By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  The silence built as DomaSa considered his answer. He could lie, or try to, but doubted his ability to carry the deception off. Not with ChienChu present. No, the Hudathan decided, the truth was best. “I cannot honestly say that my people will ever be able to fully merge with the Confederacy. Given too much freedom, and the opportunity to build a fleet, our instincts would take over. If the Confederacy allows my race to fight, (I we are allowed some additional freedoms, it would pay to be vigilant. We are what we are.”

  There was another moment of silence followed by Nankool’s nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you Ambassador DomaSa. I have come to rely on your honesty. No one could represent you race or its interests more ably. Come, let’s eat, the food grows cold.”

  It took the better part of an hour to finish the meal, complete the usual pleasantries, and prepare to leave. Nankool saw them to the hatch. It was he who raised the topic again. “Thank you for coming . .. Terrifying though Sergi’s proposal is, I promise to give it some thought.

  “In the meantime I suggest that all three of you direct your energies to the upcoming vote. The attempt on Maylo’s life is a sure measure of how desperate our opponents are. Once admitted, the Thraki would represent more than another vote—they would demonstrate how powerful the cabal has become. Many beings would align themselves accordingly, and a great deal would be lost, including any chance of approval for a scheme as wild as the one Sergi put forward.”

  Nankool turned to the Hudathan. “They intend to kill you... I wish you had refused.”

  The Hudathan shrugged. ‘Thank you, but such a course is impossible.”

  “But why swords?” the President insisted. “Have you any experience?”

  “I hope to give a good account of myself,” the Hudathan answered mildly. “Please notify my people should I fail to do so.”

  Nankool’s guests left after that—but the politician was far from alone. Ghosts haunted his dreams. Many screamed in anguish. In spite of the fact that it would have been more convenient to conduct the duel on board the ship, there were laws that prevented the combatants from doing so, which left Arballa’s hot rather unpleasant surface. A fleet of high puffy clouds sailed across the land. Each threw a separate shadow. They drifted like night over broken ground.

  And so the politicos arrived, their shuttles shattering the silence, landing in sloppy groups. There wasn’t much vegetation, which meant that oxygen was in short supply. Many of those who had chosen to come, and that was almost everybody, required supplemental air. They hiked in from wherever they happened to touch down with all manner of exotic breathing gear attached to their mouths, snouts, beaks, and other related organs.

  All except for DomaSa that is, whose body could handle a wide range of atmospheric conditions, and who walked unencumbered from his shuttle. A fact that attracted no small amount of notice and fueled the speculation. Would the War Omo win? He certainly looked dangerous ... Or would the Hudathan carry the day? Opinions were offered, odds were given, and bets were placed. DomaSa’s robe snapped in the breeze, dust exploded away from his boots, and he walked with purpose. Bystanders scattered at his approach, wondered about the bundle tucked under his arm, and some even felt sorry for him. Had anyone else been challenged seconds would have accompanied him down to the planet’s surface, but the Hudathan was all alone. The onlookers followed, marveled at the size of the alien’s footprints, and felt a delicious sense of anticipation. The arena consisted of a bowl-shaped depression, scoured by the relentless globe-spanning winds, and rimmed by a circle of heavily weathered rocks. Someone, it wasn’t clear who, had seen fit to stick long whip-style poles into the soil, each topped by a colorful pennant. They seemed oddly gay, given the nature of the occasion, and flapped back and forth.

  The rocks offered a sort of rough and ready seating and were half occupied by the time the Ramanthian party made its way down from the hill on which they had landed and entered the crater. The War Omo had been there before, on three different occasions, to test the surface on which he would fight. Yes, he knew each dip, each patch of gravel, and each pocket of sand. Critical knowledge, given the fact that good footing is one of the most critical components of good swordsmanship. The Hudathan was big, very big, and that meant slow. Slow and potentially clumsy. There was power in those shoulders, however, the kind of power generated by an internalized skeleton, and a mistake could be fatal.

  Senator Alway Omo removed his counterpart’s cape, took pride in the way he looked, and stepped out of the way.

  A buzz ran through the crowd. Balanced on his powerful retrograde legs, his chitin shiny with oil, the Ramanthian was very imposing. There was the rasp of high grade steel as Horgo drew his weapon, slashed the air into four equal sections, and restored the blade to its scabbard. The odds changed again. The cabal and its champion were favored to win.

  Maylo made an adjustment to her nose plugs and spoke to her uncle. The words had a nasal quality.

  “That was impressive.”

  “Ceremonial displays usually are,” the industrialist observed. “It’s what happens when blade meets blade that matters.”

  The sun was hot, but Maylo shivered.

  DomaSa looked strangely vulnerable as he entered the arena. His robe flapped around his knees, and he carried a bundle bound with twine. He paused, turned a long slow circle, and nodded as if satisfied. Then, with the care of a surgeon preparing her instruments, he gave a tug on the string, and flicked the roll toward the east. Dust spurted up around the edges of the fabric as the quilt-like material hit the orange-red dirt. Sunlight rippled along the surface of the thousand-year-old blade It was called Head Taker and had been handed down through DomaSa’s family the way all things of value were allocated: by force. Like all such weapons, it had two edges, one straight, one with razor-sharp teeth.

  Another buzz ran through the crowd. Did the Hudathan know how to use the weapon? Why have such an implement if he didn’t? The odds turned and surged the other way. That’s when DomaSa dropped his robe, the audience watched his skin shift toward white, and realized how big he truly was. Leather crossstraps bulged where they sought to span his chest, muscles rippled along massive arms, and his legs looked like tree trunks. The diplomat bent to take the sword. Light danced the length of the blade and more bets were placed.

  A robot named Harold had been designated to officiate the event. His day suit had been painted on. A hover cam appeared. Once shiny metal had been dulled by hard use. Maylo knew who the device belonged to. Though unwilling or unable to venture out onto the surface of their planet, the Arballazanies were interested nonetheless. Somewhere, far below, they watched as Harold made his way to the center of the arena.

  Harold motioned the duelists forward. His voice was amplified. “Before the duel begins, before blood is shed, the President begs both parties to reconsider. The Confederacy is built on the rule of taw, not violence, and there are equitable ways in which to solve our differences. Will one or both parties yield to reason? No? Then let the contest begin.”

  There was no salute, no words of respect, since neither one of the opponents was willing to honor the other’s traditions. They circled to the right. The Hudathan held his weapon in the onguard position, his torso turned slightly inward, his rear arm touching his hip.

  The Ramanthian shuffled sideways, watching the way DomaSa held himself, and waited for the attack. Though too young to fight in the last war, Horgo had studied it, and drawn certain conclusions. Hudathans were aggressive, impatient, and overly reliant on brute force. All of which suggested that DomaSa would come to him.

  DomaSa watched the sun, waited till his shadow pointed at his opponent’s feet, and launched a head cut.

  The War Omo flicked his head to the right, waited for the moment of full extension, and made the forward lunge.

  The Hudathan took note of the other being’s speed, parried the incoming blade, and recovered his ground.

  Encouraged by the small retreat, the Ramanthian brought his left foot
forward, and timed the chest cut to coincide with the end of the movement. Steel flashed past his face, something tugged at his air mask, and his lungs sucked hot thin air.

  A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, and Senator Omo displayed the equivalent of a frown. Ambassador Ishimoto Seven and Senator Haf Noother stayed where they were, but others edged away. The combatants continued their slow deliberate dance. The War Omo found that it was hard to breathe. Time was running out. He backpedaled as if afraid, waited for DomaSa to commit, and opened his wings. The wind rushed in, his feet left the ground, and the Ramanthian was airborne. His sword fell, found the Hudathan’s shoulder, and cut to the bone. Blood flowed and Senator Omo whistled his shrill approval.

  DomaSa cursed his own stupidity, shifted his sword from the right hand to the left, and parried the next blow. The bug could fly! How could he miss that? Gravel slipped out from under his boots as he fell. The Ramanthian beat his way forward—leg spurs at the ready. Shaped like claws, and razor sharp, they could rip through chitin. Still lying on his back, the Omo’s wings pushing air down into his face. the Hudathan slashed with his sword. Steel sliced through the outer surface of a leg, and the Ramanthian flinched.

  This was the opportunity DomaSa had been waiting for. The bug couldn’t land—not and stand upright. That would keep him in the air... or so the diplomat hoped. He rocked forward, found his feet, and surged upwards.

  The War Omo responded, or tried to, but discovered that his belly was exposed. Head Taker stabbed upwards, the Ramanthian screeched in agony, and Maylo closed her eyes. The War Omo fell, the Hudathan jerked his weapon free, and the body hit the dirt. A cloud of blood-red dust rose, the crowd fell silent, and the duel was over. Androids rushed to dress DomaSa’s wound and peers hurried to congratulate him.

  Senator Omo felt a terrible sense of sorrow and shuffled his way forward. The War Omo and he had been hatched within seconds of each other, had courted the Egg Omo as a pair, and promised many things. Visions, dreams, things that might someday be. Now they were gone, snuffed like cave candles, forever destroyed.

  Maylo actually felt sorry for the Ramanthian as he knelt on alien soil, gathered his loved one into his arms, and made his way up the hill.

  Haf Noother looked at Harlan Ishimoto Seven. The clone shrugged. The Drac walked out into the arena, located the Ramanthian’s sword, and tested the heft Then, aiming for soil still damp with the Omo’s blood, drove the blade into the ground.

  Later, long after the visitors had left, night came, and the stars danced on steel. The vote came two days later. The result was never in doubt. Thraki membership was rejected,

  “pending further investigation,” and the cabal suffered a setback. Grand Admiral Andragna, his plans frustrated, left for Zynig47.

  Sergi ChienChu witnessed the vote, made his way back to his quarters, and palmed the lock. Once inside, the fold down desk sensed his presence, dropped into position, and spoke. “You have six messages waiting—one of which carries the designations ‘urgent,’ and ‘private.’ “

  “Play it,” ChienChu said, dropping into his chair.

  “Congratulations,” Nankool said, as his likeness filled the holo tank. “The vote went just as we hoped it would. The cabal lost, and you won.”

  The President formed a steeple with his fingers. “All of which is good except that it won’t last, won’t mean anything, if the Sheen destroy the Confederacy as part of their effort to reach the Thrakie. “That’s why I’m going to name you as my secret envoy, give you more power than any one being should rightfully have, and let you enter talks with the Hudathans.

  “Sell them what you sold me, attach all the conditions you can. and do it quickly. Time is short—and the clock is ticking.”

  Chapter 4

  To see the future one has but to visit the past.

  Naa folk saying

  Circa standard year 1700

  Planet Algeron, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  It was cold. Snowflakes twisted down out of the heavens, and the Towers of Algeron were but shadows in the distance. Some of the peaks soared more than eighty thousand feet into the atmosphere, which made them taller than Olympic Mons on Mars. In fact, the mountains were so massive, that had they been located on Earth the Towers would have sunk down through the planet’s crust. However, thanks to the fact that Algeron completed a full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes, centrifugal force had caused the equator to bulge outwards. In fact, although Algeron possessed roughly the same amount of mass Earth did—its equatorial diameter was 27 percent larger. That, combined with the fact that the planet’s polar diameter was 32 percent smaller than Terra’s produced an equator nearly twice the diameter of the poles. All of which meant that the Towers of Algeron, which rode the world-spanning bulge, weighed only half what they would on Earth.

  All facts that Genera! William Booly had been aware of since childhood—the earliest part of which had been spent in a village seventy-five miles to the northeast.

  The legionnaire stepped out onto the parapet, saw his breath jet outwards, and was glad of his jacket. He’d been dirtside for one standard week by then, and the sentries had become familiar with his morning walks. The habit had been born on the walls of his previous command, inDjibouti ,Africa , and continued here. Precious minutes during which he could think and no one dared disturb him. He followed the top of the wall.

  FortCamerone, which had been named after what the Legion considered to be its most important battle, crouched on a dry rocky plain, and, with the exception of antenna arrays, flyform landing pads, and missile launchers that interrupted its boxy lines, was reminiscent of Legion forts inNorth Africa . It was, Booly decided, the way a fortress should look. Hard and uncompromising. It was strange to be there, not only in command ofFortCamerone , but of the entire Legion as well. Yes, he’d been ambitious enough to fanaticize about such an achievement, but never believed that it would happen. Not to a half-breed.

  But it had happened—though not in the way he would have preferred. Rather than earn the position, he had inherited it from officers who, like Mortimer Kattabi, had died in battle, or like Leon Harco, who had chosen the wrong side and paid the price. Good officers, perhaps better officers, who, except for a moment of bad luck, or poor judgment, would have been in command. A fact that played into the feelings of inferiority that had been born right there, beyond the veil of the slowly falling snow, where he and his Naa playmates had fought their play pretend wars. Wars that he generally lost. A sentry snapped to attention, presented his weapon, and waited for Booty’s acknowledgement. Like everyone on the battlements, he was aware of the general’s presence and more than a little self-conscious. The officer returned the salute and continued on his way. Yes, it was hard to compete when your peers could smell game from a hundred feet away, could sense heat with the soles of their bare feet, and on a cold day, much colder than this one, had the capacity to run nearly naked through the snow, for miles on end if need be, laughing all the way. Booly had been smart enough, always toward the top of his class, but had never won a footrace, wrestling match, or other test of athletic ability until he had entered the academy and competed with humans. The fact that he could win, could excel, had been something of a revelation. The instructors taught him how to lead, and he had, though never with the confidence of classmates like Harco. Now that might come back to haunt him, and not just him, but the thousands of men, women, and cyborgs under his command.

  The officer paused to look out over the densely packed domes collectively known asNaaTown . As darkness fell, he saw squares of buttery yellow light, fingers of dark gray smoke, and the wink of the occasional torch. More than that, his supersensitive nostrils could pick up the odor of incense, burned to cover the smells that emanated from the fort, and the faint scent of slowly drying dooth dung. A valuable source of fuel.

  And it was out there, beyond the edge of the slum, that his mother and father, both of whom had served in the Legion, had given up their liv
es in order to free the fort. The plaque, which he had visited only two days before, bore a single line:

  They died that others might live.

  Was it colder? A chill ran down his spine. Booly scanned the horizon, watched another two-hour and forty-two minute day come to an end, and turned toward a door. A private held it open. His office awaited as did his work. Plans, requests, appeals, budgets, promotions, reports, and more. All the stuff that he hated . . . but was forced to do.

  Booly thought longingly of Maylo, wondered what she was doing, and stepped through the doorway. His responsibilities closed around him.

  A staff meeting plus three hours of administrative work passed before Booly rewarded himself with a break He rarely ate in the officers’ mess, preferring the chow hall instead. That’s where the troops were, and while they weren’t about to spill their guts to a general, they didn’t have to. Like most good officers, he could learn a great deal about how the legionnaires felt, what they were thinking, and their general stale of readiness by simply looking at them.

  Booty had named Colonel Kitty Kirby to command the fort, and she was tough but fair. She, combined with the efforts of the officers and noncoms who reported to her, had been good for morale. The results could be seen in the way that members of various units sat together, the buzz of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Things had improved a great deal since the mutiny and the bloodshed that accompanied it.

  The mess hall featured bright lights, artificially cheerful colors, and odors left from the previous meal. Something that Naa troopers never stopped griping about. When you eat lunch they reasoned, it should smell like lunch, and not like breakfast. Fans had been installed—but the complaints continued. Booly joined the chow line, joked with the cooks, and headed out into the hall. A table of heavily bearded Pioneers started to rise and the officer shook his head. “At ease . .. How ‘bout it. Sergeant? Is there room for one more?”

  The legionnaire grinned. “Yes, sir! Watch what you say though. . . we’re talking about sports. Cramer says that Earth is going to win the next powerball playoff—and Rober favors the clones. It could get violent.”