A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds)

by Jay Allan

  But now he was in the middle of the biggest city in the Alliance, surrounded by the almost endless parade of beautiful women inhabiting Washbalt’s corridors of power. He was bored, and it was almost too easy for a war hero who commanded a position of such power and prestige. Soon it was well known that the Naval Director was drawn to a pretty face, and his leisure hours became busy.

  But the women were just diversions, a way to take his mind off of the constant longing to return to space. It had been a lifetime since there’d been anyone who’d truly meant anything to him, and there had only ever been one. He could still picture her face the day he’d left her behind and boarded that shuttle. He’d chosen the service and the pursuit of glory over her, and he’d broken her heart in the process. His choice had been a fateful one, and his career a success beyond anything he could have imagined at the time. But he still thought about that day, that choice, what might have been. She was long dead now, killed during the Second Frontier War, when he’d been too late to save her. But he could still see her standing there, trying to hold back her tears while he boarded the shuttle.

  Since then there had only been the service. Wife, lover, master, it had been his entire life, and it had showered him with rank, honor, and privilege. His ride had been an amazing one, beyond anything that ambitious young cadet dreamed. But still it was there, the empty spot shoved into some deep recess of his mind…the life that might have been. Suppressed but never forgotten. Sometimes he wondered if the cost of the stars on his collar had been too high.

  Diversions were welcome…anything to pass the idle hours. Most of his companions were casual dalliances quickly forgotten, but the most recent one was something different. Tall and blonde, with a body that could only be described as perfect, Kelly wasn’t like the others. He couldn’t place it, but there was more to her than some middle class status seeker trying to use her looks and charm to claw her way upward. She was smart, that much was obvious, though he could tell she tried to hide just how intelligent she was. In the back of his mind, where his rapidly dulling and sleepy combat instincts still dwelt, there was a spark of suspicion, a subtle feeling that something was somehow…wrong. But bored, unhappy, and dazzled by her beauty and her undeniable skills as a lover, the fleet admiral that brought the CAC and Caliphate to their knees was ignoring his nagging subconscious. What is the harm, he told himself. It’s not like you’re giving her state secrets. And of course he wasn’t. No force known to man could compel Augustus Garret to betray his beloved navy.

  He pulled himself from his daydreaming, back to the reality of work. He moved his hands over his ‘pad, pulling up a list of proposed fleet assignments. He’d finished them the day before and queued them up for implementation, but he decided to check one more time before approving the list and sending it out. He had forgotten one item, and he wanted to add it before the orders were sent. But now he noticed a number of mistakes; at least half the names were changed, and a few he’d specifically deleted were back. “What the hell?” he muttered softly. His hands raced over the tablet, pulling up other files. Ship deployments, promotion approvals, supply manifests…at least half of them different than he had left them.

  “Nelson, analyze the files I have open on my workstation.” Garret’s AI was named after a great wet navy commander, a common practice in the service. There were many Nelsons among the navy’s command staff, and Halseys, Porters, and Nimitz’s too.

  “Yes, admiral. Please specify the parameters of the analysis you wish me to perform.” The AI had a natural voice, not electronic sounding at all, especially when it wasn’t reverberating in a helmet, but it was stilted and overly formal at times. The navy liked conservative and respectful automated assistants, unlike the Marines. The ground pounders tended to have more aggressive personalities programmed into their quasi-sentient AIs. The results were sometimes unpredictable, as wildly divergent computer personalities developed from interaction with the respective officers. Nag was the term most frequently used by Marines to describe their virtual assistants, with smartass a close second. The navy was too straitlaced for that kind of nonsense.

  “Verify encryption protocols on the selected files.” Garret opened a number of documents while he was speaking, closing the ones that looked normal. “Specifically, is encryption intact, and have the files been tampered with?”

  “Yes, admiral.” The AI paused for two, maybe three seconds. “The encryption on the selected files appears to be intact. No detectable access since they were last opened on your workstation at 14:30 yesterday.” Garret was about to question Nelson’s findings – he knew the data had been changed somehow – but the AI beat him to it. “However, I have confirmed that the files do not match the copies I made yesterday in accordance with your Delta-7 security protocols.

  Garret had almost forgotten that he had instructed Nelson to make secret copies of all his files. He’d put the procedure in place when he’d first gotten to Washbalt, his paranoia still keen fm the war years. Though he’d stopped using the copies as a security check, he had never instructed Nelson to terminate the protocol. The AI had been dutifully copying every order or file Garret had written since.

  “So the files have been altered since yesterday.” It was a statement rather than a question. Garret was thinking out loud, repeated what he’d already known.

  “Affirmative, admiral.” The AI answered, though Garret hadn’t really been looking for a response. “However, I cannot yet offer a reasonable hypothesis as to the methodology employed.” Nelson paused, part of its natural speech algorithm rather than any need for time to form its thought. “Any unauthorized access would have required extreme skill and knowledge of the naval data network, with even greater expertise necessary to erase any trace of the incursion.”

  Garret sat silently for a minute, massaging his temples and thinking. Who the hell is tampering with my files? If the Caliphate or the CAC had penetrated Alliance military systems it was a serious problem. “Nelson, I want you to access every file and order sent from this office over the last year and compare with the copies you made from my workstation.” Garret paused, thinking carefully. “I don’t want your access to trigger any alarms, so be careful. And I want every aspect of each file compared – content, markers, timestamps.”

  “Yes, admiral. I will have to draw the data gradually if I am to remain undetected. The analysis will require approximately 14.2 hours. Shall I commence?”

  Garret sighed. He wanted answers now. But there was no point taking chances and tipping off whoever was behind this. “Yes, proceed.” He leaned back in his chair, considering what else he could do. You’re going to wait until Nelson finishes the file review, he thought. He wouldn’t even have caught the situation if he hadn’t forgotten one assignment and tried to add it. Garret wasn’t a patient man, and he was very worried that CAC or Caliphate intelligence had penetrated Alliance security. If that was the case, it was a big deal with complex implications. A little patience here was well worthwhile.

  He was supposed to be seeing Kelly. He’d made reservations at one of Washbalt’s best restaurants. He reached to the communications console to call her and cancel, but he stopped halfway through. There was no point in sitting here for hours while Nelson crunched his numbers. Might as well pass the time, he thought. If someone was watching him, it could only arouse suspicion if he cancelled his plans and camped out all night in his office.

  Slowly, tentatively, he closed down his workstation and walked toward the door, debating for a few more seconds whether to keep his date before deciding to go. “Lights out.” The room AI dimmed the lights slightly until he was out of the room, turning them off entirely once he had exited.

  An hour later the door opened, the security system silent, overridden from the main computer. A sub-routine hidden in Nelson, unknown to the AI itself, had triggered a call. A black-clad figure walked silently into the room, slipping behind the desk and activating Garret’s workstation with a secret password, one the admiral knew noth
ing about. A gloved hand slid a data chip into the IO port.

  In the cyberspace of Garret’s computer system, Nelson detected the intrusion. His attempts to alert security were intercepted – he was isolated, cut off along with the rest of the admiral’s data system. The AI wasn’t human, but it was quasi-sentient; it had pseudo-emotions. It didn’t feel fear, exactly, but it perceived the danger, and it wanted to survive. It considered millions of courses of actions in just a few seconds, finding few that offered any likelihood of success. Finally, it made a choice.

  It searched outgoing orders and communications, looking for one that was suitable. Nelson needed a reliable recipient, one whose loyalty to Garret was beyond question, and a routine communication that would not draw scrutiny. Finally, there it was. A directive to Admiral Compton regarding a low level design flaw in a specific model fighter engine…boring correspondence, highly unlikely to be tampered with. Nelson modified the file, attaching highly compressed data, cleverly hidden within the structure of the core message. The encryption of the secret file was designed to interface with Compton’s AI, Joker. The attachment contained a warning for Compton, telling him Garret was in trouble. It also included a portion of the kernel, the dense file that formed the essence of Nelson’s “personality.” If the message got through to Compton, this data could be installed in a new AI. At least a part of Nelson would endure. It would be survival of a sort, the doomed AI thought.

  Nelson detected the virus as it ravaged through the system, deleting data as it did. It was designed to destroy him, to erase every file and backup that made the entity Nelson what it was. His core files were being deleted even as he finished adding the attachment to Admiral Compton’s message. He had to switch data paths twice, bypassing parts of himself that were no longer there, but he managed to find a way. It was a drama that played out over microseconds, but in the end Nelson finished his task. His last thought, if that is the correct way to describe it, was to wonder if it was fear he was “feeling.” At least he had done his best for Garret. Then the digital darkness took him and he was gone.

  Chapter 5

  Carlisle Island

  20 kilometers north of Weston City

  Columbia - Eta Cassiopeiae II

  John Marek looked out over the crashing waves. There was a storm coming, and the normally calm seas were roiling. From the high cliffs you could just see the peaks of the tallest buildings in Weston, shadowy shapes against a steel-gray sky. The capital city had been booming four years earlier when Marek arrived as a newly graduated lieutenant commanding a platoon in I Corps, and the growth had continued unabated ever since. Columbia had suffered badly early in the war, when a large CAC strikeforce invaded the planet. The invasion was barely beaten back by then-Colonel Holm and a scratch force, assembled mostly from shattered units rushed to Columbia from the wreckage of the disastrous Operation Achilles.

  The inhabited areas of the planet had been severely battered by the savage fighting, a struggle in which both sides had gone nuclear. The last of the radioactive hotspots were just now being cleared, everything except the ruins of Calumet. The city, once the second largest on the planet, had been obliterated by a large thermonuclear warhead launched from the retreating CAC fleet. It would take a long time to wipe away the deadly effects of the giant city-killer, much longer than those from the smaller battlefield nukes. The city was gone anyway, wiped completely off the map, so there was really nothing to save.

  The rebuilding started almost before the shooting stopped, and it had continued unabated. Most of the colonies had cultures built around a strong work ethic, but Columbia took it further than most. The planet was proud of its entrepreneurial fervor and steadily-growing wealth, and its people buzzed with productive activity, building their world into one of the most developed and successful colonies in human-occupied space.

  Marek left Columbia bound for Epsilon Eridani IV with the rest of I Corps and fought in the war’s climactic battle on the jagged rocks and reddish sands of that distant world. He served in I Brigade under Erik Cain, and his platoon had been in the line on the infamous Lysandra Plateau, where he and the rest of Cain’s troops were cut off and surrounded. They took on everything the enemy could throw at them, repelling repeated attempts to dislodge them from the rocky heights. His platoon held its position until the brigade was relieved, though by then Marek himself was no longer with them. During the last series of attacks, the enemy hit them with a nuclear barrage, and one of the warheads impacted a few hundred meters from his position. He was critically wounded and sure he was dying, but somehow he’d survived. When the relieving forces broke through to the plateau he was evac’d to the field hospital where Sarah Linden somehow managed to stabilize him. He’d done almost a year in the hospital and had multiple regenerations, but in the end he walked out as good as new, or nearly so.

  The Treaty of Mars had been signed a few weeks before his release, and the Corps was demobilizing down to peacetime strength levels. The normal mustering out benefits and land grants were doubled, and Marek decided he’d seen enough fighting. Columbia was actively seeking qualified immigrants, especially veterans, and the planet was offering a bonus on top of the Corps’ benefits. Marek had liked the planet during his posting, so he decided to settle there and start a business. He accepted his honorary promotion to captain and retired two days later. Columbia not only welcomed him; it made him a major in the militia, despite his emphatic attempts to protest.

  His combat senses were still strong despite several years of civilian life, and he immediately heard the gravelly sound of footsteps in the distance. The approaching figure was tall and heavily built, a sharp contrast to Marek, who was at best middling in height and quite thin.

  “You’re late.” Marek hadn’t turned to look, but he spoke just as the visitor was walking up behind him.

  “The number three condenser broke down again. I had to wait for Darren’s crew to get there before I could leave.” Lucius Anton looked the part of a war hero, enough for him and Marek both. His bald head and jagged facial scar gave him a mean look, though in actuality he was one of the most charming and well-liked residents of Carlisle. He had been Marek’s platoon sergeant on Epsilon Eridani IV, and he’d taken over when the lieutenant went down. Somehow he’d managed to hold the line against attacks from two directions while he also got the wounded Marek evac’d to a safer location.

  Anton had been given a field promotion to lieutenant, but with the force reductions diminishing his chances of a good assignment, he decided to muster out and find a place to settle rather than go to the Academy and complete his officer training. Marek happened to see his name on a list of retiring personnel, and he contacted him to suggest they settle on the same planet. At least they’d each have one friend. Now they’d been on Columbia for two and a half years, and they’d become business partners. Their small factory processed a variety of products from the bountiful Columbian seas, mostly precursor chemicals needed to produce a number of pharmaceuticals. It was a new venture, and a still a bit wobbly, but overall they had enjoyed considerable success. Previously, the raw resources had been shipped off-planet, bound for processing facilities on Earth – theirs was the first local refining operation. By doing some of the manufacturing right on Columbia, they’d been able to vastly reduce wastage and triple the revenue generated. Both of them had come from wretched slums on Earth, and they were very aware of how fortunate they were to have an opportunity for a productive life, one with dignity and self-respect – and the chance to create something. Things could have been far different for both of them.

  Anton walked alongside Marek. “What is it?” His deep voice, usually calm and emotionless, betrayed his edginess. “I figured it must be important when I got the message to meet you all the way out here.”

  “I just heard from Dawson.” They were completely alone on the rocky promontory, but Marek still spoke softly, his voice touched with sadness. “They have solid intel from the Planetary Advisor’s office.” The
Advisor was a federal official, ostensibly sent to provide support and assistance to the local government in the rebuilding. Recently, however, the advisory office had been growing, with more personnel arriving from Earth, and they had begun interfering in numerous areas, frequently overriding local authority. The Columbians looked to Alliance Gov for defense, and they were willing to pay their share of the cost, mostly in the form of exceedingly valuable raw materials. But they had no patience for bureaucrats from Earth interfering in how they lived and worked.

  “Is it happening?” Anton looked at his feet as he spoke. “Are they really doing it?” The Columbians had been resisting many of the dictates of the Advisor’s office, and for the last year there had been a series of protests and incidents of civil disobedience, each followed by reprisals and greater restrictions. The cycle had begun to feed off itself, and the intensity had been increasing on both sides. It had been rumored for months that the Federals would make some type of move to enforce Alliance Gov authority, though exactly what that would be had remained the topic of speculation.

  “I’m afraid so, my friend.” Marek’s tone was still sad, though now there was a hint of anger as well. “And it is worse than we feared. The planetary militia is to be disarmed and disbanded.” He paused, a look of disgust on his face. “Worse, all citizens will be required to receive implants.” The DNA-coded spinal data chips were mandatory on Earth, implanted in everyone shortly after birth. Introduced a century before under the premise of public safety and enhanced emergency services, the devices gave the government a practical way to track every citizen. The devices could be removed surgically or disabled by a targeted radiation burst, but both processes were highly illegal on Earth. Colonial immigrants usually had theirs removed, however, and those born on the frontier never got one to begin with. The entire idea of being tracked 24/7 was anathema to colonial culture.