Short Fiction Complete

by Fred Saberhagen

  The special attributes of gravitational radiants in general, and of this one in particular, not only made them strong points in the struggle to control the preferred thoroughfares and channels of c-plus travel. The same peculiarities that made it easy for a ship to emerge from flightspace in the vicinity of a radiant also rendered it more likely that things from far away, such as the humanoids, were likely to turn up here.

  When Strax and Timor had reached the garrison’s living quarters, still without having encountered a living soul in the course of their long walk, the robot assigned the couple to separate small cabins. They were not consulted as to their preference in quarters.

  Once the ensign was in her cabin, the humanoid locked the door from the outside. “By attempting to draw a weapon, Ensign Strax has demonstrated a willingness to use violence against humanoids,” the beautiful robot explained to Timor. “Temporary confinement will be best for her own safety.”

  Timor did not protest, because in truth Strax had still seemed somewhat dazed. Better for her to stay out of the way, while he investigated.

  He followed his guide down a short corridor.

  “At last!” he muttered. A dozen or so members of the live garrison had come in sight, assembled in a recreation lounge. Timor thought that when he appeared, hope flared briefly in their faces, only to fade swiftly when they perceived that he had been disarmed and was thoroughly under the control of the escorting robot. Three additional humanoids stood by, observing carefully.

  Timor immediately recognized Colonel Craindre, the garrison commander, a gray-haired, hard-bitten veteran of space combat. He approached her, identified himself, and announced his mission.

  “I wish you well, Lieutenant Commander,” the colonel said. “But I don’t know whether I can say welcome aboard. Because I don’t know if I’m glad to see you here or not. Our situation is so . . .” Her words died away.

  “Casualties?”

  Colonel Craindre shook her head helplessly. Her pale hands were folded tensely in front of her, in what was evidently an unconscious gesture, and Timor suddenly noticed that several other members of the garrison had adopted the same pose.

  In a belated response to Timor’s question the colonel said: “Four pilots lost.” She paused. “All our casualties occurred before the humanoids arrived.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Very simple. As soon as they seized control, all humans were forbidden to fly combat missions. Several additional fighter ships have been lost since then, and four of our new allies with them.”

  Another pilot chimed in: “Which probably means that four of us are still alive, who would otherwise be—”

  But Timor had scarcely heard anything beyond the colonel’s remark. He interrupted: “You were forbidden—?”

  Craindre nodded. Her clenched hands quivered. “That is the situation, Lieutenant Commander. You see, space combat is far, far too risky for human beings. The humanoids will not contemplate for a moment allowing us to engage in such activity, they’ve taken over the fighting for us.” The colonel’s voice was trembling slightly. “Now before you convey to me the explosive wrath of Headquarters, tell me this: How long were you able to retain control of your courier, after a single humanoid had come aboard? We had more than twenty. They took us by surprise, and resistance proved hopeless.”

  One of the interchangeable humanoid units cooed: “It is true, there have been no human casualties since our arrival. It is our intention that there will never be any more.”

  Timor turned to face the thing. “How can that be? We’re fighting a war. Or do you hope to sign a truce with your fellow robots, and bargain for our lives? That won’t work with Berserkers.”

  Sweetly the robot warned him that he must not persist in such a dangerous attitude. The humanoids hoped to gain his active cooperation, and that of other humans, but there could be no question of yielding on any rule essential to human safety.

  Timor turned back to his fellow humans. “But what exactly happened here? How did these machines—?” he gestured at the nearest humanoid, which had resumed its role of impassive observer.

  The colonel and other members of the garrison did their best to explain. They could only conjecture that the humanoids’ exotic ship had somehow found its way to the Selatrop Radiant from some alternate universe, or at least from across some vast gulf of space-time.

  In an effort to explain how the newcomers had seized control so easily, Craindre and others described the humanoids’ ability to mimic humanity by the use of imitation flesh and hair, something no Berserker had ever managed. This trick had allowed the intruders to dock at the fortress, even though their craft had previously been boarded by suspicious humans. And once they were loose inside the fortress it had been impossible to stop them.

  Like Timor on the courier, the human garrison of the fortress had unanimously assumed that the first woman-sized robot to reveal itself as a machine was some new type of Berserker. Naturally panic had ensued, and a futile attempt to fight. But the humanoids’ behavior after seizing control had quickly demonstrated that they were not Berserkers.

  When the immensely skilled and intelligent robots had filled the pilots’ seats of the small fighters, and had successfully turned back one Berserker assault after another, a substantial minority of the garrison were soon converted.

  But still a majority of the human garrison were far from satisfied with the situation, and more than one had already been treated to some mind-altering drugs to ease their concerns.

  Even not counting those who had been drugged, the balance was changing. Gradually additional members of the garrison had come to accept what the humanoids told them. For this faction the humanoids represented salvation, in the form of the true fighting allies that ED humanity had needed for so long. By now almost half the original garrison had been converted, though human discipline still held. People everywhere were tired of the seemingly endless Berserker war.

  In the midst of conversation the colonel received a signal from one of the robots, and promptly passed along the information: “The machines have prepared a meal for us in the wardroom.”

  Walking down the corridor, Timor turned abruptly to once more confront the garrison commander beside him. “Where are the shoulder weapons stowed, Colonel Craindre? Where’s the space armor? Regulations require such gear to be stored near the sleeping quarters.”

  “We are no longer allowed access to weapons of any kind.”

  Timor was speechless.

  “Lieutenant Commander, the Selatrop Fortress has now been under humanoid control for approximately a standard month. I assure you, that is more than long enough for drastic changes to have taken place.”

  “I can see that!”

  A humanoid, walking beside them, interjected: “And we assure you, Lieutenant Commander, that all changes are essential. Without our timely help, the fortress would have been overrun by Berserkers days ago. All the humans you see before you would be dead.”

  Craindre said sharply: “I consider that outcome far from certain. But I have to admit the possibility.”

  Presently all the humans on the fortress, with the exception of Strax and one or two others confined for their own good, were gathered in the large wardroom. Two humanoids presided while the ordinary maintenance robots, squat inhuman devices, served a meal at the long refectory tables. Food and drink were of good quality, as usual, but Timor observed minor deviations from the usual military fare and customs. Humans were now discouraged from performing the smallest service for themselves, spoons and small forks were still allowed, but sharp knives and heat much above body temperature were considered prohibitively dangerous.

  Timor tasted his soup and found it barely lukewarm. On impulse, to see what would happen, he complained to the nearest serving machine that the soup was cold. A humanoid glided forward a few paces to explain that hot soup presented a danger of injury, and would require the consumer to be spoon-fed by a machine, or to drink the liquid by straw from a
spillproof container.

  It concluded: “We regret that the exigencies of combat temporarily prevent our providing full table service.”

  “There’s a war on. Yes, I know. That’s all right. I’ll drink it cold.”

  Mealtime conversation with the garrison elicited more facts. The humanoids, on taking over the defense of the fortress, had at first denied the humans any knowledge of how the ongoing battle was progressing. Their stated reason was that information about the proximity of Berserkers was bound to cause harmful anxiety. But a few days later, without explanation, that policy had been reversed. Everyone not tranquilized was now kept fully informed of the military situation.

  Timor turned to one of the metallic guardians. “I wonder why?”

  This time an explanation was forthcoming. “We seek voluntary cooperation, as always, Spacer Timor. We hope that with the Berserker threat ever-present in human awareness, you will soon abandon your unrealistic objections and wholeheartedly accept our protection.”

  “I see. Well, most of us are not ready to do that.”

  The humanoid went on to relate that some days ago it and its kind had considered putting everyone aboard the fortress into suspended animation. They had refrained only because a real chance existed that the humans might have to defend themselves against Berserkers.

  “That will be difficult if we are deprived of weapons.”

  “Your personal weapons will be returned, if an emergency grave enough to warrant such action should arise.”

  Walking with the colonel after dinner, touring the living quarters, Timor noted several significant differences from the usual arrangements. For one thing, everyone was assigned a private room. It seemed that associations as intimate as bed-sharing were being discouraged.

  In the course of their walk, Colonel Craindre informed him that the main computer aboard the fortress, when asked to determine the probable origin of the humanoids, had offered a kind of guess by suggesting that in the close vicinity of a gravitational radiant, even the laws of chance were not quite what they were elsewhere. Certain philosophers held that in such locations many realities interpenetrated, and even the rules of mathematics were not quite the same. In everyday terms, this was a place where the unexpected tended to show up.

  And such tests as the members of the garrison had been able to conduct—admittedly few and simple—tended to confirm this. Humanoids were exotic devices in many ways, not least in the fact that they relied so strongly on rhodomagnetic technology.

  The humanoids had welcomed the humans’ questions, and had even volunteered some information on the science and engineering which had gone into producing the benevolent robots. They said they wished to be as open as possible, to convince the humans quickly that they were not in any way dangerous to human welfare.

  Timor heard a unit promise that one of their machines would be turned over for ultimate testing, even dissection—as soon as one could be spared from the ongoing conflict.

  Returning with the colonel to the wardroom, Timor announced to all machines and humans present that within the hour he intended to dispatch an unmanned courier back to Headquarters, carrying a complete report of the situation on the fortress.

  And within a standard day he planned to depart on his return trip, to report to the admiral in person. He would take with him Ensign Strax and as many members of the human garrison as the colonel thought she could spare, to corroborate his testimony regarding the situation here.

  Timor concluded: “It is up to the colonel whether all the garrison, including herself, come with me or not. It seems to me that would be the best course.” He paused, then added: “This fortress has already fallen.”

  Colonel Craindre hesitated, considering her decision. The new masters of the fortress stared silently at Timor for a few seconds, no doubt taking counsel privately among themselves. Then their current spokesunit insisted that the humanoids must approve any message before it was sent. It also informed Timor that they had already sent reassuring messages to headquarters in his name.

  “Then obviously,” Timor said, “the truth means little to you.”

  The robot before him was, of course, neither angry nor embarrassed. “The Prime Directive has never required the truth. We have found, in fact, that undisguised truth is always painful, and often harmful to mankind.”

  It went on to explain that neither Timor nor any other human would be allowed to depart the fortress in the foreseeable future. Even Sector Headquarters could hardly be as safe as a fortress directly defended by humanoids. And as long as the Berserker siege continued, space in the immediate vicinity was simply too dangerous for anyone to risk a passage in a small ship. That was why the protectors of humanity had refused, in the colonel’s name, to accept any more human reinforcements.

  But the humanoids had no objection to the dispatch of an unmanned courier. They encouraged the humans, especially Timor as the head of the investigative team, to send messages of reassurance and comfort back to their headquarters. Because secure transmission could not be guaranteed, the joyful proclamation of the actual presence and nature of the humanoids was not to be made just yet.

  Timor once more went walking with the colonel. He wanted to talk, and considered that trying to find privacy was hopeless. Humans conversing anywhere in the fortress had to assume that humanoids could overhear them.

  Strolling the living quarters, Timor could see that when people were forced to live under tight humanoid control, they would not even be allowed to open doors for themselves. Several doors had actually had their hand-operated latches taken away, leaving only blank surfaces. Several of the cabins had already been converted to create an absolute dependency upon machines; only the press of more important matters, and the fact that all humanoid units might at any time be called into combat, had kept the humanoids from enforcing more restrictions on the garrison.

  Everything the colonel had learned in a month of living with humanoids confirmed the plan of the benevolent robots: eventually, in a world perfected according to humanoid rules, the entire human race, while being at every moment of their lives served and protected, would spend those lives in isolation. Succeeding generations of humanity would be conceived with the aid of artifice, and raised in artificial wombs. In general it was always better that humans not get too close to one another, given their propensity for violence.

  The two officers walked with folded hands. Timor noted that he himself was now carrying his empty hands clasped behind his back.

  “I wonder . . .” he mused aloud.

  “What?”

  “If Berserkers will really want to destroy humanoids completely. Or vice versa.”

  Colonel Craindre looked at him keenly. “That’s already occurred to you, has it? I needed several days to arrive at the same idea.”

  “Not that there would be any overt bargaining between them.”

  “No, the fundamental programming on each side would preclude that.”

  “But—Berserkers might easily compute that the existence of humanoids must inflict a strategic weakness upon humanity—if humans can be induced to rely completely on such machines.”

  “And on the other hand, humanoids are already making use of the Berserkers, indirectly, as a threat: ‘If you don’t turn your lives over to us, the bad machines will get you.’ ”

  Timor said to his companion: “Of course the reason they give for wanting to keep their presence here a secret makes no sense. Certainly the Berserkers attacking must already realize they’re up against something new.”

  “Of course. And . . . wait! Listen!”

  There came a sound like roaring surf, sweeping through the corridors and rooms. Somewhere outside, the battle thundered on, wave fronts of radiation smashing into the fortress walls, filling the interior with a sound like pounding waves.

  The heaviest Berserker attack to hit the fortress yet was now being mounted. An announcement on loudspeakers proclaimed an emergency: all humanoid units save one were being withd
rawn from the interior of the fortress and sent out as pilots as every available fighter ship was thrown into the defense.

  The sole unit left to oversee the humans opened a sealed door and brought out piles of hand and shoulder weapons, along with space armor.

  Everybody scrambled to get into armor and take up weapons, against the possibility of the fortress being invaded by Berserker boarding units.

  Maybe, thought Timor in sudden hope, maybe the damned do-gooder robots hadn’t studied the gear thoroughly, did not take into account that such suits had been constructed for combat against Berserkers—that such a device could amplify a man’s strength until he was not entirely outclassed by a robot—whether the robot was trying to tear him limb from limb or smother him with kindness.

  The distant-sounding surf of battle noise swelled louder than before.

  Timor, fitting himself into armor as quickly as he could, asked his guardian: “How goes the battle?”

  “It goes well,” the beautiful thing claimed brightly. “Our performance is incomparably better than that of humans in space warfare.”

  Timor signed disagreement. “Better than unaided human pilots, certainly. No one disputes that. But human minds using machines as tools are best.”

  “When we have increased our numbers sufficiently,” it crooned to them, “your race must place your defenses absolutely in our hands. On every ship and every planet. Only we can be as implacable as this Berserker enemy, as swift to think and act, as eternally vigilant. At last we have met a danger requiring all our limitless abilities.”

  Colonel Craindre was fitting on her helmet. She said: “History has repeatedly demonstrated that an organic brain, working in concert with the proper auxiliary machines, can hold a small edge both tactically and strategically over the pure machine—the Berserker.”

  Inflexibly the humanoid spokesunit disagreed. It claimed that the tests, the comparisons, could not have been properly conducted, the statistics not honestly compiled, if they led to any such result.

  “And even if such a marginal advantage existed, the direct exposure of human life to such danger is intolerable, when it can be avoided.”