WARDEN

Warden Dios wasn’t alone in the CO Room. Techs sat at their stations nearby, linking him to every facet of his domain; listening to their respective communications traffic with receivers set into their ears so that he wouldn’t be distracted by incessant chatter; studying the same displays and readouts he watched. He didn’t concentrate on what he saw, however: he left that to his staff. While they worked, he focused his energies on trying to think like an Amnioni.

Some of his people—especially those assigned to UMCPHQ Center—believed that he was prescient. They didn’t know how else to account for the fact that he so often seemed to be precisely where he was most needed in emergencies. Why was he there, if he couldn’t see the future? His reassuring presence in his personal Command Operations Room minutes or perhaps hours before some crisis developed had no other obvious explanation.

But the UMCP director wasn’t blessed—or cursed—with foreknowledge. The searching IR vision of his prosthetic eye told him nothing in advance. To some extent his apparent prescience was simply the outcome of his gift for planning ahead. For the most part, however, his knowledge was not of the future, but of himself. He did what he did out of shame and stubbornness—which was to say, out of fear. He was probably no more fearful than anyone else. Unlike most of the people around him, however, he called his fears by their true names. And he paid attention to them.

That was why he sometimes displayed an almost uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time.

This time he was in the CO Room because he feared the consequences of his own actions.

Lord knew he had enough of them to worry about. Holt Fasner had ordered him to turn Angus over to Nick Succorso, so that Nick might then be persuaded to kill the other survivors of Captain’s Fancy; all except Davies Hyland, who would be delivered to the Dragon. Warden had obeyed that order—and undermined it at the same time. Had his subterfuge succeeded? If it hadn’t, he was finished. But if it had, young Davies might now have control over Angus. What would he do with that power?

According to Hashi, Davies may have been force-grown with his mother’s mind. What would Morn do, after experiencing so much brutality from Angus—and so much betrayal from the UMCP?

Vital questions. At another time they might have dominated Warden’s thinking. But the specific fear which had brought him here revolved around a different set of consequences.

Punisher had broken off her engagement with the Amnion defensive which had pursued Trumpet from forbidden space to Massif-5. That was exactly what Warden would have ordered the cruiser to do. He needed Trumpet’s people; needed them desperately. And he wasn’t likely to get them if Punisher risked her life trying to defeat a far more powerful enemy. He suspected that if Min didn’t bring them to him, he would never see Morn and Davies, Angus and Vector.

Unfortunately one consequence was that there was an Amnion defensive loose in human space.

That vessel had failed to kill or capture Trumpet. What would she do now? How would Amnion minds approach the dilemma of Trumpet’s escape?

Clearly they considered the gap scout worth an act of war, despite their demonstrated reluctance to hazard their genetic imperialism in direct combat. They made everything better than humankind did—ships, weapons, computers—but they didn’t make many of anything except more Amnion. They avoided open tests of power because they couldn’t match humankind’s capacity for mass production. In purely material terms, that defensive was more precious than any five human ships Warden could name.

So what would she do, now that her incursion had failed? Would she retreat toward forbidden space?—preserve her value to her people? Or would she follow the logic of her intentions against Trumpet in some other direction?

Sitting in the CO Room surrounded by techs and screens, consoles and communications traffic, helped Warden think as if he were aboard a warship.

He found it difficult to imagine why the defensive would do anything except run for safety. He’d learned from Punisher’s most recent drone that before Trumpet left Massif-5 she’d begun broadcasting the formula—good God, broadcasting the formula!—for Intertech’s antimutagen. Apparently Vector Shaheed had made quick use of Deaner Beckmann’s bootleg lab. As a result the mutagen immunity drug was now in effect public knowledge. The formula was recorded in Punisher’s datacore. Inevitably it had been—or soon would be—picked up by someone around VI. And beyond question the defensive had received it.

Another consequence. Directly or indirectly Warden was responsible for Trumpet’s broadcast. Now he considered its implications with a strange mixture of horror and hope.

In truth he hadn’t foreseen that Trumpet’s people might do something so extravagant. Despite his talent for planning, he hadn’t guessed that they would take on the challenge of trying to undo decades of covert malfeasance all by themselves.

He was dismayed by the fact that the Amnion had learned the formula for the immunity drug before it could ever be put to its proper use. At the same time he was excited, almost exalted, by the sheer courage and daring of what Trumpet had done. If he was right in his belief that Holt Fasner and the UMC posed a graver threat to humankind’s future than any alien enmity, then Trumpet’s gambit was a veritable beacon of redemption.

Aboard her a handful of men and women had recognized a worthy cause when they saw it—and had committed themselves to it.

That didn’t sound like Nick Succorso. It sounded like something Morn’s parents might have done.

Her son must have received Warden’s ciphered message.

Not incidentally, Trumpet’s broadcast also didn’t sound like the work of a genetic kaze. As far as Warden was concerned, Hashi’s hypothesis had effectively collapsed. To the extent that Morn was a kaze, she’d been aimed at her target by Warden himself, not by the Amnion.

So of course the defensive would burn for forbidden space with all the force of her drives. Of course. The dissemination of Intertech’s antimutagen was only a setback, not a defeat. For the present, humankind had developed a way to counter genetic imperialism. But the Amnion were magicians of biochemistry. Given time, they would certainly devise a way to neutralize the antimutagen. The alien warship would do everything in her power to provide that time.

Wouldn’t she?

The logic of the situation was plain. Surely the greatest immediate danger to the Amnion was not the formula itself, but rather the possibility that humankind would use the temporary advantage of their immunity to launch a full-scale war. And surely, therefore, the defensive would abandon her intentions against Trumpet in order to forewarn forbidden space.

That argument seemed reasonable enough on its face. Nevertheless it was human reasoning. Warden Dios didn’t trust it.

Instead of easing, his fear settled deeper into his chest; just behind his sternum. Apprehension seemed to gnaw at the bottom of his heart like buried skinworms.

What if he was wrong about everything? Had misjudged everything? What if the Amnion warship did something which defied human logic?

What if the entire elaborate edifice of his desires came crashing down right now, when by his own actions he’d made humankind uniquely vulnerable to disaster?

That thought scared him to the marrow of his bones. He already had all the culpability he could bear. He didn’t want to carry any more crimes to his grave.

For that reason—and because it was his job—he’d provided as best he could for the defense of Earth and UMCPHQ. Eight gunboats and pocket cruisers held various orbits around the planet, linked to each other by the vast scan net which covered the whole solar system. The battlewagon Sledgehammer was still a long way out; but guns as powerful as hers would be able to make a contribution within eighteen or twenty hours. The cruiser Adventurous—old and underpowered, but still spaceworthy—was closer: the scan net marked her approach from the far side of the planet. And the destroyer Valor would return home soon.

If the crisis waited a week to materialize, another battle-wagon like Sledgehammer might be ready to emerge from the shipyards.

Unfortunately there wasn’t much else anyone could do. None of Earth’s orbital stations had been designed as weapons-platforms. The charters of the commercial stations prohibited heavy armamentation. And UMCPHQ had been built on the implicit assumption that any war which came this close was already lost.

Warden Dios wasn’t prescient. He was terrified.

Nevertheless he didn’t show it. The techs around him would have needed prosthetic vision like his in order to catch any glimpse of his fear. He sat solidly in his command chair, as if he couldn’t be moved unless he wished it. His big fists rested like stones on the arms of his seat. His breathing was calm; deep and even. His one human eye glittered with a penetrating concentration which most of his people had learned to trust.

The atmosphere in the CO Room—and in UMCPHQ Center beyond the walls of the Room—was at once more expectant and more relaxed than it would have been in his absence. Because he was here, his people sensed that something was about to happen. At the same time they believed they would be able to handle it—whatever it might be—as long as he watched over them.

Therefore he kept his fear to himself. It was transcended by his determination to fail no one who relied on him: not his own people; not the GCES; not Morn and her companions; not humankind. He’d played his game of complicity against Holt Fasner long enough; perhaps too long. Now he was done with it.

If he could manage it—and if Trumpet didn’t let him down—he intended to undo the harm of his life’s mistakes.

His only reaction was a lift of one eyebrow when a tech murmured suddenly, “Director, I have a call for you from UMCHO. It’s CEO Fasner.”

Warden nodded an acknowledgment; but he didn’t accept the call immediately. Instead he took a moment to consider whether or not he wanted to speak to Holt privately. In private his people wouldn’t hear how his master treated him. But they also wouldn’t hear how he responded.

It was time for him to begin showing where he stood.

“Put it on the speakers,” he told the tech. “I’ll talk to him here.”

“Yes, sir.” The tech tapped keys, and the CO Room speakers came to life with a soft magnetic pop.

Warden turned his head toward his pickup. “Holt,” he said at once. “Can we keep this short? I’ve got my hands full here.”

“‘Short’?” Holt snorted angrily. He may have assumed that Warden was alone. Or he may not have cared. “I’m your goddamn boss, Ward. You’ll talk to me as long as I want, whenever I want.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Warden retorted. He spoke as if he didn’t know that all his techs were watching him. “If I spend all my time talking to you, I can’t do my job.”

“Listen to me.” Beneath the surface of Holt’s ire, a deeper passion boiled and spat. “Talking to me is your job. You work for me. And right now you’re hanging by a thread. You’re precipitating more disasters than I can manage all at once.”

Not long ago, Norna Fasner had told Warden that her son fears death too much. It distorts his thinking. He wants to live forever. At the time the idea had baffled Warden. But now he understood it better. He thought he could hear a hunger for that impossible achievement in the UMC CEO’s voice.

For years now, the whole thrust of Holt’s policy toward the Amnion had been to maintain an uneasy peace. Peace was essential because it enabled trade; wealth. But if the peace became too secure, too safe, complacency would set in. The UMCP—and through them the UMC—would lose their moral authority, their necessity. Holt’s power over human space would diminish. And that in turn would reduce his leverage with the Amnion; his ability to extract profits. He’d pushed to obtain the passage of the Preempt Act for the same reason that he’d sanctioned the covert—and only the covert—use of Intertech’s immunity drug: to disturb both the Amnion and humankind; keep the peace uneasy.

Who benefited from this approach? Only Holt Fasner and the UMC. And yet the question inevitably arose: why did Holt care? He was already richer and more powerful than anyone in the history of the planet. What in God’s name drove him to the acquisition of still more wealth and more power?

Warden had come to the conclusion that Holt coveted benefits of another kind altogether. Norna had given him the hint he needed to see Holt’s ambitions in a new light.

The UMC CEO had ordered Warden to turn Angus over to Nick Succorso. In exchange for a ship, as well as for his own personal cyborg, Nick was supposed to kill everyone except Davies Hyland. Holt wanted Morn’s son.

If the Amnion could force-grow young Davies and imprint him with Morn’s mind, what was to prevent them from processing any number of human fetuses and imprinting them all with Holt’s mind? What was to prevent the Dragon from effectively living forever?

If he acquired enough wealth and power to offer the Amnion something greater than mere raw materials—human and otherwise—or technological methodologies, he might be able to make a deal with them. Like Satan himself, the Father of Lies, the Amnion kept their bargains.

All Holt needed was a demonstration that the Amnion were indeed capable of imprinting one human mind on other—and imprinting it intact. Then he would be able to go ahead.

Warden shuddered at the implications while he listened to the UMC CEO.

Holt hadn’t paused. He was saying sarcastically, “The Amnion have committed an act of war, in case you didn’t notice. I’m holding you accountable for that—you and your goddamn covert operations, trusting Billingate to an illegal like Thermopyle and a known traitor like Taverner.

“Now the votes are going to hold an emergency session. They’ll go crazy. They’ll probably think anybody who twitches a finger is a kaze about to explode.” Holt laughed—a harsh, mirthless sound, like breaking sticks. “I’m holding you accountable for that, too. Thanks to you and your precious Koina Hannish, they’re all a-twitter with responsibility. They’ll probably try to do something phenomenally stupid, like declaring war on Amnion space. If Cleat can’t soothe them somehow, you’ve done us more harm than a whole damn flotilla of incursions.

“And what are you doing about it? I ask myself,” Holt sneered. “How do you ‘do your job’? As far as I can tell, you seem to think the Amnion are going to attack here next. First you recalled every warship in reach, which is sure to make the votes even more panicky, even though a hydrocephalic child could tell you that defensive is long gone by this time. And now you’ve synchronized your goddamn orbit with Suka Bator.”

This was true. With an enormous expenditure of energy, Center had adjusted UMCPHQ’s centrifugal rush so that the station maintained a position above the GCES island.

“It’s like you think we’re already at war,” Holt finished mordantly. “And we’re losing.”

Warden considered shouting his fear at Holt. He considered silencing his pickup and refusing to speak to the Dragon again. Then he responded simply, “It’s a precaution. I don’t want to be occluded. I don’t know what’s going to happen.” A heartbeat later he remarked, “I notice you’ve done the same thing.”

After a series of power-intensive adjustments, UMC Home Office now sailed the dark little more than a hundred thousand k away in an orbit which echoed UMCPHQ’s.

“Damn right,” Holt retorted. “That’s because I don’t trust you, Ward. If you don’t want to be occluded, I sure as hell don’t. If you decide it’s time for something even more destructive than what you’ve already done, I intend to react fast.”

Warden jerked up his head. Anger drummed in his heart, despite his self-control.

“‘Destructive,’ Holt? Would you care to be more specific?”

He meant to preserve humankind, not destroy it. And the UMCP had a valid function: he intended to preserve that also. But there were other issues as well—

He’d done everything in his power to make sure Holt didn’t know about Vector Shaheed’s broadcast. If the CEO didn’t get that information directly from UMCPHQ, he wouldn’t hear it at all until some UMC flunky on VI picked it up and sent out a drone. Or until he learned it from Cleatus Fane at the emergency session. Still Warden wished for confirmation.

“That video conference,” Holt snapped at once. “Trusting Taverner. Allowing Hannish to tell the votes you’re neutral about a Bill of Severance. Letting kazes roam around at will, for Christ’s sake. Panicking the votes now.

“I want to know what you’re up to, Ward. What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

No mention of antimutagens or formulas. Warden nodded to himself.

“What do you want me to do, Holt?” he countered.

Holt’s reply was a snarl in the CO Room speakers. “I want you to answer the question. I’m trying to decide whether to fire your ass.”

The UMCP director sighed to cover his ire. He was done acting like Holt’s servant; done being the man who did Holt’s dirty work. And he ached to let Holt know the truth. He was sick of lies. At the same time he couldn’t risk being fired. Not now: not when so many gambles and so much pain had reached the verge of fruition or ruin. He still had to be careful.

“Mostly I’m waiting for news.” Like you. “Information I can act on.”

He’d already given Holt his rationale for his video conference with the GCES. Long ago he’d explained why he’d chosen Milos Taverner to accompany Angus to Billingate. Now he pointedly declined to comment on—much less justify—Koina’s response to Captain Vertigus’ Bill of Severance.

Instead he continued in a flat voice, “Min has gone after Trumpet. When she’s in range, she’ll deal with whoever she finds aboard. I already have your orders about that. They’ll come home as soon as they can. Then maybe we’ll know where we stand.”

Holt’s silence suggested that he was withholding judgment.

Warden tightened his grip on himself. Now, he thought. Do it now. Get it over with.

“As far as those kazes are concerned,” he added, “DA Director Lebwohl and ED Chief of Security Mandich know who’s responsible.” His tone belied the threat he wanted Holt to hear. “When they finish preparing their evidence, I’ll make a public accusation.” To forestall an interruption, he stated, “But I’m not going to name names until I have proof. The culprit is too highly placed.

“Other than that,” he finished as if he hadn’t already said too much, “I’m waiting to see what our encroaching Amnion defensive does next.

“Is that what you want, Holt? If it isn’t, you’d better say so. In a few more hours it’s going to be too damn late for any of us to change anything. The Council will hold its emergency session, and we’ll have to live with the results.”

For a long moment Holt didn’t speak. The communications channel between UMCPHQ and UMCHO brought in ambiguous hints of static; anger; apprehension. The fear gnawing in Warden’s guts sharpened at the chance he’d taken. Nevertheless he sat motionless and waited, gambling that Holt wouldn’t make any decisions until he knew how much danger he was in.

Finally the CEO said slowly, “I’ll accept the rest for now.” He seemed to be restraining fury. “Cleat can handle the votes. But I don’t like your approach to those kazes.”

“Too bad,” Warden retorted roughly. “The UMC is a good source of suspects. So is the GCES—hell, so are we. I’m not going to taint our investigation by discussing it with you, or Abrim Len, or anyone else. When the time comes to press charges, I intend to make sure they stick.”

“Listen, Ward—” Holt snapped.

“No, Holt,” Warden shot back. “You listen. This conversation is on record. My CO staff can hear both ends. I am not going to taint our investigation by discussing it with you.”

Again Holt fell silent. The speakers conveyed a muffled, arrhythmic series of beats, as if Holt were pounding his fists on his desk. Warden was certain that Holt would have lashed out at him in private. Only the potential consequences of being “on record” restrained the CEO.

Abruptly Holt replied, “I’m going to assume you know what you’re doing.” That wasn’t a concession: it was a threat to match Warden’s. “I’ll let you get on with it for now.

“But when you finish collecting your evidence,” he pronounced fiercely, “you will discuss it with me before you make it public. That’s a direct order. Do you understand me?”

Warden sighed. “Of course I do.” He’d kept his job. Unfortunately that relief did nothing to ease his deeper dread. “I’ve been taking your orders for years. If I didn’t understand them by now, I would deserve to be fired.”

“That,” Holt snorted, “is what worries me.

“I’m watching you, Ward. I’m watching everything. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you don’t need me.”

Warden shrugged to himself. “Is that all, Holt? I still have a job to do here.”

“Just one more thing.” Apparently Holt wasn’t done warning him yet. “I have a message for you.

“I talked to my mother recently. She asked me to tell you that it isn’t enough.”

Warden wasn’t prescient: absolutely not. But Norna Fasner might as well have been. With nothing except video broadcasts and Holt’s contrived hints to go on, she’d grasped what Warden was doing. And she wanted him to succeed—

“Tell her I know that,” he answered brusquely.

Before Holt could reply, Warden silenced his pickup, then ordered his tech to close the communications channel.

Obediently the speakers went dead.

With a shift of his shoulders, he settled against the back of his seat and tried to relax.

Norna was right. Without Trumpet he was finished. Even if Hashi and Chief Mandich found the proof he wanted, Holt wouldn’t fall. He could too easily sacrifice an “overzealous” subordinate and claim innocence for himself. Because he was the boss, he could even take credit for the UMCP’s investigation. The only effective way to challenge him was by attacking the UMCP itself; by turning Warden’s deliberate complicity against the UMC CEO. And the only available arena for that challenge was the upcoming emergency session of the GCES.

So it became Koina’s job. Warden had given her everything she needed—except proof. Now his fate was in her hands.

And in Mom Hyland’s. If she and Davies had received Angus’ priority-codes, they would make Trumpet’s decisions. It isn’t enough.

He couldn’t relax. His fear ate at him too keenly.

From the bottom of his heart he hoped that Min’s loyalty to the UMCP—and to him—wouldn’t inspire her to get in Morn’s way.

“Director—” The tech’s throat was so tight that she nearly choked. Her tone caught him; caught the whole CO Room in a clutch of tension. Instantly alert, he wheeled his seat toward her.

“What is it?”

The woman swallowed convulsively. “Ship coming in, sir. Just resumed tard. Too close. Way too close. She’s braking hard, but she’s practically on top of us.”

Warden flashed a look at the scan displays, saw the ship’s blip perched on a torch of braking thrust. God, she was less than half a million k out. Numbers scrolled rapidly up the screen as computers calculated her deceleration rate. The figures projected that she would be able to stop outside UMCPHQ’s orbit. That was good news—so far. But by the time she matched the station’s velocity she would be within fifty thousand k.

What the hell did she think she was doing?

“Get me id,” he demanded sharply. “Is that Punisher?”

The vector was wrong for Sledgehammer: even if she’d attempted a blink crossing, she would approach on a different trajectory. He didn’t expect Valor to arrive so soon. And Adventurous was still occluded: the scan net showed her on the far side of the planet.

“No, sir,” the tech forced out. “She isn’t broadcasting, no id, nothing,” and she should have, any ship this near stations and traffic was insane if she didn’t broadcast id. “But that isn’t Punisher’s emission signature.”

Warden started to repeat, Get me id! then bit the words back. His people knew their jobs: they were working feverishly. Outside the CO Room, Center had become an electric rush of activity. Traffic officers shouted into their pickups, urgently hailing the stranger for a response; warning other ships and platforms; signaling Sledgehammer and Adventurous, as well as Earth’s cordon of gunboats and pocket cruisers. Collision alarms sounded in case the incoming ship didn’t or couldn’t complete her deceleration. Klaxons called Warden’s people to defense stations. Techs started charging UMCPHQ’s few guns. He didn’t need to shout for id, or anything else.

In any case the fear eating at his stomach had already answered the question.

“Director!” the tech announced abruptly, “she isn’t one of ours. No signature on record.” Therefore she wasn’t a registered human ship. Every ship built legally in human space filed a complete energy profile with UMCPHQ. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be given permission to dock anywhere. The woman swallowed again, then finished, “The computer says she’s a Behemoth-class Amnion defensive.”

An Amnion warship. For a moment Warden’s heart stumbled to a halt. Here.

She must have been the same one Min had engaged to protect Trumpet. Scan made that clear: the vessel’s approach vector was wrong for forbidden space, but right for Massif-5.

This was an act of war with a vengeance. Failing to kill Trumpet had made the Amnioni desperate.

Unfortunately Warden was virtually helpless. UMCPHQ’s cannon were still seconds or minutes away from being charged. Even if they’d been ready to fire, however, they stood little chance against a Behemoth-class defensive’s shields and sinks. And the defensive was already near enough to strike.

If the Amnioni attacked, he had no real way to fight back.