By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  “Such determinations are beyond my competencies,” the alien answered carefully, “but I can tell you this. You aren’t due for an hour yet—and he’s at the airport.”

  Booly felt stupid in his civvies, glanced around to make sure that no one was looking, and consulted the badly cracked mirror. The man who looked back had two halves, one slightly larger than the other, both dressed in a short-sleeved blue sport shirt, khaki trousers, and casual shoes.

  He heard the sound of a plane, forced himself to walk slowly, and made his way over to the open command car. It stood in the shade, so the seat was relatively cool. He started the engine, pulled out onto the apron, and watched the jet land.

  The plane taxied toward the rather dilapidated terminal and came to a stop. Booly drove across the tarmac, got out, and waited while they opened the door.

  Maylo ducked under the top of the doorway, squinted into the sunlight, and waited for her eyes to adjust.

  Suddenly there he was, standing next to a military vehicle, grinning like an idiot. What he thought, what he felt, was plain to see.

  That was when Maylo remembered the cell, the harsh, white light, and the man with the gun. What was it that Sola had said? “This is the beginning ... not the end”? Maylo smiled and knew the words were true.

  27

  A prince being thus obliged to know well how to act as a beast must imitate the fox and the lion, for the lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.

  Niccolò Machiavelli

  II Principe

  Standard year 1532

  Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Sergi Chien-Chu stepped out of his cabin, paused to ensure that the hatch was locked, and stepped into traffic. It was brisk and carried him along.

  Earth, and the restoration of a legal government, were yesterday’s news aboard the Friendship, where most sentients were focused on both the problems and opportunities posed by the newly arrived Thraki.

  Many of the passersby recognized Chien-Chu and said hello. His elevation from historical curiosity-cum-lobbyist to planetary governor had raised his status from the C list to the B list, which he shared with other notable but nonvoting politicos.

  There was a stir ahead, and traffic parted to allow someone through. Chien-Chu spotted a Ramanthian war drone and knew who would follow.

  Senator Orno, along with Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven and Senator Ishimoto-Six, had spent less than an hour in custody prior to being released on their own recognizance.

  Then, in the wake of vaguely worded apologies from their respective governments, plus a slap on the wrist from the Foreign Affairs Committee, all had been reinstated.

  That was not what Nankool had hoped for, and not commensurate with the crimes they had committed, but all the President could get. Orno had a lot of friends and the outcome was never in doubt.

  Patricia Pardo was not so fortunate, however, and would stand trial for her crimes.

  The Ramanthian delegation broke through the crowd, Orno speared Chien-Chu with his space-black eyes, and there was no need for a translation. The Ramanthian was and always would be an enemy.

  The delegation brushed past. The cyborg felt the chill and continued on his way. Orno was a problem—but far from the most pressing one. Chien-Chu had just returned from Earth, where Maylo, along with countless others, had repaired the free market economy, restored civil liberties, and was starting to deal with the war damage, both real and psychological.

  There was a lot left to be done, including the creation of a war tribunal, preparations for the upcoming elections, and military reforms. Reforms that would require senatorial approval, the kind achieved through intensive lobbying, all of which argued against his present errand.

  Ambassador Doma-Sa had been insistent, however, very insistent, and was hard to ignore. Partly because of his size, partly because of his persona, and partly because of their history together. After all, it was information provided by the Hudathan that had broken the conspiracy wide open and provided Nankool with the means to boot Pardo out of office. That meant something, to Chien-Chu at least, which explained his willingness to come.

  The clone spent the better part of fifteen minutes making the trip through the corridors and out into the landing bay where the Hudathan was waiting. The alien looked huge in his space armor. Chien-Chu heard the voice via his onboard com gear. “You came.”

  “Of course. I said I would.”

  Doma-Sa regarded the other being through his faceplate. “Many humans say many things ... only some of them are true.”

  Chien-Chu looked up into alien eyes. “Just one of the many traits that our races have in common.”

  Hudathans don’t laugh, not the way humans do, but the strange, grunting sound came fairly close.

  The strange twosome crossed the busy deck, approached the Hudathan shuttle, and entered the lock.

  Later, after Chien-Chu had strapped himself into the gargantuan copilot’s seat, they were off. Traffic control cleared them out of the Friendship’s bay and onto an approved vector. “So,” Chien-Chu said, “will you tell me where we’re going? And more importantly, why?”

  “Not yet,” the Hudathan said stolidly. “It is better if you see for yourself. Someone is following. The Ramanthians, perhaps. We will take evasive action.”

  The evasive maneuvers, plus the trip to the asteroid belt, took the better part of eight hours. Chien-Chu didn’t know he had fallen asleep until Doma-Sa touched his arm. “Come. We have arrived.”

  The cyborg looked at the viewscreen. It showed what looked a landing bay. “Arrived? Arrived where?”

  But the Hudathan had gone, leaving Chien-Chu with little choice but to release his harness and follow. Doma-Sa waited in the lock. They cycled through together. A strange, manta-shaped shuttle crouched off to one side. It wasn’t Hudathan—so who did the ship belong to? An officer was waiting. Doma-Sa made the introduction. “Governor Chien-Chu ... Spear Commander Nolo-Ka.”

  The Hudathan officer came to attention as the cyborg frowned. “This looks a lot like a warship—the kind you aren’t supposed to have.”

  “This vessel has the capacity to defend itself,” Doma-Sa admitted, “but the Deceiver’s main mission is to gather intelligence of the sort that freed your planet.”

  Though Chien-Chu had been already aware that the ship existed, had to exist in order for the Hudathans to intercept the Ramanthian message torp, the reality of it was something else. These were the beings who had murdered Chien-Chu’s only son, who had bombed the N’awatha to the edge of extinction, and laid to waste entire planets. Something they would be only too happy to do all over again. So, insignificant as it might seem, the Deceiver hinted at a monumental threat. One that had been contained—but just barely.

  Doma-Sa nodded. “I know what you are thinking, but believe me, my race is nothing compared to the threat that comes our way.”

  Nolo-Ka led the way. Chien-Chu was struck by how large everything was. He felt like a child forced to deal with adult-sized furnishings.

  Gratings clanged underfoot as they made their way through a series of passageways and into a relatively small compartment. It consisted of little more than steel bulkheads, a pedestal-style table, and some throne-sized chairs. A single being sat under a cone of harsh light. She was small, much smaller than Chien-Chu, and looked tiny in the enormous chair. She had large eyes, catlike ears, and horizontal vents in place of nostrils.

  “Governor Chien-Chu,” Doma-Sa said formally, “please allow me to present Astria Parantha, also known as Sector 12, a title roughly analogous to Senator. She belongs to the Thraki leadership committee and represents a faction known as the Runners.”

  The Hudathan turned to the Thraki. “This is the human I told you about. Please tell him everything that you shared with me.”

  The female held a small robot in her lap. It translated her word
s into standard. It took the better part of three hours for the diminutive alien to describe the Sheen, the incredible power that they possessed, and their unbending determination to find the Thraki and destroy them.

  And not just them, but any race associated with them, which meant the entire Confederacy.

  It was a lot to absorb. Doma-Sa gave the human a moment to digest what he’d heard and turned back to the Thraki. “Thank you. Now, tell him about the Facers, and the plan to use the Confederacy.”

  Another fifteen minutes passed while Parantha laid out the plan first articulated by Sector 4.

  Chien-Chu, already stunned by the magnitude of what was almost certainly coming their way, felt a terrible sense of hopelessness as the Thraki politician described how her race planned to sacrifice Confederate forces to the Sheen and then, if convenient, turn and destroy them.

  But only if they fell for it. It was the sector’s hope that once the Confederacy knew about the Sheen, they would force the armada to resume its nomadic ways—something that would make Sector 12 and the rest of her party very happy.

  Chien-Chu listened, nodded, and asked the obvious question. “It’s my understanding that you have approximately five thousand ships, all under Facer control. In addition to that, your race fortified one of our planets. How would we force the armada to leave?”

  The Thraki hoped there would be a way, but wasn’t sure what it would be.

  The human looked at the Hudathan. Understanding jumped the gap. Nothing was safe. Everything was at risk. Death roamed the stars, and, sooner rather than later, it was going to find them.

  Jorley Jepp had no idea what the space had been intended for, only that it was large enough to accommodate more than two hundred robots, all of which stood in orderly rows. They were clay, God’s clay, needing only to be shaped, fired, and put to work. And that was his purpose, to give them the word of God, fill them with zeal, and send them forth.

  The human raised his hands. “Repeat after me ... there is nothing but the word of God ... Jorley Jepp speaks for God...”

  The Hoon listened with a tiny fraction of its overall beingness, put the fleet into a gentle turn, and authorized an additional expenditure of energy. All of the data points were in alignment. The Thraki were within reach ... and the Thraki must die.

  Ace Books by William C. Dietz

  GALACTIC BOUNTY

  FREEHOLD

  PRISON PLANET

  IMPERIAL BOUNTY

  ALIEN BOUNTY

  McCADE’S BOUNTY

  DRIFTER

  DRIFTER’S RUN

  DRIFTER’S WAR

  LEGION OF THE DAMNED

  BODYGUARD

  THE FINAL BATTLE

  WHERE THE SHIPS DIE

  STEELHEART

  BY BLOOD ALONE

  BY FORCE OF ARMS

  DEATHDAY

  EARTHRISE

  FOR MORE THAN GLORY

  FOR THOSE WHO FELL

  RUNNER

  LOGOS RUN

  WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST

  WHEN DUTY CALLS

  AT EMPIRE’S EDGE