By Blood Alone (10 page)

Henry, the
Pelican
’s navcomp, would have fed the prospector all sorts of data, but the ship was gone, and so was the computer. All Jepp could do was watch, and wonder what the Sheen vessel was up to.

The scout shuddered as it entered the planet’s upper atmosphere, locked onto its target, and began to track. There was food among the sulfurous clouds-and the ship was hungry.

 

The Baa’l ship was more than five hundred feet long and consisted of a ram scoop, some very complex separators, and six cylinders, each of which was divided into multiple tanks.

As with all the Baa’l race, the intelligence who controlled the ship and served as its single crew member was known by his job description, a rather lengthy affair that filled the brains of no less than 107 nonsentient storage beings, but could be summarized as: “The one who travels vast distances in search of materials required to repair, maintain, and further Baa’l infrastructure to the benefit of the race.”

The last part was especially important, since all activity was measured in terms of its usefulness to the race-and anything that failed to meet stringent criteria went unresourced.

Still, as with most of his peers, the pilot had chosen an abbreviated identifier in the form of a two-symbol poem: Far/ Finder.

But none of that was on the Baa’l’s mind as he cruised the ocean of clouds. They were wonderfully thick, about sixty dom deep, and ripe for harvest. Far/Finder checked his sensors and took pleasure from the readings. There were useful amounts of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, hydrogen sulfide, carbonyl sulfide, sulfer dioxide, argon, and xenon, all flowing out of the separator and into their pressurized storage tanks.

The ship carried other gases as well, but these made an excellent addition to the haul, and would earn praise from the Off-World Resource Procurement Committee.

Far/Finder’s body consisted of a brain, neural fibers, three hearts, one lung, and twenty-seven interconnected gas bladders, all of which could be individually pressurized. He fed some additional air to number sixteen. That particular part of his anatomy grew larger, pushed on a pressure sensitive plate, and sent the ship downward. The Baa’l “saw” the computer-mapped surface rise slightly and “felt” the vessel’s skin grow warmer.

Air was allowed to escape from bladder sixteen, the ship leveled out, and a volcano loomed ahead. Far/Finder turned to avoid it. That’s when the alarms sounded and the Baa’l knew something was after him.

 

Jepp tried one of the chairs, discovered that it was uncomfortable, and chose to stand. There was nothing to see at first except the thick, swirling clouds. They were yellow and appeared rather dense. The deck tilted, he grabbed a chair back for support, and saw a flash of what? Metal?

The scout turned toward the right, and the clouds parted to reveal a ship. A
strange
ship consisting of clustered cylinders and stubby outriggers. Now the prospector understood. The Sheen vessel needed fuel ... and was about to take it.

The prospector felt sorry for the pilot and crew. He wished he could help them and started to pray. It didn’t make any difference. The Sheen ship closed the distance; the fugitive filled more of the screen, and jinked back and forth.

Jepp, for some reason he couldn’t quite articulate, had assumed the other ship was human. He’d been wrong. The bow scoop and long narrow tanks were clearly alien.

The ships were close now,
very
close, with the Sheen vessel hanging above and slightly behind its intended victim. What looked like a jagged bolt of lighting jumped the intervening gap. The viewscreen flickered, and lights dimmed. The victim had teeth!

Jepp felt a sense of excitement, remembered where he was, and considered his space suit. Should he leave the control room? And get his armor?

The battle was fought and won in the time it took the human to frame the question. The scout used tractor beams to lock the Baa’l vessel in place, drilled a hole through Far/Finder’s life support tank, and waited for the pilot to die.

 

Far/Finder “felt” the tractor beams seize control of his ship, followed by intense pain as an energy beam punched a hole through bladder seven. He sealed that part of himself off, checked his sensors, and knew the situation was hopeless. There was no choice but to abandon ship.

The life pod was small and extremely uncomfortable, but the Baa’l managed to squeeze inside. He inflated a pseudopod, applied the correct amount of pressure, and felt the emergency vehicle fall free. But not before a final act of defiance. Even as the life pod fell away, and the Sheen allowed it to go, gases flowed from one tank to another, hydrogen mixed with oxygen, and a spark was prepared.

 

The food ship was available for the taking. The scout opened the main hatch, shortened its tractor beams, and pulled the recently subdued prey inside. It was long, too long, but the Sheen had consumed such meals before and knew th
e nano could handle it. So, like one snake consuming another, the digestive process began.

Jepp, who had been watching in open-mouthed amazement, heard something whir. He turned, saw the hatch start to close, and dived toward the opening. It was too far, however,
way
too far, and the prospector knew he wouldn’t make it.

The tool pouch saved the day. The door hit the object, whined upward, and descended again. The human was through by then, grabbing the tools, and taking them along. There was a thud as the hatch closed. That’s when a series of three explosions rocked the ship.

The alien vessel! It had exploded! What about the atmosphere? Had the hull ruptured? The space armor! He had to reach it!

Jepp ran toward his quarters. Hatches closed behind him. The prospector was familiar with most but not all of them. Each barrier threatened to cut him off from his space suit
and
the supplies.

Boots pounded on metal and the prospector’s lungs screamed for air as even more explosions rattled the ship. There, up ahead, the last hatch had started to fall!

Jepp drew on reserves he didn’t even know he had, threw himself forward, and dove through the quickly narrowing rectangle. He hit the deck hard. Had his feet cleared? The prospector scrabbled his way forward. A clang signaled safety. He was alive! But for how long? The explosions had stopped-but the atmosphere could vanish any moment.

The human hurried to enter his suit, left the faceplate open to conserve on air, and settled in to wait. And wait. And wait.

Minutes went by, followed by hours, followed by days. The air continued to flow, and the lights continued to glow, but the hatches remained closed. Permanently closed, as far as Jepp could tell. Food and water continued to dwindle. There was nothing he could do but pray-and hope for some sort of miracle. Determined to be heard, the prospector fell to his knees and went to work.

Though still capable of movement, the scout was severely damaged. The artificial intelligence knew that, and took appropriate steps.

A signal went out, took thirty-six standard time units to reach its destination, and was taken under consideration. The reply was clear: “Rejoin the fleet.”

The scout broke orbit, accelerated away, and entered hyperspace.

The Baa’l waited till the predator was gone, fired his sub-light drive, and began the long journey home. It would take the better part of three unproductive years. The Committee would be most unhappy. Far/Finder sighed, adjusted his various bladders, and began a poem.

War being an occupation by which a man cannot support himself with honour at all times, it ought not to be followed as a business by any but princes or governors of commonwealths; and if they are wise men they will not suffer any of their subjects or citizens to make that their only profession.

Niccolo Machiavelli
The Prince
Standard year 1513

 

 

It was dark, and the lights of Los Angeles looked like gems scattered on black velvet. Thousands of grav platforms, robolifts and aircars crisscrossed the local sky grid.

No one paid any particular attention to the unmarked personnel carrier that rode a priority vector in from the east, dropped out of traffic, and landed on a high rise. Three men exited the aircraft. It was gone moments later.

Matthew Pardo shivered in the early morning air. His fatigues had the word “Prisoner” stenciled on the back, his hands were cuffed in front of him, and chains rattled at his feet.

His escort consisted of two MPs. neither of whom was much of a conversationalist. The first, an individual whom Pardo had christened “Dickhead,” motioned toward a sudden rectangle of light. “Put your ass in gear, Pardo—we ain’t got all day.”

No “sir,” no “please,” just “put your ass in gear.” But that’s how it was for prisoners—especially those who were or had been officers.

Pardo eyed Dickhead’s shock baton, knew the Marine would love to use it, and bit the inside of his cheek. The MP grinned. “That’s right, shit-for-brains—one wrong move and I’ll fry your ass. Let’s go.”

The ex-officer shuffled across the roof. A civilian waited to greet them. Light illuminated the right half of her face. She had short-cropped blonde hair, a jeweled temple jack, and long, well-tailored legs. If the woman was curiou
s regarding Pardo’s restraints, she gave no sign of it. “This way, gentlemen ... watch your step.”

There was a coaming, meant to keep rainwater out, and Pardo struggled to cross it. Dickhead grinned happily.

The elevator fell, and fell, and fell. The indicator lights remained dark-but Pardo knew they were below ground level.
Way
below ground level. But why? The MPs were unable or unwilling to answer his questions. He could ask Legs-but why bother? The ride would be over soon, and so would the mystery.

The platform coasted to a gentle stop. The doors opened, and Dickhead prodded him in the back. “Move it, shit-for-brains.”

Pardo stepped out, followed Legs out of the elevator lobby, and paused at the top of a short flight of stairs. The room was enormous. Pardo saw columns, plus hundreds, perhaps thousands of consoles, all configured in clusters of twelve. Of equal interest were the people who sat, stood, or moved around them. Some were dressed in Marine, Navy, or Legion uniforms. Others, at least half, wore civilian clothes. And there were robots, all sorts of robots, who walked, crawled, and in some cases flew from place to place. Pardo watched a message ripple across an enormous reader board, liste
ned to the steady murmur of radio traffic, and felt a heady sense of purpose.

Dickhead was especially impressed. “Wow! What is this place?”

Legs smiled coldly. “This is the Global Operations Center, or GOC. Please follow me.”

Pardo tried to keep up with the civilian but soon fell behind. The leg shackles made it difficult for him to walk. A woman stared, and he winked in response. As the ex-legionnaire moved out from behind one of the thick support columns, the center of the room was revealed.

A metal railing surrounded a large open space. A replica of Earth floated at its center. Pardo thought it was solid until a crane-mounted chair burst through the continent of Africa. It carried a man, and not just
any
man, but Colonel Leon Harco. He swooped in for a landing. Pardo arrived five seconds later. Legs handled the introduction. “Colonel Harco ... Captain Pardo.”

Harco offered his hand, and the younger officer was forced to extend both of his. The colonel’s grip felt like steel.

Harco turned to the MPs. “Remove this officer’s manacles and cuff yourselves together.”

The military policemen looked at each other, and Dickhead reached for his sidearm. He stopped when Staff Sergeant Jenkins inserted the barrel of a 9mm handgun into his right ear hole. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

Pardo waited for the restraints to fall away, rubbed his wrists, and looked Dickhead in the eye. “One more thing, Corporal ...”

The MP found it hard to swallow. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Sir?”

Pardo kneed the Marine in the groin, hammered the back of his head, then kicked him in the ribs. It took two legionnaires to carry him away. People looked and returned to their work. Harco stood at parade rest. The sarcasm was obvious. “Very impressive.”

“He had it coming.”

“He had it coming,
sir.
”

Pardo came to attention. “He had it coming,
sir
!”

Harco took two steps forward and stopped no more than an inch away. “Listen, and listen good. You are here for two reasons: Your mother is governor ... and your mother is governor. I think you’re a low-life, scum-sucking, no-good piece of shit. Maybe, just maybe, you can change my opinion.
If
you demonstrate some leadership,
if
you maintain discipline, and if you control your temper. Do you read me?”