By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  Most of the gibberish could be translated, however, and while very little of it had any value, there were some interesting exceptions.

  Among them were an AI who claimed to be one hundred fifty thousand years old, a navcomp that was extremely conversant with the sector of space toward which the Thraki were headed, and a gaming unit that might or might not offer a momentary diversion.

  Those entities that the Hoon considered to have merit were plucked from the storage module and dumped into one of his secondary memory mods. The rest were deleted.

  The Hoon withdrew, the scout ship headed inward, and the fleet continued to feed.

  God had spoken to Jepp with increasing frequency of late, but always through dreams, making it difficult to remember what the supreme being said.

  This particular conversation was different however, since Jepp was asleep and somehow knew that he was asleep, thereby ensuring that he would remember.

  God, who looked a lot like his father, smiled and opened his mouth to speak. Somehow, Jepp wasn’t sure how, he knew that the divine being was prepared to reveal the reason for his birth and the work that awaited. Never had he experienced such a sense of warmth, significance, and impending purpose.

  But then, just as his father’s lips started to move, something tugged at his consciousness. He shouted, “No! I won’t go!”

  But the force refused to obey. It dragged the human out of his dream and into the very world from which he had so recently escaped. The prospector’s eyes opened. He looked around and swore when he saw the same old surroundings. Nothing had changed. Everything was the same. Or was it?

  Then it came to him. The hum! The triple-damned, unrelenting, round-the-clock hum had disappeared! A full ten seconds passed as he gloried in the resulting silence.

  That’s when something horrible entered his mind. What if the ship was drifting in space? Unable to produce oxygen for him to breathe? Falling into a nearby sun? Not knowing, and not being able to find out, was the worst torture imaginable.

  The prospector sat up, freed himself from the makeshift bedroll, and started to stand. The deck slanted, the hull creaked, and the ship thumped onto something solid. Jepp experienced a momentary sense of relief. It seemed that the vessel had landed ... or docked with another ship. But why? And what would that mean to him?

  Mindful of how important his remaining possessions were, and eager to prepare himself for whatever lay ahead, the prospector placed items he considered critical into a large duffel bag, which, along with his space suit, he could barely manage to carry. His body, once layered with fat, was painfully thin. He was hungry, always hungry, yet afraid to eat. He had five ration paks and an energy bar left. When they were gone, so was he.

  The human forced himself to break the energy bar in half, to take small bites, and to chew them with extra care. He had just swallowed the last morsel, and washed it down with tepid water, when things started to change.

  Contacts closed, motors whined, and hatches slid up and out of the way. New air flowed into the compartment. It was cold, like space itself, and tinged with ozone.

  There were sounds. Metal creaked in response to a radical change in temperature, a motor whined out beyond the hatch, and something made a ratcheting noise.

  Cautiously, with the duffel bag dangling from his left hand, the space armor slung over his back, and the flechette thrower in his right, the prospector emerged from his cell. Jepp felt his heart thump against his chest. Were aliens waiting? How would they react? What should he say to them? Something moved. The dart thrower came up; his finger tightened on the trigger, and then came off again.

  Nano! A long silvery stream of the silvery stuff had entered the ship and oozed in his direction.

  The human watched the pseudopod split into three separate rivulets. Two turned and slithered down side passageways, while the third probed the main corridor.

  The nano were assessing how much damage the ship had suffered. That’s the way it appeared, anyway—which suggested that they were external to the ship. After all, if the ship had the ability to repair itself, why wait till now?

  Thus encouraged, the prospector followed the pulsating stream back toward its source. He passed through one of the more damaged sections, saw lights through a ragged hole, and was struck by how strange they were, like luminescent dandelion seeds floating on the wind.

  The nano were thicker now, and more plentiful, branching in every direction, oozing their way through seemingly solid bulkheads, crisscrossing the overhead and covering the deck. It was difficult to walk without stepping on one or more of the silvery threads, and Jepp found himself tiptoeing down the corridor, lest he crush some of the tiny machines and elicit who knew what kind of response.

  Light spilled through an open hatch. The human high-stepped through an obstacle course of intertwined nano, peered around the corner, and looked out onto an amazing scene.

  The landing bay was enormous, so large that Jepp could see dozens of vessels the size of the one he stood on, all parked in carefully aligned rows.

  There might have been more, and the prospector suspected that there were, but he couldn’t see them due to thousands of nano vines that dangled from above, squirmed up through the deck, and wrapped the ships in metallic cocoons.

  But there were other entities too, machines of every conceivable size and shape, rolling, crawling, and walking through the nano jungle. Their skin shimmered like that of the vessels they served. There was no sign of their creators, however—not that the human was especially eager to encounter them.

  Some of the larger machines were possessed of ovoid heads, narrow shoulders, two arms, featureless torsos, and long, slim legs. A reflection of those who conceived them? Form that followed function? There was no way to be sure.

  Jepp knew he should resist such impulses but found himself imposing a possibly fallacious hierarchy on the alien machines. A robotic ecosystem with the bipeds at the top, the rollers, crawlers, and wigglers somewhere in the middle, and the nano at the bottom.

  The decision to leave the ship seemed to make itself. One moment Jepp was there, peeking out through the open hatch, and the next he was down on the deck, picking his way through the nano maze.

  Robots were everywhere. They saw him, had to see him, but made no response. Not so long as he stayed out of their way. The consequence for not doing so could be severe, however, as the prospector discovered when to tried to force his way through a curtain of nano and received a sharp blow to the head—a blow that made him swear and raised a lump.

  The human backed away, wondered which one of the snakelike pseudopods had attacked him, and chose another path.

  The robots knew he was there. but allowed him to exist. It was as though he was an insect, buzzing through the house but too insignificant to chase. Unless he landed on some food, annoyed the homeowner, or otherwise placed himself in harm’s way. That’s when the machines would deal with him—and in no uncertain fashion.

  Determined to be innocuous, the prospector zigzagged across the enormous deck. Puffs of light floated above his head. One adopted the human and followed him all the way to a sizeable lock. Like everything else about the ship, it was large. The human figured it could hold at least fifty humans.

  Jepp regarded the chamber with a good deal of interest. There it was again, a clear indicator that the mother ship was equipped to support biologicals, but no sign of the beings themselves.

  He stepped inside, palmed the now-familiar controls, and waited for the hatch to close. There, on the far side of the bay, beyond the heavily cocooned ships, Jepp saw an enormous and presumably blastproof door.

  Three machines, none of which looked humanoid, joined Jepp for the trip through the lock. The trip took less than three minutes—but seemed to last forever.

  The jungle was green, damp from the morning rain, and lit by filtered sunshine. The air was warm, delightfully warm, and heavy with the scent of po flowers.

  Like all of its kind, the Worga ran low, i
ts six-legged body sliding through clumps of foliage, flowing over green-clad logs, and slipping through a crystal-clear stream.

  The jungle beckoned, and the Worga nosed its way in, found the scent, and uttered a deep, chesty growl.

  Foliage swayed, and the Worga felt a momentary downdraft as the master’s aircar passed over some nearby trees. Though not fully sentient, not yet anyway, Worga were highly evolved animals. Horth knew the master liked to be in on the kill and slowed his pace accordingly. There was no need for concern. Like all such prey, the female had expended most of her strength during the early stages of the hunt. The animal could take her whenever he chose.

  Like most of her peers, the female had been raised in one of the planet’s cities and feared the thick green maze. That being the case, the clearing seemed like a gift from the gods—a place where she could escape the jungle and plan her next move. The concubine’s scales shimmered in the sun, her chest heaved from exertion, and her clothes hung in tatters. A rock offered a place to sit.

  That’s when the Worga emerged from the tree line and an aircar appeared above. Had Horth been whelped ten thousand years later, he might have wondered why the female had been slated for death, and questioned his role as executioner.

  But that time was a long way off, and the only thing the Worga could feel was his hunger, and the need to kill. He launched himself out of the undergrowth, loped across the clearing, and sprang for her throat. The prey saw the movement, raised her hands, and started to scream.

  That’s when the Worga awoke. The dream had been so real he could still smell the concubine’s fear. Or could he? That’s when it occurred to Horth that this particular odor was different, a sort of musky smell that continued to waft past his supersensitive nostrils.

  The Worga, who possessed the capability to hibernate for a hundred sunsets if necessary, had fastened himself to the overhead—an excellent location where nothing was likely to stumble on him. His skin, which could replicate nearly any background he chose to place himself against, was metallic gray. He sniffed, sniffed again, and felt hunger flood his body.

  Finally! Something to hunt. It had been so long since his last meal that Horth could barely remember what he had eaten. The short one? With all the bones? Or the long slithery thing? It hardly mattered. The metal world was different, but food was food, and he would hunt.

  The corridors were like a maze. Jepp walked for fifteen minutes. He turned right, turned left, and turned right again. The lock was just as he had left it. Such wanderings were frustrating, but more than that, extremely dangerous. The adrenaline had dissipated. He was tired, very tired, and a little bit dizzy. What he needed was food. All his dwindling strength should be focused on finding it.

  But how? Where to go? What to do? Robots didn’t need food, so he couldn’t get it from them. From where, then? Despair threatened to pull him down. Jepp forced himself to think. The combined weight of the space suit and duffel bag was too much. He would leave them behind.

  The maze of passageways was consuming time and precious energy. He would mark them. The prospector fumbled around in his duffel bag, found a can of blue spray paint, and eyed the indicator. Half full. Good. That should suffice.

  The lock hissed open, allowed two of the humanoid machines to exit, and closed again. They glanced in his direction but showed a marked lack of interest.

  The human stashed his belongings in a comer, hoped they’d be safe, and followed the robots. The prospector used blue arrows, Xs, and written notations to mark his path.

  That’s when he noticed something interesting—something that sent a trickle of fear into his belly. Some of the bulkheads bore notations other than his, handwritten messages so small, so fine, that he had missed them at first. The script was like nothing he’d seen before, but the purpose was clear. Another castaway had confronted the same problem he had—and arrived at the same solution. Had the alien survived? Did he, she, or it have food? There was only one way to find out.

  Jepp allowed his hand to touch the flechette thrower and took comfort from its presence.

  The robots went straight for a while, turned left, then right. They paused while one made use of a wall socket, then continued on their way.

  The prospector followed because the machines were headed somewhere—and somewhere beat the heck out of nowhere.

  The threesome passed numerous compartments. Most were closed, but a few stared like empty eye sockets. Living quarters, perhaps? For the mysterious beings who had created the ship? There was no way to know.

  The machines took another right-hand turn. Jepp marked the bulkhead, turned the corner, and felt his jaw drop. A marker had been used to scrawl the words “home sweet home across the wall. They were surrounded by all manner of doodles, scribbles, and diagrams. Every single one of them was written in standard. A human being! Or if not human, a citizen of the Confederacy! Fanciful arrows pointed toward a hatch and seemed to invite visitors.

  Jeep took a look around. The robots had disappeared by that time, and there was no one else in sight. The prospector drew his weapon, palmed the hatch, and waited for it to move. The barrier made a whirring sound as it slid up out of the way. Jepp braced himself for some sort of confrontation, but nothing happened.

  Slowly, lest he trigger some sort of trap, the prospector entered the compartment. There was no need for concern. The occupant was home all right... but in no condition to fight. The desiccated body looked as though it had been sitting in the comer for a long time. Months? Years? Anything was possible. Patches of dirty gray skin still clung to clean white bone. Strands of once black hair fell to a much-patched shipsuit. Gold thread spelled the name “Parvin” high on the mummy’s chest. A folder rested on his lap.

  The skull seemed to grin as Jepp spotted the tightly stacked boxes. Could it be true? Did the labels really say what he thought they said? The prospector blinked, took two steps forward, and read the words again: “Emergency Rations—1 Doz. Human Consumption Only.”

  Jepp took a deep breath and stepped back to where he’d been. How many boxes were there? At least a hundred! The food problem was solved.

  The human felt an almost overwhelming desire to rip one of the containers open and eat himself sick. Saliva flooded his mouth, and he was forced to swallow.

  Slowly, reverently, Jepp fumbled for the half-eaten energy bar, removed the wrapper, and shoved the entire morsel into his mouth. His jaw worked, the desire slackened, and he remembered to say grace.

  “Thank you, Lord. Thank you for saving my life. All I am is yours. Show me the way.”

  If the supreme being heard, he or she chose to remain silent. Jepp found a dusty container, hoped the water was good, and took a long drink. It tasted of chlorine but served to slake his thirst. The prospector returned the cap, put the jug where Parvin had left it, and took a moment to think.

  There was plenty to accomplish. Retrieve his belongings, haul them back, perform a rudimentary autopsy on Parvin, and find a new home. Something a lot less obvious—in case the next stowaway had antisocial tendencies.

  The prospector was just about to leave, to backtrack his way to the lock, when his eye came to rest on the folder clutched in Parvin’s bony hands.

  More curious than squeamish, the prospector moved in for a closer look. He leaned forward and turned his head. The high-quality holo stat was good as new. The little girl was ten or so, with a pretty face and long, black hair. An animated message crawled across the bottom of the page and would for as long as the overhead light continued to glow. “I love you, daddy—please hurry home.”

  The robot was performing routine maintenance on the ship’s internal communication system when it sensed movement. The machine aimed a sensor in the appropriate direction. However, rather than the robot the construct expected to see, there was little more than an out-of-focus shimmer.

  Certain that something was present, the robot switched to infrared. Yes, there it was, a long, low, multilegged creature that didn’t match up with any
of the threats listed in the machine’s survival index.

  A quick check confirmed that the amount of heat produced by whatever it was fell well within acceptable limits and posed no threat to the ship. The robot returned to its work.

  The Worga sampled the air, found the same intriguing scent, and padded down the corridor. There was prey in the offing—and Horth was hungry.

  9

  How does death smell? It smells like sun-dried blood, like morning tears, like newly turned earth.

  Author unknown

  Naa Book of Remembrance

  Standard year circa 150 B.C.

  Planet Algeron, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Fort Camerone squatted on the dry, rocky plain, and, with the exception of the missile launchers, antenna arrays, and fly form landing pads that broke its hard, angular lines, looked a lot like the godforsaken outposts the Legion had occupied in North Africa centuries before.

  General Mortimer Kattabi low-crawled forward, used his elbows for support, and brought the binoculars up to his eyes. A motor whirred, and the outskirts of the ever-expanding slum known as Naa Town swam into focus.

  The shantytown consisted of hundreds of makeshift earthen domes, each reinforced with whatever chunks of metal or plastic that the occupants could beg, borrow, or steal.

  The officer panned from left to right. Data rippled down the right side of the screen. Range, albedo, and more. None of it mattered. What did matter was the fact that smoke dribbled out of only half the chimneys, very little laundry had been hung to dry, and the narrow, twisting streets were practically deserted. Where were the cubs? The old folks soaking up the sun? No wonder his scouts were concerned.