Chaos and Order: The Gap Into Madness

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Taverner was insistent. “The knowledge which Captain Succorso seeks must die here. This installation must be destroyed.”

  Pain and darkness made her savage. Turning, she thumbed the control panel to open the inner doors. “That’s one of the things a super-light proton cannon is good for.”

  As soon as the lock hummed aside, she pushed herself into motion, nearly bounding along the corridor in an attempt to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Amnioni who’d been assigned to haunt her.

  MIKKA

  She couldn’t remain where she was; not now; not like this. Nick had told her to stay on watch outside the lab where he and Vector were presumably working—or where Vector worked while he watched—but she couldn’t do it.

  He was scheming: the signs were unmistakable. His efforts to keep the people aboard Trumpet secret, like his unexpected decision to separate Sib, Ciro, and her made no obvious sense. They must be part of some plot.

  Whatever he was plotting, it was going to hurt—her, or someone she cared about. She knew Nick well enough to recognize the malign exhilaration in his eyes.

  The thought left her sick with dread and anger. She absolutely could not remain standing here indefinitely, useless, while harm moved against her brother and the few people she wanted to call her friends.

  Regardless of the price Morn and Davies might pay later for her disobedience, she nodded to the guard Retledge had assigned to watch with her, told him that she’d thought of a few things Sib and Ciro needed to include on their req lists, and walked away from the locked door.

  The man didn’t object or follow. She was secondary: what happened in that lab was his primary responsibility. And Beckmann’s installation had plenty of other guards to make sure she didn’t cause trouble.

  In fact, she relied on encountering any number of guards. She’d never been here before, didn’t know her way around. She would have to ask directions. And she didn’t want anything she did to appear even remotely furtive. If or when Nick challenged her, she wanted to be able to name witnesses who could confirm what she told him.

  Movement helped: acting on her own decisions helped. Her heart seemed to settle in her chest as she walked. At first she simply retraced her approach to the room where Vector worked. But as soon as she reached one of the Lab’s main hallways, she began scanning for Security.

  Techs and researchers in labsuits moved up and down the hall—so many of them that she suspected the installation’s complex labs and experiments had reached a shift change. How many people lived here? She didn’t know. This place was big; but still relatively small compared with shipyards like Billingate. Ordinary piracy attracted more illegals, if only because stealing was so much easier than the kind of work Beckmann carried on.

  In five minutes she spotted a guard ahead of her, moving away. She strode after him.

  He walked as if he were looking for someone. When she touched his arm to get his attention, he turned sharply and glared at her as if she’d interrupted something important.

  She disliked him immediately. For some reason his tension sent anxiety crawling along her nerves like skinworms.

  Nevertheless she made a point of noting the name on his Security id badge: “Klimpt.” Witnesses with names were more useful than those without.

  “Excuse me,” she answered his glare. “I’m Mikka Vasaczk. Off Trumpet. I’m trying to find my brother. Ciro.”

  Like Nick, she’d called her brother “Pup” ever since he’d joined Captain’s Fancy. But in the past few days that nickname had begun to pain her. Ciro deserved better.

  The guard looked away, ran his eyes along the hallway, then faced her again, making no particular effort to be polite.

  “Who?”

  Under her bandage, Mikka’s face clenched into its familiar scowl, but she kept her tone neutral. “Captain Succorso referred to him as ‘Pup.’ He has orders to req supplies from wherever you keep your food stores. I need to talk to him.”

  Klimpt’s glare sharpened. Bending toward her aggressively, he demanded, “Why?”

  She shrugged to show how little she feared his hostility. “We need some things Ciro might not know about. I want to be sure he puts them on his list.”

  The guard’s belligerence receded, and a harried expression took its place. Wary of being overheard, he muttered quietly, “Then you can help me. The little shit wandered off somewhere. We’re supposed to find him.”

  Mikka felt her heart stumble. She wanted to hit Klimpt for calling her brother a “little shit.” At the same time she wanted to tear her hair, yell, go running in all directions. Wandered off? Ciro? When he was scared for his life—and knew even less than she did about what was going on?

  But panic was useless; as useless as hitting the guard. With an effort, she kept herself under control.

  “Nice work,” she snarled. Now she knew where Klimpt’s hostility came from. “How did you let that happen?”

  “I didn’t let it,” he retorted defensively. “It just did.”

  She started to say, Where have you looked? but caught herself. That wouldn’t help. She didn’t know the Lab: she would only slow Klimpt by expecting him to account for himself. Instead she asked, “Have you checked with Sib? Sib Mackern?”

  Klimpt shook his head.

  “Tell me how to find him. I’ll talk to him while you go on looking. If he knows where Ciro is, I’ll contact Security.”

  The guard accepted her offer with a hint of gratitude. The more people who hunted for Ciro, the sooner he would be found. And the sooner he was found, the better Klimpt’s chances of staying out of serious trouble. He pointed Mikka back the way she’d come, rattled off a quick series of directions, then turned to continue along the hall.

  Where are you, Ciro? What has Nick done to you?

  She was headed for General Stores. Concentrating hard to hold Klimpt’s instructions in the front of her mind so that she wouldn’t make a mistake—and wouldn’t panic—she moved as fast as she could without running into the researchers and techs, or causing some other kind of commotion.

  What had Nick done to her brother?

  She was concentrating hard: too hard. For a moment she didn’t notice that one of the rooms she passed resembled a station transit lounge. Twenty or thirty chairs measured the floor; data terminals stood around the walls at intervals; a series of information screens depended from the ceiling.

  Mikka stopped. What use did the Lab have for a transit lounge?

  None that she could think of.

  The room was empty, so she entered to look at the screens.

  As soon as she saw what they displayed, she understood. Not a transit lounge: more like an observation deck. Two of the screens gave what appeared to be progress reports on various experiments. One showed several researchers hunched over a piece of equipment she didn’t recognize. Another offered a lecture of some kind: the man at the podium droned on as if he knew no one was listening. From this room spectators could watch experiments, check the results of someone else’s work, or hear abstruse topics explained.

  Where was Ciro? What had Nick done?

  Mikka was about to leave when one more screen caught her eye. It displayed the installation’s dock status—showed which berths were in use, by which ships.

  Three of them she didn’t know: they may have belonged to the Lab itself. One was Trumpet, numbers and blips winking to indicate that the ship was active.

  One was Soar.

  God damn it!

  God damn you, you son of a bitch!

  So that was what Nick was up to. By pure intuition and hard experience, she knew the answer. Soar was in: nothing else mattered. Somehow Nick had just sacrificed Ciro as a pawn in his deranged quest for revenge on Sorus Chatelaine.

  Bounding forward as fast as the asteroid’s g allowed, Mikka left the room and hurled herself recklessly along the route Klimpt had described.

  Fortunately the halls were becoming less busy. Her pace was dangerous—more s
o because only one of her eyes focused well, and her depth perception was poor. If she made a mistake, she could easily break an arm or a leg; crack her ribs. The adrenaline pounding in her veins hurt her head as if she’d been hit again. But she didn’t slow down. Nick had set Ciro up: he’d separated Ciro and Sib and her so that Ciro would be vulnerable.

  Vulnerable to Soar. Nick had known she was here, that was obvious; the Lab’s operational data would have told him even if Trumpet’s instruments didn’t. For some reason he’d decided to dangle Ciro in front of Sorus Chatelaine like bait.

  Mikka couldn’t imagine what he hoped to gain. At the moment she couldn’t imagine how Soar had known he was coming here. Nevertheless she was sure, as sure as fear, that Ciro was in danger; that Nick meant to use him against his old enemy.

  She didn’t pass any more guards. Maybe they were all busy looking for her brother.

  The thought made her want to puke.

  Hitting a wall hard enough to shock her lungs, she rebounded into the room where Klimpt had told her she would find Sib Mackern.

  The room was little more than a cubicle, with a data terminal set into one wall opposite a reinforced door like an airlock. A sign over the door said GENERAL STORES. Deaner Beckmann kept his supplies and equipment sealed away as if they were in a vault—which made sense, considering the kind of people who came here to do business with him.

  Sib stood in front of the terminal, frowning at the readout—or at the sweat dripping onto his hands whenever he used the keypad.

  He was alone.

  His head jerked up when he heard her thud against the wall and rebound. Relief broke across his strained features. “Mikka! Are we done? Can we—”

  Her expression cut him off. His face froze; he stared at her, motionless, while she fought to catch her breath.

  “Did Ciro come here?” she choked out.

  Sib shook his head.

  “Damn it!” She beat her fists on her hips in frustration and alarm. Damn damn damn. Now what could she do? How could she find him?

  “What’s happened?” Sib whispered thinly as if he feared that Security might be eavesdropping.

  Panting, she told him. Her voice caught as she finished, “And Soar is here. In dock. I don’t know how she found us, but she’s here.”

  Sorus Chatelaine had cut Nick—

  “Wait a minute,” Sib murmured. “I don’t understand. You think this has to do with her? How?”

  Her fists swung harder. “He separated us so we’d be vulnerable. Especially Ciro.”

  “But why?” Sib protested. “What’s he trying to do?”

  Mikka was accustomed to her own competence; to knowing what to do—and being able to do it. But now she felt stunned by the danger Ciro was in.

  “I don’t know. I’m just sure. He separated us so Chatelaine could get at one of us. Maybe he just wants to get rid of us. I don’t think so. It’s not that simple. He’s trying to set her up somehow.”

  Sib chewed his lower lip. His eyes seemed to stare past her. She feared that he didn’t believe her; that he was thinking of ways to argue with her. After a moment, however, he surprised her by saying, “Then we’d better go over there.” His fear was plain on his face. “Maybe we can find him. Or maybe—if we warn her”—he grimaced like a wince—“she’ll give him back.”

  A gratitude Mikka couldn’t name turned her heart to water. Trying to manage her sudden weakness, she objected, “We don’t know the way.”

  Sib didn’t look at her. Instead he turned back to the terminal. With a few keys, he bypassed the General Stores req protocols to access the Lab’s public informations programs. They included schematic maps for most of the installation. Presumably Deaner Beckmann didn’t want new residents getting lost.

  Mikka told Sib which dock Soar occupied, then watched over his shoulder while he scrolled through the maps to discover where that berth lay in relation to General Stores. But she let him search by himself. Another fear had occurred to her. The weak water of her heart was becoming acid.

  “If we do this,” she murmured softly, “Nick will tear Morn’s heart out.”

  Sib ducked his head, rubbed sweat or apprehension out of his eyes. Still whispering, he replied, “She’ll understand. She would do the same thing.”

  Then he pointed at the screen. “There.” He’d called up a series of red blips to indicate the most direct route between General Stores and Soar’s berth.

  Mikka had the strange impression that he’d somehow become stronger than she was. Nevertheless she didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.” She couldn’t afford to falter now.

  He keyed off the terminal, turned to accompany her—and stopped as Chief Retledge came into the room.

  Retledge had another guard with him. Both men made a point of the way they gripped their impact pistols.

  The Security chief faced Mikka with a humorless smile. “There you are,” he drawled. “When it comes to wandering off, you’re as bad as Pup. I don’t know why Captain Succorso bothers to give you orders. You obviously don’t pay any attention to them.” Then he nodded brusquely to Sib. “No offense, Mr. Mackern. At least you have enough sense to stay where you’re put.”

  Mikka swallowed a howl; locked her arms across her chest so that she wouldn’t raise her fists. Through her teeth she told Retledge, “In effect I’m Captain Succorso’s second. While he’s busy with Dr. Shaheed, I thought of a few things we need. I considered it my duty to make sure Pup put them on his req.

  “Your man Klimpt told me he’d ‘wandered off,’ “she continued. “I came here to see if he was with Mr. Mackern.”

  “Of course,” Retledge rasped. “Naturally I believe you. You don’t look like a woman who wants trouble.

  “But just to be on the safe side,” he added, “I’m leaving Vestele here with you.” Scowling, the other guard tightened his hand on his gun. “He’ll make sure you keep the rest of your ‘duties’ to yourself until Captain Succorso wants you.

  “As for Klimpt,” Retledge finished, “I’ll have his ears for this. Dr. Beckmann doesn’t tolerate incompetence.”

  Familiar with the thin g, he turned hard and strode out of the room.

  Vestele aimed his scowl like a warning at Mikka and then Sib. Slowly he withdrew to the entryway, putting a little extra distance between himself and the possibility of attack. After that, however, some of his tension or distrust eased. He let go of his pistol and raised his hand to tap his right ear.

  “I’m wearing a PCR.” His tone was unexpectedly mild. “I’ll know when they find Pup. I won’t keep it to myself. And if Captain Succorso asks for you, I’ll hear the message.”

  Mikka should have thanked him for his consideration. She meant to. But she didn’t have the strength. Her legs folded under her, and she sank to the floor. Clamping her arms around her knees to keep what was left of her heart from leaking away, she put her head down and closed her eyes.

  Nick had found her weak point—the place where her defenses failed. Nothing he’d ever done to her had hurt like this. Even his most casual seduction and callous rejection had left her whole by comparison; essentially intact despite her grief and anger; still able to function. Now, however, she was in so much pain that she literally couldn’t stand. Everything in her quailed. The harm which Nick and Sorus Chatelaine might do her brother was too great to be borne.

  He deserved better.

  Sib murmured her name a few times, but she didn’t react. Eventually he fell silent and left her alone.

  In one sense the wait was painfully long; in another, surprisingly short. She didn’t measure it. Instead she hugged her knees and rode the long solar wind of her distress until Vestele surprised her out of herself by clearing his throat.

  She looked up in time to see him lift his hand halfway to his right ear, cock his head as if he were listening. For a moment his attention seemed to slide elsewhere.

  Without realizing it she surged to her feet.

  The cramped vehemence of her muscles sen
t her toward the ceiling. At once the guard’s eyes jerked into focus on her: he raised his gun as if he thought she might attack him. But Sib caught her arm, held her back. As she touched the floor again, she opened her hands and showed them to Vestele so he could see that she was harmless.

  Vestele kept his pistol aimed at her; but the pressure of his grip loosened.

  “What is it?” Sib asked tensely. “What did you hear?”

  Vestele’s reply was cautious. “They found Pup. For some reason he was in one of the service corridors outside the cargo dock. Said he was lost—said he was trying to find Captain Succorso and just got lost.” The guard refrained from commenting on the plausibility of this. “He’s being held in the entry room. Where Dr. Beckmann greeted you.”

  “Is he—” Mikka’s throat choked shut before she could finish the question. Relief and alarm filled her chest until she could hardly breathe.

  “Is he all right?” Vestele asked for her. “Center says so. He looks scared out of his mind—maybe scared enough to be telling the truth—but he isn’t hurt.”

  Mikka gulped for air. “Take me to him.”

  The guard shook his head. His gun didn’t waver. “Sorry. Chief Retledge wants you to stay here. Until we hear from Captain Succorso.” Then he added more considerately, “Don’t worry. Pup will be safe. We don’t want trouble any more than you do.”

  She was tempted to yell at him; threaten him; try to bluff her way past him. A deep sense of uselessness stopped her. She’d never been equal to Nick’s schemes: he was always ahead of her. Ever since she’d fallen under his spell and joined his ship, her competence had been a mask for this futility—a way of concealing from herself the fact that she meant nothing and accomplished less. What she thought or wanted or did only mattered to people who were as substantially ineffectual as she was.

  People like Ciro and Sib. Vector.

  Morn and Davies.

  She didn’t say anything. There was nothing left to say.

  “What is it you want to hear from Captain Succorso?” Sib put in. Maybe he hadn’t noticed his own futility yet. Or maybe he’d grown accustomed to the idea.