Those among the Space Force people on Hyperborea who knew nothing of the emperor didn't even realize at first that the courier had come from Good Intentions-they assumed it had originated in some other solar system, perhaps at a considerable interstellar distance. Or from a ship en route, in flight-space.
But the early warning system had registered no such arrival.
Elation gave way to bewilderment. "Wait a minute. Is this stuff about admirals and emperors some kind of code?"
"It's not one that our cryptanalysts can recognize as such. No, I think it's meant to be taken at face value."
"He says his fleet is on its way here? How many ships?"
"That's how the message is worded. Just 'fleet.' It doesn't say how many."
"About time we had some good news. Watch for some kind of flight of ships approaching. Hold them in orbit above a thousand klicks."
But no fleet arrived. A swift computer search of the charts for the now devastated Omicron Sector turned up no political unit claiming to be an empire, or ruled by any official with the supposed emperor's name.
Others on Hyperborea, who knew or could guess the basis for the rumor, were not led on to soaring hopes. Any joy that anyone could derive from the message was short-lived. The truth about the Emperor Julius was available from several sources. Even from Harry Silver, as soon as the commander had a chance to let him talk to her.
EIGHT
From what Harry had been able to see of Marut's crew since the skirmish, they were on something of a victory high. Battle damage this time had been minimal on the Solarian side. Only one of the patrol craft was back, but the other had suffered no damage, merely stayed behind to gather debris; it was Space Force policy to pick up berserker materials for study whenever it was practical to do so.
A couple of armed launches had lifted off to take part in the skirmish, and they had now returned to the base as well.
Commander Normandy was eager to meet the six volunteers brought up by Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern, and to welcome them aboard the base. She had them escorted to her office.
There were just five men and one woman in all, out of a population of something like ten thousand, who met the simple criteria she'd laid down for selection, and were willing to volunteer to serve in combat.
The short list read:
Frans Cordyne
Karl Enomoto
Christopher Havot
Honan-Fu
Cherry Raveneau
Sandor Tencin
Six capable and eager people could certainly make a difference in the efficiency of the new task force, and here were six volunteers who brought some useful skills, if their records could be believed. They were standing in an irregular line for the commander's inspection.
Each of the six, following instructions, had brought along a single bag or case of personal belongings, so an irregular row of baggage lay at their feet.
Three of the volunteers had reported for duty wearing what were evidently the uniforms in which they had once seen action, and those three saluted when she appeared. All were going to be issued new uniforms in any case-a robot came to take their measurements. Two were Space Force veterans, and one, Sandor Tencin, had served in the Galaxy-wide organization of dedicated berserker-fighters called Templars. Why he had abandoned that vocation was not immediately clear.
Stand at ease, people," the commander advised them.
The six were of varied ages, and in general, they gave an impression of solid capability.
Frans Cordyne was a retired spacer, an older man having little to say but projecting an air of competence, who had evidently opted to let his hair drift into a natural gray. A medium-sized mustache of the same shade had been engineered to grow in smooth curves.
Karl Enomoto was dark and round, with a serious manner that went well with his serious determination, as shown by his record, to achieve financial success. After surviving combat on several occasions, Enomoto had retired from an administrative Space Force job, evidently determined to spend the next epoch of his life in the pursuit of wealth. The dossier showed that he had been beginning to have some success.
Christopher Havot, one of the three not in uniform, looked the most enthused at her appearance. He was a well-built young man-perhaps, on a second look, not so very young-with an open, attractive face and an engaging smile.
The man called Honan-Fu-the people of his tribe, scattered on a multitude of planets, tended to single, though often compound, names-was the least warlike in appearance of the bunch, and generally gave the impression of being about to apologize for some intrusion. He spoke the common language with an unusual accent.
At a first look, Cherry Ravenau's enormous blue eyes gave her something of the appearance of a frightened child. This impression was soon dispelled by the attitude in which she stood, one fist on a hip, and by the muttered obscenity with which she greeted the arrival of authority. That seemed a mere ritual though, and she was willing enough to serve in this emergency-to protect her child. She didn't have much faith in the Gee Eye Home Guard; any serious protection would have to be provided by someone else.
"I want you to know I have a small child at home," she remarked when the commander stopped to shake her hand in welcome. Ms. Ravenau's enormous blue eyes made her face remarkable.
Then why are you here? was the commander's first, unspoken, reaction. But all she said was: "I appreciate your volunteering, Ms. Ravenau."
In general, the attitudes of the six on their arrival, as shown by the expressions on their faces, tended toward the stoic and fatalistic. Only Havot, the most outwardly enthusiastic, had never been enrolled in any military organization. However, his record as a fighter, using a shoulder weapon against berserker boarding machines, was very real. On the small form filled out by each volunteer, he'd listed his occupation as dealer in educational materials. His combat experience seemed to have come about accidentally a few years ago when, as a civilian, he'd been caught up in an armed clash. The available details were extremely sketchy, but they strongly suggested that he had shown a great natural aptitude.
Two or three of the six had known each other fairly well in the main settlement down on Gee Eye. It crossed Claire Normandy's mind that she might ask them what they knew about the Emperor Julius, Admiral Hector, and their fleet, but then she decided that this was not the time for that.
The amount of combat experience varied widely among the six. Enomoto's record showed the most in terms of sheer time and danger endured on active service, but he was credited with no exceptional achievements. The experience of one or two was only nominal.
There was also a wide disparity in the military ranks these veterans had held. Not all were pilots. One, Honan-Fu, he of the mournful and apologetic aspect, possessed documented skill as an exceptional gunner.
Now each of the six was assigned a room, given twenty minutes to settle into quarters, and told where and when to report at the end of that interval.
The welcoming speech that the six volunteers received from Captain Marut, some twenty minutes later, was a little more businesslike than Commander Normandy's. "We have only a few days in which to get ready, and for that reason, we are going to omit the usual drill of military courtesy." Looking at the lifelong civilian, Havot, he explained: "I mean such matters as whether your insignia is put on properly, and how and when you should salute. I probably don't need to remind you, but let me do so anyway, that military discipline remains very much in force."
On leaving the lounge, Harry told himself that he ought to go at once to the commander's office and complete the paperwork attendant on his commissioning, so he too could put on a uniform. But his feet were carrying him in the opposite direction. He didn't understand the reason for his reluctance, but so it was. Anyway, it was a good feeling to be able to walk around again without armor.
On his walk, Harry encountered Captain Marut, just come from giving the volunteers his version of an inspiring speech. The captain's bandages, if he was still wear
ing any on his arm wound, had diminished to the point where they could not be seen under his sleeve.
Marut was full of enthusiasm now, especially elated that his one functional destroyer had performed as well as it had, even in its battered condition, and with its crew operating short-handed.
He was even reasonably tolerant of Harry's presence. "I hear you've finally volunteered, Silver."
"We all have our crazy moments."
Harry considered that there were plenty of reasons to moderate the rejoicing. Using a ragtag collection of little ships to blast a single berserker scout was one thing, and hurling the same outfit against Shiva, and the kind of escort Shiva must be traveling with, was quite another.
"The commander tells me," Marut was saying to him, "that you have some familiarity with berserker hardware."
"I've seen a few pieces here and there. I wouldn't call myself an expert."
"But possibly you could be of some help. We have to learn how to make our fake berserkers as convincing as possible."
Silver nodded slowly. "Yeah, I would think that if you're determined to use fake berserkers, that would be a good idea. This means you still intend to sneak up on a berserker base and infiltrate it somehow?"
"Can you think of a better way to accomplish our mission?"
Harry could only shake his head.
"Then I'd like you to come with me for a few minutes. If you can spare the time? I've got the commander's permission to root around a little in the Trophy Room."
Marut walked swiftly, and seemed to know just which way he was going. Down another side corridor, which terminated in a large room whose rock walls had a crudely unfinished look, was a small warehouse full of assorted berserker hardware.
The only way into the Trophy Room from the interior of the station was through an airlock, though just slightly less-than-normal atmospheric pressure was maintained inside. At the end of the long corridor that offered the only access, bold signs, permanently emblazoned on walls and door, warned that everyone who entered was required to wear full body armor. Personnel entering were to consider themselves in deep space confronting the enemy. Every item of the room's contents had already been gone over at least twice for booby traps or other dangers, but still…
An armed human guard, as required by regulations, was standing by in the corridor-in case any signs of unwelcome activity should suddenly become apparent in the berserker material that was now being brought in.
The guard's weapon was a standard carbine, and no doubt it had been frequency-tuned for harmlessness against any friendly, familiar surface.
Basically, such weapons were energy projectors, whose beams cracked and shivered hard armor but could be safely turned against soft flesh. The beam induced intense vibrations in whatever it struck; in a substance as soft as flesh, the vibrations damped out quickly and harmlessly. Hard surfaces could be protected by a spray of the proper chemical composition. In combat, the formula was varied from one day, or one engagement, to the next, to prevent the enemy's being able to duplicate it. An auxiliary machine, the insignia on its flank identifying it as part of the defense system, was even now busy spraying the corridor, walls, floor, and overhead with a new tone of reflective paint.
A marksman could, if he wished, hold an energy rifle of this type in one hand, bracing its collapsible stock against his shoulder. The front end of the barrel was a blunt, solid-looking convexity. More usually, the weapon rode like a backpack on the outside of an armored suit, and was equipped with its own small hydrogen-fusion power lamp, providing kick enough to stop a runaway ground train-or, with a little luck, a berserker lander or boarding machine.
The most expert marksmen generally preferred the alpha-triggered system to the blinktriggered, as it was just a couple vital zillionths of a second faster. The former was also a shade more reliable, though it took a little longer to learn to use. It too was aimed visually, at the point the user's eyes were focused on, but was fired by a controllable alpha signal from the operator's organic brain.
Aiming and firing of the BT version was also controlled by the user's eyes. Sights tracked a reflection of the operator's pupils and aimed along the line of vision; the weapon was triggered by a hard blink. BT was more likely than AT to fire unintentionally; experienced users of either system tended to avoid looking straight at anyone or anything they wanted to protect.
Commander Normandy, having for the time being concluded her business with the volunteers, joined Marut and Silver almost as soon as they arrived at the Trophy Room.
That was the unofficial name of this smooth-walled cavern. There was an official designation as well, the Something or Other Storage Facility, which no one ever used in conversation because no one remembered what it was.
Harry looked around him thoughtfully. "Lots of junk," he remarked, "for a weather station to be storing."
"Most of this was brought here from Summerland," the commander told him, "when it became apparent that base would have to be evacuated."
"I see." Silver knew, from years of experience, what a Trophy Room was like. He'd seen bigger and better-stocked ones than this. They were common on bases in frontier sectors, though many contained not a single scrap of enemy hardware.
Silver had long assumed that somewhere, in one of the Trophy Rooms on one of the many bases in the Solarian-settled portion of the Galaxy, there had to be at least one premier facility where some of the cleverest human brains in the Galaxy engaged in an intense study of berserkers, trying to wring new drops of knowledge out of every bit of hardware, arranging and rearranging every fact that was known about them into new patterns, seeking insight and revelation.
Not being privy to the decisions of high Solarian strategists, Harry didn't know where the primary skunk works was. Forced to bet, he would have wagered that the most advanced such facility probably existed on Port Diamond-and very likely there was another one, almost its equal, on Earth or Luna, though certain tests deemed dangerous were more likely to be carried out at a considerable distance from Earth.
When Harry thought about it, he could remember specifically how the one on the base at Summerland had looked-he might have seen some of this same junk there. Maybe the berserkers who'd taken over there were now using the same space for the same purpose, that of studying the enemy's technology. And Harry's imagination, unbidden, showed him the kind of trophies that it might now contain: all kinds of Solarian hardware, from weapons to garden tools to toys.
Ships bringing material for deposit in the Hyperborean Trophy Room came right down to the surface of the planetoid; but rather than landing in the normal manner and unloading cargo to be hauled in through the corridors of the base, they docked directly with the room's special entrance and transferred material as if moving it from one ship to another in deep space. Regulations required such behavior, and Harry had never been able to make up his mind as to whether those regs really made sense or not-they had probably been written in the aftermath of some kind of a disaster, when metal objects thought to have been thoroughly pacified had turned out to be still infected with the programmed spirits of death.
The purpose of maintaining such a collection, of course, was that any especially interesting material discovered, or any information gleaned from its examination, would someday be shipped off to Earth, or to Port Diamond, the two sites in the known Galaxy where the most serious research on the nature of berserkers was conducted.
Today more miscellaneous berserker parts were being towed in to the Trophy Room on Hyperborea, to be added to the pile. Some of the remains resulting from the latest skirmish were no more than dust, conveyed in bags and bottles, sievings of space in the vicinity of the place where the trapped berserker scout had died.
Undoubtedly, more similar stuff was still drifting about in nearby space, ready to be harvested. This was only a sampling of what had appeared to the gatherers to be the most interesting material.
Silver found it interesting to note people's reactions when they got to see a
place like this one. Some were utterly fascinated, while others were only made uncomfortable. He hadn't yet found any way to predict who was going to fall into which category. In his own mind, the two basic responses were entangled, mingled with other reactions more difficult to identify.
Within the Trophy Room, a special section had been set aside, a kind of vault, in which defeated berserker brains, if any could ever be taken reasonably intact, were held as unliving prisoners. So far, the special vault here on Hyperborea, like most of the others that Harry had seen, held only a few token bits of material, hardly more than chips. Not brains in any important sense. Maybe they had once been parts of berserker brains, but they weren't now. This was not the circuitry that identified life for destruction, and marked out thinking life for special attention.
Marut lifted a specimen in its small statglass case. "I'd say maybe this bit came out of something that was hit by a c-plus cannon slug."
Harry grunted. It was a strange-looking little chunk, blackened and twisted, but he'd seen stranger. If Marut was right, it wouldn't be much good for study. That kind of impact tended to knock out all programming information and to produce some really bizarre results-pieces of debris that changed shape while you looked at them, alternating at random times among two or three configurations. Harry had heard that some of them eventually disappeared altogether, dropping into nearby flightspace, or into their own private spacetimes, almost inaccessible from any domain of spacetime that humans had learned how to reach.
The impact of a slug compounded of various isotopes of lead, arriving at the target with parts of its interior moving faster than light could travel in the surrounding medium, tended to be decisive no matter how well the target machine or ship was shielded and armored.
Marut had come here hoping he'd find something that would make his desperate plan a little more feasible. Come hell or high water, he was determined to strike at Shiva. Any small advantage he might gain could make a tremendous difference.
Shiva in Steel Page 11
