Worlds of the Imperium E-Book

Keith Laumer

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 223

Beschreibung

For Brion Bayard, the discovery of an alternate world to Earth where history took a different turn in the road was not a pleasant experience. His kidnapping brought him some startling revelations. Here was a world in which appeared identical doubles of famous personages—including a dangerous and hated dictator named Brion Bayard!

His assignment seemed simple enough. Dressed as his double, Brion was to enter the enemy stronghold, kill the dictator, and take his place until law and order could be maintained.

But once having seen his mirror-image brother, Brion had as little inclination to murder him as some other people had to let him live.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

WORLDS OF THE IMPERIUM

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

WORLDS OF THE IMPERIUM

KEITH LAUMER

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2021 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in 1962.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

INTRODUCTION

John Keith Laumer (1925–1993) was an American science fiction author. Prior to becoming a full-time writer, he was an officer in the United States Air Force and a diplomat in the United States Foreign Service. His older brother March Laumer was also a writer, known for his adult reinterpretations of the Land of Oz (also mentioned in Laumer’s The Other Side of Time). Frank Laumer, their youngest brother, is a historian and writer.

My introduction to Keith Laumer’s work came through his Retief stories—tales of a space-travelling Earth diplomat, who had to match wits not only with aliens, but the dim-witted human bureaucracy that he supported. Somehow, he always came through. Retief led to discovering the Imperium series (of which Worlds of the Imperium is the first), then to such masterful novels as A Plague of Demons, Dinosaur Beach, and The Ultimax Man (all of which are worth seeking out).

As for the Imperium series, it concerns a continuum of parallel worlds policed by the Imperium, a government based in an alternate Stockholm. In Worlds of the Imperium, the Imperium is formed in an alternate history where the American Revolution did not occur. Instead, the British Empire and Germany merged into a unified empire in 1900. The protagonist, American diplomat Brion Bayard, is kidnapped by the Imperium because the Brion Bayard in a third parallel Earth is waging war against his abductors. Further adventures follow after Bayard decides to remain in the service of the Imperium.

The four titles are:

Worlds of the Imperium (1962)

The Other Side of Time (1965)

Assignment in Nowhere (1968)

Zone Yellow (1990)

Enjoy!

—John Betancourt

Cabin John, Maryland

Chapter 1

I stopped in front of a shop with a small wooden sign which hung from a wrought-iron spear projecting from the weathered stone wall. On it the word Antikvariat was lettered in spidery gold against dull black. The sign creaked as it swung in the night wind. Below it a metal grating covered a dusty window with a display of yellowed etchings, woodcuts, and lithographs, and a faded mezzotint. Some of the buildings in the pictures looked familiar, but here they stood in open fields, or perched on hills overlooking a harbor crowded with sails. The ladies in the pictures wore great bell-like skirts and bonnets with ribbons, and carried tiny parasols, while dainty-footed horses pranced before carriages in the background.

It wasn’t the prints that interested me though, or even the heavy gilt frame embracing a tarnished mirror at one side; it was the man whose reflection I studied in the yellowed glass, a dark man wearing a tightly-belted grey trench coat that was six inches too long. He stood with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and stared into a darkened window fifty feet from me.

He had been following me all day.

At first I thought it was coincidence when I noticed the man on the bus from Bromma, then studying theatre announcements in the hotel lobby while I registered, and half an hour later sitting three tables away sipping coffee while I ate a hearty dinner.

I had discarded the coincidence theory a long time ago. Five hours had passed and he was still with me as I walked through the Old Town, medieval Stockholm still preserved on an island in the middle of the city. I had walked past shabby windows crammed with copper pots, ornate silver, dueling pistols, and worn cavalry sabres; they were all very quaint in the afternoon sun, but grim reminders of a ruder day of violence after midnight. Over the echo of my footsteps in the silent narrow streets the other steps came quietly behind, hurrying when I hurried, stopping when I stopped. Now the man stared into the dark window and waited. The next move was up to me.

I was lost. Twenty years is a long time to remember the tortuous turnings of the streets of the Old Town. I took my guide book from my pocket and turned to the map in the back. My fingers were clumsy.

I craned my neck up at the stone tablet set in the corner of the building; it was barely legible: Master Samuelsgatan. I found the name on the folding map and saw that it ran for three short blocks, ending at Gamla Storgatan; a dead end. In the dim light it was difficult to see the fine detail on the map. I twisted the book around and got a clearer view; there appeared to be another tiny street, marked with cross-lines, and labeled Guldsmedstrappan.

I tried to remember my Swedish; trappan meant stair. The Goldsmith’s Stairs, running from Master Samuelsgatan to Hundgatan, another tiny street. It seemed to lead to the lighted area near the palace; it looked like my only route out. I dropped the book back into my pocket and moved off casually toward the stairs of the Goldsmith. I hoped there was no gate across the entrance.

My shadow waited a moment, then followed. As I was ambling, I slowly gained a little on him. He seemed in no hurry at all. I passed more tiny shops, with iron-bound doors and worn stone sills, and then saw that the next doorway was an open arch with littered granite steps ascending abruptly. I paused idly, then turned in. Once past the portal, I bounded up the steps at top speed. Six leaps, eight, and I was at the top, darting to the left toward a deep doorway. There was just a chance I’d cleared the top of the stair before the dark man had reached the bottom. I stood and listened. I heard the scrape of shoes, then heavy breathing from the direction of the stairs a few feet away. I waited, breathing with my mouth wide open, trying not to pant audibly. After a moment the steps moved away. The proper move for my silent companion would be to cast about quickly for my hiding place, on the assumption that I had concealed myself close by. He would be back this way soon.

I risked a glance. He was moving quickly along, looking sharply about, with his back to me. I pulled off my shoes and without taking time to think about it, stepped out. I made it to the stairs in three paces, and faded out of sight as the man stopped to turn back. I leaped down three steps at a time; I was halfway down when my foot hit a loose stone, and I flew the rest of the way.

I hit the cobblestones shoulder first, and followed up with my head. I rolled over and scrambled to my feet, my head ringing. I clung to the wall by the foot of the steps as the pain started. Now I was getting mad. I heard the soft-shod feet coming down the stairs, and gathered myself to jump him as he came out. The footsteps hesitated just before the arch, then the dark round head with the uncut hair peeped out. I swung a haymaker—and missed.

He darted into the street and turned, fumbling in his overcoat. I assumed he was trying to get a gun, and aimed a kick at his mid-section. I had better luck this time; I connected solidly, and had the satisfaction of hearing him gasp in agony. I hoped he hurt as badly as I did. Whatever he was fumbling for came free then, and he backed away, holding the thing in his mouth.

“One-oh-nine, where in bloody blazes are you?” he said in a harsh voice, glaring at me. He had an odd accent. I realized the thing was some sort of microphone. “Come in, one-oh-nine, this job’s going to pieces….” He backed away, talking, eyes on me. I leaned against the wall; I was hurt too badly to be very aggressive. There was no one else in sight. His soft shoes made whispering sounds on the paving stones. Mine lay in the middle of the street where I had dropped them when I fell.

Then there was a sound behind me. I whirled, and saw the narrow street almost blocked by a huge van. I let my breath out with a sigh of relief. Here was help.

Two men jumped down from the van, and without hesitation stepped up to me, took my arms and escorted me toward the rear of the van. They wore tight white uniforms, and said nothing.

“I’m all right,” I said. “Grab that man.” About that time I realized he was following along, talking excitedly to the man in white, and that the grip on my arms was more of a restraint than a support. I dug in my heels and tried to pull away. I remembered suddenly that the Stockholm police don’t wear white uniforms.

I might as well not have bothered. One of them unclipped a thing like a tiny aerosol bomb from his belt and sprayed it into my face. I felt myself go limp.

Chapter 2

There was a scratching sound which irritated me. I tried unsuccessfully to weave it into a couple of dreams before my subconscious gave up. I was lying on my back, eyes closed. I couldn’t think where I was. I remembered a frightening dream about being followed, and then as I became aware of pain in my shoulder and head, my eyes snapped open. I was lying on a cot at the side of a small office; the scratching came from the desk where a dapper man in a white uniform sat writing. There was a humming sound and a feeling of motion.

I sat up. At once the man behind the desk looked up, rose, and walked over to me. He drew up a chair and sat down.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” he said in a clipped British accent. “I’m Chief Captain Winter. You need merely to assist in giving me some routine information, after which you will be assigned comfortable quarters.” He said all this in a smooth lifeless way, as though he’d been through it before. Then he looked directly at me for the first time.

“I must apologize for the callousness with which you were handled; it was not my intention. However,” his tone changed, “you must excuse the operative; he was uninformed.”

Chief Captain Winter opened a notebook and lolled back in his chair with pencil poised. “Where were you born, Mr. Bayard?”

They must have been through my pockets, I thought; they know my name.

“Who the hell are you?” I said.

The chief captain raised an eyebrow. His uniform was immaculate, and brilliantly jewelled decorations sparkled on his chest.

“Of course you are confused at this moment, Mr. Bayard, but everything will be explained to you carefully in due course. I am an Imperial officer, duly authorized to interrogate subjects under detention.” He smiled soothingly. “Now please state your birthplace.”

I said nothing. I didn’t feel like answering any questions; I had too many of my own to ask first. I couldn’t place the fellow’s accent. He was an Englishman all right, but I couldn’t have said from what part of England. I glanced at the medals. Most of them were strange but I recognized the scarlet ribbon of the Victoria Cross, with three palms, ornamented with gems. There was something extremely phoney about Chief Captain Winter.

“Come along now, old chap,” Winter said sharply. “Kindly cooperate. It will save a great deal of unpleasantness.”

I looked at him grimly. “I find being chased, grabbed, gassed, stuffed in a cell, and quizzed about my personal life pretty damned unpleasant already, so don’t bother trying to keep it all on a high plane. I’m not answering any questions.” I reached in my pocket for my passport; it wasn’t there.

“Since you’ve already stolen my passport, you know by now that I’m an American diplomat, and enjoy diplomatic immunity to any form of arrest, detention, interrogation and what have you. So I’m leaving as soon as you return my property, including my shoes.”

Winter’s face had stiffened up. I could see my act hadn’t had much impression on him. He signalled, and two fellows I hadn’t seen before moved around into view. They were bigger than he was.

“Mr. Bayard, you must answer my questions, under duress, if necessary. Kindly begin by stating your birthplace.”

“You’ll find it in my passport,” I said. I was looking at the two reinforcements; they were as easy to ignore as a couple of bulldozers in the living room. I decided on a change of tactics. I’d play along in the hope they’d relax a bit, and then make a break for it.

One of the men, at a signal, handed Winter my passport from his desk. He glanced through it, made a number of notes, and passed the booklet back to me.

“Thank you, Mr. Bayard,” he said pleasantly. “Now let’s get on to particulars. Where did you attend school?”

I tried hard now to give the impression of one eager to please. I regretted my earlier truculence; it made my present pose of co-operativeness a little less plausible. Winter must have been accustomed to the job though, and to subjects who were abject. After a few minutes he waved an arm at the two bouncers, who left the room silently.

Winter had gotten on to the subject of international relations and geopolitics now, and seem to be fascinated by my commonplace replies. I attempted once or twice to ask why it was necessary to quiz me closely on matters of general information, but was firmly guided back to the answering of the questions.

He covered geography and recent history thoroughly with emphasis on the period 1879-1910, and then started in on a biographic list; all I knew about one name after another. Most of them I’d never heard of, a few were minor public figures. He quizzed me in detail on two Italians, Cocino and Maxoni. He could hardly believe I’d never heard of them. He seemed fascinated by many of my replies.

“Niven an actor?” he said incredulously. “Never heard of Crane Talbot?” and when I described Churchill’s role in recent affairs, he laughed uproariously.

After forty minutes of this one-sided discussion, a buzzer sounded faintly, and another uniformed man entered, placed a good-sized box on the corner of the desk, and left. Winter ignored the interruption.

Another twenty minutes of questions went by. Who was the present monarch of Anglo-Germany? Winter asked. What was the composition of the royal family, the ages of the children? I exhausted my knowledge of the subject. What was the status of the Viceroyalty of India? Explain the working of the Dominion arrangements of Australia, Northern America, Cabotsland…? I was appalled at the questions; the author of them must have been insane. It was almost impossible to link the garbled reference to non-existent political subdivisions and institutions to reality. I answered as matter-of-factly as possible. At least Winter did not seem to be much disturbed by my revision of his distorted version of affairs.

At last Winter rose, moved over to his desk, and motioned me to a chair beside it. As I pulled the chair out, I glanced into the box on the desk. I saw magazines, folded cloth, coins—and the butt of a small automatic protruding from under a copy of the World Almanac. Winter had turned away, reaching into a small cabinet behind the desk. My hand darted out, scooped up the pistol, and dropped it into my pocket as I seated myself.

Winter turned back with a blue glass bottle. “Now let’s have a drop and I’ll attempt to clear up some of your justifiable confusion, Mr. Bayard,” he said genially. “What would you like to know?” I ignored the bottle.

“Where am I?” I said.

“In the city of Stockholm, Sweden.”

“We seem to be moving; what is this, a moving van with an office in it?”

“This is a vehicle, though not a moving van.”

“Why did you pick me up?”

“I’m sorry that I can tell you no more than that you were brought in under specific orders from a very high-ranking officer of the Imperial Service.” He looked at me speculatively. “This was most unusual,” he added.

“I take it kidnapping inoffensive persons is not in itself unusual.”

Winter frowned. “You are the subject of an official operation of Imperial Intelligence. Please rest assured you are not being persecuted.”

“What is Imperial Intelligence?”

“Mr. Bayard,” Winter said earnestly, leaning forward, “it will be necessary for you to face a number of realizations; the first is that the governments which you are accustomed to regard as supreme sovereign powers must in fact be considered tributary to the Imperium, the Paramount Government in whose service I am an officer.”

“You’re a fake,” I said.

Winter bristled. “I hold an Imperial Commission as Chief Captain of Intelligence.”

“What do you call this vehicle we’re in?”

“This is an armed TNL scout based at Stockholm Zero Zero.”

“That tells me a lot; what is it, a boat, car, airplane…?”

“None of those, Mr. Bayard.”

“All right, I’ll be specific; what does it travel on, water, air…?”

Winter hesitated. “Frankly, I don’t know.”

I saw it was time to try a new angle of attack. “Where are we going?”

“We are presently operating along coordinates zero-zero-zero, zero-zero-six, zero-ninety-two.”

“What is our destination? What place?”

“Stockholm Zero Zero, after which you’ll probably be transferred to London Zero Zero for further processing.”

“What is the Zero business? Do you mean London, England?”

“The London you refer to is London B-I Three.”

“What’s the difference?”

“London Zero Zero is the capital of the Imperium, comprising the major portion of the civilized world—North Europe, West Hemisphere, and Australia.”

I changed the subject. “Why did you kidnap me?”

“A routine interrogational arrest, insofar as I know.”

“Do you intend to release me?”

“Yes.”

“At home?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“I can’t say; at one of several concentration points.”

“One more question,” I said, easing the automatic from my pocket and pointing it at the third medal from the left. “Do you know what this is?”

“Keep your hands in sight; better get up and stand over there.”

Winter rose and moved over to the spot indicated. I’d never aimed a pistol at a man point-blank before, but I felt no hesitation now.

“Tell me all about it,” I said.

“I’ve answered every question,” Winter said nervously.

“And told me nothing.” Winter stood staring at me.

I slipped the safety off with a click. “You have five seconds to start,” I said. “One … two….”

“Very well,” Winter said. “No need for all this; I’ll try.” He hesitated. “You were selected from higher up. We went to a great deal of trouble to get you in particular. As I’ve explained, that’s rather irregular. However,” Winter seemed to be warming to his subject, “all sampling in this region has been extremely restricted in the past; you see, your continuum occupies an island, one of a very few isolated lines in a vast blighted region. The entire configuration is abnormal, and an extremely dangerous area in which to maneuver. We lost many good men in early years before we learned how to handle the problems involved.”

“I suppose you know this is all nonsense to me,” I said. “What do you mean by sampling?”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Winter said. I took a long brown cigarette from a box on the desk, lit it, and handed it to him. “Sampling refers to the collection of individuals or artifacts from representative B-I lines,” he said, blowing out smoke. “We in Intelligence are engaged now in mapping operations. It’s fascinating work, old boy, picking up the trend lines, coordinating findings with theoretical work, developing accurate calibrating devices, instruments, and so on. We’re just beginning to discover the potentialities of working the Net. In order to gather maximum information in a short time, we’ve found it expedient to collect individuals for interrogation. In this way we quickly gain a general picture of the configuration of the Net in various directions. In your case, I was directed under sealed orders to enter the Blight, proceed to Blight-Insular Three, and take over custody of Mr. Brion Bayard, a diplomat representing, of all things, an American republic.” Winter spoke enthusiastically now. As he relaxed, he seemed younger.

“It was quite a feather in my cap, old chap, to be selected to conduct an operation in the Blight, and I’ve found it fascinating. Always in the past, of course, I’ve operated at such a distance from the Imperium that little or no analogy existed. But B-I Three! Why it’s practically the Imperium, with just enough variation to stir the imagination. Close as the two lines are, there’s a desert of Blight around and between them that indicates how frightfully close to the rim we’ve trodden in times past.”

“All right, Winter. I’ve heard enough,” I said. “You’re just a harmless nut, maybe. But I’ll be going now.”

“That’s quite impossible,” Winter said. “We’re in the midst of the Blight.”

“What’s the Blight?” I asked, making conversation as I looked around the room, trying to pick out the best door to leave by. There were three. I decided on the one no one had come through yet. I moved towards it.

“The Blight is a region of utter desolation, radiation, and chaos,” Winter was saying. “There are whole ranges of A-lines where the very planet no longer exists, where automatic cameras have recorded nothing but a vast ring of debris in orbit; then there are the cinder-worlds, and here and there dismal groups of cancerous jungles, alive with radiation-poisoned mutations. It’s frightful, old chap. You can wave the pistol at me all night, but it will get you nothing. In a few hours we’ll arrive at Zero Zero; you may as well relax until then.”

I tried the door, it was locked. “Where’s the key?” I said.

“There’s no key. It will open automatically at the base.”

I went to one of the other doors, the one the man with the box had entered through. I pulled it open and glanced out. The humming sound was louder and down a short and narrow corridor I saw what appeared to be a pilot’s compartment. A man’s back was visible.

“Come on, Winter,” I said. “Go ahead of me.”

“Don’t be a complete ass, old boy,” Winter said, looking irritated. He turned toward his desk. I raised the pistol. The shot boomed inside the walls of the room, and Winter leaped back from the desk holding a ripped hand. He whirled on me, for the first time looking really scared. “You’re insane,” he shouted. “I’ve told you we’re in the midst of the Blight.”

I was keeping one eye on the man up front, who was looking over his shoulder while frantically doing something with his other hand.

“You’re leaking all over that nice rug,” I said. “I’m going to kill you with the next one. Stop this machine.”

Winter was pale; he swallowed convulsively. “I swear, Mr. Bayard, that’s utterly impossible. I’d rather you shoot me. You have no conception of what you’re suggesting.”

I saw now that I was in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. I believed Winter when he said he’d rather die than stop this bus—or whatever it was. In spite of my threat, I couldn’t shoot him in cold blood. I turned and took three steps up the passage and poked the automatic into the small of the back that showed there.

“Cut the switch,” I said. The man, who was one of the two who had been standing by when I awoke in the office, continued to twist frantically at a knob on the panel before him. He glanced at me, but kept on twiddling. I raised the pistol and fired a shot into the instrument panel. The man jumped convulsively, and threw himself forward, protecting the panel with his body.

“Stop, you bloody fool,” he shouted. “Let us explain!”

“I tried that,” I said. “It didn’t work. Get out of my way. I’m bringing this wagon to a halt one way or another.”

I stood so that I could see both men. Winter half crouched in the doorway, face white. “Are we all right, Doyle?” he called in a strained voice. Doyle eased away from the panel, turned his back to me, and glanced over the instruments. He flipped a toggle, cursed, and turned back to face Winter.

“Communicator dead,” he said. “But we’re still in operation.”

I hesitated now. These two were genuinely terrified of the idea of stopping; they had paid as little attention to me and my noisy gun as one would to a kid with a water pistol. Compared to stopping, a bullet was apparently a trifling irritation.

It was also obvious that this was no moving van. The pilot’s compartment had more instruments than an airliner, and no windows. Elaborate ideas began to run through my mind. Space ship? Time machine? What the devil had I gotten into?

“All right, Winter,” I said. “Let’s call a truce. I’ll give you five minutes to give me a satisfactory explanation, prove you’re not an escapee from the violent ward, and tell me how you’re going to go about setting me down right back where you found me. If you can’t or won’t cooperate, I’ll fill that panel full of holes—including anybody who happens to be standing in front of it.”

“Yes,” Winter said. “I swear I’ll do all I can. Just come away from the control compartment.”

“I’ll stay right here,” I said. “I won’t jump the gun unless you give me a reason, like holding your mouth wrong.”

Winter was sweating. “This is a scouting machine, operating in the Net. By the Net, I mean the complex of Alternative lines which constitute the matrix of all simultaneous reality. Our drive is the Maxoni-Cocini field generator, which creates a force operating at what one might call a perpendicular to normal entropy. Actually, I know little about the physics of the mechanism; I am not a technician.”

I looked at my watch. Winter got the idea. “The Imperium is the government of the Zero Zero A-line in which this discovery was made. The device is an extremely complex one, and there are a thousand ways in which it can cause disaster to its operators if a mistake is made. Judging from the fact that every A-line within thousands of parameters of Zero Zero is a scene of the most fearful carnage, we surmise that our line alone was successful in controlling the force. We conduct our operations in all of that column of A-space lying outside the Blight, as we term this area of destruction. The Blight itself we ordinarily avoid completely.”

Winter wrapped a handkerchief around his bleeding hand as he talked.

“Your line, known as Blight-Insular Three, or B-I Three, is one of two exceptions we know to the general destruction. These two lines lie at some distance from Zero Zero, yours a bit closer than B-I Two. B-I Three was discovered only a month or so ago, and just recently confirmed as a safe line. All this exploratory work in the Blight was done by drone scouts, unmanned.