector.
In addition there were other possibilities—too nebulous to define, too precious to ignore. Warden hadn’t yet decided how he would finally answer Vestabule. He refused in order to force Vestabule’s hand; push the Amnioni into exposing his own falsehoods.
Vestabule faced him without moving. For a long moment the Amnioni didn’t speak. His aura swirled and seethed like the radiance of a demon. When he replied at last, his tone remained inflexible and unmoved; beyond appeal. Words came from his distorted mouth like flakes of rust and ruin.
“It is a handicap for us that we do not understand deceit. Lies are not”—he seemed to search his memory—“conceivable?”—he nodded at the choice—“not conceivable among us. Our communication rests on smell as well as on sound, and to some extent on vision. Pheromones do not lie. Hue and shade do not lie. For that reason we are alone in this chamber. Other Amnion would be distressed by our discussion.”
Distressed to be in the presence of treachery—
“I also am distressed,” Vestabule continued. “Nevertheless I remember portions of my human nature, and of my experience. In particular I remember mutation. I remember my dismay that my humanity was threatened.”
Warden scowled to conceal his reaction; his prescient dread.
“Because I remember,” the Amnioni continued, “I know how I must respond to your refusal.”
From a pocket of his shipsuit he drew out a hypo filled with a clear liquid and a vial of small pills.
At the sight, fear clenched Warden’s guts so hard that he nearly gasped. There it was at last: the lie; the coercion.
“Attend this well, Warden Dios.” Vestabule spoke like old iron. “I stated accurately that we gain nothing by your enforced mutation. The transformation would be detected. Therefore your people would cease to obey you.
“However, this mutagen suits a special purpose. It is slow to act. Once injected, it will remain passive for perhaps ten minutes before it begins to alter your genetic identity.
“These capsules”—he raised the vial—“will cause the mutagen to continue in its passive state. Each supplies an hour of prolonged humanity. The mutagen will live among the false strings of your DNA. But you will be preserved as you are while the counteragent is active.
“I will inject you with the mutagen,” he announced. “Then I will offer you the counteragent in exchange for your compliance with our requirements.”
Without haste or urgency—inexorable as nightmare—he released his belt. He seemed certain he could do what he said; certain Warden would surrender, paralyzed by panic.
Or perhaps he simply trusted his own strength.
But Warden was ready for this as well, despite the primitive horror writhing in his guts.
He’d never heard of a mutagen or counteragent like this. The prospect of being injected with such an evil appalled him. Nevertheless the threat itself was simple: clear and easy compared to the question of sacrificing Morn and Angus, or of letting several million people die. Beyond doubt Marc Vestabule remembered much of what it meant to be human. For that reason he was dangerous; and vulnerable.
Like the Dragon—
Warden raised his hand as if he had the power to stop Vestabule; the power to command him. “I hear you. Now you’d better listen to me. Before you do something rash.”
Secretly he was pleased that his voice held firm. That small show of strength diminished the sting of his shame.
Vestabule paused in the act of rising from his chair.
With a sweep of his tongue, Warden moved Hashi’s capsule to the front of his mouth; held it between his teeth so that the Amnioni could see it. Then he pushed it back into his cheek.
“It’s called a suicide pill,” he said as if he’d forgotten what fear felt like. “It’s poison. Quick and sure. It doesn’t dissolve. I’m safe right now. But if I bite down I’m dead.”
To that extent he trusted Hashi absolutely.
“I’m sure you’re strong enough to force that mutagen into me.” He spoke in a slow, fatal drawl. “I might flounder around the room for a while. Eventually you’ll get me.
“But there’s no way you can prevent me from biting down.
“You know I’m serious,” he added in case Vestabule missed the truth. “Maybe you remember how you felt before you were mutated. Maybe you remember that you would have done anything to save yourself. But even if you don’t, you know you would do the same in my place. To save your people.”
Try me, he dared the Amnioni. Just try me. Don’t you know I would sell my soul—if I still had one—for a clean death?
By degrees Vestabule settled back into his seat. His expression was blank: whatever he felt didn’t reach his face—or his features couldn’t convey it. But after a moment his human eye closed. It stayed shut. He fixed his alien gaze on Warden as if he wanted to see Warden in purely Amnion terms.
Still slowly, ponderously, he directed the hypo at his own forearm; pressed it there until the hypo was empty. He raised his hand to show Warden that the mutagen—and the threat—was gon
e. Then he opened his fingers and let the hypo’s inertia carry it away. The vial of pills he returned to his pocket.
His human eye remained closed as he began speaking into his pickup.
The words sounded so harsh and uncomfortable to Warden that his throat hurt in sympathy. Yet they came naturally to Vestabule. The stilted searching which characterized his human speech was absent.
When he was done, he looked at Warden again with both eyes. Despite its inflexibility, his voice carried an impression of pressure—a new threat, at once more insidious and more lethal than any mutagen.
“Warden Dios, you have caused an impasse. My alternatives have been restricted. Therefore I have ordered Calm Horizons to commence combat. In two minutes our super-light proton cannon will destroy your location of government. Then it will be turned on your station. At the same time our matter cannon will attack your approaching ships.
“Punisher we will not harm. That vessel is nearer than any other, but has been damaged. We can withstand its fire.”
Warden lifted his eyebrows at this. “Don’t forget Holt Fasner’s station,” he suggested hopefully. “It’s in range, too.”
“Still you do not understand,” Vestabule retorted. “Holt Fasner has made it plain that he desires to bargain with us. He will be allowed to live, his station intact. Perhaps when your government is gone he will be able to satisfy our requirements.
“If he fails us—” Once more the Amnioni attempted a shrug. “Then we will turn our fire on Punisher.”
Apparently he’d remembered enough of his former humanity to call Warden’s bluff. Warden was trapped. The choice he had to make couldn’t be avoided any longer.
Once Calm Horizons opened fire, no human ship would obey an order to stop fighting, no matter what Holt threatened or promised. The defensive would die sooner or later. But Warden knew beyond question that Marc Vestabule and every Amnioni aboard was willing to die; at least as willing as he was himself.
It was time to decide.
Sacrifice Morn and Davies, Vector and Angus. Save millions of lives. And give the Amnion a chance to discover how to mutate men and women so that they retained enough humanity to be undetectable.
Or condemn millions of men and women to death. Prevent the Amnion from acquiring terrible knowledge. And let Holt Fasner have his way with humankind’s future.
At last the UMCP director found that he knew his answer.
Why had he put Morn and Angus through so much anguish—why had he bothered—if he didn’t mean to trust them?
He cleared his throat. His voice was raw with anger.
“All right. I’ll do it. Don’t start shooting. I’ll satisfy your goddamn ‘requirements.’ If I can.”
As he capitulated, he couldn’t tell whether what he felt was despair or hope.
MORN
Pandemonium erupted on the bridge of the cruiser, Cray shouted warnings she received from UMCPHQ’s traffic buoys: Punisher was too close to the station, moving too fast. His voice cracking under the strain, Porson echoed confirmation. His hands raced to sort data from his sensors and Earth’s scan net. The man on targ cursed savagely. Patrice programmed helm like scattershot. The data officer, Bydell, made a thin keening noise in her throat as she scrambled to identify the scan blips.
Davies swore, too—a high, clenched sound, tight with surprise and terror. Ciro didn’t react; but Mikka groaned as if something in her chest had snapped. Pale and aghast, Vector stared mutely at the displays. In an instant Angus shifted positions; moved to the side of Morn’s console so that he could see the screens and still keep an eye on her. Min strained at her belts, her gaze as keen as a hawk’s; eager to strike.
Through the tumult Captain Ubikwe’s deep tones cut clearly. “Deceleration, Sergei. Burn it on my order. Prepare for evasive action.” He seemed unnaturally calm; impervious to surprise and danger. “Charge your cannon, Glessen,” he told targ. “Ready torpedoes. Stand by to open fire.
“Sound battle stations, Bydell. Deceleration alerts, proximity warnings—hell, sound them all.”
“Aye, Captain.”
At once the lorn wail of klaxons echoed across the clamor.
“Status on that bastard, Porson?” Dolph continued.
“I’m still reading, Captain!” Porson called back. “Scan isn’t clear yet. Too much gap static.” Then he croaked urgently, “She has us on targ!”
“Do it now, Sergei,” Captain Ubikwe instructed helm. “Put everything we can spare into it.”
Without transition the muffled thunder of thrust mounted to a roar as if Punisher had fallen into a smelter. The ship began to shudder. If she were still under internal spin, she would have torn herself apart.
Hard g; gravitic violence: the essence of reality.
Calm Horizons had reached Earth ahead of them. Because Morn had insisted on making the journey gently—
Fearing what might happen, she’d made exactly the wrong decision. She and her friends might have been safe if they’d beaten the Amnion vessel to Earth.
She was supposed to be in command: of herself as well as the cruiser. Yet she was paralyzed. Punisher’s gap drive had translated her from normal space into the domain of nightmare. Calm Horizons was here! Of course. What was the worst thing the defensive could possibly have done after failing to kill Trumpet? What else but this?—a gambit so extreme and lethal that Morn had never considered it.
She’d failed before she ever had a chance to begin.
And braking thrust shoved her into her g-seat with brutal force. Involuntarily her lips pulled away from her teeth. Her eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets. She could hardly breathe: shuddering thunder filled her chest, clogged her throat. Her arm had shed too much of its pain to protect her.
Cruel and compelling, g drove her out of herself into the place where all things became clear.
Clear as vision. Clear as the voice of the universe, of existence itself. Articulate and irrefutable beyond any possible resistance. She heard the voice, understood the vision; received its necessity like a sacrament.
Self-destruct.
Oh, yes.
She had the means. The universe had provided them for her: clarity provided them. The command board lay in front of her, willing and transsubstantial; as compulsory as a sacrifice. Luminescent certainty marked the keys she should touch, the sequence of obedience. Every question had come to an end. When she reached out her hands, she would be whole; her life made clean at last.
The universe told her what to do—and gave her the strength to do it. She stretched her arms for the keys.
Before she could touch them, Angus hit her so hard that she thought he’d broken her skull—
“Report, Porson,” Captain Ubikwe demanded through the roar. His battle-calm overrode the pressure of hard g. “I can’t see the damn screens like this.”
Valiantly Porson squeezed an answer past the mass in his throat. “Calm Horizons is orbital. Right on top of UMCPHQ. God, she must be within 50,000 k. Coasting. They’re both geosynchronous over Suka Bator.” He faltered, then somehow found a way to raise his voice. “Captain, Calm Horizons has a clear line of fire on Suka Bator! Her proton cannon is already aligned.”
—but she didn’t lose consciousness. Not quite. Instead the blow lifted her across the personal gap between clarity and pain. Shards of agony like bone splinters nailed her mind to the hard matter of her skull. She forgot the siren call of the universe. She’d been crucified: clarity and coercion couldn’t reach her.
Around her, shouts and orders swirled like panic. Davies may have cried her name; may have sworn at Angus: she couldn’t be sure. If Angus retorted, she didn’t hear it. The pain in her head had become exquisite grief. She was certain of nothing except that she’d lost her last chance to be whole.
There were no better answers: self-destruct was all she understood. And Angus had bereft her of it.
“Ready, Glessen?” Dolph asked.
“Damn right, Captain!” Glessen retorted.
Inaccuracy in the gap had brought Punisher too close to UMCPHQ: close enough to aim all her strength at the Amnioni.
“Ease deceleration, Sergei,” Captain Ubikwe commanded. “I need to see. Evasive action on my order. Make her dance. We’re in no condition to let ourselves get tagged.”
At once some of the cruel g lifted. Morn could breathe again, thin sips of air like constricted gasping.
“Wait a minute, Dolph!” Min barked promptly. “Look around! Who’s firing? How much support have we got?”
He may not have heard her. “All right, Glessen,” he growled. “Let’s see if we can do some damage—”
“Captain!” Cray yelled from communications. Fear and g pitched her cry to a shriek. “Hold fire!”
Hold—?
“Wait a minute, Glessen,” Dolph snapped quickly.
“Orders from Center!” Cray went on. “They’re shouting at us. Absolute priority. Don’t fire!”
“Have they lost their minds?” the captain demanded. “There’s a Behemoth-class defensive parked right on top of them, and they want us to hold fire?”
“Absolute priority,” Cray repeated.
“No one’s shooting, Captain,” Porson announced frantically. “Not UMCPHQ. Not Calm Horizons. We have ships in range. More on the way. They haven’t fired.”
With an effort, he fought down frenzy. “I see Adventurous,” he continued, “but she isn’t close enough yet. And Valor is here. Looks like she resumed tard ten minutes ahead of us. But she’s a lot farther out.” Out where Punisher should have been. “Too far to attack yet.”
Morn’s pain bled slowly into the lighter g. Angus must not have hit her as hard as she thought. She couldn’t speak; could hardly think. But she could listen.
Vestigial clarity flickered at the edges of her mind like heat lightning. The situation made sense in distant bursts. Calm Horizons had committed an egregious act of war—and no one fired at her. Of course not. The big warship hadn’t come on a suicide mission against UMCPHQ and the GCES. She’d come to stop Trumpet. Capture the gap scout if possible; kill her otherwise.