Blood and Fire

by David Gerrold

  “A rather expensive success,” said Captain Parsons dryly. “We lost a starship and most of her crew.” She glanced to Korie. There was something about his expression. “Mr. Korie? You wanted to say something. An itch perhaps?”

  Korie shook his head. “No. It’s just the aftereffects of the process. I’ll be all right.” But his eyes met Parsons’ and they both knew that he was dissembling. Whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to say it here. Not in front of Jarell and Blintze. Or Brik ...?

  Blintze spoke abruptly. “Captain Parsons?”

  “Dr. Blintze?”

  “What I was saying before—I didn’t get to finish. The normal form of the wavicle is harmless. What we have here isn’t normal. What we think the wavicles may have originally been is some kind of cooperative colony creature, like ants or bees. The individual wavicle has no existence of its own; it’s meant to be a cell in a larger entity, but because of the mutation, the colony-gestalt is damaged or destroyed. I’m sorry to be so pedantic about this. You might not find it as interesting as I do—”

  “Go on,” said Parsons. “I want to hear it all.”

  “Well,” Blintze continued. “We were actually able to classify several distinct types of wavicles, each with different properties and behaviors, each filling a different niche in the colony’s spectrum.”

  Williger looked up sharply. “Tell us about that. What specific types have you identified?”

  Blintze nodded, warming up to his subject. “We’ve found a binder that calls other wavicles to follow it. We’ve found a singer; it generates audible vibrations. We’ve found a firefly form; that’s the one that twinkles and glows. Most of the other types aren’t as visible. There’s a variety that reproduces, but not as we understand reproduction; it generates the other kinds and occasional copies of itself. We call those mothers. We’ve also found carriers which seem to do nothing more than carry copies of ‘genetic code.’ There are several types whose functions we haven’t identified. We think those are dormant. There’s a targeter; it locates sites on material things. Eaters attach themselves to those sites, eventually burning their way through. We’re not sure if those two forms are natural or if they’re misapplied. But this is the point—there are gaps in the spectrum. There are forms that should be there and aren’t.”

  Blintze glanced sideways to Jarell, who was looking very unhappy, but he continued anyway. “We don’t find very many feeders. There’s simply not enough here to sustain the colony. Using the models derived from colonies of ants, bees, termites, lawyers—not the human kind; I mean the parasites from Maizlish; it’s a planet orbiting a bloated dead star. Anyway, using preexisting models of other colony creatures, we know that a hive or a colony needs a certain percentage of food gatherers to sustain itself. The wavicle colony has only one-third the feeders it should, so it’s constantly on the edge of starvation. That’s part of what produces such manic behavior.”

  Williger’s eyes were bright. She finished the explanation for him. “It’s the little mothers that are the dangerous ones, right? Without food, the other forms disintegrate. But the mothers go particulate so they can keep reproducing, albeit on the next quantum level down. And when they’re particulate, they produce nothing but more hungry little mothers , right?”

  Blintze looked surprised. “That’s right.”

  “I’ve been studying your notes,” she said. “Toward the end, they’re a little disorganized, but HARLIE and I have had some interesting conversations, extrapolating possibilities. Something was done to change the mother form. There was an extremely high level of technology involved in the reeingineering of this creature. I don’t know if we could match it—but if we could, we could introduce a genetic correction into the mothers and return the wavicle colony to its natural state. We’re talking about curing the bloodworms—literally. You were looking at altering the carriers, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” admitted Blintze. “That’s how we got infected. We ... we created a form of carrier that made the bloodworms even more dangerous. We gave them the ability to bore through polycarbonates.”

  “You’re to be congratulated on your success,” said Korie.

  “It wasn’t a success,” Blintze said, stiffly.

  “Yes, it was.” Korie’s words were a rebuke. “Because that’s exactly what you were trying to do, wasn’t it?” The accusation hung in the air between them.

  Intentions

  Blintze looked unhappy. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it quickly.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” said Jarell. “Remember, this is on a need-to-know basis.”

  “I believe we’re beyond that,” Parsons said to Jarell. “Far beyond. And we definitely have a need to know. Go on, Mr. Blintze.”

  “Yes,” Blintze finally admitted. “We were looking for a way to control the bloodworms—so we could use them as a weapon.”

  Parsons exchanged a glance with Korie. What they had both suspected was now acknowledged.

  “Captain,” Jarell spoke candidly, like a confidante—he hadn’t noticed the exchange of looks between the captain and her exec. “Can you imagine what would happen if the Morthan Solidarity were to spread bloodworms throughout Allied space?”

  Korie, sipping at his coffee, answered quietly, “The destruction of all carbon-based life forms on a catastrophic scale.” His voice was flat.

  “Precisely,” said Jarell. He glanced sideways at Brik, then back to Parsons. He leaned ominously forward. “The Morthans are vipers. They cannot be trusted. They do not follow the New Geneva Conventions. They have already demonstrated their willingness to use weapons of mass destruction.”

  Parsons raised an eyebrow, meaningfully. She noted Korie’s grim expression, then turned back to Jarell. “Go on,” she prompted.

  “They attacked Taalamar with a sustained barrage of extinction-level asteroids. You were there, you saw what happened, you know—they destroyed an entire civilization. Millions of men, women and children—that’s the kind of regard they have for us. The bloodworms ... well, that’s FleetComm’s response.”

  “According to your own log, your research was already funded and in preparation long before the attack on Taalamar. Even before the mauling at Marathon.”

  Jarell acknowledged it with a nod. “Yes, but only as a precautionary measure. Just in case our worst nightmares came true. And we should be grateful for such foresight, because now we have a weapon we can use to strike back.”

  “And what circumstances, Commander Jarell, do you think would make such use necessary?” Korie wasn’t looking at Jarell, he was looking down into his coffee mug. He swirled it gently, as if he were watching a thought circling there.

  “Shaleen and Taalamar. Isn’t that enough, Commander? Or maybe you don’t care that they scourged Shaleen? And you know what they did to Taalamar.”

  “I care,” said Korie, not willing to mention that his wife and children had been on Shaleen. Maybe they had escaped, maybe to Taalamar. But maybe not. HARLIE had exchanged messages with every starship they’d ever encountered. He’d never found any evidence that his family had even gotten off the planet. Maybe the records didn’t exist, maybe they’d been lost, maybe there was no hope at all. And maybe ...

  “Well,” said Jarell, as if it was obvious. “If that doesn’t justify the use of mega-weapons, then what does?” He glanced around the table, meeting the eyes of every officer there. His gaze lingered on Brik for a long, uncomfortable moment.

  “You don’t know the Morthans,” Jarell explained. “Not really. Not even you, Mr. Brik—your fathers fled the world of Citadel when you were a child. You don’t know what it’s like to live under a Morthan authority. You don’t know what the Morthans are really like. None of you. But I do, I’ve been there. I’ve seen them swaggering through the streets of Dogtown, laughing and killing, taking what they want—slaves, food, weapons, wealth. I’ve seen what they do to the worlds they conquer. We’ve been watching the Morthan Solidarity for a thousand years. We
’ve sent in agents. Hundreds of thousands of agents—most get caught, but the things we’ve seen, I can’t begin to tell you what we know. I am telling you that there is no limit to the Morthan treachery. The plasmacytes are a weapon. And if we don’t use them, the Morthans will.”

  Brik rumbled, a sound so low that it was felt rather than heard. “No Morthan would ever use such a weapon,” he said. “It would be cowardly. Only a human would.”

  Parsons gave Brik a sharp look. So did Korie. They were getting close to the punch line here. She turned back to Jarell and Blintze, concern strong on her face. She chose her next words carefully. “And that was the real goal of your work here, wasn’t it?”

  Jarell’s answer was intense. “Captain Parsons, we were caught unprepared at Marathon and we’ve been on the run ever since. All of human space lies open to the Morthan advance if we don’t find a way to stop them now. I don’t have to tell you, the most expensive armada in the galaxy is the one that’s second best. The whole point of this mission is to make sure that the plasmacyte weapon was ready at hand, for just this circumstance. And use it, if necessary. You—your ship—you were intended to be the delivery vessel. It’s in a set of sealed orders we have for you—for whatever ship that served as our tender. It’s in our orders to commandeer your starship, if necessary, to deliver the weapons packages to Morthan space. So you’re as much a part of this as we are.”

  Parsons was silent for a very long moment. She placed her hands flat on the table before her and studied the space between them. After a bit, she looked across to Williger, to Korie and finally up to Brik. “Commander Brik. Please escort Mr. Jarell and Dr. Blintze to their quarters—and see that they stay there.”

  Brik rumbled an assent. “Come with me, gentlemen.” Although his voice was as flat as ever, the last word—gentlemen—had a deadly tone to it.

  As the hatch slid shut behind them, Parsons looked to Korie and Williger and Tor and Leen. “Well,” she said. “Does anyone have any more good ideas?”

  Korie was swirling his coffee mug again—thinking of Lowell, thinking of Marathon, thinking of Shaleen and Taalamar. Thinking of Carol. Thinking too loudly.

  “What?” demanded Parsons.

  “I told you not to attempt a rescue. I told you not to try.”

  “It’s a little late for recriminations.”

  “It’s never too late,” said Korie. “The Wolf is still being punished for accidentally leading the Morthan fleet to the Silk Road Convoy. Why else would we have been given this duty? Delivery of plasmacyte bombs?”

  “Yes, well ...” Parsons cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Let’s see if we can address our current problem first, Mr. Korie. How do we detox this ship—and what do we do about the Norway? Dr. Williger, I’m concerned about what will happen when the Norway intersects the plume of flame from the star. What happens to the plasmacytes?”

  Dr. Williger pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’ve been brooding about that myself. Theoretically... it’s possible that the energy of the star will trigger a feeding frenzy, and then a breeding frenzy in the corona.”

  “The Norway could turn the whole star into plasmacytes?” asked Tor, worriedly.

  “The corona,” said Williger.

  “Well—maybe,” said Leen. He’d been quiet during the entire meeting. “Remember, the Norway has an industrial power core, so her singularity is larger than usual. We’ve got a low-mass pinpoint. You drop that into a star or a planet, it takes forever to eat its way out. The event horizon is so small, it can only nibble a few molecules at a time. At that rate, it would take billennia for the hole to get big enough to be a threat to the star. But the Norway—her core is a lot bigger. Here, wait—” He held up a small black ball bearing to illustrate his point. “Think about it. A marble-size black hole falls all the way to the center. The star gets pulled toward it at the same time. The hole doesn’t stop when it gets to the center—neither does the star. They’ve both got too much mass, too much velocity, so they fling themselves around and around their common center, circling in vast ellipses—wobbling toward equilibrium. But while the star lurches around, the marble is circling and eating. The sheer pressure of the star’s mass forces tons of gas into the singularity every second. The singularity grows at the rate of an asteroid per day. And its rate of growth accelerates correspondingly. Oh yes, the Norway’s core could dismantle a star. The more she ate, the bigger she’d get—the bigger she gets, the more she can eat. The last few hours would be spectacular—”

  “So ... the star would collapse?” asked Williger. “And all the plasmacytes would go into the singularity?”

  “If only it were that tidy,” said Leen. “It’s not. Remember, the black hole and the star’s center of gravity are orbiting each other. The star will be wobbling like a bag of pudding. If it gets unstable enough and small enough—and it will—the discrepancy of pressure at the center ... well, it’s likely to explode. Not quite a nova, but enough. If there are plasmacytes in the star’s corona, the force of the explosion will send them hurtling outward. The blue dwarf will likely be infected and its corona will become the next breeding ground. Meanwhile, there will be a shock wave of plasmacytes heading outward in all directions. Wherever they get captured by a star’s gravitational field, they could infect. It would take billennia, but if it’s possible, it’s inevitable.”

  “Thank you, Chief Leen,” said Captain Parsons unhappily. Her expression went sour as she asked the others at the table, “Does anyone else have any more good news? No? So here’s our situation—we have plasmacytes on our outer hull. So does the Norway. We can’t destroy the Norway and we can’t leave her here. If we destroy her, we leave a cloud of plasmacytes circling the star. If we don’t destroy her, she goes into the star anyway.” She put her head in her hands for a moment, pushing her hair back, while she considered her next decision. “All right. Commander Tor, reacquire the Norway. Let’s break orbit and pull both ships out of here. That’s the first order of business. HARLIE? Can we do that?”

  “Yes, Captain, but the timing will be critical.”

  “Let’s snap to it then. Tor, go! Chief, you’ll need to run the plasma torches from a cold start—don’t be afraid to burn them out if you have to. HARLIE, can we slave the Norway’s engines? Do it. Korie, are you feeling well enough to monitor this? Good. Buy us some time.”

  Even before Korie was out of his chair, Parsons was turning to Williger. “Now, something you said about carriers ...”

  Med Bay

  Finally, Quilla Omega turned to Brian Armstrong and said, “Brian, you are only in the way. Let the Quillas finish cleaning up. We can coordinate our separate efforts easier if we don’t have to work around you.”

  Armstrong sort of nodded agreement, but he felt resentful. “I just want to be helpful—” he started to say.

  “The biggest help you can give us is to get out of the way,” said Quilla Upsilon.

  Armstrong sighed. Loudly. And headed aft to see how Easton was doing. The security man had been so anguished at his partner’s death that Dr. Williger had finally sedated him, but she hadn’t put him completely to sleep and his muted sobs had continued even as he was wheeled back through the keel into the Med Bay.

  Although the death of Mikhail Hodel had been felt more profoundly throughout the Star Wolf, it was Berryman’s death that hurt Armstrong the most. Hodel was an officer and he hadn’t known him as well as he had known Berryman. He’d wanted to become a medical orderly, so he’d taken to hanging out with Berryman—and Easton—hoping to be assigned ancillary medical duties. That, of course, had brought him to the attention of Dr. Williger, who had been annoyed by his eagerness and doubly annoyed that she really didn’t have much for him to do. Crew health was monitored by implants and preventive care was exhaustive, so the Chief Medical Officer’s chores were generally psychological in nature—until emergencies occurred. Then there were never enough hands.

  Armstrong wasn’t sure what he could do now. He just knew he had to
do something. He’d lost another friend. But Easton had lost—what? Armstrong wasn’t sure. He’d never really asked what it meant to be bonded. And now that Berryman was gone, he was sorry he hadn’t asked, because now he didn’t know what to say to Easton. What must Easton be feeling, having witnessed his partner’s death?

  Brian Armstrong was beefy and good-natured and at a loss. He hesitated in front of the door to Med Bay, shook his head and headed away, then turned and came back to it—started to enter, then stopped and pulled back again, biting his lip and frowning in frustration. What to do? What to do?

  Finally, he pushed into Med Bay, stepped past Quilla Delta and peeked into the recovery room, where Easton lay sprawled face down on a medbed, seemingly asleep. Armstrong went over to the fallen security man. He stood over the bed, staring down at him, wondering if he should disturb him or not.

  But just as he turned to go, Easton said, “What is it? What do you want, Armstrong?”

  “I—I came to say I’m sorry. And ask if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  Easton rolled over sideways and looked up at Armstrong. “What’s it to you?”

  “Paul was my friend too.”

  “Paul and I were more than friends.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Armstrong. “I’m just—” He spread his hands helplessly. “I just thought, for Paul’s sake, I would—oh, damn, I don’t even know what I’m doing here.” Armstrong sat down on the edge of the bed. “Paul talked about you a lot and I didn’t really understand. I still don’t. But he talked about you like you were the only person in the world, and I guess if you felt the same way about him, then you must be feeling so bad right now, you’re probably hurting the worst you ever hurt in your life. So I thought I’d share some of that hurt and maybe take some of it away if I could. I know I’m not that smart,” Armstrong admitted. “But you don’t have to be smart to care. And I cared too.”