As he headed for a hatch, the Centurion looked back at the marines. They were so young. Had he ever been as fresh-faced as any of them? It hardly seemed so.

  Maybe he’d never been as young, or as innocent, at least, as any of them. He’d grown up hard. First, he’d been a thief, stealing in order to get enough food to stay alive. Then, he’d been a forced convert to Islam as practiced in Medina Hab orbiting Saturn. He’d been a young suicide bomber whose bomb had failed to explode.

  The Centurion remembered that day all right. He remembered Nathan Graham, and like Jon Hawkins, he remembered the man fondly. Colonel Graham—not a colonel that day—seemed to have had a heart of gold, collecting the Solar System’s strays and making something out of them. Graham had had a hard streak, too, turning his strays into some of the best mercenaries in the system.

  The Centurion smiled. It was a cruel thing, a hard smile, but it held joy while remembering Graham. Nathan Graham had never quit. He’d taught both of his star pupils that, too.

  Is that what I am?

  The Centurion had never considered himself a star pupil. He was a soldier. He no longer followed the dictates of Islam as practiced on Medina Hab. He didn’t follow Christianity as practiced by Hawkins or follow Christ Spaceman as Miles Ghent had done. He was simply a soldier. He fought.

  The Centurion stood by the hatch to the short corridor to the control room. He stared down at the ultra-sharp knife he kept in his right boot. He would never willingly let an AI capture him again. He shivered, remembering his horrible captivity aboard Main 63, a soulless machine that had collected human specimens…

  Soulless.

  The Centurion thought about that. The Confederation faced a galaxy full of machines, deadly ones programmed to wipe out Life, all Life, everywhere. As far as they knew, the war had been raging for at least twenty thousand years.

  The Centurion shook his head. That was too long for him to conceive. Human history didn’t even go back that far, the kind of history that had written records. Some people spoke about human ancestors, apish creatures. Had human life really risen from a primordial soup? Had it evolved for millions of years? Did it matter?

  Maybe it did matter. The Centurion wasn’t particularly religious, but he believed in a Creator of some kind. What was Life? How was that different from sentient computers hunting to kill Life?

  If evolution was correct—chance plus time plus mutations—then how did one arrangement of atoms make any difference from another arrangement of atoms, morally speaking? It was just stuff. One lump of stuff was no more important than another lump of stuff. Logically, that was the case, anyway.

  Yet, what human acted on that logic? Every human the Centurion had met acted as if Life was more important than non-Life. That action implied an inner belief that Life mattered more, was somehow special. To the Centurion, that implied humans had an innate sense of the Creator. People acted as if they mattered. Cut in front of a man in a long line, and the man would say, “You shouldn’t have done that. I was here first.”

  Why not cut in line if you wanted or hit a man if you simply felt like it? If a person was just a lump of atoms like any other thing, kicking it should be no different than kicking a stone.

  A genuine smile appeared on the Centurion’s tough features. He was becoming like Bast the Philosopher. Why did any of these thoughts matter?

  As the Centurion thought about that, he frowned. They mattered because Life was precious. Human life was more precious than animal life or planet life. Why was that so? Or why did most people act as if that was so?

  Because the Creator made us. That was the answer—the only real one that made logical sense. The Creator had given humanity purpose by his creation. In that sense, both Christianity and Islam had the right idea. The adherents of both religions believed in a Creator, an ultimate source.

  What then had fashioned Cronus?

  The Centurion shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t know if he was correct in his thinking. It was what he believed. Yes. He was sure that he was worth more than any artificial intelligence. The machines were evil because they hunted to eradicate Life. The Centurion had come to realize the machine evilness during his captivity better than at any other time. That’s partly what soulless machine meant. It implied that man had a soul and that the soul was worth something.

  If men didn’t have souls, but were mere biological robots or machines… The Centurion shuddered. That was too bleak a philosophy for him.

  As a man thinks, so he is.

  If men thought they were special, they acted differently than if they thought men were nothing different from the rest of the universe.

  Was a man a hunk of atoms randomly tossed together through chance or was he made a little lower than the angels? One implied meaninglessness. The other implied worth.

  The Centurion shook his head. His life was precious. The Sacerdotes out there in the Main were precious.

  The Centurion opened the hatch, slipping through, closing the hatch behind him. It was time to check up on the vessel’s progress.

  -6-

  The Centurion sat down beside Walleye. The little mutant was flying the insertion craft. Walleye glanced at him with his strange eyes before he continued piloting.

  A small, polarized window allowed both men to peer into space. The control room was small and cramped: perfect for Walleye, not so much for the Centurion.

  “Need a break?” the Centurion asked.

  “Not yet,” Walleye said.

  The Centurion glanced left at the mat on the deck. That’s where Walleye slept. “Think we’ll make it?”

  “You don’t?” Walleye kept an eye on the controls.

  “This one is going to be hard.”

  Walleye said nothing.

  The Centurion peered out at the stars. The insertion craft headed for an asteroid field, a thick one, but he couldn’t see any of the asteroids from here. He did see the Main, or was sure that the bigger dot out there wasn’t a star but the Earth-sized machine.

  “This will be a long war,” the Centurion said.

  “Something on your mind?”

  “Don’t you ever ponder the meaning of all this?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I?”

  The Centurion didn’t answer.

  “I live in the moment,” Walleye said. “That’s enough for me. Too much thinking dulls the senses.”

  “Animals live in the moment,” the Centurion said.

  “Yup.”

  “You don’t take offense at what I just said?”

  Walleye shook his head.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Suit yourself,” Walleye said.

  The Centurion glanced at the little mutant. He found Walleye annoying. Did the mutant really believe he was an island? The Centurion might have believed that long ago. He didn’t anymore.

  The Centurion got up and headed for the hatch. He expected Walleye to call out, tell him to come back. The mutant did not. So, the Centurion went down the short corridor, opened the hatch and closed it behind him.

  If Walleye wanted to be alone, then let him be alone.

  ***

  Walleye glanced back when he heard the hatch shut. Certain the Centurion wasn’t coming back, the mutant took a slate from under his buff coat.

  The stubby fingers clicked a switch, bringing nude pics of June Zen back up. He studied the pics one by one. June. He loved her. He loved looking at her. He would never have told anyone, certainly not June, but he missed her. He did wonder if he would ever see her again.

  One thing Walleye knew: this was a damned dangerous mission. The odds of getting in and out with Sacerdotes, he gave them a one-in-seven chance. Those were poor odds. He wanted June to live, and he was certain that a void ship could easily escape the red dwarf system and Main 54.

  Look at that cheek. It was smooth, he knew.

  Walleye sighed wistfully, switching off the slate, putting it away. If anyone put in the wrong code, the pics would erase. As much as he loved looking at them, he didn’t want anyone else doing so. He would probably kill anyone who did.

  He could have gotten out of this mission. So why had he agreed to come? He wasn’t sure. Maybe for what had happened on Makemake many years ago. Maybe for having to ride in a coffin in order to escape the dreaded robots on Makemake. They had made him suffer. They had brought him turmoil. He wanted to hurt them for destroying a good life on Makemake. He missed the old days. Nothing had been the same since then.

  His nostrils expanded. Because of the death machines, humanity had lived by the skin of its teeth for years now. Extinction waited right around the corner. If nothing else, he wanted to make a fight of it. He wanted the machines to feel some pain, some anguish.

  He doubted they did. They made mathematical calculations and followed ancient programming. Was there some way they could change the programming and release the changed AIs back into the galaxy, perhaps to do good instead of evil?

  Cog Primus Prime had been one such attempt, in a way. That had helped humanity’s odds, for sure.

  Walleye leaned forward, looking out of the polarized window. For piloting, he did not use any other sensors than passive teleoptics. A planet-sized enemy waited for them. Would Hawkins’s grand idea work?

  They were going to find out. Walleye wanted to get on with it, but he knew patience was a virtue when dealing with AIs.

  Walleye shrugged. He would get there soon enough, and then he would probably want to leave. So, he endured, looked at naked pics of lovely June Zen and imagined ways to beat the gigantic death machines.

  -7-

  Main 54 checked his sensor buoys scattered throughout a four AU-net around him. He had been checking the sensors for a time—

  Here was something interesting. A sensor had found an anomaly that had skirted the red dwarf star. The object had raced past the star fast enough and just far enough so the gravitational pull hadn’t caught it. The object had continued on its way, a natural object—until it made tiny, almost unnoticeable course corrections. Those corrections had insured the object headed for Main 54.

  Now that was quite interesting. In a state that might have been construed as excitement, Main 54 took the data and fed it to himself. His massive intellect came up with an obvious answer. That was not a natural object.

  Main 54 trained several teleoptics at the thing. In moments, it was apparent that that was a specially designed craft with anti-sensor material. The darkness might have hidden it, but not from his army of AI buoys. That implied a void ship was hidden on the other side of the red dwarf. Would the larger void ship remain hidden over there?

  Likely, the void ship had ejected sensors that would be able to view past the red dwarf star.

  Main 54 began searching for those sensors.

  He knew a momentary buzz of contentment. His calculations had proven correct. Hawkins—or someone from the Confederation—had traveled out to him. His lure had worked.

  Of course, he could not be one hundred percent that was the case. There was an infinitesimal probability that he was dealing with something else. But the probability that humans were inside the approaching craft was almost ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain.

  He would do nothing different for now. He would act is if he hadn’t notice them, let them come to him. What was their plan? The tiny ship could not possibly defeat him.

  He ran a thousand simulations. If the simulations were correct, the ship would try to bore into him. They might try to land on his surface and work in, but he doubted it. Did they hold him in such contempt that they believed such a direct course would work?

  He shifted through his data on humanity. No. He did not think they held him in contempt. These humans had succeeded where thousands, tens of thousands, of other species had failed. That had to mean that, despite their unsightly appearance and simple ways, humans were unique. Simple luck hadn’t seen them through each time. Humans had special qualities. Their survival against several AI attacks demonstrated it.

  So, then, reasoned Main 54, the humans must have a backup plan. Would void ships suddenly appear, giving him a fight? Did it have to be void ships? Did they think a special anti-AI virus would allow them to take him over? These were all possibilities.

  In fact, Main 54 ran through thousands of other possibilities, and he found solutions to every single one.

  He was ready. Even if he was supposed to find the first insertion ship, he was ready if they had other, unexpected plans.

  Main 54 had never doubted he would win. But if this was their key plan, this win was going to be pathetically easy.

  Had other AI ships, ones the humans had defeated, been so sloppy that they hadn’t followed normal procedures? That seemed possible as he watched the tiny ship approach him. It was easy to see how others could underestimate the humans. But he would not.

  There had to be a greater Hawkins plan. This couldn’t be it. He would actually be disappointed if this was the extent of the great and dangerous Hawkins.

  Main 54 almost sent them a message, telling them this was too easy. He wondered if that might be one of the humans’ strengths. They appeared to follow foolish plans, when in reality their plans were much more cunning.

  The longer Main 54 ran through his simulations, the more he thought he knew the answer.

  He had almost fallen for the trick, the trap. Oh, these humans must be clever fellows indeed. Well, he was ready now. He had many options and knew the ones that had the greatest chance for success.

  He would feed on the metallic asteroids and let the humans make the first move. Maybe this was the first move—

  “No, no,” Main 54 told himself. “This is the obvious play. The real attack has to come from somewhere or something I am not expecting. I am expecting the unexpected now.”

  He could hardly wait for the game to begin.

  -8-

  Aboard the Dandelion in the void, Zeno and Kree continued to observe the Nathan Graham, Main 54 and the various siege-ships scattered throughout the system and in the Oort cloud.

  They debated possibilities, opened more vitality pods and grew drunk on greater willpower and zest. Each ranged through the Dandelion, organizing old portions of the ship and refining existing ship capabilities.

  “Our Vestal missiles will fly faster and explode harder now,” Kree bragged to Zeno in the control chamber.

  “We can move from void to reality faster than before,” Zeno said.

  Several more days passed, and the Sisters grew tired of the wait. They had been gone from Enoy over five thousand years. It was time to go home already. The voyage would take some time, too, as Enoy was in the galactic core.

  Finally, Kree approached Zeno as the other shined and flickered before the cavern-like viewing screen. There was no longer any cloudiness around the screen’s inner edges, as Zeno had fixed that.

  “May I speak to you, Commander?” Kree asked.

  The lightning-bolt form turned around to regard the flickering flame Kree.

  “Speak,” Zeno said imperiously.

  “Do you know how long you intend to stay here?”

  “How long we will stay,” Zeno said.

  “That is what I meant.”

  “Why did you not say ‘we’ to begin with?”

  “I am dizzy with the newfound vitality surging through me.”

  “That is interesting. So am I.”

  “Did we consume too much vitality too quickly?” Kree asked.

  “I certainly didn’t,” Zeno said.

  Kree decided to withhold comment.

  “I don’t know,” Zeno said.

  “Pardon?”

  “I don’t know how long we’ll stay here. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “May I query you again?”

  “You have the floor,” Zeno said.

  “Are you waiting for a specific event to occur before you think we should head for Enoy?”

  “That is an excellent question.” Zeno raised a lightning-bright arm and then finger. “That is a wonderful and insightful question.”

  “You’re drunk,” Kree declared.

  “Dare you say that?”

  Kree actually laughed. “I believe I may be drunk on vitality as well. Our long captivity on Cronus has unhinged us. Notice, I did not say me, but us.”

  Zeno lowered her lightning-bright arm. She seemed to pause in her thoughts.

  Kree swayed back and forth, readying a fireball just in case the superior was going to start a drunken fight to the finish.

  Zeno did no such thing. Instead, she peered at the swaying flame of Kree. Then Zeno glanced at the dull ball of energy that was the third Sister, the unnamed one that had survived the five millennia of captivity with them.

  So intent was Zeno’s scrutiny that Kree finally turned around to stare at the dull one as well. “Is something the matter with her?” Kree asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Zeno said. “I thought I saw moment in our Sister.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No,” Kree said.

  “There,” Zeno said. “I saw activity.”

  Kree leaned closer to the dull ball of energy, one which did not pulse or shiver with life. She had no idea what Zeno could see.

  “Hello?” Zeno said. “Can you hear me?”

  There was no answer from the dull ball.

  Zeno floated past Kree as she approached the third Sister. She was drunk. She wasn’t thinking as clearly as she could be. Perhaps in time, she could handle this much vitality again. She had been starved for eons.

  Eons? she asked herself. Zeno did not normally think in such terms. What would cause her to use such a word? Like something Cronus had used during the long captivity…

  “Something feels off,” Kree said.

  Zeno turned around sharply. She half expected to see Kree juggling a fireball inside her, growing it bigger and hotter for an attack. Yet, that was not the case. Kree showed concern and alarm.