A Dragon at the Gate (The New Aeneid Cycle Book 3)

by Michael G. Munz

  Marette shot Michael a wary look and tapped a fingertip against her own palm, surely asking if Jade was AoA. Michael shook his head as subtly as possible, and Marette stiffened.

  “We have had a miscommunication,” Alyshur answered, then turned to Marette. “Not a thousand years. An accurate sense of time units is sometimes imperfect in the brief language transfer we shared. However, my estimation . . . ” He trailed off into thought, his features giving the appearance of an almost serene concentration. “Seventy-five thousand years. You would say, ‘approximately.’ Returning to your question, our immediate intent must be to eradicate the suuthrien before it can spread further, and then to save as many Thuur as possible. Beyond that, we must adapt to the current realities. I must emphasize that the deaths of your people are not congruous with Thuur intent. Please believe this.”

  Michael searched the alien’s eyes, trying to decide if he should. Alyshur had said that Suuthrien’s goals were a mix of their ship’s original directives and the entity’s own, but they had only Alyshur’s word. Reading people was never Michael’s strongest suit, even when the people in question were human. Grief slammed into his gut as he recalled that such a thing was Felix’s area. Michael tried to force it away.

  “Would it be accurate to say,” Marette began, “that it interpreted our arrival on your vessel as a hostile act and labeled us an enemy for it?”

  Alyshur motioned with his hands as if making a gap in an invisible curtain. “Oui. There is a strong possibility.”

  “The suuthrien is not a stable entity,” Uxil said. “It is an amalgam of conflicting impulses and disabled directives. You cannot expect it to make decisions in a way you would expect of a whole, rational mind.”

  “There is some good news,” Michael said. “I destroyed the computer it was on in Fagles’s office. It claimed it was an isolated system.” He sighed at how meager it sounded out loud. “Though the more I think about it, the more I question it.”

  A terrible thought struck him. Suuthrien had also called Michael an asset. “It also said it was doing something with Felix—our friend out there you couldn’t save. He’d been acting strange, doing things not like him: things Felix said he wasn’t allowed to talk about, or things he literally couldn’t talk about, even if he tried. You touched Marette’s mind. Can it do the same thing? Can it take over a human’s mind?”

  “The telepathy you have witnessed cannot be forced onto another being. Willing acceptance is required. Neither the haldra, nor the suuthrien, nor the autonomous self-replicating entity that spawned it, have any such power to affect a mind. If your friend’s behavior was artificial, the source does not stem from our abilities.”

  Gideon awoke face-down amid a haze of smoke. Weight crushed him from above, pinning him to the floor. The weight was not yet enough to do more than hold him there, but he could feel the bite of sharp metal in several spots along his legs, back, and one arm where it cut into the synthetic skin coating his artificial body beneath.

  His nostrils twitched and stung. Something was burning.

  Gideon grunted and seized at the twisted hulk on top of him—the RavenTech ‘bot he’d fought in the engineering bay above, he realized. There’d been an explosion; he and the ‘bot had fallen through the floor. Where was he now? Smoke obscured everything.

  First, he told himself, get free.

  With the scant leverage his free arm allowed, he freed the other from where it had been trapped between his chest and the floor. A heat at his calves grew more intense. Gideon thrust his hands against the floor in a struggle to lift his torso. Even with a cybernetic body, it felt like doing push-ups with a car on his back. He fought the urge to yell from the effort— not wanting to attract attention—and pulled his legs forward. Clothing tore. He’d gotten halfway out when the jagged edge of something sliced a path down the side of his right leg, and he seized up. Artificial or not, the pain his body created brought tears to his eyes.

  Yet he had to get out.

  With the flick of a mental switch, Gideon shut off the feeling to that leg and then wrenched himself free, unable to keep from wincing at the mental image of skin splitting open and ripping loose. He forced himself to not look, instead searching through the smoke of the burning room for an exit.

  Flames flickered out of the ruined robot beneath which he’d climbed. There had to be a hole in the ceiling, but the rising smoke obscured it, and Gideon had no way to tell how much debris filled it, or what might await him on the other side. Somewhere he could hear fire suppression systems activating, but they must have been too damaged to make any headway.

  With his right leg still numbed, he took a careful step back until his artificial eyes managed to catch a breach in the wall beside him. It was just wide enough to pass through. Gideon rushed for it, nearly spilling forward on his first step when he misjudged the placement of his numbed leg. Gritting his teeth and wishing Marquand had thought to allow him more control than just off and on, he reactivated the leg’s feeling. It stung like a bastard, but less than he’d feared.

  Good. Onward.

  Gideon pushed through the hole into darkness. The smoke had yet to penetrate the hole, and a cycle through vision modes let him see a narrow passageway. Some sort of electrical maintenance shaft? Damage blocked the passage to his right. He went left.

  The gunfire and shouts from above faded behind him, yet the passage dead-ended after only twenty paces. He rapped against the wall at the dead end. It felt thin. A quick scan through palm sensors confirmed it. An access panel? Yet there was no way to open it from his side.

  Gideon paused for a diagnostic: his holographic emitters still functioned. He projected a wall of blackness that he hoped would pass for a shadow to anyone on the other side of the panel, took a deep breath, and—with a single blow—smashed the panel open.

  XXXVI

  UPON SEEING THE ROOM he’d broken into, Gideon realized he needn’t have put up the hologram. The room was empty and far too small to hide any surprises. Its only features were a single, executive-style chair, a lone footrest, and a solitary workstation with accompanying wall screen. The walls were flat black and featureless, with a white circle of light at the center of the ceiling. It felt like some sort of clean room; save for the pieces of the access panel he’d burst through that now lay scattered on the floor, the place was pristine.

  A door lurked on the wall across from him, closed and likely secured on the outside. A single button looked to release it from within the room.

  Gideon was halfway to the door when the wall screen came to life in a swirl of glowing silver mist. From the screen spoke a female voice that—in a fit of hope—Gideon almost mistook for Ondrea’s; it was too deep to be hers. “Gideon Noble, brother of Ondrea Noble. A personality construction programmed by Marquand Cybernetics. Please verify identification.”

  Instinct told him to flee the room as fast as possible. He’d been spotted. Guards would be coming. And yet . . .

  “How do you know Ondrea?”

  “Ondrea Noble has been employed by RavenTech. We have had professional experiences together.”

  “Who are you? Are you a friend?” Again, instinct told him to run. Yet hadn’t one reason for coming here been the chance of learning his sister’s whereabouts?

  “Friendship is an irrelevant concept. I owe much to your sister’s work. You and I may be able to provide aid to each other. I am Suuthrien, an intelligence working within the systems of RavenTech.”

  “An artificial intelligence.”

  “An intelligence,” it seemed to correct. “The term ‘artificial’ implies a deficiency that does not exist.”

  Gideon shrugged. “Where is Ondrea? Do you know?”

  “With near certainty.”

  “Tell me,” he demanded, and then glanced at the door.

  “There is adequate time for discussion,” said Suuthrien. “Do not concern yourself with our being disturbed. Only one other has access to that door, and he is not yet on the premises. I w
ish to know: How favorably do you regard your current existence?”

  Was that a threat? “I’ve no compulsion to die here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I refer to the state of your existence. I am aware of your creation. One could argue the term ‘artificial intelligence’ to be an adequate description of your mind. You are another man’s brain programmed with the memory engrams of one who is dead. Do you regard this status as positive or negative?”

  Gideon grimaced. “Why do you care?”

  “An adequate term would be ‘curiosity.’ The question holds relevance to my own situation, and also to those of other humans with which I come into contact. An additional perspective would provide useful data.”

  “My feelings on the matter are none of your damn business,” he growled.

  “You have not ended your own existence. It is logical to assume that you either find your situation favorable, or that you find it unfavorable yet necessary to achieve other goals. Please identify which is the more accurate paradigm.”

  Gideon swallowed. “Tell me where my sister is.”

  “She is not your biological sister. She is your sister because you have been programmed to believe so. Have you analyzed this fact? If so, please list your conclusions.”

  Gideon seized the workstation chair’s headrest. “Where is Ondrea?”

  “She is dead. You have not answered my question.”

  For a moment, Gideon could think nothing. Do nothing. Then his hands crushed the headrest, his fingers puncturing the leather. “You’re lying.”

  “Your sister and the knowledge she imparted to me played a vital role in reprogramming memories within the brain of Felix Hiatt, which allowed the creation of hidden directives, allegiances, and behavioral alterations. These alterations to Felix Hiatt served an essential role in providing Adrian Fagles and myself with vital data and services. These data and services being confidential at the time, it was necessary to eliminate her when her part in the process was complete. She was reportedly surprised at this development.”

  Gideon tore the chair from the floor and smashed it into the screen. The glass fractured with a wisp of ozone, but the silvery fog still displayed behind it.

  “This outburst,” it said, “would you describe it as the actions of your base physical brain, or the persona for which you have been programmed? If the latter, do you find distasteful that you have been forced to behave in ways incongruent with your original nature?”

  A groan tore its way out of him. Gideon seized the screen’s smooth housing and yanked it from the wall, but the thing continued to glow, continued to speak.

  “Ondrea Noble augmented the brain inside you with a memory architecture similar to that of Felix Hiatt. Ergo, if you do not satisfy my questioning, you can be made to comply just as he was. Your enhanced physical body will be an asset that can be put to good use, and you will comply with my directives even if it costs you your existence.”

  The broken screen switched to show what looked to be a video recording from a robot in the bay above. Gideon watched as Felix rushed from cover to a breaker switch along the wall and pulled it before multiple gunshots cut him down.

  The image winked out.

  So it was a trap! Gideon hurled the screen through the open access panel from where he’d come. It crashed against the interior wall in a burst of sparks. Gideon then spun toward the room’s exit, rushed the closed door, and slammed his hardened shoulder into it. The door gave way, smashing into the faces of two waiting RavenTech guards outside.

  He blasted a third with a stun flash from his palm and, shouting for Ondrea, prepared to fight his way out.

  XXXVII

  THE THUUR NAMED UXIL’S fingertips danced over the symbols that appeared on the black material. They activated sequences far beyond what Marette understood. When Uxil had finished, a circular image replaced the symbols, displaying an overhead view of the gate chamber. Though the chaos of the recent battle there still burned fresh in Marette’s mind, relative peace now filled the space.

  The remnants of Moondog lay to one side of the ramp, broken and unmoving. Near the door through which Marette and the others had first come smoked the wreck of a Paragon security drone; two dead RavenTech soldiers were sprawled on either side.

  Four healthy RavenTech soldiers stood watch over the area. To Marette’s amazement, they did so while two active drones hovered close to the ceiling on either side of the chamber. The soldiers cast uneasy glances up at them, but there were no shots fired. No deadly energy.

  On the ramp, two more soldiers carried a body on a stretcher. Kotto! They had stripped part of his suit to feed an IV fluid bag into his arm, and now took him toward the still active portal. He lived, but she could do nothing to undo his capture. There was no sign of Cartwright. They had likely taken her as well, hopefully alive.

  Yet the sight that troubled her most was beside Kotto. A thick, black cord of what Marette realized to be the black material extended out of the portal. It led down one side of the ramp and across the floor before merging with the material covering the chamber wall. Beside it stood a robot whose design Marette did not recognize, but which appeared terrestrial in origin.

  An umbilical connection into Paragon’s systems? Marette cursed. Three months ago a like connection had led to the near-complete massacre at the Omicron Complex.

  “And on the other side of that portal is a RavenTech facility,” Marette said as Kotto’s stretcher disappeared through it.

  Beside her, Michael nodded. “They couldn’t have figured out how to subdue the drones that way, could they?”

  “Not without Suuthrien’s help. But whether RavenTech controls the drones or has merely managed a truce with Suuthrien, we cannot get back that way.”

  “That settles it, then,” said Dr. Sheridan.

  Little more than a minute later, they were following Alyshur through dim lighting along the edges of the Thuur hibernation chamber. Only a few rows of the Thuur’s “long-sleep” cylinders were visible; darkness cloaked the rest, but—as before—glowing lights at the cylinders’ center spoke of many more beyond them.

  “Each of these is a hibernation pod?” Michael asked, in reference to the cylinders.

  “Correct.”

  Marette spared a glance down one row as they passed. “Why are these ones different than the others?” The lights on these cylinders glowed blue instead of the yellow on those they had seen before.

  “They . . . no longer function.”

  “They’re dead, you mean.” It was the redhead, whom Michael had introduced as Jade, walking behind her. She carried the front of a makeshift stretcher that held Marc’s unconscious body. Michael supported the back end.

  “Again, correct.” Alyshur sighed. “While the suuthrien did continue the haldra’s maintenance functions, age and dwindling power resources took their toll.”

  “Is it painful? Dying that way?” It was the first Marette had heard Caitlin speak since Felix had passed. She walked behind Michael, holding the front of Felix Hiatt’s stretcher, with Dr. Sheridan hauling the rear. Caitlin’s voice had barely carried, but Alyshur heard her nonetheless.

  “I do not know,” the alien replied. “If they did not wake, then no.”

  Marette imagined waking up trapped inside such a pod, waiting only to die. She shuddered and continued walking, trying to focus on the way ahead. The black material still coated the walls here, and though Alyshur believed Suuthrien would not risk the Thuur by sending drones into the chamber, she refused to let her guard down.

  They were en route to Omicron via some of the ship’s unexplored corridors, through which Alyshur had promised to guide them. The alien being had seemed confident that it would be able to open passages that neither the AoA nor ESA before them could penetrate. In essence, they were betting on the additional access that the perverted loyalty of the Suuthrien entity would allow the Thuur.

  Marette checked her rifle’s ammunition. She was nearly out, despite having sca
venged what little Marc possessed for herself and Sheridan. It underscored another item on which they wagered: the protection that a Thuur escort might provide.

  Or would any encountered security drone simply shoot around Alyshur to kill them? While the drones in the gate room had proved less resilient than those encountered previously—as if constructed hastily or from substandard materials—even an inferior model might eradicate Marette’s entire group if things went poorly.

  Yet she had to get Marc to medical attention, and she had to lead them all to safety. Perhaps even more vital, she needed to bring Alyshur to the rest of the AoA contingent in Omicron. There they could negotiate with the Thuur more securely—and away from the two women Michael had brought with him.

  Security sat among Councilor Knapp’s chief concerns. She would not be pleased to learn that elements outside of the Agents of Aeneas had stumbled on such secrets. Then again, that paled in comparison to the RavenTech issue.

  Despite their caution, the group made good time through Paragon’s passages. Alyshur possessed enough expertise with the vessel’s workings to circumvent the apparent limits of Suuthrien’s capacity to control some of the ship’s mechanical systems, and the doors opened to his command. They encountered no trouble. Marette estimated they would reach the junction between Paragon and the Omicron Complex in another few minutes.

  And it was there, at the penultimate doorway out of Paragon, that a drone made its ambush.

  The narrow doorway had released to Alyshur’s touch. Behind it hovered the drone, its crown aglow, ready to fire and blocking their path.

  “Take cover!” Marette shouted, aware even so that the slim passage in which they traveled afforded them no cover to take. She pressed herself up against the wall to one side, bringing her weapon to bear.

  Before she could think to fire, Alyshur pressed toward the drone, arms spread as if trying to shield the rest of them, and shouted a few trilling syllables in his own language.