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

With alacrity the robots formed a rank and went through their repertoire in concert, by turns grinning, grimacing, scowling, looking comically stern. Four expressions in all, each one rigid and unvarying, grotesquely unrealistic, the transitions between them sudden and startling.

‘How is your conversation improving?’ Belladonna asked, obviously pleased with the performance.

‘In truth there has been no great advancement as yet,’ the team leader answered apologetically. ‘We still find that verbal communication far outstrips what can be added to it by facial contortions.’

‘No doubt it comes with practice,’ Belladonna replied optimistically. ‘Let us move on, Jasperodus.’

They stepped back into the corridor. ‘Now I have a top secret project to show you,’ Belladonna confided. ‘Something of military application. We are fortunate in having some excellent chemists among us.’

Door Nine disclosed a well-equipped laboratory. A number of carefully intent constructs were busy with flasks, tubes and burners. Labelled jars and boxes lined the shelves that covered the walls.

Belladonna approached the main workbench and showed Jasperodus an elaborate set-up of retorts and coils from which a dark green liquid slowly dripped into self-sealing metal containers. He glanced at Jasperodus. ‘We may expect the current conflict eventually to turn into a war between men and constructs, before we are able to achieve our real aim, that of founding a robot republic. In that struggle this weapon will prove invaluable. It is a poison gas that is deadly to humans but harmless, of course, to constructs.’ He picked up one of the cylindrical containers from a tray and pressed a button on its top. ‘See!’

A thick green fog spurted from a nozzle, forming billowing clouds which quickly spread through the laboratory. ‘To a human being this vapour is instantly fatal.’

Belladonna must have possessed a poor olfactory sense. The gas had an intensely vile stench that revolted Jasperodus. He averted his head, uttering a horrified cry.

‘Death!’ he gasped. ‘The smell of death!’

He knocked the hissing container from Belladonna’s hand, then charged wildly into the convoluted assemblage of reaction vessels, smashing and scattering everything to fragments.

‘Cease production of this evil odour,’ he demanded, confronting the startled robot scientists. ‘Destroy the formula, expunge it from your memories. I cannot stand the smell of death.’

‘So you think we should let supplies through?’ asked Jasperodus.

‘On humanitarian grounds it would appear reasonable,’ the other stated.

‘Why feed an enemy?’ Arcturus objected without much conviction. ‘We should have overwhelmed those areas days ago.’

They stood on the floor of the basilica. During the past week Jasperodus and his co-conspirators had once more taken control of the city, but had left unmolested certain opulent areas whose residents had formed a common defence. Jasperodus somehow felt no enthusiasm for their subjugation.

‘Let them have supplies,’ he said carelessly. ‘It will soften their attitude towards us.’

The third member of the conversation was Jasperodus’ own replica. The staff robots and household robots of the palace had made a smooth transition to the new régime, with the exception of those few controlled by secret command languages who still proved recalcitrant and had been locked in the cellars along with the other prisoners. The human household servants were less willing, of course, but they understood their situation and cooperated as well as might be expected.

Jasperodus 2 inclined his head in assent and left to make the necessary arrangements.

Evening approached, softening the quality of the light that entered through the high mullioned windows. The throne had been removed from the apse, as had the thought-pictures the dais had formerly concealed (they were too distracting) and Jasperodus had introduced a more democratic atmosphere into the court – if court it could be called – mingling with his proletarian lackeys on equal terms. In keeping with the notions expressed by Arcturus and Belladonna he would probably style himself (though he no longer cared or thought about the future) First Councillor, First Citizen, or something of the sort.

Absent-mindedly Jasperodus attended to one or two other matters that were brought before him. At about sunset a series of loud explosions ripped through central Tansiann, some of them close to the palace. They were believed to be the work of loyalists and a great deal of confusion and concern was occasioned, but Jasperodus ignored them entirely and went on supervising the arrangement of seats for the event he planned for later that night.

Somewhat after the onset of darkness there were more explosions and fires throughout the capital, together with sporadic guerrilla attacks on rebel positions. It was plain that loyalist elements had spent time in organising themselves and now were attempting to make the rebels’ possession of the city untenable.

While the guests were arriving, messengers continually brought news of developments, but he paid them little heed. He had invited – or rather, ordered to appear – a gathering of Tansiann’s most renowned poets, artists and musicians for an evening of social mingling interspersed with music of quality.

Also in the company were any of the coarsest of Subuh’s denizens, human and construct, who cared to show themselves. Drink and modulated electric current flowed freely. Jasperodus spent part of the time circulating among the guests, encouraging drunkenness and general indiscipline, and part of the time to one side by himself, observing all with dry detachment. Occasionally further explosions could be heard, dull thumps or sharp detonations according to how far away they were.

Belladonna approached, reeling from too much neural pattern stimulation. ‘The situation is looking ugly,’ he rasped.

‘No doubt it will be under control by morning.’ Jasperodus raised his hand, a signal for the orchestra to begin the next item on their programme, an elegant concerto for multihorn by the composer Reskelt.

Disinvolving himself from all talk, Jasperodus listened idly to Reskelt’s flawless pattern of melody. In a few minutes the short piece came to an end and the musicians rested. Glancing around the hall, Jasperodus noticed that he was being observed with some interest by a white-bearded but hale oldster whose face was slightly familiar. It was the riddle-poser, one of the troupe who had entertained Jasperodus when he was king of Gordona.

Seeing that he was recognised, the old man approached. ‘So you were not retained permanently in Gordona,’ Jasperodus remarked. ‘But what brings you here?’

The other chuckled as if at a joke. ‘No, we were able to leave as soon as King Zhorm was reinstated. As for why I am here, we arrived to fulfil an engagement booked several months ago, and the Major Domo has requested that we remain until the Emperor returns to put the palace back in order. What of yourself? I see you have not changed your habits, for you are in a roughly similar situation to the last time we met.’

‘Oh, I have not been without some self-development,’ Jasperodus replied in a wry tone. ‘I progressed from treachery to a life of service in the name of ideals. But then I myself was betrayed by the man to whom I gave my trust, and this is my response.’

‘You refer to the Emperor Charrane?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Ahhh…’ The riddle-poser sighed, shaking his head. ‘What an empty thing is revenge!’

‘It is what one turns to,’ Jasperodus said thoughtfully, ‘when one feels one’s manhood threatened.’

‘Hm. It is quite apparent that you have an unusual talent for making the world suffer for your disappointments. But why so? Is it not a vanity to act so destructively? Repaying evil with evil has never been reckoned a mark of wisdom.’