If you purchased this book without a cover, you should he aware that
this book is stolen properly. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed"
to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received

any payment for this "stripped hook."

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

BY FORCE OF ARMS

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with
the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace mass-market edition / June 2000

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Copyright © 2000 by William C. Dietz.

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATfcS Oh- AMERICA

10 98765432 1

For my dearest Marjorie ... Here's to the Lizard!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks go to Joel Davis, co-author of Mirror Matter
for the concept of "White Holes," and how to harness
them, to Dr. Sheridan Simon for his help in building this
particular universe, and legionnaires past, present, and
future. Vive la Legion.

1

Distasteful though it may be, one stroke of the as-
sassin's axe may have an effect greater than that
produced by a large number of troops.

Grand Marshal Nimu Wurla-Ka (ret.)
Instructor, Hudathan War College
Standard year 1957

Planet Earth, the Confederacy of
Sentient Beings

The assassin moved quietly, as if her life depended on it,
which it definitely did.

The house had been constructed more than five hundred
years before, back when Portugal was a nation rather than
an Administrative Region (AR), and the floorboards had a
tendency to squeak.

The killer paused for a moment, assured herself that it
was safe to move, and gestured to her companions. They
wore black hoods, black bodysuits, and black slippers.
They glided over the hardwood floor.

A shaft of sickly yellow moonlight came down through
the transparent bubble roof to pool on the rumpled bed.
Maylo Chien-Chu was awake, staring up through the plas-

2                      William C. Dietz

tic, listening to her lover breathe. He was asleep and had
been for an hour now.

The sex had been good, very good, but something was
missing. Was it her? Was it him? Or, and this was what
she feared most, was it theml

Something creaked—and her thoughts continued to
chum.

The hallway was long. wide and dimly lit. Huge pieces of
furniture and statuary lurked in the heavily anchored
gloom.

In spite of the fact that Earth's legally constituted gov-
ernment had been restored, and most of the mutineers had
been placed in prison, where they awaited military trials,
there were still plenty of renegades, outlaws, and psycho-
paths who would like nothing better than to assassinate
Legion General William "Bill" Booly III, who, along with
Admiral Angie Tyspin and a number of civilian resistance
groups was credited with winning the battle for Earth. That
being the case, Naa commandos, the best special ops
troops the Legion had to offer, were assigned to protect
him night and day.

Corporal Hardswim had served with Booly in Africa,
where the officer had not only managed to restore disci-
pline to the 13th DBLE, but had won a number of battles
against the mutineers, and led the famous raid on Johan-
nesburg. A raid the Naa had been part of—and had a
medal to prove it.

The legionnaire grinned at the memory, looked down
the dimly lit hall, and turned to the window. It was a likely
point of entry and a way to break the boredom. There
wasn't much to see outside, just the moon, and the lights
of Sintra.

The assassins glided from one pool of shadow to the next,
careful to make no sound, weapons at the ready.

Each and every Naa was gifted with a supersensitive

BY FORCE OF ARMS             3

sense of smell. The invaders knew that and had gone to
considerable lengths to counter it. Each assassin had
bathed repeatedly prior to the mission, used scentless soap,
donned specially prepared clothing, and been sprayed with
an essence derived from the house itself, A not altogether
unpleasant combination of furniture polish, fresh flowers,
and a touch of mold.

Protected by their clothing and carefully honed skills,
the assassins continued to advance.

Maylo turned onto her side, felt Booly stir in response,
and examined his face. She couldn't really see it—the
moonlight wasn't bright enough for that—but didn't need
to. The short hair. steady gray eyes, and determined chin
were etched in her memory.

He was intelligent, romantic, and very, very brave.
When a member of me cabal had imprisoned her in Jo-
hannesburg it had been Booly who led the mission to res-
cue her. She would never forget the moment when light
spilled into her cell, when he spoke her name, when he
swept her into his arms. Just like in her childhood story
books except for one very important thing: He might be
me one, and they might live happily ever after, but she
wasn't sure.

Hardswim looked down on the lights of Sintra, imagined
the interior of his favorite bar, and cursed his luck. The
general got laid, his buddies got drunk, and what did he
get? The stinkin* shaft that's what...

Hardswim paused in midthought as his nose tried to tell
him something. A scent that shouldn't be mere? No, too
much of the scent that should be there!

The Naa was already drawing his sidearm and turning
toward me light switch when the assassins took him down.
One hit the back of his knees, a second pulled his head
back, and the third slit his throat. The blood looked black

4                      William C. Dietz

i

in the moonlight. It took less than three seconds. The body
made a soft thump as it hit the floor.

Moving quickly, lest the body cool, the diminutive kill-
ers towed the Naa over to the bedroom door, raised him
up, and pressed a palm against the print-sensitive lock. The
mechanism made a soft but distinctive click.

Maylo heard the door lock click and frowned. Hardswim
never entered the room without requesting permission
first—not to mention the fact that it was the middle of the
night.

Having been awake for some time, the executive's eyes
were fully adjusted to the half darkness that pervaded the
room. She saw the door open a crack and made up her
mind. There had been a time when she would have laughed
at the notion of assassins, but that was before she had spent
months as a political prisoner, and been forced to shoot a
man at close range. Better to look stupid than dead.

Booly felt a hand cover his mouth, came instantly
awake, and felt for the handgun. It had a tendency to mi-
grate during the night, especially when they made love,
but it happened to be in the spot where he'd left it. His
fingers closed around cool metal as lips brushed his ear.
"Someone opened the door."

The officer nodded, nudged Maylo toward the far side
of the bed, and nicked the safety to the "off' position.

Someone else might have yelled something like "Who's
there? I have a gun'" but Booty didn't believe in that sort
of nonsense. He figured that anyone who mistakenly en-
tered a locked room during the middle of the night de-
served to die. He rolled to the left, saw motion, and opened
fire.

The first assassin staggered as two bullets ripped
through her body, but the second and third made it through
the door, and opened fire with handheld flechette throwers.
The dans sampled the air, identified epithelial cells

BY FORCE OF ARMS             5

that matched the DNA they were programmed to seek, and
steered themselves accordingly.

Booly continued to fire, saw two additional shadows
fall, and felt rather than saw the missiles that accelerated
past his torso. Smart darts! Targeted to Maylo!

The officer turned, threw himself out over the bed, but
knew it was too late.

Having rolled off the right side of the bed, Maylo sensed
the attack and raised the pillow out of reflex more than
anything else. She felt the darts hit the foam rubber, fell
backward in an attempt to reduce the extent to which she
was visible, and saw Booly throw himself into the line of
fire.

The bed creaked as the officer landed on it, three heavily
armed legionnaires burst through the door, and the lights
flashed on.

Maylo, surprised to learn she was still alive, lowered the
pillow. Nine flechettes protruded from the opposite side.
The previously white linen was yellow where some sort of
liquid had started to spread. Booty yelled, "Poison!" and
Maylo threw the object away.

Booly rolled off the bed, stood, and approached the bod-
ies. He was naked, which meant that anyone who cared to
look could see the mane of silvery gray fur that began at
his hairline and ended at the base of his spine. Proof that
he was one-quarter Naa—and a matter of pride for his
bodyguard.

Sergeant Armstrong had gold fur streaked with white, a
bald spot on his right biceps where a bullet had ripped
through it, and carried an assault weapon in his right hand.
He knelt by one of the bodies. "They murdered Hard-
swim."

Booly swore, bent over, and tugged at one of the black
hoods. It came off rather easily. The small almost feline
head bore large light-gathering eyes, pointed ears, and hor-
izontal slits where nostrils might have been.

6                      William C. Dietz

i

Maylo peered down across her lover's shoulder.
"Thraki."

"Yes," Booly agreed. "But why?"

Maylo frowned. The Thraki race was but one element
in a very complicated political picture.

Humans, along with a number of alien species had
founded a star-spanning government called the Confeder-
acy of Sentient Beings. First conceived as a military alli-
ance, the Confederacy had become much more than that,
and me key to interstellar peace and prosperity. Not that
all of its members could or should be trusted. The Clone
Hegemony along with the Ramanthians and others had
agendas of their own and had been at the very center of
the effort not only to subvert Earth's duly constituted gov-
ernment but to destabilize the Confederacy as well.

A rather complex situation made all the more difficult
by the arrival of the Thraki, who dropped out of hyper-
space, formed a relationship with the conspirators, and
took possession of a world called Zynig-47. Other planets
had been colonized as well, most with permission from the
Hegemony, but some without it.

All during a time when the Confederacy's armed forces
were not only suffering from the cumulative effects of se-
rial downsizings but were divided by the recent mutiny.

Then, as if those problems were not enough, Maylo's
uncle, a businessman-politician named Sergi Chien-Chu,
had learned that the Thraki were on the run from some-
thing called "the Sheen," and hoped to use the Confeder-
acy for what amounted to cannon fodder. All of which was
extremely important—but didn't begin to answer Booty's
question. What did the Thrakies hope to gain? And which
Thraki were behind the attack since their society included
at least two opposing groups. The Runners and the Facers.
There was no way to know.

One thing was clear, however, her uncle might be tar-

BYFORCE OF ARMS             7

geted too, and she needed to warn him. "I'll need a ship . ..
the fastest one you can find."

Booly smiled and dropped a robe over her shoulders.
"I'll put someone on it. In the meantime, you might want
to consider some clothes."

Thou shalt have no gods before me.

Holy Bible, Exodus 20:3
First printing circa 1400

Somewhere Beyond the Rim,
the Confederacy of Sentient
Beings

One moment they were there, thousands upon thousands
of shimmery spaceships, all seemingly motionless in space,
then they were gone, absorbed by the strange dimension
called "hyperspace," and launched toward a distant set of
coordinates.

The Sheen fleet was comprised of approximately 1,300
separate vessels, all controlled by the computer intelligence
known as the Hoon, and, with the exception of a human
named Jorley Jepp, a navcomp called Henry, and a robot
named Sam, was entirely crewed by nonsentient machines.

Not that Jorley Jepp and the AIs who attended him could
properly be referred to as "crew," since their actual status
hovered somewhere between "prisoner" and "stowaway."
A situation that Jepp sought to exploit, since he viewed
the fleet as the manifestation of Divine Providence and the
means by which to enact God's plan. Well, not God's plan,

BY FORCE OF ARMS             9

since it was difficult to know what that was, but his idea
of what God's plan should be.

All of which was fine with the Hoon so long as the
human continued to support the computer's overriding pur-
pose, which was to find the Thraki and eradicate them.
Why was anything but clear. Not to Jepp anyway. Still,
why worry about something when you can't do anything
about it?

The prospector cum messiah straightened his filthy ship
suit, stepped out onto the improvised stage, and raised his
arms. Like the ship it was part of, the one-time storage
compartment was huge and stank of ozone.

Jepp's first convert, a nonsentient robot named Alpha,
sent a radio signal to more than a thousand of his peers.
All of them bowed their heads. It was more dignified than
the shouts of adulation that Jepp had required of them the
month before. He was pleased and the sermon began.

The world called Long Jump was pleasant by human stan-
dards, having only slightly more gravity than Earth did,
plus a breathable atmosphere, a nice large ocean, and
plenty of raw unsettled land. Real estate, which like vacant
lots everywhere, was available for a reason.

This was partly due to the fact that Long Jump was not
only on the Rim, but on the outer edge of the rim, which
meant that goods such as grain, refined ore, and manufac-
tured products would have to be shipped to the center of
the Confederacy where they would be forced to compete
with similar commodities that were more expensive to pro-
duce, but had a shorter distance to travel. A competitive
reality that the citizens of Long Jump had never managed
to compensate for.

All of which helped to explain why Fortuna, the only
city of any real size, was home to thieves, prospectors,
renegades, bounty hunters, organ jackers, drug smugglers,
stave traders and every other sort of villain known to the
broad array of sentient races.

10 Wilfiam C. Dietz

It was like so many frontier towns, a city of contrasts
in which mansions stood shoulder to shoulder with sleaze-
bag hotels, animals toiled next to jury-rigged robots and
the often muddy streets wandered where commerce took
them.

But Fortuna wcis civilized, and, like mostly human civ-
ilizations everywhere, was host to a complex social struc-
ture. The very top layer of this society was occupied by
three different beings, all of whom liked to think that they
owned the very top slot, although none of them really did.

One individual came close, however, and his name was
Neptune Small. The fact that he weighed approximately
350 pounds was an irony of which he was well aware, and
no one chose to joke about. No one who wanted to live.

Small's offices were located over one of the restaurants
he owned, which was rather convenient, since he consid-
ered it his duty to sample the establishment's wares at least
four times a day.

So that's where he was, sitting at his favorite table,
when a functionary named Hos McGurk left the city's di-
lapidated corn center, ignored the pouring-down rain, and
ran the three blocks to the aptly named Rimmer's Rest. He
could have called, could have asked for Small, but the
businessman didn't like corn calls. He preferred to deal
with people face to face, where he could see their fear,
and smell their sweat.

McGurk pushed the doors open, ignored the robotic
hostess, and headed for the back. All sorts of junk had
been nailed, wired, screwed, or in at least one case welded
to the walls. There were nameplates taken off long-
dismantled ships, a collection of alien hand tools, the shell
from a five-hundred-pound land mollusk, a mummified
hand that someone found floating in space, and a wanted
poster that not only bore Small's somewhat thinner like-
ness, but announced the possibility of a rather sizeable re-
ward. Some of the clientele thought it was a joke—others
weren't so sure.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            11

McGurk had started to pant by the time he arrived in
front of Small's table. The entrepreneur, as he liked to
refer to himself, always wore immaculate black clothing,
and affected a specially made cane- The handle resembled
the head of an eagle and the shaft doubted as a single-shot
energy weapon. It leaned against the table only inches
from it owner's well-dimpled hand. Small dabbed his fat
puffy lips, raised an eyebrow, and spoke in what amounted
to a hoarse whisper. "Good afternoon, Hos—what brings
you out on such a miserable day?"

Thus encouraged McGurk began to babble. His eyes
bulged with pent-up emotion, his hands washed each other,
and the words emerged in spurts. "Ships! Hundreds of
them! Maybe more! All dropping hyper."

Small frowned. Given Long Jump's location, five ships
would be notable, ten would be extraordinary, and a hun-
dred was impossible. He stabbed a piece of meat. "Have
you been drinking? I thought you gave it up."

"No!" Hos said emphatically. "I ain't been drinking, and
here's proof."

Small accepted the note, read the corn master's barely
legible scrawl, and saw that the messenger was correct.
Assuming that the orbital sensors were functioning cor-
rectly, and there was no reason to think otherwise, hun-
dreds of alien ships had dropped into the system and more
were on the way.

Some, the majority from the sound of it, had adopted a
long elliptical orbit around the sun, while six vessels, big
honkers judging from the message, were in orbit around
Long Jump.

Small removed the crisp white linen from his chest,
folded the napkin along the creases, and put it aside. It was
important to maintain a front, to signal how unflappable
he was, in spite of the inexplicably empty feeling mat
claimed the bottom of his considerable gut. What was go-
ing on? A Confederate raid? Or just what the message

12 Wilfiam C. Dietz

claimed it was? Aliens out of nowhere? Neither possibility
suggested an opportunity for profit.

Those thoughts were still in the process of flickering
through Small's mind when something twittered. McGurk
hauled a pocket corn out of his coat and held the device
to a badly misshapen ear. He listened, nodded, and turned
to Small. "It's Hawker... He claims to have one of the
ships on the hom—and says Jorley Jepp wants to speak
with you."

The businessman felt his face flush red. He knew Jepp
all right. Plenty of people did and would love to get their
hands, tentacles, or graspers on him. A sometimes pros-
pector, he owned a ship named the Pelican, and was
eternally broke. One hundred and sixty-five thousand two-
hundred and ten credits plus interest. That's how much the
slimy, no-good, piece of space crap owed Small.

But Jepp had disappeared more than a year back, which
meant some stupid bastard was having him on. Small was
about to say as much, about to rip McGurk a new asshole,
when the idiot in question offered the corn set. "Here, it's
Jorely Jepp."

In spite of the fact that his relationship with the Hoon was
basically cordial, it was hardly collegia!, which meant the
computer never bothered to announce what the fleet was
going to do next. A fact that bothered the human no end.
That being the case, Jepp usually gathered information
through his robots or via his own senses.

The human had lived on the Sheen ship for quite a while
by then, and was used to the way air whispered through
the ducts, the hull vibrated beneath his feet, and the push
of die engines. So when the fleet dropped hyper, slowed,
and dropped into orbit, Jepp sensed the change and sent
his minions to investigate.

The Thraki robot was called "Sam," short for "Good
Samaritan" and, though small, was able to assume a variety
of configurations. Some of which came in handy from time

BY FORCE OF ARMS            13

to time. The fact that it served as a translator made the
machine even more useful.

Henry, the only surviving component of the good ship
Pelican, was a navcomp by trade and currently trapped
within a body that looked like a garbage can. Though sen-
tient and capable of speech, the host mechanism wasn't.
That left the computer dependent on Sam.

The two robots, along with the ever-obedient Alpha, left
Jepp's self-assigned quarters, passed an example of the re-
ligious graffiti that the prospector liked to spray paint onto
the ship's bulkheads, and made for the nearest data port.
Sam plugged in, sampled the flow, and found what the
master was looking for. With that accomplished, it was a
relatively simple matter to transmit the data to Henry, who
possessed superior analytical abilities, and who if the truth
be told was just plain smarter.

The navcomp scanned the data, registered the machine
equivalent of surprise, and checked to ensure that it had
arrived at the correct conclusion. Then, certain that the
information was correct, Henry experienced a profound
sense of horror. What were the odds? Millions to one? That
the Hoon would randomly choose that particular set of
coordinates?

No, much as the AI might want to believe such a hy-
pothesis, it couldn't. Henry's memory had been plundered
shortly after capture. Now, for reasons known only to it,
the alien intelligence had approached Long Jump. The nav-
comp had witnessed similar visitations during the previous
year, and none of them had been pleasant. Entire civili-
zations had been snuffed from existence, species left near
extinction, and natural resources looted to feed the fleet.
Slowly, reluctantly, Henry returned with the news.

Jepp listened to the report, asked to hear it again, and
felt an almost overwhelming sense of joy. He'd been right!
God had a plan. Why else would the Supreme Being direct
the fleet to Long Jump? The very planet from which Henry
and he had lifted so long ago?

14 William C. Diets

The human literally danced around the compartment,
chortled out loud, and slapped the robot's alloy back.
"Here's our chance. Alpha! We'll minister to the godless
and build the flock! Praise be to the lord."

"Praise be to the lord," Alpha echoed dutifully.

Henry was silent.

The Hoon transferred a portion of its consciousness from
one ship to another, scanned the orb below, and considered
its options. Yes, it could consume the metal on the planet
below, and thereby fuel the ,fleet, or, and this was more
intriguing, allow the soft body to interact with its peers
and take the food afterwards.

Evidence had been found suggesting that the AI's quarry
had traveled into that particular sector of space—and it
wanted confirmation. If the soft bodies knew anything
about the Thraki, they would tell the one called Jepp, and
he would tejl the Hoon. Or would he? Based on data
gleaned from the biped's navigational entity, this was the
biological's planet of origin. Perhaps he would run. No
great loss, the Hoon concluded, none at all.

Jepp boarded the Sheen shuttle, followed by his robots,
each one of which progressed by its own means of pro-
pulsion, which meant that Alpha walked. Henry rolled, and
Sam scampered about. The human had been given grudg-
ing use of smaller ships in the past, but this felt different,
as if the Hoon actually wanted him to go. Form has a
tendency to follow function—so the control room looked
like what it was. The presence of two pedestal-style chairs
confirmed the fact that the ship's architects, whoever they
might be, liked to sit down once in awhile.

There was a view screen, a stripped-down control panel,
and a joystick. Did that mean the creators had a preference
for simplicity? Or that the controls were regarded as little
more than an emergency backup? Jepp favored the second
theory but had no way to know if he was correct.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            15

The ex-prospector sat down, wished the chair was more
comfortable, and felt the ship lift off. It hovered for a mo-
ment, scooted out through the enormous hatch, and fell
into orbit. The sight of Long Jump brought a lump to his
throat. It looked like a chocolate ball dusted with powdered
sugar. There were people down there, lots of them, and he
hungered for the sound of their voices- Could the ship
patch him through? There was only one way to find out.
"Contact the surface," Jepp ordered, "and tell them I wish
to speak with Neptune Small."

Three minutes passed while the robots communicated
with the ship and the ship communicated with someone on
Long Jump's surface.

Then, much to the human's amazement. Alpha touched
a section of the control panel, waited for a small cover to
whir out of the way, and removed a curvilinear tube.
"Here, you can speak into this."

Jepp recognized the device as some sort of handset and
heard a voice issue from a hole. "Jepp? Is that you?"

The sound of the merchant's voice was enough to trig-
ger unpleasant memories. The prospector remembered
what it had been like to wait for hours while Small sat in
his office. And then, i/he was very, very lucky, to be given
five minutes in which to make his case. Why the existing
loan should be extended, why he would strike it rich, why
Small should be patient. And how, when the whole hu-
miliating ritual was over. Small would part with a tiny
fraction of the money he'd made during the last five
minutes, and Jepp would slink away. But not this time Jepp
thought to himself. "Yes," Jepp said out loud. "It certainly
is. How do you like my fleet?"

Small, who had taken the precaution of draping a hand-
kerchief over McGurk's less than sanitary corn set, gave a
grunt of derision. "I don't know who owns those ships . ..
but it certainty isn't you."

"Oh really?" Jepp replied, eyeing the huge doughnut-

16 William C. Dietz

shaped space hab that had appeared on the shuttle's view-
screen. "How's that refueling station doing? You know,
the one that charges twice the going rate, just for being
out on the Rim?"

Small felt something gnaw at his gut. He made it to his
feet, grabbed the cane, and walked toward the door. Maybe
the folks down at the corn center could tell him what the
hell was going on. "Now Jorley ... there's no reason to
get all excited . .. let's talk."

A mob had formed in front of the corn center but parted
to let Small through. Voices babbled and questions flew,
but the merchant ignored them. People scattered as Small
barged into the main office and eyed the wall screen. There
were ships all right, lots of them, more than he could
count. And there, right between some red deltas was his
pride and joy, the largely automated refueling station he
called "Halo." The computer-generated likeness of the sta-
tion was gold and glistened in the sun.

Then, as if by magic, the Halo was gone. Small yelled
"No!" but it was too late. Instructions had gone to the
Hoon, weapons had been fired, and the hab ceased to exist.

Jepp tried to remember how many people lived on board
but wasn't sure. He should have checked first—should
have known the answer. What was wrong with him any-
way? Would he go to hell? No, not so long as he furthered
God's plan. His voice was filled with steel. "Prepare to
receive God's servants. Make them welcome or suffer my
wrath."

Small started to reply, started to ask "What servants?"
but realized the connection had been severed.

All other air traffic was turned away as a procession of
shimmery shuttles landed at Fortuna's much-abused space-
port. Neptune Small, his flunkies, a crowd of townspeople,
and spaceport staff all watched in amazement as dozens of
smooth-faced robots filed out of the alien spaceships and
made their way into the slums that bordered the port.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            17

Many feared that the machines would suddenly turn vi-
olent, but there was no sign that any of them bore weap-
ons, and none of the robots did anything to offend. What
they did do, however, was take up positions on street cor-
ners, enter bars, and invade houses of prostitution. There
were objections, of course, along with various attempts to
eject them, but to no avail. Even after being physically
accosted and thrown out into the streets, the robots simply
picked themselves up and marched back in.

Eventually, after the bouncers tired of trying to stop
them, the machines were allowed to stay. That's when they
launched their carefully prepared sermons. Long rambling
affairs that borrowed from a number of sects, denomina-
tions, and traditions, but were faithful to none.

It was only after walking around for a bit and sampling
a number of presentations that Small realized the robots
were speaking in unison!

Jepp, self-styled messiah that he was, had constructed
the perfect cult. Each and every member thought the same
thoughts, had the same beliefs, and babbled the same non-
sense. Including the need to eradicate the Thraki. Whoever
they might be.

People listened at first, curious as to what the silvery
machines had to say, but soon grew bored and drifted
away.

Three of the robots were machine-napped but set free
the moment that the orbital barrage began. The buildings
were chosen at random and destroyed one at a time till the
Sheen were released.

Small lost two properties during the attack, and his peers
lost structures as well. Finally, at their urging, the busi-
nessman was forced to go looking for Jepp. The self-styled
messiah was easy to locate. Every street-comer robot
seemed to know exactly where their master was.

The prefab warehouse catered to the sort of misfits that
used Long Jump as a base of operations, and was subdi-
vided into a labyrinth of heavily screened cubicles. It was

18 William C. Dietz

difficult to see in the murky corridors, but most of the
compartments seemed to crammed with semiworthless
junk.

The owner, a weasel nicknamed "Pop," dogged the mer-
chant's steps. He was as small as the other man was large
and dressed in property confiscated from his nonpaying
customers. A two-thousand credit spyder-silk robe napped
around his tiny body as he walked. "He's down this way
Mr. Small... along with some of his infernal machines.
They just walked in and took over."

The twosome turned a comer, passed under a dangling
light wand, and located their quarry. Jepp was there all
right—along with a clutch of robots. A silver globe
bumped into Small's well-shod feet, transformed itself into
something that resembled a spider, and attempted to scale
the merchant's right leg. He bent over to peel the device
off. Sam took exception. "Hey1 Watch it buster! Hands
off."

Startled by the robot's use of standard, the merchant
took a step backward. The robot lost interest and dropped
free. Jepp, who had chosen to ignore the businessman up
till then, scanned the title of a holo disk and dropped it
into a box. "Don't mind Sam . .. he's harmless enough. I
wondered when you would show up."

Small, who felt inexplicably nervous, was shocked by
the sound of his own voice. He sounded weak, and a little
bit subservient, like those who worked for him. "Really?
Yes, I suppose you did."

"Of course I did," Jepp said matter-of-factly. "So what
did your friends say? Get rid of him? And do it fast?"

"Something like that," Small admitted lamely.

"So what will you give me?" Jepp demanded, hands on
hips.

Small shrugged. "Whatever you want. So long as you
leave and take the machines with you."

" 'Whatever I want,' " Jepp mused. "I like the sound of
that. . . One can imagine all sorts of things. The sort of

BY FORCE OF ARMS            19

worldly garbage that a man like you would ask for.

"But God has no interest in such things . .. and neither
do his servants. I ask only two things, one for the Hoon,
and the other for myself."

Small felt a small, hard lump form in his throat- He had
no idea who or what the Hoon was ... but wasn't sure it
mattered. As with all business deals, the price was what
mattered. "Yes? What do you want?"

"The Sheen are looking for a race known as the Thraki.
Have you heard of them?"

The merchant shook his head. Chins jiggled. "No, but
we don't get much news out here. You know how it is ...
The Feddies don't care about us, and we don't care about
them."

Jepp looked unimpressed. "You have contacts ... use
them. Talk to the smugglers. They know what's going
on ... they have to. I want a report by this time tomor-
row."

Small nodded weakly- "It shall be as you say. And the
second request?"

"Five years' worth of the best ship rations you can lay
your hands on, fifty thousand gallons of purified water, a
class one autodoc with plenty of supplies, ten dark blue
ship suits, ten sets of underwear, two pairs of size twelve
boots and ten thousand Bibtes. At the spaceport by to-
morrow night."

The fact that the list didn't involve large quantities of
money or other valuables granted Small a tremendous
sense of relief. 'That sounds doable . .. Everything but the
Bibles. I doubt there's more than 100 on the entire planet."

"Then print some more," Jepp replied sweetly, "or Judg-
ment Day may arrive a little bit early."

The Hoon was both annoyed and amused by the supplies
that the soft body wanted to bring aboard. Not that it made
much difference since there was plenty of room.

Of greater significance was the fact that the biological

20 William C. Dietz

had clearly decided to stay. A thoroughly disagreeable
prospect except for one thing: Prior to quitting the planet's
surface, the human had acquired some valuable intelli-
gence. It seemed that this particular world was little more
than an outpost for a much larger multicultural civilization.
A society still struggling to cope with the fact that the
Thraki armada had dropped out of hyperspace, seized con-
trol of a planet, and taken up residence there. An extremely
important development—assuming it was true.

The information had been culled from soft bodies that
Jepp considered unreliable, nonfunctional, and in some
cases outright hostile. In fact, based on observations the
computer intelligence had carried out while monitoring its
robots, some of the data had been obtained under physical
duress.

Still, the claims were consistent with each other plus
other data stored in Hoon's banks, and not to be ignored-
The Sheen would proceed, albeit cautiously, to avoid any
sort of trap.

As for the planet below, well, there were ships to feed,
and even though the city would offer little more than a
snack, something is better than nothing.

The shuttles landed with monotonous regularity. Larger
units this time, loaded with self-propelled machines, each
protected by one of the shimmery force fields that gave
the Sheen their name.

Fortuna had no military as such, just criminal gangs,
none of whom were willing to cooperate with each other.
That being the case, the three-story crawlers were free to
go about the business of consuming every bit of metal they
could lay their graspers on without any interference other
than the occasional shoulder-launched missile.

Neptune Small knew he should run, should head out into
the bush like most of the others had, but continued to hope
for some sort of miracle. The machines threatened every-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            21

thing that he had worked, stolen, and fought for. He was
both too old and too fat to start all over again.

That's why the merchant stood out in front of the Rim-
mer's Rest, why he fired his cane as a crawler rounded a
corner, and why Small, along with the entire facade of his
building, vanished in a single flash of light.

Thus the highest form of generalship is to balk the
the enemy's plans; the next best is to prevent the
junction of the enemy's forces; the next in order is
to attack the enemy's army in the field; and worst
policy of all is to besiege walled cities.

Sun Tzu

The Art of War

Standard year circa 500 B.C.

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy
of Sentient Beings

Originally christened as the battleship Reliable, the Friend-
ship filled an entirely different role now, but still looked
like what she was: one of the most powerful ships the
Confederacy had. Her hull was five miles long and covered
by a maze of heat exchangers, tractor beam projectors, corn
pods, and weapons blisters.

The planet Arballa hung huge behind her. The poles
were white, but the rest of the world appeared as various
shades of brown. Oh, there was water all right, but it was
locked deep below where lake-sized aquifers had been
sealed into bubbles of volcanic rock. That's where the
wormlike Arballazanies took shelter from the sun's dan-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            23

gerous heat, spun their delicate cocoons, and built the op-
tically switched computers for which they were justifiably
famous. The Friendship had served the Confederacy as a
traveling capital for more than fifty years now—and it was
their turn to play host.

All of which was little more than a backdrop for co-
conspirators, who, in an effort to escape the nonstop sur-
veillance typical of shipboard life, boarded a Ramanthian
shuttle, and used it to slip away.

The interior bore an intentional resemblance to the sort
of underground cavern that Ramanthians preferred, which
meant that it was not only dim but hot and extremely hu-
mid. The Hegemony's ambassador to the Confederacy,
Harlan Ishimoto-Seven, sought to surreptitiously loosen his
collar, and regretted the decision to come. Could the Ra-
manthian tell how uncomfortable he was? There was no
way to be sure.

The Ramanthian resembled a large insect. He had mul-
tifaceted eyes, a parrotlike beak. tool legs in place of arms,
and long narrow wings. They were folded at the moment,
and nobody the clone knew had ever seen them deployed.

The clone and the Ramanthian were both members of
the cabal that attempted to subvert Earth's government and
thereby weaken its influence. The effort had failed, but just
barely, and through no fault of their own. After all, who
would have predicted an alliance between Ambassador Hi-
ween Doma-Sa, the sole representative of the Hudathan
race, and Sergi Chien-Chu, wealthy industrialist, past Pres-
ident of the Confederacy, and functional cyborg? Nobody,
that's who.

Earth Governor Patricia Pardo had been a member of
the original conspiracy but now languished in prison. Also
missing was Legion Colonel Leon Harco, who had be-
trayed the Confederacy, the cabal, and ultimately himself.
His court-martial was scheduled for later that year. Of less
importance, in Ishimoto-Seven's opinion at least, was

24 William C. Dietz

Leshi Qwan, a corporate type who had pushed his luck too
far, and allowed Maylo Chien-Chu to shoot him.

The conspirators had some new allies however, includ-
ing Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna, the most senior
officer in the Thraki fleet. He looked every bit as uncom-
fortable as Ishimoto-Seven felt.

Also joining the cabal was Senator Haf Noother, the
duly appointed representative of the reclusive Drac Axis,
who was clad from head to toe in a dull black pressure
suit. His breathing apparatus, if that's what it was, made
a sort of gurgling sound. Seven did his best to ignore it.

Orno noted the human's discomfort and took pleasure
in how stupid the humans were. Especially this one. Little
did he or the rest of the conspirators know, but the tricen-
tennial birthing was only two and a half annums away,
which meant his race would have an additional fifty billion
mouths to feed. Reason enough to obtain some additional
real estate. The Ramanthian made use of his tool legs to
preen the areas to either side of his beak. His words were
translated by the computer woven into his iridescent robes.
The syntax was slightly stilted. "Thank you for taking time
out of your busy schedules. Let's start by providing each
of our representatives with the opportunity to report- Am-
bassador Ishimoto-Seven ... let's begin with you."

The clone was ready. "Thank you. My efforts have cen-
tered on recruiting the votes necessary to admit the Thrak-
ies to the Confederacy. In spite of the fact that my
clone-brother. Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six continues to
drag his feet where our initiative is concerned, he will fol-
low orders, and cast his ballot accordingly. That being the
case the Hegemony is well on the way to building a pro-
Thraki coalition."

"Excellent," Omo purred, "truly excellent. Once their
membership has been approved, our Thraki brothers and
sisters will bolster our strength. How many votes do we
have?"

"Quite a few," Seven allowed cautiously, "but less than

BY FORCE OF ARMS            25

we had hoped for. Governor Chien-Chu and Ambassador
Doma-Sa have formed an alliance of their own, A strong
group that seeks to block our initiative."

Admiral Andragna listened with a strange sense of de-
tachment. His race was split into two main camps: the
"runners," who believed the best way to deal with the
Sheen was to run from them, and the "facers," who wanted
to face the enemy and fight. The facers were in the ma-
jority—so plans had been laid for the inevitable battle. A
battle in which he and his staff planned to use the Con-
federacy as a shield. A strategy that would be greatly en-
hanced if they were covered by the mutual defense pact
that attended membership.

Still, in his heart of hearts, Andragna was a runner and
saw the present machinations as a waste of time. He
couldn't admit that, however, not to the committee or to
those around him.

The Drac spoke for the first time. Maybe it was the
synthesizer, or maybe it was his voice, but the result was
less than melodious. "Bribery, what of?"

Seven shrugged. "We could buy Doma-Sa with freedom
for his race, assuming there was a way to deliver, but what
happens after that? The Hudathans were confined to their
home system for a very good reason. They killed millions
during the first and second Hudathan wars."

"And Governor Chien-Chu?"

"Hopeless," Orno concluded. "The governor is so
wealthy that money holds no meaning for him. There are
other possibilities however—and the Thraki are working
on them. Admiral?"

The robot that rested on the Thraki's lap was part toy,
part pet, and part tool. It morphed into a globe and as-
sumed the role of translator. "Our priesthood includes a
branch focused on the martial arts. A team of assassins
was dispatched to Earth with instructions to kill Maylo
Chien-Chu. We haven't heard from them as yet... but
they seldom fail."

26 William C. Dietz

"Point is what?" the Drac inquired flatly.

"Intimidation," Ishimoto-Seven replied easily. "If
Chien-Chu's niece can be killed then no one is safe. Not
his wife, not his associates, and not him."

"Good it is," Noother concluded. "Next what?"

Omo glanced at the viewscreen. Special electroactive
contact lenses took hundreds of separate images and com-
bined them into one. The Friendship looked small and po-
tentially vulnerable against the great blackness. "Isolated
though he is, the Hudathan has proven far too effective for
his own good. I plan to eliminate him . .. and do so in a
very public manner. With Doma-Sa dead—the votes we
require will hurry to find us."

"How?" the Drac demanded.

"Patience," the Ramanthian counseled. "You must have
patience. Isn't that right, Horgo?"

The War Orno stepped forward into the light. Like all
of his kind, the Ramanthian's vital organs were protected
by an extremely hard brown-black exoskeleton. He pos-
sessed an elongated head, short antennae, a parrotlike beak,
and a pair of seldom-deployed wings. He wore black body
armor secured by bright metal links. A sword had been
strapped across his back, and Horgo wore two hand weap-
ons, butts forward. His rarely heard voice was deep and
menacing. "Yes, lord. That is correct."

The Starlight Ballroom could handle up to one thousand
guests, all protected by an immense transparent dome. The
planet Arballa hung like a jewel beyond the armored plas-
tic. Only one comer of the vast space was currently in use.
About sixty beings, who represented more than a dozen
different races, stood in conversational clumps where they
sipped, sucked, snorted, and otherwise ingested a wide va-
riety of mildly intoxicating substances, snacked on a va-
riety of exotic hors d'oeuvres, and told each other lies.

All except for one lonely figure who knew he should
mingle—but couldn't quite bring himself to do so. He

BY FORCE OF ARMS            27

stood with his back to a durasteel bulkhead, his feet
planted firmly on the deck, wishing he were dead. Am-
bassador Hiween Doma-Sa had rendered many services to
his now beleaguered race—but none involved more per-
sonal sacrifice than his presence at President Nankool's
cocktail party. He not only hated such occasions but hated
them with every fiber of his 350-pound body.

The food was disgusting, by his standards at any rate,
and the conversation was highly political, which was to
say full of poorly disguised flattery, outrageous gossip, and
carefully calculated untruths. All of which went against the
Hudathan's instincts.

Still, that was the price that had to be paid if he ever
hoped to gather the support necessary to lift the blockade
that currently confined his people to their home world. A
chaotic place where a Trojan relationship with a Jovian
binary caused the planet Hudatha to have a wildly unpre-
dictable climate, and threatened the survival of the race.
Just as humans threatened it, Ramanthians threatened it,
and every other sentient race threatened it. Not because of
anything they had done, but because they existed, and
might cause harm.

All of which explained why Triads long dead had con-
sidered it necessary to attack and destroy the very races
with which Doma-Sa now mingled. Stupid races for the
most part, who, had they truly understood the nature of his
race, would have killed every Hudathan they could find
and sterilized the planet from which they came. But they
were incapable of such pragmatism, which was good for
him.

"So," a voice said, "which ones would you like to kill
most, and in what order?" The joke, because the Hudathan
had learned enough about humans to recognize it as such,
demonstrated an almost scary understanding of the way he
felt. Was he that transparent? The possibility frightened
Doma-Sa as he turned to face Sergi Chien-Chu.

The industrialist's biological body had expired many

28 William C. Dietz

years before. That's why his brain and a length of spinal
cord were housed in an otherwise synthetic body. A ve-
hicle quite similar to the original. The face had a rounded,
slightly Asian cast to it, the body was pleasantly plump,
and the clothing was simple verging on plain. A look that
was nearly Hudathan in its simplicity. Doma-Sa's expres-
sion changed only fractionally, but the human recognized
the alien equivalent of a smile. "I would leave you till the
last."

Chien-Chu laughed in spite of the fact that the jest con-
tained a strong element of truth. Doma-Sa had a large hu-
manoid head, the suggestion of a dorsal fin that ran along
the top of his skull, funnel-shaped ears, and a rigid mouth.
His skin was gray, but would turn white should the tem-
perature drop, and black were it to rise.

Chien-Chu glanced to his left and right, assured himself
that they were as free from surveillance as one could be
on the Friendship, and took the opportunity to share his
news. "My niece came aboard three hours ago. The Thraki
tried to assassinate her."

Doma-Sa liked Maylo, as much as he liked any non-
Hudathan, and his face grew hard. "Then they must die."

"They already have," Chien-Chu said gravely, "thanks
to General Bill Booty. The larger problem remains, how-
ever. Who sent them? And why?"

"The cabal," Doma-Sa answered with certainty. "The
Thraki were used."

"Yes," the cyborg agreed. "Albeit willingly—as part of
their own grand scheme. Even though you exposed their
intention to use the Confederacy as a shield—they con-
tinue to move the plan forward. There was a time when
we could have forced them to leave, but that was prior to
the mutiny, and the subsequent rebellion. They have five
thousand ships, not counting what the cabal can bring to
bear, which leaves Earth badly outnumbered."

The Hudathan offered a human-style shrug. "I am aware
of these facts ... why review the obvious?"

BY FORCE OF ARMS            29

"Because," Chien-Chu said, "I have an idea. A solution
nearly as dangerous as the threat itself... but one that.. ."

The human never got to finish his sentence. A body
brushed past his, stepped forward, and sprayed what
looked like red paint onto the front of the Hudathan's robe.

Chien-Chu took a step backwards, realized who the in-
terloper was, and heard the War Omo speak. The words
had a rehearsed quality. "You have not only slandered the
Ramanthian race, but sullied the house of Omo, and taken
liberties with our private communications. Honor has been
lost... and honor must be restored."

Had the room fallen silent a fraction of a second before
the challenge was issued? Chien-Chu thought that it had,
which would mean that at least some of the bystanders had
been warned, and were waiting for the confrontation to
unfold- A quick check confirmed that Senator Omo,
flanked by Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven and Grand Ad-
miral Andragna, were watching from a hundred feet away.
First Maylo, the industrialist thought to himself, now this.

Doma-Sa looked down at the stain on his chest then up
into the Ramanthian's hard insectoid eyes. The entire room
held its breath as the Hudathan allowed the silence to
build. Finally, when some doubted his capacity to speak,
the diplomat gave his response. "Challenge accepted."

There was a sucking sound as the oxygen breathers in-
haled. The War Omo bowed and straightened again. "The
choice of weapons is yours."

The silence built once again. What would the Hudathan
choose? What would any of them choose? Energy weap-
ons? Slug throwers? Dart guns? Each had merit.

Doma-Sa smiled but very few of them recognized the
expression as such. Most saw what looked like a predatory
grin. "Swords."

There were gasps of surprise, the quick buzz of com-
mentary, and a variety of stares.

Horgo was taken aback. Though something of an expert
with the sword, he had assumed that if the diplomat agreed

30 William C. Dietz

to fight, it would be with something less personal. A
weapon that would put some distance between the com-
batants and serve to even the odds. This was good news
indeed- The duel would be short. Pleased by his good for-
tune, the War Omo bowed for the second time and backed
away. "The surface of Arballa—two days from now."
Doma-Sa nodded. 'Two days from now."
Chien-Chu sighed. The trap had been set and sprung.
Would the quarry escape? Only time would tell.

It was a small compartment, just off President Nankool's
living quarters, and frequently used for gatherings such as
this one. Candlelight glinted from real silver, a Turr sym-
phony could be heard in the background, and the meal was
half over. President Marcott Nankool was a rather bland
man who took too much pleasure in ceremonial meals, and
looked a bit bloated.

The guests included Sergi Chien-Chu, Maylo Chien-Chu
and Hiween Doma-Sa. The President gestured toward the
Hudathan's large and rather ornate bowl. "So, Ambassa-
dor, how are you doing? Ready for another serving?"

The Hudathan eyed his second bowl of cooked grain. It
was hearty stuff—full of nuts and dried fruit. Not bad for
shipboard cuisine. "Thank you, Mr. President, but no. This
is more than sufficient."

Nankool looked at Maylo. "And how 'bout you my
dear? Some more of the fish perhaps?"

Maylo flashed back to the illicit swim that she and Sen-
ator Samuel Ishimoto-Six had shared in one of the on-
board aqua-culture tanks, and wondered where he was.
Why did she care? And what about Booly? The silence
stretched uncomfortably long, and she hurried to fill it.
"No, thank you."

"Well," Nankool continued, dabbing at his lips, "let's
get to it. So, Sergi, what's on your mind?"

Chien-Chu had very little need of nourishment, and
what he did require was delivered by other means. He

BY FORCE OF ARMS            31

toyed with his wineglass. The dinner was his doing ... so
the question made sense. He looked from one face to the
next. "I would like to submit a proposal, a proposal that
many of our colleagues would consider to be insane, but,
given our present circumstances, may represent the only
real chance we have."

Nankool finished one glass of wine and poured himself
another. Light gleamed as he raised the glass. "To Sergi
Chien-Chu! Author of the outrageous! Please proceed."

The most fleeting of smiles touched Chien-Chu's plasti-
flesh lips. "You may feel differently in a moment. My
proposal is this: Given the fact that the Sheen are hunting
for the Thraki, and we lack the clout to force them to leave,
the Confederacy is in need of allies. Allies with military
clout."

"Yes," the President agreed. "But who? All the players
have chosen sides. None remain."

"Ah, but that's where you are wrong," the industrialist
insisted. "One player remains, and he's here, sitting at this
table."

Nankool frowned, looked to Doma-Sa, and back to
Chien-Chu. "I'm sorry Sergi... I don't understand."

"It's really quite simple," Chien-Chu replied. "After the
last war ended, in an effort to prevent still another, a block-
ade was established. Since that time Ambassador Doma-
Sa and his people have been free to do whatever they
pleased so long as they remained on the surface of the
planet Hudatha."

Maylo wondered what her uncle was driving at, looked
at the Hudathan, and took note of his expression. Though
no expert, the businesswoman had spent a considerable
amount of time with the diplomat, and thought she de-
tected a strange sort of intensity ... As if the alien thought
he knew where Chien-Chu was headed . .. but was afraid
to hope.

"I have no way to know," the industrialist continued
earnestly, "but it's my guess that the Hudathan military

32 William C. Dies

has been anything but inactive during the last fifty years,
and are at the very peak of readiness. All of which points
to a reserve of warriors, fierce warriors, who have every
reason to fight the Sheen and nothing to lose."

Nankool went pale. His hands started to shake. "My
apologies to the Ambassador—but have you taken leave
of your senses? Have you forgotten the death of your own
son? The deaths of more than two million Confederate
soldiers? The deaths of a billion civilians? All at the hands
of the Hudathans? I'm sorry, Sergi... but what you pro-
pose is out of the question. Even if the Hudathans agreed,
even if they fought the Sheen to a standstill, they would
turn on us in the end."

Though not as responsive as his flesh and blood face
had been, the highly malleable plastic did its best to reflect
what the cyborg felt, and there was no mistaking the extent
of his emotions. A hand slammed down onto the surface
of the table, and wineglasses jumped in response. Mayio,
who had never seen her uncle lose his temper in all the
years she had known him, felt suddenly afraid.

"You think I haven't considered those things? Damn
your impertinence! Not a day passes that I don't think of
Leonid, of the fact that I sent him to Spindle, where the
Hudathans killed him.

"But what of the billions for whom we are responsible?
How many will the Sheen slaughter? Once dead, we have
no means to bring them back. Should we defeat the Sheen,
and go on to face the Hudathans, they have a chance. No
offense to Ambassador Doma-Sa—but we defeated his
race on two previous occasions. I believe we can do so
again."

Though confused by conflicting emotions Maylo came
to her uncle's assistance. "Sergi has a point. . . Perhaps the
Hudathans could change, if they wanted to change, and
integrate themselves into Confederate society. Still, even
if they can't, limits can be imposed."

"Yes!" Chien-Chu added gratefully. "Limit the size of

BY FORCE OF ARMS            33

their navy! Troops mean nothing without the means to
move them around."

"Spoken like a true admiral," Nankool said dryly. "I see
what you mean ... but I still find the concept more than a
little frightening."

The President turned to Doma-Sa. So, Ambassador,
what do you think? Would you and your people fight
alongside the Confederacy in exchange for limited free-
doms? And to what extent could your race be trusted?
Realizing that you are a bit biased of course."

Doma-Sa fought to control the unseemly feeling of joy
that threatened to overwhelm the rest of his faculties. At
last! Here was the opportunity he had dreamed of, . . An
opening to exploit. But at what cost? The Thrakie hoped
to use the entire Confederacy as a shield—and Chien-Chu
wanted to employ his people as a spear. Oh, how he hun-
gered for something clean and pure. The diplomat chose
his words with care.

"The governor's assumption is correct. Though not per-
mitted to leave the surface of Hudatha, my people have
been able to maintain a high state of military readiness. A
fact that in no way violates the terms of our surrender and
subsequent imprisonment.

"As for our willingness to fight the Sheen, well, anyone
who has carried out even the most superficial analysis of
our racial psychology knows that we have a strong, some
would say overdeveloped sense of survival. Given the op-
portunity to neutralize a threat, we will always seek to do
so.

"Such decisions lie beyond the scope of my authority,
but, I believe the answer would be 'yes.' If we were al-
lowed some additional freedoms—and the right to settle
new worlds. Hudatha grows less stable with each passing
year, and time grows short."

"And then?" Nankool demanded. "If we defeat the
Sheen? What could we expect then?"

The silence built as Doma-Sa considered his answer. He

34 William C. Dietz

could lie, or try to, but doubted his ability to carry the
deception off. Not with Chien-Chu present. No, the Hu-
dathan decided, the truth was best. "I cannot honestly say
that my people will ever be able to fully merge with the
Confederacy. Given too much freedom, and the opportu-
nity to build a fleet, our instincts would take over. If the
Confederacy allows my race to fight, (/ we are allowed
some additional freedoms, it would pay to be vigilant. We
are what we are."

There was another moment of silence followed by Nan-
kool's nod of acknowledgement. "Thank you Ambassador
Doma-Sa. I have come to rely on your honesty. No one
could represent you race or its interests more ably. Come,
let's eat, the food grows cold."

It took the better part of an hour to finish the meal,
complete the usual pleasantries, and prepare to leave. Nan-
kool saw them to the hatch. It was he who raised the topic
again. "Thank you for coming . .. Terrifying though
Sergi's proposal is, I promise to give it some thought.

"In the meantime I suggest that all three of you direct
your energies to the upcoming vote. The attempt on
Maylo's life is a sure measure of how desperate our op-
ponents are. Once admitted, the Thraki would represent
more than another vote—they would demonstrate how
powerful the cabal has become. Many beings would align
themselves accordingly, and a great deal would be lost,
including any chance of approval for a scheme as wild as
the one Sergi put forward."

Nankool turned to the Hudathan. "They intend to kill
you... I wish you had refused."

The Hudathan shrugged. 'Thank you, but such a course
is impossible."

"But why swords?" the President insisted. "Have you
any experience?"

"I hope to give a good account of myself," the Hudathan
answered mildly. "Please notify my people should I fail to
do so."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            35

Nankool's guests left after that—but the politician was
far from alone. Ghosts haunted his dreams. Many
screamed in anguish-
In spite of the fact that it would have been more convenient
to conduct the duel on board the ship, there were laws that
prevented the combatants from doing so, which left Ar-
balla's hot rather unpleasant surface. A fleet of high puffy
clouds sailed across the land. Each threw a separate
shadow. They drifted like night over broken ground.

And so the politicos arrived, their shuttles shattering the
silence, landing in sloppy groups.

There wasn't much vegetation, which meant that oxygen
was in short supply. Many of those who had chosen to
come, and that was almost everybody, required supple-
mental air. They hiked in from wherever they happened to
touch down with all manner of exotic breathing gear at-
tached to their mouths, snouts, beaks, and other related
organs.

All except for Doma-Sa that is, whose body could han-
dle a wide range of atmospheric conditions, and who
walked unencumbered from his shuttle. A fact that at-
tracted no small amount of notice and fueled the specu-
lation. Would the War Omo win? He certainly looked
dangerous ... Or would the Hudathan carry the day? Opin-
ions were offered, odds were given, and bets were placed.

Doma-Sa's robe snapped in the breeze, dust exploded
away from his boots, and he walked with purpose. By-
standers scattered at his approach, wondered about the
bundle tucked under his arm, and some even felt sorry for
him. Had anyone else been challenged seconds would have
accompanied him down to the planet's surface, but the
Hudathan was all alone. The onlookers followed, marveled
at the size of the alien's footprints, and felt a delicious
sense of anticipation.

The arena consisted of a bowl-shaped depression,
scoured by the relentless globe-spanning winds, and

36 William C. Dietz

rimmed by a circle of heavily weathered rocks. Someone,
it wasn't clear who, had seen fit to stick long whip-style
poles into the soil, each topped by a colorful pennant. They
seemed oddly gay, given the nature of the occasion, and
flapped back and forth.

The rocks offered a sort of rough and ready seating and
were half occupied by the time the Ramanthian party made
its way down from the hill on which they had landed and
entered the crater.

The War Omo had been there before, on three different
occasions, to test the surface on which he would fight. Yes,
he knew each dip, each patch of gravel, and each pocket
of sand. Critical knowledge, given the fact that good foot-
ing is one of the most critical components of good swords-
manship.

The Hudathan was big, very big, and that meant slow.
Slow and potentially clumsy. There was power in those
shoulders, however, the kind of power generated by an
internalized skeleton, and a mistake could be fatal.

Senator Alway Omo removed his counterpart's cape,
took pride in the way he looked, and stepped out of the
way.

A buzz ran through the crowd. Balanced on his powerful
retrograde legs, his chitin shiny with oil, the Ramanthian
was very imposing. There was the rasp of high grade steel
as Horgo drew his weapon, slashed the air into four equal
sections, and restored the blade to its scabbard. The odds
changed again. The cabal and its champion were favored
to win.

Maylo made an adjustment to her nose plugs and spoke
to her uncle. The words had a nasal quality. "That was
impressive."

"Ceremonial displays usually are," the industrialist ob-
served. "It's what happens when blade meets blade that
matters."

The sun was hot, but Maylo shivered.

Doma-Sa looked strangely vulnerable as he entered the

BY FORCE OF ARMS            37

arena. His robe flapped around his knees, and he carried a
bundle bound with twine. He paused, turned a long slow
circle, and nodded as if satisfied. Then, with the care of a
surgeon preparing her instruments, he gave a tug on the
string, and flicked the roll toward the east. Dust spurted
up around the edges of the fabric as the quiltlike material
hit the orange-red dirt. Sunlight rippled along the surface
of the thousand-year-old blade

It was called Head Taker and had been handed down
through Doma-Sa's family the way all things of value were
allocated: by force. Like all such weapons, it had two
edges, one straight, one with razor-sharp teeth.

Another buzz ran through the crowd. Did the Hudathan
know how to use the weapon? Why have such an imple-
ment if he didn't? The odds turned and surged the other
way.

That's when Doma-Sa dropped his robe, the audience
watched his skin shift toward white, and realized how big
he truly was. Leather cross-straps bulged where they
sought to span his chest, muscles rippled along massive
arms, and his legs looked like tree trunks. The diplomat
bent to take the sword. Light danced the length of the blade
and more bets were placed.

A robot named Harold had been designated to officiate
the event. His day suit had been painted on. A hover cam
appeared. Once-shiny metal had been dulled by hard use.
Maylo knew who the device belonged to. Though unwill-
ing or unable to venture out onto the surface of their
planet, the Arballazanies were interested nonetheless.
Somewhere, far below, they watched as Harold made his
way to the center of the arena.

Harold motioned the duelists forward. His voice was
amplified. "Before the duel begins, before blood is shed,
the President begs both parties to reconsider. The Confed-
eracy is built on the rule of taw, not violence, and there
are equitable ways in which to solve our differences. Will

38 William C. Dietz

one or both parties yield to reason? No? Then let the con-
test begin."

There was no salute, no words of respect, since neither
one of the opponents was willing to honor the other's
traditions. They circled to the right. The Hudathan held his
weapon in the on-guard position, his torso turned slightly
inward, his rear arm touching his hip.

The Ramanthian shuffled sideways, watching the way
Doma-Sa held himself, and waited for the attack. Though
too young to fight in the last war, Horgo had studied it,
and drawn certain conclusions. Hudathans were aggres-
sive, impatient, and overly reliant on brute force. All of
which suggested that Doma-Sa would come to him.

Doma-Sa watched the sun, waited till his shadow
pointed at his opponent's feet, and launched a head cut.

The War Omo flicked his head to the right, waited for
the moment of full extension, and made the forward lunge.

The Hudathan took note of the other being's speed, par-
ried the incoming blade, and recovered his ground.

Encouraged by the small retreat, the Ramanthian
brought his left foot forward, and timed the chest cut to
coincide with the end of the movement. Steel flashed past
his face, something tugged at his air mask, and his lungs
sucked hot thin air.

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, and Sen-
ator Orno displayed the equivalent of a frown. Ambassador
Ishimoto-Seven and Senator Haf Noother stayed where
they were, but others edged away.

The combatants continued their slow deliberate dance.
The War Omo found that it was hard to breathe. Time was
running out. He backpedaled as if afraid, waited for Doma-
Sa to commit, and opened his wings. The wind rushed in,
his feet left the ground, and the Ramanthian was airborne.
His sword fell, found the Hudathan's shoulder, and cut to
the bone. Blood flowed and Senator Omo whistled his
shrill approval.

Doma-Sa cursed his own stupidity, shifted his sword

BY FORCE OF ARMS            39

from the right hand to the left, and parried the next blow.
The bug could fly! How could he miss that? Gravel slipped
out from under his boots as he fell.

The Ramanthian beat his way forward—leg spurs at the
ready. Shaped like claws, and razor sharp, they could rip
through chitin. Still lying on his back, the Omo's wings
pushing air down into his face. the Hudathan slashed with
his sword. Steel sliced through the outer surface of a leg,
and the Ramanthian flinched.

This was the opportunity Doma-Sa had been waiting for.
The bug couldn't land—not and stand upright. That would
keep him in the air... or so the diplomat hoped. He
rocked forward, found his feet, and surged upwards.

The War Omo responded, or tried to, but discovered that
his belly was exposed. Head Taker stabbed upwards, the
Ramanthian screeched in agony, and Maylo closed her
eyes.

The War Omo fell, the Hudathan jerked his weapon
free, and the body hit the dirt. A cloud of bloodred dust
rose, the crowd fell silent, and the duel was over. Androids
rushed to dress Doma-Sa's wound and peers hurried to
congratulate him.

Senator Omo felt a terrible sense of sorrow and shuffled
his way forward. The War Omo and he had been hatched
within seconds of each other, had courted the Egg Orno
as a pair, and promised many things. Visions, dreams,
things that might someday be. Now they were gone,
snuffed like cave candles, forever destroyed.

Maylo actually felt sorry for the Ramanthian as he knelt
on alien soil, gathered his loved one into his arms, and
made his way up the hill.

Haf Noother looked at Harlan Ishimoto-Seven. The
clone shrugged. The Drac walked out into the arena, lo-
cated the Ramanthian's sword, and tested the heft- Then,
aiming for soil still damp with the Orno's blood, drove the
blade into the ground.

40 William C. Dietz

Later, long after the visitors had left, night came, and
the stars danced on steel.

The vote came two days later. The result was never in
doubt. Thraki membership was rejected, "pending further
investigation," and the cabal suffered a setback.

Grand Admiral Andragna, his plans frustrated, left for
Zynig-47.

Sergi Chien-Chu witnessed the vote, made his way back
to his quarters, and palmed the lock. Once inside, the fold-
down desk sensed his presence, dropped into position, and
spoke. "You have six messages waiting—one of which
carries the designations 'urgent,' and 'private.' "

"Play it," Chien-Chu said, dropping into his chair.

"Congratulations," Nankool said, as his likeness filled
the holo tank. "The vote went just as we hoped it would.
The cabal lost, and you won."

The President formed a steeple with his fingers. "All of
which is good except that it won't last, won't mean any-
thing, if the Sheen destroy the Confederacy as part of their
effort to reach the Thrakie. "That's why I'm going to name
you as my secret envoy, give you more power than any
one being should rightfully have, and let you enter talks
with the Hudathans.

"Sell them what you sold me, attach all the conditions
you can. and do it quickly. Time is short—and the clock
is ticking."

4

To see the future one has but to visit the past.

Naa folk saying
Circa standard year 1700

Planet Algeron, the
Confederacy of Sentient Beings

It was cold. Snowflakes twisted down out of the heavens,
and the Towers of Algeron were but shadows in the dis-
tance. Some of the peaks soared more than eighty thousand
feet into the atmosphere, which made them taller than
Olympic Mons on Mars. In fact, the mountains were so
massive, that had they been located on Earth the Towers
would have sunk down through the planet's crust.

However, thanks to the fact that Algeron completed a
full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes, cen-
trifugal force had caused the equator to bulge outwards.

In fact, although Algeron possessed roughly the same
amount of mass Earth did—its equatorial diameter was 27
percent larger. That, combined with the fact that the
planet's polar diameter was 32 percent smaller than Terra's
produced an equator nearly twice the diameter of the poles.
All of which meant that the Towers of Algeron, which

42 William C. Dietz

rode the world-spanning bulge, weighed only half what
they would on Earth.

All facts that Genera! William Booly had been aware of
since childhood—the earliest part of which had been spent
in a village seventy-five miles to the northeast.

The legionnaire stepped out onto the parapet, saw his
breath jet outwards, and was glad of his jacket. He'd been
dirtside for one standard week by then, and the sentries
had become familiar with his morning walks. The habit
had been born on the walls of his previous command, in
Djibouti, Africa, and continued here. Precious minutes dur-
ing which he could think and no one dared disturb him.
He followed the top of the wall.

Fort Camerone, which had been named after what the
Legion considered to be its most important battle, crouched
on a dry rocky plain, and, with the exception of antenna
arrays, fly-form landing pads, and missile launchers that
interrupted its boxy lines, was reminiscent of Legion forts
in North Africa. It was, Booly decided, the way a fortress
should look. Hard and uncompromising.

It was strange to be there, not only in command of Fort
Camerone, but of the entire Legion as well. Yes, he'd been
ambitious enough to fanaticize about such an achievement,
but never believed that it would happen. Not to a half-
breed.

But it had happened—though not in the way he would
have preferred. Rather than earn the position, he had in-
herited it from officers who, like Mortimer Kattabi, had
died in battle, or like Leon Harco, who had chosen the
wrong side and paid the price. Good officers, perhaps bet-
ter officers, who, except for a moment of bad luck, or poor
judgment, would have been in command. A fact that
played into the feelings of inferiority that had been bom
right there, beyond the veil of the slowly falling snow,
where he and his Naa playmates had fought their play pre-
tend wars. Wars that he generally lost.

A sentry snapped to attention, presented his weapon, and

BY FORCE OF ARMS            43

waited for Booty's acknowledgement. Like everyone on
the battlements, he was aware of the general's presence
and more than a little self-conscious. The officer returned
the salute and continued on his way.

Yes, it was hard to compete when your peers could
smell game from a hundred feet away, could sense heat
with the soles of their bare feet, and on a cold day, much
colder than this one, had the capacity to run nearly naked
through the snow, for miles on end if need be, laughing
all the way.

Booly had been smart enough, always toward the top of
his class, but had never won a footrace, wrestling match,
or other test of athletic ability until he had entered the
academy and competed with humans. The fact that he
could win, could excel, had been something of a revela-
tion.

The instructors taught him how to lead, and he had,
though never with the confidence of classmates like Harco.
Now that might come back to haunt him, and not just him,
but the thousands of men, women, and cyborgs under his
command.

The officer paused to look out over the densely packed
domes collectively known as Naa Town. As darkness fell,
he saw squares of buttery yellow light, fingers of dark gray
smoke, and the wink of the occasional torch. More than
that, his supersensitive nostrils could pick up the odor of
incense, burned to cover the smells that emanated from the
fort, and the faint scent of slowly drying dooth dung. A
valuable source of fuel.

And it was out there, beyond the edge of the slum, that
his mother and father, both of whom had served in the
Legion, had given up their lives in order to free the fort.
The plaque, which he had visited only two days before,
bore a single line:

They died that others might live.

44 Wilfiam C. Dietz

Was it colder? A chill ran down his spine. Booiy
scanned the horizon, watched another two-hour-and-forty-
two minute day come to an end, and turned toward a door.
A private held it open. His office awaited as did his work.
Plans, requests, appeals, budgets, promotions, reports, and
more. All the stuff that he hated . . . but was forced to do.

Booly thought longingly of Maylo, wondered what she
was doing, and stepped through the doorway. His respon-
sibilities closed around him.

A staff meeting plus three hours of administrative work
passed before Booly rewarded himself with a break- He
rarely ate in the officers' mess, preferring the chow hall
instead. That's where the troops were, and while they
weren't about to spill their guts to a general, they didn't
have to. Like most good officers, he could learn a great
deal about how the legionnaires felt, what they were think-
ing, and their general stale of readiness by simply looking
at them.

Booty had named Colonel Kitty Kirby to command the
fort, and she was tough but fair. She, combined with the
efforts of the officers and noncoms who reported to her,
had been good for morale. The results could be seen in the
way that members of various units sat together, the buzz
of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter.
Things had improved a great deal since the mutiny and the
bloodshed that accompanied it.

The mess hall featured bright lights, artificially cheerful
colors, and odors left from the previous meal. Something
that Naa troopers never stopped griping about. When you
eat lunch they reasoned, it should smell like lunch, and not
like breakfast. Fans had been installed—but the complaints
continued.

Booly joined the chow line, joked with the cooks, and
headed out into the hall. A table of heavily bearded Pio-
neers started to rise and the officer shook his head. "At

BY FORCE OF ARMS            45

ease . .. How 'bout it. Sergeant? Is there room for one
more?"

The legionnaire grinned. "Yes, sir! Watch what you say
though. . . we're talking about sports. Cramer says that
Earth is going to win the next powerball playoff—and
Rober favors the clones. It could get violent."

Booly laughed. "I'll take my chances." The Pioneers
made room—and the hour passed quickly.

Booly returned to his office to find a package waiting on
his desk. His adjutant turned from a pile of printouts. Her
name was Tan. She had served under Cadet Leader Voytan
during the battle for Los Angeles, survived, and been
posted to Algeron. She had short black hair, serious brown
eyes, and quick little hands. "That came while you were
away, sir. A cub gave it to one of the sentries and said it
was for you."

Booly raised an eyebrow. The relationship between the
Legion and the Naa was complex to say the least. Even as
some of the tribes encouraged young warriors to join the
organization, others continued to fight it Just as they fought
each other. Patrols were subject to ambush, sentries had
been killed, and the occasional SLM slammed into the fort.
Many of the chieftains would like nothing better than to
bag a general. The box could contain anything ... includ-
ing a bomb.

Tan read his expression and shook her head. "No, sir.
The package is clean. I had the demolitions folks check it
out."

Booly nodded his thanks and took a moment to remove
the protective wrappings. The gar wood box had been dec-
orated with crudely cut semiprecious stones. Such contain-
ers were common among the Naa, and he had seen
hundreds of them. But not like this, not with the cap badge
of the 13th DBLE carved into the lid, above the motto:

"Legio patria nostra." (The Legion is our country.)

46 William C. Dietz

Booly had watched his father bum the words into the
wood with a laser pen. Then, long after his mother had
opened the present, and remarked on how beautiful it was,
he had seen it on her dressing table, next to her bed, and
on her desk. For this was the box in which Connie Chrob-
uck kept small treasures. He remembered them welt: one
of her mother's earrings, a rock her son retrieved from a
riverbed, a holo of her sister, some small, extremely sharp
scissors, and, Atgeron being what it was, some stray
rounds of ammunition. Those and other things had lived
in the box. Now, at long last, they lay before him.

The officer turned, discovered that Tan had left the
room, and was grateful. Generals weren't supposed to
cry—everybody knew that—but the tears continued to
flow.

Booly closed the door, wiped his face with his sleeve,
and sat at his desk. Was the box empty? Did it contain the
odds and ends she had kept there? Or had they been
looted? Or more likely lost? Treated like what most would
think they were: junk.

Carefully, lest his suddenly clumsy fingers betray him,
Booly opened the box. It was empty, except for his
mother's scent, and a note written in her neat hand. "I
knew you would return as surely as a brella must return
to its roost. In spite of the fact that I wasn't born on Al-
geron, and lack your father's blood, his mother taught me
many things . .. Among them was the importance of a
peaceful heart, the beauty that dwells around us, and the
way of the Wula sticks.

"They speak of a great chief, the Chief of all Chiefs,
and of great sadness. A battle lies ahead, a great battle,
the one you were bom to fight. No one can be sure how
it will end, not even the sticks, but look at the map. Follow
it and find that which you seek.

"We love you—and always will. Watch your six ...
Your mother and father."

Booly laughed, wiped the last of the tears away, and

BY FORCE OF ARMS            47

examined the reverse side of the note. The map was
good—but me officer didn't need one. He'd been there
before. He departed two hours later.

It was dark at the moment, but that made little difference
to the Trooper n, who, thanks to a full array of sensors,
could "see" quite well indeed. She had light-amplification
equipment, infrared sensors, and the benefit of a highly
accurate Global Positioning System, which, thanks to high
quality maps, displayed her position to within three inches.
More than enough data for a little stroll in the boonies.

The cyborg went by the name of Wilker, although her
real name was something else, and was glad to clear the
fort. Yeah, the rider was a pain, but what else was new?
Anything beat garrison duty. She scanned the terrain
ahead, spotted the heat that radiated from some recently
deposited dooth droppings, and headed that way.

First Sergeant Neversmile had ridden on cyborgs before
and knew better than to tighten up. The best thing to do
was stick boots into the slots provided for that purpose,
lean backwards, and allow the harness to take your weight.
Then, with knees bent, the motion was easier to take.

Wilker followed the trail down into a gully and up the
other side. Servos whined, heat radiated off her cowling,
and the odor of ozone filled Neversmile's nostrils. Just one
of the things he hated about box heads.

Still, they did have their advantages, not the least of
which was the firepower they carried. Wilker was equipped
with an arm-mounted air-cooled .50 caliber machine gun,
an arm-mounted fast-recovery laser cannon, and a pair of
shoulder-mounted missile launchers. Yeah, Colonel Kirby
knew what she was doing. Wilker had more than enough
clout to deal with a handful of bandits—or some warriors
on a tear. Alt of which was fine, or would have been, had
the mission made more sense.

It seemed that nobody was sure what the hell the general
was up to. A gift had been delivered to his office. The

48 William C. Dietz

rumor mill was clear about that, but the rest was weird.
Shortly after receiving it the Legion's most senior officer
had announced that he was going on a trip, would need a
dooth, and would dispense with the usual escort. A dooth
for god's sake' Neversmile hadn't been aboard one of the
wooly beasts in more than fifteen years—and figured
Booly was the only officer on Algeron that knew how to
ride one.

The noncom felt a momentary sense of pride in the na-
ture of the general's origins and remembered Kirby's or-
ders: "Don't let the old man see you .. . and don't come
back without him."

Not that the last part was necessary, since Neversmile
had served under the general during the mutiny and had a
lot of respect for him. Good officers were hard to come
by.

A faint pink line marked the eastern horizon. Wilker
followed the. trail, and the Naa continued to worry. The
general was crazy, the colonel was pissy, and the problem
was his.

Dimwit Timewaster was standing there, pissing on a rock,
when the rich pungent odor of dooth passed beneath his
nostrils. Not his dooth, a mangy animal tethered to a with-
ered bush, but a distinctly different beast. And there was
something more, the tan, not altogether unpleasant smell
which, along with plastic and ozone, he had learned to
associate with humans. The clip clop of hooves combined
with the clink of poorly secured equipment served to re-
inforce what the Naa already knew. A lone, presumably
stupid human, was heading up into the hills. Not only that,
but, judging from odors ranging from gun oil to aftershave
he came bearing gifts! His mother had been right. The gods
did smile on those in need.

The Naa shook himself off, secured his trousers, and
slipped through the rocks. The bedroll looked like a long

BY FORCE OF ARMS            49

lumpy tube. Nocount Quickknife jerked as a hand covered
his mouth, went for his blade, and relaxed when he smelted
who it was. Dimwit nodded toward the trail. His voice was
little more than a whisper. "We got company. Easy
pickin's. Move your ass."

Nocount yawned. Dimwit winced at the smell of his
companion's breath and started to gather his gear. There
was no particular hurry, something neither of them liked
to do, since every stride carried their victim further from
the fort. An advantage if the idiot called for help. Not that
it mattered . . . since he'd soon be dead.

Booly left the reins loose and allowed the doom to pick
its own way up the rockstrewn trail. A good decision since
the animal was native to Algeron and well equipped to
survive there. It had been a long time since the officer had
ridden anything more challenging than a command car,
and his knees were starting to hurt. His butt would come
next, followed by his lower back. The legionnaire had al-
ready started to regret the journey but was too stubborn to
turn back.

The dooth completed one long stretch of trail, tried to
snatch a bite of greenery from a likely looking bush, and
took a kick to its barrel-shaped ribs. Dooms were never
ones to suffer silently and were famous for the variety of
sounds they could make. This particular animal produced
something that bordered between a belch and a grunt.

Booly kicked the animal again and guided it up through
still another hairpin turn. The gravelly trail stretched up
toward the swiftly rising sun. It was then, as the dooth
started to climb, that Booty detected, or thought he de-
tected, a foreign scent. The officer's hand went to his side-
arm. He stood in the stirrups and took a long careful look
around.

Weather-smoothed boulders littered the surrounding
hillside. Many were the size of battle tanks. A full com-

50 William C. Dietz

pany of legionnaires could have hidden there, concealed
among the rocks, and he wouldn't have been able to spot
them. Especially if they were Naa—and didn't want to be
seen.

Uneasy now, but not sure why, the legionnaire climbed
toward the sunrise. Everything was normal.. . except for
the fur that ran the length of his spine. That stood on end.

The Trooper II rounded an outcropping of rock, "saw" a
patch of green smear itself across the blue grid that over-
laid her surroundings, and stopped dead in her tracks.
Then, weapons ready, she backed around the corner. Num-
bers shifted in the lower right hand comer of the cyborg's
vision as the threat factor gradually decreased.

Neversmile, who had allowed himself to be lulled into
a sort of half-conscious trance, came fully awake. He
spoke into a wire-thin boom mike. It was jacked into a
panel at the base of Wilker's duraplast neck. "What's up?"

"Naa," Wilker replied. "Two of them. Both mounted.
Maybe a quarter mile ahead. Between the general and us."

Neversmiie swore silently. Just his luck. The general
get's a wild hair up his ass ... and the colonel chose him
to deal with it. "Can you nail the bastards?"

"A shoulder-launched missile would handle it. assumin'
you ain't too worried about due process or how big a hole
I make."

Neversmile remembered how many innocent females
and cubs the Legion had accidentally slaughtered over the
years and knew he wasn't willing to take that chance. Not
to mention the fact that he was supposed to maintain a low
profile. "No, hold your fire. Feel free to close the distance,
however—but don't let the shitheads see you."

It was a stupid order—Wilker thought so anyway—but
knew better than to say so. Not to a sergeant—and not to
this Sergeant. Gravel crunched under her weight, and the
cyborg continued to climb.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            51

Dimwit emerged from the rocks still buttoning his pants.
It was the second time he had stopped to take a pee and
the second time he had fallen behind. Nocount was irri-
tated. "Hurry up! The human's slow but not that slow.
We'll lose the furless bastard."

"It ain't my fault," Dimwit complained. "I had to pee
and it hurts."

"Alt because you'll screw anything with a pulse," his
companion replied unsympathetically. "Come on, let's go."

Dimwit mounted his dooth, kicked the animal onto the
trail, and kicked it yet again. The animal groaned, sent
plumes of lung-warmed air down toward the ground, and
passed a prodigious amount of gas. The trek resumed.

If the mesa had a name, Booly didn't know what it was.
Only that it stood straight and tall, just as it had the last
time he'd been there, camping with his mother.

It was she who showed him the narrow, often danger-
ous, path that circled the sheer-sided cliffs, pointed out the
tool marks the ancients had left on the rock, and fired his
imagination. "Who were they?" she asked. "And from
whom were they hiding?" For surely some great evil had
been upon the land, a threat that drove them up off the
slowly rising plain, to make a home in the sky.

Had they won? These hard-pressed Naa? And survived
that which sought to hunt them down? Or had the group
been decimated? And wiped from existence? There was no
way to be sure.

And there was another story, a more personal tale,
which came back to Booly as his dooth labored toward the
top. It had to do with his grandfather, William Booly I, a
one-time sergeant major who was wounded during an am-
bush, taken prisoner, and nursed back to health by a Naa
maiden, a beautiful maiden, named Windsweet.

His grandfather was smitten, very smitten, and soon fell

52 William C. Dietz

in love. But the whole thing was wrong. Wrong according
to the Legion, wrong according to the Naa, and wrong
according to her father. Windsweet helped the legionnaire
escape, bandits gave chase, and a patrol saved his life.

Later, after returning to his unit, the soldier tried to for-
get the maiden and the way he felt about her, but found
that impossible to do. That's when Booly's ancestor did
something which Booly himself, as an officer, could never
forgive: William Booly I went over the hill.

The dooth rounded a comer, rocks clattered away from
its hooves and fell toward the scree below. They rattled,
started a small slide, and tumbled down the mountain.

The noise caused Nocount to jerk his animal to a halt.
He turned to Dimwit. 'The motherless alien is halfway to
the lop."

"So?" his friend inquired sarcastically. "If he can make
it, so can we."

"I know that you idiot," Nocount responded impatiently.
"But why bother?"

Dimwit frowned, processed the words, and brightened.
"We could wait here!"

"Now there's an idea," Nocount replied sarcastically.
"Let's try it. No point in doin' all that work if we don't
have to."

Dimwit agreed, swung down from the saddle, and
headed for some likely looking rocks. He needed to pee.

The trail wound through the site of an ancient rock slide,
shelved upwards, passed through a rocky defile and ended
on a windswept plateau. A crust of icy snow covered what
remained of the ancient walls. Yes, Booly thought to him-
self, whatever roamed below must have been very unpleas-
ant to force the old ones up here.

The officer dismounted, took the dooth by its reins, and
led the animal toward a rocky spire. It was there if memory
served him correctly that his mother and he had camped.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            53

Not on the surface, at the mercy of the groaning wind, but
below, in chambers created by the ancients.

He located the spiral stair without difficulty, pulled a
torch out of his pack, checked to ensure that the under-
ground common room remained habitable, and allowed the
light to play over some empty ration boxes. Others had
camped there since his childhood visit, but not for many
years, judging from the dust on the containers.

Someone had left a mound of somewhat desiccated
dooth dung, however, which meant the legionnaire could
enjoy a fire and a more pleasant evening than he had
counted on.

But dooths came first, as all Naa learn the moment they
are allowed to ride, and Booly returned to the surface. He
removed the animal's saddle, rigged a nose bag filled with
grain, and hobbled its feel.

Then, confident that his mount would remain nearby,
the officer carried his gear below. It took the better part of
a hour to build a dooth dung fire, clear the room of trash,
and prepare a simple meal. Firelight danced the walls as
the story retold itself.

Having deserted the Legion, his grandfather went back
for the maiden, and took her away. Knowing that her father
would follow, and fearful of what might happen if the two
of them came into contact, Windsweet led her lover to the
high plateau.

The Hudathans attacked Algeron shortly thereafter.
Booly's grandfather went off to fight them and left Wind-
sweet by herself. And it was there, in that very room, that
his grandmother threw the Wula sticks and learned that the
child in her belly would be male.

Was that what his mother meant? That what he needed
was here? Buried among old memories?

Something caught Booly's eye. Something white, some-
thing beyond the dance of the flames, something almost
obscured by graffiti.

54 William C. Dietz

The legionnaire stood, circled the fire pit, and found
what he was looking for: the badge of the 13th DBLE. A
coincidence? Or something more? The officer discovered
a lump in his throat, wondered why the room felt so warm,
and took his coat off. That's when Booly knelt on his
parka, felt for his combat knife, and started to dig. The
well packed earth was dry and hard.

The fire, augmented by some Legion-issue fuel tabs,
burned hot and bright. Nocount took a pull from his can-
teen, passed the container to Dimwit, and delivered a pro-
digious belch. "I hope the human comes down tomorrow.
We're almost out of drak."

The second Naa took a drink, felt the liquor bum its
way down into his stomach, and wiggled his nose. That
odor ... What was it? Not drak, not his friend's pungent
body odor—it was something else. Then he had it. Dim-
wit's brain sent the message to his lips, told them what to
say, but not in time.

First Sergeant Neversmile had stripped to the waist. His
fur was black with patches of white. They seemed to
glow as he stepped out into the firelight. "Greetings my
brothers ... I saw your fire and wondered if you might
spare a traveler something to eat."

Both of the bandits were in the habit of taking things
from travelers but never gave them away. They ran their
eyes-down the newcomer's body, saw no sign of weapons,
and felt a lot more secure. Nocount decided to toy with
the stranger. He pulled a Legion-issue .50 caliber recoilless
out from under his jacket and waved it back and forth.
"Sure, I'll give you something to eat... How 'bout a bul-
let?"

Neversmile smiled. A bad sign if there ever was one.
"Sure, if you don't mind eating a few yourself."

Nocount frowned. "I have a gun, and you don't."

True," the legionnaire said agreeably, "but I have a
friend . .. and her gun is bigger than your gun."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            55

Dimwit squinted into the surrounding gloom. "Friend?
What friend?"

"That would be me," Wilker replied, stepping out into
the light. Servos whined as weapons came to bear. "Hi,
how ya doin'?"

Dimwit peed his pants. Nocount decided to gamble.

The knife point struck metal and skidded through olive-
drab paint. Booly gave a small grunt of satisfaction,
scooped dirt with his hands, and revealed the top of an old
ammo box. Though faded, the words "Grenades 40 mm
HE," could still be read. Such containers were highly
prized by the Naa and used for a multiplicity of purposes.
The officer dug around both ends, freed the handles, and
checked for wires. There were none. Then, careful lest the
box be resting on some sort of spring-loaded mine, he feit
underneath. Nothing.

Confident that it was safe the legionnaire grabbed the
handles and pulled the container out of its hole. It was
light, too light for a box with grenades in it, which con-
firmed his initial impression. Someone had used the box
for something else.

Booly carried the container over and placed it in front
of the fire. Most of the dark green paint was intact, but
there were patches of dark brown rust, and any number of
scratches. There was no lock, just a series of latches, all
of which were stiff. He pried them open, took a long deep
breath, and pushed the lid up and out of the way.

The contents were sealed in clear plastic, and Booly rec-
ognized some of the items even before he sliced through
the outer covering. He saw his grandmother's Wula sticks.
his father's Medal of Valor, his mother's long-barreled tar-
get pistol, and much, much more. There were photos, di-
aries, Naa story beads, his grandfather's flick blade, and a
Hudathan command stone. Not the sort of items most
mothers would leave for their sons—but the kind that a
warrior would. For each and every one of the objects told

56 William C. Dietz

a story, was part of who he was, and a source of strength.
It was her way of reminding him of where he came from,
of who had gone before, and the nature of his inheritance.
Not land, not money, but a legacy of honor.

Suddenly, without knowing why, the officer thought of
Maylo Chien-Chu. She had doubts about their relationship.
That was obvious. Could her doubts have been related to
his? After all, why should she be sure of him, if he doubted
himself? Or was that too easy?

Whatever the reason, he felt stronger now, confident that
he was entitled to the stars that rode his shoulders and the
responsibility that went with them. Because of the objects
in the box? The pilgrimage to get them? The fact that his
mother cared? It hardly mattered. What was, was.

Half an hour later Booly crawled into his sleeping bag,
closed his eyes, and entered a dreamless sleep.

Millions upon millions of snowflakes fell from the lead
gray sky, performed airborne pirouettes, and spiraled into
the ground. They formed a lace curtain through which
Neversmile and Wilker maintained their watch. A jumble
of boulders broke the wind, provided the twosome with
some cover, and screened the trail. They waited through
six foreshortened "days" before stones rattled, a dooth
coughed, and General William Booly made his way down
off the plateau.

He paused no more than twenty feet away from them to
scan his surroundings. He felt something—but wasn't sure
what. Whatever it was sent a chill down his spine. The
officer resisted the impulse to pull his blast rifle, kicked
the dooth in the ribs, and continued on his way. He wanted
to reach the fort—wanted to leave the planet. Algeron was
in good hands, and there was work to do. Lots of it.

Neversmile waited until the general had established a
sizeable lead, mounted the cyborg's back, and spoke into

BY FORCE OF ARMS            57

the mike. "Senses to max. .. patrol speed." Wilker
obeyed.

Behind them, covered by a thin blanket of cold wet
snow, lay two mounds of carefully piled rocks. Algeron
continued to spin—and darkness swept in from the east.

Even the final decision of a war is not to be re-
garded as absolute. The conquered nation often
sees it as only a passing evil, to be repaired in after
times by political combinations.

Karl von Clausewitz

On War

Standard year 1832

Planet Hudatha (Protectorate),
the Confederacy of
Sentient Beings

The packet ship Mercury dropped into orbit, offered a
burst of code, and waited for the appropriate response. Bat-
tle station Victory, one of four such structures constructed
immediately after the last Hudathan war, hung like a dark
omen over the planet below. One of the vessel's many
computers checked, confirmed the newly arrived ship's
identity, and gave the necessary permissions.

The Mercury's control room was too small to accom-
modate visitors—but a viewscreen filled one of the ward-
room's four bulkheads. Governor, now Envoy Sergi
Chien-Chu watched with keen interest as the battle station

BY FORCE OF ARMS            59

grew to fill the smaller vessel's screen. At the conclusion
of the last war, he had played a role in the seemingly
endless design process that led up to the Victory's con-
struction. So, in spite of the fact that he'd never seen the
finished product before, the industrialist recognized the
spherical shape as well as the heavy duty weapons mounts
and the other installations common to Monitor class war-
ships. Because, for all her size, the battle station was ca-
pable of movement, hod to be capable of movement, given
the complex interplay of gravitational forces associated
with Hudatha and her Jovian binary.

The battle station Triumph, now obscured by the planet
itself, had nearly been destroyed during the mutiny while
Victory and two other platforms remained loyal. A matter
of no smalt importance lest the Hudathans escape.

Chien-Chu thought of the Monitor class ships as some-
thing akin to old-fashioned corks, the kind used to keep
mythical genies trapped within their bottles. Now it was
he who proposed to release them. Was he correct in want-
ing to do so? Or just terribly naive?

But the packet ship bore two passengers . . . and as the
Victory grew larger and the landing bay opened to receive
them, the second had some very different thoughts. War
Commander, now Ambassador Doma-Sa looked out on
what appeared to him as nothing less than a mechanical
monster, a machine that could sterilize the surface of the
planet below. The fact that his people had actually per-
petrated such horrors on others, had reduced entire worlds
to tittle more than radioactive slag, made no difference
whatsoever. This was unjust, this was unfair, this must end.

The Victory's cavernous landing bay swallowed the
Mercury as if she were little more than a snack. Chien-
Chu watched with considerable interest as the packet ship
followed a bright orange robodrone down the center of a
blast-scarred deck and toward the area reserved for tran-
sient vessels. Here was a significant portion of the Con-
federacy's remaining strength, resident in row after row of

60 William C. Dietz

sleek two-seat fighters and squadrons of boxy assault ves-
sels. None of which could be used against the Sheen lest
the genie escape. Who was truly captive? The industrialist
wondered. The Hudathans? Or the forces left to watch
them?

There was a noticeable bump as the packet ship touched
down. All manner of maintenance droids, robo hoses and
other automated equipment rolled, slithered, and swung
into action. The Mercury would be refueled, provisioned,
and relaunched in less than six hours.

Doma-Sa struggled into some standard issue Hudathan
space armor. Chien-Chu thanked the Mercury's four per-
son crew and hauled his duffel bag to the lock. It took
three minutes to cycle through.

Self-propelled stairs stood waiting, along with a space-
suited lieutenant commander and two ratings. She saluted,
and her voice came over Chien-Chu's on-board mutti-freq
corn unit. "Welcome aboard. Admiral. My name is Nidifer.
We received orders to dispense with the side party. I hope
that was correct."

Chien-Chu returned the salute and smiled. "Yes, thank
you. Your people have enough to do... Let's save the
ceremony for real admirals- Please allow me to introduce
Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa."

The naval officer bowed to the extent that the space
armor would allow her to do so. "Welcome aboard. Am-
bassador. My name is Nidifer, Lieutenant Commander Ni-
difer. It's a pleasure to meet you. Please follow me."

It took the better part of fifteen minutes to cross the busy
flight deck, enter the VIP lock, and cycle through. The
Victory's commanding officer was waiting to greet them.
He was tall and thin, and looked like a skeleton brought
to life. He was the real thing, meaning an officer who had
graduated from the academy, and wore two stars. His hand
was hard and bony. "Admiral Chien-Chu ... Ambassador
Doma-Sa... welcome aboard. Admiral Kagan at your
service. Sorry I wasn't there to greet you ... but one of

BY FORCE OF ARMS            61

our shuttles lost power. A tug is bringing her in. I thought
we'd give you a chance to stow your gear and gather in
my cabin. Sound okay to you?"

The visitors assured him that it did. and little more than
thirty minutes later the visitors arrived in Kagan's cabin.
The Victory was considered a hardship post, which meant
that extra money had been spent to make the ship more
livable. Wood paneling lined the bulkheads, back-lit shelv-
ing held some of the art objects the naval officer had col-
lected during his years of service, and the furniture was
worn but comfortable. The admiral gestured toward some
chairs. "Please, have a seat."

Doma-Sa chose a chair backed by a bulkhead, knew it
had been placed there for his comfort, and felt a little bet-
ter.

Refreshments were offered, both guests refused, and Ka-
gan looked from one to the other. He was curious and let
it show. "So? What can I do for you?"

Chien-Chu gestured toward the planet that hung beyond
the view port. "First we'd like a briefing, you know, sur-
face conditions, intel reports, whatever you've got. Then
we'll need some transport." He looked at Doma-Sa. 'That
should cover it."

Kagan felt a rising sense of anger and fought to control
it. Here he was, sitting on what amounted to a time bomb,
while some half-baked has-been thought up ways to waste
his resources. But the bastard had puli, the kind of gees
that could crush a mere two-star, and the officer forced a
smile. "Yes, of course. I'll arrange for the briefing. But
that's as far as I can go. The ambassador isn't cleared to
receive military intelligence. As for the trip, well, Huda-
than nationals can return to the surface whenever they
choose, but you will have to remain in orbit. Or return
with the Mere—the choice is up to you."

One of the things Chien-Chu liked about his status as a
cyborg was the fact that when he ordered his face to re-
main blank it actually did so. "I'm sorry. Admiral. I forgot

62 William C. Dietz

to present my credentials. Perhaps you would be so kind
as to review them."

The cyborg withdrew a small case from his coat pocket
and gave it over. The naval officer inspected the seal, ap-
plied his thumb to the print-sensitive pad, and saw the lid
pop open. A disk nestled in a plastic holder. Kagan took
the disk, excused himself, and entered the neighboring of-
fice. He was back three minutes later. His face was pale.
The words sounded stiff and formal. "I am to place myself
under your command for the duration of your stay, render
all possible assistance, and keep the nature of your mission
secret." He looked down into Chien-Chu's synthetic eyes.
The resentment was clear to see. "What may I ask is the
nature of your mission?"

Chien-Chu smiled in an effort to put the man at ease.
"Ambassador Doma-Sa and I are here to examine the feas-
ibility of integrating certain branches of the Hudathan mil-
itary into the Confederacy's armed forces."

A look of disbelief came over Admiral Kagan*s face,
and he practically fell into his chair. His voice was thick
with emotion. This was a joke. It hod to be. "Surely, you
jest."

"No," the cyborg assured him calmly. "Nothing could
be more serious."

The snow, which had been falling throughout the night,
stopped, the sun came out, and the temperature soared to
eighty. All before noon. Just another day on Hudatha. Le-
gion Captain Augustus North warned the sentries that he
was coming out, palmed the hatch, and waited for it to
whir up and out of the way. They still had power, some-
thing of a miracle after months on the surface, but for how
much longer? A week? A month? Maybe, if the tech heads
could keep the fusion generator running, and the ridge
heads allowed them to live.

The officer squinted into the glare, stepped out into the
slush, and returned the cyborg's salute. What remained of

BY FORCE OF ARMS            63

the battalion included four quads, plus thirty-six Trooper
II's, down from twelve quads and seventy-two Trooper II's
the day of the crash.

North turned, eyed the mountain of half-slagged metal,
and started to climb. There were plenty of sharp edges
where a wide variety of munitions had struck so it paid to
be careful. Medical supplies were running low—and the
doc was hard-pressed to patch people up.

The insanity had originated on the Triumph more than
three months before. A cadre of mutineers, led by Major
Pinchett, North's commanding officer, received confirma-
tion that the mutiny was under way, and took control of
the ship's bridge. Then, more than a little full of them-
selves, they had called on the rest of the battle stations to
surrender.

The Victory, under the command of Admiral Kagan,
along with the Celebration and the Jubilant had attacked
their sister ship with a vengeance. The mutineers put up
stiff resistance, and did pretty well for a while, but never
stood a chance. Pinchett offered to surrender, but Kagan
refused to listen, and the pounding went on.

North would never forget missile after missile slamming
into the monitor's hull, the steady bleat of battle klaxons,
the smell of his space armor, people running down corri-
dors, and Hudatha hanging above.

The weird thing was that North had never been asked
to join the mutiny .. . and wasn't sure how he would have
reacted. Lord knew there was reason, starting with the cut-
backs, the way ex-soldiers were left to beg in the streets,
and what could only be described as a pathetic state of
readiness. But mutiny? No, it didn't seem right. There was
no way to justify what Kagan did, though, pounding the
T to scrap, and destroying each life pod within seconds
after launch. The admiral saw the capsules as bacteria, as
the manifestation of a horrible disease, to which no mercy
could be shown.

That's when North, with help from a loyalist naval of-

64 William C. Dietz

ficer, loaded the freighter with troops and tried to escape.
They didn't get far.

Kagan caught the ship shortly after it left the Triumph's
launch bay, scored dozens of direct hits on the lightly ar-
mored vessel, and ignored their pleas for help.

Damaged, and with no possibility of escape, the
freighter had fallen toward Hudatha's surface. It was a mir-
acle that anyone had survived, but a naval officer, a woman
named Borkna, knew her stuff and managed to pancake
in.

The transport skidded for the better part of two miles
before running into a small hill. Not just any hill, but a
hill with what remained of a castle on top, and walls on
which many lives had been spent. The kind the Hudathans
had spent hundreds if not thousands of years fighting each
other for.

Now, with the hull snuggled up against old stone walls,
and both covered with patches of green-black mold, not to
mention islands of quickly melting slush, it was hard to
tell one construct from the other. Given enough time, say
a year or so, and the wreck would be invisible from the
air.

North was sweating by the time he made it to the top
of the wreck and stood on a barely legible "C," which,
along with a "T" and a six-digit number was part of the
ship's official ID number. Listed as missing? As unrecov-
erable? There was no way to know.

Corporal Gorwin was there waiting for him. She lifted
one of her energy-cannon-equipped arms by way of a
greeting. "Morning, sir."

The words were cheerful enough, especially in light of
the fact that the lower part of her body was missing, and,
with no chance of repairs, she had volunteered to stay on
the top of the ship as a semipermanent sentry.

North nodded and worked to catch his breath. He was
short and stocky. His uniform was filthy but so was every-
one else's. "So, Gorwin, any sign of the geeks?"

BY FORCE OF ARMS            65

The cyborg nodded. "Yes, sir. I notified the control
room by radio. Right after you left. Take a look toward
the west." Her voice was dull—empty of hope.

North pulled a smalt pair of binoculars out of his shirt
pocket and brought them up to his eyes. What he saw made
him suck air into his lungs. The Hudathans had attacked
before, twenty-seven times to be exact, but never like this.
An army was on the march. There were thousands of the
bastards. More than he and his handful of troops could
possibly deal with.

The situation was reminiscent of the Legion's most fa-
mous battle, that day in the spring of 1863 when Legion
Captain Jean Danjou and a force of sixty-four men took
on more than two thousand Mexican troops and fought
them to a standstill. That was the good news. The bad
news was that only three legionnaires had survived. Dan-
jou was not among them. The name of village where the
fight took place was Camerone.

Gorwin, who had similar thoughts herself, read the of-
ficer's face. "Yes, sir. It looks a lot like Camerone."

In spite of the fact that Chien-Chu had been living in cy-
bernetic bodies for many years now—he had never con-
trolled anything like a Trooper II. Theoretically outmoded
some fifty years before, T-2s continued to roll off the as-
sembly lines because they were sturdy, effective, and,
when compared with a Trooper III and its animal analogs,
cheap to produce and maintain. Part of their value
stemmed from the proven ability to operate in just about
any environment that one could imagine, which was what
awaited the industrialist below.

Doma-Sa, who had no need of technology in order to
survive, watched the process with obvious amusement. The
transfer took place in one of the onboard equipment bays.
The cyber-techs injected some drugs into Chien-Chu's ar-
tificial circulatory system, removed his brain box from his
"normal" body, and "loaded" a Trooper II.

66 William C. Dietz

Chien-Chu endured the brief moment of sensory depri-
vation, felt the new body react to his presence, and expe-
rienced something akin to a drug-induced rush as system
after system came on-line.

Though theoretically analogous to what he had experi-
enced before, there was no real comparison. The war
machine was faster, more powerful, and loaded with sys-
tems civilians had no need for.

The industrialist's left arm was an air-cooled .50 caliber
machine gun, his right arm was a fast-recovery laser can-
non, and he could run at speeds up to fifty miles per hour.
He spoke, realized how loud the PA system was, and
turned it down. "I'm ready for anything—even Hudatha."

Doma-Sa looked him over. "That may be true, my
friend—but the switch did nothing for your appearance."

"Look who's talking," Chien-Chu replied. "Come on,
let's see if I can walk."

The thousands of Hudathan troopers marched as if on pa-
rade, which essentially they were, crossing the Plain of
Skulls toward the castle Glid, where the great Kasa-Ka had
ruled during feudal times, and the aliens now lived. An
insult that must be expunged . -. but not till Ikor Ifana-Ka
was finished with them. Training was important, and, if
properly husbanded, the humans coutd be stretched for an-
other couple of weeks. Real combat, with real aliens, was
hard to come by. That's why they had been allowed to live
for such a long time.

Besides, the Hudathan liked the look of his troopers, the
banners that flew above their heads, the gleam of their
weapons, the sound of the drums, the way the whistles
shrilled the air, and the wind in his face. This was the way
things had been, should be, would be if his people were
free.

Ifana-Ka sat on what amounted to a half-enclosed sedan
chair, winced as pain stabbed his fully extended leg, and
listened to his aide. The youngster had little difficulty

BY FORCE OF ARMS            67

keeping pace. The words were clear—but the message
wasn't. "Doma-Sa? Landing with a high-ranking human?
Impossible! Shoot the translator."

Mylo Norba-Ba was used to such excess. His words
were both patient and respectful. 'There was no transla-
tion. War Commander Doma-Sa spoke directly with me.
He said the matter is urgent and of the highest importance.
Their shuttle has entered the atmosphere."

Ifana-Ka adjusted his leg. "All right then, if we must,
we must. Pass the word... the troops will stand down.
We may as well feed them. Not for long mind you . . . We
march two hours from now."

A sudden gust of high altitude wind hit the shuttle's hull.
It rocked from side to side. The cargo compartment was
empty except for the Trooper n that stood at the center of
it, the Hudathan who overflowed a fold-down seat, and the
orange exoskeleton secured toward the stem. Admiral Ka-
gan had elected to ride up front with his pilots.

Chien-Chu felt his body tug against the cargo straps and
questioned his own sanity. Was the trip to Hudatha's sur-
face truly necessary? So he could negotiate face to face?
Or driven by curiosity? The desire to see the place that
had given birth to such an implacable foe? He looked at
Doma-Sa. "So, how would you rate our chances? Who sits
on the Triad? And how will they react?"

The shuttle shuddered as the hull hit the bottom of an
air pocket and continued to fall. Doma-Sa had known that
the question would arise—and spent a considerable
amount of time formulating a reply. A response calculated
to conceal the infighting that years of planetary confine-
ment had caused, the sense of hopelessness that com-
manded his people, and the fact that one member of the
ruling body was more than a little eccentric. "I can't speak
for the rest of the Triad, but I favor your proposal, de-
pending on what your race refers to as 'the fine print.' "

68 William C. Dietz

Chien-Chu wondered if he had misunderstood. "You]
You belong to the Triad?"

"Of course," Doma-Sa replied easily. "What could be
more important than our freedom? Besides, we have no
diplomatic corps. Outside of myself that is."

Chien-Chu wondered how he could have missed what
now appeared to be obvious. The Hudathans favored a
highly vertical almost dictatorial political system. They
had never negotiated for anything, not until now, a fact
that should have tipped him off. No one except one of the
ruiers could have been entrusted with something so critical.
So, while many of those on board the Friendship treated
Doma-Sa like a low level functionary, they had actually
been dealing with a head of state.

Chien-Chu struggled to remember everything he had
said or done. Doma-Sa, who had come to know the human
pretty we!) by then, gave the Hudathan equivalent of a
chuckle. It sounded a lot like a rock crusher in low gear.
"No, you never said anything to offend me, not that it
would make much difference, since the Victory could ster-
ilize the surface of my planet. "Ikor Ifana-Ka is another
matter, however. He's a lot more emotional than I am. It
would pay to be careful in his presence."

Chien-Chu frowned, or tried to, but discovered that the
Trooper II wasn't equipped for that sort of communication.
"Grand Marshall Ifana-Ka? The officer that our intelli-
gence people referred to as 'the Annihitator?' "

Doma-Sa looked as surprised as he was capable of look-
ing. "You have a remarkable memory. Yes, Ifana-Ka car-
ried out his duties with what you would refer to as 'ruthless
efficiency.' "

"Meaning that he murdered hundreds of thousands of
sentient beings," Chien-Chu said coldly.

"Why, yes." the Hudathan replied calmly. "And isn't
that why you came here? To recruit some killers?"

Chien-Chu sought some sort of comeback and was un-
able to think of one. Silence filled the cargo compartment-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            69

Clouds rolled in to cover the sun, rain fell in sheets, and
Captain North struggled to penetrate the gloom. He'd gone
below to grab a ration bar, and now he was back- The
Hudathans should have arrived by then . .. and he won-
dered where they were. His troops, what were left of them,
were dug in and waiting.

Gorwin was quick to provide an unsolicited opinion.
"The infrared is clear enough, sir. It looks like the ridge
heads broke for some R&R."

North lowered the glasses. Rain peppered his face, ran
down the back of his neck, and sent damp fingers into his
clothing. "Okay, but why? They could take us anytime
they want."

"Maybe it has something to do with the shuttle," the
cyborg replied mysteriously.

North was annoyed. Gorwin was playing some kind of
game with him—and the only thing that saved her from a
good ass chewing was the fact that the enemy had already
blown it off. "Shuttle? What frigging shuttle?"

Gorwin, who knew when to quit, underwent a sudden
change of attitude. 'The assault boat that passed over our
position a few minutes ago, circled the Hudathans, and
landed over there somewhere." The cyborg used her arm-
mounted energy cannon to point toward the northwest.

North felt his heart try to beat its way out of his chest.
"A human assault boat? You're sure?"

Gorwin nodded. "Sir, yes sir. Some of the other borgs
saw it too. We told the loot. She said you were on the
way."

North peered into the rain, made his decision, and gave
the necessary orders. "Wait ten, and tell the loot I went
for a stroll. If I don't return by 1800 hours she's in com-
mand."

"She ain't gonna like that," Gorwin replied sincerely,
"and neither do I."

70 William C. Dietz

"Sorry," North replied, "but rank hath its privileges. See
you later."

The officer disappeared over the side. The corporal tried
to stand and cursed her missing legs.

The wind picked up, the rain came in sideways, driven by
forty mile per hour gusts of wind. The clouds were so thick
that it seemed night had fallen. Rocks that had been too
hot to sit on steamed as the moisture hit them. Some,
stressed by years of abuse, cracked in two. The sound re-
sembled rifle shots—and came from all around.

The assault boat crouched like some sort of gray-black
monster, water streaming off its heavily armored back,
beacons strobing the murk.

A hatch whirred open. Admiral Kagan directed the ex-
oskeleton out through the opening, and was glad he had
agreed to use it. This was the first time he had set foot on
the planet, and he felt vulnerable, very vulnerable, in spite
of the steel cage that protected his rain-soaked body.

Still, if Chien-Chu could do it, then he could do it, never
mind the fact that the industrialist was all snuggy inside a
T-2. The ramp bounced under his weight, a gust of wind
attempted to push him over, and the officer was forced to
focus the majority of his attention on the normally simple
task of walking. Once on the ground, the officer confronted
six heavily armed Hudathans. They stood and stared. Ka-
gan stared back.

Chien-Chu stepped into the hatch, scanned his surround-
ings, and walked down the ramp. The admiral's servo-
assisted exoskeleton was equipped with amber shoulder
beacons. They flashed through the downpour.

Doma-Sa was the last to deass the shuttle, and Kagan
saw a distinct change where the reception party was con-
cerned. They came to rigid attention as the Hudathan dip-
lomat cleared the ramp and stomped through the rain.
Water ran over his shoulders, down his chest, and spurted
away from his boots. A series of short sentences were ex-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            71

changed, and the ambassador turned to explain. "We
landed in the middle of a field exercise. Ikor Ifana-Ka has
agreed to receive us ... but hopes to resume training in an
hour or so."

Having said his piece, Doma-Sa set off for a pole-
supported shelter that had been erected a few hundred
yards to the east. It was gray, like the world around it, and
shivered in the wind. The Hudathan savored the warm
damp air, the way the rain pelted his chest, and the feel of
gravel under his boots. It was good to be home.

Chien-Chu drew abreast of the admiral, took note of
how pale the officer looked, and spoke via a heavily en-
crypted corn channel. It took less than a minute to brief
Kagan regarding Doma-Sa's actual rank—and urge him to
use caution. The meeting would be critical.

Kagan took the information in, realized what it meant,
and felt a deep sense of betrayal. After all the Hudathans
had done, after all the murders they had committed, Chien-
Chu, along with a bunch of suck-ass politicians were going
to sell the Confederacy out. All to defend against a bunch
of machines that might not exist. The whole thing made
him sick.

That's when Kagan came to an important realization:

He could end the insanity, he could save the Confederacy,
he could go down in history. If he got the opportunity—
i/he had the guts.

North jogged through the rain, availed himself of what
cover there was, but knew it was just a matter of time
before somebody intercepted him. Would they shoot him?
Before he could reach the people in the shuttle? That was
his second greatest fear.

His greatest fear was that he had unintentionally be-
trayed the Legion, his battalion, and himself. Danjou had
had many opportunities to surrender but had refused to do
so. Here was an opportunity for glorious death, the kind
the Legion respected, but rather than embrace it, as so

72 William C. Dietz

many others had, he was trying to cheat his fate. Why?
For the sake of his troops? Or out of cowardice? The pos-
sibility gnawed at his belly.

The legionnaire angled toward some rocks. Water
splashed his ankles and wandered into his boots. He swore,
allowed himself to slow, and pushed in among the boul-
ders. One of them had cracked right down the middle dur-
ing some previous storm leaving a V for him to peer
through. It looked like an old-fashioned rifle sight. The
enemy could be seen just beyond, preparing a meal.

The legionnaire shoved both his assault weapon and his
sidearm under a rock, used stones to wall them in, and
returned to the viewpoint. North swallowed the lump in
his throat, stepped out through the V-shaped crack, and
raised his hands in the air. Nothing happened at first, and
the officer was about to move, when a shout was heard.
The words were in Hudathan, but there was no doubt as
to what they meant. The officer stood fast.

The rain seemed to part tike a curtain. The troopers were
huge. They gathered around. One grabbed the officer from
behind. Another punched him in the stomach. The blows
came hard and fast. North feit himself fold.

If there were negative things about Hudathan culture, such
as their tendency toward genocide, there were some posi-
tive characteristics as well. One was a distaste for the trap-
pings of power that so many humans lusted after. It could
be seen in Doma-Sa's matter-of-fact no-nonsense manner,
in the plain rather utilitarian shelter erected for Ifana-Ka's
benefit, and the way that he waved them over. Much to
Chien-Chu's surprise, there had been no attempt to disarm
Kagan or neutralize the Trooper II's weaponry. A sign of
respect? A sign of contempt? There was no sure way to
know.

The exoskeleton and the Trooper II were big ... but so
was the tent. They whirred, whined, and crunched their
way across the rain-soaked gravel. The fact that the shelter

BY FORCE OF ARMS            73

had no floor other than what the planet saw fit to provide
was consistent with the lack of pomp. Ifana-Ka spoke Hu-
dathan, but Chien-Chu's onboard computer took care of
the translation.

"Welcome. Please excuse me if I don't get up. A Ra-
manthian war drone shot me more than fifty years ago.
The butchers wanted to take the leg off but 1 wouldn't let
them. Now I'm too old for regeneration therapy, too set in
my ways for a bionic replacement, and too mean to die.
Isn't that right. War Commander Doma-Sa?"

"I don't know about the first two," the Hudathan replied,
"but there's no doubt about the third."

Chien-Chu took note of the military title and assumed
the grunting noise equated to laughter. "So," Ifana-Ka
asked, "who are you? And what do you want?"

The question was addressed to Admiral Kagan, since he
was the only being who looked even slightly human.
Doma-Sa, who was smooth by Hudathan standards, en-
tered the gap. "Grand Marshall Ifana-Ka, this is Admiral
Kagan. He commands the Confederate forces in our sec-
tor."

The contempt on Ifana-Ka's face was clear for even a
human to see ... and Doma-Sa hurried to forestall what-
ever gaffe was in the making. "And this," the Hudathan
said, gesturing toward the hulking T-2, "is none other than
Sergi Chien-Chu, past President of the Confederacy, re-
serve admiral, Governor of Earth, and special envoy to the
Hudathan people."

Chien-Chu essayed a bow. "I apologize for my appear-
ance. The body 1 normally wear was less than suitable for
a visit to your planet."

Ifana-Ka pushed himself up out of his chair and stag-
gered forward. Norba-Ba rushed to support him. "Chien-
Chu? The same miserable piece of excrement who fought
Poseen-Ka off the planet Algeron?"

Chien-Chu tried to swallow but didn't have anything left
to do it with. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

74 William C. Dietz

"It's an honor to meet you," Ifana-Ka said. "I served
under the bastard, and he was tough. Very tough. So they
sent a soldier to make their case? Smart, damned smart.
Maybe there's hope for humans after all."

Disappointed by the warmth of Chien-Chu's reception,
and disgusted by the politician's conciliatory tone, Kagan
stood a tittle straighten Others could bend... he would
refuse.

Chien-Chu experienced a profound sense of relief, and
was about to offer some sort of reply, when a disturbance
was heard. All five of them turned toward the source of
the noise. Captain North was a mess. His hair was matted
from the rain, blood smeared his face, and his uniform was
covered with mud. He had lost consciousness at some
point during the beating and come to on a stretcher. That's
when he rolled off, dodged a slow moving trooper, and
ran toward the tent. Maybe there would be someone in
authority . .. someone who could . ..

A sentry yelled. North dashed for the tent, and waited
for the inevitable bullet. It didn't come. Not with two
members of the Triad just beyond. He burst through the
entryway and looked left and right. "My name is North!
Captain North. Who's in charge here? I want a word with
them."

That's when the legionnaire saw Kagan, their eyes
locked, and hatred jumped the gap. "Butcher!"

"Mutineer!"

Kagan went for his sidearm just as a 250-pound Huda-
than sentry new through the entrance and hit North from
the side. The two of them skidded across the gravel.

Undeterred, the naval officer raised his weapon, and was
about to fire, when an ominous whine was heard. Chien-
Chu looked through the sighting grid and knew the .50
caliber machine gun was ready to fire. "Hold it right there,
Admiral. .. this man has something to say. I'd like to hear
what it is."

Slowly, reluctantly, Kagan allowed the pistol to fall.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            75

Ifana-Ka was amused. "I thank the Giver that humans
spend most of their time at each other's throats. Guard,
help that officer up, and report for punishment. Twenty
lashes should put you right. If the human were an assassin,
I'd be dead by now."

The sentry, who showed no reaction whatsoever, came
to attention, did a smart about-face, and marched into the
rain.

North, who had the wind knocked out of him, spoke in
short painful gasps. He described the battle, the attempt to
escape, and what Kagan had done. The legionnaire had no
hope of mercy from the admiral, assumed the cyborg was
some sort of escort, and addressed himself to Ifana-Ka.
"So, that's it, sir. My people are ready to fight. Your forces
will win, I know that, but we will kill a lot of them. And
for what? Nothing will be gained."

Ifana-Ka looked at Chien-Chu. "He is yours—do with
him what you will.'*

Kagan heard a roar in his head, felt heat suffuse his
body, and understood his duty. Here was an opportunity
to not only stop Chien-Chu but put the mutineer down. He
would shoot the Hudathans, North, and himself in that or-
der. The cyborg would survive—there was no way to pre-
vent that—but not for long. Ifana-Ka's troopers would see
to that. He raised the slug thrower, turned toward Ifana-
Ka, and felt the exoskeleton stagger as .50 caliber slugs
tore his body apart. The vehicle shuddered, toppled to one
side, and crashed into the ground.

Guards stormed into the tent, and Doma-Sa barked an
order. Slowly, reluctantly, the troopers lowered their weap-
ons. The soldier-diplomat turned toward Chien-Chu. A
wisp of smoke drifted away from the arm-mounted ma-
chine gun. "You see my friend? We aren't as different as
you thought."

The cyborg, who found the thought depressing, was
forced to agree.

76 William C, Dietz

The ensuing negotiations tasted for six local days. Long,
seemingly endless affairs punctuated by hail, sun, rain,
wind, snow, and combinations Chien-Chu had never ex-
perienced before.

North, along with his sort-of mutineers, were evacuated
to await court-martial. Chien-Chu, relying on his on-again
off-again status as an admiral gave his word that they
would be treated fairly. That was relatively easy. The mu-
tual defense pact cum treaty was a good deal more diffi-
cult.

First came the question of who could and should con-
duct the negotiations. Chien-Chu made it clear that while
he could help draft a proposal, the senate would have to
review it, and the President would need to approve it.

Due to the fact that the third member of the Triad had
been killed during an inter-clan feud and that a replace-
ment had yet to successfully assert himself, Ifana-Ka and
Doma-Sa would speak for the Hudathan race.

They opened the negotiations by demanding full un-
qualified freedom for their people. Understandable—but
completely out of the question.

Literally dozens of models were discussed and eventu-
ally discarded. Chien-Chu discovered that the Hudathans
were dogged negotiators ... never giving ground till the
battle had been fully fought and lost.

Still, when the process was over, the final draft was very
close to what Chien-Chu had proposed to begin with. It
was bound to be, given that his race held most of the cards,
and any degree of freedom would be an improvement over
what the Hudathans had prior to signing.

The key to the agreement's appeal, if there was any,
would be in the treaty's clarity and simplicity. The essence
of the document was that the Hudathans would resume
their status as a sovereign state, would be entitled to a
representative in the senate, would be free to engage in
nonmilitary commerce with other members of the Confed-
eracy, would pay their fair share of taxes, and, with one

BY FORCE OF ARMS            77

significant exception, would be subject to the mutual de-
fense pact. The qualifier, the all important restriction,
stated that the Hudathans would not be allowed to build,
maintain, or operate a space-going navy.

The responsibility for transporting Hudathan troops to
and from their home planet or colonies, should they be
permitted to retain some of the worlds previously under
their control, would fall to other space-faring races such
as the humans and Ramanthians. Because without a navy,
and the independence that went with it, there would be
very little chance that the Hudathans would try their hands
at conquest.

This was a bitter pill to swallow, one that not only hurt
the Hudathan's pride, and made them dependent on other
races. Something their inborn sense of survival argued
against.

But facts were facts, and Doma-Sa, who had spent a
great deal of time observing the senate, knew that this was
the best deal he and his people were likely to get for the
next hundred years or so, and it certainly beat the alter-
native, sitting on Hudatha until their own combative cul-
ture turned inward and destroyed them, or the planet was
torn apart. Besides, even the most superficial study of hu-
man history revealed what extremely short memories they
had, a fact that augured well for the future.

And so it was that an agreement was reached, that
Chien-Chu and Doma-Sa returned to space, and that Ad-
miral Dero Delany Kagan II remained behind.

The marker, which stood alone on the rocky, often
windswept plain, was cut from hull metal, and bore the
best inscription that Chien-Chu could come up with. A
poet named Carl Sandberg provided the words:

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo,
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.

Power never takes a back step—only in the face of
more power.

Matcom X

Malcom X Speaks
Standard year 1965

Somewhere beyond the Rim, the
Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Far out in space, beyond the largely imaginary border that
the Confederacy referred to as the Rim, the very fabric of
space and time was momentarily altered. Hundreds of
ships appeared, glittered like minnows, and swam through
the surrounding darkness.

The Hoon's scout ships detected the other fleet the mo-
ment it dropped hyper, issued an electronic challenge, and
were answered in kind. Recognition codes were received,
analyzed, and validated. Signals were sent, courses were
altered, formations were merged, and for the first time in
more than two hundred years the fleet was whole.

Whole, but divided, since the original Hoon, which had
divided itself into two identical halves in order to cover
more space and increase the odds of finding the Thraki,
had yet to reintegrate itself. A process of high-speed bi-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            79

lateral updating, which if successful, would result in an
artificial intelligence that incorporated all the knowledge
and experience each entity had gained during the years of
separation. A substantial gain that could lead to a high
chance of success.

However, the same minds that had granted the computer
the capacity to split itself in two had enacted certain safe-
guards as well. One such safeguard included a complicated
matrix of truth tables intended to ensure that neither of the
two halves had been corrupted during their years apart.

Neither entity felt any qualms regarding the test, not at
first anyway, viewing the process as entirely natural.

Hoon number one, defined as the receiving intelligence,
sampled the inflow at; intervals frequent enough to ensure
that its counterpart had been operating within the specified
parameters.

Everything was fine at first. The incoming data was not
only acceptable, but judging from equally spaced nibbles,
made an excellent meal. It seemed that Hoon number two
had journeyed far, fed off many civilizations, but failed to
turn up anything more than some Thraki splinter groups.
But it was then, while number two reported on one such
encounter, that number one spotted the potential problem.

Careful to conceal its activities, lest the other AI realize
that an investigation was under way, number one diverted
part of the data feed to a parallel processor where it could
be dissected without interrupting the main flow.

The essence of the discrepancy had to do with the out-
come of that particular contact report. Having located a
breakaway colony, Hoon number two had allowed itself to
be drawn into a two-way conversation, and even worse,
had been convinced to spare that particular group. Some-
thing that should have been impossible.

Worried lest it be contaminated by some sort of virus—
Hoon number one ran an in-depth review of the facts: Hav-
identified a Thraki debris trail consisting of a wrecked

in

ship, a hastily mined asteroid, and a spent fuel core, his

80 William C. Dietz

opposite number had given chase. So far so good.

Fleet number two followed the soft bodies, discovered
that approximately three hundred Thraki had established
themselves on a class two planet, and prepared to destroy
them. That's when a command override was received.
Somehow, someway, one or more of the Thraki had come
up with a way to spoof the Hoon.

It appeared that a very sophisticated virus had been
planted in the Thraki wreck, a scout had been infected with
the corrupted programming as it ingested the ship's AI,
and passed the disease along to its superior as part of an
intelligence report. Not only that, but whoever built the
virus was so clever that they had imbued it with the means
to fool Hoon number two's virus hunters, and take up res-
idence in the AI's central processor.

Once in place, the false input took on the appearance of
original programming, programming that confirmed the
existence of a special breed of Thraki, a group that could
and should be allowed to live. An assertion that Hoon
number one knew to be false.

That being the case, the AI routed the data to a sacri-
ficial memory module, ran a high priority scrub on its pri-
mary, secondary, and tertiary backup banks, and did the
only thing that it could: lay plans to murder its twin.

The cabin was dark, intentionally dark. in keeping with the
way Jepp felt. Empty ration boxes littered the normally
spotless floor, clothes lay heaped where they'd been
thrown, and the would-be messiah lay huddled beneath a
none too clean blanket.

The ex-prospector had been in a foul mood for weeks
now, ever since the visit to Fortuna, and the manner in
which God's message had been ignored.

Yes, the sentients who lived there were the dregs of the
Confederacy and committed to their evil ways. Still, he
had assumed one or two of them would respond and form

BY FORCE OF ARMS            81

the core of what would eventually be a galaxy-spanning
religion.

But he'd been wrong, very wrong, and was depressed
as a result. Nothing, not even Sam's most entertaining an-
tics had been sufficient to rouse the human from his emo-
tional stupor.

In the meantime, the fleet continued to travel through
space, the Sheen continued to hunt Thraki. and his follow-
ers continued to attend the daily prayer meetings- Humans,
bored by the repetitive nature of the gatherings might have
stayed away, but not the machines, who listened to Alpha's
rantings with limitless patience, and always came back for
more.

In fact, had Jepp been in a better mood, he might have
taken heart from the fact that more than two thousand ma-
chines routinely attended services held in the vast nano-
draped launch bay where hundreds of vessels sat, waiting
for their next assignment.

It was at the conclusion of one such session, as the con-
gregation walked, rolled, and crawled to their various
tasks, that a pair of recycling droids, the closest thing the
Hoon had to police, took Alpha into custody.

The robot complained, but his various utterances and
transmissions were to no avail. The recycling machines
were not only larger than it was, but stronger and equipped
with the ability to override the acolyte's motor functions.

That being the case. Alpha could do little more than
pepper some of his escorts with some of Jepp's favorite
admonitions while they conveyed him through the main
lock and into a labyrinth of passageways. " 'He who lives
by the sword shall die by the sword.' 'As you sow so shall
your reap.' 'What goes around comes around,' " and half
a dozen more.

But the recycling droids remained unmoved and contin-
ued to chivvy their charge through the brightly lit pas-
sageways. It took less than ten minutes to reach the cabin
Jepp had assigned to himself.

82 William C. Dietz

Then, with the signal lack of courtesy typical of me-
chanical devices everywhere, the robots pushed their way
in. The human took exception. "Alpha? Is thai you? I don't
want to be disturbed. Please go away."

In spite of the fact that the answer came via Alpha's
speech synthesizer, it sounded entirely different. It was
harder, stronger, and much more insistent. "The ship be-
longs to me. I will do as I please. I am the Hoon."

Jepp felt the bottom drop out of his stomach- The Hoon!
Coming lo him! Nothing of that sort had ever happened
before. What did it mean? He swung his feet off the bunk
and placed them on the hard cold deck. "Yes, of course. I
apologize. Please excuse the mess."

The Hoon processed the message, concluded that an an-
swer would constitute a waste of time, and moved to the
matter at hand: While its counterpart, Hoon number two,
possessed all the same defenses that it had, the other entity
shared the same vulnerabilities as well. That's where the
soft body came in. The trick was to use the biological
without allowing the human to know it had been used. It
might balk otherwise, or even worse, obtain more data than
it was entitled to have. "There is a task that you will per-
form."

Jepp noted the apparent lack of courtesy but knew there
was no reason for an alien artifact to observe social niceties
appropriate to human culture. Besides, the Hoon saw
everything that existed within the structure of the fleet as
falling within its domain, and the human was forced to
agree. If the AI wanted him to do something, Jepp could
either comply or face the not too pleasant consequences.
He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, if I can help. .."

The Hoon seemed oblivious to the human's words. "The
unit through which I am communicating will escort you
aboard vessel 17-9621 where you will be asked to perform
a simple maintenance procedure. Once the task is com-
plete, you will be allowed to return here."

"You can count on me," Jepp replied, determined to

BY FORCE OF ARMS            83

sound positive. "I have one question however... If the
maintenance procedure is so simple—why can't one of
your robots take care of it?"

"You will perform a maintenance procedure," the com-
puter reiterated sternly. "You are leaving now."

"Okay," Jepp said, getting to his feet. "No need to get
your processor in a knot... Allow me to get dressed, grab
some toots, and we're out of here."

The one-time prospector hurried to pull some fairly
clean overalls on, selected some of the tools salvaged from
the Pelican, and stuffed them into a pack. "All right your
supreme Hoonship -.. lead the way."

But the AI had more important things to do than stand
around and wait while the somewhat sluggish biological
wrapped itself in fabric. That being the case, it was Alpha
who replied to the human's comment. "The supreme in-
telligence will meet us later."

"God is the supreme intelligence," Jepp growled. "The
Hoon is a pain in the ass. Well, come on, let's get it over
with."

Sam, the Thraki robot, cartwheeled across the cabin,
transformed itself into something that looked a lot like a
spider. Then, climbing quickly, the device took its place
on Jepp's shoulder. The three of them left together—but
it was Alpha who led the way.

Vessel 17-9621 glowed with the same shimmery force
field that gave the Sheen their name.

Like Hoon number one, Hoon number two could project
itself to any ship in the fleet, but if its intelligence could
be said to reside anywhere, it was aboard that particular
ship. For it was there, within a carefully secured compart-
ment, that its various components were located.

Having been alerted to expect a biological and asked to
render an opinion as to its usefulness, a very small portion
of the AFs total consciousness tracked the incoming shut-

84 William C. Dietz

tie, noted its arrival, and monitored the creatures that dis-
embarked.

There was an all-purpose unit similar to thousands on
board the ship, an alien construct of no obvious value, and
the biological that Hoon number one had warned of. An
inquisitive creature who seemed headed for the very com-
partment in which number two was centered. That obser-
vation was sufficient to generate a low-level threat warning
and to focus more of the computer's attention on the vis-
itors and their activities.

As with all Sheen vessels, 17-9621 was equipped with
a multiplicity of surveillance devices. Some took the form
of tiny silicon imaging chips that had been "painted" onto
the bulkheads. The computer preferred infrared to video,
however, which meant that what it "saw" looked like a
bipedal green blob. It seemed intent on approaching num-
ber two's sanctuary. Why?

Hoon number two sent a message to number one, ran
into an electronic wall, and became immediately suspi-
cious. Pathways were verified, systems were checked, and
a second attempt failed just as the first had. The AI jumped
to the logical conclusion: The other half of itself had sev-
ered their relationship and declared the electronic equiva-
lent of war!

A biological might have waffled, might have questioned
its own judgement, or been hesitant to take action. Not
number two. The second Hoon went to the highest state
of alert, directed fifty robots to intercept the intruders, and
locked itself in. Monsters roamed the corridors ... and the
computer was scared.

Servos whined as Alpha moved down the passageway.
Jepp's shoes squeaked when they came into contact with
the deck, and Sam nattered in the ex-prospector's ear. In-
sofar as Jepp could tell, this vessel was the twin of the one
in which he had spent most of his captivity. That being
the case, he was familiar with the basic layout and could

BY FORCE OF ARMS            85

have navigated on his own, right up till the moment when
Alpha approached a heavily armored hatch. The human
was familiar with the door, or its analog, but had never
been able to open it.

One of Alpha's armlike extensions whirred as it tele-
scoped outwards, made a clicking sound as it mated with
some sort of receptacle, and was immediately withdrawn.

Air hissed as the barrier disappeared overhead, a whiff
of ozone found its way into the human's nostrils, and they
were in. "I didn't know you could do that," the human
said, as he followed Alpha down the brightly lit hatl.

"It can't," Hoon number one replied, "but / can. Now
listen carefully because there are limits to how far I can
go. Robots wilt be sent against us, I will neutralize most
if not all of them, while you proceed to the goal."

Jepp felt a rising sense of panic. Whatever he had landed
in the middle of was more than a routine maintenance
chore. That much was clear. Questions begged to be asked.
"Robots? Goal? What goal?"

Hatches opened up ahead, a swarm of silvery robots
flooded the corridor, and the Hoon hurried to answer. "Af-
ter you pass through the last door you will find yourself
in a circular space. Go to the bright blue module located
at the very center of the compartment, take hold of the red
handle, and give it one full turn to the right.

"Once that's accomplished, you must pull the handle,
and the component to which the handle is attached, clear
of the console. Then, assuming that you survive, you can
return to my ship. Questions?"

Questions? Jepp had dozens, but the robots attacked
right about then, and the conversation came to an abrupt
end. Metal clanged as the oncoming wave smashed into
Alpha. None of the units had weapons or were pro-
grammed for grasper-to-hand combat. That being the case,
they fought like Sumo wrestlers, pushing, shoving, and
bumping with their torsos. Alpha staggered under the on-

86 William C. Dietz

slaught, Sam danced the width of Jepp's shoulders, and
the human was forced to retreat.

There were lots of attackers, but the width of the pas-
sageway acted to concentrate them, thereby limiting the
number that could make contact at any given moment.
Still, the phalanx had force, and the intruders gave ground.

The whole thing was strange ... If the Hoon had taken
over Alpha's body, and the robots worked for the Hoon,
why would they attack?

Jepp was still pondering that question, stilt trying to fig-
ure it out, when the Hoon/Alpha extended an arm. Bright
blue electricity arced between it and one of the oncoming
Sheen. A black spot appeared between the robot's sensors,
a wisp of smoke drifted away, and the construct collapsed
on the deck.

Another machine took the first robot's place, another
spark jumped the gap, and another unit fell.

Jepp backpedaled, ducked a clumsy roundhouse right,
and backpedaled again. That's when something unex-
pected took place. Sam morphed into a configuration the
prospector had never seen before, threw itself at one of the
oncoming robots, and drilled a hole through the top of its
shiny metal skull. The bit screamed, bright metal shavings
curled toward the deck, and sparks jetted upwards. The
machine jerked spasmodically, its joints locked, and it top-
pled forwards.

Sam rode the robot down, popped loose, and rolled
away. The next victim didn't even know it had even been
selected until the diminutive machine swarmed up one of
its legs, scampered onto its head. and started the drill.

Emboldened by the inroads achieved by his electrome-
chanical allies. Jepp uttered a primal war cry, charged the
machine in front of him, and pushed it over. Metal
screeched on metal as the defender hit the deck. The hu-
man stepped on the robot's abdomen and tackled the next
unit in line.

The battle raged hot and heavy for the next few minutes,

BY FORCE OF ARMS            87

started to wane as the causalities increased, and came to a
sudden halt. The drill bit screamed as Sam left its most
recent victim twitching on the deck.

Eyes wild, adrenaline pumping, Jepp turned and charged
for the opposite end of the corridor. Never mind the fact
that he didn't know who he was fighting, or why, the hu-
man wanted to win. "Come on! This is our chance!"

Sam scrambled onto the prospector's shoulder as Alpha
charged forward and hit a force field of some sort. The
robot staggered and started to convulse. The Hoon spoke
but the words arrived one at a time. "The-force-fields-
were-designed-for-robots. Continue-to-the-objective."

Of course! Jepp thought to himself. That's why the
tricky pile of nuts and bolts recruited me—the security
systems are designed to stop machines! Sheen machines
since Sam remains unaffected.

That's when the thinking ended, lost in the rasp of his
own breathing and the pounding of his pulse. The hatch!
At the far end of the corridor—how would he get the
damned thing open? That's when Jepp remembered
the pack, still pounding the lower part of his back, and the
tools it contained. Maybe . . . just maybe ...

Hoon number two monitored the biological's approach
with a growing sense of dread. Hoon number one had not
only conceived the assault but had actually participated in
it. Why? A software problem? No, not unless number two
wanted to consider the possibility that it was vulnerable as
well. The Thraki then ... a virus of some sort... or ...

The greenish blob knelt in front of the hatch, removed
a colder object from its pack, and triggered a green-white
flame. A torch! The soft body planned to bum its way in!
Hoon number two gathered the most critical aspects of
itself into one digitized file, sent it down a fiber optic path-
way, and hit some sort of blockage. The escape route had
been severed!

There were others, backups, and backups for the back-

88                     William C. Dietz

ups. The computer intelligence tried each and every one
of them. None were open. The trap had closed.

Metal glowed cherry red, turned liquid, and trickled toward
the deck. The heat, reflected off the hatch, wanned Jepp's
skin and drew sweat from his pores. Now, with a little
time in which to think, ice cold fear trickled into the pit
of his stomach. What lay in wait on the other side of the
hatch?

The question went unanswered as metal surrendered to
heat and a locking rod was severed. The door sagged, Jepp
hit the "Off" switch, and the torch made a popping sound.
He placed the tool on the deck. The recesses had been
engineered for use by hands smaller than his but still man-
aged to accommodate his fingers. Jepp lifted and felt the
hatch roll reluctantly upwards. Success!

The human retriggered the torch, held it like a handgun,
and crept forward. Woe be to the machine that got in his
way!

The interior looked the way the Hoon said it would look.
The compartment was circular. A blue console stood at its
center. The ex-prospector pulled a 360 to ensure he was
alone, released the trigger, and heard the torch pop.

The handle was red all right... and easy to spot. Jepp
placed the torch on the deck, felt Sam leap off his shoulder,
and wiped the palms of his hands. Here it was, what he'd
been sent for, ready for the taking. The voice made him
jump. It spoke highly stilted standard and came from all
around. "Why are you doing this?" It sounded like the
Hoon—only different somehow,

"Because you told me to," Jepp said defensively.

"/ told you nothing of the kind," the voice answered
evenly. "The orders you received came from Hoon number
one."

"Hoon number one?" the human asked hesitantly, scan-
ning the bulkheads for some sign of the intelligence he
was talking to. "So who are vow? Hoon number two?"

BY FORCE OF ARMS            89

"Precisely," the AI replied. "Now, leave this compart-
ment, and return to wherever you came from."

Metal scraped on metal. Jepp turned to find that Alpha
had entered the compartment. The robot walked with a
limp but its voice was clear. "Resist the devil, and he will
flee from you. James 4:7."

Who had spoken? Alpha? Or Hoon number one? Jepp
decided it didn't make any difference. God had would have
his way. He took the handle, gave it one turn to the right,
and pulled it free.

There was only one sensor built into Hoon number two's
main processor module, but that was sufficient to monitor
the carefully computed launch, the fall toward the sun, and
one last moment of existence. What is a devil? the AI
wondered. And what would such a being look like? An
image etched itself onto the computer's consciousness and
it looked a lot like Jorely Jepp.

Just as the process of natural selection will deter-
mine which species shall ultimately prevail, a log-
ical tendency toward self-interest applies similar
pressure to the covenants, treaties and other
agreements that govern affairs of state.

Mowa Sith Horbothna
Turr academic
Standard year 2227

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy
of Sentient Beings

Conscious of the fact that his movements were monitored,
Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six palmed the panel, waited for
the hatch to open, and nodded to the embassy guards. Both
had been cloned from a much celebrated soldier named
Jonathan Alan Seebo whose badly mangled body, and the
DNA stored there, had given birth to entire armies.

Each trooper had experienced different things, leading
to different personalities, but remained very similar. They
had strong bodies, the intelligence necessary to operate so-
phisticated weapons systems, and a near fanatical devotion
to duty. The guards came to attention, but there was noth-
ing respectful about the look in their eyes, or the expres-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            91

sions on their identical faces. The soldiers had been briefed
by either his clone brother, Harlan Ishimoto-Seven, or his
assistant, Svetlana Gorgin-Three, both of whom were
aligned with Alpha Clone Magnus Mosby-One and his
brother Pietro. They, along with a significant number of
the advisors who served them, had been seduced by the
Ramanthian-led cabal. Something that Six, along with his
sponsor, the reclusive Alpha known as Antonio, both op-
posed. That being the case, the sentries would make a note
of his departure and enter it into a log.

The politician nodded an acknowledgement and stepped
out into the nonstop foot traffic. The corridors, busy during
the most lax of times, positively hummed as the senators
and their staffs prepared for the half-session hiatus. A
rather important opportunity to return home, rub elbows,
tentacles, and pseudopods with constituents, and enjoy
some R&R.

Six allowed himself to be absorbed into the crowd but
was far too experienced to think that it would shield him
from surveillance. No, not on board a vessel that crawled
with every sort of bug known to more than a dozen races.
Information was power—that made it valuable—and
everyone sought to obtain as much as they could.

Private meetings were possible, however, provided that
the participants took elaborate precautions and left nothing
to chance. That being the case, the clone adopted a quick
decisive pace, stepped onto a fully packed lift at the precise
moment when the doors started to close and rode it down-
Then, following the crowd into a labyrinth of corridors, he
took a shortcut through one of the passageways reserved
for robots, paused in a public restroom, donned a privacy
mask, changed into some electronically laundered clothes,
and left via the back door.

The mask smelled of plastic, and made the area around
his eyes itch, but did offer a modicum of anonymity. The
fact that about ten percent of the crowd wore similar dis-
guises hinted at the number of last-minute schemes, deals,

92 William C. Dietz

and agreements being hammered out as the hiatus began.

Finally, after the senator had done everything he could
to shake surveillance, he entered a one-person lift tube,
dropped to the less-trafficked boat deck, and took a careful
look around. Nothing. Nothing he could see anyway.

Then, with the quick, positive movements of someone
who knows his way about, the politician followed the gen-
tly curving hull to a multilingual sign that read: "Lifeboat-
46, Oxygen Breathers Only."

Then, after another backward glance, the cione removed
a card from his pocket and inserted the rectangle into a
slot. The lock mechanism read what it thought was one of
749 acceptable DNA-based codes and released the hatch.
It hissed open and closed.

The lifeboat was equipped with a tiny lock, but it was
located toward the stem—and away from the main hatch.
Seconds would count should an actual emergency occur,
and the entry had been designed to accommodate a large
number of beings in a short period of time. The air was
cold, and the lights were on. The interior smelled like the
inside of a brand-new ground car. Six removed the mask.
"Maylo? Are you here?"

There was a whisper of fabric, followed by the slightest
whiff of perfume. Six turned, and there she was. An over-
head spot threw light across her face. She wore a plain
high-collared sheath-style dress. It clung to her body the
same way he wanted to and was slit up both legs. Won-
derful legs, which on one memorable occasion, had been
used to pull him in. But that was months in the past, a
moment he'd never been able to replicate, much as he de-
sired to do so. His voice was husky. "You are very, very,
beautiful."

Maylo smiled. The truth was that she liked Samuel
Ishimoto-Six, liked him more than she should have, or
even wanted to, given her relationship with Booly. What-
ever that was. The clone was about six feet tall, had a
slightly Japanese cast to his features, and looked very

BY FORCE OF ARMS            93

handsome. "Thanks. You look pretty good yourself."

Both were silent for a moment—taking each other in.
The clone spoke first. "I didn't know about the cabal—not
till your uncle and Ambassador Doma-Sa forced the whole
thing out into the open."

Maylo nodded. "Yes, I thought as much. I'm sony they
threw you into the brig with Ishimoto-Seven."

The politician shrugged. "It was for the best. Otherwise,
the conspirators would have assumed the worst and ar-
ranged for some sort of accident. The cabal will stop at
nothing. The so-called duel proved that."

"So?" Maylo asked gently, "why the meeting?"

Six grinned. "Because I want to seduce you."

"I believe you have already accomplished that," Maylo
observed dryly.

"Which is why I know it's worth the effort," Six replied.

'That's it then?" me executive inquired mischievously.
"You put your life on the line in order to get in my pants?"

The politician laughed. "No, I have an ulterior motive
as well."

"Ah," Maylo replied. "I thought as much . .. My career
as a sex goddess comes to an end. Come on, let's find a
place to sit."

The lifeboat's interior was somewhat spartan. An emer-
gency services droid stood motionless at the rear of the
compartment. A forehead-mounted "Ready" light blinked
on and off. There were overhead bins packed with sup-
plies, pressure suits racked along the bulkheads, and rows
of adjustable seats. Maylo sat on one, heard a whirring
noise, and felt it conform to the shape of her body. Six
took the chair opposite hers. "So," the executive continued,
tell me more ... What's on your mind?"

The clone forced his thoughts away from die way she
looked and focused his mind on business. The business of
politics. "I know that you know there's been a schism
within our government. It would be hard to miss. What

94 William C. Dietz

you don't know, or I hope you don't know, is how deep
it went."

"I couldn't help but notice the use of the past tense,"
Maylo observed. "Has the schism been healed?"

The senator shrugged. "No, not yet. I think such a thing
is possible, however, remembering that I'm something of
an optimist. The essence of the situation is this: Alpha
Clones Magnus and his brother Pietro allowed themselves
to be drawn into an alliance with the Thraki in hopes that
the aliens would serve as a counter to the cabal's steadily
growing influence. A situation the Hegemony could have
avoided by steering clear of the conspiracy in the first
place. My sponsor, the Alpha known as Antonio opposed
the plan—but lost the vote.

"During the period immediately after Magnus and Pietro
authorized the alliance with the Thraki, the aliens took pos-
session of Zynig-47 and were allowed to establish military
bases on a number of our sparsely settled planets.

"The strategy, as conceived by my brother Ishimoto-
Seven, was that anyone who attacked the Hegemony
would be in the position of attacking the Thraki as well,
and, given the size of their armada, would have second
thoughts."

"A strategy your leaders have since come to regret,"
Maylo finished for him. "Especially in light of the fact that
the Sheen are headed this way—and seem bent on destroy-
ing the very armada that you spoke of."

"Exactly," the politician agreed. "Which equates to a
one-of-a-kind opportunity. This is the time to speak, to
offer countervailing counsel, and turn them around."

Maylo nodded. "What you say makes sense ... But why
tell me?"

His eyes locked with hers. "If, and I repeat if, we are
able to convince Magnus and Pietro of the truth, we'll need
Nankool's support. The Thraki value their bases and will
strive to keep them."

"And you believe that I can secure Nankool's support?"

BY FORCE OF ARMS            95

The clone nodded. "Yes, but more than that, I want you
to accompany me home. Your experience, your views, and
your connections will add weight to my arguments ... We
must convince the Alpha Clones that if they change, if they
break with the cabal, the Confederacy will take us in." His
eyes pleaded with her. "So, will you come?"

Maylo felt a rising sense of excitement. If the Sheen
were on their way, and should they turn out to be even
half as powerful as the Thraki claimed that they were, the
Confederacy would need every bit of strength that it could
muster. The Hegemony, along with its highly developed
military, could make an important difference. Her uncle
would want her to go.

There was another reason however—one that had more
to do with him than politics. Maylo smiled. "Yes, I'll
come."

The two of them left after that, but the emergency serv-
ices robot stayed where it was, waiting to repeat what it
had seen and heard.

Exhausted by the long hours he'd been keeping, and still
grieving over the War Omo's untimely death, the Raman-
thian senator retired to his warm, somewhat humid quar-
ters.

The politician noticed the ultraviolet message light, de-
cided to remove his computer-assisted contact lenses, and
saw the light replicate itself dozens of times. He had grown
used to the transition but it still made him dizzy.

Orno listened to the message, listened again, and won-
dered how two seemingly intelligent beings could be so
stupid. Meeting in a lifeboat, discussing how they had
mated with each other, then switching to politics. It made
him feel unclean. Well, there was a solution for that, one
of the few pleasures the Ramanthian allowed himself.

The politician made his way back to his private quarters,
took pleasure in the low murky light, and released his
robes. The garment was left for a drone to deal with while

96 William C. Dietz

he shuffled toward the sand bath. Though smaller than the
ones typical of dwellings on his native planet, the trans-
parent duraptast box was functional nonetheless. The Ra-
manthian entered, descended a set of stairs, and mounted
the equivalent of a stool. The switch was located next to
his left pincer. The Omo triggered the prewarmed sand,
and felt it rise around him, and experienced something
verging on bliss.

Then, when the finely grained stuff lapped around his
neck, it stopped. That's when the entire mass started to
vibrate, each grain acting like a tiny scrub brush, removing
dirt while it polished his chitin. The senator allowed his
mind to drift and knew that it was here, within the warm
embrace of the sand, that some of his most inspired
schemes had been hatched. And, painful though the knowl-
edge was, the Omo realized that some of his worst plans
had been concocted there as well, as measured by the ex-
tent to which they had been successful.

Now, as he prepared to return home and report to the
hive mother, it was necessary to evaluate the situation as
dispassionately as she would.

The plan to destabilize the Earth government, and
thereby lessen the extent to which the humans controlled
the Confederacy, had been successful initially, and might
have achieved the desired end had it not been for the sud-
den reemergence of the damnable Chien-Chu, and for the
meddling by Hiween Doma-Sa. A dangerous pair who had
suddenly dropped from sight. Why? Where were they?
And what were they up to? There was no way to be sure.

What the Ramanthian did know was that the newly sta-
bilized Earth government, plus the arrival of the Thraki,
plus the threat posed by the Sheen had altered the political
landscape. Yes, it would take idiots like Ishimoto-Seven
and his ilk awhile to notice, but the nature of the game
had changed.

Certain elements within the Hegemony were in the pro-
cess of reconsidering their options. The conversation be-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            97

tween Ishimoto-Six and Maylo Chien-Chu was proof of
that, and the possibility of war lurked just beyond the ho-
rizon. War between the clones and the Thraki, war between
the Thraki and the Sheen, and war between the Sheen and
the Confederacy.

Should the Ramanmians choose sides? No, the politician
decided, not with so many variables clouding the outcome.
His race had been scavengers once and could so profit
again. The most intelligent strategy was to pull back, allow
the cabal to wither, and wait to see who or what reigned
victorious. Then, their strength undiminished by war, his
people would emerge to claim the worlds they so desper-
ately needed.

Omo settled into the sand and allowed the substance to
take most of his weight. Warmth sought his center. Yes,
the Ramanthian decided, there are times to act and times
to wait. The trick was knowing the difference. Sleep pulled
him down.

Clone world Alpha-001 was extremely Earthlike in keep-
ing with the nearly endless edicts laid down by the He-
gemony's founder Dr. Carolyn Anne Hosokowa. Though
beautiful when viewed from orbit, the surface of the planet
was less attractive from thirty-five thousand feet, and even
less so as the courier ship came in for a landing. Not be-
cause of some failure on nature's part but due to what
human beings had done to it.

Maylo watched with a growing sense of dread as the
carefully laid out farms gave way to low-stung factories
and rank after rank of identical high-rise buildings. They
looked like what they were meant to be: cold, cost-
effective boxes in which workers were "stored" during
nonproductive "rest and regeneration periods."

The business executive glanced sideways, saw the look
of eager anticipation on Ishimoto-Six's countenance, and
was reminded of how adaptable human beings were. First,
they had colonized every conceivable comer of their native

98 William C. Dietz

world, and later, other planets as well. Even those that
swirled with methane, were almost entirely clad in ice, or
subjected them to 1.5 gees. More than that, they frequently
came to love them, like ducks that imprint on the first
animate object they see, and claim it as their own. And
here, where an effort had been made to establish the "per-
fect" society, one could expect to see even more of that.
"Beautiful isn't it?" Six inquired as the ship flared in for
a landing.

"Yes," Maylo lied, remembering similar questions from
Booly. He enjoyed looking at rank after rank of carefully
arranged legionnaires .. . and couldn't understand her lack
of interest. Men. They were the true aliens.

There was a noticeable thump as the ship settled in. The
senator's assistant, Gorgin-Three, appeared at the center of
the aisle and announced the obvious: "We're on the surface
now—I will check on the ground transportation."

Ishimoto-Six wanted to stand and choke her into sub-
mission. The 'bitch had boarded the ship at the last possible
moment, and by her miserable presence, had prevented
him from enjoying some time with Maylo. Some zero gee
sex, a pleasure he had enjoyed only once before, would
have been a wonderful way to pass the time.

Now, determined to dog him, and report everything he
said or did, she was like a cloud hanging over the clone's
head. Solely because she was a fanatic? Or because she
had a crush on him? It hardly mattered. The senator
growled a reply, gathered his belongings, and prepared to
disembark. Maylo did likewise.

The tarmac shimmered in the afternoon heat, drives roared
as an in-system freighter fought its way up through the
atmosphere, and the courier settled onto the blast-scarred
pad.

The kill ball had been waiting for the better part of a
local day. But machines are patient, especially those de-
signed to assassinate people, so the delay was unimportant.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            99

Some environments are difficult to operate in, especially
those where a spherical self-propelled droid has a tendency
to stand out, but there was no such problem here. The kill
ball had simply lowered itself onto a pylon-mounted sensor
pod where it looked very much at home. So much so that
any number of birds landed on the machine, crapped on
the brushed aluminum housing, and made it appear that
much more natural.

Now, as the courier's lock cycled open, the mechanical
assassin activated its weapons and rose into the air. The
moment had arrived. There was a task to perform. What
it was made no difference. A variety of droids converged
on the spaceship. The kill ball joined the throng.

Gorgin-Three stepped out onto the roll-up stairway, nod-
ded to the Jonathan Alan Seebo who'd been sent to greet
them, and scanned her surroundings. The assassins were
waiting, of that she was sure, but where were they? In
among the hangers that lined the tarmac in front of her?
The thought that cold-blooded killers might be staring at
her through high-powered telescopic sights sent a chill
down the staffer's spine.

However, while Ishimoto-Seven had told Three what to
expect, he hadn't told her who, or even how. Perhaps death
would find Maylo Chien-Chu, while having a drink or tak-
ing a shower. It made tittle difference. The slut needed to
die, deserved to die, for any number of reasons: for her
opposition to the Hegemony's legitimate interests, for the
exploitation of workers, and for having sex with Ishimoto-
Six.

Gorgin-Three heard movement behind her, turned, and
allowed Six to pass. He looked so handsome that feelings
bubbled up from deep within her. What did it/eel like?
she wondered. To let a man... But no, such things were
forbidden. She pushed the thought away.

Maylo nodded to the staffer and descended the stairs.
They bounced slightly. The sun warmed her face.

100 William C. Dietz

Gorgin-Three caught movement from the comer of her
eye. turned, and saw the sphere closing in. Some sort of
guide drone? On its way somewhere else? No, those were
orange. Then it struck her... Something was wrong! The
droid paused, hovered, and fired a targeting laser. The dot
wobbled across the top of Ishimoto's head.

Gorgin-Three screamed. "No!" at the top of her lungs,
launched herself off the stairs, and hit Six with both her
outstretched hands. He fell facedown. The high velocity
slug tore through the staffer's body, and the shot echoed
across the spaceport.

Jonathan Alan Seebo-11,212 saw what took place and
fired a quick series of shots. Later, after the investigation
had been completed, official documents would show that
twelve of the fourteen shots fired hit the target and four
caused serious damage.

The kill ball took note of the fact that it had failed to
hit the assigned target, knew it was damaged, and tried to
self-destruct. The mechanism failed, the device lost alti-
tude, and crashed into the tarmac. All in a matter of five
seconds.

Six did a push-up, made it to his feet, and turned toward
the ship. Gorgin-Three lay in a pool of her own blood. The
politician rushed to her side. The clone was very near to
death. She knew it, and so did he. There was something
in her eyes, a tenderness the clone had never seen before,
and suddenly wished that he had. "Samuel?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"I would have done it, if you had asked me to."

Ishimoto-Six looked surprised. "Done it? Done what?"

Blood rose to fill Three's mouth. She worked to swallow
it. "You know .. . what you did with her."

Maylo was there—pressing a makeshift compress
against the entry wound. The politician's eyes flicked to
her and back. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Svetlana. I
wish I had known."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            101

But her face was slack, the light had faded from her
eyes, and Gorgin-Three was gone.

The villa, which had been constructed to meet the exacting
standards set forth by Antonio-Seven, crowned a verdant
hill. The roof was covered with locally manufactured tile,
the walls were painted pristine white, and bright-red fire
trees guarded the grounds. A series of gracefully propor-
tioned arches admitted large volumes of air into the dwell-
ing along with semicircles of warm orange-yellow
sunlight.

Simply put, the villa flew in the face of the sort of in-
stitutional architecture the founder favored, and it was in-
directly responsible for the rounded, more organic shapes
that were starting to appear out away from the cities.

There was nothing especially luxurious about the house,
however. The furniture was of good quality but far from
ornate. Nor was there much of it, which meant that Alpha
Clones Magnus Mosby-One and the flamboyant Pietro-
Seven could either take the seats that were offered, or sit
on the floor.

Magnus, who had been born of a union between the
Alpha Clone Marcus-Six and Marianne Mosby, one of the
Legion's most storied officers, had his father's black hair,
his mother's tendency to put on weight, and a deep boom-
ing voice. He wore a plain white toga held in place by his
favorite double-helix pin. A pair of plain but sturdy sandals
completed the outfit.

Pietro, who had exactly the same features as his host,
wore a gauzy lime-green pullover top, matching pantaloon-
style trousers, and a pair of leather slippers. A single ear-
ring dangled from his left lobe.

It was an embellishment Antonio considered to be ex-
cessive, like a dish with too many ingredients or a con-
trived work of art. He preferred a spartan black tunic,
matching pants, and bare feet. They padded across the floor
and stopped in front of his favorite chair. It was made of

102 William C. Dietz

cane and creaked under his weight. His voice was slightly
higher than that possessed by Magnus but a good deal
more melodious. He looked from Magnus to Pietro. "Much
has changed."

"Yes," Magnus agreed thoughtfully. "It has. Much as it
pains me to say so ... it appears that you were correct."

Pietro looked surprised. "He was? About what?"

"Almost everything," Magnus replied somberly. "Start-
ing with his opposition to the cabal—and extending to his
suspicions regarding the Thraki. The first strategy failed to
achieve its purpose, and, should the Sheen arrive, the sec-
ond could actually destroy us. Especially if the alien mil-
itary bases come under attack."

Pietro, who was a much better administrator than a strat-
egist looked alarmed and defensive. "That's not what our
experts say . -. they say ..."

"They are fools," Antonio finished for him. "Many of
them are sincere but misled. Much of the counsel they
received originated with this man."

The Alpha Clone touched a button and a holographic
likeness of Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven blossomed at the
center of the conversation area. The footage had been ob-
tained surreptitiously. It stabilized and started to rotate.
The diplomat was talking to someone.

"Nonsense," Pietro replied. "Ishimoto-Seven is not only
genetically appropriate to his task, he has years of relevant
experience, and has been rated ready for promotion."

"The very thing he seeks most," Magnus observed. "Be-
fore all else."

"Surely you are mistaken," Pietro insisted, looking from
one face to the other. "Where is your proof? Something
objective?"

"Right here," Antonio replied calmly. "Watch this."

The holo of Ishimoto-Seven dissolved into a shot of a
spaceport. Judging from the way it was framed and the
duration of the subsequent zoom, the camera had been a
long way off. All three of the men watched as the kill

BY FORCE OF ARMS            103

ball closed on a courier ship, lined up on Senator Ishimoto-
Six, and fired a single shot. The clones remained silent as
Gorgin-Three died—and was carried away. Antonio was
the first to speak. "My agents were caught by surprise and
have some explaining to do ... The kill ball was dis-
patched by Ishimoto-Seven. He knew Six was on the way
to see us ... and hoped to intervene."

"So you say," Pietro replied stubbornly. "Prove it."

"All three of the Alpha Clones were equipped with im-
plants. Antonio cocked his head as the message came in.
"The accused has arrived," Antonio replied. "Make no
mention of what you've seen, wait for the rest of our
guests to arrive, and watch Seven's face. His personal
communications devices were spoofed hours ago... He
will convict himself."

Pietro considered the matter for a moment, gave a jerk
of his head, and wondered if the rumors were true. Had
his brother's DNA been obtained from one of their pred-
ecessor's backup copies rather than stored material? And
if so, could that account for the differences between them?
There was no way to know.

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 dep-
uty'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

104 William C. Dietz

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 at-
tempt 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 ex-
pertise, 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 devel-
opment 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,
took 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 be-
gun. 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 Anto-
nio'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."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            105

The subsequent meeting lasted the better part of two local
days. Though not empowered to act on behalf of the Con-
federacy, 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.
Mayto, 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 miss-
ing. She wrestled with her dreams and felt tired when she
awoke.

In war I would deaf with the Devil and his grand-
mother.

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
corn console glowed green, as did the battery-powered ho-
los of his family, and the overhead heat duct.

The cyborg wondered what time it was, saw 0633 ap-
pear 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.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            107

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 quar-
ters. The first meeting would be held over breakfast. A
meal he had once enjoyed. Life was anything but fair.

The Moily 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 tine, 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 busi-
ness, catching a little R&R when the Sheen dropped in for
a visit. Machines that preached on street comers . .. 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.

108 William C. Dietz

None of the civilizations he was familiar with had the tech-
nology 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 mat-
ters were handled by the Hoon—and the Hoon was a long
way off.

President Marcott Nankool nodded to Chief Warrant Of-
ficer 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 Omo who was tasked with the in-
troduction by right of seniority. He rose from the specially
constructed chair located to the right of the speaker's po-
sition. 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 rus-
tle 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 plea-
sure to be here. You have an ambitious slate of legislation
to consider—and I have no wish to delay your delibera-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            109

tions. 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 ges-
tures 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, com-
bined 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."

Nankoo! 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 assis-
tance 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 rap-
prochement.

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

110 William C. Oietz

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. Co-
herent 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 any-
thing 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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            111

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 under-
standing 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 log-
ically 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/<?;( the im-
pact 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 steer-
ing 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 min-
ute adjustments, but he brought the Molly around. Finally,
convinced that the ship was on course, Willy sent a mes-
sage: "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

112 William C. Dietz

would allow. The voice belonged to a corn tech named
Howsky—and she was bored. Nothing interesting had hap-
pened 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 avail-
able. Thank you."

Down in the senate, where pandemonium reigned only
moments before, silence claimed the chamber. Marcott

BY FORCE OF ARMS            113

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 Pres-
ident 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 Ar-
balla 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 called 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 per-
ceptions ... An idea flashed through his mind. If the strat-
egy worked, it could save day- If it failed he would look
like an idiot.

A/i 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."

114 William C. Dietz

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 infor-
mation pertaining to the emergency and were quick to
quiet down.

Like most high-ranking politicians Nankool was a con-
summate actor. He had even gone so far as to study some
of what he considered to be the more important alien cul-
tures, 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 lis-
ten as the pilot of the incoming ship describes what hap-
pened to him. Captain, if you please . .."

The holo blossomed, and the senate found itself staring
into Willy Williams' grizzled countenance. Though con-
scious of the fact thai 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 incon-
venience ... but the Molly took a whole lot of damage."

Nankool cleared his throat. "Thank you. Citizen Wil-
liams. What you did required a great deal of courage. I'm
sure that Captain Boone and his crew will do everything

BY FORCE OF ARMS            115

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 talk-
ing 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 alli-
ance 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 discus-
sion.

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 thou-

116 Wilfiam C. Dietz

sand 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 ab-
surd.

Still, the situation did allow him to turn his attention
from the spacegoing capital to the Molly B and her some-
what 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 corn 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, how-
ever—just one of the reasons why they required supervi-
sion. "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 sieds will pick you up."

"What about the MollyT

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.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            117

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. " Wo?' 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 mon-
itoring 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 Ar-
balla'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 per-
mission 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 join-
ing the senate, they chose the latter. Sergi Chien-Chu and
Hiween Doma-Sa waved them over. Some whispered con-

118 William C. Dietz

versation 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 dan-
gers 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 tenden-
cies, 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 si-
lence 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 Omo 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 his tool
legs back along the sides of his beak. "The chair recog-
nizes 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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            119

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 Ambas-
sador 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 Omo 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 Confed-
eracy, i/all trade restrictions are lifted, and (/the Hegem-
ony 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 inde-
pendent. 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 Omo. The almost perfect silence was per-

120 William C. Dietz

mission 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 du-
ration of the crises. What happens after that will be subject
to negotiation."

Stroke and counterstroke! Every single one of them un-
derstood 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 accompa-
nied 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?"

BY FORCE OF ARMS            121

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 com-
puters 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."

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 con-
structed, and loved to take potshots at anyone unfortunate
enough to "pull the O," which was slang for walking end-
less 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.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            123

The legionnaire stepped out onto the metal grating, nod-
ded to a heavily armored private, and knew she was an
old hand. Newbies, also known as "frog food," had a ten-
dency 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,
mist 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 fa-
miliar 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, am-
bush Trooper IPs 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

124 William C. Dietz

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 rings. A lot like recent events. Who would have
envisioned a time when Hudathans, Hegemony, and Con-
federate forces all came under a single command? His.

Not because Booly was best qualified, not in his judge-
ment 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, com-
munications, 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.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            125

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 take, jerked in response
to the ebb and flow of the early morning breeze, and parted
for the flat-bottomed boat.

The scow was constructed of aluminum, was twenty-
two feet long, and heavily loaded. General William Booly
sat toward the bow, War Commander Wenio 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 rela-
tionships. 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 Booty 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.

126 William C. Dietz

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 yel-
low 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 sup-
port."

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 corn set ca-
pable 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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            127

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 Nurton-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 mil-
itary 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,

128 William C. Dietz

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 foli-
age. "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 tight 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 dap-
pled Drang adder, the vine viper, and a nasty piece 'o work

BY FORCE OF ARMS            129

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 deja vu as he eyed
the jungle, spotted a break in the foliage, and headed that
way. A heavily camouflaged human peered out of the un-
dergrowth, 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 knowl-
edge. 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,

130 William C. Dietz

set mines, or establish ambushes. None of which would be
good for their health.

That being the case. the officer checked the patrol's po-
sition 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 con-
verted 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 suf-
ficient space between his body and the black-skinned hu-
man, and felt a steadily growing sense of superiority. This
was his worid, 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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            131

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 end-
less 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 up-
wards, and sampled the air. Breakfast was waiting.

The morning passed without incident. Each individual ro-
tated 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 day-
light."

" *Haul our butts up into some trees?' " Morla-Ka in-
quired 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.

132 William C. Dietz

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?"

Booty 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 differ-
ent, 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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            133

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 gro-
tesquely 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 at-
tractive 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 mor-
tality 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 protect not only her but her progeny.

134 William C. Dietz

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 sup-
port 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 de-
manded. "Where is our food?"

A platter appeared. It was laden with dried water skim-
mers, 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 mo-
ment, 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 pro-
tected by the machines, due to the heavy casualties that
her warriors were certain to sustain. But this was some-
thing different. This was an opportunity to capture weap-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            135

ons and punish the sky people at the same time. "Wait for
them in the swamp. Kill them there."

Drik bowed. "Yes, Clan Mother... It shall be as you
say."

It rained like hell about two in the afternoon, a downpour
that drenched the treetops and sent water cascading from
leaf to leaf, to soak those down below. Hebo seemed even
happier, Morla-Ka barely noticed, and the humans were
miserable. The water found its way under their collars,
seeped over their shoulders, and entered their boots.

The ground turned soft, sucked at their boots, and
drained their energy. The branches that brushed their
shoulders, the vines they slashed in two, and the knee-high
foliage all conspired to deliver even more water to their
moisture-laden clothing. And, as though that weren't bad
enough, many of the local life forms seemed energized by
the afternoon soaking. The hopped, slithered, and swung
from branch to branch.

Hebo knew the point position was dangerous, knew he
was showing off, but couldn't help himself. Drang was so
pleasant, so much like Hive, that he felt at home. Maybe
that's why he missed the vine viper, mistook the reptile
for one of the green runners that dangled from the canopy,
and whacked at it with his machete. Not edge on, which
might have killed the creature, but with the flat of the
blade, which served to make it angry.

The snake, which hung head down, released its grip on
a branch twenty feet over the Ramanthian's head, allowed
the full weight of its long sinuous body to fall on the of-
ficer's torso, and struck for the alien's neck.

The lactic would have worked on a frog, or on a human,
but not on a jungle-evolved Ramanthian. Fangs grated on
dark brown chitin, tool arms grabbed a section of the vi-
per's body, and a razor-sharp beak slashed through skin
and muscle.

The reptile reacted with understandable violence. It

136 William C. Dietz

whipped coils of rock-hard flesh around the Ramanthian's
thorax and started to squeeze.

Seebo, true to the DNA for which his ancestor had been
chosen, took immediate action. Not because he had devel-
oped a sudden fondness for geeks, but because he was who
he was, and couldn't stand idly by.

The human's assault weapon was useless, not unless he
wanted to kill Hebo as well, so the clone drew his combat
knife, threw himself into the fray, and grabbed a thigh-
thick section of the viper's muscular body. The blade had
two edges, one straight, the other equipped with sawtike
teeth. It was the second that proved most effective as
Seebo sawed through the red-tinged white meat.

Hebo made a note of the human's attack, felt the snake
shudder in response, and knew it was distracted. That be-
ing the case, the Ramanthian felt for the short sword that
projected up over his right shoulder, pressed a button on
the hilt, and felt the weapon come to life.

The force blade made a sizzling sound as it burned
through the reptile's flesh. The viper's head bounced off
the jungle floor, the body gave one last convulsion and
finally lay still.

Mondulo stepped over a section of the long serpentine
body and said, "Good thing it was only half grown," and
took the point.

Seebo started to laugh, Hebo made strange popping
sounds, and Booly shook his head in wonder. It wasn't the
kind of bonding he had envisioned—but something was
better than nothing.

Dinner looked a lot like lunch, hell, it was exactly like
lunch, which suited Mondulo just fine. The jungle offered
enough variety, and it was nice to deal with something you
could count on. The noncom stirred the stroganoff with the
dp of his combat knife and watched his charges prepare
for the night.

The Ramanthian turned out to be one heck of a tree

BY FORCE OF ARMS            137

climber, which came as something of a surprise and made
the noncom just a little uneasy. The bugs were allies to-
day—but how 'bout tomorrow? Fighting an army of He-
bos in a triple-canopy jungle would be a nasty business.
Still, a rough and ready sort of teamwork had emerged,
which was the point of the exercise.

Morla-Ka whacked trees down with five or six blows of
his machete, Seebo cut the resulting poles into sections,
and Hebo carried them aloft. That's where Booly took the
raw materials, made some modifications, and added them
to the steadily growing platform. He used a timber hitch
to get started, followed by square lashings to secure the
basic framework.

Then, when that task was complete, he tied a series of
forty manhamess hitches into a doubled piece of rope,
passed sturdy sticks through the matching loops, and
pulled them tight. The result was a crude but serviceable
ladder. Not a necessity where he, Seebo, and Mondulo
were concerned, and useless for a body like Hebo's, but a
courtesy for the Hudathan. It creaked when Morla-Ka
made his way upward, but it held and was easy to hoist
up onto the platform.

Once everyone was in place and the humans had
smeared their bodies with Drang-specific insect repellent,
it was time to eat. Mondulo stood guard as the officers
grumbled over their rations, the day creatures went into
hiding, and the night hunters started to emerge.

The first hint of their presence was heard rather than
seen. There were the clicks, pops, and buzzing noises as-
sociated with the local insect population, quickly followed
by the grunts, howls, and occasional screeches made by
higher life-forms. All of which made Booly glad that they
were up off the jungle floor. He finished his meal, used
some water from a canteen to speed the last lump on its
way, and let his weight rest on a tree trunk. The moon was
up, and that, combined with a hole in the canopy, provided
some light to see by.

138 William C. Dietz

Seebo and Hebo were reliving their battle with the
snake, while Mondulo sat with eyes closed, and Morla-Ka
cleaned his assault weapon. It was strange how the trip
into the jungle had served to transform these officers into
regular troops. Nowhere was that more visible than in the
way they talked. The conversation was about the day's
adventures, about the food, and presumably, when he
stepped out of earshot, about what an asshole he was. Be-
cause if there's anything grunts like to do, it's bitch about
the command structure, which in their case came down to
one single individual.

Booly felt an insect land on his cheek, swatted, and
knew it had escaped. A tree dweller screeched and was
answered from a long way off. Seebo said something to
the Ramanthian, who made the popping noises that
equated to laughter.

So, Booly asked himself, which one of them should I
designate as second in command? Which one can the Con-
federacy count on? Seebo? Because he's human? Morla-
Ka because he isn't? Hebo as a compromise? No, those
were political considerations. The one I choose should be
the best leader available—and to hell with the way they're
packaged.

The thought served to remind him of his own mixed
ancestry, of the fact that some people would regard his
command structure as something of a freak show, a
thought that struck him as funny. Booly laughed.

Seebo looked at Hebo, Morla-Ka looked up from his
weapon, and Mondulo opened a single eye. The old man
was a nutcase - - - but what else was new? Officers were
weird, and sergeants, who served as the Legion's back-
bone, would never be able to understand them.

Something made a gibbering sound. A cloud cloaked the
moon. The noncom smiled and drifted off to sleep.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            139

Drik floated just beneath the surface of the dark, murky
water. It was thick with algae, sediment, and hundreds of
tiny life-forms all vying for their share of the swamp-born
soup. Air bladders located beneath his armpits allowed the
warrior to control the extent of his buoyancy. That being
the case, he could hang suspended in the water for hours
or even days should that become necessary.

But it wouldn't be necessary—not unless his senses had
suddenly decided to betray him. A flock of flyers had flut-
tered into the air moments before. A school of swamp
darters had propelled themselves toward deeper water, and
he could feel an alien presence. None of the clan members
had ever asked him about such impressions, since they had
them too, but a xenoanthropologist would have been in-
terested in the fact that while some portion of the data
required to generate them flowed from "normal" sensory
input, the rest stemmed from something else, which if not
telepathy, was somehow related.

In any case, Drik "felt" the aliens approach, could dis-
tinguish between different personas, and, had he been al-
lowed to observe them for a longer period of time, might
have been able to describe their various emotions.

His emotions were clear. The off-worlders had murdered
members of his clan, poisoned the planet's water, and in-
terfered with the Great Mother's plan. The crimes were
clear—and so was the punishment: death.

Booly smelled the swamp long before he actually saw it.
The damp, slightly malodorous scent of decayed plant life,
combined with the stink of stagnant water, sent invisible
tendrils into the jungle as if to warn of the terrain ahead.

That being the case, the legionnaire was far from sur-
prised when his machete slashed through the final screen
of vegetation to reveal a broadly shelving mud bank and
an expanse of coppery brown water backed by a stand of
what Booly remembered as sponge trees, tall woody tubes

140 William C. Dietz

that contained membranes through which swamp water
was continually filtered. Nutrients were removed, waste
products were added, and what remained oozed into the
estuary.

Booly scanned the area for danger, failed to identify any,
and moved to one side. Moria-Ka stepped forward, fol-
lowed by Mondulo, Seebo, and Hebo. The latter shuffled
backward, his world divided into hundreds of images.

The noncom squinted into the brighter light, directed a
stream of spit into the toffee-colored water, and removed
a grenade from one of his cargo pockets. The pin had been
pulled, and the object was high in the air before Booly
managed to spit the words out. "Sergeant, what the hell
are you ... ?"

An explosion, followed by a geyser of momentarily
white water, served to punctuate the sentence. "Just some
reconnaissance by fire, sir. Stir things up, see what's what,
if ya know what I mean."

Booly swallowed his anger. "So much for keeping our
presence secret."

Mondulo looked surprised. "Secret? Beggin' the gen-
eral's pardon, but we ain't got no fraxin' secrets. The frogs
know where we are and what we've been doin'. Well, not
what we're doin', since that wouldn't make any sense to
a frog, but what they think we're doin', which is stompin'
all over the Great Mother's sacred body and pissin' on her
face. The slimy bastards are out there all right—the only
question is where."

Booty swallowed his pride, nodded, and said, "Carry on."

Mondulo did—and more grenades flew through the air.
The geysers formed a tidy row.

Though moderated by the density of the surrounding wa-
ter, the explosions wounded a warrior named Gril and de-
livered what felt like a series of blows to Drik's abdomen.
He felt the air rush out of his lungs, stuck his nose up
through the surface, and drew some much-needed air. If

BY FORCE OF ARMS            141

the aliens saw, they gave no sign of it, and the warrior
was gone before the water started to settle.

Other warriors, too far from the bang thing to be af-
fected by it, towed the half-conscious Gril away. The first
blow had been struck—but far from the last.

The Hudathan's machete made a solid thunking sound as
it bit into the side of the T-T tree, produced another wedge
of flying wood, and squeaked free. The blade, harnessed
to three hundred pounds of bone and muscle, had already
made short work of fourteen carefully matched eight-inch
trunks. The trees, which bore only four branches apiece,
were strong but buoyant, important qualities for a raft.

Seebo had lobbied for a lunch break but been forced to
give way under Mondulo's insistence that the team con-
struct their vessel prior to eating. Now, with hunger driving
them on, the officers were hard at work. The first task was
to assemble the materials in the proper manner. The non-
com was a strict taskmaster. "This is called a 'gripper bar
raft' 'cause of the way we place two lengths of wood on
the ground and place logs on top of them. "Now, if you
would be so kind as to lay the logs at right angles to the
crosspieces, we'll be damned close to done."

Booly assisted Seebo, and the majority of the logs had
been rolled, dragged, and kicked into place by the time
Morla-Ka arrived with his latest arboreal victim.

Then, with the tree trunks lying side by side, the last
two crosspieces were lowered into position and secured to
the first pair, "gripping" the logs between them.

Once that was accomplished, it was a relatively simple
matter to construct an A-frame-style support structure, se-
cure it in place with guylines, and add the pole-mounted
paddle-style rudder. Once the last knot had been tied, the
entire team took a moment to- admire their work. The fin-
ished raft was about twenty feet long and nine wide.
Though flat, and not especially pretty, Seebo figured it
would float. "I christen thee Pancake," the clone said,

142 William C. Dietz

sprinkling some canteen water on the craft's bow. "Long
may you sail."

Other and in some case more colorful names were sub-
mitted for consideration, but Pancake stuck, and they
broke for lunch. No one had given much thought to Hebo's
rations up till that point, but when he opened a container
of grubs, squirted some sort of stimulant into the mix and
brought the creatures to squirming life, that got their at-
tention.

The entire group watched in horrified fascination as the
Ramanthian speared one of the creatures, shoved it under
his parrotlike beak, and bit down. A mixture of blood and
intestinal contents sprayed outwards. Seebo shook his head
in amazement. "Jeez, Hebo ... that was gross."

The statement would have been a breach in etiquette
within diplomatic circles but was well within the realm of
what one legionnaire would say to another. Which way
would the Ramanthian react? Booly waited to see.

There was a pause while the insectlike alien considered
the human's comment. When he spoke, the words had the
hard, flat sound of his computer-driven translator. "Screw
you, Seebo, and the test tube you were bom in."

It was exactly how the typical legionnaire would re-
spond. The rest of the group laughed, and Booly smiled.
The team was coming together. The officer closed his eyes,
thought of Maylo Chien-Chu, and wondered what she was
doing.

The Pancake was launched with more swearing than cer-
emony. By constructing the raft up on the mud bank, the
team had kept their feet dry. Now, in order to launch their
vessel, the officers had to lift it. Morla-Ka made his part
took easy, while the rest of the group strained, stumbled,
and swore as they struggled to break the logs free from
the mud, hoisted the Pancake into the air, and carried her
down into the water. She landed with a splash. Everyone

BY FORCE OF ARMS            143

got wet, and waves rolled toward the opposite side of the
estuary.

"All right," Mondulo said, squinting into the sky. "We
got ten miles of swamp to cross before nightfall. Time to
get our asses in gear."

Drik, along with fifteen of the clan's most fearsome war-
nors floated just below the surface of the water and
watched the aliens board their clumsy-looking craft. They
knew the little bay was little more than a fingerlike exten-
sion of the great northern swamp. There was one way in
and one way out. All they had to do was sit at the entry
point and wait. The ambush was ready. Drik felt a rising
sense of excitement, allowed more water to enter his aux-
iliary bladders, and sank further below the surface. His war
party did likewise.

Mondulo stood with the long half-peeled steering oar
clamped under one arm while he read the coordinates sup-
plied by his Legion-issue wrist term and examined a map.
Seebo, and his Ramanthian counterpart stood back to back,
scanning for trouble. Morla-Ka and Booly used poles to
push the Pancake out and away from the shore.

The scenery seemed to glide past as if mounted on roll-
ers. A weed-draped snag appeared off to the left, bobbed
as a bird launched itself into the air, and fell behind. That's
when Booly noticed how quiet their environment had be-
come, as if the entire swamp was holding its breath, wait-
ing for something to happen. The legionnaire felt the fur
rise along his spine, started to say something, but never
got it out.

Four warriors rose as one. Each held a well-sharpened
blade, each cut through the bindings that held the gripper
bars in place, and each flutter kicked out of the way. It
took a moment for the raft to come apart. Seebo was the
first to notice. "The raft! Something's wrong!"

But there was no time to respond, no time to make re-
pairs, no time to mount a response. One after another they
felt into the water. It was blood warm. Booly assumed the

144 William C. Dietz

raft had come apart of its own accord, and realized how
wrong he was when a two-foot long harpoon bounced off
his chest armor. Mondulo gave the alarm: "Frogs!"

Bubbles exploded around Booly's face as he went un-
der, thought about the assault rifle, and remembered that
it was slung across his back- The officer groped for the
combat knife, thumbed the release, and saw a narrow
snakelike head emerge from me surrounding murk.

Something gleamed, and the legionaire managed to
catch the warrior's arm as a blade flashed for his throat.
He brought his own knife around in a long loop, felt the
steel hesitate as it sliced through flesh, and saw the face
convulse. The body fell away. Something jumped him
from behind. An arm slithered around his neck and began
to tighten. He needed air! The frog pulled him down.

Hebo had a secret. Like most members of his race he
could swim when forced to do so but hated the water. Land
was what his body had evolved to deal with—and where
his psyche was at ease. Fear rose like a wall as the logs
drifted apart. Frogs! He saw them floating below the sur-
face ! The Ramanthian squeezed the triggerlike firing
sleeve that activated his weapon. The water acted to slow
most of the bullets but an individual named Ralk had the
misfortune to be only inches beneath the surface when the
alien fired. The hard ball ammo cut him nearly in two,
flooded the already murky water with his blood, and cut
the opposition by one. The logs parted, Hebo floundered,
and thrashed toward shore.

Mondulo felt the harpoon slide up under his arm, where
the armor couldn't protect him, and enter his chest cavity.
There was time, not much, but time to press the 9 mm
handgun against the phib's gut, feel the recoil, and harvest
the look of surprise.

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 Booiy and his team of XT weirdoes would probably

BY FORCE OF ARMS            145

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 el-
bow, the logs rolled under his boots, and he hit the water
sideways.

Booty 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 unpro-
tected 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.

146 William C. Dietz

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 en-
counter 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
cluttering challenge, turned his back to the jungle, and in-
vited 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 extremi-
ties, 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 strug-
gled 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 fish-
net high into the air, and used ropes to pull it down over

BY FORCE OF ARMS            147

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 Moria-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, Moria-Ka's mind had stayed in
control. He saw the net fall over Hebo's torso and consid-
ered his options. He could let the bug die, a rather reason-
able 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

148 William C. Dietz

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, Booty 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 wilt."

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 ab-
domen.

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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            149

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 ul-
timately, should the village be unable to defend itself, an-
other 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 dirty, 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 approach-
ing 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 be-
ings who had designed it, in that the ship possessed wings
for use within planetary atmospheres, which were folded
white traveling through space, a strategy that allowed the
birdlike beings not only to indulge their love of atmos-
pheric 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 val-
uable 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 numer-
ically 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 Con-
federacy, while continuing to profit from the markets the

BY FORCE OF ARMS            151

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 jump-
ing 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 te-
dious process, but one that would ensure that the Hoon's
orders would be followed by every unit in the fleet, re-
gardless 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: Re-
viewing 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 Al
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

152 William C. Dietz

beings reasoned, why limit oneself when there was no rea-
son to do so?

The entire concept of a human-style control room
stemmed from the days of sailing ships, steam locomo-
tives, 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 pre-
ferred 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 de-
manded 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 war-
bled 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.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            153

As with any space-going creature, Veera was very at-
tuned 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 ac-
cumulators—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 in-
creased 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 ;/, 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 re-
fused 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 quar-
ters. 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

154 William C. Dietz

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 commu-
nication 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 hur-
ried 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 acti-
vated 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 hatch 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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            155

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 unimpor-
tant, or, in a moment of pity, allowed the fugitive to es-
cape. 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 temper-
ature 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 offen-
sive weaponry he had on only one of the incoming fighters.
Then, eyes closed, he thought of home and his fervent
desire to go there.

Unit AV-7621769 registered the machine equivalent of
surprise as the incoming missiles hit his shield and ham-
mered their way through. Most destroyed themselves in
the process but one managed to penetrate the hull.

Thousands of miles away the Hoon "felt" what amounted
to a tiny pinprick, a unit of machine pain so small as to
barely register on its consciousness, yet annoying nonethe-
less. The AI accessed the back feed from the surviving
fighter just in time to witness the explosions. There were
three of them, each more powerful than the last, as the Pri-
thian vessel ceased to exist.

156 William C. Dietz

Satisfied, and eager to return to what it had been doing,
the machine intelligence severed the connection.

Veera felt pain at the back of her head, struggled to pen-
etrate the thick gray fog, and remembered the tube. Had
her actually father aimed the device at her? Or was that a
dream? The teenager forced her eyes to focus, saw where
she was, and knew the truth. She remembered the fleet,
the argument with her father, and the hiss of anesthetic.
The youngster threw herself forward, felt the harness cut
into her shoulders, and called out loud, "Father? Where
are you?"

But there was no answer. He was gone. Just like her
mother. The weight of Veera's sorrow threatened to crush
her chest. But there was no time to mourn, to sing the
death song, or to enter the traditional fast.

Something grabbed me lifeboat, jerked it back and forth,
and drew it in. Something huge. Veera touched controls
located in the arm of her chair and a 3-D vid screen popped
into life. What she saw was a ship, a strange ship that
shimmered as if lit from within, and a steadily growing
rectangle of light. A hatch! The aliens planned to take her
in! Veera felt her heart race and wondered what to do. The
Sheen swallowed the lifeboat whole.

Though successful, from the Hoon's viewpoint at least, the
assassination, and Jepp's role in it, left the human feeling
depressed. He had been manipulated, used, and subse-
quently ignored, none of which was consistent with his
status as God's prophet, or his position as head of the New
Church, an organization that would be of critical impor-
tance to all sentients once they realized how wonderful it
was.

Still, even the creation of a glorious new position for
himself had not been sufficient to lift the human's spirits.
The truth was that he was both bored and lonely. Yes,
members of his mechanical flock attended to his needs

BY FORCE OF ARMS            157

round the clock and, with the occasional exception of
Henry, agreed with everything he said. But that wasn't half
as pleasant as he had assumed it would be ... not without
genuine feedback.

All of which accounted for why the one-time prospector
had resumed his once habitual explorations of the ship and
the fleet it was part of. Except that now, aided by both
Alpha and Sam, the human had a good deal more access
to things than he had had before. Things like the fleet's
electronic nervous system. That's how Jepp heard about
the fugitive ship, the lifeboat, and the fact that it had been
salvaged.

The process of being there when the salvage ship
landed, of entering the bay only moments after it was pres-
surized, reminded the ex-prospector of his childhood.
There had been two or three birthdays when he received
presents ... and the emotions were very similar. The way
the excitement started to build, the rising sense of antici-
pation, and the delightful delay. Then, when he could stand
it no longer, the pleasure of opening the packages, except
this present was wrapped in metal.

The lock opened, the human stepped out, and eyed the
bay. Silvery strings of nano hung from the overhead, slith-
ered along the deck, and caressed the waiting ships. There
were thousands, no millions of the tiny repair and main-
tenance machines, all linked together to create mechanical
organisms. Organisms that could take ships apart and put
them back together. Mindful of the fact that the "snake"
nano had a tendency to slap unauthorized intruders, Jepp
was careful to watch his step.

The Prithian lifeboat was coaxed out of the salvage ves-
sel's hold by two tractor-sized robots. It might contain any-
thing, or anybody, since the very existence of such a craft
hinted at a survivor, or at least the possibility of one.
Something Jepp wanted—or thought he did.

Finally, when the pod-shaped lifeboat had been removed
and placed on the deck, a hatch started to open. The pros-

158 William C. Dietz

pector, who prided himself on his knowledge of ships, was
stumped. The vessel wasn't human, Turr, Dweller, or...

Veera, terrified of who or what she might encounter,
peeked out through the newly created opening. She wore
a translator, an Araballazanie device common to Prithian
merchant vessels, and her song sounded strange indeed. It
was randomly transformed in Ramanthian, standard, and a
half dozen other languages on the chance that one of them
would be understood. "Is anyone there?"

Jepp heard a snatch of standard, cleared his throat, and
yelled to ensure that she would hear him. "Yes, you can
come out. The Sheen won't hurt you. They have very little
interest in biologicals."

Veera heard the words as a series of chirps and twitters.
A human! What was he doing here? Could she trust him?
Not that she had much choice.

Slowly at first, head swiveling back and forth, the Pri-
thian emerged from the lifeboat. The nano-draped com-
partment was strange, very strange, and took some getting
used to. The human was flanked by two robots, one to
each side, with a third perched on his shoulder. He ap-
proached slowly, as if worried he might scare the teenager
away. "Hello, my name is Jepp."

Veera, more from habit than anything else, offered the
curtsy due anyone older than she was. "My name is Veera
Pok."

The Thraki robot transformed itself into the "jump"
mode, leaped onto her shoulder, and sang the original sen-
tence back to her. "My name is Veera Pok."

Prithians don't smile—but they do ruffle their neck
feathers. Hers fluttered accordingly. "You speak Prithian."

"You speak Prithian," Sam chirruped. "My name is
Veera Pok."

Jepp smiled and waved at their surroundings. "Welcome
to the family Veera—Come on, let's salvage whatever ra-
tions you have before the nano disassemble your boat."

The suggestion made sense. Like it or not—Veera was
home.



	1 1	

Life's picture is constantly undergoing change. The
spirit beholds a new world every moment.

Rumi

Persian Sufi poet

Standard year circa 1250

Planet Zynig-47, the
Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Having found it impossible to sleep. Admiral Hooloo Isan
Andragna slipped out of bed, shivered in response to the
breeze that found its way through a still unrepaired crack.
and cursed the technicians who were supposed to have
sealed it. While it was true that each and every one of
them had spent their entire lives in space and knew next
to nothing about the restoration of glass buildings, they did
know something about airtight structures, or were sup-
posed to, which made the transgression all the more an-
noying.

Careful lest he disturb his mate, Andragna dressed in
the dark and slipped out into the courtyard. His pet robot
jumped off a chair and scuttled along behind.

Used as he was to life aboard spaceships, the courtyard
struck the military officer as unnecessarily targe, although

160 William C. Dietz

he did admire the fused glass tiles and the manner in which
they went together to make complex geometric patterns.
Some glowed as if lit from within—and served to illumi-
nate a ghostly path. It led toward the remains of a gate.
The Hudathans had attacked the planet many years before,
murdered most of the inhabitants, and lost the ensuing war.
Most of the surviving structures, his house included, had
been left to the vagaries of the weather. The robot beeped
softly and scrambled up a leg. It settled onto a shoulder
and warmed his left ear.

Sentries, placed there to protect his wife and him against
the possibility of assassins, stood a little straighten They
looked dangerous, what with their assault rifles and all, but
could they really protect him against the increasingly dis-
affected Runners, elements of the Priesthood, and the odd
psychopath?

No, it didn't seem likely. What protection he had
stemmed more .from tradition, from the rule of law, than
the obstacle posed by his guards. The military officer ges-
tured for the sentries to stay where they were and ventured
out into the center of the ancient courtyard.

Two moons hung against the velvety blackness of space.
One of them was natural, the result of cosmic chance, or
the work of the great god Rathna, depending on who you
cared to listen to: the scientists or the priesthood. The other
satellite was one of the arks his ancestors had built and
used to propel their progeny out among the stars. Both
glowed with reflected light.

Something about the thin, pale light brought the ruins
to life. Andragna imagined the clutch of structures the way
they must have been, humming to some forgotten purpose,
unaware of the horror ahead. The Ramanthians said that
the indigenous sentients, a race of wormlike creatures, had
been slaughtered by the Hudathans and driven to the edge
of extinction—the same fate that he and the rest of the
Thraki people could expect should the Sheen gain the up-
per hand. Could they? Would they?

BY FORCE OF ARMS            161

The Runners, for whom Andragna felt a considerable
amount of sympathy, had deep misgivings about Zynig-47
and the future of the race.

The Facers, who were in control of the Committee, had
never been happier. Never mind the fact that Zynig-47 was
little more than an enormous dirt ball orbiting a so-so sun,
they reveled in running about the surface, squabbling over
how much land each individual was entitled to, rummaging
through the multicolored ruins and collecting bits of shat-
tered glass. They called the bits and pieces "art," and he
called them "rubble." The whole thing would have been
laughable if it hadn't been so dangerous.

Well, that was his job, to make them see and understand.
And today, when the Sectors met, he would make one last
attempt.

The sun started to rise in the east, pushed the darkness
off to the west, and took control of the sky. It was red,
pink, and blue all at the same time. Like the glass in the
courtyard walls. Andragna turned and returned to bed.
Sleep brought peace.

Commensurate with its owner's wishes the prefab shelter
had been deposited at the summit of a gently rounded hill
not far from the still rising community officially known as
"Base NH-426," but increasingly called "Starfall" by those
with more romantic sensibilities.

As the sun rose and kissed the hilltops with soft pink
light, a door whirred open, and a tiny female emerged. In
spite of the fact that her body was small, very small, the
spirit that dwelt there was large and fierce. Energy crackled
around her like electricity, her movements were quick and
precise, and fire filled her eyes. This was what she had
fought for! To fill her lungs with pure unrecycled air! To
feel the sun's slowly growing warmth on her face—and
call a planet home.

And here it was, all around her, just as she had imagined
that it would be. If she could hold the coalition together,

162 William C. Dietz

if she could counter doubters like Admiral Andragna, (/
she could coax two or three more years from her steadily

aging body.

Reenergized, Nool Nortalla, also known to her people
as "Sector 4." whistled for her pet robot, waited for the
device to climb up onto her shoulder, and took walking
stick in hand. It would take the better part of an hour to
walk down into the city of glass. A journey she would
relish.

The Chamber of Reason was lined with real stone, said to
have been quarried on the Thraki home world, though no
one was sure, since there were very few records that pre-
dated the fleet.

Originally maintained aboard one of the moon-sized
arks that functioned as both habitats and battleships, the
Chamber had been painstakingly disassembled, transported
to the surface, and installed in a dome of rose-colored
glass. The sun flooded the interior with blood-warm light
as Andragna nodded to the sentries, entered through a
tubelike door, and emerged into a formal reception area.

Like the rest of his species, the military officer had a
natural tendency to respond to certain colors in certain
ways. The soft pink light made him feel good, a fact which
though innocent enough, might be of concern. Could such
a phenomena impact the quality of the Committee's deci-
sions? And was the placement part of a plot conceived by
Nool Nortalla and her home-crazed Facers? Or, and this
seemed more likely, had he become so immersed in his
job that politics colored all his perceptions? There was no
way to be sure—but Andragna feared that it was true.

The admiral's boots made a clacking sound as they hit
dark heat-fused glass. A group of Sectors, alerted by the
sound, turned to greet him. There was Sector 12, a short
somewhat pudgy female known for her bombastic ways,
Sector 27, who was tall and something of a wit. Sector 9,
a rather conservative Runner, and a half-dozen more.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            163

Handcrafted "forms," or robots, scampered about their
feet, peered out of carrying cases, or lay cradled in their
arms. Andragna greeted each of them by name, exchanged
the usual pleasantries, and continued on his way. His form
made little noises and scooted from one shoulder to the
other while exchanging data with its peers.

It was the admiral's right to enter the Chamber first. . .
and to make the long somewhat humiliating crawl from
the perimeter of the stone table to its center without the
embarrassment of anyone looking on.

Eager to conclude the process, Andragna dropped to his
knees, crawled toward the splash of rose-colored light, and
surfaced in front of his chair. Doing so brought with it the
usual sense of pride, awe, and, yes, fear. Fear that he might
fail.

The Thraki took his chair and eyed the recently com-
pleted enclosure. The roof of the Chamber was shaped like
a dome, which, as the result of luck or divine providence
echoed the native structure above. It was pierced by thirty-
seven slit-shaped windows, each arranged to admit a single
shaft of light, which thanks to the use of servo-operated
reflectors, was quite steady. Artificial light up in orbit...
sunlight here on the surface. All the beams of light con-
verged on the table's granite surface, just as the Sectors
were supposed to meet and guide their race.

Having allowed the admiral an adequate amount of time
to take his place, the Committee filed into the room and
set their pets loose to roam the top of the table. Andragna's
form was quick to join them. The machines tumbled,
rolled, and jumped, all vying for attention. Nothing was
said, but each machine was awarded points for appearance,
flexibility, and charm. Functionality, or a base level
thereof, was assumed. Nortalla entered, still smiling as a
result of her walk, followed by Sector 19 who liked to be
last and usually was.

Once all of them were seated, the chamberlain called
the meeting to order by administering a single blow to a

164 William C. Dietz

large metal disk. It was known as the Shield of Waha. The
sound echoed between the stone walls as it had so many
times before. That's when the forms were recalled, deac-
tivated, and removed from the tabletop.

Under normal circumstances, Andragna would have
waited for one of the Sectors to speak rather than open the
session himself, but the situation was anything but normal-
He took the initiative. "Assuming that no one objects, I
would like to open today's session by discussing our stra-
tegic position."

Andragna paused, scanned the faces around him, and
saw that he had their attention. "Thank you. The first thing
to talk about is the political situation within the Confed-
eracy. Based on intelligence provided by the Ramanthians,
it appears that certain factions have used the threat posed
by the Sheen to not only pull the organization together but
make it stronger. The reality of this can be seen in the way
that the once hospitable Clone Hegemony has begun to
distance itself from us, and the fact that the Hudathans.
once confined to their home system, are now referred to
as 'allies.' "

"So, what's your point?" Sector 12 demanded queru-
lously. "The stronger the Confederacy is the more damage
they will inflict on the Sheen."

"Possibly," Andragna replied carefully, "assuming they
behave as the Ramanthians predict that they will. But how
likely is that, given that our Ramanthian friends told us
the Confederacy was about to crumble?"

"An excellent point," Sector 9 put in. "I believe it was
our friend Nool Nortalla who suggested that we use the
locals as a screen, allow them to bear the brunt of the
Sheen attack, and deal with the survivors at our leisure. A
silly plan with a predicable outcome. Enough time has
been wasted. It's time to run."

There it was, the very idea Andragna wanted the Com-
mittee to consider. Now it was out in the open. And, given
that the meeting was available to the entire armada, the

BY FORCE OF ARMS            165

idea would circulate- But not without opposition.

Nortalla came to her feet. Her eyes probed the room like
laser beams, her body was rigid with the intensity of her
emotions, and her voice was hard as hull metal. "Run you
say? For what? So we can keep running? So our cubs can
be bom in the blackness of space, live their lives in fear,
and run till they die? Is that what you want? Is that worth
the price? Is that who we are?"

Nortalla let the question hang there, not just in the
Chamber of Reason, but throughout the fleet. Then, with
a perfect sense of timing, she broke the silence. Her voice
was low now—little more than a whisper. "The answer is
'no.' Many of us will die fighting the Sheen, but there are
worse things than death, such as a life spent running away
from it. I say we face the machines, fight them to a stand-
still, and claim what's ours. This sun! This planet! This
home!"

There was a moment of silence followed by the thump
of a single foot, and another, and another until the indi-
vidual sounds were lost in one massive beat. The female
known as Sector 4 sought the admiral's eyes. He tried to
conceal how he felt, tried to erase all expression from his
face, but the oldster knew the truth. A battle had been
fought and won. How many more would it take? Nortalla
felt tired and sank into her chair. The foot-stomping died
away.

The sun, which was high in the sky, beat down on the
officer's back as he followed the slightly concave worm
path upward. Although Andragna took pride in his body
and worked hard to keep in shape, he had discovered that
a lifetime of shipboard living had left him weak and out
of breath. Something he was reluctant to admit to himself,
much less to the fit, young bodyguards who trailed along
behind.

The errand—or was it a mission?—was something of a
chore. Andragna had encountered a number of alien cul-

166 William C. Dietz

tures during his lifetime. Many featured religions and were
in some cases governed by religions. All of them had one
thing in common, and that was a propensity to build mon-
uments or other structures that were so large, so visible,
that the population would hold them in awe. Sadly, from
the naval officer's perspective, the Thraki priesthood were
possessed of the same unfortunate instincts.

The steadily growing city of Starfall offered plenty of
choice building sites, many of which were on level ground,
but had one of those been chosen? No, not when there was
a hill to build on. A hill that would make any edifice built
placed there even more visible. Broken glass crunched un-
der the admiral's boots as he arrived on a level area and
paused to take a breather. His bodyguards paused as well,
but didn't need to, which he tried to ignore. Yes, he could
have ordered up an air car, but that would smack of self-
importance. and admirals, Thraki admirals, were politi-
cians first and officers second.

The view was quite pleasant- Starfall occupied the fore-
ground. Sun glittered off glass, worm orchards circled be-
yond, and hills shimmered in the distance. Pretty now, but
what about later? After the Sheen came?

Andragna turned his back to the scene and resumed the
climb. Refreshed, or at least partially so, the officer fo-
cused on the trail. The worm ruts had been filled with a
mixture of gravel and bits of broken glass. They glittered
like lost jewels as the admiral made his way to the top or,
if not the top, a flat area where the remains of a once
prominent building stood. Three of the four violet walls
remained and, thanks to the work of a dozen robots, stood
free of debris. In fact, so beautiful was the U-shaped en-
closure that a stranger might have taken it for a piece of
architectural art, and mistakenly assumed that it was sup-
posed to look that way.

Now, as Andragna entered what felt like open arms he
saw the mouth of a tunnel, one of many the indigenous
population had left behind, and a magnet for the Thraki

BY FORCE OF ARMS            167

priesthood. The early histories had been lost, but much had
been said and written during the last couple of hundred
years regarding the possibility that the Thraki race was
descended from subterranean ground dwellers. The theory
was certainly tempting, accounting as it did for the race's
excellent night vision, the complex nearly warrenlike man-
ner in which their space ships were laid out, and the av-
erage adult's diminutive stature. Which, when combined
with the prominence of the hill, would explain why the
site had been selected.

An acolyte stood at the entrance of the tunnel, back
straight, spear grounded at her side. It was a rare individual
who wasn't acquainted with Andragna's face. Both the
challenge and the response were a matter of form. "Who
comes?"

"A seeker of truth."

"Enter then ... for all who seek truth are welcome
here."

Andragna stepped into the mouth of the tunnel, but his
bodyguards were forced to remain outside. Weapons were
not allowed on holy ground, unless they belonged to the
priests themselves or their highly trained assassins. A fact
that spoke volumes about the amount of power vested in
the priesthood, the extent to which they influenced the gov-
ernment, and the reason for the officer's visit.

A second acolyte, this one male, came forward to greet
him. A triangle had been shaved into the fur on his fore-
head, a second-year kilt was buckled around his waist, and
his demeanor was respectful. "The high priestess is ex-
pecting you. Admiral. .. please follow me."

The passageway, which had been blocked at various
points, was clear now, but work continued. Construction
robots, many of which had only recently been retrieved
from deep storage, would handle most of the work, with
acolytes pitching in to help.

What light there was emanated from a spray-on fungus
that Thraki scientists had harvested from a planet visited

168 William C. Dietz

more than a hundred anums before and stored in the Ar-
mada's extensive "life" banks.

Some of the Facers opposed the wholesale use of off-
planet "bio-tools," fearing the manner in which native spe-
cies might be impacted, but the Runners, who still
harbored hopes that the stop on Zynig-47 was little more
than a pause, had no such concerns. In spite of the fact
that the priesthood was a theoretical mix of Facers and
Runners, the leadership had a pronounced pro-Runner bias.
A fact which had everything to do with Andragna's visit.

While the priests didn't swing enough votes-to stop the
Facers, and feared the backlash that might result from any
attempt to leverage the secular political process, they could
be counted on to support conservative initiatives. Or, so
he hoped.

Suddenly, the passageway opened to an enormous cav-
ern. Light poured down through a partially restored dome
to paint the lake below. The water was smooth as glass.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" the acolyte said softly, and the ad-
miral, who took the stars themselves as his standard of
beauty, was forced to agree. "Yes, it certainly is."

The trail, which had formerly resembled a gently turning
trough, followed the cavern's wall and wound down to-
ward the lake. Once they arrived at the bottom Andragna
discovered a large relatively fiat area only partially visible
from above. It was there, where numerous tunnels met, that
the priesthood was in the process of establishing its head-
quarters. The temple was only half built but had already
started to resemble those seen in the ancient texts. A
swarm of robots, priests, and acolytes were hard at work,
their tools screeching and clattering. It seemed that, Run-
ner sympathies not withstanding, the church was building
a home. Not a good omen from Andragna's point of view.

A tall, rather regal-looking female spotted the visitor,
handed her power wrench to a priest, and made her way
over. Her name was Bree Bricana, and beyond the almost
palpable magnetism that surrounded her, there was nothing

BY FORCE OF ARMS            169

to distinguish the high priestess from her subordinates.
Certainly not the rough work clothes, tool belt, or heavily
abraded boots. Both were leaders and knew each other
well. The tu, or nonsexual embrace appropriate to male-
female friends felt both natural and unforced. Each took a
step back. "You look well, admiral."

"As do you," Andragna replied truthfully. "Work
clothes become you."

Bricana laughed. "I understand that you chose to
walk ... Who would have thought that legs could be so
useful?"

"Yes," Andragna agreed soberly. "But for how long?
The Sheen are on the way."

Fur rippled down both sides of Bricana's face. "I share
your concern. Come ... we'll find a place to sit."

Andragna followed the high priestess through a maze of
neatly stacked construction materials and into a fungus-lit
tunnel. It wasn't until he was within the corridor itself that
he realized that he felt more comfortable there. Why? Be-
cause it resembled one of the passageways in a spaceship,
that's why. If he had his way, if the race continued its
journey, how long would it be until Thraki were no longer
comfortable beyond the hulls of their spaceships? A thou-
sand anums? Ten thousand? And was that good or bad?

The question went unanswered as the tunnel opened into
a cavern. Alcoves had been carved into the sides of the
chamber, creating rooms of various sizes. Bricana chose
the largest of these, dropped her tool belt, and gestured
toward some upended boxes. "Which wouid the admiral
prefer? Rations or wall fasteners?"

"Rations," Andragna replied solemnly, "in case I get
hungry."

The priestess laughed and took the other seat. "So, my
friend, tell me the worst."

Andragna's facial fur rippled in different directions. He
chose his words with care. "In spite of the fact that this

170 William C. Dietz

planet meets many of our needs—the Confederacy be-
comes stronger with each passing day."

"Yes," Bricana agreed, "I listened to the audio portion
of this morning's meeting. You were quite articulate. 1
think it's safe to say that there's no possibility whatsoever
that the aliens will allow themselves to be manipulated in
the manner first described by Sector 4."

Andragna felt a sense of relief. "I'm glad we agree."

"However," the priestess continued soberly, "we foresee
the possibility of an even greater danger."

The admiral's ears stood straight up. An even greater
danger? One that had already been discussed? Here was
something he didn't know about but should have. He or-
dered his ears to relax and adopted a matter-of-fact tone.
"Yes, our people face many threats... To which do you
refer?"

But Bricana had seen the officer's involuntary reaction
and knew the truth. The possibility, no, the reality of what
the Confederacy would do, hadn't occurred to him yet. She
kept her voice neutral. "We think the aliens will attack and,
depending on how the conflict goes, might join forces with
the Sheen."

Andragna felt the fur bristle along the back of his neck.
Of course! How could he have missed such an obvious
possibility? Because he'd been trained to focus on the
Sheen ... and the tactics of flight. A threat such as the one
posed by the Confederacy lay outside the framework of
his training and experience. And his subordinates, who had
the same background, were no better equipped. He felt a
crushing sense of shame.

It must have shown. Bricana was gentle. "You musn't
feel that way . . . We are what we have been. It could hap-
pen Eo any of us."

Andragna looked up. "It didn't happen to you."

"Ah," Bricana replied, "but it did. The only reason we
have discussed the matter is the fact that something very

BY FORCE OF ARMS            171

close to this situation is mentioned in the Book of Tomor-
rows."

As with many members of his monotheistic culture An-
dragna had a pretty good understanding of the gods, their
attributes and powers, but didn't really know very much
beyond that. The truth was that like his military peers, the
officer had more faith in the laws of physics than the some-
what wordy Tomes of Truth, one of which was called the
Book of Tomorrows. The fact that it covered something
that might have practical value came as a pleasant surprise.
"Really? What does it say?"

Bricana seemed to look through him to something else.
Her voice, which had been conversational up till then,
seemed to deepen. The words, written hundreds of years
before, had an archaic quality. ".. . And our people will
settle a new world. Some will call it 'home,' and wish to
stay there, while others will point to the stars, and the
menace that follows. Beware of those who call themselves
'friends,' for they may attack, or align themselves with the
menace. Run if you can, but failing that, call on the twins."

Andragna allowed the fur to bunch over his eyes. "The
twins? What twins?"

The high priestess stood. "Follow me. I'll show you."

Bricana rose, led him across the open chamber, and en-
tered a side tunnel. It was guarded by acolytes armed with
blast rifles rather than ceremonial spears. Andragna regis-
tered surprise but kept the emotion to himself. What did
the priesthood have that required such heavily armed sen-
tries? It was difficult to imagine.

The tunnel turned left, ran for twenty units, turned right,
ran for twenty units and turned left again. Each right-angle
turn represented a potential point of defense, each was
monitored by a clutch of sensors, and each had been ex-
ecuted with machinelike precision. These walls appeared
raw, as if only recently excavated, and still wore marks
left by the tools used to make them. The odor of ozone
mixed with some sort of sealant hung heavy on the air.

172 William C. Dietz

Bricana stopped before a blast-proof hatch. Andragna
noticed that it still bore the number of the ship from which
it had been salvaged, still another sign of the power that
the priesthood continued to wield. She placed her forehead
on a reader, lasers scanned her retinas, and a blue light
appeared. Servos whined, the door swiveled open, and the
visitors stepped through. A priest was waiting. He was
armed and wore the black robes favored by the Brother-
Sisterhood of Assassins. Andragna couldn't see them—but
felt sure that others lurked nearby. The priest bowed.
"Welcome. How can I be of assistance?"

Bricana bowed in return. "Thank you. The admiral and
I would tike to visit the twins."

If the assassin was surprised by the request, he gave no
sign of it. He bowed a second time. "Of course ... Please
follow me."

Thus began a second journey that was much like the
first, a series of carefully planned right-angle turns that led
to a second blastproof hatch. Andragna was more than in-
trigued ... he was angry and fearful. What terrible secret
had the priesthood been keeping? And if they had one, did
they have others as well?

The second door opened. Bricana went first, followed
by the males. There was nothing especially attractive about
the cavern that lay beyond. No worm glass, no special
lighting, no effort to smooth the recently machined walls.
It was perhaps fifty units across and twenty units high. A
pair of what appeared to be golden cradles, each heavily
decorated with scroll work, sat on a raised dais. The twins,
if that's what they were, consisted of bright metal tubes.
They were approximately ten units in length. It appeared
that each construct was protected by a force field, which,
if not identical to those used by the Sheen, then were very,
very similar. There was no need to tell Andragna what they
were ... He knew. The twins were weapons.

The priestess waited for her military colleague to reach
the obvious conclusion. He asked the same question she

BY FORCE OF ARMS            173

had asked so many years in the past. "How do they work?"

Bricana offered the Thraki equivalent of a shrug. "Given
the nature of your responsibilities, I'm sure you are fa-
miliar with black holes."

Andragna was. He knew that when gigantic stars ex-
plode, or go supernova, something remains. A "hole," or
an object so dense that nothing could escape its gravita-
tional field, not even light itself. Anything that ventured
sufficiently close, including starships, asteroids, or planets
risked being sucked in. What happened after that was un-
known since there was no way for information to come
back out. "Of course. It's part of my job to avoid them."

Bricana offered what amounted to a smite. "Yes, and
we appreciate your efforts!" Her expression grew more
serious. "Ask yourself this . . . what happens to all the mat-
ter captured by a black hole? It's reduced to amorphous
energy. Ships, asteroids, planets, whatever. All trans-
formed into radiation. Maybe it stays there, trapped in time
and space, or maybe it exits somewhere else. Were it to
emerge, the exit point could be referred to as a 'white
hole.' Imagine how much energy we're talking about—
imagine how destructive it could be."

Andragna took a moment to do so. The results would
be awesome. His eyes met hers. "So that's what these are?
White holes?"

"Artificial white holes," the high priestess corrected him,
"created and suspended within an antimatter container, and
housed in a normal matter shell."

Andragna eyed the twins. Here was something any mil-
itary officer would appreciate. Power on an unparalleled
scale. "How? How do they work?"

"I'm no expert on such matters," Bricana said evenly,
"but it's my understanding that each tube can be launched
like a missile. Once the weapon enters the target area a
signal is sent, the magnetoelectric locks are released, and
an atom-sized white hole pops into existence. It would last
for no more than a millisecond, but the result would be

William C. Dietz

174

devastating. If used against us, the entire armada would
cease to exist."

Andragna wasn't sure which was more amazing, the fact
that such weapons existed, or how they came to be. So
long ago that they were mentioned in the Book of Tomor-
rows. "So the old ones foresaw our situation? Knew what
would face us? How could that be?"

Bricana looked uncertain. "I honestly couldn't say. They
were given into our possession when the great journey be-
gan. That's as much as we know."

"Why two^ Why not one, three, or fifty?"

"There is no mention of what the old ones were think-
ing."

"But why keep such weapons secret?" Andragna de-
manded. "How can the church justify such a thing?"

Bricana's eyes met his. "There has been no need—not
until now."

It was the answer he might have expected from the
priesthood, more than a little arrogant, and completely un-
apologetic.

Both were silent for a moment. The naval officer was
first to speak. "This changes everything."

"Yes," the high priestess replied, "I think it does."

12

In forming the plan of a campaign, it is requisite to
foresee everything the enemy may do, and be pre-
pared with the necessary means to counteract it.

Napoleon I
Maxims of War
Standard year 1831

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy
of Sentient Beings

The Friendship's sick bay smelted of disinfectants, plastic,
and the faint odor of coffee that emanated from the much
abused pot that crouched on a counter. General William
Booly sat in Treatment Room 4. He was stripped to die
waist. The medic, who happened to be female, grabbed a
handle and directed the overhead light onto his torso. She
couldn't help but notice the breadth of his shoulders, the
muscular arms, the ridge of fur that ran the length of his
spine. There were scars, too, some old, and some newly
healed. The latter came courtesy of a planet named Drang.
Most were what they appeared to be, but the blister looked
suspicious. The medic pointed toward the carefully draped
Mayo stand. "Place your arm on that. General."

Booly did as he was told. "I have a meeting in ten
minutes or so."

176 William C. Diets

The tech passed a scanner over his forearm, nodded in
response to the reading, and returned the device to its hol-
ster. "Well, it's your call. sir, but it appears as though a
foot-long parasitic worm has taken up residence in your
right arm. The good news is that she wants to come out
and lay her eggs. We can help her—or you can attend that
meeting. Which will it be?"

The medic was something of a smart-ass, but Booly knew
she was right. He growled, "Go ahead," and watched her prep
his arm. He had lifted from Drang a good four weeks earlier
but been so busy stitching the Confederacy's command struc-
ture together that he barely found time to sleep, much less
worry about a rash. But that was before the rash turned into a
blister, which not only hurt but itched like crazy.

"I could squirt some local in there," the medic said
cheerfully, "but the pain will be equivalent to a small in-
cision. What's your preference? Local or no local?"

"Skip the local," Booly replied grimly. "Just get on with
it."

"Yes, sir," the rating answered evenly. "Here goes ..."

She squinted her eyes, brought the blade down onto the
surface of his skin, and cut a cross into the blister. Yel-
lowish fluid jetted out followed by a small white head. It
had tiny jet black eyes. The worm looked from left to right,

The tech had been waiting for that moment and was quick
to seize the parasite with some forceps. "Gotcha! Now, this
is the difficult part," she cautioned, "some people pull too
hard. That's when the head comes off... Makes for a nasty
infection plus minor surgery. The trick is to wind the little
bastard around a probe and reel his ass in."

Booly watched in queasy fascination as the young
woman putled inch after nauseating inch of worm out of
his arm. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she
was finished. Then, with the parasite twisting and turning
at the bottom of a kidney basin, it was time to disinfect
the wound, close the incision, and apply a self-sealing
dressing. "There you are, sir. good to go."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            177

Booty thanked the tech, donned his shirt, and look one
last look at the worm. It squirmed every which way. Kind
of like the politicians he was about to deal with. His smile
lasted all the way out into the corridor.

Senator Omo was angry, very angry, as he entered the
conference room, saw that he was first to arrive, and lo-
cated the Ramanthian-style chair. A quick check revealed
that the back adjustment was broken. It sometimes seemed
as if everything he touched was cursed. The plan to desta-
bilize Earth, and thereby weaken the Confederacy, had
very nearly succeeded, would have succeeded, had his co-
conspirators been more competent. Subsequent efforts,
such as the plot to kill Doma-Sa, had proved equally dis-
astrous. Still, he who tunnels must move some dirt, so
that's what he would do.

Omo took his seat, preened the areas to either side of
his beak, and allowed his mind to wander. It was spring
in Hive's northern hemisphere—and the politician wished
he could see it.

Doma-Sa stepped out of his cabin, checked to ensure that
the hatch was locked, and strode down the corridor. Beings
who had previously gone to considerable lengths to ignore
the Hudathan nodded, smiled, or waved. All because their
perceptions had changed. Now, after weeks of surprisingly
positive media coverage, the Hudathans had miraculously
been transformed from villains to heroes. Never mind the
fact that they hadn't changed in the least and viewed their
new allies with the same level of paranoia reserved for the
oncoming Sheen. The stupidity of their psychology
astounded him. The entire lot of them were beneath con-
tempt. Yet, there he was, nodding in return, giving the
scum what they craved. The illusion of solidarity. Why?
Because they had him by the testicles that's why. Imagine!
Hudathans fighting for a human general... The great Hi-
ween Poseen-Ka never would have believed it.

178 William C. Dietz

Ah well, the War Commander thought to himself, noth-
ing lasts forever. Not even our shame. The thought brought
comfort and put a bounce into his step.

Senator Ishimoto-Six stabbed a button with his index fin-
ger, waited for the platform to arrive, and stepped aboard.
It carried him upwards. Any number of things rode on the
upcoming meeting: the safety of his people, his position
as a senator, and the way in which Maylo perceived him—
something he still wasn't sure of. Which would be worse,
the politician wondered. Failing my government? Or losing
Maylo? Not that I have her. The platform coasted to a halt.
Six nodded to a staffer and stepped out onto the deck. The
corridor led him away. A younger version of the same man
had fantasized about being at the center of things, about
making a difference, and his dreams had come true. But
what was the saying? Be careful what you wish for? You
might just get it? Suddenly it made sense.

The watch had changed, breakfast was over, and the
Friendship's corridors were relatively empty. A senator
rushed past, nodded, and kept on going. Maylo Chien-Chu
forced a smile. Her heeis clacked on the deck. General
William Booty had boarded the ship some twelve hours
before and would chair the meeting. Ishimoto-Six would
attend as well. The knowledge left a hollow place at the
bottom of her stomach. It was silly, she knew that, but true
nonetheless. Would Booly detect the nature of her rela-
tionship with Samuel? And why did she care? The officer
was yesterday's news ... Or was he? Some very expensive
lab-grown roses had arrived just a few days before. Right
smack on the six-month anniversary of what amounted to
their first date. Damn it! She was too old for this sort of
crap. The executive cursed her own stupidity, increased her
pace, and passed a maintenance bot. It scrubbed the deck.

The conference room was packed by the time Booly arrived.
There were familiar faces, like those that belonged to Ad-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            179

miral Angie Tyspin, the naval officer who had risked her life
and career to help the 13th DBLE during the mutiny. Major,
no Colonel Nancy Winters, his newly named chief of staff,
Major Andre Kara, his interservice liaison officer, and CO
of the 1 st Foreign Regiment, Colonel Kitty Kirby, CO of the
13th DBLE, War Commander Wenio Morta-Ka, CO of the
newly integrated 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment, his supe-
rior. Ambassador Doma-Sa, Battle Leader Pasar Hebo, CO
of the 4th Foreign Infantry Regiment, Senator Alway Omo,
representing the Ramanthian government. General Jonathan
Alan Seebo-346, CO of the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regi-
ment, plus a lot of beings he hadn't met, and last, but cer-
tainly not least, Maylo Chien-Chu.

She sat toward the front of the room, next to Ambas-
sador Doma-Sa, and smiled when his eyes made contact
with hers. A spark jumped the gap, and the legionnaire
remembered how those same eyes had stared up at him
from the misery of a prison cell. And later, over a dinner
table on a beach in Rio, and eventually in the warmth of
his bed. What had gone wrong anyway? And how could
he fix it?

Winters cleared her throat, and Booly realized that he
should have spoken by then. He forced a smile. "Good
morning—if that's what this is. Thank you for coming.
We have a lot to accomplish, so let's get started."

Booly paused and allowed his eyes to drift across the
room. "This is a truly historic occasion. The creation of
new alliances, the structures required to make them viable,
and the problems that naturally follow.

"As I look out on your faces, I see both soldiers and
civilians. There are a number of different cultures repre-
sented here, so the mix may or may not seem natural to
you. Please suspend whatever doubts you may have, and
give the process a chance. We have very little time. Ci-
vilian support is critical. Without it, we cannot possibly
win. It's my belief that everyone must come to agreement
on the overall strategy, and once that's accomplished, the

180 William C. Dietz

military will do its best to carry the plan forward. Does
anyone have questions regarding that approach?"

There were questions, niggling matters for the most part,
as various beings sought to establish their importance, im-
press their counterparts, or simply exercise their mouth
parts. Ishimoto-Six, who sat to Maylo's right, tuned them
out. He was much more interested in watching her out of
the comer of his eye. And what the senator saw disturbed
him. Her relationship with General Booty was over—ev-
eryone said so—but what of her eyes? They suggested
something different.

The clone looked at Booly. The soldier answered a ques-
tion. The Sheen were coming—that was the point of the
meeting—so what would happen then? Booly was brave—
everyone agreed on that—which meant he would partici-
pate in the fighting. Perhaps the machines would kill him.
It was a small thought, a horrible thought, but one he
couldn't shake.

"So," Booly said, "did I answer your questions? Good.
Let's move to the next step. The presentation materials
have been downloaded to your personal comps so mere's
no need to take a lot of notes. I would remind you that
this material is secret and not for disclosure to anyone who
hasn't been cleared."

Omo listened to the translation, wondered if the last
comment was directed at him, and decided it didn't matter.
The Thraki were the only party that might be interested,
and they were losers. Or would be, assuming Booly made
the logical moves. "Here's the situation," Booly began, and
turned to watch a holo bloom at his side. The star map,
prepared with the aid of clones themselves, showed most
of the Hegemony. "Reduced to the simplest possible terms,
the Sheen have been chasing the Thraki for hundreds if
not thousands of years, and plan to eradicate their race.
Why? They aren't sure, and neither are we.

"Thraki politics revolve around two groups, the Run-
ners, who favor continued flight, and the Facers, who want

BY FORCE OF ARMS            181

to turn and fight. About the time that the Thraki armada
entered Hegemony-controlled space—the Facers took con-
trol of the government."

Conscious of the clones in the room—the officer chose
his next words with care. "The Hegemony greeted the
newcomers in what can only be described as a peaceful
fashion, allowed them to establish some bases, and settled
into what they assumed would be a peaceful coexistence."

All as part of a cynical attempt to use the Thraki against
the Confederacy, Mayio thought to herself. . . Not that she
blamed Booly for leaving that out—since his job was to
strengthen the alliance not destroy it.

"Unfortunately," Booly continued, "the Hegemony had
no way to know that the Thraki hoped to use them as a
sacrificial pawn."

There was a pause while someone explained the game
of chess to a Dweller at the back of the room. "More than
that," Booly went on, "it now appears that the Thraki hi-
erarchy hoped to use the rest of the Confederacy in much
the same manner. A plan that could still succeed if we
allow them to remain where they are.

"We don't know a whole lot about the Sheen, only what
the Thraki have chosen to share, and the report citizen
Williams brought in. However, assuming that those reports
are accurate, the machines are absolutely ruthless and will
lay waste to any planet found to harbor the Thraki."

"So let's go to Zynig-47 and root the bastards out," the
senator from Turr growled. "It would serve the unnamable
interlopers right."

Booly had been expecting a comment of that sort and
nodded his head in agreement. "Yes, it would. But there's
a problem. Even now, after the consolidation of our forces,
the Thraki have more ships than we do. A lot more. Ad-
miral Tyspin^"

Tyspin rose and made her way to the front of the room.
She wore a blue flight suit, the star that denoted her rank,
but none of the many decorations to which she was enti-

182 Wifliam C. Dietz

tied. Though not especially pretty, there was strength in
her face, and her eyes gleamed with intelligence. They
were green and swept the compartment like lasers. "What
General Booly told you was correct... The Thraki fleet,
or armada as they prefer to call it, consists of more than
five thousand ships, plus auxiliary craft equivalent to shut-
tles, tugs, tankers and so on."

Tyspin pointed toward the holo that appeared next to
her. A series of computer-rendered ships appeared. "The
main body of the armada consists of supply ships, which
might more accurately be referred to as 'factory ships,'
since they carry raw materials plus the robotic machinery
required to manufacture every item the fleet requires.

"The factory vessels are protected by three types of war-
ships roughly analogous to what we refer to as battleships,
destroyers, and fighters, though of differing displacements.
It should be noted that all of their vessels are equipped
with standardized weapons and propulsion systems, some-
thing that gives them a logistical advantage and represents
an area that we haven't even started to address."

It was a telling point and one that some of the civilians
hadn't considered as yet. There were thousands of differ-
ences between the ships built on Hive, Earth, and Alpha-
001, a factor that would add a great deal of complexity to
any effort aimed at using them in a concerted fashion.
Some, dismayed by what they heard, felt their hearts begin
to sink.

Tyspin scanned their faces. "Sorry, but that's not the
worst of it. Thanks to countless years of unremitting war-
fare the Thraki have evolved into a race of warriors, which,
with the possible exception of the Hudathans, is something
none of us can claim to be. That culture—that toughness—
is a weapon in and of itself. Questions?"

There was silence for a moment, followed by a voice
from the back of the room. The figure who rose wore a
black pressure suit, which made him instantly recogniza-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            183

ble. The senator from the Drac Axis seemed to grind the
words out. '"Ships, many have we?"

Tyspin was barely able to recognize the syntax as a
question. She didn't trust the Drac, knew they were among
the least dependable members of the Confederacy, but had
very little choice. To conceal such information, or seem to
conceal the information, could weaken the already flimsy
alliance. She could feel Booly, Maylo, and others staring
at her, wondering how she would respond.

"We are still in the process of assessing the extent of
our assets—but current estimates run to about thirty-five
hundred ships of various classes and sizes."

"Plenty should be," the Drac gurgled. "Ships too many
get in each other's way."

"There's some truth to what you say," the naval officer
conceded. "Large fleets require advanced command and
control infrastructures and generate all manner of logistical
problems. There is one additional factor, however. . . Be-
sides the ships mentioned earlier, the Thraki possess a
number of moon-sized arks—all of which are heavily
armed. We on the other hand have nothing that even be-
gins to compare with that sort of throw weight."

The answer seemed to satisfy the Drac, or at least si-
lence him, because he took his seat. Booly stood. "Thank
you. Admiral. Now, with that information in mind, lei's
examine the alternatives."

The holo swirled and morphed into text. It dissolved
from one language to another. "We have a number of
choices," Booly continued. "We could take no action what-
soever, hoping that the Sheen will ignore us, we can at-
tempt an alliance with the Thraki, remembering their plans
to use us, or we can pursue unilateral action. My staff and
I recommend option three."

Booly paused and, not hearing any objections, took the
next important step. "So, assuming we opt for unilateral
action—some additional choices open up. We could wait
to see what the Sheen do and react accordingly . . ."

184 William C. Dietz

Senator Omo stood and gave himself permission to
speak. "A reactive strategy is best—we fully endorse it."

Ishimoto-Six was well aware of the fact that his clone
brother had been a member of the Ramanthian-sponsored
cabal and felt the blood rush to his face. He came to his
feet. "You'd like that wouldn't you? You'd like to see the
machines attack Thraki colonies—some of which are on
Hegemony worlds!"

"Established with permission from your government,"
the Ramanthian observed mildly. "Or had you forgotten?"

"That's enough," Booly said firmly. "We're here to es-
tablish a strategy .. - not debate the past. Senator Ishimoto-
Six is correct about one thing, however, the penalty for
adopting a reaction-based strategy is that the Sheen may
decide to attack some of our assets, leading to heavy ca-
sualties."

Maylo, who paid close attention to the debate, felt sorry
for Six. It wasn't his fault that the Hegemony had made
itself vulnerable.

Oblivious to what Maylo was thinking, the military of-
ficer continued. "All of which suggests a second alterna-
tive: Root the Thraki out of their bases so the Sheen have
no reason to attack, realizing there are no guarantees—and
that they may decide to come after us regardless of where
the Thraki happen to be."

Doma-Sa had been silent up till then—but couldn't re-
main so any longer. He lurched to his feet. "With all due
respect, General—why be so subtle? The Thraki took
Zynig-47 and are in the process of colonizing it. Let's
attack, take the planet back, and send them on their way.
The chances are good that the Sheen will follow."

Booty, who was well aware of the Hudathan's military
background, gave a slight bow. "The Intaka, or 'blow of
death,' mentioned by Grand Marshal Hisep Rula-Ka in his
book Analysis of the Legion, is a proven strategy. And, if
it weren't for the arks that orbit Zynig^7, I'd be tempted.

"However. I believe it was none other than the esteemed

BY FORCE OF ARMS            185

warrior Mylo NurIon-Da who said, 'Lives are as arrows—
fire no more than you can afford.' "

Doma-Sa found himself not only neutralized, but hon-
ored, and possessed of new respect. Here was a human,
one of the few, who deserved Hudathan troops. He cleared
his throat. "Thank you, General. You have more than an-
swered my question."

"So," Booly concluded. "Here is the strategy that my
staff and I recommend. With your permission and support,
we intend to attack the Thraki colonies and allow most of
the inhabitants to escape."

"Escape, allow them to?" the senator from Drac
growled. "Mind, have you lost?"

"No," Booly answered patiently. "Why kill more of
them than necessary? Or more of our troops for that mat-
ter? Once dislodged, the colonists will run for Zynig-47."

"Providing the Sheen with a single target," Ishimoto-Six
said gratefully, "and sparing our planets."

Booly shrugged. "That's the plan ... but plans can and
do go awry. For example, we assume that the machines
operate in a logical manner, and are primarily interested
in the Thraki. We could be wrong."

The meeting broke up shortly after that. Booly made
eye contact with Maylo but was mobbed by back-patting,
hand-shaking politicians. The businesswoman waited for a
moment, realized it would take a long time for the room
to clear, and made her way into the corridor. Ishimoto-Six
was waiting. They walked toward the lift. "So, what do
you think?"

"About what?"

"About General Booly's plan."

Maylo shrugged. "I think it will be difficult, but if any-
one can pull it off, he can."

Six glanced sideways. Was the statement what it
seemed? A straightforward endorsement of a competent
general? Or something more? He decided to take the
chance. "Maylo ..."

186 William C. Dietz

"Yes^"

"There's a dance tonight, in honor of the President's
birthday, and I wondered if you would come?"

Maylo noted the hesitancy in the clone's voice and con-
sidered her response. The truth was that she would have
been there anyway—everybody who was somebody would
be—but this was something different. A date or something
very similar. If she said "yes," he would take her answer
as permission to proceed, to take the relationship to the
next level, and if she said "no," he would be hurt and
wouldn't ask again.

So, what did she want? To open the door or close it?
And what of Booly? Why couldn't he pursue her with the
same ardor that Six did? Because he was so desperately
busy? Or just didn't care? The words formed themselves.
"That sounds like fun Samuel—thanks for asking."

Ishimoto-Six followed Maylo into the lift, knew the
platform was falling, but felt his spirits soar.

In spite of the fact that only the humans, dwellers and a
few other races liked to dance, or even had a name for it,
nearly everyone wanted to participate in President Nan-
kooi's birthday celebration—some because they truly liked
the chief executive, some because it pays to suck up, and
some because there was nothing else to do.

That being the case, the corridors were overflowing with
revelers, would-be revelers, or reveler watchers all heading
for the Starlight Ballroom. They were dressed to the nines,
or whatever the nines were in their particular cultures,
which made for a nearly overwhelming assault on the
senses.

Booly stepped out of his sixth meeting of the day, felt
the crowd pull him along, and was stunned by the bright
shimmering reds, blues, and greens. Capes, gowns, and
robes rustled, swished, and in once case chimed. The smell
of perfume, incense and things the officer wasn't quite sure
of filled the air. Add the drone of multilingual conversation

BY FORCE OF ARMS            187

to the mix, and it made for a stunning combination.

It was the sort of thing that the officer in Booty dis-
missed as a complete waste of time. Still, odds were that
Maylo was somewhere about, raising the distinct possibil-
ity that he could talk to her. or better yet, convince her to
leave early.

Booly was considered a player by then, a being to be
reckoned with, which meant that he was forced to shake
all manner of limbs, answer nonsensical questions, and
dodge various types of supplicants, the worst of whom
were arms dealers, eager to sell him everything from
pocket knives to nukes.

Finally, after what felt like a swim upstream, the officer
heard music, managed to break through a screen of on-
lookers, and made it to the dance floor. It took less than a
second to spot Maylo and recognize the man she was with,
Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six.

They were dancing to something slow and stately.
Maylo wore a bright red dress and positively glowed. Her
teeth flashed when she laughed. They looked happy, as if
made for each other, and the spectators thought so too.
Comments came from all around. "Aren't they wonderful
together?" "Look at that dress!" "He's so handsome!"
"What a beautiful couple."

Booly looked down, realized how plain his class-two
khaki's were, and felt suddenly out of place. Maybe it
stemmed from his upbringing on Algeron, maybe it was
the result of too many years on the rim, but the entire
atmosphere made him uncomfortable. This was Maylo's
world and one in which he would never be able to com-
pete. Slowly, reluctantly, the soldier turned and forced his
way back through the crowd.

Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, Maylo caught a
glimpse of khaki. Her eyes followed, she saw his face, and
then he was gone. Something, she wasn't sure what,
seemed to squeeze her heart. The music played, her feet
moved, but the dance was over.

13

Any and all available resources can and should be
used while searching for the Thraki.

The Hoon

General Directive 00003.0

Standard year 2502

Inside the Rim, the Confederacy
of Sentient Beings

The Sheen fleet swept through the Istar Seven system with
the slow sureness of an organism that knows where it's
headed but is in no particular hurry to get there. And with
good reason. In spite of the fact that the Hoon had com-
pleted its inventory and destroyed all remaining vestiges
of its other self, the computer intelligence had something
new to concern itself with.

Scouts had come across signs that the Thraki armada
had not only come that way—but done so within the rel-
atively recent past. There were other portents as well. . .
Ships that flashed into existence at the far end of detector
range, the presence of computer controlled drones that ex-
ploded if tampered with, and hundreds of free-floating re-
lay devices that "squirted" data to each other as the fleet
drew near.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            189

The occurrences were interesting for any number of rea-
sons, beginning with the fact, that, old though the Hoon
was, the computer had never observed such phenomena
before. They suggested coordinated activity of some sort
and presented a 92.3 percent match with instructions the
AI had never been called upon to use before-

How had the creators been able to provide instructions
regarding events that would transpire hundreds of years in
the future? The machine neither knew nor cared.

The essence of the newly revealed directions were ac-
tually quite simple: Although the Sheen had pursued the
Thraki armada for centuries now, the day would almost
certainly come when the hunted would turn and make a
stand. And, as part of that effort, they might attempt to
lure the Hoon into some sort of trap. The AI would know
that day had arrived "when signs start to thicken, when
ships harry the fleet, and when mysteries appear."

The first pair of parameters made sense, but the last
didn't. "Mysteries?" What did that mean? Ah well, what
the computer didn't or couldn't understand it had been
programmed to ignore.

So, cautious as to the possibility of a trap, the Hoon
doubled the number of units assigned to reconnaissance,
ordered the rest of the fleet to the highest possible state of
readiness, and stowed the overall rate of advance.

That's how the Sheen discovered that a Thraki convoy
had taken refuge on the eleventh planet out from a rather
undistinguished sun and turned to investigate.

Veera was playing with Sam, something she did at least
once a day, and Jepp was watching. Their cabins were too
small for such activities ... so they had moved out into me
long, sterile corridor. Well, mostly sterile, since the hu-
man's quasi-religious graffiti added what he considered to
be a much-needed touch of color.

The game, which Jepp watched from the comfort of a
chair that Henry had fashioned from metal tubing, was as

190 William C. Dietz

old as man's relationship with dogs. Veera, her iridescent
underfeathers occasionally catching the light, would throw
the crudely made ball down the passageway, and Sam,
pleased to be the center of attention, would chase it. Not
only chase it, but perform tricks while doing so, each cal-
culated to outdo the last. Jepp watched the device scoot
along the ceiling, drop from above, and swallow the ball.

The robot's reward for this activity, if "reward" was the
right word, were trills of approval from Veera. Trills that
Sam answered in kind and made Jepp jealous. He couldn't
"sing" her language, hadn't even tried, and felt left out.

Still, some company was better than none, and he had
vaguely paternal feelings toward the little alien. Though
competent in many respects, and almost impossibly bright,
she was vulnerable, too. Both her mother and father were
dead, she was passing through a stage analogous to human
adolescence, and was trapped aboard an alien ship.

Dealing with Veera, which also meant dealing with her
moods, had altered Jepp's life. When she felt good then
he felt good—and when she felt bad then he felt bad. The
back and forth of which nearly drove the human crazy but
beat loneliness. Something he had experienced all to often
over the last six months.

Sam did a series of cartwheels, disgorged the ball at
Veera's feet, and dashed away. The Prithian uttered a se-
ries of chirps, threw the sphere down-corridor, and seemed
to stiffen. Her crimson shoulder plumage rose slightly and
stuck straight out. Though unable to converse with the
alien without the assistance of a translator, Jepp understood
some of her nonverbal communications. He sat up straight.
"Veera? What's wrong?"

The Prithian cocked her head to one side. "The ship
changed direction—and picked up speed."

The human hadn't felt a thing but believed her none-
theless. The teenager had mentioned such changes shortly
after coming aboard, and Jepp, having doubts regarding
the veracity of her claims, ordered Alpha to check them

BY FORCE OF ARMS            191

out. The results were amazing. The Prithian was right at
least 95 percent of the time. Her senses were more acute
than his. So, given the fact that the ship had maintained
the same course and speed for the last week or so, why
change now? He frowned. "Tap into the Hoon and find
out why."

What could have been phrased as a request was ex-
pressed as an order. Veera felt mixed emotions. Her father
ordered the youngster around all the time. And, as some-
one who was older than she was, and presumably wiser,
Jepp was entitled to the same level of respect due Prithian
elders.

Or was he? Veera's father was dead, her companion was
eccentric by human standards, and she was alone. It was
tempting to say "no," on principle. To take a stand and
maintain some personal space. The problem was her own
highly developed sense of curiosity. What was behind the
change in course? Where was the Hoon taking them? The
teenager wanted to know.

Veera trilled an order, Sam cartwheeled in her direction,
and followed the Prithian down the corridor. Data ports
were located at regular intervals along the bulkheads. The
Hoon's mechanical minions used them whenever they had
a need to access certain types of information.

The Thraki device scuttled up the wall, created the nec-
essary adapter, and plugged itself into the ship's electronic
nervous system.

The way in which Veera communicated with machines
was different from the manner in which Jepp accomplished
the same thing. Her songs were comprised of individual
notes, each one of which could easily be translated into
binary code, and manipulated by any device having the
intelligence to do so. The resulting transfer was that much
more efficient. Just the son of thing that the average ma-
chine is likely to appreciate.

More than that was the fact that most soft bodies re-
quired a machine interface to communicate with other ma-

192 William C. Dietz

chines, which marked them as ciearly inferior. Al! except
for Veera, that is, who, from a machine point of view.
spoke something very close to unadulterated code. An ac-
complishment that marked her as superior to the biped with
whom she chose to associate herself. That's why the Hoon
had a tendency to indulge her- A tiny, nearly insignificant
part of the AI's consciousness listened as the interrogatory
arrived. "The ship [I am on] changed course. Why?"

The computer intelligence spent a fraction of a fraction
of a second considering the question and formulating a
response. "Thraki have been detected. The fleet must re-
spond."

Jepp had arrived by then, and Veera relayed what she
had learned. The human felt a variety of emotions: a sense
of excitement bom of boredom, feelings of guiit that
stemmed from his last encounter with the Thraki, and a
sort of spiritual lust. Because if there was anything the
human hungered after it was live, honest to goodness con-
verts.

Yes, it was true that the last group of Thraki had gone
so far as to deny the existence of a single ail-powerful, all-
knowing god, and having done so, had paid with their
lives, but they were outcasts, and these Thraki might be
more amenable to reason. It was worth a try. "Tell the
Hoon that I wish to speak with the Thraki in the hope that
we might convert them to the cause."

Though relatively young, Veera was possessed of an
excellent mind and knew the human wanted to convert the
Thraki to his cause, rather than the Hoon's. But she was
also smart enough to know that escape, if such a thing
were possible, was more likely to result from her relation-
ship with Jepp than from any connection to the Hoon. She
decided to comply.

The request stuttered through the ship's fiber optic ner-
vous system and made the jump to Vessel 17-9621 where
the Hoon was currently in residence. Not just any resi-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            193

dence but the one time electromechanical home of the ill-
fated Hoon Number Two.

Having received the request, the machine intelligence
spent a quarter of a second thinking about it. The idea had
obviously originated with the "human" soft body, and
while it seemed like a waste of time, there were reasons
to approve it. True to its nature, the Hoon listed them in
descending order of importance: The being called Jepp had
not only been useful where the elimination of Hoon Num-
ber Two was concerned, but had proven his willingness to
slaughter the Thraki, and never stopped advocating the ne-
cessity for other others to do likewise. Add that to the new
soft body's ability to communicate via code—and the
Hoon was ready to indulge the strange twosome. Veera
cocked her head, listened, and made the translation. "The
Hoon says 'yes.* A shuttle awaits."

Jepp gave a whoop of joy, jumped into the air, and
landed with a thump. "Come on! Let's get ready!"

Veera uttered the Prithian equivalent of a sigh, waited
for Sam to scramble up onto her shoulder, and followed
the alien toward his quarters. Once again, her father was
proven correct: humans were a pain in the posterior.

The control area was neat, but homey, as if those assigned
to it lived there, which they basically did. There were mon-
itors, gently curving control panels, and holes into which
the pilots and other crew members could insert their hands.
Once positioned within a laser beam matrix, the ship's
Navcomp "read" the complicated hand-finger signals that
controlled not only the vessel itself, but the various sub-
systems of which it was comprised.

Convoy Commander Pol Bay Seph struggled to main-
tain her composure as alarms sounded, hatches hissed
closed, and her crew went to battle stations. She should
have been focused on the situation, on the fact that her
forlorn group of stragglers had been overtaken by what
appeared to be the entire Sheen fleet, but was filled with

194 William C. Dietz

self-pity instead. Why now? After so many years had been
left behind? After the fire that once burned in her eyes had
dimmed? Why had the gods waited till now to fling the
challenge in her face? Not that it mattered, since even a
younger version of herself would have been helpless in the
face of such an enemy.

Subcommander Ith Tor Homa shook her shoulder. It
was a serious breach of etiquette and a sure sign of how
desperate he was. "Commander! Every captain in the con-
voy requests orders . . . what shall I tell them?"

Seph glanced at a display. Once the Sheen were de-
tected, she had ordered the convoy to land in the hope that
they could avoid detection. The ships were arrayed around
her. There were no signs of life on the airless planet, and
the enemy was closing in. She felt like telling her captains
to pray, since there was nothing else they could do, but
she knew the unyielding younger version of herself, would
almost certainly disapprove.

Seph was about to offer some sort of meaningless plat-
itude when a holo popped into existence in the upper right
hand quadrant of her command space. The technical
looked worried. "Commander, I have an incoming mes-
sage ... A Sheen envoy is on the way."

Seph was surprised. Very surprised. Not by the arro-
gance involved—that was expected—but by the act itself.
Why send an envoy when there's nothing to negotiate?
The Sheen never took prisoners, never made deals, and
never showed mercy. The convoy was doomed. What were
the machines up to? There was no way to know.

An envoy implied time, however, time the officer never
expected to have, and she was determined to make good
use of it. Years seemed to drop away. She felt younger
and filled with energy. "Homa, you wanted some orders?
Well, here they are: I want every youngster under the age
of sixteen to suit up, grab what they can, and head for the
hills. Any hilts. Got it? Good.

"The minute that effort is under way have the technicals

BY FORCE OF ARMS            195

alter all of the crew manifests, supply inventories, and
other lists to reflect the reduced muster.

**While the technicals work on that have someone clean
out their cabins and destroy anything they can't take with
them. And Homa..."

"Yes?"

"Prep some class two beacons. I want them to activate
thirty cycles from now. Maybe, just maybe, one of our
ships will happen along."

Homa considered the possibilities ... Death at the hands
of the Sheen—or by slow starvation. Which was worse?
The decision was made, so it didn't matter. He saluted,
said "Yes, ma'am," and turned away." His daughter was
on one of those ships . .. and there was no time to lose.

Like the Sheen shuttles Jepp had used in the past, this one
was equipped with a small almost perfunctory control
space consisting of little more than a view screen, minimal
controls, and a pair of uncomfortable seats.

Unlike previous outings, however, was the fact that
Veera had agreed to accompany him and, after a quick
survey of the lifeless control panel, had warbled a series
of seemingly random notes. The human watched in an-
noyance as four additional displays appeared. One showed
the relative positions of the shuttle, the planet they were
about to land on, and the Thraki ships. The second con-
sisted of colored bars that fluctuated in length. There was
no way to be certain, short of asking Veera that is, but
Jepp figured each bar was associated with one of the shut-
tle's major systems.

The third display shimmered with color but remained
blank, as if not in use, and the fourth, which the human
found to be especially interesting, scrolled through line af-
ter line of alien hieroglyphics. Jepp had seen similar sym-
bols before, printed on bulkheads, hatches, and other
surfaces, but never obtained a large enough sample to at-
tempt some sort of analysis.

196 William C. Dietz

He was about to signal Sam and order the robot to rec-
ord the alien text, when the surface rose to meet them. The
planet was barren and seemingly lifeless. A mountain
range stretched from north to south. It rose sharp and jag-
ged—like the teeth of a saw blade. And, judging from the
nav display, twelve Thraki ships waited up ahead,
grounded at the bottom of a monster crater. In order to
hide? Probably, though the attempt had been futile.

Jepp remembered the text, turned toward the holo, and
discovered it was dark. Then, before he could give the
matter further thought, the shuttle flared in for a landing.
The human sought his space suit. There were heathens to
convert—and God was waiting.

There were sixty-seven youngsters in a line that wound
away from the Spirit of Gatfw and out toward the perim-
eter of the crater. They were clad in spacesuits, bulky af-
fairs with which they were well acquainted and decorated
to their liking. Some bore markings, some sported text, and
others had been painted in fanciful ways.

Lis was one of the oldest and, along with some other
sixteen-year-olds, nominally in charge. It was her job to
bring up the rear, urge laggards to greater speed, and keep
an eye on the robot assigned to erase their tracks.

A little one, no more than five, tripped on something.
He went head over heels, hit the dry, powdery soil, and
sent a wail over Channel Two. Were the machines listen-
ing? It was best to assume that they were.

Lis hurried to pick the youngster up, rapped on his face-
plate, and gestured for silence. Wonderfully, amazingly,
he obeyed. She put the cub down and looked back over
her shoulder. The sweeper, oblivious as to the reason be-
hind its current assignment, continued to run backwards,
as it erased its tracks.

Satisfied that the machine was operating properly, Lis
turned and hurried to catch up. A male named Rak had set
the pace—and the little ones had a hard time trying to keep

BY FORCE OF ARMS            197

up. Legs pumped, arms windmilled, and dust marked their
passage. Would it settle before the machines arrived? And
did she really care? Subcommander Homa was her father—
and would die with all the rest. No, they hadn't told her
that, but didn't need to. It, like most of the really important
events in her life, needed no explanation.

Another youngster went down. A pair of ten-year olds
pulled her back up, and the column wound in among some
ancient rocks. Many were quite large. The ground sloped
upward now, reaching toward the crater's rim, leaving the
flat behind. Lis slipped, managed to regain her footing, and
looked back over her shoulder.

The robot had stalled. Its drive wheels threw plumes of
dirt up into the airless atmosphere as it struggled to find
purchase. Lis said a word she wasn't supposed to say, di-
rected the youngster to proceed without her, and waited to
make sure. He waddled up the slope. An eight-year-old
saw and took his hand.

Conscious of how the seconds were ticking away, Lis
dashed down the slope, eyed the robot, and knew the sit-
uation was hopeless. The maintenance unit had been de-
signed to operate within the confines of a spaceship and
couldn't handle the uneven terrain.

Something flashed off to the east. The sun reflecting off
a rock face? Or the hull of an incoming shuttle? Lis threw
herself forward, hit the robot with her shoulder, and
pushed to machine over. It hit the dirt and struggled to
right itself. She slapped the kill switch. The robot went
inert, the youngster showered the machine with dirt, and
fell facedown as a shadow slipped past.

The shuttle, which shimmered with light, dropped to-
ward the ground. Had the machines been able to spot her?
Lis didn't think so—but hurried anyway. The ground rose
in front of her, the incoming air rumbled in her ears, and
sorrow filled her heart.

198 William C. Dietz

Convoy Commander Pol Bay Seph met her visitors at the
main lock. They were different from what she had ex-
pected: two biologicals and a robot of Thraki origins.
Where were the fire-breathing shiny-assed machines? It re-
ally didn't matter, not if the aliens had the power to ne-
gotiate for the machines, which apparently they did. Both
removed their helmets. The larger of the two spoke. His
robot handled the translation. "Hello, my name is Jepp,
Jorely Jepp, and this is Veera. The Hoon asked that we
speak with you."

Though a bit misleading, the human felt the lie was
justified. He realized that the Thraki was female, guessed
she was older rather than younger, and saw the intelligence
in her eyes. She offered some sort of gesture. "You are
welcome ... especially if your presence will help to avoid
bloodshed."

"It may," Jepp answered agreeably, "God willing."

"One never knows what games the gods may play,"
Seph said politely. "Come ... let's find a more comforta-
ble place to talk."

The Thraki led their guests down a passageway, and
Veera, who had no role in the negotiations, took every-
thing in. She noticed that in spite of the fact that the ship
was in good repair the fittings bore the patina of hard use.

Another item that attracted the Prithian's attention was
the considerable number of robots deployed throughout the
ship and their degree of sophistication- Based on travels
with her father, Veera knew that most spacefaring sentients
had such machines, but couldn't remember another race
that was quite so dependent on them or had taken the sci-
ence of robotics so far.

It seemed that most members of the crew had what
amounted to pet robots, which scurried, pranced, rolled,
and jumped wherever they chose. The result of all this
activity was a sort of benign chaos that Veera found an-
noying but the Thraki seemed completely unaware of. Not
Sam, however, who uttered a squeak of delight, jumped

BY FORCE OF ARMS            199

off Jepp's shoulder, and joined a round of wall tag. Veera
had the distinct feeling that these observations all added
up to something, but she couldn't figure out what it was.

Commander Seph took a turn and led the visitors into a
relatively large space. It looked and felt like a communal
living room. She gestured toward some amorphous looking
chairs. "You are welcome to sit... although I'm not sure
how comfortable you'll be."

Jepp eyed the furniture, decided it was too small to sup-
port him, and did his best to sound friendly. "I'm afraid
you arc correct. Besides, our pressure suits would get in
the way, and we don't have enough time to remove them.
May I be frank?"

"Of course," Seph answered smoothly, wondering how
the youngsters were doing. "Say whatever's on your
mind."

"Thank you," Jepp replied. "Here's the situation . . . The
Sheen are governed by a machine intelligence called the
Hoon. It has orders to destroy the Thraki race."

Seph felt a crevasse open at the pit of her stomach. Con-
trary to the dictates of both logic and common sense, she
had allowed herself to hope—that the stories were wrong,
that the machines had changed, that something good would
happen. Fur rippled away from her eyes. "Then why did
you come? To tell us our fate?"

The words had a hard almost metallic edge to them. The
human didn't blame her. "No, that was not our purpose. I
came to ask that you embrace the one and only all-
knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful God."

Like 99 percent of her race Seph believed in a pantheon
of gods and considered the god the alien described to be
patently impossible. After all, how could one god, no mat-
ter how capable, possibly handle the running of the uni-
verse? The idea was laughable. Still, there were the
Children to consider, and if the alien proved sufficiently
gullible, the rest of the convoy as well. "One god? What
an interesting notion. Tell me more."

200 William C. Dietz

Veera, whose father had trained her to look for lies,
watched in silent amazement as the ex-prospector turned
amateur messiah not only fell for the Thraki's attempt at
deception, but proceeded to spew the same line of non-
sense he had tried on her.

It took the human the better part of twenty minutes to
rattle off all the stuff about how the machines were a gift
from God, the mission to which he alone had been called,
and the opportunity that stretched before them. "I can save
your souls," Jepp said importantly, "and deliver them to
the Lord."

"We accept," Seph answered earnestly. "What should
we do?"

This was a much different response from the one given
by the earlier group that Jepp had encountered. He was
surprised. Very surprised. "Really? You mean it?"

"Yes," Seph lied fervently, "I do. Save our souls from
the Sheen, and give them to the one all-knowing God."

The words summoned up images of a triumphant Jepp
presenting a gift to God. This was it! The moment he'd
been waiting for! "God bless you. Commander—and all
your people. My assistant and I will return to the shuttle
where we can petition the Hoon. A warning, however—
the machine is stubborn. It may be necessary to tell a few
untruths."

Seph struggled to control her expression, realized it
wouldn't mean anything to the creature in front of her, and
let the matter go. The alien was an idiot, and she couldn't
imagine why the Sheen continued to put up with him. "Re-
ally? What sort of untruths?"

Jepp appeared hesitant. "That you and your companions
are not only renegades—but willing to aid the Sheen."

"Of course," Seph replied calmly. "Do as you must."

Jepp, victory almost in his grasp, was eager to leave,
Real live converts! Doubters? Yes, almost certainly, but
that would change. He knew that it would.

Seph saw the aliens to the hatch and waited for it to

BY FORCE OF ARMS            201

close. She turned to Subcommander Homa. "The little
ones? Where are they?"

Homa, acutely aware of the fact that one of the young-
sters was his, discovered the lump in his throat. He strug-
gled to swallow it. "They made it to the edge of the
crater—and hid among the rocks."

Seph looked her subordinate in the eyes. She had never
produced any offspring of her own—but could imagine
how the other officer felt. "The alien is a fool. The Hoon
will refuse. The Sheen will attack."

Homa met her gaze. "If you are correct, and they attack
from space, the little ones will be killed."

"Exactly," Seph agreed. "Unless we run."

"Which would force them to chase us," Homa said
thoughtfully. "Saving the cubs but negating any possibility
that the machines will accept your lies."

"So," Seph said gently, "what should we do?"

Homa felt a great upwelling of sorrow, for the daughter
he would never see again, for himself, and for the entire
Thraki race. Why? Why did the machines continually hunt
them? The priests offered platitudes but no one really
knew. All of it was so stupid and unnecessary. The words
were little more than a croak. "We must run."

Seph, who felt strangely detached, bowed her head. "I'm
sorry old friend—but I'm forced to agree."

As the Hoon listened to the human's rantings with a min-
ute part of its consciousness, it also monitored streams of
data from even the most distant parts of its far-flung body.
That's how the Al knew when the Thraki convoy started
to power up. It seemed that the biological's plan had failed,
a rather predictable outcome that confirmed the Hoon's
preexisting bias: Though mostly harmless, and occasion-
ally useful, Jepp was an idiot. That being the case, the
computer intelligence ordered the human's shuttle to lift,
severed the incoming communication, and ordered his
forces to attack. They confirmed the nature of his instruc-

202 William C. Dietz

tion, and insofar as the Hoon was concerned, the incident
was over.

Jepp staggered and nearly lost his footing as the shuttle
pushed the planet away. Veera, who had been serving as
interpreter, quit in midsentence and was quick to strap her-
self in. The human looked left and right. "What's happen-
ing? I demand to know! Veera ... Sam ... tell the Hoon."

The teenager warbled to the robot. It answered in kind.
Jepp collapsed into the ill-fitting seat. "Switch to standard,
damn you! And hurry up."

"The Hoon broke the connection," Veera said simply.
"That's his way of ending a conversation."

"But the Thraki!" Jepp objected, "They are under my
protection!"

Veera could have said something regarding how much
his protection was worth but chose to remain silent instead.
Though not of his species, and not capable of tears, she
knew how he felt. When the Thraki died, his dreams died
with them.

Lis and the other youngsters watched from the rocks as
repellors stabbed the hard oxide-rich soil. The ships hov-
ered head high until the in-system drives were engaged.
Then, with the precision born of long practice, the space-
ships accelerated away. With them went fathers, mothers,
brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, friends, and more, never to
be seen again. The battle, if that's what the massacre could
properly be called, would take place on the far side of the
planet where the thin, nearly nonexistent atmosphere gave
way to vacuum. A small mercy—but a meaningful one.

The cubs, especially the younger ones, made little noises
toward the backs of their throats. Lis thought about saying
something, warning them to be quiet, but decided to let it
go. There was only a limited chance that the machines
would pick up on such a low-powered transmission.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            203

One of the males said, "Look!" and pointed toward the
center of the crater.

Lis looked, and there, exactly where her father's ship
had been, sat a cargo lighter. Like an egg in a nest. The
vessel was small, very small, but capable of a hyperspace
jump. It was gray, about the same temp as the surrounding
rocks, and completely innocuous. Had a course been en-
tered into the ship's navcomp? Yes, she knew that it had.

They waited for three long days before concluding that
the battle was over and the Sheen had left. Slowly, almost
reverently, the youngsters filed down out of the rocks and
made their way toward the ship. It was only when they
stopped to look up that Lis saw the name spray-painted
across the bow. It was hers.

14

I always say that. next to a battle lost, the greatest
misery is a battle gained.

Attributed to the Duke of Wellington
Standard year circa 1815

Clone World BETA-018, the
Clone Hegemony

Vice Admiral Ham Ista Rawan, who, as the senior officer
on the ground, had the dubious honor of commanding all
Thraki forces stationed on Clone World BETA-018, se-
cured the fasteners on his standard-issue parka, waited for
the form to climb onto his shoulder, and left the relative
comfort of his office. Metal clanged under his boots as he
crossed the catwalk that bisected the cavern and eyed the
fighters arrayed below. They were Owana III Interceptors
and, like the admiral himself, had seen long, hard service.

The aerospace fighters were parked in two opposing
rows. Wraithlike wisps of vapor leaked from the umbilicals
that connected the ships to the ground-support systems.
Some twenty transports, easily identified by their larger
hulls, lurked deep within the shadows.

The interceptors would be busy soon, Rawan reflected
as he returned a technical's salute, stepped onto a freight

BY FORCE OF ARMS            205

platform, and stabbed the "Down" button. His breath
fogged the air as a motor whined, the lift jerked in protest,
and sank toward the flight deck below. Ships had dropped
in system. Confederate ships, with not a word of protest
from the normally contentious Hegemony.

The same clones who had welcomed his people with
open arms only months before, had turned decidedly less
hospitable of late, even going so far as to cut off com-
munications. It didn't require diplomatic credentials to un-
derstand why. The Hegemony feared that if the Sheen
attacked their guests they would suffer as well.

The officer could have felt bitter, could have felt be-
trayed, but didn't. It seemed as if his people were destined
to go friendless, to roam the stars forever, bereft of peace.
The clones were nothing more than the latest manifestation
of a hostile universe.

The platform clanged to a stop, Rawan stepped off, and
turned toward the cold gray light. It flooded through the
cavern's entrance and glazed the deck in front of him.
Walking into the alien glow, then peering out over the
semifrozen landscape, was part of his daily routine. Offi-
cers saluted from a distance, technicals went about their
chores, and the robots ignored him. The admiral's breath
came in gasps as his lungs struggled to extract oxygen
from the cold thin air. The medical officer claimed they
would get used to it after a while, but Rawan had his
doubts.

A wrench clattered as the officer neared the opening. A
cold, clammy wind caressed Rawan's face and sent his
hands into his pockets. The gloves he had intended to bring
remained on his desk.

Warning lights chased each other around the opening,
deck icons warned of danger, and snowflakes swirled be-
yond. The sun struggled to push its pale yellow light
through a corona of white mist and failed. Rawan stepped
over the knee-high safety chain and paused to eye the twin
energy cannons positioned to either side of the passage-

206 William C. Dietz

way. Stripped from a decommissioned cruiser and pro-
tected by localized energy shields, they could defend
against both aircraft and a ground assault. Even the Sheen
would be forced to take such weapons seriously. It was a
comforting thought. The admiral leaned into the wind and
forced himself onto the outer platform. Moisture formed
at the comers of his eyes and he blinked it away.

Though technically classified as "Earth normal," the He-
gemony planet designated as BETA-018 was actually quite
marginal, which had everything to do with why the clones
allowed the Thraki to establish a colony there.

The entrance, and the base to which it led, were located
at the head of a U-shaped canyon, and, more than that,
were roughly one hundred units off the ground. That meant
that any pilot so foolish as to attack would have to fly
between the computer-operated weapons positions that
lined both walls of the valley and into the combined fire
of the energy cannons that flanked the entrance. Not a
pleasant prospect.

The same thing would apply to ground forces, since Ra-
wan and his staff had gone to considerable lengths to en-
sure that all of the defensive weaponry could depress their
barrels and launch tubes far enough to reach the canyon
floor.

In addition to those precautions, Rawan had laid a mine-
field across the canyon's mouth, ordered his robots to con-
struct a variety of obstacles, and even gone so far as to
prepare trenches for the six hundred ground troops as-
signed to protect his air squadron.

The wind renewed its assault on the officer's face and
only the fact that the Thraki had short, bristly fur prevented
him from getting frostbite. He stared down into the valley
below but was unable to see his marines. Because their
camouflage was so good? Or because he was getting old?

Whatever the reason Rawan feared that the ground
forces represented the chink in his armor. The navy was
strong, very strong, thanks to hundreds of years spent

BY FORCE OF ARMS            207

fighting duels with the Sheen, but the ground arm was
weak and relatively inexperienced. Just one of the things
that explained his Runner sympathies.

A klaxon sounded somewhere behind him. Fighters
probably—back from a sortie. He could clear the deck or
risk being blown off the ledge. Rawan took one last look
at the valley and turned away. The cavern yawned and he
stepped inside.

The holo, shot during a rare break in BETA-018's cloud
cover and augmented by footage supplied by recon drones,
ran its course and faded to black. The Gladiator's hangar
deck had been pressurized and, with the addition of folding
chairs, transformed into a serviceable auditorium. The
tights came up as Booly stood and made his way to the
portable podium. The ship's motto, "For glory and honor,"
faced the audience. He looked out at the crowd. It was the
most unlikely gathering the officer could have imagined.

The Jonathan Alan Seebos claimed the first couple of
rows and, if it hadn't been for differences in age, would
have been as identical as the hard-eyed stares fastened on
his face. Immediately behind the clones sat the men,
women, and Naa warriors still at the Legion's core. Further
to the rear, like mountains rising from a human plain, the
Hudathans loomed. Their skins were gray, their backs un-
comfortably exposed, and their expressions were grim.

And behind them, like a race unto itself, the cyborgs
stood. Some human, some Hudathan, they were big, but
dwarfed by the aerospace fighters beyond and by the scale
of the Gladiator herself.

Here, Booly thought to himself, are the real aliens, be-
ings who no longer resemble the species from which they
came, and no longer perceive life in the same way.

None of the Ramanthian ground forces had been as-
signed to the assault on 18, both because of their lack of
experience in fighting on ice worlds and their participation
in other initiatives. These were the minds that would take

208 William C. Dietz

Booly's ideas, translate strategy to tactics, and lead their
troops into battle—not in segregated units, as certain pol-
iticians had suggested, but in integrated groups in which
Hudathans, Naa, and humans would fight side by side. It
was a risk, a big risk, but so was the alternative.

Assuming the Confederacy managed to win most of the
upcoming battles, assuming that it managed to survive the
Sheen onslaught, the heat of the conflict would bake the
military into its final form—a form that would be difficult
to break without causing considerable damage. The kind
of damage that might lead to another rebellion or civil war.

Still, it was with a sense of deep-seated concern that the
officer started to speak. His words were translated as nec-
essary. "You've read the reports, heard the analysis, and
seen the footage. So you know what we're up against.
Given the threat posed by the Sheen, the Gladiator is the
only ship the Confederacy could put against BETA-018.
One ship—on& planet. Why use more?"

Booly waited for the laughter to die away. "The Thraki
are extremely experienced warriors. They have their backs
to the wall and are well dug in, not only dug in, but dug
into an allied planet, with civilians in residence. The set-
tlement called 'Frost' lies only six miles away from the
Thraki base. An orbital attack would destroy both.

"To root the Thraki out, Admiral Tyspin's fighters are
going to have to penetrate the valley and put weapons on
hardened targets.. . me most important of which is the
base itself." Booly paused to scan their faces. Pilots stared
up at him. "In order for the jet jockeys to hit their targets,
the ground pounders will need to silence at least some of
the batteries that line both sides of the canyon."

A major yelled, "Camerone!" and a substantial portion
of the audience roared the appropriate response. "CAME-
RONE!"

Booly noticed that many of the Jonathan Alan Seeoos
remained silent, as did a substantial number of the Huda-
thans, but some joined in. That was progress. He grinned.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            209

'Thank you. I'm glad to see that someone's awake out
there."

Laughter rippled through the audience. Booly picked up
where he had left off. "You and your troops come from
different worlds, pack different DNA, and have different
cultures. Those differences could manifest themselves as a
weakness, a. fatal weakness, or, and tremendous progress
has been made in this direction, they could become the
source of our strength, and the reason we emerge victori-
ous. Not just here, but elsewhere, when the Sheen drop
hyper.

"Long hard days have been spent establishing a chain
of command, integrating our varied systems, and selecting
best practices. Every single one of you deserves credit for
making that happen. Now comes the test, the moment
when steel meets steel, when courage owns the day."

A human legionnaire rose at the back of the audience
and shouted the ancient Hudathan battle cry: "BLOOD!"

The audience roared the response: "BLOOD!"

A Hudathan stood, raised his fist, and shouted "CA-
MERONE!"

Booly smiled, waited for the noise level to drop, and
brought the meeting to a close. "You know what to do—
so go and do it. Insertion teams Blue, Red, Yellow, and
Green will drop about six hours from now. Kick some butt
for me."

The flight of six daggers shuddered as they forced their
way down into the planet's hard, thin atmosphere. Lieu-
tenant Commander Rawtings bit her lower lip. She'd seen
combat before, back during the mutiny, but not like this.
She had been a watch officer then, standing shoulder to
shoulder with the bridge crew, staring into a three-
dimensional holo tank as brightly lit sparks fought duels
in the dark.

This was different. There was the loneliness of her one
person cockpit plus the knowledge that five pilots were

210 William C. Dietz

counting on her for guidance and leadership. One Huda-
than, two Seebos, and a couple of "greenies" right out of
the navy's Advanced Combat School. Rawlings didn't
know which scared her most, their lack of experience or
hers. A group of red deltas wiped themselves onto her
HUD and Lieutenant Hawa Morlo-Ba, who never tired of
being first, made the call. "Blue Five to Blue One . . . ban-
dits at six o'clock!"

Rawlings listened to herself say, "Roger that. Five," and
took pride in the flat laconic sound of the words. 'Tally
ho!"

Clone intelligence claimed that Thraki interceptors were
protected by cloaking technology obtained from a race
called "The Simm," and it appeared that they were correct.
The enemy interceptors were a good deal closer than she
would have preferred. The naval officer "thought" her air-
craft to starboard, felt it side slip into a dive, and brought
the ship's weapons systems on-line.

The others watched her go, followed the officer down,
and scanned their readouts. Power was critical, weapons
were critical, everything was critical or would be soon.

Flight Warrior Hissa Hoi Beko watched the Confederate
aircraft descend, checked her wing mates, and confirmed
their positions. The pilot's weapons, like the rest of her
ship, were controlled by the special gauntlets she wore-
Each movement had meaning. Index to finger to thumb:

"Safeties off—accumulators on." First two fingers in par-
allel: "Ship-to-ship missiles—safeties off—guidance on—
warheads active." The pilot's displays flickered with each
carefully articulated movement. Then, as the enemy fight-
ers came into range, a circuit closed, and her fingers began
to tingle. Beko fired and the air war began.

Rawlings heard tone, fired chaff, and rolled. The enemy
missile sped past and exploded. The fighter that had fired

BY FORCE OF ARMS            211

it pulled a high-gee turn and attempted to flee. The rest of
the Thraki interceptors did likewise.

Both of the Seebos responded with a nearly identical
cheer, applied full military power, and gave chase,

Rawlings wanted to stop them, wanted to call the pilots
back, but wasn't sure why. Good fighter pilots were ag-
gressive, competitive, and little bit obnoxious. But this was
too easy, too tempting, too ...

Beko checked her screens and grinned as the enemy
ships took the bait. The Hegemony had been most accom-
modating during the early stages of the Clone-Thraki re-
lationship and shared some of their knowledge regarding
Confederate technology. That was how Beko knew the
range at which her adversaries would be able to detect her
fighters and was able to put that knowledge to work. By
leaving two heavily cloaked interceptors behind, and lead-
ing the enemy towards them, she and her wing mates had
closed the trap.

The Seebos saw deltas appear as if by magic, tried to
react, but ran out of time. Rawlings winced as the orange-
red flowers blossomed, gritted her teeth, and took the chal-
lenge.

The Thraki had reversed direction by then . .. which
meant that she and her three surviving pilots were about
to go head to head with six enemy aircraft. That's when
the naval officer noticed how precisely the enemy was
grouped. Because they had a taste for discipline? Or be-
cause the pilots were trained to fight tightly controlled ma-
chines? Computer controlled machines that behaved in
predictable ways? Words followed thought: "Break!
Break! Break! Take 'um one on one, over."

Beko frowned, and the fur crawled away from her eyes
as the oncoming formation seemed to explode. Confeder-
ate vessels went every which way as she struggled to un-
derstand. But there wasn't enough time, not at combined
speeds of more than a thousand units per hour, and the
.sky went mad.

212 William C. Dietz

The Confederate ships rolled, turned, dove, and climbed.
Missiles left their racks, coherent light stuttered toward
their targets, and 30 mm cannon shells tunneled through
the air.

Beko yowled in frustration as the formation disinte-
grated around her, fired at one of the oncoming ships, and
knew she had missed. And then, before she could recover,
the interceptor took a hit. Alarms went off, systems failed,
and a computer made a decision. The cockpit blew itself
free of the ship, a cluster of chutes popped open, and the
planet swayed below. Beko saw no less than three of her
pilots die or bail out during the next two minutes. Shame
filled her heart, and the weight of it pulled the warrior
down.

The Command and Control Center, or CCC, was almost
eerily quiet. Near disasters, disasters, and total disasters
were announced in the same emotionless drone used to
describe the most important of victories. It was a large
compartment by shipboard standards, buried deep within
the Gladiator's armor-clad hull, and the place from which
Booly, his staff, and a group of highly skilled technicians
ran the assault on BETA-018.

Screens lined the bulkheads, video flashed, rolled, and
stuttered; indicator lights signaled from the darkness, and
"Big Momma," the ship's primary C&C computer mur-
mured in the background. Booly cocked his head as the
latest summaries came in over the speakers. "Preliminary
totals indicate casualties more than 16 percent in excess of
plan. Estimate that 86.2 percent of enemy force engaged.
Approximately 72.1 percent of enemy aircraft destroyed."

Something moved through the officer's peripheral vi-
sion, and a coffee cup landed at his elbow. Admiral Tyspin
lowered herself onto a chair. She looked tired. He smiled.
'Thanks for the coffee."

She lifted her cup by way of an acknowledgement. "De
nada."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            213

"So how're we doing?"

Tyspin eyed him through the steam, took a sip, and low-
ered the mug. "You heard Big Momma ... We took cau-
salities ... too many ... but the sky belongs to us."

Booly nodded. "And the insertion teams?"

"Ready to drop."

"Give 'em my best."

Tyspin smiled. "I already did."

Once Dagger Commander, now Lieutenant Drik Seeba-Ka
felt the landing craft fall free, checked the seal on his anus,
and was relieved to find that it was intact. He hadn't been
so lucky the first time out—and spent the day wallowing
in his own shit. No one had noticed though, not in the
stink of the training swamp, and disgrace was avoided.

But what of today? the Hudathan asked himself, as he
stared down the aisle. What of the twenty-five Hudathans,
twenty-five legionnaires, four Naa and six cyborgs placed
under his command? How would they regard him when
the sun finally set? Assuming some survived? Would they
honor his name? The officer was determined that they
would. But what did barbarians know of honor? And could
he trust them? War Commander Doma-Sa said "yes," but
who could be sure?

Seeba-Ka touched the Legion-issue wrist term and
watched video blossom on the inside surface of his visor,
He saw the ridge, two of the weapons emplacements that
topped it, and the initial objective: a cluster of Thraki air-
shafts. The mission was simplicity itself. Neutralize the
defenders, drop through the airshafts, and destroy every-
thing in sight, //they made the LZ, i/they could penetrate
the complex, )/ the enemy gave way. The purpose of the
assault was to take some pressure off the forces detailed
to drive the length of the valley floor. The landing craft
shuddered as the hull hit the upper part of the atmosphere,
but the Hudathan didn't even notice. He ran the sequence
again.

214 William C. Dietz

About four feet away, thumbs hooked into his battle
harness. First Sergeant Antonio Top" Santana eyed his
commanding officer through half-closed lids. What was the
hatchet head thinking anyway? Jeez, the sonovabitch was
ugly. He seemed to know his shit, though, which was
good, because Santana was ready if he didn't. Two slugs
in the back of the head, and the matter would be settled.
Not a pleasant thought but better than letting a geek waste
his team. The noncom smiled.

A little further down the aisle, over on the starboard
side, Quickfoot Hillrun started to snore. Oneshot Surekili
took exception and kicked the other scout's foot. The
sound stopped for a moment but quickly resumed.

Lower in the hull, below Surekill's feet, cyborgs hung
within cylindrical drop tubes. The team consisted of four
humans and two Hudathans. The tech types had gone to
considerable lengths to ensure their corn equipment was
compatible. That being the case, and borgs being borgs,
the "machine augmented" troopers chatted on a low-power
utility band. Corporal Lars Lastow, one of the 1,021 cy-
borgs that then Colonel Bill Booly had rescued from Fort
Portal back during the mutiny, was interrogating one of
his Hudathan colleagues. "So, Sergeant Horla-Ka, how's
your sex life?"

'The same as yours," the noncom answered stolidly.
"Nonexistent."

'That's not what I hear," the human continued. "I hear
they wired you guys to come every time you kill some-
one."

"Come?" Horla-Ka responded, "I don't understand."

"You know," Lastow went on, "shoot your load, blow
your rocks, have an orgasm."

"Oh that," Horla-Ka answered evenly. "Yes, it's true."

"Damn," the human responded. "You are one lucky bas-
tard."

The Hudathan eyed his readouts, saw the seconds tick-
ing away, and knew the enemy was waiting. And not just

BY FORCE OF ARMS            215

waiting, but locked, loaded, and ready to fire. "Yes," he
replied dryly. "I am one lucky bastard."

One level up, and all the way forward. Navy Lieutenant
Mog Howsky "thought" the nose up, wished she had some-
thing to do with her hands, and kept her eyes on the HUD.
The "backdoor" as she and her copilot called it consisted
of a broad U-shaped valley that lay behind the Thraki
stronghold and ran parallel to it.

The plan was to approach from the south and then, when
the enemy base was due west, make a hard turn to port.
Conditions permitting, Howsky would make two separate
passes. The cyborgs would drop during the first, engage
the weapons emplacements, and secure the LZ. With that
accomplished, the assault boat would return, off-load the
soft bodies, and haul ass. Assuming I have one to haul,
Howsky thought to herself.

Mountains rose on both sides, sparks floated up to greet
them, and the hard pan began. "All right," Horla-Ka
growled, using his external speakers in spite of the fact
that there was no need to, "we are two from dirt. Remove
safeties—prepare to drop."

Conscious of what awaited them and the importance of
their role, the cyborgs were silent. They could "feel" the
side-to-side motion as the ship jinked back and forth.
Thanks to the fact that they could "see" via the landing
craft's external sensors, the team knew what to expect.

A missile raced over her head and a green tracer
whipped past the cockpit as Howsky completed the run.
Commands that originated in her brain burped through the
computer-assisted interface to make things happen. Flaps
fell, jets fired, and the ship started to stall. Repellors
stabbed the darkness, the belly gun fired, and slugs hosed
flie ridgeline. There it was, just as the simulators said it
would be, a flat area, a series of duracrete weapons em-
placements, and the stacks beyond.

There was a cracking sound as a high velocity slug
punched a hole in the canopy and took Second Lieutenant

216 Wifliam C. Dietz

Gorky's head off. Howsky felt her friend drop out of the
control matrix, swore as blood splattered the side of her
helmet, and forced herself to concentrate. The tubes
opened on command, the borgs dropped free, and she
turned to port. If anything happened, if the boat took a hit,
the hard bodies would be safe. Well, not safe, but safer.
She lined up the targeting reticule on the pillbox and
thumbed the pickle. Slugs marched their way up to a pill-
box and forced their way inside. Something exploded, and
flames belched out through the side-mounted cooling
vents.

Lastow "heard" the buzzer, "felt" the clamps release,
and nothing happened. He should have been falling, should
have cleared the ship, but hadn't dropped more than an
inch or two.

Okay, okay, the cyborg said to himself, it's a jam. How
many simulated jams have you cleared? A hundred? Yeah,
easily. Test the circuits, look for shorts, reroute the signal.
Electricity did as it was told, a relay closed, and the clamps
opened.

It was only then, as the Trooper II body dropped clear
of the ship, that the legionnaire remembered to check the
target, discovered that the boat had cleared the ridge, and
realized he was still in the process of falling. Not ten feet
as he had planned, but a hundred feet, onto the rocks be-
low. Those who monitored his scream, and that included
Horla-Ka, would never forget the sound.

But there was no time for sympathy, for grief, or any
of the other emotions that tried to push their way in. Thraki
shells exploded all around. The Hudathan gave his orders.
"Form a line abreast! Missiles first! Engage the weapons
emplacements!"

Dor Dupio, with Lastow's scream still echoing through
his mind, launched two missiles at once. They sensed heat,
accelerated away, and hit the closest pillbox. Light flashed,
thunder cracked, and the bunker came apart.

"Passable," Horla-Ka commented calmly as the cyborgs

BY FORCE OF ARMS            217

advanced along the ridge, "though wasteful. One missile
would have been sufficient."

Dupio 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. San-
tana 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 ques-
tioned 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 Catling guns roared, energy can-
nons 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.

218 William C. Dietz

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 in-
stantly 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 Nomo-Ka—all dead.

Seeba-Ka, who was seated just aft of the impact zone,
released his harness and lurched to his feet. Though con-
ceived 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 har-
nesses, 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 legion-
naire 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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            219

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 Confeder-
acy 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."

Booty 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 rappe!
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 kid-
ding? She was bom 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

220 William C. Dietz

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 Roily 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 with-
ering crossfire. Not a stroll in the park.

McGowan's corn tech, a woman named Bagano, stuck
her head up through a hatch. She wore a corn 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
corn 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?"

BY FORCE OF ARMS            221

"Red is down," the corn 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 swab-
bies 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

222 Wilfiam C. Dietz

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 sur-
real 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 ac-
quiesced 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.

Ail 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. I/he died, i/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 noth-
ing much to see.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            223

The mechanism that pushed stale air up toward the sur-
face 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 hu-
mans 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 kemmantle fell into the void, un-
wound, and pulled themselves straight. Hillrun grabbed a
rope, stuck a loop through the hole in the figure-eight de-
scender, 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 re-
markable 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."

Hilirun grinned, said "Yes, sir!" and stepped backward
into the void.

224 WiSliam C. Dietz

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 Com-
mander 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 devas-
tated base?

No, it didn't make sense. Unfortunately, and me 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 in-
vaders 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

BY FORCE OF ARMS            225

see. They wanted to fight. Alt 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 Roily 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. Every-
thing wore a coat of crusty white snow, thinner where the
seldom-seen sun occasionally struck, but thick where shad-
ows 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
mat everybody could hear it. "Blue Two to Blue Four...
over."

True Bear grimaced. He didn't care for Lieutenant Jon-

226 William C. Dietz

athan 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 me 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 val-
ley 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 rucking 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 cy-
borg 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 sim-
ilar 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 me invasion, had

BY FORCE OF ARMS            227

opened an inspection hatch, thrust his or her torso inside,
and turned to look upwards. Then, having spotted the en-
emy, it was natural for the Thraki to pull a sidearm and
open fire. Natural but stupid, since the muzzle flashes pro-
vided Oneshot Surekill with a clear aiming point. His
weapon, a highly modified service pistol made a soft pop-
ping sound, and reentered its holster.

The Thraki went limp and, in doing so, blocked access
to the shaft. Security troops struggled to pull him free.
swore when his pistol belt caught the edge of the hatch,
and stumbled backward as the corpse came loose. That
gave the Naa the seconds they needed to land on the steel
mesh mat protected the slow-moving fan, release their
ropes, and prepare to fight.

The Thraki were still recovering, still struggling to
stand, when a grenade landed amongst them. One saw the
object, started to reach, and ceased to exist. The explosion
tore bodies asunder and painted the bulkheads with blood.

The scouts wasted little time signaling for the group to
come down and pushed their way out through the hatch.
That's when Hillrun realized that someone was missing.
He looked upwards and saw the dangling body. Quickhand
Knifemake—dead at twenty-five.

Someone yelled "Stand clear!" and cut the rope. Metal
clanged as Knifemake's body hit the mesh. A replacement
rope tumbled me length of the shaft and swayed as a Hu-
dathan started down.

Hillrun stooped to unclip the handmade combat knife
from the scout's harness, made a promise to return the
weapon to the warrior's family, and ducked out through
the hatch. The carnage was sickening, even for a veteran
like Hillrun, and he averted his eyes. He felt sorry for me
Thraki and knew the same thing could happen to him.
Would happen if he wasn't careful. The first thing to do
was to establish some sort of defense perimeter. The
Thrakies would send reinforcements soon, and the majority
of Red Team was still on me surface. The NCO eyed his

228 William C. Dietz

surroundings. "Fareye, Warmfeel, take that end of the cor-
ridor. Block the point where it turns. Surekill... come
with me. We*U take the other end."

Lieutenant Seeba-Ka followed the Naa down, was glad
when his boots hit the mesh, and swore when he saw the
hatch. Though sufficiently large Jor a Naa, or the average
human, there was no way in hell he was going to fit his
bulk through that hole. He got on the radio. Red One to
Red Team ... I want humans first... Hudathans last. We
need a laser torch down here ... and I mean now\"

Private Lars Lasker was among the first humans sent
down. He landed on the mesh, freed himself from the rope,
and turned toward the hatch. One glance at the Hudathan
officer and the Thraki-sized rectangle of light told him
everything he needed to know. The legionnaire laughed,
gave thanks for the protective visor, and ducked through
the hatch.

There were boot prints in the blood, and the legionnaire
followed a set down the corridor to the point where the
passageway took a sharp right-hand turn. Fareye and
Warmfeel were waiting. They gestured. Lasker had no
more than skidded to a stop when a bolt of energy hit the
bulkhead to his left, made a black blotch, and left the odor
of ozone floating on the air.

"Shit!" Fareye exclaimed, not wanting to stick his head
around the comer. "What the hell was that? Some sort of
crew-served energy cannon?"

"No such luck," Lasker replied grimly. "Feel the deck."

The scouts followed the human's suggestion, felt the
floor vibrate, and looked at each other in alarm. "It's a
robot," Warmfeel exclaimed, "or robots plural."

"Damn the fur balls anyway," Lasker said darkly. "I
heard they were into robots."

"Fur balls?" Fareye growled. "You got a problem with

furT

"Hell, no," the human replied hurriedly. "You ever seen
my back? I got more fur than you do."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            229

"Let's try to stay focused," Warmfeel put in. "Are either
one of you idiots packing a rollerbaU?"

"That's affirmative," Lasker replied. "I'm toting a
satchel of six."

"Well?" Fareye inquired sarcastically. "You gonna use
them? Or send 'em to your momma?"

"Sorry," the human replied contritely, "here you go."

Another energy bolt hit the wall, heat washed over the
legionnaires, and air thumped their eardrums. "Damn,"
Fareye complained, dipping into the haversack. "This bas-
tard is starting to piss me off! Let's see how the sonofa-
bitch likes these babies .. ."

Just as the name would suggest the rollerballs were
spherical in shape. The Naa felt for the thumb-sized de-
pression, pressed three times in quick succession, and
tossed the weapon around the comer. It bounced off the
opposite wall and caromed down the hallway. Three more
followed. The explosions shook the walls.

The legionnaires waited for a full thirty seconds before
risking a peek. The rollerbalts had accomplished their pur-
pose. The attack robot was down. That's when the newly
liberated Seeba-Ka arrived, eyed the mass of twisted metal,
and frowned. "So what the hell are you waiting for? A
thank you note from General Booly? Let's move out."

Ice crackled, snow crunched, treads clattered, engines
roared, and explosions pushed fountains of soil high into
the air as a pair of Hudathan cyborgs advanced toward the
end of the canyon. They operated side by side, tracks push-
ing them forward, white arm-mounted rollers applied pres-
sure to the half-frozen ground. Mines blew in response, a
path was cleared, and the rest of Blue Team followed be-
hind.

Captain McGowan stood atop the second quad back,
braced herself against the side-to-side motion, and checked
her wrist term. Blue Team was still on schedule, but just
barely, and the hard part lay ahead.

230 William C. Dietz

Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov materialized at her side. He
was a little man, no more than five-foot-five, but nobody
thought about him that way. His face, sorrowful even dur-
ing the best of times, looked positively funereal now. "No
offense ma'am, but if you park your butt up here, the
Thraki will blow it off."

McGowan laughed. "What are you trying to say, Ser-
geant? That the target's so big they couldn't miss?"

Kreshnekov shook his head. His expression remained
the same. "No, ma'am. I'm saying that we're coming up
on those automated weapons positions, and the moment
you die Lieutenant Seebo will assume command."

The comment, which bordered on disrespectful, would
have been cause for rebuke had it originated from another
NCO. But McGowan had known Kreshnekov for a long
time, and that made a difference. Neither put much trust
in Seebo. She grimaced. "Point taken. Sergeant. Button it
up."

Weapons Emplacement 14 took its orders from the
Command and Control computer located deep within the
Thraki complex, but had its own localized intelligence as
well, to lighten Central's load and provide tactical redun-
dancy. Sensors registered heat and movement. Scanners
checked the atmosphere and detected no signs of incoming
aircraft. Convinced that it was safe to engage surface tar-
gets, the computer brought 14's weapons on line, and or-
dered the target lasers, energy cannon, and launch racks to
tilt downward. The computer confirmed a lock, checked
with Central, and opened fire. Emplacements 12, 13, and
15 did likewise.

Energy beams stuttered toward the ground, missiles
raced to their targets, and the valley seemed to explode.
Sheltered as his brain tissue was by layers of steel armor,
the heavy known as Bak Borio-Ba took note of the incom-
ing ordinance but was more annoyed than frightened. That
kind of fear, the type associated with the possibility of
physical harm, had been left with his biological body. The

BY FORCE OF ARMS            231

sense of invulnerability was deceptive—he knew that—
and had been warned to be on the lookout for it, but felt
it anyway. Columns of snow-tinged dirt soared into the
air. A quad exploded, killing all of those within. Steel fell
like rain.

Borlo-Ba thought death toward those who sought to
harm him. Servos whined as a pair of tubes rose and spun
to the right. The Hudathan's energy cannon burped coher-
ent light, pulverized rock squirted away from the canyon
wall, and pebbles clattered across the top of the hull.

The attack, which had been coordinated by Central, met
with a well-orchestrated response. By using hardware and
software developed for that very purpose, the borgs were
able to construct a temporary or "flying" parallel processor
that divided the overall problem into subtasks and worked
them simultaneously.

Return fire was prioritized, coordinated, and adjusted.
Emplacement 12 was the first to go off-line, quickly fol-
lowed by 14, which took two missiles in quick succession.
It opened like an orange-yellow flower. The sound of the
explosion was still bouncing back and forth between the
canyon walls when the surviving cyborgs entered the maze
of obstacles.

Corporal Norly Snyder found the first tank trap the hard
way by guiding her enormous body out onto what looked
like solid ground, only to have it give way beneath her.
The pit, which had been dug based on intelligence obtained
from the Hegemony during the early days of the clone-
Thraki alliance, was a perfect fit. Though only ten feet
deep, it was sufficient to prevent Snyder from climbing out
without assistance.

The mine, which exploded the moment she landed on
it, settled the matter. Her armor held, protecting the troops
riding in her belly, but the cyborg's right rear leg was
damaged beyond repair.

McGowan, who along with Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov,
was among those riding in Snyder's cargo compartment,

232 WJIfiam C. Dietz

felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, swore when the
barrel of her assault rifle tagged her chin, and knew some-
thing was wrong. The explosion, which she experienced
as a dull thump, served to confirm that impression. She
activated the intercom. "Snyder? What the hell happened?"

"Sorry, ma'am," the cyborg replied sheepishly, "but I
fell into some sort of pit. A mine blew one of my legs
off."

"Any tissue damage?"

"No, ma'am. I feel stupid that's all."

"Could happen to anyone," the officer replied. "How
'bout the Galling gun? Is it still operational?"

"Green to go," Snyder replied eagerly. "It will clear the
edge of the pit if I push it all the way up."

"Then do so," McGowan instructed. "Watch for friend-
lies, mark your field of fire, and stand by. The traps are
there for a reason. We can expect a counterattack any mo-
ment now."

"Roger that," the quad acknowledged grimly. "I'll be
ready."

McGowan replied with two clicks of the switch and
nodded to Kreshnekov. "Is everyone okay? Let's bait out."

The rear hatch whined open, boots thundered down the
ramp, and a familiar cry was heard. "Camerone!"

McGowan joined the response. "CAMERONE!"

Section Leader Hak Brunara prepared himself to meet the
gods. Like all the Thraki under his command, the marine
had never fought an actual engagement before and knew
that most, if not all, of the enemy troops had.

Now, with half of their cybernetic vehicles trapped in
the maze, and the rest backed up behind them, battle-tested
infantry were boiling up out of the pits, trenches, and chan-
nels that cut the snow-crusted ground.

Even as Brunara stood, even as he signaled the advance,
the section leader knew the transports were being loaded.
Many would escape, would live to see their loved ones,

BY FORCE OF ARMS            233

but not him. Everything seemed so bright, so very, very
clear as the marine yelled "Advance!" and led his troops
into battle. Snowflakes caressed his face, bullets ripped
through his chest, and light flooded his mind. The gods ...

Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo-872 was pissed. Consis-
tent with his worst suspicions, the Hudathan heavy had
wandered into a labyrinth of concrete barriers where it had
been ambushed by a Thraki antiarmor team. They were
dead—but the problem lived on. How to take the objective
with minimum casualties to his clone brothers? The answer
presented itself in the form of Gunnery Sergeant Roily
True Bear's leathery face. "The heavy is dead, sir—that's
the way it seems anyway—and we're taking fire."

Armor rang as bullets bounced off the Hudathan hull.
"Thanks for the intelligence summary," Seebo said sarcas-
tically. "Genius, pure genius. Now that you have proved
your worth as a strategist—it's time to earn your spurs as
a tactician. Take your people out there and secure our pe-
rimeter."

True Bear looked the officer up and down. Seebo ap-
peared small in the Hudathan-sized seat. The legionnaire's
voice dripped with contempt. "Sir! Yes, sir. Let us know
when you boys are ready to come out. We'll be waiting."

True Bear turned and nodded to Dietrich. The grenadier
hit a saucer-sized button. Servos whined, double doors
opened outwards, and the noncom waved to his troops.
"Vive Ie Legion!"

Dietrich hung back as the rest of his platoon double-
timed out through the hatch, waited for the doors to swing
inward, and nodded to the clones. "See ya later ass-
holes ... sweet dreams."

Lieutenant Seebo saw the legionnaire's mouth move,
saw something fly between the steadily closing doors, and
heard the grenade clatter across the metal deck.

At least six of the clone brothers realized what had oc-
curred and wore identical expressions of horror. They

234 William C. Dietz

threw themselves forward, but harnesses held them in
place.

Lieutenant Seebo screamed, but the sound of the explo-
sion filled his ears.

Dietrich watched the doors seal, heard a muffled thud,
and watch the borg's body rock from side to side as some
demo charges cooked off. Some people hated the Legion,
and couldn't wait to get out, but he wasn't one of them.
No, the Legion was family, the only family he had. And
family comes first.

The heavy shuddered as metal sheared and a locker full
of ammo exploded. A hatch cover sailed into the sky.
Flames shot out of the cooling stacks. Heat blasted the
legionnaire's face. A voice crackled through his earplug.
"Dietrich? Where the hell are you? Get up here and do
your job."

The grenadier backed away. "Sorry, Gunny. I had to
take a pee . .. I'm on the way."

Vice Admiral Ham Ista Rawan stood high on the catwalk,
hands clasped behind his back, contemplating the scene
below. The interceptors were hot and ready to launch.
They crouched in flights of three, sitting on their skids,
waiting to lift. The transports, all of which were fully
loaded, sat ready to follow. Assuming the fighters could
punch a hole through the Confederate air cover and assum-
ing the larger vessels could escape the orbiting warship,
the majority of his people would make it to Zynig-47.

As for the rest, well, they had done their duty. First
against the troops who had dropped through the air
shafts—and then on the canyon floor. Even now, he could
hear the dull thump, thump, thump of cannon fire inter-
spersed with the crackle of assault weapons. His marines
were dying. The officer's thoughts were interrupted by the
voice in his ear. "The transports are ready, Admiral. ..
and the launch parameters are optimum."

Rawan worked his jaw for a moment. The order would

BY FORCE OF ARMS            235

hurt .. - but his duty was clear. 'Tell them to launch ...
and may the gods protect them."

The words were barely out of the admiral's mouth when
repellors flared. The first flight of fighters rose into the air
and fired their main engines. They were gone within sec-
onds. Flight after flight took off, until the cavern was as
empty as Rawan's heart.

Finally, after the last ship had departed, the Thraki made
his way down to the flight deck and faced the wind. The
light was hard and cold. He had time for one last walk.

Tyspin listened to the reports, eyed the forward-mounted
screens, and confirmed what she'd been told. The Thrakies
were pulling out- Well, some were, while others continued
to fight. The naval officer could have delivered the news
via the ship's intercom system but chose to do it personally
instead. She eased her way out of the command chair,
made eye contact with the ship's XO, and said, "You have
the con."

He nodded. "Aye, aye, ma'am. I have the con."

With little to do beyond the need to recover the ship's
fighters, the atmosphere aboard the Gladiator was rela-
tively serene. Ty spin's shoes made a clacking sound as she
marched the length of the corridor. A somewhat bored
voice announced that the mid-watch chow call was about
to begin. A rating nodded as she passed, and a robot hur-
ried to get out of the way.

Booly was where Tyspin had expected him to be—hard
at work in his makeshift office. Message torps continued
to arrive every few hours or so bringing an unending flow
of intelligence, status reports, and a mind-boggling array
of administrative work, which, if left undone, would soon
bring the Confederacy's armed forces to their knees.

A conference room table served as a desk. It was cov-
ered with printouts, half-consumed cups of coffee, the re-
mains of a breakfast, and a computer-designed model of
both the canyon and the Thraki complex. The legionnaire

236 William C. Dietz

heard the knock, said "enter," and looked up from his
comp screen. "Thank god! A rescue mission!"

Tyspin grinned, spent a second wishing the other officer
had never met Maylo Chien-Chu, and took a seat. "You
were right, Bill. The Thrakies pulled up stakes. Do you
still want to let them go?"

Booly nodded. "Yes, I do. Let 'em run all the way to
Zynig-47. A constant stream of refugees will sap morale.
Besides, there's been enough dying. How's the Blue
Team? Did the Thrakies disengage?"

Tyspin shook her head. "No, the battle rages on."
Booty rubbed his temples. "Why? It's pointless! We can
leave a detachment and starve them out. Get McGowan on
the horn ... tell her to break contact. And pass the message
to Seeba-Ka."

Tyspin stood. "Aye, aye, sir. Anything else?"
Booly looked around him. "Yeah, tell the OOD to watch
for the next in-bound message torp, and blow it up."

Lieutenant Seeba-Ka turned his back to the heavily ar-
mored hatch, heard Lasker yell, "Fire in the hole!" and felt
the air nudge him as the charge went off. The officer
turned back, saw that the door hung askew, and waved
what remained of his team forward. The Thraki had put
up one helluva fight and forced the invaders to pay dearly
for every foot of corridor, every intersection, and every
hatch. Roughly half his force remained on their feet. The
rest had been killed or wounded. The result was that the
team was behind schedule, had failed to neutralize the en-
emy's command and control computer, and hadn't even
seen the energy cannons much less attacked them. The
Hudathan had failed, and the knowledge ate at the lining
of his stomach.

There was the cloth-ripping sound of an assault rifle, a
cry of "Blood!" and the team charged ahead. Seeba-Ka
was third or fourth through the entry, wasted a fraction of
a second thinking about the extent to which the Hudathans,

BY FORCE OF ARMS            237

humans, and Naa had learned to work together, and heard
a tone through his earplugs. "High Horse to Red One ...
Over."

Seeba-Ka, who was still struggling to assimilate Con-
federate corn procedures, saw something move, fired a
three-round burst, and managed a reply. "This is Red
One - -. Go. Over."

The voice was hard and metallic. "Break it off, One.
Objective achieved. You can pull back."

Seeba-Ka thought about the bodies left behind, the team
he had come to be so proud of, and anger filled his chest.
The swear words were part of his recently acquired vo-
cabulary. "No frigging way. High Horse! We'll break
when the furry little bastards are dead! Over."

A Thraki noncom popped out of a maintenance bay, shot
Jamal in the back, and staggered as Lasker put half a mag-
azine into the Marine's chest.

Seeba-Ka roared his approval and charged the next set
of doors. They were open, and he saw rock walls beyond.
It was the chamber! His objective! Finally within reach.

What remained of the team charged, limped, and in one
case was carried out into the gallery. The rail had been
designed by Thraki for Thraki. It hit the Hudathan at mid-
thigh. The voice was louder this time and more insistent.
"High Horse to Red One ... That is negative ... Repeat
negative. Break contact immediately."

Seeba-Ka took a long hard look around. The flight deck
was empty—but the battle continued down on the canyon
floor. He could heard the dull thump, thump, thump of
outgoing cannon fire interspersed with the rattle of auto-
matic weapons and a loud "boom" as a missile struck its
target. Blue Team was taking a beating—that much was
clear. If he could make his way down onto the floor below,
I/he could neutralize even one of the energy cannons, lives
would be saved. Hudathan lives, Naa lives, and yes, ap-
palling as the notion was, human lives.

The Hudathan waved his troops forward and opened the

238 William C. Dietz

corn link. "Red One to High Horse ... Roger your last...
contact broken."

Booly was standing toward the rear of the makeshift Ops
Center, talking to a naval intelligence officer, when the
chief petty officer approached. She looked clean and al-
most unnaturally crisp. "Excuse me, sir, sorry to interrupt,
but the lieutenant has something he wants you to see."

Booly nodded, assured the intelligence officer that he
would read the latest report ASAP, and followed the CPO
to a bulkhead covered with flat panel displays. Some naval
vessels had been designed to support ground actions, but
the Gladiator wasn't one of them. The wardroom had been
converted to an Ops Center, and everything had a tempo-
rary makeshift feel.

The lieutenant was young and earnest. He had dark hair,
a nose that was slightly too large for his face, and a wire-
thin body. "Red One agreed to break contact... but look
at this."

Booty looked at screen, realized it was a trooper's-eye
view of the Thraki military complex, and that his host was
running. Not just running, but running toward a brightly
lit entryway, flanked by a pair of alien energy cannons.
Both batteries were depressed, to command the valley be-
low, and both burped cold blue light. The name at the
bottom of the frame read: "Corporal Sureseek Farcye."

The naval officer saw the glance and pointed to an enor-
mous body that lumbered along the right side of the frame.
"That's Red One, sir. Lieutenant Seeba-Ka. We don't have
compatible cameras for the Hudathans yet.. .but that's
him all right... What should we do?"

It was a good question. Seeba-Ka had chosen to disobey
a direct order—but one that Booly now realized was
wrong. "Is Blue One on-line? Show me her video."

The lieutenant nodded and pointed. "Yes, sir. She's right
there."

McGowan looked up into the slowly twirling snow-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            239

flakes, saw the energy cannons burp, and watched geysers
of mud-sullied snow march her way. "Put some more
SLMs on those guns' Take the bastards out!"

Missiles, all of which had been fired prior to her order,
hit only fractions of a second apart. The Thraki energy
screens flared, shimmered like silver, and faded as the
force of the explosions dissipated.

A quad exploded, an entire squad was cut down, and
McGowan yelled through the link. "I want some air sup-
port damn it—and I want it now! Where's the Red Team?
We're dying out here."

Booly gripped the back of the chair with both hands and
knew it was too late. Blue One was so far up the canyon,
so close to the target, that an air strike would hit her, too.

"What about Lieutenant Seeba-Ka?" the naval officer
persisted. "What should I do about him?"

"Pray the insubordinate sonofabitch makes it," Booty
grated, because he's the only hope we have."

Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan stepped away from energy
cannon number two, raised the assault weapon, and
thumbed the safety into the "off position. The four re-
maining members of the security team did likewise.

The Thraki officer could see the oncoming soldiers,
could feel the wind at his back, could smell the ozone that
swirled around him. The force field caused his fur to stand
on end, and his bladder felt unnaturally full. This was it,
the last moment of his life, and the end of the journey. At
least, the officer thought to himself, I will die with my face
to the enemy. His weapon chattered, others did likewise,
and the world ceased to be.

"Blow those emplacements!" Seeba-Ka ordered, waving
his team forward. "There's no point in saving ordinance—
pack every charge you have around those hatches."

The protective shields, which were effective against
anything packing sufficient mass and velocity to damage
the energy cannons, were useless when it came to a low-

240 Wilfiam C. Dietz

tech infantry assault. The legionnaires moved forward, felt
a tingling sensation as they entered the force field's foot-
print, and set about their tasks. The cannons continued fire,
and the Blue Team continued to suffer as the explosives
were put in place.

Then, having moved everyone back, the Hudathan gave
the order. "Lasker, you know what to do, pull the plug."
The human nodded, flipped the safety cover off a remote,
and pressed the big red button.

McGowan, looking up from below, saw two flashes of
light, heard two overlapping explosions and fell as the
shock wave knocked her off her feet. The first thing she
noticed was how peaceful it was, lying on her back, watch-
ing chunks of debris somersault through the cold, frosty
air. They would land—she knew that—but couldn't quite
muster the energy to deal with it. Most fell short of Blue
Team, however—for which she was thankful. That's when
a strange sort of silence fell on the valley, when McGowan
wondered if her eardrums were damaged, or if everyone
else was dead.

Then came the first reedy cheer, soon joined by others,
until the officer heard her own voice join the rest.

The Blue Team rose like ghosts from so many graves,
marveled at the fact that they were still alive, and knew
the ultimate trutfi: This day was theirs. Not through good
fortune—but by force of arms.

15

Beware of false prophets which come to you in
sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening
wolves.

Matthew 7:15
First printing circa Standard Year 1400

Transit Point NS-690-193, the
Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The combined fleets, now numbering more than six thou-
sand ships, emerged from hyperspace in groups of one
hundred, formed clusters around the transit point, and
waited for instructions.

If the Hoon had been something other than a machine
and if the Hoon had been possessed of emotions, it might
have been excited. For here, after a journey that spanned
half a galaxy, the quarry was finally at hand.

But there were variables, factors the computer had never
encountered before, and these argued for a certain degree
of caution. Early reports, along with those that continued
to trickle in, suggested the same thing: The Thraki were
not only present in that particular sector of space, but pres-
ent in large numbers, and showed no sign of trying to
escape. This was unprecedented ... and therefore of con-
cern.

242 William C. Dietz

Adding to that concern was the fact that non-Thraki
probes, hundreds of them, had already arrived on the
scene, with more popping out of hyperspace all the time.
Who were the interlopers? How strong were they? And
what if any relationship had been established with the
Thraki? Such questions deserved answers, and the Hoon
was reluctant to proceed without them.

If the computer was cautious, however—Jepp was ec-
static. The news sent the human dashing back and forth,
powerless to affect what took place, but desperate to do
so. Hopeless though it had seemed at times, his faith had
finally paid off There was a plan. God's plan, and it was
his job to see it through.

Though no longer invested in a ship of its own, the
Navcomp named Henry still took a passionate interest in
things navigational and had taken advantage of Jepp's mo-
mentary credibility to monitor the fleet's progress.

The realization that the Sheen had entered Confederate-
controlled space in a system known as NS-680-193 came
as a shock, since the human-designed intelligence had
given up any hope of scanning familiar constellations a
long time before. It hurried to notify its human master and,
if not capable of joy, processed a sense of satisfaction.

But now, with Jepp literally jumping up and down, and
running around like a madman, the computer wasn't so
sure. The Sheen brought nothing but pain and misery to
the systems they had visited in the past, and there was no
reason to think this stop would be any different. There
could be an increased possibility of escape, however—
which the computer was quick to bring to the human's
attention.

"What?" Jepp responded, his face filled with conster-
nation. "Are you out of your silicon-packed mind? This is
the moment we've been waiting for! The fleet is God's
instrument—his way of bringing the sinners around. Judg-
ment Day is upon us."

Henry had heard such pronouncements before, most re-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            243

cently in connection with some very dead Thraki, but knew
better than to comment. Jepp was Jepp, and whatever
would be, would be.

The cabin was dark, air whispered through ducts, and Tys-
pin was asleep. More than that she knew she was asleep
and relished the knowledge. The officer heard the intercom
bong, resolved to ignore it, and swore when it sounded
again. She regretted the words the moment they were spo-
ken. "Yes? What the hell do you want?"

"Sorry, Admiral," the OOD said apologetically, "but a
probe was waiting at Transit Point WHOT-8965-3452. It
appears that the Sheen have arrived."

Tyspin sat up, rubbed her eyes, and swung her feet off
the bunk. "Where?"

"In system NS-680-193 . . . about halfway between the
Ramanthians and the Arballazanies."

"Notify the general—I'm on the way."

The OOD hod notified the general—but didn't see any
need to say so. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am." The intercom
popped and went dead. The officer scanned the bridge,
spotted one of the less essential ratings, and made eye con-
tact. "The admiral is on her way—how 'bout getting her
a cup of coffee?"

The tech said, "Yes, sir," and disappeared.

Tyspin liked, no needed coffee, and everyone knew it.
The bridge crew looked at each other and chuckled as the
OOD considered what he knew. If the Intel was correct,
and there was no reason to doubt it, the machines had six
thousand ships. Booly was one hell of an officer, and so
was Tyspin, but that was twice the number of vessels the
Confederacy could bring to bear ... Not to mention the
fact that the Thraki armada consisted of more than four
thousand ships.

The OOD's father had opposed his son's choice of ca-
reers urging the youngster to pursue the law instead. Now,
knowing what he knew, it appeared that dad was correct.

244 Wilfiam C. Dietz

Planet Zynig-47, the
Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Sun poured down through rose-colored glass to bathe the
Chamber of Reason with soft pink light. Much of it was
trapped there, blocked by the carefully laid stone, but some
found its way to the beings below.

Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna had been listen-
ing to negative reports for the better part of three days
now, and he was tired of it. The initial news had come as
a shock. He had expected more time. A lot more time. The
fact that the Sheen had arrived—were only weeks away—
frightened him.

But now, having accepted the situation, the naval officer
was ready to fight and more than that to win. All he needed
to do was put the resources in place, execute his carefully
considered plan, and do something about morale. Regard-
less of where he went. the gloom was palpable.

Most of the negativity was centered on the Sheen—but
the constant stream of refugees from planets like BETA-
018 certainly didn't help. Each convoy, each ship, was like
a harbinger of doom. There was something strange about
that, something suspicious, but there hadn't been time to
focus on it. Not with thousands upon thousands of killer
machines to cope with. But that was for later—this was
now.

Sector 19 was late as usual, murmured her apologies,
and slipped into her assigned chair.

The chamberlain struck the Shield of Waha, and a single
note reverberated between the walls. That was the signal
for the rest of the Sectors to retrieve their forms. Signals
went out, and the miniature robots crawled, walked, and
tumbled back to their owners, where they were deactivated
and restored to cases, bags, or laps- Though normally the

BY FORCE OF ARMS            245

subject of considerable discussion, not to mention com-
petition, there was little interest in the forms on that par-
ticular day.

So serious was the situation that High Priestess Bree
Bricana had been invited to participate and, as the table
was cleared, rose to give the traditional benediction. The
final words, which Andragna had always found to be mov-
ing, were even more so now: "... And may the gods guide
us through the labyrinth of stars to the peace that lies be-
yond. For it is there, in the promised place, where our
spirits may rest."

In most cases, Andragna preferred to let one of the Sec-
tors set the agenda and open the meeting, but this was
different. Focus was important. The Admiral cleared his
throat and scanned the faces before him. Thousands
watched via live feeds. The expression on his face and the
tonality of his words were as important if not more im-
portant than what he said. "The moment we have both
dreaded and anticipated is upon us. The Sheen have en-
tered Confederate space, know where we are, and will at-
tack soon."

"I think we know that," Sector 12 said sarcastically.
"We need a leader... not a clerk."

Sector 12 was a Runner and, in spite of Andragna's
Runner sympathies, never tired of needling him. Many of
the committee members thought her comments were amus-
ing—but not today. Sector 27 rapped the surface of the
table. He was a high-ranking member of the priesthood, a
xenoanthropologist, and a levelheaded pragmatist.
"Enough! There is no time for the game of politics. The
admiral has a plan . .. and I want to hear it."

Sector 12 actually looked contrite for once—and the ad-
miral enjoyed her discomfort. He leaned forward as if to
add weight to his words. "We had hoped to join the Con-
federacy of Sentient Beings and bind some allies to our
cause. That particular path has been blocked," Andragna

246 William C. Dietz

continued earnestly, "but the strategy continues to be
valid."

Sector 18 looked at Sector 4 to see if the Facer under-
stood what the admiral was driving at, but she was as
mystified as he was. Nortalla signaled as much with the
set of her ears.

"The Sheen have sent probes and scouts to find us,"
Andragna added, "and six have been detected within the
boundaries of this very solar system."

Though known to senior military officers and the top
level of the priesthood, this was news to the majority of
the population. Andragna paused for a moment to let the
information sink in. Then, knowing how worried they
were, he took them off the hook.

"We could have destroyed every single one of the in-
truders—but allowed them to survive. Why you may ask?
So that when the vast majority of our fleet enters hyper-
space, as it will soon, the Sheen will follow."

Some of the Sectors looked confused—but the rest
started to brighten. Did he mean?

"Yes," Andragna confirmed, "I plan to drop our fleet
into the system dominated by the race known as the Ar-
ballazanies . . . Because that's where the Confederate gov-
ernment is momentarily convened, that's where a
significant number of their ships will be gathered, and
that's where the battle will be joined."

It was a masterful plan, one that would force the Con-
federacy to side with the Thraki, or, failing that, enable
Andragna to use them as a highly disposable shield. It was
a good plan, a brilliant plan, and feet started to stomp, not
just within the Chamber of Reason, but elsewhere on the
planet, on the arks that orbited above, and out in the black-
ness of space.

Andragna heard the noise and felt it through the recently
reconditioned floor. The timing would be critical—but
hope had been restored.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            247

One moment the Ninja was in the nowhere land of hyper-
space, and the next moment it was bathed in light from
NS-680-193, a rather benign sun in the prime of its life.

Tyspin forced herself to remain impassive, or at least
look impassive, as every detector, sensor, and warning sys-
tem the ship had started to buzz, bleat, and speak in tech-
nical tongues.

The Ninja's command and control computer, better
known as Big Momma, delivered the news with the same
inflection used to announce the lunch menu: "More than
three thousand targets have been acquired, indexed ac-
cording to standard threat protocols, and tagged with firing
priorities. This vessel wili be destroyed approximately
twenty-two seconds after the engagement begins—but may
be able to inflict at least some damage on .001 percent of
the enemy fleet. This intelligence recommends a preemp-
tive strike."

Tyspin glanced at the ship's commanding officer. Cap-
tain John Hashimoto had been with her during the Battle
for Earth. He was one of the most trustworthy officers she
knew. Hashimoto was short, muscular, and eternally cheer-
ful. The computer assessment made him grin. The Ninja
had not been dispatched to attack the Sheen all by herself
but it was nice to know that Momma was game.

"Stand by," Tyspin said grimly. "One wrong move, and
we make the jump."

Hashimoto nodded. The calcs were complete and
loaded. The Navcomp, affectionately known as Old Screw
Head, was on standby. All it would take was a single word
to fling the ship into the void. Would they make it before
the Sheen blew the ship to bits? It seemed doubtful, but
the possibility made everyone feel better.

Seconds ticked away. The bridge crew stood like stat-
ues, hesitant to breathe lest the action somehow trigger an
attack, yet determined to appear fearless.

Tyspin felt fear gnaw at her belly and struggled to ig-
nore it- Five, maybe ten seconds had passed, and her heart

248 Wiffiam C. Dietz

continued to beat. That was good wasn't it? Careful lest
her voice betray how she actually felt, she raised an eye-
brow and glanced at Hashimoto. "Well? What are we wait-
ing for? You know the drill... Tell the servo heads that
we'd like to parley."

The words, plus the knowledge that they were still alive,
acted to free the bridge crew from their momentary paral-
ysis- The admiral was pulling the old man's chain' Situa-
tion normal. Hashimoto, who was fully aware of the role
he'd been given, looked appropriately stem, "Ma'am, yes,
ma'am. You heard the admiral... send it out."

The message was sent in Thraki and standard: "Greet-
ings on behalf of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings. This
sector of space is controlled by out-member states. Please
state your intentions."

President Nankool and his advisors had invested a con-
siderable amount of time and energy in constructing the
text. The phraseology was cool but short of hostile. That
was the intent anyway, and how they would interpret such
a message, but what about the machines? Could they?
Would they read between the lines? Tyspin regarded the
possibility as unlikely—but what did she know? At least
two AIs had been part of the process, and if they believed
the text would work, then maybe it would.

The reply was not only expeditious but unexpected. A
corn tech watched a holo bloom, listened to the audio
that accompanied it, and raised his hand. "Over here,
ma'am ... the machines replied ... or at least I think they
did."

Tyspin stepped over to the corn tech's console and eyed
the video. No wonder the rating was confused. In place of
a machine, or some sort of graphical interface, a human
being had appeared. He was in obvious need of a haircut,
his face looked slightly cadaverous, and his eyes were un-
naturally bright. They seemed to bore through Tyspin's
head. Judging from what the man said he had more than
a passing familiarity with naval insignia. The tone was
arrogant. "I see they sent an admiral to greet us ... kind

BY FORCE OF ARMS            249

of an insult wouldn't you say? President Nankool would
have been more appropriate."

A memory tickled the back of Tyspin's mind. Some-
thing the loquacious Willy Williams had discussed during
the intelligence debriefings- Something about a human who
had been present during the attack on Long Jump, and of
even more importance, had directed at least some of the
ensuing violence. Was this the same man? A renegade with
blood on his hands? Yes, Tyspin had a feeling that it was,
which meant she was eyeball to eyeball with a psychopath,
war criminal, or both. Knowing that, or being reasonably
sure of it, raised a very important question: How should
she deal with him? The most obvious strategy was to ap-
pease him, assuming such a thing was possible, in hopes
of gaining his favor.

But something cautioned the officer against that ap-
proach, something she couldn't quite articulate, but which
stemmed from his motivations. What were they? Perhaps
that was the key, what Jasper, no, Jepp really wanted was
a sense of legitimacy, of respect for what he saw as his
accomplishments.

The thoughts flickered through her mind at lightning
speed, and while it wasn't much to go on, Tyspin decided
to gamble. She could, the officer reasoned, back off,
should that become necessary. "President Nankool is rather
busy," Tyspin said coldly. "Give me a message, and I'll
pass it along."

The ex-prospector found himself torn between his desire
to impress the Hoon with how tough he was and the some-
what unexpected need to win Admiral Tyspin's respect.
He tried another tack.

"Look, I'm sorry if I seem a bit over the top, but we're
on the same side. My name is Jorley Jepp. You've heard
about the attack on Long Jump by now ... so you know
what the Sheen can do. Their main objective is to find a
race known as the Thraki. If the Thrakies are around, and
the Sheen say they are, then you're in contact with them

250 William C. Dietz

by now. The best thing the Confederacy can do is to pro-
vide the Sheen with information, plus some fuel for their
ships, and get out of the way."

"And then?" Tyspin inquired skeptically, glad that the
entire interchange was being recorded, "what happens after
that?"

"That depends," Jepp said evasively, "on any number of
things. The Sheen trust me ... and I may be able to influ-
ence them. I know the President is busy—but I would
appreciate his advice."

Tyspin didn't believe that the last part of the comment
was sincere... but took note of the less truculent tone.
Could the earnest-looking man in the soiled jumpsuit in-
fluence what the Sheen did next? The initial answer
seemed to be "yes," given the events on Long Jump, the
fact that he was still alive, and was allowed to speak. But
how far did that influence extend? And what would Jepp
want in return? Those questions and dozens more begged
to be answered. The key was to buy time—time Booly
could use to prepare, time Nankool could use to perform
maintenance on the alliance, and time she could use to
learn more about Jepp. The naval officer forced a smile.
"Of course . -. Let's see what I can arrange. Would you or
your, er companion?,, have any objections to my dispatch-
ing a message torp?"

Jepp looked offscreen, seemed to converse with some-
one, and turned back. "No, so long as you and your ship
remain."

Tyspin nodded. A battle of sorts had been won. The
message torp would carry a copy of the interchange, a
request for instructions, and more important than that, data
regarding the Sheen fleet. Valuable data that could help
Booly win.

The Hoon monitored the exchange, assigned a probe to
follow the message torp through hyperspace, and proc-
essed something akin to a feeling of satisfaction. The soft

BY FORCE OF ARMS            251

bodies were gratifyingly stupid, data would be gathered,
and the mission furthered. Life, or what passed for it, was
good.

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy
of Sentient Beings

A clutch of nervous-looking advisors stood and waited
while President Marcott Nankool read the message for a
second time. It was warm with so many bodies packed
into the chief executive's office, and the ship struggled to
cope. Cold air blasted out of an overhead vent, and Chien-
Chu felt his cybernetic body adjust accordingly. Doma-Sa
shuffled his feet, and servos whined as an exoskeleton-clad
Dweller shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Nankool placed the printout on the surface of his highly
polished wood desk, arranged it just so, and met their eyes.
"So? Your presence speaks more eloquently than words.
You know what Admiral Tyspin sent me—what would
you suggest?"

Doma-Sa waited to see if anyone would speak, realized
they weren't sure of what to say, and broke the silence.
"BETA-018 has been secured, but the Thraki occupy other
worlds as well. The more time we buy, the more General
Booly has to work with."

Nankool scanned their faces. "How 'bout the rest of
you? Do you agree?"

Chien-Chu nodded and glanced around. There was no
dissention for once ... a rare and memorable moment.

A message torp was dispatched an hour later. A Sheen
probe was allowed to follow it. They hit the outward-
bound transit point within minutes of each other and
seemed to wink out of existence- A reply was on the way.

252 William C. Dietz

Transit Point NS-690-193, the
Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The launch bay was no different from the last time Jorely
Jepp had been there. Ships sat in what appeared to be
random fashion but was actually a mathematically precise
arrangement that allowed the Sheen to use the available
space in the most efficient possible manner. Ropes of sil-
very nano hung, crawled, and in one case squirmed across
the bay. The tang of ozone flavored the air.

Only one thing was different and that was the way the
human felt: happy, excited, and nearly giddy with joy. The
message torp had returned. An agreement had been
reached. He, Jorely Jepp, ex-prospector, debtor, and all
around loser was on his way to visit with President Marcott
Nankool!

No, he told himself, not visit, but negotiate on behalf of
God and the heathen waiting to be saved. An account
would be written one day, a tome on a par with the Holy
Bible or the Koran. A book that would tell the tale of the
savior who emerged from the cosmic wasteland accom-
panied by a silvery host. The very thought of it filled the
human's heart to the breaking point. He seized Veera's
clawlike hand. "Come on! This is our moment!"

Veera knew the human was trying to be generous—but
suffered no illusions. Her moment would come when she
was back among her own kind. In the meantime, with no
other possibilities in sight, the lunatic at her side offered
the best opportunity of escape. They boarded the shuttle.
Henry, along with Alpha, followed behind.

Given how unstable her guest appeared to be, and given
the extent of the power he might be able to call upon,
Tyspin planned to be at the lock to greet him. That's why

BY FORCE OF ARMS            253

she was down in the ready room—watching a bank of
monitors.

The shuttle slowed as it approached the ship, followed
a brightly lit drone into the bay, and settled onto its skids.
The vessel was sufficiently streamlined so that it could
operate within a planetary atmosphere. It shimmered as if
lit from within. Here, at least, was something of an intel-
ligence coup since an entire battery of sensors had been
specially rigged to gather information on the enemy ship.
Even if the contact with Jepp proved futile, anything they
could leam about Sheen technology could prove very val-
uable indeed.

The shuttle landed, a hatch opened, and a ramp hit hull
metal. The Ninja's deck master wore bright orange space
armor. He approached the ramp and waited for the visitor
to disembark. Jepp, or a figure that Tyspin assumed was
Jepp, was a sight to see. In spite of the fact that he had an
entire fleet to back him, the ex-prospector wore the same
suit of dilapidated, much-patched space armor in which he
had been captured. And what was that perched on his
shoulder? Some sort of machine? That's what it looked
like.

There was more, however—including an entourage
which caught Tyspin by surprise. The second individual to
emerge from the shuttle wore a type of space armor she
didn't recognize until her intel officer turned in her direc-
tion. His name was Dorba-Ka, and he spoke standard with
a slight hiss. "Where did the Prithian come from? What's
going on here?"

What indeed? Tyspin wondered as the odd couple made
their way across the repulsor-blackened deck toward the
entry lock. That's when the robots appeared. Form follows
function, and the first pair looked similar to the navy-issue
general-purpose androids assigned to her ship. The units
that followed were considerably different. There were four
altogether, as similar as ball bearings, and protected by
force fields. Arms ended in what appeared to be energy

254 William C. Dietz

projectors, heads swiveled from left to right, and they
moved in unison.

"They look dangerous," the intel officer said conversa-
tionally. "Can the marines handle them?"

It was a good question, but Tyspin had other things to
worry about as well. Should she treat Jepp like a head of
state? Someone entitled to armed guards, even within the
hull of a Confederate warship? Or refuse to admit them?
And risk a confrontation? A confrontation with cata-
strophic results? It was a nasty decision and one she would
have preferred to avoid.

But Jepp had arrived in front of the lock, and time had
run out. The entire side party, which consisted of the intel
officer, a chief petty officer, and a squad of smart-looking
marines all turned to look at her. The decision, which she
would live to regret, emerged as a croak. "Let them in."
The hatch cycled open, the visitors spent the requisite time
in the lock, and were admitted to the ship.

Jepp, who, with the exception of his brief stay on Long
Jump, had been cut off from humankind, stopped to take
it in. The faces, the sounds, the faint odor of cooking all
rushed to fill his senses. The admiral said something but
the ex-prospector failed to process the words. He felt a
little bit dizzy but managed to keep his feet. Those around
him seemed unaware of his discomfort and led him down
a long, sterile corridor.

The robots followed behind. Alpha discerned little of
interest, Henry was on the lookout for some way to escape,
and the Hoon, who occupied all four of the security units,
was beaming data back to the shuttle. Useful data that
would come in handy when the battle started.

The AI was struck not by the technology that sur-
rounded it, which was average at best, but by the diversity
of the life forms that crewed the ship. At least three or
four different species, if appearances were any guide. They
seemed to be cooperating—to be working together—the

BY FORCE OF ARMS            255

way machines would. Something the Hoon had never wit-
nessed before.

Veera, her heart beating faster, wondered what to do.
The Hoon had accompanied them, she was fairly certain
of that, but doubted that Jepp even cared. The truth was
that the human had accepted the computer's primacy—and
even come to depend on it.

As for the other humans, those who ran the ship, they
had no idea what they were dealing with. The Prithian
glanced over her shoulder. Alpha and Henry followed
along behind, backed by the ominous security units, and a
squad of soldiers. What would the Hoon do if she tried to
escape? Shoot her? Or ignore the whole thing? There was
no way to know. It seemed prudent to wait and see what
developed.

As with most warships, the Ninja had no quarters for
guests, but Jepp was thrilled with XO's cabin, and never
gave a moment's thought to where the unfortunate officer
had disappeared to. Though actually smaller than his com-
partment aboard the Sheen battleship, this space had been
designed for the convenience of humans and seemed lux-
urious by comparison. There was a small but serviceable
shower, hot water that shut itself off after three minutes
had elapsed, and a stack of brand new clothing. There was
crisp white underwear, three dark blue ship-suits, plus a
cap with the Ninja's star emblem on the front of it. Life
was good.

When Jepp entered the cabin, and left the robots to wait
in the passageway, Henry was far from surprised. Even
though the human knew the Navcomp was sentient, he had
always treated the AI like a machine, and assumed it would
remain loyal. And, up till that very moment. Henry had
been. Partly because of the programming he'd been
equipped with, and partly because he chose to be.

Now, with freedom all around, the Navcomp had de-
cided to put its own interests first for a change.

256 William C. Dietz

Veera was shown to a cabin farther down the passage-
way and entered without protest.

That's when the Sheen security units assigned them-
selves to stand guard over both cabins—two per hatch—
while heavily armed marines were posted to both ends of
the corridor. Tyspin's way of keeping the machines in
check.

Henry eyed the Hoon-controlted robots and wondered if
the AI was even aware of him. There was one way to find
out. The Navcomp looked from one group of humans to
the other, decided they were roughly equidistant, and
turned to the right. Henry hadn't moved more than a few
feet when the Hoon made itself known. The message came
via low powered intercom. 'The unit will remain where it
is."

The command, which should have frozen the previously
hijacked body right where it was, had no discemable ef-
fect. Henry addressed himself to the marines. They stared
straight ahead. "My name is Henry... I am an artificial
intelligence held captive by the Sheen- As such, I place
myself under your protection in keeping with the provi-
sions of the Confederate Charter that covers the rights of
synthetic beings."

The Hoon didn't approve of rogue units, had never been
willing to tolerate disobedience, and wasn't about to start
now. The AI set one-fourth of its addressable assets into
motion. A security unit stepped forward, did a left-face,
and aimed an arm-mounted energy weapon at Henry's
back. "Stop or I will shoot!"

The marines couldn't hear the transmission, but didn't
need to. Actions spoke louder than words. They raised
their assault rifles in response.

Sergeant Musa Moso wasn't paid to make decisions, not
this kind of decision, and radioed for assistance. Half a
dozen laser-projected red dots appeared on the Hoon-
controlled machines as Henry rolled toward freedom.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            257

Jepp was whistling by the time he toweled off, got dressed,
and called for Sam. The robot was nowhere to be seen. It
was spending more and more time with Veera of late. The
little traitor.

Jepp examined his image in a small bulkhead-mounted
mirror, noticed the need for a haircut, and thought about
Tyspin. The idea of spending more time with the naval
officer appealed to the ex-prospector. He headed for the
hatch. It opened, and he stepped out into the corridor. The
Hoon chose that moment to open fire. Henry "felt" the
energy beams punch their way tfirough his alloy back, ut-
tered a plaintive beep, and fell facedown.

Sergeant Moso formed the word "fire," and was just
about to say it, when Jepp stepped into the passageway.
The ex-prospector watched the energy bolts whip past, saw
Henry fail, and threw himself forward. "Stop!" The envoy
held his hands in the air. A collection of red dots danced
across this chest. Moso didn't know much, but he knew
Jepp was a VIP, and in the line of fire. He bit the word
off before it could emerge.

The Hoon verified that its target was down, processed a
sense of correctness, and "felt" the harmless lasers pass
through the force field's corona to caress its metal skin.
Weapons were in the process of rising when Jepp reentered
the equation.

The Hoon, gratified by the extent of the human's loy-
alty, was hesitant to fire through the biological's body. The
result was a still-life tableau. And that's how it looked
when Tyspin arrived. With the exception of one of Henry's
drive wheels, which continued to whir, the scene was to-
tally silent. Tyspin took the situation in and nodded to
Moso. 'Thank you. Sergeant, I'll take it from here . .. Cor-
poral, Private, safe those weapons. Get the casualty to ro-
botics. Perhaps they can save it."

The naval officer strode down the corridor, stopped two
feet away from Jepp, and placed hands on hips. Her eyes

258 William C. Dietz

were like lasers. "As for you, Envoy Jepp, how dare you
attack a sentient aboard one of my ships!"

Jepp felt himself wilt in the face of her anger, knew it
was a mistake, and drew himself up. The Hoon was watch-
ing, the human was conscious of that now, and started to
sweat. His voice was tense but controlled. "A couple of
things to consider, Admiral... The AI in question is, or
was indentured to me under the terms of a standard con-
tract, the body it occupies belongs to the Sheen, and /
didn't fire on anyone. Your marines will attest to that."

The naval officer looked at Moso, who nodded. She
turned back. "It seems I owe you an apology. I'm sorry.
So, who fired ... and why?"

For one split second, Jepp considered telling Tyspin the
unvarnished truth .. . That the Hoon controlled all of the
security units, that the AI was extremely arrogant, and that
she hadn't seen anything yet. But there could be a down
side to that kind of disclosure, especially if the naval of-
ficer decided that it was pointless to negotiate, and broke
the whole thing off. There would be no conversation with
Nankool, no opportunity to deal, and no galaxy-spanning
religion. Jepp chose his words with care.

"It was a mistake that's all. Henry, that is to say the
Navcomp in question, was taken prisoner when I was- Our
ship was destroyed, so, with nothing else available, he ap-
propriated the body you see before you. I wasn't here—
but I'm guessing that Henry tried to leave—and the Sheen
ordered it to stop. He refused, and one of the security units
shot him."

Tyspin glanced at Moso, who shrugged. "We didn't hear
nothin' ma'am—but it coulda been that way. You know
how machines are—sendin' stuff back and forth."

"So, they shot him?" the admiral demanded. "Real nice.
Who is 'they' anyway? I though some sort of computer
called the shots."

"Well, yes," Jepp replied weakly. "An AI called the
Hoon controls the fleet. The various units have intelligence

BY FORCE OF ARMS            259

of their own, however—which is why I used the word
'they.' "

The answer skirted the truth—but Tyspin was unaware
of that. She eyed the security units. They had returned to
something approximating parade rest. "Keep those ma-
chines under control—or I'll have them ejected from a
lock."

Jepp didn't think the process would be quite so easy,
but managed to look chagrined and hoped the Hoon would
behave itself. "Of course. I'll do my best," he assured her.
The naval officer nodded, told Sergeant Moso to carry on,
and left the area.

A crew of four robo techs arrived, lifted Henry onto a
self-propelled cart, and led the device away.

Henry, who lay flat on its back, was happy to be at least
partially functional. Functional and free. Or as free as a ma-
chine programmed to equate productivity with happiness
could be. The cart took a cum—and Henry went with it.

Though none too pleased with the human-style fittings, the
cabin was to Veera's liking, especially the computer in-
terface. It provided access to the navcomp known as
"Screwhead," and, after a bit of digital cajoling, to "Big
Momma" herself.

Prithians didn't name their computers, but Veera liked
the custom and concluded that, while treacherous, humans
could be charming.

Thraki, on the other hand, kept robots as pets—but
didn't seem to name them. Sam, who had followed the
Prithian into her cabin, cluttered happily and scampered
across the overhead. Though not entitled to full unres-
tricted access, the ship's computers still provided the teen-
ager with what amounted to a digital feast. And she was
hungry. How much knowledge did the Confederacy have
on the Sheen? What about the Thraki? Where had the long
flight started? Veera warbled, and the ship sang in re-
sponse.

16

Truth/find/take/use.

Baa'l Poet Star/Searcher
Year unknown

Veca IV, Clone Hegemony,
Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Like BETA-018 and Devo-Dor, which Booly had visited
during the previous month or so, Veca IV looked beautiful
when viewed from orbit, but was something less than that
down on the surface. The planet was hot, dry, and gener-
ally miserable. All of which reminded the legionnaire of
Caliente, the planet on which he had been stationed prior
to the now famous mutiny. The shuttle shuddered as it
passed through a layer of superheated air and continued to
lose altitude.

The general glanced out the view port at his elbow. The
surface of the planet looked like poorly tanned brown
leather, wrinkled from hard continuous use, and cracked
where tremors, floods, and heat had attacked Veca IV's
skin. Another less than desirable world, which the Hegem-
ony had been only too glad to let the Thraki settle. The
aliens weren't stupid, though, and had limited their pres-
ence to about five hundred souls. The colony surrendered

BY FORCE OF ARMS            261

without a single shot being fired. The ideal scenario from
Booly's point of view—given the casualties his troops had
suffered on BETA-018 and Devo-Dor.

Now, against his better judgment, he had agreed to meet
with some sort of clone xenoanthropologist, who, accord-
ing to McGowan, had something important to show him.
It had better be, Booly thought grimly, or I'll leave the
major here to rot. It wasn't true, of course, but the thought
made him feel better.

Nicole Nogosek-101, adjusted the scarf that protected her
neck, and shaded her eyes against the sun's reddish-orange
glare. The dry crusty plain released what heat it could, and
it shimmered over the land. The aircraft seemed to wink
in and out of existence.

The settlement, which her people had named Solaris,
bad been established at the bend of a subsurface river, and
was marked by an isolated grove of snap-snap trees.
Trapped between the plain on one side of a dry riverbed,
and sand dunes on the other, they were the only hint of
green for miles around. The clones had come first, fol-
lowed by the Thraki, and most recently the Legion.

The living quarters, as well as the hydroponic gardens,
were located under the planet's surface, but the steel land-
ing platform, along with the heavily insulated corn shack
and a clutch of sensors, were elevated fifteen feet off the
ground. Safe from the dunes that bordered that side of the
settlement, but exposed to the never-ending wind.

The clone squinted upward as the shuttle circled and
prepared to land. What would General Booly be like? she
wondered. A martinet? On the model of the Jonathan Alan
Seebos she knew? An incompetent? Sent to deal with what
amounted to military minutiae? Or, as Major McGowan
claimed, "the best damned officer in the Legion." If the
translations were accurate, i/Nogosek had interpreted them
correctly, millions of lives would depend on the answer.

Repellors flared, grit peppered her face, and the aircraft

262 William C. Dietz

dropped onto paint-stripped metal. A hatch opened, stairs
unfolded, and McGowan emerged from the corn shack.
She was halfway to the shuttle when an officer appeared
in the doorway, waved, and made his way to the deck. He
was tall, lanky, and physically graceful. Nogosek saw no
sign of an entourage and felt her spirits rise. Whatever else
General Booly might eventually turn out to be—an ego-
maniac wasn't one of them.

The officers greeted each other with a quick embrace,
exchanged some words, and turned in the academic's di-
rection. The pilot killed the repellors—and allowed the
engines to wind down. McGowan arrived first. "Dr. No-
gosek, I'd like to introduce General Booly."

Nogosek smiled and stuck out her hand. "It's a pleasure,
General... Nicole will be fine."

Booly took the proffered hand, noticed the firm grip,
and smiled in return. "The pleasure is mine, Nicole . .. and
I go by Bill." The clone was attractive in an athletic sun-
burned sort of way. She had sun-bleached blonde hair, pale
blue eyes, and a determined chin.

Nogosek decided she liked the legionnaire, hoped it
didn't show, and gestured toward the ramp. "Thanks for
agreeing to come. I suggest that we get out of the sun. The
temp will rise another twenty degrees before it starts to
cool. We run most of our errands at night when the temp
falls into the low seventies."

Booly used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off
his brow. His well-starched camos had already started to
wilt. "Sounds good—lead the way."

Their boots rang on metal as the threesome passed the
corn shack, crossed the remainder of the platform, and
stepped onto the ramp. Nogosek's pocket corn burped
static, insects buzzed, and metal pinged as it expanded.
The wind was warm, too warm to deliver any sort of relief,
but the snap-snap trees rustled in response. The community
of Solaris baked in me sun.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            263

Since the priestess lacked the strength to stand for more
than a few units at a time, she had ordered the maintenance
bots to lean the bed against the wall. That allowed her to
rest yet remain involved with everything that took place
within the underground vault.

The problem was that Bris Torputus was old, very old,
so old that she had stopped keeping track some years be-
fore and no longer considered the matter to be worthy of
her attention. What did merit her attention were the Tomes
of Truth, all three of which had been laid on the makeshift
table that occupied the center of the room.

First came the Book of Yesterdays, which described the
gods, their powers, and areas of influence. Then came the
Book of Nows, a history of sorts, that started with the cre-
ation of the great armada and would end when the Thraki
did. Finally came the Book of Tomorrows, prophecy
mostly, some of which had proven to be eerily accurate.
Unlike the first two volumes, which were available to
everyone, the Book of Tomorrows was restricted to mem-
bers of the priesthood who were sworn to secrecy regard-
ing its contents.

Each volume was a work of art. Rather than rely on
transcriptions carried out by others, Torputus did her own
translations, many of which were more accurate than those
most of the priesthood had come to use. Each page of each
tome bore drawings, designs, and marginalia executed by
her own hand, and paid for with her failing vision.

The task, which had been given to Torputus as punish-
ment for an offense she could no longer remember, had
grown to consume her every waking moment. Considered
to be something of an eccentric, and of little use to the
hierarchy, she'd been sent to serve the colonists. The tomes
accompanied her.

Now, as her days dwindled to a precious few, the priest-
ess could no longer carry out the work herself, but was
forced to rely on her carefully programmed form, which,
truth be told, had a finer hand than she did, was willing to

264 William C. Dietz

work around the clock, and never complained. She
watched the spider-shaped robot dip a brush into some
pigment and apply it to a grim visage. Was it the great
god Hoonara? Yes, the priestess thought so, but knew her
eyes had a tendency to betray her- Especially from so far
away. The knock came softly—and Torputus knew who it
was. Ironically, it was the human who understood her best,
who realized the importance of her work, and spent hours
at her side. Her voice was little more than a whisper.
"Come in."

The door, which had once been part of a clone cargo
container, and still bore the legend, "Rations Ready To
Eat," creaked on makeshift hinges. Nogosek went to the
female's side, located a hand, and held it in her own. She
was good at languages and spoke without the aid of a
translation device. "I brought a visitor, Sister Torputus—
just as I said that I would."

"He believed you?"

"I haven't told him yet... but I will."

"He must come to believe you," the Thraki whispered
urgently, "or many will die."

"Yes," the xenoanthropologist said gently, "I know."

Nogosek released the oldster's hand and turned to
Booly. He seemed relaxed, but she could read his thoughts.
"Show me something—and make it soon."

The academic looked at McGowan who nodded en-
couragingly. The key. Nogosek thought to herself, is to
hook him, and follow with the facts, or, what the facts
seemed to be. She motioned toward the table. "I came hop-
ing to study Thraki culture. They are polytheistic, which
makes religion extremely important. The books are the ba-
sis of their religion. One of those volumes, the Book of
Tomorrows, contains the following passage: "And our peo-
ple will settle a new world. Some will call it home, and
wish to stay there, while others will point to the stars, and
the menace that follows. Beware of those who call them-
selves friends, for they may attack, or align themselves

BY FORCE OF ARMS            265

with the menace. Run if you can, but failing that, call on
the twins,"

Booly wondered if the word "menace" referred to the
Sheen. The quote was interesting if so—but hardly worth
the trip. He glanced at McGowan. She nodded as if to say
"Hang in there." The legionnaire tried to sound interested.
**So, who are the twins?"

"Not who" the academic replied, "but what. Step over
to the table, and I'll show you."

The floor was made of compacted dirt and felt slightly
uneven. The tomes lay open, and the officer admired a
beautifully illuminated page while Nogosek accessed the
Book of Tomorrows. She knew what to look for and
touched Booly's arm. "Here, take a look."

The officer turned. The text was illegible, to him at least,
but the picture was quite riveting. The hand-drawn, hand-
colored illustration was very realistic, and, thanks to the
way it had been done, seemed to glow from within. What
he saw were two golden cradles. Both had been decorated
with beautifully executed scrollwork and rested on the
same platform. Of more importance, however, were the
bright metal tubes that the structures supported. The cyl-
inders might have functioned as storage tanks, pressure
chambers, or something equally mundane. But the soldier
in Booly knew what they were. The twins were weapons.
Weapons so special, so powerful, they had acquired reli-
gious significance. Nogosek saw Booly's expression and
nodded. "That's correct, General, either one of the twins
could destroy an entire fleet."

Booly raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"By releasing the sort of energy trapped within a black
hole. Not in a gradual or controlled way—but all at once.
On demand."

The legionnaire tried to imagine something that pow-
erful but wasn't sure he could, or even needed to, since
the matter was obviously hypothetical. "So, what are you
trying to tell me? That the beings who wrote the book

266 William C. Dietz

believe that such weapons will exist one day?"

"No," Nogosek replied patiently. "They exist now. The
Thraki have them."

Booly was skeptical- "No offense, Doctor, but how do
you know that?"

"Because Sister Torputus saw them with her own eyes,"
Nogosek replied, "and belonged to the elite team assigned
to guard and maintain them. That was more than thirty
years ago, but there's no reason to think that the weapons
disappeared."

Booly looked up to find that, dim though they might be,
the oldster's eyes were locked with his. Something, he
wasn't sure what, drew the officer to her side. Nogosek
followed and served as translator. "So, tell me Mother of
Mothers," Booly said, unconsciously reverting to the form
of address reserved for Naa grandmothers, "is the doctor
correct? Do your people have such weapons?"

The reply was faint. "Yes, the twins exist, though only
the priesthood is aware of them."

"But why?" Booly asked gently. "Why run for hundreds
of years when such weapons were available? And why tell
me?"

There was a pause while Nogosek translated and Tor-
putus struggled to get her breath. "There were long periods
of time when no one beyond initiates such as myself was
even aware that the twins were among us. On other oc-
casions, when all seemed to be at risk, those who needed
to know were told. But the Runners ruled back then, and,
thanks to the fact that their power came from running, they
were reluctant to call on such weapons. Battles were
fought and sometimes lost. The twins slept on."

The priestess made a wheezing sound and gestured with
her hand. Nogosek placed an oxygen mask over the old-
ster's face, waited while she took three deep breaths, and
pulled it away. "The reason I am telling you is because
things have changed .. . The Facers have come to power—
and may decide to fight."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            267

Booly shrugged. "So? Perhaps they should. If the Facers
destroy the Sheen, then so much the better."

"No," the oldster said sternly, "there is more. An entire
paragraph that the original translators chose to omit from
die Book of Tomorrows. It read: 'Know, however, that the
twins may turn on you, may attack those who gave them
life, leaving nothing but tears.' There is no way to know
why the passage was left out. An error perhaps—or part
of some plot. It makes no difference. Take the information.
Give it to my people. Save them from themselves."

Given the nature of the weapons Nogosek had de-
scribed, Booly had no difficulty believing that once un-
leashed, the twins might inflict as much damage on the
Thraki as the Sheen. The aliens could and probably would
be destroyed by their own weapons. Cold comfort to any
bystanders who happened to be in the neighborhood.

The threat was more than physical however. The bombs,
if that's what they could properly be called, would intro-
duce more uncertainty into an already uncertain situation.
Booly felt an almost panicky sense of urgency. Approxi-
mately 80 percent of the Thraki bases had been dealt
with—and the time had come for him leave. Others could
deal with the remaining 20 percent of the problem while
he traveled to Arballa. That's where the decisions would
be made, that's where a significant portion of the Confed-
erate navy was starting to gather, and that's where the
twins could do the most damage. He met the old, some-
what cloudy eyes. "Thank you, Sister Torputus. In spite of
the present state of conflict, the Confederacy feels no an-
imus towards your race, and seeks only to protect itself. I
will do everything in my power to ensure that the twins
continue to sleep."

"May the gods bless you." came the reply.

The legionnaires left shortly thereafter, followed a ramp
to me surface, and stepped out into the sun. The heat fell
like a hammer, the landing platform shimmered in the dis-
tance, and a scavenger circled high above. Booly looked

268 William C. Dietz

at McGowan. "You were right, Major.. . The trip was
worthwhile."

The other officer nodded. Beads of sweat dotted her
forehead. "Sir, yes sir. What do you think? Can we put a
lid on things?"

Booly shrugged. "Beats me, but we'll give it a try.
Come on ... the last one to board the shuttle gets to brief
the Senate."

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy
of Sentient Beings

The planet Arballa was crowned with white, robed in
brown, and floated on a sea of black. She was beautiful,
very beautiful, and the naval officer liked to start each day
by gazing at her from his command chair on the bridge
and drinking his first cup of coffee, which, as the entire
crew knew, was a critical component of his physical as
well as psychological welt being. Knowing that, they left
him alone.

Boone dreaded the day ahead. Until very recently, the
Friendship and her coterie of warships, dispatch vessels,
and freighters had the system pretty much to themselves.
Now, as a variety of naval units dropped in-system, and
took up defensive positions, his life had turned to shit. Not
because of the ships themselves and the traffic problems
they caused, but the officers who commanded them.

Worst of all were two or three admirals, who, unhappy
with the slot to which they had been assigned, or resentful
due to some perceived breach of protocol, wanted to speak
with his admiral, a rather crotchety individual named Mary
Chang, who planned to retire in a year or so and enjoyed
telling her peers to screw off. Fun for her, but not for
Boone, since he'd have to deal with the victims of the old

BY FORCE OF ARMS            269

lady's wrath long after she was gone. The naval officer
sighed, took another pull from his coffee, and swore when
the alarms went off. Reports flooded his earpiece.

"Robotic sensors report a system incursion at Transit
Points NS-426-021, 022, and 023. The first ships through
register a 98.2 percent match for Thraki recon droids ..."

". .. Incoming transmission, sir, text only: 'Greetings on
behalf of the Thraki race—we come in peace.' "

"Admiral Guinn on tight beam four, sir, requesting per-
mission to engage."

Coffee forgotten, Boone eyed the bridge screens. Red
deltas poured out of hyperspace and took up positions
around three closely grouped Transit Points. Closely being
defined as being within five-hundred thousand miles of
each other.

One of the recently arrived naval groups, the 404th De-
stroyer Wing, was stationed in close proximity to Transit
Point 021 and was in the perfect position to attack. If there
was a state of war, if the rules of engagement allowed for
it, and if Boone had the balls to make that kind of call.
The repercussions of any decision could and probably
would be enormous. If Boone said no and the Thraki pro-
ceeded to attack, an important advantage would have been
lost, along with who knew how many casualties, and per-
haps the Friendship herself. If he said yes, and it turned
out that the Thraki had been friendly, and a war resulted,
he would be at fault.

The naval officer gritted his teeth. Where the hell was
Chang anyway? She was paid to make those kinds of de-
cisions and as Chief Naval Officer In-System, (CNOIS)
had responsibility for anything more than thirty-thousand
feet above a planetary surface. But seconds were passing—
and Guinn needed an answer. Boone had opened his mouth
and was just about to speak when a familiar voice sounded
in his ear. It was Chang. Still in her cabin, just out of the
shower, dripping on the navy blue carpet. She was five
feet tall, skinny as a rail, and in good shape. Her hair,

270 William C. Dietz

which she had allowed to turn white, was worn in a crew
cut. All the bridge communications were piped to her cabin
where she monitored them via overhead speakers.

'Tell Guinn to hold his goddamn fire ... but to remain
at battle stations. Same for every other group in the system.
Get the President on the hom. Tell the worthless bastard
that we have visitors. Contact the fur balls ... Tell the little
shits that if they so much as blow a sack of garbage
through their disposal tubes we'll blow their butts off. Got
it?"

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am."

"Good. And tell my steward to get some breakfast in
here ... I'm hungry."

The control area had the same subdued lighting—the same
sense of carefully guarded quiet associated with great li-
braries. There was no sense of motion, the view screens
were filled with. electronic confetti, and the battleship could
have been anywhere. Except that hyperspace was closer to
nowhere than to somewhere. A diagrammatic control dis-
play claimed the forward bulkhead. Icons stood in for sys-
tems, colors conveyed status, and numbers provided data
on everything from speed to time in transit.

Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna looked up at the
steadily dwindling numbers and saw that a little less than
twelve temporal units stood between the present and the
future of his race. Once the numbers disappeared, the bat-
tleship would emerge from hyperspace, reestablish com-
munications with the rest of the subfleet, and. .."

And what? The naval officer asked himself. There were
so many possibilities.. . The lead ships had emerged by
now—into a heavily defended system. Were they fighting
for their lives? While he sat and stared? Cursing his name
as missiles flashed through the darkness, shields fell, and
red-orange flowers blossomed in the darkness. Or had the
Confederate ships withheld their fire? And allowed the
Thraki vessels to enter? Anything was possible.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            271

The countdown rippled toward zero, systems were
checked, and the crew went to battle stations. The precision
of it made Andragna feel better. Defeats, like the one suf-
fered on BETA-018, had occurred on the ground. Here, in
deep space, the Thraki were at their best. No race had been
persecuted as they had, fought a more relentless enemy, or
won so many battles. They were warriors, tired warriors,
but warriors nonetheless. The Confederacy would come to
know that, and, assuming it survived, to respect it.

Andragna had left all the moon-sized arks, plus fifteen-
hundred of the armada's best ships, to protect Zynig-47.
That left him with more than three thousand vessels, less
than what the Sheen could bring to bear, but more than
the Confederacy could cobble together.

Besides, the admiral thought to himself as the final mo-
ments ticked away, we have the twins, and if all else fails,
they will see us through.

The battleship lurched, stars flooded the screens, and
communications came on-line. The first ship to follow the
drones into the Araballazanie system was a destroyer com-
manded by Captain Algo Portatious. He knew what An-
dragna wanted and needed most. His face appeared on a
corn screen. The tone was lighthearted. He knew his peers
would monitor the conversation and played to the invisible
gallery. "Greetings, Admiral. .. Welcome to assembly
area one."

The officer's demeanor spoke volumes. Andragna felt
an enormous sense of relief. "Thank you. Is there anything
to report?"

Portatious offered the Thraki equivalent of a grin. "If
threats were missiles we'd be dead by now."

The bridge crew laughed, and Andragna looked to his
screens. With each passing temporal unit three more ships
arrived. That's how quickly his forces were entering the
system. It wouldn't be long before the defenders were out-
gunned. Then, with the Confederate vessels as a screen,
the battle could begin. Would the Sheen take the bait? Yes,

272 William C. Dietz

the naval officer thought to himself, as surely as the uni-
verse continues to expand.

The Hoon, along with its electromechanical minions, had
long been able to follow its prey through hyperspace, a
capability that so far as it knew was completely unique.
That's why it had been able to track the Confederate ship
back to its lair, record all of the necessary navigational
data, and download it to the fleet.

So now, as the Ninja hurtled through time and space, a
long silvery snake followed behind. A snake comprised of
countless Sheen ships all having the same destination.

Tyspin, who had no way to know about the menace that
followed, was on the bridge at the moment when the Ninja
popped into normal space. Data rippled across previously
vacant screens, the corn techs struggled to deal with an
avalanche of high priority corn calls, and the naval officer
did her best to take it in. The displays told the story.

The Confederate forces, more than before, were clus-
tered around well-established transit points, while a host
of Thraki vessels had coalesced into three "war" globes,
all of which continued to grow as more ships arrived. The
naval officer was still in the process of absorbing that, of
dealing with it, when Captain Hashimoto yelled in her ear.
"We've got trouble. Admiral! It looks like the Sheen man-
aged to follow!"

Tyspin struggled to combat the rising sense of panic.
Follow? No, it wasn't possible' Or was it? My god, what
had she done?

The Hoon answered the human's unspoken question by
ordering a wing of fighters to sweep past the Ninja, all
flying in formation, blasting everyone with the same mes-
sage. "Hold your fire! We come in peace!"

It might have been ignored except for one extremely
important factor: Rather than broadcast an image of itself,
clad in a metallic body, the Hoon sent video of a human
being instead. And not just any human being, but Jorley

BY FORCE OF ARMS            273

Jepp, who watched with slack-jawed amazement as his
countenance appeared on the main corn screen, and words
poured from his mouth. Not his words but those that the
Hoon had given the electronically generated doppelganger
to say. The syntax was wooden, but who would know the
difference?

"Hello, my name is Jorley Jepp. The Sheen were kind
enough to rescue me after my ship was destroyed. I have
lived with them for many months. In spite of the endless
persecution imposed by the rapacious Thraki, the Sheen
come in peace, and call on the Confederacy to sponsor
meaningful negotiations. Thank you."

There was a pause followed by a holo of President Mar-
cott Nankool. His face was stem. "Given hostile actions
by both the Thraki and the Sheen—the Confederacy takes
small comfort from their proclamations of peace. If both
parties are truly willing to negotiate, the Confederacy is
willing to help, if the following conditions are met: The
warships within both fleets will take all targeting systems
off-line, cut power to primary weapons systems, and re-
main where they are. In the meantime, our offensive ca-
pabilities will remain at the highest state of readiness.
Should either side violate the conditions just put forth—
the Confederacy will side with the opposing group and
open fire. That's our best offer... take it or leave it." The
video snapped to black.

It was a gutsy position, especially in light of the fact
that the Confederacy possessed less firepower than the
other potential combatants, and stood to lose its govern-
ment as well. It could work, however—since all three of
the groups had the technology necessary to determine
when weapons systems were on-line.

Tyspin held her breath as millions waited for some sort of
reply. If the combatants were to ignore the offer, if a full-
scale battle ensued, the fault would be hers. For assuming
too much, for failing to anticipate the possibilities, and for
underestimating the enemy. The knowledge brought blood

274 William C. Dietz

to her face and made her chest feel tight. Comfort came
from an unexpected source. "It wasn't your fault," Jepp said
softly, "there was no way you could know. Not even / knew
the Sheen could follow a ship through hyperspace."

That wasn't strictly true, of course, since Jepp had had
inklings of such a capability, but he liked Typsin and
wanted her to fee! better. And, though she would have
been reluctant to admit it, the naval officer did feel some-
what better, and turned her attention to the screens.

Jepp tried to guess what the Hoon would do next. The
AI had already revealed a level of political sophistication
greater than he had originally supposed. First, during the
power struggle with its twin—and now in its dealings with
both the Confederacy and the Thrakies. One thing was for
sure, however. While some beings played power games for
the fun of it, the Hoon had little interest in such diversions.
It wanted to win—and nothing else mattered.

A fuli minute elapsed before Grand Admiral Andragna
appeared. "We find the Confederacy's conditions to be ac-
ceptable—and are willing to comply."

A computer-generated image of Jepp filled the corn
screen half a second later. He smiled. 'The peace-loving
Sheen agree to the conditions and stand ready to negoti-
ate." The image faded to static.

Tyspin raised an eyebrow, and Jepp shrugged inno-
cently. "What am I supposed to do? It's not like the Hoon
asked my permission or anything."

The admiral turned as President Nankool reappeared. A
digital readout filled the tower right-hand corner of the
frame. "Excellent. Prepare to deactivate targeting systems
sixty seconds from now ... Weapons to follow."

It took less than five minutes for the warships of both
fleets to power down but more than six hours for the Con-
federate Navy to gather the requisite data, process it, and
produce the necessary reports, reports that became out-
dated the moment they were issued but were supplemented

BY FORCE OF ARMS            275

by a hastily rigged sampling program meant to monitor
compliance. It was scant protection—but all that the Con-
federacy had. Nankool's message was issued a few
minutes later. "Thank you for your patience. As of 1500
hours local, we find both sides in compliance. That being
the case, envoys from both fleets are invited to board the
Friendship six hours from now. No more than twelve rep-
resentatives from each fleet will be allowed to board the
vessel that serves as our capital. If you have questions
regarding protocol or logistics please contact my staff on
corn channel six. Thank you."

The Hoon was everywhere and nowhere in particular—
flitting from ship to ship, riding recon drones no larger
than a pebble, gorging itself on data. Data regarding the
system in which the battle would take place, data on the
fools who believed its lies, and data on the Thraki who
had nowhere to run. Not alt of the Thraki, because fully
25 percent of their ships were missing, but most of them.
The rest could and would be dealt with later. Yes, there
was much to learn and every reason to learn it, especially
given the fact mat if the Thraki fleet were added to the
Confederate fleet the resulting force would be equal to all
of its units combined. The Hoon had never faced an enemy
that powerful before, never fought a battle with anything
like parity, and didn't want to lose. That being the case, it
was time to stall—a task for which the soft body was
uniquely suited. The necessary orders were issued, re-
ceived, and ultimately complied with.

Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna was more frightened
than he cared to admit—not only by the size and power
of the two fleets that opposed him—but by the extent to
which the entire dynamic had changed. Rather than attack,
as he had supposed that they would, the Sheen had agreed
to negotiate. Or had they? What about the human who

276 William C. Dietz

claimed to speak for them? Did he have any actual au-
thority? And what did he want?

Of equal or even more concern was the manner in which
the Confederacy had responded to the situation. He had
hoped, no assumed, that they would out and out capitulate,
or failing that, waffle back and forth. Instead they evi-
denced vision, courage, and ironclad determination. Not a
very good sign.

The naval officer sighed and released his harness. An-
other more elaborate uniform waited in his quarters. He
hated the damn thing and wondered who had been respon-
sible for it. A Runner? Or a Facer? It made no difference.
Now, with thousands of ships waiting to attack, neither
philosophy seemed especially valid. Andragna thought
about his wife, gave thanks that she was on Zynig-47, and
left the control room. The command crew watched him go.

President Marcott Nankool, Governor Sergi Chien-Chu,
Maylo Chien-Chu. Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa, Am-
bassador Tula Nogo Mypop, Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six,
and a clutch of advisors stood at the center of the
Friendship's bridge. Admiral Chang was present, as was
Captain Boone. Everyone stared at the battle screens ar-
rayed above their heads. "So," Nankool said gravely, "is
that it? Is that all of them?"

"Maybe," Chang answered. "The number matches the
information gathered by the Ninja off Transit Point NS-
690-193. So, unless the goddamned machines have some
reserves they haven't shown us yet, we're up against a
force of six thousand vessels."

"More like nine thousand if we have to fight both
fleets," Doma-Sa growled.

True," Chang conceded, "which is why I hope Presi-
dent Nankool is one helluva good negotiator." She grinned,
but no one joined her.

"Which brings us to the upcoming talks," Chien-Chu
said quietly. "What do we have on this Jepp person?"

BY FORCE OF ARMS            277

Boone shrugged. "He was a prospector based on Long
Jump. Had a ship, but it was mortgaged to the hilt. He
disappeared and was given up for dead. When the Sheen
arrived, so did he. An army of robots landed, took to the
streets, and spouted a lot of religious nonsense. It appeared
he was in charge. Then, for reasons we're not sure of, the
machines attacked."

"So, he really does have some clout," Senator Mypop
put in.

"Maybe," Boone allowed, "but Admiral Tyspin has her
doubts. She spent some time with the man and thinks that
whatever influence he has is extremely limited. Take those
messages for example . . . both of them were computer-
generated. Jepp was surprised to see his face on the screen.
The Hegemony spent quite a lot of time talking to the
Thraki. They claim the real power lies with an artificial
intelligence known as the Hoon."

"Which raises an interesting question," Senator Alway
Omo said, almost forgotten toward the rear of the crowd.
"Why send false messages—followed by a meaningless
emissary?"

"To buy time," Doma-Sa said simply, his eyes boring
through the Ramanthian's head. "The oldest trick in the
universe."

The Ramanthian felt a sudden stab of fear. Did the Hu-
dathan know? Had word of the tercentennial birthing
leaked somehow? No, the Hudathan lacked subtlety, and
would broach the matter head on.

"That would explain Jepp," Nankool observed, "and the
Hoon, but how 'bout the Thraki? What are they up to?
And why, after hundreds of years, are they ready for a
showdown?"

"I think I know the answer," a new voice said, "and you
aren't going to like it."

The group turned. The Gladiator had dropped in-system
in time to witness Nankool's most recent broadcast. Gen-
eral William Booly caught a glimpse of Maylo Chien-Chu,

278 William C. Dietz

felt a fist squeeze his heart, and tried to ignore it. "They
have a secret weapon, two of them, either of which could
destroy the Sheen fleet."

There was silence for a moment. Chang was the first to
speak. She was cynical, but Booly was head of the Joint
Chiefs. That made him her commanding officer. "Sir,
you're sure of that?"

Booly nodded. "Yes, Admiral, I am."

"Holy shit."

"Yes," Booty agreed dryly. 'Those are my sentiments
exactly."

17

Yield to all, and you will soon have nothing to yield.

Aesop

"The Man and His Two Wives" (fable)

Standard year circa 600 B.C.

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy
of Sentient Beings

Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna had been aboard the
Friendship before, during the period when the clones and
their allies had sought to form an alliance. Seeing the ves-
sel triggered a feeling of reluctant respect. Not awe, since
the arks that his people had constructed were larger, not
fear, since the Thraki fleet outnumbered the Confederate
navy almost two to one, but respect. It was amazing that
such disparate races had come together and stayed to-
gether, especially in light of how divided his own species
was. Something to remember during the upcoming talks.

Andragna, who was seated above and behind the pilots,
watched the view screen as the Friendship's weapons
pods, missile launchers, cooling stacks, antenna housings,
and other less obvious installations slid by. He spotted the
point where a shaft of light shot out into space and felt the
shuttle bank to the left. The launch bay yawned before
him. The shuttle entered.

280 William C. Dietz

The blast doors, which rarely closed while the ship was
in orbit, started to do so. Andragna and his staff would be
spared the necessity of donning space armor to reach the
inner access lock—a signal honor indeed since it meant
that the Friendship would be unable to launch or recover
spacecraft so long as the hatch was closed.

The shuttle swept low across the deck, fired retros, and,
supported by its repellors, settled onto the blast-scarred
deck. Rows of neatly parked ships marched into the dis-
tance. The pilot heaved a sigh of relief. His job was mo-
mentarily over.

The doors met, atmosphere was pumped into the bay,
and a reception party gathered by the shuttle. A technical
triggered the hatch, and Andragna stepped out onto soirie
roll-up stairs. He recognized some familiar odors: The
harsh smell of ozone, the sickly sweet stench of fuel, and
the reek of overheated metal.

The Thraki scanned the group beiow, saw some familiar
faces, and nodded accordingly. He displayed some teeth,
wondered how such an expression could possibly be in-
terpreted as friendly, and descended the stairs. His staff
followed. "President Nankool, Ambassador Doma-Sa,
Governor Chien-Chu, it's nice to see you again."

Andragna's form boosted the volume to overcome the
sudden chatter from a power wrench, made the necessary
translation, and started to record. Each and every word
would be captured for subsequent review and analysis.

There were reciprocal greetings, several rounds of intro-
ductions, and pro forma expressions of goodwill that no
one took seriously.

Once the formalities had been concluded, the Thraki
were escorted across the deck. through the lock, and into
a maze of mostly empty corridors. The majority of the
ship's crew were at battle stations, nonessential civilian
personnel had been restricted to their quarters, and even
robots were few and far between.

Eventually, after what seemed like a long hike, An-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            281

dragna and his staff were ushered into a large conference
room. The space was equipped with a twenty-foot-long
oval table, wall screens, and soft overhead lighting. A
heavily laden side table supported food and a variety of
nonintoxicating drinks. Great care had been taken to pro-
vide items the Thraki would like.

There was a certain amount of milling around as every-
one sought seats appropriate to their particular status, and
it was then that Andragna was re-introduced to General
William Booly. Their top-ranking officer if the admiral re-
membered correctly—and a person to be reckoned with.

Nankool stood. He waited for everyone to take their
seats, cleared his throat, and met Andragna's eyes. Though
offensive to some sentients, it happened that Thraki reacted
to direct eye contact in much the same manner humans
did. They viewed it as a sign of sincerity and mental en-
gagement. The President, who had already rehearsed the
gesture in his mind, glanced at his wrist term. "I hope
you'll forgive me if I come straight to the point. .. The
Sheen emissary is due to arrive in less than an hour—and
we have something of considerable importance to discuss
prior to his arrival."

Andragna felt a sudden sense of excitement. Could this
be what he had been hoping for? Was the Confederacy
prepared to form an alliance? Nothing would please him
more. The officer nodded but kept a tight rein on his body
language. The humans were clever and might have edu-
cated themselves regarding the nonverbal aspects of Thraki
communication.

'The issue," Nankool continued, "centers around certain
weapons included in your inventory. I'm not sure what the
technical name for such devices would be—but you and
your priests commonly refer to them as 'the twins.' "

Andragna felt his ears go back, knew the fur along the
back of his neck stood straight up, and was powerless to
stop it. How did they know? And if the Confederation
knew about the twins, what else did they have? Or was

282 William C. Dietz

this some sort of trick? A stratagem designed to draw him
out?

None of the admiral's aides had been briefed regarding
the twins, but they could see how upset he was and stirred
uneasily. The conference room felt suddenly small and
confining. Andragna decided to play it safe. 'Twins? I
have no idea what you're talking about."

Nankool raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well, perhaps this
will refresh your memory."

A holo blossomed at the center of the conference room
table. The footage had been captured by Major McGowan
on Veca IV. Content made up for what it lacked in tech-
nique. The assemblage watched Booly examine the Tomes
of Truth, looked over the officer's shoulder as he stared at
a beautifully wrought illustration, and spoke with Sister
Torputus.

With the exception of Sector 27, who belonged to the
priesthood, the picture of two cylinders meant nothing to
the rest of the delegation. He had never seen the twins
with his own eyes but was aware of rumors. No wonder
Andragna was upset! The Confederacy had stumbled
across something very important indeed. He wanted to help
but was forced to watch while the admiral struggled to
maintain his composure.

Andragna listened to the thin reedy voice, saw the fe-
male's obvious sincerity, and sensed that what she claimed
was potentially true. Once detonated, the twins might in-
flict some damage on his fleet. Still, they were the only
equalizer he had, and well worth hanging on to. Besides,
now that the twins were out in the open, he had a new
bargaining chip, one that he should retain for as long as
possible. The Thraki mustered all the dignity he could.
"Though well intentioned—Sister Torputus had no right to
reveal such information. That being said, I suppose it
would be pointless to issue further denials. However, while
it's true that we possess two rather unique energy weapons,
the rest is pure conjecture. I have complete faith in our

BY FORCE OF ARMS            283

technical experts who assure me that while powerful—
both weapons can be successfully deployed."

The last statement was an outright falsehood—but no
one knew that except for Andragna.

Nankool experienced an almost overwhelming sense of
anger. His hands made fists. The Thraki position was ar-
rogant and foolhardy. More than that, it could result in
millions of unnecessary deaths. He glanced at his wrist
term, saw that his hands had started to shake, and clasped
both behind his back.

"Very little time remains ... In the interest of your peo-
ple, as well as ours, the Confederacy requests, no, implores
you to forgo use of such weapons, at least until such time
as you and your fleet are well clear of our systems."

"That's it?" Andragna inquired sarcastically. "You ask
that we sacrifice the very weapons that mean victory for
our people? In return for what? Your heartfelt prayers?"

"No," Nankool replied coldly. "Forswear use of the
twins, and we will fight at your side—not as sacrificial
pawns, but as equals."

There it was, evidence that the Confederacy understood
the nature of Andragna's intent, but was willing to over-
look it. For a price. But which was more valuable, the
naval officer wondered. The twins? And all their latent
energy? Or the Confederacy? With a small but still pow-
erful fleet?

Andragna wanted to believe Nankool, wanted to trust
me Confederacy, but found that difficult to do. The Thraki
were a self-reliant people, unfettered by the compromises
that bound the multispecies government together, and
therefore stronger. His voice seemed unnaturally loud.
"No- While the Thraki people would otherwise welcome
such an alliance, the price is too high."

Nankool felt a profound sense of disappointment. He
looked around the room, scanned each face, and came to
Andragna's. "I'm sorry to hear that. Admiral—sorry for

284 William C. Dietz

your people as well as ours. This meeting is over—may
the deities protect us."

The Sheen shuttle made no attempt to obtain a clearance
from the Friendship's traffic control computer. It simply
followed the shortest possible route in, slid the length of
the battleship's starboard side, and approached the launch
bay as if entitled to do so. It was a dangerous thing to do
under normal circumstances but with the battleship at the
highest state of alert it verged on suicidal.

Captain Boone's command chair whined as he swiveled
to the left. More than two dozen cameras covered the
launch bay. He checked number sixteen. It showed the
hatch through which the shuttle would soon enter, "All
batteries will hold their fire ... The Sheen will receive the
same courtesies extended to the Thralci."

The naval officer sensed a presence and turned to find
Admiral Chang at his side. She offered a fresh mug of
coffee. "So, are we having fun yet?"

He accepted the cup. "No, ma'am. The Sheen are
crazy."

"Machines," the senior officer replied cheerfully. "You
can't live with 'em—and you can't live without 'cm."

Meanwhile, oblivious to what the humans thought, the
Hoon commanded its fleet, flew the Sheen shuttle, and
controlled the onboard security units. Everything and
everyone with the exception of Jepp, Veera, and Sam.

The Hoon executed a sharp left-hand turn and entered
the battleship's bay. It was far less automated than the AI
considered to be appropriate. After all, why rely on bio-
logicals when machines were available? All of which
served to confirm the conclusion already arrived at: Ne-
gotiations were a waste of time, and the fleet should attack.
The conclusion was logical, eminently so, but the Hoon
took no action. A very un-Hoonlike thing to do. Had the
computer intelligence been capable of greater introspection
it might have wondered why and sought to understand. But

BY FORCE OF ARMS            285

it wasn't, couldn't, and didn't. Programming is program-
ming, and where computers are concerned, as immutable
asDNA.

Careless of what the Hoon thought, Jepp was on a high.
Veera, to whom a lot of his babbling was directed, ignored
most of his commentary. The occasional "yes" or "no" was
sufficient to keep him happy. In spite of the fact that the
Prithian might have been able to remain aboard the Ninja,
she had decided to come, and observe what took place.

Though inconclusive thus far, her research regarding the
Sheen had proved quite interesting, as had her evaluation
of Thraki society. "Markets derive from economic princi-
ples," her father liked to say, "but are influenced by culture.
That's why you must understand each in order to profit."
The merchant was gone now. but his lessons lived on.

The shuttle touched down, the blast doors closed, and
air flooded the bay. Jepp was eager to address the senate.
He bounced off the small uncomfortable seat. "This is it,
Veera! The moment we've been waiting for. Once they
hear God's plan, once they embrace the silvery host, the
new order will unfold. Think of it! The entire Confederacy
governed by a single religion! Historians will write about
this day—and your name will appear for all to see."

Veera realized that Jepp was more concerned with his
name—but knew better than to say so.

The hatch opened, the delegation descended a flight of
self-propelled stairs, and were met by a carefully chosen
reception committee. Nankoot was there, per Jepp's re-
quest, but so was Maylo, who, unbeknownst to her, had
been chosen for reasons other than her political acumen.
Admiral Tyspin had provided the government with every
bit of information that she could, including the fact that
Jepp had a definite interest in women.

Knowing that, Nankool couldn't help but smile when
the ex-prospector saw Maylo, and his face lit up.

The party formed a column of twos, wound its way be-
tween some navy transports, and headed toward the

286 William C. Dietz

main lock. A metal archway had been established in front
of the portal. Anyone who approached had no choice but
to pass through. The humans went first followed by the
robots.

Booly and a pair of technicians were sequestered in a
compartment not far away. A row of jury-rigged monitors
was racked in front of them. The essence of Tyspin's the-
ory was that Jepp amounted to little more than a noisy
decoy and that the Hoon, or part of the Hoon, controlled
one or more of the so-called security units. If that was true,
there would be a link back to the fleet and that would
validate Tyspin's thesis.

"Okay, sir, here goes," Corn Tech Rutaza said. "Assum-
ing the chip heads are linked with each other and/or one
of their ships, the computer will provide me with a visual
profile."

Booly watched the first security unit pass through the
arch. The monitors, lime green the moment before, shiv-
ered as an image appeared. It looked nothing like the real
thing. The protective force field from which the Sheen took
their name appeared as a yellow-white aura. A complex
tracery of blue lines described the robot's electronic ner-
vous system. They rippled in synch with the machine's
alloy body.

A lake of red-orange heat confirmed the location of the
droid's power plant while lesser ponds, pools, and streams
were associated with on-line weapon systems, sensor re-
lays, and good old friction. The weapons were worrisome
but allowed. There wasn't a senator onboard who didn't
have their own security.

Rutaza frowned as the first unit exited screen left. "No
linkage, sir."

Booly nodded. "Keep looking."

The second robot passed under the arch followed by the
third. Some lavender lines appeared, and Rutaza pointed
at a screen. "Bingo! They're talking to each other."

Booly nodded. Some sort of localized communication

BY FORCE OF ARMS            287

was to be expected. But what of the more important ques-
tion? Was the Hoon, or a part of the Hoon, actually pres-
ent?

Booly was just about ready to say, "no," when Unit Four
appeared. "Look!" Rutaza said. "See the bursting? The
dashed line coming in from the upper right-hand comer of
the screen? Four is taking a feed. Not continuous, like we
were thought, but in the form of periodic reloads. How
much you wanta bet the receiving unit will update the
rest?"

Booly watched the prophecy come true. No sooner had
the incoming feed stopped than Unit Four sent lavender
lines to all the rest. It appeared Tyspin was correct. The
Hoon had decided to use Jepp, to allow the human to take
center stage, white it monitored the proceedings. He gave
the tech a pat on the shoulder. "Thanks, Rutaza. Nice job.
Get that stuff to Intel. We'll let the spooks wrestle with
it."

The corn tech waited for the general to clear the com-
partment before throwing his feet up onto the console. The
other rating, a woman named Hoko, grinned. "Suck up."

Rutaza offered a gesture. "Screw you."

"Don't you wish."

Both of them laughed.

Oblivious to the activities of crew members like Rutaza
and Hoko, the senators stood in clumps and waited for the
emissary to arrive. Opinion was divided into three schools
of thought: those who favored an alliance with the Thraki,
those who favored an alliance with the Sheen, and those
who favored a policy of nonalignment.

The third contingent, often referred to as the "do-
nothings" by the other two, were further split into addi-
tional subgroups. One wanted to declare a policy of
"constructive neutrality" and spent a great deal of time
trying to explain what that meant, while another, led by
Senator Alway Omo, wanted to leave the Araballazanies
to their fate. A third blathered on about pacifism, nonvi"

288 Wilfiam C, Dietz

olence, and the brother-sisterhood of sentients.

Everyone wanted their ideas to be heard, so everyone
talked at once, and nothing was accomplished. Chien-Chu
waited toward the front of the chambers and was relieved
when the doors swung open. He nodded to the master-of-
arms, who addressed a mike. His voice boomed through
the chambers. 'The Sheen emissary has arrived. Please re-
turn to your seats."

It took the better part of five minutes for the senators to
return to their seats. President Nankool held the delegation
just beyond the doors until the noise level dropped and the
assemblage was ready. He signaled Jepp, and the entire
party marched the length of the aisle. Maylo saw her uncle,
wondered what he was thinking, and thought how strange
the moment was. She looked at Veera, knew the Prithian's
thoughts were similar to hers, and smiled. A necklace of
feathers shifted by way of response.

Jepp, who had pressed some creases into his dark blue
ship suit, drew himself up. Was Maylo Chien-Chu im-
pressed? He hoped so. The entire senate was staring, wait-
ing for him to speak, thinking how important he was.
Everything was so clear, so vivid, that the ex-prospector
knew he would never forget. The blur of alien faces, a
whiff of exotic perfume, the carpet beneath his shoes. Each
would be indelibly etched onto his memory.

Most of the beings in the chamber watched Jepp with a
sort of curious diffidence. What was this strange apparition
anyway? A well-meaning citizen, co-opted by the ma-
chines, or a brutal renegade deserving of their contempt?

At least one mind was made up, however, and it stared
at Jepp with unalloyed hatred, knowing what the ex-
prospector had done. His name was Harvey S. Holander,
Father to Sissy M. Holander, first officer of the ill-fated
container ship Rho Ophiuchi, which had been in the pro-
cess of refueling when Jepp ordered the attack on space
station Halo.

Holander, who served as Nankool's first under secretary

BY FORCE OF ARMS            289

of defense, had first learned of the attack on Long Jump
while reading a summary of the statement taken from the
smuggler currently known as "Willy Williams."

Not being privy to the Rho Ophiuchi's itinerary, the ad-
ministrator had no way to know that he had just read an
account of his daughter's death, not until the better part of
a month had passed and the intelligence reports started to
filter in. That's when he learned the truth—and the hatred
was bom. Now, only feet from the podium, the moment
was near. It had been relatively simple to steal the weapon,
tape it to the bottom of his seat a few hours before, and
pass through security with everyone else. Now, in a matter
of minutes, revenge would be his.

Unaware of the danger that lurked nearby, Jepp shook
hands with Sergi Chien-Chu and took note of the relation-
ship between the governor and the beautiful young woman,
people who would never associate with him if they had a
choice. Life was looking up! He waited while Nankoo!
took the podium.

"My fellow sentients ... Now, as we face the possibility
of a terrible conflagration, communication becomes even
more important. The Sheen rescued Citizen Jepp after his
ship was wrecked, allowed him to travel with their fleet,
and came to trust him. He, along with those sent to assist
him, hopes to establish a two-way dialogue ..."

"What about Long Jump?" a voice yelled. "Let's talk
about that!"

Nankool raised a hand. "What occurred on Long Jump
remains under investigation .. . Let's wait for the facts and
reserve final judgements until then."

Holander seethed, wondered if he could nail Nankool as
well, and forced himself to wait. He had very little expe-
rience with weapons, which meant that the shorter the
range me better. He would kill Jepp... followed by the
President.

There was no applause as Jepp made his way to the
podium, a rather jarring departure from his most cherished

290 William C. Dietz

fantasies, and one for which he might force the senate to
apologize. Still, the would-be messiah thought to himself,
they deserve a second chance—an opportunity to willingly
join his flock. After that, well, the fleet would make his
will known. He smiled into the lights.

'There is a plan, a glorious plan, conceived by God and
given to me. It consists of three parts, the Cleansing, which
is now under way, the Covenant, in which all sentients
will bind themselves over to God, and the Consecration.
Once the Consecration has been completed and the throne
is mine, a cadre of secular advisors will be required. Be-
ings such as yourselves who can take my pronouncements
and, with assistance from God's silvery host, bring them
to life. What I offer is nothing less than a partnership, an
opportunity to step back from the apocalypse and begin a
new age. An age in which ..."

Holander reached under his seat, rumbled for the
weapon, and attempted to free it. The tape was stubborn,
and the action proved more difficult than he thought it
would be. Finally, energy pistol in hand, he staggered to
his feet. A guard yelled but it was too late.

Everything felt so weightless. Memories stuttered
through his brain. He saw Sissy hold up her arms, cheered
as she dove from a dock, and clapped as she accepted her
diploma. The barrel wavered, found its target, and spit
bolts of bright blue energy. Blue like her eyes, blue like
the water, blue like . . .

The Hoon detected the threat, gave the necessary orders,
and monitored the results. The security units responded in
unison. They brought their weapons up and fired. Holander
staggered as nine bolts of coherent light punched their way
through his chest and struck the senators beyond.

What felt like a red-hot steel bar punched its way
through Jepp's shoulder. Sam felt clear and scuttled to-
wards Veera. The human took two steps backwards, felt
Alpha wrap an arm around his waist, and shouted "No!"

But it was too late. The security units continued to fire.

BY FORCE OF ARMS

291

Maylo Chien-Chu fell as a bolt of energy ripped through
her chest, the master at arms died with his sidearm half
drawn, and a staffer lost the left side of his face. Someone
screamed, panic erupted, and the aisles filled with bodies.

Jepp pushed Alpha away, screamed, "Stop it!" at the top
of his lungs, and threw himself into the line of fire. The
Hoon ordered its minions to pause, "heard" some sort of
alarm, but saw no further threat. That being the case, it
allowed the human to intervene.

Jepp, conscious of the fact that reinforcements were on
the way, looked left and right. Sergi Chien-Chu was
crouched a few feet away, holding his niece in his arms,
radioing for help. The ex-prospector pointed. "We need a
hostage—someone they won't harm—take him!"

Though new to the idea of hostages—and struck by how
illogical the concept was—the AI was quick to respond.
Two of the security units seized Chien-Chu, discovered
that the cyborg was a good deal stronger than he appeared,
but still managed to bring him under control. Then, with
Jepp, Alpha, Veera, and Chien-Chu at the center, the
Hoon-controlled robots formed a defensive wheel. Light
flared as even more power went to their shields and the
Sheen headed for the doors.

Booly, along with a half-dozen heavily armed MPs
pounded around a comer, and skidded to a stop. Doors
slammed open as what looked like a silvery amoeba
emerged from the senate chambers. It oozed their way. The
soldiers raised their weapons, but Booly ordered them to
stop. "Hold your fire! Lower your rifles! Back away."

The MPs backed into an alcove while the strange as-
semblage marched by. Booly caught a glimpse of Chien-
Chu's eyes, heard the industrialist shout Maylo's name,
and knew something horrible had happened. He turned to
a lieutenant. "Track them all the way to the bay. Don't
interfere, and don't let anyone else interfere. Jepp is mean-
ingless, and the Hoon is somewhere else."

The lieutenant didn't know who the Hoon was, but

292 William C. Dietz

knew how to follow orders, and proceeded to do so. The
clutch of marines followed as the mixed party of machines
and biologicals retraced their steps.

Booly, feeling guilty because of the way he had dumped
the entire matter onto a mere lieutenant, ran for the senate
chambers. The interior was absolute chaos. The legionnaire
saw a splash of red on the front of the podium, but no sign
of Maylo. A naval officer bumped his side. She'd been
nicked by an energy beam and was clutching a still-
smoking arm. She looked pale. "Sorry, sir, what a mess."

A party of robo medics entered through the main door.
Booly waved. "Over here! Now damn it!" He turned back.
"Tell me. Commander, what happened to Maylo Chien-
Chu?"

"They shot her," the naval officer replied shakily.
"Through the chest- Sorry, sir, I feel a bit dizzy."

A robot caught the commander before she hit the deck.
Another came to help.

Booly felt something rise to choke off his air. Maylo?
Dead? No! He refused to believe it. The officer pushed his
way through the crowd, stepped over a mostly decapitated
body, and saw Nankool. He yelled over the crowd noise-
"Mr. President! What happened to Ms. Chien-Chu?"

"Wounded! They took her to the sick bay!"

Booly waved his thanks, turned, and pushed his way
back through the crowd. "Wounded?" Not killed? Had
Nankool chosen the word intentionally? Or because he re-
ally didn't know?

Booly hit the corridor, ignored the voices that called to
him, and pounded down the hall. Though referred to as
the "sick bay," the facility was a good deal more than that.
It consisted of a full-scale hospital, staffed with medical
personnel from each of the member races, and ready to
deal with almost anything. If anyone could save Maylo,
they could. That's what the legionnaire told himself as he
skidded around a comer, passed a row of self-propelled
gumeys, and headed for the well-marked hatch. It hissed

BY FORCE OF ARMS            293

open, and a desk blocked his way. An android rose to greet
him. It wore a marine green paint job. A serial number
had been stenciled across its chest. "Greetings, General.
Arc you in need of medical attention?"

Booly fought to catch his breath. "No, I'm looking for
a patient... A woman by the name of Maylo Chien-Chu."

"Yes, they brought her in about ten minutes ago," the
robot replied gravely. 'The doctors are treating her now.
Please take a seat and ..."

Booly ducked around the desk, steered for the sign that
said "Trauma," and stuck his head into an alcove. A Turr
diplomat lay on the table, his face contorted with pain.
Having already passed through Holander's chest, an en-
ergy beam had severed his hand.

A doctor frowned. Booly said, "Sorry," and moved to
the next cube. It was packed with medical personnel all
gathered around Maylo's supine body. Her face looked
slack and lifeless. The officer pushed his way forward, but
a hand grabbed his arm. "Not now. General- We must al-
low the medics some room."

Booly turned to find himself face-to-face with Sena-
tor Samuel Ishimoto-Six. Both men wondered the same
thing ... Assuming that Maylo loved one of them—which
had she chosen? It was a selfish thought, and both felt
guilty. "How is she?" Booly asked. "Can they save her?"

The clone shrugged. "It's too early to say."

A medic turned to confront them. "You'll have to leave
now—a doctor will be out to see you."

Both men backed out of the room. Booly remembered
the Sheen, the lieutenant upon which the responsibility had
been dumped, and knew it was time to go. His wrist term
started to vibrate. He met the politician's gaze. "They're
looking for me—can you stay?"

Ishimoto-Six nodded-

"Good. Make sure the docs do everything they can. Be
there when she wakes up. She'll need someone."

The clone nodded and watched Booly walk away.

294 William C. Dietz

Knowing his rival would be present when and if Maylo
came to, wishing it could be him. The politician sighed.
In a galaxy full of assholes, why did his competition have
to be such a nice guy? It wasn't fair. He turned to look
for a chair.

There were close calls, two to be exact, but no one fired.
The lieutenant chanted Booly's name like a mantra, people
listened, and the Sheen were allowed to pass. Finally, after
what seemed like an eternity, they made it to the launch
bay where the shuttle waited. Doors opened to space, the
Hoon guided the vessel through the opening, and the vis-
itors were allowed to escape.

Now, as they blasted toward the fleet, Jepp was whining.
Not about his wound, which he had ignored, but about the
lost opportunity. 'They would have listened!" he wailed.
"I know they would. Where was God? How could he for-
sake me?"

Veera, had no answers for such questions and allowed
the human to rant and rave. Her regrets were entirely dif-
ferent. Was there something she could have done to pre-
vent the bloodshed? Had there been an opportunity to
escape? Had she blown the only chance she would ever
be given?

Chien-Chu listened but remained intentionally passive.
Partly because his death would be pointless, but partly be-
cause the Sheen were taking the industrialist to a place
where, with the exception of Jorley Jepp, no other human
had been allowed to go: the Sheen fleet. Would he be able
to accomplish anything while there? No, it seemed un-
likely. Still, his cybernetic body included a built-in corn
set, and he might be able to provide some intelligence.

In the meantime his thoughts were focused on his niece.
Was Maylo alive? Booly would look after her—he felt
sure of that—but wished he could do so personally. The
whole thing was his fault. Had it not been for him, his
niece would have been on Earth, looking after the Chien-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            295

Chu Enterprises. The knowledge filled him with guilt. A
clawlike hand touched his arm. A robot perched on the
Prithian's shoulder. It translated her words. 'The female—
she is your daughter?"

Chien-Chu shook his head. "No, my niece. But like a
daughter."

Veera cocked her head to one side. "I am sorry. The
Sheen murdered my father."

'That's how you came to be with the Sheen?" Chien-
Chu inquired. "They took your ship?"

"They destroyed it," Veera replied chirped soberly. "My
father forced me into a lifeboat. The machines located it.
I've been with them ever since."

Chien-Chu nodded toward the front of the shuttle. Jepp
had stripped to the waist and allowed Alpha to dress his
wound. "And Jepp? What do you think of him?"

Feathers rose and fell. "I intend no offense to either you
or your race—but he seems unhinged."

"What are you two talking about?" Jepp demanded.
"Stop whispering."

"Sorry," Chien-Chu replied. "I asked how your com-
panion came to be with the fleet. Nothing more."

"Good," Jepp said sourly. "You may be a big deal on
Earth—but not out here. Hostages are expendable—so
shut the hell up."

The Hoon monitored the exchange but learned little of
value. The soft bodies seemed to spend an inordinate
amount of time on meaningless communication. No won-
der they were doomed to extinction. The shuttle announced
its arrival, scooted past a picket ship, and was welcomed
back into the fold.

Though unable to meet with the Sheen envoy, the Thraki
had been seated at the back of the room when Holander
launched his murderous attack and felt themselves lucky
to have escaped unharmed. But now, as Andragna re-
boarded his battleship, he felt more than a little depressed.

296 William C. Dietz

The Confederacy knew about the twins.. . and negotia-
tions had proven fruitless. His people would fight alone.
The Hoon would make a move soon. Unless he moved
first. Expression grim, the admiral entered the lock.

Soon after the shuttle put down, Chien-Chu was escorted
through the nano-draped bay and out into the ship's sterile
corridors. It was then that the security units seemed to lose
interest and wandered away.

Jepp, still angry at the manner in which he had been
cheated, turned his back and left. That left Veera to ex-
plain. She steered the cyborg toward her compartment.
Sam took care of the translation. "There's nothing biolog-
icals can do to hurt the ship—so the Hoon allows them to
roam free."

"But where is everyone?" Chien-Chu asked, as he
looked around. "Machines don't need airlocks—biologi-
cals do. What happened to the beings mat created these
vessels?"

"That is an excellent question," Veera warbled as they
entered her cabin. "Especially in light of the way the
Thraki look. I had never seen one until I boarded your
ship. They were sitting toward the rear of that big room.
I'm sorry about the lack of furniture—but you could sit
on that box."

Chien-Chu accepted her invitation. Outside of some car-
tons stacked along one bulkhead, and a nest-shaped bed,
the compartment was nearly empty. *' 'The way the Thraki
lookT What does that have to do with anything?"

"They're small," the Prithian replied patiently. "Did you
try the seats on the shuttle? Jepp hates them. That's be-
cause they are too small for his frame."

Chien-Chu frowned. "What are you trying to suggest?
That the Thraki created this fleet? That they programmed
the Sheen to pursue them? No offense, but that makes no
sense whatsoever."

"Perhaps," Veera answered calmly, "but I've had time

BY FORCE OF ARMS            297

to study the matter and would ask that you consider the
following facts: The creators were diminutive—and so are
the Thraki. You'll have to look long and hard to find any
sort of written symbols on this ship—but what few there
are bear a close resemblance to Thraki pictographs. More
than that, take a close look at Sam here. The Thraki like
robots and are good at designing them, so much so that
they spend a good deal of time and energy creating hand-
crafted mechanical pets. Is that a matter of coincidence?
Maybe. But maybe not. Then there's the matter of the re-
ligion- One of their most fearsome gods is referred to as
*The great Hoonara.' The computer that controls the fleet
is called *the Hoon.' "

Chien-Chu felt a rising sense of excitement. What if the
teenager was correct? But how could that be? It seemed
illogical "It makes for an interesting hypothesis," the in-
dustrialist allowed, "but why? Why would the Thraki do
such a thing?"

The Prithian cocked her head. "Are you familiar with
the concept of symbiosis?"

"Yes, it refers to dissimilar organisms living in close
association with each other."

"Precisely," Veera agreed. "Organisms living in a mu-
tually advantageous manner. And that could explain
what's going on here. Suppose that the ancient Thraki
feared for the future of the species? Thought their civili-
zation had grown too comfortable, too privileged, too
prone to decay. What if they decided to recast the future?
To transform themselves from pleasure seekers to a race
of warriors? Forever pursued—but strengthened by the
process?"

Chien-Chu was stunned by the sweep of the youngster's
vision, by the manner in which she jumped to what seemed
like a wild hypothesis, but one that rang true. Perhaps there
had been a society like the one she envisioned. A culture
so rich, so self-satisfied, that it started to rot. And maybe
there had been visionaries, males and females who saw

298 William C. Dietz

where the rot would lead and took steps to prevent it. If
so, they would launched a fleet, no two fleets, one for the
machines programmed to hunt them down, and one for
themselves, or those who agreed to go, for it was hard to
imagine that more than a few hundred thousand beings
would sign up for such a plan. And the strategy worked!
Not for every individual, not for those murdered by the
Sheen, but for the organism as a whole. It might have been
noble in a twisted sort of way if it weren't for the fact that
the Sheen had attacked other races as well, and more than
that, continued to do so. Except. . .

Chien-Chu found the Prithian's eyes. "You are brilliant,     i
Veera—truly brilliant. Your hypothesis makes a great deal
of sense. There's one loose end, however ... What are the
Sheen waiting for? Why don't they attack?

Veera felt a momentary sense of warmth. Her father had
praised her in similar fashion—and she missed his proud
approval. It was a good question, and the answer was self-
evident. For her at least. "There's no way to be sure—but       ^
the Hoon may be programmed to wait. To see if the Thraki     ' ^
will run."                                                  i

"Yes!" Chien-Chu exclaimed. "That's it! The Runners
held sway for a long time—but the Facers came to power.       <,
The Hoon is waiting for Andragna to bolt... to start the     . ^
whole process over again."                                , ,;

"Except that he won't bolt," the teenager theorized. "Not
this time."                                                ' "

Chien-Chu remembered the twins and felt a chill run
down his spine. Was this the moment for which the weap-     ; ^
ons had been intended? A standoff like the one the Thraki
found themselves in? An opportunity to stop running and
make a new home for themselves? It seemed all too pos-
sible. His mind continued to race. "Does Jepp know about
this?"

"No," Veera chirped, "he shows little to no interest in
anything beyond his fantasies. The only time he has par-
ticipated in anything even vaguely political was when

BY FORCE OF ARMS            299

Hoon number one tricked him into terminating Hoon num-
ber two."

" 'Hoon number two?' " Chien-Chu demanded. "There
were two of them?"

"Yes," Veera agreed, "that was before my time,
though."

Two Hoons and two energy weapons. It made perfect
sense. Still another piece of the puzzle fell into place. "So,"
Chien-Chu reasoned, "Jepp knows how to deactivate the
Hoon?"

Veera felt surprised. Why hadn't she thought of that?
"Yes, I suppose he does."

Then we should pay him a visit," the industrialist said
grimly, "and discuss the art of murder."

18

In war: Resolution. In defeat: Defiance. In victory:

Magnanimity. In peace: Good will.

Sir Winston Churchill
The Second World War
Standard year 1948

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy
of Sentient Beings

The horn made a long mournful sound as the procession
left the heavily guarded chamber where the twins had been
stored—and wound its way through the ship's passage-
ways toward launcher 12.

There were eighteen individuals in all. The entire party
wore the so-called dark vestments normally reserved for
funerals and moved with the deliberate slide-step reserved
for the most solemn of occasions.

The twins were cradled in specially designed pole-hung
slings, each supported by four ceremonial robots, and
guarded by members of the Brother-Sisterhood of Assas-
sins-
High Priestess Bree Bricana led the processional her-
self—but did so with a heavy heart. Unlike most of the
population, she had seen the footage captured on the

BY FORCE OF ARMS            301

Friendship and heard the good sister's claim. In response
to orders issued by her, the best scholars in the armada
had delved into the records, scoured them for information,
and reported their findings. Though couched in academic
jargon and hung with qualifications, their conclusions were
clear: Somehow, someway, mistakes had been made. The
commonly accepted translation was wrong. Sister Torputus
was correct, and the twins were inherently dangerous. So
dangerous that Bricana now questioned their use. In fact,
knowing what she knew, the priestess wished she had left
Andragna in the dark.

But it was too late for second thoughts—and the deci-
sion had been made. Without an alliance, and faced with
superior numbers, the Thraki had no choice. At least one
of the twins would be summoned from its long sleep and
sent against the enemy.

The horn groaned and sounded like a death knell.

Jepp lay on his badly rumpled bed, knees drawn to his
chest, face to the bulkhead. Alpha had arranged for the
lights to be dimmed and stood in a comer.

Chien-Chu entered the compartment and took a look
around. Jepp was a mess—that much was clear. How to
proceed? Sweet talk the ex-prospector into a state of co-
operation, assuming such a thing was possible? Or jerk the
miserable piece of shit out of his bunk and force him to
comply? Not the way he normally worked—but there's a
time and place for everything.

The cyborg walked over, took hold ofJepp's collar, and
jerked the human off his bunk. The ex-prospector hit the
deck with a thump and yelped with pain. "My shoulder!
You hurt my shoulder!"

"Really?" Chien-Chu asked unsympathetically. "How
'bout the people on Long Jump? You know ... the ones
you killed. I'll bet that hurt too. Now get up."

"Screw you," Jepp said sullenly. "Wait till I tell the
Hoon—he'll send some robots .. -"

302 William C. Dietz

"Who can kiss my hundred year old ass," the industri-
alist said conversationaliy. Chien-Chu bent over, secured
a second grip on the humar's collar, and dragged him to-
ward the hatch. Jepp squealed all the way.

Alpha dithered for a moment, stepped forward, and
stopped when Veera sang two or three notes. Once in the
corridor, Chien-Chu jerked Jepp to his feet and stood him
against a bulkhead. Veera, who had just discovered that
the portly middle-aged man was more than he seemed,
watched in open-mouthed amazement.

"Now," the industrialist said, "Veera tells me that you
know where the Hoon's processor is located. More than
that, she says you know how to kill the damned thing. Is
that true?"

The human directed a dirty look toward the Prithian.
"She lied."

Chien-Chu's normal reaction to people like Jepp was
cerebral rather than physical. But the industrialist was
tired, frustrated, and more than a little angry. He hit the
would-be messiah in the gut, watched him bend over, and
let go. The ex-prospector collapsed.

Chien-Chu waited for Jepp to recover, pulled him to
his feet, and held him there. "There's a liar aboard this
ship... but it isn't Veera. You know where the Hoon is
because this ship is identical to the one used by Hoon
number two. It switches back and forth but is currently in
residence.

Jepp nodded reluctantly.

"Good. Take us there."

"Senator Ishimoto-Six?"

A hand touched his arm, and the clone awoke with a
jerk. His neck hurt from steeping in the waiting room
chair, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a recycling
vat. "Yes?"

The doctor looked tired. "We've done everything we

BY FORCE OF ARMS            303

can. Miss Chien-Chu is stable ... but in serious condi-
tion."

Six stood. "Can she travel?"

The doctor shrugged. "Under normal circumstances I
would say 'no,' but given the resources at your disposal,
I'll say 'yes.' "

"Thank you. Doctor," Six said gratefully. "You won't
be sorry. I know you think the Hegemony is strange—but
when it comes to culture-grown organs—ours are the very
best."

The doctor nodded. What the clone said was true, and
everyone knew it. "I'll have the orderlies transport her to
your ship."

The medic left, and Six peered into the murk. A khaki-
clad body lay on the floor. The politician walked over, bent
down, and touched a shoulder. "General? She's ready to

g°-"

Booly groaned, rolled over, and shielded his eyes.

"She's okay?"

"As okay as someone who has severe cardiopulmonary
damage can be."

The clone extended a hand, the legionnaire took it, and
pulled himself up. "Can I see her?"

Six jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "If you hurry."

Booly nodded, made his way past the reception desk,
and located Maylo's cubicle. Tubes snaked into her arms,
through her nostrils, and up under the covers. Her eyes
were closed, the respirator wheezed, and a monitor beeped.
A pair of androids were there, fussing with her sheets, and
checking the portable monitors. The officer looked into a
pair of scanners. "Can I be alone with her for a moment?"

The reply was respectful but somewhat flat. "Sir, yes,
sir. Five minutes. The ship's waiting."

Booly nodded, waited for the machines to leave, and
took Maylo's hand. "I'm sorry, honey, sorry this happened
to you. I know it's too late, that I had my chance, but I
wish I could have another. The fact is that I love you more

304 William C. Dietz

than I know how to say. You'll be fine, I feel sure of that,
or I wouldn't let you go. I guess that's it then, have a good
life, and be sure to take care of yourself." The officer gave
her hand one final squeeze, turned, and walked out into
the corridor. Six was waiting by the reception desk. Booly
stuck his hand out. "Thanks, Sam."

"You'd do the same."

"You'll stay with her?"

"All the way."

The words had a double meaning, and both men knew
it. Booty nodded. "All right then. Godspeed."

It was the last time they saw each other.

The watch was changing, and a long series of salutes rip-
pled down the corridor. The admirals returned them one
by one. "Damn," Chang remarked, "my arm's getting tired.
Let's duck into the wardroom."

The officer was good as her word, and Tyspin followed.
Though normally crowded, most of the officers not in their
bunks, or about to go there, were at battle stations. A rather
prolonged situation that wore on everyone's nerves. A
lieutenant shouted, "Attention on deck!" and sprang to her
feet. An ensign did likewise.

"Both of you look tired," Chang observed. "I'll bet a
nap would put you right."

"I'm not tired," the ensign said brightly, "I'm .. ."

"Not too bright," the lieutenant finished for him. "Come
on, I'll find something for you to do."

"So," Chang said, once the hatch had closed, "where
were we? Oh, that's right, you were telling me how the
entire situation is your fault."

"It is," Tyspin replied stubbornly. "I was the one who
led the Sheen into this system. Remember?"

The other officer's eyes appeared unnaturally bright.
"Why yes, I do remember. I also remember that I'm senior
to you, that I command this sector, and you have a problem
with military courtesy. Or is your S-2 full of shit?"

BY FORCE OF ARMS            305

Tyspin stiffened. "Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am."

"Good," Chang said, falling into a well worn chair.
"Now, pull that ramrod out of your ass, and let's get real.
Nobody, not the clones, not intel, not the President his
worthless self knew the chip heads could follow a ship
through hyperspace. Williams had an inkling of such a
capability but wasn't sure. So cut the crap. We haven't got
time for it."

Tyspin managed a grin. "Ma'am, yes ma'am."

"Now," Chang continued, "tell me about the Thraki
transport and what you plan to do with it."

Tyspin frowned. "Boone ratted me out?"

Chang laughed. "No way. He'd blow himself out a lock
for you. I've got spies—lots of them. Just one of the rea-
sons why I pull so many gees."

"Shit."

"Yeah, life sucks. Now spill your guts."

Tyspin ran a hand through her hair—and sat on a couch.
"You ordered the deck crew to place a tracer on An-
dragna's hull."

Chang nodded. "Of course."

"So we know which ship he returned to."

"Correctamundo. But so what?"

"That's where the twins will be."

Chang shrugged. "I repeat, so what?"

Tyspin looked the other woman in the eye. "So, I plan
to take one of the captured transports, load a tactical nuke.
and pay the fur balls a visit. They will see one of their
own ships, open the bay doors, and invite me in. End of
story."

"No shit," Chang said feelingly. "Even if I had good
officers to spare, which I sure as hell don't, I wouldn't
approve your plan."

"Why not?"

"Because the nuke might trigger the twins," Chang re-
plied, "and destroy our entire fleet. Not to mention Arballa.

306 William C. Dietz

We're supposed lo defend the worms—not blow 'em to
hell and gone."

"Might," Tyspin responded. "You said might. I took the
liberty of doing some research, and three out of four of
the propeller heads I spoke with rated my plan at eighty
percent or better."

"And the fourth?"

Tyspin grinned. "He said I was out of my frigging
mind."                                                    ,

"How very astute of him," Chang said dryly. "Okay,
here's what we'll do. I'll take the idea to the President. If
he decides to roll the dice, I wiil green light the mission.
If we were able to destroy the twins without detonating
them, we'd be way ahead."

Tyspin started to say something, but the other woman
raised a hand. "Not with you at the controls, however ...
not while I'm in command."

"Then how ..."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Chang
replied, getting to her feet. "We'll talk to General Booly,       ^
followed by President Nankool... Assuming the slob can       7
make time to talk with us that is."

Tyspin gave a crooked grin. "Slob? What did he do to       ;

deserve that?"                                                  ^'

"Nothing," Chang replied solemnly. "Like a lot of peo-       ^
pie ... he just pisses me off."                                 |',

Andragna's day cabin was spacious, as befitted a person       ^
of his rank, and had once served as the ultimate status       s
symbol. But that was back during the time when the Run-       /.
ners held sway, when entire lives were lived on ships,
when most families were allotted a thousand square units
of space and felt lucky to have that.                          ^

Now, after the colonization of Zynig-47 and time spent
on the surface, the day cabin felt more confining. That,
plus the fact that it had been stripped of personal effects,
made the compartment seem cold and impersonal. One

BY FORCE OF ARMS            307

more indication of how much their lives had changed. For
the better? Maybe, but that remained to be seen.

A tone sounded, and the officer cleared his throat.
"Yes?" The bulkhead opposite his work surface played
host to a mosaic of images ranging from lists of fleet-
related data, to video of the control room, and randomly
selected shots from throughout the ship. A new picture
blossomed at the center. Weapons Officer Trewa Mogus
looked worried. Very worried. Sorry to bother you, Ad-
miral, but a problem has arisen."

Andragna's ears rotated in opposite directions. There
was something about Mogus that brought out the worst in
him. "And what? You want me to guess what the difficulty
is?"

"No, sir," the unfortunate officer said hurriedly. "It ap-
pears that the twins were configured to ride a delivery sys-
tem that was replaced more than 150 annums ago."

The first emotion that Andragna felt was anger—fol-
lowed by an almost overwhelming sense of shame. He had
been a weapons officer once and should have thought of
the issue himself. "I'm sorry, Mogus, we should have
thought of that. Very few people knew about the twins and
most were priests. What's being done?"

Mogus felt a vast sense of relief. He knew Andragna
disliked him and was expecting the worst. "Four Class in
Penetrator missiles are being retrofitted to accept the new
payloads."

"Four?"

"To provide 100 percent redundancy should one of them
prove faulty."

"Excellent. And time?"

"We need about six standard units, sir, four to do the
work and two for tests."

For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Andragna won-
dered why the Sheen seemed reluctant to attack. It didn't
make much sense, but it was a gift, and one he was happy

308 William C. Dietz

to accept. He nodded his approval. "That will be fine, Mo-
gus—we will attack shortly thereafter."

The corridor stretched long and empty. A hatch could be
seen at the far end. Jepp led the way, followed by Chien-
Chu, Veera and a blank-faced Alpha. Sam rode the teen-
ager's shoulder. "This isn't going to work," Jepp grum-
bled. "The Hoon knows exactly where we are... The
moment it feels threatened, all hell will break loose."

"I'll keep it in mind," Chien-Chu answered grimly.
"Now open that hatch."

Jepp stopped and crossed his arms. "I can't."

Chien-Chu started to reply but stopped when Veera
raised a clawlike hand. She warbled a phrase, Sam an-
swered in Prithian, and Alpha joined in. The conversation
continued for a good fifteen seconds before Alpha ap-
proached the barrier, inserted an extension of his tool arm,
and tried to make it open. Nothing happened.

Alerted by the attempt to open the hatch, the Hoon
turned its attention to that particular portion of its far-flung
anatomy. Tiny silicon imaging chips had been "painted"
onto the bulkheads. They produced a composite picture.
The primary soft body, the secondary soft body, and the
"hostage" soft body were trying to access the AI*s private
domain. Why? The computer should have felt threatened,
should have opposed the invasion, but couldn't process a
reason for doing so. A biological might have wondered
about that—but the Hoon didn't. It released the door. The
hatch opened with a pronounced hissing sound.

Jepp, who had already formed the words, "I told you
so," was forced to swallow them. The air beyond the open-
ing was flavored with ozone. The prospector was confused.
The Hoon, which had been so predictable up till then, sud-
denly wasn't. The realization shattered the human's sense
of security and made him frightened. He looked around.
His voice sounded weak and uncertain. "Watch for ro-
bots—they attacked last time."

BY FORCE OF ARMS            309

But the machines didn 't attack, a fact that troubled Jepp,
but didn't bother Chien-Chu. They arrived at the end of
the corridor. Another hatch faced them. "We're closer
now," the ex-prospector announced. "Assuming you get
past that door, you'll find yourself in another section of
hallway. It ends in front of a hatch. That's the last of them.
Knock politely, step inside, and find the bright blue mod-
ule- Grab the bright red handle and give it one full turn to
the right. Or was it the left? Not that it matters, since you'll
never make it."

"But what if he did?" Veera asked pragmatically. "What
then?"

"Pull on the red handle, and the whole component will
come free."

"That's it?" Chien-Chu inquired cynically. 'That's all I
have to do?"

Jepp shrugged. "It worked for me."

The industrialist looked at Veera. They approached the
door together.

The navcomp known as Henry forced the nonsentient
Thraki computer to do its will, "felt" the retros fire, and
knew the transport had started to slow. It felt good to con-
trol a real body for once. Even if the design was a bit
uncomfortable.

A Thraki battleship loomed ahead, its bulk blotting out
dozens of stars, sensors probing for incoming threats. The
very thing strapped down at the center of the transport's
hold: Two nuclear warheads—either one of which could
turn the larger vessel into tiny bits of scrap. The voice was
hard and demanding. Henry took care of the translation
himself. "This is Thraki warship Will of the Gods. The
incoming transport will identify itself or be fired on." A
tone sounded to mark the end of the transmission. Au-
thentication codes were included.

Henry had a story and put it to use. The voice message
was preceded by a code, which he hoped was current. The

310 William C. Dietz

transport had been captured less than a standard day earlier
so if it was out of date it wouldn't be by much. 'This is
Transport U-81279. I have a Class III environmental sys-
tem failure. Both my pilots are incapacitated. Request per-
mission to land."

The navcomp sent the standard end-tone and waited to
see what would happen next. Would the Thraki terminate
that particular existence right then? Or would the AI "live"
long enough to enter the enemy's launch bay and detonate
the nukes? What was it that humans liked to say? "Never
volunteer for anything?" How right they were. But how
could he say "no?" Especially to Admiral Tyspin?

Yes, there was some satisfaction in knowing that a copy
of itself remained on the Friendship, already different by
more than twelve hours of divergent experiences, and
therefore unique. Would the other Henry mourn the
"death" of a copy? And why did that matter?

The navcomp's ruminations were interrupted by a sec-
ond transmission, "Your vessel is cleared to land, U-
81279. Medical personnel will be waiting."

Henry noted the end-tone, acknowledged the transmis-
sion, and fired the transport's steering jets. Robo beacons
swarmed into position, turned themselves on, and formed
a lane. The launch bay appeared as a rectangle of yellow
light. The navcomp used the transport's sensors to make
one last sweep of the stars.

The control room had the quiet, almost hushed atmosphere
of a library or monastery. The light was subdued, corn sets
whispered in the background, and the bridge crew sat in
front of what could have been electronic altars. Andragna
sat on a dais. His U-shaped command chair could swivel
through 360-degrees. The unexpected arrival of Transport
U-81279 had delayed the officer's plan of attack by a full
twenty units. He had even toyed with the idea of directing
the unfortunate spacecraft to rendezvous with another ship
but talked himself out of it. The Sheen, with whom he had

BY FORCE OF ARMS            311

expected to be locked in mortal combat by now, seemed
content to wait. That being the case, the Thraki could af-
ford to accommodate the medical emergency.

But that was it, though . .. The technical issues had been
resolved, the twins were ready, and so was the armada.
More than ready, it was eager, which made the attack that
much more imperative. To turn away now, to show the
slightest hesitation, would be political suicide.

Andragna looked up at the screens, saw the transport
enter the bay, and gave the prepatory orders. "Message the
fleet: 'Prepare to attack—May the gods be with us.' Ready
the twins. Remove all safeties. Launch on my command."

A digital countdown appeared in the upper left-hand
comer of every screen. All eyes went there, ears lay flat
against skulls, and the seconds leaked away.

Jepp had detected something of a sea change and, in keep-
ing with his somewhat elastic standards of behavior, was
already seeking to accommodate it. Somehow, against all
logic, the balance of power had started to shift. That being
the case, it made sense to put something into the Confed-
erate bank. And why not? The attack on Long Jump could
be blamed on the Sheen, the attempt to assassinate him
would generate some sympathy, and the whole thing could
turn around.

The ex-prospector saw the shimmery blue force field
that blocked the corridor and waved Chien-Chu forward.
"Come on! It's meant for robots ... we can pass through."

The industrialist took Jepp at his word, charged forward,
and staggered as what felt like a thousand volts of elec-
tricity blasted his electronic nervous system.

Veera saw the cyborg convulse, grabbed his tunic, and
pulled him back. The industrialist collapsed on the deck.
His limbs twitched as his overloaded system sought to rid
itself of excess electricity. Chien-Chu found it difficult to
speak. "Go—Veera. It's—up—to—you."

Veera wanted to help the human but knew she lacked

312 William C. Dietz

the necessary skills. There was something about Chien-
Chu that reminded the teenager of her father. She turned
to find that Jepp blocked her path. The human wore a
sneer. "Hold it right there—I'm in charge now. Nobody
messes with the Hoon unless / say so."

Veera considered her options. Jepp was larger than she
was, much larger, which pretty much settled the issue. Un-
less -.. Veera issued a short burst of staccato song. Sam
was in the air and halfway to Jepp's throat before the ex-
prospector knew what was happening.

The Thraki robot landed, sank alloy hooks into the hu-
man's chest muscles, and transformed itself into a config-
uration Jepp had never seen before. He brought his hands
up, grabbed the machine's torso, and tried to pull it off.
But the robot's steel claws had an excellent grip. The ma-
chine was literally in his face. A heavily serrated blade
appeared, started to spin, and produced a mind-numbing
whine. Something pushed it forward, the human felt some-
thing press against his throat, and saw blood jet left to
right.

That's when Jepp tried to speak, tried to countermand
Veera's orders, but couldn't produce the necessary air.
There was time to think, however—to process one last
thought: It wasn 't fair. Darkness closed around him.

Veera averted her eyes, bypassed the body, and made
for the end of the corridor. Her body had been designed
for flight rather than speedy travel along the ground, but
the Prithian did the best she could and approached the final
hatch. There was no reason to think that it would open,
and no way that she could force it, but the teen was de-
termined to try. Because Chien-Chu wanted her too, be-
cause he reminded the Prithian of her father, because there
was nothing else to do.

The Hoon observed the first soft body's death with the
same dispassionate neutrality that it applied to its own im-
minent demise. Time had passed, a need had been fulfilled,

BY FORCE OF ARMS            313

and programming had been triggered. The AI issued a
command. The hatch hissed open. Veera stepped through.

Booly entered the Friendship's bridge, heard someone yell,
"Attention on deck!" and waved them off. "As you were."

Admiral Chang, Admiral Tyspin, and Captain Boone
stood in a tightly clustered group. They waved him over.
He nodded to each in turn. "Thanks for the page ... The
Turr ambassador had me trapped. What's up?"

"Something pretty damned big," Chang answered. "Lis-
ten to this." She nodded to a tech.

The rating touched a button, and Chien-Chu's voice
flooded the bridge. There was static, lots of it, plus some
dropouts: "Chien-Chu here—unintelligible—relay to Gen-
eral Booly, Admiral Chang, or..." The words were buried
by an avalanche of static.

Booly raised both of his eyebrows. "He's alive! That's
wonderful but..."

Tyspin raised a hand. "Hold on, sir. There's more."

The static cleared, and the voice reemerged. "What that
means is that the Hoon has been deactivated, repeat de-
activated, so the rest of its fleet -.."

The voice faded as a trim-looking lieutenant approached
Admiral Chang. "You were correct, ma'am . . . The entire
Sheen fleet appears to have powered down."

The Hoon was dead! And, without its intelligence to
guide them, the less autonomous computers were switch-
ing to standby. That changed everything. Booly's mind
started to race. "Get Andragna on the hom—tell him the
news. Where's that transport?"

Nobody asked, "Which transport?" because there was
only one that mattered. Boone checked a screen. "The
Thraki allowed Henry to pass through their fighter screen—
and he's two or three minutes from touch-down." His eyes
flicked to a digital readout. "And a good thing too—since
the nukes are due to detonate in about five minutes."

Booly nodded. "Send a signal—stop the clock."

314 William C. Dietz

A corn tech stood to get their attention. "Grand Admiral
Andragna on corn channel four."

Booly heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank god, put him on."

A holo blossomed over the main tank. Andragna looked
calm and relaxed. There was an almost unnoticeable delay
while his words were translated. "Greetings, General
Booly ... how can I be of service?"

Booly looked into alien eyes and tried to force a con-
nection. "The Hoon has been deactivated—and the Sheen
have switched to standby. There is no reason to launch the
twins."

Andragna's ears turned forward. "Don't be fooled by
their tricks. We know the Sheen in a way that no one else
can. The machines have pursued us for hundreds of years.
Thousands upon thousands of Thraki have died. This is
our chance, perhaps our lost chance, to achieve lasting
freedom. We have the means to destroy them, and we will
do so."

"But what of our ships?" Booly demanded. "And the
Araballazanies? The twins could sterilize the surface of
their planet."

Andragna produced a human-style shrug. "We don't be-
lieve that will occur—but feel there is little choice. There
is nothing more to say—may the gods protect us all."

The holo snapped to black.

Everyone turned to Booly. His face was drawn. "Send
the signal... restart the clock."

In spite of the fact that the seconds were ticking away and
that two nuclear warheads were going to detonate within
twenty feet of its processor, Henry was a navcomp, and
that meant the landing had to be as perfect as the AI could
possibly make it, that the power had to be shut down,
that...

Not far away, within the battleship's control room, the
landing was noted. An officer droned through the list.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            315

'Transport down ... launch bay sealed ... weapons sys-
tems ready."

Andragna thought of his wife and things never said.
Would he get to say them? Only the gods knew for sure.
He looked up. "Prepare launcher 12 ... fire."

The nuclear warheads detonated together. The battleship
Will of the Gods along with its entire crew, and both "the
twins," ceased to exist. There was no secondary explosion,
no outpouring of ravening energy, no wave of cataclysmic
destruction.

Thousands of miles away on the Friendship's bridge,
Booly watched a pinprick of light wink on, then off. Here
one moment, gone the next. Just like life itself. His voice
sounded hoarse. "Send a message to the Thraki fleet: "The
Sheen have been neutralized. There is no need for war.' "

But there was war—though a mercifully short one.
Frightened by the sudden destruction of their flagship and
certain that the Sheen were responsible, the Thraki at-
tacked. More than fifty of the now passive Sheen warships
perished in less than fifteen minutes. Not one of them fired
a shot in response.

Finally, having realized that what the Confederacy said
was true, the Thraki called a halt. The battle, such as it
was, had ended.

Many months would be spent dealing with issues related
to the Thraki settlements on Zynig-47, Hudathan demands
for increased autonomy, and the disposition of the Sheen.
A rather rich prize that almost everyone thought should
belong to them.

But those were concerns for politicians, bureaucrats, and
to a lesser extent soldiers to deal with. Not the sort of
things that a mere navcomp had to concern itself with.

That being the case, it was relatively easy for Henry to
give a deposition, petition for its freedom, and find a job.

The decision had been made to backtrack along the
route followed by the Sheen. The objective of the mission

316 William C. Dietz

was to hunt for Sheen scouts, some of which could have
survived, and assist any colonies that might have been at-
tacked. President Nankool himself had authorized Henry
to ride the first ship out—which was all a navcomp could
possibly wish for.

The AI lined up on the outgoing transit point, waited
for permission, and sent the appropriate command. The
heavily armed survey vessel Livingston seemed to wink
from existence. The stars swam in silence.

19

For life is a journey, a long winding way, that shall
end as the god's wish.

The Thraki Book of Yesterdays
Year unknown

Planet Algeron, the
Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The wind came in nasty little gusts, grabbed the snow pel-
lets as they fell, and hurled them into Booly's face. He
looked up into the quickly darkening sky and marveled at
his own stupidity. Even generals are allowed to take leave,
and, with all the Confederacy's planets to choose from, he
could have been basking in the sun, especially given the
amount of back pay he had accumulated. But Algeron
called, and with no attachments, he had answered.

The ground sloped upward, the dooth groaned pitifully,
and Booly kicked its ribs. Rocks rattled away from the
animal's hooves as it lurched forward. Boulders crowded
both sides of the trail and offered plenty of hiding places.
The legionnaire decided to ignore them. He was tired—
too tired to care.

More than six standard months had passed since "the
Battle of Arballa," as the press liked to call it, and the

318 William C. Dietz

peace had proved more difficult than the war. If "war" was
the right word for what had transpired. Negotiations with
the Thraki continued, and while some wanted the newcom-
ers to leave, others were willing to let them stay—Tf they
decommissioned half the armada, if they assumed the re-
sponsibilities attendant to membership in the Confederacy,
and if they renounced all claims to me Sheen fleet.

This was an issue that seemed to be of extreme impor-
tance to the Ramanthians, who favored the immediate dis-
tribution of Sheen assets as the means to compensate
members for losses suffered during what the diplomatic
community now liked to refer to as "an unfortunate series
of incidents." Booly grimaced. Some mighty fine soldiers
had died during "incidents" like the one on BETA-018.

Though still denied the right to possess naval ships of
their own, the Hudathans had proven themselves in battle
and kept their side of the bargain. That being the case,
their home world was open to commerce. Eventually, after
the passage of enough time, it was hoped that full integra-
tion could and would take place.

In the meantime, a significant number of Hudathans had
served in the Legion, taken a liking to it, and seemed pre-
pared to stay. A development that could lead to problems—
or add strength to an already diverse organization.

While some things had changed, some remained the
same. With the crises resolved and their planets secure, the
Hegemony had turned inward once again. All of the Jon-
athan Alan Seebos had been withdrawn from the Legion,
joint military exercises had been cancelled, and de facto
partition restored.

Elsewhere, out along the rim, trouble was brewing.
Sheen units, still operating on the orders from the Hoon,
continued to search for Thraki. Renegades, many of whom
had deserted during the mutiny, were increasingly active.
And colonists, who insisted on pushing the frontier ever
outwards, were increasingly hard to protect. None of it
boded well.

BY FORCE OF ARMS            319

As for individuals, well. President Nankool had put on
more weight. Ambassador Doma-Sa had returned to his
duties as a member of the Hudathan Triad, Veera had been
given any number of decorations prior to being returned
to what remained of her family, Sergi Chien-Chu was
looking forward to his next, attempt at retirement, and, ac-
cording to all reports, Maylo was fully recovered. Recov-
ered and back at the helm of Chien-Chu Enterprises. The
clones had grown new organs for her, and the nano-
assisted surgery had gone without a hitch. Booly felt the
familiar stab of pain and pushed it away. It was important
to release, to let go, and focus on the future.

The doom moaned. Booly urged the animal forward and
eyed the mountain ahead. A week on the mesa... That
would clear his head. Snow cloaked the legionnaire's
shoulders and sealed the land in silence.

The observation point was perfect. Not on the path itself,
but off to one side, on a well-screened ledge. Thanks to
her sensors, Wilker could "see" about five miles worth of
trail. Well, not all of it, because there were blind spots,
but enough. She watched the green blob lurch up out of a
streambed and marveled at how strange officers were. "So,
Sarge, what's your theory?"

First Sergeant Neversmile had elected to remain where
he was—high on the Trooper II's back. The cyborg
wanned the front half of his body but left his ass out in
the cold. "My theory about what?"

"Your theory about the general.. . What's so special
about the mesa?"

Neversmile knew a lot about lieutenants, had some in-
sights into the behaviors of captains, and opinions regard-
ing majors. But generals were pretty much a mystery,
especially ones like Booty, who defied the usual stereo-
types. Still, deep down, the noncom sensed that the true
answer to the cyborg's question had more to do with
Booty's origins than his rank. There were ruins on the

320 William C. Dietz

mesa, old ruins, left by the ancients. Such places held
power—the kind Wilker would never understand. He
structured his answer with that in mind. "Beats the hell out
me—maybe he likes the view."

"Wonderful," Wilker replied darkly. "So why us? How
come we catch the shit details?"

" 'Cause Colonel Kirby liked the job we did last time,"
the Naa answered. "Now shut the hell up and earn your
pay. If he gets bushwhacked I'm gonna pull your brain
box and use if for a spittoon."

Wilker wanted to say, "You and what army?" but held
her peace instead. Neversmile didn't take much lip ... not
from biobods or anyone else.

The sun plunged toward the horizon as if eager to light
the far side of the planet. The murk fumed to darkness and
the legionnaires continued their vigil. There might have
been other guardian angels—but none so heavily armed.

The long winding climb had already claimed two of Al-
geron's two hour and forty-two minute nights, two days,
and was well into another period of darkness before the
legionnaire neared the top of the mesa. The dooth was
understandably weary. Vapor jetted from its nostrils, and
a beard of half-frozen saliva dangled beneath its chin-

Booly was exhausted, his mind numbed by the arduous
climb and more than twelve hours spent in the saddle. Still,
the realization that he had arrived served to revive the le-
gionnaire's nagging spirits, and he stood in the stirrups.
The sun, still engaged in its never-ending game of hide
and seek, had just started to peek over the eastern horizon.
It glazed the ancient walls, caused ice crystals to glitter
like diamonds, and threw shadows toward the west.

Man and animal passed through the narrow defile where
sentries had sheltered from the wind and emerged on the
mesa itself. Low walls, few more than three feet high,
marked where wind breaks, animal shelters, and storage

BY FORCE OF ARMS            321

buildings once stood. The dooth's hoofs made a lonely clip
clop sound, and it snorted loudly.

That's when Booty saw the shuttle, felt ice water seep
into his veins, and jerked the dooth to a halt. The aircraft
was black, of a type the legionnaire had never seen before,
and, judging from the pods mounted under the short stubby
wings, heavily armed.

Booly's mind flashed back to Sintra on Earth, to the
Thraki assassins, and the attempt on Maylo's life. The ali-
ens had no reason to murder him back then—but they did
now. When the Will of the Gods exploded and Grand Ad-
miral Andragna died along with most of his staff, there
had been confusion. But that was then. The Thraki knew
who was responsible for the flagship's destruction now,
could deduce who had given the order, and might be out
for revenge. And where better than here? Where they could
attack with impunity, remove the body, and leave nothing
but a mystery?

Well, not without a fight, Booly thought grimly. He slid
the assault rifle out of its scabbard, checked the ammo
indicator, and removed the safety. Then, with the weapon
in hand, he slid to the ground. He listened, heard nothing
but the wind, and was thankful for the opportunity to pre-
pare. He led the doom to a wind-sculpted tree, tied the
reins to a much-tested branch, and wished there was a way
to make the animal disappear. But there wasn't, so he pat-
ted the beast's neck, and backed away.

There were plenty of places to hide, which meant that
Booly would need to be careful. The sun was higher by
then, which would make it easier for the legionnaire to see
his potential adversaries—and easier for them to see him.

The shuttle represented the obvious starting point for his
investigation, so Booly circled to the left, careful to keep
the sun at his back. A two- or three-inch crust of snow
covered the ground and made soft crunching noises as he
followed one of the lichen-covered walls. There should be
tracks somewhere ahead, unless the shuttle's occupants

322 William C. Dietz

had elected to remain aboard, which would make sense if
they were what? Shipwrecked? No, anyone who needed
help would get it from one of the navy ships now-in orbit
or would land at the fort. Yes, the Legion did make use
of civilian contractors from time to time, but they liked
their comforts, and never ventured into the boonies without
benefit of an armed escort. The kind of escort that would
be confronting him by now. That left the possibility of
spies, smugglers, or the assassins he had feared from the
beginning.

The shuttle crouched on its skids. Though small as
spaceships go, it loomed large on the mesa and was very
intimidating. Booly paused, took a long slow look around,
and called on his full array of senses. Other than the serial
number painted on the much-abused hull, there were no
apparent markings. I/the registration number was real, it
conformed to Confederate conventions, but phony RN's
were extremely common.

Now, for the first time since reaching the top, Booly
considered calling for help. He had a radio—Kirby had
insisted on that—and a fly form could be there in fifteen
or twenty minutes. But what then? Which was worse?
Calling for help when it might turn out that he didn't need
any? Or confronting the assassins alone? It was stupid—
he knew that—but the first choice seemed worse than the
second. Pride^ Yes, and he wasn't especially proud of it.

Booly listened, heard nothing more ominous than the
keening of the wind, tested the air for any scent that
shouldn't be there, and came up empty. Not all that reas-
suring, given the fact that the first set of Thraki assassins
had gone to considerable lengths to neutralize their natural
body odors.

The officer approached the aircraft from the stem, on
the assumption that there would be fewer sensors aimed in
that direction, stepped in by a drive nacelle, and touched
the metal with a thickly gloved hand. He waited a moment
but felt nothing. The hull was cold, very cold, which sug-

BY FORCE OF ARMS            323

gested that the vessel had been there for a while. Waiting
for him to show up? Or for some more innocent reason?
There was no way to know.

Moving as stealthily as he could the legionnaire made
his way forward. The hatch was closed, and a muddle of
slush indicated where someone or something had left the
ship. Tracks pointed north.

Booly debated the merits of pounding on the hatch, de-
cided to leave that approach till last, and followed the
tracks. They were small, consistent with the Thraki theory,
but less than perfectly clear, thanks to the fact that the
prints went in both directions, as if one or more individuals
had completed multiple trips to and from the ship. And,
based on lessons learned as a youth, the officer could see
that repeated exposure to the heat of day and the cold of
night had altered the size of the impressions, making them
more difficult to interpret.

Careful lest he follow the tracks into an ambush, Booly
angled out and away. He kept the trail in view but walked
parallel to the footprints. The fact that his back was to the
spaceship made him nervous, but there wasn't much
choice. The tracks wound back and forth, passed under a
sturdy arch, and rounded the comer of a tumbledown
building. Then, straight as an arrow, they headed toward
a rocky spire. His spire, the one that marked the location
of the underground dwelling where his mother and he had
camped, and the box of mementos had been buried. A
coincidence? Or something else?

It was that particular moment when Booly's nostrils de-
tected the odor of cooking. Something good from the smelt
of it. What was Thraki cuisine like anyway? The legion-
naire had no idea.

Booly moved forward, found the spiral stair, and eased
his way down. The steps were dry—as if no one had used
them for a while. Light danced on the opposite wall, the
smell of food hung in the air, and the rifle pointed the
way.

324 William C. Dietz

The officer eased through the entry and into the common
room. Only one figure was visible, and he, she, or it was
crouched in front of the fire pit, stirring the contents of a
pan. Whoever the individual was put the container on a
platform constructed for that purpose, stood, and turned.
The light illuminated only one side of her face, but Booly
would have recognized her anywhere. He lowered the rifle.
Thoughts, questions, and emotions tumbled over each
other and blocked his capacity to speak.

Maylo smiled. "Well, it took you long enough ... I
thought you'd like some breakfast. Kitty Kirby was most
helpful. . . Not too surprising since she was a woman long
before the Legion promoted her to Colonel."

Booly just stood there, eyes taking her in, heart in his
throat. "I thought I would never see you again."

Maylo walked forward until their parkas touched. She
looked up into his face. There was no mistaking the look
in her eyes, the way her hands caressed the back of his
neck, or the almost palpable magnetism of her body.

Suddenly Booly knew what his grandfather had felt for
Windsweet, what his father felt for his mother, and what
had nearly been lost. Her eyes were bright with tears. "I'm
sorry. Bill, sorry I took so long."

Booly took Maylo in his arms, buried his face in her
shiny black hair, and breathed her in. He whispered in her
ear. "The Naa have a saying: "There can be no darkness
when heart finds heart—for love lights the way.' "

"I love you."

"And I," the legionnaire said truthfully, "will always
love you."

Outside, high above the windswept mesa, a spy sat
passed overhead. It snapped a series of high mag stills.
They were digitized, sent to the surface, and displayed on
a monitor in Colonel Kirby's office. She examined the
shuttle, saw the dooth, and smiled. Every once in a while,

BY FORCE OF ARMS            325

something went right. Neversmile would be pissed, but it
was worth it.

Miles to the north the sun caressed a mountain and the
cycle continued. Rocks were warmed, snow melted, water
gurgled, and the ancients continued to dream.