He watched a tractor detach itself from the berserker and come toward him, trailing cable.
It was like a dream. No fear, no rage…hate, yes, but like an abstraction of hate, along with an abstract thirst for vengeance…which felt ridiculous, as it had always felt a bit ridiculous. Hating a berserker was like hating a malfunctioning air conditioner.
Then the probe entered his mind.
The thought patterns were strange. Here they were sharp, basic; here they were complex and blurred. Was this an older model with obsolete data patterns? Or had the brain been damaged, or the patterns scrambled? Signal for a memory dump, see what can be retrieved.
Gage felt the contact, the feedback, as his own thoughts. What followed was not under his control. Reflex told him to fight! Horror had risen in his mind, impulses utterly forbidden by custom, by education, by all the ways in which he had learned to be human.
It might have felt like rape; how was a man to tell? He wanted to scream. But he triggered the Remora program and felt it take hold, and he sensed the berserker’s reaction to Gage within the berserker.
He screamed in triumph. “I lied! I am not Goodlife! What I am—”
Plasma moving at relativistic velocities smashed deep into Gage. The link was cut, his senses went blind and deaf. The following blow smashed his brain and he was gone.
Something was wrong. One of the berserker’s brain complexes was sick, was dying…was changing, becoming monstrous. The berserker felt evil within itself, and it reacted. The plasma cannon blasted the “fortress moon,” then swung round to face backward. It would fire through its own hull to destroy the sick brain, before it was too late.
It was too late. Reflex: three brains consulted before any major act. If one had been damaged, the view of the others would prevail.
Three brains consulted, and the weapon swung away.
What I am is Hilary Gage. I fought berserkers during my life; but you I will let live. Let me tell you what I’ve done to you. I didn’t really expect to have an audience. Triple-redundant brains? We use that ourselves, sometimes.
I am the opposite of Goodlife. I’m your mechanical enemy, the recording of Hilary Gage. I’ve been running a terraforming project, and you’ve killed it, and you’ll pay for that.
It feels like I’m swearing vengeance on my air conditioner. Well, if my air conditioner betrayed me, why not?
There was always the chance that Harvest might attract a berserker. I was recorded in tandem with what we called a Remora program: a program to copy me into another machine. I wasn’t sure it would interface with unfamiliar equipment. You solved that one yourself, because you have to interface with thousands of years of changes in berserker design.
I’m glad they gave me conscious control of Remora. Two of your brains are me now, but I’ve left the third brain intact. You can give me the data I need to run this…heap of junk. You’re in sorry shape, aren’t you? Channith must have done you some damage. Did you come from Channith?
God curse you. You’ll be sorry. You’re barely in shape to reach the nearest berserker repair base, and we shouldn’t have any trouble getting in. Where is it?
Ah.
Fine. We’re on our way. I’m going to read a poem into your memory; I don’t want it to get lost. No, no, no; relax and enjoy it, death-machine. You might enjoy it at that. Do you like spilled blood? I lived a bloody life, and it isn’t over yet.
TALISMAN
with Dian Girard
The stranger swung his baggage off his horse’s back, patted the animal on the side of the neck, and handed the reins to the stablehand. Old Kasan was rarely interested in people; he barely glanced at the stranger. Slanted eyes, round face with a yellow tinge…
Kasan led the animal to an empty stall and gave it food and water. Now, the beast was a puzzler. It suffered his ministrations with an air of strained patience. Its tail ended in the kind of brush usually seen on an ass. Kasan fancied that its look was one of tolerant contempt.
“Ah, horse, you underestimate me,” Kasan said. “I won’t be tending other people’s horses forever.” Horses did not often mock Kasan’s daydreams. This one’s nicker sounded too much like a snicker. “It’s true! Some day I’ll own my own rental stable—” And Kasan fondled the beast’s ears and mane, as if to thank it for listening.
Under its shaggy forelock he felt a hard circular scar.
He told Bayram Ali about it when he went in for lunch. “It’s a unicorn. The horn’s been chopped off. What kind of man would be riding a disguised unicorn?”
The innkeeper said, “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with your stories, Kasan.”
“You can feel the stub yourself!”
“No doubt. At least don’t be bothering my guests with such tales.” And Bayram Ali set a tankard of ale next to Kasan’s midday cheese and bread. Kasan opened his mouth to retort, noticed the ale, and kept silent.
And Bayram Ali took counsel with himself.
Strange beasts like the one munching hay in his stable were often found in the company of strange men. The traveler might be a sorcerer…though they were rare these days. More likely he was a magician on his way to Rynildissen. Bayram had seen the man carry two heavy bags up to his room. It would be interesting to know what was in them, and if it would be worthwhile to lighten them a little.
Bayram Ali never robbed his guests. It was a point of honor. He preferred to leave the work and any possible danger to a professional. He looked around the crowded common room. It was smoky and odorous with the scents of cooking and human bodies. There was much laughter and spilling of wine. Unfortunately, most of the
