Fred Saberhagen - Berserker 10 - The Berserker Throne

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Berserker Throne

Table of Contents

The Berserker Throne

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Berserker Throne

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.

Berserker ® is a registered trademark of Fred Saberhagen.

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

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ISBN: 0-671-55836-6

Cover art by Vincent Di Fate

First printing, May 1985

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

Baen Books by Fred Saberhagen

Berserker Man(Megabook)

Rogue Berserker(forthcoming)

Berserker Death(Megabook, forthcoming)

The Dracula Tape

Vlad Tapes

Pilgrim

The Black Throne(with Roger Zelazny)

Author's Note

For more information about Fred Saberhagen

and this series, see:

www.berserker.com

The Berserker Throne

Chapter 1

Around the green and lovely world called Salutai, the sky was clear of terror, as it had been now for

many years. Today the planet's dayside sky was almost clear of clouds as well, and at midday the face of

the land beneath it blazed with the thousand colors of midsummer flowers.

It was the Holiday of Life today on Salutai, the planet's greatest yearly festival, and at the meridian of

noon the central procession of the festival was passing through small town streets strewn with fresh-cut

blooms.

Through this particular small town ran many canals. They were clean, open waterways, and almost as

numerous as the streets. And today in the canals as in the streets of Salutai the masses of summer blooms

were prodigally distributed, those on the water floating and drifting in the controlled current. The streets

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and canal banks and buildings of the town under the noonday sun echoed with celebration, with ten kinds

of music all being played and sung at the same time. The buildings, streets, canals, as well as the people in

them and on them and the living plants that made archways above, were all mad with decorations.

At the center of the slow-moving ceremonial procession crept the broad, low, bubble-domed groundcar

in which the Empress of the Eight Worlds was riding. The parade extending ahead of her car and behind

it was not really very long, but it took its time, so that everyone in the town who wanted to see the

procession and the Empress at close range had a good chance to do so. And there were many, in this

town and across the planet, who did want to see. The crowds, here on Salutai composed exclusively of

Earth-descended humans, cried the name of their Empress in several languages, and some of the people

in the crowd waved petitions and raised banners and placards, promoting one cause or another, as her

clear-topped groundcar crept past.

Though the procession was not moving with much speed, neither was the town large. The sun of Salutai

was still very nearly directly overhead when the central groundcar and its escort of marchers and other

vehicles emerged from the confinement of the old town's narrow streets, and entered abruptly into a

countryside that was approximately half in well-managed cultivation, half still in what looked like virgin

wilderness.

As the short parade left the last of the hard-paved streets behind, the crowds surrounding it grew no

less, but rather greater. Here, amid a vast, parklike expanse that provided more room in which to

assemble, a larger throng was waiting. This crowd was made up partly of government workers and

dependents drafted into action and tubed out from the nearby capital city; still, most of the people had

come here freely, to cheer a monarch popular enough to draw spontaneous affection from many of her

people.

Here a substantial minority of the crowd had in mind other things besides the offer of uncritical affection.

Live news coverage of the procession was notably absent, but still there were occasional protests.

Whenever these protestors and placard-bearers grew too numerous or noisy, security people in uniform

and out appeared in sudden concentration, moving to break up the gatherings as gently and as quietly as

possible. There were no injuries. The people of Salutai knew a long tradition of courtesy, and they were

almost universally unused to the organization of violence, at least against their fellow humans and fellow

citizens.

Now, still surrounded by flowers, and by a slow wave of noise that was still predominantly happy, the

procession paused on the bank of a broad, open canal. Amid a suddenly increased presence of

uniformed security forces, the Empress, still tall and regal despite her advanced age, stood up out of her

low car, and amid much ceremonious escort walked down a few steps to a dock. There she stepped

aboard a heavily decorated pleasure-barge that waited to receive her, rising and falling gently amid the

floating drifts of flowers.

She had to delay briefly then, looking back toward shore, to give her attention to a delegation of

school-children who were about to present her with a special bouquet.

To a young man who was watching from the top of a small hill a hundred meters distant, amid the

scalloped outer fringes of the crowd, the whole scene, of applauding throngs, welcoming children, and

the endless visual bombardment of blossoms, made a very pretty picture indeed.

The young man's name was Chen Shizuoka, and with his curly dark hair surrounding an almost angelic

face he looked very earnest and nervous at the moment, more so than those around him. He said to his

companion: "Listen to them. They still love her."

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The two of them, Chen and the young woman who was standing with him, had been waiting for several

hours on the hilltop, along with a handful of other people who had with foresight chosen this place for the

clear view that it was certain to provide of the Empress and the parade. For the last few minutes Chen

and his companion, whose name was Hana Calderon, had been watching intently the stately and joyful

approach of the procession. Chen loved the Empress, as did so many of her people, and he would have

liked to be able to get closer to her now, near enough to cry out some heartfelt personal greeting, and

perhaps even to meet her eyes. But today he had a duty that precluded the gratification of any such

personal wish.

Hana Calderon was not really so young as Chen; at the moment she looked quieter, less nervous, and

somehow more effective. She raised a hand and brushed back straight black hair from dark oriental eyes,

narrowed now in calculation.

"I think," she said, her tone suggesting that she was mildly chiding the young man but being careful how

she went about it, "that what most of them are really cheering is the Holiday of Life."

As if by reflex Chen glanced up at the clear terrorless sky, from which it was always possible—and this

year perhaps more probable than last—that terror might come again.

"I suppose," he said to his companion, avoiding argument as usual, "that feelings are strong again this

year. With the news."

Hana Calderon nodded, moving her chiseled classical profile up and down without turning the gaze of

her dark eyes away from the Empress's barge. The presentation of the special bouquet had just been

completed, and the vessel was now almost ready to carry the Empress out on the next, waterborne leg of

her progress.

The young woman said in an abstracted voice: "I suppose they are." Then, still not looking away from

the barge, she reached out a hand to touch Chen. In a suddenly crisp tone, she added: "Are you ready?"

Chen Shizuoka's right hand had been for a long time ready in his inner pocket, gripping a small plastic

object. It seemed to him that his fingers had been clutching that object for an eternity. "Ready."

"Then let it go. Now!" The words were an order, given sharply and decisively, though Hana's voice was

too low for anyone else standing nearby to hear her through the noise of the surrounding crowd.

A hundred meters downhill from where they stood, the barge was just getting into motion. Chen

Shizuoka withdrew the tiny device he had been gripping, and with a different pressure of his fingers

activated it. A signal even subtler than most electronic emanations was sent forth.

From among the tight-packed crowd below, there rose up sudden screams.

Don't be afraid!Chen wanted to reassure them. He knew how harmless the large inflatable devices

were that now came popping up out of the canal, in front of and around the barge that bore the Empress.

The great rough shapes, surfacing like huge gray hippopotami of old Earth, were blocking the decorated

barge completely. The devices, inflating themselves at Chen's signal, were all moored to the bottom of the

canal so as not to be easily pushed out of the way. As large as hippos, they were of various shapes, all

intended to represent particular models of berserkers, but in no more than a clumsy cartoon fashion.

Chen himself had insisted on that point, so that not even a single startled child in the crowd should be able

to mistake them for the terrible reality. What the planners of the demonstration hoped to create in their

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audience was thought, not terror.

A considerable amount of work had gone into fabricating the inflatable devices, and the effort and strain

of planting them secretly in the canal had been, Chen thought when he looked back on it, more than he

ever wanted to go through again. Not that he would have refused to do it all again, and more, if he

thought that doing so would get the Prince recalled to power, and some of those who currently served

the Empress in high places exiled in his stead.

Up out of the water the odd shapes came, shiny-wet and dark and in the cartoon crudity of their forms

unmistakable as to what they were supposed to represent. One after another in rapid succession broke

the surface, the swift bobbing lunges of their rising pushing aside the drowning masses of flowers.

The crowds near the canal were in great turmoil.

"It's working," Chen crooned softly, happily to the young woman at his side, not turning his head to look

at her. "It's going to do the job."

Suddenly there were sharp thrumming sounds from below, and more yells, and an even greater turmoil

among the crowd, the start of real panic. Some of the more trigger-happy security people had pulled out

handguns and were actually opening fire, with devastating effect upon harmless inflated plastic. Chen,

with sudden helpless concern, as if he had seen a distant child toying with a dangerous weapon, recalled

how there had been hurt feelings among the populace, injured protests at the mere announcement that this

time when the Empress traveled among her people she was going to be accompanied by a strong security

contingent.

And the many citizens who had protested the security arrangements had been right, Chen thought, there

were the supposed protectors now, blasting away with guns and endangering lives. It was not as if they

could really believe that they were confronted with a plot tohurt the Empress. No one was going to do

that; not to the Empress; certainly not here on her home world of Salutai.

The brief outburst of gunfire ceased, evidently on some order, as abruptly as it had started. But the

uproar and panic in the surrounding crowd continued at an alarming pitch. Looking downhill, Chen

observed that some of the clumsy-looking waterborne devices had been destroyed. But enough of them

remained in place to at least impede the forward movement of the barge. A dozen in all of the inflatable

things had been put into position—Chen could still remember the feel of the bottom mud, the taste it gave

the water when it was stirred up, the thrill of terror recurring each time there was some alarm and he and

the others thought that they had been discovered at their task.

Some of the placards borne by the ugly gray shapes had not yet been blasted into illegibility. One of

them read: THE ENEMY IS NOT DESTROYED. And another: RECALL PRINCE HARIVARMAN.

"Let's get going," said Hana Calderon suddenly, speaking quietly into Chen's ear. He nodded once, and

with that they separated, with nothing more in the way of farewell than one last glance of triumph

exchanged. Except for the unexpected outbreak of gunfire, and the resulting panic—maybe someone

reallyhad been hurt; Chen certainly hoped not—everything was going smoothly, according to the

carefully rehearsed plan. No one in that crowd below would be able to ignore their message. Everyone

would carry it home and talk about it. Approvingly or disapprovingly, they would be forced to think

about it. And eventually, inevitably, it would be accepted. Because it was the truth.

Chen turned away from Hana and from the scene below. Without either delay or haste he started

walking his own planned path down the side of the hill away from the canal and the confusion around the

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barge. He didn't look for Hana, but he knew she would be making a similar withdrawal, moving on a

diverging course. He would meet her later, in the city. No one appeared to take any particular notice of

him as he retreated. He dropped his plastic control device into a trash disposal in passing. He felt certain

already that their getaway was going to be as successful as all the other previously successful steps in the

elaborate plan.

Even now, out of direct sight of the demonstration that his hands had triggered, Chen could hear in the

crowd's roar behind him the kind of impact their show had achieved. At least as great as anything he had

dared to hope for. Now from the same direction sounded sharp reports, what must be the sound of more

inflated dummies being shot to fragments. And the roar of the crowd went up again.

His imitation berserkers would shortly be destroyed, but no one of the thousands who had been here

today would be able to ignore or forget the messages that they had carried.

Chen listened carefully as he retreated, savoring the crowd noise behind him. It was fading gradually as

he moved away, and now for some reason it held more anger and fear than he had imagined there would

be—because of the actions of the security people, he supposed, and who could blame the crowd for

that?

Some fifty meters down the hill, moving amid a slowly growing crowd of other people who had

prudently or timidly decided to be somewhere else, Chen came to an inconspicuously parked

groundcycle. When he straddled the machine it started quietly, and within moments it was bearing him at

a greatly increased speed away from the tumult and the crowds.

He had less than a kilometer to travel on the cycle, traversing a network of smooth pathways that laced

the lovely countryside, before he reached a subway station whose entrance was almost hidden, set into

the side of a flowered embankment. He abandoned the cycle outside the station, confident that a

confederate would take it away later so it would not be traced to him. Once underground, Chen was

able almost at once to board a swift tubetrain that brought him in a few minutes underneath the capital

city.

Disembarking from the train, riding a stair to ground level, into the usual swarm of people at one of the

central metropolitan stations, Chen felt a wave of bleak reaction as he melded himself into the population

of the streets. It was almost a sense of disappointment at the ease of his and his friends' success. It

seemed in a way unfair, as if the security people had never had a chance of stopping the demonstration,

or of catching up with him or Hana afterward; now all was, would be, anticlimax.

Of course, most of the other members of Chen's protest group had kept telling him all along that the

demonstration would be a great success. Hana had certainly been confident, and he himself had really

expected nothing less than success. . . .

The plan now called for him to go home, that is to return to the student's room where he lived alone, and

there await developments. But there was no particular hurry about his getting to his room. Chen delayed,

watching a public newscast that was evidently running somewhat behind events, for it showed nothing

about a demonstration interrupting the progress of the Empress. He moved on to a favorite bookstore,

dallied there a little longer, then walked on unhurriedly. If he ever should be questioned, for any reason,

about his whereabouts today, he'd have an answer: Why yes, he had been out there, watching the

parade. When things started to get noisy and rowdy, and he heard actual shots, he had simply decided

that it was time to leave.

Chen passed another public newscast, and dawdled before the elevated holostage long enough to be

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sure that the news still contained no mention of the demonstration; by now, he felt sure, that omission

must be deliberate. On Salutai such blatantly direct government control was unheard of, even in these

times; the situation made him uneasy.

When Chen reached the street where he lodged, and approached the block on which his room was

located, his uneasiness led him to look about him with unwonted caution. He saw with a sinking

sensation, but somehow no real surprise, that there were security people here, cruising in their cars, two

or three cars of them at least, observing. He had learned to recognize the type of unmarked groundcar

that they favored. They appeared to be trying to make themselves inconspicuous, but there they were.

Something had gone wrong after all. He could not help believing that they were here waiting for him to

show up. The sinking feeling was becoming a steady sickness in his gut.

Chen stepped around a corner into a cross street. He paused in the doorway of an apartment building,

and stood pondering what to do next.

He leaned out of the doorway to look back along the way that he had come, and the sound numbed him

for an instant with its sudden shock, a frightening impact against the wall immediately beside his head, as

if an invisible rock from some invisible catapult had struck there. There was another component to the

sound too, a sharp thrum, a louder echo of the police weapons at the demonstration, much louder and

closer than he had heard them from the hill. This came from a rooftop or an upper window across the

street. Someone over there was shooting at him, shooting to kill.

In sudden cold terror Chen dodged out of the doorway, heading down the street in a fast zigzag walk,

the movement blending him at once into the flow of other hurrying pedestrians. Still his whole back felt

tensed and swollen, one enormous muscle tightening uselessly against the killing blow that was to come

any second. The sky that had been free of terror an hour ago had turned now to blue ice closing him in.

Now he thought that one of the unmarked cars of the security people was keeping pace with him along

the street. He dodged quickly into a smaller side passage for pedestrians, leaving the vehicle behind.

He fled through the complex and crowded heart of the city, heading instinctively for areas where the

congestion would be greater. Once, then twice, he dared to hope that he had shaken his pursuers off. But

each time, even before hope could really establish itself, he saw that such was not the case. They had

perhaps lost sight of him for the moment, but he knew they must be everywhere, in vehicles and afoot, in

uniform and in civilian clothes. Anyone who glanced at him might be Security . . . and Chen had to

assume that they were all after him.

Organize a simple demonstration, just a demonstration, and they hunted you like this. Tried to kill you on

sight, out of hand . . . it was a bad dream, and he was caught up in it, and there was no use hoping to be

saved by any rules of sanity and logic.

What did they want tokill him for, what had he done that even they should think was terrible to that

degree? If a free citizen could no longer even protest openly without being hunted like a dangerous

animal, then things on the world of Salutai were already even worse than he and his friends had been

telling one another. Far worse.

Exhaustion overtook Chen quickly. It was as if he had been running steadily for hours, enduring steady

fear and tension more tiring than mere physical exertion. In one of the tougher neighborhoods of the city,

a couple of kilometers now from his own apartment, Chen entered a crowded square of shops and other

buildings, some of them little more than hovels. A few derelicts were camped, amid litter, on the grassy

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plaza at the center.

Chen had taken his last turning seeking a complication of pathways, but realized as soon as he had

entered the square that the move might well have been a blunder. There were only three or four ways out

of it again. Should he turn back right away . . . ?

It was already too late for that. One of the slow-cruising groundcars had just stopped, a little way behind

him. They must be losing him and picking him up again, trying to close in. Quickly he slid around a knot

of people, getting them between him and the car, and moved on with them. If the crowds of pedestrians

ever thinned out, he was lost. He was better dressed than most of the people in this neighborhood, on the

verge at least of being conspicuous because of that.

Walking, waiting in exhaustion for a blasting death, he scanned the storefronts rapidly for a place to hide.

If his pursuers were willing to shoot him dead, they were certainly not going to be put off by the necessity

of searching for him inside a store, or anywhere else that he could think of. Nothing that he could do to

throw them off was going to give them too much trouble.

Except, perhaps . . .

On one of the storefronts ahead there loomed a large sign, of a type familiar all across the

Earth-colonized portion of the Galaxy. It was seen on most worlds, as here, more often in the poorer

neighborhoods than in the well-to-do:

THE FIGHT FOR LIFE HAS NOT BEEN WON.

THE TEMPLARS NEED YOU.

Just beneath the sign, a poster with its lifelike picture animated by electronics showed an appealing child

in the act of cringing away from a grasping metal menace. The berserker android on the poster was a far

more barbed and angled and poisonous-looking portrayal of the ancient enemy than any of Chen's

balloons had been.

And as if this poster were indeed another menace from which he needed desperately to be saved, Chen

stopped in his tracks, recoiled slightly, and glanced hastily, hopelessly, around the square.

His situation here looked indeed hopeless. Already he thought that he could see a checkpoint being

established, or one already functioning unobtrusively, at each possible exit.

And suppose he did manage, somehow, to find another way out of the square. The search for him, a

manhunt of this intensity, was obviously not going to be broken off simply because he managed to dodge

it one more time. The hunt was going to go on. And he could think of no place in this city, on this planet,

where it could not reach him; no place to hide. Chen certainly had no intention of leading these

murderous monsters to any of his friends.

This kind of a hunt, Chen saw, could end only when they had caught him. And he had seen and felt

evidence that being caught would not simply be a matter of being arrested—matters had gone beyond

that already. Incomprehensibly, the security people had shot at him. He kept coming back to that fact,

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being brought up short by it, stumbling over it. But there was no way around the fact. For some reason

that could make sense only to their mad arrogance, they were really trying to kill him.

He was walking forward again, moving in a daze, a condition which on these poor streets made him less

rather than more conspicuous. The door to the Templars' recruiting office was again immediately in front

of him. To Chen that open doorway had a look of unreality, but now everything about him did; everything

except the fact that someone was now trying to accomplish his death. That had a reality of a transcendent

kind.

"What can we do for you, sir?" A bland-looking sergeant behind a counter, no different in appearance or

manner except for the uniform than any other salesman in any other shop, raised his head and spoke as

Chen entered. A couple of other young men, with some kind of fancy paper readouts in their hands, were

just turning away from the counter, about to leave the office.

Chen moved up close to the waist-high surface of the counter, and rested his hands upon it. There came

and went in his mind a last fleeting thought that perhaps it would be enough for him to spend a little time in

this office, off the street; perhaps if he did that the killers out there would get tired of looking for him and

go away . . .

. . . that hope was not worth even a fleeting thought. He had to get on with what he perceived as his only

remaining choice.

Chen cleared his throat. "I—if I were to enlist right now, how soon could I get off planet?"

"Soon as you want." Experienced eyes sized Chen up with calculation. The sergeant was carefully

unsurprised.

Chen pressed him: "Today, maybe?"

The sergeant checked the timepiece on the wall. Now he looked more than ever to Chen like a

salesman, one accustomed to not show surprise at a customer's strange request. Certainly it seemed that

the question was not entirely new to him.

"Why not today?" The sergeant's voice was matter-of-fact, perhaps carefully so. "If you're in something

of a hurry to get elsewhere, that's all right with us. Soon as you sign the enlistment form, and take the

oath, then you're officially a Templar. We'd drive you to the spaceport enclave today anyway. That's

Templar diplomatic territory. If, maybe, just for an example, there were angry relatives looking for you

here, or maybe creditors, they wouldn't have a chance. We've even had people come in who were in

trouble with the law, with the cops hardly a jump behind them. The cops have no chance either, not of

arresting someone who's officially a Templar. Not for something the man did before he enlisted." The

recruiter looked at Chen steadily; it sounded like a speech that had been well thought out, one that had

been given before.

Chen cleared his throat again. "That's about what I thought; I . . ."

Something in Chen, ever since he was a child, was always stirred by stories of adventure, had always

looked forward in daydreams to this moment: to becoming a Templar, entering a world of physical

adventure, risking all in a most worthy cause. In real life, other considerations had always until now

prevailed: a distaste for what he foresaw the military life would be like; a wish to be a student; a strong

desire to be free to act in Eight Worlds politics.

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And in the daydreams, Chen had never thought that it would be the desperate need for escape that

would drive him to this step, as it had driven so many characters in adventure stories. But there was no

arguing with reality, which evidently after all had no prejudice against trite melodrama. Those guns in the

hands of the men outside were real.

Chen signed the document placed before him by the recruiter, not bothering to read it, either before or

after. "Now what? Can I wait here?"

The sergeant, still as calm as before, came around from behind his official barricade. "Yeah. But first, to

make it official, you take the oath. I need another live witness for that." He went into the back room and

came back with a young woman, who wore on the shoulder of her Templar uniform an insignia that Chen

thought meant she was a clerk.

The oath, like the paper he had just signed, went by him without its words really registering in his

consciousness; he could only hope that it would serve as a magic curtain, an incantation, to render him

invisible to scanning gunsights.

Now he was led into the back room and told to wait. It might have been the back room of any office,

holding information transmission and storage equipment, with miscellaneous bins and closets. There were

also a few chairs and two desks, at one of which the young clerk went back to her paperwork. A couple

of hours passed—for Chen, as in some endless dream—as he sat numbly watching the clerk go about

her duties. Her work was largely electronic, and did not appear to be all that arduous. Once or twice he

tried to make conversation, and got in return short answers, and looks that had in them the faintly amused

tolerance of the veteran.

Before the first hour of Chen's wait was over, there came from the front office a sound of new voices,

too low to be fully distinguishable, as if several men had entered at once and were in conference with the

sergeant. The voices might have represented no more than some group of friends coming in together on a

routine recruiting inquiry, but Chen thought that they meant something else. He waited fatalistically, but

nothing happened, except that the voices ceased presently and the men went out again. And shortly after

that unusual conversation in the front, the sergeant came briefly into the back again, for no other reason

than to give Chen a long and unreadable look.

After the second hour of Chen's wait, two young men, not the same two who had been in the office

when Chen entered, arrived and were ushered into the back to join him in his waiting. These two, he

thought, were certainly real recruits. They exchanged nods with Chen, and had no more success than he

had had in making nervous banter with the clerk.

Shortly after their arrival, ground transportation arrived to take all three recruits to the Templar facility at

the spaceport. They were led by the sergeant out a back door of the office into an alley, and at once

urged into the vehicle, a high-built van.

The windows of the groundvan were set for high one-way opacity; it would be very hard for anyone

outside to look in. During the drive to the spaceport Chen observed a security car or two, or what he

thought were such; it was hard to tell if their occupants might be taking any particular interest in the

Templar vehicle.

Inside the van, the ride to the spaceport was mostly silent; it was beginning to sink in on the other

recruits, perhaps, what sort of a major change in lifestyle they had embarked upon.

Listening to the few words that his two companions exchanged between them, Chen gathered that basic

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BerserkerThroneTableofContentsTheBerserkerThroneChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20EpilogueBerserkerThroneFredSaberhagenThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeven...

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Fred Saberhagen - Berserker 10 - The Berserker Throne

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