Proteus Unbound (27 page)

How long was the "little while" that he would be on his own? Ransome's joking tone had suggested that it might be quite some time. Bey turned in the doorway and stepped close to the Roguard. It stood solidly blocking his path.

"Allow me to pass. That is an order."

"The order cannot be obeyed." The voice was soft-toned and polite. "Egress is prohibited. You lack authorization."

"Who has authorization?"

"You do not have authorization to receive information on authorizations."

Bey retreated. He had not expected a useful answer, so he was not much disappointed. He went to sit at the table in the little dining area and pondered his situation.

Against the initial odds—and suspiciously easily—he had found his way to Ransome's Hole. He was in the middle of the enemy stronghold, unarmed and surrounded by guards, held prisoner by a probable megalomaniac with the power to destroy the Solar System; he had to decide what to do next.

What
could
he do?

After a few minutes he stood up and made a leisurely and thorough survey of the living quarters. They were perfectly adequate for a stay of weeks, months, or even years. The walls, floor, and ceiling were white, seamless, and solid. There was a comfortable-looking bed, a large and well-equipped washroom, a full food-production faculty, a small computer with its own recreational and educational data bases, and even a small exercise unit that included simple form-conditioning. Notably absent was any type of communications equipment, audio or video.

Bey went to the little form-conditioning unit, turned it on, and reviewed its capabilities. It was the simplest and cheapest of the commercially packaged form-change systems. The options it offered were minimal. They included monitoring and feedback for standard muscle tone improvements, routines for minor physical repair such as sprains and bruises, and a couple of low-g/high-g conversions modules; that seemed to be all.

Bey opened the cover and checked the telemetry inputs and internal storage. It was a BEC unit, completely self-contained, and the hardware was standard and quite powerful. That meant the weaknesses were in the software. The programs that came with the unit lacked all the more substantial form-change functions—it did not even permit eye adjustments, which Bey had needed for nearsightedness since he was a teenager.

What was he supposed to do when everything began to look fuzzy? Squint, or make himself eyeglasses? He closed the cover of the unit in disgust. On Earth no one had used anything so primitive for over a hundred years.

Bey went once more to the open door and tried to walk directly through it. The waiting Roguard again blocked him. He put his hand onto the machine's exterior, estimating its strength and sensitivity. It did not move.

"How long will I remain here?"

"That information is unavailable." There was a pause, then the machine added, "It will be no longer than two years, since the food supply has been set for such a period."

"Two years! That's terrific news."

"Thank you."

Bey closed the door in the Roguard's face, went to the bed, and stretched out on it. He should have known better than to waste his time talking. No machine of that type could recognize sarcasm.

He closed his eyes, but he had no thought of sleeping. There was a job to do, and it was a big one. The first step was a rough time estimate. How long would it need for development and testing, and then how long for the process itself to be completed? If the answers came out too high, he might as well relax and forget the whole idea.

Within ten minutes Bey had a first estimate. Five weeks, total, if he worked day and night. That was far too long. He had to cut it somehow by a factor of at least three. It was time for something rough and ready and less than perfection. The logic flow and accompanying condensed code for an alternative approach began to take shape in his head.

The next estimate came out at two weeks. Still too long, and he had taken all the legitimate speed-up steps. It was time for desperate measures. He had to begin accepting higher physical risks.

Bey lay on the bed for another four hours. At last he sat up, ready to start. As he made his last-minute preparations, it occurred to him that he had one unexpected asset. Ironically, the wild card in his favor was the Negentropic Man himself.

* * *

In his lectures to the beginning class at the Office of Form Control, Bey Wolf used an analogy:

"Purposive form-change is a
process
, a tight interaction of life-support machinery and real-time computer code." The display on the wall behind him provided a flow diagram, bewildering in its complexity. "There's a typical sample up on the screen—a straightforward one, as a matter of fact. By the time you get out of here, that will seem simple and familiar. But knowing how to read one of those schematics won't be enough to protect you. To be useful in this office, you have to see
beyond
the detail, to grasp a whole form-change picture in one swoop."

The wall display changed to show an old-fashioned map, bright with colors and dotted with fanciful illustrations. "Each form-change is a journey from a defined starting point to a defined end point. But those journeys all cross a part of the great ocean of form-change. Some areas of that ocean have been explored completely, and all commercial form-change programs navigate within that charted region. But beyond the safe waters lies a wilderness, unmapped and unknown. And
dangerous.
Never forget that.

"Everyone who tries a radically new form-change experiment is embarking on a trip through the unknown. And when you work in this office, you often have to follow the route of the pioneers, across those perilous waters.

"Now, we can't provide an infallible pilot across that unknown sea. No one can. But what we
can
do is teach you what to look for. You'll learn to recognize—and avoid—the shoals and reefs of form-change, the whirlpools and undertows. You'll always design your programs to follow the safe, smooth trade routes . . ."

Sound advice.

But the lessons of the classroom had not been designed for desperate emergencies.

Bey sealed the lid of the tank, stared at the control sequences, and prepared for coming agonies. With this degree of uncertainty, anything might happen. He was using change sequences that he had never employed before—never
heard of
before. They ignored his own teachings, driving an accelerated program that skirted the reefs, risked the whirlpools, and ran the gauntlet of lee shores. It was a guarantee of discomfort and danger, of disaster. He entered the final command.

The first few minutes were filled with the familiar touch of sensors and catheters, followed by the flicker and swirling rainbow of colors and sounds. Biofeedback was beginning, no different from what it had been a thousand times. Soon it would bypass his eyes and ears to establish direct brain contact. A dozen steps flickered by in a few minutes, the standard preliminary tests as the form-change machine confirmed the parameters of his body.

And then . . . the change.

He sensed a ripple of command, a cold and alien touch through all his being. Strange discomfort touched him—entered him—became a pain that grew as rapidly and irresistibly as a windblown fire, until it burned in every cell. His body shook in surprised agony.

Wrong, totally wrong. Stop it now, while you can.

He thrust away the panic response that rose from the base of his brain. The pain was to be expected, the result of too-rapid change. The shortcuts
were
wrong, but that was by his own design—shape change achieved by deformation and muscular contraction, not by slow and careful rebuilding of body structure. It was a perversion of true form-change. He tried to stay calm as his body's core temperature climbed over twenty degrees. Chemical reactions were running at ten times the normal speed, but still he could understand and follow the processes.

And then pain passed a new threshold, and logic failed.

. . . he was stretched on a rack, seared by internal flames. His body was melting, twitching and writhing against the control straps. A thick layer of mucus squeezed from his skin. Catheter pumps doubled their rate of chemical transfer.

A new change came, more basic and more deadly.

. . . heart pounding an irregular rhythm. Heart stopping. A moment of supreme agony, heart lifeless, a stone in his chest. Lungs collapsed. Kidneys and bowels and bladder, frozen in their action. Blood congealing.

The form-change machine had taken over completely. Only his brain was left, directing the purposive form-change.

The fatal form-change.
The change should take weeks, not days. He had underestimated the pain, misjudged the danger. No one could endure such change-speed. It would kill him.

Heartless, lungless, he could neither groan nor scream. He had made a choice—and he was paying the price. Even with the machine's help, body parameters were uncontrollable. A dozen times the monitors in the form-change unit flared their warning signs. Chemical concentrations were wildly far from equilibrium, ion balances at fatal levels, synapses firing spastically out of sequence. He had lost awareness of his surroundings. The semiconscious body in the tank shuddered and writhed, enduring rates of adaptation beyond all rational limits.

Slow down. Slow down. Reverse the process.
Every organ, every cell screamed for relief. And relief was possible. With purposive form-change, the will of the subject always played a central part. The urge to retreat became irresistible.

Stop now, stop now.
The fear was no longer deep in his brain. It was rampant surges of pain and terror, invading every hiding place of will and resolve.

Stop. Stop now.
He fought against the urge to end it, but the torment was too great. He was in terminal agony, hearing the whimper of protest from every cell. The limit of endurance had arrived; had passed. Pain intensified, sharpened, rose to levels that defied belief . . .

No more. Give in, or die.

And as that thought took firm possession of his mind, the pressure eased.

He sagged in the retaining straps of the tank, unable to move. Every nerve of mind and body was aflame. He sucked the pain deep inside him, grinning in triumph. He could hear his heartbeat.

It was over. No matter what came next, he had won this stage. He had the right final form; he knew it without looking. His tortured body had been cast up, twisted and misshapen, on a strange shore—and it was the destination he had chosen!

Bey Wolf had crossed the form-change ocean.

PART FOUR

CHAPTER 26

Live with a man for years—and then discover that you know nothing at all about him!

Sylvia had been convinced that at the very least Paul would listen to what she had to say. She had clung to that thought, all through the long journey and the docking at Ransome's Hole, and then on through a maze of corridors and slideways that took her and her Roguards deep into the habitat interior. And finally, face to face with him, she realized her mistake.

"It was very foolish for you to come here." His expression was cold, and he stared through her as though she did not exist. He was wearing the same drab uniform as all the others she had seen in Ransome's Hole.

"Paul, I had to. Terrible things have been happening in the Cloud. Thousands of people have died, and all the time—"

"A mistake, and a total waste of time." He turned to the machines standing beside her. "Take her to living quarters K-1-25, level 4."

"Paul!"

But he was already turning, refusing to look her way. "You had your chance to work with us," he said coldly as he walked out. "Ransome is a once-in-a-millennium genius, the best hope for the Solar System. You wouldn't help when we needed it. Why should anyone listen to you now, when we don't need help?"

And then he was gone. Sylvia tried to run after him and found the Roguards blocking her way. She pushed at them angrily, taking out her frustration on the resilient plastic. Endless weeks of travel to seek Paul Chu's ear—and then dismissed in one minute, without any sign that the two of them had once been lovers and close friends!

It was such an anticlimax, Sylvia was ready to burst with frustration. The machines were moving her back the way they had come, holding her lightly with their jointed arms. She fought them at first, but it was pointless. The gentle touch disguised their strength, but they could apply many tons of force with each flexible limb.

After ten more minutes of slideway travel they brought her to an open door and guided her through it. As it slid closed behind her, she spun around and cursed the silent machines.

"Helps your feelings," said a familiar and cynical voice from behind her. "Don't do much good, though. Better save your breath."

She turned. "Aybee! How in Eden did you get here?"

"Long tale—a long and sad tale, as old Lewie C. puts it. Turns out Ransome doesn't trust me quite as much as I thought." Aybee Smith was sitting cross-legged across a high table, long limbs dangling to each side. "Wait just a minute. I already did this two days ago, but let's make sure nothing has changed." He hopped off the table and circled the room, peering at ventilator grilles and under and on all free surfaces. Finally he nodded. "I'm pretty sure we're safe to talk. No monitoring—or if there is, I can't find it."

He pointed to a chair and returned to sit again on the table. "All right, Sylv, let's play catch up. Who first?"

His scowling face had made Sylvia feel better already. She described everything that had happened since she left the ruined space farm, then heard of Aybee's own zigzag passage from there to Ransome's Hole.

"At least you had no choice," she said. "I'm the stupid one—I set out looking for trouble. And now the whole system's ready to be blown apart, and neither of us can do a thing."

"Not right now. But every day I'm here, I learn more about what makes this place tick." Aybee was prowling the perimeter of the chamber. "They shouldn't have put us together, and they ought to be monitoring us. Ransome is overconfident."