Chaos and Order: The Gap Into Madness

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “There!” Angus stabbed keys, and a scan image sprang to life on one of the displays.

  Thirty k away, past an oscillating jumble of rocks the size of EVA suits and other loose debris, a ship swung past the bulk of an asteroid big enough to block her from Trumpet’s sensors. While the image sharpened, the ship lined her prow in Trumpet’s direction.

  Emission numbers along the bottom of the screen spiked rapidly. Targ tracking: the ship was about to fire.

  Scan identified her profile instantly; configuration; thrust characteristics. She was Soar.

  Under the circumstances, she was moving fast. Her velocity was nearly as high as Trumpet’s. They would be within ramming range of each other in twenty seconds.

  “Shit!” Instantly frantic, Davies hammered his board, searching for his target. “I can’t—!” His voice cracked. “Angus, I can’t find her emitters!”

  Morn clenched both fists on her handgrip and hung there, watching. If Davies couldn’t see the emitters, Soar must not be oriented to use her proton cannon.

  “Forget it!” Angus snapped back. “Pay attention! Fire torpedoes, then static mines, then matter cannon! Then get on that dispersi—”

  He was cut off. Numbers shrilled red along the display: klaxons yowled.

  Shoulders hunching like a strangler’s, he jammed his fingers onto the helm keys, hauling Trumpet sideways with every gram of lateral thrust she could generate.

  A small fraction of a heartbeat later, scan scrambled and shut down, foundering in Soar’s matter cannon barrage.

  The gap scout staggered as if she’d run into a wall. Alarms and metal stress shrieked at each other like the fury of the damned. Morn slammed to the side; bounced back in time to see Trumpet’s particle sinks red-lining on one of the displays as they strained to bleed off the impact—absorb the impossible picoseconds during which the cannon’s energy attained near-infinite mass.

  In increments of time only a CPU could measure, the sinks failed: one by one they overloaded and seemed to burst like exploded glass. Yet they must have saved the ship. Or else the coincident static seethe of the swarm’s electromagnetic friction had eroded some of Soar’s force. Or Angus’ evasion had spared Trumpet a direct hit. Despite the clangor of stress and the howl of alarms, Morn would have heard the deep-throated, whooping shout of the klaxon which warned that the ship had broken open.

  Would have, but didn’t. Therefore Trumpet’s hulls held.

  Through the racket, Angus raged, “Do what I told you!”

  Bracing himself with one arm on the end of his board, Davies launched plasma torpedoes, sprayed out static mines. Using residual scan data to direct targ, he fired a blind volley of matter cannon.

  He must have missed. He wasn’t Angus; simply wasn’t fast enough to extrapolate both Trumpet’s and Soar’s new positions and take them into account.

  Thrust still clawed the gap scout to the side. Morn’s arms strained in their sockets as if they were being torn out. Without the support of her belt, she would have lost her grip. On his board Angus ran commands like lightning; instructions so swift that they seemed to have no effect.

  Scan took forever to clear: two seconds; three. Then the screens went wild as Trumpet’s systems raced to catch up with new input.

  An instant later the displays resolved into fatal precision.

  Their images froze Morn’s heart. Involuntarily, uselessly, she cried out, “Angus!”

  One of the static mines had already gone off, leaving an area of distortion like a migraine aura at the edge of scan. Past it, however, the sensors read Soar plainly, still driving toward her prey. Violent energies scorched along one flank, and her hull wore a corona of dissipating forces: a near miss from Trumpet’s cannon. Plasma blossoms studded the void around her. But she was whole: her shield and sinks had shrugged the assault aside. And she had a clear field of fire ahead of her.

  That wasn’t the worst of it, however. As scan cleared, the surrounding swarm became visible again.

  The screens showed that Angus’ efforts to evade Soar’s attack had sent Trumpet with lethal momentum straight at an asteroid so massive it threatened to crush her.

  Angus didn’t answer Morn’s cry. He may not have heard it: he was too busy. As Soar’s targ readings spiked for another barrage, he cracked like a whip at Davies, “Dispersion!”

  Wordless rage rose like a scream through Davies’ clenched throat. Desperately he keyed his defenses.

  For the second time scan collapsed in the heart of a boson storm as the dispersion field transformed matter cannon fire to chaos.

  “Yes!,” Angus brandished his teeth at the screens; pounded the side of his board with his fist. At once, however, he attacked his console again, entering commands Morn couldn’t follow or interpret.

  A jolt of thrust slapped her around her handgrip; her other shoulder thudded the bulkhead. She clung for her life: her hands and her belt were all that kept her from being thrown at the screens. Maybe the jolt was enough; maybe Angus could wrench the gap scout off the asteroid looming at her; maybe—

  With a palpable lurch, Trumpet’s thrust died.

  G suddenly vanished. At once the pressure of Morn’s arms lifted her into the air. Then her belt snatched her back.

  Without thrust—!

  Blinded by the storm, proximity alarms went off only a heartbeat before Trumpet stumbled against the side of the rock.

  An appalling screech seemed to pull Morn loose from her handgrip. She dangled from her belt as the pressure tried to fling her across the bridge. The ship’s hulls and skeleton cried out in metal agony. Davies was tossed like a doll back and forth between his g-seat and console. In contrast, Angus’ inhuman strength protected him: braced against his station, he locked himself rigid to endure the collision.

  G doubled Morn over. Her forehead smacked on her knees. Her belt seemed to be tearing her in half. She couldn’t breathe—

  Caterwauling with damage and protest, Trumpet settled to rest as if she were embedded in the asteroid. Several different alarms continued to squall: damage-control alerts; power failure warnings; systems fluctuations. Metal groaned and rang as the hulls and infrastructure adjusted themselves.

  Morn’s hips and knees wailed as if they’d been dislocated; pain and threats of rupture burned in her abdomen; shards of pressure threw themselves like spears at the walls of her head.

  Nevertheless she was alive. After a moment she was able to draw breath.

  And the ship was alive. Morn still didn’t hear the terrible, whooping klaxon of breached integrity.

  But Trumpet’s thrust drive had failed. Without thrust she had no power to run her systems; no power to charge her guns. Energy cells might keep life-support and maintenance running for a time, but they couldn’t help the gap scout defend herself.

  Couldn’t lift her away from the rock.

  Without transition the asteroid had become her tombstone.

  “Angus—” Davies panted; groaned. His voice limped like a crippled thing out of the center of his chest. “Oh, my God. Angus—”

  Angus, what’re we going to do?

  As soon as Soar recovered scan, she would hammer the helpless gap scout to scrap.

  “Stop it!” Angus flamed back. Terror or rage crackled in his voice: he blazed with fear or fury. “Pull yourself together. God damn you, pull yourself together! I need you!”

  One brutal slap undipped his belts. With acrobatic ease, he flipped backward up and out of his g-seat, heading for the companionway.

  Leaving—

  No. A shout of absolute protest echoed among the shards piercing Morn’s skull. No! Not now: not like this. Not while she and her son were too nearly broken to save themselves.

  Through a whirl of lacerations and keening, she straightened her torso and legs. G didn’t hinder her now: the asteroid had very little; Trumpet, even less. Bobbing against her belt, she reached for Angus. Her fingers strained like prayers.

  He was already out of reach. On the far s
ide of his immeasurable desperation.

  Yet he stopped on the rails of the companionway as if she’d caught his arm; dragged him around to face her. His yellow eyes’ seemed to strike at her like fangs, carious and poisoned.

  “Angus,” she insisted, pleaded. His name seemed to rise up from an abyss of abasement and horror. “Angus. What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t ask!” he shouted as if demons raved inside him. “I haven’t got time! Succorso is crazy. He’s also a fucking genius!”

  Violent as bloodshed, he hauled his bloated distress up the handrails and left the bridge.

  “Morn?” Davies croaked. “Morn? My God, I don’t know, what to do. We can’t try to fix the drive—there’s no time. Pull myself together? What’s he talking about? What does he want?”

  His dismay accumulated into a yell. “I don’t know what to do!”

  The boson storm would dissipate soon. Soar would be able to see. She would hammer the helpless gap scout—

  No, that was wrong. She wouldn’t try to kill Trumpet. Trumpet’s thrust was dead: she couldn’t defend herself. Sorus Chatelaine had no reason to kill her.

  Soar would come alongside, fix grapples. Her people would force their way aboard. Capture Davies. And everyone else. Recover the immunity drug. Silence Vector’s transmission. Put an end to every threat the gap scout represented.

  Waste every pain and passion which Morn and Davies and Mikka and Vector and Sib and Ciro and even Angus had spent on their humanity.

  Because the thrust drive was dead.

  Ciro might as well have sabotaged it—

  Morn felt her heart stumble against her ribs as if Trumpet had run into the asteroid again.

  Ciro hadn’t sabotaged anything. Vector had cured him. In any case, Mikka would have stopped him.

  Succorso is crazy.

  He’s also a fucking genius!

  Hurts filled Morn’s head like glimpses of clarity. As if she understood, she uncleated her belt. When she was free, she coasted to the back of Angus’ g-seat. Gripping one of the arms, she swung around and into the g-seat; secured herself with the belts; put her hands on the console.

  While Davies watched with anguish gathering in his stricken eyes, she assumed command of the ship.

  ANGUS

  He only had a small window of time to work with; an unpredictably small window. He needed to be in position and ready before Soar’s scan cleared. After that, if he kept his profile low enough, Chatelaine’s people might not spot him. But if they had a chance to catch sight of him while he was still moving—

  One little laser pop would fry him.

  In that case, Trumpet was finished. He’d left her effectively defenseless.

  From the companionway he headed straight for the suit locker.

  He’d done everything he could think of to make this work. He’d used static mines and plasma torpedoes to confuse the effects of Trumpet’s dispersion field so that Soar would be less likely to grasp what had really happened. Then she might not realize that the blindness which the field produced was itself a gambit. And in the meantime he’d used the field to cover his next actions.

  Without scan Soar had no way of knowing that Trumpet had lost thrust, not because the drive had failed, but because he’d shut it down—or that before he powered down the drive, he’d fired thrust to soften Trumpet’s impact. Chatelaine would see only the outcome of Trumpet’s collision: scored and dented hulls; torn receptors and dishes; dead systems.

  Exactly what she would expect to see if Ciro had sabotaged the drives.

  Then she might succumb to the temptation to capture Trumpet’s people instead of killing them.

  Might come close enough for Angus to destroy her.

  His shipsuit still hung around his waist. He didn’t bother to pull it up. When he reached the locker, he stripped his shipsuit off, tossed it aside. He might sweat less unclothed; might be in less danger of dehydration. Naked as a baby, he opened the locker and took out his EVA suit.

  His datacore commanded none of this. His computer was at his service. His zone implants gave him what he asked for—speed, accuracy, strength; self-control. But his programming held no provision for what he was doing now. He’d stumbled into a place where he was free to make his own choices.

  Neither Warden Dios nor Hashi Lebwohl had foreseen just how desperate Angus could be—or how extreme he became when he was desperate.

  Because he’d chosen to take this risk, it appalled him to the marrow of his bones. He would never never do it of his own free will. Nevertheless he didn’t hesitate. When had he ever done anything of his own free will? Fear was more compulsory than will. The abyss cared for nothing but pain, horror, and the most abject loneliness.

  Pulse pounding with terror, as if he were voluntarily submitting himself to the crib, he hauled on his EVA suit, settled the harness around his hips, shoved his arms into the sleeves and gloves, closed the chestplate, set and sealed the helmet. At machine speeds he ran through the checklists to test the suit’s equipment, confirm its integrity. Then he slapped the door of the compartment shut and moved to the weapons locker.

  The miniaturized matter cannon was the only gun he took; the only one he would get a chance to use. Lasers and impact rifles, handguns of every kind, blades, mortars—all were useless to him. The matter cannon should have been useless, too: wildly effective inside closed spaces, but essentially trivial against a ship with Soar’s sinks and shields. Nevertheless he jerked the gun from its mounts, inspected its indicators, made sure it was charged.

  It was ready. Readier than he was. He was never going to be ready for this.

  He did it anyway. Cursing the inadequacy of his zone implants because they couldn’t or wouldn’t spare him from horror, he closed the weapons locker and headed for the lift.

  Neither Warden Dios nor Hashi Lebwohl could have imagined how extreme Angus became when he was desperate.

  In the lift, he sent the car upward.

  His respiration rasped and echoed in his ears, raw with fear. He was breathing too hard, and his helmet constricted the sound. He could feel the slats of the crib rising on all sides, confining and vast; his whole, narrow world. In another minute he would start to hyperventilate.

  while his mother filled him with pain

  He should talk to the bridge. It was time. He needed Davies. Without help nothing would save him. Or Trumpet. If Soar didn’t get them, that other ship would.

  Yet he didn’t want to open his mouth. As soon as he did, his dismay would pour out—a flood of darkness deep enough to drown him. He dreaded the lost, pitiful sound of his own voice in this enclosed place.

  He had to do it. All his risks would be wasted if he didn’t talk to the bridge. Savagely he keyed his transmitter.

  “You listening?” he snarled. “Pay attention, bastard.” He needed brutality to control his fear. “I’ve got orders for you. If you fuck up, we’re all dead.”

  Preparing for his gamble, he’d done several things before he’d left the bridge. One was that he’d preset Trumpet’s command intercom to receive suit communications on this frequency. Davies would be able to hear him.

  He nearly cried out when Morn’s voice answered him.

  “We hear you, Angus. We’ll do whatever you tell us. I think that dispersion storm is starting to dissipate. Soar might be able to see us again in three or four minutes.”

  Her tone—husky, full of need, driven by her own desperation—reminded him of the way she’d once spoken to him aboard Bright Beauty. No matter how much it hurt him, he couldn’t stifle the memory.

  I can save you, she said. I can’t save your ship, but I can save you. Just give me the control. The zone implant control.

  You’re crazy, he retorted.

  Give me the control, she pleaded nakedly. I’m not going to use it against you. I need it to heal.

  That’s the deal, isn’t it, he groaned when he understood her. You’ll save me. If I let you have the control. But I have to give up my
ship.

  After he hit her, he promised, I’ll never give up my ship.

  He’d said that; meant it. Nevertheless it was a delusion, like so many others. Empty talk. He had given Bright Beauty up. Surrendered her to scrap and spare parts. Because he hadn’t wanted to die. And because that was the only deal he’d been able to make with Morn.

  We hear you, Angus. We’ll do whatever you tell us.

  The lift opened while he stood paralyzed: the doors to the airlock faced him. Multitasking automatically, as if his computer ruled him, he entered the codes to unseal the lock. At the same time, however, his heart hung on the edge of screams.

  “You can’t do this, Morn!” he gasped frantically. “God damn it, what’s happened to your brains? Are you fucking psychotic? We need hard g. I can’t get back there in time to run the ship. And as soon as we start to burn, you’ll go gap-sick.” With the command board right under her hands! “Get out of there. Don’t you understand? You have to leave the bridge! Let Davies do it.

  “Davies, don’t let her stay!”

  “He can’t handle it alone.” Morn was sure despite her desperation. “You know that. There’s too much of it—and neither of us has your resources. If he takes helm, maybe he can manage scan at the same time, but he won’t be able to run targ. We’ll be defenseless, even if we’re moving.”

  “Which we won’t be,” Davies put in fiercely, “because we haven’t got thrust.”

  Anger shivered in his voice. He may have thought Angus had betrayed him.

  “So I’m taking helm,” Morn continued reasonably, as if what she said made sense; as if anything she did made sense. “He’ll have scan and targ. He knows targ well enough to handle scan at the same time.”

  Enclosed by the helmet, echoes seemed to beat about Angus’ head, blinding him to the distinction between what he remembered and what he did. Unable to stop himself, he cried into his pickup, “You’re crazy! I’ll lose my ship!”

  “Angus,” Morn retorted tightly, “we’re dead where we sit. Craziness is the only thing that might get us out of this. Why else are you going EVA? Stop complaining about it. Take your own chances. I’ll take mine.”