Short Fiction Complete

by Fred Saberhagen

  No man could direct a ship or a weapon with anything like the competence of a good machine. The creeping slowness of human nerve impulses and of conscious thought disqualified humans from maintaining direct control of their ships in any space fight against berserkers. But the human subconscious was not so limited. Certain of its processes could not be correlated with any specific synaptic activity within the brain, and some theorists held that these processes took place outside of time. Most physicists stood aghast at this view—but for space combat it made a useful working hypothesis.

  In combat, the berserker computers were coupled with sophisticated randoming devices, to provide the flair, the unpredictability that gained an advantage over an opponent who simply and consistently chose the maneuver statistically most likely to bring success. Men also used computers to drive their ships, but had now gained an edge over the best randomizers by relying once more on their own brains, parts of which were evidently freed of hurry and dwelt outside of time, where even speeding light must be as motionless as carved ice.

  There were drawbacks. Some people (including Malori, it now appeared) were simply not suitable for the job, their subconscious minds seemingly uninterested in such temporal matters as life or death. And even in suitable minds the subconscious was subject to great stress. Connection to external computers loaded the mind in some way not yet understood. One after another, human pilots returning from combat were removed from their ships in states of catatonia or hysterical excitement. Sanity might be restored, but the man or woman was worthless thereafter as a combat-computer’s teammate. The system was so new that the importance of these drawbacks was just coming to light aboard the Judith now. The trained operators of the fighting ships had been used up, and so had their replacements. Thus it was that Ian Malori, historian, and others were sent out, untrained, to fight. But using their minds had bought a little extra time.

  FROM the operations deck Malori went to his small single cabin. He had not eaten for some time, but he was not hungry. He changed clothes and sat in a chair looking at his bunk, looking at his books and tapes and violin, but he did not try to rest or to occupy himself. He expected that he would promptly get a call from Petrovich. Because Petrovich now had nowhere else to turn.

  He almost smiled when the communicator chimed, bringing a summons to meet with the commander and other officers at once. Malori acknowledged and set out, taking with him a brown leather-like case about the size of a briefcase but differently shaped, which he selected from several hundred similar cases in a small room adjacent to his cabin. The case he carried was labeled: crazy horse.

  Petrovich looked up as Malori entered the small planning room in which the handful of ship’s officers were already gathered around a table. The commander glanced at the case Malori was carrying, and nodded. “It seems we have no choice, historian. We are running the moment Malori was not going to speak that name.

  “I want it easy,” was all he said, and blinked his eyes and tried to rub his neck against the pain.

  The man looked him over in silence a little longer. “All right,” he said then. Turning back to the machine, he added in a different, humble voice: “I can easily dominate this injured badlife. There will be no problems if you leave us here alone.”

  THE machine turned one metal-cased lens toward its servant. “Remember,” it vocalized, “the auxiliaries must be made ready. Time grows short. Failure will bring unpleasant stimuli.”

  “I will remember, sir.” The man was humble and sincere. The machine looked at both of them a few moments longer and then departed, metal legs flowing suddenly into a precise and almost graceful walk. Shortly after, Malori heard the familiar sound of an airlock cycling.

  “We’re alone now,” the man said, looking down at him. “If you want a name for me you can call me Greenleaf. Want to try to fight me? If so, let’s get it over with.” He was not much bigger than Malori but his hands were huge and he looked hard and very capable despite his ragged filthiness. “All right, that’s a smart choice. You know, you’re actually a lucky man, though you don’t realize it yet. Berserkers aren’t like the other masters that men have—not like the governments and parties and corporations and causes that use you up and then just let you drop and drag away. No, when the machines run out of uses for you they’ll finish you off quickly and cleanly—if you’ve served well. I know, I’ve seen ’em do it that way with other humans. No reason why they shouldn’t. All they want is for us to die, not suffer.”

  Malori said nothing. He thought perhaps he would be able to stand up soon.

  Greenleaf (the name seemed so inappropriate that Malori thought it probably real) made some adjustment on a small device that he had taken from a pocket and was holding almost concealed in one large hand. He asked: “How many escort carriers besides this one are trying to protect the Hope?”

  “I don’t know,” Malori lied. There had been only the Judith.

  “What is your name?” The bigger man was still looking at the device in his hand.

  “Ian Malori.”

  Greenleaf nodded, and without showing any particular emotion in his face took two steps forward and kicked Malori in the belly, precisely and with brutal power.

  “That was for trying to lie to me, Ian Malori,” said his captor’s voice, heard dimly from somewhere above as Malori groveled on the deck, trying to breathe again. “Understand that I am infallibly able to tell when you are lying. Now, how many escort carriers are there?”

  In time Malori could sit up again, and choke out words. “Only this one.” Whether Greenleaf had a real lie detector, or was only trying to make it appear so by asking questions whose answers he already knew, Malori decided that from now on he would speak the literal truth as scrupulously as possible. A few more kicks like that and he would be helpless and useless and the machines would kill him. He discovered that he was by no means ready to abandon his life.

  “What was your position on the crew, Malori?”

  “I’m a civilian.”

  “What sort?”

  “An historian.”

  “And why are you here?”

  Malori started to try to get to his feet, then decided there was nothing to be gained by the struggle and stayed sitting on the deck. If he ever let himself dwell on his situation for a moment he would be too hideously afraid to think coherently. “There was a project . . . you see, I brought with me from Yaty a number of what we call historical models—blocks of programmed responses we use in historical research.”

  “I remember hearing about some such things. What was the project you mentioned?”

  “Trying to use the personae of military men as randomizers for the combat computers on the one-man ships.”

  “Aha.” Greenleaf squatted, supple and poised for all his raunchy look. “How do they work in combat? Better than a live pilot’s subconscious mind? The machines know all about that.”

  “We never had a chance to try. Are the rest of the crew here all dead?”

  Greenleaf nodded casually. “It wasn’t a hard boarding. There must have been a failure in your automatic defenses. I’m glad to find one man alive and smart enough to cooperate. It’ll help me in my career.” He glanced at an expensive chronometer strapped to his dirty wrist. “Stand up, Ian Malori. There’s work to do.”

  Malori got up and followed the other toward the operations deck.

  “The machines and I have been looking around, Malori. These nine little fighting ships you still have on board are just too good to be wasted. The machines are sure of catching the Hope now, but she’ll have automatic defenses, probably a lot tougher than this tub’s were. The machines have taken a lot of casualties on this chase so they mean to use these nine little ships as auxiliary troops—no doubt you have some knowledge of military history?”

  “Some.” The answer was perhaps an understatement, but it seemed to pass as truth. The lie detector, if it was one, had been put away. But Malori would still take no more chances than he must.


  “Then you probably know how some of the generals on old Earth used their auxiliaries. Drove them on ahead of the main force of trusted troops, where they could be killed if they tried to retreat, and were also the first to be used up against the enemy.”

  Arriving on the operations deck, Malori saw few signs of damage. Nine tough little ships waited in their launching cradles, re-armed and returned and refueled for combat. All that would have been taken care of within minutes of their return from their last mission.

  “Malori, from looking at these ships’ controls while you were unconscious, I gather that there’s no fully automatic mode in which they can be operated.”

  “Right. There has to be some controlling mind, or randomizer, connected on board.”

  “You and I are going to get them out as berserker auxiliaries, Ian Malori.” Greenleaf glanced at his timepiece again. “We have less than an hour to think of a good way and only a few hours more to complete the job. The faster the better. If we delay we are going to be made to suffer for it.” He seemed almost to relish the thought. “What do you suggest we do?”

  Malori opened his mouth as if to speak, and then did not.

  Greenleaf said: “Installing any of your military personae is of course out of the question, as they might not submit well to being driven forward like mere cannon-fodder. I assume they are leaders of some kind. But have you perhaps any of these personae from different fields, of a more docile nature?”

  Malori, sagging against the operations officer’s empty combat chair, forced himself to think very carefully before he spoke. “As it happens, there are some personae aboard in which I have a special personal interest. Come.”

  With the other following closely, Malori led the way to his small bachelor cabin. Somehow it was astonishing that nothing had been changed inside. There on the bunk was his violin, and on the table were his music tapes and a few books. And here, stacked neatly in their leather-like curved cases, were some of the personae that he liked best to study.

  Malori lifted the top case from the stack. “This man was a violinist, as I like to think I am. His name would probably mean nothing to you.”

  “Musicology was never my field. But tell me more.”

  “He was an Earthman, who lived in the twentieth century CE—quite a religious man, too, as I understand. We can plug the persona in and ask it what it thinks of fighting, if you are suspicious.”

  “We had better do that.” When Malori had shown him the proper receptacle beside the cabin’s small computer console, Greenleaf snapped the connections together himself. “How does one communicate with it?”

  “Just talk.”

  Greenleaf spoke sharply toward the leather-like case. “Your name?”

  “Albert Ball.” The voice that answered from the console speaker sounded more human by far than the berserker’s had.

  “How does the thought of getting into a fight strike you, Albert?”

  “A detestable idea.”

  “Will you play the violin for us?”

  “Gladly.” But no music followed.

  Malori put in: “More connections are necessary if you want actual music.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need that.” Greenleaf unplugged the Albert Ball unit and began to look through the stack of others, frowning at unfamiliar names. There were twelve or fifteen cases in all. “Who are these?”

  “Albert Ball’s contemporaries. Performers who shared his profession.” Malori let himself sink down on the bunk for a few moments’ rest. He was not far from fainting. Then he went to stand with Greenleaf beside the stack of personae. “This is a model of Edward Man nock, who was blind in one eye and could never have passed the physical examination necessary to serve in any military force of his time.” He pointed to another. “This man served briefly in the cavalry, as I recall, but he kept getting thrown from his horse and was soon relegated to gathering supplies. And this one was a frail, tubercular youth who died at twenty-three standard years of age.”

  Greenleaf gave up looking at the cases and turned to size up Malori once again. Malori could feel his battered stomach muscles trying to contract, anticipating another violent impact. It would be too much, it was going to kill him if it came like that again . . .

  “ALL right.” Greenleaf was frowning, checking his chronometer yet again. Then he looked up with a little smile. Oddly, the smile made him look like the hell of a good fellow. “All right! Musicians, I suppose, are the antithesis of the military. If the machines approve, we’ll install them and get the ships sent out. Ian Malori, I may just raise your pay.” His pleasant smile broadened. “We may just have bought ourselves another standard year of life if this works out as well as I think it might.”

  When the machine came aboard again a few minutes later, Greenleaf bowing before it explained the essence of the plan, while Malori in the background, in an agony of terror, found himself bowing too.

  “Proceed, then,” the machine approved. “If you are not, the ship infected with life may find concealment in the storms that rise ahead of us.” Then it went away again quickly. Probably it had repairs and refitting to accomplish on its own robotic ship.

  With two men working, installation went very fast. It was only a matter of opening a fighting ship’s cabin, inserting an uncased persona in the installed adapter, snapping together standard connectors and clamps, and closing the cabin hatch again. Since haste was vital to the berserkers’ plans, testing was restricted to listening for a live response from each persona as it was activated inside a ship. Most of the responses were utter banalities about nonexistent weather or ancient food or drink, or curious phrases that Malori knew were only phatic social remarks.

  All seemed to be going well, but Greenleaf was having some last minute misgivings. “I hope these sensitive gentlemen will stand up under the strain of finding out their true situation. They will be able to grasp that, won’t they? The machines won’t expect them to fight well, but we don’t want them going catatonic, either.”.

  Malori, close to exhaustion, was tugging at the hatch of Number Eight, and nearly fell off the curved hull when it came open suddenly. “They will apprehend their situation within a minute after launching, I should say. At least in a general way. I don’t suppose they’ll understand it’s interstellar space around them. You have been a military man, I suppose. If they should be reluctant to fight—I leave to you the question of how to deal with recalcitrant auxiliaries.”

  When they plugged the persona into ship Number Eight, its test response was: “I wish my craft to be painted red.”

  “At once, sir,” said Malori quickly, and slammed down the ship’s hatch and started to move on to Number Nine.

  “What was that all about?” Greenleaf frowned, but looked at his timepiece and moved along.

  “I suppose the maestro is already aware that he is about to embark in some kind of a vehicle. As to why he might like it painted red . . .” Malori grunted, trying to open up Number Nine, and let his answer trail away.

  At last all the ships were ready. With his finger on the launching switch, Greenleaf paused. For one last time his eyes probed Malori’s. “We’ve done very well, timewise. We’re in for a reward, as long as this idea works at least moderately well.” He was speaking now in a solemn near-whisper. “It had better work. Have you ever watched a man being skinned alive?”

  Malori was gripping a stanchion to keep erect. “I have done all I can.”

  Greenleaf operated the launching switch. There was a polyphonic whisper of airlocks. The nine ships were gone, and simultaneously a holographic display came alive above the operations officer’s console. In the center of the display the Judith showed as a fat green symbol, with nine smaller green dots moving slowly and uncertainly nearby. Farther off, a steady formation of red dots represented what was left of the berserker pack that had so long and so relentlessly pursued the Hope and her escort. There were at least fifteen red berserker dots, Malori noted gloomily.

  “The trick,
” Greenleaf said as if to himself, “is to make them more afraid of their own leaders than they are of the enemy.” He keyed the panel switches that would send his voice out to the ships. “Attention, units One through Nine!” he barked. “You are under the guns of a vastly superior force, and any attempt at disobedience or escape will be severely punished . . .”

  He went on browbeating them for a minute, while Malori observed in the screen that the dirty weather the berserker had mentioned was coming on. A sleet of atomic particles was driving through this section of the nebula, across the path of the Judith and the odd hybrid fleet that moved with her. The Hope, not in view on this range scale, might be able to take advantage of the storm to get away entirely unless the berserker pursuit was swift.

  Visibility on the operations display was failing fast and Greenleaf cut off his speech as it became apparent that contact was being lost.

  Orders in the berserkers’ unnatural voices, directed at auxiliary ships One through Nine, came in fragmentarily before the curtain of noise became an opaque white-out. The pursuit of the Hope had not yet been resumed.

  FOR a while all was silent on the operations deck, except for an occasional crackle of noise from the display. All around them the empty launching cradles waited.

  “That’s that,” Greenleaf said at length. “Nothing to do now but worry.” He gave his little transforming smile again, and seemed to be almost enjoying the situation.

  Malori was looking at him curiously. “How do you—manage to cope so well?”