By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  The holo blossomed, and the senate found itself staring into Willy Williams’ grizzled countenance. Though conscious of the fact that he was on camera, the smuggler’s eyes flicked from side to side as he checked the wildly fluctuating readouts. “Sorry to bother you Mr. President, but I reckon you need to know. I was on Long Jump, mindin’ my own business, when a fleet dropped hyper. There were lots of ships, hundreds, maybe thousands of ’em, all wrapped in some sort of shiny force field.

  “No bio bods, though, not unless you want to count Jorley Jepp, and most people think he’s crazy. That’s cause he’s been loadin’ the machines with some sort religious gobbledygook. Sent ’em down to preach on the street corners. Not sure what happened after that. The Sheen attacked Fortuna and reduced the place to rubble. A few of us managed to lift. I came here to warn you. Guess that’s it ‘cept for the pickle I’m in. Sorry ’bout the inconvenience ... but the Molly took a whole lot of damage.”

  Nankool cleared his throat. “Thank you, Citizen Williams. What you did required a great deal of courage. I’m sure that Captain Boone and his crew will do everything in their power to assist you. Once this matter is resolved, please ask to see me. The Confederacy owes you a debt of gratitude.

  “Now,” Nankool continued, turning his attention to the senators arrayed before him, “you see what I’ve been talking about. This is no phantom menace ... The Sheen are real, we must ready ourselves to meet them, and they are knocking on the door. Fortuna lies in ruins ... It could have been one of your cities. Will be should you fail to take action.

  “Your reservations regarding the possibility of an alliance with the Hudathans are understandable—and deserve reasoned discussion. A discussion that must be held in light of what we know: The Sheen are coming.”

  Most of the senators were moved by Willy’s story and convinced he was telling the truth. That, plus the fact that they were strapped in place, fueled some rational discussion.

  Doma-Sa sat toward the rear of the chamber next to Chien-Chu. “Your President fires words like bullets. They hit the mark.”

  Chien-Chu nodded. “Yes, he’s very skilled. If, and I stress if he pulls this off, Nankool will be President of our Confederacy. Yours and mine.”

  Doma-Sa felt the reality of that sink in. The Hudathans? Led by an alien? Unthinkable! Yet what of the alternative? The annihilation of his people. Equally unthinkable. There was no way out. The debate droned on.

  The Friendship’s control room was huge—as befitted a ship of her importance—and self-consciously quiet. The multispecies crew took pride in their professionalism and always sought to meet emergencies with exactly the right amount of effort. Captain Boone scanned the screen for a second time and gave a sigh of relief. There would be no need to break the former battleship out of her parking orbit. The Molly B would clear his vessel by more than a thousand miles. There was so much clearance in fact that he would have lifted the shipwide lockdown had it not been for Nankool’s insistence that the restrictions remain in place. A nonsensical request the naval officer thought absurd.

  Still, the situation did allow him to turn his attention from the spacegoing capital to the Molly B and her somewhat disreputable owner. It seemed that Williams, aka Kline, Peters, and Howe, the last being the name he’d been born with, was a wanted man. A fact that might or might not get in the way of the reward promised by Nankool.

  None of which mattered to Boone, who knew his duty, and was determined to save the smuggler if such a thing was possible. He opened a com link. “Captain Williams? This is Captain Boone. What kind of emergency gear have you got on board? A lifeboat? Escape pod?”

  Willy gritted his teeth as the drive cut in and out. The ship was doomed and so it seemed was he. “My lifeboat needs some repairs ... and the pod was damaged during the fight.”

  Boone bit his lip. The very idea of lifting with a lifeboat in need of repairs went against every bone in his naval body. Such things were common among civilians, however—just one of the reasons why they required supervision. “Yes, well that’s a bit unfortunate. How about space armor? You have some I trust?”

  Willy looked up at the camera. “Of course I do! What do you take me for? An idiot?”

  Boone decided it would be best to let the question pass unanswered. “Excellent. That being the case you’ll be able to abandon ship. I suggest you step out of the lock in two hours and twenty-seven minutes. One of our search and rescue sleds will pick you up.”

  “What about the Molly?”

  The naval officer glanced off screen then back. “Our calculations suggest that your ship will impact the surface of Arballa at approximately three thousand miles per hour. The Araballazanies have given their permission for you to land or, more accurately, to crash. I doubt your ship will be worth much after that.”

  Willy squinted into the camera. His mother plus all three of his former wives knew the expression well. “No.”

  Boone raised an eyebrow. “ ‘No?’ What does that mean?”

  “It means I ain’t gonna do it,” Willy replied stolidly. “The Molly’s been hurt worse than this ... I can repair her. All you gotta do is stop her.”

  The bridge crew, all of whom were surreptitiously monitoring the conversation, snickered. “And how,” Boone said patiently, “would we do that?”

  “Simple,” Williams replied. “You got tractor beams don‘tcha? Well, use ’em.”

  The naval officer frowned. “Yes, we do. But snatching a fast-moving object like your ship takes a great deal of effort and skill. You claim your ship can be repaired. I doubt it. Why should I go to the effort?”

  Willy leaned forward until his heavily veined nose looked like an overripe tomato. “Because if you don’t help me, I’ll end up spread across twenty square miles of Arballa’s surface, and you’ll have to explain why.”

  Boone felt a rising sense of anger but knew the civilian was correct. He would have to launch an investigation, convene a board of inquiry, and sit through days of boring testimony. “I’ll think about it.”

  Willy grinned. “You do that, Captain. I’ll be waiting.”

  Ishimoto-Six had to bully traffic control before getting permission to land in the Friendship’s cavernous launch bay—and was surprised to see how quiet the facility was.

  It wasn’t until Maylo and he had cleared the lock and entered the ship that they heard about the emergency. Given a choice between sitting in their staterooms or joining the senate, they chose the latter. Sergi Chien-Chu and Hiween Doma-Sa waved them over. Some whispered conversation was sufficient to bring the newcomers up to speed. Ishimoto-Six was amazed at how audacious the plan was, saw how it could serve the Hegemony’s interests, and wondered if the Alpha Clones would support him.

  The debate was well advanced. Senator Hygo Pulu Darwa, who represented the Dwellers, had come forward to oppose the proposal. The senate listened as he spoke.

  “So,” Darwa concluded, “while I can see the benefit to be realized from an alliance with the Hudathans, the dangers are much too great. What happened to the legion could happen again. While it’s true that the lack of a deep-space navy might serve to brake their expansionist tendencies, a revolt by one or more of the Hudathan military units could wreak havoc on our defensive efforts, and threaten the Confederacy as a whole. I’m sorry—but that’s how I see it. Thank you.”

  Nankool, who had expected the Dwellers to support rather than oppose his initiative, struggled to conceal his disappointment. A rare moment of somewhat awkward silence fell over the chamber. Those who sought to block the proposal relished their moment of victory—while those who favored it stared defeat in the face. Chien-Chu wished he had the right to speak—and Doma-Sa struggled to hide his rage.

  Ishimoto-Six felt himself stand was surprised to find that he had. “The Clone Hegemony seeks to be recognized.”

  Senator Orno looked for Ishimoto-Seven and wondered where he was. Not that it made much difference. Ishimoto-Six had every right to speak. The Ramanthian ran hi
s tool legs back along the sides of his beak. “The chair recognizes Senator Ishimoto-Six.”

  Six saw his image appear at the front of the chamber. Most of his peers settled for that—but a few turned to look. He established eye contact with those that did. “I suggest that in addition to the proposed restrictions on the Hudathan navy, that their ground forces be integrated into the Legion, so that there will be little to no possibility that an entire unit could or would revolt. Thank you.”

  Slowly, inexorably, every ocular organ in the room turned, swiveled, and in one case slithered toward Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa. Every single being in the room knew how xenophobic the Hudathans were. Would the race submit? Agree to take orders from those they had long sought to annihilate?

  Doma-Sa felt the scrutiny and knew what they were thinking. In spite of the fact that the thought was new to them, he had already considered the possibility and hoped it would never come up. But now it had, which forced him to confront a terrible choice: Accept the clone proposal, thereby ceding control of the Hudathan military to the Confederacy, or—and this was equally unthinkable—open his people to an attack by the Sheen. He ignored Orno and spoke without benefit of a mike. The words were bitter—like poison. “My people stand ready to accept the clone proposal if we receive a full membership in the Confederacy , if all trade restrictions are lifted, and if the Hegemony agrees to a joint command structure.”

  There was a hiss of in drawn breath as everyone turned to stare at Ishimoto-Six. Here was a brilliant counterstroke. A piece of political legerdemain that would be discussed for months if not years to come. Though a member of the Confederacy, the Hegemony had always been very independent. A unified command structure would limit that ... How would the clone respond?

  Ishimoto-Six wondered the same thing. How would his government want him to respond? But more importantly how should he respond? Because this was one of those moments, the kind he had once dreamed of, when a single person could make a difference. If he had the courage. Whatever he said, whatever he did, would be hard if not impossible for the Hegemony to retract.

  The politician looked at Maylo, saw the question in her eyes, and got to his feet. Like Doma-Sa, he decided to ignore Senator Orno. The almost perfect silence was permission to speak. “The Sheen are on the way ... It will take every bit of our strength to stop them. The Hegemony will place its forces under a unified command for the duration of the crises. What happens after that will be subject to negotiation.”

  Stroke and counterstroke! Every single one of them understood the qualification. It gave Six a way out, an escape hatch, should his superiors take issue with the decision. Not immediately—but down the line. It was a smart, gutsy move.

  President Nankool released his harness, stood, and started to applaud. The rest of the senate did likewise, or, in the case of those who lacked hands, made an assortment of celebratory noises.

  Chien-Chu felt a sudden surge of hope. He looked from Doma-Sa to Ishimoto-Six. Both were close enough to hear. “Thank you—thank you both. We have a chance now, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless.”

  The Hudathan offered a human-style nod. “My people have a saying... ‘hope lights the way.’ ”

  Arballa had grown from little more than a pinprick of light to a luminous brown ball. The elation that had accompanied Willy’s victory over Captain Boone had faded to be replaced by a growing sense of concern. What had he been thinking anyway? Shooting his mouth off that way ... Yes, he needed Molly, but only if he was alive, not spread all over the surface of some godforsaken dirtball.

  Pride prevented the smuggler from saying anything, however—which accounted for his silence. Perhaps Boone was playing a game with him, waiting to see if he’d crack, or, and this seemed more likely, the miserable swabbie was off on a coffee break, sipping java and trading scuttlebutt while he ... The voice sounded bored. “Stand by CVL-9769. We intend to seize control of your vessel with two, repeat two, tractor beams. You may feel a bump.”

  Willy ran his tongue over dry lips. “And if I don’t?”

  There was a momentary pause. The woman was amused. “Then either we did one helluva good job or we missed.”

  “And if you miss?”

  “Say hello to the Arballazanies for me. I love the computers they make.”

  Willie could almost hear the swabbies laughing, forced himself to smile, and leaned back in his seat. He’d hold that position all the way to the surface if necessary, to the point when the Molly B drilled her way into the planet’s crust, and the worms came to ...

  The bump was more of a violent jerk, and Willy’s head flew forward then back. The drive screamed, edged into the red, and shut itself down. “Congratulations,” the voice said cheerfully. “You’re going to live. The first round is on you.”

  9

  The commander must try, above all, to establish personal and comradely contact with his men, but without giving away an inch of his authority.

  Field Marshal Erwin Rommel

  The Rommel Papers

  Standard year 1953

  Planet Drang, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  General William Booly climbed the same metal stairs that he had climbed more than twenty years before, opened the naval-style hatch, noticed the fact that the hinges had been heavily greased, and knew why.

  The indigs, more commonly referred to as the frogs, owned the lake in which Firebase Victor had been constructed, and loved to take potshots at anyone unfortunate enough to “pull the O,” which was slang for walking endless circles around the metal observation deck. The locals had excellent hearing, which meant that the sound of a squeaky hinge could attract a bullet from a preregistered sniper’s rifle, about head-high straight through the hatch. How had that lesson been learned? The hard way—from someone who had been dead for a long time.

  The legionnaire stepped out onto the metal grating, nodded to a heavily armored private, and knew she was an old hand. Newbies, also known as “frog food,” had a tendency to salute officers and thereby pick them out for the snipers. She smiled and a network of creases exploded away from her bright blue eyes. “Welcome back, sir. The name’s Harris. I hear you’ve been here before.”

  Booly nodded. “They sent me here right out of the Academy. Said I’d learn a thing or two.”

  “And did you?”

  “Hell, no. I was a second lieutenant ... and you can’t teach them anything.”

  Harris laughed. “Well, you survived, sir, and that’s more than some can say.”

  “Yes,” Booly replied soberly, “it sure is.”

  The legionnaire continued her rounds as the officer scanned his surroundings. The water had a dark, oily look, inist hovered like ectoplasm, and some unseen thing sent ripples radiating in all directions.

  The firebase sat at the exact center of the lake, which seemed like a stupid place to put it unless you were familiar with Drang and its relentless jungles. The water kept the vegetation back and provided a natural fire-free zone.

  That didn’t stop the indigs from swimming in close, though ... They liked to take potshots at the sentries, ambush Trooper II’s as they returned from patrol, and place charges against the tower’s supports. If they got that close—which was a rarity. The firebase was protected by sensor arrays, robotic weapons emplacements, and some pretty sophisticated booby traps.

  Something clanged off the metal behind him, and Booly heard the report of a distant gunshot. Harris materialized at his elbow. “It doesn’t pay to stand still, sir. A gunrunner managed to land about two months ago. Sold the frogs some fairly decent hunting rifles. Scopes, infrared, the whole shebang. That shot came from the jungle. The swimmers get in close. Nailed Oki last week. Miserable bastard.”

  There was no way to know if the “miserable bastard” was Oki or the sniper who shot him. Booly thanked the trooper and started to walk. His boots clanged on metal. Dark gray clouds merged to produce a spattering of rain. Each drop hit the surface of the lake and gave birth to concentric rin
gs. A lot like recent events. Who would have envisioned a time when Hudathans, Hegemony, and Confederate forces all came under a single command? His.

  Not because Booly was best qualified, not in his judgement anyway, but because better men and women had been killed, or, as was the case with officers like Colonel Leon Harco, were rotting in prison.

  All of which left the officer with little choice but to muddle through. The challenge was enormous. He had what? Weeks? Months at most to deal with the Thraki military bases, fold three vastly different military cultures into one, and mount a credible defense. In the meantime, the Sheen could do as they pleased. Including roll over the Confederacy in less than a month, should they decide to move more aggressively.

  That’s why Booly had selected the best officers he could find and tasked them with building the command, communications, and logistics systems necessary to unify such a diverse force. And they were hard at work, doing the sort of things he could have done, would have preferred to do, rather than risk his life on Drang.

  But that’s where he was because leadership starts at the top and is built on trust, plus a set of common standards, beliefs, and values. The task, his task, was to select officers from each of the disparate military traditions, assess their strengths, understand their weaknesses, and forge a single blade. A weapon so strong, so sharp, that it would cut the Sheen to pieces. Was he up to the task? Were they up to the task? There was no way to know. All he could do was try.

  The officer paused and allowed the rain to hit his face. The rail felt cold beneath his fingers. Something screamed in the jungle ... and night swallowed the sky.

  The rain stopped just before dawn, and the sun came out of hiding. It rose through a clear blue sky, claimed its place in the heavens, and bathed everything in gold. A layer of mist floated over the surface of the lake, jerked in response to the ebb and flow of the early morning breeze, and parted for the flat-bottomed boat.