The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Kotran sipped his wine, watching the freighter. “Six task groups. Four in this quadrant alone. Flattering but unwanted attention. We’ll lift ship for a new base port as soon as my business with you is finished.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said the drugger.

  Kotran lifted his glass. “Your health, Barol. I don’t suppose your client’s available for questions, once I’ve read this?” He patted the pocket holding the commwand.

  Barol shook his head. “That came to me as circuitously as the rest. I’ve no idea who the client is. Thankfully.” He shook his head. “Almost sorry to see you go, Kotran. It’s brought in some nice side money—my personal account always swelled the day after you lifted.” Setting down his drink, he frowned, staring at the agro freighter. “Odd.”

  “What?” said the corsair, following his gaze. The ship had landed, but without any of the usual port bustle. It sat alone, port center, locks closed, dwarfing the port buildings and government towers—a ship big enough to feed a world.

  “Any freighter pulling into Satakport, Captain, has about ten other ports to reach as fast as possible. We’re a designated provision planet. What we don’t eat is sent to the liberated planets—fast. Freighters come in, off-load, on-load and upship. Millions are starving, time is life.”

  “So?”

  Barol looked at the corsair. “So why is that ship just sitting out there, not locked into the docks, no haulers approaching?”

  “They’re opening up.” A forward lock the size of the restaurant was cycling open. The two men watched as a broad gray ramp extended from the ship. Eight squat black vehicles sped out onto the duralloy.

  Barol spilled his drink. “Combat cars!” he cried, staring wide-eyed at the turret-topped assault vehicles. Spreading into a long line, they raced toward a series of dun-colored warehouses along the field’s northern edge.

  “Standard Fleet ground assault formation,” said Kotran. “Aren’t those your warehouses?”

  Barol watched ashen-cheeked as three utility haulers sped from the warehouses, away from the combat cars. “Cowards,” he said hoarsely. “Stand and fight!”

  “Not even for dopers’ wages,” said Kotran. “Not with hand weapons against Mark 44s.”

  The drugger looked toward the distant gray block of Planetary Defense Command, now encased within the shimmering blue of its forcefield. “Why aren’t the port batteries firing?”

  “They’re not ground artillery,” said Kotran. “The batteries would have to be reconfigured and reranged. Takes time.”

  The combat cars had reached the warehouses. Assault ramps dropped. Heavily armed squads scrambled up the loading docks and charged into the warehouses. The restaurant was too far from the action of the men to recognize uniforms. From the freighter, five silver shuttles flew on n-gravs to the loading docks, landing unchallenged.

  The few other people in the restaurant had gathered in small groups by the glass wall, drinks in hand, chatting quietly as they watched the raid.

  Kotran checked the time. “Slick. Not a shot fired. Wonder when the Planetary Guard’s—”

  First from the spaceport, then from everywhere, alert sirens began warbling.

  The vidscreen over the bar flashed on. “Alert! Alert!” The head and torso of a green-uniformed Guard captain filled the screen. He looked haggard—there was shouting going on off scan. “A corsair raid is in progress. Repeat, corsair raid in progress.” The officer’s voice boomed through the restaurant at max volume. “All military personnel and reservists to your rally points. All emergency services personnel to duty stations. All others to bombardment shelters.”

  The restaurant emptied quickly as the announcement continued, accompanied by the sirens’ wail. Only the two men at the bar heard the rest: “Be advised. Be advised. Fleet units are in-system and responding. Fleet units are in-system and responding.” Evidently recorded, the alert began repeating.

  “Atir, got anything on those Fleet units?” Kotran said into his communicator.

  “Three heavy cruisers, coming in at flank,” replied a woman’s vice, crisp and efficient.

  “Can we make it?”

  “If we load only four shuttles.”

  “Do it. Send the fifth for me, now. Straight in, commlink vector.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Setting down the communicator, he faced Barol’s baleful gaze.

  “You,” said the drugger. “That’s Victory Day out there—your ship!”

  Kotran nodded.

  Heavy blaster fire echoed through the port. The combat cars were sweeping the rooftops with bursts of red fusion bolts, answering a scattering of sniper fire. Flames sprang up as the sniper fire died.

  “Why, Kotran?”

  “I’m a thief and a killer, Barol, like you,” said Kotran. “The only merchandise worth stealing on this dust ball world is yours—so I’m taking it. You have eight halkals of drugs in those warehouses. Six of them are now mine. The other two will burn. I’ll make two and a half million credits. Not bad for an afternoon’s work.”

  “Dead men don’t spend,” said Barol, his voice low, hard and cold. “Run. Hide. Nothing will save you, Kotran. You’ll die under torture. That’s a vidscan I’ll enjoy for the rest of my life.”

  The corsair shrugged. “No doubt.” A palm-sized blaster appeared in his hand. “But your life’s over.”

  “Wa—”

  The thin red bolt flashed into the drugger’s open mouth and out the back of his head.

  “Stupid,” said Kotran as the body tumbled onto the polished hardwood floor. It twitched, then lay still.

  A shuttle appeared, silver hull filling the broad sweep of glass on the spaceport side of the restaurant. Pocketing his communicator, Kotran walked past the corpse and tables to the window. Standing opposite the shuttle’s open side port, he adjusted his weapon and fired.

  A wide hole blossomed in the glass. Taking a hand form the shuttle, Kotran leaped aboard, the updraft tousling his hair. The lock closed behind him.

  “Status?” he asked.

  “Last shuttle’s loading now, Captain,” said a big red-bearded corsair. The two men stood alone in the cargo bay. They grabbed for the crashbars as the shuttle rose and banked.

  “And those cruisers?”

  “We’ll be gone before they’re in range.”

  A moment later and they were on the ship’s cavernous hangar deck. Kotran jumped out as the lock cycled open, running past the crew hastily unloading the white duraplast shipping containers.

  Reaching the bridge, he stepped to the main screen and its view of Satakport. The last shuttle was coming in, the combat cars following.

  “Fleet units’ disposition, Atir?” he asked his first officer.

  “Coming in like the Wrath of Shalak,” said the slight brunette, watching her telltales. “Their shields are up, communications battlebursts only. Computer identifies as two Potan-class heavy cruisers and a Rasal-class command dreadnought.”

  Kotran looked over her shoulder at the tactical readouts. “Rasal-class.” He nodded, impressed. “That one alone could wipe us.”

  “All shuttles are berthed, all combat cars secured,” reported Kalal, the third officer.

  “Atmospheric fighters approaching,” said Atir, pointing at the telltale to her left. A phalanx of lavender crosses were moving across her left telltale. Kotran read the intercept projection, then took the captain’s chair.

  “Upshield, upship,” he ordered. “Stand by all batteries, Atir, but don’t jettison camouflage.”

  “Lifting ship,” said Atir, engaging n-gravs. “Shield engaged.”

  The cruiser rose silently, Satakport shrinking on the screen. “Coming within range of port defenses,” said Kalal. “Their shields are up, batteries locking on us.”

  “Detonate series one blastpaks,” ordered Kotran.

  A circle of small mushroom-shaped clouds sprouted around the port as preplanted charges atomized missile and fusion batteries.

  “G
ive me forward tacscan, Atir,” said Kotran.

  She entered a command, fingers flying over her keyboard. The green hills of Satak vanished from the main screen, replaced by a tri-dee tacscan of surrounding space. A slew of green blips were moving out from the luminous white orb representing Satak. Farther out, beyond the third of the system’s five planets, three red blips were coming in—headed for Satak much faster than the green blips were leaving it.

  The computer had flagged Victory Day yellow. It lay closest to the planet, moving toward the green blips.

  “We spooked the traffic,” said Atir. “Every ship in-system’s heading for jump point, trying to get clear of any fighting.”

  Kotran nodded. “Let’s join up. Plot for jump point, but keep our speed that of a respectable old agro freighter.” He turned to Kalal. “What’s the civilian comm chatter?”

  “Confusion. Questions directed at those Fleet units. Wild rumors.” The young corsair smiled. “The latest is Satak was just taken by a Scotar nest.”

  Kotran shook his head. “How did those fools win the war without us? Add our voice to the confusion, Kalal.”

  “Task force commander is calling Planetary Defense Command,” said Atir, head slightly cocked as she listened to the thin distant voices in her ear jack. “Current sector PDC code, which we have.”

  “Asking for an update and our description?”

  “Yes. Time for series two?”

  He nodded. “We don’t want our description out till after we jump.”

  She entered a second remote firing command and pushed Execute.

  “Shut up!” snapped Commodore Awal.

  The Planetary Guard officer shut up, face reddening.

  “I don’t care about your pissy little port, Major,” said Awal. He leaned forward, thrusting his large squarish face into the pickup. “I care about Kotran. Tacscan shows ships everywhere—some headed for jump point, some for your sister planet, some for your two moons. Kotran’s ship is undoubtedly camouflaged. I need a complete description to distinguish it from the merchanters. You will provide that description, Major. Now.” He leaned back in the flag chair, waiting. Around him, the dreadnought’s bridge bustled with activity.

  “Yes, sir.” The major looked down at something outside the pickup. “We’ll transmit full scans of the corsair and their raid.”

  “All you could shoot were their pictures?”

  The major nodded miserably.

  “Send it over,” sighed the commodore. He looked at Josan. “Captain, give the—officer—on five channel a new datacom freq…”

  The screen with the major on it went blank. As Awal watched, a line of text flashed onto the bottom: CARRIER FAILURE. “Josan,” said the commodore, “I’ve lost that idiot. Get her back, please.”

  The captain ignored him, intent on a readout. “We’re receiving a satellite scan of Satakport, Commodore,” she said. “Coming up on main screen.”

  Awal looked up. Satakport’s control spire was a scattering of burning debris. Nearby, across a shattered access road, a huge crater smoldered, almost obscured by a layer of thick, black smoke. “Planetary Defense Command and Guard Headquarters,” said Josan.

  “He must have infiltrated their security and blastpaked it, maybe months ago,” said Awal. “Then blew it up with his usual exquisite timing.”

  No one asked who he was.

  “That slime’s not out of it yet,” said Awal. “Let’s get him.”

  “All-ships order from task force commander,” said Atir. “All ships to rendezvous with task force for inspection.”

  “Fine.” Kotran glanced at the plot. “Let’s get inspected. We should be one of the first there.”

  “They’re scattering like marka hens!” said Captain Josan, staring at the screen. All but a few ships were fleeing the task force, heading outsystem at max. “Why? There’s only one corsair.”

  “This is a drugger system—always has been,” said Awal. “They grow and refine heavy duty stuff down on Satak, then jump it out all over the Confederation. Climate and location are ideal. Small garrison—not enough to control it, even if they weren’t all bought off.”

  “Those ships are all druggers?” said Josan, looking at the screen.

  Awal nodded. “Probably all have at least some contraband, stashed with regular cargo. Retails at three, four hundred credits a shot. Divide the task force, Captain. Intercept as many as possible.”

  “What about the ships coming to rendezvous?”

  “Proof of innocence,” said the commodore. “We’ll go after the others—we may get lucky.”

  “There they go,” said Kotran, watching the tacscan. The three Fleet ships were scattering, headed out on complex intercept vectors.

  “Rendezvous and inspection order cancelled,” said Kalal.

  Kotran stood, stretching. “Well done, all. Kalal, make for jump point. Ploddingly. Atir, my quarters now—let’s see what’s on this.” He held up the commwand Barol had given him.

  Clearing jump point, Admiral Sagan watched as the system-wide tacscan came up on the board. It looked like a training exercise: three Fleet vessels pursuing a score of slower moving craft. “Get me Commodore Awal.”

  She interrupted his report. “Kotran is one of the law-abiding ships now moving toward jump point, Commodore.” She’d been watching the screen as Awal spoke. “There are eleven of them. We are eight. Priority blue plot those ships nearest your force. Once you’ve determined intercept vectors, order each of those vessels to rendezvous with one of our ships.”

  Awal saw it. “And whoever one runs…”

  “Is the corsair.”

  “He can jump at any time, though.”

  Sagan shook her head. “He won’t. He’ll go for optimum. I know Kotran.” Before the war and before his demotion, Kotran had been one of Sagan’s captains—her best captain.

  “I should have seen it,” said Awal.

  Sagan allowed herself a bit of compassion. “Don’t blame yourself, Halor. Kotran’s one of the finest tacticians to ever graduate the Academy. He operated deep inside Scotar space for years and prospered. He thinks five moves ahead of everyone else.”

  “By all reports, a very competent commander,” said Awal stiffly.

  “Yes. Now let’s go kill him.”

  Kotran gave a low whistle. “The Trel Cache.”

  “Some sort of Pre-Fall myth, isn’t it?” said Atir.

  “Yes,” said Kotran. He leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed thoughtfully together. “The Trel were the masters of much of this galaxy, about a million years ago. They had it all, Atir—hyperdrive, interstellar matter transmission, psi powers.” He tapped the screen. “At least according to Imperial Survey, as faithfully recorded by Pocsym. And Implacable’s going in after it.”

  “How many jumps?”

  He called up another part of the specs. After reading it, he shook his head. “Our client couldn’t get the last two jump sets. We’re to follow her from the last known position.”

  “We do that, we’ll be spotted and wiped. Just like the Trel.”

  “Yes.” Kotran frowned. Twelve years together and she’d never shown anything but a cursory knowledge of Imperial culture and history. “You’ve read about the Trel?”

  “It’s in ship’s computer,” she said. “I came across it on a file run, just after we took over.”

  Took over: killing the crew, they’d seized Victory Day as it stood off Terra. The cruiser was the latest from the yards of Combine Telan—a sleek gray killer almost as deadly as stasis-found Imperial ships like Implacable.

  “This ship was going to join Detrelna,” said Kotran, reaching for the complink. “How’s the file logged?”

  “‘Mission Summary,’” she said, stepping around the desk to look at the screen.

  Kotran pushed a small, green button. “Computer, last logged Mission Summary. Enter to screen and scroll.”

  Atir read over Kotran’s shoulder as the uncial green script rolled down the screen. Kotr
an skimmed the text until a long series of jump coordinates appeared. “Freeze,” he said. The scrolling stopped. “Compare jump coordinates just entered from commwand, this terminal, with those now on screen.”

  The Mission Summary had two extra sets of coordinates. Otherwise they were identical.

  Kotran leaned back, nodding. “We’ve got the full run. We can be waiting for Detrelna instead of trying to follow Implacable through,” he counted, “twenty-five jumps.”

  He looked up at her. “Well done, Number One.”

  The commlink chirped. Kalal’s worried face appeared on the scan.

  “What?” said Kotran.

  “Five heavy cruisers have just cleared jump point,” said the second officer. “They’re moving in-system at flank.”

  “IDs?”

  “Sagan’s personal squadron.”

  Kotran swore. “We’re on our way.”

  Admiral Sagan was on the bridge—a rarity. She stood to Captain Yakor’s right, watching the tacscan come up on the main screen. “There he goes,” she said as a single point of yellow suddenly sped toward jump point.

  Yakor punched up a projection. “Probability of intercept: twenty-eight percent,” he said. “He’s way out.”

  “Get me Glory Run, please,” she said, turning to her station.

  “Captain Tilak,” she said to the round face in her screen, “the corsair will reach jump point before we can intercept. Your vessel has an unmodified Imperial jump drive, doesn’t it?”

  Tilak was prematurely bald. Perhaps as compensation he’d grown a beard: black, neatly trimmed and flecked with gray. The beard bobbed as he nodded. “Mark 17—late High Imperial drive. Want us to tight-jump him?”

  “Yours is the only ship present that can jump intrasystem, Captain. But it’s only a thought—not even a suggestion. The decision’s yours.”

  Imperial engineering remained unequaled. Toward the end, five thousand years before, the Empire had stasis-cached some of its warships. During the Scotar War many of those ships—Implacable and Glory Run among them—had been found and pressed into service, virtually untouched. Only the old Imperial drives could jump in-system—at some risk. About a third of all tight-jumping ships emerged either as scattering fragments or not at all.