“Stand by,” Tyspin said grimly. “One wrong move, and we make the jump.”
Hashimoto nodded. The calcs were complete and loaded. The Navcomp, affectionately known as Old Screw Head, was on standby. All it would take was a single word to fling the ship into the void. Would they make it before the Sheen blew the ship to bits? It seemed doubtful, but the possibility made everyone feel better.
Seconds ticked away. The bridge crew stood like statues, hesitant to breathe lest the action somehow trigger an attack, yet determined to appear fearless.
Tyspin felt fear gnaw at her belly and struggled to ignore it. Five, maybe ten seconds had passed, and her heart continued to beat. That was good wasn’t it? Careful lest her voice betray how she actually felt, she raised an eyebrow and glanced at Hashimoto. “Well? What are we waiting for? You know the drill ... Tell the servo heads that we’d like to parley.”
The words, plus the knowledge that they were still alive, acted to free the bridge crew from their momentary paralysis. The admiral was pulling the old man’s chain! Situation normal. Hashimoto, who was fully aware of the role he’d been given, looked appropriately stern. “Ma‘am, yes, ma’am. You heard the admiral ... send it out.”
The message was sent in Thraki and standard: “Greetings on behalf of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings. This sector of space is controlled by out-member states. Please state your intentions.”
President Nankool and his advisors had invested a considerable amount of time and energy in constructing the text. The phraseology was cool but short of hostile. That was the intent anyway, and how they would interpret such a message, but what about the machines? Could they? Would they read between the lines? Tyspin regarded the possibility as unlikely—but what did she know? At least two AIs had been part of the process, and if they believed the text would work, then maybe it would.
The reply was not only expeditious but unexpected. A com tech watched a holo bloom, listened to the audio that accompanied it, and raised his hand. “Over here, ma’am ... the machines replied ... or at least I think they did.”
Tyspin stepped over to the com tech’s console and eyed the video. No wonder the rating was confused. In place of a machine, or some sort of graphical interface, a human being had appeared. He was in obvious need of a haircut, his face looked slightly cadaverous, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. They seemed to bore through Tyspin’s head. Judging from what the man said he had more than a passing familiarity with naval insignia. The tone was arrogant. “I see they sent an admiral to greet us ... kind of an insult wouldn’t you say? President Nankool would have been more appropriate.”
A memory tickled the back of Tyspin’s mind. Something the loquacious Willy Williams had discussed during the intelligence debriefings. Something about a human who had been present during the attack on Long Jump, and of even more importance, had directed at least some of the ensuing violence. Was this the same man? A renegade with blood on his hands? Yes, Tyspin had a feeling that it was, which meant she was eyeball to eyeball with a psychopath, war criminal, or both. Knowing that, or being reasonably sure of it, raised a very important question: How should she deal with him? The most obvious strategy was to appease him, assuming such a thing was possible, in hopes of gaining his favor.
But something cautioned the officer against that approach, something she couldn’t quite articulate, but which stemmed from his motivations. What were they? Perhaps that was the key, what Jasper, no, Jepp really wanted was a sense of legitimacy, of respect for what he saw as his accomplishments.
The thoughts flickered through her mind at lightning speed, and while it wasn’t much to go on, Tyspin decided to gamble. She could, the officer reasoned, back off, should that become necessary. “President Nankool is rather busy,” Tyspin said coldly. “Give me a message, and I’ll pass it along.”
The ex-prospector found himself torn between his desire to impress the Hoon with how tough he was and the somewhat unexpected need to win Admiral Tyspin’s respect. He tried another tack.
“Look, I’m sorry if I seem a bit over the top, but we’re on the same side. My name is Jorley Jepp. You’ve heard about the attack on Long Jump by now ... so you know what the Sheen can do. Their main objective is to find a race known as the Thraki. If the Thrakies are around, and the Sheen say they are, then you’re in contact with them by now. The best thing the Confederacy can do is to provide the Sheen with information, plus some fuel for their ships, and get out of the way.”
“And then?” Tyspin inquired skeptically, glad that the entire interchange was being recorded, “what happens after that?”
“That depends,” Jepp said evasively, “on any number of things. The Sheen trust me ... and I may be able to influence them. I know the President is busy—but I would appreciate his advice.”
Tyspin didn’t believe that the last part of the comment was sincere ... but took note of the less truculent tone. Could the earnest-looking man in the soiled jumpsuit influence what the Sheen did next? The initial answer seemed to be “yes,” given the events on Long Jump, the fact that he was still alive, and was allowed to speak. But how far did that influence extend? And what would Jepp want in return? Those questions and dozens more begged to be answered. The key was to buy time—time Booly could use to prepare, time Nankool could use to perform maintenance on the alliance, and time she could use to learn more about Jepp. The naval officer forced a smile. “Of course ... Let’s see what I can arrange. Would you or your, er companions, have any objections to my dispatching a message torp?”
Jepp looked offscreen, seemed to converse with someone, and turned back. “No, so long as you and your ship remain.”
Tyspin nodded. A battle of sorts had been won. The message torp would carry a copy of the interchange, a request for instructions, and more important than that, data regarding the Sheen fleet. Valuable data that could help Booly win.
The Hoon monitored the exchange, assigned a probe to follow the message torp through hyperspace, and processed something akin to a feeling of satisfaction. The soft bodies were gratifyingly stupid, data would be gathered, and the mission furthered. Life, or what passed for it, was good.
Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
A clutch of nervous-looking advisors stood and waited while President Marcott Nankool read the message for a second time. It was warm with so many bodies packed into the chief executive’s office, and the ship struggled to cope. Cold air blasted out of an overhead vent, and Chien-Chu felt his cybernetic body adjust accordingly. Doma-Sa shuffled his feet, and servos whined as an exoskeleton-clad Dweller shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Nankool placed the printout on the surface of his highly polished wood desk, arranged it just so, and met their eyes. “So? Your presence speaks more eloquently than words. You know what Admiral Tyspin sent me—what would you suggest?”
Doma-Sa waited to see if anyone would speak, realized they weren’t sure of what to say, and broke the silence. “BETA-018 has been secured, but the Thraki occupy other worlds as well. The more time we buy, the more General Booly has to work with.”
Nankool scanned their faces. “How ’bout the rest of you? Do you agree?”
Chien-Chu nodded and glanced around. There was no dissention for once ... a rare and memorable moment.
A message torp was dispatched an hour later. A Sheen probe was allowed to follow it. They hit the outward-bound transit point within minutes of each other and seemed to wink out of existence. A reply was on the way.
Transit Point NS-690-193, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The launch bay was no different from the last time Jorely Jepp had been there. Ships sat in what appeared to be random fashion but was actually a mathematically precise arrangement that allowed the Sheen to use the available space in the most efficient possible manner. Ropes of silvery nano hung, crawled, and in one case squirmed across the bay. The tang of ozone flavored the air.
Only one thing was different and that
was the way the human felt: happy, excited, and nearly giddy with joy. The message torp had returned. An agreement had been reached. He, Jorely Jepp, ex-prospector, debtor, and all around loser was on his way to visit with President Marcott Nankool!
No, he told himself, not visit, but negotiate on behalf of God and the heathen waiting to be saved. An account would be written one day, a tome on a par with the Holy Bible or the Koran. A book that would tell the tale of the savior who emerged from the cosmic wasteland accompanied by a silvery host. The very thought of it filled the human’s heart to the breaking point. He seized Veera’s clawlike hand. “Come on! This is our moment!”
Veera knew the human was trying to be generous—but suffered no illusions. Her moment would come when she was back among her own kind. In the meantime, with no other possibilities in sight, the lunatic at her side offered the best opportunity of escape. They boarded the shuttle. Henry, along with Alpha, followed behind.
Given how unstable her guest appeared to be, and given the extent of the power he might be able to call upon, Tyspin planned to be at the lock to greet him. That’s why she was down in the ready room—watching a bank of monitors.
The shuttle slowed as it approached the ship, followed a brightly lit drone into the bay, and settled onto its skids. The vessel was sufficiently streamlined so that it could operate within a planetary atmosphere. It shimmered as if lit from within. Here, at least, was something of an intelligence coup since an entire battery of sensors had been specially rigged to gather information on the enemy ship. Even if the contact with Jepp proved futile, anything they could learn about Sheen technology could prove very valuable indeed.
The shuttle landed, a hatch opened, and a ramp hit hull metal. The Ninja’s deck master wore bright orange space armor. He approached the ramp and waited for the visitor to disembark. Jepp, or a figure that Tyspin assumed was Jepp, was a sight to see. In spite of the fact that he had an entire fleet to back him, the ex-prospector wore the same suit of dilapidated, much-patched space armor in which he had been captured. And what was that perched on his shoulder? Some sort of machine? That’s what it looked like.
There was more, however—including an entourage which caught Tyspin by surprise. The second individual to emerge from the shuttle wore a type of space armor she didn’t recognize until her intel officer turned in her direction. His name was Dorba-Ka, and he spoke standard with a slight hiss. “Where did the Prithian come from? What’s going on here?”
What indeed? Tyspin wondered as the odd couple made their way across the repulsor-blackened deck toward the entry lock. That’s when the robots appeared. Form follows function, and the first pair looked similar to the navy-issue general-purpose androids assigned to her ship. The units that followed were considerably different. There were four altogether, as similar as ball bearings, and protected by force fields. Arms ended in what appeared to be energy projectors, heads swiveled from left to right, and they moved in unison.
“They look dangerous,” the intel officer said conversationally. “Can the marines handle them?”
It was a good question, but Tyspin had other things to worry about as well. Should she treat Jepp like a head of state? Someone entitled to armed guards, even within the hull of a Confederate warship? Or refuse to admit them? And risk a confrontation? A confrontation with catastrophic results? It was a nasty decision and one she would have preferred to avoid.
But Jepp had arrived in front of the lock, and time had run out. The entire side party, which consisted of the intel officer, a chief petty officer, and a squad of smart-looking marines all turned to look at her. The decision, which she would live to regret, emerged as a croak. “Let them in.” The hatch cycled open, the visitors spent the requisite time in the lock, and were admitted to the ship.
Jepp, who, with the exception of his brief stay on Long Jump, had been cut off from humankind, stopped to take it in. The faces, the sounds, the faint odor of cooking all rushed to fill his senses. The admiral said something but the ex-prospector failed to process the words. He felt a little bit dizzy but managed to keep his feet. Those around him seemed unaware of his discomfort and led him down a long, sterile corridor.
The robots followed behind. Alpha discerned little of interest, Henry was on the lookout for some way to escape, and the Hoon, who occupied all four of the security units, was beaming data back to the shuttle. Useful data that would come in handy when the battle started.
The AI was struck not by the technology that surrounded it, which was average at best, but by the diversity of the life forms that crewed the ship. At least three or four different species, if appearances were any guide. They seemed to be cooperating—to be working together—the way machines would. Something the Hoon had never witnessed before.
Veera, her heart beating faster, wondered what to do. The Hoon had accompanied them, she was fairly certain of that, but doubted that Jepp even cared. The truth was that the human had accepted the computer’s primacy—and even come to depend on it.
As for the other humans, those who ran the ship, they had no idea what they were dealing with. The Prithian glanced over her shoulder. Alpha and Henry followed along behind, backed by the ominous security units, and a squad of soldiers. What would the Hoon do if she tried to escape? Shoot her? Or ignore the whole thing? There was no way to know. It seemed prudent to wait and see what developed.
As with most warships, the Ninja had no quarters for guests, but Jepp was thrilled with XO’s cabin, and never gave a moment’s thought to where the unfortunate officer had disappeared to. Though actually smaller than his compartment aboard the Sheen battleship, this space had been designed for the convenience of humans and seemed luxurious by comparison. There was a small but serviceable shower, hot water that shut itself off after three minutes had elapsed, and a stack of brand new clothing. There was crisp white underwear, three dark blue ship-suits, plus a cap with the Ninja’s star emblem on the front of it. Life was good.
When Jepp entered the cabin, and left the robots to wait in the passageway, Henry was far from surprised. Even though the human knew the Navcomp was sentient, he had always treated the AI like a machine, and assumed it would remain loyal. And, up till that very moment, Henry had been. Partly because of the programming he’d been equipped with, and partly because he chose to be.
Now, with freedom all around, the Navcomp had decided to put its own interests first for a change.
Veera was shown to a cabin farther down the passageway and entered without protest.
That’s when the Sheen security units assigned themselves to stand guard over both cabins—two per hatch—while heavily armed marines were posted to both ends of the corridor. Tyspin’s way of keeping the machines in check.
Henry eyed the Hoon-controlled robots and wondered if the AI was even aware of him. There was one way to find out. The Navcomp looked from one group of humans to the other, decided they were roughly equidistant, and turned to the right. Henry hadn’t moved more than a few feet when the Hoon made itself known. The message came via low powered intercom. “The unit will remain where it is.”
The command, which should have frozen the previously hijacked body right where it was, had no discernable effect. Henry addressed himself to the marines. They stared straight ahead. “My name is Henry ... I am an artificial intelligence held captive by the Sheen. As such, I place myself under your protection in keeping with the provisions of the Confederate Charter that covers the rights of synthetic beings.”
The Hoon didn’t approve of rogue units, had never been willing to tolerate disobedience, and wasn’t about to start now. The AI set one-fourth of its addressable assets into motion. A security unit stepped forward, did a left-face, and aimed an arm-mounted energy weapon at Henry’s back. “Stop or I will shoot!”
The marines couldn’t hear the transmission, but didn’t need to. Actions spoke louder than words. They raised their assault rifles in response.
Sergeant Musa Moso wasn’t paid to make decisions, not
this kind of decision, and radioed for assistance. Half a dozen laser-projected red dots appeared on the Hoon-controlled machines as Henry rolled toward freedom.
Jepp was whistling by the time he toweled off, got dressed, and called for Sam. The robot was nowhere to be seen. It was spending more and more time with Veera of late. The little traitor.
Jepp examined his image in a small bulkhead-mounted mirror, noticed the need for a haircut, and thought about Tyspin. The idea of spending more time with the naval officer appealed to the ex-prospector. He headed for the hatch. It opened, and he stepped out into the corridor. The Hoon chose that moment to open fire. Henry “felt” the energy beams punch their way through his alloy back, uttered a plaintive beep, and fell facedown.
Sergeant Moso formed the word “fire,” and was just about to say it, when Jepp stepped into the passageway. The ex-prospector watched the energy bolts whip past, saw Henry fall, and threw himself forward. “Stop!” The envoy held his hands in the air. A collection of red dots danced across this chest. Moso didn’t know much, but he knew Jepp was a VIP, and in the line of fire. He bit the word off before it could emerge.
The Hoon verified that its target was down, processed a sense of correctness, and “felt” the harmless lasers pass through the force field’s corona to caress its metal skin. Weapons were in the process of rising when Jepp reentered the equation.
The Hoon, gratified by the extent of the human’s loyalty, was hesitant to fire through the biological’s body. The result was a still-life tableau. And that’s how it looked when Tyspin arrived. With the exception of one of Henry’s drive wheels, which continued to whir, the scene was totally silent. Tyspin took the situation in and nodded to Moso. “Thank you, Sergeant, I’ll take it from here ... Corporal, Private, safe those weapons. Get the casualty to robotics. Perhaps they can save it.”
By Force of Arms Page 25
