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

‘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.’