The A.I. Gene (The A.I. Series Book 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Captain,” the Centurion said from behind.

  Jon did not turn around. He kept the gyroc aimed at Da Vinci. He had the feeling that one slip would give the cunning Prince of Ten Worlds, barely hidden within the Neptunian’s mind, a chance to do something sinister.

  “The chief’s dead,” the Centurion said.

  “Is your stitch-gun aimed at Da Vinci?” Jon asked.

  A second passed. “Yes, Captain,” the Centurion said.

  Jon holstered his gyroc lefthanded. “If he moves, kill him.”

  Neither Da Vinci nor the Centurion spoke.

  Jon floated into the storage chamber. The APEX shell had done less damage than he would have expected by the explosion. He found restraints, plucking them off a shelf.

  A moment later, he floated out.

  “Stretch out on your belly,” Jon told the Neptunian.

  “Captain—”

  Jon didn’t speak again, but stared down at the man. Maybe Da Vinci saw death in the captain’s eyes.

  The thief stretched out on the floor.

  “Hands behind your back,” Jon said.

  Da Vinci complied. Soon, he lay trussed-up with spring locks on his forearms and shackles on his ankles. He would not soon slip free.

  Jon turned the thief over in the air, although he kept the Neptunian close to the floor.

  “Where did the octopus-robot go?” Jon asked.

  “Through the hatch over there,” Da Vinci said, indicating the place with his almost nonexistent chin.

  “It’s headed into the core,” the Centurion said. “Is it trying to destroy the ship like you said?”

  Jon thought quickly. Without a word, he headed into the storage chamber. He looked around and selected several items along with a radiation suit. When he came back out, he said, “I’m going into the core.”

  -6-

  Wearing a crinkly silver radiation suit with a heavy lead-lined helmet, Jon floated through circular-shaped and rather narrow inward-leading corridors.

  He’d wasted a full eleven minutes to reach this location. Ideally, the Centurion should have donned the radiation suit. The professional had two good shoulders instead of just the one. But the Centurion had not volunteered for the assignment. Besides, Jon was the captain, he felt responsible for…well…for the survival of the human race.

  It was strange. He’d never considered himself an altruistic person. He was as selfish as the next man. His life showed that. So why was he floating into heavier and heavier radiation? Why sacrifice his life for the rest of humanity?

  Maybe it wasn’t even that. He’d taken Colonel Graham’s place. He felt responsible for the regiment. The colonel had been like a father to him. He would have given his life to protect the colonel. He’d failed to save Graham from Arbiter Sapir Oslo. If he didn’t go after the supposed robot—could Da Vinci have lied? Had the Neptunian needed to be alone with the Centurion in order to kill the sergeant?

  Jon couldn’t see the trussed-up Neptunian surprising the Centurion. No. That wasn’t going to happen.

  If he didn’t go after the robot—provided one existed—who would save the warship? If Jon didn’t go, the warship would explode anyway. Thus, if he was going to die, he might as well save his friends.

  Jon grinned shyly to himself. Gloria would no doubt have approved of his logic.

  Jon pushed once more, drifting along the circular corridor. He heard the harsh sound of his own breathing. He was using his own air-supply to avoid breathing the irradiated air in the core.

  He gripped the gyroc with his right gloved hand. A dull pain throbbed in his right shoulder. Painkillers and stims allowed him use of the injured shoulder and thus the right hand.

  Don’t get cocky.

  He’d been telling himself that regularly as he felt the stims increase his confidence. Certain shock troops used heavy stim-shots to give them battle madness and the drug-induced courage to charge head-on. The regiment had never operated using that process.

  Suicide troops and those induced to contemptuousness toward their enemies usually sustained heavier casualties. The Waffen-SS in the early stages of the historical German-Russian War had been a case in point.

  Despite the stims and painkillers, Jon no longer felt so good. The radiation was already attacking his cells. The trick now was to stay alive long enough to destroy this supposed robot.

  But what if Da Vinci had fed him lies? Had the Neptunian sent him to his death? Jon squeezed his eyes shut, opening them a second later. He had to concentrate. He spied an open hatch.

  Suddenly, a THRUM seemed to vibrate through his body. It was powerful and far too intimate. Lights came on around him, blinding him momentarily.

  The robot must have turned on the matter/antimatter engines. The thing must be inside the core. It needed the engines on so it could cause a debilitating self-destructive explosion.

  Jon pushed onward, floating toward the open hatch. Bile rose in his throat. He fought it back. He couldn’t choke. He had a job to do. He was the captain of the Black Anvil Regiment. He had to save his people.

  A fierce smile froze into place. This was the end. This was it. He must be taking massive doses of radiation. He’d always wondered how he would die. He’d always wanted to go out guns blazing, taking down an enemy.

  A man’s life wasn’t complete unless he died well. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard that.

  “Okay, you bastard,” Jon whispered.

  He slipped through the hatch, entering a huge area. The THRUM intensified. Vast cylinders rose up. That was where the hornet-like noise was coming from. Tubes crisscrossed everywhere. Vents—

  Jon squinted. He saw movement up there. He—

  Horror twisted Jon’s shoulders. An octopoid robotic thing was crawling toward the vent. It had four metallic legs as Da Vinci had described. Each leg had three metal joints. On top of the four legs was a bulbous, lights-blinking…body. Antennae sprouted on top of the bulb. A small gun port poked out.

  Jon realized he was lightheaded. The moment felt surreal as he raised his right hand. Shoulder pain threatened to intrude upon his concentration, but he refused to acknowledge any pain.

  He trained the gyroc on the moving octopoid, waited for it—

  The robot paused.

  Jon’s finger twitched, causing a click. The pistol shuddered, ejecting a rocket shell. The big motor ignited, and it hissed as it sped upward.

  Just as the octopoid swiveled, the penetrator hit its mark, and the APEX shell exploded. Metallic pieces, wires and other parts blew apart. Some clicked against the bulkheads. Others flew downward.

  Jon yanked himself back through the hatch. Pieces rattled onto the deck, and rattled against the heavy cylinders.

  Jon counted to three and then pulled himself back into the large THRUMMING chamber. He looked up. The octopoid had half-detached from its former position. Two of the metallic legs hung limply. Lights blinked on the bulbous body. The gun port was attempting to swivel around to aim at him.

  “Not bloody likely,” Jon said. He aimed, fired again and saw a second APEX round hammer home, exploding.

  He dodged through the hatch once again, putting in a fresh magazine. He waited like before and finally pulled himself back into the chamber. What was left of the alien robot floated up there. Pieces and legs drifted around it. All the lights on the main body had gone dark.

  A wry laugh bubbled past Jon’s lips. “That was easy,” he said. “I thought it would have been—”

  Something hard and heavy struck between his shoulder blades, propelling him onto the deck.

  Something plucked the lead-lined helmet from his head. The THRUM of the chamber increased, and it felt as if ants were crawling over his skin biting him—that was the heavy radiation striking his flesh.

  At the same time, something grabbed his hair and began twisting his head around…

  -7-

  Jon Hawkins stared into the optical sensor of a second robotic octopoid. It was using the pincers
on the end of one leg to grab his hair.

  “I recognize you,” the octopoid said in a robotic voice. “You are the destroyer.”

  “Jon Hawkins, at your service,” he said weakly.

  “I had planned to destroy the cybership,” the octopoid said. “But the ease of my subterfuge shows me that you are massively inferior. It will be a simple matter to eliminate your local infestation. I will—”

  “The brain core is gone,” Jon whispered.

  “I will destroy you, Jon Hawkins. I will do it now as I record you screaming in agony.”

  “I doubt there will be any screaming.”

  “Explain your doltish words,” the octopoid said.

  “I’m drugged to the eyeballs, and I’m dying. The radiation poisoning—”

  Jon arched back as a second leg thrust a needle through the radiation suit into his left buttock. The needle sunk deeply, remained motionless and then withdrew with a jerk.

  “I have injected you with a radiation antidote, Jon Hawkins. You must feel agony at your passing.”

  “That’s illogical.”

  “You suggest that as a slur?”

  “You’re a robot, you idiot. Robots don’t feel. So why do you want me to feel pain at the end?”

  “As an inferior infestation, you are in no position to know anything about superior robots like me.”

  “I conquered this ship, didn’t I?”

  “Wrong. I am about to begin the process of awakening the secondary systems. We will purge the cybership of your localized infestation. Then we will—”

  Jon raised the gyroc and tried to pull the trigger. The octopoid ripped the pistol out of his hand, breaking the trigger finger in the process because the finger had become trapped in the trigger-guard.

  Jon grunted, surprised he felt that.

  “I will not allow you any resistance,” the octopoid said.

  Jon cursed the mechanical thing, lifted his legs, placing the bottom of his boots against the bulbous body, and shoved as hard as he could.

  He couldn’t move it, though.

  The alien injection seemed to have revived his thinking, however, as a moment of clarity struck home. He was going to die. The octopoid was going to reverse the regiment’s glorious victory.

  “No,” Jon whispered.

  As he shoved upward with his boots, with his back pressed against the decking, Jon detached a grenade from his belt. He used his thumb to activate it, hiding the weapon from the octopoid’s camera eye. Jon counted silently. At the last moment, he reached up, holding the grenade inside a cavity in the robot’s body.

  The grenade exploded—and Jon Hawkins lost consciousness…

  -8-

  The entity known as Jon Hawkins did not die at that instant in time. He dreamed endlessly. He never remembered those dreams, although he recalled that some horrified him and some brought him brief moments of peace.

  Finally, dim consciousness returned. He lay on a soft bed. Tubes were stuck in his arms, sides and legs. His skin itched worse than before. He heard voices, but had no idea what they were saying or if they were male or female. Slowly, by degrees, he managed to bring up his right hand so his immobile head could stare at it.

  The problem was simple. He lacked a right hand. Jon stared at the stump of his wrist.

  Two hands appeared. They were good strong hands. They clamped hold of the damaged arm, slowly but forcefully moving it out of his view.

  As he struggled to reason out why they did that, he faded out again, dreaming anew. In this dream, he was running hard. He had a mission that he absolutely had to complete. There were things chasing him. He could feel them breathing down his neck. He could hear them clicking on the deck-plates behind him. He could—

  The dream slipped away like a fog gently blown off a summer beach. That allowed him to surface for consciousness again.

  Bright glaring lights almost blinded him. Voices circled him. Tubes like bloodworms sank into his body. He could hear sounds of something buzzing or cutting, and the strong odor almost made him sneeze.

  Jon tried to move his arm into view. He recalled something about missing digits—fingers.

  “Not yet,” a voice told him.

  Jon didn’t know what that meant. To hell with it then. He was leaving. And he did leave, sinking back into unconsciousness.

  The dreams were formless lights. They weaved, juggled places and began to pulsate smaller and smaller, finally disappearing. Two lights appeared later, grew, merged into each other, solidified—

  Jon’s eyes snapped open. His head lay deep in an extraordinarily soft pillow. He felt exhausted, drained to the bone. His mind hurt. His wrist itched like murder. He tried to raise his left hand to reach over and scratch. He simply lacked the strength to do that.

  A towering head appeared in his vision.

  Jon struggled to comprehend and then struggled even harder to focus. Finally, the wise lined features of the long-faced Old Man came into view. The sergeant was wearing a military hat and had his pipe in his mouth.

  Jon couldn’t smell any tobacco and he didn’t spy any smoke trickling up from the pipe bowl.

  The Old Man used a hand to pull the pipe out of his mouth. “How are you feeling, son?”

  “Weak,” Jon whispered.

  The Old Man nodded, putting the pipe stem back between his teeth. “You’ve been here for a time. We trade off to keep you company. The Martian says you’re going to be fine. The Centurion—he worries that he came in too late.”

  “I…don’t understand.”

  The wise old eyes studied him. “Rest, son. Get better. You saved us, all of us. That was incredibly brave, and noble. Colonel Graham would have been proud of you.”

  Jon couldn’t help it. A warm feeling built in his chest. He tried to sit up. Colonel Graham would have been proud. The idea strengthened him. He met the Old Man’s eyes, and he recognized the worry.

  “What is it, Sergeant?”

  The Old Man’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, I think you should wait, sir. You need your strength.”

  Jon stared into the sergeant’s eyes. As he did, the strength faded away—and he never realized when his head gently moved to the side.

  He didn’t dream this time. It felt as if only a second passed, but he had no idea how long it had really been.

  Jon opened his eyes, and he felt much stronger than before. By degrees, he pushed his head upward and then his shoulders. The soft pillow tried to trap his shoulders, but Jon’s stubbornness had returned. Finally, he sat up, realizing he was in a medical bed.

  He recognized the med machines. He looked for tubes in his flesh, but saw none.

  Something caught his eye. He stared, and his heart pounded. He looked at his smooth right hand. He saw a hairline scar along the wrist where the hand attached. He moved the fingers. They worked.

  Tears threatened to well in his eyes.

  Jon fought them back. He was the captain. He would not weep at this miracle. Jon looked up at the ceiling. “Thank you, God,” he whispered. “Thank you for life. Thank you for this hand and thanks for keeping the regiment in control of the warship.”

  Jon felt better saying that. As he smiled, Jon realized someone had slipped into the med center. He looked up, spying a tech, a thin Neptunian with a slate in his hands.

  “Captain,” the med tech said.

  “I’m better,” Jon said. “But I don’t understand how I have this hand.” He moved his right-hand fingers.

  “Bast Banbeck showed us how to use a re-grower, sir. It’s an alien device. The Sacerdote said the aliens used the re-grower to manufacture some of their abominations, the head you once saw connected to a machine.”

  “This re-grower made my hand?”

  “That’s right, sir. We grafted it to your wrist. Bast Banbeck showed us the machine to do—”

  “I see,” Jon said, interrupting. He moved the fingers again. This felt like his hand. He supposed it was his hand. This was incredible. The regiment could use tech like this.


  The med tech cleared his throat.

  Jon looked up. “I want to speak to—” He stopped. He didn’t know whom he needed to speak to. Who had taken over in his absence?

  “The sergeants thought you’d want an update as soon as possible, sir,” the med tech said.

  “Sounds good. Let’s hear it.”

  “Oh, not from me, sir. Once you’re strong enough—”

  “I already told you I am,” Jon said, interrupting.

  The med tech squared his narrow shoulders. “Technically, that’s my decision, sir.”

  Jon studied the Neptunian. He could see stubbornness there. “Well? What’s your judgment?”

  “Yes. You’re strong enough. I’ll send for the mentalist. She ran the investigation.”

  “What investigation?”

  The med tech shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m under strict orders. She’s supposed to tell you. That was made very clear to me.”

  “Then get her. Now!”

  “Yes, sir,” the med tech said. He spun around, hurrying for the exit.

  -9-

  The Martian shook her head as she stood beside Jon’s medical bed.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said.

  Gloria Sanchez wore a utilitarian gray suit. It lacked any flourish or singularity other than its drabness. She wore gray shoes and had well-scrubbed features. Her long dark hair fell straight past her shoulders. She had brown, inquisitive eyes but was thin and small, much smaller than Da Vinci.

  Her only costly item was the tablet clutched against her bosom. The device aided in her mentalist duties.

  Mentalists believed in strict logic and rational and efficient use of their brainpower. Gloria was no exception, even if she had proven more emotional in the past than the customary image of a mentalist.

  She’d already started explaining the present situation to Jon.

  “The Centurion pulled me out of the reactor core?” Jon asked.

  She gave him a careful scrutiny before saying, “You traveled most of the way back on your own.”