By Force of Arms Read Free

not only on the Rim, but on the outer edge of the rim, which meant that goods such as grain, refined ore, and manufactured products would have to be shipped to the center of the Confederacy where they would be forced to compete with similar commodities that were more expensive to produce, but had a shorter distance to travel. A competitive reality that the citizens of Long Jump had never managed to compensate for.
    All of which helped to explain why Fortuna, the only city of any real size, was home to thieves, prospectors, renegades, bounty hunters, organ jackers, drug smugglers, stave traders and every other sort of villain known to the broad array of sentient races.
    It was like so many frontier towns, a city of contrasts in which mansions stood shoulder to shoulder with sleazebag hotels, animals toiled next to jury-rigged robots and the often muddy streets wandered where commerce took them.
    But Fortuna was civilized, and, like mostly human civilizations everywhere, was host to a complex social structure. The very top layer of this society was occupied by three different beings, all of whom liked to think that they owned the very top slot, although none of them really did.
    One individual came close, however, and his name was Neptune Small. The fact that he weighed approximately 350 pounds was an irony of which he was well aware, and no one chose to joke about. No one who wanted to live.
    Small’s offices were located over one of the restaurants he owned, which was rather convenient, since he considered it his duty to sample the establishment’s wares at least four times a day.
    So that’s where he was, sitting at his favorite table, when a functionary named Hos McGurk left the city’s dilapidated corn center, ignored the pouring down rain, and ran the three blocks to the aptly named Rimmer’s Rest. He could have called, could have asked for Small, but the businessman didn’t like corn calls. He preferred to deal with people face to face, where he could see their fear, and smell their sweat.
    McGurk pushed the doors open, ignored the robotic hostess, and headed for the back. All sorts of junk had been nailed, wired, screwed, or in at least one case welded to the walls. There were nameplates taken off long-dismantled ships, a collection of alien hand tools, the shell from a fivehundred-pound land mollusk, a mummified hand that someone found floating in space, and a wanted poster that not only bore Small’s somewhat thinner likeness, but announced the possibility of a rather sizeable reward. Some of the clientele thought it was a joke—others weren’t so sure.
    McGurk had started to pant by the time he arrived in front of Small’s table. The entrepreneur, as he liked to refer to himself, always wore immaculate black clothing, and affected a specially made cane The handle resembled the head of an eagle and the shaft doubted as a singleshot energy weapon. It leaned against the table only inches from it owner’s well-dimpled hand. Small dabbed his fat puffy lips, raised an eyebrow, and spoke in what amounted to a hoarse whisper. “Good afternoon, Hos—what brings you out on such a miserable day?”
    Thus encouraged McGurk began to babble. His eyes bulged with pent-up emotion, his hands washed each other, and the words emerged in spurts. “Ships! Hundreds of them! Maybe more! All dropping hyper.”
    Small frowned. Given Long Jump’s location, five ships would be notable, ten would be extraordinary, and a hundred was impossible. He stabbed a piece of meat. “Have you been drinking? I thought you gave it up.”
    “No!” Hos said emphatically. “I ain’t been drinking, and here’s proof.”
    Small accepted the note, read the corn master’s barely legible scrawl, and saw that the messenger was correct.
    Assuming that the orbital sensors were functioning correctly, and there was no reason to think otherwise, hundreds of alien ships had dropped into the system and more were on the way.
    Some, the majority from the