Swendsen had never heard such good news.
A flurry of communications ricocheted around as orders were passed. “Pull together, let’s get out of here! We need a unified front.” The silver berets retreated, still shooting.
One commando bled profusely from a torn thigh muscle. Two of his comrades carried him, running ahead while others covered their retreat. As the silver berets reached the front of the factory, Paxton removed a grenade from his belt and tossed it toward the end of the production line. The explosion ripped the assembly machinery into tangled debris. Swendsen knew it wasn’t nearly enough damage to cause more than a temporary delay. The compies could rapidly fix the machinery.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” he said, but the commandos weren’t interested in conversation. The first silver berets rushed toward the door with their wounded comrade. Swendsen ran as fast as his shaking legs could take him. Before reaching the relative safety outside, he looked back over his shoulder.
In spite of the grenade explosion and weapons fire, the assembly facilities were still thrumming and rattling with a speed and efficiency that far surpassed Swendsen’s wildest design estimates. At this amazing capacity, the production lines continued to make more Soldier compies. He didn’t see how it could ever be stopped.
24
KING PETER
After Nahton delivered his news to the King, further reports of the compy revolt came swiftly. The EDF scrambled—too late—to avert a total disaster. Royal guards had hustled Peter out of the interrupted awards ceremony and back to the Whisper Palace to “safety.” Basil had shot him a cold look that clearly said, I’ll deal with you later.
On strict orders from the Chairman, the guards now watched the King so closely that he had little room to move. Peter had overstepped his boundaries, and he would certainly be punished for it. But how could Basil argue with what he had done? Soon after the King’s emergency announcement, trouble had begun at the Soldier compy factory—exactly as he’d feared—proving that Peter was absolutely right to send in troops without delay. The Chairman would never commend him for quick thinking, however. Being “correct” was not a sufficient reason to go against Basil Wenceslas.
If only Basil had listened earlier, if he had looked at the suspicious evidence against the Soldier compies, rather than dismissing the concerns simply because they came from Peter, the military could have been prepared for this.
Flanked by a new set of uniformed royal guards, the King held his head high, knowing he’d done the right thing. Others could see it, too. Would that be enough of a shield to save him, and Estarra, and their unborn baby? He hoped at least he’d set the proper wheels in motion. Maybe it would save a life or two.
Inside the Palace, the guards ushered him to the Royal Wing’s conservatory, where Queen Estarra met with her older sister Sarein and the Teacher compy OX. Shielded from the crisis, entirely unaware of the news, they examined transplanted botanical specimens. Peter envied them their innocence, now that everything was about to change. He couldn’t blame the guards for hovering closer than usual.
Estarra’s face lit up when she saw him, and for the briefest instant all of Peter’s cares washed away. Her face glowing with pleasure, she pointed at a display of veined leaves and unusual decorative frills around fan-shaped flowers. “See the new specimens Sarein brought back from Theroc? I remember these from when I was a girl exploring the worldforest.”
Sarein’s lips curved in a faint smile. The woman’s pointed chin and high cheekbones sometimes gave her an innocent elfin appearance. But Peter knew that she was also Basil’s occasional lover; therefore, he didn’t trust her. “Because Theroc came so close to being destroyed, our people asked me to bring samples of our most dramatic species here to Earth. We’re also using Hansa ships to distribute green priests and treelings to as many colonies as possible, as an emergency preservation measure.”
Nahton had already told the King about the second hydrogue attack on Theroc and how the deep-core aliens were driven away by a fantastic-sounding “living comet” as well as a flurry of highly effective weapons brought by Roamers. Chairman Wenceslas had snorted in disbelief at this account and—irrationally, Peter thought—brushed it aside.
On one of the new plants, a cluster of orange berries peeked out from achingly green leaves. Peter lifted the leaves to touch the tiny hard berries, but Estarra pulled his hand away. “Fauldur berries are extremely poisonous. The first Theron settlers learned quickly not to touch them.”
“Why bring such a deadly plant here?” He looked suspiciously at Sarein. Weren’t there enough dangers in the Whisper Palace already?
“The fauldur has many uses,” Sarein said coolly. “The leaves are the only known cure for a degenerative blood disease, and the roots are considered one of our greatest delicacies. I thought it was important to preserve this plant.”
Peter straightened. “So it’s both useful and deadly at the same time.” He glanced at OX, his affection for his teacher mingling with the dread he felt at what was happening to other compies at this very moment. “Like compies can be.” Next to the Queen, OX also studied the items on display. The silent guards regarded the little Teacher compy warily.
He finally embraced Estarra, ignoring the guards, ignoring Sarein. When he clung a bit too tightly, the Queen could tell something was wrong. “What is it?”
He quickly explained. Sarein looked as alarmed as her sister; she shot a glance at the guards, as if wondering why the Chairman hadn’t summoned her immediately.
The lead royal guard took a stiff step forward, positioning himself between the King and the little compy. “Sire, we are charged with your protection. The situation is uncertain and dangerous. Therefore, we should separate you from this potential threat.”
“From OX?” Estarra said in surprise. “He’s served humanity since the time of the first generation ships!”
“Nevertheless, it’s time we exercised a little more caution. As the King himself suggested.”
Peter looked at the helpful compy, one of his few allies and friends in the whole Whisper Palace. Could there be destructive programming implanted there, too? From centuries ago? Not possible.
He rested his hand reassuringly on the Teacher compy’s solid shoulder. “Captain, OX was the first to draw my attention to possible flaws in the Soldier compies and to question the Klikiss modules.”
When the compy faced Peter, his voice was calm and modulated, like a patient teacher’s. “Early designs such as mine have proved reliable for centuries. Three hundred thirty-six years ago, I served aboard the Peary. I taught many families, many generations. Would you like to hear stories of how I returned to Earth with Adar Bali’nh to speak for the Ildirans and the generation ship colonists? I was also present in the Throne Hall when Old King Ben received the first green priest, and I was there when he granted Theroc its independence. My extensive memories of events fill my mental storage to capacity. I am incapable of harboring hostility toward humans.”
Peter was grave, seeing the guard’s continued skepticism. “To my knowledge, Captain, only Soldier models have been affected. I believe the new Klikiss programming modules are the root of this string of malfunctions. My concerns in that respect have been a matter of public record for more than a year, as you well know.” He narrowed his eyes. “Now, if you would grant me privacy with my wife and her sister? We’ll be safe enough at the moment—unless we have something to worry about from these Theron plant exhibits?”
Grudgingly, the guards backed out of immediate earshot, but remained within visual range. Peter’s knees were shaking with relief and the long-delayed aftereffects of shock.
OX said, “Recalling my centuries of service and my years with you, King Peter, I reassert my loyalty. You are the Great King of the Terran Hanseatic League. I am programmed to be your faithful servant. You need not fear any threat from me, and I will do my best to warn you of any dangers I foresee.”
Peter�
�s heart warmed at the compy’s simple yet utterly believable declaration. OX reminded him of a miniature knight swearing fealty to his liege. “I trust you, OX. It’s good to have at least one less worry in the Whisper Palace.” Impatient, he turned, raising his voice toward the royal guards. “Do we have an update from the compy factory yet? Have the silver berets secured the facility?”
“We have no further information,” the guard said. “Captain McCammon is meeting with the Chairman right now.” Then he added with a glimmer of genuine respect, “I think we caught it in time, Majesty. Your reaction and decisiveness may have saved us all.”
25
GENERAL KURT LANYAN
Unlike “Stay-at-Home” Stromo, General Lanyan preferred to be doing something. He was a real soldier, not a stuffed-shirt military commander or, worse, a politician. And a genuine crisis wasn’t meant to be viewed from a distance. He needed to be in the thick of things.
Rushing from the ill-advised “party” thrown by Maureen Fitzpatrick, Lanyan seized his chance. Time to cause some damage, not just fill out stupid paperwork and wear ceremonial uniforms.
As soon as he reached the nearest satellite EDF office, he demanded a classified update. As he paced the pastel-painted chambers of a minor military functionary whose office he had commandeered, Lanyan listened as message after message came in from green priests. The violent uprising was occurring in all ten battle groups.
Contact had been completely lost with Admiral Stromo’s Manta and four other grid flagships. Admirals Eolus, Wu-Lin, and Willis were engaged in furious firefights. At the main fabrication facility near the Palace District, Soldier compies were rising up, barely held off by a massive concentration of silver berets. Scattered reports described widespread Earth-side incidents as individual robots went berserk.
Lanyan scanned the reports again, disbelieving, but the breakdowns and summaries didn’t change. “Gone to hell in a handbasket—in the official EDF-issue hell-carrying handbasket.”
Time to stop this nonsense. He thought about immediately reassigning Patrick Fitzpatrick, even if the kid did have a stick up his butt since spending time with the Roamers. Lanyan needed all the decent men he could stuff into positions of responsibility—but he didn’t have the time right now.
“Call the fastest in-system ship here. Pronto. I’ve got to get to the Mars base, and by the time I arrive I’ll probably want to head somewhere else.”
The functionary was flustered. “The nearest landing field is fifty kilometers east of here, General.”
“Bullshit! Who needs a landing field? You’ve got a roof, don’t you?”
The bulk of the Grid 0 fleet remained at the resupply and maintenance yards in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. The battle group was just sitting there, vulnerable, plums ripe for the picking—Mantas, Thunderhead weapons platforms, and the Juggernaut Goliath. And thanks to the shortage of personnel, those ships were full of Soldier compies as surrogate crewmembers. Goddamned ticking time bombs!
Lanyan was afraid that even a light-speed transmission wouldn’t get there in time. He sent an urgent warning for all commanders in spacedock to isolate the compies and await additional instructions.
Too late.
He had nearly reached the Mars base by the time the signal made its round trip from the asteroid belt. “General, the compies have already damaged one ship and killed eight maintenance workers in the resupply yard!” The speaker was one of the managers of the maintenance facility. “Then they started seizing control of the Grid 0 vessels. It was all so . . . so damned coordinated!”
If he’d been a deskbound commanding officer, Lanyan might have waited for clarification, considered further reports, and requested additional information. (Stromo certainly would have.) In times like these, hesitation was tantamount to suicide. “Try to hold them off. I’m on my way,” he said.
Stuck on a training base, with all the decent battleships deployed elsewhere, Lanyan had to use whatever soldiers he could scrounge at a moment’s notice. In other words, kleebs—greenhorn trainees. He didn’t have a choice.
The recruits at the Mars base thought it was just another drill when they were ordered to race to all vessels in the training pool. Barely stepping off his fast transport from Earth, not yet acclimated to the new gravity, Lanyan shouted as the kleebs scrambled aboard swift personnel carriers, armored cargo transports, and fully loaded in-system gunships.
Lanyan kept studying his chronometer, counting down the amount of time that had passed since he’d received the alarm. He knew how fast those military robots could move. “This is real, dammit! A lot of people have already been caught with their pants down. You’re going to do damage control. You’re the bloody cavalry.”
Lanyan bounded onto the lead transport, chasing the last few soldiers up the ramp—much to the discomfiture of the young pilot. All the ships swiftly launched into the thin greenish sky and out into the emptiness between planets.
The General scratched the rough stubble on his chin and looked over at the still-intimidated pilot. “Let me address our soldiers, Mr. Carrera.”
When the trainee pilot activated the troop transport’s ship-to-ship comm, the speakers filled with overlapping accusations, warnings, and anxious questions across a range of supposedly restricted frequencies. Lanyan took the microphone and stopped all conversations dead. “Cut the chatter! This is no time for you kleebs to be screwing around.” He waited for an appropriately respectful silence. “I don’t care how green you are, I expect you all to behave like EDF soldiers. That’s not a reminder—that’s an order.”
With in-system engines pushed beyond the official tolerance specs, the hastily assembled rescue fleet reached the asteroid belt shipyards in less than three hours. Three hours. Lanyan could easily imagine how much damage a horde of berserk compies might cause in that amount of time.
Ahead, spangled with artificial lights, reflections from solar collectors, and thermal venting from smelter operations, he could make out the spacedock frameworks and the reinforced skeletons of new ships under construction. But he saw no sign of the main Grid 0 battle group. They should have been there—over a hundred ships, including a Juggernaut! All gone.
Lanyan switched the channel, pinging the shipyard hub. “Somebody over there give me an update so we know who needs rescuing. Where the hell is my battle group?”
The pilot scanned ahead and got up the courage to say, “Those ships must have taken off in a hurry, sir! Look at the glowing wreckage they left behind.”
After a burst of frantic and confused reports, Lanyan focused on one man who seemed cooler-headed than the rest. He told the other voices to shut up. The man on the comm turned out to be only a spacedock supervisor, but he had a good overview of what had happened in the battle group.
“First sign of trouble was when we received scattered reports of fighting aboard the Goliath, the Mantas, and the Thunderheads. Their Soldier compies went nuts over there, sir—on all the ships, all at the same time. They started slaughtering bridge crews.”
A gruff female voice broke in. “Our worker compies seem to be fine, but I’ve isolated them as a precaution.”
“Good work. But where are all my ships?”
“About an hour ago, the docked battle group went into radio silence, then the Goliath turned and opened fire on our smelters. Destroyed two of them, wrecked one of my spacedocks. Then the ships just took off—ripped themselves free of moorings and headed out to space.”
Lanyan growled in his throat. “Well, where the hell did they go?”
“We tracked them on a vertical vector away from the ecliptic. General . . . I don’t think there’s anybody left alive on board.”
“Are you saying that Soldier compies have control of all my battleships?”
“It appears that way, sir.”
Worse than he’d imagined, but to solve a problem you had to look forward, not back. He turned to assess the barely trained men and women crowded aboard this fast personnel tra
nsport—his saviors-in-training—then did a rapid tally of the cavalry ships he had rounded up. On a moment’s notice he had pulled together more than seventy craft and five thousand soldiers. Not bad. He had a good feel for their general abilities (book learning and simulations) and real experience (practically nil). On Mars the recruits had been drilled in ground combat maneuvers; they had formed functional teams, learned how to cooperate to solve problems. Now for some practical experience.
“Those ships are renegade. We need those ships. We, therefore, are going after them.” Lanyan repeated the transmission across the cavalry fleet. “They haven’t been gone long. Our ships are lighter, we have enough fuel, we’re fully armed, and our in-system engines are just as fast if not faster than the big capital ships.” He rubbed his hands together. “We’ll catch up with them, all right.”
Some recruits took heart from his words, riled up and ready to fight the treacherous compy bastards; others were more realistic about their chances. Lanyan saw the moods shifting like eddies in a river. As his ships raced along the trajectory of the hijacked battle group, he gave an impromptu pep talk. “Grid after grid has winked out. Our whole fleet is being taken over by the compies. We cannot let it happen here, at the cost of our very lives, if necessary! We’ll fight hand-to-hand, if it comes to that. Dammit, those are my ships!”
He observed the uncertain expressions of the soldiers aboard the transport, watched how they shifted from panic to determination. Everyone knew that the Grid 0 warships vastly outgunned their collection of vessels. These young soldiers believed they didn’t have a chance. Nor did they have a choice.
But Lanyan knew secrets about EDF vessels that none of these kleebs understood. “Never underestimate the Earth Defense Forces. Trust me on that.”
26
JESS TAMBLYN
Seconds seemed like hours as Jess stared into the sea of Charybdis. Cesca had vanished into the water, swallowed by the living depths.
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