” … there’s fighting going on, in space …”
A few more words came through intermittently. The burden of Zador’s message seemed to be that the explosions of combat were brightening the darkness of the Mavronari. Judging by what she and Hoveler could see, looking out of their cleared ports, some kind of onrushing attack force had englobed the three closely positioned objects, station, yacht, and the scarred berserker hull. But the attackers were facing fierce opposition from some source.
At one point Annie’s words suggested that small units of some kind might be landing directly on the station.
Prinsep’s frame was locked in rigid concentration. “Say again? Can’t read you, Zador. Say again?”
” … fighting … one more …”
And, for the moment, that was all.
When contact with the station was so ominously broken off, Nick hastily informed Prinsep that he was abandoning the expedition to rush back to the station, to defend his beloved Jenny at all costs.
The commodore was suddenly a powerful leader. “But you are there already. You left a version of yourself aboard the station, didn’t you? For just this contingency? So you stay here. Going back would only create confusion. Dirac is here, and the berserker. We’re going to have to beat them here, if we’re going to do your Jenny any good at all.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dan Hoveler, feeling as he usually did hopelessly awkward in an armored suit, had grabbed up a weapon and left the laboratory deck, waving Annie Zador what he thought was going to be his last goodbye. Hoveler was hurrying as fast as he could to defend the precious cargo bays. Only moments ago the station’s brain, working on full alert, had reported the intrusive presence aboard of what appeared to be a pair of berserker boarding devices, entering the station separately on opposite sides.
Annie Zador, also armed and armored, was sticking to her regular battle station near the middle of the laboratory deck.
As Hoveler passed between decks, the station rocked and sang around him. Fighting still flared, even more viciously than before, in nearby space, apparently surrounding the station on every side. The people aboard had been unable to tell, so far, what forces were arrayed against each other there—certainly none of the contenders had made any effort to communicate with them.
Hoveler, even while running in his clumsy armor, continued to receive regular reports from the ship’s brain which helped him keep track of the intruders. He was faintly surprised to find that neither boarding device appeared to be intent on destroying a billion Solarian zygotes, as he had somehow presumed they would be. Perhaps such an assumption was irrational, given the berserker’s long peculiar history. But for whatever reason, both invaders were now converging on the deck where the great majority of the station’s artificial wombs were housed.
A number of the helpless unborn—exactly how many, only Freya knew, and presumably Dirac—were there too, in Freya’s semi-secret laboratory.
Dan Hoveler ran as hard as he could, doing his best to head off the mechanical killers, though he hardly expected to survive the encounter.
Moments later he dashed around a corner, only to be abruptly engulfed by a murderous crossfire from weapons much heavier than the one he carried. One of Hoveler’s armored feet slid on a patch of newly molten metal, and he went down, skidding across the passageway flat on his back, the accidental fall undoubtedly saving his life. The whole corridor around him was erupting in flame and detonation.
Force-packets reflecting from the bulkheads beat like great hammers at his body. He needed a timeless moment to realize that the crisscrossing gunfire passing centimeters above his helmet was not aimed at him.
There to his right, no more than about ten meters away, the well-known and long-dreaded shape of a berserker boarder crouched on its cluster of metallic legs, twin weapons flashing from ports built into its shoulders. Hoveler had the dreamlike feeling that he could count the flashes in slow motion.
And there, back at his left, coming into view as his own body completed a sliding roll, stood what looked like the very twin of the first machine, the two of them shooting it out againsteach other.
The intensity of destruction could not endure. The machine on Hoveler’s left started to go down, legs shot from under it. The metal torso was caught by three more blasts in the second before it hit the deck, transformed into a great spewing, driven splash of molten wreckage.
The roar of battle filling the enclosed space broke off abruptly. Near silence reigned, a quiet warped by the groaning of the corridor’s tortured metal.
Hoveler, dazed by the battering he had received despite his suit, regained his knees and then his feet. As if he were observing the scene from a great distance, he noted that the passageway around him was ruined, shattered, wavering with heat from the bombardment. Without his armor he would have been roasted, cindered, in a second. Overhead, the long pipes of Damage Control, somehow surviving, began projecting damping fields; later there would be cooling sprays of liquid.
But one of the berserkers had survived the duel.
Unsteady on his feet, aware of his fatal organic clumsiness, knowing himself completely outclassed as a warrior, Hoveler began to raise his weapon.
His gunbarrel quivered with the unsteadiness of his grip. Just down the corridor, the victorious piece of hardware was not aiming at him, but waving metallic tentacles. And now speech came from it—its speakers were producing very unberserkerlike words, in the tones of a very human voice indeed.
It said: “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! Colonel Frank Marcus here.”
The Lady Genevieve, tremulous when she heard that her husband had fled the station, terror-stricken when the fighting started, had sought counsel and protection by hastily evoking the station’s version of Nick3.
Immediately after Nick joined her, she had retreated with him, at his urging, to the sheltering cool stonework of Westminster Abbey.
Standing in the ten-cube—unlike the yacht’s, the station’s facility was still intact—the lady pulled on the VR helmet and started walking down the long nave. This was the scene of her recurring nightmares of being bodiless again, and yet at Nick’s urging she found the strength to face it.
“Will I be safe here from the machines?” She could hardly recognize the tones of her own voice.
Nick, now appearing to her in his familiar minstrel garb, was walking at her side. “I don’t know about being safe. But when your husband—my father—comes looking for you, we will both of us be as ready as we can be to meet him.”
Nick guided her steadily onward, as if he had some well-defined goal in mind, through the cavernous spaces of imaged stone. Oddly, Genevieve’s first terror at finding herself again in these long-dreaded surroundings soon abated. This was the first time she’d seen the Abbey through organic eyes; and the differences, though subtle, gave her an important feeling of being in control.
Premier Dirac was congratulating himself on having neatly outflanked his enemies.
When, to his surprise, they had dared to follow him to the berserker, he had been able to observe their approach. Then he had dared to double back and return alone to the station, the base his persecutors had abandoned. That was where his only real chances lay for his future, for his power—if the battle flaring now in space around them, evidently some new Solarian attack, was going to leave him any chance at all.
Landing his shuttle again on the station’s flight deck, oblivious for the moment to any other conflict taking place on board, Dirac was welcomed by Varvara Engadin and Carol, the latter looking even more than ordinarily demented and distraught.
“Where’s Scurlock?” Carol demanded, looking with wild eyes past the Premier into the little empty shuttle.
“He decided to stay back there on the berserker. I don’t need him. Where’s my wife?”
“She’s gone into the ten-cube,” Varvara informed him, and paused. Then she added bitterly: “I thought perhaps you had come back for me.”
Dirac
at the moment had no interest in what Varvara thought, or said. He snapped: “I’m going after her. You’d better wait here.” And he stalked on in his armor, toward the ten-cube.
Scurlock had indeed elected to remain with his old protector, the berserker. He was in his heart glad to be rid of the Premier, and he had no wish at all to go back out into those other, dangerous places. The machine had fitted out a snug little anteroom, just inboard from a small private airlock, a room as big as he needed, and comfortable with properly humidified air, easy gravity, and a few items of furniture. There was even a little holostage, offering a means of looking out into space. But Scurlock wasn’t really interested in those.
The little anteroom had another door, in the inboard bulkhead, obviously leading to regions deeper inside the machine. But that door hadn’t opened yet. Maybe it never would.
When the shuttle docked again at the airlock, Carol got out of it alone and came into the little room.
Scurlock smiled a twisted smile to see her, and that she was alone. She smiled back, and even seemed to relax a little. It was almost like the old days, the two of them all alone with the great berserker. He had the feeling that the machine was once more going to take care of them.
He had come to realize that it was only when other people came around that trouble started.
Dirac found, as he had expected, that the ten-cube was firmly in Nick’s control. This time the Premier did not have Loki at his side, but he refused to let that lack deter him. He pushed on.
He had gone quite a distance inside the Abbey, as far as St. Michael’s chapel in the north transept, when he was brought to a halt by a startling sight. This was the tomb of Lady Elizabeth Nightingale, mounting on its top eighteenth-century statues that despite their nature had somehow escaped Dirac’s notice until now, here among a thousand other antique images. Skeletal Death had been carved bursting out of a tomb, drawing back a spear with which to skewer the cringing Lady Elizabeth. Meanwhile a stone man, presumably her husband, stretched out an arm to try to block the blow.
“Father,” said a soft voice behind him, and Dirac spun around to discover that Nick3, the optelectronic thing that had once been his son, was there, clutching a weapon that the VR circuits molded visually into a barbed lance very like the stone one wielded by Death.
“So, you’ll never learn!” the Premier snarled, and raised his own weapon and fired point-blank.
Commodore Prinsep did not want to admit the fact, even to himself, but he feared that the tenuous link of communication between his party and their friends back in the station might now have been broken. No more messages were coming through.
Quite likely the break had not been accidental. The Solarian expeditionary force had just caught a glimpse, at a range of forty meters or so, of a mobile machine very much resembling a berserker boarding device. Havot had snapped off a shot at it, but with no visible effect.
If the enemy’s plan had been to trap the small band of human challengers, it seemed that the trap might well be closing now.
However that might be, the commodore had no intention of trying to turn back. Instead he continued to concentrate to the best of his ability upon the original objective: to go after the berserker’s central brain and at all costs to neutralizeit.
That was the only way to win. But Prinsep could admit in the privacy of his own thoughts that it was really a bleak and almost hopeless prospect; anyone who knew anything about berserkers understood that it would be difficult if not impossible to disable or destroy the brain without setting off some final monstrous destructor charge.
At that point, as Dinant now bitterly remarked, all their seeming success so far would mean very little.
The version of Nick3 who was still accompanying Prinsep’s people in suit-mode pressed forward in a fierce search for his hated father.
Now that he was here on the berserker, one unanswered question that had lain for centuries in the back of Nick’s mind was once more nagging him insistently: exactly what had happened to Frank Marcus all those many years ago?
Almost three hundred years had passed since the arrival of Frank Marcus’s intriguing and enigmatic last message, in the brief interval when he, optelectronic Nick, had been the only conscious entity aboard the yacht. But the memory of Nick3 still preserved without detectable degradation every word, every tone and shading in that voice. It had been an odd but very human voice, produced by mechanical speakers that were driven ultimately by the neurons of an organic Solarian brain.
Of course, as Nick was well aware, eventually an epoch must arrive, thousands or tens of thousands of years in the future, when even his memory would fade.
And he reflected that such a span of life would be part of what he would give up if—when—he finally succeeded in his renewed ambition of equipping himself with a fleshly body.
But the last message from Frank Marcus had never ceased to puzzle him. Thousands of times he had played back those words and their tones, out of one bank or another of his own memory, doing his best to calculate the right interpretation.
It had sounded like a very important message, coming from a man who, everyone agreed, would much rather have died than work out any accommodation with a berserker. From a man who worshiped life as much as the berserkers hated it. From one who cherished and guarded—some would say beyond all reason—the last few handfuls of the living flesh with which he had been born, and who moved his fleshly remnant around in armored boxes. From Colonel Marcus himself.
Nick had never doubted that the important-sounding communication had really come from Frank. Berserkers, without exception, were as notoriously poor at imitating the voices of human beings as they were at mimicking human appearance. Whatever the real reasons for this deficiency, it conveyed the impression that the killers detested life so violently that they refused even to assume its likeness. Or else they were too contemptuous of human resistance to make such an effort at deception. The voices used by the bad machines, whenever they deemed it necessary or convenient to employ human language, were no better than a parody of speech. In some cases this parody was said to have been molded clumsily from real voices, the recorded syllables of tortured prisoners.
Though his acquaintance with the colonel had been brief, Nick, if asked, would have described Frank Marcus as probably the least suicidal person he had ever met. Frank’s move directly against the foe hadn’t been simply a gallant sacrifice. If the odds were hopelessly against Colonel Marcus—a situation he had encountered often enough—well, that was what they were. Whatever the odds, he went on sincerely trying to defeat his enemy, to keep himself alive and win.
Nick had enormous respect for Frank, despite the emanations of contempt he had sensed radiating in the other direction. No, contempt wasn’t quite the right word for the colonel’s attitude. Frank had been constitutionally incapable of feeling contempt for a computer program, any more than he would have wasted energy disdaining a map or a pair of pliers. All these items were useful tools, deserving of respect and proper use.
The explorers continued to advance, sometimes in a group, sometimes strung out along a corridor or two parallel corridors, but being careful not to lose contact with one another.
To everyone’s intense surprise, they once caught a glimpse of what looked for all the world like green plants, vegetation actually growing behind glass somewhere inside this—this thing.
That seemed an extremely unlikely amenity for any goodlife quarters, no matter how willing Death might be in some cases to pamper its fleshly worshipers.
Havot, greatly intrigued by the incredible sight, wanted to turn aside and check on it.
But Prinsep insisted they stick to the goal for which they had begun this perilous exploration. He sharply warned the more easily distracted that anything alluring, enigmatic, or interesting visible down a side passage might be part of an elaborate and deliberate trap.
Dinant seconded that. “It’s had plenty of time to get ready for us. To make its plans and char
ge whatever weapons it has left.”
Lieutenant Tongres said: “And I say it is dead, or as near as makes no difference. We’re right here in its guts, and it hasn’t been able to kill us yet.”
They moved on.
* * *
After a time, the voice of one of their number, murmuring on suit radio, could be heard uttering a prayerful hope for help.
The embattled survivors could feel reasonably sure that the reinforcements the commodore had called for, before leaving Imatra, would sooner or later be probing space in this general direction, looking for them. But “sooner or later” and “general direction” were cold comfort. There was no guarantee, far from it, that the search would succeed, even if it was pushed hard—and every reason to fear that it would not even be pushed. Realistically, the chance of any relief expedition, from Imatra or elsewhere, actually reaching them in the near future, was vanishingly small.
Back on the station, the alien boarding machine that claimed to be Colonel Marcus had insisted on accompanying Hoveler, peacefully and companionably, back to the lab deck. It had been a long time, the colonel’s voice said from the alien hardware as they walked, a long time since he had been able to talk to anyone. Actually he didn’t sound all that much dismayed about the fact.
Annie Zador came to meet them at the door to the main lab. Her skin, despite its strong component of African heritage, paled at the sight of Hoveler’s companion.
Hoveler could only stutter ineffectually in an effort to explain. But the machine at his side seemed eager to converse. Its male Solarian voice rasped out: “This is not a berserker you’re looking at, people. This is me, Frank Marcus, badlife in a box. I can explain—more or less. I got put in this new box because it gives me a definite advantage in my current job.”
The machine proceeded to explain. It seemed that in any battle against the common unliving foe, one important component of the value of Colonel Frank Marcus (ret.) or any other comparably equipped Solarian human, lay in the fact that this person in his box or boxes, into which no normal human adult body could fit, was able to imitate a small berserker machine in such a way that he might fool a real berserker—especially one not being particularly attentive.
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