Fred Saberhagen - Berserker 09 - Berserker Attack
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The Berserker Attack
Copyright (c) 1987 by Fred Saberhagen
INTRODUCTION
I, THIRD HISTORIAN OF THE CARMPAN RACE, IN GRATITUDE to the Earth-descended race
for their defense of my world, set down here for them my fragmentary vision of these battles from their
great war against our common enemy.
The vision has been formed piece by piece through my contacts in past and present time with the minds
of men and of machines. In these minds alien to me I often perceive what I cannot understand, yet what I
see is true. And so I have truly set down the acts and words of Earth-descended men great and small
and ordinary, the words and even the secret thoughts of your heroes and your traitors.
Looking into the past I have seen how in the twentieth century of your Christian calendar your
forefathers on Earth first built radio detectors capable of sounding the deeps of interstellar space. On the
day when whispers in our alien voices were first detected, straying in across the enormous intervals, the
universe of stars became real to all Earth's nations and all her tribes.
They became aware of the real world surrounding them-a universe strange and immense beyond
thought, possibly hostile, surrounding and shrinking all Earthmen alike. Like island savages just become
aware of the great powers existing on and beyond their ocean, your nations began- sullenly, mistrustfully,
almost against their will-to put aside their quarrels with one another.
In the same century the men of old Earth took their first steps into space. They studied our alien voices
whenever they could hear us. And when the men of old Earth began to travel faster than light, they
followed our voices to seek us out.
Your race and mine studied each other with eager science and with great caution and courtesy. We
Carmpan and our older friends are more passive than you. We live in different environments and think
mainly in different directions. We posed no threat to Earth. We saw to it that Earthmen were not
crowded by our presence; physically and mentally they had to stretch to touch us. Ours, all the skills of
keeping peace. Alas, for the day unthinkable that was to come, the day when we wished ourselves
warlike!
You of Earth found uninhabited planets, where you could thrive in the warmth of suns much like your
own. In large colonies and small you scattered yourselves across one segment of one arm of our
slow-turning galaxy. To your settlers and frontiersmen the galaxy began to seem a friendly place, rich in
worlds hanging ripe for your peaceful occupation.
The alien immensity surrounding you appeared to be not hostile after all. Imagined threats had receded
behind horizons of silence and vastness. And so once more you allowed among yourselves the luxury of
dangerous conflict, carrying the threat of suicidal violence.
No enforceable law existed among the planets. On each of your scattered colonies individual leaders
maneuvered for personal power, distracting their people with real or imagined dangers posed by other
Earth-descended men.
All further exploration was delayed, in the very days when the new and inexplicable radio voices were
first heard drifting in from beyond your frontiers, the strange soon-to-be-terrible voices that conversed
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only in mathematics. Earth and Earth's colonies were divided each against all by suspicion, and in mutual
fear were rapidly training and arming for war.
And at this point the very readiness for violence that had sometimes so nearly destroyed you, proved to
be the means of life's survival. To us, the Carmpan watchers, the withdrawn seers and touchers of minds,
it appeared that you had carried the crushing weight of war through all your history knowing that it would
at last be needed, that this hour would strike when nothing less awful would serve.
When the hour struck and our enemy came without warning, you were ready with swarming
battle-fleets. You were dispersed and dug in on scores of planets, and heavily armed. Because you were,
some of you and some of us are now alive.
Not all our Carmpan psychology, our logic and vision and subtlety, would have availed us anything. The
skills of peace and tolerance were useless, for our enemy was not alive.
What is thought, that mechanism seems to bring it forth?
MASQUE OF THE RED SHIFT
FINDING HIMSELF ALONE AND UNOCCUPIED, FELIPE NOGARA chose to spend a free
moment in looking at the thing that had brought him out here beyond the last fringe of the galaxy. From
the luxury of his quarters he stepped up into his private observation bubble. There, in a raised dome of
invisible glass, he seemed to be standing outside the hull of his flagship Nirvana.
Under that hull, "below" the Nirvana's artificial gravity, there slanted the bright disk of the galaxy,
including in one of its arms all the star systems the Earth-descended man had yet explored. But in
whatever direction Nogara looked, bright spots and points of light were plentiful. They were other
galaxies, marching away at their recessional velocities of tens of thousands of miles per second, marching
on out to the optical horizon of the universe.
Nogara had not come here to look at galaxies, however; he had come to look at something new, at a
phenomenon never before seen by men at such close range.
It was made visible to him by the apparent pinching-together of the galaxies beyond it, and by the clouds
and streamers of dust cascading into it. The star that formed the center of the phenomenon was itself held
beyond human sight by the strength of its own gravity. Its mass, perhaps a billion times that of Sol, so
bent spacetime around itself that not a photon of light could escape it with a visible wavelength.
The dusty debris of deep space tumbled and churned, falling into the grip of the hypermass. The falling
dust built up static charges until lightning turned it into luminescent thunderclouds, and the flicker of the
vast lightning shifted into the red before it vanished, near the bottom of the gravitational hill. Probably not
even a neutrino could escape this sun. And no ship would dare approach much closer than Nirvana now
rode.
Nogara had come out here to judge for himself if the recently discovered phenomenon might soon
present any danger to inhabited planets; ordinary suns would go down like chips of wood into a
whirlpool if the hypermass found them in its path. But it seemed that another thousand years would pass
before any planets had to be evacuated; and before then the hypermass might have gorged itself on dust
until its core imploded, whereupon most of its substance could be expected to re-enter the universe in a
most spectacular but less dangerous form.
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Anyway, in another thousand years, it would be someone else's problem. Right now it might be said to
be Nogara's-for men said that he ran the galaxy, if they said it of anyone.
A communicator sounded, calling him back to the enclosed luxury of his quarters, and he walked down
quickly, glad of a reason to get out from under the galaxies.
He touched a plate with one finger. "What is it?"
"My lord, a courier ship has arrived. From the Flamland system. They are bringing..."
"Speak plainly. They are bringing my brother's body?"
"Yes, my lord. The launch bearing the coffin is already approaching Nirvana."
"I will meet the courier captain, alone, in the Great Hall. I want no ceremony. Have the robots at the
airlock test the escort and the outside of the coffin for infection."
"Yes, my lord."
The mention of disease was a bit of misdirection. It was not the Flamland plague that had put Johann
Karlsen into a box, though that was the official story. The doctors were supposed to have frozen the hero
of the Stone Place as a last resort, to prevent his irreversible death.
An official lie was necessary because not even High Lord Nogara could lightly put out of the way the
one man who had made the difference at the Stone Place. Since that battle it seemed that life in the
galaxy would survive, though the fighting against the berserkers was still bitter.
The Great Hall was where Nogara met daily for feasting and pleasure with the forty or fifty people who
were with him on Nirvana, as aides or crewmen or entertainers. But when he entered the Hall now he
found it empty, save for one man who stood at attention beside a coffin.
Johann Karlsen's body and whatever remained of his life were sealed under the glass top of the heavy
casket, which contained its own refrigeration and revival systems, controlled by a fiber-optic key
theoretically impossible to duplicate. This key Nogara now demanded, with a gesture, from the courier
captain.
The captain had the key hung around his neck, and it took him a moment to pull the golden chain over
his head and hand it to Nogara. It was another moment before he remembered to bow; he was a
spaceman and not a courtier. Nogara ignored the lapse of courtesy; it was his governors and admirals
who were reinstituting ceremonies of rank; he himself cared nothing about how subordinates gestured and
postured, so long as they obeyed intelligently.
Only now, with the key in his own hand, did Nogara look down at his frozen half-brother. The plotting
doctors had shaved away Johann's short beard and his hair. His lips were marble pale, and his sightless
open eyes were ice. But still the face above the folds of the draped and frozen sheet was undoubtedly
Johann's. There was something that would not freeze.
"Leave me for a time," Nogara said. He turned to face the end of the Great Hall and waited, looking out
through the wide viewport to where the hypermass blurred space like a bad lens.
When he heard the door ease shut behind the courier captain he turned back-and found himself facing
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the short figure of Oliver Mical, the man he had selected to replace Johann as governor of Flamland.
Mical must have entered as the spaceman left, which Nogara thought might be taken as symbolic of
something.
Resting his hand familiarly on the coffin, Mical raised one graying eyebrow in his habitual expression of
weary amusement. His rather puffy face twitched in an overcivilized smile.
"How does Browning's line go?" Mical mused, glancing down at Karlsen. " 'Doing the king's work all the
dim day long'-and now, this reward of virtue."
"Leave me," said Nogara.
Mical was in on the plot, as was hardly anyone else except the Flamland doctors. "I thought it best to
appear to share your grief," he said. Then he looked at Nogara and ceased to argue. He made a bow
that was mild mockery when the two of them were alone, and walked briskly to the door. Again it
closed.
So, Johann. If you had plotted against me, I would have had you killed outright. But you were never a
plotter, it was just that you served me too successfully, my enemies and friends alike began to love you
too well. So here you are, my frozen conscience, the last conscience I'll ever have. Sooner or later you
would have become ambitious, so it was either do this to you or kill you.
Now I'll put you away safely, and maybe someday you'll have another chance at life. It's a strange
thought that someday you may stand musing over my coffin as I now stand over yours. No doubt you'll
pray for what you think is my soul.... I can't do that for you, but I wish you sweet dreams. Dream of your
Believers' heaven, not of your hell.
Nogara imagined a brain at absolute zero, its neurons superconducting, repeating one dream on and on
and on. But that was nonsense.
"I cannot risk my power, Johann." This time he whispered the words aloud. "It was either this or have
you killed." He turned again to the wide viewport.
"I suppose Thirty-three's gotten the body to Nogara already," said the Second Officer of Esteeler
Courier Thirty-four, looking at the bridge chronometer. "It must be nice to declare yourself an emperor
or whatever, and have people hurl themselves all over the galaxy to do everything for you."
"Can't be nice to have someone bring you your brother's corpse," said Captain Thurman Holt, studying
his astrogational sphere. His ship's C-plus drive was rapidly stretching a lot of timelike interval between
itself and the Flamland system. Even if Holt was not enthusiastic about his mission, he was glad to be
away from Flamland, where Mical's political police were taking over.
"I wonder," said the Second, and chuckled.
"What's that mean?"
The Second looked over both shoulders, out of habit formed on Flamland. "Have you heard this one?"
he asked. "Nogara is God-but half of his spacemen are atheists."
Holt smiled, but only faintly. "He's no mad tyrant, you know. Esteel's not the worst-run government in
the galaxy. Nice guys don't put down rebellions."
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"Karlsen did all right."
"That's right, he did."
The Second grimaced. "Oh, sure, Nogara could be worse, if you want to be serious about it. He's a
politician.
But I just can't stand that crew that's accumulated around him in the last few years. We've got an
example on board now of what they do. If you want to know the truth I'm a little scared now that
Karlsen's dead."
"Well, we'll soon see them." Holt sighed and stretched. "I'm going to look in on the prisoners. The bridge
is yours, Second."
"I relieve you, sir. Do the man a favor and kill him, Thurm."
A minute later, looking through the spy-plate into the courier's small brig, Holt could wish with honest
compassion that his male prisoner was dead.
He was an outlaw chieftain named Janda, and his capture had been the last success of Karlsen's
Flamland service, putting a virtual end to the rebellion. Janda had been a tall man, a brave rebel, and a
brutal bandit. He had raided and fought against Nogara's Esteeler empire until there was no hope left,
and then he had surrendered to Karlsen.
"My pride commands me to conquer my enemy," Karlsen had written once, in what he thought was to
be a private letter. "My honor forbids me to humble or hate my enemy." But Mical's political police
operated with a different philosophy.
The outlaw might still be long-boned, but Holt had never seen him stand tall. The manacles still binding
his wrists and ankles were of plastic and supposedly would not abrade human skin, but they served no
sane purpose now, and Holt would have removed them if he could.
A stranger seeing the girl Lucinda, who sat now at Janda's side to feed him, might have supposed her to
be his daughter. She was his sister, five years younger than he. She was also a girl of rare beauty, and
perhaps Mical's police had motives other than mercy in sending her to Nogara's court unmarked and
unbrainwashed. It was rumored that the demand for certain kinds of entertainment was strong among the
courtiers, and the turnover among the entertainers high.
Holt had so far kept himself from believing such stories, largely by not thinking about them. He opened
the brig now-he kept it locked only to prevent Janda's straying out and falling childlike into an
accident-and went in.
When the girl Lucinda had first come aboard ship her eyes had shown helpless hatred of every Esteeler.
Holt had been as gentle and as helpful as possible to her in the days since then, and there was not even
dislike in the face she raised to him now-there was a hope which it seemed she had to share with
someone.
She said: "I think he spoke my name a few minutes ago."
"Oh?" Holt bent to look more closely at Janda, and could see no change. The outlaw's eyes still stared
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glassily, the right eye now and then dripping a tear that seemed to have no connection with any kind of
emotion. Janda's jaw was as slack as ever, and his whole body was awkwardly slumped.
"Maybe-" Holt didn't finish.
"What?" She was almost eager.
Gods of Space, he couldn't let himself get involved with this girl. He almost wished to see hatred in her
eyes again.
"Maybe," he said gently, "it will be better for your brother if he doesn't make any recovery now. You
know where he's going."
Lucinda's hope, such as it was, was shocked away by his words. She was silent, staring at her brother
as if she saw something new.
Holt's wrist-intercom sounded.
"Captain here," he acknowledged.
"Sir, reported a ship detected and calling us. Bearing five o'clock level to our course. Small and normal."
The last three words were the customary reassurance that a sighted ship was not possibly a berserker's
giant hull. Such Flamland outlaws as were left possessed no deep space ships, so Holt had no reason to
be cautious.
He went back to the bridge and looked at the small shape on the detector screen. It was unfamiliar to
him, but that was hardly surprising, as there were many shipyards orbiting many planets. Why, though,
should any ship approach and hail him in deep space?
Plague?
"No, no plague," answered a radio voice, through bursts of static, when he put the question to the
stranger. The video signal from the other ship was also jumpy, making it hard to see the speaker's face.
"Caught a speck of dust on my last jump, and my fields are shaky. Will you take a few passengers
aboard?"
"Certainly." For a ship on the brink of a C-plus jump to collide with the gravitational field of a sizable
dust-speck was a rare accident, but not unheard of. And it would explain the noisy communications.
There was still nothing to alarm Holt.
The stranger sent over a launch which clamped to the courier's airlock. Wearing a smile of welcome for
distressed passengers, Holt opened the lock. In the next moment he and the half-dozen men who made
up his crew were caught helpless by an inrush of metal-a berserker's boarding party, cold and merciless
as nightmare.
The machine seized the courier so swiftly and efficiently that no one could offer real resistance, but they
did not immediately kill any of the humans. They tore the drive units from one of the lifeboats and herded
Holt and his crew and his erstwhile prisoners into the boat.
"It wasn't a berserker on the screen, it wasn't," the
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Second Officer kept repeating to Holt. The humans sat side by side, jammed against one another in the
small space. The machines were allowing them air and water and food, and had started to take them out
one at a time for questioning.
"I know, it didn't look like one," Holt answered. "The berserkers are probably forming themselves into
new shapes, building themselves new weapons. That's only logical, after the Stone Place. The only odd
thing is that no one foresaw it."
A hatch clanged open, and a pair of roughly man-shaped machines entered the boat, picking their way
precisely among the nine cramped humans until they reached the one they wanted.
"No, he can't talk!" Lucinda shrieked. "Don't take him!"
But the machines could not or would not hear. They pulled Janda to his feet and marched him out. The
girl followed, dragging at them, trying to argue with them. Holt could only scramble uselessly after her in
the narrow space, afraid that one of the machines would turn and kill her. But they only kept her from
following them out of the lifeboat, pushing her back from the hatch with metal hands as gently resistless as
time. Then they were gone with Janda, and the hatch was closed again. Lucinda stood gazing at it
blankly. She did not move when Holt put his arm around her.
After a timeless period of waiting, the humans saw the hatch open again. The machines were back, but
they did not return Janda. Instead they had come to take Holt.
Vibrations echoed through the courier's hull; the machines seemed to be rebuilding her. In a small
chamber sealed off from the rest of the ship by a new bulkhead, the berserker computer-brain had set up
electronic eyes and ears and a speaker for itself, and here Holt was taken to be questioned.
The berserkers interrogated Holt at great length, and almost every question concerned Johann Karlsen.
It was known that the berserkers regarded Karlsen as their chief enemy, but this one seemed to be
obsessed with him-and unwilling to believe that he was really dead.
"I have captured your charts and astrogational settings," the berserker reminded Holt. "I know your
course is to Nirvana, where supposedly the nonfunctioning Karlsen has been taken. Describe this
Nirvana-ship used by the life-unit Nogara."
So long as it had asked only about a dead man, Holt had given the berserker straight answers, not
wanting to be tripped up in a useless lie. But a flagship was a different matter, and now he hesitated. Still,
there was little he could say about Nirvana if he wanted to. And he and his fellow prisoners had had no
chance to agree on any plan for deceiving the berserker; certainly it must be listening to everything they
said in the lifeboat.
"I've never seen the Nirvana" he answered truthfully. "Logic tells me it must be a strong ship, since the
highest human leaders travel on it." There was no harm in telling the machine what it could certainly
deduce for itself.
A door opened suddenly, and Holt started in surprise as a strange man entered the interrogation
chamber. Then he saw that it was not a man, but some creation of the berserker. Perhaps its flesh was
plastic, perhaps some product of tissue culture.
"Hi, are you Captain Holt?" asked the figure. There was no gross flaw in it, but a ship camouflaged with
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the greatest skill looks like nothing so much as a ship that has been camouflaged.
When Holt was silent, the figure asked: "What's wrong?"
Its speech alone would have given it away, to an intelligent human who listened carefully.
"You're not a man," Holt told it.
The figure sat down and went limp.
The berserker explained: "You see I am not capable of making an imitation life-unit that will be accepted
by real ones face to face. Therefore I require that you, a real life-unit, help me make certain of Karlsen's
death."
Holt said nothing.
"I am a special device," the berserker said, "built by the berserkers with one prime goal, to bring about
with certainty Karlsen's death. If you help me prove him dead, I will willingly free you and the other
life-units I now hold. If you refuse to help, all of you will receive the most unpleasant stimuli until you
change your mind."
Holt did not believe that it would ever willingly set them free. But he had nothing to lose by talking, and
he might at least gain for himself and the others a death free of most unpleasant stimuli. Berserkers
preferred to be efficient killers, not sadists.
"What sort of help do you want from me?" Holt asked.
"When I have finished building myself into the courier we are going on to Nirvana, where you will deliver
your prisoners. I have read the orders. After being interviewed by the human leaders on Nirvana, the
prisoners are to be taken on to Esteel for confinement. Is it not so?"
"It is."
The door opened again, and Janda shuffled in, bent and bemused.
"Can't you spare this man any more questioning?" Holt asked the berserker. "He can't help you in any
way."
There was only silence. Holt waited uneasily. At last, looking at Janda, he realized that something about
the outlaw had changed. The tears had stopped flowing from his right eye. When Holt saw this he felt a
mounting horror that he could not have explained, as if his subconscious already knew what the berserker
was going to say next.
"What was bone in this life-unit is now metal," the berserker said. "Where blood flowed, now
preservatives are pumped. Inside the skull I have placed a computer, and in the eyes are cameras to
gather the evidence I must have on Karlsen. To match the behavior of a brainwashed man is within my
capability."
"I do not hate you," Lucinda said to the berserker when it had her alone for interrogation. "You are an
accident, like a planet-quake, like a pellet of dust hitting a ship near light-speed. Nogara and his people
are the ones I hate. If his brother was not dead I would kill him with my own hands and willingly bring
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you his body."
"Courier Captain? This is Governor Mical, speaking for the High Lord Nogara. Bring your two
prisoners over to Nirvana at once."
"At once, sir," Holt acknowledged.
After coming out of C-plus travel within sight of Nirvana, the assassin-machine had taken Holt and
Lucinda from the lifeboat. Then it had let the boat, with Holt's crew still on it, drift out between the two
ships, as if men were using it to check the courier's field. The men on the boat were to be the berserker's
hostages, and its shield if it was discovered. And by leaving them there, it doubtless wanted to make
more credible the prospect of their eventual release.
Holt had not known how to tell Lucinda of her brother's fate, but at last he had managed somehow. She
had wept for a minute, and then she had become very calm.
Now the berserker put Holt and Lucinda into a launch for the trip to Nirvana. The machine that had
been Lucinda's brother was aboard the launch already, waiting, slumped and broken-looking as the man
had been in the last days of his life.
When she saw that figure, Lucinda stopped. Then in a clear voice she said: "Machine, I wish to thank
you. You have done my brother a kindness no human would do for him. I think I would have found a
way to kill him myself before his enemies could torture him any more."
The Nirvana's airlock was strongly armored, and equipped with automated defenses that would have
repelled a rush of boarding machines, just as Nirvana's beams and missiles would have beaten off any
heavy-weapons attack a courier, or a dozen couriers, could launch. The berserker had foreseen all this.
An officer welcomed Holt aboard. "This way, Captain. We're all waiting."
"All?"
The officer had the well-fed, comfortable look that came with safe and easy duty. His eyes were busy
appraising Lucinda. "There's a celebration under way in the Great Hall. Your prisoners' arrival has been
much anticipated."
Music throbbed in the Great Hall, and dancers writhed in costumes more obscene than any nakedness.
From a table running almost the length of the Hall, serving machines were clearing the remnants of a feast.
In a throne-like chair behind the center of the table sat the High Lord Nogara, a rich cloak thrown over
his shoulders, pale wine before him in a crystal goblet. Forty or fifty revelers flanked him at the long table,
men and women and a few of whose sex Holt could not at once be sure. All were drinking and laughing,
and some were donning masks and costumes, making ready for further celebration.
Heads turned at Holt's entrance, and a moment of silence was followed by a cheer. In all the eyes and
faces turned now toward his prisoners, Holt could see nothing like pity.
"Welcome, Captain," said Nogara in a pleasant voice, when Holt had remembered to bow. "Is there
news from Flamland?"
"None of great importance, sir."
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A puffy-faced man who sat at Nogara's right hand leaned forward on the table. "No doubt there is great
mourning for the late governor?"
"Of course, sir." Holt recognized Mical. "And much anticipation of the new."
Mical leaned back in his chair, smiling cynically. "I'm sure the rebellious population is eager for my
arrival. Girl, were you eager to meet me? Come, pretty one, round the table, here to me." As Lucinda
slowly obeyed, Mical gestured to the serving devices. "Robots, set a chair for the man-there, in the
center of the floor. Captain, you may return to your ship."
Felipe Nogara was steadily regarding the manacled figure of his old enemy Janda, and what Nogara
might be thinking was hard to say. But he seemed content to let Mical give what orders pleased him.
"Sir," said Holt to Mical. "I would like to see-the remains of Johann Karlsen."
That drew the attention of Nogara, who nodded. A serving machine drew back sable draperies,
revealing an alcove in one end of the Hall. In the alcove, before a huge viewport, rested the coffin.
Holt was not particularly surprised; on many planets it was the custom to feast in the presence of the
dead. After bowing to Nogara he turned and saluted and walked toward the alcove. Behind him he
heard the shuffle and clack of Janda's manacled movement, and held his breath. A muttering passed
along the table, and then a sudden quieting in which even the throbbing music ceased. Probably Nogara
had gestured permission for Janda's walk, wanting to see what the brainwashed man would do.
Holt reached the coffin and stood over it. He hardly saw the frozen face inside it, or the blur of the
hypermass outside the port. He hardly heard the whispers and giggles of the revelers. The only picture
clear in his mind showed the faces of his crew as they waited helpless in the grip of the berserker.
The machine clothed in Janda's flesh came shuffling up beside him, and its eyes of glass stared down into
those of ice. A photograph of retinal patterns taken back to the waiting berserker for comparison with
old captured records would tell it that this man was really Karlsen.
A faint cry of anguish made Holt look back toward the long table, where he saw Lucinda pulling herself
away from Mical's clutching arm. Mical and his friends were laughing.
"No, Captain, I am no Karlsen," Mical called down to him, seeing Holt's expression. "And do you think
I regret the difference? Johann's prospects are not bright. He is rather bounded by a nutshell, and can no
longer count himself king of infinite space!"
"Shakespeare!" cried a sycophant, showing appreciation of Mical's literary erudition.
"Sir." Holt took a step forward. "May I-may I now take the prisoners back to my ship?"
Mical misinterpreted Holt's anxiety. "Oh, ho! I see you appreciate some of life's finer things, Captain.
But as you know, rank has its privileges. The girl stays here."
He had expected them to hold on to Lucinda, and she was better here than with the berserker.
"Sir, then if-if the man alone can come with me. In a prison hospital on Esteel he may recover-"
"Captain." Nogara's voice was not loud, but it hushed the table. "Do not argue here."
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TheBerserkerAttackCopyright(c)1987byFredSaberhagenINTRODUCTIONI,THIRDHISTORIANOFTHECARMPANRACE,INGRATITUDEtotheEarth-descendedracefortheirdefenseofmyworld,setdownhereforthemmyfragmentaryvisionofthesebattlesfromtheirgreatwaragainstourcommonenemy.Thevisionhasbeenformedpiecebypiecethroughmycontactsinpa...
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