By Blood Alone (14 page)

Kenny had absolutely no idea who his ally was, or where he or she might be located, except that J. J. had to have access to some sort of high-tech manufacturing facility.

Each fly cam was a work of art. Though small, about the size of the insect after which they had been named, a camera still managed to deliver high-quality holo images via some sort of relay system that Kenny had yet to figure out.

But none of that mattered, not now, as both sides struggled to take control of the city.

Rather than expend his assets in dribs and drabs as he had in the recent past, Kenny had decided to amass an entire fleet of the miniature cameras and launch them all at once. Then, by picking and choosing between hundreds of shots at his disposal, the teenager hoped to create a real-time mosaic of events as they transpired.

It wouldn’t last long, the bad guys would see to that, but for ten, maybe fifteen minutes the world would see the truth. Whatever
that
was.

Most people liked to talk to their computers—but Kenny preferred an old-fashioned keyboard. Keys clicked as the sent instructions went out over the airwaves.

Approximately half a minute passed before anything happened. The fly cams had been parked inside a garbage bin near the comer of Roscoe and Van Nuys. No one noticed as they swarmed out of the dumpster, departed along preassigned vectors, and went to work.

Kenny smiled as video blossomed within his jury-rigged holo tanks. If properly selected, the pictures, along with the natural sound that accompanied them, would tell the story all by themselves. He went to work.

What billions of human beings saw over the next twenty minutes was some of the most moving footage ever shot. The citizens of Earth watched as the tiny cameras introduced them to heavily cratered neighborhoods, buildings that continued to burn, and a battalion of teenage legionnaires.

Viewers watched in stunned fascination as the youngsters fired their SLAMs, fell back to prepared positions, and fired again. They bit their lips as the cyborgs continued to advance, as the defenders died in clusters of two, four, six and ten. Many broke into tears as the line eventually broke, the cadets were flanked, and the battle was lost.

John and Mary Voytan uttered exclamations of surprise as their daughter Melissa appeared in the tank before them. She looked over her right shoulder, shouted an order, and reached for her sidearm.

That’s when more than half the people on the planet watched the camera pull out, saw the cadet surrender, and saw Major Matthew Pardo fire a bullet into her head.

Melissa collapsed like a rag doll, her mother screamed, and Pardo pointed to the camera. It ceased to exist.

Melissa Voytan’s summary execution would have set the rebellion back no matter
who
pulled the trigger, but the fact that it was the governor’s son served to polarize the population. Most of those who already believed in the revolt continued to do so. But those who were unsure, and that included millions upon millions of people, were shocked. The civilian resistance movement, which had been weak up until then, gained instant legitimacy. Ad hoc demonstrations were held all over the world. Brute force was used to put them down. Radio Free Earth covered as many as they could. A b
attle had been wori-but the war was far from over.

A burial detail entered the loyalist TOC half an hour later, saw the manner in which Laura Voytan’s green beret had been positioned on the carefully arranged corpse, and added it to their loot. They were the victors—and to the victors go the spoils.

 

 

The Cynthia Harmon Center for Undersea Research was located one hundred fifty feet beneath the surface of the Pacific Ocean. A sprawling complex, built piece by piece as funding became available, it consisted of twenty-three cylinders, all of various sizes connected by semiflexible tubing.

Lights twinkled through the murk as a minisub nudged a neon numbered lock and a school of French grunts wheeled and darted away.

Maylo Chien-Chu saw those things, but
didn’t
see them, as she hung facedown in the water. She was naked except for a gill mask, a weight belt, and a pair of flippers. Billions of phytoplankton, all linked by miles of translucent fiber, embraced both her body and her mind.

The Say’lynt, one of four in existence, came from ocean world IH-4762-ASX41. Like her “parents,” Sola was highly telepathic. Even more amazing was the fact that the alien could control other sentients from a distance. Her voice echoed through Maylo’s mind. “So, the work goes well?”

“Work?” Maylo asked dreamily. “What work?”

“Oh, nothing much,” the alien teased, “just the interstellar corporation for which you have ultimate responsibility and the Center for Undersea Research.”

“Oh, those,” Maylo responded easily. “Chien-Chu Enterprises had another profitable quarter. As for the research—you tell me. How’s it going?”

Sola felt the pull of a distant current and allowed part of her body to float toward the surface where it could absorb energy from the sun. “Nonsentient plankton absorb roughly half the carbon dioxide produced by your civilization. That, as you might say, is the good news. The bad news is that carbon dioxide levels are on the rise—and contribute to global warming.”

The human frowned. The citizens of Earth had made some progress over the last few hundred years, but not enough. “So there’s nothing we can do?”

“No,” the Say’lynt replied. “I didn’t say that. The southern oceans are relatively barren in spite of the fact that they contain enough nitrogen and phosphorous to support a large population of phytoplankton. More plankton would reduce the levels of carbon dioxide.”

The dreamy feeling disappeared. Excitement flooded in to replace it. “Really? How would that work?”

“The problem is iron,” the group intelligence responded patiently. “Or the lack of it. Bodies such as mine use iron to make chlorophyll. The indigenous plankton obtain most of their iron from windblown dust. But there isn’t enough. Not in the southern oceans.”

“We could seed the area with iron!” Maylo thought excitedly. “The plankton would bloom, carbon dioxide levels would drop, and global warming would slow!”

“Possibly,” the Say’lynt agreed cautiously. “Remembering the law of unintended consequences ... and the need to proceed with extreme caution.”

“Yes,” Maylo agreed. “Of course! Experiments are in order.”

“Who will fund the additional research?” Sola inquired. “The government?”

Maylo shrugged. “ Maybe. That would make sense.... But this is important! So important that Chien-Chu Enterprises will foot the bill if it comes to that. My uncle would want it that way.”

The being once known as “raft Four” had never met the man in question but had memories inherited from the other members of her race. For it had been Sergi Chien-Chu who, in his role as director for the Department of Interpecies Cooperation, had successfully recruited rafts One and Two into the Confederacy’s armed forces—a decision that was critical to the outcome of the Hudathan war. Sola sent a wave of affection toward her visitor. “Yes, I believe he would.”

The moment was over. Maylo felt both rested and reenergized. There was work to do, a
lot
of it, but she was ready to take it on. “Thank, you Sola.... How much longer till you return home?”

“I’m scheduled to lift a month from now,” the alien replied. “Your planet is beautiful ... but I miss my family.”

“And we will miss
you,”
Maylo replied. “See you tomorrow?”

Sola was silent for a moment. “Perhaps ... but a storm is brewing ... and the currents carry us where they will.”

“Let it rip,” Maylo said confidently. “That’s what I like about life below the surface ... everything is so serene.”

The Say’lynt knew better, had “heard” the distant screams, but allowed the matter to drop. The human would learn soon enough.

Maylo felt the tendrils drop away. Lights beckoned. She kicked, and they grew brighter.

The executive pushed her way downward, waved to a pair of trained dolphins, and eyed the complex below. Each tank, or habitat, wore a luminescent number. The VIP suite was located in nineteen. Maylo spotted the correct cylinder, entered the open lock, and pushed the green panel.

The hatch closed, a pump thumped, and the water level dropped. Maylo removed her equipment, used fresh water to rinse each piece off, and restored them to their hooks.

An inner door opened, and the executive’s feet slapped as she walked the length of a short corridor, palmed the access panel, and entered her temporary quarters. She was halfway to the bathroom when someone cleared his throat. “Sorry, boss. I was leaving a note.”

Maylo turned to find Dr. Mark Benton, the center’s director, standing by the fold-down desk. He was tall, with a swimmer’s shoulders and sturdy legs. He had brown hair, even features, and a strange expression. Embarrassment? Yes, but tinged with something else.

That’s when the executive remembered she was naked. Should she run? Or bluff it out? She decided on the latter. “Hi, Mark. Take a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.”

The oceanographer nodded mutely, wondered if she’d noticed the bulge in his shorts, and hoped she hadn’t. She had creamy skin, a narrow waist, and beautiful legs. It was a lovely sight... and one that would haunt him for weeks to come.

Once in the bathroom, Maylo rinsed the salt off her skin, examined herself in the mirror, and wondered what Benton thought. Did he like the way she looked? Not that it mattered, since she had little time for men. That was one of many sacrifices that went with the job.

The executive wrapped a towel around her head, slipped her arms into a robe, and padded toward the sitting room. A grouper nibbled at the heavily armored plastic window. Benton stood and offered his hand. It was warm and firm.

“Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you. There was an Abyssal storm out along the trench. Lots of mud... terrible visibility. A cyborg rolled off a cliff and took some damage. She’s safe ... but it took twenty hours to recover the crawler.”

Maylo took a seat. “I’m sorry to hear it.... Is that what you came to see me about?”

The scientist shook his head. “Heck, no, I wouldn’t bother you with something like that. This is, well,
big
. Here. Watch this.”

Benton walked over, dropped a holo cube into her player, and touched a button. “This stuff was recorded during the past couple of days. The com center condensed more than thirty hours of programming into thirty minutes.”

Maylo started to speak, but Benton raised a hand. “You’re busy, I know, but trust me. Once you see this, you’ll want
more
information, not less.”

A thousand points of light swirled like multicolored snow and coalesced. Governor Patricia Pardo started to speak. The executive listened, swore, and listened some more. None of what the politician had to say was good—and what followed was even worse.
Much
worse.

Maylo watched in horror as the fighting escalated, as cities started to burn, as people died. Not just a
few
people, but thousands, culminating in an on-camera execution that left her nauseous.

The video faded to black, followed by a long silence. Maylo was the first to break it. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” Benton agreed. “That pretty well sums it up.”

“Any response from the Confederacy?”

“Not so far... but it should come soon.”

The door chimed softly. Maylo rose to answer it.

The security officer was ex-military, one of many that Chien-Chu Enterprises had hired, partly because it seemed the right thing to do, and partly because it was a damned good investment. The woman’s name was Jillian, and she looked concerned. “Sorry to interrupt, but things are getting hairy.”

Maylo sighed, wished she had taken time to dress, and waved the officer in. “No problem, Jillian. Dr. Benton played the holo for me. What have you got?”

The security officer stood at a close approximation to parade rest. “Nothing good, ma’am. Combat-equipped troops invaded the company’s offices in Los Angeles, New York, Mexico City, Rio, London, Moscow, Calcutta, Sydney, and Lima. Our records were seized, our funds were frozen, and at least ten members of your executive team are under arrest. Your picture was aired on the government controlled news. They put out a reward of one hundred thousand credits... dead or alive.”

The words came as a shock. Maylo felt something cold trickle into the pit of her stomach. Dead or alive? What was happening? Had Pardo lost her mind? But there was more. Maylo could tell from the other woman’s expression. “Casualties?”

Jillian gave a short, jerky nod. “Yes, ma’am. A hundred and six so far, security people mostly, including the chief.”

Major Jose Mendoza had been one of those pushed out of the Legion and onto the streets—the perfect man to lead her security team. Maylo could visualize his tough, leathery face and hear his booming laugh. Killed doing his job. Anger boiled up from deep inside, anger she would harness and use. Someone, or a whole bunch of someones, was going to pay. “I’m sorry, Jillian. Jose was the best.”

The security officer nodded. “Ma‘am. Yes, ma’am.”

“How ’bout other companies? Did they receive the same treatment?”

“It’s early yet,” Jillian replied cautiously, “but none so far.”

Maylo felt her mind start to whirl. “We were targeted? By whom?”

“It’s hard to tell,” Jillian answered stolidly, “but I had reports from Los Angeles and Calcutta indicating that representatives from Noam Inc. accompanied the rebel troops and remained on prem once the soldiers left.”

Noam Inc.! Of course. The two companies were fierce competitors, and had been for a long time. The mutiny was more than a military revolt.... There was a financial component as well.