By Blood Alone (6 page)

Not that there were all that many Ishimotos, only about three hundred if memory served, all of whom looked exactly as he did, or had, or would, since all were cloned from the same man but decanted at different times.

Their particular progenitor had been a diplomat, a man Dr. Carolyn Anne Hosokawa admired and recruited for her grand experiment. A culture in which each person was born with the genetic qualifications appropriate to his or her particular function. Administrator, carpenter, or cook. Each was descended from the same person, had the same physical body, and had the same genetic tendencies.

Hosokawa figured that by controlling how many people were created, and what talents they had, the rest would be easy. No unemployment, no mental defectives, no civil unrest, no birth defects, and no waste.

That’s why the prototypical soldier, a man named Jonathan Alan Seebo, had been replicated thousands of times, while there were only three hundred copies of the great Ishimoto. Perhaps there would have been less war, less pain, and less suffering had the numbers been reversed.

The thought pleased Ishimoto-Seven. He walked even more briskly and gloried in the fact that he was momentarily unique. Think of it! Only
one
Ishimoto on the entire planet, and free to do as he pleased. Even if that meant accepting employment for which he had no particular talent or fathering a baby.

Things were more liberal now, especially after the Alpha Clone Marcus-Six had mated with General Marianne Mosby to produce a baby, and not just
any
baby, but a member of the Triad of One, which was in control of the Hegemony’s nearly all-powerful executive branch. Not a position the aspirant had reached easily-but one that would have been unthinkable a hundred years before.

Still, most of the Hegemony’s citizens clung to the traditional ways, concerned lest the free breeder chaos visible on planets such as Earth bring their carefully planned society to its knees.

Ishimoto-Seven looked up as horns blared and cabbies gestured at each other through open windows. Street-level traffic had been banned more than a hundred years before, and a good thing too, since there was barely enough room to move. All because of free breeding sex.

My people are correct, Ishimoto thought to himself. That’s why it was so important to maintain the status quo, to put limits on what the free breeders could do, and protect the Hegemony.

He turned left and let the human current carry him east. Grand Central Station loomed ahead. The columns and high-arched windows looked much as the
y had for hundreds of years. Multicolored rivers poured through the building’s doors, announcements blared, and a maglev waited to depart.

Ishimoto-Seven stepped over the woman in the ragged utility pants, noticed her boots were polished, and wondered why. The crowd pulled, and he followed.

 

The two-story building sat on top of a rise where it could look out over the man-made lake to the Rockies beyond. It was made of logs and had served as a guest lodge back before Eli Noam bought it. Other structures, including barns, sheds, and a corral, were visible beyond.

The security troops still wore the winged-hand-and-dagger emblems they had worked so hard to earn. They swept the area for infiltrators, surveillance devices, and bombs. None were found.

Back in the trees, where they couldn’t be seen from orbit, other figures lurked. Large, heavily armed figures that weren’t supposed to be there.

The Trooper IIs walked on two legs, had fast-recovery laser cannon and .50-caliber machine guns where arms might have been, and carried shoulder-launched missiles. But that was impossible-or should have been.

The officer in charge, a lieutenant who had been released only two months before, spoke into his boom mike. “Bravo One to Delta One-all clear. Over.”

There was a pause, followed by two clicks. The first of four aircars arrived two minutes later, circled the lake, and landed in front of the lodge. The machine wore an NI logo.

The driver waited for his passengers to disembark and took off. Gravel rattled on wooden stairs.

The remaining aircraft arrived at five minute intervals. The security force stood with their backs to the LZ.

Later, with beers in their fists, the ex-legionnaires would wonder who the visitors had been, and what the brass were up to. Not that it mattered much-so long as the rats continued to arrive, and there was pay at the end of the month.

Qwan checked to ensure that the facility was ready. The meeting was slated for the dining room, which, true to the building’s style, featured a high ceiling supported by tree-sized beams. A lighting fixture made to look like an old-fashioned wagon wheel hung over the large circular table, a fire crackled in the stone fireplace, and the woodwork gleamed with polish.

A check confirmed that a Ramanthian seat frame had been flown in, a top-of-the-line holo tank sat ready for use, and there were plenty of refreshments, including some grublike creatures that wriggled in the bottom of a bowl.

The staff, all of whom were androids, would be brain-wiped the moment the meeting was over, reduced to their component parts, and fed into an electric arc furnace. A rather expensive precaution, but necessary nonetheless.

It took fifteen minutes to complete the necessary introductions and dispense with the small talk.

The guests took their seats, all but the War Orno that is, who loomed behind Orno’s chair, and stood ready to defend him. It was a relationship that neither one of Ramanthians could break-and extended to the Egg Orno, deep in her distant cave.

The group had chosen Governor Pardo to act as moderator-a role that she relished. The politician smiled, wondered if the facial expression meant anything to the Ramanthians, and scanned the rest of the table.

“Thank you for coming. The opportunity before us is rife with danger for us and those we represent. But there are times when personal concerns must be put aside and the greater good brought to the fore.”

It was one of the most hypocritical speeches Qwan had ever heard, but well delivered, and consistent with the communications plan that the company’s spin doctors had devised.

Pardo scanned the faces around her. “I suggest that we establish a culture of openness and trust by giving brief statements as to what each of us hopes to achieve as a result of this meeting. I will go first.... The Confederacy has grown weaker over the last twenty-five years and requires new leadership. I planned to run for President, and might have won, if it weren’t for the enemies who framed my son.”

Neither Orno, Ishimoto-Seven, nor Qwan wanted to see Pardo in control of
two
planets, much less the entire Confederacy, but were confident of their ability to neutralize the politician should that become necessary. The humans smiled, and the Ramanthian waved a pincer.

“So,” Pardo said, pleased that everyone liked her speech, “it’s time to hear from the distinguished Senator Orno.... Senator?”

When the Ramanthian spoke, it was in the form of clicks, twitters, and pops that were translated to rather formal standard by the specially programmed computer woven into the fabric of his cape. The speaker was concealed near his thorax and created the illusion of speech.

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here. My people have a saying: ‘Choose your friends with care and your enemies will disappear.’ The proverb
must
be true, since there’s not a hostile antenna in sight.”

Everyone laughed, including Ishimoto-Seven, who was impressed by the senator’s skill, and wondered what his clone brother Ishimoto-Six thought of the Ramanthian. Not that the straight-laced Six knew what his identical sibling was up to-or would have approved if he had. No, situations such as this required imagination, a quality that Six lacked.

Orno waited for the laughter to die away, thought how alien the cackling was, and laid his strategy: Most of the humans he had met were naturally gullible-even more so when told one secret as the means of concealing still another.

The politician knew the importance that humans placed on eye contact and looked at the female. Then, having captured her attention, the Ramanthian swept his forelegs back along his skull. The sight made her shudder, as he had known that it would, thereby ceding the advantage to him. Having signaled revulsion, she would be forced to signal approval, or risk appearing rude.

“So it’s my turn, or more properly
our
turn, since I represent the Ramanthian race. Humans are predators, are they not?”

“Hunter—gatherers—
then
predators,” Pardo answered cautiously, hoping to redeem herself. “Why do you ask?”

“Because every race remains true to what it once was,” Orno said pragmatically. “Take my species, for example.... My ancestors were scavengers—carnivores that lived off scraps.”

“So?”

“Scavengers are opportunists ... and we still are. Even now, many years after the conclusion of the most recent war, there are worlds bereft of leadership.”

“Bereft of leadership?” Ishimoto-Seven said cynically. “Or available for the taking?”

“They are one and the same,” the Ramanthian answered easily. “Those who lack the strength to lead will be led. The question is by whom.”

“By those strong enough to take what they want,” Harco put in. “And, having done so, to keep it.”

“Exactly,” Orno replied. “And we have the necessary strength.”

“And would be free to use it should something weaken the Confederacy,” Pardo said thoughtfully.

“The governor is very astute,” Orno replied smoothly. “The people of Earth are fortunate.”

The humans nodded, and the Ramanthian felt an overriding sense of satisfaction. He had revealed one piece of information, something that should have been obvious to even the most casual observer, yet concealed the very thing that made it significant. The Ramanthian population was about to expl
ode, and needed new worlds to colonize. Information that would have frightened his coconspirators had they been aware of it.

Pardo said, “Thank you, Senator,” and turned to the clone. “Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven ... would you be so kind?”

Ishimoto-Seven forced a smile and wondered how those present would react had they known that with the exception of his immediate supervisor, his entire government was unaware of both his presence and the plot that they were so assiduously hatching.

Still, what the clone proposed to do was consistent with his overall diplomatic purpose, which was to participate in negotiations and ensure that Hegemony interests were accommodated. The Hegemony’s
real
interests ... which didn’t always match what some of his superiors thought they were. Seven chose his words with care.

“Thank you, Governor. The Hegemony believes in the fundamental right of sentients to choose those who lead them-and therefore supports grass roots movements that trend in that direction.”

Qwan smiled bleakly. “I’m sure the Hegemony supports other ideals as well, including truth, justice, and prosperity for all. Everything
except
motherhood.”

Ishimoto-Seven came to his feet. His fingers opened and closed. “I didn’t come here to take insults from corporate whores! Perhaps Citizen Qwan would like to take it outside, where I would be pleased to kick his pompous ass!”

Pardo started to intervene. but Harco beat her to it. His voice was low but carried to every corner of the room. “Stow the bullshit.”

The room fell silent as the officer stood and clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes were like lasers and probed the faces around him. “Let’s get something straight.... Every damned one of you has an axe to grind. Fine. I accept that. But nothing, I repeat
nothing
, is going to happen unless my people put their lives on the line and manage to win one hellacious battle.

“
If
we survive,
if
we win, the lot of you can squabble over who gets what, so long as you remember one important fact:
We
have the weapons,
we
have the know-how, and
we
have the final say. Questions? No? Good. Let’s put a wrap on this introductory crap and lay some plans.”

He who fires a bullet in the air can never be sure of where it may land.

Hoda Ibin Ragnatha
Turr Truth Sayer
Standard year 2206

 

 

Planet Earth, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The transport swept in across the sparkling Gulf of Aden and flew so low that Booly had no difficulty making out the fishermen on their wooden dhows. They waved, a sure sign that such flights were relatively rare, and an indicator of how remote his new duty station truly was. The fly form’s passenger compartment, positioned at the front of the aircraft, offered excellent visibility.

Located on the east coast of Africa, the ancient country of Djibouti had once been an important port, but that was a long time ago. With a population approaching 100,000, and no natural resources to speak of, it was one of the most backward places on Earth. Vegetation was scarce and consisted of hardy grass, thorn trees, and scattered palms. The poor soil and lack of rain made large-scale farming impractical—and nothing had changed in hundreds of years.

None of that had stopped the French from colonizing the place, though, or from installing the Legion to protect it-a a tradition that continued long after France ceased to exist.

The city had long been the home of the 13th Half-Brigade, also know as the 13th DBLE, which had seen action at Bir Hakeim, El Alamein, Dien Bien Phu, Algeria, both Hudathan Wars, the battle of Bakala, and dozens more.

The modern 13th consisted of a command and services company, a works company, a combat company, an infantry company on loan from the 2nd REP, and a reconnaissance squadron. Of interest to Booly, and no one else, was the fact that his father
and
mother had served in the outfit as well.