Free Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10 by The Zen Gun (v1.1) Page A

as we could do
with, anyway. But that's only because Diadem's robot workforce has been on
strike for the past hundred years, as part of their campaign to be recognised
as sentients. As a result the Star Force yards are idle and no new ships have
been laid down in that time. If the strike should end, we can begin replacing
the fleets.'' He shrugged, gesturing about him. "These guns were designed
originally to be operated by fast-reaction robots, but they are so unreliable
now. Still, animals serve well enough. Loyalty counts for more than you might
think."
                 "But
this is unbelievable," Magroom protested. "If it's doing you as much
damage as that, why don't you just give the robots the sentient status they
want?"
                 Archier
stared at him blankly. "The Empire will not be coerced," he stated
simply. "You are suggesting the Imperial Council should give official
voice to what is probably an untruth, and we simply do not do things like that.
If machine sentience could be established philosophically, then it would be
another matter."
                 A
sense of unreality began once more to engulf Magroom. "Not even if it
means the fall of the Empire?" he persisted. "Let me tell you
something; for a practical issue as vital as this our politicians on Alaxis—who
are all elected representatives of regional populations—would have got machine
sentience proved from top to bottom. Truth wouldn't have anything to do with
it."
                 'Then
that shows why you need the Empire," Archier told him. "You need the
Empire to save you from your own barbarism."
                 Archier
had managed to make brief visits to about a quarter of the ships under his
command when the call to battle rang through Ten-Fleet. For a moment he was
taken by surprise; the rebel fleet had advanced more quickly than anticipated.
                 He
had returned to Standard Bearer to
refresh himself before continuing the inspection tour. When Arctus came
bustling in with the news, he laid down the flask of liquid cannabis concoction
he had been sipping, and removed the coronet that had been wafting calming
cortical pulses through his brow.
                 "Is
this a verified ranging?" he asked, glancing through the date sheet the
elephant gave him.
                 Arctus
waved his trunk uncertainly. "It's usually reliable at that distance. About ten light-years."
                 "Usually. But not always."
                 "Nevertheless,
Admiral, may I suggest we go to the Command Room without delay . . . ?"
Arctus' trunk curled itself questioningly in the air.
                 "Yes,
we must," Archier agreed crisply. He hoped the elephant didn't think he
was scared. He was, for a fact, beginning to feel tense despite the cannabis
and the coronet. Early indications were that the rebel fleet was sizable; and
this was his first proper space battle.
                 He
rose, placed his Admiral's crested combat casque upon his head, and nodded to
Arctus.
                 They
proceeded through a door to his right. The Command Room was not a physical
location but a holocast meeting locus present somewhere within the
communications nerve-net that covered the entire fleet. As Archier entered, it
was into the appearance of a council room whose chairs, couches and cushions
were arranged around a circular pool. In this pool, vague images moved.
                 Gruwert,
Archier's Acting Fire Command Officer, was already sprawled upon a large
mattress-like cushion. He was fairly snuffling with excitement. Sitting across
the pool from him, frowning with tension, was a young woman with an
artificially aged face and brittle blue-grey hair: the Fleet Maneuvers Officer.
                 Other
officers of command rank popped into existence around the pool, some
disappearing a moment as their attention was diverted elsewhere.