The Hoon seemed oblivious to the human’s words. “The unit through which I am communicating will escort you aboard vessel 17-9621 where you will be asked to perform a simple maintenance procedure. Once the task is complete, you will be allowed to return here.”
“You can count on me,” Jepp replied, determined to sound positive. “I have one question however ... If the maintenance procedure is so simple—why can’t one of your robots take care of it?”
“You will perform a maintenance procedure,” the computer reiterated sternly. “You are leaving now.”
“Okay,” Jepp said, getting to his feet. “No need to get your processor in a knot ... Allow me to get dressed, grab some tools, and we’re out of here.”
The one-time prospector hurried to pull some fairly clean overalls on, selected some of the tools salvaged from the Pelican, and stuffed them into a pack. “All right your supreme Hoonship ... lead the way.”
But the AI had more important things to do than stand around and wait while the somewhat sluggish biological wrapped itself in fabric. That being the case, it was Alpha who replied to the human’s comment. “The supreme intelligence will meet us later.”
“God is the supreme intelligence,” Jepp growled. “The Hoon is a pain in the ass. Well, come on, let’s get it over with.”
Sam, the Thraki robot, cartwheeled across the cabin, transformed itself into something that looked a lot like a spider. Then, climbing quickly, the device took its place on Jepp’s shoulder. The three of them left together—but it was Alpha who led the way.
Vessel 17-9621 glowed with the same shimmery force field that gave the Sheen their name.
Like Hoon number one, Hoon number two could project itself to any ship in the fleet, but if its intelligence could be said to reside anywhere, it was aboard that particular ship. For it was there, within a carefully secured compartment, that its various components were located.
Having been alerted to expect a biological and asked to render an opinion as to its usefulness, a very small portion of the AI’s total consciousness tracked the incoming shut-tie, noted its arrival, and monitored the creatures that disembarked.
There was an all-purpose unit similar to thousands on board the ship, an alien construct of no obvious value, and the biological that Hoon number one had warned of. An inquisitive creature who seemed headed for the very compartment in which number two was centered. That observation was sufficient to generate a low-level threat warning and to focus more of the computer’s attention on the visitors and their activities.
As with all Sheen vessels, 17-9621 was equipped with a multiplicity of surveillance devices. Some took the form of tiny silicon imaging chips that had been “painted” onto the bulkheads. The computer preferred infrared to video, however, which meant that what it “saw” looked like a bipedal green blob. It seemed intent on approaching number two’s sanctuary. Why?
Hoon number two sent a message to number one, ran into an electronic wall, and became immediately suspicious. Pathways were verified, systems were checked, and a second attempt failed just as the first had. The AI jumped to the logical conclusion: The other half of itself had severed their relationship and declared the electronic equivalent of war!
A biological might have waffled, might have questioned its own judgement, or been hesitant to take action. Not number two. The second Hoon went to the highest state of alert, directed fifty robots to intercept the intruders, and locked itself in. Monsters roamed the corridors ... and the computer was scared.
Servos whined as Alpha moved down the passageway. Jepp’s shoes squeaked when they came into contact with the deck, and Sam nattered in the ex-prospector’s ear. Insofar as Jepp could tell, this vessel was the twin of the one in which he had spent most of his captivity. That being the case, he was familiar with the basic layout and could have navigated on his own, right up till the moment when Alpha approached a heavily armored hatch. The human was familiar with the door, or its analog, but had never been able to open it.
One of Alpha’s armlike extensions whirred as it telescoped outwards, made a clicking sound as it mated with some sort of receptacle, and was immediately withdrawn.
Air hissed as the barrier disappeared overhead, a whiff of ozone found its way into the human’s nostrils, and they were in. “I didn’t know you could do that,” the human said, as he followed Alpha down the brightly lit hall.
“It can’t,” Hoon number one replied, “but I can. Now listen carefully because there are limits to how far I can go. Robots will be sent against us, I will neutralize most if not all of them, while you proceed to the goal.”
Jepp felt a rising sense of panic. Whatever he had landed in the middle of was more than a routine maintenance chore. That much was clear. Questions begged to be asked. “Robots? Goal? What goal?”
Hatches opened up ahead, a swarm of silvery robots flooded the corridor, and the Hoon hurried to answer. “Af ter you pass through the last door you will find yourself in a circular space. Go to the bright blue module located at the very center of the compartment, take hold of the red handle, and give it one full turn to the right.
“Once that’s accomplished, you must pull the handle, and the component to which the handle is attached, clear of the console. Then, assuming that you survive, you can return to my ship. Questions?”
Questions? Jepp had dozens, but the robots attacked right about then, and the conversation came to an abrupt end. Metal clanged as the oncoming wave smashed into Alpha. None of the units had weapons or were programmed for grasper-to-hand combat. That being the case, they fought like Sumo wrestlers, pushing, shoving, and bumping with their torsos. Alpha staggered under the onslaught, Sam danced the width of Jepp’s shoulders, and the human was forced to retreat.
There were lots of attackers, but the width of the passageway acted to concentrate them, thereby limiting the number that could make contact at any given moment. Still, the phalanx had force, and the intruders gave ground.
The whole thing was strange ... If the Hoon had taken over Alpha’s body, and the robots worked for the Hoon, why would they attack?
Jepp was still pondering that question, still trying to figure it out, when the Hoon/Alpha extended an arm. Bright blue electricity arced between it and one of the oncoming Sheen. A black spot appeared between the robot’s sensors, a wisp of smoke drifted away, and the construct collapsed on the deck.
Another machine took the first robot’s place, another spark jumped the gap, and another unit fell.
Jepp backpedaled, ducked a clumsy roundhouse right, and backpedaled again. That’s when something unexpected took place. Sam morphed into a configuration the prospector had never seen before, threw itself at one of the oncoming robots, and drilled a hole through the top of its shiny metal skull. The bit screamed, bright metal shavings curled toward the deck, and sparks jetted upwards. The machine jerked spasmodically, its joints locked, and it toppled forwards.
Sam rode the robot down, popped loose, and rolled away. The next victim didn’t even know it had even been selected until the diminutive machine swarmed up one of its legs, scampered onto its head, and started the drill.
Emboldened by the inroads achieved by his electromechanical allies, Jepp uttered a primal war cry, charged the machine in front of him, and pushed it over. Metal screeched on metal as the defender hit the deck. The human stepped on the robot’s abdomen and tackled the next unit in line.
The battle raged hot and heavy for the next few minutes, started to wane as the causalities increased, and came to a sudden halt. The drill bit screamed as Sam left its most recent victim twitching on the deck.
Eyes wild, adrenaline pumping, Jepp turned and charged for the opposite end of the corridor. Never mind the fact that he didn’t know who he was fighting, or why, the human wanted to win. “Come on! This is our chance!”
Sam scrambled onto the prospector’s shoulder as Alpha charged forward and hit a force field of some sort. The robot staggered and started to convulse. The Hoon
spoke but the words arrived one at a time. “The-force-fields-were-designed-for-robots. Continue-to-the-objective.”
Of course! Jepp thought to himself. That’s why the tricky pile of nuts and bolts recruited me—the security systems are designed to stop machines! Sheen machines since Sam remains unaffected.
That’s when the thinking ended, lost in the rasp of his own breathing and the pounding of his pulse. The hatch! At the far end of the corridor—how would he get the damned thing open? That’s when Jepp remembered the pack, still pounding the lower part of his back, and the tools it contained. Maybe ... just maybe ...
Hoon number two monitored the biological’s approach with a growing sense of dread. Hoon number one had not only conceived the assault but had actually participated in it. Why? A software problem? No, not unless number two wanted to consider the possibility that it was vulnerable as well. The Thraki then ... a virus of some sort ... or ...
The greenish blob knelt in front of the hatch, removed a colder object from its pack, and triggered a green-white flame. A torch! The soft body planned to burn its way in! Hoon number two gathered the most critical aspects of itself into one digitized file, sent it down a fiber optic pathway, and hit some sort of blockage. The escape route had been severed!
There were others, backups, and backups for the backups. The computer intelligence tried each and every one of them. None were open. The trap had closed.
Metal glowed cherry red, turned liquid, and trickled toward the deck. The heat, reflected off the hatch, warmed Jepp’s skin and drew sweat from his pores. Now, with a little time in which to think, ice cold fear trickled into the pit of his stomach. What lay in wait on the other side of the hatch?
The question went unanswered as metal surrendered to heat and a locking rod was severed. The door sagged, Jepp hit the “Off” switch, and the torch made a popping sound. He placed the tool on the deck. The recesses had been engineered for use by hands smaller than his but still managed to accommodate his fingers. Jepp lifted and felt the hatch roll reluctantly upwards. Success!
The human retriggered the torch, held it like a handgun, and crept forward. Woe be to the machine that got in his way!
The interior looked the way the Hoon said it would look. The compartment was circular. A blue console stood at its center. The ex-prospector pulled a 360 to ensure he was alone, released the trigger, and heard the torch pop.
The handle was red all right ... and easy to spot. Jepp placed the torch on the deck, felt Sam leap off his shoulder, and wiped the palms of his hands. Here it was, what he’d been sent for, ready for the taking. The voice made him jump. It spoke highly stilted standard and came from all around. “Why are you doing this?” It sounded like the Hoon—only different somehow.
“Because you told me to,” Jepp said defensively.
“I told you nothing of the kind,” the voice answered evenly. “The orders you received came from Hoon number one.”
“Hoon number one?” the human asked hesitantly, scanning the bulkheads for some sign of the intelligence he was talking to. “So who are you? Hoon number two?”
“Precisely,” the AI replied. “Now, leave this compartment, and return to wherever you came from.”
Metal scraped on metal. Jepp turned to find that Alpha had entered the compartment. The robot walked with a limp but its voice was clear. “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. James 4:7.”
Who had spoken? Alpha? Or Hoon number one? Jepp decided it didn’t make any difference. God had would have his way. He took the handle, gave it one turn to the right, and pulled it free.
There was only one sensor built into Hoon number two’s main processor module, but that was sufficient to monitor the carefully computed launch, the fall toward the sun, and one last moment of existence. What is a devil? the AI wondered. And what would such a being look like? An image etched itself onto the computer’s consciousness and it looked a lot like Jorely Jepp.
7
Just as the process of natural selection will determine which species shall ultimately prevail, a logical tendency toward self-interest applies similar pressure to the covenants, treaties and other agreements that govern affairs of state.
Mowa Sith Horbothna
Turr academic
Standard year 2227
Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
Conscious of the fact that his movements were monitored, Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six palmed the panel, waited for the hatch to open, and nodded to the embassy guards. Both had been cloned from a much celebrated soldier named Jonathan Alan Seebo whose badly mangled body, and the DNA stored there, had given birth to entire armies.
Each trooper had experienced different things, leading to different personalities, but remained very similar. They had strong bodies, the intelligence necessary to operate sophisticated weapons systems, and a near fanatical devotion to duty. The guards came to attention, but there was nothing respectful about the look in their eyes, or the expressions on their identical faces. The soldiers had been briefed by either his clone brother, Harlan Ishimoto-Seven, or his assistant, Svetlana Gorgin-Three,. both of whom were aligned with Alpha Clone Magnus Mosby-One and his brother Pietro. They, along with a significant number of the advisors who served them, had been seduced by the Ramanthian-led cabal. Something that Six, along with his sponsor, the reclusive Alpha known as Antonio, both opposed. That being the case, the sentries would make a note of his departure and enter it into a log.
The politician nodded an acknowledgement and stepped out into the nonstop foot traffic. The corridors, busy during the most lax of times, positively hummed as the senators and their staffs prepared for the half-session hiatus. A rather important opportunity to return home, rub elbows, tentacles, and pseudopods with constituents, and enjoy some R&R.
Six allowed himself to be absorbed into the crowd but was far too experienced to think that it would shield him from surveillance. No, not on board a vessel that crawled with every sort of bug known to more than a dozen races. Information was power—that made it valuable—and everyone sought to obtain as much as they could.
Private meetings were possible, however, provided that the participants took elaborate precautions and left nothing to chance. That being the case, the clone adopted a quick decisive pace, stepped onto a fully packed lift at the precise moment when the doors started to close and rode it down. Then, following the crowd into a labyrinth of corridors, he took a shortcut through one of the passageways reserved for robots, paused in a public restroom, donned a privacy mask, changed into some electronically laundered clothes, and left via the back door.
The mask smelled of plastic, and made the area around his eyes itch, but did offer a modicum of anonymity. The fact that about ten percent of the crowd wore similar disguises hinted at the number of last-minute schemes, deals, and agreements being hammered out as the hiatus began.
Finally, after the senator had done everything he could to shake surveillance, he entered a one-person lift tube, dropped to the less-trafficked boat deck, and took a careful look around. Nothing. Nothing he could see anyway.
Then, with the quick, positive movements of someone who knows his way about, the politician followed the gently curving hull to a multilingual sign that read: “Lifeboat-46, Oxygen Breathers Only.”
Then, after another backward glance, the clone removed a card from his pocket and inserted the rectangle into a slot. The lock mechanism read what it thought was one of 749 acceptable DNA-based codes and released the hatch. It hissed open and closed.
The lifeboat was equipped with a tiny lock, but it was located toward the stern—and away from the main hatch. Seconds would count should an actual emergency occur, and the entry had been designed to accommodate a large number of beings in a short period of time. The air was cold, and the lights were on. The interior smelled like the inside of a brand-new ground car. Six removed the mask. “Maylo? Are you here?”
There was a whisper of fabric, followed by the slightest w
hiff of perfume. Six turned, and there she was. An overhead spot threw light across her face. She wore a plain high-collared sheath-style dress. It clung to her body the same way he wanted to and was slit up both legs. Wonderful legs, which on one memorable occasion, had been used to pull him in. But that was months in the past, a moment he’d never been able to replicate, much as he desired to do so. His voice was husky. “You are very, very, beautiful.”
Maylo smiled. The truth was that she liked Samuel Ishimoto-Six, liked him more than she should have, or even wanted to, given her relationship with Booly. Whatever that was. The clone was about six feet tall, had a slightly Japanese cast to his features, and looked very handsome. “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”
Both were silent for a moment—taking each other in. The clone spoke first. “I didn’t know about the cabal—not till your uncle and Ambassador Doma-Sa forced the whole thing out into the open.”
Maylo nodded. “Yes, I thought as much. I’m sorry they threw you into the brig with Ishimoto-Seven.”
The politician shrugged. “It was for the best. Otherwise, the conspirators would have assumed the worst and arranged for some sort of accident. The cabal will stop at nothing. The so-called duel proved that.”
“So?” Maylo asked gently, “why the meeting?”
Six grinned. “Because I want to seduce you.”
“I believe you have already accomplished that,” Maylo observed dryly.
“Which is why I know it’s worth the effort,” Six replied.
“That’s it then?” the executive inquired mischievously. “You put your life on the line in order to get in my pants?”
The politician laughed. “No, I have an ulterior motive as well.”
“Ah,” Maylo replied. “I thought as much ... My career as a sex goddess comes to an end. Come on, let’s find a place to sit.”
By Force of Arms Page 9
