Braintrust- Requiem

by Marc Stiegler

  Hart’s huge hand swallowed his own. “Likewise, Captain.”

  They turned and watched as Death approached.

  Its designation was Bright Beta 7. It had been designed to fly, and if things went well, to die. It resided in the computing core of the missile known to its creators as “the Petard.”

  Bright Beta 7 felt the power pour from the tail of its missile. It watched the isle ship from which it had been launched dwindle beneath it.

  The AI could do more than one thing at a time, so as it rose, it tilted its missile over, unfolded its wings, and simultaneously started hungrily seeking the radiation signature it had been designed to love.

  Bright Beta 7 flipped the Petard into a slow-burning near-glide as it entered the figure-eight racetrack where it would loiter for most of its life.

  By human standards, the AI had barely an eyeblink of time to circle. But for the AI, making billions of computations every microsecond, it would have felt like a lazy summer afternoon, had it known what a summer was, or an afternoon.

  Soon enough, Bright Beta 7 detected the faint, tantalizing scent of fissioning plutonium. With a furious course change, the AI whipped its missile around to bear on the source and accelerated. Mach One, Two, Three, up to Six, the AI and its missile hurtled with desperate haste.

  Now the AI detected targeting radars bouncing from its shell. Antimissile missiles shuffled toward it lethargically, moving barely faster than the speed of sound.

  None of it mattered. At Mach Six, given a cross-section as small as that of the Petard, the other missiles had no chance of intercepting.

  As the plutonium signature grew stronger, Bright Beta 7’s course corrections grew ever more frenzied, until the AI was continuously and desperately trying to stay on track. Just as the Petard was an impossibly small target for the enemy to hit at those closing speeds, so too was the Petard’s focus— a narrow rocket rising slowly into the sky, effectively invulnerable to a direct strike from a Mach Six missile.

  Bright Beta 7 did not care about that either. It was not programmed to try to hit its target. The Petard only had to get close enough to blossom and shine upon the object of its affection.

  The Petard came close enough. It veered to the side, and before the enemy counter-missile fire could realize the missile was no longer a threat, Bright Beta 7 blew away its outer shell to expose the thousands of solid-state neutron generators in its broadside.

  The neutron generators fired and Bright Beta 7 ended, its mission accomplished.

  A decent hydrogen bomb is built like an onion with three layers. The outermost layer is composed of standard explosives, carefully wired together to make absolutely sure they all detonate as one.

  Within the layer of explosives lies another layer composed of Plutonium-239. This layer is very carefully designed, using thousands of hours of compute time to ensure that the sphere is close to large enough, but not quite large enough, to spontaneously produce the chain reaction of a nuclear explosion.

  The core of the bomb contains a tritium/deuterium mix, harmless except when exposed to the heat and pressure of a small star.

  In normal operation, the explosives in the outer layer compress the plutonium just enough to set off an atomic blast more or less the size of the Nagasaki explosion. This explosion lights the fusion in the core to produce the hydrogen-bomb blast of inconceivable power.

  Normal operation was not on the menu on this day. The immense blast of neutrons from the Petard blew through the explosives layer like it was not there and poured into the plutonium layer, which was already in a quivering state of nuclear readiness. The Petard’s neutrons supplied the trigger to light the plutonium and the tritium and the deuterium into hellfire even before the missile had left the ship that launched it.

  The neutrons from the Petard spread unevenly. They did not light the plutonium as efficiently as the explosives would have, so the resulting blast was quite mild. It was barely five times larger than the fireball that destroyed Hiroshima.

  Dash stared at her display screens as tears trickled down her cheeks. She took a deep breath. “Jam. Turn away. You must not watch.” She choked. “This is not meant to be seen.”

  Jam had been gazing, unseeing, out the hole in the side of the CIC. She shook herself and turned as Dash had instructed.

  Dash reached out with both hands. She clutched Chance’s hand on one side and Jam’s hand on the other. “Stay with me.”

  A light of incomprehensible brilliance flashed, reflected in painful glory from the wall they steadfastly watched.

  Dash’s eyes no longer held tears. Her pupils widened until her eyes were black with cold, deadly calm. “I am become Death,” she intoned, “the destroyer of worlds.”

  Jam put her hand to her mouth as she whispered to Chance, “Oh, no. She’s quoting Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction.”

  Chance, however, having grown up in the United States and learned too much history, knew the truth. “No. She’s quoting Robert Oppenheimer, the Father of the Atomic Bomb, as he watched the first nuclear test. Oppenheimer was quoting Shiva.”

  Jam shuddered. “Is that better or worse?”

  The captain of the Chinese destroyer Guiyang, on the edge of the fleet providing escort, searched the seas with his one good eye. He’d lost the other eye when the nuke burned away half his face.

  The pain kept trying to incapacitate him, but he persevered. As nearly as he could tell, he was the senior surviving officer in the whole Chinese armada.

  His XO, who had been belowdecks as the fireball swirled into the sky, was in considerably better shape than he. The XO stepped up next to his commander. “We have the semaphore flags ready, Captain.”

  “Very well. Signal the fleet, FORM ON ME.” He paused contemplatively. “We’ll take a cruise around the edge of the formation and see how many ships respond.”

  A ghastly creaking sound carried over the water as a cruiser closer to the blast drifted to starboard and casually drove into another destroyer like the Guiyang. The destroyer, already in the throes of sinking, split in two on contact. Its slowly submerging stern accelerated into the water, disappearing suddenly.

  The XO pursed his lips. “We should contact the President for Life and let him know what happened.”

  The captain had a clearer view of his priorities. “He should be able to guess from the satellite sensors.” He started to raise both arms, found one of his arms minimally yet excruciatingly responsive, and raised only the other one. “Besides that, how would you propose I reach him? Is there a single transmitter anywhere in the fleet with an antenna that hasn’t been vaporized, melted, or blasted away?”

  The captain turned to strategic matters. “Once we’ve collected everyone we can find, we’ll head for the BrainTrust.”

  The XO looked as stunned as a fallen ox. “You plan to proceed with the attack?”

  The unburnt side of the captain’s face attempted to smile. “With what? Do we have a targeting radar intact, a missile whose silo is not twisted, an artillery piece whose barrel is not warped?” He did not wait for an answer. “If we head back home, many of the survivors will die en route. But if the BrainTrust survives, perhaps they’ll take us in. Who knows? Even I, despite the radiation exposure I’ve surely taken, may live.”

  Admiral Beck stepped back from the glare that came from over the horizon. “Holy shit! Was that a nuke?”

  A low boom rolled over the American fleet, heralding an enormous wave that rolled beneath.

  The satellite operator studied the footage from the recon satellite overhead.

  The comm with the satellite had been turned back on after much heated debate between the surveillance expert and the cyberwar expert. It turned out that the satellites used a different kind of crypto and were probably invulnerable to cyberattack. The word “probably” had generated most of the argumentation.

  The admiral had interrupted the fight by directing that the satellite systems be disconnected from the rest of the ship’s network s
o they could at least see something, even if they couldn’t integrate it with anything else. Beck would have to remember that there was a chance, however small, that the BrainTrust was editing the footage for him.

  Anyway, the operator finally answered the question. “Looks like you’re right, sir. A nuke went off directly over the center of the Chinese fleet.” He popped a snapshot onto the wallscreen.

  Everybody stared at the image. A ring of ships around an empty center pointed off in odd directions, as if the blast had tossed them at random and no one could redirect them.

  One of the officers asked in amazement, “Where is the carrier?”

  The sat operator highlighted a lump of metal, clearly resolidifying after turning molten, near the center of the circle. “I believe that was the carrier.”

  Beck asked, with shock still in his voice, “Did the BrainTrust just nuke the Chinese? Or was this some kind of accident?” The Chinese carrier was the only nuclear craft in the Chinese fleet.

  The sat operator rolled back through the last moments of stored footage. He pointed at a point of fire over the BrainTrust iceberg. “See there? That’s a BrainTrust missile taking off.” He tracked the missile as it went up, circled, then took off like a banshee toward the Chinese fleet.

  One of the officers muttered, “So the BrainTrust did nuke them.” He paused, puzzled. “Why them, not us? The Chinese hadn’t fired a shot yet.”

  The sat operator shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s what happened.” As the BrainTrust missile approached the carrier, the operator highlighted another engine flare on one of the cruisers. “That’s a Chinese missile lifting off.”

  The two missiles hurtled toward one another until a flash of furious light drowned the scene. The sat operator stepped back frame by frame to the start of the explosion. “It looks like blast originates with the Chinese missile, not the BrainTrust.”

  An expert in Chinese armaments added reluctantly, “That Chinese missile can carry either conventional or nuclear warheads. Can’t tell which from here.” His voice turned wry. “The blast coming from it seems suggestive.”

  Admiral Beck frowned. He couldn’t help remembering that the BrainTrust could have edited this footage for him. Did he trust the scene, or did he need to fear that the BrainTrust was a nuclear power, and the next target would be his fleet?

  He reviewed everything he knew about the BrainTrust: their society and their culture. He remembered that these were the people who had replaced an eye for an assassin who had attacked one of their own and had given another assassin a job as a peacekeeper. He remembered the stories, in no way confirmable, that the doctor who more than anyone embodied the BrainTrust virtues had tried to give the man attempting to wipe out civilization a last chance to reform in their final confrontation.

  Next, he thought about how the BrainTrusters had fought this battle, depending mostly on the defensive strength of the ice. Beck had lost almost no men so far. Even in the fighter battle, almost all his pilots had parachuted safely. He might well have killed more people in his successful strike at the CIC than he had lost overall.

  The BrainTrusters were not trying to kill. They were just trying to survive.

  He drew his conclusion. The nuke that had exploded had been Chinese. The BrainTrusters were not savages.

  Beck’s stomach twisted as he realized that because they were not savages, he was now free to destroy them without fear. “We proceed with the attack.” He finished wryly, “But let’s keep our hands off the nukes, boys. No need to risk blowing ourselves up.”

  Security Chief Hart braced with futile determination as the American missiles grew on his screen.

  At the last moment, a boom! sounded in the distance, and the Aegis heaved out of position as a mighty wave rolled by.

  The approaching missiles were cast askew in the passing turmoil but stayed more or less on target.

  Then Hart’s bracing proved valuable a second time as a series of explosions, so closely spaced as to form one continuous blast, hammered home.

  Silence returned.

  Hart turned to Ainsworth, puzzled. “Are we still alive? Why are we still alive?”

  Ainsworth studied the instruments, half of which no longer functioned. “I think that boom, whatever it was, threw the missiles off just enough that they didn’t hit with any coordination.” He paused, continuing to examine his limited readouts. “Most of the impact was soaked up by the ice.”

  Hart felt the deck start to slip sideways.

  Ainsworth tossed an addendum onto his report. “Of course, we’re still sinking.” He sounded remarkably cheerful.

  Hart turned to his controls. He set the bots to work finding and repairing the hull damage and sealing off compartments to prevent further flooding. Finally, he replied to the captain, also with good cheer. “Well, for a hopeless battle, this is still going swimmingly.”

  Dash stared at the screens with shock, exhaustion, and disbelief. “They’re still proceeding with the attack. The Americans are still coming.”

  Jam shook her head. “Haven’t they had enough? How could they not have had enough?”

  Chance asked the practical question. “Do we have a plan?”

  Dash’s expression turned dreamy. “Of course, Colin had a plan. How could Colin not have a plan?”

  Chance waited for her to continue, then prompted her, “Well? Do you know Colin’s plan?”

  Numbness settled on Dash’s shoulders. She moved mechanically, not quite a broken puppet. “Before he died, I had no idea what he intended.” She blinked. “But now it’s quite clear to me. It’s as if I always knew. I can hardly remember not knowing.”

  Her voice fell so they could barely hear. “It was Colin’s last resort. He was a good person, so he would never use it unless the only alternative was total destruction.”

  Her eyes turned black once more. “But he is gone, and I am no longer a good person.” She spoke with deadly authority. “I’m going to kill them all.”

  Aboard the South Dakota, the sonar operator jerked his chair around and spoke in a quiet, urgent tone. “Captain! I’ve just picked up the apocalypse torpedo.”

  The hairs on the back of Captain Tucker’s neck stood up.

  The apocalypse torpedo was a nuclear-powered doomsday machine built and launched by the Russians decades earlier. It was nuclear-powered, so it could sail almost forever. And it was huge.

  “Coming this way?”

  “Yessir.”

  The captain felt dizzy. This called for some fast decision-making way above his pay grade.

  As a submariner, he had been trained to operate at his own discretion. Rigidity was not a positive quality in such a captain. He made the decision that might not be right, but would certainly be the only decision he could live with.

  With that, he spoke loudly to the listeners in the air. “Alcyone, did you hear that? The Russian apocalypse torpedo is on its way.”

  ARE YOU SURE?

  “Yes, we’re sure. It’s got a distinctive sonar signature.”

  CONSEQUENCES?

  The captain blew out a breath. “We’re not sure. Our intel conflicts. Some say the torpedo has a nuclear warhead of two megatons. Some say it has seventy megatons. If it’s two megatons, it’ll wipe out your fleet and probably mine as well. If it’s seventy megatons…” His voice drifted off. He had no idea what that would do.

  The Alcyone, however, had a guess. THE ERUPTION OF MOUNT TAMBORA. 1816. THE YEAR WITHOUT SUMMER. WORLDWIDE FAMINE. HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS DEAD.

  The captain shuddered. “Maybe.”

  A long pause ensued. I MUST GO TRY TO STOP IT. MUST I LEAVE THE BOT WITH YOU?

  In his mind’s eye, Wilson Tucker saw his ancestors and his descendants staring at him, demanding he do the right thing. “I’m coming with you.”

  WILL THAT VIOLATE YOUR ORDERS?

  “My orders don’t cover this. I’ll be fine.”

  I’LL LEAVE THE BOT ATTACHED SO WE CAN COMM.

  The captain turne
d to his XO. “Let’s go.”

  The South Dakota gave the Alcyone the heading and the two subs departed at maximum speeds, so noisy that they announced their presence to anyone who stuck his head in the water. The XO looked at the captain uncertainly. “Do our orders really not cover this?”

  Wilson Tucker looked back with a serenity he did not feel. “I can posit an interpretation of my orders that allows this.” He shrugged. “It will be interesting to see if anyone else shares that interpretation at my court-martial.”

  Ping followed Toni as they opened up the afterburners and blazed again toward the Kennedy. They had started this way after wiping out the squadrons attacking the Chiron. She had been trying to figure out whether anyone in the CIC, notably Dash, had survived the enemy attack when the nuke went off to the west. It bobbled their planes, and Toni had taken them down to the deck for a couple of minutes in case another surprise was about to unfold.

  They were moving once more on the target.

  Their drones were spent. Most of them had fired their two missiles and were out of ammo. The others, still lugging around their weapons, were just about out of juice. Diric and Ted were dropping them in suicide strikes against whatever ship they could reach.

  The only real ordnance left were the Rockeye cluster bombs in the bellies of the fighters.

  The Rockeyes were dispensers that carried large numbers of bomblets. Originally they had been designed to be dropped on land—for example, on an enemy HQ, where the scattered explosions would slaughter the personnel, effectively destroying the command and control structure of the opposition.

  Students of warfare had noticed, however, that these same bomblets might well produce a satisfying distribution of destruction if dropped on a ship, where instead of killing the unarmored people, they would kill the similarly unprotected antennas, radars, and external control systems.