By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  The Thraki went limp and, in doing so, blocked access to the shaft. Security troops struggled to pull him free, swore when his pistol belt caught the edge of the hatch, and stumbled backward as the corpse came loose. That gave the Naa the seconds they needed to land on the steel mesh that protected the slow-moving fan, release their ropes, and prepare to fight.

  The Thraki were still recovering, still struggling to stand, when a grenade landed amongst them. One saw the object, started to reach, and ceased to exist. The explosion tore bodies asunder and painted the bulkheads with blood.

  The scouts wasted little time signaling for the group to come down and pushed their way out through the hatch. That’s when Hillrun realized that someone was missing. He looked upwards and saw the dangling body. Quickhand Knifemake—dead at twenty-five.

  Someone yelled “Stand clear!” and cut the rope. Metal clanged as Knifemake’s body hit the mesh. A replacement rope tumbled the length of the shaft and swayed as a Hudathan started down.

  Hillrun stooped to unclip the handmade combat knife from the scout’s harness, made a promise to return the weapon to the warrior’s family, and ducked out through the hatch. The carnage was sickening, even for a veteran like Hillrun, and he averted his eyes. He felt sorry for the Thraki and knew the same thing could happen to him. Would happen if he wasn’t careful. The first thing to do was to establish some sort of defense perimeter. The Thrakies would send reinforcements soon, and the majority of Red Team was still on the surface. The NCO eyed his surroundings. “Fareye, Warmfeel, take that end of the corridor. Block the point where it turns. Surekill... come with me. We’ll take the other end.”

  Lieutenant Seeba-Ka followed the Naa down, was glad when his boots hit the mesh, and swore when he saw the hatch. Though sufficiently large for a Naa, or the average human, there was no way in hell he was going to fit his bulk through that hole. He got on the radio. Red One to Red Team... I want humans first... Hudathans last. We need a laser torch down here... and I mean now!”

  Private Lars Lasker was among the first humans sent down. He landed on the mesh, freed himself from the rope, and turned toward the hatch. One glance at the Hudathan officer and the Thraki-sized rectangle of light told him everything he needed to know. The legionnaire laughed, gave thanks for the protective visor, and ducked through the hatch.

  There were boot prints in the blood, and the legionnaire followed a set down the corridor to the point where the passageway took a sharp right-hand turn. Fareye and Warmfeel were waiting. They gestured. Lasker had no more than skidded to a stop when a bolt of energy hit the bulkhead to his left, made a black blotch, and left the odor of ozone floating on the air.

  “Shit!” Fareye exclaimed, not wanting to stick his head around the corner. “What the hell was that? Some sort of crew-served energy cannon?”

  “No such luck,” Lasker replied grimly. “Feel the deck.”

  The scouts followed the human’s suggestion, felt the floor vibrate, and looked at each other in alarm. “It’s a robot,” Warmfeel exclaimed, “or robots plural.”

  “Damn the fur balls anyway,” Lasker said darkly. “I heard they were into robots.”

  “Fur balls?” Fareye growled. “You got a problem with fur?”

  “Hell, no,” the human replied hurriedly. “You ever seen my back? I got more fur than you do.”

  “Let’s try to stay focused,” Warmfeel put in. “Are either one of you idiots packing a rollerball?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Lasker replied. “I’m toting a satchel of six.”

  “Well?” Fareye inquired sarcastically. “You gonna use them? Or send ’em to your momma?”

  “Sorry,” the human replied contritely, “here you go.”

  Another energy bolt hit the wall, heat washed over the legionnaires, and air thumped their eardrums. “Damn,” Fareye complained, dipping into the haversack. “This bastard is starting to piss me off! Let’s see how the sonofabitch likes these babies...”

  Just as the name would suggest the rollerballs were spherical in shape. The Naa felt for the thumb-sized depression, pressed three times in quick succession, and tossed the weapon around the corner. It bounced off the opposite wall and caromed down the hallway. Three more followed. The explosions shook the walls.

  The legionnaires waited for a full thirty seconds before risking a peek. The rollerballs had accomplished their purpose. The attack robot was down. That’s when the newly liberated Seeba-Ka arrived, eyed the mass of twisted metal, and frowned. “So what the hell are you waiting for? A thank you note from General Booly? Let’s move out.”

  Ice crackled, snow crunched, treads clattered, engines roared, and explosions pushed fountains of soil high into the air as a pair of Hudathan cyborgs advanced toward the end of the canyon. They operated side by side, tracks pushing them forward, while arm-mounted rollers applied pressure to the half-frozen ground. Mines blew in response, a path was cleared, and the rest of Blue Team followed behind.

  Captain McGowan stood atop the second quad back, braced herself against the side-to-side motion, and checked her wrist term. Blue Team was still on schedule, but just barely, and the hard part lay ahead.

  Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov materialized at her side. He was a little man, no more than five-foot-five, but nobody thought about him that way. His face, sorrowful even during the best of times, looked positively funereal now. “No offense ma’am, but if you park your butt up here, the Thraki will blow it off.”

  McGowan laughed. “What are you trying to say, Sergeant? That the target’s so big they couldn’t miss?”

  Kreshnekov shook his head. His expression remained the same. “No, ma’am. I’m saying that we’re coming up on those automated weapons positions, and the moment you die Lieutenant Seebo will assume command.”

  The comment, which bordered on disrespectful, would have been cause for rebuke had it originated from another NCO. But McGowan had known Kreshnekov for a long time, and that made a difference. Neither put much trust in Seebo. She grimaced. “Point taken, Sergeant. Button it up.”

  Weapons Emplacement 14 took its orders from the Command and Control computer located deep within the Thraki complex, but had its own localized intelligence as well, to lighten Central’s load and provide tactical redundancy. Sensors registered heat and movement. Scanners checked the atmosphere and detected no signs of incoming aircraft. Convinced that it was safe to engage surface targets, the computer brought 14’s weapons on line, and ordered the target lasers, energy cannon, and launch racks to tilt downward. The computer confirmed a lock, checked with Central, and opened fire. Emplacements 12, 13, and 15 did likewise.

  Energy beams stuttered toward the ground, missiles raced to their targets, and the valley seemed to explode. Sheltered as his brain tissue was by layers of steel armor, the heavy known as Bak Borlo-Ba took note of the incoming ordinance but was more annoyed than frightened. That kind of fear, the type associated with the possibility of physical harm, had been left with his biological body. The sense of invulnerability was deceptive—he knew that—and had been warned to be on the lookout for it, but felt it anyway. Columns of snow-tinged dirt soared into the air. A quad exploded, killing all of those within. Steel fell like rain.

  Borlo-Ba thought death toward those who sought to harm him. Servos whined as a pair of tubes rose and spun to the right. The Hudathan’s energy cannon burped coherent light, pulverized rock squirted away from the canyon wall, and pebbles clattered across the top of the hull.

  The attack, which had been coordinated by Central, met with a well-orchestrated response. By using hardware and software developed for that very purpose, the borgs were able to construct a temporary or “flying” parallel processor that divided the overall problem into subtasks and worked them simultaneously.

  Return fire was prioritized, coordinated, and adjusted. Emplacement 12 was the first to go off-line, quickly followed by 14, which took two missiles in quick succession. It opened like an orange-yellow flower. The sound of the explosion
was still bouncing back and forth between the canyon walls when the surviving cyborgs entered the maze of obstacles.

  Corporal Norly Snyder found the first tank trap the hard way by guiding her enormous body out onto what looked like solid ground, only to have it give way beneath her. The pit, which had been dug based on intelligence obtained from the Hegemony during the early days of the clone-Thraki alliance, was a perfect fit. Though only ten feet deep, it was sufficient to prevent Snyder from climbing out without assistance.

  The mine, which exploded the moment she landed on it, settled the matter. Her armor held, protecting the troops riding in her belly, but the cyborg’s right rear leg was damaged beyond repair.

  McGowan, who along with Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov, was among those riding in Snyder’s cargo compartment, felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, swore when the barrel of her assault rifle tagged her chin, and knew something was wrong. The explosion, which she experienced as a dull thump, served to confirm that impression. She activated the intercom. “Snyder? What the hell happened?”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the cyborg replied sheepishly, “but I fell into some sort of pit. A mine blew one of my legs off.”

  “Any tissue damage?”

  “No, ma’am. I feel stupid that’s all.”

  “Could happen to anyone,” the officer replied. “How ’bout the Gatling gun? Is it still operational?”

  “Green to go,” Snyder replied eagerly. “It will clear the edge of the pit if I push it all the way up.”

  “Then do so,” McGowan instructed. “Watch for friend-lies, mark your field of fire, and stand by. The traps are there for a reason. We can expect a counterattack any moment now.”

  “Roger that,” the quad acknowledged grimly. “I’ll be ready.”

  McGowan replied with two clicks of the switch and nodded to Kreshnekov. “Is everyone okay? Let’s bail out.”

  The rear hatch whined open, boots thundered down the ramp, and a familiar cry was heard. “Camerone!”

  McGowan joined the response. “CAMERONE!”

  Section Leader Hak Brunara prepared himself to meet the gods. Like all the Thraki under his command, the marine had never fought an actual engagement before and knew that most, if not all, of the enemy troops had.

  Now, with half of their cybernetic vehicles trapped in the maze, and the rest backed up behind them, battle-tested infantry were boiling up out of the pits, trenches, and channels that cut the snow-crusted ground.

  Even as Brunara stood, even as he signaled the advance, the section leader knew the transports were being loaded. Many would escape, would live to see their loved ones, but not him. Everything seemed so bright, so very, very clear as the marine yelled “Advance!” and led his troops into battle. Snowflakes caressed his face, bullets ripped through his chest, and light flooded his mind. The gods ...

  Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo-872 was pissed. Consistent with his worst suspicions, the Hudathan heavy had wandered into a labyrinth of concrete barriers where it had been ambushed by a Thraki antiarmor team. They were dead—but the problem lived on. How to take the objective with minimum casualties to his clone brothers? The answer presented itself in the form of Gunnery Sergeant Rolly True Bear’s leathery face. “The heavy is dead, sir—that’s the way it seems anyway—and we’re taking fire.”

  Armor rang as bullets bounced off the Hudathan hull. “Thanks for the intelligence summary,” Seebo said sarcastically. “Genius, pure genius. Now that you have proved your worth as a strategist—it’s time to earn your spurs as a tactician. Take your people out there and secure our perimeter.”

  True Bear looked the officer up and down. Seebo appeared small in the Hudathan-sized seat. The legionnaire’s voice dripped with contempt. “Sir! Yes, sir. Let us know when you boys are ready to come out. We’ll be waiting.”

  True Bear turned and nodded to Dietrich. The grenadier hit a saucer-sized button. Servos whined, double doors opened outwards, and the noncom waved to his troops. “Vive le Legion!”

  Dietrich hung back as the rest of his platoon double-timed out through the hatch, waited for the doors to swing inward, and nodded to the clones. “See ya later assholes ... sweet dreams.”

  Lieutenant Seebo saw the legionnaire’s mouth move, saw something fly between the steadily closing doors, and heard the grenade clatter across the metal deck.

  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 Haru 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 Zynig-47.

  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. Tyspin’s shoes made a clacking sound as she marched the length of the corridor. A somewhat bored voice announced that the mid-watch 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 T
hraki 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 Chien-Chu, 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 Zynig-47. 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.”

  Booly 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 Seeba-Ka.”

  Tyspin stood. “Aye, aye, sir. Anything else?”

  Booly looked around him. “Yeah, tell the OOD to watch for the next in-bound message torp, and blow it up.”

  Lieutenant Seeba-Ka 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.