The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Egg had landed them at the intersection of four main corridors, a space half the size of a sports field. The battle torches did little to press back the darkness.

  Walking in a slow circle around the shuttle, Detrelna looked down each of the great passageways, straining to see beyond the faint yellow light. Lawrona walked silently beside him, machine pistol at the ready.

  “Do you know the tale of the Four Corners of Hell, Hanar?” asked the commodore as they walked around the front of the shuttle.

  Detrelna was surprised to see the captain smile. “One of my father’s favorites. The merchant prince Alanko rescues some tedious woman…”

  “Tasar…”

  “Rescues Tasar from the demon P’Lul, in the very heart of Hell. Pursued, A’Lan and Tasar lose their way and come to the four corners of Hell. P’Lul and his pack are at their heels. Before them, three dark, uncertain roads. One leads back to Hell. The third to life, but only for the living. The last to certain death.”

  “And A’Lan chooses the one least traveled,” said Detrelna, “certain death. And they emerge into the land of life. A parable on the road least traveled.”

  The captain looked at the two corridors to his right and left. “Not many footprints in the battlesteel, Jaquel.”

  “We’ll take the road least traveled, Hanar,” said Detrelna as they rejoined Satil beside the airlock. “At least by the living—the road to the bridge.”

  “And where is the bridge?”

  Detrelna waved vaguely toward the bridge corridor. “Up there, somewhere. Egg said it wasn’t far. I want Harrison alive and that commwand in my hand when we leave.”

  “Very well,” said Lawrona. He turned to Satil, who stood frowning, her head cocked. “We’ll proceed on foot from here, Lieutenant. Have…”

  She stopped him with upraised hand. “Listen,” she whispered.

  They didn’t hear it at first. “Feet,” said Lawrona after a moment. “There,” he nodded at the corridor they were about to use.

  “Many feet,” said Detrelna, cocking his head. “Moving quickly, but not in time.”

  “You assume they’re feet,” said Lawrona.

  “Not coming for t’ata, certainly,” said Detrelna, unslinging his Uzi.

  “Deploy!” ordered Lawrona. “Satil,” he said as the commandos took up position around the shuttle, “fire a hover-flare.”

  Ducking into the shuttle, the commando officer came back with a short-barreled flare gun. Scrambling up the access ladder to the roof, she dropped into the prone firing position, aimed carefully down the corridor and squeezed the trigger.

  Whirring faintly, something floated away from the shuttle. A hundred meters out, it blossomed to life, lighting the corridor bright as a noontime desert—the corridor and the gray-uniformed shapes charging down it, silent and wraith-like, bayonet-fixed rifles held high.

  “Gods of my fathers,” whispered Detrelna, staring.

  “Imperial Marines,” said Lawrona.

  Their surprise stolen, the attackers broke into screams—high-pitched, heart-stopping, utterly inhuman screams.

  “Once, maybe,” shouted Detrelna as the assault closed. “Now just part Alpha Prime.”

  “Fire!” cried Lawrona.

  Chapter 9

  “There’s no reason I should trust you,” said John.

  “My timely warning,” said the blonde, hand to heart, “saved this galaxy from the AIs, when they’d infiltrated Terra Two.”

  “After you and your green slime horde wiped out millions of people, trying to take the galaxy for yourselves.”

  The Scotar chuckled, leaning back in its chair. “I like you, Harrison. You’re one of life’s innocents—defend the good, defy the wrong, ho-hum. You have the gift of unambiguous perception.”

  “There’s no reason I should trust you,” repeated John.

  “I’ll level, as you like to say.” The blonde held out a palm. “Your life is here, Harrison. Help me, or…” The hand became a fist.

  “You’d kill me, after going to so much trouble to save me?”

  “No,” said the Scotar. “I’d leave you’re here, alone. You’d be tracked down and brainstripped within the hour.” A long elegant finger circled the cranium. “Up on the stripping table, and plop! Into the a pod with your brain and into the component reserve with your body. It’s very fast.”

  “Component reserve?” said John uneasily.

  “Resource management,” said the Scotar. “Brain power runs the ship, brainstripped bodies defend it. But with a twist: the original minds still control their original bodies, when those components are activated.”

  “Grotesque.”

  “But efficient,” said Guan-Sharick. “Who could operate a body better than its original owner? Besides, it’s a high for the mindslaves—a brief end to the sensory deprivation that drives so many of them mad. A chance to breathe, walk, eat, smell, fornicate, kill—humanity’s raison d’etre.”

  “Big Brother monitors all of this?”

  “Of course,” said the Scotar. “But the Ractolians only provide mission direction. They won’t interfere so long as the components don’t damage the ship, eat what they kill and clean up after themselves. Then it’s back to the cryonics tank till their next frolic.”

  John cleared his throat. “How can I help you?”

  The Scotar drew its side arm and extended it to John, butt-first. “Help all of us. Get rid of Telan.”

  The Terran’s hand halted halfway to the weapon. “With a pistol? Does it fire nuclear warheads?”

  “Nothing so inelegant,” said Guan-Sharick, wrapping the man’s reluctant fingers around the grips.

  Dubiously John examined the weapon, turning it in his hands. It was smaller than the Kronarin blasters, perfectly balanced and cast of something that gleamed like silver. A small triangular device was set in the left grip: silver spaceship, golden sun, three perfect blue eyes in each corner. A small golden “2” was etched above the sun.

  “That’s the symbol of the AIs,” said the Terran, holding the weapon close. “The Fleet of the One.” As he peered at the device, the three eyes seemed to catch the light, reflecting it back in a brief burst of white. John almost dropped the weapon, blinking, his eyes tearing. “What the hell…”

  “A thing of power,” said the Scotar. “Now it knows you.”

  “Knows me?”

  “I don’t have time to tell you, Harrison. You probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. That weapon’s a totem—part of the long and intricate chain of causality between organic and inorganic life.”

  “And the symbol?” said John, carefully touching the triangle. It was warm. “You’re giving me an AI weapon to kill an AI?”

  The blonde head shook. “No. That weapon and the symbol predate the Fleet of the One. The AIs have adopted the symbol. And it won’t kill Telan—something far worse.”

  “Why not do it yourself?” asked John, more confused than enlightened.

  “I can’t,” said Guan-Sharick. “Telan’s shield distorts my senses, weakens my abilities—you’re the only one who can get close enough. Weakness can be strength—Telan’s dismissed you as a bumbling ape.”

  John tucked the weapon into his belt. “How do I get there?”

  “I’ll flick you down just outside the bridge, away from the command tier. Oh. An AI doesn’t need a weapon—it fires through its eyes.”

  “Great.”

  The Scotar vanished, reappearing a very long moment later. “Detrelna’s come in after you,” it said quickly. “He’s under attack. I’ll do what I can for them. Listen carefully. The commwand will be in or on the command console—it’s a small white cylinder. Shoot Telan and get the commwand to Implacable.”

  “And nothing else matters? What about Detrelna and his group?”

  “Much else matters,” said the blonde. “But not to you, not now.”

  “But Detrelna—”

  “There’s no time! Without the commwand, there’s no Trel Cache. No Trel Ca
che, no weapon. No weapon, the AIs win and we become just two more failed species. Death is forever. Luck to you.”

  The Council Chamber was empty.

  “Die,” hissed Detrelna. “Die! Die!” He stood between Lawrona and Satil, punctuating each word with a burst from his Uzi.

  The ping and whine of ricochets mingled with the sound of boots thundering down the deck and the chatter of automatic weapons’ fire. The odor of it filled the air. To Detrelna, it smelled like fear.

  “Kee-yaaaaa!” The scream of the bayonet assault rang down the corridor as the components closed, oblivious to the gunfire ripping into their charge, leaping their undead as they closed on the Kronarins.

  Cursing, palms slippery with sweat, Detrelna fumbled another magazine into the Uzi, looking up as the surviving components crashed into the Kronarin line. He had a brief impression of close-cropped hair, Imperial collar badges and hate-contorted faces. Then he was sidestepping, dodging a bayonet thrust, firing a burst into what was once a corporal.

  The component dropped, its heart shredded. As it crumpled all animation fled, leaving that strong, blunt face a slack-jawed, empty husk, the mind fleeing the pain to the safety of its distant brainpod.

  Detrelna didn’t notice, whirling at the warning, “Jaquel! Left!”

  An NCO was almost on top of him, smiling maniacally as it swung a rifle butt at the commodore’s head. Sidestepping, Detrelna fired one-handed. The burst went high, punching through the eyes, exploding the empty skull with a dull Plop! He watched open-mouthed as the component, blinded but still grinning madly beneath ruined eyes and forehead, nimbly reversed its rifle and began thrusting blindly in a circle.

  Perfect teeth, thought Detrelna wildly, putting a burst into the sergeant-thing’s chest, tumbling it to the deck.

  “Pretty good, Commodore, for a command officer.”

  Breathing hard, Detrelna turned to see all the components dispatched and Satil kneeling, wiping her knife on the uniformed haunch of one of her attackers. “You ever pull ground combat?” she asked, rising and slipping the blade back into her boot sheath.

  “Not in service to Fleet and Republic, my child,” said Detrelna. “Casualties?” he asked Lawrona. The captain was handing over his empties for reloading.

  “None,” he said, taking a fresh magazine from a private and snapping it into his machine pistol. “Only about twelve of them reached our position.”

  “Gods.” The commodore slumped against the shuttle, closing his eyes. “What are they?”

  “Were they,” corrected Lawrona, peering at the shrinking portion of corridor still lit by the dying hover-flare. Gray-uniformed bodies heaped its length. “Imperial Marines, brainstripped millennia ago, bodies preserved for later use.”

  Detrelna opened his eyes. “Individually controlled, but from some distance,” he said, glancing toward the NCO he’d stopped. “That’s your ancestor’s command, isn’t it, Hanar?”

  “Probably,” said the captain uneasily. “Uniforms, weapons, insignia—all from that period. If so, they’ll be back—an Imperial Marine brigade numbered four to five thousand troopers. If even half of them were salvageable after their attack on this ship, then this,” his hand swept the carnage, “was just a reconnaissance in force—about one company.” Eyes narrowing, he peered down the corridor to their left, from where the attack had come, then down the corridor to their front. Following his gaze, Detrelna saw shadows flitting along the flare’s shrinking periphery, slipping in behind the dying light.

  “Satil,” he called, “they’re massing in the front and left corridors.”

  “Rear and right, too,” called the lieutenant from the other side of the shuttle. “General assault this time. And we’re out of flares.”

  “Should she be shouting that?” asked the commodore.

  “Plenty of flares left, Jaquel,” said Lawrona softly. “Deploy!” he called. “Three to each corridor.”

  “We can stop thousands of those things?” said Detrelna as commandos hurried from the shuttle, olive-drab ammunition boxes slung between them. “With twelve antiques?”

  “No, of course not,” said Lawrona. “But they’ll come in faster if they think we’re out of flares. We’ll kill more of them.”

  The long and brutal war, the endless, often meaningless combat, the destruction of his home world—all had slowly eroded the captain’s perspective. Recently the commodore noticed Lawrona always striving to maximize enemy casualties, whether in the interests of the mission or not. Detrelna thought it at best unhealthy.

  “I doubt we’re really killing them, Hanar. Life left those bodies before they were dead—a soulwraith fleeing the dawn.” He jabbed a finger at the captain. “Our mission is the commwand. We need to take the bridge, not die stupidly—or worse.” He had a sudden vision of himself, Lawrona and the commandos, shrieking wildly, joining the marines in a wild assault on some future intruders, Alpha Prime’s freshest brainstrips.

  Satil appeared holding two bayonet-fixed M16s, a third slung over her shoulder. She gave one each to commodore and captain. “For the cut and slice work,” she said.

  Slinging the Uzi over his back, Detrelna wished he’d awaken in Implacable’s big, soft flag chair, a warm cup of t’ata in hand instead of the heavy slug thrower.

  “Get those flares up,” said Lawrona. A fading twilight circled them, less than a hundred meters.

  Nodding, the commando lieutenant raised the stubby flare gun and fired four quick rounds. The Kronarins shielded their eyes against the harsh light as it pushed back the darkness.

  The gray host waited silently, bayonets gleaming, their farther ranks shrouded in blackness.

  They watched each other for a moment, Kronarins new and old staring across millennia of blood and torment. Then the order was issued. Four horns sounded: two high, ringing notes, repeating twice, last note held longest.

  “Fire!” cried Lawrona as the gray waves surged forward with a roar.

  “Problems?” asked Telan, mockingly polite, watching the components falling beneath a hail of gunfire. “I thought you were going to turn the damper field off after your first debacle.”

  “Interference again,” said the dry whisper. “Somehow the secondary transponders are being suppressed. But not by conventional means.”

  “Show me the suppression aura,” he said. It came up on a telltale, a rotating blue-red matrix blocking all commands to the damper field nodules. “Scotar,” announced the AI. “It snatched the Terran away. Now it’s helping the Kronarins.”

  “Why? They’re enemies.”

  “I don’t know,” said the AI. It culled through millennia of memories—wars and battles, plots and intrigues, random data—nowhere was there a hint of why an alien species, defeated, virtually exterminated, would suddenly help its enemies against a foe. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “Give me a skipcomm channel to Shlu.”

  Futile, thought Detrelna. He emptied his M16 in five long bursts and slammed in another magazine. Much too close, five components fell. Others took their place. The intersection rang to the sound of the bayonet cry. Futile and stupid to die like this, thought the commodore.

  Detrelna, said a cold whisper inside his head. Do exactly as I say and some of you may live.

  “Jaquel!” shouted Lawrona above the screaming and the gunfire. The commodore was disappearing into the shuttle, door shutting behind him.

  “Captain!”

  Lawrona turned back to the assault. He and Satil stood alone against a thousand shrieking demons. “Back!” he cried.

  They made their final stand at the shuttle, back to back against the forward port landing strut, weapons at assault arms.

  Silently, the components surrounded the shuttle, a watchful gray wall of blank faces. It was as if they’d expended the small allotment of emotion spared them by the Ractolians.

  The four corners of Hell, indeed, thought Lawrona, hands slippery with sweat. If the dead could walk, that’s how they’d look. And what did Detrelna think he
was doing in there? Not like him to run.

  “Captain,” whispered Satil, “they don’t take us. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” whispered Lawrona. “Ammunition?”

  “Three rounds, no more.”

  “I’m empty,” he said. “Make sure you destroy our brains.”

  “And the commodore?”

  Before Lawrona could answer, the gray wall parted. A man strode into the circle—a strongly-built man with fine-chiseled features and the gold comets of an Imperial admiral. He stopped at the point of Lawrona’s bayonet. “You’ve damaged us, Captain,” he said. It was a cold, cultured voice, speaking High Kronarin with the accent of the Court—an accent the centuries had relegated to archives. “Many of us will never again experience their own bodies. My word to you, Captain, you’ll suffer forever the wrath of those whose bodies you’ve destroyed.”

  As the component spoke, Lawrona’s gaze shifted from the green eyes to the faint scar that circled the cranium, a scar almost invisible in the dying light of the flares. “We are blood, Admiral Kyla, you and I,” said Lawrona softly, in Utrian. “By Tower and Oath, kinsman, I…”

  “Tower and Oath, is it?” said the component in the same dialect. “Your ancestor died long ago, my Lord Captain—moments after entering Alpha Prime. His consciousness is part of a greater cause than any he served while whole. And as for you, sir—you’re meat. Just as are any who see this slaver. Meat for harvesting. You’ll find, Captain,” he said in a softer tone, “that the old verities slowly fade here, drawn off by the long wash of the centuries. They’ll be replaced by more enduring ones.” He turned to the waiting circle. “Brainstrip them.”

  “Good-bye, Captain,” said Satil as she pivoted, raising the rifle.

  The lights came on, bringing with them the faint whine of the shuttle’s cannon tracking down, locking on the massed components.

  Satil and Lawrona dived under the craft as the Mark 44s opened fire, red fusion bolts burning into the gray ranks.

  Prone, captain and commando fired their blasters at the husk of Admiral Kyla. The component fell to the deck, its back and chest blown open.