Bloodhype

by Alan Dean Foster

  A whole quadrant of projection cells died before they could be shuttered down. The Vom quivered in pain, sending huge waves crashing across nearby islands, smashing through the brush and sweeping away small lives.

  NOW (said the Guardian in a roar of triumph)

  YES, NOW (came a quietly grim thought from the Other)

  Hopelessly, desperately, the Vom fought back. Despite frantic repair and isolated control, the infection continued to spread. But the Vom’s resources were immense. It was beginning to slow the disaster. It might yet contain the threat, survive, hold, rebuild, counterattack. It might . . .

  A double-section of power-cells suddenly collapsed, unable to supply the awesome demands on their substance. An edge, a point, a limit had been reached and passed, and the Vom went over. Slowly, then with increasing speed.

  It was a new sensation for the Vom. Sections of self died around it. The mind was partly but not wholly detached from the physical process, even as it fought back. When it felt realization that finality was about to occur, when death convulsions shook the ocean floor around it, it cried out a last appeal.

  STOP! : CONCESSION! : I ABJURE POWER!

  (the Other did not reply. the Guardian-Machine did)

  THAT IS NOT OF YOUR NATURE : THE UNIVERSE DEMANDS YOUR PASSING

  (Guardian-Machine and Other struck again)

  Perceptions took on strange colorings for the Vom. Another new sensation. A last new sensation.

  (a final observation, brilliant light boiling away consciousness as though the soul water was)

  (then . . . .)

  DISSEMINATION

  (long-thoughts were space-scattered)

  DISSOLUTION

  The great organic capsule broke into a thousand pieces. A thousand-million. And more.

  (conclusion)

  DISSIPATION

  The trillion bits of no-vom broke down to the molecular level. Then the sub-molecular.

  DEATH

  (an empty conscious chaos lost the binding wire of thought. return to nothingness)

  DONE! (said the Guardian, half in wonder, half in contentment)

  It sought out the Other, said simply . . .

  THANK YOU

  NOT NECESSARY

  (said the Guardian in reply . . .)

  YOU PLANNED THIS : YOUR CONCEALMENT : YOUR TIMING OF ALL : YOUR MOMENT OF ENTRY : ALL PLANNED (statement of fact, not query)

  YEA AND VERILY (then, curiously) WHAT WILL YOU DO NOW?

  WHAT WOULD YOU SUPPOSE I WOULD DO?

  (pause) I THINK YOU WILL DIE

  THAT IS WHAT I SHALL DO : IT WILL TAKE A LITTLE TIME : ANY PART OF I-MACHINE CAN BE SHUT DOWN RAPIDLY ENOUGH : TO SHUT DOWN THE MACHINE-I WILL TAKE A LITTLE LONGER : I WILL SHOW YOU THINGS BEFORE THIS IS DONE

  I THANK YOU FOR THAT AND THAT THANKS YOU CANNOT REJECT : I HAVE POWER : I MUST ACQUIRE WISDOM

  THERE IS MUCH WISDOM ALONE IN THAT THOUGHT : SO IT SHALL BE

  YOU NEVER FEARED DEFEAT

  I WAS NOT CONSTRUCTED TO BE SO INCLINED : NOT TRAINED TO : NOT A RACIAL AFFECTATION : THE VOM’S FATE WAS INELUCTABLE

  Mal set Kitten down gently, then dropped out of the tree to stand next to her. She drew her hair behind her with one hand, used a small piece of elastic plastic to bind the long wet strands. He was staring at her.

  “Please, spare me the cracks about ‘drowned kittens,’ will you?” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” he replied, mopping at his face with a sleeve. He was equally drenched. “I’m too tired. Damn lucky thing that first wave was as small as it was. Some of those later ones could have piled us into the rocks. Did you see anything?”

  “Only a glimpse here and there. Mostly I was too busy holding onto that branch.”

  “Quite a sight. One second it was thrashing around like a loose ship-drive, smashing pecces and throwing up great gouts of water and sea-bottom. Then it seemed to sort of shudder lightly. It just fell in on itself and dissolved like black sugar.” He removed a soggy boot, dumped a trickle of water out of it.

  She shrugged. “Funny. I’d kind of expected something a little more spectacular after that build-up. I don’t think it made a sound the whole time we were watching it. A violent, quiet end to everything. I wonder if we’ll ever find out where it came from?” She was shaking water from the bottom of her blouse.

  “Almost everything,” he said cryptically. He took a step closer and gently placed a palm between her shoulders. She had just enough time for one quick, startled look as he shoved hard sideways, at the same time sitting down on a water-soaked but serviceable log. She folded neatly across his knees.

  Keeping his left arm firmly across the small of her back, he lifted his right leg and hooked it over her left thigh. The resultant pose was classic, if undignified.

  Kitten made a firm, sudden shove upwards, frowned when no give was forthcoming. Bracing her hands on the damp ground she pushed harder. She might as well have been trying to push her way out of an armored hunting cage.

  “All right, Captain Hammurabi. My sense of humor is departing swiftly. If you wouldn’t mind letting me up . . .?”

  “If you’ll think back a moment,” he went on easily, “you’ll recall that just prior to agreeing to make a certain jaunt with you to a certain Enclave, with certain suicidal desires in mind, I made you a promise. You may remember the substance . . .” She struggled harder and much less scientifically now.

  “Striking an officer of the Church can be ruled a capital offense!”

  “I’ll take that chance, Lieutenant. But I keep my word and my promises. It’s good business practice. I’ll risk a restraining term. This won’t take long. I suggest you strive to consider the philosophical aspects of the situation. You’re good at that.”

  The ship-captain’s palm had the seeming consistency of solid duralloy. The Lieutenant’s often violent protests for the next several minutes of measured activity were of a nature far removed from anything philosophical.

  Mal sighed and looked over to where Kitten was leaning against a tree. He made an adjustment on the small communit he’d salvaged from the ruins of the waveskimmer. He’d modified it to throw off a long-range homing signal on a widely used distress frequency. It would continue to cast for about an hour before the powerful little battery would burn out.

  “Will you sit down? I didn’t hit you that hard.” He smiled. That produced several minutes of withering silence. “Suit yourself. You deserved it. It’s been said, Book III Chapter 21, ‘Maturity is not a function of age.’ If you’re bent on proving otherwise . . .”

  Kitten looked down at her feet. She’d been scratching abstracts in the still-damp island soil.

  “It is possible” she began hesitantly, “that a certain small amount of that . . . that . . .”

  “Eleemosynary chastisement,” Mal offered.

  “Whatever you choose to call it.” She strolled over. “A certain amount may, just may, have been justifiable.”

  “If I’d given you what you deserved,” he said, “I’d still be at it. But I decided to be charitable. And besides, my arm was getting tired.”

  “I can imagine,” said Kitten, smiling slightly. “This one, wasn’t it?” She touched his right shoulder.

  He looked at her curiously—until she leaned forward and bit him good and hard above the right bicep.

  He tried gently to detach her. She wouldn’t let loose. Hammurabi’s grandfather had spent his childhood in the slums of Bajallsa Port, one of Terra’s greatest and dirtiest shuttleports. The teachings he’d passed on to his grandson were effective and unconventional.

  Mal leaned over and bit her back.

  She broke away in surprise and shock, rubbing her injured shoulder.

  “Damn you, Hammurabi! You’re no gentleman!” She lunged at him, her right arm coming around in a side chop. He caught it in one hand, did the same when she tried to counter with the left. She tried to bring up a knee but he spun her around and pinned her tightly against the tree.

 
“You’re hardly a lady, Kai-sung.”

  She kissed him. After a moment’s hesitation, and after she laughed at him, he relaxed enough to kiss her back. But he didn’t let go of her hands.

  When Porsupah arrived with a harbor launch, his cogent evaluation of the situation caused Kitten to chase him three times around the island. The diminutive Tolian was still laughing as they pulled away from the reef-free side.

  On board two very different flagships, both commanders and many crewmen (or crewnye) turned from a discussion of their sudden return of power to view a tiny nova. It had appeared just around the planetary horizon. An omphalos of thermonuclear fire, it outshone even Repler’s sun for a few seconds before dimming out. In its brilliance, the small flare on the planet’s surface went unnoticed.

  Fully aware that a confession of impotence in the face of probable bellicosity was not conducive to advancing one’s career, both commanders agreed to keep the whole incident as quiet as possible.

  Both moons were down as Porsupah reeled along the docks that edged the section of Repler City favored by visiting non-humanx.

  His reflections were colorful if not clear. For such a small mammal, his capacity for fermented spirits was remarkable enough to draw comment from the uninitiated. He’d been granted a month’s leave, local time, and was concluding the third day of a spectacular drunk. It was unmilitary and unChurchlike. But after hearing details, Ashvenarya himself had given the three of them leave to commit anything short of murder, and maybe that too, if they were discreet about it.

  He gleefully recalled Chatham’s face when the old miser had seen the crater that had replaced his precious island. Their crazy alien ally had done everything in an expansive way, including committing suicide. What a fantastic succession of facial changes when Ashvenarya had authorized complete rebuilding at Church expense!

  Kitten and her hirsute merchant captain were off on some far island committing things of their own. The Tolian was happy for both. Now, if only one of his own kind and opposite sex were available to help him properly enjoy a few mild indiscretions. What he wouldn’t give for the sight of a well-combed tail! He sighed, then frowned. His superlative sight was supremely out of focus, but it reported enough to tell him he was among unfamiliar buildings. He’d apparently wandered far from the entertainment district and the full bars into a rundown section of ancient warehouses and storage sheds that might have been built when Repler was first colonized. Several bore condemned signs. One pathetically declared that a new pleasure-pier was to be constructed here. The jungle began a little distance away. He was on the far fringes of the city.

  Well, fine! Hail the intrepid explorer! Now where were those damned supplies? He took the small container of powerful liquid from his belt and downed a sizable swallow. He, himself, would dedicate the new pier now and beat all the pompous, arrogant, frog-faced politicians to the privilege! He staggered towards the water, halted against a wooden wall when his balance threatened to horizontalize him.

  A tall figure strode out from between two long, boarded-up warehouses. The face was hidden, but the rope-shape coiled around one shoulder moved slightly. Even in the dark and drunk, Porsupah couldn’t mistake it. He rubbed his eyes blearily, which only made things worse.

  The figure halted at the edge of an ancient boat landing. It did something to a concealed mechanism. Porsupah giggled, burped violently. Apparently he went unnoticed.

  A monstrous bulk heaved itself out of the sea close by the pilings. It blotted out much of the night sky. A few lights shone from the cylindrical nose. The faintest lavender iridescence was visible far far down the main body, hundreds of meters long.

  A brighter rectangle of light appeared in one side of the vessel. A small platform floated out. It approached the pier, riding a barely audible basso hum. The tall human stepped onto the platform, standing behind a huge hairy alien Porsupah could not identify. The vehicle returned to the main ship the way it had come, the square of light disappearing behind it.

  Porsupah staggered away from the wall and stumbled back in the direction he’d arrived from. Three days, wasya, three days! Long enough to start seeing things, hey? Want to fall out of a tree someday? KK-drive ships did not come within a thousand kilometers of planetary surfaces. The direst penalties would befall any who survived the cataclysm of their own making.

  KK-drive super-battleships especially did not do this. They double-especially did not make secretive stops to take on board single apprentice sanitation engineers. No, no, down with the booze, already, schuzz?

  Wait a minute! Down with booze? What blasphemy was this? Sacrilege! And over a simple dream-dream?

  The hell with it. Heading for brighter lights and a chaser, Porsupah broke into an uneven but rousingly risqué Tolian ballad.

  Behind him, the great ship lifted silently toward the stars.

  Alan Dean Foster has written in a variety of genres, including hard science fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. He is the author of the Star Wars® novel The Approaching Storm. He is also the author of numerous nonfiction articles on film, science, and scuba diving, as well as the novelizations of several films, including Star Wars, the first three Alien films, and Alien Nation. His novel Cyber Way won the Southwest Book Award for Fiction in 1990, the first science fiction work to ever do so.

  Foster’s love of the faraway and exotic has led him to travel extensively. He’s lived in Tahiti and French Polynesia, traveled to Europe, Asia, and throughout the Pacific, and has explored the back roads of Tanzania and Kenya. He has rappeled into New Mexico’s fabled Lechugilla Cave, eaten panfried pirhana (lots of bones, tastes a lot like trout) in Peru, white-water rafted the length of the Zambezi’s Batoka Gorge, and driven solo the length and breadth of Namibia.

  Foster and his wife, JoAnn Oxley, reside in Prescott, Arizona, in a house built of brick that was salvaged from a turn-of-the-century miners’ brothel. He is presently at work on several new novels and media projects.

  Visit the author at his Web site at www.alandeanfoster.com.

  Books By Alan Dean Foster

  The Black Hole

  Cachalot

  Dark Star

  The Metrognome and Other Stories

  Midworld

  Nor Crystal Tears

  Sentenced to Prism

  Splinter of the Mind’s Eye

  Star Trek® Logs One-Ten

  Voyage to the City of the Dead

  . . . Who Needs Enemies?

  With Friends Like These . . .

  Mad Amos

  Parallelites

  THE ICERIGGER TRILOGY:

  Icerigger

  Mission to Moulokin

  The Deluge Drivers

  THE ADVENTURES OF FLINX OF THE COMMONWEALTH:

  For Love of Mother-Not

  The Tar-Aiym Krang

  Orphan Star

  The End of the Matter

  Bloodhype

  Flinx In Flux

  Mid-Flinx

  Reunion

  THE DAMNED

  Book One: A Call to Arms

  Book Two: The False Mirror

  Book Three: The Spoils of War

  THE FOUNDING OF THE COMMONWEALTH

  Phylogenesis

  Dirge

  Diuturnity’s Dawn

  To learn more about other great ebook titles from Ballantine, please visit

  www.randomhouse.com/BB/ebooks.htm.

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  www.delreydigital.com.

  For

  Lynette Harrington

  who lives around the corner

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1973 by Alan Dean Foster

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited, Toronto, Canada.

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