The next time it took action it would be much stronger. A properly planned course would be pursued. The thought of having to endure captivity by another kind of intelligences was strange and repugnant. In fact, it was harder to bear the thoughts in the minds of its captors, which pictured the Vom as a prisoner, than it was the reality. The Vom firmed its resolution and counted this another form of penance for its errors. Soon, it would be strong. Not as strong as it had once been (it had energy to spare now for remembering) but, yes, strong enough. Time brought power.
The little girl couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. She crouched fearfully behind a moss-covered rock in the dense rain-forest. Warm water dripped off the trees all around. It was the only movement in the dead, humid air; the sound the only sound. Drops fell heavily from branch to branch in the riot of silent greenery. Filicales and bryopsids dominated the scene.
Clasped tightly in her right hand was a small blaster. Cautiously, she raised herself enough to peer over the rock. The forestscape showed nothing unusual. Nothing to see but the delicate trees, mistiphytes, and an occasional patch of chromatic fungi.
A dull maroon something moved between two mushroom things on her left. The gun twisted around and fired and the maroon thing exploded in steam and green blood. Bits and pieces continued to hump around in a horrible travesty of retained life.
The girl stepped around the boulder, keeping the blaster focused on the area of destruction. When the remnants of the still unidentifiable thing had ceased their life-burlesque, she lowered the weapon and moved forward.
She wasn’t looking up, so she didn’t see the fire-constrictor as it dropped silently from its branch. Just as she didn’t see the double rows of tiny scimitar teeth which sank inches into the muscle at the back of her neck with the force of a hammer.
Kitten blinked as she exited the booth, rubbing a spot above her left ear where the head contacts had chafed slightly.
“Well,” asked a foppishly clad Porsupah. He was sitting on a bench gayly lit from within, chewing a stick of arromesh. “How was it?”
She replied in a broadly accented, aristocratic tone. This, like Porsupah’s suit, was for the benefit of the many who strolled the noisy, glittering pathways of the amusement arcade.
“Rather dull, I’m afraid. Oh, of itself, it doesn’t fail. And the killer-illusion choice was somewhat different—slinkering is something I haven’t done more than once or twost before. But compared to the simies of Terra or even Myra IV, it’s not much. The cortex of a fire-constrictor doesn’t permit much of the real pleasure of the kill to seep through, if you know what I mean.”
“I told you we should have gone fishing!” Porsupah put on a petulant look. “How anyone can compare the thrill of hooking a parapike with the sterility of the imitation stimuli of a simie booth—it’s all just so, so gauche!”
He handled the role of a spoiled merchant’s nephew with a skill and verve Kitten couldn’t hope to match.
“Fishing, fishing! Honestly, Niki, sometimes I swear you’d be happier a fish yourself. And I never compared the two.” She flicked ashes idly from the long stick of Terran tobacco. “Even if some of the fish are bigger than your hoveraft, I can’t see much of a challenge to someone using a powerhook and reel.”
“The thrill’s in the play and the landing, not the size of the fish. At least I don’t use an explosive hook, like some. And it’s a more honest form of fun than plugging yourself into one of those infantile joyboxes!” He waved contemptuously at the row of simies. A few had lights on over the doors, indicating they were in use. Each one they passed had a more garish sign than the next, promoting this or that forbidden thrill in safety and perfect simulation.
“Meretricious mental masturbation!” the Tolian concluded grandiosely. He rose and started to walk down another arcade way. Kitten followed, strolling on his left.
“And furthermore,” he continued as they passed a stall where a tall alien was vending home-cooked pastries, just like Emethra used to make, “there’s nothing stopping you from trolling for giant groupert or malrake with plain old hook and line, you know.”
She drew herself up haughtily. “I may enjoy taking risks now and then, it’s true, but I’m not crazy, Niki.”
“Does my lady seek something a bit more intense yet sure and private, then?” came a voice from one side.
They turned together. A portly human was seated in a wicker chair at one side of the still walkaway. In an age of multiple diet chemical controls and adequate cosmetic surgery, the man was a living fossil. He was fat.
It was moderately aesthetic fat, however, Perhaps the effect wasn’t entirely unintentional. Rather than sagging, it ballooned tautly against his cheekbones and forearms. There is a great deal of difference appearance-wise between a fat man who looks like Santa Claus and one who seems composed of wet rags. This one was a Santa.
The blue eyes, set like lapis-lazuli on either side of the marquise-cut probosis, did not twinkle, however. They stared unwaveringly back into one’s own.
The portatables surrounded the man like metallic pygmies attending an idol of gluttony. They were piled with tridee cubes of planetary scenery, hand-carvings of Replerian ivory and fine woods, and an occasional bit of good jewelry. The stock was a little better than the average of the type but displayed nothing extraordinary.
“Well now,” Kitten began, “we’re not averse to suggestions from even the most unlikely quarters, my pudgy purveyor.”
“A lady who follows her soul, I see. Better than calling me plain ‘fat,’ which is what I be.”
Kitten gestured with the tobacco stick at a rack of cubes depicting fishermen in time-honored poses with victims of the sport a Terran counterpart would scoff at as trick photography.
“Your miserable attempts at flattery do me no honor. Unless you’ve more for sale than pretty pictures favoring the local cretinisms, I fear you waste our time.”
The man sneezed. “The administration really ought to do something about covering over these seaside amusement ways. At least the walkaways could be subheated.” He wiped his nose with a big multicolored hanky and heaved himself forward in the chair, wheezing.
“If you’ve the inclination,” he continued much more softly, “and the money—yes the money—for something most definitely different, I think we might do business.”
Kitten moved closer and leaned over part of the tables. She pretended to examine a carved walrus-like creature with thin silver whiskers and rose-crystal tusks.
“The desire is always there, merchant. And I have enough credits for anything in the way of entertainment this damp sod-ball could possibly offer. Endeavor to provide specifics, please.”
“Bloodhype,” the man whispered evenly. “A narcotic, if you haven’t heard of it. The finest, rarest, and most pleasureful drug this end of the opposite Arm. If you’ve the mind and guts to try it, that is.”
Kitten drew back, sighing. “Oh my. And I really hoped you might have something worthwhile, too.” She took in the whole City in a contemptuous jerk of her head. “Your market for such a product is everywhere evident. No doubt the sophisticated populace makes heavy demands on your thin stock. The woods must be aswarm with beboggled loggers and trappers!”
She handed the man the figurine and her credit slip. He went through the motions of recording the purchase. He pursed his lips in surprise as her credit rating flashed on his doublecheck screen.
“You do have the money, lovely lady-lady. Yes you do. As for your sarcasm, I am not offended. People migrate, m’lady, and so do many products. A number of such pause here on their way to other, more lucrative markets. But some is always available at points of transfer. That smokestick of yours, for example, is Terran tobacco, is it not?” Kitten nodded. “There, you see? For someone with the proper attitude and resources, anything is available anyplace.” He was very jolly about it all.
“Then you’re serious? It’s really available in this backwater?” She put just enough disbelief and
suppressed excitement into her voice.
He continued to wrap the little carving in decorative foil. “As serious and real as your beauty, lass.”
“And you’ve samples with you?”
He chuckled lightly. “My ancient human history is not the best, but from the tapes I can recall, I believe the court fools were traditionally on the slim side. No, lady. The equal of Hivehom the local constabulary may not be, but their machinery is as good as that on many of the more metropolitan worlds. I trust that you would not be averse to a short sea journey?”
“Well . . . how long?”
“Less than a day.”
“And we could leave . . . when?” she asked breathlessly.
“Immediately, if you wish.”
She turned to Porsupah. “Niki?”
“These whims of yours, Pilar. Oh well, if you think you know what you’re getting us into. Jaster is supposed to be 100 percent addictive, I recall.”
“Oh, poo! Scare rumors the Church manufactures to frighten children!” The fat man was watching her closely. “Besides, if it’s the real stuff, think what a coup I will have on the Marchioness . . . the bitchy little snippet!”
“This absurd vendetta you carry with your cousin . . . all right. But only if it all takes less than a day. I still have that flyer reserved to take us north day after tomorrow following—”
“Bother your fishing!” She turned back to the merchant.
“We accept.”
“Excellent! Then if you will permit me a few moments to pack up my simple shop, we can be off.”
“I hope your mysterious rendezvous isn’t terribly inaccessible. This outfit wasn’t made for roughing it.” She indicated the skintight black-spotted orange fur jumpsuit she was wearing, with open circlets on each leg revealing patches of skin up to her arms.
The man was folding the portatables—or rather, directing them to fold themselves. The stock automatically twisted and turned until it was contained in several odd-sized crates and rectangles. These quickly maneuvered themselves into a single featureless black block, like an automated jigsaw puzzle. He locked it, put a single CLOSED sign on the front, and started off in the direction of the sea breeze, Porsupah and Kitten following.
“Kind of chilly,” said Pors.
“As can be seen—and smelled—this amusement area is quite close to the docks,” their guide informed. Already they had left behind the hard lights and perpetual people-hum of the walkaways. Moving under their own power, they strolled along dimly lit seaside byways, kept clear of fog by City weather machinery.
Commercial craft mingled here with private vessels, each sidled close by its protective pier or slideway. They ranged from popcorn clusters of tiny one-seat water-skippers to huge bulk-fishers and transports hundreds of meters long. The farraginous flotilla threw alien city-shadows against the night sky. Phosphorescent foam the color of old newsprint lapped onto plastic hoveraft beaches.
When Repler’s two moons were in the sky, as they were now, they threw a fair amount of light. Massed together, they would have made a body a little larger than Terra’s Luna. September was nearly overhead, while August had just cleared the horizon. It would get lighter before it got darker, and the shadow of the old tom mewing on a broken piling would split.
The man led them down a long, telescoping dock. Hard by the dark water at its end rested a narrow, racy-looking hoveraft. Light showed in the open doorway and above the forecabin windows, illuminating the pebbled artificial beach. Despite its fine lines, the vessel was clearly more metal than plastine. That argued for a craft intended to transport cargo more than people. Quickly, too.
“We’re expected?” said Porsupah on catching sight of the lights. Kitten knew that he’d probably spotted them as soon as they’d turned down the quay. No point in letting their friendly pusher onto any Tolian abilities he might not be aware of.
“Hardly. No, I suspect the two pilots are up. The ship is normally engaged in transporting supplies to our host’s place of business. Sedda and Franz are perfectly trustworthy. You needn’t worry on that account.”
“Let’s hurry it up then,” said Kitten. “We do have other engagements, you know.”
The fat man slowed his pace slightly. “Someone is expecting you then?”
“No no! I just get impatient at times, merchant. I am . . . high-strung, you might say. Besides,” she added hastily, “hoveraft night-rides aren’t exactly the most luxurious form of transportation, you know.”
“The best at my disposal, I fear. Again may I say we will not be overlong. Our destination is but . . . but why should that concern you, eh?” He herded them on board.
Two men looked up from a game of femin-de-fer as the three entered the cabin. Both were simply attired in plaid work-pants and light water-repellent jackets. They looked very competent.
The one called Franz gave Kitten at least as thorough a look-over as he gave his cargo. He spoke to the fat man, who was peeling off his own jacket. The thick arms thus revealed showed a surprising amount of muscle.
“Well! York, your taste in merchandise is improving!”
“Watch your tongue, Franz. The lady and her friend are to be our guests. Class A-1, you understand?”
The burly pilot looked startled, then pleased. “Your pardon, m’lady. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” said Kitten, smiling archly and lighting up another smokestick.
The other pilot, Sedda, was already warming up the raft’s engines. A shudder went through the vessel as the big rotors began to turn over.
“Have a seat back among the cargo, then,” said Franz. He turned to the fat man. “I take it his Lordship’s approval will be forthcoming for this unscheduled journey, York?”
“No doubt on it,” the big man replied, making himself comfortable for the trip.
“That’s enough for me, then.” The pilot turned back to his position forward.
“If you’d give me a hand here first, Franz?” said York.
“My pleasure, enormous one.”
York had rummaged through a side compartment and come up with two blindfolds. “I say now,” began Porsupah uncertainly. “Are those things entirely necessary?”
“I fear that they are,” York apologized. “You understand, where merchandise of so, ah, controversial a nature is involved, extreme precautions are the norm.” He reached out and gently removed the stub of the smokestick from Kitten’s lips, deposited it carefully to one side.
Kitten squirmed slightly as dark cloth took away her sight. “Surely you can’t believe that, even if I were so inclined, which I am not, I could possibly retrace the route to your patron’s hideaway from what I might see while racing through the night over the waters of an utterly strange planet?”
“No, I do not. But I do not share similar feelings with respect to your furry friend here. Where unknown qualities are concerned, it is best to be careful. And while potential customers you may be, you two do constitute rather an unknown.”
“Really?” said Kitten. “I’d think we were pretty transparent. Certainly our purpose is clear. Why the ‘potential’ customer? Are you entertaining second thoughts about my credit rating?” She began to get a sinking feeling in her stomach that somewhere someone had made a ghastly blunder. This occurred whenever things refused to run in synch with her ideas of the cosmos.
“Not your credit rating, no,” York replied conversationally. He finished knotting the blindfold. Hard. “But thoughts, yes. I’m especially curious about one thing. A triviality, really, but it bothers me. While you were conversing with me at my pitiable stand, several blatantly plainclothes lawfolk passed by and did not see fit to interrupt us.”
“And why should they have?” she replied, tensing.
“Because,” interrupted the voice of Franz, “as friend York’s pickup relayed to us, your smokesticks are Terran tobacco. Ever since an early colonist discovered that the fumes were fatal to the young shoots of an especially rare and valuable wood, Terran t
obacco has been a forbidden import on Repler.”
Kitten made a half-hearted shrug. “Am I expected to know that?” She gathered her feet under her and began edging a hand up towards the blindfold.
“Possibly not,” said York. “But those two officers should have, even if you slipped it by the oh-so-careful customs inspectors at the Port—”
She ripped off the blindfold and in one motion slammed a heel into Franz’ knee, feeling the patella snap. The big pilot doubled over in pained surprise. She saw Sedda set the raft on auto and turn back towards her just as something very heavy descended on her head from behind. Darkness and silence descended with it.
When she regained consciousness she found that her position in the world had been altered. She was now horizontal. She tried to move her arms, then her legs. Results were not encouraging. Her limbs had been effectively immobilized. The bench she was securely tied to was hard, flat, and (she wiggled awkwardly) damn cold. The coldness was magnified by the fact that she had no clothes on. The bonds at her wrists, waist, and ankles disturbed her far more than her nakedness. Her clothing she missed mostly for the several miniature weapons sewn into the waistband.
Turning as far as possible to the left and leaning with all her weight, she tugged hard at the smooth bond on her right wrist. This accomplished nothing beyond bringing on a sudden onslaught of dizziness. Her body was weak from inactivity. The more-than-leather strap wasn’t leather. And there was a lump at the back of her head that wasn’t caused by her hairdo.
A familiar voice called softly from somewhere to her right.
“Sssst! Pilar!”
Bloodhype Page 7
