By Force of Arms (42 page)

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. “Listen to this.” She nodded to a tech.

The rating touched a button, and ChienChu’s voice flooded the bridge. There was static, lots of it, plus some dropouts: “ChienChu here—unintelligible—relay to General 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 deactivated, 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 switching to standby. That changed everything. Booly’s mind started to race. “Get Andragna on the horn—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 touchdown.” 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.”

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 connection. “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 humanstyle shrug. “We don’t believe 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.

‘Transport down … launch bay sealed … weapons systems 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 attacked. 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 Zynig47, 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 there 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 was to hunt for Sheen scouts, some of which could have survived, and assist any colonies that might have been attacked. 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.

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 pellets 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 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 newcomers to leave, others were willing to let them stay—Tf they decommissioned half the armada, if they assumed the responsibilities 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 importance to the Ramanthians, who favored the immediate distribution 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 BETA018.

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 integration 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 prepared 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 Jonathan 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.

As for individuals, well. President Nankool had put on more weight. Ambassador DomaSa 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 ChienChu was looking forward to his next, attempt at retirement, and, according to all reports, Maylo was fully recovered. Recovered and back at the helm of ChienChu 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 IF’s back. The cyborg warmed 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 insights into the behaviors of captains, and opinions regarding majors. But generals were pretty much a mystery, especially ones like Booty, who defied the usual stereotypes. 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 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 Algeron’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 legionnaire’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 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 aliens had no reason to murder him back then—but they did now. When the Will of the Gods exploded and Grand Admiral 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 prepare. 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 patted the beast’s neck, and backed away.