By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  “Cranky, sir,” Fykes replied solemnly. “I feel sorry for the enemy.”

  “As do I, Sergeant, as do I,” Booly said as he came to his feet. “Tell them to check each other’s gear. I’ll return in a moment.”

  The door to the flight deck hung open, and Booly entered. Clusters of lights sparkled against the darkness below, and there, on the near horizon, was the white-green glow of a major city. Johannesburg. The officer cleared his throat. “How’re we doing?”

  Padia turned and smiled. His eyes were bloodshot, and he needed a shave. “So far, so good, Colonel. Joberg control wanted to know if I had an aircraft off my port wing. I told ’em no. They bought it, for the moment anyway.”

  Booly nodded. “Good work. Anything on the news? Like a battle up in space?”

  Padia shook his head. “No, but the number-one GPS system went down. That’ll play hell with everything from robotrucks to microbots. The backup came on—but with partial coverage. Does that answer your question?”

  “Partially,” Booly replied. “But it would be nice to know for sure. We’re gonna need some air cover.”

  “Amen to that,” the pilot said fervently. “I’ll work the radios the moment we land. Maybe the RFE has something.”

  Booly glanced at the copilot. Her head lolled to one side, and she snored softly. “You gonna wake her up?”

  Padia shook his head. “Nah.... Not unless I need her.”

  Booly shook his head in wonder. Civilians. Who could understand them?

  Captain Milo Stitt hated the militia uniform he’d been ordered to wear, didn’t like night duty, and wasn’t very fond of Africa. That being the case, he prowled the area like a caged beast and found fault with nearly everything he saw.

  Private Wasu watched the officer approach, wondered how the Academy could produce such assholes, and came to rigid attention. He, like the rest of the 120 soldiers assigned to the complex wore militia cammies. Fine for the veldt ... but worthless in the city.

  Stitt eyed Wasu, failed to find anything to complain about, and felt vaguely resentful. That’s when something huge roared over their heads and settled toward a warehouse roof.

  “Damn,” the sentry said in wonderment. “What the hell was that?”

  “What the hell was that, sir,” Stitt corrected him, as he watched the aircraft descend. The answer was obvious: “That” was a medium-sized transport. The kind that could carry a sizeable number of troops and wasn’t supposed to be there. He triggered the com. “This is Bounder One.... We have a class one airspace violation. I want illumination on building four.... Fire on my command. Over.”

  The rules of engagement were clear: Stitt could open fire if he chose to, but he didn’t consider that to be wise. Not without at least one attempt to make contact. He switched to what he hoped was the correct frequency.

  “This is Captain Stitt, commanding officer Security Zone Six, to incoming aircraft. You are in violation of restriction 4697 of the IG code. Identify yourself or be fired upon.”

  A powerful spotlight pinned the transport to the roof, a series of three flares popped high above, and weapons swiveled in that direction. The voice belonged to First Sergeant Lev. His squad was situated on the top of building three. They could see what Stitt couldn’t. “Bounder Six to Bounder One.... There’s no sign of movement. Over.”

  Stitt swore. The transport was a diversion! “Bounder One to team.... Hostiles on the ground. Probable contact point north of the perimeter. Waste the transport, and do it now. Get Joberg on the horn. I want air support, and I want it now.”

  Tracers lit the night as a heavy machine gun opened fire. The transport wobbled but managed to lift. Some idiot fired an SLM. The missile lacked enough time to arm itself and clanged against the ship’s hull.

  “Contact!” an excited voice exclaimed. “I see lots of them!”

  Stitt turned toward the north and started to walk. “Identify yourself, you worthless piece of shit. Where the hell are they? Over.”

  The answer was a burst of automatic weapons fire. It spoke volumes. The incursion had taken place on the Security Zone’s north side. Reports flooded in. A force of unknown size and strength had neutralized at least two observation posts (OPs) and were in contact with forward elements of the 2nd platoon. Lieutenant Rob should have responded by now but hadn’t. Stitt started to jog. “Bounder One to team. We have hostiles inside the wire. Condition blue. Over.”

  Sergeant Lev heard, swore softly, and checked his squad. Condition blue meant that the perimeter had been breached, building two was at risk, and each squad was free to follow predetermined orders. His were to hold the high ground, cover the troops below, and watch the sky.

  Lev licked his lips, checked his safety, and looked out over the rooftops. In spite of the fact that there were twelve men and women within the sound of his voice, the noncom felt extremely lonely.

  The legionnaires advanced over open ground, saw the transport precede them, and waited for contact.

  Blessed with a keen sense of smell, not to mention the heat-sensitive pads on the bottom of their bare feet, the Naa were perfect commandos. Raised in a warrior culture and blooded while still in their teens, the extraterrestrials were bred to kill. They slipped around the corner of a building, melded with a shadow, and eased their way forward.

  The first OP was concealed in a derelict ground car. There were two sentries, and Corporal Warmfeel could smell the difference. One stank of tobacco, while the other reeked of aftershave. The fact that the windows were clean, too clean for an abandoned vehicle, served to confirm what he already knew. He raised a hand, knew his fire team would freeze, and elbowed his way forward.

  The legionnaire’s black matte assault weapon remained slung across his back, and it wasn’t till he was in the process of gliding up and over the vehicle’s trunk that the clan knife whispered out of its sheath and became an extension of his hand.

  Tobacco-breath sensed something just before the Naa entered, started to speak, and suddenly lost interest. His forehead thumped against a window, and his eyes stared out into the darkness.

  Cologne-stink turned, saw yellow cat eyes, and died.

  Warmfeel opened a door, slid into the night, and signaled the team. Quickwit sprayed luminescent paint on the hood and followed the rest toward the south.

  Booly saw the flares pop high overhead, knew the transport had been made, and waved the squad forward. The element of surprise was gone, or would be shortly, and the moment was now. Fykes ran backwards part of the time and covered the back door.

  They approached the first OP, saw the splotch of green paint, and continued to advance. A water tower loomed ahead.

  Private Horky, one of the few humans good enough to join the unit, raised his bolt action sniper’s rifle and fired.

  A body fell from above and smashed into a garbage can. The second OP had been neutralized. The troopers moved forward.

  Warmfeel threw a scrap of metal at the fence, saw the sparks fly, and waited for the rest of the squad. The security team fired, and the scouts took cover. Warmfeel shouted the order: “Earsharp! Make a hole!”

  Earsharp was considered to be something of an artiste with his 30mm drum-fed grenade launcher. He grinned, poked the short, stubby weapon over the knee-high wall, and triggered three rounds.

  The explosions eliminated ten feet of fence. A figure stepped through the gap, fired from the hip, and staggered under the impact of a dozen slugs.

  Booly stood, shouted “Follow me!” and raced through the gap. He jumped the body, saw tracers probe the street, and angled away. A message went out: “Phoenix has landed.”

  Stitt felt his stomach muscles contract as he watched the intruders come. It didn’t take a genius to guess what they were after ... and to position his forces accordingly. He had two squads, one to his left and one to his right, with Lev on the high ground. It was plenty of firepower for the situation.

  That’s the way it seemed, anyway, until the officer raised his Legion-issue
glasses, saw the oncoming green blobs, and took another look. What was it about the way the figures moved? The way they seemed to flow across the ground?

  Then Stitt knew what he faced—and the knowledge came as a shock. Naa commandos! The most dangerous fighters the Legion had. The aliens were stupid, so stupid they continued to support the Confederacy, even as it put them on the streets.

  Stitt was about to say something, about to warn his troops, when all hell broke loose.

  Sergeant Lev was no fool and, that being the case, had detailed one member of the squad to watch their backs. His name was Bota. The soldier heard a noise, looked over the edge, and took a bullet between the eyes. He slumped forward. The waist-high wall accepted his weight.

  Lance Corporal Fareyes restored the heavily silenced pistol to the specially designed shoulder holster, sent the spider bot up the wall, and watched the climbing rope follow.

  The machine picked its way over the wall that circled the roof, drove a bolt down into the substructure, and sent video of what it saw.

  Fareyes eyed the credit card-sized screen, nodded his approval, and dropped the device into a pocket. Hardswim swarmed up the rope first, followed by Shortsleep and Quickwit. It was an easy climb.

  The area between the warehouse was fairly open with some cargo modules, cable reels, and a knee-high divider wall for cover.

  Booly dove behind the wall as the security forces opened fire. Warmfeel and his entire team were swept away by a hail of metal. One moment they were there, preparing to advance, and the next they were gone. Explosions ringed the area as grenadiers probed for advantage.

  Booly swore and tried to stand, but Fykes dragged him down. A stream of tracers fanned the air over their heads. The officer struggled to rise. “Let me up, damn you!”

  “Sorry, sir, but not quite yet.”

  Booly stared to reply but gave up as another wave of fire swept the area. The worst came from above—from the roof of building three. The wall started to disintegrate, and chunks of concrete flew like shrapnel.

  Private Woodbend was struck in the temple, and the woman named Claire elbowed her way forward. She tied a dressing around the legionnaire’s head, patted him on the arm, and continued to shoot the battle.

  The other members of the team were waiting when Fareyes topped the wall. He checked to make sure that nothing had changed, signaled his intentions, and angled across the roof.

  The security forces were lined up along the edge of the roof, firing into the area below, brass clattering around their boots.

  The Naa walked four abreast. Hardswim, Shortsleep, and Quickwit paused at a point where their assault weapons could sweep the entire area. Fareyes, careful not to get in the line of fire, eased his way forward. Lev was caught by surprise. He felt something hard poke the back of his neck, knew what it was, and raised his hands.

  The trooper to the noncom’s left sensed motion from the corner of her eye, turned, and saw the Naa. She laid her weapon on the roof and placed her hands on her head. The rest of the squad was careful to do likewise. The roof was secure.

  The dumpster provided cover, as much as the sniper could expect, and rang like a cymbal each time a bullet struck it. The legionnaire used the top as a rest for his heavily modified rifle.

  Private Horky had been born and raised on Perdition, a not-so-pleasant rim world where ammo was hard to come by, and there were plenty of things to shoot. Hungry things that needed killing. That’s where he had learned to hunt, to score one kill with each bullet, and to look down on those who didn’t.

  In fact, Horky saw the hail of lead fired by the other side as nothing less than a sin, and the sure way to hell. “Waste not, want not.” That’s what the parson said ... and that’s how it was.

  The legionnaire chose his targets with care. Some signaled their positions with a muzzle flash, some were betrayed by their body heat, and some made poor decisions. Such as hiding where Horky would hide, moving when they shouldn’t move, or wearing chevrons on their sleeves.

  The sniper aimed, fired, and worked the bolt. Time after time with tireless regularity. Bullet after bullet penetrated the gloom, tore through flesh and bone, and lessened the rate of incoming fire. Horky nodded solemnly and continued his grisly work.

  Booly noticed the extent to which the incoming fire had slackened, shrugged Fykes off, and jumped to his feet.

  The team had been on the ground for more than twenty minutes by that time—long enough for the defenders to summon reinforcements. The fact that none had arrived suggested that the diversion was working, the militia was incompetent, or both.

  But one thing was for sure. The time to move was now. Booly yelled, “Form on me!” as he dashed toward building two, and he heard a slug whine by his head.

  The building in question was protected by heavy metal fire doors. Six different legionnaires had been equipped with the demolitions packages required to blow them open. Three of them were present. They made the necessary dash, crowded past Booly, and set the charges.

  One yelled, “Fire in the hole!” and they all ran like hell. Somebody fired, and a legionnaire fell. Fykes fired in return, heard someone scream, and felt sorry rather than glad.

  Stitt couldn’t believe his ears. His request for reinforcements had been submitted a full fifteen minutes before. Now, huddled behind the momentary safety of some air-conditioning equipment, he had the Bat Duty Officer (DO) on-line. Or what was supposed to be the DO, but was actually some 2nd Loot, who didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.

  It seemed that someone had attacked the antenna farm south of town. The reaction force had been dispatched and was in the process of checking it out. The youngster was scared. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nobody here outside of myself. What should I do?”

  Stitt could think of all sorts of things the kid could do but knew none of them would help. “Get the reaction force on the horn, give them a sitrep, and tell the DO that I need help. Can do?”

  “Sir! Yes, sir. Over.”

  Stitt shook his head sadly, heard double explosions, and broke the connection. “Manus? Chin? What’s going on?”

  Silence.

  Careful to stay low, Stitt crawled to the right, and peeked around the corner. Manus and Chin were dead. The bodies lay no more than three feet away. More bodies lay sprawled beyond. A grenade? No, he would have heard that, and there wasn’t enough blood. What the hell was going on?

  Horky had known that there was at least one more of the wastrels hiding behind the air-conditioning unit and bided his time. Hunting requires many things—patience being one of them.

  There, finally, some movement. Light spilled from above. Not much—but enough. A head, the glint of an eye, and a little bit of nose.

  Horky applied the pressure gradually, caressed the trigger, and felt the butt kick his shoulder. The bullet left the muzzle at more than eight hundred fifty feet per second, entered through Stitt’s eye, and left through the back of his head. The parson would approve.

  Smoke belched outward, the doors burst open, and a pair of concussion grenades sailed through the opening. They flashed and went bang. Machine gun fire hosed the interior.

  Booly and Fykes charged through the entry, jumped a couple of bodies, saw movement and fired at it.

  A security officer threw out her arms, crashed into an interior window, and shattered the glass. The legionnaires darted past.

  There were offices to either side, another pair of doors, followed by row after row of prefab cells.

  Catwalks crisscrossed the area above, cables squirmed their way through long, metal trays, and plastic plumbing ran every which way.

  Each cube bore a number but was otherwise identical to the others. Booly cursed his own stupidity. Rather than one prisoner, he might have fifty of them to deal with. Could the transport hold them? Would they cooperate? He turned to Fykes.

  “Call for the transport, open the cells, and herd the prisoners outside. We don’t have time to check ’em out, so treat th
em like POWs. Who knows what we have here.”

  The sergeant nodded, said, “Yes, sir,” and issued a series of rapid-fire orders.

  Booly, his assault weapon ready, walked the length of the main corridor. Metal rattled under the soles of his combat boots. Muffled cries could be heard from some of the cubes, and the air smelled of chlorine. One of the black boxes held Maylo Chien-Chu ... but which one?

  The question brought an immediate answer. Not from his mind—but from another located thousands of miles away. “The one you seek is just ahead . . . in the last cell to the right.”

  The message made Booly’s stomach feel funny, raised the fur that ran down his spine, and made him look over his shoulder. The voice seemed so real....

  Curious, the legionnaire approached the cell. The number 33 was stenciled over the door. “Yes,” the voice whispered within his head. “As when waves touch the shore ... some things are meant to be.”

  The message didn’t make a whole lot of sense, not then anyway, but there was no time to worry about it. Booly checked the control panel. It was extremely simple. He pressed “Open” and heard servos whine. The door slid up and out of the way. Cold, dank air touched the legionnaire’s face. He stepped inside. “Miss Chien-Chu?”

  Maylo sat in the full lotus position, feet on top of her thighs. She blinked into the sudden light. The silhouette was unmistakable. A man with a gun. Was this the end?

  Sola’s presence flooded Maylo’s mind. “No, dear one,” the Say’lynt said softly, “this is the beginning.”

  14

  I heard the voice of the Lord saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me.

  Holy Bible