Jepp ran toward his quarters. Hatches closed behind him. The prospector was familiar with most but not all of them. Each barrier threatened to cut him off from his space suit and the supplies.
Boots pounded on metal and the prospector’s lungs screamed for air as even more explosions rattled the ship. There, up ahead, the last hatch had started to fall!
Jepp drew on reserves he didn’t even know he had, threw himself forward, and dove through the quickly narrowing rectangle. He hit the deck hard. Had his feet cleared? The prospector scrabbled his way forward. A clang signaled safety. He was alive! But for how long? The explosions had stopped-but the atmosphere could vanish any moment.
The human hurried to enter his suit, left the faceplate open to conserve on air, and settled in to wait. And wait. And wait.
Minutes went by, followed by hours, followed by days. The air continued to flow, and the lights continued to glow, but the hatches remained closed. Permanently closed, as far as Jepp could tell. Food and water continued to dwindle. There was nothing he could do but pray-and hope for some sort of miracle. Determined to be heard, the prospector fell to his knees and went to work.
Though still capable of movement, the scout was severely damaged. The artificial intelligence knew that, and took appropriate steps.
A signal went out, took thirty-six standard time units to reach its destination, and was taken under consideration. The reply was clear: “Rejoin the fleet.”
The scout broke orbit, accelerated away, and entered hyperspace.
The Baa’l waited till the predator was gone, fired his sub-light drive, and began the long journey home. It would take the better part of three unproductive years. The Committee would be most unhappy. Far/Finder sighed, adjusted his various bladders, and began a poem.
6
War being an occupation by which a man cannot support himself with honour at all times, it ought not to be followed as a business by any but princes or governors of commonwealths; and if they are wise men they will not suffer any of their subjects or citizens to make that their only profession.
Niccolo Machiavelli
The Prince
Standard year 1513
Planet Earth, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
It was dark, and the lights of Los Angeles looked like gems scattered on black velvet. Thousands of grav platforms, robolifts and aircars crisscrossed the local sky grid.
No one paid any particular attention to the unmarked personnel carrier that rode a priority vector in from the east, dropped out of traffic, and landed on a high rise. Three men exited the aircraft. It was gone moments later.
Matthew Pardo shivered in the early morning air. His fatigues had the word “Prisoner” stenciled on the back, his hands were cuffed in front of him, and chains rattled at his feet.
His escort consisted of two MPs. neither of whom was much of a conversationalist. The first, an individual whom Pardo had christened “Dickhead,” motioned toward a sudden rectangle of light. “Put your ass in gear, Pardo—we ain’t got all day.”
No “sir,” no “please,” just “put your ass in gear.” But that’s how it was for prisoners—especially those who were or had been officers.
Pardo eyed Dickhead’s shock baton, knew the Marine would love to use it, and bit the inside of his cheek. The MP grinned. “That’s right, shit-for-brains—one wrong move and I’ll fry your ass. Let’s go.”
The ex-officer shuffled across the roof. A civilian waited to greet them. Light illuminated the right half of her face. She had short-cropped blonde hair, a jeweled temple jack, and long, well-tailored legs. If the woman was curious regarding Pardo’s restraints, she gave no sign of it. “This way, gentlemen ... watch your step.”
There was a coaming, meant to keep rainwater out, and Pardo struggled to cross it. Dickhead grinned happily.
The elevator fell, and fell, and fell. The indicator lights remained dark-but Pardo knew they were below ground level. Way below ground level. But why? The MPs were unable or unwilling to answer his questions. He could ask Legs-but why bother? The ride would be over soon, and so would the mystery.
The platform coasted to a gentle stop. The doors opened, and Dickhead prodded him in the back. “Move it, shit-for-brains.”
Pardo stepped out, followed Legs out of the elevator lobby, and paused at the top of a short flight of stairs. The room was enormous. Pardo saw columns, plus hundreds, perhaps thousands of consoles, all configured in clusters of twelve. Of equal interest were the people who sat, stood, or moved around them. Some were dressed in Marine, Navy, or Legion uniforms. Others, at least half, wore civilian clothes. And there were robots, all sorts of robots, who walked, crawled, and in some cases flew from place to place. Pardo watched a message ripple across an enormous reader board, listened to the steady murmur of radio traffic, and felt a heady sense of purpose.
Dickhead was especially impressed. “Wow! What is this place?”
Legs smiled coldly. “This is the Global Operations Center, or GOC. Please follow me.”
Pardo tried to keep up with the civilian but soon fell behind. The leg shackles made it difficult for him to walk. A woman stared, and he winked in response. As the ex-legionnaire moved out from behind one of the thick support columns, the center of the room was revealed.
A metal railing surrounded a large open space. A replica of Earth floated at its center. Pardo thought it was solid until a crane-mounted chair burst through the continent of Africa. It carried a man, and not just any man, but Colonel Leon Harco. He swooped in for a landing. Pardo arrived five seconds later. Legs handled the introduction. “Colonel Harco ... Captain Pardo.”
Harco offered his hand, and the younger officer was forced to extend both of his. The colonel’s grip felt like steel.
Harco turned to the MPs. “Remove this officer’s manacles and cuff yourselves together.”
The military policemen looked at each other, and Dickhead reached for his sidearm. He stopped when Staff Sergeant Jenkins inserted the barrel of a 9mm handgun into his right ear hole. “Sir! Yes, sir!”
Pardo waited for the restraints to fall away, rubbed his wrists, and looked Dickhead in the eye. “One more thing, Corporal ...”
The MP found it hard to swallow. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Sir?”
Pardo kneed the Marine in the groin, hammered the back of his head, then kicked him in the ribs. It took two legionnaires to carry him away. People looked and returned to their work. Harco stood at parade rest. The sarcasm was obvious. “Very impressive.”
“He had it coming.”
“He had it coming, sir.”
Pardo came to attention. “He had it coming, sir!”
Harco took two steps forward and stopped no more than an inch away. “Listen, and listen good. You are here for two reasons: Your mother is governor ... and your mother is governor. I think you’re a low-life, scum-sucking, no-good piece of shit. Maybe, just maybe, you can change my opinion. If you demonstrate some leadership, if you maintain discipline, and if you control your temper. Do you read me?”
“Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Good. You will serve as my XO. In that capacity, you will do exactly as I tell you, or Sergeant Jenkins will blow your worthless brains out. Your mother will be pissed, but I can survive that. Understood?”
“Sir! Yes, sir!”
Harco took a step backward and nodded. “Excellent. Welcome to the team, Major. See that holo?”
Pardo noted the promotion and looked at the planet that loomed above. It was hard to miss. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s our planet, son—or it will be by this time tomorrow. Draw some gear and report to me. We’ve got work to do.”
Patricia Pardo turned her back to the wall screen. Though she had been unable to hear what two officers had said to each other, there was little need to. She could imagine the interchange. Matthew had been disrespectful, and Harco had dressed him down. A good thing, as long as it stayed within certain limits. “So,” she said, a
ddressing her companions, “is everything ready?”
Leshi Qwan nodded and glanced at the wall display. The steadily dwindling numbers indicated that only two hours and thirteen minutes remained until one of NI’s subsidiaries would seize control of seventy-two percent of the planet’s voice, data, and video networks along with ninety-four percent of the deep-space com gear. “Yes, Governor, Noam is ready, or will be at 0600 hours local.”
Pardo nodded. “Excellent. And what of our allies?”
Senator Orno had left many days before in order to ensure that he would be seen on board the Friendship before the shit hit the fan. His job was to slow if not actually prevent response by the Confederacy.
Ambassador Harlan Ishimoto-Seven was present, however, and bobbed his head. “My ship lifts within the hour. I will do everything I can to bring the Hegemony around.”
Pardo was well aware of the fact that Ishimoto-Seven lacked the full support of his government, but hoped he’d find the means to secure it. She nodded politely and allowed her eyes to play over the rest of the faces before her.
Some had been with Pardo for a long time; others were new, or drawn from the ranks of Noam Inc. and the military. Responsibility for maintaining critical services would rest on their shoulders. An important task if they hoped for any support.
The staff looked the way she felt: tired, nervous, and more than a little worried. The politician forced one of her famous smiles. “This is it, folks ... the chance we’ve been waiting for-Earth will be independent by this time tomorrow!” There were expressions of enthusiasm, followed by light applause, but no one cheered.
Ultimately, long after the revolt was a matter of historical record, and a legion of staff officers, desk jockeys, and associated academics had finished their various studies, analyses, and just plain guesswork, the more knowledgeable among them would conclude that a key factor in the way things ended up was Naval Captain Angie Tyspin, and her dedication to a game called “contract bridge.”
Their conclusion would stem from the fact that Tyspin, commanding officer of the Confederacy ship Gladiator, came off duty at 0300 shipboard time, and, after retiring to her quarters for a quick shower, set out for Admiral John Wayburn’s cabin, where she and some other officers were scheduled to play bridge.
On her way to that appointment, Tyspin just happened to pass the com center, heard the sounds of a scuffle, and looked inside. A sailor lay on the deck, and a pair of combat-clad Marines circled Chief Petty Officer Gryco. They had knives, which the noncom countered with the jacket wrapped around his left forearm.
Tyspin hadn’t been noticed yet. She spotted a fire extinguisher, pulled it off the bulkhead, and swung it through the air. Metal connected with bone, and a Marine collapsed.
The officer turned to find that the second soldier was down as well. The knife that protruded from the Marine’s chest looked a lot like his own. Gryco checked the soldier’s pulse, shook his head sadly, and stood. “Morning, Captain.... Sorry about the mess.”
Tyspin raised an eyebrow. “What the hell happened here, Chief?”
The petty officer shrugged. “Damned if I know. I stepped out for a cup of java, came back, and saw Hoyka lying on the deck. I bent over to check his pulse. That’s when the grunts jumped me. Nice going, by the way ... the missus thanks you.”
Tyspin heard the thud, thud, thud of muffled gunshots and bent to retrieve the Marine’s sidearm. A quick check confirmed that it was loaded with low-velocity ammo-a must on any spaceship. She gestured to the other body. “Grab a weapon, Chief ... we’ve got trouble.”
The CPO nodded, grabbed the second soldier’s pistol, and followed the CO out into the corridor. A klaxon sounded, they heard a scream, and the mutiny was under way.
The shot was arranged so that the Global Operations Center filled the background. The Planetary News Network had agreed to carry the feed. The rest would go along or look stupid. Patricia Pardo felt irritable and a little bit jumpy. She was grateful when the makeup person finished and backed away. A cute little morsel who might be fun under the right circumstances.
There were two cameras, one of which sat on a heavy carriage, while the second hovered thirty feet away. The director had a thin, dissipated look. He wore black and smiled nervously. “All right, people ... thirty to air ... count the governor down.”
Pardo felt a tightness at the pit of her stomach. This was it, the moment from which there was no way back, and upon which the rest of her life would depend. “Three ... two ... and cue.”
The politician saw a crew person point in her direction and knew she was on. People all over the world frowned as their holo tanks went to black and came up again. Qwan smiled knowingly. Pardo looked into the lens. “Good morning, good afternoon, or good evening. This is Governor Patricia Pardo, speaking from the newly established Global Operations Center.”
The director whispered something into his intercom, and a picture of the GOC flooded the nets.
“The purpose of this facility,” Pardo continued, “is to provide a temporary seat for the new Earth government until such time as a more appropriate venue can be established.”
The director cut to a medium shot of her torso and ordered the camera to zoom in. Pardo allowed herself to frown, but not too much. Just enough to convey some concern. “Most if not all of you are aware of the manner in which our population has been systematically abused. Think about it.... Which race suffered the most casualties during the Hudathan war? We did. Who pays the taxes necessary to support the bloated bureaucracy ? We do. Who suffers as a result of ill-conceived military cutbacks? We do.”
Pardo paused to let her words sink in. The hover cam cruised from one end of the room to the other. The shot conveyed order, purpose, and a sense of calm. There was a dissolve followed by a montage of beggars.
“If you think the wars ended fifty years ago, then think again. We continue to deal with rebellions, interplanetary disputes, and outlaw armies. The men, women, and cyborgs seen here were encouraged to fight for the Confederacy, only to be abandoned like so much trash.”
The camera cut back to her face. She looked angry and determined. “Well, not any more! Thanks to their courage and skill, we can still take this planet back.
“I will serve as governor until the emergency is over and elections can be held. Complete details concerning my staff, our military arm, and related matters can be found on the net. A series of programs describing your responsibilities and privileges will be broadcast around the clock. Please take the time necessary to view them.
“Remember, there is no reason to panic. You, your homes, and your livelihoods are intact. The only thing that has changed is your status as second-class citizens. You are free!”
The politician adopted a somewhat stern expression. “Make no mistake, however-there are those who wish to deny your freedom and will do anything to restore the status quo. They may even go so far as to take up arms against us! Such efforts will be punished.
“With that in mind, it will be necessary to ask all active and reserve military personnel to report to their duty stations, lay down their arms, and await processing.
‘ ‘Once that has been accomplished, all such men, women, and cyborgs will be invited to join our forces.
“Civilians must observe the posted curfews, obey travel restrictions, and avoid public gatherings.”
Pardo smiled. It was warm and engaging. “We’re sorry for the inconvenience these measures may cause and assure you that they will be lifted as soon as it’s feasible to do so.”
The director spoke into his headset, the video faded, and a variety of preproduced holos blossomed in its place. There were different versions for different audiences, each structured to accommodate the differences in language, culture, and religion still found on the planet.
Pardo had to give Qwan and his company credit. Having chosen representative sample populations, and conducted carefully disguised opinion polls, Noam Inc.’s media experts had taken the most frequently h
eard themes and codified them into messages calculated to restate already existent biases and misconceptions: “The Confederacy wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for humans.” “Terrans pay more than their fair share of taxes.” And the ever popular “Aliens grow fat while our people starve” motif.
All of which distorted reality ... but contained enough truth to be credible. The director gave a thumbs-up. “That’s a wrap, folks. Nice job, Governor ... you were ‘on message.’ Early results from the focus groups and sample pops look positive. Some negative ... especially in certain pockets ... but that’s to be expected.”
Pardo nodded her thanks, made her way across the Operations Center, and looked up toward a row of monitors. Fighting had broken out in Chicago, and a gunship was strafing a high-rise hab complex. Windows exploded and flames appeared. “Some negatives,” indeed. The politician headed for her makeshift office. She had com calls to make, VIPs to cajole, and a facial at 10:00.
Booly woke without knowing why. The room was dark. His bedclothes were wrapped around his knees. Air whispered through an overhead duct. It looked normal, but something was amiss. What?
Though not gifted with the supersensitive sense of smell that his Naa brethren had, the officer did have the ability to detect odors that most humans couldn’t. What was that fragrance? An essence that seemed familiar, yet exotic. Then he had it... the nack-nack blossom. A rather hardy plant that was native to Algeron and prized for its scent. The only scent considered masculine enough for a warrior to wear.
Suddenly Booly knew that a Naa had entered his room... and was watching from the shadows. His hand slid toward his pillow and the sidearm hidden there. The damned thing had a tendency to migrate and...
Booly’s movements were interrupted when a hand grabbed his arm and another covered his mouth. The voice belonged to Lieutenant Nightslip. “I’m really quite impressed. Only one human in a hundred would have detected our presence.”
By Blood Alone Page 8