Berserker Prime Read online

  Master storyteller Fred Saberhagen continues his bestselling Berserker series, detailing humanity’s war with the dreaded juggernaut-like machines programmed to destroy all life in the galaxy.

  In the Twin World planets, Prairie and Timber, Plenipotentiary Gregor is determined to serve his government. Even if it means executing innocent Huvean hostages, invaders from another planet. And even though Gregor’s granddaughter, Luon, is in love with Reggie, a Huvean.

  But now the Berserkers are threatening the Twin Worlds, crashing a scoutship, capturing the planets’ president, and reprogramming his brain to suit their violent agenda. And only the Huveans, in a desperate reprieve, can save the Twin Worlds’ populace from annihilation...

  BERSERKER PRIME!

  BERSERKER PRIME

  FRED SABERHAGEN

  CHAPTER 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.

  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 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.”

&nb
sp; “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.”

  “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, 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.”

  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 t
he 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?”

  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.