By Blood Alone (3 page)

“Mueller and I stood in the shadows and watched Captain Pardo approach the shuttle.”

“Wait a minute,” Hassan said critically. “It was dark ... how could you be sure the man was Pardo?”

“He passed under a hover spot,” Booly said with certainty, “
and
registered on my wrist term.”

Hassan mustered a look of surprise. “On your wrist term? Show the court.”

What ensued was more for the benefit of the press than the court, since nearly every officer present wore a similar device and knew how they functioned.

Booly went along, however, even going so far as to roll up his sleeve and display a sinewy arm. The terminal was black. He touched a button, and a holo bloomed.

Eight miniature heads appeared and started to rotate. Seven were dark, showing they were off-line, while one glowed green. The name was there for everyone to read: “M. Pardo.”

There was a stir as the robocams whirred in for a closer look. Booly glanced at Loy, saw a look that could only be described as venomous, and knew there was no going back. Hassan nodded for effect. “So, that particular function was activated? And confirmed the captain’s identity?”

“That’s correct.”

“And the transmissions are secure? No one could feed false information into your terminal?”

“Legion wrist terms are extremely well protected.”

“Go ahead.”

Booly described how he called Pardo’s name, how Sergeant Major Mueller felt compelled to crank a round into the chamber of his GP-4 submachine gun, and how they searched the truck. A search that turned up a large number of weapons that Pardo had reported as lost.

Fox-Smith spent the next four hours hammering Hassan’s witnesses, and none more than Colonel William Booly.

But the officer refused to change his testimony, and, assuming the panel was honest, there was little doubt what they would find.

Finally, when Booly left the building, it was with a deep sense of disappointment. In Pardo, in Loy, and the Legion itself.

 

The next two days passed rather slowly. In spite of the fact that he had completed his testimony, there was the possibility that Booly would be recalled. That being the case, he was free to leave the campus so long as he stayed nearby.

An autocab carried the officer to El Centro, the heart of the old city, and the scene of many youthful adventures. The neighborhood opened gradually, like some exotic flower, complete with its own doubtful perfume.

The legionnaire ordered the vehicle to a halt and walked the familiar streets. Many of his favorite haunts were gone, replaced by newer establishments, none of which felt the same. Here were the flophouses, cheap restaurants, and bars with names like Jericho Mary’s, the Sergeant’s Delight, and the Black Kepi.

And here too were the legionnaires themselves, easily identifiable by their short haircuts, regimental tattoos, and flinty stares.

Beggars who had fought under alien suns, looked death in the eye, and buried their friends. All for the stench of urine-soaked alleys, the contempt of those they had served, and the solace found in a bottle. Demobilized by the thousands, and with nothing to do, they stood in little groups.

Booly watched a wiry little man, the emblem of the 1st RE still visible on his right forearm, approach a prosperous citizen. A civil servant, perhaps, or the owner of a store. Words were exchanged, the ex-legionnaire jerked as if slapped, and the man turned his back.

The officer reached into his pocket, found a wad of bills, and peeled some off. “Corporal-a moment of your time, please.”

The legionnaire turned. His face registered surprise. “Sir?”

“I wondered if you would do me a favor. A platoon of the lst REI saved my ass on Etan IV-and I was never able to thank them. Perhaps you could host a few of the lads to dinner. I’d be grateful.”

Tears filled the legionnaire’s eyes. “Why, bless you, sir. It would be my pleasure. I guess the tattoo is clear enough-but how did you scan my rank?”

“From the way you carry yourself,” Booly said truthfully, “and the chevrons on your sleeve.”

The corporal looked, saw the dark patch of fabric, and laughed. “Once a corporal, always a corporal!”

Booly nodded and walked away.

Other legionnaires, curious what had transpired, drifted over. The corporal showed them the money. “We’re gonna have lunch, lads ... and some beer to wash it down.”

The men watched their benefactor cross the street. “I want you to remember that one,” the corporal said thoughtfully. “Some need killing ... and some don’t.”

 

The summons came the way most military communications do, at an inconvenient time, and without prior warning.

Booly had just stepped into the shower, and ducked his head under a blast of hot water, when his wrist term began to vibrate. The officer wiped water out of his eyes and squinted at the readout: “Report General Loy-1400 hours.” Short and not especially sweet.

Booly sent an acknowledgment and watched the time reappear : “1326.” Not much response time. Why?

The officer finished his shower, made his way out into the simply furnished room, and spoke to the com center. “Holo vision-news channel.”

The all-purpose holo tank faded into life. Booly waited through the end of the sports report and was half dressed by the time the news summary came on. The computer-animated news anchor looked a lot like the people who lived in the grid that surrounded the academy. Her expression was serious.

“This just in ... a military court found Legion Captain Matthew Pardo, son of Governor Patricia Pardo, guilty of stealing government property and sentenced the officer to twenty years hard labor at the Confederate correctional facility on Pitra II.

“The conviction, which rested heavily on testimony provided by Pardo’s commanding officer, seems proof of the Legion’s ability to police itself. Or does it? Critics wonder if Pardo was railroaded as part of an attempt to distract the public from other problems within the Legion.

“Now, with more from the man and woman on the street, here’s ... ”

Booly didn’t care what the man or woman on the street had to say. He ordered the tank to turn itself off. The image collapsed.

So, the verdict was in. The thief would get twenty on Pitra-and what would he get? Twenty on Caliente? Probably, although there were worse things, like forced retirement.

Having already accepted his fate, Booly found himself surprisingly cheerful as he made his way across the campus and up to General Loy’s office. He knocked, heard the traditional “Enter,” and stepped inside.

Loy was seated at his desk. He no longer needed anything from Booly ... and saw no reason to posture. His tone was neutral, and his face was impassive. “Excuse me for not inviting you to sit, Booly, but I’m late for a meeting.

“You’re familiar with the base at Djibouti? Yes, of course you are. Home to the 13th DBLE and all that. Well, it seems that the CO, a woman named Junel, died in some sort of accident. Rough crowd out there-you might want to look into it.

“In any case your presence is a god send. We’ll slide you into Djibouti, promote your XO into the Caliente slot, and have done with it. Questions?”

Booly looked into the other officer’s coal-black eyes and saw they were easy to read. “Go ahead,” the look seemed to say. “Question these orders, and see what happens next.”

Booly thought about it. Djibouti. A pesthole located on the east coast of Africa. A place to stash troublemakers. Worse than that, an assignment without purpose, where each day would stretch into a long, monotonous hell.

But to say that, or to give even the slightest hint of it, was to lose. Booly stood ramrod straight. “Sir! Yes, sir! Will there be anything else?”

Loy felt a slight sense of disappointment. Maybe the breed was stupid ... or one hell of an actor. Djibouti was a master stroke. A punishment from which there was no appeal-and no possible escape. He nodded. “No, that should do it. Your gear will be shipped from Caliente, and my adjutant has your orders.”

There was no “Good luck,” no effort to ease the moment, so Booly said, “Thank you, sir,” did an about-face, and marched out of the room. They never saw each other again.

If thou follow thy star, thou canst not fail of glorious heaven.

Dante
Divine Comedy: Purgatory
Standard year circa 1308

 

 

The ready room had been painted orange, green, and blue over the last thirty-six years and all three layers of paint had started to peel. The names of long-gone crew members had been stenciled over empty suit racks and never removed. Not out of respect, or sentiment, but because Jorley Jepp didn’t care.

The space armor had clocked more than ten thousand hours and was no longer covered by anything other than carefully applied patches. The warranty was little more than a memory, nobody would write a policy on it, and Jepp was broke.

That being the case, the prospector ran the diagnostics twice, mumbled “Good girl” when the readouts came up green, and entered the
Pelican’
s main lock.

The name stemmed from the way the vessel was shaped. Unlike many of the ships owned and operated by Jepp’s peers, the
Pelican
had actually been designed for mining asteroids, which explained the big beaklike bow.

Farther back, roughly halfway down the hull, two pylons extended at right angles to the ship. The tractor and pressor units necessary to grab ten-ton boulders and feed them into the vessel’s enormous maw had to be mounted somewhere; hence the
Pelican’
s “wings.”

Of course, the tractor-pressor units could be used to clutch other objects as well-including salvage such as the heavily damaged drifter pinned under the
Pelican’
s work lights. A fabulous find that could erase Jepp’s debts and fund his future.

The spaceship was a derelict, and had been for a long time, judging from the fact that there were no signs of heat, radiation, or electrical-mechanical activity emanating from it. There was damage, the sort one would expect of something in an asteroid belt, but the hull was intact.

All of which meant that it should be safe to bring the vessel aboard. But prospectors are a paranoid lot, especially those who live long enough to celebrate their fiftieth birthday, and Jepp wanted to inspect his find. What if his activities triggered ancient weapons? A power plant? Anything was possible.

“No, it pays to be careful,” Jepp said as the lock cycled open, “and to trust the Lord, for he shall show the way.”

The
Pelican
’s navcomp, which Jepp called Henry, after the ancient navigator, issued a perfunctory “Amen,” took note of a distant heat source, and wondered what the object was. Time would tell.

The utility sled would have been perfect for the job, but it, like so many other pieces of gear, was sitting in the
Pelican’
s maintenance bay awaiting repairs.

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Jepp intoned sanctimoniously as he pushed the ship away.

“And blessed is the name of the Lord,” the AI replied, “for he rules heaven and Earth.”

“He rules
heaven
,” Jepp agreed tartly, “but Earth is up for grabs. That’s why I left.”

The computer noted the useless information and stored it away.

The prospector fired the jet pack, swore when he veered off course, and made the necessary changes. Was he getting rusty? Or did the right thruster need a tuneup? It took a lot of work to run a scooper-which was why the
Pelican
had been designed to carry a crew of three humans and two robots. That was fine, except that people made Jepp crazy, not to mention the effect he had on them, and the fact that the robots had been sold to buy fuel.

The drifter was bigger now,
much
bigger, and clearly a prize. Jepp felt his heart beat faster and was reminded of his childhood, when brightly wrapped presents awaited eager hands, and suspense was half the fun.

Which would be more valuable? he wondered. The ship, and whatever artifacts it might contain, or the metal it was made of? A nice problem to have.

The prospector fired his braking jets, felt the suit start to slow, and brought his boots up. They hit, his knees absorbed the shock, and the electromagnets embedded in his boots grabbed the hull. Or tried to grab the hull and failed. Jepp bounced away. “Damn! There’s no steel in this hull!”

Henry, unsure of how to respond, said nothing. The heat source was larger now, but only in relative terms, since it was little more than a pinprick of warmth in a sky lit by a powerful red giant. Once the object came close enough, assuming it did, the navcomp would notify its master.

Unable to walk on the surface of the hull as he had originally planned to do, the prospector was forced to reactivate the jet pack and search for a way in. There were plenty to choose from. Having been wrecked by the asteroid field, or having fallen in with the floating rocks, the drifter had been repeatedly holed.

Jepp selected a large pear-shaped opening and eased his way through. With no sun or starlight to guide him, the prospector found it necessary to activate both his headlamps. Only one of them worked. The disk of pale white light drifted across potentially valuable artifacts, and Jepp felt his pulse start to race. Alien technology could be worth lots of money!

The light drifted across the entrance to a tunnel. The human brought it back. Something that looked like a leathery fire hose led up and into the darkness beyond. It floated like kelp in the ocean.

Jepp killed his thrusters, pushed the hose to one side, and pulled himself into the tube. Metal gleamed as if coated with some sort of lubricant. There were no seams, ridges, or other handholds, so the human grabbed the hose and used it to pull himself upward.