The AI War bw-3

  The AI War

  ( Biofab war - 3 )

  Stephen Ames Berry

  Stephen Ames Berry

  The AI War

  1

  The faint chirp roused D'Trelna from a light sleep. Lifting the long-barreled blaster from the night table, he slipped to the side of the door, bare feet silent on the carpeting.

  The chirp sounded again, closer. D'Trelna clicked off the weapon's safety.

  The door hissed open. Someone came into the bedroom, features and clothing indistinguishable in the dark. Moving with feline grace, the figure stole to the bedside, steel glinting dully in its upraised hand.

  The lights flared on. "Drop it!" snapped D'Trelna. He stood blocking the door, a short, fat man in a rumpled red sleep gown, blaster leveled.

  The broad-bladed commando knife fell with a thud to the floor.

  "Turn-slowly."

  The intruder was young and wiry-framed, wearing the black uniform of a Fleet commando, corporal's hashes on his collar. D'Trelna noted the callused palms and wary, balanced stance of a fighter. Calculating gray eyes gauged the distance to D'Trelna. Too far. "How'd ya know?"

  Combine production world, thought D'Trelna. Slum kid, grew up tough. He touched an ear. "If you were a real commando, you'd know-every sound on a starship is self-tagging. A lock on override is like a battle klaxon. You're not crew. Who are you? Who sent you?'"

  A noise from behind sent D'Trelna stepping to one side, half turning to cover both sides of the doorway. As his eyes flickered toward the office, the killer leaped-and died, shot through the heart.

  A second black-uniformed figure, a woman's, lay sprawled on the office floor, knife in her hand, a neat hole in her forehead.

  "Two out of two," said the man facing D'Trelna across the woman's body. He held a Terran pistol pointed at the floor-a blue-chromed Italian automatic capped by a round cast-aluminum silencer.

  "Two what?" said D'Trelna, blaster centered on the man's chest.

  "Assassins, Commodore. These two were for you." Thin and balding, he wore an engineering tech's white jumpsuit.

  "And who are you?"

  "Colonel R'Gal, Fleet Counterintelligence Command. I came in with your replacements last watch. As did those two." He nodded toward the bodies. "Shall we step into your office?"

  R'Gal turned and walked to D'Trelna's big traq-wood desk. Laying down the pistol, he took the commodore's chair, swiveling about to look through the armorglass wall at Terra and the North American continent, eight hundred miles beneath. A low front was moving across the Midwest-a cottony, gray-white mass busily adding another foot of snow to the Great Plains.

  "Nice view," said the colonel, swinging back around. "'There're no windows in the engineering techs' bay."

  "I'll have some put in," said D'Trelna, standing in front of his own desk, and not liking it. "You got an ID, CIC hotshot?"

  R'Gal smiled sarcastically. "A covert agent, carry an ID? Really, Commodore."

  "And the Terran weapon?"

  "Ship's internal security is not programmed to read a gunshot. Had those thugs come for you with pistols, we wouldn't be talking now."

  "Why were they after me?"

  The colonel stared past D'Trelna at the gray bulkhead. "D'Trelna, J'Quel. Officer commanding, Task Force One

  Nine Seven, currently standing off Terra. Born S'Htar. Mother engineer, father merchant. Was himself S'Htarian merchant for a number of years, engaged in independent trade. Served in prewar Fleet as fighter pilot during the A'Ran Action. Awarded the Meritorious Commendation. Offered services during the third year of the S'Cotar War. Appointed captain, commanding the L'Aal-class cruiser Implacable. Figured prominently in discovery and destruction of the main S'Cotar citadel. Promoted commodore. Figured prominently in the discovery and destruction of a S'Cotar fallback point in an alternate universe. Eight battle ribbons, four unit citations, the Valor Medal, with cluster, the Cross of S'Dal, with cluster."

  R'Gal looked at D'Trelna. "You must be as competent as you are fat-they're pretty stingy with the Cross. Cool, too. Murderers come for you in the night, but the only thing you seem upset by is my sitting in your oversized chair.''

  "I'm impressed by the way you killed those two" -D'Trelna jerked his head toward the bedroom-"not by your memory or your manners. And the chair is standard issue," he lied. "Who sent them?"

  The colonel shook his head. "You line officers. You really don't know, do you, D'Trelna? Sit down."

  "I'll stand."

  R'Gal shrugged. "Important people want you out of the way, Commodore. Dead, brainwiped, disgraced-whatever. An order for your arrest is being sent from K'Ronar to Admiral Second S'Gan. The fact that I stopped our fun couple here will only hasten the order."

  D'Trelna sat, bulk perched on the edge of the small office sofa, blaster beside him. "Arrest? On what charge?"

  The intelligence officer shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Suspicion of sabotage, I think. It's political-an excuse to imprison or brain wipe you."

  "Political?"

  "Haven't been home for a long time, have you, D'Trelna?" The commodore shook his head.

  "You and Captain L'Wrona came out of the war as our chief heroes-there's a docudrama based on your exploits running in four quadrants." He smiled, bemused by other's blank look. "You didn't know? Surely someone approached you for the vid rights?"

  "My wife holds full writ on my behalf. She mentioned something about vid rights, but…"

  "You're popular and not an Imperial. Oddly enough, neither is L'Wrona."

  "The margrave's an enlightened aristocrat," said the commodore, smiling faintly.

  "Well, the Imperial party's afraid of you both. You, they want home to brainwipe."

  "Not L'Wrona?"

  "No. As Margrave of U'Tria and Hereditary Lord-Captain of the Guard, he can't run for Council-it's against the Second Covenant. Alone, he's no threat.

  "Historically, no candidate with both the Traders' Guild and the aristocracy behind him has ever failed to take and hold a Council seat. Run with L'Wrona supporting you, D'Trelna, and projection is for enough votes to take the Council Chair."

  D'Trelna stood, face resolute. "I'll submit to arrest and be exonerated."

  "You'll submit to arrest and be brainwiped! The court-martial would be secret, the tribunal paid off. People who send out assassins don't blink at rigging a trial, Commodore."

  "This is insane! I have no political ambitions!" Hearing himself shout, he sat back down. "What do I do?"

  "Leave. Now. Head out on the Trel Expedition, just as you're supposed to. Before that arrest order arrives. S'Gan is a combat officer-order acknowledged and you'll be headed home, shackled, the watch after that order reaches the command ship."

  "But…"

  "You want to spend the rest of your life drooling in front of a vid screen, D'Trelna? Then just sit on your cheeks and wait.''

  Both men stood.

  "Why is CIC intervening?" asked the commodore.

  "Because if they arrest you, they'll scrub the Trel Expedition. We don't want that-Pocsym's warning must be investigated."

  D'Trelna made up his mind. "We'll jump at firstwatch."

  R'Gal shook his head. "Leave now."

  "Very well. And you?"

  The colonel slipped the pistol into his jumpsuit. "I'll be around-I have my work… Get this ship underway."

  Implacable's bridge was quiet. Thirdwatch-the starship's equivalent of nightshift-was ending. The first officer looked up as the armored doors opened. "Good morning, sir," he said, relinquishing the conn.

  "Morning, T'Lei," said L'Wrona, taking the captain's chair. "Are we ready?"

  "We're ready." K'Raoda stretched. "The last of the supplies are on board, and S'Gan's finally sent over t
he rest of our replacements."

  "About time." L'Wrona scanned the ship's status report. "Anything from the admiral?"

  "Leaving us alone for now."

  Both looked up at the main screen. Five long, gray ships hung above Terra-resurrected Imperial cruisers, bristling with weapons batteries and instrument pods.

  "The less I see of that cheery face…" said K'Raoda.

  The doors hissed open again. D'Trelna came onto the bridge, a tired-looking man in a wrinkled, brown duty uniform and holstered blaster.

  "Morning, J'Quel," said L'Wrona, turning toward D'Trelna.

  The commoddre nodded absently, standing beside the captain's station, eyes on the screen. "H'Nar," he said quietly, "an order's being issued for my arrest. S'Gan will be directed to execute it."

  The captain frowned, adjusting the resolution on a telltale. "The Imperial party?"

  "Does everyone know this but me?"

  "You're not for them, J'Quel, therefore you're against them. You could be a grave threat to them if you ran for Council."

  "You're out of your mind, H'Nar."

  "Am I?" The captain stood. He was a sharp contrast to the older officer: tall, thin, with aquiline features, his uniform impeccably cut, silver inlaid blaster grips protruding from the gleaming v'arx leather holster.

  "Those slime profited from the war-they and their friends in the industrial combines. And now they're profiting from the cleanup. Billions dead, millions brainwiped, scores of planets in ruins. The restoration contracts will run for years. And this talk of keeping Fleet at wartime strength, 'reclaiming' the old Imperial quadrants. Inspired by greed, all of it."

  "Greed and glory lust," said D'Trelna. "Here's something you don't know, H'Nar." Quickly, he told L'Wrona about the assassination team and R'Gal. The captain showed surprise only at R'Gal's name.

  "You know what R'Gal is, J'Quel?"

  The commodore shook his head.

  "He's a Watcher."

  D'Trelna's eyes widened. "A Watcher? A S'Cotar hunter on this ship? Gods of my fathers."

  "Admiral S'Gan for the commodore," said the comm officer, K'Lana.

  D'Trelna smiled tightly. "Perhaps it's about the supply requisitions.

  "Put it on the board, K'Lana. You should all hear this."

  The five cruisers vanished from the main screen. A woman looked out at them, her graying hair tied back in a severe bun, the golden triangle of an admiral second on her collar. Watchful green eyes scanned Implacable''s bridge. S'Gan sat at a traq-wood desk identical to D'Trelna's, backdropped by a slab of armorglass and a view of Terra's moon. Her gaze settled on the commodore. "J'Quel," she said.

  "Admiral." He nodded, sweaty hand gripping the leather back of the empty command chair.

  "Important people want your ass in the brig, Commodore," she said, raising a steaming cup of fata to her lips, sipping.

  "Really?"

  "You don't seem very surprised."

  "I had some warning."

  She shrugged. "No matter. This"-she held a pink commsheet disdainfully between thumb and forefinger- "has the wrong sign-off. Fleet Security can only issue orders of arrest over the signature of a FleetOps flag officer. This bears the signature of a Councilman and is thus not a lawful order." The paper fluttered to the desk top.

  "I've requested clarification, D'Trelna. It'll take a while, going deferred priority. Meantime, I've received orders to reinforce Commodore A'Wal. The corsair K'Tran's base has been located. I'm leaving one ship on station off Terra. The rest of us are joining the blaster party."

  D'Trelna and L'Wrona exchanged glances. "May we join the fun, Admiral?" said D'Trelna. "We owe K'Tran."

  "No." She put her cup down. "The instant I receive that corrected order, I'm sending a shuttle for you. Head out on your mission-now."

  "Thank you, Admiral."

  She crumpled the cup, tossing it off scan. "Don't thank me, D'Trelna. Just do your job-find out if there's anything to this Trel thing. I'll deliver your compliments to K'Tran." Something tugged at her lips-it might have been a smile. "Will a Mark Eighty-eight fusion salvo do?"

  "It will," said the commodore. "Luck. You're going to need it, out there in the Blue Nine."

  "Luck to you, too," said D'Trelna as the view of space and S'Gan's flotilla returned to the screen.

  L'Wrona turned to his first officer. "Make for jump point at flank, T'Lei. You have the Trel coordinates plotted?"

  "Jump plotted and set, Captain." said the young commander.

  "K'Lana, all-band communications silence till after we jump."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mission briefing, J'Quel?" asked L'Wrona.

  The commodore shook his head. "Not until after the last jump." He turned for the door. "Let's keep the good news to ourselves for a few weeks, H'Nar."

  "Where will you be?"

  "Seeing to the cleaning of my quarters. Have medical send a casualty team there."

  The gray doors hissed shut behind him.

  "Make for jump point. Commander K'Raoda," ordered L'Wrona. taking the command chair. "Shield to battleforce. Flank speed."

  K'Raoda touched a key. Far amidships and deeply armored, the computer responded, executing the first of a series of mission commands. "Making for jump point at flank, sir," said the first officer.

  Surrounded by the faint blue shimmer of her shield, Implacable slipped out of Earth orbit.

  "Blue Nine?" said T'Ral as the captain spoke to K'Lana.

  "They haven't gone shipwide with that." said K'Raoda dryly, watching the jump approach figures thread across a telltale.

  "When do they tell us?"

  "Briefing, I imagine. By which time everyone will know." He nodded at the main screen. "Want to say good-bye to Terra. Y'Gal?"

  ''We almost got killed there half a hundred times, T'Lei." He looked up as S'Gan's flotilla vanished and Terra shrank to just another small light. "It was wild, wasn't it?" he smiled.

  "Sure was. Will we ever see it again?"

  T'Ral returned to his chores. "You know what they used to say, when a man died on Fleet duty?" said K'Raoda, returning to his instruments.

  K'Raoda watched the light disappear, then looked at T'Ral. " 'Shipped into Blue Nine,' " he said quietly.

  Neither said anything until they reached jump point.

  Stephen Ames Berry

  The AI War

  2

  "There are other contractors in this quadrant with your skills, K'Tran," said B'Rol with a smile, setting down his drink. The hard blue points of his eyes belied the laugh lines crinkling them. To the uninitiated, B'Rol was just another restaurant owner-a jovial man, grown round on his own rich food and the easier times since the war's end.

  K'Tran knew what lay beneath that facade: a man as hard and as cold as himself. "There aren't any in this quadrant with the resources your client needs," he said. "If you think you can do better-luck." He started to rise.

  A surprisingly strong hand gripped his arm, pulling him back to his seat. "Let's not be hasty, Captain. Another drink?"

  "It's your liquor."

  Catching the server's eyes, B'Rol held up two fingers.

  There were three restaurants worthy of the name in S'Tak. B'Rol's was atop the Bureau of Agriculture building and boasted a view of S'Takport. Sitting at the bar, the two watched as an agro freighter came gliding in on silent n-gravs, two miles of oblong black hull against a perfect blue sky.

  "It's just that since you failed your last mission," said B'Rol as the drinks came, "my client's uneasy about employing you again."

  "A fluke." KTran sipped his drink-a tart, yellow wine from the southern hills of STak. "If my ex-commander's brother hadn't been aboard Implacable, the mission would have succeeded." He glanced approvingly at himself in the bar glass-a wiry, light-complexioned man with thinning hair and the casual, well-cut clothes of a prosperous merchant.

  "Yes. But he was aboard. And it did fail." B'Rol held up a hand as KTran started to protest. "Because of your prior efforts o
n his behalf, my client is willing to forget that fiasco."

  "Generous. What does he want?"

  "As usual, I wasn't told." Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small white cylinder and handed it to KTran. "It's all in there. Mission and delivery specs. Same terms as the last venture-less my client's deposit on that debacle, of course."

  "Of course." KTran slipped the commwand into his shirt pocket. "We won't be seeing each other again."

  "Just as well," said B'Rol as fresh drinks arrived. "Fleet wants you dead, and I don't want ta be in the same system "with cruisers shooting it out. Rumor has it they pulled four task groups out of relief and recovery to hunt you down."

  KTran sipped his wine, watching the freighter. "Six task groups. Four in this quadrant alone. Flattering, but unwanted attention. We'll lift ship for a new base port as soon as my business with you is finished."

  "I'll drink to that," said the drugger.

  KTran lifted his glass. "Your health, B'Rol. I don't suppose your client's available for questions, once I've read this?'' He tapped the pocket holding the commwand.

  B'Rol shook his head. "That came to me circuitously, like the rest. I've no idea who the client is-though I'm sure if I found out I wouldn't live to tell." He smiled, shaking his head. "Almost, I'm sorry to see you go, K'Tran. It's brought in some nice side money-my personal account always swelled the day after you lifted." Setting down his drink, he frowned, staring at the agro freighter. "Odd."

  "What?" said the corsair, following his gaze. The ship had landed, but without any of the usual port bustle. It sat alone, port center, locks closed, dwarfing the port buildings and government towers-a ship big enough to feed a world.

  "Any freighter pulling into S'Takport, Captain, has about ten other ports to reach as fast as possible. We're a designated provision planet. What we don't eat is sent to the liberated planets-fast. Freighters come in, off-load, on-load and upship. One, two, three. Millions are starving. Time is life."

  "So?"

  B'Rol looked at the corsair. "So, why is that ship just sitting out there, not locked into the docks, no haulers approaching?"