Fred Saberhagen - Berserker 15 - Rogue Berserker

Rogue Berserker

Fred Saberhagen

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Berserkers® is a registered trademark of Fred Saberhagen

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-9873-9

Cover art by Kurt Miller

First printing, January 2005

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Saberhagen, Fred, 1930-

Rogue berserker / Fred Saberhagen.

p. cm.

"A Baen Books original."

ISBN 0-7434-9873-9

1. Space warfare--Fiction. 2. Robots--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3569.A215R64 2005

813'.54--dc22

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2004021811

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH (www.windhaven.com)

Printed in the United States of America

Baen Books by Fred Saberhagen

Rogue Berserker

Berserker Man

Berserker Death(forthcoming)

The Dracula Tape

Vlad Tapes

Pilgrim

The Black Throne

(with Roger Zelazny)

ONE

ROGUE: (1) A deceitful, double-dealing evildoer . . .

(4) A fierce elephant or stamodont that has been banished from the herd . . . (10) Having a peculiarly

malevolent or unstable nature . . . (11) No longer loyal, affiliated, or recognized, and hence not

governable or accountable . . . erring, apostate.

—Galactic Dictionary of the Common Tongue

The tall thing with four arms came close to catching Harry Silver with its first three-legged rush at him in

the dark alley. In frightening silence it burst out at him from the deeper darkness behind a tall stack of

crates and boxes. It wasn't really running, but stepping rapidly across the gray resilient pavement on its

trio of padded feet. Some inner alarm, a distillation of small clues and experience, clicked a warning in

Harry's brain an instant before he actually saw the thing, granting him the essential moment to drop to the

ground and roll out of the robot's way. One of its grabbers brushed Harry's right sleeve as its thin legs

carried it by.

Dark alleys on unfamiliar planets were good places to avoid; this was the first time in standard years that

he'd tried to use one for a shortcut.

The fact that the natural gravity on this world was a bit weaker than Earth-descended normal gave him

the ability to move a shade faster than usual. He wasn't moving as swiftly as his opponent, but the

disadvantage was not as great as it might have been . . . some part of his mind was still playing the role of

spectator, and as he fell and rolled and spun away, he noticed that the alley floor was remarkably clean

and smooth. Evidently the people living here on Cascadia prized neatness.

Coming up out of his roll into a crouch, Harry saw that his attacker was ten or fifteen centimeters taller

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than he was. Of course it would be vastly stronger. That he had managed to dodge it on its first rush

meant it was slower than most machines, but no doubt it was fast and capable enough to get its job done,

ninety-nine times out of a hundred. By now he'd recognized the type. People who dealt with such devices

on a regular basis called them handpads, or more commonly just paddies—a step up from a footpad, an

old name for a stealthy strong-arm robber. They were also a long step in the wrong direction, of robots

designed to hurt people in some way. Such were thoroughly illegal, on every world that Harry knew

about, but right now that fact was of very little help.

Even though a paddy was bad news, the identification brought relief. For just a moment Harry had

feared that he was facing something infinitely worse. That fear was already proven baseless, the evidence

being that he was still alive.

The robot he was facing would have been built, or rebuilt and illegally modified, in some clandestine

shop. Quite possibly it toiled by day, like countless innocent general purpose machines, at some dull

routine job. This one was equipped with four padded hands, or grippers— Harry had seen some paddy

models that carried five, when you counted a sort of ropelike monkey-tail, which served the same

purpose of grabbing and holding on. The monkey-tail had never worked the way it was supposed to, as

Harry recalled. The carefully fitted pads were meant to prevent injury to the people they were designed

to capture and restrain. The robot's master could hope that this calculated forbearance might offer a

chance to avoid draconian punishment, should he or she be caught.

And a human master there would be, somewhere. One certainty was that the machine had not decided

to do this all by itself. The robot's fagin would be staying in the background, out of sight, safe from fists

and feet and whatever other form of opposition might materialize, waiting until the victim was blindfolded

and helpless, before coming on the scene.

The model of paddy currently confronting Harry had no tail. Neither were its grippers divided into

fingers—the fagin's all-too-human hands, at this point still remaining safely out of sight, would provide all

the fingers necessary. He or she would walk on the scene only after the victim had been rendered

helpless, clamped into immobility and probably blindfolded. Paddy's only function would be to hold the

victim still while the human operator rifled his or her pockets, or got on with the commission of whatever

other offenses against the person that might seem like fun. Robbery, without serious bodily harm, was not

punished on the same scale as mayhem or murder. On any world where human law prevailed, as far as

Harry knew, the penalties were severe for building, employing, or even just possessing any kind of

self-guiding devices intended to actually injure people.

Following the robot's first rush, it had turned, unhurriedly reassessing its target. Now it was methodically

stalking Harry. What little the man could see of his dark opponent in the dim light suggested that its head

and body and arms were made of some composite material. If he punched any part of that surface with

all his strength, he was probably going to break his hand.

To turn his back on it and run would only make the damned thing's job a little easier; he knew he wasn't

going to outspeed those three long springy legs . . .

. . . the robot closed in, and suddenly there was an opening, and before Harry could make a conscious

plan his body was doing its best to take advantage of the opportunity. His right leg got home with a

thrusting kick on the bulky torso. The impact sounded like a note from a bass drum, and would have

caved in the thickest human ribs. The robot was rocked back half a meter or so, but that was all. One of

its grabbers, flailing wildly, thrown off its aim by the force of the kick, bruised Harry's extended leg but

failed to catch hold.

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This was not the kind of machine that people used when they set out to commit murder. There were a lot

of simpler ways of killing, less trouble and more reliable. So, even if Paddy caught him it wouldn't kill,

which meant he could take a bigger chance . . . he decided to let his left arm be seized.

One gripper had caught Harry by the left wrist, and yanked him almost off his feet, but he would bet his

life that that one was pretty quickly going to let go of him again . . .

Now another gripper had Harry by one ankle, so he could no longer kick effectively with either foot.

One second later it had seized his right arm . . . but his left arm was no longer being held, and he put the

newly available fist to good use, rattling the thing's head with a karate blow that he could hope (not much

of a hope, really) was hard enough to jar its senses. He struck again and again with his bladed left hand,

satisfied to keep pounding even though he could get nothing like full power from the awkward position in

which he was being held.

Ten or a dozen hits like that, and suddenly he was free. The robot was reeling back, legs gone

awkward, stumbling to a collapse that left it wedged half under a metal railing, a kind of fence that

defended a sunken areaway beside a dark-walled building

Gasping, picking himself up from where the thing had dropped him, Harry Silver stood unsteadily, a

dark-haired man of indeterminate age, average height and wiry build, wearing the lightweight boots and

coverall that served almost as a uniform for professional spacers. His chosen color for the coverall was

mottled gray, almost a camouflage, aimed at avoiding attention rather than attracting it. Another violent

encounter, long years ago, had left his nose pushed sideways, and it had never been entirely straightened.

What the dim light revealed of his hands and forearms indicated strength.

Before approaching his fallen opponent, Harry looked around. It appeared that whoever might be

paddy's fagin, its human master and controller, was going to remain out of sight. Screw up one robbery,

robot, and you're an orphan. Nobody ever heard of you.

But the orphan was interesting. Probably it was not totally disabled, but it did appear to be stuck in a

position where a reasonably careful man ought to be able to take a closer look at it with a minimum of

risk.

Cautiously Harry moved forward, trying to get a better look at Paddy the Bad, wishing he had some

extra light. Now he could see, with a certain satisfaction, that the parts of the robot's body that had come

in close contact with Harry's left hand, beginning with one of the machine's wrists and its attached

forearm, had been chewed into a ruin.

There were a couple of deep, narrow holes, each one fringed by a raw edge of composite, where

material had been shredded into shagginess with little pieces falling off. The side of the robot's stubby

head where Harry's bladed hand had pounded was in similar shape. An empty socket showed, where an

eye lens had been crudely carved out of its lifeless skull. All in all, Harry's quondam opponent looked like

it had lost a fight with a giant sewing machine.

It wasn't his merely human muscles and training that had wrought such havoc. Didn't he wish. He twisted

the plain-looking, silvery ring on the little finger of his left hand.

As Harry, still breathing hard, backed away from his late opponent, a slight noise made him turn.

A well-dressed man, by his appearance most likely a tourist, was standing some ten meters away, in the

mouth of the alley, bending forward a little, watching Harry warily. When Harry looked around, the man

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straightened and said, almost defensively: "I've called the police."

"That shows good citizenship," Harry grunted. This was one of the rare occasions when he wasn't going

to mind having a conversation with the cops. Still keeping a wary eye on paddy—the well-dressed good

citizen had disappeared—Harry moved to a handy curb and let himself sit down.

* * *

About five minutes later, a uniformed policeman had stepped out of his vehicle, taken his first look at the

robot, and was remarking: "First time I've seen anyone get away from one of these."

Harry was about to retort that he hadn't got away, he was still here, but his better angel reminded him to

be nice. Now an ambulance came rolling up, smoothly and silently, to stand beside the police vehicle.

Harry grunted, turning his ring round on his finger. He would have to remember to recharge it soon. He

was well aware that even with his secret weapon he had not vanquished the robot so much as caused it

to recompute the situation and decide to call off its attack.

"Did it look like this when it first came after you?" the cop asked blandly. "I mean, was it all chopped

up? Or maybe you had some kind of help."

"Maybe I did."

Approached by the human medic from the ambulance, Harry firmly declined a ride to a hospital, then

compromised by submitting to on-the-spot first-aid treatment for his own trivial injuries. These consisted

of a few scrapes, and a bruised calf where the grabber had failed to grab.

While this was going on, he gave the officer a good look at his ring, and began an explanation—he had

no reason to believe that he was currently being recorded. Any of several combinations of commands

and conditions triggered the action of a forceblade concealed in the ring, a nonmaterial cutter somewhat

sharper than a microknife and a little stronger than ordinary steel, that stung and stabbed into anything or

anyone whose behavior had triggered the defense.

The Cascadian cop was professionally interested. Harry demonstrated, briefly, on the robot's torso. The

operation was almost silent, and the thin blur of concentrated force offered nothing at all to see except a

little spray of fragments from its target.

Harry had given his ring's programming some thought. On its first flickering thrust, the blade of force

stabbed out only one centimeter. The initial wound inflicted on a human body was hardly likely to be

serious, but it would get anyone's notice. After an interval of one and one half seconds, it stabbed again,

and one second after that blurred into a frenzy, the rate of repetition going up rapidly, along with the

depth of the penetrations, the latter maxing at ten centimeters. Good armor would stop the little stabber

cold, of course, but Paddy was neither a military machine nor the horror Harry had feared in his first bad

moment.

The cop was shaking his head. "Cute. But you know your gadget's illegal on a lot of planets."

"Not here, I hope."

"Not on my beat, not if it gets a paddy off the streets." The policeman had already determined that Harry

had no criminal record, at least none that showed up in this planet's database. Now he took a quick look

up and down the alley. "But I wouldn't do any public bragging about it."

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"I wouldn't either."

Harry went on answering the investigator's continued questions, mainly by coming up with what seemed

appropriate monosyllables. Half his mind was elsewhere. His anger at having been attacked was growing,

all the fiercer when he recalled that moment of fear when the mechanical body first confronted him.

The cop's next question brought his attention back. "You know anyone who might think they have some

reason to—get back at you for something?"

Harry was nodding. No need to ponder that one. "I might come up with a few names. But none of them

sent this."

"How do you know?"

Harry was smiling faintly now. "I doubt they'd be satisfied just to pick my pockets."

* * *

The ambulance had gone on its way, and a police team of robotic experts had arrived. The team was

headed by a human tech, a woman who gave the impression of being dedicated to her job, in command

of a couple of specialized machines. These were sturdy, functional units, slightly larger than most

full-grown humans. They had two thick arms and two sturdy legs apiece, and their surfaces of scarred

metal armor suggested they were used chiefly in jobs considered notably unsafe for humans. That type of

work included the immobilization of any of their fellow robots that might demonstrate a tendency to be

dangerous or unpredictable.

The lady was soon briefed on the situation, and quietly issued orders. In a few seconds her two

mechanical bodyguards, approaching the stranded paddy one on each side, had strong-armed its massive

body out from under the guard fence and were holding it clamped between them. Each bodyguard was

twisting one of Paddy's arms, and using one of its own large feet to pin down one of Paddy's three.

Precautions having been taken, the human tech herself, optelectronic probes and other gear in hand,

cautiously approached the renegade robot, while the cop and Harry stood back.

The lady applied her probes. Vigilant testing showed that Paddy was still quite capable of movement

when commanded, but was now inclined to be completely docile.

In another moment the tech, with deft, experienced moves, had produced a kind of soft, eyeless helmet

and fitted it loosely over Paddy's head. Immediately she began to get readings on her handheld showing

what was going on inside. It seemed that the doors of communication might be opening a bit, but when

the tech attempted a voice interrogation, the subject moved slightly but remained mute.

"I order you to answer me," she commanded in a firm voice.

Still no response.

Leaning forward cautiously, the tech put out a hand and plucked a small, thin object from a kind of utility

belt that circled Paddy's generous waist. She studied it a moment, then tossed it to her human colleague.

Harry, looking over the shoulder of the male cop, saw that he was now holding a flat, narrow band of

some composite designed material, about as long as a human forearm. Some kind of ligature, the kind of

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thing that might be used to restrain people without causing injury.

The tech commented: "That's a newer model, one I haven't seen before."

The cop, with Harry looking over his shoulder, observed: "Looks a little tougher than the cuffs we use. I

bet it would leave some marks."

The lady was holding out her hand, and he gave the specimen back. By way of illustrating its use, she put

it round the arm of one of her own compliant robots. The instant the band was in place, it molded itself to

the surface, as if it were settling in, getting ready to resist removal.

"Can you pull that loose, Holdy?" she asked the machine. "Give it a try."

A powerful metal hand began to work. Fifteen seconds elapsed before the metal equivalent of a

fingernail managed to scrape a purchase under the band, and five more before the composite yielded with

a snap.

"Holdy's strong," the lady tech remarked. A fine example of understatement, Harry supposed,

considering the line of work for which her robot aide had been designed.

She added: "Human being wouldn't have much chance to get away."

Harry could well believe that, too. There was still no response forthcoming from the robber machine.

Shrugging, the tech did not persist in her attempts at interrogation.

"We'll try again when we get this cute little feller in the lab," she commented. Then she frowned, and

flicked a finger at the ruined section of Paddy's right upper forearm. "How'd he get so chewed up?"

"I didn't see it," the beat cop admitted.

"I didn't get a very good look either," Harry acknowledged. There was a note of bewilderment in his

voice. "It all happened so fast."

The tech gave him an appraising look. "I bet it did," she observed. But finding out what had happened

wasn't her department, and she turned to make a signal to the second tame robot in her crew. It

extended a thick arm and retrieved the helmet from Paddy's head. Harry's imagination painted a glum

look on Paddy's face, made it the image of a human waiting for his lawyer to show up. But a robot was

going to have a long wait before that happened.

"No luck, huh?" the patrolman asked his coworker sympathetically.

The woman shrugged. "When we start taking things apart, we'll probably find all its vocal gear has been

taken out. Maybe even its language capability. And all identifying marks and numbers will have been

removed. Who this belongs to will take some digging to find out—if we ever do."

She looked at Harry one more time. "Consider yourself lucky, mister."

"I always try to do that. Sometimes it works."

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TWO

I've had a fagin tell me, with a straight face, that his paddy is a lifesaver," the sympathetic cop was telling

Harry. "It's only a safety device, just intended to keep people from getting hurt." His voice became a

whine: "•'Why, if I didn't use Paddy here, I'd have to bang up some of my customers severely. Or use a

gun. Is that what you cops want?'•"

Harry offered what seemed to him an appropriate comment. The cop was giving him a ride in a police

car, taking him back to his hotel beside the Cascadian spaceport. As a rule Harry didn't talk much, but

there were times when once he got started he tended to go on at some length. Tonight he found himself,

by his own standards, almost babbling. Discussing your troubles with someone you didn't know was

easier than complaining to a friend—not that Harry was exactly surrounded by a roster of interested

friends all clamoring to hear what had him down.

He explained to the cop that he had come to this world in search of financing for a new ship. The lease

was about to expire on the ship he had been using. He had driven it to Cascadia, with whatever cargo he

had been able to scrounge up, because he had heard that a certain company doing business here was

making deals with small, independent ship owners and operators. But that hadn't worked out. Even

getting another cargo here was proving difficult.

The police car was running on autodriver while the cop just leaned back in the driver's seat and looked

at Harry and listened. He seemed to be one of those good cops who could deal with most problems by

sympathetic talk. Harry would bet that the total amount of good he had done in the world was never

going to show up in his official record.

When Harry paused, the good cop observed: "I suppose owning your own ship is the way to go. If

you're in the piloting business."

"Yeah, just about the only way. I actually had my own ship, until about five standard years ago." Soon

Harry found himself explaining how the last craft he had owned, theWitch of Endor , had been lost in

action against a berserker.

"That would entitle you to compensation, right? From one government or another?"

"Sure, in this case maybe from more than one. But their idea of what it'll cost to replace theWitch

doesn't quite match with mine."

"What kind of ship are you in the market for?" the investigator sounded genuinely curious.

"A nice one." Harry didn't feel like going into details. And he didn't bother to mention that he had a name

all picked out:Sonovawitch . He wasn't sure this officer was the type to appreciate it.

* * *

Over the last few months, in the course of seeking private financing, Harry had made the same

explanation a number of times, to a variety of different people, none of whom had seemed

overwhelmingly impressed. He had grown tired of repeating that the amounts the various governmental

bodies were willing to compensate him did not add up to what he needed for a real replacement for the

Witch , the kind of ship he was determined to have. People responding to his presentation tended to

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leave unspoken comments hanging in the air, things likeThis is an arrogant so-and-so. Entitled to some

special consideration, is he? Who does he think he is ?

Well, Harry knew who he was. Others might entertain different ideas about him, but self-image was not

his problem—at least he had never given it any serious consideration. So when, a few weeks ago, Harry

had been handed the invitation from Winston Cheng, delivered in a form that suggested it had been sent a

good many light-years by special superluminal courier, Harry suspected it was a joke, and his first

thought was:Who would be the most likely perpetrator?

The Winston Cheng whose apparent signature sat like a foundation stone at the bottom of the message

was one of the wealthiest humans in the known Galaxy. Cheng Enterprises was widely believed to be

quite capable of organizing a private army or even a small fleet of spaceships if the need arose. It was a

name Harry would never have considered when drawing up his list of possible angels to whom a small

fish like Harry Silver might reasonably go looking for an honest loan.

The invitation was as simple and direct as it was mysterious:

Mister Harry Silver—

Please come see me in person at once, regarding an arrangement in which I will buy you the ship you

want.

Winston Cheng

Well, it didn't seem at all impossible that Winston Cheng knew that Harry was looking for a good ship.

That was hardly a secret—Harry had been bitching and moaning his way across one Galactic sector after

another, traversing so much of the inhabited territory that probably half the human population could be

aware of his complaints. Harry had gripped the paper—yes, real, simple, single-use paper—in both fists,

muttering. "Come see him, huh? Just like that. How the hell am I supposed to afford just getting there?

Take a vacation in my leased ship? If he thinks . . ."

Such irreverence seemed to make the human courier, the one who had brought Harry the message,

uncomfortable. Not that the courier knew the message content, or the reason it had been sent.

He could, however, clarify one point. Whatever the great man wanted with Harry, it was very serious

business and he was in a hell of a hurry. Yes, he could assure Harry that Winston Cheng had really gone

to the length ofsending a ship for him, a full-sized courier with a human crew. Most magnates with half of

Winston Cheng's wealth would have expected to be able to buy and sell several Harry Silvers for a

fraction of the cost of doing that.

The possibility, even a probability, that the offer might be perfectly serious was beginning to sink in.

"Who do I have to kill?" Harry had wondered aloud.

The courier captain, still waiting deferentially for Harry's reply, evidently thought that Harry was trying to

be funny, and showed polite amusement. "It's not a joke, Mister Silver. A genuine invitation, I assure

you."

Mister Silver waved the document, jabbed a pointing finger at it. "Even the part about his buying me a

ship? Under what conditions does that hold?" Harry was making a fuss, but already in his own mind there

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was no doubt at all that he was going to see the man.

The captain was determined to be as opaque as he was courteous. "Sir, I've told you everything that I

know. Details will have to come from the boss himself."

Port clearance and liftoff were routine. After about two days of ride in the fast courier—two restless

days of doing little or nothing— Harry arrived at an outpost of Winston Cheng Enterprises, in the middle

of a sizable city on a world that was very largely owned by the gentleman himself, where he was ushered

with what seemed amazing speed into the great man's presence.

The visitor wasn't sure whether this room at the top of a high-rise building ought to be called an office or

a study, but it was appropriately long, high, and magnificent. Long, long, red drapes half concealed

windows of crystal that seemed alive with light, their clear depths suggesting rather than displaying vistas

of impossible landscaping.

Actually,presence chamber was the label that sprang to Harry's mind. But, after all, he had seen

breathtaking walls before, with rich patterns scrolling over them. He had seen heavenly furnishings. The

truly most impressive thing about the welcome was that he hadn't been made to wait.

A tall, attractive woman of uncertain age, her slender body sheathed in a long, black flow of rich fabric,

came to greet Harry once the courier captain had seen him in past the first, preliminary receptionist.

Ignoring the courier captain as he bowed himself away, she introduced herself as the Lady Masaharu, in

crisp tones that seemed to want to waste no time. Her smile seemed brittle in a chiseled face, her pale

eyes bored into Harry. Evidently what she saw was acceptable, because in another moment she was

escorting him into another, smaller and less exotically decorated chamber two rooms away. The private

office of Winston Cheng? No, Harry thought not. It was probably the lady's. Or that of the third deputy

assistant to the third assistant deputy.

Gesturing Harry to a chair, and seating herself behind a dominating desk, she continued to be pleasant

and welcoming, in a businesslike way. All emotions were as firmly controlled as her tightly coiffured hair.

Her voice was soft, in contrast to her appearance. "How was your journey, Mister Silver?"

"Mysterious."

The smile that had gone away came back, faintly. "I hope we'll soon be able to clear up any essential

questions. Mister Cheng wants to do that in person. Were there any other problems?"

"No. Otherwise very comfortable."

Giving the impression of responding to some signal that Harry could not detect, the Lady Masaharu was

suddenly on her feet. "Come this way, please."

In another moment she was ushering him into the next room, which outdid the original reception room in

splendor. As Harry entered, the space before him, practically big enough for a game of volleyball, was

dominated by an impressive though silent holostage display. Obviously it was meant for him to see, and

there was no need to point it out.

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Fred Saberhagen - Berserker 15 - Rogue Berserker

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