By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  “I could squirt some local in there,” the medic said cheerfully, “but the pain will be equivalent to a small incision. What’s your preference? Local or no local?”

  “Skip the local,” Booly replied grimly. “Just get on with it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the rating answered evenly. “Here goes . . .”

  She squinted her eyes, brought the blade down onto the surface of his skin, and cut a cross into the blister. Yellowish fluid jetted out followed by a small white head. It had tiny jet black eyes. The worm looked from left to right.

  The tech had been waiting for that moment and was quick to seize the parasite with some forceps. “Gotcha! Now, this is the difficult part,” she cautioned, “some people pull too hard. That’s when the head comes off . . . Makes for a nasty infection plus minor surgery. The trick is to wind the little bastard around a probe and reel his ass in.”

  Booly watched in queasy fascination as the young woman pulled inch after nauseating inch of worm out of his arm. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was finished. Then, with the parasite twisting and turning at the bottom of a kidney basin, it was time to disinfect the wound, close the incision, and apply a self-sealing dressing. “There you are, sir, good to go.”

  Booly thanked the tech, donned his shirt, and took one last look at the worm. It squirmed every which way. Kind of like the politicians he was about to deal with. His smile lasted all the way out into the corridor.

  Senator Orno was angry, very angry, as he entered the conference room, saw that he was first to arrive, and located the Ramanthian-style chair. A quick check revealed that the back adjustment was broken. It sometimes seemed as if everything he touched was cursed. The plan to destabilize Earth, and thereby weaken the Confederacy, had very nearly succeeded, would have succeeded, had his co-conspirators been more competent. Subsequent efforts, such as the plot to kill Doma-Sa, had proved equally disastrous. Still, he who tunnels must move some dirt, so that’s what he would do.

  Orno took his seat, preened the areas to either side of his beak, and allowed his mind to wander. It was spring in Hive’s northern hemisphere—and the politician wished he could see it.

  Doma-Sa stepped out of his cabin, checked to ensure that the hatch was locked, and strode down the corridor. Beings who had previously gone to considerable lengths to ignore the Hudathan nodded, smiled, or waved. All because their perceptions had changed. Now, after weeks of surprisingly positive media coverage, the Hudathans had miraculously been transformed from villains to heroes. Never mind the fact that they hadn’t changed in the least and viewed their new allies with the same level of paranoia reserved for the oncoming Sheen. The stupidity of their psychology astounded him. The entire lot of them were beneath contempt. Yet, there he was, nodding in return, giving the scum what they craved. The illusion of solidarity. Why? Because they had him by the testicles that’s why. Imagine! Hudathans fighting for a human general . . . The great Hiween Poseen-Ka never would have believed it.

  Ah well, the War Commander thought to himself, nothing lasts forever. Not even our shame. The thought brought comfort and put a bounce into his step.

  Senator Ishimoto-Six stabbed a button with his index finger, waited for the platform to arrive, and stepped aboard. It carried him upwards. Any number of things rode on the upcoming meeting: the safety of his people, his position as a senator, and the way in which Maylo perceived him—something he still wasn’t sure of. Which would be worse, the politician wondered. Failing my government? Or losing Maylo? Not that I have her. The platform coasted to a halt. Six nodded to a staffer and stepped out onto the deck. The corridor led him away. A younger version of the same man had fantasized about being at the center of things, about making a difference, and his dreams had come true. But what was the saying? Be careful what you wish for? You might just get it? Suddenly it made sense.

  The watch had changed, breakfast was over, and the Friendship’s corridors were relatively empty. A senator rushed past, nodded, and kept on going. Maylo Chien-Chu forced a smile. Her heels clacked on the deck. General William Booly had boarded the ship some twelve hours before and would chair the meeting. Ishimoto-Six would attend as well. The knowledge left a hollow place at the bottom of her stomach. It was silly, she knew that, but true nonetheless. Would Booly detect the nature of her relationship with Samuel? And why did she care? The officer was yesterday’s news . . . Or was he? Some very expensive lab-grown roses had arrived just a few days before. Right smack on the six-month anniversary of what amounted to their first date. Damn it! She was too old for this sort of crap. The executive cursed her own stupidity, increased her pace, and passed a maintenance bot. It scrubbed the deck.

  The conference room was packed by the time Booly arrived. There were familiar faces, like those that belonged to Admiral Angie Tyspin, the naval officer who had risked her life and career to help the 13th DBLE during the mutiny, Major, no Colonel Nancy Winters, his newly named chief of staff, Major Andre Kara, his interservice liaison officer, and CO of the 1st Foreign Regiment, Colonel Kitty Kirby, CO of the 13th DBLE, War Commander Wenlo Morla-Ka, CO of the newly integrated 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment, his superior, Ambassador Doma-Sa, Battle Leader Pasar Hebo, CO of the 4th Foreign Infantry Regiment, Senator Alway Orno, representing the Ramanthian government, General Jonathan Alan Seebo-346, CO of the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment, plus a lot of beings he hadn’t met, and last, but certainly not least, Maylo Chien-Chu.

  She sat toward the front of the room, next to Ambassador Doma-Sa, and smiled when his eyes made contact with hers. A spark jumped the gap, and the legionnaire remembered how those same eyes had stared up at him from the misery of a prison cell. And later, over a dinner table on a beach in Rio, and eventually in the warmth of his bed. What had gone wrong anyway? And how could he fix it?

  Winters cleared her throat, and Booly realized that he should have spoken by then. He forced a smile. “Good morning—if that’s what this is. Thank you for coming. We have a lot to accomplish, so let’s get started.”

  Booly paused and allowed his eyes to drift across the room. “This is a truly historic occasion. The creation of new alliances, the structures required to make them viable, and the problems that naturally follow.

  “As I look out on your faces, I see both soldiers and civilians. There are a number of different cultures represented here, so the mix may or may not seem natural to you. Please suspend whatever doubts you may have, and give the process a chance. We have very little time. Civilian support is critical. Without it, we cannot possibly win. It’s my belief that everyone must come to agreement on the overall strategy, and once that’s accomplished, the military will do its best to carry the plan forward. Does anyone have questions regarding that approach?”

  There were questions, niggling matters for the most part, as various beings sought to establish their importance, impress their counterparts, or simply exercise their mouth parts. Ishimoto-Six, who sat to Maylo’s right, tuned them out. He was much more interested in watching her out of the comer of his eye. And what the senator saw disturbed him. Her relationship with General Booly was over—everyone said so—but what of her eyes? They suggested something different.

  The clone looked at Booly. The soldier answered a question. The Sheen were coming—that was the point of the meeting—so what would happen then? Booly was brave—everyone agreed on that—which meant he would participate in the fighting. Perhaps the machines would kill him. It was a small thought, a horrible thought, but one he couldn’t shake.

  “So,” Booly said, “did I answer your questions? Good. Let’s move to the next step. The presentation materials have been downloaded to your personal comps so there’s no need to take a lot of notes. I would remind you that this material is secret and not for disclosure to anyone who hasn’t been cleared.”

  Orno listened to the translation, wondered if the last comment was directed at him, and decided it didn’t matter. The Thraki were the only party that might be interested, and they were lo
sers. Or would be, assuming Booly made the logical moves. “Here’s the situation,” Booly began, and turned to watch a holo bloom at his side. The star map, prepared with the aid of clones themselves, showed most of the Hegemony. “Reduced to the simplest possible terms, the Sheen have been chasing the Thraki for hundreds if not thousands of years, and plan to eradicate their race. Why? They aren’t sure, and neither are we.

  “Thraki politics revolve around two groups, the Runners, who favor continued flight, and the Facers, who want to turn and fight. About the time that the Thraki armada entered Hegemony-controlled space—the Facers took control of the government.”

  Conscious of the clones in the room—the officer chose his next words with care. “The Hegemony greeted the newcomers in what can only be described as a peaceful fashion, allowed them to establish some bases, and settled into what they assumed would be a peaceful coexistence.”

  All as part of a cynical attempt to use the Thraki against the Confederacy, Maylo thought to herself . . . Not that she blamed Booly for leaving that out—since his job was to strengthen the alliance not destroy it.

  “Unfortunately,” Booly continued, “the Hegemony had no way to know that the Thraki hoped to use them as a sacrificial pawn.”

  There was a pause while someone explained the game of chess to a Dweller at the back of the room. “More than that,” Booly went on, “it now appears that the Thraki hierarchy hoped to use the rest of the Confederacy in much the same manner. A plan that could still succeed if we allow them to remain where they are.

  “We don’t know a whole lot about the Sheen, only what the Thraki have chosen to share, and the report citizen Williams brought in. However, assuming that those reports are accurate, the machines are absolutely ruthless and will lay waste to any planet found to harbor the Thraki.”

  “So let’s go to Zynig-47 and root the bastards out,” the senator from Turr growled. “It would serve the unnamable interlopers right.”

  Booly had been expecting a comment of that sort and nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, it would. But there’s a problem. Even now, after the consolidation of our forces, the Thraki have more ships than we do. A lot more. Admiral Tyspin?”

  Tyspin rose and made her way to the front of the room. She wore a blue flight suit, the star that denoted her rank, but none of the many decorations to which she was entitled. Though not especially pretty, there was strength in her face, and her eyes gleamed with intelligence. They were green and swept the compartment like lasers. “What General Booly told you was correct . . . The Thraki fleet, or armada as they prefer to call it, consists of more than five thousand ships, plus auxiliary craft equivalent to shuttles, tugs, tankers and so on.”

  Tyspin pointed toward the holo that appeared next to her. A series of computer-rendered ships appeared. “The main body of the armada consists of supply ships, which might more accurately be referred to as ‘factory ships,’ since they carry raw materials plus the robotic machinery required to manufacture every item the fleet requires.

  “The factory vessels are protected by three types of warships roughly analogous to what we refer to as battleships, destroyers, and fighters, though of differing displacements. It should be noted that all of their vessels are equipped with standardized weapons and propulsion systems, something that gives them a logistical advantage and represents an area that we haven’t even started to address.”

  It was a telling point and one that some of the civilians hadn’t considered as yet. There were thousands of differences between the ships built on Hive, Earth, and Alpha-001, a factor that would add a great deal of complexity to any effort aimed at using them in a concerted fashion. Some, dismayed by what they heard, felt their hearts begin to sink.

  Tyspin scanned their faces. “Sorry, but that’s not the worst of it. Thanks to countless years of unremitting warfare the Thraki have evolved into a race of warriors, which, with the possible exception of the Hudathans, is something none of us can claim to be. That culture—that toughness—is a weapon in and of itself. Questions?”

  There was silence for a moment, followed by a voice from the back of the room. The figure who rose wore a black pressure suit, which made him instantly recognizable. The senator from the Drac Axis seemed to grind the words out. “Ships, many have we?”

  Tyspin was barely able to recognize the syntax as a question. She didn’t trust the Drac, knew they were among the least dependable members of the Confederacy, but had very little choice. To conceal such information, or seem to conceal the information, could weaken the already flimsy alliance. She could feel Booly, Maylo, and others staring at her, wondering how she would respond.

  “We are still in the process of assessing the extent of our assets—but current estimates run to about thirty-five hundred ships of various classes and sizes.”

  “Plenty should be,” the Drac gurgled. “Ships too many get in each other’s way.”

  “There’s some truth to what you say,” the naval officer conceded. “Large fleets require advanced command and control infrastructures and generate all manner of logistical problems. There is one additional factor, however . . . Besides the ships mentioned earlier, the Thraki possess a number of moon-sized arks—all of which are heavily armed. We on the other hand have nothing that even begins to compare with that sort of throw weight.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy the Drac, or at least silence him, because he took his seat. Booly stood. “Thank you, Admiral. Now, with that information in mind, let’s examine the alternatives.”

  The holo swirled and morphed into text. It dissolved from one language to another. “We have a number of choices,” Booly continued. “We could take no action whatsoever, hoping that the Sheen will ignore us, we can attempt an alliance with the Thraki, remembering their plans to use us, or we can pursue unilateral action. My staff and I recommend option three.”

  Booly paused and, not hearing any objections, took the next important step. “So, assuming we opt for unilateral action—some additional choices open up. We could wait to see what the Sheen do and react accordingly . . .”

  Senator Orno stood and gave himself permission to speak. “A reactive strategy is best—we fully endorse it.”

  Ishimoto-Six was well aware of the fact that his clone brother had been a member of the Ramanthian-sponsored cabal and felt the blood rush to his face. He came to his feet. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You’d like to see the machines attack Thraki colonies—some of which are on Hegemony worlds!”

  “Established with permission from your government,” the Ramanthian observed mildly. “Or had you forgotten?”

  “That’s enough,” Booly said firmly. “We’re here to establish a strategy ... not debate the past. Senator Ishimoto-Six is correct about one thing, however, the penalty for adopting a reaction-based strategy is that the Sheen may decide to attack some of our assets, leading to heavy casualties.”

  Maylo, who paid close attention to the debate, felt sorry for Six. It wasn’t his fault that the Hegemony had made itself vulnerable.

  Oblivious to what Maylo was thinking, the military officer continued. “All of which suggests a second alternative : Root the Thraki out of their bases so the Sheen have no reason to attack, realizing there are no guarantees—and that they may decide to come after us regardless of where the Thraki happen to be.”

  Doma-Sa had been silent up till then—but couldn’t remain so any longer. He lurched to his feet. “With all due respect, General—why be so subtle? The Thraki took Zynig-47 and are in the process of colonizing it. Let’s attack, take the planet back, and send them on their way. The chances are good that the Sheen will follow.”

  Booly, who was well aware of the Hudathan’s military background, gave a slight bow. “The Intaka, or ‘blow of death,’ mentioned by Grand Marshal Hisep Rula-Ka in his book Analysis of the Legion, is a proven strategy. And, if it weren’t for the arks that orbit Zynig-47, I’d be tempted.

  “However, I believe it was none other than the est
eemed warrior Mylo Nurlon-Da who said, ‘Lives are as arrows—fire no more than you can afford.’ ”

  Doma-Sa found himself not only neutralized, but honored, and possessed of new respect. Here was a human, one of the few, who deserved Hudathan troops. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, General. You have more than answered my question.”

  “So,” Booty concluded. “Here is the strategy that my staff and I recommend. With your permission and support, we intend to attack the Thraki colonies and allow most of the inhabitants to escape.”

  “Escape, allow them to?” the senator from Drac growled. “Mind, have you lost?”

  “No,” Booly answered patiently. “Why kill more of them than necessary? Or more of our troops for that matter ? Once dislodged, the colonists will run for Zynig-47.”

  “Providing the Sheen with a single target,” Ishimoto-Six said gratefully, “and sparing our planets.”

  Booly shrugged. “That’s the plan... but plans can and do go awry. For example, we assume that the machines operate in a logical manner, and are primarily interested in the Thraki. We could be wrong.”

  The meeting broke up shortly after that. Booly made eye contact with Maylo but was mobbed by back-patting, hand-shaking politicians. The businesswoman waited for a moment, realized it would take a long time for the room to clear, and made her way into the corridor. Ishimoto-Six was waiting. They walked toward the lift. “So, what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About General Booly’s plan.”

  Maylo shrugged. “I think it will be difficult, but if anyone can pull it off, he can.”

  Six glanced sideways. Was the statement what it seemed? A straightforward endorsement of a competent general? Or something more? He decided to take the chance. “Maylo ...”