By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  So serious was the situation that High Priestess Bree Bricana had been invited to participate and, as the table was cleared, rose to give the traditional benediction. The final words, which Andragna had always found to be moving, were even more so now: “... And may the gods guide us through the labyrinth of stars to the peace that lies beyond. For it is there, in the promised place, where our spirits may rest.”

  In most cases, Andragna preferred to let one of the Sectors set the agenda and open the meeting, but this was different. Focus was important. The Admiral cleared his throat and scanned the faces before him. Thousands watched via live feeds. The expression on his face and the tonality of his words were as important if not more important than what he said. “The moment we have both dreaded and anticipated is upon us. The Sheen have entered Confederate space, know where we are, and will attack soon.”

  “I think we know that,” Sector 12 said sarcastically.

  “We need a leader... not a clerk.”

  Sector 12 was a Runner and, in spite of Andragna’s Runner sympathies, never tired of needling him. Many of the committee members thought her comments were amusing—but not today. Sector 27 rapped the surface of the table. He was a high-ranking member of the priesthood, a xenoanthropologist, and a levelheaded pragmatist. “Enough! There is no time for the game of politics. The admiral has a plan . .. and I want to hear it.”

  Sector 12 actually looked contrite for once—and the admiral enjoyed her discomfort. He leaned forward as if to add weight to his words. “We had hoped to join the Confederacy of Sentient Beings and bind some allies to our cause. That particular path has been blocked,” Andragna continued earnestly,

  “but the strategy continues to be valid.”

  Sector 18 looked at Sector 4 to see if the Facer understood what the admiral was driving at, but she was as mystified as he was. Nortalla signaled as much with the set of her ears.

  “The Sheen have sent probes and scouts to find us,” Andragna added, “and six have been detected within the boundaries of this very solar system.”

  Though known to senior military officers and the top level of the priesthood, this was news to the majority of the population. Andragna paused for a moment to let the information sink in. Then, knowing how worried they were, he took them off the hook.

  “We could have destroyed every single one of the intruders—but allowed them to survive. Why you may ask? So that when the vast majority of our fleet enters hyperspace, as it will soon, the Sheen will follow.”

  Some of the Sectors looked confused—but the rest started to brighten. Did he mean?

  “Yes,” Andragna confirmed, “I plan to drop our fleet into the system dominated by the race known as the Arballazanies . . . Because that’s where the Confederate government is momentarily convened, that’s where a significant number of their ships will be gathered, and that’s where the battle will be joined.”

  It was a masterful plan, one that would force the Confederacy to side with the Thraki, or, failing that, enable Andragna to use them as a highly disposable shield. It was a good plan, a brilliant plan, and feet started to stomp, not just within the Chamber of Reason, but elsewhere on the planet, on the arks that orbited above, and out in the blackness of space.

  Andragna heard the noise and felt it through the recently reconditioned floor. The timing would be critical—but hope had been restored.

  One moment the Ninja was in the nowhere land of hyperspace, and the next moment it was bathed in light from NS680193, a rather benign sun in the prime of its life. Tyspin forced herself to remain impassive, or at least look impassive, as every detector, sensor, and warning system the ship had started to buzz, bleat, and speak in technical tongues. The Ninja’s command and control computer, better known as Big Momma, delivered the news with the same inflection used to announce the lunch menu: “More than three thousand targets have been acquired, indexed according to standard threat protocols, and tagged with firing priorities. This vessel will be destroyed approximately twenty-two seconds after the engagement begins—but may be able to inflict at least some damage on .001 percent of the enemy fleet. This intelligence recommends a preemptive strike.”

  Tyspin glanced at the ship’s commanding officer. Captain John Hashimoto had been with her during theBattle for Earth. He was one of the most trustworthy officers she knew. Hashimoto was short, muscular, and eternally cheerful. The computer assessment made him grin. The Ninja had not been dispatched to attack the Sheen all by herself but it was nice to know that Momma was game.

  “Stand by,” Tyspin said grimly. “One wrong move, and we make the jump.”

  Hashimoto nodded. The calcs were complete and loaded. The Navcomp, affectionately known as Old Screw Head, was on standby. All it would take was a single word to fling the ship into the void. Would they make it before the Sheen blew the ship to bits? It seemed doubtful, but the possibility made everyone feel better.

  Seconds ticked away. The bridge crew stood like statues, hesitant to breathe lest the action somehow trigger an attack, yet determined to appear fearless.

  Tyspin felt fear gnaw at her belly and struggled to ignore it Five, maybe ten seconds had passed, and her heart continued to beat. That was good wasn’t it? Careful lest her voice betray how she actually felt, she raised an eyebrow and glanced at Hashimoto. “Well? What are we waiting for? You know the drill... Tell the servo heads that we’d like to parley.”

  The words, plus the knowledge that they were still alive, acted to free the bridge crew from their momentary paralysis The admiral was pulling the old man’s chain’ Situation normal. Hashimoto, who was fully aware of the role he’d been given, looked appropriately stem, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am. You heard the admiral... send it out.”

  The message was sent in Thraki and standard: “Greetings on behalf of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings. This sector of space is controlled by outmember states. Please state your intentions.”

  President Nankool and his advisors had invested a considerable amount of time and energy in constructing the text. The phraseology was cool but short of hostile. That was the intent anyway, and how they would interpret such a message, but what about the machines? Could they? Would they read between the lines? Tyspin regarded the possibility as unlikely—but what did she know? At least two AIs had been part of the process, and if they believed the text would work, then maybe it would. The reply was not only expeditious but unexpected. A corn tech watched a holo bloom, listened to the audio that accompanied it, and raised his hand. “Over here, ma’am ... the machines replied ... or at least I think they did.”

  Tyspin stepped over to the corn tech’s console and eyed the video. No wonder the rating was confused. In place of a machine, or some sort of graphical interface, a human being had appeared. He was in obvious need of a haircut, his face looked slightly cadaverous, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. They seemed to bore through Tyspin’s head. Judging from what the man said he had more than a passing familiarity with naval insignia. The tone was arrogant. “I see they sent an admiral to greet us ... kind of an insult wouldn’t you say? President Nankool would have been more appropriate.”

  A memory tickled the back of Tyspin’s mind. Something the loquacious Willy Williams had discussed during the intelligence debriefings Something about a human who had been present during the attack on Long Jump, and of even more importance, had directed at least some of the ensuing violence. Was this the same man? A renegade with blood on his hands? Yes, Tyspin had a feeling that it was, which meant she was eyeball to eyeball with a psychopath, war criminal, or both. Knowing that, or being reasonably sure of it, raised a very important question: How should she deal with him? The most obvious strategy was to appease him, assuming such a thing was possible, in hopes of gaining his favor. But something cautioned the officer against that approach, something she couldn’t quite articulate, but which stemmed from his motivations. What were they? Perhaps that was the key, what Jasper, no, Jepp really wanted was a sense of legitimacy, of respect fo
r what he saw as his accomplishments. The thoughts flickered through her mind at lightning speed, and while it wasn’t much to go on, Tyspin decided to gamble. She could, the officer reasoned, back off, should that become necessary. “President Nankool is rather busy,” Tyspin said coldly. “Give me a message, and I’ll pass it along.”

  The exprospector found himself torn between his desire to impress the Hoon with how tough he was and the somewhat unexpected need to win Admiral Tyspin’s respect. He tried another tack.

  “Look, I’m sorry if I seem a bit over the top, but we’re on the same side. My name is Jorley Jepp. You’ve heard about the attack on Long Jump by now ... so you know what the Sheen can do. Their main objective is to find a race known as the Thraki. If the Thrakies are around, and the Sheen say they are, then you’re in contact with them by now. The best thing the Confederacy can do is to provide the Sheen with information, plus some fuel for their ships, and get out of the way.”

  “And then?” Tyspin inquired skeptically, glad that the entire interchange was being recorded, “what happens after that?”

  “That depends,” Jepp said evasively, “on any number of things. The Sheen trust me ... and I may be able to influence them. I know the President is busy—but I would appreciate his advice.”

  Tyspin didn’t believe that the last part of the comment was sincere... but took note of the less truculent tone. Could the earnest looking man in the soiled jumpsuit influence what the Sheen did next? The initial answer seemed to be “yes,” given the events on Long Jump, the fact that he was still alive, and was allowed to speak. But how far did that influence extend? And what would Jepp want in return? Those questions and dozens more begged to be answered. The key was to buy time—time Booly could use to prepare, time Nankool could use to perform maintenance on the alliance, and time she could use to learn more about Jepp. The naval officer forced a smile. “Of course . . Let’s see what I can arrange. Would you or your, er companion?,, have any objections to my dispatching a message torp?”

  Jepp looked offscreen, seemed to converse with someone, and turned back. “No, so long as you and your ship remain.”

  Tyspin nodded. A battle of sorts had been won. The message torp would carry a copy of the interchange, a request for instructions, and more important than that, data regarding the Sheen fleet. Valuable data that could help Booly win.

  The Hoon monitored the exchange, assigned a probe to follow the message torp through hyperspace, and processed something akin to a feeling of satisfaction. The soft bodies were gratifyingly stupid, data would be gathered, and the mission furthered. Life, or what passed for it, was good.

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  A clutch of nervous looking advisors stood and waited while President Marcott Nankool read the message for a second time. It was warm with so many bodies packed into the chief executive’s office, and the ship struggled to cope. Cold air blasted out of an overhead vent, and ChienChu felt his cybernetic body adjust accordingly. DomaSa shuffled his feet, and servos whined as an exoskeleton clad Dweller shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Nankool placed the printout on the surface of his highly polished wood desk, arranged it just so, and met their eyes. “So? Your presence speaks more eloquently than words. You know what Admiral Tyspin sent me—what would you suggest?”

  DomaSa waited to see if anyone would speak, realized they weren’t sure of what to say, and broke the silence. “BETA018 has been secured, but the Thraki occupy other worlds as well. The more time we buy, the more General Booly has to work with.”

  Nankool scanned their faces. “How ‘bout the rest of you? Do you agree?”

  ChienChu nodded and glanced around. There was no dissention for once ... a rare and memorable moment.

  A message torp was dispatched an hour later. A Sheen probe was allowed to follow it. They hit the outward-bound transit point within minutes of each other and seemed to wink out of existence A reply was on the way.

  Transit Point NS690193, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The launch bay was no different from the last time Jorely Jepp had been there. Ships sat in what appeared to be random fashion but was actually a mathematically precise arrangement that allowed the Sheen to use the available space in the most efficient possible manner. Ropes of silvery nano hung, crawled, and in one case squirmed across the bay. The tang of ozone flavored the air. Only one thing was different and that was the way the human felt: happy, excited, and nearly giddy with joy. The message torp had returned. An agreement had been reached. He, Jorely Jepp, exprospector, debtor, and all around loser was on his way to visit with President Marcott Nankool!

  No, he told himself, not visit, but negotiate on behalf of God and the heathen waiting to be saved. An account would be written one day, a tome on a par with the Holy Bible or the Koran. A book that would tell the tale of the savior who emerged from the cosmic wasteland accompanied by a silvery host. The very thought of it filled the human’s heart to the breaking point. He seized Veera’s clawlike hand. “Come on! This is our moment!”

  Veera knew the human was trying to be generous—but suffered no illusions. Her moment would come when she was back among her own kind. In the meantime, with no other possibilities in sight, the lunatic at her side offered the best opportunity of escape. They boarded the shuttle. Henry, along with Alpha, followed behind.

  Given how unstable her guest appeared to be, and given the extent of the power he might be able to call upon, Tyspin planned to be at the lock to greet him. That’s why she was down in the ready room—watching a bank of monitors.

  The shuttle slowed as it approached the ship, followed a brightly lit drone into the bay, and settled onto its skids. The vessel was sufficiently streamlined so that it could operate within a planetary atmosphere. It shimmered as if lit from within. Here, at least, was something of an intelligence coup since an entire battery of sensors had been specially rigged to gather information on the enemy ship. Even if the contact with Jepp proved futile, anything they could learn about Sheen technology could prove very valuable indeed.

  The shuttle landed, a hatch opened, and a ramp hit hull metal. The Ninja’s deck master wore bright orange space armor. He approached the ramp and waited for the visitor to disembark. Jepp, or a figure that Tyspin assumed was Jepp, was a sight to see. In spite of the fact that he had an entire fleet to back him, the exprospector wore the same suit of dilapidated, much patched space armor in which he had been captured. And what was that perched on his shoulder? Some sort of machine? That’s what it looked like.

  There was more, however—including an entourage which caught Tyspin by surprise. The second individual to emerge from the shuttle wore a type of space armor she didn’t recognize until her intel officer turned in her direction. His name was DorbaKa, and he spoke standard with a slight hiss. “Where did the Prithian come from? What’s going on here?”

  What indeed? Tyspin wondered as the odd couple made their way across the repulsor blackened deck toward the entry lock. That’s when the robots appeared. Form follows function, and the first pair looked similar to the navy issue general-purpose androids assigned to her ship. The units that followed were considerably different. There were four altogether, as similar as ball bearings, and protected by force fields. Arms ended in what appeared to be energy projectors, heads swiveled from left to right, and they moved in unison.

  “They look dangerous,” the intel officer said conversationally. “Can the marines handle them?”

  It was a good question, but Tyspin had other things to worry about as well. Should she treat Jepp like a head of state? Someone entitled to armed guards, even within the hull of a Confederate warship? Or refuse to admit them? And risk a confrontation? A confrontation with catastrophic results? It was a nasty decision and one she would have preferred to avoid.

  But Jepp had arrived in front of the lock, and time had run out. The entire side party, which consisted of the intel officer, a chief petty officer, and
a squad of smart looking marines all turned to look at her. The decision, which she would live to regret, emerged as a croak. “Let them in.” The hatch cycled open, the visitors spent the requisite time in the lock, and were admitted to the ship. Jepp, who, with the exception of his brief stay on Long Jump, had been cut off from humankind, stopped to take it in. The faces, the sounds, the faint odor of cooking all rushed to fill his senses. The admiral said something but the exprospector failed to process the words. He felt a little bit dizzy but managed to keep his feet. Those around him seemed unaware of his discomfort and led him down a long, sterile corridor.

  The robots followed behind. Alpha discerned little of interest, Henry was on the lookout for some way to escape, and the Hoon, who occupied all four of the security units, was beaming data back to the shuttle. Useful data that would come in handy when the battle started. The AI was struck not by the technology that surrounded it, which was average at best, but by the diversity of the life forms that crewed the ship. At least three or four different species, if appearances were any guide. They seemed to be cooperating—to be working together—the way machines would. Something the Hoon had never witnessed before.

  Veera, her heart beating faster, wondered what to do. The Hoon had accompanied them, she was fairly certain of that, but doubted that Jepp even cared. The truth was that the human had accepted the computer’s primacy—and even come to depend on it.

  As for the other humans, those who ran the ship, they had no idea what they were dealing with. The Prithian glanced over her shoulder. Alpha and Henry followed along behind, backed by the ominous security units, and a squad of soldiers. What would the Hoon do if she tried to escape? Shoot her? Or ignore the whole thing? There was no way to know. It seemed prudent to wait and see what developed. As with most warships, the Ninja had no quarters for guests, but Jepp was thrilled with XO’s cabin, and never gave a moment’s thought to where the unfortunate officer had disappeared to. Though actually smaller than his compartment aboard the Sheen battleship, this space had been designed for the convenience of humans and seemed luxurious by comparison. There was a small but serviceable shower, hot water that shut itself off after three minutes had elapsed, and a stack of brand new clothing. There was crisp white underwear, three dark blue shipsuits, plus a cap with the Ninja’s star emblem on the front of it. Life was good.