By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  All of which should have reduced his ardor, but seemed only to fuel it, adding to the politician’s misery.

  The clone froze the video on a tight shot of Maylo’s face, studied the symmetry of her features, and felt the first signs of arousal. The voice was both harsh and unexpected.

  “And what have we here? Lust for a free-breeding slut? I’m surprised, Samuel. I thought better of you.”

  Ishimoto-Six gave an involuntary twitch and felt the blood rush to his face. Though of lesser rank, Svetlana Gorgin-Three often acted as if she outranked him, and had a talent for getting under his skin. The politico affected the disapproving demeanor of a grandbrother, turned, and hoped the bulge wouldn’t show.

  “You jump to conclusions, Three—a rather serious flaw where diplomacy is concerned, and something you must work on. The image belongs to one Maylo Chien-Chu, chief executive officer for Chien-Chu Enterprises, and niece to the recently arrived ex-President. You would do well to memorize her face. We must know those in power—and be ready to interact with them.”

  Gorgin-Three, who derived a strange and not altogether healthy pleasure from being put in her place, lowered her head. “Yes, sir. My comments were ill-considered and inappropriate. Please forgive me.”

  The politician would have been more pleased with her response had he not known how meaningless it was. Arrogant one moment and subservient the next, his assistant was a study in contrasts. He nodded, killed the holo, and took control of the conversation. “So? What, if anything, did the spooks send today?”

  Though not entirely comfortable with the term “spooks” as a synonym for the Hegemony’s intelligence service, the staffer knew whom Six was referring to and answered accordingly. “Yes, Senator. In addition to the usual summary, we received notice that Governor Patricia Pardo departed Earth. She will arrive soon.”

  It was an interesting piece of news, and the clone took a moment to consider the implication. The governor had timed her visit to coincide with the new session, that much was obvious, but why? To forestall the sort of military action for which the Turr had lobbied? To buy time for her illegitimate government? Both possiblities seemed reasonable.

  His government remained neutral where the “Earth problem” was concerned, and so was he. Six nodded. “Thank you.”

  The female smiled. He knew what that meant and waited for the axe to fall. “One more thing,” Three said sweetly. “Ishimoto-Seven is on the way—to meet with Governor Pardo.”

  Six detested Seven, something his assistant was well aware of, and struggled to hide his reaction.

  “Thank you. Please see to the ambassador’s quarters ... and add him to the official roster.”

  Gorgin took pleasure from her superior’s reaction and left the room. Yes, there was no doubt about it, her job was fun.

  Hiween Doma-Sa marched down the main corridor, took a sharp right-hand turn, and entered the Ramanthian sector.

  As with embassies of old, the quarters assigned to accredited representatives were considered to be an extension of their sovereign soil, and as such, were immune from all rules and laws except those that dealt with communal safety, such as the prohibitions against the release of toxic gases, drilling holes through the ship’s hull, or hunting game in the passageways. This last restriction was passed after a rather nasty incident involving the senator from Turr.

  That being the case, most member races chose to supplement the ship’s security forces with troops of their own. The Ramanthians were no exception. Four war drones had been posted outside their hatch. All were heavily armed.

  The Hudathan stopped, surrendered his credentials, and submitted to a retinal scan. There was a pause while the Ramanthian file leader checked the results and issued an incomprehensible series of clicks and pops.

  The hatch cycled open. Doma-Sa stepped through and was ushered into Orno’s office. The Ramanthian stood and delivered his most courtly bow.

  “May your eggs prosper,” Doma-Sa said, using the shortened version of a greeting that ran to more than four thousand phonetic units.

  Having dispensed with the appropriate courtesies, both beings assumed their respective seats.

  Orno, who rarely ceded his guests any sort of advantage, was true to form. He sat behind his desk, which not only placed a barrier between them, but forced Doma-Sa to accept the freestanding guest chair. That ploy left the Hudathan’s back exposed, which led to a high degree of psychological discomfort.

  It was only the latest in a long list of insults, indignities, and embarrassments the Hudathan had suffered since boarding the Friendship. Some intentional—some not. Was the other being aware of how he felt? The diplomat hoped not ... and struggled to conceal it.

  The Ramanthian watched his visitor’s skin bloom white, realized the heat wouldn’t bother the Hudathan in the least, and knew that particular advantage had been lost.

  “So,” the Ramanthian began, “your presence does us honor. What brings the ambassador to my humble hive?”

  Was the translation at fault? Or did the alien intend to sound condescending?

  Doma-Sa fought the impulse to dive over the desk and rip the bug’s head off—not that he was likely to succeed, since the War Orno was not only present, but heavily armed.

  Try as he might, the Hudathan had been unable to master the subtle art of indirection as practiced by so many of his peers. That being the case, he came straight to the point.

  “My people have been imprisoned for more than fifty years now. The time has come to set them free.”

  The Ramanthian rubbed his tool legs together. They made a rasping sound. “You are frank, Ambassador Doma-Sa ... and I can do no less. A Hudathan fleet bombed the hive world known as Bounty during the last war. Exactly 836,421,716 Ramanthian citizens were killed. Once was enough.”

  It was a powerful argument, but Doma-Sa was prepared. “My people were wrong to do what they did ... and many paid with their lives. Our sun is dying, and our home world, the planet Hudatha, has a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary. The other planets tug on Hudatha, causing it to oscillate around the following Trojan point. That leads to a wildly fluctuating climate. Conditions grow worse with each passing year. All we want is the right to venture forth, to trade with others, and find a new home.”

  The Ramanthian seemed to consider the proposal and was silent for a moment. “Would your people seek to arm themselves?”

  The Hudathan could hardly believe his ears. “Would his people seek to arm themselves?” A thousand times yes! What he said was different, however.

  “No, we have no need for arms, so long as the Confederacy agrees to protect us.”

  “And what of your empire?” the Ramanthian inquired casually. “The planets taken during the war? What would become of them?”

  The question was unexpected, and Doma-Sa was taken aback. He reacted without thinking. “They belong to us... just as the planets which your race colonized belong to you.”

  It was a good answer, though not the one Orno wanted to hear. The Hudathan was stubborn, stupid, or both. No matter; there are many ways to tunnel, and obstacles can be bypassed. “Yes, of course. Well, I appreciate the opportunity to hear your views, and will keep them in mind.”

  The Ramanthian stood. “Will I see you at the dinner?”

  Doma-Sa knew he had been dismissed and was happy to go. The dinner, a formal affair scheduled for end-work the following day, was a diplomatic must. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “Excellent,” the senator replied. “I’ll see you then.”

  A worker drone escorted Doma-Sa to the hatch. It opened, and he stepped outside. The corridor was crowded, and traffic pulled him along. Nothing had been gained, or had it? Why would the Ramanthians be interested in Hudathan planets? Didn’t they have enough already?

  It was an interesting question—and one he would endeavor to answer.

  The private dining room, which was just right for the intimate dinners that Marcott Nankool liked to host, was paneled in
Vorthillian walnut.

  The wood gleamed from frequent oilings and matched that of the long, formally set table—most of which was obscured by what seemed like acres of white linen.

  The President smiled cordially as he ushered his guests into the room and pointed to their place cards. “Sergi, that spot belongs to you, and Maylo, this chair is yours.”

  Though something of an athlete in his younger days, the President had gained some weight over the last few years, and rather than hang it all in one place had discovered a way to distribute the extra flesh over his entire body. Perhaps that explained why his face looked blurred and a little out of focus.

  The first hour or so was spent getting acquainted. The President ate with gusto, Maylo picked at her food, and Chien-Chu toyed with a wine glass.

  It wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and dessert served that they got down to business. Chien-Chu took the lead. “You are aware of the situation back on Earth.”

  Nankool dabbed at his lips and allowed the briefest of frowns to crease his otherwise smooth brow. “Yes, an unpleasant business, and a divisive one.”

  Chien-Chu had been called inscrutable, but found the other man even more so. There had been numerous Presidents by then—most of whom were nonhuman. Would Nankool be more sympathetic, because of his origins? Or less willing to help, to avoid the appearance of bias? The answer seemed to be yes, since most presidents would have acted by then.

  Maylo sipped her coffee. It was weak and barely lukewarm. “The charter is quite specific: ‘Each species will be free to elect planetary governments—based on one being, one vote.’ ”

  Nankool didn’t like being lectured to, and felt the blood rush to his face. His light brown skin served to conceal the reaction, and his voice gave no hint of the way he felt.

  “Your point is well taken, although there are some who would point to Governor Pardo and the fact that she was elected.”

  “True,” Maylo agreed, “if you choose to ignore the fact that she supplanted the legally established government with what amounts to a military dictatorship, and suspended the rights of free speech, assembly, and habeas corpus.”

  “In order to counter criminal activity and restore law and order,” the President countered. “Or so I’m told.”

  “By whom?” Chien-Chu retorted. “Governor Pardo?”

  Nankool raised a hand. “Hold it right there.... Don’t kill the messenger. Pardo and her supporters have done an excellent job of getting the message out. The only message, till the two of you arrived.

  “The sad fact is that your senator, Senator Bates, lived in Pardo’s pocket. His death left no one to tell her story, or yours. That’s the challenge, to tell your story, and build support.”

  Maylo regarded the President with cool brown eyes. “So how ’bout you, Mister President? To whom will your support flow?”

  Nankool was a professional politician, which meant he had very little love for win-lose propositions. But when the chips were down and a decision had to be made he had never been known to blanch. Not in his opinion, anyway. “Governor Pardo is an outlaw and should be stopped.”

  Chien-Chu started to say something, but Nankool was quick to interrupt. “Hear me out, Sergi.... That’s what I believe, but Pardo has friends, and they have votes.

  “You were President once—you know how it works. We’re running a democracy here. You want a fleet? Some sort of police action? Then find some support. It’s as simple as that.”

  Maylo eyed him across the table. “And you’ll be there for us?”

  The President nodded. “Find the votes, or something that will generate the votes, and I’ll back you all the way.”

  The rest of the meal passed without incident and was soon over. Nankool escorted them to the hatch, held Maylo’s hand just a fraction too long, and looked at her uncle. “Sergi, a word to the wise . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Pardo boarded the ship about two hours ago. Remember what I told you, plus one thing more: The governor wants to be President. She has friends here and knows her way around. Watch your back.”

  18

  Dead men have no victory.

  Euripdes

  The Phoenician Women

  Standard year circa 410 B.C.

  Planet Earth, Independent World Government

  The desert swept long, hard, and wide into what had once been Ethiopia, but had long since become but one of many Administrative Regions, or ARs, all subject to a single Earth government. Not that the local inhabitants cared, or paid much attention to such abstractions. They lived as they always had, subject to God and the rules of nature.

  There was no sign of movement save for distant clouds of dust raised by the seasonal Khamsin and the high, hopeful circles made by a solitary white-backed vulture. A hungry vulture that hoped to feed off the weak or the dead.

  The riverbed, dry until the October rains sent water flooding along its course, ran roughly north to south and offered the only cover for twenty miles in any direction.

  It certainly beat the hell out of no cover, but was far from perfect. Tyspin and her people had destroyed most if not all of Harco’s spy sats, and more than a week had passed since one of his high altitude spy planes had attempted to overfly Djibouti.

  There were other possibilities, however, primary among which were small, hard-to-detect drones. More than a dozen had been identified and destroyed during the last nine hours—but all it would take was one such machine to reveal his position and open his forces to an effective attack.

  Booly lowered his binoculars, slid down the bank, and rejoined his troops. They were deployed in a long, evenly spaced line. It started at a bend in the watercourse and ran roughly southwest, till the river bank jogged and turned south.

  The heavily reinforced Interdiction Force (IF) consisted of fifty battle-worn cyborgs, which, with the exception of twelve borgs that remained behind, included all of General Kattabi’s armor. Not much against the one hundred fifty armored vehicles that they expected to fight. Still, there was very little choice if they wanted to hold Fort Mosby.

  A fly landed on Booly’s cheek. He slapped at it, heard boots on gravel, and turned accordingly. Captain Hawkins looked tired. Desert goggles had left “spook” circles around her eyes, her tan ran many layers deep, and her lips were chapped. Harco’s forces had pushed hard of late, testing the free forces to the north, south, and west. The leg officer had been in the field for weeks.

  “See anything, sir? Like a truck loaded with ice-cold beer?”

  Those within earshot chuckled, and Booly joined in. “Sorry, Captain, but if the enemy attacks with beer trucks, the first vehicle belongs to me. Rank hath privilege, you know.”

  They laughed some more, Radio Free Djibouti played the latest pop hit, and gravel crunched as a Trooper II stalked past. Fykes stood high on its back and offered a salute. Booly responded in kind.

  The sun was hot, the air was dry, and the wait went on.

  The armor was dug in behind a screen of low-lying hills. The force consisted of thirty scout cars, forty-six self-propelled weapons platforms, ten 122mm multiple rocket launchers (MRLs), twenty-five heavy St. James tanks, forty-nine mostly soft-skinned support vehicles, and a company of infantry, all of whom were, or had been, members of the 1st REC, the Legion’s legendary cavalry regiment.

  They were extremely very difficult to see, thanks to the fact that all of the vehicles wore camouflage and most were dug in. A clump of palms provided shade, and the tarps strung between provided more.

  Major Katherine “Kate” Kilgore often bragged that she could sleep anywhere, anytime, even though it wasn’t strictly true. Most of her subordinates believed the fiction, however, which made it possible to close her eyes and have some time to herself.

  Such was the case now as she lay in the net-style hammock and wished for a breeze. A tarp had been rigged between one of the sixty-ton hover tanks and a soft-skinned support truck that sat fifteen feet away. It threw a slowly migrat
ing rectangle of shade over her body and lowered the temp by a full five degrees.

  A radio crackled nearby, somebody said something sharp, and the noise vanished. Kilgore took care of her troops—and they took care of her.

  The officer studied the inside surface of her eyelids, wished the nap was real, and waited for the recon report. She knew Booly, knew he was good, and knew he’d be waiting for her.

  Finding Booly, stopping Booly, killing Booly. That was her job. But she didn’t have to like it. Especially now that Matthew “asshole” Pardo had assumed the role of governor, and, if rumors were true, rode Harco like a horse.

  Harco was the reason Kilgore had come across. Harco, and the fact that she was sick and tired of seeing good soldiers pissed away by politicians. The shitheads.

  “Major?”

  Kilgore woke to find that she had actually fallen asleep. She staged a yawn. “Yeah? What’s shakin’?”

  Lieutenant Goody, sometimes referred to as “two shoes” by the troops, had been only months out of the academy when the poop hit the fan, and he still regarded senior officers with something that approached awe. He knew they were in the field, knew he wasn’t supposed to salute, but stood at something that looked a lot like attention. “It’s the drone, ma’am. It’s back.”

  “No shit? The stupid-looking disguise actually worked?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Damn. Will miracles never cease.”

  Kilgore swung her boots out of the hammock, planted them on the ground, and looked up into the other officer’s face. “Jeez, Goody, what’s the problem? You got a stick up your ass?”

  “Ma‘am! No, ma’am!”

  Kilgore smiled and shook her head. “Thank God for that. The surgeon will be glad to hear it. Well, come on. Let’s see what that worthless excuse for a tech sergeant came up with.”