The Berserker Throne

by Fred Saberhagen

  When Harivarman learned of the Empress’s death, he drifted in silence for a few moments, now and then touching the wall with boot or glove, just as in gravity of normal strength he might have paced the floor. This far from the Radiant a drifting body took a long time to fall.

  Looking at the inscribed wall that only minutes ago he had found so fascinating, he could see it now as nothing but an enormous and solemn toy. Worse, a means of self-hypnosis. Such was the impact, he thought, when the real world, the world of politics and power, intruded bluntly.

  Briefly, memories of the Empress came and went in the Prince’s thoughts. Not a blood relative of his at all, but still she had been to him at some times, and in some good sense, like a mother . . . and, later on, something of an enemy. It was she who had sent him here. Regret now at her death was mingled with overtones of vengeful triumph.

  All of this emotional reaction was quite natural, Harivarman supposed, but it was quite profitless as well. Almost immediately the Prince’s mind moved on. The point he had to consider at once was the effect of her assassination upon the political situation, the balance of power, particularly in the ruling Council of the Eight Worlds. When next those eight powerful representatives gathered on their ceremonial thrones, the choice of who should now occupy the great throne in the center—the choice of the next Empress, or Emperor—would be up to them.

  Lescar was also drifting inside the shelter, waiting with a kind of impassive eagerness for his master’s words of wisdom. Turning back to him, the Prince asked: “Did you get a look at this young man who is supposed to have done it? But no, I don’t suppose you had a chance to see him.”

  “No, no chance of that, sir. A university student, the story is, a native Salutain, who after he’d killed the Empress joined the Templars to escape pursuit.”

  “Ah, yes. I see. But why should the Templars bring him here, knowing extradition must be enforceable in such a case? More importantly, is there any reason why they should want to help such a man at all?”

  “I don’t suppose, sir, that they really would.”

  “Then it’s interesting that he should be brought here, don’t you think?”

  “Sir? There was something else—though no special importance was placed on it by the people I heard it from.”

  “Well, what?”

  “That just before the assassination—it took place in the Holiday of Life parade—there were political demonstrations. One demonstration in particular, in favor of your recall. This young Chen was apparently one of the chief organizers of that.”

  Harivarman fell silent again. He drifted in thought. He could perceive several vague outlines in the situation, all of them ugly. “And then right after that he killed the Empress? Or at least they think he did. Ah. That’s all I need.”

  The Prince paused. Then he continued: “Then it looks like I’m going to be accused of conspiring to kill her. At the least it’s very likely. Matters have been so arranged. So, if I’m going to do anything to protect myself, I have to see him, this supposed assassin . . . I wonder. Perhaps they brought him here to the Radiant, just to arrange a confrontation with me?”

  Lescar shook his head. It was his belief, frequently stated in the past, that his master sometimes tried to think too many moves ahead. “My thought, Your Honor, is that they brought him here simply because they had already recruited him before they found out what he’d done, or was accused of doing. Then they were in something of a panic. You know the Templars can’t just hand over one of their own to any planetary authorities on demand. Not even if it’s only a new recruit. They don’t do that; any Templar officer who did so would be . . .”

  “Yes. You’re right.”

  Lescar’s face twitched; for him, that was something of an emotional demonstration. “But they didn’t know what else to do with him, and so they brought him here. This rock is the Templar headquarters, all the home territory the Templars really have, and they must feel more secure here than at the training grounds at Niteroi.”

  The Prince was musing aloud. “You may be right. You probably are. They could have taken him directly to their Superior General for a decision, but he’s said to be almost constantly on the move around the Galaxy, and they probably didn’t know where to reach him . . . you know, there’s no authority presently on this rock who can decide Templar policy on matters of such importance. Our creamy-cheeked new base commander? No. No one—unless someone else came in on the same ship?—no word of that, hey? Then they’ll have to wait for word from no one less than the Superior General. And he’ll quite possibly want to come here and talk to the accused man before he decides the question. There’ll be demands for extradition certainly . . .”

  Lescar appeared to consider the idea of extradition very thoughtfully before he agreed that it was likely. There was no one else around to fill the role of political counselor for the Prince, and so Lescar had assumed the job, and he gave it his best, just as he did the jobs of valet and cook. “Yes—naturally I suppose that’s what they’ll do. And you say you’ll have to see this Chen too, Your Honor—is that wise?”

  “How would my refusal to see him help? And yes, if I am to judge him, to try to determine the truth about his killing the Empress, I must see him—does he deny that he’s guilty, by the way?”

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  “Hm. Whoever this Chen really is, whatever his story or the truth of it, I expect our gracious hosts will sooner or later want to arrange for him to meet me. So they can observe our interactions, and then try to judge my part . . . thank you, Lescar, for bringing me this news so promptly. It’s going to mean a change of some kind for us, certainly. And soon.”

  Lescar as usual accepted his master’s thanks with a faint look of embarrassment. “Are you coming back to the City at once, Your Honor?”

  “No.” Harivarman brought his gentle drifting to a halt by taking a firm grip on a projecting bas-relief. “There’s no rush about my appearing on the scene. Or not that much of one, at least. You go on back. I want to be alone, and think a little.” He glanced at his inscriptions again. “And possibly decide what I’m going to do out here. If I’m going to be able to go on now with any of this work at all.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll see what else I can find out.”

  “Do that, certainly. And if the Templars tell you they are in a tremendous hurry to talk to me, tell them they can find me here without any trouble.”

  Within a minute Lescar and his flyer were gone again. Harivarman was once more alone with the Dardanian presence; but those gentle ghosts had faded suddenly, making even fanciful communication with them much more difficult.

  Looking out through the clear plastic of his shelter, the Prince watched the last fantastic reflections of the lights of Lescar’s vehicle die away. Now only his own lights held the great darkness back.

  The Empress dead. Certain implications, for the most part grim, were immediately obvious. His serious enemies, Roquelaure and the others, would now have a freer hand in trying to get rid of him permanently. What was not so plain to the Prince was the best way for him to try to deal with his enemies now, or at least avoid their wrath. Indeed, that became less plain the more he thought about it. He could wish now that he had heeded Lescar’s frequent pleas during the first two years of exile that they try to arrange an escape. They could by now have had an emergency plan in place.

  Slowly, the Prince resumed the bodily motions of the investigating archaeologist. He told himself that it might be easier to think while engaged in a physical routine of measurement, note-taking, photography . . . but a few minutes of going through the motions convinced him that it was not going to work. He could no longer believe that his energy should now be going into this research. And the job deserved to be done right; he was never again going to be able to work on this job properly.

  At least he was not going to be able to go on with it properly today. And suddenly it had become difficult to predict anything about tomorrow.

  Movin
g with practiced skill, the Prince quickly closed himself securely into his own spacesuit. Then he deflated the shelter, took it down and stowed it away in his flyer. That craft waited nearby, just out of his way, anchored by its autopilot in a passage that was no more than barely big enough to accommodate the vehicle’s modest diameter. Sabel, the old records indicated, had used a similar machine, custom-narrowed for these confining corridors.

  Though his lonely work had suddenly become unsatisfying, the Prince realized that there were things about it he was genuinely going to miss when it had to end. Even if the end should come in a triumphant recall to power. That, too, was now suddenly a possibility, he supposed, though not a likely one.

  He would miss this work, and at the present moment he didn’t even know whether he was going to be able to come back to it tomorrow.

  Harivarman had already packed much of his equipment back into the flyer, when a nagging sense of untidy incompletion grew great enough to be uncomfortable. This particular short section of corridor held a pair of doors that he had been looking forward to opening. According to his experience of exploration in this area, doors placed like these should have behind them a couple of rooms, or perhaps one large room. Whatever was behind them had not yet been investigated. Those doors, he thought, were likely to open into one or two of the rare chambers that had never been entered since the Dardanians’ time.

  There was no need for the Prince to unpack the shelter once more, or to get much in the way of equipment out of the flyer again. One quick glance inside the room, or rooms, would be enough for now. If what he saw inside appeared sufficiently intriguing, he would have something to look forward to when—if—he got back here.

  Extracting what he considered to be an appropriate tool from his packed kit, Harivarman launched himself in vanishingly small gravity and drifted in a long, free, practiced dive that brought him in a gently curving path almost exactly in front of the door he wanted. That door was of molded metal fancifully decorated. He could see nothing on it that looked like a lock. But he had tried this door gently before, on his first look around at this end of the corridor, and he was certain that it was blocked or stuck somehow. Probably, he thought, it had just become sealed with the metal-binding grip of centuries.

  His tool, a combination vibrator and power hammer, soon took care of that impediment. Now the door could be slid back.

  The room exposed was, naturally, completely dark inside. Harivarman shone his helmet light around, through emptiness. It was, for this part of the Fortress, a surprisingly large, deep chamber. There was another door that must connect with the as-yet unopened room adjoining. Once there had undoubtedly been functional artificial gravity. . . .

  Then for some seconds Prince Harivarman did not breathe. He had thought at first that the large room was empty. But it was not. Against the rear wall, looking somehow crouched and defensive and small amid the room’s emptiness, as if some enemy might have cornered it there, was a machine. The metal of it looked like armor, gleaming dully in his light. It was not really small at all, but almost as large as his flyer though of a different shape.

  In this undisturbed place the minimal gravity had had time, plenty of time, to press the machine firmly though very lightly on the floor, so that now it was as motionless as the rock slabs of the walls. And the machine was no longer functional; Prince Harivarman in the first second of looking at it felt very sure of that. He would doubtless be dead already if it were.

  Not an android. On second look, it did not really approach his flyer in size, but it was considerably bigger than a man, and shaped more like an insect, or a vehicle. Nor did it represent any of their most common types of comparatively simple combat units. No, this was something larger and more complex. The shape of the outer surface—perhaps it should be called a hull—suggested spaceflight capability; and there, near the bottom of the thing, within the pale of the six great folded and motionless spider-legs, was a bulge that resembled a corresponding curve on the lifeboat of an interstellar liner. That form surely indicated the presence of some kind of miniature interstellar drive.

  Details were still doubtful, but one fact was certain. There was no doubt in Prince Harivarman’s mind that he had found a relict berserker, and one whose existence was undreamt of by the Templars or any other human being.

  Chapter 5

  By the time Chen had recovered from his faint, the base commander had departed. A different set of uniformed Templars now had Chen in charge, and they were half leading, half carrying him along a passage.

  As soon as Chen had his wits about him again, he started protesting loudly.

  “Look, it’s crazy to think that I would have killed the Empress! Why would I have done that? I wanted to persuade her to recall the Prince! I didn’t even know she’d been killed until I got here.”

  No one argued with him, on that point or any other. No one agreed with him about anything either. Rather it was as if they just weren’t listening. All they wanted to do right now was put him away safely. They turned aside presently into a small room, where they deposited him on a plain couch.

  He lay there, under the watchful eyes of his silent captors, until a couple of additional people arrived. These turned out to be a medical team, and they rushed Chen through an examination. This checkup took no more than five minutes, and evidently it revealed no conditions that required special handling, for presently its subject was on his way again, still under heavy escort and being treated no more or less gently than before. Chen was more than half expecting to be thrown directly into some kind of military prison—did Templars still call their lockup the “stockade,” as they did in the adventure stories? But the room he was actually locked into was more comfortable-looking than he had expected, and it did not appear to be within any kind of prison complex. Instead, the surroundings suggested the corridor of some comfortable hotel.

  Now one of the junior officers who had been hovering about took the time to explain to Chen that until further notice he was going to be confined to quarters.

  “Does that mean I’m under arrest?”

  “Confined to quarters.”

  “I know, but does that mean—?”

  It was a noncom who answered Chen this time; the officers, including the one who had spoken, had all disappeared even as Chen was trying to question them. A sergeant said, “You haven’t been formally charged with anything. The ship’s crew who brought you in can’t charge you, because all they know is hearsay, what they heard about you after they left Salutai.”

  “But when will I get out?” He called that question hopelessly after the sergeant’s departing back.

  “I don’t know.” By now almost everyone was gone; the only one left to answer Chen was a young uniformed woman standing in his room’s doorway, evidently his sole remaining guard. The tone of her reply was doubtful, as if she were ready to admit her lack of experience in things like this, or perhaps a lack of experience of things in general. She was rather small, with a proud figure, and evidently an ancestry of dark races. Her nametag proclaimed her Cadet Olga Khazar.

  The attitude of Cadet Olga Khazar, poised as she was in the doorway, strongly suggested that she was about to go out and close the door behind her.

  Chen sat up straight in the chair where he had been deposited. He asked, as if the answer were not already obvious: “And now you’re going to lock me in?” And at the same time he thought it strange that they had left one low-ranking guard here, and the door not yet even locked.

  She replied almost timidly: “Yeah, that’s orders. You’re not going to kill yourself, are you? We’ll have to watch you every moment if you’re suicidal.”

  “Kill myself!” Then Chen was speechless for a moment, unable to imagine any words powerful enough to comment suitably on that idea. “If I’d wanted to die, believe me, I wouldn’t have had to come all this distance to arrange it.”

  Now Chen could see a shifting of shadows just outside his door, and hear that a small gliding vehicle of s
ome kind was rolling to a stop just behind Cadet Khazar, who evidently had not been left as much alone on the job as had first appeared. The cadet turned round to look at the arrival, and a moment later Chen saw her stand at attention and salute.

  A moment after that, Commander Blenheim stuck her blond head into Chen’s room. He got up from his chair and tried to stand at attention. She asked him: “Feeling better?”

  “Yes ma’am, thank you. Look, Commander, I didn’t kill anyone—least of all the Empress. What makes anyone think I did?”

  The officer shook her head with what might have been sympathy, moderated with a large mixture of wariness. “Recruit, I really can’t tell at this distance what you did or did not do on Salutai. All I know for sure is that the authorities there appear to want to question you about the crime. Someone on Salutai evidently thinks you did it. So you are confined to quarters until we can find out more. You have not been formally charged with anything as yet.”

  Chen murmured: “Or someone there wants everyone else to think that the authorities want me.”

  “That I suppose is a possibility.” The commander nodded thoughtfully. “Who would want that?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t know who or why.” But then in what felt like a flash of insight he perceived the shadow of an answer, or thought he did. “It’s about the Prince, isn’t it? Some of his enemies, I guess, will stop at nothing.”

  If the commander had any opinions on the Prince, or on political matters, she was keeping them to herself. Poker-faced, she eyed Chen silently, as if hoping he would say more.