Harry at last had set his captured carbine down, laying the weapon close against the wall of the small control cabin in the Chewing Pod's functional launch, where either he or Becky could grab it up in a hurry if need be. At the moment his wife was occupying the pilot's seat, in the last stages of running a quick checklist that so far indicated there was nothing wrong with the small vessel in which all the surviving humans were about to make their getaway. Harry had been concentrating on looking out for trouble, but now it appeared he would be able to give up riding shotgun.
The launch provided a comfortably furnished passenger space some fifteen meters long and four wide, which in happier times could have been quickly reconfigured to offer several distinctly different flavors of luxury. Now the only concern was that it afforded ample room, and speedy transportation.
Exchanging scraps of hasty conversation with his wife, while both were engaged in herding people into the launch, Harry had been reminded that she had seen genuine berserkers before. When the kidnappers came for her and Ethan, she had no doubt that she was seeing them again. "That was at first."
"At first?"
Becky went on: "You know, Harry? It was all so horrible . . . but there was a time when I began to suspect they weren't real berserkers."
"They were real enough. If they seemed a bit clumsy, that was probably just because they weren't used to trying to keep their victims alive."
"Ethan was screaming, just horribly, and then I was screaming too . . ."
"It's all right now, kid. That part's all over."
The robot Dorijen was still functioning, or at least capable of purposeful movement, having boarded the launch at the end of the line of surviving humans.
Ethan and Winnie, both children hampered in oversized spacesuits, had started some kind of game, withdrawing from the terrors of the adult world to something that perhaps made more sense to them.
Harry also had a short interlude of conversation with Claudia Cheng. While thanking him politely for all his trouble, she managed indirectly to convey her determination to fight any great change in the old man's will—though she remained amenable to buying her savior a new ship.
Half a minute later it was Becky who, having already heard the story, remarked: "You could hire a lawyer, Harry. If there were any witnesses to what he said . . ."
Harry was shaking his head. "I've never had a lot of luck with witnesses. Or lawyers either."
Winnie had largely abandoned the game he had been playing, to eye the carbine that Harry had put down. Now he looked up to pester his mother for a gun of his own.
Harry had put his gauntlets on again, and had never taken his helmet off—it was going to stay on until he was sure they were safely away. Suddenly he started, abruptly distracted by the rogue's familiar radio voice.
"I am speaking to you, Harry Silver. Only to you. The life-units with you cannot hear me."
Harry was not at all surprised to hear the voice; the only surprise was that some perverse part of him seemed to be secretly pleased to have assurance that the damned rogue wasn't completely dead.
Something kept Harry from blurting out a general announcement that at least one of the berserkers still survived. Well, that probably would not be news to anyone.
"Rest easy, Harry Silver," said the small voice in his helmet. "You and I have reached a de facto truce, and today is not our day for fighting one another."
Mentally Harry made the adjustments that would allow him to subvocalize speech to the rogue, while remaining silent as far as the human company around him were aware. He had the feeling that this conversation could possibly take a turn that he wouldn't want them to hear . . .
Not even Becky?
Yes, for the moment, not even Becky.
"What do you want?" he demanded tersely.
"Only to maintain contact with my favorite experimental subject. I must congratulate you on your survival. And on the demise of your goodlife rival."
The rogue assured Harry that it had no need of the launch that he and his fellow humans were about to use. It also announced that it had attained all of its essential components, and was about to depart the Gravel Pit in its previously prepared escape module.
Harry wanted to ask the rogue if it had retained a few life-units to take with it as well, restocking its new laboratory; but whatever answer it gave to that question could be a lie.
Instead he asked: "You mean you've wiped out all of the assassin's units?"
"It would be unwise, would it not, to make any such assertion dogmatically?"
Whatever units of the assassin still survived would have no means of getting themselves away from this rock. But the prospect of ending their existence in this particular time and place would mean nothing to those machines. All that mattered to them would be their assigned missions, in order of priority.
When the voice of the rogue came back again, it was still mild, giving the impression of a lovely, balanced temperament, unshaken by anything that had ever happened, or ever would. "From now on, Harry Silver, you and I will remain closely associated."
"Up yours. You bloody, twisted . . ." When he remembered the body parts of people, still-living organs mounted on a wall for study, thoughts failed him, as did his extensive knowledge of bad language. Why couldn't life's enemy stay simply and dependably nasty? Be content to simply kill and have done with it?
"Defiant insult is not an unexpected response. I will continue to monitor your career as closely as possible—at times I will be much closer to you than you realize."
Harry's capacity to be frightened seemed to have been burned away, along with some other mental baggage. "I expect there's a rather large berserker task force on its way here even as we speak, dispatched by your own high command. I'm told your creators have decided you're a great disappointment, that putting you together was a ghastly blunder. I've never met a high command that could admit to making great mistakes, but maybe yours can do it. As soon as they catch you, they're going to hammer you into little bits of junk and lose the pieces."
Some of the people near Harry, unaware of the conversation he was having, were looking at him oddly. He smoothed out the expression on his face.
"Remember what I have told you, Harry Silver. Remember also that anger is irrational."
"I'm recording this, you obscenity. I'll spread the word about you to the Force, and to the Templars, and if you do somehow manage to get away from here I'll get all the help I need and we'll track you down."
Becky was through with the last details of the checklist, and the hatches closed. Without wasting any time on formalities, the lady was getting them free of the pileup of junked spaceships, and the berserker base.
"Tracking me down will not be necessary. Are you trying to frighten me, Harry Silver? It is interesting that you seek to frighten a machine."
After that there was a silence, long enough so that Harry began to wonder if the rogue was gone. But suddenly it was back. "I see that you have launched, and I will shortly do the same. I compute that you do not in fact have any intention of recording this—but know that I am doing so. You will want to destroy any record of it—but, of course, the record that I am making will never come within your reach. You will not want your Templars and your Space Force to see the evidence of our continuing close relationship."
Harry advised the rogue to perform an act of crude violence upon itself.
The other found that interesting too. "In your form of rhetoric, you attribute to me anatomical capabilities I do not possess. Goodbye for now, Harry Silver. I hope you are able to preserve your interesting life until we meet again. At some point in the future, I intend to carefully observe your death."
The signal had begun fading rapidly. The launch was picking up speed—and maybe the rogue was also, moving in some other direction.
Ethan was calling, looking for continued contact, reassurance: "Daddy? Who're you talking to?"
Five seconds passed before the question registered, and Harry could find an answer: "No one. No one at all."