Angus swore under his breath. It was true that a diversion might save them. It might distract the Amnion enough to make them miss Ciro. It might give Davies and Vector a few precious extra minutes. But it might also prod Calm Horizons into opening fire too soon. Then all their lives would be wasted.
In any case, Dolph was right: there was no help available.
“Are Davies and Vector ready?” Angus asked while his eyes and his computer measured distances, estimated timings.
“They’ve been in the airlock for the past ten minutes,” Dolph reported. “But they’ll try to delay as much as they can without being obvious about it.”
He didn’t need to add that if Davies and Vector made the Amnion suspicious Calm Horizons might fire before Angus could carry out any of the tasks he’d assigned himself.
“All right.” Angus’ machine projections approached the synchronization he wanted. “I’m on my way in thirty seconds.”
If they all died, he would have only himself to blame.
Despite the harm Dios had done him, he found that he was grateful for his welding. Between the stark, hot beams of the spotlights, shadows as impenetrable as tombs shrouded Calm Horizons’ uneven hull. Without the support of his zone implants and his datacore, he would have been sure to fail.
Roughly he turned to Ciro. “Don’t screw up. I mean it. Get set Up. Then wait for my signal If you jump the gun, this is going to backfire so fast you won’t even see it happen.”
He couldn’t see through Ciro’s faceplate; but the kid’s helmet inclined like a nod. “I understand.”
“Just do it, Angus,” Mikka interrupted. “We don’t have time to discuss it anymore.” Grimly she continued, “I’ll start warming up the drives as soon as you head back this way.”
“They’ll still have matter cannon,” Angus returned—a last warning. “This fucker can pound us to powder as soon as she gets a targ fix.”
Then Calm Horizons would smash UMCPHQ. And Punisher.
And Morn.
“I know.” Fatigue and strain fretted Mikka’s tone. “I’ve studied myself blind on this dispersion field generator.”
Angus’ plans depended on that generator—and on Mikka’s timing. But they also rested absolutely on Ciro’s shoulders. And on his own. On his implanted equipment as well as his quickness, determination, and cunning.
In addition, they hinged on Dolph, Davies, and Vector.
There were too many variables: the whole damn sequence was too vulnerable. If just one small piece fell out of place, it would all collapse.
He braced himself to move; but Mikka wasn’t done. “Angus—” she offered softly. “I wanted to say—” Her voice had become a low moan like a prayer. “Ciro and I, Sib, Vector—we didn’t have anything to do with framing you. Nick kept it secret. He handled it himself.”
Angus heard her unspoken appeal as clearly as words. Save Ciro. Please. If you can. Her brother wasn’t responsible for delivering him to fucking Hashi and UMCPDA.
He could have promised that he would try, but there was no point. The kid had already chosen his own doom.
Instead of insulting Mikka with dishonest reassurance, he retorted acidly, “I already knew that. Why do you think I’ve been so damn nice to you?”
Hadn’t he been nice to her? On Nick’s orders he’d nearly crushed her skull. But he’d measured his force to let her live.
It was time. His zone implants enabled him to move without hesitation, despite the sweat stinging his eyes and the fear laboring in his veins. While the command module and Trumpet coasted across the last fifty meters toward the emblazoned docking port in Calm Horizons’ side, he unclipped his belt from its anchor in one smooth motion.
Trusting the strength and precision of his welded resources, he launched himself away from Ciro into the direct blaze of the spotlights. Weightless and silent, covered by every jamming field he could project, he sailed straight as the stroke of death toward the distant emitter of the warship’s super-light proton cannon.
DAVIES
He and Vector stood together in the airlock while Captain Ubikwe eased the command module along its final approach to Calm Horizons. They wore their EVA suits, but hadn’t put on their helmets yet. The act of sealing themselves in completely seemed too final; too fatal.
And without their helmets they could talk privately. Even Captain Ubikwe wouldn’t hear them unless they used the intercom: Mikka, Angus, and Ciro wouldn’t hear them. Once they locked their helmets in place, their suit transmitters would link them to Trumpet as well as the command module, if not to Angus and Ciro. And the Amnion would be able to pick up their signal—
That was deliberate, although Davies hated it. They could have tuned their communications to the same frequency Angus and Ciro used. But if they did so the Amnion might somehow acquire that channel. They might trace it from the suits; detect it from the helmet speakers. For that reason Angus had told Davies and Vector to use a separate frequency, one Calm Horizons might monitor. Captain Ubikwe would still hear them; but the other communications on which Angus’ plans depended would be protected.
Davies accepted that. Hell, he didn’t even complain about it, even though it meant the Amnion might hear him gasping in dread. He had enough other worries: he didn’t waste time fretting over whether or not he would sound scared to his enemies when he went to face his doom.
He’d volunteered for this—before Angus had suggested other possibilities. When he’d said, I’ll go, he’d assumed that he would surrender himself to mutation; a ruin far more complete and cruel than any kind of death. And Vector had stepped forward on the same terms: that was the bond between them. Yet now they had dangerous and demanding roles in a scheme so elaborate—and so utterly reliant on variables none of them could control—that it still took his breath away whenever he thought about it.
He felt that he was being pulled apart by conflicting emotions. The airlock could have held eight or ten people, but it seemed too small to contain his tension. The restrictions of his suit frustrated his elevated metabolism. If he hadn’t been able to talk to Vector, his concentration might have snapped.
Part of him ached like an amputation because he wasn’t with Morn. She was doing what a cop should do—giving evidence about crimes she’d witnessed and experienced, no matter how much the truth hurt her. To some extent humankind’s future rested on what she said. And her son had been imprinted with her mind: he wanted to be with her while she spoke. He burned to support her testimony with his; to stand beside her and for her when she was questioned; to cram her conclusions down the throats of those who doubted her.
Another part of him needed to be where he was, however. The sheer ingenuity of Angus’ plans entranced him. And they fed his desire to fight—a deep, thwarted yearning which he’d never been able to satisfy. Like Director Donner and Captain Ubikwe, he craved to confront humanity’s enemies with guns and violence. An acute hunger for gunfire filled his heart; for blows struck in the good cause of humankind’s survival. He’d been bred for extremity in Morn’s womb, and he needed to act on it.
And yet another part of him, more profound than consciousness—his visceral, genetic being—quailed in horror at the prospect of facing the Amnion again. The danger to which he submitted wasn’t simply that he would be transformed to the stuff of nightmares. It was far worse. If the Amnion succeeded with him, he would be used to impose the ultimate nightmare on his entire species. At the base of his brain, mutely, while the rest of his mind struggled to contain its conflicts, he gibbered with fear so sharp that it threatened to unman him.
God, it might have been kinder if Angus had just let them go die. That way he and Vector would at least have known where they stood. They could have tried to make their peace with despair.
This way—
Apparently Vector felt the same. Despite the familiar self-mockery in his tone, his blue eyes were troubled as he said, “I’m glad I don’t have to do this alone. Somehow being the savior of humankind hasn
’t turned out quite the way I imagined.” He smiled ruefully at his own foolishness. “This may sound strange, but I think it might be easier if we just gave up.”
Davies looked at his companion sharply. “Is that what you want to do?” If Vector decided to die, Davies was effectively finished. He couldn’t tackle Calm Horizons alone.
Vector avoided Davies’ gaze. “I suppose there’s something attractive about an heroic surrender,” he mused. “Martyr ourselves to save Suka Bator, UMCPHQ, and half the planet. We would be legends in our own time. Or in our own minds, anyway,” he added sardonically.
“But thrashing and clawing to stay alive, floundering around in a fight we can’t really hope to win while we pray for God or Angus to arrange some improbable stay of execution—which isn’t likely to happen even with the best will in the world because the whole scenario is so damn precarious, and it could all go wrong in half a dozen different ways at once—” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, it’s not exactly dignified, is it? We’re never going to achieve the status of legends if we can’t end with a little dignity.”
Scowling, Davies repeated, “Is that what you want to do? End with dignity?” The idea that Vector might abandon him—and Director Dios—gnawed at his heart. “Turn Amnion without a struggle?”
Vector spread his hands. “Hell, Davies, that’s what I’ve always done. I can’t remember the last time I resisted something.” He snorted in deprecation. “I mean, besides gravity.” Then he explained, “When the cops shut down my research at Intertech, I could have put up a fight. If I’d gone public fast enough, made myself conspicuous enough—or just been clever enough—I might have survived long enough to tell my story. I might even have made a difference.”
Morn’s example seemed to weigh on him. More than anyone except Davies, and perhaps Angus, he appreciated the cost of what she chose to do.
He shrugged. “But even if I’d decided I didn’t want to die exposing a secret like that,” he went on, “I could have put up a little resistance in other ways. I knew what Orn Vorbuld was like. I could have refused to turn illegal with him. And I certainly didn’t have to join Nick when he did.”
With an air of effort and chagrin, he met Davies’ gaze. “It does seem that surrender is what I do best.”
Davies shook his head. Anger and fear clanged against each other in his chest. He wanted to protest, So you’re just going to let it happen? We’re all depending on you. Don’t you think even one of us is worth a little indignity?
Do you think I want to turn Amnion?
But the distress in Vector’s gaze stopped him. It was too personal. Vector had volunteered first, before Davies found the courage: he’d been prepared to face this doom alone. He deserved a better reply.
Kicking himself mentally, Davies tried to imagine what Morn would say; tried to find her inside himself. After a moment he ventured, “That doesn’t make sense, Vector. Letting someone steal your research isn’t the same as surrendering yourself to save millions of lives. You can’t compare them.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Vector’s eyes drifted away again. His mild tone hinted at regret. “But it does make restitution.”
“In this case,” Davies countered more harshly than he intended, “so does staying alive. And it’s better than dying.”
As far as he was concerned, anything was better than the oblique death of mutation.
A short time ago he and Vector had taken the last of Nick’s mutagen immunity capsules. Even if everything went wrong, they had roughly four hours of humanity left. But now that seemed more like a curse than a blessing. Five extra minutes might give Angus time to reach them: four more hours would supply nothing except absolute horror.
Maybe Vector feared those four hours more than he dreaded an undignified struggle.
“Do you really think we can trust Angus?” he asked carefully, as if he didn’t want to give offense. “He’s your father. Maybe you’ve inherited something that helps you understand him. I certainly don’t.
“Why does a man like that change his mind? What does he get out of acting like a hero, when until now the only thing he’s ever fought for is a chance to go on breathing?
“What if the only reason he’s here—the only reason we’re all doing this—is so he can snatch Trumpet and try to escape?”
“No.” Davies did his best to sound certain despite his mounting alarm. “When he makes a commitment to Morn, he keeps it. I don’t understand that any better than you do, but I’m sure it’s true.”
He trusted his father for another reason as well. He had no choice. If he didn’t, he would lose his grip on himself and start to scream. But that wouldn’t comfort Vector.
Vector shrugged; said nothing. The trouble in his eyes deepened.
A moment later the airlock intercom chimed. When Davies toggled the speaker, Captain Ubikwe announced, “Six minutes to dock, boys and girls.” He seemed to like living this close to disaster. He sounded almost indecently relaxed. “I’ll make this as gentle as I can, but you might want to hold on to something.
“Angus and Ciro are still in position,” he reported. “I suggested Angus could leave now, get a head start. But he pointed out the Amnion might spot his jet emissions. He’s probably right. He knows more about those jamming fields than I do.”
Yet the longer Angus waited the longer Davies and Vector would have to resist Marc Vestabule’s fate.
“What if he doesn’t go at all?” Vector asked the intercom.
“Dr. Shaheed,” Captain Ubikwe replied cheerfully, “you have a suspicious mind. If that happens, I don’t think Mikka will like it any more than I will.” A deep chuckle rattled the speaker. Ciro’s life was at stake as much as anyone’s. “In fact, we’ve already talked about it. She doesn’t intend to let him back aboard unless he does his job. Instead she’s going to charge her guns and try to take out that proton emitter before it fires.
“I guess we aren’t exactly brimming with trust ourselves,” he admitted. His tone suggested a fierce grin.
Sweat licked frustration down the small of Davies’ back. His suit was full of itches he couldn’t scratch.
“Any news from Morn?” he asked. Stupid question: the command module and Punisher had broken off contact with each other as soon as the module secured Trumpet. Angus hadn’t wanted to give the Amnion any cause for alarm. Still Davies couldn’t stifle his desire for some kind of news.
Moment by moment he felt that he was losing the battle against terror. He needed an anchor—and Morn was the only one he’d ever had.
Captain Ubikwe appeared to understand. Without hesitation he answered, “Scan tells me Punisher spent a while using the dish aimed at Suka Bator. But they stopped transmitting ten or fifteen minutes ago. So I assume Morn finished giving her testimony, and now the Council has to debate it.”
“Thanks.” Davies silenced the intercom quickly to disguise the fact that Captain Ubikwe’s reply wasn’t enough. He needed something more solid to hang on to.
He needed to believe in himself. At the moment his only real conviction was that the Amnion would use him to destroy humankind.
Vector faced him again. Regret pulled at the corners of the older man’s mouth.
“I’m sorry, Davies. I guess I shouldn’t have asked you about Angus. There’s nothing we can do about him anyway.” He paused awkwardly, then tightened his jaw and forced himself to say, “I’ll tell you what I’m really worried about.”
A defensive clench lifted his shoulders. “The truth is, I’m not much good in a fight.” His strained gaze admitted that he meant no good. “I’m afraid I’m going to let you down. You’ll hold up your end, but you’ll fail because of me. And I’m not sure I can live with that.” He grimaced. “As long as I’m still human, anyway.”
Claustrophobia and confusion brought up bile into Davies’ mouth. His throat worked, but he couldn’t swallow the taste. He no longer felt like yelling at Vector. Now he wanted to burst into tears.
“In t
hat case,” he offered thickly, “maybe you’d better stay behind. I’ll tell them I killed you. So they won’t get your knowledge. That’ll break the deal, but it won’t be Morn’s fault. They can’t blame her. And they don’t have time for more negotiations. As long as they have me, they probably won’t open fire.” On Thanatos Minor he’d protected himself from the Amnion with lies. “If I can confuse them enough, they may still give Angus enough time.”
Vector studied him closely for a moment, then sighed. “Ah, well.” Slowly the former engineer turned away. “I don’t think I could live with that, either.”
While Davies fought to recover some semblance of courage or control, the intercom chimed again. He rapped the toggle with his knuckles; but then he couldn’t find his voice to respond.
Captain Ubikwe sounded strangely eager. “Two minutes to dock.” He must have thought he was having fun. “Angus is away. Right on target, by God—and moving fast. Ciro won’t start until we hit the seals, but we’re committed now.
“Let’s make this work.”
Angus is away. That was an anchor of sorts—the best Davies could hope for, since he had so little reason to trust himself. Right on target. Angus intended to keep his word. If his son could do the same—
When neither Davies nor Vector said anything, Captain Ubikwe went on, “I told Angus you’ll give him an extra minute or two, if you can. If you’re willing to take that kind of chance.”
Vector glanced at Davies, then faced the intercom himself. “I don’t think so, Captain.” The resignation in his voice might as well have been despair. “We might upset Vestabule. Then a whole lot of people won’t live to regret it.”
“I understand,” Captain Ubikwe answered more quietly. “Secure for dock impact. Then kill a couple of them for me.”
Vector took hold of a handgrip; but Davies ignored the danger of a jolt. Instead he spent the last of his concentration checking his weapons.
He’d coiled his sharp monofilament line into his left palm inside his glove. His plastic dirk rested in his belt pouch. That was all he had to defend himself with. Angus had promised him they would pass Calm Horizons’ sensors.