“I’ll meet him at jump point, Admiral,” said Tilak, “cannons blazing.”
“Jump at will, Captain,” said Sagan. “Luck,” she added as the image disappeared.
“They’re not pursuing,” said Atir, reading a telltale. “Intercept probability’s too low.” They were almost at jump point.
“Not like her,” said Kotran, “just to sit there and watch us slip away.” He stared at the screen, watching the red points designating the Fleet units. “Computer,” he said, “enemy jump drives. Are any of them Imperial?”
“Not a programmed category,” said computer in its asexual contralto.
“The hardware gets better, the programming worse,” said Atir, eyes still on those eight red points.
“Computer,” said Kotran, “advise if any enemy vessel has five jump transponder nodules along the engine hull.”
“One vessel has that configuration,” reported computer.
“Current jump point deviation?” asked Kotran.
“Eight percent of ideal,” said Atir.
“Let’s do it now. Stand by to jump.”
“Ready to jump,” said Kalal after a moment.
“Initiate on my command,” said Kotran. He punched into the commnet. “Gunnery.”
“Gunnery,” said a voice from his chairarm.
“Fire a full shipbuster salvo, tight-grouped, at our initial jump point. Take your mark from the original jump-tied navheading. Fire when ready.”
“Missiles away,” said the voice a moment later.
A flight of silver needles flashed by on the outside scan.
Kotran slapped his chairarm. “And jump, Atir!”
A nanosecond after Glory Run emerged from jump, ship’s computer read the absence of a ship target and the presence of seventeen multimegaton missiles. It instantly fired a blocking salvo. Eight incoming missiles were destroyed by beam hits in less than a second. The rest detonated.
Overwhelmed, Glory Run’s shield failed. Miles of battlesteel and men flared into evanescent gases, the center of a blinding atomic vortex.
Captain Tilak’s final thought: brilliant.
Sagan stood in front of the big board for a long time, watching the pulsing red circle marking a destruct point, then turned and left the bridge. Yakor wanted to say something as she walked by him. Seeing her expression, he said nothing.
Chapter 3
“Listen, Commodore, she—”
“No!” snapped Detrelna. “You listen.”
The young officer closed his mouth, staring fixedly past Detrelna at the armorglass and the swirl of alien stars beyond.
“You’ve requested I review the captain’s decision in this ugly incident,” said Detrelna, temper ebbing. “That’s your right. Frankly, I think you and she should be spanked.” He glanced at his complink then looked back at Telan. “You and our senior commando officer, Lieutenant Satil, met in Recroom Four, second watch, four days ago. After a few drinks, she asked you to her quarters. You went willingly and had what Captain Lawrona delicately describes as” he peered at the screen, “‘an intimate period.’ Neither of you deny this.”
Telan stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind him.
“After this—period—you offered Lieutenant Satil thirty credits—‘for your time,’ you said. Lieutenant Satil firmly rejected your offer, dislocating your left patella with a combat kick. Qinil fix your knee?” he asked, glancing down.
“It wasn’t my knee she was after, sir,” said Telan, eyes meeting the commodore’s.
Detrelna suppressed a smile. “No, I suppose it wasn’t. The facts stated are correct, Lieutenant Commander Telan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you anything to add?”
“Where I’m from, sir, we pay for what we get.”
Detrelna sighed. “You’re from a paradise zone, Commander. You were raised in a garden—everyone in your father’s employ. You were denied nothing. And you had a generous allowance, no doubt. Your family taught you to respect your lessers by paying for their services. True?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where we are now, Commander Telan, is an immense chunk of space that’s probably hostile and is certainly a long way from home.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“You’re aware of it, sir. But do you know what it means? There’s just this big old ship and a few of us. To succeed, to even survive, we must work together. That means, Telan, a minimum of friction, a low level of animosity. There should be some friendship, some good feeling.” He waved his hands. “Whatever. But I insist—any competent commander would insist—that there at least be mutual respect. To offer a shipmate money for an act of friendship is disrespectful. Clear?”
“Clear, sir. Sir, I am due on watch in—”
“You transferred aboard off Terra, Commander. You have been condescending, petulant, lazy and certainly insensitive. I don’t expect you to suddenly become a nice person, but I do expect you to act nicely. If you can’t, stay in your quarters. I won’t have you sowing hatred and discontent. Clear?”
“Sir—”
“Is that clear, Commander?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are heir to a rich and powerful dynasty, Commander. Although of combat age the last two years of the war, you were medically deferred for…” His went back to the screen. “What is ‘severe melancholia’?”
“Sir, it is a condition of dysfunctional depression occasioned by—”
“You were directly commissioned and assigned as this expedition’s Alien Artifacts Officer over many others far older and far better qualified than you. To date you’ve proven unworthy of the trust reposed in you by Fleet and Confederation.” And the enormous bribes it must have taken to have you directly commissioned and posted here. “That will change, won’t it?”
“Sir! Yes, sir.”
“The watch preceding your duty-time for the next four weeks will be spent on a team replacing some of the older hullside sensor clusters. It is tiring, tedious work. It can be dangerous if you don’t cooperate with your teammate. Space,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “forgives nothing.”
“Sir! Yes, sir.”
“I hope for your sake and ours, Commander Telan, that your attitude and performance improve. Quickly.”
“I assure the commodore—”
“Don’t assure me. Show me. Dismissed.”
Detrelna touched the commlink as the door hissed shut. Lawrona’s face appeared on screen. “Did you chew on him, Jaquel?”
“Surprised me and took it well. We’ll see. And you?”
“A sharp homily to Satil—tempering anger with reason. She didn’t protest the detail.”
“Does she know who her other teammate will be?”
“She will secondwatch, when they suit up.”
“I’d like to see that.” They chuckled evilly.
“We’re about to make our final jump,” said Lawrona.
“Ominous.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Fine. Sound briefing call as soon as we jump and we’ll share the happy news.”
“How far from home, any idea?” asked Zahava.
“Over three hundred light-years,” said John. High atop Implacable, they had the small observation dome to themselves. Outside, the hull swept past them, a mile to the bridge, another mile back to engines, half a mile to either side: a gray expanse of battlesteel broken by weapons turrets and instrument pods. “Earth’s not even a point of light anymore,” he said. The stars were few and scattered in this part of the galaxy. The brightest object was a swirling red nebula, thousands of light-years away across the interstellar rift.
“One month,” said Zahava, a petite, olive-skinned Israeli. On Implacable no one gave them a second glance. The crew was from a huge gene pool and looked it, drawn from the Confederation’s hundreds of worlds. “Sorry we came?” he asked, putting his hand atop hers on the padded handrail.
“You will be,” said a familiar v
oice.
They whirled, drawing their blasters.
The blonde stood opposite them, wearing a red jumpsuit, long silken hair soft-burnished by the starlight.
“How… ?” said John, staring beyond the Scotar. Outside was the reassuring shimmer of the shield.
“With us since… when?” said Zahava.
Both blasters were leveled at the Other’s stomach.
“Long time,” said the Scotar, gaze shifting between the two. “Since the Lake of Dreams.”
“You’re one of the crew,” said John. His finger tightened around the trigger.
The blonde pointed at him. “You fire that in here, Harrison, and that laser-bonded ion stream will deflect off the armorglass until its potential’s spent. You two will look like you’ve been through one of your quaint food processors. And I’ll be gone. Teleportation’s a wonderful thing.”
“We’ll find you, green slime,” said Zahava. “Detrelna will—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said the transmute wearily. “Detrelna will take the ship apart with his bare hands. Not to mention Colonel Ragal.”
“Who?” said Zahava.
“I’m sure you’ll meet,” said the Scotar. “The three of you are… Implacable.”
“Why’ve you exposed yourself?” said John.
“It’s imperative,” said the biofab. "You’ve far worse to contend with here than slimy green bugs.” The blonde was replaced by a green, six-foot insectoid. It stood erect on four thin legs. Twin antennae grew above its bulbous eyes, two tentacles from its shoulders. The spectacle lasted only a second, then the blonde reappeared
“What’s so damned imperative, bug?” said Zahava.
“Lieutenant Commander Telan,” said the Scotar urgently. “Watch him. He endangers everything you’re trying to prevent, everything I’m trying to accomplish.”
“Explain,” said John.
The Scotar’s head shook. “You wouldn’t believe me. And I’ll be missed shortly. But don’t let Telan out of your sight once we reach our coordinates.”
“He’s just a kid,” said John. “A Kronarin preppy.”
“Harrison,” said the Scotar intently, “it costs you nothing to watch Telan, much if you don’t.”
A chime sounded three times. “Stand by for jump,” warned the computer. “Stand by for jump.”
“Luck,” said the Scotar, and was gone.
“Trust him… it?” said Zahava.
The Scotar reappeared. “And congratulations on your marriage,” it said, vanishing again.
The final warning sounded, six chimes repeating three times. “I need a drink,” said John as they grabbed the handrail.
Outside, the stars changed. Implacable had moved ninety-seven light-years.
Zahava swallowed hard. "I think my stomach’s back on Rigel or wherever that was. Are we going to tell Detrelna about Big Green?”
“How do we know Detrelna isn’t Big Green?”
She looked stricken. “Who to trust?”
“You and me. Unless, of course, it can project two illusions at once? After all, we were both at the Lake of Dreams.” They eyed each other warily, then burst into laughter.
“They should make more bugs like you,” said John, kissing her.
“Was that as good as the real Zahava?” she asked a moment later.
“Better,” he said.
“Pig,” she said as their communicators chirped.
“Briefing call,” came Kiroda’s voice. “All designated personnel report for mission briefing, deck four, briefing room seven.” The message repeated.
“Now they tell us what we already know,” said Zahava as they clambered down the duralloy ladder to deck one.
“Rumor has it we’re going into the galaxy’s Bight of Benin.”
“The what?”
“Pestilential West Africa slavers’ port.” He chanted in a passable baritone as they walked:
“The Bight of Benin, the Bight of Benin, Few come out, though many go in.”
“What are we going to do about the Scotar?” she asked as they reached the lift.
“Find it and shoot it before it drags us off to do something dangerous. Again.”
The briefing room—Implacable’s smallest—was full: fifty-eight officers, John Harrison and Zahava all stood in front of the red-cushioned traq wood chairs. Conversation stopped as Detrelna and Lawrona walked to the podium. “Sit, sit,” said the commodore, waving them to their chairs. “You’ll note,” he said as the noise died, “That we’ve been in Quadrant Blue Nine for some time and are still alive. We’re now proceeding to mission coordinates furnished by Pocsym.”
“The Trel Cache,” said Zahava.
“No,” said Detrelna, “not the Trel Cache.”
Lawrona broke the uneasy silence. “We’re to rendezvous with the first in a series of remote navigation markers placed by Imperial Survey, just before the Fall. We give it the access code furnished by Pocsym, it gives us a new set of jump coordinates. We do know there’s more than one navigation marker,” said Detrelna. “Beyond that—nothing.”
“Leading us where?” asked Natrol, the ship’s engineer. Natrol had been drafted from his well-paid job as a merchant line’s chief engineer. He was brilliant as he was sarcastic.
Detrelna shrugged. “No idea, Mr. Natrol. Instructions and coordinates were sent by Pocsym in his final moments.”
“We’re touring the galaxy on the whim of a mad cyborg?”
“Is that you, Telan?” said Lawrona.
Four rows back, Lieutenant Commander Telan stood, muscles rippling under his closely tailored uniform.
Dionysus, thought John, looking at Telan. With his perfect body, fine-chiseled face and flawless bronze skin, the young officer might have been a demigod out of Euripides. A pretty boy, certainly, but dangerous?
“It’s too bad, Commander,” said Lawrona icily, “that you weren’t with us when we stormed the Scotar citadel on Terra’s moon. Surviving that, you’d have appreciated that though Pocsym might have been mad, he executed what he thought were his instructions with flawless logic.”
Mad’s the word, thought John. Pocsym had been programmed in the Late Imperial age, five thousand years ago—programmed by social scientists who believed that right about now their descendants would be facing hordes of killer machines pouring into this galaxy from an alternate reality. Monitor human progress, they’d ordered Pocsym, and help prepare mankind for their ultimate battle.
And so Pocsym watched. And despaired—despaired that galactic humanity would ever be capable of collective self-sacrifice, even to save itself. So Pocsym had decided his original orders demanded broader interpretation. He engaged in biological and social engineering: Creating a race of biofabs—biological fabrications—he’d dubbed them the Scotar and sent them against the Kronarins. If the humans could defeat the Scotar, reasoned Pocsym, they might defeat the AIs. If not, it was only fair the Scotar inherit the galaxy. Pocsym’s was a process of natural selection fostered by unnatural means.
Telepathic, telekinetic remorseless warriors ably trained and superbly led, the Scotar had almost destroyed the Confederation and taken mankind’s worlds for themselves. Almost. Only Implacable’s stumbling into the Terran system and her discovery of the biofabs’ home base, deep beneath the surface of Terra’s moon, had saved humankind—that and a hurried alliance between the Kronarins and the Terrans, ending in a desperate Fleet commando assault on the Scotar citadel.
That crazy cyborg started the war, reflected John—and finished it, blowing up the biofabs’ citadel, most of the biofabs—and itself. The commandos and the few Terrans with them had barely escaped. Is Lawrona through with this Telan twit? he wondered.
Lawrona wasn’t.
“Just before we left Terra, Commander, we went up against some hideous machines.”
“I’ve read the report, sir.”
“Then you’ll know that though we stopped them in a parallel reality, they may even now be invading a different part of
this universe—our part. We have the point in space at which they’re supposedly entering. First, we go to the Trel Cache for a weapon to use against them.”
“We only have Pocsym’s word for this,” said Zahava.
“A word that we’ll soon confirm or refute,” said the commodore
“We’re a suicide mission,” said Natrol flatly.
“No Fleet ship is ever intentionally sacrificed, Mr. Natrol,” said Lawrona.
“But all ships are expendable,” said the engineer.
“Depending on the mission—yes.”
“What is there about this part of the galaxy, this Quadrant Blue Nine?” asked John. “No ship that’s come here alone in the last three thousand years has returned. And,” he continued as Lawrona tried to interrupt, “any inquiries for data older than that gets a ‘Not Available.’”
“All information regarding this sector is proscribed and available only if we’re under attack,” said Detrelna.”
“That’s an awful burden to operate under,” said John.
“I protested,” said Detrelna. “Sagan protested. To no avail.”
“What do we know?” asked Natrol.
“Only this,” said Lawrona. “Something happened here that destroyed the colonies in this sector and shook the Imperials down to their battle boots. They put this whole quadrant—that’s two hundred cubic light-years, gentlemen—under interdict and never came back again.”
“Could it have to do with Trel?” asked Zahava.
“May we soon find out,” said the commodore.
“And survive the experience,” said Natrol.
“Here comes Fats,” said Atir, putting the forward scan on main screen.
Looking up from ship’s status reports, Kotran read the tactical data threading across the bottom of the screen. On her present course, Implacable would pass close by where Victory Day drifted dark, her engines cold.
“Select down to auxiliary power, Kalal,” Kotran ordered. “They’ve got Imperial-grade sensors.”
The AI War Page 3