It was a record of ghosts. Millions of men, women, and children, entire cities, nations, and cultures, that now had never existed, were stored in the archival computers. Research into these vanished communities could be a fascinating experience, but to undertake it one had to be a staff member. Not even the universities were allowed such information – there was a theory that it would weaken the fabric of time, and besides, it might reflect on the permanence of the empire.
And there were times when Archivist Mayar himself wished that he did not have to know.
In the sepulchral dimness of Vault 5 the humming note of the computer was almost menacing. The bank of winking indicator lights seemed to be spelling out a mocking message of doom.
The operator’s voice was sombre as he handed Mayar a thick print-out sheaf. ‘The results have been double-checked, sir. There isn’t any doubt about it – we knew almost straight away.’
The section had been carrying out what was known as an Anomalous Population Check. The Archives’ Current State Bank was continuously matched, as a matter of course, with a similar information bank – unprotected by time-buffers – on the surface. When they failed to match, an Anomalous Population Check was immediately undertaken so as to map out any unauthorised changes in time.
Mayar barely glanced at the print-out before handing it back. ‘I shall have to inform the emperor,’ he said heavily. That meant a visit to the palace – never a prospect he relished.
As if to accentuate the blow, Mayar had that morning received indirect confirmation from another source. Units of the Third Time Fleet had arrived in the capital, badly damaged from an engagement with the enemy. Mayar had heard that the Third Time Fleet had been beaten and forced to withdraw, and he was willing to bet that the consequence of that battle was staring at him now. Gerread, a city of some importance in Node 5 (it had been a fair-sized town even in Node 4), had been elided from history, and the souls of its inhabitants (as theory would have it) dispersed into the formless dimensions of the strat like drops of rain in the ocean.
At least they had not suffered the fate of chronmen who, when their ships were destroyed, sank as conscious entities down into the gulf.
Without another word he left the operator and went through a double door leading to a long, low corridor. From all around him as he walked up the corridor came the muted sound of work going on in the surrounding chambers. Once, he passed another archivist, garbed in a white smock like himself, and muttered a perfunctory greeting. He avoided meeting the fellow’s eyes, for the stricken look he knew he was apt to find there was becoming more pronounced among his staff lately. He was becoming concerned to know which way the growing cult of despairing isolationism in the archives would turn.
Once in his own quarters, he discarded his white gown and took the hundred-foot elevator to the surface.
As he passed through the shaded frontage of the surface building the bright sunlight hit him like a staggering blow, making him slightly dizzy. He entered the emblazoned coach that was waiting and instructed the chauffeur to take him to the palace.
The sights and sounds of Chronopolis washed over him as they drove through the streets. It all seemed slightly unreal. Did any of this really exist? Could anything that was liable to vanish from time be said to have substance? The familiar dreamlike sensation all achronal archivists were prone to came over him and he found himself wishing he were back in his quiet, cool vaults.
Once, to get some fresh air, he opened one of the coach windows, but instantly he was invaded by a low-key roaring that hung over this part of the city. Glancing overhead, he saw a drifting pall of smoke. Both the noise and the smoke came from the shipyards some miles away, where the tremendous armada that was to conquer the Hegemony was now nearing completion.
With a frown of distaste he closed the window again.
The coach travelled through the great arcaded entrance of the towering palace. Mayar was met in the reception chambers by Commander Trevurm, one of the emperor’s select team of aides and advisers.
Calmly he gave him the news. Trevurm listened with head bent, then nodded.
‘We already know of it. Commander Haight is here. He came in with ships of the Third Fleet this morning. They fought the Hegemonic raiders who did this.’ He paused. ‘How far does the mutation extend? Have you carried out a mapping?’
‘We have, Commander. The elision covers everything related to the founding and sustaining of the city that was known as Gerread. There is no replacement.’
‘No alternative city?’
‘None.’
Trevurm sighed. ‘This kind of thing is hard to grasp. You come and tell me there was a city called Gerread, which I have never heard of, and I have to believe you.’
‘Before it was eliminated you had heard of it,’ Mayar said, feeling how inadequate words were to express time’s mysterious movements. ‘Only last month you and I were speaking to its governor … or rather … I was speaking …’
‘I cannot recall it.’
‘Naturally not. It never happened. The meeting vanished along with the city, along with its governor.’ And yet I am here and I met Governor Kerrebad and I remember it, Mayar thought wildly.
He turned his mind to more practical considerations. ‘Has the emperor been told?’ he asked.
Trevurm shook his head. ‘Not yet. But it cannot be delayed further.’
He rose to his feet. ‘I would prefer it if the news came from you,’ he said. ‘Commander Haight’s interview with His Majesty will no doubt be uncomfortable enough without his having to bear the tidings as well.’
Mayar acquiesced and followed the commander deeper into the gorgeous palace. They passed through executive sections, through social sections where nobles and their guests relaxed with their various expensive entertainments. Finally they were in the inner sanctum. Mayar was obliged to wait while Commander Trevurm disappeared for a few minutes, after which they were admitted into the presence.
In a modest-sized room whose walls were of dark, panelled oak carved into curious patterns, His Majesty the Emperor Philipium I sat at one end of a long gleaming table of polished mahogany.
He was not an imposing figure: merely a tired old man sitting hunched and shrivelled at the corner of a table. His eyes had a deadness to them such as is brought on by continual fatigue or by a too-prolonged effort. The only touch of distinction to his grey face was a short pointed beard that was much faded. His costume, too, was modest and unregal: a tunic and breeches that were colourless and shiny with much use.
The two who entered bowed low. They could not help but notice that the emperor’s right arm shook visibly. He suffered from the trembling palsy, which Mayar knew to be due to degenerative changes in the ganglia at the base of the cerebrum. The disease was incurable and grew chronic with advanced age.
They then turned to bow, less deferentially, to the second occupant of the room, who hovered like a shadow in the corner. In contrast to His Majesty, Arch-Cardinal Reamoir wore the most sumptuous of ecclesiastical garments. His floor-length cope was trimmed with purple fur and boasted orphreys richly patterned in gold and variously dyed tussore silk. Spun gold figured, too, in the coif which covered his head and which was decorated with the symbols of the Church.
The aloof prelate accepted their bow with a casual blessing.
‘And what is this bad news I have been warned to expect?’ the emperor inquired in a dry voice.
Briefly and concisely, Mayar gave him the facts. The old man’s face sagged. At the same time, a look of puzzlement crossed his features.
Mayar knew that look. It happened every time someone was told of events or things that had been removed from the stream of time. Automatically one tried to remember what had gone, however much one knew that it was impossible.
With the emperor, puzzlement was soon replaced by muted rage at the realisation that an ungodly enemy had succeeded in altering even his memories. ‘This is bad,’ he said shakily. ‘This is very bad.’
Arch-Cardinal Reamoir moved forward silently. A hand stole from beneath his cope and squeezed the emperor’s shoulder comfortingly. Philipium reached up and patted the hand.
‘Your Majesty will recall,’ Mayar continued, ‘that this is the second such attack. The first was not entirely successful, for it only modified the history of the coastal port of Marsel, and that not seriously. This, however, is an unmitigated disaster. We must presume that the enemy has now perfected his new weapon.’
‘Yes! The time-distorter!’ The emperor’s face clearly showed his distress. ‘Why does the Hegemony have such a device and we do not have it?’ His right arm trembled more markedly, as it usually did under stress. And indeed, the enemy’s possession of the time-distorter was frightening. When the Historical Office decided to change some aspect of history, months or years of preparation were needed to select some key event or combination of events whose alteration would produce the desired result. A big operation was usually required, entailing a staff of thousands to carry it out.
Yet apparently the distorter could mutate history simply by focusing some sort of energy that acted on the underlying temporal substratum. The threat to the empire was real and disturbing.
‘God is testing us,’ murmured Arch-Cardinal Reamoir smoothly.
‘As always, you know best, old friend.’ The emperor seemed to draw courage from anything Reamoir said. God forgive him for the thought, but Mayar simply could not see the arch-cardinal’s influence as a healthy one.
‘These indignities will cease once my invincible armada sets forth,’ the emperor said, glancing up at Reamoir. ‘The Hegemony will be part of the empire. The distorter will be ours.’
‘Your Majesty,’ Mayar said diffidently, ‘a weapon as effective as the time-distorter must seriously be taken into account. There is very little defence against it, once its carrier ship has broken through into historical territory. I would go so far as to say that it is capable of destroying the empire itself.’
‘Archivist Mayar!’ Reamoir thundered, his face suddenly blazing. ‘Take care what you say!’
‘I said only that it is capable of destroying the empire,’ Mayar replied defensively. ‘I did not say that such an event could come about.’ And if he did openly say it, he would be in serious trouble. The Two Things That God Will Not Do were as important a part of religious dogma as the Three Revelations of San Hevatar. The Two Things That God Will Not Do were that, once having given it, He would not take away the secret of time-travel from mankind; and that He would not allow the Chronotic Empire ever to perish.
It was dangerous to argue with the head of the Church. But Mayar, fearful of the calamity he saw hovering over them all, pressed on.
‘What I say, Your Majesty, Your Eminence, is this: God has promised that the empire will not fall or be removed, but He has not promised that it will not meet with misfortune or be defeated in war. As Your Eminence will tell us –’ he bowed his head again towards the arch-cardinal – ‘the doctrine of free will means that even the mission of the Church may fail. God has left such matters in our hands, and we are fallible.’
He licked his lips and continued hurriedly. ‘As chief archivist I am familiar with the changes of time. I know that their consequences can be dismaying and unexpected, and that precautions taken against them can prove to be futile. I do not think I am exaggerating when I say that the archives perform a function fundamental to the integrity of the empire. And I fear the distorter. I ask myself what degree of change the archives can accommodate. I believe they will break down altogether under the impact of the weapon.’
‘And what do you propose we should do?’ Philipium’s eyes had lost their deadness now. They were glittering.
‘It occurs to me that the Hegemony is carrying out these attacks because it feels itself threatened by us, Your Majesty. In my opinion we should seek a truce and abandon our plans for conquest – at least until we know more about the time-distorter.’
The emperor turned beady eyes on Commander Trevurm. ‘And what is your opinion?’
Trevurm stroked his chin and sighed. ‘There is much sense in what our friend says,’ he admitted. ‘The time-distorter brings an unknown factor into the equation.’
‘So you both advise caution?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Have you both forgotten the mission of Holy Church?’ said the arch-cardinal to Trevurm and Mayar, affecting a shocked tone. ‘Your Majesty, we are doing God’s bidding. The armada must do its work. The heathen must be converted by its power.’
‘But at the risk of wreaking havoc with the structure of time?’ Mayar protested.
Reamoir turned and spoke for the benefit of Philipium alone. ‘What else should we do? Have we not tried to convert the Hegemony by peaceful persuasion? Our missionaries have gone forward in time, not only to the Hegemony but even beyond, to little avail. Many have been spurned and ejected back to their own time. Some have even been martyred. The pride and stubbornness of the future people is displeasing to God; only force remains. God will go with our armada; He is on our side. All will be well.’
‘All will be well,’ echoed Philipium. ‘The armada must proceed. The only question to be answered is when. And that is a matter for the Military Council, not for amateurs.’ He gestured irritably.
‘I understand, Your Majesty,’ Mayar said, feeling defeated.
The emperor rose from his chair and clutched at Reamoir, holding up his trembling right arm. ‘My arm, see how it shakes,’ he said, his voice hollow-sounding. ‘Listen, my friend – I have had a vision in a dream. God has told me that if the Hegemony is subdued my affliction will vanish.’
‘That indeed will be a miracle, sir.’
‘Yes. God’s message is clear. All will be well.’ He turned to Mayar. ‘And yet your forebodings are not without substance, Archivist. We are merely human and we can err. Even I am merely emperor, not Imperator. Come, we will consult a wiser being.’
Philipium tottered towards the door. Outside, attendants were waiting and accompanied them through the cloistered passages of the inner sanctum. From ahead came cheerful noises of talk and laughter, growing steadily louder until eventually a pair of large doors, quilted and padded with stuffed satin, drew open to admit them.
They entered the main inner chamber of the court.
Strictly speaking it was more than a chamber, being the size of a ballroom. Tastefully arranged here and there were couches, tables, and chairs. The arched recesses that skirted its circumference formed a motif that was repeated in the ribbed and curved formation of the ceiling. All in all, the effect was most pleasing and restful to the eye.
A favourite meeting place, the court chamber had a relaxed air and nobles and privileged persons from all parts and nodes of the empire came and went through its several entrances. The Ixian family predominated, of course, its members hailing from all periods of history – though in their case the term ‘history’ was practically redundant. The Ixian dynasty was fully mobile through time, being the only family permitted to intermarry with its descendants and ancestors.
One end of the court chamber was kept clear. Emperor Philipium I made towards it with tottering step, followed by the arch-cardinal, Mayar, and Commander Trevurm. A hush fell over the scene as his presence was noted, but then the chatter started up again.
One of his young daughters, Princess Mayora, approached him with a smile, but he brushed her aside and stood before the great panel, featureless and of a dull gold colour, that occupied that entire end of the chamber.
‘Imperator,’ he called in a weak husky voice, ‘grant us an audience!’
After a pause the gold panel rumbled up to reveal a square-cut cavity. There was the whine of motors.
The machine they knew as the Imperator slid out on giant castors and stood in the vacant space as though surveying the chamber. A deep hum issued from within its body.
Even though he had seen it several times before, Mayar still could not prevent a sensation
of awe as he beheld the huge machine. It towered over them like a miniature castle, with its odd crenellated towers, one at each corner, and its walls plated with matt greyish-black metal. It had a distinctly regal appearance entirely in keeping with its function. For though the Imperator was a machine – admittedly much more advanced and mysterious than a common computer – it was also, in some indefinable way, alive.
More than that, it was in principle the true titular head of the empire. Emperor Philipium I – like any emperor before or after him – held his position by proxy, as it were. The rationale behind this system was quite clear: the Imperator contained the distillation of the minds of all the Chronotic emperors, of whom there had been five before Philipium, as well as of many other members of the imperial dynasty whose wisdom seemed to merit it, this distillation being accomplished by a transfusion from the memory centres of their brains after death.
Not that the Imperator was merely a receptacle of their dead intelligences; it was much more. No one quite knew what went on inside the Imperator, or what it did with these borrowed personalities. They never emerged, that was certain; the Imperator had a nature of its own.
The origin of the machine was equally obscure to the outside world, being a state secret. San Hevatar was reputed, by legend, to have had a hand in its manufacture. Mayar, however – he was not privy to this state secret either – had received a very good indication from a member of the Ixian family itself, that there was no secret, that no one, not even the emperor, knew where the Imperator came from or how long it had been there.
The hum from within the machine grew deeper and the Imperator spoke in a full-bodied baritone that thrilled the hearer with its presence.
‘You have summoned me?’
Philipium nodded, leaning on an attendant. ‘Advise us on the matter we have been discussing.’
Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis Page 52