By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  Then, before the pain could make itself felt, there was another increment of time in which to wonder why it was he, the fraxing expert, who was going to frigging die, while Booty and his team of XT weirdoes would probably emerge unscathed. But that’s how it was with officers ... they ... A knife sliced through Mondulo’s throat, and the thinking was over.

  Morla-Ka felt the logs part beneath his massive boots, heard Hebo open fire, and drew the machete, Had Drik and his companions known to look and been trained to interpret the Hudathan’s expression, they would have been frightened. Morla-Ka smiled as he launched himself over the side, landed on something solid, and carried it down. Drik felt the crushing weight, managed to flip himself face-up, and wished that he hadn’t. The alien looked monstrous, like something from a nightmare, like the last thing he would ever see.

  Seebo fired into the water, wished he could see what he was shooting at, and felt something grab his ankle. The clone looked, saw the long sinewy arm, and corrected his aim. The 5.56 mm rounds chewed the limb off at the elbow, the logs rolled under his boots, and he hit the water sideways.

  Booly back-elbowed his assailant, felt the arm loosen, and ducked through the loop. He wanted to surface, wanted to breathe, but knew he shouldn’t. The frog would follow, nail him from below, and that would be the end of it.

  The human turned, saw the warrior raise some sort of spear gun, and felt the shaft race past the side of his face. A single shot weapon? The officer hoped so as he lunged forward, grabbed the launcher with his left hand, and pulled it toward him.

  The frog could have let go, should have let go, but was reluctant to part with his most prized possession. He paid with his life.

  Booly rammed the knife up into the warrior’s unprotected abdomen, felt the gun come free, and kicked for the surface. His gear plus the weapon across his back weighed him down. His body urged him to breathe anything, water if that’s what was available, but his mind refused to do so. The legionnaire pulled with his arms, kicked with his feet, and willed himself upwards. The murk seemed to clear after a bit, his head broke the surface, and he opened his mouth. Air entered his lungs, a log bumped his shoulder, and he managed to capture it with an arm. Nothing had ever felt so solid and reassuring.

  Hebo flailed right and left, felt one of his pincers encounter something soft, and a frog fell away. A ribbon of blood trailed behind. The bottom! Where was the bottom? The Ramanthian aimed himself toward shore and started to paddle. Then, just when it seemed as if he would swim forever, the alien felt mud under his feet. He paused, tested to see if the bottom would take his weight, and discovered that it would. That’s when the War Hebo uttered a long chittering challenge, turned his back to the jungle, and invited attack.

  Morla-Ka broke the surface like a breaching whale. He spouted a mouthful of foul-tasting water and turned his attention to the warriors who hung from various parts of his mighty frame.

  Drik, who had the signal misfortune to be clutched to the alien’s chest, felt the hug start to tighten. What seemed to last for an eternity took less than three seconds. The warrior felt his spine snap, lost contact with his extremities, and wondered where the pain was. Darkness came instead.

  In spite of the fact that the Hudathan had successfully dealt with one attacker, three remained. Hebo saw that and knew he should go to the other officer’s assistance but was reluctant to leave the security of solid ground.

  Morla-Ka bellowed his anger as a knife entered his shoulder, threw one of his assailants into the air, and struggled with the others.

  Hebo saw the splash, cursed his luck, and threw himself forward. The Ramanthian hadn’t traveled more than three feet when warriors rose to either side of him, threw a fishnet high into the air, and used ropes to pull it down over his head. Pincers trapped, legs thrashing, Hebo waited to die.

  Seebo kicked a frog in the stomach, felt the top of his head hit the underside of a log, and swallowed a mouthful of water. It went down the wrong way. The soldier kicked, broke the surface, and fought to clear his airway. He did so just in time to see Morla-Ka break the surface, covered with frogs. A phib went flying. A knife flashed downward. The Hudathan bellowed in pain. There was no room for error, not given the tolerances involved, but Seebo knew the extent of his skill. Where it started, how far to trust it, and when to stop. By some miracle, the assault weapon was still there-clutched in the clone’s hands. He brought the rifle up, fired a burst of three shots, and saw a frog take the bullets. It screeched, fell back into the swamp, and quickly disappeared.

  Steel flashed. Morla-Ka roared with rage, broke the grip that encircled his neck, took hold of an arm, and jerked the warrior up over his shoulder. The long sinuous neck was an obvious point of vulnerability. The Hudathan got a grip on it, twisted, and heard something pop. The body went limp. He let the warrior go.

  Though filled with the rage of battle, his body pumping chemicals into his blood, Morla-Ka’s mind had stayed in control. He saw the net fall over Hebo’s torso and considered his options. He could let the bug die, a rather reasonable course of action given the manner in which the Ramanthian government hoped to annex Hudathan-controlled worlds, or—and this possibility went against all of the officer’s instincts—Morla-Ka could wade out, pull his sidearm, and shoot the frogs in the head.

  The sound of his own gunfire served to alert the War Commander that thought had been translated to action. The bodies fell away, splashed into the water, and floated with arms extended. Silence descended over the lagoon. Those frogs that were still alive had escaped.

  Booly saw some mottled fabric, swam over, grabbed Mondulo’s battle harness, and towed the body to shore. The others salvaged what gear they could, recovered most of the logs, and pulled them up onto the mud. Once that was accomplished, Booly took control. “We’ll bury the sergeant, make camp, and spend the night up in the trees. Seebo, Morla-Ka needs some first aid. See what you can do. The raft can wait till morning.”

  “We will use wire to lash the binders on next time,” Hebo said reflectively. “That should stop them.”

  “Yes,” Booly replied wearily, “I think it will.”

  Dinner was a somber affair, the night passed slowly, and dawn brought rain. Not a downpour, but a steady drum-beat, that peppered the surface of the lagoon.

  Each member of the team paused by the mound of newly turned earth and said good-bye in their own special way. But it was Seebo who quoted a long-dead poet—a legionnaire named Alan Seeger:

  When Spring comes back with rustling shade,

  And apple blossoms fill the air,

  I have a rendezvous with Death,

  When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

  Booly nodded solemnly and followed the rest of the team down to the muddy beach. The work went quickly, and the heavily reinforced raft was ready less than three hours later. No one bothered to name this one, no one questioned the grenades that blew holes in the water, and no one looked back.

  The Clan Mother awoke to an overwhelming sense of loss. The eggs? No, they were safely contained within her abdomen.

  Then it came, the sudden realization that the thin tenuous thread that connected her to the leader of the war party had been severed. Drik was dead.

  The Clan Mother cried out in sorrow, attendants rushed to her side, and the entire village began to mourn. For the warriors, yes; but for themselves as well, since each death weakened the social organism. For there were crops to be harvested, fish to catch, and repairs to be made. And ultimately, should the village be unable to defend itself, another clan would force the group to surrender its identity and accept outside rule.

  Clouds hid the sun, darkness settled into her heart, and the Clan Mother started to cry.

  The pick-up zone consisted of a flat scrub-covered island. The clearing, which had been enlarged with machetes, was barely large enough to accommodate the fly-form already on its way.

  Outside of their weapons, which looked as clean as the morning they had left, the team was di
rty, ragged, and tired. Still, they lay in a circle, facing outwards, ready for anything, a disposition that was indicative of the mutual dependency, respect, and trust developed during the last few days.

  Booly considered saying as much, heard the approaching aircraft, and decided to let it go. Words have their place ... but blood binds all. The officer turned his face upwards, gloried in the way the raindrops struck it, and was grateful to be alive.

  10

  The key to opening new markets is to establish two-way communication. Failing to do so will often lead to disaster.

  Prithian Handbook for Merchant Apprentices

  Standard year 2842

  Somewhere Along the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The Prithian freighter bore a vague resemblance to the beings who had designed it, in that the ship possessed wings for use within planetary atmospheres, which were folded while traveling through space, a strategy that allowed the birdlike beings not only to indulge their love of atmospheric flight but to avoid the delays so often associated with orbital parking slots. It was all part of doing what the Prithians did well, which was to carry small, highly valuable cargoes over relatively short distances leaving the high-volume long-haul business to the big conglomerates.

  It was a niche market, which was perfect for a numerically small race having a low birthrate and rather insular ways. So insular—and some said self-serving—that the Prithians had ignored repeated invitations to join the Confederacy, while continuing to profit from the markets the organization had created and the stability it fostered. A policy that saved the merchant race a significant amount of money.

  All of which explained why the Dawn Song was jumping from one system to the next, delivering freight to a series of undistinguished planets, when it surfaced in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Having arranged for the soft body to delete its other self, the Hoon had lingered for a bit, taking the time necessary to review the fleet’s operating system and root out those instructions authored by its recently deceased twin. A tedious process, but one that would ensure that the Hoon’s orders would be followed by every unit in the fleet, regardless of which entity had controlled it during the recent past.

  That’s why its forces were waiting there, with very little to do, when the Dawn Song dropped hyper, appeared on the detector screens as a spark of light, and attempted to run.

  The Hoon noted the event, dispatched two fighters to deal with it, and returned to what it had been doing: Reviewing each and every line of code that comprised the operating system for the fleet’s maintenance units. After all, the artificial intelligence thought to itself, I’m clever, which means my twin was clever, which means traps could have been laid. And where better than deep within some aspect of my own body? Which was how the computer regarded the thousands upon thousands of machines that comprised the reconstituted fleet. Time passed, the AI searched, and the Dawn Song ran for her life.

  Whereas the control rooms on Hudathan ships resembled those on human vessels, and vice versa, the Prithians took an entirely different approach. There was no single place from which to pilot the Dawn Song anymore than there was a special place to sleep or eat. After all the birdlike beings reasoned, why limit oneself when there was no reason to do so?

  The entire concept of a human-style control room stemmed from the days of sailing ships, steam locomotives, and early ground vehicles—times when the need to see where one was going, plus analog-style controls, forced the helmsman, engineer, or driver to stay in one place. But now, more than a thousand years later, there was no need for such limitations beyond that required for their own psychological comfort.

  All of which explained why Prithians like Per Pok preferred to con their vessels via audio interface and simply “sang” their instructions to the ship’s central computer.

  Pok, who had a yellow beak, blue eyes, white head feathers, and the crimson shoulder plumage that marked his membership in the scarlet flock, cocked his head to one side and listened as the ship warbled its report. A report so strange, so essentially nonsensical, that merchant demanded to hear it again.

  Then, convinced that he really had dropped into the midst of an enormous fleet, Pok “called” for his daughter. Her name took the form of a short three-syllable song.

  Veera, who was a good deal smaller than her father but bore the same cape of reddish feathers, looked up from the component-strewn workbench. As with any vessel of her size and complexity, the Dawn Song required a good deal of maintenance—something Veera and a half dozen robots had responsibility for. There were twelve ways to sing her name each having a different meaning. This one meant, “come to me—and do so immediately.” It was one of the first communications a youngster learned, and Veera warbled the appropriate response.

  The teenager placed the tuning wand on the tray-shaped work surface and entered the tunnelway that led to the portion of the Dawn Song where her father spent most of his time, a circular space that functioned as office, roost, and galley.

  As with any space-going creature, Veera was very attuned to the feel of the ship. She noted the slight increase in vibration, one or two degrees of additional heat, and a change in the neverending “ship song,” a sort of humming sound that provided the crew with feedback and was as unique to Dawn Song as Veera’s variegated back plumage was to her. The vessel spoke of how difficult it was to make more speed while simultaneously charging the accumulators—a process that preceded a hyperspace jump and normally took most of a day. They were in trouble then—and running from something. The youngster increased her pace and emerged into the all-purpose living area. “Father? What’s wrong?”

  Pok finished his latest instruction to the ship, forced his feathers to fall into something resembling “peaceful rest,” and turned toward his daughter. The extent to which the teenager resembled her mother never ceased to amaze him. The same expressive eyes, slender body, and gorgeous plumage. How long had Malla been dead now? Only two years? It seemed longer. But all things end—separations included. “Some sort of fleet, my dear, though nothing we’ve seen before. It’s huge . . . and clearly hostile. At least two ships are closing with us as I speak. I tried to make contact but no response. I want you to enter the lifeboat and strap yourself in. If, and I emphasize if, they attack, we’ll try to escape.”

  Veera knew her father better than anyone else in the universe. The lie was as obvious as the brittle manner in which the song was sung, the high conflict-ready way in which Pok held his head, and the neck plumage that refused to lie flat. “No! I won’t go. Not till you do.”

  Per Pok was far from surprised. His daughter was not only willful, but less deferential than was appropriate, the direct result of living with her father in such confined quarters. He fluttered the feathers along the outside surface of what had once been wings. The gesture meant “I love you” and served to distract Veera just long enough for her father to produce the spray tube, aim it in her direction, and press the trigger.

  The inhalant, which was found in every Prithian’s on-board medical kit, functioned as a powerful anesthetic. Veera barely had time to register the nonverbal communication and realize what the tube was before darkness pulled her down.

  The merchant managed to catch the teenager before she hit the deck and swept her into his arms. She was light, very light, and easy to carry. Careful not to breathe, lest he inhale some of the still-lingering gas, the Prithian hurried away.

  The ship song had changed by then, had grown more intense, and warned of approaching vessels. Pok scurried down a passageway into the ship’s belly. A hatch opened in response to the Prithian’s command, and indicator lights began to flash. The very act of entering the bay had activated the lifeboat’s various on-board systems. Any one of the four seats would do. The merchant placed his daughter in the one nearest to the hatch and strapped the youngster in place.

  Then, knowing he would never see Veera again, Pok backed out through the lock. He sang “I love you,” and the h
atch cycled closed. The Dawn Song shuddered as a missile exploded against her protective force field and started to cry. It was a keening sound like an animal in pain. The Prithian had one more thing to accomplish . . . something that might make all the difference. He turned and hurried away.

  The fighters launched their weapons against the Prithian ship with no more emotion than a pair of maintenance bots might demonstrate while scrubbing a deck. They locked onto the target, activated their launchers, and waited for the range to close.

  Then, just as the fugitive vessel came within reach of their long-range missiles, it seemed to vanish as a container fell free, exploded, and scattered preheated chaff in every direction. It was an old trick—and one the Sheen were well-prepared to deal with. It did buy some time, however, because as the fighters waited for their sensors to clear the Dawn Song continued to flee.

  Bio bods might have missed the lifeboat as it tumbled end over end through the chaff, dismissed it as unimportant, or, in a moment of pity, allowed the fugitive to escape. But not the Sheen. They identified the seemingly inert lump of matter as having an 82.1% match to the identification parameters typical of a Type 4 auxiliary spacecraft, which, based on a reading of its core temperature was equipped with a hyperdrive. This information was transmitted to a nearly insignificant aspect of the Hoon, which routed it to a salvage ship, which was already under way.

  In the meantime the chaff had cleared, the machines took note of the fact that the quarry had turned on them, and fired their weapons.

  Knowing that the Dawn Song’s relatively puny arsenal would have very little impact on his pursuers, and knowing he was about to die, Per Pok chose to target all the offensive weaponry he had on only one of the incoming fighters. Then, eyes closed, he thought of home and his fervent desire to go there.