By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  Bricana stopped before a blast-proof hatch. Andragna noticed that it still bore the number of the ship from which it had been salvaged, still another sign of the power that the priesthood continued to wield. She placed her forehead on a reader, lasers scanned her retinas, and a blue light appeared. Servos whined, the door swiveled open, and the visitors stepped through. A priest was waiting. He was armed and wore the black robes favored by the Brother/ISisterhood of Assassins. Andragna couldn’t see them—but felt sure that others lurked nearby. The priest bowed. “Welcome. How can I be of assistance?”

  Bricana bowed in return. “Thank you. The admiral and I would tike to visit the twins.”

  If the assassin was surprised by the request, he gave no sign of it. He bowed a second time. “Of course

  ... Please follow me.”

  Thus began a second journey that was much like the first, a series of carefully planned rightangle turns that led to a second blastproof hatch. Andragna was more than intrigued ... he was angry and fearful. What terrible secret had the priesthood been keeping? And if they had one, did they have others as well?

  The second door opened. Bricana went first, followed by the males. There was nothing especially attractive about the cavern that lay beyond. No worm glass, no special lighting, no effort to smooth the recently machined walls. It was perhaps fifty units across and twenty units high. A pair of what appeared to be golden cradles, each heavily decorated with scroll work, sat on a raised dais. The twins, if that’s what they were, consisted of bright metal tubes. They were approximately ten units in length. It appeared that each construct was protected by a force field, which, if not identical to those used by the Sheen, then were very, very similar. There was no need to tell Andragna what they were ... He knew. The twins were weapons.

  The priestess waited for her military colleague to reach the obvious conclusion. He asked the same question she had asked so many years in the past. “How do they work?”

  Bricana offered the Thraki equivalent of a shrug. “Given the nature of your responsibilities, I’m sure you are familiar with black holes.”

  Andragna was. He knew that when gigantic stars explode, or go supernova, something remains. A

  “hole,” or an object so dense that nothing could escape its gravitational field, not even light itself. Anything that ventured sufficiently close, including starships, asteroids, or planets risked being sucked in. What happened after that was unknown since there was no way for information to come back out. “Of course. It’s part of my job to avoid them.”

  Bricana offered what amounted to a smite. “Yes, and we appreciate your efforts!” Her expression grew more serious. “Ask yourself this . . . what happens to all the matter captured by a black hole? It’s reduced to amorphous energy. Ships, asteroids, planets, whatever. All transformed into radiation. Maybe it stays there, trapped in time and space, or maybe it exits somewhere else. Were it to emerge, the exit point could be referred to as a ‘white hole.’ Imagine how much energy we’re talking about—imagine how destructive it could be.”

  Andragna took a moment to do so. The results would be awesome. His eyes met hers. “So that’s what these are? White holes?”

  “Artificial white holes,” the high priestess corrected him, “created and suspended within an antimatter container, and housed in a normal matter shell.”

  Andragna eyed the twins. Here was something any military officer would appreciate. Power on an unparalleled scale. “How? How do they work?”

  “I’m no expert on such matters,” Bricana said evenly, “but it’s my understanding that each tube can be launched like a missile. Once the weapon enters the target area a signal is sent, the magnetoelectric locks are released, and an atom-sized white hole pops into existence. It would last for no more than a millisecond, but the result would be devastating. If used against us, the entire armada would cease to exist.”

  Andragna wasn’t sure which was more amazing, the fact that such weapons existed, or how they came to be. So long ago that they were mentioned in the Book of Tomorrows. “So the old ones foresaw our situation? Knew what would face us? How could that be?”

  Bricana looked uncertain. “I honestly couldn’t say. They were given into our possession when the great journey began. That’s as much as we know.”

  “Why two Why not one, three, or fifty?”

  “There is no mention of what the old ones were thinking.”

  “But why keep such weapons secret?” Andragna demanded. “How can the church justify such a thing?”

  Bricana’s eyes met his. “There has been no need—not until now.”

  It was the answer he might have expected from the priesthood, more than a little arrogant, and completely unapologetic.

  Both were silent for a moment. The naval officer was first to speak. “This changes everything.”

  “Yes,” the high priestess replied, “I think it does.”

  Chapter 12

  In forming the plan of a campaign, it is requisite to foresee everything the enemy may do, and be prepared with the necessary means to counteract it.

  Napoleon I

  Maxims of War

  Standard year 1831

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The Friendship’s sick bay smelted of disinfectants, plastic, and the faint odor of coffee that emanated from the much abused pot that crouched on a counter. General William Booly sat in Treatment Room 4. He was stripped to die waist. The medic, who happened to be female, grabbed a handle and directed the overhead light onto his torso. She couldn’t help but notice the breadth of his shoulders, the muscular arms, the ridge of fur that ran the length of his spine. There were scars, too, some old, and some newly healed. The latter came courtesy of a planet named Drang. Most were what they appeared to be, but the blister looked suspicious. The medic pointed toward the carefully draped Mayo stand. “Place your arm on that. General.”

  Booly did as he was told. “I have a meeting in ten minutes or so.”

  The tech passed a scanner over his forearm, nodded in response to the reading, and returned the device to its holster. “Well, it’s your call. sir, but it appears as though a footlong parasitic worm has taken up residence in your right arm. The good news is that she wants to come out and lay her eggs. We can help her—or you can attend that meeting. Which will it be?”

  The medic was something of a smartass, but Booly knew she was right. He growled, “Go ahead,” and watched her prep his arm. He had lifted from Drang a good four weeks earlier but been so busy stitching the Confederacy’s command structure together that he barely found time to sleep, much less worry about a rash. But that was before the rash turned into a blister, which not only hurt but itched like crazy.

  “I could squirt some local in there,” the medic said cheerfully, “but the pain will be equivalent to a small incision. What’s your preference? Local or no local?”

  “Skip the local,” Booly replied grimly. “Just get on with it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the rating answered evenly. “Here goes ...”

  She squinted her eyes, brought the blade down onto the surface of his skin, and cut a cross into the blister. Yellowish fluid jetted out followed by a small white head. It had tiny jet black eyes. The worm looked from left to right,

  The tech had been waiting for that moment and was quick to seize the parasite with some forceps.

  “Gotcha! Now, this is the difficult part,” she cautioned, “some people pull too hard. That’s when the head comes off... Makes for a nasty infection plus minor surgery. The trick is to wind the little bastard around a probe and reel his ass in.”

  Booly watched in queasy fascination as the young woman pulled inch after nauseating inch of worm out of his arm. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was finished. Then, with the parasite twisting and turning at the bottom of a kidney basin, it was time to disinfect the wound, close the incision, and apply a self-sealing dressing. “There you are, sir. good to go.”

&
nbsp; Booty thanked the tech, donned his shirt, and look one last look at the worm. It squirmed every which way. Kind of like the politicians he was about to deal with. His smile lasted all the way out into the corridor.

  Senator Omo was angry, very angry, as he entered the conference room, saw that he was first to arrive, and located the Ramanthian-style chair. A quick check revealed that the back adjustment was broken. It sometimes seemed as if everything he touched was cursed. The plan to destabilize Earth, and thereby weaken the Confederacy, had very nearly succeeded, would have succeeded, had his coconspirators been more competent. Subsequent efforts, such as the plot to kill DomaSa, had proved equally disastrous. Still, he who tunnels must move some dirt, so that’s what he would do. Omo took his seat, preened the areas to either side of his beak, and allowed his mind to wander. It was spring in Hive’s northern hemisphere—and the politician wished he could see it. DomaSa stepped out of his cabin, checked to ensure that the hatch was locked, and strode down the corridor. Beings who had previously gone to considerable lengths to ignore the Hudathan nodded, smiled, or waved. All because their perceptions had changed. Now, after weeks of surprisingly positive media coverage, the Hudathans had miraculously been transformed from villains to heroes. Never mind the fact that they hadn’t changed in the least and viewed their new allies with the same level of paranoia reserved for the oncoming Sheen. The stupidity of their psychology astounded him. The entire lot of them were beneath contempt. Yet, there he was, nodding in return, giving the scum what they craved. The illusion of solidarity. Why? Because they had him by the testicles that’s why. Imagine! Hudathans fighting for a human general... The great Hiween PoseenKa never would have believed it. Ah well, the War Commander thought to himself, nothing lasts forever. Not even our shame. The thought brought comfort and put a bounce into his step.

  Senator Ishimoto Six stabbed a button with his index finger, waited for the platform to arrive, and stepped aboard. It carried him upwards. Any number of things rode on the upcoming meeting: the safety of his people, his position as a senator, and the way in which Maylo perceived him—something he still wasn’t sure of. Which would be worse, the politician wondered. Failing my government? Or losing Maylo? Not that I have her. The platform coasted to a halt. Six nodded to a staffer and stepped out onto the deck. The corridor led him away. A younger version of the same man had fantasized about being at the center of things, about making a difference, and his dreams had come true. But what was the saying? Be careful what you wish for? You might just get it? Suddenly it made sense. The watch had changed, breakfast was over, and the Friendship’s corridors were relatively empty. A senator rushed past, nodded, and kept on going. Maylo ChienChu forced a smile. Her heeis clacked on the deck. General William Booty had boarded the ship some twelve hours before and would chair the meeting. Ishimoto Six would attend as well. The knowledge left a hollow place at the bottom of her stomach. It was silly, she knew that, but true nonetheless. Would Booly detect the nature of her relationship with Samuel? And why did she care? The officer was yesterday’s news ... Or was he? Some very expensive lab-grown roses had arrived just a few days before. Right smack on the six-month anniversary of what amounted to their first date. Damn it! She was too old for this sort of crap. The executive cursed her own stupidity, increased her pace, and passed a maintenance bot. It scrubbed the deck.

  The conference room was packed by the time Booly arrived. There were familiar faces, like those that belonged to Admiral Angie Tyspin, the naval officer who had risked her life and career to help the 13thDBLE during the mutiny. Major, no Colonel Nancy Winters, his newly named chief of staff, Major Andre Kara, his inter-service liaison officer, and CO of the 1 st Foreign Regiment, Colonel Kitty Kirby, CO of the 13thDBLE, War Commander Wenio MortaKa, CO of the newly integrated 3rdForeign Infantry Regiment, his superior. Ambassador DomaSa, Battle Leader Pasar Hebo, CO of the 4thForeign Infantry Regiment, Senator Alway Omo, representing the Ramanthian government. General Jonathan Alan Seebo346, CO of the 2ndForeign Parachute Regiment, plus a lot of beings he hadn’t met, and last, but certainly not least, Maylo ChienChu.

  She sat toward the front of the room, next to Ambassador DomaSa, and smiled when his eyes made contact with hers. A spark jumped the gap, and the legionnaire remembered how those same eyes had stared up at him from the misery of a prison cell. And later, over a dinner table on a beach inRio , and eventually in the warmth of his bed. What had gone wrong anyway? And how could he fix it?

  Winters cleared her throat, and Booly realized that he should have spoken by then. He forced a smile.

  “Good morning—if that’s what this is. Thank you for coming. We have a lot to accomplish, so let’s get started.”

  Booly paused and allowed his eyes to drift across the room. “This is a truly historic occasion. The creation of new alliances, the structures required to make them viable, and the problems that naturally follow.

  “As I look out on your faces, I see both soldiers and civilians. There are a number of different cultures represented here, so the mix may or may not seem natural to you. Please suspend whatever doubts you may have, and give the process a chance. We have very little time. Civilian support is critical. Without it, we cannot possibly win. It’s my belief that everyone must come to agreement on the overall strategy, and once that’s accomplished, the military will do its best to carry the plan forward. Does anyone have questions regarding that approach?”

  There were questions, niggling matters for the most part, as various beings sought to establish their importance, impress their counterparts, or simply exercise their mouth parts. Ishimoto Six, who sat to Maylo’s right, tuned them out. He was much more interested in watching her out of the comer of his eye. And what the senator saw disturbed him. Her relationship with General Booty was over—everyone said so—but what of her eyes? They suggested something different.

  The clone looked at Booly. The soldier answered a question. The Sheen were coming—that was the point of the meeting—so what would happen then? Booly was brave—everyone agreed on that—which meant he would participate in the fighting. Perhaps the machines would kill him. It was a small thought, a horrible thought, but one he couldn’t shake.

  “So,” Booly said, “did I answer your questions? Good. Let’s move to the next step. The presentation materials have been downloaded to your personal comps so there’s no need to take a lot of notes. I would remind you that this material is secret and not for disclosure to anyone who hasn’t been cleared.”

  Omo listened to the translation, wondered if the last comment was directed at him, and decided it didn’t matter. The Thraki were the only party that might be interested, and they were losers. Or would be, assuming Booly made the logical moves. “Here’s the situation,” Booly began, and turned to watch a holo bloom at his side. The star map, prepared with the aid of clones themselves, showed most of the Hegemony. “Reduced to the simplest possible terms, the Sheen have been chasing the Thraki for hundreds if not thousands of years, and plan to eradicate their race. Why? They aren’t sure, and neither are we.

  “Thraki politics revolve around two groups, the Runners, who favor continued flight, and the Facers, who want to turn and fight. About the time that the Thraki armada entered Hegemony-controlled space—the Facers took control of the government.”

  Conscious of the clones in the room—the officer chose his next words with care. “The Hegemony greeted the newcomers in what can only be described as a peaceful fashion, allowed them to establish some bases, and settled into what they assumed would be a peaceful coexistence.”

  All as part of a cynical attempt to use the Thraki against the Confederacy, Maylo thought to herself. . . Not that she blamed Booly for leaving that out—since his job was to strengthen the alliance not destroy it.

  “Unfortunately,” Booly continued, “the Hegemony had no way to know that the Thraki hoped to use them as a sacrificial pawn.”

  There was a pause while someone explained the game of chess to a Dweller at
the back of the room.

  “More than that,” Booly went on, “it now appears that the Thraki hierarchy hoped to use the rest of the Confederacy in much the same manner. A plan that could still succeed if we allow them to remain where they are.

  “We don’t know a whole lot about the Sheen, only what the Thraki have chosen to share, and the report citizen Williams brought in. However, assuming that those reports are accurate, the machines are absolutely ruthless and will lay waste to any planet found to harbor the Thraki.”

  “So let’s go to Zynig47 and root the bastards out,” the senator from Turr growled. “It would serve the unnamable interlopers right.”

  Booly had been expecting a comment of that sort and nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, it would. But there’s a problem. Even now, after the consolidation of our forces, the Thraki have more ships than we do. A lot more. Admiral Tyspin”

  Tyspin rose and made her way to the front of the room. She wore a blue flight suit, the star that denoted her rank, but none of the many decorations to which she was entitled. Though not especially pretty, there was strength in her face, and her eyes gleamed with intelligence. They were green and swept the compartment like lasers. “What General Booly told you was correct... The Thraki fleet, or armada as they prefer to call it, consists of more than five thousand ships, plus auxiliary craft equivalent to shuttles, tugs, tankers and so on.”

  Tyspin pointed toward the holo that appeared next to her. A series of computer-rendered ships appeared. “The main body of the armada consists of supply ships, which might more accurately be referred to as ‘factory ships,’ since they carry raw materials plus the robotic machinery required to manufacture every item the fleet requires.

  “The factory vessels are protected by three types of warships roughly analogous to what we refer to as battleships, destroyers, and fighters, though of differing displacements. It should be noted that all of their vessels are equipped with standardized weapons and propulsion systems, something that gives them a logistical advantage and represents an area that we haven’t even started to address.”