Harco, his jaw rigid with barely controlled anger, came to attention, delivered the salute, and saw the other man’s smile. “Leon! Nice of you to come ... not that you had a great deal of choice.”
The entourage laughed, tittered, and giggled. This was the sort of entertainment they lived for.
Pardo ignored them. “I asked you to come because there are those who admire and take comfort from your stem military visage. About sixty percent of the voting public, give or take a point or two. They will note your presence and feel much relieved.”
There was a humming sound as three ovoid-shaped robocams rose from the depths below and positioned themselves along the rail. Harco felt more lead enter his belly. It was a setup. But what kind? And for what purpose?
Pardo smiled sardonically. “Why, Leon, what’s wrong? You look worried. What a silly thing to do! You’re one of us ... not one of them.”
The last word was said with contempt—as if the still-silent crowd was inferior somehow.
It was at that particular moment that Harco realized that no matter what happened next, some of the responsibility would fall on him. Not because he had conceived whatever was about to happen ... but because he had enabled it. Enabled it and lost control. Like a missile he couldn’t recall.
One of the toadies offered Pardo a wireless microphone, whispered something in his ear, and stepped out of the way. Conscious of the vid cams, the entourage looked suitably respectful.
An announcer read from a carefully prepared script. Pardo stepped out where he could be seen and took a moment to admire the size of his audience. His image blossomed on three enormous screens. Halfhearted applause rippled through the crowd.
The odds were that the RFE’s fly cams were covering the event as well, which was all to the good, since that would extend the breadth of Pardo’s coverage. Dozens of black-clad troops appeared at the exits as he brought the microphone to his lips. The crowd stirred uneasily. “Greetings. Thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to attend this gathering.
“Most of you are law-abiding citizens. Thanks for your support. Others, and you know who you are, belong to the so-called resistance, or, if not active yourselves, persist in supporting those who are. You will be punished.”
There was a deep rumbling noise. Harco recognized the sound and scanned the horizon. The ship, which was too large to land within the coliseum, appeared from the west. It threw a shadow across the crowd. Twelve man-made cyclones held the vessel aloft. They destroyed a four-hundred-foot section of wall, sliced through a section of intentionally empty seats, and sucked debris into whirling columns of air.
People screamed, clung to each other, and surged toward the exits. The guards fired, people staggered, and the crowd retreated. The wounded called for help, and the dead lay where they had fallen.
The ship had completed its journey by then, and hung over the arena like an ominous lid.
In spite of the fact that the rebs controlled the upper layers of the atmosphere, they allowed government aircraft to operate below thirty-five thousand feet. So far, anyway—though that was likely to change. This particular vessel was about as large as a spaceship could get and still be able to land on a planetary surface.
The resistance had allowed the ship to exist because it was based so close to Los Angeles that an attack would cause civilian casualties. One of Harco’s suggestions—and one he suddenly regretted. “So,” Pardo continued solemnly. “It seems that some sort of example is in order.”
The words were a cue. Six beams of bright blue light touched various parts of the crowd. There were screams followed by confusion as the targeting lasers swept the seats.
“Yes,” Pardo said understandingly. “Scary, isn’t it? Knowing that death can reach down and touch you.... But only if you’re guilty—like citizen Deke Bayeva.”
Three of the lasers converged on a single man. He stood, tried to run, and vanished in a flash of light.
The ash modeled the shape of his body for a moment, surrendered to a puff of wind, and dusted the seats beyond. Five people, all of whom had been seated near Bayeva, died at the same instant. A wooden seat back started to burn and was extinguished with a jacket.
“That’s what happens to traitors,” Pardo intoned. “And if you doubt that Bayeva was guilty, then watch the screens.”
The crowd had little choice but to watch as the recently deceased Bayeva appeared on the screens, pried the lid off a public utility vault, cut the cables nestled within, and ducked off camera.
A new culprit was announced, and the torture continued. Harco watched in disgust as the targeting lasers swept the near-hysterical crowed, settled on their latest victim, and burned her down.
There were no apologies for those who died with the condemned, or the long line of blackened bodies that resulted when a burst of wind hit the hovering ship, sending an energy beam down row 123. The message was clear: Watch those around you, choose your friends with care, or share their fate.
Finally, after ten resistance fighters had been identified and executed, the assault ship was allowed to depart. Sunlight flooded the arena. Pardo, his eyes alight with emotion, scanned the crowd. “Remember what you saw, tell others, and obey the law. You’ll live longer that way.”
The security forces withdrew from the exits, people rushed to leave, and the governor turned his back. “So,” Pardo said, his eyes locked with Harco’s, “what do you think?”
The officer considered a political reply, knew he couldn’t stomach it, and said what he truly believed. “I think you’re insane.”
A bodyguard went for her weapon, staggered as Staff Sergeant Jenkins shot her, and skidded across the floor.
The braver members of the entourage surged forward, hesitated when Sergeant Major Lopa aimed a machine gun in their direction, and stayed where they were. The militiaman to whom the weapon had been issued lay unconscious at the noncom’s feet. The voice was little more than a growl. “If you want some ... then come and get it.”
No one accepted the offer. Especially Leshi Qwan—who had slipped out the door.
Pardo, the only one who dared to move, shook his head sadly. “I’m disappointed, Leon ... very disappointed. I looked up to you, wanted to be like you, and believed you were strong. I thought you knew that political power, real political power, grows out of the barrel of a gun.”
“The battle is for justice,” Harco said hollowly, “not power.”
Pardo laughed. “Speak for yourself, Leon. Now, if you and your men will step aside, I have a supper to attend.”
Lopa, who could have killed the governor by exerting the tiniest bit of pressure on the machine gun’s trigger, raised an eyebrow. Harco shook his head.
Pardo gestured to his entourage and led them out. All but the bodies, which remained where they had fallen.
Harco turned his eyes in the direction of the field. The cameras were gone and the sun had started to set.
The horizon seemed to shimmer as the sun-tortured tarmac released waves of heat. Rank after rank of troops stood at attention.
Thanks to the constant flow of volunteers, and the infusion of more than nine hundred “reactivated” cyborgs, the 13th DBLE was considerably over strength. So much so that they had been forced to muster at Djibouti’s airport.
The ceremony was Kattabi’s idea, a way to not only welcome the borgs back to active duty, but to show the once-demoralized 13th just how strong it now was.
The ground shook as the newly reinducted cyborgs marched past. Three had expired during the flight to Djibouti, six died while being transferred into their new bodies, and eighty-nine were declared unfit for duty.
The rest turned in response to an order, formed a column of twos, and marched the length of runway 1R.
Booly held his salute as yet another Confederate flag drew abreast of the makeshift review stand and felt a variety of conflicting emotions.
It was good to see these veterans, to have their strength to call on, but sad nonetheles
s. How many of these same cyborgs would die cursing his name? Wishing he had left them buried in the past? There was no way to know.
A bugle sounded, a flight of six fighters roared overhead, and the troops marched on.
The safe house was buried in south L.A. It belonged to a sympathizer who worked for the government. Water poured into the tub, and the bathroom filled with steam. It billowed, eased toward the window, and shivered as it passed through the opening.
Kenny had changed during the recent weeks and months. The acne-scarred face was the same, but he was stronger, more self-confident. And why not? He had founded the RFE, hadn’t he?
Yes, there was the mysterious J.J., and the funds that greased the way, plus hundreds, no, thousands of underground correspondents who risked their lives to submit their reports, but he was the one who made everything tick, and lived with a price on his head. How many times had they come for him? Five? Six? He’d lost count.
He pulled the 9mm out of his waistband, laid it on the toilet lid, and shucked his clothes. They were filthy, and rather than wash them out he would throw them away. So much for laundry. A new set, tags removed, lay in a corner.
Kenny examined his body in the mirror, took pleasure in seeing how hard it was, and bent to brush his teeth.
That’s where he was, spitting into the sink, when the girl entered. Her name was Jenny, and, like many of the women Kenny had run into of late, she was attracted to him. It was a new development—and one that he enjoyed.
Kenny turned. Jenny smiled, did an abbreviated striptease, and stepped into the tub. She had an elfin face, pert little breasts, and long, slim legs.
Kenny felt himself respond, saw her eyes widen in response, and grinned. He checked to ensure that the door was locked and crossed the room.
The water was hot. Some slopped onto the floor as he entered the opposite end of the tub. Her legs slipped up over his shoulders. He kissed one ankle, then the other. It bore a half-moon tattoo. Jenny giggled, found what she was looking for, and held it tight.
That’s when something went thump, an intrusion alarm went off, and Kenny grabbed for the gun. “The window! Now!”
Jenny grimaced, brought something up out of the water, and pointed it at Kenny’s chest. She screwed her eyes shut and sent a message to her right index finger.
Kenny shot her twice, saw blood tinge the sudsy water, and heard the gun thud against the bottom of the tub.
The teenager stood, grabbed his boots, and shoved them through the window. Clothes are nice but don’t offer any protection from rocks, metal, and broken glass—just one of many things he’d learned during the last few months.
A voice came from out in the hall. “Jen? You in there? I heard shots. Did you nail the bastard?”
The bounty hunter hit the door with his shoulder, burst into the room, and took two slugs in the head. And a good thing too—since military-grade body armor protected his chest.
Kenny knelt on the back porch roof, peeked through the window, and wriggled back in. And why not? Government troops would have surrounded the place by now, and there was no sign of a backup. None except for Jenny ... who floated face up. Damn. What a waste.
He retrieved the new clothes, switched weapons with the bounty hunter, and left the 9mm clutched in the other man’s hand. Just a little entertainment for Pardo’s police force.
That accomplished, the resistance fighter went out the window, found his boots, and jumped to the ground. Once there, it was a simple matter to run down the alley, duck behind a garage, and pull the clothes on. They felt stiff and scratchy.
A siren could be heard in the distance as Kenny took his bearings, waited for a cop car to pass over his head, and strolled away. A dog barked—but no one cared.
The command car circumnavigated the bomb crater, lurched through a drainage ditch, and growled onto the much-abused highway. A lizard raised its head, took exception to what it saw, and scuttled away.
Admiral Angie Tyspin felt her butt leave the seat and was grateful for the lap belt.
Colonel Bill Booly glanced in her direction and grinned. “Nice one-point landing, Admiral.... Sorry about the road.”
“The name is Angie ... and I’ll settle for any kind of landing that I get to walk away from.”
“So noted,” Booly said cheerfully. “Now hang on—the road gets worse before it gets better.”
The legionnaire’s words proved prophetic. The vehicle topped a rise, granted a glimpse of blue, and plunged into a gully. It took the better part of twenty minutes to fight their way through a dry riverbed, up a series of ancient switchbacks, and along the side of a heavily eroded cliff. Tool marks left more than two hundred years before could still be seen.
But then, just as Tyspin was starting to regret the trip, they passed between a pair of graffiti marked boulders and out onto a gently winding road. The Gulf of Tadjoura shimmered below. The water was blue, the sun danced over the waves, and palms beckoned from the shore.
“That’s where we’re going,” Booly announced. “Are you ready for a beer?”
Tyspin wiped the sweat off her forehead, decided that she was, and waited while the other officer climbed out of the rig, went to the back, and opened a cooler. There were two dozen cans nestled in the ice, along with a bottle of wine and a carefully packed lunch.
Someone—Fykes seemed the most likely suspect—had thrown a couple of assault weapons into the back. His way of nagging without actually being there. Booly grinned and left the weapons where they were.
Tyspin watched the infantry officer swing behind the wheel, thought how handsome he looked, and accepted the ice-cold beer. It hissed as she flipped the tab up and out of the way. The liquid was cold and tart. It soothed her heat-parched throat.
So, Tyspin thought to herself, should I keep it platonic? Or take a fling? Assuming he wants one. He’s not in my chain of command, which certainly helps, but he is junior. Unless they jerk my star ... which would leave us as peers.
The naval officer found the concept to be comforting, reminded herself that there was no need to solve nonexistent problems, and decided to focus on the moment. Something, she wasn’t sure what, said, “Good idea,” and faded away.
The road descended through some nicely engineered curves, passed a long-abandoned resort, and ended by the sea.
Booly drove the command car under the palms, turned the tailgate into a shelf, and opened a duffle bag. “Ready for a swim? There’s three or four masks in here ... see if one of them fits.”
Tyspin wore a two-piece bathing suit under her shirt and shorts. She stripped down, examined the gear, and made her choices.
Booly, clad only in trunks, nodded toward the water. “Ready?”
Tyspin nodded and followed him across the sand. She’d been aware of the fur, but had never really seen it before. The silvery mane began at the base of his skull, flowed the length of his spine, and ended just above the waistband of his trunks.
Curious about her reaction, the naval officer checked, found that she rather liked it, and followed Booly into the water.
Protected as it was by the point west of Arta, the inner gulf was relatively calm and nonthreatening. Fine white sand shifted under Tyspin’s feet, waves lapped at her ankles, and soon rose to slap against her waist.
Tyspin lay on her back, pulled the fins on, and adjusted her mask. Booly waved, and she followed him out. The bottom was mostly bare. The current pushed the sand into delicate ridges, bounced tiny bits of coral along the bottom, and tugged at the tiny, almost transparent fish.
Then, as the water grew slightly colder and the waves became more pronounced, the bottom fell away. Booly touched her arm and pointed downward. Tyspin pulled plastic-tainted air down through the snorkel, stored it in her lungs, and kicked with her fins.
Booly felt cool water close over the top of his head and checked to ensure that Tyspin was okay. She had a lean, almost boyish body. Her legs moved with the rhythmic surety of someone who had dived before.
&
nbsp; Though she was not exactly beautiful, Tyspin exuded something the legionnaire liked. Intelligence, confidence, and competence. All sexy in their own way.
Rosy-orange coral heads rose to greet them, a school of blue chromis wheeled away, and a garden of sea anemones bloomed beyond.
Then, after what seemed like seconds but was actually minutes, the officer’s lungs began to protest. Booly checked to ensure that Tyspin was aware of him, jerked a thumb toward the surface, and kicked his feet. The sky arched above.
The water, which was deep and blue, harbored many mysteries, including ancient wrecks, little-known life-forms, and volcanic vents.
The machine intelligence was aware of such things, but perceived them as variables, none of which meant anything in and of themselves.
No, what counted was the mission, the purpose to which the construct was presently dedicated. Its rather mindless gestalt was both a weakness, and, given the nature of the machine’s assignment, a significant strength.
The machine knew it had limitations, just as it knew the enemy was sentient, and more than that, capable of sensing what bio bods thought and felt.
Not machines, though, which was why the three-hundred-seventy-foot-long attack submarine had been sent halfway around the world to intercept an even larger submersible, and then, as the people aboard screamed in pain, the artificial intelligence would assassinate the being that came to their aid.
It was a clever plan, far too clever for the attack sub to appreciate, not that it mattered.
Sound rumbled up ahead, the kind of sound made by twin screws, churning through the sea.
The attack sub checked to ensure that the sounds matched the correct computer profiles, loaded six AS-8 acoustic homing torpedos into its tubes, and prepared to fire.
Sola’s extremities covered hundreds of square miles of ocean and, that being the case, could feast on nearly limitless sunlight. Wonderful, delicious sunlight, which was different from that available on her native planet had its own unique bouquet.
By Blood Alone Page 31