The AI War

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The AI War Page 22

by Stephen Ames Berry


  “Sure?” whispered John.

  The captain nodded. “According to Ragal—all according to Ragal.” He turned to his troop. “With me.”

  They came around the corner, firing, a line of warsuited humans rushing the blades.

  Three commandos died in seconds, torn by perfectly aimed blaster fire; then the blades went down, blown apart. Their pieces were still skidding along the deck as Satil slapped the blastpak against the door and joined the others pressed against the wall.

  The door disappeared in a burst of orange flame, explosion reverberating down the long corridor. Charging into the room, the humans gunned down a pair of cybertechs trying to hide behind the equipment banks..

  “Which one?” said John, looking around the big room as the rest of the force fanned back out into the corridor.

  “Here,” said Lawrona, leading him to a group of five yellow-colored machines standing slightly apart from the rest. Snapping open an inspection panel, he was greeted by a glittering web of multicolored light, thousands of delicate strands busily maintaining Devastator’s shield.

  He set a flat metal device atop one of the yellow machines. “Found a connection point,” said the captain, gently fingering a glowing relay strand. “Pass me the suppressor.”

  As John turned, reaching for the device, a blaster bolt snapped past his chest and plowed into the console, just missing his hand and shattering the suppressor.

  Whirling, John drew and fired, destroying a third cybertech who’d lain hidden behind a machine housing.

  Lawrona and John stood looking at the shattered bits of the suppressor.

  “Now what?” asked the Terran.

  “There’s a manual override,” said the Kronarin. “It’s only temporary.” He looked at the time. “Time enough for the boats.”

  “What about the ship?”

  “We can’t wait here. We’ll have to do that the hard way. When I say to, push this button,” he indicated a red control. John nodded as Lawrona walked to the end machine and stood, finger poised above an identical button. “Now,” he called.

  Their fingers fell in unison. Four of the five consoles died, lights winking off.

  “Did it work?” asked Satil as they reappeared, not taking her eyes from the corridor.

  “We’ll know soon,” said Lawrona, glancing at the time. “On to our secondary target.”

  The small force moved out on the double, following Lawrona back toward the lift.

  The alarm was deafening, fit for the end of the universe. The AI on shield control glanced at the telltale, tapped it, then again. The readout was unchanged. “Captain,” he called, “confirming shields down. Someone’s cut the fusion flow in shield nexus seventeen.”

  The warning was unnecessary. All Operations personnel were looking up through the armorglass—the blue glow that protected them was gone.

  “Reaction force and repair party dispatched,” reported the senior security blade.

  “Much it will help us,” said the AI captain. He moved to the glass wall. “Why are we still alive?”

  “Enemy withdrawing,” came the report a second later.

  The battlescreen showed the two mindslavers moving off, replaced by a handful of smaller craft.

  The captain hovered immobile, not trusting his sensors. Finally he spoke. “They’re boarding us,” he said in wonderment. “Fusion batteries to open fire. All security forces deploy to repel boarders.”

  Ragal told them they couldn’t take the battleglobe’s primary generating facility—too big, too well guarded. But…

  There were two primary feeds leading off a tertiary power nexus. That nexus, Ragal had said, powered the gun and missile batteries in quadrants seven red through eleven yellow—the only quadrants that could accurately range in on the assault boats’ attack vector.

  “How long since you’ve been aboard a battleglobe, Ragal?” Detrelna had asked.

  “Irrelevant, Commodore,” the AI had said. “I forget nothing.”

  “And if they’ve changed the design?”

  “They won’t have. Arrogance begets stupidity.”

  “Pull,” said Lawrona, gritting his teeth and tugging on the thick floor plate. Grunting with effort, he, John and Satil finally pried it loose. Sliding it aside, the three looked down into the conduit—and flinched, covering their eyes. Two thick crystalline lines blazed like sunlight—energy feeding the guns.

  “Do it,” said Lawrona.

  Satil dropped two blastpaks into the conduit.

  “Run!” shouted Lawrona, making for the access stairs.

  “Blades!” cried a voice as they reached the door.

  They came swooping in from both ends of the corridor, blue and red bolts snapping at the retreating commandos. A withering counterfire met them as Satil and her two squads opened fire. The corridor became bedlam: blasters shrilling, fusion bolts exploding into walls, floors, men and machines, commandos screaming, blades crashing in flames.

  John and two troopers knelt in the doorway, firing at a trio of blades that had broken through the cordon. Hit, a blade wobbled, turned and exploded into the ceiling. Retreating, the center machine accelerated through its companion’s showering debris. Dropping level with the floor, the blade kept coming and firing.

  The trooper to John’s left died, shot through the heart.

  Cursing, the Terran aimed two-handed and held the trigger back, sending the rest of the chargpak tearing into the machine, leaping aside as it reached the doorway.

  Smoke streaming behind it, the blade knifed through the other trooper, neatly decapitating her, then plowed into the ramp, a brief pillar of flame narrowly missing Lawrona and the rest of the commandos.

  The trooper’s blood soaking him, John watched transfixed as the headless corpse stood for an instant, crimson geyser ebbing, then folded into a soft pile of clothes and flesh.

  Satil and three troopers raced through the doorway, securing it behind them with a well-placed shot to the control unit.

  “More of them right behind us,” she said to Lawrona.

  “No one else left?” said the captain.

  Satil shook her head.

  Blasters shrilled and the door began to glow white.

  “Let’s go,” said Lawrona. “Up three levels, then we do it.”

  The troopers ran up the three long, spiraling levels, then halted as the captain raised his hand. “Take cover against the wall.” he ordered, risking a quick look over the ramp. The door below was blazing scarlet now, soon to give.

  Stepping back, Lawrona took a flat black detonator from his pocket, armed it and pressed the firing stud.

  Whoomp! Everyone went sprawling as the explosion buckled the wall.

  Picking himself up, John joined the others looking down over the ramp’s edge. Where they’d been was now a wreck, the ramp compressed to half its original width by the great bulge of the corridor wall thrown against it, the wall holed in a dozen places. As the humans watched, a stream of raw white energy began eating through the holes, enlarging them.

  “Pure epsilon energy,” said Lawrona. “Everyone out!”

  The explosion had jammed the door on their current level, and the one above. “Try it,” said Lawrona at the third door, worriedly eyeing the hazard monitor on his wrist.

  Its lock worked by the blade of Satil’s knife, the door gave with a sigh. Securing it behind them, the humans ran from the smoke, flame and deadly river of hard radiation pouring up the ramp.

  “Saboteurs have destroyed seven red through eleven yellow fusion feed,” reported the Gunnery officer. “We have no batteries within effective range of the assault craft.”

  “Fire missiles,” said the captain, looking out the armorglass. He could see their attackers now—nine small stars falling toward the Operations tower.

  “Too close,” said the gunnery officer. “We’ll blow ourselves up.”

  Overhead, the shield came back on, a false sky of blue, its light gleaming off the nine tiny silver ships beneath
it.

  “Shield restored,” reported the engineering officer. “We have a fire on level one four nine, initiated by sabotage of a tertiary fusion feed. Fusion feed has been diverted, fire coming under control.”

  The captain looked at the battlescreen. Nine enemy ships destroyed, forty-seven AI battleglobes either disabled or destroyed. The rest of the battleglobes were scattering, pursued by mindslavers that tore at their shields with beam and missile. The last flurry of messages received from the acting flotilla commander had been to disengage, then a general retreat order, then a distress call directed toward home, suddenly gone.

  “This is the first battle we’ve lost since the Revolt,” said the captain, drifting between the consoles. “The enemy is determined to have this ship. We’ll deny him that. Designated emergency personnel only will direct operations. All others to reinforce security units.”

  Zahava hated the assault boats: you hung in the webbing like a slaughtered animal, seeing only the gray bulkhead, the pilot too busy to advise you. The waiting and uncertainty were interminable agony, relieved by the sudden blaring of the assault klaxon; then, before you had time to be scared, the webbing released, the sides dropped and you were stumbling down the ramp followed by half a hundred other screaming fools.

  It was the same this time.

  She was on an endless plane of metal, a gray-white landscape overhung by a shimmering blue sky. The plane was broken by an endless array of sensor clusters and the great slitted humps of weapons turrets, guns silent now, their crews gone to join the counterattack.

  The attack closed quickly on the landing zone. Zahava stood transfixed, watching as hundreds of blades advanced above a long line of spherical and human-adapted AIs.

  “Fire!” called Zahava, throwing herself prone as blaster bolts snapped in. Rocking up, she placed the M32’s butt on her shoulder, caught a blade in the sight and fired. Not waiting to see if it was hit, she moved to the next target and the next, trying to hit the constantly shifting AIs.

  Around her Dalinians and Kronarins were firing from behind the hull’s thick sensors, while over their heads flashed the heavy red bolts of Mark 44s, blasting away from the assault boat turrets.

  “The blades,” she’d told the gunners back on Implacable. “Concentrate on the blades. They’re the toughest and most dangerous.”

  The Mark 44s turned it around, breaking the AIs’ charge as it threatened to sweep over the thin human line.

  With flawless precision, the AIs withdrew toward the tower, breaking into smaller units, each unit covering the next until all were gone. Burnt and burning AIs lay everywhere.

  “After them!” called Zahava, scrambling to her feet. Rifle at port, she started after the enemy, hoping the others were following, but not daring to look.

  “This ship work now, Mr. Natrol?” demanded Detrelna as the engineer stepped onto the bridge.

  Natrol nodded, sinking into the empty captain’s chair. His eyes were bloodshot, his uniform streaked with dirt and he smelled. “She works,” he said wearily. “She needs a port overhaul, but she works.”

  “Excellent,” nodded the commodore.

  Natrol sat up at something in Detrelna’s voice. “You’re taking her into the fight?”

  “No,” said Detrelna, looking at the tacscan. “Not if all goes according to plan.”

  “Message from Alpha Prime, Commodore,” said Lakan.

  “What is it?”

  “‘Enemy retreating. Am pursuing. Will rendezvous as planned. Luck.’”

  “Acknowledge, please,” he said, watching the last of the target blips save one disappear from the tacscan

  “Should I add ‘Luck’?”

  “Luck helps only the living.”

  “Window coming up, Commodore,” said Kiroda.

  “Window?” said Natrol, standing. “As in launch window?” he glanced at the tacscan. “This moon’s almost on top of that battleglobe!”

  “Indeed,” said Detrelna, swiveling his chair toward the first officer. “Battle stations, Mr. Kiroda. Upship and close with target.”

  Battle klaxon sounding, Implacable rose from the ruined base and headed at speed toward Devastator.

  Lawrona and John whirled at the sound of a throat clearing.

  “Easy, gentlemen.” Ragal stepped into the corridor.

  The other two lowered their weapons.

  “Judging from the commotion topside, our assault force has landed. Did you set the shield trip?”

  Lawrona shook his head. “It was lost.”

  Ragal stared at them, stunned. “Implacable will be destroyed.”

  “We’re going to take their Operations area and lower the shield from there.”

  Ragal shook his head. “You should have just blown the shield unit up.”

  “Why?” said Lawrona angrily. “You said they’d just replace it.”

  “True. How many are you?”

  The captain turned and whistled twice. Satil and two commandos appeared. They carried another trooper between them, his head swathed in bandages.

  “That’s it?” said the AI.

  “They chewed us up, bit by bit, before we lost them,” said John.

  “Six of you to attack the bridge of an AI battleglobe?” said Ragal.

  “To attack it and take it,” said Lawrona with more conviction than he felt.

  “And the security posts? You can’t storm them with this pathetic force.”

  “We were going to face that when we got there,” said John. “You have a better idea?”

  Ragal nodded. “Yes. Watch.”

  At first nothing happened, then the AI’s form began to soften, contours shrinking into a blue-red blur that quickly reformed into a smaller, more compact shape: a security blade hovered before them, baleful red sensor scan shifting along its deadly front edge.

  “Just hope the security posts are as convinced as you,” said Ragal as six blasters pointed at him.

  “My God!” said John. “Can you change into any of those?”

  “I can change into any of me,” said Ragal. “Into any of the various evolutions I’ve gone through, down the centuries. Now, please leave the wounded man here, along with one attendant, and your rifles. Tuck those M11As into your jackets.”

  “Weapons sensors?” asked John, stuffing the blaster into his belt and refastening his jacket.

  “Leave them to me,” said Ragal. “Along with all else, until we reach the heart of Operations—then open up.”

  “Blades,” hissed Satil as five of the killers rounded the corner in a tight phalanx.

  “Prisoners in custody,” said Ragal, switching languages.

  “You took them alone?” said the phalanx leader, stopping in front of Ragal.

  “My comrades were destroyed,” said Ragal. “These,” he dipped toward the humans, “are for interrogation. Captain’s orders.”

  “Well done,” said the true blade. “We’re going to the surface—the humans have forced a landing.” With that they were gone.

  “Deadly, efficient, but not as complex as they once were,” sighed Ragal, turning to the humans. “Very well. Straight up the corridor to the lift. Keep in front of me, please. I don’t want to have to kill any of you. What expressions! And try to look defeated.”

  Chapter 22

  Lakor dived for cover, landing next to Zahava behind the shelter of a gun turret.

  “Where is everyone?” said Zahava as the Dalinian low-crawled over to her, rifle atop his arms.

  “Second and third squads are on our left,” he said, sitting up to rest against the turret’s gray battlesteel. “I sent a scout to find three through eight. She hasn’t come back.”

  Communications were gone, tac channels a hopeless whine of high-powered jamming.

  “And first squad?” said Zahava.

  “We’re it.”

  “Where’s Solat?”

  “Scouting.”

  Zahava rose, risking a look. The fog was as thick as before—a slimy yellow cloud hangi
ng between the humans and the Operations tower, its mast light a dimly visible green through the murk.

  First had come the fog—a highly toxic nerve gas—then the blades had returned, silently hunting amid the thick poison, sensors unimpaired. They’d devastated the humans’ advance: swooping, slicing and running, gone before the survivors could shoot. The assault had wavered, then scattered, breaking for cover. And the blades continued to hunt.

  Zahava and Lakor turned, rifles aiming at something materializing out of the fog. It was Solat.

  The lieutenant sank down between them. “They’re killing us one by one,” she said.

  Both Dalinians looked at Zahava. “Retreat?” said the Terran. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Yes,” nodded Solat. “Back to the boats.”

  “We’ll never make it,” said the Terran.

  “Can’t stay here, can’t go back,” said Lakor. He stood. “Forward.”

  The blade knifed out of the fog, sliced off Lakor’s head and was gone, a tumbling corpse in its wake. The major’s head rolled from its helmet, coming to rest against a sensor pod, the eyes wide, surprised. Blood was everywhere.

  “Don’t puke!” snapped Zahava, seeing Solat’s face. “You’ll jam the suit recycler.”

  The lieutenant looked away, biting her lip. “What was he saying?” she asked, after a moment. “About not staying here?”

  “He was saying we have to go forward, or they’ll finish us,” said the Terran.

  Zahava took the battletorch from her belt, flicked it on and then twisted the forward rim until the beam contracted into a blue globe of light, too bright to look on. Rifle on her hip, torch held high, the Terran stepped from cover and begin walking toward the Operations tower.

  Solat caught up with her a second later, her own torch held high, rifle ready. By the time they’d reached the next turret, more troopers had fallen in beside them, torches alight, rifles ready.

  They moved silently forward, a long thin line of blazing light cutting a swath through the yellow death. When the blade sorties came, they met them with massed fusion fire, beating them back into the mist.

 

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