HOLT

Finally humankind’s last and greatest visionary was safe. He’d made mistakes: he acknowledged that freely to himself, although he might not have admitted it to anyone else. One was that he’d trusted Ward too long; let the man go too far. Another was that he’d attacked Suka Bator without first gaining control over the Donner bitch and her cordon. And mistakes were always dangerous. They were often fatal. He should have fired Ward as soon as his mother had named his own fears by warning him that the UMCP director would get him into trouble. Failing that, he should have made sure Calm Horizons would extirpate the votes for him, instead of risking the attempt himself.

He still didn’t understand why Calm Horizons hadn’t blasted Suka Bator when the shooting started. Apparently Ward’s treachery ran deeper than he’d imagined. Or Donner and Morn Hyland had conceived some ruse to trick the Amnioni—

Nevertheless Holt told himself that he had no regrets. In spite of his mistakes, he was safe. A visionary’s advance planning—and a visionary’s contempt for lesser beings—had saved him. He and all his essential data were safely aboard Motherlode. And Motherlode had already put a couple hundred thousand k between her and HO, accelerating gently toward the gap and deep space on a trajectory which protected her from Dormer’s ships.

In addition, of course, Motherlode was more than just a luxury gap yacht, furnished, appointed, and supplied to transport him in a monarch’s opulent comfort. She had the guns of a cruiser; the drive-power and range of a battlewagon; the shields, sinks, and defenses of a space-fortress. Personally he had no particular taste for luxury. When he’d commissioned Motherlode, he’d lavished so much wealth on her accommodations because he meant to daunt and manipulate his occasional guests, not because he himself liked ostentation. On the other hand, he valued his own survival highly. If Donner’s ships had attacked him at this range, his shields would have shrugged their fire aside like so much solar wind. And if he chose to run not one of them could have kept pace with him.

There was nothing to stand in his way. He was safe—as safe as riches and forethought could make him. Protected from death by every resource of human ingenuity: entirely beyond harm. When Motherlode finally began to skim the light-years toward forbidden space, he would be close to immortality.

She didn’t go into tach, however. Not yet. For some reason, he was reluctant to give the order. Instead of hurrying his escape toward the visionary triumph of force-grown bodies and imprinted minds, he watched Motherlode’s screens and waited for something to happen.

He was on the bridge; at the command station. His entire crew—three men—sat at their boards in front of him, facing the same screens. His yacht could have used a crew of ten, but she only needed that many when she carried passengers—and the passengers happened to be demanding. The ship herself required no more than three. In fact, any one of her officers could have handled her alone. Holt could have run her by himself. But he was intimately familiar with the weaknesses of his old body. He’d brought the crew with him for the same reason that he didn’t risk hard acceleration: he distrusted the condition of his heart. He’d felt his pulse fluttering ever since Donner opened fire on him. A new tightness in his chest refused to go away, despite the drugs which had kept him alive for so long.

Because he feared the strain of running Motherlode alone, he needed a crew. The three of them could take turns; rest enough to stay alert.

Yet he didn’t trust ordinary men any more than he trusted his own mortality. They might have questioned him. Might have made the mistake of thinking their lives were more important than his. These three were special.

They all had zone implants. Their zone implant controls were also implanted. And the controls were voice-activated; keyed specifically to his voice. With a word he could fill them with enough pleasure to drive them mad; enough pain to kill them. They would do anything for him.

For that reason, he didn’t trouble with code-locks for the bridge consoles. His crew would obey him absolutely—and kill anyone who tried to give him trouble.

He was completely and utterly safe.

Nevertheless he withheld the order for tach. Despite the fluttering and pressure in his chest—warning signs that he should try to reach forbidden space quickly—he kept Motherlode within reach of Earth’s scan net. Instead of fleeing, he used the net to watch what happened to UMCHO.

Something would happen: he was sure of that. He just hoped he would be able to recognize it; grasp what it meant.

As soon as Donner had restored the scan net after Calm Horizons’ astonishing death, Holt had seen Trumpet approach HO. Punisher’s command module had headed for UMCPHQ, but the gap scout had braved Holt’s station. Well before Motherlode’s launch, Trumpet had docked in the hub.

Now that was an unexpected development. Beyond question something was about to happen.

Who was aboard the gap scout? What did they want? What did they think they could accomplish?

For a while he’d received no hint of an answer. Certainly nothing had interfered with Motherlode’s launch, or her gradual acceleration. Nothing had threatened him. But then in surprise he’d watched the platform loft a series of ore cans toward UMCPHQ. And he’d seen UMCPHQ send out tugs to receive the cans.

The answer was there, if he could figure it out.

Casually he asked his crew, “Any idea what’s going on?”

The man at the scan station also handled communications. “Yes, sir,” he replied without hesitation—or interest. “They aren’t keeping it secret. It’s on all the in-system relays. Those cans are fill of people. They’re evacuating HO.”

Evacuating, hell, Holt snorted to himself. That wasn’t just evacuation. It was desperation. Nobody who wasn’t desperate would leave a stable station in a goddamn ore can.

What were they afraid of?

Apparently they believed the platform wouldn’t remain stable much longer. Either Dormer’s bombardment had done more damage than Holt had realized, or—

Holt’s eyes widened in surprise.

—or this was another of Ward’s by God oblique, malicious gambles. The final ploy in his vast, impenetrable charade of service to the UMC and humankind.

Holt found the possibility so amazing that he believed it instantly.

Suppose the command module had taken Ward off Calm Horizons before the defensive died. What did he have to live for? Why had he bothered to arrange his own survival?

His attack on his rightful master before the Council had destroyed his reputation, his career. He’d given his charges weight by confessing his complicity. By now the votes must be convulsed with self-righteousness. They would almost certainly have him executed. So why had he done it? What was this whole elaborate exercise for?

Ah, but what if it had all been for this: to give Ward access to HO? He could probably handle HS. If nothing else, he could say Donner was about to gut the station. He could organize a desperate evacuation—and virtuously offer to remain behind, pretending he cared that everyone else got away safely.

Then he would be free to take Holt’s data. For himself. And with that lever he could defy them all—the UMCP, the GCES, the other stations; the whole planet. He would have the power, the evidence, to topple corporations, platforms, governments.

If he used it carefully, he could make the votes pardon him.

And after that there would be virtually no limit to what he might acquire—

The mere idea almost stopped Holt’s heart. He blinked astonishment at the screens, whistling thinly through his teeth. By God, he’d made another mistake. He should have deleted his data as he copied it. His mother had warned him and warned him—and yet he’d left all that power intact for his worst enemy.

If he’d listened to her, he wouldn’t have lost his empire. Or his station. Instead of being forced to flee alone, he would have been able to take his species with him on his visionary journey toward the only future which would allow it to endure.

For a moment his bitterness and regret were so acute that he could barely contain them. Outrage accumulated in his veins. His heart limped from beat to beat, staggering when it should have throbbed safely. Ward’s victory was intolerable. Holt should have strung him up by his balls at the first hint

Fortunately one of the crew broke into his thoughts. “Sir,” the man at the targ station announced quietly, “I’m getting a malfunction alert.”

At once Holt snatched himself back from his mounting fury. Grateful for the distraction, he asked, “What is it?” His frailty had reached frightening proportions. He was in no condition for so much anger: he had to take better care of himself.

“Routine diagnostics, sir.” The targ officer wasn’t worried. “We aren’t in a hurry, so I took the time to run a few checks. One of the airlock servos doesn’t respond. The lock is sealed. There’s no danger. But that servo ought to read green, and it doesn’t. May be a faulty circuit. It’s probably been that way since the last diagnostic.”

Since before Motherlode had left HO.

Holt nodded. Caution of all kinds was a standing order aboard the yacht. Whatever else happened, he meant to survive.

“Can you fix it?”

The man inclined his head. “Whenever you like, sir. But I’ll have to go down to the airlock.”

“Do it later,” Holt ordered. “I want you here.” Just in case Ward had more surprises for him.

Whatever happened would probably happen soon. The ore cans were on their way to safety. There would be plenty of time for minor repairs after Motherlode’s first gap crossing.

As his distress receded, however, and his pulse recovered a more familiar rhythm, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about Norna. The truth was that he’d been thinking about her all along: he just hadn’t wanted to recognize it.

He missed her. He’d kept her alive so long—and had profited so much from her hostile insight—that he felt bound to her in ways he couldn’t describe. He liked her, despite her grim hunger for his ruin. Over the decades her malice had helped him stay alert; helped him thrive. Without her—

Without her he made mistakes. And mistakes might kill him.

He couldn’t have brought her with him. That was out of the question. But now he began to wonder how he would live without her.

“Sir!” the scan officer called sharply.

Holt jerked his attention to the screens in time to see an explosion tear through HO.

In a rush of brisance the whole steel skeleton pf the platform crumpled like hardcopy. All the generators and power-cells must have blown simultaneously. Soundless across the kilometers, HO’s death seethed on the screens, as poignant and immedicable as a rupturing heart. Incandescence and fire shone briefly through the shattered ribs of the infrastructure, then were sucked back into darkness. Within seconds empty space had swallowed the debris and corpses, leaving only a few charred steel bones to mark the station’s place in the affairs of humanity.

Norna was dead.

But so was Ward. The man’s ambitions had failed in the end, sabotaged by the platform’s vulnerability. Some resourceful HS guard had set that explosion. Or Ward had triggered it himself by accessing the station’s computers clumsily. Holt didn’t care which. He cared only that Ward had at last suffered the ruin he’d tried so hard to bring down on Holt’s head.

And Norna’s wish for her son’s destruction had also failed.

Her death was a small price to pay.

In addition, Holt’s now-exclusive data had just experienced an exponential increase in value.

He released a long sigh of satisfaction. “Well, that takes care of the high-and-mighty Warden goddamn Dios,” he drawled to the bridge. “The sonofabitch finally got what he deserves. I wish I could have seen his face when he realized HO was about to explode. All that plotting to get his hands on my data, and suddenly he finds he’s going to die for it. I’ll bet he shat blood when he—”

Without warning a hand closed in Holt’s thin hair, wrenched his head against the back of his g-seat. “I’ll bet he didn’t,” a voice he’d never heard before snarled cheerfully. “I’ll bet he did it himself. I’ll bet he was just so sick of you he couldn’t bear to let anything you’ve ever touched survive.”

The crew swung their stations, gaped in shock past Holt at the intruder.

“He kept his promises,” the man went on. “All of them. That’s supposed to be a good thing, but it’s really the shits. It makes a bastard like me feel like he has to do the same.”

The pressure on Holt’s scalp threatened to choke him; break his neck. He couldn’t speak.

Without orders his men didn’t move.

“Vestabule cursed me. Can you believe it?” The stranger spoke in a cruel drawl. “He threatened to eliminate my DNA from the galaxy. I guess he didn’t think I would end up with a ship like this, just full of interesting secrets. But a mistake is a mistake. Since I can’t make any more deals with forbidden space, there’s really no reason why I shouldn’t do what Dios wants.”

Terror labored in Holt’s old chest. Frantically he twisted against his g-seat to ease the strain on his throat. Nearly strangling, he croaked out the word that sent his men into combat mode.

They reacted instantly, obedient to his compulsion. As one they slapped at their belts, jumped to their feet, reached for their guns—and died. The intruder let go of Holt’s head. One thin ruby beam burned a hole into the targ officer’s forehead, then slashed across the throat of the man on scan, spilling a scorched spray of blood. A second laser devoured most of the helm officer’s face.

“Nice trick,” the harsh voice remarked. “Most men can’t move in unison like that. Did you use voice-command zone implants on them? Oh, dear. I’m afraid that’s against the law.”

A heavy hand turned Holt’s station.

When he saw Angus Thermopyle’s face, recognized it from newsdog broadcasts and Ward’s files, he started screaming.