The Solar Intelligence Agency thrived behind several layers of impenetrable security in a huge complex of interconnected, multistory buildings located on the outskirts of New Annapolis. The ultramodern buildings reflected a unique architecture of high arched ceilings and glass panels, looking for all intents and purposes, like any major corporate office rather than the most highly secretive and secure facility on the planet. However, to Gallant’s discerning eye the ventilation shafts and power transformers on the periphery of the compound hinted that what was visible, was merely the tip of the iceberg—the most sensitive offices and analytical laboratories were buried deep underground.
Looking left and right from the main building’s entrance, Gallant could see several nearby government facilities including the Space Academy and Fleet Command Headquarters.
As he entered SIA, a security guard scanned his comm pin and told him to pass. Another guard led Gallant to a conference room on the first floor. He had no sooner settled into a chair, when he heard a familiar female voice say, “Hello, Henry.”
He glanced over his shoulder and recognized, Lieutenant Commander Julie Anne McCall, an SIA agent he had met at a debriefing some years earlier. Her eye-catching figure, striking blonde hair, and seductive smile were all part of the professional repertoire she occasionally employed to garner information from mesmerized individuals.
“Good afternoon, commander,” Gallant said smiling, pleased to see a familiar face.
She returned his smile with a broader more intimate version of her own. She asked, “Would you like some coffee? You take cream and sugar, as I remember.”
She swiped her comm pin over the table’s automatic service dispenser and collected two cups of piping hot brew.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a sip.
He found the quiet of the huge room bothersome: “Will there be others joining us?”
“No,” she said as she strutted to a computer console.
“Is this about my last mission?” prodded Gallant.
“No.”
Her monosyllabic responses puzzled him. She stood before the computer console and activated the large screen. When she entered her protocols, the screen displayed information marked Top Secret: ENIGMA.”
She said, “Today, I’m going to be briefing you.” She gave him a broad, enticing smile and added, “How do you like that?”
Gallant wasn’t sure how to respond, so he remained silent.
“There’s some essential information about the Titan’s ability to communicate that Admiral Collingsworth wanted you to have before your mission.”
“Mission?” Gallant asked in surprise, pushing his coffee cup away. “I haven’t received an assignment yet. I’m in the middle of preparing my ship for a shakedown cruise this week.”
“Don’t worry; you’ll get your orders after the shakedown cruise. For now, I’m going to enlighten you on the progress SIA has made in understanding Titan communications. You should be particularly interested because our success is directly attributable to the AI device you captured.”
Gallant raised his eyebrows. He had assumed that nothing had come of the device he had taken from a Titan destroyer several years earlier.
“It took a couple of years of trial and error, but nine months ago, our agents were able to use a neural interface to connect to the Titan AI CPU device. Since then we’ve begun to understand their complex and involved communication methodology.”
McCall examined Gallant’s facial expression as she spoke, as if dissecting his reaction.
The enormity of the breakthrough wasn’t lost on Gallant. After years of war, the United Planets had never been able to translate any message to or from the Titans.
“We've tried to capture another device,” McCall said, “but the Titans continue to self-destruct their damaged ships. But, we had a stroke of luck about six months ago.” Again she paused and studied Gallant. “During a skirmish between several ships, we succeeded in capturing two aliens alive.”
Gallant couldn’t have been more shocked. Since the start of the war, Titan soldiers had routinely committed suicide rather than submit to capture.
“How was that possible?”
“Like I said, we had a stroke of luck. The Titans were stunned unconscious by an internal ship explosion and we scooped them up before they knew what had happened. Since then, thanks to the captured AI device, we’ve been able to interrogate them using a neural interface.”
Seeing Gallant’s reaction, she added hurriedly, “Don’t get too excited. Our agents have gotten only the most rudimentary idea of what they’re actually saying. Our comprehension level has been minimal—kindergarten to first-grade level.
“But what we did discover was so striking that when we started to tell our superiors, they refused to accept our findings.” She leaned back against the console table with her arms crossed over her chest. “Incredulity is often the first reaction to any paradigm-changing discovery. I faced similar skepticism when I discovered your talents several years ago.”
Gallant refrained from showing any emotion, but he was excited about the possibilities.
“The nearest analogy I can make,” continued McCall, “is that individual Titans are similar to what we would call an ‘autistic savant.’”
She let that sink in for a moment before she showed a series of Top Secret displays on her panel. “Their communication is different from humans. It involves a combination of image, color, smell, sound, and touch—all synthesized in a different way from our speech and hearing. In addition, they can network with a few others to form a collective intelligence—a kind of ‘conference call.’ This autistic savant networking is a type of semi-telepathic super-intelligence.”
“What do you mean by super-intelligence?” asked Gallant, sensing that she had revealed her central theme.
“I’ll come to that in a minute,” she said, tapping the console screen to change the page. “By using a neural interface that connects to both our AI system and to the alien AI device, we were able to understand a little of their thinking and communication process. For example, when I say the number forty-two, you think of an integer, written or spoken; one more than forty-one, one less than forty-three, or the product of twenty-one times two, and not much else.”
Gallant noticed McCall’s tendency to look up and to her left, as if concentrating on remembering something difficult, before once again gazing at him.
Her voice continued in a steady cadence as she ticked off her facts, “To a Titan an individual number such as forty-two has shape, color, smell, taste, and sound. Altogether this spectrum of sensory relationships represents a single unique concept—the number forty-two. When a Titan adds forty-two and forty-two, it gets two identical conceptual shapes that are merged to form something completely new and different with its own unique characteristics. All their numbers and words have a similar adaptation.”
“Have you learned anything about how they’re organized?”
“From our interrogations of the prisoners, we’ve learned that Titan society has a class structure,” said McCall. “At the lowest level, the workers do the basic manual tasks of growing food and constructing buildings. The next level is the warrior class that serves in their armed forces. The third class runs their business and economy. Finally, the fourth, or ruling class, makes governing decisions. This last group is dominant while the lower classes are submissive.”
“I see,” said Gallant, looking from the view screen to McCall: “But why are you explaining all this to me?”
McCall slid closer to Gallant and gently touched his arm: “I would have thought you might have guessed by now. We’d like you to try to talk to the prisoners and see what more you can discover.”
“Why me?” asked Gallant, distracted by her nearness, wondering if there was a hidden agenda.
Taking a step away, McCall said, “Our current effort to improve human intelligence through genetic engineering will take generations—and genetic modifications are not
foolproof—you’re evidence of that. As the beneficiary of a unique mutation, you are more talented at neural interfacing with AI than any of our best genetically modified officers. And your experience with the berserker AI at Tau Ceti was further validation of that point.”
“But your officers were able to make some progress, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
McCall hesitated before expanding, “Consider the possibility that someday soon, there may be an intelligence explosion. It might come from either biologically enhanced humans, or smarter AIs.”
She paused again before adding, “Machines that could mimic human common sense along with the ability to learn, reason, and solve complex challenges have been anticipated since the dawn of computers. But human level intelligence is not the ultimate goal—superhuman machine intelligence is. The capacity to radically outperform the best of today’s human minds is called super-intelligence, whether performed by machine, or a modified human.”
“And now you’re defining our struggle against the Titans as a contest to achieve super-intelligence?”
“Yes, to some extent. It was already started in the twenty-first century when humans added significant cognitive and physical enhancements through genetic engineering. Our ability to use the neural interface to connect with an AI is a product of that effort. But, even then, we feared that machine super-intelligence would arrive first.”
“But you’ve found that things haven’t gone as you anticipated,” prodded Gallant.
His comment scored high on her emotional Richter scale; she leaned over him and brought her face close to his, expelling her warm breath into his face. She shook her head. With gritted teeth she admitted, “No, they haven’t. First, you turned up—a gifted natural-selection mutation. You surprised us all.”
Feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass, he sat stone-faced and was beginning to wonder if her true intent was to brief him or to evaluate him under this new paradigm.
“Surprised, or embarrassed?” he asked.
McCall backed away and instead of answering him, she continued; “Now we’re confronted by autistic savant aliens capable of challenging our thinking even further.”
Anticipating her intentions, Gallant suggested, “Let me try to communicate with the prisoners.”
McCall waggled her finger at Gallant and said, “Follow me.”
***
When they reached the seventh subbasement, McCall showed Gallant a well-equipped laboratory.
Afterwards, Gallant would recall his mixed emotions on first seeing the slight figures of the prisoners. They were held under restraints in two separate glass-paneled cells. Very thin and frail, the methane-breathing aliens had no hair or markings on their grayish skin. Their violet and cobalt eyes were iridescent and reminded him of death.
McCall stood back and let Gallant proceed to interrogate the aliens. Using an AI neural interface, he was able to “see” the visual representations of the individual Titan’s thoughts and ideas, and then compare them to the database that SIA had accumulated. His mental presence introduced dramatic turmoil in the prisoners’ behavior.
Slowly Gallant learned. He began by visualizing individual numbers as smooth and round shapes as if they were pebbles on the beach. The most beautiful were prime numbers which held outstanding qualities of shape, color, and texture. Soon numbers were flashing before his eyes. Words followed. The landscape of Gallant’s mind found rough and irregular patterns of sensual color and perplexing images he tried to understand. After several hours, he was able to translate a few Titan concepts—to a limited degree. Before the end of the day, he was able to translate more of what the interface presented to him into complete concepts.
The Titan prisoners attempted to conceal their thoughts from him, but their natural instinct for networking allowed Gallant to eavesdrop on the innermost secrets exchanged between them.
Upon finishing for the day, he was still unsure if he were a part of the SIA’s Titan interrogation team, or of SIA’s super-intelligence research.
Either way, he made one startling discovery.
He told McCall, “The Titans are intent on occupying the entire Solar System, even if it means the genocide of the human race.”
It was his turn to watch her reaction. He thought,
That should focus your attention back onto the prisoners—instead of me.
CHAPTER 3
The Warrior
“Request permission to get underway, sir?”
The booming baritone voice of his executive officer, Lieutenant John Roberts, brought Gallant’s wandering attention back to the bridge of the Warrior.
Even though Gallant had met the man only a week earlier, he had already formed a favorable opinion of him. Roberts had a lean smooth face, auburn brown hair, and was of average height with a solid, but unremarkable build. In his mid-twenties, and only a year or two older than Gallant, he looked more mature and personable than the years suggested—a characteristic Gallant envied.
Putting aside his own aspirations to drive the Warrior on her maiden shakedown cruise, Gallant let Roberts take command of the maneuvering watch for the ship’s departure from Mars Station. As XO, Roberts was responsible to the captain for the ship’s overall performance and the conduct of its crew, but Gallant was anxious to gauge the man’s ship handling instincts as much as he wanted to measure the Warrior’s performance.
“Maneuvering watch is set. All stations report manned and ready, sir,” said Chief Howard.
“Very well,” said Roberts. He stepped up to the command deck and took the seat beside the captain.
Roberts ordered, “Engineering, bridge; standby to answer all bells.”
“Bridge, engineering; ready to answer all bells, sir,” came the response.
“Chief of the watch, release grappling magnets,” said Roberts.
Seated in front of a master valve control panel on the port side of the bridge, Chief Howard said, “Aye aye, sir.” A moment later, the grappling status lights shifted from red to green. “Green board, sir.”
“Helm, thrusters ahead slow,” said Roberts to the helmsman a few meters in front of him.
“Aye aye, sir,” responded the helmsman. “Thrusters, answering ahead slow—ten meters per second and increasing, sir.”
The panoramic view on the screen at the front of the bridge allowed Gallant to observe the ship’s progress. The most dangerous time for a ship was during maneuvers when leaving or returning to dock at a space station.
“Navigation, plot a course to our designated operating area,” said Gallant. The shakedown drills and tests were to be conducted in a portion of space about ten million kilometers from Mars, away from the normal shipping lanes.
“Aye aye, sir. Course 186, mark two, sir,” said the navigation station.
“Mr. Roberts, set course 186, mark two,” said Gallant.
“Aye aye, sir,” responded Roberts. Then he ordered, “Helm, engage sublight engines, ahead slow, come port five degrees. Set course 186, mark two.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“The ship is on course, sir,” reported Roberts.
“Very well, Mr. Roberts.” Gallant was satisfied with his XO’s ship-handling skills, but felt no need to compliment him for what was a standard procedure. It was his intention to give all his officers every opportunity to display their skills and develop their expertise under his guidance.
The Warrior was the first stealth FTL ship to be constructed by the United Planets, and though it was only a diminutive sloop, it was equipped with the most innovative technology, shields, weapons, and engines available. It had an antimatter fusion sublight engine and a dark matter FTL drive. It was designed specifically to conduct clandestine sabotage and spy operations. Though its crew members hadn’t worked together before, they were a collection of talented technicians and engineers.
Just one week earlier, Gallant had been appointed captain pro temp; though he remained puzzled about the temporary status.
&
nbsp; Listening to the growing bridge chatter, Gallant relaxed as the ship settled into a comfortable routine. He kept his own internal dialog . . .
It’s up to me to shape the character of this ship and crew.
Steadily, the Warrior accelerated, moving farther and farther away from Mars.
“Sensors, report!” demanded Gallant.
“Mars Station falling astern, shipping lanes clear, no obstructions ahead, sir,” reported the sensor tech.
“Very well,” said Gallant.
The forward viewport verified a clear path ahead.
On the busy bridge, Midshipman Gabriel was one of those vying for Gallant’s attention. He was the youngest member of the 126 person crew. He was quick witted and had a disarming grin with dimples to match. In addition, he had a habit of wrinkling his nose when he laughed which drew attention to him. As tradition dictated, Gallant had assigned the most junior officer to head the communications division.
As communications officer, Gabriel handed Gallant a message tablet with clearance instructions from the shipyard supervisor verifying their exit from port and authorizing further operations. Scanning it, Gallant checked off his receipt. He glanced around the bridge at the various consoles to verify that all conditions were satisfactory.
“Mr. Roberts,” said Gallant.
“Sir?”
“You may dismiss the maneuvering watch and set normal cruising watch when you think appropriate.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Navigation, how long until we reach our operating area?” asked Gallant.
“Approximately four hours, sir.”
“Very well.”
Gallant was satisfied that everything was in order, and it dawned on him that it would be appropriate for him to walk through the ship to see how the crew was reacting.
“Mr. Roberts, I’m going on a brief walk-through of engineering.”
“Yes, sir,” said Roberts. “Sir, navigation shows some shipping may eventually encroach on our track. Request permission to maneuver as required?”
Gallant looked over the plot and said, “Permission granted.”
Henry Gallant and the Warrior (The Henry Gallant Saga Book 3) Page 2
