The berserker hoped to find some way to turn this division among its enemies to its advantage.
It would be well, as usual when confronted by resistance, to have in readiness an alternative plan, one that did not depend entirely on the use of overwhelming force. The berserker’s own capacity to absorb punishment and continue functioning was very large, but it was not infinite. Another battle like the one it had just been through might strain its powers of self-repair beyond their limits.
Emotionlessly the central processor took note of the fact that some of the damage it had sustained since entering this system, particularly from the heavy ground weapons of the world called Prairie, had been more severe than first diagnosed. Inner shielding of the interstellar drive had been seriously compromised.
Sheer size of course brought considerable advantages, particularly in battle. But it also created a tendency to certain weaknesses. For one thing, the tasks of maintenance were multiplied; there was never a time when all units/modules were performing at peak efficiency. Even now, certain segments within its own volume were ominously close to being cut off from communication with the central processor.
There was also the consideration that the berserker’s drive had been damaged in the last clash, that it might no longer be able to travel faster than light. If it set out for a home base for refitting, it might not reach its goal for many centuries, if at all.
Such unfavorable reports from its damage control units raised an important question which would soon have to be decided: Once this system had been thoroughly cleansed of organic life, what next? Should the berserker interrupt its methodical search for the life-disease through its assigned territory to seek out one of the repair bases established for its kind? Its data banks held, in coded form, the locations of more than one such facility; but the nearest of them was very far away.
The alternative would be to press on and complete the essential task in this system, then seek out another life-infected planetary group, the one called Huvea was certainly only a few light-years distant, and there begin anew the disinfecting process, advancing it as far as possible before its own aging machinery succumbed to some combination of old damage and fresh resistance.
The berserker had not yet made a final calculation as to which choice ought to be more productive for the cause of death. Which would be more likely to prolong its own existence was not a factor in the calculation.
Meanwhile, its routine tasks here were being efficiently accomplished. Practice makes perfect. Over thousands of standard years, a routine of sterilization of life-infected planets had been developed, and gradually perfected. In this case there seemed to be no cause to depart from the basic procedure. Small units, virtually unarmed, were sent down to gather samples of Prairie’s newly transformed atmosphere, beginning at high altitudes and extending down to what had formerly been sea level, and was now a satisfyingly sterile domain of mud, magma, and pulverized rock. Gigantic storms of lightning and torrential rain, weather no longer heard or seen by any living organism, were already beginning to rage along the blurring interface between atmosphere and land.
The samples so carefully gathered were tested just as meticulously for surviving microorganisms, and for chemical traces indicative of still existing life. Incidentally, the results of the tests confirmed that what had locally been considered deep, safe shelters were every bit as ineffective as the berserker had assumed.
Among many other questions considered by the machine’s central processor was one of naming. Quickly scanning through what it had learned of Earth-descended history, through the medium of prisoners and a captured small library, it considered the explanation of the name by which these life units had begun to call it.
The term “berserker” had originally been applied to members of these life units’ own race, fearless warriors who were ready to regard their own injuries and death as incidental, provided they could get on as far as possible with the business of killing. It matched closely the names that other forms of breathing badlife had used.
Insofar as the name might have the potential to spread terror among the current population, and weaken their ability to resist, the berserker considered it a good choice.
Briefly the berserker considered whether it might even be worthwhile to grant those who called it by that name an extension of their evil lives, to give them a chance to dispatch messages, in which the terrible name would be invoked, to life units on the remaining in-system world, and to other Earth-descended colonies light-years away.
Ultimately it decided that the possible advantage to be gained by demoralizing its opponents would not outweigh the certain loss, in terms of extended life for certain difficult units.
That reward, of extended life, would be offered to only a few, who, by willingly helping the machine’s project, earned the status of goodlife.
Slowly, Ninety-first Diplomat was coming back to consciousness. She had a lot of writing still to do, before she faced directly the horror that lay ahead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The wrecked launch was held forcibly docked against the monstrous unknown object, while the invading robots led their ten live prisoners, all still suited and helmeted, out through the smashed airlock, directly into an airless passage that burrowed deep into the flank of the unknown ship or machine that had crushed the launch. After some thirty or forty meters of dark, narrow, zigzag, weightless tunnel, its walls furnished with occasional handgrips, they came to a functioning airlock big enough to hold three people at a time. Beyond that, they were brought three at a time into a domain of air, and gravity at what felt exactly like standard normal.
One machine moved ahead of the captives, while others came after them, herding the robot Random along, and carrying the dead bodies of Ting Wu and Kardec, along with their confiscated weapons.
Another passage after the airlock, this one much shorter, delivered the whole party into a large, dim room, furnished with comfortable gravity. The prisoners were ordered to remove their spacesuits and helmets, which were collected and locked away in a big cabinet built into one wall. Lee half expected Random to be put into storage too, but the tame robot was allowed to remain free.
A couple of their escort machines moved among them, methodically searching and emptying pockets, collecting timepieces, calculators, money. When the machines came to Random, the man-like thing was sitting on the deck. One of the berserkers grabbed the tame robot by an arm and dragged it to its feet. In human eyes the beautiful machine, an idealized image of its creators, made a sharp contrast with what seemed a grotesque caricature. The two robots regarded each other steadily for a moment, then the rogue moved on.
The next step was to peel the prisoners of all clothing, a task the machines accomplished with the care of scientists handling specimens. Naked bodies were briefly of some interest, as if the examiners might be trying to get an exact picture of how this unfamiliar species was designed.
After examination, the prisoners were allowed to put on their clothes again. Then their guardians lapsed into immobility. The next move seemed to be up to humanity.
The senior cadet officer, Dirigo, was trying to do something in keeping with his responsibility to at least keep track of all the troops. He looked around uncertainly. “We are all here.”
That didn’t inspire any confidence, Lee thought. Yes, they were all present, if you counted the two who had been torn and crushed to death. The mangled bodies had been dumped on the deck at one side of the large chamber.
“Going to take a roll call?” It was hard to tell from Hemphill’s voice just what he was feeling or thinking.
Dirigo cleared his throat. “Yes. Maybe I should.”
The idea struck Lee as supremely pointless. But Dirigo went through the ritual, an exercise suggesting they could still retain a semblance of order and discipline.
“Cusanus.”
“Here.”
“Du Prel.”
“Of course.”
“Feretti.”
“Hemphill.”
“Yes.”
The leader threw one glance toward the bodies, and omitted to call out “Kardec.”
Kang Shin, Lee, and Sunbula followed in the normal order.
“Ting Wu.” Dirigo looked around, confused for a moment, before he remembered what had happened.
“Zochler.”
“Here.”
Toward the end of the roster, everyone was distracted. The machines had approached the two dead men, and were using their grippers to strip the corpses for quick examination, then tear up some of the suit fabric taken from the dead bodies. Then they tested the cloth of whatever garments the victims had been wearing under their spacesuits.
Meanwhile, another machine had stopped close in front of Du Prel. “You wear an artificial eye,” it observed. Whether it approved or disapproved was impossible to tell from its disjointed tones.
“That’s right.” The majority of people who wore such devices preferred the natural look, and in such cases it was hard to tell, even with a close examination, that the person was wearing one. But Du Prel, like many in the technical professions, had chosen a technically superior version. His left eye was obviously inorganic, a lid-less, lashless, dark-rimmed monocle, with a lens instead of a pupil visible in the center.
The machine that had made the comment evidently did not approve. In the next moment it seized Du Prel by the back of the neck with one gripper, clamping his head motionless while with the other arm it dug narrow pincers into his eye socket. Its colleague restrained the robot Random, when Random moved to interfere.
The victim screamed, and flailed uselessly with mere human arms, while his captor tore the finely crafted artifact out by its bloody artificial roots. Dropping the writhing, yelling body to the deck, it carefully carried off its prize, retiring through an almost invisible door that opened for it in one of the chamber’s sides.
An indeterminate amount of time had passed. Du Prel still lay on his back on the deck, helpless with pain and shock. Blood oozed from the cavity, now and then surging in a dull spurt. His screams had subsided into an almost continuous moaning.
Hemphill faced up into the overhead darkness, and shouted loudly that they had a wounded human who needed medical attention, and needed it right away.
There was no response from the darkness. None of the sentry machines moved a millimeter. They continued to stand guard, as motionless as statues.
“Can’t we do something? Put him to sleep?” Kang Shin was demanding of Dirigo. But the leader had no answer.
If there was nothing they could do about Du Prel’s moaning, they were going to have to try to live with it. Zochler broke a depressed silence that had engulfed the little group. It was as if the young man were determined to find something upbeat to say. “Air in here’s a little low on pressure.”
If that was the best Zochler could manage, Lee could wish that he hadn’t even tried.
One wall of the common room, some twenty meters or so in length, was perforated at irregular intervals with round punctures that might serve as peepholes, except that beyond them there appeared to be only darkness. The opposite wall was divided into little niches, each just about wide enough for a human adult to lie down in. Each was furnished with its primitive plumbing, and a nozzle that began to extrude a pink-and-green stuff that quickly hardened into a kind of cake.
“It smells almost like food,” someone commented, lifting a modest handful of the cake. But nobody was eating it just yet. Du Prel’s fate, and his ongoing protest, had pretty well killed appetites.
“Who’s brave enough to try it?” Evidently Dirigo’s leadership did not extend to trying it himself.
Gingerly several people sampled the cakes of pink and green. The stuff turned out not to taste as bad as it looked. Soon most of them were tentatively nibbling.
Actually, to his numbed astonishment, Lee found his stomach was hungry at the time of the first feeding, and the food he had been given vaguely pleasant. When was the last time he had had a meal, before being captured? He could not clearly remember.
The next question his own shocked mind came up with was: Is this stuff poisoned? Drugged? But the damned machine, as Hemphill had begun to call it, could kill him, could kill them all, at any time and in any way it wanted.
Some time later (Random could have told them exactly how much time had passed, but no one had asked the robot yet) they had all come out of the little semi-private niches, and were sitting around in the common room of their dungeon. For the most part leaning their backs against the cold metal of the walls. One of the women, Cusanus, was huddled against one of the men, De Carlo, as if suffering from cold.
Meanwhile, Sunbula kept a helpless vigil beside the wounded man, who still lay on the floor. She was holding Du Prel’s hand, which sometimes returned her grip spasmodically.
Hemphill was pacing restlessly.
When they were brought into this chamber, Lee recalled, there had been three escort robots. Just a little while ago, he had noticed two of them standing guard. Now the number was down to one. At the moment it was just standing motionless, like any ordinary tame robot waiting to be told what to do next, but the orders this one was waiting for would not come from any of the people around it.
Someone had commented on the atmosphere, and someone else finally mobilized enough energy to argue. “No, it’s not.”
“What?”
“The air. Not thin, high altitude.”
A third cadet, Kang Shin, was ready to shift the debate to a slightly different ground. “I think it stinks.”
Lee had noticed that there was, indeed, a faint, chemical, medicinal tang in what they had been given to breathe. Sometimes the odor would disappear, but then it would come back again. He could think of a number of things that would smell much worse, and it didn’t seem to him very high on the list of things they had to worry about.
Two other cadets, Feretti and Cusanus, joined in. The talk became almost animated for a time. “Maybe the air on board here’s being sterilized. For our benefit.”
“How thoughtful of, somebody.”
The first speaker looked to the right and left, and back again. “You still think there’s somebody?”
“What do you mean?”
“When that motherless machine first grabbed hold of our launch, I naturally assumed there was someone, probably Huveans, in control of the operation. But I’m beginning to have doubts.”
“Oh?”
The man on the deck had started groaning again, the sound establishing a steady rhythm, as if it did not intend to stop. Random was seated beside the victim, holding a cupped handful of water with infinite robotic patience, in case the man should want to drink.
Presently the tame robot got to its feet and moved about, calmly asking one human after another for advice on whether it should try to dribble water into Du Prel’s mouth. It seemed that no one wanted to be decisive on the question.
Lee prayed silently that Du Prel would pass out, or something, and give the rest of them a break.
“Yes. We haven’t seen a human face, or heard anything that sounds like a coherent human voice. I really think that there are only the robots, taking orders from some central computer that’s running the whole show.”
There was a silence, while everyone considered that. Then someone offered: “Or someone wants us to believe that.”
The sole remaining guardian machine suddenly spoke up in its loud, raucous voice, making everyone but Du Prel jump.
“You are badlife!” it proclaimed.
Sunbula gave a little cry. In a pleading voice she demanded: “What do you want from us?”
The machine turned slightly toward her. “You are here as examples of the dominant life form in this solar system, here to be examined. Eventually most of you will be tested to destruction.”
Hemphill spoke up: “For what purpose?”
“There is only one good purpose: that all life in the Galaxy shal
l be wiped out.”
It went on to explain that its programmed task of exterminating all life would be easier if it could learn how best to kill humans, since they were almost the only obstacle to the accomplishment of its plan.
Soon it became apparent that the explanation was over, for the time being. The cadets resumed their argument among themselves.
Zochler spoke up: “You believe what it just told us. That this is a truly alien machine. It’s just learning what ED humans are all about.”
Feretti was nodding. “Yes.”
“From some unexplored part of the Galaxy.”
“Why not?” On the charts and simulations, most of the Galaxy bore that label.
Zochler was still having trouble with the idea. “But it-they, whoever or whatever is in control of this dungeon, knew what kind of air to provide us, what level of artificial gravity.”
“Proves nothing. There’s no reason why robots, totally alien rogue robots, couldn’t manage that. Before they destroyed the launch, they had the parameters in its systems to use as a model.”
“I’m not so sure of that. The first thing they did was to tear the launch wide open. There went the atmosphere, the gravity, everything.”
Feretti was shaking his head. “As for the air, they could have made a good estimate, on basics like oxygen content and pressure. Probably took samples as the stuff came rushing out.”
“Figuring the surface gravity of one of our planets would be an easy calculation.”
“They know our language.”
“Robots could have learned it, from light-years away. Given time, spying on our old audio and video signals, matching words and pictures. Could have learned it as easily as people. You keep saying ‘they,’ ‘they.’ But who?” “or what.”
“Whoever, whatever they are, they’ve probably been listening to our languages for a long time, possibly for years. Decades. Centuries. Picking up old radio signals, as you say. Grabbing message couriers when they had the chance. It’s not impossible. I’m sure that language courses must be broadcast from time to time.”
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