Jon shook his head.
“Sabotage?” the Centurion asked.
“Don’t know yet.”
The Centurion studied Jon’s face. “Care to hear my opinion, sir?”
Jon nodded again.
“This is more than a spaceship. It’s like a huge space station. We’ve charted…I’m not sure how much of it.”
“Forty-two percent of the ship area and thirty-three percent of the systems,” Jon said promptly. “There’s more we don’t know about the…warship than what we do know.”
Jon had almost said cybership. But two months ago they had agreed amongst themselves to call it a warship.
“Maybe rogue robots are aboard the ship,” the Centurion said softly.
Or maybe Da Vinci wasn’t really cured, Jon thought to himself.
During the initial marine assault on the central brain core, the regiment had found an interesting side-area that held brain-tap machines. Those machines could suck out memories and engrams, or insert them into a person’s brain. Da Vinci had quietly hooked up to one of the units and self-inserted alien brain-patterns from someone who called himself the “Prince of Ten Worlds.”
Bast Banbeck, the green-skinned Sacerdote they’d freed from a containment field, had known about brain-tap machines. Bast had done what he could to “erase” the alien memories from Da Vinci’s mind. The little Neptunian thief and scoundrel had been under watch for the last four months. Even so, Jon suspected the thief as a potential reason for the present weightlessness.
“You and I should hurry back, sir,” the Centurion said. “I can leave the acting corporal in charge here. Some of these boys are pretty clumsy in zero G. I wouldn’t want to have to depend on their traveling speed.”
Colonel Graham had always taught them that a few good men were better than having many mediocre soldiers.
“Give the order, Sergeant.”
The Centurion saluted and turned to his scattered recruits. As the small professional gave curt orders, Jon debated on the correct action. They needed knowledge. That meant communications.
Jon went through a mental image of the ship’s layout in this area.
The Centurion regarded him.
“Ready?” Jon asked.
“I am, sir.”
“Then let’s quit screwing around. The more I think about it, the more I believe this is sabotage.”
“Robot or human?” the Centurion asked.
Jon suppressed an inward shudder. If it were robot, the Centurion’s stitch-gun wouldn’t help any. Either way—
“Come on,” Jon said. “Follow me.”
-3-
Jon and the Centurion entered a chamber devoid of people but containing various items on shelves and tables. He buckled a holster around his waist. It held a gyroc pistol. The sidearm fired big, spin-stabilized rocket-shells.
Most of the pistol’s weight came from the heavy shells. The low stress of the initial shot allowed this. The main speed came from the rocket embedded in the shell, the hissing often hard to localize during a fight. The pistol held a three-round magazine.
Jon removed the magazine, with the Centurion providing the light. These were APEX rounds: Armor-Piercing EXplosive. Each of these had a big motor, a maximally streamlined shell around a super-hard penetrator packed with a delay fuse and explosives.
Jon shoved the magazine back into place, activating the safety while slipping the pistol into its holster. He attached more magazines to the belt. Afterward, he found and donned an MP helmet with a headlamp, adjusting the chinstrap so it fit comfortably.
The Centurion picked up different gear, including a vibroblade. Such a weapon vibrated a thousand times a second, making it many times more dangerous than even the very sharpest of static-bladed weapons.
“Here we go,” Jon said. He picked up a comm unit, flicked it on with his thumb and put it to his ear. He couldn’t believe it. He heard growling noises. He passed the comm unit to the Centurion.
“Jamming,” he said after listening for a second.
“That nails it,” Jon said. “This is sabotage.”
“Ship-wide?”
“We’ll work off that assumption until we know otherwise.”
The Centurion nodded curtly.
Jon had a decision to make. He had a feeling this was a coup. His gut told him this was a robotic takeover of the warship. That might still mean Da Vinci, who could have decided to work with or use robotic devices.
One of the best defenses against a coup was to react with speed and ruthlessness. Jon’s decision was whether he should act against the aggressor as quickly as possible or if he should don a battlesuit first. The space-marine battlesuits were several kilometers from where he was now. He would feel safer in a suit—
“Come on,” Jon said. “We’re heading for the engine area.”
“But sir—”
“I know what you’re thinking. We should suit up first. But what if an alien AI is behind this?”
The Centurion shook his head, failing to take Jon’s meaning.
“The engines are offline, and there’s no gravity,” Jon said. “What if the thing doesn’t want to take over? What if it wants to destroy the warship?”
“For what reason?”
“To stop us,” Jon said.
The Centurion’s gaze seemed to flatten out. “You’re talking about triggering the ship’s self-destruction.”
“We could already be out of time,” Jon said.
The Centurion’s jaw muscles bulged.
“Come on,” Jon said, sailing for the hatch. He felt sick inside, wondering if all his grand dreams were about to die in a titanic explosion.
-4-
“Up ahead, Captain,” the Centurion whispered.
The two Black Anvils had sailed through empty corridors, daring to pick up velocity.
Jon slid his gloved hands against the bulkheads flashing past, using friction to slow down. With his helmet-lamp providing light, Jon soon studied a closed hatch. It led into the ship’s vast engine area. He tried to move the latch, but it was frozen in place.
“Let’s both try,” Jon said.
They anchored their feet and strained, but the latch refused to budge.
“Locked,” the Centurion said.
“If we had the tools, we could burn through.”
“There’s another entrance…two kilometers from here.”
Jon bit his lower lip as his gut curdled. It felt like time was running out.
“Let’s do it,” Jon said, shoving away with practiced skill.
Once a person became good at zero-G maneuvering, he or she could travel much faster than by sprinting in gravity. The only real determinant was the amount of risk one wished to invoke. There was no inertia naturally slowing one down, as one would experience if he tried to swim in a pool. If he kept pushing off, adding to his velocity, he could theoretically continue to accelerate indefinitely in zero G.
The twisting of his gut compelled Jon to push harder and harder as he picked up speed. Soon, the stinging of his eyes and his whipping hair told him he was going faster than he’d ever attempted.
The Centurion practiced greater caution, falling farther and farther behind.
If Jon dashed his brains out trying to slow down later, or couldn’t take a turn well enough, the Centurion could always finish this. One of them had to risk everything in order to stop the coup—if it was a coup. Jon believed himself responsible. All eight hundred plus regimental lives, all 40 billion humans in the Solar System, would likely live or die depending on whether humans could repair the former cybership. If they could, maybe they could learn to face the coming onslaught. The logic was simple. If one cybership had come to the Solar System, more would come eventually. In that event, humanity had to be ready to beat off every alien assault.
Jon no longer pushed himself faster. He gauged the next turn in the corridor. He would have liked more light than just his helmet-lamp.
As the turn rushed up, Jon readied himself, his heart hammer
ing with anticipation. He braced his body, shoved hard and grunted explosively. It felt like he’d just bench-pressed three hundred pounds. Luckily, he made the needed turn and continued to sail down the corridor.
The other hatch now loomed near.
He used friction as he’d done earlier to slow his advance. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to stop in time. He’d pass the hatch, and that would give the coup attempters more time.
Jon grabbed at protrusions. He nearly wrenched his shoulder out of the socket. Clenching his teeth, he tried again.
Explosive pain made him groan. His right shoulder throbbed, but he slowed.
Jon no longer looked back to see if the Centurion followed. Despite the agony caused by his injured shoulder, he hardened himself as he dialed up his determination. He had to eliminate the threat.
As he got closer, his fears intensified. What if the hatch doesn’t open? What if I did this for nothing? Thirty seconds later, he was floating before the hatch. Letting his right arm dangle, he tested the latch with his left hand.
The metal prong moved. Something clicked in the hatch. Slowly, he opened the access-way, flashing his lamplight into an otherwise dark engine-area corridor.
He tried to grab his gyroc. Agony in his shoulder made him flinch. He’d torn something. Reaching crossways, he used his left hand and awkwardly drew the pistol. He was a mediocre left-handed shooter at best.
He used his feet, drifting through the hatch, picking up speed as he used his left elbow and the back of his left hand to propel himself.
He debated shutting off the helmet-lamp. Sailing in the dark in a small corridor with only one good arm seemed foolish. The light might give him away. But that was better than accidentally knocking himself unconscious.
He hadn’t heard the Centurion enter the corridor yet. The professional could be as soft-footed as a thief, but he doubted the older man had caught up yet.
Jon negotiated the corridors. Every time he’d been in this part of the ship before, the matter/antimatter engines had been running with a steady thrum.
I should have bumped into someone by now.
A chill began at his tailbone and worked its way up his spine to his neck. How could this have happened? He’d thought security had been good.
Jon vowed that if he managed to survive the coup, he would double down on security. He would never give someone a chance to take them out like this again.
He didn’t know this was sabotage. But if he were wrong about that, it wouldn’t hurt him.
Other than pulling my shoulder.
If he was right about this being sabotage, though…
Jon stiffened, drifting silently, straining to hear what he thought he’d just heard. It had been a scraping noise, and it had come from up ahead.
With his chin, he clicked off the helmet-lamp. He saw the half-open hatch ahead. An emergency light glowed dimly red above it. The access-way led into an engine control area. It seemed ominous that no light shined from inside.
He shifted his grip on the gyroc. Slowly, with grim determination, he moved his right arm and almost yelled at the sharp pain. He was one-armed for now, and that was that.
He grunted softly as his left shoulder struck the edge of the hatch. That made noise. The enemy must have heard him, as Jon again heard soft scraping sounds definitely coming from in there.
He used his legs, feet and left arm to ease through the hatch. He flinched as something wet touched his cheek.
Heart hammering, Jon lowered himself, itching to fire but realizing he needed a target first. He listened. He didn’t hear anything, but the hairs on the back of his neck stirred. He felt a presence. His tongue had become dry.
You fool. If he faced a robot, it could be using thermal vision or infrared to watch him.
With his chin, he switched on the helmet-lamp. Jon’s eyes bulged and the air whooshed from his lungs. He couldn’t believe it. This was his worst fear realized…
-5-
Jon stared at a floating Black Anvil technician. The carcass was fat. That was the only way he could tell it was the chief tech with the formerly thick sideburns. Someone or something had ripped off the man’s face.
Blood globules floated in the air. That was what had touched Jon’s cheek a few seconds ago. He used the back of his left gloved hand to wipe his face. The glove came away red-stained.
The way the carcass floated, the way blood globules drifted everywhere indicated that the thing that had torn away the chief’s face had done it during weightlessness. If the thing had killed the chief earlier, the blood wouldn’t have scattered everywhere.
Jon held the gyroc stiffly, scanning the large chamber. The controls were dark—off. Nothing indicated power.
What should he do? Killing the chief confirmed a coup attempt. Could a robot be in the process of attempting to blow up the Nathan Graham?
Jon forced himself to concentrate. He moved the light in arcs, scrutinizing everything for another clue. He did not see any smashed machinery or controls. He did not—
A soft sound alerted him. He moved his head, washing a hatch in the light of the helmet-lamp. The sound had come from there.
Jon opened his mouth to issue a warning. Instead, he pushed off, floating toward the hatch. He recognized that it led into a storage compartment.
He kept the lamplight centered on the hatch. He could fire a rocket shell. If a robot was hiding in there—
“Come out,” Jon said. “If you don’t come out, I’m killing you. If that doesn’t make sense, I’m going to destroy you.”
Nothing happened. It was—
The latch moved. A shaky-voiced man squeaked, “Don’t shoot! Please, don’t shoot. It’s me, Da Vinci.”
Da Vinci?
A grim certainty washed over Jon. As he’d suspected, the little thief had something to do with this. He should have known. He should have shot the scoundrel four months ago. A good man had died because he—Jon Hawkins—had been too squeamish. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
“Please, please,” Da Vinci said, as he slowly opened the hatch.
Jon almost pulled the trigger as the Neptunian floated into view.
Da Vinci was wearing a tech’s coveralls. He was small, scruffy and shifty-eyed. He had hunched shoulders and the manner of a rat constantly rubbing its paws as it sized up what to steal. The Neptunian had thin, twitchy fingers, perfectly completing the rat image.
Da Vinci wasn’t a dome rat like Jon and his gang-buddies in New London had been. They had been cunning and bold. The Neptunian was a different species; safety-conscious, yes, clever, yes, but with a gifted eye toward survival.
“Why were you in there?” Jon demanded.
Da Vinci’s fingers trembled, which seemed to travel up his arms and to his body. He shook as tears leaked from his eyes. They were horribly red-rimmed and redlined.
Jon scanned the man carefully, visually searching for a weapon. He wanted to kill the traitor. He couldn’t believe the little thief—
“I know what you’re thinking,” Da Vinci said in a teary voice. “But it’s wrong, Captain. Dead wrong. I’m—”
“Shut up.”
Da Vinci’s teeth clicked together as he hastened to obey. That didn’t last, though.
“Captain…you’re not going to believe this.”
Jon didn’t want to listen. He knew this was a trick to get him to lower his guard. He should fire and get this over with—
“What do you mean?” Jon asked. If the thief possessed truth that could help him save the warship, he needed to hear it.
The Neptunian paused as something washed over him. The shaking lessened.
Guile. That’s what Jon saw.
“If you don’t start talking,” Jon warned, “I’ll kill you. Don’t try to spin lies, either. Just give it to me straight.”
Da Vinci bobbed his head up and down. “Straight, straight, yes. I’ll give it to you straight. It came in here. It surprised us—”
“What were you do
ing in here?”
“Huh?” Da Vinci asked.
“Why were you in here in the first place?”
Da Vinci opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Just like I thought,” Jon said. He aimed, pulled the trigger, and a rocket shell popped out of the pistol.
Da Vinci squealed in terror as Jon raised the gun. The Neptunian jackknifed his body like a professional diver, then pulled down, curling into a fetal position.
By that time, the shell hissed as it sped over the thief. It whooshed through the open hatch and exploded in the storage chamber.
Another gyroc shell clicked into launch position in the pistol. Jon retargeted—
“Wait!” Da Vinci wailed. “It’s not my fault. It said it would kill me if I didn’t lead it here.”
Jon hesitated.
Da Vinci dared to peek up. This time, the Neptunian’s features did not change. Even so, Jon could feel the cunning slide into place. Revulsion filled him.
Bast Banbeck had declared the mind purge a success. Jon no longer believed that. He was sure he was peering into the eyes of a human controlled by alien thought-patterns, ones gained in a brain-tap machine.
“What did you help?” Jon asked in a dangerously quiet voice.
He hadn’t issued a threat, but the threat hung in the air nonetheless.
Da Vinci licked his lips like a liar. Heat seemed to emanate from his eyes. “It’s a robot, but like nothing we’ve seen before.”
Jon waited, ready to shoot but—more—wanting knowledge to save his ship more.
“Like a land-walking octopus,” Da Vinci added. “It has four legs instead of eight, but it has a bulbous core perched above the legs.”
Jon said nothing.
“It killed the chief,” Da Vinci said. “It tore off his face…” The Neptunian shuddered in horror. “That’s when I slipped into the storage chamber. I hid. It called several times. I just shrank into myself. I pulled in my persona so it could no longer sense me.”
Jon frowned.
“We give off an aura, each of us. Surely, you realize—” The Neptunian stopped talking. Maybe he saw the revulsion on Jon’s face. Maybe he realized he was no longer speaking like Da Vinci.
The A.I. Gene (The A.I. Series Book 2) Page 2