By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  The other officer nodded. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. “Sir, yes sir. What do you think? Can we put a lid on things?”

  Booly shrugged. “Beats me, but we’ll give it a try. Come on ... the last one to board the shuttle gets to brief the Senate.”

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The planet Arballa was crowned with white, robed in brown, and floated on a sea of black. She was beautiful, very beautiful, and the naval officer liked to start each day by gazing at her from his command chair on the bridge and drinking his first cup of coffee, which, as the entire crew knew, was a critical component of his physical as well as psychological well being. Knowing that, they left him alone.

  Boone dreaded the day ahead. Until very recently, the Friendship and her coterie of warships, dispatch vessels, and freighters had the system pretty much to themselves. Now, as a variety of naval units dropped in-system, and took up defensive positions, his life had turned to shit. Not because of the ships themselves and the traffic problems they caused, but the officers who commanded them.

  Worst of all were two or three admirals, who, unhappy with the slot to which they had been assigned, or resentful due to some perceived breach of protocol, wanted to speak with his admiral, a rather crotchety individual named Mary Chang, who planned to retire in a year or so and enjoyed telling her peers to screw off. Fun for her, but not for Boone, since he’d have to deal with the victims of the old lady’s wrath long after she was gone. The naval officer sighed, took another pull from his coffee, and swore when the alarms went off. Reports flooded his earpiece.

  “Robotic sensors report a system incursion at Transit Points NS-426-021, 022, and 023. The first ships through register a 98.2 percent match for Thraki recon droids ...”

  “... Incoming transmission, sir, text only: ‘Greetings on behalf of the Thraki race—we come in peace.’ ”

  “Admiral Guinn on tight beam four, sir, requesting permission to engage.”

  Coffee forgotten, Boone eyed the bridge screens. Red deltas poured out of hyperspace and took up positions around three closely grouped Transit Points. Closely being defined as being within five-hundred thousand miles of each other.

  One of the recently arrived naval groups, the 404th Destroyer Wing, was stationed in close proximity to Transit Point 021 and was in the perfect position to attack. If there was a state of war, if the rules of engagement allowed for it, and if Boone had the balls to make that kind of call. The repercussions of any decision could and probably would be enormous. If Boone said no and the Thraki proceeded to attack, an important advantage would have been lost, along with who knew how many casualties, and perhaps the Friendship herself. If he said yes, and it turned out that the Thraki had been friendly, and a war resulted, he would be at fault.

  The naval officer gritted his teeth. Where the hell was Chang anyway? She was paid to make those kinds of decisions and as Chief Naval Officer In-System, (CNOIS) had responsibility for anything more than thirty-thousand feet above a planetary surface. But seconds were passing—and Guinn needed an answer. Boone had opened his mouth and was just about to speak when a familiar voice sounded in his ear. It was Chang. Still in her cabin, just out of the shower, dripping on the navy blue carpet. She was five feet tall, skinny as a rail, and in good shape. Her hair, which she had allowed to turn white, was worn in a crew cut. All the bridge communications were piped to her cabin where she monitored them via overhead speakers.

  “Tell Guinn to hold his goddamn fire ... but to remain at battle stations. Same for every other group in the system. Get the President on the horn. Tell the worthless bastard that we have visitors. Contact the fur balls ... Tell the little shits that if they so much as blow a sack of garbage through their disposal tubes we’ll blow their butts off. Got it?”

  “Ma‘am, yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. And tell my steward to get some breakfast in here ... I’m hungry.”

  The control area had the same subdued lighting—the same sense of carefully guarded quiet associated with great libraries. There was no sense of motion, the view screens were filled with electronic confetti, and the battleship could have been anywhere. Except that hyperspace was closer to nowhere than to somewhere. A diagrammatic control display claimed the forward bulkhead. Icons stood in for systems, colors conveyed status, and numbers provided data on everything from speed to time in transit.

  Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna looked up at the steadily dwindling numbers and saw that a little less than twelve temporal units stood between the present and the future of his race. Once the numbers disappeared, the battleship would emerge from hyperspace, reestablish communications with the rest of the subfleet, and ...”

  And what? The naval officer asked himself. There were so many possibilities ... The lead ships had emerged by now—into a heavily defended system. Were they fighting for their lives? While he sat and stared? Cursing his name as missiles flashed through the darkness, shields fell, and red-orange flowers blossomed in the darkness. Or had the Confederate ships withheld their fire? And allowed the Thraki vessels to enter? Anything was possible.

  The countdown rippled toward zero, systems were checked, and the crew went to battle stations. The precision of it made Andragna feel better. Defeats, like the one suffered on BETA-018, had occurred on the ground. Here, in deep space, the Thraki were at their best. No race had been persecuted as they had, fought a more relentless enemy, or won so many battles. They were warriors, tired warriors, but warriors nonetheless. The Confederacy would come to know that, and, assuming it survived, to respect it.

  Andragna had left all the moon-sized arks, plus fifteen-hundred of the armada’s best ships, to protect Zynig-47. That left him with more than three thousand vessels, less than what the Sheen could bring to bear, but more than the Confederacy could cobble together.

  Besides, the admiral thought to himself as the final moments ticked away, we have the twins, and if all else fails, they will see us through.

  The battleship lurched, stars flooded the screens, and communications came on-line. The first ship to follow the drones into the Araballazanie system was a destroyer commanded by Captain Algo Portatious. He knew what Andragna wanted and needed most. His face appeared on a com screen. The tone was lighthearted. He knew his peers would monitor the conversation and played to the invisible gallery. “Greetings, Admiral ... Welcome to assembly area one.”

  The officer’s demeanor spoke volumes. Andragna felt an enormous sense of relief. “Thank you. Is there anything to report?”

  Portatious offered the Thraki equivalent of a grin. “If threats were missiles we’d be dead by now.”

  The bridge crew laughed, and Andragna looked to his screens. With each passing temporal unit three more ships arrived. That’s how quickly his forces were entering the system. It wouldn’t be long before the defenders were outgunned. Then, with the Confederate vessels as a screen, the battle could begin. Would the Sheen take the bait? Yes, the naval officer thought to himself, as surely as the universe continues to expand.

  The Hoon, along with its electromechanical minions, had long been able to follow its prey through hyperspace, a capability that so far as it knew was completely unique. That’s why it had been able to track the Confederate ship back to its lair, record all of the necessary navigational data, and download it to the fleet.

  So now, as the Ninja hurtled through time and space, a long silvery snake followed behind. A snake comprised of countless Sheen ships all having the same destination.

  Tyspin, who had no way to know about the menace that followed, was on the bridge at the moment when the Ninja popped into normal space. Data rippled across previously vacant screens, the com techs struggled to deal with an avalanche of high priority com calls, and the naval officer did her best to take it in. The displays told the story.

  The Confederate forces, more than before, were clustered around well-established transit points, while a host of Thraki vessels had coalesced into three “war” glo
bes, all of which continued to grow as more ships arrived. The naval officer was still in the process of absorbing that, of dealing with it, when Captain Hashimoto yelled in her ear. “We’ve got trouble, Admiral! It looks like the Sheen managed to follow!”

  Tyspin struggled to combat the rising sense of panic. Follow? No, it wasn’t possible! Or was it? My god, what had she done?

  The Hoon answered the human’s unspoken question by ordering a wing of fighters to sweep past the Ninja, all flying in formation, blasting everyone with the same message. “Hold your fire! We come in peace!”

  It might have been ignored except for one extremely important factor: Rather than broadcast an image of itself, clad in a metallic body, the Hoon sent video of a human being instead. And not just any human being, but Jorley Jepp, who watched with slack-jawed amazement as his countenance appeared on the main com screen, and words poured from his mouth. Not his words but those that the Hoon had given the electronically generated doppelganger to say. The syntax was wooden, but who would know the difference?

  “Hello, my name is Jorley Jepp. The Sheen were kind enough to rescue me after my ship was destroyed. I have lived with them for many months. In spite of the endless persecution imposed by the rapacious Thraki, the Sheen come in peace, and call on the Confederacy to sponsor meaningful negotiations. Thank you.”

  There was a pause followed by a holo of President Marcott Nankool. His face was stern. “Given hostile actions by both the Thraki and the Sheen—the Confederacy takes small comfort from their proclamations of peace. If both parties are truly willing to negotiate, the Confederacy is willing to help, if the following conditions are met: The warships within both fleets will take all targeting systems off-line, cut power to primary weapons systems, and remain where they are. In the meantime, our offensive capabilities will remain at the highest state of readiness. Should either side violate the conditions just put forth—the Confederacy will side with the opposing group and open fire. That’s our best offer ... take it or leave it.” The video snapped to black.

  It was a gutsy position, especially in light of the fact that the Confederacy possessed less firepower than the other potential combatants, and stood to lose its government as well. It could work, however—since all three of the groups had the technology necessary to determine when weapons systems were on-line.

  Tyspin held her breath as millions waited for some sort of reply. If the combatants were to ignore the offer, if a full-scale battle ensued, the fault would be hers. For assuming too much, for failing to anticipate the possibilities, and for underestimating the enemy. The knowledge brought blood to her face and made her chest feel tight. Comfort came from an unexpected source. “It wasn’t your fault,” Jepp said softly, “there was no way you could know. Not even I knew the Sheen could follow a ship through hyperspace.”

  That wasn’t strictly true, of course, since Jepp had had inklings of such a capability, but he liked Typsin and wanted her to feel better. And, though she would have been reluctant to admit it, the naval officer did feel somewhat better, and turned her attention to the screens.

  Jepp tried to guess what the Hoon would do next. The AI had already revealed a level of political sophistication greater than he had originally supposed. First, during the power struggle with its twin—and now in its dealings with both the Confederacy and the Thrakies. One thing was for sure, however. While some beings played power games for the fun of it, the Hoon had little interest in such diversions. It wanted to win—and nothing else mattered.

  A full minute elapsed before Grand Admiral Andragna appeared. “We find the Confederacy’s conditions to be acceptable—and are willing to comply.”

  A computer-generated image of Jepp filled the com screen half a second later. He smiled. “The peace-loving Sheen agree to the conditions and stand ready to negotiate.” The image faded to static.

  Tyspin raised an eyebrow, and Jepp shrugged innocently. “What am I supposed to do? It’s not like the Hoon asked my permission or anything.”

  The admiral turned as President Nankool reappeared. A digital readout filled the lower right-hand comer of the frame. “Excellent. Prepare to deactivate targeting systems sixty seconds from now ... Weapons to follow.”

  It took less than five minutes for the warships of both fleets to power down but more than six hours for the Confederate Navy to gather the requisite data, process it, and produce the necessary reports, reports that became outdated the moment they were issued but were supplemented by a hastily rigged sampling program meant to monitor compliance. It was scant protection—but all that the Confederacy had. Nankool’s message was issued a few minutes later. “Thank you for your patience. As of 1500 hours local, we find both sides in compliance. That being the case, envoys from both fleets are invited to board the Friendship six hours from now. No more than twelve representatives from each fleet will be allowed to board the vessel that serves as our capital. If you have questions regarding protocol or logistics please contact my staff on com channel six. Thank you.”

  The Hoon was everywhere and nowhere in particular—flitting from ship to ship, riding recon drones no larger than a pebble, gorging itself on data. Data regarding the system in which the battle would take place, data on the fools who believed its lies, and data on the Thraki who had nowhere to run. Not all of the Thraki, because fully 25 percent of their ships were missing, but most of them. The rest could and would be dealt with later. Yes, there was much to learn and every reason to learn it, especially given the fact that if the Thraki fleet were added to the Confederate fleet the resulting force would be equal to all of its units combined. The Hoon had never faced an enemy that powerful before, never fought a battle with anything like parity, and didn’t want to lose. That being the case, it was time to stall—a task for which the soft body was uniquely suited. The necessary orders were issued, received, and ultimately complied with.

  Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna was more frightened than he cared to admit—not only by the size and power of the two fleets that opposed him—but by the extent to which the entire dynamic had changed. Rather than attack, as he had supposed that they would, the Sheen had agreed to negotiate. Or had they? What about the human who claimed to speak for them? Did he have any actual authority? And what did he want?

  Of equal or even more concern was the manner in which the Confederacy had responded to the situation. He had hoped, no assumed, that they would out and out capitulate, or failing that, waffle back and forth. Instead they evidenced vision, courage, and ironclad determination. Not a very good sign.

  The naval officer sighed and released his harness. Another more elaborate uniform waited in his quarters. He hated the damn thing and wondered who had been responsible for it. A Runner? Or a Facer? It made no difference. Now, with thousands of ships waiting to attack, neither philosophy seemed especially valid. Andragna thought about his wife, gave thanks that she was on Zynig-47, and left the control room. The command crew watched him go.

  President Marcott Nankool, Governor Sergi Chien-Chu, Maylo Chien-Chu, Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa, Ambassador Tula Nogo Mypop, Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six, and a clutch of advisors stood at the center of the Friendship’s bridge. Admiral Chang was present, as was Captain Boone. Everyone stared at the battle screens arrayed above their heads. “So,” Nankool said gravely, “is that it? Is that all of them?”

  “Maybe,” Chang answered. “The number matches the information gathered by the Ninja off Transit Point NS-690-193. So, unless the goddamned machines have some reserves they haven’t shown us yet, we’re up against a force of six thousand vessels.”

  “More like nine thousand if we have to fight both fleets,” Doma-Sa growled.

  “True,” Chang conceded, “which is why I hope President Nankool is one helluva good negotiator.” She grinned, but no one joined her.

  “Which brings us to the upcoming talks,” Chien-Chu said quietly. “What do we have on this Jepp person?”

  Boone shrugged. “He was a prospector based on Long
Jump. Had a ship, but it was mortgaged to the hilt. He disappeared and was given up for dead. When the Sheen arrived, so did he. An army of robots landed, took to the streets, and spouted a lot of religious nonsense. It appeared he was in charge. Then, for reasons we’re not sure of, the machines attacked.”

  “So, he really does have some clout,” Senator Mypop put in.

  “Maybe,” Boone allowed, “but Admiral Tyspin has her doubts. She spent some time with the man and thinks that whatever influence he has is extremely limited. Take those messages for example ... both of them were computer-generated. Jepp was surprised to see his face on the screen. The Hegemony spent quite a lot of time talking to the Thraki. They claim the real power lies with an artificial intelligence known as the Hoon.”

  “Which raises an interesting question,” Senator Alway Orno said, almost forgotten toward the rear of the crowd. “Why send false messages—followed by a meaningless emissary?”

  “To buy time,” Doma-Sa said simply, his eyes boring through the Ramanthian’s head. “The oldest trick in the universe.”

  The Ramanthian felt a sudden stab of fear. Did the Hudathan know? Had word of the tercentennial birthing leaked somehow? No, the Hudathan lacked subtlety, and would broach the matter head on.

  “That would explain Jepp,” Nankool observed, "and the Hoon, but how ’bout the Thraki? What are they up to? And why, after hundreds of years, are they ready for a showdown?”

  “I think I know the answer,” a new voice said, “and you aren’t going to like it.”

  The group turned. The Gladiator had dropped in-system in time to witness Nankoolʼs most recent broadcast. General William Booly caught a glimpse of Maylo Chien-Chu, felt a fist squeeze his heart, and tried to ignore it. “They have a secret weapon, two of them, either of which could destroy the Sheen fleet.”