THE FOUNTS OF SORROW
And so another of the damned things had been destroyed, thanks to a few good people in the right place. That made two down at least, Lars thought, when he was able to come back to his own thoughts. Not that the defeat would be considered much of a setback by this far-distant machine that had wrung its prisoners' minds and bodies to obtain the news of it. The berserker base had plenty of other fighting units to send out. And on the plus side for the enemy, at least one more entire planet, Polara, had been destroyed too.
But when the telepathic session connecting Lars Kanakuru with people on the planet of Botea was completely over, his body and mind again released from immediate bondage, he retained the memory of that fortunate far world to cling to. To keep himself going, he had received a transfusion of hope from Gemenca Bahazi and Pat Devlin.
He, Lars, had once known someone who was in the Adamant navy. That corporation had a stronger fleet than a lot of planetary governments could boast. If only, Lars thought, as he got slowly back to his feet beside the mind-probing machinery, if only the other half of that navy were here now… or all of it. But all of it probably still wouldn't be enough to take a base like this one.
Again Lars was returned to the society of his fellow prisoners, back in the common room. He found them arguing at the moment over the question of who should have which sleeping blanket. It seemed to Lars as he came upon them that this childish behavior exemplified the divisions and weaknesses of humanity.
He wanted, to interrupt and say to them: "The berserkers are going to win the great war, in the end. Because they are one, ultimately, and life, humanity, is ultimately, divided, scattered, always working at cross-purposes." That was the truth, Lars told himself, that he had never been able to bring himself to face, till now. There were a lot of people who could not face it
Dorothy Totonac appeared to be near tears, on the verge of breakdown, not having got the blanket she had wanted. Probably the others would have been willing to give it to her by now, but the situation was more complicated than that— all situations were.
Pat Sandomierz seemed to be trying to negotiate some way to help her, but the two men for some reason resented Pat's efforts, and they themselves were doing no one any good
Probably an unfair criticism, Lars thought, What real good could anyone do anyone else here?
Now Captain Naxos moved a little apart from the others, with an expression oh his face as of wonder, maybe at how he had got himself into such a childish argument. He was muttering something that Lars could not hear. Meanwhile the other man, Nicholas Opava, went to stand by himself too, on his face an expression of childish sullenness. He was generally, Lars thought, in a condition that Lars himself felt only in his worst moments.
Naxos at last took note of Lars's arrival. "Where've you been?"
"Hooked up to the thing in there. Where else?" He had been about to say that he had just stepped out for a drink, but decided that at the moment humor would not be well received.
"Let's not talk shop." Naxos almost made it an order. "It's bad enough we have to do it."
Dorothy Totonac looked up. "Talking helps keep me sane, and I intend to go on doing it!"
And Pat added: "There's no sense in being afraid it'll overhear us. It already knows everything we've experienced here."
But Lars, at least, knew better than that. He couldn't very well say so, though.
Time went by, and the prisoners were not recalled to duty. There were no clocks or watches available, no day or night here in the cells, but everyone agreed that this interval between telepathic sessions was longer than any similar interval that had passed before.
Someone put into words a thought that was new to no one: "Maybe our usefulness is almost over. Maybe it doesn't need us anymore; because the rest of the units it sent out are winning, all across the board."
There was no way to argue with a statement like that.
Then unexpectedly the inner door of the airlock opened. Several escort machines stood there. They were carrying spacesuits, one for each ED prisoner.
The five people looked at each other. Then the machines handed out the suits and the people began to pull them on. When they were ready, they were escorted out in a group.
We could all open our suit valves at once, thought Lars. Bat the thought had no place within him to take root. The idea of suicide had become remote and academic.
The five discovered at once thai their suit radios worked, and were set on a common channel. They could still converse.
"It wouldn't bother with the suits if it was going to kill us now."
"Rather obvious. But what does it want, then?"
"'We're just being moved. It's dug put bigger quarters for as."
"Or smaller ones."
"With a set of the latest model mind-probing machines."
The berserker volunteered no information, and answered no questions. Lars had not heard it speak since he arrived, though he did not doubt it could. But judging by its actions, what it wanted was to take them on a tour.
At first, when they were led outside into the glare of the blue-white sun, and toward the great docks where there waited a seemingly endless rank of spacegoing destroyers, at least some of which were undergoing repair, the prisoners all believed that they were going to be shipped somewhere else.
"Maybe it has goodlife, who want human slaves. I've heard stories…"
Someone else cut that speaker off: "We all have."
They were taken aboard spacegoing death machines, one after another, but they were not locked up on any of them; it was a relief to all five people, a surprisingly intense relief, that they were not yet to be separated. A bond had formed, despite the childish arguments.
The idea was evidently not to ship them out, but to give them all an extensive and intensive tour of the berserker base and its facilities. The whole thing took a couple of hours. The five prisoners were made to crawl in and out of machines, across catwalks—none high enough, in this low gravity, to suggest a chance for suicide to those who might be so inclined—and to peer into mine shafts. There were hundreds of machines, of all sizes and shapes and functions. Some were workers, all of them busy, others were fighting devices either under construction or in for repair. The whole operation looked even more formidable than Lars had imagined it. Maybe two Adamant navies wouldn't be enough.
It's going to ask us now, he thought. It's going to ask us to be goodlife, officially and formally. The really hideous thing was that at that moment he wasn't sure what he would answer.
But the offer never came. Whatever the great computer that ran the base expected to accomplish by displaying its might to them, it was not that. The reason behind the tour had to be something else. Perhaps it was only meant to overawe them more thoroughly than before, to beat down inward mental resistance that counted for more than formal statements.
Lars wondered suddenly if the Carmpan were going to be given a comparable tour, if Carmpan too sometimes turned goodlife. Though certainly, he thought, the ones he had been teamed with so far had proven that they were not. Then for a moment, Lars was puzzled by his own thought. How had they proven that? Oh yes. It was something that he would be wise not to remember… deliberately he steered his thoughts to something else.
Presently the five ED prisoners were brought back to their quarters, the spacesuits silently demanded back. Then they were allowed a rest period, during which no one had much to say, and everyone was thoughtful.
And again if was time for another telepathic session…
The session for Lars this time did not go well. Or at least it did not go as the others had. This time, Lars realized shortly after the induced semi-trance began, the Canmpan he was teamed with was somehow blocking the material from coming through completely into his, Lars's, conscious mind. Something came through… but then it was gone again, in some way concealed.
Lars was aware of nothing but the mental analog of static. The Carmpan was doing something subve
rsive, blocking a good coherent episode, screwing it up, hiding it somehow. Burying it. Where?
Through the whole episode Lars remained at least partially conscious of himself attached to the mind-probing machine. When the session was over, he was if anything more tired than he had been after earlier sessions.
Back in the living compound, he drank water thirstily, wishing that he had something strongly alcoholic. Then, for the time being indifferent to hunger, he crawled into his cell and fell at once into a deep sleep.
And learned where the Carmpan had buried the episode that had just come through,
Lars dreamed…
ITSELF SURPRISED
It was said that a berserker could if required assume even a pleasing shape. But there was no such requirement here. Flashing through the billion-starred silence, it was massive and dark and purely functional in design. It was a planet-buster of a machine headed for the world called Corlano to pound its cities to rubble, to eradicate its entire biosphere. It possessed the ability to do this without exceptional difficulty, so that no subtlety, no guile, no reliance on fallible goodlife were required. It had its directive, it had its weapons.
It never wondered why this should be the way of its kind. It never questioned the directive. It never speculated whether it might be, in its own fashion, itself a lifeform, albeit artificial. It was a single-minded killing machine, and if purpose may be considered a virtue it was to this extent virtuous.
Almost unnecessarily, its receptors scanned far ahead. It knew that Corlano did not possess extraordinary defenses. It anticipated no difficulties on this count.
Who hath drawn the circuits for the lion?
There was something very distant and considerably off course… A world-destroyer on a mission would not normally deviate for anything so tiny, however.
It rushed on toward Corlano, weapon systems ready.
Wade Kelman felt uneasy as soon as he laid eyes on the thing. He shifted his gaze to MacFarland and Dorphy.
"You let me sleep while you chased that junk down, matched orbits, grappled it? You realize how much time that wasted?"
"You needed the rest," the small, dark man named Dorphy replied, looking away.
"Bullshit! You know I would have said 'No!' "
"It might be worth something, Wade," MacFarland observed.
"This is a smuggling run not a salvage operation. Time is important.
"Well, we've got it now," MacFarland replied. "No sense arguing over what's done."
Wade bit off a nasty rejoinder. He could only push things so far. He wasn't really captain, not in the usual sense. The three of them were in it together—equal investments, equal risk. Only, he knew how to pilot the small vessel better than either of them. That, and their deference to him up to this point, had revived command reflexes from both happier and sadder days gone by. Had they awakened him and voted on this bit of salvage he would obviously have lost. He knew that they would still look to him in an emergency.
He nodded sharply.
"All right, we've got it," he said. "What the hell is it?"
"Damned if I know, Wade," MacFarland replied, a stocky, light-haired man with pale eyes and a crooked mouth. He looked out through the lock and into the innards of the thing quick-sealed there beside them, then looked back at Wade. "When we first spotted it, I thought it was a lifeboat. It's about the right size…"
"And?"
"We sent a signal and there was no reply."
"You broke radio silence for that piece of junk?"
"If it was a lifeboat there could be people aboard, in trouble."
"Not too bloody likely, judging from its condition. Still…" He sighed. "You're right. Go ahead."
"No signs of any electrical activity either."
"You chased it down just for the hell of it, then?"
Dorphy nodded.
"That's about right," he said.
"So, it's full of treasure?"
"I don't know what it's full of. It's not a lifeboat, though."
"I can see that."
Wade peered through the opened lock into the interior of the thing. He took the flashlight from Dorphy, moved forward and shone it about. There was no room for passengers amid the strange machinery.
"Let's ditch it," he said. "I don't know what all that crap is, and it's damaged anyway. I doubt it's worth its mass to haul anywhere."
"I'll bet the professor could figure it out," Dorphy said.
"Let the poor lady sleep. She's cargo, not crew, anyway. What's it to her what this thing is?"
"Suppose—just suppose—that's a valuable piece of equipment," Dorphy said. "Say, something experimental. Whether it's government or industry somebody might be willing to pay for it."
"And suppose it's a fancy bomb that never went off?"
Dorphy drew back from the hatch. "I never thought of that.".
"I say deep-six it."
"Without even taking a better look?"
"Right, I don't even think you could squeeze very far in there."
'''Me? You know a lot more about engineering than either of us."
"That's why you woke me up, hah?"
"Well, now that you're here…"
Wade sighed. Then he nodded slowly.
"That would be crazy and risky and totally unproductive." He stared through the lock at the exotic array of equipment. "Pass me that trouble-light. It's stronger than this thing."
He accepted the light, extended it through the lock.
"It's been holding pressure okay?"
"Yeah. We slapped a patch on the hole in its hull."
"Weil, what the hell."
He passed through the lock, dropped to his knees, leaned forward. He held the light before him, moved it from side to side. His uneasiness would not go away. There was something very foreign about all of those cubes and knobs, their connections… and that one large housing… He reached out and tapped upon the hull. Foreign…
"I've got a feeling it's alien," he said.
He entered the small open area before him. Then he had to duck his head and proceed on his hands and knees. He began to touch things—fittings, switches, connectors, small units of unknown potential. Almost everything seemed designed to swivel, rotate, move along tracks. Finally, he lay flat and crawled forward.
"I believe that a number of these units are weapons," he called out, after some time.
He reached the big housing. A panel slid partway open as he passed his fingertips along its surface. He pressed harder and it opened farther.
"Damn you!" he said then, as the unit began to tick softly.
"What's wrong?" Dorphy called to him.
"You!" he said, beginning to back away. "And your partner! You're wrong!"
He turned as soon as he could and made his way back through the lock.
"Ditch it!" he said. "Now!"
Then he saw that Juna, a tall study in gray and pallor, stood leaning against the bulkhead to the left, holding a cup of tea. "And if we've got a bomb toss it in there before you kick it loose!" he added.
"What did you find?" she asked him in her surprisingly rich voice.
"That's some kind of fancy thinking device in there," he told her. "It tried to kick on when I touched it. And I'm sure a bunch of those gadgets are weapons. Do you know what that means?"
"Tell me," she said.
"Alien design, weapons, brain… My partners just salvaged a damaged berserker, that's what. And it's trying to turn itself back on. It's got to go—fast."
"Are you certain that's what it is?" she asked him.
"Certain, no. Scared, yes."
She nodded and set her cup aside. She raised her hand to her mouth and coughed.
"I'd like to take a took at it myself before you get rid of it," she said softly.
Wade gnawed his tower lip for a moment.
"Juna," he said then, "I can understand your professional interest in the computer, but we're supposed to deliver you intact, remember?"
She smil
ed, for the first time since he'd met her some weeks before.
"I really want to see it."
Her smile hardened then. He nodded.
"Make it a quick look."
"I'll need my tools. And I want to change into some working clothes."
She turned and passed through the hatch to her right. He glared at his partners, shrugged and turned away.
Seated on the edge of his bunk while Dvorak's Slavonic Dances swirled about him, eating breakfast from a small tray. Wade reflected on berserkers, Dr. Juna Bayel, computers in general and how they all figured together in the purpose of this trip.
Berserker scouts had been spotted, periodically in this sector during the past few years. It was not difficult to conclude that by this time they were aware that Corlano was not all that well-defended. This made for some nervousness within that segment of Corlano's population made up of refugees, from a berserker attack upon distant Djelbar almost a generation ago. A great number had chosen Corlano at that time, as a world far removed from earlier patterns of berserker activity. He snorted then at a certain irony this had engendered. It was those same people who had lobbied so long and so successfully for the highly restrictive legislation Corlano now possessed regarding the manufacture and importation of knowledge-processing machines, a species of group paranoia going back to their berserker trauma.
There was a black market, of course. Machines more complicated than those allowed by law were needed by businesses, some individuals and even the government itself. People such as himself and his partners regularly brought in such machines and components. Officials usually looked the other way. He had seen this same sort of schizophrenia in a number of places.
He sipped his coffee.
And Juna Bayel… Knowledge systems specialists of her caliber were generally non grata there, too. She might have gone in as a tourist, but then she would have been subjected to some scrutiny, making it more difficult to teach the classes she had been hired to set up.
He sighed. He was used to governmental doublethinking. He had been in the service. In fact… no. Not worth thinking about all that again. Things had actually been looking up lately. A few more runs like this one and he could make the final payments on his divorce settlement and actually go into legitimate shipping, get respectable, perhaps even prosper—
Berserker Base Page 11