This Day All Gods Die (68 page)

Because she needed Min's help, she looked for some way to catch the ED director's attention; encourage Min to leave Center's demands aside for a moment and talk to her. But Min's link to Center—

and, through Center, to the planet—

required harsh concentration. She was responsible for Earth's defense in every sense: both planet-side and out in space. At times she appeared to answer multiple questions simultaneously; issue orders on several different subjects at once.

A nagging itch troubled Morn's sore arm—

a sign of heal-

ing, she supposed. Grateful for it, she scratched at it occasionally while she awaited her opportunity.

After a while the command module and Trumpet finished their last transmissions. Then Porson confirmed that Trumpet was well occluded, her telltale electromagnetic activity masked by the module's emissions. Still Morn didn't speak.

Despite her complex fears—

and a mounting sense of urgency

—

she waited until Min made time to glance in her direction.

But then she found that the words she required were hard to say. Once they were spoken, she wouldn't be able to call them back: simply articulating them would make them irrevo-cable; a promise she had to keep. In chagrin she stalled for courage by asking the first question she could think of.

"How's your hand, Director?"

If Min considered that an odd question, she kept her reaction to herself. She may have understood why Morn asked it.

Flexing her fingers, she inspected the bandage Glessen had applied for her.

"Funny thing," she muttered, frowning. "That damn cyborg has good aim. Hitting him hurt worse than getting shot." Her mouth twisted. "Someday I'll learn to keep my temper. But that probably won't happen anytime soon."

The auxiliary bridge was definitely colder than it should have been. Morn checked her maintenance readouts; saw that a couple of temperature sensors and air circulation relays weren't working properly. They must have been damaged somehow.

She tried again.

"Director—

" Her throat closed. Min—

"You know about my gap-sickness. You know what Angus did to me." She didn't wait for Min's assent. "But I never told you that Vector broke my black box. My zone implant control. Angus gave it to me. But Vector broke it to keep me from killing myself. When Nick had Angus' priority-codes.

"Since then," she explained lamely, "my gap-sickness has been more of a problem."

The lines of Min's face became sharper. "I wondered why Angus hit you when we hit hard g. At the time that seemed"—

she frowned at the memory—

"excessive."

Ignoring her duties, she waited for Morn to go on.

Morn swore at herself. Why was this so hard? Hadn't she grown accustomed to her shames yet? Surely by now she might have come to understand that Starmaster was gone?—

that no amount of self-torment would bring her family back?

With an effort she set her reluctance aside.

"I need your help, Director," she admitted unsteadily. "I want to talk to the Council. Tell my story.". Give my testimony. Now or never. "But I can't do it alone. Center doesn't take orders from me. GCES communications certainly doesn't.

I need you to open a channel for him. If you don't, I'm helpless."

Her request didn't surprise Min. The ED director must have heard enough hints to guess what Morn had in mind.

Perhaps she approved: perhaps this was why she'd let Morn take command in the first place. Deliberately she removed her PCR, lifted the pickup off her throat. Her eyes searched Morn like a hawk's.

"You don't have to talk to them." She sounded distant, noncommittal, like a woman withholding judgment. "They need to hear your story, but you don't have to tell it in person.

You can record it. Then I'll talk to them for you. Give them a playback. Answer their questions."

"In your spare time?" Morn countered ruefully. She'd already observed how tightly Min's responsibilities stretched her. The strain was palpable every time Min addressed her pickup.

"I can do it," Min insisted. Then, more gently, she added, "You've already done enough. More than any of us."

Morn bowed her head. The unexpected kindness of Min's offer touched her; but she wasn't tempted to accept it. "It's my job, Director," she sighed. My story. "I think they should hear it from me."

When she looked up again, she saw a gleam that might have been pride or hope in the ED director's gaze.

"In that case—

" Min shrugged. "Give me a few minutes. Suka Bator isn't exactly calm at the moment. And even when they are calm, what they do best is dither. I may have to put the fear of God into a few techs before they'll do what I tell them."

Without hesitation she returned her attention to her PCR

and pickup. Morn heard her issuing crisp instructions in a tone that left no room for argument.

A few minutes.

Morn was glad for the delay. Despite the pressure of events, she felt now that she could use every moment Min gave her. Gripped by her gap-sickness, she'd killed her whole family. In order to protect her shame, she'd bartered Angus'

life for her zone implant control. And then she'd driven herself into zone implant addiction so that she could lie to and seduce Nick Succorso. If her pregnancy and Davies' birth hadn't changed the way she made decisions, she might have continued ruining herself until she joined her mother and father.

The Council needed to hear her story.

She needed all the time Min gave her to harden her heart.

might happen.

That's why he was so angry—

and so scared. He knew

what might happen. He could see it in the way some of the votes struggled against his proposal to decharter the UMCP.

He could hear it in Holt's incisive, unscrupulous voice from his PCR. He could visualize it in the fatal progress of Punisher's command module toward Calm Horizons. Now more than ever, events and the FEA's master hinted at terrible possibilities.

Cleatus was so scared that his bowels squirmed. The studied bonhomie with which he usually faced the votes had deserted him entirely. It was his job to ensure that nothing terrible happened; that Holt saw no need to make anything terrible happen. And he appeared to be succeeding at it. Certainly the Council gave that impression, despite the Hannish woman's infuriating allegations, and the few remaining in-stances of resistance among the sheep. But he knew he couldn't afford to relax even slightly until Dios was officially and legally out of a job: until someone else took over as director of the rechartered UMCP. Then Calm Horizons as well as Punisher could be informed that Dios no longer had the authority to make deals, and any accommodation he might have hammered out was void.

Punisher's command module was on its way to the defensive. With Trumpet in tow. So Holt had informed his FEA.

Dios had devised some kind of accommodation: that was obvious.

Whatever it was, it had to be stopped. Holt wanted the Hyland kid for himself. He wanted Morn dead. He wanted that damn antimutagen crushed out of existence—

and Vector

Shaheed with it. And he wanted the Amnion to finish Dios for him. But if Dios' deal held, very little of that would take place.

Dios himself was definitely out of the picture. Cleatus didn't believe for a second that the Amnion would ever release him. But if the module wasn't stopped, Davies would be lost to Holt. Morn might protract her improbable survival long enough to cause more trouble. And blind, self-righteous Min Donner might take it on herself to release Shaheed's formula.

She was arrogant enough. The only way to keep her in line was to give her a boss with enough authority to overrule her.

The kind of boss Dios should have been.

The module was still almost two hours away from Calm Horizons. Cleatus had that long—

only that long—

to make re-

ality match his master's wishes.

Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. He'd countered Hannish's revelations as vigor-ously as circumstances allowed. For the second time he'd disrupted the efforts of that old fool Sixten Vertigus to pass that insipid Bill of Severance. And he'd presented Holt's counter-proposal in terms which made it hard for the sheep to balk.

But he didn't run the Council. Instead he had to sit on his hands and watch the Members debate an idea they should have voted into law by acclamation.

Fortunately Holt was at his-most lucid in emergencies.

His powers of concentration helped make him dangerous. He didn't waste time with useless demands or impossible orders.

One of the FEA's techs delivered a verbatim report of the proceedings: Cleatus supplied explanations and commentary.

On that basis Holt grasped the situation as accurately as Cleatus did. He didn't expect Cleatus to work miracles; didn't hold Cleatus accountable for the actions of others.

Not in an emergency.

Nevertheless the CEO's precise pragmatism made Cleatus' guts clench in alarm. More than anyone else in this room

—

or anyone else in human space, for that matter—

Cleatus

knew how far Holt's grip on practical reality might take him.

From his seat beside Dios' pet PR director, Cleatus Fane projected outward calm and stewed inwardly while the sheep blundered about the business of achieving a vote.

The process took longer than it should have; much longer.

Len acted like a man who wanted to be sure each word he said was unimpeachable. The supercilious twit insisted on dotting every legislative i, crossing every procedural t—

which used up

time. In addition several of the votes did their best to turn the session into a true debate.

That promiscuous slut from Betelgeuse Primary harped endlessly on the emotional observation that Dios risked his humanity aboard Calm Horizons. After all, he had no real reason to think the Amnion would ever release him. She'd figured that out. So the accusations against him were pointless, she insisted, since he obviously gained nothing from his so-called crimes except this chance to suffer mutation.

In his most effete tones, the Council's resident intellectual snot, Silat, advanced the more ominous argument that if the UMCP were dechartered Dios would lose his authority to make deals—

surprise, surprise—

in which case any arrange-

ment he conceived would be meaningless. The new director would have to start from scratch, which would take time. And time worked against the Amnion. They might conclude that proton cannon fire would serve them better than protracted renegotiations.

And useless Tel Burnish pointed out that the entire UMCP organization might rebel if both Warden Dios and Min Donner were replaced. Loyalties within UMCPHQ, and aboard UMCPED's ships, might be strong enough to leave Earth—

not to mention Suka Bator—

defenseless.

Even that defeated idiot Vertigus added his irritating voice and scrawny objections to the obstacles which slowed the sheep's progress toward a vote. Hannish obviously admired his willingness to flog a lost cause: her eyes shone every time he opened his mouth, as if she considered him honorable, or even heroic. But Cleatus felt otherwise. He would have cheerfully had the old captain shot.

In fact, he hated them all—

Manse, Silat, Burnish, Ver-

tigus; Hannish and Len. He would have been generously, mag-nanimously delighted to see every one of them dead.

Manse probably isn't worth the trouble, he told his pickup. Neither is Silat. But we ought to kill Burnish.

He already knew what Holt thought of Vertigus.

We'll worry about that later, Holt replied crisply.

The good news was that Hannish couldn't do anything to encourage all this obfuscation. Like Cleatus, she had to sit and watch. And he'd done everything in his power to undermine her credibility. The votes couldn't believe a thing she told them unless they were prepared to side with Dios against Holt.

A few minutes ago she'd accepted a PCR from one of her techs. Presumably she was listening to her dedicated downlink from UMCPHQ. If so, Center must have told her about the command module and Trumpet. But she didn't announce the information. She may have realized that she'd reached the end of her string. Or—

the thought wrung Cleatus' intestines—

she

may still have hoped someone would rescue her.

The sheep were taking too long. He interjected comments and offered arguments whenever he got the chance, but he lacked the clout to force a conclusion. Meanwhile the chronometer was running. If the Council didn't vote soon, Holt would give up on legal solutions to the problems Dios had caused.

Terrible—

Grimly Cleatus reminded himself that he still had at least ninety minutes. Surely that would suffice? God, it ought to! If no more surprises hit the Members, Holt was going to win.

And his First Executive Assistant would live.

He nearly lost control of himself when he saw an aide leave a console near the chamber doors and hurry toward the dais, waving his arm to attract Len's attention.

Damn, this was bad news. Had to be. Otherwise the man wouldn't have been in such a hurry, stumbling against chairs and tripping past legs in his rush to reach the dais.

Len scowled at the man; shook his head to reject the interruption. Good boy. But the aide sprang up to the dais, caught Len's arm, drew him back from the podium, and began whispering tensely in his ear.

One after another, the votes stopped talking. A clutch of suspense froze them. Nameless fears crowded the room: proton cannon; war and mutagens; the fatal dark of space. Cleatus felt them himself. He rose half out of his seat, then thought better of it and stayed where he was, murmuring worry into his pickup.

Holt said nothing.

Vertigus covered his face. That raving fanatic Sen Abdullah gaped as if he were choking on vexation. Poised on the edge of his chair, Igensard sat ready to leap up and fling objections; trying to be helpful—