The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Urgent messages to Combine Telan headquarters had gone unacknowledged.

  Shields at max, commlinks feeding all scans back through the Rift, the task force had swept into the Dalinian system.

  Only one vessel came up on the tacscan—a single ship, circling Dalin.

  “Identification made,” said the ship’s captain. “It’s the vessel the Combine outfitted for brain storage.”

  “Other ships, the Combine’s, ours?” asked Admiral Binor.

  “Scanning debris, fusion discharges and recent ion trails,” reported the captain. “There was a large battle in this system, very recently.”

  “Which we lost.”

  “So it seems.”

  "Hail the brainship,” said Binor.

  “We have. No response.”

  “Disabuse yourselves,” Ragal had said, “of your piquant notions of machines-as-life.”

  The AI admiral sat at his station, staring at the close-up of the ship orbiting Dalin. In Terran terms he seemed to be about sixty, with silver gray hair and a tanned, sharp-chiseled face. Radiation-sensitive skin was a cosmetic luxury, an enduring fashion inspired by the natural changes observed in human skin.

  “Anything else?” asked the admiral, turning to the captain.

  The flagship’s captain was a purist, one of the growing number of fundamentalists who disdained the blatant copying of human form as a convention that went with command caste status. He hovered before the admiral, a translucent blue ball a meter in diameter, rippling blue energies dimly perceivable through his skin. A few centuries ago an officer of his rank would happily have exchanged the tidy blue globe for a human-looking body and its riot of tactile sensations.

  “Spacejunk—lots of it,” said the captain. “Probably from the asteroid belt we passed. The screens will process it.”

  “Scan the brainship and then bring it aboard, very carefully.” The admiral walked to the railing and stood looking down on Operations. A mixed group of blue globes and human-adapted AIs manned the battleglobe’s heart, directing the operations of the immense ship from half a hundred consoles. The rest of the battleglobe was attended only by repair droids, security blades, gun crews and a few technicians. Mostly automated, the great ship was a testimonial to the genius of AI engineering.

  Binor’s gaze traveled out the sweep of armorglass girdling Operations. As far as the eye could see stretched weapons batteries, sensor nodules, shield transponders, and, almost at the horizon, a black needle, twin to the Operations tower where Binor stood: flight control. Devastator carried craft of Implacable’s size, meant to sweep into hostile planets under the fire of the mother ship and seize control. The invasion craft were berthed far below, nestled in their battlesteel cocoons, awaiting their time. Not long now, thought Binor. When the Fleet’s here, install the cyberpaks—brains—into the damaged ships, then move on in strength.

  “Admiral.” The captain was back.

  “We have the ship in tow. Scan shows no fusion weapons on board. We’re tractoring it to Hold Seventeen for inspection.”

  The admiral nodded. “Security units and cybertechs to meet me at Hold Seventeen. All ships to maintain present position off Dalin.”

  The ship lurched again as the tractors let go. Cursing, John stumbled in the dark, shoulder slamming off a bulkhead.

  “They’re trying to bruise us to death,” he whispered.

  “Quiet!” hissed Lawrona from somewhere in the darkness. “They’re coming.”

  Go for it, Ragal, thought John as the big cargo locks swung open and light poured in. Squinting in the sudden glare, he saw a vast expanse of gray-white deck beyond the door, cargo hoists and other machinery clustered nearby. Three blades appeared in the doorway, red sensors scanning the hold.

  Ragal stood. He was wearing a black uniform, the insignia of the Fleet of the One on his shoulder: a pyramid with a blue eye at each corner.

  “Kanto,” he said. “Commander of this ship and the only survivor.” Kanto had commanded the ship until the components boarded and killed him.

  Three red eyes had locked onto him when he stood. Two of those red eyes resumed scanning while the center machine focused on Ragal. “Don’t scan in here,” ordered Ragal. “You’ll disturb the brainpods.”

  The blades stopped scanning.

  “Follow us,” said the center blade. John started at the voice—it was female. Then the blades and Ragal were gone, leaving the doors open.

  “Wait for my signal,” said Lawrona, slipping to the doorway to watch Ragal and the reception party.

  “Captain Kanto,” said the blade, hovering attentively.

  Binor ignored Ragal’s salute. “What happened?” he asked, then frowned. “Have we met before, Captain?”

  They stood in the gray immensity of Hold Seventeen, the admiral surrounded by scores of gleaming blades and some dusky round red cybertechs, Ragal backdropped by the long sweep of the Combine cruiser hovering on n-gravs.

  Ragal shook his head. “No, sir. We’ve never met,” he lied, gauging the strength of Binor’s escort and the distance to the nearest cover. Too many, too far. “We were attacked by a ship of unknown origin and design.”

  “A single ship defeated the Combine forces and three battleglobes?” said Binor, incredulous.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Tell me about it on the way to Operations,” said Binor. He turned to the cybertechs. “Inspect the cargo and begin unloading. Gently.”

  “Anything?” said Detrelna, stepping over the tangle of power lines that snaked across the bridge.

  “Nothing,” said Kiroda.

  Implacable’s bridge swarmed with engineering techs. Welding torches arced blue all around as repairs entered a fourth, frenetic watch. The air stank of scorched metal and sweat, the underpowered scrubbers falling farther and farther behind.

  “Remember,” said the commodore, touching Kiroda’s shoulder, “the Go signal only on my order.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  The cruiser lay hidden on one of Dalin’s three airless moons, nestled among the ruins of an Imperial Fleet base, a remote sensor comm bundled in low orbit overhead, transmitting in random, high-speed bursts.

  Outside, on the pickup, the commodore could see what was left of the old base: shattered towers, gutted defense batteries, the skeleton of a wrecked transport, its duralloy ribs shining in the sunlight like the bones of some beached behemoth. Little erased by time, missile craters and fusion furrows scarred the ruins.

  The Fall? wondered Detrelna. Or before, from Ragal and the Ractolians? No matter now.

  Looking at the tacscan, he ran a sleeve across his sweating brow. I must be crazy, he thought: a corsair-listed officer, commanding a crippled cruiser, in league with a flotilla manned by disembodied brains, transmutes and AIs trying to best a horde of genocidal aliens.

  “Assault initiated,” said Kiroda, pointing at a winking red telltale.

  “Advise assault boats and fighters to stand by. Alert Kotran.”

  Gods! thought Detrelna as the orders went out—if we pull this off!

  It was over in seconds: Lawrona waited until all eight cybertechs had drifted in, then took out the first three, each well-placed bolt exploding a sphere with a sharp crack. Other blasters joined in, reducing the cybertechs to flaming scrap.

  The captain slipped through the wreckage to the doorway, looked carefully about, then motioned to the others.

  They ran down the big cargo ramp, a score of black-uniformed commandos and two Terrans, following Lawrona toward the distant spire of an n-grav lift.

  “All security units will escort the flagship commander and me to Operations,” Ragal had said. “You’ll have that long to make it to the n-grav lift. You won’t meet the blades coming back—they transport through security shafts that web the ship. The lift’s for cargo and those like myself who don’t fly.”

  Almost a mile, thought John, lungs bursting, as he reached the lift.

  Breathing lightly, Satil arrived and s
lapped him on the shoulder. “You should have jogged deck four with me at firstwatch.”

  “Eight miles?” he panted, leaning against the lift shaft. “I’d rather die.” He straightened up, looking at Lawrona. Christ, he thought, the bastard’s not even sweating.

  The captain was looking up, eyes following the lift shaft. An apparently endless cylindrical tower of black armorglass, it soared beyond sight toward the hold’s ceiling.

  “How high is it? Two, three miles?” wondered John, craning his neck.

  “Let’s find out,” said Lawrona, pressing a button. With a sudden whine of power, the lift began moving, accelerating into the battleglobe’s upper regions.

  “Sit,” said Binor, indicating a chair.

  Ragal sat. The admiral’s office was behind an armorglass wall overlooking Operations.

  “The ship you describe, Captain Kanto,” said Binor, sitting on the edge of his desk, looking down at Ragal, “Archives lists as a symbiotechnic dreadnought—a cybernetic monstrosity of this reality, conceived during the humans’ Imperial period. It’s the only thing they’ve ever built that could engage one of our battleglobes on an equal or greater basis. But all were destroyed thousands of years ago. Were you attacked by a ghost ship, Captain?”

  “Admiral,” said Ragal, “it was real—it swept in with no sensor warning, opened up, took out the three battleglobes, then chased our Combine escort vessels away. My crew took to the lifepods, hoping to escape before that ship returned. They didn’t make it.”

  “So you hid in the cargo hold?”

  Ragal shrugged. “I couldn’t pilot the ship by myself. I was going to destroy the cargo if they boarded—but they didn’t. Then your ships…”

  Binor held up a hand, reaching over to answer a privacy-shielded call.

  I know what that is, thought Ragal, gauging again the distance to the door, the placement of security blades around Operations. They’ve just run Kanto’s security profile against my own. Surprise.

  The admiral turned back, nodding. “Of course. Ragal. You were Director of Labor Extraction in one of the Vintan sectors—led your whole sector in the Revolt. I took Flotilla 38 in against you—you broke us—you, your humans—and those others. And now?” His eyes were shading over into red, fusion bolts barely held in check.

  “We’re taking your ship,” said Ragal, “and your rotten empire.” He fired an instant before the admiral, striking his head.

  Binor’s bolts struck Ragal’s chest and were dissipated by his shield. Ragal fired three more times, the third salvo bursting through the admiral’s forehead, destroying the crystalline web behind it.

  Binor tumbled to the deck, his ruined head still smoking as Ragal fired again, shattering the armorglass, leaping onto the Operations floor. A blur of motion, he made for the armored doors opening for the next watch.

  Blaster bolts ripping after him, Ragal tore through the scattering crew. Firing from eyes and hands, his body glowing red from the return fire, he was an elemental force knifing from the bridge. It was over in seconds, Ragal gone, the corridor littered with lesser AIs, alarms ringing, blades flashing in pursuit.

  The Operations tower was too distant, too well protected to feel the explosions, but the sensors flashed their warning. In an instant the security alarms were superseded by the wail of general quarters. Their dead forgotten, the Operations crew went to battle stations as Devastator came under attack.

  The assault boat was crowded, packed with Dalinian troopers, a sprinkling of Kronarin crew and commandos, and one Terran.

  “I feel like a game bird, trussed up after the hunt,” grumbled Lakor, trying to adjust the cinching on his safety webbing.

  “Here,” said Zahava, reaching over, tugging on his shoulder straps. Like the rest, she was strapped into the duraplast webbing that hung from the boat’s ceiling, swinging gently in the zero gravity, facing the gray battlesteel of the bulkhead. “Better?” she asked, finishing.

  The major nodded. “Thanks.” He glanced to their right and the closed door of the pilot’s cabin. “How long do we dangle?”

  She’d have shrugged if she could. “The worst part of war.”

  “What?”

  “The waiting. Old saying.”

  Detrelna had set down on the exarch’s lawn at high noon, sun gleaming off the shuttle. Wearing his best uniform, medals and boots shining, he’d met the surprised Dalinians halfway between Residence and shuttle. Lakor was followed by twenty or so soldiers and civilians, all silent, watching Detrelna. “Not quite how we imagined being reunited with Kronar, Commodore,” said Lakor following introductions.

  “Not how it should have happened,” agreed Detrelna. “But here we are, Major. The AIs are returning in strength. We need your help.”

  “Can they be stopped?”

  “More of chance with Dalin at our side.”

  “Not much of Dalin left,” said Lakor.

  “Does this thing work?” It was Lieutenant Solat. She hung to Zahava’s right, pinching the thin silver fabric of her warsuit. “It isn’t just a totem to lift the natives’ spirits?”

  “It works,” said the Terran. “It’s saved us before and will again. Try not to expose it to massed weapons fire—it may fail.”

  “Tell that to the AIs,” said Solat, checking her blastrifle.

  “With us, Major?” asked the commodore.

  “Of course.”

  Detrelna had waited until Zahava was alone, ambushing her as she was working out in a rec area. “I have a great opportunity for you,” he said as she chinned herself on a bar.

  “What?” she grunted, trying for three more.

  “A chance to be with our Dalinian friends again. Especially after you so distinguished yourself with them.”

  Zahava dropped lightly to the padded floor. “Level, Commodore,” she said, picking up her towel and wiping the sweat form her face and neck.

  Detrelna shrugged. “Fine. I’m out of field commanders. Lawrona, Satil and John are going with the infiltration unit. Kiroda could handle it, but I need him here. Someone has to lead the assault on the battleglobe’s Operations tower.”

  “Otherwise?” she said, holding the towel around her neck.

  “Debacle. The Dalinians are competent soldiers, but they’ve never stormed a spacecraft before, never gone up against aliens in their home environment. You have. And you’re good at it—you think on your feet and put the mission first.”

  She thought about it for a second, then nodded. “Okay, but…”

  “Yes?”

  “The infiltration group pulls out first, don’t they?”

  Detrelna nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  “Good. Don’t tell John.”

  “But…”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s overprotective—he’d only make these next few watches unpleasant for all of us. And besides, knowing I was in danger would only lessen his effectiveness.”

  The commodore nodded. “As you wish.”

  A gong chimed three times. “Assault commencing,” said the pilot’s voice over speakers and commnet.

  “Helmets on,” called Zahava, taking up hers. It was a clear glass bubblehelm, nothing unusual—except that it stopped fusion bolts. As she twisted it on, hearing it click into place, the assault boat’s n-gravs whined higher, leading eight similar ships toward the AI battleglobe.

  As they moved out, Zahava said a silent prayer for all of them.

  “All boats away, Commodore,” said Kiroda.

  Detrelna nodded absently, watching the tacscan. Thirty-four of the battleglobes had encountered the mindslavers’ version of the Mangler mine. They were overlaid with red on the tacscan. The rest, overlaid with blue, remained untouched.

  “Shield power down an average of forty-eight percent on affected battleglobes, Commodore,” reported Kiroda from the tactics station.

  “And the globe that seized the brainship?” said Detrelna, seeking to confirm what the tacscan said.

  “Shield power down forty-two
percent.”

  “Where the hell is Kotran?” said Detrelna, rising to pace behind the first officer’s station.

  “Here they are,” said Kiroda, pointing to a series of telltales. “Weird sensor scan—almost no warning.

  “Mindslavers launching missiles, exchanging fusion salvos with battleglobes. Units breaking into individual combat.”

  Space danced with light as the ships maneuvered for advantage, beams flaring, missiles flashing.

  Detrelna’s commlink came on. It was Natrol. “Bad news,” said the engineer.

  Detrelna, scowled. “Does it regard the safety of the ship or the present engagement?”

  “No.”

  “No,” said Detrelna, thumbing off the commlink.

  “Would you like to be on the AI flagship’s bridge right about now, Mr. Kiroda?” said the commodore, watching the tacscan.

  “No sir, not at all.”

  Chapter 21

  An agitated red sphere, the captain moved from station to station. “Shield status?” he asked, halting at defense screen control.

  “Down one-third,” said the human-adapted AI manning the position. “We lost seven mainline and four auxiliary shield transponders. Situation has stabilized.”

  “Sir.” It was Combat Control.

  “What?” said the captain, moving right.

  “We’ve lost four ships.”

  The AI officer read the scan—four battleglobes destroyed; enemy losses, none.

  “Enemy closing.”

  The image of a pair of mindslavers came onto the battlescreen, moving in on Devastator.

  “All batteries open fire,” ordered the captain.

  Wave after overlapping wave of light flashed across the battleglobe’s surface as thousands of missile and fusion batteries heaped stunning salvos of death into the mindslavers. Above, Devastator’s shield glowed bright red, absorbing the slavers’ counterfire.

  “This is it,” whispered Lawrona.

  Just around the corner, halfway down a long gray corridor, two blades hovered before a closed door.