From: Thoughts on the AI War, by Bast Banbeck:

  What are some of the symptoms of fear? That is easy for a biological entity to answer. Heightening of emotions that produce alarm; tightening of the gut, and the desire to flee far away from the source generating the fear. In some species, including Sacerdotes and Humans, this alarm or dread can also cause the afflicted to attack violently in order to destroy the source of fear.

  This brings me to the AIs of the Machine Empire. Can sentient computers fear? Can a mass of circuits over fifteen hundred years old know dread as it contemplates its coming destruction? I have come to believe this is possible. How otherwise can we explain the AI Dominion’s continuing reluctance to send another massed fleet against the Confederation five years after Jon Hawkins implemented his highly effective tactic? I am referring to his use of the void to swallow Main 63, several Luna-sized siege-ships and many cyberships when the death machines last attacked the Solar System.

  In biological creatures, as we’ve suggested, fear can cause a spasmodic surge of adrenaline and aggression, as when a spider crawls up one’s arm and brings about a corresponding furious slap that squashes the spider.

  Would sentient death machines slap furiously if they feared aggressively? Or would they use another method that indicated their alarm or dread? I am referring to the death machine-constructed bipedal-shaped assassins that have begun to slip among the Warriors of Roke and Humanity and kill noted scientists and brave war leaders. It is my contention that with their new tactic, we are witnessing machine fear-aggression directed at the political entity known as the Confederation.

  Does that mean we are a spider to the death machines, something evoking atavistic dread? Or do the sentient war machines think of us as a growing monster that will destroy all they hold dear?

  I do not know the answer. But I hope with all my soul they do fear the Confederation. They exterminated my species, the Sacerdotes. Now, like Jon Hawkins, I wish to eradicate every death machine, and if I could, I would consign each one to eternal flames where that computer would know endless agony and sorrow for its monstrous crimes against Life.

  ***

  Bast Banbeck the Sacerdote lumbered drunkenly past a bright nightlight, squinting as he negotiated the otherwise dark main street of Baker, Nevada. He had been visiting the amazing caves of the Great Basin, as they reminded him of his lost homeworld.

  His eyes still burned from weeping too long while alone in the caves.

  The green-skinned, seven-foot alien gripped a whiskey bottle by the neck, having already guzzled half of it. Except for the skin color, he looked like a huge Neanderthal, with a big mashed nose and a mop of messy black hair. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, jeans and biker boots.

  There was a shout behind him. Bast didn’t care, although he stopped long enough to raise the bottle, put it to his lips and throw his big head back as he guzzled more. This was his third bottle tonight, and the whisky burned going down just like before and just how he liked it.

  He was obviously quite humanoid, probably closer to a human than even an Earth chimpanzee, and that had always struck him as strange. Maybe the similarity had helped him to understand Jon Hawkins and the others. Maybe that he was a high philosopher, a deep thinker, had helped just as much.

  Bast stared up at the stars. They were beautiful, twinkling gems in the nighttime sky.

  There was another shout from behind him.

  Bast scowled. He couldn’t be bothered with company tonight. He was remembering his lost people. Hawkins had promised years ago to help him find other Sacerdotes. Bah! What did a supreme commander’s word mean? The humans said in their history books not to trust the words of princes. Rulers followed political expediency and little else.

  Bast scowled drunkenly. Hawkins wasn’t a venal politician—never had been. Hawkins was the best damn commander, best damn fighter mankind had ever thrown up. The man seemed to have the number of the death machines. Hawkins was relentless against them.

  Bast ought to know. He was writing a book, a big damn book on the war against the thinking machines. It was going to be the longest book any sentient had ever written.

  From what Bast had learned during his research, the machines had been warring against Life for twenty thousand years already. It took a long time even for replicating death machines that flew through space to scour the entire galaxy, killing all forms of Life.

  The drunken Sacerdote laughed sourly. He’d been writing the book for five long years already.

  “Hey, big guy, wait up!”

  Bast frowned, working the words through his foggy brain. It would appear the speaker had been addressing him all this time. And the speaker must have been running or hurrying to catch up with him.

  Shuffling his clumsy feet, Bast turned around, squinting again, as the speaker was standing under the nightlight so he seemed to shine like an angel.

  Baker was a tiny tourist town, with various shops on Main Street. Much of the street was dark at four in the morning. What was the shouter doing out at this time of night anyway?

  “You talking to me?” slurred Bast.

  The speaker walked out from under the nightlight. He was tall for a human, wore a black leather jacket and marched with his military boots as if he was—

  A cold awful feeling worked through Bast. The man marched like a robot. According to Bast’s studies, the death machines had begun slipping human-looking or Roke-looking robots onto various Confederation worlds. The robots tried to pass themselves off as people in order to work close to important personnel and kill them.

  Could the death machines know about him? Could they want him dead because they considered him dangerous to the AI Dominion?

  “Who are you?” slurred Bast as he swayed from side to side.

  The man in the black leather jacket smiled. He was too tough-looking to make it friendly. In truth, the smile made him seem sadistic.

  “You are indeed green skinned,” the man said, as if verbally marking off a checklist of qualities.

  Bast did not reply, as the cold awful feeling bloomed in his chest, increasing his fear.

  “Are you Bast Banbeck the Sacerdote?” the man asked.

  As a plan formed in Bast’s mind, he tapped his huge chest with an index finger.

  “Yes, you,” the man said. “Who else would I be addressing this time of night?”

  That confirmed it. Bast sucked down air, raised the nearly finished whiskey bottle and lumbered at the assassin.

  The man stopped his approach. He did not show emotion, although he cocked his head.

  “Are you talking to me?” roared Bast. And he hurled the whiskey bottle. Despite his drunkenness, the bottle flew true, striking the man on the forehead. The bottle did not break, but the blow pitched the man backward so he stumbled for several steps and then thudded onto his back.

  Bast followed the throw, his head lowered. He was going to stomp the robot assassin flat. He was going to destroy it before the thing could kill him, or anyone else for that matter.

  The man had stumbled backward so the bright nightlight over the hardware store shined on the seemingly unconscious human. Blood welled from the gash on his forehead.

  Bast towered over the prone man. He laughed at the blood, thinking it a good imitation of a stricken human. The AIs were getting better at this.

  The seven-foot Sacerdote raised his right foot high and brought it down hard, striking the street because he missed the man’s head. That caused Bast to stumble. He caught himself, shuffled around and stood glaring down at the robot assassin.

  Look at it. The thing didn’t even breathe.

  Bast frowned because he noticed the chest rising and falling. Why did the robot assassin do that? It was off. That should have shut down the—

  Bast dropped down to his knees beside the man. The Sacerdote was a philosopher of high standing. He knew that to kill the innocent was wrong. The thing was a robot assassin, right?

  Bast picked up a limp arm. Should he break the arm and check for metal parts? Yet, why check if this was a robot assassin? The only reason to check was if this was a man and he had mistakenly attacked a human—

  Bast growled deep in his throat. He was too drunk to think coherently. Ponderously, Bast lowered his head until he pressed an ear against the chest. As the chest rose, he heard the beating heart.

  A feeling of unease grew in the Sacerdote. He gathered the man lying unconscious on the street and stood with the man in his arms. Then, Bast began lumbering down the dark street of Baker, looking for an emergency room. Maybe the tiny town didn’t have one—

  Bast saw a sign. It said this was a doctor’s office. He increased his pace, deciding he was going to break down the door and wake the doctor to fix the—

  The man in his arms groaned, and in the starlight, the man’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Where am I?” the man whispered.

  “In Baker, Nevada,” slurred Bast.

  The man looked up at him. “I feel sick,” he said.

  “You’re bleeding,” Bast said.

  “My forehead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone threw a brick at my head.”

  “I did,” Bast said. “But it wasn’t a brick. It was a bottle.”

  The man looked up, confused. “Why did you do that?”

  “I thought you were a robot assassin.”

  “What?”

  “You wanted me, Bast Banbeck.”

  “You’re Bast?” the man asked, his voice firming.

  Bast tensed. Could this be a robot assassin after all, a very realistic one? “I am Bast,” he said.

  “Good,” the man said. “I have a message for you. It’s important.”

  Bast hesitated, finally saying, “What message, from whom?”

  “From the Kames.”

  Bast halted even as he still carried the man. “The Kames are aliens, groupthink silicon-based creatures.”

  “I’m Lugo Malagate,” the man said. “I’m one of their official spokesmen, an XT specialist from the Confederation Institute on Titan.”

  The Institute had been in operation for three years already. Gloria Hawkins taught there at times. Bast had been a guest lecturer a year ago. Red Demeter the Seiner was on the faculty.

  “I don’t understand,” Bast said.

  Lugo’s eyelids fluttered. “I’m going to be sick,” he said. “Then I’m going to sleep. I really don’t feel well.”

  “Don’t sleep,” Bast said, shaking the man. “Sleeping if you have a brain injury can be bad.”

  “Can’t help it,” the man slurred. Then he turned his head and vomited.

  That’s when Bast knew he had a serious problem. If Lugo Malagate died, would the Kames desire to kill him in revenge? The groupthink aliens had funny ideas about their representatives. Whatever anyone did to a rep, the Kames believed they did to them, the united-thinking species that had joined the Confederation.

  The big Sacerdote scrunched his brow as he tried to think this through. He turned and headed for his hotel. He needed help, and he needed it fast.

  -7-

  Lugo Malagate groaned from Bast’s hotel room bed. He bled onto the covers, the welling blood from the forehead gash having soaked his dark hair and much of his face.

  The man was coming to again as Bast dabbed a wet washcloth on his face, trying to clear away some of the blood. Despite his drunkenness and huge size, the Sacerdote did this gently, not wanting to harm the Kames representative.

  “Why’s it so bright in here?” Lugo whispered. “The light hurts my eyes.”

  “Keeps you awake, though,” Bast muttered.

  “Say. You hurled a bottle at me. I remember now. All I was doing was delivering a message. Why’d you do that?”

  “I thought you were a robot assassin.”

  “What? I’m not a robot. Why would you think I’m an assassin? Were you drunk? You smell drunk. This is just great.”

  “You need medical help. I’m going to contact—”

  “No one,” Lugo said, interrupting while he tried to sit up. He groaned and flopped back onto the bed. “Don’t call anyone,” he panted.

  The request made Bast suspicious again. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  The man kept panting as his eyelids started fluttering. “Can’t…hear…”

  “I said—”

  “Not you,” Lugo whispered. “I can’t hear the Kames.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The eyelid fluttering stopped. Lugo glared at Bast towering over the bed.

  The Sacerdote understood Lugo was looking at him in an accusatory fashion. “I told you why I threw the bottle. I thought you were a robot assassin.”

  “You blundering fool,” Lugo said softly. “You understand nothing, nothing at all. I can’t hear the Kames, can’t hear them in my mind. The link has been shattered.”

  “You think that happened because of the head blow?”

  Lugo stared up at the ceiling in a stricken manner, the way someone would hearing his beloved wife of fifty years had died. The man seemed to be on the verge of tears.

  “Are you a telepath?” Bast asked.

  Lugo Malagate did not reply.

  “Did I destroy your telepathic ability?” Bast rumbled. “Is that it? If so, I’m sorry. I had no idea—”

  “I’m not a telepath,” Lugo said in a deadened voice. “No human is, not like Seiners.”

  “How could you hear the Kames then?”

  “Some humans…” Lugo whispered. “Have a brainwave pattern that mimics the Kames pattern. The Kames only have one for the entire race, you understand. Kames are telepathic in a fashion, but only like neurons in a single brain could be said to be telepathic.”

  “Why can’t you hear the Kames then? How could you hear them in the first place?”

  The stricken look on Lugo’s bloody face intensified. He bit his lower trembling lip, and the agony of soul was bitter medicine to Bast.

  “Is this my fault somehow?” the Sacerdote asked. “I don’t understand if it is.”

  “Just kill me already,” Lugo whispered. “I have nothing left to live for.”

  “You—what?” asked Bast. “Kill you? Are you insane?”

  Lugo slowly shook his bloody head. “I trained for three years for this. I went to the Institute and they found I had the right XT sensibilities. Then I went with Red Demeter to the Delta Pavonis System. I competed for the position of Kames Representative. There were nineteen of us—nineteen specially selected men and women who met the strict Kames specifications. I and four others were accepted. Three of us survived the brutal Kames training. I had made it. I was a Kames rep, although I only heard the Kames intermittently and by deeply concentrating. Now, the whispering in my mind is gone. I’m alone again, all alone.”

  “The bottle hitting your forehead destroyed the link?”

  Lugo scowled. “That’s a stupid thing to say. How could a mere blow break the great link?”

  “I have no idea. You said the link is gone. I just assumed—”

  “Forget it. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”

  “Bah!” said Bast, suddenly angry. “You’re a weakling to let a small setback like this defeat you. I’ve lost my race. I’m the only Sacerdote left in the universe. Try living with that.”

  “That’s not true,” Lugo muttered.

  Between blinks, rage erupted in Bast. He balled his fingers into two massive fists and raised them high so they touched the ceiling. “Do you brand me a liar?”

  Lugo stared at the enraged Sacerdote. “Good. You’re pissed off. Strike hard. Finish what you started.”

  “I will.”

  “Do it. Don’t talk about it.”

  “I can kill you,” Bast roared.

  “I know. Do it already. Why are you hesitating?”

  Bast blinked several times. He was no longer as drunk as before. All this thinking, carrying and worrying about the human, and the Kames, had sobered him to some degree. He had believed a few seconds ago that some of this made no sense because he was befuddled by whiskey. Now, Bast began wondering if little of Lugo’s words made sense because they were speaking past each other.

  Slowly, the big alien lowered his fists.

  “It’s like I thought,” Lugo said, turning his bloody head. “You’re all talk and no action. No. Let me backtrack. You’re just enough action to have destroyed my life.”

  Bast unclenched his fists, spreading his fingers wide. “Did the Kames remove their link from you?”

  Lugo shuddered and made a blubbering sound as if he might begin bawling.

  “I’m right,” Bast said. “Does that mean you are no longer their representative?”

  “Yes!” Lugo shouted. “That’s what it means!”

  “Why did they remove the link?”

  Lugo faced him, his eyes red-rimmed and glaring. “So they wouldn’t have to kill you, Bast Banbeck. You attacked me. You struck me. That’s like attacking the Kames. It is an insult. You insulted the entire Kames race, three star systems’ worth of aliens. Think about that. They would have not only had to kill you, though, but exterminate humanity as well.”

  “What?”

  “You think like a Sacerdote. They think like Kames. You see individuals. They see one race as a united whole. They’re beginning to realize individuality, but you’re also part of Jon Hawkins’ inner circle. To anger him, the Kames believe, is to anger humanity.”

  “I struck you by mistake, a simple mistake. And I’m not even human.”

  “That doesn’t matter, you oaf. What matters is that I failed in my duty. I’m their rep. I know humans and Kames. I should have approached you differently so as not to trigger your attack reaction. That is what the Kames have reasoned to themselves. Removing the link is how they are saving face. I was a bad rep, a stupid rep. Thus, I am no longer their rep.”

  “Sounds harsh,” said Bast.

  Lugo made a half-strangled laugh.

  The enormity of what he had done sobered Bast even more, and it took the strength out of his knees. He sagged onto the bed, sitting beside the bleeding human.

  “I’m sorry,” Bast said.