By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  Jepp looked unimpressed. “You have contacts . . . use them. Talk to the smugglers. They know what’s going on . . . they have to. I want a report by this time tomorrow.”

  Small nodded weakly. “It shall be as you say. And the second request?”

  “Five years’ worth of the best ship rations you can lay your hands on, fifty thousand gallons of purified water, a class one autodoc with plenty of supplies, ten dark blue ship suits, ten sets of underwear, two pairs of size twelve boots and ten thousand Bibles. At the spaceport by tomorrow night.”

  The fact that the list didn’t involve large quantities of money or other valuables granted Small a tremendous sense of relief. “That sounds doable . . . Everything but the Bibles. I doubt there’s more than 100 on the entire planet.”

  “Then print some more,” Jepp replied sweetly, “or Judgment Day may arrive a little bit early.”

  The Hoon was both annoyed and amused by the supplies that the soft body wanted to bring aboard. Not that it made much difference since there was plenty of room.

  Of greater significance was the fact that the biological had clearly decided to stay. A thoroughly disagreeable prospect except for one thing: Prior to quitting the planet’s surface, the human had acquired some valuable intelligence. It seemed that this particular world was little more than an outpost for a much larger multicultural civilization. A society still struggling to cope with the fact that the Thraki armada had dropped out of hyperspace, seized control of a planet, and taken up residence there. An extremely important development—assuming it was true.

  The information had been culled from soft bodies that Jepp considered unreliable, nonfunctional, and in some cases outright hostile. In fact, based on observations the computer intelligence had carried out while monitoring its robots, some of the data had been obtained under physical duress.

  Still, the claims were consistent with each other plus other data stored in Hoon’s banks, and not to be ignored. The Sheen would proceed, albeit cautiously, to avoid any sort of trap.

  As for the planet below, well, there were ships to feed, and even though the city would offer little more than a snack, something is better than nothing.

  The shuttles landed with monotonous regularity. Larger units this time, loaded with self-propelled machines, each protected by one of the shimmery force fields that gave the Sheen their name.

  Fortuna had no military as such, just criminal gangs, none of whom were willing to cooperate with each other. That being the case, the three-story crawlers were free to go about the business of consuming every bit of metal they could lay their graspers on without any interference other than the occasional shoulder-launched missile.

  Neptune Small knew he should run, should head out into the bush like most of the others had, but continued to hope for some sort of miracle. The machines threatened everything that he had worked, stolen, and fought for. He was both too old and too fat to start all over again.

  That’s why the merchant stood out in front of the Rimmer’s Rest, why he fired his cane as a crawler rounded a corner, and why Small, along with the entire facade of his building, vanished in a single flash of light.

  3

  Thus the highest form of generalship is to balk the the enemy’s plans; the next best is to prevent the junction of the enemy’s forces; the next in order is to attack the enemy’s army in the field; and worst policy of all is to besiege walled cities.

  Sun Tzu

  The Art of War

  Standard year circa 500 B.C.

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Originally christened as the battleship Reliable, the Friendship filled an entirely different role now, but still looked like what she was: one of the most powerful ships the Confederacy had. Her hull was five miles long and covered by a maze of heat exchangers, tractor beam projectors, com pods, and weapons blisters.

  The planet Arballa hung huge behind her. The poles were white, but the rest of the world appeared as various shades of brown. Oh, there was water all right, but it was locked deep below where lake-sized aquifers had been sealed into bubbles of volcanic rock. That’s where the wormlike Arballazanies took shelter from the sun’s dangerous heat, spun their delicate cocoons, and built the optically switched computers for which they were justifiably famous. The Friendship had served the Confederacy as a traveling capital for more than fifty years now—and it was their turn to play host.

  All of which was little more than a backdrop for co-conspirators, who, in an effort to escape the nonstop surveillance typical of shipboard life, boarded a Ramanthian shuttle, and used it to slip away.

  The interior bore an intentional resemblance to the sort of underground cavern that Ramanthians preferred, which meant that it was not only dim but hot and extremely humid. The Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy, Harlan Ishimoto-Seven, sought to surreptitiously loosen his collar, and regretted the decision to come. Could the Ramanthian tell how uncomfortable he was? There was no way to be sure.

  The Ramanthian resembled a large insect. He had multifaceted eyes, a parrotlike beak, tool legs in place of arms, and long narrow wings. They were folded at the moment, and nobody the clone knew had ever seen them deployed.

  The clone and the Ramanthian were both members of the cabal that attempted to subvert Earth’s government and thereby weaken its influence. The effort had failed, but just barely, and through no fault of their own. After all, who would have predicted an alliance between Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa, the sole representative of the Hudathan race, and Sergi Chien-Chu, wealthy industrialist, past President of the Confederacy, and functional cyborg? Nobody, that’s who.

  Earth Governor Patricia Pardo had been a member of the original conspiracy but now languished in prison. Also missing was Legion Colonel Leon Harco, who had betrayed the Confederacy, the cabal, and ultimately himself. His court-martial was scheduled for later that year. Of less importance, in Ishimoto-Seven’s opinion at least, was Leshi Qwan, a corporate type who had pushed his luck too far, and allowed Maylo Chien-Chu to shoot him.

  The conspirators had some new allies however, including Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna, the most senior officer in the Thraki fleet. He looked every bit as uncomfortable as Ishimoto-Seven felt.

  Also joining the cabal was Senator Haf Noother, the duly appointed representative of the reclusive Drac Axis, who was clad from head to toe in a dull black pressure suit. His breathing apparatus, if that’s what it was, made a sort of gurgling sound. Seven did his best to ignore it.

  Orno noted the human’s discomfort and took pleasure in how stupid the humans were. Especially this one. Little did he or the rest of the conspirators know, but the tricentennial birthing was only two and a half annums away, which meant his race would have an additional fifty billion mouths to feed. Reason enough to obtain some additional real estate. The Ramanthian made use of his tool legs to preen the areas to either side of his beak. His words were translated by the computer woven into his iridescent robes. The syntax was slightly stilted. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules. Let’s start by providing each of our representatives with the opportunity to report. Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven ... let’s begin with you.”

  The clone was ready. “Thank you. My efforts have centered on recruiting the votes necessary to admit the Thrakies to the Confederacy. In spite of the fact that my clone-brother, Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six continues to drag his feet where our initiative is concerned, he will follow orders, and cast his ballot accordingly. That being the case the Hegemony is well on the way to building a pro-Thraki coalition.”

  “Excellent,” Orno purred, “truly excellent. Once their membership has been approved, our Thraki brothers and sisters will bolster our strength. How many votes do we have?”

  “Quite a few,” Seven allowed cautiously, “but less than we had hoped for. Governor Chien-Chu and Ambassador Doma-Sa have formed an alliance of their own. A strong group that seeks to block our initiative.”

  Admira
l Andragna listened with a strange sense of detachment. His race was split into two main camps: the “runners,” who believed the best way to deal with the Sheen was to run from them, and the “facers,” who wanted to face the enemy and fight. The facers were in the majority—so plans had been laid for the inevitable battle. A battle in which he and his staff planned to use the Confederacy as a shield. A strategy that would be greatly enhanced if they were covered by the mutual defense pact that attended membership.

  Still, in his heart of hearts, Andragna was a runner and saw the present machinations as a waste of time. He couldn’t admit that, however, not to the committee or to those around him.

  The Drac spoke for the first time. Maybe it was the synthesizer, or maybe it was his voice, but the result was less than melodious. “Bribery, what of?”

  Seven shrugged. “We could buy Doma-Sa with freedom for his race, assuming there was a way to deliver, but what happens after that? The Hudathans were confined to their home system for a very good reason. They killed millions during the first and second Hudathan wars.”

  “And Governor Chien-Chu?”

  “Hopeless,” Orno concluded. “The governor is so wealthy that money holds no meaning for him. There are other possibilities however—and the Thraki are working on them. Admiral?”

  The robot that rested on the Thraki’s lap was part toy, part pet, and part tool. It morphed into a globe and assumed the role of translator. “Our priesthood includes a branch focused on the martial arts. A team of assassins was dispatched to Earth with instructions to kill Maylo Chien-Chu. We haven’t heard from them as yet . . . but they seldom fail.”

  “Point is what?” the Drac inquired flatly.

  “Intimidation,” Ishimoto-Seven replied easily. “If Chien-Chu’s niece can be killed then no one is safe. Not his wife, not his associates, and not him.”

  “Good it is,” Noother concluded. “Next what?”

  Orno glanced at the viewscreen. Special electroactive contact lenses took hundreds of separate images and combined them into one. The Friendship looked small and potentially vulnerable against the great blackness. “Isolated though he is, the Hudathan has proven far too effective for his own good. I plan to eliminate him . . . and do so in a very public manner. With Doma-Sa dead—the votes we require will hurry to find us.”

  “How?” the Drac demanded.

  “Patience,” the Ramanthian counseled. “You must have patience. Isn’t that right, Horgo?”

  The War Orno stepped forward into the light. Like all of his kind, the Ramanthian’s vital organs were protected by an extremely hard brown-black exoskeleton. He possessed an elongated head, short antennae, a parrotlike beak, and a pair of seldom-deployed wings. He wore black body armor secured by bright metal links. A sword had been strapped across his back, and Horgo wore two hand weapons, butts forward. His rarely heard voice was deep and menacing. “Yes, lord. That is correct.”

  The Starlight Ballroom could handle up to one thousand guests, all protected by an immense transparent dome. The planet Arballa hung like a jewel beyond the armored plastic. Only one corner of the vast space was currently in use. About sixty beings, who represented more than a dozen different races, stood in conversational clumps where they sipped, sucked, snorted, and otherwise ingested a wide variety of mildly intoxicating substances, snacked on a variety of exotic hors d’œuvres, and told each other lies.

  All except for one lonely figure who knew he should mingle—but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. He stood with his back to a durasteel bulkhead, his feet planted firmly on the deck, wishing he were dead. Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa had rendered many services to his now beleaguered race—but none involved more personal sacrifice than his presence at President Nankool’s cocktail party. He not only hated such occasions but hated them with every fiber of his 350-pound body.

  The food was disgusting, by his standards at any rate, and the conversation was highly political, which was to say full of poorly disguised flattery, outrageous gossip, and carefully calculated untruths. All of which went against the Hudathan’s instincts.

  Still, that was the price that had to be paid if he ever hoped to gather the support necessary to lift the blockade that currently confined his people to their home world. A chaotic place where a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary caused the planet Hudatha to have a wildly unpredictable climate, and threatened the survival of the race. Just as humans threatened it, Ramanthians threatened it, and every other sentient race threatened it. Not because of anything they had done, but because they existed, and might cause harm.

  All of which explained why Triads long dead had considered it necessary to attack and destroy the very races with which Doma-Sa now mingled. Stupid races for the most part, who, had they truly understood the nature of his race, would have killed every Hudathan they could find and sterilized the planet from which they came. But they were incapable of such pragmatism, which was good for him.

  “So,” a voice said, “which ones would you like to kill most, and in what order?” The joke, because the Hudathan had learned enough about humans to recognize it as such, demonstrated an almost scary understanding of the way he felt. Was he that transparent? The possibility frightened Doma-Sa as he turned to face Sergi Chien-Chu.

  The industrialist’s biological body had expired many years before. That’s why his brain and a length of spinal cord were housed in an otherwise synthetic body. A vehicle quite similar to the original. The face had a rounded, slightly Asian cast to it, the body was pleasantly plump, and the clothing was simple verging on plain. A look that was nearly Hudathan in its simplicity. Doma-Sa’s expression changed only fractionally, but the human recognized the alien equivalent of a smile. “I would leave you till the last.”

  Chien-Chu laughed in spite of the fact that the jest contained a strong element of truth. Doma-Sa had a large humanoid head, the suggestion of a dorsal fin that ran along the top of his skull, funnel-shaped ears, and a rigid mouth. His skin was gray, but would turn white should the temperature drop, and black were it to rise.

  Chien-Chu glanced to his left and right, assured himself that they were as free from surveillance as one could be on the Friendship, and took the opportunity to share his news. “My niece came aboard three hours ago. The Thraki tried to assassinate her.”

  Doma-Sa liked Maylo, as much as he liked any non-Hudathan, and his face grew hard. “Then they must die.”

  “They already have,” Chien-Chu said gravely, “thanks to General Bill Booly. The larger problem remains, however. Who sent them? And why?”

  “The cabal,” Doma-Sa answered with certainty. “The Thraki were used.”

  “Yes,” the cyborg agreed. “Albeit willingly-as part of their own grand scheme. Even though you exposed their intention to use the Confederacy as a shield—they continue to move the plan forward. There was a time when we could have forced them to leave, but that was prior to the mutiny, and the subsequent rebellion. They have five thousand ships, not counting what the cabal can bring to bear, which leaves Earth badly outnumbered.”

  The Hudathan offered a human-style shrug. “I am aware of these facts . . . why review the obvious?”

  “Because,” Chien-Chu said, “I have an idea. A solution nearly as dangerous as the threat itself . . . but one that . . .”

  The human never got to finish his sentence. A body brushed past his, stepped forward, and sprayed what looked like red paint onto the front of the Hudathan’s robe.

  Chien-Chu took a step backwards, realized who the interloper was, and heard the War Orno speak. The words had a rehearsed quality. “You have not only slandered the Ramanthian race, but sullied the house of Orno, and taken liberties with our private communications. Honor has been lost . . . and honor must be restored.”

  Had the room fallen silent a fraction of a second before the challenge was issued? Chien-Chu thought that it had, which would mean that at least some of the bystanders had been warned, and were waiting for the confrontation to unfold.
A quick check confirmed that Senator Orno, flanked by Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven and Grand Admiral Andragna, were watching from a hundred feet away. First Maylo, the industrialist thought to himself, now this.

  Doma-Sa looked down at the stain on his chest then up into the Ramanthian’s hard insectoid eyes. The entire room held its breath as the Hudathan allowed the silence to build. Finally, when some doubted his capacity to speak, the diplomat gave his response. “Challenge accepted.”

  There was a sucking sound as the oxygen breathers inhaled. The War Orno bowed and straightened again. “The choice of weapons is yours.”

  The silence built once again. What would the Hudathan choose? What would any of them choose? Energy weapons? Slug throwers? Dart guns? Each had merit.

  Doma-Sa smiled but very few of them recognized the expression as such. Most saw what looked like a predatory grin. “Swords.”

  There were gasps of surprise, the quick buzz of commentary, and a variety of stares.

  Horgo was taken aback. Though something of an expert with the sword, he had assumed that if the diplomat agreed to fight, it would be with something less personal. A weapon that would put some distance between the combatants and serve to even the odds. This was good news indeed. The duel would be short. Pleased by his good fortune, the War Orno bowed for the second time and backed away. “The surface of Arballa—two days from now.”

  Doma-Sa nodded. “Two days from now.”

  Chien-Chu sighed. The trap had been set and sprung. Would the quarry escape? Only time would tell.

  It was a small compartment, just off President Nankool’s living quarters, and frequently used for gatherings such as this one. Candlelight glinted from real silver, a Turr symphony could be heard in the background, and the meal was half over. President Marcott Nankool was a rather bland man who took too much pleasure in ceremonial meals, and looked a bit bloated.