The Berserker Throne Read online

  * * *

  Several hours later, Olga and Chen were on their way again, passing now through an area of the City that had so far been practically untouched by the fighting. Here the abandoned vehicles looked intact, but there was no use in tempting fate, no need for vehicular speed. During their last rest stop Olga had voiced a vague plan of trying to circle around to the other side of the base and get in that way. But she had had no answers to Chen’s questions about details. If he thought about it, he realized they did not really know where they were going. He tried to think about it as infrequently as possible.

  In a plaza larger than almost any other they had passed, they came upon an ancient monument that Olga explained was dedicated to the legendary Helen Dardan. Fountains played at the four corners of the plaza, and in the center the bronze statue of Ex. Helen stood. It was a statbronze statue dominating the plaza, from its place atop a monument with marble steps. Helen the Exemplar, Helen of the Radiant. Helen Dardan, ruler and patron of the Dardanians during the time they had built the Fortress. Helen’s time, as Olga explained, was centuries before Sabel’s. But everybody knew that.

  Shortly after leaving the plaza of Helen’s monument, they came to what had to be the entertainment district. Here as elsewhere in the City most doors and windows were shut, and almost all businesses were closed. One that wasn’t had a sign in front proclaiming it the Contrat Rouge. Recorded music wafted bravely out from the relative dimness of the shadowed interior.

  Olga and Chen looked at each other. “Maybe they’ve got some information in here,” she suggested.

  Chen licked dry lips. “Sounds like a good idea. We can find out.”

  Inside, the dimly, romantically lighted place appeared at first to be completely empty of human beings. There were only the bartenders, squat, half-witted service robots devoid of any information aside from the service menu. These appeared ready to serve customers, but the humans could all too readily imagine the robots sullenly ready to revolt, to follow those other machines outside.

  Chen suggested: “How about if we have a beer? I’ve got a little money.”

  “I can’t see how it’s going to do any harm.”

  They moved to settle in a booth. “Hey, Olga, look,” The optics in the translucent walls produced their bizarre effects.

  Then they both jumped to their feet, weapons at the ready. One other booth, a little distance from their own, was not empty. They moved down the aisle toward it.

  The sole occupant of the other booth was a woman, hollow-cheeked, brown-haired, and well preserved for her age, which was obviously advanced when one looked at her closely. Her garments were considerably more flamboyant than the clothes most oldsters wore.

  Chen lowered his carbine again. “Hello, ma’am? Are you all right?”

  The lady did not appear greatly surprised to see them, though otherwise she appeared to be alone in the Contrat Rouge. Her smile gleamed up at Chen, easy perfection in a carefully made-up face. “Right enough. Time some customers came around.” The voice was careful and clear, that of a performer, but the words ran into each other here and there; the lady, sitting with a glass of dark liquid in front of her, was pretty obviously not on her first drink. “Sit down, kids. Care to join me? I’m Greta Thamar.”

  The name meant nothing to either Olga or Chen. But they looked at each other, sat down, and ordered beer from a robot which had been following them since they entered.

  Greta Thamar ordered another drink. The robot waiter looked into her eyes with careful lenses, and went away without acknowledging her order.

  When the beer arrived, almost immediately, her ordered drink was not on the tray with it. Nor did the robot offer explanations.

  The aging lady said: “I’m drinking more than is good for my worn mind.” And she laughed. It was quite a young laugh, almost carefree, with something incongruous about it. Now she appeared to notice her companions’ weapons and spacesuits for the first time. “You two are in the service, hey?”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Olga, and then asked deferentially: “Have there been any berserkers around here, ma’am?”

  “They were here. Oh yes. But I never saw them.” Greta Thamar looked vaguely into the distance. “The Guardians wouldn’t believe me. But I knew nothing of what Sabel was doing with the berserkers.”

  “The Guardians, ma’am?” That was Olga, puzzled. She looked at Chen. Everyone knew that the Guardians had existed centuries ago.

  And Sabel? Chen thought, lowering his beer stein with a grateful sigh. Was that supposed to be a joke, or what? It was his turn now to look at Olga, but he got no help from her.

  “We meant just recently, ma’am,” he offered. “Have you seen any berserkers near here today?” And then on impulse, Chen added another question: “Do you know where Prince Harivarman is, ma’am?”

  “I’ve met the man. Can’t say I was all that impressed. I met a Potentate once.” Chen had some vague idea of what that meant: another ghost-name out of ancient history.

  Olga, as if consulting some oracle, asked the elderly woman: “Do you know if the Prince is goodlife?”

  Greta Thamar only looked at her, the perfect smile frozen on her face.

  Olga, as if defensively, went on: “If the Prince is really working with the berserkers, then he’s goodlife. If he’s the one who found a way to let them get aboard the Fortress somehow.”

  Chen broke in. “Maybe they’ve been here ever since the last attack hundreds of years ago.”

  “It was here,” said Greta Thamar. “Georgicus found it, out in the far corridors somewhere. There might still be more of them out there. He did all the things they said he did, but I was innocent.”

  Olga spoke, answering Chen. “Impossible. The way all those rooms and corridors were searched in Sabel’s time?”

  “You weren’t here when all that happened.”

  She had to admit the truth of that. “Well, no. But I had to learn the history when I joined the Templars. And if the Prince is under arrest, it must be for something.”

  “Oh, really? What about me? Does that mean I’m guilty too?”

  She looked at him. “I’m not entirely convinced you’re not.”

  “Love is the answer,” said Greta Thamar suddenly. That was a line from a song, Chen realized suddenly, as the lady began to sing the rest of it under her breath.

  He was ready for another beer, and here were two, no, three bartender robots coming along the aisle in a row. Business must be looking up. The booth-optics showed them as three kinds of dancing animals.

  And then he caught a clear glimpse of the moving figures, through lined-up openings in booth walls, when they were still two curving aisles away. More of them now. Not dancing animals at all but dragoon uniforms, men and women moving with weapons ready. As Chen gaped at them through the walls again, they turned into prancing nymphs and satyrs.

  Chen wasn’t waiting to see what might come next. Olga, alarmed at his alarm, was right beside him as he hit the deck. He started to cry a warning to Greta Thamar, but there was no time. The shooting had already started.

  Olga was quicker with her pistol than Chen was with the more awkward carbine, and he admitted to himself that she was probably more effective too. Gunfire started and rose at once to a crescendo. Greta Thamar ducked under the table, crying her alarm.

  The booth walls burst in at Chen, spattering him with bleeding images and melted plastic. He stayed on the floor, pinned down under heavy fire. He tried to use his carbine and it quit on him; out of ammo, he supposed, though he had earlier reloaded from a spare pack on Olga’s gunbelt; fortunately most Templar small arms used the same load.

  Crawling desperately from under one table to under another, under the sagging booth walls, he realized that he had lost sight of Olga now. Things looked very grim. He thought he heard Hana calling out, but with the firing there was no way to hear actual words.

  He crawled under another booth, saw boots running in front of his face, and lay still. Then he
crawled until an open door came into view, and he jumped up and ran for the door and tripped and fell before he reached it.

  Someone shouted behind Chen, and he rolled onto his back. A dragoon only five meters off was leveling a rifle or weapon of some kind at him.

  With a great crash, what looked like one whole side wall of the place burst in. The dragoon who had been on the verge of shooting Chen was gone, wiped away like a bad drawing. Something tall and metallic, something that moved three-legged through walls and space alike was coming on. Another dragoon, gun blazing, was flung out of its way.

  In mad terror, Chen crawled away, got to his feet, and fled again. The Prince’s recorded voice boomed after him in an appeal. Scrambling desperately, Chen made his way out over and through the rubble of the tavern’s demolished outer wall. He could hear dragoons, or someone, still screaming behind him.

  The familiar, three-legged shape was close behind. It followed Chen out into the street and there swooped down on him.

  He scrambled and tried to run from it. Useless. He fell again. It closed in on him, loomed above him—reached out an arm for him. He saw it open the internal compartment of its torso, to tuck him into it, and he knew why it had been chosen for this job.

  —and at the last moment, a blinding explosion in front of Chen. He saw the monster toppling, headless, and then for the second time in as many days he saw and heard no more.

  Chapter 18

  The Templar staff car came gracefully over the low patio wall and then, its gravitic engine gammalasered into little more than a lump of exotic lead isotope, it fell like a ton of scrap metal inside the barren courtyard of the building that had once been occupied by Georgicus Sabel.

  The berserker whose beam had disabled the staff car did not bother to pursue it to final destruction.

  Lescar, out doing a little scouting on behalf of his master, had been watching the vehicle suspiciously for the last minute, as it had moved erratically up one street and down another, hopping now and then over walls and buildings as if whoever controlled its movements were uncertain of his goal. Then a hovering berserker half a kilometer away had evidently become suspicious of the odd maneuvers also, and had fired. Lescar, his own inescapable berserker escort close at his heels, was at the wall of Sabel’s old lab within a minute, and over the wall a few moments later. It had occurred to him that some of the Prince’s friends might possibly be aboard that staff car, in which case they would certainly need help. Or on the other hand it might be, happily, some of the Prince’s enemies who occupied the car, in which case there might be a good chance for equally appropriate action.

  Lescar dropped over the wall and looked at the crashed vehicle. None of the occupants seemed yet to have stirred. For a few moments longer there was still no movement. Then one of the doors on the vehicle’s undamaged side opened slowly, and a short man in the uniform of a captain of Prime Minister Roquelaure’s dragoons emerged. He straightened up slowly and stood there dazed for a moment. Then he turned back to the car and dragged out an old man whose uniform was also military but of a different color. The chest of the old man’s tunic was almost fully covered by a multitude of decorations, and there was blood on the uniform jacket now, among the ribbons. The old man could not support himself. It appeared to Lescar that he was still breathing, but not much more than that.

  Carelessly the short man let the old one fall. Then he rummaged inside the disabled car again, and came up with a handgun. Then he started to aim the weapon at the collapsed old man. And only then—perhaps the dragoon captain had been a little dazed himself—did he at last catch sight of Lescar watching him. The captain’s eyes widened, as if he recognized Lescar, though Lescar did not know him. And he started to change his pistol’s aim, toward the small, gray, unarmed man.

  “We are not alone,” Lescar informed him almost calmly. Lescar’s escort had not followed him over the wall directly, but it was now walking into the courtyard on its six legs, through a doorway almost behind the other man.

  The eyes of the short captain almost twinkled: You can’t fool me like that. And he was starting to aim his gun again.

  “The Prince will want to talk to him!” said Lescar hastily to his escort; his master had deputized him—loathsome thought—to be able to give certain types of orders to the machines whenever the Prince himself was absent.

  The dragoon captain was still aiming carefully, when the metal arm came over his right shoulder from behind and took him by the wrist.

  * * *

  Lescar on returning with his single prisoner to the Prince’s new headquarters—a villa not unlike the last, though somewhat larger—found the Prince himself engaged in an electronic dialogue with the controller. A considerable amount of test equipment, more elaborate than anything the Prince had been able to use as a lonely field historian, had been set up in this new courtyard and was already in use.

  Harivarman looked up when Lescar entered, walking behind a prisoner with his arm in a sling. When the Prince saw who the prisoner was, he silently put down his electronic tools and came forward, staring.

  “He was riding in a staff car,” Lescar reported succinctly, “with Grand Marshall Beraton. But the old man is dead.”

  * * *

  The commuters’ tube-car must be less crowded than usual this morning, thought Chen. It must be so, because how otherwise could he have dozed off, as he must have, sprawled out here on a pile of something or other aboard the train, lulled by its familiar swaying motion. And around him this morning his fellow students and other assorted travelers were being unusually silent. Because . . .

  An approximation of full memory returned with a jolt, causing Chen to open his eyes quickly. He was lying on his back, indeed riding on some kind of a vehicle, jouncing faintly up and down on an improvised padding of what looked like household quilts and blankets. He had even been tied to his transportation, kept from falling off by a single strap around his waist.

  The vehicle was something new to Chen’s experience, a little too small to be a regular car. With considerable difficulty Chen finally recognized it as the carriage of a sizable self-propelled gun—the barrel would be retracted, somewhere under him, and he wondered what would happen if it had to be unlimbered suddenly.

  He was being carried along a City street of the Fortress at a pace no swifter than a fast walk. Indeed, walking not far from Chen’s side at the moment, keeping pace with his transport, was a coverall-clad woman whose face he felt he ought to recognize, though he had never seen her in person until this moment. Finally he identified the widely-known countenance of the Lady Beatrix. Well, he had never seen her depicted in a coverall.

  He must have murmured something, for the former Princess turned to him. When she saw that Chen was awake, she came to walk closer at his side. Meanwhile the gun carriage, almost the size of a staff car, rolled on, as far as Chen could tell under the control of no one at all.

  The lady said, matter-of-factly: “I see you’ve decided to be with us again. How do you feel?”

  “I’m all—ow.” Chen had tried to sit up, and felt evil reaction in several parts of his body at once. “What happened?”

  “Colonel Phocion shot the head off a rather large berserker, just as it was about to pick you up and tuck you away into its cargo compartment. And you were stunned, either by the blast or when a lot of various parts fell on top of you. But we couldn’t see that there was anything much damaged; I think you’re going to be all right now.”

  “Colonel Phocion?” He’d heard the name somewhere; yes, someone who was supposedly gathering up heavy weapons.

  “That’s right. Using this seventy-five millimeter you’re riding on now. That’s the colonel walking up ahead of us. You’ll get to talk to him presently; right now we’re rather intent on getting to another part of the City. Shooting tends to draw berserkers.” And the lady looked up and around warily; right now the sky immediately above them was empty, the street around them free of menace.

  Squinting down
past his feet, in the direction he was being carried, Chen could see a lone figure pacing about half a block ahead of the gun carriage. The figure was clad in what must be heavy combat armor, just as in the adventure stories.

  Then Chen suddenly remembered something else. “Olga. Where’s Olga?”

  The lady looked at him. “I don’t know any Olga. Where was she when you saw her last?”

  “Back in that tavern. Oh. Ow.”

  “Then I’m afraid the outlook mightn’t be too good for her.”

  “Oh.” He loosened the strap that held him, and made himself sit up.

  The lady walked closer, put a hand on Chen’s arm. “We can’t turn back now, I’m afraid. And we’ve already come quite a distance from that tavern. So, you’re Chen Shizuoka. My name is Beatrix, if you haven’t already recognized me.”

  At any other time, Chen would have been overwhelmed at meeting the former Princess. Now he could only ask: “Where’re we going?”

  “Following the colonel. He seems to know what he’s about.”

  Chen looked ahead again, at the impressive figure in heavy combat armor. Chen supposed that anyone who put that on became impressive. Even from the back the striding figure was imposing, with portions of the armor’s outer surface streaked and blackened, suggesting recent exchanges with berserkers.

  The self-propelled gun that Chen was riding on had evidently been programmed to follow the colonel along the street, rather like a giant robotic bulldog. The colonel turned a corner now, and presently it followed.