Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10 (3 page)

 
          
And
so Diadem provided a narrowing base of human resource from which to rule the
galaxy. Neither was the task taken on by those few determined to maintain the
Empire made any easier by the disinterest shown by the majority of humans in
Diadem.
Hence the preponderance of youth to be found among
the crews of Star Force.

 
          
Yet
it said much for the Empire's self-confidence that Diadem's one million
inhabited nearly a thousand planets, and still managed to hold sway over a yet
higher number whose populations were much larger. True, the Empire's integrity
outside Diadem was sustained only by permanent deployment of the star fleets
(in their heyday there had been thirty-six of them; now there were only five)
whose role it was to suppress rebellion, collect taxes from defaulters—and,
most important, try to prevent secessionist-minded worlds from acquiring star
fleets of their own.

 
          
The
commando officer trailed after Archier. It was as if he shared his thoughts,
for he touched his elbow and said, "I hope you don't mind my asking.
Admiral, but I've been meaning to ask you how old you are."

 
          
Archier
paused. His eye had caught the coloured
incoming
lights glowing over the intermat kiosks at the far end of the salon. Guests
were arriving from other ships in Ten-Fleet, making use of the matter
transmission facility the fleet was able to use while in fast feetol formation.
Gorgeous finery, ostentatious dress uniforms (officers of third rank and over
were permitted to design their own) burgeoned from the kiosks as the visitors
stepped forth.

 
          
"That's
all right," Archier said. "I shall be twenty-one on my next birthday.
And I've been Admiral of Ten-Fleet for more than three years."

 
          
Pout's
cage had no visible bars. Bars might have been an improvement. Then at least he
would have been able to see the limits of his prison.

 
          
To
the casual eye he lived in a bare but pleasant room, at liberty to leave by
either of two doors or to approach the people or robots
who
occasionally passed through. In reality he was confined to one small corner of
this room. In the floor there was a hole for his wastes. A slot in the wall flapped
open at intervals and delivered edible monotonous substances. A faucet squirted
water in measured amounts whenever he pressed a lever. Sometimes he would play
with the water, watching it swirl round the concavity in the floor and
disappear down the waste hole.

 
          
And
there
were
bars: invisible ghost bars
of pain—jagged, flashing pain that sent him mewling and cringing into the join
of the walls if he tried to leave his corner. He knew that they were actual
bars, because there were gaps in between them. In the past, by trial and error,
he had managed to find a gap and put his arm through almost to the shoulder.

 
          
Pout
could see that other people weren't constrained in this way. Other people
didn't look like him, either. They didn't have his big cup-shaped ears, or his
simian-like features (with the elongated lips that, though he wasn't aware of
it, had given him his name), or his over-long arms. Also, they had many
satisfactions that were denied him. They smiled and looked pleased often. On
this score Pout's imagination was a dim, smouldering ember. His response to
anything outside his experience was hatred and resentment, but he was not
introspective enough to know that these feelings drew their heat from envy.

 
          
There
was one person more familiar to him than any other, and this was Torth
Nascimento, curator of the museum where Pout lived. One day, as Pout was
squatting over the excrement hole, Nascimento entered in the company of a
stranger. The latter, a tall man with straw-coloured hair and mild blue eyes,
paused. He inspected the scene without the least concern for Pout's privacy.

 
          
"Is
this another of your chimeras, Torth?"

 
          
"Yes,"
Nascimento drawled. "That's Pout."

 
          
"He's
an odd-looking customer," the newcomer remarked as Pout finished his
business. "What's he made of?"

 
          
"Just
about every primate there is. Mostly, though, he's gibbon, baboon and
human."

 
          
"Can
he talk?"

 
          
"Oh
yes. Intellectually he's very nearly human. Unfortunately his morals are
execrable ... so much so that we have to keep him locked up." He pointed
to a light in the ceiling. It was a warning that a pain projector was in
operation. "The robot file clerks took care of him in his infancy. They
even taught him how to look into the files, so in a queer sort of way he's had
an education."

 
          
"Your file clerks?
Are they the
only
company he's ever had?"

 
          
"Oh
come, Lopo, don't be so disapproving," Nascimento said, glancing at the
expression on his guest's face. "There's nothing actually
illegal
in making chimeras."

 
          
"Not
if you have a licence for it."

 
          
"I'm
sure I'd get one if the question came up. This
is
a museum, remember." Nascimento paused thoughtfully.
"You know, I'm not surprised the chimeric approach was abandoned in
Diadem. Inter-species gene manipulation isn't as simple as it sounds.
So
difficult
to hit on a
good mix . . . just look at Pout here if you want a case in point.
Compounded entirely of the primate family, the best nature has to offer, yet a
perfectly horrid creature. Now you've brought my attention to him I must
remember to have him destroyed. He's not even interesting enough to be an
exhibit.

 
          
The
other man bristled. "What's this I hear? You propose to destroy a
bona-fide second-class citizen of the Empire?"

 
          
"Is
he? Yes, I suppose he is. All right, don't get excited." Nascimento
ushered him out of the room—really an enlarged section of passageway—where Pout
lived. The two were silent until they reached Nascimento's office, where the
curator shooed away a couple of robots who were playing chess.

 
          
Lopo
de Cogo sat down. Nascimento set a tiny glass of purple liqueur before him.
"I don't know why you object to my making chimeras, Lopo. I thought you
sympathised with the Whole-Earth-Biota party?"

 
          
"Please,
Torth, that was in our student days," Lopo said uneasily. "All right,
we'll forget about chimeras. I'm afraid I've something more serious to talk
about. Is it true you've been giving artificial intelligence to non-mammals?
That
is
illegal, whichever way you
look at it."

 
          
"I'm
not sure I agree. You seem to be forgetting my museum has a special charter
covering all the sciences."

 
          
De
Cogo bit his lip. If taxed about his behaviour Nascimento invariably referred
to some ancient warrant granted by a ruler of the planet in days past and never
revoked. He never, however, had been able to produce this warrant.

 
          
Hitherto
de Cogo's old friendship with the eccentric curator
had
overriden both his duty as an official inspector and his
personal feelings. But it was becoming plain to him that Nascimento's ethics
(and perhaps his mind) had reached a point of non-recovery.

 
          
Also,
the fellow was clearly a bungler. His remarks on the difficulty of gene-mixing
were the cry of an amateur barely literate in the field. In Diadem chimerics
was an advanced art. Chimeras had outnumbered pure humans there in the Empire's
heyday. Cell fusion had begun to replace sex as a method of reproduction.

 
          
That
had been the
Whole-Earth-Biota concept:
that the
dividing lines between species would disappear and the entire
mammalian class of old Earth would merge into a single society. But the Biotist
philosophy, as it was called, had foundered. It alarmed many pure humans to see
the genes of Homo sapiens melting away into a common pool, and radical gene
mixing eventually became unfashionable. It was mainly used now for cosmetic
purposes. People in Diadem would take their zygotes
to a
chimericists
to give an unborn child a trace of some particular animal.
A touch of tiger, for instance, added a personal magnetism that was instantly
recognisable.

 
          
Although
Diadem was overwhelmingly populated by animals, de Cogo doubted if the Biotists
would ever be able seriously to revive their cause. There were too many
advantages in giving animals artificial intelligence instead, altering their
genes only to adjust them for size, or occasionally in place of surgery, to
give them speech organs. Humans remained the master race. Animal intelligence,
previously unpredictable, no longer depended on a successful gene mix—even
humans were given adplants sometimes to bring their intelligence up to scratch.

 
          
On
one thing, however, both the old Biotists and the modem Diademians were agreed.
Neither human genes nor artificial intelligence should be conferred upon
non-mammals. "Whole-Earth-Biota" was really a euphemism for
"Whole-Earth-Mammalia."

 
          
De
Cogo had to press the point. "Please give me a direct answer, "Torth."

 
          
Nascimento
shrugged.

 
          
"Please,
you must tell me, Torth. You know how the law regards this. A mammal has
emotional sensitivity—it can be civilised. But an intelligent reptile, or
raptor—it has no feelings! It's forever a savage and a danger to others!"
Officially such creatures could never be regarded as sentient, no matter what their
intellectual capacity.

 
          
Nascimento
giggled. "I've got to admit an intelligent snake remains a most uncivil
sort of being, not really a person at all. But when you run a museum you feel
the need to be
comprehensive
—you
follow me?"

 
          
"So
it's true," de Cogo sighed.

 
          
Smiling,
Nascimento began to reminisce. "Adplanting
is
so simple it can even be applied to primitive orders, like
arthropods. I might as well admit—I've amused myself with that as well. Boris
was my favourite.
A wolf spider."

 
          
"Intelligence at the service of a
spider?"
De
Cogo
was
bewildered. "But
what's the point of that? A spider doesn't have a real mind—it's just a
behavioural machine!"

 
          
"Well,
I was bored. That's why I gave him the genes to be big—he was the size of a
pony. Except that an arthropod that large can't even stand up unmodified, so,
surgical engineering—a prosthetic internal skeleton! I wish I could show him
to you, but I'm afraid to say there was a mishap and he escaped. He had the
craftiness to scamper well away from here, of course, the rascal. I hear he
became the terror of the Kolar district before he was eventually
destroyed!" Nascimento gave a high-pitched laugh.

 
          
"You're
mad," de Cogo whispered to himself. He cleared his throat. "Torth,
you know I'm here in an official capacity. I've tried to tell you before that
you're going too far. This time—''

 
          
 
 
"This
is an ancient institution," Nascimento interrupted,
"and
petty laws are passing affairs. We're not bound by them here. We have a longer
perspective."

 
          
"Everyone
is bound by them,
Torth." De Cogo
stopped,
aware he did not have
the other's attention. Torth was bending over the chess board vacated by the
robots, smiling at the unfinished game. Then his fingers moved to the keys and
switched a few pieces round.

 
          
"Poor
Crinklebend never wins," he explained.
"Just
thought I'd give him a leg-up.
Now, what were we saying? Ah yes, rules
and regulations. My dear old friend, how can you be serious? This isn't Diadem,
it's
Escoria Sector. Imperial edicts aren't much more
than hopeful advice here. Besides—" Nascimento poked a finger at the
ceiling—"according to what I hear there's a rebellion brewing up there.
The Empire looks likely to be pushed right out."

 
          
"Even
if that does happen, do you imagine the rebels are going to let the region
descend into lawlessness?"

 
          
"Oh,
they aren't Biotists, are they?" Torth asked anxiously.

 
          
"No,
I don't think so."

 
          
"Good.
Anyway, no one's going to take any interest in us. It's a funny thing, you
know, how the meaning of the word 'Earth' has changed. It's used today in a
biological sense— 'whole-Earth-biota.' But actually it refers to a planet.
This
planet, Lopo.
This is
Earth,
remember?"