Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

He peered within. Six figures occupied the cell-like storeroom, having made space for themselves among the crates of chronphase spares. By the look of things this was their regular meeting place – the crates had been arranged to leave a neat cubbyhole that had a much-used appearance. All six wore normal uniforms, except that their caps had been replaced by black cloths that hung down over their ears. Five men were on their knees, heads bent and faces hidden in their arms, and they had their backs to Aton. The sixth stood before them leading the chant, a gold medallion hung about his neck, a black book in his hand. Aton recognised him as Sergeant Quelle, of gunnery. His lean sharp face bore the look of desperate rapture Aton would have expected from such a rite as this.

In the same moment that the startled Sergeant Quelle saw him, Aton pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster and flung the door wide open. He slammed a com switch on the corridor wall and bellowed for the ship guard. Then he moved into the confined space, towering over the kneeling figures, the heavy beam pistol sweeping over them all warningly.

White faces, shocked and guilty, turned to look at him. Sergeant Quelle backed away, slamming shut his book. He bore the look of a trapped rat.

‘Traumatics!’

Aton spat out the word. The outlawed sect was known to have adherents in the Time Service – chronmen were, in fact, unusually prone to be affected by its heresies, for obvious reasons – but Aton had never dreamed he would find aboard his own ship not one heretic but a whole congregation. He felt shaken.

Booted, running feet rang on the metal decks. The com speaker on the wall outside the storeroom crackled.

‘Are you all right, Captain?’

‘Yes, Lieutenant,’ he replied, recognising the voice from the bridge. ‘Better send down Comforter Fegele.’

The guards clattered to the scene. Aton let them stare at it for a few moments. There was a strained silence.

‘Better not do anything to us, Captain,’ Quelle said in an impulsive, frightened voice. ‘Your soul will go to the deep if you do!’

‘Silence!’ Aton was affronted by the continued blasphemy.

The ship’s priest, Comforter Fegele arrived, pushing his way through the guards. As he saw the evidence before him, the six men standing half-sheepishly, half-defiantly, a gasp came from deep within his cowl. He swiftly made the sign of the circle, then raised his hand palm outward.

‘Depart, Prince of Abominations,’ he muttered in a hurried, feverish voice. ‘Depart into the deeps of time, plague no more the servants of the Lord.’

The Traumatics immediately turned to him and made a curious sign with the fingers of their right hands, as though warding off a curse.

Quelle laughed fiercely. ‘Don’t you plague us with your exorcisms, priest!’ But Comforter Fegele was already beginning an incantation of sacred names, at the same time producing a vase-like chalice from within the folds of his robe.

‘Get them out of here and lock them in the cells!’ ordered Aton angrily. ‘Commander Haight can decide whether to charge them fleetside or back in Chronopolis.’

The guards hustled the heretics from the room, while the priest splashed consecrated wine everywhere, on the worshippers, on the crates, on the floor of the cubbyhole.

At that moment a deep-toned gong rang through the ship.

Lieutenant Hurse spoke from the bridge through the wall com. ‘Message from the flagship, Captain. Enemy located on target-bound path.’

‘I’ll be with you presently,’ Aton returned.

He made for the ladder, but suddenly Sergeant Quelle, who with the others was in the process of being handcuffed, burst free and lunged supplicatingly towards him.

‘You need us, Captain. You need me, especially. Nobody can handle a gunnery comp like I do.’

Comforter Fegele hurled a handful of wine in his face. ‘You have lent yourself to foul crimes and flaunted God’s commandments …’

Quelle appealed again to Aton. ‘Let me do my duty, Captain. This is no time to cut down the ship’s fighting power. Let me handle my comp.’ He cringed. ‘I don’t want to sink into the strat … without …’

Suddenly Aton understood. The Traumatics believed that a certain ceremony could – or at least might – protect a soul if it was plunged naked into the strat, as, for instance, should the Smasher of Enemies be destroyed in the coming fight. That had no doubt been the purpose of the rite Aton had interrupted. It was all nonsense, of course, fanatical superstition; but Quelle, robbed of his imagined precaution, wanted to fight for his life and not sit out the battle helplessly.

And he was right about one thing. Quelle was an excellent gunner, the best the ship had. Without him the gunnery-room would be fighting below maximum efficiency.

Aton looked at the sergeant with open contempt. ‘Very well. For the duration of the engagement.’