Berserker Wars (Omnibus)

by Fred Saberhagen

  Pallor receded. Lady Genevieve appeared to accept her companion’s assurance of safety at face value, but her need for answers was not so easily met. Giving a small shake of her head, as if to allay uncertainty, she raised one well-kept hand in a questioning gesture, pointing in the general direction of two great rectangular stone towers that loomed in the middle distance, above and beyond the cloister walls. These twin structures were scores of meters tall, their monumental forms gray-brown in hazy slanting sunlight. Each tower was crowned at its four upper corners by four small steeples; and the nearer tower loomed so large, perhaps only two score meters away, that it almost seemed to hang right over the cloistered garden. At the moment a sea gull, giving tiny cries, came gliding on rigid wings between that mass of masonry and the two people in the garth.

  Her companion followed her gesture with his eyes. “Those towers form the west front of the Abbey, Lady Genevieve, and the main entrance lies between them. I designed them, and supervised their construction … well, to be strictly truthful, and I want always to be strictly truthful with you, he who was my namesake did. He lived even before the man who wrote the words to the song. But I think I may say, honestly and objectively, I could have done as well or better, working with real stone and mortar. Do you remember my once telling you, I am an architect?”

  “Yes, I do. In fact I believe I can remember perfectly every word that you have ever said to me.” Rising gracefully to her feet, the lady drew in a full breath, lifting her small bosom. “But I have the feeling there is more, much more, that I oughtto remember. About quite recent events, I mean. Events of great importance. And that if I made a real effort to think about what has been happening to me, the answers would all be there. But …”

  “But you hesitate to make that effort?”

  “Yes!” She paused, and added in a whisper: “Because I am afraid!”

  The man rose lithely from his awkward squatting pose so that he towered timidly above her. He said: “If you find these matters disturbing, there is no hurry. No need for you to concern yourself about them now. Please, allow me to do whatever worrying may be necessary, for the time being at least. I will consider it a privilege—how much of a privilege you cannot know—to be your protector. In all things.”

  “Then, Nicholas, I will be honored indeed to enjoy your protection. Thank you very much.” Genevieve extended one small, graceful hand, and stepping forward, the man reached to take it gratefully.

  And at the moment when their fingers touched, the lady knew no more.

  In their trio of spacecraft, the Eidolonwas by a considerable margin the largest, the fastest, and the best armed. Orbiting low above the planetoid Imatra, Premier Dirac and his human entourage of space crew and advisers, bodyguards and other specialists, along with Sandy Kensing, were hastily completing their preparations for an early departure.

  One of Dirac’s ships, which had landed briefly on the Imatran surface for refitting, now hastily lifted off, to rendezvous with the Eidolonand the companion vessel which had remained in low orbit. Minutes later, without ceremony, the whole small but heavily armed squadron was easing away from the planetoid under smooth acceleration, heading outward from its sun in the direction of the center of the Mavronari, whose denser portions were light-years distant but whose outer fringes reached to within a few days’ travel from Imatra at subluminal speeds. At a steadily quickening pace, Dirac’s force moved antisunward, seeking the deepest emptiness obtainable in this region, some relatively smooth gravitational plain, ready to safely tolerate three ships’ abrupt departure from normal space.

  That ideal was unattainable. Some risk of relatively dirty space would have to be accepted; the enemy had too great a start to be overtaken now by mere subluminal flight at the speeds here possible.

  Directly ahead of the small squadron, and still dimly perceptible to its telescopes by days-old light, the kidnapped bioresearch station receded steadily, at this distance making one compound image with the huge, enigmatic machine that had snatched it out of orbit.

  The Lady Genevieve found herself once more with her new companion, this time strolling with her hand upon his arm. How she had come to be in this condition she did not know, but here she was. They were walking in the same grassy garth where they had last met and he had played the minstrel. The hazy, golden sun did not appear to have moved very far since the time—a very recent time, she thought—when she had been sitting on the bench. But there had been an interval of—something? or perhaps nothing?—between then and now.

  Certainly the appearance of Nicholas Hawksmoor had altered in the interval. His clothing was now richer, no longer a minstrel’s garb, but still far removed from a pilot’s uniform. Looking up at him sideways, the lady wondered if his hair had grown thicker, too.

  Now she could touch his arm without bringing on an attack of oblivion. She was touching it, and nothing happened. But the feel of Hawksmoor’s sleeved forearm and of his sleeve beneath her fingertips had something odd about it. Strange too, when she thought about it, was the feeling of the grass beneath her white-slippered feet; strange the touch of clothing on her body, the air moving over her face …

  The tall man beside her coaxed invitingly: “What are you thinking about?”

  She almost whispered, “I am still wondering—about many things. I still have many questions I am afraid to ask.”

  He paused in his walking, the walk in which he had been leading her almost as in a dance, and she saw they had come to a stop before a doorway. It was a kind of gate leading into the gray dim cloister. He asked with muted eagerness: “Shall we go inside? I’d like to show you the whole church. It’s really beautiful.”

  “Very well.” And as they started through the doorway, she queried: “Did you or your namesake design this entire structure?”

  “No, my lady, oh, no! Most of the Abbey is centuries older than either of us who bear the Hawksmoor name. Though indeed I wish we, or one of us at least, could claim such credit. Fortunately I shall have the honor of showing it to you.”

  Genevieve murmured something polite, a response that had become almost an instinct with her now. Ever since her marriage, since she had become a celebrity. Since—

  Hawksmoor went wandering, escorting on his arm the lady he was treating with such tender attention that it seemed he wanted to make her his own. He led Lady Genevieve up and down through the rich gloom of the Abbey’s interior as, he explained, he himself had interpreted and copied it. Within the walls and under the gothic peak of roof was, altogether, more than a hectare of space. He could have told her the precise area, down to the last decimal of a square millimeter, but he did not. Together they walked the aisles of the great church for a considerable time, hands touching now without any seeming constraint, with less peculiarity of feeling—then out again into the cloister’s open air, where mild rain had come to replace sunlight while they were gone.

  The rain felt very strange upon the lady’s face, but she made no comment on the strangeness.

  Her escort, saying little, looked at her and guided her back inside. The couple walked, their footfalls echoing upon square paving stones, straight down the middle of the towering nave.

  “Gothic arches. I’ll explain the structural theory of them to you if you like. The tallest, here in the nave, are more than thirty meters high. A ten-story building, if it was narrow enough, could fit inside. The loftiest interior of any church in all old England.”

  “I see no other people here.”

  “Do you wish for other people? Wait, that may be a verger, walking down the other aisle—see? And is that a priest I see at the high altar?”

  Lady Genevieve stopped in her tracks. She knew these other people were some kind of sham. “What about my husband?”

  “He is not here. Though as far as I know the Premier Dirac is well.” Hawksmoor’s voice became querulous. “Do you miss your bridegroom?” Then, as if he were trying to restrain himself but could not: “Do you love him very much?”

&n
bsp; The lady shuddered. “I don’t know what I feel about him. I can’t say that I miss him; I can hardly remember what he is like.”

  “I’m sure your memory can call up anything you really want to know. Anything at all from your past.”

  “Yes, I suppose—if I was willing to make the effort.” She sighed, and seemed to try to pull herself together. “Dirac and I never quarreled seriously about anything. He was good to me, I suppose, in the few days we lived together. But the truth is, I was—I am—terribly afraid of him.” Once more she paused, looking at her taller companion’s face, his head outlined against bright stained glass. “Tell me, what has happened to my child?”

  “Child?”

  “I was … pregnant.”

  “You know the answer to that. You donated your … protochild, I believe is the proper term, to the colony program. Or do you mean what might have happened afterward?”

  The couple stood regarding each other, no longer touching. A silence stretched between them.

  At last the lady broke it. “Nick, tell me the truth. What’s happened?”

  “To you? You are here with me, and you are safe. Perhaps that ought to be enough for now. But whenever you decide you really want to probe more deeply …”

  For a moment Lady Genevieve could not speak. The sensation reminded her of her earlier problem in obtaining enough air with which to form and utter words, but this difficulty was somehow even more fundamental.

  “No!” she cried out suddenly. “Don’t tell me anything—anything frightening—just now. Can’t we get out of this old building? What are all these monuments around us, graves?”

  Her escort remained calm. “Many of them are. Tombs built into the walls and floor. But tombs so old I didn’t think that they would mean anything to you, frighten you—”

  “Isn’t there anywhere else we can go?”

  “There are a great many places.” He took the lady’s hand and stroked it soothingly. In her perception there was still something peculiar about the contact. “Let’s try this way for a start.”

  With Nick gallantly providing an arm upon which the lady was willing to lean for comfort and guidance, the couple progressed from the western end of the nave into a stone-walled room that Nick murmured was St. George’s chapel, then out of that grim place along a narrow passage penetrating a wall of tremendous thickness, to reach what were obviously the living quarters.

  On their arrival in these very different rooms, Hawksmoor looked somewhat anxiously at the lady and asked her what she thought. Before he considered this space ready to use for entertaining, he had several times redesigned and refilled it with several successive sets of furnishings, according to the changing dictates of his taste.

  After all, he was still very young.

  Parts of his version of the Abbey, including the structural shell and much of the pleasing detail in the stonework and glass, had existed for many months before he met or even heard of the Lady Genevieve. It was Nick’s private hobby as well as a component of his work in which he was deeply interested. But all this flurry of recent hasty revision had of course the single object of pleasing Jenny.

  Actually, as he confessed later to his beloved, he had been able to discover very little about how these inner, semiprivate rooms had actually looked in the original down through the centuries—and in truth he did not really care. It was the grand design, the stonework and its decoration, that he had found most fascinating—at least until very recently.

  Presently she was sitting in a comfortable modern chair. The room’s stone walls were hung with abstract tapestries. The windows were too high for their clear glass to let in any real view of the outside. “It is a strange temple, Nick.”

  “It is a very old temple.”

  “And you live here?”

  He had remained on his feet, restless, still watching her reactions closely, his boots resounding upon the bare stone between two thickly woven modern-looking rugs. “I suppose I spend as much time here as I do anywhere.”

  “And what god or goddess was it meant to serve?”

  “A single god. The God of the Christians—are you any sort of a Believer, my lady?”

  She shook her coppery curls. “Not really. When I was a child, my parents disagreed sharply on the subject of religion. My father is Monotheist, my mother was … it’s hard to say just what she was. She died five years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Then I am to understand that this whole magnificent temple now belongs to you?”

  “Yes, I think I can claim that.” Hawksmoor leaned back in his oversized chair and gestured theatrically. “Everything you see around you. Which means that it is all at your service, absolutely.”

  Running her fingers over the fabric of her own chair, she frowned at the sensation—something about her sense of touch was still not truly right.

  Hawksmoor was gripping the carven arms of his seat, staring at her in what seemed to her an oddly helpless way. “My feelings for you, my lady, are—more than I can readily describe. I realize that from your point of view we have scarcely met, but … it might be accurate to say I worship you.”

  The lady, in the process of trying to grapple with this statement, trying to find some way to respond, raised her eyes and was momentarily distracted when she glimpsed, as if by accident, through a partly open door in a far wall, a thoroughly modern indoor swimming pool. Completely out of place. The water’s surface as still as a mirror, yet she could tell that it was water. Sunken in blue-green tile, surrounded by utterly modern metal walls, lighted with soft modern clarity.

  “I see you’ve noticed the pool. It’s a kind of experiment of mine. A little touch that I thought you might one day—”

  “Nick,” she broke in, and then came to a stop. She had no idea of what she ought to say, or wanted to say, next. Only that she wanted to slow things down somehow.

  “Yes, Lady Genevieve. Jenny. May I call you that?”

  “Of course. Why not? You’ve saved my life.”

  “Jenny. I should not have started burdening you with my feelings. Today was not the time. Later we can speak of them.”

  “Feelings are important,” she replied at last.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” He nodded solemnly.

  “Are we really on Earth, Nick?”

  “I am not very sure what ‘really’ means—but in answer to your question, no, most people would say that just now you and I are not on Earth.”

  “I see. Thank you. Nick, have you ever really been to Earth?”

  “No. But then, perhaps yes.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “In a way I do. But I must keep coming back to my own question; like feelings, it’s important: What does ‘really’ mean?”

  Terror, which Lady Genevieve could easily visualize in the form of little mice and rats, had for some time been nibbling at the outside of the protective obscurity of thought that Nick had somehow so kindly provided for her, and that she had so welcomed.

  Without any clear statement on the matter having been made, she had become convinced that this man was going to be her sole companion for some indefinite time to come. Part of her yearned to press him for real answers. What was this place really, this Abbey? But at the same time, fear held her back from the sheer finality of any answer he might give.

  Nick was aware of her disquiet. “Don’t you like it? I think this is certainly one of the most beautiful places I know. But if you don’t like it, we could easily move elsewhere.”

  “Your Abbey’s lovely, Nick. In its own way. It feels solid and safe, protected somehow.”

  “I hoped it would feel like that. To you.”

  “But—”

  “But something is bothering you. I will answer any questions that I can.”

  The lady stared into her companion’s eyes. “Let me tell you some of what I do remember. And this part is very clear. We, you and I, were on a little spaceship, a courier vessel, and there had already been a—tragedy. We were surr
ounded by death and—and—do you deny any of this?”

  “No, my lady. I can’t deny it.” Hawksmoor shook his head solemnly.

  “I cannot stand this anymore! Tell me, I beg of you, tell me in plain words what has happened. How we got from that place to this.”

  “My lady—” His voice beseeched her. “What I did when I found you on that little ship was the only thing I could have done. I took the only possible course open to me to save you from death. Believe me, I did it all for you.”

  “My thanks again, dear Nick, for saving me. Now tell me how.”

  He came visibly to a decision and pressed on, showing a curious mixture of eagerness and reluctance. “You will remember how I entered the courier’s cabin, wearing space armor?”

  “I remember that, of course. And how I welcomed you. It seems to me that I remember your arms going round me—” And that, she suddenly realized, had been the last time that the touchof anything had felt precisely right.

  Her companion was nodding. “My arms did indeed enfold you. The limbs of that suit are mine—in the sense that I am usually able to make use of them when I wish. What I must explain to you now is that those or others I might borrow are the only arms I have.”

  She was listening intently, frowning.

  He said tenderly, worriedly, “You mustn’t be afraid.”

  She was staring at Nick’s own upper limbs, which seemed large and obvious, fairly ordinary in appearance as he stood before her, hands on his hips. She whispered, “I don’t understand.”

  “These?” He extended his arms, wiggling his fingers, pulled them back to hug himself, then held them out again. “Of course these are mine too, but they could not have helped you on that ship. They have other purposes—and they are making progress, evidently. Now you can feel my touch. Is what you feel when you touch me still strange? Much different than—the contact of your husband’s hand, for example?”

  “Yes! There is still something … odd about the way things feel here. Not only your hand, but everything. All the objects that I touch. And as I think about it, there’s a peculiarity in the way things look. The colors are so fine, so vivid. And the smell of everything is a little different, and … but I don’t …”