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

About mid-morning, in the middle-class Condra district, a robot ran towards him carrying a field vid-set attached by cable and drum to a nearby public booth. It had been planned to use Tansiann’s vid-line service in this way, but up until now no one had apparently felt the need for communication. He accepted the set and found himself staring, on the tiny monochrome screen, into the crudely-made face of a low-order robot he identified, after a moment’s thought, as one by the name of Chisel.

‘What is it?’ he snapped. ‘You belong to the guard party, do you not?’

Chisel’s head moved aberratedly, as though he were suffering strain. ‘There has been an attack, sir! Men came to the house looking for Major Inwing, whom they attempted to murder.’

‘What transpired?’

The robot began to babble incoherently before Jasperodus calmed him down and extracted the story.

The would-be killers had known their business. Despite the mixed human-robot guard they had got into the house in a surprise attack and two of them had penetrated to Inwing’s room, injuring him before being killed by Rovise, captain of the guard.

Rovise had acted well. Only he, Chisel and another robot called Bootmaker by this time remained to defend their charge. He had ordered the robots to lower the unconscious Inwing through the window and carry him away from the back of the house, holding off further sallies while they did so.

‘What are Inwing’s injuries?’ Jasperodus demanded. ‘Describe.’

‘A bullet hit him in the head. I do not think his brain-case is broken. He is alive, but unconscious.’

‘Who is with him?’

Only myself and Bootmaker, who is even less intelligent than I! Tell me what to do, sir!’

Jasperodus recalled with a sudden chill that when still in Charrane’s favour he had once drawn up contingency measures to be used in case of insurgency. These measures included highly trained assassination squads to knock out traitors and rebel leaders. There was no question but that these squads were now operating, and that Cree was a target. His peccancies on the eve of his disappearance had no doubt been linked to Jasperodus’ re-emergence, which was more than enough to identify him with the revolt.

Jasperodus cursed himself. Once on the trail the assassins were sufficiently skilled as detectives not to let go – and they were utterly dedicated. It was only a matter of time before they gained their objective, unless he could help Inwing.

And the worst of it was that Chisel – as the unlucky construct himself well knew – was simply not intelligent enough to handle the situation. He and his helpmate were of an elementary type of androform robot, generally expected to act only under supervision. For instance, they had thoughtlessly fled with Inwing in a direction taking them away from the enclave, instead of into it where they could have counted on finding protection.

‘Give me orders, sir!’ Chisel pleaded urgently. ‘Rovise gave us no further instructions beyond this point, and is doubtless now dead.’

It came home forcibly to Jasperodus that it was necessary to direct Chisel in the most simplistic, most unequivocal of terms. The situation was precarious. The robots were quite capable of forgetting the real purpose of their mission, or of putting some other interpretation on it instead.

He mustered his sternest, most commanding voice. ‘You are to prevent the assassins from killing Major Inwing, using any means whatsoever that are available. That is a prime directive, which must engage all your attention, permanently and without attenuation. Do you understand?’

Chisel nodded feverishly. ‘I understand. Prevent the assassins from killing Major Inwing – at whatever cost. I understand. We obey!’

‘Good. Now tell me exactly where you are, and I will be with you directly.’

But before Chisel could answer there was the sound of an explosion and the vidset screen rippled and then went blank. Jasperodus observed that the overhead lines to the booth had been blown down by a mortar bomb.

More mortar bombs came whizzing down into the street from over the rooftops. Shrapnel rattled against his torso. Hoarse shout and screams mingled with the flat, brief blasts.

The bombardment finished. The survivors picked themselves up from the roadway. Arcturus cursed, examining his arm. The firefighters had fled, abandoning their equipment and several burning houses.

Jasperodus waved his arms. ‘Take cover!’ he growled. ‘Into the buildings!’

He helped carry still-living wounded into one of the deserted houses. They laid them down in a lushly carpeted drawing-room. One began to groan in an empty, uncomprehending tone.

Arcturus turned to Jasperodus from an inspection of the injured. ‘Two of these men need immediate medical attention. What do you think’s happening?’

Jasperodus shook his head. He went to the door and peered cautiously out. He saw men in imperial uniform passing the end of the street. The troops paused, as if checking the avenue for activity, then moved on.