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

by Watts, Peter

Heartbeat, blood pressure, core temp ticked along their axes like they always had.

  Gregor's finger stabbed his earbud like a crooked little jackhammer. "Saschi? Security? Hello, Professor Nalini, are you—anybody?"

  He couldn't stop pressing the little kill switch clenched in his right fist. Maybe it's working Janna thought. Maybe it already has. How would we know? On the wall, a lifeless marionette jiggled and danced in an empty room.

  "Where's Valerie?" Gregor whispered. Every feed he tried was dead blue. "Where the fuck is Valerie?"

  Janna suppressed a hysterical little giggle. It was so perfectly obvious where Valerie was.

  She and her friends had stepped out for lunch.

  Peter Watts (www.rifters.com) is the author of the so-called "Rifters trilogy"; an obscure video-game novelization; and the semi-obscure semi-hit Blindsight, which was nominated for a shitload of awards (even winning a few) and which, despite an unhealthy focus on space vampires, somehow ended up as a core text for a smattering of university courses ranging from neuropsych to philosophy. Watts' work is available in 18 languages; he is especially popular in Poland, for reasons which remain unclear. He probably owes at least part of his 2010 Hugo to fan outrage over an unfortunate altercation with armed capuchins working for the US Department of Homeland Security, but he's okay with that. The following year he decided to play the Sympathy card, by nearly dying of flesh-eating disease contracted during a routine skin biopsy. That strategy also worked insofar as his fanfic short story "The Things" won the Shirley Jackson Award. Watts is already hard at work on The Next Horrible Thing to catapult him towards future trophies, perhaps for Echopraxia (the upcoming sequel to Blindsight), which picks up literally thirty minutes after "Orientation Day" leaves off.

  THE PILOT

  Jason Duke

  The flying death machine broke through a wash of opaque clouds, vanished within them and broke through again. Eighty feet of hybrid alloys, its dark body was shaped as an arrowhead, sharp and lethal. Weapons shot from the bow of the Frontier Defense Force, two white skulls adorned either wing to symbolize the steel eggs it carried made of antimatter capable of washing away all life from the surface of a planet. But the death machine did not come to Gecedunya to hatch its eggs—it arrived to this bitter world of black mountains and gray deserts submerged in the bloody twilight of a red star to hide. Far below the ship’s sharp descent lay a mosaic of ruins enduring the torment of a dust storm that uncoiled across it like waves lashing an alien shore.

  It used to be called Issiz Varos, a mining town once home to thousands of poor and desperate souls from across the colonies that came to this pitiless rock thousands of light years from the cradle Earth to risk their lives in deep holes digging for precious ores. They weren’t down there anymore. No, the universe chased them away sixty years ago when it sent its messenger of destruction: an asteroid. The population fled their buildings and machines, leaving them to beg mercy from the messenger that would bite the ground many miles away, but would belch a shockwave that devastated what was built. Lamenting rebuilding costs, the Hasar Corporation would not return.

  The death machine gently glided above the few buildings that remained erect and then extended its black claws to land several hundred yards outside the town’s perimeter. The engine hissed inside the angry wind and then stopped. A ramp silently lowered from the ship’s belly, the pilot stepped down. Black helmet, black uniform, black boots. Just over six feet and broad, he stood in front of his ship and surveyed for a minute the wretched legacy of greed sprawling before him. Far behind the mountains of debris a single tower stood, a big phallus reaching for the red sky at nearly a thousand feet. It was the Planet Maker, technology that transformed atmospheres dense with too many poisonous gasses like nitrogen and carbon dioxide, through the emission of oxygen via bioengineered microorganisms. Dead planets across the galaxy were reborn as family friendly utopias thanks to the big dick.

  Gecedunya’s big dick was rather flaccid, however. Torn and broken. A colossal grave marker.

  The pilot walked toward the ruins, arms stiff by his side, passing a row of ten-foot drill suits that stood as soldiers made of dust and great hulking tractors that sat on wheels twenty feet in diameter.

  The pilot stopped. Three figures emerged from the ruins like vaporous specters in hooded cloaks. When the specters were a few feet from the pilot they pulled back their hoods. Young faces. Boys’ faces. Fifteen, perhaps sixteen years of age. One of them was graced with a deep scar running down his pale cheek. The fear in scar kid’s eyes morphed into fascination as he looked past the pilot and stared at his ship. His eyes, squinting from the whip of dust, returned to the pilot.

  “Are you a soldier?” he shouted above the rumbling gust.

  The pilot reached up, removed his helmet, and tucked it tightly under his arm. The face was a model of flawless symmetry. In a word: beautiful (interesting, though, how those striking black eyes never blinked from the wind). “I have come here for shelter,” he said.

  “Who are you?” a boy asked.

  Scar kid nudged him. “Who cares?”

  The boy’s face turned to the ground, looked at the pilot. “Come on.”

  And so they entered the ruins of Issiz Varos, weaving down those few streets not buried by the giant bones of fallen apartment towers that were once erect at two hundred feet. One tower still standing was stripped of its side, its floors open and naked. Fragmented walls looked like decomposed fangs while cold wind howled around them sounding as a primordial animal, the agonized roar of devastation. They arrived, finally, to a building much smaller than those still standing. The hospital. The four crossed through an open entrance, traveling down windowless corridors lit by a scattering of neon blue bulbs from above. It felt like tunnels, really, a humid subterranean hell that grimly sang with echoing boots. Service pipes ran along the walls like black snakes.

  “You still have power,” the pilot said.

  “Yeah,” the scar kid said. “The energy cells under the town are supposed to last forever.”

  Their destination was a cavernous room of surgical tables and dead monitors. A long track of window lined the back wall, filtering in oppressive red light. Five shadows were against the window, all cloaked in robes colored as mud. Three men, two women. Four of the faces were old. Sagging skin cut with deep lines. One appeared much younger, a woman who might have been in her thirties. An old man came forward, navigating between the tables. He was short and frail, but the eyes were hard.

  He didn’t speak, but looked over this dark stranger with a perfect face. And then: “Who are you?”

  “My name is Mezentius. I’ve come here for shelter.” The tone was disarmingly gentle.

  “How do you know of this place?”

  “I was told of it.”

  “Told?” the younger woman said, coming forward. Her dark eyes were deep and severe, hands tightly held together. “Your ship, it’s military.”

  “I served the Frontier Defense Force. But, no longer.”

  The five looked among themselves. Their mouths were shut but the eyes spoke of doubts. The old man gestured to the three boys to leave with a sharp wave of his hand. Scar kid passed the pilot an admiring glance and left with the other two.

  “What do you mean?” the old man asked.

  “I deserted.”

  “Why?”

  “I could no longer stand the war.”

  The old man’s brow rose. “War?”

  “Yes, with Sojakonnas.”

  Someone gasped.

  “How is there war with Sojakonnas?”

  “The planet broke the Treaty of Zahav and declared independence. Earth declared war and sent us in to stop the rebellion.”

  Another old creature came forward. “So you just left?”

  “Yes. I could no longer be a part of mass murder. I stole a ship and fled to Feng Station. It was there that someone told me of this place.”

  “What exactly were you told?” the younger woman asked.
>
  “I was told there was a cult of religious fanatics on Gecedunya. That you have chosen to live without technology. Or, at least, most of it.”

  “And this is something you seek?” the old man with hard eyes asked.

  “I have witnessed the slaughter of millions that could not have happened without the efficiency of machines. Like you, I have rejected technology.”

  “Oh, it’s more than that,” the younger woman said. “We have embraced God. Will you do the same?”

  “I will try.” He briefly bowed.

  The five gathered among themselves to murmur with worried tones. The pilot watched closely.

  He listened intently.

  What if they come looking for him?

  When Huang dies, then what?

  Perhaps it’s God’s plan.

  They turned to him and the old man with hard eyes came forward. His name was The Reverend Marku. “We will not turn you away. We welcome all those who seek salvation from the bondage of technology.”

  “Thank you,” the pilot said. “And I hope to ease your fear when I say the Commission cannot find me. I was diligent enough to remove my ship’s tracking system. I also expect the war on Sojakonnas to keep them occupied for a long time.”

  Those with looks of confusion kept them brief, and the rest introduced themselves with warm grins. The younger woman was The Reverend Marku’s granddaughter, Kathryn, and was accepted into the ranks of the inner circle, those that remained of the founders who came here twenty-eight years ago on two shuttles that left the planet Rojaa. They were Credincios, a sect of Christians originally chased from Earth by the Trans-Global Commission, a plutocratic leviathan comprised of corporate cannibals who feasted on the souls of sovereign nations before legislating religious absolutism from popular existence way back in 2112. God could not come before the Commission. Humanity’s penetration of space’s implacable void through Time Distortion Velocity, a propulsion system developed in the late 21st century, allowed the corporate cannibals to eat the stars. Credincios immigrated to Rojaa to live within the green universe of a jungle created by the Planet Maker—until the boundless appetite of civilization began to dig its steel claws into the jungle’s body and chased away the sect from its village.

  “It was too much,” Reverend Marku said. “To see what had happened to Earth, to see it happening to Rojaa. The Commission was building worlds to merely plunder them. We accepted that the promise of technological progress had become corrosive to our spiritual nature. Morality became defined by convenience and comfort. And so we came to these miserable ruins to tend our souls, separated from the disease of technology until God calls us home.” He paused for a moment. “We knew the Commission would not bother us out here. No one would bother us out here.”

  Mezentius nodded.

  “Well, then,” Marku said, “you must be hungry and thirsty, yes?”

  “No,” Mezentius said. “I’m fine for now.”

  “Then, welcome home, brother.”

  Home was within the cold innards of an apartment tower. The Reverend’s granddaughter, Kathryn, took the pilot into the black mouth of its lobby, passing women, children and men huddled in the dark. Thin and sad.

  “They are sad,” Kathryn said lowly. “We cultivate sadness as a treasured crop. It is in sadness and suffering that people most willingly turn to God.”

  They reached the fifth floor and walked down a hall decorated with cables that once provided heat and water. Such externalized planning created an industrial ambience. They passed open rooms where lone faces were lit by the white light of digital tablets while they read biblical scripture. There was a chant somewhere, low and mournful. A young girl, her belly extended with child, sat in one room with legs crossed and eyes closed. Lost in meditation.

  Mezentius suddenly fell against the wall, using his shoulder to stand.

  “Are you all right?” Kathryn asked.

  “I’m tired,” Mezentius said.

  “I’m sure,” Kathryn said, briefly smiling. “You’ve come a long way. The journey must have drained you.”

  Mezentius pushed away from the wall and returned to his stoic composure. “God,” he said. “Isn’t it interesting that space holds no proof of a creator?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since humanity left the cradle Earth, all it has found is endless hostility to life.”

  “But that’s the point. It was created for us. The universe is God’s garden and we are the seeds of His image. But we have betrayed all that we were meant to do and become.”

  Mezentius did not reply, keeping his silence until he was led to a room with a single bed and table. A digital Bible was on the table. The only light was the red hue falling from the window against the back wall. He stood in the center of the room, his back to Kathryn, and stared at the light.

  “We have no routine here,” Kathryn said. “Only contemplation. A simple life of prayer.”

  “How many people are here?” Mezentius asked, his back still turned.

  “At last count, two thousand scattered across town. Trust me, there’s plenty of room.”

  “Tell me, is your grandfather the leader here?”

  “I would describe him as a caretaker. For now.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, yes, when you do need it, food and water are supplied in the hospital.”

  “Food and water,” Mezentius repeated softly, still facing the window. “How is there food and water here?”

  “One of our members, Huang, he pilots one of the shuttles that brought us here all those years ago. When we are low he flies to Feng Station to gather supplies. Food, water, medicine, those things.” A pause, and then: “He was in the Frontier Defense Force, too. He’s the only pilot we have. However; well, he’s getting on in age; so perhaps it was providential that you arrived.”

  Mezentius finally turned from the light and laid a hand on Kathryn’s shoulder, who winced. “God’s plan,” he said.

  “Maybe,” Kathryn said, rubbing her shoulder. “We’ll see.” She turned and left.

  Mezentius remained a statue as an hour drained away. “Come in,” he said.

  A small face peered around the corner. The scar kid. He glanced down the hall, and then entered. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be,” Mezentius said. Something of a smirk appeared on the corner of his mouth.

  “I was just wondering. I heard you talk about the war on Sojakonnas.”

  Mezentius nodded. “I know you did.”

  “Well, sir, I was wondering…what it was like. War, I mean.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Arulo, sir.”

  “Arulo. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  A shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t know anything about life out there. They never tell us nothing. Sometimes I wish I could…”

  “Leave.”

  “Yeah. Others have. I guess a long time ago some people got sick of this place. They wanted to have things. Nice things, you know? They took the other shuttle. After that, the inner circle wouldn’t let anyone else go. That’s why they wouldn’t let Huang train anyone to fly. That’s why…”

  “What?”

  “That’s why they accepted you so quickly. Huang is the only pilot we have, but he’s old. When he dies, they’ll need someone else to get supplies.”

  Mezentius walked to the scar kid. His black eyes sharpened, relaxed. “The iron in your blood is low.”

  “My what?”

  “I trust you, Arulo. I may need you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will soon. Tell me, is Reverend Marku the leader here?”

  “I guess so. Everyone does sort of look up to him. I think Kathryn is going to be the leader one day.

  Mezentius’s face, the steady expression, was now dropping. The eyes fading. “We’ll talk another time.”

>   The scar kid acknowledged the pilot’s tired demeanor with a respectful smile and turned for the door. Once Arulo was gone, Mezentius returned his drowsy eyes to the light that was declining.

  Outside, the red star dropped behind the black mountains and took away its blood light. The ruins were dipped into a pool of darkness and the wind cried to five moons glimmering as ancient lanterns. Inside his room the statue that was Mezentius finally moved in the brooding gold light spilling from a brass sconce shaped as a cone. Yes, it was time.

  He turned for the door and stepped into the empty hall to hunt under the neon blue that droned as a fleet of ships in his ears. Hidden hearts thundered as tribal drums behind steel doors. He glided down the stairs and stalked the fourth floor to find all the rooms closed. He went down to the third floor and found an open room. Father, mother and child were inside, sleeping on blankets.

  The family did not see the pilot slip inside with fearsome stealth and look over their vulnerable bodies. They did not see the hand reach down and seize the father’s arm, pulling him from his sleep and lifting him up. The agonized shriek, however, was somewhat difficult to ignore. Mother and child screamed. Father tried to break loose and threw a fist at the pilot’s peaceful face, landing flat on the jaw. You could hear the ghastly snap of bones splitting through Father’s hand and wrist. It was Mother’s turn to attack the attacker, but the pilot’s hand seized the whole of her face. She grabbed the wrist but was trapped. The hand closed and crushed her cheek bones and nose. The soft eyes ballooned from their sockets and teeth fell to the ground.

  “Run!” Father yelled at the child. The child fled.

  The pilot’s now free hand closed into a fist and from between the knuckles a single claw emerged. Twelve inches and hollow as a tube. Father’s wild eyes watched the claw attempt to align with his throat. He struggled again to break loose, kicking the pilot’s legs, his groin, but he might have been kicking a wall. Suddenly the claw speared his throat and Father’s body seized. His face grew into a wide grimace that bared both rows of teeth.

  Blood silently rushed through the claw, carried to the pilot’s body. Pint after pint of red juice was sucked until the blood bag was drained—until Father’s arms and eyelids dropped limp.