Berserker Wars (Omnibus)

by Fred Saberhagen

  He got to his feet slowly, breathing heavily, letting his gasping opponent up.

  No one was fighting any longer. And everyone in the room was looking in the same direction.

  A Carmpan had entered the tavern through one of the street doors.

  A stocky figure, certainly human by the standard of free will and intelligence, but just as certainly not descended from any life on Earth, was standing there alone just inside the door and looking at them all, with what expression it was impossible to say.

  Every Earth-descended human knew what Carmpan looked like, though the Carmpan home worlds were remote, and few ED had ever actually seen a human of that other theme. The figure standing now at the badly lighted threshold of the silent room was by Earth standards squat, blocky, almost mechanical-looking. For clothing it wore some simple drapery, belted loosely over gray skin that looked almost like metal. There was no hair worth mentioning. To read expression on that alien face was, for Simeon at least, an impossibility. But then the mere presence of the being here in a tavern on Rohan seemed incredible, though of course there was nothing logically impossible about it. Simeon, and the people around him, to judge by their expressions, had had no reason to think there was a Carmpan within parsecs of this world.

  For centuries, almost every Earth-descended human in the Galaxy had known that the humans of the other theme called Carmpan were valuable allies in the war fought by ED humans against berserkers. That was true even though the specific contributions of those allies were hard to pin down. As far as any ED human knew, no Carmpan had ever actually fought, none had ever committed an act of violence, even against berserkers. No Carmpan designed or supplied weapons. And yet there were the authenticated stories of their sporadic telepathic achievements. And there were the occasional utterances, sometimes mystic, sometimes mathematical, that Earth-descended people called Prophecies of Probability.

  “Captain Domingo?” The slit-like mouth scarcely moved, but the voice, deep and slightly harsh, was very clear and understandable, even in the farthest corners of the room. If the speaker had been behind a screen, you might have thought that voice was issuing from an Earth-descended throat. Only now did Simeon fully realize how quiet the room had grown. Even the music had stumbled to a halt.

  Now there was movement again, alteration in the frozen tableau of suspended combat in the center of the room. Domingo stepped forward, separating himself from the people around him. He looked at the Carmpan—almost, Simeon thought, as if the captain had been expecting some such miracle.

  Domingo answered: “Yes?”

  The voice coming from the blocky figure continued to be almost eerily Earthlike, the tone and accent flawless in the common language. The Carmpan said: “I wish to sign on as a member of your crew. I am highly qualified in communications with the headlink. Or, indeed, sometimes without it. I am able also to operate the other systems of an ED ship with what I think you will agree is more than a fair degree of skill.”

  With that first sentence, the silence in the room had grown even more intense.

  It was an unprecedented event; no Carmpan in history had ever signed up as crew on an ED-human voyage.

  “I’ll be glad to sign you on,” Domingo said into the silence. A light trickle of blood was making its way unnoticed down one side of his face. A moment later the captain added calmly: “Provided you can demonstrate your competence.”

  “I can do so at your pleasure; I am pleased to be accepted. Have you any objection to concluding the formalities immediately?”

  There was only a momentary pause. “No objection at all.” The captain pulled a folder from his pocket. Paperwork was brought out. The Carmpan approached, booted feet shuffling in the silence, a sound vaguely suggesting clumsiness.

  People made room at the bar, and someone even wiped an area clean. The Carmpan paused silently over the paper and then signed on. Simeon saw the gray fingers working a writing tool, lettering neatly and formally, even entering a legal name—Fourth Adventurer—on the crew roster. Later, people who knew as much about the Carmpan as ED humans ever did were to say that sounded like as good a Carmpan name as any.

  Shortly the new crew of the Sirian Pearl , now five strong and almost complete to the captain’s satisfaction, left the tavern together, passing a police vehicle that was arriving belatedly to stop the brawl.

  * * *

  Fourth Adventurer requested a stop at the spaceport hostel, and there, from a room in the wing for non-ED humanity where he—or she—was the sole tenant, picked up a modest amount of baggage. With this loaded on a small robot carrier, the four ED humans and their new recruit proceeded to the spaceport. Simeon noticed that the Carmpan’s baggage included what looked like a well-tailored suit of space armor.

  En route to the port, Domingo took the opportunity to explain to the Carmpan that food should be no problem on the Pearl.The ship’s food synthesizer was an advanced model that would keep Carmpan and ED alike well nourished. Fourth Adventurer accepted this as if he had expected it all along.

  Given the possibility of lingering trouble over the tavern fight, Domingo did not want to stay long on this world. But even before he could arrange clearance for departure, he had several calls from people wanting to sign on, to fill the one remaining position on his crew, assuming the Carmpan would be accepted. The word had spread quickly. But somehow none of these late ED applicants pleased the captain, and he said he was of a mind to turn them all down sight unseen.

  “That is a wise decision, Captain,” said the Carmpan unexpectedly. Everyone else looked at him, and he looked back.

  Immediately after liftoff from Rohan, the Carmpan requested a general crew meeting in the common room. When Domingo heard what the purpose of the meeting was to be, he granted the request at once.

  With the meeting assembled, the newest crew member assured his new shipmates that what they had doubtless heard about the telepathic capabilities of Carmpan was at least partially correct. But he solemnly pledged, here and now, to respect the mental privacy of his shipmates and gave them assurances that he had done so from the start.

  Simeon wasn’t quite sure whether to be relieved, impressed or doubtful.

  “Fourth Adventurer?” Spence Benkovic, sounding confident as usual, approached with a question.

  “Yes, Spence.”

  “For reasons of psychology, affecting the ED component of the crew, there’s something some of us would like to get settled. Would you consider it impolite if we asked whether you are male or female?”

  “You should tell whoever is curious on the subject that I am male. And for the duration of my service, you may disregard any special considerations of politeness where I am concerned.”

  Simeon thought that Benkovic looked vaguely disappointed.

  * * *

  Next day the Pearldeparted Rohan. On the advice of the Carmpan, Domingo chose a course that seemed to lead nowhere in particular. En route, Fourth Adventurer easily passed the captain’s tests of competence in controlling the systems of the ship by mindlink band. A few adjustments in the equipment were necessary to accommodate a non-ED brain, and with that out of the way everything went very smoothly.

  But all the surprises were not over.

  CHAPTER 15

  No sooner had the Pearl departed from the Rohan system than Domingo’s newest crew member called up the captain on intercom and suggested a different heading from the one just established.

  Domingo’s first reaction was to consult the holographic chart in front of him. The course he had just charted led directly toward the Milkpail, but now Fourth Adventurer wanted him to deviate from that by thirty degrees or so, heading into what amounted to an interstellar wasteland.

  The captain, fully aware that most of the rest of his crew were probably listening in, shifted his gaze to the small, gray, enigmatic image on the intercom stage. “Why should I go that way, Fourth Adventurer?”

  The Carmpan’s voice was as firmly and convincingly ED as ever. “It will g
ive you the best chance of recruiting the sixth crew member you desire to have.”

  “Aha. And who will this person be?”

  “A very highly rated pilot.”

  That was the very skill that Domingo had been wishing for most strongly.

  There was a pause, during which the captain studied his instruments some more. “You appear to be directing me into what we call the Gravelpile,” he said at last. The formation known by that name was a dull, dark wisp of coarse interstellar matter, billions of kilometers long and deep, growing out like a dead or dying tail from one end of the Milkpail. Colonies were nonexistent in the Gravelpile, and suns almost so. Astrogation at any speed was difficult. Ships and people were almost entirely absent. Life of any kind was very rare, and so, therefore, were berserkers.

  Fourth Adventurer’s tiny image nodded. “That is true. That is where I am advising you to go.”

  Domingo was certain now that the entire crew was listening in. “Just what is this highly rated pilot doing there? He or she is aboard some kind of a ship, I presume?”

  “That would seem logical, but I am not sure. It is hard for me to tell.”

  Simeon, watching the conversation through his own intercom station, thought that Domingo for once looked indecisive.

  The captain demanded of Fourth Adventurer: “Is that all you can tell me?”

  “It is all I can tell you at the moment that will be of help. You must understand that I am as reluctant to probe that pilot’s mind as to probe yours.”

  “Ah. But you’re certain he or she is there?”

  “Indeed. And apparently alone.”

  Iskander broke in: “There must be a lot of good pilots’ minds scattered here and there around the Galaxy. Is there some reason why we should go chasing after this one in particular?”

  “The probabilities of success, in our mission of pursuit, are greater if we do.”

  Everyone had heard the legendary stories: how the Carmpan talents, telepathic and probabilistic, worked—at least sometimes. It was up to the captain to decide.

  “All right,” Domingo agreed, after a pause. He was thinking that it was no advantage to have special talents aboard if you were afraid to use them or trust them.

  A voyage of several days brought the Pearlto the fringes of the Gravelpile, and here the Carmpan suggested—“ordered” was more like it, Iskander muttered—another course correction.

  The second-in-command was not too happy. “What exactly are we supposed to find here, Fourth Adventurer?”

  “A pilot alone … but I must report an unfavorable development.”

  Domingo spoke up sharply. “Let’s have it, then.”

  “By now, captain, I am beginning to suspect that the pilot we are seeking is dying, or else in suspended animation. There is a quality of mind that I can only describe as fading.”

  “Great. Well, we’ve come this far. We’ll push on.”

  The ship advanced, slowly, into the Gravelpile. From this point on, the average density of matter in the space around the ship was as high as in the Milkpail, making it necessary to travel in normal space, at relatively low speeds. The matter here tended to be concentrated in solid granules and larger chunks, but the overall effect was much the same.

  In another hour, Fourth Adventurer suddenly recommended yet a third change of heading. The captain silently complied. No more was said.

  Until about an hour after that, when the Carmpan called a halt. “Here,” he said. “Somewhere nearby. Now you must take over the search. Captain, I am very tired. With your permission I am going to rest.”

  Spence Benkovic was muttering something uncharitable. But Domingo was looking at Fourth Adventurer with concern. “Permission granted.”

  “I shall be all right in a few hours. But now I must rest.” And the Carmpan’s intercom station went blank.

  “Do that.” Domingo sighed faintly, and looked around him on his instruments. His ship was practically at rest with reference to the nearby matter in space. “Iskander, Benkovic. Let’s break out some seeking tools.”

  In a few more minutes the captain had his entire ED crew at work, examining space in the vicinity of the ship with various instruments. Still nothing that suggested the presence of any kind of pilot, good or bad, was showing anywhere on the detectors.

  “Everyone keep looking. I’m starting a slow cruise in a search pattern.”

  To the professed surprise of some aboard, a few minutes of routine search effort did produce results. There was first a faint, distorted distress signal and then the image of what might well be a lifeboat, almost lost amid gravel at some forty thousand kilometers’ range.

  “I’m proceeding in that direction,” Domingo announced. “I want everyone except Adventurer at stations.”

  The approach to the signal source was again routine, cautious and time-consuming. As the Pearldrew nearer, the object could be certainly identified as a common type of ED lifeboat. And as the investigating ship approached still closer to it, the small craft could be seen to be battered and scarred. It looked as if it had been through a war, as probably, thought Simeon, it had.

  Probing at the object with a tight communications beam brought no response except a continuation of the distress signal, which was no doubt an automatic transmission.

  Looking over the lifeboat from a distance of only a few hundred meters, it was impossible to guess whether it had been adrift in space for a day or for several hundred years.

  “I say we wake the squarehead up”—this was Benkovic speaking—“and try to make sure he knows what he’s doing. This thing could be some kind of a berserker booby-trap.”

  The captain dismissed that suspicion immediately. “Way out here? They wouldn’t waste the effort. They’d go near a shipping lane somewhere to work that kind of a stunt. I want a couple of people to suit up and take a look at it.”

  “I guess you have a point there, Captain.” And Spence, as if to make amends for arguing, was the first to volunteer.

  Iskander for once did not volunteer; maybe, thought Simeon, the second-in-command disdained this job as too safe and easy.

  Simeon decided that he himself was ready to get into a suit again. And shortly he was out in space with Benkovic. The Milkpail again dominated the sky, but here the great bright splash of it was barred and patched with blackness, the erratic patterns of the Gravelpile’s intervening dark material. This really looked and felt like deep space, a hell of a long way from anywhere or anything, and if there was really a living pilot in the boat, she or he was going to have one miraculous rescue to tell the grandchildren about someday.

  The two men reached the drifting lifeboat speedily and without incident. The main hatch on the small vessel opened normally, on the first effort, but there was no cycling of the airlock. The cabin atmosphere in the boat either had been lost, or else deliberately evacuated.

  Benkovic went first in through the hatch, with Chakuchin hovering nearby outside. As with all lifeboats, there wasn’t a great deal of interior room. But a moment later Spence was reaching out a gauntleted hand to beckon, and calling him on radio. “Take a look at this, Sim.”

  Simeon went in, just as Benkovic got the interior lights turned on. The boat appeared to be a standard, fairly recent model. There were two berths, as might be expected, convertible to suspended-animation couches.

  And both of the SA beds were occupied. Simeon glanced in passing through the little window of the nearest. There was a dead man in it. One glance was enough; there would be no need to open this one to make sure.

  But Spence was grinning beside the second berth. Simeon looked in there and beheld the countenance of a reasonably attractive young woman, eyes closed, as if she were in peaceful sleep. Readouts on the berth confirmed the immediate instinctive impression that she was alive.

  Domingo’s voice was in their suit radios, asking questions. Simeon answered. “Looks like one survivor, Captain. If she’s still viable.”

  “Viable ain’t the word for
it.” Benkovic was looking through the little window appreciatively.

  Domingo was asking: “Anything about the setup look suspicious? If not, we might as well grapple the boat and bring her right aboard.”

  Nothing looked suspicious as far as the two investigators could tell. A few minutes later the lifeboat, entry hatch still open, was inside the Pearl‘s ventral bay, and atmosphere was filling boat and bay alike.

  Once atmosphere had been established, the men in the bay tried the standard revival cycle on the suspended-animation chamber. It worked. The watching men were soon rewarded with favorable readouts and signs of life. Their pilot-to-be—if indeed the young woman was going to fit that category—had undoubtedly started breathing. Iskander went to sickbay to get certain things ready in case they should be needed.

  Presently the SA chamber opened. The young woman, dressed in a standard ship’s coverall, immediately struggled to sit up in the Pearl‘s artificial gravity. Spence and Simeon were at her side, offering physical support, and trying to be reassuring.

  In a few seconds, with help, the object of their attentions was on her feet. The young woman was tall, and more than moderately attractive now that her long, strong body was fully alive again.

  Presently Iskander and Spence were cycling with her into the ship proper. When they were through the lock, they walked her gently to sickbay between them.

  “What time is it?” That was the first question she asked, the first coherent words she uttered, on waking up more or less completely. By this time she was seated in the sickbay of the Pearl, and could see she had an interested audience around her. Her speech and accent seemed to follow one of the more commonly heard patterns; she would not have sounded out of place at all on Rohan, though there was a trace of some earlier influence, an origin somewhere else.