Fred Saberhagen - Berserker 08 - Berserker Prime

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Berserkers, Book Eight

FRED SABERHAGEN

TOR

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOKNEW YORK

This is a work of fiction.

All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

BERSERKER PRIME

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175Fifth Avenue

New York,NY10010

www.tor.com

Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Saberhagen, Fred, 1930-

Berserker prime / Fred Saberhagen.--1sted. p. cm.

“A Tom Doherty Associates book.” ISBN 0-765-30625-5

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1. Life on other planets—Fiction. 2. Space warfare-Fiction. 3. Robots-Fiction. I. Title.

PS3569.A215B465 2004 813’.54dc22

2003061467

First Edition: January 2004

Printed in theUnited States of America

0987654321

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

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SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

ONE

The noise came snarling out of the distance, through the air and open windows, penetrating bedrock and

reaching up into the foundations of Timber’s capital city. It invaded the graceful building called the Citadel

in the form of an ominous, droning bass note, blended with a grim vibration of even lower frequency. The

latter component of the sound seemed, to Plenipotentiary Gregor, to be resonating somehow in his own

aging bones. Gregor, thought the projectors being tested, the planet-guarding weapons that could

incinerate a spaceborne battleship at a range of thousands of kilometers, must be at least five kilometers

from where he stood. The bulk of their output would of course be pouring up and out into space, but still

enough energy was being wasted around the edges to shake a faint fall of dust out of the Citadel’s fanciful

grillwork, so delicately carved, in a time of peace, from ancient stone.

It was an ugly racket, but nothing compared to the war that it foreshadowed. A Huvean fleet might

appear at any hour in Timber’s lovely skies, ready to blast its cities and kill its people. After a peaceful

interregnum that had lasted for standard centuries, two societies of Earth-descended humans might be in

all-out, murderous conflict with each other.

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Cheerful sunlight came streaming through tall windows into the high room on the Citadel’s third floor,

where Plenipotentiary Gregor had arrived. The panes of tinted glass had been turned wide open,

probably by one of the attendant robots he had noticed on his way in, to a warm sky of early autumn.

The flooding light awakened subtle shades of color in panels of century-old wood. Even the grillwork

doors of the elevator were solid matter instead of forcefields, carved from strengthened stone. They

opened to let Gregor’s tall, spare figure, a trifle stooped with age, step out of the little cage, followed

closely by his single escort, a trim young military man, sidearmed and neatly uniformed.

It jarred Gregor to think that this lovely, delicate complex of buildings was being put to use as a prison.

Worse, it might soon become a place of execution. The name, Citadel, suggested a fortress, but with all

its grace and beauty the building seemed wildly inappropriate as a place for fighting or even planning war.

When it had been built, a hundred of this planet’s Earthlike years ago, no one here on Timber could have

been seriously expecting armed conflict on a massive scale. Certainly no one in any of the hundred solar

systems colonized by Earth-descended humans had anticipated that such a catastrophe might lie less than

a human lifetime in the future.

Gregor was clean-shaven in tune with current fashion. Gray hair, almost a requirement for one in his

profession of diplomacy, fell in natural curls on both sides of a stern face displaying a mix of ancient racial

traits. All in all, he showed more of his age and cared less about it than did most men past the century

mark. Because of the solemnity of today’s meeting, and the seriousness of the job he had to undertake

immediately afterward, he had chosen to wear formal diplomatic dress: loose, dark robes over an upper

body garment with tight sleeves. His feet were shod, somewhat incongruously, in gray, lightweight

spacefarer’s boots; if all went smoothly here, he would be on his way, within the hour, to an interstellar

peace conference some light-years away.

The long, high-ceilinged room that stretched out before him and his escort was empty of other people at

the moment. Sunlight fell on graceful and impressive furniture, mostly of blond wood, and on the fair face

of a late model anthropomorphic robot, standing beside a sideboard of rosewood and cherry. The sun

tinted the delicate features of the machine’s molded face, emphasizing an angelic, sexless beauty, and the

light breeze from the open windows stirred fair artificial hair.

Simply but elegantly attired in plain, tight fitting male servant’s garb, the machine stood gazing seemingly

at nothing, awaiting orders. Anyone watching it from the distance of the elevator, on the far side of the big

room, might easily have been fooled into thinking it alive.

In fact Gregor was deceived, but only for a second. The robot was too beautiful and too motionless to

be human. Besides, it would be practically unthinkable that a live servant, a status symbol very much

prized in certain quarters, would have been simply posted here, doing nothing in this otherwise

unoccupied room.

As soon as the robot’s senses registered that it had come under steady human scrutiny, it turned its

whole body to face him, imbuing the brief movement with a grace that seemed partly that of a dancer,

partly of a soldier in ceremonial formation. Then it spoke to Gregor in a pleasant voice: “I am Porphyry

here. At your service sir.”

“Where is the executioner, Porphyry?” It had long been Gregor’s opinion that calling a robot by its name

tended to sharpen the machine’s attention. Tension and irritation and a certain resentment over having

been fooled by it, even for a second caused him to speak sharply to the machine, whose friendly

expression did not change in the least. Whether the human speaking to it might be angry, or why, was of

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no concern at all to any robot.

In soft mellifluous tones Porphyry told him that it served Huang Gun, who, upon the recent arrival of the

Huvean hostages, had been appointed executioner. Huang Gun had sent it to meet Gregor on his arrival

and tell him that the executioner would join him in this room shortly. It concluded simply: “I am uncertain

of his exact location.”

For a moment Gregor stood regarding the robot in silent contemplation. It struck him as somehow

painfully wrong, even worse than using the Citadel for a prison, that this elaborate and beautiful device, as

close an imitation of humanity as humanity could build, should have any part in arranging the imprisonment

and approaching doom of real human beings perhaps even carrying out certain preliminary steps in the

process of their deaths.

On a sudden impulse he asked it: “Could you kill a human being, Porphyry? If a human authority you

trusted assured you that the act would be perfectly legal, and gave you a direct command?”

Good lawyer that he was, Gregor knew what the answer to his question had to be. The expected words

came immediately, and as expected, without the slightest sign of surprise or agitation.

“No sir. Killing a human being would be completely contrary to my basic programming. As you must

know.” Porphyry’s tone remained brisk and cheerful. Some things were unthinkable for robots, but

nothing was disturbing.

“That is, if you knew that you were killing. And that the victim was human.”

“Yes sir. I assumed that was your meaning.”

Gregor’s hands rose in a slow, complicated gesture, as if he were trying to grasp an object of uncertain

shape. They were large hands, once very strong. Their wrinkled backs showed their age, and on one

finger he wore a plain gold ring. Now for the question whose answer he did not know. “But if you could

not predict what the result of a certain action would be...”

The robot waited.

Gregor shook his head, muttered something to himself, and started over. “I am talking specifically about

the case of the Huvean hostages, who I assume are still being held somewhere in this building.”

“Your assumption is correct, plenipotentiary.”

“Good. They are imprisoned here in accordance with the terms of an interplanetary treaty between our

Twin Worlds government and the Huvean state that is, the government of another solar system. The

treaty is one of the highest forms of law.”

“Yes sir. I am aware of the hostages’ legal status. Also of the general organization of human

governments, and the nature of treaties.”

“Excellent. Then the situation will perhaps be as clear to you as it can be. One of the articles of this

particular treaty says that if our government should decide that the rulers of Huvea have failed to live up

to certain of its terms, the ten young hostages are liable to immediate execution.”

“I understand, sir.”

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“Good now, could you, for example, hand the weapon to the executioner, if he should ask you to do

that?”

The answer was as swift as ever. “I would expect to find no difficulty in doing that, Plenipotentiary

Gregor.”

Gregor had his mouth open to pursue the subject with another question, when from the corner of his eye

he caught sight of a human figure approaching. He had never seen Huang Gun in the flesh, but from

countless holostage images he recognized the man entering the large room through a doorway on

Gregor’s right.

The newly appointed executioner was nearly as tall as Gregor, an ascetic looking, clean-shaven man of

indeterminate age; in his official garb of long robes and antique headdress he could easily have been

taken for a woman of striking appearance.

Gregor had an odd momentary impression that Huang Gun, on entering the room, bowed very slightly to

the robot, as he might have done on encountering a respected human of near equal rank. Surely the figure

that had introduced itself was only a robot? Gregor stared hard at Porphyry again yes, there could be no

doubt.

Evidently the robot was aware of the fact that the two high officials had never met face to face, for it

urbanely performed the introduction, using formal and economical hand gestures, phrasing everything

neatly, showing a nice awareness of the two humans’ respective ranks.

Huang Gun’s voice, like his appearance, might almost have been that of a cultured woman. His tone was

cool, reserved. “We are honored by your presence here, Plenipotentiary. You have perhaps been

conferring with the president?”

“The honor is mine, executioner no, unhappily I have not been able to schedule an appointment with Mr.

Belgola. I was about to ask you the same question, whether you had spoken to him recently.”

Huang Gun slightly shook his head. “Not since yesterday, sir, and then only briefly.”

While the men were speaking the machine had moved again, gracefully in its finely balanced but

not-quite-human walk, to stand immobile in the exact place where Gregor had first seen it. Now it was

facing in a direction exactly between the two men, looking from one of them to the other as it awaited

further orders.

Gregor remarked that it might seem in bad taste, to congratulate anyone on being appointed to such an

office as High executioner, which had been newly created for the occasion.

“But I will risk it. The appointment is a tribute to your unimpeachable honesty, your well-known sense of

duty and of fairness.”

Acknowledging the praise with a slight bow, Huang Gun replied that it was indeed an honor to be

entrusted with such an office, and he was proud to have been chosen.

After a moment of silence, Gregor remarked that he had come to see the hostages. “If that is possible.”

The executioner’s eyebrows went up just slightly. He considered briefly. “For someone of your standing,

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sir, why not? Undoubtedly you have strong reason.”

Huang Gun seemed about to add more, but there came another roaring test of distant weapons, and

conversation had to wait until the noise died down.

When it was again possible to be heard, he continued: “They are being held in the rooms immediately

below us. If the deadline passes, and our president should determine that their home government still

persists in its aggression, I will be compelled as a matter of duty to execute at least some of them,

according to the schedule specified in the treaty.”

“And you will of course feel justified in doing this.”

For the first time there was a pause, and a greater coolness in the cultured voice. “Of course. Do you

suggest, plenipotentiary, that I will not be justified?”

“No, I make no such suggestion. All I wish to say is that I do not envy you that responsibility. Of making

the final determination.”

“The law of the treaty will determine. In that event, I feel confident that I will have all necessary support.”

And the executioner’s gaze turned thoughtfully, for some reason, back to the robot once again.

Gregor was faintly puzzled. “From the president, you mean.”

“Yes, of course. From the president and others.” Huang Gun smiled slightly. “There is no doubt that the

terms of the treaty are clear enough.”

In Gregor’s legalistic judgment it would be easy to generate an argument on that last point. Not that

there was anything secret about the treaty and its complicated requirements unless effective secrecy lay in

the Machiavellian vagueness that shrouded several of the clauses. Vagueness, it seemed, was the price

that had to be paid if two states dangerously close to war were going to have any agreement at all.

Unhappily, the hostage clause, detailing the terms of what its opponents scathingly called human sacrifice,

was anything but vague.

The executioner cleared his throat, and pulled a small scroll of paper from inside his robe. “I have here,

plenipotentiary, an official list of the hostages’ names, each accompanied by a few words of biography.

Perhaps you would like to have it? As you doubtless know, they are all volunteers, and all are from

families of standing and importance in the Huvean regime.”

The hostages’ names had never been kept secret either, and in fact they had been intensely publicized in

recent days. Exactly half were men, half women. Gregor had earlier avoided learning personal details. He

thought that if he could once meet the young people face to face, he would be sure to remember all their

names. But now, to be courteous, he reached out to accept the list that Huang Gun offered. Unrolling the

scroll and glancing at it briefly, he noted that it was indeed a list of names, printed, like many important

official documents, in permanent ink on real paper. It was of no immediate use to him, and he put it into

an inside pocket.

He murmured a few words of thanks, adjusted the tight sleeves of his own diplomatic uniform, and made

sure that his face wore an expression of sympathy. Then he said: “I tell you frankly that I hope to be able

to prevent these executions from taking place.”

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Huang Gun bowed an acknowledgment. His voice was cool and distant. “So I surmised, plenipotentiary,

from your first remarks. I assure you that I will be almost as pleased as the subjects themselves, if that

can be done in the way the treaty mandates.”

“Finding some way within the treaty’s terms is of course what I had in mind.”

The light breeze had freshened slightly. Scented with the subtle, familiar autumn flavors of the two men’s

native world, it was bringing comfortable coolness through open windows into the room where they

stood and talked. In the quiet between periods of weapon testing, a bird sang, distantly. The robot

watched and heard and waited.

Huang Gun asked: “And is it only a wish to see the hostages that brings you to the Citadel today?”

“I was passing nearby on other business.” Gregor hesitated. “As you are doubtless aware, another

peace conference has just been convened.” He named a relatively distant solar system, neutral in the

looming conflict. “I am on my way to take part in it.”

The executioner nodded slightly in confirmation. It would have been easy to offer some hope or prayer

for success, but he did not.

Gregor cleared his throat. “Now, as to my visit here...” He was finding it surprisingly difficult to choose

the words to make his purpose clear, first to himself, then to the other. Some inner compulsion had driven

him to stop off at the Citadel, before he immersed himself in yet another diplomatic meeting. Somehow in

his own mind it had come to seem of great importance that he should confront the hostages, meet them

face to face, listen to whatever they wanted to tell him. He wanted to keep himself from forgetting, when

in the process of debating what the delegates were certain to call larger issues, that those standing in

danger of death were all individual human beings. If he had faces to hold in his memory, live faces

speaking their own names, he thought that would help.

Huang Gun was asking him: “But how soon must you leave for your conference? When is it scheduled to

begin?”

The plenipotentiary explained that a fast, small ship was waiting for him, on the ramp at the spaceport

only a few minutes away. Then he added: “The most serious discussions can’t take place until I get there.

But you are right, I must not delay unnecessarily. Those who might begin a war at any moment will not

need my approval.”

The executioner appeared to be developing a keen interest. He asked: “Is there any thought among

those many leaders of seeking an entirely new solution to the ancient problem of human conflict?”

That stirred the old man’s curiosity. “I suppose there are at least as many thoughts as there are

leaders.... What sort of new solution did you have in mind?”

“A bold one.” Huang Gun moved to stand beside the robot. He put a hand on its shoulder there was a

trace of hesitation in the movement, as if he feared it might be rebuffed. “I mean the possibility of putting

ourselves, not only the Twin Worlds, but more than a hundred settled planets, comprising all

Earth-descended humanity in the hands of a power greater than ourselves. No, I am not speaking of

religious dreams. They are based in unreality, and can have only a partial and temporary success.”

Gregor was intrigued. He shook his head slowly. “I did not suppose you were advocating a religious

position... but what, then?”

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The executioner removed his hand from the beautiful robot. It was still facing directly between the two

men, turning its eyes from one to the other as they spoke. The expression on its face had not changed,

and would not change, whatever they might say.

Huang Gun said: “Porphyry here can serve as an indication of what I mean, a guide to the path that we

should choose. Though he is but a prologue, a suggestion, of the benevolent power our machines are

ready and waiting to offer us. Let them take the weapons from our faltering hands. Let them serve as

judges in our disputes, and let them write our treaties. Whatever rules of conduct they may devise for us,

they will not demand the death of any hostages.”

The old man kept his voice diplomatically neutral. “I have recently heard similar arguments from others.”

Technically that was quite true, though there had been only a few others, and only one whose ideas had

much weight. “It seems even our president is leaning somewhat in that direction. To the belief that we and

the Huveans should trust our fate to the decision of the best computer program that can be made, and

allow it to settle our disagreements for us.”

Huang Gun nodded. “But in this you do not agree with the president, or with me.”

Gregor said: “I must admit that I do not. I think the responsibility for the future of humanity lies with

ourselves. Ultimately, no machine we build is likely to tell us anything but what we want to hear and until

we truly want peace”

He broke off, shifted his position. “But I fear that I have no time just now for serious discussion. If I

might just see the hostages?”

“Of course.”

For several days, Gregor in the back of his mind had been toying with an odd idea, a secret hope, that if

he should go in among these young people unprotected, they would take him hostage in turn. If he himself

were one of them ... but he was not.

Putting himself among the hostages in some way would introduce a new factor into the equation and by

doing so, perhaps pull several worlds back from the brink of disaster.

But in his calmer moments he knew such ideas were irrational, that any dramatic gestures on his part

would be foolishness. Bizarre behavior on the part of leaders would be more likely to trigger an explosion

than prevent one.

Gregor turned to dismiss his personal guard, who had been standing silently at parade rest a few paces

behind him. “Please, wait for me outside the building.”

The solemn officer, it was hard to tell from his face if he was old or young, was obedient as a robot,

though he was certainly of flesh and blood. He snapped up his arm in a sharp salute and turned away,

heading back toward the elevator.

The plenipotentiary turned back to his colleague. “Then shall we go down?”

“Of course.” The executioner seemed inclined to be helpful. “We can descend by the lift that brought

you up but to use the stairs, here, will actually be quicker.”

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Fred Saberhagen - Berserker 08 - Berserker Prime

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