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

He spoke of his experiences in the Time Service, talking in such a way that few responses were required of her. He felt her eyes on his face and gradually she seemed to relax a little. If his guess was correct it would be hard for her to trust anyone, but he hoped he might inspire just a little confidence.

To test out his theory he mentioned the time he had found Traumatics aboard his ship. She gasped. He sensed her body tense, go rigid.

‘They are extremely unpleasant people,’ he said.

She nodded dumbly.

‘Listen,’ he said gently. ‘I think you ought to tell me what’s worrying you.’

She looked away. ‘Nothing’s worrying me. What makes you think it is?’

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, it does show, enough for me to notice, at any rate. I’ve seen it before.’ He paused. ‘It’s the Traumatic sect, isn’t it?’

Her lower lip trembled. She nodded again.

‘Have you really seen it happen before?’

‘Only once. To a friend of mine.’

In a rush of words she told him everything. The three visitations, her desperate efforts to escape, to get lost. Finally her decision to migrate to another province of the empire.

He could see that it was a great relief to her to be able to tell someone. It also showed just how desperate she had become, for she could hardly imagine it was safe to talk to a stranger. Probably the uniform had helped. The Time Service was greatly esteemed. Few people knew that chronmen were perversely prone to the Traumatic heresy.

‘So now you hope to settle in Revere?’

‘Yes. In Umbul, probably.’

‘Ah. The holy city.’

‘I thought that perhaps – perhaps—’

‘Yes, I see.’ Her hopes were plain. She thought that perhaps the Traumatic sect stayed clear of Umbul, birthplace of San Hevatar, of the Church, and in fact of the whole Chronotic Empire.

He looked down sombrely at his hands folded neatly on his lap. ‘Citizeness Sorce, I am sorry to have to tell you this but you have been doing everything the Traumatics want you to do. This is their play, part of their ritual. The sacrificial victim must not be killed outright but must be captured and allowed to escape in the nick of time – by luck or his own efforts, so he thinks. Then captured again, allowed to escape again, on and on. The purpose is to make the victim aware of his, or her, situation and of the fact that he is being hunted, so as to produce a particular psychological state. This continues until his will is entirely broken and he actually co-operates in the final ceremony.’

Inpriss Sorce’s brown eyes widened pleadingly. ‘Then I haven’t shaken them off?’

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

Her hands flew about agitatedly. Aton thought she might be near a breakdown. In that case the Traumatics would not be far behind her.

‘Help me!’ she cried. ‘Somebody must help me!’

‘I’ll help you. Calm yourself.’

She gazed at Aton, studying his face. ‘You will?’

‘I hate these people as much as you do.’

‘Is that why you’re going to help me?’

‘I’d help you anyway.’ Aton’s eyes narrowed as he saw a man enter the lounge and walk to the bar with a swaggering gait. His jaw clenched.

The man was Sergeant Quelle!

‘Stay here and don’t move,’ he told Inpriss. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

The gunnery noncom uttered a grunt of startlement, his sharp face becoming a grotesque mask of disbelief, when Aton joined him at the bar.

‘What the hell are you doing here? I thought—’

‘You thought I was safely dead,’ Aton supplied. ‘More to the point, what are you doing here?’

‘Me? Why—’ Quelle gave a weak, hysterical laugh. He was, Aton noticed, wearing civilian clothes. ‘Just taking a spot of leave, Captain. Well-deserved leave. I’m on a cruise. I’ve got a medal now, you know. All of us have who got off the Smasher of Enemies . Except you, of course,’ he added thoughtfully. He gulped down the drink he had just bought, nearly choking on it. ‘Did you get a reprieve, Captain?’ he asked quaveringly. ‘How did you get here?’

‘Suffice it to say that I am here and that I can now remember all that took place on the Smasher of Enemies .’ Aton watched the look of agony that appeared on Quelle’s face. ‘How many of your friends are with you?’ he asked.

‘Eh? I’ve no friends here, sir.’

‘You’re lying. I happen to know who it is you are pursuing.’

Quelle’s glance flicked involuntarily to Inpriss Sorce, who sat watching anxiously from across the lounge. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Perhaps Quelle was alone after all, Aton thought. Perhaps he was merely shadowing Inpriss Sorce and others would take over when the ship reached Umbul. But the gunnery sergeant’s shiftiness and deceit was so plain that nothing could be taken as certain.

‘Are you going to turn me in, sir?’ Quelle asked mildly, inspecting the bottles stacked against the bar.

‘Yes.’

‘Then why haven’t you done it before?’ Quelle turned to him, smirking. ‘You know what I think, Captain? I think you’re an escaped prisoner. I don’t know how you did it, but the fact you’re here shows you did. There’s a courier dispatch chamber waiting for you in Chronopolis, isn’t there? Maybe I should turn you in. Because whatever you say it’s still your word against the testimony of eight witnesses .’

Aton stepped closer to the man. His hand darted inside Quelle’s jacket. As he had expected he found a tiny beamer, small enough to fit into the palm of a hand.

No one around them had noticed his sudden movement. ‘Let’s go and see the security officer, Quelle.’

Quelle stood his ground for a moment. Then, at an insistent nudge from Aton he reluctantly preceded him towards the exit.

Although unfamiliar with the layout of the civilian time-ship, Aton found the security office without difficulty. Quelle made no attempt to escape or to move against him, and Aton reflected that the Traumatic had made a good point. Back in Chronopolis his own story would carry little weight. But that did not matter; somehow or other he would rescue Inpriss Sorce from the Traumatic sect’s attentions.

In the security office was a middle-aged, long-jawed man in the blue uniform of the Buick line. Aton pushed Quelle in ahead of him.

‘Officer, I am Captain Aton of the Third Time Fleet,’ he announced. ‘This is one of my men, Sergeant Quelle, whom I must ask you to place under close arrest. He is a criminal, a perjurer and a heretic, a member of the Traumatic sect, and he is currently engaged in hounding one of your passengers with intent to murder her.’

The officer looked from one man to the other, his face impassive. But behind that impassivity Aton caught feelings that were unsettling – recognition of Quelle, dismay at the whole proceeding.

‘Serious charges,’ said the officer. ‘One moment, I’ll call my men.’

He pressed a button. Almost immediately two security guards appeared at the door. Uneasy now, Aton turned to face them.

‘He has my beamer,’ Quelle said quickly.

A numbing, stinging shock struck Aton in the neck and spread down to his shoulders and arms. The beamer slipped from his nerveless grasp; his arms hung uselessly. He swung around clumsily and saw the security officer holding the numb-prong with which he had half-paralysed him.

The door slammed shut. All four men crowded around Aton, pushing him back. ‘What on Earth happened?’ the officer snarled at Quelle.

‘He knows about me,’ Quelle said in a surly tone. ‘He’s supposed to be dead; we thought we’d fixed him in Chronopolis. Hulmu help me, I nearly dropped when I saw him in the passenger lounge just now.’