The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “Yes, but why?” said the commodore, turning to Ragal. “We faced an AI ship off Terra Two—only a miracle saved us. Why would such ships need a forward guard? I could understand one or two Combine ships, bearing intelligence data, but a flotilla?”

  “Must be something on that planet they want,” said Lawrona. “A mission-critical something.”

  Detrelna’s fist slammed down on his chairarm. “Harvesting! They’re brainstripping those people!”

  “Of course,” said Ragal. “Dalin is the key to everything—the Trel Cache, the rendezvous point for the AIs and Zahava’s destination. Which means—”

  “Guan-Sharick knows all this and set it up,” said the commodore. “Why send Zahava there?”

  “We’ll soon find out,” said Ragal, looking back at the tacscan.

  “They’ve made us,” said Kiroda. On the main screen, the tacscan showed the Combine ships breaking orbit, heading out to intercept Implacable.

  “Hmm. Eighteen of them,” said Detrelna. “Not good.”

  “Notice how one ship remains on station,” said Ragal. “That’s their command ship—probably their processing ship, too. We should take it.”

  “‘We?’” said Lawrona.

  “How many demonstrations of my sincerity and goodwill do you need, Captain?” said Ragal.

  “Later,” said Detrelna, eyes back on the tacscan. “Ragal’s right, Hanar—that’s the ship we want. It’ll answer a lot of questions.” He looked at the captain. “Do you tell Natrol, or do I?”

  “Why this pathological need to get us all killed?” The monitor perfectly captured the choleric hue of Natrol’s face. “To tight-jump is risky, but to tight-jump in toward a planetary mass is madness! The gravitational distortion alone—”

  “How long to cycle up?” asked Detrelna.

  The engineer took a deep breath. “Not long,” he said. “I’ll set it myself and give you the count. You’ll have to drop shield.”

  “I know,” said Detrelna. But the comm screen had already flickered off.

  The counterattack came at noon—a solid phalanx of AI blades sweeping out of the sun, blasting and slicing their way along the rooftop. Spread in a ragged circle around Major Lakor, the troopers blasted back, hitting six of the lead machines. Efficient butchers to the end, the little horrors plowed into the roof, exploding in an orange whoosh! of flame, pieces of wreckage slicing into the humans.

  For Zahava it was all automatic—aim, fire, turn. Aim, fire, turn. Watching the sky, she only looked around her when the firing stopped and the air was empty of gleaming blue blades.

  She and Lakor stared numbly at each other across the carnage. The rooftop lay littered with the torn bodies of dead troopers and the smoldering remains of their killers. Blood pooled among the blaster burns in the green duraplast, dripping into the rain gutters.

  The Terran touched something sticky on her forehead—blood from a shallow gash. “We’re all that’s left?”

  “Except for Solat, who’s inside with the children,” nodded the major. His left arm was useless, the triceps neatly sliced and cauterized by a blaster bolt. He was holding one of the M11As. “Go down with the children,” he said, clumsily trying to change chargpaks. The empty fell to the rooftop.

  “Ass,” said the Terran. She held out a hand for his blaster. Lakor grinned weakly, handing it over. Deftly, Zahava took a fresh chargpak from her belt and snapped it into the butt, returning the weapon.

  “How many did we get?” she asked.

  “Thirty, maybe forty,” said the major. He looked at the sky. “What next?”

  “Shuttles strafing us, probably,” said Zahava, reloading her own weapon. “They underestimated us once—they won’t do it again. They’ll stand off and blast us. They really want those kids.”

  “Well, they’re not going to get them,” said Lakor. Tucking the blaster into his belt, he took a flat metal device with a single toggle switch in its center. “Here,” he said, handing it to Zahava. “When it’s inevitable, throw the switch.” He looked up at the sky, eyes carefully avoiding his dead.

  “Are you certain Gysol told you nothing about where the tube entrance is?” she asked.

  “No,” he said dully. “My fault. I should have—”

  “My, what a grim sight,” said a new voice. “Praetorians on the Capitoline, awaiting the end. Perhaps I can be of help.”

  “They’re close enough now, Hanar,” said Detrelna, watching the board. “Well past halfway. They’ll need to slow, turn, reaccelerate.” He nodded. “Tell Natrol.”

  In a moment the engineer’s voice filled the bridge, counting down slowly from twenty.

  “Gunnery,” Detrelna said into the commnet as the count dropped, “I want that ship intact. Disable, do not destroy. You got that Botul?”

  “Understood,” said the master gunner.

  Will it ever end? wondered Detrelna, awaiting the jump—these deathless monsters from the past, some of our own making? Biofabs, mindslavers, AIs. Seven, no, eight years in this great gray cocoon. Battle after battle, crisis after crisis. Friends dead, family old, children half-seen strangers flickering in the comm screen, voices broken with distortion, straining to span the abyss. Failing.

  “Ten,” droned Natrol.

  “Final orders, Commodore?” asked Lawrona formally.

  “Engage,” said Detrelna.

  “Jump,” said Natrol.

  Reality twisted, breaking Implacable into something that wasn’t quite matter and moving it halfway across the solar system, where more by luck than science, ship and crew reassembled.

  Stomach churning, Detrelna recovered to watch the Mark 88s neatly strip the Combine ship of its shield nodules and weapons batteries.

  “Who is this?” said Major Lakor, pointing at the blonde.

  “This, Major,” said Zahava, “is Guan-Sharick, late Illusion Master of the Infinite Hosts of the Magnificent. Guan-Sharick, Major Lakor of the 103rd Border Battalion. Guan-Sharick is actually a tall, telekinetic green bug.”

  “A biofab,” said Lakor, looking curiously at the flaxen hair, soft green eyes, and the swell of breasts beneath the jumpsuit. “Hard to believe.”

  “I know where the tube entrance is,” said the Scotar, gaze shifting between the two humans. “I’ll guide you there—for a price.”

  Movement caught Zahava’s eye; she looked up. Three black specks were approaching out of the eastern sky. Lakor and Guan-Sharick followed her gaze.

  “Armed shuttles from the AI ships,” said the Scotar. “Decision time.”

  “What’s the price?” asked Zahava.

  “Your help,” said Guan-Sharick. “I need your help, Zahava, just for a little while.”

  The Terran glanced back at the sky. The outlines of shuttles were now distinguishable and growing larger.

  “As usual, you leave no other options,” she said, hating the bug, yet admiring its cleverness. “Whatever you want.”

  The Scotar and the two humans were gone, leaving the roof to the dead and the attacking AIs.

  Chapter 16

  “The Commodore should not be exposing himself to—” began Lawrona.

  “Get back to the bridge, Hanar,” said Detrelna, checking his blaster again. “You’ve no warsuit.”

  Snaring the smaller ship in its tractors, Implacable had drifted in, matching velocities. A boarding tunnel had shot out from the cruiser, fastening itself to the Combine ship’s topside forward airlock. Warsuited commandos were now at the other end of the narrow span, slowly cutting through the thick battlesteel of the AI ship’s airlock. Looking much like a big silver balloon, Detrelna watched through Implacable’s open airlock, more commandos waiting behind him, warsuited, rifles in hand.

  “I want that ship, Hanar,” said Detrelna, looking at the captain. “We need hard data. Is Ragal telling the truth, or is he just an AI plant? What’s the extent of the AI penetration of our society? The information is just over there.” He pointed to where blaster beams sparked against the steel.
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  “But…” Lawrona broke off, touching his communicator. “On my way,” he said. “Combine ships are closing,” he said. “You’ll have to be back before they’re within firing range. Luck,” he said, turning and running for the bridge.

  “Luck,” Detrelna called after him.

  “We’re through, sir!” called a voice. As Detrelna looked, the airlock’s inner door turned an incandescent white, vanishing in a rush of thick brown smoke. Blaster bolts shot through the smoke, finding the Kronarins. The bolts crackled blue along the silver suits and were gone. Blasting back, the commandos sent a counter barrage crashing back through the smoke.

  “Assault!” shouted Detrelna, leading his commandos into the Combine ship.

  They’d told John to keep out of the way—they’d tell him if they heard anything from the planet. He’d tried to read, using a commslate in his and Zahava’s cabin—it was no good, he couldn’t concentrate. As a well-written history of the early Empire scrolled past, he thought again of stealing a shuttle, going down and finding Zahava. Problem was, he couldn’t fly the damned thing. Even if he could, where would he go? They hadn’t been able to trace the distress signal’s location.

  Helpless, frustrated, he rose and paced the living area.

  “No balm in Gilead, Harrison?” said Guan-Sharick.

  John whirled. The Scotar sat in an armchair, legs crossed. “I have your wife,” continued the blonde before John could speak. “And I need the help of you both.”

  “Where is she?” demanded the Terran, advancing on the armchair.

  “Safe,” said the Scotar. “She’s agreed to help us—there isn’t much time. Will you give me your parole? You won’t try to sabotage what I’m doing?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What I’m supposed to—stop the AIs.”

  “At what cost?” said the Terran, looking into those cold eyes.

  “Any,” said Guan-Sharick. “If ends don’t justify means, why bother getting out of bed?”

  It took two blastpaks, but they finally punched a hole in the armored doors guarding the Combine ship’s bridge. Detrelna’s warsuit took a hit as he stepped through. Firing back, he shot the two human-looking crewmen, grunting in satisfaction as they exploded in a satisfying shower of sparks.

  Detrelna looked down at the dead AIs as commandos surged onto the bridge—both wore the uniform of merchant officers, Combine Telan crest on the shoulder.

  There’d been a brief vicious firefight at the airlock, two commandos dead. The squad of AIs who’d opposed them had fallen to the first blaster volley. The commodore was relieved to see none of the flying blade machines among the enemy, only androids.

  Sending half of his force to secure the rest of the ship, Detrelna had led the way down corridor to the bridge, reaching it unopposed. The commodore’s communicator beeped. “What?” he said, walking to the captain’s station.

  “Get out of there now, Jaquel,” said Lawrona. “They’re coming within range.”

  “Hold,” said the commodore. Slipping off his gauntlets, he fingered the commlink. It was the standard model used on merchant ships—unchanged since his trader days. Working quickly, he called up the complete Mission Summary and background briefing, flagging them for high-speed transmission on a Fleet data frequency.

  He touched his communicator. “Implacable, Detrelna. Stand by to receive databurst, your alpha channel.” Message acknowledged, he pushed Execute.

  “None left, Commodore.” It was Lieutenant Satil, standing in the shattered doorway, the big blastrifle balanced over her shoulder.

  “You mean you didn’t find any more, or you did and they’re now dead?”

  “They’re dead,” she said.

  “Good,” nodded Detrelna. He looked back at the console—the transmission had ended, the receive light was winking green.

  “Something else, sir,” said Satil.

  He looked up. “What?”

  “Brainpods,” she said. “The hold is filled with brainpods.”

  “All occupied?”

  “Yes.”

  Detrelna nodded slowly, picking up his gauntlets. “That should do it—let’s go home. Everyone back to Implacable.”

  “And the brainpods?”

  “Leave them.”

  John had been teleported by a Scotar before but still found it staggering. One second, and he was standing in his quarters, looking down at Guan-Sharick; the next he stood blinking in some dim cavern, heart pounding, adrenaline surging. Peering about, he saw that the light came from around a bend of what was a great round tunnel, carved through bedrock.

  “Where are we?” he demanded, voice sounding hoarse.

  “Underground—the remains of Dalin’s tube system,” said the blonde. “The metal was scavenged after the Fall.” She pointed to old gouges along the walls and floor. “Pull yourself together and we’ll go visit your wife and the kids.”

  “Kids?” said the Terran as the Scotar led the way around the bend.

  John threw his hands over his face as battletorch beams blinded him. Then he found himself in a soft warm embrace.

  “You’re okay?” he Zahava, holding her at arm’s length, looking up and down.

  “Of course,” she said, kissing him.

  It was then that he saw the children sitting along the walls, silent, watching. And Guan-Sharick’s twin.

  “We still have time to escape,” said Lawrona. He and Detrelna stood in front of the big board, watching the tactical plot. The Combine ships were coming in at flank. “They’ll be launching missiles soon,” he continued when the commodore didn’t reply. “The shield—”

  “We stand,” said Detrelna, turning from the board. “If we don’t, they’ll finish the hellish business they started.” He sat down in his chair and dialed up a t’ata.

  “If we stand,” said Lawrona, “we die.”

  Detrelna sipped and shrugged. “We’ve cheated death for a long time, Hanar. We’ll do it again.”

  “Excuse me, Commodore,” said Kiroda. “Commtorps launched. Ninety-nine percent chance of successful jump.”

  “Thank you, Tolei,” said Detrelna. He looked back at the captain. “Everything’s in those torps, Hanar. Fleet will be warned—they’ll smoke Combine Telan and continue the search for the Trel Cache.”

  “Wrong,” said a different voice. Ragal stood behind them. “You underestimate the depth of infiltration, gentlemen. Combine Telan’s influence is pervasive. Your report will either be dismissed or lost, Commodore. Your only hope is to break off now, jump for Kronar, and sound the alarm.”

  Detrelna looked at Ragal, then nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

  “But?” said the AI.

  “But I follow my instincts. They tell me if we go back, they’ll arrest me and disregard our story. We stay and fight—then we go back.”

  “If we survive,” added Lawrona, watching the target blips closing on the board.

  “Captain Lawrona,” said the commodore, finishing his t’ata, “we will advance and engage the enemy.”

  “As ordered,” said Lawrona, turning for his post.

  The battle klaxon sounded as Implacable moved at flank speed for the enemy center.

  “What are all these kids doing here?” asked John, looking down the tunnel.

  Zahava explained.

  “Why are the AIs ripping off brains?” he asked, turning to where the two Scotar stood next to the Dalinian troopers. They looked up at his question.

  “We think,” said Guan-Sharick, “that their ships were damaged—computers destroyed. It’s the only plausible explanation. The Rift sealed by the Trel has opened—the Fleet of the One can enter this reality at any time—yet they haven’t. Probably awaiting a signal.”

  “Who’s he?” asked John, pointing to the other Scotar.

  “Lan-Asal,” said the new Scotar. “Formerly Exarch Yagar of Dalin.”

  “Two of you here?” said John. “Why did you bother with this world?”

  “It’s a vital p
lace,” said Lan-Asal. “The Trel Cache is somewhere in-system. One reason the AIs made it their base.”

  “They haven’t found it?” asked Zahava.

  Guan-Sharick shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Why are you projecting almost identical illusions?” asked John.

  “That will become obvious,” said Guan-Sharick.

  “What about the children? Are they just going to stay here?” John asked Zahava.

  “Until this crisis is over, yes. It’s the safest place for them,” she said.

  John looked at them. Some were sleeping, huddled in blankets; a few were eating. He guessed the oldest to be twelve, the youngest six. They were remarkably quiet and well-behaved—too much so—war orphans: watchful, silent. He turned to the Scotar. “What do you need us for?”

  You can hear me, can’t you, Harrison? said a voice inside his head.

  “You know I can,” said John.

  And you, Zahava?

  “Yes,” she frowned. “But…”

  “Good,” said Guan-Sharick. “You’ll do.”

  “Do what?” said John, eyes shifting between the two transmutes.

  “Whatever we say,” said the blonde. “You each gave us your word. If you renege, so will we.” The Scotar glanced at the kids.

  “What John means,” said Zahava, “is that we don’t trust you.”

  “Harrison,” said Guan-Sharick, “we need your help to end a very old war—a war that’s already affected you and yours. A war that will wipe all sapient life from this galaxy unless the AIs are stopped.”

  “You’re both biological fabrications, created, what? A few hundred years ago?” said John. “What’s your stake in an ancient war between man and machine?” He stood, hands clasped behind his back, eyes shifting between the two transmutes.

  “A reasonable question,” said Lan-Asal.

  Major Lakor and Lieutenant Solat had moved closer during the conversation and now stood listening beside Zahava.

  “About a million years ago,” said Guan-Sharick, “in a universe parallel to this, humans revolted against their machine masters. Not all humans—about the equivalent of two Imperial quadrants. They came to where the AIs could no longer follow—this reality, this galaxy. They evolved, they expanded and they built an Empire. The Empire fell, a confederation arose, was challenged by us, defeated us, and is now about to feel the full force of their former masters.”