The Zen Gun

1

Around the blue, green and white planet, Ten-Fleet disposed itself with a suddenness that was intentionally frightening. On the diagrammatisation screens in the control centres of both sides, the criss-cross orbits of the hundred and forty ships resembled the electrons of a heavy atom orbiting an engorged nucleus like an enclosing web. In the first seconds of the occupation the planet’s own service satellites, a gnat’s haze, had been vapourised, the staffs of a dozen manned stations taken prisoner. Robbed of communications, the planet was helpless and nearly blind.

Meantime Ten-Fleet substituted its own satellite haze. Everything on and below the surface was being monitored at a resolution level of one to one.

Relaxing in his den, Admiral Archier could imagine the consternation now reigning on the planet. Its government would be ignorant—or so he hoped—of what he as a military man understood all too well, namely that to be in a position to blast a planet by missile, beam or blanket was merely an exercise in military impotence. The criterion of practical power was the capability to land effectives, and just as important, to take them off again.

Ten-Fleet was depleted. If it came to it, Archier would not properly be able to administrate the cowering population. Its dreadful weaponry was, in that sense, a threat that could be bluffed.

It was advisable, therefore, to conduct his business quickly, before the government down below began to draw conclusions from the fleet’s inaction. The Admiral did not relish having to make a decision as to whether to punish the planet for recalcitrance.

Archier reclined on a mossy bank in the shade of an apple tree. Animals played and gambolled a short distance away: a dwarf elephant two feet tall; a dwarf giraffe whose head could crane almost to Archier’s shoulder; a chimp, and a bush baby almost as large.

Disengaging itself, the elephant strolled over, “The ruling council is in debate right now,” it announced in a slightly trumpety voice. “According to bounce-back satellite reports, they are talking over ways to cheat us.”

Archier smiled. “No doubt they think they can pass off decorticated murderers as artistic geniuses. Well, we’ve seen all that before.”

The giraffe ambled over to rub its neck against his sleeve. “I hope they give us a good composer,” he said in his soft, mild voice. “Would we be allowed to commission him before we make delivery to Diadem?”

“While we are in semi-autonomous status, yes.”

“Admiral, they are asking to talk to us,” the elephant chimed in.

Archier nodded. He patted the large grey head of his elephant adjutant, whose brain implant kept it in touch with all of Ten-Fleet’s communications. “Come with me then, Arctus. I might need you to keep me informed.”

From his present vantage point the mossy wood had no visible limits. But when Archier stepped behind the apple tree to stroll through the dappled light of the grove, Arctus padding along behind him, he was suddenly in a wide, carpeted corridor bearing a steady traffic of men, women, children and animals. A short walk brought him to the official audience chamber. A spider monkey looked up and lifted a hand in salute. Then it began to set up the meeting.

Admiral Archier took his cloak of rank from a nearby peg and self-consciously seated himself upon the throne before the view area. Subdued lights came on. He felt the mantle of imperial numinousness descend upon him. To those whose images now sprang to life in the view area his clean, pale features would seem majestic and almost angelically authoritative, and the glint in his eye would betoken a chilling perceptiveness.

He was looking into a council chamber. About twenty people sat around an oval table; there were no animals present. At the head of the table, raised a little above the others, was the Chairman of the Rostian Council, an elderly man who bore his years well, and who wore a white gown that made him look almost clinical. A short and neatly trimmed white beard sprouted from his chin.

The Chairman was the only one able to look directly at Archier without having to turn his head. The expression on his face was that of one who knew the weakness of his position and was forcing himself to bite back heartfelt defiance.

“Do I address the representative of the Imperial Directors?” he asked in a dry, acid tone.

“You do, but more specifically the Imperial Collector of Taxes,” Archier answered lightly. “As already stated, you are twenty standard years in default. The matter is serious; your account must be settled forthwith.”

“We are not wilfully in default,” the Chairman said with steely grimness. “Ten years ago we offered to render all due services in credit, manufactured goods or rare materials. We received no reply.”

“I am your reply. Your offer should not have been made. It bodes the Empire no service and is interpreted as attempted evasion of payment.” Archier reached out his hand; the spider monkey placed a file of papers on it. “However, to clear the matter up, the Imperial Inspector of Revenues has agreed to reduce arrears by fifty per cent—on condition that all future levies are paid promptly at the stipulated ten-standard-year intervals, delivery being your responsibility.”

The Admiral bent his head to the papers before him. “These are the levies which will now be paid by you before we depart.”

He began to read from a list. “One thousand two hundred and fifty-eight artists of the musical variety, comprising both composers and performers.

“One thousand two hundred and fifty-eight artists of the visual, tactile and odoriferous varieties.

“One thousand two hundred and fifty-eight practitioners of literary and dramatic arts.

“Two thousand and twenty scientists of assorted disciplines.

“You are reminded that all persons must be human, not animal or construct, containing not more than two per cent of dominant animal genes. All persons must reach at least Grade Twenty on the Carrimer Creativity Test that will be applied by Fleet psychologists. Further, at least one hundred persons should be of genius standard, or Grade Twenty-Five on the Carrimer Test.”

Archier looked up and handed back the file to the spider monkey. The faces staring at him could only be described as stony.

Oh, I know that you’re thinking. We would rather secede from the Empire, that’s what you’re thinking. But you dare not speak of rebellion, not openly, not even here on the fringe, while Ten-Fleet sweeps over your heads.

“This traffic in people goes quite against the social philosophy we have evolved here on Rostia!” the Chairman protested. “It is slavery!”

“Do not despair, the cream of your nation will be exporting that philosophy into the Empire generally,” Archier retorted amiably. “Your reluctance is a sad state of affairs. There was a time when the gifted among us competed for a chance to migrate to the heart of the Empire.”

“Were that so, this tribute would hardly be necessary.”

Archier leaned forward. “You have told me what you do not like. There is something I do not like. I do not like the word ‘tribute.’ I am here as a tax-gatherer. We all live under the law. Make arrangements for payment.”

The Chairman bit his lip. “We shall need time if we are to do this. You come upon us suddenly.”

“We shall not brook any delay. We shall know if you stall for time or plot any trickery against us. Therefore, I call on you to reassert your allegiance to the Empire.” At this moment Archier became aware that Arctus the elephant was tugging at his sleeve with its trunk. He leaned aside. “What is it, Arctus?” he muttered.

The tiny elephant opened its maw and whispered hoarsely in Archier’s ear. “A message from High Command!”

Straightening, Archier turned back to the Rostian Council. “Will you kindly begin your despatches within one rotation. Goodbye for now.”

With that end to the conversation, hurried as it was, he rose, thanked the spider monkey, and left the audience room with Arctus. They passed through curtains of draped light: mauve, lavender, lilac, finally effervescent lemon.

Suddenly they were in the space-torsion room.

A nine-year-old boy was on duty, a son of one of the crew who had been given the job much as he might have been given a toy. With an eager sense of ceremony he presented Archier with the message, which had come in word form.

It was a directive, engraved in glowing letters on a sheet of yellow parchment. Archier murmured his thanks and scanned it.

After the addressing and classification codes came a terse instruction.

ESCORIA SECTOR IN CONDITION REBELLION. PROCEED IN FULL MAJESTY, OBJECT SUPPRESSION, CONDITION AUTONOMY. ENABLING DATA WILL FOLLOW.

Admiral Archier gazed at the parchment for some time, allowing the key phrases to sink in. Full Majesty. That meant he was to recognise no constraint on the deployment of the fleet’s resources. Condition Autonomy. That meant that the fleet has the legal standing of a sovereign state. In theory it implied that the High Command had lost its power to act or had even collapsed. He, Archier, could behave as though he were the government of the Empire, responsible to no one.

If the rebellion in Escoria could not be dealt with, he could choose to obliterate all human life there—and was probably expected to do so. Instead of punishing the planet below by destroying a city or two, he could, likewise, annihilate it.

The disintegration of the Empire as an organised and effective entity was plainly proceeding apace.

He passed the parchment to Arctus. The elephant took the bottom edge in the tip of its trunk and raised the sheet before its face.

“Ah. This is promotion of sorts, sir.”

“Is it?” Archier sounded doleful. “It bodes a less happy set of circumstances to me.”

Ruefully he thought of the tax reprieve which now had inadvertently befallen Rostia. The dignity of the Empire would best be served, he thought, if Ten-Fleet were to leave without warning, as abruptly as it had come.

“Come Arctus,” he sighed, “let’s to the Command Room.”

Minutes passed. And then the web of orbits surrounding Rostia faded from the diagrammatisation screens, though the thousand or so satellites were expendable and remained, a replacement gift for the planet that, Admiral Archier feared, had slipped for the time being from the Empire’s grasp.

As the fleet withdrew it was simultaneously reassembling itself into interstellar flight formation, gathering itself together like a school of fish, while each ship geared up its feetol drive. The path of exit from Rostia’s solar system was nearly parallel to the orbital plane, and as the fleet passed close to the primary gas giant a cursory message reached Archier from the environs scan officer.

“Methorian ship descending towards gas giant, sir.”

Archier accepted an imaging fix. He saw the alien vessel, a great bulky pod caught within a baroque-looking cradle, and watched as it slipped into the swirling clouds of the huge planet.

“I’m hazy on recognition, Arctus. What is it?”

“It’s a Methorian cargo carrier,” Arctus informed him.

“Oh,” Archier murmured, incurious as to whether the alien settlement was merely an outpost or even a fully developed planetary society. As with several other alien interstellar empires, the Methorian empire interpenetrated the human one but had practically no contact with it. Given the scale of interstellar distances, and the variety of worlds, there could be little concept of exclusive territory as between oxygen-breathing humans, hydrogen-breathing methanogens, salines, high-temperature acidophiles, and so forth, all inhabiting types of planet of no value to the others.

So the Methorian presence in a system from which the Empire was, for the time being, forced to retreat, signified nothing. The gas giant flipped from the screen, and at the same time from Archier’s notice. In its place he saw the local star field, almost a cluster in its own right, lighting up lacy gas trailed to one side of it.

Are we to give this up? he thought. No! It’s ours. It must remain ours. The Empire claimed each one of these stars as its own property. That aliens might hold a similar view was of no consequence, any more than the owner of a stretch of forest would bother himself with the territorial struggles of the animals living in it. Vast dramas might be unfolding in any of these alien empires, without human society being in the least aware of it.

There was a flurry on the screen as the metric fields generated by the feetol drives of a hundred and forty ships intermeshed to form a single field enclosing the fleet like a bubble. By then they were already travelling faster than light; now their velocity increased a hundredfold.

Ten-Fleet was en route to Escoria Sector.

Evening, fleet time, and Admiral Archier left his quarters to go strolling through his flagship ICS Standard Bearer.

ICS prefixed the names of all Star Force vessels. It stood for Imperial Council Ship, the Imperial Council having replaced the Imperial Directorate—a cybernetic decision-making system—nearly a century ago. The short-lived Directorate, a product of the Anti-archist Revolution, had in its turn replaced the Imperial Civil Service, which had been commanded by an hereditary line of genetically optimised Emperor Protectors.

Though Archier would readily admit that the overthrow of the principle of personal overlordship was praiseworthy on ideological grounds, its practical results had been far from beneficial. The Directorate had so completely failed to handle the affairs of the Empire that an official doctrine of machine unsentience had ensued. Ironically, that doctrine was now crippling the Empire’s industrial capacity because of the disaffection of the robot workforce. The collective leadership of the Council was doing its best to arrest the Empire’s progressive decay and disintegration, but it too was failing. Archier, in common with many officers under his command, privately believed—though it was politically unwise to say so too openly—that the disinheriting of the Protector had been a tragic mistake.

Haunting music, exotic scents, drifted through the salons and dance halls of the flagship, which like all major war vessels of Imperial Star Force was one huge pleasure ship. It could hardly have been otherwise; the vessel had been built in the Imperial yards and its crew all belonged to that part of the Empire’s starclouded heartland known as Galactic Diadem. To such people, sybaritic luxury was as natural and necessary as the air they breathed.

The talented artists and scientists collected as taxes by Ten-Fleet—it had become its chief function—were often openmouthed with astonishment when brought aboard. Archier had heard them apply the word “decadent” more than once. For his part, the outlying worlds from which the taxes were levied seemed rude and barbarous. He viewed their unreliability with disdain, all the more so because their contribution was so vital if the Empire was to survive.

“Good evening, Admiral.”

“Good evening, Madam.” Archier’s response was cordial to the handsome matron who lounged against the frame of an arcaded entrance. Beyond it, in a kind of gymnasium, a group of ten-year-old girls in leotards were learning a dance routine. They were nymphs—junior members of Priapus’ People, one of Diadem’s finest dance and sex troupes, for which training began at the age of eight. Already these girls would be experts in a variety of erotic arts, coached in the giving of sexual pleasure.

An entertainment by their more mature colleagues was scheduled for later. Barely glancing at the lissom, lunging bodies, Archier walked on, to enter the main salon. There, airy melodies blared softly over a hum of conversation. He tried to forget his anxieties, to let himself relax.

A satin-sheathed young figure turned as he passed.

“Dance with me, Admiral.”

The face that smiled wistfully at him was senile, artificially aged to that of a ninety-year-old’s, though the girl was in fact about twenty. Her cheeks and jowls were wrinkled and sagging, caked with cosmetic, her green eyes spiteful and rheumy. The combination of an ancient face and a young body was to be seen throughout the salon; it was the current fashion in feminine beauty, a concept that changed rapidly in all sophisticated societies. It said much for the strength of social conditioning that the sight of the sexually trained girl children had aroused Archier hardly at all, but when the withered decayed cheek of his dance partner was placed against his, a thrill went right through him.

He considered asking her to his table, even though he knew the current fad in her age group was to refuse all sexual liaisons. She had been made pure virgin, her hymen surgically restored, all memory of past sexual encounters expunged from her mind. However, when the tune ended and they ceased to dance a wheezing voice accosted him from behind. “Ah, there you are, Admiral!”

A pig whom he recognised as Acting Fire Command Officer of Fleet Weapons Division had come bustling into the salon. A trifle wearily, he acknowledged the creature. By the regulations officers of command rank were supposed to be human, but human personnel were so scarce it had become the practice to give animals acting rank instead. Pigs appeared particularly suited to this role, and indeed eager for it.

Archier’s Fire Command Officer seemed exasperated. He grunted, raising a bristled snout. “Not a very successful day, Admiral!”

Murmuring a polite goodbye to the old-faced young woman, Archier sauntered with the animal towards the buffet. “The times we live in cause much confusion,” he admitted ambiguously.

“Confusion? I suffer from no confusion!” The pig thrust his snout in a trough to root for tidbits, while Archier surveyed the delicacies laid out on the buffet tables. He picked up a tiny flask and sipped a cool, creamy, thick purple fluid from it through a straw. The cannabis-based drink made him feel better almost immediately.

The pig, on the other hand, seemed only to grow more agitated. He took his head out of the trough as though unable to contain himself any longer. “Admiral, I waited and waited for you to order a strike. And what happened? We simply left and did nothing!”

“We were ordered away,” Archier said amiably. “There was no time to complete collection.”

“Even so, we should have left them something to remember us by!” spluttered the pig. “Vapourise a city or two. Beam a disintegration trail across the main continent. These worlds need to be shown who’s master!”

Thoughtfully Archier sucked up the rest of the purple drink. “It wouldn’t really have been fair. They hadn’t actually refused payment yet. It wasn’t their fault we had to leave.”

“It was their fault we were there at all! By the Simplex, Admiral, what’s going to happen to the Empire if all we’re going to be is fair? Firmness is what’s needed!” The pig shook his head and let out a long, troubled snuffling sound. “Sometimes I despair of you humans!”

He waddled away. A voice spoke near Archier. “I wonder if the appointment was wise in that pig’s case. I’ve noticed he gets upset when he doesn’t get a chance to play with the fleet’s firepower.”

With a shrug Archier acknowledged a young man in the sheened dress uniform of the Drop Commando. “People naturally like to do their job—animals more so than humans, if you ask me. Anyway, a post like that calls for keenness. It needs a pig or feline.”

The commando nodded. “My cheetahs and dogs strain at the leash every time we invest a planet. It’s difficult explaining why we can’t go, sometimes.”

“What we really need are more humans.”

“Don’t we all know that!” The commando laughed and helped himself to a leaf-dish of crunchy diced vegetables. “At least, in the Force we do. But try telling civilians.”

Tossing the empty flask into a waste slot, Archier turned away. In his mind he saw Galactic Diadem, laid out like a map. Imperial worlds trailed out of the glowing starbank like ragged tentacles from some monster octopus, merging and dissipating into the fringe worlds—planets where Imperial control had become weak of late.

In theory the Empire claimed sovereignty over the whole galaxy, anticipating a time when mankind would be present throughout the galactic disk. In fact, if the galaxy were viewed from afar the extent of Imperial power would be seen as a fairly small though visible blotch, and whether that blotch would now be further extended was becoming, to many minds, problematical.

One, and perhaps the chief difficulty, was the drastically declining birth rate of Diadem and its close environs. The human population of Diadem, which could be thought of as ruling mankind much as one imperial country would once have ruled other countries (though it was never admitted that any such thing as political division existed), was about one million. To that could be added a few tens of millions of animals with artificial intelligence who assisted in the administration of the Empire, and of course some hundred of millions of robots who were vital economically but were denied citizenship.

But neither animals nor robots were artistically or scientifically creative, and one million people, spread over such a vast region, offered too small a reservoir of creative talent to encourage confidence in the future. What was more, the situation was getting worse. The next generation would see an Empire manned by only seven hundred thousand. Eventually the population might stabilise, but Diadem would lose the mental strength necessary for its self-appointed destiny.

The remedy was typical of the Empire’s methods: a levy of artists, scientists and philosophers drawn from the fringe and vassal worlds which mainly had their own governments and whose total population could be measured in the hundred of millions. Whether the personnel tax was succeeding in its aims was debatable. Some of the dragooned artists and scientists certainly found their carefree lives in Diadem to their liking and stayed—particularly those from social regimes which, while more vigorous, were also more restrictive. But the total liberty inalienable to full Imperial citizens in Diadem—and that included anyone with 90 per cent or more human genes—virtually made it impossible to prevent anyone from clandestinely leaving, should they be so inclined. Not even the threat to punish the home worlds of defectors had always proved effective.

And so Diadem provided a narrowing base of human resource from which to rule the galaxy. Neither was the task taken on by those few determined to maintain the Empire made any easier by the disinterest shown by the majority of humans in Diadem. Hence the preponderance of youth to be found among the crews of Star Force.

Yet is said much for the Empire’s self-confidence that Diadem’s one million inhabited nearly a thousand planets, and still managed to hold sway over a yet higher number whose populations were much larger. True, the Empire’s integrity outside Diadem was sustained only by permanent deployment of the star fleets (in their heyday there had been thirty-six of them; now there were only five) whose role it was to suppress rebellion, collect taxes from defaulters—and, most important, try to prevent secessionist-minded worlds from acquiring star fleets of their own.

The commando officer trailed after Archier. It was as if he shared his thoughts, for he touched his elbow and said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, Admiral, but I’ve been meaning to ask you how old you are.”

Archier paused. His eye had caught the coloured incoming lights glowing over the intermat kiosks at the far end of the salon. Guests were arriving from other ships in Ten-Fleet, making use of the matter transmission facility the fleet was able to use while in fast feetol formation. Gorgeous finery, ostentatious dress uniforms (officers of third rank and over were permitted to design their own) burgeoned from the kiosks as the visitors stepped forth.

“That’s all right,” Archier said. “I shall be twenty-one on my next birthday. And I’ve been Admiral of Ten-Fleet for more than three years.”