By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  It was a dreamy existence for the most part, drifting with the currents, pursuing whatever thoughts happened along, and keeping the world at bay.

  Well, almost at bay, since there was no way to ignore the surface vessels that did occasional damage to her delicate limbs, or the minds, thousands upon thousands of which planned, schemed, and plotted until the ethers were filled with the mental equivalent of static.

  But there were others as well. Minds lost in deep meditation, surfing waves of creativity, or simply bubbling with joy.

  Some of those, her favorites in fact, belonged to the dolphin people, who, though primitive in ways, had their own kind of intelligence, and lived in the ever-present now.

  It was through them, while hitchhiking in their minds, that Sola had first experienced how wonderful if felt to slide along the crest of a wave, to dive for elusive prey, and to mate in the shimmery blue.

  They called to Sola, begged her to come, and she went.

  Designed to support the Cynthia Harmon Center for Undersea Research as well as similar facilities, the Leonid displaced nineteen thousand tons submerged, was five hundred seventy feet long, had a forty-five-foot beam, and was powered by two Norgo fusion reactors, each capable of developing forty thousand horsepower, and, when operating in tandem, of propelling the submarine through the depths at speeds in excess of thirty knots.

  The sub contained two holds crammed with supplies, two hundred resistance fighters, and a crew of sixty, some of whom were in it for the money, and some, like Captain Mike Finn, who were true members of the Resistance.

  Finn was a big man, too big according to his physician, and not all that tall. He had black hair, a matching beard, and a quick smile. His clothes, which were always the same, consisted of an excruciatingly loud shirt worn over immaculate white pants.

  It was Finn’s way of simplifying life, of reducing the number of variables one had to deal with, and generating peace of mind. Something he sought but wasn’t likely to get. Not with a sub loaded with contraband, an ocean full of enemies, and a bad case of heartburn. The voice boomed through his earplug.

  “I have a contact, skipper. She’s dead astern, and closing fast. An attack sub, from the sound of her.”

  Finn swore, launched himself down the corridor, and exploded into the con center. He scanned the screens, confirmed the sonar operator’s report, and chose a course of action. The Leonid had never been a warship, which meant she had no offensive weapons. “Prepare to launch acoustic decoys.... Launch.”

  “Prepare for silent running.... Execute.”

  “Sound the collision alarm.... Man damage-control stations.”

  The orders were executed quickly and efficiently. Evasive maneuvers were a possibility if the acoustic torps failed, but there wasn’t much more that Finn could do. Nothing but pray. More than two hundred souls stared at the steel bulkheads and waited to learn their fates.

  Sola was in the midst of a vicarious dive, rejoicing in the way that the water flowed across her supersmooth dolphin skin, when the fear jerked her back.

  It took less than a second to locate the source, access a collection of minds, and define the problem: A submarine, loaded with volunteers, was under attack.

  But how? Assuming that the humans were right, and there was no reason to think they weren’t, a vessel was in the process of stalking them.

  Yet how could that be? Especially since the Say’lynt was unable to locate the minds that such a vessel implied.

  Then it came to her, the fact that there were no minds, that the enemy had devised a way to counter her abilities.

  Sola wasted no more than a tenth of a second on self-recrimination before launching her intelligence outward. She found thousands of life-forms.

  Most had very little intelligence, but that didn’t make any difference to Sola, who was more interested in what they felt. The challenge was to sort through countless impressions, discard those with little or no value, and identify those that mattered.

  A thirty-foot oarfish saw something considerably larger than itself but was too stupid to glean any meaning from it.

  A lantern fish felt the backwash from the submarine’s wake and dove to escape.

  A shark sensed the presence of a large electric field, decided it was too large to be edible, and continued its search. And there were more, many more, all contributing tidbits of information.

  Three seconds elapsed while the Say’lynt built what amounted to a sensory mosaic from the input she received, compared it to the information the Leonid had gathered, and knew where the attack sub was. Not exactly . . . but within a hundred feet.

  That being the case, Sola shoved some instructions into Finn’s brain, sent a summons down into the deep, and started to mourn.

  The attack sub sensed the decoys, knew what they were, and stayed locked on its target.

  Then, just as the computer was about to launch, the other submarine dove.

  The defensive move made absolutely no difference. The AS-8s would follow. The attack sub fired.

  Three bluish-gray Byde’s whales all developed a desire to look for squid in the same place at the same time. They converged from different directions.

  A sixty-five-foot-long sperm whale rose from the depths and wondered why.

  Two humpback whales, one fifty feet in length, the other a good deal smaller, came as well. They had black tops, white bellies, and long, narrow flippers. Both used echolocation to find the Leonid and positioned themselves alongside.

  And there were more, a dozen denizens of the deep, all summoned for the same task. More than half died as the lethal AS-8 torpedoes sought the Leonid and found their bodies instead.

  The cargo sub shook as explosion after explosion blew its protectors to bloody bits and turned the water red with blood.

  Confused by the uninterrupted sound of the other vessel’s props, but certain that its weapons would carry the day, the attack sub fired again.

  The second spread of torpedoes was no more successful than the first. They detonated one after another, but the target was fading.

  The attack sub tried to follow, discovered that its prop was fouled, and lost forward motion.

  A sentient might have experienced any number of emotions, but the machine was utterly calm. It launched a remote through tube one, waited for the device to reach the stem, and scanned the incoming video. Unlikely though such a circumstance was, it appeared as though two or even three Loliginidae, or giant squid, had chosen to wrap themselves around the propellor shaft and been torn apart. Sharks had been attracted to the scene and were starting to feed.

  That was strange, but of no particular concern, since the problem would soon resolve itself. Or so it seemed to the machine.

  Daggers flew regular coastal patrols now, and it was a relatively simple matter for Sola to summon two of the aircraft and point the pilots in the right direction. They located the attack sub, dropped two torpedoes each, and whooped as debris boiled to the surface.

  Sola, who had experienced each death as if it were her own, floated in an ocean of tears.

  Harco looked out across the vast mud flat to the rock on the far side. It was important to reach it, to reach the top, before the tide came in.

  But how? The thick, glutinous mud was nearly knee deep, and clung to his boots like raw concrete.

  He took a long, slow look around, realized there was no other choice, and started to slog.

  Each footstep required tremendous effort—all of which would be wasted, since the water would sweep across the flats long before he was able to reach the rock.

  “Colonel? Sorry, sir, but there’s something you should see.”

  Harco raised his head, realized he had fallen asleep, and rubbed his eyes. The mud flats were gone, the desktop supported his elbows, and Staff Sergeant Jenkins was visibly upset. “It’s on every channel, sir, even the RFE.”

  Harco nodded, wondered what “it” was, and pushed the desk away.

  His living quarters, whic
h consisted of a hotel suite about a block from the Global Operations Center, was strewn with stacks of printouts, half-eaten meals, military clothing, wall maps, and a corporal asleep on the floor. The officer had ordered his subordinates to deal with the mess on numerous occasions but it always came back to haunt him.

  “There,” Jenkins said, pointing to the holo tank. “Listen to what they’re saying.”

  Harco recognized the reporter as one of the officially sanctioned “information coordinators” supplied by Noam Inc. She had blonde hair, perfect clothes, and a carefully modulated frown.

  “Details remain sketchy, but it appears that thousands of citizens were forced to attend a gathering in the Imperial Coliseum, where Colonel Leon Harco addressed the crowd.

  “Please be warned that the footage you are about to see is graphic . . . and not appropriate for children.”

  What followed was an exact rendition of what actually occurred at the coliseum, except for the fact that Pardo was nowhere to be seen, and it was Harco who summoned the spaceship, ordered Bayeva’s death, and murdered innocent bystanders.

  The technology had been around for a long time. Given enough sample footage, and there was plenty of Harco, the Noam Inc. technicians could create new images so seemingly real it was impossible to tell them from the real thing.

  The citizens knew that, of course, and many would suspend judgment, but what of the rest?

  Some—those who were naive, lazy, or just plain gullible—would believe Harco was a monster.

  Yes, thousands of people had actually been there, and knew the truth, but what were they when compared to the billions who would see nothing except what was broadcast?

  The soldier-cum-politician had not only played Harco for a fool—but succeeded in undercutting the officer’s credibility as well. What had he said? A sixty-percent approval rating? Not any more. Pardo had seen to that.

  That conclusion was underscored when the falsified sequence ended and the reporter segued into an interview with Pardo himself. The governor looked distraught, and wore civilian rather than military attire.

  “I have no idea why Colonel Harco felt it was necessary to take such harsh measures ... and wish he had consulted me first. This incident serves to illustrate the need for a unified command structure. The public can rest assured that I will investigate and take appropriate action.”

  Harco killed the broadcast but stared into the now-darkened tank. Now it was out in the open. Pardo wanted to control everything.

  Jenkins looked anxious. “Now that you’ve seen it, sir, what should we do?”

  Harco thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “We’ll do what we always do ... we’ll fight.”

  Maylo Chien-Chu stepped out of the shower, toweled her hair dry, and decided to allow the next stage to take care of itself.

  The voyage in from the edge of the solar system had consumed three days, followed by some time spent in orbit, and a bumpy ride through the atmosphere.

  Now, safely ensconced within Fort Mosby, she was ready for a good night’s sleep. But first, while her hair continued to dry, a stroll on the ramparts. Would Colonel Booly be there? As when they first met? And why should she care, given what he had said?

  But she did care, rational or not, and that in spite of the fact that she already had a man in her life. Or did she? What was the relationship with Ishimoto-Six, anyway? Something serious? Or nothing at all?

  She didn’t know, and more than that, didn’t care to figure it out. Not here ... not now.

  The parade ground was cool and, with the exception of the usual number of sentries, empty. The sun painted the sky pink. A bat swooped, snatched an insect, and flapped away. A muezzin called the faithful to prayer.

  Pleased with the way the evening felt, Maylo ducked into one of the towers, followed the spiral staircase upward, and paused to catch her breath. That’s when she heard voices . . . and the scrape of footsteps.

  Something caused her to step back into the relative darkness of the stairs as the twosome passed. Maylo didn’t recognize the woman, but there was no mistaking Booly or the arm around her waist.

  The executive waited for them to pass, marveled at how stupid she had been, and returned to her room. It felt dark and more than a little lonely.

  23

  Men are so simple and so ready to follow the needs of the moment that a deceiver will always find someone to deceive.

  Niccolò Machiavelli

  The Prince

  Standard year 1532

  The Rim, Clone Hegemony, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The stars seemed to snap into existence as Jose Fonseca-Three Hundred Forty-Six dropped hyper, switched his sensors to max, and scanned the surrounding volume of space. Something that he, plus all 739 of his “brothers” had done countless times before.

  In spite of the fact that the Clone Hegemony had joined the Confederacy at the conclusion of the second Hudathan war, they continued to maintain their own military forces and placed little reliance on the Confederate Navy.

  That being the case, the clones conducted regular patrols along their section of the rim—mostly to control smuggling, but to ensure their sovereignty as well.

  A beeper beeped, data scrolled onto the scout’s screens, and the pilot felt his stomach lurch. The readings couldn’t be true! Nobody had a fleet that large! Not even the Confederacy.

  Fonseca-Three Hundred Forty-Six ran the scans again, obtained the same results, and dumped them to memory. A swarm of fighters started in his direction. That was enough for him. The hyperspace jump occurred four seconds later.

  Nine missiles, all fired by three supposedly cloaked fighters, raced through the space the clone had so recently occupied. Fonseca had no way to know it, but today was his lucky day.

  The Chamber of Reason was lined with stone, real stone, said to have originated on the Thraki home world, though no one could be entirely sure of that, since all the records that pertained to the early years were missing. Or so the priesthood claimed.

  Still, even though he couldn’t be absolutely sure where the fossil-encrusted limestone had come from, Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna felt better while sitting in the stony embrace, as if protected by the very ancients who had launched the armada.

  The chamber was shaped like a dome, the inner surface of which was pierced by thirty-seven narrow, slitlike windows, each arranged to admit a single ray of artificial light. They met on the table below and in doing so symbolized a convergence of worldly wisdom.

  It too was made of stone, a circular stone that had a hole at its center and was divided into thirty-seven identical sectors, one for each member of the committee. The committee to which the admiral reported—and from whom his orders came.

  That being the case, he sat at the table’s center where an axle might have been, for he, or more accurately his position, was the point around which the armada rotated.

  There was only one way to reach Andragna’s position, and that was by ducking under the table’s surface and crawling to the hole at its center. The journey was made slightly more tolerable by the runner laid down for that purpose . . . but it was humbling nonetheless. And that was the point, to remind admirals of their place, and to keep their egos in check.

  Andragna completed his crawl, surfaced in front of his power-assisted chair, and took his seat. It was then and only then that committee members entered the room and sought their individual chairs.

  At least half the representatives had small, hand-crafted robots with them. They set the machines loose to perform on top of the table. One did cartwheels, another juggled, and a third told jokes.

  Though never formally acknowledged, there was fierce competition to come up with the most original, functional, or interesting “form,” and considerable status attached to doing so.

  Andragna waited for Sector 19 to take her seat and nodded toward the chamberlain. He lifted a cloth-covered hammer and struck a large metal disk. It was called the Shield of Waha. A sin
gle note reverberated between the walls, and the meeting began.

  The forms walked, danced, tumbled, crawled, and flew to their owners, whereupon they were deactivated and returned to their custom-designed cases and carefully embroidered satchels.

  Andragna waited for the overpriest to complete the benediction and for the meeting to begin.

  No formal agenda had been established, and none was required. The sectors knew what the issues were, as did most of their constituents. In the closed community that was the fleet, it was hard not to know what was going on.

  Still, someone had to get things moving, and Sector 12 liked to talk. She rose, checked to ensure that she had everyone’s attention, and launched her attack.

  “Thanks to Admiral Andragna’s sloth, lack of initiative, and general incompetence the Armada is in danger. A scout ship dropped hyper, scanned the fleet, and made its escape. Even now the alien hordes may be gathering to attack. I suggest we strip Andragna of his rank and choose a new, more competent leader.”

  No one was surprised by Sector 12’s pro forma attack, since she represented the Runners, and was playing to the cameras. There were catcalls, rude noises, and volleys of insults.

  Sector 27 cleared his throat, stood, and looked around. He was a high-ranking member of the priesthood, a xenoanthropologist, and a well-known wit. “I for one would like to thank Sector 12 for the much-needed entertainment, and having done so, move on to the business at hand.

  “In spite of the high degree of technological match between the space station that we destroyed seventeen cycles back, and the scout ship that so recently escaped our clutches, the vessel in question seemed to have more sophisticated systems than the habitat did. A finding that suggests related yet disparate cultures. A political schism, perhaps? If so, that could work to our advantage.”