The world called Long Jump was pleasant by human standards, having only slightly more gravity than Earth did, plus a breathable atmosphere, a nice large ocean, and plenty of raw unsettled land. Real estate, which like vacant lots everywhere, was available for a reason.
This was partly due to the fact that Long Jump was not only on the Rim, but on the outer edge of the rim, which meant that goods such as grain, refined ore, and manufactured products would have to be shipped to the center of the Confederacy where they would be forced to compete with similar commodities that were more expensive to produce, but had a shorter distance to travel. A competitive reality that the citizens of Long Jump had never managed to compensate for.
All of which helped to explain why Fortuna, the only city of any real size, was home to thieves, prospectors, renegades, bounty hunters, organ jackers, drug smugglers, slave traders and every other sort of villain known to the broad array of sentient races.
It was like so many frontier towns, a city of contrasts in which mansions stood shoulder to shoulder with sleazebag hotels, animals toiled next to jury-rigged robots and the often muddy streets wandered where commerce took them.
But Fortuna was civilized, and, like mostly human civilizations everywhere, was host to a complex social structure. The very top layer of this society was occupied by three different beings, all of whom liked to think that they owned the very top slot, although none of them really did.
One individual came close, however, and his name was Neptune Small. The fact that he weighed approximately 350 pounds was an irony of which he was well aware, and no one chose to joke about. No one who wanted to live.
Small’s offices were located over one of the restaurants he owned, which was rather convenient, since he considered it his duty to sample the establishment’s wares at least four times a day.
So that’s where he was, sitting at his favorite table, when a functionary named Hos McGurk left the city’s dilapidated com center, ignored the pouring-down rain, and ran the three blocks to the aptly named Rimmer’s Rest. He could have called, could have asked for Small, but the businessman didn’t like com calls. He preferred to deal with people face to face, where he could see their fear, and smell their sweat.
McGurk pushed the doors open, ignored the robotic hostess, and headed for the back. All sorts of junk had been nailed, wired, screwed, or in at least one case welded to the walls. There were nameplates taken off long-dismantled ships, a collection of alien hand tools, the shell from a five-hundred-pound land mollusk, a mummified hand that someone found floating in space, and a wanted poster that not only bore Small’s somewhat thinner likeness, but announced the possibility of a rather sizeable reward. Some of the clientele thought it was a joke—others weren’t so sure.
McGurk had started to pant by the time he arrived in front of Small’s table. The entrepreneur, as he liked to refer to himself, always wore immaculate black clothing, and affected a specially made cane. The handle resembled the head of an eagle and the shaft doubled as a single-shot energy weapon. It leaned against the table only inches from it owner’s well-dimpled hand. Small dabbed his fat puffy lips, raised an eyebrow, and spoke in what amounted to a hoarse whisper. “Good afternoon, Hos—what brings you out on such a miserable day?”
Thus encouraged McGurk began to babble. His eyes bulged with pent-up emotion, his hands washed each other, and the words emerged in spurts. “Ships! Hundreds of them! Maybe more! All dropping hyper.”
Small frowned. Given Long Jump’s location, five ships would be notable, ten would be extraordinary, and a hundred was impossible. He stabbed a piece of meat. “Have you been drinking? I thought you gave it up.”
“No!” Hos said emphatically. “I ain’t been drinking, and here’s proof.”
Small accepted the note, read the com master’s barely legible scrawl, and saw that the messenger was correct. Assuming that the orbital sensors were functioning correctly, and there was no reason to think otherwise, hundreds of alien ships had dropped into the system and more were on the way.
Some, the majority from the sound of it, had adopted a long elliptical orbit around the sun, while six vessels, big honkers judging from the message, were in orbit around Long Jump.
Small removed the crisp white linen from his chest, folded the napkin along the creases, and put it aside. It was important to maintain a front, to signal how unflappable he was, in spite of the inexplicably empty feeling that claimed the bottom of his considerable gut. What was going on? A Confederate raid? Or just what the message claimed it was? Aliens out of nowhere? Neither possibility suggested an opportunity for profit.
Those thoughts were still in the process of flickering through Small’s mind when something twittered. McGurk hauled a pocket com out of his coat and held the device to a badly misshapen ear. He listened, nodded, and turned to Small. “It’s Hawker . . . He claims to have one of the ships on the horn—and says Jorley Jepp wants to speak with you.”
The businessman felt his face flush red. He knew Jepp all right. Plenty of people did and would love to get their hands, tentacles, or graspers on him. A sometimes prospector, he owned a ship named the Pelican, and was eternally broke. One hundred and sixty-five thousand two-hundred and ten credits plus interest. That’s how much the slimy, no-good, piece of space crap owed Small.
But Jepp had disappeared more than a year back, which meant some stupid bastard was having him on. Small was about to say as much, about to rip McGurk a new asshole, when the idiot in question offered the com set. “Here, it’s Jorely Jepp.”
In spite of the fact that his relationship with the Hoon was basically cordial, it was hardly collegial, which meant the computer never bothered to announce what the fleet was going to do next. A fact that bothered the human no end. That being the case, Jepp usually gathered information through his robots or via his own senses.
The human had lived on the Sheen ship for quite a while by then, and was used to the way air whispered through the ducts, the hull vibrated beneath his feet, and the push of the engines. So when the fleet dropped hyper, slowed, and dropped into orbit, Jepp sensed the change and sent his minions to investigate.
The Thraki robot was called “Sam,” short for “Good Samaritan” and, though small, was able to assume a variety of configurations. Some of which came in handy from time to time. The fact that it served as a translator made the machine even more useful.
Henry, the only surviving component of the good ship Pelican, was a navcomp by trade and currently trapped within a body that looked like a garbage can. Though sentient and capable of speech, the host mechanism wasn’t. That left the computer dependent on Sam.
The two robots, along with the ever-obedient Alpha, left Jepp’s self-assigned quarters, passed an example of the religious graffiti that the prospector liked to spray paint onto the ship’s bulkheads, and made for the nearest data port. Sam plugged in, sampled the flow, and found what the master was looking for. With that accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to transmit the data to Henry, who possessed superior analytical abilities, and who if the truth be told was just plain smarter.
The navcomp scanned the data, registered the machine equivalent of surprise, and checked to ensure that it had arrived at the correct conclusion. Then, certain that the information was correct, Henry experienced a profound sense of horror. What were the odds? Millions to one? That the Hoon would randomly choose that particular set of coordinates?
No, much as the AI might want to believe such a hypothesis, it couldn’t. Henry’s memory had been plundered shortly after capture. Now, for reasons known only to it, the alien intelligence had approached Long Jump. The navcomp had witnessed similar visitations during the previous year, and none of them had been pleasant. Entire civilizations had been snuffed from existence, species left near extinction, and natural resources looted to feed the fleet. Slowly, reluctantly, Henry returned with the news.
Jepp listened to the report, asked to hear it again, and felt an almost overwhelm
ing sense of joy. He’d been right! God had a plan. Why else would the Supreme Being direct the fleet to Long Jump? The very planet from which Henry and he had lifted so long ago?
The human literally danced around the compartment, chortled out loud, and slapped the robot’s alloy back. “Here’s our chance, Alpha! We’ll minister to the godless and build the flock! Praise be to the lord.”
“Praise be to the lord,” Alpha echoed dutifully.
Henry was silent.
The Hoon transferred a portion of its consciousness from one ship to another, scanned the orb below, and considered its options. Yes, it could consume the metal on the planet below, and thereby fuel the fleet, or, and this was more intriguing, allow the soft body to interact with its peers and take the food afterwards.
Evidence had been found suggesting that the AI’s quarry had traveled into that particular sector of space—and it wanted confirmation. If the soft bodies knew anything about the Thraki, they would tell the one called Jepp, and he would tell the Hoon. Or would he? Based on data gleaned from the biped’s navigational entity, this was the biological’s planet of origin. Perhaps he would run. No great loss, the Hoon concluded, none at all.
Jepp boarded the Sheen shuttle, followed by his robots, each one of which progressed by its own means of propulsion, which meant that Alpha walked, Henry rolled, and Sam scampered about. The human had been given grudging use of smaller ships in the past, but this felt different, as if the Hoon actually wanted him to go. Form has a tendency to follow function—so the control room looked like what it was. The presence of two pedestal-style chairs confirmed the fact that the ship’s architects, whoever they might be, liked to sit down once in awhile.
There was a view screen, a stripped-down control panel, and a joystick. Did that mean the creators had a preference for simplicity? Or that the controls were regarded as little more than an emergency backup? Jepp favored the second theory but had no way to know if he was correct.
The ex-prospector sat down, wished the chair was more comfortable, and felt the ship lift off. It hovered for a moment, scooted out through the enormous hatch, and fell into orbit. The sight of Long Jump brought a lump to his throat. It looked like a chocolate ball dusted with powdered sugar. There were people down there, lots of them, and he hungered for the sound of their voices. Could the ship patch him through? There was only one way to find out. “Contact the surface,” Jepp ordered, “and tell them I wish to speak with Neptune Small.”
Three minutes passed while the robots communicated with the ship and the ship communicated with someone on Long Jump’s surface.
Then, much to the human’s amazement, Alpha touched a section of the control panel, waited for a small cover to whir out of the way, and removed a curvilinear tube. “Here, you can speak into this.”
Jepp recognized the device as some sort of handset and heard a voice issue from a hole. “Jepp? Is that you?”
The sound of the merchant’s voice was enough to trigger unpleasant memories. The prospector remembered what it had been like to wait for hours while Small sat in his office. And then, if he was very, very lucky, to be given five minutes in which to make his case. Why the existing loan should be extended, why he would strike it rich, why Small should be patient. And how, when the whole humiliating ritual was over, Small would part with a tiny fraction of the money he’d made during the last five minutes, and Jepp would slink away. But not this time Jepp thought to himself. “Yes,” Jepp said out loud. “It certainly is. How do you like my fleet?”
Small, who had taken the precaution of draping a handkerchief over McGurk’s less than sanitary com set, gave a grunt of derision. “I don’t know who owns those ships . . . but it certainly isn’t you.”
“Oh really?” Jepp replied, eyeing the huge doughnut-shaped space hab that had appeared on the shuttle’s viewscreen. “How’s that refueling station doing? You know, the one that charges twice the going rate, just for being out on the Rim?”
Small felt something gnaw at his gut. He made it to his feet, grabbed the cane, and walked toward the door. Maybe the folks down at the com center could tell him what the hell was going on. “Now Jorley . . . there’s no reason to get all excited . . . let’s talk.”
A mob had formed in front of the com center but parted to let Small through. Voices babbled and questions flew, but the merchant ignored them. People scattered as Small barged into the main office and eyed the wall screen. There were ships all right, lots of them, more than he could count. And there, right between some red deltas was his pride and joy, the largely automated refueling station he called “Halo.” The computer-generated likeness of the station was gold and glistened in the sun.
Then, as if by magic, the Halo was gone. Small yelled “No!” but it was too late. Instructions had gone to the Hoon, weapons had been fired, and the hab ceased to exist.
Jepp tried to remember how many people lived on board but wasn’t sure. He should have checked first—should have known the answer. What was wrong with him anyway? Would he go to hell? No, not so long as he furthered God’s plan. His voice was filled with steel. “Prepare to receive God’s servants. Make them welcome or suffer my wrath.”
Small started to reply, started to ask “What servants?” but realized the connection had been severed.
All other air traffic was turned away as a procession of shimmery shuttles landed at Fortuna’s much-abused spaceport. Neptune Small, his flunkies, a crowd of townspeople, and spaceport staff all watched in amazement as dozens of smooth-faced robots filed out of the alien spaceships and made their way into the slums that bordered the port.
Many feared that the machines would suddenly turn violent, but there was no sign that any of them bore weapons, and none of the robots did anything to offend. What they did do, however, was take up positions on street corners, enter bars, and invade houses of prostitution. There were objections, of course, along with various attempts to eject them, but to no avail. Even after being physically accosted and thrown out into the streets, the robots simply picked themselves up and marched back in.
Eventually, after the bouncers tired of trying to stop them, the machines were allowed to stay. That’s when they launched their carefully prepared sermons. Long rambling affairs that borrowed from a number of sects, denominations, and traditions, but were faithful to none.
It was only after walking around for a bit and sampling a number of presentations that Small realized the robots were speaking in unison!
Jepp, self-styled messiah that he was, had constructed the perfect cult. Each and every member thought the same thoughts, had the same beliefs, and babbled the same nonsense. Including the need to eradicate the Thraki. Whoever they might be.
People listened at first, curious as to what the silvery machines had to say, but soon grew bored and drifted away.
Three of the robots were machine-napped but set free the moment that the orbital barrage began. The buildings were chosen at random and destroyed one at a time till the Sheen were released.
Small lost two properties during the attack, and his peers lost structures as well. Finally, at their urging, the businessman was forced to go looking for Jepp. The self-styled messiah was easy to locate. Every street-corner robot seemed to know exactly where their master was.
The prefab warehouse catered to the sort of misfits that used Long Jump as a base of operations, and was subdivided into a labyrinth of heavily screened cubicles. It was difficult to see in the murky corridors, but most of the compartments seemed to crammed with semiworthless junk.
The owner, a weasel nicknamed “Pop,” dogged the merchant’s steps. He was as small as the other man was large and dressed in property confiscated from his nonpaying customers. A two-thousand credit spyder-silk robe flapped around his tiny body as he walked. “He’s down this way Mr. Small . . . along with some of his infernal machines. They just walked in and took over.”
The twosome turned a corner, passed under a dangling light wand, and located their quarry. Je
pp was there all right—along with a clutch of robots. A silver globe bumped into Small’s well-shod feet, transformed itself into something that resembled a spider, and attempted to scale the merchant’s right leg. He bent over to peel the device off. Sam took exception. “Hey! Watch it buster! Hands off.”
Startled by the robot’s use of standard, the merchant took a step backward. The robot lost interest and dropped free. Jepp, who had chosen to ignore the businessman up till then, scanned the title of a holo disk and dropped it into a box. “Don’t mind Sam . . . he’s harmless enough. I wondered when you would show up.”
Small, who felt inexplicably nervous, was shocked by the sound of his own voice. He sounded weak, and a little bit subservient, like those who worked for him. “Really? Yes, I suppose you did.”
“Of course I did,” Jepp said matter-of-factly. “So what did your friends say? Get rid of him? And do it fast?”
“Something like that,” Small admitted lamely.
“So what will you give me?” Jepp demanded, hands on hips.
Small shrugged. “Whatever you want. So long as you leave and take the machines with you.”
“ ‘Whatever I want,’ ” Jepp mused. “I like the sound of that . . . One can imagine all sorts of things. The sort of worldly garbage that a man like you would ask for.
“But God has no interest in such things . . . and neither do his servants. I ask only two things, one for the Hoon, and the other for myself.”
Small felt a small, hard lump form in his throat. He had no idea who or what the Hoon was . . . but wasn’t sure it mattered. As with all business deals, the price was what mattered. “Yes? What do you want?”
“The Sheen are looking for a race known as the Thraki. Have you heard of them?”
The merchant shook his head. Chins jiggled. “No, but we don’t get much news out here. You know how it is . . . The Feddies don’t care about us, and we don’t care about them.”
By Force of Arms Page 2