By Blood Alone (49 page)

There were no structures other than a bundle of what looked like steel-glass silos off to one comer of the property. That’s where the elevators, escalators, and emergency stairs were located, along with the fiber-optic pathways that funneled sunlight down to the underground classrooms.

But this morning was different. Hamel turned the last corner and saw military vehicles, a cluster of black-clad bio bods, and two dozen robots. All dressed in the same pattern of camouflage green paint.

Something
, Hamel wasn’t sure what, was definitely wrong. But before he could turn the car around, a heavily visored military policeman waved the educator over and motioned him out of the car. That’s when the nightmare began.

The militiaman, a human in this case, examined Hamel’s ID, checked his name off a list, and led him onto the school’s grounds. A group of smooth-faced robots stepped out of the way, and that’s when the principal saw the fifty-foot lengths of chain, the small ankle bracelets, and realized who they had been made for. The MP gestured to the shackles. The tone was casual, as if a matter of routine curiosity. “How many children can we actually expect? About five hundred or so?”

Hamel started to answer, thought better of it, and closed his mouth.

That’s when the military policeman stepped in close, grabbed the front of the educator’s shirt, and jerked the smaller man up onto his toes. “Listen, you little shit ... which would you prefer? To answer my question? Or have Ralphie shove a baton up your ass?”

Hamel had read about courage, had admired it from a distance, but never been able to find much. Not till he saw the chains. The principal brought the stylus up, stabbed the soldier in the neck, and watched the blood spurt out. The academic had been good at anatomy, very good, and was proud of his aim.

The MP released the civilian’s shirt, grabbed the wound, and backpedaled away. He tripped, fell, and quickly lost consciousness. That was Hamel’s cue to run, or should have been, except that he was so amazed by his accomplishment that he stood and stared.

The militiamen killed Hamel a couple of seconds later. They fired one full mag apiece. Not for revenge, but because they were scared of the little man, and worried there might be more.

 

The
Gladiator
’s wardroom had been turned into a de facto command center and was littered with odds and ends left over from a dozen meetings. The surface of the central table was nearly invisible under hastily rigged computer terminals, printouts, and a tray of partially eaten sandwiches. Admiral Angie Tyspin sat at the far end, face on arms, sound asleep.

General Mortimer Kattabi rubbed his eyes, yawned, and took a sip of coffee. It was cold and tasted like the bottom of a Naa mulch pit. He made a fa
ce, ate a piece of pastry to rid himself of the taste, and looked across the table. “So, how are we doing?”

Major Winters, who had been promoted to serve as Kattabi’s adjutant, looked up from a screen. “So far, so good, sir. The Euro Maquis and the Jack Heads report ninety-two percent of their targets destroyed.”

“Do you believe them?”

Winters grinned. “Hell, no. The satellite intel suggests that the
actual
mission completion rate is more like seventy-six percent.”

Kattabi allowed his eyebrows to float upward. “That’s better than projected.”

Winters nodded. “Yes, sir. The civvies are kicking some ass.”

“And Booly?”

The adjutant looked toward a tech sergeant, who provided the answer. “The colonel is ten from dirt, sir.”

Kattabi stood. He had an assault to lead. “I hope this works.”

Winters nodded. “So do I, sir. So do I.”

Tyspin continued to sleep.

 

It was snowing in the Rockies, an early storm that would dump a foot of snow on the higher elevations and dust the flatlands below.

Visibility was so poor that the pilot had very little choice but to place the shuttle on autopilot and hope for the best. That was a nerve-wracking process in the best of times, made more so by the presence of a senior officer and the knowledge that people below had every reason to blow him out of the sky. Another radio message boomed through his interface.

“Shuttle Sierra Echo Bravo nine-two-one, this is Cheyenne Control. You have entered restricted airspace. I repeat, restricted airspace. Provide recognition codes or follow vector seven to the north. Over.”

An indicator light appeared, followed by a tone. Cheyenne could fire anytime they wanted to. The pilot grimaced and looked at his passenger. Colonel William Booly looked back. If he was frightened, there was no sign of it. “Go ahead. Tell them.”

The pilot hurried to comply. “Roger your last, Cheyenne Control ... but I don’t have the codes. Please inform Colonel Leon Harco that Colonel Bill Booly is aboard and would like to parley. Over.”

There was silence. The pilot figured he would get five, maybe ten seconds warning before the missile hit and the shuttle ceased to exist. The altimeter unwound, snow swirled, and static rattled through his interface.

Five seconds passed, followed by ten, followed by fifteen. What the hell was taking so long? Suddenly Cheyenne was back. “That’s a roger, Sierra Echo Bravo nine-two-one. You are cleared to land. Over.”

The pilot looked at Booly, who shrugged. “You win some, you lose some.”

That’s fine for
you,
the pilot thought to himself, but what about me?
I
plan to win ’em all.

 

The children had been walking for hours now. From their schools, along the side streets, and out onto the expressway. It was closed to civilian traffic, which was good for the militia and bad for the resistance.

Nor had the maneuver gone unnoticed. Kenny received a tip, sent a fly cam to investigate, and couldn’t believe his eyes. Thousands upon thousands of children had been chained together and marched onto the expressway. Some wore uniforms, some didn’t. All were visibly frightened.

Hover bike-mounted militiamen sped the length of the column. They shouted orders to the robots, most of whom were armed with shock batons, and walked in among the children. Electricity arced between the sticklike weapons and anyone who cried, talked, or began to lag.

There was no need to ask who had engineered the march, or why they had done so. The hostages would shield Matthew Pardo’s movements, slow General Kattabi’s forces, and intimidate the general public. People were terrified.

Kenny sent a swarm of fly cams to cover the event and ran it live. Citizens not only saw the video, but made their way to the expressway, and lined both sides. Frantic parents responded as well. Many walked beside the road, or tried to, since abutments, on-ramps, and other obstacles made it difficult to do.

Others climbed the fences and ran out onto the expressway itself. The militia had been waiting for that. An aircar swept in from the east, braked, and hovered above. Machine guns rattled, the civilians fell like wheat before a scythe, and blood stained the road.

Children screamed, batons crackled, and the march continued.

 

Leshi Qwan stood at the center of the pit. The spotlights pinned him in place. The meeting had been called by old man Noam. “... And so,” the industrialist continued, “not only have we failed to see much return from this arrangement, our expenses continue to soar. Please explain.”

Qwan was standing there, wondering when the old fart would realize that things were even worse than he thought they were, when something seized control of his mind. It was strong, stem, and utterly alien. He tr
ied to react, tried to warn those seated above, but couldn’t control his mouth. The words formed themselves. “I feel ill. Please excuse me.”

Then, like a puppet on strings, the businessman left the pit. Noam was screaming by then. “Come back here, you rotten sonofabitch! You’re dead! You hear me?
Dead, dead, dead.
”

Qwan tried to reply, tried to scream, but nothing came out.

Sola, who was operating at the extreme limit of her range, struggled to stay in control.

 

Harco waited for the blastproof door to cycle open, felt a blast of cold air, and stepped into the snowstorm. Snowflakes planted kisses on his face, the cold found gaps in his clothing, and a white-clad sentry popped to attention.

There was activity around the heated landing pad. The lights were on, the crash team had mustered next to their equipment, and the crew chief stood with light batons raised.

Orange-red jets stabbed through the gloom as the shuttle lowered itself to the ground.

The crew chief extended her arms, skids touched duracrete, and the engines wound down.

Harco stood with hands clasped behind his back as a pair of orange robots pushed rollaway stairs into position. It was a strange, almost surreal moment.

Starting when he was a cadet, and extending through all the succeeding years, the officer had imagined how his career might end. There had been dreams of glory and the nightmare possibility of defeat. But none of his visions had captured the terrible sense of ignominy, of pointless waste, that defined this particular moment.

How exceedingly strange that after
all
the years,
all
the dangers, it would be one of his classmates that came to take his surrender. And not just
any
classmate—but one he had believed to be inferior.

No, Harco decided, not because of his mixed parentage, but because of an inherent lack of confidence. Something he had witnessed when they cocaptained the rowing team, then later on Drang.

Still, it was Booly who had won the battle for Dijbouti, Booly who had chosen the correct course, and Booly who had arrived to take him in. And all by himself. Now
that
took balls.

The robots locked the stairs into place, the hatch slid up out of the way, and Booly appeared in the opening. He looked older than Harco remembered him,
much
older, but then who didn’t?

What mattered was
how
he stood, ramrod straight, the way Harco had imagined that
he
would stand on the most important day of his life.

Booly looked out through the snow and wondered if it was one of the last sights he would ever see. But the attempt had to be made. The prospect of an all-out battle between two elements of the Legion was too horrible to contemplate. Did Harco share his concerns? Would the other officer listen? There was only one way to find out. Metal clanged as he descended the stairs.

A noncom met Booly on the ground, introduced himself as Staff Sergeant Cory Jenkins, and led him across the pad. They climbed a short flight of stairs and emerged onto a road. It was a short walk from there to the door.

Booly half expected to be met there, to see Harco step forth to greet him, but such was not the case. A cart waited. Jenkins gestured toward the passenger seat. Booly got in and waited while the noncom took the wheel. The vehicle jerked into motion, rolled through carefully maintained grounds, and out onto a huge parade ground. Newly painted yellow lines marked borders, pathways, and assembly areas.

The cart passed rank after rank of quads, Trooper IIs, and Trooper IIIs, all fronted by hundreds upon hundreds of bio bods standing at parade rest.

Was the display a matter of coincidence? Or Harco’s way of telling him something? That his troops were ready? That they would never surrender? There was no way to know.

One thing was for sure, however: They might be mutineers, but the legionnaires looked as sharp as any he’d ever seen. Jenkins turned the wheel to the right, angled across the part of the grinder not occupied by troops, and stopped in front of a reviewing stand. It was large enough to accommodate five or six people, and, judging from the condition of the lumber, brand-spanking new.

Booly eyed the noncom, wondered why he looked so sad, and climbed the wooden stairs.
This
was where Harco had chosen to receive him, here, where his power would be most visible, and a request for surrender would sound absurd.

That’s what Booly
expected
, but when the officer topped the stairs, there was no one to meet him. Not Harco, not his XO, not anyone at all. The officer squinted into the lights, felt the weight of ten thousand stares, and wondered what to do.

That was the precise moment when a holo bloomed high above his head. Booly turned in time to see Harco appear, followed by additional images—one for each of the units stationed abroad.

Staff Sergeant Jenkins shouted, “Ten-hut!” Thousands of legionnaires crashed to attention, and Booly did likewise.

Harco’s voice boomed through the cavern’s PA system. “At ease. We are gathered here to welcome a new commanding officer. Colonel William Booly.”

An audible gasp was heard, servos whined, and Staff Sergeant Ward bellowed into the mike. “You are at ease! No talking. Corporal, take that soldier’s name!”

Nobody could tell who the sergeant had yelled at, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was discipline, and it was intact.

Harco continued, and as he spoke, Booly realized the comments were prerecorded. “Some of you are angry. You were betrayed by society, by the Independent Government, and now by me.

“
Not
because I doubt our ability to win, or the quality of our cause, but because we were wrong. If the Legion is to be our country, it must be a
just
country, based on the rule of law and dedicated to more than its own survival.”

Harco paused, his virtual eyes roaming the chamber, driving his purpose home. “Your commanding officer understands these things. His grandfather served the Legion, his parents served the Legion, and
he
serves the Legion. More than that, he is a warrior, one who stands by his word and supports his troops.

“Some of us, including myself, broke laws in behalf of what we thought was the greater good. We will be charged with our crimes and tried by a military court. We deserve no more and we deserve no less.