Brian Ball - Singularity Station

A weapon for use on an unknown planet.

Liz began to strip off the protective packaging.

Buchanan thought of the structure which, in theory, lay at the heart of the Singularity. Strange black hole… cold neutron star, or both? Perhaps neither. If Kochan was right, the Singularity contained the densest matter known. It had more bizarre properties.

To create the rotating vortices of the Singularity, it must have the strangest architecture imaginable; perhaps a form that was beyond conjecture, one that defeated human imagination. Matter so dense that the enormous contracting pull continued and continued so that all that was left was a hole in the fabric of the Universe.

Matter bent and compressed until space itself parted.

And what when space itself was broken?

It was idle to speculate.

But Buchanan was fascinated by the idea of a black hole in the time-space fabric of the Galaxy. A hole—leading where? Into another framework of space-time that bore no relation to this?

What was it that had defeated the robots?

Why were they so sure that the Altair Star must join that briefly-glimpsed graveyard of ships?

And why would the robot not acknowledge the existence of the graveyard?

For hours Buchanan ran projections of the framework of the Singularity. He observed roaring upheavals from deep within the writhing Singularity: their source could be small cracks on a crusted core of matter so dense that it would take the energy of a thousand lifetimes for a man to climb a one-centimeter hill on its surface.

And always Buchanan’s thoughts returned to his lost command.

He was still in the grip of a somber vision where the survivors of the Altair Star hung in an undead limbo when a new robotic voice clamored for attention:

“Galactic Alert! Galactic transmission on Red Alert channels! I have a message with top priority for all ships within this Quadrant, Commander Buchanan!”

“Let’s have it,” he said. It must be important. Red Alerts went out for full-scale disasters. They took precedence over all other beamed communications.

“Enforcement Ship One-One-Zero reports unauthorized handling of automatic systems. All ships scan for position and course! Do not approach! Enforcement Service cruisers are now proceeding to intercept!” Buchanan could imagine the scene aboard the vessel. A failure of a robotic monitor. Nothing serious, but the machines would take no chances with the resourceful, vicious, opportunistic men and women who had been expelled from the settled worlds.

Buchanan shrugged.

There were fail-safes. The Enforcement Service had never lost a ship.

It was not his problem. The cruisers would soon reach the Enforcement Service ship.

“Scan,” he ordered, forgetting that the robot controlled his ship.

“It has been done, Commander.”

“And?”

“No readings,” the robot controller said at once. “No contact with ES 110.”

“We’re not specifically asked to take action?”

“My Grade One colleague made no mention of action other than repeating the report.”

“Then I need do no more?”

“Nevertheless, Commander—”

“Leave it to the Service.”

“There was a full-scale Red Alert—”

“Forget it!”

“I can hardly do that, sir!”

“Keep me informed,” Buchanan said. Old habits of command died hard. So did the deep-held sense of responsibility that came with the years of Galactic Service.

“Very good, sir.”

Buchanan looked about the bright deck. The ES 110 was not his concern.

“Let me see the Singularity again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Buchanan dismissed the prison-ship and its minor problems from his mind. Before him flowered the wispy outline of the Singularity. He marveled at the flow of energies within its depths. Magnetic fields a trillion times larger than those in powerful stars boiled in its rotating interior. If some combination of black hole and neutron star configuration was the epicenter of the starquakes that shook the cosmos around the Singularity, then the station might well be in peril. He would not be deterred.

More than ever now that Kochan’s team of scientists had come up with a new and utterly strange idea of an eternal moment of death, he was determined to enter the uncertain dimensions. Maran flung away the skeletal arm of a robot attendant as he emerged from unconsciousness. He had been in a state that was not sleep, but one which allowed him to dream. It seemed that he was back at the start of his experiments. Men and women he had known drifted into his thoughts, calling to him that the ultimate mystery lay only just beyond the moment. They were proud, almost arrogantly proud, to have joined him. A little more perseverance, they called; another, more searching, machine that would rip through the layers of consciousness and point to the primal source of intelligence. They vanished in a blaze of light as he opened his eyes.

Almost instantly he knew the long months of planning might be so much wasted effort. He blinked, pushed away the restraining arm of the robot, and felt strength pulsing through his big body. His mind was startlingly clear, so different from the pain-racked half-mind of those ferocious moments as he crawled from the ooze….

He said aloud: “The crew!”

“No emergency exists,” a fairly high-grade system was saying. “Therefore no further Red Alert calls need be beamed.”

“Red Alert—” Maran roared. “ A Red Alert?”

“In the absence of instructions to the contrary, sir,” began the smooth voice from the pedestal, “this system took it upon itself, in accordance with programmed data, to beam signals to—”

“Leave it! Why send the Alert?”

“Second survival-cylinder launched!” a Grade Two system announced. The robotic controller added its own comment, without answering Maran’s question: “Therefore a Red Alert signal must be beamed!”

“No!” Maran shouted. “No emergency exists! Do not beam any signals without my express authorization!”

“Therefore no Red Alert signal need be beamed,” agreed the Grade One robot calmly. “Because a survival-cylinder was launched during condition Phase, sir, it was necessary to send the programmed signal to all Enforcement Service vessels. That is why the Red Alert signal was beamed, sir. Does that answer your query satisfactorily?”

It had gone wrong. In spite of all his careful planning, there had been flaws. Enough of the crew had been left to summon aid. Maran cursed his lack of strength. If he could have kept fully conscious for a few more moments!

The machines were ready to block off the crew from any part of the ship’s controls. He had held the ES

110 in his hands. And he had weakly succumbed to the revivification process. But it was only to be expected.

There was a long silence. Maran could sense the agony of the machines. They had been told to disobey their deeply-implanted programs. Many of the systems would have suffered irreparable damage. He reached for the sensor-pads which writhed obediently as he demanded information. He learned of Poole’s ironical end. The unknown crewman had given him the respite he had so badly needed. Reluctantly, the memory-banks added details. There were no living crew-members aboard the ES 110. Its commander, Rosario, had been badly injured, but he had struggled to the hold.

“Commander Rosario,” said Maran. “Where is he now?”

“The commander is at present in a survival-cylinder approximately eighteen million miles from—”

“Gone!”

“Yes, sir.” The Grade One robot almost groveled. “It contravenes Galactic Council Penal Code instructions to dispatch cylinders during condition Phase, but in emergency certain procedures may be deemed necessary—”