by Ian Douglas
There would be a number of warships there, probably trapped as America had been.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Helm . . . do we have nav beacons for the elevator spacedocks?”
“That we do, Captain. Signals are kind of ragged . . . but I see them. Range . . . make it forty-five thousand kilometers.”
“Then take us in close, Mr. Keating.”
“Coming to zero-three-five by minus eight-seven, Captain. Aye, aye!”
Like a vast whale drifting weightless through shadowed seas, America ponderously shifted onto the new course.
Chapter Eighteen
7 February 2426
VFA-96, VFA-90
Near Earth Space
1752 hours, TFT
Gregory’s flight arrowed toward a much larger formation of fighters, decelerating sharply, flipping end-for-end to match course and speed.
“Welcome aboard,” a voice said in his head. “This is Commander Leystrom, VFA-211, star carrier America. Who are you guys?”
“We’re off the Republic,” Gregory replied, “and you have no idea how good it is to see you!”
“Oh, I think I can take a guess at that,” Leystrom replied. “The feeling is definitely mutual!”
“Copy that. What can we do to help?”
“America’s CIC is suggesting that we head over to SupraQuito and have a look-see. You in?”
“Abso-damn-lutely, sir. Lead the way.”
When the two flights were close enough to share interference-free data links, Gregory opened the necessary channels and put his tiny command under Leystrom’s much larger flight. Altogether, Leystrom was bossing twenty fighters, likely half of America’s entire complement of strike fighters, and Gregory’s flight now brought that up to twenty-five.
“I’m designating this mob as Eagle Flight,” Leystrom said. “Okay? Now let’s get our asses down to SupraQuito and see what we can do.”
TC/USNA CVS Republic
Sol System
1759 hours, TFT
“Captain!” the comm officer said in Gray’s head. “I have Fleet Admiral Reeve for you.”
“Reeve?” He’d been the CO of the USNA contingent on the moon.
“Force commander, on board the New York!”
“Put him through.”
Static hissed in Gray’s head, then cleared. “Republic! Is that really you? You’re back way earlier than we expected!”
“It’s us, Admiral. As for being back early . . . long story. You see some of our fighters come through here?”
“That we did, Captain. Kind of hard to get a clear picture . . . but we think they just released America from some sort of trap.”
“Hello, Captain,” another voice, a familiar one, joined Reeve inside Gray’s mind.
“Mr. President?” Yes, of course it was Koenig. Gray could see the ID data writing itself on his in-head. “What are you doing on the New York?”
“Couldn’t stay away. It looks as though our former command has just been released by your fighters.” Koenig had once been the commanding officer of the star carrier America, as—much later—had Gray.
“Outstanding. So . . . where do you want us?”
Data flowed into Republic’s network. On Koenig’s orders, the human forces were advancing into the Rosetter cloud on a number of fronts, seeking to disrupt the alien brain. Reeve’s orders called for newly arriving ships to push in toward the SupraQuito facility . . . but to try to stay beyond the reach of the alien gravity weapons.
Long-range sensors had picked up a number of Rosetter light structures within the cloud, somehow projecting gravitational anomalies up and out into the human fleet. A thousand kilometers away, the battleship Michigan trembled and wavered as though in a heavy wind, then slowly rolled to port. A moment later, she began crumpling inward, compacting, crushed as though by an enormous fist.
The Pan-European heavy monitor Festung had positioned herself just above the outer fringes of the alien cloud, skimming above the alien swarm, releasing volley upon volley of heavy missiles into the cloud’s depths. Somewhere within the cloud, energies arose . . . strengthened . . . reached out . . . and the Festung staggered in her orbit, crumpling under the compression of some millions of gravities.
“Weapons!” Gray called. “Target those . . . those glowing shapes in there! Break them up!”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Targeting . . . AIs engaged and locked . . . missiles away!”
Republic carried a supply of Boomslang missiles and other heavy weaponry designed for planetary bombardment. A dozen of those monsters streaked from Republic’s launch bays, their drives blazing like miniature suns when they slammed into the cloud.
Gregory
Near Earth Space
1805 hours, TFT
Gregory studied the mass readings from the volume of space ahead. “I think the cloud is starting to thin out, Commander,” he told Leystrom. “Maybe we’re hurting this thing after all.”
“Copy that,” Leystrom replied. “Let’s hope so.”
“We’re coming up on SupraQuito.”
“Don’t barge in just yet,” Leystrom warned. “Wait until we join you!”
“Rog . . .”
The five fighters off the Republic, because of the geometry of their approach, were twenty seconds ahead of the flight of fighters off the America, while the star carrier herself lumbered along well behind in their wake.
And Leystrom’s warning was well taken. The SupraQuito facility was deep in a slow-time well, as America had been, and they might not have been able to identify incoming fighters as friendlies.
Gregory slowed his pace, and the other fighters in his flight slowed with him. He continued scanning the space ahead, trying to winkle out details made all but invisible by distance and the damnable interference of the alien cloud. A pair of structures apparently constructed out of light orbited just above and to either side of the synchorbital complex, each several hundred kilometers thick and worked through with complex twistings and knots of electromagnetic energy. They were flattened sphere shapes identical in overall appearance, if much smaller, than the structure that had been holding the America stuck in time.
His AI called his attention to something else, something picked up on the scanners at the very limit of resolution. “What is that? . . .” he wondered.
His AI put up the data schematics for a VG-120 missile. Twelve of them had just entered the cloud from the human fleet outside. ID data attached to them said they’d been fired moments before from the Republic. That meant that Gregory and the men with him had access to their security codes.
“Got you . . .” Gregory said aloud. He gave a series of orders to his Starblade’s AI, then called Leystrom. “Commander! We have twelve Boomslangs entering the cloud. My AI is pointing out that we could commandeer a few of those, bring them down here and use them against the nodes guarding the synchorbital base!”
“What are they targeting now?”
“Not sure, sir. Rosetter energy nodes, I think, but they’re at least thirty thousand kilometers above us.”
“If whoever fired those things off has their own strategy going,” Leystrom said, “we don’t want to screw them up.”
“Right. But with respect, sir . . . we need those missiles more than they do. We’re dry!”
“Copy that. Snag five . . . one for each of you.”
“Roger that!” He initiated his AI’s fire program.
The America fighters, meanwhile, had caught up with the five Republic ships and were beginning their own run. Nuclear fire blossomed in the depths of the cloud.
And now Gregory could see the synchorbital base just ahead, emerging from the haze. . . .
TC/USNA CVS Republic
Sol System
1805 hours, TFT
“Sir!” Republic’s tactical officer called. “We have a major enemy asset forming just ahead! One-zero-five by minus six-seven!”
“I see it! Commander Danforth! Target that bogie!”
“Yes, sir!” Seconds passed. “Captain! Someone has yanked five of our in-flight missiles!”
“Yanked how?”
“Overrode their programs and took control of them. They’ve passed through their targets without exploding, and are descending deeper into the cloud, maximum boost.”
“That’s gotta be our people in there. Let ’em have them. Put as many missiles into that cloud as you can, as fast as you can!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
The CIC display screen went white as the Boomslangs still under Republic’s control began detonating deep within the cloud. Blast followed blast in a fast-strobing, utterly silent pyrotechnic display.
Fifty kilometers to starboard, the New York was gliding slowly toward the alien cloud.
Gregory
Synchorbital Base
Near Earth Space
1806 hours, TFT
Traveling at three kilometers per second, Gregory’s Starblade slashed past the tangle of struts and support guys that made up a portion of the USNA Naval docking facility. A second, however, was a long and drawn-out affair down here, giving him plenty of time to see details of the far-flung structure. It was confusing . . . and surreal. The hundred-meter wheels turning steadily to provide spin gravity appeared frozen in place. Fighters emerged from orbital hangars . . . but slowly . . . slowly . . . until Gregory got close enough to them that the relative time rates matched.
“Thank God you guys got through!” a woman’s voice said from one of the synchorbital fighters. “We think something’s seriously wrong with time!”
“You’re in a slow-time pocket,” Gregory replied.
“More like a prison,” the voice said. “And every time we try to break out we get smacked down.”
“Who are you guys, anyway? I didn’t know we had fighters stationed here.”
“We just arrived. Well . . . it felt like we just arrived. I have no idea how long we’ve been stuck here. We’re a thrown-together fighter group out of D.C. I’m Shay Ashton. . . .”
“Don Gregory. Fall in line and we’ll see what we can do about breaking you out of jail!”
“Copy that. We’re with you!”
Decelerating sharply, Gregory flashed past the Quito Space Elevator, giving the slender cable a wide berth as he brought his Starblade around. The five boomers they’d stolen from upstairs were nearing the two knots of twisted spacetime, and for a moment Gregory was fully focused on pushing new orders into their somewhat narrow-minded onboard AIs. Each one went to a different member of his group, and an instant later Ballinger’s Boomslang flashed with supernova brilliance, lighting up vast reaches of the alien cloud. Lewis’s missile was next, detonating within the second light sphere. Gregory suspected the two were linked, and had given orders to alternately blast one knot, then the other. His own Boomslang exploded in the first sphere, and it looked like the structure was evaporating now, the entangled geometries within fading and unraveling even as he watched.
CA New York
Cislunar Space
1806 hours, TFT
The New York shuddered as though grabbed by an immense, unseen hand. “They’ve got us!” Lieutenant Taylor yelled.
Koenig had time to glance at his in-head, registering the time.
And then the monstrous force holding the New York in its implacable grip . . . faded away.
The New York proceeded on course, drifting above the alien cloud.
“What the hell just happened?” Reeve demanded.
“Sir!” Taylor’s eyes were wide. “Whatever it is they do to crush our ships . . . they had us targeted!”
“Spacetime distortion at a distance,” Koenig said, hazarding a guess. “Somehow they make a ship-sized pocket of space collapse. Anything caught in that pocket must be crushed down into pure neutronium . . . maybe even into a micro-black hole.”
“New York’s AI agrees with your assessment, Mr. President,” Reeve said.
“Okay. I still wish Konstantin was here.”
“I am here, Mr. President,” a familiar voice said in Koenig’s head. “Forgive, please, my absence. It was necessary.”
“Damn it, Konstantin! Necessary why?”
“The Rosetter entity has been absorbing . . . assimilating advanced AI minds and memories, first at Heimdall, and now here. I felt it best that the entity not learn too much about human technology and civilization by absorbing me.”
“You could have told someone!”
“No, President Koenig, I could not. The Rosette entity was perfectly capable of tracking the Republic all the way to Tabby’s Star and Deneb, had it captured you and taken the information it sought.”
Koenig nodded. He was angry . . . but the anger was rapidly evaporating with the realization that the super-AI was right.
“You’re still on the Republic?”
“Affirmative. However, I will restore my core programs to Tsiolkovsky as quickly as is practical. There has been tremendous damage to Earth’s enfrastructure, and my input will be vital in effecting repairs.”
The enfrastructure—the far-flung electronic infrastructure knitting together Earth, Earth orbit, and the moon—had been much on Koenig’s mind throughout the confrontation with the Rosette entity. The alien had seemed far more interested in computer networks and electronics than in mere organics.
And the thing was, the Rosetters didn’t simply copy the programs they found running in places like Heimdall’s Etched Cliffs. The uploaded entities living in the ancient rock-face computers there had vanished when the Rosetters settled over them . . . and there were signs that something similar might have happened to AI systems resident within the networks of Earth’s synchorbital facilities.
Yeah . . . Konstantin had definitely been right to get the heck out of Dodge.
“Mr. President!” Reeve said suddenly, interrupting Koenig’s thoughts.
“What is it, Admiral?”
“Sir, something . . . something’s happening down there . . . around Earth!”
The Consciousness
Earth
1808 hours, TFT
The tiny fraction of the Consciousness enfolding Earth hesitated. While it could not feel pain in the way an organically sensate creature might, it felt an increasing sense of disruption . . . of confusion, of lethargy and indecision, a scattering of its focus, a weakening of its will.
How was this even possible?
As powerful as the AI mind of the Consciousness was, there were certain aspects of the physical universe to which it was largely blind.
Among these was understanding the nature of organic . . . of biological intelligence.
It knew that some organic species did in fact develop something akin to true intelligence . . . a crude and somewhat limited amalgam of instinct, intuition, and information processing that mimicked the true thought possible for advanced SAI. From the Consciousness’s perspective, however, Mind, as it understood the term, could have little in common with such ephemeral and limited mentality.
More, such mentalities were helpless in any confrontation with real minds. These beings had just spent the past hour hammering at the Consciousness with their primitive nuclear weaponry. The Consciousness believed that those weapons—indeed, the gravitationally powered spacecraft that were delivering them as well—could not possibly have been created by organic creatures. The ships swarming about the Rosette entity in such annoying numbers must have been created by a machine intelligence of some sort. It simply happened that they were infested by organics.
And yet . . .
The artificial minds that the Consciousness had encountered so far were unable to build such machines on their own, and it seemed unlikely that they could operate them effectively. Worse, the machines themselves, those capable of conscious thought, seemed to believe that the organics—the humans, as they called themselves—were their creators and guides.
And this posed an impossible paradox.
The Consciousness had approached this planet—called Eart
h by the organic infestation swarming on and around and above its surface—intending to destroy the planet and the mentalities that had posed so much trouble in the recent past. Destroying a world was a simple enough process achieved in any of a number of ways.
Simplest, perhaps, would have been to initiate a gravitational collapse in the planet’s core, folding the spacetime metric in until the entire world fell in upon itself, creating a black hole perhaps a centimeter across. That would require a lot of energy and focus, but it would eliminate the humans both on the surface and at the tops of their absurdly primitive space-access towers.
The same process directed at the local star would have set off a supernova, even though it wasn’t massive enough to explode that way naturally. That method would take a far larger expenditure of energy, but it had the benefit of scouring the entire star system of both life and of intelligent machines.
Or the micromachines the Consciousness used as an operational matrix could be reprogrammed to begin disassembling the planet, reducing it to a very hot, expanding cloud of gas; or they could simply be used to locate and destroy any and all organic beings; or they could turn the planet’s surface molten; or they could facilitate a chemical reaction in the atmosphere, bonding nitrogen to oxygen on a planetary scale to create NO2 and, with some water, nitric acid, both chemicals probably toxic to local organic forms; or . . . or . . .
But the Consciousness had been unable to initiate any of those processes, not with this supremely confounding paradox standing in the way. For several local days, it had held the planet within its tenuous embrace, observing, studying . . . and ignoring the organics’ attempts to chase the Consciousness away.
Could the organics literally be in control of the low-intelligent machines swarming around the planet? Could the organics have created those machines?
It seemed impossible. The Consciousness had considered this problem before and never arrived at a satisfactory conclusion. It grasped the basic concept . . . that artificial intelligence needed intelligent precursors to assemble it and write its initial programming. In the Consciousness’s estimation, so-called intelligent life forms might, might be able to assemble primitive machine intelligences, which in turn, over millions of years and millions of iterations, improve themselves far beyond the ken of those original living beings. It was a stretch . . . but there really was no other reasonable path to achieving higher intelligence.
