Brian Ball - Singularity Station

Maran had been cared for by the robots. They had listened attentively to bis hoarse, half-demented ramblings and diagnosed the cause of his condition. His shaking body was taken to the bridge, where surgeon-servitors patched the superficial wounds. Stimulants began to counteract the effects of revivification; fresh plasma replaced heavily poisoned blood; and, impelled by his vast obsession, he began to struggle to full consciousness. He was too late to intervene in the dispatch of the survival-pod. It was done so quickly that Liz was startled into indecision once more. The console glowed and whined. A port silently slid open. Grabs moved the long white cylinder to the black-mouthed port. Liz stared about the silent hold. It was time to consider her own position. Hers, Maran’s, the ship’s. In a moment, Rosario would be ejected in a long, looping parabola away from the ES 110. The pod would continue to coast at the speed of the ship, but the small auxiliary engine would gradually take Rosario on a diverging course.

There was a tiny ripple of energy somewhere at the ship’s side. Liz felt it. The console reported it. Circuit closed. And a score of higher-grade systems analyzed the launching of the survival-pod. Their evaluation was complete one five-hundredth of a second after Rosario began his unconscious flight.

“Survival-cylinder on flight-path!” reported a metallic voice from the console. “Survival-cylinder launch complete!”

“No expellee-settlement within survival-container’s range,” another spat back, this one the voice which Liz had learned to recognize as that of a Grade Two executive in the hierarchy of the ship’s systems.

“Survival-cylinders are launched only when destination is reached!” the calm, authoritative voice of the robotic controller announced. “There has been a failure of Galactic Council Penal Code instructions!

Therefore Galactic Council Penal Code instructions have not been complied with! This automatic control system did not authorize launch!”

Liz felt faint. The machines were puzzled, confused. Like human beings, they sought a scapegoat.

“No systems of Grade Three or above were involved in the launching! There was no failure of automatic control!” the Grade Two executive stated.

Even the small console tried to absolve itself: “This console is not self-programmed nor autonomous, therefore instructions for unauthorized launch did not come from this console.”

“Therefore instructions came from some other source!” the Grade Two robot said.

“I am confused!” admitted the Grade One robot.

Liz held her breath. She waited as the machine scanned its memory-banks.

“Survival-cylinder should not have been launched. But cylinder contained expellee! Expellees are not expelled during condition Phase, No expellee has left coma-cell. If no expellee has left coma-cell no expellee is in cylinder. Therefore—” The robot hesitated.

“Survival-cylinder Two-Nine contained a human,” said the console meekly.

“Cylinder contained one human!” echoed the Grade One robot. “Unauthorized launching by low-grade system! Therefore request for instructions must be sent to Galactic Center! State of Red Alert exists aboard Enforcement Ship One-One-Zero! Assistance required! Red Alert! Red Alert! Repeat to all Galactic Service ships! Repeat to all Service ships! Red Alert!” the robotic controller called as alarms screamed out.

Liz listened to the exchanges between the machines. She could have wept with relief. Not only was Rosario safe: all around the Quadrant of the Galaxy in which the ES 110 was warping space aside, ships would be picking up the message and passing it on to the Enforcement Service’s patrol-cruisers. Now she should do what Rosario had told her: program the console to release another survival-pod, the one that would take her away from the terrible Enforcement Service vessel, its macabre cell-deck, its mute robotic attendants, and the monstrous genius that now controlled it. Liz took the sensor-pad once more. Its clammy suckers jangled the nerve-endings of her palm. She indicated her wishes.

At once the Grade Two executive declared, from a position at the center of the long, high hold:

“Another survival-cylinder readied for release! Unauthorized launching begins in fifty seconds!” Liz knew she had little time. She ran to the tall survival-pod. Behind her, there was a clamor of metallic voices. The manual console declared that its program was authorized. Superior systems began to argue. Liz caught a hint of movement from the far end of the hold. A low-grade servitor was watching. The pod began to close on her.

She stopped it.

There was a strange inevitability about her actions. Maran, she said to herself. Maran had a sanctuary. His base had never been found, though the Service had searched the settled Galaxy. Maran was loose and he had a secret, hidden planet where he could continue his experiments: a hidden place, with all his mind-warping machinery intact.

“No,” she said aloud.

Quickly Liz Deffant stepped out of the white cylinder. She turned, reached for a heavy package, and touched the survival-pod’s manual control. The servitor did not move.

She was just in time. The heavy black grab swung smoothly and silently toward the cylinder. The port at the end of the hold opened.

“Emergency launching!” complained the robotic controller. “Unauthorized launchings of survival-cylinders must cease!”

“I am an ungraded servo-console,” said the machine which Liz had programmed. “I have been activated by human personnel!”

“Identify!” the robot controller said.

“Female ecologist Deffant passenger aboard Enforcement Ship One-One-Zero! Deffant has crew status!”

Liz remembered Tup’s shy smile. She owed her chance to him. By scheduling her as an ES 110

crew-member, he had given her an opportunity to avenge his death.

“Female Deffant has authority to launch survival-cylinders!” the Grade Two executive confirmed. “Deffant confirmed as of crew status!”

“Red Alert condition exists,” pondered the Grade One controller. “In such conditions human personnel have some executive functions!”

Liz heard the machine’s analysis as she ran to the cover of the ranks of cylinders. It was essential that Maran should believe her to be in the second survival-pod, if only for a few minutes. She knew what she must do. She had always been good with simple machinery.

“The launch proceeds,” decided the robot. The port closed silently. The black grab retreated. Liz gasped with relief. The deck shook slightly as the pod winged away from the ship.

“Red Alert condition! Emergency!” bawled the robotic controller. “Survival-cylinder launched prematurely!”

Liz looked down at the heavy package.

She could have been safe by now. The cylinders would last for hours. Maran would not have tried to pick them up. Not with the patrol-cruisers alerted.

Why hadn’t she gone?

She knew that she was at the limit of her courage and strength; why not let the Enforcement Service hunt down the ES 110 ?

There was a reason.

Against all odds, Maran had somehow overcome the deep conditioning of the coma-cells. Against all that was reasonable he had managed to avoid the continual monitoring of the machines. His desperate energies had conquered the ship.

Liz was sure, with a deep conviction, that Maran would have a plan to escape the Enforcement Service cruisers. The man was a towering monstrous genius.

She placed the heavy package beside her. She could only hope now that Maran believed her and the rest of the crew dead or gone.

The words on the package gleamed, black on white: Instructions for assembly of expansion-principle firearm.