By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  The scow was constructed of aluminum, was twenty-two feet long, and heavily loaded. General William Booly sat toward the bow, War Commander Wenlo Morla-Ka occupied the next seat back, General Jonathan Alan Seebo-346 shared a seat with Battle Leader Pasar Hebo. Staff Sergeant Mordicai Mondulo commanded the stem. He steered the boat and kept his eyes fixed on the shoreline.

  The small electric motor whirred, water rippled away from the bow, and the jungle waited. The trees were taller now, hosts to a tangled mass of intertwined vegetation that was involved in a nonstop slow-motion working out of complex symbiotic, commensualistic, and predatory relationships. Here was an enemy even more implacable than the frogs—a biomass eager for nourishment. Booly had survived the forest once before, but just barely, and felt something cold trickle into the bottom of his gut.

  Mondulo had black skin, wore tattoos on both brawny forearms, and possessed a deep resonant voice. It carried all the way to the bow. “The water looks real nice, don’t it? Well, it ain’t. There’s all kinda critters in there ... some of which have mighty sharp teeth. That bein’ the case, don’t stick nothin’ in there you wanta keep.”

  None of the officers said anything, and Booly wondered what they were thinking. That he was crazy? That the whole exercise was a joke? Maybe. One thing was for sure however, even if he didn’t manage to get their attention, Drang sure as hell would.

  Mondulo killed the motor, allowed the boat to coast, and felt it slide onto the mud bank. None of the occupants noticed the sleek head that surfaced behind them, the yellow eyes, or the ripple left when the creature submerged.

  Booly stood, scanned the area ahead, and noticed boot prints in the muck. He eyed the tree line, saw something move, and flicked the safety off his assault rifle. “We have movement in the trees, Sergeant ... you make the call.”

  “Not bad for an officer,” the noncom said grudgingly. “There’s an entire squad concealed in the undergrowth along with three T-2’s. They secured the area just before daylight. This is the last time we’ll have that kind of support. ”

  Mondulo nodded towards Booly’s subordinates. “Safe your weapons and deass the boat ... The general gets a word with you, then it’s my turn.”

  Booly felt mud suck at the bottom of his boots as he stepped out of the boat and climbed the gently rising bank. He hadn’t carried a full combat load in a long time—too long, judging by how heavy it felt.

  The training exercise, if that’s what the evolution could properly be called, was scheduled to last three days. Shorter than he would have liked but all the time that could be spared. No one knew when the Sheen would make their next appearance, and he wanted to be there when they did.

  Like the others, Booly carried a waterproof com set capable of reaching the firebase from any location on Drang, an extensive first aid kit, six days worth of rations, two canteens, a hammock made of superstrong netting, a dozen hand grenades, an assault rifle with a built-in grenade launcher, twenty magazines, each containing thirty rounds, twenty shotgun-style 40 mm rounds, his favorite sidearm, two extra clips, a combat knife that hung hilt down from his harness, and numerous odds and ends. No big deal when he was twenty-three—but a pain in the ass now.

  Morla-Ka looked as if he were underloaded, Seebo wore a self-confident smile, and Hebo, who carried his gear in something that bore a resemblance to a pair of saddlebags, appeared unaffected. The Ramanthian was something of an enigma. What was the insectoid sentient thinking? There was no way to know.

  The officer met each set of eyes in turn. “One of my people’s greatest military thinkers, a man by the name of Sun Tzu, wrote a book called the Art of War. It begins: ‘The Art of War is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin. Hence under no circumstance can it be neglected.’ ”

  “Another great warrior, this one Hudathan, wrote, ‘The survival of the Hudathan race cannot be left to chance. Anything that could threaten our people must be destroyed. Such is the warrior’s task.’ A little more preemptive than humans would prefer—but to the point.”

  A look of newfound respect had appeared in Morla-Ka’s eyes. The words had a sibilant quality. “Those words were written by Mylo Nurlon-Da in standard year 1703.”

  Booly nodded. “Yes. The Life of a Warrior should be mandatory reading for anyone who takes up the profession of arms. And that’s what this is all about.

  “We represent different races, come from different military traditions, and share a common enemy. In order to fight that enemy and defend those who depend on us, we must operate from a set of common values. The concepts I’m about to put forth may be consistent with your native culture, or they may not. I don’t care. They are the precepts by which you will lead our troops. Fail to do so at your peril.

  “So here they are ... First: Strategy and tactics will be formulated and implemented for the greater good. That means what’s good for the Confederacy as a whole. Not Earth, not Alpha-001, not Hudatha and not Hive.

  “Second: We will lead by example and never order our troops to do something we would refuse to do ourselves, and treat them respect. Regardless of what species or group they represent.

  “Third: We will think first—and fight second. The Sheen will be as smart as someone was able to make them. We must be smarter.

  “And fourth,” Booly continued, “is the need to conserve lives, options, and supplies. Our resources are limited. Use them wisely. Any questions? No? Then it’s time to hear from the sergeant. He has orders to treat us the same way he would treat raw recruits, so the next few days will be a bit rough, but it will teach us to work as a team. Listen to what he says—it could save your life. Sergeant? We’re all yours.”

  Mondulo nodded. “Sir! Yes, sir.” He took three paces forward, performed a crisp right-face, and stood at parade rest. The voice was the same one perfected on parade grounds at a dozen forts. “You pukes want know what my claim to fraxing fame is? Well, I’ll tell you what my claim to fraxing fame is ... I’ve been on this pus ball for two years, and I’m still alive. That’s my claim to fame, and there ain’t a fraxing one of you who can say the same thing. That makes me numero uno, the big dog, and the main enchilada.”

  Booly watched his officers out of the comers of his eyes and fought to restrain a smile. With the possible exception of Seebo; none of them had ever run into a noncom like Mondulo before.

  “Now,” the sergeant said, gesturing to the verdant foliage. “That’s the jungle ... My fraxing jungle, and it’s full of nasty-assed shit. Take a look around. See those trees? Tall suckers ain’t they? Tall enough and thick enough to block out the sun. That means a low light level down on the ground, damned little undergrowth, and relatively easy walking. The frogs aren’t very comfortable on land so you’re relatively safe from them.

  “You gotta watch for reptiles, though, includin’ the dappled Drang adder, the vine viper, and a nasty piece ’o work called the stick snake, cause that’s what the bastard looks like, till you grab his ass and he kills you.”

  Mondulo looked from one face to the next. “You got any questions? No? Okay, then. Once we leave the jungle, we’re gonna travel through some suck-ass swamps. The fraxing frogs love the swamps so they’ll be waitin’ for us.”

  Mondulo glared at them from under a craggy brow. “That ain’t the only problem—not by a long shot. I don’t how many of you have dicks, you bein’ XTs an all, but take my word for it, don’t pee when you’re wadin’ through the water. Not unless you want a tiny wormlike critter to swim up your uretha and lay eggs in your bladder. The medics tell me that the young ’uns eat their way out.”

  The noncom shrugged. “Course we got water snakes, blood suckin’ plants, and some nasty-assed parasites all waitin’ to take a bite out of your ignorant butts as well ... That’s why you’re gonna do what I say, do it fast, and do it right. You got any questions? No? Then saddle up. Booly, you take the point. Morla-Ka, Hebo, and I will follow. Seebo has drag. Practice those hand signals
—you’re gonna need ’em.”

  Booly experienced a strange sense of déjà vu as he eyed the jungle, spotted a break in the foliage, and headed that way. A heavily camouflaged human peered out of the undergrowth, offered a thumbs up, and faded from view.

  Then, some fifteen or twenty steps later, the friendly forces were behind them, the lake was little more than a memory, and the jungle wrapped the interlopers in its warm-wet embrace.

  Booly—worried lest he miss something and lead the team into a disaster—focused on the environment around him. Memories came flooding back. Memories and knowledge. The kind gained the hard way. The trail had been used many times before. That made for some easy walking. But Booly, mindful of similar patrols twenty years earlier, knew that easy things were dangerous. Once the enemy knew where you were likely to go, it was easy to lay traps, set mines, or establish ambushes. None of which would be good for their health.

  That being the case, the officer checked the patrol’s position on his wrist term, glanced at the waterproof map strapped to his left forearm, and stepped off the trail. It would have been different if he’d been looking for the enemy, rather than trying to avoid them, but such was not the case.

  Staff Sergeant Mondulo observed Booly’s decision and gave the officer some mental points. At least one of his charges knew a thing or two ... which increased the odds of survival. Theirs—and his.

  Hebo had removed the special contact lenses that converted hundreds of images into one and felt very much at home. The jungle reminded him of Hive, his youth, and good times past. He relished the warmth, the slight odor of decay, and the well-filtered light. The Ramanthian held his weapon at the ready, watched to ensure there was sufficient space between his body and the black-skinned human, and felt a steadily growing sense of superiority. This was his world, or should be, by right of adaptation. No matter what happened to the others he would survive.

  Morla-Ka fought to control a rising sense of panic. Not in regard to the jungle, which he felt competent to deal with, but from prolonged contact with non-Hudathans. Contact—bad enough in and of itself—was made worse by forced interdependency. To rely on aliens, to place his life in their hands, went against his most basic instincts. Yet that was his duty to the Hudathan race, since without the alliance, and the strength it would provide, his kind would almost certainly perish. The knowledge brought small comfort. The fact that a heavily armed human was following along behind added to the officer’s discomfort.

  Seebo watched the Hudathan’s back, thought about how easy it would be to put a few rounds into it, and made a silent vow: If anything went wrong, if it looked like he was about to die, the geek was going first. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  Conscious of his role, the clone turned, and walked backwards for awhile. How long had it been since he had taken part in an honest-to-god patrol, rather than the endless staff meetings, review cycles, and readiness reports that claimed most of his time? Too long that was for sure ... Truth was that it felt good. Seebo turned, hurried to close the gap, and was glad to be alive.

  Eyes watched, vanished behind nictitating membranes, and reappeared. Their owner hissed softly, slithered upwards, and sampled the air. Breakfast was waiting.

  The morning passed without incident. Each individual rotated through point and drag. Hand signals were perfected. Their surroundings became more familiar. Nobody blew a foot off. Not bad for a bunch of greenies.

  Mondulo called for a break, ordered Hebo and Seebo to stand guard, and allowed the others to eat. The human rations included built-in heat tabs, but the noncom liked his cold. He peeled the top off something that claimed to be beef stroganoff, stirred the mess with the tip of his combat knife, and used the same implement as a pointer. “We’ll spend the better part of the afternoon hiking thata way, haul our butts up into the trees, and wait for daylight.”

  “ ‘Haul our butts up into some trees?’ ” Morla-Ka inquired warily, “What for?”

  “So nothin’ can eat ’em,” Mondulo replied matter-of factly. “Let’s say one of you generals gets killed ... You got any idea how many forms I’d have to fill out? Too many—so you’re goin’ up into them trees.”

  The Hudathan weighed more than three hundred pounds and didn’t fancy climbing anything as insubstantial as a tree, but he didn’t want to say so. He nodded, finished his rations, and sealed the empty into a bag. Both went into his pack.

  Morla-Ka relieved Seebo, who came in to eat. The clone jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “I think the big guy is all pissed off. What’s his problem anyway?”

  Booly looked up from the log where he was sitting. “It’s hard to know for sure—but it’s my guess he doesn’t like to climb trees.”

  Seebo frowned and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all,” Mondulo answered. “I’ll relieve Hebo.”

  Seebo watched the noncom go. It seemed strange to serve with beings who looked so different from the way he did. Strange and a little scary, since he knew how his clone brothers would react in an emergency. Simply put, they would react the way he did—which was the genius behind the founder’s plan.

  Still, Mondulo was sharp, anyone could see that, which made him feel better. When Booly spoke, it was as if the free-breeder could read his mind. “It’s going to be different, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Seebo replied thoughtfully, “it certainly is.”

  “Do you think it will work?”

  Seebo activated the heat tab and felt the container start to warm. “Yes, sir. Where the humans are concerned. We’re different but the same. As for the geeks, well, the jury’s out on that one.”

  Booly raised an eyebrow. “We need to walk the talk ... so please avoid using terms like ‘geek.’ Personally, I think it will work.”

  The clone tore the cover off his food. Steam thickened the air. “Sir, yes sir. But that’s what you have to think. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Booly replied. “I guess it is.”

  The Pool of Fecundity had been created by digging a canal from the river into a natural depression. A second ditch carried the water back to the river for a real as well as symbolic union. Only one individual was allowed to use the pond, and she floated about ten feet from shore.

  The Clan Mother was very, very pregnant. So much so that her swollen abdomen made it next to impossible to walk. Because of that her attendants marched into the pool, positioned the specially constructed litter under her grotesquely swollen body, and carried her ashore.

  The path from the pond to the village had been paved with a thick layer of crushed white shell. It made an attractive surface and provided excellent traction. A small detail but a critical one, since the Clan Mother was the only female permitted to reproduce. One slip, one accident, and hundreds of eggs could be damaged or destroyed, an important matter for a race in which normal infant mortality ran to sixty percent.

  The village, which was know as the “Place Where the Water Breaks White over Old Stones before Turning South toward the Great Swamp,” consisted of some thirty beehive-shaped mud huts clustered around a larger mound that served as warehouse and provided the Clan Mother with a residence commensurate with her considerable status.

  She had a tendency to become irritable during the final stages of pregnancy and was quick to make her annoyance known. The snakelike head rose and rotated from left to right. Speech came from deep in the back of her throat and emerged as a series of variegated croaks, burps, and coughs. “What’s taking so long? We are hungry.”

  The “we” was a not so subtle reminder that she spoke for not only herself but for a generation unborn. Cowed, but careful lest they drop her, the litter bearers hurried up the path.

  The warriors, their mottled green-black bodies still damp from the trip downstream bowed respectfully as the conveyance passed. Many of them, all of those in their prime, had mated with the Clan Mother, and might have fertilized her eggs. That being the case, they would fight to the death to prot
ect not only her but her progeny.

  The litter passed out of broken sunlight and into the mound’s cool, dark interior. Once the stretcher came to a stop, the Clan Mother used her long willowy arms to support her grossly distended belly, lurched to her feet, and shuffled toward the carefully constructed throne. It was made from tightly woven reeds fitted onto a frame made of steam-bent wood and decorated with colorful flyer feathers, clan charms, and beads provided by gunrunners. It creaked under her considerable weight. “Well?” she demanded. “Where is our food?”

  A platter appeared. It was laden with dried water skimmers, spiced flit fish, and recently harvested grot roots. A fine feast indeed. The Clan Mother dug in. The eggs were hungry. Words emerged between bites of food. Some of it landed on her stomach, tumbled off, and fell to the floor. Minute scavengers moved in to harvest the crumbs. “Who lurks in the darkness? What do you want?”

  Drik, who had been waiting patiently toward the back wall, took three steps forward. He had fertilized the Clan Mother for the first time that year and felt certain it was his strong sperm that had so efficiently quickened her eggs. “I come bearing news.”

  “So?” the Clan Mother said imperiously, “out with it!”

  But Drik, who had long fantasized about such a moment, refused to be hurried. He chose his words with care. “Five of the off-world intruders left their metal island, crossed the food lake, and entered the jungle.”

  The Clan Mother paused in midbite. Food dribbled down onto her well-rounded belly. “How many of them were hiding in machines?”

  “None,” Drik replied, “although two looked strange, like weed dreams come to life.”

  The Clan Mother chewed thoughtfully. There was very little point in attacking the machines, or off-worlders protected by the machines, due to the heavy casualties that her warriors were certain to sustain. But this was something different. This was an opportunity to capture weapons and punish the sky people at the same time. “Wait for them in the swamp. Kill them there.”