Stephen Berry - The AI War

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."

"Pull," gritted L'Wrona, tugging on the thick floor plate. Grunting with effort, he, John and S'Til finally pried it loose. Sliding it aside, the three looked down into the conduit-and backed off, covering their eyes. Two thick crystalline lines blazed with blinding sunlight-energy feeding the guns.

"Do it," said L'Wrona, rubbing his eyes.

S'Til dropped two blastpaks into the conduit.

"Run!" shouted L'Wrona, making for the access stairs.

"Blades!" cried a voice just as they reached the door.

They were swooping in from both ends of the corridor, blue and red bolts snapping at the retreating commandos.

A withering counterfire met the machines as S'Til and two squads covered the others. The corridor became bedlam: blasters shrilling, fusion bolts exploding into walls, floors, men and machines, commandos screaming, blades crashing in flames.

Harrison and two troopers knelt in the doorway, firing at a trio of blades that had broken through the cordon. Hit, the blade to the left wobbled, turned and banked into the ceiling. The center machine retreated, accelerating through the showering debris of its companion. Dropping to floor level, the blade on the right kept coming and firing.

The trooper to John's left died, shot through the heart.

Cursing softly, the Terran aimed two-handed and held the trigger back, sending the rest of the chargepak tearing into the machine, then leaped back as the killer machine reached the doorway.

Smoke streaming behind it, the blade knifed through the other trooper, neatly decapitating her, then plowed into the ramp, a brief pillar of flame narrowly missing L'Wrona and the rest of the commandos.

The trooper's blood soaking him, John watched transfixed as the headless corpse stood for an instant, crimson geyser ebbing, then folded into a soft pile of clothes and cooling flesh.

S'Til and three troopers raced through the doorway, securing it behind them with a well placed bolt to the control unit.

"More of them right behind us," she said to L'Wrona. "No one else

…?" said the captain. S'Til shook her head.

There was a nearby shrilling of blasters-the door began to glow white.

"Let's go," said L'Wrona. "Up three levels, then we do it."

The troopers broke into a run, following L'Wrona up three long, spiraling levels, then halted as he raised his hand. "Everyone take cover against the wall," he ordered, risking a quick look over the ramp. The door below was blazing scarlet now, about to give.

Stepping back, L'Wrona took a flat black detonator from his pocket, armed it and pressed the firing stud.

Whoomp! Everyone went sprawling as the explosion buckled the wall and twisted the ramp two levels below.

Picking himself up, John joined the others looking down over the ramp's edge. Where they'd been was now a wreck, the ramp compressed to half its original width by the great bulge of the corridor wall thrown against it. The wall was holed in a dozen places. As the humans watched, a stream of raw, white energy began eating through the holes, enlarging them.

"Pure epsilon energy," said L'Wrona. "Everyone out- quickly!"

The explosion had jammed the door on their current level, and the one above. ''Try it," said L'Wrona at the second door, worriedly eyeing a small hazard monitor taken from his belt.

Its lock worked by the thin tip of S'Til's commando blade, the door gave with a faint sigh. The humans exited on the run as smoke, flame and a deadly river of hard radiation poured into the rampway.

"Fire," repeated the AI captain, moving to the gunnery station.

"Saboteurs have destroyed seven red through eleven yellow fusion feed," reported the gunnery officer. "There are no batteries within effective range of the assault craft.''

"Use the missiles," said the captain, looking out the window. He could see the attackers now-nine small stars against the firmament-stars falling toward the Operations tower.

"Too close," said the gunnery officer. "We'll blow ourselves up."

Overhead, the shield came back on, a false sky of blue blotting out the stars, its light gleaming off nine tiny silver ships.

"Shield restored," reported the engineering officer. "But we have a fire on level one four nine, initiated by sabotage of a tertiary fusion feed. Fusion feed has been diverted, fire coming under control."

The captain looked at the battlescreen. Cold and precise, the green figures showed nine of the enemy ships destroyed, with forty-seven AI battleglobes either disabled or destroyed. The rest of the battleglobes were scattering, pursued by mindslavers that tore at their shields with beam and missile. The last flurry of messages received from the acting flotilla commander had been a disengagement signal, then general retreat, then a distress call directed toward home.

"This is the first battle we have lost since the Revolt," said the captain, drifting between the consoles. "The enemy is determined to have this ship. We'll deny him that. Designated emergency personnel only will direct operations. All others to reinforce security units."

Zahava hated the assault boats: you hung in the webbing like a slaughtered animal, seeing only the gray bulkhead, the pilot too busy to advise you. The waiting and uncertainty were exquisite agony, relieved by the sudden blaring of the assault klaxon; then, before you had time to be scared, the webbing released, the sides dropped and you were stumbling down the ramp followed by half a hundred other screaming fools.

It was the same this time.

She was on an endless plane of metal, a gray-white landscape overhung by a shimmering blue sky. The plane was broken by an endless array of sensor clusters and the great slitted humps of weapons turrets, guns silent now, their crews gone to join the attack.

Zahava stood transfixed, watching as hundreds of blades advanced above a long line of spherical and human-adapted AIs.

The attack closed quickly on the landing zone.

"Fire!" called Zahava, throwing herself prone as blaster bolts snapped in. Rocking up, she placed the M32's butt on her shoulder, caught a blade in the sight and fired. Not waiting to see if it was hit, she moved to the next target and the next, trying to hit the constantly shifting AIs, her aim sometimes distorted by the number of fusion bolts now screaming through the air.

All around her, D'Linians and K'Ronarins were firing from behind the thick sensors, while over their heads flashed the heavy red bolts of Mark 44's, blasting away from the assault boat turrets.

"The blades," she'd told the gunners back on Implacable. "Concentrate on the blades. They're the toughest and the most dangerous AIs we've seen yet."

The Mark 44's turned it around, breaking the AIs' charge just as it threatened to sweep over the human line.