The AI War (28 page)

"How high is it? Two, three miles?" wondered John, craning his neck.

"Let's find out," said L'Wrona, pressing a button. Thick double doors trundled open, exposing a well-lit interior the size of a shuttle craft.

"Everyone in," said the captain.

Somewhere behind them a siren began to wail. L'Wrona triggered the doors shut, pressed the buttons R'Gal had told him to press, and prayed.

With a sudden whine of power, the lift began moving, accelerating into the battleglobe's upper regions.

"Sit," said Binor, indicating a chair.

R'Gal sat. The admiral's office was behind a glass wall overlooking Operations.

"The ship you describe, Captain Kanto," said Binor, sitting on the edge of his desk, looking down at R'Gal, "shows up in Archives as a symbiotechnic dreadnought—a cybernetic monstrosity of this reality, evidently conceived during the humans' Imperial period. It's probably the only thing they've ever built that could engage one of our battleglobes on an equal basis. But"—he leaned closer—"they were all dismantled or destroyed, thousands of years ago. Were you attacked by a ghost ship, Captain?"

"Admiral," said R'Gal, "it was real—it swept in with no sensor warning, opened up, took out the three battle-globes, then chased our Combine escort vessels away. My crew took to the lifepods, hoping to escape before that ship returned. They didn't make it."

"So you hid in the cargo hold?" said Binor.

R'Gal shrugged. "I couldn't run the ship by myself. I was going to destroy the cargo if they boarded—but they didn't. Then your ships—"

Binor held up a hand, then reached over to answer a privacy-shielded call.

I know what that is, thought R'Gal, gauging again the distance to the door, the placement of security blades around Operations. They've just run Kanto's security profile against my own. Surprise.

The admiral turned back, nodding. "Of course," he said slowly. "Stupid of me not to remember. R'Gal, isn't it? You were Director of Labor Exploitation in one of the Vintan sectors—led your whole sector in the Revolt. I took Flotilla Thirty-eight in against you—you broke us, you, your humans—and those others. And now?" His eyes were shading over into red, fusion bolts barely held in check.

"We're taking your ship," said R'Gal, "and your rotten empire." He fired an instant ahead of the admiral, striking centerpoint on the other's forehead.

His aim distorted, Binor's bolts struck R'Gal's chest and were dissipated by his shield. R'Gal fired three more times, the third salvo bursting through the admiral's forehead, destroying the intricate crystalline web of his brain.

Binor tumbled to the deck, the shattered ruin of his skull still smoking as R'Gal leaped through the window, landing on the Operations floor in a shower of glass. A blur of motion, he made for armored doors now opening for the next watch.

Blaster bolts ripping after him, R'Gal tore through the scattering crew. Firing from eyes and hands, his body glowing red from the return fire, he seemed the embodiment of destruction, an elemental force knifing through the universe.

It was over in seconds, R'Gal gone, the corridor littered with lesser AIs, alarms ringing, blades flashing from the bridge in pursuit.

The Operations tower was too distant, too well protected to feel the explosions, but the sensors flashed their warning. In an instant the lesser alarms were superseded by the wail of the general quarters. Their dead forgotten, the Operations crew went to battle stations as
Devastator
came under attack.

The assault boat was crowded, packed with D'Linian troopers, a sprinkling of K'Ronarin crew and commandos, and one Terran.

"I feel like a game bird, trussed up after the hunt," grumbled L'Kor, trying to adjust the cinching on his safety webbing.

"Here," said Zahava, reaching over, tugging on his shoulder straps. Like the rest, she was strapped into the duraplast webbing that hung from the boat's ceiling, swinging gently in the zero gravity, facing the gray battlesteel of the bulkhead. "Better?" she asked, finishing.

The major nodded. "Thanks." He glanced to their right and the closed door of the pilot's cabin. "Are we just going to hang here forever?"

"The worst part of war," she said.

"What is?" said the D'Linian.

"Waiting," said Zahava. "Old saying."

D'Trelna had set down on the exarch's lawn at high noon, the sun gleaming on the shuttle's silver skin. Wearing his best uniform, medals and boots shining, he'd met the surprised D'Linians halfway between Residence and shuttle. L'Kor was followed by twenty or so soldiers and civilians, all silent, watching D'Trelna. "Major," said the commodore, "the AIs are returning in strength. We need your help."

"You can stop them?" asked the soldier.

"We're going to try. Are you with us?"

"Tell me, does this thing work?" It was Lieutenant S'Lat. She hung to Zahava's right, pinching the thin silver fabric of her warsuit. "It isn't just a totem to lift the natives' morale?"

"It works," said the Terran. "It's saved us before, and will again. Just remember not to expose it to multiple weapons fire, or it'll fail."

"Tell that to the AIs," said S'Lat, checking her blastrifle.

D'Trelna had waited until Zahava was alone, ambushing her as she was working out in a rec area. "I have a great opportunity for you," he said as she chinned herself on a pair of ceiling-hung rings.

"What?" she grunted, trying for three more.

"A chance to be with our D'Linian friends again. Especially after you so distinguished yourself on . . ."

Zahava dropped lightly to the padded floor. "Level, Commodore," she said, picking up her towel and wiping the sweat from her face and neck.

D'Trelna shrugged. "Fine. I'm out of field commanders. L'Wrona, S'Til and John are going with the infiltration unit. K'Raoda could handle it, but I need him here. Someone"—he studied the ceiling—"has to lead the direct assault against the battleglobe's Operations tower."

"Otherwise?" she said, holding the towel around her neck.

"Debacle. The D'Linians are competent soldiers, but they've never stormed a spacecraft before, never gone up against aliens in their home environment before." He jabbed a thick finger at her. "You have. And you're good at it—you think on your feet and you put the mission first."

She thought about it for a second, then nodded. "Okay, but . . ."

"Yes?"

"The infiltration group pulls out first, don't they?" D'Trelna nodded. "That's the plan."

"Good. Don't tell John."

"But . .
."

She shook her head firmly. "No. He's overprotective— he'd only make these next few watches unpleasant for all of us. And besides, knowing I was in danger would only lessen his effectiveness."

The commodore nodded. "Whatever you want."

A gong chimed three times. "Assault commencing," said the pilot's voice over speakers and commnet.

"Helmets on," called Zahava, unsnapping her own helmet from the closure in front of her. It was a clear glass bubblehelm, nothing unusual—except that it stopped fusion bolts. As she twisted it on, hearing it click into place, the assault boat's n-gravs whined higher, leading eight similar ships toward the AI battleglobe.

As they moved out, Zahava said a silent prayer for all of them.

"All boats away, Commodore," said K'Raoda.

D'Trelna nodded absently, watching the tacscan. Thirty-four of the battleglobes had encountered the mindslavers' version of the Mangier mine. They were overlayed with red on the tacscan. The rest, overlayed with blue, remained untouched.

"Shield power down an average of forty-eight point seven percent on affected battleglobes, Commodore," reported K'Raoda from the tactics station.

"And the globe that seized the brainship?" said D'Trelna, seeking to confirm what the tacscan said.

"Shield power down forty-two percent."

"Where the hell is K'Tran?" said D'Trelna, rising to pace behind the first officer's station.

"Here they come," said K'Raoda, pointing to a series of telltales. "Usual weird sensor scan—almost no warning."

"Mindslavers launching missiles, and exchanging fusion salvos with battleglobes. Units breaking up into individual combat," reported K'Raoda.

The tacscan danced with light as the ships maneuvered for advantage, beams and missiles flashing between them.

D'Trelna's commlink came on. It was N'Trol. "Want some bad news?" said the engineer.

D'Trelna scowled. "Does it regard the safety of the ship or the present engagement?"

"No."

"No," said D'Trelna, thumbing off the commlink.

"Wouldn't you like to be on the AI flagship's bridge right about now, Mr. K'Raoda?" said the commodore, watching the tacscan.

"No sir, not at all."

An agitated red sphere, the captain moved from station to station. "Shield status?" he asked, halting at defense screen control.

''Down one third," said the human-adapted AI manning the position. "We lost seven main-line and four auxiliary shield transponders. Situation has stabilized."

"Sir." It was combat control.

"What?" said the captain, moving right.

"We've lost four ships."

The AI officer read the scan—four battleglobes destroyed; enemy losses, none. "Enemy closing."

The image of a pair of mindslavers came onto the battlescreen, moving in on the representation of
Devastator.

"All batteries open fire," ordered the captain.

Wave after overlapping save of light flashed across the battleglobe's surface as thousands of missile and fusion batteries sent awesome salvos of death out towards the mindslavers. Above,
Devastator's
shield glowed bright red, absorbing the slavers' counterfire.

"This is it," whispered L'Wrona. Just around the corner, halfway down a long gray corridor, two blades hovered before a closed door. "Sure?" whispered John.

The captain nodded. "According to R'Gal—and this is all according to R'Gal." He turned to his troop. "With me," he said.

They came around the corner, firing, a line of black-uniformed humans rushing the blades.

Three commandos died in seconds, torn by perfectly aimed blaster fire; then the blades went down, blown apart by the return volley.

They were still skidding along the deck as S'Til slapped the blastpak against the door, then joined the others pressed against the wall.

The door disappeared in a burst of orange flame, the explosion reverberating down the long corridor. Charging into the room, the humans gunned down a pair of cybertechs trying to hide behind the long banks of equipment.

"Which one?" said John, looking around the big room as the rest of the force fanned back out into the corridor.

"Here," said L'Wrona, leading him to a group of five yellow-colored machines standing slightly apart from the rest. Taking a flat metal device from his pocket, he set it atop a console, then knelt and snapped open the machine's inspection hatch. A glittering web of multicolored light greeted him, thousands of delicate strands busily maintaining
Devastator's
shield.

"Found it," said the captain, gently fingering a connection. "Pass me the suppressor."

As John turned, reaching for the device, a blaster bolt snapped past his chest and plowed into the console, just missing his hand and shattering the suppressor.

Whirling, John drew and fired, destroying a third cybertech who'd lain hidden behind a machine housing.

L'Wrona and John stood for a moment, looking at the shattered bits of the suppressor.

"Now what?" asked the Terran.

"Manual override," said the K'Ronarin. "It's only temporary, though." He looked at the time. "It'll be enough for the boats."

"What about the ship?"

"We can't wait here. We'll have to do that the hard way. Stay here, push this button"—he indicated a red control—"when I say to."

John nodded as L'Wrona walked to the end machine and stood, finger poised above a button. "Now," he called.

Both men pressed at the same instant.

Unprotesting, all but one of the consoles died, lights winking off.

"And out," said L'Wrona.

"Did it work?" asked S'Til, not taking her eyes from the corridor.

"We'll know soon," said L'Wrona, glancing at the time. "On to our secondary target."

The small force moved out on the double, following L'Wrona back toward the lift.

The alarm was deafening, an alert fit for the end of the universe. The AI on shield control glanced at telltale, then flipped a switch, tapped it, then flipped it again. The readout was unchanged. "Captain," he called, "confirming shields down. Someone's cut the fusion flow in shield nexus seventeen."

The warning was unnecessary. All Operations personnel were looking up through the armorglass—the blue glow that protected them was gone.

"Reaction force and repair party dispatched," reported the senior security blade.

"Much it will help us," said the AI captain. He moved to the glass wall. "Why are we still alive?"

"Enemy withdrawing," came the report a second later.

The battlescreen showed the two mindslavers moving off, replaced by a handful of smaller craft.

The captain hovered for a moment, immobile, not trusting his sensors. Finally he spoke. "They're attacking us. In assault craft. They plan to seize this ship." Finally convincing himself that it was true, he moved back into the center of Operations. "Fusion batteries to open fire. All available security forces deploy to repel boarders."

R'Gal told them they couldn't take the battleglobes' primary generating facility—too big, too well guarded But . . .

There were two primary feeds leading off a tertiary power nexus. That nexus, R'Gal had said, powered the gun and missile batteries in quadrants seven red through eleven yellow—the only quadrants that could accurately range in on the assault boats.

"And how long has it been since you've been aboard a battleglobe, R'Gal?" D'Trelna had asked.

"Irrelevant, Commodore," the AI had said. "I forget nothing."

"And if they've changed the design?"

"They won't have."