Battlecruiser Alamo_Cries in the Dark Page 9

   “To coin a phrase, Captain, it was the right thing to do.” With a curt nod, the gravity fields normalized, and Salazar could move for the first time in hours. “You’ll be happy to know that you have no implants in your system, and that your memory engrams are completely intact. No evidence of successful takeover. I’m afraid your friend was less fortunate.”

   “There’s got to be a way to save her.”

   “It’s most unlikely that she is still alive. At least, not in the way you would understand it.” At Salazar’s expression, he continued, “She meant something to you.”

   “That’s putting it mildly.” Glaring up at the humanoid, he said, “I’ll warn you now that if I can find any way of getting her out of there, any way of saving her, I’ll take it. If that fails, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with avenging her death. There was a second shuttle, as well, with two of my crewmen. My shuttle couldn’t track them, but perhaps...”

   “They came down close to the Burned Lands, about five thousand miles away. It was some impressive piloting, I must confess, but we were unable to see exactly where they landed. Though they did get down safely, I believe. Certainly everything was going well down to ten thousand feet, and I presume they had escape systems that would keep them alive for the remainder of the descent.”

   “They did,” he replied with a nod. “Assuming Clarke didn’t manage to bring them down to a landing.” Folding his arms, he asked, “What’s your story, then?”

   “A long and sad one.” Taking a deep breath, the humanoid said, “My name is Hathor, and I am the leader of what you might term the Resistance. Those of us who are left, those few of us who are able to think for ourselves. We are a created race, designed thousands of years ago as warriors, designed to fight and to kill.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “It was not always so. The few records we have been able to find suggest that we were a race of builders, of thinkers, who dreamed of flight and freedom. That dream was perverted into something dire, and deadly.”

   “The creatures we fought in the desert,” Salazar said. “They were genetically engineered, and Harper found similar markers in your genetic structure. It’s not impossible that you come from the same seed.”

   Nodding, Hathor continued, “We know few details, but as far as we can determine, one civilization decided that it would attempt the impossible, the conquest of the entire Sphere. Such had been tried, but no race had ever accomplished it. To do this, they created genetically engineered troops to use as soldiers, to sweep ahead of their forces and eliminate everything in their path. They also needed a tactical and strategic genius to mastermind their operations.”

   “The AI,” Salazar said, shaking his head. “Lord, what fools we mortals be.”

   “What happened next is a matter of guesswork, but we believe that they did conquer a wide area, a hundred million square miles of territory, before collapsing into chaos. Among other things, they mastered the secrets of controlled gravity that had been used to create the Sphere. Some of us suggest that this race might even be descendants of the Builders, who had retained some of the technology of their ancestors. As such, they built the moons.”

   Nodding, Salazar said, “Strike bases. Notably for your people. Aircraft carriers, I suppose. I assume civil war was the end.”

   “That and a coalition of enemies finally joining forces against them. Nobody won, Captain. No civilization on the Sphere has reached those heights, not in ten thousand years. The AI survived, along with some of its defenders, and still continues to protect itself from danger. Which it interprets as any advanced technological development by any culture in the Sphere.”

   “I guess that explains why they didn’t attack us until some of our people set up a settlement. An exploratory team would be no real threat, but colonists from outside would represent potential danger to its programming.” He paused, then asked, “The rest of your people?”

   “I said that we were a created race, Captain, and that remains true. There are five of us in a position to strike back. No more.” His face dropped, and he continued, “We were the dream of a race of mountain dwellers. That much we know. I visited our ancestral homeland. What is left of it. A collection of craters and ruins, lost in time, beyond the Burned Lands. The dream was perverted, and we were the result. Our guess is that our ancestors were working on genetic manipulation for flight, but that research was taken over by our conquerors.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Until my creation, no member of our race has ever had free will of their own.”

   “None at all?”

   “Not that we know of, at any rate. I suppose there might have been isolated instances, but I was the first to make use of my, well, soul, if you like.” Tapping behind his ear, he said, “There is an implant, but for some reason, it failed.”

   “Must have been a hell of a childhood,” Salazar said.

   Shaking his head, Hathor replied, “I emerged from the incubator tanks full-grown. We can conceive naturally, but we have never had the chance. Until now. I soon realized what the consequences of the failure of my implant would be, and was able to overpower the party sent after me, and disable their implants through a somewhat low-tech manner. With a scalpel. Four out of eight survived the procedure. This was a little over a thousand sleeps ago. Since then we have attempted to learn more of our heritage, more of our history, and what we might do to defeat our enemy.”

   “Then you’re willing to help me destroy the AI.”

   “I’m willing to help you save my people. Some of them could be saved, the implants removed.” As Salazar’s face rose, he continued, “Though no trace of what they were would remain. My people would essentially be as I was when I awoke, a blank slate, albeit one with the ability to reason, to think, and to use the tools of our oppressors. I am, among other things, an excellent shot.”

   “And you’re certain that you are the first to successfully revolt?”

   “By no means. We have no written history, no records, no songs. I can understand the language of my ancestors, but all that remained in the mountains were ruins and words carved into rock. What else could withstand all the centuries of decay?” Looking up at the sky, he continued, “At the least, my people can fulfill the dreams of our ancestors. Perhaps live on in them.”

   Gesturing at Hathor’s wings, Salazar said, “Those only work in reduced gravity. You’d need the boosters to operate in a full-gravity field.”

   “The original intention of our ancestors was to glide, not to fly. Though there are areas of the Sphere where the gravity is reduced. You’ve seen only the smallest fraction of the world in which we live.” He paused, then added, “The wormhole map you’re looking for. It’s there. In the AI.”

   Turning sharply to the humanoid, Salazar said, “How do you know that?”

   “I don’t know.”

   “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”

   “My implant might not have worked, but I had the same training that the rest of my kind had, subliminal instruction in the artificial womb, lasting for years. Some of it I can remember consciously, but much of it, perhaps the bulk of it, I just know. And I know that the moon contains the key to your way home, Captain.”

   Nodding, Salazar said, “I suppose I can’t argue with that, and I don’t think I have much choice other than to trust you.” He paused, then asked, “Do you have any sort of a plan?”

   With a thin smile, Hathor replied, “I have been working on the salvation of my people for a thousand sleeps, Captain. After all that time, I have at least come up with a few ideas. Come with me, up to the surface. We can talk about this further over a meal. You must be starving.”

   Nodding, Salazar drifted forward, and said, “Hathor, I’ll help you, but from everything you’ve told me, our priority has to be the destruction of that AI.” At the look on the winged man’s face, he said, “Everything else is secondary. Rescuing your people and mine, finding the
wormhole map, all of that is a bonus. For the sake of those billions of people you were talking about, we’ve got to destroy that computer, no matter what it takes. Even if that means the lives of all of us.”

   Taking a deep breath, Hathor replied, “That, Captain, is what I have been working towards all this time. My people have been transformed into soulless automatons, living machines. If I can find a way to save them, to save their souls, then I will take it. Even if that means that I must destroy them, and prevent any more being born. Better that than to live as they are. Is that sufficient.”

   “It’ll do. Now, you said something about food?”

   “This way.”

  Chapter 12

   “Do you think you can get it working?” Mortimer asked, peering over the controls.

   “I think so,” Clarke replied, scribbling notes next to some of the instruments, glancing across at his datapad to check the translation. “Most of the equipment seems automatic, and the rest is straightforward enough. There are only so many ways to design cockpit controls, and the pilot was obviously intended to be human.” He paused, and added, “I think the designer deliberately made it as easy as possible. Perhaps they were keeping training to a minimum.”

   Frowning, Mortimer said, “That seems unlikely. A ship like this...”

   “Think about the circumstances under which it was built. A last-ditch rocket intended to save a civilization?” Shaking his head, he continued, “They might not have had time for a long training program. Anyway, I guess they ran out of time.” Patting the panel, he added, “Though they really built this ship to last. I’ve got a time index suggesting that it was built five thousand years ago.”

   “Five thousand?” she said, eyes widening. “Back on Earth, we were still working out how to smelt bronze back then. Killing beasts with stone axes.” She paused, then added, “I guess the robotic systems kept everything maintained, though. What about the payload?”

   “About sixty-two megatons, I think. More than enough to do the job, especially if we can place it inside the moon. Everything about the design suggests that a landing was planned, the bomb to be positioned where it could do the most good.” Gesturing at the rear, he said, “Damn thing has three controls. I think it’s a timer. Obviously they were trying to keep it as simple as they could.” Frowning, he added, “Something strange, though. The last stage is all manual. Not complicated, just like a normal airplane, but they’ve kept computer controls to a minimal.”

   “Why so surprised?” she said. “Hell, that’s probably why the bomb essentially explodes when you push a button. We’re going up against a rogue AI, one that already has a demonstrated ability to mess with computer systems. Whoever built this rocket knew that.” Looking around the cockpit, she continued, “Then we can actually launch this rocket, after all those centuries.”

   Nodding, Clarke said, “I want to give it another twenty-four hours. I can’t run any simulations, but I want to learn the controls as best I can. Besides, I don’t think we’re in any hurry.” He tapped a gauge, and said, “The bonus is that with a little luck, we ought to be able to make it back to Base Camp once we’ve placed the bomb, but it’ll be a trickier landing than the one I pulled off to get here.”

   “Why land?” she asked. “We’ve still got the parachutes on the shuttle. All we have to do is slow down to a few hundred miles an hour and jump. If we have to walk a few miles, that won’t hurt us, and there’s enough transport at Base Camp to pick us up if we do go astray. In fact, we ought to move all the emergency equipment we have in here. Any idea what sort of a cargo this bird can carry?”

   “I doubt it matters that much,” Clarke replied, stretching as he rose from the cramped seat. “We can’t have more than fifty pounds of equipment left on board anyway. We stripped the shuttle down pretty damn light for the launch.” Rubbing his eyes, he said, “I could do with a walk, anyway.”

   “I’m not surprised,” Mortimer said with a smile. “You’ve been sitting in here for the best part of twelve hours.” Pulling a flask out of her pocket, she said, “Here, have a drink. We don’t have to ration that, at least. This place as a reservoir, and I tested it. Clean and safe.”

   Clarke took a swig, and walked over to the gantry, saying, “Thanks. Have you had a chance to look over the rest of the facility? I think I’ve been a little single-minded.”

   “Not that much to tell,” she said. “I took a look at the genetic storage banks. Everything seems to be working, and again, all designed to be operated quite simply. Push a button, and they start to decant. The systems claim that the process takes about three years, and produces adult humans with the memory engrams of the original population. Interesting concept.” Following Clarke across the gantry, she said, “An odd take on immortality, though.”

   “I wonder how the original templates felt, knowing that they had a chance to live on in one form or another. Interesting. The theologians will be arguing about this for decades when we get home.”

   Turning to him, Mortimer said, “You still believe that, don’t you?”

   “That we’re going to find a way to get back to Mars? Sure.”

   “Even after all of this?”

   Clarke shrugged, and said, “Something will turn up.” He took a turn down the corridor, walking over to the ladder, and continued, “Have you had a chance to dig through the computer database here?”

   “First thing I tried.”

   “We know that the information we need is here, somewhere.”

   “No, John, we know that it was here. And we destroyed it.”

   Shaking his head, Clarke said, “Not true. Think about it. The map Captain Salazar found was in the Hegemonic base, a base that was researching genetically modified humans that were created by the same civilization that created the angels. Which means that I suspect we’re going to find everything we wanted on the moon, when we get there. And that there must be another source on the surface. We might...” He paused, stopping in his tracks as he shone his flashlight on a side wall, revealing an intricately detailed mural of one of the angels, a beatific smile on its face.

   “Now what the hell is that doing there?” he asked.

   “Know your enemy?” Mortimer replied. “No, that doesn’t make any sense. Why make it look like that? Whoever painted that admired the angels.” Turning to him, she said, “If they were laying waste to this civilization...”

   “We’re missing a piece of the puzzle, a big one. Did the database have much on the attack?”

   “Only the same warnings we were given at the outset. Though it was remarkably small. Lots of information on the base, some bits and pieces about the danger we’d face if we didn’t destroy them, and that’s about all.” Frowning, she asked, “You think someone might be trying to set us up? Fool us into launching the bomb?”

   Shaking his head, Clarke said, “I think we’re looking at this bunker all wrong. By the time it was ready, they knew that they were dying, that they’d never be able to launch their attack. There’s no radiation here now, but there must have been at some point, maybe strong enough to kill everyone here. Not quickly, but slowly. Radiation sickness takes time. They were able to set up one last strike before they died, even though they knew they’d never have a chance to deliver it.” Nodding, he continued, “This is a seed bank. A last resort to save their civilization. We’ll probably find that more information is stored down deep, where we can’t get at it, maybe inside the controls for the genetic storage units.”

   “You think we should do it? Push the button?”

   “No point resurrecting a dead civilization to have it starve to death. It’ll take a lot more centuries before the land recovers to the point that it could sustain any number of people.” Shaking his head, he said, “We’ll have to settle for the first part of the plan. Blow up the moon and at least avenge the dead, and prevent them attacking anyone else.”

   “I still don’t understand
the mural.” She looked at it again, and said, “It’s almost a figure of reverence, rather than one of fear. Like something you’d see in a church.” Frowning, she continued, “I’ll have another look at the database again. See if I missed something. It’s tough to run search filters when you’re using a language nobody’s spoken in thousands of years. I’ve only got an 85% accuracy rating.”

   The two of them walked over to the ladder, Clarke taking the lead as they climbed to the surface, this time under illumination. It was night outside, a chill wind in the air, and he pulled himself out of the shaft, into the ruined building above, and shivered, tugging his uniform jacket closed. Mortimer scrambled after him, and they walked to the exit, Mortimer throwing a hand across it to prevent them leaving.

   “Wait. You see something?”

   Clarke peered into the gloom, and asked, “What?”

   “By the shuttle. Look closely. And don’t move.”

   Looking again, Clarke could see shapes moving around by the shuttle, man-sized figures holding rifles, obviously attempting stealth. He pulled his pistol from its holster, then crept forward to get a better view, glancing back at Mortimer and gesturing her forward.

   “John, there’s nothing on the shuttle worth dying for, and we can seal the hatch to the bunker at the touch of a button,” she whispered. “If they want a few emergency rations and a parachute, let them have it. You said yourself that the shuttle will never take off again.”

   “Who are they, though?” he asked. “For all we know, they might be on our side.”

   “You want to bet our lives on that?” she replied.

   “I suppose you might have a point,” he said. “Let’s...”

   Before he could continue, he heard a loud beep from his almost-forgotten communicator, and snatched it out of his pocket as though it was red-hot, stabbing a control to silence at as Mortimer glared at him. He looked at the group examining the shuttle, and saw one of them look up for a moment, looking in his direction. Clarke gripped his pistol, raising it to take a shot, knowing that the range was extreme but that it might at least buy them enough time to escape into the shelter.