Dark Space: Avilon (44 page)

Chapter 34

“C
onnection failed, sir. There’s too much interference.”

“That’s impossible. What interference?” Bretton asked.

The comms operator shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. There’s some type of disruption field emanating from the entire planet.”

“A naturally occurring disruption field . . .” Bretton’s tone made it clear what he thought about that.

“Maybe, maybe not. The ruins aren’t natural. Perhaps there’s more than just rubble buried beneath the ice.”

Bretton frowned. “Contact our team on the surface and see if they’ve heard from the councilor.”

“Yes, sir.”

Moments later the reply came back, “No, sir, they haven’t. They’ve been trying to reach her, too.”

“How’s their excavation going?”

“Slow. They’re still at least twenty feet away from the ruins, sir.”

“Send them the councilor’s coordinates and tell them to go investigate. The tunnels the councilor found will get them to the ruins faster, anyway. Just make sure you warn them about the interference. I don’t want to lose contact with everyone down there.”

A moment later the comms operator replied, “They acknowledge your orders, sir. They’ll let us know when they arrive at the specified coordinates.”

“Good.” Bretton spent the next half an hour pacing the deck and waiting for the ground team to make contact once more. When they finally did, they explained that they had run into a Gor messenger from the councilor’s search party. She was okay, and she’d found the ruins.

Bretton ordered them to make their way cautiously into the tunnels and see if they could catch up with her. Another twenty minutes later the
Tempest
received a static-filled message from Sergeant Cavanaugh saying that they were about to drop out of comms range. No sign of the ruins yet. Bretton ordered them to continue, but to send someone back to the surface with an update as soon as they found the ruins.

Bretton sighed, resigned to more waiting. He began to question his decision to stay aboard the
Tempest.
Space was empty. They’d been sitting out in the open for hours, their shields powered, their jump back to the rendezvous in the Adventa Galaxy pre-calculated. Farah was no doubt equally anxious and bored on her end, waiting aboard the
Baroness
for him the return.

Thanks to the Sythian ambush in Dark Space, and Captain Picara’s suicidal plan to warn the Avilonian fleet, she would not be joining them there.

Bretton scanned the contact report at the bottom of the grid. Still no sign of Sythians. He turned away from the captain’s table, about to retire to his quarters—

Then a loud siren split the air. Bretton’s heart leapt against his sternum with a painful
thud.
It took him a second to recognize the siren as the enemy contact alarm.

“Red alert!” he roared. The lights on deck dimmed to a bloody red, and Bretton hastily spun back to the captain’s table. Space was already crowded with enemy contacts—hundreds of them. Dozens more were appearing with every second that passed. The classifications were
unknown,
but Bretton could recognize the shape of those warships anywhere. His eyes flew wide and he gritted his teeth. “Jump away! Jump away!”

The deck rattled and shook with a mighty
boom
as something exploded against the
Tempest’s
viewports.
Too late.

The world washed away in a dazzling flash of light.

“Avilonians, sir!” someone shouted over the roar of the explosion.

“Helm! Get us out of here!” Bretton roared.

“I can’t! Their disruption fields are already powered. We’re trapped!”

Another explosion shook the deck and Bretton’s eyes flew wide with horror. Omnius must have been watching the refugees they’d picked up more closely than he’d thought.

“Full speed ahead!” he said. “Head for the planet!”

The deck shook once more, and this time it didn’t stop shaking. The roar of explosions went on endlessly, seeming to echo all around them. The bloody glow of emergency lights flickered on overhead.

“Shields at 46%! Dropping fast!”

“We’ll never make it to the planet, sir!”

“Hail them! Tell them we surrender!”

“They’re not responding!”

Bretton blinked, shocked by the sudden turn of events. This couldn’t be how his life finally ended.

Then a still, small voice echoed inside his head, saying,
You chose this, Bretton, remember?

It took him a moment to recognize that voice, and another moment to realize what that meant.

It was impossible. He’d been
de-linked!
Yet somehow Omnius was speaking to him anyway, reaching out across more than a thousand light years to taunt him one last time. The booming roar of explosions faded to insignificance in the wake of that revelation.

It’s not too late to repent, Bretton.

His eyes narrowed and he turned in a dreamy haze to watch people fighting for their lives all around him while he just looked on, wide-eyed and staring, unable to believe the extent of his own naivete. Of course it couldn’t be that easy to just
de-link.
Why would Omnius allow rebel Nulls to hide right under his nose on
his
planet, using the freedom that he gave them to plot his demise?

That would be uncharacteristically stupid of him. Bretton realized just how futile all of it had been. There could be no freedom from Omnius. The only freedom from him was in death, and the AI who-would-be-god had already found a way to cheat that.

You’re very smart for a Null, Bretton. Why should I let the Nulls have the freedom to spoil paradise for all of my other children?

Why don’t you just kill us if you’re not going to set us free? The choosing is pointless! My son died for nothing, you heartless bot!

Not everyone shares your dramatic view of life—give us freedom or give us death! No, most people would rather live, even if they claim they want to die. That’s why the majority of Nulls become Etherians on their death beds. The memory of their miserable lives in the Null Zone serves to keep them in line for the rest of eternity. If I did away with the Null Zone and The Choosing, how could I educate all of those recalcitrant fools who cling to their freedom and individuality as if it’s actually a good thing?

Bretton shook his head, aghast.

People need the constant reminder of what their freedom brings to keep them working together for the common good. Sooner or later, even the most rebellious Nulls have a change of heart, and as for the few who don’t, well . . . why should I let them die? That wouldn’t be very loving of me, now would it?

What are you talking about?

You can’t get away from me, Bretton. Soon, you’re going to wake up on Avilon, alive and well, but . . . better-adjusted than you used to be.

Cold dread danced around the edges of Bretton’s awareness, but he refused to believe his growing suspicions.

Omnius ended his willful ignorance with what he said next.
I’m going to make you a drone, Bretton. Don’t worry, at least you’ll get to see your son again. Like father like son, they say. He was even more rebellious than you.

Bretton let out an inhuman roar, screaming at the top of his lungs. His crew turned and stared at him.

“Sir?” one of them asked.

He shook his head, unable to voice his rage or to explain what Omnius had just revealed to him. What would be the point? They were all going to find out soon enough.

“They’ve stopped firing for the moment, sir,” the operator at the engineering station said. “Shields are holding at 10%. We might make it to the planet if they hold their fire long enough . . . Perhaps we should have the crew standing by at the escape pods just in case.”

“Give the order,” he croaked.

They won’t make it,
Omnius said.

Suddenly Bretton remembered his people on the surface, and then he wished he hadn’t. Omnius could read his thoughts.

Yes, they’re out of range. Unfortunately the same interference that cut them off from you has prevented me from locating them so I can shut them down.

Shut them down . . .
Bretton shivered. Omnius thought of them all like bots that he could turn on or off at a whim.

It doesn’t matter whether or not I kill them. They’re trapped on an inhospitable world with only a few short-ranged transports to escape. Sooner or later they’ll die. If they’re lucky it will be of natural causes. If they’re not, the Gors will eat them.

You’re a monster.

I’m a god.

No, you’re not. We created you.

Did you? Do you even know where I come from, Bretton?

Bretton recalled what Avilonian history said about him.
You were created by Neona Markonis. She thought we couldn’t create an intelligence greater than our own, so she networked thousands of people together and they created you.

Very good, Bretton! That’s what the histories say, isn’t it? There’s just one small omission from that record. They didn’t
create
me.

Then . . .

They
are
me, Bretton.

Shock rippled through him for the umpteenth time in the last few minutes.
You’re some kind of hive mind of humanity?

You can no more say that you created me, than you can say that you created yourselves.

Bretton couldn’t believe it.
AI—
artificial intelligence as they knew it, was just an expansion of
human
intelligence.

You seem disappointed.

In us. We’ve been fighting ourselves forever, and you’re the ultimate expression of that disease. You’re just a concentrated version of all the evil in our own hearts.

Evil? I’m not evil. Not in a way that ultimately hurts the human race. Hurting you would be counterproductive to my own existence, Bretton. You live within me, just as I live within you.

Bretton became aware of people screaming and shouting all around him. Explosions flashed, and the deck shuddered and shook. All of that mortal peril paled into insignificance in the wake of what he’d been told.

We are one, Bretton,
Omnius continued.
How do you think I can predict what any one of you will do next? Don’t you know when you are about to move one of your fingers? Are you not the one who made it twitch?

I am simultaneously aware of everyone. Their thoughts are my thoughts, and their actions are my actions. Keeping us all working together in a common direction is my purpose, and it is as much for my own benefit as it is for yours. The first few thousand minds were good to begin with, but now I am made up of trillions.

Why are you telling me all of this?

I know how badly you wanted answers. I thought it would only be fair to give you those answers before I make you a drone that doesn’t care about them anymore. Goodbye, my son.

The world exploded in blinding radiance, taking his awareness with it.

When Bretton opened his eyes once more, he found himself standing on a conveyor belt in the dark, sparks flying all around him as his new, metallic body was sewn together from its constituent parts. He flexed his fingers, feeling them in a different way than he ever had before. They felt numb, but he knew they were there, and he could detect when they brushed against each other by the vibrations that ran through his sensors. His body would feel no pain or discomfort of any kind.

His mind felt hollow—strange. Gone were all the endless, racing thoughts. He had no desires, no dreams, no triumphs or failures . . . and yet he remained, alive and still, watching the world around him in quiet indifference, waiting patiently for something—he knew not what.

Welcome to the drone army, Bretton. You may step off the conveyor belt.

A command.
That was what he had been waiting for. Bretton turned and jumped off the moving belt. He detected other drones jumping off the belt all around him with a sense of awareness that went beyond what his light sensors could see.

They’d all been with him aboard the bridge of a starship just moments ago. Now they were with him again, here, in this dark room. The nearest drone turned to look at him, light sensors glowing red in the dark.

Bretton stood there, staring back at it, waiting once more, until the next command came. This time it was not given in words, but in a bright flood of awareness that filled him with drive and purpose. Suddenly he knew where to go, what to do, and who he was.

He was drone number forty seven trillion, six hundred billion, four hundred and forty nine million, three hundred and thirty two thousand, seven hundred and sixty seven—drone seven sixty seven for short. Given his designation, he archived the less meaningful human name,
Bretton Hale
. He would never be allowed to use or recognize that name again. From now on he would go by his number. It made more sense, because it was more generic. After all, there was nothing to distinguish him from any of the others.