The AI War bw-3 Page 21

  "What is this plan?" said D'Trelna.

  R'Gal looked at him. "I'll help provide a substitute vessel for the trip through the portal-one that will stand a chance."

  "What sort of a ship?" said D'Trelna. "Not a ship," said R'Gal. "An AI battleglobe. Gentlemen, I propose we capture a battleglobe."

  "So it seems."

  Stephen Ames Berry

  The AI War

  20

  The vanguard was a small force, only sixty-two battle-globes, commanded by Admiral Binor aboard Devastator. They'd penetrated the great swirling eye of the Rift, regrouped, and moved toward the D'Linian system, every ship on full alert.

  The distress call had come halfway to their destination- garbled, explosions audible in the background. Advance units sent to meet the Combine ships were under attack, by… Then nothing.

  Urgent messages to Combine T'Lan headquarters had gone unacknowledged.

  Shields at max, commlinks feeding all scans back through the Rift, the task force had swept into the D'Linian system.

  Only one unknown vessel came up to tacscan-a single ship, circling D'Lin.

  "Identification made," said the ship's captain. "It's the vessel the Combine outfitted for brain storage.''

  "And the other ships, the Combine's and ours?" asked Admiral Binor.

  "Scanning debris, fusion discharges and recent ion trails," reported the captain. "There was a large battle in this system, very recently."

  "Which we lost."

  "Hail the brain ship." said Binor. "We have. No response."

  Disabuse yourselves, R'Gal had said, of your piquant notions of machines-as-life.

  The AI admiral sat at his station, staring at the viewscreen closeup of the ship orbiting D'Lin. In Terran terms he seemed to be about sixty, with silver gray hair and a tanned, sharp-chiseled face. Radiation-sensitive skin was a cosmetic luxury, an enduring fashion inspired by the natural changes observed in human skin.

  "Anything else?" asked the admiral, turning to the captain.

  The flagship's captain was a purist, one of the growing number of fundamentalists who disdained the blatant copying of human form and convention that went with command caste status. He hovered before the admiral, a translucent blue ball a meter in diameter, rippling blue energies dimly perceivable through his skin. A few centuries ago an officer of his rank would have exchanged the tidy blue globe for a human-looking body and its riot of tactile sensations.

  "Spacejunk-lots of it," said the captain. "Probably from the asteroid belt we passed. The screens will process it."

  "Scan the brain ship and then bring it aboard, very carefully."

  "At once, sir," said the captain, returning to his station.

  The admiral walked to the railing and stood looking down on Operations. A mixed group of blue globes and human-adapted AIs manned the battleglobe's heart, directing the operations of the immense ship from half a hundred consoles. The rest of the battleglobe was attended only by repair droids, security blades, gun crews and a few technicians. Mostly automated, the great ship was a testimonial to the genius of AI engineering.

  Binor's gaze traveled out the sweep of armorglass girdling Operations. As far as the eye could see stretched weapons batteries, sensor nodules, shield transponders, and, almost at the horizon, a black needle, twin to the Operations tower where Binor stood: flight control. Devastator carried craft the size of Implacable, designed to sweep into hostile planets under the fire of the mother ship, land and seize control. The invasion craft were berthed miles below, nestled in their battlesteel cocoons, awaiting their time. Not long now, thought Binor. Await the Fleet, install the cyberpaks-brains-in the damaged ships, then move on in strength.

  "Admiral."

  The captain was back.

  "We have the ship in tow-scan shows no fusion weapons on board. We're tractoring it to Hold Seventeen for inspection."

  The admiral nodded. "Security units and cybertechs to meet me at Hold Seventeen. All ships to maintain present position off D'Lin."

  The ship lurched again as the tractors let go. Cursing, John stumbled in the dark, shoulder slamming off a bulkhead.

  "They're trying to bruise us to death," whispered John.

  "Quiet!" hissed L'Wrona from somewhere in the darkness. "They're coming."

  Go for it, R'Gal, thought John as the big cargo locks swung open and light poured in. Squinting in the sudden glare, he could see the vast expanse of gray-white deck beyond the door, with cargo hoists and other machinery clustered nearby. Then three blades appeared in the doorway, red sensors scanning the hold.

  R'Gal stood. He was wearing a black uniform, the insignia of the Fleet of the One on his shoulder: a pyramid with three blue eyes, one at each corner of the triangle.

  "Kanto," he said. "Commander of this ship and the only survivor." Kanto had commanded the ship until the Components boarded and killed him.

  Three red eyes had locked onto him when he stood.

  Two of those eyes resumed scanning while the center machine focused on R'Gal. "Don't scan here," ordered R'Gal. "You'll disturb the brainpods." The blades stopped scanning.

  "Follow us," said the center blade. John started at the voice-it was female. Then the blades and R'Gal were gone, leaving the doors open.

  "Wait for my signal," said L'Wrona, slipping to the doorway to watch R'Gal and the reception party.

  "Captain Kanto," said the blade, hovering attentively.

  R'Gal saluted the admiral. Binor ignored it. "What happened?" he said, then stopped, frowning. "Have we met before, Captain?"

  The two stood in the cargo hold, the admiral surrounded by fifty gleaming blades and some dusky-red spherical cybertechs, R'Gal backdropped by the Combine cruiser- two miles of battlesteel and instrument pods, dwarfed by the gray immensity of Hold Seventeen.

  R'Gal shook his head. "No, sir. We've never met," he lied, gauging the strength of Binor's escort and the distance to the nearest cover. Too many, too far, he decided.

  "We were attacked by a ship of unknown origin and design," he said.

  "A single ship defeated the Combine forces and three battleglobes?" said Binor, incredulous.

  "Yes, Admiral."

  "Tell me about it on the way to Operations," said Binor. He turned to the cybertechs. "Inspect the cargo and begin unloading."

  "Anything?" said D'Trelna, stepping over the tangle of power lines that snaked across the bridge. "Nothing," said K'Raoda.

  Implacable's bridge swarmed with engineering techs. Welding torches arced blue all around as repairs entered their fourth, frenetic watch. The air stank of scorched metal and sweat, the underpowered scrubbers falling farther and farther behind.

  "Remember," said the commodore, touching K'Raoda's shoulder, "the go signal only on my order."

  "Understood, sir."

  The cruiser lay hidden on one of D'Lin's three airless moons, nestled among the ruins of an Imperial fleetbase, a remote sensor comm bundled in low orbit overhead, transmitting in random, high speed bursts.

  Outside, on the pickup, the commodore could see what was left of the old base: shattered towers, gutted defense batteries, the skeleton of a wrecked transport, its duralloy ribs shining in the sunlight like the bones of some beached behemoth. Little erased by time, missile craters and fusion furrows were spread across the base like a pox.

  The Fall? wondered D'Trelna. Or before, from R'Gal and the R'Actolians? No matter now.

  Looking back at the tacscan, he ran a sleeve across his sweating brow. I must be crazy, he thought: a corsair-listed officer, commanding a crippled cruiser, in league with a flotilla manned by disembodied brains, transmutes and AIs, out to beat the vanguard of man's ancient foe.

  "Assault initiated," said K'Raoda, pointing at a winking red telltale.

  "Advise assault boats and fighters to stand by. And alert K'Tran."

  Gods! thought D'Trelna as the orders went out-if we pull this off!

  It was over in seconds: L'Wrona waited until all eight cybertechs had dr
ifted in, then took out the first three, each well-placed blot exploding a sphere with a sharp crack. Other blasters joined in, reducing the cybertechs to flaming scrap.

  The captain slipped through the wreckage to the doorway, looked carefully about, then motioned to the others.

  They ran down the big cargo ramp, a score of blackuniformed commandos and two Terrans, following L'Wrona toward the distant spire of an n-grav lift.

  "All security units will escort the flagship commander and me to Operations," R'Gal had said. "You'll have that long to make it to the n-grav lift. You won't meet the blades coming back-they transport through security shafts that web the ship. The lift's for cargo and those like myself who don't fly."

  Almost a mile, thought John, lungs bursting, as he reached the lift.

  Breathing lightly, S'Til arrived and slapped him on the shoulder. "You should have jogged deck four with me at firstwatch."

  "Eight miles?" he panted, leaning against the lift shaft. "I'd rather die." He straightened up, looking at L'Wrona. Christ, he thought, the bastard's not even sweating.

  The captain was looking up, eyes following the lift shaft. An apparently endless cylindrical tower of black armorglass, it soared beyond sight toward the hold's ceiling.

  "How high is it? Two, three miles?" wondered John, craning his neck.

  "Let's find out," said L'Wrona, pressing a button. Thick double doors trundled open, exposing a well-lit interior the size of a shuttle craft.

  "Everyone in," said the captain.

  Somewhere behind them a siren began to wail. L'Wrona triggered the doors shut, pressed the buttons R'Gal had told him to press, and prayed.

  With a sudden whine of power, the lift began moving, accelerating into the battleglobe's upper regions.

  "Sit," said Binor, indicating a chair.

  R'Gal sat. The admiral's office was behind a glass wall overlooking Operations.

  "The ship you describe, Captain Kanto," said Binor, sitting on the edge of his desk, looking down at R'Gal, "shows up in Archives as a symbiotechnic dreadnought-a cybernetic monstrosity of this reality, evidently conceived during the humans' Imperial period. It's probably the only thing they've ever built that could engage one of our battleglobes on an equal basis. But"-he leaned closer-"they were all dismantled or destroyed, thousands of years ago. Were you attacked by a ghost ship, Captain?"

  "Admiral," said R'Gal, "it was real-it swept in with no sensor warning, opened up, took out the three battle-globes, then chased our Combine escort vessels away. My crew took to the lifepods, hoping to escape before that ship returned. They didn't make it."

  "So you hid in the cargo hold?" said Binor.

  R'Gal shrugged. "I couldn't run the ship by myself. I was going to destroy the cargo if they boarded-but they didn't. Then your ships-"

  Binor held up a hand, then reached over to answer a privacy-shielded call.

  I know what that is, thought R'Gal, gauging again the distance to the door, the placement of security blades around Operations. They've just run Kanto's security profile against my own. Surprise.

  The admiral turned back, nodding. "Of course," he said slowly. "Stupid of me not to remember. R'Gal, isn't it? You were Director of Labor Exploitation in one of the Vintan sectors-led your whole sector in the Revolt. I took Flotilla Thirty-eight in against you-you broke us, you, your humans-and those others. And now?" His eyes were shading over into red, fusion bolts barely held in check.

  "We're taking your ship," said R'Gal, "and your rotten empire." He fired an instant ahead of the admiral, striking centerpoint on the other's forehead.

  His aim distorted, Binor's bolts struck R'Gal's chest and were dissipated by his shield. R'Gal fired three more times, the third salvo bursting through the admiral's forehead, destroying the intricate crystalline web of his brain.

  Binor tumbled to the deck, the shattered ruin of his skull still smoking as R'Gal leaped through the window, landing on the Operations floor in a shower of glass. A blur of motion, he made for armored doors now opening for the next watch.

  Blaster bolts ripping after him, R'Gal tore through the scattering crew. Firing from eyes and hands, his body glowing red from the return fire, he seemed the embodiment of destruction, an elemental force knifing through the universe.

  It was over in seconds, R'Gal gone, the corridor littered with lesser AIs, alarms ringing, blades flashing from the bridge in pursuit.

  The Operations tower was too distant, too well protected to feel the explosions, but the sensors flashed their warning. In an instant the lesser alarms were superseded by the wail of the general quarters. Their dead forgotten, the Operations crew went to battle stations as Devastator came under attack.

  The assault boat was crowded, packed with D'Linian troopers, a sprinkling of K'Ronarin crew and commandos, and one Terran.

  "I feel like a game bird, trussed up after the hunt," grumbled L'Kor, trying to adjust the cinching on his safety webbing.

  "Here," said Zahava, reaching over, tugging on his shoulder straps. Like the rest, she was strapped into the duraplast webbing that hung from the boat's ceiling, swinging gently in the zero gravity, facing the gray battlesteel of the bulkhead. "Better?" she asked, finishing.

  The major nodded. "Thanks." He glanced to their right and the closed door of the pilot's cabin. "Are we just going to hang here forever?"

  "The worst part of war," she said.

  "What is?" said the D'Linian.

  "Waiting," said Zahava. "Old saying."

  D'Trelna had set down on the exarch's lawn at high noon, the sun gleaming on the shuttle's silver skin. Wearing his best uniform, medals and boots shining, he'd met the surprised D'Linians halfway between Residence and shuttle. L'Kor was followed by twenty or so soldiers and civilians, all silent, watching D'Trelna. "Major," said the commodore, "the AIs are returning in strength. We need your help."

  "You can stop them?" asked the soldier.

  "We're going to try. Are you with us?"

  "Tell me, does this thing work?" It was Lieutenant S'Lat. She hung to Zahava's right, pinching the thin silver fabric of her warsuit. "It isn't just a totem to lift the natives' morale?"

  "It works," said the Terran. "It's saved us before, and will again. Just remember not to expose it to multiple weapons fire, or it'll fail."

  "Tell that to the AIs," said S'Lat, checking her blastrifle.

  D'Trelna had waited until Zahava was alone, ambushing her as she was working out in a rec area. "I have a great opportunity for you," he said as she chinned herself on a pair of ceiling-hung rings.

  "What?" she grunted, trying for three more.

  "A chance to be with our D'Linian friends again. Especially after you so distinguished yourself on…"

  Zahava dropped lightly to the padded floor. "Level, Commodore," she said, picking up her towel and wiping the sweat from her face and neck.

  D'Trelna shrugged. "Fine. I'm out of field commanders. L'Wrona, S'Til and John are going with the infiltration unit. K'Raoda could handle it, but I need him here. Someone"-he studied the ceiling-"has to lead the direct assault against the battleglobe's Operations tower."

  "Otherwise?" she said, holding the towel around her neck.

  "Debacle. The D'Linians are competent soldiers, but they've never stormed a spacecraft before, never gone up against aliens in their home environment before." He jabbed a thick finger at her. "You have. And you're good at it-you think on your feet and you put the mission first."

  She thought about it for a second, then nodded. "Okay, but…"

  "Yes?"

  "The infiltration group pulls out first, don't they?" D'Trelna nodded. "That's the plan."

  "Good. Don't tell John."

  "But…"

  She shook her head firmly. "No. He's overprotective- he'd only make these next few watches unpleasant for all of us. And besides, knowing I was in danger would only lessen his effectiveness."

  The commodore nodded. "Whatever you want."

  A gong chimed three times. "As
sault commencing," said the pilot's voice over speakers and commnet.

  "Helmets on," called Zahava, unsnapping her own helmet from the closure in front of her. It was a clear glass bubblehelm, nothing unusual-except that it stopped fusion bolts. As she twisted it on, hearing it click into place, the assault boat's n-gravs whined higher, leading eight similar ships toward the AI battleglobe.

  As they moved out, Zahava said a silent prayer for all of them.

  "All boats away, Commodore," said K'Raoda.

  D'Trelna nodded absently, watching the tacscan. Thirty-four of the battleglobes had encountered the mindslavers' version of the Mangier mine. They were overlayed with red on the tacscan. The rest, overlayed with blue, remained untouched.

  "Shield power down an average of forty-eight point seven percent on affected battleglobes, Commodore," reported K'Raoda from the tactics station.

  "And the globe that seized the brainship?" said D'Trelna, seeking to confirm what the tacscan said.

  "Shield power down forty-two percent."

  "Where the hell is K'Tran?" said D'Trelna, rising to pace behind the first officer's station.

  "Here they come," said K'Raoda, pointing to a series of telltales. "Usual weird sensor scan-almost no warning."

  "Mindslavers launching missiles, and exchanging fusion salvos with battleglobes. Units breaking up into individual combat," reported K'Raoda.

  The tacscan danced with light as the ships maneuvered for advantage, beams and missiles flashing between them.

  D'Trelna's commlink came on. It was N'Trol. "Want some bad news?" said the engineer.

  D'Trelna scowled. "Does it regard the safety of the ship or the present engagement?"

  "No."

  "No," said D'Trelna, thumbing off the commlink.

  "Wouldn't you like to be on the AI flagship's bridge right about now, Mr. K'Raoda?" said the commodore, watching the tacscan.

  "No sir, not at all."

  Stephen Ames Berry

  The AI War

  21