Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

by Barrington J. Bayley

Their relationship had developed much more favourably since their first unhappy encounter. Jasperodus, as if to make amends for his earlier indiscretion, had privately shown himself willing to perform small services for the Prince, who had come to look upon him as a useful ally. For that reason he was far from being opposed to Jasperodus’ advancement and was already apprised of the suggestion the robot was about to make.

  ‘While their crimes deserve instant death, it is sometimes a good principle to make use of such men instead of destroying them,’ Jasperodus said carefully. ‘Ruthlessness and bravado are not to be decried, provided they work for one and not against one. Now, many of Craish’s men are riff-raff and should be garotted without delay. But others would make good soldiers, given the right discipline. Craish himself is a man who turned to crime through recklessness rather than through any innate evil, and he possesses both courage and resourcefulness. He would surely submit to military service and swear allegiance to Your Majesty in return for his life.’

  Zhorm scratched his chin, looking at Jasperodus askance. ‘Not the traditional way to deal with criminals.’

  ‘The populace need not be made aware of it,’ Jasperodus pointed out blandly. ‘An immediate advantage to be gained is that Craish must know the whereabouts of the other outlaw groups in the forest, and doubtless he could be persuaded to work towards their extermination with enthusiasm. Give me him and a few of his followers, and I will soon knock the rough edges off them, I assure you. And if they should prove intractable, why, they can be shot at any time.’

  ‘Dammit, this robot talks sense,’ voiced a middle-aged, heavily-jowled man in a quilted tabard. ‘We can be rid of these infestations for good and all.’

  ‘In a general sense, I also would tend to agree,’ Prince Okhramora said mildly.

  ‘I will think on the matter,’ King Zhorm announced. ‘But I have had enough of serious talk.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Bring on the entertainment!’

  Musicians advanced into the hall, bowed, took their places, and were followed in by a troupe of dancing girls. Deep in thought, Jasperodus watched idly. As soon as he could do so without giving offence he slipped away, leaving the scene of merriment behind.

  He went through the palace and across an open courtyard to the barracks. Beneath them, deep in the earth, were some ancient dungeons, built of stone that had become damp and mildewed and smelling of decay. Descending the worn steps, Jasperodus heard the disconsolate murmurs of the prisoners who were crammed into a few dank cells. He went on past them, however, and down a passage to the cell reserved for Craish alone, where he prevailed upon the guard to unfasten the bolts.

  Before entering he waved the guard away, waiting until the man was out of both sight and earshot. Then he swung open the door.

  Squatting on the floor beside the far wall, Craish lifted his seamed face to stare impassively. The robot moved into the cell and loomed menacingly over his prisoner, his bulk eclipsing the weak electric light and throwing the cell in shadow.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ Craish said defiantly.

  The door swung shut with a clang. Craish looked alarmed but belligerent. ‘What’s this? Are you Zhorm’s executioner now?’

  ‘If I choose …’ Jasperodus’ voice reverberated quietly in the confined space. He took one step and wrenched Craish to his feet by the front of his jerkin, bringing his face close to his own. The bandit looked frightened and trapped, so close to Jasperodus’ bizarre visage.

  ‘Listen to me, you fool … you can live if you do what I say. There is a price to be paid, a small price indeed when measured against the loss of your life, effectuated by the garotte and accompanied by the howls of a vengeful mob – but it must be paid, without any omission. You must become my secret slave, together with others whom I will select. Your life will belong to me, your existence will depend upon my will. No one else will know of this; you alone will know that I am your lord and master and that my command is law.’

  Despite his situation Craish managed a croaking laugh. ‘Metal man, you’re crazy! Be a slave to a machine? It’s the other way round in my world.’

  ‘Then die!’ Contemptuously Jasperodus flung him down against the wall. ‘I will explain the circumstances, since whichever way matters fall out your silence is guaranteed. Small though it appears, this court that rules Gordona is a cesspool of intrigue. King Zhorm has a half-brother, born to the old king’s first wife. Being older than Zhorm this brother thinks himself cheated of the throne, although by right of primogeniture the throne is indeed Zhorm’s – a fine legal distinction, you may say, which varies from kingdom to kingdom. At any rate, this dolt dreams of an armed coup. It is all folly, for Zhorm is by far the better king.’ Jasperodus laughed hollowly. ‘But what is that to me? I intend to take advantage of these treasons. Do you follow me? Already I am as good as commissioned in the Guard, and my advancement will not rest there. But it is difficult for a robot to acquire faithful human servitors, and that is why I am recruiting you now.’

  Craish shook his head in bewilderment. ‘This king’s brother is your principal? You must take orders from somebody.’

  ‘I alone am the initiator of my deeds. You will not imagine anyone standing behind me, for in truth there is no one.’

  Craish pondered and sighed. ‘I can almost believe it. You’re more of a man than most men are.’

  ‘For once you show discernment. So how do you answer? You can be enrolled in the Gordonian Guard, where I will be your officer – but secretly I will be much more. You will find me a generous master and you will live well. Otherwise …’ Jasperodus saw no need to explicate further.

  Craish gave a crooked smile. ‘Need you ask? I’m in your hands. Anything you say.’

  Jasperodus made a quick judgement and felt he could be sure of the man. He leaned down and took Craish’s skull in his hand like an egg.

  ‘Fail me and I will crush you – just so,’ he said, exerting a meaningful pressure. Craish looked up with frightened, hollow eyes, nodding meekly as soon as Jasperodus released his head.

  Jasperodus left the cell with an exultant stride. A man had submitted to him, a robot, and it was a good, strong feeling. He savoured it for the rest of the night.

  Prince Okhramora giggled. ‘Come in, Commander, come in!’ Entering the apartment, Jasperodus found the Prince sitting comfortably in a padded chair, his short legs splayed out from his tubby body, a grin of glee fixed to his round face.

  Okhramora giggled again. ‘Any last-minute difficulties, Commander?’

  ‘Nothing of note, Highness. All is arranged to satisfaction. Operations will be led by Z Company, from whom we can expect absolute loyalty. The palace, being nearly empty, will be ours in minutes. We will then invest the town, and once Okrum is secure we will release the proclamation we have prepared. I have devised a ruse to separate from their arms those companies whose cooperation cannot be assumed, using the pretext of an armoury check. They will be locked in the barracks and placed under guard.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The Prince screwed up his eyes in a presumably calculating manner. ‘The announcement will appear simultaneously everywhere, and those who are with us are ready to take over all centres of population. It is well done.’

  Jasperodus continued with the run-down. ‘Within the hour the King and his retinue are due to leave for the country palace, putting them thirty miles away from the capital. On that score my stratagem is working well: the entertainment I have procured from the East has enticed away all who could wheedle themselves on to the jaunt, as anticipated. It was well worth the expense.’

  ‘And as they leave, my uncle and cousins will be arriving as the start of the new court,’ Okhramora chuckled. ‘I wish I could see Zhorm’s face when he realises what’s happened!’

  ‘Success seems assured, Highness.’

  ‘Yes; we have planned well, you and I!’

  There was a pause, Jasperodus continuing to stand rigidly before the Prince. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike Okhramora, and
his face lit up with childish glee.

  He picked up a writing scribe and threw it across the room.

  ‘Oh, look, Commander, I have dropped my scribe! Pick it up for me.’

  Obediently Jasperodus crossed the room and retrieved the scribe from the floor. As he was about to return Okhramora’s shrill voice rang out again. ‘No, no! Bring it to me on your knees!’

  Wordlessly Jasperodus trundled across the room on his knees to replace the scribe on the table. The Prince thrust out his hand warningly before he could rise.

  ‘Stay where you are, now,’ he said softly. ‘There appears to be a speck of dust upon my shoe. Be good enough to wipe it off with that cloth.’

  ‘At once, Highness.’ Taking the cloth Okhramora had designated, Jasperodus carefully polished both his buckled shoes of soft leather.

  ‘Excellent! Well, Commander, you can stand up now!’

  In the past few months Jasperodus had been playing a deceitfully inverted role with the Prince. Like most people in Gordona, Okhramora did not readily conceive of a robot without automatic obedience, and at first had been puzzled to know why Jasperodus exhibited great independence with regard to other human beings and on the other hand showed slavish attachment to himself whenever the two of them were alone together. But eventually he explained it to himself thus: Jasperodus was like a dog, he wanted only one master.

  And he, Prince Okhramora, was that master!

  Why the robot’s devotion should have fallen upon him was largely inexplicable – perhaps, he flattered himself, it reflected on his manly firmness – but it was an amazing piece of good luck. In ordinary terms Jasperodus was a genius, a veritable Machiavelli, and that genius was entirely at Okhramora’s disposal. Furthermore, no one else suspected it.

  Meanwhile Jasperodus had done well in the Guard, making him an even more attractive target for Okhramora’s attentions. Swiftly he had been promoted from Lieutenant to Captain to Major, and his military abilities were beyond dispute. He had been a hard disciplinarian to the newly-formed Z Company consisting mainly of Craish and his men, and with their help had all but cleared the West Forest of outlaws, many of whom had then been drawn into its ranks.

  Then, during a training session, a soldier of Z Company had shot Commander Haurk, obviously by accident, and Jasperodus had immediately killed him in great anger before the man could demand the reward he had promised. By this time King Zhorm had become so impressed by Jasperodus that despite all popular prejudice he promoted him to the dead officer’s appointment. Thus Jasperodus came to command the Gordonian Guard, a responsibility he pursued with full vigour, making his personality felt among men and officers in no uncertain terms.

  But in the palace itself he found that people frequently forgot to guard their tongues in the presence of a robot, much as they might forget in the presence of an animal, and so he adopted a more passive role. This, together with his tunably sensitive hearing, made the intrigues of the court an open book to him.

  He had early on realised the value of a partnership with Prince Okhramora. The Guard was riddled with his toadies and relatives, preparatory to the coup he dabbled with but would never, without Jasperodus’ help and intervention, have found the courage to activate. To gain his trust Jasperodus had cultivated their bizarre relationship, willing to bear the degradation in order to achieve his ends.

  The Prince had a perverted sense of pleasure; he delighted in seeing the Commander of the Guard – Zhorm’s own protector! – slave to his every whim. In public Jasperodus was a figure to esteem – but here he would walk on his hands if Okhramora told him to! He had actually made him do it!

  And once, when drunk, he had urinated on Jasperodus.

  The experience had carried Jasperodus back to the stables and the detestable Horsu Greb. But he bore all with complete patience.

  ‘So we have only to wait until an hour after nightfall,’ Okhramora sighed happily. ‘That will be all, Commander – see that nothing goes awry.’

  Jasperodus departed and paced the palace. The sun went down on the stone-and-timber buildings, and on the ancient town of Okrum. The bustle of the capital abated as vendors and workshops ceased business and the inhabitants settled down for the evening.

  Jasperodus took himself to the barracks. Those companies that could not be bought, numbering about half the Guard, had already handed in their arms and were now at their evening meal. Many, no doubt, were hoping to go into the town later for a bout of drinking, although Jasperodus had been circumspect about the matter of passes.

  Detaching himself from a group of officers who stood around nervously, Craish, now Captain Craish, grinned cheerfully at Jasperodus. ‘This is better than robbing trains, eh, Commander?’

  ‘Keep your mind on the present business,’ Jasperodus reprimanded him. ‘I want Z Company at the peak of alertness.’

  He returned to the palace and again sauntered through it, brooding on every detail of his scheme. He had arranged for Zhorm quickly to learn what was happening, so as to bring him rushing back to the palace and into his hands.

  He would then issue his announcement to be posted throughout the land: Prince Okhramora had staged a rebellion, killing the King, and was himself now dead. Jasperodus could then represent himself as avenging the King’s death and putting down the uprising. In the pretence of restoring order (or actually to restore order if need be) there would be a period of martial law giving Jasperodus the total control of the country he needed. Then for a short interim he would contrive to appoint himself Regent. And then …

  King!

  He went over it again and again and could see no flaw. In a confused situation power went to whoever commanded the most guns – which was himself. Gordona was a relatively peaceful country for the times they were living in, and indeed the populace would see no reason to offer resistance – until it was too late. Jasperodus was satisfied that he had removed all unknown factors from the equation.

  ‘Commander Jasperodus – meet my uncle, Count Osbah!’

  Prince Okhramora giggled. Jasperodus bowed. Unlike the Prince, Count Osbah was tall, rakishly thin, and carried himself with exaggerated hauteur. He answered the robot’s bow with a distant nod.

  So eager was Okhramora to get the affair going that he had brought the Count in by the back door almost as King Zhorm and his retinue were leaving by the front. With him had come nearly a dozen other relatives – cousins, aunts and uncles. Most of them were merely affluent middle-class farmers, for Gordona was not large enough to afford an extensive nobility.

  Okhramora’s relatives had, in fact, taken possession of the palace ahead of Z Company, and had proved more of a nuisance to the troops than any of its legitimate occupants. The servants, and the few remaining members of the court, had been locked away and Jasperodus had posted sentries among the deserted hallways.

  Now his men were in the town. He had sent a squad to occupy the police station and to incarcerate all available police in their own cells. He had also arrested the Chief of Police, the Minister of Justice, the Minister of Trades and Crafts, and other leading citizens.

  So far all was quiet.

  ‘If only Mother could have lived to see this day,’ Okhramora mooned, momentarily overcome by mawkish sentimentality. ‘It would have answered all her prayers, would it not, Uncle?’

  ‘Quite so.’ The Count gave him a precise, disdainful look.

  A sudden burst of automatic fire came from the direction of the barracks, followed by silence. Jasperodus excused himself, went to find a trooper and sent him to investigate.

  Minutes later the soldier returned to say that there had been an attempted break-out, but that all was now under control.

  Jasperodus sent the man back to his post and stood in the half-darkened corridor, wondering why he felt nervous. He fingered his weapons, a repeater gun and a long-tubed emitter – the latter an arrangement of glass coils generating a beam of intense energy. The arsenal boasted only one of these rare weapons and he had reserved it for h
is own use, since unlike bullet-firing guns it was effective if used against himself.

  Zhorm should be well on his way back to the palace by now, he thought. It would be easy for him to get inside – Jasperodus had seen to that – unless he was foolish enough to come storming in with the whole of his retinue. And he had good reason to try, quite apart from the loss of his throne. The best of all reasons; one that made it almost certain he would come alone.

  When Jasperodus returned, the salon where he had left Okhramora and Count Osbah was empty. He asked their whereabouts of a sentry.

  ‘They have gone to the Throne Room, Commander.’

  ‘Indeed? Find Captain Craish and tell him to meet me there, with a dozen of his men.’

  He went quickly to the Throne Room, entered and took in the scene in a single glance.

  The chamber was only of moderate size, in keeping with its use for ceremonial and symbolic occasions. Fashioned in the shape of a concave shell, it imparted an air of luxurious intimacy. The walls were of a soft blue colour; the doors were of mahogany and were flanked by rich azure drapes. But its usual atmosphere of hushed calm was currently entirely broken by the presence of Okhramora and all his relatives, who were gathered in front of the throne. Okhramora himself was at the rear of the chamber, bending over an aumbry where, as everyone knew, the Crown of the Realm was kept. Inexplicably, the lock’s combination was apparently also known to the Prince. He opened the aumbry and took out the much-desired symbol of sovereignty.

  The Crown! Though not of enormous value it was an object of some beauty, being the work of a talented goldsmith. Okhramora held it up for all to see; its circlet of spiralled spires glinted in the soft light. Then he ascended the three steps to the throne and stood with his back to it, lifting the Crown towards his head with an expression of triumph and bliss.

  At that moment Jasperodus bounded forward to mount the steps and snatched the Crown from his hands, cuffing him violently to send him sprawling a dozen feet away.

  Swivelling himself round on the floor, Okhramora stared with wide, disbelieving eyes. ‘What happened?’ he squeaked. ‘Is the Crown booby-trapped? No? Then what? – Jasperodus? …’