Davies feared that the Amnion would knock him unconscious before he could even begin to put up a fight. Then he would be lost: ten minutes or four hours of mutagen immunity wouldn’t make any difference. Nevertheless he faced the outer door of the airlock as if he couldn’t wait to bring his lifetime of confusion and distress to an end.
CIRO
He may not have been as crazy as he thought. He was still sane enough to understand Angus’ plans—and to fear for their success. As the command module carried Trumpet across the last twenty meters to the docking port marked by incandescence in Calm Horizons’ side, he stayed where he was; clung to his rifle; and tried to weigh the dangers against each other.
He should already have started to work himself: that was what Angus had told him. Don’t wait around. Open the hatch. Get that damn thing in position as fast as you can. Otherwise you’ll be in trouble.
At a certain point—after Davies and Vector boarded the defensive—Captain Ubikwe would fire thrust to break free of the docking seals. Unless Ciro had manhandled his doom past the module and away across the defensive’s hull by that time, the sudden force might do him real harm. He could easily break a limb, or damage his suit, unless he was anchored and braced. Worse, he might lose control of the grenade. If it bounced off the module’s hull, or Trumpet’s, and out of reach, everything would be ruined. Even using the full power of his suit jets, he might fail to retrieve the grenade in time. It had too much mass to be managed quickly. Then Davies and Vector, Angus and Warden Dios, Captain Ubikwe and Mikka—they would all die for nothing.
There was another factor as well, although Ciro had already decided to ignore it. For Mikka’s sake, Angus had instructed him to position the grenade as fast as you can so that he, Ciro, could return to the command module before it moved out of reach. But he foresaw at least two problems. He didn’t trust his aim: he would miss unless he fired at close range. And he feared setting the grenade too near the docking port—too near the module and Trumpet.
Still he should have moved by now. That was the plan. Nevertheless he lay flat against the gap scout’s metal skin while Captain Ubikwe guided the module meter by meter into the maw of the docking port. Calm Horizons lowered in front of him like a wall of sky, her darkness slashed with spotlights; and Ciro clung where he was as if her sheer size paralyzed him.
Angus’ orders seemed to make sense, but they had one fatal flaw. He’d admitted as much, if not in so many words. You’ll be exposed as soon as I leave. That was the danger. Ciro was small enough to be missed: even Trumpet dwarfed him. And he’d made his profile even smaller by lying down. But spotlights searched every meter of the gap scout and the command module constantly. At least half a dozen video pickups studied the approaching vessels. He was certain that some watching eye would spot him as soon as he rose into motion.
And then—
Ah, then: disaster. The Amnion would realize that they were threatened. They might not guess the nature of the threat, but they would recognize its reality. And they would make the same decision human beings would make in the same crisis: they would open fire.
One super-light proton cannon burst might be enough to raze Suka Bator. Two would certainly do the job. And when UMCPHQ, Punisher, and the rest of the ships returned Calm Horizons’ matter cannon barrage, Trumpet and the module would be pounded to powder almost instantaneously.
Ciro may have been crazy; but he knew this danger was greater than the one he’d been told to avoid.
Defying Angus’ explicit instructions, he lay like a blister on Trumpet’s hull and waited for Angus to carry out the first part of his mission.
He’d positioned himself so that he had a clear view of Angus’ progress. The cyborg appeared to sail unnaturally fast: with his artificial strength, he’d launched himself hard at his target. Straight as a laser, he soared toward the distant proton emitter. But Calm Horizons was huge, and he still had a long way to go. Spotlights glared off his suit as they hunted for foes. At intervals he seemed to burn against the backdrop of the heavens like a star gone supernova. If any of his jamming fields failed—or if he’d misjudged their effectiveness—he would be noticed at once.
Ciro concentrated exclusively on Angus; didn’t know how close the command module had come to its destination. The sudden jolt-and-scrape as the module hit the port guides and slid along them toward the docking seals took him by surprise. Inertia pushed him onto the hull, then rebounded through him, nearly lifting him from the surface before he caught himself.
He didn’t take his eyes off Angus.
Without a sound, but palpable through the ships’ metal, maneuvering thrust forced the module down the guides to mate against the docking seals. For a moment Trumpet shuddered on the module’s back. Then the seals took hold. Gradually thrust faded, and both vessels came to rest.
Shit. In another minute or two, Davies and Vector would leave the airlock to meet Marc Vestabule and Warden Dios aboard Calm Horizons. No matter what Captain Ubikwe said, they couldn’t delay without making the Amnion suspicious. And Angus still hadn’t reached his target. And when he was done there, he would have to come all this way back, running on magnetized boots—or coasting in zero g—so that his jets wouldn’t betray him.
Now surely it was time for Ciro to start; time to take the risk, accept the consequences. The job ahead of him would test his strength—and his craziness—to their limits. Nevertheless he remained motionless and went on waiting. He was still sane enough to pray—
There. Angus had stopped; snagged himself to a halt on the projecting muzzle of the emitter. Instinctively Ciro held his breath. The distance was too great; and his faceplate’s polarization cost his vision depth: he couldn’t see what Angus was doing. But he knew the plan. And he may have been the only person living who trusted Angus implicitly.
Angus meant to sabotage the emitter. But he had to do so in a way that concealed the damage. Once the Amnion realized they’d been hurt, they would open up with all their other guns. Angus needed an undetectable means to disable the proton emitter.
That was why he carried a canister of hull sealant.
With no one to witness him except Ciro, he sprayed sealant down the emitter’s muzzle; enough sealant to replace ten cubic meters of blown bulkhead. It hardened in seconds. If he was right—if his databases hadn’t misled him—the gun was ruined now. Simple as that. When Calm Horizons tried to use it she would blast a hole the size of a pocket cruiser in her own side.
If he was right—
Ciro’s chest tugged at him, demanding air; but he held his breath as if he thought that act of self-denial might keep Angus alive. It’s easy, Angus had told Morn. All I have to do is get there. Ten seconds later your damn Council is safe. If a theory no one had ever tested turned out to be accurate, Marc Vestabule had just lost his hostages. But Angus still had to get away. If Calm Horizons fired her proton cannon while he was anywhere nearby, he would be caught in the explosion. Metal and wreckage would tear him apart like shrapnel.
Now Ciro saw Angus start back toward him. Angus had kicked himself into another fast glide. Apparently he thought that would be quicker than running. In two more heartbeats, or three, he would be out of immediate danger. As long as Marc Vestabule didn’t know what had just happened—
Davies and Vector must have emerged from the module’s airlock as Vestabule expected. The Amnioni must have believed that he still had the power to destroy Suka Bator. That Trumpet’s people intended to keep their bargain with him. No explosion shook the defensive. She didn’t do anything that would bring Director Dormer’s cordon of ships into battle with her.
Slowly Ciro began to breathe again.
Beyond question it was time for him to get to work; past time. In Sorus Chatelaine’s name he’d accepted a role that demanded strength, timing, accuracy. And he lacked the raw muscle to keep his promises quickly. Any moment now Angus would start to yell at him, cursing him into action.
But when he heard a voice, it wasn’t Angus?
??. It was Captain Ubikwe’s.
“Mikka, Ciro hasn’t moved.”
Immediately Mikka demanded, “What’s happened to him?”
“I don’t know.” Dolph’s deep tones thrummed with worry. “He’s paralyzed.”
Mikka didn’t hesitate. “I’ve got to go out there.”
Ciro could imagine her slapping at her belts, thrusting herself from her g-seat.
“You can’t,” Captain Ubikwe countered urgently. “We still might survive if he doesn’t do his part. If you don’t do yours, we’re dead.”
Mikka’s groan seemed to ache inside the confines of Ciro’s helmet.
Yet his reasons for staying where he was still gripped him. If he moved now—and the Amnion spotted him—all the rest of Angus’ plan would fail.
He hoped the Council was safe. On the other hand, those people meant nothing to him. Davies and Vector, Angus and Mikka—they meant a lot. He didn’t want to cause their deaths.
Filled by madness like wisdom, he clung fervently to Trumpet’s hull and went on waiting.
Sometimes prayers were answered. With part of his mind, he wondered if Sorus Chatelaine had known that. Just when the pressure to move threatened to become more than he could bear, he saw hot laser fire streak the dark, followed almost simultaneously by the nacreous visible punch of matter cannon.
The strange double blast arose from one of the distant specks he’d assumed was an orbital platform. And it came nowhere near Calm Horizons. Instead it left a scorching trail of incandescence on its way through atmosphere toward a planet-side target.
Almost at once black space became a blaze of violence as every ship in the cordon unleashed her guns.
Ciro Vasaczk had no idea what was going on, and he didn’t care. He cared only that none of the fire was directed at Calm Horizons—and Calm Horizons didn’t return it.
He’d been given the diversion he needed.
Without hesitation he unclipped his belt from its anchor and flipped himself toward the compartment which held Trumpet’s singularity grenades.
MIN
She couldn’t control the fire in her palms—the burning desire for weapons and action which had earned her her reputation as Warden Dios’ “executioner.” It spread outward from the place where Angus had shot her. Waiting imposed such complex demands that she doubted her ability to stand the strain. Her PCR brought in four, five, sometimes six overlapping channels. From her place at the communications station on Punisher’s auxiliary bridge, she handled as many of them as she could; gave out every answer she had. She was the center around which every aspect of Earth’s defense against Calm Horizons turned. But it was all just waiting. Her chance to take part in determining humankind’s future hadn’t come yet.
Downlink control on two. Planetary authorities report widespread panic, riots, violence. They blame losing the scan net. Urgently request restoration.
Tell them no, she ordered. She didn’t want to let Holt Fasner see her cordon of ships that clearly.
Adventurous on three. Rerouting cleared the power-spikes. We’re back in business. Ready on your order.
Center on five. ED Security is afraid of violence at the evac stations. Nonessential personnel are going crazy. If we don’t give them something to do, we’ll have a whole new kind of trouble on our hands.
By degrees a blaze of urgency spread from Min’s wrists up into her forearms. Any minute now she might burst into flames—
PolyMed on one. Director, you’ve got to help us. We’re sitting ducks. We have priceless data here. And patients. We need downlink facilities and personnel carriers.
PolyMed couldn’t adjust its orbit. Nothing protected hundreds of patients and invaluable zero-g medical research except one small gunboat, Flash Attack.
But Min had no downlink facilities or personnel carriers to spare—and no attention. PolyMed wasn’t an immediate target. Everything except the disposition of her ships was chaff, harassment, distraction. Whatever happened, Angus and Dolph were out of her hands. With most of her concentration and all of her heart, she focused on the reports from Suka Bator.
PR uplink on six. Dr. Harbinger states that she’s been able to trace the SOD-CMOS chip from Nathan Alt’s id tag.
Min flinched involuntarily. Dr. Harbinger states—? What the hell had happened to Hashi? Why was Lane speaking for him? He was supposed to contact the Council as soon as Min authorized a channel. But when she gave the word, it wasn’t Hashi who obeyed: it was Lane Harbinger.
Center, she ordered, maintain that PR uplink. I don’t care who has to postpone talking to me. Give me a constant feed.
She didn’t wait for an acknowledgment. Grimly she told Cray, “Put six on the speakers. I want everybody to hear it.”
Especially Morn. To some extent Morn had caused this crisis: she needed to know the outcome of her testimony. Min couldn’t think of any other way to help her.
“Aye, Director.” Cray obeyed numbly; exhausted by the stress of directing Min’s communications traffic.
Hell, they were all exhausted. Porson and Bydell worked as hard as Cray, collecting and sorting data of every description so that it would be available when Min needed it. And Patrice had run helm hard and often in the past forty-eight hours. Only Glessen on targ looked steady and strong, eager to fight.
One way or another, Min meant to make sure he got the opportunity.
Center on three. Scan reports your command module and Trumpet on final approach. Estimate dock in seven minutes.
UMCPHQ had a clear view of Calm Horizons on that side: Punisher did not. Without UMCPHQ’s scan data, the cruiser would have had no way of knowing what the two small vessels did, or what happened to them.
Earth uplink control on one. Provisioning inadequate. Shortfalls expected within hours. Resupply essential.
Min ignored that. The emergency would be Over in minutes, not hours. Battles in space were like that: appallingly swift; done before anyone could comprehend the scale of the forces which had been unleashed. She would worry about the aftermath later.
Valor on three. Damn it, Director, that’s a human station! We’re facing a Behemoth-class Amnion defensive—and you want us to fix targ on a human station?
Flash Attack on two. Adventurous on five. Pocket cruiser Stiletto on four. Director, we need an explanation. These targ priorities don’t make sense.
Just do it! she fired back at them all. If I’m wrong you can insist on a court-martial later.
Then she told Center, Remind Vestabule I warned him. He’s safe as long as he has that proton cannon.
By God, she needed to shoot somebody!
More than that, she needed to be right. She owed it to Morn as much as to Warden—and to her sworn duty as acting director of the UMCP.
Morn had obeyed promptly when Min told her to end her transmission to Suka Bator. Despite everything she’d endured, all the ways she’d been betrayed, she still trusted the ED director that much. Under other circumstances, Min would have felt touched, gratified; perhaps humbled. But now she didn’t have time.
Nevertheless she was acutely conscious of Morn. Angus Thermopyle’s victim, and Nick Succorso’s—and Warden Dios’—had brought herself and her people all this way by sheer grit so that she could make one valiant, costly attempt to change the course of humankind’s future. And now she had nothing left to do except remember her own pain.
She’d told her story; explained the crimes she’d experienced and witnessed. In some absolute sense, she was done. She still sat at the command station; but she no longer gave orders, or offered suggestions. Angus and Davies were beyond her help.
She was done—but she wasn’t satisfied. Nothing had been resolved.
After she’d silenced her intercom, stopped talking to the Council, she sat almost motionless in her g-seat, with her head resting against the back and a haunted look in her eyes—alone and lost; almost out of reach. Her bruised stare suggested horrors Min could hardly imagine. She knew what it was like to be injected w
ith mutagens.
Davies had gone to surrender himself to the Amnion. And no one could save her son except a man who’d raped and brutalized her for weeks.
Min probably should have sent her to sickbay. Had her dragged there if necessary. But she deserved better than that. She’d earned the right to remain where she could watch and hear what happened, even if there was no longer anything she could do about it.
For her sake as well as Warden’s—and for humanity’s—Min hoped fervently that the Council would make the right decision.
“According to Dr. Harbinger,” the PR uplink echoed from Suka Bator, “Anodyne Systems records show that Nathan Alt reqqed that chip just a few days ago. He still had UMC access and clearance to Anodyne five and a half weeks after he was allegedly fired.”
Lane’s statement didn’t make much sense to Min. She knew too little about the situation: Hashi hadn’t had time to give her all the details of the third kaze’s attack. Nevertheless the importance of Lane’s evidence was plain, if only because Koina’s communications tech relayed it with so much hushed intensity.
The Dragon had been dealt another blow—
Abruptly Morn moved. Her commitments wouldn’t let her rest. With a palpable effort she pulled herself upright at the command station. Her worn gaze caught Min’s.
“Director,” she asked softly, “who is Dr. Harbinger?”
Min turned from the communications board. At that moment she would have answered any question Morn asked, no matter whom she kept waiting.
“One of Hashi’s techs,” she said past her throat pickup.
“She’s brilliant, one of the best. But I don’t know why he wants her to talk for him.” As soon as she said that, however, an explanation occurred to her. “Unless he’s worried about his credibility.” In the Members’ eyes—and in the context of Morn’s testimony—he must have been dangerously tainted. Cleatus Fane could have used that against him. “He may think the Council is more likely to believe her.”