By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  The guests took their seats, all but the War Orno that is, who loomed behind Orno’s chair, and stood ready to defend him. It was a relationship that neither one of Ramanthians could break-and extended to the Egg Orno, deep in her distant cave.

  The group had chosen Governor Pardo to act as moderator-a role that she relished. The politician smiled, wondered if the facial expression meant anything to the Ramanthians, and scanned the rest of the table.

  “Thank you for coming. The opportunity before us is rife with danger for us and those we represent. But there are times when personal concerns must be put aside and the greater good brought to the fore.”

  It was one of the most hypocritical speeches Qwan had ever heard, but well delivered, and consistent with the communications plan that the company’s spin doctors had devised.

  Pardo scanned the faces around her. “I suggest that we establish a culture of openness and trust by giving brief statements as to what each of us hopes to achieve as a result of this meeting. I will go first.... The Confederacy has grown weaker over the last twenty-five years and requires new leadership. I planned to run for President, and might have won, if it weren’t for the enemies who framed my son.”

  Neither Orno, Ishimoto-Seven, nor Qwan wanted to see Pardo in control of two planets, much less the entire Confederacy, but were confident of their ability to neutralize the politician should that become necessary. The humans smiled, and the Ramanthian waved a pincer.

  “So,” Pardo said, pleased that everyone liked her speech, “it’s time to hear from the distinguished Senator Orno.... Senator?”

  When the Ramanthian spoke, it was in the form of clicks, twitters, and pops that were translated to rather formal standard by the specially programmed computer woven into the fabric of his cape. The speaker was concealed near his thorax and created the illusion of speech.

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here. My people have a saying: ‘Choose your friends with care and your enemies will disappear.’ The proverb must be true, since there’s not a hostile antenna in sight.”

  Everyone laughed, including Ishimoto-Seven, who was impressed by the senator’s skill, and wondered what his clone brother Ishimoto-Six thought of the Ramanthian. Not that the straight-laced Six knew what his identical sibling was up to-or would have approved if he had. No, situations such as this required imagination, a quality that Six lacked.

  Orno waited for the laughter to die away, thought how alien the cackling was, and laid his strategy: Most of the humans he had met were naturally gullible-even more so when told one secret as the means of concealing still another.

  The politician knew the importance that humans placed on eye contact and looked at the female. Then, having captured her attention, the Ramanthian swept his forelegs back along his skull. The sight made her shudder, as he had known that it would, thereby ceding the advantage to him. Having signaled revulsion, she would be forced to signal approval, or risk appearing rude.

  “So it’s my turn, or more properly our turn, since I represent the Ramanthian race. Humans are predators, are they not?”

  “Hunter—gatherers—then predators,” Pardo answered cautiously, hoping to redeem herself. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because every race remains true to what it once was,” Orno said pragmatically. “Take my species, for example.... My ancestors were scavengers—carnivores that lived off scraps.”

  “So?”

  “Scavengers are opportunists ... and we still are. Even now, many years after the conclusion of the most recent war, there are worlds bereft of leadership.”

  “Bereft of leadership?” Ishimoto-Seven said cynically. “Or available for the taking?”

  “They are one and the same,” the Ramanthian answered easily. “Those who lack the strength to lead will be led. The question is by whom.”

  “By those strong enough to take what they want,” Harco put in. “And, having done so, to keep it.”

  “Exactly,” Orno replied. “And we have the necessary strength.”

  “And would be free to use it should something weaken the Confederacy,” Pardo said thoughtfully.

  “The governor is very astute,” Orno replied smoothly. “The people of Earth are fortunate.”

  The humans nodded, and the Ramanthian felt an overriding sense of satisfaction. He had revealed one piece of information, something that should have been obvious to even the most casual observer, yet concealed the very thing that made it significant. The Ramanthian population was about to explode, and needed new worlds to colonize. Information that would have frightened his coconspirators had they been aware of it.

  Pardo said, “Thank you, Senator,” and turned to the clone. “Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven ... would you be so kind?”

  Ishimoto-Seven forced a smile and wondered how those present would react had they known that with the exception of his immediate supervisor, his entire government was unaware of both his presence and the plot that they were so assiduously hatching.

  Still, what the clone proposed to do was consistent with his overall diplomatic purpose, which was to participate in negotiations and ensure that Hegemony interests were accommodated. The Hegemony’s real interests ... which didn’t always match what some of his superiors thought they were. Seven chose his words with care.

  “Thank you, Governor. The Hegemony believes in the fundamental right of sentients to choose those who lead them-and therefore supports grass roots movements that trend in that direction.”

  Qwan smiled bleakly. “I’m sure the Hegemony supports other ideals as well, including truth, justice, and prosperity for all. Everything except motherhood.”

  Ishimoto-Seven came to his feet. His fingers opened and closed. “I didn’t come here to take insults from corporate whores! Perhaps Citizen Qwan would like to take it outside, where I would be pleased to kick his pompous ass!”

  Pardo started to intervene. but Harco beat her to it. His voice was low but carried to every corner of the room. “Stow the bullshit.”

  The room fell silent as the officer stood and clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes were like lasers and probed the faces around him. “Let’s get something straight.... Every damned one of you has an axe to grind. Fine. I accept that. But nothing, I repeat nothing, is going to happen unless my people put their lives on the line and manage to win one hellacious battle.

  “If we survive, if we win, the lot of you can squabble over who gets what, so long as you remember one important fact: We have the weapons, we have the know-how, and we have the final say. Questions? No? Good. Let’s put a wrap on this introductory crap and lay some plans.”

  4

  He who fires a bullet in the air can never be sure of where it may land.

  Hoda Ibin Ragnatha

  Turr Truth Sayer

  Standard year 2206

  Planet Earth, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The transport swept in across the sparkling Gulf of Aden and flew so low that Booly had no difficulty making out the fishermen on their wooden dhows. They waved, a sure sign that such flights were relatively rare, and an indicator of how remote his new duty station truly was. The fly form’s passenger compartment, positioned at the front of the aircraft, offered excellent visibility.

  Located on the east coast of Africa, the ancient country of Djibouti had once been an important port, but that was a long time ago. With a population approaching 100,000, and no natural resources to speak of, it was one of the most backward places on Earth. Vegetation was scarce and consisted of hardy grass, thorn trees, and scattered palms. The poor soil and lack of rain made large-scale farming impractical—and nothing had changed in hundreds of years.

  None of that had stopped the French from colonizing the place, though, or from installing the Legion to protect it-a a tradition that continued long after France ceased to exist.

  The city had long been the home of the 13th Half-Brigade, also know as the 13th DBLE, which had seen action at Bir Hakeim, El Alamein, Dien Bien Phu, Alge
ria, both Hudathan Wars, the battle of Bakala, and dozens more.

  The modern 13th consisted of a command and services company, a works company, a combat company, an infantry company on loan from the 2nd REP, and a reconnaissance squadron. Of interest to Booly, and no one else, was the fact that his father and mother had served in the outfit as well.

  Most of what Booly saw as the fly form rumbled in over the Gulf of Tadjoura was tan like his khakis. There were flashes of white, however, including three handsome-looking mosques, a scattering of French colonial buildings, and the fortress to which he had been assigned.

  The battlements were circular and sat on the Plateau du Serpent the way a kepi sits on a legionnaire’s head. Not unpleasant to look at, especially from the air, but a dumping ground for troublemakers like Booly.

  He examined his fellow passenger, the only other person in the large compartment. The legionnaire seemed to be asleep. His uniform was filthy, a corporal’s chevron had been partially ripped from his sleeve, and he’d been handcuffed to his seat. Drunk, disorderly, and who knew what else. An excellent example of what Booly could expect.

  The transport shuddered, started to slow, and dropped toward the ground. Booly saw the tops of palm trees, the flash of white battlements, and the X that marked the fort’s landing platform. There was an intercom, and he touched a button. “This place has an airport, doesn’t it? Let’s land there.”

  The pilot, who had been executed for murder, consisted of little more than brain tissue in a nutrient bath. When ordered to choose permanent death, or service as a cyborg, she chose the latter. She flew the transport by means of a neural interface, “felt” by means of its sensors, and “saw” through multiple vid cams. The request took her by surprise. She applied power and banked away. Air fanned the battlements. A sentry lost his hat. The reply was automatic. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Good,” Booly answered. “And one more thing.... When they ask where I went ... tell ’em you don’t know.”

  The pilot didn’t know ... but it didn’t seem polite to say so. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Booly said. “I appreciate your flexibility.”

  There was a vid cam mounted in the passenger compartment, and the pilot checked the officer’s expression. He not only acted nice, he looked nice-not that it mattered. Still, most bio bods treated her like an extension of the hardware she lived in, so it was nice to encounter someone who didn’t. “No problem, sir. Welcome to Djibouti—armpit of the universe. We’ll be on the ground in two minutes.”

  “Thanks,” Booly said dryly. “I can hardly wait.”

  Major Vernon Judd watched the transport veer away, frowned, and brought the glasses to his eyes. They fed him the aircraft’s range, heading, and ground speed. He spoke from the side of his mouth. “Get hold of the pilot. Ask him, her, or it what the hell they’re doing, and order them back. And I mean now!”

  Captain Nancy Winters thought the words “Bite my ass,” but knew Judd would be only too happy to oblige, and said, “Yes, sir,” instead.

  The observation tower was equipped with radios, a door to block the steadily increasing heat, and a well-maintained air conditioner. It felt good to step inside. The duty com tech was a sergeant named Skog. He liked Winters, and he smiled. “Ma’am?”

  “Get that transport on the horn and find out what they’re up to. The major wants ’em to land here.”

  Everyone assigned to the fort knew a new CO was on the way-and had known from the moment that his orders were cut. They also knew about Booly’s combat record, the reason why his name had gone to the top of the shit list, and any number of other things, at least some of which were true.

  That being the case, the major’s nervousness was somewhat understandable—even if he was a worthless piece of shit. Skog flipped a switch, consulted a list, and addressed his boom mike. “Transport mike-sierra-foxtrot-one-niner-eight, this is Mosby control, over.”

  The reply could be heard on an overhead speaker and had the precise, slightly stilted sound of a voice synthesizer. A sure sign that the pilot was a borg. The vast majority of box heads chose to maintain their original genders, and the flight officer was no exception. “This is one-niner-eight ... go.”

  Skog looked at Winters. She nodded. “Tell her to return and land in the compound.”

  The noncom relayed the message and monitored the reply. “Sorry, Mosby control, but that’s a negative. My number two engine shows yellow-and I need a class three facility or better.”

  Winters nodded. The fort’s pad was rated class four, which meant there were no maintenance functions, and the aircraft was prohibited from landing. A rather sensible precaution, since a disabled fly form would occupy fifty percent of the pad and limit their capacity to deal with an emergency. “Tell the pilot we understand-and that a ground vehicle will meet her at the airport.”

  The com tech said, “Yes, ma’am,” and sent the necessary message.

  Major Judd was fuming by the time Winters returned. “Well? Where’s the transport? What’s going on?”

  “It had to divert,” Winters said calmly. “To the Djibouti airport. Some sort of mechanical problem.”

  “The hell you say,” Judd grumbled. “Damned incompetence, if you ask me. Take the pilot’s name.”

  Winters bit the inside of her cheek and said, “Sir, yes, sir,” but knew the XO would have forgotten the whole incident by dinnertime that evening.

  Judd, angry at the thought of a long, hot drive, stomped away. Winters, happy to see him go, stayed where she was. The gulf glittered with reflected light, sent a momentary breeze toward the high, whitewashed walls, and caressed the legionnaire’s face. An omen, perhaps? Her mother had believed in such things-but her mother was dead.

  The transport pushed its shadow ahead, followed ancient train tracks south, and over flew the air strip. The borg brought her ship around and flared into a perfect three-skid touchdown. Booly felt the gentle bump and spoke into the intercom. “Nice landing ... who should I thank?”

  “Barr, sir. Lieutenant Betty Barr.”

  “All right Lieutenant, fly safe, and remember the favor I asked for.”

  “No problem, sir. Good luck with the new command.”

  Booly grinned, released his seat belt, and turned. The corporal was already on his feet and standing at attention. He was at least forty, maybe older, and rail-thin. Though soiled, his uniform fit as if it had been painted on, his service stripes spoke of more than twenty years in the Legion, and he wore a chest full of ribbons. Two of them stood in for major medals.

  The legionnaire’s face was long, narrow, and far from handsome. The handcuffs had disappeared. The officer raised an eyebrow, and the noncom replied without being asked. “Fykes, sir. Corporal Fykes, till the stripe comes off.”

  “You’ve been broken before?”

  “Yes, sir. Three times. Once from sergeant major.”

  “For striking an officer?”

  “Why, yes, sir,” Fykes answered cheerfully. “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess,” Booly replied dryly. “Are you reporting for duty, or returning from leave?”

  “Both, sir.”

  “Ever served here before?”

  The NCO shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “You up for a hike? Hangover and all?”

  “Yes, sir. Just lead the way.”

  “Then grab your kit,” Booly said. “It’s time to reconnoiter.”

  Booly had two duffel bags, and both of them were heavy. Still, he couldn’t leave his gear behind, not in a place like Djibouti, so Booly hauled them along. The hatch whined up and out of the way. The heat pushed in through the opening. The men forced their way out, clanged down the retractable stairs, and marched the width of the apron.

  Booly had already started to question the wisdom of the trip by the time they crossed into the shadow cast by a dilapidated hangar. Fykes stuck some fingers into his mouth, issued a shrill whistle, and was almost immediately rewarded.

  T
wo figures, both dressed in loose-fitting shirts, knee-length trousers, and worn-looking sandals, separated themselves from the relative darkness and trotted forward. Both were tall, slender, and possessed of wide-set eyes.

  The corporal said, “Galab wanaqsan,” something about “Shan credits,” and money changed hands.

  One of the men, a toothless oldster, sported a wicked-looking knife. He waited for his companion to place a ninety-pound duffel bag on one of his frail-looking shoulders, grinned happily, and nodded his readiness.

  The second man, who appeared to be the younger of the two, swung the noncom’s bag up onto his back, jabbered something in Arabic, and waited for instructions.

  The officer turned to Fykes. “Well done, Fykes. You’re resourceful if nothing else.”

  The noncom grinned. “Some would say too resourceful, sir, but you can’t please everyone.”

  “No,” Booly said thoughtfully, “you certainly can’t. Not in this man’s army. Come on-let’s see the sights.”

  The problem with the scout car was that it had more than two hundred thousand miles on the odometer, was specially equipped for arctic duty, and was in dire need of an overhaul.

  Major Judd occupied the passenger’s seat, did everything he could to minimize the extent to which his back made contact with the sun-baked seat, and hung on as the vehicle lurched through one of Djibouti’s legendary potholes. Mesh covered the windows and served to divide the world into hundreds of tiny squares. Not that the legionnaire minded, since the screening beat the hell out of looking down to find that a grenade had landed in his lap-a rather unpleasant tradition practiced by local youth gangs.

  The driver, a private named Mesker, honked at a camel, scattered a flock of goats, and blew past the airport’s fourteen-year-old security guard. He was armed with a rusty one-hundred-fifty-year-old automatic weapon. He pointed and yelled, “Bang, bang, bang!”

  Mesker gauged the distance to the transport, waited until the last moment, and stood on the brake. Judd threw his hands up, swore, and turned red in the face. Bingo! Two points.