By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  Ishimoto Six wanted to stand and choke her into submission. The ‘bitch had boarded the ship at the last possible moment, and by her miserable presence, had prevented him from enjoying some time with Maylo. Some zero gee sex, a pleasure he had enjoyed only once before, would have been a wonderful way to pass the time.

  Now, determined to dog him, and report everything he said or did, she was like a cloud hanging over the clone’s head. Solely because she was a fanatic? Or because she had a crush on him? It hardly mattered. The senator growled a reply, gathered his belongings, and prepared to disembark. Maylo did likewise. The tarmac shimmered in the afternoon heat, drives roared as an insystem freighter fought its way up through the atmosphere, and the courier settled onto the blast-scarred pad. The kill ball had been waiting for the better part of a local day. But machines are patient, especially those designed to assassinate people, so the delay was unimportant.

  Some environments are difficult to operate in, especially those where a spherical self-propelled droid has a tendency to stand out, but there was no such problem here. The kill ball had simply lowered itself onto a pylon-mounted sensor pod where it looked very much at home. So much so that any number of birds landed on the machine, crapped on the brushed aluminum housing, and made it appear that much more natural.

  Now, as the courier’s lock cycled open, the mechanical assassin activated its weapons and rose into the air. The moment had arrived. There was a task to perform. What it was made no difference. A variety of droids converged on the spaceship. The kill ball joined the throng. Gorgin Three stepped out onto the rollup stairway, nodded to the Jonathan Alan Seebo who’d been sent to greet them, and scanned her surroundings. The assassins were waiting, of that she was sure, but where were they? In among the hangers that lined the tarmac in front of her? The thought that cold-blooded killers might be staring at her through high-powered telescopic sights sent a chill down the staffer’s spine.

  However, while Ishimoto Seven had told Three what to expect, he hadn’t told her who, or even how. Perhaps death would find Maylo ChienChu, while having a drink or taking a shower. It made little difference. The slut needed to die, deserved to die, for any number of reasons: for her opposition to the Hegemony’s legitimate interests, for the exploitation of workers, and for having sex with Ishimoto Six. Gorgin Three heard movement behind her, turned, and allowed Six to pass. He looked so handsome that feelings bubbled up from deep within her. What did it feel like? she wondered. To let a man... But no, such things were forbidden. She pushed the thought away.

  Maylo nodded to the staffer and descended the stairs.

  They bounced slightly. The sun warmed her face.

  Gorgin Three caught movement from the comer of her eye. turned, and saw the sphere closing in. Some sort of guide drone? On its way somewhere else? No, those were orange. Then it struck her... Something was wrong! The droid paused, hovered, and fired a targeting laser. The dot wobbled across the top of Ishimoto’s head.

  Gorgin Three screamed. “No!” at the top of her lungs, launched herself off the stairs, and hit Six with both her outstretched hands. He fell facedown. The high velocity slug tore through the staffer’s body, and the shot echoed across the spaceport.

  Jonathan Alan Seebo saw what took place and fired a quick series of shots. Later, after the investigation had been completed, official documents would show that twelve of the fourteen shots fired hit the target and four caused serious damage.

  The kill ball took note of the fact that it had failed to hit the assigned target, knew it was damaged, and tried to self-destruct. The mechanism failed, the device lost altitude, and crashed into the tarmac. All in a matter of five seconds.

  Six did a pushup, made it to his feet, and turned toward the ship. Gorgin Three lay in a pool of her own blood. The politician rushed to her side. The clone was very near to death. She knew it, and so did he. There was something in her eyes, a tenderness the clone had never seen before, and suddenly wished that he had. “Samuel?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I would have done it, if you had asked me to.”

  Ishimoto Six looked surprised. “Done it? Done what?”

  Blood rose to fill Three’s mouth. She worked to swallow it. “You know .. . what you did with her.”

  Maylo was there—pressing a makeshift compress against the entry wound. The politician’s eyes flicked to her and back. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Svetlana. I wish I had known.”

  But her face was slack, the light had faded from her eyes, and Gorgin Three was gone. The villa, which had been constructed to meet the exacting standards set forth by Antonio Seven, crowned a verdant hill. The roof was covered with locally manufactured tile, the walls were painted pristine white, and bright-red fire trees guarded the grounds. A series of gracefully proportioned arches admitted large volumes of air into the dwelling along with semicircles of warm orange-yellow sunlight. Simply put, the villa flew in the face of the sort of institutional architecture the founder favored, and it was indirectly responsible for the rounded, more organic shapes that were starting to appear out away from the cities.

  There was nothing especially luxurious about the house, however. The furniture was of good quality but far from ornate. Nor was there much of it, which meant that Alpha Clones Magnus Mosby One and the flamboyant Pietro Seven could either take the seats that were offered, or sit on the floor. Magnus, who had been born of a union between the Alpha Clone Marcus Six and Marianne Mosby, one of the Legion’s most storied officers, had his father’s black hair, his mother’s tendency to put on weight, and a deep booming voice. He wore a plain white toga held in place by his favorite double helix pin. A pair of plain but sturdy sandals completed the outfit.

  Pietro, who had exactly the same features as his host, wore a gauzy lime-green pullover top, matching pantaloon-style trousers, and a pair of leather slippers. A single earring dangled from his left lobe. It was an embellishment Antonio considered to be excessive, like a dish with too many ingredients or a contrived work of art. He preferred a spartan black tunic, matching pants, and bare feet. They padded across the floor and stopped in front of his favorite chair. It was made of cane and creaked under his weight. His voice was slightly higher than that possessed by Magnus but a good deal more melodious. He looked from Magnus to Pietro. “Much has changed.”

  “Yes,” Magnus agreed thoughtfully. “It has. Much as it pains me to say so ... it appears that you were correct.”

  Pietro looked surprised. “He was? About what?”

  “Almost everything,” Magnus replied somberly. “Starting with his opposition to the cabal—and extending to his suspicions regarding the Thraki. The first strategy failed to achieve its purpose, and, should the Sheen arrive, the second could actually destroy us. Especially if the alien military bases come under attack.”

  Pietro, who was a much better administrator than a strategist looked alarmed and defensive. “That’s not what our experts say . . they say ...”

  “They are fools,” Antonio finished for him. “Many of them are sincere but misled. Much of the counsel they received originated with this man.”

  The Alpha Clone touched a button and a holographic likeness of Ambassador Ishimoto Seven blossomed at the center of the conversation area. The footage had been obtained surreptitiously. It stabilized and started to rotate. The diplomat was talking to someone.

  “Nonsense,” Pietro replied. “Ishimoto Seven is not only genetically appropriate to his task, he has years of relevant experience, and has been rated ready for promotion.”

  “The very thing he seeks most,” Magnus observed. “Before all else.”

  “Surely you are mistaken,” Pietro insisted, looking from one face to the other. “Where is your proof?

  Something objective?”

  “Right here,” Antonio replied calmly. “Watch this.”

  The holo of Ishimoto Seven dissolved into a shot of a spaceport. Judging from the way it was framed and the duration of the subsequent zoom
, the camera had been a long way off. All three of the men watched as the kill ball closed on a courier ship, lined up on Senator Ishimoto Six, and fired a single shot. The clones remained silent as Gorgin Three died—and was carried away. Antonio was the first to speak.

  “My agents were caught by surprise and have some explaining to do ... The kill ball was dispatched by Ishimoto Seven. He knew Six was on the way to see us ... and hoped to intervene.”

  “So you say,” Pietro replied stubbornly. “Prove it.”

  “All three of the Alpha Clones were equipped with implants. Antonio cocked his head as the message came in. “The accused has arrived,” Antonio replied. “Make no mention of what you’ve seen, wait for the rest of our guests to arrive, and watch Seven’s face. His personal communications devices were spoofed hours ago... He will convict himself.”

  Pietro considered the matter for a moment, gave a jerk of his head, and wondered if the rumors were true. Had his brother’s DNA been obtained from one of their predecessor’s backup copies rather than stored material? And if so, could that account for the differences between them? There was no way to know.

  A chime sounded. Three officials were shown into the room and left to choose from the few remaining chairs. There was Catherine ChambersNine, the secretary of state, Morley Hyde Thirteen, deputy secretary of state, and Harlan Ishimoto Seven, the Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy. Magnus, who had long wished that he were someone else, watched them in a way that he never had before. How, the clone wondered, had he failed to see the cruel almost predatory curve of the secretary’s lips? Her deputy’s sleek, overfed assurance? And the diplomat’s oily self-satisfied smirk?

  They were like fingers on a hand. Their joint perfidy seemed so obvious now, so amazingly clear, that he could barely believe his own lack of clarity. His mother would have seen it, his father would have seen it, but he was blind. Damn them anyway! For giving him a life that he neither wanted nor was qualified to have.

  There was small talk, the awkward, somewhat stilted kind of conversation that occurs when human beings attempt to communicate across a social chasm, followed by the same chime heard earlier. Chambers and her subordinates turned toward the main hallway. They were curious—but far from alarmed. More officials they supposed or—and this seemed more likely—senior military officers who, in spite of their lack of expertise, never tired of dabbling in statecraft. None of them noticed that the Alpha Clones remained as they were, watching, and waiting. Harlan Ishimoto Seven felt a sudden sense of alarm as Maylo ChienChu entered the room, wondered how she had managed to find her way alone, and what the development would mean. That’s when the diplomat spotted his clone brother, knew the assassination attempt had failed, and heard Chambers gasp. It was the moment Antonio had been waiting for. He turned to Pietro. “So, my brother, took at their faces. What do you see?”

  “Surprise,” the Alpha Clone replied sadly. “All of them are surprised.”

  “Yes,” Antonio agreed. “Not proof of guilt... but that will come. A citizen is dead and the investigation has begun. One of them will rat on the rest. Guards! Take them away.”

  Ishimoto Six was confused, then angry, as the meaning became clear. He lunged forward, stopped when a guard seized his arms, and confronted his brother. “Svetlana is dead. Why?”

  Seven saw the hatred in his brother’s eyes, felt Antonio’s contempt, and couldn’t believe it was happening. “Wait! Stop! You don’t understand!”

  Oh, but we do,” Magnus replied. “We understand all too well. Take this trash away.”

  The subsequent meeting lasted the better part of two local days. Though not empowered to act on behalf of the Confederacy, Maylo was knowledgeable regarding the political climate, and well worth listening to. The Clones did so.

  It was clear from the beginning that the Alpha Clones had already decided to form a closer relationship with the Confederacy—the question was how and within what time frame. Finally, when the session was over, Ishimoto Six was empowered to open certain areas for negotiation, and the two of them left. They had the courier ship all to themselves this time. Maylo, who had never tried zero gee sex before, decided that she liked it. The only problem was that the act left her feeling sad somehow—as if something had gone missing. She wrestled with her dreams and felt tired when she awoke.

  Chapter 8

  In war I would deal with the Devil and his grandmother.

  Joseph Stalin

  ArmyStaffCollegePapers

  Standard year circa 1909

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Sergi ChienChu awoke where he usually did—standing in one comer of his small, and rather sparsely furnished stateroom. It had been a long time since he had made use of a bed. He’d been back for about three standard days by that time but was still in the process of reintegrating with his own body and the Friendship’s daily routines.

  He thought the word “vision” and scanned the interior of his cabin. It was dark, so he switched to infrared. The corn console glowed green, as did the battery-powered holos of his family, and the overhead heat duct.

  The cyborg wondered what time it was, saw 0633 appear in the lower right-hand quadrant of his vision, and knew he should get to work. Hard work—since the task the industrialist had set for himself would be anything but easy.

  The Hudathans had agreed to fight... but would the senate allow them to do so? Millions of deaths argued against it. Even he wondered about the wisdom of the idea.

  Slowly, reluctantly, the industrialist unlocked his joints, brought all of his systems on line, and departed his quarters. The first meeting would be held over breakfast. A meal he had once enjoyed. Life was anything but fair.

  The Molly B popped out of hyperspace like a cork out of a bottle, fired her insystem drive, and immediately started to tumble.

  Willy Williams swore a long string of colorful oaths, took the Navcomp off tine, and assumed manual control of the ship. Located deep within the durasteel hull, the computer depended on external sensors for input, and roughly half of them were out of action.

  Both the ship and its owner, a man of somewhat elastic morals, had been on Long Jump, minding their own business, catching a little R&R when the Sheen dropped in for a visit. Machines that preached on street comers . .. What was next? Talking dogs?

  Willy wanted to leave, wanted to boost ass as fast as possible, but needed his cargo. A nice load of custom-designed bacteria, all destined for a dirtball called Clevis, where the colonists were hanging by their fingernails while they waited for microscopic reinforcements. The kind that eat rock, burp oxygen, and shit fertilizer.

  They weren’t gonna get “em, though, not anytime soon, not since the machines slagged Fortuna, Willy hauled butt, and a Sheen fighter put the hurts to Molly.

  But that was then, and this was now. The ship rolled, the smuggler fired a jet, and she stabilized. He was about to check his position, find out where the hell he was. when something hit the hull. The Molly shook, and some buzzers went off.

  Willy tapped some buttons, discovered that the delta-shaped fighter was still on his ass, and wondered how.

  None of the civilizations he was familiar with had the technology to lock on to another ship and follow it through hyperspace. But this sucker did ... and was determined to kill him. The Molly B shuddered as a missile exploded in the vicinity of her hull—and shuddered once again when Willy took evasive action. His eyes were bloodshot, veins traced his nose, and stubble covered his cheeks. The words went out over freq four. “You want some of me? You wanta dance? Well, come on you pile of metallic shit, let’s get it on!”

  The Sheen fighter took note of the transmission, had no idea what it meant, and filed the message away. Such matters were handled by the Hoon—and the Hoon was a long way off. President Marcott Nankool nodded to Chief Warrant Officer Aba, the senate’s master at arms, climbed the short flight of stairs and made his way to the podium. Ironically enough it was Senator Omo who was tasked wi
th the introduction by right of seniority. He rose from the specially constructed chair located to the right of the speaker’s position. His voice, translated by the computer woven into his iridescent robe, filled the chambers. The chatter died away. “Please allow me to welcome each and every one of you back to this, the sixty-ninth gathering of this august body, and the second half of this year’s session.

  “Here to open the proceedings is the Right Honorable Marcott Nankool—the Confederacy’s President and Chief Executive Officer. President Nankool?”

  There was sustained applause followed by the usual rustle of fabric, creak of chairs, and whir of servos. Nankool smiled. Most of the senators knew what the expression meant. The rest ignored it. “Thank you. It is a great pleasure to be here. You have an ambitious slate of legislation to consider—and I have no wish to delay your deliberations. With that reality in mind, I will keep my comments short and to the point.

  “We have reason to believe that a force known as the ‘Sheen is headed our way. The purpose of this fleet is to destroy the Thraki plus any race that gets in the way or offers them support.”

  Many of the senators had heard rumors and offered gestures of agreement while some looked confused. They turned to neighbors, and words were exchanged.

  Nankool scanned his audience, prepared the next volley of words, and delivered them with care. “Even as we meet, efforts are under way to marshal what forces we have and prepare a defense. However, a series of budget cuts, combined with troubles on Earth, have left our forces at little more than half strength. That being the case, it is my hope, no, my prayer, that you will understand me when I say that desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  Nankool looked out into the chamber, located the eyes he was looking for, and continued his speech.

  “You may be interested to know that Governor ChienChu, acting at my request, accompanied Ambassador Hiween DomaSa to the planet Hudatha, where they met with senior officials.

  “The result of those discussions, pending your approval, was the outline of what could become a mutual defense pact. An agreement that would allow the Hudathans some measure of additional freedom in exchange for their assistance against the Sheen.”