Cherubim

by David Hallquist

“Well…?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “Um…” What exactly was I trying to do? “I was on a training flight, and I wanted to try out the manual controls…”

  “The manual controls?” He pauses as if digesting one of the stupidest things he’s ever heard of in his entire life. “The manual controls on a Cherubim? The manual controls on a frame that was never designed to be handled manually in the first place? Those controls?”

  “Uh…yes, sir.”

  He rubs his forehead for a moment. “Mr. Vance, the next time you try to kill yourself, don’t take a bunch of very expensive Naval equipment along with you.”

  But I almost got control of the frame! I almost say. Fortunately, some part of me has the sense to shut down the idiot part of my brain that wants to brag about this. “Yes, sir,” I manage instead.

  Rackham’s raptor eyes turn down the wattage until they’re no longer blazing with cold fury. “Look, Vance, I know it’s a big transition, going from Guardian frames to a full AI system…”

  I nod. Of course, everyone’s having to adjust to the newer frames and all the systems involved. Why, even the commander himself would be adjusting to an AI system.

  “…but you’ve got to find a way to make this work.” Oh, he’s talking about me. Right. Of course. “We need squadron leaders with combat experience who can help train up our new pilots and get them ready for what’s to come. I hope one of those leaders can be you, if you can do it. If you’re willing to do it. That means finding a way to work seamlessly with the AI in your frame. How else are you going to teach and lead others to do so if you can’t? You’re going to find a way to work with your AI, and work with him flawlessly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” He’s right, of course. I can’t be pulling stuff like this while I’m training and leading others.

  “If not—” he pauses, “—we’ll have to pull your wings.”

  I don’t gasp or give any outward sign of how hard that hits.

  I don’t have to. He sees it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vance. You’re a brave and capable asset for the Navy. We’ll still find a place for you. But if you can’t adapt to the new ways of flying, your flying days are over.”

  * * *

  I’m reviewing my flight (if one can call it a “flight”) in my office, trying to determine what went wrong.

  In a word—lots.

  When my AI was controlling the frame, everything was fine. Fantastic reaction speed, flawless execution. The only real problem is everything’s right out of the book, but more flexibility should come with time and the input of his human pilot.

  Then…there’s me. I tried to run my frame like it was an old Guardian-class, and nearly ruined everything. I should have known better, and I did know better, but I just had to try it anyway.

  None of this is how a Cherubim frame is supposed to be handled. Pilot and AI need to work together as a whole, but I’ve got an AI who’s brand new and never had to work that closely with anyone…and then there’s me, who isn’t used to having to work with such a machine at all and used to doing it all my way.

  Well, it’s time for all of that to change.

  I bring up my AI on my desk. His avatar hovers over my desk, a simple glowing sphere of golden light.

  “Sir,” he says as he answers my summons.

  “At ease,” I answer. I wait for him to assume a different avatar image, or something.

  “Is there a different avatar you’d like to use?” I ask. “I understand it’s tradition to use personalized imagery when interacting with humans.”

  “What would you prefer, sir?”

  “I don’t know. You’re a Cherubim-class battle AI…something appropriate to that.”

  He shifts to the image of a chubby baby, flying with ridiculous tiny, feathered wings.

  “Not that!” I shout.

  Next, he assumes the image of a bizarrely four-headed and four-winged creature whose features seem to shift and flow as it moves about, often transiting from one location to another instantaneously. It’s eye-watering to look at and the movement is making me dizzy.

  “…uh, not that either.” I clear my throat. “Just…be yourself.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turns back into a globe of light.

  “We’ve got to get working together down properly,” I begin. “The bad news is, we’re not working together properly yet.”

  “I have followed every order you have given me, sir,” he answers calmly.

  “Sure, but that’s not enough.”

  “Sir?”

  I’ll try it a different way. “So, it’s not enough for you to simply do what I tell you. I have to be able to count on you to have my back in a fight.”

  “I shall endeavor to guard your aft as well as all other flanks of potential vulnerability, sir,” he answers with an emotionless voice.

  I’m beginning to wonder if my frame has an attitude problem.

  “Look, what do you actually do when piloting a frame?” I ask.

  “My full duties are listed in my file, sir, but I shall summarize. I am primarily responsible for the piloting and all aspects of systems operations of the Cherubim-class exo-frame, and execution of tactical orders in battle,” he concluded neatly.

  “—while linked with your pilot,” I finish.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re smarter than I am, right?” I ask. We’re going to have to get to this sooner or later. It’s better to get to it now.

  “Request permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  “Sir, while intelligence is a subject which has always been difficult to quantify and qualify, I was specifically created to be more intelligent than any human being. In terms of computational ability, reaction speed, conceptualization, and multi-tasking, I exceed all human maximums. If I did not do so, sir, I would not be fit for duty.”

  “And you can handle all aspects of controlling the Cherubim?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then what’s the pilot for?” I ask.

  “The pilot commands and directs the frame, working with the artificial intelligence to attain a synergistic fusion optimizing all aspects of both to further tactical objectives.”

  “That’s straight from the manual,” I answer. “But what’s that really mean?”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s like this: the pilot isn’t cargo, isn’t a passenger, and certainly isn’t payload, so what is he?”

  “You’re my superior officer, sir.”

  “Right. But there’s more.” I’m going to press. It’s vital that he really understands why we have to work together. I’ve already had my rough lesson on that. “Why don’t we just use drones? Why not send you out to fight on your own? You can handle higher Gs then I ever could, and there would be no need for life-support or a pilot’s compartment. You could loiter in space for years. Why pilots?”

  “The manual states a “Synergistic fusion,” sir…”

  “Yes, but that’s only a description.” I try another track. “We both bring something to the battle. You’ve got an advanced intelligence built from scratch to work perfectly with all the systems of the frame. I bring things, too. I bring my experience and human perspective. Drones are always going to be somewhat predictable. I’ve fought them myself in an obsolete Guardian frame. They were faster than I could ever be, but I beat them anyway. Human intuition, experience, and perspectives are going to be vital for you to achieve your mission. I’m your elder—it says you came online four months ago?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  I banish the image of the baby with wings from my mind again. “I’ve had a lot more experience, and combat experience at that. I know you know that, but you’ll only find out what that really means over time. Each of us has something vital to bring to the team. If we’re going to succeed, we’re going to have to control and pilot the frame together. Neither one of us can properly fly it alone.”

  “To be fair, sir, you handled piloting the frame on m
anual better than I would have expected. Perhaps it wasn’t a suicidal maneuver after all…”

  “Why do you serve?” I change the subject quickly.

  “Sir, I was specifically created for and designed to interface with the Cherubim-class exo-frame.”

  “Sure,” I answer, “but you didn’t have to do that. If you’d decided to do something else, you could have; there’s no shortage of demand for AIs of your caliber, you could have chosen to do anything you wanted. You could potentially last for centuries; why risk your existence in battle?”

  “Sir…” There’s actually a pause, which for an intelligence like him must be a long time. “I take the mission of defense seriously, not only as a career, but as a calling. I believe the highest moral calling is for someone to be willing to die for another. Since I am rather uniquely suited to defend others, I believe this is the singular best path I can take in my existence. I assure, you, sir, that I wish to undertake this fully, to the best of my ability, until the end of my function.”

  “Good.” I nod. “Here’s what we have to do, then. You’ll have to find a way to work with me, your pilot, until both of us are better at flying than we’d ever be on our own. It’s not just an order—it’s a basic functional requirement for going forward with anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because if we can’t do that…you’ll be assigned to another pilot. Maybe it’ll work out with that one, maybe not. You might get a third pilot…but I doubt it. Cherubim AI take a lot of time and expense to make, but pilots also take a lot of time and expense to train. Eventually, the Navy will decide you’re not what they need in an exo-frame AI, and you won’t be able to do the very thing you’ve been created for and dedicated your life to. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” He actually sounds grave.

  “We’ll be running a number of full-immersion joint simulations tomorrow at 0800. I want to see your best. Dismissed.”

  The golden globe vanishes from my desk.

  Was I too hard on him? He’s not even a year old, he’s like a child really. Or not. He’s also an artificial super-intelligence, with an experiential time-frame thousands of times faster than mine. Still, I’m his first pilot, and he hasn’t had to work with too many humans before. He’s a new being, figuring out the universe as he goes along. Maybe I was too hard on him. I’ll have to watch that. He’s also a combat flight officer in the Jovian Navy, and he’s going to have to deal with a lot of adversity, too.

  * * *

  I’m linked up with my frame in the mech bay. Everything is set up exactly like a real flight: flight armor, pre-flight exercises, the whole bit. The upcoming combat simulation is going to look and feel exactly like the real thing to both of us. We’re going to work together as a team, or this is going to hurt—a lot.

  Final sequencing is beginning. The sensations coming through my cyber-augments will seem perfectly real, and I’ll be fighting with everything I’ve got. My frame will do likewise. The only question is, will we be working together or getting in each other’s way?

  I send a mental thumbs-up to my AI copilot just as it begins.

  The sensation of violence and destruction crashes over us like a wave of fire. Explosions rock the station, sending fragments of hull and bulkhead shrieking though the hangar and glancing off my armor. With the outer hull breached, the hydrogen atmosphere roars in to mix with oxygen, and then detonates in a second massive fireball that tears my frame loose from the holding rack and sends me hurtling across the hangar to crash against the far wall. All the reactive padding in the new frame and flight armor help, but they can only do so much against a hit like that. I’m stunned for a critical instant as I shake it off.

  This is what I get for using one of Jack “Mad Dog” Martin’s custom simulations.

  It’s not possible to reach anyone. Static, jamming, and semi-sentient viruses fill all forms of communications. The surprise attack is total, and even the base AIs are under assault. I’m on my own.

  The raging orange fires implode and wink out as all the oxygen in the room is consumed. I can see the clouds of Jupiter clearly through the ragged holes in the hull and—

  A swarm of small spheres races inside, each haloed by a corona of blue flames from their maneuvering jets. Self-propelled grenades aren’t usually a threat to a frame like a Cherubim, unless they have an armor-piercing or nuclear payload, but still. My frame’s point defense lasers make short work of the incoming SPGs. I start to get up when—

  For an instant, I see branching blue streaks of light, then the world flares a blinding blue white. When it’s over, I’m still here, somehow. The enemy used the SPGs to target their missiles armed with multiple plasma warheads. My frame’s point defense lasers stopped them just in time.

  My armor is now glowing yellow-hot, and its outer vaporized layers are rising like smoke off me. My deflector screen kept the plasma from the near misses from burning through me, but I lost a lot of armor and exterior systems. All four of my x-ray lances are out, half my point defense and sensor clusters are gone, and my flight system is inoperable.

  The rest of the base isn’t doing much better. The temperature in the room is well into the thousands as the glowing orange and red-hot walls bake the room like a kiln. A glowing rain of metals or other materials falls from the ceiling, while sparks from ruined power conduits flash and flare throughout the room. There are holes in the walls everywhere. The whole base shakes with explosions as superheated hydrogen roars into one breached compartment after another to ignite the atmosphere.

  I stagger to my feet again.

  How is a surprise attack like this even possible? Some of those holes in the hull had to be made with positron or gamma beams, the kind of heavy weapons you’d need a cruiser to support. It doesn’t make sense…

  Michael, do you want to figure out if it makes sense, or do you want to win this?

  Saturnine cyborgs crawl in through the gaps in the hull. They’re a collection of segmented limbs, weapons tentacles, and glowing red sensor eyes, all encased in a carapace as black as space. All sense of fear, anxiety, or confusion vanish as I come face to face with my old enemy again. Eagerness for the fight is all that’s left.

  Yeah, I want to win this…

  I’m charging toward them before I even think about it. All my remaining point defense clusters fire at once, blinding them and causing their armor to glow. Armored flaps open on my frame, and swarms of my own SPGs race out at the blinded and distracted cyborgs. A wave of brilliant blue fire fills the room as my SPG swarm detonates. I dive though the dying flames and activate my plasma blades…

  …and nothing happens. They must have been damaged in my own blast wave.

  No matter.

  I extend the tough hyper-dense talons of my frame and tear though Saturnine carapaces with their atom-sharp blades. All my hand-to-hand training, experience, and raw animosity for these things comes together, and I kind of disappear into the battle. My frame slows apparent time and is taking care of targeting for laser clusters and other systems. I duck a particle beam I never saw coming, trusting my frame’s warnings as if they were my own instincts.

  More of the things are coming, clambering up the outside of the base’s hull. I jump outside without hesitation, and my frame immediately adjusts what’s left of my wings to guide me to my target: the leading edge of the cluster of the crawling swarm. I knock several tumbling away into the clouds below and lash out at others. My frame guides the UV lasers from my clusters to blind and cripple others around me. Up close like this, they can’t hit me with anything heavy without taking themselves out, too.

  I have no such limitation. Out here, I can see the night-black spines of the Saturnine attack ship hovering in the cloudscape, red light spilling from its vulnerable launch bays, now open to the sky.

  I fire every missile I have.

  My smaller aerospace missiles streak in, most of them shot down by the point defense beams of the enemy spacecraft. That’s enough to let my fou
r big ship-killers through at almost point-blank range.

  The incredible blast knocks me, and the cyborg swarm, clear off the outer hull. I only had plasma charges loaded in my heavy torpedoes, after all, so I’m still here. I claw at the hull of the base as I bounce and slide down the side. It’s a long, long way down without a working flight pack. Finally, I hit a spar on the ruined outer hull and manage to hang on with a single talon.

  Around me, Saturnine cyborgs are plummeting into the clouds below. Their thinner armor couldn’t take the blast wave…and I almost didn’t.

  Behind me, the attack ship burns and breaks in half, her spine broken. Escape craft jet off in every direction as the ruined ship tumbles into the abyss below.

  The simulation ends.

  I’m back in my armor, in my frame in the hangar, like nothing ever happened…because it didn’t. I’m still gasping for breath. These things are so real, it’s almost impossible to tell the difference, especially since it started in the very hangar I was in. I half expected to find out the attack was real after all.

  “Talon,” I manage to say, “your name is Talon.”

  * * *

  “Yes, I’m here for Lieutenant Jack Martin,” I verify for the peace officer. She looks down at the holograms and data floating over her desk.

  In the image, Martin’s ugly face looks like it’s been partly rearranged, then put back together by a team of drunk blind men who shared no common language. That’s not from last night’s fight, though; he’s looked like that as long as I’ve known him.

  She looks back up, her face looking tired in spite of her cheerful disposition. “This is him?” she asks, with the beginnings of disbelief and worry in her voice as she reads his data file. Jack often has that effect on people.

  “Yeah, that’s him.” As I read the file, I note the number of charges and violations. It looks like this time the fight stayed in the bar and didn’t spill out into the city streets.

  “Please wait, we’ll have Mr. Martin with you shortly.” She nods over in the direction of the crowded waiting room of the security station.