Bloodhype

by Alan Dean Foster

  “See, the shipment that the Bloodhype and other drugs turned up in were all consigned to Kingsley’s agents. I met Rose’s by accident. It’s a possible tie-up there that I’m concerned about. Before I run any more of Kingsley’s goods around the Arm, I’ve got to know if they’re going to be full of silly spice.”

  “I appreciate your problem, Captain. Yet we are expected, especially after transceiving that report on Rose, to file reports in person to our superior.”

  “Look, Pors. Everything we could do about Rose has been done over the transceiver already. If this Major Orvenalix is but half up to his reputation . . .”

  “ . . . He is . . .”

  “ . . . then there’s no need for you to show up immediate-like, right nowish.”

  “Regulations . . .”

  “Will be adjusted for a few hours,” Mal replied gruffly. “The drug shipment is safe, you are safe, I am safe, and our good and kind acquaintance his Lordship might as well be pinned under the grating with his technician back at the island, for all the chance he has. When a few of the good Fathers finish with him, he’ll wish he was . . . And while I’d normally not bother to even mention it, you and your effervescent associate owe me nothing if not a little time. Seeing as how I’m in large part responsible for returning to you the balance of yours.”

  Porsupah didn’t reply.

  An hour or so later, the panel separating the forecabin and the storage compartment slid back. A dearly tired Kitten Kai-sung, Lieutenant in the service of the United Church, temporarily attached to Intelligence Branch, stepped into the cabin. Her dress, which had never been designed by its manufacturer with the contortions of the past twenty-four hours in mind, looked as worn as its wearer. The long black hair fell haphazardly in directions not always directed by gravity. The face was drawn.

  There was also an unevenness to her gait, which was not caused by the slight sway of the hoveraft.

  “Nice to see you again,” said Mal. He found himself smiling in spite of himself. “Glad you could make it back shortly.”

  Kitten flopped down in a corner. She brushed an errant strand of hair from her face and glared at him. The youthful apprentice sanitation engineer redraped himself over his packing crate without a word. His expression, revealing absolutely nothing, was significant for that. He folded his arms across his chest and fell promptly asleep.

  “Get a little more than you bargained for, rewardwise?” Mal prodded.

  “Let’s just say, Captain, he’s been amply repaid for his help. Also for any help he may render in the next, oh, ten years or so. But to satisfy your morbid interest, there was one thing that did get to me a mite.”

  “Oh?” said Porsupah, giving every evidence of surprise. “I must know of this wonder!”

  She pointed. “Well, bristle-fur, it was that damned thing. It stared at me the whole time.”

  She was pointing to the recumbent form of the flying-snake, which lay, blue-black and shiny, curled about its master’s left shoulder.

  It was either a glance at the instruments or else maybe the angle of the sun, rising over the horizon slightly behind them, that told her.

  “Hey, whither the hell goest we?”

  “It seems,” said Porsupah, “that the good Captain feels strongly the need of an immediate confrontation with his employer. To determine if same is in any way implicated in the drug traffic. I informed him that it was necessary for us to return to central control, but he was adamant.”

  “Yeah,” said Mal, looking straight at her. “That’s me. Adamant.”

  “Investigation of all suspects in this matter is the government’s business,” she said.

  “Later, maybe. Your Major can have proper seconds. I do my own dirty work.”

  “I will not stand for it!”

  “Then sit down!” he shouted angrily. “Patrick O’ Morion, I’ve never come ‘cross such an obstinate woman!” He made a heretical gesture heavenward. “First I rescue you from a proverbial fate worse than death. Then I rescue you from death! Then I save your assignment. I even, Kelvin knows why, try to protect your virtue. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Twenty-four T-years. Why?”

  Porsupah interrupted sarcastically. “See, Captain, you’re about twenty-three point nine years too late for that.” The Tolian then found much of interest in the workings of his seat.

  “Black holes have both of you!” she yelled. “I’ll treat with you later, water-rat.” She turned back to Mal. “And you, baboon-that-walks-with-fundament-forward, just because your grotesque carcass isn’t up to the performance of our resident sewage-dabbler . . .!”

  “Watch it, little girl, I . . .!”

  First mate Takaharu swiveled half-way round in his chair. He actually raised his voice slightly, a thing reserved for extraordinary occasions.

  “I am known as a patient man,” he murmured in a steadily rising voice, “but if there is not some silence about this cabin immediately. I shall direct this craft onto the nearest reef and allow your souls to drift in violent converse for eternity! Please all to shut up?”

  Glaring across the tiny cabin at each other, the Lieutenant and the freighter-Captain sat.

  Philip chose that moment to fill the air with a stentorian snore.

  The Vom was aware of the Machine, orbiting directly above it. It had been aware thus for some time now. Yet it recognized that the intelligence needed to transform the Machine into a potential threat was not present. As long as this remained so the Vom had nothing to fear. The Machine could not act without the direction of the Guardian, and there was nothing to wake the Guardian.

  Yet clearly the Machine was aware of this too. Then why would it trouble to track the Vom across parsecs? Obviously it hoped somehow to activate the Guardian. The Vom sensed lack of key knowledge and this troubled it.

  However, its strength was multiplying rapidly. It was a geometrical process. Each new, reactivated facet aided in unlocking or strengthening others. Since the Vom was maturing only internally, it aroused no suspicion in its former captors. Former, because for some time now the Vom had remained in place merely as a matter of convenience.

  Regrettably, the Vom could not read thoughts. It never did have this ability. But it was regaining another talent, the ability to pick up and interpret the emotional discharges of other minds. It could sense no threats around it. A real threat would have had unshakable confidence behind it. The confidence here was purely superficial. The only ones the Vom was at all concerned with were those few who projected utter fear. Under unfavorable circumstances, these might conceivably panic the others. That would be inconvenient now.

  Soon, however, it wouldn’t matter. The Vom would act as it pleased. It had already passed the point where its peculiar composition could be threatened by sudden discharges of energy. Even the arrival of the Machine did not upset it. Not with the Guardian inert, inoperative. In fact, only one thing bothered it at all.

  Was there something it had not discovered on this small planet that might conceivably activate the Guardian?

  “A thousand moltings, your Excellency.”

  “What is it, sergeant?,” said Parquit RAM irritably. They had finally managed to detach a section of the creature. Arris had just brought him initial analyses, spectrographic readings, and such—and now interruptions. He’d prepared his mind for revelations, for some practical return on an already enormous investment in time, credit, and nye-power, and this under-officer had shattered the mood.

  “Ten thousand days of precipitation on my ancestor’s graves if I have disturbed you, Excellence, but—”

  “Oh, get on with it, nye!” That was the trouble with military protocol. Took up too much military time.

  “Excellence, a small hoveraft was just detected within the concession perimeter. It appears to be piloted by a single human.”

  “Is that worthy of an interruption? Human and thranx fishermen and fortune hunters occasionally stray within our boundaries. Hold the man for half a day—just l
ong enough for him to flow from the apoplectic to the apologetic—inform him we do not regard his person as sacrosanct, issue the standard missive of protest to the governor, and then let the fellow go.”

  “Well,” he said when the sergeant did not absent himself. “Do you then find my physiognomy so fascinating? Why do you still inflict your presence on us?”

  “Commander, Excellence, your indulgence. I do not make a standard intrusion. I would never bother you with such trivia. It is that the human . . . sir, he desires diplomatic sanctuary . . . with us!”

  Parquit pushed the folder of spectrographs aside. “That is truly different, sergeant. I applaud your evaluation of the situation. My curiosity is piqued. Does the creature appear sane?”

  “He does, sir.”

  “What sort of man is he? No, bring him here. I want to see this for myself.”

  The sergeant bowed, clasped his throat in salute, and left.

  “Shall I go too, Commander?” said Arris, moving to gather up his papers.

  “No. Stay, xenobiologist. This should amuse and possibly interest you.”

  The sergeant returned, along with two other soldiers. A single human walked between them. He clearly came under his own will, walking as briskly as his evident age permitted. Parquit raised a clawed hand and the sergeant returned the salute. He left, taking the escort with him. The human was left standing alone before the Commander’s desk.

  He wasn’t a particularly impressive specimen, as humans went. Clearly of advanced age, if Parquit’s eye was any judge. Yet the body appeared fairly healthy. The man was dressed well if not luxuriously. He carried a single small metal case, half a meter square and thin. He was unarmed, of course.

  After a cursory examination of the room, the mammal stared back at the Commander. If he was nervous, he concealed it with the poise of one used to such elementary psychological ploys. A bold type, certainly. He’d have to be, to come here seeking asylum. Parquit could conceive of only one reason for a human or thranx to do such. He must be desired by his authorities—strongly enough to throw himself on the mercy of those controlling the only autonomous bit of surface on the planet. As mercy was not a trait the AAnn were famed for, the human would have to be desperate indeed.

  “I believe I have you evaluated sufficient for my needs,” Parquit began. “In any case, I most surely will not waste you by returning you to the authorities who doubtless are seeking you. That need not concern you. I will at least have the pleasure of denying them that. In this way you will perform some small service for me. If you can somehow convince me that you may be useful in ways other than by denying your person to the government, I may consider not turning you over to the officer’s chef for this evening’s sun-down meal. Scrawny as you are. As you no doubt well know, we regard human flesh as something of a delicacy, the more so because of its unavailability. Admittedly a sore point between our races. Your justification for continued existence on a plane other than as dinner better be substantial.”

  The human made a recognizable gesture of affirmation: He nodded his head. “That’s about the kind of greeting I expected. Now I will tell you who I am. I am Lord Dominic Estes Rose.”

  “A natural or acquired title?”

  “I bought it, if that’s what you mean.”

  Parquit did not congratulate himself for this bit of insight. The creature had neither the bearing nor appearance of the nobleborn. Not that this bothered him. Even today among the AAnn there were those who had purchased their nest in the aristocracy. It was necessary to adapt to change, needed to preserve the monarchy and the succession. Parquit himself had a near-nest relative who . . .

  “Your business, man?”

  “I am a simple merchant.”

  “No merchant is simple who remains one. For that you find reason to flee to us?” Parquit added sarcastically.

  “I also run illegal drugs.”

  “Ah! That explains a good deal. Do you specialize?”

  “I’m what you might call a high-class general retailer.” The human chuckled. “I’m not particularly particular. If it’ll bring a profit, I’ll broker anything. What I want, Commander . . . um . . .”

  “Commander is proper.”

  The man shrugged. “If you want it that way. What I want is help in getting off-planet. I’ll handle the reopening of my lines of supply myself. In return for this I can be of some help to you. I have contacts all over the Commonwealth.”

  “You’d sell yourself away from your own race?” Arris spoke for the first time.

  Rose responded. He laughed.

  “Do you believe in souls, friend?”

  “Naturally,” said Arris.

  “Well, as far as forty Terran years ago, mine had been mortgaged several times over. Many races own a piece of me. A number have been trying to collect for years. I always stay one jump ahead of my un-friends. And my credit is excellent, which helps. I’m for bartering with anything that holds a convertible credit slip. That’s the only race I owe allegiance to, the race of figures in my account with the Bank of . . . but that needn’t concern you.”

  “I believe it all, man. Suppose, though, that I still decide you are more valuable to me as this evening’s entrée than a man of business?”

  “For a lizard, your symbospeech ain’t bad. I might choose to blackmail you into a formal promise. How sounds that?”

  “Illogical. To blackmail one must be able to threaten. Prospective dinners rarely possess anything to threaten the diner with.”

  “Well, I have what’s in this case.” Rose shifted the container in front of him.

  Parquit sighed. This man was going to turn out to be a disappointment after all.

  “Man, that case contains nothing of metal other than what is embodied in its basic construction. Nor anything of plastic, glass, wood, ceramic, nor any object of artificial construct greater than a few millimeters of your measurement. If it had, you’d never have been permitted past the landing point. Let alone into my personal presence. All you might do is throw it in my direction. You would be incinerated along with it before you could half complete the motion.”

  “Don’t doubt it. See Commander, what this case contains is a number of kuysters—your measurement—of the pure drug bloodhype, in powder form and under pressure. If I let go of this handle, this case will fairly explode from internal pressure. I think I’m too close to you for any destructive beam to be certain of destroying all the powder without killing you too. If the least of it, however tiny an amount, reaches you, you’ll be as hooked as the worst addict in the filthiest dive on Terra or Dust-Dune. Since I currently control the only supply in the known galaxy, you’ll die later than I will, but a good deal more uncomfortably. As will your companion,” Arris stiffened, “and anyone else who breathes it . . . I presume your air circulating system is efficient. You might consider your men. I might also remind you that if my intentions had been basically antagonistic, I could have safely released the dust at any time, if my object in coming here was to do you harm.”

  “You are bluffing. You are not the type to welcome suicide.”

  “Commander, I invited it by coming here! If you want other proof, you can find out real quick.”

  Parquit did not make Commander by hesitating in awkward situations. “All right. I grant your sanctuary.”

  “Swear by your Shell and The-Sand-That-Shelters-Life.”

  Parquit made the AAnn equivalent of a smile. Naturally he did not bare his teeth. “You are a knowledgeable rogue, soulless Lord.” The Commander lowered his voice, rumbled through the archaic hisses and croaks of the ancient oath.

  “There. Are you satisfied?”

  “You forgot the sealing of the membrane and the last three wind atonings.”

  “A simple test, man. Compliments.” This time Parquit did it properly. It was impressive.

  Rose nodded when the AAnn had finished. He turned, set the case down on the floor. Arris winced involuntarily when the man took his hand from the handle. Rose tu
rned back to face them.

  “You were bluffing, of course,” said Parquit.

  “Don’t let the either-or keep you awake nights, Commander.” Rose looked around, helped himself to an awkwardly shaped chair.

  “I might say that any being who deals in bloodhype is a living scab to all AAnn as well as to your own race.”

  “Insults are a sad way to begin a long relationship, Commander. Besides, I’ve heard them all already.”

  Chatham Kingsley’s island-home, Wetplace, reflected wealth—new wealth, as opposed to traditional inherited types. Kingsley could have built an old-Terra type baronial mansion (they were currently in style). But he eschewed the false reproduction and opted instead for the maximum in modern convenience. This left a good portion of the island’s interior for a wilderness garden. Most of the necessary business edifices, such as warehousing, were built offshore on a complex of struts, pylons, and floating platforms.

  The central residence consisted of a single tower, which rose some 50 meters into the air while plunging an equal distance into sea and bedrock, on the side where the island fell off steeply into the shallow sea.

  The island thus remained almost entirely in a virgin state. The natural profusion of greenery was encouraged by judicious additions of organic fertilizers, powerful plant foods, and professional verdurement. Thick cycads, ferns, sporophytes and horsetails grew to the waterline, dipping graceful fronds into the slightly salty tideflow. In some places they even mingled with the sea-plants which grew sunwards from the seabottom, forming an unbroken wall of green against which water lapped viscously.

  The Tower itself was constructed of parallel vertical bands of a coppery bronze alloy and panes of opaque black glass.

  Takaharu guided the raft among the few small commercial craft which plied the artificial harbor. They headed towards a single long, floating dock. An anchored walkway led towards the Tower.

  Mal glanced at the console. “All right, Maijib. You can acknowledge their calls now.” Since Kingsley was overtly legitimate, they could expect to approach his property closely without fearing the gift of a missile or mine. But now at least a cursory greeting was in order.