Ship of Strangers

CHAPTER SEVEN

Targett gaped at the cylinder for a moment, his face contorted with shock, then he ran north towards the nearest barricade of rock. Hampered by the suit and the extra gravity, he found it impossible to pick up any real speed. On his right the cylinder spiralled lazily into the air like a mythological creature awakening from millennia of slumber. It drifted in his direction.

Two others stirred in their dusty cradles.

Targett tried to move faster, but felt as if he was waist-deep in molasses. Ahead he saw a black triangular hole formed by tilted slabs of rock, and he swerved towards it.

The sky to his right was clear again, giving him the impression the airborne cylinder had vanished. Then he saw it moving around behind him, foreshortening, aiming itself. His thighs pumped harder in nightmarish slow motion and the dark opening swung crazily ahead, but too far away. He knew he was going to be too late.

He threw himself at the opening—just as a massive hammer-blow sledged ferociously into his back. The television camera spun from his hand as he was lifted off his feet and flung into the space between the rocks. Astounded at finding himself still alive, Targett burrowed desperately for cover. The triangular space proved long enough to take his whole body. He squirmed into it, sobbing with panic at the thought of another bullet finding him at any instant.

I’m alive, he thought numbly. But how?

He slid a gloved hand around to the lower part of his back where the bullet had struck, and felt an unfamiliar jagged edge of metal. His probing fingers explored a crumpled, box-like object, and a few more seconds passed before he identified it as the ruins of his oxygen generator unit.

He started to reach for the backpack containing the spare generator, then remembered the pack was lying out on the plateau where he had set it down before going to work on the cylinder. Clawing feverishly at the confining rock until he had reversed his position, he peered outside. The small segment of open sky he could see was being crossed and re-crossed by the black silhouettes of torpedoes in flight.

Targett inched forward a little for a better view. His eyes widened as he saw that the torpedoes had taken to the air in hundreds, swarming silently upwards, their shadows rippling over the brownish dust and rocks. Even as he watched, a few laggards angled their noses into the air, swung groggily for a moment and drifted up to join their fellows in the circulating cloud. A slight fold in the ground made it impossible for him to see where the backpack lay, or if the cylinder on which he had worked had also taken flight. He raised his head slightly and fell back amid a blasting shower of rock splinters and dust. The banshee howl of ricochets left no doubt in his mind that several of the torpedoes had noted his movements and had reacted in the only way they could, according to the lethal dictates of their ancient designers.

“Report on your position, Michael,” Aesop’s voice seemed to come from another existence.

“My position isn’t so good,” Targett said hoarsely, trying to control his breathing. “These things seem to be robot hunters fitted out with machine rifles. The lot of them are airborne right now—it might be that the radiation from my camera or suit radio triggered them off—and they’re swarming about like mosquitoes. I’m hiding out under some rocks, but…’

“Stay where you are. I will have the Sarafand there in less than an hour.”

“That’s no good, Aesop. One of the torpedoes took a shot at me as I was getting in here. The suit isn’t punctured, but my oxygenerator is wrecked.”

“Use the spare from your pack,” Surgenor put in before Aesop could reply.

“I can’t.” Targett made the strange discovery that he felt embarrassed rather than afraid. “The pack’s lying out in the open and I can’t get at it. There’s no way for me to get it.”

“But that gives you only…’ Surgenor paused. “You’ll have to reach the pack, Mike.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Look, perhaps the torpedoes respond only to sudden movement. If you crawled out very slowly…’

“Hypothesis incorrect,” Aesop interrupted. “My analysis of the sensor circuitry in the torpedo which Michael opened indicates that it was a duplex system, both channels of which use movement and heat for target identification. Any exposure of his body would be certain to draw more fire.”

“It already has—I tried to poke my head out of this hole a minute ago,” Targett said. “I almost got it blown off.”

“That shows my conclusion about the sensor circuitry was correct, which in turn…’

“We haven’t time to listen to you congratulating yourself, Aesop.” Surgenor’s voice crashed in the suit’s radio. “Mike, have you tried your sidearm on them?”

Targett reached for the ultralaser, which was still slung over his shoulder, then pulled his hand back. “It wouldn’t help, Dave. There are hundreds of those things buzzing around out there, and an ultralaser pistol holds—how many charges?”

“Let’s see…If it’s one of the capsule-powered jobs there should be twenty-six.”

“So what’s the point in even trying?”

“Maybe there isn’t any point, Mike, but are you just going to lie there and suffocate? Blast a few of them just for the hell of it.”

“David Surgenor,” Aesop came in forcibly, “I instruct you to remain silent while I deal with this emergency.”

“Deal with it?” Targett felt an illogical stirring of his former blind faith in Aesop. “All right, Aesop. What do you want me to do?”

“Can you see any of the torpedoes without endangering yourself?”

“Yes.” Targett glanced at the triangular area of sky as a black cigar-shape drifted across it. “Only one at a time, though.”

“That is sufficient. Your record shows that you are an adequate marksman. I want you to use your sidearm on one of the torpedoes. Hit it near the nose section.”

“What’s the point?” Targett’s brief, irrational hope dissolved into draw anger and panic. I’ve got twenty-six charges and there are three hundred of those robots out there.”

“Three hundred and sixty-two to be precise,” Aesop said. “Now listen to my instructions and obey them without further delay. Direct an ultralaser burst against one of the torpedoes. Hit as close to the nose section as is possible without jeopardizing the shot and describe the effects of your action.”

“You smug…’ Realizing the futility of trying to insult the computer, Targett wrenched the pistol free of its holster and flipped the tubeless scopesight up into position.

He set the sight for low magnification and wriggled around in the narrow space between the rocks until he was in a reasonably good firing attitude. The controlled breathing essential for high-accuracy shooting was impossible—his lungs were working like bellows in the suit’s stale air—but the torpedoes were a relatively easy target for a radiation weapon. He waited until one came questing across his segment of sky, put the cross-hairs on its conical nose section and squeezed the trigger. As the first capsule in the weapon’s magazine yielded its energy, a quarter-second burst of violet brilliance lanced out, flaring briefly on the torpedo’s nose. The black cylinder seemed to falter slightly, then it recovered and cruised out of sight, apparently unharmed.

Targett felt perspiration prickling out on his forehead. Incredible as it seemed, he—Michael Targett, the most important individual in the universe—was going to die, just like all the anonymous beings who had gone before him.

“I hit one,” he said through numb lips. “Right on the nose. It just flew on as if nothing had happened.”

“Was there any searing or scarring of metal?”

“I don’t think so. I’m seeing them in silhouette, so I couldn’t be very sure, though.”

“You say the torpedo flew on as though nothing had happened,” Aesop persisted. “Think carefully, Michael—was there no reaction at all?”

“Well, it seemed to wobble for a fraction of a second, but…’

“Just as I expected,” Aesop commented. “The internal arrangement of the torpedo you examined suggested it had a duplex sensory and control system. The new evidence confirms this.”

“Damn you, Aesop,” Targett whispered. “I thought you were trying to help me, but you were just gathering more data. From now on, do your own dirty work—I’ve retired from the Service.”

“The ultralaser radiation would have been sufficient to burn out the prime sensory inputs,” Aesop continued, unperturbed, “causing the back-up system to take over. Another direct hit on the same torpedo would make it fall out of control, and the probability is that the impact would cause catastrophic failure of the motor casing, which appears to have deteriorated with time.

“The high level of non-directional radiation associated with a failure in a motor of this design should in turn be sufficient to overload both sensory channels in the other torpedoes, causing them…’

“It could work!” Targett felt a sun-bright pang of relief—but it faded as quickly as it had been born. He fought to keep his emotions hidden from any listeners, and especially Dave Surgenor.

“The only trouble is I could see no mark on the torpedo I hit—and if I try to poke my face out for a better look around I’ll get it full of pills. Maybe that would be the best thing that could happen—at least it would be quick.”

“Let me say something here, Aesop,” came Surgenor’s voice. “Listen Mike—you still have a chance. You’ve got twenty-five capsules left in your magazine. Blast away at the torpedoes as they go by and maybe you’ll burn the same one twice.”

“Thanks, Dave.” A grey mood of resignation settled over Targett as he realized what he had to do. “I appreciate your concern, but remember I’m the gambler in this outfit. Twenty-six into three-sixty-two puts the odds at about thirteen to one against me right at the start. Thirteen’s a bad number, and I don’t feel very lucky.”

“But if it’s your only chance…’

“Not the only one.” Targett gathered his legs beneath him in preparation for strenuous action. “I’m a pretty good shot with radiation weapons. My best bet would be to get outside fast—out where I can track one of the torpedoes long enough to take two shots at it.”

“Don’t try it, Mike,” Surgenor said urgently.

“Sorry.” Targett tensed himself and edged forward. “My mind is…’

“Your mind appears to be confused,” Aesop cut in, “possibly due to oxygen starvation. Have you forgotten that you dropped your television camera outside your shelter?”

Targett hesitated in the act of throwing himself forward. “The camera? Is it still running? Can you see all of the swarm?”

“Not all of it, but enough to let me follow individual torpedoes for a considerable portion of their circuit. I will instruct you when to fire, and by timing your shots to match the general circulation rate of the swarm we can bring the probability of a second hit on one torpedo close to unity.”

“All right, Aesop—you win.” Targett settled down again, burdened by the dull certainty that nothing he could do would make any difference to the outcome. His breathing had become rapid and shallow as his lungs rejected their own waste products, and his hands were clammy inside the gloves. He raised the sidearm and peered through its sight.

“Begin firing at will to initiate the sequence.” Aesop’s voice came faintly through the roaring in Targett’s ears.

“Right.” He steadied the weapon, waited until a torpedo drifted across the triangular patch of sky, and directed a burst of energy on to its nose section. The torpedo wavered for an instant, then flew on. Targett repeated the process again and again, always with the same result, until the pile of expended capsules spat out by the weapon numbered more than a dozen.

“Where are you, Aesop?” he breathed. “You’re not helping me.”

“The ultralaser radiation leaves no visible marks on the surfaces of the torpedoes, so I am forced to work on a purely statistical basis,” Aesop said. “But I now have sufficient data to enable me to predict their movements with a suitable degree of accuracy.”

“Then start doing it, for God’s sake.”

There was a slight pause. “Each time I say ‘now’ fire at the next torpedo appearing in your field of view.”

“I’m waiting.” Targett blinked to clear his vision. Bright-rimmed black spots had begun to dance across it.

“Now.”

A torpedo appeared an instant later and Targett squeezed the trigger. The ultralaser ray raked along the nose section—but after an initial tremor the black cylinder drifted steadily out of view without changing direction.

“Now.”

Targett fired again, with the same result.

“Now.”

Once again the beam of energy flicked across a torpedo—with no serious effect.

“This isn’t working out too well.” Targett focused his eyes with difficulty on the indicator on the butt of the pistol. “I’m down to eight charges. I’m beginning to think…to think I ought to go ahead with my own plan while I…’

“You are wasting time, Michael. Now.”

Targett squeezed the trigger and another torpedo drifted heedlessly on, effectively unharmed.

“Now.”

Hopelessly, Targett fired again. The torpedo had passed out of sight before it dawned on him that perhaps it had begun to change direction.

“Aesop,” he managed to say, “I think maybe…’

He heard a dull explosion and the triangular segment of sky turned a blinding white. Only the immediate darkening of his helmet’s face plate saved Targett’s eyes from the full fury of the motor’s self-annihilation. The brilliance continued unabated for seconds as the alien engine consumed itself. He imagined it burning out the primary and back-up sensors on the swarming robots, which would blunder down to the ground or fly into the hillside and…’

Just in time, Targett squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in his arms while a prolonged cataclysm raged all around him, laying waste to the area. I can still die, he thought. Captain Aesop has done his best for me, but if I’m not lucky—this is where I go down.

When the extended rumble of explosions and the almost palpable torrent of brilliance had died away, he crawled out from under the rocks and forced his legs to accept his weight. He opened his eyes cautiously. The plateau was littered with inert torpedoes, their motor compartments vaporized. A number of the robot hunters were still airborne, but they paid no attention to him as he ran, weaving drunkenly, towards the spot where he had left the backpack.

On the way across the plateau the thought occurred to him that one of the torpedoes could have landed right on the pack—something that even Captain Aesop would have been powerless to forestall—but he found it lying safely beside the stripped down cylinder, which had not flown. He opened the pack with trembling fingers, took out the spare oxygenerator and experienced a moment of exquisite dread as the ruined generator refused to let itself be detached from the suit’s breather hole. With the last dregs of his strength he wrenched it off, clicked the replacement into position and lay down to await the renewal of life.

“Mike?” Surgenor sounded hesitant. “You all right?”

Targett breathed deeply. “I’m all right, Dave. Captain Aesop got me out of it.”

“Did you say ‘Captain’?”

“You heard me.” Targett rose to his feet and surveyed the littered battlefield upon which he and a distant computer had vanquished an enemy host which had lain in wait for seven thousand years. In all probability he would never know what the torpedoes’ original purpose had been, or why they had been dumped on Horta VII—but his taste for archaeology seemed to have faded. It was sufficient just to be alive in the present. As he scanned the incredible scene one of the torpedoes which was still aloft flew blindly into a ridge two kilometres away. The resultant explosion drenched the plateau with radiance.

Targett flinched away from it. “There goes another one, Aesop.”

“Your meaning is not clear to me, Michael,” Aesop replied.

“Another torpedo, of course. Didn’t you see the flash?”

“No. The televisions camera is not functioning.”

“Oh?” Targett glanced towards his former hiding place, where the camera had fallen. “Perhaps the light from all those explosions burned something out.”

“No.” Aesop paused. “Transmissions ceased when you dropped the camera. There is a good probability that the switch got jarred to the off position.”

“Very likely. I was moving at a good…’ Targett stopped speaking as a disturbing thought occurred to him. “Then you lied to me. You weren’t able to track the torpedoes.”

“Your mental condition made it necessary for me to lie to you.”

“But you were telling me when to fire, for God’s sake! How did you know I would hit one of the torpedoes twice?”

“I did not know.” Aesop’s voice was precise, unruffled. “This is something you in particular should understand, Michael. I simply took a chance.”

“This is lovely material for my book, Mike.” Clifford Pollen’s reedy voice was pitched with excitement as he leaned across the mess table. “I’m going to call the chapter ‘The Day The Targett Started Shooting Back’. Good isn’t it?”

Mike Targett, who had learned to endure every possible joke about his surname, nodded his head. “Very original, that.”

Pollen frowned down at his notes. “I’ll have to be careful about how I put the story over, though. There were three-sixty-two torpedoes skimming around and you had only twenty-six shots. That means Aesop staked your life on odds of about one in thirteen—and the gamble came off!”

“Wrong! It wasn’t that way, at all.” Targett smiled pityingly as he cut up a medium-rare steak. “Take my tip and stay away from poker games, Clifford—you’ve no idea how to calculate odds.”

Pollen looked offended. “I can perform a simple calculation. Twenty-six into three-sixty-two…’

“Has nothing to do with the actual mathematics of the situation, my friend. It was necessary for me to hit one of the torpedoes twice. Right?”

“Right,” Pollen said grudgingly.

“Well, in a situation like that you can’t just take simple odds by dividing the smaller number into the larger one the way you did. The reason is that the odds change with every shot. Every time I hit a torpedo shifted the odds slightly in favour of the following shot, and the only way you can calculate the overall probability is to multiply out twenty-five sets of gradually improving odds. That’s pretty hard to do—unless you happen to be a computer—but if you do it you’ll get final odds of around two to one that I would hit a torpedo twice. It wasn’t much of a gamble really.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Work it out for yourself with a calculator.” Targett put a square of steak into his mouth and chewed appreciatively. “It’s a good example of the difficulty of judging complex possibilities by common sense.”

Pollen scribbled out some figures. “It’s too complicated for me.”

“That’s why you’d never make a successful gambler.”

Targett smiled again as he worked on his steak. He did not mention the fact that his own common sense had been outraged by the mathematics of probability, or that it had taken a long and tedious conversation on a private link with Aesop, after all danger was past, to convince him of the truth. And he would never mention to anyone the feeling of bleak isolation which had stolen over him when he genuinely understood that Aesop—the entity who safeguarded his life, arranged his meals, and replied patiently to all his questions—was nothing more than a logic machine. It was better to play the same game that all the other crewmen played, to address Aesop as “Captain’ now and then, and to think of him as a superhuman being who never came down from his lonely command post somewhere on the Sarafand’s upper decks.

“We’ll be putting down on Pandor at the end of this survey,” Dave Surgenor said from the opposite side of the table. “You’ll be able to give us a practical demonstration of successful gambling.”

“I don’t think so.” Targett put another forkful of steak into his mouth. “The syndicates are bound to use computers to calculate the odds. That gives them an unfair advantage.”