By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  Rawlings shook her head. “No, ma’am. At least three of the commanding officers in question hold commissions that predate yours.”

  “Well, then?”

  Rawlings’s smile turned to a grin. “Because, as Captain John Hashimoto put it, you have the biggest balls.”

  The bridge crew exploded into laughter, the Gladiator’s Captain felt herself blush, and the Earth fleet was reborn.

  The early morning air was cool and crisp as Booly took his morning constitutional around the circumference of the fort. The “submarine” recruits, as he tended to think of them, formed ranks below. There was less confusion than one might have expected. Most were ex-military, the victims of countless downsizings, and looked sharp in their brand new cammies.

  Booly watched for a moment and continued his stroll. Captain Kara was truly amazing. The somewhat taciturn officer had not only combined forces with Ny and her cyborgs to fix the damage done to Mosby’s defenses, he had lavished an equal amount of time and energy on Djibouti as well—a fact not lost on the mayor and his constituents. Though far from happy about the damage to their community, the locals were more supportive than they had been before.

  Booly paused, swept the eastern horizon with his glasses, and resumed his walk. There was plenty to think about.

  Where the hell was the Confederacy? Without some sort of political infrastructure to keep the resistance focused, the movement could easily self-destruct. Locked in endless debate, probably, unable to reach agreement.

  Booly’s thoughts were interrupted by the now familiar sound of Sergeant Ho’s voice on the command push. No one else could hear, so there was no need for radio procedure. The earplug was fine, but he touched it anyway. “We have friendlies one—and bandits two—at sixty northeast and closing. The friendly requests assistance.”

  Booly knew he wouldn’t be able to see anything but raised his binoculars anyway. There had been a number of such incidents over the last few days—ever since the RFE had started up. Some thirty-six in all. Roughly fifty percent of the transports, aircars, and one hot air balloon, had been intercepted and blown out of the sky.

  Of those who did manage to cross the cordon, roughly two thirds crashed in the gulf or along the coast. The locals loved to scavenge the wrecks—pieces of which had started to appear in some of the more industrious hovels.

  The balance of the aircraft were parked along the runways at Djibouti’s airport. Most of the pilots were wild eccentrics, too old or too crazy to fight. But a few were ex-military ... and potentially useful.

  The legionnaire could imagine what it was like over the gulf. The glare off the water, the motion of the transport, and the desperate fear.

  Ho, unsure whether she’d been heard, cleared her throat. “Sir? How should I respond?”

  Booly thought about Harco, how tricky the sonofabitch could be, and resolved to be careful. “Double the watch on the rest of our air perimeter. Give me more on the friendly—is there anything special about him?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ho replied. “He’s got codes—the same ones the submarine guy gave us.”

  Booly knew that Ho meant Mark Benton, who, after unloading the volunteers, had promised to stay in touch. The fact that the incoming aircraft was equipped with codes suggested special cargo of some sort. The last shipment had been useful... perhaps this one would be as well.

  Booly wished there was time to call on Tyspin for air support and knew there wasn’t. Klaxons sounded as the incoming aircraft passed the fifty-mile mark and entered the fort’s primary defense zone.

  The recruits trotted off the parade ground, missile launchers swung toward the northeast, and the entire base went to the highest stage of alert.

  Booly raised his glasses. “Tag the friendly, and order fire control to leave it alone. Tell the poor SOBs that we’ll fire the moment they cross the thirty-mile marker. And Ho ...”

  “Sir?”

  “Tell ’em that the first round of beers is on me.”

  Due to the fact that Sola’s body was so vast, and her intelligence so widely dispersed, she didn’t regard herself as being invested in one particular part of her anatomy. The fact that humans were convinced that their existence was centered in their heads seemed strange indeed.

  She could focus her beingness on the input received from selected sensors, however, and, that being the case, she chose the Gulf of Aden.

  Lacking any real means of propulsion, the Say’lynt had been forced to expend a considerable amount of time following the Agulhas current toward the Indian Ocean. The journey was only partially completed, since a significant portion of what the humans might have referred to as her “rear end” still flowed through the waters north of Australia.

  Why she had gone there was less easily explained. The truth was that Sola had journeyed to Africa for reasons more felt than thought, and now, as she extended both her physical and mental presence farther in every direction, the Say’lynt became increasingly aware of the life-forms that drifted, swam, undulated, crawled, walked, and flew all around her. She could “feel” their emotions and, in certain cases where the more evolved species were concerned, “think” their thoughts.

  There was so much life, so much input, that Sola found it difficult to focus. She applied mental filters, felt much of the “static” fall away, and came into contact with something strange. It was a being the extraterrestrial had first encountered among her family’s memories. A human they thought highly of and once followed into battle.

  His name was Sergi Chien-Chu—and he was most uncomfortable. In spite of the fact that he lived in a synthetic body, sensors continued to feed input to his brain, which didn’t like the transport’s gyrations.

  She knew he was afraid, but less so than the man at the transport’s controls, or those who followed. Their fears centered on the SAMs, the navy’s aerospace fighters, and their own superiors.

  What to do? That was a question that had plagued Sola since lifting from IH-4762-ASX41. Each day brought millions, perhaps billions of possibilities. There were crimes, accidents, and all manner of misunderstandings that she could have managed to prevent or ameliorate.

  But down that path lay madness, for in spite of the Say’lynt’s ability to control minds, she couldn’t control all of them at once, especially on a planet as populous as Earth, which meant that she had to choose when and if to get involved.

  Not only that, but there were even larger philosophical issues involved, the kind of questions that her elders had meditated on for hundreds of years, and that she was only starting to consider.

  What happens when sentients are forced to be good? Are they really good? Because they want to be, and understand what goodness is? Or because they have no choice? How can an entire species learn and grow if someone makes all of their choices for them? And who was she to decide?

  That’s why the Say’lynt was determined to limit the scope of her actions, to focus on what her senses told her were key individuals, and to minimize the extent of her involvement.

  That being the case, this decision was relatively easy. Chien-Chu had been critical to the successful resolution of the last two wars and might be again.

  Sola could have destroyed the pursuing pilots, much as her parents had been forced to do, but there was no need. Not here ... not now.

  Lieutenant Jurano smiled grimly as the transport settled into the center of the HUD’s sighting grid, “heard” a tone, and armed her missiles. The blockade runner was good, very good, but his luck was about to run out.

  Jurano was just about to fire, just about to splash the loyalist bandit, when she “thought” a turn to port. The fighter obeyed what it interpreted as an order, and her wingman followed a similar inclination.

  The pilot struggled, tried to force the nose around, and wasn’t able to do so. Something, she didn’t know what, had control of her brain. Not all of it, but enough. That scared her more than the rest of the situation did.

  The east African coastline appeared ahead, an
d she wondered what to do. How would she explain it—the force that had taken control? There would be a brief court-martial followed by a hastily assembled firing squad. Unless ...

  Jurano attempted to turn toward the north, confirmed that the force would allow her to do so, and eyed her fuel. There were airstrips, plenty of them, not to mention the desert itself. She would land and run like hell. Who knew? Maybe the rebs would take her in. Her wingman would agree; she knew that, but wasn’t sure how.

  The transport skimmed the steadily advancing waves and crossed the coast. Padia heaved a sigh of relief. Safety was at hand.

  Booly listened in open amazement as Ho gave the news. For reasons they couldn’t begin to fathom, the mutie fighters had turned tail and disappeared toward the north. He ordered the SAM batteries to stand down, reduced the state of alert, and allowed himself to relax.

  The transport came down over Ras Bir, crossed the Gulf of Tadjoura, and made straight for the fortress. Booly fought the desire to duck as the aircraft passed over his head, and turned his back to the landing.

  A silly pretense, given the extent of his curiosity, but necessary nonetheless. Especially if he wanted to maintain the lofty, nearly godlike persona the troops preferred. Not that he could blame them. After all, who would want to entrust their lives to someone they knew to be just as fallible as they were? Captain Winters interrupted the train of thought. “Colonel?”

  Booly turned, saw the expression on the other officer’s face, and knew Winters had a surprise up her sleeve. A roly poly civilian stood by her side. He wore a badly outdated business suit and looked familiar somehow. “Yes?”

  Winters gestured to her companion. “President Chien-Chu, I would like to introduce Colonel William Booly, commanding officer of the 13th DBLE. Colonel, this is the honorable Sergi Chien-Chu, President of the Confederacy, a two-star admiral, and chairman of Chien-Chu Enterprises.”

  Chien-Chu stuck out his hand. His smile was open and friendly. “The captain neglected to mention that I’m past President, a reserve admiral, and retired from my company. A has-been if there ever was one.”

  Booly accepted the hand, discovered that it was hard as a rock, and knew why the other man looked so familiar. Every cadet who passed through the academy was required to study the Hudathan wars—and more than a few references to the now-famous Sergi Chien-Chu. Still, it was a shock, and it must have shown on his face.

  Chien-Chu nodded understandingly. “I’m getting used to that expression. The explanation is rather simple. I was retired, and planned to keep it that way, till the mutiny came along.”

  A host of thoughts crowded Booly’s mind. Was this what he’d been hoping for? A real honest-to-God leader who could unify the resistance? Or a broken-down old man bent on reliving the best days of his life? He released the other man’s hand.

  “Welcome to Fort Mosby, sir. I wish the circumstances were different.”

  Chien-Chu motioned to the surrounding fortress. “I knew General Mosby rather well—broke her out of prison once.”

  Booly had forgotten the incident—one of hundreds in a long, fascinating life. He was about to respond, about to say something polite, when the transport climbed into the air. They watched it depart. The legionnaire glanced at his companion. “You were lucky, sir. Very lucky.”

  “Perhaps,” Chien-Chu said enigmatically, “although we have more friends than some might think. And that brings me to the matter at hand.... I need your help.”

  The volunteers trotted onto the parade ground, and Booly was reminded of the manner in which they had arrived. Part of some convoluted plan? Or a matter of coincidence?

  “Of course, sir,” Booly answered respectfully. “Your company has been quite supportive. If I can assist without compromising my command, then I would relish the opportunity.”

  Chien-Chu smiled gently. “It’s good of you to say so, Colonel ... very good indeed. That being the case, and in light of the extent to which the Confederacy may require my niece’s talents, I wondered if you would be so kind as to break her out of prison.”

  It was pitch black within the cell—and had been for how long now? Hours? Days? There was no way to be sure. The only thing she could be certain of was that the room measured approximately six feet square, since she was five-foot-eight and used her frame as a yardstick.

  Not that the darkness was necessarily bad, since even though the jailers could monitor Maylo Chien-Chu’s heat signature, they couldn’t actually see her, not like when the lights came up, and the ceiling, floor, and walls became high-res video screens.

  That was the worst torture of all, when they showed Maylo the way she looked, and she saw how vulnerable she had become. She dreaded the dark, hollow eyes, pale, sickly skin, scraggly, unkempt hair, and long, bony body.

  And there were other pictures as well, including a computer-generated movie in which she was systematically gang-raped, tortured, and killed, along with footage of friends recorded through high-powered rifle sights, stills from her childhood, clips from the business press, a video tour of her high-rise condo, and plenty of propaganda. All lifted from the news.

  Maylo kept an eye out for those episodes, because they almost always signaled an upcoming appearance by Leshi Qwan.

  Was he really there, taunting her from beyond the walls? Or a thousand miles away? It had taken a long time to get wherever she was.

  Qwan favored a number of tricks, such as sodomizing her digital likeness, or peering up at her genitalia. All followed by the same old pitch: “Tell where the money goes—and I will set you free.”

  But Maylo hadn’t told him ... and had no intention of doing so. Her determination stemmed from principle, stubbornness, and no small amount of fear. What would Qwan do afterward? Turn her loose, just as he said he would? Or kill her? The second possibility seemed more likely.

  That being the case, the executive huddled in a corner and waited for the next round of torture to begin. It didn’t take long. The walls could sweat, she knew that, and was forced to lick them in order to get drinking water.

  There were various flavors, including something akin to perspiration, sulfur water, and, on one occasion—just to mess with her mind—peppermint.

  Maylo felt the dampness behind her back and knew the water had started. It had been a long time since her last drink, and she was thirsty. She turned toward the wall, extended her tongue, and allowed the tip to touch the wall. What would the liquid taste like? Sweat? Urine?

  The answer surprised and shocked her. The wet stuff tasted like water! Slightly salty ... but otherwise fine.

  Thrilled, and eager to harvest every drop she could, Maylo licked in ever widening circles.

  Then, as if to please her, what had started as little more than beads of water grew into trickles. It wasn’t long before the trickles jerked spasmodically and became six-inch jets of water. They shot from the walls and drenched her from above. She felt them with her face, hands, and body, glad to rid herself of accumulated filth and amazed by the extent of her good fortune.

  Maylo stopped drinking as the water started to lap around her ankles—when she realized the drains were plugged. Not by accident, but on purpose, as part of a brand new torture.

  Suddenly, as if to confirm her suspicions, the ceiling screen flashed on. Maylo blinked, squinted into the light, and saw a school of fish circle above her head. She saw the bottom of a boat and bubbles as someone entered the water.

  The diver kicked his way downward. It was Leshi Qwan, or rather a digital Leshi Qwan, who had no need of a mask, tanks, or fins. His beautifully cut business suit was impervious to the water.

  “Why, Miss Chien-Chu! What a pleasant surprise. Fancy meeting you down here. How’s the water? No offense ... but you were due for a bath. Whoa ... Nice pair of tits you have there! I’d grab ’em, except that I’m somewhere else.”

  Water poured down over the top of Maylo’s head as the executive appeared to hover above. She blinked and wiped her face. The water was up to her knees b
y then, and continuing to rise. “Screw you.”

  “Ah,” Qwan replied. “If only you could! But let’s stick to business—your business, or what used to be your business.”

  The video walls came to sudden life, and a mix of lethal life-forms seemed to circle the cell. Maylo recognized some as sharks ... and knew the rest were extraterrestrial.

  She forced herself to concentrate. Something new was in the offing—a deal of some sort. Maylo wanted to be strong, wanted to say no, but felt the water clutch her waist. Was it colder, or did it just seem that way? Her neck hurt from looking upward. “If you have something to say ... then say it.”

  The businessman smiled and nodded. “Good, very good. Here’s the deal ... I place you in charge of Chien-Chu Enterprises, it becomes a sub, and you take a percentage. It’s the best offer you’re going to get. Whaddya say?”

  The floor screen came to life, brightly colored coral appeared, and a sea snake skimmed the bottom of her feet. The water was up to her armpits by then.

  Maylo was frightened, very frightened, which made the offer tempting. So tempting that she might have accepted, if it hadn’t been for the arrogance in Qwan’s eyes, and the leer on his face. The word seemed to launch itself. “No.”

  Qwan morphed into a Surillian barbed tail, showed double rows of serrated teeth, and zigzagged away. The executive’s words were muffled by the surrounding water. It slapped Maylo’s face, and she was forced to swim.

  “So long, bitch,” the barbed tail seemed to say. “I’ll see you in hell.”

  Maylo swam in circles, hit her head on the ceiling, and heard herself scream.

  The sit room was relatively quiet compared to the way it had been during Harco’s attack. There was a burp of radio traffic as a long-range patrol reported from the desert, the buzz of routine conversation, and the whisper of air passing through overhead ducts.