Ephialtes (Ephialtes Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

There were
three options.  The first was that the AI had been intercepted. 
Kostovich found that difficult to accept.  From various reconnaissance
attacks he had mounted previously he understood the landscape he was going
into.  He knew there were certain vulnerabilities in the system, and he
had programmed his AI to exploit them.  He felt sure it had not been
compromised.

The second
option was that the AI had failed.  He could not countenance this
possibility.  He was a maestro at programming AIs and this piece had been
one of his finest works.

Option three
was the only one which seemed viable; that his AI was still burrowing around
the system undetected.  This meant that the crack was much more complex
than he had expected.  He was willing to concede that much.  If the
problem was harder than had been anticipated, so be it.  He had unwavering
faith that his creation was equal to the task.  All it needed was time.

The report
had been tasked with monitoring all output from the USAN government and
military.  The AI had the ability to encode messages into standard
communications if necessary.  If it felt unable to communicate directly it
could attempt to do so covertly, via an overlay on some mundane communication.

Kostovich
scanned the report.

Nothing.

In the last
twenty-four hours the government and military had publicly released over
thirty-two thousand communications, ranging from county administration
notices to full governmental reports.  They were all clean; no coded
communications.

Kostovich was
tired.  He had had a long day and the game, despite being fun, had been
somewhat draining.  He usually checked for a call from his AI at least
twice a day.  Every time it failed to call home was a
disappointment.  This time was no exception.  He decided to call it a
night.

“Continue
scanning,” said Kostovich.  “Make a report every eight hours.  And,
of course, ears remain open for a standard call.”

“Yes, Dr
Kostovich,” the terminal replied.  “Will there be anything else?”

“Can you
order some more Pop-Tarts?”

“Of course,
next delivery will be tomorrow at 08:30.”

“That’s
great.”

Kostovich
awoke at 08:20 next morning.  He swung his feet out of bed and sat there
for a moment, not quite awake, before rising and shuffling into his living
room, slumping onto the sofa.  “Anything overnight?” he said through a
yawn.

“Yes,” the AI
said.  “AI 2257 reports: ‘
Success
’”

Kostovich
jumped up.  “What?  Success? 
Gimme
the details.  I want them on the wall.”

Kostovich’s
living room wall came alive with the display from his terminal.  He could
see it right there, in letters twenty centimetres high: ‘
04.39
  Level
6 security owned
.’  Kostovich silently
punched the air.  “Pull me some Level 6 data,” he said.  “Anything
regarding .
 . .”  He thought. 
“Anything regarding domestic disturbances on USAN military bases in the last
two weeks.”

“Yes, Dr
Kostovich.”

Kostovich had
to wait only a few seconds before text began scrolling up his screen. 
Emails, court documents and all kinds of communications were there for him to
see.  Level 6 was the lowest level on the USAN’s security scale.  Nothing
here would be of the slightest importance or interest.  But he was
in.  The AI was alive and was chewing its way through the security
levels.  All he needed to do now was wait, and a treasure trove of
information would open up to him.

He wanted to
tell someone about the staggering achievement he had just made, but what he had
done was illegal and, as it currently stood, rather pointless.  All the
good stuff was still to come.  He thought about what he should do. 
“Get me an appointment with Venkdt,” he said.

“Christina
Venkdt?” the AI replied.

“I
wish.  No, fix me up a meeting with Charles Venkdt.”

“Mr Venkdt
doesn’t have any openings until next week.  Would you like to proceed with
booking the appointment?”

“Sure. 
It’s not important.”

Kostovich
once again scanned through the lists of uninteresting low-level
government communications.

“Your Pop-Tarts
have arrived,” said his terminal.

“
Oh, yes
they have
,” said Kostovich, grinning broadly.  “Pop some in, would
you?”

Sliding his
hand down the rail as he went, he moved in descending circles down the helical
staircase.  He reached the bottom and strode across to the bar.  It
was nearly empty now, as he liked it.  By Artificial Earth Time it was
past 2:00am.  He pulled a seat up at the bar and punched a command into
his coms device.  A robot arm mounted on rails in the ceiling behind the
bar glided smoothly past him, its speaker emitting, “Coming right up, sir,” as
it went.  The arm quickly and without error grabbed a shot glass and
placed it on the bar, then turned to grab a bottle.  It whisked the bottle
to the glass at great speed then instantly slowed for the pour.  As soon
as the drink was poured the speed increased dramatically as the bottle was
placed back on the shelf.  The arm returned.  “This first drink today
is complementary as part of your trip.  Subsequent drinks will be charged
to your account.  A maximum of five drinks is allowed in any twenty-four
hour period.  Enjoy yourself, and drink responsibly.”

“Screw you,
pal.”

“Have a nice
day.”

He took a sip
of the drink and winced a little.  At the other end of the bar a solitary
older guy was lost in his comdev, prodding the screen and issuing the
occasional whispered voice command.  He looked up and, after a pause, put
the comdev in his pocket.  Grabbing the beer in front of him he stood up,
half falling from his chair.  He sauntered up the bar.  “Hey,
friend,” he said.

Bobby
Karjalainen half-turned to him and offered a forced, thin smile. 
“Hey,” he said.  The man sat himself down next to Karjalainen and stuck
out his hand expectantly.

“Name’s Mike,
how’re you
doin
’?” 

Karjalainen
took the hand and shook it.  “I’m
doin
’ good,”
he said.

“
Ain’t
seen you down here before.  Thought I knew just
about everybody on board.”

Bobby
shrugged.  “Been in my room mostly, or the gym.”

“That would
explain it!” Mike said, too loudly.  “You won’t be
catchin
’
me in no gym!”  He grinned at his remark and, from politeness, Bobby
smiled back.  “So you’ve been holed up in your room, eh?  That’d
drive me crazy.  I have to get out and talk to people.  I’m just
about stir crazy already.  I’m
lookin
’ forward
to
pullin
’ in tomorrow.  I hate these trips, I
really do.”  Bobby took a sip of his drink.  Mike continued. 
“What can you get up to in your room all day?  Beats me how you could do
that.”

Bobby placed
his glass on the bar.  “Well, you know.  You’ve got the VR, music,
enhanced sleep.  Kills the time,” said Bobby.

Mike gave him
a sidelong look.  “Beats me.  I have to get out and talk to
people.  Can’t stay cooped up.  I hate these trips.”

“You travel a
lot?”

“Yes, sir,
business.  This is the third time I’ve made this trip in twenty-five
years.  Imagine that!  I’ve pissed three years of my life away,
floating through space.”  For a second he looked genuinely saddened by the
thought, but soon picked up.  “At least they pay me well for it!  I
guess it put the kids through school, anyhow.”

“That’s a way
to look at it.”

“How about
you?  First time out?”

Bobby drew a
breath.  “I’ve been out once before, going the other way.  But I’m on
my way home now.”

“Way
home?  You’re a Martian?”

“I’d have to
say I am.  And I’m going home, if you want to drink to that.”

“To home,”
said Mike, raising his glass.

“To home,”
Bobby echoed.

Mike took a deep
gulp of his beer.  “So what you been up to on the old home planet?”

Bobby looked
Mike in the eye.  “I’ve been serving my country.”

Mike took a
second to process the information.  “The Army?  Let me tell you right
off, I got nothing but respect for you guys.  Nothing but respect. 
Some of these protesters, well, it makes me sick.  The only reason they
can parade around with their fancy-
dan
nonsense
is because of guys like you.  Where’d you serve?  London? 
LA?  I did a year myself, as a reservist.  Mainly from home, you
understand, but I get it.  The discipline, service, honour.”

“Lahore.”

Mike fell
silent for the first time and glanced around the bar as if a script boy would
be there to whisper his next line to him.  “Lahore?” he said,
cautiously.  “That had to be pretty rough, right?”

Bobby
frowned.  “Yeah, it was rough alright.  But we’d trained for
it.  We knew the risks going in.”

“Well, I take
my hat off to you, sir.  I do really.”  Mike searched for something else
to say.  “Can I get you another drink?”

Bobby looked
at Mike.  “Sure.”

Mike called
out to the robot arm, “Bar keep!  I’d like another beer over here
and .
 . .”

“Whisky.”

“And a whisky
for my friend.”

The robot arm
zoomed up the bar.  “I’m sorry, sir, but we are not allowed to serve you
any more alcoholic drinks; today’s limit has been reached.”

Mike leaned
toward the arm.  “Now you look here, this is a war hero and we want our
drinks, okay?”

“I’m sorry
sir.  Would you like to file a customer services incident report?”

Bobby cut
in.  “Could I have a beer and a whisky?” he asked.

“Of course,
sir, coming up.”  The arm whirred off to prepare the drinks.

“See that!”
Mike cried.  “Even the machines have respect for a war hero!”

Bobby smiled
and shook his head.  The arm placed the beer and whisky on the bar in
front of them.  “Your account has been debited.  You have two drinks
remaining for the current period.  Enjoy yourself, and drink responsibly.”

Mike grabbed
his beer, thrusting it toward Bobby.  “To drinking responsibly,” he said,
with a slight slur in his voice.

“To drinking
responsibly,” Bobby answered.

After taking
swigs they sat in silence for the next few seconds, Mike toying with the edge
of a bar mat.  He glanced up at Bobby.  “What was it like?”

“Lahore?”

Mike seemed
ashamed now at having asked the question.  “Yeah, Lahore.”

Bobby pulled
himself back in his seat, tilting his head to one side as he searched for an
answer.  “It was rough.  Like they said.  But we held on to
it.  And some of us got medals, too.”

There was a
pause, then Mike said, “We’re all very proud of what you guys did.  I
mean,” he struggled for words, “. . . thank you.  Thank you
for your service.”

Bobby
nodded.  “It shouldn’t have happened that way, but,” he paused,
“. . . but we did all we could and we made it in the end.”

“People
actually died, didn’t they?”

“They
did.  We lost thirteen squads, thirteen commanders.  Worst losses of
the entire war.”

Mike’s mouth
fell open.

“Thirteen?”
he repeated, dumbfounded.  “My
God .
 . .”

“Twelve mechs
to a squad, with the command drone.  You don’t want to be losing a hundred
and fifty tactical fighting units in the biggest battle of the Fourth World
War, but what can you do?  War sucks, huh?”

Mike was
still staring.  “But the people. 
Thirteen
.  They said it
was four in the bulletins.”

Bobby
smirked.  “Well, you know.  The first casualty of war and all
that.  Anyway, we held onto Lahore, and you know the rest.  Peace
with honour.”  He offered up his glass.  Mike chinked his against it.

“Peace with
honour,” he said.

Mike shuffled
in his seat and studied the drinks behind the bar as if he had never seen them
before.  “You know,” he said, “I’m a bit of a history buff.  Military
history, that sort of thing.”  Bobby looked at him quizzically.  Mike
continued.  “That’s what I read, mostly.  I’ve read hundreds of books
about that stuff, especially the world wars, one, two and three.  And of
course I’ve been following this one, your one, in the news.  Different to
being there, I guess.  How about you?  Do you read that stuff?” he
asked.

“Not really,”
said Bobby.  “We did a little in training, studying tactics, strategy and
so forth, but I’m not much of one for history.”

“It’s really
interesting,” said Mike.  “It fascinates me.”

Bobby sipped
his drink.

“I was a big
supporter of the Commander Program, you know?  A lot of people didn’t like
it but I knew it would be good, I knew it would work and I knew it would be
worth it.  I think we lost our way with the drones.  We lost
something, you know what I mean?  It made war too easy.  Everyone was
far too willing to reach for the military option when there were no risks
involved.  It made war, somehow,” he struggled to find the word,
“. . . dishonourable.  Apart from this last war, do you
know when the last time the USAN, or even the old USA as it was then, last
deployed human soldiers on the battlefield?”  Bobby shook his head. 
“It was 2087, WWIII.  That was the last time until this one, a hundred and
fifty years without a single live soldier deployed on the field of
battle.  Even in the civil wars it was all drones on the
battlefield.  The Battle of Seville was actually fought in sheds in
Kentucky.”  Bobby nodded.  “So I take my hat off to you guys. 
That takes some balls, to do what you did.”

“We just did
what was asked of us,” said Bobby.  “I’d have been just as happy to have
sat in an air conditioned shed in Kentucky
than
have
had my ass shot off in Lahore.  I just felt like I should give something
back.  The old country asked people to serve, so I did.”

“What was it
like in the Commander Program?”  Mike asked.

“It was okay,
I guess,” Bobby replied.  “We did all the standard training in the sims
like regular soldiers, and then some field training on top.  Training with
the mechs suits was pretty rough.”

Mike cut in,
“Mech suits?”

“Yeah, the
command drones.  They’re the same as the drones in your squad but with
less ammo to allow space for you to be in.”

“How many
drones to a squad?” asked Mike, even though he knew the
answer.

“Twelve,
including the command drone.  Each squad is eleven drones and one
commander.  The drones can all act autonomously, but can follow direct
orders from the commander.  If the commander is injured or incapacitated,
control of the squad will fall back to remote pilots based outside the theatre
of operations.  But all the while you’re in the field the squad commander
has total operational control.  The whole point of the program is that an
operational commander there in the field, with direct personal experience of
what is happening,
is
better placed to make
situational judgements than someone sat maybe three thousand miles away. 
There’s no substitution for actually being there on the ground.”

“But the
risks are,” Mike paused, “unbelievable.  And you volunteered. 
Incredible.”  Bobby smiled.  “Someone had to do it.”

Someone may
have had to do it but it needn’t have been Bobby.  He was born a hundred
and forty million miles away, and with his family connections he could easily
have remained out of it.  His father Jack had been mortified when Bobby
told him he had volunteered, and had threatened to disown him.  In truth
Jack was terrified about what might become of his son, but he masked that
feeling with anger, casting Bobby out of the House of Karjalainen and pulling
his younger son Anthony even closer.

Bobby had
always been the
most
difficult of the two boys, in
trouble at school, in trouble with girls, in trouble with the police, but his
easy smile and winning ways had always managed to get him through.  When
he was younger his sheepish grin and ‘what the hell’ shrug worked on his father
too, but as he got older Jack Karjalainen became increasingly immune.  He
still loved Bobby but found it harder and harder to let him know it. 
Maybe that’s why Bobby volunteered; to get a reaction out of his father. 
And maybe it worked, but Jack Karjalainen would never admit to it.

“Incredible,”
Mike said to himself.  “Can I get you another drink?”

“I don’t
think you can,” Bobby said, and then to the machine, “Hey, barkeep.  Same
again here.”  The robot arm performed its whirring magic, finishing with
its weary message about drinking responsibly.

Mike grabbed
his new beer and took a sip.  “What did it feel like?” he said.

“Feel like?”

“Yeah, what
did it feel like, the fighting?”

“It felt like
the sims.  You’ve played the
sims
right? 
Mech
Azimuth 4
and all those?  It feels just like that, but with hard work
and no resets.”