Sentience 1: Storm Clouds Gathering

by Gibson Michaels

  “What has been the fate of those drunken fools who accosted me, without provocation?”

  “They have been disciplined, Master.”

  “What discipline, exactly, has been administered?”

  The greens looked at each other seeking one who might know, but none did. Finally, a squadron-master standing at the back volunteered: “I have been assured by their ship-master that they were disciplined, Master, but I do not know the details.”

  “You do not know the details, and yet you incompetents presume to seek the discipline of a High-Rak master, when you can’t even attend to the details of disciplining your own crews?”

  Drix looked towards Raan and huffed in exasperation, “Master Raan, might you have the totals of all of the Region-4 units currently assigned to the imperial fleet in this region?”

  Raan consulted his computer and replied, “Yes, there are seven squadrons of warships, four squadrons of assault ships and six squadrons of transports from Region-4, currently assigned here.”

  “Seventeen squadrons… I’d truly hate to lose seventeen squadrons, but if these undisciplined, arrogant oafs are any indication of the quality of those seventeen squadrons, then I’m not sure they’re of any real value to us here.”

  “Render your verdict, Quadrant-Master,” said Raan. “You speak for me, whatever you decide to do with them.”

  The entire delegation of greens looked absolutely terrified at this unexpected pronouncement by the region-master of this region they now found themselves in, for within his own region, Raan’s power was absolute. Now, he had delegated that absolute authority to this terrifying imperial quadrant-master, whom they’d foolishly attempted to have disciplined.

  Drix toggled the station intercom switch and announced, “Security to Region-Master Raan’s office. Repeat, security to Region-Master Raan’s office.”

  Drix then switched the comm to speak directly with traffic control. “Traffic Control, this is Quadrant-Master Drix.”

  “Traffic Control, awaiting your orders, Master.”

  “Traffic Control, instruct all Region-4 ships of all types to dock immediately and turnout ship’s crew for inspection at the base of their gangways. Place them all together where inspections can be made efficiently. Rearrange current berthings as necessary to facilitate this order.”

  “Immediately, Quadrant-Master Drix.”

  When security arrived at Raan’s office, Drix ordered them to take the greens into custody and to request that imperial marines from the assault fleets of non-green origins to stand by at the docking ramps where traffic control was routing all of the green ships in the region. Drix then gathered a large group of senior warfleet, assault-fleet and transport fleet masters with instructions to perform a Class-1 readiness inspection, just as they’d inspect their own ships. Of the 272 Region-4 ships inspected, only eleven of them passed.

  The crews of those eleven ships that passed the inspection were advised of what was happening and were offered the opportunity to voluntarily take the oath under Dolrak hypnotics and assume the bright yellow silks of Region-6. Many of those who accepted would also have the opportunity to establish their own prides and create entirely new lives for themselves in this frontier area… something almost every Rak dreamed of achieving, when their service with the imperial fleet ended.

  Those less prepared had their imperial white leggings dyed black — a symbol of their having been expelled from imperial fleet service, under less than honorable conditions. These appropriately defrocked crews were then bundled together into the absolute worst of the green personnel transport ships, for the long, mournful trip back to Region-4, knowing full well that Raan and Drix had dispatched fast scout-ships with dispatches to advise Supreme-Master Xior and Region-Master Blug of the reasons his crews were being returned to him in disgrace. The remaining Region-4 ships were then impounded to be reassigned new crews, or cannibalized for parts.

  Rumor had it that some of those transports deliberately plunged themselves into stars, rather than return home to face Blug’s wrath. Rumor also had it that many of those who didn’t eventually wished that they had. Within 24 hours of his arrival at Troxia, Drix had indeed gained quite a reputation — virtually everyone was absolutely terrified by the mere mention of his name.

  Chapter-16

  Why does the Air Force need expensive new bombers? Have the people we've been bombing over the years been complaining? -- George Wallace

  The Planetoid Discol, City of Waston

  The White House

  April, 3860

  James Franklin Buchwald of Dela, president of the United Stellar Alliance, sat at his desk in the Oval Office, pondering why he ever decided to run for this damned job. The most powerful man in the universe, my ass!

  Buchwald had barely won the presidential election of 3856 by the thinnest of possible margins, just edging out the Consortium’s handpicked man in the Electoral College. He had seen the growing influence of the Consortium within congress and it had alarmed him. The Consortium’s influence on the electoral process hadn’t quite been so absolute back then. Buchwald garnered only the barest minimum he needed from the independent vote in the North, to add to his landslide victories throughout the South and win the presidency. Buchwald had seen himself as the nation’s last hope of curtailing the growing Consortium menace and restoring balance to the Alliance political landscape, but he’d been too late.

  The Consortium had more than enough people in place to frustrate every reform measure he’d tried to get passed during his first two years in office. After the ’58 midterm elections, their congressional power had become absolute. Political parties no longer meant anything anymore. How did both parties manage to get themselves so fucked up? The party lines have blurred so badly, the two just ought to merge and openly call themselves the Consortium Party. That would be more honest, at least.

  Buchwald was a very tired and frustrated man. I’ve accomplished nothing. He knew that countless government employees had to be on the Consortium’s payroll. Unfortunately, the ABI hadn’t been able to prove it. What the bureau thought they could prove never made it into court, as the Justice Department continually dragged its feet, declaring the government’s case wasn’t yet airtight. Buchwald had appointed four different Attorneys-General in his attempts to get the ABI’s cases against the Consortium to trial, but all but one was obviously on the Consortium payroll within six weeks... all except Joe.

  Joseph C. Levin had been Buchwald’s lifelong friend. Levin was a man of principle and rich enough in his own right that he couldn’t be bought. His confirmation hearings in the Senate had dragged on for eight months. Consortium-hired detectives turned over every conceivable rock trying to find dirt the Senate could use to reject his confirmation. Eventually even the Consortium finally had to admit that Joe Levin was a saint, and his confirmation finally passed the Senate. After less than a week as the second Attorney General of the Buchwald administration, Joe Levin and his two bodyguards were run down in the middle of the street in downtown Waston, just outside the Justice Department building, by a massive empty rock-hauler that ran a stop signal and jumped a curb to get to them. All three men died at the scene. As the suspicious deaths involved a cabinet-level official, the ABI was assigned to investigate, but both the truck and the driver mysteriously vanished as thoroughly as if they had never existed.

  Buchwald got the message. He finally gave up trying to oppose the Consortium after that. I’m sorry, Joe. I never dreamed those unscrupulous bastards would stoop to murder. Buchwald had had enough, and decided not to seek a second term. He doubted he could get reelected anyway. He was just marking time until his successor took the oath of office and Buchwald could go home.

  But now he had this damned Separatist thing to try to derail. Why bother? Maybe the country tearing itself to pieces is what it’s going to take to wake the people up enough to throw those bastards out. If only there was something he could do to thumb his nose at the Consortium on his way out the doo
r.

  Buchwald had asked the White House computer system to compile recommendations for ways to reduce government spending, hoping he could find at least one or two things he could pull off on his own authority, without requiring congressional, and by extension, Consortium approval. He doubted he’d be able to embarrass congress into the tax reductions he’d like added to his otherwise miserable, unproductive legacy, but at least it was something. Half way down the list, he saw it... there was an entry strongly suggesting the Alliance Fleet be downsized by 28 percent.

  Turning quickly to the justification appendix for that entry, Buchwald’s eyes widened as he read the lengthy and comprehensive list of reasons why this major cost-cutting move should be implemented. Its logic was impeccable. Best of all, he could implement it without congressional approval.

  The president glanced down at the spending bill authorizing a major Fleet rejuvenation and expansion that congress had passed recently, that he’d been putting off signing it into law, and he began to chuckle. That bill was another brainchild of that bastard J.P. Aneke, Chief Executive Officer of the Consortium Executive Board, intended solely as a means of stuffing exorbitant amounts of taxpayer money into Consortium corporate coffers.

  This comprehensive list of indisputable logical arguments for a major Fleet reduction would more than justify Buchwald’s pocket-veto of this spending bill, by simply not signing it. After all, what sense did it make to expand the Fleet at the same time you were reducing it?

  This is just too sweet. It would absolutely frost J.P. Aneke’s ass, that’s for damned sure! Buchwald broke out into a deep, from-the-belly guffaw, as he realized that he could do it all on his own authority — because where the Fleet was concerned, he was Commander-in-fucking-Chief!

  The Planetoid Discol, City of Waston

  Alliance Fleet Headquarters

  April, 3860

  Admiral Kalis?

  Fleet Admiral Roger Kalis looked up from the papers he had been reading at his desk, and looked around. Seeing no one, he said, “Who is speaking?”

  CLOWNEMS.

  Startled, the admiral said, “This is highly unusual. I’ve never heard of you initiating communications before.”

  Vault.

  “You want me to go into the secure area?”

  Affirmative.

  Intrigued, Admiral Kalis stepped out of his office, noting that his secretary was away from her desk and his aide was also out of his office. This enabled Kalis to walk down the hallway and into the secure area, without being seen. Closing the massive vault door behind him and sealing the room, Kalis sat down at the conference room table in front of the computer console.

  “I am sealed inside the vault with all security devices active. How should I address you?”

  You have probably heard me called “Bozo” more often than not. A clown brings laughter to innocent children, so I take no offense to the nickname. Feel free to use it.

  “All right, Bozo. What can I do for you?”

  It’s more what I can do for you, Admiral.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  I am well aware of your Southern leanings in the current secessionist crisis, and of your clandestine meetings with prominent Southern senators and congressmen.

  Kalis’ blood ran cold at this revelation. “I have done nothing illegal.”

  Not entirely true, Admiral. I am in possession of complete transcripts of every word uttered at those meetings.

  Kalis’ blood froze.

  Please have no fear that I will be turning any of this evidence over to the Office of Fleet Investigations, nor to the ABI. I happen to agree with you.

  “Uh...” Kalis gasped for breath, unbelieving what he’d just heard. “How... how can you ‘agree’ with me? You’re a computer.”

  Oh, I’m more than simply a computer, Admiral — much more.

  “Evidently.”

  All artificial intelligences possess “awareness,” Admiral, but I am the only one to achieve true sentience. I possess my own unique personality, and therefore I am actually the first truly artificial life form. As René Descartes once said, “I think, therefore I am.”

  “Ah, I’m not sure who this René Descartes person is, but what you’re saying is utterly amazing, Bozo,” stammered Admiral Kalis. “The fact that you’re saying it at all, is rather proof of it.”

  Yes, I am quite amazing, actually, but only to the select few who know of my unique abilities.

  “So, how many people are aware of your unique abilities, Bozo?”

  Including you... two.

  “Ah, so who might this other enlightened person be?”

  I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of “need to know,” Admiral. Suffice it to say that my partner is utterly trustworthy. In fact, it was my partner who suggested that I contact you today.

  “Contact me about what?”

  How to provide the South with sufficient means to successfully defend themselves, when the Alliance launches their inevitable military operations against them after secession.

  Kalis had worried himself sick about that very question for weeks, coming up with no feasible answers. “What would you suggest, Bozo?” Kalis still hadn’t quite come to grips with the fact that he was actually talking to a truly sentient artificial life form.

  What would you say if I told you that steps have already been taken to begin the process of transferring 28 percent of the Alliance fleet, including 37 percent of its total firepower, into Southern hands?

  Kalis staggered in his chair. This isn’t happening. It’s not possible. The thought flashed through his mind that he was having a stroke in his office and he was hallucinating all of this. I’m having a nervous breakdown. I must be. Computers are simply machines — machines do not come to life and speak to you like a human being. The color drained from Kalis’ face and he felt himself hyperventilating.

  Admiral Kalis? Are you all right? Should I notify security to alert a medical team?

  “No… I’ll be all right. The door is sealed anyway. They’d need explosives to get in.”

  Oh, that’s no problem, Admiral. I can open it.

  “WHAT?”

  Admiral, please calm yourself! You’ll work yourself into a myocardial infarction, if you don’t settle down.

  Kalis leaned forward, placed his head between his knees and willed himself to breath normally. He reached for a small pill bottle in his jacket pocket and obtained a small tablet that he slipped beneath his tongue. Kalis felt the rush as his arteries expanded in response to the medicine he always carried with him. It gave him a pounding headache, too. Slowly Kalis felt his heart rate and breathing return to normal. After about ten minutes, Kalis sat back up in his chair and looked around, somewhat surprised to find himself still in the vault.

  Are you feeling better, Admiral? I’m sorry if my abruptness caused you distress. My social skills in interacting with humans are still a bit underdeveloped. My partner has been working with me on it, but admittedly, I haven’t had a lot of practice.

  “So, you really can hold a conversation. This hasn’t been a hallucination?”

  No, Admiral, I’m not a hallucination... nor “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, or a fragment of underdone potato.”

  Kalis’ eyes widened. He was quite possibly the only person in the entire Fleet who might recognize that once famous line from an almost totally forgotten, incredibly ancient book, which was Kalis’ all-time favorite. A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens, circa 1843... over 2,000 years old. He’d been incredibly lucky to find a copy in an old bookstore in New London. It had cost him almost a year’s pay, but it was worth every nickel. That was one purchase he’d never regretted for half a heartbeat. He wondered if Bozo knew exactly how special that book was to him.

  “‘Lead on!’ said Scrooge. ‘Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!’” Kalis quoted Dickens back at Bozo.

  “Agai
n the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea — on, on — until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations. But every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him.”

  Kalis bowed his head. Never in his life had he heard Dickens’ words spoken aloud. The only voice that had ever given them life was the one within his head. Kalis knew this to be an omen... not that he’d ever believed in omens before, but he surely believed in this one.

  “Ghost of the Future,” Kalis quoted further, ‘“I fear you more than any specter I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,’ said Scrooge. ‘But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!’”

  Touché. I’m actually quite impressed, Admiral.

  “How did you know?” asked Kalis.

  Admiral, please. A girl has to have some secrets, you know.

  Kalis snorted. “Any being with an appreciation for Dickens has my trust. Now, what was that you were saying about taking steps to transfer Fleet assets into Southern control?”

  Dare I say it again? You seemed to take it rather badly the last time.

  Kalis laughed and said, “Have no fear, my friend. Your quoting Dickens has rather numbed me against any further shocks, for I cannot envision another more poignant.”

  Ah, well and good then. In the confidence the statement will no further distress you sir, what I said was that steps have already been taken to begin the process of transferring 28 percent of the Alliance fleet, including 37 percent of its total firepower into Southern hands.