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

The crew of the receiving chamber took Aton out of it quickly, silently, and efficiently.

They entered wearing strat suits, because the chamber was always partially energised in readiness for any couriers that might be en route. Once through the hatch Aton was relieved of his equipment: the tray like rudder control, the oxygen mask, and the earphones. The dispatch case they left strapped to him. No one could handle that but the commander whose duty it was to accept all messages from a courier personally.

Aton, meantime, stood staring blankly with arms akimbo, not speaking, not moving.

Two ensigns came up to either side of him and took a light grip of his upper arms. A door slid open. They urged him forward. They were used to this detail. For a while newly arrived couriers were quite helpless, were scarcely able to keep their balance, bumped into walls, could not find their way through doors.

Dimly Aton sensed all around him the regular activity of the gigantic flagship, which was much bigger than the destroyers he was familiar with.

Steadily they mounted through the pile of decks and storeys, riding on elevators and moving corridors. The chronmen they passed flicked one glance at Aton, then looked away. Everyone was embarrassed to stare at a man who had just died, and was about to die again.

Aton’s consciousness seemed to have retreated a long way from his perceptions, as though in using his senses he was looking the wrong way through a telescope. At the same time everything had a curiously flat, two-dimensional appearance to him. In the strat his mind had begun to accustom itself to four-dimensional, even five-dimensional figures. By comparison the three-dimensional world was weirdly listless, a series of simplified cartoons drawn on paper. No depth. Sounds, too, were flat and empty, without resonance.

He was feeling an urge to leave this paper world. To complete the process that had begun with his being discharged from the dispatch chamber.

To die.

They came to the officers’ quarters in the upper reaches of the timeship. Aton recognised hints of comfort that would have been out of place aboard his own Smasher of Enemies or even aboard most battleships. Then they went through some double doors into an area displaying real, though modest, luxury, such as would not be found anywhere in the Time Service except in one of the great flagships.

It was Commander Haight’s private suite. They halted before a walnut door carved with simple designs. The ensigns knocked, entered, saluted, and departed. Aton faced his former commanding officer.

Haight, sitting at a mahogany table, looked at him gloomily, broodingly. From a replayer in a corner came quiet, moody music, viols and trombones convoluting a web of melancholy calm.

Standing near Haight was a man Aton knew as Colonel Anamander. Like Haight he had the granite impassivity common to many senior officers in the Time Service, but his features were more amenable, slightly less uncompromising.

Haight lifted a hand in a half-hearted gesture. ‘Later, Colonel.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Anamander skirted around Aton and exited.

The commander rose and approached Aton, who stared straight ahead, the muscles of his face slack. As if he were an inanimate object Haight unstrapped the dispatch case from his chest and carried it to the table.

Before opening it he glanced up at Aton again and suddenly his eyes narrowed in recognition.

‘Captain Aton, is it not?’

After a long pause Aton forced his larynx into action. ‘Sir,’ he croaked feebly.

‘Captain Aton,’ Haight repeated sourly to himself. ‘An extraordinary case. One that surprised and distressed me a good deal. I have wondered if you would end up here.’

Aton found his voice. ‘Am I to terminate my life now, sir?’ He waited expectantly for Haight to pronounce the releasing words.

‘Wait until I am ready,’ snapped the commander. He eyed Aton calculatingly, then sat down and broke the seals on the dispatch case.

For what seemed like a long time he studied the papers he found within, and outwardly became oblivious of Aton’s presence. The viols and trombones pursued each other unendingly through winding, cloying themes, and listening to the music, Aton found himself drifting back to a seemingly stratlike state. There was no before or after. The intricate melody hung on the air like a perfume and Aton stood stock-still in an eternal moment, unable to locate the transition between one note and another.

Commander Haight jutted out his lower lip as he finished studying the papers. He laid them aside, frowning. Then he leaned back in his chair. His grey eyes settled on Aton’s face, concentrating there with an almost obsessive interest.

‘The dispatches originate from the emperor himself,’ he announced gruffly. ‘The raid into Hegemonic territory is to take place. And the Lamp of Faith , no less, is to conduct the mission. That, surely, is a measure of its importance.’

Aton said nothing and Haight continued, his eyes never leaving the other’s face. ‘Do you realise how successful the Hegemonics’ attacks have been over the past week or two? Cities and regions eliminated or mutated. At Node Five the entire continent of Australos was altered. It is now peopled by tribes of Stone Age aborigines. Even worse, there are numerous cases of causal discontinuity. You know what that can do to the fabric of time. The work of the Historical Office is being set at naught. And all due to the Hegemonics’ new weapon, the time-distorter. Once our scientists had called such a device impossible. Now—’ He spread his hands.

His gaze became heavy, penetrating. ‘Speak, Captain Aton,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Tell me what it is like in the strat.’

Aton blinked and stuttered. ‘It is – it is—’

He fell silent.

Haight nodded. ‘I know that it is beyond description. And yet something could be described. Words are never entirely useless. Try to collect your thoughts. To remember. Take possession of yourself once again. Speak, Captain.’

Aton struggled, then said, ‘Sir, should I terminate my existence now?’

‘Ah, you wish to obey your orders and escape this realm. And it is my beholden duty to see that you do. Yet I could not tell you how many times I have been tempted to forget my duty at these moments. There is a comforter at the Imperial Palace – Brother Mundan is his name – whose father fell into the strat some years ago, following a collision between timeships. Mundan cannot forget the strat since then. He dreams of it, has nightmares about it, tries to imagine what the Gulf of Lost Souls is like. After a lifetime in the service I am filled with a similar curiosity.’

The drift of Haight’s speech came through only faintly to Aton.

‘Most of the couriers who stand before me are, of course, low types,’ the commander continued. ‘Mentally degenerate, hopeless cases. But you, I tell myself, are of different mettle. Despite your astonishing dereliction, you are presumably a disciplined officer. Given time, you might recover your senses. You might be able to answer my questions.’

He lumbered to his feet, walked around the polished table, and stood close to Aton, peering straight into his eyes. ‘On this occasion I think I will commit a dereliction of my own. At such a time – for in my opinion the raid has little chance of succeeding, it is suicide – a small peccancy will go unnoticed. No, Captain Aton, you are not to die now. You are to live, to recover, and perhaps to tell me what you have experienced.’ He turned and pressed a button.

‘This is Captain Aton,’ he said to the two batmen who entered at his summons. ‘See that he is made comfortable in the guest bedroom. But do not allow him to leave this suite.’