Of Berserkers, Swords and Vampires

by Fred Saberhagen

  The lights were out in the tavern. The two patrons were standing behind the bar, the attitude of their vague shapes suggesting that they were waiting as interested spectators. The windows were too glared with searchlights, and the barkeep stood in the middle of the room glaring at Ahlgren.

  "Ahlgren! Come out peacefully and no one will be hurt! Your case will be fairly heard!"

  "Why don't you just do like the man says?" the barkeep suggested angrily.

  What was wrong with these people? Didn't they realize—but he had no time. "Shut up. Where does that back door lead?"

  "Nowhere. I keep it locked." The barkeep swore. "Hope they don't smash the place, but they sure as hell will if you don't go out. Sure, they say, we pay compensation, but look how long it takes. Sure, the glass they put in won't cut nobody, but I gotta sweep it up and put up plywood panels. Why don't you just go out?"

  "Take it easy, Sam," said one of the patrons behind the bar, with a chuckle. Barbara was babbling too, something she was sorry for, or sorry about.

  A window smashed in and a PolPol officer stood outlined in the frame, flashlight sweeping the room. The director shot first. The invisible soundless beam doubled up the man; the falling flashlight spun its beam crazily through the room. Ahlgren picked up a stool to batter at the rear door. It was the only way left.

  "That don't go nowhere, I told ya! Stop! Why did I ever sign up?" The barkeep moaned, grabbing at Ahlgren to keep him from smashing at the door with the stool.

  Ahlgren let him have the stun beam at close range. It didn't bother the man in the least.

  "Not on me, friend, not on me. Tickle all you want," the barkeep said in obscure triumph, pulling the stool away from Ahlgren, whose grip on it had loosened in surprise.

  The director felt the paralyzing tickle of a beam stab his own side; he had time to see Lazar grinning in at a window before sinking to the floor and into unconsciousness.

  He was slumped in a chair propped up by a stiff pillow when awareness returned. There was a sense of strangeness in his mind that he could not fully account for by what he remembered happening. Drugs? They were seldom used on anyone.

  It was a Treatment Room; they were not going to waste any time. Lazar's face looked down at him, grinning, as he had seen it at the tavern window. Two or three of the green-smocked doctors who always administered Conditioning stood beside the monstrous table, watching him and waiting. And Barbara. She stood free in the background, not stunned or restrained in any way.

  Lazar caught the direction of his gaze. "Oh yes, the young lady's been most helpful to us. It was in large part her idea—"

  "Please." The doctor's voice had an edge to it. "I must insist, sir, that you not interfere with treatment."

  "Very well." Lazar's grin was wider than ever. He touched Ahlgren's shoulder as one might pat a dog about to be gassed. "I was comfortably set to watch this show when you made me get up and work for it. But it'll be worth the trouble. Good luck in your new life." He went out jauntily.

  Ahlgren let his eyelids close; he could not look at Barbara. She was whispering with a doctor. He prayed to the God of his childhood to let the Pain come quickly and bring complete forgetfulness.

  A doctor was in front of Ahlgren. "Open your eyes. Look at me. Trust me. Never mind who's watching or that you think you've been betrayed. We didn't plan that, but it can't be helped now. I want you to do something and it won't hurt. Will you try?" The doctor's eyes burned down. His voice compelled.

  Ahlgren was held. "Try what?" he asked.

  "What do you think?" the doctor asked patiently. "Can't you remember?"

  Remember? What was there to remember? Ahlgren's eye roved the room, fell upon the little bookshelf above the desk in one corner, and slid away again. But he supposed there was no escape from—what?

  "You can get up if you like now, Jim. Move around."

  He tried his legs, and they pushed him erect. His arms functioned; movement took an effort but was not painful. How long had he been out from the stunning?

  He found himself approaching the little bookshelf, while the doctors and Barbara watched silently. She was crying quietly; too late now. But he couldn't hate her.

  Obeying an impulse, he reached behind the little row of books and pulled out what he saw with a shock was Volume P. "Who hid this here?" he demanded. "I've been looking for it."

  "Don't you remember, Jim?" asked a doctor gently. "You pushed it back there the last time. Now shall we try reading some things again?"

  The sense of strangeness had deepened until there was no standard left by which to judge the strangeness. That doctor had a cursed familiar way of talking to the director of a city, even to an arrested director, but the director opened the book. He would show them; there was no subject he couldn't read about.

  He found the place he thought they wanted, and began to read aloud, "Pain, the Ultimate," but all that followed was "see Conditioning."

  "No, Jim. Turn further back. Let's try again where we were last time. Do you remember?"

  Ahlgren turned pages, suddenly fearful that something unfaceable was coming. Paine, Thomas. Lucky man, bound up safe in a book.

  "Party, the?" he asked, looking around at the doctors. He thought he remembered reading this article once; much of it had been only a vague jumble of nonsense. High-priced encyclopedia, too.

  "No, not just now. Turn back to where we were last time, remember?"

  Ahlgren knew it had to be done. For some reason. His hands began to tremble as he turned the pages. Pe. Pi. He was getting closer to something he didn't want to find.

  Po. He dropped the book, but made himself pick it up again. Barbara gave him a violent nod of encouragement. She was still almost crying over something. Women. But this time she was here to help him and he was going to succeed.

  He turned a few more pages and there it was. Something he had tried to face before—how many times?—and had always forgotten about after failure. His eyes scanned the clearly printed symbols, but something in his brain fought against interpreting them.

  "I can't read it. It's all blurry." He had said that before. Barbara whispered: "Try, Jim. Try hard."

  Ahlgren stared at the page in an immense effort, failed, and relaxed for a moment. The title of the article suddenly leaped into focus for him:

  POSSEMANIA

  He held up the book and began to read aloud in a quavery voice: " '—From the Latin, posse power, plus mania. Of all mental diseases doubtless the most destructive, in terms of the total suffering inflicted upon humanity throughout history; and one of the most resistant to even modern therapy.' "

  Why had they wanted him to read this? And why had it been difficult? An awful idea loomed on the horizon . . .

  " 'Unique among diseases in that its effects are put to practical use by society, it in fact forms the basis of modern government (see Party, the).' "

  Ahlgren faltered and looked around him uncertainly. He felt sweat beginning to bead his forehead. The article went on to great length, but he flipped pages rapidly back to find 'Party, the'.

  He skimmed rapidly through a few paragraphs, then read aloud in an impersonal, shrill, hurried tone: " 'Those with this pathological lust for power over others generally find means to satisfy it in any society; ours is the first to maintain effective control over its members who are so afflicted. Now, the victims of the disease are necessarily detected during the compulsory annual psychological examination. If immediate therapy fails to effect a cure, as it usually fails, mental Conditioning is applied to initiate or strengthen the delusions, welcomed by the patient, that the Party has the rest of the citizenry at its mercy and—' "

  "Take your time, Jim."

  " '—and that—that Conditioning is a painful, crippling punishment used by the Party itself to erase thoughts of political opposition.' "

  The world was turning under Ahlgren. He forced himself to read on, slowly and sanely. Could this be truth?

  " 'Following what is now to him the only prac
tical course, the victim is guided to apply for Party membership as those found to be compulsive rebels and/or punishment-seekers are shuttled to the complementary organization (see Underground, the). He is of course invariably accepted and assigned, depending on his skills, to the Administration or the Political Police (see PolPol).' "

  Again pages fluttered under Ahlgren's fingers. PolPol.

  " '—stun pistols locked at low neural frequencies that produce only a tickling sensation, to which all Party and Underground members are Conditioned to respond by going into psychic paralysis, unless in a situation where it would be physically dangerous to do so.' "

  Ahlgren skipped from article to article, his mind grabbing recklessly at the words that had been forbidden him.

  " '—Most people generally ignore the activities of both Party and Underground, except as occasional sources of unexpected amusement.' "

  " '—Underground members captured by the Party are quickly turned over to the government doctors for Conditioning. They are treated and sent out again to a different area, believing themselves rebel couriers or escapees. At each capture they are tested to see if their disease has abated to within the reach of therapy.' "

  " '—The PolPol raid the same houses over and over, being Conditioned to remember no such addresses and to keep no records of them. Property owners are compensated for damage incurred. Personal injury in these activities is extremely rare, and accidental when it does occur, due to the Conditioning of both Party and Underground people against it.' "

  " 'Party members composing the Administration perform most of our essential government functions, being constrained by their Conditioning against any abuse of power, corruption, or dishonesty.' "

  Ahlgren felt cold sweat all over him. His headache was gone but his throat felt raw. How long had he been reading aloud?

  "That's fine, Jim, that's fine!" a doctor said. "Can you go on a little further?"

  It took a giant's effort. Yet it was something that must be done.

  " 'By the interaction of Conditioning with the disease, the victim is prevented from apprehending the true state of affairs. He is, for example, unable to read this very article with any true comprehension. If read aloud to him, it will not make sense to his mind; he will interpret it to suit the needs of the moment, then quickly forget it. Indeed, this article and similar writings are frequently used as tests to determine a patient's progress . . .' "

  Ahlgren's hand holding the book dropped to his side. He stood swaying on his feet, utterly weary. He wanted only sleep, oblivion, forgetfulness.

  A doctor carefully took the book from him, found the place, and read: " 'When continued therapy has brought a Party member near the point of cure, as is finally possible in about half of all cases, a realization of the true state of affairs becomes possible for the patient.' That's you now, Jim. You're over the hump. Understand me? You're getting well!"

  Director Ahlgren was weeping quietly, as if from weakness and exhaustion. He sat down on the edge of the treatment table and the doctors gathered around him and began to fit the attachments of the table to him. He helped them; he was familiar with the process.

  "I think this'll be the last, Jim. We're going to de-Condition you this time. Then one more subconscious therapy—" The doctor's voice came through speakers . . .

  . . . into the next room, where Perkins, Lazar, and Doctor Schmidt watched and listened.

  Lazar stared through the one-way glass, gripped by vast elation. The director's chair was his! The girl in the Treatment Room had thrown her arms about Ahlgren; perhaps she regretted that she had been used against him. She should be grateful. It was not often that a mere citizen had such a chance to help the Party. Doctor Schmidt was saying something to Lazar. "What?"

  "I said, would you tell me what you thought of the material the former director read aloud just now?"

  Lazar frowned. Why, it had been something—unpleasant. He turned to Perkins, giving up the problem with relief to his superior.

  "What he read was a lot of subversive nonsense," Perkins rumbled, after a thoughtful pause. "It amounted to a confession of guilt."

  "I see," said Dr. Schmidt. He looked a little sad. "Thank you, gentlemen. Shall we go?"

  Perkins was staring with bright and hungry eyes at the motionless form of former Director Ahlgren on the table. "Too bad we have to inflict such pain," he said.

  He was coming out of pleasant sleep, and the first thing he did was to reach out and find her hand. He looked up at her face. He remembered now—she'd said she'd wait . . . five years before.

  "Was it your idea?" he asked. "To help last night yourself?"

  "No, the doctors suggested it, darling. They thought you were approaching a crisis . . . but it's all right now."

  "Then stop crying," he told her. "Every time I look at you, you're crying. Think I want to watch you cry all the time?" But she was half laughing, too, so it really was all right.

  He lay in peace. The weight of mountains had been lifted from his soul.

  His mother was bending over him anxiously. He saw there was morning light coming into a hospital room.

  "Son, are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, Mother. No pain." Barbara, looking happy, was still here, or here again.

  His father came in, a little older and grayer than he remembered, shaking his head in the familiar way at his mother's ignorant worry about the supposed pain of Conditioning.

  "It was on the Party news Just now," his father said, grinning.

  "You were denounced for traitorous activity yesterday and purged last night. The usual appeal—for the citizenry to treat you kindly and not blame your new personality for your acts of treason. I think we can manage that somehow."

  Jim Ahlgren looked around at the three of them. He said softly:

  "I've been gone a long time."

  SCIENCE FICTION—General

  To Mark The Year On Azlaroc

  They had been quarreling in the ship, and were still at it when they disembarked and left its sprawling metal complexities behind them. Ailanna snapped at Hagen: "So what if I misplaced your camera! What does it matter if you have one more picture of the stars? You can take a dozen when we depart." And when it turned out that they had missed the ground transport machine that was taking the other passengers across the smooth undulations of the golden plain toward the city, Hagen was almost expecting her to physically attack him.

  "Son of a nobody!" Ailanna hissed. "Where are we to stay if you have made no reservations?" A kilometer away was the only real city on the star, and Hagen realized that to one coming to Azlaroc for the first time, the city must look quite small. On the surface there appeared only a few fairyland towers, and little evidence of the many chambers and passageways dug out beneath the plain.

  "I haven't made up my mind where to stay." He turned away from her and began to walk after the transport machine.

  She followed. "You can never make up your mind about anything." It was an old intermittent quarrel. If the reservations had been in perfect order, there would have been something else to quarrel about.

  She nagged him for a hundred meters across the plain, and then the scenery began to come through to her. The enormous goldenyellow land was humped here and there by paraboloid hills and studded with balanced spheres of matter. The surface looked more like something man-made than like soil, and it stretched in places up to the low, yellowish, sunless sky, in asymptotic spires that broke off in radiant glory at an altitude of a few hundred meters, at the upper edge of the region of gravity inversion.

  "What's that?" Her voice was no longer angry. She was looking toward the top of a golden sphere which loomed over the distanceless horizon, at right angles to the way they were walking. The sphere reminded Hagen of a large planet rising, as seen from some close-in satellite, but this sphere was entirely beneath the low, peculiar sky.

  "Only part of the topography." He remained calm, as usual, taking her bickering in stride.

  When they had
gotten under-surface in the city, and arranged for lodgings, and were on their way to them through one of the smaller side passageways, Hagen saw some man or woman of a long-past year approaching through the passage from the other direction. Had there been three or four people of the present year or of recent years in the same part of the corridor just then, the passage of such an old one would have been almost unnoticeable. The old one did not appear as a plain solid human figure. Only a disturbance in the air and along the wall, a mound of shadows and moire patterns that throbbed with the beat of the pulsar somewhere beneath their feet. The disturbance occupied hardly any space in this year's corridor, and Ailanna at first was not aware of it at all.

  Hagen reached out a hand and took her by the upper arm and forced her, strong woman that she was, into three almost-dancing steps that left her facing in the proper way to see. "Look. One of the early settlers."

  With a small intake of breath Ailanna fixed her eyes on the figure. She watched it out of sight around a corner, then turned her elfin face to Hagen. Her eyes had been enlarged, and her naturally small chin further diminished, in accordance with the fashion dictates of the time, even as Hagen's dark eyebrows had been grown into a ring of hair that crossed above his nose and went down by its sides to meld with his mustache. She said: "Perhaps one of the very first? An explorer?"

  "No." He looked about at the ordinary overhead lights, the smooth walls of the yellowish rock-like substance of the star. "I remember that this corridor was not cut by the explorers, not perhaps until '120 or '130. So no settler in it can be older than that, of course."

  "I don't understand, Hagen. Why didn't you tell me more about this place before you brought me here?"

  "This way it will all come as a wonderful surprise." Exactly how much irony was in his answer was hard to tell.

  They met others in the corridor as they proceeded. Here came a couple of evidently ten or fifteen local years ago. walking in the nudity that had been acceptable as fashion then, draped with ten or fifteen of the sealing veils of Azlaroc so that their bodies shimmered slightly as they moved, giving off small diamond-sparkles of light. The veils of only ten or fifteen years were not enough to warp a settler out of phase with this year's visitors, so the four people meeting in the passage had to give way a little on both sides, as if they were in a full sense contemporaries, and like contemporaries they excused themselves with vacant little social smiles.