From the locus of penetration, a brushfire of nuclear reactions spread inward through the hull, reaching maximum depth near the berserker’s center of gravity, where it threatened the great unliving brain.
Chaotic ruin was stubbornly advancing, despite the tireless labors of the berserker’s quenching devices and repair machines. The slow conflagration had eaten its way deep into the inner defenses of the central processor itself, and was attacking the outer ring of prime computer units. One after another, these began to fail.
Once upon a time, living beings had tended these sensitive devices. Oxygen-breathing engineers had moved along these catwalks, designing, working, building, intent on crafting the perfect weapon for their own war against another breathing race. The builders’ creation proved to be beyond their understanding, and when it had destroyed their enemies it turned on them, judging them badlife, and killed them too.
According to the central processor’s current plan, its modern maintenance devices were to be provided more convenient access to its own unliving heart. But there had turned out to be a great deal of resistant life, badlife, in the Galaxy, and damage tended to accumulate, sometimes faster than it could be repaired. There had never been time and resources to spare for a comprehensive redesign and reconstruction.
Had the machine been working at full computational capacity, it might have improvised effective countermeasures. But full capacity had already been lost.
Only a limited number of replacement modules had been provided when the machine was new, and the last one had been pressed into service many standard years ago. The machinery to make the new connections still functioned smoothly. Also the central tenets of programming were unaffected, they would, as a rule, be among the last computer functions to fail, but the berserker was aware that it was already kept from functioning with its usual quick competence.
Only one feasible countermeasure was now available. It was going to have to employ the newly recruited goodlife, and the robot the life-unit had at its command.
Hemphill and Lee and the four others with them had worked their way close enough to the jagged opening in the hull that an incoming wash of starlight allowed them to turn off all their helmet lights and still see, in a crude way, where they were going.
Lee was thinking that if this enormous cavity had been on the other side of the vast machine, and they had found their way out over there, the sun might well be making their surroundings as bright as day. But speculation was pointless: they were here, the gigantic hull was not rotating, and they would have to grope their way along as best they could.
No further word had come from Dirigo, and Hemphill was silently regretting his decision to send the robot back. Dirigo had probably run out of air and died, enjoying some show in his imaginary theater until the curtain came down. It was hard to guess what might have happened to Random. But it was useless to stew over what was already done.
When they had worked their way forward a few meters more, they could begin to see, by the glow of starlight, the full extent of the enormous wound in their enemy’s side that offered them a chance of getting out.
Feretti’s whisper sounded awed: “By all the gods, what kind of weapon ever made a hole like this?”
“Something stronger than anything we’ve got,” Lee muttered back.
And Kang Shin: “Our thanks to our ancient allies, whoever or whatever they may have been.”
Progress did not seem to be slowed much by the lack of a robot to lead the way, though situations kept coming up in which a man-sized surrogate would have been very useful to people who were trying to find a way across a gap of empty space, or to make a pathway out of a mere ridge of metal not intended for anything of the kind. Or to test a zone where there might be enough radiation to overwhelm their suits, or, possibly, to be the first to discover where some killer machine, infinitely patient, lay waiting for them in ambush.
Hemphill was still in the lead, as he had been through most of the journey so far, taking a leader’s share of risks, as the cadets continued their search through the chaotic caverns and tunnels of the berserker’s vast bulk, pursuing the elusive goal of a way out.
There would have been no chance for them at all, no possible way of getting out, except for the craters in the hull, the channels that had been opened, the destruction inflicted by old weapons and new. An age of warfare had left the monster half blind and half numb, unable to sense, or respond to, much that went on within its own tremendous bulk.
Already the survivors had worked their way painfully through several forced switchbacks and many interruptions, always with the goal in mind of reaching those distant, tantalizing glimpses of starlight. Distances were hard to judge, in this world of dimly visible and unfamiliar shapes, open on one side to infinity. But Lee felt certain they had covered more than a few kilometers since breaking free of the dungeon.
With Random’s departure, they had lost their only means of keeping track of formal time, except as it could be measured by the slowly diminishing power levels in their suits. Currently almost the sole drain was the essential recycling of their breathing air. By that standard, none of them had more than an hour left.
They were cautious in using their radio intercom too: The signals had been designed to be very difficult to trace, but in the presence of an unknown superior technology there was no point in taking chances.
After another fifteen minutes or so of irregular progress, the small group came raggedly to another halt.
“Man, what’s this?” someone breathed. , They were still inside the massive thickness of their enemy’s outer armor, when a bulky shape suggesting nothing so much as an enormous tree root, thick as the length of a man’s body, appeared running athwart their passage, and almost blocking it. To right and left the obstacle stretched out of sight, curving and vanishing in dimness.
Metal conduits, like smaller, branching roots, came reaching out of the dim fastnesses of the interior to clasp and penetrate the thing.
Lee raised a sharp tool and swung a tentative hack or two at the black surface, which gave way in little sprays of drifting flakes.
“Looks like these little twigs could be ductwork for an AG space,” Feretti mused.
Zochler said: “Could be a useful place to know about. If the drive on this big baby ever decides to kick in again.”
Hemphill was nodding. “Could be, except we can’t stay here. If we’re going to have any chance at all of getting off this thing, we’ve got to get up and out.”
Looking into the distance, Lee and several of his companions saw a kind of streak of molten fire, stabbing into the darkness of the giant hull ahead, like a meteor, from the outer realm of starlight.
“What was that? Didn’t look like any kind of missile.”
“More like, a ship. I think that might have been a scout. It lit up when it forced its way through what remains of this thing’s defensive field.”
The central processor had already sent its notification of the discovery of a system of swarming badlife. Years might pass before response arrived, but that it would arrive eventually was certain.
The orator up on the holostage kept waving his arms and working his beak-like mouth, but Dirigo had ceased to pay attention. Instead he was concentrating, in what he had to assume were his last few minutes of life, on finding some way to get under the stage, where, if there was any logic to the system, there would have to be power conduits of some kind. But the holographic display claimed his attention one last time when it was suddenly cut off.
Turning to face the figure that had just come into the theater, Dirigo at first saw only the familiar suit, and knew a moment of poignant gladness: one of his classmates had come back to join him, and the two of them were going to find life or death together. Then he took note of the unfamiliar face inside the helmet, and the gun in the man’s hand.
The executioner, suited and helmeted, pistol drawn and ready, entered the unfamiliar space and stopped dead in his tracks, shocked by his f
irst sight of the wonders of the theater.
It was equally shocking to see who was already here. One of the badlife had been admitted to this secret place, while its very existence had been concealed from him, the faithful executioner.
“Why did you never show me this?” Huang Gun querulously demanded of his lord.
“There has been no time,” his master’s ugly voice explained inside his helmet.
Meanwhile this lone badlife, the one the others had called Dirigo, continued to stare at him. Dirigo’s voice was loud and angry. “Who are you, anyway? You’re Twin Worlds, not Huvean. At least you’re wearing one of our suits. Put that gun down.”
Huang Gun raised the muzzle slightly. He was wondering where the other badlife had gone, and what wickedness they might be up to. Whatever happened, they must not be allowed to interfere with the essential task required by the master. Aloud he said only: “I am become Death.”
“You look like it. You look like hell. What happened to Sunbula?” Dirigo raised his voice slightly, going on the channel that ought to reach all of the surviving cadets. “Hemphill? Lee, do you guys read me? I’ve found the spy who looks through little holes. He’s got one of our suits, and he must be on our intercom.”
Even as he tried to give his friends some warning, Dirigo was thinking: What would a real leader do in this situation? Begin by getting the weapon away from this lunatic. Yes, why not? What do I have to lose? The red spark of his virtual gauge was flashing on and off. No more than a couple of minutes at the most.
Dirigo lunged forward, the spacesuit making him feel hopelessly slow and clumsy.
Huang Gun shot him squarely in the chest; Twin Worlds spacesuits were not designed as armor, and the badlife went down at once. The executioner was glad to see that the weapon Death had given him was in fine working order.
In a way this death was less satisfying than the woman’s, because he, the executioner, had not been able to pass on the gift while in direct contact with the recipient. But he could understand that there were times when efficiency and certainty were of overriding importance. Twice he had killed dangerous badlife. He was well and firmly entered on his master’s business. That was all that mattered, and the way ahead, to his essential task, seemed clear.
He had just started to hang the gun on his belt again, when the robot that had been in the badlife cell, the one they had called Random, came bounding into the theater at robotic speed, leaping forward, bending low, coming to a full stop only when it was crouched close over the fallen man.
Huang Gun had recoiled a step, then started to relax again. Tame ED robots like this one tried to prolong the suffering and decay of life. But in this case no such effort was going to be of any use.
The robot raised its gaze to fasten on Huang Gun, and for just a moment he felt an unexpected impulse, surprisingly strong, to turn the pistol on himself. Trembling, he resisted the urge, not yet. There was at least one more work, an essential task, to be accomplished before he could find rest.
Inside the executioner’s helmet, his master’s low voice was urging him to hurry on to the job that urgently needed doing. If possible, he should bring with him the robot that had just appeared, its strength and agility would be very useful.
Random slowly stood upright, still gazing at Huang Gun. In Huang Gun’s helmet the mellow, artificial voice inquired cheerfully: “Did you shoot this man?”
“It was an accident,” Huang Gun muttered automatically. He realized he was aiming the pistol at the robot, and slowly moved his hand, hooking the weapon on his suit’s belt. Gradually he continued to relax out of his startled state. No human being, killer or not, need fear deliberate injury from a tame, ED-manufactured robot. He said to it on radio: “Your name is Random, is it not?”
“Yes sir.”
“A good name… Random, I require your assistance on a matter of great importance. To what task, if any, are you currently assigned?”
A metal forefinger pointed at the dead man who lay between them. “To help him.”
“I see. Well, that one no longer needs help of any kind. But I do.”
In the executioner’s helmet, his master’s voice assured him that it had now cut off radio communication between this robot and the escaping badlife. It also informed him that a journey of several kilometers would be necessary, to reach the place where his essential task awaited. Again it urged him to begin at once.
Immediately the executioner turned to leave the theater. Perhaps, before he died, his master would reveal to him the purpose of this place, but just now there was no time for such details. He understood that. When he ordered Random to follow, the robot unhesitatingly fell in behind him.
“You will not walk the whole way,” the master’s broken, scraping voice assured Huang Gun. “You will ride.”
A way was opened for them out of the small oasis, the few rooms that had been furnished with air and gravity. When they had moved away from the familiar place a hundred meters or so, the executioner saw what the master meant by riding. Random had switched on his light, making the passage easier and safer for his human companion. The light revealed the conveyor to be a great tube of forcefields and huge rushing containers, curving past the place where the executioner stood in darkness, and running deep into some ultimate emptiness that looked blacker still.
The master urged Huang Gun forward, and he stepped out blindly. When the conveyor’s forcefields caught him up, and Random after him, his weightlessness more than ever gave the impression of an endless fall. Now and then vast shapes, corpuscles of the master’s lifeless bloodstream, came flickering past in the near darkness. Somehow he could feel that his speed in the conveyor was very high.
The ride had not gone on for very long when Huang Gun felt the abrupt tug of deceleration. He and the robot were carefully, gently ejected from the transport tube. Now they were standing, drifting, rather, in front of a narrow door that immediately opened to let them in. The disembodied voice of Huang Gun’s master guided him through a final passage.
An age ago, when humans on Earth hunted the wooly mammoth, and this hardware had been new, the central processor had been tended and protected by its own special guardians, many-handed devices as thin and pliable as young humans, able to traverse the innermost passages and ducts. But for a thousand years and more there had been no need for such specialized support, and one by one the special guardians had been deployed on other tasks. Deployed, and used up.
The executioner and Random had emerged from the narrow passage just inside a hollow sphere some thirty meters in diameter. The sphere surrounding them could be, Huang Gun supposed, solid armor. Whatever it was, a ragged hole, its raw new edges glowing a radioactive blue, had been eaten through it.
A matching hole glowed on the side of the object in the center of the thirty-meter cave. This object was a complexity the size of a small house, shock-mounted on a web of girders that ran from it in every direction, and Huang Gun understood that it must house the central processor. Apart from the radiance of the invading weapon, the central object possessed its own glow, like flickering moonlight; forcefield switches, the executioner supposed, responding to the random atomic turmoil within.
His master’s voice was telling him: “On the wall beside you is the quenching device, the tool that you must use.” And it showed him a tiny image in his helmet.
The tool itself was hanging on the armored wall, almost at his elbow. The front end of it looked something like the nozzle of a firehose, with a black coil, long and thick, trailing behind. When he put his hands on the nozzle and pulled, he realized how massive the whole thing was. It would be almost impossible for one man to wield it properly, even in the effective absence of gravity, but certainly he and the robot, working together, ought to be able to manage whatever was required.
Unhurriedly, patiently, despite the blue fire eating steadily at its brain, the master provided an essential explanation. The firehose, the name that suggested itself to Huang Gun, and as good a name
for it as any, Huang Gun thought, when they were pressed for time, had to be stretched across to the central structure, and its nozzle end carried inside the central object, and around at least one interior corner. Then the stuff the hose spewed out, more force than matter, would have to be directed into the interior spaces where blue fire raged and ate. The other end of the hose, or tube, would remain permanently connected to the outer wall.
Huang Gun’s experience in high office had allowed him to learn something about the weapons his own government planned for use in the new war. In confrontation with a moving atomic pile, he needed no instrument to tell him that a human wearing an ordinary spacesuit, coming within a few meters of the thing, into a literal fog of that deadly radiance, might not live much longer than was required to aim a quenching device and turn it on.
His thoughts were interrupted by sharp words from the robot. “Sir, I must warn you. Radiation in our present location is so intense that your suit can protect you for only about three minutes. You must immediately move away.” If the level was high enough to be quickly fatal to a suited human, it would soon demolish a Random-type robot too. But of course, to any ED robot, its own fate was of secondary importance.
What the warning chiefly meant to Huang Gun was that he had no time to waste. “Never mind the radiation, Random. Help me with this hose. Grab it here. Hold it securely, and follow directly behind me. Help me pull it forward.”
Random clamped his arms around the hose as ordered, but that was as far as he moved. “Where are you going with it, sir?”
“You heard my master’s command, did you not!” The executioner almost screamed. He stabbed a finger at the flickering sphere ahead. “We are going in there. Hurry!”
The robot spoke somewhat faster than usual, but as calmly as ever. “I must refuse to obey your order, for reasons of human health and safety.”
Berserker Prime Page 33