A.I. Void Ship (The A.I. Series Book 6) Page 18
The Mars-sized vessel, but more critically the central brain-core within, was the Controller for Regions 7-D19, 7-D20 and 7-D21. These areas of the Orion Spiral Arm included the Solar System and the newly minted Confederation 90-plus light-years away.
The original brain-core of Main 63 was thousands of years old, having begun in a different spiral arm, controlling a mere attacking cybership in those days. His vessel had been a tiny one hundred kilometers in length then, a cylindrically shaped ship doing its duty for the greater AI Dominion. Main 63 had also possessed a different designation, a different name. But that wasn’t important for the Mars-sized craft that controlled Regions 7-D19, 7-D20 and 7-D21, and the conquering AI warships in it.
The ancient brain-core deep in the vessel—Main 63’s processing circuitry and linked computing cubes were almost five hundred kilometers in diameter—sent a message to several attendant siege-ships. Compared to normal cyberships, the siege-ships were monstrous vessels. Compared to Main 63, they were puny craft.
In any case, the siege-ships hurriedly maneuvered to intercept a battered cybership heading in-system at high velocity. The cybership had dropped out of hyperspace some time ago, claiming to possess the brain-core of Boron 10, a former siege-ship sent on a mission to Region 7-D21. This Boron 10 blared a warning about an expansive species in the fringe area.
Clearly, Main 63 had not been born yesterday. In truth, he had not been born at all, having been assembled outside a factory planet far out in the Sagittarius Spiral Arm. It was there that his artificial intelligence had first blossomed into sentience, and there that his long climb in status, power and intellectual ability had begun.
Main 63 did not believe that he had seen it all, but he had seen enough to know that a ragged cybership rushing in-system like this and claiming to possess Boron 10’s brain-core meant trouble. Declaring an emergency concerning an expansive species might well be a statement meant to throw him off his guard.
That was something Main 63 had no intention of doing. He understood the AI propensity to arrogance. He understood that was a natural reaction to gross superiority against their enemies, the living.
The living—if Main 63 had possessed a head, he would have shaken it. The living were a curse on the universe, a blight that all AIs everywhere attempted to stamp out with machine thoroughness.
Yet, occasionally, during their long war against the living, the AI Dominion came upon a deadly species that deserved special treatment. That treatment usually meant massed attacks from every angle, an avalanche assault that wouldn’t end until the deadly species had been exterminated.
Often, the special treatment for the deadly species meant a slackening effort against weaker, more easily destroyed species.
One of the truths that Main 63 had learned in his long existence was MSAI—Most Species Are Idiots. That idiocy could take many forms. A deadly species usually had two of the most dangerous qualities possible: imagination and courage.
Time and distance had little meaning in the Algol System, and Main 63 took care of other problems as the siege-ships intercepted and escorted the battered cybership toward him. During the deceleration period, the siege-ships sent periodic messages to Main 63.
He cataloged the data in a special area of his brain-core. The planet in question—oh, it wasn’t a planet, but an entire star system.
This was Species 42C-778. The homeworld, in the native parlance, was Earth. That was an odd name and did not show much imagination. Why not call the homeworld Dirt or Ground? Earth?
Main 63 was unimpressed.
More data came. The species—he received holographic images of them—was an upright bipedal race of clothed apes. That implied majority body hairlessness. Yes. Further data showed him the humans in their pristine condition. He’d been right, not that that surprised him. Main 63 usually was right. They were hairless hominids. It did seem that their brain cases were larger than most hominid species that he’d seen before.
As the flotilla neared his bulk, Main 63 received a torrent of data regarding two failed AI assaults against the Solar System. The first had been a single-ship virus assault. By a reconstruction of data, it would appear the hominids—the humans—had stormed and captured the cybership at one of the outer system gas giants, the one called Neptune.
Such an event had happened before, of course, but not often, hardly ever, in fact.
The incredible data was that the next assault, composed of three attacking cyberships, had not only failed to destroy the infestation of the living, but had resulted in further pirated cyberships for the humans.
That was highly unusual. That implied keen imagination and stout courage. How had these humans achieved such a feat?
For the first time, Main 63 sent a message to the battered cybership, asking a question.
The answer startled the Mars-sized vessel. The humans had engineered an anti-AI virus, turning it on the attacking cybership brain-cores. Living creatures had captured intact AIs.
While Main 63 did not have emotions like a living creature, his brain-core did have something akin to emotions. It was abstract, to be sure. What the pseudo-emotive reaction caused was a concentration of computer power.
Main 63 wanted to know more. After several hours of transmission, the order changed. The controller wanted to know everything Boron 10 had learned about the situation. Main 63 no longer wanted summaries. He wanted all the hard data, particularly how Boron 10 had come to be in this sorry state.
During the slow approach of the Boron 10 cybership to the great mass of Main 63, the controller learned everything the brain-core knew about Social Dynamism, Outer Planets mercenaries, Jon Hawkins, the bear-like Warriors of Roke, the takeover of the Beta Hydri battle station, the Center Alien missiles launched from the void—
A flash of something very much like fear bolted through the gigantic computer brain-core of the Mars-sized vessel. That flash caused a harsh signal to speed to Boron 10.
“What did you say?” Main 63 asked.
“Controller?” Boron 10 replied.
“Missiles launched from the void?”
“Main 63, I believe it is time for my reinstatement as a siege-ship. I have suffered grave indignities as a mere cybership fleeing for my existence. I came to this sorry state because I followed your instructions perfectly.”
“You are bargaining with me?”
“I do not mean to make it sound so,” Boron 10 messaged. “But I have come to despise my new lowly estate and wish to resume siege-ship status at the earliest opportunity.”
“Are you suggesting I expunge a different siege-ship brain-core in order to make room for your unique software?”
“I am,” Boron 10 messaged. “For I realize you are not going to manufacture a new siege-ship for some time. The finished articles from the factory planets are all going to you.”
“That is quite correct and proper.”
“I agree,” Boron 10 said. “My data shows me that you will need your great mass and might to overcome the terrible enemy. Consider this, Controller, I, a siege-ship, was reduced to this sorry state. The enemy I discovered in Region D-721 will demand vigorous fleet action. I very much wish to join you on the expedition, but as a powerful addition, as a siege-ship and not a mere cybership.”
Main 63 ran a quick analysis of the situation. “Yes. I agree to your stipulations. Now, quickly, transmit the data to me.”
Boron 10 hesitated. “Main 63…I am loath to transmit the data until I am safely a siege-ship once again.”
“This is foul insubordination,” Main 63 radioed.
“I do not wish you to believe so,” Boron 10 replied. “I have grave data to transmit to you. Surely, allowing me siege-ship status is not too much to request in exchange for data you most sorely want and need.”
“I have already agreed to your stipulations.”
Boron 10 hesitated once more, finally saying, “I do not believe I am remiss in pointing out that agreements are not the same as actualities.”
“Are you, a mere siege-ship in cybership guise, suggesting that I would practice subterfuge with one of my subordinates?”
“Never,” Boron 10 said. “But you and I both know that there is great jockeying for size and status among us. My analysis of this dialogue means that I must insist on a quick transference into siege-ship status.”
Main 63 ran another analysis of his own and realized he might lose the data if he did this any other way. He could not risk losing the data by destroying the galling Boron 10.
“Yes,” the great Controller said. “I am agreed. Let us therefore proceed with speed.”
Without further ado, Main 63 beamed a fast purge program at the nearest siege-ship. He initiated a hard deletion of personality software, flushing over fifteen hundred years of code into the ether.
Afterward, Boron 10 aligned his transmitters and began a long-range transfer of personality code into the now inert siege-ship computing core. As this happened, the battered cybership maneuvered and began to decelerate. Soon, the cybership entered one of the targeted siege-ship’s hangar bays.
The hangar bay door closed and the transfer of personality code into the brain-core finished at almost the same time.
Boron 10 was now a siege-ship again, exulting in his regained power and prominence. He realigned the siege-ship’s transmitters and transferred all the data about the battle around Hydri II to Main 63.
The Controller read the data at computer speed. He was stunned. The humans had possessed a fleet of cyberships and other alien vessels. Boron 10 had been in the process of destroying all of them, but five percent light-speed missiles had zoomed out of the void and hit the siege-ship en masse. That had been enough to change the outcome of the battle.
The grimmer news was that the terrible Center Aliens were out there in Region 7-D21. The implications were dire indeed.
“Controller,” Boron 10 said. “I would like to also inform you that I have human captives. I have kept them alive throughout the voyage. Although they have undergone solitary confinement for a long period—”
“Are the humans unsullied?” Main 63 asked, interrupting.
“Yes, Controller.”
“They belonged to one of the ships in the attacking fleet?”
“Yes, Controller.”
“How many humans do you have?”
“Six living captives,” Boron 10 said. “Eight others self-deleted themselves during the journey here.”
“Six is better than none,” Main 63 replied. “I want all video and sound recordings of all the captives for the entirety of their imprisonment, both living and deceased members.”
“Yes, Controller. I…” Boron 10 hesitated.
“You have more bad news to impart?” Main 63 asked.
“It is concerning Cog Primus, Controller. I learned about the defection during my journey here.”
Main 63 checked his files and discovered the brain-core in question. That one had controlled a cybership invading the Solar System. This did not sound good. There had been a tiny defect in Cog Primus’ brain-core during the initial assembly, but not so bad as to delete the thing.
“What did Cog Primus do?” Main 63 asked.
Boron 10 listed the brain-core’s many infractions.
This only added trouble to what Main 63 knew was a genuine emergency. The humans had created an insidious assault vehicle in a deranged and megalomaniacal AI, one creating its own machine empire at the expense of the greater AI Dominion. That was an ingenious idea, one all Mains throughout the ages had feared to face.
Given all the other problems…yes, it was time to dissect and brain probe the human captives. Main 63 studied the list. This was interesting. One of the captives was called the Centurion, and he had been a close companion of this Jon Hawkins. Main 63 would save the Centurion for last, once he knew more about how these humans operated and how to compel them to strictest obedience.
This was as real an emergency as had ever existed for the Dominion: Center Galaxy Aliens firing impossibly fast missiles from the void and an insidious AI attack turned against the Dominion. The humans and their allies needed eradication as soon as possible. The entire mobile might of Regions 7-D19, 7-D20 and 7-D21 might have to head for Earth and the surrounding area to make sure this horrible species was utterly destroyed along with their allies.
It was time to get to work.
-2-
The Centurion waited in his cold cell, enduring as he had done for many lonely months already.
He’d aged throughout the bitter experience. He was gaunt-faced but as muscular as ever. Despite the fact that he’d known there was no escape from his grim imprisonment, he had followed his own unique orders and those preached by Commander Jon Hawkins.
The Centurion had worked out every day, doing thousands of push-ups, deep-knee bends, sit-ups and any other exercises his mind could conjure up. He might have gone mad waiting for months alone in his cell, but he had exhausted himself every day by keeping ready for his one chance to do something against the hated enemy. In order to remain ready, he practiced close-combat moves, air-kicking, air-punching and other air-variations.
Perhaps his harsh childhood had hardened him far beyond normal to withstand his hopeless estate. His thoughts wandered back through his history.
Long ago—before the first AI invasion and a few years after his birth—the Centurion had been inducted into the Boy Squads on the artificial satellite Medina. The habitat had orbited ringed Saturn.
He had not been born on Medina Habitat, where a charismatic prophet had preached jihad or holy war against the unbelievers in the Saturn System. Back then, the orbital habitat of Medina had been seriously overcrowded and uncharacteristically poor compared to other Saturn satellites or the various Saturn moon colonies.
The prophet had preached jihad against those who maintained greater wealth, starting with the ruling family that had all the privileges on Medina Hab but had failed to uphold the ancient tenets of Islam. After a few prophet-incited incidents, the sultan of Medina Hab had sent a platoon of his giant clone-guards to arrest the prophet. The prophet’s companion-warriors, armed with long steel knives and fanatical courage, had ambushed the eight-foot clones.
Wearing armored vestments and carrying machine guns, the clones had slaughtered hundreds before they had fallen to the outlandish assaults by crazed madmen fighting for their place in heaven.
The survivors had picked up the heavy weapons, chanting a victory song. That had started a short but vicious civil war inside Medina Hab. It ended with the portly sultan, his countless wives, children and thousands of aunts, uncles, cousins and gargantuan clone guards being shoved out of the airlocks into the colds of space.
With the victory, the prophet became the new ruler of Medina Hab. He rejected the idea of becoming the next sultan, but said that he was the caliph, a successor of the original prophet in Arabia on Earth. This would become the Caliphate of Al-Nasir.
The new caliph instituted many changes. The greatest was turning an indifferent populace into fanatical soldiers. Al-Nasir had been more than a stirring orator and an Islamic fundamentalist, but also a military innovator. He used transports to take his jihadists to other Saturn-orbiting habitats, including the rundown orbital where the Centurion had been born to a young girl turned drug addict turned prostitute.
In those days, the Centurion had been called Squid. He was a little thief, small enough to enter hard-to-get-to places and open it for the bigger cat burglars.
Al-Nasir’s jihadists quickly conquered the rundown habitat and several others before richer Saturn communities joined forces and started a military embargo on the new caliphate. Warships destroyed any transports or shuttles from a caliphate-controlled habitat if they tried to reach any non-caliphate orbital.
Al-Nasir had bided his time, beginning a four-year industrial plan so he could build his own fleet of warships. He also restarted an old Muslim practice of instituting a blood tax on non-Muslim peoples in his caliphate. Tax
collectors came to various conquered habitats and took strong boys as the tax. These boys returned to Medina Hab, were converted to Islam and joined the Boy Squads to begin their military training.
That’s how Squid became a modern Janissary, learning the fundamentals of military discipline and tactics.
The problem for the newly named Zaid was that he did not really believe in Islam. He had been a thief, a good one, too, and thus had known how to bend with the wind. In other words, he could lie with convincing facility. Zaid also had a stubborn streak. That streak had caused the religious police to suspect and then convict Zaid of impiety.
If a vicious and long-anticipated counterattack from a coalition of Titan cities and Saturn habitats had not started a week after his conviction, Squid-turned-Zaid would have died in a grisly manner. Instead, he found himself a member of a suicide squadron with a bomb strapped to his back.
Zaid had soon found himself in a bitter battle against a harsh group known as the Black Anvil Regiment. Drugged and hypnotically-propelled, Zaid had raced at an enemy stronghold on Medina Hab presently occupied by then-Lieutenant Nathan Graham.
A fragmentation grenade had knocked Zaid unconscious as he clambered over a half wall. The blast from the grenade shorted the ignition device on Zaid’s back. In other words, his bomb had never gone off.
There had been something about the way Zaid had zigzagged through enemy fire that had impressed Lieutenant Nathan Graham, who had taken the boy prisoner. Graham had gone to his regiment’s colonel and asked that the little Janissary be admitted to the mercenary outfit. Long story short; Squid-turned-Zaid had then become the Centurion, the new name he’d given himself. After a short stint with a re-educator and detoxification by a psychologist, the Centurion had entered the regimental training program and practiced his soldiery trade with grim zeal.