This Day All Gods Die by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B
Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Hyland; Morn (Fictitious character), Thermopyle; Angus (Fictitious character)
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and Mikka could fail
Angus' terror might have eaten him alive if he'd been able to feel its full strength. His body was immune to it, however. Only his mind remained vulnerable.
"How long do we have to wait?" Mikka asked tensely.
"How should I know?" Davies retorted. "I've never done this before. And I sure as hell didn't design this shit."
Sounding unnaturally calm, Vector remarked, "Orn Vorbuld"
a name Angus didn't know
"used to say we
have to drain the bad juju out of the chip."
Mikka snorted. "Orn Vorbuld was an asshole."
Was. Dead now, apparently. Another casualty.
Like Angus himself.
Try it, he groaned. Haven't you waited long enough?
Haven't you tortured me enough? Try it, for God's sake!
Save me or let me die
"Fuck it," Davies muttered through his teeth. "I don't know what we're waiting for. Give me a swab. I can't plug anything in if I can't see the damn socket."
We've committed a crime against your soul.
Angus felt pressure on his back, roughly gentle, mopping blood away. The raw edges of Davies' incision seemed to sting with cold as if they froze in the air of sickbay; as if the deep chill of space leaked in to claim him for the last time.
It's got to stop.
Pressure again: harder; more focused. There, in the center of his back; at the nexus of his being.
Silence.
Mikka murmured, "Is it in all the way?"
"I'm not sure," Davies breathed.
Angus was sure enough for both of them.
Without transition a window opened in the darkness of his head
a window of relief so intense that he would have sobbed aloud if his zone implants had allowed it.
Before he slipped away into the dark, his chronometer informed him that he'd been in stasis for more than four and a half hours.
DAVIES
Davies stared at the bloody
gap in Angus' back where
he'd just reinserted the datacore chip into its socket, and waited for his heart to break.
He didn't have any other ideas. If this didn't work, Angus might as well be dead. Sickbay might keep him alive indefinitely; but no one aboard Trumpet would ever reach him again.
It wasn't working. Davies could see that. Held by his restraints, Angus lay like a slab of meat on the surgical table.
Only the autonomic rasp of his breathing indicated that he wasn't a corpse.
Another failure. The last one: the fatal one. He hadn't been good enough to help Angus save the ship. If Morn hadn't risked gap-sickness to aid him, they all would have died. For a while he'd been so caught up in his own exhaustion that he'd let Morn and Angus suffer for long, unnecessary minutes. And after that he'd had to rely on Mikka to run helm, despite her injuries and Ciro's pain, because he hadn't been able to cope by himself.
He didn't know how to repair the drives. He wasn't even smart enough to turn off Trumpet's homing signal.
But there was worse.
He'd failed to understand himself. Hell, he hadn't even tried. He'd refused to look at what lay behind his fury for revenge on Gutbuster. Instead he'd let Nick commit his bizarre suicide. He'd killed Sib Mackern as surely as if he'd pressed the firing stud himself. And he'd taken his roiling terror out on Morn as if it were anger; as if she were inadequate in some way, not good enough for him.
I'm Bryony Hyland's daughter. The one she used to have
before you sold your soul for a zone implant.
Now he'd failed to bring Angus back from stasis. Trumpet'5 drives were dead: the gap scout couldn't navigate; couldn't cross the gap in any direction; couldn't even decelerate. All her choices were gone. She was doomed to drift like a coffin consigned to the sea of space until death or the UMCP
intervened.
He wanted his heart to break; wanted something essential inside him to snap. Otherwise he would have to face the consequences of all the things he couldn't do.
He wasn't listening when Vector sighed, "Well, what do you know. Would you look at that?" Nevertheless an unfamiliar congestion in the geneticist's tone made him turn his head.
Mikka
Angus' terror might have eaten him alive if he'd been able to feel its full strength. His body was immune to it, however. Only his mind remained vulnerable.
"How long do we have to wait?" Mikka asked tensely.
"How should I know?" Davies retorted. "I've never done this before. And I sure as hell didn't design this shit."
Sounding unnaturally calm, Vector remarked, "Orn Vorbuld"
a name Angus didn't know
"used to say we
have to drain the bad juju out of the chip."
Mikka snorted. "Orn Vorbuld was an asshole."
Was. Dead now, apparently. Another casualty.
Like Angus himself.
Try it, he groaned. Haven't you waited long enough?
Haven't you tortured me enough? Try it, for God's sake!
Save me or let me die
"Fuck it," Davies muttered through his teeth. "I don't know what we're waiting for. Give me a swab. I can't plug anything in if I can't see the damn socket."
We've committed a crime against your soul.
Angus felt pressure on his back, roughly gentle, mopping blood away. The raw edges of Davies' incision seemed to sting with cold as if they froze in the air of sickbay; as if the deep chill of space leaked in to claim him for the last time.
It's got to stop.
Pressure again: harder; more focused. There, in the center of his back; at the nexus of his being.
Silence.
Mikka murmured, "Is it in all the way?"
"I'm not sure," Davies breathed.
Angus was sure enough for both of them.
Without transition a window opened in the darkness of his head
a window of relief so intense that he would have sobbed aloud if his zone implants had allowed it.
Before he slipped away into the dark, his chronometer informed him that he'd been in stasis for more than four and a half hours.
DAVIES
Davies stared at the bloody
gap in Angus' back where
he'd just reinserted the datacore chip into its socket, and waited for his heart to break.
He didn't have any other ideas. If this didn't work, Angus might as well be dead. Sickbay might keep him alive indefinitely; but no one aboard Trumpet would ever reach him again.
It wasn't working. Davies could see that. Held by his restraints, Angus lay like a slab of meat on the surgical table.
Only the autonomic rasp of his breathing indicated that he wasn't a corpse.
Another failure. The last one: the fatal one. He hadn't been good enough to help Angus save the ship. If Morn hadn't risked gap-sickness to aid him, they all would have died. For a while he'd been so caught up in his own exhaustion that he'd let Morn and Angus suffer for long, unnecessary minutes. And after that he'd had to rely on Mikka to run helm, despite her injuries and Ciro's pain, because he hadn't been able to cope by himself.
He didn't know how to repair the drives. He wasn't even smart enough to turn off Trumpet's homing signal.
But there was worse.
He'd failed to understand himself. Hell, he hadn't even tried. He'd refused to look at what lay behind his fury for revenge on Gutbuster. Instead he'd let Nick commit his bizarre suicide. He'd killed Sib Mackern as surely as if he'd pressed the firing stud himself. And he'd taken his roiling terror out on Morn as if it were anger; as if she were inadequate in some way, not good enough for him.
I'm Bryony Hyland's daughter. The one she used to have
before you sold your soul for a zone implant.
Now he'd failed to bring Angus back from stasis. Trumpet'5 drives were dead: the gap scout couldn't navigate; couldn't cross the gap in any direction; couldn't even decelerate. All her choices were gone. She was doomed to drift like a coffin consigned to the sea of space until death or the UMCP
intervened.
He wanted his heart to break; wanted something essential inside him to snap. Otherwise he would have to face the consequences of all the things he couldn't do.
He wasn't listening when Vector sighed, "Well, what do you know. Would you look at that?" Nevertheless an unfamiliar congestion in the geneticist's tone made him turn his head.
Mikka
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