Part 8 (1/2)

Harry was scanning that mental image again when another, very different possibility drifted into Harry's consciousness. The thought was an ugly one indeed, and Harry didn't quite know what to do with it. Did he find himself here on this forsaken wandering rock, preparing for death in a berserker fight, because he had been deliberately set up, his life ruined, by Winston Cheng himself?

But no. That seemed insane. Imagine the old man as ruthless as a forceblade, still he would not collaborate for a moment with the very berserkers he had dedicated himself to destroy. Cheng's sincerity was very convincing-no, that was too mild a word. Say instead maniacal. Would Captain Ahab work out a deal with Moby d.i.c.k, feed the great white whale fresh victims, just to get a certain harpooner signed on for a voyage? And would Moby d.i.c.k be likely to cooperate?

Crazy as it seemed to suspect Cheng, were the alternatives really all that much better? Once more, what were the odds that the enemy had selected the two sets of kidnap victims purely at random?

Harry could hear himself making small sounds of anguish in his throat. Every once in a while it all started to come over him like this. He had to squeeze his eyes shut, and bring up his hands to his head, as if to hold his brain together. Never mind the logic, never mind the reasoned search for answers. What had happened to Becky and to Ethan was still beyond the limit, outside the domain of things that he could think rationally about.

Winston Cheng, convening in the common room a meeting of all the humans who could be gathered at short notice, told them that he and his coordinator had decided to make an all-out effort to recruit Professor Aristotle Gianopolous, designer and builder of the fake berserker Winston Cheng wanted to use in his raid, as a consultant.

A quarter of an hour after getting his instructions, Harry was alone in one of Cheng's standard couriers, driving the s.h.i.+p toward the Templar base where he would collect the secret weapon.

Obeying a sudden impulse, Harry programmed in an unscheduled stop en route, allowing his machinery to pick the exact point in normal s.p.a.ce, specifying little more than that it must be light-years away from anything and anyone. After days of the constant pressure of people in a small s.p.a.ce, he needed time, a little time at least, just to be alone.

Following his inner prompting further, he even put on a s.p.a.cesuit, something that he almost never did except when absolutely necessary, and went out briefly through the courier's airlock. Why was he doing this, just for the nonexistent fun of it? Just to enjoy the feeling of being so extravagantly isolated from other human beings, from every form of Galactic life?

And from life's remorseless enemy as well.

He stared for a few moments at the naked Universe, then, as usual, had to turn away from it, sheltering his gaze against his s.h.i.+p, a curve of mostly metal only a couple of meters from his face. Looking at his dim reflection in the faint brightness of a protective forcefield, clinging to the smooth s.h.i.+p's metal flank. Harry caught a glimpse of his own reflected face, mildly distorted.

His nose looked even worse than usual.

The two of them had been lying in bed somewhere when Becky asked, seemingly out of nowhere: ”Why didn't you ever get your nose fixed, Harry?”

”What's wrong with my nose?”

”What's wrong with it? It's bent around until it's pointing at your ear.”

”Come on. That is a slight exaggeration. Anyway I like my face the way it is.”

”Why, for G.o.d's sake?”

”I need it to remind me of a couple of things.” He s.h.i.+fted his position.

Becky knew the signs of when a line of questioning ought to be abandoned. She had moved closer and kissed her Harry on the arguable nose. ”If you like it that way, then I do too.”

”Feels straighter already.”

If you started to cry inside your helmet it could create a minor problem. But actually he wasn't going to start. Not even close. He had already gone way beyond anything that tears might do to him or for him.

The Templar base commanded by Emil Darchan was perhaps the most important one the order had established in this sector of the Galaxy, and for it, for reasons doubtless similar to Cheng's, the Templars too had chosen a wanderworld, free of gravitational or political allegiance to any solar system.

WW 132CAB was reasonably located, fairly readily accessible to convenient nodes of flights.p.a.ce travel. Outside the boundaries of any solar system, the Order was free to run its own shop in its own way, not having to contend with the laws or sensitivities of any planetary or system government.

The capabilities of base defense here were very serious, in sharp contrast with those on WW 207GST.

Harry, though he was more or less expected, needed a quarter of an hour to negotiate his way in on approach. In the meantime he was free to look around, and his s.h.i.+p's scopes showed him interesting things.

The base as a whole was a sprawling installation, covering several square kilometers of airless rock.

Harry could see another huge domed structure that he a.s.sumed would be the Trophy Room, a research facility where all the Templars fighting and working in this sector of the Galaxy conveyed any items of berserker hardware that they were able to find, steal, or collect in the aftermath of combat. This particular Trophy Room was generally acknowledged to be one of the best maintained by any organization in the known Galaxy. Members of the Order were justly proud of this establishment, claiming that neither the s.p.a.ce Force nor any local authority could boast its equal. Information gleaned by the work in its laboratory and on its proving ground was distributed freely, not only to other Templar forces, but to the s.p.a.ce Force and any local government that wanted to be in the loop.

Material for the Trophy Room scientists and engineers to work on was hard to come by. Harry had heard it estimated that, during the centuries of their bitter war against ED humanity, something like a thousand berserkers had been destroyed for every one captured with any of its vital systems still intact.

Harry brought his s.h.i.+p in for a landing, heading as directed for the main hangar, which hospitably opened the doors of a vast forcefield airlock in the surface of its enormous dome.

Harry had announced his arrival from half an hour out, and the abbot, his tall figure arrayed in the full robes of office, was waiting on the dock to welcome him.

”Harry! You're looking great!”

Harry, being shaken in a double grip, then pounded on the shoulder, doubted that. The smile on his own face felt strange, but it was there. ”h.e.l.lo, Emil.”

The abbot looked pretty much unchanged since Harry had seen him last. Generally energetic, and somewhat excitable. Perhaps the flowing white hair was just a little longer, and the bright pink face, despite its owner's apparently robust health, a little closer to looking apoplectic.

”Welcome to our base.”

”It's looking great too.”

It was the first time Harry had seen the place, though at their last meeting, six or seven standard years ago, the abbot, then newly appointed, had invited Harry to pay him a visit at any time. The buildings and fixtures were a mixture of old and new design. Some of the equipment had a venerable look, while some was absolutely state-of-the-art.

Harry's old friend promised him a tour of the entire base before he left.

”That would be great. We'll see if there's time.”

When the initial greetings and comments had been got out of the way, the abbot proclaimed: ”Harry, you come at a most opportune time!” The abbot's voice was pleasant to listen to, though it was not the vocal equipment you'd want to have if you were inclined to sing. ”You must see what we have, at this minute, in the Trophy Room! Beyond a doubt, one of the most important projects ever undertaken at this base! Or, quite possibly, at any other.”

The man's enthusiasm was contagious. Almost against his will, Harry found a corner of the dark cloud lifting from his mind, himself getting interested. ”Then I can't wait to see it. What's going on?”

”A berserker courier, my friend! What do you think of that? Anentire courier !” The two words came out in a dramatic whisper. ”Some of our enthusiastic young people have recently captured one with its data storage practically intact.”

The abbot's mood dimmed for a moment. ”It is true that we lost one scouts.h.i.+p, and three members of our boarding party were killed, may the First Cause bless them, in disabling the destructor system.”

”A full-sized courier?” Harry stared. Even snaring smaller messengers intact was considered something of an achievement.

”I promise you. One of a precise type I have not seen before, almost the equivalent of a new species.”

”Thatis impressive.”

”One of our very skillful young officers commanded the interception team, and everything worked beautifully. It happened just-well, I shouldn't tell even you precisely where. Highly cla.s.sified, you know.”

”I understand.”

”But all in good time. Before we go to the Trophy Room we must have a talk. Come, come along to my cell! Have you eaten recently?”

”Yeah. I'm okay.”

The abbot frowned conspiratorially, and lowered his voice a notch. ”Then how about a little nip of something to warm the blood?”