By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  A chime sounded. Three officials were shown into the room and left to choose from the few remaining chairs. There was Catherine Chambers-Nine, the secretary of state, Morley Hyde-Thirteen, deputy secretary of state, and Harlan Ishimoto-Seven, the Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy.

  Magnus, who had long wished that he were someone else, watched them in a way that he never had before. How, the clone wondered, had he failed to see the cruel almost predatory curve of the secretary’s lips? Her deputy’s sleek, overfed assurance? And the diplomat’s oily self-satisfied smirk? They were like fingers on a hand. Their joint perfidy seemed so obvious now, so amazingly clear, that he could barely believe his own lack of clarity. His mother would have seen it, his father would have seen it, but he was blind. Damn them anyway! For giving him a life that he neither wanted nor was qualified to have.

  There was small talk, the awkward, somewhat stilted kind of conversation that occurs when human beings attempt to communicate across a social chasm, followed by the same chime heard earlier.

  Chambers and her subordinates turned toward the main hallway. They were curious—but far from alarmed. More officials they supposed or—and this seemed more likely—senior military officers who, in spite of their lack of expertise, never tired of dabbling in statecraft.

  None of them noticed that the Alpha Clones remained as they were, watching, and waiting.

  Harlan Ishimoto-Seven felt a sudden sense of alarm as Maylo Chien-Chu entered the room, wondered how she had managed to find her way alone, and what the development would mean. That’s when the diplomat spotted his clone brother, knew the assassination attempt had failed, and heard Chambers gasp. It was the moment Antonio had been waiting for. He turned to Pietro. “So, my brother, look at their faces. What do you see?”

  “Surprise,” the Alpha Clone replied sadly. “All of them are surprised.”

  “Yes,” Antonio agreed. “Not proof of guilt ... but that will come. A citizen is dead and the investigation has begun. One of them will rat on the rest. Guards! Take them away.”

  Ishimoto-Six was confused, then angry, as the meaning became clear. He lunged forward, stopped when a guard seized his arms, and confronted his brother. “Svetlana is dead. Why?”

  Seven saw the hatred in his brother’s eyes, felt Antonio’s contempt, and couldn’t believe it was happening. “Wait! Stop! You don’t understand!”

  Oh, but we do,” Magnus replied,. “We understand all too well. Take this trash away.”

  The subsequent meeting lasted the better part of two local days. Though not empowered to act on behalf of the Confederacy, Maylo was knowledgable regarding the political climate, and well worth listening to. The Clones did so.

  It was clear from the beginning that the Alpha Clones had already decided to form a closer relationship with the Confederacy—the question was how and within what time frame. Finally, when the session was over, Ishimoto-Six was empowered to open certain areas for negotiation, and the two of them left.

  They had the courier ship all to themselves this time. Maylo, who had never tried zero gee sex before, decided that she liked it. The only problem was that the act left her feeling sad somehow—as if something had gone missing. She wrestled with her dreams and felt tired when she awoke.

  8

  In war I would deal with the Devil and his grandmother.

  Joseph Stalin

  Army Staff College Papers

  Standard year circa 1909

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Sergi Chien-Chu awoke where he usually did—standing in one comer of his small, and rather sparsely furnished stateroom. It had been a long time since he had made use of a bed. He’d been back for about three standard days by that time but was still in the process of reintegrating with his own body and the Friendship’s daily routines.

  He thought the word “vision” and scanned the interior of his cabin. It was dark, so he switched to infrared. The com console glowed green, as did the battery-powered holos of his family, and the overhead heat duct.

  The cyborg wondered what time it was, saw 0633 appear in the lower righthand quadrant of his vision, and knew he should get to work. Hard work—since the task the industrialist had set for himself would be anything but easy.

  The Hudathans had agreed to fight ... but would the senate allow them to do so? Millions of deaths argued against it. Even he wondered about the wisdom of the idea.

  Slowly, reluctantly, the industrialist unlocked his joints, brought all of his systems on line, and departed his quarters. The first meeting would be held over breakfast. A meal he had once enjoyed. Life was anything but fair.

  The Molly B popped out of hyperspace like a cork out of a bottle, fired her in-system drive, and immediately started to tumble.

  Willy Williams swore a long string of colorful oaths, took the Navcomp off line, and assumed manual control of the ship. Located deep within the durasteel hull, the computer depended on external sensors for input, and roughly half of them were out of action.

  Both the ship and its owner, a man of somewhat elastic morals, had been on Long Jump, minding their own business, catching a little R&R when the Sheen dropped in for a visit. Machines that preached on street corners . . . What was next? Talking dogs?

  Willy wanted to leave, wanted to boost ass as fast as possible, but needed his cargo. A nice load of custom-designed bacteria, all destined for a dirtball called Clevis, where the colonists were hanging by their fingernails while they waited for microscopic reinforcements. The kind that eat rock, burp oxygen, and shit fertilizer.

  They weren’t gonna get ’em, though, not anytime soon, not since the machines slagged Fortuna, Willy hauled butt, and a Sheen fighter put the hurts to Molly.

  But that was then, and this was now. The ship rolled, the smuggler fired a jet, and she stabilized. He was about to check his position, find out where the hell he was, when something hit the hull. The Molly shook, and some buzzers went off.

  Willy tapped some buttons, discovered that the delta-shaped fighter was still on his ass, and wondered how. None of the civilizations he was familiar with had the technology to lock on to another ship and follow it through hyperspace. But this sucker did ... and was determined to kill him.

  The Molly B shuddered as a missile exploded in the vicinity of her hull—and shuddered once again when Willy took evasive action. His eyes were bloodshot, veins traced his nose, and stubble covered his cheeks. The words went out over freq four. “You want some of me? You wanta dance? Well, come on you pile of metallic shit, let’s get it on!”

  The Sheen fighter took note of the transmission, had no idea what it meant, and filed the message away. Such matters were handled by the Hoon—and the Hoon was a long way off.

  President Marcott Nankool nodded to Chief Warrant Officer Aba, the senate’s master at arms, climbed the short flight of stairs and made his way to the podium. Ironically enough it was Senator Orno who was tasked with the introduction by right of seniority. He rose from the specially constructed chair located to the right of the speaker’s position. His voice, translated by the computer woven into his iridescent robe, filled the chambers. The chatter died away. “Please allow me to welcome each and every one of you back to this, the sixty-ninth gathering of this august body, and the second half of this year’s session.

  “Here to open the proceedings is the Right Honorable Marcott Nankool—the Confederacy’s President and Chief Executive Officer. President Nankool?”

  There was sustained applause followed by the usual rustle of fabric, creak of chairs, and whir of servos. Nankool smiled. Most of the senators knew what the expression meant. The rest ignored it. “Thank you. It is a great pleasure to be here. You have an ambitious slate of legislation to consider—and I have no wish to delay your deliberations. With that reality in mind, I will keep my comments short and to the point.

  “We have reason to believe that a force known as the Sheen is headed our way. The purpose of this fleet is to destroy
the Thraki plus any race that gets in the way or offers them support.”

  Many of the senators had heard rumors and offered gestures of agreement while some looked confused. They turned to neighbors, and words were exchanged.

  Nankool scanned his audience, prepared the next volley of words, and delivered them with care. “Even as we meet, efforts are under way to marshal what forces we have and prepare a defense. However, a series of budget cuts, combined with troubles on Earth, have left our forces at little more than half strength. That being the case, it is my hope, no, my prayer, that you will understand me when I say that desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  Nankool looked out into the chamber, located the eyes he was looking for, and continued his speech. “You may be interested to know that Governor Chien-Chu, acting at my request, accompanied Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa to the planet Hudatha, where they met with senior officials.

  “The result of those discussions, pending your approval, was the outline of what could become a mutual defense pact. An agreement that would allow the Hudathans some measure of additional freedom in exchange for their assistance against the Sheen.”

  It was as far as Nankool got. Shouts were heard, and someone threw a glass. It shattered against the podium. Aba moved to protect the chief executive, and democracy turned to chaos. Every being present had lost someone to Hudathan aggression—and was opposed to any sort of rapprochement.

  Chien-Chu looked at Doma-Sa. The Hudathan shrugged. There was nothing else he could do.

  The Molly B shuddered, rolled, and corkscrewed away. The fighter followed. Willy had been in his share of scrapes during more than forty years of working, stealing, and smuggling, but couldn’t remember one worse than this. He needed to beat the machine and do it soon. Coherent light blipped past the view screen and raced past the ship. The human scanned the instrument panel, was frightened by how many red and amber lights he saw, and took a firm grip on the control yoke. He pulled back. The Molly B broke out of the corkscrew and started to climb. Not really, since “up” was relative, but that’s the way it felt. The smuggler’s mind started to race.

  The machine was a machine. That constituted both its strength and its weakness. It would do what it supposed to do, which, if its programming followed the dictates of logic, meant achieving its objective in the shortest possible period of time, while expending the minimum amount of energy required to get the job done.

  He, however, was human, which meant he could do anything he frigging wanted to do, no matter how stupid that might seem.

  Williams turned the yoke to the left, fought the gee forces that threatened to distort his movements, and checked the heads-up display (HUD). The enemy fighter appeared as a three-dimensional red outline. Suddenly, the ships were headed at each other at a high rate of combined speed. The smuggler steered into the center of the sighting grid, gave a whoop of joy, and sent another transmission. “You got balls? Steel balls? Let’s find out.”

  The fighter’s processor made note of the change, ran the numbers, and received negative results. Since it was bow-on, the target vessel would be extremely hard to hit. Not only that, but there was the very real possibility of a head-on collision, which while it would almost certainly destroy the enemy, would have similar implications for the fighter. Something the Hoon was almost sure to disapprove of.

  Added to that was the fact that the tactics employed by the opposition didn’t make much sense, suggesting that the enemy intelligence was inferior, defective, or—and this seemed unlikely—possessed of a plan so sophisticated that only one such as the Hoon would be capable of understanding it.

  The oncoming vessel was closer now, a lot closer, and showed no sign of turning away. A subprocessor signaled alarm. The Sheen fired two missiles, turned to the left, and ran into a beam of coherent light. It was powerful, much more powerful than a ship of that displacement would logically have, and therefore unexpected. The force field that protected the fighter, and was the origin of the name “Sheen,” flared and went down. Steel turned to liquid, a drive went critical, and the machine exploded.

  Willy saw the fireball, heard the tone, and felt the impact all at the same time. One of the enemy missiles had missed—but the other struck its target. The Molly took the blow, seemed to hesitate, and took a jog to starboard.

  Most of the remaining green lights morphed to red, a klaxon began to bleat, and the control yoke went dead. Willy swore, attempted to kill power, and discovered that he couldn’t. The ship was hauling butt, heading out past the sun, bound for nowhere. The planet Arballa, to which the smuggler had been headed, was off to port. Way off to port.

  Williams bit his lip, checked to see if the auxiliary steering jets were on line, and discovered most of them were. He fired two in combination, the vessel jerked to port, and the smuggler dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could bring her in.

  It took the better part of ten minutes, plus a dozen minute adjustments, but he brought the Molly around. Finally, convinced that the ship was on course, Willy sent a message : “Confederate vessel CVL-9769 to any Confederate warship—over.”

  There was a pause while the signal made the necessary journey, but the reply was as prompt as the laws of physics would allow. The voice belonged to a com tech named Howsky—and she was bored. Nothing interesting had happened for weeks. “This is the vessel Friendship ... we read you loud and clear. Over.”

  “Glad to hear it, Friendship, cause I’m declaring an emergency and comin’ in hot. Over.”

  Howsky sat up straight, signaled her chief, and eyed an overhead holo. CVL-9769 appeared as a blue delta. It was coming in fast. “Declare your emergency, 69 . . . What kind of problem do you have? Maybe we can help. Over.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Willy replied, “but I went head-to-head with a Sheen fighter. I nailed the bastard ... but took some damage. Navcomp’s down, controls are shot, and the drives won’t answer. They’re maxed, repeat maxed, and my board reads red. Other than that—things couldn’t be better.”

  “Got it,” Howsky replied. “Hold one ... will advise. Over.”

  The chief called the division commander, who called the executive officer, who confirmed the remote possibility of collision, and notified Captain Boone. He hit the crash alarm and hell broke loose. Klaxons sounded, signs flashed, and traffic was diverted away from the ship. The Friendship’s crew raced to their damage control stations, hatches dropped into place, and the ship’s PA system came to sudden life. Translations followed.

  “This is the captain. Nonessential personnel will take seats, strap themselves in, and remain in place till further notice. There is a remote, I repeat remote chance that an incoming vessel will collide with the Friendship, but there is no need for concern. Based on current calculations the ship should miss ours by more than a thousand miles. If that were to change, we have plenty of ways to deal with it. I will provide more news the moment it becomes available. Thank you.”

  Down in the senate, where pandemonium reigned only moments before, silence claimed the chamber. Marcott Nankool felt a sudden sense of relief. Suddenly, as if by magic, the arguments had stopped. Not forever, but for the moment, which would act as a damper. The emergency was an opportunity in disguise.

  There was a rustling of fabric and the occasional clink of metal as the senators strapped themselves in. The President had just secured his harness when Captain Boone spoke via the implant in his skull. Very few people had either the authority or the means to do so. That being the case, there was no need for an introduction.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir, but the owner of the incoming vessel, one Willy Williams, desires to speak with you. He says it’s urgent, and, given his present situation, he may be correct. There’s a very real chance that he will hit Arballa at two or three thousand miles per hour.”

  Nankool frowned and subvocalized his reply. “I’m kind of busy ... did he mention a subject?”

  “Sir, yes sir. Williams claims that the Sheen attacked a planet c
alled Long Jump, destroyed the city of Fortuna, and are headed this way. One of them followed him through hyperspace A freak accident most likely—but the effect is the same.”

  The tone was clear: Boone didn’t believe much if any of what Williams had to say. But Nankool, politician that he was, felt his heart beat a little faster. The truth didn’t matter ... not right then. What mattered was perceptions ... An idea flashed through his mind. If the strategy worked, it could save day. If it failed he would look like an idiot.

  Ah well, Nankool thought to himself, it’s all on the line in any case. My reputation won’t matter if I’m dead. He cleared his throat. “Tell Williams that I will take his call ... Monitor the chamber, and the moment I give the word, pipe him through the PA. I’ll take a holo if you have one available.”

  Boone thought the President was out of his mind but was far too professional to let it show. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Nankool released his harness and stepped to the podium. “May I have your attention please? Thank you.”

  Most of those present assumed the President had information pertaining to the emergency and were quick to quiet down.

  Like most high-ranking politicians Nankool was a consummate actor. He had even gone so far as to study some of what he considered to be the more important alien cultures, not striving for a fluency that would take a lifetime to achieve, but settling for a basic understanding of what constituted a gaffe, or an out-and-out insult. Now, as the President looked out over his audience, he applied all that he had learned.

  “Most honorable gentle beings ... please watch and listen as the pilot of the incoming ship describes what happened to him. Captain, if you please ...”