Chaos and Order: The Gap Into Madness

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Scowling, Davies passed the data-jack to Vector. At once he resumed working on Angus’ back, trying to swab away enough blood so that he could see what to do.

  “Lab Center,” Sib said almost firmly, “this is Trumpet. Sorry for the delay. We’re just about ready.”

  Vector smiled impartially around the bridge. Then he headed for the auxiliary engineering board.

  “All right,” Davies muttered into Angus’ open back. He picked up a small circuit clamp, clipped the datacore onto it. “Now maybe I can do this without plugging it in backward.”

  Holding his breath so that his hands wouldn’t shake, he probed the datacore toward Angus’ computer.

  “Trumpet,” Lab Center demanded sharply, “who is this? Where’s Captain Succorso?”

  Morn didn’t know the voice.

  “Sorry, again,” Sib responded. “Chief Retledge, this is Sib Mackern. I guess I should explain. The truth is”—with an effort he managed to make his anxiety sound like embarrassment—“I’m afraid Captain Succorso and Dr. Shaheed couldn’t wait to start celebrating. They’re in the galley, already half null—I could probably get the captain to talk to you, but at the moment I don’t think he cares whether we ever undock.”

  Once he began, Sib didn’t falter. His approximation of assurance improved steadily. “Mikka Vasaczk is tending her brother in sickbay. It looks like he has some kind of health problem we didn’t know about. Suddenly it was too much for him.

  “That just leaves me.

  “As soon as our computers finish reading your data-jack, we’ll be ready to receive departure protocols.”

  “Alone, Mr. Mackern?” Chief Retledge didn’t try to conceal his incredulity. “You propose to take Trumpet out alone?”

  “There,” Davies breathed through clenched jaws. “It’s in.” He leaned back: unaware of what he did, he wrapped his arms around himself as if he needed comfort. “Can you still hear me, Angus? Did I do it right? Can you tell if I did it right?”

  Angus didn’t move; didn’t answer. He squatted on the deck as if he’d surrendered to execution.

  Withdrawal twisted through Morn’s stomach. She felt herself hyperventilating. She wanted to tell Sib, Get us out of here. Make them give us permission. But she didn’t dare; she couldn’t risk being overheard.

  “Chief Retledge,” Sib countered, “this is a gap scout, not an orehauler—or a warship.” He spoke loudly to cover Davies. “Her manifest only requires a crew of two. If your data is accurate, I can run this swarm in my sleep.” He paused, feigning doubt, then added, “Captain Succorso doesn’t care at the moment. But when he sobers up, he’s going to be more than just furious if I don’t carry out his orders.”

  Nick seemed to react to the sound of his name. He groaned softly: his shoulders hunched: he tried to rise. But the effort was too much for him, and he slumped back to the deck.

  Retledge was silent for a long moment. Then, grudgingly, he snorted, “Trumpet, we’re standing by to initiate undock on your word. We’ll assign departure protocols when you’re clear. Lab Center out.”

  The bridge speakers emitted a faint hiss and fell silent.

  “Almost done,” Vector murmured to no one in particular.

  Without warning Angus moved his arms.

  Morn flinched; she couldn’t help herself. Skinworms of fear chewed along her nerves.

  His muscles tensed. His back straightened. Slowly he stood, pulling himself taller. He might have been a piece of equipment coming back on-line.

  “Angus?” Davies asked uncertainly. “Angus—?”

  A low moan began to leak up out of Angus’ chest like a prayer. Quiet at first, it built louder as his heart beat and his arms flexed; as tension moved up and down his spine like a systems check. Morn wanted to implore him, Stop it, stop! but she couldn’t. He transfixed her. She could only stand and listen as his moan rose to a roar, as guttural and extreme as the howl of a tortured beast.

  Suddenly he whirled away from the command station, ripping himself free of the board, slinging a spray of blood and wires around him.

  “It works!” he cried like a shout of rage. “It works!”

  Morn took a step toward him. There was no one else to do it. Davies knelt where Angus had left him, too shocked to move. Sib and Vector might have been paralyzed. Somehow Nick had squirmed his knees under him, but he couldn’t lift himself any higher. Morn had to face Angus alone.

  Her laser was in her hand; of its own volition, her hand pointed itself at Angus’ head. Panting as if she’d lost the power to breathe, she asked, “How do I know that? How am I supposed to believe you?”

  His passion wasn’t rage: it was a feral joy, as savage and necessary as murder; as pure as fury. Bloody from working on his datacore, his hands closed and unclosed like a torn heart.

  “Try me,” he rasped. “Try me.”

  Try him? She wanted to turn and run. No, she wanted to burn him through the head before he thought to defend himself. Involuntarily her fist tightened. Shame and fear from the core of her being begged her to press the firing stud.

  We’ll do it. We’ll trust you.

  We’re cops.

  Gasping to force up words, she ordered, “Isaac, this is Gabriel priority. Put your head down.”

  Nick let out a groan of pain and betrayal. “You bastard.”

  Fierce with exaltation, Angus jutted his chin toward the ceiling.

  “I’m free.” Wild relief congested his voice as if he were sobbing. “I’m free.”

  “You bastard.” Heaving on the tape which bound his wrists to his ankles, Nick pulled himself up onto his feet. Pain glazed his eyes, thickened his tongue. “Motherfucker.” He hardly had the strength to stand; his bonds didn’t let him move. Nevertheless he fought to articulate his despair. “Treacherous bloody piece of shit.”

  Morn ignored him. “That’s not what you told us,” she protested to Angus. Her arm began to shake: she couldn’t control it. The muzzle of her laser pistol wavered across the display screens behind his head. “You told us you could mask your priority-codes. But you can’t circumvent your core programming. That’s what you said. How free are you?”

  Angus’ eyes rolled as if he needed to howl again. Her distrust seemed to torment or transport him.

  Abruptly his attention caught on Nick. With a snarl, he sprang forward. His left hand grabbed Nick by the collar of his shipsuit: his momentum and strength carried Nick backward, slammed him against the bulkhead.

  Deliberately Angus bunched his right list in front of Nick’s face, aimed his prosthetic laser into Nick’s eyes.

  No! Morn thought. Yes. No!

  She’d killed Nick with a question. How free are you? His death was on her head.

  But Angus didn’t fire. Strain whitened his knuckles, stretched the cords of his hands taut. His fingers clenched until his hand shook as badly as Morn’s. His desire to kill Nick filled his face like a scream.

  Yet his laser didn’t fire.

  “See?” Convulsively he flung Nick away from him, whirled to face Morn again. His voice rose into a shout of grief and protest. “See? I can’t do it! I can’t even hit him! My programming won’t let me hurt UMCP personnel!”

  Nick fell to his knees, toppled onto the deck. His eyes stared past his pale scars. From somewhere deep inside him, a sound like laughter trickled out of his mouth.

  “Come on,” Angus pleaded with Morn, “fry me! Don’t stand there thinking I didn’t keep my deal with you!”

  By degrees his shout sank to a bitter growl. “I’m free of him” He slapped the back of his hand in Nick’s direction. “And I’m free of you” He stabbed one strong finger like a blow at the center of her chest. “You can’t use me the way he did.

  “But I’m not free of the goddamn UMCP. I’m not free of Warden Dios.” His eyes spilled memories as dark as hers. “I won’t be free of him and Hashi fucking Lebwohl until they’re dead.

  “Give me a way to prove I keep my deals. The ones I care about. Tell me
what you want me to do.”

  Without apparent transition Davies stood at Angus’ shoulder, holding the open first-aid kit under one arm. Morn hadn’t seen him move. Her concentration had contracted until only Angus seemed to exist.

  “For a start,” Davies said acidly, “you might try standing still. If I don’t do something about your back, you’re going to bleed to death.”

  Angus didn’t agree or object. He waited for Morn to reply.

  Davies glanced at her, then took a tube of tissue plasm out of the kit and began squeezing the contents into Angus’ wound.

  “I think—” Sib put in hesitantly.

  “Don’t.” Unexpectedly sharp, Vector cut him off. “This is between them. You and I haven’t earned the right to an opinion.” Morn turned away. The tremors which weakened her aim had become more than she could bear. She needed her black box: without it, she was too frail, too mortal. Angus had cost her too much. She’d made the decision to let him free; but now she wasn’t brave enough to face the outcome.

  When she turned, however, her eyes met Nick’s.

  In spite of his cracked head and his bonds, he grinned like a skull. “You stupid bitch,” he murmured softly. “You thought I was bad.” His tone was raw malice, “This is going to be worse.”

  At the sight of his twisted features and the sound of his voice, something in her stiffened—an echo of the resolve which had carried her when she’d decided to help Angus.

  We’ll trust whoever wrote your core programming. I think it was Warden Dios. I think he’s trying to find some way to fight Holt Fasner. And if he is, I think we should help him.

  Angus hadn’t hurt anyone here until Nick took control of him.

  She could have saved herself. But she didn’t.

  Holding Nick’s gaze, she retorted, “Just for the record, Angus didn’t betray you. He couldn’t. He couldn’t fight his priority-codes. The people who sent you that message did it.”

  Nick made another small inarticulate sound; but now it seemed less like laughter.

  She put her laser down: she didn’t need a weapon anymore. Without it, her hand stopped shaking, and she was able to face Angus again.

  “I want you at the command station,” she told him. “Sib has to talk to Lab Center, but we need you to get us out of here.” So that Davies, Sib, and Vector would hear her as well, she went on, “We’re going after Soar. But we probably can’t beat her unless you help us. You’re still the captain of this ship.”

  Gratitude and fierce joy bared Angus’ teeth, but he didn’t answer her. Instead he pulled away from Davies and vaulted into his command g-seat. With his shipsuit still rucked down around his waist and blood smearing his half-sealed wound, he began entering the commands which brought Trumpet to life.

  Nick was laughing again, but Morn ignored him. Trying to shore up her courage, she recited a litany of hope.

  One man who’d hurt her was bound; helpless.

  The restrictions in Angus’ datacore still held—and yet he was free to do what Morn asked of him. Warden Dios had given her that.

  Her son and her friends had survived.

  Vector knew the formula for an antimutagen.

  And Soar used to be called Gutbuster.

  Maybe Davies was right. Maybe it was time for other predators.

  ANCILLARY

  DOCUMENTATION

  THE AMNION

  LANGUAGE AND

  INTELLIGENCE

  In dealing with the Amnion perhaps more than at any other time in humankind’s history, language was the only available tool for understanding.

  Communication was necessary for the negotiation of trade agreements, the determination of frontiers, and the resolution of disputes—what humankind called “diplomacy.” For that reason, the Amnion had taught themselves to translate as much as they could of human speech, and had made their own speech accessible for humans to study. However, humankind knew virtually nothing about what lay behind that speech: it had no context.

  This ignorance stretched across the whole spectrum of sentience. At one extreme, humankind had no idea how an Amnioni experienced sensory input. What gave an Amnioni physical pleasure? What constituted pain? How did the visual field appear? Were members of the species attracted to each other? And at the other, humankind had no information about Amnion culture. What relationship, if any, did individual Amnion have with their offspring? Did they in fact have offspring at all, or was every member of the species impersonally manufactured in some way? And did they produce art? Did their social structures provide for imaginative creation? If so, of what did it consist?

  No one knew.

  Language was the only tool humankind had to work with.

  This was like using a pair of field glasses to study the wonders of the galaxy. The tool had neither the range nor the precision for the task.

  Obstacles abounded, not least among them the fact that Amnion intraspecies communication did not rely exclusively on sound. The projection and manipulation of pheromones also played a significant part, as did—according to some theorists—light and color.

  But precisely what part did pheromonic signals play? Were they analogous to “body language” in humans—a more or less conscious form of posturing—or were they denotatively encoded? If the former, they were of secondary importance: translation could function without taking them into account. If the latter, however, they were essential to comprehension.

  In addition, finding accurate approximations or analogies for alien concepts was inherently difficult. Each species was hindered in its attempts at comprehension by the very limitations which enabled or enriched its own language. A case in point was the Amnion use of the word “defensives” to refer to “warships.” Was “defensive” truly the best human word the Amnion could find to indicate the intended function of a warship? Did the Amnion perceive their own genetic imperialism as a form of “defense”? Or was the word merely an instance of the rhetorical legerdemain diplomats and politicians loved—an effort to make a threat appear benign through the manipulation of language?

  Precision would have been useful in such matters. Instead it was impossible.

  One of the most critical examples involved understanding the apparent lack of personal pronouns in the Amnion language. When diplomats or other “decisive” figures spoke, they made no reference to themselves as individuals. They claimed no individual agendas, acknowledged no individual desires. Regardless of the scale of the issues under discussion, they either spoke for the Amnion or did not speak at all. Only human beings incompletely altered by mutagens used such words as “I,” “me,” and “my.”

  A corollary problem involved the apparent absence in Amnion speech of a number of abstract concepts much relied on by humankind, among them “good,” “evil,” “justice,” “mercy,” and “loyalty.” It was theoretically possible, however, that such concepts did exist between Amnion, but could only be communicated by means of pheromones. The ideas themselves may have been considered too intimate or revealing for speech.

  By contrast the use of personal pronouns—at least in human terms—was at once so ordinary, so ubiquitous, and so practical that any language which didn’t employ them seemed almost imponderably unwieldy and restrictive.

  What did the lack of personal pronouns imply about the nature of Amnion intelligence and thought patterns, or the character of Amnion ambitions?

  These questions were urgent because Amnion genetic imperialism was taken as given. Knowledge of the enemy was a necessary weapon. If the Amnion couldn’t be understood, how could they be defeated?

  Efforts to account for the known characteristics of Amnion language revolved around one or the other of two distinct hypotheses, each with its own adherents and detractors, each with its own implications for humankind’s dealings with forbidden space.

  One postulated what was sometimes called a “hive mind.” Drawing analogies from certain species of insects, this theory suggested that all Amnion partook of a communal intellige
nce which had its physical center or nexus, its “queen,” somewhere deep in alien space. Individual members or units of this mind had a separate corporeal being, but no separate thoughts or volition. Instead each was effectively a neuron or ganglion of the hive mind, transmitting data inward—and action outward.

  Proponents of this theory used it to explain why the first human experiment with a mutagen had driven its host mad. As the woman who had volunteered for the experiment was transformed, she had lost her reason because distance—if nothing else—had cut the now-Amnioni off from her/its source of identity and purpose. Under this hypothesis, great store was placed on reports that some humans had heard Amnion make reference to an entity, construct, or concept called the “Mind/Union.” What could this be, if it were not the “queen” of the “hive”—the center of intelligence and intention for the whole species?

  If the hive mind theory was accurate, then the single most effective tactic humankind could use against the Amnion would be to locate and extirpate the “Mind/Union.” Without its “queen,” the entire species would collapse into its own kind of madness.

  The opposing hypothesis was more insidious—and, in a sense, more frightful. Its proponents dismissed the “Mind/Union” as a corporeal entity or nexus; rather they considered the term to be an abstract concept—the equivalent of words like “good” and “evil,” which humans used to rationalize their actions. And they dismissed also the argument that the woman who had first accepted a mutagen had gone mad because of her separation from the “Mind/Union”: they insisted instead that her madness had been a consequence of having her genetic identity ripped away.

  The opposing hypothesis held that the Amnion were driven, not by a collective intelligence or hive mind, but by the essential coding of the nucleotides which comprised their RNA. They had no humanlike abstract concepts for the same reason that they had no humanlike personal pronouns: they needed none. Their imperialism was genetic in content as well as in form; in inspiration as well as in effect. Commandments analogous to the human lust for reproduction impelled their actions. They were unified and moved by impulses at once more profound, more global, and more imaginable than the directives of some impossibly distant—as well as impossibly homogeneous—“queen.”