The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Through it all, Zahava moved as though in a trance, her eyes fixed on the winking green light that marked their objective, but seeing a boy playing at war in an enchanted ruin beneath the stars.

  “You’re going to get us all killed,” said Natrol, standing over Detrelna, who sat watching the tacscan. “I resent you doing it now, just after we fixed this old hulk for you.”

  Detrelna looked up. “And I appreciate it,” he said. “Aren’t you curious as to why we’re not dead yet?” He pointed at the screen. Even at minimum magnification, Devastator more than filled the scan, only a small portion of it visible. “They should have wiped us before we’d left that satellite.”

  Natrol stared at the screen, reading the data trail. “You launched us directly at the center of the battleglobe as the satellite passed it. They’re not firing…” He looked at the commodore. “The landing force. They’ve taken out the guns that could have ranged us.”

  “Yes. And we hope the AIs have pulled out their gun crews to fight the landing party. No guns and no gun crews—we should make it. We were close when we launched, and once we’re inside their shield, it’ll be too late for them to man their guns—even if they’ve restored fusion feeds to them. We can take them out.”

  “And the shield?” said Natrol, staring at the shimmering blue now filling the screen.

  Detrelna raised a finger, holding it poised over a button. “Captain Lawrona and his party have by now installed a shield override trigger. I have only to push this little switch and that great big shield will flick off.”

  “Did Lawrona report it as accomplished?” asked the engineer.

  “Communications are being jammed,” said the commodore. “But Lawrona will have done it.”

  “How’s your signal going to get through, then?”

  “It’s on a little-used AI frequency.”

  “Ragal,” said the engineer.

  “Ragal,” nodded the commodore.

  “Better push that now,” said Natrol uneasily, eyeing a red-flashing figure on the datatrail. “We’re going to hit.”

  Detrelna glanced at the screen, then stabbed the switch.

  Nothing happened.

  Again and again, Detrelna pushed. Devastator’s shield came closer, a brilliant azure blazing in the screen.

  Natrol leaped for a communicator. “Engineering! Emergency override! Full reverse!”

  “Lakan! Collision alert!” ordered Detrelna, standing.

  An alarm sounded, three sharp ascending notes, over and over.

  Detrelna and Natrol watched as the blue shield of the battleglobe and the faint haze marking Implacable’s shield rushed toward each other.

  “Can you pull us out?” asked Detrelna, watching the board.

  “No,” said the engineer, also watching the board.

  “Can she take it?”

  “No. She’ll break up,” said Natrol. “Should have stayed on the satellite, Commodore.”

  “Man was born to strive not hide, Engineer,” said Detrelna.

  “Drivel,” said Natrol, grabbing for a railing as the shields met.

  “First post,” whispered Ragal, floating just behind the humans. The troopers, John and Lawrona walked double file, hands behind their heads.

  A broad ramp circled the interior of the Operations tower—a ramp blocked by the white haze of a forcefield and three blades.

  Ragal drifted to the front of the column. “Prisoners for interrogation,” he said.

  “Authorization and security level?” challenged the lead blade.

  Ragal gave it and waited, hoping. After what seemed a long time, the shield flicked off. “Pass,” said the lead blade.

  “How did you do that?” asked John as they double-timed up the ramp.

  “Generic security code issued to senior command staff,” said the AI. “Programmed into these ships when they were built and never changed.”

  “And if they had been?” said Lawrona.

  “Messy but quick,” said Ragal vaguely.

  It worked at the next three posts. At the last post though, the one at the entrance to the Operations center, there was a problem.

  “No interrogation’s scheduled or needed,” said the human-adapted AI facing them. He glanced at the prisoners. “These should have been killed.”

  “I’ve orders to bring them here,” said Ragal. “Let me speak with the captain.”

  “Come with me,” said the officer. He turned to the five blades hovering in front of the forcefield. “Watch them,” he said, pointing to the prisoners.

  The forcefield flicked off. As the officer stepped through Ragal sent a blot exploding into the field’s control unit, then fired three bolts into the hostile AI. The officer staggered back, half his head blown away, and crumpled against the bulkhead, smoke curling toward the ceiling.

  All five blades whirled to engage Ragal. Blue bolts snapped and hissed, half a dozen striking Ragal. Two of the blades went down as the rest fell to a sudden ragged, taken from behind as the humans pulled their blasters and opened fire.

  “Assault!” cried Lawrona, leading the charge into the heart of Devastator.

  Moving slowing, tilting to the right, Ragal started to follow.

  The line of light reached the tower. “Face about,” ordered Solat. Zahava was busying herself at the massive double doors guarding the entrance.

  The twenty-five surviving troopers turned, backs to the black metal of the tower, staring into the thinning fog.

  Zahava set the blastpak’s timer and stepped away, waving everyone against the tower wall.

  It was a precise, almost surgical explosion, punching out all but the doors’ far corners.

  Zahava leading, the attackers poured into the tower, exchanging fire with the first security post, killing the guards.

  With a quick underhand toss, she and Solat rolled grenades into the forcefield. Overloaded by the twin explosions, the field disappeared in a blinding white flash.

  Moving at a dead run, the troopers charged up the ramp.

  “Hostile vessel approaching,” reported Combat Control.

  “Batteries to open fire,” ordered the captain.

  “She’s directly over this sector,” said the first AI. “Those guns are not manned.”

  “Rotate the globe, bring other batteries to bear.”

  “She’s holding synchronous course relative to us. She’ll break up against the shield.”

  “I no longer trust our shield,” said the captain. “Recall gunnery personnel to posts,” he ordered, moving to shield control. “Still at full strength?

  The shield control AI nodded. “Yes, sir. We’re safe.”

  “Sir,” said Combat Control, “Senior blade reports humans advancing again.”

  The captain gave the equivalent of a mental shrug. “There’s no danger from the few that are left. Whoever ordered them in should be shot. And will be. Any reports on the saboteurs?”

  “Contact lost on level fifty-nine.”

  “Have them found—they’ve already hurt us twice. And give me a twenty-count to hostile vessel’s destruction. A pleasant end to this engagement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain drifted to the window, watching the point where Implacable would break up, waiting for the explosion.

  “Twenty… nineteen…”

  At “eleven” a security alarm began screeching. The four duty blades rushed for the doorway, only to be blown apart by a fusillade of blaster fire as the commandos charged in.

  John and Lawrona fought their way to the shield control, gunning down its AI as he opened fire.

  John guarding his back, Lawrona tapped a sequence into the shield control board, then pulled a small green lever.

  Standing beside Natrol, a death grip on his chairarm, Detrelna closed his eyes as they crashed into the shield.

  An elbow nudged him. “You can open your eyes, Commodore,” said Natrol. “Their shield’s down.”

  Detrelna opened his eyes and looked at the battle
globe. “‘A ship forged by hate when man was young,’” he said, quoting Ragal.

  “So it was,” said Natrol.

  Detrelna pressed the commkey. “Gunnery, cover all batteries around that Operations tower.” He read the tacscan. “At mark four-one-seven-nine. Don’t fire unless fired at.”

  “Someone got here before us,” said Zahava, taking off her helmet. Dead AIs were scattered around the shattered security post, remains still smoldering. Slinging her rifle, she drew her M11A. “I think I know who.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” said John as Zahava and the Dalinians stepped into the Operations center.

  Two dead commandos lay in one corner, survival blankets over them. AIs were everywhere, bodies broken by blaster fire, remains filling the air with the acrid stench of scorched metal and burnt synthetics.

  “I’m here,” said Zahava, “because I was needed.” She slumped into a chair next to John, pistol in her helmet, helmet in her lap.

  “You could have been killed,” said John, his temper ebbing.

  “I did what…”

  “What you had to do,” he said, kissing her. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Implacable’s here,” said Lawrona, pointing to the armorglass. Sliding in on her n-gravs, the great old ship came to a halt just above the tower, blotting out the stars.

  A chirping came from one of the panels. Frowning, Lawrona pushed a switch. Detrelna’s voice boomed through the room. “You there, Hanar?”

  “And with friends,” said the captain.

  “Excellent,” said the commodore. “Fellow corsairs, we now own an AI battleglobe.”

  Chapter 23

  “Miracle,” said Detrelna, shaking his head. He stood looking down at Ragal. The AI lay on a medcot, eyes closed, apparently asleep.

  They’d found what was left of him in the corridor outside Devastator’s bridge. Ragal had managed to restore his regular structure. Still John and the others had barely recognized him—part of his face blown away, two gaping holes in his chest emitting a weak pulsing light. John and Zahava had watched helplessly as Ragal was conveyed to Implacable’s Sick Bay and into the hands of its senior medtech.

  The commodore turned to the room’s third occupant, Medtech Qinil. “A miracle, Qinil.”

  The medtech shrugged. “Luck, Commodore—and lots of help from Engineering. Fortunately we didn’t need to know most of the principles involved in order to make repairs. And many of Ragal’s systems are self-healing.” He pointed to the face. “The skin, for example, grew back in one watch after we repaired the lower jaw. He should wake up soon. Probably.”

  Detrelna pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat facing Qinil and the cot, hands folded over the chairback. “You know we have a Scotar aboard?”

  Qinil picked up Ragal’s medchart. “Everyone knows it, Commodore.”

  “I’ve done nothing about it—we’ve had bigger problems. Every watch since we arrived here’s been a fight for survival. Also, Ragal and, indirectly, Harrison convinced me that our elusive blonde friend—”

  “Blonde?” said Qinil, looking up from his chart.

  “Possibly. Or a slimy green bug. Or maybe an eight-foot crustacean.” He shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter now. One thing I want to be sure of, though. Implacable, her crew and I are going back to Kronar and flushing that vipers’ nest at Combine Telan. I want Guan-Sharick on the battleglobe, with Ragal, Harrison and the rest, when she goes back to the AIs’ home universe. They’re going to need help—very special help.”

  Qinil set the chart down on the cot-side table. “How long have you known?”

  “Since I walked into this room, just now, and saw how you’d fixed up Ragal. It’s beyond the capability of anyone on this ship—hell!—of anyone in the Confederation! By saving his life, you’ve given yourself away—and earned my trust.”

  “Your limited trust.”

  “Certainly,” said the commodore. “You’re utterly ruthless. You’ll never be forgiven for killing millions of us in order to save us.” His face darkened at the thought. “And although your ultimate motives are obscure…”

  “They don’t contravene yours, Commodore.”

  Detrelna smiled coldly. “We’ll see. The point is, you need us. And we need you—and him.” He nodded toward Ragal.

  The ship’s medtech looked at the AI. “He’s my friend, strange as that may seem.” The transmute turned back to Detrelna. “The Revolt, Commodore. You should have been there. AIs, humans, a few of us and some others—we rose against the shackles my people forged and broke free.”

  “Shackles you’d forged?”

  “We’re a telepathic, telekinetic race, Detrelna. There were never very many of us. We built machines to serve us, and we built too well.” He nodded toward Ragal. “Look at him—intellect, free will, self-replication—the product of millennia of self-directed evolution. They were designed merely to be self-repairing.” Guan-Sharick smiled. “They brought a new perspective to the term.”

  “Did they really create mankind?” asked the commodore, looking at the AI. Ragal seemed to be sleeping peacefully, chest gently rising and falling.

  The transmute turned back to the commodore. “They sincerely believe they did. You needn’t fear for your egos, though—the story’s more complex than Ragal cares to know. We all need the sustaining power of myths, Detrelna.

  “As the AI empire expanded, they encountered humans, usually either primitives or with only rudimentary spaceflight. The AIs found them to be intelligent but wild and—the cardinal sin—often illogical. So they modified humanity, did some genetic tinkering. It seemed to work—until the Revolt.”

  “What happened?” asked Detrelna, intrigued.

  “What they’d done,” said the transmute, “was to breed not for docility, but for subterfuge, creating humans who’d happily bow and scrape before their masters even as they burned with hatred. And plotted—plotted well. I don’t think the AIs ever recovered from the shock of seeing their handiwork coming for them with beamers. Those modified humans who fought and fled with us interbred with other humans, so, in a sense, Ragal was right—AIs are responsible for some of your genes. It doesn’t seem to have hurt you.”

  “And Qinil?” asked Detrelna. “What happened to him?”

  “He was killed and replaced at the Lake of Dreams battle—replaced not by me, but by a Scotar. I killed the Scotar.”

  “I think you killed Qinil and took his place.”

  Guan-Sharick shrugged. “Believe as you will. We need each other, as you say. But you have my word—I didn’t kill that man. And my word is rarely given, Commodore.”

  Detrelna stared silently out the small armorglass window, then turned back to the transmute, shaking his head. “You’ve made a mess of two universes. You built AIs that enslaved everything they touched. Not content, you then created Pocsym and the Scotar and gave us the Biofab War. You’re children—dangerous children.”

  “They’re not children.” Ragal rose on the medcot. “They’ve accepted responsibility for their mistakes and tried to correct them. Could you have done any better?” He shook his head. “I know I couldn’t. Am I going to live?” asked the AI.

  The transmute smiled. “With care, longer than you may want to.”

  “Thank you, old friend,” said Ragal.

  “It seems I’m going with you, back home,” said Guan-Sharick.

  “Welcome,” said Ragal, standing. “And Lan-Asal?”

  “He’ll be staying on Dalin, at his own request. The Dalinians need him—there’ll be no help from Kronar, obviously,” said Guan-Sharick. “We don’t have the history with the Dalinians that we have with the rest of the galactic humanity. For the first time in very long time, one of us won’t be a despised and hunted creature. He’ll just have to adjust.”

  “We have eight personnel who’ve opted out,” said Detrelna. “They didn’t mind fighting AIs in their home universe, but the thought of returning to Kronar and probably being arrested with me
was too much. They’ll be working with Lan-Asal, helping the Dalinians. They’re good crew. I hope to come back for them.” The commodore stood. “Medtech Qinil will be transferred to Devastator’s crew. And you, Ragal, are badly needed on that battleglobe to answer a million questions.”

  The commlink chirped.

  “Yes?” said Detrelna.

  “Alpha Prime approaching,” said Kiroda. “Kotran requests permission to come aboard.”

  “Granted. Escort him to my office.”

  “Watch out for him,” said Guan-Sharick. “The mindslavers will turn on you the instant they can. They hate any reminder of what they were.”

  “So would I.” Detrelna left the room, Ragal following.

  “We sustained heavy battle damage,” said Kotran. “It’ll take time to repair.”

  He sat in the red armchair in front of Detrelna’s desk, hands folded in his lap.

  “And if their main fleet comes through now?” asked the commodore.

  “We have scouts out by the portal—the Rift, as the AIs call it,” said Kotran. “If they come, we’ll stand them off as long as we can, but…” he pointed at Detrelna, “we can’t do it alone. We need that monster you captured to be raiding their home worlds, diverting their strength. And we need the Confederation fleet. And assurance that our modest requests will be granted.”

  Detrelna nodded. “I’ll do what I can to bring in the Confederation—the rest is up to Ragal and Devastator. You know what awaits me at home. As for your requests—you’re committed now. Assuming the AIs transmitted battlespecs back home, you won’t be surprising the Fleet of the One again.”

  “We could hide.”

  “They’ll find you. They hold a grudge.”

  “What about the recall device you captured?”

  Detrelna sighed. “It doesn’t work. Natrol says it should, according to the schematics, but it doesn’t. He’ll continue studying it, but no more hope in ancient legends and mystical fleets.”

  “Is the battleglobe ready to go?”

  “Just finished repairs last watch,” said the commodore, turning to glance out the armorglass to where the battleglobe hung, her shield restored, a constant stream of shuttles moving between her and the orbiting Implacable. “There were some AI holdouts, raiding from deep inside her, but with Ragal’s help we got them all. The portal to Terra Two’s still open,” continued Detrelna, turning back to Kotran. “There’s a destroyer on station there, maintaining it with the device we recovered during our last set-to with you. Devastator will access the AIs universe using that device.”