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

San Hevatar nodded thoughtfully. ‘I always considered that the Historical Office’s protective attitude towards the crucial God-given event is unnecessary. Chronotic history is much too ravelled to be undone so easily. The very fact of time-travel weakens from the outset the unique relationship between cause and effect, even when movement is only from node to node. So now, we have time-travel without its ever being invented. Truly wondrous.’

‘And truly disastrous,’ Aton said. ‘Rilke couldn’t wipe out the empire, but the Hegemony can. And probably mankind with it.’

The prophet was staring at Aton with a terrible burning intensity. ‘You are he!’ he gasped abruptly. ‘You are the one! I know you!’ He passed a hand across his eyes and swayed as though suffering from dizziness.

‘What are you talking about?’ Aton demanded harshly.

‘Forget my small deceptions,’ San Hevatar said with a weary smile. ‘Despite those, I am still a prophet of God and occasionally I see through the veil.’ His voice became dreamy. ‘You are our hope, Aton. You are God’s champion, His sword, to fight the enemy of Church and empire.’

A dizziness came over Aton also as he heard the unexpected words. Then, from deep within his mind, he seemed to feel an urgency, a summons. He struggled against the feeling and tried to frame a reply to San Hevatar.

But it was no use. The subconscious part of his nervous system was asserting itself again.

Aton phased into the strat.

He went hurtling futureward – plusward, in chronman’s language. All around him flamed and roared the supernal fire of the strat. As he went, that fire burned into him and he realised that his personal ortho field was down. He was soaking up transcendental energies, was becoming multidimensional in his nature and powers.

Because he was fused with this fire, because he maintained no subjective sense of passing time, the journey to his new destination involved no duration. He was vaguely aware that he was skimming at tremendous speed close under the silvery lead screen of orthogonal time. The events on the screen raced past him in a blur of motion.

Then the screen swayed as he slowed down and approached a certain location on it. He found himself looking into a room in a tall building in Node 6. Two men, one lean and feral, the other pudgy and bland, stood over a naked woman who lay on a cloth-draped table, her back arched. In their hands were gleaming daggers which they were bringing down slowly and deliberately towards her white body. All around stood humming, clicking, droning instruments.

Coming closer, Aton knew where he had seen the woman before. She was Inpriss Sorce.

He phased into orthogonal time.

To the two Traumatics it seemed as if he had emerged from the Impossible Shape of Hulmu, for he materialised between it and the altar. They stumbled back with cries of fear, convinced for a moment that their god had appeared to them. Aton was surrounded by a shining halo of iridescent colours. The energies with which he was saturated pulsed and flashed as he moved.

Then they regathered their courage, and, deciding in their confusion that Aton was after all but human, moved in to attack with daggers extended.

A dazzling cloud of pure power, like a charge of ball lightning, shot from Aton’s chest and enveloped Stryne, who fell dead.

Velen halted in his stride and stood looking stupid, the knife held awkwardly in his hand. His attention wandered perplexedly between Stryne and Aton. A second power charge soared towards him and he died soundlessly.

Aton stepped softly to the girl. She still lay quivering with back arched, eyes closed, little grunts of exertion coming from her throat as she awaited the knife thrusts. As gently as he could, he put an arm under her shoulders, raised her to a sitting position, and told her to open her eyes.

She looked at him blankly. ‘You’re safe now,’ he said. But it was plain she was in deep shock. Someone who had been subjected to her experience could remain a psychiatric case for years.

He put his hand to her brow. Subtle powers flowed from his palm into her brain. He could sense her every thought, every crevice and receptacle of her mind. Into those hollows he sent healing influences as his thoughts flowed into hers.

Eventually she stopped shivering and became normally alert and calm. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Get dressed. We’re leaving.’

While she hurriedly pulled on her garments he prowled around the room, contemptuously knocking over the still-active items of equipment. When he came to the holo camera he cursed himself for not having noticed it before, but disconnected its lead.

He knew that he was at the back of the building and on the third floor. He opened the door and peered out. Glancing back to make sure she was ready, he signalled her to follow him. Together they ventured into the corridor.