The AI War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “We’re being landed in 7 Blue, Area 139,” said Lakan. “Marked as Reserve Fleet Storage.”

  “What, no cheers, no band? And a hundred talars from FleetOps?” said the commodore. “Why not land us in the Kazan and have us walk out?”

  “It’s on the Kazan’s fringe,” said Natrol. “We could take the shuttles or one of the assault boats.”

  “And be blown out of the sky,” said Lawrona.

  They came in over Prime Base’s southern border, moving on silent n-gravs past the defense perimeters—line after line of missile and gun emplacements, hardened, shielded, deep-set in the sand—then over the landing field and ships of every size and class: cruisers, destroyers, scouts, interceptors, all sitting on the black duraplast field, sunlight shimmering on their hulls. Except for the occasional maintenance vehicle, nothing moved.

  “War’s over, the Confederation’s in ruins. So everyone’s sent home,” said Lawrona with a grimace. “Combine Telan’s efficient.”

  “Let’s kick this stingers’ nest,” said Detrelna.

  Ships and buildings disappeared. After a few moments, Implacable settled with a faint whine onto an isolated stretch of duraplast.

  “Admiral Gyar for the Commodore,” said Lakan.

  “Whom?” asked Lawrona.

  Detrelna touched the commlink. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said to the face in his commscreen.

  “You and Captain Lawrona will remain with the ship, Commodore,” said the admiral, a sharp-faced man with a thin disapproving mouth. “Your crew will dismiss and muster out—personnel carriers are en route.”

  “One will do, Admiral.”

  “They only hold fifty, Commodore.”

  “Perfect.” Detrelna smiled.

  “You lost over two hundred crew?!”

  “No, sir. We know where they are.”

  The admiral tried for words but failed, before finding his voice at last. “You will remain with your ship.” The commscreen went blank.

  “Who is that rude rodent, Hanar?” asked Detrelna, swiveling his chair toward the captain’s station.

  Lawrona looked from the commlink. “Gyar was Fiscal. He’s now number three in FleetOps. Reserve commission, no combat service.”

  “Combat’s dangerous and the food’s bland. Why is he Officer-in-Charge of our destiny?”

  “Surprise!” said the captain. “Former Chief Financist, Combine Telan.”

  “Ground vehicle approaching,” reported ship’s computer. “A personnel carrier, unarmed. Four others have broken off and are returning to base.”

  Detrelna opened the commlink. “Shipwide. This is the commodore. FleetOps says ‘Well done and welcome home!’ You’re to muster out. They’ve sent a carrier for you. Take your time. Gather your things. The captain and I will see you off from”—he glanced at the ground scan—“airlock 59, deck 8.”

  Lieutenant Satil stepped onto the bridge, doors hissing shut behind her.

  “Lieutenant,” said Lawrona.

  “Sir, commandos stand ready to disembark.”

  “Such unseemly haste, Lieutenant,” said Detrelna, sipping a fresh cup of t’ata.

  “All weapons accounted for and secured in armories?” asked Lawrona her.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well,” he said, eyeing the long-barreled M11A blaster slung low on her belt.

  Satil’s striking good looks and short stature belied her deadliness. She’d survived all of Implacable’s adventures unscathed, a red-haired, mahogany-hued daughter of Sorgite miners whose startling blue eyes often brought her more than second glances.

  “Journey’s end. I’ve got to bed down the engines,” said Natrol, leaving his station. “Care to join me, Lieutenant? A final walk around our old haunts?”

  “Certainly, Commander.”

  “See you at the airlock, gentlemen, lady,” said Natrol, leaving with Satil, the armored doors hissing shut behind them.

  “Why didn’t she use the commnet?” asked Lawrona, logging one of his final entries. “What?” he said, seeing Lakan and Detrelna looking at him.

  Detrelna shook his head as Lakan turned away smirking. “You’re my older son’s age, Hanar. Yet in some ways… They wanted to be alone. And walking wasn’t what we called it when I was their age.”

  “Oh. Nuances. How long has this been going on?”

  “Commander,” said Detrelna. “How long is their nuance?”

  “Two years,” she answered, not looking up.

  “And you didn’t tell me? I’m their captain, and Natrol’s her senior officer. That sort of relationship’s open to abuse, a violation of Fleet Regs.”

  Detrelna looked exasperated. “Hanar, you can’t ask people to obey rules written with no knowledge of the nightmares we’ve faced and give their all. You know what my Regs are.”

  “Unless it’s murder, treason, mutiny, or adulterating your brandy, you ignore it. Though you let everyone know that you know. Leaving me to play the hardass.”

  “And you do it so well, even though it’s so untrue. As we’re all probably going to be hauled off to the brig by Fleet Security, I think we can ignore a little love beneath the fusion cannon, don’t you?”

  “Is that where they were nuancing? If it was in their quarters, I’d have known.”

  “We tend to forget, but this huge old ship’s vastly empty,” said Detrelna. “She once carried thousands of Imperial Marines. Their quarters are still here, sealed but ready. They include some opulent senior officers’ suites. Those who go exploring back there disable the security grid, but they can’t mask the power drain. Dozens of those suites have seen heavy use during our longer cruises. I do hope they’ve been seeing to the linens.”

  “Gods! You’ve been tracking this? Do you have names? Dates?”

  “I did. But with unfriendly feet about to board us, I destroyed those records—among others. You have personal cause for concern, Captain Lawrona?” he asked, straight-faced.

  “No. And you, Commodore?”

  “None.”

  “So it seems nothing ever happened.”

  “Never. Right, Commander Lakan?”

  “Sorry, Commodore. But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So, here we are. Lakan, best get down to that personnel carrier. We’ll follow.”

  The two stood for a moment after she’d left, looking at the bridge with its empty stations and thousands of memoires.

  “What a long and miserable war,” said Lawrona.

  “They’re all miserable.”

  “I only wish it were over—that we were leaving Implacable never having heard of an AI or the Fleet of the One.”

  “Or a biofab or a mindslaver or Guan-Sharick. But humanity would soon be compost if we hadn’t heard of AIs. It may yet be.” Detrelna tried to punch up a drink from his chairarm beverager—nothing. “Engineering’s shut down.”

  “They’ll try to kill us,” said Lawrona.

  “Which? The AIs, FleetOps, or Combine Telan?”

  “All of them.”

  “Yes, but perhaps not today. Let’s go, Hanar.”

  They left together. For the first time in long years, Implacable’s bridge was empty.

  “Botul,” said Detrelna, holding out his hand. “Keep out of trouble.”

  “No thank you, Commodore.” The big master gunner smiled, shaking Detrelna’s hand. Botul stood at the head of the disembarking crew, there in the narrow access corridor at the bottom of the ship, gray kit bag slung over his shoulder, brown utility cap perched rakishly atop his head.

  “Remember that brawl on Itak Two?”

  “I remember you throwing that miner into the bar,” said Botul. “The one trying to gut me with a broken bottle.”

  “It was Satanian brandy, Botul. A bad end for a fine spirit—I lost my head.”

  “And broke his.” Botul handed Detrelna a slip-chit.

  “What’s this?”

  “The crew’s contact info. You need help, call. We’ve got friends on
Devastator who aren’t out of this yet. And we know you and the captain are in deep shit. Anyway”—he adjusted his cap—“you need us, you call. Luck, sir.” He shook Lawrona’s hand.

  “And to you, Master Gunner.”

  The others filed past, saying their farewells, following Botul into the scorching desert sun and the waiting carrier. Satil was last. “Luck, Commodore, Captain.” She smiled.

  “You should do that more often, Lieutenant,” said Detrelna.

  “Sir?”

  “Smile. It becomes you. Luck to you, Satil.”

  After shaking their hands, she went down to the carrier.

  “Did she wink at me?” asked Detrelna.

  “Unlikely,” said Lawrona. “We’ve been through so many hells together. Think we’ll ever see them again?”

  “Yes.” They watched the carrier rise, turn, and accelerate toward the distant smudge of Base Central, a blur of speed quickly lost in the shimmering desert haze.

  “You forget the heat, being away for so long,” said Detrelna, wiping his sleeve across his brow.”

  “I love the Kazan.” Lawrona’s gaze took in the dunes snaking between the sere hills. “We trained here when I was a cadet. The desert touches you, soothes you.”

  “Me it just makes perspire,” said Detrelna, feeling the sweat trickle down his back. “Let’s secure the bridge, do final logs.” The commodore was grateful for the rush of cool air as the airlock closed behind them. “And let’s finish the last of my best brandy when Natrol joins us. It’s not touching the lips of Fleet Security.”

  “Alert!” It was the computer. “Ground assault units are approaching this vessel.”

  “Or maybe it is,” said Detrelna. “Didn’t waste any time, did they? Computer. Specify composition of ground assault units.”

  “Fifteen Class One battle tanks, twenty-seven weaponed assault carriers of mixed nomenclature. Troop strength approximately 500.”

  “Now there’s the flattering reception,” said Lawrona as they turned for the lift.

  The commlink beeped. “What’s up?” asked Natrol.

  “Our people have left and company comes, bearing blasters,” said Detrelna. “Meet us on the bridge.”

  Black squat monsters, the battle tanks hung back from Implacable, fusion cannons cranked high as the personnel carriers swept in, disgorging gray-uniformed troopers who charged up the landing ramp of airlock 59, M32 assault rifles at the ready.

  “Gray uniforms?” said Detrelna. The three officers watched their ship’s investiture on the bridge’s main screen. “Since when in the last five thousand years has any Fleet unit worn gray?”

  “Fleet Security changed to gray last year, Jaquel,” said the captain. “They call it Imperial Gray. It was in the Fleet Orders of the Day.”

  “Two lines of FODs and I’m fast asleep,” said Detrelna as the last of the troopers entered the ship. “Ready yet, Mr. Natrol?” he asked, turning to where the engineer sat, busy at the first officer’s station.

  “Can’t do it,” said Natrol, shaking his head. “Computer won’t let me.”

  Captain and commodore stepped to the first officer’s station. Reaching past Natrol, Detrelna opened the complink. “Computer. Commodore Jaquel Detrelna. Destroy all record of commtorps launched this date.”

  “Illegal command. Fleet Directive 60.35D…” Computer broke off then spoke again, its voice coming from the bulkhead speakers. “Personnel authenticated as Fleet Security officers demand entry to the bridge.”

  “Command priority,” said Detrelna. “Do not—repeat, do not—admit them. But do not treat as hostile.” He glanced at the bridge doors.

  “Computer,” said Lawrona, “authenticator Imperiad, Utria 7149, of the Commandery. Destroy all record of commtorps launched this date.”

  “Executed, my lord,” said a deep new voice.

  Natrol shook his head. “You screw with that old Imperial programming too much, Captain, you’ll have a schizophrenic computer treating us as hostile.”

  “I tread lightly.”

  The commlink chirped the bridge entry request. Leaning across the vacant console, Detrelna touched an icon. “Yes?”

  “Colonel Aynal,” said a flat hard voice, “Fleet Security. Under the Fleet Articles of War, I order you to open these doors.”

  “Moment, please.” Detrelna tapped Hold. “Well?”

  “If he’s citing the Articles, he’s got arrest warrants,” said Lawrona.

  “We could make them drag a fusion torch up here,” suggested Natrol. “It would take a while. They’d work up a sweat, pull some muscles…”

  “And eventually burn through and come thundering in here, hugely pissed,” said Lawrona. “And the stench of burning metal! Let them in, Jaquel.”

  “Computer,” said Detrelna, “please admit the authenticated Fleet Security officers.”

  The thick doors hissed open. A rush of gray uniforms surged onto the bridge, led by a tall man with colonel’s insignia and the crooked dagger of Security on his collar. “You’re all under arrest,” he said as troopers took Detrelna’s and Natrol’s blasters.

  “He won’t give it up, sir,” said a corporal.

  Lawrona stood imperturbably, hand firmly on his weapon’s grips.

  “You will please surrender your weapon, Captain My Lord Lawrona,” said Colonel Aynal.

  “Not until I see the arrest order.” Lawrona extended his free hand.

  “Certainly.” Aynal stiffly handed the captain a commslate. Lawrona scanned it, eyes stopping at the signature block. He handed it back. “Not a lawful order. It’s signed by a Councilman. You may hold Commodore Detrelna and Commander Natrol on it—you can’t hold me.”

  “Even the aristocracy is subject to Fleet orders.”

  “It’s a civil writ, Colonel, and I’m not just any aristocrat.”

  Aynal glared at Lawrona and started to speak, but was interrupted by a voice from the first officer’s station. “Colonel, they’ve wiped the commtorps’ records!”

  The Aynal turned to his tech as Implacable’s officers exchanged satisfied looks. “Impossible.”

  The woman shrugged. “They accessed the Imperial foundation programs. It’s all gone except basic commtorps inventory.”

  Face flushing angrily, Aynal turned back to his prisoners. “Interrogation will wipe away those smug grins. Then we’ll wipe your minds. Escort the commodore and the commander to the Tower and remand them to the custody of the Commandant.”

  Detrelna shook off the hands that reached for his arms. “What did you do in the war, Colonel?”

  “The war?” repeated Aynal, glancing uneasily at Detrelna’s battle ribbons.

  “He means the ten-year war with the Scotar,” said Natrol helpfully. “The one that ended this year?”

  “My record’s none of your concern. But I’m proud of—I served in the Home Fleet.”

  “In what capacity?” asked Lawrona.

  “Information Officer.”

  “How’d you go from that to colonel in a combat arm?” asked Detrelna.

  “Unlike yours, my service was honorable. Take them away,” Aynal ordered a sergeant. The NCO took the commodore’s arm, steering him toward the doors. Natrol and his escort followed.

  “Luck, Hanar,” called Detrelna as they took him away.

  “Luck, Jaquel, Natrol,” said the captain. Alone on the bridge, he and Aynal faced each other.

  “You’re correct—I can’t arrest you,” said the Security officer. “I’d be very careful, though, my lord. Stay out of this. The war’s over. Go back to your people on Utria. They need you.” With a curt nod, he turned and left the bridge.

  “This war’s only just begun, Colonel,” said Lawrona. Alone on the big old ship, he watched the convoy disappear into the midday heat.

  Terra. A distant speck of nothingness. There on its moon Imperial renegades left a cybernetic guardian whose mission was to wait, to watch, and at the right moment unleash upon us an aggressor race, to “prepare” us for th
e “real” enemy, those dimly-remembered AIs just a universe away. And so, long after the Empire fell, our Confederation was suddenly assailed and decimated by the Scotar biofabs. That we won was a miracle; that we’ll ever be entirely rid of the Scotar unlikely. It can only be done planet by planet, nest by nest. And it can only be done by the Watchers.

  Fleet Counterintelligence Section 7

  Report to the Confederation Council

  Archives Reference 518.392.671.AI

  Chapter 2

  “What are you trying to tell me, Sarel?” said Sutherland, interrupting the Watcher in mid-evasion.

  The Kronarin shrugged. “Very well. I’ll be blunt. My men and I have been ordered back to Kronar—we’re leaving Terra tomorrow.”

  “Leaving?” the CIA Director heard himself parroting. “But you can’t!”

  “Repulse is going home. We’re to go with her.”

  “Is she being replaced?”

  “No.”

  Sutherland slumped back in his chair. “My God, man—you’re leaving this planet defenseless against—”

  “Against nothing,” said Sarel, walking to the big picture window with its view of the Potomac Palisades. With a wiry build and pale complexion, the Watcher was dressed for the D.C. summer weather in a short-sleeve cotton shirt and khaki pants. He stared across the sullen brown river. “Against nothing,” he repeated, turning back to Sutherland. “That nest in the Mato Grosso was the last of them. There are no more traces on Terra. We’ve wiped the last of the Scotar from your world—it’s clean and we’re needed elsewhere.”

  It had been swift, deadly, and flawlessly executed. Repulse had suddenly left orbit, heading outsystem at speed, protests from a dozen nations rippling in her wake as the satellite reports came in. Ambassador Zasha had only just issued a vague statement when the destroyer reappeared over Brazil, missile and fusion batteries raining death on a small village deep in the Amazon basin.

  Flashing silver in the tropical sun, five Kronarin assault boats swept in low off the river, Mark 44 turrets strafing the blasted ruins. With a whine of n-gravs, the craft settled into a clearing between village and swamp. The raiders were out before the landing struts touched down, racing for the village, M32 rifles in hand, Sarel and Sutherland in their wake.