Barrington Bayley - Collision with Chronos

“All in order?” Brourne rapped.

Su-Mueng nodded, looking up at the stubby, barrel-like man. “We’re keeping to our timetable remarkably well.”

“Too well,” Brourne rumbled sulkily. “I like the opposition to put up a bit of a fight.”

Su-Mueng ignored the remark and continued studying the map, wondering where Hwen Wu and the rest of the cabinet were.

A Titan sergeant appeared at the door and saluted smartly. “We’ve found a white man, sir.”

Brourne turned with interest, but the man who stood there flanked by two troopers was unknown to him. He was a tall, slim man, his eyes steady, wearing garments of an unfamiliar cut – basically Earth style, but probably tailored here in the space city, Brourne imagined.

“Who are you?” he barked.

The other paused before answering in a low tone. “My name is Citizen Sobrie Oblomot.”

The Titan-Major glared at him, then decided on a less threatening posture. “Well, it’s certainly a change to find a white man in a place like this,” he said briskly. “How did you come to be here?”

“A Chink ship brought me,” Oblomot told him. “From the Amhrak reservation.”

“Amhrak? Are you an Amhrak?” Brourne was startled, almost indignant. “Frankly I wouldn’t have known it—”

“No, I’m not Amhrak. I was banished there for… political reasons.”

“Oh, I see.” Brourne grimaced. “As a matter of fact, my men were expecting to find Rond Heshke, the archaeologist, when they brought you in. Presumably he was on the ship too?”

“No…” Oblomot said slowly. “Rond stayed behind.”

Brourne looked disappointed.

Dismally Sobrie’s eyes took in the scene in Brourne’s HQ. It depressed him, having thought he’d escaped the Titans for good, to see them come pouring into Retort City as well. For a moment he’d had the crazy idea that they were taking over the universe.

His first thought had been for Layella. Even in Retort City costume she stood out a mile. But a group of women had taken care of her and hidden her somewhere. With luck the Titans wouldn’t notice her for some time.

For some reason he hadn’t tried to flee himself. Probably, he rationalised, he’d become infected with Rond Heshke’s style of defeatism.

The young officer at the table turned around and spoke to the Titan-Major. It was, Sobrie realised with a start, Hueh Su-Mueng – wearing Titan uniform! The spectacle of a full-blooded Chink dressed out as a Titan-Lieutenant made Sobrie burst into laughter.

Brourne silenced him with a scowl and lumbered over to glance at the map. His troops had reached the centre of the city – of this half of the city, at any rate. Even if its rulers tried to organise some sort of defence it would do them no good now.

“Excellent, excellent,” he murmured. “Well, there it is, then. The job’s practically done.”

Su-Mueng rose to his feet and spoke respectfully. “Now that matters have reached this stage, Major, may I request that I lead a force into the Lower Retort, to assess the situation there?”

The Titan laughed brutally. “Sit tight, Chink, you’re not going anywhere.”

Alarm showed on Su-Mueng’s yellow features. “I don’t understand, Major. Planetary Leader Limnich made a firm promise—”

“We don’t do deals with devs,” Brourne sneered. “Sometimes they come in useful, like animals come in useful. You’ve done your job, and thanks very much.” He jerked his head to two huge guards at the back of the room, who promptly strode forward and stamped to attention on either side of Su-Mueng.

The boy’s a simpleton, Sobrie thought. He really didn’t know what sort of people he was mixing with. He probably doesn’t understand, even now, what racism means.

And Su-Mueng did, indeed, look bewildered, like a child who’s been cheated.

“This – this is outright treachery!” he spluttered breathlessly, swaying as though about to faint. “When Limnich hears—”

“Limnich, Limnich!” Brourne jeered. He laughed again, loudly. “After you left, Limnich had his office fumigated!”

“You need me to get cooperation in the Lower Retort —”

“The Lower Retort will get the same treatment this one is getting – and soon.” He would have moved into the Production Retort first, in fact, except that there was no dock there for the spaceships. Still, Brourne didn’t anticipate any trouble. The masters are gutless, he thought. The slaves must be even worse.

“If you have any further role to play, it will be as an interpreter,” he told Su-Mueng. “We’ll probably need a few of those.”

He gestured to the guards. “Take him in custody. This fellow Oblomot, too. I’ll decide what to do with him later.”

Su-Mueng stood blankly for a moment. Then he did an astonishing thing. He took one step to the rear and both hands went smoothly up to both men’s necks. The troopers jerked momentarily, then fell back, unconscious.

The lithe youth bounded forward to meet the party escorting Sobrie. His hands seemed scarcely to touch them, merely weaving in and out in a graceful arabesque. But the soldiers were caught up in that arabesque, tumbling in a flurry of limbs until they finished up dazed on the other side of the room.

The people of the Upper Retort practised the arts and all mental pleasures; those of the Lower Retort practised sport. Su-Mueng was using Hoka, the culmination of thousands of years’ development of unarmed combat. Compared with the enthusiasts in the Production Retort Su-Mueng was but a beginner, but he could stun – or, though that was forbidden, kill – with but a light touch upon a nerve, and in his hands an untrained man’s body was but an assemblage of self-destructive levers.

Brourne’s gun was in his hand. Su-Mueng too drew his own Corgel automatic in one easy movement – the Titans, treating his honorary rank as one huge joke, had delighted in fitting him out with all accoutrements, including an “honorary certificate of racial purity”– and bent forward in a supple stance, bringing his gun hand forward to shoot the Major carefully in the arm. Brourne swung away, cursing with pain.

Su-Mueng put a hand between Sobrie’s shoulder blades and propelled him through the door. Sobrie, surrendering his will, ran with him across the plaza toward the stream of guns and vehicles that bounced across the occasionally uneven flooring.

Glancing behind him, Sobrie saw Brourne struggle to the door, leaning against the jamb. Su-Mueng threw up his hand imperiously, bringing to a halt a light truck.

The driver glanced curiously at him, but he already knew about this strange dev officer; it didn’t seem odd to him that he should be hitching a ride, while Sobrie’s presence went unremarked. Su-Mueng urged his companion into the covered rear, joined him, and banged on the driving cab for the Titan to continue.

The truck was half-filled with crated ammunition. They settled down tensely as the vehicle jolted forward. “When we’re out of the area we’ll slip out and make our own way,” Su-Mueng said, speaking low.

Sobrie nodded. They rode for some minutes with no apparent sign of danger, and now that he had time free from action Su-Mueng let his dismay and resentment flood like a tide of sickness through his bloodstream.

“Anyone could have told you,” Sobrie admonished, noticing his distress. “It was a pretty silly thing to do, tying yourself in with the Titans.”

“I thought I would give my father’s death some meaning,” Su-Mueng answered. “Never again would a man die for loving his son.…”

He trailed off, realising that Sobrie didn’t know what he was talking about. His face creased in a pondering frown. “Perhaps the Titans will go away again when they have what they want.”