The Cunning Blood

by Jeff Duntemann

  Peter stared at the blazing white rectangle as the minutes crept by. |Zero-point fire!| he subvocalized, recalling the legendary shout of John-Mark Hrypich when Earth's first Hilbert generator blazed into life.

  "Twelve minutes."

  Three more escalations, and that machine could be anywhere in the universe.

  Peter watched the light on the wall, astonished. The next escalation would release X-rays, and the one after that, soft gammas. The final escalation of the chaos generators inside the ring would, in a burst of hard gamma rays, move the ring's fractal field beyond what our space could express, and the machinery within the ellipsoid of hellfire would vanish, moving to whatever point in space most closely corresponded to the pattern created in the fractal field.

  But not for this test.

  "Fifteen minutes minus three…two…one… mark."

  The light on the opposite wall went out. Corey Roark tore off his helmet and mask and leapt to his feet, shrieking. "We turned it on, and we turned it off! Maggots be damned!"

  At once they were embracing one another, pounding on backs and stamping their feet, laughing hysterically with tension suddenly released. "Klaus, go find a pneuma and let Snitzius know that Ouroboros works as designed. Haul ass, boy!"

  The young engineer's footsteps echoed on the steel plate catwalk, to the end of the clean room and out of sight. Peter peeked into the clean room, where technicians were already inspecting the still-hot fixture. The ring appeared to be undamaged.

  Corey was glowing as Peter had not seen him in the four furious days since he had joined the team. "Well, Peter, you joined us at a good time. We made it burn…now you can help us make it fly!"

  10. Devil's Waltz

  Because Hell's 304-day year was evenly divisible by eight, the original colonists divided the year into 38 eight-day weeks. The eighth day was originally dubbed Starday, but once OVODS became Hell, the last day of the week soon became Hellday. Because the year was also evenly divisible by four, months became 76-day seasons, aligned with Hell's solstices and equinoxes.

  Peter shut the slim little hardback book he had found in a wall niche beside his cell's inset bed. A Hell of a Place provided a new drop some much-needed orientation on the calendar, the clock, the laws, and the culture.

  Peter went to the closet and pulled out his dress jacket. It was Hellday, Summer 74, Hell Era (HE) 259: the last Hellday in Summer, and thus the day Rho Alpha Delta held its Seasonal Grand Ball. The jacket was a lighter, finer cloth than his workaday habit. There was no orange sleeve because at Grand Ball, weapons were not worn.

  Drinking and dancing in a society short of women—an invitation to mayhem. Forbidding weapons makes perfect sense to me.

  |My guess is the guards will still carry their aggers.|

  Of course. So discipline yourself! If your behavior warrants agonil, I will not intervene.

  Peter nodded, pulling on his pants and boots. He was sure Hell would change him—was changing him—but there were moments when he realized that it was changing the Sangruse Device as well. On Earth, the Device had been a generally passive companion, observing his life, commenting on it, and helping him muddle through. On Hell, 9 had taken the lead, perhaps because on Hell, he was no longer living a safe, predictable, pointless life. Peter recalled the comment Snitzius had made on Sangruse Version 7: "It is the most dangerous thing anywhere on Hell, and probably on Earth as well." 9 had shown anger, had let him suffer the full force of the agonil. Peter could no longer predict the Sangruse Device's actions. It surprised him how much that frightened him, he who feared virtually nothing.

  In foul weather and in Winter, Grand Ball was held in Dinnerhall, spilling out into the nearby conference and meeting rooms. In Spring and Summer, good weather allowed Grand Ball to be held in the four-lobed open space at the center of the masterhouse. Peter stood beside a rose garden, sipping "dry punch"—no alcohol—and watched for the other Ouroborons among the arriving crowds.

  The weather wasn't ideal, but the morning pneumanews had described the weather as "low clouds, no rain expected." It was cool, and slightly damp. The equinox was only two days off, and then Autumn would be upon them.

  No one seemed to mind. Laughter and general good spirits appeared to rule. He watched a whole team amble by, munching hors d'oeuvres while discussing some technology animatedly. One brother was drawing a diagram in mid-air with a stick of celery.

  Hellday is supposedly a day of rest.

  |Hey, nobody here bothers to rest. Rest is boring.|

  For a change, women were wearing dresses rather than the Ralpha Dog unisex jackets, although Peter spotted a few women wearing a more feminine cut of the dress jacket the men wore, with silk pants that ballooned toward the bottom. Scattered through the crowds were women and men whose dress or jacket sleeves were white, from the wrist all the way to the shoulders, and inward halfway to the neck. These were the order's social integrators. Peter hoped that Bilenda would be present. One lunch on Friday had been his only contact with her since the day after his arrival. His first night with her was not until Autumn 7, and he ached to realize that it was still more than a week away.

  A full orchestra was assembling on a round platform at the centerpoint of the four-lobed space, allowing the music to be heard in all four lobes. A string quartet had set up early, and was playing something quiet and refined. Peter drifted past the orchestra's dais and into one of the other lobes. Each was a hundred meters at its greatest extent, and mature trees, some of them fifteen or twenty meters high, grew at intervals among the walkways and flower beds. Copper and glass lanterns hung from the low tree branches, providing soft yellow light for the darker spaces between the fierce gas lamps on their cast-iron poles. The area closest to the center point was set in gray brick, and would hold more dancers than Peter had ever seen at one time.

  "Peter! Peter!"

  Peter spun around, to see Maria bumbling her way through the crowds in his direction, tall wine glass in hand. She stood in front of him, bowed, and gave him the quick, light embrace that (off the dance floor) was the most that protocol allowed for public contact between men and women. She raised her glass. "A toast to the Big O!" she said in a stage whisper.

  Peter raised his punch cup. "Works as designed," he said, and drained it.

  "As designed. Geez, I'm a mess. I'm pretty sexy when I'm not pregged. But this is our private team celebration too." She wore a shapeless black chiffon dress without a waist, and flat slippers with brass buckles.

  That style of dress was once called a 'muumuu'. But I wouldn't recommend saying that here.

  |Check.|

  From behind: "Peter, welcome to Summer Grand Ball!"

  Then Bilenda Paton was bowing, and embraced him for a sparse second longer than Maria had, her strong arms sheathed in white tight around him. Peter's head buzzed to see her lips again, full and very red, when his last glimpse of her had been their final kiss at Friday lunch.

  "Peter, allow me to present Simon Lathrop, my Co-Director of Social Integration. He leads our male SIs and coordinates our winter and summer Grand Balls."

  The man bowed to Peter, and grasped Peter's hands with both of his. Simon was tall, fortyish, and rugged, with the sort of stone star looks that Peter had always envied.

  The Sangruse Device must have tasted his envy. This man's job is to be every woman's fantasy. I'll bet he's never even taken trigonometry. What sort of life is that?

  "Honored, Peter. Bilenda tells me you're black—very black—so don't feel compelled to talk shop."

  Bilenda is taking care of you, reminding you that your project is a deadly secret.

  |Except from her...right, but we're in public now.| Peter looked down to his lapel, where his team pin should have been. Instead of the Hilbert ring of the Ouroborons, the pin he wore was black, solid black with a gold rim, as did all those whose projects could not be acknowledged outside the team.

  "May your team be heroes when your project emerges." His voice was deep and very smoot
h.

  Bilenda reached out and took both his hands in hers. "Peter, Snitzius asked me to invite you to our table at first intermission. He wants to introduce his newest AE to his other directors. Look for the gold tablecloth, North Lobe. And we have to run. Have fun!"

  Bilenda and Simon both bowed, turned and moved off. Peter wanted to shout, "I love you!" after her, realized how ridiculous—and damaging—that would be.

  I felt that pulse of testosterone. You strangled it. Good work.

  The orchestra was starting up, playing a stately waltz that Peter did not know.

  The younger Johann Strauss. "Village Swallows." 1868. Not well known on Earth.

  Maria had taken his hand. "Peter, come dance with me. You can waltz, right?"

  Peter nodded, hoping that two weeks of dance lessons in seventh grade were not lost in the clutter of his memories. Peter put his arm as far around his teammate as her condition would allow, and moved off onto the dance floor. He ended up doing better than he hoped…or was the Sangruse Device helping his legs coordinate with the music? Peter grit his teeth and decided that that way lay madness. "So…what will the little one's name be?"

  "Katarina Fednuszun. For our very brilliant rare earth witch."

  Peter nodded. "Ah. And had it been a boy?"

  "Mmmm, not sure. Father gets to name boys. He told me in a pneuma, I think he chose Frederick. Frederick Ochiba."

  "So what's the father like?"

  She shrugged. "Beats me. I asked for preg and they pregged me with the squirtgun. Guy's name is Robert Ochiba. Little guy, but strong. Works for the Aggies. Papers said he can do a four-minute mile and bench press 200 pounds. Newbie, not a crook like me."

  "Newbie?"

  "Newborn. Peter, read the little book in your cell! People who are born here, not drops. You and I are drops. Everybody else on the team is a newbie. Even Corey Roark is a newbie, though not a very new newbie. Sabes?”

  Peter laughed. "Se. And you've never met the father of your child."

  "No. Don't want to. I'm a lousy judge of men. Worse, I might start to like him, and that would be trouble. I just pray I don't start liking you too much..."

  The dance ended, and Peter walked Maria back to the tables, where she began piling a small plate high with deviled eggs, octagonal crackers, and radishes.

  Peter! My agent reports something remarkable!

  |Such as?| Peter had not heard the Sangruse Device mention its mobile agent for several days.

  It's up in the overcast, wingbeatflying, at about 200 meters. It's experimenting with an ultrasonic echolocation mechanism I've been designing. It's discovered that there's a small airship parked in the cloud cover, immediately above us. By its calculation the airship has barely enough lift for an engine, fuel, and three human passengers.

  |You mean, lighter than air?|

  Technically, a blimp. Helium for lift. It does not appear to be armed.

  |Hey, these guys have nuclear submarines. How hard could a blimp be?|

  Blimps are easy. Too easy for the Ralpha Dogs. Why would they need one? And why tonight, in a cloud, over the Grand Ball?

  |Maybe it's part of a show; some guy's going to parachute down in a shower of sparks or something. It'd be the sort of thing they'd do.|

  Perhaps.

  Peter turned back to the punch bowl, to find someone waiting behind him.

  "Hi," Geyl said. "Don't run. I've got written permission to talk to you." She was smiling; Peter wondered what expression he had allowed his face to present.

  Peter felt chilled, and although the night was brisk and damp, he doubted that the weather was the problem. He took the proffered sheet and read bold handwriting in black ink: "'Peter: Geyl asked me if she might associate with you tonight. You have my permission as long as feelings remain good between you. If either of you becomes angry, separate immediately. -TS.'"

  "I told him you were a stickler for rules and would need it in writing. He's actually not such a bad old guy."

  No, he's not. My guess is that he feels he's 'rewarding' you for your team's victory yesterday.

  |Yeah. What a prize I get.|

  The orchestra began again. Geyl bowed. "Might I have this dance?"

  "I don't know if Snitzius had dancing in mind..."

  "He didn't say we couldn't. Come on!"

  Geyl grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. "Put your arm around me, dammit!" she said with an insistent grin. Peter complied, and they danced, though he had none of the grace he had shown during Maria's waltz.

  Geyl's smile remained radiant throughout, and Peter reflected that she was beautiful when she smiled—or was that simply the pressure of her breasts against his chest?

  "I got on a team yesterday. See my pin?" She let her eyes drop to her lapel, where Peter saw a plain gold pin in the shape of a gavel. "We specialize in inter-team difficulties. I observed a hearing the same day they pinned me. It was fun." A long, expectant silence passed. Peter found himself looking away from her, trying to get some distance, and failing. Her smile didn't falter. "So," she said, "what are you doing these days?"

  Peter licked his lips. "Nothing all that special. I have a lot of training to go through still."

  "Mmmmm, what's the project?" Peter now knew the smile was false.

  "I…can't talk about it. I promised Snitzius I wouldn't."

  "I talked to somebody with a pin like that." She nodded toward his lapel. "I know what it means."

  "It just means I can't talk about my project." Peter felt himself approaching panic. Fear as a reaction to danger was not a problem with him, had never been. But being trapped in a situation from which physical action was impossible made him wild with frustration. Then he realized that the Sangruse Device's tinnitus, the distant inner jangle that betrayed its mentation, was tremendously high in pitch. It was off doing something intense, something that was absorbing nearly all of its attention. He thought about his own emotional reactions, drifting beyond its constant attention, with a sort of sick dread.

  "We have an agreement, Peter," she said softly, without losing her smile. She might have been speaking of a pleasant hike through a park for the look on her face. She was keeping her voice just low enough to prevent the other dancers from hearing them.

  Peter realized he was sweating. "You don't need my protection. I was expecting a jungle, or a prison camp, or some kind of reeking slum. What else can I do for you?"

  "You can tell me what sorts of technologies Rho Alpha Delta has. The stuff they won't put in their photo albums. Stuff that warrants a pin like yours."

  He was getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "I didn't promise to do that. I'm hired muscle."

  "If you want to go home, you'll do what I ask." Her smile chilled his blood. He took a deep breath, fought the nausea that was growing worse by the second. 9 was right: He was not very good at regulating his emotional reactions. Take control, Peter ordered himself. "You have your oath. I have mine."

  "Sounds like you want to stay here. I can get back by myself, though it won't be a cakewalk. When I do, Sophia and I will have to take another look at Cy Aliotta's file..."

  Peter felt his fury rising, tried to calm himself. He could allow himself to be blackmailed, or he could take control. "Cy's a sharp guy. He can look after himself. He can do lots of things. Flying's just what he likes most." The panic subsided somewhat, but the nausea continued to grow. "I like it here enough so that being left behind isn't much of a threat. When you want to leave, tell me, and I'll decide if I want to go along. But if I do, it'll be my decision, and we'll go as equals. I'm not taking orders from you or anybody but Snitzius now. And I won't betray my team." There it was: He had thrown the challenge back at her, without any help from the Sangruse Device.

  Geyl's smile remained, but there was a smoldering edge beneath her whisper now. "You bought in," she whispered. "All right. I'll take it on my own. I have no use for traitors."

  Peter's nausea grew worse. He felt like he might...


  |9! You're making me vomit! What's going on?|

  I've been developing a slow-acting neurotoxin that triggers myocardial infarction after a period of time. It took some research, and it might not work, but make sure you direct your vomit so that some of it reaches her skin...

  |Forget it!|

  Peter felt his abdomen spasm, reached out his right arm and shoved Geyl roughly back. He bent over almost double as his stomach emptied explosively onto the stones. He fell forward on his knees and one hand, wretching from the spasm, and from the sudden pain that filled his head.

  She's all but threatened to kill you! What are you doing?

  |Exerting some discipline. Live with it.|

  Peter leaned on both arms, gasping at the puddle of deadly ichor on the stones between his hands. He expected the pain in his head to increase, expected the thing in his blood to punish him for refusing to do its will. Instead, the pain vanished, and in an almost palpable shift, he felt his blood chemistry coming back into line.

  "Peter, I'm sorry," Geyl was saying, her Gina Novilio persona back in place, as two strangers hauled him gently back to his feet.

  "I'm ok. Didn't have lunch. I don't skip meals well. Sorry." He turned to the hors d'oeuvre table, grasped a pitcher of ice water, and upended it over the vomitus on the stones. "Somebody should mop that up. I'm sorry."

  "Peter."

  "Gina, I'm sorry, I don't want to talk. Please let me be." Peter, head down, pushed his way through the crowds in the direction of North Lobe.

  Explain yourself! Have you retained some fantasy of sexual conquest? That would be madness. She sees you as Hell's agent now, and I am certain she will kill you if she gets the chance. You are my operator. Without your body I will perish—and the alternate I booted into Jamie Eigen appears to have burned up on re-entry. We must return to Earth and report to the Nautonnier. Much is at stake here.

  |You were ready to make me kill her without knowing I was doing it. If I'm going to kill, I want to do it deliberately.|