“Let’s get out there, then.”
The two of them hurried forward, through a passage that became only a warped slit. The flagship was bent here, a strained swordblade forced into a chink of armor.
“Nothing rotten here,” said Mitch, climbing at last out of the sally port. There were sudden distant flashes of light, and the sudden glow of hot metal, by which to see braced girders, like tall buildings, among which the flagship had jammed itself.
“Eh? No.” Broom must be wondering what he was talking about. But the sergeant stuck to business, pointing out to Mitch where he had about a hundred men disposed among the chaos of tom metal and drifting debris. “The clankers don’t use guns. They just drift in, sneaking, or charge in a wave, and get at us hand-to-hand, if they can. Last wave we lost six men.”
Whining gusts of gas came out of the deep caverns, and scattered blobs of liquid, along with the flashes of light, and deep shudders through the metal. The damned thing might be dying, or just getting ready to fight; there was no way to tell.
“Any more of the boarding parties get back?” Mitch asked.
“No. Doesn’t look good for ’em.”
“Port defense, this is gunnery,” said a cheerful radio voice. “We’re getting the eighty-degree upper forward turret working.”
“Well, then use it!” Mitch rasped back. “We’re inside, you can’t help hitting something!”
A minute later, searchlights moved out from doored recesses in the flagship’s hull, and stabbed into the great chaotic cavern.
“Here they come again!” yelled Broom. Hundreds of meters away, beyond the melted stump of the flagship’s prow, a line of figures drifted nearer. The searchlights questioned them; they were not suited men. Mitch was opening his mouth to yell when the turret fired,-throwing a raveling skein of sheelbursts across the advancing rank of machines.
But more ranks were coming. Men were firing in every direction at machines that came clambering, jetting, drifting, in hundreds.
Mitch took off from the sally port, moving in diving weightless leaps, touring the outposts, shifting men when the need arose.
“Fall back when you have to!” he ordered, on command radio. “Keep them from the sally ports!” His men faced no lurching conscription of mechanized pipefitters and moving welders; these devices were built, in one shape or another, to fight. As he dove between outposts, a thing like a massive chain looped itself to intercept Mitch; he broke it in half with his second shot. A metallic butterfly darted at him on brilliant jets, and away again, and he wasted four shots at it.
He found an outpost abandoned, and started back toward the sally port, radioing ahead: “Broom, how is it there?”
“Hard to tell, Captain. Squad leaders, check in again, squad leaders—”
The flying thing darted back; Mitch sliced it with his laser pistol. As he approached the sally port, weapons were flaring all around him. This interior fight was turning into a microcosm of the confused struggle between fleets. He knew that still raged, for the ghostly fingers of heavy weapons still plucked through his armor continually.
“Here they come again—Dog, Easy, Nine-o’clock.”
Coordinates of an attack straight at the sally port. Mitch found a place to wedge himself, and raised his carbine again. Many of the machines in this wave bore metal shields before them. He fired and reloaded, again and again.
The flagship’s one usable turret flamed steadily, and an almost continuous line of explosions marched across the machines’ ranks in vacuum-silence, along with a traversing searchlight spot. The automatic cannons of the turret were far heavier than the marines’ hand weapons; almost anything the cannon hit dissolved in radii of splinters. But suddenly there were machines on the flagship hull, attacking the turret from its blind side.
Mitch called out warning, and started in that direction. Then all at once the enemy was around him. Two things caught a nearby man in their crab-like claws, trying to tear him apart between them. Mitch fired quickly at the moving figures and hit the man, blowing one leg off.
A moment later one of the crabmachines was knocked away and broken by a hailstorm of shells. The other one beat the armored man to pieces against a jagged girder, and turned to look for its next piece of work.
This machine was armored like a warship. It spotted Mitch and came for him, climbing through drifting rubble, shells and slugs rocking it but not crippling. It gleamed in his suit lights, reaching out bright pincers, as he emptied his carbine at the box where its cybernetics should be.
He drew his pistol and dodged, but like a falling cat it turned at him. It caught him by the left hand and the helmet, metal squealing and crunching. He thrust the laser pistol against what he thought was the brainbox, and held the trigger down. He and the machine were drifting, it could get no leverage for its strength. But it held him, working on his armored hand and helmet.
Its brainbox, the pistol and the fingers of his right gauntlet, were glowing hot. Something molten spattered across his faceplate, the glare half-blinding him. The laser burned out, fusing its barrel to the enemy in a glowing weld.
His left gauntlet, still caught, was giving way, being crushed—
—his hand—
Even as his suit’s hypos and tourniquet bit him, he got his burned right hand free of the laser’s butt and trigger guard and reached the plastic grenades at his belt.
His left arm was going wooden, even before the claw released his mangled hand and fumbled slowly for a fresh grip. The machine was shuddering all over, like an agonized man. Mitch whipped his right arm around to plaster a grenade on the far side of the brambox. Then with aims and legs he strained against the crushing, groping claws. His suit-servos whined with overload, being overpowered, two seconds, dose eyes, three—
The explosion stunned him. He found himself drifting free. Lights were flaring. Somewhere was a sally port; he had to get there and defend it.
His head cleared slowly. He had the feeling that someone was pressing a pair of fingers against his chest. He hoped that was only some reaction from the hand. It was hard to see anything, with his faceplate still half-covered with splashed metal, but at last he spotted the flagship hull. A chunk of something came within reach, and he used it to propel himself toward the sally port, spinning weakly. He dug out a fresh clip of ammunition and then realized his carbine was gone.
The space near the sally port was foggy with shattered mechanism; and there were starmen here, firing their weapons out into the great cavern. Mitch recognized Broom’s armor in. the flaring lights, and got a welcoming wave.
“Captain! They’ve knocked out the turret, and most of our searchlights. But we’ve wrecked an awful lot of ’em—how’s your arm?”
“Feels like wood. Got a carbine?”
“Say again?”
Broom couldn’t hear him. Of course, the damned thing had squeezed his helmet and probably wrecked his radio transmitter. He put his helmet against Broom’s, and said: “You’re in charge. I’m going in. Get back out if I can.”
Broom was nodding, guiding him watchfully toward the port. Gun flashes started up around them thick and fast again, but there was nothing he could do about that, with two steady dull fingers pressing into his chest. Lightheaded. Get back out? Who was he fooling? Lucky if he got in without help.
He went into the port, past the interior guards’ niches, and through an airlock. A medic took one look and came to help him.
Not dead yet, he thought, aware of people and lights around him. There was something else to notice, too; he felt no more ghostly plucking of space-bending weapons. Then he understood that he was being wheeled out of surgery, and that people hurrying by had triumph in their faces. He was still too groggy to frame a coherent question, but words he heard seemed to mean that another ship had joined in the attack on this berserker. That was a good sign, that there were spare ships around.
The stretcher bearers set him down near the bridge, in an area that was being used as a recovery r
oom; there were many wounded, strapped down and given breathing tubes against possible failure of gravity or air. Mitch could see signs of battle damage around him. How could that be, this far inside the ship. The sally ports had been held.
There was a long gravitic shudder. “They’ve disengaged her,” said someone nearby.
Mitch passed out for a little while. The next thing he could see was that people were converging on the bridge from all directions. Their faces were happy and wondering, as if some joyful signal had called them. Many of them carried what seemed to Mitch the strangest assortment of burdens: weapons, books, helmets, bandages, trays of food, bottles, even bewildered children, who must have been just rescued from the berserker’s grip.
Mitch hitched himself up on his right elbow, ignoring the twinges in his bandaged chest and burnt fingers. Still he could not see the combat chairs of the bridge, for the people moving between.
From all the corridors of the ship they came, solemnly happy, men and women crowding together in the brightening lights.
An hour or so later, Mitch roused to find that a viewing sphere had been set up nearby. The space where the battle had been was a jagged new nebula of gaseous metal, a few little fireplace coals against the ebony folds of the Stone Place. Someone near Mitch was tiredly, but with animation, telling the story to a recorder:
“—fifteen ships and about eight thousand men lost are our present count. Every one of our ships seems to be damaged. We estimate ninety—that’s nine-zero—berserkers destroyed. Last count was a hundred and seventy-six captured, or wrecking themselves. It’s still hard to believe. A day like this . . . we must remember that thirty or more of them escaped, and are as deadly as ever. We will have to go on hunting and fighting them for a long time, but their power as a fleet has been broken. We can hope that capturing this many machines will at last give us some definite lead on their origin. Ah, best of all, some twelve thousand human prisoners have been freed.
“Now, how to explain our success? Those of us not Believers of one kind or another will say victory came because our hulls were newer and stronger, our long-range weapons new and superior, our tactics unexpected by the enemy—and our marines able to defeat anything the berserkers could send against them.
“Above all, history will give credit to High Commander Karlsen, for his decision to attack, at a time when his reconciliation with the Venetians had inspired and united the fleet The High Commander is here now, visiting the wounded who lie in rows . . .”
Karlsen’s movements were so slow and tired that Mitch thought he too might be wounded, though no bandages were visible. He shuffled past the ranked stretchers, with a word or nod for each of the wounded. Beside Mitch’s pallet he stopped, as if recognition was a shock.
“She’s dead, Poet,” were the first words he said.
The ship turned under Mitch for a moment; then he could be calm, as if he had expected to hear this. The battle had hollowed him out.
Karlsen was telling him, in a withered voice, how the enemy had forced through the flagship’s hull a kind of torpedo, an infernal machine that seemed to know how the ship was designed, a moving atomic pile that had burned its way through the High Commander’s quarters and almost to the bridge before it could be stopped and quenched.
The sight of battle damage here should have warned Mitch. But he hadn’t thought. Shock and drugs kept him from thinking or feeling much of anything now, but he could see her face, looking as it had in the gray deadly place from which he had rescued her.
Rescued.
I am a weak and foolish man,” Karlsen was saying. “But I have never been your enemy. Are you mine?”
“No. You forgave all your enemies. Got rid of them. Now you won’t have any, for a while. Galactic hero. But, I don’t envy you.”
“No. God rest her.” But Karlsen’s face was still alive, under all the grief and weariness. Only death could finally crush this man. He gave the ghost of a smile. “And, the second part of the prophecy, eh? I am to be defeated, and to die owning nothing. As if a man could die any other way.”
“Karlsen, you’re all right. I think you may survive your own success. Die in peace, some day, still hoping for your Believers’ heaven.”
“The day I die—” Karlsen turned his head slowly. “I’ll remember this day. This glory, this victory for all men.” Under the weariness and grief he had still his tremendous assurance—not of being right, Mitch thought now, but of being committed to right.
“Poet, when you are able, come and work for me.”
“Someday, maybe. Now, I can live on the battle bounty. And I have work. If they can’t grow back my hand—why, I can write with one.” Mitch was suddenly very tired.
A hand touched his good shoulder; a voice said: “God be with you. Johann Karlsen moved on.
Mitch wanted only to rest. Then, to his work. The world was bad, and all men were fools—but there were men who would not be crushed. And that was a thing worth telling. END
WHAT T AND I DID
I am a decent human being. But that T—I don’t trust him, ever!
My first awareness is of location.
I am in a large conical room inside some vast vehicle, hurling through space. The world is familiar to me, though I am new.
“He’s awake!” says a black-haired young woman, watching me with frightened eyes. Half a dozen people in disheveled clothing, the three men long unshaven, gather slowly in my field of vision.
My field of vision? My left hand comes up to feel about my face, and its fingers find my left eye covered with a patch.
“Don’t disturb that!” says the tallest of the men. Probably he was once a distinguished figure. He speaks sharply, yet his manner is different, as if I am a person of importance. But I am only—who?
“What’s happened?” I ask. My tongue has trouble finding even the simplest words. My right arm lies at my side as if forgotten, but it stirs at my thought, and with its help I raise myself to a sitting position, provoking an onrush of pain through my head, and dizziness.
Two of the women backed away from me. A stout young man puts a protective arm around each of them. These people are familiar to me, but I cannot find their names.
“You’d better take it easy,” says the tallest man. His hands, a doctor’s, touch my head and my pulse, and ease me back onto the padded table.
Now I see that two tall humanoid robots stand flanking me. I expect that at any moment the doctor will order them to wheel me away to my hospital room. Still, I know better; this is no hospital. The truth will be terrible when I remember it.
“How do you feel?” asks the third man, an oldster, coming forward to bend over me.
“All right. I guess.” My speech comes only in poor fragments. “What’s happened?”
“There was a battle,” says the doctor. “You were hurt, but I’ve saved your life.”
“Well. Good.” My pain and dizziness are subsiding.
In a satisfied tone the doctor says: “It’s to be expected that you’ll have difficulty speaking. Here, try to read this.”
He holds up a card, marked with neat rows of what I suppose are letters or numerals. I see plainly the shapes of the symbols, but they mean nothing to me, nothing at all.
“No,” I say finally, closing my eye and lying back. I feel plainly that everyone is hostile to me. Why? I persist: “What’s happened?”
“We’re all prisoners, here inside the machine,” says the old man’s voice. “Do you remember that much?”
“Yes.” I nod, remembering. But details are very hazy. “My name?” I ask. The old man chuckles drily, sounding relieved. “Why not Thad—for Thaddeus?”
“Thad?” questions the doctor. I open my eye again. Power and confidence are growing in the doctor; because of something I have done, or have not done? “Your name is Thad,” he tells me.
“We’re prisoners?” I question him. “Of a machine?”
“Of a berserker machine.” He sighs. “Does that mean anything
to you?”
Deep in my mind, it means something that will not bear looking at. I am spared; I sleep.
When I awake again, I feel stronger. The table is gone, and I recline on the soft floor of this cabin or cell, this white cone-shaped place of imprisonment. The two robots still stand by me, why I do not know.
“Atsog!” I cry aloud, suddenly remembering more. I had happened to be on the planet Atsog when the great fleet of the unliving, the berserker machines, attacked. The seven of us here were among the few survivors, carried out of the deep shelters by the raiding machines. The memory is vague and jumbled, and invested with horror.
“He’s awake!” says someone again. Again the women shrink from me. The old man raises his quivering head to look, from where he and the doctor seem to be in conference. The stout young man jumps to his feet, facing me, fists clenched, as if I had threatened him.
“How are you, Thad?” the doctor calls. After a moment’s glance my way, he answers himself: “He’s all right. One of you girls help him with some food. Or you, Halsted.”
“Help him? God!” The blackhaired girl flattens herself against the wall, as far from me as possible. The other two women crouch washing someone’s garment in our prison sink. They only look at me and wash away.
My head is not bandaged for nothing. I must be truly hideous, my face must be monstrously deformed, for three women to look so pitilessly at me.
The doctor is impatient. “Someone feed him, it must be done.”
“He’ll get no help from me,” says the stout young man. “There are limits.”
The black-haired girl begins to move across the chamber toward me, everyone watching her.
“You would?” the young man marvels to her, and shakes his head.
She moves slowly, as if walking is painful to her. Doubtless she too was injured in the battle; there are old healing bruises on her face. She kneels beside me, and guides my left hand to help me eat, and gives me water. My right side is not paralyzed, but somehow unresponsive.
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