Bloodhype (19 page)

“No more so than it is for us to adjust to your presence,” said Kitten.

“Perhaps not, small female. My Machine tells that I am the last of my race. This fact is not entirely unexpected, yet it is heavy on me.”

“Characteristic number one,” Porsupah whispered to Kitten. “Facility for understatement.”

“You might say that, and there’s no point in you whispering, Pors.”

The Tolian did a blush-equivalent.

“I am here now because the Machine felt it needful for the continuance of my work.”

“Your work. What is your work?” Kingsley asked.

“I am a Guardian . . .
the
Guardian.”

“And what must you still guard . . . after half a million years?” The small attempt at levity fell flat. The alien’s visage did not encourage humor.

“The Vom.”

“I see. The Vom. Pray tell, what is the Vom? Or Voms, as the case may be.”

“Long ago, my race encountered a being . . . if ‘being’ is indeed the proper term . . . so alien that we suspected it must have traveled here from another galaxy. Although the concept of crossing the intergalactic abyss was one before which even our finest minds shrank it always seemed the only rational explanation of the creature’s origins. It was discovered that the creature was powerful beyond imagining, sometimes in ways difficult to understand. Also, it did not invite close study . . .

“Attempts at contact proved fruitless. The thing destroyed whatever life it encountered. It began with the higher forms on a planet and moved to the lower, until it had eliminated even the miscroscopic existences. A planet stripped by the Vom was as thoroughly sterilized as if it had passed through a sun. Conventional weaponry proved useless against it. New machines were tried and offered some hope, but the thing was too clever to be trapped. Several times we appeared to have destroyed it. Always it escaped by avoiding rather than inviting a fight until it had discovered a method of combating each new development we threw at it. Its caution convinced us of its mortality, so we at least knew it
could
be destroyed . . .

“Always it grew stronger. At the cost of a great many planes-of-existence, time, and effort, a way was found to contain it on a single planet. The life on that planet was forfeited so that we might protect ourselves.”

Peot did not comment on the thoughts that passed through the chamber following that remark.

“This new device prevented it from leaving the planet by its familiar method. We believe it could at one time travel through space on its own, but had clearly forgotten or lost this ability eons ago. After consuming all life on the planet, it shrank rapidly in size and power.”

Kitten discovered that her palms were damp. She glanced over at Mal and was mildly surprised to see the freighter-captain rubbing his own against the legs of his coveralls.

“I don’t think I like the way your thoughts are leading,” said Kingsley.

“It is greatly weakened. So much so that it may now be possible to destroy it forever. To have survived to realize that end would make even the sleep of millennia worthwhile.”

“The thing is here, now, on Repler,” said Philip. It wasn’t a question.

The eyes swiveled to rest on the young engineer. “Yes, that is so.” (Something/there/veiling/physical youth/hiding??/determine/what?/not now/standoff?/more than/ less than/query-query?/silence/
silence
/
*?*/.)

Those present got only the confirmation.

“Well for Solsake, where? Let’s be about rooting out this archaic bugaboo or whatever! The military base at the capitol can—!”

“I have evaluated your thoughts on the matter and those of the two military attachés present,” came the thoughts firmly. Both Kitten and Porsupah started. So much for classified information. “The Vom is weakened, true. Enormously so, yet it is still powerful enough so that simple energy devices will not harm it.”

“Simple, hell!” snorted Kingsley. “The rectory there mounts energy rifles on an anchor core that—”

“All is relative, my young friend. I know wherewith I say.” Kingsley subsided. Maybe, Kitten figured, the certainty in that voice got to the trader. Or maybe it was the “young friend.”

“I should, however, be glad of some help,” Peot continued, perhaps with an eye towards assuaging any feelings of racial impotence. “Yet I fear that such an attempt would but provoke a devastating response on the part of the thing, which I am currently powerless to prevent. Something simple, on the nature of gleaning the central city of all intelligent life. No, it is best to try none such . . . yet.”

“You did say it might be killed,” reminded Mal.

Kitten reflected while observing this by-play that the adaptability of the human wasn’t bad by half. Here they were standing and chatting amiably via telepathy with a completely improbable alien, only recently resurrected, about some other unknown and equally outrageous creature from another universe as though everything had been politely arranged by faxpax and when will tea be served, thank you?

“Although immensely powerful by your standards . . .”

“Look, how do you so all of a sudden know so much about our standards and such?” said Kingsley, a trifle belligerently. He was doubtless a bit put out that his prize possession had taken over its own introduction.

Peot, however, had no time for idle converse. He began again, patiently.

“Although immensely powerful by your standards, it has degenerated considerably from what it once was. The major portion of the Machine is in synchronous orbit directly above the Vom’s current location. It will stay that way regardless of how the creature moves. The Machine is directed and operated from this capsule. Certain repairs to critical functions must be made before any attempt to attack the Vom can be made. As a matter of self-protection and your own safety . . . the Vom grows stronger each day it is unopposed . . . these things must be done as soon as possible. Some of the required elements are rare. Others have deteriorated, I fear, because their life has been reduced to a point where they will no longer activate the instrumentation they affect. These must be replaced.”

“All well and good,” said Kingsley, argumentative to the last. “But what guarantee have I that you’ll use these no doubt expensive supplies as you say, for the purpose you claim? In fact, what guarantee have I that you’re even telling the truth about this fantastic, impregnable boojum of yours? Maybe you’re really preparing for some large-scale nastiness of your own, hmmm?”

“So. In the first place,” Peot reached out suddenly with a long tentacle and swept up the nearest technician, “I am also not convinced of your intentions towards me. These are immaterial. As stated, I have no wish to harm you. No, do not send for your weapons, Chatham Kingsley. I wish simply to demonstrate that I could have killed everyone here quite easily. War and its arts were the reason for life among my folk. I knew the location, abilities, and probable fighting capability of everyone in this chamber before I opened my eyes. So, a demonstration of good faith on my part.”

“Well, that’s certainly reassuring,” said Kingsley, not at all reassured. His voice wavered uneasily as the giant stepped easily from its padded capsule, stretched. “My apologies. As many as you want. I accept your story, whole, complete, in toto. Now if you’d be good enough to put my technician down? I think he’s fainted.”

“I did not mean to harm!” came the alarmed voice.

“No, no, he’s fine; it’s nowhere near a lethal condition. Just put him down, please. Gently. Yes, that’s fine.” The towering alien backed, away a couple of steps as two of the man’s companions bent over him, dividing their attentions between the unconscious tech and the all-too-close Peot.

Sensing their discomfort, the alien moved to examine the interior of his capsule.

“Planning any more surprises like that?” asked Kingsley uncomfortably.

“I am not such a poor bargainer myself, that I would tell you everything at once,” the alien thought. An unmistakable undercurrent of humor came with it, then faded. The voice turned somber again. “I shall endeavor to work as rapidly as possible. So much to be done!” A mental sigh accompanied the last. “I have a professional concern only in this. But I also cannot stand by and loose the thing again on an unprepared galaxy. Not while I have such a fine chance to destroy it once and for all.”

Kitten, seeing that no one else was about to, moved close to the alien. She reached out and touched the thick pelt that encircled the alien’s waist.

“You speak of war as your race’s favorite and foremost activity. Yet your actions indicate noble and altruistic motives. I don’t understand.”

“Noble? Yes, we were noble. Altruistic? On the contrary. If this were my race’s time and not yours, you would unquestionably be an enslaved folk. War was not merely an activity with us. It was, as said, everything. Your enslavement would seem as natural to us as the freedom of others might to you. And there would be neither malice nor hate involved in the action.”

“That’s ghastly!”

Mental shrug. “All things in the universe are relative.”

“But you’re still helping us. And I don’t believe that ‘sacred duty’ wave of yours, either. Not after millennia. And you put that engineer down carefully, as carefully as I’d handle a kitten. Why?”

“I happen to be a gentle person,” came the soft reply. “I prefer life to death, peace to war, tranquility, order, plants that blossom, small beings that produce pleasant sounds, the feeling wind gives, all such things.”

“More contradictions and none of the originals resolved,” said Kitten.

The alien turned from its inspection and stared down at her with all four eyes. Involuntarily she took a step back, then angrily moved forward.

“Small female, what sort of being would your kind place in such a position as mine, to float in confined aloneness, aloneness, for eternity? What sort of specimen, whose mind only is needed—the neural network, the electro-organic nexi? With only occasional voices of your own kind, in passing, for companionship. To be brother to a machine. To drift only, in ignorance of time and motion. Yet an important task now and then to be trusted to such . . . A voluntary position, also, for such we were. One that had to be taken of choice and not order. Love, comfort, ease, rest, kindliness, smoothness, stroking, friendship, so pleasant . . . Oh yes, I was quite insane . . .

“And you, rabbit-with-fangs.” Kingsley started. “If you still need further proof of my words, I fear you will have it sooner than you wish.” The alien turned back to face the interior of its capsule.

“Umm. Well, for now, I’ll see to it that you’re supplied with what you need,” the trader said evenly. “Inform me, and I’ll—”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. A negative. I shall relay my needs and requests through another . . . that one, I think.”

An image formed alongside the wordpicture. Or maybe it supplanted them. It was difficult to tell. But it was not ambiguous. The others turned to stare at the subject of the thought.

Philip shook himself as though returning from a sleep. He looked very young again, suddenly. “Well, gee,” he said.

“Now listen,” began Kingsley. Mal put an arm on the merchant’s shoulder.

“When a being confesses to insanity, even if he’s sane by our standards, it might be in everyone’s best interests to humor him, Chatham.”

“All right. All right. I just don’t like the feeling that things are slipping out of my hands right in front of my face. I just don’t like it.”

“Rabbit-with-fangs,” came the voice, “things were getting out of your hands before your ancestors were conceived.”

Peot connected a circuit unused for millennia. And thought.

A thousand kilometers away, the Vom jerked. Mentally. Outwardly it had not changed. Inside, it seethed. Somehow the Guardian had successfully been activated. Despite constant monitoring, the actual stimuli had completely escaped the Vom’s scrutiny. Even now the ancient nemesis was preparing itself.

The Vom was not ready to act. Not yet. It was torn between two possibilities: to attempt an immediate, all-out attack in hopes of destroying or crippling the Guardian, or waiting until it had reached the next level. The decision properly involved a million considerations, a hundred thousand details, a millimultiplex of calculation. Yet the great mind did not deliberate long.

It would wait.

Midmeal time. Sun directly overhead. On the Replerian AAnn chronometer, half past M. Relaxation and off-duty. Freetime.

Well, not for all. But the three on-duty AAnn technicians took a vote. It went unanimously for participating with most of the base. One, Cropih LHNMPGT, was thirteen point eight credits ahead. His two companions were not about to halt the
Jinx
game at that point.

So no one observed a certain gauge (measuring mental output of the thing below via bioelectrochemical scanners) jump from a fraction of ONE to over a HUNDRED. Jump once again, only this time off the gauge before settling back, the thin metal of the arrow-indicator bent at an angle from being slammed over so hard.

Nor did they notice the several sections of burnt-out wiring and melted insulation. They might have noticed the trickle of green liquid from a shattered fluid valve, but it evaporated while Cropih called six-twelve on an angle roll and it came up. No one turned until the liquid was but an insignificant stain on the sandy floor.

“It’s a beautiful idea, isn’t it, Malcolm?” Kitten murmured.

“Just Mal, if you please.” The freighter-captain sounded pained.

Along with Porsupah, they were seated in the undersea view room. The magnificent sub-surface panorama shifted continually in front of them. They’d been given the run of the place “for the duration,” as Kingsley had put it. He’d installed them in guest quarters on the eighteenth floor. Mal and Porsupah shared only one fear: that Kingsley’s son Russell might put in an appearance when Kitten was around. That happenstance would assure a variety of mayhem, none of which could be beneficial to anyone. So far, however, the young bastard hadn’t put in an appearance, nor even a transceiver call for all they knew.