Morn nodded slowly. “He’s right.” A vibration of anger sharpened her voice. “He’s already done too much harm. I wouldn’t believe him if he told me my own name.”
Now I would, Min thought. But she didn’t try to explain what had just changed for her.
If her guess was accurate, Hashi had done something unprecedented. He’d refused an opportunity to display his own cleverness.
Even Lane couldn’t have penetrated Anodyne’s security alone: that wasn’t possible. She must have worked with Hashi every step of the way; and, presumably, with Chief Mandich. Why else had the DA director asked Min for those Administration codes?
Yet he declined the spotlight; declined a chance to deliver one of his notorious lectures. Min had always considered him a rampant egomaniac, but apparently there were things he valued more than his own pride. In its way his loyalty to Warden’s vision of an independent UMCP must have been as clear as hers.
“The FEA is objecting,” the PR uplink reported—an intent, subvocalized murmur amplified by transmission gain. “He’s objecting hard. He claims Dr. Harbinger’s evidence must be false because it doesn’t make sense.”
“Typical,” Min sneered like the fire in her hands. Her heart had begun to soar. “Lane’s investigation makes the Dragon look bad, so of course she must by lying.” The more Fane protested, the more guilt he betrayed. “Maybe he doesn’t know she’s the kind of woman who would probably throw up if she tried to say something that wasn’t true.”
Come on, you bastard, she urged Fasner. I dare you to let this pass. You haven’t got the guts to give up.
The husky voice from the speakers held the bridge. “Director Hannish is answering. She accuses him of triggering that kaze. Now she says CEO Fasner suspected that Director Dios intended to make his crimes public. The CEO sent all three kazes to scare the Council into rejecting the Bill of Severance.”
Morn’s chin came up. Glints of vindication complicated the haunting in her eyes. She must have understood what she heard less than Min did. Nevertheless the eagerness of Koina’s tech made its implications clear. Through her pain and weariness Morn seemed to catch her first real glimpse of hope.
If the Members took the next step—
Center, Min warned her throat pickup, stand by. All ships, all guns. On my personal authority.
She wanted to add, If you’ve ever believed) in me, trust me now. But she didn’t have time.
Too excited to whisper, the PR tech announced, almost shouted, “The Council has dropped Fane’s proposal to decharter the UMCP. The Bill of Severance has been moved and seconded. They’re going to pass it! My God, they’re passing it by acclamation. Holt Fasner no longer owns the UMCP.”
No longer owns—Min found herself on her feet, snatched erect by years of desire realized at last. She felt like flames leaping high. Warden had succeeded. By God, he had done it! The strength of his complicity and regret had broken Fasner’s legal grip on human space.
Now only illegal methods of control remained.
Only treason and violence.
“Fane is hysterical,” the uplink crowed. “He’s being escorted from the room.”
Of course he was hysterical. He knew what was about to happen.
Center on three. Your command module and Trumpet are almost there. Dock in ninety seconds.
“Captain Verti—” Koina’s tech seemed to choke in surprise. “I don’t believe it. Captain Vertigus is dancing on his chair. Most of the Members look too stunned to react, but some of them are applauding him. Blaine Manse, Tel Burnish, Sigurd—”
Suddenly everything in Min’s life had become simple. She no longer had to worry about politics and humankind’s future, plotting and doubt: she’d been restored to her chosen place as the UMCP’s ED director, and her duty was plain.
That’s enough, she told Center. Cancel feed on six.
Center obeyed promptly. Without transition the uplink fell silent as if Suka Bator had ceased to exist.
Now, she thought in Holt’s direction. Do it now.
Morn might have been waiting for this moment. She closed her eyes for a few seconds like a woman marshaling her last resources. Then she opened her belts and stood up from the command station. The look of relief on her wounded face bore an acute resemblance to mourning.
“Director Donner,” she pronounced quietly, “you have the bridge. I’ll get out of your way.
“When this is over, I hope you’ll remember that they were all my prisoners—Mikka and Ciro, Vector, Angus. I’m responsible for anything they did that might count against them. If you don’t think they’ve earned a reprieve, take it out on me.”
She’d let her son go. Whether he lived or died, she’d spent him to purchase her chance to address the Council. And now she had no way to help him. She’d done the best she could for him when she’d decided to trust Angus.
It was no wonder that her success seemed to fill her with grief.
Center on four. Docking complete. They’ve arrived.
The fire had reached Min’s eyes, as hot as tears. An unexpected lump closed her throat momentarily. “Ensign Hyland—” She started again. “Morn—I consider it an honor to know you. As far as I’m concerned, the Vasaczks and Dr. Shaheed are as innocent as the day they were born. And Captain Thermopyle already works for us. On my word as UMCP Acting Director, nobody is going to ‘take’ anything ‘out on’ any of you. You are—”
She would have said more; wanted to find some words that might convey what she felt. But she’d run out of time.
In a burst of urgency, Porson and Center together cried at her, “HO is firing! Lasers and matter cannon! My God, they’re trying to hit Suka Bator!”
Min Donner had planned for this. With nothing to go on except Morn’s courage, Hashi’s stubborn genius, and her own faith in Warden Dios, she’d judged the Dragon rightly.
Now at last she could help the man she served make restitution.
Blazing with pure passion, she yelled, “Fire! All fire! Fire now!”
Almost at once, almost in unison, every cannon in the cordon and every gun UMCPHQ could bring to bear unleashed a barrage of devastation at Holt Fasner’s HO.
DAVIES
Even though he was braced for it, the hit-and-scrape as the module struck the port guides and slid along them into the docking seals jolted Davies’ heart. He wasn’t ready for this; didn’t know how to be ready. He had to remind himself constantly that Angus and Ciro—and Director Donner—had no intention of letting the defensive escape with knowledge which could doom humankind. Unless every single aspect of Angus’ plan failed, Davies and Vector were far more likely to die than to end as Amnion. Their artificial immunity would last long enough to spare them.
The scraping became a shudder as the guides forcibly adjusted the module’s approach. Moments later, however, the seals caught the module and locked it to a halt. There the stress ended. With a faint sigh of hull-strain, the small vessel settled to rest against the Amnioni’s side.
For what he feared would be the last time, Davies looked at Vector’s face.
They still hadn’t put on their helmets. As soon as they did, they wouldn’t be able to say or hear anything they didn’t want to share with Calm Horizons.
Vector held Davies’ gaze gravely; but the former engineer didn’t speak. They’d come to a place where they had no more words to offer each other.
Almost at once the airlock intercom chimed. This was Captain Ubikwe’s last chance to talk to them without being overheard. Apparently he hadn’t run out of words.
Or he may have had something vital to convey—
Davies thumbed the intercom awkwardly. The tension in his muscles stiffened his movements; deprived him of grace.
Not for the first time he was amazed by the ease in Captain Ubikwe’s deep voice. Vocally, if in no other way, Punisher’s dispossessed commander comported himself like a man with nothing to fear; nothing at stake.
“We’re in,” he announced unnecessaril
y. “Davies, Vector, this is your last chance to change your minds.
“Personally, I want to rescue Director Dios. I think the risk is worth taking. But I’m in no danger of ending up Amnion if absolutely everything goes wrong. I can’t make a choice like this for you.
“I won’t argue with anything you decide. Say the word, and I’ll blow the seals, tear us back out of here. Hell,” he chuckled, “it won’t be the first time I haven’t done exactly what I was told. And we might even survive for a while. I’ll be surprised if a fucker that big can fix targ on us when we’re this close. Weil still go out in a blaze of glory, but it won’t be until the real fighting starts.”
He was probably right. As soon as Calm Horizons recognized the betrayal, however, she would unleash her attack on Suka Bator. Or on UMCPHQ and Punisher if her proton cannon failed. Then the command module and Trumpet would be ripped apart in the cross-fire.
Drifting near the intercom, Davies asked the only question that mattered to him now. “Where’s Angus?”
“On his way,” Captain Ubikwe answered promptly. “But he still hasn’t reached the emitter. I would rather wait where we are until he heads back this way. Unfortunately Vestabule has already ordered us to open the airlock.” He snorted like a subterranean explosion. “I don’t think he’s in the mood for suspense. In any case, I don’t know whether Angus’ plan is going to work. I have no idea what happens when you fill a super-light proton cannon emitter with hull sealant.” Calmly he finished, “So it’s up to you.”
Vector cleared his throat. “What about Ciro, Captain?”
“He’s out there.” Dolph’s tone conveyed a shrug. “But I’m not sure we can count on him. Weil probably have to rely on Mikka and Trumpet to keep us alive.”
Davies heard a hint of concern behind Captain Ubikwe’s composure; but he didn’t have time to pursue it. Vestabule has already ordered—Mutely he looked at Vector for confirmation.
Vector met Davies’ eyes again and nodded. A rueful smile twisted his mouth.
Davies’ throat closed on a groan. Swallowing roughly, he said to the intercom, “Tell Vestabule we’re on our way. As soon as we get our helmets on.”
Vehement with dread, he closed the toggle.
Shit. They had to go. Now or never. Whatever happened.
He snatched up his helmet, jammed it over his head, set the seals. Almost at once the status indicators on the readout inside the helmet showed green. He adjusted the polarization of his faceplate to improve his vision as much as possible, then turned for a last look at Vector.
Vector’s helmet was already in place. The reflective surface of his faceplate concealed him completely.
“I suppose,” his voice breathed in Davies’ internal speaker, “I ought to say something about death before dishonor. It’s traditional.”
“Fuck that,” Davies muttered. “I want to make a tradition of surviving.”
Morn had done it under worse conditions than these.
Grimly he coded the sequence to open the module’s airlock.
But his hands shook on the keys. Everything he did felt brittle. His life had become breakable as glass, and he feared that his own distress would shatter it before anyone else had a chance to threaten it.
Vector was right. Surrender would have been more dignified.
Alerts signaled from the control pad as the doors began to ease aside. Servos worked the mechanism with a palpable hum. Davies’ external pickup brought in a low sigh as the airlock’s atmosphere equalized with the specific pressure of the docking port. Inside his helmet Captain Ubikwe offered, “Good luck.” Then the command module stopped transmitting.
The doors unsealed to a wash of acrid light. Both the outer and inner iris-doors of Calm Horizons’ airlock stood open, letting the kind of radiance the Amnion preferred flow through. It was the same sulfur-hued illumination into which Davies Hyland had been born on Enablement Station. He remembered it vividly: the memory made him want to throw up. That light seemed to catch and breed on the rough textures and uneven surfaces of the ship, as if it were nourished by every Amnion thing it touched.
He didn’t wait for Vector. Passing himself rigidly from handgrip to handgrip, he left the command module and entered the defensive.
Vector followed less awkwardly. G afflicted him with constant pain. He moved more easily weightless.
Davies assumed that he and Vector were scanned while they crossed Calm Horizons’ airlock; but he couldn’t identify any of the sensors or instruments. The Amnion grew their technology in ways he couldn’t begin to understand.
For no apparent reason, he found himself wondering how Calm Horizons had found Trumpet in the immense labyrinth of Massif-5. Presumably Soar must have guided the defensive in. But how in hell had Sorus Chatelaine and Marc Vestabule contrived to communicate with each other?
The Amnion had almost achieved near-C velocities. They could communicate effectively across imponderable distances. In some ways their technological resources were as fearsome as their mutagens. Perhaps their sinks could shrug off the combined fire of all Min Donner’s ships.
Did they know he and Vector were armed? Could they tell? Angus had said not—but he wasn’t here. Marc Vestabule and the Amnion were.
Beyond the port airlock, Davies and Vector faced a huge space like a cavern left behind by a receding flood of brimstone and lava. Maybe the light actually did feed on the walls. Every span of the bulkheads and equipment seemed to glow with implied heat. Davies guessed that the high chamber was a cargo hold. Structures which resembled trees formed of poured concrete stood as if rooted to every surface: they were probably gantries, positioned for zero g. Cables like vines spread at random angles from their limbs and trunks. Among them the decks and walls were crisscrossed with magnetic rails for transport sleds.
Despite its alienness, the hold eased one of Davies’ worries. He’d feared facing Marc Vestabule and Warden Dios in some featureless, constricted room where nothing was possible.
The actual situation was bad enough—
Ten meters beyond the airlock, four Amnion held the floor. Two of them looked like replicas of each other: each with four eyes so that they could see all around them; each with three arms and legs. The other two had been grown to a different design. One had four arms, the other five; and their legs also might as well have been arms. They carried ambiguous pieces of equipment, which they used with separate limbs. Pouches hung from various shoulders. But all four of them wore the gnarled crust which took the place of clothes for the Amnion. And all four had the lipless mouths, lamprey teeth, and merciless eyes of their kind.
“A reception committee,” Vector murmured. “How nice.”
Davies ignored him.
He didn’t see any guns. None of these Amnion held anything comparable to the weapons he’d seen on Enablement. That, too, eased a worry.
In front of the four creatures floated two men; or rather one man and a mutated human being. Davies recognized Marc Vestabule. He’d encountered the Amnioni once before; wasn’t likely to forget Vestabule’s approximation of humanity. The human side of Vestabule’s face wore a vestigial look of concern, which his alien features contradicted. He had what must have been a PCR jacked into one of his ears and a pickup fixed to his throat. If he commanded the defensive, he needed such things to stay in contact with the bridge.
His companion was Warden Dios.
Davies had never met the UMCP director; never seen the man before. However, Morn’s memories filled the gap as effectively as personal knowledge. In some strange sense, he’d known those strong, square fists and that thick chest longer than he’d been alive. He recognized the patch which covered Warden’s left eye socket above the breathing mask: he knew it concealed an IR prosthesis which enabled him—so they’d said in the Academy—to detect lies no matter who told them. And the direct force of Warden’s human eye was familiar, as if he’d stood under its scrutiny more than once.
He knew Director Dios couldn’t see him, not th
rough the polarized mirror of his faceplate. Nevertheless he seemed to feel Warden’s gaze searching him as if the UMCP director wanted to understand what kind of son Morn had brought into the world.
Davies’ metabolism burned too hotly for comfort inside an EVA suit. Droplets of sweat broke free of his face, left odd bits of refraction and distortion on the inner surface of his faceplate. In spite of the power drain, he dialed internal cooling as high as it would go; increased the oxygen balance supplied by his tanks. Still his skin felt flushed, as if he were feverish—or ashamed to face the UMCP director.
In his memories, Warden Dios was a man who demanded the best from everyone around him—and had the right to demand it because he gave the best himself.
Davies looked around quickly to make sure there were no other Amnion in the hold. At the edge of his faceplate he noticed that the iris of the airlock remained open behind Vector. A kick of adrenaline carried new fear through his veins. Were the Amnion planning to force their way aboard the command module? Was that what all this equipment was for?—to pry open or cut through the module’s seals?
If the airlock itself stayed open, Captain Ubikwe might cause Warden’s death before Angus could try to rescue any of them.
For a moment neither Vestabule nor Warden Dios spoke: they simply stared at the faceless EVA suits. Then the former human turned to Warden. In a voice like flakes of oxidation, he said, “The way is open, Warden Dios.” He indicated the airlock. “Will you depart?”
Depart—? Davies bit his lip to contain his alarm. Were the Amnion willing to let Warden go? A hostage as valuable as the UMCP director? What kind of deal had he made with them?
What had they done to him?
Warden replied with a snort of derision. Nudging the deck with one foot, he moved a meter closer to Davies and Vector; ahead of the Amnion. As if he understood how they might take Vestabule’s offer, he said gruffly, “Don’t worry about it. He knows I can’t leave. This is just his confused idea of a joke.”