Brian Ball - Singularity Station

“Direct!” snarled Buchanan. “Direct to Maran!” So Maran was devising some scheme for his own self-preservation. Buchanan was past caring how much a danger the escaped man might be: he had one overwhelming concern. Against the safety of Liz Deffant, nothing mattered, nothing had ever mattered, not the futile quest for the Altair Star, not all those lost passengers and crew; and certainly not the grotesque personality of a Maran!

The broad, sweating face swam into view. A pulsing of sensor-pads told Buchanan that Maran could see him, in turn. Warnings irradiated his nerve-endings; Maran was trying to cut into the command-systems of the station.

“…the only way,” Maran was saying to him. “I know from your high-grade systems that your ship is under your control. It gives me a chance, Buchanan,” he said urgently. “This vessel has power for only a few minutes! Give me direct access to your ship’s memory-banks—allow me to take over its decision-making procedures! I could do it myself, given time, but there is no time! I have Miss Deffant’s welfare to consider, Buchanan! I know it’s important to you—do as I say, Buchanan, and I might…” And again, to leave Buchanan writhing with agonized impatience, the coils of the Singularity blotted out all beamer channels.

“Liz!” he yelled, knowing she could not hear. But she was safe— safe! he thought wildly, safe if Maran’s word could be trusted, safe for a few minutes, and then the lunging descent into nothingness!

Maran knew the connection between Liz and himself—she must have told him; And Maran would know that he would try any course of action, no matter how dangerous or traitorous, so long as there was the faintest of hopes that she could be pulled back from the black center of the Singularity and its promise of eternal silence, unending night.

The machines were uneasy. The Grade One robot voiced their doubts: “I view these proceedings and proposals with alarm,” it began. “My colleague aboard the ES 110 suggests that the criminal Enforcement officer Maran be given free access to the readings so far accumulated at the Singularity. More, it suggests that Maran is a suitable person to control other functions of this ship now delegated to yourself, sir!” Buchanan collected his scattered thoughts. His craggy face was aflame with rage as he yelled at the pedestal which housed the robot: “No comments, no suggestions, no interference! Never!” Even as he yelled, he realized how he had come to treat the machines as somehow personalized.

“…sir,” the machine responded, in its flat metallic voice.

“Agreed,” Buchanan said across the gulfs that separated him from the ES 110. “ Anything, Maran.” He knew he was conniving at the release of a man condemned by the Galactic Council as the greatest threat to mankind since the madness of the early Confederation days. If Maran could reach the station, he could hold it for a year.

But what was the alternative?

Refuse to help him, and Liz Deffant would join the eerie unlife of the time-lost tunnel. She would be beyond recall. Maran might do more and worse damage than he had done already; but if Maran the cyberneticist believed that he could work some kind of miracle among the robots’ resources, then it must be so. There was no time for dispute.

Buchanan relinquished the sensor-pads as the first authoritative, insidious commands seeped into the station. Soothing, elegant instructions had the sensors-pads writhing in expectant ecstasy. Buchanan looked down at the console and knew that he was giving up all he had lived by during his years of Galactic Service, as well as his quest for the Altair Star. And nothing mattered, none of it. The robotic controller raised no more objections. It became Maran’s slave as soon as it picked up his wheedling, harsh, irresistible commands. Buchanan monitored the sequences with a growing wonder. Maran called on the powerful, sophisticated memory-banks to give every last detail of the observed data associated with the Singularity. He demanded—and received—readings of which Buchanan knew nothing. The robots recognized the touch of the master-cyberneticist as Maran’s personality infected the controlling devices of the station.

Maran heard the machines offhandedly mention the theories which they had decided were impossible, and his response was instantaneous.

“Steady-state?” he demanded.

“It’s only a theory,” Buchanan was driven to interrupt “I think there might be—”

“Report on screen strengths necessary to stabilize the station in steady-state conditions,” Maran rapped.

“Such hypotheses are interesting as speculations,” the Grade One robot told Maran pedantically.

“However, they must be regarded only as probably unlikely interpretations of conflicting data. In the absence of systematic recordings—”

Maran cut in abruptly: “Devise a warp capable of containing such a steady-state!” Buchanan tensed. The two ships were close now, the sickening descent temporarily arrested as a flurry of vortices blustered against one another and created a pocket of relative calm. The unlikely elements were giving the ES 110 a breathing-space. And Maran was using it to try to convince the robots that they should attempt the impossible.

He was trying to save the ES 110 as, three years before, Buchanan had tried to save the Altair Star. The difference was that Maran was using his unique abilities to change the direction of the machines’

conclusions.

Buchanan had attempted to wreck the robots; Maran made them his puppets. Buchanan watched as the prison-ship lost a great chunk of its lower decks. Fragments of equipment, stores, engines, and unidentifiable debris hung in the grip of the Singularity’s fields.

“This system is not designed to measure the impossible, nor to create a technology capable of withstanding the impossible,” the machine answered primly.

Buchanan watched the last struggles of the ES 110. Surely it was lost now? He followed the flow of information that was streaming across the impassable gap between the two ships. Maran checked and rechecked the data. Especially he wanted the few available readings which the machines would admit to concerning the eerie tunnel where the ghost-fleet hung in the eddying fields of white-gold translucence.

“This system suggests that Commander Maran regard himself as defunct,” the Grade One system announced. “Estimated power-reserves of the ES 110 now give three minutes’ duration capability.”

“Warp,” Maran said, more to himself than to the machines.

“Impossible, sir,” the robot answered.

Buchanan thought sickly of Liz Deffant, who would be waiting to hear the cold information that would tell her of the failure of the ES 110’s last power-reserves. And yet he could not accept that she would be lost. Not while Maran fought the chilling logic of the robots.

Buchanan saw the man’s face. Straining every nerve, he was concentrating his strange powers on the machines’ decision-making centers.

“The ES 110 must be regarded as a total loss,” the robot told Buchanan. “Shall I repeat and beam to the cruisers?”

Wearily, Buchanan assented.

The somber message began to seep through the Singularity’s weird fields, but even as it went, Maran’s eyes narrowed to pinpoints and, like a clarion-call, his voice rang around the bridge of the station:

“This is Commander Maran! Your orders are to build a Quasi-warp capable of withstanding the discontinuous zones!”

Buchanan clutched at the straw. Quasi-warp!

“Repeat, please, Commander Maran,” said the flat metallic voice of the Grade One robot.

“Build a Quasi-warp!”