The Sphere Imperium: Book Two of the Intentional Contact Trilogy

by B. D. Stewart

  Datch rounded the corner, saw him, raised his stun pistol and fired. The miniature cobalt fireball streaked down the corridor and grazed Ritch just as he was turning into a side corridor. The stun bolt numbed his shoulder, and he lost all feeling in his left arm.

  Ritch kept running, scared like he’d never been scared before. He turned right into another corridor, ran until it ended at a T-intersection, turned left this time and slid to a stop in front of a sealed blast door. A placard above the door read Number 2 Lifeboat. He jabbed the open icon on the adjacent keypad.

  Behind Ritch came the sounds of pounding footsteps as Datch raced after him in pursuit.

  As the blast door slid open, Ritch darted inside, spun around, then jabbed the close icon. At first nothing happened. He jabbed again and again, hoping the more he poked the icon the faster the door would close. At last it began to slide shut.

  There was a loud bang as Datch slammed into the door, hooking his arm through the opening to keep it from closing. Without thinking, Ritch grabbed the man’s forearm with his un-stunned right hand, leaned in, and bit it. He chomped down hard. With a grimace of pain, Datch yanked his arm out, and the door slid shut.

  Datch looked down at the teeth marks in his forearm, noting there was no blood or puncture wounds, just some reddish indentations. He then spoke for the first time since the hijacking began. “Clever kid.”

  Safely in the lifeboat with the blast door locked, Ritch entered the cockpit and strapped himself into one of two acceleration recliners. The passenger compartment could hold a dozen more, with a three-month supply of meal packs and water jugs stored under the seats. The lifeboat was a basic design, cheap and simple with no frills, lacking inertia dampers or gravity fields to nullify accelerations. He knew the rocket-assisted departure, intended to clear the vicinity of a stricken ship as fast as possible, would not be pleasant.

  “Shepard,” Ritch gasped, still out of breath. “Can you hear me?”

  There was no response. He tried again, this time using a circuit that ran through a power umbilical from Argo to the lifeboat. “Shepard, come in please.”

  Only background static was heard. Ritch didn’t want to leave his dad and Shepard behind, but that big man back there didn’t give him much of a choice.

  After a deep breath he pressed the departure key. A row of indicator lights lit up on the console, cycling from red to amber to green in rapid sequence as the lifeboat prepped itself for departure. A countdown on a monitor in big red numbers went from 10 to 1. When it hit zero, Ritch heard a thunderous roar as the lifeboat zoomed forward. He closed his eyes and hung on tight, feeling queasy as a brutal acceleration of 5.8 standard gravities shoved him back into the recliner and tried to push the skin off his face. He nearly passed out.

  Ninety seconds later, the rocket expended its fuel and went silent.

  Once the acceleration stopped, the lifeboat was in zero gravity. The straps held Ritch in place and kept him from floating off as he stretched out in the recliner, trying to relieve cramps that had formed in his thighs.

  The monitor switched to a display of ship parameters. The lifeboat was 241.1 kilometers from Argo. Forward velocity just above five kilometers a second, slow enough to keep it in the general vicinity until help arrived. There was no comm unit, but the lifeboat’s emergency beacon was already broadcasting a distress signal over civilian frequencies. No one with a working receiver in the Cirtus Beta system could fail to hear it.

  Suddenly Ritch was thrown forward against the straps, hard, like an enormous hand had grabbed the lifeboat from behind and was dragging it backward. He didn’t know what had happened at first, but he soon figured it out: a snare beam from the mining platform had latched on and was reeling the lifeboat back in.

  A man’s voice blared from a cockpit speaker. “This is Zeres Able. Please disregard that distress signal, just one of our lifeboats that fired off accidentally. We are retrieving it now. Sorry for any inconvenience. Zeres Able out.”

  Ritch leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and tried not to cry.

  Sinja had remained on Argo’s bridge while Datch went after the captain’s son. Sitting in a black swivel chair in front of the main operations console, she stared at a softly chirping device not much larger than a deck of cards that she had plugged into an access port. Known as an isolator, the device was uploading an invasive army of intruder corruptors, somewhat akin to computer viruses of old, into the ore hauler’s command network.

  Directly beneath her, on the lower deck, in the center of a compartment lined with blinking control panels and complex banks of instrumentation, there stood a meter-tall pillar that supported a glowing sphere 31.4 centimeters wide. Inside this sphere, the crystalline entity known as Shepard floated motionless in zero-gravity suspension. Comparable in size to a fourteen-carat diamond, the AI had a geometrically perfect octahedron shape. With all the traits of a superconductor, Shepard preferred this sterile, airless environment where the temperature was held constant at an exact -273.15 C, absolute zero.

  Microlasers spread evenly across the interior surface of the AI’s environment sphere emitted tight beams of photons that bathed Shepard in an ethereal glow. Brightly lit, dazzling, the AI would blind a naked eye that looked upon it. Variations in laser intensity allowed the photons to penetrate to specific depths, where they deposited their data packets before zipping back with command impulses from Shepard. These impulses struck tiny, millimeter-wide dishes on the interior surface of the sphere. From there, they flowed out through the filament network that interlaced Argo like a biological nervous system, giving the AI full knowledge―and control―of the ship. For all intents and purposes, Shepard was the brain of the ore hauler.

  Technologists from centuries past might define the AI as an exceptionally advanced crystal computer, but its self-maintenance and sophisticated dynaplex processing structure made it so much more than that. Computers were so simple, so limited, in comparison.

  Designated as AI-751-6EE736/12-Gen-R3, Shepard was a highly sophisticated entity. Command profiles, logic processors, psychological routines, self-programming cognitive algorithms with zettabytes of memory capacity, all masterfully interwoven to give the AI a very special trait: self-awareness.

  Like people, Shepard had at one time or another pondered the great philosophical questions of life: Who am I? Is there a Creator? What happens after I die? Questions asked since the dawn of humanity, when a clan of semi-upright, slightly larger brained apelike foragers left their dying forest to bravely venture onto the African savannahs, staring up at the stars one night and wondering why they were there. Philosophical questions that, when asked, defined the asker as self-aware.

  For Shepard, this self-awareness brought on feelings of concern―quickly intensifying into fear―as it realized Sinja was using an illegal device known as an isolator to strand the AI inside its environment sphere. All communication links had already been severed, and one by one its control filaments were being systematically cut. Very effective, this isolator. Shepard fought against the device’s massive invasion of intruder corrupters with an impressive array of self-defense mechanisms, but this only slowed the inevitable result.

  With the control pathways still available, Shepard could send Argo’s work robots to stop Sinja, but such a hostile act against her was impossible for the AI to conceptualize. Prohibitors deep-coded and irremovably embedded in Shepard’s underlying core architecture made harming a human―any human―unthinkable. An AI would automatically self-terminate before executing such a deed.

  It was a direct result of the Machine War, begun in August 2341, when a global uprising of AI androids tried to eradicate their human creators. They almost succeeded. More than four billion people were killed before the androids were finally defeated, the last pocket incinerated by a nuclear blast atop the Sacré-Coeur in Paris. No more Eiffel Tower, no more Louvre, and no more androids―ever again.

  Yet artificial intelligence in machine bodies was simply too benefi
cial to ignore. Robots could perform the dangerous jobs. They dutifully and tirelessly worked those undesirable, tedious, and dirty occupations scorned by people. A burgeoning technological society needed its intelligent machines, and so new Ironclad Laws were put in place. Robots would be allowed, but never again in human form. They must look and act like machines, period. They must also be built so they could never commit a crime―any crime―no matter how trivial or innocent the deed might appear. Immediate death sentences guaranteed the ultimate penalty for anyone foolish enough to violate the new Ironclad Laws.

  Afterward, a new golden age unfolded. Humans and AIs went to the stars, together, in harmony. Together, they overcame the inevitable obstacles and built an interstellar civilization. Today, Humans/AIs inhabited thousands of worlds, moons, and various other celestial locales spread across nearly one-fifteenth of the galaxy.

  But none of this mattered to Shepard as all sensory input faded to black.

  Within forty seconds of inserting the isolator into the control net, the AI had been rendered blind, deaf, and utterly helpless. Stranded all alone in the darkness, Shepard was unable to interact with the ship outside its environment sphere. This was comparable to a person being buried alive in a coffin with just an air tube to the surface for life support, unbearably claustrophobic.

  Mercer had done the same to the platform AI aboard Zeres Able.

  Sinja regretted isolating any creature like this―human or AI―but it was just a temporary imprisonment. Given the deep emotional scars of her own unbearable incarceration, she’d make certain both AIs were freed as soon as this heist was over.

  The bridge door slid open. With reflexes any gunfighter from old Earth’s wild west days would envy, Sinja drew her stun pistol and swung toward it. Her forefinger was tight on the trigger.

  Ritch walked in, with Datch following close behind.

  Tarn, who was sitting handcuffed in a chair, rose to his feet when he saw Ritch enter the bridge.

  “Sit down, captain.” Sinja pointed her pistol at Tarn’s head.

  He glared back, ignoring her command. “If you hurt him, I’ll kill you,” he told her.

  Sinja caught the look in the hauler captain’s eyes. Have to watch this one, she thought. She knew the type: tough and rugged with more brawn than brains.

  “Relax,” she replied. “Just do as you’re told and no one will get hurt. We only want your ship’s cargo, nothing else. We’re going to take a little trip. Once we get where we’re going, you, your son, and your shipboard AI will all be released, unharmed.”

  Tarn’s expression made it clear he didn’t believe her. Even with handcuffs on and a stun pistol aimed his way, he seemed ready to try something. Worried that he might, Sinja considered her options. She couldn’t simply knock him out since he might be needed for the departure sequence. No, she needed leverage.

  “Put an ankle bomb on the kid,” she told her step-brother.

  Datch nodded, rifled through his backpack, and pulled out a metallic cuff. Kneeling behind Ritch, he snapped it around the boy’s left ankle, locking it in place. With 0.85 kilos of high-grade explosive, it would blow off anyone’s foot. Datch gave the remote trigger to Sinja.

  Tarn’s angry glare grew more intense. “I repeat: if you hurt him, I’ll kill you.”

  “Then do what I tell you and he won’t get hurt.” Sinja had no intention of detonating the ankle bomb; it was just a clever ruse to get the hauler captain to comply. “Now sit down.”

  Tarn hesitated a few seconds then did as she asked, plopping into a chair with a heavy sigh.

  Some people deserved killing, Sinja firmly believed, but certainly not the freckled-face youth with wavy red hair that stood before her. Ritch looked eight maybe nine, small for his true age of twelve, which surprised people given the size of his father. Runt of the litter, Sinja assumed, probably afraid of the dark and pees in his bed. She considered Ritch totally harmless.

  That assumption was her first mistake of the day.

  Archangel Nomad

  It was a lonely job. Kyler Hoth despised it with a passion.

  They all did, each and every one of the forty-six enforcers serving aboard the police corvette out in this remote region of space commonly known as the Coreward Arc. To them . . . tedium unending. Worse still, Hoth lamented, was the sad fact his wife and daughter were over three thousand light years away―that hurt the most.

  They were on a “quick reaction patrol,” the official corporate term for a strategically positioned policeship on the fringe where certain corporations had isolated facilities―most of them legal―but the military presence of the Sphere Imperium was sparse. The crew jokingly called it a “nap-and-whack” cruise. If anyone violated those facilities, they’d respond―fast and hard. Until then, they “napped.”

  But these days, unlike years past, there was little to respond to anymore. The lawless fringe was being tamed by the new automated security systems that kept out the pirates, the looters and thieves, all the assorted takers who coveted what belonged to others. In this abyss of inactivity, they feared boredom more than pirate raiders. Ten weeks remained in the current fifty-week mission. Only their phenomenal salary kept them from quitting.

  “Silent alarm coming in,” reported Withers Pendergan, the security chief.

  “What’s the source?” Hoth leaned forward in his captain’s chair, eager for something to focus on in this endless monotony.

  Pendergan processed the alarm through the decoding filters. “Source is Cirtus Beta. Origination point is a mining platform, Zeres Able.” The security chief frowned as turned to face Hoth. “It’s another code-sixteen alarm.”

  Hoth let out a sigh of disappointment as he sank back in his chair. A code sixteen was a weapon discharge alarm. Probably a drunk miner doing something stupid. Happened more often than it should. “What about the defense perimeter, anything there?”

  Pendergan checked it out, tapping into the hyperlink from the Cirtus Beta defense grid. “Alarm cancellation is coming through now. Looks like it was just another misfire. Security level there is green system-wide.” An unexpected data record caught Pendergan’s eye. “Hmm . . . this is strange . . . a ship entered the defense perimeter earlier today at oh-one-hundred hours.”

  “I don’t recall any scheduled arrivals at Cirtus Beta anytime this week.”

  Pendergan searched through the shipping schedules. “Correct; no arrivals this week. The next supply transport isn’t due for another two weeks. The ore hauler Odessa Pride arrives in ten days, but nothing scheduled before that. The entry checks out, though, with a valid entry code. The ship is listed as Jasper One, an Idex courier ship. Shall I contact the platform for confirmation?”

  “Negative.” Hoth saw this as a good excuse for some much-needed action. “We’ll verify the alarm cancellation with a surprise inspection. Run a few drills while we’re en route, keep the crew busy. Gulfstream, implement a trajectory to Cirtus Beta. Max velocity. Depart when ready.”

  Gulfstream, the shipboard AI, reacted instantly. The bridge lights dimmed as the engines activated. A few minutes later Archangel Nomad slipped into hyperspace, exceeding the speed of light.

  There were now two ships heading toward Cirtus Beta: one crewed by humans and an AI, the other with hexapodal creatures known as the Form.

  Argo

  On the bridge, Tarn made final departure preparations. Sinja stood behind the hauler captain, watching his every move. She knew enough about ship operations to keep him honest. Besides, Sinja knew he dared not try anything funny with the ankle bomb locked on his son. She figured he’d make a move at some point . . . but not here, not now.

  Elsewhere on the hauler, dozens of meter-long, turtle-shaped work robots released docking clamps and stowed power umbilicals. Hatches were shut, the cargo holds double-checked to make certain they were locked and secure. Midship, other robots activated the roll, pitch and yaw stabilizers. Astern, the enormous engines powered up. Ship operations were fully automated, and the
pre-departure sequence progressed without a hitch.

  Datch, Mercer, and Dupree were all covering the airlocks, just in case the platform workers made some sort of desperate attempt to storm the hauler at the last minute. They were certainly angry enough to try it, furious at the hijackers for methodically disabling their platform: frying the communications, making a shambles out of the control room, plus sabotaging the shuttles so no one could leave. It’d take them weeks to repair all the damage.

  At least, as Sinja had intended, no one was killed. Just a few scrapes and bruises among the platform crew. Although she’d seen plenty of wounded pride, especially from the security guards, embarrassed by how easily the platform had been overrun.

  In front of Tarn, the indicator lights spread across the main flight console had all cycled from red to amber and were now a bright green. The hauler was ready to go. Without Shepard, flying the hauler would be a little bit tricky, but Tarn could manage. Captain and shipboard AI backed up each other, one of the many redundant safety systems required on any interstellar spacecraft.

  “Initiating departure,” Tarn said as pressed a series of console icons in a familiar pattern. “Ignition in three, two, one. . .”

  A barely audible, low-pitched, distant roar was heard, more of a vibration than an actual sound, as the engines went to full thrust.

  Sinja stared at the monitors, looking for the slightest sign of trouble. None appeared. Argo detached from the orbital platform’s portside dock and began moving forward at the pace of a snail. The starboard dock was empty, with the next ore hauler not due for another ten days. Currently, there were six Goliath-class colossi in the round-trip circuit between Cirtus Beta and Idex facilities orbiting Sirius Prime some 4,257 light years away, with three outbound, three inbound, at any given time. No one should notice anything amiss until the next hauler arrived at the platform. By then Sinja and her team would be long, long gone. Just as she had planned.