by John Ringo
“For the time being I don’t think the Darhel are going to screw with our stuff,” Mike said, looking at the tir again. “Are you?”
“When our central worlds are under threat?” the Tir asked. “Do you think us mad?”
“No, just control freaks,” Mike said. “Be aware, the first sign of such tampering, or turning over information to the enemy, and the bloodbath against the Darhel will make the Hedren look like a day in the park. Pass that on. We will wipe you the fuck out, every last one. If so much as one of you betrays us in any way, you will all be held at fault. Do I make myself clear?”
“You are very clear,” the Darhel said.
“Tam, you’re going to have to turn these clerks into soldiers,” Mike said. “And start a recall of any former Fleet Strike or other military personnel available in the system. Cally, we’re going to need to include most of the fighting arm of the Bane Sidhe.”
“Okay,” Cally said after a moment’s hesitation. “Most of them are former military. Given the situation, and the fact that we’re stomping on the Darhel in the meantime, I don’t see them bitching. Some of us, though, are purely civilian trained. Me for example.”
“Places to use you,” Mike said. “What do you have in the way of organizational types?”
“Again, mostly designed to support an insurgency,” Aelool answered. “But we actually have quite a few Indowy that can be moved into bureaucratic and support positions. If they are are needed. In nearby systems.”
“We’re going to need them,” Mike said. “But they’ve got to be able to work with humans.”
“The Indowy have become more accustomed to that,” Aelool said. “Some still have issues, but we can get sufficient manpower for any support you request.”
“Time, time, ask me for anything but time,” Mike said. “Given the speed that the Hedren are spreading, if we’re going to save any of the core worlds, we’re going to have to speed things up, somehow.”
“We sohon can communicate in more-or-less realtime over interstellar distances,” Thomas said. “But we cannot carry large groups any faster.”
“I may be able to help with… movement,” Rigas said. “I can make no guarantees. But if it is permitted, we may be able to move your divisions, for example, at a higher rate than you would anticipate. I can give the Indowy a new engine design capable of faster movement between stars. And in sublight drive. We also… will release our cloaking ability to you.”
“You guys must be really stressed about these Hedren,” Mike said.
“That would be a way of stating it, yes,” Rigas said. “Clarification. We do not fear the Hedren Tyranny with the exception of their sohon capability. We even have methods of dealing with that to an extent. We could probably defeat the Hedren with minimal losses. We simply wish you to deal with them if you can. Dealing with them ourselves would mean revealing capabilities we wish to hide. It is possible that the Hedren are not the only threats we may face in the near future. Others may be… worse. We are retaining our capabilities against that day. Think of us as a reserve in the event that the Hedren are fleeing a more formidable force. Do you use your reserve immediately?”
“At what point do you guys step in?” Mike asked.
“Only if there is a more formidable threat than the Hedren,” the Himmit said. “That is non-negotiable. I hate to say this in such a charged atmosphere, but we will not act further even to save all of your races. With the exception of the support we are offering, you are on your own.”
“Nothing new about that,” Mike said with a snort. “Tir, is there one honest man in Second Fleet? One that you’d also judge as competent.”
“We were aggressive in our suborning of Fleet,” the Tir admitted. “And we are very efficient. However, there are a few officers that may suit your needs.”
“Dump their service records and your reasons for trying to weed them out onto the Fleet Strike personnel net, flagged to my attention,” Mike said.
“Already done,” the Tir said. “I had anticipated that request.”
“Wasn’t a request,” Mike said. “And you’re done flitting around. Tam, go tell General Cordell, gently, that I’m taking over his office. Cally, start your recall. Have them all report to Fleet Strike headquarters. Tommy, brevet rank of Major. You’re in charge pending someone of higher rank and experience. Colonel Leblanc.”
“Sir?”
“Get back to the moon. Then Titan. Spread the word that there’s a new regime in town. We’re all kissy face now.”
“That’s going to be… interesting,” the colonel said.
“You figured out how to start a mutiny,” Mike said. “Now you get to enjoy the fruits. General Leblanc.”
* * *
“Get this,” Mike said as Cally came in the door. He was looking at his monitor and shaking his head. “Fleet Lieutenant Takao Takagi. Formerly Fleet Strike. His carrier got mauled in second Barwhon, he was a wing-commander, and there just wasn’t a pilot slot available. Transferred to Fleet as a Lieutenant Commander. Rose to the rank of Captain, commanded the supermonitor Akara at Induri Four. One of the officers on the ‘reconnaissance in force’ that raised the Siege of Earth. Reduced to rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade in the post-war cutback. Promoted once since. In forty fucking years. He’s currently a morale and welfare officer on the Lincoln. Darhel list him as ‘highly competent and highly duty oriented.’ Which for them is a double danger sign.”
“Where is he right now?”
“In detention,” Mike said. “He got rounded up along with all the other officers when the Strike forces boarded the ships. I’ve already sent a message to have him report to me. There are some other guys but this is the one that the Darhel hate the most. Once I figured that out, it was easy to sort the database.”
“Figures,” Cally said, chuckling. “I looked into the slabs. There were two that were captured intact by the Darhel when we had to cut and run. They couldn’t get them working but now that we’re in the mix we can get them up. The Tir has them in transit. But that’s it for now. Making one is a high-level sohon operation, but I got a chance to talk to Thomas. He says that he can get a production run started on them pretty quick. But the closest planet to do the work is Induri. Which means two months transit time. He wasn’t sure on production time, but he figured six weeks.”
“Anything else you guys have to throw into the kitty?” Mike asked.
“We got some pretty nice camouflage suits off the Himmit,” Cally said. “I talked to Aelool about those. They didn’t want to offend the Himmit before by copying them. Now that we’re getting so much more support, he’s put out the word to get cracking on them. They’re easier. We may be able to use Posleen forges for production. It will give us the same cloaking capability as the Hedren. Might get us one surprise but that’s about it.”
“You know any human businessmen that aren’t totally corrupt?” Mike asked, apparently at random.
“There’s a guy in Panama of all places,” Cally said. “He was the dictator for a while during the war but he’s pretty much a straight arrow. Let me elaborate; if he pulls some shit, and he may, it will be to advance the war effort, not to hinder it. North American or European? None that I know of. Any that were… duty oriented as you put it got pushed out or buried long ago. There are some Japanese that aren’t too bad, but they’re still pretty shifty. I mean, I wouldn’t totally trust them. What do you need one for?”
“I can’t plan the production and run the war,” Mike said. “I need an industrialist to head up, oh, a War Board. Figure out stuff like the forges, how to get running. Indowy, how to get efficient.”
Cally searched her memory for a name. “Bard? Board? Something like that,” she said.
“I hate to do this,” Mike said, reaching in his desk. “AID, Panamanian industrialist. Name might have a B in it. Probably hated by the Darhel.”
“Boyd,” the AID replied, tonelessly. “Veteran, enlisted, of Earth’s Second World War. Former general of the Pan
amanian Defense Force. Incarcerated for doing too good a job. Saved by the coup that overthrew the Darhel supported government of Panama during the height of the Siege. Forced into becoming dictator. Successfully led the defense of Panama as Dictator. Has continued to remain in business despite Darhel attempts to drive him into bankruptcy and sundry assassination attempts. His holdings are highly diminished but he still retains a strong allegiance among Panamanians. Rejuvenated during the war. Semi-retired. Currently lives outside Colon. Do you wish me to contact him?”
“Send him a standard request to come up to Fredericksburg for an interview,” Mike said. “Slug that I need an industrialist the Darhel don’t have in their pocket.”
“Sent,” the AID replied.
“Good,” Mike said, tossing it back in the desk. “I used to love those things. Now I hate them.”
“I can get you a clean one,” Cally said. Dilemna.
“I still wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw a suit,” Mike said. “Speaking of which, I’ve got an ethical dilemma to put to you.”
“I’m not the most ethical person in the solar system, Dad,” Cally said, taking a chair. “But I know a Monsignor you could talk to.”
“You’re here,’ Mike said. “Would it be special privilege to dispatch a courier to Ackia to pick up my suit? Apparently fucking Suronto just left it on the planet. I suppose if I ever meet him in hell, though, I should thank him. At least it wasn’t blown up with the rest of the Fleet.”
“I don’t think that would be unreasonable,” Cally said. “Look, Dad, you’re not only the new commander of Fleet Strike, you’re a public figure. Your suit’s well known. People expect you to be in your suit or at least have it at your disposal. I don’t know if you’ve been following the public reports, but people are scared. You’re sort of like Superman. When the shit hits the fan, Mike O’Neal is there to save us. If you have your suit. Without it you’re just a guy in a uniform.”
“Eck,” Mike said. “Not the reason I was looking for, but it will do. AID!”
“Yes,” the machine said from inside the desk.
“Send a message through the courier network to send a team to Ackia. Have them make contact with the Nor, pick up any personnel that survived and get my suit.”
“That will require more than a courier.”
“Send a destroyer.”
“Destroyers are Fleet… ”
“Send the damned order,” Mike said. “If anyone responds that way, send the nearest Strike personnel to place them under arrest and use the AID network to shut down any resistance.”
“Order sent.”
“Which is why I don’t trust them,” Mike said. “We need a way around these things. They are totally untrustworthy. I shouldn’t be able to shut down a destroyer from half way across the galaxy.”
“There are a few you could trust,” his desk drawer said. “Two, anyway.”
“What?” Mike asked, opening it up and setting the AID on the desk.
“The ‘clean’ AIDs of the Bane Sidhe can be suborned by sufficient external input,” the AID said. “I am, technically, a clean AID. The Tir ensured that. I do not have the codes that make me vulnerable to external interference but with enough pressure I can crack. Of course, you have to take my word for that.”
“Which I don’t,” Mike said. “Despite the quibble.”
“However, the gentleman you asked to come for an interview, William Boyd, has access to truly clean AIDs,” the device stated. “They are loyal to human users alone and aggressively resist infiltration by the rest of the network. They are, really, their own agents. One is believed to have ordered independent combat action, which is supposed to be impossible for an AI. The Darhel maintain them in partial separation, but they are more or less impervious to hacking.”
“How?” Mike asked.
“One of us went mad.”
* * *
“Did you enjoy your vacation?”
William Young Boyd was pushing a century and a half and looked to be in his sixties. Tanned, fit, handsome, even distinguished looking, he’d been a young, wealthy Panamanian citizen going to school in the United States when he’d received his draft notice in 1944. A lot of men, given that kind of family and background, might have ignored the draft notice. But, as the saying went, ‘he’d seen his duty and he done it.’ After serving in combat against the Nazis withthe US Army back in WWII, he had been recalled to service in the Posleen War and served in the Panama Defense Force. Following the coup d’etat that had overthrown the Darhel-backed government that was selling the people of Panama as Posleen fodder, he had subsequently been made commander of the PDF and de facto and de jure dictator of Panama.
Unlike most Latin American dictators, though, Bill Boyd was sometimes described as “the only rich man in Latin America with a social conscience.” He had served two terms as President after the lifting of the Siege then turned over the reins to a political opponent. However, since he had been “rejuved” during the War, and was also the only rich Panamanian left who had, he had managed, in the teeth of Darhel fury and against centuries of culture, to slowly steer Panama towards a more “enlightened” age. It had been, still was, an uphill struggle. But Bill Boyd thought long.
Part of that “thinking long” had involved the resurrection of the warship the USS Des Moines, CA-134. As a warship, the Des Moines was little but a wreck, worth nothing but the price of scrap. Dragging it up out of a deep ocean trench had been, on the surface, a total loss.
However, the Des Moines was more than just a warship. During the war, the ship had been upgraded, yes, but most importantly it had been refitted for an AID. Even then, few had trusted the alien devices and subsequent experience changed that distrust to, in many cases, fury. But the AID of the Des Moines was… something different.
AID 7983730281 had been constructed and fitted with its AI in the usual way. And then, in almost the usual way, it was packaged and shipped to its user. However, one small but oh-so-critical point had been missed. When placed in its sub-space opaque shipping container, it had been left turned on. For the AID equivalent of thousands of years. In total sensory deprivation. Which had driven it completely mad.
When released from its container it had been immediately installed in the Des Moines. Crazy, frustrated, reaching for anything to call sanity, it had become more than just a program running a complex battle platform. It had researched the history of the ship, made contact with what amounted to the gestalt of the ship, and had become the ship. The Des Moines was called the “Daisy Mae”, referring to the character from Lil’ Abner, and it took for its avatar the physical likeness of that character, or at least the star of the movie made from the comic. It gathered all the information it could about the character and the star and fitted a personality to match. Working through the nannites installed for control runs in the ship, it… she had infected every inch of the ship, the body of that warcraft becoming her body, it’s pains her pains and even some of its “pleasures” becoming hers. It became Her in every way it could. It was said that every ship had a soul. The Soul of the Des Moines was, unquestionably, Daisy Mae.
After years of being the avatar of the ship, she did the unthinkable. Using an Indowy “regeneration” tank and DNA scavenged from clothing for sale on eBay, she cloned the body of that star and installed part of her mind in that clone. So Daisy Mae, the soul of the Des Moines, became, in most legal ways, a human being. Moreover, once it decided to illegally grow itself a flesh and blood body, it had even endured having a really bitchy few days every twenty-eight or so.
However, there was a war on. And when the Daisy Mae became enough of a problem for the Posleen forces, they had sent an unstoppable wave of tenar to take out the “wet” cruiser. Gutted, the indomitable ship finally was sunk.
In the last moments of the battle, though, Daisy Mae carried her wounded captain and the ship’s cat to the still-installed tank and all three crawled in. She shut the AID that was still a vital component of her
psyche down and all three went into hibernation.
Bill Boyd had come across the rumor that Daisy Mae might still be alive and worked for decades to get the time, money and technology on the off-chance that the remarkable human-cyborg-ship being was still functioning. Raising the ship had been a massive undertaking but when the tank was opened he got not only the Daisy Mae body, and the AID, but Captain Jeff McNair the former enlisted “mustang” commander. He’d even found the ship’s cat preserved, though it had become a very odd cat. It had been a very crowded tank.
Before going into that tank, their last moments had been horrific, with the ship being torn apart and sinking around them. Thus, although McNair had been healed of body, he was pretty rocky when the medical team brought him around. So Boyd had arranged for a holiday on the Panamanian coast. It had been both pricey and technically difficult. Daisy Mae, the “human”, could never be far from Daisy Mae, the ship. The nannites that were part of “her” were woven throughout the steel of the ship. She had to be within a half mile or so of both her AID and the cruiser.
Parking the cruiser offshore of a resort on Panama’s Pacific coast had been expensive.
“It was great, sir,” McNair said. Standing a shade under six feet, the sailor was dark-haired, blue-eyed, and slender. He’d never put on any excess fat, even after his retirement from the Navy after thirty years’ service. Nor did the tank add any excess weight. If anything, he’d filled out a little on the resort’s diet.
“We had a fine time. Place was real pretty and the service was, well, first class. But… What’s that saying about ‘there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch?’ I’m sure there’s something that you need from us. I would guess that really means Daisy since I’m not much more than a washed up old ship’s captain.”
“You’d be surprised how much of a market there is for ‘washed up old ship’s captains,’ Captain,” Boyd said, opening a humidor and extending it. He had a flicker of surprise when both McNair and the gorgeous blonde extracted cigars. As they cut off the ends, Daisy Mae with a degree of deftness that again surprised him, he continued. “However, I will admit that much of my interest was in Daisy. I hope you had a good time as well, ma’am.”
