By Blood Alone

Table of Contents

 

 

“A tough, moving novel of future warfare.”

—David Drake

 

“A complex novel ... scintillating action scenes ... A satisfying, exciting read.”

—Billie Sue Mosiman, author of
Widow

 

“Rockets and rayguns galore ... and more than enough action to satisfy those who like it hot and heavy.”

—
The Oregonian

 

“Exciting and suspenseful ... real punch.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

 

“Slam-bang action.”

—David Drake

 

“Adventure and mystery in a future space empire.”

—F. M. Busby

 

“All-out space action.”

—
Starlog

 

“Good, solid, space opera, well told.”

 

GALACTIC BOUNTY

FREEHOLD

PRISON PLANET

IMPERIAL BOUNTY

ALIEN BOUNTY

McCADE’S BOUNTY

DRIFTER

DRIFTER’S RUN

DRIFTER’S WAR

LEGION OF THE DAMNED

BODYGUARD

THE FINAL BATTLE

WHERE THE SHIPS DIE

STEELHEART

BY BLOOD ALONE

BY FORCE OF ARMS

DEATHDAY

EARTHRISE

FOR MORE THAN GLORY

FOR THOSE WHO FELL

RUNNER

LOGOS RUN

WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST

WHEN DUTY CALLS

AT EMPIRE’S EDGE

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

BY BLOOD ALONE

 

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

 

Ace edition / July 1999

Copyright 1999 by William C. Dietz.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-49574-2

 

ACE
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

 

 

 

To Mike Davison, the 24-hour shoot, 28 days on the road, the oil rig in the gulf, New York, New York, Buckskin Mary, hot air balloons, helicopters, crop dusters and motorcycles, 230 miles down the Big Salmon and a beer at the other end. All of it was fun in a painful sort of way. Thanks!

Dr. Sheridan Simon, who designed the Hudathan homeworld, the Hudathans themselves, and the planet Algeron; Tony Geraghty, author of
March or Die;
Christian Jennings, author of
Mouthful of Rocks;
and John Robert Young, author of the
The French Foreign Legion.

Troops must obey or die. There is no other choice.

Mylo Nurlon-Da
The Life of a Warrior
Standard year1703

 

 

The sun rose blood red, threw shadows toward the Pacific, and bathed the campus in soft pink light. Colonel William “Bill” Booly III left the BOQ, savored the crisp morning air, and looked across the quad. He was a tall man with his mother’s steady gray eyes and his father’s rangy body. The tan stopped at his collar. He nodded to a civilian and stepped onto a carefully maintained path.

The pavement was barely wide enough to accommodate four people running abreast, or two columns of two, which was the way that cadets moved from place to place. Just one of the methods by which they were taught to follow orders, work as a team, and focus on group objectives.

The administration building, also known as Tonel Hall, lay directly ahead. His father had been the
first
person of Naa descent to enter the academy, carry the class pennant over the rooftops, and collide with a general while making his escape. A story he had heard what? A hundred times?

A company of cadets crossed in front of the officer, and the commander, a skinny little thing who rarely saw a captain much less a colonel, saluted, snapped her head toward the front and called the cadence. “Your left, your left, your left, right, left ...”

Booly smiled, returned the salute, and fell into step. It had been more than fifteen years since he had marched to class ... but it might as well have been yesterday.

He remembered how the door would slam open, the cadet leader would yell “Hit the deck,” and his roommate would groan. Then came the cold floor tiles, a hot shower, and the same old breakfast. All so he could become an officer in a military organization that had survived for more than seven hundred years. Not for a country, not for a cause, but for
themselves
.

Legio patria nostra
. “The Legion is my country.” That was the Legion’s motto and, in the minds of some, its primary weakness.

The administration building loomed above. A cadet snapped to attention, clicked his heels, and offered a rifle salute.

The officer returned it and approached the door. The push panels glowed. Booly wondered if they were the same ones
he
had polished, or if the daily friction eventually wore holes through solid metal.

The lobby was enormous. A painting of King Louis-Philippe occupied most of one wall. A plaque was mounted below, and like every graduate Booly knew the words by heart:

The side walls were decorated with battle flags, some ragged and stained by what might have been blood, others as pristine as if just removed from the box. Not too surprising, since flags had very little place in modern battles-and were typically incinerated along with those who carried them.

The air smelled of floor wax and something Booly couldn’t quite put his finger on. Mold? Rot? No, bricks don’t decay, not
Legion
bricks.

A corporal sat ensconced behind three hundred pounds of solid oak. He wore the insignia of the 3rd REI, two five-year service stripes, and a pair of campaign medals. He’d seen a lot of colonels and wasn’t impressed by this one. “Good morning, sir. Can I be of assistance?”

Booly looked into the scanner without being asked. “Yes, thank you. Colonel William Booly—here for Captain Pardo’s court martial. Could you direct me to the proper room?”

The corporal consulted his terminal, confirmed the officer’s s identity, and watched an icon twirl. He touched a key. “There’s a message, sir. From General Loy ... Please join him prior to the proceedings.”

General Arnold M. Loy, Commanding Officer, Earth Sector. He shared the building with the academy’s commandant and was in charge of the court martial. Booly knew the officer’s reputation if not the man himself. Medal of Valor, Battle Star, and Croix de Guerre. Some described Loy as “a hero of the Confederacy” and some called him “the butcher of Bakala.” Both views were probably true.

The request could be routine, an administrative matter of some sort, or—and this was what Booly feared—the first sign of politics in what promised to be a highly charged proceeding. He nodded to the corporal. “Top fioor—south side?”

The noncom nodded. “Yes, sir. Some things never change.”

The corporal watched the officer climb the well-worn stairs. Poor sod. Loy would eat him for breakfast. The noncom savored the thought and chuckled. His coffee break was due in fifteen minutes. That’s what he liked about the Legion. Do what you’re told, keep your nose clean, and things took care of themselves.

 

General Loy heard the knock and knew who it was. He rose from his chair, turned his back on the room, and looked out through the window. An important man thinking important thoughts. The pose had been calculated once—but that was a long time ago. “Enter.”

Booly opened the door and stepped through. The office looked as he had expected it to look. Formal and somewhat spartan. The desk was huge, as if part of a barricade, and mostly bare. What momentos there were had been arranged like legionnaires on parade. The rest of the furnishings consisted of some heavily worn guest chairs, a credenza made of Turr wood, and a wall of carefully arranged stills. Loy on Algeron, Loy with the President, Loy on Bakala. Not one single photo of someone else.

Booly, hat held in the crook of his arm, snapped to attention. “Colonel Bill Booly, reporting as ordered, sir.”