By Blood Alone (15 page)

Maylo felt a sudden sense of failure. She should have paid closer attention to the political situation, should have spent more money on industrial espionage, and should have done something about old man Noam.

What would uncle Sergi think? Not that it mattered.... He’d tell her to do whatever she thought was best. She took a deep breath and let it go.

“All right, here’s what I’d like you to do. The center can be moved—right?”

Benton looked concerned. “Yes, but it would take several weeks, destroy some experiments, and cost a whole lot of money.”

“Better get started,” Maylo advised. “They went after the regional offices first... but it’s only a matter of time before they target facilities like this one. Don’t count on the center’s nonprofit status to slow them down. Seventy percent of your funding comes from Chien-Chu Enterprises. They’ll use that as an excuse.”

Jillian nodded thoughtfully. “I know the perfect place. A canyon about a hundred miles north of here. We’ll fortify the complex. But what if they come after us during the next week or two?”

Maylo thought for a moment. “Go for a swim. Ask Sola for help. Remember that in addition to her somewhat unique talents, she is a fully credentialed diplomat. That should slow them down.”

The security officer looked to make sure that her boss was serious, saw that she was, and nodded. “Ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”

“And what about you?” Benton demanded. “I could beg you to stay—but it wouldn’t make any difference, would it?”

“No,” Maylo agreed thoughtfully. “I guess it wouldn’t. My first concern is for our people. Someone has to bail them out.”

“They’ll arrest you, too,” Jillian said matter-of-factly. “Where’s the good in that?”

“I don’t know,” Maylo admitted, “but you served in the Marine Corps. Did
you
leave people behind?”

Jillian stood a little straighter. “No, ma’am.”

“Same principle,” the executive answered. “I’ll need a sub. Thirty from now.”

Benton nodded, and there, beyond the armored window, a body stirred. Sola stood guard.

 

What with a six-hour trip in a sub, plus a two-hour lay over, and a ten-hour flight across the Pacific, it took the better part of a day to reach San Francisco, which, because it bordered the emergency quarantine areas, was as close as Maylo could get to where she actually wanted to go.

The executive tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach as the wheels hit the tarmac. Brave words were one thing... reality was something else. Yes, she had identification documents belonging to one of the center’s employees, but they were far from foolproof.

In spite of the fact that the two women resembled each other, even the most cursory check of Maylo’s retinal print, voiceprint, or fingerprints would blow the falsehood wide open.

Still, some disguise was better than none, especially in light of the reward. The executive followed the crowd off the plane, through a series of hallways, and down into the lobby.

The guard, a manager who had been on duty for more than sixteen hours, eyed the businesswoman’s identification, mumbled “Welcome to San Francisco,” and waved her through. An employee, nobody knew which one, had dumped the electronic identification equipment sixteen hours before. Just one of many acts of sabotage aimed at Pardo’s Independent World Government.

Maylo gave thanks for good fortune and hurried through the terminal. The airport was packed with people, and, judging from the lines she saw, most of them wanted to leave. She left the terminal, hailed an autocab, and faced a difficult decision. Where to go? Who to see? Especially with her face plastered everywhere.

The executive threw her duffel bag into the back, slid into place, and gave her destination: “The Imperial hotel.”

The voice was patronizing. “The Imperial. Yes, ma’am, it will be
our
pleasure.”

“Cut the crap and put this thing in gear.”

“Nothing would please us more,” the computer responded. “Please insert your valid chipcard into the reader.”

Maylo grumbled, did as she was told, and felt the cab jerk into motion. It smelled of disinfectant. A heart inscribed with “B.D. loves M.D.” had been scratched into the metal in front of her. The businesswoman had absolutely no intention of staying at the Imperial, but knew better than to lay electronic tracks to her
real
destination. Wherever that would be.

The bay area had escaped the sort of destruction visited on Los Angeles and looked reasonably normal except for the military presence on the streets. Major intersections were guarded by tanks, cyborgs, and armored personnel carriers. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was in control.

Maylo considered her options. There weren’t any. She could approach the government and allow them to throw her in prison, or go get some help. The law firm of Buchanan, Allison, and Grann had served Chien-Chu Enterprises for a long time and would know what to do.

With her decision made, the businesswoman decided to settle back and let the ride take care of itself. Traffic was lighter than usual, which shaved ten minutes off the trip. There was a whir as the autocab pulled into the drive, took the correct number of credits off the debit card, and spit the device into her hand. The door opened; the executive slid off the seat and took the duffel bag with her.

A baggage bot trundled her way. Maylo waved the machine off, hailed a second cab, and gave a new address. She arrived five minutes later. The vehicle whined as it pulled away.

The wind rushed in off the bay, slid through the weave of Maylo’s suit, and chilled the surface of her skin. She shivered, wished for a coat, and pushed the discomfort away.

Maylo looked around, saw nothing out of ordinary, and entered the lobby. It featured what seemed like an acre of polished marble, a sculpture carved by the Orgontho artisans, and an imposing desk. The lift tubes, all twenty-four of them, were palmprint-protected. A man wearing an eight-hundred-credit topcoat slid his hand into a wall slot, turned, and entered an elevator.

Important people don’t carry their own bags or need assistance. With that in mind, the receptionist looked down at her with the disdain that she so clearly deserved. “Yes? May I be of assistance?’

“Yes, thank you. Buchanan, Allison, and Grann, please.”

The guard had a long, lugubrious face. An eyebrow twitched upward. “And who may I say is calling?”

There were at least a hundred thousand reasons why she shouldn’t use her own name, but she had very little choice if she wanted to leave the lobby. “Maylo Chien-Chu.”

The guard nodded, lifted a handset, and spoke so softly she couldn’t hear. His expression changed fractionally, and he pointed toward a lift tube. “Take number eight... it serves the forty-ninth floor.”

Maylo thanked him, entered the elevator, and heaved a sigh of relief. She wasn’t off the hook, not by a long shot, but it was good to have allies. Especially powerful ones who knew the law backward and forward.

The platform whispered to a stop, the wood-paneled doors slid apart, and the executive stepped out. It had been more than thirty years since her uncle had first taken her there and nothing had changed. Not the acres of beige carpet, the heavily paneled walls, or the portraits that hung on them—a long line of partners all of whom liked to frown.

A rather attractive woman was waiting to greet the executive. She had short blonde hair and a jeweled temple jack. “Ms. Chien-Chu! What a pleasure to meet you! Here, let me get that bag. Please follow me.”

The blonde woman had already turned and left by the time Maylo thought to ask her name.

The office belonged to Ginjer Buchanan. The nameplate said so. Not that Maylo needed to see it. The woman pushed heavy wooden doors open and motioned for the executive to enter. It was a large room. She saw Ginjer on the other side of it, turning from a side table, a glass in her hand.

Maylo was committed by the time she saw the look on her attorney’s face, felt the blonde woman shove something hard into her back, and heard the unfamiliar voice. “So, look what we have here! Maylo Chien-Chu. President and CEO of Chien-Chu Enterprises.”

The executive turned, and the hard thing turned with her. A man held out his hand. He was handsome, almost pretty, and extremely conscious of it. “Hi. I’m Leshi Qwan. I told ‘em you’d show up. That’s how it is with lawyers. You can’t live with ’em, and you can’t live without ’em! Welcome to Noam Inc.”

 

 

The Sheen scout ship dropped out of hyper, scanned the three-planet system, and found what it was searching for. The Sheen possessed two fleets, and this one, controlled by the supreme intelligence known as the Hoon, consisted of no less than 1,347 heavily armed spacecraft.

Some cruised the margins of the solar system, watching for signs of hostile activity, while the rest swarmed around the second planet from the sun. Those capable of landing did so, feeding on the remains of a once-thriving Steam Age society, while shuttles fetched “food” into orbit for consumption by the larger vessels.

The ships, each protected by the same silvery sheen, flashed like fish through the ocean of blackness. They felt nothing for the millions who had died... or would die during the days ahead.

Recognition codes flashed back and forth as the newcomer identified itself and was readmitted to the fold.

The scout had no emotions as such, but did process a sense of “correctness” in relationship to its return.

The Hoon noted that a relatively minor aspect of its anatomy had returned, launched a virtual extension of itself through space, and queried the reconnaissance unit as to the outcome of the mission.

The scout ship opened itself to inspection and observed while the Hoon ran through the data collected during the two-year journey.

The supreme intelligence spent 2.1 seconds analyzing the information gathered, used it to add more detail to the three-dimensional map by which it navigated the galaxy, and took note of the Thraki spoor.

The signs consisted of a moon riddled with artificial passageways, half a ton of free-floating metallic wreckage, and a Stone Age society suddenly possessed of iron. All of which pointed toward the same conclusion: The Thraki fleet had traversed sector 789-BNOX-7862—and rather recently too. “Recently” was a relative concept denoting any event that had transpired during the last five years.

Satisfied with its findings, the Hoon started to withdraw. The scout ship sensed the departure and mentioned the prisoners. Surely they had value, and required interrogation?

The Hoon acknowledged the interrogatory, entered the bubble matrix, and examined the captives. The AIs were a strange and contentious lot, most of whom functioned at a rather low level. They sensed his presence, realized his status, and babbled all sorts of mathematical nonsense.

Most of the gibberish could be translated, however, and while very little of it had any value, there were some interesting exceptions.

Among them were an AI who claimed to be one hundred fifty thousand years old, a navcomp that was extremely conversant with the sector of space toward which the Thraki were headed, and a gaming unit that might or might not offer a momentary diversion.

Those entities that the Hoon considered to have merit were plucked from the storage module and dumped into one of his secondary memory mods. The rest were deleted.

The Hoon withdrew, the scout ship headed inward, and the fleet continued to feed.

 

God had spoken to Jepp with increasing frequency of late, but always through dreams, making it difficult to remember what the supreme being said.

This particular conversation was different however, since Jepp was asleep and somehow
knew
that he was asleep, thereby ensuring that he would remember.

God, who looked a lot like his father, smiled and opened his mouth to speak. Somehow, Jepp wasn’t sure how, he knew that the divine being was prepared to reveal the reason for his birth and the work that awaited. Never had he experienced such a sense of warmth, significance, and impending purpose.

But then, just as his father’s lips started to move, something tugged at his consciousness. He shouted, “No! I won’t go!”

But the force refused to obey. It dragged the human out of his dream and into the very world from which he had so recently escaped. The prospector’
s eyes opened. He looked around and swore when he saw the same old surroundings. Nothing had changed. Everything was the same. Or was it?

Then it came to him. The hum! The triple-damned, unrelenting, round-the-clock hum had disappeared! A full ten seconds passed as he gloried in the resulting silence.

That’s when something horrible entered his mind. What if the ship was drifting in space? Unable to produce oxygen for him to breathe? Falling into a nearby sun? Not knowing, and not being able to find out, was the worst torture imaginable.

The prospector sat up, freed himself from the makeshift bedroll, and started to stand. The deck slanted, the hull creaked, and the ship thumped onto something solid. Jepp experienced a momentary sense of relief. It seemed that the vessel had landed ... or docked with another ship. But why? And what would that mean to him?

Mindful of how important his remaining possessions were, and eager to prepare himself for whatever lay ahead, the prospector placed items he considered critical into a large duffel bag, which, along with his space suit, he could barely manage to carry. His body, once layered with fat, was painfully thin. He was hungry, always hungry, yet afraid to eat. He had five ration paks and an energy bar left. When they were gone, so was he.