By Force of Arms (36 page)

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 Torputus 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 occasions, 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 oldster’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.”

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 described, Booly had no difficulty believing that once unleashed, 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 introduce more uncertainty into an already uncertain situation. Booly felt an almost panicky sense of urgency. Approximately 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 Confederate navy was starting to gather, and that’s where the twins could do the most damage. He met the old, somewhat cloudy eyes. “Thank you, Sister Torputus. In spite of the present state of conflict, the Confederacy feels no animus 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 distance, and a scavenger circled high above. Booly looked 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 insystem, 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 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 NS426021, 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 permission 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 fivehundred thousand miles of each other.

One of the recently arrived naval groups, the 404
^th
Destroyer 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 proceeded to attack, an important advantage would have been lost, along with who knew how many casualties, and perhaps 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 decisions and as Chief Naval Officer InSystem, (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, 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 horn. 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 libraries. 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 display claimed the forward bulkhead. Icons stood in for systems, 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 battleship would emerge from hyperspace, reestablish communications 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.

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 suffered on BETA018, 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 Zynig47. 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 moments 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 online. The first ship to follow the drones into the Araballazanie system was a destroyer commanded by Captain Algo Portatious. He knew what Andragna 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 outgunned. Then, with the Confederate vessels as a screen, the battle could begin. Would the Sheen take the bait? Yes, the naval officer thought to himself, as surely as the universe 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 clustered 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 managed 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 message. “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

Jepp, who watched with slackjawed 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 Marcott 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 offline, cut power to primary weapons systems, and remain where they are. In the meantime, our offensive capabilities 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 government as well. It could work, however—since all three of the groups had the technology necessary to determine when weapons systems were online.