Shiva in Steel

by Fred Saberhagen

  "You don't come from Gee Eye," Sandor Tencin remarked. Most of the six had become lieutenants also. Only Havot, completely lacking in any formal training, had turned into nothing more than a spacer third class.

  "Nope. I was just passing through."

  "Oh. Bad luck."

  "We'll see how it works out."

  Karl Enomoto, the dark and serious volunteer, asked Silver: "What was your old rank, by the way?"

  "I've been higher, and I've been lower." And that was all Harry cared to say on the subject.

  And he got the same question once more, from Cherry Ravenau, who gazed at him with her startling blue eyes. "You didn't come up with us from Gee Eye."

  And managed to answer it with patience.

  "Let's get to work, people," Captain Marut urged them. "We've got a lot to learn." His gaze was on Harry as he said those last words. Harry looked back.

  Already the other volunteers had logged a good many hours in the simulators. Christopher Havot, youthful and good-looking, had started training with more real, wide-eyed enthusiasm than any of the others. He looked great in his new uniform, too. They'd already given him a couple of hours of elementary pilot training, the kind of thing that all new spacers got just so they'd have some feel for what was happening aboard ship. But when it came to actually using Havot, they were going to have to find some job where his lack of crew experience wouldn't matter much.

  Harry heard him assuring the captain that he was willing to try anything.

  Marut seemed to expect no less from his people. "Glad to hear it, Spacer."

  Meanwhile, the clock was ticking, the hours and days of the chronometer turning, the predicted estimated time of arrival of Shiva and its escort at Summerland getting ominously nearer. Commander Normandy had marked the deadline openly on the calendar chronometer for everyone aboard the station to be aware of. It seemed to her that certain security issues could now safely be set aside-even if there were a Kermandie agent aboard the base, even if there were goodlife, it would be practically impossible for any communication from Hyperborea to reach any other solar system before the deadline.

  A day later, Normandy got a good preliminary report on Havot from Sergeant Gauhati, who happened to be in charge of certain aspects of the early testing and training of the volunteers on simulators.

  No one had yet decided exactly what to do with Havot. "But he seems to have no nerves at all, which, in the kind of operation we're planning, is definitely an advantage."

  The reports on the other new people were all at least moderately favorable. The sergeant also reported that by now, all of them had asked him a familiar question: "When are our real ships going to arrive?"

  But only five minutes after Sergeant Gauhati had departed, the commander got a very different kind of report on Havot.

  She knew that something must be wrong when she was told that Mayor Rosenkrantz had just arrived in low orbit, urgently requesting another short-range conference. This time, the mayor was accompanied only by a doctor, whose name Normandy did not recognize, as well as a human pilot.

  "Oh-oh," the commander said to herself as soon as the bald head of Rosenkrantz appeared on her holostage. The expression on the mayor face foreshadowed trouble.

  He began without any unnecessary preliminaries. "Let me say at the start, Commander, that I have just requested, and received, the resignation of Chief Guildenstern."

  The commander's relief was tempered with a sharp foreboding: Why? She wasn't sure if she asked the question aloud or not.

  Either way, Rosenkrantz did his best to answer it. "Because of a certain matter I myself just learned about only a few hours ago. A matter that's bothering my conscience. Or it would if I didn't do anything about it. I can't let it go by, I feel I've got to tell you. The doctor here can back up what I say."

  As the mayor went on speaking, Normandy had to remind herself that the image before her was only a recording; for the next minute or so, at least, it would be useless to respond to it with questions or in outrage.

  Nevertheless, a moment later the commander heard herself saying, in disbelief: "Spacer Havot came from where!"

  The full title of the elaborate hospital down on Good Intentions was something she discovered only a little later, when Sadie retrieved it from the general database. Not that the official title was alarming. But the place was in fact a high-security facility for the criminally insane-one of those facilities that interstellar councils and various other instrumentalities tended to put in out-of-the-way places like Good Intentions because the citizens and governments of real planets had too much clout to be forced to put up with them on their home ground.

  Harry, when he learned of her reaction, was surprised that the commander had not known that such an institution existed on Gee Eye, that she could be so ignorant about a lot of other things concerning the neighboring community. But so it was. After all, she'd never even known about the emperor. She'd never visited Good Intentions-had felt it necessary to turn down the occasional invitation because she couldn't very well issue an invitation of her own to its citizens in return.

  When the mayor had spoken his piece, he sat back and let the doctor, who happened to be the director of the hospital, do the talking.

  "One of the six people who recently volunteered to join your service, this Christopher Havot…" The man seemed uncertain of how to continue. He had a deep voice, and thin, chiseled features that gave him an ascetic look.

  Normandy flipped rapidly through records, then stared at her own copy, now showing on her holostage, of the relevant record, which was all the hard evidence she really had on Havot. "This says he's a veteran, decorated for valor?"

  "He is, ma'am." The doctor ran fingers through his graying hair. "Technically, fully qualified for a decoration, because everyone who accomplishes certain things in combat is entitled to a medal. But-"

  "But what?"

  She listened again. And she didn't know what to say.

  … he uses the name of Christopher Havot. I say 'uses the name' advisedly, because we know he has gone by several other names in the past. We at the hospital perhaps bear some responsibility, in not guarding our communications equipment with sufficient zeal. But the chief of public safety-the former chief-is mainly to blame, in my view. Even after Chief Guildenstern learned what Havot had done, he refused to act. The man was allowed to proceed to the spaceport, where he joined the other volunteers. Even though I warned them he was a sociopath."

  "He's a what?"

  "Sociopath. That's the nice word for it. What it means in Havot's case, in everyday language, is that he kills people who happen to displease him."

  "He… kills?"

  "The way most people might swat bugs. He also tortures for amusement-though he does that only rarely. Technically, he's not a sadist. He was confined for life, no possibility of parole."

  There was a long silence. The commander opened her mouth, intending to ask how many people Havot might have killed, but decided she didn't want to know. "Then why in God's name was he allowed to come up here?"

  Now the doctor was flustered, despite his impressive looks. "Well, Commander-I found myself unable to contend with the local authorities and the Space Force too. I was given to understand that you insisted on having him-having everyone who met certain minimal requirements, and as those were stated, Christopher Havot certainly meets them as well as anyone, and much better than most."

  Normandy leaned back in her chair, staring at the men as if she might be about to order their ship shot down. "Damn that Guildenstern. I knew he was up to something. He did this just to get back at me. Letting loose a homicidal maniac, not caring what harm might come to anyone."

  The doctor was finishing the details of his explanation: "… and Mr. Havot somehow heard about your appeal for volunteers, and somehow he got access to a terminal in the hospital and made sure his name was entered."

  "And his record as it was given to me? Is that accurate?"

  "Far as I know. He
was with Commodore Prinsep's task force three years ago, when they went into the Mavronari Nebula." That was thousands of light-years from the sector containing the Hyperborean system. "Havot was badly wounded there, fighting berserkers, and came back in a medirobot. Prinsep says: 'Speaking personally, I would not have survived without him.'"

  "But the records also show that Havot has never been in the Space Force. Or in any other military organization."

  "That's perfectly correct, he hasn't. It's a strange story, what little I can make of it, and not too clear."

  "Doctor, we're really in a bind here, and I'm wondering if it's possible that we might find a use for him-assuming he's still inclined to be useful. Tell me more about him."

  The doctor appeared shocked. "I can't advise you on military matters, Commander. I don't know what other perils your people may be facing. I can only alert you to the fact that Mr. Havot can be very dangerous."

  The imaged head of Mayor Rosenkrantz continued to watch glumly.

  Normandy demanded: "How dangerous, exactly? To his shipmates, to other people on this base? He's been here several days, and so far as I'm aware, no problems have come up."

  The doctor sighed. "There are so many factors, it's practically impossible to say. Havot might live as a member of society, military or civilian, for days, months, even years, without harming anyone-he has done so in the past, he might again.

  "He might, if he happens to feel like it, play games to entertain a baby, or gently assist a disabled person. He can be entertaining, witty. He might gleefully risk his life fighting berserkers-his record shows he's found that sort of thing enjoyable before. But don't ever cross Christopher Havot. Don't even irritate him. Or, if you must, don't ever turn your back. There are large pieces of his psyche missing. Other people mean no more to him than so many computer graphics-they can be useful, they can be sources of pleasure of one kind or another. But he considers all his fellow human beings disposable. Killing someone affects him just about as much as turning off an image on a holostage."

  Wary of taking the mayor's warning, or even the doctor's, at face value, Claire Normandy set Sadie to seeking confirmation. That wasn't easy; the available database came up with nothing at all on Havot-just as it would have drawn a blank on the great majority of living Solarians scattered across the settled two percent of the Galaxy, or on most of the other people who had taken up residence on Gee Eye during the past two or three standard years.

  Of the number of people on-base who were recently arrived from Good Intentions, the commander considered calling in and questioning some of them.

  But first she chose to talk to Lieutenant Colonel Khodark, who had no trouble making up his mind. "Well, I don't care what kind of testimonial he has from this Commodore Prinsep-whoever he may be. I don't care if Havot is the second coming of Johann Karlsen, we shouldn't be that desperate for people that we could even think of using him."

  "No, we shouldn't, but we are. We don't dare strip our installation here of essential people-and there really aren't any other kind aboard this base. Whether we bag Shiva or not, we can't abandon our primary mission-it's just too damned important. There are a number of positions here that must be live-crewed around the clock, even if they are desk jobs. Besides, the training of the great majority of my people, their real skill, is in gathering intelligence and decoding. They aren't really qualified for the kind of action we're contemplating. The raid will… it'll take a special kind of man-or woman."

  "I can't argue with any of that, Commander. But it's still clear to me that Havot has to be confined."

  Normandy sighed. "You're right, of course. Unless and until we find out that this is all some horrible mistake. We can't let him run around loose."

  As soon as Khodark had gone out, she turned to her holostage. "Sadie? Find that sergeant for me, please-the one who's supposed to fill our military police function." The need had not arisen in the past two years, and for a moment, Commander Normandy could not recall the sergeant's name. "Have him report to my office, on the double." For the first time since she'd assumed command of the base, she was truly glad that she had aboard someone with experience along that line.

  Within a couple of minutes, the sergeant, a compact, muscular man, stood before her. "Ma'am?"

  "I want you to take two or three good men-they'd better be men, physically strong-and detain trainee spacer Christopher Havot. Search him very thoroughly, and put him in one of the cells. No detours for any reason, take him directly to the cell from wherever you pick him up. No discussions. Refer his questions to me; I'll be coming around to see him in a little while."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And Sergeant. Use extreme care, for your own Safety-we have reliable information that he is physically very dangerous."

  The sergeant's attentive expression altered slightly. But it wasn't his place to ask questions, and he wasn't easily thrown off stride. "Yes, ma'am."

  When he was gone, the commander thought: Later we will have to see about Mr. Guildenstern, former chief. He's not going to get a pass on this. But it must be later.

  A search of highly classified Intelligence records-much more up to date than the general historical database-turned up the fact that the berserkers had mentioned Havot in one or two of their intercepted communications. No human ever learned why, or even how, the enemy might have learned his name. He hadn't made Security's list of suspected goodlife collaborators. There was his name, but the message was in a new code, or a specialized one, or one that had so far resisted cracking.

  Security would doubtless want to talk to him all over again when his name showed up on the list. Without explaining to him where the list had come from. But as matters stood, Security was far away, on other worlds, and the commander's people were going to have to wait.

  Commander Normandy was talking to Sadie, because she wanted to talk to someone: "The berserkers assign code names to some of our leaders and exchange information about them, have discussions about them-in some sense-and no doubt assign them ratings for effectiveness, just as we do theirs. They evidently keep dossiers on a rather large number of human individuals, not all of whom are leaders. We have no idea why some of them are on the list."

  Sadie with practice had learned to be a good listener. "Their overall lists of names include goodlife, one assumes. Their friends as well as their most important enemies."

  "One supposes so. Unfortunately, in most cases it's impossible to tell what they are saying to each other about any individual who's mentioned, or even what category he or she falls into. But the names often come through in clear-text. By the way, Security is perfectly correct, as far as their statement goes. There's no reason to think that Havot, despite the, ah, rather obvious flaws in his character, is goodlife, or ever was. Commodore Prinsep had no discernible reason to lie about his combat record. He-Havot-seemed to view it all as an especially exhilarating game."

  The only prison facilities available on-base were two cells, right next to each other on a middle-level underground, and as far as the commander was aware, this was the first time either of them had been used.

  The man himself, when at last he stood before Commander Normandy when she came to stand outside the statglass door of his cell, admitted having spent a year or so in the hospital, but claimed to have been morally strengthened by his experiences. He said they had taught him something about the value of life.

  His conclusion was somber and earnest, and all the more impressive in that it didn't sound rehearsed; in fact, his voice seemed at times on the verge of breaking in his apparent sincerity. "This is all a huge mistake, ma'am."

  "I truly hope so. Can you explain to me how such a mistake came to be made?"

  He claimed that his incarceration in the hospital on Good Intentions had been a colossal error from the beginning. There were people, highly placed officials on a distant planet, who for years had been out to get him. "Would you believe me, Commander, if I swore I am not guilty of any horrible crime? If I could give y
ou a good, solid explanation of how an innocent man can be convicted of such things?"

  Havot, the experienced institutional inmate, was standing in the attitude of parade rest, feet slightly apart, hands behind his back, in the middle of the confined space. The cell was about three meters by four. The single bunk along one wall was a gauzily transparent force-field web. Using controls provided, the cell's occupant could turn it into an exercise machine, or cause it to assume the shape of a simple chair and small table. Light in a pleasant but tranquilizing blend of colors radiated from the whole surface of the flat ceiling. The plumbing facilities, in a far corner, were exposed, and like everything else inside the cell, invulnerable to any assault that human hands might make.

  "I'd much prefer to believe you, Mr. Havot, and to be able to let you out of there and put you to work. But having looked at a transcript of your record, I don't see how I possibly can."

  Havot made a graceful gesture; his arms looked stronger when they moved, his hands very large and capable-probably not the effect he would have chosen to convey. All he said was: "Then I won't waste your valuable time in argument. My fate seems to be in your hands-but then, given the fact that you're desperate enough to even consider taking me on, your fate is perhaps in mine, also."

  Claire Normandy was silent, but only for a moment. Then she turned away briskly. "See that he's well taken care of, Sergeant. But not let out of the cell for any reason."

  "I demand my legal rights," said the voice, still calm, from the cell's speakers.

  "When I decide what should be done with you. At the moment, you are under martial law." And Commander Normandy turned away again.

  Was there indeed a possibility that Havot was as innocent as he claimed to be? It was hard to see how that could be, and the commander had no time to fret about it. At the moment, she had far greater worries.