Bloodhype

by Alan Dean Foster

  Mal peered more closely at the youth’s bland expression. “You’re a perceptive young man. Yet you don’t strike me as the type Rose would hire. What is your job? I might add that your off-planet accent sticks out like a solar flare.”

  “As to that, sir, I know it well. I’ve been on Repler the same short time . . .”

  “Damned if I can place your accent. Yet . . .”

  “ . . . but one seeks employment where one can. I did not know for whom I was to work when I took the job. One of his Lordship’s subalterns hired me. I am good at my work.”

  “Which is?” Mal prompted.

  “Well . . . watch out for that branch, sir . . . currently my title is ‘apprentice sanitation engineer.’ I work with the less popular by-products of existence. Keep finer sensibilities from contact with them. At least, that’s what it says in the manual.” He grinned, added by way of apology, “I’m afraid his Lordship’s selecting me to greet you was a calculated offense.”

  Mal grinned back. “Don’t let it bother you. Seeing that damned thing play arm-jewel on your shoulder makes up for it, plus some.” He gestured at the deadly reptile.

  They arrived by a building so well camouflaged it seemed a part of the hillside. Not the largest of the complex, it was clearly designed even from the outside as a place for living rather than for business.

  The guide pressed a palm to one side of the green-brown wall. A wide double panel separated with a slight hiss, offering entrance. A long alcove was revealed within. It was completely walled with bronze-inlay mirrors and carpeted in synthetic furs. They entered.

  The corridor made several sharp, twisting turns, and they descended at least one, possibly two, levels. Several doorways and electronic portals were met and passed. Some appeared without warning in the mirrored sides. If the setup had been designed to confuse, it succeeded.

  After several minutes of casual if complicated strolling, they came to a moderate-sized room. It was furnished magnificently in antique Terran. The furnishings looked like the real thing, not reproductions or fakes. But then, old Rose was probably doing well these days and wanted to show it. Mal’s eye was quickly drawn to an elegant old television set. It had to be non-functional. Just the chassis was worth a small fortune. Ancient precursor of the tridee, it sat alone on its own pedestal.

  At the same time that he was estimating the thing’s worth in antique shops on half a dozen planets, he wondered crazily if maybe it could still be functional. A familiar young voice interrupted his musings.

  “You’re to wait here, sir. His Lordship will join you shortly.”

  Mal shook hands with the likable youngster as the other turned to depart.

  “Pleasure meeting you, friend. If you’ve ever a mind to learn spacing, my ship, the Umbra, is listed in all the registries.”

  “It’s always been a wish of mine, sir.” For a moment the youngster’s face acquired the shadow of someone—oddly—much older. It passed and he looked down at the Captain. “But now that I might make use of such an offer, I’m too busy with other things. Still, one never knows. Perhaps some day, when I’ve settled one or two personal things . . .” He smiled easily and left Mal alone in the room.

  After contemplating the portal by which the youth had departed, Mal turned and walked over to the incredibly archaic video set. He began examining it in some detail, wishing at the same time that he was more familiar with such profitable trade items as luxury antiques and similar oddities. He was in the process of trying to open the hinged back to see how much of the innards were original when Rose entered via another of the ubiquitous paneled doorways.

  “Good day, good day to you, Captain Hammurabi! I’ve heard tell of you in shipping circles. They speak well of you there.” The old man extended a hand.

  Mel took it and immediately felt dirtier than when he’d entered the room. Without waiting for an invitation he sat himself down on a comfortable-looking old easy chair. It was covered in hand-stitched upholstery and was worth a few thousand credits at the least.

  “Can I order something for you, Captain? Liquid refreshment, mayhap? The congenial companionship of a nubile young lady? Well-trained, I assure you.”

  “A fast shot of bloodhype, perhaps?” said Mal evenly. He’d taken the offensive since sitting himself down and intended to maintain it until he left the island kilometers behind. “Don’t try and look startled. You knew I had it and you knew I knew what it was, or I wouldn’t be here now. No, skip the oh-so-coy verbal byplay, too. I don’t appreciate it and I’ve no time for it.”

  Rose sighed with great care. “So few of the accepted verities remain these days. You youngsters ignore the pleasures of a game you don’t even understand. Such hurry, such rush, such haste to make money! But as you will. How much?”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Oh come now, Captain!” chuckled the old merchant. “Everything is for sale! I know. I’ve bought it. Your very livelihood depends on how astutely you hire your body and the bodies of your crew out to the highest bidder. And you profess to know what is and what is not available for sale!” The last words dripped contempt.

  “I won’t shoot words with you, Rose. You’ve more experience at it than I, for one thing. For another, long dialogues full of double-entendres and metaphors bore the crap out of me. Also, you might just trick me into saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and I’d feel bound by it. Now, this is what I want:

  “I want you to halt all traffic in bloodhype. I want you to destroy any not yet shipped. I want you to supply a list of known addicts—addicts, Rose; not pushers, not dealers, addicts—to Church authorities so that those few cases which haven’t passed the point of no return can be treated. I want you to make a respectable effort—if you have enough control, which I suspect you do—to shut off all production of the drug and to destroy whatever growths or synthetics that furnish the raw stuff for the refined product.”

  “That’s interesting,” Rose said, helping himself to a transparent chocolate from a silver dish nearby. “One thing for you, Captain. Your threats are specific. I like that.”

  “Shipwaste!” Hammurabi said in disgust. “I said I wouldn’t bandy words.” He slammed a fist the size of a small ham onto an ancient coffee table. The old wood groaned alarmingly.

  Rose swallowed the last of the chocolate, licked two fingers daintily.

  “Pardon, Captain, but somehow you did not impress me as the altruistic type.”

  “Any man’s nature contains a certain number of variables, Rose. On rare occasions it behooves some of us to do a decent thing.”

  “Never suffered the urge,” replied the drugger.

  “Some variables are all at the same end of the psychological spectrum. In return for cutting off future profits, which are always speculative anyway,” Mal continued, “I’ll return all the other drugs to you. You can have back your aelo, mak, heroin-B, and all the rest. I’ll mention nothing of any of this to the authorities and post a personal bondship to an independent broker to guarantee it. Only one other being on the Umbra knows what your little case of spice contains, and she won’t talk without my say-so. Records of the initial chemical analysis of the contents of the spice jars will be wiped by my own hand from the ship’s memory core.”

  “How good you are! And if I do not care for your terms?”

  “Then I go straight to the padre in Repler City with the drugs and every scrap of knowledge I can gather concerning their origin, destination, and method of shipping. Not to mention a certain old man whose business it is to speed such filth on its merry way.”

  Rose sat quietly, smiling, thinking. The thoughts and quiet Mal could understand. The smile could be forced, or it could be genuine. A genuine smile would mean unforeseen and unplanned-for factors—to wit, an ace-equivalent in the deck. Wait and see.

  Rose appeared to be fascinated by the fingers of his left hand. He turned his attention to the right, as though to assure himself that it did, indeed, match its mate.

 
; “Now I’ll introduce a little something extra into the universe, Captain. Since you insist on playing the role of the gallant, honest, good-samaritan type—ergo, civilized . . .”

  “Words again?” Hammurabi said irritably.

  “ . . . I believe I shall try you on damsels-in-distress. It should prove instructive. When I entered you were absorbed in an inspection of that lovely 20th-century video set—a genuine Victor, I might add. Like myself, the insides had long since reached an advanced state of decomposition. They have been replaced with especially adapted modern equivalents. Watch it. You’ll see something.”

  Rose removed a pencil that wasn’t from a breast pocket. He fiddled with it for a moment. A picture in full tridee appeared instantly. It displayed an exquisitely attractive young girl strapped naked to a low wooden table. Off to one side an alien being struggled futilely in a cocoon of surfoam. Mal’s trader encyclopedia identified it as a native of the planetary system Tolus. A fairly handsome young man, nude to the waist, held some unidentifiable metallic instrument over the girl’s body.

  “Sorry to have to leave you, Russell,” Rose said into one end of the pencil. “Have you begun yet?”

  The young man looked up into the screen and grinned.

  “I was just about to, Uncle Rose. We’ve been having a chat.”

  “Commendable,” replied Rose. “But while I don’t wish to spoil your esthetic conception—I’m sure you’ve the whole afternoon’s work well choreographed—I fear I must ask you to modify things somewhat. We’ve a slight change in plans. A guest, you see.”

  Kingsley leaned forward. “Oh, I see. A fellow aficionado? Big chap, isn’t he?”

  “Not a fellow connoisseur, no. Now then, if you would be good enough to do something interesting to the young lady? Elicit a dramatic response, if you will. That’s a good lad!”

  The young man bent over and did something with the silvery instrument. His upper torso obscured most of the motion. A long, high-pitched scream came through the receiver. It held for several seconds, then broke into a series of uneven choking coughs. Surprisingly, this was followed by a heated series of strong, unfeminine curses worthy of any dock-loader. The instrument moved again. Another scream, a little weaker this time.

  “Stop that,” said Mal.

  Rose spoke into the pencil. “All right, Russell, that’s enough. Don’t damage her.” The screaming stopped. There were no curses this time. Just silence.

  “Use that thing in your hand, old man. Turn it off.”

  Rose smiled, did something to the pencil and slipped it back into his pocket. After a second’s thought, he removed it again but did not activate the picture.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to postpone your fun for now, Russell. But I promise you an equally interesting toy later tonight. Sorry to disappoint you, lad. I know how you were looking forward to this.”

  “Aw, Uncle Rose . . .”

  Rose tut-tutted into the mike. “Business, my young friend, business.” Once again the device was returned to the oldster’s coat.

  “We are about to make an exchange, then? Don’t you even want to know who she is?”

  “No. I may trouble to find out later; I don’t now.” The shipmaster obviously did not wish to talk.

  “I’d think you might.” His Lordship’s leer invited a helping of knuckles. Mal had practiced controlling himself too long to let it lapse now.

  “As to the protocol of exchange,” began Rose briskly, “I’m a reasonable man. Things will be kept simple. Oh, you might promise me the young lady’s silence in this matter. She is a government operative and will be difficult to convince. Likewise her furry friend. But I have confidence something workable can be arranged. It’s a little thing now, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” said Mal. He was staring at the converted video.

  “So.” Rose moved to a complex-looking desk and produced a small book with a pressure seal. He activated it with a twist, began riffling pages. “I don’t expect you to have someone deliver the stuff to my front door, as one would receive dinner at his home in the city. I’ll supply you the address of an operative of mine near the main Port, in Repler City. As soon as the case is delivered intact into his possession and he considers himself safe—you may keep the spices if you prefer, they’re quite good—you, the young lady, and her friend will be permitted to board your craft. You will call your pilot and explain the delay. My men will do nothing to make him believe things are other than normal. You may consider escape, if you wish. Quite impossible.

  “You will be released, as stated, when my operative cannot be touched by the weaponry of the City. At that point he will be here before you can reach safety and/or notify patrol craft to try and intercept him. My word on this. I’ve never broken it where business is concerned. You may think me a nasty fellow, but I’m an honest nasty fellow. I won’t shoot you in the back—for at least a day. Then I will do my level best to see you exterminated.”

  “How kind you are,” Mal muttered. He stood. “You’re really going to let the girl and her friend go? I can’t guarantee her silence.”

  “About that, now. Just keep her from contacting her superiors for, oh, three days local time. Then I’ll consider that part of the agreement fulfilled. At that point she can babble her pretty head off. The Church will understand. No court would prosecute you. You see, I will have relocated myself by that time. The mere fact that an operative of her age was able to penetrate this far indicates that my business position here has become untenable. Apparently the local intelligence—damn that bug!—knew quite a lot, but weren’t sure what lot was what.”

  “If you’ll supply me with a caster, Rose, I’ll notify my Mate and inform him of procedure. He’ll listen.”

  “How will he know you’re not saying anything under the muzzle of a blaster?” Rose asked, curious.

  Mal stared down at the aged drugger. “Because he knows I wouldn’t be in that situation, mister. Either the blaster-pointer or I would be dead, so it couldn’t arise. I don’t trust people with guns. They’re apt to act rashly. I’m glad you didn’t opt to employ one. I want to see that girl as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, she’s all right. Kingsley’s young, but talented. He’d barely begun. I’ll see that you and she are put in the same room. In fact, I insist on it. You may find this arrangement more to your profit in the end. I would. Although I don’t believe the pretty-pretty will be in the mood for idle conversation for a while. Or anything else.” He gestured at the video. “As I said, my young friend is talented. Still, he hasn’t yet acquired the delicacy of touch long practice brings.”

  Mal held up a massive fist, held it out where Rose could get a good look at it. “Let’s skip the morbid dialogue, shall we? In the interests of logic. Otherwise you may push me to the point of breaking your scrawny neck. That might throw a crimp on the whole elaborate deal, mightn’t it?” He took a step towards the drugger.

  Instinctively, Rose stepped back. “Um, yes, it could complicate things if I were to prematurely pass on. This way, if you will.”

  Mal sat in a chair in the single room to which they’d all been confined. Dressed now, the tall girl lay sleeping on the couch across from him. She’d been treated and given a mild sedative. He didn’t look at her. Porsupah, the Tolian, was busy at a single cabinet. He was mixing something liquid that had a faint aroma of sage. He walked over to the girl and gently shook her. Instead of talking he handed her the glass. Taking it without a question, she sipped, glanced up at the smiling Tolian, and downed the rest in a series of long swallows.

  “Whew! What was in that, you offspring of a comet-cat?”

  “Sorry, culinary secrets are reserved. Clan oaths, you know.”

  “Clan oaths, my sweet Aunt’s grape juice!” She blinked several times. “Whoo!”

  “What a quaint remarking!” said Porsupah. “That is a bit of terranglish slang that’s completely new to me.”

  “It’s not really accepted slang, Pors. My Aunt . . . Jo, on m
y father’s side . . . was really sweet. She also drew produce from grapes. Only it wasn’t exactly . . . well, the vines wouldn’t have recognized the results of their efforts by the time she was finished with them. My father used to swear by it.”

  She swung her long legs off the couch, wincing slightly. She breathed long and evenly. At this point she seemed to notice Hammurabi for the first time.

  “Thanks . . . whoever you are.” Her gaze was direct, the feeling of thankfulness clear as quartz. It made him acutely uncomfortable. He squirmed. He’d hoped that when she sat up her evening outfit would show a little less flesh. No such luck. Gravity and the manufacturer conspired against it. Not that he’d mind, ordinarily. But whatever their situation was, it was not ordinary. He didn’t need anything taking his mind off the business at hand. Speaking of business and hands . . . there, see?

  Despite the ordeal she’d just undergone, the girl was reacting calmly. This also was, not ordinary. He couldn’t rationalize it. This also made him nervous.

  She was staring at him. “Well, telepathize my thighs if you must, but say something! I’m not asking for a biography, you know.”

  “Qua? Oh, name’s Hammurabi. Malco . . . Mal Hammurabi. I’m captain and owner of the free-freighter Umbra. Puts you one up on me.”

  “Kitten Kai-sung. And scrunching your eyebrows down like that doesn’t hide your line of sight at all.”

  “Sun-father!” Mal sighed in frustration. He continued, a mite belligerently. “Does my staring at your legs make you so full-fission nervous?”

  “No. Does it make you nervous?”

  “Yes, goddammit, and we’re not in a position where I can spare time to do proper appreciation to them, and that makes me a deal more upset!”

  Kitten rubbed the edge of her right index finger slowly over her lower lip.

  “What sort of alternate position did you have in mind?”

  “Give it up—Captain,” advised Porsupah, drink comfortably in hand. “She’ll drive you to null-hike.”