By force of arms lotd-4 Page 2

  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 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 sentient 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 religious 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 hypothesis, 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 navcomp had witnessed similar visitations during the previous year, and none of them had been pleasant. Entire civilizations 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?

  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 tell 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 propulsion, which meant that Alpha walked. Henry rolled, and Sam scampered about. The human had been given grudging 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. The ex-prospector sat down, wished the chair was more comfortable, and felt the ship lift off. It hovered for a moment, 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 trigger unpleasant memories. The prospector remembered what it had been like to wait for hours while Small sat in his office. And then, 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 humiliating 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 handkerchief 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-shaped space hab that had appeared on the shuttle’s viewscreen. “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 station 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 anyway? 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 spaceport. 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.

  Many feared that the machines would suddenly turn violent, but there was no sign that any of them bore weapons, and none of the robots did anything to offend. What they did do, however, was take up positions on street corners, 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 car
efully prepared sermons. Long rambling affairs that borrowed from a number of sects, denominations, 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 nonsense. 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 businessman was forced to go looking for Jepp. The self-styled messiah was easy to locate. Every streetcomer 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 subdivided into a labyrinth of heavily screened cubicles. It was difficult to see in the murky corridors, but most of the compartments seemed to crammed with semi-worthless junk. The owner, a weasel nicknamed “Pop,” dogged the merchant’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 spydersilk 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 wellshad 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 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 tomorrow.”

  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 bibes. At the spaceport by tomorrow 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 Judgment 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 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 intelligence. 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 control 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 everything 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 Rimmer’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.

  Chapter 3

  Thus the highest form of generalship is to balk 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 Friendship 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 dangerous heat, spun their delicate cocoons, and built the optically switched computers for which they were justifiably famous. The Friendship had served the Confederacy as a traveling capital for more than fifty ye
ars now—and it was their turn to play host. All of which was little more than a backdrop for coconspirators, who, in an effort to escape the nonstop surveillance 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 humid. The Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy, Harlan Ishimoto Seven, sought to surreptitiously loosen his collar, and regretted the decision to come. Could the Ramanthian tell how uncomfortable he was? There was no way to be sure.

  The Ramanthian resembled a large insect. He had multifaceted 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 Hiween DomaSa, the sole representative of the Hudathan race, and Sergi ChienChu, wealthy industrialist, past President 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 betrayed 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 Leshi Qwan, a corporate type who had pushed his luck too far, and allowed Maylo ChienChu to shoot him.

  The conspirators had some new allies however, including Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna, the most senior officer in the Thraki fleet. He looked every bit as uncomfortable 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. Omo 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 tricentennial 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 Ambassador Ishimoto Seven ... let’s begin with you.”