By Blood Alone (7 page)

Most of what Booly saw as the fly form rumbled in over the Gulf of Tadjoura was tan like his khakis. There were flashes of white, however, includin
g three handsome-looking mosques, a scattering of French colonial buildings, and the fortress to which he had been assigned.

The battlements were circular and sat on the Plateau du Serpent the way a kepi sits on a legionnaire’s head. Not unpleasant to look at, especially from the air, but a dumping ground for troublemakers like Booly.

He examined his fellow passenger, the only other person in the large compartment. The legionnaire seemed to be asleep. His uniform was filthy, a corporal’s chevron had been partially ripped from his sleeve, and he’d been handcuffed to his seat. Drunk, disorderly, and who knew what else. An excellent example of what Booly could expect.

The transport shuddered, started to slow, and dropped toward the ground. Booly saw the tops of palm trees, the flash of white battlements, and the X that marked the fort’s landing platform. There was an intercom, and he touched a button. “This place has an airport, doesn’t it? Let’s land there.”

The pilot, who had been executed for murder, consisted of little more than brain tissue in a nutrient bath. When ordered to choose
permanent
death, or service as a cyborg, she chose the latter. She flew the transport by means of a neural interface, “felt” by means of its sensors, and “saw” through multiple vid cams. The request took her by surprise. She applied power and banked away. Air fanned the battlements. A sentry lost his hat. The reply was automatic. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Good,” Booly answered. “And one more thing.... When they ask where I went ... tell ’em you don’t know.”

The pilot
didn’t
know ... but it didn’t seem polite to say so. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Thanks,” Booly said. “I appreciate your flexibility.”

There was a vid cam mounted in the passenger compartment, and the pilot checked the officer’s expression. He not only
acted
nice, he
looked
nice-not that it mattered. Still, most bio bods treated her like an extension of the hardware she lived in, so it was nice to encounter someone who didn’t. “No problem, sir. Welcome to Djibouti—armpit of the universe. We’ll be on the ground in two minutes.”

“Thanks,” Booly said dryly. “I can hardly wait.”

 

Major Vernon Judd watched the transport veer away, frowned, and brought the glasses to his eyes. They fed him the aircraft’s range, heading, and ground speed. He spoke from the side of his mouth. “Get hold of the pilot. Ask him, her, or it what the hell they’re doing, and order them back. And I mean
now
!”

Captain Nancy Winters thought the words “Bite my ass,” but knew Judd would be only too happy to oblige, and said, “Yes, sir,” instead.

The observation tower was equipped with radios, a door to block the steadily increasing heat, and a well-maintained air conditioner. It felt good to step inside. The duty com tech was a sergeant named Skog. He liked Winters, and he smiled. “Ma’am?”

“Get that transport on the horn and find out what they’re up to. The major wants ’em to land here.”

Everyone assigned to the fort knew a new CO was on the way-and had known from the moment that his orders were cut. They also knew about Booly’s combat record, the reason why his name had gone to the top of the shit list, and any number of other things, at least some of which were true.

That being the case, the major’s nervousness was somewhat understandable—even if he was a worthless piece of shit. Skog flipped a switch, consulted a list, and addressed his boom mike. “Transport mike-sierra-foxtrot-one-niner-eight, this is Mosby control, over.”

The reply could be heard on an overhead speaker and had the precise, slightly stilted sound of a voice synthesizer. A sure sign that the pilot was a borg. The vast majority of box heads chose to maintain their original genders, and the flight officer was no exception. “This is one-niner-eight ... go.”

Skog looked at Winters. She nodded. “Tell her to return and land in the compound.”

The noncom relayed the message and monitored the reply. “Sorry, Mosby control, but that’s a negative. My number two engine shows yellow-and I need a class three facility or better.”

Winters nodded. The fort’s pad was rated class four, which meant there were no maintenance functions, and the aircraft was prohibited from landing. A rather sensible precaution, since a disabled fly form would occupy fifty percent of the pad and limit their capacity to deal with an emergency. “Tell the pilot we understand-and that a ground vehicle will meet her at the airport.”

The com tech said, “Yes, ma’am,” and sent the necessary message.

Major Judd was fuming by the time Winters returned. “Well? Where’s the transport? What’s going on?”

“It had to divert,” Winters said calmly. “To the Djibouti airport. Some sort of mechanical problem.”

“The hell you say,” Judd grumbled. “Damned incompetence, if you ask me. Take the pilot’s name.”

Winters bit the inside of her cheek and said, “Sir, yes, sir,” but knew the XO would have forgotten the whole incident by dinnertime that evening.

Judd, angry at the thought of a long, hot drive, stomped away. Winters, happy to see him go, stayed where she was. The gulf glittered with reflected light, sent a momentary breeze toward the high, whitewashed walls, and caressed the legionnaire’s face. An omen, perhaps? Her mother had believed in such things-but her mother was dead.

The transport pushed its shadow ahead, followed ancient train tracks south, and over flew the air strip. The borg brought her ship around and flared into a perfect three-skid touchdown. Booly felt the gentle bump and spoke into the intercom. “Nice landing ... who should I thank?”

“Barr, sir. Lieutenant Betty Barr.”

“All right Lieutenant, fly safe, and remember the favor I asked for.”

“No problem, sir. Good luck with the new command.”

Booly grinned, released his seat belt, and turned. The corporal was already on his feet and standing at attention. He was at least forty, maybe older, and rail-thin. Though soiled, his uniform fit as if it had been painted on, his service stripes spoke of more than twenty years in the Legion, and he wore a chest full of ribbons. Two of them stood in for major medals.

The legionnaire’s face was long, narrow, and far from handsome. The handcuffs had disappeared. The officer raised an eyebrow, and the noncom replied without being asked. “Fykes, sir.
Corporal
Fykes, till the stripe comes off.”

“You’ve been broken before?”

“Yes, sir. Three times. Once from sergeant major.”

“For striking an officer?”

“Why, yes, sir,” Fykes answered cheerfully. “How did you know?”

“Just a guess,” Booly replied dryly. “Are you reporting for duty, or returning from leave?”

“Both, sir.”

“Ever served here before?”

The NCO shook his head. “No, sir.”

“You up for a hike? Hangover and all?”

“Yes, sir. Just lead the way.”

“Then grab your kit,” Booly said. “It’s time to reconnoiter.”

Booly had two duffel bags, and both of them were heavy. Still, he couldn’t leave his gear behind, not in a place like Djibouti, so Booly hauled them along. The hatch whined up and out of the way. The heat pushed in through the opening. The men forced their way out, clanged down the retractable stairs, and marched the width of the apron.

Booly had already started to question the wisdom of the trip by the time they crossed into the shadow cast by a dilapidated hangar. Fykes stuck some fingers into his mouth, issued a shrill whistle, and was almost immediately rewarded.

Two figures, both dressed in loose-fitting shirts, knee-length trousers, and worn-looking sandals, separated themselves from the relative darkness and trotted forward. Both were tall, slender, and possessed of wide-set eyes.

The corporal said, “Galab wanaqsan,” something about “Shan credits,” and money changed hands.

One of the men, a toothless oldster, sported a wicked-looking knife. He waited for his companion to place a ninety-pound duffel bag on one of his frail-looking shoulders, grinned happily, and nodded his readiness.

The second man, who appeared to be the younger of the two, swung the noncom’s bag up onto his back, jabbered something in Arabic, and waited for instructions.

The officer turned to Fykes. “Well done, Fykes. You’re resourceful if nothing else.”

The noncom grinned. “Some would say
too
resourceful, sir, but you can’t please everyone.”

“No,” Booly said thoughtfully, “you certainly can’t. Not in this man’s army. Come on-let’s see the sights.”

 

The problem with the scout car was that it had more than two hundred thousand miles on the odometer, was specially equipped for arctic duty, and was in dire need of an overhaul.

Major Judd occupied the passenger’s seat, did everything he could to minimize the extent to which his back made contact with the sun-baked seat, and hung on as the vehicle lurched through one of Djibouti’s legendary potholes. Mesh covered the windows and served to divide the world into hundreds of tiny squares. Not that the legionnaire minded, since the screening beat the hell out of looking down to find that a grenade had landed in his lap-a rather unpleasant tradition practiced by local youth gangs.

The driver, a private named Mesker, honked at a camel, scattered a flock of goats, and blew past the airport’s fourteen-year-old security gua
rd. He was armed with a rusty one-hundred-fifty-year-old automatic weapon. He pointed and yelled, “Bang, bang, bang!”

Mesker gauged the distance to the transport, waited until the last moment, and stood on the brake. Judd threw his hands up, swore, and turned red in the face. Bingo! Two points.

The officer, not wanting to appear frightened, sent Mesker a dirty look, made a note to get even, and opened the door. The tarmac was so hot he could feel the heat through the bottoms of his boots.

Judd waited for a dilapidated cargo tug to pass, followed the faded yellow line out to the fly form, and mounted the aluminum stairs. Chances were that Booly would be pissed and looking for someone to crap on.

Judd plastered his best shit-eating smile across his face, stepped into the relatively cool interior, and called the officer’s s name. “Colonel Booly? Major Judd here-come to pick you cup.”

The response came from speakers mounted at the front of the cabin. “This is Lieutenant Barr, sir ... the colonel left.”

“Left?” Judd asked. “How? Where?”

“Sorry, sir. I don’t know.”

“What about the prisoner? A corporal named Fykes?”

“Don’t know, sir. The two of them left together.”

Judd called down a plague on pilots, corporals,
and
colonels, reentered the thick October heat, and headed for the scout car. It shimmered and threatened to disappear.

 

The hover truck had a distinct list to starboard. Hired for a modest ten credits, it dropped the foursome at the intersection of the boulevard de la Republique and avenue Lyeutey.

Booly had never been to Djibouti before, but the fort sat on top of a plateau and was difficult to miss. Finding it would be easy. That being the case, the legionnaire reserved most of his attention for the city itself ... a place that might have seemed more foreign had he not spent so much time on other worlds.

Still, Djibouti had its share of quirks, not the least of which were streets that turned into passageways without the slightest rhyme or reason, French colonial architecture that stood shoulder to shoulder with concrete monstrosities, rickety cabs that vied with camels to claim the right-of-way, strange undulating music, and a mishmash of signs that seemed to alternate between French, Arabic, and standard.

Booly found that he actually liked the place, except for the nearly unbelievable heat and the stench of the urine-soaked alleyways.

The officer left the relative coolness of a well-shadowed passageway, turned a comer, and heard voices raised in anger. He raised his hand. Fykes stopped and motioned for the porters to do likewise. They obeyed.

There was a commotion, followed by rapid-fire Arabic and the whine of servos.

The officer peered around the comer of a stall and watched a pair of Trooper IIs swagger down the street. Shops lined both sides of the thoroughfare, each with its own sun-faded awning. Long, flimsy poles held them out and away from the buildings they served.

One of the cyborgs extended an armlike laser cannon. The support sticks crackled as they shattered. Awnings fluttered and floated to the ground. The voice was amplified and echoed off the surrounding storefronts. “We want cash, and we want it
on time.
We’ll be back tomorrow-so don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Booly retreated to the shadows and motioned for the others to do likewise. The officer caught a whiff of ozone as the machines lurched past. “Corporal Fykes ...”