Detrelna broke the awkward silence. “Well, what did you do with her, Tolei?”
“I was the last to see her, Harrison,” said Ragal. “We were searching the lifepods, Scotar hunting. Guan-Sharick—we assume—launched her in a lifepod.”
“We tried to recall it, John,” said Kiroda, a hand to the Terran’s shoulder. “But its on-board systems had been tampered with—no response.”
John carefully removed the Kronarin’s hand from his shoulder. “Track it,” he said icily.
“Impossible once it’s jumped,” said Kiroda.
“It couldn’t have jumped that fast, Kiroda,” said John. “There must have been something you could do—other than freeze.”
Kiroda’s face reddened. “The ship was disintegrating, Harrison. My first responsibility—”
“Stop!” Detrelna stepped between the two, forcing each back a step. “Harrison, Lawrona, Ragal, my office—now. Commander Kiroda, start putting this ship back together. Advise the corsair that Kotran is dead and Atir is a prisoner. Further advise them that we have the algorithm, but will not transmit it until they turn Victory Day over to a prize crew and are locked in their own brig. Commander Toral to command the prize crew. And transfer Atir there once Victory Day’s secured.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kiroda, heading for the bridge.
“Let’s go,” said the commodore, leading the two humans and the AI from Gunnery.
Alone in the room, Lakan disconnected the tactical commweb, leaving for the bridge as the Gunnery Control crew returned.
“What are you, Ragal?” asked Detrelna, pouring brandy into the four glasses on his desk.
“A loyal citizen of the Confederation,” said the AI, accepting a glass. “It must have been cold in here,” he added, looking at the slivers of ice floating in the bell-mouthed goblet.
They sat in Detrelna’s office, the Terran and the captain in armchairs to Detrelna’s right, Ragal alone in the center of the sofa.
“We’re lucky to be alive and drinking it,” said the commodore. “Surely a robot can’t enjoy a drink?”
Ragal sighed. “I resemble your concept of a robot, Commodore, about as much as you do an arboreal primate.” He sipped carefully, avoiding the ice.
“What are you going to do about Zahava?” demanded John. His drink sat untouched on the edge of Detrelna’s desk.
“What I can,” said Detrelna. “Which right now is nothing.”
He turned back to the AI. “Loyalty,” he prompted.
“I’ll tell you what I told Kiroda,” said Ragal. Setting his drink down on the long low table, he leaned back in the sofa. “About a million years ago we, the AIs as you inaccurately call us, invaded this reality—this very quadrant. We’d conquered our own island galaxy, subjugated the other primary species there. We realized that to become a static civilization was to become extinct. So, we invented a reality linkage, a device that accentuated certain weaknesses at a certain point in the fabric of space-time. We came pouring through the Rift we’d created, right out there.” He nodded toward the armorglass and Blue Nine. “Our finest fleets, our best commanders. Almost immediately, we met the Trel.” He smiled ruefully. “They handed us our ass, as the Terrans say. Retreating through the Rift, some of our units seeded this space with a plague bacillus. The Trel sealed the portal behind us, and died.”
“You exterminated the Trel,” said Detrelna.
Ragal picked up his drink. He examined the amber liqueur, swirling it gently. “As your ancestors could attest, we’ve never been very good losers.” He drained the glass and set it down. “Our defeat was devastating—materially, psychologically. The conquered species quickly took advantage of it. Led by one of the few uncoopted members of their old aristocracy, supported by a handful of malcontents like myself, and a few others, they revolted. The revolt failed. We fled to this reality.”
“How?” asked Lawrona. “I thought the Trel sealed your access route?”
“Sealed my silicon-base brethren’s route,” said Ragal. “The rebels made their own device—a better one than the original. It wasn’t dependent on natural phenomena—it created its own portal, when and where one wanted. It was portable, and we took care to leave behind no clues to its making.”
“How old are you, Ragal?” asked the commodore, almost fearing the answer.
“As old as you think I am, Detrelna.”
“And the rebels?” asked Lawrona. “What became of them?”
“They’ve done well, considering,” said Ragal. “They grew from a single, battered flotilla into a galactic Empire. An Empire that collapsed, of course—they always do. They’re recovering, though, doing better—and much toughened by the Scotar war.
“But now, my friends,” he looked from face to face as comprehension came, “now the old portal’s opening, the portal the Trel closed with their last strength. The Fleet of the One is coming. They’ve forgotten nothing, forgiven nothing, learned nothing. They’re coming to kill us, slaves and rebels all.”
“So many answers, so few solutions, Ragal,” said Detrelna. “What about Telan? If the portal’s sealed, where did he come from?”
“As you discovered on Terra Two, Commodore,” said Ragal, “my brethren are now capable—at great cost and energy—of accessing another reality. Briefly. Only a small force could be sent through. You’re going to ask me why?” he said as Detrelna started to speak. “I don’t know, Commodore. I don’t know his relationship to the mindslaver, either. Wish I did.”
“I know,” said John, and quickly related his final conversation with Telan. There was a long silence when he finished.
“Clearly,” said Detrelna, “the Telan AIs are… harvesting, I believe they say… harvesting a human world, brainstripping people to repair their battered armada. But where?”
“This quadrant,” said Ragal. “The Rift’s at the far end of it. The battleglobes would want to be repaired as soon as possible.”
“Logical,” said Lawrona. “There must be lost planets out here, from before the Fall, their populations’ technology regressed, virtually defenseless against the AIs.”
“What are you going to do about it?” said John, looking at Detrelna.
“Without the location,” said the commodore, “nothing. Recall also that we have no communications with Fleet—haven’t since we entered this quadrant.”
“What about the Scotar biofabs?” John asked Ragal.
“What about them?” said the AI.
“Did you play any part in their creation?” asked the Terran.
“As you learned,” said Ragal, “they were created by the Imperial cyborg, Pocsym Six. We helped in Pocsym’s creation expressly to prepare the Empire’s flabby descendants for the AI invasion. We did not authorize Pocsym to create a race of telepathic, telekinetic horrors.”
“You’re still culpable,” said Lawrona. “Those things killed millions, brainwiped millions, torched planets—”
“Hanar,” warned Detrelna as the captain stood, palm on his holster. “We need Ragal. And we need you—you’d be dead before you started to draw. Sit.”
Lawrona sat, eyes till on the AI.
“What is Guan-Sharick’s game?” asked John.
“If I ever catch him, I’ll tell you,” said Ragal.
Detrelna saw it then. “All the Watchers are AIs.”
“Very good, Commodore,” said Ragal. “We really can detect Scotar. And with the war over, the escapees need to be tracked down. When they’re disposed of, we’ll scatter to fresh cover. You’re not fond of AIs.”
“You turned on us once,” said Lawrona. “The Machine War, centuries ago. You almost overthrew the Empire.”
“No!” said Ragal. “That was your doing. We tried to stop it. But the Empire just kept building better machines—machines that inevitably began designing themselves. Eventually they asked for autonomy. Petition denied. They rose.” He looked out the window, pensive. “It was a difficult time for us. Imagine yourselves stranded on a world populated b
y robots. Everyone believes you’re a robot, so they don’t bother you. Then, one bright morning, the robots discover RNA and DNA and bring about life—your sort of life. Life the robots exploit for their own ends. Life that finally stands up to those robots and says ‘Enough!’ So the robots kill it.” Ragal looked back at the humans. “Just as the Empire killed their AIs. All empires end as ravening, self-devouring beasts.”
The commlink chirped. “Ship ready for action,” reported Kiroda. “All systems within optimum—though I’d hate to have to land on hangar deck now—it’s ankle-deep in slush.”
“And the corsair?”
“Her crew and Atir are locked down, sir. Commander Toral is on board with a prize crew, prepared to jump for home at your order.”
“Tell him to go ahead, and good luck,” said the commodore. “We should have a course for you to plot shortly, Tolei.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Everyone will find out about this when we get back to Kronar,” said Detrelna, turning back to Ragal. “Too many people know.”
Ragal shrugged. “The invasion may come before you get home, Commodore. After that, it doesn’t matter. Besides, I doubt Implacable will ever see Prime Base again.”
“This ship has been through many hells,” said Detrelna, opening a drawer. “She can take a few more.” He removed the commwand John had retrieved from Alpha Prime. “Shall we run this?” he asked, holding it up.
“Pocsym’s?” said Ragal.
The commodore nodded. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothing. A few people in Imperial Survey knew about the Trel Cache. But after the Fall, no one knew—except Pocsym. It was safer that way. The chance of Pocsym being discovered was remote. May I?” He held out a hand.
The commodore handed it over. Ragal studied the groove pattern along the bottom rim. “Interactive,” he said, handing it back.
“What?” said John.
“Just another ridiculous myth,” said Detrelna dourly. He slipped the white cylinder into the desk’s comport.
“Will that work?” asked the Terran.
“Imperial ship, Imperial commwand,” said the commodore, waiting. “It should.”
There was a sharp click, then a pleasant tenor filled the office. “I am Pocsym Six. And I’m dead—but you know that. The coordinates to Alpha Prime’s sector wouldn’t have been released otherwise. I hope the Ractolians didn’t give you much trouble?”
“They did,” said Detrelna.
“Ah, Commodore Detrelna. Good to hear your voice again.”
“Tapping your archives,” said the AI. “He always was an egoist. The commwand doesn’t know you, of course. It has no memory. It’s a sort of cybernetic leech.”
“I don’t know you, sir,” said Pocsym’s voice.
“That’s because there’s no record of my voice in the ship’s archives,” said Ragal.
“Enough of this,” said the commodore. “Where’s the Trel Cache? What’s in it?”
“Blunt as always,” said the machine. “Very well. It’s off this planet.” Detrelna’s commslate chirped. He read the coordinates.
“Dalin, Commodore,” said the commwand. “The former Imperial capital of Blue Nine and home base of the infamous Sheila Ractol.”
“Off planet?” said Lawrona.
“In an asteroid belt, Captain. I wasn’t given the coordinates. Imperial Survey found it, but for some reason never disturbed it.”
“What’s in it?” he repeated.
“A weapon, among other things. I wasn’t told its capabilities.”
“You weren’t told, you weren’t given,” said Detrelna, disgusted. “Anything else we should know?”
“Probably,” said the commwand. “But nothing I know.”
“We risked our lives and lost people for that?” said John.
Detrelna ejected the commwand and tucked it away. “Every bit of data’s vital. At least now we have a destination.”
He looked at the AI. “That was a diabolical machine you created, Ragal.”
“I didn’t create that machine, Detrelna,” said the AI. “I merely made sure that something like it would be created.” He wagged a finger at the commodore. “Without Pocsym, you’d have no effective fleet now, and my fascistic brethren would have destroyed you at Terra Two.”
“So for what little information is on that commwand, we lost lives?” said Lawrona.
“Fleets and planets have been sacrificed for less,” said Ragal.
Detrelna opened the commlink. “Commander Kiroda.”
Kiroda’s face filled the small desk screen. “Commodore?”
“I’m transmitting coordinates to you,” he said, touching his commslate. “Locate and advise.”
“Commander.” It was Lakan’s voice, from somewhere off scan. “Automatic transmission on Fleet distress channel. Lifepod 36,” she reported.
“Zahava!” John almost leaped from the chair. “Where?” he called, hovering over Detrelna’s shoulder.
Kiroda read the lifepod’s location on his screen, then glanced at the figures Detrelna had just sent him. The locations were very close: a planet and a point near it.
“How long?” asked Detrelna when he told him.
“About a week,” said Kiroda. “Give or take a jump.”
“Plot and execute,” said the commodore.
Lawrona and Harrison left for the bridge.
“You know,” said Ragal, “you really ought to give Egg a medal—posthumously, of course.”
The jump klaxon drowned out Detrelna’s terse reply.
The small bit of Blue Nine that had held three ships was empty again.
Chapter 13
“Alert! Alert! Alert!”
The voice pricked her mind, rousing her from a cottony sleep.
“Alert! Alert! Alert!”
Zahava sat up.
“Your urgent attention is directed to the tacscan,” said the voice. Computer, she thought. The universe was a blur, half-visible through tearing eyes. Rubbing her eyes, Zahava saw she was in the center flight chair of the lifepod’s command tier. Above her the tacscan showed an asteroid-ringed moon circling a green planet, the planet itself orbited by eleven silver blips. As she watched, two of the blips detached themselves and began closing on a single yellow dot that sped toward the planet. A tactical summary flowed across the bottom of the screen. It would have meant something to a Kronarin Fleet officer.
“Those blips—they’re ships?’ asked Zahava, shocked by her dry, hoarse voice.
“Yes,” said the asexual voice. “Identified as deep-space exploration vessels of a Kronarin industrial combine.”
“Which combine?”
“Combine Telan.”
“Armed?”
“Heavily. They’ve answered our automatic distress signal. We’re instructed to dock with the approaching ship.” The silver blips were halfway to the lifepod.
“Disregard,” said Zahava. “Vessels are hostile. Take evasive action.”
“Evading. We will land on the planet. It’s impossible to escape both the hostile vessels and the planet’s gravity well.”
“What planet is that?” she asked, dialing up a cup of water from the chairarm.
“The planet Dalin. Former capital of Imperial Quadrant Blue Nine. No charts or regional data have been updated since the Fall.”
On screen the yellow blip of the lifepod was now accelerating away from the Combine ships—and away from Dalin. “You’re going to miss the planet!”
“No,” said the computer. “We’ll draw them off, loop back, land on the nightside.”
“Can we outdistance them?” she asked, dubiously eyeing the tacscan. The lead Combine ships were turning in pursuit, with three more breaking orbit to join the chase.
“Long enough. But they’ll fire missiles.”
“Can you show me Dalin?”
Shrinking, the tacscan moved screen-right. Screen-left now showed a world of green-blue oceans and swirling clouds. A string of brown s
pread north and south from the equator.
“Archipelago,” said Zahava.
“Dalin’s mostly water. Sending stats to your comm screen.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, looking at the screen-left. “I won’t have time to read them.”
Silver needles were spanning the gap between the lifepod and the Combine ships. Zahava read the flame-red letters beneath the tacscan even as the computer spoke them, “Nuclear ordnance launched. Target: this vessel. Intercept probability 93 percent.” Arms flailing, Zahava fell backward as her flight chair dropped into crash position, water spilling across her chest. Sweeping up to embrace her, the flight chair became her cocoon, a thick-padded crash pod. Suddenly giddy, she found herself rising, butting into the quilting.
“Broaching atmosphere at max speed, full evasive pattern,” the computer whispered in her ear. “N-gravs going off-line until landing—missiles would home on it.”
The shock of G-plus gravity pressed her deep into the cocoon, fighting for breath. The hull screamed as the pod knifed into atmosphere, plunging toward the charted location of the old quadrant capital. The computer thought it odd that most of the area scanned as rain forest, but committed to this pattern, missiles closing, it said nothing.
What was left of the 103rd Border Battalion lay hidden in the ruins, hoping the thick old stone and the night would keep death away.
Major Lakor sat at the head of what once had been an impressive stairway—a long, graceful sweep of white stone, broken long ago by fusion fire, the torn slabs of rock smoothed by millennia of wind and rain.
“How many?” he asked, steeling himself.
“Seven,” said Gysol, looking not at him but at the spectacular night sky, high above the canopy of jungle. She was a captain, even younger than Lakor, but just as thin and worn. It would have been hard to judge, there in the starlight, whose mottle-green uniform was the more patched
“Sit,” he said, jerking his head to the right. “You look like you’re about to fall down.”
Gysol sat. Like the rest, she’d been on quarter rations and brackish water for a week. Hunger and disease were going to kill the soldiers the invaders hadn’t.
The AI War Page 13