The Gap into Madness: Chaos and Order by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

Otherwise
the cumulative inadequacies of his instruction-set might let him be captured;
or let him escape.
    What
could they do?
    They
could kill him themselves. Hardwire some kind of self-destruct into his
datacore. But if they did that they would lose Trumpet and everyone
aboard. They would lose Morn. And they obviously did not want to lose Morn. If
they decided to kill him, they wouldn’t do it until they learned what had
happened to Thanatos Minor; until they got their hands on Morn.
    Or they
could put someone in a position to control him. That had been Milos’ job. But
Milos had betrayed the cops — and clearly Lebwohl or Dios had seen that coming;
had planned for it. And there were no other candidates: not now; not while Trumpet remained out of contact with UMCPHQ. No one aboard knew the codes to command
him.
    Angus
couldn’t think of any other alternatives. Only one option remained.
    Simply
to keep him alive, the cops would have to let him make some of his own choices.
Until they were able to put another of their stooges in Milos’ place.
    But if
they did that, they would have to let him make decisions more and more often as
time passed. And the gap between what he did and his original programming would
widen. Eventually it might widen enough to let him slip through.
    His
brain seemed to burst with possibilities as a pain as bright as the detonation
of Billingate’s fusion generator exploded in the back of his head.
    He’d
already undone his restraints. The force of the blow slammed him facedown on
his board, blind with agony: the impact split the skin of his left temple and
cheekbone. Then his own recoil toppled him off the command station.
    Another
blow struck like impact fire below his right shoulder blade; drove him headlong
to the deck. He skidded across a small splash of blood.
    In
microseconds a window opened like a screen in his head; damage assessments
scrolled past his awareness. The shielding for his computer and power supply
had absorbed most of the power of the second blow: his back was bruised but not
broken. But the first concussion had pulped his scalp, spread a fretwork of
stress fractures through his occipital lobe, compressed his brain. Another
strike like that might kill him.
    The
sheer scale of the pain was going to kill him right now, every neuron in his
body misfired anguish across his senses, he couldn’t see or feel anything
except the hurt in his skull.
    He’d
been hit from behind, his computer explained. His attacker was moving around
the g-seat to get at him; moving fast —
    Instantly
his zone implants switched off the pain. They galvanised his muscles like an
electric charge. His senses cleared.
    He
flipped over onto his back in time to see Nick plunging at him like Captain’s
Fancy out of the void toward Tranquil Hegemony , as full of ruin as a
mine-hammer.
    Loss
and wild rage twisted Nick’s face into a mask of savagery. His scars seemed to
stream from his eyes like streaks of dark tears; a soundless howl stretched his
mouth. As he dropped toward Angus, his right fist swung a C-spanner in a fatal
arc for Angus’ head. He must have found it in one of Trumpet’s emergency
toolkits. Its head was stained with blood and hair from Angus’ skull.
    “Fucking
sonofabitch!” Nick snarled as the spanner fell. “You did this to me!”
    Savage
himself, Angus snatched up his hand and caught the spanner centimetres away
from his forehead.
    One
hand was all he needed. Despite Nick’s force and weight, the blow stopped as if
it had struck a bulkhead. He was stronger than Nick in any case. And welded
struts reinforced his joints, improved his leverage; his reflexes ran at
microprocessor speeds. He caught and held the spanner so solidly that Nick lost
his grip and tumbled forward, throwing himself onto Angus.
    With a
twitch of his shoulder and a flick of his wrist, Angus clapped the spanner
against Nick’s temple and ear. Nick fell to the side, slapped his length along
the deck.
    At