The Gap into Madness: Chaos and Order (29 page)

As if
she were still on the same subject, she demanded, “What makes Davies Hyland so
precious?”

Warden
had asked himself that question half a dozen times already. Now under the
pressure of Norna’s insight and his own needs, he forced himself to consider it
again.

Thinking
aloud, he murmured, “The Amnion used a technique called ‘force-growing.’ I’ve
been hearing for years that they have the means to mature bodies rapidly. And
it must work. Otherwise Morn would still be pregnant. She wouldn’t have a son
yet, never mind a full-grown kid.

“But
how can he have a mind?” That was the crucial question, the fatal unknown. “How
did the Amnion compensate for all the years of learning and experience he didn’t
get?”

Norna’s
stare never left her wall of images, yet it forced Warden to go on.

“They
must have some way to create minds artificially.” The human organism was
inherently functionless without acquired training and information. “Or copy
them.

“Copying
sounds more plausible. But what did they use for an original?

“Did
they impose one of their own on him? Then he would be an Amnioni — and Joshua
would kill him, if Morn didn’t.” Panic and possibilities ran through him,
riding a burst of intuition like high-brisance thrust. “They must have copied
some human mind into his head.”

He didn’t
need to finish the thought; didn’t need to say, If they could do that for
Davies, they could do it for Holt. Norna was already nodding. Her mummified
lips chewed saliva and silence as if that were her oracular secret; the meaning
of life.

Is that
really
it?
He manipulates the GCES, suppresses the immunity drug,
handcuffs my people and me, keeps this undeclared war alive, betrays humanity,
just so he can fucking live
forever?

Dear
God, he’s got to be stopped!

Fine.
How?

Whose
mind did Davies have?

“Director
Dios?”

Warden
had been concentrating on Norna so hard that he hadn’t heard the door open, or
seen the guard stick his head into the room.

“Time’s
up, sir,” the man announced carefully. “Your shuttle’s waiting.”

Full of
alarm, Warden turned his attention on the guard.

Almost
immediately his prosthetic eye gave him one small piece of reassurance. The man’s
aura spoke of impatience, boredom, weariness, but no unusual anxiety or strain.
Therefore HS wasn’t preparing an ambush: Holt hadn’t changed his mind about
letting Warden return to UMCPHQ. No doubt he was determined not to spare Warden
the burden of betraying Angus and Morn.

“I’m
coming,” he told the guard.

At the
edge of Norna’s sight, however, he paused to bow and murmur softly, “Thank you.
I’ll do what I can.”

Her
parting words harried him out of the sickchamber like furies, naming his
anguish and loss.

“That’s
not good enough, Warden Dios.”

The
guards looked questions at him, involuntarily curious — or perhaps only
cautious.
Not good enough.
He answered them with a shrug and an
impersonal frown.

Neither
of them pursued the matter. He was the UMCP director — and they apparently hadn’t
been ordered to challenge him. Instead they simply guided him back to his
shuttle, letting him keep his shame to himself.

He knew
as well as Norna did that merely doing what he could
wasn’t good enough.
He just didn’t have any better ideas.

 _

 _

Battering his brain for
inspiration all the way back to UMCPHQ left him in a foul mood. Holt’s orders
galled him absolutely; they ate at his sore heart like an injection of vitriol.
If he were the kind of man who threw up when he felt nauseous, he would have
puked his guts out, trying to rid himself of his despair.

Angus
and Morn were the children of his best passion, his deepest need. He could
sacrifice Vector Shaheed and the rest of Nick’s people if he had to; could give
Trumpet
up and let Nick go: he’d done worse. Davies would live — and
Warden could at least pray that something would happen to spare the boy from
what Holt had in mind. But to give Nick power over Morn and Angus, to hand them
over to degradation and death after what they’d already suffered in Warden’s
name —

That
was completely and utterly
not good enough.

Fulminating
uselessly as his shuttle approached dock, he told his crew to flare Hashi
Lebwohl, order the DA director to meet him in one of his private offices in ten
minutes. He may have failed to be
good enough
for Angus and Morn, but he
was by God going to get the truth out of Hashi. He needed all his tolerance and
more to endure the distress inside his own skull: he had none to spare for
Hashi’s games.

The
evidence suggested that Hashi was pulling strings behind Warden’s back, interposing
his own decisions between the UMCP director and events. That could be called
malfeasance; it could even be called treason. On the other hand, Hashi
apparently wasn’t pulling strings for the Dragon. His game was his own, for
good or ill.

Warden
had half an hour left until his window opened on the best available listening
post. He could wait that long before he coded and sent his orders to Min Donner
— before he made his own treachery irrevocable. In that time, he intended to
find out how much harm Hashi had done.

Naturally,
inevitably, the post itself belonged to the UMC: it was part of the vast
communications network which Holt Fasner had put in place. In a hundred fifty
years of hunger and aggrandisement, the Dragon had learned to plan ahead.

He would
be able to obtain copies of Warden’s orders to
Punisher
.

That
thought made Warden want to tear Hashi’s head off.

His
anguish had nowhere else to go.

Ignoring
the salutes of dock security and the urgent requests for his attention from
Centre’s communications techs — these days Centre considered everything urgent
— he strode through the corridors of his domain until he reached the office he’d
specified in his message to Hashi Lebwohl.

The DA
director was already there, waiting. His face wore a bleary, amiable smile, as
if he’d just exchanged some pleasantry with the guards outside the office. In
contrast, their expressions were nonplussed, uncomfortable: their relief as
they saluted Warden was plain to his IR sight. Apparently they didn’t know how
to take Hashi’s sense of humour.

“Director
Dios.”

Hashi’s
glasses, antique and un-cared-for, seemed to refract his blue gaze, confusing
whatever he saw — or perhaps only whatever he allowed other people to see.
Characteristically his lab coat looked like he’d found it in a waste-disposal
bin — and then slept in it for weeks. The laces of his old-fashioned shoes
trailed at his heels: it was a wonder that he could walk without tripping
himself.

“Inside,”
Warden snapped brusquely as he thrust the door open. Without waiting for Hashi
to precede him, he stalked into the room, rounded the desk, and sat down in his
chair.

Hashi
didn’t dally. He entered the office behind Warden, closed the door. As Warden
keyed the door seals and security shields, Hashi came forward to stand in front
of the desk. Despite his air of assurance and his disreputable-professor’s
appearance, something in the twitching of his long fingers or the smudged
glitter of his glasses conveyed the impression that he knew he was in trouble.

“From
the origination of your flare,” he began as if he wanted to defuse Warden’s
anger, “I deduce that you have just returned from bearding the Dragon in his
lair. UMCPHQ scuttlebutt confirms this. And from the darkness of your glance I
deduce that the encounter did not go well.” As if he were quoting, he intoned, “‘The
great worm’s in his heaven, all’s wrong with the world.’ My condolences.”

Warden
let a snarl bare his teeth. “No jokes, Hashi,” he warned. “Spare me your usual
line of claptrap. Yes, I’ve just come from a meeting with my boss. No, it didn’t
go well. Now I intend to find out why.”

Hashi
permitted himself a bemused frown. Gesturing toward a chair, he asked, “In that
case, may I sit?”

“No.”

Behind
his lenses, Hashi’s eyes widened slightly. “I see. Apparently you consider me
the reason your meeting with Holt Fasner did not go well. May I inquire how
that is possible?”

“You
tell me.”

Holding
Warden’s glare, Hashi lifted his shoulders in a small, helpless shrug. “How can
I? I have no idea what subject you wish to discuss.”

“I’ll
give you a hint.” Warden clenched his hands into fists on the desktop. “Tell me
about
Free Lunch
.”

Hashi
blinked opaquely. Hints of tension sharpened his aura, but he may have been
simply baffled. “What is ‘free lunch’? Conventional wisdom asserts that no such
thing exists.”

Warden
swallowed a curse. Softly,
softly,
so that he wouldn’t rage, he
articulated, “Hashi, listen to me. This has gone on long enough. Where did you
get that information about events on Billingate you reported to me a few hours
ago?”

“As I
told you at the time, sir” — apparently the DA director had decided to respond
by acting huffy — “it arrived by routine drone service from a listening post in
the Com-Mine Station asteroid belt. It was routed to me precisely because it was
routine, and as a matter of routine I have assigned a high priority to any data
or transmission which makes reference to Thanatos Minor.

“The
listening post overheard a broadcast from a ship that did not identify herself
— therefore, presumably, an illegal.” The more he talked, the more Hashi’s pose
of indignant virtue began to sound like a disguise for more complex emotions. “The
broadcast was just that, broad cast, not tight-beamed to the listening post. I
have no evidence that this ship knew of the listening post’s existence. She was
simply trying to warn other vessels — presumably other illegals — of
developments on Thanatos Minor, to the extent that she had witnessed them.

“Some
of the details she cited — I mentioned this at the time also, sir” — he stressed
the word
sir
— “were not ones which I would have expected to find
included in such a broadcast. For that reason I distrust both the content and
the motives of her transmission. However, I delivered the information to you
because of its obvious importance.”

Subtly
sarcastic, Hashi concluded, “In what way has my conduct in this matter
contributed to the disagreeable outcome of your discussion with our revered
CEO?”

As if
he’d made his point, proved his innocence, he allowed himself to fold down into
the nearest chair.

“Liar!”

Leaning
forward, Warden hammered the desktop with his fists so hard that Hashi jumped
out of his seat as if he’d been struck.

His
glasses slumped to the end of his nose: he stared at Warden over them in plain
astonishment.

“You’ve
betrayed me, and I won’t
have it.
” Warden pronounced each word like an
act of violence. “You’re finished. I want your resignation
here
” — he
thumped the desk again — “in less than an hour.”

Hashi’s
mouth hung open; he seemed to have difficulty swallowing. “You?” he gaped. “Betrayed
you?
Personally? What does this have to do with you?”

Warden
gestured his disgust. “All right — I’ll say it differently. You’ve betrayed
your trust. You’ve betrayed your
job.
”

Hashi’s
reaction was instantaneous. His eyes flashed blue lightning as he retorted, “No.
Never.”

His IR
emissions said that he was telling the truth — if the word “truth” had any
meaning where he was concerned.

“Then,
God damn it, tell me about
Free Lunch
!” Warden let himself yell. If he
didn’t, Hashi’s bland chicanery was going to drive him mad. “Min found her
parked right on
top
of that listening post! She’d used the post to send
a message, but Min couldn’t crack it because the codes were too goddamn
secure.
When she was challenged, she told Min she was working for the UMC — for Cleatus
by God Fane himself! But
Holt
says that’s a lie — and
he
doesn’t
lie as well as you do.”

Abruptly
Warden dropped back in his seat. He took a deep breath, held it while he
mastered himself, then let it out in a hard sigh. “So tell me the truth, Hashi,
while you still can. What kind of shit is this?”

During
Warden’s outburst, Hashi’s eyebrows crawled like insects on his forehead. Slow
sweat beaded on his temples; a small flush, incongruously round and precise,
appeared in the centre of each cheek. Blinking furiously, his blue eyes seemed
to send out flares of stark panic and absolute glee, as if for him they came to
the same thing.

“In
that case, Warden,” he murmured, “perhaps you’ll permit me to amend my earlier
report.”

“Please.”