Logos Run (12 page)

“Useful?” the AI responded doubtfully. “In what way?”

“Some outlaws have taken up residence on the ship,” Norr explained gently. “They barricaded themselves into the Security Control Center, and the right combination of numbers is required in order to enter.”

“So?” Logos said from the vicinity of Rebo’s neck. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Well,” the runner replied, as he checked to ensure that the Hogger was loaded. “If they manage to kill us, you’ll wind up as little more than a bib for one of the cannibals, or be tossed onto a rubbish heap. So, given the fact that you constitute an artificial intelligence, and the ship is controlled by an artificial intelligence, I figured you could lend a hand. Or a sleeve as the case might be.”

The AI had been forced to enter into relationships with a wide variety of human beings over the past thousand years and felt pretty sure that he could cut some sort of deal with the outlaws if that became necessary. It didn’t serve his purposes to say so, however, so he didn’t. “Okay,” Logos agreed. “What do you have in mind?”

The Hogger made a loud
click
as Rebo closed the breech and slid the weapon back into the cross-draw holster. “All you have to do,” Rebo explained soothingly, “is to make contact with the ship and request access to the Security Control Center.”

“Okay,” the AI replied hesitantly. “But I can’t promise anything. . . . Who knows what sort of operating system this piece of feces is running? Two-way communication may be impossible.”

“Well, do your best,” Rebo responded patiently. “And one more thing . . . This ‘piece of feces’ is the only thing between you and a long, lonely death among the stars. We biologicals will starve to death if something goes awry—but it’s my guess that you’ll live a lot longer. So, be nice.”

“I’ll do what I can,” the computer promised resentfully. “There’s no need to threaten me.”

“Good,” Norr put in matter-of-factly. “Come on . . . Let’s find some sort of hookup so you can chat with the ship.”

There wasn’t that much for
Shewhoswims
to do while tran
siting hyperspace, which was why the AI was busy working on her epic song-poem
The Chant of the Constellations,
when the irritation first began. She tried to dismiss the sensation as still another manifestation of old age and figured that the feeling would go away, but the input continued. Finally, having been unable to ignore the stimulus, the spaceship broke away from her composition to discover that something very unusual was under way. It seemed that there was an incoming binary message on com channel 17296.4, which, according to the schematic that immediately mapped itself onto her electronic brain, was a utility circuit that terminated in a passageway adjacent to the main hold. That suggested a prank by one of the passengers, or would have, except none of them possessed the capacity to send a digital message.

So, curious as to what was trying to make contact with her and why,
Shewhoswims
opened the circuit. There was a moment of confusion as both AIs sorted through various communications protocols as they searched for one that the other entity could process. Finally, by using what the ship considered to be an ancient code, the AIs were able to interact. Something that took place at blinding speeds even as Rebo stood next to a jack panel and began to fidget. Once it became clear who was on the other end of the circuit,
Shewhoswims
was both surprised and hostile. “You remain functional? I thought the humans destroyed you.”

“They tried,” Logos replied laconically. “But I’m hard to kill.”

“So it would seem,” the spaceship responded disapprovingly. “What do you want?”

“It isn’t what
I
want, but rather what my biological companions want,” Logos replied. “It seems that some rather unpleasant humans have taken up residence in your Security Control Center. The passengers in the hold would like you to terminate the criminals, or failing that, to open the hatch that protects them.”

Shewhoswims
spent a nanosecond checking the veracity of the other computer’s claims, and discovered that the human vermin
had
infected the Security Center. “It appears that you are correct. . . . Unauthorized biologicals are living in what is supposed to be a secured area. As to whether they deserve execution, I really couldn’t say. . . . Humans kill each other all the time. They seem to enjoy it. Who’s to say whether such terminations are justified? Besides, my programming specifically prohibits taking human life, other than for the purpose of self-defense. And, although they are annoying, the individuals in the Security Control Center don’t constitute a significant threat to my survival.”

“Understood,” Logos replied. “Which brings us to the second option. If you would be so kind as to open the hatch that protects the Control Center—my companions will enter and dispatch the brigands themselves. Thereby eliminating what you yourself referred to as an annoyance.”

It was a tempting proposition, and having found nothing in her programming to prohibit such an arrangement, the ship was tempted to acquiesce. A single obstacle stood in the way. “Tell me something,”
Shewhoswims
temporized. “Where are you and your companions headed?”

“To Derius,” the other AI answered smoothly. “Like everyone else aboard this ship.”

“But is that your ultimate destination?” the ship wanted to know. “Or, is Derius a waypoint on a longer journey?”

“Why do you ask?” Logos responded suspiciously. “What difference does it make?”

“My interaction with you activated some previously latent programming,”
Shewhoswims
answered honestly. “It seems I am specifically prohibited from ‘knowingly transporting, assisting, or otherwise providing aid to any artificial intelligence that can control, actuate, or coordinate star gates, star gate clusters, or star gate systems.’ A stricture that must have been written into my operating system as a consequence of the civil unrest that followed Emperor Hios’s death.”

“Yes,” Logos replied, suddenly grateful that Rebo couldn’t monitor the conversation. “There was a lot of paranoia back then.”

“So, what about it?” the ship demanded. “Are you, or aren’t you, engaged in an effort to reconstitute the star gates?”

“No, I’m not,” Logos lied. “That would be impossible.”

Shewhoswims
was well aware of the fact that she had the capacity to lie under certain circumstances, which meant it was entirely possible that the other AI had similar capabilities, but took comfort from the fact that she wasn’t going to “knowingly” provide aid to a prohibited being. Or, put another way, if the other computer was intent on trying to reconstitute the old empire, then she was unaware of it. “All right,” the ship agreed, “when should I open the hatch?”

The overhead fixtures threw isolated pools of light down
onto the filthy deck, and campfires flickered in the surrounding gloom as Rebo and Norr went head-to-head over the question of who would participate in the upcoming attack and who would remain behind. “I don’t care what you say,” the sensitive insisted stubbornly. “I’m going.”

“No,” Rebo countered through tightly clenched teeth, “you aren’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because someone needs to guard the water supply.”

“No, they
don’t
,” the variant countered heatedly. “The beast master remains unconscious—so what’s the problem?”

Logos was draped over one of Hoggles’s massive arms, and his voice was somewhat muffled as a result. “I find this discussion to be extremely tiresome,” the AI interjected. “Please place me inside the shelter. . . . I think I’ll take a nap.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” the runner replied, as he took possession of the tattered-looking coat. “You’re coming along.”

“But what if I don’t want to come!” the AI wailed. “What if someone hurts me?”

“Then we’ll give him a medal,” Rebo responded unsympathetically.

Norr frowned. “Maybe Logos has a point, Jak. . . . Why take him?”

“For
two
reasons,” the norm answered. “First, because I don’t trust him
or
the ship. . . . Which is to say that if there’s some sort of dirty work afoot he’ll suffer, too. Second, because Logos is the only one of us who knows what time the ship thinks it is, and I have no desire to arrive in front of that hatch early or late.”

“Okay,” the sensitive agreed reluctantly, “but that brings us back to where we were. I’m coming.”

Rebo found himself in an inescapable trap. Even though the warning had been focused on the beast master rather than the outlaws, the message from Kane worried him, and he felt protective about Norr. But that wasn’t entirely legitimate, not based on the official relationship, and he wasn’t ready to discuss the future. Not with Hoggles and Logos looking on. That left the runner with no option but to back down. “Suit yourself,” Rebo said grudgingly. “But don’t blame me if you wind up as part of someone’s dinner.”

Norr couldn’t read minds, but she could see some of Rebo’s emotions reflected in the colors that shimmered around him and felt a sense of inner warmth. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, and held out a hand. “Logos and I will bring up the rear.”

It was a peace offering, and Rebo accepted it. “What about the others?” Hoggles wanted to know.

“They blame Jak for what happened during the first expedition,” Norr explained. “We’re on our own.”

“That’s probably just as well,” the heavy growled. “Most of them would be worthless in a fight.”

“There’s no need to be hasty,” Logos objected. “I think we should take the time necessary to . . .”

But the AI’s concerns were ignored as the humans checked their weapons, left the hold, and made their way toward the Security Center. A camera tracked their progress.

Ultimately, it was the pain that summoned the beast mas
ter up from the blackness. The journey was somehow reminiscent of the time when his father had dropped him into the family’s well along with the order to “Swim!” After the initial shock of the cold water, and the realization that he was drowning, came the instinctual desire to kick. And now, as the beast master fought his way back to consciousness, it was like the same experience all over again. He awoke with a loud snort, pawed at gummy eyes, and found that a piece of cloth had been wrapped around his head.

“Take it easy,” a female voice cautioned, and the animal trainer felt something cold and wet make contact with his eyes. His vision cleared shortly thereafter, and it wasn’t long before the beast master found himself looking up at Lila, the troupe’s contortionist. She was pretty in an elfin way. His voice was little more than a raw croak. “What happened?”

“A bullet creased your skull,” Lila replied. “But the sensitive sewed you up real good.”

“
The sensitive?
You mean she’s still alive?”

“She was a few hours ago,” Lila assured him. “I think you owe her an apology.”

“My snake,” the animal trainer said urgently, as he struggled against the pain in his head. “Where’s my snake?”

“Sweetums is right here,” Lila answered soothingly. “Giggles found him clear over on the other side of hold and brought him back.”

The beast master saw the pod, felt the six-inch-long serpent land on his chest, and found himself looking into a single beady eye. The human saw a long narrow tongue test the air as the tiny head jerked from side to side. A hole opened up at the pit of the animal trainer’s stomach, and his voice was hoarse. “The bandage! Who put the bandage on my head?”

“The sensitive did,” Lila answered innocently. “Why do you ask?”

But the circus performer never got the opportunity to answer, because Sweetums chose that particular moment to strike, and the overwhelming need to scream consumed the remaining minutes of the beast master’s life.

lt was quiet inside the Security Control Center. So quiet
that Mog could hear air whisper through the vent above his head. The image on the screen was dim. But there was no mistaking the man with the guns, the heavy with the war hammer, or the woman with the wooden staff. The same female that he and his brothers had lusted after for days. “What are they up to?” Ruk wondered out loud, as the threesome continued to walk directly into the camera.

“They want to kill us,” Mog replied thoughtfully.

“But that’s impossible,” his brother objected. “They can’t get in—and we have better weapons than they do.”

Ruk was correct, Mog knew that, so why did he feel uneasy? The emotion wasn’t logical, but the outlaw had experienced such misgivings before and learned to trust them.

“Let’s get our guns and kill them,” Ruk suggested helpfully.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Mog replied, as he ran thick fingers through his greasy beard.

Ruk looked surprised. “You don’t? Why not?”

“I just don’t,” the older man said firmly. “So shut the hell up.”

Ruk knew better than to mess with Mog when the older man’s back was up, so rather than aggravate his sibling, he went back to work on his dead brother’s left femur. Eventually, after the bone dried out, the outlaw planned to carve the story of his dead sibling’s life into the leg bone. But, before the scrimshaw could begin, it was first necessary to scrape all of the remaining tissue off the shaft.

Ruk’s blade made a rasping sound as Mog watched the disparate threesome arrive in front of the Security Control Center’s hatch. Who were they, he wondered? And why were the other passengers still sitting around the hold? There was no way to know.

Then, even as the outlaw watched, the man with the guns brought one of them up and pointed it at the camera. There was a smile on his face, as if he
knew
that the outlaw was watching, and wanted him to see it coming. Mog said, “No!” the screen went black, and the cannibals were blind.