Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10 Read online

  He considered asking her to his table, even though he knew the current fad in her age group was to refuse all sexual liaisons. She had been made pure virgin, her hymen surgically restored, all memory of past sexual encounters expunged from her mind. However, when the tune ended and they ceased to dance a wheezing voice accosted him from behind.

  "Ah, there you are, Admiral!"

  A pig whom he recognised as Acting Fire Command Officer of Fleet Weapons Division had come bustling into the salon. A trifle wearily, he acknowledged the creature. By the regulations officers of command rank were supposed to be human, but human personnel were so scarce it had become the practice to give animals acting rank instead. Pigs appeared particularly suited to this role, and indeed eager for it.

  Archier's Fire Command Officer seemed exasperated. He grunted, raising a bristled snout. "Not a very successful day, Admiral!"

  Murmuring a polite goodbye to the old-faced young woman, Archier sauntered with the animal towards the buffet. "The times we live in cause much confusion," he admitted ambiguously.

  "Confusion? I suffer from no confusion!" The pig thrust his snout in a trough to root for tidbits, while Archier surveyed the delicacies laid out on the buffet tables. He picked up a tiny flask and sipped a cool, creamy, thick purple fluid from it through a straw. The cannabis-based drink made him feel better almost immediately.

  The pig, on the other hand, seemed only to grow more agitated. He took his head out of the trough as though unable to contain himself any longer. "Admiral, I waited and waited for you to order a strike. And what happened? We simply left and did nothing!"

  "We were ordered away," Archier said amiably. "There was no time to complete collection."

  "Even so, we should have left them something to remember us by!" spluttered the pig. "Vapourise a city or two. Beam a disintegration trail across the main continent. These worlds need to be shown who's master!"

  Thoughtfully Archier sucked up the rest of the purple drink. "It wouldn't really have been fair. They hadn't actually refused payment yet. It wasn't their fault we had to leave."

  "It was their fault we were there at all! By the Simplex, Admiral, what's going to happen to the Empire if all we're going to be is fair? Firmness is what's needed!" The pig shook his head and let out a long, troubled snuffling sound. "Sometimes I despair of you humans!"

  He waddled away. A voice spoke near Archier. "I wonder if the appointment was wise in that pig's case. I've noticed he gets upset when he doesn't get a chance to play with the fleet's firepower."

  With a shrug Archier acknowledged a young man in the sheened dress uniform of the Drop Commando. "People naturally like to do their job—animals more so than humans, if you ask me. Anyway, a post like that calls for keenness. It needs a pig, or feline."

  The commando nodded. "My cheetahs and dogs strain at the leash every time we invest a planet. It's difficult explaining why we can't go, sometimes."

  "What we really need are more humans."

  "Don't we all know that!" The commando laughed and helped himself to a leaf-dish of crunchy diced vegetables. "At least, in the Force we do. But try telling civilians."

  Tossing the empty flask into a waste slot, Archier turned away. In his mind he saw Galactic Diadem, laid out like a map. Imperial worlds trailed out of the glowing starbank like ragged tentacles from some monster octopus, merging and dissipating into the fringe worlds—planets where Imperial control had become weak of late.

  In theory the Empire claimed sovereignty over the whole galaxy, anticipating a time when mankind would be present throughout the galactic disk. In fact, if the galaxy were viewed from afar the extent of Imperial power would be seen as a fairly small though visible blotch, and whether that blotch would now be further extended was becoming, to many minds, problematical.

  One, and perhaps the chief difficulty, was the drastically declining birth rate of Diadem and its close environs. The human population of Diadem, which could be thought of as ruling mankind much as one imperial country would once have ruled other countries (though it was never admitted that any such thing as political division existed) was about one million. To that could be added a few tens of millions of animals with artificial intelligence who assisted in the administration of the Empire, and of course some hundreds of millions of robots who were vital economically but were denied citizenship.

  But neither animals nor robots were artistically or scientifically creative, and one million people, spread over such a vast region, offered too small a reservoir of creative talent to encourage confidence in the future. What was more, the situation was getting worse. The next generation would see an Empire manned by only seven hundred thousand. Eventually the population might stabilise, but Diadem would lose the mental strength necessary for its self-appointed destiny.

  The remedy was typical of the Empire's methods: a levy of artists, scientists and philosophers drawn from the fringe and vassal worlds which mainly had their own governments and whose total population could be measured in the hundreds of millions. Whether the personnel tax was succeeding in its aims was debatable. Some of the dragooned artists and scientists certainly found their carefree lives in Diadem to their liking and stayed—particularly those from social regimes which, while more vigorous, were also more restrictive. But the total liberty inalienable to full Imperial citizens in Diadem—and that included anyone with 90 percent or more human genes— virtually made it impossible to prevent anyone from clandestinely leaving, should they be so inclined. Not even the threat to punish the home worlds of defectors had always proved effective.

  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."

  CHAPTER TWO

  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?"

  "Yes," said de Cogo vaguely. It scarcely occurred to him to make the association. It was as if "Earth" was two different words that sounded the same. "What has that got to do with anything?"

  "Everything," Nascimento told him airily. "This is the forgotten original world, a total backwater. Nobody ever comes here, so what makes you think the rebels will, even if they do win? And as the governing council you claim to represent is almost as impotent as Diadem herself, what I'm saying is I can do anything I like, really. So stop moaning at me, Lopo!"

  With those words Nascimento rose to his feet, and adopting the manner of one who has disposed of a troublesome importuner, sauntered from the room.

  The curator's words of that afternoon had struck terror into Pout. It comforted him not at all that the visitor had tried to come to his aid: Pout knew that Nascimento would not be stopped by anyone else's opinion. His only hope of survival appeared to be for the curator to forget his decision.

  He felt extra terror, but also surprise, therefore, when de Cogo once again appeared before him that evening. The inspector looked him over, compassion in his pale blue eyes.