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

He went over it again and again and could see no flaw. In a confused situation power went to whoever commanded the most guns – which was himself. Gordona was a relatively peaceful country for the times they were living in, and indeed the populace would see no reason to offer resistance – until it was too late. Jasperodus was satisfied that he had removed all unknown factors from the equation.

‘Commander Jasperodus – meet my uncle, Count Osbah!’

Prince Okhramora giggled. Jasperodus bowed. Unlike the Prince, Count Osbah was tall, rakishly thin, and carried himself with exaggerated hauteur. He answered the robot’s bow with a distant nod.

So eager was Okhramora to get the affair going that he had brought the Count in by the back door almost as King Zhorm and his retinue were leaving by the front. With him had come nearly a dozen other relatives – cousins, aunts and uncles. Most of them were merely affluent middle-class farmers, for Gordona was not large enough to afford an extensive nobility.

Okhramora’s relatives had, in fact, taken possession of the palace ahead of Z Company, and had proved more of a nuisance to the troops than any of its legitimate occupants. The servants, and the few remaining members of the court, had been locked away and Jasperodus had posted sentries among the deserted hallways.

Now his men were in the town. He had sent a squad to occupy the police station and to incarcerate all available police in their own cells. He had also arrested the Chief of Police, the Minister of Justice, the Minister of Trades and Crafts, and other leading citizens.

So far all was quiet.

‘If only Mother could have lived to see this day,’ Okhramora mooned, momentarily overcome by mawkish sentimentality. ‘It would have answered all her prayers, would it not, Uncle?’

‘Quite so.’ The Count gave him a precise, disdainful look.

A sudden burst of automatic fire came from the direction of the barracks, followed by silence. Jasperodus excused himself, went to find a trooper and sent him to investigate.

Minutes later the soldier returned to say that there had been an attempted break-out, but that all was now under control.

Jasperodus sent the man back to his post and stood in the half-darkened corridor, wondering why he felt nervous. He fingered his weapons, a repeater gun and a long-tubed emitter – the latter an arrangement of glass coils generating a beam of intense energy. The arsenal boasted only one of these rare weapons and he had reserved it for his own use, since unlike bullet-firing guns it was effective if used against himself.

Zhorm should be well on his way back to the palace by now, he thought. It would be easy for him to get inside – Jasperodus had seen to that – unless he was foolish enough to come storming in with the whole of his retinue. And he had good reason to try, quite apart from the loss of his throne. The best of all reasons; one that made it almost certain he would come alone.

When Jasperodus returned, the salon where he had left Okhramora and Count Osbah was empty. He asked their whereabouts of a sentry.

‘They have gone to the Throne Room, Commander.’

‘Indeed? Find Captain Craish and tell him to meet me there, with a dozen of his men.’

He went quickly to the Throne Room, entered and took in the scene in a single glance.

The chamber was only of moderate size, in keeping with its use for ceremonial and symbolic occasions. Fashioned in the shape of a concave shell, it imparted an air of luxurious intimacy. The walls were of a soft blue colour; the doors were of mahogany and were flanked by rich azure drapes. But its usual atmosphere of hushed calm was currently entirely broken by the presence of Okhramora and all his relatives, who were gathered in front of the throne. Okhramora himself was at the rear of the chamber, bending over an aumbry where, as everyone knew, the Crown of the Realm was kept. Inexplicably, the lock’s combination was apparently also known to the Prince. He opened the aumbry and took out the much-desired symbol of sovereignty.

The Crown! Though not of enormous value it was an object of some beauty, being the work of a talented goldsmith. Okhramora held it up for all to see; its circlet of spiralled spires glinted in the soft light. Then he ascended the three steps to the throne and stood with his back to it, lifting the Crown towards his head with an expression of triumph and bliss.

At that moment Jasperodus bounded forward to mount the steps and snatched the Crown from his hands, cuffing him violently to send him sprawling a dozen feet away.

Swivelling himself round on the floor, Okhramora stared with wide, disbelieving eyes. ‘What happened?’ he squeaked. ‘Is the Crown booby-trapped? No? Then what? – Jasperodus? …’

One of the women screamed.

Jasperodus unhooked his repeater. ‘Used me as a plaything, did you?’ he growled. ‘You believed me to be your slave. Poor moron, you were my tool, not I yours!’