By Blood Alone (13 page)

Tyspin nodded, realized the helmet remained stationary, and said, “Roger.”

The officer pushed on a green panel, waited for the ship to pump the atmosphere out of the lock, and watched the hatch iris open.

The next phase of the plan was easier than she had expected it to be. Earth loomed below. Most of the planet was blue, but there were patches of brown frosted with white. The sight never ceased to amaze her. Even with her life on the line.

The journey from midship to bow took no more than five minutes. The bow hatch was clearly marked. Tyspin punched the override code into the glove-sized keypad, switched to the command freq, and chinned her mike. “Lieutenant Rawlings... do you read me?”

The junior officer’s voice was high and tight. “Yes, ma’am. Loud and clear. Where are you?”

“Chief Gryco and I are about to join you via the E-lock. Tell the Marines to save their ammo for the bad guys.”

Rawlings grinned in spite of herself. “Yes, ma’am. Shall I muster a side party?”

“Not this time,” Tyspin replied. “But thanks for the thought. See you in oh-five.”

The minutes passed slowly, as if determined to torture her, but were finally over. The hatch opened. Tyspin stomped onto the bridge and released her helmet. The control area looked like hell. It appeared as if the forward bulkhead had been sprayed with machine gun fire, two bodies were stacked against the port bulkhead, and the air smelled of ozone. The crew watched with a mixture of relief and concern. The captain had the deck; that was good, but what could she do?

Tyspin spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel. “All right ... let’s bring this thing to a speedy conclusion. Seal every compartment in the ship. That includes the corridors.

“Chief Gryco, take the Marines. Clear the corridors first. Announce your presence, order everybody out, and take all of them prisoner. If they resist, shoot to kill.”

“Rawlings, sort the prisoners into three groups: those we
know
to be loyal, those we can’t be sure of, and those who took part. Lock the last two groups into different compartments and post guards outside. Questions?”

Rawlings nodded. “Yes, ma’am. What if some of the crew refuse to leave their compartments?”

Tyspin’s face grew hard. “Then pump the air out, send a burial detail, and blow them through a lock.”

Rawlings paled. “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

It took the better part of three hours to regain complete control of the
Gladiator
. Twelve mutineers refused to surrender and were killed. Their bodies entered the same orbit as the ship. Tyspin watched one of them tumble through the main viewscreen and searched for feelings of regret. There were none to be found.

 

The normally blue sky was obscured by a thick layer of yellow-gray smoke. It covered the city like a shroud. Aircraft, some of which dropped bombs, were visible one moment and gone the next. A double row of explosions marched down Colima Road. Columns of smoke shot into the air and carried palm trees, ground cars, and chunks of masonry with them.

Closer in, not more than two miles away, there were even more explosions as well-sited howitzers fired from Hacienda Heights, and sent 155mm shells into the homes below. Homes that might otherwise provide cover for the enemy. They came apart with frightening ease. Black craters marked where they had stood.

The Tactical Operations Center, or TOC, consisted of little more than a half-leveled house, some crew-served machine guns, and a robot-transportable holo tank—a device designed to display how friendly forces were deployed but which was more useful as a stool.

The deadly
thug, thug, thug
of the mortars could be heard to the rear as Legion Cadet Leader Melissa Voytan peered over the battlefield and struggled to marshal her thoughts.

She was nervous,
very
nervous, because in spite of all the books she had read, the lectures she had heard, and the sometimes diabolical virtual reality scenarios she had survived, the student had never fired a shot in anger, much less ordered others to do so.

Now, as the mutineers advanced toward the center of the city, she would not only enter into combat for the first time but lead her fellow cadets as well.

As if reading her mind, or sharing her angst, Staff Sergeant Rudy Rycker touched her arm. “There ain’t nothin’ to it, ma’am. Shoot, move, and communicate. That’s all you gotta do.”

The words provided some much-needed comfort and helped push the fear toward the back of her mind. Rycker should have been in c
ommand, but that wasn’t how things were done in the Legion, not if an officer was available. Even one who wanted to go home. Her family lived not more than sixty miles to the east. What were her parents doing, as she prepared to die?

A voice spoke in Voytan’s ear. She recognized it as belonging to Kenny Suto, a sixteen-year-old who actually
liked
the stuff they served in the mess hall and couldn’t get enough of it. “Alpha Three to Alpha One... I have smoke on my forward positions. Over.”

Voytan knew what that meant. The smoke was intended to blind her troops. Infantry would follow, and not just
any
infantry, but infantry supported by cyborgs. They would hit the front lines together, attempt to flank her, and attack Loy’s rear.

Voytan commanded what amounted to a light battalion, including three rifle companies of approximately one hundred thirty cadets each, plus a headquarters company that consisted of herself, some com techs, the medium armor weapons (MAWs) and two 60mm mortars. The same ones firing from her rear.

Her mission, as laid down by General Loy, was to delay the enemy forces long enough for the regulars to secure the inner city and turn toward the south. That was a task the general had assigned to himself.

The cadets had no cyborgs of their own, the loyal borgs having been employed elsewhere, which meant that shoulder-launched missiles (SLAMs) would have to do.

Designed for use against Hudathan cyborgs, the SLAMs were the only effective weapons the cadets could use on sentient armor. Voytan forced confidence into her voice. “Alpha One to Three... Hold them as long as you can and fall back. Four will cover your withdrawal. Over.”

Suto clicked the hand-held mike two times by way of a reply. Voytan looked at Rycker. He grinned. “You’re doin’ good, ma’am. Keep it up.”

Voytan didn’t
feel
as if she was doing very well but smiled nonetheless. An enormous quad emerged from the smoke more than a mile in front of her. She chinned her visor to full mag and leapfrogged to video supplied by one of her squad leaders. Range, windage, and other information scrolled over the shot. The borg stood twenty-five feet tall, weighed fifty tons, and walked on four legs. It mounted multiple energy cannons, an extendable gatling gun, missile racks, grenade launchers, and a whole lot of machine guns.

Twin streams of .50 caliber machine gun fire reached out to embrace the cyborg. Explosions winked and sparkled all across its hull as the monster fired in response.

There was a brilliant, eye-searing flash as a weapons emplacement ceased to exist.

That’s when the motor-driven gatling gun opened fire. It was capable of putting out more than six thousand rounds a minute. A curtain of brown soil flew into the air as the 20mm shells found a slit trench and followed it from west to east. An entire squad of second-year students was ripped to shreds. Voytan’s video went to black and jumped to the perspective of a fire team leader.

Other lesser forms could be seen to either side of the gargantuan machine. There were Trooper IIs, Trooper IIIs, and a company of battle-armored legionnaires closing fast.

But nothing comes for free, and while they were severely outgunned, the youngsters had a dozen SLAMs plus three reloads each. Hidden until now, the gunners stood, showed their missiles the target, and pressed their triggers. Two of the SLAMs fell victim to electronic countermeasures, and one exploded in midair, but the rest found the quad.

Explosions rocked the enormous body, tunneled their way in, and blew the machine apart. A voice yelled “Camerone!” Voytan nodded grimly. School was over. Graduation was hell.

 

The TOC was located in a heavily armored crawler that smelled as new as it was. A kind of pleasant mixture of plastic, sealants, and ozone. Stationary for the moment, it was located a half mile south of the line of contact (LC). Video feeds provided by the steadily advancing cyborgs, helmet cams, and airborne surveillance units flickered across the monitors racked above Matthew Pardo’s head.

He felt conflicting emotions. In spite of the fact that Pardo didn’t care for Harco, he had a good deal of respect for the officer and wanted the older man’s approval.

That’s why Pardo had pushed his troops so hard—to show what he could do. He turned to his XO. She was, or had been, a captain in the 1st REC, and still wore the oval-shaped unit badge on her green beret. The words “Honneur” and “Fidelite” were inscribed at its center. “What’s the holdup? We should be three miles further in by now.”

The TOC jerked into motion as a fountain of debris leapt into the air. Shrapnel rattled against the crawler’s sides. The female officer grabbed a handhold. “Yes, sir. They threw what looks like a battalion into the gap. It’s slowing us down.”

“A battalion?” Pardo asked incredulously. “You’ve seen the intel summaries. They have no reserves. None at all.”

The captain shrugged. “Cadets, sir. From the academy.”

Pardo frowned. “You’re kidding.”

“No, sir,” she replied. “General Loy ordered them in. We could bypass them—and cut their casualties.”

“No damned way,” Pardo said thickly. “That’s what the old bastard is hoping for. He figures some softhearted idiot like you will waste half a day going around the little shits. Well, we’ll show the old goat a thing or two! We’ll cut his play pretend battalion into mincemeat! Call my driver—I’m going forward.”

The captain did as she was told, waited for Pardo to clear the TOC, and slipped into the lavatory. She turned both faucets on. The water made a lot of noise. It was then and only then that she allowed herself to cry. The sobs lasted for five minutes, great racking things that caused her chest to heave.

Finally, when there was nothing left to give, Captain Laura Voytan washed her face, straightened the green beret, and returned to duty. Why? Because she had promised that she would.

Kenny had been living in his grandmother’s garage for more than three years. Ever since he’d dropped out of school. There was a makeshift sleeping loft up in the rafters. It was just large enough for a mattress, reading lamp, and holo tank. But the main action was down on the oil-stained concrete floor. That’s where the teenager kept all the electronic equipment that he had built, bought, and stolen over the last three years.

Monitors, receivers, transmitters, routers, switchers, amplifiers, junction boxes, and more hung from ceiling-mounted racks, filled his homemade shelves, and covered eight work-tables. Hundreds of cables squirmed this way and that, tying his kingdom together and connecting Kenny with the world.

The teenager sat in his favorite chair, an executive model he had rescued from a dumpster and equipped with wheels.
Large
wheels that enabled him to roll over cables, empty meal paks, and cast-off clothing.

A spot threw light down across Kenny’s shoulder-length hair, badly scarred face, and filthy T-shirt. The youngster felt jubilant, frightened, and defiant all at the same time. He and his fellow netheads had created Radio Free Earth, what? Twenty-four hours ago? Thirty-six? He couldn’t remember.

The whole thing had happened so quickly. Most of the infrastructure already existed, resident not only in
his
garage, but in hundreds of similar facilities all over the world. The revolt, Governor Pardo’s speech, and the street fighting simply provided Kenny and his friends with a purpose, a reason to do what they had always wanted to do: prove how smart they were ... and earn some respect.

That’s the way it started. However, once Noam Inc. and its media subsidiaries seized control of the mainstream news networks, that created a hunger for
real
coverage.

One of Kenny’s associates, a computer programmer with ties to Noam Inc., estimated that their last program had attracted 3.1
billion
viewers worldwide. An audience of almost unimaginable size in an age when carefully focused narrow casting had whittled viewership down to well-defined groups of one or two hundred thousand.

That, the teenager thought to himself, is the good
and
the bad news. The powers that be, or want to be, will do anything to shut us down. A supposition supported by the fact that the average life expectancy of a Radio Free Earth fly cam was down to a matter of minutes.

Still, the little units were relatively easy to manufacture. They were mass-produced by a somewhat eccentric netizen known only as J. J. and, for reasons known only to him, placed under Kenny’s control.