The Gap Into Vision: Forbidden Knowledge

  Steady as a pillar, the doctor waited for a response.

  For a long moment Nick seemed to hesitate.

  “Has it not been agreed?” asked the Amnioni.

  Roughly Nick stuck out his hand. “Permit me to inspect your hypo.”

  The doctor spoke into its headset. This time no sound reached Morn.

  In silence the Amnioni handed Nick the hypo.

  He held it up to the light, studied it from several angles. When he was sure that the vial was empty—innocent of mutagens—he returned the hypo.

  Still roughly, as if each movement cost him an effort, he unsealed his left glove and pulled it off, then peeled the sleeve of his suit back from his forearm.

  “I have always believed that the Amnion trade honestly,” he announced. “Should that belief prove false, however, I have arranged to spread the knowledge throughout human space.”

  In a dim way, Morn hoped that the Amnion weren’t equipped by culture or experience to recognize the bluff of a frightened man.

  “Conversely,” replied the mechanical voice, “human falseness is established reality. The risk of trade is accepted because what you offer has value. Nevertheless the satisfaction of requirements must be begun by you.”

  “Oh, hell,” Nick muttered to no one in particular. “It’ll make a good story even if I lose.”

  With a jerk, he offered his forearm to the hypo.

  At once two of the doctor’s secondary hands gripped Nick’s wrist and elbow. Efficient and precise, the Amnioni pressed the hypo over the large veins in his forearm; rich blood welled into the vial.

  In a moment the vial was full. The doctor withdrew the hypo.

  Snarling at the way his hands shook, Nick tugged down his sleeve; he shoved his fingers into his glove and resealed it. Morn imagined him biting into the capsule of the immunity drug and swallowing it. But the idea no longer disturbed her. A mad, clean calm that seemed to border on gap-sickness filled her head. She felt that she was floating a few inches off the floor as she watched the Amnioni give Nick the credit-jack, watched Nick shove it into one of his suit’s pouches.

  Like a mantra, she repeated her son’s name to herself.

  Davies. Davies Hyland.

  If any part of her was worth saving, this was it.

  “Now,” Nick rasped, “the baby.”

  The doctor was speaking again. “The efficacy and safety of the procedure is established. All Amnion offspring are matured in this fashion. Certainly the human female is not Amnion. Yet even with a human the efficacy of the procedure has been established. Her blood will provide the computers with information for the necessary adjustments. The genetic identity of her offspring will not be altered.

  “What are your wishes concerning her body? Will you trade for it? Suitable recompense will be offered. Or do you wish to dispose of it in your own fashion?”

  Morn heard the words as if they were in a code she couldn’t decipher.

  At her side, Nick went rigid.

  “What do you mean,” he demanded dangerously, “‘dispose of it’? What are you talking about? I want to take her with me as alive and healthy as she is right now.”

  “That is impossible,” replied the doctor without discernible inflection. “You were aware of this. It is presumed that your requirement contains the knowledge of its outcome. Among Amnion, the efficacy and safety of the procedure is established. Among humans, only the efficacy is established.

  “The difficulty involves”—the Amnioni cocked its head, listening—“translation suggests the words ‘human psychology.’ The procedure necessitates”—the doctor listened again—“‘a transfer of mind.’ Of what use is a physically mature offspring with the knowledge and perceptions of a fetus? Therefore the offspring is given the mind of its parent. Among Amnion, this procedure is without difficulty. Among humans, it produces”—another cock of the head—“‘insanity.’ A total and irreparable loss of reason and function. Speculation suggests that in humans the procedure instills an intense fear which overwhelms the mind. The female will be of no further use to you. Therefore the offer is made to trade for her.”

  Total and irreparable loss—Morn did her best to concentrate on the danger, but her attention drifted sideways. Trade for her. No doubt the Amnion still wanted her because her sanity or madness was irrelevant to the mutagens. She should have been terrified.

  But she was too far gone for that.

  A transfer of mind. Little Davies would have her mind. He would be truly and wholly her son. There would be nothing of Angus Thermopyle in him.

  Her struggle to find a better answer than rape and zone implants and treason wouldn’t end here. The things her father represented to her might still survive.

  She was only aware of Nick peripherally, as if he existed at the edges of a reality which contracted around her moment by moment, making everything clear.

  He was close to violence. Releasing her arm, he clenched his fists in an unconscious throttling gesture. Sulfur glared from his faceplate. Through his teeth, he gritted, “That is unacceptable.”

  After a momentary pause the voice said, “Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso, it is acceptable. You have accepted it.”

  “No, I didn’t!” he shouted back. “Goddamn it, I didn’t know! I wasn’t aware that I was asking you to destroy her mind!”

  “Presumed human Captain Nick Succorso,” countered the voice implacably, “that is of no concern. An agreement has been reached. That agreement will be acted upon.

  “The agreement involves the human female, not you. Her acceptance is indicated by her presence. And your enmity to the Amnion is established. You are suspected of falseness in trade. It is presumed that you will return to human space and report that the Amnion have failed to act upon an agreement. Trust in the Amnion will be damaged. Necessary trade will be diminished. That is unacceptable. Without trade, the goals of the Amnion are unobtainable.”

  “Right!” Nick retorted. “And your precious trade will be diminished when human space hears that you destroyed one of my people against my expressed wishes! I don’t care what you think she does or doesn’t accept. I’m not going to let you do it. I didn’t know what the consequences are!”

  “On the contrary”—the voice was remorseless—“records of this event will demonstrate Amnion honesty. They will demonstrate that the female accepts the agreement. You are betrayed by your ignorance, not by the Amnion. Human caution will increase, but human trade will not diminish.”

  Nick wheeled to verify the positions of the guards as if he were measuring his chances of escape. Then he barked, “Mikka—”

  Morn stopped him.

  “Nick, it’s all right.” If he ordered Mikka to begin self-destruct, the command second would obey; and then everything would be wasted. “I’m not afraid.”

  He turned on her as if he were appalled. “You’re what?”

  “We’ve come too far to back out now.”

  It must have been her black box talking, not her. She was still sane, she was, and “a transfer of mind” dismayed her to the core; the consequences for little Davies shocked her spirit. He would be born thinking he was her, his brain would be full of rape and treason when nature intended only rest and food and love. The whole idea was intolerable, abhorrent; she knew that because she wasn’t crazy.

  And yet she wanted it. If her mind was transferred to her baby, it would be transferred without the corrosive support, the destructive resources, of her zone implant.

  “You need to get Captain’s Fancy repaired, and I need my son. I don’t care what it costs. I’m not afraid. I don’t mind taking the chance.”

  “It’ll finish you,” he hissed through her earphones, bringing his head closer until his faceplate touched hers. “‘Total and irreparable loss of reason and function.’ I’ll lose you.”

  Vector Shaheed said her name, then broke off.

  “Morn,” Mikka Vasaczk breathed softly, “you don’t have to do this.”

  “I don??
?t mind taking the chance,” she repeated, listening to the sound of ruin like an echo in her helmet.

  Before Nick could interfere, she turned to the Amnioni and said, “The agreement is acceptable.”

  The doctor replied, “It will be done.”

  Nick let out a short, frayed howl like a cry of grief.

  She walked away from him, leaving him to the guards.

  At the nearest crèche, she stopped and began to unlock her faceplate.

  The doctor offered her the breathing mask it held. She shook her head and murmured, “Not yet.”

  When she opened the faceplate and took off her helmet, acrid Amnion air bit into her lungs, as raw as the stink of charred corpses; but she endured it. She had one more thing to do to complete her surrender.

  Stripping off the EVA suit, she stood, effectively naked, beside the crèche. Then she reached into the pocket of her shipsuit and grasped her black box; she adjusted the intensity of its emissions until they brought her right to the edge of a serene and unreachable unconsciousness.

  Nearly fainting, she accepted the breathing mask.

  As she pressed it to her mouth, oxygen and anesthesia enveloped her in the attar of funerals and old sleep.

  “Morn!” Nick cried again. But now she could no longer hear him.

  Unnecessarily gentle, since she was in no condition to know what anyone did, the Amnioni kept her asleep while it worked. It stretched her out in the crèche; with its deft secondary arms, it removed her shipsuit and set it beside her.

  Blood was drawn. Electrodes were attached to her skull, to the major muscle groups in her arms and legs.

  Then an alien serum was injected into her veins, and a biological cataclysm came over her.

  In minutes her belly swelled hugely. A short time later, water burst between her legs; her cervix dilated; contractions writhed through her.

  As careful as any human physician, the Amnioni accepted Davies Hyland from her body. The doctor bound and cut the umbilical cord, cleaned the struggling little boy—struggling for human air—with monstrous tenderness, then set the child in the second crèche, attached electrodes corresponding exactly to the ones which held Morn, inserted IVs, and closed the crèche.

  At once a normal O/CO2 mix surrounded the baby, and new respiration turned him a healthy pink.

  At the same time more chemicals were injected into Morn to smooth her recovery. Plasma replaced lost blood; coagulants and neural soothers enriched her body’s responses to damage.

  In the second crèche, a form of biological time-compression began. A potent amino soup, full of recombinant endocrine secretions and hormones, fed every cell in Davies’ small form, triggering in seconds DNA-programmed developments which should have taken months to complete; sustaining a massive demand for nutrients and calories; enabling his tissues to process growth and waste with an efficiency at once ineffable and grotesque—as wondrously vital and consuming as cancer.

  Under the subtle distortions of the crèche’s cover, his body elongated itself, took on weight and muscle; his features reshaped themselves as baby fat spread across them and then melted away, and their underlying bones solidified; his hair and nails grew impossibly long, until the doctor trimmed them. At the same time, the electrodes copied Morn’s life and replicated it in him: the neural learning which provided muscle tone, control, skill; the experience which gave language and reason reality; the mix of endocrine stimulation and memory which formed personality, made decision possible.

  As Nick had promised, the process was finished in an hour.

  In effect, Morn Hyland gave birth to a sixteen-year-old son.

  ANCILLARY

  DOCUMEMTATION

  THE AMNION

  First Contact (continued)

  The contrary argument—that “first contact” had taken place years previously—is based on the fact that Captain Vertigus learned nothing new (aside from the matter of appearance) or vital about the Amnion. That they were technologically sophisticated, especially in matters of biochemistry; that they were oxygen-carbon-based; that they were profoundly alien: all could be deduced from the contents of the satellite which an Intertech ship, Far Rover, had discovered in orbit around the largest planet in the star system she had been sent to probe.

  This occurred prior to the Humanity Riots—and to Intertech’s absorption by SMI. Far Rover had been studying that system for nearly a standard year when the satellite was discovered. She continued her studies for several months afterward—but now with a radically altered mission. At first, of course, she had been looking for anything and everything: primarily resources, habitability, and signs of life. But since until now no one had ever found signs of life, her attention had been fixed on more mundane matters. However, after the discovery of the satellite, she forgot the mundane. She stayed in the system long enough to be certain that the satellite was not of local origin. Then she crossed the gap back to Earth.

  Her arrival surely had enough scientific, economic, and cultural impact to qualify as “first contact.”

  Far Rover made no attempt to open or examine the satellite: she lacked the facilities. The alien object, untouched, was transported to Earth in a sealed hold, where it remained until the Intertech installation on Outreach Station was able to activate a sterile lab for it. Then, as carefully as anyone knew how, the satellite was opened.

  It proved to contain a small cryogenic vessel, which in turn contained a kilo of the mutagenic material that comprised—although no one knew it at the time—the Amnion attempt to reach out to other life-forms in the galaxy.

  Study of the mutagen went on for three years at a frenetic pace before Captain Vertigus and Deep Star were commissioned.

  That the substance in the vessel was a mutagen was discovered almost routinely. In the normal course of events, scientists of every description ran tests of every kind on minute samples of the substance. Naturally most of the tests failed to produce any results which the scientists could understand. Earth science being what it was, however, the tests eventually included feeding a bit of the substance to a rat.

  In less than a day, the rat changed form: it became something that resembled a mobile clump of seaweed.

  Subsequently any number of rats were fed the substance. Some of them were killed and dissected. Pathology revealed that they had undergone an essential transformation: their basic life processes remained intact, but everything about them—from their RNA and the nature of their proteins and enzymes outward—had been altered. Other altered rats were successfully bred, which showed that the change was both stable and self-compatible. Still others were put through the normal behavioral tests of rats; the results demonstrated conclusively, disturbingly, that the mutation produced a significant gain in intelligence.

  Experiments were attempted with higher animals: cats, dogs, chimpanzees. All changed so dramatically that they became unrecognizable. All were biologically stable, able to reproduce. All were built of fundamental enzymes and RNA native to each other, but wholly distinct from anything which had ever evolved on Earth.

  All showed some degree of enhanced intelligence.

  By this time, Intertech as a corporate entity was positively drooling. The potential for discovery and profit was immeasurable, if the mutagen could be traced to its source. Theorists within the company and out agreed that the satellite must have been designed to accomplish one of two things: communication or propagation. The propagationist theory, however, suffered from one apparent flaw: the mutated rats, cats, dogs, and chimps simply were not intelligent enough. They retained the limitations of their species. In other words, the mutagen was clearly inadequate to replicate its makers on lower lifeforms.

  Nevertheless by either theory a source existed—somewhere—not just for mutated Earth-forms with higher intelligence, but for entirely new sciences, resources, and possibilities.

  But how could the satellite be traced to its source? As “first contact” with alien life, the object was exceptionally frustrating in this r
egard. Hence the emphasis placed on Sixten Vertigus and his experiences. Except for its cryogenic workings, the satellite contained nothing which could be analyzed: no drive, no tape, no control systems; certainly nothing as convenient as a star chart.

  If the satellite were intended as a means of communication, its message had to lie in the mutagen itself.

  It did.

  The course of Earth’s history was changed when the decision was made within Intertech to risk the mutagen on a human being.

  The woman who volunteered for the assignment probably hoped for some kind of immortality, personal as well as scientific. After all, the experimental animals which had been permitted to live were viable, hardy, and intelligent. They were also benign: they could reproduce with their own kind, but could not spread the mutagen. If her intelligence increased similarly, she might become the most important individual humankind had yet produced. And she might open the door to discoveries, opportunities, and riches which would earn her enduring reverence.

  Unfortunately she only survived for a day and a half.

  During that time, she changed as the animals had changed: she became, according to observers, “a bipedal tree with luxuriant foliage and several limbs.” But the only sign of advanced intelligence was that, an hour or so before she died, she wailed for paper. As soon as she got it, she spent several minutes scribbling furiously.

  When she collapsed, heroic efforts were made to resuscitate her. They failed utterly. The medical technology was all wrong: it had little relevance to her new structure.

  An autopsy showed that she had become genetically and biochemically kin to the mutated rats and chimps—a product of the same world. She had been transformed from her RNA outward. Nevertheless she was the only mutated life-form to die quickly of “natural causes.” In the opinion of the pathologists who studied her corpse from scalp to toenails, she died of “fright.”

  Conceivably the mutation had produced an uncontrollable adrenaline reaction.