The AI War bw-3

by Stephen Ames Berry

  "You've requested I review the captain's decision in this… incident," said D'Trelna, temper ebbing. "That's

  "Fire a full shipbuster salvo, tight-grouped, at our initial jump point. Take your mark from the navheading-fire when set."

  "Missiles away," said the voice a moment later.

  A flight of silver needles flashed by on the outside scan.

  K'Tran slapped his chairarm. "And jump, A'Tir!"

  A nanosecond after Glory Run emerged from its jump, ship's computer read the absence of a ship target and the presence of seventeen multimegaton missiles. It instantly fired a blocking salvo. Seven incoming missiles were destroyed by beam hits in less than a second. The rest detonated.

  Overwhelmed, Glory Run's shield failed. Miles of battlesteel and men flared into evanescent gases, the center of a blinding atomic vortex.

  Captain T'Lak had time for a final thought: brilliant.

  S'Gan stood in front of the big board for a long time, watching the pulsing red circle marking a destruct point, then turned and left the bridge. Y'Kor wanted to say something as she walked by him. Seeing her expression, he said nothing.

  "Your right. Frankly, I think you and she should be spanked." He glanced at the complink, recessed into his desk top, then looked back at T'Lan.

  "You and our senior commando officer, Lieutenant S'Til, met in Recroom Four, secondwatch, four days ago. After a few drinks, she asked you to her quarters. You went willingly, and had what Captain L'Wrona delicately describes as"-he peered at the screen-" 'an intimate period.' Neither of you deny this."

  T'Lan stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind him.

  "After this-period-you offered Lieutenant S'Til thirty-two credits-'for your time,' you said. Lieutenant S'Til firmly rejected your offer, dislocating your left patella with a combat kick. Q'Nil fix your knee?" he asked, glancing down.

  "It wasn't my knee she was after, sir," said T'Lan, eyes meeting the commodore's.

  D'Trelna suppressed a smile. "No, I suppose it wasn't. The facts stated are correct, Commander T'Lan?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Have you anything to add?"

  "Where I'm from, sir, we pay for what we get."

  D'Trelna sighed. "You're from a subtropical paradise larger than our capital, Commander. You were raised in a garden-everyone in your father's employ, no one except tutors and guardians about to deny you anything. And you had a generous allowance, no doubt. That's what you mean, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The commodore nodded curtly. "Wheru we are now, Commander T'Lan, is a big chunk of space that's probably hostile and is certainly a long way from home."

  "I'm aware of that, sir."

  "You're aware of it, sir. But do you know what it means? There's just this big old ship and a few hundred of us. To succeed, to even survive, we must work together. That means, T'Lan, a minimum of friction, a low level of animosity. There should be some friendship, some good feeling." He waved his hands. "Whatever. But I insist-any competent commander would insist-that there at least be mutual respect. To offer a shipmate money for an act of friendship is disrespectful. Clear?"

  "Clear, sir. Sir, I am due on watch in-"

  "You transferred aboard off Terra, Commander. You have been condescending, petulant, lazy and certainly insensitive. That will change. Clear?"

  "Sir…"

  "Is that clear, Commander T'Lan?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You are heir to a rich and powerful dynasty, Commander. Although of combat age the last two years of the war, you were medically deferred for…" His eyes searched the screen. "What is 'severe melancholia,' Commander?"

  "Sir, it is a condition of dysfunctional depression occasioned-"

  "Never mind. You were directly commissioned and assigned as this expedition's Alien Artifacts Officer over many others far older and far better qualified than you. To date, you've shown yourself unworthy of the trust reposed in you by Fleet and Confederation." And the enormous bribes it must have taken to get you here, he added silently. "That will change, won't it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "The watch preceding your duty-time for the next four weeks will be spent as part of a team, replacing some of the older hullside sensor clusters. It is tiring, tedious work. It can be dangerous if you don't cooperate with your teammate. Space"-he jerked his thumb over his shoulder- "forgives nothing."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I hope for your sake and ours, Commander T'Lan, that your attitude and performance change. Quickly."

  "I assure the commodore-"

  "Don't assure me. Show me. Dismissed."

  D'Trelna touched the commlink as the door hissed shut. "L'Wrona," he said.

  The captain's face appeared in the scan. "Did you chew on him, J'Quel?" he asked with a smile.

  The commodore nodded. "Surprised me and took it well. Who knows? There may be hope."

  "And you?"

  "A sharp homily to S'Til-tempering anger with reason. She didn't protest the detail."

  "Does she know who her teammate will be?"

  "She will secondwatch, when they suit up."

  "I'd like to see that." They both chuckled.

  "We're about to make the final jump," said L'Wrona.

  "Ominous."

  "You know what I mean."

  "Fine. Sound briefing call as soon as we jump and we'll give them the happy news."

  "How far from home, any idea?" asked Zahava.

  "Over three hundred light-years," said John. High atop Implacable, they had the small observation dome to themselves. Outside, the hull swept past them, a mile to the bridge, another mile back to engines, half a mile to either side: a gray expanse of battlesteel broken by weapons turrets and instrument pods.

  "Earth's not even a point of light anymore," he said. The stars were few and scattered in this part of the galaxy. The brightest object was a swirling red nebula, thousands of light-years away across the interstellar rift.

  "One month," said Zahava, "and I've had it with the majesty of space."

  On Terra, they'd been an odd couple: John, a slim, blue-eyed WASP; Zahava, a petite, olive-skinned Israeli. On Implacable, no one looked twice at them. The crew was from twenty-three different worlds, each with its own very distinct gene pool.

  "Sorry we came?" he asked, putting his hand atop hers on the padded handrail.

  "You will be," said a third voice: a woman's, a familiar voice.

  They whirled, drawing their blasters.

  The blonde stood opposite them, wearing a red jumpsuit, long silken hair soft-burnished by the starlight.

  "How…?" said John, staring beyond the S'Cotar. Outside was the reassuring shimmer of the shield.

  "With us since… when?" said Zahava.

  Both blasters were leveled at the Other's stomach.

  "Long time," said the S'Cotar, gaze shifting between the two. "Since the Lake of Dreams."

  "You're one of the crew," said John. His finger tightened around the trigger.

  The blonde pointed at him. "You fire one of those cannons in here, Harrison, and that laser-bonded ion stream will deflect off the armorglass until its potential's spent. You two will look like you've been through one of your quaint food processors. And I'll have left." The elegant fingers snapped. "Like that. Teleportation's a wonderful gift."

  "We'll find you, green slime," said Zahava. "D'Trelna will-"

  "Yes, yes, I know," said the transmute wearily. "D'Trelna will take the ship apart. Probably with his bare hands. Not to mention Colonel R'Gal."

  "Who?" said Zahava.

  "Oh, I'm sure you'll meet," said the S'Cotar. "The three of you are… implacable."

  "Why've you exposed yourself?" said John.

  "It's imperative," said the biofab. "You've far worse to contend with here than slimy green bugs." The blonde was replaced by a green, six foot insectoid. It stood erect on four thin legs. Twin antennae grew above its bulbous eyes, two tentacles from its shoulders. The spectacle lasted only a second, then the
blonde reappeared.

  "Am I a bug dreaming that I'm a woman, or a woman, dreaming that I'm a-"

  "What's so damned imperative, bug?" said Zahava.

  "Commander T'Lan," said the S'Cotar urgently. "Watch him. He endangers everything you're trying to prevent, everything I'm trying to accomplish."

  "Explain," said John.

  The S'Cotar's head shook. "You wouldn't believe me. And I'll be missed in a moment. But don't let T'Lan out of your sight once we reach our coordinates."

  ' 'He's just a jerk kid,'' said John. "A K'Ronarin preppy.''

  "Harrison," said the S'Cotar intently, "it costs you nothing to watch T'Lan, much if you don't."

  A chime sounded three times. "Stand by for jump," warned computer. "Stand by for jump."

  "Luck," said the S'Cotar, and was gone.

  "Trust him… it?" said Zahava.

  The S'Cotar reappeared. "Oh. Congratulations on your marriage," it said, then vanished again.

  The final warning sounded, six chimes repeating three times. "I need a drink," said John as they grabbed the handrail.

  Outside, the stars changed. Implacable had moved ninety-seven light-years.

  Zahava swallowed hard. "I think my stomach's back on Rigel or wherever that was. Are we going to tell D'Trelna about Big Green?"

  "How do we know D'Trelna isn't Big Green?"

  "Shit." She looked stricken. "Who can we trust?"

  "You and me, chum. Unless, of course, it can project two illusions at once. After all, we were both at the Lake of Dreams." They eyed each other warily, then burst into laughter.

  "They should make more bugs like you," said John, kissing her.

  "Was that as good as the real Zahava?" she asked a moment later. "Better," he said.

  "Pig," she said as their communicators chirped. "Briefing call," came K'Raoda's voice. "All designated personnel report for mission briefing, deck four, briefing room seven." The message repeated.

  "Here's where they tell us what we already know," said Zahava as they clambered down the duralloy ladder to deck one.

  "Rumor has it we're going into the galaxy's Bight of Benin."

  "The what?"

  "Pestilential West Africa slavers' port." He chanted in a passable baritone as they walked:

  "The Bight of Benin, The Bight of Benin, Few come out, though many go in."

  "What are we going to do about the S'Cotar?" she asked as they reached the lift.

  "Easy," said John, pressing the call tab. "We find him, have an engaging chat and kill him."

  The briefing room-Implacable's smallest-was full: fifty-eight officers. John Harrison and Zahava Tal stood in front of the red-cushioned traq-wood chairs. Conversation stopped as D'Trelna and L'Wrona entered and walked down the center aisle and up to the podium. "Sit, sit," said the commodore, waving them to their chairs. "You'll note," he said as the noise died, "that we've been in Quadrant Blue Nine for some time and are still alive. We're now proceeding to mission coordinates furnished by Pocsym."

  "The Trel Cache," said Zahava.

  "No," said D'Trelna, "not the Trel Cache."

  L'Wrona broke the stunned silence. "We're to rendezvous with the first in a series of remote navigation markers placed by Imperial Survey, just before the Fall. We give it the access code furnished by Pocsym, it gives a new set of jump coordinates."

  "We do know there's more than one navigation marker," said D'Trelna. "Beyond that-nothing."

  "Leading us where?" asked N'Trol, the ship's engineer, N'Trol had been drafted from his well-paid job as chief engineer for a merchant line. His contempt of things military was as deep as his sarcasm.

  D'Trelna shrugged. "We've no control over this process, Mr. N'Trol. Instructions and coordinates were sent by Pocsym in his final moments."

  "We're touring the galaxy on the whim of a mad cyborg?"

  "Is that you, T'Lan?" said L'Wrona.

  Four rows back, Commander T'Lan stood, muscles rippling under his closely tailored uniform.

  Dionysus, thought John, looking at T'Lan. With his perfect body, fine-chiseled face and flawless bronze skin, the young commander might have been a demigod out of Euripides. A prettyboy, certainly, but dangerous?

  "It's too bad, Commander," said L'Wrona icily, "that you weren't with us when we assaulted the S'Cotar citadel on Terra's moon. Surviving that, you'd have appreciated that though Pocsym's instructions might have been mad, he executed them with flawless logic."

  Mad's the word, thought John. Pocsym had been programmed in the Late Imperial age, five thousand years ago-programmed by social scientists who believed that right about now their descendants would be facing hordes of killer machines pouring into this galaxy from an alternate reality. Monitor human progress, they'd ordered Pocsym, and prepare mankind for that ultimate battle.

  Deciding that only man could save man, Pocsym had created a race of biofabs-biological fabrications-dubbed them the S'Cotar, and sent them against the K'Ronarins. They'd almost destroyed the Confederation and claimed the galaxy for themselves. Almost. Only Implacable's stumbling into the Terran system and her discovery of the biofabs' home base, deep beneath the surface of Terra's moon, had saved humankind-that and a hurried alliance between the K'Ronarins and the Terrans, ending in a desperate commando assault on the S'Cotar citadel.

  That crazy cyborg started the war, reflected John-and finished it, blowing up the biofabs' citadel, most of the biofabs-and itself. The commandos and the few Terrans with them had barely escaped in time.

  Is L'Wrona through with the twit? he wondered.

  L'Wrona wasn't.

  "Just before we left Terra, Commander, we went up against some hideous machines."

  "I've read the report, sir."

  "Then you'll know that though we stopped them in one parallel reality, they may well be coming into a separate part of this universe. Our part. Right now. We have the point in space at which they're supposedly entering. First, we go to the Trel Cache for a weapon to use against them."

  "We only have Pocsym's word for this," said Zahava.

  "A word that we'll soon confirm or refute," said the commodore.

  "We're a sacrifice mission," said N'Trol flatly.

  "No Fleet ship is ever intentionally sacrificed, Mr. N'Trol," said L'Wrona.

  "But all ships are expendable," said the engineer.

  "Depending on the mission-yes."

  John stood. "No one's asked it. Let me be the one. What is there about this part of the galaxy, this Quadrant Blue Nine? According to the computer, no ship that ever came here alone has returned-not in over four thousand years. And," he continued as L'Wrona tried to interrupt, "any inquiries for data older than that gets a 'Non-Available.' "

  "I know," said D'Trelna, leaning on the podium. "All information regarding this sector is proscribed and available only if we're under attack."

  "That's an awful burden to operate under," said John.

  "I protested," said D'Trelna. "S'Gan protested. To no avail."

  "What do we know?" asked N'Trol.

  "Just this," said L'Wrona. "Something happened here that wiped the colonies in this sector and shook the Imperials down to their battle boots. They put this whole quadrant-that's two hundred cubed light-years, gentlemen- under interdict and never came back again."

  "The Confederation probed Blue Nine infrequently, John," said D'Trelna. "Computer gave you those results."

  "Could it have to do with the Trel?" asked Zahava.

  "May we soon find out," said the commodore.

  "And survive the experience," said N'Trol.

  "Here comes Fats," said A'Tir, putting the forward scan on main screen.

  Looking up from ship's status reports, K'Tran read the tactical data threading across the bottom of the screen. On her present course, Implacable would pass close to where Victory Day drifted, not a light showing, her engines cold.

  "Select down to auxiliary power, K'Lal," K'Tran ordered. "They've got Imperial-grade sensors."

  "Select
ing down," said the corsair, entering a command. The lighting and instrumentation dimmed.

  "Their sensors will read our hull," said A'Tir, watching Implacable grow large on the screen.

  "Fine," said K'Tran, dialing a drink from the chairarm. "Spectroscopy's going to show we're a meteor-nickel-and-iron."

  "The camouflage baffling," she said.

  "The camouflage baffling." He sipped his t'ata and grimaced. "K'Lal, this is ice-cold."

  "Beverage warming's not a priority on auxiliary, skipper," said K'Lal dryly, adjusting a telltale.

  "Hazards of combat." K'Tran dropped the cup into a disposer.

  Implacable was moving off now, the menacing weapons batteries and sensor clusters shrinking on the screen.

  "What concerns me," said K'Tran, "is our symmetry. If her computer considers that an anomaly, alarms are going to sound."

  "Not to worry," said A'Tir, turning from her console.

  "When they pulled those L'Aal-class cruisers from stasis they modified the shit out of the sensor package-slapped a restrictive overlay on it."

  "What are you saying? They downgraded it?"

  She nodded. "Right down to the primaries. It's our old unreasoning fear of artificial intelligence."

  "Not all that unreasoning," said K'Tran. "The Machine Wars-AIs almost wiped the Empire. Fleet doesn't take chances, especially with resurrected Imperial systems."

  "She's stopping," said A'Tir. Implacable was now stationary, screen-center.

  "She's reached the last set of coordinates, and only one watch after us," said K'Tran. "Not bad." His eyes swept the sensor readings. "At last"-he leaned back in his chair-"after fifty centuries, a ship of K'Ronar is at the legendary Trel Cache. One would expect something dramatic-the universe trembling, stellar pyrotechnics, the end to life as we know it. Music. Certainly there should be music." He spread his hands. "Nothing. Not even the Trel Cache."

  An alarm beeped. Silencing it, K'Lal read the new data. "Something big, coming in fast." He frowned. "I don't believe these readings!"

  Nine long strides brought K'Tran to the tactics console. His eyes widened as he read the scan. "Big? It's the size of a city! Look at those weapons and speed readings!"

  "Going for Implacable,'" said A'Tir from her station.

  "Slowing," said K'Lal. "Just at the edge of visual." His fingers flew over the complink, trying to firm the pickup.