A.I. Battle Fleet (The A.I. Series Book 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  A day came when the knocking at his hatch wouldn’t stop. Benz had slept for most of two days and hadn’t shaved for nearly a month.

  Finally, the premier stirred, threw off the covers and shambled to the hatch. The knocking had grown louder, if anything.

  He touched a switch and the hatch slid open.

  Commander Graz shook there. The vulture-sloped Martian stepped back in surprise as he stared at Benz.

  “What’s the matter?” Benz asked.

  The Martian stammered, his mouth moving but no words issuing.

  “Well?” Benz asked in a hollow voice.

  “Premier…” Graz said.

  “Go away,” Benz said. The premier turned around—

  Graz grabbed a pajama sleeve. “Sir—”

  Benz swung around. It was faster than he’d moved in quite some time. “Unhand me,” he said, although he didn’t wrench his arm free.

  Graz released his hold. The Martian seemed more composed now. “Sir, this is wrong.”

  Benz glared for a second. The strength of will departed, and he just stared dully.

  Graz seemed to come to a decision. He moved into the premier’s quarters, forcing Benz to step back. The hatch slid shut behind the first officer.

  “What’s the meaning…” The words trailed away as Benz shuffled to a table, slumping into the nearest chair.

  Graz moved more serenely. He was a contrast to the premier. Instead of rumbled pajamas, the commander wore a crisp uniform. He was shaven instead of slovenly and had taut features instead of slack skin.

  “Permission to speak frankly, sir,” the Martian said.

  Benz waved a hand in a disinterested fashion.

  “Sir, this is unseemly. You’ve…dwelled in your quarters far too long. Word is seeping out.”

  “What do I care about that?” Benz said.

  Graz was at a loss as to how to reply.

  “What word?” Benz asked a second later.

  “That you’ve… Well, not to put too fine a spin on it, sir, that you’ve lost your will. That you’re a broken man.”

  Benz seemed to slump deeper into his chair. “Can you blame me?”

  “I blame no one, sir.”

  “I loved her.”

  Graz studied the premier, and something hardened in the Martian. “You do realize that many of your people are from Mars?”

  “Of course I realize that,” Benz said. “What’s your point?”

  “The AIs smashed Mars, killed billions. It made the living thirst for revenge against the machines. It didn’t cause us to wilt under pressure.”

  “Ah. I see. You think I’m weak.”

  “I did not say that, sir.”

  “But you’re thinking it.”

  “I don’t know if you’re weak, sir, but you’re certainly acting in a weak fashion.”

  Benz breathed sharply through his nostrils. “You think I should rave like Hawkins does at times?”

  “That wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Hawkins,” Benz said. “He’s a madman. He thinks we can defeat the machines. The man never relents. You’d think he was born to destroy the machines.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It isn’t human,” Benz said, with some life entering his voice. “Would Hawkins care if Gloria Sanchez died? He would probably use that to whip up his people’s morale, get them fighting mad. He wouldn’t go somewhere and weep. I don’t think the man has any tears in him.”

  “We all feel your loss, sir.”

  Benz turned away. The pity in the words—they bit into him like nothing else yet had been able to do. He rubbed his chin, and it surprised him how thick his beard had become already.

  A feeling of shame welled up. He’d gone to pieces. He was letting his crew down. They had trusted in him—so had Vela. Where had it gotten her?

  Feeling older by the moment, Benz turned back to Graz. “Why did you come, Commander?”

  “Captain Hawkins desires a conference.”

  “Hawkins?”

  “Their strike force is still accelerating, sir. It’s been weeks since they left the battle station. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I remember.” Had that been weeks ago already? Benz couldn’t remember.

  “Our ships are nearing each other,” Graz was saying. “We’ll be able to hold a regular conversation for a time. I believe Captain Hawkins wishes to discuss strategy with you.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I’m wondering if you would like to send me in your place, sir.”

  Benz eyed Graz anew. “Bucking for a promotion, are you?”

  Graz stiffened.

  “No,” Benz said, abashed at his words. “I shouldn’t have said that. I couldn’t ask for a better first officer. You’ve done splendidly, Graz. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Graz nodded stiffly.

  Benz fell silent, thinking, trying to get his mind into gear. It had been too long.

  “How soon until the meeting?” asked Benz.

  “Thirty-four hours, sir.”

  “Yes. I’ll shave, eat, walk around and try to get my mind functioning again.” The premier concentrated on Graz. “You shouldn’t have let me vegetate this long.”

  “Are you going to blame me, sir, for your behavior?”

  Irritation sprung up, but Benz shook it away. “I’m not. You did well in giving me time. I appreciate it, man. Here’s my hand.”

  Benz stuck out his hand. The Martian took it. Benz forced himself to grip hard, to show that he hadn’t completely lost it.

  As they stood, Benz determined to rejoin the land of the living. Maybe Hawkins’ way was the right one. Get mad. Burn with desires of vengeance against the terrible machines.

  The rekindled spark remained even after Graz left his quarters. Benz still missed Vela. He believed he would miss her for the rest of his life. But it was time to act again. He had moped long enough. It surprised him, but he was curious what Hawkins would have to say to him thirty-four hours from now.

  -22-

  Jon sat before a large desk. He wore his dress uniform, complete with a military hat. Gloria and Bast stood to the side. Each of them wore uniforms in case Jon called on them and they had to step in front of the screen. Bast looked positively massive in the black jacket and dress slacks. Gloria wore a mentalist uniform, which seemed shapeless and drab, but it fit the look of a walking brain.

  Jon could have called upon Richard to attend. During the past few weeks, the mentalist had proven even more brilliant than he claimed to be. But Jon no longer trusted the man. He felt on edge in Richard’s presence, as if the man literally tried to read his mind. And if he should brush up against Richard—

  Jon shivered as he waited for the connection with Benz.

  “Nervous?” Gloria asked.

  “What?” Jon asked. “Oh, no. Well, maybe a little.” He said that so he wouldn’t have to explain that Richard gave him the creeps. He didn’t think Gloria would understand.

  She gave him a funny look.

  It caused Jon to recall that she had an uncanny knack at reading body language. It was part of her mentalist training, he supposed. Maybe that’s what he felt in Richard. He could stand that in his woman. He couldn’t stand a man “mind-reading” his actions, especially one that he didn’t trust.

  Richard was a problem waiting to happen.

  “Thirty seconds,” Gloria said, as she studied her tablet.

  The Nathan Graham and the Gilgamesh were about to pass each other. The Nathan Graham led three other human-crewed cyberships toward the edge of the star system, the same general area where Cog Primus and the other vessel had entered the dubious other-space. The four-ship strike force still accelerated. They had to catch up with Cog Primus as fast as they could if they were going to stop the loose-cannon AI from spreading humanity’s secrets.

  The Gilgamesh moved more slowly than the Nathan Graham did. In several weeks, the premier’s cybership would begin deceleration so it could dock
with the battle station and begin repairs.

  That was one of the things that Jon wanted to talk about. This would be a narrow window of opportunity for them to hold a regular conversation, one without all the time lags of normal space communication. The trouble was, the window wouldn’t last long. Maybe they wouldn’t need that long.

  “We’re ready,” Gloria said.

  The screen at the far edge of Jon’s desk glowed, and abruptly, Premier Benz peered at him from the Gilgamesh.

  “Hello, Premier,” Jon said, shocked at the man’s ragged appearance. It hardly seemed like the same individual. The premier looked older with slack skin on gaunter features and hollow-looking, baggy eyes.

  “Captain,” Benz said.

  Even his voice lacked its former vibrancy. How many weeks had passed since the two-ship flotilla had left the battle station? Surely not long enough to have brought such changes to Benz. Vela’s death had seared him.

  Can I still count on Benz to fight to the bitter end? The thought brought another: Don’t shoot your wounded.

  Benz had taken a heavy hit, a psychic one. Now, the premier needed to heal and regain his equilibrium.

  “We don’t have much time,” Jon said, realizing he had paused. Had he been staring? He hoped not. “I left a skeleton crew in the battle station. Most of them were your people that joined us before you headed out. The present situation means we’ll have to readjust our old timetable.”

  “You’re talking about my returning to the Solar System,” Benz said.

  “Exactly,” Jon said, glad the man’s mind was still sharp. Looks could be deceiving, he knew. “We don’t know the situation back home. I think you’ll be interested to know that a space marine tried to assassinate me. We broke down his conditioning. He was a GSB plant from Earth. The man had been mind-scrubbed and given a new identity. He believed he’d grown up on Io.”

  “Our time is short, Captain. Why tell me this when you could have sent a bio sheet?”

  “The GSB planted the assassin in my crew. You might have some in your crew.”

  “Noted,” Benz said. “We’ll be on the lookout.”

  “But that’s not the main point. If the GSB was doing that, what are they doing now in the Solar System?”

  Benz seemed surprised. “Earth was ringed by hastily constructed defensive satellites. What could the Social Dynamists be doing?”

  “I suspect more than we realize.”

  Benz seemed to think about that. “I’ll grant you that.”

  “Given such a possibility,” Jon said, “it might be a mistake to return to the Solar System with only a single cybership.”

  “You’re paranoid,” Benz said.

  Jon nodded. “I’m a dome rat. Paranoia has been bred into me.”

  “I wasn’t going to bring that up. But since you did—”

  “Hear me out,” Jon said. “I’m as paranoid as they come. I’ve also defeated more AIs and done it better than anyone.”

  “No doubt,” Benz said slowly.

  “Meaning,” Jon said, “that my paranoia has served me well. We don’t have the forces to play fast and loose. We have to dole out our resources to ensure that we win each engagement.”

  “You have a point.”

  “One cybership returning to the Solar System might be too little.”

  “In case something has gone badly wrong there?”

  “Exactly,” Jon said.

  “And a single assassination attempt leads you to such a conclusion?”

  “The assassination attempt gave me pause for thought, if nothing else.”

  Benz tugged at his lower lip before refocusing on Jon. “You do realize that your plan to track the AI cyberships through hyperspace is the next thing to futile?”

  Jon gave Benz a quick rundown on Richard’s idea of testing their “tame” Cog Primus in order to figure out the cybership’s destination.

  “The idea sounds flaky,” Benz said at last.

  Jon sat back, eyeing the premier. He nodded, saying, “Give me a better idea.”

  “Decelerate,” Benz said promptly. “Wait for the Gilgamesh’s repairs and we’ll all go to the Solar System together. Your four cyberships are woefully understaffed. You need more people on them. I read about your original idea regarding storming other AI factory star systems. It’s a good one. The best I can think of, in fact. You’re never going to catch Cog Primus. He has too much of a head start.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Jon said. “Besides, we have to track him down and destroy him, and destroy any AI Dominion cyberships he comes across. Once Cog Primus drops into a normal star system, it’s going to take time for him to reach…I don’t know, another star port for repairs.”

  “You’re reaching, Captain. I don’t like it. You’re squandering resources, not doling them out for certain victory.”

  Jon drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Maybe it is a gamble. But simply letting the knowledge of human survival get out is worse. If nothing else, I have to take a stab at finding Cog Primus.”

  Benz bent his head in thought as precious time passed.

  “You don’t have much longer to talk like this,” Gloria whispered to Jon.

  Benz must have heard that, because his head came up. “I’ll refit the Gilgamesh. That will take some time. What say I give you…eight weeks? If you’re not back in the Allamu System by then, I’ll head for the Solar System.”

  “Eight weeks is too short.”

  “Give me a different schedule then,” Benz said. “A reasonable one.”

  It was Jon’s turn to think. Eight weeks was two months. Even four months wouldn’t be long enough.

  “A year,” Jon said.

  Benz stared at him, finally shaking his head. “Four months.”

  “Eight.”

  “Six months,” Benz said. “That’s far longer than I think is wise. We have to begin storming AI planetary factories as soon as possible. We have to bring people back here. We have to begin a crash course in the Solar System of retooling with robo-builders as fast as we can. Even if we conquered Earth tomorrow—”

  “Conquered Earth?” Jon asked, interrupting. “Who said anything about that?”

  “It’s obvious,” Benz said. “That’s why you go in with five cyberships. We have to take over the entire Solar System. We have to tool up with robo-builders and start constructing new cyberships as fast as possible. Even with the Allamu System, we’re not going to have enough hardware the next time the AIs show up back home.”

  “That’s why I have to buy us more time,” Jon said.

  “Six months,” Benz said. “If you’re not back here in six months, I’m heading to the Solar System. Maybe I’ll have three cyberships by then. You are giving me control of the battle station by leaving like this.”

  “I know.”

  Benz eyed him with some of his former intensity. “You’re gambling, Captain.”

  “A stacked gamble,” Jon retorted.

  Benz stared longer. “Maybe, but I still don’t like it.”

  “Then pray for me, Premier. Ask God for our success. Get your crew to pray for our success.”

  Benz snorted as he said, “Getting my Martians to pray to your God might be the bigger miracle.”

  Jon might have shot back a retort, but Gloria said, “One minute left.”

  “I’m sorry about Vela,” Jon said. “You have my condolences and my prayers.”

  A haunted look filled the premier’s eyes. He nodded.

  “Good luck,” Jon said. “I’ll take your six months. The next time I see you—”

  “We’ll join forces and return to the Solar System. Good luck, sir.”

  “Thanks. Godspeed to you, Premier Benz,” Jon said, saluting.

  At that point, the special connection ended, as the cyberships headed in opposite directions, taking them out of un-lagged communication range.

  -23-

  The days passed into weeks. The Gilgamesh decelerated and docked at the battle station. Ro
bo-builders came out and began ship repairs.

  At the same time, the four cyberships under Jon’s command finally reached the outer system. They moved at high velocity, although they no longer accelerated.

  Each astrophysics team made detailed calculations. At last, the Nathan Graham winked out of normal space as it entered hyperspace.

  One by one, the other cyberships followed suit as the strike force left the Allamu System, heading for the rogue planet 5.2 light-years away.

  PART II

  HUNTING

  -1-

  Richard Torres stumbled into his quarters, panting from exhaustion. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up. His brain ached. His eyesight had become splotchy and his stomach twisted with agony as he rushed to a chamber pot-sized incinerator.

  The mentalist dropped to his knees and began retching into the open incinerator. The vomit was vile tasting and made him weep with frustration.

  As a young boy, he remembered vomiting at the Mentalist Training Institute and no one there had held his forehead as his mother used to do while he was sick.

  No one held Richard’s forehead now. He vomited again, heaving for air afterward. Finally, he reached to the side, feeling around until he latched onto a rag. Struggling to his feet, he wiped his mouth and threw the rag into the incinerator.

  He waited, testing himself, wondering if he was going to retch again.

  No. It was over, thank goodness. With his left foot, he stepped on a pedal. The incinerator lid slid shut. A hiss sounded, and heat radiated from the mechanism as it incinerated the vomit and rag.

  Richard didn’t want to leave any evidence that he had been sick. He hid the condition from the medical people. He hid it from everyone.

  Feeling slightly better, he staggered to his cot and flopped onto his stomach. He ached all over her, but his head was the worst.

  “Lights out,” he commanded.

  The radiating ceiling panel dimmed.

  Richard noticed, as there was still enough light to hurt his eyes. What was wrong with the computer? It should know by now—

  A feeling of terror blossomed in his stomach, causing him to fear that he might vomit on the cot. Then where would he sleep? Not on the cot, not even after he cleaned it up.