that?”
“I’m betting he didn’t. No AI would. Trinidad— the original Trinidad— probably objected to the vessel changes so they ripped him out and threw him away. A science ship would never allow itself to be converted to a ship of war. Just as a combat AI would never concede to being turned into a miner ship, or hospice vessel, or any other, non-military refit.”
Henricksen eyed the Heliotrope darkly and then looked back to the camera. “The AI swap. That in the logs?” he asked softly.
“Some of it. Some of its guesswork. But one thing’s for sure—the AI in that Heliotrope is not the original.”
Henricksen chewed his lip, watching the DSR fleet inch closer, studying the Heliotrope’s shape at its center. “Second generation. That’s pretty desperate.”
“Indeed,” Serengeti murmured. “Indeed it is.”
But they’d seen that, hadn’t they? The DSR was every bit the outsider, rebel-resistance force its name implied. Which meant shoestring budgets and salvaged equipment—retrofits of older models rather than shiny new designs. Even their damned name was a retread, the original Dark Star Revolution having died out centuries ago. Henricksen called them a bunch of terrorists—a bunch of up-jumped opportunists with a grandiose name—and, in truth, that’s how things started out.
The second coming of the DSR spawned from unrest on just a single planet—a backwater named Isikatamaharu—and from there it spread like wildfire. Like a plague hopping from one planet to another, infecting hundreds of colonies along the way, pulling in the people at the fringes—the angry and disenfranchised, the desperate and destitute. There’d been a point to it all once, way back when. A dream of separation, of an independent planet, separate from Meridian Alliance rule that the DSR could call home. But that dream got lost along the way—forgotten or just given up long ago. Now the DSR was all about guerrilla warfare and quasi-terrorist tactics. About surgical strikes to secure resources and keep themselves going.
Anything they captured—ships included—got pressed into service. That’s what happened to Trinidad. That much was in his records. And as for the other ships out there…
Serengeti ran a quick analysis of the data she’d gathered, found other ships of Trinidad’s vintage, some newer models, others that were even older than the Heliotrope. Desperate, she thought, reading the signs, knowing the ancient fleet out there meant DSR was almost at an end. This fleet, this cobbled together collection of ships driven far out into unsettled space…it felt like a last stand. A last suicidal act of defiance.
“Pointless,” Serengeti said. “All of it.”
“No argument here.” Kusikov studied the information scrolling across the bridge’s windows, shaking his head. “Look at ‘em. It’s like a museum out there. The greatest hits of junk transport.” He leaned forward, squinting his eyes as he focused on one shape in particular. “Is that an Aphelion ?” he asked, pointing at an elongated vessel with a forking metal rod protruding from its nose.
“Can’t be,” Finlay told him. “Aphelion’s are ancient. First generation AI. Minds are based on chip sets rather than the crystal matrix standard they introduced with the fifth generation AI. Totally inefficient. They retired the last of that class a decade ago.”
Kusikov gave her a haughty look. “Oh, so you’re an AI mindset expert now, huh?”
Finlay glared at him across the bridge and then pointedly turned away, adjusting the settings on the Scan station to add yet more data to the front displays.
Serengeti almost laughed, watching the two of them. Kusikov’s know-it-all attitude got under most people’s skin, but he and Finlay has a special relation. Those two were forever arguing and never quite seemed to get along. Today was worse, though. The arrival of those DSR ships made everyone nervous and snappish, Finlay and Kusikov
“I’m betting he didn’t. No AI would. Trinidad— the original Trinidad— probably objected to the vessel changes so they ripped him out and threw him away. A science ship would never allow itself to be converted to a ship of war. Just as a combat AI would never concede to being turned into a miner ship, or hospice vessel, or any other, non-military refit.”
Henricksen eyed the Heliotrope darkly and then looked back to the camera. “The AI swap. That in the logs?” he asked softly.
“Some of it. Some of its guesswork. But one thing’s for sure—the AI in that Heliotrope is not the original.”
Henricksen chewed his lip, watching the DSR fleet inch closer, studying the Heliotrope’s shape at its center. “Second generation. That’s pretty desperate.”
“Indeed,” Serengeti murmured. “Indeed it is.”
But they’d seen that, hadn’t they? The DSR was every bit the outsider, rebel-resistance force its name implied. Which meant shoestring budgets and salvaged equipment—retrofits of older models rather than shiny new designs. Even their damned name was a retread, the original Dark Star Revolution having died out centuries ago. Henricksen called them a bunch of terrorists—a bunch of up-jumped opportunists with a grandiose name—and, in truth, that’s how things started out.
The second coming of the DSR spawned from unrest on just a single planet—a backwater named Isikatamaharu—and from there it spread like wildfire. Like a plague hopping from one planet to another, infecting hundreds of colonies along the way, pulling in the people at the fringes—the angry and disenfranchised, the desperate and destitute. There’d been a point to it all once, way back when. A dream of separation, of an independent planet, separate from Meridian Alliance rule that the DSR could call home. But that dream got lost along the way—forgotten or just given up long ago. Now the DSR was all about guerrilla warfare and quasi-terrorist tactics. About surgical strikes to secure resources and keep themselves going.
Anything they captured—ships included—got pressed into service. That’s what happened to Trinidad. That much was in his records. And as for the other ships out there…
Serengeti ran a quick analysis of the data she’d gathered, found other ships of Trinidad’s vintage, some newer models, others that were even older than the Heliotrope. Desperate, she thought, reading the signs, knowing the ancient fleet out there meant DSR was almost at an end. This fleet, this cobbled together collection of ships driven far out into unsettled space…it felt like a last stand. A last suicidal act of defiance.
“Pointless,” Serengeti said. “All of it.”
“No argument here.” Kusikov studied the information scrolling across the bridge’s windows, shaking his head. “Look at ‘em. It’s like a museum out there. The greatest hits of junk transport.” He leaned forward, squinting his eyes as he focused on one shape in particular. “Is that an Aphelion ?” he asked, pointing at an elongated vessel with a forking metal rod protruding from its nose.
“Can’t be,” Finlay told him. “Aphelion’s are ancient. First generation AI. Minds are based on chip sets rather than the crystal matrix standard they introduced with the fifth generation AI. Totally inefficient. They retired the last of that class a decade ago.”
Kusikov gave her a haughty look. “Oh, so you’re an AI mindset expert now, huh?”
Finlay glared at him across the bridge and then pointedly turned away, adjusting the settings on the Scan station to add yet more data to the front displays.
Serengeti almost laughed, watching the two of them. Kusikov’s know-it-all attitude got under most people’s skin, but he and Finlay has a special relation. Those two were forever arguing and never quite seemed to get along. Today was worse, though. The arrival of those DSR ships made everyone nervous and snappish, Finlay and Kusikov
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