The AI War (7 page)

Zahava stood. "What are we looking for?"

R'Gal led the way past the food machines and into the corridor. "Anything that doesn't belong. It's the least visited part of the ship. If I had something to hide, I'd hide it there."

Waiting for the lift, he pointed to her holstered Mil A. "I hope you can use that."

The lift arrived with a loud ping.

"Let's hope I get a chance to show you," she said as they boarded.

The doors hissed shut on the empty gray corridor.

"You could be brainwiped for this, J'Quel!" L'Wrona's voice echoed down the passageway.

"I certainly will be if you keep announcing it, H'Nar," said D'Trelna mildly.

The two rounded the corner. In the distance, at the end of the corridor, a squad of black-uniformed commandos guarded a closed door.

"Sorry," said the captain as they walked. "But if FleetOps finds you've been hiding a stolen slaver computer on board
..."

"A rediscovered slaver computer," said the commodore.

"The distinction won't impress a tribunal. You took the thing off
TNil's Revenge,
on Terra's moon," said L'Wrona softly. "Fine. But then you hid it here"—he nodded toward the door—"and told no one. That's illegal. Now you plan to activate it, and that's criminal. FleetOps is going to do some profound reprogramming of your gray matter."

"We're hanging by our fingernails on the edge of forever," said D'Trelna. "FleetOps is not."

Ten rifles snapped to the salute as the two passed by, D'Trelna sketching a salute. "Where's Lieutenant S'Til?" he asked the NCO blocking the door.

"Dispensary, sir," said the sergeant.

D'Trelna frowned. "Odd. She's never sick."

"You going to let us in, Sergeant?" said L'Wrona.

"That's up to the computer, sir." The woman pointed to the security terminal set in the wall.

"J'Quel?" said the captain, deferring to his senior.

"Of course," said D'Trelna. He thumbed the red tab. "D'Trelna, J'Quel, Commodore."

"And L'Wrona, H'Nar, Captain," said the margrave over D'Trelna's shoulder.

The sergeant stepped aside as the door opened.

Stepping through the doorway, commodore and captain entered a wide, high-ceilinged room. Walking quickly, they passed rows of racked blasters, light artillery pieces, stacked crates of ordnance, then through a second, double-guarded door and a final security check.

"All right, J'Quel," said L'Wrona as the door slid shut behind them. "Show me."

It was a tiny room, almost a closet, its walls the same uniform gray as elsewhere—except for the wall to their left, which was white with small hexagonal niches. Sealed behind armorglass in each of the ten lighted niches gleamed a conical silver warhead. Large red lettering blazed above the warheads—lettering repeated in deathless blue flame etched into each piece of armorglass:

DEATH-WARNING! DEATH-WARNING! MO 18. G—PLANETARY-DESTRUCT WARHEAD! ANY ATTEMPT TO ACCESS WARHEAD WITHOUT FLEET-ISSUED BATTLECODE WILL DETONATE WARHEAD!

"Impressive, isn't it?" said D'Trelna. Before L'Wrona could move, he'd covered the distance to the first niche and slid the glass aside.

"J'Quel . . . !" said the captain, aghast as D'Trelna removed the warhead and began casually to unscrew it.

"When Fleet found
Implacable
and pulled her out of stasis," said the commodore, "she had only nine of those warheads. The first little baby here was gone from its creche. I appropriated the space."

L'Wrona had recovered, moving to D'Trelna's side. "So you created a dummy warhead as a hiding place." He laughed—shakily.

"I've often wondered," said D'Trelna, handing the captain the top of the hollow cone, "what poor rebel planet the Empire snuffed with it."

"We might also speculate on the nature of a culture that uses 'death-warning' as a compound noun," said L'Wrona, glancing at the red letters, "and went through eighteen generations of planet snuffers. . . . That's it?" he asked as D'Trelna held up a small golden egg.

"That's it," nodded the commodore. He handed the other half of the fake warhead to L'Wrona. "Would you replace this?" he asked.

By the time the captain had reassembled the casing and restored it to its niche, D'Trelna was standing beside the egg, blaster in hand.

"What now?" said L'Wrona.

"Now," said D'Trelna, twisting the MHA's muzzle to lowest power, "little egg grows up." He aimed two-handed at the spheroid.

L'Wrona held up a hand. "Wait, J'Quel. We'd better record this. Just in case."

"In case of what?" asked the commodore, lowering his weapon. "It eats us?"

"As I recall," said the captain, walking to the wall complink, "this unit's predecessor wanted your brain for use in some psychotic fantasy." He punched the On tab as D'Trelna grunted.

"Computer. Captain."

"Yes, Captain?" came the asexual contralto.

"Full scan of special vault, Armory One, commencing now. Record to auxiliary log only, and restrict access to Commodore D'Trelna and/or I."

"Illegal command," said the computer. "Fleet regulations require all log entries be part of ship's primary records, with exception in certain special situations. These situations are . . ."

D'Trelna glared at the complink as the machine prattled on. "I hate a self-righteous computer." He raised his blaster.

"J'Quel, let me take care of it," said L'Wrona, lowering the commodore's arm, a hand to one thick wrist.

"Computer," he continued, "implement command as given, per Directive Green Seven Nine, authenticator Silver Prime."

"Implemented, my lord." The machine now spoke with a brisk, efficient baritone.

D'Trelna stared wide-eyed at the complink, then turned to L'Wrona. "Generic override?" he guessed.

"Imperial," nodded L'Wrona. "Seventh Dynasty—about the time they built this old hulk." The two turned back to the little egg.

"Something the margravate keeps to itself?" asked D'Trelna.

"And uses sparingly," smiled L'Wrona. The smile vanished. "Don't use it, J'Quel! It wreaks havoc with the programming overlay—taps those six thousand year old Imperial systems."

"No, no. Never," swore D'Trelna. Sighting again on the egg, he pulled the trigger, bathing the spheroid in a soft, red light.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, as the blaster continued its shrilling, the egg started to glow—a golden shimmering that grew brighter as the spheroid began to swell. The two men stepped back as the slaver computer grew to fill the space in front of the warheads.

The golden shimmering dimmed, then vanished. The commodore ceased firing and holstered his weapon. The egg lay across the deck, inert.

"Well, that should have done it," said D'Trelna, frowning. "According to ship's archives, you just feed it a steady, low grade dose of energy." He shook his head. "We better get back to the bridge."

"And do what?" asked L'Wrona. "Lead the crew in prayer? No." He nodded toward the slaver machine. "There's got to be a simple activation command, common to the era." He stood staring at the golden orb, fingers softly drumming his holster.

"I'm going," said D'Trelna after a moment, stepping toward the door.

"Wait," said L'Wrona, eyes never leaving the egg. "I'm thinking."

"Think faster," said the commodore, halting reluctantly. "Or we're all going to be processed by that spaceborne abattoir out there." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"T'Nil was one of the most expansionist emperors— ever," said L'Wrona. "And this"—he pointed at the egg—"a vital component of his premier war machine. If it came out of the Fleet Fabrication Center on D'Kor, there'd be a generic activation command."

"H'Nar, please, try something."

The captain walked over to where the machine lay. "Computer," he said, looking down at it, "Destiny and Empire."

Silently, the egg righted itself and rose, hovering just above the deck. "Destiny and Empire," it said in a perfect tenor. "How may I serve?"

D'Trelna slapped L'Wrona on the back. "Well done, H'Nar!"

"T'Nil's battle cry, J'Quel," said the captain. "And the motto of all successive emperors."

"It should have been blood and empire," said the commodore, watching the computer. "Identify," he said to the machine.

"Symbiotechnic Control Unit Seven-Four-Three-Eight, replicant," said the machine. "Assigned symbiotechnic dreadnought
T'Nil's Revenge."

"Computer," said D'Trelna, "we need—"

"I am addressed as either Seven-Four-Three-Eight-R, or Egg," said the machine.

D'Trelna closed his eyes as if in pain, then opened them. "Egg," he said carefully, "we are in need of tactical data. How would a L'Aal-class cruiser defeat a mindsla—symbiotechnic dreadnought?''

"I'm not familiar with the nomenclature 'L'Aal,' " said Egg.

"You are on such a vessel now," said L'Wrona.

"Then I must have access to this ship's central computer," said the machine.

Captain and commodore exchanged glances. "What've we got to lose?" said L'Wrona.

"Very well, Egg," said D'Trelna. "Access ship's computer through the commpanel beside the door. If you need exchange protocols, we'll have our engineering-—"

Stylus-thin, a beam of soft green light shot from the top of the spheroid to the commpanel. The connection lasted only an instant, then the beam snapped off. "This L'Aal-class cruiser is almost identical to S'Htul-class police cruisers of the S'Yal dynasty. If you wish to know how it can defeat the mindslaver now confronting it . . ."

"Yes?" said the two officers.

"It cannot. Your tactical situation is hopeless."

"For this, I left the bridge?" said D'Trelna, drawing his blaster.

"However," said Egg as the commodore twisted the muzzle back to combat setting. "What?" said D'Trelna.

"In theory, two warships of this approximate class have a slight chance against a dreadnought—that is
Alpha Prime
out there?"

"Yes," said L'Wrona.

"Good. She was the first of her type, without the advanced weapons systems of later ships. With myself coordinating an attack, your ships—''

"This is our only ship," said D'Trelna.

"Your crudely inhibited sensors show a second vessel, slightly smaller than this one, but heavily armed, standing off your port, poorly disguised as a rock. As
Alpha Prime
has undoubtedly detected her presence, a joint operation would serve you both."

L'Wrona was out the door, running for the bridge before Egg had finished.

"Come with me . . . please," said the commodore.

The commando sergeant watched, bemused, as two similar shapes, one golden and metal, the other human and uniformed, moved down the corridor toward the lift.

Unable to communicate its urgent report about Egg to any station,
Implacable'%
computer kept trying to bypass the blockage. With increasing alarm, it found the restraints on its operations to be firm—and spreading.

"Why haven't I been here before?" asked Zahava.

"No need," said R'Gal as the door closed behind them. "Not unless you're abandoning ship."

They stood at one end of a brightly lit corridor. It looked like any other of
Implacable
's long gray miles, save for the ten widely interspaced doors that ran its length, five to each side. The door to Zahava and R'Gal's right read Lifepod 1. R'Gal thumbed the entry tab.

"Shall we?" said the K'Ronarin as the double doors of the airlock slid open. Zahava stepped into the lifepod.

It was a big, round room. Rows of red flight couches took up most of the floor space, broken by three aisles and a central spiral stairway. Across the cabin from the airlock, beneath a blank main screen, two flight couches fronted a darkened double console.

"Looks more like a bus than a pod," said the Israeli.

"Long before even
Implacable
was built," said R'Gal as the door hissed shut, "survival vessels were one-man craft. Time went by, they grew to this." His hand swept the cabin. "Three levels, a hundred and fifty seats, maximum capacity over two hundred. Jump drive, n-gravs, automatic homers, sanitation and recreation facilities. The whole unit can be broken down to form the nucleus of a rough colony—power plant, forcefield, sanitation and shelter—just in case." He walked across the cabin as he spoke, heading for the double console.

"In case of what?"

"In case the automatic homers don't find a close-in planet emitting technology's telltale spores." Reaching the far side of the pod, the colonel dropped into the left chair and busied himself with the instruments.

"Why three levels?" asked Zahava, following him down the center aisle. "And why twice as many lifepods as needed?"

"Three levels to conform to
Implacable's
design. So many pods because she probably carried a larger complement five thousand years ago." He leaned forward, reading a report as it flashed onto a telltale. "Maintenance log says we're the first to enter this pod since the ship left Terra."

"Is that true?" she asked.

"It's true that the log entry reads no access since Terra." R'Gal stood as the telltale winked off. "It's also true that a S'Cotar transmute could have telekinetically reprogrammed this pod's computer. . . . Check the upper levels," he said, motioning toward the stairway.

"For what?"

"Anything that looks out of place. Everything should be as spare and as orderly as on this level. Check the storage lockers and bins, food processors—anywhere something small could be hidden. If you find anything unusual, anything at all, use your communicator and call me. I'll be checking number two. Meet me in front of three when you've finished."

She nodded and was halfway up the stairs, blaster in hand, by the time R'Gal reached the exit.

"Anything from
Alpha PrimeT'
asked L'Wrona as K'Raoda relinquished the command chair.

"Nothing," said the first officer, resuming his station.

Both men looked at the main screen—-the mindslaver hung there, a great dark menace out of legend, intimidating by its very existence.

"Fine," said the captain. "Let's fill our empty moments with a tactical exercise."