By Force of Arms (13 page)

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 managed 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 exprospector 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.

“I 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, scanning the bulkheads for some sign of the intelligence he was talking to. “So who are vow? Hoon number two?”

“Precisely,” the AI replied. “Now, leave this compartment, 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 determine which species shall ultimately prevail, a logical 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 IshimotoSix 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 sophisticated weapons systems, and a near fanatical devotion to duty. The guards came to attention, but there was nothing respectful about the look in their eyes, or the expressions on their identical faces. The soldiers had been briefed by either his clone brother, Harlan IshimotoSeven, or his assistant, Svetlana GorginThree, both of whom were aligned with Alpha Clone Magnus MosbyOne 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 opposed. 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 disguises hinted at the number of last-minute schemes, deals, 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 gently curving hull to a multilingual sign that read: “Lifeboat46, Oxygen Breathers Only.”

Then, after another backward glance, the clone 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 overhead 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. Wonderful 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 desired to do so. His voice was husky. “You are very, very, beautiful.”

Maylo smiled. The truth was that she liked Samuel IshimotoSix, liked him more than she should have, or even wanted to, given her relationship with Booly. Whatever that was. The clone was about six feet tall, had a slightly Japanese cast to his features, and looked very 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 DomaSa forced the whole thing out into the open.”

Maylo nodded. “Yes, I thought as much. I’m sorry they threw you into the brig with IshimotoSeven.”

The politician shrugged. “It was for the best. Otherwise, the conspirators would have assumed the worst and arranged 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 emergency 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 supplies, 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 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 possession of Zynig47 and were allowed to establish military bases on a number of our sparsely settled planets.

“The strategy, as conceived by my brother IshimotoSeven, 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 destroying 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?”

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 services 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 Ramanthian senator retired to his warm, somewhat humid quarters.

The politician noticed the ultraviolet message light, decided 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.

Omo listened to the message, listened again, and wondered 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 he shuffled toward the sand bath. Though smaller than the ones typical of dwellings on his native planet, the transparent duraplast box was functional nonetheless. The Ramanthian 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 pre-warmed 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 knowledge was, the Omo realized that some of his worst plans had been concocted there as well, as measured by the extent to which they had been successful.