By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  The lifeboat’s interior was somewhat spartan. An emergency services droid stood motionless at the rear of the compartment. A forehead-mounted “Ready” light blinked on and off. There were overhead bins packed with supplies, pressure suits racked along the bulkheads, and rows of adjustable seats. Maylo sat on one, heard a whirring noise, and felt it conform to the shape of her body. Six took the chair opposite hers. “So,” the executive continued, tell me more ... What’s on your mind?”

  The clone forced his thoughts away from the way she looked and focused his mind on business. The business of politics. “I know that you know there’s been a schism within our government. It would be hard to miss. What you don’t know, or I hope you don’t know, is how deep it went.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice the use of the past tense,” Maylo observed. “Has the schism been healed?”

  The senator shrugged. “No, not yet. I think such a thing is possible, however, remembering that I’m something of an optimist. The essence of the situation is this: Alpha Clones Magnus and his brother Pietro allowed themselves to be drawn into an alliance with the Thraki in hopes that the aliens would serve as a counter to the cabal’s steadily growing influence. A situation the Hegemony could have avoided by steering clear of the conspiracy in the first place. My sponsor, the Alpha known as Antonio opposed the plan—but lost the vote.

  “During the period immediately after Magnus and Pietro authorized the alliance with the Thraki, the aliens took possession of Zynig-47 and were allowed to establish military bases on a number of our sparsely settled planets.

  “The strategy, as conceived by my brother Ishimoto-Seven, was that anyone who attacked the Hegemony would be in the position of attacking the Thraki as well, and, given the size of their armada, would have second thoughts.”

  “A strategy your leaders have since come to regret,” Maylo finished for him. “Especially in light of the fact that the Sheen are headed this way—and seem bent on destroying the very armada that you spoke of.”

  “Exactly,” the politician agreed. “Which equates to a one-of-a-kind opportunity. This is the time to speak, to offer countervailing counsel, and turn them around.”

  Maylo nodded. “What you say makes sense ... But why tell me?”

  His eyes locked with hers. “If, and I repeat if, we are able to convince Magnus and Pietro of the truth, we’ll need Nankool’s support. The Thraki value their bases and will strive to keep them.”

  “And you believe that I can secure Nankool’s support?”

  The clone nodded. “Yes, but more than that, I want you to accompany me home. Your experience, your views, and your connections will add weight to my arguments ... We must convince the Alpha Clones that if they change, if they break with the cabal, the Confederacy will take us in.” His eyes pleaded with her. “So, will you come?”

  Maylo felt a rising sense of excitement. If the Sheen were on their way, and should they turn out to be even half as powerful as the Thraki claimed that they were, the Confederacy would need every bit of strength that it could muster. The Hegemony, along with its highly developed military, could make an important difference. Her uncle would want her to go.

  There was another reason however—one that had more to do with him than politics. Maylo smiled. “Yes, I’ll come.”

  The two of them left after that, but the emergency services robot stayed where it was, waiting to repeat what it had seen and heard.

  Exhausted by the long hours he’d been keeping, and still grieving over the War Orno’s untimely death, the Ramanthian senator retired to his warm, somewhat humid quarters.

  The politician noticed the ultraviolet message light, decided to remove his computer-assisted contact lenses, and saw the light replicate itself dozens of times. He had grown used to the transition but it still made him dizzy.

  Orno listened to the message, listened again, and wondered how two seemingly intelligent beings could be so stupid. Meeting in a lifeboat, discussing how they had mated with each other, then switching to politics. It made him feel unclean. Well, there was a solution for that, one of the few pleasures the Ramanthian allowed himself.

  The politician made his way back to his private quarters, took pleasure in the low murky light, and released his robes. The garment was left for a drone to deal with while he shuffled toward the sand bath. Though smaller than the ones typical of dwellings on his native planet, the transparent duraplast box was functional nonetheless. The Ramanthian entered, descended a set of stairs, and mounted the equivalent of a stool. The switch was located next to his left pincer. The Orno triggered the prewarmed sand, and felt it rise around him, and experienced something verging on bliss.

  Then, when the finely grained stuff lapped around his neck, it stopped. That’s when the entire mass started to vibrate, each grain acting like a tiny scrub brush, removing dirt while it polished his chitin. The senator allowed his mind to drift and knew that it was here, within the warm embrace of the sand, that some of his most inspired schemes had been hatched. And, painful though the knowledge was, the Orno realized that some of his worst plans had been concocted there as well, as measured by the extent to which they had been successful.

  Now, as he prepared to return home and report to the hive mother, it was necessary to evaluate the situation as dispassionately as she would.

  The plan to destabilize the Earth government, and thereby lessen the extent to which the humans controlled the Confederacy, had been successful initially, and might have achieved the desired end had it not been for the sudden reemergence of the damnable Chien-Chu, and for the meddling by Hiween Doma-Sa. A dangerous pair who had suddenly dropped from sight. Why? Where were they? And what were they up to? There was no way to be sure.

  What the Ramanthian did know was that the newly stabilized Earth government, plus the arrival of the Thraki, plus the threat posed by the Sheen had altered the political landscape. Yes, it would take idiots like Ishimoto-Seven and his ilk awhile to notice, but the nature of the game had changed.

  Certain elements within the Hegemony were in the process of reconsidering their options. The conversation between Ishimoto-Six and Maylo Chien-Chu was proof of that, and the possibility of war lurked just beyond the horizon. War between the clones and the Thraki, war between the Thraki and the Sheen, and war between the Sheen and the Confederacy.

  Should the Ramanthians choose sides? No, the politician decided, not with so many variables clouding the outcome. His race had been scavengers once and could so profit again. The most intelligent strategy was to pull back, allow the cabal to wither, and wait to see who or what reigned victorious. Then, their strength undiminished by war, his people would emerge to claim the worlds they so desperately needed.

  Orno settled into the sand and allowed the substance to take most of his weight. Warmth sought his center. Yes, the Ramanthian decided, there are times to act and times to wait. The trick was knowing the difference. Sleep pulled him down.

  Clone world Alpha-001 was extremely Earthlike in keeping with the nearly endless edicts laid down by the Hegemony’s founder Dr. Carolyn Anne Hosokowa. Though beautiful when viewed from orbit, the surface of the planet was less attractive from thirty-five thousand feet, and even less so as the courier ship came in for a landing. Not because of some failure on nature’s part but due to what human beings had done to it.

  Maylo watched with a growing sense of dread as the carefully laid out farms gave way to low-slung factories and rank after rank of identical high-rise buildings. They looked like what they were meant to be: cold, cost-effective boxes in which workers were “stored” during nonproductive “rest and regeneration periods.”

  The business executive glanced sideways, saw the look of eager anticipation on Ishimoto-Six’s countenance, and was reminded of how adaptable human beings were. First, they had colonized every conceivable comer of their native world, and later, other planets as well. Even those that swirled with methane, were almost entirely clad in ice, or subjected them to 1.5 gees.
More than that, they frequently came to love them, like ducks that imprint on the first animate object they see, and claim it as their own. And here, where an effort had been made to establish the “perfect” society, one could expect to see even more of that. “Beautiful isn’t it?” Six inquired as the ship flared in for a landing.

  “Yes,” Maylo lied, remembering similar questions from Booly. He enjoyed looking at rank after rank of carefully arranged legionnaires ... and couldn’t understand her lack of interest. Men. They were the true aliens.

  There was a noticeable thump as the ship settled in. The senator’s assistant, Gorgin-Three, appeared at the center of the aisle and announced the obvious: “We’re on the surface now—I will check on the ground transportation.”

  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 in-system 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 roll-up 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 Chien-Chu, 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-11,212 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 push-up, 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 ear-ring 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.”r />
  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.