By Force of Arms by William C. Dietz

been smart enough, always toward the top of his class, but had never won a footrace, wrestling match, or other test of athletic ability until he had entered the academy and competed with humans. The fact that he could win, could excel, had been something of a revelation.
    The instructors taught him how to lead, and he had, though never with the confidence of classmates like Harco. Now that might come back to haunt him, and not just him, but the thousands of men, women, and cyborgs under his command.
    The officer paused to look out over the densely packed domes collectively known as NaaTown. As darkness fell, he saw squares of buttery yellow light, fingers of dark gray smoke, and the wink of the occasional torch. More than that, his supersensitive nostrils could pick up the odor of incense, burned to cover the smells that emanated from the fort, and the faint scent of slowly drying dooth dung. A valuable source of fuel.
    And it was out there, beyond the edge of the slum, that his mother and father, both of whom had served in the Legion, had given up their lives in order to free the fort. The plaque, which he had visited only two days before, bore a single line:
    They died that others might live.
    Was it colder? A chill ran down his spine. Booly scanned the horizon, watched another two-hour and forty-two minute day come to an end, and turned toward a door. A private held it open. His office awaited as did his work. Plans, requests, appeals, budgets, promotions, reports, and more. All the stuff that he hated … but was forced to do.
    Booly thought longingly of Maylo, wondered what she was doing, and stepped through the doorway. His responsibilities closed around him.
    A staff meeting plus three hours of administrative work passed before Booly rewarded himself with a break He rarely ate in the officers’ mess, preferring the chow hall instead. That’s where the troops were, and while they weren’t about to spill their guts to a general, they didn’t have to. Like most good officers, he could learn a great deal about how the legionnaires felt, what they were thinking, and their general stale of readiness by simply looking at them.
    Booty had named Colonel Kitty Kirby to command the fort, and she was tough but fair. She, combined with the efforts of the officers and noncoms who reported to her, had been good for morale. The results could be seen in the way that members of various units sat together, the buzz of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Things had improved a great deal since the mutiny and the bloodshed that accompanied it.
    The mess hall featured bright lights, artificially cheerful colors, and odors left from the previous meal. Something that Naa troopers never stopped griping about. When you eat lunch they reasoned, it should smell like lunch, and not like breakfast. Fans had been installed—but the complaints continued.
    Booly joined the chow line, joked with the cooks, and headed out into the hall. A table of heavily bearded Pioneers started to rise and the officer shook his head. “At ease… How ‘bout it. Sergeant? Is there room for one more?”
    The legionnaire grinned. “Yes, sir! Watch what you say though… we’re talking about sports. Cramer says that Earth is going to win the next powerball playoff—and Rober favors the clones. It could get violent.”
    Booly laughed. “I’ll take my chances.” The Pioneers made room—and the hour passed quickly.
    Booly returned to his office to find a package waiting on his desk. His adjutant turned from a pile of printouts. Her name was Tan. She had served under Cadet Leader Voytan during the battle for Los Angeles, survived, and been posted to Algeron. She had short black hair, serious brown eyes, and quick little hands. “That came while you were away, sir. A cub gave it to one of the sentries and said it was for you.”
    Booly raised an eyebrow. The relationship between the Legion and the Naa was complex to say the least. Even as some of