Rogue Berserker Page 9

  In Harry’s opinion, the whole operation looked like it was on the verge of falling apart.

  “Or are we just going to keep postponing and postponing, until we talk ourselves out of the project altogether?”

  “That’s not going to happen.” For once Satranji seemed to be in firm agreement.

  The Lady Masaharu stayed very much in control and did not seem to be perturbed. She had serene confidence that Winston Cheng would accomplish exactly what he said. “The boss says that’s all being taken care of.”

  In her capacity as field commander of the expedition, she made scouting a priority. Recon efforts, crewed and uncrewed, were necessary to locate the enemy, and help the newly installed supercomputer find a survivable pathway to the inner system. Little else could be done until that had been accomplished.

  To that end, Harry also might be called on to put in long hours as a pilot—driving a military scoutship that Cheng Enterprises had somehow obtained as Space Force surplus. The small vessel had been stripped of its insignia and armament before being sold for civilian use, and no attempt had been made to reinstall the weapons, though the scout had drive power and maneuverability to burn. There were reasons why any moderately heavy armament that became available would instead be installed aboard the yachts, with the best of it going to Cheng’s favorite Ship of Dreams.

  As far as Harry was concerned, there was no bloody use in weighing yourself down with armament on a scouting mission, if your objective was to discover the location of a berserker base without being detected.

  “If some berserker sees me first, a couple of little shootin’ irons aren’t going to do me any good.”

  And the lady was in agreement. “Of course—if you’re trying to sneak up on the game, the last thing you want to look like is a hunter.”

  However many organic assistants Harry had left, he kept them busy, driving small unarmed scouts around the system. It was important that the living supervisors should get closer to the whirling rock slide, so they could better manage the horde of flying robots that were sent plunging right in, sending back packets of data, on missions that often were suicidal.

  Just getting close, into the zone where Harry and his living helpers went, was risky business. But no one objected. They were a couple of young men, recruited from other projects that Winston Cheng had going on, drawn by the prospect of adventure, not to mention the excellent pay.

  * * *

  Cheng put in another of his frequent appearances at the advanced base.

  He told Harry: “At the time of the first kidnapping Satranji was engaged in a routine mapping mission for Cheng Enterprises. A solo flight into the Gravel Pit—of course we were not, at that time, looking for berserkers. According to the log of the ship Satranji was using, he could not have been anywhere near the scene of the kidnapping at the hour when Winnie and Claudia were lost.

  “At the time when your Becky and Ethan were taken, as confirmed by another ship’s log, he was working in the Gravel Pit again. By that time, of course, we had begun scouting missions looking for the berserker base.”

  Despite Lady Laura’s objections to the robot wife, Cheng appeared totally indifferent to the sex lives of his team members. Harry thought the old man wouldn’t care much if one member of his crew had tried to murder another, as long as the problem had now been solved or somehow put aside. The only thing that Winston Cheng really seemed to find appalling was the danger that something would delay their getting on with the project as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  The point was emphasized, that the old man was ready to sacrifice the lives of others, and to take great risks himself, to bring closer the realization of his own goal.

  * * *

  Now and then, on average maybe two or three times in a standard day, robotic couriers came and went from the little base, conveying business messages to and from various other destinations in Winston Cheng’s empire.

  It remained possible for team members to send and receive personal mail by the same means, though they were increasingly encouraged to keep such traffic to a minimum, just enough to keep friends and relatives from growing too worried or too curious. Communication with the outside world was still not overtly censored—but Harry felt sure that someone, probably the Lady Masaharu, was secretly reading all the messages before they actually went out. All members of the group were frequently reminded of the need for secrecy.

  None of this was of much concern to Harry, who felt that he had already been violently separated from the world. Once or twice a day now, probing messages arrived at the wanderworld, from news organizations that were trying overtly or covertly to locate Harry Silver. People out in the great Galactic world were finally starting to catch on to the strange dual kidnappings. So far, Lady Masaharu was putting the questioners off with bland misdirection, for which Harry was grateful.

  * * *

  Shortly after the arrival of a certain robotic message courier, Winston Cheng’s appointed coordinator, in the absence of Cheng himself, announced that the secret negotiations for the ship they were going to use had just been completed.

  The Lady Masaharu instructed Harry to drive one of the available couriers to a certain Templar base, only a relatively few light-years away, where the ship that was going to be their main attack vessel had now at last become available.

  “I don’t suppose this is the secret weapon, finally?”

  “That is the implication.”

  Harry was surprised. “The weapon is a ship that we’re borrowing from the Templars?”

  “I think you may assume that we’re buying it and not borrowing. Currently this particular vessel is not the property of the order, it just happens to be berthed at one of their bases.”

  Harry was squinting. “I don’t get it.”

  “There’s no great mystery. They had first crack at buying the ship in question themselves, but decided to pass. Which is fortunate for us.”

  “Then who is the current owner?”

  “The designer, builder, and only owner to date is Aristotle Gianopolous. Perhaps you’ve met him?”

  No, Harry had never laid eyes on the fellow. But he knew the name, as did much of the rest of the inhabited Galaxy, in particular the minority of people with a professional interest in advanced ship design and military hardware. Harry’s personal opinion was that the man was probably part genius and part fraud, the exact proportions hard to determine; but Harry hadn’t made a study of the matter and wasn’t going to be dogmatic about it. Thinking it over, he decided that with the expedition’s chances being what they were, the truth about the secret weapon probably didn’t really matter a whole lot, as long as they could get the show on the road.

  “What do I do with the ship I’m driving, when I get to the Templar base?”

  The Lady Masaharu told Harry that he should program the courier he had driven there to make its way back uncrewed, on autopilot, to 207GST.

  The next part of Harry’s job, and an important one, would be to inspect the newly acquired vessel.

  “As soon as you have satisfied yourself as to its general spaceworthiness, you will drive it back here, to 207GST, using the time en route to familiarize yourself as thoroughly as possible with its capabilities and controls. You will be the pilot when we attack.”

  “All right.

  “Lady Masaharu, one question.”

  “Of course.”

  “You have several other pilots here, and I can’t be the highest rated in diplomacy. Why are you sending me?”

  “I understand you’re well acquainted with the base commander there, Colonel-Abbot Darchan.”

  “Oh.” Light dawned. “Yeah, but I didn’t know he was there. Emil and I know each other pretty well. Or we did, I haven’t seen the good abbot for a few years.”

  “You’re definitely on friendly terms, then?”

  Harry nodded.

  “Good, we were hoping we could bank on that. Personal acquaintance should smooth things out a bit. I’m not s
ure most Templars would be eager to cooperate in a project, once they knew it was being funded by Winston Cheng.”

  Harry recalled the rumors of ill-feeling. “You may have a point there.”

  “There will be one more part to your mission, Harry. It’s a fairly important part. If it is at all possible, you will bring the inventor back here with you. Mister Cheng intends to offer him a job as a consultant.”

  “A consultant. Not to go on the assault?”

  “I should hope not.”

  “And if he doesn’t want to come?”

  The lady smiled faintly. “Well, we don’t expect you to use force. Actually I suspect that you may find him rather eager, when he learns the offer’s source.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of course, if he should be reluctant, do your best to persuade him. Mister Cheng and I both feel he could be very useful as a consultant in the final stages of this project.”

  “His ship is that tricky to operate?”

  “He claims the very opposite, that any qualified pilot should have an easy time. But the truth is we’re not sure yet.”

  “Great.” Harry’s tone reversed the meaning of the word. “And I get to drive. What inducement can I offer him?”

  “As far as the price we are offering for the ship goes, just tell him you don’t think he’ll be disappointed.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I would strongly advise that you not reveal the exact nature of our project to Professor Gianopolous, until you are both on your way here in his ship.”

  “I can see that. Well, I’m not the smoothest salesman you could find.”

  “You underrate yourself, Harry. Sincerity counts for a lot. If you can’t sign up the inventor—well, we’ll manage without him. But be sure you bring the ship.”

  “I understand.”

  He was on his way out when the lady called after him: “I think you’ll find it an interesting experience.”

  Harry grunted. Then when he was halfway through the doorway he stopped and turned to ask: “Are you talking about the ship or the designer?”

  The Lady Masaharu showed him one of her rare smiles. “I doubt that you’ll be bored by either one.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Winston Cheng’s visits to the wanderworld were never more than two days apart, and there was at least one standard day when he dropped in twice. Harry didn’t see much of the old man during most of these appearances, but thought that Cheng was starting to look grimly, quietly frantic. Not that Harry was paying much attention to the behavior of other people; he had enough trouble trying to organize his own.

  On some of his drop-in visits Cheng got no farther than the dock, or the enclosed platform just inboard from there, an air-filled space where everyone could take helmets off and converse in relative comfort. There the tycoon stood or sat talking to the Lady Masaharu, never penetrating any farther into the base, before he jumped back on the ship that had brought him, or another that was standing by, and hurried away again. Doubtless there were business matters that needed his personal attention, even more than usual when he was forced to marshal extra resources to prepare and supply his striking force. Once he told Harry that he wanted to give, as much as possible, the impression of maintaining his regular activities. At other times Cheng walked through very nearly the whole base, looked at everything there was to be seen, talked to everyone, and prolonged his visit for several hours.

  Mostly the old man arrived in one or another of his fast business couriers, but there came a day when Cheng arrived aboard his favorite armed yacht, Ship of Dreams, and abruptly ordered Del Satranji to drop everything else that he was doing to take over as his personal pilot.

  As Harry heard the story later, Satranji seemed almost stunned. He immediately protested that he wanted to be involved directly in the fighting.

  Cheng assured him that he would be. “I can assure you, my friend, that by staying close to me you will see all the action anyone could possibly want.”

  The pilot had tried further argument, everything short of threatening to quit. But Satranji’s toughness, in a matter like this, had to crumble when it ran into the old man’s. Cheng closed the discussion by saying Satranji could follow orders, or he could pack his things and leave, and an immediate decision was required.

  There was one slight hitch involving the robot Dorijen. Be it wife, chattel, or assigned to some other category, Cheng would not have it on his yacht, and Satranji was forced to put his robot into storage on the base.

  * * *

  Now, at last, the nature of the secret weapon could be revealed to the whole assault team and their support people.

  Cheng said to the assembled crew, or as many as could be gathered at one place at one time: “The secret weapon I have been talking about is, as you will see in a few days, indeed a ship. Not a very large vessel, or especially heavily armed. But it has, from our point of view, one outstanding attribute: it can disguise itself as a Type-B berserker.”

  That made an impression on Harry, and the vast majority of his other listeners, and drew a murmur.

  The old man went on: “The disguise is not only visual, but extends to identification codes and signals. It can carry a combat crew of six humans, and has a cargo bay that can hold several tons of machinery, such as small assault vehicles. If all goes well, it will enable us to reach the enemy base before the enemy knows we’re anywhere around.”

  Harry raised his eyes abruptly, to give Cheng a searching stare. It was Lady Laura who met Harry’s gaze, and her lips silently formed the one word: later.

  Winston Cheng continued briefing his team. He was convinced that the mission’s chance of success depended very heavily on deception, on being able to fool the defenses of the enemy base. To trick casual human observers ought to be comparatively easy—but to deceive the real thing, with all its IFF capabilities, over a span of approach time that might equal a full minute or even more, would pose a tremendous challenge.

  * * *

  Minutes after the meeting broke up, Lady Laura told Harry privately: “Naturally, Mister Silver, it will have occurred to you that this vehicle, or something like it, could have been used in one or both of the abductions. That the identifiable berserker hardware recovered in one case might have been deliberately seeded in nearby space in an attempt at deception.”

  “Naturally. Except I still don’t know why anyone would want to do it.”

  Cheng stepped in. “I assure you, we have considered the possibility, however faint. But we have solid evidence that the ship we are about to purchase was in dock on the day I lost the people dear to me; and very recently I have learned that the Templars were testing the same ship when your family was taken. To the best of our knowledge, no similar craft exists anywhere.”

  Cheng’s investigation had still not been able to discover any connection existing between their families before the kidnappings, nor could Harry remember anything that might have formed one. Whatever association existed must have been forged during the few days that had passed between crimes. The only alternative seemed to be that the second set of kidnapping victims had been chosen purely at random, a coincidence so monstrous as to be a practical impossibility. (Harry remembered the caution about coincidence that he had recently received from Doc.)

  No matter what explanation was tried, puzzling questions remained. The fact of the first meeting between Cheng and Harry, even if berserkers had learned of it as soon as it took place, would seem to give them no reason to go out of their way to pick on Harry’s family. Human tycoons and pilots were holding meetings all the time, a habit they shared with much of the rest of their restless race.

  Endless speculation was possible, but no certainty, except for this: something—or someone—had deliberately selected Becky and Ethan as targets, in the process effectively destroying Harry’s life.

  Again and again, Harry found himself calling up a mental image of Satranji, who was no longer on the base, but spending all his time aboard the Ship o
f Dreams …

  Harry was scanning that mental image again when another, very different possibility drifted into Harry’s consciousness. The thought was an ugly one indeed, and Harry didn’t quite know what to do with it. Did he find himself here on this forsaken wandering rock, preparing for death in a berserker fight, because he had been deliberately set up, his life ruined, by Winston Cheng himself?

  But no. That seemed insane. Imagine the old man as ruthless as a forceblade, still he would not collaborate for a moment with the very berserkers he had dedicated himself to destroy. Cheng’s sincerity was very convincing—no, that was too mild a word. Say instead maniacal. Would Captain Ahab work out a deal with Moby Dick, feed the great white whale fresh victims, just to get a certain harpooner signed on for a voyage? And would Moby Dick be likely to cooperate?

  Crazy as it seemed to suspect Cheng, were the alternatives really all that much better? Once more, what were the odds that the enemy had selected the two sets of kidnap victims purely at random?

  Harry could hear himself making small sounds of anguish in his throat. Every once in a while it all started to come over him like this. He had to squeeze his eyes shut, and bring up his hands to his head, as if to hold his brain together. Never mind the logic, never mind the reasoned search for answers. What had happened to Becky and to Ethan was still beyond the limit, outside the domain of things that he could think rationally about.

  * * *

  Winston Cheng, convening in the common room a meeting of all the humans who could be gathered at short notice, told them that he and his coordinator had decided to make an all-out effort to recruit Professor Aristotle Gianopolous, designer and builder of the fake berserker Winston Cheng wanted to use in his raid, as a consultant.