“This is our only ship,” said Detrelna.
“Your crudely inhibited sensors show a second vessel, slightly smaller than this one but heavily armed, off your port, disguised as an asteroid. As Alpha Prime has undoubtedly detected her presence, a joint operation would serve you both.”
Lawrona was out the door, running for the bridge before Egg had finished.
“Come with me… please,” said the commodore.
The commando sergeant watched bemused as two similar shapes, one golden and metal, the other human and uniformed, moved down the corridor toward the lift.
Implacable’s computer found itself blocked from reporting on Egg to any station. Finding its shackles spreading beyond the communications systems, it searched for other ways to warn its crew.
“Why haven’t I been here before?” asked Zahava.
“No need,” said Ragal as the door closed behind them, “unless you’re abandoning ship.”
They stood at one end of a brightly lit corridor. It looked like any other of Implacable’s long gray miles, save for the ten widely interspaced doors that ran its length, five to each side. The door to Zahava and Ragal’s right read Lifepod 1. Ragal thumbed the entry tab.
“Shall we?” said the Kronarin as the double doors of the airlock slid open. Zahava stepped into the lifepod.
It was a big round room. Rows of red flight couches took up most of the floor space, broken by three aisles and a central spiral stairway. Across the cabin from the airlock, beneath a blank main screen, two flight couches fronted a darkened double console.
“Looks more like a bus than a pod,” said the Israeli.
“Long before even Implacable was built,” said Ragal as the door hissed shut, “survival vessels were one-man craft. Time went by, they grew to this.” His hand swept the cabin. “Three levels, a hundred and fifty seats, maximum capacity over two hundred. Jump drive, n-gravs, automatic homers, sanitation and recreation facilities. The whole unit can be broken down to form the nucleus of a rough colony power plant, forcefield, sanitation and shelter—just in case.” He walked across the cabin as he spoke, heading for the double console.
“In case of what?”
“In case the automatic homers don’t find a close-in planet emitting technology’s telltale spoors.” Reaching the far side of the pod, the colonel dropped into the left chair and busied himself with the instruments.
“Why three levels?” asked Zahava, following him down the center aisle. “And why twice as many lifepods as needed?”
“Three levels to conform to Implacable’s design. So many pods because she carried a much larger complement five thousand years ago.” He leaned forward, reading a report as it flashed onto a telltale. “Maintenance log says we’re the first to enter this pod since the ship left Terra.”
“Is that true?” she asked.
“It’s true that the log entry reads that.” Ragal stood as the telltale winked off. “It’s also true that a Scotar transmute could have telekinetically reprogrammed this pod’s computer… Check the upper levels,” he said, motioning toward the stairway.
“For what?”
“Anything that looks out of place. Everything should be as spare and as orderly as on this level. Check the storage lockers and bins, food processors—anything unusual, anything at all, call me. I’ll be checking number two. Meet me in front of three when you’ve finished.”
She nodded and was halfway up the stairs, blaster in hand, by the time Ragal reached the exit.
“Anything from Alpha Prime?” asked Lawrona as Kiroda relinquished the command chair.
“Nothing,” said the first officer, resuming his station.
Both men looked at the main screen—the mindslaver hung there, a great dark menace out of legend, its existence alone intimidating.
“Fine,” said the captain. “Let’s fill our empty moments with a tactical exercise.”
“Sir?” said Kiroda, exchanging puzzled glances with Toral.
“Assume,” said Lawrona, fingertips pressed together, “that there’s a third ship close by, a warship about our size. It’s sitting dark and camouflaged, watching. Assume further that our sensors have picked it up, but are unable to correlate key data because of Fleet’s restrictive programming overlay. How do we get a readout?” He looked at Toral.
“N-gravs,” said the third officer. Turning to his console, he busied himself at the complink. No one noticed Detrelna enter the bridge.
“Of course,” said Kiroda. “He has to be using them to counter his drift. Just a burst, now and then, but…”
“But enough,” grinned Toral, looking up. “Five-one-seven, mark four-one. Previously charted as an asteroid.”
“Tight-beam transmission to that asteroid, please,” said Detrelna. He took his seat, oblivious to the stares that followed his hovering companion. “Use alpha channel, transmit in battlecode.”
“Sir,” said Lakan, “alpha channel’s a Fleet intership tactical band. And…”
A glance from Detrelna stopped her
“Transmitting,” she said.
Lawrona walked to the commodore’s station. “I can think of only one man who’d come into this quadrant after us, Jaquel.”
“Before us,” said Detrelna. “Had to be. Otherwise we’d have made him.” He touched the commkey. “Implacable to Victory Day—acknowledge.”
Atir turned to Kotran, shaking her head. “Incoming transmission on the tactical band. Implacable’s made us.”
The other corsair shrugged. “Much good it’ll do them.” He touched his commkey.
The image on Implacable’s main screen changed from that of the mindslaver to the smiling face of Captain Kotran. He wore the standard brown Kronarin uniform with the stylized silver ship of a starship captain on the collar. “Victory Day on your flank, Commodore. How stands the Fleet?”
A ripple of anger swept Implacable’s bridge—everyone had lost friends to Kotran’s killers.
“Kotran, you renegade butcher,” growled Detrelna, face flush. “How dare you render the greeting of honorable men? How dare you wear their uniform? You parasitic vorg slime—”
“You’re being wearisome, Detrelna. You’ve made us, but I fail to see what you can do about it. Start blasting away, that slaver’s going to wipe you.”
“It’d be worth it to dispose of you. What scum’s paying you slime to follow us?”
“Detrelna, you know I can’t betray a client’s confidence,” said the corsair. “Though had I known about the mindslaver, we’d be elsewhere. While it’s dicing you and your crew for parts, we’ll be on our way.”
Detrelna shook his head. “We go, you go.” He swiveled his chair. “Egg,” he said to the slaver machine. “What comm signal boost do we need for Alpha Prime to detect the third vessel, Victory Day?”
The golden spheroid drifted to Detrelna’s side, coming within pickup range of the transmission. “Increase by a factor of four,” Egg said to Detrelna.
Atir’s fingers entered an archival search request.
Detrelna turned to the comm officer. “Lakan, I seem to be having a problem. Increase signal strength by a factor of four, please.”
“Wait!” Kotran’s smile was gone. “What do you want?”
“Hold, Lakan,” said Detrelna. He turned back to Kotran. “Can’t you guess, Kotran?”
Atir received the information she’d requested and sent it to Kotran. He stared at image and the data label for surprised instant. “Where’d you get a slaver computer, Detrelna? Tanil’s Revenge?”
“Where I got it isn’t important,” said the commodore. “What we’ll be using it for is.”
“We’ll?”
“It’ll be conning our combined battleops. We’re going to penetrate the mindslaver’s defenses and storm her bridge, Kotran. You and me, yours and mine, side by side. Victory or death.”
There was a long silence on both bridges. “You’re quite mad, Detrelna,” said the corsair.
“Am I?” said Detrelna.
“You’re a superb tactician. Consider the situation tactically, Kotran.”
He did. When he looked back at the pickup, both his crew and Detrelna’s were watching. “Victory or death, Commodore. What are your orders?”
“Maintain position, standby to link battleops on my command.”
“As the commodore orders.”
“You’re serious?” said Atir as Detrelna’s face vanished. “We’re taking orders from Fats?”
“We’re too close to run but near enough to attack. Only a coordinated assault has even a remote chance of success. That slaver computer may give us an edge.”
“Or betray us utterly,” said Atir.
“A fluid situation,” said Kotran. “It may yet favor us.” His old self-assurance, blunted for a moment, was returning. “We’re not burdened by duty, ethics or conscience.” He nodded toward the screen. “They are. Stand by to link battleops.”
Chapter 6
The slaver’s bridge was big, cold and empty, a soft-lit, multitiered cavern beneath a transparent dome.
Perfect temperature for preserving meat, thought John. Shivering, he rubbed his hands together, then thrust them back into his pockets.
Hundreds of consoles lined the tiers, lights twinkling, alarms chirping. Nowhere was there a chair, nowhere a sign that any living being had ever crewed Alpha Prime. The Terran stared up at Telan, one tier above him. One thing’s for sure, he thought—I’m the only human on this bridge.
Floating along at eye level, the translucent blue globe had led them from the shuttle out across the dark hangar deck. It had been a long cold walk, their footfalls echoing distantly, John keenly aware of Telan striding beside him, a precise, unfaltering tap-tap-tap. Telan would sometimes look right or left, eyes seeming to focus… on what? John wondered. No matter. Telan could see in the dark. John filed it away, another bit of data.
Going up a ramp, they’d gone down a short passageway, through a door that moved noiselessly aside, and into a brightly lit anteroom. John stood blinking, squinting in the sudden glare as Telan followed the globe to one of a score of open-topped, two-seat cars that rested in power niches along the room’s circumference.
Turning to John, Telan had pointed toward the first car, the one over which the blue globe hovered. He’d stood there, waiting until the Terran had slid over the siderail into the seat.
Once Telan was in the globe vanished. Noiselessly the car turned, rose and shot off down endless gray corridors.
Doorways, intersections and the occasional instrument panel had flashed by, and then they’d shot up a long, spiraling ramp to the bridge. The car settled to a stop before the faint glow of a forcefield. Stepping out, the two had followed another blue globe through a sudden opening in the field, across the broad sweep of the bridge’s deck and up a series of ramps, halting at last before the single black console at the highest tier. As Telan spoke, the blue globe vanished. “Commander Telan and John Harrison, from Implacable.”
“We have a commwand for you, from Pocsym Six.” The voice was velvet soft and as cold as its ship. The words seem to come from the air between him and Telan..
“A message from the dead,” said Telan. “Who are you?”
“We have no names, Commander,” said the voice. “The centuries burned them away. We have only purpose.”
“Do you know what’s on the commwand?” asked Telan.
“Data relating to the Trel Cache.”
Telan held out his hand. “You may give it to me.”
John glanced over the slender railing, gauging the distance to the deck: about two hundred feet. I’m going to save us some travel time back to the deck, thing, he thought, shifting his weight. The instant you get that commwand, over we go.
“Don’t do anything quixotic, Harrison,” said Telan in perfect English, his eyes still on the console, hand extended. “The commwand,” he said in Kronarin.
“Pocsym,” said the Ractolian, ignoring the demand, “kept us supplied over the centuries. There were items we needed that we couldn’t manufacture, but that Pocsym could. In return for these things, we pledged to remain in this quadrant, Blue Nine. Very recently, as we judge time, Pocsym entrusted us with the commwand, asking that we give it to the first Kronarin Fleet ship to reach these coordinates and authenticate.”
“We are here,” said Telan.
John tensed himself, ready to jump.
“We’re not giving you the commwand,” said the Ractolian.
“Why not?” said Telan, dropping his hand.
John laughed. “You’re busted, Telan.”
“Harrison…” hissed Telan.
“You’re not a true emissary of Kronar, Commander Telan,” continued the Ractolian. “You’re something out of Imperial prehistory, an AI combat droid—a survivor of that almost mythic war between man and machine.”
“It’s no myth,” said Telan. “I was there.”
“You are here to intercept the commwand. Why?”
“The Trel defeated us once. Legend says they left a weapon to be used against us.”
“You wish to destroy the commwand.”
“Of course. Logically, it must hold the location of the Cache. No location, no weapon. The Fleet of the One triumphs.”
The voice sighed, a legacy of lungs and bodies long cast off. “We are both man and machine, Telan, and love neither. It isn’t out of malice that we deny you what you want, but because we’ve given our pledge.”
“You can’t deny me,” said the AI, walking around the console. “The cybernetics of this vessel were taken from the quadrant Fleet inventory on Dalin, after you wiped Governor Ractol.”
“How did you know that?”
“Your first- and second-level computers,” said the AI, ignoring the question, “the golden egg and its retinue of secondaries, were machines originally entrusted to the Governor of Blue Nine for safekeeping—machines salvaged from our defeated ships centuries before. The designs were copied first and sent to Kronar. When replicated later, for Fleet’s own mindslavers, there was no trace of us in them. But here…” He reached out a finger. “Here is different.”
“Touch the command console,” said the soft voice, “and you die.”
John watched with a sense of unreality as Telan began entering a command, fingers a blur.
From high above blasters shrilled, bolts tearing at the droid. John threw an arm across his eyes as Telan staggered away from the console, his body a blinding pillar of raw red-blue energies-energies that rippled over the AI, leaving him unharmed.
The blasters snapped off. John lowered his arm.
“You have a subcutaneous personal shield,” said the Ractolian as Telan, unfazed, returned to the keyboard.
“I’m a Class One Beta Infiltration Combat unit,” said the AI, typing. “My series is impervious to blaster and projectile fire. We can only be destroyed by large-load atomics.”
Straightening, Telan reached up and removed his left ear. Peeling it open, he discarded the husks and inserted the black wafer they’d guarded into a small slot in the console. “This ship is now a forward unit of the Fleet of the One,” he said, pressing a final switch.
Alpha Prime said nothing.
“What’ve you done?” said John.
Telan turned to him with a smile, a dark hole where his ear had been. “I’ve taken the Ractolians off-line, Harrison. Their lesser functions are now run by ship’s computer, which obeys its new commander.” He bowed.
“You’re one of those genocidal robots we stopped on Terra Two,” said John.
Telan shook his head. “Comparing me to a robot is like comparing you to an amoeba. As for Terra Two, our force there was small, cut off from its own dimension and led by an inexperienced commander.”
“And now?” said John.
“Now I destroy Implacable and keep this quadrant free of other ships until our forces come through the breach. Then into Kronarin space, repaying old debts by exterminating your treacherous species.”
“Why?�
�� said John, spreading his hands. “What did we—what did the Kronarins—ever do to engender such pathological hatred?”
“I have work to do. You’re a primitive from a backward world that got in the way. You’re no longer needed.” Picking John up, he tossed him screaming over the railing and went to the command console.
Leaving Pod 36 Zahava looked up and down the corridor—there was no sign of Colonel Ragal. She hadn’t seen the Kronarin since he’d entered Pod 31, ten minutes before.
She walked back to 31 and stopped in front of it, frowning at the red downtime marker glowing over the airlock, indicating a maintenance problem. It hadn’t been there when Ragal went in.
Drawing her blaster, she opened the first door, stepped in and waited an eternity as it closed behind her and the inner door slid open. There were no lights on in the pod. Being Zahava, she entered anyway. The door closed behind her, taking with it the light from the airlock.
Zahava moved to the right, back to the wall, feeling for the battletorch on her belt.
Something whipped by her face, sending her blaster clattering off into the dark. Before she could move, a searing pain pierced her head. Writhing, she tried to pry free of the cold pincers boring into her temples. It was futile. Waves of pain assailing her, Zahava slumped to the floor unconscious.
Hunched over her in the dark, the Scotar continued its work, ignoring her shallow breathing and weakening pulse.
“No!” snapped Kotran. “No expeditions into that dark beast, Detrelna! We penetrate the shield, plant a nuke, and leave.”
“We need that commwand, Kotran,” said Detrelna. “We’re going for the bridge.”
“Enemy disposition, strength and intent?” said the corsair scornfully. “Where is the bridge? How do we get there? What’s to stop us? Unless you have a plan, Detrelna, we’d better jump for it—now.”
“No one’s jumping anywhere,” said Detrelna. “And there is a plan.” He turned to the slaver computer. “Egg.”
“Thank you, Commodore,” said the machine. A multicolored hologram of Alpha Prime appeared between Egg and Detrelna’s station, well within range of the comm pickup. “This is from the Imperial Archives, Ractolian War section. Unless the Ractolians have radically altered the design of Alpha Prime, there’ll be a concealed sally port here.” A short red shaft appeared and penetrated the hull, halfway down the ship’s port side.
The AI War Page 6
