“You don’t have to sound so cheerful about it.” Khouri was eating a ship-grown apple.
“But why not? It’s an elegant system. I can learn from it, of course, but it isn’t the same thing. What’s happening down there is methodical, endless—and there isn’t the tiniest grain of sentience behind any of it.”
She said it with genuine awe.
“Yes, very impressive,” Khouri said. “Blind replication—nothing smart about it, but because it’s happening simultaneously in a billion-odd places, they win over us by sheer weight of numbers. Isn’t that what’s going to happen? You’re going to sit here and think like hell, and it won’t make a bit of difference to the outcome. Sooner or later they’ll learn every trick you have.”
“But not just yet.” Volyova cocked her head towards the schematic. “You think I’d have been stupid enough to hit them with the most advanced countermeasures we have? You never do that in war, Khouri. You never expend any more energy—or intelligence—against an enemy than is absolutely appropriate to the situation at hand, just as you never play your best card first in a poker game. You wait, until the stakes justify it.” And then she explained how the current countermeasures being deployed by her weapon were really very old, and not especially sophisticated. She had adapted them from ancient entries in the holographically distributed database of the warchive. “About three hundred years behind the current day,” she said.
“But Cerberus is catching up.”
“Correct, but that rate of technical gain is actually rather stable—probably because of the thoughtless way in which our secrets are being used. There are no intuitive jumps possible, so the Amarantin systems evolve linearly. It’s like someone trying to crack a code by sheer brute-force computation. And because of that, I know rather precisely how long it will take for them to overtake our current level. At the moment they’re catching up by about a decade for every three or four hours of shiptime. Which gives us slightly less than a week before things get interesting.”
“And this isn’t?” Khouri shook her head, feeling—not for the first time—that there were many things she did not understand about Volyova. “Just how do these escalations take place? Does your weapon carry a copy of the warchive?”
“No; too dangerous.”
“Right; it’d be like sending a soldier behind enemy lines with every secret you’ve got. How do you do it? Transmit the secrets down to the weapon only when they’re needed? Isn’t that just as risky?”
“That’s how it happens, but it’s much safer than you think. The transmissions are encrypted using a one-time pad; a randomly generated string of digits which specifies the change to be made to each bit in the raw signal; whether you add a zero or a one to it. After you’ve encrypted the signal with the pad, there’s no way the enemy can recover the meaning without their own copy of the pad. The weapon needs one, of course—but the copy it carries is stored deep inside, beyond tens of metres of solid diamond, with hyper-secure optical links to the assembler control systems. Only if the weapon were under major attack would there be any risk of the pad being captured—and in that case, I’d simply refrain from transmitting anything.”
Khouri finished the apple down to the seedless core. “So there is a way,” she said, after thinking for a moment.
“A way to what?”
“To end all this. We want to do that, don’t we?”
“You don’t think the damage has already been done?”
“We can’t know for sure, but supposing it hasn’t? After all, what we’ve seen so far is just a layer of camouflage, and below that a layer of defences designed to protect the camouflage. It’s amazing, yes—and the mere fact that it’s an alien technology means we could probably learn from it—but we still don’t know what it’s hiding.” She thumped her chair in emphasis, gratified to see Volyova react with a small shiver. “It’s something we haven’t reached yet; haven’t even glimpsed—and we won’t, until Sylveste actually goes down there.”
“We’ll stop him from leaving.” Volyova patted the needler which was tucked into her belt. “We control things now.”
“And take the risk that he’ll kill us all by triggering the thing in his eyes?”
“Pascale said it was a bluff.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure she believes it.” Khouri didn’t need to say any more; it was obvious from the slow way she nodded that Volyova understood. “There’s a better way,” she continued. “Let Sylveste leave if he wants, but we’ll make damn sure he doesn’t have an easy time getting inside.”
“By which you mean…”
“I’ll say it, even if you won’t. We have to let it die, Volyova. We have to let Cerberus win.”
TWENTY-NINE
“All we know,” Sylveste said, “is that Volyova’s weapon has reached below the outer skin of the planet; perhaps into the level occupied by the machines I saw in my first exploration.”
It was fifteen hours since the bridgehead had anchored itself, during which time Volyova had done nothing, refusing to send in the first of her mechanical spies until now.
“It seems that those machines are dedicated to maintaining the crust; keeping it repaired when it is punctured, maintaining the illusion of realism, and amassing raw material when it comes by. They’re also the first line of defence.”
“But what lies below?” Pascale said. “We didn’t get a clear look the night you were attacked, and I don’t think they’re simply resting on bedrock; that there’s a real rocky planet below this mechanised facade.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Volyova said, tight-lipped.
Her spies were laughable in their simplicity; cruder even than the robots which Sylveste and Calvin had used in their initial work on the Captain. It was all part of her philosophy of not letting Cerberus see any technology more sophisticated than was absolutely necessary for the task at hand. The drones were capable of being manufactured in vast numbers by the bridgehead, a profligacy which would outweigh their general lack of intelligence. Each was the size of a fist, equipped with just enough limbs for independent locomotion; just enough eyes to justify its existence in the first place. They had no brains; not even simple networks with a few thousand neurons; not even brains which would have made the average insect seem precociously cranial. Instead, they had little spinnerettes which extruded sheathed optical fibre. The drones were operated by her weapon; all commands and everything they saw routed back and forth through that cable, with quantum privacy guaranteed.
“I think we’ll find another layer of automation,” Sylveste said. “Perhaps another layer of defences. But there has to be something worth protecting.”
“Does there?” asked Khouri, who had kept her vicious-looking plasma-rifle pointing at him since this meeting had convened. “Aren’t you guilty of a few unwarranted assumptions? You keep talking as if there’s something valuable in there we aren’t meant to get our greasy fingers all over, and that’s all that the camouflage is there for; to keep us monkeys out. But what if it’s not like that at all? What if there’s something bad in there?”