by Brian N Ball
“Mainly because we wouldn’t know what to record them with,” said Buchanan.
“Quite, sir.”
“So it’s a guess,” said Buchanan, unable to accept the implications of what he had learned. “Time dislocation isn’t proved.”
“Agreed, sir. Mr. Kochan’s team saw it as a strong hypothesis but only one of several. For instance, sir, it’s predicted that the Singularity contains what’s called a ‘black hole’—an area that contracts to infinity. Again, sir, there may be a combination of such a black hole and a neutron star or star cluster. But Mr. Kochan dissented. He holds to the time-distortion elements with an illogical fervor.” Buchanan’s gaze was grim. Kochan was obsessed by an idea which was peculiarly horrifying.
“Let’s assume Mr. Kochan’s right,” he told the robot “Assume time-bending or distortion could occur within the Singularity. What projections do you have, given this?”
“Two distinct possibilities, sir. Both unverifiable.”
“How’s that?”
“The station would have to enter the Singularity to get the necessary data, sir. And that isn’t your assignment.”
Buchanan bared his teeth in a humorless grin. The robot would soon be disillusioned as to the station’s mission.
“The two possibilities,” he said.
“Yes, sir. One is that there are slight distortions locally which would give a well-known effect—a slight disjunction of the time-scale between events inside and outside the Singularity with a difference measurable in microseconds. There are certain parallels in collapsing supernova readings.” Wrong, thought Buchanan. Nothing in the experience of man in his exploration of the Galaxy would be like the interior of the uncertain regions. Whatever forces boiled up during and after a supernova, they did not begin to match the weird qualities of the Singularity’s emissions. A difference of microseconds!
“The other?”
It was the theory he had projected once Kochan’s information began to flow. He had already formed a strong opinion, but he wanted the machines to confirm his interpretation. The fearful one. The interpretation which Kochan dreaded.
“A severe dislocation of temporal patterns.”
“How severe?”
“Time would stop.”
“Stop! Stop?”
Buchanan had not gone that far. Time bent. Time flowing sidereally. Time utterly out of joint. But time stopped?
The robot waited for a minute and went on: “A most extreme possibility, sir.”
“I hope so,” said Buchanan.
He thought of the Altair Star lapsing into the strange dimensions, falling away and into that gaping black maw … all those lives. Into what?
“And what of the effect on the Altair Star?” he demanded harshly. “On the humans aboard?” The robot showed him an image of force-bands held in a bizarre equilibrium. Time hung still.
“If the theory holds good, sir, then there would be a state of suspended animation.” Buchanan saw that this too was possible.
“But they died! They all died!”
“Clinical death is not easy to establish, sir,” the robot pointed out. “In humans the precedent is the cessation of all forms of electrical activity in the nervous system.”
“Well?”
“For all electrical activity to cease, there has to be an outlet for the energy, sir . It must be dissipated somehow.”
Buchanan had a vision of frozen, undead, undying men and women, of children poised for the final moment.
“They couldn’t live for three years!” snarled Buchanan, conscious of the pointlessness of his rage.
“There should be the condition known as ‘death,’” agreed the calm untroubled metallic voice.
“And there may not be!” grated Buchanan.
“Pushing the theory to a conclusion, sir, it may be said that the passengers and crew of the Altair Star might not have had enough time to die.”
Buchanan experienced a lurching sense of horror. The robot had given the inevitable confirmation. Had he sensed, in the haunted eyes of the fair-haired girl, that already she was aware of a shadowy kind of existence beyond time and death?
“It couldn’t be,” Buchanan said, believing that it could.
“We are talking only of theory, sir,” the robot voice said calmly into the aseptic, quietly-humming emptiness of the bridge.
And what a theory, thought Buchanan. More than ever, he was sure he had been right to seize the opportunity presented by the building of the Jansky Station. Right, too, to give up even a Liz Deffant.
“Only a theory,” he repeated. “I hope so.”
The unreasoning terror held Liz for minutes. During this time, she could neither think nor move. Etched on her mind was the sight of the young Enforcement Service crewman’s death. Tup. She did not know his full name. And now he was dead.
The general circumstances of the scene impinged on her mind, but not with any coherent force. She could see pain and bewilderment on Maran’s ooze-flecked face. Dimly she was aware that he was suffering. She could see that he was moving with slow, hesitant steps, about the area of the console. She knew too that he had seen her— and disregarded her. But the shock of Tup’s death prevented her from being able to analyze or react.
She could not even scream.
Tup had been laughing. He had approached the figure of the guard and surprised the expellee Maran. Maran had turned, reached… .
Her eyes were fixed, staring. They were almost unfocused. She tried to scream. Nothing came. She recognized that Maran looked at her again.
In the two or three minutes of her total immobility, he halted the local command structure of the cell-deck. He subverted the robots. Liz could see, hear, watch with some kind of awareness, but she could do nothing. Maran ignored her.
“This system advises all human crew and Security guards to remain calm,” announced a metallic voice from the console. “Servitors will investigate emergency on cell-deck.” Maran heard and moved. There was an hierarchical structure of robotic control in the big ship. Systems controlled groups of lesser systems. At the moment, the Grade Two system which administered the cell-deck was dealing with a situation it recognized.
“Emergency on cell-deck!” reported another, more authoritative voice. It was almost human. “Emergency procedure five-eight-stroke-two will be carried out.”
“Agreed!” the cell-deck supervisor answered. “Low-grade servitors will apprehend released expellee forthwith. Malfunctioning of metabolic monitors will be investigated!” Deep within the vessel, tiny crablike maintenance machines began to skitter toward the dusty service passages.
In Maran’s slow-clearing mind there was an image of the robot’s instant response to the information that a prisoner had been freed. He looked at his big hands, briefly checked that the girl was still in shock, and acted.
Liz was aware, somewhere at the fringes of her mind, that heavy, armored servitors were moving. The deck below her feet quivered. Two robots slid past her. Restraint tentacles flowed smoothly from their squat bodies. Maran was a dark blur at the console. His hands began to weave over the controls of the cell-deck as the robots faced him.
“Do not move!” ordered a raw, cold voice. “You are subject to restraint order under Galactic Council Penal Code Regulations.”
“You are an expellee and must be returned to coma-cell,” added the second servitor. Liz Deffant slowly surfaced. It was over. Whatever calamitous accident had released Maran would be put right. The brief nightmare, the terror and the horror, were over. Liz could begin to feel a sense of relief. The robots must prevail against Maran. The guard had been taken unawares; Tup had died unknowing.
But the robots knew what they faced. The two low-grades moved like clever animals, one to each side of the console.
“Yes!” said Liz, a sharp satisfaction in her voice. “Get him!” Maran was punching commands. A tentacle cautiously flicked out. A bronchitic metal-lined voice called:
“Human interference with c
ommand console is not permitted unless authorized by Grade One system!
You are a human. You must move away. You are under restraint order!” The second machine added its warning: “Move away at once; otherwise restraint procedures will be used!”
Maran flinched—Liz could see the big body shake—at the touch of the hawser-like tentacle. He turned toward the dim-lit cell-deck, with its rows of silent, gently-bobbing men and women. Liz could not help a sensation of vengeful satisfaction. Two lives cut off in minutes—the guard and Tup.
Maran slammed a huge hand down on the bank of controls.
The eerie cell-deck became a place of ghastly, convulsed terrifying confusion. A scream of protest came from a dozen robotic throats. The flood of metallic howls, each one stepped up in volume to make itself heard above the others, blasted at Liz. Pain rocked her. She put her hands to her ears, the first move she had made since she saw Tup die. She was deafened by the uproar of the robots.
“Emergency!” screamed one robotic voice above the others. “Expellee restraint systems broken down!
Malfunction in cell-deck—”
“Condition of restraint broken!” confirmed another, still louder. “This system has no data for release of expellees in condition phase!”
Even through her hands, Liz could make out the sense of the most clamorous reports. And she could see that the two servitors were affected by the massive confusion all around her. They had stopped, feet short of Maran. Black tentacles began, to retract. Dull-gleaming carapaces looked about the cell-deck with almost a human bewilderment.
Maran’s hands were busy at the controls.
What was he doing? Liz thought dazedly.
“Confused instruction!” the Grade Two robot complained. “Instructions for the release of expellees have been received contrary to standing orders! Confirmation from Grade One system requested!”
“This low-grade servitor is confused!” agreed the robot nearest Maran.
“This low-grade servitor also!” added its companion. “No further instructions have been received since release of all expellees was ordered. Does this instruction supercede order for apprehension of released expellee?”
A maintenance unit screamed for attention. Liz saw the-tiny, spider-like machine edge its way from a tiny hole and make for the command console, where Maran was standing, exhausted and panting from his efforts.
Liz saw with a growing realization that Maran had temporarily disrupted the machines. She could at last begin to reason; Maran was a cyberneticist. Maran understood the mechanisms of control as no one else had ever done. And Maran was loose in a ship which was run by the robots. Why or how he was loose could wait. That he was loose—that he had begun to exert his bizarre genius over one important system—was enough.
She spoke out, trying to make herself heard over the uproar of the machines: “Get Maran! He’s murdered a guard! You two servitors—you had your instructions—get him!” Sensitive to the human voice, able to select its tones from the robotic clamor, they turned. Behind them Maran reached for a sensor-pad. Liz saw his big head stiffen. His hands moved again, weaving a spell over the command console. Liz might have moved had it not been for the slight disturbance in the ooze beside her.
She looked, the movement catching her eye. The noise of slithering increased. A head peered forward from the gray ooze. Eyes that had been busy with empty dreams were pools of doubt and pain. The prisoner in the ooze was looking at her.
Liz understood what Maran had done to cause such, confusion among the robot overseers of the expellees. He had begun to arouse the prisoners. Horrified, she heard Maran’s voice. He was calling to the dead man. Recognizing and despising her helplessness, she could only watch. Maran glanced once, and looked back to the console. The robots’ sensors followed his movements but they were still in a state of doubt. Wary, ready to move with smooth speed, they were trapped by the inability of their supervisors to disperse the confusion Maran was still building. Maran raised his head to take in the scene. Sluggish movements from the tanks attracted him. He began to talk, quietly, soothingly, to the console before him. Within seconds the robotic complaints began to die away. The spider-like robot was a flashing, sparkling thing as it crept toward him. He reached out a huge hand and knocked it away. It lay still.
Rosario had been thinking about Liz Deffant when the first warnings came through. She should have been a bright, talkative, happy girl, but she was not. There was a sadness about her eyes; she had been hurt. Then there was the urgency of her return to Messier 16. Had that something to do with her low-key conversation? He wondered if he could make a stopover on the return flight from the Rim. It might be possible.
The first metallic howls put all thoughts of her out of his head.
The pedestal which housed the ES 110’ s robotic director let out a blast of protest: “There will be no premature release of prisoners! Instructions are not confused! Galactic Council Penal Code directives are unalterable! There must be no release of expellees until destination reached!” The normally calm voice was partly obscured by the electronic uproar of shrill systems demanding instructions, Rosario had never heard the robots disagree. This was an emergency, possibly a disaster.
“Release,” called Poole, emerging from the dining area. His mouth still champed on food. “Release, Jack!
Did it say—”
“Pete!” yelled Rosario into the console before him. “Tup! What’s happening down there?”
“A prisoner out,” Poole said wildly. “How, Jack, how?”
“Confused data!” screamed a Grade Two robot. “Servitors do not respond to my orders! Prisoner is trying to interfere with controls for this system!”
“The cell-deck Grade Two!” Rosario shouted. “Dieter! Mack!” The two Security men came at a run. They had no need to be told what was happening. Poole looked helplessly at the console. It was alive with writhing sensor-pads. It seemed demented. Warning lights flashed zanfly. A stream of messages clamored for attention. From the Grade One’s pedestal came a confused roar of questions. Rosario grabbed a pair of sensor-pads and allowed them to report.
“Do we go down?” asked Dieter when Rosario turned to them.
“No.”
“What should I do?” pleaded Poole, infected by terror now.
“Red Alert?” asked Mack.
“It should have gone out!”
“It hasn’t?”
“No,” said Rosario grimly.
“Then what’s happening?” Poole shrilled, “We’ve an escaped prisoner down there—the Grade Two says so! And he’s taking over the deck!”
“What do we have so far?” asked Dieter. He had to shout above the sudden shrilling uproar.
“It’s confused, but three different executive systems report the same thing. Whoever’s free is trying to reactivate the whole deck. All the cells.”
Poole caught the words. “Reactivate, Jack? Who’d do that—no one but a maniac!”
“No one but a person who knew what would send the robots crazy,” said Dieter. Rosario was ahead of him. There was a pattern in the chaotic events. The Grade One robot was appalled. Several of the Grade Two robots had at least temporarily become incapable of decision-making. They had been persuaded to release the expellees. Unbelievable, yet it had happened. Rosario could imagine the scenes on the lower deck as the prisoners awoke. Neural systems would be receiving stimulative charges. Powerful drugs, heavy electrical bursts, would pour into the conditioned brains of the expellees. Men and women would be shocked into consciousness. Their bodies, totally unprepared for the gross shocks they were receiving, would thrash frenetically in the gray ooze.
“Do something!” bawled Poole.
The robots were in a state of electronic catatonia. They had accepted orders which contravened their code.
“It’s him,” said Dieter.
Rosario nodded. “No one else. Maran.”
“Maran!” Poole squealed.
“We could take him,” offered Ma
ck, ignoring Poole’s panic.
“No,” said Rosario. He knew that three people he knew and liked were in appalling danger. “No,” he decided. “We have to stay here and try to get the Grade One to recover. But the main thing is to alert Galactic Center.”
“A Red Alert,” agreed Dieter.
“With anyone else, we’d try,” said Rosario. “But Maran—” They knew what he meant. Only a Maran could have baffled the sophisticated circuitry of the Enforcement Service vessel.
Rosario turned to the console. “This is Commander Rosario,” he said firmly. There was a brief halt in the uproar of metallic protest. “This is a full-scale emergency. Emergency systems must at once beam a request for help. All Service ships in the Quadrant must be informed. Beam, the request for help now. A Red Alert condition exists.”
“Commander, it is not in your sphere of authority to decide degrees of emergency,” the Grade One robot answered. There was a chilling assurance in its response.
“Beam the request for assistance now,” repeated Rosario calmly. “I must be allowed control of the situation. You are receiving false data from a released expellee. I say again, a state of emergency exists. Beam Red Alert signals throughout the Quadrant.”
“The situation has been contained. There is no need for alarm, Commander. The expellee has been returned to his coma-cell. He is defunct and will be removed for storage in accordance with Galactic Council Penal Code procedures.”
“Someone’s dead,” said Mack.
Rosario shuddered. Who was it? His mind boiled with anger. But he must keep calm. The machines had been subverted, so much was clear. They were confused. They were making profound mistakes. There had to be a way of making them see the realities of the situation. But what were those realities? What was happening in the cell-deck? Were all the command systems under Maran’s spell?
“Well?” asked Dieter, looking at Rosario.
“Not yet. We’ll give the machines a chance.”
