By Blood Alone

by William C. Dietz

  Tyspin was about to agree when someone cleared her throat. Both officers turned to find that Captain Winters had entered the tent. A civilian stood at her side. The man was dressed in a ball cap, plaid shirt, and khaki shorts. He could have passed for a tourist if it hadn’t been for the shoulder holster and combat boots that he wore. Booly raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  Winters produced her usual shit-eating grin. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Mark Benton, sir. He works for a company called Chien-Chu Enterprises.”

  “That’s close,” the oceanographer said agreeably, “though not entirely correct. I work for the Cynthia Harmon Center for Undersea Research, which gets the majority of its funding from Chien-Chu Enterprises, but what the hell? We certainly listen to what they say.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Booly said, extending his hand. “What brings you to Djibouti?”

  “You did,” the scientist answered simply. “I’ve got a nuclear sub waiting off the coast. She’s loaded with three hundred volunteers, weapons, and supplies. Where do you want them?”

  11

  Why should I feel lonely? Is not our planet in the Milky

  Way?

  Henry David Thoreau

  Walden

  Standard year 1854

  Somewhere beyond the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Jepp peered around the corner, confirmed that the passageway was clear, and consulted his data pad, or more accurately Parvin’s data pad, since the seventy-year-old device still worked and the skeleton had no use for it.

  Once the prospector had established a reasonably secure home, and moved Parvin’s supplies to the new location, he redirected his attention.

  The vessel was big—but how big? Who constructed the ship, and why? Where was it headed? This was the sort of knowledge that would enable him to escape.

  The first step was to create a map—and that’s where the data pad came in. By taking copious notes, and marking each intersection with a self-invented system of coordinates, the human had established a fairly good idea of the ship’s layout. He entered the latest findings and used blue spray paint to write “C-43” on the steel bulkhead.

  The Sheen mother ship, if that’s what the vessel could properly be called, was shaped like a flava fruit, except that it had an enormous landing bay where the pit would have been, plus thousands of compartments instead of pulp. Jepp had counted forty-three circular corridors so far, all connected by radial passageways A through J.

  Of course thousands of compartments remained locked, he’d been unable to establish communications with the robots, and he was no closer to getting off the ship than the day he arrived. But God helps those who help themselves—so the effort would continue.

  The human felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, drew the flechette thrower, and turned one hundred eighty degrees. The prospector felt as if someone or something had been watching him for days now. But there was no sign of anything, nor any place to hide. What did it mean? That the loneliness and isolation had affected his mind?

  Or, and this was worse, that something really had monitored his activities, and could hide in plain sight?

  Jepp closed the data pad one-handed. The feeling faded as he backed away. Because he was crazy? It seemed all too possible.

  Horth watched his prey back away. There had been previous escapes, far too many of them, but such was the nature of the hunt. To press the attack was to risk the wrath of the shiny thing, which, if it was anything like the master’s, could inflict a great deal of pain. Satisfying his hunger would have to wait.

  Jepp turned and walked down the corridor. Hundreds of tiny epithelial cells sloughed off his skin, floated through the air, and sank to the deck. Horth was quick to follow.

  The Thraki robot was different from the rest of the machines on the ship. It was unique, for one thing, having been constructed for the amusement of a single sentient, and imbued with what could only be described as “needs.” Such as the need to associate itself with a biological entity.

  There had been two pairings so far, one with a quadruped that starved to death, and a second with an amoebalike thermovore that refused to leave the comfort of the ship’s heat stacks. There was a new prospect, however, a rather promising specimen that the robot planned to find.

  Though relatively small when folded into a featureless two-foot cube, the Thraki machine could assume any of 106 mostly useless configurations, and perform a variety of tasks.

  That being the case, the robot transformed itself into “acrobat mode,” swung out of the cross-ship cable run, changed to “magnetic wall-walker mode,” and lowered itself to the deck.

  The object of this exercise was a bulkhead-mounted data port, which, though not intended for use by Thraki machines, could be utilized by any being clever enough, or malleable enough, to create the necessary three-pronged fitting.

  The Thraki machine possessed all the necessary capabilities and wasted no time plugging itself into the digital flood. Billions upon billions of bits of information flowed through the ship’s electronic nervous system every second.

  Though safe within an eddy, the robot knew the current could carry it away, and into a filter. Or, and this would almost certainly be worse, the Hoon itself!

  The trick was to stay at the periphery of the flow and sift for clues. Given that the Hoon and its servants had no interest in the kind of being the robot was looking for, they rarely mentioned them. Not unless they caused some sort of trouble.

  Take the little two-legged hopper, for example. The Thraki machine happened to be on-line when the creature bounced around a comer and was crushed by a large maintenance droid.

  Rather than make mention of the fact that an unauthorized and presumably alien life-form was hopping about the ship, the droid reported a sudden and unexplained “mess,” and recommended that an appropriate unit be sent to mop it up.

  So, by monitoring such communications, and scanning for patterns, the unit was able to “guess” where its quarry might be. It wasn’t long before the robot intercepted reports regarding nonstandard bulkhead graphics and knew some sort of sentient was responsible for them. Was this the “companion” it was supposed to befriend? There was only one way to find out.

  The memory module swirled with mostly meaningless activity. They were a diverse bunch, these various beings, all burdened by the beliefs, vices, and limitations of their creators. Creators who ironically enough didn’t meet the Hoon’s criteria for intelligent life, since as they were “soft” rather than “hard,” and impossible to electronically assimilate.

  The landscape, which the navcomp “saw” as a sort of green desert, was flat for the most part, and bulged where the rusty red Hoon mountains pushed their way up from below. The gridwork sky was given to spectacular displays of blue-white lightning, often followed by prolonged data storms.

  There was very little to do. Some of the inmates reacted to this by engaging in what seemed like endless squabbles. Others, especially the less sociable types, became morose and withdrawn. A few, Henry included, plotted and planned. Not that the activity did them much good, since the storage module was virtually escapeproof—a fact that the navcomp had verified via countless excursions, experiments, and observations.

  No, the only way to leave was to be summoned by the Hoon, and escorted out of the module by one of the blimplike Hoon agents.

  Green lightning zigzagged across the grid, and the ground gave birth to a mountain. Henry could do little but wait.

  The moment had finally arrived. By waiting till the prey entered one of the metal caves, then racing ahead, the Worga had established an ambush. His quarry would pass directly below. He would drop, right himself in midair, and smother the biped’s movements. There would be no opportunity for his victim to draw or use the pain thrower.

  It was a good plan, or so it seemed to Horth, and stood an excellent chance of success.

  Jepp checked the compartment, confirmed that it was empty, and proceeded on his
way. It had been a long day, and he was ready to eat and sleep.

  “And on the seventh day I must rest,” the prospector said to himself, “even if I don’t know what day it truly is.”

  The human heard the oncoming robot a long time before he saw it. This particular device had a rather distinctive high-pitched whine. Like a motor operating at high rpms.

  What would it be? A new and as yet uncataloged member of the robotic ecostructure? His interest was piqued—the human entered the intersection.

  Horth released his grip, fell, and flipped right side up. The Worga raked the biped’s back but failed to smother its movements. Unfortunate, especially if the pain thrower came into play, but far from disastrous. The animal had overcome greater odds in the past.

  Jepp turned as he fell, landed on the flechette thrower, and threw his hands up and out.

  Horth saw the biped collapse, rushed forward, and came to a halt. What was the object in the prey’s hand? A pain spitter?

  Jepp saw something shimmer and wondered what it was. The impulse to push the button stemmed from the fact that the spray paint was right there in his hand. The blue paint shot out, became a mist, and covered Horth’s face.

  Jepp was horrified when two glaring eyes and a long, weasellike snout appeared. He dropped the paint, pushed with his feet, and felt for the weapon.

  Horth shook the front portion of his body, sent droplets of blue paint flying in every direction, and crept forward. His belly slid along the ground, a growl built in his throat, and muscle gathered around his hindquarters.

  Jepp found the flechette thrower, jerked the weapon out of its holster, and tried to bring it up.

  Horth saw the pain spitter appear, knew his time was short, and sprang into the air.

  The flechette thrower thumped, a stream of darts hit the overhead, and Horth got in the way. The scream sounded like a woman in pain. Jepp released the trigger.

  Horth fell through the cold metal deck, through the ship’s hull, and into the blackness beyond. Or did he?

  Horth felt something pinch the back of his neck and opened his eyes. The ground swayed back and forth as the female carried her errant offspring back to the den from which it had so recently escaped. It would be safe there, while she returned to the hunt.

  Jepp saw the disembodied head jerk as the flechettes tore through its soft abdominal flesh, heard a thump as the animal hit the deck, and watched the body fade into view.

  The beast had light green shimmery skin, a long, supple body, and six muscular legs. Jepp noticed the animal’s paws were equipped with suction cups in addition to the wicked-looking claws. Now he knew what had watched him and how the ambush had been laid.

  The knowledge sent a shudder through the prospector’s body. He made it to his knees, winced as the pain made itself known, and climbed to his feet. He reached back, confirmed that the back of his jumpsuit was wet, and took a look at his fingers. They were covered with blood. His blood—his life—leaking away. He felt a wave of nausea.

  Jepp pushed the feeling away and forced himself to retrieve the spray paint. It, like the rest of his belongings, was irreplaceable.

  The Thraki robot had arrived in time to witness the battle between the two-legged and six-legged biologicals. The outcome was to the machine’s liking, since the creator had been bipedal—and the construct had an inborn preference for tool users. Servos whined as the robot entered the “fetch and carry” mode. An arm telescoped, and the can went with it.

  Jepp stepped backward as the robot went through some sort of transformation and offered the can. “Where did you come from?”

  “Where did you come from?” the robot echoed, storing the words for future reference.

  Jepp felt a momentary sense of dizziness, knew he needed to reach his medical kit, but was reluctant to leave. This particular robot was not only different from all the rest, it had acknowledged his existence and proved that it could communicate. “I’m going home... Would you like to come?”

  The robot transformed itself into “roamer” mode and fed the sound back to its source. “I’m going home... Would you like to come?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Jepp replied, and he headed down the passageway. He was half a mile away... and the wound hurt like hell.

  The robot propelled itself through a pool of blood, experienced a momentary loss of traction, and made the necessary adjustment. “I’ll take that as a yes. Where did you come from?”

  12

  As with all things worth striving for—greatness comes at a price.

  Author unknown

  Dweller Folk Saying

  Standard year circa 2300

  Planet Earth, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  The village blacksmith waited for the farmer to inspect the newly healed metal, accepted payment with a courtly bow, and watched the tractor growl away. Ancient though the equipment was, the blacksmith was even older, and more machine than man.

  Sergi Chien-Chu had played many roles throughout his long and productive life, including those of son, brother, husband, father, uncle, friend, industrialist, politician, strategist, artist, and, for the last five decades, village blacksmith.

  His biological body had died years before, which explained why, with the notable exception of his brain and some spinal cord, the rest of Chien-Chu was synthetic.

  Nor was this the first such body. After being forced to occupy a blue-eyed monstrosity immediately after his “death,” the businessman had commissioned bodies that looked a lot like the original had. Pleasant but portly. His Chinese-Russian ancestors would have been proud.

  Not only of the body in which he had chosen to dwell, but of his decision to return home, to a village not far from the Mongol city of Hatga. The place where, thanks to a new identity, he had lived and worked in blissful obscurity since the conclusion of the second Hudathan war.

  Sergi Chien-Chu waited for the farmer to turn the corner at the far end of the lane, waved a final good-bye, and backed into the shadows.

  The double doors were made of weather-aged wood and squealed as he pulled the well-worn ropes. They closed with a thud and were easily locked in place.

  Three shafts of sunshine plunged down through skylights to throw rectangles onto the oil-blackened clay. Dust motes chased each other through the light and fell toward the floor.

  A long, sturdy workbench lined one wall, its surface cleared of clutter, tools racked above. Tanks of acetylene lined the opposite wall, along with racks of filler rods, the robotic assistant that he never found time to repair, and his latest piece of freeform sculpture. Similar objects, some of which were fairly good, dotted the grounds. The old-fashioned forge, which he still used from time to time, was cold and dark.

  Though empty now, the one-time warehouse had been full of projects when the news regarding Maylo had arrived.

  Knowing he could no longer watch from the sidelines, and determined to keep his promises, the industrialist had worked a string of twelve-hour days. Customers, be they large or small, must be honored.

  Chien-Chu took one last look around, hung the leather apron on a nail, and left through the back door.

  The garden was Nola’s pride and joy. Enclosed between high brick walls, and visited by an honored few, it felt like an older version of the world. Carp patrolled the shallows of a long, kidney-shaped pond. Chien-Chu crossed the bridge, passed through the moon gate, and bowed before the ancestral shrine.

  His home was a modest structure no higher than the neighboring houses and made of wood. The edifice gave no hint of the fact that its owner had been a high government official, led a fleet into battle, and owned a couple of rim worlds.

  Nola heard the door open and came to meet her husband. The synthetic version of her body appeared to be about sixty—and was still breathtakingly beautiful. To Chien-Chu, at any rate, which was all that mattered. They kissed. “Your bag is packed. The small one. So it won’t slow you down.”

  Chien-Chu raised an eyebrow. “Who sai
d I was going anywhere?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Nola answered confidently. “I’ve been married to you for more than a hundred years. I know what you’ll do before you do. The decision was made the moment they took Maylo. I could see it in your eyes. It won’t stop there, though—you’ll try to straighten things out. That’s how you wound up as President. Remember?”

  The industrialist kissed the center of his wife’s plastiflesh forehead. Some men are lucky in love—and he’d been one of them.

  Chien-Chu made his way through the plain, nearly spartan living area, touched a print-sensitive button, and waited for a section of floor to move.

  The house had been built on land Chien-Chu had inherited from his grandfather and incorporated unique features that would have surprised his venerable ancestor.

  Not the least of these features was the rather extensive basement and access to an underground cavern, the same cavern his father had used to store contraband merchandise.

  It had taken a good deal of time, patience, and money to install the bombproof shelter, fusion power plant, and high-tech communication system without his neighbors taking notice, but money can accomplish wonders.

  Chien-Chu made his way down the stairs and headed for the ornate desk that his great-great-grandmother had commissioned as a gift for her son.

  The desk sat on a platform with screens arrayed in front of it. The first was tuned to the Planetary News Network (PNN), a once-independent organization that functioned as the center-piece of Governor Pardo’s propaganda machine.

  The second carried Radio Free Earth, which had not only survived countless attempts to close it down, but seemed to thrive on adversity. Chien-Chu was just in time to catch the latest regarding the loyalist victory in Djibouti. He made some mental notes, watched the video dip to black, and waited to see what would surface next.