Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10

by The Zen Gun (v1. 1)

  Indignantly Carson looked at him. "We're not allowing you on one of our ships rigged out like that! You're a walking war!" He waved Sinbiane back. "And we don't need you, young man. You stay here."

  "This is my nephew," Ikematsu informed. "I go nowhere without him."

  Suddenly he made a series of quick movements, disengaging the catches of his harness, at which the rifle rack, the mortar tube and the other weapons fell away, arranging themselves on the ground with surprising neatness.

  "See," he said, "I disarm, contrary to all principle, pro-vided my nephew accompanies me. I ask only that my armoury be stored safely and returned to me eventually."

  "Oh, all right," Carson agreed. He was relieved that the kosho was being cooperative, not guessing that Ikematsu's first demand had been no more than a bargaining counter.

  He and the major helped the animals drag their dead into the pod for space burial later. Squatting inside the pod, the cheetahs especially cast feral glances at the kosho; but their discipline restrained mem from any threatening word or gesture.

  The pod lifted off. In the orbiting cruiser they delayed only while the bodies and the prisoners were transferred. Then they dropped, with the other pods Carson ordered, onto Mo.

  Five hundred commandos sliced through the moving city with a ferocity its inhabitants could hardly have envisaged. Even so, it was nearly four hours before the fugitive had been located and taken prisoner.

  That gave time for the pig Fire Command Officer to learn about the life style of the cities of the plain. He was reminded once again of his conclusions concerning the Oracle's pronouncements; accordingly, he engineered another small, but personal, triumph. With referring to Admiral Archier, he called his own department and arranged to have the whole plain nuked as they departed.

  "Those cities are a social experiment," he explained to Brigadier Carson as they watched the pinpricks of light blossom on the curve of the planet below them. "An experiment in academics: they spend—spent, rather—their whole time studying—studying history and social philosophy, among other things. Can't be too careful. No knowing what ideas they were brewing. Could be what the Oracle was talking about."

  Carson had misgivings. "The Admiral will be annoyed if he hears about it. He's supposed to give the order for things like that."

  "Oh, don't worry," Gruwert said jovially. "He can't attend to every little detail, can he?"

  And some of you humans, the pig added to himself with satisfaction, aren't so hot when it comes to making decisions.

  In Claire de Lune's command centre Ragshok had synched into the Fleet Manoeuvres Network. On the screens he saw the current dispositions as the last few ships—of a rather depleted fleet since the battle with the Escorians, he noticed—joined formation. He had learned to read some of the codes, too. He had identified, for instance, the code for what he now thought of as his own ship, and had been able to respond to instructions.

  Although it was only hours since he had joined the fleet, so far there had been no trouble. He had ignored beamed requests for reports, and as far as he knew no one had tried to come through the intermat, though as it wasn't working yet it was hard to be sure. Probably they would despatch someone in a boat sooner or later. Things could get tritky.

  He called Tengu again. "Well?"

  The image of the systems engineer appeared in the air before him. "Not yet. I'm still checking. If there's a fault, I'll find it, I swear."

  But Tengu looked worried, and Ragshok cursed. After all their work, this had to happen!

  Installing the flux unit from his ship Dare had been no small job for a start. While that was under way he had toured half a dozen worlds, picking lip rebel fugitives who had managed to evade pursuit following the battle, privateer gangs like his own, and anyone he could persuade to throw in with him and who could use a weapon.

  He had packed nearly three thousand men and women into Claire de Lune. They would be getting restless if he didn't soon produce what he had promised them.

  His whole plan depended on getting the intermat working. Tengu had earlier inspected the transceiver kiosks and announced them undamaged, despite not properly understanding how they functioned. The fact that they would not work within the bounds of the ship had seemed reasonable at the time: they were a ship-to-ship facility, and he had presumed there would be no problems once they came within range of the rest of the fleet.

  But how long would the Imperial staff remain incurious about a ship that was supposed to have been abandoned?

  "Speed it up, will you," he grated to Tengu, dismissing him.

  "Eh chief," said Morgan, messing about at the comdesk. "Look at this."

  Ragshok squinted at the display area as Morgan put up the data Fleet Manoeuvres was putting out. "It's a general order," Morgan said. "They're moving out."

  "Where to?"

  somewhere. Nowhere I guess."

  Morgan shook his head. "Just interesting. To the next bit of trouble,

  "Damn Tengu!" raged Ragshok. "This is his fault! I trusted him!"

  "What shall we do?"

  "You can get the GDC and everything out of that?"

  He was referring to Galactic Directional Coordinates. "Yes, I think so," Morgan said.

  "Then we obey orders."

  Tentatively, for he still was not too expert at handling the Planet Class destroyer, Morgan entered figures on his desk, called the engine room, and began to manoeuvre.

  Somehow or other he got into formation. The fleet withdrew from the system, meshing bubbles, and hurtled for the unknown.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Diadem—Galactic Diadem, or the Jewel in the Galactic Crown, as it was variously known in official documents— presented to the approaching visitor a splendid sight of depth when depth, of stars of every size and colour grouped, constellated, strewn and focused in patterns of dazzling complexity that no jeweller could ever have' equalled. Perhaps even more exciting, to one from the outer parts of the Empire, was the thought of the splendours, invisible from his first vantage pt«nt, of the inhabited planets Diadem contained. In the past the development of the Diadem worlds had been on a colossal scale. There were cities which, like the starry perspective of Diadem itself, exhibited depth upon depth of architectural glory, though many of these were inhabited mainly by animals now, and there were worlds galore with sculpted climates and reconstituted biospheres that rendered them planetary paradises, each according to the private tastes of its owner, though maintenance had been cursory in the decades of the robot strike and on some of them nature had already begun to take its own course.

  How it appeared to the large vessel that entered, with the permission of the Imperial Council (Diadem being one of the few regions of the galaxy where absolute territorial rights between alien races were respected), and leisurely made its way to a slightly bluish sun, was a different matter. The Methorians did not see in the comparatively short wavelengths that composed the visible spectrum for humans, and in fact did not see sharply defined solid objects at all. On their own planets were no standing cities, no fixed structures but instead gauzy rolling masses that floated and circulated within the atmospheric bands characteristic of gas giants.

  Imperial Council Member Koutroubis arrived at the fifth planet of the sun only a short time ahead of the scheduled meeting with the Methorian delegate, an event he did not look forward to In the least. The planet, a light-year from the group of worlds where the Council was accustomed to sitting, was a private residence that had been chosen mainly for its placid traffic-free atmosphere, but also because it was the home of an old friend of his who was always willing to do a favour.

  Oskay Rubadaya, a white-haired man of middling years, waved his arms in greeting as Koutroubis's official statecar descended to land just outside one of the many lodges he had dotted about the planet. The lodge itself was a rambling construction extending for about a mile in any direction. Before it there stretched a level meadow of pale green moss reaching almost to the horizon—the re
ason why the site had been selected. On its fringes arboreal parkland began. It was Rubadaya's pleasure to go for long walks through that parkland, a recurring feature over the whole planet. He was particularly fond of trees; the parks had been planned and planted by a tax-item artist from one of the outer regions of the Empire.

  Koutroubis stepped down from the statecar. "Hello Oskay." ; He sniffed the air. "Why, how . . . er, odd the atmosphere seems."

  "Innocent is the word you're looking for," Rubadayj chuckled. "What's unusual is that there's nothing artificial in the atmosphere. No perfumes or psychotropics. Mostly what you're smelling is tree resins."

  "Mm, I see." Koutroubis glanced anxiously at the sky. "I'm a little early."

  "Then come and get some refreshment." Rubadaya led the way through the entrance to the lodge and into a spacious, timbered room. He called out several times, until eventually a household robot sauntered casually in.

  "Um, this is the Council Member I told you about, Hoskiss. I was wondering if you would be good enough to mix us some drinks. This is a special guest."

  A sighing noise came from the robot's speaker. "Of course, sir," it said, in a tone conveying something other than servility. With perfunctory correctness it moved to a cabinet, busied itself with squirts and gushes, and served tall glasses on a tray.

  "Thank you, Hoskiss!" Rubadaya said fulsomely. "I really am grateful."

  "I hope so, sir. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sun myself on the patio for the rest of the day."

  The robot left. "Well at least you can get him to do something for you," Koutroubis smiled.

  The robot union gave household robots total discretion as to how or whether they served their masters. Rubadaya shook his head in exasperation. "He does just as he likes," he said. "You know, we have to pay them more respect than if they were recognised as sentients. At least as second-class citizens they'd have to do what they were told! Why don't we give them what they want?"

  "Please!" Koutroubis groaned, putting his hand to his forehead. "No more problems now! We've got enough as it is!"

  "Just as you please." Rubadaya, like most humans in Diadem, lived virtually oblivious of political matters. He was one of those who took the Empire for granted but didn't even seem to care if it was maintained or not. Sometimes Koutroubis wondered if he should resent such profound disinterest, but there was no way round it. One couldn't have a free society and coerce people as well—not, at any rate, the most privileged and civilised members of that society, which in this case meant the first-class citizenry of Diadem.

  He sucked his drink through the straw provided. "What's the population of this planet?" he asked conversationally.

  "There are three of us. Fuong, who spends most of his time on an island chain on the big ocean—that's just about diametrically opposite us here—and an old lady who's built herself a town on the equator. She has a few animals with her. It does feel a bit crowded sometimes. Always seem to be bumping into one or the other of them, though I suppose a bit of company is welcome occasionally." Rubadaya shrugged. "As I'm the freeholder I could ask them to find planets of their own, but it wouldn't be neighbourly, I feel."

  He laid down his glass. "I'm curious about this meeting. It sounds so awkward. Couldn't messengers be used instead, or something?"

  "I'm afraid not," Koutroubis said with a deep sigh. Methorians had a gaseous metabolism instead of the liquid one evolved in water oceans. The structure corresponding to the basic cell was a balloon-like gasbag. And communication was accomplished by means of gaseous diffusion of coded molecules. "When Methorians parley," he explained, "they engulf one another in a mutal gaseous effusion. There has to be personal proximity, or nothing significant has happened.

  They insist on the same in their rare dealings with us. Apparently they feel psychologically that we haven't taken any notice of them, otherwise."

  "What kind of 'gaseous effusion' are you going to give off?" Rubadaya asked with amusement.

  "That's all arranged."

  "Why does it have to be us who accommodate them?" Rubadaya rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Isn't their technology more advanced than ours? You'd think gaseous creatures, especially being as huge and fragile as they are, would find it pretty difficult to be space travellers at all."

  "Yes, they are pretty big, and unwieldy, as you say. But I wouldn't say their technology's any better than ours overall. Perhaps not as good. They are a much older race than we are, but everything's taken them much longer. For their first few million years they had no proper concept of a solid object, for instance.

  "Actually they use a trick for space travel; they compress themselves. It's possible for a gas creature, you know. It's uncomfortable, I believe, but without it their ships would have to be simply enormous. They're ten times the size of ours as it is."

  A voice sounding in his ear sent Koutroubis's nervous apprehension leaping up the scale. It was his spider monkey pilot.

  "They're coming in, sir."

  "Let's watch the thing land," Koutrbubis suggested to Rubadaya as he came to his feet. "Ought to be quite a sight."

  Outside, they could see a small ball high in the sky. It was the Methorian landing craft. Having detached itself from the main ship outside the atmosphere, it was inflating as it descended, allowing its occupant to decompress and assume full size.

  By the time it came to sink close to the meadow the ball was a rippling sphere about a hundred feet in diameter. Gently it settled, its underbelly swelling on the moss, putting out tendrils which gripped the turf and steadied it.

  "Wish me luck," Koutroubis said glumly.

  His staff of primates and elephants hurried towards him with the atmosuit and gas generator trolley he would need inside the sphere. He allowed them to garb him and lead him forward to the orifice that plopped open in the bulging skin. It was like entering a pale orange mouth, which closed behind him. Then the throat opened, and he moved forward into a reddish medium he knew to be composed of hydrogen, methane, ammonia and countless complex volatiles.

  Visually, it was confusing. The gases of the globe's interior swayed and swirled, mainly, it seemed, because of the constantly windmilling motion of the Methorian, which occupied about a third of the available space. It was hard to make out the creature clearly; more than anything else it reminded Koutroubis of a gigantic multihued jellyfish suspended in the murky air, the central mass surrounded by wavy translucent veils tipped with filaments. Gas-giant life was, he had been told, of such delicacy that a human being could not come into physical contact with it without doing it some damage.

  The trolley had obediently followed him into the sphere and now began serving its function of expelling code gases that soughed out and mingled with the atmosphere. He had been assured these would give the Methorian the needed psychological experience of a communicating presence that at the same time carried a sufficiently individual tang to give it the tag of being alien and human.

  The job of language translation had fortunately been handled by the Methorians. A low but melodiously clear voice spoke to him, emanating from nowhere in particular.

  "/ am the delegate that was sent."

  "I welcome you to Diadem, centre of our Empire," Koutroubis responded.

  "Normally such visits are not needed. Our races live in different environments, supplying neither common interest nor points of conflict. We do, however, inhabit the same spacetime. A rupture has appeared in the meshwork that composes this spacetime. Through this rupture our instruments discern the Simplex; the veil of the world is torn, exposing the lacework."

  Koutroubis swallowed. He knew full well the" accusation that was coming. The Methorian was probably using metaphors appropriate to his own lifeform. A human would have said 'face' and 'bones' rather than 'veil' and 'lacework.'

  "What can it mean?" the creature continued. "Through the tear come incomprehensibles that cause havoc on three of our worlds. We ask ourselves what our scientists or engineers have done to create this catastrophe.
We find nothing. We ask the other races with which we share the galaxy. From Diadem comes a positive answer. I must now ask you to confirm that answer in person."

  Had it been given a proper opportunity, the Imperial Council might well have preferred to dissemble about the matter. Unluckily a reply had been transmitted direct, in between Council meetings, by a group of tax-item scientists working in the civil service. It was too late to back out now.

  "Yes," Koutroubis said wearily, "we think—only think, mind—that one of our research facilities might have been responsible. It was working on feetol technique—the same that your ships use."

  "What is to be done? The rent grows bigger. Sentient beings in all galaxies might soon have cause to criticise your behaviour. I am instructed to ask what remedial action is proposed."

  "We're working on it," Koutroubis said doggedly.

  "May I receive relevant technical information? We too will seek a way to avert catastrophe, the case being possibly dire."

  "Yes, I think I can arrange that."

  I hope I can arrange it, Koutroubis corrected himself. Even the civil service was now in disarray. The Council had lost much of its power of action.

  By the Simplex, he wasn't even sure if the emergency science team had been assembled in the end!

  But it wouldn't do to try to explain such confusion to the Methorian.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For the hundredth time Tengu finished checking the circuitry of the intermat kiosk and put his logic probe back in his pocket, his face displaying a now-familiar feeling of aggravation mixed with anxiety. There was nothing wrong either with the switching or with the feetol interface that enwrapped the cubicle and on which the system depended. Of course, he didn't really know how the intermat worked, and there was one new introduction into the ship's workings as a whole— the replacement flux unit. It delivered a flux curve that was perfectly normal—but could the old ruined one have added some necessary kink, perhaps? If so he would never find out what it was.