By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

Henry had a story and put it to use. The voice message was preceded by a code, which he hoped was current. The transport had been captured less than a standard day earlier so if it was out of date it wouldn’t be by much. “This is Transport U-81279. I have a Class III environmental system failure. Both my pilots are incapacitated. Request permission to land.”

  The navcomp sent the standard end-tone and waited to see what would happen next. Would the Thraki terminate that particular existence right then? Or would the AI “live” long enough to enter the enemy’s launch bay and detonate the nukes? What was it that humans liked to say? “Never volunteer for anything?” How right they were. But how could he say “no?” Especially to Admiral Tyspin?

  Yes, there was some satisfaction in knowing that a copy of itself remained on the Friendship, already different by more than twelve hours of divergent experiences, and therefore unique. Would the other Henry mourn the “death” of a copy? And why did that matter?

  The navcomp’s ruminations were interrupted by a second transmission. “Your vessel is cleared to land, U-81279. Medical personnel will be waiting.”

  Henry noted the end-tone, acknowledged the transmission, and fired the transport’s steering jets. Robo beacons swarmed into position, turned themselves on, and formed a lane. The launch bay appeared as a rectangle of yellow light. The navcomp used the transport’s sensors to make one last sweep of the stars.

  The control room had the quiet, almost hushed atmosphere of a library or monastery. The light was subdued, com sets whispered in the background, and the bridge crew sat in front of what could have been electronic altars. Andragna sat on a dais. His U-shaped command chair could swivel through 360-degrees. The unexpected arrival of Transport U-81279 had delayed the officer’s plan of attack by a full twenty units. He had even toyed with the idea of directing the unfortunate spacecraft to rendezvous with another ship but talked himself out of it. The Sheen, with whom he had expected to be locked in mortal combat by now, seemed content to wait. That being the case, the Thraki could afford to accommodate the medical emergency.

  But that was it, though . . . The technical issues had been resolved, the twins were ready, and so was the armada. More than ready, it was eager, which made the attack that much more imperative. To turn away now, to show the slightest hesitation, would be political suicide.

  Andragna looked up at the screens, saw the transport enter the bay, and gave the prepatory orders. “Message the fleet: ‘Prepare to attack—May the gods be with us.’ Ready the twins. Remove all safeties, Launch on my command.”

  A digital countdown appeared in the upper left-hand comer of every screen. All eyes went there, ears lay flat against skulls, and the seconds leaked away.

  Jepp had detected something of a sea change and, in keeping with his somewhat elastic standards of behavior, was already seeking to accommodate it. Somehow, against all logic, the balance of power had started to shift. That being the case, it made sense to put something into the Confederate bank. And why not? The attack on Long Jump could be blamed on the Sheen, the attempt to assassinate him would generate some sympathy, and the whole thing could turn around.

  The ex-prospector saw the shimmery blue force field that blocked the corridor and waved Chien-Chu forward. “Come on! It’s meant for robots ... we can pass through.”

  The industrialist took Jepp at his word, charged forward, and staggered as what felt like a thousand volts of electricity blasted his electronic nervous system.

  Veera saw the cyborg convulse, grabbed his tunic, and pulled him back. The industrialist collapsed on the deck. His limbs twitched as his overloaded system sought to rid itself of excess electricity. Chien-Chu found it difficult to speak. “Go—Veera. It’s—up—to—you.”

  Veera wanted to help the human but knew she lacked the necessary skills. There was something about Chien-Chu that reminded the teenager of her father. She turned to find that Jepp blocked her path. The human wore a sneer. “Hold it right there—I’m in charge now. Nobody messes with the Hoon unless I say so.”

  Veera considered her options. Jepp was larger than she was, much larger, which pretty much settled the issue. Unless ... Veera issued a short burst of staccato song. Sam was in the air and halfway to Jepp’s throat before the ex-prospector knew what was happening.

  The Thraki robot landed, sank alloy hooks into the human’s chest muscles, and transformed itself into a configuration Jepp had never seen before. He brought his hands up, grabbed the machine’s torso, and tried to pull it off. But the robot’s steel claws had an excellent grip. The machine was literally in his face. A heavily serrated blade appeared, started to spin, and produced a mind-numbing whine. Something pushed it forward, the human felt something press against his throat, and saw blood jet left to right.

  That’s when Jepp tried to speak, tried to countermand Veera’s orders, but couldn’t produce the necessary air. There was time to think, however—to process one last thought: It wasn’t fair. Darkness closed around him.

  Veera averted her eyes, bypassed the body, and made for the end of the corridor. Her body had been designed for flight rather than speedy travel along the ground, but the Prithian did the best she could and approached the final hatch. There was no reason to think that it would open, and no way that she could force it, but the teen was determined to try. Because Chien-Chu wanted her too, because he reminded the Prithian of her father, because there was nothing else to do.

  The Hoon observed the first soft body’s death with the same dispassionate neutrality that it applied to its own imminent demise. Time had passed, a need had been fulfilled, and programming had been triggered. The AI issued a command. The hatch hissed open. Veera stepped through.

  Booly entered the Friendship’s bridge, heard someone yell, “Attention on deck!” and waved them off. “As you were.”

  Admiral Chang, Admiral Tyspin, and Captain Boone stood in a tightly clustered group. They waved him over. He nodded to each in turn. “Thanks for the page ... The Turr ambassador had me trapped. What’s up?”

  “Something pretty damned big,” Chang answered. “Listen to this.” She nodded to a tech.

  The rating touched a button, and Chien-Chu’s voice flooded the bridge. There was static, lots of it, plus some dropouts: “Chien-Chu here—unintelligible—relay to General Booly, Admiral Chang, or ...” The words were buried by an avalanche of static.

  Booly raised both of his eyebrows. “He’s alive! That’s wonderful but ...”

  Tyspin raised a hand. “Hold on, sir. There’s more.”

  The static cleared, and the voice reemerged. “What that means is that the Hoon has been deactivated, repeat deactivated, so the rest of its fleet ...”

  The voice faded as a trim-looking lieutenant approached Admiral Chang. “You were correct, ma’am . . . The entire Sheen fleet appears to have powered down.”

  The Hoon was dead! And, without its intelligence to guide them, the less autonomous computers were switching to standby. That changed everything. Booly’s mind started to race. “Get Andragna on the horn—tell him the news. Where’s that transport?”

  Nobody asked, “Which transport?” because there was only one that mattered. Boone checked a screen. “The Thraki allowed Henry to pass through their fighter screen—and he’s two or three minutes from touch-down.” His eyes flicked to a digital readout. “And a good thing too—since the nukes are due to detonate in about five minutes.”

  Booly nodded. “Send a signal—stop the clock.”

  A com tech stood to get their attention. “Grand Admiral Andragna on com channel four.”

  Booty heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank god, put him on.”

  A holo blossomed over the main tank. Andragna looked calm and relaxed. There was an almost unnoticeable delay while his words were translated. “Greetings, General Booty ... how can I be of service?”

  Booty looked into alien eyes and tried to force a connection. “The Hoon has been deactivated—and the Sheen have switched to standby. There is no reas
on to launch the twins.”

  Andragna’s ears turned forward. “Don’t be fooled by their tricks. We know the Sheen in a way that no one else can. The machines have pursued us for hundreds of years. Thousands upon thousands of Thraki have died. This is our chance, perhaps our last chance, to achieve lasting freedom. We have the means to destroy them, and we will do so.”

  “But what of our ships?” Booty demanded. “And the Araballazanies? The twins could sterilize the surface of their planet.”

  Andragna produced a human-style shrug. “We don’t believe that will occur—but feel there is little choice. There is nothing more to say—may the gods protect us all.”

  The holo snapped to black.

  Everyone turned to Booty. His face was drawn. “Send the signal ... restart the clock.”

  In spite of the fact that the seconds were ticking away and that two nuclear warheads were going to detonate within twenty feet of its processor, Henry was a navcomp, and that meant the landing had to be as perfect as the AI could possibly make it, that the power had to be shut down, that ...

  Not far away, within the battleship’s control room, the landing was noted. An officer droned through the list. “Transport down ... launch bay sealed ... weapons systems ready.”

  Andragna thought of his wife and things never said. Would he get to say them? Only the gods knew for sure. He looked up. “Prepare launcher 12 ... fire.”

  The nuclear warheads detonated together. The battleship Will of the Gods along with its entire crew, and both “the twins,” ceased to exist. There was no secondary explosion, no outpouring of ravening energy, no wave of cataclysmic destruction.

  Thousands of miles away on the Friendship’s bridge, Booly watched a pinprick of light wink on, then off. Here one moment, gone the next. Just like life itself. His voice sounded hoarse. “Send a message to the Thraki fleet: ‘The Sheen have been neutralized. There is no need for war.’ ”

  But there was war—though a mercifully short one. Frightened by the sudden destruction of their flagship and certain that the Sheen were responsible, the Thraki attacked. More than fifty of the now passive Sheen warships perished in less than fifteen minutes. Not one of them fired a shot in response.

  Finally, having realized that what the Confederacy said was true, the Thraki called a halt. The battle, such as it was, had ended.

  Many months would be spent dealing with issues related to the Thraki settlements on Zynig-47, Hudathan demands for increased autonomy, and the disposition of the Sheen. A rather rich prize that almost everyone thought should belong to them.

  But those were concerns for politicians, bureaucrats, and to a lesser extent soldiers to deal with. Not the sort of things that a mere navcomp had to concern itself with.

  That being the case, it was relatively easy for Henry to give a deposition, petition for its freedom, and find a job.

  The decision had been made to backtrack along the route followed by the Sheen. The objective of the mission was to hunt for Sheen scouts, some of which could have survived, and assist any colonies that might have been attacked. President Nankool himself had authorized Henry to ride the first ship out—which was all a navcomp could possibly wish for.

  The AI lined up on the outgoing transit point, waited for permission, and sent the appropriate command. The heavily armed survey vessel Livingston seemed to wink from existence. The stars swam in silence.

  19

  For life is a journey, a long winding way, that shall end as the god’s wish.

  The Thraki Book of Yesterdays

  Year unknown

  Planet Algeron, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The wind came in nasty little gusts, grabbed the snow pellets as they fell, and hurled them into Booly’s face. He looked up into the quickly darkening sky and marveled at his own stupidity. Even generals are allowed to take leave, and, with all the Confederacy’s planets to choose from, he could have been basking in the sun, especially given the amount of back pay he had accumulated. But Algeron called, and with no attachments, he had answered.

  The ground sloped upward, the dooth groaned pitifully, and Booly kicked its ribs. Rocks rattled away from the animal’s hooves as it lurched forward. Boulders crowded both sides of the trail and offered plenty of hiding places. The legionnaire decided to ignore them. He was tired—too tired to care.

  More than six standard months had passed since “the Battle of Arballa,” as the press liked to call it, and the peace had proved more difficult than the war. If “war” was the right word for what had transpired. Negotiations with the Thraki continued, and while some wanted the newcomers to leave, others were willing to let them stay—if they decommissioned half the armada, if they assumed the responsibilities attendant to membership in the Confederacy, and if they renounced all claims to the Sheen fleet.

  This was an issue that seemed to be of extreme importance to the Ramanthians, who favored the immediate distribution of Sheen assets as the means to compensate members for losses suffered during what the diplomatic community now liked to refer to as “an unfortunate series of incidents.” Booly grimaced. Some mighty fine soldiers had died during “incidents” like the one on BETA-018.

  Though still denied the right to possess naval ships of their own, the Hudathans had proven themselves in battle and kept their side of the bargain. That being the case, their home world was open to commerce. Eventually, after the passage of enough time, it was hoped that full integration could and would take place.

  In the meantime, a significant number of Hudathans had served in the Legion, taken a liking to it, and seemed prepared to stay. A development that could lead to problems—or add strength to an already diverse organization.

  While some things had changed, some remained the same. With the crises resolved and their planets secure, the Hegemony had turned inward once again. All of the Jonathan Alan Seebos had been withdrawn from the Legion, joint military exercises had been cancelled, and de facto partition restored.

  Elsewhere, out along the rim, trouble was brewing. Sheen units, still operating on the orders from the Hoon, continued to search for Thraki. Renegades, many of whom had deserted during the mutiny, were increasingly active. And colonists, who insisted on pushing the frontier ever outwards, were increasingly hard to protect. None of it boded well.

  As for individuals, well, President Nankool had put on more weight, Ambassador Doma-Sa had returned to his duties as a member of the Hudathan Triad, Veera had been given any number of decorations prior to being returned to what remained of her family, Sergi Chien-Chu was looking forward to his next attempt at retirement, and, according to all reports, Maylo was fully recovered. Recovered and back at the helm of Chien-Chu Enterprises. The clones had grown new organs for her, and the nanoassisted surgery had gone without a hitch. Booly felt the familiar stab of pain and pushed it away. It was important to release, to let go, and focus on the future.

  The dooth moaned. Booly urged the animal forward and eyed the mountain ahead. A week on the mesa . . . That would clear his head. Snow cloaked the legionnaire’s shoulders and sealed the land in silence.

  The observation point was perfect. Not on the path itself, but off to one side, on a well-screened ledge. Thanks to her sensors, Wilker could “see” about five miles worth of trail. Well, not all of it, because there were blind spots, but enough. She watched the green blob lurch up out of a streambed and marveled at how strange officers were. “So, Sarge, what’s your theory?”

  First Sergeant Neversmile had elected to remain where he was—high on the Trooper II’s back. The cyborg warmed the front half of his body but left his ass out in the cold. “My theory about what?”

  “Your theory about the general . . . What’s so special about the mesa?”

  Neversmile knew a lot about lieutenants, had some insights into the behaviors of captains, and opinions regarding majors. But generals were pretty much a mystery, especially ones like Booly, who defied the usual stereotypes. Still, deep down, the noncom sensed th
at the true answer to the cyborg’s question had more to do with Booly’s origins than his rank. There were ruins on the mesa, old ruins, left by the ancients. Such places held power—the kind Wilker would never understand. He structured his answer with that in mind. “Beats the hell out me—maybe he likes the view.”

  “Wonderful,” Wilker replied darkly. “So why us? How come we catch the shit details?”

  “ ’Cause Colonel Kirby liked the job we did last time,” the Naa answered. “Now shut the hell up and earn your pay. If he gets bushwhacked I’m gonna pull your brain box and use if for a spittoon.”

  Wilker wanted to say, “You and what army?” but held her peace instead. Neversmile didn’t take much lip ... not from biobods or anyone else.

  The sun plunged toward the horizon as if eager to light the far side of the planet. The murk turned to darkness and the legionnaires continued their vigil. There might have been other guardian angels—but none so heavily armed.

  The long winding climb had already claimed two of Algeron’s two hour and forty-two minute nights, two days, and was well into another period of darkness before the legionnaire neared the top of the mesa. The dooth was understandably weary. Vapor jetted from its nostrils, and a beard of half-frozen saliva dangled beneath its chin.

  Booly was exhausted, his mind numbed by the arduous climb and more than twelve hours spent in the saddle. Still, the realization that he had arrived served to revive the legionnaire’s flagging spirits, and he stood in the stirrups. The sun, still engaged in its never-ending game of hide and seek, had just started to peek over the eastern horizon. It glazed the ancient walls, caused ice crystals to glitter like diamonds, and threw shadows toward the west.

  Man and animal passed through the narrow defile where sentries had sheltered from the wind and emerged on the mesa itself. Low walls, few more than three feet high, marked where wind breaks, animal shelters, and storage buildings once stood. The dooth’s hoofs made a lonely clip clop sound, and it snorted loudly.