Hammerhead Resurrection Page 8

  “Mr. Holt I presume.”

  “Captain Holt,” Cantwell said.

  She gave Cantwell a natural smile. “Forgive me,” she said, “Captain Holt.”

  As he shook her hand, his eyes scanned her face, measuring her, and found her somewhat unreadable. Yet, he felt drawn into the delicate copper fans laced into her dark-amber eyes.

  Tipping his head to her, he said in a reserved tone, “Vice president.”

  “The admiral warned me,” she said as though cutting directly into his mind, “that you don’t care much for my kind.” She stepped closer and leaned in as if what she said next should be confidential. “I’ll do what I can to not be a typical politician if you also agree to not be a typical meat head.”

  Jeffrey exhaled slowly through his nostrils.

  “It would seem,” she continued in a casual tone, “I was mistaken in the existence of these folks.” She laughed easily. “Who knew?”

  Cantwell’s ability to remain expressionless gave Jeffrey the strength to keep from speaking his mind.

  Delaney turned to the Nav-Con. “I need to understand as quickly as possible what we’re dealing with here.”

  Something in her manner told Jeffrey that she’d already made up her mind on what she was dealing with. Her asking for his opinion was only showmanship.

  “Ma’am,” Jeffrey said, not willing to let her get away with using such a light tone, “imagine the worst thing you can, and you’re only getting started.”

  The vice president’s eyebrow lifted. “Interesting.” She held her open palm up as if presenting Cantwell to Holt. “When the president asked the admiral to come out of retirement, he agreed on the condition that you be brought in as well. That makes a strong impression on me.”

  “Ma’am,” Jeffrey said, “I don’t want to be disrespectful, and I appreciate the compliment, but I don’t have time nor use for it.” He pointed to the Nav-Con. “This should bother everyone here.”

  “I would assume,” Delaney said, “You don’t mean the obvious.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “No… not their presence… their casual presence.”

  As Delaney’s eyes narrowed, Jeffrey’s attention settled on the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.

  She asked, “What about their demeanor troubles you?”

  Pulling his eyes from her, he scowled at himself as he said, “They don’t appear to care they have their backs exposed, but they should.” He pointed at the ships. “This behavior doesn’t add up. Fifty years ago, the first time they engaged us, we forced their local population to extinction. That should send a strong message to future visitors, but now they come calmly strolling back in? That makes no sense.”

  “They don’t appear to care that we killed them,” Delaney said in a matter of fact tone.

  “Exactly. It would only make sense under three circumstances. One, they don’t care about losing lives. I’m not buying that. Two, they’re stupid—don’t learn. That’s invalid based on how dangerous they are.”

  “The alternative,” Cantwell said, “is they’re laying out a trap.”

  Jeffrey felt electrified in a way he hadn’t since his conflict with Maxine King. “Exactly, and I’ll bet my right eye that it’s going to burn us if we don’t figure it out fast.”

  “Perhaps,” Delaney said as she turned to the balding man, whose face had flushed more and more as Jeffrey spoke, “they simply do not understand the impact they had on us.”

  As the man, his hands behind his back and broad shoulders set, stepped forward, he lifted his chin with an air of arrogance. His advanced baldness contrasted with his youthful face. In the dark eyes and thick torso, Jeffrey saw a man used to getting his way, be it through argument or intimidation.

  We’ll see how that works out for you today.

  “Schodt,” Delaney asked him, “what can you offer on these ships?”

  The man coughed and tugged on the half-inch collar of his shirt, which encircled his neck somewhat tightly, before lifting onto the balls of his feet, settling down, and saying, “Madam Vice President, the alien race we encountered fifty years ago was classified as XTLF-A, or ExtraTerrestrial Life Form Alpha—the first we have encountered. While there are some subtle structural differences, analysis of these ships and their weaponry signatures suggests this is also XTLF-A; however, it is possible this is a different life form with similar technology. This life form must, of course, be classed in the Eukarya biological domain, and again assumed to be part of the Animalia phylum—”

  “Excuse me,” Jeffrey asked, “who are you?”

  The man’s thin lips pressed to nothing as his right eye twitched once.

  “Oh, forgive me,” Delaney said, “this is Gerard Schodt, the foremost expert on the alien race.”

  Schodt’s lips curved downward as if his presence were a magnanimous gift bestowed upon Jeffrey.

  “I don’t wish to be disrespectful,” Jeffrey said, “but I don’t believe anyone can claim to be an expert on the Sthenos.”

  Schodt’s expression went flat. “Captain Holt, I understand your attitude is to kill ‘em all as it were. My intention is conversely to understand these beings as a species and a society.”

  Jeffrey said, “I think I understand them well enough.”

  “I would argue,” Schodt said, rubbing his fingertips together as if testing their cleanliness, “your view is… bigoted.” He offered Jeffrey a slight smile. “If you’ll forgive me for being so direct. I do not believe we know enough to draw a conclusion of inherent hostility. It is possible the previous conflict erupted from a misunderstanding.”

  “Excuse me?” Jeffrey’s anger sparked and crackled like gunpowder tossed over flames.

  “I did not speak unclearly,” Schodt said. “People like you, who call them Sthenos, create a barrier between worlds. The moniker Exteris Ignotum is far more—”

  “Calling them ‘extraterrestrial unknowns’,” Jeffrey said, his pulse rising in his neck, “is equivalent to mistaking a pride of lions for house cats.”

  “Exteris Ignotum has been scientifically approved for the long-term health of our perception—”

  “Please don’t tell me,” Jeffrey said to Cantwell, “that you’re going to make me work with…” he held out his hand to Schodt and found himself at a loss, “…this.” He squared on Schodt. “I know everything I need to know about the Sthenos—We kill them, or we die.”

  Schodt adjusted his glasses on his broad face. “That view is not acceptable to me, Captain Holt.”

  “Nor is it to me,” Vice President Delaney said.

  “Mr. Schodt, vice president,” Jeffrey said, “if you live long enough, it will be.”

  Cantwell took hold of the back of Jeffrey’s arm.

  “To call this race Exteris Sthenos,” Schodt said as his face bloomed fully red, “to equate it with Medusa’s deranged, murderous sister, casts them permanently in a neg—”

  Jeffrey held up his hand as he let out a slow breath. “I’m sorry. I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” In the shocked silence that followed, he drew another breath, letting go of the anger he felt toward this expert, who’d been born at least a decade after the war had ended and said, “Mr. Schodt, you and I are not going to be effective in this vein. I suggest we move beyond it.”

  Schodt glared at him.

  “I’m going to make you a commitment.”

  The man’s eyebrow lifted.

  “I’ll listen to what you have to say if you do the same for me.”

  Schodt turned his head and pulled at his collar as if the concept stuck in his throat.

  Jeffrey said, “I am sure…” another deep breath, “there are many things I can learn from you and am willing to admit my view of the Sthenos is… biased.”

  Schodt held up a stubby index finger as he opened his mouth to speak.

  “But,” Jeffrey said, cutting him off, “I will also ask you to accept that, in many areas, I will have more experience. If we begin
there, I think we’ll find ourselves on higher ground.”

  Schodt’s mouth turned down. He looked to those around him. While the narrowness of his eyes suggested he wished to argue the point, he gave a curt nod.

  Vice President Delaney was looking at Jeffrey with what appeared to be slight surprise. She asked Schodt, “What is your assessment of the situation?”

  Schodt pulled a tablet from his back pocket, looked it over, and said, “My guess, due to the mining we are seeing, is they have come for resources,” he looked at Jeffrey over the rims of his glasses, “not war.”

  Jeffrey’s anger flickered. The need for resources was the most common cause of war.

  Schodt continued, “Because their weapons are so advanced, it is my assessment they do not perceive us as a threat. They attack us in the local area only to keep that area secure, and as long as we give them room to operate, it is possible we will have no further conflict.”

  Delaney looked to Cantwell. “What is your recommendation?”

  Cantwell remained silent for a moment as if weighing his words before he spoke. “Rebuilding the Hammerheads is paramount.” He pointed to the ships on the Nav-Con. “We should move the fleet to a position between Jupiter and Earth. We’ll let them do what they want to Europa. If they move sunward, we engage.”

  Delaney asked Cantwell, “When could the Hammerheads be ready?”

  Cantwell looked to Jeffrey, who said, “We have an acceptable list of pilots. The physical modifications will take a few days. The pilots already know how to fly, but we’ll need to acclimatize them to their new limits. Depending on individual circumstances, that could take a few weeks, or a few months.” He looked to Cantwell, “It’s been fifty years since those modifications were applied to living subjects. None of the scientists who did the work can still be alive.”

  “None,” Cantwell said. “However, I have a skilled team researching their academic papers and procedures now.”

  Jeffrey nodded as he said, “So we need to assemble the pilots on the list. That will also take time.”

  “They’re already here on the Lacedaemon,” Cantwell said in a somewhat apologetic tone.

  “The list you gave me wasn’t for selection.”

  Cantwell shrugged. “No. Those are the pilots you’ll be working with.”

  Jeffrey held his hands up in supplication to the inevitable, “Well, if they’re even close to what I see in their dossiers, you chose well. I should get started right away.”

  “But that still doesn’t leave us with an immediate option should the,” Delaney looked to Schodt, whose scowl deepened, and offered him a smile, “…Exteris Ignotum move in on us.”

  A man wearing the four gold bars of a captain, who’d been standing several paces behind Cantwell, stepped forward. “Ma’am, if I may interrupt.” He stood at an average height, had an average build, and looked at Delaney with dark-set eyes under a heavy brow. Jeffrey thought he saw faint frustration in the look Cantwell gave the captain.

  Cantwell said, “Madam vice-president, this is Captain Donovan, my second for this operation and captain of the U.S.S. Lacedaemon.” He said to Donovan, “speak freely captain.”

  Donavan clasped his hands behind his back as he said, “For now I believe we should rely on our drones. They are highly developed, well-tested, and have been in service for several years.”

  Hearing the word drone did not sit well with Jeffrey. He asked the captain, “Automated or piloted from a remote location?”

  Donovan’s expression hardened, as though Jeffrey had broken a ceiling of decorum by addressing him. “We have both. Our self-directed AI is particularly excellent. In dog fight trials, they’ve consistently outperformed human opponents. They anticipate effectively and have no G limitations save those of the spacecraft.” Donovan fell silent, seeming to invite Jeffrey to agree with him.

  Jeffrey said, “Forgive me for saying so, but I’m of the opinion that the Sthenos will obliterate your AI hardware.”

  Schodt pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses.

  Vice President Delaney scowled but asked with simple curiosity, “Why do you feel that way Captain Holt?”

  “AI is good,” Jeffrey said, “but beyond its basic programming, it must learn to be effective in new situations. There are two key learning methods I am aware of, the first being trial and error. When we try something, if we fail, we try something else. It’s linked to classical conditioning, which is fine in most cases, but in fighter combat, failure equals death—or in this case, destruction—and a destroyed AI system can’t learn.”

  Donovan said, “The AI systems learn from others’ failures. They can capitalize on the loss of another unit.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “That’s good, a nice addition, but it won’t be enough, not if the systems are like what I’ve seen in the past.”

  “I think,” Donovan said, “you’ll find our systems much more advanced than when you served.” A finality in the when gave Jeffrey a clear message. Donovan didn’t perceive him as military, just an old man who’d done a few years long ago.

  Jeffrey let the slight go as he asked, “Do they think abstractly?”

  Donovan remained silent.

  Delaney asked, “What is your meaning Captain Holt?”

  “Artificial Intelligence doesn’t typically run at what one would consider the highest levels of intelligence, not fifty years ago anyway. I’m simply curious what level of intelligence these new systems possess.”

  With clear irritation, Donovan said, “The intelligence is—”

  “Creative?” Jeffrey asked.

  Donovan’s eyes narrowed. “Not creative. Not yet.”

  “Captain Donovan,” Jeffrey said, “it’s not my intention to tear down your work, but I have to base my opinions on my experience and—”

  “Excuse me,” Delaney said, “in less than an hour I need to offer my recommendations to the president. I either need to understand the relevance of this conversation or have it end so we can move forward.”

  Jeffrey was taken somewhat aback by Delaney’s directness, but she’d not shown anger, simply stated a truth.

  He said, “A moment longer and you’ll see the importance, I hope. Basic analytical intelligence, the ability to discern from possible outcomes and learn from a set of trial and error situations, is not creative intelligence. An illustration of this comes from an experiment done with birds. A cup filled with seeds is set on a string and lowered into a hole. A bird with low intelligence might stuff its head into the hole, fail to reach the seed, and move on. A bit more intelligence would allow the bird to realize pulling on the string would bring the cup closer. However, one pull would not be enough to reach it. When the bird lets the string go, it falls back down the hole. The bird still goes without. An intelligent bird, say a seagull, might pull on the string—trial—realize it cannot reach the seed—error—and look back over the situation. Then the bird might lift the string, step on it, and pull again, successfully lifting the cup out of the hole.”

  Crossing her arms as though impatient, Delaney said, “I don’t see what a seagull getting seed has to do with drones.”

  “It has everything to do with AI. The trial and error intelligence the seagull illustrated is not the highest level,” Jeffrey said. “Creative Intelligence goes one step further, which is solving problems outside the boundaries of available information. A raven has this. Ravens tested in this way look over the situation, pull the cup up, and without hesitation, step on the rope.”

  In an irritated tone, Donovan asked, “How is that any different than the seagull?”

  “It’s a slight but critical difference. The seagull had to hit failure before realizing the situation needed another approach. The raven was able to see the failure abstractly,” Jeffrey tapped his temple, “and create a solution in its mind, skipping the step of experimentation.”

  Donovan asked, “What does this have to do with AI-s versus living pilots?”

  “One key trait we look f
or in Hammerheads is creative intelligence—fast, abstract problem solving. Quick reflexes and massive G-tolerance will do nothing against the Sthenos’ main talent, which is attacking with relentlessly changing tactics. They never give lesser pilots, AI, etc., a chance to learn. An average pilot will repeat successful tactics, which the Sthenos will avoid or exploit. They do not repeat patterns no matter if they are succeeding or failing.” Jeffrey sighed and said, “I sincerely don’t disagree for disagreement’s sake, sir, but I wasn’t brought here to say what people want to hear.”

  “Well,” Donovan said, “disagree if you must, but we have no other options until your epic Hammerheads are ready to fly.”

  “Easy Donovan,” Cantwell said.

  Donovan looked to the admiral, and his expression constricted. With a slight lift of his chin, he said, “Yes, sir.”

  Delaney asked Jeffrey, “You don’t disagree with human piloted remote drones?”

  “Not exactly,” Jeffrey said. “With the right pilots, they’re a better option than AI drones and can save lives—but therein lies the problem.”

  Donovan’s eyebrow lifted, and Jeffrey felt him wanting to cut in, but to his credit, he remained silent.

  Jeffrey said, “To give his or her best, a pilot has to have everything on the line, be totally committed.”

  Now Donovan did cut in, “The remote drone pilots are some of the best pilots in the—”

  “It’s not about best and worst,” Jeffrey said, finally allowing some exasperation to show in his tone. “It’s about alive and dead. Combat pilots in the seat know if they don’t give their all, they’ll die, or someone with them will. I can have a good feeling about a pilot and make a guess at how he or she will respond, but I’ll never know what that person is made of until people start dying. That’s when we find the hardcore—those who can perform even in the face of death. Training can’t do that. No matter how intense the exercise, in the back of a trainee’s mind he or she knows if things go really bad, the exercise ceases and medics come in.”