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

The chief engineer looked up from his work. ‘No problems, sir.’

Aton inspected the flickering dials briefly and went on his way. He paced the short galleries and corridors, speaking to a man here, an officer there. He was about to ascend a long ladder that would take him back to the bridge, passing by the gunnery-room, when a drone of voices caused him to pull up sharp.

It came from a nearby storeroom and had the sound of chanting. Aton felt himself stiffen. Then, dreading what he might find, he unfastened the clamps on the door and eased it quietly open.

The chanting came louder and he was able to distinguish some of the words. ‘Lord of all the deep, if this be our moment for darkness… sear our souls with thy vengeance…’

He peered within. Six figures occupied the cell-like storeroom, having made space for themselves among the crates of chronphase spares. By the look of things this was their regular meeting place – the crates had been arranged to leave a neat cubbyhole that had a much-used appearance. All six wore normal uniforms, except that their caps had been replaced by black cloths that hung down over their ears. Five men were on their knees, heads bent and faces hidden in their arms, and they had their backs to Aton. The sixth stood before them leading the chant, a gold medallion hung about his neck, a black book in his hand. Aton recognised him as Sergeant Quelle, of gunnery. His lean sharp face bore the look of desperate rapture Aton would have expected from such a rite as this.

In the same moment that the startled Sergeant Quelle saw him, Aton pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster and flung the door wide open. He slammed a com switch on the corridor wall and bellowed for the ship guard. Then he moved into the confined space, towering over the kneeling figures, the heavy beam pistol sweeping over them all warningly.

White faces, shocked and guilty, turned to look at him. Sergeant Quelle backed away, slamming shut his book. He bore the look of a trapped rat.

‘Traumatics!’

Aton spat out the word. The outlawed sect was known to have adherents in the Time Service – chronmen were, in fact, unusually prone to be affected by its heresies, for obvious reasons – but Aton had never dreamed he would find aboard his own ship not one heretic but a whole congregation. He felt shaken.

Booted, running feet rang on the metal decks. The com speaker on the wall outside the storeroom crackled.

‘Are you all right, Captain?’

‘Yes, Lieutenant,’ he replied, recognising the voice from the bridge. ‘Better send down Comforter Fegele.’

The guards clattered to the scene. Aton let them stare at it for a few moments. There was a strained silence.

‘Better not do anything to us, Captain,’ Quelle said in an impulsive, frightened voice. ‘Your soul will go to the deep if you do!’

‘Silence!’ Aton was affronted by the continued blasphemy.

The ship’s priest, Comforter Fegele arrived, pushing his way through the guards. As he saw the evidence before him, the six men standing half-sheepishly, half-defiantly, a gasp came from deep within his cowl. He swiftly made the sign of the circle, then raised his hand palm outward.

‘Depart, Prince of Abominations,’ he muttered in a hurried, feverish voice. ‘Depart into the deeps of time, plague no more the servants of the Lord.’

The Traumatics immediately turned to him and made a curious sign with the fingers of their right hands, as though warding off a curse.

Quelle laughed fiercely. ‘Don’t you plague us with your exorcisms, priest!’ But Comforter Fegele was already beginning an incantation of sacred names, at the same time producing a vase-like chalice from within the folds of his robe.

‘Get them out of here and lock them in the cells!’ ordered Aton angrily. ‘Commander Haight can decide whether to charge them fleetside or back in Chronopolis.’

The guards hustled the heretics from the room, while the priest splashed consecrated wine everywhere, on the worshippers, on the crates, on the floor of the cubbyhole.

At that moment a deep-toned gong rang through the ship.

Lieutenant Hurse spoke from the bridge through the wall com. ‘Message from the flagship, Captain. Enemy located on target-bound path.’

‘I’ll be with you presently,’ Aton returned.

He made for the ladder, but suddenly Sergeant Quelle, who with the others was in the process of being handcuffed, burst free and lunged supplicatingly towards him.

‘You need us, Captain. You need me, especially. Nobody can handle a gunnery comp like I do.’

Comforter Fegele hurled a handful of wine in his face. ‘You have lent yourself to foul crimes and flaunted God’s commandments…’

Quelle appealed again to Aton. ‘Let me do my duty, Captain. This is no time to cut down the ship’s fighting power. Let me handle my comp.’ He cringed. ‘I don’t want to sink into the strat… without…’

Suddenly Aton understood. The Traumatics believed that a certain ceremony could – or at least might – protect a soul if it was plunged naked into the strat, as, for instance, should the Smasher of Enemies be destroyed in the coming fight. That had no doubt been the purpose of the rite Aton had interrupted. It was all nonsense, of course, fanatical superstition; but Quelle, robbed of his imagined precaution, wanted to fight for his life and not sit out the battle helplessly.

And he was right about one thing. Quelle was an excellent gunner, the best the ship had. Without him the gunnery-room would be fighting below maximum efficiency.

Aton looked at the sergeant with open contempt. ‘Very well. For the duration of the engagement.’

He glanced over the faces of the other prisoners and pointed to two others he recognised as also belonging to the gunnery crew. ‘Release Sergeant Quelle and those two. They are to be rearrested once the invaders have been dealt with.’

Closely followed by Comforter Fegele, Aton turned from the scene and ascended the ladder to the bridge. The Hegemonic ships were already showing on the scope screen, relayed from the flagship’s powerful beta scanners.

‘We’re closing, sir,’ the scanman informed him.

It would not be long now.

But for the time being a lull fell over the proceedings, a lull during which the flagship was frantically busy assessing the situation, but in which the periphery ships, consisting in the main of destroyers like the Smasher of Enemies , were passive.

Aton waited for his orders, trying to fight down the feelings of shame that assaulted him. This was no time for emotion, but nevertheless that emotion was there.

Standing across the desk from him was Comforter Fegele (it was Church policy for the ship’s priest to be present on the bridge during an action, ever ready to give moral support). The priest looked into the brooding face of the young officer. ‘You are troubled,’ he murmured.

Aton had been gazing at his own reflection in the metal of his desk. His even features, with their clear grey eyes and straight, finely chiselled nose, were distorted by the metal and seemed to stare back at him across tortured aeons.

‘How long has this been going on aboard my ship?’ he wondered quietly. ‘Had you an intimation of it?’

‘No. The Traumatic sect is notoriously good at keeping its presence secret. It disturbs you, no doubt, to discover such perversions.’

‘I do find it hard to understand,’ Aton admitted. ‘Every man on board has sworn the same oath I have sworn. And that oath is to defend not only the empire but also the true faith. How can such men turn heretic?’

‘The ways of religious delusion are indeed strange.’

‘I confess, Comforter, that I am questioning my own judgment in permitting Sergeant Quelle and his co-conspirators to take part in this action. How can one trust heretics and traitors?’