By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  The Marine Corps had prospered back during the Empire but had fallen out of favor after the loss of Battle Station Alpha XIV at the start of the second Hudathan war.

  Put it down to a regrettable defeat, lousy press relations, or suck-ass luck—the results were the same: The Corps was little more than a shadow of what it had been.

  In fact, on the first day of the mutiny, the once robust force was down to only two brigades—the 6th, which she commanded, and the 2nd, which was off-planet.

  So, much as Cummings might like to take Earth all on her own, she lacked the arms and legs to get the job done. That’s why she was willing to meet with Kattabi—and he was willing to meet with her. They needed each other.

  Cummings watched Kattabi jump to the ground, scan the area, and start in her direction. He was tall, not as tall as she was, but tall nonetheless. He had short, white hair, light brown skin, and a hawklike nose.

  Three officers and a civilian female deassed the transport behind him but stayed where they were. No entourage. An excellent sign. She went to meet him.

  The withdrawals started slowly, so slowly that no one noticed at first, not until the RFE raised the question on the six P.M. news.

  Kenny didn’t use human reporters, not on-air, and hadn’t for weeks now. After all, why put someone at risk when there was no need to? Computer-generated simularcrums worked for free, never questioned editorial policy, and were impossible to capture and interrogate.

  That’s why Scoop Scully’s lantern-jawed visage had become something of a pop icon. Nearly every graffiti artist in the land had mastered his cartoon face, and the Pardos had countered with a character of their own.

  So, when Scoop suggested that the Legion had pulled out of major cities and was consolidating its forces in and around Cheyenne Mountain, people paid attention.

  One of those people was Matthew Pardo. He killed the holo, slammed his fist onto the conference room table, and eyed his staff. “What the hell is going on? Why wasn’t I informed?”

  The senior officers looked uncomfortable, the junior officers looked confused, and a corporal blurted the answer. “You were notified, sir. I sent the intelligence summary via e-mail at 1530 hours yesterday and left hardcopy on your desk.”

  Many of those present grew pale and waited for the ass-chewing to begin. They didn’t wait long. The words were tinged with disgust. “So, that’s it. Nothing happens unless I do it. Harco pulls his troops, puts most of them into an underground fortress, and I get the news via the R-fucking-E! Are you people stupid? Don’t sit there staring at me.... Go out and discover what the bastard is up to!”

  No one had the courage to point out that Pardo rarely read the reports directed to his attention, had gone out of his way to crush individual initiative, and had intentionally forced Harco out.

  That being the case, they rose from their chairs, shuffled out of the room, and set forth to document the obvious: Harco had chosen his ground and was ready to defend it.

  Negotiations had been ongoing for the better part of two days now, and Maylo, who served as both an economic and a political consultant, had finally broken free. After talking about logistics for most of the afternoon, Kattabi, Cummings, and their combined staffs had finally recessed.

  Maylo repaired to the largely abandoned beach, where, with the exception of a Trooper II who followed from a distance, the executive took a solitary walk. The Atlantic rushed in to swirl around her ankles, pulled sand out from under her feet, and drew itself back. She allowed her thoughts to flow with the water.

  The military preparations were going well—perhaps too well, unless her uncle made some progress pretty soon. She, along with Kattabi and Cummings, could hold the coalition together for a while, but they wouldn’t wait forever.

  Something appeared up ahead. Maylo struggled to see what it was. A table? Someone sitting where the ocean met the beach? What in the world?

  Curious, the executive continued her stroll. As the distance closed, Maylo confirmed her initial impression and saw that a man sat with his back to her. He stood and turned. It was first time she had seen Booly in civilian clothes. He wore a short-sleeved black shirt, white trousers, and no shoes. He smiled and offered a flourish. The table was covered with crisp linen, gleaming silver, and some of the hotel’s best dinnerware. Coolers were stacked in the background. “Good evening, ma’am. Your table awaits. We have cold shrimp, a crisp garden salad, and a nice white wine. Madam approves?”

  Maylo laughed. “Why, Colonel Booly, you amaze me. What’s the occasion?”

  The legionnaire stepped forward to take her by the hands. He looked into her eyes. “I want to apologize for what I said after the rescue. I was tired, and the words came out wrong. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Maylo smiled softly. “Apology accepted ... not that you owed me one. But why all of this?” She gestured to the table.

  Booly shrugged sheepishly. “Because I think you’re special, very special, and I hoped you would have dinner with me.”

  Maylo searched Booly’s face. “Thank you, Colonel, but what about the woman in Djibouti? Won’t she be angry?”

  Booly looked confused, then brightened. “Do you mean Angie? Admiral Tyspin? We’re friends. Nothing more.”

  “You had your arm around her waist.”

  The soldier grinned sheepishly. “True. We went skin diving, came back, and had a few drinks. Soldiers tell war stories. It went on for quite a while. The admiral required some assistance, and so did I.”

  Maylo raised an eyebrow. “Are you drunk now?”

  Booly shook his head. “No, ma’am. Stone cold sober.” He gestured toward the table. “So, will you have dinner with me?”

  Maylo looked around, realized that no less than four Trooper IIs had taken up positions around them, all facing outward. She laughed. “What choice do I have? You have me surrounded. Dinner it is.”

  The officer grinned, offered a chair, and attempted to light the candles. The wind snuffed them out. Neither of them cared. The evening was theirs.

  The aircar followed the highway toward Cheyenne Mountain. It was clogged with olive drab trucks, transports, and rank after rank of slowly plodding cyborgs, all moving at about ten miles per hour. Sitting ducks if Pardo or the loyalists had enough cojones to attack them.

  Harco got on the radio, chewed some ass, and circled back. Three tank carriers pulled off the road, and the rest of the column started to pick up speed. Better, but far from perfect.

  The aircar resumed its original course. Harco watched the mountain grow larger. It wasn’t much to look at, just a big pile of granite with trees scattered along the top.

  First established as a command post for something called the North American Defense Command, the semisecret facility had been closed for years, reactivated during the Hudathan wars, and sealed by the same budget cuts that put his troops on the streets.

  There would be work to do, lots of work to do, but the facility was perfect for his needs. Other strongholds, five in all, would serve the forces abroad.

  The engineers who had constructed the fortress hundreds of years before had drilled a 4,675-foot tunnel from one side of the mountain to the other. The purpose of the passageway was to relieve pressure in the event of a nuclear blast—and provide the cavern’s occupants with a back way out.

  The twenty-five-ton doors were reported to be in excellent condition and still capable of closing within forty-five seconds.

  Beyond them, deep within the mountain itself, were fifteen shock-mounted buildings and everything required to support up to twenty thousand people for two years.

  Six fusion generators, each capable of producing three thousand five hundred kilowatts of electricity, were up and running, the reservoirs held twelve million gallons of potable water, and the storerooms contained tons of food, ammo, and equipment.

  The aircar circled, lost altitude, and settled toward the concrete pad. Yes, Harco thought to himself, we’re almost ready. But ready for what?

>   Never one to tolerate excuses, especially from himself, the officer knew he had failed. Thousands of men and women had been rescued from the streets, but for what? Life in a cave? Rather than reconstruct the Legion, Harco had torn it apart.

  The aircar landed, sentries snapped to attention, and Harco entered the command post. It felt cold . . . like the inside of a tomb.

  The conference room was packed. Fully eighty percent of the known resistance groups on Earth had sent some sort of representative. They were a motley group that included professional soldiers, underground warriors like the Euro Maquis, criminal gangs such as the Jack Heads, and a significant number of corporations.

  Booly called the meeting to order. Kattabi took the podium and scanned the crowd. Some eyes were willing to meet his, and some weren’t.

  “We came to build an alliance that will free Earth from tyranny and restore the legally constituted government. Thanks to you, and the agreements forged during the last few days, we are ready to move forward.

  “Many of you wonder when our day will come, when we will strike, and find it difficult to wait.”

  “Yeah!” one of the Jack Heads shouted. “What the hell are we waiting for?”

  “A good question,” Kattabi replied calmly. “The truth is that we’re waiting for a number of factors to fall into place. It would be foolish to mention all of them, since one or more of us may be captured, but some seem obvious.

  “In order to succeed, we need buy-in from most if not all of Earth’s population, clear lines of authority, good communications, excellent logistics, off-planet military support, and recognition by the Confederacy.

  “Once all of those conditions are met, we will move and move quickly. There isn’t much more that I can say, except to travel safely, tell your people to keep the pressure on Pardo’s government, and wait for the signal.

  “We will rise, we will fight, and we will win.”

  Maylo joined in the applause, wondered how her uncle was doing, and hoped that Kattabi was correct.

  Booly found her from the other side of the room. He smiled, and she smiled in return. Suddenly, much to Maylo Chien-Chu’s surprise, her life had changed.

  25

  He who plants lies and calls them food shall reap nothing but misery.

  Author unknown

  Dweller folk saying

  Standard year circa 2349

  With the Thraki Armada, off the Planet Zynig-47, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna stepped out onto his private gallery and looked up through the carefully tended gardens to the transparent dome beyond.

  The planet called Zynig-47 hung there like a blue-green gem, beckoning the Thraki home.

  Scouts had landed six ship cycles before, and were quickly followed by four teams of scientists, all of whom arrived at the same conclusion: The humans had been truthful.

  The atmosphere was clean, some of the natural resources had been exploited by previous inhabitants, but plenty remained. The arks had assumed orbits that would allow them to function as fortified moons. Yes, their presence would result in tidal action down on the planet’s surface, but so what? The indigenous life forms were not likely to be of much value anyway.

  Though previously inhabited by sentients known as the N’awatha, the planet had fallen to another race called the Hudathans, who, though subjugated by a multisystem government called the Confederacy, still claimed sovereignty over the world.

  And now, as if that history wasn’t sufficiently complex, the Hegemony had introduced Andragna’s race to the Ramanthians, who, though members of the Confederacy themselves, had designs on the Hudathan empire and wanted to use the Thraki annexation of Zynig-47 as an excuse to occupy more planets.

  All of which was probably part of some larger plot that the admiral and his staff had failed to penetrate as yet. Not that it mattered much, since none of the species encountered up to that point had a navy that could challenge his.

  Andragna gave the Thraki equivalent of a sigh. If this was an improvement over roaming the stars, the advantage was lost on him. Ah, well, annoying though they were, there was some comfort in knowing that most, if not all, of the factious aliens would be eliminated by the Sheen.

  That was the plan, anyway, and, given how stupid their new allies were, it might even work. Who knew? Perhaps he, the first in many generations, would be interred as the ancients had been in a crypt made of stone. Perhaps the Facers were correct. Perhaps the race should put down roots and prepare for the Sheen. The thought made him feel better—and the admiral returned to work.

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa looked in the mirror, checked to ensure that his ambassadorial robes hung straight, and cursed his fate.

  To negotiate was bad enough, especially in light of the weakness that such an activity implied, but to negotiate with the individual known as Chien-Chu, the same human who played such a prominent role in defeating the Hudathans during the last two wars, amounted to the most exquisite torture he could imagine. Yet that was what duty demanded—so that was what he would do.

  The Hudathan stepped through the hatch, checked to ensure that it was locked, and entered the flow of traffic. Lesser beings hurried to get out of the way.

  The cabin was rather small, and, given the limited number of items the industrialist had brought from Earth, relatively uncluttered. There was his lap comp, a book titled The Art of War, and holos of his son, wife, and niece.

  Sergi Chien-Chu read Maylo’s report one last time—and fed it to his shredder. The meetings in Rio had gone well, an alliance had been formed, and the resistance was ready. Or as ready as such an unlikely group of allies was ever likely to be. If Maylo and the others could hold the allies together.

  All they needed was continued air support, which was under attack from Orno and his colleagues; a few brigades of troops, who were stranded on a number of different planets; and legal legitimacy, which Chien-Chu had failed to obtain.

  Not that he hadn’t tried. The cyborg had stated his case in the Friendship’s corridors, over dinners he didn’t need to eat, in steam baths he couldn’t enjoy, deep under the surface of Arballa, and, in one case, in a certain lobbyist’s chlorine-filled hab, all to no avail.

  There were sympathizers, plenty of them, up to and including the President himself, but no one with the guts to take the bull by the horns. Each and every one of the senators had legislation to pass, legislation that required votes, and could easily be held hostage.

  And then, as if to reinforce any concerns the politicians might have, there were Senator Orno’s hearings—stagemanaged affairs in which Pardo was allowed to deliver speeches during session breaks, while Chien-Chu and his allies were scheduled into the shipboard equivalent of evenings. All of this was perfectly legal, and an excellent example of why politicians like Orno wanted to chair certain committees.

  A chime sounded. Chien-Chu glanced at the wall chron, saw it was time for his next meaningless appointment, and rose from his fold-down desk. It sensed the movement, collapsed in on itself, and merged with the bulkhead.

  Of all the meetings, both clandestine and otherwise, that Chien-Chu had participated in of late, this one, with the Hudathan ambassador, seemed the least likely to deliver any sort of benefit.

  Everybody of any importance, and that included Chien-Chu, had spent time with Doma-Sa, heard the Hudathan’s story, and written him off. More to the point was the fact that he couldn’t vote on legislation pertaining to Earth.

  Still, the Hudathan diplomat had sworn that his mission was of the utmost importance, and, lacking anything else to do, the industrialist had agreed to see him.

  Chien-Chu trudged to the hatch, checked the security screen, and released the lock. The door hissed as it opened. Doma-Sa nodded stiffly. “Greetings, Citizen Chien-Chu. Thank you for receiving me.” The words had a sibilant quality but were understandable nonetheless.

  The cyborg bowe
d, ushered his guest inside, and pointed to a heavy-duty chair. “You are quite welcome, Citizen-Ambassador. The privilege is mine. Please, have a seat.”

  Doma-Sa noticed that the chair had been placed in a corner to ensure his comfort, felt a little bit better about the visit, and accepted the invitation. “Thank you.”

  Chien-Chu sat on the bed-couch and gestured toward the tiny galley. “Can I get you something?’

  The Hudathan knew the question was a matter of form and shook his head. “No, but thank you for asking. May I be blunt?”

  “Please,” Chien-Chu replied fervently. “You can’t imagine how good that sounds. Tell me something—anything—so long as it’s true.”

  No wonder it was this human who beat us, Doma-Sa thought to himself. He thinks as we do.

  “It shall be as you suggest,” the Hudathan said out loud. “A cabal consisting of certain humans, the Clone Hegemony, and the Ramanthians is working to weaken the Confederacy, circumvent its powers, and confiscate worlds under its protection. Earth was first ... others will follow. Some belong to the Hudathan people.”

  Chien-Chu sat bolt upright. “Can you prove that?”

  “Yes,” the Hudathan said grimly, “I certainly can.”

  It took the better part of two hours to review the data that the Hudathans had intercepted and decide what to do with it. When Doma-Sa left, Chien-Chu felt better than he had in weeks.

  Senator Samuel Ishimoto-Six had a multifunction com implant located at the base of his skull. He felt the unmistakable tingle, noted two repetitions, and left his breakfast uneaten.

  A variety of beings greeted the clone as he left the senatorial cafeteria and headed up-ship. He acknowledged their salutations, wondered why Gorgin-Three had paged him, and nodded to the brace of Jonathan Alan Seebos that stood in front of the embassy.