By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  The prefab equipment blister had been erected with help from Nethro’s legionnaires. It was nearly invisible against the dark gray background. A tone plus a single red beacon guided the cyborg in.

  Anvik closed on the light, gauged the distance, and fired her retros. The sled slowed, hovered on its repellors, and settled into a cloud of dust. It was fine, like volcanic ash, and hung waiting for Two Ball to pull it down.

  Anvik released her harness, kept her movements slow, and approached the blister. The shelter sensed motion, sent power to a pole-mounted spot, and lit the much-churned soil.

  The cyborg stopped in front of the access door, punched her mother’s birthday into the keypad, and waited for the hatch to open. She didn’t need a lock, but the bio bods would, so the designers provided one.

  That accomplished, the technician returned to the sled and released the tie-downs. The shrink-wrapped payload included a nonsentient computer plus the armor required to protect it. Because Anvik was extremely strong, and had gravity on her side, the load was more awkward than heavy.

  Anvik carried the unit to the blister, entered the lock, and lowered her burden to the floor. Once that was accomplished, she thumbed a button, waited for the external hatch to close, and heard oxygen enter the lock. The inner door opened two minutes later.

  Racks of neatly installed equipment claimed most of the interior space, while an emergency sleeping cubicle occupied the rest. Anvik slid the computer into the waiting slot, shoved jacks into the appropriate receptacles, and locked them in place.

  Some people called the Early Warning System (EWS) a horrible waste of money, while others stared into the blackness of space and wondered who might come. They viewed the EWS as a form of insurance. Life insurance.

  That was a postwar Hudathan sort of mind-set based on the premise that what you didn’t know could hurt you.

  Minds such as those appeared to be in the minority now, and, while Anvik hoped for the best, chances were that this particular blister, plus five more authorized as part of a beta test, would be the only stations ever brought on-line. So much for the company’s contract—and so much for her job.

  Anvik completed the last connection, summoned a wiring diagram from her onboard computer, and checked to ensure that everything was correct.

  Then, positive that it was, but worried that it wasn’t, she threw the main switch. Power flowed from the fusion generator buried six feet under the moon’s surface. The computer spoke through an overhead speaker.

  “Approximately four thousand individual targets have been detected ... with a ninety-six-point-two-percent probability that there are more beyond the range of the system’s sensors . . .”

  Anvik shook her head in disgust, cut the power, and went to work. Something was wrong, and she would find it.

  The Rust Bucket’s sit room was a multileveled affair. Nethro sat in the big black power-assisted command chair while the techs rode the next level down.

  It had been a long time since the Inspector General (IG) had swung through, so a variety of personal items had appeared, which was fine with Nethro so long as they didn’t hinder operations, and could be “struck” in a hurry.

  That’s why Corporal Ivy was busy staring into his girl-friend’s unblinking eyes, wondering what she was doing at that particular moment, when the computer whispered through his temple jack.

  The machine could be programmed to emulate both genders, plus a wide variety of accents, but had come across as a soft-spoken female for the entire six months, twenty-two days, and sixteen hours of Ivy’s stay. Everyone called her Sweetie Pie. “Hello, Corporal Ivy.... Please notify the OOD that my sensors indicate a class ten systemwide incursion.”

  Ivy switched his attention from his girlfriend’s face to the monitors above. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There were targets, hundreds of targets, and more appeared with each passing second.

  And some of them were close, so close they couldn’t be where the screens said they were, except that the screens never lied. Not yet, anyway.

  Six of the incoming spacecraft were traveling faster than all the rest and constituted an immediate threat.

  The tech flipped a cover up out of the way, hit the red button with his fist, and heard the klaxon go off. “Battle stations” had a distinctive sound—and the entire station came to life. Hatches were dogged, weapons came on-line, and the shields went up.

  Nethro, who had been working on one of the endless reports for which he was responsible, switched his monitor to the same source as Ivy’s, and felt something cold grab hold his stomach. The enemy ships, for there was little doubt as to what they were, were only minutes away.

  Flight Warrior Hydranga Morak Nusu pulled one last check on her wingmates, verified that all were where they should be, and activated her weapons. Like everything else in her ship, they were controlled by the special gauntlets she wore. The words had been drilled into her from the age of five:

  “Energy cannon—safeties off—accumulators on.

  “Ship-to-ship missiles—safeties off—guidance on—warheads active.

  “Electronic countermeasures on—shields up—max power.”

  They were like prayers, prayers said each night when she went to sleep, and part of who she was.

  Nusu watched the target grow in her HUD and allowed herself to grin. Here was the moment that she and the other pilots had sacrificed their reproductive organs for—the opportunity to give life by taking it from others. Yes, some might die, but the armada would live, and so would her race. Nusu screamed. Not in pain ... but in pleasure.

  Anvik reconnected the final lead, ran the diagnostics one last time, and watched the results bloom green. The system was not only functional, but working flawlessly. What was wrong, then? Where had the false readings originated? From a one-time anomaly?

  The technician flipped a series of switches and touched a button. The red lights reappeared, and the computer seemed to pick up right where it left off. “More than four thousand five hundred enemy craft have entered the system, and six have attacked Confederate asset NB-23-11/E. Repeat . . .”

  Some rather sophisticated com equipment had been incorporated into Anvik’s body, and she switched it on. The most commonly used military freq rattled with static. ECM! The Rust Bucket was under attack! The system had been right from the beginning. Shit!

  Anvik tried to make contact, realized it was useless, and entered the lock. Oxygen was removed, time seemed to slow, and the tech started to swear. It was a long series of linked profanities that even Sergeant Jones would have been proud of.

  But then, somewhere in the middle of it all, the words turned to prayer: “Please God, please God, please God,” over and over again. It was all she could do.

  The Rust Bucket lurched as still another enemy missile hit the shields, pushed them to the edge of failure, and dissipated the release energy. Lieutenant Commander Sena had responsibility for the station but not the legionnaires. He grabbed a console and yelled to make himself heard over the drone of Sweetie Pie’s dispassionate voice, the constant rattle of static, and the bleat, bleat, bleat of the damage-control klaxons. “She won’t take much more, Dal ... my damage-control team is running out of chewing gum.”

  Most of the team had managed to slip into their emergency space armor, but Nethro hadn’t found the time. The midships missile battery fired. Ivy yelled, “Tracking!” and one of the attack ships vanished from their screens. The smile was forced. “Your people did their best, Sam ... we all did.”

  “So that’s it? No surrender?”

  The shields went down, the Rust Bucket rolled, and Sena fought to keep his feet. That’s when the argrav generators failed and junk filled the air. A coffee mug sailed toward Nethro’s face, and he slapped it away. Sena’s feet came off the deck, and he grabbed a stanchion. “Damn.”

  The legionnaire pointed toward the monitors. They were filled with Thraki fighters. “Sorry, Sam. There isn’t much point. Nobody tried to contact us. How ’bout the me
ssage torps? Did you get them off?”

  “Gone,” Sena replied. “All six made it out.”

  “Good,” Nethro said grimly. “Here’s hoping that one of the little bastards gets through. Maybe the brass will get off their collective asses and do something.” They were the last words he ever said.

  Hydranga yowled with glee as the enemy space station exploded. She pulled a high-gee turn and issued a new set of orders. Three aircraft and six lives had been lost during the attack. Their replacements were on station.

  “The armada detected six, repeat six nontargeted missiles, some or all of which may contain enemy communications. Units four, five, and six will switch to channel seven, acquire tracking, and hunt them down.

  “It would be nice to examine one or more of the units in question, but ensure that none escape.

  “Units two and three will form on me. All enemy installations must be located and destroyed. Check the moon first. Questions?”

  None were forthcoming.

  The fighters split into two separate flights, curved away from each other, and sought their various targets.

  Anvik left the protection of the equipment blister just in time to see the Rust Bucket explode. A miniature sun was born, lived to maturity, and died. All within the space of a few seconds.

  The technician screamed the word “No!” But there was no air to transmit the sound ... and no ears to hear it. Nethro, Sena, and Jones. All of them dead. It was impossible, inconceivable.

  The fighter appeared out of nowhere, passed over Anvik’s head, and fired a missile. The cyborg turned, saw the distant flash, and knew the antenna was gone. The equipment blister! That would be next!

  Moving as quickly as she dared, Anvik hurried to the sled, threw herself into the seat, and fired the repellors. How much time remained? A minute? Three? The trick was to hide ... and do it quickly.

  The cyborg fired the steering jets, aimed for the blackness at the bottom of a nearby crater, and put the vehicle down. Then, working as quickly as she could, the technician pulled the emergency shelter out of its compartment, flipped the fabric shiny side down, and threw it over the sled. It took forever to fall. Maybe, just maybe the heat would be reflected downward, and escape notice from above. It was worth a try.

  Determined to put some distance between the sled and herself, and determined to witness whatever happened next, the technician made her way up to the crater’s rim. There were boulders at the top, some of which were big enough to hide behind, and Anvik ducked in and among them.

  It wasn’t until then, when the cyborg had a moment to reflect, that she thought to activate her recorders. Though intended to document each step of the installation process, the gear could be used for other applications as well. Like taping the strange manta-ray-shaped ship.

  Not satisfied with the destruction already wrought, the warship cruised the moon’s surface and probed the ground below.

  The cyborg willed herself to disappear as the night-black hull passed not twenty feet over the top of her head.

  Then, having located the equipment blister, the spacecraft fired its retros, hovered in place, and fired its energy cannons. The second shot was redundant. The facility was destroyed.

  Nusu felt a sense of grim satisfaction as the enemy installation was reduced to a mound of half-slagged rubble. She extended the fingers of both hands, brought her palms together, and felt the fighter accelerate. Then, pointing to the right, she sent the vessel out and away from the moon. Her part of the mission was accomplished—but what of the others? How had they fared?

  “Units four, five, and six, report.”

  The voice was that of Garla Tru Sygor, her second in command. His voice was tight with triumph. “One missile recovered—five destroyed. Returning to ship.”

  It was no small accomplishment, and Nusu said as much, so the entire squadron could hear. “Well done, Sygor. Congratulations.”

  The fighters landed, death songs were sung, and the armada swept on.

  Anvik waited for a while, cautious lest the enemy ship return, and emerged from hiding. There was nothing on the radio—not even static. Should she send? It was risky, the technician knew that, but couldn’t resist. “Anvik here. Does anyone read me?”

  Silence.

  The cyborg tired three times and finally gave up. That’s when she wanted to cry. But cyborgs can’t cry, not real tears, so the sorrow turned to something else. Something hard and cold.

  Anvik stood there, Raisin hanging above, and sent her words raging into space. “Nice try, assholes ... but no frigging cigar. You missed someone ... and you’re gonna pay.”

  22

  When the enemy advances, we retreat.

  When he escapes, we harass.

  When he retreats, we pursue.

  When he is tired, we attack.

  When he burns, we put out the fire.

  When he loots, we attack.

  When he pursues, we hide.

  When he retreats, we return.

  Mao Tse-tung

  Standard year 1937

  Planet Earth, Independent World Government

  The ship dropped hyper, a new set of constellations appeared on the screens, and the standard drives cut in. The destroyer’s control room was small and cramped, but the CO had slotted Maylo into an empty seat and narrated each stage of the jump. Something she didn’t require ... but didn’t have the heart to refuse.

  The executive listened as orders were passed, marveled at the extent to which the military could turn even the most mundane activity into a ritual, and considered the task ahead.

  Some progress had been made during her stay on the Friendship, especially where new alliances were concerned, but there was a long way to go. That’s why she had begged her uncle to let her stay and help.

  He had refused by pointing to the fact that if their efforts were successful, there would need to be some sort of interim government.

  And that led to Chien-Chu’s other main concern: the possibility that one branch of the resistance movement would dominate the rest, leading to some sort of dictatorship. The first fifty years of the industrialist’s life had been spent under imperial rule, and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

  To counter those threats, and ensure a democratic form of government, it was important to get involved now. Before the deals were done and the political concrete was poured.

  Could Maylo pull it off? Her uncle thought so, citing her experience as CEO of Chien-Chu Enterprises, the extent to which her corporate connections would help, and the fact that her status as an ex-prisoner provided credibility where the resistance was concerned. Not to mention her relationship with General Kattabi and Colonel Booly.

  Someone touched Maylo’s arm. “Miss Chien-Chu?”

  She turned, saw the boyish-looking CO, and realized he had repeated her name. “Sorry, Captain. My mind was elsewhere.”

  The officer thought his passenger was stunning and was willing to forgive almost anything. He smiled. “No problem, ma’am. Look at the screen. See that star? The one inside the green delta? That’s Earth. Are you happy to see her again?”

  Maylo looked, marveled at how small the planet appeared, and decided that she was.

  The sun was high, the sky was clear, and the Imperial Coliseum was packed with human beings. Conceived by the long-dead emperor, and constructed as a monument to his empire-sized ego, it survived because people actually made use of it. The venue’s size, plus the retractable roof, made it perfect for sports, concerts, and political gatherings. But not like this ... never like this.

  At least a hundred thousand people filled the surrounding seats, but unlike the normal crowds, this one was silent. So silent flags could be heard as they snapped in the breeze.

  Colonel Harco stood toward the front of the governor’s box. It was a large, balconylike structure that projected out over the seats below. The perfect platform from which to see and be seen. Food and drinks were available, but the officer wasn’t hungry. What was
going on? And why had he been summoned?

  The arena was so vast that the people on the far side of the field looked like little more than specks of multicolored confetti. But they weren’t bits of paper ... far from it. Each was a real, live human being. Selected by computer, ordered to come, and afraid to refuse.

  That was the kind of government Matthew Pardo ran ... and the kind Harco had unintentionally empowered. Not for himself, but for the men and women of the military who had been used, abused, and left begging on the streets.

  Some of them, including Staff Sergeant Jenkins and Sergeant Major Lopa, were with him now. They stood in positions reminiscent of parade rest, carried handguns under their jackets, and watched from the comers of their eyes.

  No one knew why the crowd had been assembled—no one beyond Pardo, that is, and he was perennially late.

  Maybe he planned to give one of the long, rambling speeches for which he was becoming increasingly famous, or—and this was what Harco feared most—the ex-legionnaire had something else in mind. Something crazy.

  Harco found himself wishing that Patricia Pardo would return. Not because he liked her ... but because she was sane.

  It was then, as if summoned by Harco’s thoughts, that the governor arrived. Not immediately, but behind a screen of security troops, all drawn from the militia.

  They were heavily armed, wore black body armor, and seemed to know what they were doing.

  Then, with the security troops in place, Pardo arrived. He wore the jet-black uniform of a general in the militia. It was a rank he had conferred upon himself, and, given the fact that Harco remained a colonel, rated a salute.

  The usual retinue of sycophants, toadies, and suck-ups followed their leader onto the balcony and struck a variety of poses. Leshi Qwan was among them.