By Blood Alone (25 page)

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but you’re required on the bridge.”

She recognized the voice as belonging to Lieutenant Rawlings—the same Lieutenant Rawlings who kept her head throughout the mutiny. If Rawlings said there was a problem, then there was a problem. Tyspin’s feet hit the ice-cold deck, and she grabbed a shirt. “I’m listening, Lieutenant.... What have we got?”

“It’s Rear Admiral Pratt, ma’am. His crew took control of the flagship.”

“Any word on him?”

“No, ma’am. And we aren’t likely to hear any. Not anytime soon. The muties took a hyperspace jump. Headed for the rim would be my guess.”

The theory made sense. There wasn’t much law out on the rim... and the deserters would have a chance. Not to mention a fully armed warship, which they could sell or use for Lord knew what.

Tyspin felt a flood of conflicting emotions. Anger at the mutineers, concern regarding the military situation, and yes, inappropriate though it might be, a sort of grim satisfaction. If
any
officer deserved to lose his or her command, it was Pratt. But not
this
way. She actually felt sorry for him.

She pulled her pants on and wished they were a little less wrinkled. “I’m on the way, number one... five from now.”

Rawlings was waiting when Tyspin arrived. The commanding officer accepted a mug of coffee and took a tentative sip. It was hot—the way she liked it.

That’s when Tyspin noticed the strange, almost smug expression Rawlings wore. The rest of the bridge crew was way
too
solemn—as if trying to hide something. She blew steam off the surface of her cup.

“So, Lieutenant, you
approve
of mutinies.”

Rawlings feigned shock. “No, ma’am! Never.”

The helmsman snickered. Tyspin looked from one face to another. “Really? Then be so kind as to let me in on the joke.”

Rawlings shrugged. “The victory in Africa received a lot of attention. The loyalist commanders took a vote and placed
you
in command.”

Tyspin frowned. Commanding officers are
selected
, not elected. If not by their superiors, then by the fortunes of war, according to rank, expertise, and seniority. Maybe that explained it. “Because I was senior?”

Rawlings shook her head. “No, ma’am. At least three of the commanding officers in question hold commissions that predate yours.”

“Well, then?”

Rawlings’s smile turned to a grin. “Because, as Captain John Hashimoto put it, you have the biggest balls.”

The bridge crew exploded into laughter, the
Gladiator’s
Captain felt herself blush, and the Earth fleet was reborn.

 

The early morning air was cool and crisp as Booly took his morning constitutional around the circumference of the fort. The “submarine” recruits, as he tended to think of them, formed ranks below. There was less confusion than one might have expected. Most were ex-military, the victims of countless downsizings, and looked sharp in their brand new cammies.

Booly watched for a moment and continued his stroll. Captain Kara was truly amazing. The somewhat taciturn officer had not only combined forces with Ny and her cyborgs to fix the damage done to Mosby’s defenses, he had lavished an equal amount of time and energy on Djibouti as well—a fact not lost on the mayor and his constituents. Though far from happy about the damage to their community, the locals were more supportive than they had been before.

Booly paused, swept the eastern horizon with his glasses, and resumed his walk. There was plenty to think about.

Where the hell was the Confederacy? Without some sort of political infrastructure to keep the resistance focused, the movement could easily self-destruct. Locked in endless debate, probably, unable to reach agreement.

Booly’s thoughts were interrupted by the now familiar sound of Sergeant Ho’s voice on the command push. No one else could hear, so there was no need for radio procedure. The earplug was fine, but he touched it anyway. “We have friendlies one—and bandits two—at sixty northeast and closing. The friendly requests assistance.”

Booly knew he wouldn’t be able to see anything but raised his binoculars anyway. There had been a number of such incidents over the last few days—ever since the RFE had started up. Some thirty-six in all. Roughly fifty percent of the transports, aircars, and one hot air balloon, had been intercepted and blown out of the sky.

Of those who
did
manage to cross the cordon, roughly two thirds crashed in the gulf or along the coast. The locals loved to scavenge the wrecks—pieces of which had started to appear in some of the more industrious hovels.

The balance of the aircraft were parked along the runways at Djibouti’s airport. Most of the pilots were wild eccentrics, too old or too crazy to fight. But a few were ex-military ... and potentially useful.

The legionnaire could imagine what it was like over the gulf. The glare off the water, the motion of the transport, and the desperate fear.

Ho, unsure whether she’d been heard, cleared her throat. “Sir? How should I respond?”

Booly thought about Harco, how tricky the sonofabitch could be, and resolved to be careful. “Double the watch on the rest of our air perimeter. Give me more on the friendly—is there anything special about him?”

“Yes, sir,” Ho replied. “He’s got codes—the same ones the submarine guy gave us.”

Booly knew that Ho meant Mark Benton, who, after unloading the volunteers, had promised to stay in touch. The fact that the incoming aircraft was equipped with codes suggested special cargo of some sort. The last shipment had been useful... perhaps this one would be as well.

Booly wished there was time to call on Tyspin for air support and knew there wasn’t. Klaxons sounded as the incoming aircraft passed the fifty-mile mark and entered the fort’s primary defense zone.

The recruits trotted off the parade ground, missile launchers swung toward the northeast, and the entire base went to the highest stage of alert.

Booly raised his glasses. “Tag the friendly, and order fire control to leave it alone. Tell the poor SOBs that we’ll fire the moment they cross the thirty-mile marker. And Ho ...”

“Sir?”

“Tell ’em that the first round of beers is on me.”

 

Due to the fact that Sola’s body was so vast, and her intelligence so widely dispersed, she didn’t regard herself as being invested in one particular part of her anatomy. The fact that humans were convinced that their existence was centered in their heads seemed strange indeed.

She could focus her beingness on the input received from selected sensors, however, and, that being the case, she chose the Gulf of Aden.

Lacking any real means of propulsion, the Say’lynt had been forced to expend a considerable amount of time following the Agulhas current toward the Indian Ocean. The journey was only partially completed, since a significant portion of what the humans might have referred to as her “rear end” still flowed through the waters north of Australia.

Why
she had gone there was less easily explained. The truth was that Sola had journeyed to Africa for reasons more felt than thought, and now, as she extended both her physical and mental presence farther in every direction, the Say’lynt became increasingly aware of the life-forms that drifted, swam, undulated, crawled, walked, and flew all around her. She could “feel” their emotions and, in certain cases where the more evolved species were concerned, “think” their thoughts.

There was so much life, so much input, that Sola found it difficult to focus. She applied mental filters, felt much of the “static” fall away, and came into contact with something strange. It was a being the extraterrestrial had first encountered among her family’s memories. A human they thought highly of and once followed into battle.

His name was Sergi Chien-Chu—and he was most uncomfortable. In spite of the fact that he lived in a synthetic body, sensors continued to feed input to his brain, which didn’t like the transport’s gyrations.

She knew he was afraid, but less so than the man at the transport’s controls, or those who followed. Their fears centered on the SAMs, the navy’s aerospace fighters, and their own superiors.

What to do? That was a question that had plagued Sola since lifting from IH-4762-ASX41. Each day brought millions, perhaps billions of possibilities. There were crimes, accidents, and all manner of misunderstandings that she could have managed to prevent or ameliorate.

But down that path lay madness, for in spite of the Say’lynt’s ability to control minds, she couldn’t control
all of
them at once
, especially on a planet as populous as Earth, which meant that she had to choose when and if to get involved.

Not only that, but there were even larger philosophical issues involved, the kind of questions that her elders had meditated on for hundreds of years, and that she was only starting to consider.

What happens when sentients are
forced
to be good? Are they
really
good? Because they want to be, and understand what goodness is? Or because they have no choice? How can an entire species learn and grow if someone makes all of their choices for them? And who was she to decide?

That’s why the Say’lynt was determined to limit the scope of her actions, to focus on what her senses told her were key individuals, and to minimize the extent of her involvement.

That being the case,
this
decision was relatively easy. Chien-Chu had been critical to the successful resolution of the last two wars and might be again.

Sola
could
have destroyed the pursuing pilots, much as her parents had been forced to do, but there was no need. Not here ... not now.

 

Lieutenant Jurano smiled grimly as the transport settled into the center of the HUD’s sighting grid, “heard” a tone, and armed her missiles. The blockade runner was good, very good, but his luck was about to run out.

Jurano was just about to fire, just about to splash the loyalist bandit, when she “thought” a turn to port. The fighter obeyed what it interpreted as an order, and her wingman followed a similar inclination.

The pilot struggled, tried to force the nose around, and wasn’t able to do so. Something, she didn’t know what, had control of her brain. Not
all
of it, but enough. That scared her more than the rest of the situation did.

The east African coastline appeared ahead, and she wondered what to do. How would she explain it—the force that had taken control? There would be a brief court-martial followed by a hastily assembled firing squad. Unless ...

Jurano attempted to turn toward the north, confirmed that the force would allow her to do so, and eyed her fuel. There were airstrips, plenty of them, not to mention the desert itself. She would land and run like hell. Who knew? Maybe the rebs would take her in. Her wingman would agree; she knew that, but wasn’t sure how.

The transport skimmed the steadily advancing waves and crossed the coast. Padia heaved a sigh of relief. Safety was at hand.

 

Booly listened in open amazement as Ho gave the news. For reasons they couldn’t begin to fathom, the mutie fighters had turned tail and disap
peared toward the north. He ordered the SAM batteries to stand down, reduced the state of alert, and allowed himself to relax.

The transport came down over Ras Bir, crossed the Gulf of Tadjoura, and made straight for the fortress. Booly fought the desire to duck as the aircraft passed over his head, and turned his back to the landing.

A silly pretense, given the extent of his curiosity, but necessary nonetheless. Especially if he wanted to maintain the lofty, nearly godlike persona the troops preferred. Not that he could blame them. After all, who would want to entrust their lives to someone they knew to be just as fallible as
they
were? Captain Winters interrupted the train of thought. “Colonel?”

Booly turned, saw the expression on the other officer’s face, and knew Winters had a surprise up her sleeve. A roly poly civilian stood by her side. He wore a badly outdated business suit and looked familiar somehow. “Yes?”

Winters gestured to her companion. “President Chien-Chu, I would like to introduce Colonel William Booly, commanding officer of the 13th DBLE. Colonel, this is the honorable Sergi Chien-Chu, President of the Confederacy, a two-star admiral, and chairman of Chien-Chu Enterprises.”

Chien-Chu stuck out his hand. His smile was open and friendly. “The captain neglected to mention that I’m
past
President, a
reserve
admiral, and
retired
from my company. A has-been if there ever was one.”

Booly accepted the hand, discovered that it was hard as a rock, and knew why the other man looked so familiar. Every cadet who passed through the academy was required to study the Hudathan wars—and more than a few references to the now-famous Sergi Chien-Chu. Still, it was a shock, and it must have shown on his face.

Chien-Chu nodded understandingly. “I’m getting used to that expression. The explanation is rather simple. I was retired, and planned to keep it that way, till the mutiny came along.”

A host of thoughts crowded Booly’s mind. Was this what he’d been hoping for? A real honest-to-God leader who could unify the resistance? Or a broken-down old man bent on reliving the best days of his life? He released the other man’s hand.

“Welcome to Fort Mosby, sir. I wish the circumstances were different.”

Chien-Chu motioned to the surrounding fortress. “I knew General Mosby rather well—broke her out of prison once.”

Booly had forgotten the incident—one of hundreds in a long, fascinating life. He was about to respond, about to say something polite, when th
e transport climbed into the air. They watched it depart. The legionnaire glanced at his companion. “You were lucky, sir.
Very
lucky.”