Colin Kapp - The Pattern of Chaos

The Patterns of Chaos (v2.0)

Colin Kapp, 1970

5.5.2002 Anaerobic - Scanning errors, broken paragraphs and missing quotes fixed

The Patterns of Chaos is a swashbuckling science fiction novel set in a far-distant future

when galactic colonization is far advanced and new, bizarre sciences, such as the prediction

of future events, are highly developed skills. Commander Bron has been sent by the

Commando Central Intelligence Bureau to seek and obliterate the Home World of the Destroyer

forces before they' take over the Galaxy. But both Destroyers and Commandos realize that

Bron's peculiar affinity for causing destruction has attracted alien attention -- in the form of

an armada of unimaginably lethal might which is directed at Bron, and which was sent from far

across the terrifying voids of space seven hundred million years ago -- especially for Bron ...

Colin Kapp

Chapter 1

The night was shattered by a hundred copper candles, pressor beams bearing down,

feathering the mighty bulk of a ship on to the centre of the city, bruising, the very bedrock

with resonant thunder. Green and violet, the lace traces of Yagi beams stabbed sharp

disruption into the fabric of the buildings, and the quick flick of lasers struck the fires which

completed the destruction. The city of Ashur on Onaris, mazed by the blistering savagery from

above, prepared to surrender. Resistance was suicide, and even acquiescence held no

guarantee of survival.

'Perhaps it started as a whisper in some white wilderness: the sick spite of a broken body,

cradled in cold, crying futility unto a futile wind: DON'T YOU KNOW THAT GOD IS DYING?'

In the uncertain shadows against a broken wall the figure of a young man lay in foetal

position, only partially aware of the devastation which raged around him. Such consciousness

as he bore was almost entirely consumed by a battle of equally desperate proportions deep

within his skull.

'Perhaps in the sordid cells of some inhuman inquisition a spirit snapped, the mind mazed

not by the searing steel, the nibbling nerve -- but by a vaster wound: DON'T YOU KNOW

THAT GOD IS DYING ... DYING ... ?'

The man moaned softly to himself and rose to a sitting position, cradling his face in his

hands. A Yagi beam, green and malignant, sliced the end from a nearby building, and the area

was deluged with falling bricks. He sank back, unable to fight.

'Perhaps some maimed martyr crazed upon the cross, held up his head and cried unto the

heavens: LORD, WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME? And was answered never: the ultimate

betrayal: the immaculate blasphemy ... HAS NOBODY EVEN TOLD YOU? THEY SAY THAT GOD

IS DEAD.'

The young man climbed to his feet and started slowly and still unseeing across the littered

square. His uncertain path took him nearly into the beam of a probing Yagi, but fate and

guesswork diverted his feet. He blundered finally into the wall of a building, recoiling with a

bloody forehead to sink again into the timorous shadows of a ruined doorway.

'Bron! Bron, for pity's sake, why don't you reply?'

He made no answer. The blood from his forehead trickled down his face and ran salt in his

mouth. Soon the shock and the pain forced him from his reverie and pressed on him a brutal

acceptance of his environment. For the first time he showed an awareness of the holocaust.

He looked outwards across the flickering waste of the tormented city, agony and

comprehension filtering across his torn brow.

'Bron, for God's sake answer.'

The sky flared suddenly green and hideous as the Yagi's beams found and detonated an

unknown arsenal. The blast from the explosion damned the building as a sanctuary, and only

instinct flung him clear. The walls between which he had been sheltering broke apart, and the

door against which he had pressed his back seconds before was buried deep under a

murderous pile of masonry.

'Bron, are you receiving me at all?'

'I hear you.' In clear ground on the square he stopped and forced himself to speak, his

voice ragged with undertones of near-hysteria. 'Where are you? I can hear you, but I can't

see you.'

'Jupiter!' The voice was aghast. 'No! You have to be joking! Six years and a quarter of the

Commando budget were needed to place you where you are ... and now you feign amnesia.

Bron, you have to be joking!'

'I never felt less like joking. I feel sick. Who are you ... if you're not imagination?'

'Steady, Bron, steady! The big blast must have given you concussion. You're in a bad way

by the sound of things. I had to use the semantic trigger to pull you out of that coma. Is

there nothing you remember at all?'

'Nothing. I don't know who I am, or who you are. You seem to be speaking in my head. Am

I having hallucinations?'

'Far from it. This all has a rational explanation. Only your memory is faulty.'

'Where am I?'

'In the city of Ashur on the planet Onaris. It's under attack by Destroyer ships.'

'And you hear me. How do you hear me? Where are you?'

'Jupiter! This gets worse. We don't have time for explanations now. First you have to get

clear of the square and find somewhere to rest. I'll explain later, if your memory doesn't

come back. For the moment you'll have to take what I say on trust.'

'And if I don't?'

'Don't dare me, Bron. There's too much at stake. If you remembered what you were, and

why you were there, you'd know better than to ask the question. Don't make me show you

why.'

Bron pressed his head into his hands for a full half minute, then straightened.

'Very well! I accept that for the moment. What do you want me to do?'

'Move out of the city centre. The damage won't be quite so bad on the perimeter. On the

other side of the square, as you now face it, is a thoroughfare. Follow that until I tell you

where to turn. I'll stay with you.'

Bron shrugged and followed the instruction, fully aware now of the blistering fury which

shrieked out of the sky. The ship above was obviously preparing for a landing, ploughing for

itself a stabilizing furrow deep into the flesh of the city, and savagely eliminating all resistance

in the areas surrounding. The relative absence of population in the attack area suggested that

the atrocity had not been unannounced. A rising scream to the east told of where yet another

spatial dreadnought had decided to make planetfall. Something about the pattern stirred a

thread of memory, but its pursuit eluded him.

Cautiously he picked his way round the edge of the square, finding an unknown talent for

making the maximum use of cover against the devastating Yagis. On the far side he found the

thoroughfare, once one of the proudest streets of Ashur, now a hulk-like valley of debris,

rimmed with fire.

'You there in my head -- are you listening?'

'We're always listening.'

'How do you listen?'

'You've a bio-electronic transducer implanted in your brain. Our equipments are such that

we can hear you and speak to you no matter where you go.'

Bron absorbed this in silence for a moment.

'Who are you?'

'Associates in war. I'm Doctor Veeder. Does the name mean nothing yet?'

'No.'

'It will. And Jaycee, and Ananias. We three will be your unseen companions, as we have

been in the past. We're all part of the same team.'

'What team?'

'Special Assignments group attached to the Stellar Commando.'

'Ah!!

'You recall something?'

'I recollect vaguely that I was a commando -- but not here. Terra I remember, Delhi and

Europa. I can't recall anything after I left Europa.'

'That's significant. It was when you left Europa that you started these special

assignments. I don't wonder your psyche chose that point to start forgetting ... Watch out!'

Bron moved. The cautionary word and his own instinctive reaction coincided completely. A

probing Yagi beam shattered the road surface inches before his feet. The backwash of the

discharge caught him as he turned, and flung him sideways, stunned but relatively unhurt. As

the beam sliced on through a yet unbroken colonnade he regained his feet, still shaking with

reactive shock.

'You!'

'What's the matter, Bron? Are you hurt?'

'You saw the Yagi coming. How?' Bron was breathing hard.

'Yes, I saw it. I've been trying to break this to you gently, since the re-learning of the

facts may be something of a traumatic shock in your present condition.'

'Spool the riddles! Can you see me, also?'

'Not see you -- we see through your eyes ... and we listen through your ears. Day and

night we watch and listen to every facet of your experience. That's our job -- Jaycee,

Ananias, and myself. Also we can speak to you, and you can't shut us out. Our voices are

transmitted directly to your brain. We can do a few other things also, but we'll go into those

later. For now, just follow my instructions. We'll find you a place to rest.'

'Very well!' Bron accepted the order with resignation. He was in no fit state mentally to

compose an opposition to the voice within his head. Physically he was drained and shaken and

desperately in need of rest. He withdrew into himself and followed the instructions

mechanically, gradually wending his way into darker corners of the broken streets and away

from the focal point of the attack. Finally the voice seemed to cease. Unable to proceed

further of his own volition, he kicked a few bricks from under his feet, sank down to the dusty

ground, and slept.

Chapter 2

'How's Bron now?'

Of the trio, the speaker was the only one in civilian clothes -- a simple jet-black sheath

which detracted nothing from her femininity. Her strong features were framed by raven hair

garnished with self-luminous star-spite spangles.

Her question was addressed to the Medic-Commander who turned away from the ranked

screens. 'Doc' Veeder, tall and greying, bore the air of a man who had seen all the worst of

life and learned to come to terms with it. Even at the end of his shift at the screens his crisp

commando uniform, like his brow, showed no hint of other than authorized creases.

'He's still out, Jaycee, but as far as I can judge it's a perfectly natural sleep.' He glanced

back at the monitors. 'It should be safe to wake him in about an hour.'

'Damn him! If he's loused up this project I'll give him such hell he'll wish his mother had been

a compulsive virgin.'

'Don't climb on his back too heavily when he first wakes. He took a considerable blasting

last night. I don't think he'll appreciate the subtlety of your advances, and anyway, this

happens to be an exercise in cooperation, not coercion. Ride him the way you usually do, and

you could very easily put him on the defensive.'

'I'd make sure he didn't survive it.'

'Agreed -- but that's not the point. He has to survive if we're going to get the information

we need.'

She accepted the point sullenly. Veeder left the screens and reached for his cloak. 'He's all

yours, Jaycee. I'm going to get some sleep. Call me if anything unusual happens.'

'Engaged!' Jaycee slipped into the padded control couch in front of the screens and

reached back to draw the curtains to kill the reflections in the cubicle. Then she began to run

a routine check of the controls to ensure that she was familiar with their standing state.

As Veeder departed, the third member of the trio prised himself loose from the seat of the

computer console. Throughout the preceding conversation he had remained silent, his eyes

never once leaving Jaycee. Now he came over and stood directly behind her, watching the

manifold screens as she trimmed and adjusted their symbolic legends. The bright tabs of his

uniform proclaimed him a full Command General, and contrasted oddly with his apparent youth

and with his flaxen hair and pallid complexion. His eyes were curiously bright, and he

moistened his small, pink lips continuously with his tongue.

'Doc's right, you know, Honey-bitch,' he said quietly. 'No good lashing into Bron while he's in

that state. He won't understand it, and he may well go on the defensive. You know what a

cuss Bron can be when he turns awkward.' He moved forward and leant against the back of

the control couch immediately behind her. His hands hovered only slightly above her shoulders.

'Jet-off, Ananias,' she said tiredly. 'When I want your ideas on how to handle Bron, I'll ask

for them.'

'Sure, Honey-bitch. Play it your way. I just thought that as you couldn't have an emotional

workout on Bron you might be looking elsewhere for relief.' His hands moved subtly on to her

bare neck, lingering.

She froze.

'What are you asking for, Ananias? A couple of broken wrists?'

'Honey-bitch -- you wouldn't dare try that on me.' His voice held an undercurrent of

danger.

'In three seconds if you don't take your hands away.'

'You're teasing, Honey-bitch.'

She moved like a cobra, but he anticipated her action and had the additional advantage of

operating from a standing position. He broke her hold and pinioned her hands against the back

of the couch.

'My God, you tried it, too!' He sounded a trifle shaken. 'You're a vicious devil, aren't you?'

'You should know, Ananias. You've been around long enough.'

Too long, perhaps. That's how I know the time to proposition. You can't live through Bron

for very long without breaking.'

Momentarily her head turned to the big screen on which, when he was awake, the scene

viewed by Bron's eyes was presented. Currently it was blank. The regular rhythm of Bron's

breathing and the heart pulse came through a muted speaker, against the muffled background

rumble of warfare. Various monitors picked up the sounds, separated and analysed them, and

presented scan traces of their findings. In electronic representation was displayed as much

information about one living individual as it was possible to transmit over the precarious

trans-galactic bio-electronic transfer link.

There was a stronger tie, however, between Bron the agent, and Jaycee, his operator. This

was the rapport formed by the close-coupling of two minds sharing a common experience.

When agent and operator were psychologically matched to form one complementary

personality, the coupling was tightened even further. Intolerably further.

Jaycee faced up and tried to look at Ananias. 'You know what that does to me, don't you

... living through him?'

Ananias kept control of her hands warily. 'Sure. That's how I know when you're ripe for an

emotional climbdown. Sometime you've got to give way -- else you're going to crack.'

'And you hang around hoping to collect whatever it is I have to give?'

'Sure, Honey-bitch. I'm a connoisseur. What you have to give is something of an acquired

taste. You've a streak of spite which has no business this side of hell, and you have to work it

off on somebody. Well ... a man could get addicted to that sort of thing.'

'And you think you're deserving of special privileges?'

'I always give good service.'

'Look, Ananias, I admit you once caught me off balance after Bron had wound me up. But

that's only because you happened to be the first living thing down the corridor. It could have

been anyone.'

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then: 'You don't mean that, Honey-bitch.'

'Like hell I mean it. When I get that high I don't care what I find as long as it struggles. I

don't respond to propositions. I'm not looking for a lover -- I'm looking for something to help

me catch up on a spell of suspended living. They don't need any identity -- better they don't

have any. No matter what, there's only one person I grapple with in the darkness.'

They were saved from the impasse by the urgent summons of telltales on an auxiliary

board. Ananias left her and was at the board in an instant.

'Radio room, Jaycee. Report from the Antares transmitters. Come in, Antares! Ananias

on-line.'

'Hullo, General! There've been new developments on Onaris. To prevent further bloodshed,

Onaris Radio has just broadcast their Government's acceptance of the Destroyer's

unconditional surrender terms. Effective opposition to the Destroyers has now ceased.'

'Good! Did the Onarian Government put out an appeal for outside help?'

'They started using the FTL transmitters as soon as the Destroyers entered the system. Of

course, they couldn't expect to be heard except accidentally if there happened to be a

starship within their range.'

'Did you make radio contact with them?'

'No. Our instructions were to the contrary. They could have no idea that our monitoring

chain had picked them up.'

'And nobody else answered their call?'

'None that we could detect. Certainly the FTL emergency bands were clear.'

'Keep monitoring the emergency frequencies. If anyone shows sign of answering their

appeal -- jam them. It's imperative that nobody interferes before the Destroyers have taken

what they want and pulled clear.'

'Understood, General. We'll report again if the situation changes.'

Ananias broke the connection and turned back to Jaycee.

'So far, everything as planned ... except for Bron.' He frowned at the still-vacant master

screen. 'The Destroyers have attacked, Onaris has given way, the entire Commando fleet is

on yellow-alert, and the most expensively prepared commando agent in history occupies a

strategic position in the middle of a raped city -- snoring his bloody head off.'

'Not exactly your night, is it, Ananias?'

'Don't grieve for me, Honey-bitch. You know I always win in the end. And if I have to wait

a little, then the spoils of battle become all the more enjoyable.'

'You're a Godlost weakling, Ananias. Unprincipled, but a Godlost weakling.'

She turned once more towards the screens, this time purposefully studying the traces

which told the details of Bron's existence. Ananias moved back behind the couch. He knew

better than to attempt to interfere with her now, as she adjusted the microphone and began

to re-establish the rapport she had with a sleeping commando agent half a galaxy away.

'Perhaps in the sordid cells of some inhuman inquisition ... '

'Damn you for a bitch!' said Ananias quietly.

Chapter 3

His rest was broken by the insistence of a voice.

' ... the mind mazed not by the searing steel, the nibbling nerve -- but by a vaster wound

... '

'Stop it! Stop saying those things!'

'Get on your feet, Bron. Did you think you deserved a rest day?'

Bron stirred in the ruins, cruelly aware of the cold in his bones. The first pink of daybreak

washed against the shattered skyline. His head ached, and the wound on his temple was stiff

with a cake of dried blood. With difficulty he rose to his feet, shivering and trying to orientate

his thoughts.

'You in my mind -- you're not the one who spoke to me last night.'

'God -- you should be so lucky as to forget me!' The voice trailed into spiteful incredulity.

'No, Bron. This is Jaycee.' Despite the restraints imposed by the electronic transfer, the voice

was clearly feminine. 'Doc tells me you took a blasting. How much do you remember?'

'Almost nothing. What's all this 'sick spite and God is dying' routine you keep telling me?'

'Hell! Doc was right. You are in a bad way. That phrasing is the semantic recall trigger

geared into your subconscious. In any condition of lowered consciousness, from sleep

through to coma, if you hear that you'll have to respond. The wording is meshed with the

hypno-character synthesis which was impressed on your mind.'

'This gets more insane every minute. What's this hypno-character thing?'

'An artificial character pattern impressed by ultra-deep hypnosis. It's the character you

have to play to pass the Destroyers.'

'But I don't even know my own character, let alone the synthesis.'

'The fact you respond to the trigger means the synthesis is firm. You'll react in the right

way to a proper stimulus, even it you don't understand your own actions. In a way your

memory lapse is fortunate. It'll lessen the conflict between the synthesis and the real you.

God! It's going to be well worth hearing you believing yourself to be a saint, Bron.'

The sarcasm in the voice bit deeply into his mind.

'Is that what I'm supposed to be ... Jaycee ... a saint?'

'Rather a sort of electronic Trojan Horse. But get to your feet, we've work to do. The

Destroyers have landed three ships around Ashur, and their first move will be the imposition

of Destroyer Law. That means a complete ban on all movements and absolute obedience to

their orders. We have to get you to the place you should have reached last night.'

Bron searched his mind for the things he should have known but had lost. 'All this is way

beyond me, Jaycee. I'd at least like to know the cause for which I'm being martyred.'

'Ah, that's better -- a touch of the old Bron irony? I don't have time to give you much

now. Briefly, Cana's Destroyer squadrons have increased the scope of their destruction to a

point where they are threatening the Rim Dependencies themselves. We can't police all that

volume of space, and they've destroyed thirty-seven known planets in five years. Our only

hope of stopping them is to trace their baseworld and launch a massive attack on that.

That's your job. Bron. The trick is to get aboard a Destroyer ship in space for long enough to

enable us to discover where the baseworld is.'

'And that's quite a trick, I imagine.'

'If only you remembered! It's taken us six years to get this far. First we had to build the

giant transmitters in Antares to handle the communication-transfer link between us over

trans-galactic distances. It took two years of intelligence work to decide the best way to

attack the problem, and nearly a year developing your cover. And lastly there was you ...

the kingpin of the whole operation ... '

'Tell me about me, Jaycee.'

'Some other time, when I'm feeling really bitchy. Chaos, Bron, that's your forte ... the sort

of chaos that reaches out and affects everyone and everything it touches. It's the one pan

of your own character we've left unattenuated by the synthesis. It may be the one trait

which can bring this mission through.'

Bron considered this in silence. Then: 'What do I have to do first?'

'We've got to fit you into the background so that when the Destroyers find you they won't

suspect you don't belong. We had a comprehensive cover worked out, but you should have

been in position last night.'

'Why should the Destroyers want to find me?'

'Because you're to substitute for a man they came to Onaris to find. Look, I'll have to fill in

the details as we go. But listen to me, Bron -- this is important -- play the game exactly as

we give it to you, and rely on the synthesis for continuity. Don't try any fool stunts of your

own, because you're certain to get killed. We've lost more than enough men already just

placing you where you are.'

'Which way should I go?'

The sky was gradually growing lighter with the muddy greys of dawn, and the vaguest hints

of colour were substantiating the shadows.

'Get out on the thoroughfare and find a few place names. Once we can pinpoint your

position I'll have the computer give us a route. Then find a mirror and let me look at you.

You're going to need to be right in character if we're to get away with this.'

Bron shrugged and surveyed the broken walls which had given him partial shelter for the

night. Part of the building farther back was relatively undamaged, and it was to this he

turned. The building which he entered was deserted, and the haste of the panic exodus was

underscored by the pattern of disorder in the dim rooms and hallways. He finally found a

mirror-covered door which he opened and adjusted to make maximum use of the available

light.

'So that's me!'

'Don't you even remember what your face is like?'

'I couldn't have called it to memory. Do I fit, Jaycee?'

'Not good. You'll have to clean that cut on your forehead. We can't risk sepsis this early in

the game.'

'I'll clean it somehow. Anything else?'

'No -- except that I can't get used to you looking like a damned angel. That's the

psychosomatic effect of the personality synthesis.'

'And what do you propose I do about it?' He was irritated by the malice in her voice.

'Don't spoil it, Bron. It'll wear off all too soon. No psycho-synthesis yet devised could

obscure the real you for very long.'

He found street names for Jaycee to work on. His wound he cleaned with water he found in

a cistern, and he brushed away as much of the mud-cake and blood from his cloak as he could

manage. Then he returned to the mirrored door to study the effect.

He could not remember putting on his clothes, but they consisted of a simple cloak of

coarse weave, with equally spartan under-garments. About his neck hung a well-worn crucifix

of gold on a fine chain. A Bible in one of the ample pockets of the cloak appeared to complete

his worldly possessions.

As Jaycee had said, his face had acquired an angelic look, a pious intensity which almost

shone from the youthful lines. He studied his features carefully, remembering them vaguely,

yet not quite sure how different they had been prior to the hypno-synthesis. He was quietly

proud of the strength of character he found in the jaw and brow, but something diabolical

seemed to lurk behind the eyes -- a depth which both frightened and fascinated him.

'When you've finished your narcissistic orgy, I've got the route for you.'

Jaycee's voice came so unexpectedly that it made him jump. He had the feeling she had

been watching him in the mirror through his own eyes. The tightness of the surveillance irked

him. Something deep inside him clawed out for freedom, like a beast confined in too small a

cage. His expression must have given away his unvoiced emotion, for she picked up the

thought with uncanny accuracy.

'Don't say it, Bron. You're going to have to live with me inside you for quite a while yet.

It's a situation I've come to enjoy -- being underneath your skin.'

'Bitch!'

She laughed. 'Yes, I'm that, Bron, and most of the other things you've called me in the

past. But now you'd better start travelling. I'll give you spot directions from whatever

landmarks we can still identify.'

Her instructions directed him towards the region where the receding night was being

shredded by the mottled grey-green erosion of refraction-scattered sunlight. Here even

Onaris's famous polychromatic dawn seemed smeared with daubs of blood.

The ruins were unnaturally still, and apparently devoid of life. Instinctively he felt to release

his sidearm. Instead his fingers touched only on the Bible in his pocket, an act which raised a

glimmer of taut amusement to his lips. He looked at his hands. The nails were satisfactorily

long and the muscles and flesh were hard. He said: 'Jaycee, I know what I have to fight with,

but what am I supposed to do with the book?'

For once she did not answer, though he felt she was listening. Her silence brought a harsh

realization of the seriousness of his situation. On this mission, the synthesis and the book

were all the weapons he was going to get. With these, and the voice of Jaycee in his head,

he was expected to help destroy the whole rogue Destroyer federation.

Chapter 4

Smoke from still-burning buildings drifted in broad fronts across his path, and Bron trod

cautiously, fearing that his sudden emergence from a veil of smoke could lead to his being

shot by some over-alert observer. Nevertheless he obeyed his instruction implicit in Jaycee's

directions, and kept strictly to the centre of the way, making no attempt at concealment.

'It's too damn quiet, Jaycee. Where're all the people?'

'Total evacuation, Bron. The Destroyers have imposed an absolute clearance of five

kilometres round each landing site. Turn in a full circle, will you. I want to take check on your

position.'

Bron turned slowly, following the skyline with his eyes and dwelling on any features of the

broken terrain which might be construed as a landmark.

'On course?'

'Near enough. Just clear of the Destroyers' five kilometre perimeter, but still in the

evacuated zone. Your main danger is the Ashur police who may come looking for looters.

Stay in the open, and keep your hands empty and in view.'

'Shouldn't I be going towards the ship?'

'You're joking! Cross that perimeter and you're a dead man. The only way anyone gets

through there is if the Destroyers choose to take him.'

'And you think they'll choose to take me?'

'We're hopeful. You're to impersonate a key Onaris technocrat. You were due at the Ashur

Seminary last night, but the Destroyers struck before we could get you there.'

'What the hell would the Destroyers want with technocrats?'

'They take anything that's any value to them -- brains, slave-flesh, metals, and as many

items of higher technology as they can find. That's why they put down an entire fleet. They

strip a planet of anything useful they can carry before they destroy it.'

'That doesn't make sense, Jaycee.'

'No, but it's a fact.'

'Slave-flesh and metals I can understand, but not technocrats. They can surely train

enough of their own.'

'They appear to be concentrating on ones with a certain speciality -- they're all authorities

on a subject known as the patterns of Chaos. Seems as though Onaris had one of the top

men in that field.'

'I thought it was Terra which had all the top men.'

'That's a classical myth. In fact it's the reverse. When the starships started the Great

Exodus from Terra they took an unusual concentration of high-IQ emigrants with them. It's

not rare on a settlement plant to find two or three families still breeding an almost pure

genius strain. Onaris had one family of decided genius -- the Halterns. You're cast as Ander

Haltern, direct ninth descendant of Prosper Haltern. Ander's probably one of the galaxy's top

men on the patterns of Chaos.'

'What happened to the original Ander?'

'On Terra, cooperating with us. We took him off secretly six months ago. The story's been

patched to support your appearance in Ashur just now. By the way, by Onaris custom, one's

familiar name is not on official record, so you're still at liberty to call yourself 'Bron'. I advise

you to do so. That split-second's hesitation in responding to an unaccustomed name could be

crucial in an emergency.'

Bron suddenly stopped. 'Voices, Jaycee.'

'Where?'

'Beyond the smoke in front.'

'Yes, I hear them now. A police road-block, I should imagine. Definitely native Onaris-Ashur

accent.'

'You can hear all that?'

'When necessary we can apply a lot more gain to the signal from your ears than you can.

You've got to go through there, Bron. Let the synthesis take over your responses. Don't try

to override it. If you do, you're liable to come out with a few pure Bron-type answers and

reactions -- and that could lead to a fairly rapid termination of the project.'

As he cleared the smoke he could see what had once been a line of stone-clad buildings,

now a mere complex wall, castellated by fire and blast. The road continued haphazardly

through the ruins, and a barrier had been set across the track. On this were posted men in

the green uniforms of the Ashur civil police.

'Stay or we fire!' The sudden voice was electronically reinforced.

Bron halted. There was no possibility of avoiding or withdrawing from the encounter. The

sand exploded just before his feet, defining a safe distance for his movements. An officer

threw a voice amplifier into the intervening space.

'Approach the apparatus and speak!'

Bron moved cautiously towards the amplifier, his hands up-stretched and his eyes on the

unwavering stub's of the weapons centred on his body. He inwardly saluted the police

technique of maintained distance. Even had he possessed his full commando equipment he

could not have hoped to get a gas slug or shock pellet through to the barrier without drawing

fire.

'What are you doing in the evacuated zone?' The amplifier impressed the officer's tones

with a sinister metallic burr.

'Trying to get out.' Bron's natural resistance to authority produced a spontaneous reply

which forestalled any answer the synthesis might have prompted. The amplifier carried his

words back to echo quickly against the broken walls.

'I see!' The amplifier was critical and unamused.

'Fool! You asking to get killed?' Jaycee's anger burst in his head so clearly that he found it

near impossible to believe that the amplifier would not pick it up and hurl her words across the

intervening space. 'Play it his way, you stupid cretin!'

'You heard the evacuation order last night. You know we daren't offer any resistance to

the Destroyers?'

'Yes,' prompted Jaycee.

'Yes,' said Bron.

'Then you know our instructions are to shoot on sight anyone found in the zone. Have you

any reason to offer why that instruction should not be carried out?' The men at the barrier

sighted their weapons and prepared to fire.

Colin Kapp - The Pattern of Chaos

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