By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  At least six of the clone brothers realized what had occurred and wore identical expressions of horror. They threw themselves forward, but harnesses held them in place.

  Lieutenant Seebo screamed, but the sound of the explosion filled his ears. Dietrich watched the doors seal, heard a muffled thud, and watch the borg’s body rock from side to side as some demo charges cooked off. Some people hated the Legion, and couldn’t wait to get out, but he wasn’t one of them. No, the Legion was family, the only family he had. And family comes first. The heavy shuddered as metal sheared and a locker full of ammo exploded. A hatch cover sailed into the sky. Flames shot out of the cooling stacks. Heat blasted the legionnaire’s face. A voice crackled through his earplug. “Dietrich? Where the hell are you? Get up here and do your job.”

  The grenadier backed away. “Sorry, Gunny. I had to take a pee . .. I’m on the way.”

  Vice Admiral Ham Ista Rawan stood high on the catwalk, hands clasped behind his back, contemplating the scene below. The interceptors were hot and ready to launch. They crouched in flights of three, sitting on their skids, waiting to lift. The transports, all of which were fully loaded, sat ready to follow. Assuming the fighters could punch a hole through the Confederate air cover and assuming the larger vessels could escape the orbiting warship, the majority of his people would make it to Zynig47. As for the rest, well, they had done their duty. First against the troops who had dropped through the air shafts—and then on the canyon floor. Even now, he could hear the dull thump, thump, thump of cannon fire interspersed with the crackle of assault weapons. His marines were dying. The officer’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice in his ear. “The transports are ready, Admiral. .. and the launch parameters are optimum.”

  Rawan worked his jaw for a moment. The order would hurt .. but his duty was clear. ‘Tell them to launch ... and may the gods protect them.”

  The words were barely out of the admiral’s mouth when repellors flared. The first flight of fighters rose into the air and fired their main engines. They were gone within seconds. Flight after flight took off, until the cavern was as empty as Rawan’s heart.

  Finally, after the last ship had departed, the Thraki made his way down to the flight deck and faced the wind. The light was hard and cold. He had time for one last walk.

  Tyspin listened to the reports, eyed the forward-mounted screens, and confirmed what she’d been told. The Thrakies were pulling out Well, some were, while others continued to fight. The naval officer could have delivered the news via the ship’s intercom system but chose to do it personally instead. She eased her way out of the command chair, made eye contact with the ship’s XO, and said, “You have the con.”

  He nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am. I have the con.”

  With little to do beyond the need to recover the ship’s fighters, the atmosphere aboard the Gladiator was relatively serene. Ty spin’s shoes made a clacking sound as she marched the length of the corridor. A somewhat bored voice announced that the midwatch chow call was about to begin. A rating nodded as she passed, and a robot hurried to get out of the way.

  Booly was where Tyspin had expected him to be—hard at work in his makeshift office. Message torps continued to arrive every few hours or so bringing an unending flow of intelligence, status reports, and a mind-boggling array of administrative work, which, if left undone, would soon bring the Confederacy’s armed forces to their knees.

  A conference room table served as a desk. It was covered with printouts, half-consumed cups of coffee, the remains of a breakfast, and a computer-designed model of both the canyon and the Thraki complex. The legionnaire heard the knock, said “enter,” and looked up from his comp screen. “Thank god! A rescue mission!”

  Tyspin grinned, spent a second wishing the other officer had never met Maylo ChienChu, and took a seat. “You were right, Bill. The Thrakies pulled up stakes. Do you still want to let them go?”

  Booly nodded. “Yes, I do. Let ‘em run all the way to Zynig47. A constant stream of refugees will sap morale. Besides, there’s been enough dying. How’s the Blue Team? Did the Thrakies disengage?”

  Tyspin shook her head. “No, the battle rages on.” Booty rubbed his temples. “Why? It’s pointless! We can leave a detachment and starve them out. Get McGowan on the horn ... tell her to break contact. And pass the message to SeebaKa.”

  Tyspin stood. “Aye, aye, sir. Anything else?” Booly looked around him. “Yeah, tell the OOD to watch for the next inbound message torp, and blow it up.”

  Lieutenant SeebaKa turned his back to the heavily armored hatch, heard Lasker yell, “Fire in the hole!”

  and felt the air nudge him as the charge went off. The officer turned back, saw that the door hung askew, and waved what remained of his team forward. The Thraki had put up one helluva fight and forced the invaders to pay dearly for every foot of corridor, every intersection, and every hatch. Roughly half his force remained on their feet. The rest had been killed or wounded. The result was that the team was behind schedule, had failed to neutralize the enemy’s command and control computer, and hadn’t even seen the energy cannons much less attacked them. The Hudathan had failed, and the knowledge ate at the lining of his stomach.

  There was the cloth-ripping sound of an assault rifle, a cry of “Blood!” and the team charged ahead. SeebaKa was third or fourth through the entry, wasted a fraction of a second thinking about the extent to which the Hudathans, humans, and Naa had learned to work together, and heard a tone through his earplugs. “High Horse to Red One ... Over.”

  SeebaKa, who was still struggling to assimilate Confederate corn procedures, saw something move, fired a three round burst, and managed a reply. “This is Red One . Go. Over.”

  The voice was hard and metallic. “Break it off, One.

  Objective achieved. You can pull back.”

  SeebaKa thought about the bodies left behind, the team he had come to be so proud of, and anger filled his chest. The swear words were part of his recently acquired vocabulary. “No frigging way. High Horse! We’ll break when the furry little bastards are dead! Over.”

  A Thraki noncom popped out of a maintenance bay, shot Jamal in the back, and staggered as Lasker put half a magazine into the Marine’s chest.

  SeebaKa roared his approval and charged the next set of doors. They were open, and he saw rock walls beyond. It was the chamber! His objective! Finally within reach. What remained of the team charged, limped, and in one case was carried out into the gallery. The rail had been designed by Thraki for Thraki. It hit the Hudathan at midthigh. The voice was louder this time and more insistent. “High Horse to Red One ... That is negative ... Repeat negative. Break contact immediately.”

  SeebaKa took a long hard look around. The flight deck was empty—but the battle continued down on the canyon floor. He could heard the dull thump, thump, thump of outgoing cannon fire interspersed with the rattle of automatic weapons and a loud “boom” as a missile struck its target. Blue Team was taking a beating—that much was clear. If he could make his way down onto the floor below, If he could neutralize even one of the energy cannons, lives would be saved. Hudathan lives, Naa lives, and yes, appalling as the notion was, human lives.

  The Hudathan waved his troops forward and opened the corn link. “Red One to High Horse ... Roger your last... contact broken.”

  Booly was standing toward the rear of the makeshiftOpsCenter , talking to a naval intelligence officer, when the chief petty officer approached. She looked clean and almost unnaturally crisp. “Excuse me, sir, sorry to interrupt, but the lieutenant has something he wants you to see.”

  Booly nodded, assured the intelligence officer that he would read the latest report ASAP, and followed the CPO to a bulkhead covered with flat panel displays. Some naval vessels had been designed to support ground actions, but the Gladiator wasn’t one of them. The wardroom had been converted to anOpsCenter , and everything had a temporary makeshift feel.

  The lieutenant was young and earnest. He had dark hair,
a nose that was slightly too large for his face, and a wire thin body. “Red One agreed to break contact... but look at this.”

  Booty looked at screen, realized it was a trooper’s eye view of the Thraki military complex, and that his host was running. Not just running, but running toward a brightly lit entryway, flanked by a pair of alien energy cannons. Both batteries were depressed, to command the valley below, and both burped cold blue light. The name at the bottom of the frame read: “Corporal Sureseek Farcye.”

  The naval officer saw the glance and pointed to an enormous body that lumbered along the right side of the frame. “That’s Red One, sir. Lieutenant SeebaKa. We don’t have compatible cameras for the Hudathans yet.. .but that’s him all right... What should we do?”

  It was a good question. SeebaKa had chosen to disobey a direct order—but one that Booly now realized was wrong. “Is Blue One online? Show me her video.”

  The lieutenant nodded and pointed. “Yes, sir. She’s right there.”

  McGowan looked up into the slowly twirling snowflakes, saw the energy cannons burp, and watched geysers of mud sullied snow march her way. “Put some more SLMs on those guns’ Take the bastards out!”

  Missiles, all of which had been fired prior to her order, hit only fractions of a second apart. The Thraki energy screens flared, shimmered like silver, and faded as the force of the explosions dissipated. A quad exploded, an entire squad was cut down, and McGowan yelled through the link. “I want some air support damn it—and I want it now! Where’s the Red Team? We’re dying out here.”

  Booly gripped the back of the chair with both hands and knew it was too late. Blue One was so far up the canyon, so close to the target, that an air strike would hit her, too.

  “What about Lieutenant SeebaKa?” the naval officer persisted. “What should I do about him?”

  “Pray the insubordinate sonofabitch makes it,” Booty grated, because he’s the only hope we have.”

  Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan stepped away from energy cannon number two, raised the assault weapon, and thumbed the safety into the “off position. The four remaining members of the security team did likewise.

  The Thraki officer could see the oncoming soldiers, could feel the wind at his back, could smell the ozone that swirled around him. The force field caused his fur to stand on end, and his bladder felt unnaturally full. This was it, the last moment of his life, and the end of the journey. At least, the officer thought to himself, I will die with my face to the enemy. His weapon chattered, others did likewise, and the world ceased to be.

  “Blow those emplacements!” SeebaKa ordered, waving his team forward. “There’s no point in saving ordinance—pack every charge you have around those hatches.”

  The protective shields, which were effective against anything packing sufficient mass and velocity to damage the energy cannons, were useless when it came to a lowtech infantry assault. The legionnaires moved forward, felt a tingling sensation as they entered the force field’s footprint, and set about their tasks. The cannons continued fire, and the Blue Team continued to suffer as the explosives were put in place.

  Then, having moved everyone back, the Hudathan gave the order. “Lasker, you know what to do, pull the plug.” The human nodded, flipped the safety cover off a remote, and pressed the big red button. McGowan, looking up from below, saw two flashes of light, heard two overlapping explosions and fell as the shock wave knocked her off her feet. The first thing she noticed was how peaceful it was, lying on her back, watching chunks of debris somersault through the cold, frosty air. They would land—she knew that—but couldn’t quite muster the energy to deal with it. Most fell short of Blue Team, however—for which she was thankful. That’s when a strange sort of silence fell on the valley, when McGowan wondered if her eardrums were damaged, or if everyone else was dead. Then came the first reedy cheer, soon joined by others, until the officer heard her own voice join the rest.

  The Blue Team rose like ghosts from so many graves, marveled at the fact that they were still alive, and knew the ultimate truth: This day was theirs. Not through good fortune—but by force of arms.

  Chapter 15

  Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

  Matthew 7:15

  First printing

  Circa Standard Year 1400

  Transit Point NS690193, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The combined fleets, now numbering more than six thousand ships, emerged from hyperspace in groups of one hundred, formed clusters around the transit point, and waited for instructions. If the Hoon had been something other than a machine and if the Hoon had been possessed of emotions, it might have been excited. For here, after a journey that spanned half a galaxy, the quarry was finally at hand.

  But there were variables, factors the computer had never encountered before, and these argued for a certain degree of caution. Early reports, along with those that continued to trickle in, suggested the same thing: The Thraki were not only present in that particular sector of space, but present in large numbers, and showed no sign of trying to escape. This was unprecedented ... and therefore of concern. Adding to that concern was the fact that non-Thraki probes, hundreds of them, had already arrived on the scene, with more popping out of hyperspace all the time. Who were the interlopers? How strong were they? And what if any relationship had been established with the Thraki? Such questions deserved answers, and the Hoon was reluctant to proceed without them.

  If the computer was cautious, however—Jepp was ecstatic. The news sent the human dashing back and forth, powerless to affect what took place, but desperate to do so. Hopeless though it had seemed at times, his faith had finally paid off There was a plan. God’s plan, and it was his job to see it through. Though no longer invested in a ship of its own, the Navcomp named Henry still took a passionate interest in things navigational and had taken advantage of Jepp’s momentary credibility to monitor the fleet’s progress.

  The realization that the Sheen had entered Confederate controlled space in a system known as NS680193 came as a shock, since the human designed intelligence had given up any hope of scanning familiar constellations a long time before. It hurried to notify its human master and, if not capable of joy, processed a sense of satisfaction.

  But now, with Jepp literally jumping up and down, and running around like a madman, the computer wasn’t so sure. The Sheen brought nothing but pain and misery to the systems they had visited in the past, and there was no reason to think this stop would be any different. There could be an increased possibility of escape, however—which the computer was quick to bring to the human’s attention.

  “What?” Jepp responded, his face filled with consternation. “Are you out of your silicon packed mind?

  This is the moment we’ve been waiting for! The fleet is God’s instrument—his way of bringing the sinners around. Judgment Day is upon us.”

  Henry had heard such pronouncements before, most recently in connection with some very dead Thraki, but knew better than to comment. Jepp was Jepp, and whatever would be, would be. The cabin was dark, air whispered through ducts, and Tyspin was asleep. More than that she knew she was asleep and relished the knowledge. The officer heard the intercom bong, resolved to ignore it, and swore when it sounded again. She regretted the words the moment they were spoken. “Yes? What the hell do you want?”

  “Sorry, Admiral,” the OOD said apologetically, “but a probe was waiting at Transit Point WHOT89653452. It appears that the Sheen have arrived.”

  Tyspin sat up, rubbed her eyes, and swung her feet off the bunk. “Where?”

  “In system NS680193 . . . about halfway between the Ramanthians and the Arballazanies.”

  “Notify the general—I’m on the way.”

  The OOD had notified the general—but didn’t see any need to say so. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” The intercom popped and went dead. The officer scanned the bridge, spotted one of the less essential ratings, and
made eye contact. “The admiral is on her way—how ‘bout getting her a cup of coffee?”

  The tech said, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared.

  Tyspin liked, no needed coffee, and everyone knew it. The bridge crew looked at each other and chuckled as the OOD considered what he knew. If the Intel was correct, and there was no reason to doubt it, the machines had six thousand ships. Booly was one hell of an officer, and so was Tyspin, but that was twice the number of vessels the Confederacy could bring to bear ... Not to mention the fact that the Thraki armada consisted of more than four thousand ships.

  The OOD’s father had opposed his son’s choice of careers urging the youngster to pursue the law instead. Now, knowing what he knew, it appeared that dad was correct.

  Planet Zynig47, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Sun poured down through rose-colored glass to bathe the Chamber of Reason with soft pink light. Much of it was trapped there, blocked by the carefully laid stone, but some found its way to the beings below.

  Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna had been listening to negative reports for the better part of three days now, and he was tired of it. The initial news had come as a shock. He had expected more time. A lot more time. The fact that the Sheen had arrived—were only weeks away—frightened him. But now, having accepted the situation, the naval officer was ready to fight and more than that to win. All he needed to do was put the resources in place, execute his carefully considered plan, and do something about morale. Regardless of where he went. the gloom was palpable. Most of the negativity was centered on the Sheen—but the constant stream of refugees from planets like BETA018 certainly didn’t help. Each convoy, each ship, was like a harbinger of doom. There was something strange about that, something suspicious, but there hadn’t been time to focus on it. Not with thousands upon thousands of killer machines to cope with. But that was for later—this was now. Sector 19 was late as usual, murmured her apologies, and slipped into her assigned chair. The chamberlain struck the Shield of Waha, and a single note reverberated between the walls. That was the signal for the rest of the Sectors to retrieve their forms. Signals went out, and the miniature robots crawled, walked, and tumbled back to their owners, where they were deactivated and restored to cases, bags, or laps Though normally the subject of considerable discussion, not to mention competition, there was little interest in the forms on that particular day.