Stephen Berry - The AI War

"We do know there's more than one navigation marker," said D'Trelna. "Beyond that-nothing."

"Leading us where?" asked N'Trol, the ship's engineer, N'Trol had been drafted from his well-paid job as chief engineer for a merchant line. His contempt of things military was as deep as his sarcasm.

D'Trelna shrugged. "We've no control over this process, Mr. N'Trol. Instructions and coordinates were sent by Pocsym in his final moments."

"We're touring the galaxy on the whim of a mad cyborg?"

"Is that you, T'Lan?" said L'Wrona.

Four rows back, Commander T'Lan stood, muscles rippling under his closely tailored uniform.

Dionysus, thought John, looking at T'Lan. With his perfect body, fine-chiseled face and flawless bronze skin, the young commander might have been a demigod out of Euripides. A prettyboy, certainly, but dangerous?

"It's too bad, Commander," said L'Wrona icily, "that you weren't with us when we assaulted the S'Cotar citadel on Terra's moon. Surviving that, you'd have appreciated that though Pocsym's instructions might have been mad, he executed them with flawless logic."

Mad's the word, thought John. Pocsym had been programmed in the Late Imperial age, five thousand years ago-programmed by social scientists who believed that right about now their descendants would be facing hordes of killer machines pouring into this galaxy from an alternate reality. Monitor human progress, they'd ordered Pocsym, and prepare mankind for that ultimate battle.

Deciding that only man could save man, Pocsym had created a race of biofabs-biological fabrications-dubbed them the S'Cotar, and sent them against the K'Ronarins. They'd almost destroyed the Confederation and claimed the galaxy for themselves. Almost. Only Implacable's stumbling into the Terran system and her discovery of the biofabs' home base, deep beneath the surface of Terra's moon, had saved humankind-that and a hurried alliance between the K'Ronarins and the Terrans, ending in a desperate commando assault on the S'Cotar citadel.

That crazy cyborg started the war, reflected John-and finished it, blowing up the biofabs' citadel, most of the biofabs-and itself. The commandos and the few Terrans with them had barely escaped in time.

Is L'Wrona through with the twit? he wondered.

L'Wrona wasn't.

"Just before we left Terra, Commander, we went up against some hideous machines."

"I've read the report, sir."

"Then you'll know that though we stopped them in one parallel reality, they may well be coming into a separate part of this universe. Our part. Right now. We have the point in space at which they're supposedly entering. First, we go to the Trel Cache for a weapon to use against them."

"We only have Pocsym's word for this," said Zahava.

"A word that we'll soon confirm or refute," said the commodore.

"We're a sacrifice mission," said N'Trol flatly.

"No Fleet ship is ever intentionally sacrificed, Mr. N'Trol," said L'Wrona.

"But all ships are expendable," said the engineer.

"Depending on the mission-yes."

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."