Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10 Read online

  The Zen Gun

  Barrington J. Bayley

  Pout, the chimera, half-man, half-ape, was incorporated into one of the plants or vice versa. He was jammed in a squatting position, while the stems, entering at his buttocks, merged with his legs, his arms and his torso, emerging at knees, elbows,-and through his abdomen and thorax. A large, yellow-petalled flower seemed to frame his face.

  It was his face that rivetted Ikematsu's attention, while the chimera squirmed in dumb distress, glaring with huge piteous eyes. For in that face, set into it as if set in pudding, was the zen gun. The gun was his face, or a part of it. The barrel pointed straight out in place of a nose . . . the stock merged with and disappeared into Pout's pendulous mouth.

  Ikematsu leaned toward the chimera. "How you loved your toy! Now it is truly yours!"

  Barrington J. Bayley

  in DAW editions:

  THE PILLARS OF ETERNITY

  THE FALL OF CHRONOPOLIS

  THE GRAND WHEEL

  STAR WINDS

  THE GARMENTS OF CAEAN

  COLLISION COURSE

  Barrington J, Bayley

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER 1633 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright ©, 1983, by Barrington J. Bayley.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Frank Kelly Freas.

  FIRST PRINTING. AUGUST 1983

  123456789

  DAW

  U.S. PAT. OFF. MARCA

  REGISTRADA. HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Author's Afterword

  CHAPTER ONE

  Around the blue, green and white planet, Ten-Fleet disposed itself with a suddenness that was intentionally frightening. On the diagrammatisation screens in the control centres of both sides, the criss-cross orbits of the hundred and forty ships resembled the electrons of a heavy atom orbiting an engorged nucleus like an enclosing web. In the first seconds of the occupation the planet's own service satellites, a gnat's haze, had been vapourised, the staffs of a dozen manned stations taken prisoner. Robbed of communications, the planet was helpless and nearly blind.

  Meantime Ten-Fleet substituted its own satellite haze. Everything on and below the surface was being monitored at a resolution level of one to one.

  Relaxing in his den, Admiral Archier could imagine the consternation now reigning on the planet. Its government would be ignorant—or so he hoped—of what he as a military man understood all too well, namely that to be in a position to blast a planet by missile, beam or blanket was merely an exercise in military impotence. The criterion of practical power was the capability to land effectives, and just as important, to take them off again.

  Ten-Fleet was depleted. If it came to it, Archier would not properly be able to administrate the cowering population. Its dreadful weaponry was, in that sense, a threat that could be bluffed.

  It was advisable, therefore, to conduct his business quickly, before the government down below-began to draw conclusions from the fleet's inaction. The Admiral did not relish having to make a decision as to whether to punish the planet for recalcitrance.

  Archier reclined on a mossy bank in the shade of an apple tree. Animals played and gambolled a short distance away: a dwarf elephant two feet tall; a dwarf giraffe whose head could crane almost to Archier's shoulder; a chimp, and a bush baby almost as large.

  Disengaging itself, the elephant strolled over. "The ruling council is in debate right now," it announced in a slightly trumpety voice. "According to bounce-back satellite reports, they are talking over ways to cheat us."

  Archier smiled. "No doubt they think they can pass off decorticated murderers as artistic geniuses. Well, we've seen all that before."

  The giraffe ambled over to rub its neck against his sleeve. "I hope they give us a good composer," he said in his soft, mild voice. "Would we be allowed to commission him before we make delivery to Diadem?"

  "While we are in semi-autonomous status, yes."

  "Admiral, they are asking to talk to us," the elephant chimed in.

  Archier nodded. He patted the large grey head of his elephant adjutant, whose brain implant kept it in touch with all of Ten-Fleet's communications. "Come with me then, Arctus. I might need you to keep me informed."

  From his present vantage point the mossy wood had no visible limits. But when Archier stepped behind the apple tree to stroll through the dappled light of the grove, Arctus padding along behind him, he was suddenly in a wide, carpeted corridor bearing a steady traffic of men, women, children and animals. A short walk brought him to the official audience chamber. A spider monkey looked up and lifted a hand in salute. Then it began to set up the meeting.

  Admiral Archier took his cloak of rank from a nearby peg and self-consciously seated himself upon the throne before the view area. Subdued lights came on. He felt the mantle of imperial numinousness descend upon him. To those whose images now sprang to life in the view area his clean, pale features would seem majestic and almost angelically authoritative, and the glint in his eye would betoken a chilling perceptiveness.

  He was looking into a council chamber. About twenty people sat around an oval table; there were no animals present. At the head of the table, raised a little above the others, was the Chairman of the Rostian Council, an elderly man who bore his years well, and who wore a white gown that made him look almost clinical. A short and neatly trimmed white beard sprouted from his chin.

  The Chairman was the only one able to look directly at Archier without having to turn his head. The expression on his face was that of one who knew the weakness of his position and was forcing himself to bite back heartfelt defiance.

  "Do I address the representative of the Imperial Directors?" he asked in a dry, acid tone.

  "You do, but more specifically the Imperial Collector of Taxes," Archier answered lightly. "As already stated, you are twenty standard years in default. The matter is serious; your account must be settled forthwith."

  "We are not wilfully in default," the Chairman said with steely grimness. "Ten years ago we offered to render all due services in credit, manufactured goods or rare materials. We received no reply."

  "I am your reply. Your offer should not have been made. It bodes the Empire no service and is interpreted as attempted evasion of payment." Archier reached out his hand; the spider monkey placed a file of papers on it. "However, to clear the matter up, the Imperial Inspector of Revenues has agreed to reduce arrears by fifty percent—on condition that all future levies are paid promptly at the stipulated ten-standard-year intervals, delivery being your responsibility."

  The Admiral bent his head to the papers before him. "These are the levies which will now be paid by you before we depart."

  He began to read from a list. "One thousand two hundred and fifty-eight artists of the musical variety, comprising both composers and performers.

  "One thousand two hundred and fifty-eight artists of the visual, tactile and odoriferous varieties.

  "One thousand two hundred and fifty-eight practitioners of the literary and dramatic arts.

  "Two thousand and twenty scientists of assorted disciplines.

  "You are reminded that all persons must -be human, not animal or construct, containing not more than two percent of dominant animal genes. All persons must reach at leas
t Grade Twenty on the Carrimer Creativity Test that will be applied by Fleet psychologists. Further, at least one hundred persons should be of genius standard, or Grade Twenty-Five on the Carrimer Test."

  Archier looked up and handed back the file to the spider monkey. The faces staring at him could only be described as stony.

  Oh, I know what you're thinking. We would rather secede from the Empire, that's what you're thinking. But you dare not speak of rebellion, not openly, not even here on the fringe, while Ten-Fleet sweeps over your heads."

  "This traffic in people goes quite against the social philosophy we have evolved here on Rostia!" the Chairman protested. "It is slavery!"

  "Do not despair, the cream of your nation will be exporting that philosophy into the Empire generally," Archier retorted amiably. "Your reluctance is a sad state of affairs. There was a time when the gifted among us competed for a chance to migrate to the heart of the Empire."

  "Were that so, this tribute would hardly be necessary."

  Archier leaned forward. "You have told me what you do not like. There is something / do not like. I do not like the word 'tribute.' I am here as a tax-gatherer. We all live under the law. Make arrangements for payment."

  The Chairman bit his lip. "We shall need time if we are to do this. You come upon us suddenly."

  "We shall not brook any delay. We shall know if you stall for time or plot any trickery against us. Therefore, I call on you to reassert your allegiance to the Empire." At this moment Archier became aware that Arctus the elephant was tugging at his sleeve with its trunk. He leaned aside. "What is it, Arctus?" he muttered.

  The tiny elephant opened its maw and whispered hoarsely in Archier's ear. "A message from High Command!"

  Straightening, Archier turned back to the Rostian Council. "Will you kindly begin your despatches within one rotation. Goodbye for now."

  With that end to the conversation, hurried as it was, he rose, thanked the spider monkey, and left the audience room with Arctus. They passed through curtains of draped light: mauve, lavender, lilac, finally effervescent lemon.

  Suddenly they were in the space-torsion room.

  A nine-year-old boy was on duty, a son of one of the crew who had been given the job much as he might have been given a toy. With an eager sense of ceremony he presented Archier with the message, which had come in word form.

  It was a directive, engraved in glowing letters on a sheet of yellow parchment. Archier murmured his thanks and scanned it.

  After the addressing and classification codes came a terse instruction.

  ESCORIA SECTOR IN CONDITION REBELLION. PROCEED IN FULL MAJESTY, OBJECT SUPPRESSION, CONDITION AUTONOMY. ENABLING DATA WILL FOLLOW.

  Admiral Archier gazed at the parchment for some time, allowing the key phrases to sink in. Full Majesty. That meant he was to recognise no constraint on the deployment of the fleet's resources. Condition Autonomy. That meant that the fleet had the legal standing of a sovereign state. In theory it implied that the High Command had lost its power to act or had even collapsed. He, Archier, could behave as though he were the government of the Empire, responsible to no one.

  If the rebellion in Escoria could not be dealt with, he could choose to obliterate all human life there—and was probably expected to do so. Instead of punishing the planet below by destroying a city or two, he could, likewise, annihilate it.

  The disintegration of the Empire as an organised and effective entity was plainly proceeding apace.

  He passed the parchment to Arctus. The elephant took the bottom edge in the tip of its trunk and raised the sheet before its face.

  "Ah. This is promotion of sorts, sir."

  "Is it?" Archier sounded doleful. "It bodes a less happy set of circumstances to me."

  Ruefully he thought of the tax reprieve which now had inadvertently befallen Rostia. The dignity of the Empire would best be served, he thought, if Ten-Fleet were to leave without warning, as abruptly as it had come.

  "Come, Arctus,' he sighed, "let's to the Command Room."

  Minutes passed. And then the web of orbits surrounding Rostia faded from the diagrammatisation screens, though the thousand or so satellites were expendable and remained, a replacement gift for the planet that, Admiral Archier feared, had slipped for the time being from the Empire's grasp.

  As the fleet withdrew it was simultaneously reassembling itself into interstellar flight formation, gathering itself together like a school of fish, while each ship geared up its feetol drive. The path of exit from Rostia's solar system was nearly parallel to the orbital plane, and as the fleet passed close to the primary gas giant a cursory message reached Archier from the environs scan officer.

  "Methorian ship descending towards gas giant, sir."

  Archier accepted an imaging fix. He saw the alien vessel, a great bulky pod caught within a baroque-looking cradle, and watched as it slipped into the swirling clouds of the huge planet.

  "I'm hazy on recognition, Arctus. What is it?"

  "It's a Methorian cargo carrier," Arctus informed him.

  "Oh," Archier murmured, incurious as to whether the alien settlement was merely an outpost or even a fully developed planetary society. As with several other alien interstellar empires, the Methorian empire interpenetrated the human one but had practically no contact with it. Given the scale of interstellar distances, and the variety of worlds, there- could be little concept of exclusive territory as between oxygen-breathing humans, hydrogen-breathing methanogens, salines, high-temperature acidophiles, and so forth, all inhabiting types of planet of no value to the others.

  So the Methorian presence in a system from which the Empire was, for the time being, forced to retreat, signified nothing. The gas giant flipped from the screen, and at the same time from Archier's notice. In its place he saw the local star field, almost a cluster in its own right, lighting up lacy gas trails to one side of it.

  Are we to give this up? he thought. No.' It's ours. It must remain ours. The Empire claimed each one of these stars as its own property. That aliens might hold a similar view was of no consequence, any more than the owner of a stretch of forest would bother himself with the territorial struggles of the animals living in it. Vast dramas might be unfolding in any of these alien empires, without human society being in the least aware of it.

  There was a flurry on the screen as the metric fields generated by the feetol drives of a hundred and forty ships intermeshed to form a single field enclosing the fleet like a bubble. By then they were already travelling faster than light; now their velocity increased a hundredfold.

  Ten-Fleet was en route to Escoria Sector.

  Evening, fleet time, and Admiral Archier left his quarters to go strolling through his flagship ICS Standard Bearer. ICS prefixed the names of all Star Force vessels. It stood for Imperial Council Ship, the Imperial Council having replaced the Imperial Directorate—a cybernetic decision-making system—nearly a century ago. The short-lived Directorate, a product of the Anti-archist Revolution, had in its turn replaced the Imperial Civil Service, which had been commanded by an hereditary line of genetically optimised Emperor Protectors.

  Though Archier would readily admit that the overthrow of the principle of personal overlordship was praiseworthy on ideological grounds, its practical results had been far from beneficial. The Directorate had so completely failed to handle the affairs of the Empire that an official doctrine of machine unsentience had ensued. Ironically, that doctrine was now crippling the Empire's industrial capacity because of the disaffection of the robot workforce. The collective leadership of the Council was doing its best to arrest the Empire's progressive decay and disintegration, but it too was failing. Archier, in common with many officers under his command, privately believed—though it was politically unwise to say so too openly—that the disinheriting of the Protector had been a tragic mistake.

  Haunting music, exotic scents, drifted through the salons and dance halls of the flagship, which like all major war vessels of Imperial Star Force
was one huge pleasure ship. It could hardly have been otherwise; the vessel had been built in the Imperial yards and its crew all belonged to that part of the Empire's starclouded heartland known as Galactic Diadem. To such people, sybaritic luxury was as natural and necessary as the air they breathed.

  The talented artists and scientists collected as taxes by Ten-Fleet—it had become its chief function—were often open-mouthed with astonishment when brought aboard. Archier had heard them apply the word "decadent" more than once. For his part, the outlying worlds from which the taxes were levied seemed rude and barbarous. He viewed their unreliability with disdain, all the more so because their contribution was so vital if the Empire was to survive.

  "Good evening, Admiral."

  "Good evening, Madam." Archier's response was cordial to the handsome matron who lounged against the frame of an arcaded entrance. Beyond it, in a kind of gymnasium, a group of ten-year-old girls in leotards were learning a dance routine. They were nymphs—junior members of Priapus' People, one of Diadem's finest dance and sex troupes, for which training began at the age of eight. Already these girls would be experts in a variety of erotic arts, coached in the giving of sexual pleasure.

  An entertainment by their more mature colleagues was scheduled for later. Barely glancing at the lissom, lunging bodies, Archier walked on, to enter the main salon. There, airy melodies blared softly over a hum of conversation. He tried to forget his anxieties, to let himself relax.

  A satin-sheathed young figure turned as he passed.

  "Dance with me. Admiral."

  The face that smiled wistfully at him was senile, artificially aged to that of a ninety-year-old's, though the girl was in fact about twenty. Her cheeks and jowls were wrinkled and sagging, caked with cosmetic, her green eyes spiteful and rheumy. The combination of an ancient face "and a young body was to be seen throughout the salon; it was the current fashion in feminine beauty, a concept that changed rapidly in all sophisticated societies. It said much for the strength of social conditioning that the sight of the sexually trained girl children had aroused Archier hardly at all, but when the withered, decayed cheek of his dance partner was placed against his, a thrill went right through him.