Stephen Berry - The AI War

"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.

"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.