By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  Visibility was so poor that the pilot had very little choice but to place the shuttle on autopilot and hope for the best. That was a nerve-wracking process in the best of times, made more so by the presence of a senior officer and the knowledge that people below had every reason to blow him out of the sky. Another radio message boomed through his interface.

  “Shuttle Sierra Echo Bravo nine-two-one, this is Cheyenne Control. You have entered restricted airspace. I repeat, restricted airspace. Provide recognition codes or follow vector seven to the north. Over.”

  An indicator light appeared, followed by a tone. Cheyenne could fire anytime they wanted to. The pilot grimaced and looked at his passenger. Colonel William Booly looked back. If he was frightened, there was no sign of it. “Go ahead. Tell them.”

  The pilot hurried to comply. “Roger your last, Cheyenne Control ... but I don’t have the codes. Please inform Colonel Leon Harco that Colonel Bill Booly is aboard and would like to parley. Over.”

  There was silence. The pilot figured he would get five, maybe ten seconds warning before the missile hit and the shuttle ceased to exist. The altimeter unwound, snow swirled, and static rattled through his interface.

  Five seconds passed, followed by ten, followed by fifteen. What the hell was taking so long? Suddenly Cheyenne was back. “That’s a roger, Sierra Echo Bravo nine-two-one. You are cleared to land. Over.”

  The pilot looked at Booly, who shrugged. “You win some, you lose some.”

  That’s fine for you, the pilot thought to himself, but what about me? I plan to win ’em all.

  The children had been walking for hours now. From their schools, along the side streets, and out onto the expressway. It was closed to civilian traffic, which was good for the militia and bad for the resistance.

  Nor had the maneuver gone unnoticed. Kenny received a tip, sent a fly cam to investigate, and couldn’t believe his eyes. Thousands upon thousands of children had been chained together and marched onto the expressway. Some wore uniforms, some didn’t. All were visibly frightened.

  Hover bike-mounted militiamen sped the length of the column. They shouted orders to the robots, most of whom were armed with shock batons, and walked in among the children. Electricity arced between the sticklike weapons and anyone who cried, talked, or began to lag.

  There was no need to ask who had engineered the march, or why they had done so. The hostages would shield Matthew Pardo’s movements, slow General Kattabi’s forces, and intimidate the general public. People were terrified.

  Kenny sent a swarm of fly cams to cover the event and ran it live. Citizens not only saw the video, but made their way to the expressway, and lined both sides. Frantic parents responded as well. Many walked beside the road, or tried to, since abutments, on-ramps, and other obstacles made it difficult to do.

  Others climbed the fences and ran out onto the expressway itself. The militia had been waiting for that. An aircar swept in from the east, braked, and hovered above. Machine guns rattled, the civilians fell like wheat before a scythe, and blood stained the road.

  Children screamed, batons crackled, and the march continued.

  Leshi Qwan stood at the center of the pit. The spotlights pinned him in place. The meeting had been called by old man Noam. “... And so,” the industrialist continued, “not only have we failed to see much return from this arrangement, our expenses continue to soar. Please explain.”

  Qwan was standing there, wondering when the old fart would realize that things were even worse than he thought they were, when something seized control of his mind. It was strong, stem, and utterly alien. He tried to react, tried to warn those seated above, but couldn’t control his mouth. The words formed themselves. “I feel ill. Please excuse me.”

  Then, like a puppet on strings, the businessman left the pit. Noam was screaming by then. “Come back here, you rotten sonofabitch! You’re dead! You hear me? Dead, dead, dead.”

  Qwan tried to reply, tried to scream, but nothing came out.

  Sola, who was operating at the extreme limit of her range, struggled to stay in control.

  Harco waited for the blastproof door to cycle open, felt a blast of cold air, and stepped into the snowstorm. Snowflakes planted kisses on his face, the cold found gaps in his clothing, and a white-clad sentry popped to attention.

  There was activity around the heated landing pad. The lights were on, the crash team had mustered next to their equipment, and the crew chief stood with light batons raised.

  Orange-red jets stabbed through the gloom as the shuttle lowered itself to the ground.

  The crew chief extended her arms, skids touched duracrete, and the engines wound down.

  Harco stood with hands clasped behind his back as a pair of orange robots pushed rollaway stairs into position. It was a strange, almost surreal moment.

  Starting when he was a cadet, and extending through all the succeeding years, the officer had imagined how his career might end. There had been dreams of glory and the nightmare possibility of defeat. But none of his visions had captured the terrible sense of ignominy, of pointless waste, that defined this particular moment.

  How exceedingly strange that after all the years, all the dangers, it would be one of his classmates that came to take his surrender. And not just any classmate—but one he had believed to be inferior.

  No, Harco decided, not because of his mixed parentage, but because of an inherent lack of confidence. Something he had witnessed when they cocaptained the rowing team, then later on Drang.

  Still, it was Booly who had won the battle for Dijbouti, Booly who had chosen the correct course, and Booly who had arrived to take him in. And all by himself. Now that took balls.

  The robots locked the stairs into place, the hatch slid up out of the way, and Booly appeared in the opening. He looked older than Harco remembered him, much older, but then who didn’t?

  What mattered was how he stood, ramrod straight, the way Harco had imagined that he would stand on the most important day of his life.

  Booly looked out through the snow and wondered if it was one of the last sights he would ever see. But the attempt had to be made. The prospect of an all-out battle between two elements of the Legion was too horrible to contemplate. Did Harco share his concerns? Would the other officer listen? There was only one way to find out. Metal clanged as he descended the stairs.

  A noncom met Booly on the ground, introduced himself as Staff Sergeant Cory Jenkins, and led him across the pad. They climbed a short flight of stairs and emerged onto a road. It was a short walk from there to the door.

  Booly half expected to be met there, to see Harco step forth to greet him, but such was not the case. A cart waited. Jenkins gestured toward the passenger seat. Booly got in and waited while the noncom took the wheel. The vehicle jerked into motion, rolled through carefully maintained grounds, and out onto a huge parade ground. Newly painted yellow lines marked borders, pathways, and assembly areas.

  The cart passed rank after rank of quads, Trooper IIs, and Trooper IIIs, all fronted by hundreds upon hundreds of bio bods standing at parade rest.

  Was the display a matter of coincidence? Or Harco’s way of telling him something? That his troops were ready? That they would never surrender? There was no way to know.

  One thing was for sure, however: They might be mutineers, but the legionnaires looked as sharp as any he’d ever seen. Jenkins turned the wheel to the right, angled across the part of the grinder not occupied by troops, and stopped in front of a reviewing stand. It was large enough to accommodate five or six people, and, judging from the condition of the lumber, brand-spanking new.

  Booly eyed the noncom, wondered why he looked so sad, and climbed the wooden stairs. This was where Harco had chosen to receive him, here, where his power would be most visible, and a request for surrender would sound absurd.

  That’s what Booly expected, but when the officer topped the stairs, there was no one to meet him. Not Harco, not his XO, not anyone at all. The officer sq
uinted into the lights, felt the weight of ten thousand stares, and wondered what to do.

  That was the precise moment when a holo bloomed high above his head. Booly turned in time to see Harco appear, followed by additional images—one for each of the units stationed abroad.

  Staff Sergeant Jenkins shouted, “Ten-hut!” Thousands of legionnaires crashed to attention, and Booly did likewise.

  Harco’s voice boomed through the cavern’s PA system. “At ease. We are gathered here to welcome a new commanding officer. Colonel William Booly.”

  An audible gasp was heard, servos whined, and Staff Sergeant Ward bellowed into the mike. “You are at ease! No talking. Corporal, take that soldier’s name!”

  Nobody could tell who the sergeant had yelled at, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was discipline, and it was intact.

  Harco continued, and as he spoke, Booly realized the comments were prerecorded. “Some of you are angry. You were betrayed by society, by the Independent Government, and now by me.

  “Not because I doubt our ability to win, or the quality of our cause, but because we were wrong. If the Legion is to be our country, it must be a just country, based on the rule of law and dedicated to more than its own survival.”

  Harco paused, his virtual eyes roaming the chamber, driving his purpose home. “Your commanding officer understands these things. His grandfather served the Legion, his parents served the Legion, and he serves the Legion. More than that, he is a warrior, one who stands by his word and supports his troops.

  “Some of us, including myself, broke laws in behalf of what we thought was the greater good. We will be charged with our crimes and tried by a military court. We deserve no more and we deserve no less.

  “I pray that the rest of you, the vast majority, will be allowed to serve. If anyone can lead you, can make that happen, it is Colonel Bill Booly.

  “I have one last mission to carry out—one last task to take care of—then I shall return. That will be all.”

  Harco’s image faded to black, the others remained as they were, and Booly looked out over the troops. His troops. If he could hold them. He chose his words with care.

  “The battle for Earth has begun. Elements of General Kattabi’s 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment and the 2nd Foreign Air Assault Regiment will land during the next sixteen hours. Half of the 13th DBLE has been airlifted out of Africa, and the 3rd Marine Brigade is on the move.

  “No one can promise you amnesty, not at this point, but I will fight for those who are deserving, and so will General Kattabi. So, what will it be? Do you plan to sit on your cans? Or go out and fight?”

  There was silence for a moment—silence that stretched long and thin. The voice came from deep within the ranks. “Camerone!”

  There was a pause, followed by a full-voiced echo from the cavern and all around the world. “CAMERONE!”

  Booly smiled. The Legion was back.

  The schoolchildren had been marching for more than a day now. They no longer filled the roadway from side to side but formed a five-mile-long column of twos. Those who had managed to survive hovered on the edge of exhaustion. Teenagers carried some of the smaller kids on their backs, shuffling forward, barely reacting when a robot poked them.

  Matthew Pardo rode in the back of an enclosed command car that occupied a slot approximately a quarter of the way back. The bulletproof windows had been polarized, and Pardo sat in the dark. He felt numb. Partly because of the alcohol he had consumed ... and partly because of the rapidity with which conditions had changed.

  First came the report that his mother and her supporters had been arrested. Then, while he was still trying to absorb that news, four transports dropped out of hyper, all loaded with loyalist legionnaires. Not enough to retake Earth ... but enough to shift the odds.

  Kattabi demanded Pardo’s unconditional surrender less than an hour after the fires, attacks, and riots began.

  The ex-legionnaire’s first thought was to ask Harco for advice, but that option was gone, and he was on his own. Something he had worked hard to achieve and lived to regret. The truth was that he’d been happier taking orders, doing what he was told, and slacking when he could. Now he was in charge . . . and didn’t know what to do.

  A teenage girl collapsed three ranks ahead. The driver swerved but reacted too late. The command car lurched as it rode over her body. Pardo swore as his drink slopped onto his pants.

  Maylo Chien-Chu stepped off the elevator and out into the reception area. This had been her office, or one of her offices, since there were many all around the world.

  But that was before the so-called revolution, the Independent World Government, and Noam Inc.

  Now she was back, and the time was ripe for some house-cleaning. The sign read “Noam Inc.” rather than “Chien-Chu Enterprises.” That was about to change.

  An android sat behind the U-shaped reception desk. Maylo had never seen it before and didn’t approve. Customers should be greeted by people, real people, regardless of cost. The machine smiled. “Hello. How may I help you?”

  Maylo nodded politely. “I have an appointment with Citizen Qwan.”

  The receptionist frowned. “I’m sorry. There must be a mistake of some sort. Vice President Qwan is away from the office, and I don’t expect him till sometime tomorrow.”

  Maylo listened to the voice inside her head and glanced at her wrist chron. “He’ll be here within the next ten minutes. I’ll take a seat.”

  The android opened its mouth, closed it, and used an onboard radio to call security.

  Maylo smiled pleasantly, sat with her back to a corner, and kept an eye on the elevator. This was the part that Booly, Kattabi, and Tyspin had objected to. Especially Booly, who tried to talk her out of it.

  Maylo smiled grimly. Men. Who could understand them? Distant one moment and protective the next.

  Never mind the fact that Booly planned to drop in on Harco unannounced—and probably get himself killed. She was supposed to wait till the danger had passed. Why? Because business was a secondary concern—a perception that showed how little he knew. It was money that made the world go round, and, assuming the counterrevolution was successful, the economy would be critical. Without commerce there would be no jobs, and without jobs there would be no taxes, and without taxes there would be no government services. Serious issues that couldn’t be handled while sitting on her can.

  A tone sounded, the elevator doors slid open, and a pair of security guards emerged. They wore burgundy jackets, gray slacks, and thick-soled shoes. The Noam logo was embroidered on their pockets. The larger of the two stopped in front of the receptionist, listened to what it said, and turned to stare.

  Damn! Why couldn’t they have been just a little bit slower? The executive opened her briefcase, placed her hand on the pistol, and waited for the twosome to approach.

  The smaller guard had a fist-flattened nose. His name tag read “Linder.” He showed some teeth but kept his eyes on the briefcase. “Sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to leave. I suggest you call Mr. Qwan’s secretary and make an appointment.”

  The elevator sounded again. Qwan stepped off and looked around. The executive’s movements seemed jerky, and his voice was forced. “Miss Chien-Chu! There you are. Sorry to keep you waiting. Let’s use my office.”

  The android and the security officers watched in amazement as Qwan palmed the rosewood-sheathed door, ushered Maylo past people she’d never seen before, and led her into her old office. The personal effects were gone, but the furniture was the same. The desk against the wall, the circular table where she liked to work, and the enormous fish tank. It was empty and dry. She put the briefcase down. They turned to face each other.

  Qwan gathered his strength and pushed the words through the screen that the other presence had placed in his way. “It’s the alien, isn’t it? The one with the mental powers.”

  Maylo nodded. “Yes. Sola offered her assistance, and I accepted.”

  Qwan pushed outward, detec
ted a tiny amount of give, and worked to extend it. “So, what do you want?”

  Maylo looked determined. “I want the financial records pertaining to Noam and Chien-Chu Enterprises ... and I want them now.”

  Qwan struggled to free himself from Sola’s grip, and the Say’lynt, operating from the far side of the world, felt the human wiggle free. She tried to contact Maylo, tried to send a warning, but it came to late.

  Qwan threw himself at her, Maylo crashed into a floor-to-ceiling window, and her head hit the glass.

  The fly form rocked from side to side as the antiaircraft shells exploded all around. Though driven from the air, the militiamen had plenty of ground weapons, and it felt as if most of them were aimed at the sky.

  Still, there was some comfort in knowing that Tyspin had elected to lead the fire-suppression mission herself, and was kicking some butt.

  General Mortimer Kattabi wished he could see through the aircraft’s bulkhead, glanced at his wrist term, and touched a button. Half a dozen miniature holos appeared from nowhere. Some of the officers had been with him on Algeron, and some had been seconded from the 13th DBLE. There was Major Winters, Captain Runlong, Captain Hawkins, Captain Verdine, Captain Ny, and First Lieutenant Dudley.

  All of the officers, plus approximately five hundred legionnaires, were headed for the militia base near Indian Springs, in the AR called Nevada.

  The Free Forces couldn’t attack the population centers, not without causing a great deal of collateral damage, which explained why the resistance was focused on the cities.

  Kattabi’s objective was the Noam Industrial Complex, the home of Noam Arms and the militia’s main arsenal.

  Some of the factories, warehouses, laboratories, ammo bunkers, and tank farms had been there prior to the mutiny, but some had been built since, and others remained under construction. With no competition to worry about, Noam Inc. had been working twenty-four hours a day to supply Matthew Pardo’s army with everything from combat knives to missiles.