Short Fiction Complete

by Fred Saberhagen

  Few others on the planet saw anything encouraging in the berserker’s descent, but still there was no mass panic. Berserkers and war were unreal things to the long-isolated people of Planet A.

  “Are we ready?” asked the Jester nervously, looking over the mechanical delegation that was about to board a launch with him for the descent to Capital City.

  “What you have ordered, I have done,” squeaked the berserker-voice from the shadows above.

  “Remember,” Jester cautioned, “the protoplasmic-units down there are much under the influence of life. So ignore whatever they say. Be careful not to hurt them, but outside of that you can improvise within my general plan.”

  “All this is in my memory from your previous orders,” said the machine patiently.

  “Then let’s go.” Jester straightened his shoulders. “Bring me my cloak!”

  The brilliantly lighted interior of Capital City’s great Meeting Hall displayed a kind of rigid, rectilinear beauty. In the center of the Hall there had been placed a long, polished table, flanked on opposing sides by chairs.

  Precisely at the appointed time, the watching millions saw one set of entrance doors swing mathematically open. In marched a dozen human heralds, their faces looking almost robotic under bearskin helmets. They halted with a single snap. Their trumpet-tucket rang out clearly.

  To the taped strains of Pomp and Circumstance, the President, in the full dignity of his cloak of office, then made his entrance.

  He moved at the pace of a man marching to his own execution, but his was the slowness of dignity, not that of fear. The Committee had overruled the purple protestations of the MiniDef, and convinced themselves that the military danger was small. Real berserkers did not ask to parley, they slaughtered when they could. Somehow the Committee could not take Jester seriously, any more than they could laugh at him. But until they were sure they had him again under their control they would humor him.

  The granite-faced Minister entered in a double file behind the President. It took almost five minutes of Pomp and Circumstance for them all to position themselves.

  A launch had been seen to descend from the berserker, and vehicles had rolled from the launch to the Meeting Hall. It was presumed that Jester was ready, and the cameras pivoted dutifully to face the entrance reserved for them.

  Just at the appointed time, the doors of that entrance swung mathematically open, and a dozen mansized machines entered. They were heralds, for they wore bearskin helmets, and each carried a bright, brassy trumpet.

  All but one, who wore a coonskin cap, marched a half-pace out of step, and was armed with a slide trombone.

  The mechanical tucket was a faithful copy of the human one—almost. The slide-trombonist faltered at the end, and one long sour note trailed away.

  Giving an impression of slow mechanical horror, the berserkerheralds looked at one another. Then one by one their heads turned until all their lenses were focused upon the trombonist.

  It—almost it seemed the figure must be he—looked this way and that. Tapped the trombone, as if to clear it of some defect. Paused.

  Watching, the President was seized by the first pang of a great horror. In the evidence against the Jester, the obscene mirth-provoking evidence, there had been a film of an Earthman of ancient time, a balding comic violinist, who had had the skill to pause like that, just pause, and evoke from his filmed audience great gales of . . .

  Twice more the robot heralds blew. And twice more the sour note was sounded. When the third attempt failed, the eleven straight-robots looked at one another and nodded agreement.

  Then with robotic speed they drew concealed weapons and shot holes in the offender.

  All across the planet the dike of tension was cracking, dribbles and spurts of laughter forcing through. The dike began to collapse completely as the trombonist was borne solemnly away by a pair of his fallows, his shattered horn clasped lily-fashion on his iron breast.

  But no one in the Meeting Hall, was laughing. The Minister of Defense made an innocent-looking gesture, calling off a tentative plan, calling it off. There was to be no attempt to seize the Jester, for the berserker-robot-heralds or whatever they were seemed likely to perform very capably as bodyguards.

  As soon as the riddled herald had been carried out, Jester entered. Pomp and Circumstance began belatedly as with the bearing of a king he moved to his position at the center of the table, opposite the President. Like the President, the Jester wore an elegant cloak, clasped in front, falling to his ankles. Those that filed in behind him, in file position of aides, were also richly dressed.

  And each of them was a metallic parody, in face and shape, of one of the Ministers of the Committee.

  When the plump robotic analogue of the Minister of Education peered through a lorgnette at the tridi camera, the watching populace turned, in unheard-of millions, to laughter. Those who might be outraged later, remembering, laughed now in helpless approval of seeming danger turned to farce. All but the very grimmest smiled.

  The Jester-king doffed his cape with a flourish. Beneath it he wore only a preposterous bathing-suit. In reply to the President’s coldly formal greeting—the President could not be shaken by anything short of a physical attack—the Jester thoughtfully pursed his lips, then opened them and blew a gummy substance out into a large pink bubble.

  The President maintained his unintentional role of slow-burning straight man, ably supported by all the Committee save one. The Minister of Defense turned his back on the farce and marched to an exit.

  He found two metallic heralds planted before the door, effectively blocking it. Glaring at them, the MiniDef barked an order to move. The metal figures flipped him a comic salute, but didn’t move.

  Brave in his anger, the MiniDef tried futilely to shove his way past the berserker-heralds. Dodging another salute, he looked round at the sound of great clomping footsteps. His berserker-counterpart was marching toward him across the Hall. It was a clear foot taller than he, and its barrel chest was armored with a double layer of jangling medals.

  Before the MiniDef paused to consider consequences, his hand had moved to his sidearm. But his metal parody was far faster on the draw; it hauled out a grotesque cannon with a fist-sized bore, and fire instantly.

  “Gah!” The MiniDef staggered back, the world gone red . . . and then he found himself wiping from his face something that tasted suspiciously like tomato.

  The cannon had propelled a whole fruit, or a convincing imitation, skin and all.

  The MiniComm jumped to his feet, and began to expound the idea that the proceedings were becoming frivolous. His counterpart also rose, and replied with a burst of gabble in speed-falsetto.

  The pseudo-Minister of Philosophy rose as if to speak, was pricked with a long pin by a prankish herald, and jetted fluttering through the air, a balloon collapsing in flight. At that the human Committee fell into babel, into panic.

  Under the direction of the metal MiniDiet, the real one, arch-villain to the lower masses, began to take unwilling part in a demonstration of dietary discipline. Machines gripped him, spoon-fed him grim gray food, napkined him, squirted drink into his mouth—and then, as if unintentionally, they gradually fell out of synch with spoon and squirt, their aim becoming less and less accurate.

  Only the President still stood rooted in dignity. He had one hand cautiously in his trousers pocket, for he had felt a sly robotic touch, and had reason to suspect that his suspenders had been cut.

  As a tomato grazed his nose, and the MiniDiet writhed and choked in the grip of his remorseless feeders, balanced nutrients running from his ears, the President closed his eyes.

  Jester was, after all, only a selftaught amateur working without a visible audience to play to. He was unable to calculate a climax for the show. So when he ran out of jokes he simply called his minions to his side, waved good-by to the tridi cameras and exited.

  Outside the Hall, he was much encouraged by the cheers and laughter he received from the cr
owds fastgathering in the streets. He had his machines entertain them with an improvised chase-sequence back to the launch parked on the edge of Capital City.

  He was about to board the launch, return to the berserker and await developments, when a small group of men hurried out of the crowd, calling to him. “Mr. Jester!”

  The performer could now afford to relax and laugh himself. “I like the sound of that name! What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  They hurried up to him, smiling. The one who seemed to be their leader said: “Provided you get rid of this berserker or whatever it is, harmlessly—you can join the Liberal party ticket. As Vice-Presidential candidate.”

  Another of them said: “Stay, hear us out. As a political candidate you’re immune from arrest while the campaign’s on. And after the election, judging by what I’ve seen tonight, you’ll be Vice-President!” He had to listen for some minutes before he could believe they were serious.

  He protested: “But I only wanted to have some fun with them, to shake them up a bit.”

  “You’re a catalyst. Mr. Jester. You’ve formed a rallying point. You’ve shaken up the whole planet and made it think.”

  Jester accepted the Liberals’ offer at last. They were still sitting about in front of the launch, talking and planning, when the light of Planet A’s moon fell full and sudden upon them.

  Looking up, they saw the vast bulk of the berserker dwindling into the heavens, vanishing toward the stars in eerie silence. Cloud streamers went aurora in the upper atmosphere to honor its departure.

  “I don’t know,” Jester said, over and over, responding to a dozen excited questions. “I don’t know.” He looked at the sky, puzzled as anyone else. The edge of fear came back. The robotic Committee and heralds, which had been controlled from the berserker, began one by one to collapse like dying men.

  Suddenly the heavens were briefly alight with a gigantic splashing flare that passed like lightning from east to west, not breaking the silence of the stars. Ten minutes later came the first news bulletin: The berserker had been destroyed.

  Then came the President, who was close to the brink of showing emotion. He announced that under the heroic personal leadership of the Minister of Defense, the few gallant warships of Planet A had met and defeated, utterly annihilated, the menace. Not a man had been lost, though the MiniDefs flagship was thought to be heavily damaged.

  When he heard that his great machine-ally had been destroyed, Jester felt a pang of something like sorrow. But the pang was quickly obliterated in a greater joy. No one had been hurt, after all. Overcome with relief, Jester looked away from the tridi for a moment.

  He missed the climactic moment of the speech, which came when the President forgetfully removed both hands from his pockets.

  The Minister of Defense—today the new Presidential candidate of a Conservative party stirred to grim enthusiasm by his exploit of the night before—was puzzled by the reactions of some people, who seemed to think he had merely spoiled a jest instead of saving the planet. As if spoiling a jest was not a good thing in itself!

  On this busiest of days the MiniDef allowed himself time to visit Liberal headquarters to do a bit of gloating. Graciously he delivered to the opposition leaders what was already becoming his standard speech.

  “When it answered my challenge and came up to fight, we went in with a standard englobement pattern—like hummingbirds round a vulture, I suppose you might say. And did you really think it was jesting? Let me tell you, that berserker peeled away the defensive fields from my ship like they were nothing. And then it launched this ghastly thing at me, a kind of disk. My gunners were a little rusty, maybe, anyway they couldn’t stop it and it hit us.

  “I don’t mind saying, I thought I’d bought the farm right then. My ship’s still hanging in orbit for decontamination, I’m afraid I’ll get word any minute that the metal’s melting or something—anyway, we sailed right through and hit the bandit with everything we had. I can’t say too much for my crew. One thing I don’t quite understand; when our missiles struck that berserker just went poof, as if it had no defense up at all. Yes?”

  “Call for you, Minister,” said an aide.

  “Thank you.” The MiniDef listened to the phone, and his smile left him. His form went rigid. “Analysis of the weapon shows what? Synthetic proteins and water?”

  He jumped to his feet, glaring upward as if to pierce the ceiling and see the ship in orbit. “What do you mean—no more than a giant custard pie?” END

  IN THE TEMPLE OF MARS

  The ship drove through the starlanes, carrying a crew of fanatics to their death!

  I

  Something was driving waves of confusion through his mind, so that he knew not who he was, or where. How long ago what was happening had started or what had gone before it he could not guess. Nor could he resist what was happening, or even decide if he wanted to resist.

  A chant beat in his ears, growled out by barbaric voices:

  On the wall there was painted a forest

  In which there lived neither man nor beast

  With knotty, gnarled, barren trees, old . . .

  And he could see the forest around him. Whether the trees and the chanting voices were real or not was a question he could not even formulate.

  Through broken branches hideous to behold

  There ran a cold and sighing wind

  As if a storm would break down every bough

  And downward, at the bottom of a hill

  Stood the temple of Mars who is mighty in arms . . .

  And he saw the temple. It was of steel, curved in the dread shape of a berserker’s hull, and half-sunken in dark earth. At the entrance, gates of steel sang and shuddered in the cold wind rushing out, rushing out endlessly to rage through the shattered forest. The whole scene was gray, and lighted from above by an auroral flickering.

  The northern lights shone in at the doors

  For there was no window on the walls

  Through which men might see any light . . .

  He seemed to pass, with a conqueror’s strides, between the clawlike gates, toward the temple door.

  The door was of eternal adamant

  Bound lengthways and sideways with tough iron

  And to make the temple stronger, every pillar

  >Was thick as a barrel of iron bright and shiny.

  The inside of the temple was a kaleidoscope of violence, a frantic abattoir. Hordes of phantasmal men were moved down in scenes of war, women were slaughtered by machines, children crushed and devoured by animals. He, the conqueror, accepted it all, exulted in it all, even as he became aware that his mind, under some outer compulsion, was building it all from the words of the chant.

  He could not tell how long it lasted, but the end came abruptly. The pressure on his mind was eased, and the chanting stopped. The relief was such that he fell sprawling onto a soft surface, his eyes closed. Except for his own breathing all was quiet.

  A gentle thud made him open his eyes. A short metal sword had been dropped or tossed from somewhere to land near him. He was in a round, softly lighted, familiar room. The circular wall was covered by a continuous mural, depicting a thousand variations on the theme of bloody violence. At one side of the room, behind a low altar, towered the statue of an armed man who was larger than life and more than a man, his bronze face a mask of insensate rage.

  All this he had seen before, and he gave it little thought. Except for the sword. He was drawn to the sword like a steel particle to a magnet, for the power of his recent vision was still fresh and irresistible, and it was the power of destruction. He crawled to the sword, noticing dimly that he was dressed like the statue of the god, in a coat of mail. When he had the sword in his hand the power of it drew him to his feet. He looked round expectantly.

  A section of the continuous muralwall opened into a door, and a figure entered the temple. It was dressed in a neat, plain uniform, and its face was lean and severe. It looked like a man, but it was not a man
, for no blood gushed out when the sword hewed in.

  Joyfully, thoughtlessly, he hacked the plastic-bodied figure into a dozen pieces. Then he stood swaying over it, drained and weary. The metal pommel of the sword grew suddenly hot in his hand, so that he had to drop it. All this had happened before, again and again.

  The painted door opened once more. This time it was a real man who entered, a man dressed in black, who had hypnotic eyes under bushy brows. “Tell me your name,” the black-uniform ordered. His voice compelled.

  “My name is Jor.”

  “And mine?”

  “You are Katsulos,” said Jor dully. “The Esteeler secret police.”

  “Yes. And where are we?”

  “In space, aboard the Nirvana II. We are taking, the High Lord Nogara’s new space-going castle out to him, out to the rim of the galaxy. And when he comes aboard, I am supposed to entertain him by killing someone with a sword. Or another gladiator will entertain him by killing me.”

  “Normal bitterness,” remarked one of Katsulo’s men, appearing in the doorway behind him.

  “Yes, this one always snaps right back,” Katsulos said. “But a good subject. See the brain rhythms?” He showed the other a torn-off piece of a chart from some recording device.

  They stood there discussing Jor like a specimen, while he waited and listened. They had taught Jor to behave. They thought they had taught him permanently—but one of these days he was going to show them. He shivered in his mail coat.

  “Take him back to his cell,” Katsulos ordered at last. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

  Jor looked about him confusedly as he was led out of the temple and down some stairs. His recollection of the treatment he had just undergone was already becoming uncertain; and what he could remember was so unpleasant that he made no effort to retain it. But his sullen determination to strike back stayed with him.