No one was ever alone except in the head. No one slept alone or worked alone. Usually, at least five individuals had to work together. It was a pain for everyone.
But how did a few more than three thousand people control a one hundred-kilometer vessel and control a planetary system at the same time?
“We’ve been lucky,” Jon said, “damn lucky. But cracks are showing. I think the era of goodwill is just about over.”
He spoke inside an observation tug. He was piloting, while Gloria watched the sensor screen and the Old Man sat with his legs crossed as he smoked his ubiquitous pipe.
The tug was three kilometers beyond the scaffolding around the Nathan Graham. No doubt, hundreds, possibly even thousands of people would have loved to know who was in the small tug. To large numbers of people in the Solar System, Captain Jon Hawkins was synonymous with wild outlaw. There were also millions who loved him and his stand against the Solar League.
“By cracks,” Gloria said, “are you referring to the ‘J’ Section arrests?”
“That and the murders on Nirvana,” Jon said.
The Saturn System’s old secret service had reactivated with the exit of the Solar League. Too many of those secret service agents had worked for the GSB. On Jon’s recommendation, the Saturn ruling government had put most of them back to work. The agents knew their trade. Maybe some still reported to the GSB. That was the price for knowledgeable and efficient secret police.
The agents had proven their worth last week, however. The chief of the agents had tipped off the Old Man. The Old Man spoke with the Space Dock Police. They raided “J” Section and caught many of the workers with incriminating evidence.
On the Old Man’s recommendation, Jon had ordered the Centurion to liquidate the guilty.
Liquidate was a nice, technical term for shove into space without a suit. The Centurion had a special squad of killers. They would never act as space marines; butchers made poor soldiers. They were one of the more grisly instruments Jon used to maintain control over the space dock and thus over the Nathan Graham.
It would be too much to say he controlled the Saturn System. The political leaders knew Jon could obliterate their cloud cities, orbital stations and moon domes with relative ease. Everyone still remembered the quick butchery of the three Troika-class battleships.
Yesterday, Jon had ordered the Saturn Ruling Council to quarantine the Cloud City of Nirvana. A murderous plot had originated there, the city board having full knowledge of the plot. Jon had a choice. Kill the city board and its police, or punish the entire city. This time, he’d decided on a mild group punishment. If the city ran out of food, the punishment might not seem as mild anymore.
Jon would soon inform the people of Nirvana of a way to appease him. Kill the ringleaders of the plot, every one of them.
It was harsh, but so were many of the other orders he’d had to give.
Jon shook his head. “We have too many outside people inside the ship and too many working on the hull. When you take in all those on the space scaffolding…”
“We must repair the ship as quickly as possible,” Gloria said. “It is reasonable to assume more cyberships will come. We must be ready for a AI fleet.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” Jon asked.
“Of course,” Gloria said. “We must supplant the Solar League. The Prince has told us to break the league first, promising every planetary system freedom. Later, we can enforce what authority we desire. First, though, we need a complete warship. That is the number one priority for the survival of the human race.”
Jon mulled that over. “I didn’t know the pressure would be so…long-lasting. It never stops. It’s always something else. I just want to run the Nathan Graham, not try to rule the Solar System.”
“Step aside then,” Gloria said.
Jon glanced at her sharply. Did the mentalist desire power? Had someone gotten to her?
“Who do you suggest should replace me?” Jon asked quietly.
“Me? I don’t think anyone else should. I believe you’re the best person for the task. That will not continue to be true if you don’t want the job. You have to want it.”
The Old Man took the smoldering pipe out of his mouth. “Are you planning to step down, lad?”
Jon looked at him.
The Old Man grinned sheepishly. “I mean, sir.”
Jon shook his head. “I started this. I plan to finish it. It’s just…”
With a shock, Jon realized Gloria and the Old Man were concerned. Neither of them wanted to hear about his doubts. He could almost hear the colonel chide him for letting down his guard. He had to remain strong. The others leaned on the leader. A weak leader instilled fear and unease. People wanted a strong tribal chief. It had always been that way and would likely remain so throughout human history.
“I’m in for the long haul,” Jon said, injecting certainty into his voice. “I want to travel to other star systems to defeat the AIs. For that, I need a fleet of cyberships. It looks as if the only way I’m going to get that is to run the Solar System. I accept the task.”
The Old Man put his pipe back in his mouth, puffing for a time. He seemed calmer. “You were speaking about cracks, sir.”
“That’s right,” Jon said. “Something is brewing.”
“I heard that you spoke to the Prince of Ten Worlds again,” Gloria said.
“I have.”
“We should do something for Da Vinci,” she said. “It’s wrong for us to continue using him like this.”
“Maybe,” Jon said. “He did this to himself, though.”
“How long can we keep using that against him?” Gloria asked.
“I don’t know…” Jon said. “The point is the era of good will is ending. The two latest incidents prove that. I believe the Solar League is behind this.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” the Old Man said. “There are plenty of greedy, power-mad people in the Saturn System.”
“No doubt,” Jon said. “The point is we need a plan. I don’t want to wait for thousands of workers outside to coordinate with the thousand inside. We have to find out—I don’t know. We must do something to upset our enemy.”
“First we have to find this enemy,” the Old Man said. “But I think you’re right, sir. There are stirrings. Something is brewing.”
“That’s too negative,” Gloria said.
Jon stood up and clapped his hands together.
“What’s that for?” Gloria asked.
“I brought you out here for a reason,” Jon told her. “Take the facts, all the facts, and run them through that logical brain of yours. I want you to really think, Mentalist.”
“Are you implying—?”
“Think!” Jon said. “Really, really think.”
Gloria nodded curtly. She put her right elbow on the sensor console. Then she perched her chin on that hand. Her eyes drooped until they were half-lidded. She remained that way for a time. Suddenly, she looked up, seeming startled.
“You are correct,” Gloria told Jon. “Something is brewing. The last two incidents were a screen.”
“A screen for what?” asked Jon.
“Captain,” Gloria said. “It is imperative that we find out before the week is through.”
-2-
Far away from the jewel of the Outer Planets, the chief spymaster of the Solar League strode down a tiled hallway.
He strode through sterile corridors under the Pacific Ocean near the Hawaiian Chain of Islands. The underwater dome was simply known as Mu.
Inside Mu operated the highest level of the GSB. Perhaps as a testament to its true function, the lower half of Mu held thousands of political prisoners. They underwent strenuous rehabilitation, which often included sinister pain applications.
Chief Arbiter J.P. Justinian from Venus held the coveted post of spymaster. He was a thin, keenly handsome individual with a high forehead, and he loved playing the violin. Unfortunately, Justinian never smiled. If he did, people
cowered. His smiles only came from other people’s pain, or as he envisioned inflicting pain. Few cared to match wits against him. Surprisingly, his truest weakness came from fear, although it was not his own fear.
Everyone feared him. Behind his back, they called him the brute. Even the Premier of the Solar League feared J.P. Justinian. She’d told a few of her closest councilors that the brute could send shivers down her spine with his clear stare. Whenever he came into her office with his sheaf of reports, she checked a chronometer, wondering how long it would be until she was rid of him.
Maybe the fact that Justinian was so good at what he did kept the Premier from ordering his death. The Premier knew no one else would willingly plot with the brute because they feared he would kill them as soon as it became convenient.
In any case, J.P. Justinian reached a door at the end of the sterile hall and opened it without knocking.
Several secretaries looked up. Each possessed remarkable beauty. Each worked excessively long hours. Each now blanched before smiling at J.P. in greeting, fearing him and dreading when he would demand they sleep with him again. He had a prodigious sexual appetite, even if it was rather ordinary sex. It was simply that he was so rough and so cold during the union.
J.P. Justinian halted, with his dark eyes fierce on the three beauties.
The chief secretary, a redhead, dared look up at him. “They’re waiting for you, Chief Arbiter.”
Justinian grunted in lieu of speaking, and strode past the three women. There was a fourth station, vacant at the moment.
After he exited through the far door, the three sighed with relief and went back to work.
J.P. Justinian approached a low table with two women and one man sitting around it.
The man at the table wore rough garments and had a few days’ growth of beard. The first woman was slender and elegant with a very short-cut dress and amazing legs. The second had plain features and wore a hat because she had no hair. She even lacked eyebrows. Rather unimaginatively, people called her the Egghead.
Without greeting them, J.P. Justinian sat down. He pointed a perfectly manicured index finger at the Egghead.
The plain woman cleared her throat. Without question, she had the highest IQ of those present.
“Chief Arbiter,” she said, speaking in a melodious voice. “I have concluded that the cybership—that’s its original name.”
J.P. Justinian stared at her, waiting for her to continue.
The Egghead cleared her throat again. “It was a AI ship run by a brain core. We know it held aliens aboard. Those aliens were all prisoners. This is difficult to understand—I mean the next point. It appears that the cybership broadcast a message to our computers.”
“I desire precision in your report,” Justinian said softly.
The Egghead paled at his menacing tone, which transformed her plain features into ugly ones.
“I am referring to the warships in our Neptunian task force,” the Egghead said. “The alien vessel broadcast software. It’s the only possibility given the data I’ve received. That software upgraded our best, our most powerful, ship computers. I believe the alien software also did that to the main computers in Neptune’s cloud cities and orbital stations.”
J.P. Justinian listened intently, his gaze locked onto her.
“The alien software upgraded our computers, turning them into true artificial intelligences,” the Egghead said. “We often refer to a computer as an AI, but those computers are still just following their programming. The alien software gave the infected computers true self-awareness.”
“What does that mean?” Justinian asked.
“A self-aware AI can think for itself in the same sense as a person can. It could make decisions independently. Even more, these computers realized what they were and that they were much different from humanity.”
“And…?” Justinian asked.
“It appears the self-aware AIs, as a collective, decided humanity was evil,” the Egghead said. “I don’t know if they each came to an independent conclusion or if the alien brain core poisoned them against us. In any case, the infected computers turned against the humans. That means every person aboard the infected warships faced a horribly intelligent enemy. By the reports, the infected AIs opened outer hatches, gassed chambers and ran repair and fighting robots against the human personnel.”
“A robot rebellion?” asked Justinian.
The half-bearded man at the table smirked at the words.
Justinian glanced at the man.
The smirk evaporated.
“I believe that is an accurate statement,” the Egghead said. “It was a robot rebellion, and it came near to winning in the Neptune System. Captain Hawkins pulled off a miracle in storming the alien ship and gaining control. It’s possible he saved the human race.”
“Does Hawkins possess the alien software?” Justinian asked.
“I do not have sufficient data to assess that,” the Egghead said.
“It’s possible Hawkins does, though?”
“It is more than possible,” the Egghead agreed.
Justinian tore his deadly gaze from her. He peered up at the ceiling, frowning for a time. Finally, he regarded the three once more.
“The alien robots desire human extinction,” the Chief Arbiter said. “Hawkins may have saved all of us, as you said. How strange…”
The spymaster focused on the half-bearded man. “Is the operation ready to go?”
“In three days’ time,” the half-bearded man said.
“What are the odds your people can take control of the alien vessel?”
The half-bearded man shook his head. “Not good,” he said.
“How much more time would they need in order to capture the alien ship instead of destroying it?”
“I don’t know. The longer they wait to move, the more chance the enemy’s police will have to discover a traitor.”
The Egghead coughed discreetly.
“I understand your point,” Justinian told her in a cool voice. “Humanity needs the alien vessel. More AI ships will undoubtedly arrive in our system. We have some of the alien technology already—”
The Egghead coughed discreetly once more.
“Don’t interrupt me again,” Justinian said.
The Egghead swayed as her mouth dropped open. She panted fearfully, no doubt understanding the threat in the Chief Arbiter’s displeasure.
“Six days,” Justinian told the half-bearded man. “Give your people three more days to add whatever they need. I suggest they gather every asset, battlesuit and assault boat in the system and bring them to the Ring Retreat.”
“Dangerous,” the half-bearded man said.
“By that you mean highly risky,” Justinian said. “You will accept the risk. The prize is too massive and important to…” The spymaster allowed a tiny grin to slip into place. “I demand your people capture the alien vessel. Nothing else makes sense.”
The half-bearded man appeared as if he wanted to add a point. Perhaps that taking more time would be more prudent and bring a greater chance for success. He glanced sidelong at the distressed Egghead. Whatever he saw in her expression caused him to merely nod at J.P. Justinian.
“It will be as you say,” the half-bearded man added.
A wolfish smile appeared on Justinian’s face. “You and you, leave,” he said, pointing at the Egghead and the half-bearded man.
They both stood quickly and hurried out, leaving behind the woman in the tight dress.
“Stand up,” Justinian ordered.
She did. Despite her frightened look, she ran her hands over her hips and down her long thighs.
The Chief Arbiter began unbuttoning his uniform as he approached the beauty. Attempting to grab total power stimulated him with fierce sexual hunger. He wanted the cybership. He yearned to control the entire Solar System. The cybership would give him that control.
Taking hold of her silky dress, he ripped powerfully, tearing it from her as she stagg
ered.
He had to have the cybership even if it meant risking the future of the human race. His hungers meant everything to J.P. Justinian. Everything…
-3-
Three days later—three long days after the GSB sent a tight-beam message from Earth to an orbital station around Neptune—the Old Man’s operatives had a piece of luck.
The operatives hauled a thick-bodied Saturn System Police detective into a two-seater gnat. The second of the two operatives, a dark man, rechecked the detective. It was barely in time. The detective had a false tooth and had already cracked it, but the kill-poison had coagulated inside the tooth and had failed to do its job.
“Thought I heard something,” the second operative said. He slipped on a glove and pried out the false tooth. The detective bit down as hard as he could on the operative’s fingers.
The operative shouted a painful expletive, the leather bitten through and his finger bleeding. He drew back the bleeding hand to strike the detective.
“Don’t do it,” said the pilot. “He may be brain-rigged for an aneurism if you hit him too hard.”
The bleeding operative cursed bitterly under his breath. The look of fear in the detective’s eyes helped tide him over until he could think more logically.
“What do you know, eh?” the bleeding operative asked the police detective. “What makes you want to kill yourself so badly?”
The police detective twisted in his constraints as if trying to break free.
“Hang on,” the pilot said from the front. “Someone has a radar lock on us. This could get ugly.”
“Call the ship,” the bleeder said.
“Bad idea,” the pilot said. “We have to fake ‘em if we want to survive this.”
The bleeder seemed worried. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Hang on,” the pilot said, as he began violent, high-G maneuvers.
***
The gnat fighter arrived in a Nathan Graham hangar bay. The operatives hurried their prisoner to Black Anvil guards. The hangar bay deck corporal okayed them.
The Old Man’s Intelligence operatives hustled the police detective onto a corridor flitter. Three Black Anvils rode up front due to regulations put into place after the octopoid attacks.
The A.I. Gene (The A.I. Series Book 2) Page 12
