“This splitting up of time – when is it going to happen?”
“It already has happened,” Ascar said. “It had happened before the Titans found me in Shiu’s observatory.”
Sobrie wondered if his friends in the Amhrak reservation had noticed their changed circumstances yet. It was good, he thought to himself, to know that Amhrak civilisation would continue.
Titan-Major Brourne flung the array of vidcoms off the table with one sweep of his arm. Nobody was reporting in now.
Brourne was alone in his office; he’d already sent his adjutant outside to help man the barricade. The time had come, he saw, for the last stand.
He strode from the office. As far as he knew his HQ was the only post not yet overrun, and an attack was expected any second.
A long gallery-like concourse stretched ahead of the building he’d chosen for his headquarters. It gave an excellent defensive position: a long avenue, bare of cover, up which an enemy must pass. But that would avail little, he knew, against the tricks of these Chinks.
He’d barely reached the steel barricade set up across this avenue, and was giving a few words, of encouragement to his men, when the attack started.
The Chinks were everywhere simultaneously. Several appeared on his side of the barricade and some of his men set to fighting them furiously at close quarters, while others were firing stolidly down the avenue. Once again Brourne observed the dreadful effects of Hoka, but fortunately the Chinks here were outnumbered. Then he directed his eyes down the avenue. There they were: blue-uniformed, broad-helmeted, flitting in and out of existence and advancing down the concourse like shadowy ghosts. He was facing an enemy one could only see half the time.
Suddenly Major Brourne gave a violent, almost joyous roar. He leaped forward to a gun emplacement, pushed the gunner aside, and lifted the heavy machine gun off its tripod. Normally two men were needed to carry it, but Brourne clambered over the barricade, the cartridge belt trailing behind him, and fired a long burst from the hip.
“No use squatting here, men!” he bellowed. “Come on out and get ’em!”
He went lumbering down the concourse, firing intermittently from the big, clumsy weapon, into the crowd of flitting Chinks. This was the way to go, he told himself. To die like a man, fighting to the last breath against a subhuman horde.
He was still firing when a hand touched the back of his neck and he died.
The blue-garbed soldiers thronged the plaza before the balcony where Su-Mueng, Sobrie and Prime Minister Hwen Wu, with members of his cabinet, stood. Su-Mueng licked his lips nervously.
It had been his own idea: he would parade the cabinet of the Leisure Retort before his victorious soldiers. The venerable officials would lose face, would seem human and vulnerable. The workers would see for themselves the men who’d denied them their rights.
Hwen Wu, however, had been unexpectedly in favour of the confrontation. Indeed, he’d seemed not to understand Su-Mueng’s intent, but had thanked him graciously for organising the proceeding. He should have been more forthright with Hwen Wu, Su-Mueng thought.
Because, in rolling, sonorous tones, the Prime Minister was praising the workers of the Production Retort for their timely intervention.
“Your sense of civil duty is gladdening to the heart,” he said after a lengthy address, his aristocratic face impressively unreadable. “And now that the foreign barbarian has been driven out, we can all return to our allotted places and restore the perfect harmony of an ordered society.”
He stepped back, folded his hands, smiled benignly upon Su-Mueng and upon the Production Retort managers who stood to one side, and retired to the rear of the balcony.
He’s stolen the show, thought Sobrie. Poor Su-Mueng.
The managing director of the Production Retort came forward, inclined his head toward Hwen Wu, and then turned to speak a few polite words to the crowd, expressing his satisfaction at having served the city.
The workers gazed up at him with blank, curious faces. Everything was orderly and peaceful. With a shock Sobrie realised that they were going to return without argument to the Lower Retort, to their factories, their crude amusements.
The manager left the stage. Su-Mueng, Sobrie saw, was floundering. As a revolutionary, he was still a simpleton. He didn’t have a clue as to how to effect social change: he thought it would happen of its own accord.
After hesitating, Su-Mueng took a step forward, but Sobrie overtook him and stepped into the centre of the crowd’s attention.
What could he say that would begin the work of changing these people’s minds? Of setting them on the course that would lead to equality between all men? Sobrie searched his mind, running through endless revolutionary texts, until he came to the most ancient evocation of all: one that was legendary, almost mythical, having been handed down since long before recorded history.
He raised his clenched fist. “Workers of the world, arise!” he began. “You have nothing to lose but your chains. …”
14
Their footsteps echoed loudly in the big underground cavern. Planetary Leader Limnich, surrounded by aides and guards, was met just outside the door to the office complex by a tall, self-composed Colonel Brask.
“You got my message?” Limnich said after they’d saluted. “You understood its import?”
“I understood, Planetary Leader.” Brask opened the door, inviting Limnich inside.
The Planetary Leader signalled his entourage to wait, then went in alone. Thankfully he settled himself in a deep leather armchair, as though exhausted. “You see why I had to contact you by code. Didn’t want to trust vidphone transmissions with this … these days secrecy is becoming imperative. …”
He blinked, and then sniffed. He was feeling cold and shivery, but knew it was only his imagination, prompted by the knowledge that so many districts were down with the plague The virological laboratories were working desperately to combat the flood of new diseases that were appearing, almost certainly alien-caused, but as soon as one antibody was found another virus seemed to arise.
“Have you had time to confirm what you put in your message, Leader?” Brask asked him.
Limnich nodded. “It’s true, all right. Whole regions have simply vanished off the map. Some new alien weapon, obviously, though the Mother knows what kind of device can annihilate people, buildings, and vegetation without leaving a trace. No radiation, nothing. Just bare soil.”
“But it’s mostly dev reservations that have vanished? Isn’t that a little odd?”
Limnich shrugged. “Perhaps the aliens thought them convenient testing grounds. It isn’t anything we’ve done, I can assure you of that. But you can see how serious the situation is. Is Measure C in hand?”
“Yes, Planetary Leader. The first wave will leave in a few minutes.”
He switched on a large vidscreen. Limnich saw fine, upright men in time-combat suits, just marching away from their preflight ceremonies. He looked at them closely, admiring their courage, their dedication.
There was no time, now, to wait until the Legions of Kronos were up to the strength Limnich had wanted for the final assault. There was no time to build up the measures that would have given the warriors of time a fighting chance of personal survival. These were suicide crews, men who would battle through against all odds to drop their hydrogen bombs, scores of bombs to each ship. Something like his old feeling of reassurance came over Limnich as he looked on their stern resolve. Hours before, he knew, each man had donated sperm for freezing and storage, so that he’d be honoured with the knowledge that his seed would continue to contribute to the blood of the race.
“Excuse me, Planetary Leader, but in accordance with the protocol we’ve set up, I must ask to be allowed to leave you now.”
Brask pressed a button. Another young officer came in – one more bright young man on which the Legions depended so much these days.
“Colonel Gole here will take over the project, as per your instructions, until the next wav
e is dispatched,” Brask said.
Limnich gave a perfunctory nod, and Brask left with a final salute to them both.
The Planetary Leader continued to watch the screen as Brask took his place down below with his men. He watched the continuing ceremony as they boarded their time travellers, Brask taking the command ship.
“Eventually we’ll find a way to bring them back alive,” he said to Gole. “Until then, this is good enough.”
“Yes, Planetary Leader.”
The squadrons all vanished together with a sound like a thunderclap. They went humming fuzzily into the future, gladly bearing their cargoes of death, death, and more death.
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Also by Barrington J. Bayley
Age of Adventure
Annihilation Factor
Collision with Chronos
Empire of Two Worlds
Sinners of Erspia
Star Winds
The Fall of Chronopolis
The Forest of Peldain
The Garment of Caean
The Grand Wheel
The Great Hydration
The Pillars of Eternity
The Rod of Light
The Soul of the Robot
The Star Virus
The Zen Gun
The Knight of the Limits
The Seed of Evil
Barrington J. Bayley (1937–2008)
Barrington John Bayley was born in Birmingham and began writing science fiction in his early teens. After serving in the RAF, he took up freelance writing on features, serials and picture strips, mostly in the juvenile field, before returning to straight SF. He was a regular contributor to the influential New Worlds magazine and an early voice in the New Wave movement.
Copyright
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © Barrington J. Bayley 1973
All rights reserved.
The right of Barrington J. Bayley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 575 10205 7
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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