The AI War (27 page)

"Myself, and a select few, all in the flesh—firm, wholesome flesh. And I think you'll be pleasantly surprised by the circumstances, Commodore. We're not ghouls, you know—merely selectively altered life-forms."

"Very well," said D'Trelna, and agreed to a time. Disconnecting, he turned to L'Wrona. "Dinner with the ghouls, Captain L'Wrona. Wear your best side arm."

"Where are we going?" asked Zahava as John hurried her along the corridor to hangar deck.

"Wallenberg and Eichmann," he said. "Kafka's sister and Mengele."

"You've lost it," she said as they stepped into the deck.

"We're going to dine with the devil—maybe dance with him, too. Captain K'Tran's invited us for supper," he said.

"No!" she said, stopping.

"Come on," he said, pulling her by the arm. "Our dinner companions await." He nodded to where D'Trelna, L'Wrona, R'Gal and Guan-Sharick were boarding the shuttle.

The hall might have been taken from the Venice of the doges: gold and linen, bright banners hung high, fourth and seventh dynasty paintings gracing the soft-textured walls, blue-liveried servants in profusion.

Terrans and K'Ronarins had stopped at the double doors, staring.

"Come in, please," said K'Tran, standing at the head of the table, motioning with a wine goblet. He was elegantly dressed in a red-gold uniform, silver braid about his shoulders, a smile on his face. Others rose as they entered— Imperial marine officers, the very ones they'd fought a few days before, nodding and smiling, the admiral at K'Tran's left.

"I've died and gone to hell," muttered D'Trelna, leading the way. He wore his dress uniform, insignia gleaming, the Valor Medal hanging from a crimson chain around his neck.

All through dinner—a silent, sumptuous meal—John found his eyes wandering to KTran's cranium. The corsair caught him at it. "Does it matter?" he asked.

"No," said the Terran, his question answered. Let it be over soon, he prayed. Beside him a wan-looking Zahava played with her food.

"You're R'Gal, aren't you?" said K'Tran after a dessert of spice cake.

R'Gal nodded.

K'Tran leaned back, studying R'Gal. "You're an AI," he said.

There was a perfect silence at the table. "Really?" said R'Gal, studying the amber wine in his glass.

"We substituted our stasis field for the one holding T'Lan," said K'Tran. "And we debriefed him. The Combine AIs know about you, R'Gal, but no others, if any. I assume you were a figure of some note, back home?"

"Of some note," said R'Gal with a wry smile, still looking at his wine.

"And your plan to deal with the Combine infiltrators?" said K'Tran, leaning forward.

R'Gal met his gaze. "Expose them."

"How?"

R'Gal looked at D'Trelna.
"Implacable
must return to Prime Base, and the commodore must stand trial."

D'Trelna set down his wine glass. "The commodore does not like that idea," he said. "The commodore wants to return victorious, the savior of humanity, cheered by the multitudes."

"They'd mindwipe him, R'Gal," said Guan-Sharick. "Throw him in the Tower and mindwipe him. And send the rest of the crew to a penal world."

The AI shook his head. "No. We'd stop it—the Watchers."

"So there are more of you," said K'Tran. "Surely no more than a handful?"

"But well placed," smiled R'Gal, "and with certain abilities you're not aware of. We'd save D'Trelna and his men long before it got nasty."

"Trial," said L'Wrona. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

R'Gal nodded. "Public trial of a war hero—"

"Really," said the commodore.

"—of a war hero," continued R'Gal, looking around the table. "It'd be broadcast live to every home in the Confederation. Tell them the whole thing, D'Trelna—the Combine won't dare stop you."

"I have no proof," said D'Trelna, considering it.

"We'll provide the proof, Commodore," said R'Gal. "Trust us."

"Trust," said D'Trelna staring at the crumbs on his plate.- He looked up. "R'Gal, the only one who vouches for you is Guan-Sharick, whom we've fought for ten years and who now suddenly claims to be a friend. You could be a Combine AI hanging me out for sorga bait."

K'Tran frowned. "I can understand your needing Guan-Sharick, D'Trelna. I can understand Guan-Sharick wanting to strike a deal to save its green hide. But a S'Cotar, vouching for an AI? What's going on?"

"It's a long story, K'Tran," said the commodore. "You have my word it doesn't affect the present situation."

"I'll accept that—for now," said K'Tran. "But explain this—if you take
Implacable
back to Prime Base, what are you going to use for this daring raid of yours?"

"There's a way for the raid to go on," said R'Gal, "without
Implacable.
And a way for me to prove once and for all where my loyalties lie." He looked at K'Tran. "I'll need your help."

"What is this plan?" said D'Trelna.

R'Gal looked at him. "I'll help provide a substitute vessel for the trip through the portal—one that will stand a chance."

"What sort of a ship?" said D'Trelna. "Not a ship," said R'Gal. "An AI battleglobe. Gentlemen, I propose we capture a battleglobe."

"So it seems."

The vanguard was a small force, only sixty-two battle-globes, commanded by Admiral Binor aboard Devastator. They'd penetrated the great swirling eye of the Rift, regrouped, and moved toward the D'Linian system, every ship on full alert.

The distress call had come halfway to their destination— garbled, explosions audible in the background. Advance units sent to meet the Combine ships were under attack, by . . . Then nothing.

Urgent messages to Combine T'Lan headquarters had gone unacknowledged.

Shields at max, commlinks feeding all scans back through the Rift, the task force had swept into the D'Linian system.

Only one unknown vessel came up to tacscan—a single ship, circling D'Lin.

"Identification made," said the ship's captain. "It's the vessel the Combine outfitted for brain storage.''

"And the other ships, the Combine's and ours?" asked Admiral Binor.

"Scanning debris, fusion discharges and recent ion trails," reported the captain. "There was a large battle in this system, very recently."

"Which we lost."

"Hail the brain ship." said Binor. "We have. No response."

Disabuse yourselves, R'Gal had said, of your piquant notions of machines-as-life.

The AI admiral sat at his station, staring at the viewscreen closeup of the ship orbiting D'Lin. In Terran terms he seemed to be about sixty, with silver gray hair and a tanned, sharp-chiseled face. Radiation-sensitive skin was a cosmetic luxury, an enduring fashion inspired by the natural changes observed in human skin.

"Anything else?" asked the admiral, turning to the captain.

The flagship's captain was a purist, one of the growing number of fundamentalists who disdained the blatant copying of human form and convention that went with command caste status. He hovered before the admiral, a translucent blue ball a meter in diameter, rippling blue energies dimly perceivable through his skin. A few centuries ago an officer of his rank would have exchanged the tidy blue globe for a human-looking body and its riot of tactile sensations.

"Spacejunk—lots of it," said the captain. "Probably from the asteroid belt we passed. The screens will process it."

"Scan the brain ship and then bring it aboard, very carefully."

"At once, sir," said the captain, returning to his station.

The admiral walked to the railing and stood looking down on Operations. A mixed group of blue globes and human-adapted AIs manned the battleglobe's heart, directing the operations of the immense ship from half a hundred consoles. The rest of the battleglobe was attended only by repair droids, security blades, gun crews and a few technicians. Mostly automated, the great ship was a testimonial to the genius of AI engineering.

Binor's gaze traveled out the sweep of armorglass girdling Operations. As far as the eye could see stretched weapons batteries, sensor nodules, shield transponders, and, almost at the horizon, a black needle, twin to the Operations tower where Binor stood: flight control.
Devastator
carried craft the size of
Implacable,
designed to sweep into hostile planets under the fire of the mother ship, land and seize control. The invasion craft were berthed miles below, nestled in their battlesteel cocoons, awaiting their time. Not long now, thought Binor. Await the Fleet, install the cyberpaks—brains—in the damaged ships, then move on in strength.

"Admiral."

The captain was back.

"We have the ship in tow—scan shows no fusion weapons on board. We're tractoring it to Hold Seventeen for inspection."

The admiral nodded. "Security units and cybertechs to meet me at Hold Seventeen. All ships to maintain present position off D'Lin."

The ship lurched again as the tractors let go. Cursing, John stumbled in the dark, shoulder slamming off a bulkhead.

"They're trying to bruise us to death," whispered John.

"Quiet!" hissed L'Wrona from somewhere in the darkness. "They're coming."

Go for it, R'Gal, thought John as the big cargo locks swung open and light poured in. Squinting in the sudden glare, he could see the vast expanse of gray-white deck beyond the door, with cargo hoists and other machinery clustered nearby. Then three blades appeared in the doorway, red sensors scanning the hold.

R'Gal stood. He was wearing a black uniform, the insignia of the Fleet of the One on his shoulder: a pyramid with three blue eyes, one at each corner of the triangle.

"Kanto," he said. "Commander of this ship and the only survivor." Kanto had commanded the ship until the Components boarded and killed him.

Three red eyes had locked onto him when he stood.

Two of those eyes resumed scanning while the center machine focused on R'Gal. "Don't scan here," ordered R'Gal. "You'll disturb the brainpods." The blades stopped scanning.

"Follow us," said the center blade. John started at the voice—it was female. Then the blades and R'Gal were gone, leaving the doors open.

"Wait for my signal," said L'Wrona, slipping to the doorway to watch R'Gal and the reception party.

"Captain Kanto," said the blade, hovering attentively.

R'Gal saluted the admiral. Binor ignored it. "What happened?" he said, then stopped, frowning. "Have we met before, Captain?"

The two stood in the cargo hold, the admiral surrounded by fifty gleaming blades and some dusky-red spherical cybertechs, R'Gal backdropped by the Combine cruiser— two miles of battlesteel and instrument pods, dwarfed by the gray immensity of Hold Seventeen.

R'Gal shook his head. "No, sir. We've never met," he lied, gauging the strength of Binor's escort and the distance to the nearest cover. Too many, too far, he decided.

"We were attacked by a ship of unknown origin and design," he said.

"A single ship defeated the Combine forces and three battleglobes?" said Binor, incredulous.

"Yes, Admiral."

"Tell me about it on the way to Operations," said Binor. He turned to the cybertechs. "Inspect the cargo and begin unloading."

"Anything?" said D'Trelna, stepping over the tangle of power lines that snaked across the bridge. "Nothing," said K'Raoda.

Implacable's
bridge swarmed with engineering techs. Welding torches arced blue all around as repairs entered their fourth, frenetic watch. The air stank of scorched metal and sweat, the underpowered scrubbers falling farther and farther behind.

"Remember," said the commodore, touching K'Raoda's shoulder, "the go signal only on my order."

"Understood, sir."

The cruiser lay hidden on one of D'Lin's three airless moons, nestled among the ruins of an Imperial fleetbase, a remote sensor comm bundled in low orbit overhead, transmitting in random, high speed bursts.

Outside, on the pickup, the commodore could see what was left of the old base: shattered towers, gutted defense batteries, the skeleton of a wrecked transport, its duralloy ribs shining in the sunlight like the bones of some beached behemoth. Little erased by time, missile craters and fusion furrows were spread across the base like a pox.

The Fall? wondered D'Trelna. Or before, from R'Gal and the R'Actolians? No matter now.

Looking back at the tacscan, he ran a sleeve across his sweating brow. I must be crazy, he thought: a corsair-listed officer, commanding a crippled cruiser, in league with a flotilla manned by disembodied brains, transmutes and AIs, out to beat the vanguard of man's ancient foe.

"Assault initiated," said K'Raoda, pointing at a winking red telltale.

"Advise assault boats and fighters to stand by. And alert K'Tran."

Gods! thought D'Trelna as the orders went out—if we pull this off!

It was over in seconds: L'Wrona waited until all eight cybertechs had drifted in, then took out the first three, each well-placed blot exploding a sphere with a sharp crack. Other blasters joined in, reducing the cybertechs to flaming scrap.

The captain slipped through the wreckage to the doorway, looked carefully about, then motioned to the others.

They ran down the big cargo ramp, a score of blackuniformed commandos and two Terrans, following L'Wrona toward the distant spire of an n-grav lift.

"All security units will escort the flagship commander and me to Operations," R'Gal had said. "You'll have that long to make it to the n-grav lift. You won't meet the blades coming back—they transport through security shafts that web the ship. The lift's for cargo and those like myself who don't fly."

Almost a mile, thought John, lungs bursting, as he reached the lift.

Breathing lightly, S'Til arrived and slapped him on the shoulder. "You should have jogged deck four with me at firstwatch."

"Eight miles?" he panted, leaning against the lift shaft. "I'd rather die." He straightened up, looking at L'Wrona. Christ, he thought, the bastard's not even sweating.

The captain was looking up, eyes following the lift shaft. An apparently endless cylindrical tower of black armorglass, it soared beyond sight toward the hold's ceiling.