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

by Barrington J. Bayley

  ‘Naturally not, Your Majesty,’ replied Haight, taken aback by the suggestion. ‘But serious damage can be wrought from which it would take centuries to recover. More to the point, the Hegemonics must know of the armada we have in preparation. It will form a prime target for their attentions. They will certainly try to destroy it before it is completed.’

  This time it was the emperor’s turn to be startled. ‘They could penetrate even this far – to Node One?’

  ‘Even that cannot be discounted, though it’s unlikely in my view. They will try to attack it indirectly by wreaking such changes in our future that the effects will reach far back in time, delaying or preventing the construction of the armada in the first place. It could be done if their knowledge of Chronotic history is detailed enough.’

  ‘And it probably is,’ Philipium confirmed in a worried tone. ‘I have heard there has been some intercourse between agents of the Hegemony and a dissident religious sect known as the Traumatics.’ He shook his head in exasperation. His right hand began to tremble more noticeably.

  ‘The assembling of the armada simply cannot be hastened,’ he informed Haight. ‘The project is already at full stretch; there are no more resources that can be put into it.’

  ‘Your Majesty, if we leave matters as they stand at the moment, there is no saying how things will end.’

  ‘You speak as though you were one of my ministers, instead of merely a commander in the Time Service,’ Philipium said with a warning note of reproof.

  ‘I beg Your Majesty’s pardon. It is my concern over the situation that prompts me to speak so.’

  ‘Everyone, it seems, has decided to be impudent today. Still, you have seen action at first hand. You know how things look at the frontier. What suggestions have you for strengthening the forward watch? We could,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘release some ships completed for the armada for that purpose.’

  ‘That would help, Your Majesty, but the first priority must be to gain parity with the enemy over the matter of his new weapon. To that end I advocate a raid into Hegemonic territory with a force strong enough to overcome any local resistance, in an effort to capture a sample distorter.’

  ‘Do you think that is a feasible operation?’

  ‘Yes, if we have agents who can find out where a distorter is kept, so as to give us a target point. The Hegemony consists of one node only, which makes the matter simpler.’

  The emperor opened a lacquered box and sniffed at a pinch of the reddish powder it contained. He was thoughtful. ‘We do have agents in the Hegemony. Mostly among those whom our early missionaries converted to the true faith. Needless to say they are already at work on the business of the distorter, but messages are slow to reach us due to the inability to transmit through time.’

  He inhaled more snuff. ‘You will attend the meeting of the Military Council tonight. We will discuss this.’

  ‘With great pleasure, Your Majesty.’

  In the event Illus Ton Mayar delayed his departure from the palace for an hour or two. Princess Mayora was an insistent host, and despite his gloomy manner, she continued to inveigle him into conversation with the socialites who flitted in and out of the court chamber. He even spoke with Captain Vrin and heard from him a first-hand account of his part in the recent battle for Gerread – an account, he suspected, already polished with much retelling, even thought the battle-damaged timeships had arrived only a little before dawn.

  But his nagging desire to return to his underground vaults eventually overcame the pleasure of social life. He was about to tender his farewells to the princess when a liveried servant approached him.

  ‘His Highness the Prince Vro would speak with you, Archivist, if it is convenient,’ the servant informed him.

  Although couched in the politest terms, coming from a prince the message was an order. Puzzled, Mayar followed the servant and shortly came to Vro’s morbid quarters.

  The prince leaped up with alacrity when he entered. ‘Ah,’ he greeted, ‘I tried to contact you at the archives, but they said you were here at the palace.’

  Mayar glanced surreptitiously around the place, trying not to seem inquisitive. ‘An audience with His Majesty your father,’ he explained diffidently.

  ‘More mutations, eh?’ Vro gave him a querying, penetrating look.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  He relaxed a little. Prince Vro had always struck him as being the most intelligent of the imperial family. The business with the body of Princess Veaa was known to Mayar, of course … but that was entirely a personal affair.

  He tried to keep his eyes away from the wall-wide holocast of the vacant mausoleum. ‘How may I serve Your Highness?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, you come straight to the point. A man after my own heart.’

  Holding nothing back, Prince Vro told him how he had hired the Rolce Detective Agency to hunt down Princess Veaa’s body. He recounted, as well as he could, the conversation he had held with Rolce an hour before. When he came to speak of the peculiar difficulties and anomalies Rolce had been encountering, Mayar grew more and more agitated.

  ‘Could time become dislocated in the way Rolce suspects?’ he asked Mayar.

  ‘From natural mutations – no,’ Mayar told him. ‘The natural movements of the substratum always smooth out cause-and-effect relationships in both directions. But in principle there’s nothing to prevent dislocated phenomena arising through some sort of artificially applied distortion. Excuse me, sir, but may I be permitted to sit?’

  Prince Vro nodded sympathetically. Mayar edged himself to the straight-backed chair Perlo Rolce had recently occupied. He felt weak and dizzy.

  ‘A detective agency – of course!’ he exclaimed, his voice hoarse with sudden understanding. ‘It’s logical. Only a detective would notice details on so small a scale. Even the Achronal Archives cannot keep track of everyday events.’

  ‘But what does it all mean?’

  ‘It means what Rolce says it means. That the war with the Hegemony is going badly. It’s that damned distorter of theirs. Cracks are appearing in the order of things – little cracks, at first. Eventually they’ll get bigger.’

  ‘What an amusing prospect.’

  Mayar looked at him sharply.

  ‘Well, you might as well get used to the idea, Archivist. It’s got to happen. Nothing can stop the war now. You have observed, of course, that my father the emperor is a religious maniac. Aided and abetted by that incredible bigot Reamoir, he is determined to hurl his armada at our descendants in the far future. I am even expected to command one of its squadrons myself!’ Vro’s lips twisted cynically. He moved away to gaze into the mausoleum. ‘No doubt all will shortly come crashing about our ears. But all of this means nothing to me. I care only for saving my beloved Veaa.’

  Mayar scarcely heard his last words. He passed a hand wearily across his brow. ‘We are living in a dream,’ he said in an exhausted voice. ‘This world – it is all an illusion. Only the strat is real …’

  ‘An interesting point of view.’ Prince Vro turned to face him again.

  ‘In my archives are records of nations, cultures, whole civilisations that have been removed from time,’ Mayar said. ‘Millions of people – mere figments, of whom we have a record only by a technical trick. How can something that vanishes and changes be real? That is why I say only the strat is real – and even then, what is the strat? We do not know. This time-travel: it is merely a way of moving from one part of a dream to another.’

  ‘Your view of life comes close to my own,’ Prince Vro told him softly. ‘Nothing is real; no matter is of more significance than any other. That is what I tell myself whenever my intellect chides me for my obsession with my beloved Veaa.’

  The prince handed Mayar a thick envelope. ‘Since you are able to take Rolce’s suspicions seriously, I want you to do some work for me. This is his report. I’ll send him to you tomorrow to explain it personally.’

  ‘Work, Your Highness?’ Mayar accepted th
e envelope gingerly.

  Vro nodded. ‘With his investigations and the contents of your files, it should be possible to carry out a – what do you call it – a mapping, should it not? I want you to help Rolce locate the princess. If detective work in orthogonal time is not enough, then perhaps you can turn something up in strat time.’

  When Mayar left Prince Vro and made to leave the palace, clutching the private investigator’s report, his mind feverish, he chanced to pass by the audience chamber where he had earlier spoken with the emperor.

  The huge frame of Commander Haight emerged from the chamber. Grim-faced, he swept by Mayar without a word.

  After him came the emperor, leaning on the arm of an attendant. He stopped when he caught sight of Mayar, who bowed low.

  ‘Still here, Archivist?’

  ‘Your Majesty, there is a recommendation I would make.’

  The notion had been in his mind for some months, but in the last half-hour it had jelled into a firm desire. Philipium frowned, not liking to be accosted so, but he signalled Mayar to continue.

  ‘I am becoming increasingly concerned for the safety of the archives, Your Majesty. I have come to the conclusion that the present arrangements are unsatisfactory.’

  Now Philipium became displeased. ‘The time-buffers surrounding your vaults were installed at colossal expense,’ he admonished. ‘You approved them at the time. Now you tell me they are no good.’

  ‘I feel that the situation is changing rapidly, Your Majesty. My new proposal will entail less expense. The buffers are satisfactory up to a point – but if the enemy should succeed in getting behind us, as it were, and attacking the year in which the buffers were erected, then they could be obviated and the archives would be rendered useless for their purpose.’

  Philipium’s grey face lost its anger as, with eyes downcast, he considered the point. ‘So?’

  ‘The only really foolproof way of making the archives safe from orthogonal mutations is to locate them in the strat. This could not be done before, due to the communications problem – it’s necessary to have continuous computer contact with the records of the Imperial Register, so as to detect anomalies, and there was no way to do this. The technical problem has now been solved. We can float at anchor in the strat while connected by cable to the offices of the registrar.’

  ‘By cable?’

  ‘The technique is a new one known as graduated phasing, Your Majesty. The Achronal Archives should then be proof against any orthogonal changes.’

  ‘Very well, I approve. I will issue an authorisation.’

  The secretary in the emperor’s retinue immediately made a note of the proceedings. Mayar bowed low and left.

  Philipium retired to his private quarters, dismissed the retinue except for one personal servant, and sent for his favourite comforter. With a hoarse, deep-seated sigh he sank into a comfortable couch and accepted a dose of the medicine that quieted his shaking a little.

  The comforter arrived. This was Philipium’s favourite relaxation. An atmosphere of peace and silence, the lights shaded to rest his aching eyes.

  The comforter sat to one side of the emperor so as to be out of his line of vision. He opened the book he carried and in a gentle, soothing voice began to read.

  ‘There is the body, and there is the soul. The body belongs to orthogonal time. But the soul, being spiritual, is eternal; yet it does not persist beyond its appointed period in time …’

  Elsewhere Narcis1 and Narcis2 disported on a couch that was more luxurious than their father’s and surrounded by orchids, while the atmosphere of the boudoir was pervaded by sweet perfumes.

  They looked into each other’s eyes, smiling and sated. ‘One day soon something strange will happen,’ Narcis2 said in a sad, dreamy voice. ‘Something very, very melancholy.’

  ‘What is that, dearest?’ Narcis1 murmured.

  ‘He will come and steal you from me. Like a thief in the night. The third one.’

  Briefly there dawned in Narcis1’s eyes the realisation of what the other was talking about – the day, barely a year ahead, when by natural ageing they would reach the date when he had secretly appeared in his future self’s bedroom and seduced him. It was a paradox he had never really bothered to work out for himself.

  ‘Yes, I shall have a visitor,’ he said wonderingly. ‘He will enchant me and entice me away. Away into the past!’

  ‘Don’t talk like that! I shall be left all alone!’ Narcis2 covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh, I hate him! I hate him!’

  Narcis1 gazed at him with teasing, imagining eyes.

  THREE

  The Seekers, the Pointers, the Pursuers, all were present. The Choosing could go ahead.

  The ceremony was in the apartment of a rich member of the sect. One of the elegant rooms had been converted into a temple. The altar, containing a representation of the Impossible Shape (an abstract of warped planes, said to echo the form of Hulmu), was lit by shaded cressets.

  All knelt, the ceremonial black cloths draped over their heads, save the vicar, who stood facing the assembly, wearing the Medallion of Projection, which showed a gold miniature of a holocast projector. On his head was a low flat-topped hat. Upon this hat he placed the black Book of Hulmu to allow the vibrations of its words to flow down into him.

  The orisons began. ‘Lord of all the deep, perceive us and know that we thy servants act out our parts …’

  The chanting grew louder. The vicar feverishly muttered an incantation, known only to sect members of his own rank, which acted on a hypnotically planted subconscious command. Almost immediately he went into a trance.

  He spoke with the voice of Hulmu.

  It was a harsh, twanging voice, quite unlike his own or that of any other human being.

  ‘Are my Seekers present?’

  ‘We are present, Lord!’ cried one section of the congregation.

  ‘Are my Pointers present?’

  ‘We are present, Lord!’ chanted another group.

  ‘Are my Pursuers present?’

  The remainder of the gathering spoke up. ‘We are present, Lord!’

  ‘Then let my Pointers choose.’

  Abruptly the glazed, empty look went out of the vicar’s eyes. He removed the black book from his head.

  ‘All right, let’s get on with it,’ he said conversationally in his normal tone.

  The tension went out of the meeting. They removed their black headcloths. The gathering was suddenly informal.

  The Pointers huddled together. One of them pulled a cord. A curtain swished aside, revealing a complete set of Chronopolis’s massive street directory.

  A sect member with a self-absorbed face thoughtfully selected a volume.

  Another snatched it from him, bent back the covers, and flung the book to the floor so that it splayed its leaves on the tiles.

  Yet another picked it up and smoothed out the pages that fortune, through this procedure, had selected. He stared at the ceiling while allowing his fingers to roam at random over the paper.

  Everyone watched in silence as his fingers slowed to a stop.

  ‘Eighty-nine Kell Street,’ he read out. ‘Precinct E-Fourteen. Inpriss Sorce, female.’

  ‘Inpriss Sorce,’ someone said, savouring the name. They all started wondering what she was like: young or old, pretty or plain; what her fear index was.

  ‘The Pursuer team will begin operations tomorrow at nine,’ the vicar intoned.

  ‘Inpriss Sorce.’ All the Pursuers began murmuring the name to themselves with a growing sense of pleasure.

  They were glad the victim was a woman.

  Inpriss Sorce was thirty years old. She had a neat, slightly melancholy face with light-brown eyes, and an average figure. She lived in a two-room apartment and worked as a clerk for Noble Cryonics, a firm that did a great deal of work for the government.

  Once she had held a better-paid job with the Historical Office, but had lost it when a jealous comforter cast aspersions on her piety. The p
ost she held now, though it reduced her station in life, did not require vetting by the Church. It did, however, entail living in a poorer part of the city. Also, most of her friends from the Historical Office now wanted little to do with her, so she was, for the time being, lonely.

  She had come home from work and was wondering what to do with the evening when the Pursuers paid their call.

  The casers had already been at work some hours before. One of them met Rol Stryne and Fee Velen as they arrived at the entrance to the apartment block. Briefly he explained the layout of Inpriss Sorce’s small dwelling. The window in the living-room gave access to a fire escape.

  ‘Very good,’ said Stryne. ‘Give us half an hour.’

  Velen carried a large tool-box which he lugged awkwardly as they mounted the stairs. On the third floor Stryne found the right door and knocked on it. When it opened, they both pushed their way inside.

  Inpriss Sorce was carried back by their onrush. ‘What – what do you want?’ she demanded shrilly.

  Their eyes flicked around the small apartment. Stryne looked at Inpriss, studying her face, his gaze roving up and down her body. He liked what he saw and was feeling a warm glow of anticipation.

  Hulmu had chosen well. It was going to be good; Hulmu would be entertained.

  The girl retreated to the far wall and put her hand to her throat. ‘What do you want?’ she repeated in a whisper. She had seen the expression in their eyes. ‘Just tell me what you want.’

  ‘This is the most important day of your life, lady,’ Stryne told her. ‘You’re going to experience … what you never experienced before.’

  They both took the black cloths from their pockets and draped them over their skulls.

  Inpriss shrank back in horror. ‘Oh, God! No! No!’ She let out a weak scream, but before she could finish it they had seized her and Velen had clapped a hand over her mouth. She was trembling and almost unresisting as they carried her to a table from which Stryne swept cups and books. They placed her on it. Stryne took stout cord which he looped around the legs of the table and, using specially prescribed knots, caught her wrists and ankles.