“He’s right, sir,” Rey Sangupta said with a hint of apology. “Consciousness is a special kind of neurological architecture. A network of complex feedback loops that make a mind aware of its own activity, able to modify and direct that activity. In a way, a conscious mind is like a simulation constructed by the brain—a simulation of itself, so that it can take its own activity and attention into account in its own calculations and adjust itself accordingly. It’s crazily complex. It’s something nobody’s ever been able to reproduce in a machine.”
“Not that we know of, anyway,” Tucker added, but he declined to elaborate.
“For all its enormous complexity,” Vabion went on, “the Ware lacked that perception of itself, that ability to understand its own activity. It continued to operate on pure instinct, so to speak. And so, when its central processors began to break down, when there were no longer engineers with the knowledge to replace them, it acted unthinkingly on its programmed imperative: Adapt. Correct. Repair using whatever resources were suitable. As it spread from world to world, it had needed to learn how to adapt unusual materials and resources to fill its requirements.”
“And at some point,” T’Pol said in a hushed voice, “it calculated that sentient brains would be a suitable substitute for its original processors.”
“Yes,” Garaver said. “At first, it openly abducted people who came in for medical treatment. This was seen as a malfunction, and the Ware in question was dismantled. But it was designed to be adaptive. It could evolve its programming through trial and error. It learned to take victims in secret. But still we knew they were disappearing, and eventually we found out why. That was when the Pegenoi began to fight off the Ware. But it still adapted. Ware in other systems was networked with ours and learned of the failure of its new method. Eventually, it evolved a defense.”
“Replicating exact duplicates of its victims,” Mayweather said. “Faking their deaths.”
“Exactly.”
“But how? How could something mindless be so . . . so devious?” The first officer was no longer sure what to think. He might believe that Vabion was hiding the true identity of the Ware builders to hoard their secrets for himself, but why would the Pegenoi be complicit?
“That’s evolution for you,” Sangupta said. “Insects don’t decide to make themselves look like flowers to hide from predators. Spiders don’t design or engineer their elaborate webs. They just randomly mutate until they happen upon a modification that does something useful, and then modify it more and more until it gets more and more useful. They don’t need a driving will behind it, because it’s success or failure that determines what survives and what doesn’t. Evolution selects for solutions that work, which is why it so often looks the same as conscious planning. And if it operates long enough, it can produce some incredibly intricate results.”
Vabion turned to Tucker. “If you think about it, Mister Collier, this explains many of the anomalies your engineering team had noted about the Ware. Why would a system designed to prey on living beings have such makeshift attack mechanisms? Why do the stations have no means to prevent their captives’ recovery except by repurposing their teleportation, repair, replication, and life-support machinery to attack liberators? Why do they have no defenses inside their primary data cores? Certainly they have battleships; that was one of the products the Ware Corporation had designed and made available to their customers. But the trading posts, the repair stations, the planetary industrial hubs—these were not designed to be predatory systems. They adapted to become that as a means of survival, modifying their existing systems to serve this new purpose.” He shook his head, laughing. “Really, I’m disappointed in myself that I didn’t see it sooner. I assumed there was simply some alien logic behind it. I should have realized that even alien logic must be distinguishable from randomness.”
His point was hard to deny. Mayweather did recall hearing several of Pioneer’s engineers raise some of the same questions.
But he resisted accepting the truth. It would mean that, ultimately, there was no one to blame for what the Ware had done to him and to so many others. No one to be angry at. Just machines that had been built too well and depended on too much.
“So . . . what happened to the builders?” he finally asked, no longer confronting Vabion but simply asking. “How did this planet end up . . . like this?”
Garaver answered that question. “By the time we came to destroy their Ware . . . there was little of them left. The mindless Ware, in its hunger for resources to fuel its growth, had impoverished them. It could no longer provide for them, and they no longer knew how to do it for themselves. It did not care that they starved—only that they could not pay.” She lowered her massive, scaled head. “They had turned on each other in fearsome wars over what resources remained. There were few of them left when we finally discovered this world. And those few willingly sacrificed their own children to the Ware in exchange for food and possessions. We freed all we could, then we devastated the Ware. But the damage was done. The survivors had few subsistence skills, and we had few resources to spare for them, for we had lost so much in our own fight with the Ware.” She cleared her throat with a timpani rumble. “Ultimately, all we could do was help the last survivors build this temple to history—to preserve the truth of the Ware as a caution for those tempted by its power.”
Vabion’s deep voice erupted into laughter. “Such a cruel benevolence on their part. The prize I have sought . . . everything I have worked for . . . nothing but dust.”
“Then there is nothing in the temple’s records,” T’Pol asked, “that would enable us to decipher or modify the Ware’s kernel program?”
The Vanotli stared at her. “The kernel? Oh, I could probably extrapolate some fragments of its architecture and coding from the surviving documentation, but that is not the point. Don’t you see?”
“I think I do,” Mayweather said, drawing Vabion’s gaze. “You said it yourself: The Ware Corporation did the same things you did. Pursued profit and control above everything else. And when they got everything they’d been working for . . . they had nothing.”
He should have felt satisfied to say it—should have delivered the words in self-righteous anger, condemning Vabion for his sins. But he couldn’t bring himself to do so. The man just looked so grateful that he understood.
October 2, 2165
U.S.S. Pioneer
“This is a problem,” Malcolm Reed said over subspace, his goateed image displayed on the bridge’s main viewer. T’Pol, Mayweather, Tucker, and Olivia Akomo were gathered around Reed’s empty command chair as they consulted with him on their findings. “If we could have proven that the Ware was unleashed with malicious intent, then maybe we could’ve persuaded the Partnership that sh’Prenni was acting in their defense.”
“Instead,” T’Pol observed, “the Ware acts with no intent of any kind. Its harm is accidental, the consequence of an untended autonomous system acting out its programmed imperatives. The Partnership could validly argue that they have merely taken possession of an abandoned technology and adapted it to a more constructive use.”
“But are we really sure of this?” Reed probed. “I mean, the story came from Vabion. Can we trust his version of events?”
Tucker hated to let his friend down, but he had no choice. “The records are there in the temple, Captain. We spent a whole day going over them to verify their authenticity. And we have the Pegenoi’s account to corroborate it. The Ware almost destroyed their civilization. It did destroy their neighbors. They have no reason to want to protect its creators.”
“No chance they could be its creators?”
“With the hodgepodge tech their fleet’s made out of?” Tucker shook his head. “No. The only thing that’s kept the Silver Armada flying this long is sheer desperation.”
Reed huffed a breath. “So where does this leave us? We can’t keep trying to shut dow
n the Ware, because countless lives in the Partnership depend on it. But we can’t just stop, because others like the Pegenoi are still in danger from it. Even if we shut the Ware down everywhere else, the Partnership’s Ware could still pose a reinfection risk if it ever gets out of their control. Besides, if we acknowledge the legitimacy of their use of the Ware, we might as well be declaring Vol’Rala’s crew guilty.”
The agent in Tucker had been trained to keep his cards close to the vest, to avoid voicing an idea until he’d worked out all the angles and ramifications, and even then to conceal as much of his true intent as possible. Yet the engineer in him won out, and he found himself speaking almost as soon as the idea came to him. “Maybe there’s another way.”
T’Pol turned to him. “Mister Collier?”
“We’ve found what we were looking for—the origin point of the Ware. There’s not much left down there, no specific records of the Ware’s kernel codebase or system calls. But there are bits and pieces that could give us insights into how its creators thought, what software architecture and molecular engineering principles they used. We might be able to find the key in that.”
Mayweather looked at him askance. “That’s what Vabion said. You’re not trusting him, are you?”
“We know he’s a genius, Travis. He’s helped us before, when it was in his interests. And this is what he’s been searching for ever since the first pieces of Ware fell out of Vanot’s sky.”
“And now he’s seen it was all for nothing. It’s broken him. There’s no telling what he might do next. He could try to destroy himself, and maybe drag us down with him.”
“He’s not a movie villain, Travis. I know you like to see things in terms of right and wrong, but some people are pragmatists. They do whatever they think they have to if it’ll get the job done. If what they’ve been doing doesn’t work, they try something else. I think Vabion’s smart enough to adapt. And he might be smart enough to help us discover something we need.”
“Need to do what?” Reed insisted.
“To change the Ware,” Tucker said. “Setting aside his methods, Vabion had the right idea. The Ware’s broken. It uses living minds because it’s malfunctioned and it’s the only way it knows to fix itself. What we need to do is come up with a smarter fix. Re-engineer the Ware so it doesn’t have to rely on living brains.
“Just think what that would mean for the Partnership. Not only would they no longer have to submit themselves to the Ware’s brain drain just to survive, but they wouldn’t have to live in fear of their neighbors anymore. Because the Ware would no longer be a threat to the Pegenoi or the Guidon or anyone else.” He grinned. “Offering that to the Partnership would give us a hell of a lot of leverage. It’d be worth granting immunity to sh’Prenni and her crew, don’t you think?”
While Reed pondered the idea, T’Pol addressed Tucker. “It is an intriguing notion, Mister Collier. But as we have learned, the operation of the Ware relies on extremely advanced computer systems, comparable in complexity to the living brain, if not in cognitive ability. Neither our technology nor Vabion’s is adequate to the task of re-creating such systems.”
“That’s where I come in,” Olivia Akomo spoke up. “Or rather, Abramson Industries. We’ve been working on a prototype bioneural technology—computer circuits that incorporate organic nerve tissue and function analogously to a living neural network. A bioneural computer could take the place of the living brains the Ware uses now, rivaling their processing efficiency and flexibility. What’s more, they could give us the kind of interface that Mister Mayweather gained when Vabion put him into the Ware back in Pebru space.” Travis grimaced at the reminder, but he was listening with interest. “He and the other sleepers gained root access because they were part of the core itself. We haven’t been able to replicate that yet, but maybe, with the right kind of bioneural processor, we could achieve it. And that would not only let us replace living brains with synthetic processors, but could let us bypass the Ware’s kernel security and reprogram it however we wished.”
“What would you require to achieve this?” T’Pol asked.
“As quickly as possible?” Reed added.
“A subspace link to Willem Abramson,” Akomo said. “It would take a genius of his level to pull this off.”
Mayweather frowned. “Unless he were actually here, able to work with the Ware firsthand, there’s only so much he could do.” Looking like he hated himself for saying it, he went on, “What about the computer genius we already have on hand?”
Akomo traded a look with Tucker, who nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Travis,” Tucker said apologetically. “Vabion’s got more experience studying Ware architecture than any of us. Certainly no one in the Partnership could understand it as well, since they had no science or technology before it came along. Vabion’s the greatest Ware expert we have. We need him.”
“All right,” Reed said. “But I’m not convinced he’s the only one who can help. Hari Banerji made some valuable breakthroughs of his own. If the ambassador and I can convince the Senior Partners that we need him on this, they may let him out to assist you.”
“I’d be glad for the sweet old guy’s help,” Tucker affirmed. “But you think the Partners would go for it?”
“They pardoned Vabion when he offered them something in return. Hopefully we can turn that to our favor.”
“Then it seems we have a plan,” T’Pol said. “Proceed, Mister Collier.”
Tucker met her eyes, wishing he could convey his gratitude telepathically, hoping she could at least read it in his expression. The fate of many worlds and countless lives was in his hands—but it depended on his ability to solve an engineering problem, rather than his capacity to deceive, manipulate, and exploit one group for the benefit of another.
It felt like old times again, and he couldn’t be happier.
13
October 3, 2165
Qam-Chee, the First City, Qo’noS
WORIK STARED IN MIXED awe and confusion at the orders his kinsman had just handed to him. “I am deeply honored, Grand-Uncle Deqan,” the young Klingon said. “I never thought to earn a captaincy so soon. If ever,” he admitted. “And Gantin is a fine Bird-of-Prey, honorably named. But . . . the Federation front? When war is looming? I did not think you approved.”
The elderly councillor gazed out the window at the nighttime fires of the First City, letting out a heavy sigh. “There is much happening now of which I do not approve. So I am myself forced to do things of which I would not normally approve. Such as using my influence to arrange your assignment to such a treacherous post. You have my apologies, kinsman.”
Worik was less concerned for his own future than for his elder kinsman’s honor. “But as the arbiter, is it not your place to remain detached?”
“When the Empire is threatened by the madness of its leaders, I can remain detached no longer. Even the warrior caste once understood that war, like any weapon, must be wielded with discipline and restraint, lest it turn on the wielder. But now it has become a fetish for them, a way to boast and bluster and prove their manhood. They play at it like children playing with firelighters, and they do not care how much they burn so long as they can thrill at the sight of the flames.”
“But surely councillors like Khorkal . . .” Worik began. He trailed off, for these were matters above his station.
“Khorkal’s position is too weak. The insurrection has made everyone angry and afraid, and the rhetoric of the militants and the bigots inflames them. No one is willing to risk appearing timid and losing political standing.”
“But you are the arbiter. Can you not simply disqualify the more dangerous candidates?”
Deqan was rarely prone to violence, but he whirled on Worik with anger. “I will not debase my sacred duties!” He took a breath and went on more calmly. “I must remain neutral in this. I must uphold the system, trust in it, if
I have any hope of its preservation.”
“Of course. I ask forgiveness.”
“I cannot blame you,” Deqan admitted. “I have bent the rules to give you Gantin. But I must draw the line somewhere.”
Worik shook his head, still confused. “Why give me Gantin at all, then?”
Deqan moved behind his understated but elegant antique desk and sank into his seat, which creaked under even his unimpressive weight. “Because I need someone I can trust on the Federation front. I may not be able to prevent the Council from authorizing an attack, but at least I can place a kinsman in a position from which he might be able to take meaningful action on the Empire’s behalf.”
Worik straightened in his own seat. “I understand, Grand-Uncle.”
Deqan met his gaze, and Worik could see the profound grief within his kinsman’s eyes. “I fear you do not—yet. For the action I have in mind . . . will require a great sacrifice from you, my kinsman. I only pray that you will be able to forgive me for it.”
October 4, 2165
Partnership planet Cotesc
Rinheith Chep ran.
It was what he always did, given the opportunity, when faced with a difficult decision. He would go out onto the plains of Rastish—or a substitute, like the parkland that surrounded him now, just outside Cotesc’s towering capital city—and run with all his might, hoping to stalk and overtake a solution as he would with prey. The local parkland was not as well-suited for his thinking as the plains of home; it was a bit too well manicured, its game too small and tame, its gravity a touch too light. But it was all he had.
No; he had Fendob too. The loyal Monsof had run alongside him as long as she could, her own legs nearly as well-adapted for the task as his own; but that ungainly vertical body inevitably slowed her down, and soon she was falling behind and panting profusely. He did not slow his own run, though; he knew she would catch up to him once he rested.
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