By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  Jepp remembered the text, turned toward the holo, and discovered it was dark. Then, before he could give the matter further thought, the shuttle flared in for a landing. The human sought his space suit. There were heathens to convert—and God was waiting.

  There were sixty-seven youngsters in a line that wound away from the Spirit of Gatha and out toward the perimeter of the crater. They were clad in spacesuits, bulky af fairs with which they were well acquainted and decorated to their liking. Some bore markings, some sported text, and others had been painted in fanciful ways.

  Lis was one of the oldest and, along with some other sixteen-year-olds, nominally in charge. It was her job to bring up the rear, urge laggards to greater speed, and keep an eye on the robot assigned to erase their tracks.

  A little one, no more than five, tripped on something. He went head over heels, hit the dry, powdery soil, and sent a wail over Channel Two. Were the machines listening? It was best to assume that they were.

  Lis hurried to pick the youngster up, rapped on his faceplate, and gestured for silence. Wonderfully, amazingly, he obeyed. She put the cub down and looked back over her shoulder. The sweeper, oblivious as to the reason behind its current assignment, continued to run backwards, as it erased its tracks.

  Satisfied that the machine was operating properly, Lis turned and hurried to catch up. A male named Rak had set the pace—and the little ones had a hard time trying to keep up. Legs pumped, arms windmilled, and dust marked their passage. Would it settle before the machines arrived? And did she really care? Subcommander Homa was her father—and would die with all the rest. No, they hadn’t told her that, but didn’t need to. It, like most of the really important events in her life, needed no explanation.

  Another youngster went down. A pair of ten-year olds pulled her back up, and the column wound in among some ancient rocks. Many were quite large. The ground sloped upward now, reaching toward the crater’s rim, leaving the flat behind. Lis slipped, managed to regain her footing, and looked back over her shoulder.

  The robot had stalled. Its drive wheels threw plumes of dirt up into the airless atmosphere as it struggled to find purchase. Lis said a word she wasn’t supposed to say, directed the youngster to proceed without her, and waited to make sure. He waddled up the slope. An eight-year-old saw and took his hand.

  Conscious of how the seconds were ticking away, Lis dashed down the slope, eyed the robot, and knew the situation was hopeless. The maintenance unit had been designed to operate within the confines of a spaceship and couldn’t handle the uneven terrain.

  Something flashed off to the east. The sun reflecting off a rock face? Or the hull of an incoming shuttle? Lis threw herself forward, hit the robot with her shoulder, and pushed to machine over. It hit the dirt and struggled to right itself. She slapped the kill switch. The robot went inert, the youngster showered the machine with dirt, and fell facedown as a shadow slipped past.

  The shuttle, which shimmered with light, dropped toward the ground. Had the machines been able to spot her? Lis didn’t think so—but hurried anyway. The ground rose in front of her, the incoming air rumbled in her ears, and sorrow filled her heart.

  Convoy Commander Pol Bay Seph met her visitors at the main lock. They were different from what she had expected : two biologicals and a robot of Thraki origins. Where were the fire-breathing shiny-assed machines? It really didn’t matter, not if the aliens had the power to negotiate for the machines, which apparently they did. Both removed their helmets. The larger of the two spoke. His robot handled the translation. “Hello, my name is Jepp, Jorely Jepp, and this is Veera. The Hoon asked that we speak with you.”

  Though a bit misleading, the human felt the lie was justified. He realized that the Thraki was female, guessed she was older rather than younger, and saw the intelligence in her eyes. She offered some sort of gesture. “You are welcome ... especially if your presence will help to avoid bloodshed.”

  “It may,” Jepp answered agreeably, “God willing.”

  “One never knows what games the gods may play,” Seph said politely. “Come ... let’s find a more comfortable place to talk.”

  The Thraki led their guests down a passageway, and Veera, who had no role in the negotiations, took everything in. She noticed that in spite of the fact that the ship was in good repair the fittings bore the patina of hard use.

  Another item that attracted the Prithian’s attention was the considerable number of robots deployed throughout the ship and their degree of sophistication. Based on travels with her father, Veera knew that most spacefaring sentients had such machines, but couldn’t remember another race that was quite so dependent on them or had taken the science of robotics so far.

  It seemed that most members of the crew had what amounted to pet robots, which scurried, pranced, rolled, and jumped wherever they chose. The result of all this activity was a sort of benign chaos that Veera found annoying but the Thraki seemed completely unaware of. Not Sam, however, who uttered a squeak of delight, jumped off Jepp’s shoulder, and joined a round of wall tag. Veera had the distinct feeling that these observations all added up to something, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Commander Seph took a turn and led the visitors into a relatively large space. It looked and felt like a communal living room. She gestured toward some amorphous looking chairs. “You are welcome to sit... although I’m not sure how comfortable you’ll be.”

  Jepp eyed the furniture, decided it was too small to support him, and did his best to sound friendly. “I’m afraid you are correct. Besides, our pressure suits would get in the way, and we don’t have enough time to remove them. May I be frank?”

  “Of course,” Seph answered smoothly, wondering how the youngsters were doing. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”

  “Thank you,” Jepp replied. “Here’s the situation... The Sheen are governed by a machine intelligence called the Hoon. It has orders to destroy the Thraki race.”

  Seph felt a crevasse open at the pit of her stomach. Contrary to the dictates of both logic and common sense, she had allowed herself to hope—that the stories were wrong, that the machines had changed, that something good would happen. Fur rippled away from her eyes. “Then why did you come? To tell us our fate?”

  The words had a hard almost metallic edge to them. The human didn’t blame her. “No, that was not our purpose. I came to ask that you embrace the one and only all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful God.”

  Like 99 percent of her race Seph believed in a pantheon of gods and considered the god the alien described to be patently impossible. After all, how could one god, no matter how capable, possibly handle the running of the universe ? The idea was laughable. Still, there were the children to consider, and if the alien proved sufficiently gullible, the rest of the convoy as well. “One god? What an interesting notion. Tell me more.”

  Veera, whose father had trained her to look for lies, watched in silent amazement as the ex-prospector turned amateur messiah not only fell for the Thraki’s attempt at deception, but proceeded to spew the same line of nonsense he had tried on her.

  It took the human the better part of twenty minutes to rattle off all the stuff about how the machines were a gift from God, the mission to which he alone had been called, and the opportunity that stretched before them. “I can save your souls,” Jepp said importantly, “and deliver them to the Lord.”

  “We accept,” Seph answered earnestly. “What should we do?”

  This was a much different response from the one given by the earlier group that Jepp had encountered. He was surprised. Very surprised. “Really? You mean it?”

  “Yes,” Seph lied fervently, “I do. Save our souls from the Sheen, and give them to the one all-knowing God.”

  The words summoned up images of a triumphant Jepp presenting a gift to God. This was it! The moment he’d been waiting for! “God bless you, Commander—and all your people. My assistant and I will return to the shuttle where we can petition the Hoon. A warning,
however—the machine is stubborn. It may be necessary to tell a few untruths.”

  Seph struggled to control her expression, realized it wouldn’t mean anything to the creature in front of her, and let the matter go. The alien was an idiot, and she couldn’t imagine why the Sheen continued to put up with him. “Really ? What sort of untruths?”

  Jepp appeared hesitant. “That you and your companions are not only renegades—but willing to aid the Sheen.”

  “Of course,” Seph replied calmly. “Do as you must.”

  Jepp, victory almost in his grasp, was eager to leave. Real live converts! Doubters? Yes, almost certainly, but that would change. He knew that it would.

  Seph saw the aliens to the hatch and waited for it to close. She turned to Subcommander Homa. “The little ones? Where are they?”

  Homa, acutely aware of the fact that one of the youngsters was his, discovered the lump in his throat. He struggled to swallow it. “They made it to the edge of the crater—and hid among the rocks.”

  Seph looked her subordinate in the eyes. She had never produced any offspring of her own—but could imagine how the other officer felt. “The alien is a fool. The Hoon will refuse. The Sheen will attack.”

  Homa met her gaze. “If you are correct, and they attack from space, the little ones will be killed.”

  “Exactly,” Seph agreed. “Unless we run.”

  “Which would force them to chase us,” Homa said thoughtfully. “Saving the cubs but negating any possibility that the machines will accept your lies.”

  “So,” Seph said gently, “what should we do?”

  Homa felt a great upwelling of sorrow, for the daughter he would never see again, for himself, and for the entire Thraki race. Why? Why did the machines continually hunt them? The priests offered platitudes but no one really knew. All of it was so stupid and unnecessary. The words were little more than a croak. “We must run.”

  Seph, who felt strangely detached, bowed her head. “I’m sorry old friend—but I’m forced to agree.”

  As the Hoon listened to the human’s rantings with a minute part of its consciousness, it also monitored streams of data from even the most distant parts of its far-flung body. That’s how the AI knew when the Thraki convoy started to power up. It seemed that the biological’s plan had failed, a rather predictable outcome that confirmed the Hoon’s preexisting bias: Though mostly harmless, and occasionally useful, Jepp was an idiot. That being the case, the computer intelligence ordered the human’s shuttle to lift, severed the incoming communication, and ordered his forces to attack. They confirmed the nature of his instruction, and insofar as the Hoon was concerned, the incident was over.

  Jepp staggered and nearly lost his footing as the shuttle pushed the planet away. Veera, who had been serving as interpreter, quit in midsentence and was quick to strap herself in. The human looked left and right. “What’s happening? I demand to know! Veera... Sam... tell the Hoon.”

  The teenager warbled to the robot. It answered in kind. Jepp collapsed into the ill-fitting seat. “Switch to standard, damn you! And hurry up.”

  “The Hoon broke the connection,” Veera said simply. “That’s his way of ending a conversation.”

  “But the Thraki!” Jepp objected, “They are under my protection!”

  Veera could have said something regarding how much his protection was worth but chose to remain silent instead. Though not of his species, and not capable of tears, she knew how he felt. When the Thraki died, his dreams died with them.

  Lis and the other youngsters watched from the rocks as repellors stabbed the hard oxide-rich soil. The ships hovered head high until the in-system drives were engaged. Then, with the precision born of long practice, the spaceships accelerated away. With them went fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, friends, and more, never to be seen again. The battle, if that’s what the massacre could properly be called, would take place on the far side of the planet where the thin, nearly nonexistent atmosphere gave way to vacuum. A small mercy—but a meaningful one.

  The cubs, especially the younger ones, made little noises toward the backs of their throats. Lis thought about saying something, warning them to be quiet, but decided to let it go. There was only a limited chance that the machines would pick up on such a low-powered transmission.

  One of the males said, “Look!” and pointed toward the center of the crater.

  Lis looked, and there, exactly where her father’s ship had been, sat a cargo lighter. Like an egg in a nest. The vessel was small, very small, but capable of a hyperspace jump. It was gray, about the same temp as the surrounding rocks, and completely innocuous. Had a course been entered into the ship’s navcomp? Yes, she knew that it had.

  They waited for three long days before concluding that the battle was over and the Sheen had left. Slowly, almost reverently, the youngsters filed down out of the rocks and made their way toward the ship. It was only when they stopped to look up that Lis saw the name spray-painted across the bow. It was hers.

  14

  I always say that, next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained.

  Attributed to the Duke of Wellington

  Standard year circa 1815

  Clone World BETA-018, the Clone Hegemony

  Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan, who, as the senior officer on the ground, had the dubious honor of commanding all Thraki forces stationed on Clone World BETA-018, secured the fasteners on his standard-issue parka, waited for the form to climb onto his shoulder, and left the relative comfort of his office. Metal clanged under his boots as he crossed the catwalk that bisected the cavern and eyed the fighters arrayed below. They were Owana III Interceptors and, like the admiral himself, had seen long, hard service.

  The aerospace fighters were parked in two opposing rows. Wraithlike wisps of vapor leaked from the umbilicals that connected the ships to the ground-support systems. Some twenty transports, easily identified by their larger hulls, lurked deep within the shadows.

  The interceptors would be busy soon, Rawan reflected as he returned a technical’s salute, stepped onto a freight platform, and stabbed the “Down” button. His breath fogged the air as a motor whined, the lift jerked in protest, and sank toward the flight deck below. Ships had dropped in system, Confederate ships, with not a word of protest from the normally contentious Hegemony.

  The same clones who had welcomed his people with open arms only months before, had turned decidedly less hospitable of late, even going so far as to cut off communications. It didn’t require diplomatic credentials to understand why. The Hegemony feared that if the Sheen attacked their guests they would suffer as well.

  The officer could have felt bitter, could have felt betrayed, but didn’t. It seemed as if his people were destined to go friendless, to roam the stars forever, bereft of peace. The clones were nothing more than the latest manifestation of a hostile universe.

  The platform clanged to a stop, Rawan stepped off, and turned toward the cold gray light. It flooded through the cavern’s entrance and glazed the deck in front of him. Walking into the alien glow, then peering out over the semifrozen landscape, was part of his daily routine. Officers saluted from a distance, technicals went about their chores, and the robots ignored him. The admiral’s breath came in gasps as his lungs struggled to extract oxygen from the cold thin air. The medical officer claimed they would get used to it after a while, but Rawan had his doubts.

  A wrench clattered as the officer neared the opening. A cold, clammy wind caressed Rawan’s face and sent his hands into his pockets. The gloves he had intended to bring remained on his desk.

  Warning lights chased each other around the opening, deck icons warned of danger, and snowflakes swirled beyond. The sun struggled to push its pale yellow light through a corona of white mist and failed. Rawan stepped over the knee-high safety chain and paused to eye the twin energy cannons positioned to either side of the passageway. Stripped from a decommissioned cruiser and protected by localized energy shie
lds, they could defend against both aircraft and a ground assault. Even the Sheen would be forced to take such weapons seriously. It was a comforting thought. The admiral leaned into the wind and forced himself onto the outer platform. Moisture formed at the comers of his eyes and he blinked it away.

  Though technically classified as “Earth normal,” the Hegemony planet designated as BETA-018 was actually quite marginal, which had everything to do with why the clones allowed the Thraki to establish a colony there.

  The entrance, and the base to which it led, were located at the head of a U-shaped canyon, and, more than that, were roughly one hundred units off the ground. That meant that any pilot so foolish as to attack would have to fly between the computer-operated weapons positions that lined both walls of the valley and into the combined fire of the energy cannons that flanked the entrance. Not a pleasant prospect.

  The same thing would apply to ground forces, since Rawan and his staff had gone to considerable lengths to ensure that all of the defensive weaponry could depress their barrels and launch tubes far enough to reach the canyon floor.

  In addition to those precautions, Rawan had laid a minefield across the canyon’s mouth, ordered his robots to construct a variety of obstacles, and even gone so far as to prepare trenches for the six hundred ground troops assigned to protect his air squadron.

  The wind renewed its assault on the officer’s face and only the fact that the Thraki had short, bristly fur prevented him from getting frostbite. He stared down into the valley below but was unable to see his marines. Because their camouflage was so good? Or because he was getting old?

  Whatever the reason Rawan feared that the ground forces represented the chink in his armor. The navy was strong, very strong, thanks to hundreds of years spent fighting duels with the Sheen, but the ground arm was weak and relatively inexperienced. Just one of the things that explained his Runner sympathies.