By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  Holander, who served as Nankool’s first under secretary of defense, had first learned of the attack on Long Jump while reading a summary of the statement taken from the smuggler currently known as “Willy Williams.”

  Not being privy to the Rho Ophiuchi’s itinerary, the administrator had no way to know that he had just read an account of his daughter’s death, not until the better part of a month had passed and the intelligence reports started to filter in. That’s when he learned the truth—and the hatred was born. Now, only feet from the podium, the moment was near. It had been relatively simple to steal the weapon, tape it to the bottom of his seat a few hours before, and pass through security with everyone else. Now, in a matter of minutes, revenge would be his.

  Unaware of the danger that lurked nearby, Jepp shook hands with Sergi Chien-Chu and took note of the relationship between the governor and the beautiful young woman, people who would never associate with him if they had a choice. Life was looking up! He waited while Nankool took the podium.

  “My fellow sentients ... Now, as we face the possibility of a terrible conflagration, communication becomes even more important. The Sheen rescued Citizen Jepp after his ship was wrecked, allowed him to travel with their fleet, and came to trust him. He, along with those sent to assist him, hopes to establish a two-way dialogue . . .”

  “What about Long Jump?” a voice yelled. “Let’s talk about that!”

  Nankool raised a hand. “What occurred on Long Jump remains under investigation ... Let’s wait for the facts and reserve final judgements until then.”

  Holander seethed, wondered if he could nail Nankool as well, and forced himself to wait. He had very little experience with weapons, which meant that the shorter the range the better. He would kill Jepp ... followed by the President.

  There was no applause as Jepp made his way to the podium, a rather jarring departure from his most cherished fantasies, and one for which he might force the senate to apologize. Still, the would-be messiah thought to himself, they deserve a second chance—an opportunity to willingly join his flock. After that, well, the fleet would make his will known. He smiled into the lights.

  “There is a plan, a glorious plan, conceived by God and given to me. It consists of three parts, the Cleansing, which is now under way, the Covenant, in which all sentients will bind themselves over to God, and the Consecration. Once the Consecration has been completed and the throne is mine, a cadre of secular advisors will be required. Beings such as yourselves who can take my pronouncements and, with assistance from God’s silvery host, bring them to life. What I offer is nothing less than a partnership, an opportunity to step back from the apocalypse and begin a new age. An age in which . . .”

  Holander reached under his seat, fumbled for the weapon, and attempted to free it. The tape was stubborn, and the action proved more difficult than he thought it would be. Finally, energy pistol in hand, he staggered to his feet. A guard yelled but it was too late.

  Everything felt so weightless. Memories stuttered through his brain. He saw Sissy hold up her arms, cheered as she dove from a dock, and clapped as she accepted her diploma. The barrel wavered, found its target, and spit bolts of bright blue energy. Blue like her eyes, blue like the water, blue like ...

  The Hoon detected the threat, gave the necessary orders, and monitored the results. The security units responded in unison. They brought their weapons up and fired. Holander staggered as nine bolts of coherent light punched their way through his chest and struck the senators beyond.

  What felt like a red-hot steel bar punched its way through Jepp’s shoulder. Sam fell clear and scuttled towards Veera. The human took two steps backwards, felt Alpha wrap an arm around his waist, and shouted “No!”

  But it was too late. The security units continued to fire. Maylo Chien-Chu fell as a bolt of energy ripped through her chest, the master at arms died with his sidearm half drawn, and a staffer lost the left side of his face. Someone screamed, panic erupted, and the aisles filled with bodies.

  Jepp pushed Alpha away, screamed, “Stop it!” at the top of his lungs, and threw himself into the line of fire. The Hoon ordered its minions to pause, “heard” some sort of alarm, but saw no further threat. That being the case, it allowed the human to intervene.

  Jepp, conscious of the fact that reinforcements were on the way, looked left and right. Sergi Chien-Chu was crouched a few feet away, holding his niece in his arms, radioing for help. The ex-prospector pointed. “We need a hostage—someone they won’t harm—take him!”

  Though new to the idea of hostages—and struck by how illogical the concept was—the AI was quick to respond. Two of the security units seized Chien-Chu, discovered that the cyborg was a good deal stronger than he appeared, but still managed to bring him under control. Then, with Jepp, Alpha, Veera, and Chien-Chu at the center, the Hoon-controlled robots formed a defensive wheel. Light flared as even more power went to their shields and the Sheen headed for the doors.

  Booly, along with a half-dozen heavily armed MPs pounded around a comer, and skidded to a stop. Doors slammed open as what looked like a silvery amoeba emerged from the senate chambers. It oozed their way. The soldiers raised their weapons, but Booly ordered them to stop. “Hold your fire! Lower your rifles! Back away.”

  The MPs backed into an alcove while the strange assemblage marched by. Booly caught a glimpse of Chien-Chu’s eyes, heard the industrialist shout Maylo’s name, and knew something horrible had happened. He turned to a lieutenant. “Track them all the way to the bay. Don’t interfere, and don’t let anyone else interfere. Jepp is meaningless, and the Hoon is somewhere else.”

  The lieutenant didn’t know who the Hoon was, but knew how to follow orders, and proceeded to do so. The clutch of marines followed as the mixed party of machines and biologicals retraced their steps.

  Booly, feeling guilty because of the way he had dumped the entire matter onto a mere lieutenant, ran for the senate chambers. The interior was absolute chaos. The legionnaire saw a splash of red on the front of the podium, but no sign of Maylo. A naval officer bumped his side. She’d been nicked by an energy beam and was clutching a still-smoking arm. She looked pale. "Sorry, sir, what a mess.”

  A party of robo medics entered through the main door. Booly waved. “Over here! Now damn it!” He turned back. "Tell me, Commander, what happened to Maylo Chien-Chu?”

  “They shot her,” the naval officer replied shakily. “Through the chest. Sorry, sir, I feel a bit dizzy.”

  A robot caught the commander before she hit the deck. Another came to help.

  Booly felt something rise to choke off his air. Maylo? Dead? No! He refused to believe it. The officer pushed his way through the crowd, stepped over a mostly decapitated body, and saw Nankool. He yelled over the crowd noise. “Mr. President! What happened to Ms. Chien-Chu?”

  “Wounded! They took her to the sick bay!”

  Booly waved his thanks, turned, and pushed his way back through the crowd. “Wounded?” Not killed? Had Nankool chosen the word intentionally? Or because he really didn’t know?

  Booly hit the corridor, ignored the voices that called to him, and pounded down the hall. Though referred to as the “sick bay,” the facility was a good deal more than that. It consisted of a full-scale hospital, staffed with medical personnel from each of the member races, and ready to deal with almost anything. If anyone could save Maylo, they could. That’s what the legionnaire told himself as he skidded around a comer, passed a row of self-propelled gurneys, and headed for the well-marked hatch. It hissed open, and a desk blocked his way. An android rose to greet him. It wore a marine green paint job. A serial number had been stenciled across its chest. “Greetings, General. Are you in need of medical attention?”

  Booly fought to catch his breath. “No, I’m looking for a patient ... A woman by the name of Maylo Chien-Chu.”

  “Yes, they brought her in about ten minutes ago,” the robot replied gravely. “The doctors are treating her now. Please take a seat a
nd . . .”

  Booly ducked around the desk, steered for the sign that said “trauma” and stuck his head into an alcove. A Turr diplomat lay on the table, his face contorted with pain. Having already passed through Holander’s chest, an energy beam had severed his hand.

  A doctor frowned. Booly said, “Sorry,” and moved to the next cube. It was packed with medical personnel all gathered around Maylo’s supine body. Her face looked slack and lifeless. The officer pushed his way forward, but a hand grabbed his arm. “Not now, General. We must allow the medics some room.”

  Booly turned to find himself face-to-face with Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six. Both men wondered the same thing ... Assuming that Maylo loved one of them—which had she chosen? It was a selfish thought, and both felt guilty. “How is she?” Booly asked. “Can they save her?”

  The clone shrugged. “It’s too early to say.”

  A medic turned to confront them. “You’ll have to leave now—a doctor will be out to see you.”

  Both men backed out of the room. Booly remembered the Sheen, the lieutenant upon which the responsibility had been dumped, and knew it was time to go. His wrist term started to vibrate. He met the politician’s gaze. “They’re looking for me—can you stay?”

  Ishimoto-Six nodded.

  “Good. Make sure the docs do everything they can. Be there when she wakes up. She’ll need someone.”

  The clone nodded and watched Booly walk away. Knowing his rival would be present when and if Maylo came to, wishing it could be him. The politician sighed. In a galaxy full of assholes, why did his competition have to be such a nice guy? It wasn’t fair. He turned to look for a chair.

  There were close calls, two to be exact, but no one fired. The lieutenant chanted Booly’s name like a mantra, people listened, and the Sheen were allowed to pass. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they made it to the launch bay where the shuttle waited. Doors opened to space, the Hoon guided the vessel through the opening, and the visitors were allowed to escape.

  Now, as they blasted toward the fleet, Jepp was whining. Not about his wound, which he had ignored, but about the lost opportunity. “They would have listened!” he wailed. “I know they would. Where was God? How could he forsake me?”

  Veera, had no answers for such questions and allowed the human to rant and rave. Her regrets were entirely different. Was there something she could have done to prevent the bloodshed? Had there been an opportunity to escape? Had she blown the only chance she would ever be given?

  Chien-Chu listened but remained intentionally passive. Partly because his death would be pointless, but partly because the Sheen were taking the industrialist to a place where, with the exception of Jorley Jepp, no other human had been allowed to go: the Sheen fleet. Would he be able to accomplish anything while there? No, it seemed unlikely. Still, his cybernetic body included a built-in com set, and he might be able to provide some intelligence.

  In the meantime his thoughts were focused on his niece. Was Maylo alive? Booly would look after her—he felt sure of that—but wished he could do so personally. The whole thing was his fault. Had it not been for him, his niece would have been on Earth, looking after the Chien-Chu Enterprises. The knowledge filled him with guilt. A clawlike hand touched his arm. A robot perched on the Prithian’s shoulder. It translated her words. “The female—she is your daughter?”

  Chien-Chu shook his head. “No, my niece. But like a daughter.”

  Veera cocked her head to one side. “I am sorry. The Sheen murdered my father.”

  “That’s how you came to be with the Sheen?” Chien-Chu inquired. “They took your ship?”

  “They destroyed it,” Veera replied chirped soberly. “My father forced me into a lifeboat. The machines located it. I’ve been with them ever since.”

  Chien-Chu nodded toward the front of the shuttle. Jepp had stripped to the waist and allowed Alpha to dress his wound. “And Jepp? What do you think of him?”

  Feathers rose and fell. “I intend no offense to either you or your race—but he seems unhinged.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Jepp demanded. “Stop whispering.”

  "Sorry,” Chien-Chu replied. “I asked how your companion came to be with the fleet. Nothing more.”

  “Good,” Jepp said sourly. “You may be a big deal on Earth—but not out here. Hostages are expendable—so shut the hell up.”

  The Hoon monitored the exchange but learned little of value. The soft bodies seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time on meaningless communication. No wonder they were doomed to extinction. The shuttle announced its arrival, scooted past a picket ship, and was welcomed back into the fold.

  Though unable to meet with the Sheen envoy, the Thraki had been seated at the back of the room when Holander launched his murderous attack and felt themselves lucky to have escaped unharmed. But now, as Andragna re-boarded his battleship, he felt more than a little depressed. The Confederacy knew about the twins ... and negotiations had proven fruitless. His people would fight alone. The Hoon would make a move soon. Unless he moved first. Expression grim, the admiral entered the lock.

  Soon after the shuttle put down, Chien-Chu was escorted through the nano-draped bay and out into the ship’s sterile corridors. It was then that the security units seemed to lose interest and wandered away.

  Jepp, still angry at the manner in which he had been cheated, turned his back and left. That left Veera to explain. She steered the cyborg toward her compartment. Sam took care of the translation. “There’s nothing biologicals can do to hurt the ship—so the Hoon allows them to roam free.”

  “But where is everyone?” Chien-Chu asked, as he looked around. “Machines don’t need airlocks—biologicals do. What happened to the beings that created these vessels?”

  “That is an excellent question,” Veera warbled as they entered her cabin. “Especially in light of the way the Thraki look. I had never seen one until I boarded your ship. They were sitting toward the rear of that big room. I’m sorry about the lack of furniture—but you could sit on that box.”

  Chien-Chu accepted her invitation. Outside of some cartons stacked along one bulkhead, and a nest-shaped bed, the compartment was nearly empty. “ ‘The way the Thraki look?’ What does that have to do with anything?”

  “They’re small,” the Prithian replied patiently. “Did you try the seats on the shuttle? Jepp hates them. That’s because they are too small for his frame.”

  Chien-Chu frowned. “What are you trying to suggest? That the Thraki created this fleet? That they programmed the Sheen to pursue them? No offense, but that makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “Perhaps,” Veera answered calmly, “but I’ve had time to study the matter and would ask that you consider the following facts: The creators were diminutive—and so are the Thraki. You’ll have to look long and hard to find any sort of written symbols on this ship—but what few there are bear a close resemblance to Thraki pictographs. More than that, take a close look at Sam here. The Thraki like robots and are good at designing them, so much so that they spend a good deal of time and energy creating handcrafted mechanical pets. Is that a matter of coincidence? Maybe. But maybe not. Then there’s the matter of the religion. One of their most fearsome gods is referred to as ‘The great Hoonara.’ The computer that controls the fleet is called ‘the Hoon.’ ”

  Chien-Chu felt a rising sense of excitement. What if the teenager was correct? But how could that be? It seemed illogical “It makes for an interesting hypothesis,” the industrialist allowed, “but why? Why would the Thraki do such a thing?”

  The Prithian cocked her head. “Are you familiar with the concept of symbiosis?”

  “Yes, it refers to dissimilar organisms living in close association with each other.”

  “Precisely,” Veera agreed. “Organisms living in a mutually advantageous manner. And that could explain what’s going on here. Suppose that the ancient Thraki feared for the future of the species? Thought their civilization had gro
wn too comfortable, too privileged, too prone to decay. What if they decided to recast the future? To transform themselves from pleasure seekers to a race of warriors? Forever pursued—but strengthened by the process?”

  Chien-Chu was stunned by the sweep of the youngster’s vision, by the manner in which she jumped to what seemed like a wild hypothesis, but one that rang true. Perhaps there had been a society like the one she envisioned. A culture so rich, so self-satisfied, that it started to rot. And maybe there had been visionaries, males and females who saw where the rot would lead and took steps to prevent it. If so, they would launched a fleet, no two fleets, one for the machines programmed to hunt them down, and one for themselves, or those who agreed to go, for it was hard to imagine that more than a few hundred thousand beings would sign up for such a plan. And the strategy worked! Not for every individual, not for those murdered by the Sheen, but for the organism as a whole. It might have been noble in a twisted sort of way if it weren’t for the fact that the Sheen had attacked other races as well, and more than that, continued to do so. Except ...

  Chien-Chu found the Prithian’s eyes. “You are brilliant, Veera—truly brilliant. Your hypothesis makes a great deal of sense. There’s one loose end, however ... What are the Sheen waiting for? Why don’t they attack?

  Veera felt a momentary sense of warmth. Her father had praised her in similar fashion—and she missed his proud approval. It was a good question, and the answer was self-evident. For her at least. “There’s no way to be sure—but the Hoon may be programmed to wait. To see if the Thraki will run.”

  “Yes!” Chien-Chu exclaimed. “That’s it! The Runners held sway for a long time—but the Facers came to power. The Hoon is waiting for Andragna to bolt ... to start the whole process over again.”

  “Except that he won’t bolt,” the teenager theorized. “Not this time.”