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

by Barrington J. Bayley

The archivist looked puzzled. ‘I, Your Highness?’

  ‘But of course! Surely you realise that all this gloomy talk of yours about time being a dream, and that only the strat is real, is part of the Traumatic heresy? That it conflicts with the doctrine of the Holy Trinity? You should be careful who you speak like that to. If Arch-Cardinal Reamoir were to –’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ Mayar muttered uncomfortably.

  ‘Probably, like me, you have no time for religion. And of course you avoided the misfortune of receiving a prince’s education. I know every aspect of Church doctrine by heart; it was drummed into me from infancy.’

  ‘My work is more scientific than religious,’ Mayar admitted. ‘I was brought up in the tradition of the Church, of course, but I cannot say I have made a study of heresies. It is not encouraged in a high official.’

  ‘Just as well, or you would probably be too frightened to indulge in your present freedom of thought.’ Vro swung a leg negligently from the arm of his chair. He seemed amused. ‘You are definitely heretical. Compare your frame of mind with the Church’s teaching on the Holy Trinity. God is the Father, the world of orthogonal time is the Son, and the strat is the Holy Ghost, by means of which the Father creates the Son. According to the Church the orthogonal world is real, palpable, actually existing, while the strat, or Holy Ghost, is less real because it is spiritual and potential. It’s a sort of median between the real world and God, who transcends reality.’

  ‘I know my catechism,’ Mayar muttered, a trifle put out by the lecture. Vro, however, continued. He enjoyed such discussions; although he was privately an atheist, theology fascinated him.

  ‘Your own beliefs come closer to those of the Traumatics,’ he repeated to Mayar. ‘The world is unreal, or relatively so, and the strat is real. According to them the world is created by Hulmu, their god who dwells in the deeps of the strat, and he creates it by projecting it on to a screen, exactly as in a cinema. Its entire purpose is to comprise a sort of picture show for him. That’s why their emblem of the creation is a hologram projector and why one of their ceremonial names for Hulmu is “the Projector Operator”.’

  ‘Strange that an organisation with such horrible practices should support them with so philosophical a doctrine.’

  ‘Oh, the cult of Hulmu is not new. It is at least as old as the Church. Some say it challenged the Church for supremacy in the early days.’

  ‘You mean it sprang from an independent source?’ Mayar frowned. ‘I always thought it was founded by renegades.’

  ‘The origin of the Traumatic sect isn’t quite clear,’ Prince Vro admitted. ‘But the Church’s own doctrine has been modified over the years. In the beginning it was somewhat closer to the Traumatic beliefs. God was deemed to dwell in the uttermost depths of the strat. The Holy Order of the Chronotic Knights even organised deep-diving expeditions to try to find God, but they all came to grief. Later the Church’s theology became more sophisticated and now it is taught that God cannot be found in any direction accessible to a time-ship. Seeking for him by entering the deeps of time is regarded as a trap for the ignorant, for it harbours not God but the Evil One.’

  ‘Hulmu.’

  Vro nodded. ‘Officially the Traumatics are devil-worshippers. Hulmu is identified with the Adversary. It’s rather interesting that even the Church doesn’t dismiss the sect as simple foolishness. In the Church’s eyes Hulmu really exists, though he deludes his followers into believing him to be the creator.’

  ‘Then the soul of Princess Veaa is in mortal danger,’ mumbled Mayar, and instantly regretted his words.

  Vro’s face clouded over. ‘Yes, Archivist,’ he said softly. ‘But I may yet save her. Like a knight of old, armed and ready, I shall go forth into the future!’

  Aton materialised behind a pillar in the main court of the inner sanctum.

  While vectoring in on the spot he had glimpsed the multitudinous activities of the palace. He had glimpsed Emperor Philipium himself, holding audience with nobles, ministers, civil servants, and military commanders.

  The court itself had an air of tension and excitement, as though something was about to happen. Aton stepped into the open, looking about the sumptuous place with interest. There was much coming and going. All around him was the buzz of conversation.

  Accustomed to a more austere life, Aton found the colour and luxury disconcerting. He was wondering how to achieve his object – an audience with the emperor – when an oval-faced young woman wearing the tiara of an Ixian princess caught him by the arm.

  ‘Good evening, Captain. You’re new here, aren’t you?’

  Hastily Aton bowed, frantically trying to place her from pictures he had seen of the imperial family. The trouble was that the family was so large. But he thought he recognised her as Princess Mayora, one of the emperor’s own children.

  ‘Are you going to be with the armada?’ she asked, not giving him time to speak. ‘But of course you are! A handsome fellow like you wouldn’t let himself be left behind. Isn’t it exciting? To fight for one’s religion!’ Her eyes sparkled.

  Aton was about to frame a reply when a hush fell on the gathering. Through the padded doors came a procession; the emperor, noticeably tottering and with his right arm shaking visibly, was partly supported by servants. Behind him walked some of the dignitaries with whom he had recently been conferring. Close to the emperor, like an ever-present shadow, was Arch-Cardinal Reamoir, head of the Church. Something like triumph was on the arch-cardinal’s face. Philipium’s eyes, too, displayed a beady, unnatural brightness.

  Everyone present bowed.

  Philipium’s weak, reedy voice rose to address the court. ‘Our tribulations soon will be at an end,’ he announced. ‘All vessels of the armada have successfully finished their trials and are fully provisioned. In a few days the enterprise will begin!’

  His words were greeted with cheering and applause. Philipium advanced through the great chamber, a path spontaneously appearing before him, until he faced the gold panel that took up a large section of one wall.

  ‘Imperator! Grant us audience!’

  The gold panel slid up. From out of the deep recess the massive machine-emperor slid out on its castors.

  Aton stared, entranced. So this was the Imperator, the enigmatic construct that stood even higher than the emperor himself in the exercise of authority. And yet Aton had never heard of a single edict that had issued from it. In practical terms most people believed the Imperator’s power to be nominal only.

  Philipium repeated his words to the humming machine. ‘Give us your approval of this plan,’ he added. ‘Confirm its outcome, that our confidence may be justified.’

  The humming sound emanating from the Imperator intensified and broadened, changing into a vibrant baritone voice.

  ‘The enemy of the empire grows powerful. The struggle will ensue.’

  Silence.

  ‘Speak on, mighty Imperator!’ Philipium urged. ‘Grant us the wisdom of my fathers!’

  This time a grating tone entered into the magnificent voice. It spoke falteringly, as if in distress.

  ‘The struggle will ensue!’

  ‘In your omniscience, grant us the boon of knowing that the outcome is certain, Imperator.’

  But already the crenellated structure was retreating into its interior chamber. The gold panel slid down into place.

  ‘Well, what do you make of that, Reamoir?’ Philipium turned to his confessor, a frown on his narrow features.

  ‘The Imperator is always cryptic, Majesty,’ Reamoir murmured, ‘but one thing is without doubt: it instructs us to continue with our plans.’

  ‘Yes, that is so. That is so.’

  Philipium was assisted to a throne, cushioned and moulded so as to give comfort to his weak frame, where he reclined, speaking occasionally to those who approached him.

  The chatter of the court started up again.

  Aton turned to Princess Mayora and in his urgency was nearly insubordinate
enough to seize her by the arm. ‘Your Highness, I must speak with your father. Will you help me?’

  ‘What is this?’ She smiled at him gaily. ‘You have a petition? You are most importunate.’ She leaned closer, becoming a shade more serious. ‘Have a care. Father can be a crotchety old thing and is sometimes impatient with trifles.’

  ‘This is no trifle, Your Highness. I cannot put the matter through the proper channels. But, as an officer of the Time Service I feel it my duty …’ He trailed off, realising the impossibility of explaining who he was and how he had got here. ‘If you could help me into His Majesty’s presence I will risk the rest myself,’ he murmured.

  Somewhat curious, she sauntered towards the throne, beckoning him to follow. As they came near, he heard the emperor talking to his eldest son, the future emperor Philipium II.

  ‘Not two hours ago a courier arrived from the dispatching station at Barek – from Commander Haight, no less, who put in there en route to Chronopolis. He has returned without the distorter but with the offer of a truce from the Hegemonics. It seems they want to parley for peace. That’s a good sign they know how hopeless their situation is.’

  Philipium II laughed. It was a reedy, dry laugh. He had inherited his father’s manner of speech, as he had much else about him. ‘Rather late for that now!’

  The emperor nodded with satisfaction. ‘No doubt our retaliatory attacks have taught them what’s in store for them. Also they must have gained some intelligence concerning the might of our armada.’ He frowned. ‘Haight discovered something about the distorter, too, but we shall have to wait until he arrives here for his full report.’

  Aton and the princess were now mingling with the courtiers surrounding the throne. Boldly Aton stepped forward to confront the emperor and prince.

  ‘Your Chronotic Majesty!’ he said in a loud voice.

  Both men turned to look at him. Philipium II appeared cold and supercilious, the emperor merely startled.

  For one instant Aton looked into his ruler’s tired, feverish eyes and knew that his mission stood no chance of success. Behind those eyes was … nothing. The emperor was dead inside. There was nothing but bigotry, prejudice, set patterns of thought. Even if Aton were to persuade him of the truth of his story, which seemed unlikely, nothing at this stage could possibly cause him to alter his decision.

  Aton glanced from him to the younger Philipium, and again from him to Arch-Cardinal Reamoir, who was hovering as always by the emperor’s side. As before he found that his new perceptions laid bare their inner natures. In Philipium II there was only a blind arrogance that was a sort of later version of his father’s unctuous religious humility. And in Reamoir there was ambition of truly shocking proportions: ambition that was prepared to sacrifice whole worlds, to cheat, lie, and kill in the pursuit of personal and religious aims.

  He stood, tongue-tied and white-faced, as the awful realisation struck him.

  ‘What is it, young man?’ Philipium said sharply. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Captain Aton of the Third Time Fleet, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Then you should be helping defend the frontier. On leave, are you? Why?’

  ‘… The action for Gerread, Your Majesty,’ Aton said after a momentary effort.

  ‘Ah, yes. Take courage, young man. Eventually we shall regain Gerread, together with all the other possessions that have been lost since.’

  An official slid through the circle and murmured something in the emperor’s ear, who then turned and began a conversation with someone else. No one took any notice of Aton. His rude intrusion had been forgotten.

  Princess Mayora accosted him as he slipped away. ‘Well, I don’t think much of that!’

  ‘I suddenly realised how foolish my course of action was,’ Aton said ruefully.

  ‘Rather belatedly, don’t you think?’ The princess eyed him with growing inquisitiveness. ‘What was your petition? Can I help?’

  ‘I think not, Your Highness.’

  Awkwardly aware of his bad manners, Aton made a perfunctory bow and walked stiffly away. He felt desolated. Here was the centre of the empire and everyone around him was hell-bent on destruction. Impending calamity was tolling like a great bell.

  It seemed that his mission was impossible.

  Or almost impossible.

  Hours later the court chamber was deserted and in half darkness. A shadow slipped through that darkness, pausing and listening to the sleep of the huge palace.

  At length Aton stopped before the dully gleaming gold sheet that hid the Imperator.

  He had spent the intervening time wandering through the inner sanctum or just sitting brooding in one of the libraries. No one questioned his presence. It was assumed that anyone who had managed to enter the sanctum had a perfect right to be there.

  ‘Imperator,’ he called in a hoarse voice, afraid to speak too loudly in case he was heard from outside the chamber. ‘A loyal servant seeks audience.’

  He had no idea whether the machine-emperor would respond to any voice but Philipium’s. But it was worth a try.

  Nothing happened, and he called again. ‘Imperator. The empire is in danger!’

  Miraculously the golden panel withdrew towards the ceiling. From the dark cave came the whine of an engine and the rumble of castors. The Imperator rolled majestically into view, a strange sheen playing over its matt surface. A scarcely visible light seemed to flicker between its four corner towers.

  ‘Who has dared approach?’

  The thrilling full-bodied voice, even though at low volume, filled the hall. The experience of facing the Imperator alone was strange and frightening. The machine radiated charisma. Aton, conscious of its majestic relationship with the empire, felt small and insignificant.

  ‘I am Captain Mond Aton,’ he announced. ‘Late of the Third Time Fleet.’

  The Imperator hummed and clicked. ‘Sentenced to death for cowardice and dereliction of duty. Placed at the disposal of the Courier Service. Dispatched to the receipt of Commander Haight on the thirtieth day of the fifth month of this year.’

  ‘The facts are as you state, Imperator. However I am still alive, as you can see.’

  ‘Poor little tool of broken time …’

  ‘Imperator, I have just returned from the Hegemony,’ Aton said. He launched into his tale, describing Commander Haight’s experiment, their meeting with the Hegemonic ministers, and his subsequent discovery of his new powers. Throughtout, the Imperator made no interruption except for the continuous humming that swelled and receded in volume.

  Finally, with complete frankness, Aton related the intransigence of the emperor and of the advisers who surrounded him. ‘You are mightier even than the emperor, Imperator,’ he said. ‘Command that the empire make peace. Draw back from this suicidal course.’

  ‘All must be as it has been.’

  Aton puzzled over the words. He had heard that the Imperator rarely expressed itself in plain speech.

  ‘The enemy of the empire is the enemy of mankind,’ said the Imperator. ‘Fight, Aton. The power is yours alone.’

  ‘Imperator, I do not understand you. Can you not explain what I am to do? Your meaning is not clear.’

  ‘We live in dreams and walk in sleep. All that is real is unreal.’

  Suddenly Aton heard footsteps behind him. Approaching out of the gloom came a young man wearing a short cloak of deep purple. The face was that of an Ixian, but unlike most of that brood, the eyes had a steady percipience and the man’s whole bearing an uncharacteristic lack of vanity. As he came closer Aton recognised Prince Vro.

  ‘An incredible story!’ said the prince.

  ‘You heard?’

  ‘Forgive my eavesdropping,’ the other said with a shrug. ‘I merely happened to be passing. It was a scene I could not resist. Yes, I listened to every word.’

  A rumble caused Aton to whirl around. The Imperator was withdrawing into its chamber. The golden panel closed and left them in silence.

  ‘I must say I thin
k you’re wasting your time petitioning that machine in there,’ the prince told him affably. ‘Nobody has ever got any sense out of it, and in my opinion never will for the simple reason that our much-vaunted Imperator is quite insane.’

  Aton must have looked shocked, for Prince Vro laughed softly. ‘Well, is it any wonder, my friend? Infused with the brains of all the emperors! If my father is anything to go by, it must consist of lunacy piled on lunacy.’

  He clapped Aton on the back. ‘We are somewhat exposed here. I was on my way to supervise the readying of my time-yacht, in preparation for a certain romantic quest. Come with me. Afterwards we can talk in my quarters.’

  With a last despairing look at the Imperator’s dwelling, Aton followed.

  Prince Vro’s chill and morbid apartment intensified still further Aton’s feeling of desperation. While looking over the yacht the prince had explained his great loss to him, describing the steps he was taking to recover his beloved.

  Yet despite the prince’s bizarre preoccupation, Aton saw him for a man of rare intelligence by the standards of the Imperial Palace. It was a relief to be able to talk to him.

  ‘Hmm. This certainly explains the rule about the disposal of couriers,’ Vro remarked, lounging in an easy chair and dividing his attention between Aton and the empty sarcophagus in the wall hologram. ‘Evidently people exposed to the strat are liable to develop a natural time-travelling ability. The Church wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘Then that means I’m not the first,’ Aton pointed out. ‘The phenomenon must already be known. Where are the others?’

  ‘It is, no doubt, a closely guarded Church secret,’ Vro said. ‘Chronmen who are pulled out of the strat are generally put in the care of secluded monasteries and are never heard of again. Officially that’s because they’re mentally deranged. Now we know there’s more to it, eh, Captain? We can be sure care is taken to see they never realise their powers. You’d better watch your step or you might find yourself forcibly enlisted as a monk.’ Vro smiled faintly.

  Aton reflected. ‘Did you mean what you said about the Imperator?’ he asked.