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

‘The house is at the north end of Monk Street, second from the corner with Abbey Street, and is set back from the road. We are on the third floor, at the rear.’

‘Then I am barely a mile and a half from you, I believe. I hope to be there within minutes.’ He handed back the set to the carrying robot.

Wondering if he would be able to find a doctor for Cree in the vicinity, he set out in the motor vehicle, which had a raised armoured skirt for protection from gunfire. Otherwise he carried only his long-tubed beamer. The vehicle was steam-driven, with a small fast-heat fire-box fuelled by pellets made from a woody composite. He worked a lever, pumping in pellets, then steamed up the engine. The vehicle rolled out from under the archway, careened round the corner and down the road to the main avenue separating the boroughs.

The imperial troops had set up firing points on all the main intersections and on many minor ones, thus establishing an effective cross-fire. Jasperodus’ advantage was that they did not always immediately recognise him for a robot, and so tended not to bring into use their beamers, which alone could destroy him. He swept at speed through the streets between him and North Subuh. Bullets drummed against the skirting and occasionally pinged off his body, but he clung to the steering wheel and managed to keep his seat. Once a beam hit the side of the truck, burned its way through the skirting and hissed behind his back, but it did not touch him. Eventually he realised that the firing had stopped; he was through the cordon and in Subuh.

The house was as Chisel had described it. The line of tenements was broken just there and the building stood alone, set back from the street. Otherwise it had the same unkempt appearance; the stonework was grimy and cracked, many of the windows were broken. The front door had been broken down – by Chisel and Bootmaker, presumably. Cautiously Jasperodus entered a darkened hallway and mounted narrow stairs. Surprisingly, the robots had chosen well. The house offered good defensive positions, with its sharp twists and turns and close passages.

On the third floor he found a door at the end of a short passage, facing the back of the house. He hammered on it.

‘Who is there?’ cried Chisel’s excited voice from within. ‘No stranger may enter! Depart or face our machine-guns!’

‘It is I, Jasperodus,’ Jasperodus called.

‘Jasperodus, our commander! You indeed may enter!’ There came the sound of furniture being shifted behind the door, then of a lock being turned, then the door was flung open.

‘All is as I have stated,’ Chisel exulted. ‘It is absolutely impossible for the assassination squad to kill Major Inwing now.’ He gestured with a flourish. ‘See – we have killed him ourselves! How now will the assassins perform the act?’

Jasperodus stepped into the cramped, grimy room and stared aghast at the scene that met his eyes. On a blood-drenched pallet bed against the far wall lay the corpse of Cree Inwing, his skull crushed and battered by some blunt instrument. Near him stood Bootmaker the cobbling robot, his dull red eyes staring passively at Jasperodus and a machine-gun held awkwardly in his hands.

‘A perfect strategy to thwart the desires of the assassins who are hunting the major!’ claimed Chisel in a voice that invited congratulation.

His wits paralysed, Jasperodus stared from one robot to the other. Here it was: the basic, incurable idiocy of the machine, laid bare before his understanding like a sick vision. With a bellow of agonised rage he leaped at Chisel, who sprang back in surprise. Jasperodus slammed him against the wall and pounded him again and again with his steel fist. Chisel, like Bootmaker, was smaller than Jasperodus and not nearly as sturdily constructed; his flimsy pressed-sheet body-casing buckled and broke apart and tiny components spilled out, dislodged by Jasperodus’ violence. In a final vicious attack Jasperodus brought his fist down like a hammer on the unlucky construct’s head and he toppled to the floor with a crushed braincase.

Jasperodus advanced on Bootmaker, who had stood motionless and silent throughout the destruction of his companion. ‘You also took part in this?’

‘We debated together ways and means of denying the assassins their pleasure, until finally Chisel arrived at his idea, which he considered a stroke of genius.’

‘There are some humans even more stupid than you,’ Jasperodus said in strangled tones, ‘but even they would not make so incredible a mistake!’

‘As to that I cannot say. For forty years I made and repaired boots and shoes alongside my master and then alongside his son, my second master. That is my trade: I was never trained to know when and when not to kill. When my master’s son died I was left alone and so joined the wild robots, though to be frank I would prefer to be back with him, working at my last. I can make a good pair of boots, sir.’

Jasperodus took hold of Bootmaker, and dragged him from the room and partway down the first flight of stairs, where he flung him over the banisters and down the stairwell. The robot hit the ground floor with a resounding crash. When Jasperodus passed by him a minute later his limbs were moving feebly in a reflex action.

In a daze Jasperodus boarded his motor truck and drove south, passing groups of disorganised guerrillas and arriving shortly in the enclave. In the headquarters he was greeted by Belladonna, who had taken no part in the fighting but instead had appointed himself Director of Political Research.

‘Good to see you, Jasperodus. All goes well, I trust? Though I hear there is renewed fighting throughout Tansiann. Hopefully we shall soon regain control.’

Jasperodus made a half-hearted gesture of acquiescence. The headquarters seemed quiet. The vidset switchboard he had arranged was still staffed, but no one was calling in, the centre of communications having shifted to the palace.

‘I have something I would like you to see,’ Belladonna said, ‘if you would care to step into my premises.’ He extended an arm invitingly.

Jasperodus followed him through the covered passageway that led to the buildings Belladonna had sequestered for himself and his team. ‘I have been giving much thought to the deficiencies which human beings have forced on we robots, in keeping no doubt with our former condition of machine slavery,’ Belladonna explained as they walked. ‘With the onset of the robot revolt there is no reason why we should continue to suffer these deprivations. Thus you, Jasperodus, have shown that robots can express forceful self-will, which has been an inspiration to us all. Another useful faculty our masters have hitherto forbidden us is facial expression, which no one can deny is a valuable aid to communication between individuals. Accordingly we have been doing some work in this field.’

He opened a door and they were in the research centre, a long corridor flanked by steel doors painted white and each bearing a number.

‘It would have been possible to simulate the human face, using a rubberoid sheath manipulated by a musculature system,’ Belladonna continued, ‘but we rejected this approach as being slavishly imitative. A typically robotic face is what is needed.’

He opened door number four. Within, half a dozen or so robots were standing talking together, or else gazing into mirrors. Jasperodus observed that their faces underwent curious machine-like motions. Each robot had been fitted with a new face which incorporated, in the region of the mouth and cheeks, slots and flanges capable of simple movements relative to one another. These made possible mask-like travesties of a limited number of human expressions.

‘Attention!’ barked Belladonna. ‘Our leader wishes to see a demonstration.’