The AI War (2 page)

The doors hissed open again. D'Trelna came onto the bridge, a tired-looking man in a wrinkled, brown duty uniform and holstered blaster.

"Morning, J'Quel," said L'Wrona, turning toward D'Trelna.

The commoddre nodded absently, standing beside the captain's station, eyes on the screen. "H'Nar," he said quietly, "an order's being issued for my arrest. S'Gan will be directed to execute it."

The captain frowned, adjusting the resolution on a telltale. "The Imperial party?"

"Does everyone know this but me?"

"You're not for them, J'Quel, therefore you're against them. You could be a grave threat to them if you ran for Council."

"You're out of your mind, H'Nar."

"Am I?" The captain stood. He was a sharp contrast to the older officer: tall, thin, with aquiline features, his uniform impeccably cut, silver inlaid blaster grips protruding from the gleaming v'arx leather holster.

"Those slime profited from the war—they and their friends in the industrial combines. And now they're profiting from the cleanup. Billions dead, millions brainwiped, scores of planets in ruins. The restoration contracts will run for years. And this talk of keeping Fleet at wartime strength, 'reclaiming' the old Imperial quadrants. Inspired by greed, all of it."

"Greed and glory lust," said D'Trelna. "Here's something you don't know, H'Nar." Quickly, he told L'Wrona about the assassination team and R'Gal. The captain showed surprise only at R'Gal's name.

"You know what R'Gal is, J'Quel?"

The commodore shook his head.

"He's a Watcher."

D'Trelna's eyes widened. "A Watcher? A S'Cotar hunter on this ship? Gods of my fathers."

"Admiral S'Gan for the commodore," said the comm officer, K'Lana.

D'Trelna smiled tightly. "Perhaps it's about the supply requisitions.

"Put it on the board, K'Lana. You should all hear this."

The five cruisers vanished from the main screen. A woman looked out at them, her graying hair tied back in a severe bun, the golden triangle of an admiral second on her collar. Watchful green eyes scanned
Implacable'
's bridge. S'Gan sat at a traq-wood desk identical to D'Trelna's, backdropped by a slab of armorglass and a view of Terra's moon. Her gaze settled on the commodore. "J'Quel," she said.

"Admiral." He nodded, sweaty hand gripping the leather back of the empty command chair.

"Important people want your ass in the brig, Commodore," she said, raising a steaming cup of fata to her lips, sipping.

"Really?"

"You don't seem very surprised."

"I had some warning."

She shrugged. "No matter. This"—she held a pink commsheet disdainfully between thumb and forefinger— "has the wrong sign-off. Fleet Security can only issue orders of arrest over the signature of a FleetOps flag officer. This bears the signature of a Councilman and is thus not a lawful order." The paper fluttered to the desk top.

"I've requested clarification, D'Trelna. It'll take a while, going deferred priority. Meantime, I've received orders to reinforce Commodore A'Wal. The corsair K'Tran's base has been located. I'm leaving one ship on station off Terra. The rest of us are joining the blaster party."

D'Trelna and L'Wrona exchanged glances. "May we join the fun, Admiral?" said D'Trelna. "We owe K'Tran."

"No." She put her cup down. "The instant I receive that corrected order, I'm sending a shuttle for you. Head out on your mission—now."

"Thank you, Admiral."

She crumpled the cup, tossing it off scan. "Don't thank me, D'Trelna. Just do your job—find out if there's anything to this Trel thing. I'll deliver your compliments to K'Tran." Something tugged at her lips—it might have been a smile. "Will a Mark Eighty-eight fusion salvo do?"

"It will," said the commodore. "Luck. You're going to need it, out there in the Blue Nine."

"Luck to you, too," said D'Trelna as the view of space and S'Gan's flotilla returned to the screen.

L'Wrona turned to his first officer. "Make for jump point at flank, T'Lei. You have the Trel coordinates plotted?"

"Jump plotted and set, Captain." said the young commander.

"K'Lana, all-band communications silence till after we jump."

"Yes, sir."

"Mission briefing, J'Quel?" asked L'Wrona.

The commodore shook his head. "Not until after the last jump." He turned for the door. "Let's keep the good news to ourselves for a few weeks, H'Nar."

"Where will you be?"

"Seeing to the cleaning of my quarters. Have medical send a casualty team there."

The gray doors hissed shut behind him.

"Make for jump point. Commander K'Raoda," ordered L'Wrona. taking the command chair. "Shield to battleforce. Flank speed."

K'Raoda touched a key. Far amidships and deeply armored, the computer responded, executing the first of a series of mission commands. "Making for jump point at flank, sir," said the first officer.

Surrounded by the faint blue shimmer of her shield,
Implacable
slipped out of Earth orbit.

"Blue Nine?" said T'Ral as the captain spoke to K'Lana.

"They haven't gone shipwide with that." said K'Raoda dryly, watching the jump approach figures thread across a telltale.

"When do they tell us?"

"Briefing, I imagine. By which time everyone will know." He nodded at the main screen. "Want to say good-bye to Terra. Y'Gal?"

''We almost got killed there half a hundred times, T'Lei." He looked up as S'Gan's flotilla vanished and Terra shrank to just another small light. "It was wild, wasn't it?" he smiled.

"Sure was. Will we ever see it again?"

T'Ral returned to his chores. "You know what they used to say, when a man died on Fleet duty?" said K'Raoda, returning to his instruments.

K'Raoda watched the light disappear, then looked at T'Ral. " 'Shipped into Blue Nine,' " he said quietly.

Neither said anything until they reached jump point.

"There are other contractors in this quadrant with your skills, K'Tran," said B'Rol with a smile, setting down his drink. The hard blue points of his eyes belied the laugh lines crinkling them. To the uninitiated, B'Rol was just another restaurant owner—a jovial man, grown round on his own rich food and the easier times since the war's end.

K'Tran knew what lay beneath that facade: a man as hard and as cold as himself. "There aren't any in this quadrant with the resources your client needs," he said. "If you think you can do better—luck." He started to rise.

A surprisingly strong hand gripped his arm, pulling him back to his seat. "Let's not be hasty, Captain. Another drink?"

"It's your liquor."

Catching the server's eyes, B'Rol held up two fingers.

There were three restaurants worthy of the name in S'Tak. B'Rol's was atop the Bureau of Agriculture building and boasted a view of S'Takport. Sitting at the bar, the two watched as an agro freighter came gliding in on silent n-gravs, two miles of oblong black hull against a perfect blue sky.

"It's just that since you failed your last mission," said B'Rol as the drinks came, "my client's uneasy about employing you again."

"A fluke." KTran sipped his drink—a tart, yellow wine from the southern hills of STak. "If my ex-commander's brother hadn't been aboard
Implacable,
the mission would have succeeded." He glanced approvingly at himself in the bar glass—a wiry, light-complexioned man with thinning hair and the casual, well-cut clothes of a prosperous merchant.

"Yes. But he was aboard. And it did fail." B'Rol held up a hand as KTran started to protest. "Because of your prior efforts on his behalf, my client is willing to forget that fiasco."

"Generous. What does he want?"

"As usual, I wasn't told." Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small white cylinder and handed it to KTran. "It's all in there. Mission and delivery specs. Same terms as the last venture—less my client's deposit on that debacle, of course."

"Of course." KTran slipped the commwand into his shirt pocket. "We won't be seeing each other again."

"Just as well," said B'Rol as fresh drinks arrived. "Fleet wants you dead, and I don't want ta be in the same system "with cruisers shooting it out. Rumor has it they pulled four task groups out of relief and recovery to hunt you down."

KTran sipped his wine, watching the freighter. "Six task groups. Four in this quadrant alone. Flattering, but unwanted attention. We'll lift ship for a new base port as soon as my business with you is finished."

"I'll drink to that," said the drugger.

KTran lifted his glass. "Your
health, B'Rol. I don't suppose your client's available for questions, once I've read this?'' He tapped the pocket holding the commwand.

B'Rol shook his head. "That came to me circuitously, like the rest. I've no idea who the client is—though I'm sure if I found out I wouldn't live to tell." He smiled, shaking his head. "Almost, I'm sorry to see you go, K'Tran. It's brought in some nice side money—my personal account always swelled the day after you lifted." Setting down his drink, he frowned, staring at the agro freighter. "Odd."

"What?" said the corsair, following his gaze. The ship had landed, but without any of the usual port bustle. It sat alone, port center, locks closed, dwarfing the port buildings and government towers—-a ship big enough to feed a world.

"Any freighter pulling into S'Takport, Captain, has about ten other ports to reach as fast as possible. We're a designated provision planet. What we don't eat is sent to the liberated planets—fast. Freighters come in, off-load, on-load and upship. One, two, three. Millions are starving. Time is life."

"So?"

B'Rol looked at the corsair. "So, why is that ship just sitting out there, not locked into the docks, no haulers approaching?"

"They're opening up." K'Tran nodded toward the ship. A forward lock the size of the restaurant was cycling open. The two men watched as a broad, gray ramp extended from the ship. Eight dull, black vehicles sped out onto the duralloy.

B'Rol spilled his drink. "Combat cars!" he cried, staring wide-eyed at the turret-topped assault vehicles. Spreading into a long line, they raced toward a series of dun-colored warehouses along the field's northern edge.

"Standard ground assault formation." K'Tran nodded approvingly. "Aren't those your warehouses?"

B'Rol watched ashen-cheeked as three utility haulers hurried from the warehouses, away from the combat car. "Cowards," he said hoarsely. "Stand and fight!"

"Not even for dopers' wages," said KTran. "Not with hand weapons against Mark Forty-fours and battlesteel."

The drugger looked toward the distant gray block of Planetary Defense Command, now encased in the shimmering haze of a forcefield. "Why aren't the port defenses firing?"

"Perimeter's penetrated," said KTran. "The batteries would have to be reconfigured and reranged. Two, three days work.''

"They'll hit her as she leaves."

"Comforting."

The combat cars had reached the warehouses. Assault ramps dropped. Squads of heavily armed troopers scrambled up the loading docks and charged into the warehouses. The restaurant was too far from the action for the men to recognize the uniforms.

From the freighter, five silver shuttles flew on n-gravs to the loading docks, landing unchallenged.

The few other people in the restaurant had gathered in small groups by the glass wall, drinks in hand, chatting quietly as they watched the raid.

KTran checked the time. "Very professional," he said. "Not a shot fired, either. Wonder when the Planetary Guard's—"

First from the spaceport, then from every direction, alert sirens began warbling.

The vidscreen over the bar flashed on. "Attention! Attention!" The head and torso of a green-uniformed Guards captain filled the screen. He looked haggard—there was some shouting going on off scan. "A corsair raid is in' progress. A corsair raid is in progress." The officer's voice boomed through the restaurant at max volume. "All military personnel and reservists to rally points. All emergency services personnel report for duty. All others to bombardment shelters."

The restaurant emptied quickly as the announcement continued, accompanied by the siren's wail. Only the two men at the bar heard the rest: "Be advised. Be advised.

Fleet units are insystem and are responding. Fleet units are insystem and are responding." Evidently recorded, the alert began repeating.

K'Tran took out a slim communicator. "A'Tir, got anything on those Fleet units?"

"Three heavy cruisers, coming in at flank," replied a woman's voice, crisp and efficient.

"Can we make it?"

"If we load only four shuttles."

"Do it. Send the fifth for me, now. Straight in, commlink vector."

"Acknowledged."

Setting down the communicator, he faced B'Rol's baleful gaze.

"You," said the drugger. "That's
Victory Day
out there—your ship!" K'Tran nodded.

Heavy blaster fire echoed through the port. The combat cars were sweeping the rooftops with bursts of red fusion bolts, answering a scattering of sniper fire. Flames sprang up as the sniper fire died.

"Why, K'Tran?"

"I'm a thief and a killer, B'Rol, like you," said K'Tran casually. "The only merchandise worth stealing on this dustball world is yours—so I'm taking it. You have eight h'kals of narcotics in those warehouses. Six of them are now mine. The other two will burn. I'll make two and a half million credits. Not bad for an afternoon's work."

"Dead men don't spend," said B'Rol, his voice low, hard and cold. "Run. Hide. Bury yourself in a citadel. Nothing'll save you, K'Tran. You'll die under torture. That's a vidscan I'll enjoy for the rest of my life."

The corsair shrugged. "No doubt." A palm-sized blaster appeared in his hand. "But your life is over."

"Waa . . .

The thin rel bolt flashed into the drugger's open mouth and out the back of his head.

"Stupid," said KTran as the body tumbled onto the polished hardwood floor. It twitched briefly, then lay still.

A shuttle appeared, silver hull filling the broad sweep of glass on the spaceport side of the restaurant. Pocketing his communicator, KTran walked past the corpse and tables to the window. Standing opposite the shuttle's open side port, he adjusted his weapon and fired.