By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  It was as far as Nankool got. Shouts were heard, and someone threw a glass. It shattered against the podium. Aba moved to protect the chief executive, and democracy turned to chaos. Every being present had lost someone to Hudathan aggression—and was opposed to any sort of rapprochement. ChienChu looked at DomaSa. The Hudathan shrugged.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  The Molly B shuddered, rolled, and corkscrewed away. The fighter followed. Willy had been in his share of scrapes during more than forty years of working, stealing, and smuggling, but couldn’t remember one worse than this He needed to beat the machine and do it soon. Coherent light blipped past the view screen and raced past the ship. The human scanned the instrument panel, was frightened by how many red and amber lights he saw, and took a firm grip on the control yoke. He pulled back. The Molly B

  broke out of the corkscrew and started to climb. Not really, since “up” was relative, but that’s the way it felt. The smuggler’s mind started to race.

  The machine was a machine. That constituted both its strength and its weakness It would do what it supposed to do, which, if its programming followed the dictates of logic, meant achieving its objective in the shortest possible period of time, while expending the minimum amount of energy required to get the job done.

  He, however, was human, which meant he could do anything he frigging wanted to do, no matter how stupid that might seem.

  Williams turned the yoke to the left, fought the gee forces that threatened to distort his movements, and checked the heads-up display (HUD). The enemy fighter appeared as a three-dimensional red outline. Suddenly, the ships were headed at each other at a high rate of combined speed. The smuggler steered into the center of the sighting grid, gave a whoop of joy, and sent another transmission. “You got balls?

  Steel balls? Let’s find out.”

  The fighter’s processor made note of the change, ran the numbers, and received negative results. Since it was bow-on, the target vessel would be extremely hard to hit. Not only that, but there was the very real possibility of a head-on collision, which while it would almost certainly destroy the enemy, would have similar implications for the fighter.

  Something the Hoon was almost sure to disapprove of.

  Added to that was the fact that the tactics employed by the opposition didn’t make much sense, suggesting that the enemy intelligence was inferior, defective, or—and this seemed unlikely—possessed of a plan so sophisticated that only one such as the Hoon would be capable of understanding it. The oncoming vessel was closer now, a lot closer, and showed no sign of turning away. A subprocessor signaled alarm. The Sheen fired two missiles, turned to the left, and ran into a beam of coherent light. It was powerful, much more powerful than a ship of that displacement would logically have, and therefore unexpected. The force field that protected the fighter, and was the origin of the name “Sheen,” flared and went down. Steel turned to liquid, a drive went critical, and the machine exploded. Willy saw the fireball, heard the tone, and the impact all at the same time. One of the enemy missiles had missed—but the other struck its target. The Molly took the blow, seemed to hesitate, and took a jog to starboard.

  Most of the remaining green lights morphed to red, a klaxon began to bleat, and the control yoke went dead. Willy swore, attempted to kill power, and discovered that he couldn’t. The ship was hauling butt, heading out past the sun, bound for nowhere. The planet Arballa, to which the smuggler had been headed, was off to port. Way off to port.

  Williams bit his lip, checked to see if the auxiliary steering jets were on line, and discovered most of them were. He fired two in combination, the vessel jerked to port, and the smuggler dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could bring her in.

  It took the better part of ten minutes, plus a dozen minute adjustments, but he brought the Molly around. Finally, convinced that the ship was on course, Willy sent a message: “Confederate vessel CVL9769 to any Confederate warship—over.”

  There was a pause while the signal made the necessary journey, but the reply was as prompt as the laws of physics would allow. The voice belonged to a corn tech named Howsky—and she was bored. Nothing interesting had happened for weeks. ‘This is the vessel Friendship ... we read you loud and clear. Over.”

  “Glad to hear it. Friendship, cause I’m declaring an emergency and comin’ in hot. Over.”

  Howsky sat up straight, signaled her chief, and eyed an overhead holo. CVL9769 appeared as a blue delta. It was coming in fast. “Declare your emergency, 69... What kind of problem do you have? Maybe we can help. Over.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Willy replied, “but I went head-to-head with a Sheen fighter. I nailed the bastard... but took some damage. Navcomp’s down, controls are shot, and the drives won’t answer. They’re maxed, repeat maxed, and my board reads red. Other than that—things couldn’t be better.”

  “Got it,” Howsky replied. “Hold one... will advise.

  Over.”

  The chief called the division commander, who called the executive officer, who confirmed the remote possibility of collision, and notified Captain Boone. He hit the crash alarm and hell broke loose. Klaxons sounded, signs flashed, and traffic was diverted away from the ship. The Friendship’s crew raced to their damage control stations, hatches dropped into place, and the ship’s PA system came to sudden life. Translations followed.

  “This is the captain. Nonessential personnel will take seats, strap themselves in, and remain in place till further notice. There is a remote, I repeat remote chance that an incoming vessel will collide with the Friendship, but there is no need for concern. Based on current calculations the ship should miss ours by more than a thousand miles. If that were to change, we have plenty of ways to deal with it. I will provide more news the moment it becomes available. Thank you.”

  Down in the senate, where pandemonium reigned only moments before, silence claimed the chamber. Marcott Nankool felt a sudden sense of relief. Suddenly, as if by magic, the arguments had stopped. Not forever, but for the moment, which would act as a damper. The emergency was an opportunity in disguise.

  There was a rustling of fabric and the occasional clink of metal as the senators strapped themselves in. The President had just secured his harness when Captain Boone spoke via the implant in his skull. Very few people had either the authority or the means to do so. That being the case, there was no need for an introduction.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir, but the owner of the incoming vessel, one Willy Williams, desires to speak with you He says it’s urgent, and, given his present situation, he may be correct. There’s a very real chance that he will hit Arballa at two or three thousand miles per hour.”

  Nankool frowned and subvocalized his reply. “I’m kind of busy ... did he mention a subject?”

  “Sir, yes sir. Williams claims that the Sheen attacked a planet called Long Jump, destroyed the city ofFortuna , and are headed this way. One of them followed him through hyperspace A freak accident most likely—but the effect is the same.”

  The tone was clear: Boone didn’t believe much if any of what Williams had to say. But Nankool, politician that he was, felt his heart beat a little faster. The truth didn’t matter.. . not right then. What mattered was perceptions ... An idea flashed through his mind. If the strategy worked, it could save day If it failed he would look like an idiot.

  Oh well, Nankool thought to himself, it’s all on the line in any case. My reputation won’t matter if I’m dead. He cleared his throat. ‘Tell Williams that I will take his call... Monitor the chamber, and the moment I give the word, pipe him through the PA. I’ll take a holo if you have one available.”

  Boone thought the President was out of his mind but was far too professional to let it show. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Nankool released his harness and stepped to the podium.

  “May I have your attention please? Thank you.”

  Most of those present assumed the President had information pertaining to the emergency
and were quick to quiet down.

  Like most high-ranking politicians Nankool was a consummate actor. He had even gone so far as to study some of what he considered to be the more important alien cultures, not striving for a fluency that would take a lifetime to achieve, but settling for a basic understanding of what constituted a gaffe, or an out-and-out insult. Now, as the President looked out over his audience, he applied all that he had learned.

  “Most honorable gentle beings ... please watch and listen as the pilot of the incoming ship describes what happened to him. Captain, if you please . ..”

  The holo blossomed, and the senate found itself staring into Willy Williams’ grizzled countenance. Though conscious of the fact that he was on camera, the smuggler’s eyes flicked from side to side as he checked the wildly fluctuating readouts. “Sorry to bother you Mr. President, but I reckon you need to know. I was on Long Jump, mindin’ my own business, when a fleet dropped hyper. There were lots of ships, hundreds, maybe thousands of ‘em, all wrapped in some sort of shiny force field.

  “No bio bods, though, not unless you want to count Jorley Jepp, and most people think he’s crazy. That’s cause he’s been loadin’ the machines with some sort religious gobbledygook. Sent ‘em down to preach on the street corners. Not sure what happened after that. The Sheen attacked Fortuna and reduced the place to rubble. A few of us managed to lift. I came here to warn you. Guess that’s it ‘cept for the pickle I’m in. Sorry ‘bout the inconvenience ... but the Molly took a whole lot of damage.”

  Nankool cleared his throat. “Thank you. Citizen Williams. What you did required a great deal of courage. I’m sure that Captain Boone and his crew will do everything in their power to assist you. Once this matter is resolved, please ask to see me. The Confederacy owes you a debt of gratitude.

  “Now,” Nankool continued, turning his attention to the senators arrayed before him, “you see what I’ve been talking about. This is no phantom menace ... The Sheen are real, we must ready ourselves to meet them, and they are knocking on the door. Fortuna lies in ruins... It could have been one of your cities. Will be should you fail to take action.

  “Your reservations regarding the possibility of an alliance with the Hudathans are understandable—and deserve reasoned discussion. A discussion that must be held in light of what we know: The Sheen are coming.”

  Most of the senators were moved by Willy’s story and convinced he was telling the truth. That, plus the fact that they were strapped in place, fueled some rational discussion. DomaSa sat toward the rear of the chamber next to ChienChu. “Your President fires words like bullets. They hit the mark.”

  ChienChu nodded. “Yes, he’s very skilled. If, and I stress if he pulls this off, Nankool will be President of our Confederacy. Yours and mine.”

  DomaSa felt the reality of that sink in. The Hudathans?

  Led by an alien? Unthinkable! Yet what of the alternative? The annihilation of his people. Equally unthinkable. There was no way out. The debate droned on.

  The Friendship’s control room was huge—as befitted a ship of her importance—and self-consciously quiet. The multi-species crew took pride in their professionalism and always sought to meet emergencies with exactly the right amount of effort. Captain Boone scanned the screen for a second time and gave a sigh of relief. There would be no need to break the former battleship out of her parking orbit. The Molly B would clear his vessel by more than a thousand miles. There was so much clearance in fact that he would have lifted the shipwide lockdown had it not been for Nankool’s insistence that the restrictions remain in place. A nonsensical request the naval officer thought absurd. Still, the situation did allow him to turn his attention from the spacegoing capital to the Molly B and her somewhat disreputable owner. It seemed that Williams, aka Kline, Peters, and Howe, the last being the name he’d been born with, was a wanted man. A fact that might or might not get in the way of the reward promised by Nankool.

  None of which mattered to Boone, who knew his duty, and was determined to save the smuggler if such a thing was possible. He opened a corn link. “Captain Williams? This is Captain Boone. What kind of emergency gear have you got on board? A lifeboat? Escape pod?”

  Willy gritted his teeth as the drive cut in and out. The ship was doomed and so it seemed was he. “My lifeboat needs some repairs ... and the pod was damaged during the fight.”

  Boone bit his lip. The very idea of lifting with a lifeboat in need of repairs went against every bone in his naval body. Such things were common among civilians, however—just one of the reasons why they required supervision. “Yes, well that’s a bit unfortunate. How about space armor? You have some I trust?”

  Willy looked up at the camera. “Of course I do! What do you take me for? An idiot?”

  Boone decided it would be best to let the question pass unanswered. “Excellent. That being the case you’ll be able to abandon ship. I suggest you step out of the lock in two hours and twenty-seven minutes. One of our search and rescue sleds will pick you up.”

  “What about the Molly?

  The naval officer glanced off screen then back. “Our calculations suggest that your ship will impact the surface of Arballa at approximately three thousand miles per hour. The Araballazanies have given their permission for you to land or, more accurately, to crash. I doubt your ship will be worth much after that.”

  Willy squinted into the camera. His mother plus all three of his former wives knew the expression well.

  “No.”

  Boone raised an eyebrow. “ Wo?’ What does that mean?”

  “It means I ain’t gonna do it,” Willy replied stolidly.

  “The Molly’s been hurt worse than this ... I can repair her.

  All you gotta do is stop her.”

  The bridge crew, all of whom were surreptitiously monitoring the conversation, snickered. “And how,”

  Boone said patiently, “would we do that?”

  “Simple,” Williams replied. “You got tractor beams don’tcha? Well, use ‘em.”

  The naval officer frowned. “Yes, we do. But snatching a fast-moving object like your ship takes a great deal of effort and skill. You claim your ship can be repaired. I doubt it. Why should I go to the effort?”

  Willy leaned forward until his heavily veined nose looked like an overripe tomato. “Because if you don’t help me, I’ll end up spread across twenty square miles of Arballa’s surface, and you’ll have to explain why.”

  Boone felt a rising sense of anger but knew the civilian was correct. He would have to launch an investigation, convene a board of inquiry, and sit through days of boring testimony. “I’ll think about it.”

  Willy grinned. “You do that. Captain. I’ll be waiting.”

  Ishimoto Six had to bully traffic control before getting permission to land in the Friendship’s cavernous launch bay—and was surprised to see how quiet the facility was.

  It wasn’t until Maylo and he had cleared the lock and entered the ship that they heard about the emergency. Given a choice between sitting in their staterooms or joining the senate, they chose the latter. Sergi ChienChu and Hiween DomaSa waved them over. Some whispered conversation was sufficient to bring the newcomers up to speed. Ishimoto Six was amazed at how audacious the plan was, saw how it could serve the Hegemony’s interests, and wondered if the Alpha Clones would support him. The debate was well advanced. Senator Hygo Pulu Darwa, who represented the Dwellers, had come forward to oppose the proposal. The senate listened as he spoke.

  “So,” Darwa concluded, “while I can see the benefit to be realized from an alliance with the Hudathans, the dangers are much too great. What happened to the legion could happen again. While it’s true that the lack of a deepspace navy might serve to brake their expansionist tendencies, a revolt by one or more of the Hudathan military units could wreak havoc on our defensive efforts, and threaten the Confederacy as a whole. I’m sorry—but that’s how I see it. Thank you.”

  Nankool, who had expected the Dwellers to suppor
t rather than oppose his initiative, struggled to conceal his disappointment. A rare moment of somewhat awkward silence fell over the chamber. Those who sought to block the proposal relished their moment of victory—while those who favored it stared defeat in the face. ChienChu wished he had the right to speak—and DomaSa struggled to hide his rage. Ishimoto Six felt himself stand was surprised to find that he had. “The Clone Hegemony seeks to be recognized.”

  Senator Omo looked for Ishimoto Seven and wondered where he was. Not that it made much difference. Ishimoto Six had every right to speak. The Ramanthian ran his tool legs back along the sides of his beak. “The chair recognizes Senator Ishimoto Six.”

  Six saw his image appear at the front of the chamber. Most of his peers settled for that—but a few turned to look. He established eye contact with those that did. “I suggest that in addition to the proposed restrictions on the Hudathan navy, that their ground forces be integrated into the Legion, so that there will be little to no possibility that an entire unit could or would revolt. Thank you.”

  Slowly, inexorably, every ocular organ in the room turned, swiveled, and in one case slithered toward Ambassador Hiween DomaSa. Every single being in the room knew how xenophobic the Hudathans were. Would the race submit? Agree to take orders from those they had long sought to annihilate?

  DomaSa felt the scrutiny and knew what they were thinking. In spite of the fact that the thought was new to them, he had already considered the possibility and hoped it would never come up. But now it had, which forced him to confront a terrible choice: Accept the clone proposal, thereby ceding control of the Hudathan military to the Confederacy, or—and this was equally unthinkable—open his people to an attack by the Sheen. He ignored Omo and spoke without benefit of a mike. The words were bitter—like poison. “My people stand ready to accept the clone proposal if we receive a full membership in the Confederacy, if all trade restrictions are lifted, and if the Hegemony agrees to a joint command structure.”