The AI War (5 page)

John stood. "No one's asked it. Let me be the one. What is there about this part of the galaxy, this Quadrant Blue Nine? According to the computer, no ship that ever came here alone has returned—not in over four thousand years. And," he continued as L'Wrona tried to interrupt, "any inquiries for data older than that gets a 'Non-Available.' "

"I know," said D'Trelna, leaning on the podium. "All information regarding this sector is proscribed and available only if we're under attack."

"That's an awful burden to operate under," said John.

"I protested," said D'Trelna. "S'Gan protested. To no avail."

"What do we know?" asked N'Trol.

"Just this," said L'Wrona. "Something happened here that wiped the colonies in this sector and shook the Imperials down to their battle boots. They put this whole quadrant—that's two hundred cubed light-years, gentlemen— under interdict and never came back again."

"The Confederation probed Blue Nine infrequently, John," said D'Trelna. "Computer gave you those results."

"Could it have to do with the Trel?" asked Zahava.

"May we soon find out," said the commodore.

"And survive the experience," said N'Trol.

"Here comes Fats," said A'Tir, putting the forward scan on main screen.

Looking up from ship's status reports, K'Tran read the tactical data threading across the bottom of the screen. On her present course,
Implacable
would pass close to where
Victory Day
drifted, not a light showing, her engines cold.

"Select down to auxiliary power, K'Lal," K'Tran ordered. "They've got Imperial-grade sensors."

"Selecting down," said the corsair, entering a command. The lighting and instrumentation dimmed.

"Their sensors will read our hull," said A'Tir, watching
Implacable
grow large on the screen.

"Fine," said K'Tran, dialing a drink from the chairarm. "Spectroscopy's going to show we're a meteor—nickel-and-iron."

"The camouflage baffling," she said.

"The camouflage baffling." He sipped his t'ata and grimaced. "K'Lal, this is ice-cold."

"Beverage warming's not a priority on auxiliary, skipper," said K'Lal dryly, adjusting a telltale.

"Hazards of combat." K'Tran dropped the cup into a disposer.

Implacable
was moving off now, the menacing weapons batteries and sensor clusters shrinking on the screen.

"What concerns me," said K'Tran, "is our symmetry. If her computer considers that an anomaly, alarms are going to sound."

"Not to worry," said A'Tir, turning from her console.

"When they pulled those L'Aal-class cruisers from stasis they modified the shit out of the sensor package—slapped a restrictive overlay on it."

"What are you saying? They downgraded it?"

She nodded. "Right down to the primaries. It's our old unreasoning fear of artificial intelligence."

"Not all that unreasoning," said K'Tran. "The Machine Wars—AIs almost wiped the Empire. Fleet doesn't take chances, especially with resurrected Imperial systems."

"She's stopping," said A'Tir.
Implacable
was now stationary, screen-center.

"She's reached the last set of coordinates, and only one watch after us," said K'Tran. "Not bad." His eyes swept the sensor readings. "At last"—he leaned back in his chair—"after fifty centuries, a ship of K'Ronar is at the legendary Trel Cache. One would expect something dramatic-—the universe trembling, stellar pyrotechnics, the end to life as we know it. Music. Certainly there should be music." He spread his hands. "Nothing. Not even the Trel Cache."

An alarm beeped. Silencing it, K'Lal read the new data. "Something big, coming in fast." He frowned. "I don't believe these readings!"

Nine long strides brought K'Tran to the tactics console. His eyes widened as he read the scan. "Big? It's the size of a city! Look at those weapons and speed readings!"

"Going for
Implacable,'"
said A'Tir from her station.

"Slowing," said K'Lal. "Just at the edge of visual." His fingers flew over the complink, trying to firm the pickup.

The main screen blurred, the view shifting from
Implacable
to a black blur.

"Split it," said K'Tran. "Tactical projection."

The space view shrank to the top half of the screen as the bottom half blanked. Data slowly threaded along the margins as a three-color, tri-dee projection began to form with agonizing slowness. "What are you running, one sensor array?" asked K'Tran, frowning.

"Even that's a risk. Counterscan could still pick us up."

"Dump visual, then."

An instant later the tactical projection occupied the entire screen.

A'Tir whistled softly. "Ten times our mass," she said, reading the scan. "Weapons batteries the size of our engines. Citadel-class shielding." She looked at K'Tran. "We don't make anything like that. What is it?"

"Something we once made, long ago," said K'Tran quietly, watching the screen. "It's a mindslaver."

As they watched, red beams sprang from the center of the projection. "And it's about to wipe
Implacable,"
he added.

They'd told K'Raoda
what they were going to say at the briefing, taken a final look at the tacscan and left him in command. It had been quiet for a while, just he,
T
'Ral and a handful of others on the big bridge. He rose, stretching, then stepped to the nearest food server, dialing up soup.

"Incoming vessel," said the computer.

K
'Raoda was back in the command chair, soup forgotten.
"K
'Lana," he said to the comm officer, "challenge. Y'Gan, give me a tactical work up."

"Incoming vessel does not respond," said
K
'Lana after a moment.

"What have you got?" he asked, swiveling the chair toward
T
'Ral.

"Huge," said T'Ral. "No current tactical configuration. Wait. Archival match. It's
..."

He stood, seeing his death on the screen. "It's a mindslaver, T'Lei."

It flashed onto the screen as K'Raoda thumbed the battle stations' tab—twenty dark miles of battlesteel, instrument pods and weapons turrets.

"Command staff to bridge!" K'Raoda called above the klaxon's din. "Command staff to bridge!"

"Full evasive pattern, Y'Gan. Everything she'll do."

"Implementing," said the commander, fingers flying over the complink.

"Engineering," continued K'Raoda, turning to the white-uniformed tech at the engineering station, "cycle to drive. Gunnery, stand by."

Thick as a shuttle craft, cobalt blue fusion beams lashed out from the mindslaver, striking midpoint on
Implacable
's shield, buffeting the cruiser like a gale.

"Shield power down four point eight percent," said the engineering tech.

The mindslaver ceased firing.

"Just probing our shield," said K'Raoda.

"Slaver holding position relative to our own," said T'Ral. Different constellations were now on main screen— the black ship still sat screencenter. "We're almost at light one!"

"That's not astrogation," said K'Raoda. "It's magic." The battle klaxon stopped.

"All battle stations manned," reported K'Lana. "Damage control reports compiling. Gunnery requests permission to fire."

"I'll take your damage control," said the engineering tech.

"T'Laka," said K'Raoda over the commnet, "hold fire. We need everything for the shield. He's going to pour it on. Jump us out of here!" he ordered the engineering tech. "Now!"

The mindslaver fired, over a hundred batteries working

Implacable
in a carefully predetermined pattern. The shield began to glow, a sullen burnt umbra.

"We can't jump," said the engineering tech, turning from the console. "Not and hold shielding."

"Shield failing, sections one, five, seven and twelve," said the computer. "Failure imminent. Failure imminent."

"K'Lana," said K'Raoda hollowly, "transfer ship's logs to drone pod and launch."

"Pod launched," said K'Lana.

A round ball of silver flashed by on the screen. Piercing the shield, it wove between the blaster beams and was gone.

The shield was turning an eye-searing white. The glare eased as the computer filtered the pickup. "Shield failure," it said, "mark fifty. Forty-nine
..."

"I'd blow us up, right in its teeth, Y'Gan," said K'Raoda above the computer's death count, "but we need another senior officer to implement destruct."

"Let's not be hasty," said a new voice. D'Trelna stood behind the command tier.

"Commodore!" cried K'Raoda. "It—"

"I know," said D'Trelna as the count reached thirty. "Picked you up at rendezvous point. I've been listening on the tactical band."

He turned to the comm officer. "K'Lana, give me broad band linkage to that horror."

"Linkage established," she said at twenty.

"Commodore D'Trelna to mindslaver," he said, dropping into the flag chair. "Acknowledge."

"We hear," hissed a cold whisper from chair and wall speakers.

"Fifteen," said the computer.

"Here's a hideous poem you should like—Necropolis School—Late Empire:

"Sad-eyed S'Hra laments no more. For as the metra petals drift down from Q'Nar's rough hills
..."

D'Trelna paused, fingertips pressed expectantly together. "Six," said the computer.

"Proud Death slips gently to her side," came the cold whisper. "Welcome, Commodore. Proud Death is at your side. We are the last dreadnought of R'Actol,
Alpha Prime—
your navigation beacon."

"Zero," said the computer. Outside, the shield died even as the mindslaver ceased fire.

"We have a commwand for you, Commodore," said the mindslaver. "We will await your courier."

In a single fluid movement, the engineering tech rose from his console, drew his blaster and fired through the back of D'Trelna's chair.

The briefing ended abruptly as the battle klaxon's
awooka!
sparked a rush for the door.

John and Zahava were just behind D'Trelna and L'Wrona, running for the lift as the battle klaxon continued.

Zahava grabbed John's arm. "T'Lan," she said, pointing to where a door marked Ladder Access 17 was sliding shut.

"Maintenance and emergency use," John shouted above the klaxon. "Goes to every deck." Crew members ran past them, heading for battle stations.

The Terrans pressed against the wall, moving toward the access door. "Think T'Lan's battle station is on the ladder?" said John.

"No."

The battle klaxon stopped as they stepped through the doorway.

They were on a round apron of gleaming duralloy. A ladder of the same material ran as far as they could see in both directions, narrowing to a distant smudge. A warm air current tousled their hair.

There was no sign of Commander T'Lan.

John touched the communicator at his throat. "Computer. Advise if any doors from the access ladder seventeen have been opened in the last three t'lars."

"Deck seven twice," said the machine. "And hangar deck once, one z'lin later."

The two Terrans looked at each other. "That's five decks in about a minute," said Zahava. "What'd he do, fly?"

"Let's get to hangar deck," said John, stepping onto the first rung.

D'Trelna and L'Wrona burst onto the bridge, then halted, staring at the frozen tableau: Colonel R'Gal, in engineering white, standing with his weapon pointed at the charred, empty ruins of the flag chair, half a dozen blasters leveled at him; the great black bulk of the mindslaver filling the main screen; K'Raoda looking uncertainly at D'Trelna.

"What's going on here?" said L'Wrona.

Animation returned. Everyone tried to speak at once.

"Silence!" snapped the commodore. "You first, R'Gal." He pointed to the intelligence officer. "And put that thing away," he added. He looked around the bridge. "All of you, back to your posts."

Nodding, the colonel holstered his
Mil
A. "I was manning the bridge engineering station. A person we believed to be you entered the bridge, assumed command and saved us from that mindslaver, using an authenticator only you, I and L'Wrona know. As a Watcher, I felt a growing conviction it was a S'Cotar transmute. I allowed it to save us, then drew on it. It flicked away as I fired. I'll need a force of commandos to scour the ship. It's probably—"

D'Trelna cut him off, pointing to K'Raoda. "Next."

The commander gave a succinct report, adding, "What's happening, Commodore?"

"Good question," said D'Trelna. "We were sent to meet a navigation beacon. Instead, we get a mindslaver." He looked at R'Gal. "Fleet Intelligence prepared our mission specs." He turned to the bridge crew. "Gentlemen, this is Colonel R'Gal, of our illustrious Fleet Intelligence.

"You slime set us up, didn't you, R'Gal?"

The colonel nodded, nonplussed. "Would you have gone if we'd told you what Pocsym actually said? That you'd have to face a slaver?"

"We go where we're sent, R'Gal," said L'Wrona, turning from the damage control reports. "We do what we're told."

"What is that?" D'Trelna jerked a thumb toward the mindslaver.

"Let's let the computer tell you," said R'Gal, touching a complink. "Computer. Tactical-Imperative. Authentica-tor Prime One Four Nine. R'Actolian biofabs, history."

The computer's pleasant contralto spoke for a time.

"Alpha Prime,"
said K'Tran, almost to himself. "Of course." He swiveled the command chair. "A'Tir, Blue Nine's the R'Actol Quadrant."

"The what?" she said, busy trying to drift them closer to
Implacable
and the mindslaver, now almost back to their original positions.

"The Empire suppressed the information. So did the Confederation." He shook his head. "Had I known this assignment was in the R'Actol Quadrant, A'Tir, we'd have done something safer—like raiding FleetOps."

She turned from her work. "You going to tell me what a R'Actolian is?" she asked, pushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. "And what it has to do with that monstrosity?" She nodded at the screen.