Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10 (18 page)

           
"It isn't a he, it's a
girl!" Pout offered eagerly. "She wore a black and silver suit and
came down in an egg! Look, she gave me this scangun."

 
          
Gruwert
watched while Major Kastrillo took the weapon from Pout's grasp, glanced at it,
then tossed it through the door of the drop pod. "Yes, that's the
one," he said slowly. The rebels tracked to Mars had worn the same
uniform. "Let's have her, then." "Oh, she's not here,
she's—"

 
          
Pout
stopped. He wondered how much bargaining power his knowledge of the girl's
whereabouts gave him—and did he dare try to use
it?

 
          
He
glanced back. The
kosho
and his young
nephew were walking slowly towards him!

 
          
His
skin prickled. "I am glad to be of service to the Empire," he said
obsequiously. Then, in a voice of panic: "Take me with you and I'll tell
you where she is!"

 
          
"You
are coming with us anyway," Gruwert said commandingly. "Now quickly,
end this deviousness."

 
          
While
Ikematsu and Sinbiane stood silently by, Pout said: "There are some moving
cities that roam flat ground over that way." He waved an arm. "She's
in the nearest of them. It's called
Mo.
"

 
          
"Yes,
we saw them.
Where
in
this city?"
Pout shrugged. "They're not as large as all
that." "I suppose that will do," Gruwert said, satisfied.
"AH right, get inside the pod."

 
          
"Are
you really taking the chimera?" Brigadier
Carson
asked in surprise.

 
          
"Yes,
I am." Gruwert had dark thoughts about the creature. Though he had spoken
to him as though to a child, he suspected there might be considerably more to
him than that. Why was the
kosho,
a
proud and highly trained human being—he recalled something about
koshos
now—apparently his servant? A
pan-primate chimera, too ... it was reminiscent of the pan-mammalian chimera
the Whole-Earth-Biotists wanted to install as Emperor Protector.

 
          
"We'll
take the
kosho
too," he decided.
"Don't they have special mental training? Heightened psychic
flexibility?" He pondered. It was, he supposed, exactly the
faculty—heightened imagination—which animals were supposed to be incapable of.
"That's the sort of quality we might need if we're to investigate that
rent in space."

           
"Yes, you're absolutely
right," muttered
Carson
. Yet looking at the imperturbable warrior, and his array of weapons,
he wondered exactly how he was to be 'taken'.

 
          
Pout
was stopped from entering the pod by a dog
who
came up
to him and began sniffing him all over. The beast stood nearly as tall as
Pout
himself; the chimera cringed but the commando
persisted, and eventually its muzzle lunged and came out gripping the zen gun
he had put back in his bib.

 
          
"He
had another gun," the dog growled between clenched teeth.

 
          
"It
doesn't work. It's my lucky charm." Pout watched with pleading eyes as
Carson
took the gun and turned it over. The man
grunted in amusement, then pointed it at the horizon and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.

 
          
"It's
made of wood," he remarked lightly.
"Only an old
curio."
Pout timorously extended a paw; he casually handed the gun
back to him.

 
          
On
seeing Pout skulk his way into the pod, tucking the gun in his bib, Ikematsu
stepped forward. "If I am to come with you I must keep my weapons,"
he said to the Brigadier. "A
kosho
does
not discard his armoury."

 
          
Indignantly
Carson
looked at him. "We're not allowing you
on one of our ships rigged out like that! You're a walking war!" He waved
Sinbiane back. "And we don't need you, young man. You stay here."

 
          
"This
is my nephew," Ikematsu informed. "I go nowhere without him."

 
          
Suddenly
he made a series of quick movements, disengaging the catches of his harness,
at which the rifle rack, the mortar tube and the other weapons fell away,
arranging themselves on the ground with surprising neatness.

 
          
"See,"
he said, "I disarm, contrary to all principle, pro-vided my nephew
accompanies me. I ask only that my armoury be stored safely and returned to me
eventually."

 
          
"Oh,
all right,"
Carson
agreed. He was relieved that the
kosho
was being cooperative, not guessing that Ikematsu's first demand had been
no more than a bargaining counter.

 
          
He
and the major helped the animals drag their dead into the pod for space burial
later. Squatting inside the pod, the cheetahs especially cast feral glances at
the
kosho;
but their discipline
restrained mem from any threatening word or gesture.

 
          
The
pod lifted off. In the orbiting cruiser they delayed only while the bodies and
the prisoners were transferred. Then they dropped, with the other pods
Carson
ordered, onto
Mo.

 
          
Five
hundred commandos sliced through the moving city with a ferocity its
inhabitants could hardly have envisaged. Even so, it was nearly four hours
before the fugitive had been located and taken prisoner.

 
          
That
gave time for the pig Fire Command Officer to learn about the life style of the
cities of the plain. He was reminded once again of his conclusions concerning
the Oracle's pronouncements; accordingly, he engineered another small, but
personal, triumph. With referring to Admiral Archier, he called his own
department and arranged to have the whole plain nuked as they departed.

 
          
"Those
cities are a social experiment," he explained to Brigadier Carson as they
watched the pinpricks of light blossom on the curve of the planet below them.
"An experiment in academics: they spend—spent, rather—their whole time
studying—studying
history
and
social philosophy,
among other things.
Can't be too careful.
No knowing what ideas they were brewing.
Could be what the Oracle was talking about."

 
          
Carson
had misgivings. "The Admiral will be
annoyed if he hears about it. He's supposed to give the order for things like
that."

 
          
"Oh,
don't worry," Gruwert said jovially. "He can't attend to every little
detail, can he?"

 
          
And
some of you humans, the pig added to himself with satisfaction, aren't so hot
when it comes to making decisions.

 
          
In
Claire de Lune's
command centre
Ragshok had synched into the Fleet Manoeuvres Network. On the screens he saw the
current dispositions as the last few ships—of a rather depleted fleet since the
battle with the Escorians, he noticed—joined formation. He had learned to read
some of the codes, too. He had identified, for instance, the code for what he
now thought of as his own ship, and had been able to respond to instructions.

 
          
Although
it was only hours since he had joined the fleet, so far there had been no
trouble. He had ignored beamed requests for reports, and as far as he knew no
one had tried to come through the intermat, though as it wasn't working yet it
was hard to be sure. Probably they would despatch someone in a boat sooner or
later. Things could get tritky.

 
          
He
called Tengu again. "Well?"

           
The image of the systems engineer
appeared in the
air
before him.
"Not yet. I'm still checking. If there's a fault,
I'll
find it, I swear."

 
          
But
Tengu looked worried, and Ragshok cursed. After
all
their work, this had to happen!

 
          
Installing
the flux unit from his ship
Dare
had
been no small job for a start. While that was under way he had toured half a
dozen worlds, picking lip rebel fugitives who had managed to evade pursuit
following the battle, privateer gangs like his own, and anyone he could persuade
to throw in with him and who could use a weapon.

 
          
He
had packed nearly three thousand men and women into
Claire de Lune.
They would be getting restless if he didn't soon
produce what he had promised them.

 
          
His
whole plan depended on getting the intermat working. Tengu had earlier
inspected the transceiver kiosks and announced them undamaged, despite not
properly understanding how they functioned. The fact that they would not work
within the bounds of the ship had seemed reasonable at the time: they were a
ship-to-ship facility, and he had presumed there would be no problems once they
came within range of the rest of the fleet.

 
          
But
how long would the Imperial staff remain incurious about a ship that was
supposed to have been abandoned?

 
          
"Speed
it up,
will
you," he grated to
Tengu, dismissing him.

 
          
"Eh
chief," said Morgan, messing about at the comdesk. "Look at
this."

 
          
Ragshok
squinted at the display area as Morgan put up the data Fleet Manoeuvres was
putting out. "It's a general order," Morgan said. "They're
moving out."

 
          
"Where to?"

 
         
somewhere
.   Nowhere
I guess
."

 
         
Morgan
  shook
  his  head.  
"Just interesting.
To the next bit of trouble,

 
          
"Damn
Tengu!" raged Ragshok. "This is his fault! I trusted him!"

 
          
"What
shall we do?"

 
          
"You
can get the GDC and everything out of that?"

 
          
He
was referring to Galactic Directional Coordinates. "Yes, I think so,"
Morgan said.

 
          
"Then
we obey orders."

 
          
Tentatively,
for he still was not too expert at handling the Planet Class destroyer, Morgan
entered figures on his desk, called the engine room, and began to manoeuvre.

 
          
Somehow
or other he got into formation. The fleet withdrew from the system, meshing
bubbles, and hurtled for the unknown.

 
          
Diadem—Galactic
Diadem, or the Jewel in the Galactic Crown, as it was variously known in
official documents— presented to the approaching visitor a splendid sight of
depth when depth, of stars of every size and colour grouped, constellated,
strewn and focused in patterns of dazzling complexity that no jeweller could
ever have' equalled. Perhaps even more exciting, to one from the outer parts of
the Empire, was the thought of the splendours, invisible from his first vantage
pt«nt, of the inhabited planets Diadem contained. In the past the development
of the Diadem worlds had been on a colossal scale. There were cities which,
like the starry perspective of Diadem itself, exhibited depth upon depth of
architectural glory, though many of these were inhabited mainly by animals now,
and there were worlds galore with sculpted climates and reconstituted
biospheres that rendered them planetary paradises, each according to the
private tastes of its owner, though maintenance had been cursory in the decades
of the robot strike and on some of them nature had already begun to take its
own course.

 
          
How
it appeared to the large vessel that entered, with the permission of the
Imperial Council (Diadem being one of the few regions of the galaxy where
absolute territorial rights between alien races were respected), and leisurely
made its way to a slightly bluish sun, was a different matter. The Methorians
did not see in the comparatively short wavelengths that composed the visible
spectrum for humans, and in fact did not see sharply defined solid objects at
all. On their own planets
were
no standing cities, no
fixed structures but instead gauzy rolling masses that floated and circulated
within the atmospheric bands characteristic of gas giants.

 
          
Imperial
Council Member Koutroubis arrived at the fifth planet of the sun only a short
time ahead of the scheduled meeting with the Methorian delegate, an event he
did not look forward to
In
the least. The planet, a
light-year from the group of worlds where the Council was accustomed to
sitting, was a private residence that had been chosen mainly for its placid
traffic-free atmosphere, but also because it was the home of an old friend of
his who was always willing to do a favour.

 
          
Oskay
Rubadaya, a white-haired man of middling years, waved his arms in greeting as
Koutroubis's official statecar descended to land just outside one of the many
lodges he had dotted about the planet. The lodge itself was a rambling
construction extending for about a mile in any direction.
Before
it there stretched a level meadow of pale green moss reaching almost to the
horizon—the reason why the site had been selected.
On its fringes
arboreal parkland began. It was Rubadaya's pleasure to go for long walks
through that parkland, a recurring feature over the whole planet. He was
particularly fond of trees; the parks had been planned and planted by a
tax-item artist from one of the outer regions of the Empire.

 
          
Koutroubis
stepped down from the statecar. "Hello Oskay.
" ;
He sniffed the air. "Why, how . . . er,
odd
the atmosphere seems."

 
          
"Innocent
is the word you're
looking for," Rubadayj chuckled. "What's unusual is that there's
nothing artificial in the atmosphere. No perfumes or psychotropics. Mostly what
you're smelling
is tree resins."

 
          
"Mm,
I see." Koutroubis glanced anxiously at the sky. "I'm a little
early."

 
          
"Then
come and get some refreshment." Rubadaya led the way through the entrance
to the lodge and into a spacious, timbered room. He called out several times,
until eventually a household robot sauntered casually in.

 
          
"Um,
this is the Council Member I told you about, Hoskiss. I was wondering if you
would be good enough to mix us some drinks. This
is
a special guest."

 
          
A
sighing noise came from the robot's speaker. "Of course, sir," it
said, in a tone conveying something other than servility. With perfunctory
correctness it moved to a cabinet, busied itself with squirts and gushes, and
served tall glasses on a tray.

 
          
"Thank
you, Hoskiss!" Rubadaya said fulsomely. "I really am grateful."

 
          
"I
hope so, sir. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sun myself on the patio for
the rest of the day."

           
The robot left. "Well at least
you can get him to do
something
for
you," Koutroubis smiled.

 
          
The
robot union gave household robots total discretion as to how or whether they
served their masters. Rubadaya shook his head in exasperation. "He does
just as he likes," he said. "You know, we have to pay them more
respect than if they
were
recognised
as sentients. At least as second-class citizens they'd have to do what they
were told! Why don't we give them what they want?"

 
          
"Please!"
Koutroubis groaned, putting his hand to his forehead. "No more problems
now! We've got enough as it is!"

 
          
"Just as you please."
Rubadaya, like most humans
in Diadem, lived virtually oblivious of political matters. He was one of those
who took the Empire for granted but didn't even seem to care if it was
maintained or not. Sometimes Koutroubis wondered if he should resent such
profound disinterest, but there was no way round it. One couldn't have a free
society and coerce people as well—not, at any rate, the most privileged and
civilised members of that society, which in this case meant the first-class
citizenry of Diadem.

 
          
He
sucked his drink through the straw provided. "What's the population of
this planet?" he asked conversationally.

 
          
"There
are three of us.
Fuong, who spends most of his time on an
island chain on the big ocean—that's just about diametrically opposite us
here—and an old lady who's built herself a town on the equator.
She has
a few animals with her. It does feel a bit crowded sometimes. Always seem to be
bumping into one or the other of them, though I suppose a bit of company is
welcome occasionally." Rubadaya shrugged. "As I'm the freeholder I
could ask them to find planets of their own, but it wouldn't be neighbourly, I
feel."

 
          
He
laid down his glass. "I'm curious about this meeting. It sounds so
awkward. Couldn't messengers be used instead, or something?"

 
          
"I'm
afraid not," Koutroubis said with a deep sigh. Methorians had a gaseous
metabolism instead of the liquid one evolved in water oceans. The structure
corresponding to the basic cell was a balloon-like gasbag. And communication
was accomplished by means of gaseous diffusion of coded molecules. "When
Methorians parley," he explained, "they engulf one another in a mutal
gaseous effusion. There has to be personal proximity, or nothing significant
has happened.

 
 
          
They
insist on the same in their rare dealings with us. Apparently they feel
psychologically that we haven't taken any notice of them, otherwise."

 
          
"What
kind of 'gaseous effusion' are you going to give off?" Rubadaya asked with
amusement.

 
          
"That's
all arranged."

 
          
"Why
does it have to be
us
who accommodate
them?"
Rubadaya rubbed his chin
thoughtfully. "Isn't their technology more advanced than ours? You'd
think gaseous creatures, especially being as huge and fragile as they are,
would find it pretty difficult to be space travellers at all."

 
          
"Yes,
they are pretty big, and unwieldy, as you say. But I wouldn't say their
technology's any better than ours overall.
Perhaps not as
good.
They are a much older race than we are, but everything's taken
them much longer. For their first few million years they had no proper concept
of a solid object, for instance.

 
          
"Actually
they use a trick for space travel; they compress themselves. It's possible for
a gas creature, you know. It's uncomfortable, I believe, but without it their
ships would have to be simply enormous. They're ten times the size of ours as
it is."

 
          
A
voice sounding in his ear sent Koutroubis's nervous apprehension leaping up the
scale. It was his spider monkey pilot.

 
          
"They're
coming in, sir."

 
          
"Let's
watch the thing land," Koutrbubis suggested to Rubadaya as he came to his
feet.
"Ought to be quite a sight."

 
          
Outside,
they could see a small ball high in the sky. It was the Methorian landing
craft. Having detached itself from the main ship outside the atmosphere, it was
inflating as it descended, allowing its occupant to decompress and assume full
size.

 
          
By
the time it came to sink close to the meadow the ball was a rippling sphere
about a hundred feet in diameter. Gently it settled, its underbelly swelling on
the moss, putting out tendrils which gripped the turf and steadied it.

 
          
"Wish
me luck," Koutroubis said glumly.

 
          
His
staff of primates and elephants hurried towards him with the atmosuit and gas
generator trolley he would need inside the sphere. He allowed them to garb him and
lead him forward to the orifice that plopped open in the bulging skin. It was
like entering a pale orange mouth, which closed behind him. Then the throat
opened, and he moved forward into a reddish medium he knew to be composed of
hydrogen, methane, ammonia and countless complex volatiles.

 
          
Visually,
it was confusing. The gases of the globe's interior swayed and swirled,
mainly, it seemed, because of the constantly windmilling motion of the
Methorian, which occupied about a third of the available space. It was hard to
make out the creature clearly; more than anything else it reminded Koutroubis
of a gigantic multihued jellyfish suspended in the murky air, the central mass
surrounded by wavy translucent veils tipped with filaments. Gas-giant life was,
he had been told, of such delicacy that a human being could not come into
physical contact with it without doing it some damage.

 
          
The
trolley had obediently followed him into the sphere and now began serving its
function of expelling code gases that soughed out and mingled with the
atmosphere. He had been assured these would give the Methorian the needed
psychological experience of a
communicating
presence
that at the same time carried a sufficiently individual tang to give
it the tag of being alien and human.

 
          
The
job of language translation had fortunately been handled by the Methorians. A
low but melodiously clear voice spoke to him, emanating from nowhere in
particular.

 
          
"/
am
the delegate that was sent."

 
          
"I
welcome you to Diadem, centre of our Empire," Koutroubis responded.

 
          
"Normally
such visits are not needed. Our races live in different environments, supplying
neither common interest nor points of conflict. We do, however, inhabit the
same spacetime. A rupture has appeared in the meshwork that composes this
spacetime. Through this rupture our instruments discern the Simplex; the veil
of the world is torn, exposing the lacework."

 
          
Koutroubis
swallowed. He knew full well the" accusation that was coming. The Methorian
was probably using metaphors appropriate to his own lifeform. A human would
have said 'face' and 'bones' rather than 'veil' and 'lacework.'

 
          
"What
can it mean?" the creature continued. "Through the tear come
incomprehensibles that cause havoc on three of our worlds. We ask ourselves
what our scientists or engineers have done to create this catastrophe. We find
nothing. We ask the other races with which we share the galaxy. From Diadem comes
a positive answer. I must now ask you to confirm that answer in person."