Chaos and Order: The Gap Into Madness

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The lock admitted them to a room like a holding area—the Lab’s version of Reception. It seemed full, almost crowded. Nick counted six guards in addition to three women and two men in labsuits—an entire reception committee.

  The guards carried impact pistols. And they all sported prostheses of various kinds—scanners, communications gear, augmented limbs, and, presumably, concealed weapons. To that extent, they might have been transplanted here from Billingate. But the fact that they lived in a world substantially unlike the Bill’s showed in their eyes, which were clear of the complex haze of chemical dependencies: stim or cat, nerve-juice or pseudoendorphins. Most of the surgery which they’d undergone was probably voluntary. In certain ways they were more dangerous than the men and women who’d served the Bill.

  Nick didn’t recognize any of the women in labsuits. He’d ignored the women the last time he was here: in his experience, women who dedicated themselves to research and labs were usually too ugly to live; certainly too ugly to notice. But he knew one of the men by sight.

  Deaner Beckmann: the founder, driving force, and embodiment of the Lab in person.

  Either Vector’s name or Nick’s hints had struck sparks in high places.

  The director of the Lab was a short, squat man who looked even shorter and thicker because of the way he seemed to hunch into himself as if he was trying to increase his mass by an act of will. He alone might have been on drugs. His researchers projected alertness or subservience to varying degrees, but he had an air of being distracted and driven, almost frightened, as if he were crazed by dreams which were in danger of failing.

  Gravitic tissue mutation, Nick snorted to himself. No wonder the man looked like he was losing his mind. If Beckmann wanted to live in a black hole, all he had to do was find one and let go. That would fucking cure him.

  Nevertheless Nick kept his contempt private. As far as he was concerned, the more spaceshit crazy Beckmann was, the better. It would make the scientist easier to outmaneuver.

  In any case Beckmann may have simply been concerned about the nearly subliminal unsteadiness which afflicted his lighting like an electron palsy.

  “I’m Captain Succorso,” Nick announced with a cheerful smile to the whole group. “Thanks for letting us in.” Disingenuously he added, “I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

  “Captain Succorso, I’m Dr. Beckmann.” In contrast to his anxious expression, his voice was clipped and decisive; impervious to doubt. “Forgive the guards. They aren’t here to make you feel like a prisoner.”

  “We’re here,” one of them put in abruptly, “because your ship is a Needle-class UMCP gap scout.” Chevrons above the black sun sigil on his uniform distinguished him from the other guards. “The last time you were here, your vessel was a frigate of”—he pursed his mouth sternly—“questionable legality, Captain’s Fancy. Now you look like you’re working for the cops.”

  “This is Chief Retledge,” Dr. Beckmann commented by way of introduction. “He runs Security for us.”

  Apparently Chief Retledge’s duties didn’t require a deferential attitude. As if Dr. Beckmann hadn’t spoken, he went on, “I want to hear a better explanation than the one you gave us, Captain Succorso.”

  Nick didn’t hesitate; he was beyond hesitation. Ignoring the guards, he faced Beckmann.

  “Dr. Beckmann, let me introduce my crew. Mikka Vasaczk, command second.” He indicated each of his companions with a nod as he said their names. “Sib Mackern, data first. Our cabin boy, Pup. And I think you know Vector Shaheed, at least by reputation. He used to be my engineer.” With a shrug, he added, “Of course, we all have different duties now.”

  Dr. Beckmann paid no attention to the others; his troubled gaze concentrated on Vector. He didn’t interrupt his chief of Security, however.

  “Saying you aren’t a spy is easy, Captain Succorso,” Retledge continued coldly. “We’re at risk here. We’re always at risk. Between them, VI and the UMC would make you rich for betraying us. We cut into their profits too much. Sure, we let you in. That was easy, too. But you won’t leave until I stop worrying about you.

  “Make me stop worrying, Captain Succorso.”

  Nick thought that he could hear Soar’s presence in Retledge’s tone. The guards and researchers seemed more nervous than they needed to be. On that assumption, he asked innocently, “Have you heard what happened to Billingate?”

  A couple of the guards glanced at each other, but no one answered.

  No question about it: Soar was responsible for the chief of Security’s distrust. He would certainly have demanded information from her. And Sorus Chatelaine wouldn’t have scrupled to reveal some of the facts, if for no other reason than to account for her presence here. But Retledge didn’t want to admit that; didn’t want to give Nick any hint of where he stood.

  The situation was tricky. How much Nick should say depended on what Sorus had already told Retledge. He would have to guess what that was. But he wasn’t afraid: he feared nothing now. He was Nick Succorso, and he could play this game better than Retledge, Sorus, and Hashi Lebwohl combined.

  “It’s complicated,” he explained blandly to Beckmann’s concentration and the group’s silence. “I need to be careful—I don’t want to give you the impression I’m promising something I can’t deliver. Here’s how it happened.

  “I took Captain’s Fancy to Enablement Station. That worked out well in one way, not so well in another. I got what I went for —the same thing that brought me here.” One lie was as good as another. “But the Amnion didn’t like it. They came after me.

  “My gap drive failed while they were chasing me. Billingate was as far as I could get, and the Amnion were on my heels. Frankly, I thought I was finished.” Nick smiled as if the idea amused him. “But by coincidence”—he spread his hands—“at least I assume it was coincidence—Trumpet arrived about the same time. The story I heard was that she’d been stolen by an illegal named Angus Thermo-pile”—Nick couldn’t resist the old insult—“and the deputy chief of Com-Mine Security, Milos Taverner, who happened to be working with Thermo-pile. Apparently Taverner sprung Thermo-pile from UMCPHQ when he was on the verge of getting caught himself, and the two of them took Trumpet for a ride.

  “I don’t know if any of it’s true.” Nick retailed this kind of bullshit with perfect equanimity. “At the time I didn’t care. All I cared about was a ship. One with a gap drive. I knew Thermo-pile—we did business occasionally. So I let him think we could team up. While he and Taverner were out in Billingate, I got some of my people aboard his ship. Then I sent Captain’s Fancy to create a diversion while we borrowed Trumpet.”

  At his side, Mikka ducked her head as if she were swallowing curses. Vector gazed back at Beckmann like a man whose questions had all been answered; but Mikka had trouble keeping her composure. Nick knew her well; he knew the signs—the dangerous angle of her hips; the way her shoulders hunched against the fabric of her shipsuit. She wanted to call him a liar.

  He wasn’t afraid of her, any more than he feared Sorus. For Morn’s sake—and her brother’s—she would keep her mouth shut.

  “Unfortunately,” he continued with no hint of regret, “Thermo-pile and Taverner were left behind.” He showed his teeth. Deaner Beckmann may have been an illegal for the research rather than the money, but he was still illegal. He wouldn’t be able to pretend that he was shocked by what Nick claimed to have done. “They probably would have been all right, but someone sabotaged Billingate’s fusion generator. For all I know, they did it themselves. I didn’t ask—I just took their ship. Barely in time, as it turned out. We only got out seconds ahead of the Shockwave.

  “Once we were clear, we headed here.”

  Retledge’s expression didn’t shift. For a moment after Nick finished, none of Beckmann’s people reacted. Then the chief of security rasped, “Interesting.”

  “I’ve always said—” Dr. Beckmann began.

  Retledge cut him off. “It’s a pretty story, Captain Su
ccorso, but it doesn’t give us much reason to trust you.”

  “I know that,” Nick retorted. “But it gives you a reason to take the risk. As I’ve already said.”

  He turned to the director of the Lab. “Dr. Beckmann, all I want from you is a little time for Vector in one of your genetics labs. That and some supplies, which I’ll be able to pay for—if the risks I’ve taken pay off. Did you hear me say,” he asked as if the point were unclear, “that I stole something from Enablement? Or that it’s valuable? Otherwise the Amnion wouldn’t have tried so hard to get it back.

  “If you’ll let Vector analyze it—whatever it is,” he concluded, “I’ll give you a share of the results.”

  Dr. Beckmann hadn’t objected to Retledge’s interruption. On the other hand, he didn’t let himself be deflected.

  “I’ve always said,” he repeated, “that money is a petty reason to do anything. It begs for pettiness in response.” Somewhere in the background of his voice ran an undertone of passion as acute as savagery. “If human beings never dreamed higher than money, they wouldn’t be worth saving.”

  Apparently “saving human beings” was what he thought he and his Lab were doing. Maybe he was no longer sane.

  Nick started to respond, “But money buys—”

  “Excuse me,” one of the women said unexpectedly. “Dr. Shaheed?”

  Vector turned his head toward her, gave her the benefit of his mild smile. “Yes?”

  “Dr. Shaheed”—she spoke like a woman with a dry throat; a woman who hated calling attention to herself—“I used to know the man who ran your computers. At Intertech.”

  Nick looked at her closely for the first time. She was a small creature with unfortunate hair and a flat, inherently expressionless face—the kind of face, he thought in a flash of confident inspiration, that medtechs sometimes produced when they were trying to repair extensive damage on the cheap.

  “Orn Vorbuld,” Vector answered as if he weren’t surprised by her remark. “He and I joined Captain Succorso together. After UMCPDA shut down my research.” Unlike Mikka, he seemed more than willing to go along with Nick. “But we lost him weeks ago.”

  Nick didn’t doubt for an instant that the woman had known Vorbuld.

  “He committed what you might call suicide,” Mikka put in darkly, confirming Vector’s reply. Her tone told Nick, however, that she was making a subtle effort to cause trouble.

  But the woman didn’t react to Mikka’s hint: she was looking for something else. Without quite meeting Vector’s gaze, she asked, “Dr. Shaheed, how would you expect me to feel about that?”

  It was one thing to know Vorbuld’s name: it was another to know what he was like. This was Dr. Beckmann’s oblique way of verifying Vector’s identity.

  Now everything depended on the former engineer.

  Fearing nothing, Nick smiled at Beckmann’s people and let Vector take his time.

  Vector frowned ruefully. With just the right combination of understanding and detachment, he answered, “At a guess, I would say that you’re glad—or perhaps simply relieved—to hear that he’s dead. He hurt women whenever he had the chance. But”—Vector lifted his shoulders delicately—“you may also regret that you didn’t have a hand in killing him.”

  The woman nodded slowly. Her eyes had slipped out of focus, as if they were turned on memories which she would never voluntarily describe to anyone. Nevertheless a sense of tension eased out of the room. Vector had just passed his id check.

  Mikka clenched her fists; but she didn’t mention Vorbuld’s “suicide” again.

  “Dr. Shaheed,” Beckmann said as if he hadn’t been staring at Vector for minutes, “welcome. It’s good to meet a colleague of your reputation. I hope you understand that we need to take precautions. None of us has ever had the honor of meeting you. From our perspective it would be painfully easy for someone to steal your id tag and pretend to be you. We wouldn’t know the difference unless we subjected you to a full gene scan.”

  No illegal Nick knew had ever willingly submitted to a gene scan—not if the results could be compared with the data stored in his id tag. As a rule only spies made that kind of mistake. And of course they passed: their id tags were forged. But the fact that they submitted told against them in places like the Lab.

  “Dr. Beckmann”—Vector showed his palms in a gesture of deference—“the honor is mine. Certainly I understand. I don’t object to your methods. I admire your resourcefulness.”

  Nick nodded bland approval.

  “Unfortunately,” Dr. Beckmann went on without pausing, “this research that Captain Succorso has in mind troubles me. Naturally I’m interested in any artifact or compound which comes to us from forbidden space. As a scientist it’s my duty to be interested, regardless of any conceivable relevance to my personal research. And of course the possibility of relevance always exists. You know of our work here, Dr. Shaheed?”

  “Only in the vaguest terms,” Vector conceded. “I’ve read your seminal papers on”—he mentioned a couple of topics which meant nothing to Nick—“but that was a long time ago. Since then I’ve only heard rumors.”

  “And?” Deaner Beckmann pursued.

  Vector considered his options momentarily. He may have wanted to ask Nick for guidance, but he resisted the impulse. Instead he said, “Frankly, I can’t speculate. I know what I’m hoping to learn here, but I really have no idea what you need.”

  “What I need most, Dr. Shaheed,” Beckmann returned incisively, leaving no room for Retledge to interrupt him, “is time.

  “We live in a difficult era. The Amnion that Captain Succorso so blithely visits have given the UMCP the excuse which police-minded men have sought throughout history—the excuse to impose a tyranny of choice and knowledge on the citizenry they purport to protect. The fact that the threat which the Amnion represent is real only confirms the moral imperialism of Warden Dios and his henchmen. And the result, the true cost, of such tyranny is here.”

  One or two of the people in labsuits shifted their feet, lowered their eyes uncomfortably. No doubt they’d heard Deaner Beckmann deliver this speech on any number of occasions. But he didn’t notice their reaction; he didn’t pause. A fanatic’s passion had risen in his voice. He might not have been able to stop if he’d wanted to.

  Nevertheless the director of the Lab hadn’t survived so long under such precarious conditions by being stupid. He must have a reason for what he was saying.

  Despite his eagerness to move against Sorus, Nick forced himself to remain quiet and appear patient.

  “Have you noticed our lighting, Dr. Shaheed?” Dr. Beckmann demanded.

  Vector kept any disconcertion he may have felt to himself. “Not particularly, I’m afraid.”

  “It is unstable” Beckmann pronounced. “It flickers, Dr. Shaheed, for the simple reason that our source of power is inadequate to sustain all the demands we must place upon it;

  “We need to generate energies comparable to the forces which compose singularities, but we can’t. We cannot. We scavenge this asteroid swarm constantly for raw materials, we barter for new technologies and equipment by every means available to us, we commit crimes ourselves and reward the commission of crimes in our name, and still we can barely supply power for small real-time simulations of our true experiments, our essential work.

  “Why is this?” he asked rhetorically. “Because the UMCP force us to operate as illegals. Instead of sanctioning our work, instead of investing civilization’s resources in the quest which offers humankind its only true hope—the quest for salvation through knowledge—the police compel us to exist on the fringes of the very society we seek to serve.

  “My research, Dr. Shaheed,” Beckmann insisted, “my research has the potential to secure humankind’s future against any conceivable threat the Amnion can or may present. Yet I am effectively outcast, and I can only obtain what I need for my experiments by stealing it.”

  Nick struggled against a desire to sneer. You fucking researc
hers are all alike. Of course you feel sorry for yourself. Self-pity is all you’re really good at. Nagged by a mounting need for action, he had more and more difficulty concealing his impatience.

  Sorus had cut him. She’d fucked him and betrayed his hopes and cut his cheeks and abandoned him. And now she was here.

  Still Dr. Beckmann wasn’t done.

  “Yet even the UMCP would not present an insurmountable obstacle,” he went on, “if we were not confronted with another problem. We face an unalterable deadline. This asteroid swarm approaches an immolation which nothing can alter. Measured by the standards of organic matter, we are powerful enough. On the scale of star systems, however, we are paltry beyond imagining. In a few short years, Massif-5 will furnace us from existence, and everything we do here will have been wasted, meaningless.”

  He paused for a moment, then added harshly, “Unless we succeed. Unless we find and develop the knowledge we seek in time.

  “Have I made myself clear, Dr. Shaheed?”

  Vector considered the question. “I think so, Dr. Beckmann.”

  “Nevertheless let me be explicit,” Beckmann insisted, “so that there will be no misunderstanding. You wish to use our equipment. In other words, you wish to use our power. Which of our functions, which of our experiments, should I pause or postpone so that you will have power?”

  His point was obvious. My resources are stretched thin. I won’t share them with you unless you have something I need.

  Nick didn’t wait for Vector to answer. Letting his tension show as irritation, he put in, “Under the circumstances I don’t see how you can take the risk of not helping us.”

  Slowly Beckmann turned away from Vector as if he had difficulty taking anyone else seriously.

  “Your chronometer is running, Dr. Beckmann,” Nick said trenchantly. “You can count the number of seconds you have left. If we might produce something that helps you, even accidentally, you can’t afford to miss the chance.” Then he shrugged. “If what Vector learns is worthless to you, of course, we’ll have to repay you in some other way.”