The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “And how do you propose to convince the destroyer crew of that?” said Kotran.

  “Ragal will be in command. He’s wonderfully inventive—he’ll think of something.”

  “And you?” said Kotran.

  “We’ll be leaving for Kronar this watch. I’ll submit to arrest, face trial if they let me and, with the Watchers’ help, turn the Confederation against Combine Telan. We’re paralyzed as long as that AI nest lives within us.”

  “So be it.” Kotran rose, extending his hand. “See you in hell, Commodore.”

  Detrelna shook the mindslave’s hand. “Is there any chance you’ll, well… ever leave Alpha Prime?”

  All humanity vanished from Kotran’s face. “No,” said the dry whisper. “Captain Kotran will be with us always.”

  “Gods,” whispered the commodore, staring into the empty blue pools of Kotran’s eyes.

  Animation returned to Kotran, a light coming on. “Luck, Detrelna,” he smiled. Receiving no answer, Kotran left.

  Detrelna shuddered as the door shut.

  “And that’s it,” said Detrelna, picking up his wine glass. “We’ll message ahead to friendly parties. We won’t be blown away when we hit home space. When I stand in that court, I’m going to speak loud and long.”

  The four of them sat in Detrelna’s private dining room, the remains of their meal scattered about them, backdropped by two worlds—one natural, the other not: Dalin and Devastator.

  “It’s so fantastic,” said Zahava as Detrelna finished his wine. “Will anyone believe you?”

  “They’ll believe me,” said Lawrona, “testifying as both captain and margrave. And we have the ship’s log, every scan neatly and unalterably recorded. And Kronarin history’s no stranger to the fantastic.”

  “I wish I were going with you,” said Detrelna, looking at the Terrans. “The greatest adventure in centuries and I have to sit it out.”

  “If it turns nasty on Kronar, Jaquel, you won’t be sitting,” said John, setting his napkin on the table.

  The thought cheered the commodore. He refilled their wine glasses.

  “And the Trel Cache?” asked Zahava, lifting her glass. “You’re just going to leave it there?”

  “For now,” said Lawrona. “After we settle with the AIs, we’ll send scientists. The knowledge the Trel so carefully preserved could move us ahead centuries. Why, matter transport alone…”

  “So why not extract it now and put it to use?” said John.

  “We’d need a research team. And with the Combine AIs infecting our government and military, anything we did extract from that satellite might be used against us. No, Hanar’s right—we let it sit for now.”

  “And what about the other recall device?” said John. “The one mentioned by the Trel?”

  “The Lost Citadel?” Detrelna looked at Lawrona. “Hanar, something for you to do while I’m awaiting trial.”

  The captain shook his head. “Syal and the Machine Wars were a long time ago, Jaquel. The truth may be lost.”

  “Still,” said the commodore, “find out what you can. But let’s hope Natrol gets the Combine’s prototype working.” He poured himself the last of the wine.

  “What are you going to do about Guan-Sharick?” said Zahava.

  “Guan-Sharick will be accompanying Devastator back to his, or her, home universe. Incognito.”

  “You know who he is,” said Lawrona, staring at the commodore.

  Detrelna sipped his wine.

  “Not going to say?” said the captain.

  “No. Yes, I know,” he said, holding up a hand as Lawrona started to speak, “Guan-Sharick’s a mass murderer and totally ruthless.”

  “I don’t believe it’s human,” said Lawrona.

  “It’s never said it was,” said Detrelna. “It’s merely implied it. I’m convinced it’s on our side—for now. And Hanar, while there may be no victory with Guan-Sharick’s help, there’ll be none without it.”

  “Victory,” said Lawrona, easing back in his chair. “I don’t believe in it anymore. We’re climbing an endless mountain—each time we reach the top, we find it’s just another shoulder.”

  “We’ll take out the AIs,” said Detrelna, “we’ll reach that peak. The larger question remains: Will this chain of creation and exploitation never end? AIs create humans and exploit them. They rise and flee here. Humans create AIs and exploit them. They rise and die. The Empire creates biofabs, exploiting their desire for a home of their own to unleash them on us. They kill us, but we kill them all. And now the AIs are coming to destroy us and what? Recreate man and continue the ancient cycle of enslavement and slaughter?”

  “You’re becoming a philosopher, Jaquel,” said John.

  “No. Just a tired starship skipper who’s had too much wine,” said Detrelna.

  “I miss them already,” said John. He and Zahava stood in Devastator’s Operations center, watching the main screen with its image of Implacable. The battle damage was gone and humans wearing the duty brown of the Confederation manned the consoles.

  “We’ll see them again,” said Zahava, putting an arm around his waist.

  “I wonder.”

  Detrelna’s face appeared on a comm screen. “We’re about to jump for home.” He cleared his throat. “Luck to you all. Until we meet again.”

  There was a chorus of well wishing. A second later the main screen held only stars—Implacable was gone. John and Zahava faced their new captain.

  “A good, clever and determined man,” said Ragal. “If anyone can do it, he can. And he has the margrave and my people—that’ll help. Course plotted and laid in, Mr. Kiroda?” he asked his first officer.”

  “Plotted and laid, sir,” said Kiroda.

  “You may jump when ready,” said Ragal. He turned to the Terrans. “When we get to Terra, if you want off, I’ll understand. It’s not your fight.”

  “Of course it’s our fight,” said Zahava, remembering Major Lakor and the Dalinians, Terra Two and the gangers. “It’s everyone’s fight.”

  “And you?” said Ragal, looking at John.

  “We’re with you to the end, sir,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Ragal took it, and Zahava’s. “To the end,” he said.

  Devastator jumped.

  The End

  Endnote

  Without tinkering with AI’s intricate plotline, I’ve tidied up, done some tweaking and replaced those hyphens used as Kronarin (K’Ronarin) vowel makers in the original version with vowels. (They seemed a fun idea at the time.) Happily The AI War’s now an ebook, ensuring that the wily Detrelna and Implacable will be forever between us and evil, just a jump or two away.

  Upshield! Upship!

  About the Author

  Stephen Ames Berry is the author of four science fiction novels first published by Ace and Tor, and of The Eldridge Conspiracy, a tale spun from his time at the Pentagon and the myth of the Navy’s World War II ship invisibility project, the Philadelphia Experiment. A graduate of Boston University, Berry has a master’s in information systems and was a systems analyst and data architect for the Navy Department and Harvard University. He lives in Florida, where he teaches wayward youth at a special school.

  The saga of Implacable continues on the next page with the first two chapters of Final Assault.

  Final Assault

  I led five battle cruisers into Quadrant Blue 9 after the renegade Kotran. Detrelna and Implacable preceded us. Not since the Fall had a Fleet ship entered Blue 9. We all found what we wanted.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Sagan, Admiral Second

  Commanding Special Force 18

  Extract, Final BattleOps Report (538B902)

  Chapter 1

  “Last jump point, Commodore,” said Lawrona from the navigation station.

  Detrelna nodded, looking at the data trail threading across the bottom of the main screen. “And our last chance to turn back, Hanar.”

  “And do what?” said Lawrona, hi
s long fingers playing over the console, entering the jump coordinates. “Live like real pirates? No, I’ll take my chances with the vorg slime.”

  FleetOps couldn’t have cast two more dissimilar figures as Implacable’s senior officers: Detrelna short, fat, middle-aged, with the sharp nose and piercing dark eyes of a Shtarian trader, and Lawrona, younger, slender, with the aquiline good looks of the old aristocracy. They’d fought and won across half the galaxy only to learn all might yet be lost to an ancient foe nestled at the heart of galactic humanity—and Implacable corsair-listed, a pirate ship.

  Detrelna looked around, eyes going from empty station to empty station. The cruiser’s big bridge usually had fifteen crewmen. She had four now: Lakan, manning communications; Natrol, chief engineer, hovering over the jump status board; Lawrona, manning Kiroda’s old station; and himself, now seated at the captain’s post—his for seven years before they made him a flag officer.

  “Commtorps ready, Lakan?” he asked the petite brunette.

  “Jump-tied, Commodore.”

  Detrelna touched the commlink. “This is it,” he said, voice echoing through the long, almost empty miles of Implacable. “We’re jumping home now. Luck to us all.” He switched off. “Jump at will, Captain Lawrona,” he said, clasping his hands over his belly, eyes on the screen.

  “Jumping,” said Lawrona, touching the Execute icon.

  There was a slight tugging at the stomach and the stars on the main screen red-shifted to familiar constellations. The data trail winked out, returning with fresh figures. As Detrelna watched, three silver missiles streaked away, scattering.

  “Commtorps launched,” reported Lakan.

  The screen rippled, changing from an outside scan to a tactical view of the Kronarin home system. Natrol whistled softly. “They must have half of Home Fleet on picket duty.”

  “Flattering,” said Detrelna, looking at the hundreds of points of light standing between Implacable and the innermost planet. Three of those lights began converging on the green blip denoting Implacable.

  “Unknown ship. This is Kronarin warcraft Asingu. Identify,” came a brusque voice over the deck speakers.

  “Unknown my ass,” said the commodore. “Lakan, we’re sending our standard ID on standard ID frequency?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A brief show for FleetOps records,” said Lawrona. “‘Suspected corsair detected and destroyed.’” He glanced at the data trail. “Their shields are at battleforce. They’re closing at flank, batteries locking on. They won’t be firing salutes.” He touched a gunnery control icon.

  “We’re going to shoot it out with our own people, Hanar?” asked Detrelna. “Their ship fully crewed, ours not? Absurd. Remember why we’re here.”

  “I do,” said the captain, folding his hands. “My first instinct’s always to fight.”

  “That would be with at full complement and not against our own. It’s just as well we’re down to a skeleton crew. They’re well out of this.”

  “Unknown ship, identify,” repeated the challenge. “Final warning. Identify or we fire.”

  “Plenty of fighting ahead,” sighed Detrelna, touching his chair’s commlink. “Cruiser Implacable, returning from Quadrant Blue 9. Advise FleetOps we’ve launched commtorps set to all media. If we don’t make Prime Base, our mission debriefing will skip-send forever. Luck finding those transmitters.” He waited, seeing fusion cannons streaming fire on Implacable, her shield flaring dead, hull breached, and corpses manning her bridge in mute defeat as the missile salvo touched her.

  Two of the pickets came within easy range—heavy destroyers, together a match for one Laal-class cruiser. The silence grew.

  “Someone down there’s making A Decision,” said Detrelna, thick fingers drumming a soft tattoo on his padded chair arm.

  “Implacable. FleetOps,” said a different voice, smooth, neutral. “You’re cleared for Prime Base and assigned a new landing area. Line is so advised.” A series of coordinates followed.

  As Detrelna acknowledged, the commlink ended in a sharp burst of static. “Welcome home,” said the commodore. “We’ve got a new landing spot, probably far from witnesses.”

  “Coordinates set,” said Lawrona. “On course.”

  “There’s nothing where they want us to land,” said Lakan, looking at a ground readout. “Less than nothing.”

  “Not setting us onto a minefield, are they?” asked Natrol, looking over Lawrona’s shoulder. About Lawrona’s age, with blond hair beyond regulation length, Implacable’s chief engineer was capable of a rare but infectious grin.

  Detrelna shook his head. “The political situation’s unstable. They won’t risk crudity with our commtorps flitting about.” He pointed to the screen. “See?”

  The destroyers were withdrawing.

  As Implacable approached Kronar the tacscan changed, displaying first Prime Base highlighted in friendly green, then a line of red between ship and planet: Line.

  “Greetings, Commodore,” said a voice over the commlink. It held a hint of Court Kronarin, a virtually dead tongue.

  “Hello, Line,” said Detrelna.

  Thousands of years before at the Kronarin Empire’s height, a series of Twelfth Dynasty Emperors had built Kronar’s awesome Line and at awesome cost. Its name came from its two-dimensional image as seen on ships’ tacscans. Line was a great shield-sphere surrounding Kronar, a never-breached wall of orbital shield generators, approached through ever-shifting minefields, missile and gun platforms, all controlled from deep within miles of rock in geostationary orbit above the planet.

  “Did you have an interesting mission, Commodore?” asked Line.

  “Saved humanity again,” said Detrelna lightly, watching as the screen shifted to exterior scan, showing them approaching an endless sweep of silver set against the obsidian of space. “Encouraged and supported desertion.”

  “You’ve had an unusual career, sir.”

  “‘Had’ it is.” Detrelna punched up a steaming cup of t’ata from his chair arm. “Battled any alien hordes lately, Line?” Part of the Line’s shield wall briefly vanished as Implacable reached it and slipped through.

  “Sadly, no excitement since the Scotar tried that foolishness at the start of the last war. Most action’s political and planetside. The Assembly’s in disarray, Fleet units prematurely mustering out even as anarchy grows on our war-ravaged planets. The combines, notably Combine Telan, spreading their tentacles wide amid the power vacuum. Growing sentiment to restore the monarchy. It’s messy. Welcome home, Commodore.”

  “Thank you, Line,” said Detrelna, looking at the brown-green world ahead. “Sad everyone doesn’t feel that way.”

  “That machine’s friendlier than FleetOps,” said Laval.

  “Do you really think it’s a machine, Commander?” said the captain, joining Natrol at Detrelna’s station.

  “Many tales down the long march of the years,” said the engineer. “It’s a computer. A cyborg. A biofab. The cyber-core of a stripped Ractolian mindslaver. What we do know is it’s loyal to Kronar, whether empire or republic.”

  “And has a subtle wit,” said Lawrona, “easily missed.”

  “I’ve never understood why that thing has our lives in its hands,” said Lakan, monitoring their approach.

  “A reaction to his own treachery by a treacherous emperor,” said Natrol. “An Admiral Kyan became emperor by blockading Kronar and selectively bombarding it. He established Line as soon as he was Emperor. Gave the order on his way from the Amphitheater. Since then the defense of Kronar’s never been entrusted to any one person or group.”

  “Instead it was entrusted to single nonhuman entity. Flawless logic.”

  “History justifies our low opinion of ourselves, Commander,” said Lawrona.

  “Rejoice. We’re home,” said Detrelna.

  Brown, touched by just a hint of green and blue, Kronar lay before them, an arid planet of sweeping desert and rocky crags, its population clustered along the equator�
�s greenbelt. Once a lush rich world heavy in minerals, a world of tall forests and savannas, man had taken the forests and the minerals, then at his Imperial height sculpted the land into an arcadia of forested peaks and blue lakes, interspaced by cities wrought of gleaming alloys and subtly-hued duraplast, crafted by the same daring vision that had triumphed across a galaxy.

  A slow strengthening of Kronar’s sun even as the Empire ebbed had turned much of paradise to arid waste. Ruined cities of a hundred emperors lay forgotten beneath the sands, while from the towers of Akan, capital of empire and republic since the Founding Fleet, encroaching desert could be seen, held at bay by the constantly renewed barrier of lakes and parks.

  “Prime Base has taken control,” said Lawrona, pointing to the helm, lights flickering in response to the distant nav computers.

  Piercing a wispy gray-white cloud layer, Implacable came in low over the Kazan Desert and turned north, following an ancient dry riverbed.

  “‘R’Shen, thirsty daughter, drinks the blood of slaughter,’” quoted Detrelna, watching a scan of the cracked brown wash.

  “You and your grotesque classical poetry, Jaquel,” said Lawrona.

  “I’m ashamed to say it’s all I remember.”

  “Prespace?” guessed Natrol.

  The commodore nodded. “A poem by S’Hko, commemorating a battle at that river. They fought with swords and bows and put an end to the Slavers’ Guild. The waters of the R’Shen ran red.” He looked up from the screen. “An important place, the R’Shen—people died there for a good cause.”