The A.I. Gene (The A.I. Series Book 2) Page 24

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Please, Captain,” she pleaded.

  Jon notified the pilot.

  In seconds, the flitter maneuvered around, flying back as fast as it could go.

  ***

  Jon jumped out of the landed flitter, striding to a team of parked air-cars. Most of them held waiting marines in vests and helmets. Gloria Sanchez stood near a portable table where techs watched monitors.

  The mentalist peeled away from the group as Jon approached. “I couldn’t say anything to you that the octopoids might pick up,” she said.

  Jon raised his eyebrows.

  “The comm team picked up foreign transmissions,” Gloria said. “The transmissions were on a weird band. They left our ship in the direction of Makemake.”

  “The octopoids are in communication with the aliens on Makemake?” Jon asked.

  “I give that a high probability. It’s likely our octopoids are also receiving transmissions from Makemake.”

  “Okay…” Jon said.

  “I think this answers a troublesome question we could never answer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why did the octopoids in the main engine compartment two years ago save your life? Maybe they did it on the order of the Makemake aliens.”

  Jon shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. The brain core hated me. Why would the Makemake aliens help me if they originated from the brain core’s ship?”

  It was Gloria’s turn to shake her head. “Hatred could likely have been the reason.”

  “The AI aliens have emotions?”

  “They didn’t act the way we would think sentient AIs should,” Gloria pointed out. “Maybe the aliens want you alive so they can make you suffer. Maybe out of all the biological infestations in the galaxy, you’re the one they want to dissect the most.”

  Jon stared at her.

  “I don’t mean to upset you,” she hastened to add.

  “No, no, of course not,” he said. “Why would that bother me in the slightest?”

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  He nodded.

  “But there’s something even more critical.”

  “To whom?” he asked.

  “I’d like to know what the octopoids are telling the Makemake aliens,” Gloria said, “and know what those on Makemake are telling the robot spies aboard the Nathan Graham.”

  “We’d all like that,” Jon said. “But every time we try to capture an octopoid, it self-destructs.”

  “That’s why I called you. I had a thought. I might have a way to capture an octopoid intact.”

  “We’ve tried all kinds of tactics. What can we do differently at this late date?”

  “Use Da Vinci,” Gloria said.

  “Of course,” Jon said. “His jammer was critical to our capturing the cybership. The jammer no longer works, though. It was wrecked. No one knows how to fix…” It finally occurred to him what she was getting at. “This is about Da Vinci himself, isn’t it?”

  Gloria nodded.

  Jon studied the small Martian. “Am I thinking what you’re thinking?”

  “It might be time to throw Da Vinci his last rope,” Gloria said.

  “Have you talked to Bast about this?”

  Gloria shook her head.

  Jon looked away. Poor Da Vinci with the Prince of Ten Worlds in his head.

  “Bast’s method might permanently damage Da Vinci’s mind,” Jon said.

  “At this point, I don’t think that matters.”

  Jon sighed. “Let me talk to Bast about it.”

  “You’d better hurry, Jon. I think we’re going to need every advantage we can get against the Makemake aliens. The AIs have had more than three years to prepare something. It might be more than we can handle unless we get this advantage.”

  “All right,” Jon said. “Let’s go see Bast.”

  -2-

  Bast Banbeck agreed readily enough. The Sacerdote hadn’t fully recovered from the octopoid assault ten days ago. The idea of doing anything to the creatures that might have crippled him…

  “I feel I must warn you, though,” Bast said. He and Jon were in the Sacerdote’s outer chamber. This time, Bast hadn’t entered the chalk pattern. The giant almost seemed to be avoiding the pattern. “I am not quite as sharp as in the past. This pains me. I hope I don’t make a mistake during the proceeding.”

  “If you’re saying you’re not up to it…”

  Bast scowled. That seemed unlike him. “Did I say such a thing?” he demanded.

  Jon shook his head.

  “Then please do not presume you know my thoughts. I doubt anyone in this system could conceive…”

  Jon stared at the extraterrestrial towering over him. He’d never seen Bast angry or upset before. It was as if he were seeing the Sacerdote for the first time. What would happen if the huge Sacerdote went berserk?

  “As your captain, I demand you tell me exactly how you feel,” Jon said.

  “I…how I feel?” asked Bast.

  “Physically?”

  “I already said. I feel…less than before. It is a horrible sensation.”

  “Could it be a head injury?”

  “I deem that most likely.”

  “Can we help you somehow?”

  “Rest,” Bast said. “I need rest.”

  “Which is the opposite of what I’m asking you to do,” Jon said.

  “After this I shall rest.”

  “Could the operation tire you enough to add to the head injury’s long-term harm to you?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Bast…I…”

  “Captain, I have said it before. We are facing a terrible foe. I will gladly sacrifice my mental acuity if it means stopping the AIs from destroying yet another species. Life must make a stand. You are the galaxy’s hope, Captain. I am compelled to help you in any way I can.”

  “Thank you. If it’s in my power, I hope to help any Sacerdotes out there in the galaxy.”

  “Alas, I am the last of my race, Captain.”

  “Maybe others are captive on other cyberships.”

  Bast cocked his Neanderthal-shaped head. “I’d never thought of that. Thank you, Captain. This gives me hope. Come. Let us get Da Vinci. The sooner we begin, the sooner the Neptunian can help us capture an octopoid.”

  ***

  Da Vinci did not cooperate. More precisely, the Prince of Ten Worlds presently in control of the former thief’s mind did not cooperate. He raved as guards force-marched him to a flitter.

  “Jon Hawkins,” the Neptunian shouted. “This is an outrage. You seek to destroy me. That is ingratitude most foul. You may rest assured, you blackguard, that I shall remember this. Your life is forfeit if you go through with this monstrous crime.”

  “Threaten all you like,” Jon said. “Your time is limited.”

  The Neptunian howled with rage, struggling against his guards. But they were too strong. They forced him into a flitter, with a guard sitting on either side of him.

  The flitter caravan lifted, flying down the corridors to as close as they could get to the brain-tap machine chamber. The guards then escorted Da Vinci down the narrower corridors. Soon enough, they forced him into the brain-tap chamber.

  Jon followed them in. Bast Banbeck brought up the rear.

  “I will give you a last opportunity,” the Neptunian shouted. “You are murdering your intellectual and moral superior. I helped you—”

  The marines had been wrestling the Neptunian onto a table. They strapped his struggling frame to it and forced a wadded-up rag into his mouth. That had cut off his words in midstream.

  Jon stepped up to the table. He could feel the Prince’s hatred like waves. A sense of concern touched him. The Prince of Ten Worlds had survived the brain-tap machines last time. What was going to make this time so different?

  A marine slipped an enclosed brain-tap helmet over the Neptunian’s head. Wires led from the heavy helmet to a huge machine nearby.


  Jon retreated as the Sacerdote went to the delicate controls of the machine. Bast twisted a dial, studied alien readings and scratched his head in a simian manner as if he’d forgotten something.

  “Captain,” the Sacerdote said.

  Jon stepped up to him.

  “This time, I must scrub everything from his memories,” the Sacerdote said. “I will use the man’s stored engrams. When a person dons a brain-tap helmet, the machine automatically records his brain patterns. With this process, Da Vinci will forget what happened to him after he donned the helmet the first time. It’s possible he will forget more than that, as a full engram placement doesn’t always fully take. This is the only way I know to eliminate the alien memories of the Prince and allow Da Vinci his original personality.”

  “If you want my okay,” Jon said, “do it.”

  “There is another risk—”

  “Do it,” Jon said, interrupting. “We don’t have time to dither. We’ve decided. Now, let’s get on with it.”

  Bast gave him a searching glance. Finally, the Sacerdote nodded. He studied the controls and turned a different dial this time.

  Jon headed for the hatch. He hated medical procedures of any kind. “I’ll be outside,” he said.

  Bast didn’t acknowledge the words.

  Jon let himself out of the chamber. In the hall, he waited for the outcome.

  ***

  A little over two hours later, Bast staggered out of the chamber.

  Jon looked up from where he sat against a wall.

  Bast Banbeck had dark half-circles under his eyes. The giant trembled and wouldn’t meet Jon’s questioning gaze.

  The captain leaped up with alarm. “Is he—?”

  Bast raised a big arm, resting the forearm against a wall. He put his face against his raised forearm as his sides silently heaved.

  Jon moved to the hatch. He hesitated, glancing at Bast. Then he stepped into the brain-tap chamber.

  The guards had removed the brain-tap helmet. Da Vinci lay on the table in a twisted, half-fetal heap.

  Jon stared at the guards.

  One of them shook his head.

  “How?” Jon whispered.

  The guard shrugged, but added, “The Sacerdote was heartbroken, sir. Seemed to feel it was his fault. I don’t believe that. I kept hearing Da Vinci muttering fiercely.”

  Jon saw the rag on the floor. How had Da Vinci managed to spit it out? “Could you make out anything he said?”

  “If I die, he dies,” the guard quoted.

  Jon nodded, understanding. That must have been the Prince saying that. The Prince had found a way to kill the body. Jon stepped up, touched the corpse on the shoulder and shook his head. Poor Da Vinci. Abruptly, Jon turned for the hatch.

  Bast was no longer leaning against the wall. The towering Sacerdote looked upward as he staggered blindly down the corridor.

  Jon hurried to him. “Bast Banbeck,” he said.

  The Sacerdote ignored him.

  “Bast Banbeck,” Jon said, grabbing a huge hand.

  The Sacerdote tried to jerk his hand free. Jon held tightly, his feet half-lifting off the floor. Finally, Bast looked down at him.

  “Go away,” the Sacerdote said. “Let me grieve for him.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Jon said.

  “I should have—”

  “It’s my fault,” Jon said, plowing over Bast’s words. “I’m the one who used Da Vinci even when he begged me not to. I gave the Prince strength by forcing him to the forefront too many times. The Prince was vengeful and would not let anyone thwart him. The Prince killed Da Vinci, but I gave the Prince the ability to gain control of his mind. I am to blame, not you.”

  Bast stared at Jon. Finally, gently, the giant removed his hand from Jon’s grip. The Sacerdote raised his face and stared into the distance.

  “The war kills,” Bast said in a rumbling voice. “It drives us to actions that stain our souls. You are marked, Jon Hawkins. You must destroy the AIs even if it devours your soul. You must sacrifice everything in order to beat the machines.”

  “Are you cursing me?” Jon asked.

  Bast nodded slowly. “I have no desire to curse you, Captain, but I speak truth. Perhaps your curse is the Solar System’s hope. You have the mindset and the determination to beat the AIs. Yet, in order to do so…you must carry heavy burdens.”

  The Sacerdote focused on Jon. “You have eased my conscience, Captain. Thank you. I will serve you to the best of my ability. We are outside the bounds of conventionality, you and I. We are outside it in order to wield terrible powers. Those powers will possibly consume us. Before that happens, we must give the living the means of defeating the death machines.”

  “Yeah,” Jon said, even as his conscience tore into him, accusing him of murdering Da Vinci for his own ends. “I guess…we can only go forward?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just like you said. That we destroy the death machines. We’re paying it forward, Bast Banbeck.”

  “If we can.”

  Jon looked up at the Sacerdote, agreeing, “If we can, my brother. If we can.”

  At these words, Jon saw a hint of affection roll over Bast’s face, followed by a look of resolution.

  -3-

  A day passed as the Nathan Graham raced for the NSN destroyer.

  Jon had slept fitfully. He knew any war brought casualties. Da Vinci, unfortunately, had been one of them.

  Jon hadn’t gone tiger hunting for octopoids again. They would have to face whatever was out here without the advantage of dissecting an octopoid computer core. Gloria’s team had detected a few more incoming alien messages. It hadn’t helped them pinpoint the location of the stowaway robots. They had to assume the aliens on Makemake knew about them and the cybership’s state of repair or lack thereof.

  Jon was on the bridge, sipping hot coffee. He slipped two pills into his mouth, washing them down. He wished his headache would go away. He needed sleep and he needed freedom from guilt over Da Vinci’s death.

  Had Colonel Graham ever fought with his conscience? Jon doubted it. He was disgusted with himself for this weakness. Tough decisions were part of the job description. He couldn’t let Da Vinci’s death get to him like this. Yes, he’d used the Neptunian, but what other choices had there been at the time?

  “Entering targeting range in twenty minutes,” the chief said.

  Jon nodded absently.

  Gloria entered the bridge. The small Martian was wearing her tan uniform, with a sidearm hanging from a belt. That was unlike her. She wore polished boots today and a sharply peaked cap on her head.

  She spoke with a guard, glanced in Jon’s direction and soon moved toward him.

  Jon pretended to study the main screen. It showed the vastness of space with countless stars.

  Gloria neared as she blew on a cup of strong mojo.

  “Nice uniform,” Jon said.

  She kept blowing across the top of the mojo as she searched his face.

  “I have a decision to make,” Jon announced.

  Gloria took her first hesitant sip of mojo. “I know your choice: do you brake for Walleye and Miss Zen? Or do you keep heading at speed for Makemake? It’s doubtful we’ll crack their alien cube anytime soon. Thus, our greatest advantage might be trying to catch the Makemake aliens by surprise. Still, we might also gain valuable information from Walleye and June if we take them aboard.”

  “I killed Da Vinci,” Jon said suddenly.

  Gloria took another sip of mojo. Jon had the distinct impression she took the sip so she didn’t have to answer immediately.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Jon told her. “I just wanted you to know that I know. It’s my problem—it’s not even a problem.” He said that because he remembered that a commanding officer needed to remain confident and upbeat. He couldn’t let Da Vinci’s death break his morale. If he did that, he would negate the meaning of Da Vinci’s death.

  Jon snorted, sh
aking his head.

  Gloria still did not speak. There was growing concern in her eyes, though.

  Jon forced himself to grin wryly. “Who would have thought I’d come to appreciate the little thief?”

  “You never did,” Gloria said.

  Jon stared at her.

  “You’re feeling guilty. Because of the guilt, you’ve begun to believe that Da Vinci and you were good friends. That was never the case. He was a rascal. He brought the problem on his own head. You tried to help him at first, and that didn’t work out—through no fault of your own. Later, the Prince had knowledge we desperately needed. Da Vinci had brought that on himself, too, when he first got greedy. His greed caught up with him yesterday. It was too bad, but it wasn’t really your fault. You’re a good man, Captain. Be an even better one by using your leadership and decision skills to the fullest. Get mad at the right object.”

  “The aliens?” he asked.

  “They’re all that matters now.”

  He knew she was right. It was time to harden his heart. He had to be the man of iron. Was that his destiny? Or were those fancy words to buttress his choices?

  Maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe the only thing for him now was winning.

  Jon struck his armrest. It spilled the coffee resting in the slot there. He didn’t worry about that. “This is it,” Jon said with authority so the bridge crew could easily hear him. “Chief.”

  “Yes, sir,” the chief replied, hardly moving his lips. Miles Ghent, the Tech Chief, rarely let anyone see his buckteeth. No doubt, the man was self-conscious about them.

  “Let’s get ready to destroy some alien missiles,” Jon said. “We’re going to use the gravitational beam, and we’re going to do this as fast as we can. How long until the first missile is in range?”

  Chief Ghent studied his board. “Nine minutes and thirty-two seconds, sir.”

  “Right,” Jon said. “As soon as we finish off the alien missiles, we’ll begin hard braking. I want to pick up the destroyer as fast as we can.”

  Jon turned to Gloria. “I’d like you at the comm station.”

  “Why do you think I’m wearing my dress uniform today?” she asked.

  “And the gun?” Jon asked.

  “Just in case the octopoids show up sometime during the proceeding. I’m armed so a guard doesn’t have to worry about me. That way, the guard can give his full concentration to destroying the octopoids.”