by David Beers
Both of them knew what the problem was and why Renyard stealing the algorithm was a massive issue. Aurelius was still in possession of the algorithm, though, so the project wouldn’t be stopped. If he died tomorrow, his mind would be uploaded into the AI. That wasn’t the problem. The chances of anyone else creating this algorithm were almost nonexistent as well. It had taken decades with the greatest minds working on it. No one could recreate it. No, what mattered was what would happen if someone else possessed the algorithm. They could reverse-engineer it. They could even shut down the project, no matter how far in the future it was used. Knowledge of the algorithm gave them godslike power over the entire endeavor.
Aurelius crossed one leg over the other and looked at the floor as he bounced the top leg gently. “If you don’t have it, then who does, Renyard?”
“It’s off the planet.”
This caused Aurelius to look up. Their intelligence report had said nothing about that. “Lie to me again, boy, and I’ll take your tongue.”
“You want to play like you’re one of the g-g-gods,” the young man stuttered. “You’re not, though. You’re just a man, one who is crueler than most others. That’s the difference. That’s how you’ve made it so high up and kept everyone else so far down. Without the algorithm, your power isn’t almighty, and you know it. I don’t have the algorithm anymore. I’ve made sure it’s not here, not on this planet, and one day, it won’t be in this Solar System either. Your chance at godhood is gone, Imperial Ascendant.”
Aurelius stared at him, his anger raw on his face. He didn’t need to put the kid in a truth chamber to know he was telling the truth. He’d somehow done what he’d said he’d done. It was almost impossible for Aurelius to believe the algorithm was out of his grasp.
“You made a mistake that you don’t yet fathom, boy,” Aurelius said. “I promise you, though, you’re going to understand it very well before you quit drawing breath.” The Ascendant was quiet for a moment, staring at the man who had jeopardized everything. He didn’t understand how someone like him had taken decades of planning and thrown it all into the wind. “Where did you send the algorithm?”
Renyard put the StarBeam on his lap, releasing his hold on it. He was likely to accept his fate, but Aurelius didn’t like the look on his face. The fear that’d been there when Aurelius entered was gone, replaced by something close to peace.
He looked at the weapon and gave a very small smile as he spoke. “I suppose I can tell you now because it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.” He looked up at the Ascendant, and there was madness in his eyes. Pure, unadulterated madness, because who could say that to the Ascendant and not be insane? “The algorithm is in a ship that’s already left Earth. I won’t tell you which ship or where it’s heading, though you’ll probably try to get it out of me. That’s fine. If you do, it won’t matter anyway. Right now, the ship and its AI will do nothing with the algorithm. However, the moment before the AI is destroyed, it’s going to send the algorithm to two other ships. That same process will replicate itself over and over, multiplying the number of places the algorithm is stored. The only way you can keep it from getting into multiple hands is by doing nothing, my liege.”
The last two words were nearly spat.
Aurelius stared at the young man for a long time. He didn’t doubt what he’d said was true, though they would find out for sure in a short time.
“I only have one question for you, Renyard. Was it worth it?”
Still smiling, he said, “Yes. In the end, it will be.”
The Ascendant looked down and smirked. “The problem with endings is that there are so many of them. There is my ending, the Commonwealth’s ending, and what will come before both of those—your ending. Shortly, you’re going to feel very different about the end and worth.” He looked up. “I promise that.”
Renyard never got the chance to tell the Ascendant who was right, but his screams did lend credence to the idea that he might have been wrong.
Present Day
Life had changed in ways Ares hadn’t understood were possible.
Perhaps the greatest change was trying not to think of himself as Ares but Romulus. For a long time, he’d been called by his callsign, and now it most likely was disgraced.
He couldn’t know.
More, the change of his name was now the least of his worries.
Especially at this moment.
“FUCKING GODS, VEENA! I THOUGHT THEY USED TO CALL YOU HAWK!”
“Go to hades, Ares!” she shouted at him as she pulled the ship up.
Ares was strapped in, his back to Veena, looking out the panels in front of him. A laser had just taken off one of his lasers outside the ship, which meant he was only operating with four now.
“It was your damned idea to get this piece of shit!” Veena shouted from behind him.
This is true, he thought as he aimed the lasers. The AI on the ship had turned out to be worthless when it came to defense—and flying—so Ares was now on defense and Veena was flying the damned thing.
While pirates chased them.
Ares pulled the trigger in his hand and watched as one of the corvettes burst into flames, spun out of control, and quickly burned out.
Ares’ muscles tensed. His training kept him from screaming a wild “YES!” but damn, that felt good.
Because they were surely going to die.
The ship was relatively upside-down, its artificial gravity telling them their feet were now up.
“Nice shooting,” Veena remarked. “Only four left.”
Yeah, they were going to die.
“Hold on,” the former Fleet Primus said, then banked hard to her left.
Ares’ eyes widened as he realized Veena’s genius. It was a superb move; before him for mere seconds were all four pirates.
Ares’ genius clicked into action then, his reflexes taking over. Four pulls of the trigger and the ships were all infernos, those inside dead or dying.
He relaxed in his chair, the adrenaline draining from his body. “Nice flying.”
Veena laughed behind him. “Nice shooting, Ace.”
It was a nickname she’d given him, and he hated it.
She righted the ship, and both unstrapped from their seats. They’d been able to get away from the main pirate ship with ease, but the corvettes had caught up with them, their ships far superior to the one they now had.
It was worse than the previous one, which Ares had decided to give up, and Veena had reluctantly agreed.
“How much fuel do we have, Ralph?” That was the name Veena had given the AI.
“You’ll need to find a refueling station in a hundred and twenty-four hours unless you plan on stealing from more pirates. Then it will most likely diminish quite a bit.”
“How far away is the nearest refueling station?” she asked.
“One hundred and twenty-five hours.”
Ares sank deeper into his chair. “Can you stretch it to get us there?”
“Yeah,” the AI answered. “It won’t be pretty, though.”
Ares stood up and left the bridge. He knew Veena was angry about changing the ship, but the cargo they now had was worth two of the previous ship.
She wasn’t keen on stealing from pirates either, but there weren’t a lot of job openings for Commonwealth criminals. Even out here in the far reaches of this galaxy, there would be spies and bounty hunters looking for them. Ares had no idea how many people would be hunting them. What he did know was that a bounty existed.
He didn’t think they would live much longer, but they’d survived another gunfight, and not much else mattered at the moment.
It’d been his idea to raid the pirate ship, and although Veena had protested, she knew they needed the loot they had acquired.
It was a rumor. A myth. Something Ares had heard about in the Institute but no one believed existed. How could it?
The story was simple, but there’d never been any proof. Back at the
Institute, very few people whispered of it, and when they did, it was done in the most private places. If you were caught talking about a rumor like that, you’d most likely be removed from the Institute. Ares has asked his father about it only once, and the man had said, “Just rumors made up by people who weren’t strong enough to defeat the Ascendant. Don’t fill your head with those things, and don’t let anyone hear you mention it again.”
Ares had followed that advice until a few months previously. He’d heard the rumor again, but this time on a planet far from Earth and the Commonwealth.
The argument with Veena had been brief but powerful.
It came to this: if it was true, what would it be worth? It could buy them new lives. It could hide them from the Commonwealth forever. With that kind of money came abilities they couldn’t even fathom right now.
After the first Imperial Ascendant had united Earth, his regime had gone unchallenged for a long time. It seemed as if peace would reign forever since that was before the Subversives had begun their long-lived revolution.
Ares didn’t know the exact timeline. He doubted anyone alive did, and really, it wasn’t important.
A man had said the Imperial Ascendant was creating an artificial intelligence unlike any ever dreamed of. The AI would allow the Ascendant to upload himself into it, as well as any future Ascendants. In effect, it would create a knowledge base unlike any ever amassed and give the Ascendant’s lineage an edge on controlling humanity.
This man couldn’t stop it from happening. He didn’t have the power, the knowledge, or the skill. The rumor said he had something more important, though; he had the algorithm. Ares didn’t know much about algorithms, computer science, or anything that had to do with technology, but he did understand the rumor. The algorithm would supposedly allow its possessor to shut down this mythical AI. Or create another one.
What mattered to Ares—especially this far out in a cold, vast universe—was the power it would give him. He had no dreams of returning to the Commonwealth with the algorithm, but it was clear that whoever had it now didn’t understand what it could do. They didn’t understand its importance. Ares did.
He left Veena in the front of the ship. She’d gone along with his plan, but she still showed little interest in it. Now, though, the thing was nearly in his hands. He walked to the cargo bay where he’d thrown the piece of luggage before rushing toward the defense seat.
He entered the bay and stopped about five meters in front of the box. It was a small thing, not even a meter wide or tall. It was obviously old, the metal covering the outside chipped and scratched.
Truthfully, Ares didn’t know what he would do with it if he possessed it. Even now, standing in front of the box, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t gone on a fool’s errand. His life had degraded so far that he would chase almost any hope, no matter how small the chance it might help him.
“Enough,” he whispered to himself. “See what’s in the damned thing.”
He crossed the few meters and picked up the box. There were locks on the thing, but it had obviously been made in a much less secure time. Ares used a laser pen to slice through the multiple metal locks.
He sat on the floor as he opened it in between his legs.
A clear glass tube on a foam casing. Ares picked up the tube and saw a screw-on top. He quickly twirled the top to the left and opened the glass container. He probably should have been worried about poisonous gas or an explosion from the case, but he’d ignored all those considerations. Ares figured he should have been dead by now, and if an ancient case killed him, it was the will of the gods.
No explosion or poisonous gas. Rather, he found a single sheet of paper inside the glass tube. It was old and brittle. Something inside the box or glass had kept it from disintegrating, and Ares knew he’d need to get the sheet copied or protected soon. The thing might just fall apart from advanced age.
He read the piece of paper. He couldn’t help himself.
If you’re reading this, you’re in search of the algorithm. I don’t know what year it is or what has happened since I took the algorithm and gave it to the universe. I am most likely dead at this point, and my name isn’t important anyway.
What is important is the algorithm, and that’s why I’ve set it up like this.
First, a few things: the algorithm does exist. It is not a lie.
The AI and the ability to upload a human mind into a digital cloud also exist.
A single copy of the algorithm was made at some point in the past, then uploaded into an artificial intelligence in a ship that was destined for elsewhere in the universe.
If the AI was going to be destroyed, its programming determined that it had to send the algorithm to two other ships that were predetermined. The programming would replicate, and more destruction to the AI would result in another two messages, and so on.
What you’re now holding is the direction to that first ship. If it still exists, the algorithm will be on it. If it does not exist, the algorithm has started to spread, and this paper is most likely unnecessary. Give the numbers at the bottom of this page to any ship with an AI presence, and you’ll be on your way to the algorithm—or at least to where it once resided.
If you’ve found this, you know my reasoning for stealing it from the Ascendant, and perhaps yours aligns with it.
I have faith that not all of mankind is like the Commonwealth’s first Imperial Ascendant. I have faith that others who find this won’t try to recreate it but will do the right thing. The noble thing.
They’ll destroy it.
Ares finished the short letter and glanced at the twenty-five digits at the bottom of the page.
He didn’t know what it all meant, only that it wasn’t making a ton of sense. He spent a few minutes sitting by himself, thinking about the letter and the ancient and apparently unopened box, then decided he needed to talk to Veena about it.
She had disagreed with the endeavor, and this would probably only piss her off more. However, she might be a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Ares placed the letter back in the tube and sealed it with the screw-on top. He watched in amazement as the top shot gas into the tube, a vapor that quickly disappeared but was obvious in its purpose. The letter had been preserved by this casing. That gas kept it from deteriorating. Ares would still need to make a copy of it as quickly as possible, but he felt a little bit better knowing if it was in there, it would be relatively safe.
He closed the box and walked quickly back to the front of the ship.
Veena was still in the pilot’s chair. She didn’t look at him as he entered the small room, just said, “Did you find what you were looking for? I hope so because this ship is worse than I thought.“
He placed the box in her lap.
She stared at it. “What’s this?”
“Open it and see. Just be careful. What you’re about to look at is older than either of us ever imagined.”
Veena did as he instructed, taking her time pulling the tube out and the paper from it. She read it quickly, just as he’d done, then stared at the digits written on the bottom.
“It’s real, Veena,” Ares said. “I didn’t think it was either when we went after that pirate ship, but hades, it was better than what we were currently doing. That letter proves it’s real, though.”
She didn’t shake her head, but her eyes narrowed as she stared at the sheet. “You had to open the box, didn’t you? I see the laser burns on the locks. Why hasn’t it been opened before?”
Ares shrugged, though his voice was excited. “I have no idea. Maybe those pirates didn’t know what they had. Maybe it has been opened but was repaired. A dozen different things could have happened, and when we get to a more powerful AI, we can probably see if the box has been opened and repaired. The rumor was real, though, Veena. Maybe the AI on this ship can scan it and give us a time it came from. It’s ancient, though, and you know it.”
“What are you proposing we do, Ares?” she asked quietly. “D
o you want to put the coordinates in and rush off to some ship that cannot possibly exist, given how old it would be?”
Ares grabbed the gunner’s seat and pulled it around so he faced Veena, then sat in it and leaned forward. “It exists, Veena. Think this through. If it’d been destroyed, you would have had two copies of the algorithm out there, and eventually, something would have happened to at least one of those ships, if not both. That would put it at four. The chances of those ships making it for a thousand years is almost zero. The algorithm would be in almost every AI that exists right now if that first ship hadn’t survived. That’s the simple math of it.”
Veena finally shook her head. “No. The chance of that first AI existing for a thousand years is zero.”
“Then where are the copies of the algorithm?” Ares asked.
Veena looked up, her eyes narrowed and a smirk on her face. “It’s all a lie. The algorithm isn’t real. This is a forgery. The ship never existed. It’s a galactic practical joke.”
“What if it’s not?” Ares felt alive for the first time in a long time. He’d felt the dimmest bit of hope when they’d set off after that pirate ship, but now, given the letter on Veena’s lap, he felt like they had a shot. At what, he wasn’t sure, but something other than running and facing the very real danger of starvation.
“I want to think about it,” she whispered as her eyes dropped back to the letter. “I want to refuel this ship, try to get another one, and get a night’s rest after that. Then we can talk about this again. I’m not making any decisions right now.”
“That’s fine,” Ares agreed.
He knew Veena was more conservative than he was, but he also knew she had once been a Primus. You didn’t get to that spot by hiding from danger or refusing to risk your life for something great.
They had landed the ship and begun the refueling process. Veena had hardly spoken to Ares when they dropped the ship off. Most ships used either an advanced nuclear or a deFinita-189 drive, both of which negated the need to refuel. This thing had been built cheaply and was intended to be sold cheaply. There honestly weren’t many refueling stations around anymore, and the ones that did exist weren’t places you wanted to hang out for a long time. Cheap things brought cheap people, and many of them were cutthroats.
