Roboteer

by Alex Lamb

  He stepped into the throne room and stopped. A raised dais like a stepped pyramid stood before him, lit by a single shaft of artificial sunlight that shone down from yet another vaulted ceiling. It illuminated the enormous seat in which sat the greatest socio-political genius of recent history: His Honesty the Prophet Pyotr Sanchez.

  Sanchez was the man who’d answered the crucial question of their age: How do you unite the warring factions of a world that has been locked in violence for generations? His answer: by directing their attention towards a common enemy. The enemy he’d chosen was a good one, too: the capitalists who’d fled the world with as much money as they could carry when the ecology turned bad.

  The organisation Sanchez had founded, the Church of Truism, was a masterpiece of administrative science. It was part pyramid scheme, part army and part cult. There was room in it for every human ideology that existed, so long as it was prepared to support his cause and recognise his ultimate authority. Sanchez had truly changed the world.

  The Prophet’s features were barely visible at this distance, just an oval of tea-coloured skin for a face above a snowdrift of robes, but he sat at the apex of an impressive tableaux. On the step just below him stood Ramon the First, the King of the Nation of Man and formal leader of Earth’s military government. Ramon wore a gown covered from neck to toe with intricate heraldic symbols in the midnight-blue and gold of the Medellins – the favoured subsect he led. Beneath the king stood the Prophet’s favoured courtiers, arrayed in all their ludicrous finery, looking towards the door – watching Gustav’s approach.

  Gustav knelt. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then hidden speakers amplified the Prophet’s hoarse rattle to a Titan’s boom.

  ‘You may approach, my child.’

  Keeping his eyes carefully downcast, Gustav rose. He gathered the folds of his cumbersome robe of dark Reconsiderist brown and started the climb to the top of the pyramid. A sensation of profound unease grew in the pit of Gustav’s stomach as he ascended. He ignored it. The feeling was not his own, but rather the result of a bombardment of tailored infrasonics. It was well known that Sanchez had the best psycho-architectural consultants the planet could provide. The watching courtiers, the incredible opulence and the grand flight of stairs ahead of him were all intended to create a feeling of awe and reverence. The two emotions they created in Gustav, however, were annoyance and suspicion.

  Gustav reached the step below the king and knelt again. The step was fractionally too narrow to manage this comfortably. It drew one’s attention to how easy it would be to fall backwards, away from the throne, and shame oneself irretrievably in the process.

  The king spoke. ‘Your Honesty, may I present to you General Gustav Ulanu. It was his work that made the liberation of Memburi possible.’

  His voice was rich and round, just as a king’s should be, and Gustav could read nothing from it. He knew the king would prefer to see a Medellin do his job, but Gustav doubted that any of the Medellins’ pitiful scientific ranks could do what he did, even if they were given the chance.

  The role of king was another of Sanchez’s inspired inventions. By allowing the rulers of each faction that joined his church to retain power over their own people, Sanchez had created a highly volatile government. Many of the movements that had become Truist subsects were still fiercely acquisitive and held long-running grudges against each other. Sanchez had stopped them from knifing him in the back and taking power for themselves by giving the tangible reins of power to someone else. At the same time, he’d managed to make himself an indispensable symbol of authority for all.

  Which meant Ramon was expendable, and he knew it. His voice carried far less weight than he would have liked.

  ‘You may look upon me, General,’ said the Prophet. His amplified words boomed around the throne room.

  Gustav stared up into the walnut-wrinkled face. Sanchez was so old now. He’d finally lost the shock of white hair that had once been his trademark feature, but his eyes were still keenly attentive, and dark like bottomless pools.

  ‘I commend you on your work, General,’ Sanchez croaked. ‘You have put a flaming sword in the hands of our crusaders. The forces of evil are driven back and the age of unity draws closer. God sees your efforts and is pleased.’ He paused to wheeze. ‘That is why he has instructed me to grant you personal subsect rights over twelve and one half per cent of the Sin-World Galatea upon successful conclusion of this crusade.’

  There were gasps throughout the room. For a moment, Gustav couldn’t believe what he’d heard. A grant like that represented a massive fortune – it would secure his family for generations, if he ever chose to have one. He struggled to keep the surprise out of his eyes. It was a long time since he’d been caught off guard this way.

  A brief sideways glance at the round, jowled face of the king told Gustav that Ramon wasn’t thrilled by the Prophet’s generosity, but he wasn’t surprised either. Gustav quickly returned his gaze to the Prophet.

  Sanchez’s face crumpled like a brown paper bag as he bestowed on Gustav a benevolent smile. His eyes, though, remained as hard as lumps of jet.

  ‘I have heard the stories of your endeavours, General,’ he said.

  Gustav’s ears pricked up. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘The difficulties your research has presented you with. The long months of study it has taken for you to devise this great weapon for us. Now, at last, we have proven its value in battle. Soon, your great work will be done.’

  Gustav held his breath. Sanchez had chosen his words carefully. Without sharing the news with the rest of the court, he had made it very clear that he knew Gustav had been delaying the attack on Galatea.

  Why the gift, then?

  ‘I have pondered your great sacrifice to the holy cause,’ said Sanchez, ‘and decided that there is something I can do to aid you in your final efforts. I have assigned Disciple Rodriguez from my own staff to act as your assistant.’

  In other words, he was being handed a spy. Gustav’s face stiffened.

  ‘Disciple Rodriguez, you may approach.’

  As soon as the Prophet said his name, Gustav could guess who it was going to be. He glanced to his side as someone in a white gown stepped up and knelt beside him. It was the man from the antechamber. For the briefest instant, they locked gazes. Rodriguez’s eyes shone with something like victory.

  It occurred to Gustav then why he’d received this sudden fortune. He was being bought off. The Prophet had finally decided to bring the whole unpredictable business of the suntap within the reach of the High Church. The realisation appalled him.

  If the High Church imagined that any amount of money would be enough to make him simply hand over the project, they’d have to think again. He wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

  ‘You may speak,’ said the Prophet.

  Gustav kept his voice carefully neutral. ‘Your Honesty, I have no words adequate to express the gratitude I feel. I desire only to do God’s work. I pray that I can make worthy use of these unexpected gifts.’

  The Prophet regarded him inscrutably for a moment, reading the implications behind his words. He might have been old, but his wits were still razor sharp. ‘As do I, my child,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘You may leave, and take my blessings with you.’

  Gustav stood and backed carefully down the stairs, struggling with the clumsy robe and seething all the while. The disciple matched his descent with practised ease, step for awkward step.

  As soon as they reached the antechamber, Rodriguez turned on him with a triumphant grin. He bowed his respects to Gustav a little too quickly to be convincing.

  ‘General,’ he crooned. ‘I’m honoured to be working with you. I’m looking forward to a close and highly beneficial relationship.’

  Gustav kept his face still. He said nothing until his silence made Rodriguez’s smile falter. ‘Indeed,’ he replied at last. He curved his mouth into a humourless grin and looked Rodriguez up and down. ‘Welcome t
o the team. Now let’s go and mingle, shall we? I’m sure half the court is dying to speak with us.’

  Gustav had no appetite for the socialising that followed. Rodriguez hovered relentlessly by his side like some kind of pet or parasite. It was all Gustav could do not to let his fury show.

  The real question was how the Prophet had learned of his delay. Gustav felt sure he knew the answer. It had to be Tang. In his eagerness to begin the full military phase of the operation, he’d sold Gustav out.

  Tang was a fool.

  Gustav was relieved when a white-liveried data valet approached him, his visor winking.

  ‘General, sir. Your presence is requested by Lord Oswald Khan for a private audience.’

  Gustav exhaled. Oswald was his ally at court. Maybe he could do something about this intolerable situation.

  ‘I will attend him immediately,’ Gustav replied. ‘Gentlemen, I apologise.’ He nodded his respects to the new batch of courtiers surrounding him and set off.

  Rodriguez started to follow, but the valet stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he told the disciple nervously. ‘Only the general was invited.’

  Rodriguez glowered angrily for a moment before he could paste an expression of nonchalance over his features. ‘Of course,’ he said lightly. ‘I shall be here, General, if you need me.’

  Gustav arched one eyebrow, then turned and walked quickly towards the exit.

  The valet hurried to match his leggy pace. ‘He’s waiting for you in the Reconsiderist apartment, sir,’ he explained. ‘Room four-four-eight-three. The Fern Garden.’

  Gustav nodded. He’d already guessed his destination.

  The valet signalled the door open and Gustav stepped into the executive lift. He tried to compose his thoughts as he ascended. Oswald was the only person Gustav knew with the political power and skill to get Rodriguez dropped from the project. There was reason enough to think he could – Oswald was the man who’d created Reconsiderism. Gustav respected his political ability almost as much as he respected the Prophet’s. For the longest time, Earth’s Muslim population had been losing out to Truism. Islam specifically dictated that Mohammed was God’s last prophet. Thus Muslims could not join the Truist cause, and so were excluded from the military and economic reforms sweeping the world. Reconsiderism had offered a way out of that economic trap. It claimed that God had seen the Terror Century and, in disgust, had changed his mind. He had given mankind one more prophet because they had strayed so far from the path of righteousness.

  Oswald had converted Gustav to his new subsect in the slums of Sophia while the Pomak Riots raged all around them. He’d won Gustav over with a solemn promise that his movement would retain the proudest traditions of Islamic culture. To Gustav that meant vigorous rational debate, a strict adherence to law and no compromise over interference from outsiders.

  So far Oswald had been as good as his word, even to the extent that Reconsiderism had become the Truist church’s unofficial scientific division. Gustav hoped Oswald could stick to it now.

  The lift reached its destination. Gustav strode out into the brown-and-white-tiled Reconsiderist apartment and down the hallway to the Fern Garden. He pushed through the old-fashioned revolving door into the sweltering air on the other side.

  The Fern Garden was a greenhouse of sorts set at the corner of the great tiered palace. It was full of large fronded plants, most of which had been extinct on Earth for over a generation. New specimens had been brought back from Mars after the crusade. Not entirely accidentally, the Fern Garden’s sprinklers and steam machines played havoc with surveillance equipment. Quirks in the room’s construction also made wireless comms almost impossible. It was private, and the Reconsiderists kept it that way.

  Gustav followed the narrow stone path, took the stepping stones over the artificial brook and found Oswald by the far window, looking out. Oswald was a tall man with nut-brown skin and a ring of white curly hair around his balding head. He turned as Gustav approached and smiled a little wistfully. His face would not have looked out of place on some ancient Ethiopian king.

  Gustav bowed. ‘My Lord.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Oswald. ‘We’re alone.’

  Gustav relaxed a little. He and Oswald had remained close ever since that day in Sophia, despite the different directions in which their work had taken them. As close, at least, as Gustav ever let his allies get.

  He got straight to the point. ‘I want that snowboy off my team.’

  Oswald winced at Gustav’s language and slowly shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, old friend. I did my best, but Sanchez was adamant. He’s determined to shut you down. Rodriguez is going with you to make a feasibility assessment.’

  Gustav experienced a moment of horrible bewilderment. ‘What do you mean, shut me down?’

  ‘I mean it’s over, Gus. Sanchez wants to close the Relic Project.’

  The words took a few moments to sink in. ‘He can’t,’ Gustav blurted.

  ‘Unfortunately, he can.’

  Gustav fixed Oswald with a stare. ‘Doesn’t he get it? You can’t keep something like the Relic secret for ever. Sooner or later, someone’s going to find out.’

  Oswald nodded. ‘I know, but the High Church doesn’t see it that way. It frightens them, Sanchez most of all.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘Had it not been for Galatea, I doubt they’d have let us get this far. It was only because they needed the suntap.’

  Gustav grimaced. Trying to bury the Relic was a crime against science. But more importantly, it was politically stupid. Sanchez had made the problem for himself years ago when he dismissed the possibility of extraterrestrial life on theological grounds. He’d decided at the very dawn of Truism that with so many conflicting religions to unite, no mere text would be strong enough to sit at the centre of his new faith. There could be no Bible or Koran because people would always prefer the books they already had to what he could give them. So he’d declared the human genome itself to be the living embodiment of God’s word.

  Unfortunately, that meant many of the Prophet’s arguments hinged upon the idea of mankind’s superiority among God’s creations. Revealing the discovery of an ancient and highly advanced alien civilisation would cause an outcry in the Following, even if that civilisation was long since dead. In Gustav’s opinion, a justification for the Relic’s existence needed to be seeded slowly, carefully and soon.

  ‘Maybe I’ll have to give them an incentive to see sense,’ said Gustav.

  Oswald regarded him sadly and sighed. He clearly knew exactly what Gustav meant. Several times in the past they’d talked about leaking the news to the public in a controlled way, spun so as to minimise the unrest while also spurring the church into action.

  ‘They’d kill you.’

  Gustav shrugged. ‘Perhaps. If they were rash. I could make it very expensive for them.’

  Oswald laid a hand on Gustav’s shoulder. ‘Gus, listen. If the truth comes out now, the crusade will grind to a halt.’

  Gustav smiled dryly. ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘And there is your problem, my friend,’ said Oswald sadly. ‘You’ve been away from Earth too long, hiding in your secret laboratory.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  Oswald pressed his palms together and looked down. ‘While you have been gone, the Prophet has become … unwell.’

  Gustav peered at him. There had been no news of this. But then, of course, there wouldn’t be.

  ‘His doctors tell us he doesn’t have long to live,’ Oswald continued. ‘I believe this is why he’s decided to end the suntap project now. He doesn’t have the strength to lead the people through such a big change to dogma, and he doesn’t trust those who follow him to do any better. So he’d rather not have it happen at all.’

  Gustav could guess the consequences of leaking the Relic’s existence at such a bad time. With the High Church weakened, some subsect or other would break the truce and the entire crusade woul
d go on hold while Earth’s factions vied for power. In the worst case, they could collapse back into civil war. In the meantime, the Galateans would regroup. They might even try to liberate the other colonies. The chances of Earth mounting a viable second crusade would be poor.

  Oswald nodded as he saw realisation dawn in Gustav’s eyes. ‘That’s right. If you decide to speak out, you must be ready to live in a future in which the Kingdom exists beside Galatea. Perhaps even trades with them.’

  That option was intolerable. It spoke of a future in which there were a dozen planets of poor, unmodified humans and a single barely populated world of the genius rich. The cycle of inequality that had oppressed Gustav’s people for generations would repeat itself. Earth would be back where it started: poor and exploited. In other words, in exactly the situation that had caused the Terror Century in the first place.

  ‘So you see, my friend,’ said Oswald, ‘you find yourself in a powerful position. The Prophet knows that, which is precisely why he’s been so generous. Your next move could shape the course of the war.’

  Gustav shook his head. ‘You exaggerate.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m deadly serious. I beg you, bide your time, because hope is not lost. There is a way out of this.’

  Gustav folded his arms. ‘I’m listening.’

  Oswald leaned close. ‘Two nights ago, the Prophet promised me in private that he would act on Rodriguez’s counsel, regardless of what he found. This could be made to work in our favour. Disciple Rodriguez is not a clever man. The Prophet trusts him for his faith and doggedness, but he’s also greedy for influence and fearful of his credibility. If you can convince him that it’s in his best interest to see our point of view, the Prophet will have no choice but to accept his word. The project will be saved.’