By Force of Arms (20 page)

“All right,” Mondulo said, squinting into the sky. “We got ten miles of swamp to cross before nightfall. Time to get our asses in gear.”

Drik, along with fifteen of the clan’s most fearsome warriors floated just below the surface of the water and watched the aliens board their clumsy-looking craft. They knew the little bay was little more than a fingerlike extension of the great northern swamp. There was one way in and one way out. All they had to do was sit at the entry point and wait. The ambush was ready. Drik felt a rising sense of excitement, allowed more water to enter his auxiliary bladders, and sank further below the surface. His war party did likewise.

Mondulo stood with the long half-peeled steering oar clamped under one arm while he read the coordinates supplied by his Legion-issue wrist term and examined a map. Seebo, and his Ramanthian counterpart stood back to back, scanning for trouble. MorlaKa and Booly used poles to push the Pancake out and away from the shore.

The scenery seemed to glide past as if mounted on rollers. A weed-draped snag appeared off to the left, bobbed as a bird launched itself into the air, and fell behind. That’s when Booly noticed how quiet their environment had become, as if the entire swamp was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The legionnaire felt the fur rise along his spine, started to say something, but never got it out.

Four warriors rose as one. Each held a well-sharpened blade, each cut through the bindings that held the gripper bars in place, and each flutter kicked out of the way. It took a moment for the raft to come apart. Seebo was the first to notice. “The raft! Something’s wrong!”

But there was no time to respond, no time to make repairs, no time to mount a response. One after another they felt into the water. It was blood warm. Booly assumed the raft had come apart of its own accord, and realized how wrong he was when a two-foot long harpoon bounced off his chest armor. Mondulo gave the alarm: “Frogs!”

Bubbles exploded around Booly’s face as he went under, thought about the assault rifle, and remembered that it was slung across his back The officer groped for the combat knife, thumbed the release, and saw a narrow snakelike head emerge from me surrounding murk.

Something gleamed, and the legionnaire managed to catch the warrior’s arm as a blade flashed for his throat. He brought his own knife around in a long loop, felt the steel hesitate as it sliced through flesh, and saw the face convulse. The body fell away. Something jumped him from behind. An arm slithered around his neck and began to tighten. He needed air! The frog pulled him down.

Hebo had a secret. Like most members of his race he could swim when forced to do so but hated the water. Land was what his body had evolved to deal with—and where his psyche was at ease. Fear rose like a wall as the logs drifted apart. Frogs! He saw them floating below the surface ! The Ramanthian squeezed the triggerlike firing sleeve that activated his weapon. The water acted to slow most of the bullets but an individual named Ralk had the misfortune to be only inches beneath the surface when the alien fired. The hard ball ammo cut him nearly in two, flooded the already murky water with his blood, and cut the opposition by one. The logs parted, Hebo floundered, and thrashed toward shore.

Mondulo felt the harpoon slide up under his arm, where the armor couldn’t protect him, and enter his chest cavity. There was time, not much, but time to press the 9 mm handgun against the phib’s gut, feel the recoil, and harvest the look of surprise.

Then, before the pain could make itself felt. there was another increment of time in which to wonder why it was he, the fraxing expert, who was going to frigging die, while Booly and his team of XT weirdoes would probably emerge unscathed. But that’s how it was with officers… they … A knife sliced through Mondulo’s throat, and the thinking was over.

MorlaKa felt the logs part beneath his massive boots, heard Hebo open fire, and drew the machete. Had Drik and his companions known to look and been trained to interpret the Hudathan’s expression, they would have been frightened. MorlaKa smiled as he launched himself over the side, landed on something solid, and carried it down. Drik felt the crushing weight, managed to flip himself face up, and wished that he hadn’t. The alien looked monstrous, like something from a nightmare, like the last thing he would ever see.

Seebo fired into the water, wished he could see what he was shooting at, and felt something grab his ankle. The clone looked, saw the long sinewy arm, and corrected his aim. The 5.56 mm rounds chewed the limb off at the elbow, the logs rolled under his boots, and he hit the water sideways.

Booty backed-bowed his assailant, felt the arm loosen, and ducked through the loop. He wanted to surface, wanted to breathe, but knew he shouldn’t. The frog would follow, nail him from below, and that would be the end of it.

The human turned, saw the warrior raise some sort of spear gun, and felt the shaft race past the side of his face. A single shot weapon? The officer hoped so as he lunged forward, grabbed the launcher with his left hand, and pulled it toward him.

The frog could have let go, should have let go, but was reluctant to part with his most prized possession. He paid with his life.

Booly rammed the knife up into the warrior’s unprotected abdomen, felt the gun come free, and kicked for the surface. His gear plus the weapon across his back weighed him down. His body urged him to breathe anything, water if that’s what was available, but his mind refused to do so.

The legionnaire pulled with his arms, kicked with his feet, and willed himself upwards. The murk seemed to clear after a bit, his head broke the surface, and he opened his mouth. Air entered his lungs, a log bumped his shoulder, and he managed to capture it with an arm. Nothing had ever felt so solid and reassuring.

Hebo flailed right and left, felt one of his pincers encounter something soft, and a frog fell away. A ribbon of blood trailed behind. The bottom! Where was the bottom? The Ramanthian aimed himself toward shore and started to paddle. Then, just when it seemed as if he would swim forever, the alien felt mud under his feet. He paused, tested to see if the bottom would take his weight, and discovered that it would. That’s when the War Hebo uttered a long cluttering challenge, turned his back to the jungle, and invited attack.

MorlaKa broke the surface like a breaching whale. He spouted a mouthful of foul-tasting water and turned his attention to the warriors who hung from various parts of his mighty frame.

Drik, who had the signal misfortune to be clutched to the alien’s chest, felt the hug start to tighten. What seemed to last for an eternity took less than three seconds. The warrior felt his spine snap, lost contact with his extremities, and wondered where the pain was. Darkness came instead.

In spite of the fact that the Hudathan had successfully dealt with one attacker, three remained. Hebo saw that and knew he should go to the other officer’s assistance but was reluctant to leave the security of solid ground.

MorlaKa bellowed his anger as a knife entered his shoulder, threw one of his assailants into the air, and struggled with the others.

Hebo saw the splash, cursed his luck, and threw himself forward. The Ramanthian hadn’t traveled more than three feet when warriors rose to either side of him, threw a fish net high into the air, and used ropes to pull it down over his head. Pincers trapped, legs thrashing, Hebo waited to die.

Seebo kicked a frog in the stomach, felt the top of his head hit the underside of a log, and swallowed a mouthful of water. It went down the wrong way. The soldier kicked, broke the surface, and fought to clear his airway. He did so just in time to see MoriaKa break the surface, covered with frogs. A phib went flying. A knife flashed downward. The Hudathan bellowed in pain. There was no room for error, not given the tolerances involved, but Seebo knew the extent of his skill. Where it started, how far to trust it, and when to stop. By some miracle, the assault weapon was still there—clutched in the clone’s hands. He brought the rifle up, fired a burst of three shots, and saw a frog take the bullets. It screeched, fell back into the swamp, and quickly disappeared.

Steel flashed. MorlaKa roared with rage, broke the grip that encircled his neck, took hold of an arm, and jerked the warrior up over his shoulder. The long sinuous neck was an obvious point of vulnerability. The Hudathan got a grip on it, twisted, and heard something pop. The body went limp. He let the warrior go.

Though filled with the rage of battle, his body pumping chemicals into his blood, MoriaKa’s mind had stayed in control. He saw the net fall over Hebo’s torso and considered his options. He could let the bug die, a rather reasonable course of action given the manner in which the Ramanthian government hoped to annex Hudathan-controlled worlds, or—and this possibility went against all of the officer’s instincts—MorlaKa could wade out, pull his sidearm, and shoot the frogs in the head.

The sound of his own gunfire served to alert the War Commander that thought had been translated to action. The bodies fell away, splashed into the water, and floated with arms extended. Silence descended over the lagoon. Those frogs that were still alive had escaped.

Booly saw some mottled fabric, swam over, grabbed

Mondulo’s battle harness, and towed the body to shore. The others salvaged what gear they could, recovered most of the logs, and pulled them up onto the mud. Once that was accomplished, Booty took control. “We’ll bury the sergeant, make camp, and spend the night up in the trees. Seebo, MorlaKa needs some first aid. See what you can do. The raft can wait till morning.”

“We will use wire to lash the binders on next time,” Hebo said reflectively. “That should stop them.”

“Yes,” Booly replied wearily, “I think it wilt.”

Dinner was a somber affair, the night passed slowly, and dawn brought rain. Not a downpour, but a steady drumbeat, that peppered the surface of the lagoon.

Each member of the team paused by the mound of newly turned earth and said goodbye in their own special way. But it was Seebo who quoted a long-dead poet—a legionnaire named Alan Seeger:

When Spring comes back with rustling shade,

And apple blossoms fill the air,

I have a rendezvous with Death,

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

Booly nodded solemnly and followed the rest of the team down to the muddy beach. The work went quickly, and the heavily reinforced raft was ready less than three hours later. No one bothered to name this one, no one questioned the grenades that blew holes in the water, and no one looked back.

The Clan Mother awoke to an overwhelming sense of loss. The eggs? No, they were safely contained within her abdomen.

Then it came, the sudden realization that the thin tenuous thread that connected her to the leader of the war party had been severed. Drik was dead.

The Clan Mother cried out in sorrow, attendants rushed to her side, and the entire village began to mourn. For the warriors, yes; but for themselves as well, since each death weakened the social organism. For there were crops to be harvested, fish to catch, and repairs to be made. And ultimately, should the village be unable to defend itself, another clan would force the group to surrender its identity and accept outside rule.

Clouds hid the sun, darkness settled into her heart, and the Clan Mother started to cry.

The pickup zone consisted of a flat scrub-covered island. The clearing, which had been enlarged with machetes, was barely large enough to accommodate the flyform already on its way.

Outside of their weapons, which looked as clean as the morning they had left, the team was dirty, ragged, and tired. Still, they lay in a circle, facing outwards, ready for anything, a disposition that was indicative of the mutual dependency, respect, and trust developed during the last few days.

Booly considered saying as much, heard the approaching aircraft, and decided to let it go. Words have their place … but blood binds all. The officer turned his face upwards, gloried in the way the raindrops struck it, and was grateful to be alive.

The key to opening new markets is to establish two-way communication. Failing to do so will often lead to disaster.

Prithian Handbook for Merchant Apprentices

Standard year 2842

Somewhere Along the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The Prithian freighter bore a vague resemblance to the beings who had designed it, in that the ship possessed wings for use within planetary atmospheres, which were folded white traveling through space, a strategy that allowed the birdlike beings not only to indulge their love of atmospheric flight but to avoid the delays so often associated with orbital parking slots. It was all part of doing what the Prithians did well, which was to carry small, highly valuable cargoes over relatively short distances leaving the high-volume long-haul business to the big conglomerates.

It was a niche market, which was perfect for a numerically small race having a low birthrate and rather insular ways. So insular—and some said self-serving—that the Prithians had ignored repeated invitations to join the Confederacy, while continuing to profit from the markets the organization had created and the stability it fostered. A policy that saved the merchant race a significant amount of money.

All of which explained why the Dawn Song was jumping from one system to the next, delivering freight to a series of undistinguished planets, when it surfaced in the wrong place at the wrong time.