“Barabo no guns.” Tif looked a little worried. Clearly she understood the situation. “Sard aw here, but barabo no guns.”
Erik sighed. “Yeah. I don’t think that’s going to work out for them either.”
* * *
Lisbeth entered Engineering Bay 8D to find Stanislav Romki at a workpost. He sat with Augmented Reality glasses on, lost hypnotised in that glow of blue light, fingers dancing across invisible icons in the air before him. Integrated into the workbench was a wide transparent cylinder, filled with thick liquid. Within the liquid, held firm with intricate clamps, was the most amazing object Lisbeth had ever seen.
It was a head, of sorts, severed from its mechanical body. The head of a sentient machine, from a race of AI warriors who had ruled this portion of the galaxy for twenty three thousand years, only to then become extinct for another twenty five thousand. Or mostly extinct. This one had a fist-sized hole through its single, big red eye where Major Thakur had put a round through its head. It was not especially well armoured, as rather than being a warrior, this one had been a commander, a higher-sentient intelligence purposed for command and control. A queen, in human understanding, in the hive-like structure of AI society. And Stanislav Romki, since his first moment aboard the UFS Phoenix, had found it fascinating beyond description.
“Stan, you should eat,” Lisbeth told him as she came alongside.
“Yes yes yes,” Romki shushed her. “In a minute.”
“No look, I brought you some stir fry,” said Lisbeth, holding the container for him. Romki peered past his glasses, then abandoned his control icons for a moment to take the container and fork.
“Thank you, thoughtful girl.” Romki’s detached fascination for AIs and aliens, and his relative disinterest in human beings, had become something of a joke among Phoenix crew. But confronted with something like an AI queen, Lisbeth sympathised. She bent to peer into the big, dead eye behind the curved glass.
“She is completely dead, right?” she asked. “I mean, the size of that hole…” On this angle, she could see right through the queen’s head. The primary rifles used by fully armoured marines were enormous.
“Well yes and no,” said Romki past a mouthful of stir fry. It was a Phoenix kitchen staple, and quite tasty too, but became repetitive for every second meal. Recent rumours of fresh fish had everyone excited. “Functionally she’s quite dead — much of the neural processing core has been completely annihilated. She simply lacks the hardware to create a conscious thought.
“But this… this… entire brain structure is something…” he trailed off. Lisbeth had an advanced engineering degree from one of the best colleges in human space. It was specialised in starships more than computers, but she still had enough knowledge to know why Romki couldn’t complete the sentence.
“I know,” she agreed. “It’s incredible.”
“Beyond incredible. All the literature on hacksaws says molecular-level processing, quantum computing, but… well, maybe someone in Fleet or in tavalai labs somewhere knows how it works. I’m struggling. There’s at least twenty different kinds of brain structure here, but the main data-retention seems to be almost crystalline. It’s like it grows memory and data, and somehow feeds sub-molecular level storage into these incredible crystal matrixes. And I mean, they’re beautiful. So beautiful.”
“Maybe the reason we find it so hard to figure out how it works is that we’re organic,” Lisbeth murmured. In the thick fluid submerging the queen’s head, shimmering swarms of dust seemed to swirl. Like a billion microscopic animals, turning together in unison. “The first machines were just server droids when they rebelled against the Fathers. Then over twenty thousand years they evolved into this. Maybe it takes a machine to make another machine this advanced.”
“That’s quite possible,” said Romki, barely listening as he ate.
“Any more ideas about what she is? Which branch of AI civilisation she belonged to?”
“Oh god no,” said Romki. “It’s hard enough just trying to figure out how she works. And there were hundreds of branches. That was actually a very complicated civilisation — I mean imagine, twenty three thousand years, spread over so many hundreds and thousands of star systems. How complicated did humans get in just a few thousand years on one planet? But it’s all so long ago now, they were extinct so long before humans even got into space, and all the species that were around at the time would rather forget.”
“And you’ve got her in the nano-tank,” said Lisbeth, looking at the thin veil of swirling metallic dust. “Any chance the micro-machines could actually complete a full circuit?”
It was what the nano-tank was designed to do. You put damaged electrics into it, and the micros swarmed and analysed and figured out which pathways needed to be completed in order to restore function. And then, in human tech at least, they set about joining themselves to create those pathways.
“No, dear girl, look… our queen is a work of art. Such advanced synthetics, almost beyond belief. Our own technology, including those micros, is so primitive by comparison… using them to make her work again would be like trying to restore function to a supercomputer with an elastic band and a couple of paper clips.”
“But you said yes and no,” said Lisbeth. “You mean… she’s not completely dead?”
“Well this is pure conjecture on my part… but I see no reason why these crystalline neural structures should not retain complete data sets long after the neural mechanism itself has long since ceased to function.”
“You think she’s still alive in there?” Lisbeth breathed. “Waiting to be revived?”
“Well beyond our technology, I’m quite sure. More’s the pity.”
Lisbeth gazed at him. “You think we should do it, don’t you? Wake her up?”
Romki raised the glasses for the first time, and looked upon her. His head was bald mostly for shaved convenience, his eyes dark and intelligent, his brows arched like an owl. It was a face that did intelligence and enthusiasm well, and condescension and disdain even better.
“Ms Debogande,” he said with angry amusement. “Which do you imagine is more important? Attempting to make peace between two groups of humans who are hell bent on trying to kill each other due to factors entirely beyond our control? Or researching the true nature of our alo allies? Because if the alo did indeed absorb some portion of the deepynine hacksaws all those thousands of years ago… well, it would explain why their technology is so advanced, for one thing. The most advanced species usually became that way after interacting with other species, but the alo just popped up two thousand years ago, refused to talk to anyone but the chah’nas, refused to let anyone travel in their territory, and were already more advanced than the tavalai. Fishy doesn’t begin to describe it.”
He pointed at the queen. “She might know. She might even tell us, if we asked her. In that synthetic brain may lie the clue to exactly what threat humanity allied itself to, at the beginning of the Triumvirate War… but no, your brother and his muscle-headed Major are still so tied to Fleet’s apron strings that they can’t imagine looking outward toward what’s most important.”
“Well…” Lisbeth blinked, wondering how to explain it to a man like Romki. “Well they’d like to go home,” she said lamely. “Everyone here would like to go home.”
“Exactly,” said Romki, exasperated. “Humanity has been in space for over a thousand years, yet still we look to answers amongst ourselves. One day, Lisbeth Debogande, we will have to grow up. There’s an entire universe out there.” He waved a hand expansively at a wall. “And until we learn to cast off these childish things, and venture forth as a truly grown up species, a species that belongs in this galaxy, we will always be in terrible danger from the many things out there that we refuse to understand.”
4
Colonel Timothy Khola’s cruiser landed on the pad within wide, pretty gardens on a hill. He left the cruiser, presented his ID to the marine guard who came to check it, then walked with his
two officer companions toward the mansion. The neighbourhood was wealthy, as all neighbourhoods were on these green hilltops that overlooked the gleaming city of Shiwon. The city and ocean view were partly obstructed by tall, green trees, and the gardens stretched downhill to patios, swimming pools and flower beds, surrounded by high walls.
Fleet personnel bustled about, mostly officers on business. They were moving a lot of files and boxes, and furniture piled on the pavings beside big French doors. The mansion was Shiwon Fleet Administration, the personal residence of Fleet Admiral Paul Anjo. The third-most-senior officer in Fleet, even Anjo’s own home was filled with staff, on full-rotation service. And these staff looked like they were preparing to move house.
Khola entered the downstairs living room, wide and spacious, where civilian removalists were considering the furniture. A middle-aged black lady in expensive clothes fretted with them beside a sofa. An adult daughter held a grandchild nearby, chatting to a Fleet officer Khola didn’t recognise.
Khola went briskly upstairs, down a hall past more officers carrying boxes, to some big double doors guarded by marines. Both marines came to attention as Khola approached. He wore full dress uniform today, with medals. He didn’t do that often. The Liberty Star had an effect on all who saw it, even civilians. After one hundred and sixty one years of war, few humans didn’t know what it was. There were rumours of rare ones on the blackmarket fetching fortunes, for collector value alone. To serving personnel, they were worth far more than money.
The marines let him in unasked, and the two officers with him. Fleet Admiral Anjo was talking with several Captains and Commanders. About his office, more boxes, filling with files, pictures, framed commendations. Several shelves were approaching bare. Against the wall behind his desk, the twin flags of the Fleet Arrowhead on Crescent, and the United Forces Starburst about a blue sphere. The blue sphere was Earth, and rising above the northern-most point of the star, the silver wings of a Phoenix. Humanity, rising from the ashes.
All turned to look at the new arrival. “Colonel Khola!” exclaimed the Fleet Admiral in surprise. “This is an honour. To what do I owe it?” In Fleet seniority, Anjo was a whole five ranks above Khola — a stratospheric O-11, where Khola was merely an O-6. Yet while Anjo might receive more salutes, no one in Fleet was under any illusion who got the most respect.
“I have some special business, sir,” Khola said simply. “I would be gratified if we could attend to it immediately.”
Anjo’s eyes went wide. Special business, coming from Khola, could only mean the Guidance Council. Much of Fleet thought the Guidance Council was just a rumour, a tale to be told late at night. The administrative version of a ghost ship story, told to frighten junior bureaucrats into good behaviour. Select very senior officers knew better.
Anjo nodded to the officers about him, who left with respectful haste. One of Khola’s companions followed them out, and shut the doors behind him. Khola glanced at the boxes. Anjo smiled nervously. “I’ve been informed that the security standards in this neighbourhood are no longer up to scratch. You know, with things as they are.”
Khola nodded. Anjo had upset the Debogandes. The Debogande Family was known to employ some very serious muscle, much of it ex-Fleet. Anjo had pinned a murder on Alice Debogande’s son, then tried to kill him too when it all went bad. Worse, he’d tried to kill Major Thakur, and Thakur wore the Liberty Star just as Khola did. Many marines were furious, and Anjo, whatever his rank, was no marine. Anjo had set a precedent, of top officers murdering, and attempting to murder, their own. No one was especially surprised that High Command could do such things — one hundred and sixty one years of war had demonstrated that the universe, and Fleet Command, could be equally dark and dangerous. But even so, such behaviour could be catching. No doubt Anjo was nervous, and moving somewhere safer.
“Colonel, what kind of drink could I offer a Kulina that you might accept?” Anjo asked. Anjo was dark and portly. His uniform belt was let out several notches more than Khola thought seemly, even on a spacer.
“No drink, thank you Admiral.” He fixed Anjo with a calm stare. “I’m here to inform you that the Guidance Council has deliberated, and found the present situation intolerable. Fleet must maintain Spacer dominance over Worlders, but instead of uniting behind you, your actions have divided us. One of our most powerful industrial families, a family with a record of great service to Spacer causes and a great friend to Fleet, has now been made our enemy. Spacer Congress representatives are upset. My fellow marines are upset. Some Spacer captains involved in the initial pursuit of Phoenix from Homeworld were then, and are still now, on the verge of mutiny. Even many who were in the greatest disagreement with Captain Pantillo’s politics cannot accept on principle that one of their own could be dealt with in this manner.”
“Look,” Anjo said shortly, temper and fear rising as one. He jabbed his finger at Khola. “I was given specific instructions to deal with Pantillo. Immediately, that was the word I received. I know many of the Guidance Council were in agreement at the time, and only now, in hindsight…” He broke off, and strode to stare out a window at the green gardens. “I mean what did they think would happen? The war was ended, Pantillo was going to run for office from Heuron, where he’d probably win, and then a man with his war record, organising on behalf of the Worlders… well, only a matter of time until the Worlders gained full democratic rights at the top of our political system. Unacceptable, I was told. And so I dealt with it, exactly how I was instructed, only now does everyone see the impossibility of the situation I was placed in!”
“I quite understand,” Khola agreed. “But that does not change the present situation.”
“And how the hell did that girl get loose in the detention cells?” Anjo demanded. “I’m telling you, this was an inside job. I think I was set up, Colonel. And I’ll not take the fall for this alone, I can assure you.”
“There was no inside job,” Khola said calmly. “Major Thakur is Kulina, like me. Others may have her combat skills, but very few possess the calmness of mind to utilise them as she does. She was my student for one year at the Academy, and while her decisions have surprised and disappointed me, the outcomes once she made those decisions have not.” He paused. “And you will take the fall for this.”
Anjo turned to look at him. Lips pressed tight, trembling with hard emotion. “I will not,” he retorted. “I was placed in an impossible circumstance.”
“That is irrelevant,” said Khola. “We battle for human survival. Our own individual survival is unimportant. And fear not, Fleet Admiral Ishmael and Supreme Commander Chankow will meet the same fate as you.”
“I will appeal!” Anjo retorted. Khola had been warned of this, and it did not surprise him. Anjo had been climbing this greasy pole most of his life. Like so many of Fleet’s highest officers. “I will demand a full accounting of the decision making process behind my dismissal! It will not be pretty, Colonel. You go and you tell your Guidance Council that, before we take this any further.”
“There will be no accounting, Admiral,” Khola told him. “You misread the situation. Fleet needs a clean break from its current leadership. There can be no dispute, no ongoing proceedings leading to further debate and acrimony. It must be fast, and it must be final.”
Khola pulled his sidearm from its holster. Anjo paled. “Oh no no no,” he murmured. Tremors began in his hands, and he stumbled back a step.
“For the human cause, Admiral,” Khola said simply. “The only cause that matters. It must be by your own hand. You will leave a note admitting your responsibility and regret. Humanity’s future depends on it.”
“I won’t.” Anjo stumbled back against the wall for balance, face blank with terror. “I won’t, I won’t.”
“You will.”
“Please.” Begging, as his eyes filled with tears. “Please, my family is downstairs. You can’t do this. Think of them.”
“I’m thinking of us all,” Khola said calmly. “And I shan’
t do it. You shall.”
In sudden fury, Anjo drew himself up. “I am a Fleet Admiral!” he yelled. “I have worked my whole life to achieve this position, and I will not be intimidated by some lowly Colonel with jumped up delusions of grandeur!”
The yelling would not help him, Khola knew. This was a secure room, and largely soundproof. Lieutenant Abrahms, who had departed the room before, had moved the marines on guard outside at the same time. No one would come. He nodded to Lieutenant Parrikar, who walked around Anjo’s desk to the drawer, and pulled out the Admiral’s personal pistol, just where intel had said it was. Parrikar handed it over to Khola.
Anjo grabbed a chair and tried to heave it at the window, but the chair was heavy. Khola grabbed it with a hand, then broke Anjo’s grip to make him drop it. Anjo lashed at his arm, but that merely gave Khola the leverage for an armlock that dropped Anjo to his knees. Anjo screamed, but Khola took a handkerchief from his pocket he’d kept for the purpose, and stuffed it into Anjo’s mouth. He then dragged the man, with Lieutenant Parrikar’s assistance, kicking and flailing to his desk chair, and put him in it.
The pistol was a snubbed K7, standard Fleet officer’s issue, and would not make an especially loud noise in a secure room. With augmented strength Khola locked Anjo’s left arm behind his back, forced the K7 into the right hand that Parrikar held ready. Parrikar then bear hugged Anjo to the chair to hold him in place, while Khola locked the arms, and forced the pistol hand around and stuffed the muzzle into Anjo’s mouth. Anjo tried to thrash his head, and Parrikar stopped that with a steel grip. The muzzle went in, to Anjo’s muffled shrieks.
“Clear!” Khola instructed, and Parrikar removed her hand from the top of Anjo’s head, just before Khola blew it off. Bits of skull and brain went flying, then stillness. Both marines dropped the Fleet Admiral, as the pistol fell, then a hand. Blood dripped thickly, and Khola removed the bloody handkerchief.
Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) Page 5
