The ship didn’t even have a name. It had no human crew because the factory craft which constructed it had been evacuated long
ago. It had no
life-support or accommodation units for the same reason. It had no class number or fleet designation because
it was a mongrel made from bits
and pieces of different types of warcraft; and it didn’t have a name because the factory craft
had no time left for such niceties.
The dockyard threw the ship together as best it could from its depleted stock of components, even though most of the weapon,
power and
sensory systems were either faulty, superseded or due for overhaul. The factory vessel knew that its own destruction
was inevitable, but there
was just a chance that its last creation might have the speed and the luck to escape.
The one perfect, priceless component the factory craft did have was the vastly powerful—though still raw and untrained—Mind
around which
it had constructed the rest of the ship. If it could get the Mind to safety, the factory vessel thought it would
have done well. Nevertheless, there
was another reason—the real reason—the dockyard mother didn’t give its warship child a
name; it thought there was something else it lacked:
hope.
The ship left the construction bay of the factory craft with most of its fitting-out still to be done. Accelerating hard,
its course a
fourdimensional spiral through a blizzard of stars where it knew that only danger waited, it powered into hyperspace
on spent engines from an
overhauled craft of one class, watched its birthplace disappear astern with battle-damaged sensors
from a second, and tested outdated
weapon units cannibalized from yet another. Inside its warship body, in narrow, unlit,
unheated, hard-vacuum spaces, constructor drones
struggled to install or complete sensors, displacers, field generators, shield
disruptors, laserfields, plasma chambers, warhead magazines,
maneuvering units, repair systems and the thousands of other
major and minor components required to make a functional warship.
Gradually, as it swept through the vast open reaches between the star systems, the vessel’s internal structure changed, and
it became less
chaotic, more ordered, as the factory drones completed their tasks.
Several tens of hours out on its first journey, while it was testing its track scanner by focusing back along the route it
had taken, the ship
registered a single massive annihilation explosion deep behind it, where the factory craft had been. It
watched the blossoming shell of radiation
expand for a while, then switched the scanner field to dead ahead and pushed yet
more power through its already overloaded engines.
The ship did all it could to avoid combat; it kept well away from the routes enemy craft would probably use; it treated every
hint of any craft
as a confirmed hostile sighting. At the same time, as it zigzagged and ducked and weaved and rose and fell,
it was corkscrewing as fast as it
could, as directly as it dared, down and across the strand of the galactic arm in which
it had been born, heading for the edge of that great
isthmus and the comparatively empty space beyond. On the far side, on
the edge of the next limb, it might find safety.
Just as it arrived at that first border, where the stars rose like a glittering cliff alongside emptiness, it was caught.
A fleet of hostile craft, whose course by chance came close enough to that of the fleeing ship, detected its ragged, noisy
emission shell,
and intercepted it. The ship ran straight into their attack and was overwhelmed. Out-armed, slow, vulnerable,
it knew almost instantly that it had
no chance even of inflicting any damage on the opposing fleet.
So it destroyed itself, detonating the stock of warheads it carried in a sudden release of energy which for a second, in hyperspace
alone,
outshone the yellow dwarf star of a nearby system.
Scattered in a pattern around it, an instant before the ship itself was blown into plasma, most of the thousands of exploding
warheads
formed an outrushing sphere of radiation through which any escape seemed impossible. In the fraction of a second
the entire engagement
lasted, there were at the end some millionths when the battlecomputers of the enemy fleet briefly analyzed
the four-dimensional maze of
expanding radiation and saw that there was one bewilderingly complicated and unlikely way out
of the concentric shells of erupting energies
now opening like the petals of some immense flower between the star systems.
It was not, however, a route the Mind of a small, archaic
warship could plan for, create and follow.
By the time it was noticed that the ship’s Mind had taken exactly that path through its screen of annihilation, it was too
late to stop it from
falling away through hyperspace toward the small, cold planet fourth out from the single yellow sun of
the nearby system.
It was also too late to do anything about the light from the ship’s exploding warheads, which had been arranged in a crude
code, describing
the vessel’s fate and the escaped Mind’s status and position, and legible to anybody catching the unreal
light as it sped through the galaxy.
Perhaps worst of all—and had their design permitted such a thing, those electronic brains
would now have felt dismay—the planet the Mind had
made for through its shield of explosions was not one they could simply
attack, destroy or even land on; it was Schar’s World, near the region of
barren space between two galactic strands called
the Sullen Gulf, and it was one of the forbidden Planets of the Dead.