The AI War (12 page)

"You'd kill me, after going to so much trouble to save me?"

"No," said the S'Cotar. "I'd leave you here, alone. You'd be tracked down and brainstripped within the hour.'' A long elegant finger circled the cranium. "Plop! Into the pod with the brain, and into component reserve with the body."

"Component reserve?" said John uneasily.

"Resource management," said the S'Cotar. "Brain power runs the ship, brainstripped bodies defend it. But with a twist: The original minds still control their original bodies, when those components are activated."

"Grotesque."

"But efficient," said Guan-Sharick. "Who could operate a body better than its original occupant? Besides, it provides superb catharsis for the mindslaves—a brief end to the sensory deprivation that drives so many of them mad, yet gives the ship its unique capabilities. A chance to breathe, walk, eat, smell, fornicate, kill—humanity's rai-son d'etre."

"Big Brother monitors all of this?"

"Of course," nodded the S'Cotar. "But the R'Actolians only provide mission direction. They won't interfere so long as the components don't damage the ship, eat what they kill and generally clean up after themselves. Then it's back to the cryonics tank till the next frolic."

John cleared his throat. "How can I help you?"

Standing, the S'Cotar drew its side arm and extended it to John, butt first. "Help all of us. Get rid of T'Lan."

The Terran's hand halted halfway to the weapon. "With a pistol? Does it fire nuclear warheads?"

"Take it," said Guan-Sharick, wrapping the man's fingers around the grips.

Dubiously John examined the weapon, turning it in his hands. It was smaller than the K'Ronarin blasters, perfectly balanced and cast of some gleaming silver alloy. There was a small triangular device set high in the left grip: silver spaceship, golden sun, and three perfect blue eyes in each corner. A small golden "2" was etched above the sun.

' "That's the symbol of the AIs,'' said the Terran, holding the weapon close. "The Fleet of the One." As he peered at the device, the three eyes seemed to catch the light, reflecting it back in a brief burst of white. John almost dropped the weapon, blinking, his eyes tearing. "What the hell . . ."

"A thing of power," said the S'Cotar. "Now it knows you."

"Knows me?"

Guan-Sharick sighed. "I don't have time to tell you, Harrison. You probably wouldn't believe me anyway. That weapon's a totem, sort of, part of the long and intricate chain of causality between organic and inorganic life."

"And the symbol?" said John, carefully touching the triangle. It was warm. "You're giving me an AI weapon to kill an AI?"

The blonde head shook. "No. The weapon and the symbol predate the Fleet of the One. The AIs have adopted the symbol. And you're not killing T'Lan—you're doing something worse to him."

"Why not do it yourself?" asked John, more confused than enlightened.

"I can't," said Guan-Sharick. "There's something about T'Lan's shield that distorts my senses, my abilities—you're the only one who can get close enough. Remember, weakness can be a strength—T'Lan's dismissed you as a threat."

"Bull," said John, tucking the weapon into his belt. "How do I get there?"

"I'll flick you down, just outside the bridge, away from the command tier. Beware—an AI doesn't need a weapon-it fires through its eyes."

"Great."

The S'Cotar vanished, reappearing a very long moment later. "D'Trelna's come in after you," it said quickly. "He's under attack. I'll do what I can for them. Listen carefully. The commwand will be in or on the command console—it's a small, white cylinder. Shoot T'Lan and get the commwand to
Implacable."

"And nothing else matters? What about D'Trelna and his group?"

"Much else matters," said the blonde. "But not to you, not now."

"But D'Trelna
..."

"Harrison, there's no time for this! Without the commwand, there's no Trel Cache. No Trel Cache, no weapon. No weapon, the AIs win and we become just two more failed species. Death is forever. Luck to you."

The Council Chamber was empty.

"Die," hissed D'Trelna, teeth gritted. "Die! Die!" He stood between L'Wrona and S'Til, punctuating each word with a burst from his Uzi.

The ping and whine of ricochets mingled with the sound of boots thundering down the deck and the chatter of automatic weapons' fire. The pungent odor of cordite filled the air. To D'Trelna, it smelled like fear.

"Kee-yaaaaa!"
The scream of the bayonet assault rang down the corridor as the components closed, oblivious to the gunfire ripping into their charge, leaping their undead as they closed on the K'Ronarins.

Cursing, palms slippery with sweat, D'Trelna fumbled another magazine into the Uzi, looking up just as the surviving components crashed into the K'Ronarin line. He had a brief impression of close-cropped hair, Imperial collar badges and hate-contorted faces. Then he was sidestepping, dodging a bayonet thrust at his heart. Moving, the commodore fired, putting a burst into what looked like a corporal.

The component dropped, its heart shredded. Even before its body crumpled, all animation had fled, leaving that strong, blunt face a slack-jawed, empty husk, the mind fleeing the pain to the armored safety of its distant brainpod.

D'Trelna didn't notice, whirling at the warning, "J'Quel! Left!"

An NCO was almost on top of him, smiling maniacally as he swung a rifle butt at the commodore's head. Sidestepping, D'Trelna fired one-handed. The burst went high, punching through the eyes, exploding the empty skull with a dull
plop!
Horrified, he watched open-mouthed as the component, blinded but still grinning madly beneath ruined eyes and forehead, nimbly reversed its rifle and began thrusting blindly in an arc from its last position.

Perfect teeth, thought D'Trelna wildly, putting a burst into the sergeant-thing's chest, tumbling it to the deck.

"Pretty good, Commodore, for a command officer."

Breathing hard, D'Trelna turned to see all the components dispatched and S'Til kneeling, cleaning her knife on the uniformed haunch of one of her attackers. "Did you ever pull ground combat?" she asked, rising and slipping the blade back into her boot sheath.

"Not in the service of Fleet and Republic, my child," said D'Trelna.

"Casualties?" he asked L'Wrona. The captain was handing over his empties for reloading.

"None," he said, taking a fresh magazine from a private and snapping it into his machine pistol. "Only about twelve of them reached our position."

"Gods of my fathers." The commodore slumped against the shuttle, closing his eyes. "What are they?"

"Were they," corrected L'Wrona, peering at the shrinking portion of corridor still lit by the dying hover-flare. Gray-uniformed bodies heaped its length. "Imperial Marines, brainstripped millennia ago, bodies preserved for later use."

D'Trelna opened his eyes. "Individually controlled, but from some distance," he said, glancing toward the NCO he'd stopped. "That's your ancestor's command, isn't it, H'Nar?"

"That's the logical conclusion," said the captain uneasily. "Uniforms, weapons, insignia—all from that period. If so, they'll be back—an Imperial Marine brigade numbered four to five thousand troopers. Assuming even half of them survived their attack on this ship, then this"—his hand swept the carnage—"was just a reconnaissance in force—about one company." Eyes narrowing, he peered down the corridor to their left, from where the attack had come, then down the corridor to their front. Following his gaze, D'Trelna saw shadows flitting along the flare's shrinking periphery—shadows creeping in behind the dying light.

"S'Til," he called, "they're massing in the front and left corridors."

"Rear and left corridors, too," came the lieutenant's voice from the other side of the shuttle. "General assault this time. And we're out of flares."

"Should she be shouting that?" asked the commodore.

"Plenty of flares left, J'Quel," said L'Wrona softly. "Deploy!" he called. "Three to each corridor."

"We can stop thousands of those things?" said D'Trelna as commandos hurried from the shuttle, olive-drab ammunition boxes slung between them. "With twelve antiques?"

"No, of course not," said L'Wrona. "But they'll come in faster if they think we're out of flares. That way, we kill more of them."

The long and brutal war, the endless, often meaningless combat, the destruction of his home world—all had slowly eroded the captain's perspective. Recently the commodore found he could almost always rely on L'Wrona's striving to maximize enemy casualties, whether in the interests of the mission or not. D'Trelna sought to remind him of that now.

"I doubt we're really killing them, H'Nar. Life left those bodies before they were dead—like a soulwraith fleeing the dawn." He jabbed a finger at the captain. "Our mission is the commwand. We need to take the bridge, not die stupidly—or worse." He had a sudden vision of himself, L'Wrona and the commandos, shrieking wildly, joining the marines in a wild assault on some future intruders, twelve more brainstrips added to
Alpha Prime's
defenses.

S'Til appeared, holding two bayonet-fixed M16's, a third slung over her shoulder. She gave one each to commodore and captain. "For the cut and slice work," she said.

Slinging the Uzi over his back, D'Trelna wished he'd awaken in
Implacable's
big, soft flag chair, a warm cup of t'ata in hand instead of the heavy slug thrower.

"Get those flares up," said L'Wrona. A fading twilight circled them, with visibility down to about a hundred meters.

Nodding, the commando lieutenant raised the stubby flare gun and fired four quick rounds, sending new flares streaking to join the old ones. The K'Ronarins shielded their eyes as the harsh light returned, pushing the darkness back another hundred meters.

The gray host waited silently, bayonets gleaming in the new light, their ranks disappearing back into the darkness.

They watched each other for a moment, contemporary and ancient K'Ronarins, staring across millennia of blood and torment. Then the order was issued. Four horns sounded: two high, ringing notes, repeating twice, holding the last note for a moment.

Now, thought L'Wrona as the last note faded. "Fire!" he cried as the gray waves surged forward with a roar.

"Problems?" asked T'Lan, mockingly polite, watching the components falling beneath a hail of gunfire. "I thought you were going to turn the damper field off after your first debacle."

"Interference again," said the dry whisper. "Somehow the secondary transponders are being suppressed. But not by conventional means."

"Show me the suppression aura," he said. It came up on a telltale, a rotating blue-red matrix blocking all commands to the damper field nodules. "S'Cotar," announced the AI. "It snatched the Terran away, now it's helping the K'Ronarins."

"But why, T'Lan? They're enemies."

"I don't know," said the AI. It culled through millennia of memories—wars and battles, plots and intrigues, random data—nowhere was there a hint of why an alien species, defeated, virtually exterminated, would suddenly help its enemies against a foe. It bothered T'Lan. "I don't know," he repeated. "Give me a skipcomm channel to S'Hlu."

Futile, thought D'Trelna. He emptied his M16 in five long bursts and slammed in another magazine. Much too close, five components fell. Others took their place. The intersection rang to the sound of the bayonet cry. Futile and stupid to die like this, thought the commodore.

D'Trelna,
said a cold whisper inside his head.
Do exactly as I say, now, and some of you may live.

"J'Quel!" shouted L'Wrona above the screaming and the gunfire. The commodore was disappearing into the shuttle, the door cranking shut behind him.

"Captain!"

L'Wrona turned back to the assault. He and S'Til stood alone against a thousand shrieking demons. "Run!" he cried.

They made their final stand at the shuttle, back to back against the forward port landing strut, weapons at assault arms.

Silently, the components surrounded the shuttle, a watchful gray wall of blank faces. It was as if they'd expended the small allotment of emotion spared them by the R'Actolians and now stood awaiting recall.

The four corners of hell, indeed, thought L'Wrona, hands slippery with sweat. If the dead could walk, that's how they'd look. Soulwraiths, like J'Quel said. And what did D'Trelna think he was doing in there? Not like him to run.

"Captain," whispered S'Til, "they don't take us. Agreed?"

"Agreed," whispered L'Wrona. "Ammunition?"

"Three rounds, no more."

"I'm empty," he said. "Make sure you destroy our brains."

"And the commodore?"

Before L'Wrona could answer, the gray wall parted. A man strode into the circle—a strongly-built man with aquiline features and the gold comets of an Imperial admiral. He stopped at the point of L'Wrona's bayonet. "You've damaged us, Captain," he said. It was a cold, cultured voice, speaking High K'Ronarin with the accent of the Court—an accent the centuries had relegated to history tapes. "Many of us will never again experience their own bodies. My word to you, Captain—your brainpods will be part of the injured group. You'll suffer the wrath of those you've deprived and serve this ship forever."

As the component spoke, L'Wrona's gaze shifted from the green eyes to the faint scar that circled the cranium, a scar almost invisible in the dying light of the flares. "We are blood, Admiral K'Yal, you and I," said L'Wrona softly, in U'Trian. "By Tower and Oath, kinsman, I-—"

"Tower and Oath, is it?" smiled the component in the same dialect. The smile vanished. "Your ancestor died long ago, my lord Captain—moments after entering
Alpha Prime.
His consciousness is now part of a greater cause than any he served while whole. And as for you, sir— you're meat. Just as are any who see this slaver. Meat for harvesting.

"You'll find, Captain," he said in a softer tone, "that the old verities slowly fade here, carried away by the long wash of the centuries. Others more enduring will replace them." He turned to the waiting circle. "Take them to processing."