Berserker Wars (Omnibus) Page 11

  Then the President came on tridi, close to the brink of showing emotion. He announced that under the heroic personal leadership of the Minister of Defense, the few gallant warships of Planet A had met and defeated, utterly annihilated, the menace. Not a man had been lost, though the MiniDef’s flagship was thought to be heavily damaged.

  When he heard that his mighty machine-ally had been destroyed, Jester felt a pang of something like sorrow. But the pang was quickly obliterated in a greater joy. No one had been hurt, after all. Overcome with relief, Jester looked away from the tridi for a moment.

  He missed the climactic moment of the speech, which came when the President forgetfully removed both hands from his pockets.

  The Minister of Defense—today the new Presidential candidate of a Conservative party stirred to grim enthusiasm by his exploit of the night before—was puzzled by the reactions of some people, who seemed to think he had merely spoiled a jest instead of saving the planet. As if spoiling a jest was not a good thing in itself! But his testimony that the berserker had been a genuine menace after all rallied most people back to the Conservative side again.

  On this busiest of days the MiniDef allowed himself time to visit Liberal headquarters to do a bit of gloating. Graciously he delivered to the opposition leaders what was already becoming his standard speech.

  “When it answered my challenge and came up to fight, we went in with a standard englobement pattern—like hummingbirds round a vulture, I suppose you might say. And did you really think it was jesting? Let me tell you, that berserker peeled away the defensive fields from my ship like they were nothing. And then it launched this ghastly thing at me, a kind of huge disk. My gunners were a little rusty, maybe, anyway they couldn’t stop it and it hit us.

  “I don’t mind saying, I thought I’d bought the farm right then. My ship’s still hanging in orbit for decontamination, I’m afraid I’ll get word any minute that the metal’s melting or something—anyway, we sailed right through and hit the bandit with everything we had. I can’t say too much for my crew. One thing I don’t quite understand; when our missiles struck that berserker just went poof, as if it had no defense up at all. Yes?”

  “Call for you, Minister,” said an aide, who had been standing by with a radiophone, waiting for a chance to break in.

  “Thank you.” The MiniDef listened to the phone, and his smile left him. His form went rigid. “Analysis of the weapon shows what? Synthetic proteins and water?”

  He jumped to his feet glaring upward as if to pierce the ceiling and see his ship in orbit. “What do you mean—no more than a giant custard pie?”

  THE WINGED HELMET

  But only on the planet Sirgol was the past open to organized invasion, accessible to organized defense, the roots of civilization exposed to probing and attack.

  His arms upraised, his gray beard and black robes whipping in the wind, Nomis stood tall on a tabletop of black rock twenty feet square, a good hundred feet above the smashing surf. White sea-birds coasted downwind toward him then wheeled away with sharp little cries, like those of tiny souls in pain. Around his perch on three sides there towered other splintered crags and fingers of this coastline of black basaltic rock, while before him spread the immense vibration of the sea.

  Feet braced apart, he stood centered in an intricate chalk diagram drawn on the flat rock. Around him he had spread the paraphernalia of his craft—things dead and dried, things old and carven, things that men of common thought would have deemed better destroyed and forgotten. In his thin, penetrating voice, Nomis was singing into the wind:

  Gather, storm clouds, day and night

  Lightning chew and water drawn!

  Waves come swallowing, green and bright,

  Chew and swallow and gulp it down—

  The craft in which my foe abides,

  The long-ship that my enemy rides!

  There was much more to the song, and it was repeated many times. Nomis’s thin arms quivered, tired from holding over his head the splinters of wrecked ships, while the birds cried at him and the wind blew his thin gray beard up into his eyes.

  Today he was weary, unable to escape the feeling that his day’s labor was in vain. Today he had been granted none of the tokens of success that all too rarely came to him—heated symbol-dreams in sleep or, when he was awake, dark momentary trances shot through with strange visions, startling stretchings of the mind.

  Not often in his career had Nomis been convinced of his own power to call down evil on his enemies’ heads. Success for him in this work was a far more uncertain thing than he let others believe. Not that he doubted for a moment that the basic powers of the world were accessible through magic; it was only that success in this line seemed to call not only for great skill but for something like great good luck as well.

  Twice before in his life Nomis had tried to raise a storm. Only once had he been successful, and the persistent suspicion remained that on that occasion the storm might have come anyway. At the height of the gale there had persisted a shade of doubt, a feeling that the ordering of such forces was beyond his powers or those of any man.

  Now, doubtful as he was of present success, he persisted in the effort that had kept him almost sleepless on this secret rock for the past three days. Such was the fear and hatred he felt for the man he knew must now be crossing the sea toward him, coming with a new god and new advisers to assume the rule of this country called Queensland.

  Nomis’s grim eyes, turned far out to sea, marked there the passage of a squall line, mockingly small and thin. Of the ship-killing tempest he worked to raise there was no sign at all.

  The cliffs of Queensland were still a day’s rowing out of sight, dead ahead. In the same direction, but closer, some mildly bad weather was brewing. Harl frowned across the sea’s gray face at the line of squalls, while his hands rested with idle sureness on the long-ship’s steering oar.

  The thirty rowers, freemen and warriors all, could see the bad weather, simply by turning their heads, as easily as Harl could. And they were all experienced enough to reach the same conclusion: that, by slowing down the stroke slightly, they would probably miss the squalls’ path and so make themselves a bit more comfortable. So now, by unspoken agreement, they were all easing up a trifle on the oars.

  From ahead a cool light breeze sprang up, fluttering the pennons on the sailless masts and rippling the fringe of awning on the tent of royal purple that stood amidships.

  Inside that tent, alone for the moment with his thoughts, was the young man that Harl called king and lord. Harl’s frown faded as it crossed his mind that young Ay had probably withdrawn into the tent to make some plans for the fighting that was sure to come. The border tribes, who cared nothing for the mild new god or the failing old empire, were certain to make some test of the will and courage of Queensland’s new ruler—not that there were grounds for doubting the firmness of either.

  Harl smiled at his next thought, that his young lord in the tent might not be planning war at all, but a campaign to make sure of the Princess Alix. It was her hand in marriage that was to bring Ay his kingdom and his army. All princesses were described as beautiful, but rumor said that this one also had spirit. Now, if she was like some of the high-born girls that Harl had met, her conquest might be as difficult as that of a barbarian chieftain—and, of course, even more to a sturdy warrior’s taste!

  Harl’s expression, which had become about as jovial as his facial scars would allow, faded once more to glumness. It had occurred to him that his king might have gone into the tent to practice reading. Ay had long been an admirer of books and had actually brought two of them with him on his voyage. Or it might be that he was praying to his gentle new slave-god, for, young and healthy though he was, Ay now and then took the business of worship seriously.

  Even while half his mind busied itself with these reflections, Harl remained alert as always. Now a faint puzzling splashing in the sea nearby caused him to turn his head to the port side—and in a mome
nt all the thoughts in his head were frozen, together with his warrior’s blood.

  Rearing right beside the ship, its bulk lifting to obscure the horizon and the distant afternoon clouds, came a head out of nightmare, a dragon face from some evil legend. The dully gleaming neck that bore the head was of such size that a man might just be able to encircle it with both arms. Sea demons alone might know what the body in the water below was like! The eyes were clouded suns the size of silver platters, while the scales of head and neck were gray and heavy like thick wet iron. The mouth was a coffin, lid opened just a crack, all fenced inside with daggers.

  Long as a cable, the thick neck came reeling inboard, scales rasping wood from the gunwale. The men’s first cries were sounds such as warriors should not make, but in the next instant they were all grabbing bravely enough for their weapons. Big Torla, strongest of the crew, for once was also quickest, bracing a leg on his rower’s bench and hacking with his sword at that tremendous swaying neck.

  The blows clanged uselessly on dully gleaming scales; the dragon might not even have been aware of them. Its head swayed to a stop facing the doorway of the purple tent; from the slit of its terrible mouth there shrieked a challenge whose like Harl had not heard in a lifetime of war.

  What with all the clamor of voices and blows, Ay had needed no such summons to make ready. Before the dragon-bellow had ceased, the tent flaps were ripped open from inside and the young king stepped forth armed with shield and helm, sword ready in his hand.

  Harl felt a tremendous pride to see that the young man did not flinch a hand’s breadth from the sight that met him. And, with the pride, Harl’s own right arm came back to life, drawing from his belt his short-handled, iron-bladed ax, and gripping it for a throw.

  The ax clanged harmlessly off the clouded silver of one eye, perhaps not even felt by the beast. The dragon’s enormous head, coffin-mouth suddenly gaping wide, lunged forward for the king.

  Ay met it bravely. But the full thrust of his long sword, aimed straight into the darkness of the throat, counted for no more than a jab from a woman’s pin. The doorlike jaw slammed shut, crushing Ay instantly. For a moment, as the monstrous head swept away on its long neck, there was seen the horrible display of broken limbs dangling outside the teeth. And then, with one more faint splash beside the ship, the evil miracle was gone. The sunlit sea rolled on unchanged, its secrets all below.

  Through the remaining hours of daylight, there was scarcely a word spoken aboard the long-ship. She prowled in watery circles, on and on, never moving far from the unmarked spot where her lord had been taken. She prowled in full battle-readiness, but there was not a thing for her to fight. The edge of the squall line came; the men took mechanical measures to meet it. And the squall departed again, without the men ever having been really aware of its passage.

  By the end of the day, the sea was calm again. Squinting into the setting sun, Harl rasped out a one-word order: “Rest.”

  Long ago he had retrieved his blunted ax and replaced it in his belt. Now the evidence to be seen on deck was only this: a few bits of wood, rasped from a raw scar on the gunwale by scales hard as metal. A few small spots of blood. And Ay’s winged helmet, fallen from his head.

  Derron Odegard, recently decorated and promoted three grades to major, was sitting in as a junior aide on an emergency staff meeting called by the new Time Operations commander. At the moment, Derron was listening with both professional and friendly interest as his old classmate, Chan Amling, now a major in Historical Research, delivered an information briefing.

  ” … As we all know by now, the berserkers have chosen to focus this latest attack upon one individual. Their target, King Ay of Queensland, is naturally a man whose removal from history would have disastrous consequences for us.”

  Amling, quick-witted and fluent, smiled benignly over the heads of his audience. “Until quite recently most historians even doubted this man’s reality. But since we have begun some direct observation of the past, his historicity and importance have both been fully confirmed.”

  Amling turned to an electric map, which he attacked with a teacher’s gestures. “We see here the middle stages in the shrinkage and disorganization of the great Continental Empire, leading to its ultimate collapse. Now note Queensland here. It’s very largely due to King Ay’s activity and influence that Queensland can remain in such a comparatively stable state, preserving a segment of the Empire culture for our planet’s later civilizations to base themselves on.”

  The new Time Operations commander—his predecessor was now reported to be on a scouting expedition to the moon, or at least to Sirgol’s surface, with Colonel Borss and others—raised a hand, student-like. “Major, I admit I’m not too clear on this. Ay was a bit of a barbarian himself, wasn’t he?”

  “Well, he certainly began as such, sir. But—oversimplifying somewhat—we can say that, when he found himself with a land of his own to defend, he settled down and defended it very well. Gave up his sea-roving ways. He had been one of the raiders and barbarians long enough to know all the tricks of that game. And he played it so well from the other side of the board that they usually preferred to attack someone else.”

  No one else had a question for Amling at the moment and he sat down. The next officer to appear at the head of the table was a major of Probability Analysis, whose manner was no more reassuring than his information.

  “Gentlemen,” he began in a nervous voice. “We don’t know how Ay was killed, but we do know where.” The major displayed a videotape made from a sentry screen. “His lifeline is newly broken here, on his first voyage to Queensland. As you can see, all the other lifelines aboard ship remain unbroken. Probably the enemy expects historical damage to be intensified if Ay’s own crew are thought to have done away with him. It seems to us in Probability that such an expectation is all too likely to be correct.”

  Amling looked as if he wanted to break in and argue; or, more likely, to make a wager on the subject. They had put Amling in the wrong section, Derron thought. Probability would have been the one for him.

  The Probability major had paused for a sip of water. “Frankly, the situation looks extremely grave. In nineteen or twenty days’ present-time, the historical shock wave of Ay’s assassination should reach us. That’s all the time we have. I’m told that the chances of our finding the enemy keyhole within nineteen days are not good.”

  The man’s edgy gloom was contagious, and the faces around the table were tightening in spite of themselves. Only the new Time Ops commander managed to remain relatively relaxed. “I’m afraid you’re right about the difficulty in finding this keyhole, Major. Of course, every effort is being made in that direction. Trouble is, the enemy’s getting smart about hiding his tracks. This time he attacked with only one machine instead of six, which makes our job difficult to start with. And, immediately after doing its job of assassination, that one machine seems to have gone into hiding. It hasn’t left Ay’s time, it’ll still be on the scene to mess up whatever we do to set things right, but meanwhile it’s being careful not to cause any changes that we might use to track it.” Time Ops leaned forward, becoming less relaxed. “Now, who’s got some ideas regarding counter-measures?”

  The first suggestions involved trying to build probability in Ay’s later lifeline, so that he would somehow have survived the assassination after all. This idea soon started an argument on a highly technical level. In this the scientific people present naturally dominated, but they were far from agreeing among themselves on what could and should be done. When they began to exchange personal viewpoints along with formulae, Time Ops called quickly for half an hour’s recess.

  Finding that much time unexpectedly on his hands, Derron stepped out and called the nurses’ quarters at the nearby hospital complex. Lisa was living there now, while she started to train for some kind of nursing job. He was pleased to be able to reach her and to hear that she too had some time to spare. Within a few minutes they were walking together, in the
park where they had met for the first time.

  Derron had come to the meeting with a topic of conversation all prepared, but Lisa, these days, was developing a favorite subject of her own.

  “You know, Matt’s healing so quickly that all the doctors are amazed at it.”

  “Good. I’ll have to come round and see him one of these days. I keep meaning to, but then I think I’ll wait until we can talk to each other.”

  “Oh, goodness, he’s talking now!”

  “In our language? Already?”

  She was delighted to confirm it and to elaborate. “It’s like his rapid healing; the doctors say it must be because he comes from so far in the past. They talk about the effect on one individual of coming up through twenty thousand years’ evolutionary gradient, about the organizational energies of his body and brain becoming enfolded and intensified. I can’t follow most of it, of course. They talk about the realm where the material and the nonmaterial meet—”

  “Yes.”

  “And Matt probably understands what they’re saying as well as I do now, if not better. He’s up and around most of the time. They allow him a good deal of freedom. He’s quite good about staying out of rooms he’s warned not to enter, not touching dangerous things, and so forth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, and did I tell you they’ve suspended healing in his face? Until they’re sure he can make a fully informed decision on what he wants his new face to look like.”

  “Yes, I heard something about that. Lisa, how long are you going on living in the hospital? Are you really set on learning nursing, or is it just—something to do?” He almost asked, “Is it just Matt?”

  “Oh.” Her face fell slightly. “Sometimes I don’t think I was cut out to be a nurse. But I have no immediate plans to move. It’s hard for me to live right in the hospital when I’m still getting therapy for my memory every day.”

  “Any success with the treatments?” Derron knew that the doctors now fully accepted that Lisa had simply lost her memory through being caught in the path of the berserker missile. For awhile some had considered it possible that she was an emissary or deserter from the future, made amnesic by descent through time. But on the sentry screens no such reversed lifeline could be found. In fact, no traveler, no device, no message, had ever come from the future to this embattled civilization that called itself Modern. Possibly the inhabitants of the unknowable time-to-come had good reason of their own to refrain from communication; possibly the future Sirgol was not inhabited by man. Or it might simply be that this time of the berserker war was completely blocked off from the future by paradox-loops. It was some comfort, at least, that no berserker machines came attacking from the direction of tomorrow.