A.I. Battle Fleet (The A.I. Series Book 5) Read online

  Miles noticed Jon, ripped the chain from around his neck so he could keep holding the cross, and sat straighter.

  “It’s been an honor, sir,” Miles said. “I salute you. I wish you luck in defeating the AIs.”

  “Miles?” Jon said.

  “The missiles are coming in too fast, sir. None of our grav cannons is online, and I doubt any of us is going to launch missiles in time. They caught us napping.”

  “Miles,” Jon said, as his face flushed with heat.

  Captain Ghent gave him a crooked grin. “I don’t do this lightly, sir. I have a great crew, the best. The bridge crew has agreed with me on this. Better that one of us goes down than the entire strike force. Humanity is counting on us—”

  “Miles,” Jon said, standing up.

  “No more speeches, sir,” Miles said. “This is going to take some fast maneuvering. I’m not sure we can take all three. But I’ve asked my Lord Jesus for help. He’s with us, sir. He’ll help me, as this is his way.”

  “Oh, Miles,” Jon said, bit to the quick. “I can’t afford to lose you, man.”

  “It’s been an honor, Captain Hawkins. You’re the best there is. When I get to heaven, I’m going to tell Jesus what you’ve been doing.”

  Miles looked to the side as someone shouted over there. “Sorry, sir, I have to go. Captain Ghent out.”

  “No!” Jon shouted.

  The screen wavered, and Jon was looking at stars again.

  For a second, Jon just stood there. He felt awful. How could this be happening?

  “You idiot,” he told himself. “Do something.”

  Jon whirled around. “Gunner!” he roared. “Light a fire under the cannon teams.”

  “I’m trying, sir. They’re trying. You can only heat up a grav cannon so fast.”

  Jon slammed a fist against one of the armrests.

  The Da Vinci’s engines roared. The one-hundred-kilometer cybership seemed to roll, moving farther out of formation, acting like a shield for the rest of the vessels against the incoming missiles.

  Jon felt tears dripping down his cheeks. He wiped them savagely. What good did tears do at a time like this? Who had fired the missiles? How had they caused reality to rip open? That was grossly unfair.

  “One minute until impact,” Morales said.

  Jon watched the main screen. He felt so helpless. He wondered if Miles had come to his conclusion because he’d hated feeling helpless. At least Ghent could feel as if he was acting.

  Jon berated himself and then bowed his head. “Please, God, help Miles Ghent. Help us.”

  “Thirty seconds,” Morales said.

  “Sir,” the Gunner said, “one of the cannons is online. I don’t know how, but it has juice.”

  “Yes!” Jon said. “Target one of those bastards. Burn it.”

  On the Da Vinci, a launch port opened and an anti-matter missile slid out.

  A few seconds later, one of the Nathan Graham’s grav cannons glowed with power. Ten seconds later, a green gravitational beam shot out of the cannon, spearing into the void.

  The beam kept going, colliding with a monstrous missile. The grav beam struck the warhead cone, burning through obvious armor. It was tough armor, but it wasn’t tougher than a grav cannon.

  The beam punched through.

  This was no ordinary missile, however. It was huge. Even though the grav beam punched in, it hadn’t hit the right hardware to destroy or prematurely explode it.

  By that time, it was too late. The first big missile’s warhead ignited five thousand kilometers from the Da Vinci. According to the sensors, it was an ordinary matter/anti-matter explosion. That was the good news, as it was normal technology. The bad news was the size of the matter/antimatter warhead. A mammoth amount mixed together. That produced a sickening explosion. Then, another warhead ignited, throwing its blast in with the first.

  The two combined blasts struck the Da Vinci and practically vaporized the cybership. Armor and bulkheads shredded away. Interior parts exploded in a fiery holocaust. Radiation rained everywhere.

  Even so, a vast amount of matter blew away from the titanic explosion. Some of that matter went up, some down, some sideways, some other ways. The terrible problem was that some of the shredded matter and hard radiation struck the three remaining cyberships.

  Holes punched through outer armor. Bulkheads went down, and scores of people died. If the normal number of crewmembers for the vessel’s size had manned the ship, maybe only half would have perished. In this case, more like a quarter to a third of the crew perished in the various cyberships.

  Hard radiation struck as EMPs hit.

  Seconds later, Jon raised himself off the bridge deck. Lights flashed all around him. Klaxons blared. People screamed in agony.

  Trembling from the shock, knowing he was going to have to take radiation treatments later, Jon climbed to his feet and rested against his chair. The bridge was still relatively intact. The screen still worked. He used it, using cameras to show him the damage to the outer hull.

  Atmosphere geysered from torn holes. Far too much debris floated around the cybership.

  “Morales,” Jon shouted.

  The senior line tech gave him a shell-shocked look.

  “What happened to the third missile?”

  Morales moved with a start, turning back to his board. Amazingly, some of it worked. He began tapping, studying.

  Jon found he had enough strength to reach the man’s station. “Well?” he asked.

  Morales pointed a shaking finger at his screen. It showed the massive missile. The thing had kept right on traveling. It was leaving the strike force far behind, as it had not yet ignited.

  “The unexploded missile may have been the margin to our survival,” Morales said in a hoarse voice.

  “That along with Captain Ghent’s prayers and actions,” Jon said. “We survived the strike.” Jon paused, growing cold thinking about it. “What will our enemies do next?” he asked quietly.

  -7-

  It turned out to be nothing for the moment. But maybe their enemies didn’t have to.

  The surviving cyberships were in varying states of damage. The Nathan Graham was in the best shape, with one quarter of its personnel dead and half the grav cannons badly damaged to totally nonexistent. The Neptune was the worst, with three-quarters of its people dead, no grav cannons working or repairable in the near future. Over half of the Neptune was shredded or torn open. A third of the casualties had occurred as people shot into the vacuum of space from the ripped areas of the ship.

  The surprise missile attack had been a disaster. It had scratched one cybership and was about to scratch another.

  “We can’t repair the Neptune,” Gloria said in a meeting a day later.

  Kling had joined them from the Sergeant Stark.

  Bast, the Old Man and Jon were the other members at the meeting. The Centurion was in sickbay, having barely survived a meter-length metal splinter in his chest.

  “Can we get the Neptune back to the Allamu System?” Jon asked slowly.

  “I’ve studied the most detailed damage report,” Gloria said. “I doubt it would survive hyperspace.”

  Jon tried to scowl, but it only came out as a blank look. Two cyberships gone, and they had yet to find Cog Primus. All those dead people, too. They hardly had enough marines left to mount a regimental assault—once all the marines healed from radiation poisoning and other injuries. He sighed slowly, finding it difficult to concentrate. He had a hard decision to make. He glanced at the damage report’s summary, unable to see the words, but realizing what he had to do.

  “We’ll divide the Neptune’s survivors between the Stark and the Nathan Graham,” Jon said in a stricken voice, unaware that he was staring off into space.

  The others said nothing.

  Finally, Jon grew aware of their silence as he blinked himself out of his funk. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m still feeling the radiation treatments.”

  “Capta
in,” Gloria said. “We have another difficult decision.”

  Jon focused on her, but he hardly heard her words.

  “Maybe we should take a recess,” Kling suggested. “Captain, I think you should get some rest.”

  “What?” Jon said. “No. No rest for the wicked. “What is this about a difficult decision?” he asked Gloria.

  She glanced around the room before answering. “We lost or are about to lose half our strike force. We’ve lost far too many personnel and are woefully short of healthy techs and marines. Four cyberships might have been able to take on six or even seven enemy cyberships and a hostile battle station. Our new Richard Virus is possibly a potent weapon. But there is always the chance that the new virus won’t work as advertised. Four cyberships could have fought their way free of six or seven. Two cyberships, damaged vessels to boot—Jon,” she said. “We have to return to the Allamu System. We have to scrap our existing strategy and come up with a new one.”

  Jon rubbed his face, finding it harder than ever to concentrate. He felt sick at losing two cyberships and losing all those people who had counted on him. How did commanders in the past deal with so many casualties? It was galling.

  “Captain?” Bast asked. “Can you hear us?”

  Jon looked up.

  “You need a shot of whiskey,” the Sacerdote said.

  Jon made a half-strangled laugh.

  Gloria stood. “Let’s take a ten-minute recess.”

  Jon stared blankly at her, finally shaking his head.

  “A short recess,” she said softly. “You need to stretch your legs.”

  Jon wilted against the force behind her eyes. He shrugged.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not? Why not—?” He forced himself to close his mouth before he said something he might regret later.

  The others rose silently and filed out of the room. Jon remained in his chair, staring at his hands.

  “Jon,” Gloria said. “Are you feeling well?”

  “No,” he said, still staring at his hands. “I…I can’t accept—” He snorted. “That’s not what I mean.” At that point, it was all too much. All the guilt and angst at what had happened rose up in him. He looked at her, stricken. “They’re dead, Gloria. My bad decisions killed half, maybe more than half, of our expeditionary force. We only have two badly damaged cyberships left. I may have just killed the human race.”

  Gloria stared at him. She seemed to have closed up. “Wait here,” she finally whispered. “I’m…I’m going to get someone. I want you to talk to him.”

  Jon turned away, staring at nothing.

  Gloria rose, headed for the hatch, stopping to look back at him briefly before disappearing into the corridor.

  It took Jon some time to realize she’d departed. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He was as near to crushed as he’d ever been. He tried to drum up inner resistance, but it was futile.

  With a groan, he put his forehead against the table, the heavy height of command crushing him lower and lower.

  -8-

  Gloria was at a loss. She couldn’t stand seeing Jon like this. It tore her apart to such a degree that she had lost her mentalist concentration. She felt helpless, and she hated the feeling.

  She paced back and forth outside the conference chamber. The others had gone to the nearest cafeteria. Panic welled in her. Jon Hawkins had always been the heart of the expedition. He had always been the true believer in victory against the machines. When everyone else was at his or her lowest, Jon Hawkins was at his strongest.

  We’ve been feeding off him, she thought. We’ve leaned on him for so long, that none of us knows what to do if he crumples.

  Jon Hawkins had been their pole star. Now, he seemed crushed of spirit. This did not bode well for the mission. They had to return to the Allamu System for more than one reason.

  Premier Benz had a cybership. Maybe he would have another by the time they reached him. Yet, how would it work if Benz and Jon both had two cyberships? A strike force needed a single leader.

  Jon’s power base was badly dwindling. These two damaged cyberships were it.

  Gloria looked up, tried to focus and found that she couldn’t. She needed serenity. Jon’s dispiritedness was crushing her will. That shook her. Was the mission madness? What were they thinking? A handful of people trying to take on a vast AI Empire? It would never work. One setback had crippled them. They could ill afford to lose people like Miles Ghent. He had been another true believer in victory over the machines.

  Gloria continued to pace restlessly as she waited.

  Finally, Walleye sauntered up. “You summoned me?” the mutant asked.

  She studied the dwarfish killer. He wore his buff coat and stood there as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Here was a man who had survived a much greater horror. He’d traveled in an escape pod far longer than anyone else could and still remained sane. What drove Walleye?

  “You realize we’re in a desperate situation?” she asked.

  He nodded, although his face and strange eyes revealed nothing.

  “Walleye, can I confide in you?”

  He nodded again.

  “You’re a mystery to me,” she said, hedging.

  He continued to wait.

  “Jon is…Jon is feeling the heavy responsibility of his post.”

  Walleye did not respond.

  “Jon has always believed we can defeat the AIs,” Gloria said. “Do you believe that?”

  “What does it matter what I believe?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you throwing in the towel?”

  “If that means giving up, no.”

  “Do you ever give up?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “What keeps you going when the darkness hits you?”

  Walleye shrugged.

  “I’m trying to decide if I can count on you,” Gloria said.

  “No. I don’t think that’s it. You want me to talk to the captain.”

  Gloria stared at him. “Are you the right man to do that?”

  A faint smile appeared on Walleye’s lips. “Mentalist, you wouldn’t have summoned me if you thought otherwise. I don’t give up because you lose if you do. For most of my life, losing has meant dying.”

  Her eyes narrowed more. “That isn’t the entire truth.”

  The faint smile became mocking. “You’re right. I have another reason, but I’m not going to share that with you. It’s mine and no one else’s.”

  “I know your truth,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  “You’re a mutant,” Gloria said. “You’re different from everyone else. I suspect you had a terrible childhood. I also suspect that losing means your tormenters win. For whatever reason, that is something you will not accept. You are a driven soul, but I think maybe I should pity you, Walleye.”

  His expression hadn’t changed. He waited.

  “I’m right,” she said.

  He still said nothing.

  “That means you’re the one I need,” Gloria said. “More importantly, you’re the one Jon needs.”

  “That’s not how it works,” Walleye said. “Either you have the drive or you don’t.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Would you talk to him anyway?”

  Walleye stared at her with his strange eyes. Finally, he nodded.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  “He’s in there,” Gloria said, pointing at the hatch.

  Without a word, Walleye turned to the hatch and headed for the conference chamber.

  -9-

  Walleye found the captain with his forehead resting against the table. He almost felt sorry for Hawkins. The man was so young to bear such responsibilities. Usually, their captain was a firebrand, a doer who knew that the best thing to do was to attack.

  Theirs was an odd arrangement. Most warships belonged to a state. In a real sense, for them, the cyberships were the state. As long as the crews believed wholeheartedly in the miss
ion, they accepted the hierarchy of command. If the crews lost their sense of mission or if they lost faith in Hawkins, everything would fall apart.

  In Walleye’s thinking, Hawkins was the alpha male of the group. As long as Hawkins remained the alpha, he could keep ordering the others. Therefore, the present situation was bad. The mentalist had been correct in clearing the conference room. It was bad for the others to see the alpha male shaken like this.

  Walleye did not consider himself an alpha male. He believed that he was a sigma, a true loner who did not need the group. He didn’t need their respect, their praise or have to worry if they hated him. He’d gone through life like that, and he would continue to do so. Was it a lonely existence? Of course. Did he care? Maybe a little sometimes, but mostly, he did not.

  Even with that being the case, he had come to respect the young firebrand. Hawkins had the makings of being one of the greats in history.

  Walleye smiled slightly to himself. He was a weapons expert, particularly assassination-type weapons. He knew plenty about forging knifes. To make a great one took heating, beating and more heating. Was this part of the furnace to forge a great captain in the heart of Jon Hawkins?

  Well, with any forging, a beating could be too much, too hard. One did not want to break a great knife—

  Walleye decided enough was enough. He pulled out a chair, making a show of dragging it out so he could plop himself down.

  Hawkins looked up. The man looked defeated all right.

  “Having a bad day, are we?” Walleye asked.

  Hawkins stared at him blankly.

  “Put your forehead back on the table if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

  Muscles shifted on the captain’s face, forming a slight frown. That was a thousand times better than the awful defeated look. Walleye hated seeing that look, especially if he looked in a mirror.

  “Why—” The word came out squeaky. Hawkins cleared his throat. “Why are you here?”