He focused his maser and let the raspy breathing play while he thought. Anything else? Would it expect a picture? Best do without. Remember to cut the breathing while you talk. After the inhale.
“This is Goodlife speaking for the fortress moon. The fortress moon is damaged.”
The fan of light from Teardrop didn’t waver, and answer came there none.
The records were old: older than Gage the man, far older than Gage in his present state. Other minds had run this computer system, twice before. Holstein and Ras Singh had been elderly men, exemplary citizens, who chose this over simple death. Both had eventually asked to be wiped. Gage had only been a computer for eighteen years. Could he be using an obsolete programming language?
Ridiculous. No code would be obsolete. Some berserkers did not see a repair station in centuries. They would have to communicate somehow…or was this life thinking? There were certainly repair stations; but many berserker machines might simply fight until they wore out or were destroyed. The military forces of Channith had never been sure.
Try again. Don’t get too emotional. This isn’t a soap. Goodlife—human servants of the berserkers—would be trained to suppress their emotions, wouldn’t they? And maybe he couldn’t fake it anyway…“This is Goodlife. The fortress moon—” Nice phrase, that. “—is damaged. All transmitting devices were destroyed in battle with…Albion.” Exhale, inhale— “The fortress moon has stored information regarding Albion’s defenses.” Albion was a spur-of-the-moment inspiration. His imagination picked a yellow dwarf star, behind him as he looked toward Channith, with a family of four dead planets. The berserker had come from Channith; how would it know? Halt Angelo’s breath on the intake and, “Life support systems damaged. Goodlife is dying.” He thought to add, please answer, and didn’t. Goodlife would not beg, would he? and Gage had his pride.
He sent again. “I am—” Gasp. “Goodlife is dying. Fortress moon is mute. Sending equipment damaged, motors damaged, life support system damaged. Wandering fortress must take information from fortress moon computer system directly.” Exhale, listen to that wheeze, poor bastard must be dying; inhale—“If wandering fortress needs information not stored, it must bring oxygen for Goodlife.” That, he thought, had the right touch: begging without begging.
Gage’s receiver spoke. “Will complete present mission and rendezvous.”
Gage raged…and said, “Understood.” That was death for Harvest. Hell, it might have worked! But a berserker’s priorities were fixed, and Goodlife wouldn’t argue.
Was it fooled? if not, he’d just thrown away anything he might learn of the berserker. Channith would never see it; Gage would be dead. Slagged or dismembered.
When the light of the fortress’s drive dimmed almost to nothing, Teardrop glowed of itself: it was brushing Harvest’s atmosphere. Cameras whirled in the shock wave and died one by one. A last camera showed a white glare shading to violet…gone.
The fortress surged ahead of Teardrop, swung around the curve of Harvest and moved toward the outer moon: toward Gage. Its drive was powerful. It could be here in six hours, Gage thought. He sent heavy, irregular breathing, Angelo’s raspy breath, with interruptions. “Uh. Uh? Goodlife is dying. Goodlife is…is dead. Fortress moon has stored information…self-defending life…locus is Albion, coordinates…” followed by silence.
Teardrop was on the far side of Harvest now, but the glow of it made a ring of white flame round the planet. The glow flared and began to die. Gage watched the shock wave rip through the atmosphere. The planet’s crust parted, exposing lava; the ocean rolled to close the gap. Almost suddenly, Harvest was a white pearl. The planet’s oceans would be water vapor before this day ended.
The berserker sent, “Goodlife. Answer or be punished. Give coordinates for Albion.”
Gage left the carrier beam on. The berserker would sense no life in the lunar base. Poor Goodlife, faithful to the last.
100101101110 had its own views regarding Goodlife. Experience showed that Goodlife was true to its origins: it tended to go wrong, to turn dangerous. It would have been destroyed when convenient…but that would not be needed now.
Machinery and records were another matter. As the berserker drew near the moon, its telescopes picked up details of the trapped machine. It saw lunar soil heaped over a dome. Its senses peered inside.
Machinery occupied most of what it could see. There was little room for a life support system. A box of a room, and stored air, and tubes through which robot or Goodlife could crawl to repair damage; no more. That was reassuring; but design details were unfamiliar.
Hypothesis: the trapped berserker had used life-begotten components for its repairs. There was no sign of a drive; no sign of abandoned wreckage. Hypothesis: one of these craters was a crash site; the cripple had moved its brain and whatever else survived into an existing installation built by life.
Anything valuable in the Goodlife’s memory was now lost…but perhaps the “fortress moon’s” memory was intact. It would know the patterns of life in this vicinity. Its knowledge of technology used by local self-defensive life might be even more valuable.
Hypothesis: it was a trap. There was no fortress moon, only a human voice. The berserker moved in with shields and drive ready. The closer it came, the faster it could dodge beyond the horizon…but it saw nothing resembling weaponry. In any case, the berserker had been allowed to destroy a planet. Surely there was nothing here that could threaten it. It remained ready nonetheless.
At a hundred kilometers the berserker’s senses found no life. Nor at fifty.
The berserker landed next to the heap of lunar earth that Goodlife had called “fortress moon.” Berserkers did not indulge in rescue operations. What was useful in the ruined berserker would become part of the intact one. So: reach out with a cable, find the brain.
It had landed, and still the fear didn’t come. Gage had seen wrecks, but
