Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10 (23 page)

 
          
Almost
without resistance, the gun slid out of Pout's face. There was a
plop
as his features re-formed behind
it.

 
          
Pout
began to cry.

 
          
At
last,
kosho
Hako Ikematsu permitted
himself to
exult,
at last he held the zen gun in his
hands.

 
          
Zen
in the art of electronics . . .

 
          
Curiously
there was no trace of its contact with the interior of Pout's person. No slime
or moisture. No body heat, only the ordinary cool warmth of friendly wood.
Ikematsu turned it over and over, examining it at length.

 
          
He
knew its age: more than three Earth centuries. He knew its provenance: the
zen
master who made it had been a member of the order from
which his own had originally sprung. The external appearance of the gun was a
testament to certain cultural concepts: it seemed improvised, unfinished,
crude, yet in its lack of polish was a feeling of supreme skill ... in the
Nipponese language of the time it had
wabi,
the quality of artless simplicity, the rustic quality of leaves strewn on a
path, of a gate mended roughly with a nailed-on piece of wood and yet whose
repair was a quiet triumph of adequacy and conscious balance. It had
shibusa,
the merit of imperfection. 3nly
incompleteness could express the infinite, could convey
he
essence
of
reality.
Hence, the unvarnished wood bore the narks of the carver's chisel . . .

 
          
These
qualities were themselves but superficial excres-
;ences
of the principles on which the gun acted, principles so ibstruse in character
that one dictum alone succeeded in u'nting at them:
Nothing moves. Where would it go?
Pout he chimera had succeeded in
using the gun as an electric >eam to hurt or kill, without regard to
location. But that was he most trivial of its capabilities. Only a
kosho
could unlock ts real, dreadful
purpose . . .

 
          
Ragshok's
voice was slurred as he spoke to Archier. He had not been able to resist the
intoxicating airs and beverages so freely available on the flagship.

 
          
"We'll
be in Diadem in less then two days," he said. "Listen, you could be
useful to us. Tell us which
are the juiciest worlds
.
Where we'd go to forestall resistance."

 
          
"I'm
your prisoner, that's all," Archier said dully. "Don't expect me to
be a traitor as well."

 
          
Ragshok
took a long sucking drag on the foot-long charge cigar he was smoking. He
grinned glassily at Hesper. "Work on him, love. Make him see the light.
Simplex take it! I can offer you
anything.
Wanna be total dictator of a hundred worlds? Satisfy any kink you like?
Come on, everybody's got his price!"

 
          
Hesper
snuggled closer to Archier and stared at the pirate distastefully.

 
          
"Aaargh
..." Ragshok growled in his throat, his natural aggressiveness overcoming
even the calming effect of the drug. "Who needs you,
hn
?
Who needs you?"

 
          
The
door slid open with a bang. Ragshok turned, eyebrows lifted, as someone burst
into the small sitting room where they were talking. It was one of the women in
his band, a middle-aged virago who had been particularly bloodthirsty during
the takeover. Her face was ugly with alarm.

 
          
"There's
a fleet ahead of us, chief!"

 
          
"What
are you talking about?" Ragshok's surprise was almost comic. He took the
cigar out of his mouth, rolling it between thumb and finger.

 
          
"It's
on the radar.
A big Imperial fleet!"

 
          
Grumbling
incoherently to himself, Ragshok lurched to his feet. He pointed to Archier.
"Bring him to the Command Room."

 
          
He
ran through the door. Archier didn't need the scangun
that
was pointed at his head to persuade him to follow. He went
willingly, and in the Command Centre found Ragshok already on the throne, his
lieutenants, Morgan included, grouped around him. In the air in front of them
there hovered the radar report.

 
          
There
was no doubt of it. The oncoming blips were in standard Star Force formation,
and there were more of them than Ten-Fleet could currently boast. In fact, from
the identifying symbols in the top left of the image Archier knew it to be
Seventeen-Fleet.

 
          
Swivelling
the throne, Ragshok glared at Archier. "So this is what you've been
keeping quiet," he accused, speaking the words round the huge, puffing
cigar. "Diadem
is
defended."

 
          
"I
don't really understand it," Archier admitted mildly. "No fleets are
stationed in Diadem. The last I heard, Star Force had been ordered to stay away
altogether." He smiled faintly. "That's Seventeen-Fleet coming at us,
and she's nearly up to strength. You'd better surrender. Maybe you'll be
treated leniently—given remedial treatment, given homes in Diadem, even."

 
          
"Made
tax slaves, you
mean. They haven't even
attacked
yet, and they won't when we put you onscreen to reassure
them."

 
          
"I'm
afraid they
will,
whatever you
make
me say.
We're
supposed
to be somewhere else. Remember those funny cobweb things that were making
people disappear? We are supposed to be investigating that. Turning up like
this makes us look like a threat. You see," he explained after hesitation,
"there's been a civil conflict inside Diadem. They probably think we're
aiming to mix in it. They must think it, in fact, or they wouldn't be coming
out to meet us."

 
          
The
radar picture suddenly disintegrated into
a
three-
dimensional cross-hatchwork. Then the operators briefly obtained a
single magnified image of one of the dreadful front-line-o'-wars, already
extending its immensely long gun barrels.

 
          
"They
outgun us," Ragshok muttered.

 
          
"Fight
'em, chief!" Morgan urged.
"We've
got plenty of
guns too. They don't outgun us
all
that much."

 
          
"They
know how to use what they've got, you fool, and we don't!" Ragshok
retorted. He took the cigar from his mouth and flung it away. "We'll be
smashed to pieces if we stay in formation like this. Order the fleet to
disperse.
Every ship to avoid contact as best it can and make
its own way into Diadem.
We can exert some leverage there. Civilians are
always soft-bellied."

 
          
When
he heard this, Archier's jaw dropped. "You don't know what you're
doing!" he yelled.

 
          
"SHUT
UP! Get him out of here!"

 
          
He
heard the order being relayed and was still protesting as the virago hustled
him from the room. Outside, he stared blankly at the lens of the scangun she
held on him. How much should he exert himself, risk his life even, for the sake
of these people?

 
          
It
was a grotesque death. But he would get his fleet back. . .

 
          
He
remained wrestling with his conscience when she vanished, with a clap of air.

 
          
For
a while he stood there. Then, slowly, he walked back into the Command Centre.
It was empty, of course. With a dazed feeling, he took up the throne so
precipitously vacated by Ragshok.

 
          
Hesper
found him there a few minutes later, having followed at her own pace.
"Where are they all?" she asked.

 
          
"Back
in the
Claire de Lune,"
Archier
told her dully. "But dead, of course."

 
          
While
she continued to stare at him in mystification, he waved at the radar picture.
"Do you see that? It's another Imperial fleet on its way to intercept us.
To escape it Ragshok decided to scatter Ten-Fleet. But he didn't understand
about the intermat, you see. I
don't suppose hardly
anybody outside Star Force does.

 
          
"You
see, the intermat only works inside the big feetol bubble that encloses the
fleet when it's flying in what we call feetol formation. And it isn't really
permanent. You have to return to your point of origin before the bubble
disappears,
otherwise you'll transpose back there
spontaneously, in a horribly mangled state because there's no intermat kiosk to
regulate the process. That's what happened when Ragshok dispersed the fleet and
burst the bubble. Remember, his people had spread themselves around the fleet
by intermat in the first place. I don't like to think what it must look like on
the
Claire de Lune
right now."

 
          
He
wasn't sure Hesper took in what he said about the feetol bubble, but she was
bright enough to grasp the bottom line. "You mean
all
Ragshok's people have been killed?" she said.
"All
of them?"

           
"All
except
the handful who stayed aboard
Claire de
Lune
from the beginning. Some of my own people must have got caught,
too," he brooded. "Not everybody managed to get back to their own
vessels after the takeover."

 
          
He
sighed. "Better get on to Seventeen, I suppose, before they blast us out
of the galaxy."

 
          
Using
his Admiral's throne codes to override the crewless space torsion room, he
succeeded in sending a leader tone burst to the flagship of the approaching
fleet. Once contact was made the signal was good; they were only minutes away
from gunnery range.

 
          
In
the other's torsion room, he found himself looking into the mild face of a
koala. "This is Admiral Archier," he announced. "Would you
please put me through to Admiral
Tirexier.
"

 
          
"Admiral
Brusspert now has command, sir. I will try to get him for you."

 
          
Brusspert?
Archier frowned. He knew no such
admiral. Very likely he or she was a promotion ... but surely Tirexier was not
suspected of disloyalty? He could no more believe it of him than he would of
himself.

 
          
He
thought the koala had made a mistake when a grinning pig face confronted him.
The pig wore something on its head: it was with a shock that he recognised it,
after a moment, as an adaptation of the ceremonial admiral's hat, with its
peaked, bell-shaped dome.

 
          
"Ah,
there you are, Archier. Now then, what the Simplex do you think you're
doing?"

 
          
"Do
I address Admiral Brusspert?" Archier asked after a pause.

 
          
"Indeed,
indeed. Now come to it! Our gunners are raring to go! You saw Crane and
Oblescu, I suppose?"

 
          
Archier
swallowed. As concisely as he could, he related everything that had taken
place. When he had finished, Brusspert sniffed dubiously.

 
          
"A
pretty unlikely tale in the circumstances, I must say . . . Still, we'll
confirm the truth, or otherwise, of it sharp enough." The pig's eyes
flickered to something in his range of vision. "Your ships don't behave as
though they have anyone at the helm, at that. Zipping about like a bunch of
pesky swamp flies. We'll chase them down and board. Meantime, make ready to
receive our gig. We're coming over."

           
"First," Archier said,
"may I ask how a second class citizen comes to have the rank of admiral?
Yours
is
an
acting
rank, I take it?"

 
          
Brusspert
stared at him. Then he broke into squealing laughter. "You haven't heard,
then? Don't worry, you'll find out soon enough!"

 
          
The
picture vanished. The new admiral had cut him off.

 
          
In
the short interval before the gig from Seventeen Fleet arrived Archier made
some attempt to put his flagship back in order. He called the living quarters
and informed the vessel's denizens that it was safe to come out. Slowly the
ship began to fill with sounds of life, and he was surprised once again to see
his Fire Command Officer, whom he had presumed killed along with so many other
animals. It transpired that Gruwert had spent the last few days hiding in a
locker, and had ventured forth only when he heard voices he recognised.
Thinner, and somewhat bad-tempered, he gulped down an enormous quantity of his
favourite mash, and then reported for duty.

 
          
Archier
was not sure what it would be like to confront a pig admiral. There was an
ingrained protocol for dealing with animals. He did not go to the boarding bay
to meet the gig, as he might normally have done, but waited in his office for
the party to come to him.

 
          
It
was larger than he
had
expected:
about twenty animals and humans, though few of the latter. Half a dozen of them
trotted into his office, and all of them were four-footed.

 
          
He
had not realized earlier that Admiral Brusspert was
a
sow.
Her
plump danging udders were
evidence that she had littered recently. Archier noted the fact only in
passing. It was swallowed up in his general shock.

 
          
"Admiral,"
she announced with a toss of her snout, "permit me to introduce Imperial
Council Member Hiroshamak."

 
          
Standing
beside her was indeed someone in a Council Member's robe, but instead of
hanging with loose dignity from a pair of shoulders, it had been cut and shaped
so as to drape upon the broad back of a quadruped.