Bloodhype

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I will be forced to run off-planet.”

  “An attempt to slip you into the Port could be best made now, Lord. Or arrangements might be made for a daring shuttle pilot to try and pick you up from one of the larger uninhabited islands.”

  Rose shook his head sadly.

  “As soon as Major Orvenalix receives the report of those two agents, the first thing he will do is relay a full order to the customs’ frigate. If he hasn’t done so already. They’ll relay his request to the nearest Navy port for a cruiser and a flock of stingships. Shuttles that don’t land at Repler Port or Masonville are rare to nonexistent under any conditions. With the word out on myself, anything large enough to produce detectable atmospheric friction, down to a smallish meteorite, will be tracked to point of landing from point of tangency with every scope available.”

  A singularly penetrating chirp emanated from somewhere between the two layers of cage. They came together. A few barely discernable popping sounds resulted. From between the two metal plates oozed a tiny trickle of red. Two drops of crimson fell to the shining carpet, staining it.

  Rose sighed deeply, turned back once more to the technician. “I’ll want a single-seat raft, the fastest available. There is only one way for me to get safely off-planet in one piece. If it works, the authorities can fume till they obscure vision. I’ll be completely untouchable. Not safe, necessarily, but untouchable. If it doesn’t work out, why, my problems will be solved and an old man will finally get some rest. For now, though, I’m not sleepy.”

  “Will you require a driver, Lord?”

  “No. I have to do this myself. You can’t tell where I’m going if you don’t know. Same goes for a driver.”

  The man turned to leave, paused. “Luggage, your Lordship?”

  “A small packing case,” said Rose thoughtfully. “Change of clothing in a collapsible packet. My credit slip, no gun. That’s all.”

  The man paused once more by the door. “Good-bye, your Lordship.”

  “Good-bye, Masters. I’ll be in touch—maybe.”

  “Sir.” The blue-clad Masters closed the door quietly.

  Vibbbraations stronger getting getting. The Vom had departed from its resting place of centuries so precipitously that the Machine, even with its tremendous speed, had not been able to analyze the results and react properly with sufficient speed. However, it still retained suitable thread of Vom-consciousness to follow it through the plenum. By the Machine’s standards, the length of the Vom’s travels was not far.

  The basic problem remained unsolved. The Vom had escaped its ancient prison. The ring of monitoring stations were unpowered and sealed in fixed orbits around the dead planet. They could not be moved. Therefore a different solution was called for. The Guardian would have to be awakened from his long sleep. Without that, the Machine could only analyze and observe. It could not take action.

  Not only was the situation unprecedented, there also remained the additional problem of obtaining sufficient stimuli to activate the Guardian. This required the mental presence of another conscious mind of an ability that at least approached that of the Guardian himself. Surprisingly, there was such a mentality somewhere ahead. It existed on the very planet to which the Vom had traveled. The Machine could no more analyze the moods and substance of that mind, however, than it could that of the Guardian or the Vom. That was not one of its functions.

  The Machine Considered. It was dealing with a quantity as vital as it was unfamiliar and unpredictable. It would be best to bring the Guardian into activation proximity in such a way as to make it appear natural to the activating mind. All evidence of manipulation must be avoided. The key mind was clearly still in a state of stabilization. If handled improperly, it could be permanently damaged. This would be fatal.

  The utilization of a number of smaller minds was implied. Fortunately, there were a multitude of suitable ones present on and about the planet. Operating in this fashion would also prevent the Vom from becoming alarmed.

  A point: It would be vital not to stimulate any belligerence on the part of the small intelligences. This could produce a crucial delay which could not be afforded.

  All in all, it seemed a feasible plan.

  “Hey Ed, come ‘ere, will ya?”

  M’wali tossed in his suspension cradle. There wasn’t another freighter loading or unloading due for another three hundred years yet. Well, three hours, anyway. They’d just completed an unloading about an hour ago. Therefore his shuttle partner, Myke Reinke, should not have been calling out to him. He should most definitely not have awakened Edward from his sound and beautiful sleep. Edward M’wali was upset as well as up.

  “Friend Reinke, do I maliciously pull you from the soothing balm of Morpheus? Is your sleep so uneasy you must take from mine? Be your watch so dullish that you fracture courtesy to serve your simple brain some interest?”

  A short shudder traveled the length of the ship. M’wali sensed a shift in position and forward motion. His partner’s sanity was abruptly suspect. Moving the ship required reaction mass, ergo credits. There was no reason to be moving the ship. The equation was simple but infuriating.

  “Offspring of sand-hogs, what are you about!?”

  “If you’ll move your pseudo-poetic ass out of that bunk, Ed, and take a look through the NV scope, you might see something.”

  M’wali considered a last possibility, discarded it. Reinke did foolish things, but he did not, ever, drink while on duty. Still, there was a first time for . . . He floated out of the bunk and over to the control console. When he saw what the natural vision telescope was holding in automatic focus, all thoughts of sleep vanished.

  “Oooeee! Munguenma na juaekundu! Great God and Red Sun, what is that?”

  “Never seen anything like it, eh?” said Reinke evenly. His hands were playing lightly over the controls. “Me neither. Looks like the Yellow Giants’ jackstraws as arranged by the March Hare.”

  “March Hare?” said M’wali, not taking his eyes off the fantastic object.

  “Skip it,” replied Reinke.

  “Just what are you thinking of doing, anyway, partner? We might get the shuttle inside that thing. We’d never get half of it inside the shuttle.”

  “Look a little lower. Down where those three long spines just about intersect.”

  M’wali took another look at the scope. The object now took up most of the field of vision, even though the tracker was automatically reducing magnification as they slipped closer. Yes, there was definitely a smaller, slightly saner looking bit of machinery floating slightly detached from the main body, near its south pole. It would fit—maybe—into the shuttle’s cargo bay.

  They sat unspeaking for several minutes, staring at the approaching object—which was actually retreating from them.

  Closer inspection did not breed familiarity. The impossible merely took on greater detail.

  “We do have a loading job in three hours. Think it’s all right to shift station to fool with this thing?”

  Reinke’s reply was muted. He was busy maneuvering the shuttle closer. “I can recognize a rhetorical question when I hear one. When the boss sees what we done gonna bring him, he’ll supply us with another ship—apiece.”

  “I’m not picky, myself. I wish only a very small space yacht—KK drive equipped, of course—with a platinum head.”

  “Kind of cold, hmmm?”

  “Just to look at, idiot.”

  “Mighty strange taste you’ve developed in art.”

  “A direct return to the seat of human thought, you might say. Besides, all geniuses cannot expect proper appreciation from the lower depths of the herd.”

  “All right, genius,” Reinke smiled. “Suppose you suit up and lay some cables on that carp. When we’ve first got the thing secured we can arrange surface transportation. Meanwhile, I’ll register salvage in case any of the other hock jockeys come nosing around. Take out a buoy first. As soon as it’s positioned I’ll transceive its frequency to Port Control.
Then we can play with this thing at our leisure.”

  Which occasioned a brief, horrible thought. Turning to the transceiver, he rapidly scanned normal salvage frequencies. The computer noted nothing not previously listed in the book.

  They had moved hard by the gleaming central object. It floated just above them, relatively speaking. A gold, be-spiked, glassblower’s nightmare. The smaller body held sharp and clear out the fore port. M’wali had left to suit up, so Reinke occupied time in studying the immediate object of their attentions.

  Interestingly, it appeared to float at the focal point of the three large, spiky projections of the central bulk. The pylons, or whatever they were, were a milky white, with faint shades of rose and light blue flowing across their surfaces every now and then. Glass or ceramic, looked like.

  The detached spheroid had a few knobs and projections of its own, but nothing like the crazy-quilt above. It was pyramid-shaped. The base of the pyramid faced the larger object.

  A body composed of more familiar curves and angles entered Reinke’s view from the right. M’wali trailed vacuum cables and powerful pulse-jets behind him. The readyspark strapped to his partner’s back sparkled in the glare from Repler’s sun.

  No conversation passed between the two men. None was needed. Both had performed similar operations dozens of times. The subject was new, but the procedure wasn’t. Besides, M’wali liked quiet while he worked. He busied about the smaller object, setting himself for the routine task of arranging cables and jets on the alien construct.

  Several moments passed. Reinke noticed that a single rectangular block, four times the height of a man and equally deep, had separated from the base of the pyramid. A single vacuum cable trailed from it. He perked up a bit, flipped open the ship-to-suit comm.

  “Hey Ed, what’s up? Is that thing going to come apart like a jigsaw puzzle?”

  “Damnifino.” M’wali’s voice was sharp and clear across the intervening vacuum. “I got close to the thing and this thick lid or whatever retracted. Nothing else happened, so I decided to go ahead and hook up the first cable. When I activated it, this big hunk detached itself and pulled right out, like a plug.”

  “What’s it made of? Any indication of origin?”

  The space-suited figure was down on the surface of the block. “Doesn’t look any more familiar close up than it did from a hundred kilometers away, Myke. Damndest looking stuff you ever saw, though . . . **fssst . . . sput** . . . corrugated in places, like carved fluting . . . almost has a greasy look . . . seems to be a port or something a little higher up . . . whole thing isn’t very big . . . yes, there is a transparent section . . . got a reddish tinge to it . . . I can see inside, I think . . . OH SWEET JESUS . . .”

  “For summasake, man!” Reinke fairly pounded the console in frustration. “Open up!” Heavy breathing came back over the comm. “You sonuvabitch, if you don’t say something fast-quick I’m coming out there and—”

  “Easy, Myke, easy. I’m fine. Just a little shocked. Calm down. You’ll need all your expletives later.”

  “Okay, I’m calm. See? Now, what is it?” Reinke had to resist an urge to stomp on the floor. Breaking boot connection would send him floating helplessly about the cabin.

  “It’s small enough to bring back on the one cable. You’ll see it soon enough.” M’wali’s voice was unnaturally subdued. “And brother, don’t eat anything until you do.”

  “If we weren’t in such an awful hurry, I could almost enjoy the ride,” Mal said. “Despite the crowding.”

  The five of them cramped the small forecabin of the hoveraft badly. Mal, in the only other seat, was trying to relax. Takaharu was handling the driving.

  There was a slightly larger space for luggage and such located behind the forecabin, but it was completely enclosed. No one felt like sitting in the dark just now.

  “I’ll be pleased to clear all this up and get back to work, Captain,” said the First Mate. “Devious intrigue isn’t my line. I’m not mentally constructed for subtlety and evasion.”

  “We concur,” Mal replied. “Not only don’t I care for it, I’m not very good at it, either. But this young man, here . . .” he indicated the lanky form of Philip, draped angularly over an empty packing crate.

  “What will you do now, Philip-al?” asked Porsupah.

  “Well, I hadn’t given it much thought. I could look for another job, but I think maybe I’ll just kick around for a while. I can always get work. Something more interesting might turn up.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have to worry about credit for a time,” broke in Kitten cheerfully. “We promised you a reward in the name of the Church. They’ve a special fund for such situations. Even if they disagree with our recommendations, which they won’t, they can’t violate a promise made by one of their field operatives. Let alone two.” She looked over at Porsupah and he nodded affirmatively.

  “You’re authorized to make that kind of decision?” asked Mal, a little skeptically.

  “Ordinarily, no. But this isn’t the sort of assignment we’d ordinarily draw.”

  “I’d guessed that.”

  “Now look,” she said heatedly. “I admit Porsupah and I might not always have been right on top of the situation . . . what are you laughing at?”

  Mal had doubled over. Long, basso peals of amusement filled the cabin.

  “Listen to me, he-who-struts-like-an-ape!” she yelled.

  “About that reward. I’m not much in need of credit yet,” Philip interrupted hurriedly. “There wasn’t much to spend on, here. I’ve enough put away to keep me floating for a while.”

  “It needn’t be in the form of credit, if you wish,” said Kitten, calming slightly but still keeping a jaundiced eye on the snorting ship-Captain. He was trying unsuccessfully to muffle his laughter. “Something equitable can always be worked out.”

  “Okay, then. I want you.”

  Mal stopped chuckling. Porsupah only twitched his first pair of whiskers.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Kitten.

  The voice of the young engineer had changed slightly. It was no longer distant, half-subservient. Not that it had deepened or changed physically. But the inflections were different, assured, more confident.

  “I said I want you. The government owes me a reward, promised, in your name.”

  “Well, sure, but . . . hey, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Look, lad,” began Mal.

  “My name is Philip, captain.” He looked evenly at Mal. “In certain situations I respond to lad, kid, youngster, young fella, and many analogous appellations. This isn’t one of them. The young lady can be no more than a year or two older than I—if that. It’s rare enough that one chances across someone so attractive, intelligent, and, yes, of a compatible size. I want to take advantage of it.”

  “Now just a minute, Philip—”

  “Just a minute yourself, Captain,” interrupted Kitten, a trifle upset. “I don’t need you or anyone else to bargain or moralize for me.” She turned and looked over at Philip. He stared back unflinchingly. “It’s up to me to decide whether I want to reject the proposal or not. Under the circumstances, I think it carries the flavor of an almost forgotten gallantry. Not to mention compliment. I accept your offer, Philip.”

  “Thank you, Miss Kai-sung,” he replied gravely, executing an awkward half-bow.

  “Under the circumstances, don’t you think you ought to,” she glanced archly at Mal, “call me by my first name?”

  “Agreed . . . Kitten.” He smiled broadly.

  “You’re quite right,” Mal said evenly. “It’s none of my business. Go and fantasize, if you will.”

  Kitten stood up and stretched . . . lazily, languorously. Mal gazed unswervingly at the ocean, which gazed back.

  “There’s room in the storage area, wouldn’t you say, Philip?”

  “I believe so, Kitten.” He unfolded himself, extended a hand. She took it.

  “See you shortly, gentlemen. This won’t take
long.” She pulled the sliding panel closed behind them.

  Takaharu hadn’t budged throughout the entire exchange. Mal continued an unprecedented fascination with the sea. Porsupah stifled a laugh.

  “You’d best get used to this if you expect to be around sweet Kitten awhile, Captain,” the Tolian offered. His whiskers twitched. “I don’t doubt that she agreed partially to enjoy your anticipated reaction. You came through in marvelous style.”

  “Thanks,” Hammurabi said drily.

  “Which brings me to another point, Captain.” The alien took another glance at the ocean, then the console panel. “It occurs to me that we are not headed northward any longer.”

  “Right. However, that’s the way we shall go.”

  “Yet that is not the way to Will’s Landing.”

  “Two straight, Lieutenant. Very good.”

  Porsupah pondered a moment longer before replying.

  “Forgive me, Captain. I had believed my terranglo beyond reproach. Yet there seems to be a nuance here that I fail to grasp.”

  “Apologies are mine, Pors.” Mal sat back, rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I’m irritable. When I get irritable, I grow unnecessarily obtuse.” He smiled easily.

  “You see, one other question needs immediate answering. I intend getting it where we will arrive.”

  “Keep going,” said Porsupah interestedly.

  “I’ve performed a good deal of work in the past, as well as quite recently, for a merchant-trader name of Chatham Kingsley. Always played square with me; paid me well if not generously.”

  “Kingsley? Then that—”

  Mal nodded. “The old man’s favorite—and only—son. Why he bothers about him is beyond me. Even adopted blood is thicker than water, I suppose.”

  “Depends on the race. Here now! If the father is anything like the son—”

  “No, no. I don’t think the old man is even aware of his offspring’s hobbies. I suspect the kid’s managed on his own ever since he was big enough to order the help around. Chatham’s a bastard, true, but he’s a sane bastard. He only enjoys cutting people up economically.