By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  When Jepp entered the cabin, and left the robots to wait in the passageway, Henry was far from surprised. Even though the human knew the Navcomp was sentient, he had always treated the AI like a machine, and assumed it would remain loyal. And, up till that very moment. Henry had been. Partly because of the programming he’d been equipped with, and partly because he chose to be. Now, with freedom all around, the Navcomp had decided to put its own interests first for a change. Veera was shown to a cabin farther down the passageway and entered without protest. That’s when the Sheen security units assigned themselves to stand guard over both cabins—two per hatch—while heavily armed marines were posted to both ends of the corridor. Tyspin’s way of keeping the machines in check.

  Henry eyed the Hoon controlted robots and wondered if the AI was even aware of him. There was one way to find out. The Navcomp looked from one group of humans to the other, decided they were roughly equidistant, and turned to the right. Henry hadn’t moved more than a few feet when the Hoon made itself known. The message came via low powered intercom. ‘The unit will remain where it is.”

  The command, which should have frozen the previously hijacked body right where it was, had no discernable effect. Henry addressed himself to the marines. They stared straight ahead. “My name is Henry... I am an artificial intelligence held captive by the Sheen As such, I place myself under your protection in keeping with the provisions of the Confederate Charter that covers the rights of synthetic beings.”

  The Hoon didn’t approve of rogue units, had never been willing to tolerate disobedience, and wasn’t about to start now. The AI set one fourth of its addressable assets into motion. A security unit stepped forward, did a leftface, and aimed an arm-mounted energy weapon at Henry’s back. “Stop or I will shoot!”

  The marines couldn’t hear the transmission, but didn’t need to. Actions spoke louder than words. They raised their assault rifles in response.

  Sergeant Musa Moso wasn’t paid to make decisions, not this kind of decision, and radioed for assistance. Half a dozen laser projected red dots appeared on the Hoon controlled machines as Henry rolled toward freedom.

  Jepp was whistling by the time he toweled off, got dressed, and called for Sam. The robot was nowhere to be seen. It was spending more and more time with Veera of late. The little traitor. Jepp examined his image in a small bulkhead-mounted mirror, noticed the need for a haircut, and thought about Tyspin. The idea of spending more time with the naval officer appealed to the exprospector. He headed for the hatch. It opened, and he stepped out into the corridor. The Hoon chose that moment to open fire. Henry “felt” the energy beams punch their way through his alloy back, uttered a plaintive beep, and fell facedown.

  Sergeant Moso formed the word “fire,” and was just about to say it, when Jepp stepped into the passageway. The exprospector watched the energy bolts whip past, saw Henry fail, and threw himself forward. “Stop!” The envoy held his hands in the air. A collection of red dots danced across this chest. Moso didn’t know much, but he knew Jepp was a VIP, and in the line of fire. He bit the word off before it could emerge.

  The Hoon verified that its target was down, processed a sense of correctness, and “felt” the harmless lasers pass through the force field’s corona to caress its metal skin. Weapons were in the process of rising when Jepp reentered the equation.

  The Hoon, gratified by the extent of the human’s loyalty, was hesitant to fire through the biological’s body. The result was a stilllife tableau. And that’s how it looked when Tyspin arrived. With the exception of one of Henry’s drive wheels, which continued to whir, the scene was totally silent. Tyspin took the situation in and nodded to Moso. ‘Thank you. Sergeant, I’ll take it from here . .. Corporal, Private, safe those weapons. Get the casualty to robotics. Perhaps they can save it.”

  The naval officer strode down the corridor, stopped two feet away from Jepp, and placed hands on hips. Her eyes were like lasers. “As for you, Envoy Jepp, how dare you attack a sentient aboard one of my ships!”

  Jepp felt himself wilt in the face of her anger, knew it was a mistake, and drew himself up. The Hoon was watching, the human was conscious of that now, and started to sweat. His voice was tense but controlled. “A couple of things to consider, Admiral... The AI in question is, or was indentured to me under the terms of a standard contract, the body it occupies belongs to the Sheen, and I didn’t fire on anyone. Your marines will attest to that.”

  The naval officer looked at Moso, who nodded. She turned back. “It seems I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. So, who fired ... and why?”

  For one split second, Jepp considered telling Tyspin the unvarnished truth .. . That the Hoon controlled all of the security units, that the AI was extremely arrogant, and that she hadn’t seen anything yet. But there could be a down side to that kind of disclosure, especially if the naval officer decided that it was pointless to negotiate, and broke the whole thing off. There would be no conversation with Nankool, no opportunity to deal, and no galaxy spanning religion. Jepp chose his words with care.

  “It was a mistake that’s all. Henry, that is to say the Navcomp in question, was taken prisoner when I was Our ship was destroyed, so, with nothing else available, he appropriated the body you see before you. I wasn’t here—but I’m guessing that Henry tried to leave—and the Sheen ordered it to stop. He refused, and one of the security units shot him.”

  Tyspin glanced at Moso, who shrugged. “We didn’t hear nothin’ ma’am—but it coulda been that way. You know how machines are—sendin’ stuff back and forth.”

  “So, they shot him?” the admiral demanded. “Real nice. Who is ‘they’ anyway? I though some sort of computer called the shots.”

  “Well, yes,” Jepp replied weakly. “An AI called the

  Hoon controls the fleet. The various units have intelligence of their own, however—which is why I used the word ‘they.’ “

  The answer skirted the truth—but Tyspin was unaware of that. She eyed the security units. They had returned to something approximating parade rest. “Keep those machines under control—or I’ll have them ejected from a lock.”

  Jepp didn’t think the process would be quite so easy, but managed to look chagrined and hoped the Hoon would behave itself. “Of course. I’ll do my best,” he assured her. The naval officer nodded, told Sergeant Moso to carry on, and left the area.

  A crew of four robo techs arrived, lifted Henry onto a self-propelled cart, and led the device away. Henry, who lay flat on its back, was happy to be at least partially functional. Functional and free. Or as free as a machine programmed to equate productivity with happiness could be. The cart took a cum—and Henry went with it.

  Though none too pleased with the human style fittings, the cabin was to Veera’s liking, especially the computer interface. It provided access to the navcomp known as “Screwhead,” and, after a bit of digital cajoling, to “Big Momma” herself.

  Prithians didn’t name their computers, but Veera liked the custom and concluded that, while treacherous, humans could be charming.

  Thraki, on the other hand, kept robots as pets—but didn’t seem to name them. Sam, who had followed the Prithian into her cabin, cluttered happily and scampered across the overhead. Though not entitled to full unrestricted access, the ship’s computers still provided the teenager with what amounted to a digital feast. And she was hungry. How much knowledge did the Confederacy have on the Sheen? What about the Thraki? Where had the long flight started? Veera warbled, and the ship sang in response.

  Chapter 16

  Truth/find/take/use.

  Baa’l Poet StarISearcher

  Year unknown

  Veca IV, Clone Hegemony, Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Like BETA018 and DevoDor, which Booly had visited during the previous month or so, Veca IV

  looked beautiful when viewed from orbit, but was something less than that down on the surface. The planet was hot, dry, and generally miserable. All of which reminded the legionnair
e of Caliente, the planet on which he had been stationed prior to the now famous mutiny. The shuttle shuddered as it passed through a layer of superheated air and continued to lose altitude. The general glanced out the view port at his elbow. The surface of the planet looked like poorly tanned brown leather, wrinkled from hard continuous use, and cracked where tremors, floods, and heat had attacked Veca IV’s skin. Another less than desirable world, which the Hegemony had been only too glad to let the Thraki settle. The aliens weren’t stupid, though, and had limited their presence to about five hundred souls. The colony surrendered without a single shot being fired. The ideal scenario from Booly’s point of view—given the casualties his troops had suffered on BETA018 and DevoDor. Now, against his better judgment, he had agreed to meet with some sort of clone xenoanthropologist, who, according to McGowan, had something important to show him. It had better be, Booly thought grimly, or I’ll leave the major here to rot. It wasn’t true, of course, but the thought made him feel better. Nicole Nogosek101, adjusted the scarf that protected her neck, and shaded her eyes against the sun’s reddish-orange glare. The dry crusty plain released what heat it could, and it shimmered over the land. The aircraft seemed to wink in and out of existence.

  The settlement, which her people had named Solaris, bad been established at the bend of a subsurface river, and was marked by an isolated grove of snapsnap trees. Trapped between the plain on one side of a dry riverbed, and sand dunes on the other, they were the only hint of green for miles around. The clones had come first, followed by the Thraki, and most recently the Legion. The living quarters, as well as the hydroponic gardens, were located under the planet’s surface, but the steel landing platform, along with the heavily insulated corn shack and a clutch of sensors, were elevated fifteen feet off the ground. Safe from the dunes that bordered that side of the settlement, but exposed to the never-ending wind.

  The clone squinted upward as the shuttle circled and prepared to land. What would General Booly be like? she wondered. A martinet? On the model of the Jonathan Alan Seebos she knew? An incompetent?

  Sent to deal with what amounted to military minutiae? Or, as Major McGowan claimed, “the best damned officer in the Legion.” If the translations were accurate, if Nogosek had interpreted them correctly, millions of lives would depend on the answer.

  Repellors flared, grit peppered her face, and the aircraft dropped onto paint stripped metal. A hatch opened, stairs unfolded, and McGowan emerged from the corn shack. She was halfway to the shuttle when an officer appeared in the doorway, waved, and made his way to the deck. He was tall, lanky, and physically graceful. Nogosek saw no sign of an entourage and felt her spirits rise. Whatever else General Booly might eventually turn out to be—an egomaniac wasn’t one of them. The officers greeted each other with a quick embrace, exchanged some words, and turned in the academic’s direction. The pilot killed the repellors—and allowed the engines to wind down. McGowan arrived first. “Dr. Nogosek, I’d like to introduce General Booly.”

  Nogosek smiled and stuck out her hand. “It’s a pleasure, General... Nicole will be fine.”

  Booly took the proffered hand, noticed the firm grip, and smiled in return. “The pleasure is mine, Nicole

  . .. and I go by Bill.” The clone was attractive in an athletic sunburned sort of way. She had sunbleached blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a determined chin.

  Nogosek decided she liked the legionnaire, hoped it didn’t show, and gestured toward the ramp.

  “Thanks for agreeing to come. I suggest that we get out of the sun. The temp will rise another twenty degrees before it starts to cool. We run most of our errands at night when the temp falls into the low seventies.”

  Booly used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. His well starched camos had already started to wilt. “Sounds good—lead the way.”

  Their boots rang on metal as the threesome passed the corn shack, crossed the remainder of the platform, and stepped onto the ramp. Nogosek’s pocket corn burped static, insects buzzed, and metal pinged as it expanded. The wind was warm, too warm to deliver any sort of relief, but the snapsnap trees rustled in response. The community of Solaris baked in me sun. Since the priestess lacked the strength to stand for more than a few units at a time, she had ordered the maintenance bots to lean the bed against the wall. That allowed her to rest yet remain involved with everything that took place within the underground vault.

  The problem was that Bris Torputus was old, very old, so old that she had stopped keeping track some years before and no longer considered the matter to be worthy of her attention. What did merit her attention were the Tomes of Truth, all three of which had been laid on the makeshift table that occupied the center of the room.

  First came the Book of Yesterdays, which described the gods, their powers, and areas of influence. Then came the Book of Nows, a history of sorts, that started with the creation of the great armada and would end when the Thraki did. Finally came the Book of Tomorrows, prophecy mostly, some of which had proven to be eerily accurate. Unlike the first two volumes, which were available to everyone, the Book of Tomorrows was restricted to members of the priesthood who were sworn to secrecy regarding its contents.

  Each volume was a work of art. Rather than rely on transcriptions carried out by others, Torputus did her own translations, many of which were more accurate than those most of the priesthood had come to use. Each page of each tome bore drawings, designs, and marginalia executed by her own hand, and paid for with her failing vision.

  The task, which had been given to Torputus as punishment for an offense she could no longer remember, had grown to consume her every waking moment. Considered to be something of an eccentric, and of little use to the hierarchy, she’d been sent to serve the colonists. The tomes accompanied her. Now, as her days dwindled to a precious few, the priestess could no longer carry out the work herself, but was forced to rely on her carefully programmed form, which, truth be told, had a finer hand than she did, was willing to work around the clock, and never complained. She watched the spider shaped robot dip a brush into some pigment and apply it to a grim visage. Was it the great god Hoonara? Yes, the priestess thought so, but knew her eyes had a tendency to betray her Especially from so far away. The knock came softly—and Torputus knew who it was. Ironically, it was the human who understood her best, who realized the importance of her work, and spent hours at her side. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Come in.”

  The door, which had once been part of a clone cargo container, and still bore the legend, “Rations Ready To Eat,” creaked on makeshift hinges. Nogosek went to the female’s side, located a hand, and held it in her own. She was good at languages and spoke without the aid of a translation device. “I brought a visitor, Sister Torputus—just as I said that I would.”

  “He believed you?”

  “I haven’t told him yet... but I will.”

  “He must come to believe you,” the Thraki whispered urgently, “or many will die.”

  “Yes,” the xenoanthropologist said gently, “I know.”

  Nogosek released the oldster’s hand and turned to Booly. He seemed relaxed, but she could read his thoughts. “Show me something—and make it soon.”

  The academic looked at McGowan who nodded encouragingly. The key. Nogosek thought to herself, is to hook him, and follow with the facts, or, what the facts seemed to be. She motioned toward the table.

  “I came hoping to study Thraki culture. They are polytheistic, which makes religion extremely important. The books are the basis of their religion. One of those volumes, the Book of Tomorrows, contains the following passage: “And our people will settle a new world. Some will call it home, and wish to stay there, while others will point to the stars, and the menace that follows. Beware of those who call them selves friends, for they may attack, or align themselves with the menace. Run if you can, but failing that, call on the twins,”

  Booly wondered if the word “menace” referred to the Sheen. The quote w
as interesting if so—but hardly worth the trip. He glanced at McGowan. She nodded as if to say “Hang in there.” The legionnaire tried to sound interested. “So, who are the twins?”

  “Not who” the academic replied, “but what. Step over to the table, and I’ll show you.”

  The floor was made of compacted dirt and felt slightly uneven. The tomes lay open, and the officer admired a beautifully illuminated page while Nogosek accessed the Book of Tomorrows. She knew what to look for and touched Booly’s arm. “Here, take a look.”

  The officer turned. The text was illegible, to him at least, but the picture was quite riveting. The hand drawn, hand colored illustration was very realistic, and, thanks to the way it had been done, seemed to glow from within. What he saw were two golden cradles. Both had been decorated with beautifully executed scrollwork and rested on the same platform. Of more importance, however, were the bright metal tubes that the structures supported. The cylinders might have functioned as storage tanks, pressure chambers, or something equally mundane. But the soldier in Booly knew what they were. The twins were weapons. Weapons so special, so powerful, they had acquired religious significance. Nogosek saw Booly’s expression and nodded. “That’s correct, General, either one of the twins could destroy an entire fleet.”