The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “Selecting down,” said the corsair, entering a command. The lighting and instrumentation dimmed.

  “Their sensors will read our hull,” said Atir, watching Implacable grow large on the screen.

  “Fine,” said Kotran, dialing a drink from the chairarm. “Spectroscopy’s going to show we’re a meteor—nickel and iron.”

  “The camouflage baffling,” she said.

  “The camouflage baffling.” He sipped his t’ata and grimaced. “Kalal, this is ice-cold.”

  “Beverage warming’s not a priority on auxiliary, skipper,” said Kalal dryly, adjusting a telltale.

  “Hazards of combat.” Kotran dropped the cup into a disposer.

  Implacable was moving off, her menacing weapons batteries and sensor clusters shrinking on the screen.

  “What concerns me,” said Kotran, “is our symmetry. If her computer considers that an anomaly, alarms will sound.”

  “Not to worry,” said Atir, turning from her console. “When they pulled those Laal-class cruisers from stasis they stunted the sensor module—slapped a restrictive overlay on it.”

  “They downgraded it?”

  She nodded. “Right down to the primaries. It’s our old unreasoning fear of artificial intelligence.”

  “Not all that unreasoning,” said Kotran. “The Machine Wars—AIs almost wiped the Empire. Fleet doesn’t take chances, especially with resurrected Imperial systems.”

  “She’s stopping,” said Atir. Implacable was now stationary, screen-center.

  “She’s reached the final set of coordinates and only one watch after us,” said Kotran. “Not bad.” His eyes swept the sensor readings. “At last,” he leaned back in his chair, “after fifty centuries, a ship of Kronar is at the legendary Trel Cache. One would expect something dramatic—the universe trembling, the end to life as we know it. Music. Certainly there should be music.” He spread his hands. “Nothing. Not even the Trel Cache.”

  An alarm beeped. Silencing it, Kalal read the new data. “Something big, coming in fast.” He frowned. “I don’t believe these readings!”

  Kotran’s eyes widened as he read the tacscan. “Big? It’s the size of a city! Look at these weapons and speed readings.”

  “Going for Implacable,” said Atir from her station.

  “Slowing,” said Kalal. “Just at the edge of visual.” His fingers flew over the complink, trying to firm the pickup.

  The main screen blurred, the view shifting from Implacable to a black blur.

  “Split it,” said Kotran. “Tactical projection.”

  The space view shrank to the top half of the screen as the bottom half blanked. Data slowly threaded along the margins as the projection formed with agonizing slowness. “What are you running, one sensor array?” asked Kotran, frowning.

  “Even that’s a risk. Counterscan could still pick us up.”

  “Dump visual, then.”

  An instant later the tactical projection occupied the entire screen.

  Atir whistled softly. “Ten times our mass,” she said, reading the scan. “Weapons batteries the size of our engines. Citadel-class shielding.” She looked at Kotran. “We don’t make anything like that. What is it?”

  “Something we made long ago,” said Kotran quietly, watching the screen. “It’s a mindslaver.”

  As they watched, red beams sprang from the center of the projection. “And it’s about to wipe Implacable,” he added.

  Chapter 4

  They’d told Kiroda what they were going to say at the briefing, took a final look at the tacscan and left him in command. It had been quiet for a while, just he, Toral and a handful of others on the big bridge. He rose, stretched, then stepped to the nearest food server, dialing up soup.

  “Incoming vessel,” said the computer.

  Kiroda was back in the command chair, soup forgotten. “Lakan,” he said to the comm officer, “Challenge. Yagan, give me a tactical work up.”

  “Incoming vessel does not respond,” said Lakan.

  “What have you got?” he asked, swiveling the chair toward Toral.

  “Huge,” said Toral. “No current tactical configuration. Wait. Archival match. It’s…”

  He stood, seeing worse than his death on the screen. “It’s a mindslaver, Tolei.”

  It flashed onto the screen as Kiroda thumbed the battle stations’ tab—twenty dark miles of battlesteel, instrument pods and weapons turrets.

  “Full evasive pattern, Yagan. Everything she’ll do. Command staff to bridge!” Kiroda called above the klaxon’s din. “Command staff to bridge!

  “Implementing,” said the commander, fingers flying over the complink.

  “Engineering, cycle to drive. Gunnery stand by.”

  Thick as a shuttle craft, cobalt blue fusion beams lashed out from the mindslaver, striking midpoint on Implacable’s shield, buffeting the cruiser like a gale.

  “Shield power down four point eight percent,” said the engineering tech.

  The mindslaver ceased firing.

  “Just probing our shield,” said Kiroda.

  “Slaver holding position relative to our own,” said Toral. Different constellations were now on main screen—the black ship still sat screen-center. “We’re almost at light one!”

  “That’s not astrogation,” said Kiroda. “It’s magic.”

  The battle klaxon stopped.

  “All battle stations manned,” reported Lakan. “Damage control reports compiling. Gunnery requests permission to fire.”

  “Gunnery,” said Kiroda over the commnet, “hold fire. We need everything for the shield. He’s going to pour it on. Jump us out of here!” he ordered the Engineering tech. “Now!”

  The mindslaver fired, over a hundred batteries working Implacable. The shield began to glow, a sullen burnt umbra.

  “We can’t jump,” said the engineering tech, turning from the console. “Not and hold shielding.”

  “Shield failing, sections one, five, seven and twelve,” said the computer. “Failure imminent.”

  “Lakan,” said Kiroda hollowly, “transfer ship’s logs to drone pod and launch.”

  “Pod launched,” said Lakan a moment later.

  A round silver ball flashed by on the screen. Piercing the shield, it wove between the blaster beams and was gone.

  The shield was turning an eye-searing white. The glare eased as the computer filtered the pickup. “Shield failure,” it said, “mark fifty. Forty-nine…”

  “I’d blow us up, right in its teeth, Yagan,” said Kiroda above the computer’s death count, “but we need another senior officer to implement destruct.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” said a new voice. Detrelna stood behind the command tier.

  “Commodore!” cried Kiroda. “It…”

  “I know,” said Detrelna as the count reached thirty. “Picked you up at rendezvous point. I’ve been listening on the tactical band.” He turned to the comm officer. “Lakan, give me broadband linkage to that horror.”

  “Linkage established,” she said as the count reached twenty.

  “Commodore Jaquel Detrelna to mindslaver,” he said, dropping into the flag chair. “Acknowledge.”

  “We hear,” hissed a cold whisper from chair and wall speakers.

  “Fifteen,” counted the computer.

  “Here’s a hideous poem you should know—Necropolis School—Late Empire:

  Sad-eyed Shara laments no more,

  For as the metra petals drift from

  Q’Nar’s rough hills…

  Detrelna paused, fingertips pressed expectantly together.

  “Six,” said the computer.

  “‘Proud Death slips gently to her side,’” came the cold whisper. “Welcome, Commodore. Proud Death is at your side. We are the last dreadnought of Ractol, Alpha Prime—your navigation beacon.”

  “Zero,” said the computer. Outside, the shield died even as the mindslaver ceased fire.

  “We have a commwand for you, Commodore,” said the minds
laver. “We await your courier.”

  In a single fluid movement, an engineering tech drew his blaster and fired at Detrelna’s back.

  The briefing ended abruptly as the battle klaxon’s Awooka! sparked a rush for the door.

  John and Zahava were just behind Detrelna and Lawrona, running for the lift as the battle klaxon continued.

  Zahava grabbed John’s arm. “Telan,” she said, pointing to where a door marked Ladder Access 17 was sliding shut.

  “Maintenance and emergency use,” John shouted above the klaxon. “Goes to every deck.” Crew members ran past them, heading for battle stations.

  The Terrans pressed against the wall, moving toward the access door. “Think Telan’s battle station is on the ladder?” said John.

  “No.”

  The battle klaxon stopped as they stepped through the doorway.

  They were on a round apron of gleaming duralloy. A ladder of the same material ran as far as they could see in both directions, narrowing to a distant smudge. A warm air current tousled their hair.

  There was no sign of Lieutenant Commander Telan.

  John touched the communicator at his throat. “Computer. Advise if any doors from Access Ladder 17 have been opened in the last three talars.”

  “Deck seven twice,” said the machine. “And hangar deck once, one solon later.”

  The two Terrans looked at each other. “That’s five decks in about a minute,” said Zahava. “What’d he do, fly?”

  “Let’s get to hangar deck,” said John, stepping onto the first rung.

  Detrelna and Lawrona burst onto the bridge, then halted, staring at the frozen tableau: Colonel Ragal, in engineering white, standing with his weapon pointed at the empty ruin of the flag chair, half a dozen blasters leveled at him; the great black bulk of the mindslaver filling the main screen; Kiroda looking uncertainly at Detrelna.

  “What’s going on here?” said Lawrona.

  Animation returned. Everyone tried to speak at once.

  “Silence!” snapped the commodore. “You first, Ragal.” He pointed to the intelligence officer. “And put that thing away,” he added. He looked around the bridge. “All of you, back to your posts.”

  The colonel holstered his M11A. “I was manning the bridge engineering station. A person we believed to be you entered the bridge, assumed command and saved us from the mindslaver, using an authenticator only you, I and Lawrona know. As a Watcher, I felt a growing conviction it was a Scotar transmute. I allowed it to save us, then drew on it. It flicked away as I fired. I’ll need a force of commandos to scour the ship. It’s probably—”

  Detrelna cut him off, pointing to Kiroda. “Next.”

  The commander gave a succinct report, adding, “What’s happening, Commodore?”

  “Good question,” said Detrelna. “We were sent to meet a navigation beacon. Instead, we get a mindslaver.” He looked at Ragal. “Fleet Intelligence prepared our mission specs.” He turned to the bridge crew. “Gentlemen, this is Colonel Ragal, of our illustrious Fleet Intelligence. You slime set us up, didn’t you, Ragal?”

  The colonel nodded, stoic. “Would you have gone if we’d told you what Pocsym really said? That you’d have to face a slaver?”

  “We go where we’re sent, Ragal,” said Lawrona, turning from the damage control reports. “We do what we’re told.”

  “What is that?” Detrelna jerked a thumb toward the mindslaver.

  “Let the computer tell you,” said Ragal, touching a complink. “Computer. Tactical—Imperative. Authenticator Prime One Four Nine. Ractolian biofabs, history.”

  The computer’s pleasant contralto spoke for a time.

  “Alpha Prime,” said Kotran, almost to himself. “Of course.” He swiveled the command chair. “Atir, Blue Nine’s the Ractol Quadrant.”

  “The what?” she said, busy trying to drift them closer to Implacable and the mindslaver, now almost back to their original positions.

  “The Empire suppressed the information. So did the Confederation.” He shook his head. “Had I known this assignment was in the Ractol Quadrant, Atir, we’d have done something safer—like raiding FleetOps.”

  She turned from her work. “You going to tell me what a Ractolian is?” she asked, pushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. “And what it has to do with that monstrosity?” She nodded at the screen.

  “What do you know about mindslavers?”

  “Built and banned by the Empire. Run by brains ripped from living bodies. Twenty miles of magical death, capable of engaging and destroying a modern sector fleet. Weapons, navigation and computation systems far in advance of anything we have now. And all made possible by those living human brains,” said Kotran. “Brains preserved in variable stasis and bathed by a constant nutrient flow.”

  “And the Ractolians?”

  “You won’t read it in Archives, but the Ractolians built the first mindslavers. And a woman, Number One, created the Ractolians.”

  “Shelia Ractol,” said Implacable’s computer, “was the sector governor of Quadrant Blue Nine under the Emperor Hataan. She was also one of the finest of the High Imperial geneticists. A woman with Imperial ambitions, Ractol took advantage of her position and the relative isolation of her post to conduct illegal genetic experiments on a grand scale. She wanted a superior, self-propagating warrior race, obedient to her. She was able to achieve all but the last goal. Never more than a thousand, the Ractolian biofabs quickly dispatched Ractol and her forces, then went on to invent the symbiotechnic dreadnought—”

  “Mindslaver,” said Kiroda.

  “Mindslaver,” agreed the computer. “A fleet of mindslavers that almost toppled the Empire, striking without warning from Blue Nine. Only when the Empire built their own mindslavers in overwhelming numbers were the Ractolians believed exterminated.”

  “And this quadrant, Blue Nine?” said Detrelna.

  “Abandoned,” said the computer. “Some one hundred and forty-three inhabited planets had been stripped of their people by the Ractolians, the people then stripped of their brains for use in the mindslavers.

  “By the time the last Ractolians sought the braincased immortality of their last mindslaver, the struggle had all but bankrupted the Empire. The Ractolian War marked the end of the High Imperial epoch and the beginning of the Late, with its decay and decadence.”

  “We are waiting,” whispered the mindslaver.

  “What is manning that ship, Ragal?” demanded Detrelna, turning from the screen to the colonel.

  “The disembodied brains of psychotic geniuses sixty centuries dead,” said the colonel.

  “And we have to send someone over there,” said Lawrona.

  “I’d go, but I’ve a Scotar to catch,” said Ragal.

  “Go catch it then,” said Detrelna.

  Ragal headed for the door.

  “Sometime between this crisis and the next, Colonel, you and I are going to have a long talk,” added the commodore. “Clear?”

  “Clear,” said the colonel. The doors closed behind him.

  “I’ll go, sir,” said Kiroda.

  “Actually, it’s my turn, sir,” said Toral.

  Other voices vied with his as the whole bridge crew volunteered.

  Detrelna held up his hands. “Wait. The only fair thing is to draw…”

  An alarm beeped. “Weapons fire, hangar deck,” said the computer. “Weapons fire, hangar deck.”

  “Commandos are responding, Captain,” said Lakan. “I’m unable to contact Flight Control.”

  “Keep trying,” ordered Lawrona. “You and you,” he pointed at the two black-uniformed commandos flanking the doors, “with me. Jaquel?’

  “Go,” waved Detrelna. “I’ll entertain Alpha Prime.”

  “Won’t… budge,” grunted John, pulling with all his strength on the recessed door grip. Hangar deck lay just the other side.

  The descent down the ladder had seemed interminable. It’s got to be less than a mile, John had kept assuring himself.


  “Unless you’ve a better idea…” said Zahava, drawing her blaster.

  “Do it.”

  She twisted the muzzle as they stepped back, aimed carefully at the center right edge of the door frame and fired. The red bolt lanced through the metal with a satisfying crack and shower of sparks.

  “Now try it.”

  The door groaned open. They eased through, blasters held high and two-handed, eyes searching for movement.

  Hangar deck was almost a mile long and half a mile wide. Stars twinkled through the faint shimmer of the atmosphere curtain at its launch end. Shuttles, stub-winged fighters and squat, black assault craft nestled in soft-lit berths beneath the distant ceiling. The vaulted silence was as deep as a cathedral’s.

  Nothing moved the length of the deck. There should have been at least ten crew on duty—maintenance techs, Flight Control personnel, commandos pulling security detail.

  Flight control was behind a concave sweep of black glass, set above the deck.

  John touched Zahava’s shoulder, pointing toward the stairway running to the Flight Control. A body lay crumpled at the bottom.

  Approaching cautiously, they saw it was a crewman—young, half his face torn away, his weapon holstered.

  John jerked his head toward the top of the stairs. “Alert the bridge,” he whispered. “I’ll check around.”

  Nodding, she bounded silently up the stairs, disappearing into Flight Control.

  John turned at a ripple of movement in one of the berths. A distant, brown-uniformed figure was slipping into a shuttle. Caution aside, he ran for the shuttle, boots ringing on the gray battlesteel.

  It was a easily a hundred yards. He was halfway there when the n-gravs whined on. The ship lifted, passenger hatch slowly cycling shut.

  Lungs bursting, he dived through the closing hatchway, sliding into the passenger section as the craft slid from its berth.

  Bodies were sprawled throughout the small Flight Control area—three dead by blaster fire, two with larynxes crushed, eyes bulging, tongues black and protruding.

  Zahava was oblivious to the corpses. She stood watching helplessly as the shuttle silently traversed the length of the deck, pierced the atmosphere curtain and was gone.