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 unnecessarily. “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 through 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.”

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!”

His own last battle had also begun.