By Blood Alone (30 page)

The machine gave it some thought. Perhaps there was something it could do. “But how?”

“Go forth,” Jepp said, imagining himself at the head of a million robot army, “and convert your brethren, that they too may know the glory of God.”

The machine considered the human’s words. The concept made sense. If God existed, and sought to have all of its creations function harmoniously, then each and every unit aboard the ship had the right—no, the
responsibility
—to familiarize itself with the plan and work to further it.

Or was that logic fallacious, a product of whatever flaw had caused the malfunction in the first place? What if such beliefs were contrary to its basic programming? A quick check revealed no mention of God, God’s will, or anything else having to do with God. Nor were there any prohibitio
ns regarding God or related matters. The Hoon, or the being that created the Hoon, had never put any in place.

A series of high-pitched clicks and whistles filled the air. Jepp got to his feet. “What did our friend say?”

Sam, who was bored by then, did a one-armed handstand. “He said, ‘Yes, master—where is God’s plan? Download it now.’ ”

 

Henry summoned all of its strength, released the subroutine, and felt the Hoon agent drift away. The AI was free! But for how long?

The blimp made a noise similar to that produced by an old-fashioned foghorn, shot half a dozen pink tentacles out toward the navcomp, and issued a call for help.

Henry managed to dodge—and knew it had little more than milliseconds to make its move.

A dark, cavelike entrance appeared downstream. Multicolored bits of confettilike data were sucked into a side circuit and routed to who knew where.

The navcomp jockeyed for position, maneuvered itself toward the far side of the flow, and dived through the hole. The pathway was smaller, so its speed was reduced.

A worm-shaped hunter unit followed. Conscious of pursuit, the AI made a series of random turns. Left, right, and left again until the pursuer paused to gobble some corrupt data, and Henry was able to escape.

But to where? The question was no more than asked before the electronic entity fell through a seldom-used circuit and “splashed” into darkness.

There was a pause while long-dormant systems were activated, a fusion reactor came on-line, and power flowed to the battle droid’s sensors.

Though somewhat cramped by the rather small onboard memory mod, the robot found that it could “see” in a number of different ways, “hear” across a wide range of frequencies, and “feel” via all sorts of sensors. It was similar to “wearing” a ship, but a bit more limiting. Servos whirred as the construct panned its environment.

There was very little light—barely enough to see without switching to infrared. The storage compartment contained hundreds—no, thousands—of spiderlike battle units. They wore the same sheen the alien ships did, and seemed to glow under the high, bluish-green lights.

Were they aware? And capable of detecting the navcomp’s presence? No, the AI didn’t think so, which meant Henry had entered a sanctuary of sorts, a place to
hide while it decided what to do. Air hissed through ducts, time rolled away, and the army continued to sleep.

Politics is the science of who gets what, when, and why.

Sidney Hillman
Political Primer for All Americans
Standard year 1944

 

 

 

The bedroom was big and ornate. Dimly seen pieces of off-white furniture lurked in the gloom. A single bar of sunlight slipped between the drapes, crossed the carpet, and pointed to the bed.

It was a large, well-rumpled affair—with plenty of room for three. Governor Patricia Pardo gloried in her nakedness, in the way both lovers sought to please her, and thought about sex. Or was it power?

The male, one of Pardo’s aides, had stationed himself between her legs. The girl, for she was barely out of her teens, guided him to the target.

Pardo took the young man in, selected the rhythm she wanted, and took pleasure from the
now
.

The girl was everywhere, touching, caressing, and fondling.

Pardo wasn’t sure which she enjoyed most, the physical pleasure or the knowledge that she had power over them. Somehow the knowledge that the male labored between her thighs because he wanted a promotion
added
to her pleasure rather than detracting from it.

The pace quickened, and the male waited for his cue. Pardo kept her face intentionally blank.

Uncertain now, and terrified lest he fail, the aide redoubled his efforts.

The girl knew what was happening, took pity on her male counterpart, and did something special.

Pardo climaxed, clawed the young man’s back, and felt him respond. The second orgasm was even more powerful than the first, and left her drained.

But not for long. The aide was still congratulating himself, and the girl was examining her nails, when Pardo rolled off the bed and entered the bath.

The shower sensed her arrival, produced water at the precise temperature that she preferred, and dropped a holo into the air in front of her.

A rainbow formed as the water passed through the light. A government-controlled talk show appeared and was replaced by something else. The transmission was twenty seconds old before Pardo realized what it was: an illegal broadcast by the ever-elusive RFE. A woman, one of their “volunteer” reporters, stood in front of a fortress.

“... And, in spite of the fact that the loyalist troops suffered thirty-one casualties, they were able to rescue thirty-four political prisoners, at least one of whom is quite well known.

“Prior to being kidnapped, jailed, and tortured, Maylo Chien-Chu served as President and chief executive officer of Chien-Chu Enterprises. Older viewers may remember that Ms. Chien-Chu’s uncle, Sergi Chien-Chu, was the Confederacy’s first President. Now, as the industrialist comes out of seclusion, the resistance gains a skilled . . .”

Pardo swore, pushed her way out of the shower, and reentered the bedroom. Her hair hung in strands, her face looked older, and water dripped off her body.

Her lovers had found ways to carry on without her. They turned at the sound of her voice. “Stop that! Get dressed and call Harco. We have work to do.”

Fort Mosby shimmered in the late afternoon heat. Six Daggers roared overhead as the shuttle touched down. Harco’s fighters, which still lurked out beyond the range of the Legion’s SAMs, were nowhere to be seen.

A company of legionnaires crashed to attention. Cyborgs, some of whom had returned from the field only hours before, stood immediately behind them.

Servos whined, a hatch opened, and an officer appeared. Booly didn’t know General Kattabi, but had certainly heard of him, and hoped the rumors were true. Most agreed that he was a straight shooter. A soldier’s soldier who preferred to spend his time in the field.

Kattabi’s last post had been on Algeron, where, if what Winters had heard was true, the general had tackled the mutineers head-on and retaken the fort.

Had Kattabi been in contact with his parents? No, it didn’t seem likely.

Booly took one last look at his troops, and wished that the general had been able to bring reinforcements, but understood the problem. Discipline would have to be restored on Algeron; the chain of command was in tatters, and the po
litical situation was in doubt. It might be weeks, if not months, before Kattabi could call on reinforcements.

Booly shrugged the thought off, straightened his shoulders, and marched toward the shuttle.

Kattabi paused at the top of the stairs, squinted into the harsh white light, and wondered what awaited him. Though used as a dumping ground prior to the mutiny, Fort Mosby had held. Why? Was it luck? Or the doing of the man walking his way—Major William Booly and Captain Connie Chrobuck’s only son?

Did he know they were dead? No, it didn’t seem likely. The task of telling Booly would fall to him, then . . . just one of the obligations associated with command.

The stairs bounced slightly under the general’s weight. He returned the other officer’s salute and stood on solid ground. It felt good to be home.

What had begun as an emergency meeting called to discuss the RFE’s latest broadcast had quickly turned into a full-scale strategic review. The table was covered with a melange of half-empty cups, satellite photos, printouts, and assorted junk. The group had just completed a review of the recent battle in space. The destruction of the
Samurai
, along with two of her escorts, had been a terrible blow. Harco rubbed his eyes and restated the question. “ ‘Can the insurgents win?’ No, not the way things stand.

“It’s true that they hold the high ground, meaning everything in orbit, but the advantage is more psychological than real.” He looked around, his eyes moving from one person to the next.

“Yes, they
could
lay waste to all of Los Angeles if they chose to do so, or any of our major cities for that matter, but such actions are politically untenable. There would be thousands if not millions of casualties, ceding the moral victory to us and turning every man, woman, and child against the Confederacy.

“Don’t be fooled by the African raid, the skirmishes in South America,
or
the so-called resistance movement here in Los Angeles. Lacking unified leadership plus more arms, legs, and munitions, they won’t win on the ground.”

“So,” Pardo inquired, her fingers tugging at an earring, “what does the
colonel
recommend?”

For one brief moment the military officer entertained the notion of pulling his sidearm and shooting Patricia Pardo, her eternally smirking son, and the rest of her ass-kissing sycophants.

But, no matter how emotionally satisfying such a course of action might be, the officer knew he couldn’t go it alone. He struggled to keep his voice even.

“I recommend that we increase our counterinsurgency efforts, put more resources into psy-ops, and attack the Confederacy where it is weak.”

Pardo raised a carefully shaped eyebrow. “And
where
, pray tell, is that?”

“In the senate,” the officer replied bleakly. “Everyone knows that President Nankool would send a peacekeeping force if he had the support. Thanks to our allies, he doesn’t. But for how long? What if Sergi Chien-Chu decides to reenter politics? He could be more dangerous than a brigade of legionnaires.”

Pardo felt a sudden surge of interest. “So, what would you suggest?”

Harco shrugged noncommittally. “You like politics—go where you can do the most good.”

Pardo felt her pulse race. Yes! She loved the senate. A place where trickery, guile, and bribery stood in for armies, and victory was never more than a few lies away. There was danger, though—including the possibility of a military coup. Still, for every possible move there was a countermove, and she knew them all.

“Good thinking, Colonel. Please arrange for a blockade runner. A
good
one with appropriate escort.”

Harco nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And, Colonel . . .”

“Ma’am?”

“Matthew will serve in my place.”

 

If there was one thing Maylo wanted more than anything else, it was light. She wanted to
see
it with her eyes,
feel
it with her skin, and
embrace
it with her soul.

That’s why she convinced her uncle to join her on the battlements. The sun had just started to peek over the eastern horizon as they started their stroll. Orders were shouted, feet stamped, and a flag jerked toward the top of the pole. Reveille had a jaunty quality and echoed between the walls.

“So,” Sergi Chien-Chu began, “how do you feel?”

“Better,” Maylo replied, “much better. In spite of the dreams.”

“You need time,” Chien-Chu said thoughtfully. “I’ll rent a house. A place where you can rest.”