HALF BREED

The sun rose blood red, threw shadows towards the Pacific, and bathed the campus in soft pink light. Colonel Marco "Bay" Dooley 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 side by side, 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 Zuch 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 c

"The witness may be seated", Page said pointedly. Marco felt blood rush to his face and hurried to comply. "Thank you", Page said sarcastically. "Please proceed". Harry nodded and said "yes, sir", turned to Marco. "Please give the court your name and rank". "Dooley Marco, Colonel, Commanding Officer, Rim Sector 872"."And the nature of the forces under your command?" "I command a mixed battalion consisting of two infantry companies, two platoons of sentient armor, three batteries of artillery, and a headquarters group". Harry nodded agreeably. "And for those not familiar with Rim Sector 872, where is your battalion headquartered?" "On Foxybro". "Are all of your troops stationed on Foxybro?" Marco shook his head, "no. We have outposts as well". "Outposts that can be resupplied and reinforced form your headquarters on Foxybro?" "Yes, exactly". "

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 Jedidia Jyro 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 Jyro was broke.That being the case, the prospector ran the diagnostics twice, mumbled "Good girl" when the read outs came up green, and entered the Pelocan's main lock.The name stemmed from the way the vessel was shaped. Unlike many of the ships owned and operated by Jyro's peers, the Pelocan 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

There were fewer asteroids now, a fact that allowed Jyro to see his pursuer for the first time. It filed the main screen. He fell through the pit of his stomach. The situation was worse than he had supposed. This construct was as alien as the drifter that occupied his hold, only a lot more frightening!The oncoming vessel had the free-form bulk of a ship never meant for atmospheric use. It consisted of three cylinders, all mounted side by side, and surrounded by a framework of metal. The force field that protected the hull shimmered as rock fragments made contact with it. The human watched aghast as still another asteroid exploded and the alien vessel pushed its way through the resulting debris field. The Pelocan shuddered as alien tractor beams locked onto her hull. The drives screamed as they fought to pull the ship free, and junk avalanched off the control panel. Jyro sat transfixed as garbage tumbled into his lap. The Shem ship, for that's the name

The office, paid for by the good people of Earth, was enormous. Carefully tended plants stood just so, each in a matching pot, arranged to complement the cane furniture. The early afternoon sun filtered in through gauzy white curtains, a ceiling fan stirred the slightest scented air, and music, one of the arias for which Dwellers were justifiably famous, wafted from unseen speakers.The android looked exactly as she did, and, over a period of time, Governor Sandral Usmos had come to regard the robot as an extension of her own persona. They wore the same kind of clothes, jewelry, and makeup, walked with the same determined strides, and spoke in the same clipped syntax.A clone might have offered a more elegant solution, but would almost certainly object to the role of professional decoy. No, the robot made more sense, and would provide a much needed alibi should anything go wrong. Treason can be dangerous, after all - and is best practiced from the shadows.Sandr