Maylo shrugged. “ Maybe. That would make sense.... But this is important! So important that Chien-Chu Enterprises will foot the bill if it comes to that. My uncle would want it that way.”
The being once known as “raft Four” had never met the man in question but had memories inherited from the other members of her race. For it had been Sergi Chien-Chu who, in his role as director for the Department of Interpecies Cooperation, had successfully recruited rafts One and Two into the Confederacy’s armed forces—a decision that was critical to the outcome of the Hudathan war. Sola sent a wave of affection toward her visitor. “Yes, I believe he would.”
The moment was over. Maylo felt both rested and reenergized. There was work to do, a lot of it, but she was ready to take it on. “Thank, you Sola.... How much longer till you return home?”
“I’m scheduled to lift a month from now,” the alien replied. “Your planet is beautiful ... but I miss my family.”
“And we will miss you,” Maylo replied. “See you tomorrow?”
Sola was silent for a moment. “Perhaps ... but a storm is brewing ... and the currents carry us where they will.”
“Let it rip,” Maylo said confidently. “That’s what I like about life below the surface ... everything is so serene.”
The Say’lynt knew better, had “heard” the distant screams, but allowed the matter to drop. The human would learn soon enough.
Maylo felt the tendrils drop away. Lights beckoned. She kicked, and they grew brighter.
The executive pushed her way downward, waved to a pair of trained dolphins, and eyed the complex below. Each tank, or habitat, wore a luminescent number. The VIP suite was located in nineteen. Maylo spotted the correct cylinder, entered the open lock, and pushed the green panel.
The hatch closed, a pump thumped, and the water level dropped. Maylo removed her equipment, used fresh water to rinse each piece off, and restored them to their hooks.
An inner door opened, and the executive’s feet slapped as she walked the length of a short corridor, palmed the access panel, and entered her temporary quarters. She was halfway to the bathroom when someone cleared his throat. “Sorry, boss. I was leaving a note.”
Maylo turned to find Dr. Mark Benton, the center’s director, standing by the fold-down desk. He was tall, with a swimmer’s shoulders and sturdy legs. He had brown hair, even features, and a strange expression. Embarrassment? Yes, but tinged with something else.
That’s when the executive remembered she was naked. Should she run? Or bluff it out? She decided on the latter. “Hi, Mark. Take a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The oceanographer nodded mutely, wondered if she’d noticed the bulge in his shorts, and hoped she hadn’t. She had creamy skin, a narrow waist, and beautiful legs. It was a lovely sight... and one that would haunt him for weeks to come.
Once in the bathroom, Maylo rinsed the salt off her skin, examined herself in the mirror, and wondered what Benton thought. Did he like the way she looked? Not that it mattered, since she had little time for men. That was one of many sacrifices that went with the job.
The executive wrapped a towel around her head, slipped her arms into a robe, and padded toward the sitting room. A grouper nibbled at the heavily armored plastic window. Benton stood and offered his hand. It was warm and firm.
“Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you. There was an Abyssal storm out along the trench. Lots of mud... terrible visibility. A cyborg rolled off a cliff and took some damage. She’s safe ... but it took twenty hours to recover the crawler.”
Maylo took a seat. “I’m sorry to hear it.... Is that what you came to see me about?”
The scientist shook his head. “Heck, no, I wouldn’t bother you with something like that. This is, well, big. Here. Watch this.”
Benton walked over, dropped a holo cube into her player, and touched a button. “This stuff was recorded during the past couple of days. The com center condensed more than thirty hours of programming into thirty minutes.”
Maylo started to speak, but Benton raised a hand. “You’re busy, I know, but trust me. Once you see this, you’ll want more information, not less.”
A thousand points of light swirled like multicolored snow and coalesced. Governor Patricia Pardo started to speak. The executive listened, swore, and listened some more. None of what the politician had to say was good—and what followed was even worse. Much worse.
Maylo watched in horror as the fighting escalated, as cities started to burn, as people died. Not just a few people, but thousands, culminating in an on-camera execution that left her nauseous.
The video faded to black, followed by a long silence. Maylo was the first to break it. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” Benton agreed. “That pretty well sums it up.”
“Any response from the Confederacy?”
“Not so far... but it should come soon.”
The door chimed softly. Maylo rose to answer it.
The security officer was ex-military, one of many that Chien-Chu Enterprises had hired, partly because it seemed the right thing to do, and partly because it was a damned good investment. The woman’s name was Jillian, and she looked concerned. “Sorry to interrupt, but things are getting hairy.”
Maylo sighed, wished she had taken time to dress, and waved the officer in. “No problem, Jillian. Dr. Benton played the holo for me. What have you got?”
The security officer stood at a close approximation to parade rest. “Nothing good, ma’am. Combat-equipped troops invaded the company’s offices in Los Angeles, New York, Mexico City, Rio, London, Moscow, Calcutta, Sydney, and Lima. Our records were seized, our funds were frozen, and at least ten members of your executive team are under arrest. Your picture was aired on the government controlled news. They put out a reward of one hundred thousand credits... dead or alive.”
The words came as a shock. Maylo felt something cold trickle into the pit of her stomach. Dead or alive? What was happening? Had Pardo lost her mind? But there was more. Maylo could tell from the other woman’s expression. “Casualties?”
Jillian gave a short, jerky nod. “Yes, ma’am. A hundred and six so far, security people mostly, including the chief.”
Major Jose Mendoza had been one of those pushed out of the Legion and onto the streets—the perfect man to lead her security team. Maylo could visualize his tough, leathery face and hear his booming laugh. Killed doing his job. Anger boiled up from deep inside, anger she would harness and use. Someone, or a whole bunch of someones, was going to pay. “I’m sorry, Jillian. Jose was the best.”
The security officer nodded. “Ma‘am. Yes, ma’am.”
“How ’bout other companies? Did they receive the same treatment?”
“It’s early yet,” Jillian replied cautiously, “but none so far.”
Maylo felt her mind start to whirl. “We were targeted? By whom?”
“It’s hard to tell,” Jillian answered stolidly, “but I had reports from Los Angeles and Calcutta indicating that representatives from Noam Inc. accompanied the rebel troops and remained on prem once the soldiers left.”
Noam Inc.! Of course. The two companies were fierce competitors, and had been for a long time. The mutiny was more than a military revolt.... There was a financial component as well.
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.”
8
That which furthers our purpose is authorized.
The Hoon
General Directive 17923.10
Standard year 2502
Somewhere beyond the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The Sheen scout ship dropped out of hyper, scanned the three-pl
anet 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.
By Blood Alone Page 11
