A.I. Assault (The A.I. Series Book 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  The two days ended with Benz telling Justinian or his interrogators everything. He repeated the Antarctica story. He left nothing out. He didn’t want to face more pain. Benz told Justinian about Vela Shaw. He hoped she managed to go to ground before GSB agents tracked her down.

  Finally, after a hot shower, clean clothes and some food, with several bandages where his fingernails used to be, Benz limped into an audience room. Two big guards flanked him, huge men with small heads and brutal smiles. They brought him to Justinian. The Premier sat behind a desk, signing paper after paper from a large stack. As soon as the pen flourish ended, Justinian flipped each newly signed paper onto a growing pile.

  The two guards and Benz waited silently.

  Finally, Justinian looked up. A crafty smile twisted his features. “Hold his arms,” he said.

  Thick fingers dug into Benz’s flesh. The brutes held him immobile.

  “Do you know what I’m doing, Benz?”

  “No,” the former Inspector General said softly.

  The smile widened. “I have long suspected these people.” He patted both piles of papers. Those he’d signed and those he was going to sign. “Do you know what these are?”

  Benz shook his head.

  “Death warrants,” the Premier said. “I am signing them myself. And do you know why?”

  Again, Benz shook his head.

  “Because of their personal treachery,” Justinian said. “They had my trust. They used my trust to help you engineer my assassination. I’m amazed at how you managed to turn them without my noticing. Now I see it was through the fantastic mind-machine that gave you inhuman cunning. I now believe your claim that you used the machine on them. You sealed their tongues, just as your great uncle sealed the tongues of his colleagues. When confronted with their treachery, your co-conspirators all claimed innocence. All refused to tell me the truth. This machine of yours is most effective, most effective. Do you know what happens next, Benz?”

  The former Inspector General looked down at the carpet.

  “Look at me,” Justinian snapped.

  Benz did.

  “I am going to test your fabled machine. If it works, I will use it on myself. I will elevate my intelligence to great heights. Afterward, I will devise the perfect plans. For all your vaunted intelligence, you failed. You failed because you didn’t understand the human heart. You didn’t understand how torture could break the strongest man. You needed help to get to me. All those who aided you have paid with or will pay with their lives. I am going to crush this rebellion forever.”

  The Premier leaned forward. “I’m going to keep you alive a little longer, Benz. I may need assistance with this marvelous alien machine your uncle built. But once I’ve attained greater brilliance, then I’m going to devise unique tortures that slowly and most painfully put you to death.

  ***

  The rest of the day passed in air travel. To Benz, it seemed to take forever. An armada of armored air-vans flew to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado Sector. They landed beside the mine entrance.

  Big guards dragged Benz from his van.

  The sunlight hurt his eyes, causing him to squint.

  A new team of GSB officers conferred with the Premier. The former officers holding the same positions had already died. These men and women listened to the Premier attentively. Afterward, they studied Benz with calculation.

  Soon, the party started into the mine.

  No one asked Benz for directions. He’d given those during the interrogations. In time, they reached the rocky outcropping beside the timber shoring up the ancient tunnel.

  A lanky man—the new Chief Arbiter—did the honors. The way opened.

  The heavily armored assembly moved in as a unit. Benz dragged his left foot. It had been badly strained during the tortures. Justinian moved with a new lightness of step.

  It occurred to Benz that Justinian hadn’t known what to do with the spontaneous riots. Benz could have told the Premier. Justinian ruled with too much iron and not enough velvet hiding the metal fist. The Premier put too much trust in his secret police and not enough in the propaganda organs that molded people’s thinking toward the right channels.

  In any case, after a twisted journey through several hatches, the party reached the fabled door. The combination worked. Everyone entered, and lights soon glowed in the chamber.

  “There?” Justinian asked Benz.

  The former Inspector General nodded. The Premier pointed at the dentist-like chair with the metal dome suspended above it.

  The Premier snapped his fingers. Technicians went to the controls. They turned on the machine, following in exacting detail the procedures Benz had given them.

  “Before we begin,” Justinian said. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Benz seemed dumbfounded.

  “I’m not going first,” the Premier said. “I realize you could have set the machine to hurt me. I have a volunteer going first. Only once I see that the machine grants superior intelligence will I go.”

  “I spoke truly,” Benz said in a hoarse voice. “Please, no more torture.”

  Justinian smiled cruelly. “Par Tomas,” he called.

  A compact man with a bullet-shaped head wearing a black uniform stepped up. He was the police prefect for all of South America.

  “To the machine with you,” Justinian said.

  Par Tomas eyed the machine dubiously. He licked his lips nervously.

  “Must I remind you, Prefect…?” Justinian asked.

  Par Tomas squared his bull-like shoulders and marched to the machine. He sat in the special chair and stared upward as two techs pulled the metal dome over his head. One of them whispered to Tomas. He grunted from under the dome.

  The great machines beside the chair began to issue strange humming sounds. The metal dome soon glowed as if with heat.

  Par Tomas clutched the armrests. His arms shook, but he refused to release his grip. He groaned. He twisted in the chair. He began to shout in pain, shaking uncontrollably.

  “Well, well, well,” Justinian said. He glanced sidelong at Benz. “It seems you did lie, hmmm.”

  “No,” Benz said. “Please, you must believe me. This is how it’s supposed to be.”

  Justinian snorted. But when a tech asked if he should stop, Justinian shook his head.

  Finally, the process ended. Techs rushed to the chair. They lifted the helmet.

  Par Tomas sat stiffly in the chair with his eyes screwed shut. Slowly, he began to relax. Then, he yawned before finally opening his eyes.

  “Do you understand me?” Justinian asked.

  Everyone watched avidly.

  “I do,” Par Tomas said in a heavy voice.

  “Stand, sir,” Justinian said.

  Tomas stood easily. At that point, he turned sharply toward Justinian.

  “What is it?” the Premier asked.

  Tomas opened his mouth. He closed it even faster.

  “Do you feel more intelligent?” Justinian asked in a silky voice.

  “No,” Tomas said, maybe a trifle too quickly.

  Justinian laughed as if with delight. “What did you almost say?”

  Par Tomas’s shoulders deflated. He shook his head. “I realize you’re going to kill me. It is self-evident.”

  “Amazing,” Justinian said. “You are one of the worst dullards I know. Yet now, you see, you understand and you speak with greater learnedness.” The Premier laughed and made a peculiar motion.

  Two guards stepped up, firing their guns at Par Tomas. The newly created genius crumbled into a bloody heap.

  “There can be only one,” Justinian said. “Remove him.”

  Guards hurried to obey.

  After the body was dragged away, Justinian approached the dentist-like chair. He turned suddenly, glancing at Benz.

  “There is a risk in doing this,” Benz warned.

  “Tsk, tsk,” Justinian said. “Nice try, but it’s not going to work on me.”

  The
Premier climbed into the chair, settling himself. He told the techs to get on with it.

  The same two advanced, pulled down the metal dome and wished the Premier luck.

  Justinian said nothing.

  The techs turned on the great machines and the process started as before. Soon, the dome glowed once more.

  Justinian grunted painfully. His hands clasped the armrests, and his lean body began to shake. The glowing seemed stronger this time. The machine hummed longer and louder. Justinian made croaking noises as if trying to belch. His body shook violently.

  “Is he well?” the chief tech demanded of Benz.

  “No,” Benz said. “He is dying.”

  The chief tech stared at Benz wide-eyed. “Are you mad? Tell me the truth.”

  “The reign of J.P. Justinian has just ended,” Benz said. “You people are going to have to decide who rules next.”

  Two of the new officers, the Chief Arbiter among them, hurried to Benz.

  “If you’re lying…” the Chief Arbiter warned.

  “I planned for this moment,” Benz said.

  “Impossible.”

  “Why is that?” asked Benz.

  The Chief Arbiter made a vague gesture. He glanced at Justinian under the glowing dome. The Premier sat rigidly as if doing a planking trick. None of this resembled Par Tomas’s experience.

  “Justinian went second,” the Chief Arbiter said. “You couldn’t have known he would go second.”

  “Why couldn’t I?” Benz asked in a tired voice.

  “But the tortures you underwent.”

  “Yes,” Benz said flatly. “That was the hardest choice to make.”

  “You must know we’re going to kill you,” the Chief Arbiter said.

  “The former Chief Arbiter certainly would have,” Benz agreed. “That’s why I supposedly broke under torture and informed on him and his allies. I wanted them and others out of the way so you and those around you could take over the GSB.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The former Chief Arbiter and his allies were innocent of the charges I placed on them. He was a brutal tyrant just the same. All the people I denounced under torture were hard-core Justinian supporters. You newer people are not. You people are known pragmatists.”

  “That’s a lie,” the Chief Arbiter said, loudly, perhaps for the guards’ benefit.

  “You know it’s the truth.”

  A great groan and a shout tore from Justinian’s throat. At that moment, the machine exploded upward, and fire enveloped J.P. Justinian, enveloping the chamber in a nauseating stench.

  The party retreated, the Chief Arbiter pulling Benz with him.

  The guards watched in dismay.

  “The Premier is dead,” the Chief Arbiter said as he stared at Benz. “The intelligence machine is destroyed. The state is in turmoil. There is rebellion in the planetary systems, and alien AIs will threaten the human race sooner or later.”

  “That’s another reason I wanted you to be Chief Arbiter,” Benz said. “I know you realize what the cyberships represent to humanity.”

  “I cannot believe what you’re claiming.”

  “Social Dynamism needs a strong, sure hand,” Benz said. “It needs someone to fix impossible problems.”

  “You?” the Chief Arbiter asked.

  “You saw what I did with the little I had,” Benz said. “You also saw I’m willing to suffer for the sake of humanity, for the sake of doing what needs to be done.”

  “The Premier’s guards will never allow it.”

  “Kill them before they come out of their shock.”

  The Chief Arbiter stared at Benz. “What happens if I don’t agree?”

  Benz smiled grimly. “What do you think happens?”

  “We’re in your mountain, and we’ve never found Vela Shaw. Is she here somewhere?”

  Benz smiled enigmatically.

  “I see,” the Chief Arbiter said. “Who would run the GSB?”

  “You.”

  “And you have a plan to restore Earth and restore Social Dynamism throughout the Solar System?”

  “More importantly,” Benz said, “I have a plan for defeating the alien AIs we know are out there.”

  The smell from the burnt Justinian became too strong. The party left the chamber, shutting the hatch behind them.

  “Yes,” the Chief Arbiter whispered. “What are your orders, sir?”

  “You’d better disarm or kill Justinian’s old guards first.”

  The Chief Arbiter quietly went to several others. As one, they drew on the guards, ordering them to disarm. Most did. The few who didn’t died on the spot.

  The Chief Arbiter returned to Benz. “What now?” the man asked.

  Benz began to tell him.

  -8-

  THE SCATTERED DISC REGION

  The Daisy Chain 4 decelerated with a hard burn. It had been doing so for more than four days, ever since the drone had wiped-out the AI vessel.

  Methlan’s active sensor scans had shown the same results as the teleoptics. The AI vessel had become space debris. There were no signs of lifeboats, if one could use such a term about AI escape pods. Neither had Methlan found any sign of a second AI ship.

  Walleye’s paranoia on the subject seemed unjustified.

  That troubled Methlan the more he thought about it. What if the two drones had failed to destroy the AI vessel? Walleye’s gamble would have consigned humanity to a second cybership invasion. Was saving one more drone worth the risk?

  The thought added strength to the shock-de-cri. Methlan brooded even as he used the destroyer’s tiny gym. He had bigger muscles than when he’d started the voyage. Constant exercise and good eating had aided his development. Methlan enjoyed the time he spent alone in his miniscule cabin. He had a body-length mirror and constantly posed nude before it, flexing and admiring his greater musculature. He also practiced the komo-dai. It was a Janus House knife-fighting style. He thrust, chopped, swept back and did imaginary parries before the mirror.

  The shock-de-cri had built up to a fever pitch by the time the destroyer accelerated again. It had come to a dead stop way out here in the emptiness between the Kuiper Belt and the Oort cloud, which some called the scattered disc.

  Now, the Daisy Chain 4 built up velocity for the return voyage to Makemake.

  Captain Hawkins had radioed his congratulations. They would all receive higher grades or ranks upon their return. They would also receive medals for courage and devotion to humanity.

  In his quarters, Methlan sneered at the idea of these trinkets. He used to give such paltry items to his soldiers as the Prince of Ten Worlds.

  On the fateful day of shock-de-cri culmination—such was the plan, in any case—Methlan exited his quarters in a heightened mood. He wore his best uniform with his special kill-dagger taped to his chest. His muscles seethed with anticipation. The only unfortunate aspect to this was that the pent-up sexual desire gave him a raging hard-on. It was most inconvenient. Every time he thought about killing Walleye, he also thought about mounting June Zen afterward. The two events almost went hand in hand. With Walleye out of the way, June would surely recognize his supremacy.

  Methlan had gone far too long without sexual union. He needed it in order to feel like a man again. Kill Walleye, mount June. It almost had a rhythm to it.

  Methlan pressed a switch. A hatch swished open. He walked onto the small command deck, half-turning to hide his hard-on from Walleye in his command chair and June at her station.

  The shock-de-cri seethed in Methlan’s brain. He almost rushed Walleye. Methlan actually trembled. There seemed to be a fire burning in his hands. He yearned to kill, but such a move must follow the ancient rituals and spoken formulas.

  With difficulty, Methlan went to his console and sat down. He almost missed something weird on his console. He blinked, shook off the shock-de-cri just enough, and concentrated. This was quite odd, really. He pressed various pads on the board and adjusted a dial. He kept playing with the
panel so intently that he failed to notice that Walleye and June had stopped talking.

  It finally dawned on Methlan that both of them seemed far too silent. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed them watching him.

  Methlan felt a surge of shock-de-cri well up in him. He moved his hand to unbutton the lowest seal on his uniform. He would slide his hand under the uniform, rip the kill-dagger from its hiding—

  “What do you make of that?” Walleye asked.

  It took Methlan several seconds to register the question. “Make of what?” he asked in surly tone.

  Maybe for the first time in Methlan’s memory, Walleye grinned. It exposed small teeth and crinkled the mutant’s ugly face.

  “What you’ve been studying. I want you to magnify the image.”

  Methlan hesitated, but finally turned back to his console. The object was over one thousand AUs from the ship. He used greater magnification to show a swirling white patch in space. The white had to be massive for the instruments to have spotted it from here. The law of causality suggested it shouldn’t exist. So what was causing the swirling pattern?

  “What do you make of that?” Walleye asked.

  “I’m not sure…” Methlan said. His surliness had departed as his fear grew.

  “I think you do know.”

  Methlan turned around as his facial skin tightened. It was not part of the shock-de-cri. This was fear. “Sir,” he said in a low voice. “We’re witnessing a hyperdrive exit point.”

  Walleye’s feet thudded onto the deck as he slid out of the command chair. The little freak moved toward the main screen.

  “That suggests an alien cybership is coming through.” Walleye frowned. He regarded Methlan. “How do you know that’s a hyperdrive exit?”

  “It’s—it’s an educated guess,” Methlan said.

  Walleye stared at him a few moments longer.

  “A new cybership,” June said. “A new cybership is coming out of hyperdrive?”

  “If Methlan’s correct about that being a hyperdrive exit, it would appear so,” Walleye said.

  “No,” Methlan said, as he studied his console. “That is wrong.”