The Blue-Spangled Blue (The Path Book 1)

by David Bowles

  As difficult as this idea may at first seem, there is a single overriding reason to agree: the dangerous nature of fanaticism, especially the religious type. Our present ecumenical enlightenment makes it hard for citizens of the Consortium to comprehend the totalizing nature of the radical religious mindset. The present struggle with a man claiming his gods’ support is one example, but dangerous sequels wait in the wings if we do not act soon.

  Just three years ago on Jitsu, that symbol of humanity’s reach which we have endeavored for years to make join the CPCC, the fanatical Dominian sect almost wrested control of the planet from the more Consortium-friendly Reformer party. Terego, that verdant green sister to Mother Earth, is in the grip of a theocratic government. Will we wait till these worlds decide they too must fight us? We at Outward think not.

  Our proposal? Occupy these worlds. Take our superior forces and set up provisionary governments to ensure democratic elections and induction into the bosom of humanity. We should not and must not risk further death at the hands of extremists. Once victory is gained against the Draconian Kunti, the next step is clear.

  * * *

  (The following are excerpts from Prime Minister Muntso’s inaugural address, given on 1 December, 2692)

  In times of crisis, humanity always rises to the challenge. Reflect on Earth’s Second and Third World Wars, on the devastation caused by the resurgence of the ice age on that planet, on the Solar War, on the Time of Darkness that preceded the founding of the CPCC—we never give up, we humans. And we will not do so now, either. We will route the Dragon from out our midst and cleave both its whipping, blind tail and its fire-breathing head from its treacherous body. This I swear to each of yall: Sigma Draconis falls within the year.

  [….]

  Despite the challenges Kunti’s irksome progeny present, we must not forget to keep a watchful eye on the underworld, the Demimundo that so many demons are born from. Distracted as we are, we need to be mindful of the opportunity that our crisis affords our other enemies, the enemies of justice and order. Beyond the daily ebb and flow of syndicate attacks, reports indicate, for example, that Gaia, the independent world we have been trying so hard to create ties with, is being infiltrated slowly by members of the Scarlet Chaos Triad, which is interested in the narcotic effects of a plant native to that world. The implications from this example and many similar ones is clear: the Demimundo is becoming more and more aggressive, and with the added temptation of worlds outside the CPCCAF’s purview, syndicates are turning toward conquest as a means to expansion. Once Sigma Draconis is dealt with, I plan on exorcising the yaks the same way.

  * * *

  Spinelli Expels Kunti Forces

  Scot Jeunz

  Oceania Equatorial Information Net

  27 January, 2693—There was cheering and celebration in the streets of many cities throughout the Consortium today at the news that the last Kunti ship was driven from the Centauri 3 system by Flotilla forces under the collective command of Commodore Ugo Spinelli. Spinelli, usually head of Flotilla patrols near Oceania and New Mecca, was transferred to Centauri by Prime Minister Muntso in early December. The commodore made significant inroads, putting troops on Dhara by the end of the year.

  When the barrage of syndicate attacks across the CPCC began on 1 January, Spinelli kept his nose elevated, moving forward despite how thin the AF was spread. By 13 January, when things were at their grimmest throughout the Consortium, with dozen yakuza, triad and mafia attacks everday in the most unexpected and unprotected of places, Spinelli broke the Kunti blockade and began freeing cities on Dhara.

  A week ago, the syndicate attacks stopped as abruptly as they began, and the Navarch made a large contingent of nearby galleons rendezvous with Spinelli’s forces. Under the commodore’s command, the superior Flotilla group crushed the Kunti aggressors.

  Asked for her reaction, the Prime Minister said the following: “Ugo Spinelli is a great man and a true patriot. Thanks to him we now have the upper hand, and we will take advantage of it.”

  Pressed further, Muntso would not clarify, though she did promise that “Sigma Draconis will soon feel the wrath of the Consortium.”

  * * *

  A Year of Peacekeeping Today

  Inocente Ramos

  Europa Media Tunnel

  2 March, 2694—Today marks the anniversary of Consortium presence in the Sigma Draconis system. Commodore Bernard Dernier spoke briefly to reporters, assuring the public that the timetable for a Kunti constitution is still firm, and that CPCCAF forces are in place just to protect Kunti citizenry and ensure the installation of a government chosen by the people. Today’s date is not a source of celebration for the Kunti or CPCC citizens, however: syndicate activity is on the rise throughout the Consortium, and the AF is having to track down remnants of the Kunti military that have ensconced themselves in various sectors. The exoduses from beleaguered worlds, both in the Consortium and outside it, continue, as holing drives permit those unsatisfied with their worlds the hope of finding another.

  More significant for today’s date is the upswing of mafia movement in Sigma Draconis itsself. Reports leaked by Milint operatives indicate that the Angels of Aztlan, a crime syndicate headed by the infamous Jimi Andrade, has established a foothold in the Kunti system, and rooting them up is a daunting task. Embattled peacekeeping forces await with eagerness the arrival of the first Cetus-class galleon to roll off the line at the Dosun Shipyards near Lalande 21185. The massive warship, christened the Julius Caesar, is the first of its type, enormous fighting vessels manned by both Flotilla and Army personnel and destined to impose order on regions disturbed by Kunti, rebel or syndicate forces. Anti-expansionist leaders still protest the production of the ships on the grounds that the Cetus-class vessels could be used to further expand the boundaries of CPCC territory, which they oppose for philosophical reasons. When pressed for evidence of any such plans on expansionists’ part, several inwardists pointed to the names chosen for the next three Cetus-class ships: the Qianlong, the Alexander and the Moctezuma.

  * * *

  Teregan Leaders Sign Treaty

  Stefan Lönnberg

  Crete Courier

  23 August 2695—Ending a four-month stand-off between the two political entities, members of Terego’s church hierarchy, which at present is the sole governing body on the independent planet, agreed to terms of a treaty that requires them to establish a secular government for the planet within the next two years. The Ursae Majoris Treaty is the third of its kind signed in the last year: the planets of Erin and Semanawak both agreed in late 2694 to establish secular, democratic governments.

  Consortium insistence on such governments derives from fear of the fanaticism that drove the Kunti invasion and which has delayed the timetable for Jitsu’s induction into the CPCC. Anti-expansionists balk at the radical “violations of sovereignty” as they term the requests. Marco Musa, Lunar representative in the Diet, was vehement in his denouncement of the treaties: “We go in there with these behemoth galleons, ‘requesting’ their cooperation at gunpoint. Any treaty signed under those circumstances, I submit, is invalid, the product of blackmail.”

  Prime Minister Muntso shrugs off such objections. “We will do what must be done. Human beings everywhere have an innate right to choose their own leaders, and it’s our duty to make sure that even on independent worlds those rights are observed.”

  When asked if the treaties weren’t insisted on principally for the protection of the CPCC, Muntso nodded. “Of course that’s our main objective. And to those who claim we want to annex these worlds, I’ll say the following: it’s obvious we want them to join us. But our treaties can’t be viewed as coercing them to that end. Inclusion into the larger body of humanity is a decision the people of those worlds must make, and we have given them the means to make the decision.”

  * * *

  CPCC Citizens Placed in Ghettos

  Herlinda Sánchez

  Europa Media Tunnel

 
27 February, 2697—In a stunning move, Jitsu’s recently installed Minister of Immigration, Santo Koroma, has ordered this morning the mandatory relocation of all CPCC citizenry on the planet to government housing centers within Station City, the neutral population center controlled in a joint fashion by both the CPCC and Jitsu’s theocratic government.

  “The move is just temporary,” Minister Koroma assured Consortium citizens in an infotainment-carried address. “Given that our squads show no success in stopping the constant invasion of Jitsu by syndicate and terrorist forces, we need to take more drastic action. This short-lived quarantine will allow us to determine more easily who the incognito syndicate operatives are—they tend to hide among the off-worlder populace— and incarcerate or eliminate them.”

  The radical measures, which would displace some 13,000 citizens, were approved by Archon Mutemi Rawe, the planet’s monarch, and the local diet, which became majority Dominatu in December’s elections. The Dominatudan is a radical religious group on Jitsu that disapproves of the planet’s entering the Consortium.

  Prime Minister Muntso was quick to denounce the ghettoization, deeming it “fascist.” “We will not permit the mistreatment of CPCC citizens. Our Minister of State is at present attempting a diplomatic solution to the crisis, but Koroma and Rawe need to understand one thing: Jitsu is not Dhara. Never again will our people be confined to camps that way.”

  AF informants tell the Tunnel that upon ending their tours in Sigma Draconis next month, the Cetus-class galleons Agamemnon and Ulysses S. Grant, along with the patrol ship Pacifactor II, will be rerouted to the Eta Cassiopeiae 2 system in case diplomacy fails.

  On a related note, Archon Rawe also ordered the closure of Jitsu’s Ra-Koreji, another joint venture between Consortium educators and Jitsuan reformers. Ra-Koreji, which offered secular education since its founding in 2686, was often the object of Dominatu criticism. The president of Ra-Koreji, Modupe Oduyoye, gave no comment on its closure.

  PART II: KYOSU AND THE ORACLE

  Dance when you’re broken open.

  CHAPTER 31

  It was chaos. The squad popped open the seal on the hideaway and hurtled into the dim interior, rotating helmeted heads and shooting several foolish yaks who thought they’d move up the ladder a bit by downing a squad member or two. They fanned out: Taison, Go and Chua to the left, Basan, Endo and Diken to the right. Ben Wu and the rookie, Jing Wong, stood blocking the exit.

  The burly, squat Earther they called Kyosu was at point before them, massive legs slightly bent, a taut predator relishing the seconds before its attack. Twelve unwounded demiman, caught in the center of this deadly horseshoe, lowered their weapons slightly without seeming unnerved. When the far wall suddenly exploded, they ducked and began to fire. Each squad member dove in a different direction, concentrating on taking out the yak closest to him. For a few seconds, there was no chatter on the squad channel, just measured breathing and staccato grunts. Then Ben Wu began barking orders.

  “Kyosu. The breach. Taison, Endo. Cover him.”

  Kyosu crouched low and bounded two meters into the air. Firing his konk rifle at the floor, he used the weapon’s kick to propel himself toward the heavily armed A.I. shells that marionetted out of the dissipating smoke. At the end of the arc he described through the gloom, he kicked off from the shoulders of one of the shells, twisting his body into a spin and pounding the mechanical goons with round after round of concussion blasts. The recoil sped up his spin and drove him upward toward the latticework of girders near the metal laminate roof. He freed a hand and batted at a com cable that coiled down from the central beam. His purchase firm, he hauled himself up onto the catwalk, unslung his pulsegat and, bracing himself against a joist, continued his assault on the shells.

  As he punished the robotic soldiers below, ripping off bits and pieces of armor that rained in a spray of sparks onto the concrete floor, he caught glimpses of his fellow squadmen fighting the human members of this mob crew.

  The rookie engaged one of the sicarito in hand-to-hand combat. His form was masterful, a brutal yet beautiful Wu Shu that Kyosu envied uselessly, as his forte was his lack of fear, not any special fighting skill, though his speed and brute strength were respected by other members of the squad and his Capoeira wasn’t half bad.

  The low hum of chatter on the cascom kept him abreast of his progress. Four shells had fallen, and eleven more were currently being decommed by the other members of the squad, who’d ploughed through the yaks like a pulse through paper. Kyosu concentrated on the half dozen or so that were jerking through the opening. He ran, twisting and spinning, back and forth along a crossbeam, eluding the targeting beams of the shells and burning three of them before a ‘nade ripped the girder out from beneath his feet, sending him and a portion of the roof plummeting toward the floor.

  As he fell, his ritual disconnect occurred: sound gone, everything outside his tight focus fading to blue. He hit, pulled into a ball and rolled, avoiding the debris and popping up from a partial handstand into a scissor kick that dented the plating on two shells and toppled them. He’d dropped his pulsegat, so he squeezed some plaz from a container on his belt, slapped a bit on each fallen shell with a five-second cap and rushed toward the breach.

  His focus was broken by a far-away reprimand buzzing in his ear.

  “Brando, crazy fucking bastard, I’ve told you a million times not to carry plaztubes on you! Fucking death wish, that’s what you’ve got!”

  Ben, concerned father figure. Typical. Brando D’Angelo, the man they called Kyosu because of his former career, couldn’t help but smile as he reflected.

  The shells were too easy, purely rudimentary intelligence. A.I. is illegal, but you’d think the Brotherhood would acquire the latest models. Come to think of it, the whole thing is just too bleeding easy.

  A sudden series of explosions behind him cut that line of reasoning off completely.

  Sounds like more than just two shells exploding there.

  On the other side of the breach was an operations room, 100 meters square and walled with storage bays for the shells and transports. A quarter-sphere of plated steel jutted out from the north wall, high above the bays. Probably a command center of some type. Three demiman positioned on its deck began to open fire on him as soon as he bounded in.

  Disconnect. There was nothing to hide behind and he had no gats left, so he just kept on running, accelerating and trying to avoid the blasts. He received two, both at angles that weakened their impact. His suit was able to handle it, though he’d be bruised for weeks. At about ten meters from the wall, having reached a speed of 75 kph, he threw himself into the air and seemed to fly at the command center.

  Volare. Niboraru.

  The yaks were momentarily stunned, and when they realized what was happening, it was too late. Kyosu smashed into one of them, throwing the mobster against a large console that displayed the chaos in the other room. Simultaneously he heard groans in his cascom, a “who’s down” from Ben, “stupid fucking Brando” in three languages and a general hail of billingsgate that pointedly referenced the Earther’s mother.

  There was no time to wonder what he’d done now. The other two turned, lowering their weapons and then coming at him furiously.

  Something behind the console they can’t shoot.

  One yak, a red-eyed mutant-looking freak, cocked a massive fist and began to swing, ready with a kick if Brando ducked. So he sprang instead, to the height of the yak’s head, and thrust an armored boot into his repugnant face, spinning as he descended to face the other gangster, a New Beijing boy if he’d ever seen one, fresher than the rookie.

  Weird that he’s a little brother.

  Brando’s back was now to the railing. From this angle, he noticed a lowered pit of some type behind the console. The yak’s blaster went up. Kyosu stepped in, eyes locked with the punk’s, took the gat away from him with a flurry of movements, and swept his legs out from beneath him while shoving him toward the pit at the same
time. Clinging to the yak in a whirlwind spiral, Kyosu kept beating him with the butt of the weapon as they fell toward the metal plating below.

  The impact sent the chrome sailing from his grip and scuttling across the floor. The yak had partially pinned Kyosu down with his body, and now grabbed a hold of his free arm in an effort to subdue the squadman. He leaned in close and muttered in poorly accented Kaló, “Po l’ermandá, pendeho.”

  Kyosu lurched upward and manage to smash the visor of his helmet into the idiot’s face. Flinging him off, he yanked his trucha free from his belt, thumbed the on plate, and with an upward thrust, inserted the glowing blade into the yak’s chest. Rolling the twitching Beijinger off of him, Brando sprang to his feet and spat angrily in Unified Chinese:

  “Shuō xīn hànyǔ, gāisǐ de báichī! Stupid fucking wannabes.”

  A chuckle made him slowly turn about.

  “M’an mandau n’iho de berga, no? You some tough fucker. Short, but, hey, what the fuck, can’t get ever thing, ain’t it?”

  The stringy yak that stared at him was a mademan, no doubt, the B burned into the webbed flesh between thumb and forefinger, these two drawn together overlapping to form a circle, the other three digits of his left hand pointing diagonally down toward the right as he displayed the sign above his heart. The Brotherhood, oldest syndicate around. Seven hundred years and going strong. Black hole eyes gleamed with hate and craziness from a scarred visage half-covered in tattoos. Mayan glyphs, the linguist in Brando reflected.