Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10 (19 page)

 
          
Had
it been given a proper opportunity, the Imperial Council might well have
preferred to dissemble about the matter. Unluckily a reply had been transmitted
direct, in between Council meetings, by a group of tax-item scientists working
in the civil service. It was too late to back out now.

 
          
"Yes,"
Koutroubis said wearily, "we think—only
think,
mind—that one of our research facilities might have been
responsible. It was working on feetol technique—the same that your ships
use."

 
          
"What
is to be done? The rent grows bigger. Sentient beings in
all
galaxies might soon have cause to criticise your behaviour. I
am instructed to ask what remedial action is proposed."

 
          
"We're
working on it," Koutroubis said doggedly.

 
          
"May
I receive relevant technical information? We too will seek a way to avert
catastrophe, the case being possibly dire."

 
          
"Yes,
I think I can arrange that."

 
          
I
hope
I can arrange it, Koutroubis
corrected himself. Even the civil service was now in disarray. The Council had
lost much of its power of action.

 
          
By
the Simplex, he wasn't even sure if the emergency science team
had
been assembled in the end!

 
          
But
it wouldn't do to try to explain such confusion to the Methorian.

 
          
For
the hundredth time Tengu finished checking the circuitry of the intermat kiosk
and put his logic probe back in his pocket, his face displaying a now-familiar
feeling of aggravation mixed with anxiety. There was nothing wrong either with
the switching or with the feetol interface that enwrapped the cubicle and on
which the system depended. Of course, he didn't really know how the intermat
worked, and there was one new introduction into the ship's workings as a whole—
the replacement flux unit. It delivered a flux curve that was perfectly
normal—but could the old ruined one have added some necessary kink, perhaps? If
so he would never find out what it was.

 
          
But
he didn't dare tell Ragshok that. Ragshok's rages could be terrible.

 
          
After
closing the panel, and as a matter of routine procedure, he tapped out the
flagship code from the list beside the touch buttons, and fatalistically
pressed
GO.

 
          
For
a blinding instant white light filled the kiosk. He blinked,
then
realized he was no longer in the same kiosk. The location plate had changed
from
Claire de Lune
to
Standard Bearer.

 
          
Tengu's
heart went into his mouth. For what reason he could not fathom, it had worked!
He was on board the flagship!

 
          
Cautiously
he pushed open the door. He was acquainted with the luxurious interior of the
Claire de Lune,
and he had heard of the
extravagance of Diadem.

 
          
But
the sight that met his eyes was far beyond anything he would have anticipated
in a ship of war.

 
          
Archier
took the slight, florid figure
who
crept from the
kiosk and peered down into the salon for a crewman who had sneaked to the ball
while on shift. What made him noticeable was that he wore no costume, only a
ragged shirt that flapped over stained breeks and was cinched at the waist by a
tool belt. No doubt he felt out of place and he deserved a reprimand, but
Archier let it go.

 
          
He
had permitted the victory ball to go ahead despite the seriousness of what lay
ahead. The theme of the ball was Nemesis. Like most others, he wore a costume
of electrically stiffened fabric that in its unexcited state was gauzy, limp
and colourless, but which in answer to the currents flowing from a little
generator mat could be pulled and shaped, could be given any variety of hues,
translucencies and textures. The human figures that
pranced
the floor of the salon were an average of twelve foot in height, representing
ancient gods of war, glowing warships and weapons of total destruction, giant
masks of dread, aggressive abstract shapes. Animals were similarly bedecked,
but in a manner adapted to their forms; long shapes worn by the four-footed
darted about the ballroom, sometimes fronted with slavering jaws and sometimes
playfully crashing into one another.

 
          
To
the watcher on the mezzanine where the intermat kiosks were placed the pulsing
streamers of light that bedecked the salon would also seemed to be joined by a
dreadful cacaphony; about a dozen kinds of music were punishing the air at
once. The costumed dancers, however, carried sound filters; they could tune in
to the airs of their taste.

 
          
"It's
sick.
Admiral! It's all completely
sick!"

 
          
The
girlish voice belonged to Hesper Positana, the last of the rebels to be
captured. He turned and at first thought that in her silver and black uniform
she was entering into the spirit of the thing. But her sulky face told
otherwise.

 
          
She
had been railing at Archier at every opportunity since being introduced to him.
She should have been on the vessel that had been designated as a prison ship,
but having been brought aboard together with the three
Earthites,
she had been left where she was.

 
          
Archier's
painted face smiled at her through the folds of Indra's cummerbund. "But
fun, you'll agree."

 
          
"Fun?"
Hesper gaped at him in outrage.
"Admiral, I hardly think
fun
is
the word that should be used when describing the behaviour of imperialists.
What have you got here? A celebration of oppression and random violence! Maybe
that's fun for you, but as far as I'm concerned it's merely vile."

 
          
"I
assure you we don't see ourselves that way."

           
"So how do you see the nuke
bombs you dropped on Earth, for instance? What need was there for that?"

 
          
Archier
shook his head, setting the baleful face of Indra swaying. "But no such
thing happened."

 
          
"Don't
kid me. I saw the fireballs after we took off."

 
          
Leaning
closer so he could make himself heard over the music, Archier said,
"You're placing the blame in the wrong quarter. An insurgent can't claim
to be on the side of peace. What safety can there be without Imperial
stability? It's my duty to maintain it."

 
          
"Huh!
The Empire!"
Disdainfully Hesper waved at the
scene before her. "Just look at it! A pack of degenerates and perverts!
Wallowing with animals, with cattle and wild beasts! It's pathetic!"

 
          
"Yes,
I know that intelligent animals aren't allowed into decent society on many of
the outer worlds. But is that attitude creditable, or even civilised? All
mammals are part of the same family. And the Empire does need their
services."

 
          
"We
don't need them in Escoria, not at all. And do you know why, Admiral?
Because we have lots of real
people,
and that's because we
breed.
We have lots of
children,
remember them? Why don't you try it? Family life's not so
bad."

 
          
She
took a deep breath. "But it's not surprising you've forgotten what sex is
for when one takes a look at your women, is it? Why are they so
hideous?
Why would anyone want to make
herself look so
old?"

 
          
Archier
smiled again to see how hopelessly provincial Hesper's outlook was. She had
absolutely no comprehension of current fashionable ides of female beauty.

 
          
And
now one of the aged faces she despised so much called out to him from within
the pulsating flanges of a flashblast projector costume.

 
          
"Admiral!
Come and dance with me!"

 
          
As
he swept into the melee, Archier saw
a
look
of
jealous
puzzlement fleetingly
across Hesper's face.

 
          
Not
far away Gruwert, his costume switched off, the fabric hanging like rags about
his corpulent bristly form, talked earnestly to Pout the chimera.

 
          
"So
how do you
gain
your followers?"
he asked.

 
          
For
answer Pout smiled idiotically, his large eyes swivelling mysteriously towards
the ceiling.

 
 
          
Gruwert
gave an exasperated snuffle. He knew that this amalgam of primates could not be
as stupid as he acted. Not to have all those people in tow, most of them
apparently much brighter than himself.

 
          
These
apes always were a shifty lot, he told himself. And that went for the hairless
variety, too.

 
          
And
in a corridor some yards from the room where Gruwert was entertaining Pout,
Hako Ikematsu sat cross-legged in the rest position, inasmuch as a
kosho
could ever be said to rest. His
spine was erect, his arms spread in the prescribed position, but his
consciousness was not in suspension. He had merely blanked out his thoughts to
make himself receptive to the emanations of others.

 
          
That
way he was able to keep track of the presence of the man-ape chimera. Pout's
mental signature was distinctive: crafty, greedy thoughts in a brew of
resentful malevolence that was, Ikematsu recognised, merely the perversion of
the love of life that was natural to
all
mammals, but which in this case had been much ill-used.

 
          
Alongside
it he sensed another presence, another signature: a sort of thrusting, porcine
forcefulness, an impression of rooting, trampling power.

 
          
It
was the tang of empire.

 
          
Chaotic
music from the ballroom drifted up the corridor as a door opened at the far
end,
then
was cut off again.
Sinbiane
and his new friend, a dark-eyed boy of about the same age whose black hair was
gathered behind his head in a knot, approached.

 
          
"Hello
uncle. This is Trixa. He's on the battle staff here. He works the big guns. I
told him you were a great warrior on Earth."

 
          
Ikematsu
rose to his feet and smiled down at the boy. "So you fought in the battle
they are celebrating?"

 
          
"Yes
sir," Trixa told him boldly. "I coordinate eight guns here on the
flagship. I helped knock out four of the enemy." He paused. "Have you
killed many people, sir?"

 
          
Ikematsu
continued smiling. "I have killed no one,
young
cannoneer."

 
          
" 'A
true warrior does not kill by his own hand,'
" Sinbiane intoned to the puzzled boy, " 'but only by the unavoidable
fate of he who is killed.' "

 
          
"Fate?"
echoed Trixa. "But there isn't any such thing!"

           
Sweating, Tengu found Ragshok in
Claire de Lune's
restaurant. He was
talking to Morgan and the Salpian engineer, Drue.

 
          
"The
intermat," Tengu choked out. "It's started working!"

 
          
Ragshok's
eyes lit up. He licked his lips.

 
          
The
Salpian had been eating from a plate in rapid gulps. He pushed it away.
"It figures! I should have guessed it!"

 
          
Tengu
stared at him.

 
          
"I
was just telling the chief what I found out," the engineer explained.
"Whenever this fleet flies in feetol formation, all the bubbles merge into
one big bubble. That's why Imperial fleets are faster than our own ships. For
the intermat to work, you must have to be inside the big bubble too."

 
          
"These
Imperials got a lot of tricks up their sleeve," Morgan said admiringly.

 
          
"Let's
see them trick their way out of this one/' Ragshok leaned towards Tengu
. "
Are you sure it's working? Have you been
through?"

 
          
"Sure.
To the flagship and back.
I spent half an hour there."

 
          
He
would have stayed longer, once the smokes in the air got to him. But he had
become nervous because of the looks he was getting. Besides, he had wanted to
make sure he could get back.

 
          
"The
flagship, no less," Ragshok murmured. "What did you find there?"

 
          
"It's
weird. There's some sort of victory dance going on. They call this a warfleet?
It's more like a ride down the Janja." He was referring to a famous river
replete with pleasure boats.

 
          
"A celebration.
What a time to strike! And anyway, we
have to do it before the fleet comes out of feetol. Did you see many arms
about?"