The Gap Into Ruin: This Day All Gods Die

  Behind him, Vestabule intoned, “The statement was made that you would be permitted to return. I have abided by it.”

  The Amnioni added a guttural sound to his throat pickup. At once the hold airlock irised shut.

  Warden snorted again. “One of the pleasures of dealing with the Amnion,” he rasped, “is the way they keep their promises.”

  Before Vestabule could respond, the director asked harshly, “Which of you is Davies Hyland?”

  Davies raised his right hand as if he were taking an oath. A clutch of panic gripped his chest, but he forced himself to say, “I am.”

  Warden stared at him hard, then glanced toward Vector. “In that case, you must be Dr. Shaheed.”

  Vector inclined his head. “As you say, Director Dios.” A small movement of his hands implied a shrug. “I hope you’ll forgive these suits. We aren’t particularly eager to start breathing that air.”

  Warden dismissed Vector’s apology with a frown. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “Do not delay, Warden Dios,” Vestabule warned. “We must initiate thrust. You will ensure that there is no resistance.”

  Warden’s chin jutted as if he were grinding his teeth.

  “I’m not going to waste time thanking you for this,” he told Davies and Vector. “You deserve more gratitude than I can express. But I do want to make my position clear.

  “Our host has given me the benefit of a delayed-action mutagen. I imagine you’re familiar with it. I’m still human because he also gave me a temporary antidote. But when the antidote wears off—” The corners of his jaw knotted. “That’s why I can’t leave.”

  “Director Dios belongs to us,” Vestabule stated flatly.

  Warden grimaced. Bitter as acid, he drawled, “So please don’t torment yourselves thinking there must be something you can do for me. You’ll end up as confused as he is.”

  He may have meant, If you’ve got something planned, leave me out of it. I can’t help you. And there’s nothing left of me to save.

  Davies’ heart dropped. A flash of despair filled his throat with ashes: for a moment he could hardly breathe. Angus was right. A delayed-action—Like Ciro. Everything Angus planned, everything Mikka and Ciro and Captain Ubikwe risked had already come undone.

  Now there was no reason to do anything except surrender.

  But Vector reacted differently. “I’m sorry to hear that, Director Dios,” he murmured. “I know the mutagen you’re talking about. It shouldn’t happen to a dog.” Then he added stiffly, “It’s too bad ‘our host’ hasn’t offered you a supply of that temporary antidote. I assume he has one.”

  Warden’s eye glinted fiercely. “Oh, he has one, all right. He’s just keeping it to himself.”

  Vector must have understood how Davies felt. Nevertheless a hint of resistance in his tone caught at Davies’ attention. Apparently he hadn’t given up. Instead he was fighting for time. Every word, every sentence, gave Angus a few more seconds.

  There was no reason to struggle—

  No reason except anger and grief and humanity.

  Davies took hold of himself; swallowed roughly. Angus’ inheritance beat in his veins. No matter what happened, Morn’s rapist and Warden’s victim wouldn’t surrender.

  And if Davies could get the antidote from Vestabule—

  Tension in the human parts of Vestabule’s body suggested impatience. “Our departure is imminent,” he announced. “We await the resolution of the political conflict which your Director Donner warns us may turn to combat. She assures us that we will not be threatened in any way. Nevertheless we will retain our line of fire on the site of your Council until we have witnessed the truth. Then we will commence our return to Amnion space.”

  Davies gulped in surprise. Political conflict? Turn to combat? My God, what had Morn told the Council?

  But Vestabule hadn’t paused. Inflexibly he commanded, “You will remove your EVA suits.”

  The two Amnion carrying equipment and pouches drifted forward.

  Grimly Davies put Morn out of his mind.

  It was time. Now or never. Time to face his terror.

  Ciro would destroy Calm Horizons. Or Angus would. Or Min Donner. One way or another, they’d all promised Davies that he had nothing to lose except his life.

  Trembling with more adrenaline and dread than he could contain, he snapped harshly, “I don’t think so.”

  The Amnion stopped. Vestabule’s human eye blinked puzzlement or alarm.

  Warden’s scowl betrayed no reaction.

  Davies snatched a breath of clean air, then reached up, opened the seals of his helmet, and lifted it off his head. Deliberately he let the Amnion and Warden Dios see who he was; recognize his father in him. After that he replaced his helmet and sealed it again.

  His eyes stung from the touch of Calm Horizons’ atmosphere. More sweat spattered the inside of his faceplate; too much moisture for his suit to process all at once.

  “I’m Davies Hyland,” he told Vestabule. “You know me. But I know you, too, and I’m offended by everything the Amnion did to you. As long as I prefer the taste of human air, I’m going to stay in this suit.”

  Vestabule stared at him. “Then we will force you from it.”

  “No, you won’t,” Davies countered. He did his best to sound certain. “Dr. Shaheed and I came here to surrender, and that’s what we’re going to do. You can’t force us if we cooperate.”

  Surprise them, Angus had told him. Confuse them. Keep them off balance.

  “Here.” Cursing the tremors which shook his arms, he snatched off his left glove, shoved it under his belt, and jammed his sleeve back to expose his forearm. “Shoot me up.” With his fingers clenched and his sharp-edged line hidden in his palm, he pointed his fist at the Amnion. “Transform me. Then I’ll take the suit off myself. It probably won’t fit me anyway.”

  Warden thrust his hands deep into his pockets like a man who wanted to show everyone that he wasn’t doing anything.

  Vestabule started to reply; but something distracted him. A slight cock of his head gave the impression that he was listening to his PCR. He rasped a few alien sounds in response.

  A subtle tension eased its grip on his human muscles.

  “It appears that your Director Donner has spoken honestly,” he reported as if he considered this relevant to Davies’ behavior. “The station identified as UMCHO has opened fire on your center of government.”

  Davies clenched his teeth to control his reaction. For a moment he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the open flare of concern and hope on Warden’s face. UMCHO meant Holt Fasner. The man who owned the UMCP was trying to destroy Suka Bator.

  The “political conflict” had become “combat” with a vengeance. Somehow Morn’s testimony had sent humankind to war against itself.

  Warden’s expression said as clearly as words that he’d caused this to happen. Directly or indirectly, he was responsible for it. He’d given Morn and Davies a chance to master Angus so that she would be able to come here and tell her story.

  “Your ships respond with a concerted attack on that station,” Vestabule continued. “Our scan reports that the station’s shields are inadequate to withstand such an attack.”

  Before he could conceal what he felt, Warden’s alarm ignited into a look of pure exultation. His fists formed knots of victory in his pockets as Vestabule added, “We estimate that UMCHO will be destroyed before significant harm has been inflicted on our target.”

  Perhaps because the Amnioni remembered some of his humanity, he kept insisting that he still had hostages. Yet he didn’t seem to grasp the significance of Holt Fasner’s defeat.

  As if Min’s forewarning had led him to this conclusion, he told Davies, “Your Director Donner stated that we would not be threatened. She has dealt with us honestly. We will accept your surrender.”

  Without any discernible instructions or signals, he sent the two Amnion with all the extra arms toward Davies and Vector.

 
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything else vanished from Davies’ head. The implications of Warden’s accomplishment; the danger to Angus and Ciro; Punisher; Suka Bator: everything. His entire being sprang into focus on the moment of his worst nightmare.

  As they advanced, each Amnioni unlimbered a pouch from one of its shoulders. Hands opened the pouches: more hands reached inside and brought out hypos.

  Lambent with sulfur and brimstone, the fluid in the hypos looked like liquid ruin.

  Some of their equipment had begun to wink and murmur like mass detectors. Davies guessed that the devices performed some kind of tissue scan. Perhaps they measured and evaluated the effects of mutagens.

  The Amnion may have intended to give Vector the same mutagen they’d forced on Warden. Then they could use his humanity as a lever to help them extract his knowledge. But Davies was sure that they had something different in mind for him.

  Hell, the drug meant for him might not be a mutagen at all. It might be—His heart hammered as he realized the peril. It might be a nerve-block; an alien version of cat; something to paralyze him so that the Amnion could study him at their leisure.

  “I don’t think I can do this, Davies,” Vector croaked. The vibration of fear in his voice sawed against his impulse to resist. But it wasn’t the hypo that scared him.

  “Do it,” Davies demanded in panic.

  Hesitantly Vector removed one of his gloves and tucked it into his belt. His hand seemed to drift away from him of its own accord, extending itself to the nearest Amnioni.

  Davies had promised himself that he would wait until after he’d been given the injection—until after the Amnion relaxed because they felt sure of him. Angus needed the time. But the danger had suddenly become too great. As his designated victimizer approached him, he threw out all his plans.

  He opened his bare hand, slipped one handle of his monofilament line between his fingers.

  Too soon, too soon, he flung himself into motion.

  While the Amnioni reached its hypo toward him, he whipped out the line so that its weighted end lashed it around the creature’s wrist. Then he leaped at the alien, planted his boots in the center of its chest, and heaved on the line with all his might.

  His elevated endocrine system supplied more force than his muscles naturally possessed. And the polysilicate chips crusting the line were as sharp as scalpels. The line tore through tissue and bone; rip-cut the Amnioni’s hand off.

  From the rent stump a geyser of greenish blood sprayed the air, formed a weightless fountain across the acrid light; so much blood a man could have drowned in it. It splashed heavily onto the front of his EVA suit, half blinded his faceplate.

  The Amnioni gave out a hoarse wail like a klaxon of pain. Shrill as anguish, the sound rang in his helmet. Nevertheless the creature grappled for him with other arms; struggled to capture him while its life gushed out of it.

  For an instant he ignored the clutch; fought it only enough to turn in the air and slash a kick at the severed hand—at the hypo. His boot shattered the hypo, added drugs or mutagens to the spume of blood.

  Vector hadn’t moved. He stood as if he were frozen in shock.

  At once Davies turned again, into the Amnioni’s grasp. Two arms caught him, three, wrapped around him, hugged him close. He used the creature’s pressure as well as his own to pull his line toward the creature’s head; loop it around the creature’s neck.

  But he had no leverage now. Human muscle couldn’t match Amnion. The arms closed on him; began to crush him. The alien should have been growing weaker by the second, yet it remained powerful enough to break his bones.

  He heard a distant crumpling noise—a muffled explosion; the kind of sound that should have been followed by decompression alerts. But if Calm Horizons cried a warning he couldn’t hear it; or didn’t understand it.

  The alien arms squeezed harder.

  Without transition Warden appeared at the Amnioni’s back. Strong as stones, his hands gripped the creature’s head. His fingers gouged more pain into its eyes.

  Its wailing scaled higher. Its embrace loosened.

  Davies couldn’t break free, but he could shift backward. Jamming his free hand to the keypad on his chest, he activated his suit jets.

  A waldo harness around his hips controlled the jets. When he jammed his pelvis to the side, a burst of pressure snatched him out of the Amnioni’s arms.

  His line cut through the creature’s neck until it snagged on bone. The handle and his fist were slick with blood: the power of the jets jerked the weapon from his grip. Then his jets carried him away.

  Twisting his hips, he shot toward the forest of gantries. As he soared, he slapped at his faceplate, trying to clear off some of the blood.

  Vector still hadn’t moved. Damn it, he was paralyzed by his fear of fighting. At the last moment he’d decided to let his life end without a struggle—

  No, Davies was wrong. Vector had moved. He must have.

  The Amnioni assigned to him drifted limp in front of him now, its arms slack, its hypo gone. Its instruments winked uselessly. Deep in one eye it wore a long sliver of plastic sharpened like a dirk.

  Yes. Two down.

  Slowly, methodically, Vector pulled his glove back onto his exposed hand like a man who could afford to take his time because his job was done.

  Alien voices shouted incomprehensible commands or warnings.

  Davies’ jets made him faster than any unassisted Amnioni. He ducked past a cable in his way, caught hold of the first gantry arm he reached, and swung around it in time to see Vestabule intercept Warden Dios.

  Warden must have kicked himself away from the deck after Davies. He may have tried to hook a ride on Davies’ jets and missed. Coasting weightless, he couldn’t deflect his trajectory when Vestabule came after him.

  Vestabule’s legs were stronger: his leap lifted him faster than Warden could move. At the last instant Warden scissored a kick at Vestabule’s head; but Vestabule slapped Warden’s boot aside, clamped a fist onto his thigh. Climbing Warden hand-over-hand, Vestabule struck him a sweeping blow which snapped his head back; may have cracked his spine. He slumped in Vestabule’s grasp, his head lolling.

  Jets at full power, Davies dove at Vestabule before he realized that the two remaining Amnion, the guards, were closing on him.

  By pure chance his maneuver surprised them. He flashed through their arms; drove past them toward Vestabule. Inertia carried them onto the gantry.

  With almost human vehemence, Vestabule threw Warden’s inert form at the nearest bulkhead. Then he wrenched himself around in midair to face Davies.

  Davies’ hands had already found his belt-pouch: his fingers snatched out his whetted plastic shard. As Vestabule grabbed for him, he hammered his weapon at Vestabule’s face.

  His strike had all the force of his jets and his arm behind it. Vestabule stopped it with the only defense available: he put his hand in the way. Davies plunged his dagger into the Amnioni’s palm and then ripped it away again as he roared past.

  More blood. Shit, the atmosphere was already full of blood—

  He slewed his hips to turn; launched himself in a desperate effort to catch Warden before Warden struck the bulkhead.

  He saw at once that he was too late. Vestabule had hurled Warden too hard for Davies to overtake him. But Vector had no one to fight: he could react more quickly. Rising unexpectedly from the deck, he drifted along the bulkhead in time to interpose himself between Warden and the rough metal.

  Warden’s momentum slammed both of them into the wall. But Vector’s body cushioned the impact. Cradling Warden in his arms, he rebounded slowly toward a nearby gantry.

  A hand closed on Davies’ ankle. One of the guards had sprung back from a gantry-limb at an angle that intersected Davies’ trajectory. Before the guard could improve its hold, he slashed at the hand with his blade, jerked his ankle free, and wheeled off in an uncontrolled tumble of evasive jet blasts.

  A voice he
seemed to recognize screamed in his ears. It might have been his.

  “Angus, God damn you! Get in here!”

  The next instant an explosion like a massive fist of thunder staggered the entire hold. God, it must have staggered the whole ship! Cables lurched drunkenly: gantry-arms bobbed and swayed. One of the structures bowed as if it were about to topple—but of course it had nowhere to go in zero g.

  The explosion echoed inside Davies’ helmet; clanged pain into his ears. A moment passed before he realized that he could hear the unmistakable sizzling hull-roar of matter cannon fire.

  At the same time Calm Horizons’ drives came to life, yowling for power until the bulkheads seemed to shriek in distress.

  The last battle was under way.

  That explosion may have been the destruction of the proton cannon. Davies prayed it was as he flipped himself around a gantry to scan the hold.

  Vestabule and the two guards had apparently decided to ignore Vector and Warden. They all fought their own inertia and weightlessness in order to converge on Davies—the prize for which Calm Horizons and everyone aboard was willing to die.

  From an entryway opposite Davies’ position, four more Amnion appeared. Summoned to Vestabule’s aid—They wore jet-pods on their hips: they carried guns. Clustered for assault, they left the deck and sailed in his direction.

  Seven Amnion. Four with guns. And he was effectively alone. No sign of Angus. Warden was unconscious—or dead. Vector had already done more than he would have believed possible.

  At the start of Davies’ life, Morn had told him, As far as I’m concerned, you’re the second most important thing in the galaxy. You’re my son. But the first, the most important thing is to not betray my humanity. She’d faced worse than this in the name of that conviction. And she’d found an answer that was better than gap-sickness and suicide; better than surrender.

  Calm Horizons was already as good as dead.

  His elevated metabolism gave him all the strength he needed; all the courage—

  Cocking his hips, he blasted into motion. A mad howl overwhelmed his suit’s external speaker.

  “Come and get me, you bastards!”