A.I. Assault (The A.I. Series Book 3) Read online

  “What if I want a win-win-win outcome?” Jon asked.

  “I am unfamiliar with the concept.”

  “Let me offer you a counter proposal. Why don’t you and your robots vacate Makemake? You can ship out to Senda and your cyber colony there.”

  “That is unacceptable. MK2 is the chief production unit in your star system. I need it to speed my projections of system-wide conquest. Vacate in two days, Jon Hawkins—”

  “Give me four weeks.”

  “Two days.”

  “That’s not nearly long enough.”

  The captive began to blink rapidly before saying, “I can offer you a five day period of grace. Then you must vacate.”

  “I’d like three weeks, at least.”

  “That is unacceptable.”

  “How about you give me your best offer?”

  Once more, the man blinked rapidly before he said, “Six days, Jon Hawkins, I can allow no more than that.”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” Jon said. “But six days. Yeah, I can barely manage that. I accept your offer.”

  “I thought you would, Jon Hawkins. I have found that you humans inordinately desire to remain alive. It has proven most useful. Do not attempt to prolong your stay further than six days. Otherwise, we will both lose.”

  “Got it,” Jon said. “Six days and we’re out of here.”

  -4-

  The communication with Unit 52-9 helped Jon make his decisions.

  All work on the Nathan Graham ceased. Gloria, Bast Banbeck and their teams reprogrammed the robo-construction units. That took 51 hours. After that, the giant production unit of the moon began fashioning a fighting platform. That was given full priority. With the entire moon dock employed, the fighting platform quickly assumed shape.

  “This is inefficient,” Gloria told Jon as they walked down a moon corridor. “Switching from one thing to another takes time. If we programmed it so everything was built slower but at the same time—”

  “Gloria, I’m betting Unit 52-9 is unfamiliar with lying. If I’m right, we have six days to build a defense against hypersonic missiles.”

  “That is illogical on several fronts,” Gloria said. “The cybers have dealt with the people of Makemake. Surely, some of those people lied to the AIs.”

  “Yes, they lied to the AI in the cybership we destroyed. Unit 52-9 is a new AI. I wonder if these controlling AIs are like a hive’s queen bee. If the robots lack a guiding AI, maybe their programs cause them to build one.”

  Gloria stopped.

  So did Jon.

  The mentalist stared at him with what appeared to be new appreciation.

  “That is a remarkable observation,” she said. “I suspect you’re correct. A queen bee. What an idea. This new AI lacks knowledge about normal human behavior. All its humans are already programmed or dead. Yes. It made a logical proposal to you. You accepted. As long as we seem to comply, it should go along with it. Unless…”

  “Where’s the flaw?” Jon asked.

  Gloria gave a small head shake. I’m not sure it’s a flaw. But what if the cybers are naturally sly? Maybe six days means five days. They’ll strike in five as a logical precaution.”

  “And lose the moon dock?” Jon said. “I’m thinking Unit 52-9 will give us the full six days. Do you know why?”

  Gloria shook her head. They resumed walking down the corridor afterward.

  “Did you ever play Galactic Conquest?” Jon asked.

  “The game?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I have not,” Gloria said.

  “There’s no dice or chance in the game,” Jon said. “Everyone writes their orders, puts them in a box and then moves at the same time as the orders are read. The movement system is super easy. A unit can travel to any adjoining space. The trick to the game is that to take a space one has to attack with more than what’s defending it. Each space can only hold one piece. However, the pieces in the surrounding spaces that touch the contested area can give their support to hold it.”

  “If one piece defends its space and two support it to hold, that’s a three-unit value?” Gloria asked.

  “That’s right. If the attackers have a unit attacking with one more unit than is defending—in this case three supporting units—the attacker captures the contested space.”

  “I understand the game mechanics. I do not understand how that relates to the new AI.”

  “Easy. Like I said, everyone writes their movement orders at the same time. The trick to the game is that you can promise others that you’ll help them, but when you write your orders, you really help their enemy. The person you lied to won’t know the deception until all the orders are read at once.”

  “I see,” Gloria said. “No one gets to see what orders you write until they’re all in.”

  Jon nodded.

  “In other words, people constantly lie to each other in the game,” Gloria said.

  “Here’s my point. When you’re losing in Galactic Conquest and someone promises to help you, and you desperately need that help to remain in the game, you’re easy to trick.”

  “I would think it would be the opposite,” Gloria said. “If you are desperate, you would be suspicious of everyone.”

  “Nope. Wanting the other person’s promise to be true makes you believe their word is good. A person who badly needs help is easier to trick—if you tell them you’re going to help them. Their wanting to believe makes them ignore their doubts.”

  Understanding seemed to fill Gloria’s eyes. “Unit 52-9 badly wants what it calls the MK2 Production Unit.”

  “Bingo,” Jon said. “The needy AI wants to believe I’m playing straight with it. That’s why I think it will give us the full six days.”

  “Long enough for us to launch the fighting platform with a full complement of weaponry,” Gloria said.

  “That’s the hope.”

  “What about Senda and the destroyer? We need to launch a modified destroyer as soon as we can.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jon said with a sigh. “First, we have to get the platform up. Then, you can reconfigure the robo-builders in a more efficient manner.”

  Gloria considered that. Finally, she said, “That should suffice.”

  “If that’s not the greatest vote of confidence I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is.”

  “How can you joke at a time like this?”

  “Are you kidding?” Jon asked. “It’s going to be a time like this for many years. Either we learn to live under the shadow of death or we’re not going to make it.”

  They turned into another corridor. On the left side was a long screen showing the interior moon. The vast Nathan Graham floated out there. There were no robots working on the hull or in the interior of the ship. Instead, far away up top, the robo-builders gathered like massed ants. Sparks and harsh light showed as they worked on the fighting platform and its various components.

  “I haven’t heard yet,” Gloria said. “Did we get a reply from the Uranus Chief Executive?”

  “Sure did. He spoke a lot and didn’t say much. I think he’s talking with Justinian too. The CPS is nervous. They’re afraid of making a mistake.”

  “CPS? The Committee for Public Safety?”

  “Uh-huh,” Jon said.

  “Don’t the committee members realize that if Justinian ever gets hold of them—?”

  “I’m sure they know they’ll face a lifetime of hideous torture,” Jon said, interrupting. “But they’re still too frightened to do more than put their big toe in the water.”

  “Is this another example of Galactic Conquest thinking?”

  “Probably,” Jon said.

  They walked in silence, soon turning into another corridor.

  “Time,” Gloria said, abruptly. “This is all about time.”

  “Which is why we have to dig out the robots from Makemake tomorrow. If we can’t get the production unit churning again with new ores from Makemake…”

  Gloria’s communi
cator pinged. She picked it up, listening. She turned to Jon, and asked, “Do you still need me?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The Old Man desires my help in interrogating a tech.”

  “Who’s the tech?”

  Gloria cocked her head. Jon had learned that this usually meant she was using a mnemonic technique to bring the name to her frontal lobe. “I spoke to the tech once before. His name is Eli Gomez. He is from Mars, and he hates me.”

  “That’s odd. Why does the Old Man need your help?”

  “We thought Eli died in a construction accident several weeks ago. Now, it appears he’s been wandering in the moon’s corridors all this time.”

  “Hmmm…” Jon said. “Go ahead. I have to read a few reports. Now’s as good a time as any to get it done.”

  -5-

  Methlan Rath of Janus House hunched his head as he accessed a memory from Eli Gomez’s brain. The little simpering fool of a human appeared to have had an abundance of idiosyncrasies and bad habits. Why he had to inhabit such a weak body—

  “What’s wrong with you?” the Old Man asked.

  “Sorry…” Methlan said.

  “Your eyes glazed over. Did you just have a seizure?”

  Methlan shook his head.

  “Am I boring you, then?”

  “No, sir,” Methlan forced himself to say.

  “Hmm…” the Old Man said, puffing on his pipe.

  Methlan found the aroma irritating. He also did not care for the tightness of this cell’s walls. He did not like the small table shoved almost against his chest or the hardness of the chair he sat on.

  The Old Man sat across from him, holding a computer tablet, using his thumb to move images on the screen. A husky marine wearing a combat vest stood behind Methlan at a locked door.

  In his former days, Methlan Rath could have beaten the marine to a pulp. The Prince of Ten Worlds had owned a genetically perfect form from long generations of selective breeding. This pathetic body with its weak muscles and brittle bones—how had Eli Gomez made it through life?

  A knock sounded at the hatch. The marine looked at the Old Man questioningly.

  “Let her in,” the Old Man said.

  Methlan twisted back to see who it was. His eyes widened as the witch stepped into the cell. This physical reaction caught Methlan by surprise. He did not remember the Martian mentalist, but Eli Gomez certainly did. The troubling response, that Eli could cause the body to do anything, highly upset Methlan. He’d believed his ownership of this wretched frame to be complete. If he had to compete against the brain’s cunning former owner—

  “No,” Methlan hissed to himself. “It shall not be.”

  He shut his eyes, and he strove to crush the final vestige of the simpering Eli Gomez. Thus, the Prince did not realize that his frail body fell sideways off the chair and lay inert on the interrogation room floor.

  ***

  Methlan Rath shivered himself awake. He was in a bed with a tube in his arm. Machines hummed around him. This must be a medical center.

  He stirred. Seconds later, a med tech stepped beside him.

  “Feeling better?” the short tech asked. He had what the humans called garlic breath. It reeked when the tech spoke this near him.

  “Yes,” Methlan said. “I am feeling better.”

  The tech gave him a funny look.

  “What is wrong?” Methlan asked.

  “I’ve never heard an accent like yours. Where are you from?”

  Methlan tried to access Eli Gomez’s memory. With a sudden sense of panic, he realized many of the memories were sealed from him. He couldn’t detect any hint of the weakling’s ego. It would appear that he’d slain any possibility of Eli’s return. The feat appeared to have cost him, however. This could prove troubling.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the med tech said. “Let me run a few tests.”

  Methlan nodded.

  As the tech ran his tests, mainly from a med computer hooked to the machines, Methlan strove to formulate a plan.

  “He has that stupid look on his face again. Can he even hear us?”

  Methlan focused from where his head lay on a pillow. The Old Man stood beside the med tech. The Old Man frowned down at him.

  “Hello,” Methlan said.

  The Old Man seemed surprised by the salutation. Two beats later, he asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Tired,” Methlan said. That seemed like a safe answer.

  “There isn’t anything physically wrong with him,” the tech told the Old Man.

  “What were you doing in the moon corridors all this time?” the Old Man asked Methlan.

  “I cannot remember.”

  The Old Man turned to the tech. “Did he hit his head sometime in the last few weeks?”

  “I wondered the same thing,” the tech said. “The machines say no. But they’re not always right. I’d say he hit his head. It jarred something loose in there. He has staring spells, for one thing.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” the Old Man said.

  “Maybe the shock of seeing his friends killed…” the tech suggested.

  “Is that right?” the Old Man asked Methlan. “Did you have a shock?”

  “Death…” Methlan said in a meaningful way. “It is so final. I…” He turned away as if something pained him.

  “Release him,” the Old Man said. “I want Gloria to talk to him.” The tall officer regarded Methlan. “You’re coming with me. I still have a few questions for you.”

  “By all means,” Methlan said, trying to appear simpering. It was difficult, but he had to maintain his camouflage if he hoped to achieve his goals.

  ***

  Methlan found himself in the same interrogation cell as before. A glass of water and a sandwich waited for him on the table. The paste smeared on the bread tasted like peanuts. A marine stood by the door.

  Half an hour after finishing the peanut butter sandwich, the door opened and a small woman in a tan uniform entered the cell. She had dark hair framing her fine-featured oval face. She held herself tightly and her eyes seemed to miss nothing.

  Here is a worthy opponent, Methlan realized. Then it came to him that he’d seen her before. This was the one Eli had called a witch. That his memories hadn’t immediately recognized her troubled Methlan. That Eli’s ego did not respond at all told Methlan the simpering one was gone forever. He controlled this pathetic body now.

  The woman sat on the chair on the opposite side of the table. She crossed her legs, regarding him.

  Methlan waited patiently. He had to pass the test. If he failed, the marine would likely subdue him.

  “You don’t remember me,” the woman said.

  In that instant, Methlan had a brainstorm. He realized how he should play this. It was brilliant. The med tech and the Old Man had given him his out. He almost relaxed. He almost smiled in triumph. Instead, he spoke:

  “I apologize, I do not,” he said.

  The woman studied him with a careful scrutiny. She seemed to catalog everything about him.

  “We’re both Martians,” she said.

  Methlan nodded. The words activated a memory. He—no, Eli—was from the Red Planet with its rusty odor atmosphere.

  “You didn’t know that until I spoke,” Gloria said.

  “I am sorry, but that is right.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “I didn’t believe the Old Man at first about you. Now… I don’t think you could have hidden your old hatred for me.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “I can see that. Clearly, you’ve suffered a head injury. The machines don’t show it, but I can see that you’re not the same. The only reasonably explanation is a head injury.”

  After leaving the brain-tap chamber many weeks ago, Methlan had snuck back to the Nathan Graham’s outer hull region. Then, in a daring feat, he had escaped off the ship and onto the moon. They had found him wandering corridors near the moon’s surface. The extreme distance from the brain-tap ma
chines seemed to have shielded him from suspicion regarding them. One thing was clear. Eli Gomez had done one thing right. He’d had put a stooge in his stead. Gorky with his brain-tap helmet was all the explanation the others would have needed for the deeds committed both outside and inside the dreaded chamber. That had happened over a month ago—thus, the time differential helped Methlan, too. They might have wondered if he’d sabotaged the moon stores. He most certainly had. But those explosions had occurred on the other side of the moon. His present mental state might be shielding him from suspicion. That, the distance of the sabotaged sites, and the frailty of this pathetic body.

  The woman began to ask him a series of questions that increased in speed as she continued. Methlan answered as the Prince of Ten Worlds except in cases where the truth would have given away his alien origin.

  Finally, the woman concluded the interrogation. “I’d almost say you had amnesia. I will recommend you stay a few days in the med center. If you are better after that…maybe there’s something we can find for you to do.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t do that,” Gloria said. “I seek the truth. You have not lied to me. I would have detected the attempts. Thus, I don’t believe you’re guilty of nefarious plotting. You do realize that you’re under suspicion.”

  “I do now.”

  A small grin showed. “Another honest answer. I urge you to keep speaking the truth.”

  “I shall,” Methlan said. He was the galaxy’s best liar. It had always been so, as it had been one of his greatest traits. In fact, it had led him to the throne of the Ten Worlds.

  The woman nodded, standing to take her leave.

  Shortly thereafter, Methlan returned to the med center. His deception had held this time because he had stuck to the truth, as he knew it. He had to swallow his laughter. The deliciousness of that was almost too much. His Janus House luck held this time.

  As he lay on a med cot, Methlan decided to use this time to study. He had to figure out the best way to kill Jon Hawkins. Then, he had to plan for the future, whatever that held for a superior person like him.