By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  The entire concept of a humanstyle control room stemmed from the days of sailing ships, steam locomotives, and early ground vehicles—times when the need to see where one was going, plus analogstyle controls, forced the helmsman, engineer, or driver to stay in one place. But now, more than a thousand years later, there was no need for such limitations beyond that required for their own psychological comfort.

  All of which explained why Prithians like Per Pok preferred to con their vessels via audio interface and simply “sang” their instructions to the ship’s central computer.

  Pok, who had a yellow beak, blue eyes, white head feathers, and the crimson shoulder plumage that marked his membership in the scarlet flock, cocked his head to one side and listened as the ship warbled its report. A report so strange, so essentially nonsensical, that merchant demanded to hear it again. Then, convinced that he really had dropped into the midst of an enormous fleet, Pok “called” for his daughter. Her name took the form of a short three syllable song.

  Veera, who was a good deal smaller than her father but bore the same cape of reddish feathers, looked up from the component-strewn workbench. As with any vessel of her size and complexity, the Dawn Song required a good deal of maintenance—something Veera and a half dozen robots had responsibility for. There were twelve ways to sing her name each having a different meaning. This one meant, “come to me—and do so immediately.” It was one of the first communications a youngster learned, and Veera warbled the appropriate response.

  The teenager placed the tuning wand on the tray-shaped work surface and entered the tunnelway that led to the portion of the Dawn Song where her father spent most of his time, a circular space that functioned as office, roost, and galley.

  As with any spacegoing creature, Veera was very attuned to the feel of the ship. She noted the slight increase in vibration, one or two degrees of additional heat, and a change in the never-ending “ship song,” a sort of humming sound that provided the crew with feedback and was as unique to Dawn Song as Veera’s variegated back plumage was to her. The vessel spoke of how difficult it was to make more speed while simultaneously charging the accumulators—a process that preceded a hyperspace jump and normally took most of a day. They were in trouble then—and running from something. The youngster increased her pace and emerged into the all-purpose living area. “Father? What’s wrong?”

  Pok finished his latest instruction to the ship, forced his feathers to fall into something resembling

  “peaceful rest,” and turned toward his daughter. The extent to which the teenager resembled her mother never ceased to amaze him. The same expressive eyes, slender body, and gorgeous plumage. How long had Malla been dead now? Only two years? It seemed longer. But all things end—separations included.

  “Some sort of fleet, my dear, though nothing we’ve seen before. It’s huge ... and clearly hostile. At least two ships are closing with us as I speak. I tried to make contact but no response. I want you to enter the lifeboat and strap yourself in. If, and I emphasize ;I, they attack, we’ll try to escape.”

  Veera knew her father better than anyone else in the universe. The lie was as obvious as the brittle manner in which the song was sung, the high conflict-ready way in which Pok held his head, and the neck plumage that refused to lie flat. “No! I won’t go. Not till you do.”

  Per Pok was far from surprised. His daughter was not only willful, but less deferential than was appropriate, the direct result of living with her father in such confined quarters. He fluttered the feathers along the outside surface of what had once been wings The gesture meant “I love you” and served to distract Veera just long enough for her father to produce the spray tube, aim it in her direction, and press the trigger.

  The inhalant, which was found in every Prithian’s onboard medical kit, functioned as a powerful anesthetic. Veera barely had time to register the nonverbal communication and realize what the tube was before darkness pulled her down.

  The merchant managed to catch the teenager before she hit the deck and swept her into his arms. She was light, very light, and easy to carry. Careful not to breathe, lest he inhale some of the still-lingering gas, the Prithian hurried away.

  The ship song had changed by then, had grown more intense, and warned of approaching vessels. Pok scurried down a passageway into the ship’s belly. A hatch opened in response to the Prithian’s command, and indicator lights began to flash. The very act of entering the bay had activated the lifeboat’s various onboard systems. Any one of the four seats would do. The merchant placed his daughter in the one nearest to the hatch and strapped the youngster in place.

  Then, knowing he would never see Veera again, Pok backed out through the lock. He sang “I love you,” and the hatch cycled closed. The Dawn Song shuddered as a missile exploded against her protective force field and started to cry. It was a keening sound like an animal in pain. The Prithian had one more thing to accomplish . . . something that might make all the difference. He turned and hurried away.

  The fighters launched their weapons against the Prithian ship with no more emotion than a pair of maintenance bots might demonstrate while scrubbing a deck. They locked onto the target, activated their launchers, and waited for the range to close.

  Then, just as the fugitive vessel came within reach of their long-range missiles, it seemed to vanish as a container fell free, exploded, and scattered preheated chaff in every direction. It was an old trick—and one the Sheen were well-prepared to deal with. It did buy some time, however, because as the fighters waited for their sensors to clear the Dawn Song continued to flee. Bio bods might have missed the lifeboat as it tumbled end over end through the chaff, dismissed it as unimportant, or, in a moment of pity, allowed the fugitive to escape. But not the Sheen. They identified the seemingly inert lump of matter as having an 82.1% match to the identification parameters typical of a Type 4 auxiliary spacecraft, which, based on a reading of its core temperature was equipped with a hyperdrive. This information was transmitted to a nearly insignificant aspect of the Hoon, which routed it to a salvage ship, which was already under way.

  In the meantime the chaff had cleared, the machines took note of the fact that the quarry had turned on them, and fired their weapons.

  Knowing that the Dawn Song’s relatively puny arsenal would have very little impact on his pursuers, and knowing he was about to die. Per Pok chose to target all the offensive weaponry he had on only one of the incoming fighters. Then, eyes closed, he thought of home and his fervent desire to go there. Unit AV7621769 registered the machine equivalent of surprise as the incoming missiles hit his shield and hammered their way through. Most destroyed themselves in the process but one managed to penetrate the hull.

  Thousands of miles away the Hoon “felt” what amounted to a tiny pinprick, a unit of machine pain so small as to barely register on its consciousness, yet annoying nonetheless. The AI accessed the back feed from the surviving fighter just in time to witness the explosions. There were three of them, each more powerful than the last, as the Prithian vessel ceased to exist.

  Satisfied, and eager to return to what it had been doing, the machine intelligence severed the connection. Veera felt pain at the back of her head, struggled to penetrate the thick gray fog, and remembered the tube. Had her actually father aimed the device at her? Or was that a dream? The teenager forced her eyes to focus, saw where she was, and knew the truth. She remembered the fleet, the argument with her father, and the hiss of anesthetic. The youngster threw herself forward, felt the harness cut into her shoulders, and called out loud, “Father? Where are you?”

  But there was no answer. He was gone. Just like her mother. The weight of Veera’s sorrow threatened to crush her chest. But there was no time to mourn, to sing the death song, or to enter the traditional fast. Something grabbed me lifeboat, jerked it back and forth, and drew it in. Something huge. Veera touched controls located in the arm of her chair and a 3D vid screen popped into life. What she saw was a ship, a strange ship that
shimmered as if lit from within, and a steadily growing rectangle of light. A hatch! The aliens planned to take her in! Veera felt her heart race and wondered what to do. The Sheen swallowed the lifeboat whole.

  Though successful, from the Hoon’s viewpoint at least, the assassination, and Jepp’s role in it, left the human feeling depressed. He had been manipulated, used, and subsequently ignored, none of which was consistent with his status as God’s prophet, or his position as head of theNewChurch , an organization that would be of critical importance to all sentients once they realized how wonderful it was. Still, even the creation of a glorious new position for himself had not been sufficient to lift the human’s spirits. The truth was that he was both bored and lonely. Yes, members of his mechanical flock attended to his needs round the clock and, with the occasional exception of Henry, agreed with everything he said. But that wasn’t half as pleasant as he had assumed it would be ... not without genuine feedback. All of which accounted for why the onetime prospector had resumed his once habitual explorations of the ship and the fleet it was part of. Except that now, aided by both Alpha and Sam, the human had a good deal more access to things than he had had before. Things like the fleet’s electronic nervous system. That’s how Jepp heard about the fugitive ship, the lifeboat, and the fact that it had been salvaged. The process of being there when the salvage ship landed, of entering the bay only moments after it was pressurized, reminded the exprospector of his childhood. There had been two or three birthdays when he received presents ... and the emotions were very similar. The way the excitement started to build, the rising sense of anticipation, and the delightful delay. Then, when he could stand it no longer, the pleasure of opening the packages, except this present was wrapped in metal. The lock opened, the human stepped out, and eyed the bay. Silvery strings of nano hung from the overhead, slithered along the deck, and caressed the waiting ships. There were thousands, no millions of the tiny repair and maintenance machines, all linked together to create mechanical organisms. Organisms that could take ships apart and put them back together. Mindful of the fact that the “snake” nano had a tendency to slap unauthorized intruders, Jepp was careful to watch his step. The Prithian lifeboat was coaxed out of the salvage vessel’s hold by two tractor-sized robots. It might contain anything, or anybody, since the very existence of such a craft hinted at a survivor, or at least the possibility of one. Something Jepp wanted—or thought he did.

  Finally, when the pod-shaped lifeboat had been removed and placed on the deck, a hatch started to open. The prospector, who prided himself on his knowledge of ships, was stumped. The vessel wasn’t human, Turr, Dweller, or...

  Veera, terrified of who or what she might encounter, peeked out through the newly created opening. She wore a translator, an Araballazanie device common to Prithian merchant vessels, and her song sounded strange indeed. It was randomly transformed in Ramanthian, standard, and a half dozen other languages on the chance that one of them would be understood. “Is anyone there?”

  Jepp heard a snatch of standard, cleared his throat, and yelled to ensure that she would hear him. “Yes, you can come out. The Sheen won’t hurt you. They have very little interest in biologicals.”

  Veera heard the words as a series of chirps and twitters.

  A human! What was he doing here? Could she trust him?

  Not that she had much choice.

  Slowly at first, head swiveling back and forth, the Prithian emerged from the lifeboat. The nanodraped compartment was strange, very strange, and took some getting used to. The human was flanked by two robots, one to each side, with a third perched on his shoulder. He approached slowly, as if worried he might scare the teenager away. “Hello, my name is Jepp.”

  Veera, more from habit than anything else, offered the curtsy due anyone older than she was. “My name is Veera Pok.”

  The Thraki robot transformed itself into the “jump” mode, leaped onto her shoulder, and sang the original sentence back to her. “My name is Veera Pok.”

  Prithians don’t smile—but they do ruffle their neck feathers. Hers fluttered accordingly. “You speak Prithian.”

  “You speak Prithian,” Sam chirruped. “My name is Veera Pok.”

  Jepp smiled and waved at their surroundings. “Welcome to the family Veera—Come on, let’s salvage whatever rations you have before the nano disassemble your boat.”

  The suggestion made sense. Like it or not—Veera was home.

  Chapter 11

  Life’s picture is constantly undergoing change. The spirit beholds a new world every moment. Rumi

  Persian Sufi poet

  Standard year circa 1250

  Planet Zynig47, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Having found it impossible to sleep. Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna slipped out of bed, shivered in response to the breeze that found its way through a still unrepaired crack. and cursed the technicians who were supposed to have sealed it. While it was true that each and every one of them had spent their entire lives in space and knew next to nothing about the restoration of glass buildings, they did know something about airtight structures, or were supposed to, which made the transgression all the more annoying.

  Careful lest he disturb his mate, Andragna dressed in the dark and slipped out into the courtyard. His pet robot jumped off a chair and scuttled along behind.

  Used as he was to life aboard spaceships, the courtyard struck the military officer as unnecessarily target, although he did admire the fused glass tiles and the manner in which they went together to make complex geometric patterns. Some glowed as if lit from within—and served to illuminate a ghostly path. It led toward the remains of a gate. The Hudathans had attacked the planet many years before, murdered most of the inhabitants, and lost the ensuing war. Most of the surviving structures, his house included, had been left to the vagaries of the weather. The robot beeped softly and scrambled up a leg. It settled onto a shoulder and warmed his left ear.

  Sentries, placed there to protect his wife and him against the possibility of assassins, stood a little straighten They looked dangerous, what with their assault rifles and all, but could they really protect him against the increasingly disaffected Runners, elements of the Priesthood, and the odd psychopath?

  No, it didn’t seem likely. What protection he had stemmed more .from tradition, from the rule of law, than the obstacle posed by his guards. The military officer gestured for the sentries to stay where they were and ventured out into the center of the ancient courtyard.

  Two moons hung against the velvety blackness of space. One of them was natural, the result of cosmic chance, or the work of the great god Rathna, depending on who you cared to listen to: the scientists or the priesthood. The other satellite was one of the arks his ancestors had built and used to propel their progeny out among the stars. Both glowed with reflected light.

  Something about the thin, pale light brought the ruins to life. Andragna imagined the clutch of structures the way they must have been, humming to some forgotten purpose, unaware of the horror ahead. The Ramanthians said that the indigenous sentients, a race of wormlike creatures, had been slaughtered by the Hudathans and driven to the edge of extinction—the same fate that he and the rest of the Thraki people could expect should the Sheen gain the upper hand. Could they? Would they?

  The Runners, for whom Andragna felt a considerable amount of sympathy, had deep misgivings about Zynig47 and the future of the race.

  The Facers, who were in control of the Committee, had never been happier. Never mind the fact that Zynig47 was little more than an enormous dirt ball orbiting a soso sun, they reveled in running about the surface, squabbling over how much land each individual was entitled to, rummaging through the multicolored ruins and collecting bits of shattered glass. They called the bits and pieces “art,” and he called them “rubble.” The whole thing would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so dangerous. Well, that was his job, to make them see and understand. And today, when the Sectors met, he would make one
last attempt.

  The sun started to rise in the east, pushed the darkness off to the west, and took control of the sky. It was red, pink, and blue all at the same time. Like the glass in the courtyard walls. Andragna turned and returned to bed. Sleep brought peace.

  Commensurate with its owner’s wishes the prefab shelter had been deposited at the summit of a gently rounded hill not far from the still rising community officially known as “Base NH426,” but increasingly called “Starfall” by those with more romantic sensibilities.

  As the sun rose and kissed the hilltops with soft pink light, a door whirred open, and a tiny female emerged. In spite of the fact that her body was small, very small, the spirit that dwelt there was large and fierce. Energy crackled around her like electricity, her movements were quick and precise, and fire filled her eyes. This was what she had fought for! To fill her lungs with pure unrecycled air! To feel the sun’s slowly growing warmth on her face—and call a planet home.

  And here it was, all around her, just as she had imagined that it would be. If she could hold the coalition together, if she could counter doubters like Admiral Andragna, (I she could coax two or three more years from her steadily aging body.