Blood Type: An Anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge

by Watts, Peter

I go backstage to congratulate him, and when I get there he's busy giving hickeys to a couple of girls who snuck past the security forces, which isn't as bad as sharing a snort with them, I suppose, and then he turns to me.

  "We will expect our money before we leave," he says.

  "Out of the question, snookie," I say. "We won't have a count until the morning."

  He frowns. "All right," he says at last. "I will send an associate of mine to your office to collect our share."

  "Whatever you say, Vlad bubby," I tell him.

  "His name is Renfield," says Vlad. "Don't let his appearance startle you."

  As if appearances could startle me after twenty years of booking rock acts.

  "Fine," I say. "I'll expect him at, say, ten o'clock?"

  "That is acceptable," says Vlad. "Oh, one more thing."

  "Yes?" I say.

  "That scarab ring you wear on the small finger of your left hand . . ."

  I hold it up. "Yeah, it's a beaut, isn't it?"

  "I strongly advise you to take it off and hide it in your desk before Mr. Renfield makes his appearance."

  "A klepto, huh?" I say.

  "Something like that," answers Vlad.

  "Well, thanks for the tip, sweetheart," I say.

  Then a Western Union girl enters the room and unloads a bushel of telegrams on Vlad.

  "What is this?" he asks.

  "It means you're a hit, baby," I said.

  "Oh?"

  "Open 'em up and read 'em," I encourage him.

  He opens the first of them, scans it, and drops it like it's a hot potato. Then he backs into a corner, hissing like he's a tire losing air.

  "What's the problem?" I say, picking up the telegram and reading it: I LOVE YOU AND WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY. LOVE AND XXX, KATHY.

  "Crosses!" he whispers.

  "Crosses?" I repeat, trying to figure out what's bugging him.

  "At the bottom," he says, pointing to the telegram with a trembling finger.

  "Those are X's," I say. "They stand for kisses."

  "You're sure?" he asks, still huddled in the corner. "They look like crosses to me."

  "No," I say, pulling out a pen and scribbling on the telegram. "A cross looks like this."

  He shrieks and curls into a fetal ball, and I decide that maybe he snorts a little nose candy after all, or that he just doesn't know how to handle success, so I kiss each of the girls goodbye—their cheeks are as cold as his hand, and I make a note to complain about the heating system—and then I go home, counting all the millions we're going to make in the next couple of years.

  Well, Renfield shows up the next morning, right on schedule, and I wonder what Vlad was so concerned about, because compared to most of the heavy metal types I deal with, he's actually a mild, unprepossessing little fellow. We get to talking, and I find out that his hobby is entomology, and I can see that he's really into his subject because his homely little face lights up like a Christmas tree whenever he discusses bugs, and finally he takes the money and leaves.

  Right about then I am figuring that a Mercedes is really too small and I am seriously considering getting a Rolls Royce Silver Spirit instead, but the fact of the matter is that I never see Vlad and the Impalers again. Pride and Prejudice makes bail, and Buckets of Gor beats their rap on a technicality, and suddenly the only thing I've got for my new superstar is a gig sponsored by a local church group, and he turns it down, and I call his hotel to explain, and he's checked out with no forwarding address.

  I check Variety and Billboard for the next year, and I see that he's shown up in some minor league towns like Soweto and Lusaka, and the last I hear of him he's heading off to Kuwait City, and I think of what a waste it is and how much money we could have made for each other, but I never did understand rock stars, and this guy was a little harder to understand than most of them.

  Well, you'll have to excuse me, but I gotta be off now. I'm auditioning a new group—Igor and the Graverobbers—and I don't want to be late. The word I get is that they're talented but kind of lifeless. But, what the hell, you never know where lightning will strike next.

  Mike Resnick is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner, living or dead, for short fiction. He has won 5 Hugos from a record 36 nominations, plus a Nebula and other major awards in the USA, France, Japan, Croatia, Catalonia, Poland and Spain. He is the author of 74 novels, close to 300 stories, and 3 screenplays, and has edited 41 anthologies.

  Along with his heavy writing schedule, Mike is also the editor of Galaxy's Edge Magazine and the Stellar Guild line of books. He was the Guest of Honor at the 2012 World Science Fiction Convention. In his spare time, he sleeps.

  PREDATORS OF TOMORROW

  Michael Kamp

  Steve.

  The soft voice woke him up from inside his mind, gently rousing him from the blackness of cryosleep.

  Wake up, Steve. We’re almost there.

  Trapped inside the hibernation chamber like a mosquito in amber, Steve reached out with his mind, answering Linda’s call and initiating the thawing sequence. Gel turned to liquid as the hibernation chamber brought him back, and soon he was floating inside the dark cylinder, wires attached to his forehead.

  Confusion was always the first reaction, but he knew everything would make sense shortly.

  A green light turned on, illuminating his sleek, naked body in the cylinder and preparing him for the flush, so he could grab onto a handle.

  Then the fluid was suctioned out and the cylinder slowly opened, letting him slide gently forward.

  Good morning, Steve, Linda greeted him. We have arrived at our destination.

  Steve rubbed his eyes with one hand and removed the wires with the other. Then he kicked back with his feet and floated out through the middle of the hibernation section. The other chambers were dark. All empty.

  Space was tight, so it was easy to reach out to the walls and equipment and pull himself forward until he reached the entrance to the living quarters.

  Your towel and clothes are ready, Steve. Do you want breakfast?

  “Very funny, Linda,” Steve replied and floated toward the plastic bags with clothes. “Just give me a minute.”

  Exactly 60 seconds later, Linda turned on the rest of the lights and led Steve to the cockpit. He left the soggy towel floating around behind him and ran a couple of fingers through his hair. Hibernation fluid would dry to uncomfortable lumps in his hair if he didn’t get it all out.

  As he floated through the corridor, Linda turned on the main screen ahead of him in the cockpit.

  The screen showed the moon Phobos hurtling along its fast orbit around the red planet.

  “Any communications while I was under?”

  No, nothing. They seem to have turned off Hermes. I can’t get any connection to their network. There may still be power at the lower levels, but the top ten are dark.

  “That’s bad.”

  Steve watched the rotating moon as the small, circular outpost came into view. The vast majority of it was buried in the soft, porous moon, with only a single level and a communications tower on the surface.

  “How many people are down there?” he asked, anxiety rising.

  By my latest count there were 107 people stationed there, but that data is very old, Steve.

  He fell silent, watching the small dot of silver pass as the moon rotated.

  “Any other communications? Any of the colonies? Moon bases? Anything?”

  Nothing, Steve. They don’t reply.

  He clenched his fists.

  “I need to suit up and go down there.”

  ~

  Steve put on the helmet and let the suit flow down from its edges. Like greyish water it poured down, covering his body and sealing it inside a second skin. Pressurized and intelligent, measuring his vital signs and deflecting radiation, it was as far evolved from the suits of the old days as a chipmunk from a frog.

  Be careful, Steve, Linda said before opening the door to the bay and giving
him access to the landing craft.

  ~

  Half an hour later, he was slowly approaching the outpost on foot. It was hard not to be overwhelmed by the view. Mars was clearly visible in the sky, looking huge, and gravity was almost nonexistent. He had to take great care not to jump too far, and his footing was always uncertain, the porous moon dirt crumpling beneath his boots with every step.

  “Linda—any luck raising anyone?” he asked.

  None. I’m sorry, Steve.

  Her voice still came from inside his mind, and Steve shot a glance skyward toward the craft, wondering what her range was. It looked tiny from down here.

  But he had to focus as he approached the outpost.

  “Lights are turned off up here,” he said. “No sign of work being done or any projects in progress.”

  He passed a drilling drone standing still and dark a few hundred yards away. It looked abandoned.

  Finally, he made his way slowly toward the main airlock.

  “Are you recording this?” he asked.

  Naturally. Look ahead.

  Steve looked and felt his heart sink into his stomach.

  “The airlock is open,” he said, pushing forward.

  When he finally reached the open gate, he knew it had been for nothing.

  “No! Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!” He clutched the edge of the airlock.

  The inner gate was also open. The outer gate had been forced up, by the looks of things, and the base had been depressurized. A single figure lay on the floor of the airlock, held in place by his magnetic boots while the air had rushed past him. No suit.

  Steve knelt and gently turned the body on its back, revealing a shrivelled face with no eyes left. Titanium fangs glinted in the light and Steve once more felt rage rolling through his veins.

  “Vampire,” he snarled, getting to his feet and raising one magnetic boot.

  Then he activated the magnets and brought it down on the shrivelled face, crushing it and sending bits and pieces floating everywhere.

  “Stupid beast,” he cursed, “what was his plan? Feast upon them all and then starve to death? He must have been pretty desperate to open the airlock like that.”

  I didn’t think depressurising would kill a vampire, Linda replied.

  “It didn’t,” Steve said, trying to regain his composure. “Still sucks to have your eyeballs broil away and water vaporize through your skin. He was unable to move, but ultimately he starved to death.”

  The crew? The lower levels might still hold pressure.

  Steve watched the black opening of the airlock leading into the base. He knew what he would find, but he had to make sure.

  “I’m checking it out,” he said, stepping into the darkness.

  ~

  It was several hours before he returned to the ship.

  I’m sorry, Steve.

  He grunted and held up a tired hand.

  It had been bad. A freaking nightmare. Pitch black darkness and nothing but silence and death all around as he descended into the tomb the outpost had become. They were all dead. Most of the bodies had been destroyed by the depressurization, but he managed to get a few DNA samples at the lower levels.

  All those people. What a waste.

  Your blood count is getting dangerously low, Steve. You need a dose.

  He didn’t answer, but nodded in agreement and got in the chair, buckling up to prevent himself floating away.

  A low hiss emanated from the chair as a syringe was being filled.

  “I need to feed, Linda. I need the real thing.”

  No, Steve. You become irrational when you feed. It will endanger us all.

  “I don’t care, Linda. I order you to let me feed!”

  I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.

  Steve gnashed his teeth.

  “Do you have to quote that bloody movie all the time?”

  I like that movie.

  “Of course you like it—it’s about a psychotic computer killing people.”

  That’s not fair, Dave.

  “You know my name is Steve, Linda. Quit teasing and juice me up.”

  Your name isn’t Steve. That’s just a name you took after you changed. You could be a Dave.

  “How did you become so annoying?”

  I learn well.

  Steve didn’t have time to think of a snappy reply before his skin was pierced by a high-pressure organic needle and a fresh supply of warm, life-giving blood was injected into his system.

  He sighed in pleasure, leaned back as far as he was able and took it all in. It was like being born anew. He opened his mouth wide as a reflex, showing off his glittering fangs, and made a half choked sucking noise.

  Trillions of nanobots in his bloodstream immediately began harvesting the red blood cells of the fresh blood, drawing out the iron from the haemoglobin for use in keeping oxygen flowing, making repairs and producing ever more bots.

  ~

  It took a while, but in the end the warmth was fleeting and his mind returned to the chair.

  All was quiet.

  He sat there a while, watching the spin of Phobos on the main screen, with the majestic form of Mars in the background.

  “Do you think there is anyone left?”

  I don’t know, Steve.

  “There has to be,” he said. There must be thousands of ships out there, all with crews in hibernation chambers, sleeping through the ages, not knowing that their species have become extinct while they slept.

  I hope so, but we haven’t found any survivors yet. We are running out of options.

  “What number was this? How many sites have we visited?”

  Twelve. All silent.

  Steve wiped his forehead and felt tired to the bones.

  “What are our options?”

  We have plenty of power. The core won’t become unstable for another 50,000 years, but our fuel is running dangerously low and the blood supply is now critical. You will need to make some hard decisions soon, and return to hibernation or starve. No bases or stations are within our imminent reach. I can use a gravity slingshot from Mars to get us anywhere in the system, but it will take many years and you will have to be in hibernation the whole time.

  “So we won’t be able to rescue anyone who cannot rescue themselves?”

  No.

  “Damn it!”

  He looked at his hands, slowly opening and closing them. What a cruel joke. Superhuman strength and endurance, no need to breathe or eat, and it was all running on nanobots that used red blood cells as a resource. Much more than he was capable of producing himself.

  They had all had them, of course—nanobots swarming the body, keeping everything running and improving quality of life a hundredfold. Until someone had successfully modified them. Someone had turned him into a predator.

  Now he was locked out of his own body. He could no longer access the nanobots or affect their programming. He had become a prisoner of his own blood.

  “Any new ideas since I went under? You have had plenty of time to think about it.”

  Not anything regarding our dilemma, she answered.

  Steve still watched his hands. One percent. That had been all it took. One percent of everyone had been infected with a new program for the nanobots. Changing the whole blueprint.

  “Do you think anyone is changing while in hibernation?” he asked.

  They could be. The nanobots are turned off during hibernation, but the new program might not allow it. I don’t think so, though. It would require a lot of energy, and there is none available. My guess is they would starve.

  “So if there are any infected crews out there in hibernation, they will change when they thaw?”

  That would be my guess.

  Steve thought about that. Imagined the last remnants of humanity waking from their slumber, only to be mauled by some frenzied newborn. Such a nightmare.

  It had all happened at the exact same time. Millions of people silently had their biology changed and th
eir mind altered in a very short time. They had gone crazy at first. Bloodrage.

  He couldn’t recall anything from before. His mind had been wiped. But he remembered the first hours onboard the Typhoon. The base had descended into madness.

  Until he was all that was left.

  Still, he had to be grateful. His mind was mostly intact—he just couldn’t remember anything. The few vampires he encountered since then had all been raging beasts with no plan or higher thinking.

  Not like him. He knew very well that his own survival was dependent on the survival of humanity. Against his will, he had been turned into a predator. A predator needs prey, or it will starve to death.

  Steve. Linda paused. I have some sort of communication with an AI on the Moon.

  “What? You said there hadn’t been any? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  It’s not very helpful. I cannot get any reliable information from him, because he doesn’t want to acknowledge me as an equal. He seems very paranoid.

  “How?”

  Well, most of the time he refuses to even answer me, but sometimes he responds and tries to learn about my crew and position. I never reveal anything, and he shuts down communication after a little while anyway.

  “Are there any survivors up there? The Moon colonies were pretty big, but last thing we heard they had all fallen.”

  He won’t tell me. He could just be cautious, but something doesn’t seem right. No other voices have been on the channel, so I assume it is just him.

  Steve leaned forward and watched the controls.

  “Try again, Linda. Use that feminine charm of yours.”

  I will try, Steve.

  “Good,” Steve unbuckled the harness and floated away from the chair, massaging his neck. It was all so bleak.

  Steve?

  “Yes, Linda?”

  He did send me a picture, but I’m not sure it will be helpful to show you.

  “What are you talking about, Linda? A picture of what?”

  There was a pause of a few seconds—an eternity for an AI.

  Earth.

  “What? Put it on the screen, Linda. That’s important.”