By Blood Alone (12 page)

Tyspin’s mind started to race. There was so much to consider ... and so much to do. Reach the admiral, secure the bridge, restore discipline. If only...

A power tech stepped out of an access hatch, saw Gryco coming her way, and raised the weapon. It belonged to the second engineer—now lying in a pool of his own blood.

The chief saw the movement, shot her twice, and passed without looking. Dead eyes stared up at Tyspin as the officer leapt over the body. It belonged to a petty officer named Trang.

The naval officer nearly ran into Gryco’s back as he skidded to a halt and pointed at a hatch. “That’s it, Captain. I’ll go high, you go low.”

The possibility that
she
should be giving the orders never occurred to Tyspin. Gryco had taken part in countless boarding parties during his long service, and she had participated in three. His expertise was superior to hers, and both of them knew it. She dropped into a crouch, and the chief slapped the access plate. Nothing.

The CPO looked at her and shrugged. “What now?”

“Use my override. Delta-Adam-Frank seven-three-two.”

Gryco entered the code into the keypad, raised his weapon, and pushed through the half-open hatch. “Drop your weapons! Place your hands on your heads!”

Tyspin scuttled forward, her weapon held in both hands. Gryco made a gagging sound and turned his head. The admiral, his flag lieutenant, and the
Gladiator’s
XO had been executed. Not just killed, but
dismembered
, so that pieces of them were jumbled together.

Tyspin fought to keep her dinner down, turned, and attacked the com panel. “Bridge? Tyspin here.”

“Captain?” The voice was filled with relief. “Thank God.”

“Not quite yet,” Tyspin replied. “Who’s speaking?”

“Rawlings, ma’am. Lieutenant j.g.”

Tyspin summoned up an elfin face, serious brown eyes, and a gawky walk. The most junior watch officer on board. Two years out of the Naval Academy
and on her second ship. “All right, Rawlings ... I need a sit rep ... and make it fast.”

Rawlings eyed the bridge. Screens had been shattered by the unexpected fusillade of low-velocity bullets. A handful of wires dangled, a short sparked, and fire retardant dripped from an equipment rack.

The cause of the damage, one Quartermaster Allan Mori, lay where he had fallen. The machine pistol, obtained by means unknown, had been taped to the bottom of his control panel. Suddenly and without warning the rating had stood, aimed at the OOD, and sprayed the bulkhead with soft-nosed bullets.

The Marine who killed him, a PFC named LaBatto, plus two of his buddies, were stationed at the hatch. They had repelled three attacks so far, but were low on ammo. LaBatto fired two rounds down the corridor, released the empty mag, and slapped the last one into place. It held thirty rounds. Rawlings swallowed the lump in her throat. “The bridge is secure, ma’am. For the moment anyway.”

Tyspin forced herself to concentrate. There were so many things to think about. “Cut power to all the ship’s weapons systems.”

Rawlings felt a momentary sense of pride. “All weapons systems secured, ma’am.”

Rawlings had kept her head—something Tyspin would remember. “Excellent. Good work, Lieutenant. How ’bout Engineering?”

“They
claim
to be secure,” Rawlings offered hesitantly, “but I’m not sure that I believe them.”

“Why not?” Tyspin asked, glancing toward the open hatch. Gryco was there, peeking around the comer.

“Because the second engineer can’t remember which position he played on the academy’s powerball squad.”

Tyspin was
doubly
impressed. “Okay, Lieutenant. The command override is Delta-Adam-Frank seven-three-two. Take control of the engineering systems and lock everyone else out. How ’bout communications? Anything from Fleet? Or NAVOPS?”

“No, ma’am. Someone’s running a full jam.”

So I’m not alone, Tyspin thought to herself. Other ships had been taken. It was a selfish thought, and one of which she was ashamed.

Gryco fired three shots in quick succession. “Time to leave, Captain—they’re getting ready to rush us.”

Rawlings heard the shots and felt a stab of fear. What if she were left in command? “Ma’am? Are you still there?”

“That’s a roger,” Tyspin answered grimly. “Hold the fort, Lieutenant—I’m on the way.”

 

General Arnold M. Loy and his staff wore combat fatigues as they watched the clearly impromptu broadcast cobbled together by a world-spanning association of netheads, ham operators and assorted techno-geeks.

They called themselves “Radio Free Earth” but used a wide variety of technologies to broadcast the news. Their latest newscast, anchored by a seventeen-year-old with a bad case of acne, had shown Legion troops marching through South Los Angeles. Snipers had accounted for two legionnaires, and the rest responded with wholesale violence. Five city blocks had been leveled, hundreds had died, and the destruction continued.

The officers watched in stunned silence as a Trooper III sent its analogs into a shopping mall—and tanks fired on civilians as they tried to escape. That’s when the tiny hover cam was destroyed and the teenage newscaster reappeared. He seemed scared but determined. “That’s what they
did
, folks... here’s what they
said.
”

A shot of Colonel Harco appeared. Those present recognized it as having been part of a propaganda holo aired half an hour earlier. It was fuzzy, but there was no mistaking the words. “You have no reason to fear us. The new government will respect your rights. It’s our job to protect you.”

Loy brought his fist down with such force that the 30mm shell casing that served as his pencil cup leapt clear of the desk. “Damn the man! I’ll see him hang!”

The general stood and removed his web belt from the back of the chair. “All right, you heard the traitorous bastard, put everything on the street. Let’s meet the scumbags head on, kill every last one of the sonsofbitches, and bury them deep.”

General Mary Macklin, the academy’s commandant and one of the most respected officers in the Legion, stepped forward. She had doubts about Loy, about the manner in which he had ignored a multiplicity of danger signs and seemed blind to his own culpability. She had tried to broach the subject once, to warn him of what was brewing, but he had dismissed her out of hand. “Stick to the academy, General—I’ll handle the rest.”

But it was too late for recriminations, meaningful ones anyway, and there were others to consider. “What about the cadets, sir? Shall I evacuate them?”

“Hell, no,” Loy replied carelessly. “They’re soldiers, aren’t they? Let ’em fight. Should be over soon. The experience will do ’em good.”

Macklin started to object, started to point out that many of her charges were little more than children, but saw it would do no good. She came to attention. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

The entire staff departed after that, each heading for what remained of their commands, determined to turn the tide.

Loy waited till the last one had left, pulled a picture out of a desk drawer, and stared at it for a moment. Then, having shoved the photo into his pocket, he left the office.

 

Though honed by training received in the Legion, many of the skills possessed by Nightslip’s troops had been learned during their youths on Algeron, and made even more effective by their acute sense of smell and the heat-sensitive pads located on the bottoms of their feet.

Having failed to compete with them as a child, Booly knew better than to try now, but did manage to integrate himself into their unit—an accomplishment that earned their instant respect.

Nightslip’s troops had been broken down into squads. Booly led one, with the objective of taking the Operations Center, while other groups went after the armory, the motor pool, and key positions throughout the fort. Hopefully, providing that all went well, they would strike at the same time.

The Naa moved forward in a series of well-coordinated spurts. A point man went first, followed by the squad, Booly, and a two-person “drag team” that spent most of their time walking backwards.

The legionnaires padded down a flight of stairs and entered a hall. A row of lights marched the length of the ceiling. First Sergeant Neversmile used a heavily silenced pistol to shoot them out. Plastic tinkled to the floor, and darkness claimed the passageway.

Booly wished the legionnaire had left at least one of the lights to see by, but had no intention of admitting that, and used a hand to follow the wall. The concrete was cold and smooth. Like a basement... or the wall of a tomb.

 

Everything within Fort Mosby’s Situation Room seemed suspended in time. Most of the duty staff, some eight people in all, stood with hands on heads.

First Sergeant Ernie Fuller, backed by Corporal Mel Bonsky and a squad from D Company 2nd REP, had them covered. The noncom was a big man—so big that the submachine gun looked more like a toy than an actual weapon.

Captain Henry Olmsworthy III stood to one side, tried to focus his eyes, but couldn’t quite make it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Fuller was in charge.

Sergeant Sean Skog lay where he had fallen, a bullet through his heart. Sergeant Ho knelt beside him, hands still bloody from his wound, hatred burning in her eyes. “You’ll pay for this, Bonsky ... and
I’ll
pull the trigger.”

“You’re next, bitch,” the diminutive corporal said, blood suffusing his face. “Eat this!”

The order left Bonsky’s brain but never made it to his finger. A rifle butt struck the back of the head, and he dropped like a rock. Fuller eyed his captives.
“I’ll
decide who dies around here.”

The noncom pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and motioned to Ho. “Come here. Transmit
this
code on
this
frequency. And don’t get fancy. We can shoot you and
still
have plenty of techs left over.”

Ho, who hadn’t liked the 2nd REP ever since a bar fight on El Six, liked them even less now. She had little choice, though... and did as she was told. It took thirty seconds to send the message—and even less time to receive a string of letters and numbers in response. She read them aloud.

Fuller nodded and looked around the room. “Good. You don’t realize it yet, but you did yourself a
big
favor. The Legion is safe now. Let me know if you’d like to join.”

 

Fuller’s two-man security detail was still probing the sudden darkness, still pondering what to do, when the Naa killed them. Were the deaths necessary? Or prompted by what they had done to Blademaker? Booly suspected it was the latter... but was in no mood to debate the matter.

The door opened with ease. A pair of shadows slipped through the gap. The officer followed. Fuller’s offer hung over the room. “So, who’s with us?”

Booly cleared his throat. “How ’bout
us
, Sergeant? Can
we
join?”

Heads swiveled as Fuller brought his weapon up. He was far too slow. A hole appeared at the center of his forehead, his eyes crossed, and he toppled over backwards. His squad stirred, saw the weapons pointed their way, and froze.

A Naa slid forward. One by one the mutineers were relieved of their weapons and ordered to kneel.

Olmsworthy tried to muster some sort of defense, saw Booly’s expression, and went to his knees.

Neversmile touched his ear plug and turned to Booly. “The lieutenant took the armory, sir, the motor pool is secure, and eighty percent of the perimeter is under control. Should have the rest shortly.”

“Casualties?”

“Yes, sir. Six dead... ten wounded. Both sides.”

Booly nodded and wondered how high the total butcher’s bill would be. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

The officer looked around the room. It was a critical moment, and he knew it. Some of the men and women around him, there was no way to know how many, would have accepted Fuller’s offer. How should they be treated? With suspicion? Or trust? The decision was based more on gut instinct than logic. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get back to work.”

Ho nodded and looked around. “You heard the colonel. The break’s over. Zuul, check to see what EARTHSEC has to say, Tram, scan the civilian stuff, and Motke, give me a hand. Skog was one of
ours
... and I wouldn’t want one of those bastards to touch him.”

Booly smiled grimly. How many of “those” bastards were there, anyway? Just a few? Or enough to take the planet? Only time would tell.

 

The corridor was momentarily clear. Chief Petty Officer Gryco hollered “Now!” and began to run. Captain Angie Tyspin followed. What began as a thin trail of blood droplets thickened and vanished under a body. The rating lay facedown. Loyalist? Mutineer? There was no way to tell.

Half-congealed blood had adhered itself to the bottom of Tyspin’s black high-tops. They made a scritching noise as she ran. Someone yelled, and she waited for the seemingly inevitable impact.

But the port side midship lock appeared up ahead, the hatch opened, and they slid inside. Bullets flattened themselves on metal. Tyspin used her override to lock the door.

“This looks about right,” Gryco said, pulling a set of emergency space armor out of the locker. “Hope you like white.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” Tyspin said as she struggled into the suit. “The shoulder beacons are a bit much, though.”

“You might want to deactivate those hummers,” the noncom said thoughtfully. “The idea is to be
unobtrusive—
not the other way around.”

Tyspin nodded, settled the helmet over her head, and felt it mate to the suit. By slipping out through the lock and making their way along the outs
ide surface of the ship, the twosome hoped to bypass the mutineers. That was the theory, anyway—and it might even work.

Gryco used a thickly gloved hand to pat the top of her helmet. He looked huge in the armor. “Ready when you are, ma’am.”