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

by Barrington J. Bayley

  The harness kept Jasperodus in his seat. The seat itself, however, tore loose from its moorings and took him cartwheeling. Several times he ricochetted off writhing wreckage. Then he found himself in space, spinning end over end, though at a speed sedate enough for him to observe what was happening.

  The smashed cruiser was receding. Suddenly there was a bright flash as fuel and liquid oxygen from the ruptured tanks mixed and exploded. The explosion raged through the wreckage in rivers and rivulets. Gouts of flame shot out in all directions. Shortly the wreck was completely burned out.

  Jasperodus released his harness and pushed the chair away, contriving thereby to counteract his slow spin and also to lose most of his relative velocity. The guard post receded only very slowly now. He relaxed, spread his limbs, and simply floated, unexpectedly overcome by a strange feeling of peace and calm.

  Unresistingly he fell into a serene reverie. The apparent endlessness of sable space was soaking into his perception; he felt as though he had penetrated to the very centre of existence. His senses, moreover, had become incongruously sharp; all around him was universal majesty … The Earth, a great, silent goddess hanging hugely below him. The small, brilliant Moon. He turned, and the flashing sun seared his eyes.

  He did not know how long he floated there. It seemed like a long time. But eventually he again took thought for practical affairs and noticed that the guard post was now very small. He activated one of the nozzles of his welding kit. The thrust it produced was extremely low, but accumulative. First imperceptibly, and then slowly, he coasted back to the realm of men.

  9

  By the time an investigating spacecraft arrived from Tansiann several hours later Jasperodus had taken matters well in hand. Gathering together the survivors among the repair crew, he had shaken them out of their demoralised condition and set them to work. Under his supervision the guard post was now functioning again. The guardsmen from the imperial craft – a sleek near-orbit patrol boat – entered the hatchway to find him welding in place a new bulkhead to replace the one shattered by the Borgor shell.

  He switched off his welding kit and touched his hand to the nearest guardsman’s helmet, so as to conduct sound. ‘Your tardiness is less than commendable,’ he greeted. Then he gestured to the slotman, who was floating motionless by the other wall. ‘I believe his oxygen has just run out. You had better transfer him to your ship without delay.’

  The guardsman approached the unconscious figure, examined it, then unclipped the slotman’s oxygen pack and inserted in its place an emergency cylinder from his own equipment. He turned to his comrades and spoke something through his suit communicator. Making an attempt to lip-read, Jasperodus thought he deciphered the words: ‘Maybe he’ll pull through, maybe he won’t.’

  Then he signalled Jasperodus to touch his helmet again. ‘Well, somebody’s done a good job here. We’ve roughly got the picture: a Borgor ship attacked while the station was out of commission, and the repair crew destroyed it somehow, using the shuttle.’ He jerked his thumb. ‘Who’d have thought a slotman could pull off a stunt like that? There’ll be a medal for him, I shouldn’t wonder. Tansiann tells us the post’s transmitting all go signals now, so let’s get aboard.’

  Planing down through the atmosphere the slotman recovered consciousness. Moved by some residual fellow-feeling, one of the robots had been attending him, moving his arms so as to exercise his lungs. He sat up, moaned lightly, then lay down shivering.

  Buffeted by cross winds they approached Tansiann and made a screeching landing on one of the spaceground’s runways. The crew, still accompanied by guardsmen, straggled back to the iron shed where they were to be debriefed and receive their wages. Shortly, however, an officer wearing a livery Jasperodus did not recognise arrived.

  ‘Hold the proceedings,’ he ordered the guardsmen. ‘Word of the exploit has reached the palace. Today the Emperor is to receive those who lately have performed the Empire some special service, and he has directed that the man responsible should be present.’

  The guardsman grinned and yanked the cringing slotman forward, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Hear that? A signal honour!’

  The slotman gasped, his face white. ‘Me? Presented to the Emperor? Oh no! It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!’ And he shook all over, rolled up his eyes, and fainted in a heap on the floor.

  ‘Hm.’ The liveried officer looked down at him doubtfully. ‘Not quite of the backbone one expects in a hero.’

  Jasperodus thrust himself forward. ‘Allow me to enlighten you. It was I, not this creature, who by my initiative saved the guard post from destruction. And I claim my reward, namely to be presented to the Emperor.’

  The guardsman turned to him in surprise. ‘You, eh?’ He looked at the others. ‘Is that right?’

  The robots all confirmed Jasperodus’ boast.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said the officer from the palace. ‘Well, he will have to do.’

  ‘But a robot? It’s a mockery!’

  The other glanced at him disdainfully. ‘The Emperor himself has given a specific command. Would you disobey it? Besides, there are constructs serving at all levels of government, so the encounter will not be so strange … Now let me see … He’s in good shape for a wild one, isn’t he? Most of them are a bit decrepit. Come along with me, fellow, and we’ll get you cleaned up.’

  Later, scrubbed and polished, Jasperodus was conducted into the central basilica of the massive palace that ruled Tansiann, and beyond that, the New Empire. A feeling of excitement burned in him. To enter this place had been his eventual goal, but he had not expected to achieve it for several years to come.

  Already his journey through the palace had shown him how impressive it was – but then, he reminded himself, it was built to impress. Also, it was replete with treasures and artworks, both from the ancient world and of more recent fashioning. True, there was a certain lack of tasteful arrangement about this huge collection, as though it was booty for booty’s sake. The Emperor, perhaps, cared more for the idea of art than he properly understood it.

  The basilica itself, however, had been designed with discrimination. The sides of the oblong hall were screened by a double colonnade. Light from small mullioned windows set high in the walls mingled with a warm radiance from hidden illuminators. A concave effect was imparted to the whole interior by a series of hangings that descended from the ceiling towards the colonnade in a stepped arc.

  Murals and rich tapestries abounded. Blues, golds and purples completed the creation of an atmosphere of sumptuousness. In the dome-roofed apse at the far end of the hall was set the throne; and upon this, raised above the general run of humanity, sat the Emperor Charrane.

  Jasperodus gazed with interest upon this reputedly extraordinary man who was attempting to set a seal on history. Hitherto his only model for a monarch had been the sultry King Zhorm. Charrane, as it happened, resembled him only in evincing the same air of absolutist rule. Physically he was unimpressive: a little below medium height, slight of build, with an undistinguished face verging on the haggard and framed by a straggly fringe beard. The eyes were mild, somewhat tired-looking, and mobile.

  Someone nudged Jasperodus forward. A line of waiting men, most of them uniformed, had formed and now they were ushered one by one into the imperial presence. Each bowed low then exchanged a few words with the Emperor, before being given by him some token of his recognition. Sometimes the Emperor questioned earnestly for several minutes, but usually the interview was brief. Many of the decoratees were badly mutilated, having been flown home from the crumbling front on Mars, or having performed some feat of bravery in the occasional skirmishes with Borgor forces on Earth.

  At length, last of all, Jasperodus’ turn came. He marched resolutely before the throne, bowed, and announced: ‘Your servant, sire.’

  The page standing by Charrane’s side whispered in his ear, reading from a sheet he held. ‘Ah, yes,’ Charrane said loudly. ‘The orbital affray.’

  Now that he saw
him more closely Jasperodus realised that Charrane’s face, unremarkable though its features were, contained an unobtrusive strength. The mild violet eyes made no attempt to overwhelm but kept their own counsel. His voice was melodious and confidential, with an odd thrilling quality.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘exactly what happened.’

  Jasperodus gave him a concise, factual account of all that had taken place, beginning with the launching of the shuttle and finishing with the return to the spaceground. Charrane listened attentively, his eyes flicking over Jasperodus as he did so.

  At the end of the account he spent a minute or so looking around the basilica in ruminative fashion. There was a quiet but constant coming and going in the hall. Small groups of people gathered here and there, talking. Jasperodus could imagine the furtive intrigues that went on here, all under the gaze of this prospective ruler of mankind.

  ‘A stirring adventure,’ Charrane remarked casually. ‘You would appear to be endowed with considerable military prowess. Perhaps you would fare well on Mars. We have need of talent there. It is a hard fight, one that has cost me many good men. Four who came before me today have been awarded the Solar Circle, the Empire’s highest decoration for bravery.’ He glanced at Jasperodus. ‘Are you familiar with the campaign?’

  ‘I have followed it with interest, sire.’

  ‘Perhaps I will send you to Mars.’

  Jasperodus told himself that he might never again be presented with an opportunity like this one. This was no time for caution. He resolved to speak with all boldness, even impudence.

  ‘I am Your Majesty’s to command,’ he said. ‘The Mars venture is, as you say, a tale of courage and fortitude. But I should inform you that I have my own opinion on the subject. I believe Your Majesty should withdraw from Mars.’

  The Emperor looked at him with such startlement that for a moment Jasperodus thought that he had gone altogether too far. ‘Indeed?’ queried Charrane on a rising note. ‘And what gives you the right to reach such conclusions?’

  ‘The campaign is being conducted from a dangerously small base area, sire. As yet the Empire covers scarcely one-third of Worldmass. In my view to attempt a recovery of the ancient Mars possessions when you are scarcely consolidated here on Earth was a mistake.’

  Charrane leaned back in his seat. His eyes became glazed. He seemed thoughtful. There was a long pause.

  ‘You are a footloose construct, are you not?’ he said at length, speaking in a caressing tone. ‘You intrigue me. Tell me of your history, where you were made, who owned you and how you came to turn wild.’

  The demand took Jasperodus aback. His thoughts raced. Then he came to a sudden decision to tell all. Omitting nothing, he outlined the story of his life so far, from his activation in a darkened cabinet to his arrival here before the Emperor. He gave details of his escapades in Gordona, even when they reflected ill on himself, outlining his reasons and motives.

  The tale took well over half an hour. Charrane attended to it all, apparently fascinated.

  ‘A fictitious self-image!’ he exclaimed with a sardonic chuckle. ‘Fictitiously conscious! There’s a rare twist! Your maker was indeed a master!’

  ‘He studied under the great Aristos Lyos,’ Jasperodus supplied, though inwardly surly that his one great torment should be a subject for mirth.

  The Emperor nodded. ‘That is to be expected. Of all the arts to survive the Dark Period, robotics is perhaps the most perfectly preserved, and Lyos was without doubt its exponent par excellence. Only he, probably, would have known how to pull off such a trick.’

  ‘Was, sire? Is he no longer alive?’

  Charrane frowned slightly. ‘Some years ago he retired from active work. His whereabouts is unknown. Many believe him dead.’

  Just then someone behind Jasperodus caught the Emperor’s eye. He raised his head questioningly, then nodded briefly.

  Into the hall came a group of five musicians who set themselves up a short distance away. The various instruments they carried were unknown to Jasperodus, and were mostly of metal. He noticed, too, that all the musicians were cross-eyed – a sign, perhaps, that even here at the putative centre of renascent civilisation certain barbarities prevailed.

  The musicians blew into their instruments, manipulating them in various ways. The sounds that emerged were smooth and flashing, the rhythms staccato, and quite different from anything Jasperodus had heard before.

  ‘This is an ancient musical artform that has recently been discovered in old manuscripts,’ Charrane informed him. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It is certainly novel,’ Jasperodus admitted.

  Charrane listened further for some moments, nodding his head to the beat of the music. ‘Enough!’ he cried. ‘You will entertain us this evening.’

  The musicians packed up and left. Charrane rose to his feet, stretching as if he had spent a long and arduous time upon the throne. ‘Come with me, friend. I will show you something else.’

  Jasperodus followed him round the back of the throne dais. The raised platform hid from view of the hall several panels in the polygonal recess forming the apse. On these panels were what Jasperodus took, at first, to be crude paintings of little artistic worth.

  ‘These, also, demonstrate the classical arts,’ Charrane told him. ‘My archaeologists came upon them while excavating a magisterial villa in Indus. Sometimes it works on robots of advanced type, too. Look at them and tell me of any effects.’

  Puzzled, Jasperodus obeyed. The pictures were more in the nature of coloured cartoon drawings than paintings. The colours were pastel and flat, without any shading. On looking closer he realised that they were in fact neither paintings nor drawings but tapestries or cloth pictures of some kind, made up of thousands of tiny tufts which glinted in the light.

  The figures depicted were fairly graceful, but stylised. One scene showed a young woman in a flowing shawl, her expression dreamy, both hands lifted as if stroking at something in the air. She stood on the foreshore; white combers broke behind her, while in the sky sailed equally white clouds.

  In another, a black ship with a single white sail scudded across a phosphorescent green sea. The sky behind it was a lurid red. The ship appeared to be unmanned; there was no one on deck. But beyond the red sky could faintly be discerned the pale orbs of nearby planets.

  ‘I notice noth …’ began Jasperodus, and then something seemed to open up in his mind. The picture of the girl was no longer just a meaningless representation; it carried a story with it, a story that unfolded in every detail and went on unfolding, spreading further and further into a fantastic universe of the imagination.

  A surge of delight went through Jasperodus when he glanced from there to the picture of the black ship and experienced the same mind-expanding breadth of vision, all in the space of seconds. The universe of places and events revealed by this picture was quite different from the first, and if anything even more stupendous.

  Jasperodus looked in turn at the other panels. Each produced the same effect: an experience like encompassing some huge and intricate literary work all in a flash. Suddenly he felt that if his mind was forced to accept one more such rush of impressions it would burn out. He turned to Charrane and in a low, subdued voice described what had taken place.

  ‘Surprising, is it not?’ the Emperor agreed mildly. ‘The technique was known as dianoesis. Those little tufts that compose the pictures transmit thoughts and concepts to the beholder in some manner. Just another classical art that is irretrievably lost.’

  Charrane sauntered to stand unassumingly in front of his throne. Jasperodus followed him, his imagination still full of what had been forced into it; he struggled to bring his perceptions back down to the scale of the basilica.

  ‘But enough of art,’ Charrane announced. ‘I am obliged to give most of my time to more worldly matters. To return to your biography. In spite of your initial intemperate remarks I detected in your story a marked admiration for the Old Empire.’


  ‘That is so. The attainments of the past inspire me. I would see them equalled.’

  ‘Then we are brothers, despite our separate natures. Know, robot, that the plan of my life is to revive the glory that was Tergov.’

  The sense of will and conviction in these words impressed Jasperodus. The Emperor meant what he said.

  ‘If you concur with this aim then you can be useful to me,’ Charrane continued. ‘But to answer your earlier impertinence, it is my intention to extend the Empire as far as the moons of Jupiter, exactly as was the case in olden times.’

  ‘I fully accord with the ambition, sire. It is only the timing I disagree with. Everything must be done in the proper order.’

  ‘And how would you set the timetable?’ Charrane frowned. ‘Wait – it seems I am to be pestered with paperwork again. Here comes Ax Oleander, one of my viziers.’

  Approaching through the hall stepped a big, portly man in a flowing cloak, attended by three scurrying assistants. Anxious to see what quality of advice Charrane was receiving, Jasperodus studied this man’s face. His cheeks were bulging and purple; his small mouth held a permanent sneer and was slightly agape; his chin receded. The hooked, purple nose was surmounted by hot, close-set eyes that were staring and hostile.

  A forceful, strong personality, Jasperodus decided. But not one he would trust.

  Oleander came to a stop and swept his cloak behind him while bowing low. ‘May we crave a few moments, sire?’

  ‘You may, Ax, you may,’ said Charrane indifferently, and he began signing the documents which Oleander, while keeping up a babble of explanations, took one by one from his clerks.

  Charrane stopped on coming to one folio. ‘What is this?’ he demanded with displeasure, staring at the double sheet. He thrust it back at Oleander. ‘Have it paraphrased first.’

  The vizier glared horrified at the folio and the veins stood out on his face. ‘It should have been done!’ he remonstrated, and he turned to give one of the clerks a clout.

  Having glimpsed the sheet, Jasperodus understood. Like other leaders in history who had tried to reconstitute a shattered society, Charrane was illiterate. He was able to read only lettered script, and not the symbolic logic which in the Old Empire had been taught to every citizen, and which even now marked off the literate minority. This detail gave Jasperodus something of an insight into Charrane’s origins and character.