The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “Only partially, and only until we have time to make further repairs,” said Telan. “Which we will after we destroy your pathetic forces.”

  “Why this eternal antipathy,” asked the Terran, “this psychotic hatred of mankind?”

  “My turn,” said Telan. “There should be a number on the grip of that weapon. What is it?”

  As John looked down, Telan’s blue eyes flashed red, rapier thin beams thrusting for John’s heart, vanishing halfway, intercepted by the weapon.

  John pulled the trigger.

  Telan stood frozen, half turned toward the rail and a desperate jump for life. Guan-Sharick’s side arm hadn’t made a sound.

  “Two,” said John. He stared at Telan then looked carefully around, lowering the weapon. Equipment tiers chirped and blinked, continuing their unending esoteric tasks.

  “Do you wish to take command?” came a dry whisper, like the rustle of dead leaves.

  “You must be the Seven,” said the Terran.

  “We are the Seven,” replied the whisper. “The AI has placed us on standby. You may assume command of this vessel by pressing the gray Action key on the command board.”

  “What happened to the AI?” asked John.

  “Your weapon emits a possibly irreversible stasis field—the AI is trapped within himself until the universe dies.”

  “Is he fully conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pity,” said John. He went to the command console. A key was blinking red. “This it?” he said pointing.

  “Press it and the ship is yours,” said the whisper.

  “What’s on this commwand?” asked John, touching the end of a small white cylinder protruding from a port beside the blinking key.

  “The message of Pocsym Six,” said the Seven. “Play it if you wish.”

  “How do I eject it?”

  “Pull it.”

  It came out easily. Slipping it into his pocket, John left the tier, beginning the long walk to the deck.

  A sigh followed him.

  Lawrona squatted beside the corsair shuttle, hand on an n-grav nodule. “Still warm,” he said, rising.

  “Kotran’s ahead of us then,” said Detrelna. “And with his original force intact.” He drew his side arm. “Let’s get him.”

  “I will remain with this craft,” said Egg, hovering near the airlock.

  Detrelna shook his head. “You will stay with us. In fact, you’ll take point.”

  “But, Commodore, I have no combat skills.”

  “Do I look like an idiot?” He pointed to where the corridor turned sharply toward the bridge. “Take point.”

  They moved quickly up the corridor, Detrelna behind Egg, Lawrona and Satil off to either side. Unlike most they’d passed, this passageway was lined with doorways—featureless slabs of gray, set deep into the bulkheads. Lawrona briefly tried to open one, but it wouldn’t yield.

  As the three humans and the slaver machine reached the turn, Kotran and his corsairs appeared, stretched out in a long skirmish line. Detrelna hooked his thumbs into his gun belt as both parties faced each other. “You get lost, Kotran?” he asked.

  “A problem with the navigation interlink,” replied the corsair, walking slowly to his right, eyes on Detrelna. “Where’s the rest of your force?”

  “Right behind us,” said Detrelna, aware of Lawrona and Satil edging toward opposite doorways. Hopelessly far from cover, the commodore tried to buy them some time. He had a fleeting vision of his gut-shot body stretched out on the deck. “Your parole’s revoked. You’re under arrest, Kotran,” he said as Lawrona and Satil reached cover. “Have your thugs lay down their arms.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I have a trooper in your shuttle, manning the fusion turret. One of you so much as blinks and he’ll—”

  “Fats is whistling through his asshole,” said Atir. “The airlock’s code-set.”

  Kotran leaned against a doorway, smiling. “Do you remember, Detrelna, when you were going to execute me, and offered me death preferences?”

  Detrelna nodded. “Off Terra Two. Regrettably, events interceded and you butchered your way free.”

  “I’m reciprocating now,” continued the corsair. “Blaster, blade or garrote—your choice.”

  “Lay down your arms,” repeated the commodore.

  “It would be best if you did as the commodore suggests, Captain Kotran,” said Egg. It had been drifting slowly back and now hovered to Detrelna’s right.

  Kotran moved, drew and fired. As with all fine art, it seemed effortless, the blaster blurring into his hand, the deadly red bolts spitting at Detrelna’s heart.

  No gunman, Detrelna had his side arm only half out of its holster when Kotran fired. Golden light filled his eyes. Dead? He wondered for an instant, then understood and ran. Noting the minuscule movements of eye and muscle that signaled attack, Egg had moved into Kotran’s line of fire. The bolts intended for the commodore struck it, exploding in a shower of red and gold sparks. Moving erratically, the machine veered away, distracting the corsair’s fire long enough for Detrelna to reach Lawrona.

  “He’s a deadly shot,” said Detrelna, dropping a corsair with two quick bolts, then ducking the return fire that bracketed the doorway. “Blessings on Egg,” he added.

  The slaver computer had stopped moving. It hovered against a bulkhead, tilted at an odd angle, inert.

  Down the corridor, a blaster in each hand, Satil was engaging Atir and three others as they bobbed in and out of doorways and instrument alcoves, advancing steadily.

  “They’re going to charge, Jaquel,” said Lawrona over the din of shrilling blasters and exploding beams. He snapped off a bolt, then pulled back in, the return fire crashing around him.

  “And wipe us,” said Detrelna, teeth clenched in anger. He shook his head. “Kotran wins here, then the AIs win everywhere and this galaxy dies.”

  The lights went out.

  “Charge!” called Kotran, seizing the moment.

  “Shit,” said Detrelna, firing blind.

  Strobing bursts of blaster fire lit the corridor, disjointed instants of illumination showing the corsairs coming in behind a fierce barrage of red fusion fire.

  Golden blaster bolts crossed with the red as Egg, restored, rushed to meet the corsair charge. The slaver machine was whirling like a top, glowing from the hits it was taking as its thick yellow bolts raked the corsair line. To the three officers, crouching low, the corridor seemed to explode with blaster fire, gouging the battlesteel, sending Lawrona and Detrelna pressing even deeper into the doorway.

  Corsairs and computer met in a blinding thunderburst of red and gold suddenly gone.

  It was dark again, silent except for someone softly moaning. The scents of burnt flesh and scorched metal mingled in the hot dry air.

  “Let’s go,” whispered Lawrona.

  “We’re blind, Hanar,” said the commodore. “No flares, no torches.”

  “No guts, no glory,” said the captain, stepping into the corridor. Say this for the aristocracy, thought Detrelna, following him—they know how to die. The two stumbled forward, red and gold specks still clouding their sight.

  The lights returned as suddenly as they’d gone.

  “Gods,” said Detrelna, looking at the carnage.

  A trail of dead corsairs, bodies burnt and torn, led to where Egg circled, wobbling above a small tumble of corpses, its yellow skin blackened and pocked by blaster hits.

  Egg was mumbling, words that became audible as Detrelna and Lawrona reached it. “Mutinous scum. Death to traitors. Empire and Destiny.” It kept repeating the mad litany.

  Detrelna rapped sharply on the machine, blaster butt ringing on the metal. “Egg!”

  The chanting stopped though not the movement. “Commodore… Detrelna?”

  “Are you badly damaged?”

  “Wait.” The machine jerked to a halt. “Not irreparable,” it said after a long silence. "I’ll have to return to embryonic state for self-regeneration. I can func
tion until we reach Implacable.”

  Satil and Lawrona were finishing a quick survey of the dead. “Kotran and Atir aren’t here,” said the captain.

  “They ran past me,” called a familiar voice, “heading for the bridge. I was cowering out of sight.”

  Startled, the Kronarins turned. “John!” cried Detrelna.

  “With a gift,” said John, holding up the commwand.

  Detrelna snatched it eagerly. “This is it?”

  “That’s it,” nodded the Terran. “Pocsym discoursing on the Trel Cache. What’s that mess?” he asked, pointing to Egg.

  “This mess just saved your companions’ lives,” said Egg primly.

  “Egg has been our guide and guardian through this horror,” said the commodore with a vague wave of his hand.

  “And Telan?” asked Lawrona.

  “In irreversible stasis,” said John. “From this.” He handed the pistol to Lawrona. “You’ll see something familiar there.”

  “The weapon’s not familiar,” said the captain. Turning it around, he saw the triangular device. His eyes lit. “This, though… Terra Two.”

  “Of unpleasant memory,” said John. “The AIs carried that symbol.”

  “Where did you get this?” asked Lawrona, handing it to Detrelna. “Did Telan have it?”

  “This can wait,” interrupted Detrelna. “I want Kotran. Where—”

  “Alert!” called Satil, aiming past them toward the bridge corridor.

  Atir was walking toward them, blaster held limply at her side. Oblivious to her dead shipmates and the leveled weapons, she stopped in front of Detrelna. “May I return to my ship?” she asked dully.

  A face without hope, thought John.

  “That ship belongs to the Fleet from which you stole it,” said Detrelna as Satil took her weapons. “And so do you. You’ll be tried under Fleet Articles of War. I’d cite charges, but we need to leave here before my retirement. Where’s Kotran?”

  Atir looked at Detrelna. She shook her head. “We reached the bridge and the shield was down. Kotran left me at the entrance—he went in alone, commlink open. When he climbed the command tier, they…”

  “The Ractolians?” asked John.

  Atir nodded. “They invited him to take command—something about the AIs and the ship’s cybernetics. Kotran pushed the button they indicated, then nothing for a long time, then a scream…” She looked at them, the shock still in her eyes. “I’ve never heard a human scream like that—it went on and on. I tried to go in, but the shield came back when I moved.”

  “Kotran’s traded ships for the last time,” said Detrelna. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 11

  “You’re both very clever,” said Ragal. His gaze shifted between Qinil and Kiroda. “But,” he raised a finger, “didn’t it occur to you that Telan might have adjusted his life readings to mimic mine?”

  “Absurd,” said Kiroda. “He didn’t know you, had no contact with you. No, I prefer the more direct explanation.”

  “All right,” said Ragal mildly. “So I’m an AI—a combat droid like Telan. Why haven’t I perforated your frail bodies and left? Why didn’t I go with Brother Telan to the mindslaver?”

  “Doing one or the other would end your usefulness,” said Kiroda. “Our acceptance of you as human is probably necessary to your mission. Failing to convince us, you can always try to blast your way out.” He paused. “Perhaps you are a counterintelligence officer—just not a human one.”

  “You’ve taken precautions against my making a dramatic exit?”

  Kiroda nodded. “Except for this room, Sick Bay’s been evacuated. The door to this room and all decks and bulkheads surrounding it are blastpaked. Any disturbance will trigger them.”

  “Even with one of you as hostage?” asked Ragal.

  “With either or both of us as hostage,” said Kiroda.

  Ragal pulled his legs up on the bed and put his arms around them. “Let’s assume, Kiroda, for discussion’s sake, that this fantasy of yours is true. What then?”

  “Assuming it is,” said Kiroda, “I’d like to know what you AIs want. I’d like to know how deeply you’ve infiltrated the Republic. I’d like to know what Telan wants on that mindslaver. But most of all, Ragal, I want that stasis algorithm.”

  “That’s all?”

  There was a stony silence.

  “Very well, Commander,” said Ragal. “I’ll match your small fantasy with a larger one—a tale of death and treachery spanning two universes and a million years. This will take a while—better pull up a chair. You too, Qinil.”

  “What about the algorithm?” asked the commander, not moving.

  “Listen,” said Ragal, “and you’ll understand why Telan might have that algorithm, and why I wouldn’t.”

  Commander Toral stood before an armorglass wall, his survival jacket closed, the hood up, watching Alpha Prime through a pair of small field binoculars. Cursing softly, he lowered and reversed them, using a thickly gloved finger to scrape the skein of ice from the lenses.

  “Anything?” asked Lakan, breath streaming. She sat behind the gray bulk of the ship’s main—and now non-operative—Gunnery Control console, an earpiece tying her into the oblong nexus of a tactical commweb. The little machine’s surface was aglitter with status lights.

  Toral shook his head and raised the binoculars. “You’d think she were some monstrous derelict, except for that damned light.” He trained the binoculars back on the hangar deck entrance. It had flashed on a few moments before—a sudden wash of yellow-white coming from what had been a yawning black pit.

  Toral had been watching ever since, hoping for the welcomed sight of two silver shuttles flashing into space—well, one of them welcomed. “Anything from Commander Kiroda?” he asked, keeping vigil.

  “Still in Sick Bay, with Ragal,” she said.

  “How’re life systems doing?”

  “Still losing ground to the algorithm.” She looked down at her blue-lined notepad. “Bridge and surrounding area is now heated into red zone. Fire snuffers have malfunctioned in hydropics, icing the plant life. Decks four, five and six, sections red five forward aren’t getting recycled air. And it continues snowing on hangar deck.” Lakan looked at the second officer’s back. “Flight Control again requests additional personnel for snow removal.”

  “Denied,” he said. “I’m not pulling crew out of gun harness to sweep snow.”

  “It’s past sweeping stage.”

  “All right,” Toral sighed, lowering the glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Send them whatever commandos are now free from courier duty. Snow removal,” he muttered as Lakan took another status report.

  “Next right,” said Egg. It could no longer fly the shuttle—the firefight had left its light tendrils operable but unreliable. Relegated to giving directions, it sat at the navigator’s station.

  Lawrona tugged the control stalk to the right, sending the shuttle flitting down the same broad ramp they’d ascended on their way their way to the bridge.

  “Commchannels are still jammed,” said Detrelna, tapping off the commlink. “Everything all right back there?” he called through the open cabin door.

  “Fine,” said John. He sat beside Atir, just behind the duralloy ladder to the gun turret.

  The corsair spoke for the first time since they’d left the bridge area. “They’ll hit us before we can get off the ship, Harrison,” she said. “They know we have to leave the way we came in or be exposed to their main batteries. Do you think Fats knows that?”

  “John,” called Detrelna. “Man the turret, please.”

  Atir rose as John left. She moved as far forward as the leg manacles would let her. “Detrelna,” she said, “I can work your forty-fours better than the Terran!”

  “Good,” said the commodore, watching intently as they left the ramp and shot down a corridor. “Hand-eye coordination’s very important in brainwipe rehab. They’ll be starting you off with simple, repetitive tasks—eating, wiping.”
>
  He frowned when she didn’t spit something back, then forgot about it as they reached the sally port.

  “No way, Jaquel,” said Lawrona, bringing the craft to a halt before the sally port. The door was the ruin they’d left it—and the disintegrator pods were on, throwing a shaft of blazing white light into the corridor. The shuttle’s windscreen and turret darkened in response.

  “There’s the Mouth of Hell, Hanar,” said Detrelna, pointing at the entrance. “Where’s hangar deck from here?” he said, turning to Egg.

  “Three decks down,” said the battered machine. “But it has interior weapons batteries. Our nearest and best course would bring us to the end opposite the launch opening. We’d be under heavy fusion fire the length of the deck.”

  “We’ll have to run it,” said Detrelna. “Unless someone has a better idea?”

  No one did. “How do we get there?” asked Lawrona.

  “Retrace our course to—”

  A warning klaxon sounded at the pilot’s station. “Had to happen,” muttered Detrelna as Lawrona flicked off the alarm and brought up the tacscan.

  “Trouble,” called John, arming the guns and swinging the turret about.

  Three small stub-winged interceptors were closing from the rear, moving wingtip to wingtip down the corridor.

  Lawrona took a quick look at them in the rear tacscan, then put the shuttle into full forward. They shot away from the sally portal, blue fusion bolts sizzling after them.

  John slouched in the turret as Lawrona took the shuttle high. Conduits and ventilator shafts flashed by, inches from the armorglass.

  The shuttle dived as blaster fire angled up at them.

  John caught a fighter in his sights. Jamming down the firing stud, he sent a double stream of fusion bolts tearing into the center fighter’s cockpit. The component-manned craft spun to the deck, exploding in a billowing pillar of blue flame.

  As the shuttle passed the next intersection, five more interceptors joined the chase.

  “Captain,” said Egg, “next right.”

  The shuttle whipped into a narrow side corridor, Lawrona cutting their speed at the sight of the armored doors blocking the far end—doors that were buckled and fused shut by congealed rivulets of battlesteel. Battery 43 proclaimed the writing above the door.