By Force of Arms

by William C. Dietz

  “Passable,” Horla-Ka commented calmly as the cyborgs advanced along the ridge, “though wasteful. One missile would have been sufficient”

  Duplo started to object, started to tell the hatchet head he was crazy, and realized it was a waste of time. All of them were crazy.

  Someone, Horla-Ka thought it was Himley, yelled “Hit the deck!”

  The noncom obliged, “felt” something warm pass over his head, and “heard” the assault boat crash. Metal screeched, a turbine roared, and something exploded. Santana staggered, tried to pull the shard of hull metal out of his chest, and collapsed. Horla-Ka got to his feet. “The airshafts! Follow me!”

  Bak Borlo-Ka, the second Hudathan on the team questioned the order, but followed it. What of those on the landing craft? Some were clansmen.

  But there was no time to think, only to act. Thraki troops boiled up out of the ground and opened fire. That was a mistake. With no cyborgs of their own, the defenders were outgunned. Arm-mounted Gatling guns roared, energy cannons burped, and the soft bodies ceased to exist. Horla-Ka felt orgasm after orgasm ripple through a body he no longer possessed—and found the split-second necessary to hate the scientists for what they had done to him. To take the pleasure associated with the creation of life and use it as a reward for destroying it... What could be more twisted?

  But there was no time to think, to do more than run, as the airshafts rose, and the resistance started to fade. The first objective had been secured—but what of the second? The borgs were too big to fit inside the airshafts and too clumsy to lower themselves to the bottom. The mission was at risk.

  Lieutenant Seeba-Ka felt the SLM hit the ship, heard the explosion, and knew they were in trouble. He yelled, “Hang on!” took his own advice, and saw the deck tilt. The pilot was fighting for control, the infantry officer could tell that, and struggled to suppress his fear. Fear he wasn’t supposed to feel, fear that signaled his weakness, fear that...

  The ship side-slipped into the ground. Howsky died instantly as did a third of the troops seated with their backs to the port bulkhead. Toba, Ibens, Ngugen, Al Saiid, Ista-Sa, Porlo-Ba, Boro-Da, and Norno-Ka—all dead.

  Seeba-Ka, who was seated just aft of the impact zone, released his harness and lurched to his feet. Though conceived in Hudathan the words were not all that different from what a human might have said. “What the hell are you waiting for? A full-blown holo presentation? Hit the dirt!”

  Hudathan, human, and Naa alike released their harnesses, struggled to make their way the length of the steeply slanted deck, and headed towards the bright green lights. Due to the fact that the ship had fallen onto the port side that door was blocked. Thanks to the manner in which the hull had rotated, the opposite hatch was high, and very difficult to reach. A legionnaire boosted another legionnaire up, but he lost his balance. Both tumbled to the deck.

  Private Lars Lasker solved the problem by triggering the belly-mounted escape hatch and jumping up and down on the door. It gave, and he fell through the hole. Sergeant Quickfoot Hillrun pointed and yelled. “Move! Move! Move!”

  Legionnaires poured out onto the ground, took defensive positions around the wreckage, and waited for orders. Wounded were dragged outside, carried beyond the reach of the potential blast zone, and given first aid. Seeba-Ka called for an air evac and was assured that it was en route.

  Once that was accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to check with Horla-Ka, confirm that the air shafts were secure, and send the report. Like so many of its kind the communication said nothing of the sacrifice required to make it possible. “Red Team is on the ground... The first objective is ours.”

  The cabin had been designed for use by admirals and more than met Booly’s needs. He sat in an easy chair guarded by two stacks of printouts. One that he had read and one that he hadn’t. In spite of 18’s importance, the Confederacy covered a lot of space, and Booly, as Military Chief of Staff, had responsibility for the whole thing. That’s why he was busy scanning an intelligence summary on Zynig-47 when the message came in. Tyspin chose to bring it herself. She entered without knocking, dropped into a chair, and offered the slip of paper. “Here, add this to your reading.”

  Booly read the words, nodded, and handed the slip back. “Casualties?”

  Tyspin shook her head. “No data as yet... but Red One requested a medevac.”

  “And Objective Two?”

  “They’re tackling it now.”

  Booly paused, imagined what it would be like to rappel down one of those airshafts, and grimaced. “And Blue One? How’s she doing?”

  Tyspin grinned. He noticed her eyes were rimmed with red. She hadn’t slept in days. “McGowan? Are you kidding? She was born ready.”

  Booly nodded. “Turn her loose.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Angie?”

  “Sir?”

  “Take a nap.”

  The assault team was located on a plain just beyond the canyon’s mouth. A thin layer of snow covered the rocks, low lying vegetation, and the ground itself.

  Four widely spaced piles of burned wreckage marked sorties by low flying Thraki aircraft. The balance of Blue Team was hunkered down, weapons scanning the sky, waiting for the next assault. The fur balls knew where they were, and, if it hadn’t been for the swabbies patrolling the airspace above, would have greased the entire force by then.

  Captain Bethany “Butch” McGowan had been dirtside for more than eight hours by then. She cursed the cold, blew on her hands, and prayed for a green light. Every hour that passed meant that her troops were a little more tired... and a little more likely to make mistakes. Her force consisted of six quads, sixteen Trooper II’s, twelve Hudathan “heavies,” and a mixed force of infantry under the questionable command of Lieutenant Jonathan Allan Seebo-872. The ground-pounders included more Jonathan Alan Seebos plus a platoon of legionnaires under Gunnery Sergeant Rolly True Bear.

  Blue Team was supposed to negotiate a minefield, find its way through the tank traps, and, should Red Team fail, make their way up the length of the valley through a withering crossfire. Not a stroll in the park.

  McGowan’s com tech, a woman named Bagano, stuck her head up through a hatch. She wore a com helmet, a non-reg nosering, and a shit-eating grin. “The big dog is on line one ... We’re good to go.”

  McGowan sighed. Bagano had a problem where military courtesy was concerned, had been disciplined any number of times, and didn’t seem to give a shit. The officer could have brought the soldier up on charges, and probably would have, except for one little problem: Bagano, or “Bags” as her buddies referred to her, was the best damned com tech on that side of galaxy. McGowan had seen the woman take three mangled PR3s, fieldstrip them, and build a new unit in less than three minutes. When it came to a trade-off between formality and competency, McGowan would take competency every single time. Her voice was intentionally loud. “All right! That’s the kind of news we’ve been waiting for! How’s Red?”

  “Red is down,” the com tech confirmed. “Objective One is secure—and they’re working on Two.”

  McGowan considered what that meant. The cyborgs would hold the stacks while the balance of the team dropped through the shafts, located the enemy command and control center, and blew the computer. That should silence the remotely operated weapons emplacements that lined the canyon walls. Weapons emplacements that the jet jockeys had been unable to overcome. Not that the swabbies hadn’t tried. The remains of one dagger was scattered about halfway up—pointing at the ultimate goal—while a second was smeared across the face of a cliff.

  Then, assuming that some of the Red Team managed to make it through—the poor bastards were supposed to throw themselves at the heavily shielded energy cannons mounted to either side of the main entrance—and attempt to shut them down.

  Meanwhile, assuming McGowan made it past the many obstacles that lay in her path, she could expect to come into contact with some nasty-assed tanks the Thrakies had stashed at the base
of the cliff. “Ah well, it was like they said: ‘Don’t join if you can’t take a joke.’ ”

  McGowan triggered the command push. A wire-thin boom mike captured her words. “Blue One here... we are green to go. Repeat green to go. Return to your vehicles, saddle up, and strap in. The last sonofabitch to reach the wall buys the beer!”

  There were cheers, some of which were muffled, as steel clanged on steel.

  McGowan grinned, circled a quad named Yen, and switched to another frequency. The ramp bounced under her boots. “I’m in—seal the hatch.” Servos whined as the armor-plated ramp rose to mate with the cyborg’s durasteel hull.

  About a hundred feet away, sealed into the belly of a Hudathan heavy, Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo-872 eyed his clone brothers. They sat in double rows facing each other. In spite of the fact that each one wore battle armor and carried a full complement of weapons plus ammo for the crew-served machine guns and rocket launchers, they were still dwarfed by the Hudathan-sized seats.

  That, plus the fact that he and his brothers were actually sealed inside an alien cyborg, added to the somewhat surreal atmosphere. In spite of the fact that the Legion had used cyborgs for a considerable length of time, even going so far as to station them on Hegemony-held worlds, the Alpha Clones had never seen fit to commission intelligent constructs of their own.

  Now, trapped within the belly of such a being, 872 had reason to question their wisdom. Of even more concern, however, was the fact that his superiors had not only acquiesced to the Confederacy’s decision to place a free-breeder in overall command of the allied forces, they failed to intervene when the same officer placed McGowan in charge of Blue Team. A serious error, given not only her gender but the likelihood that she would sacrifice his brothers and him rather than risk her precious legionnaires.

  All the infantry came under him, however—which would make it more difficult for McGowan to implement her plan. The officer grinned but knew it looked more like a snarl. If he died, if he wound up in hell, the legionnaires would arrive there first.

  Power went to the axles, tracks started to chum, and the cyborg moved forward. Blue Team was on the way.

  The sun had broken through. Sergeant Quickfoot stood in the hard black shadow cast by a spire of rock. He along with twelve legionnaires were gathered around one of the Thraki-constructed air shafts. Each was approximately ten-feet wide and lined with metal. The protective covers had been cut free and removed. The Naa peered down, but outside of the blue-green glow of the flare, there was nothing much to see.

  The mechanism that pushed stale air up toward the surface remained operational, however, and there were plenty of odors. The noncom’s nose, which was at least ten times more sensitive than the nearly useless protuberance humans were equipped with, sent information to his brain. There was the harsh odor of the demo charge they had lobbed in first, followed by the tang that was characteristic of Legion-issue flares, and yes, the faint odor of cooking.

  Satisfied that he knew everything about the shaft that his senses could tell him, the noncom looked up. His team-mates included Sureseek Fareye, Rockclimb Warmfeel, Oneshot Surekill, and Quickhand Knifemake. The words were in Naa: “The enemy will reach the bottom of the shaft soon. I think we should be there to greet them.”

  Teeth gleamed in the half-lit murk. All of the Naa were equipped with rock-climbing gear, including sit harnesses, carabiners, descenders, and other equipment required for rappelling, but carried none of the hardware associated with climbing. The reason was simple: Once down, they would fight their way out through the complex itself.

  Coils of half-inch kernmantle fell into the void, unwound, and pulled themselves straight. Hillrun grabbed a rope, stuck a loop through the hole in the figure-eight descender, and used a locking D-carabiner to secure it to his harness. Now, with his heels on the lip of the shaft, the noncom was ready to go.

  That’s when he looked up to find that Lieutenant Drik Seba-Ka’s eyes were fixed on his. And that’s when Hillrun saw something he’d never expected to see. Though still close to expressionless, it seemed as if there was a little bit of warmth in the Hudathan’s expression and, more remarkable yet, a measure of respect. The officer’s voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Watch your step, Sergeant... I’m short of noncoms.”

  Hillrun grinned, said “Yes, sir!” and stepped backward into the void.

  The office, modest to begin with, seemed even smaller now. No less than three Thraki officers waited to report. None were happy. Flight Leader Pak Harpu was upset about the fact that the aliens had been allowed to seize the orbital highground without so much as a shot fired. Base Commander Mot Bara wanted to know what she should do about the invasion of her air shafts. And Armored Commander Stik Colep wanted permission for a counterattack, all of which was quite logical given who and what they were.

  But Vice Admiral Ista Rawan had to consider the larger picture, focusing on that which was best for the race, that which was good for those under his command, and that which could actually be carried out.

  And there was the difficulty. Yes, they could hold for a while, could make the invaders pay, but to what end? BETA-018 was a long way from Zynig-47 and of limited strategic value.

  Yes, he could request assistance, but even if Andragna decided to send some, what would the relief force find? A Confederate ambush? And the smoking ruins of a devastated base?

  No, it didn’t make sense. Unfortunately, and the thought pained him, it was time to retreat—to take what he could, run while he could, and head for home. The word surprised him. Like it or not, for better or worse, his people had a home. A place from which they would refuse to run. Something worth defending.

  There was silence in the room, and, judging from the expressions of his subordinates, Rawan knew it had been that way for quite some time. He looked from face to face. “Here’s what I want each of you to do: Base Commander Bara will use part of her security troops to delay the invaders and the rest to prepare for evacuation. Flight Leader Harpu will ensure that the transports are loaded and ready to lift. Commander Colep will engage the enemy in an attempt to delay them for the maximum amount of time.”

  Rawan eyed his subordinates. Their pain was clear to see. They wanted to fight. All of them. Even the Runners like Bara. “Timing will be critical. All three of you will share the responsibility of making sure that the maximum number of people escape.”

  Rawan’s eyes shifted to the Armored officer. “And that includes you... I expect you and your troops will engage the enemy, fall back, and run as if the gods themselves were nipping at your heels. Understood?”

  Colep stood gunbarrel-straight. The orders ran contrary to everything he believed in, everything he was, everything he had ever wanted to be. Here, served from on high, was eternal dishonor. Be that as it may there was only one answer that Rawan would accept. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  “Good,” Rawan finished. “You have your orders. Carry them out.”

  Gunnery Sergeant Rolly True Bear put a chunk of granite between himself and the enemy, brought his binoculars up to his eyes, and scanned the terrain ahead. The bottom of the canyon was relatively flat, increasingly narrow, and dotted with sizeable boulders. The walls were too steep for a quad to climb and were covered by loose scree. Everything wore a coat of crusty white snow, thinner where the seldom-seen sun occasionally struck, but thick where shadows fell thick and black. Data scrolled down the right side of the screen. It included the range of whatever fell under the crosshairs, the prevailing wind direction, the surface temperature and more. Lots of information, but not what the noncom needed most.

  Blue Force was stalled. Crab mines, which roam from place to place, would disturb the snow, but there was no sign of that. So, assuming the mines existed, where were they? It was a job for robots... but none had been issued. The voice arrived over the company push, which meant that everybody could hear it. “Blue Two to Blue Four... over.”

  True Bear grimaced. He didn’t care for Lieutena
nt Jonathan Alan Seebo-872 and knew the feeling was mutual. Maybe that’s why he and his troops were out looking for mines while the clones napped in a heavy. “This is Blue Four... go. Over.”

  “What’s taking so long? We haven’t got all day. Over.”

  True Bear wrestled with his temper and managed to win. “Roger that, Two. We’ll know in a moment. Hold on, over.”

  The noncom broke the link and turned to the legionnaire crouched to his right. “You heard the loot... we’re in a hurry. Knock on the door.”

  Dietrich grinned, raised his drum-fed grenade launcher, and fired a six-round burst. A mixture of snow and soil fountained into the air as the grenades detonated. A loud boom followed the third explosion and echoed off the valley walls. Sand and gravel geysered upwards.

  Dietrich shouted “Bingo!” and grinned from ear to ear. The response was nearly instantaneous.

  “Blue Two to Blue Four! Who authorized you to fire? Over.”

  True Bear, no longer able to conceal his feelings, said what he felt. “Common fucking sense, sir. Over.”

  Laughter was heard. Lieutenant Seebo sputtered and was about to reply, when McGowan activated the command push. “That will be enough of that, gentlemen... You can compare the size of your dicks later on. Let’s clear those mines and put this team into high gear.”

  Both men scowled, a specially equipped Hudathan cyborg rolled forward, and the clearing began.

  Sheet metal boomed as Quickfoot Hillrun dropped five feet and his boots hit the side of the air shaft. There were similar sounds as the other scouts did likewise.

  Then, while halfway through the next drop, Hillrun heard the sounds he’d been dreading: A shout followed by six shots. He suspected that they had been fired by an officer, who, having been alerted to the invasion, had opened an inspection hatch, thrust his or her torso inside, and turned to look upwards. Then, having spotted the enemy, it was natural for the Thraki to pull a sidearm and open fire. Natural but stupid, since the muzzle flashes provided Oneshot Surekill with a clear aiming point. His weapon, a highly modified service pistol made a soft popping sound, and reentered its holster.