By Force of Arms (33 page)

The cabin was dark, air whispered through ducts, and Tyspin 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 spoken. “Yes? What the hell do you want?”

“Sorry, Admiral,” the OOD said apologetically, “but a probe was waiting at Transit Point WHOT89653452. It appears that the Sheen have arrived.”

Tyspin sat up, rubbed her eyes, and swung her feet off the bunk. “Where?”

“In system NS680193 … about halfway between the Ramanthians and the Arballazanies.”

“Notify the general—I’m on the way.”

The OOD had 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 contact. “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 careers urging the youngster to pursue the law instead. Now, knowing what he knew, it appeared that dad was correct.

Planet Zynig47, 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 listening 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. Regardless 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 BETA018 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 subject of considerable discussion, not to mention competition, there was little interest in the forms on that particular 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 moving, were even more so now: “… And may the gods guide us through the labyrinth of stars to the peace that lies beyond. For it is there, in the promised place, where our spirits may rest.”

In most cases, Andragna preferred to let one of the Sectors 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 important than what he said. “The moment we have both dreaded and anticipated is upon us. The Sheen have entered Confederate space, know where we are, and will attack 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 amusing—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 admiral enjoyed her discomfort. He leaned forward as if to add weight to his words. “We had hoped to join the Confederacy of Sentient Beings and bind some allies to our cause. That particular path has been blocked,” Andragna continued earnestly, “but the strategy continues to be valid.”

Sector 18 looked at Sector 4 to see if the Facer understood 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 intruders—but allowed them to survive. Why you may ask? So that when the vast majority of our fleet enters hyperspace, 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 Arballazanies … Because that’s where the Confederate government 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 Confederacy 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 blackness of space.

Andragna heard the noise and felt it through the recently reconditioned floor. The timing would be critical—but hope had been restored.

One moment the Ninja was in the nowhere land of hyperspace, and the next moment it was bathed in light from NS680193, 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 system the ship had started to buzz, bleat, and speak in technical 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 according to standard threat protocols, and tagged with firing priorities. This vessel will 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 preemptive strike.”

Tyspin glanced at the ship’s commanding officer. Captain 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 cheerful. 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 statues, 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 ignore it Five, maybe ten seconds had passed, and her heart continued to beat. That was good wasn’t it? Careful lest her voice betray how she actually felt, she raised an eyebrow and glanced at Hashimoto. “Well? What are we waiting 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 paralysis The admiral was pulling the old man’s chain’ Situation 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: “Greetings on behalf of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings. This sector of space is controlled by outmember states. Please state your intentions.”

President Nankool and his advisors had invested a considerable 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 unnaturally 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 of an insult wouldn’t you say? President Nankool would have been more appropriate.”

A memory tickled the back of Tyspin’s mind. Something 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 appease him, assuming such a thing was possible, in hopes of gaining his favor.

But something cautioned the officer against that approach, 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 exprospector found himself torn between his desire to impress the Hoon with how tough he was and the somewhat 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 by now. The best thing the Confederacy can do is to provide 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 influence 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 influence 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 dispatching a message torp?”