By Blood Alone (23 page)

No, the only way to leave was to be summoned by the Hoon, and escorted out of the module by one of the blimplike Hoon agents.

Green lightning zigzagged across the grid, and the ground gave birth to a mountain. Henry could do little but wait.

 

The moment had finally arrived. By waiting till the prey entered one of the metal caves, then racing ahead, the Worga had established an ambush. His quarry would pass directly below. He would drop, right himself in midair, and smother the biped’s movements. There would be no opportunity for his victim to draw or use the pain thrower.

It was a good plan, or so it seemed to Horth, and stood an excellent chance of success.

Jepp checked the compartment, confirmed that it was empty, and proceeded on his way. It had been a long day, and he was ready to eat and sleep.

“And on the seventh day I must rest,” the prospector said to himself, “even if I don’t know what day it truly is.”

The human heard the oncoming robot a long time before he saw it. This particular device had a rather distinctive high-pitched whine. Like a motor operating at high rpms.

What would it be? A new and as yet uncataloged member of the robotic ecostructure? His interest was piqued—the human entered the intersection.

Horth released his grip, fell, and flipped right side up. The Worga raked the biped’s back but failed to smother its movements. Unfortunate, especially if the pain thrower came into play, but far from disastrous. The animal had overcome greater odds in the past.

Jepp turned as he fell, landed on the flechette thrower, and threw his hands up and out.

Horth saw the biped collapse, rushed forward, and came to a halt. What was the object in the prey’s hand? A pain spitter?

Jepp saw something shimmer and wondered what it was. The impulse to push the button stemmed from the fact that the spray paint was right there in his hand. The blue paint shot out, became a mist, and covered Horth’s face.

Jepp was horrified when two glaring eyes and a long, weasellike snout appeared. He dropped the paint, pushed with his feet, and felt for the weapon.

Horth shook the front portion of his body, sent droplets of blue paint flying in every direction, and crept forward. His belly slid along the ground, a growl built in his throat, and muscle gathered around his hindquarters.

Jepp found the flechette thrower, jerked the weapon out of its holster, and tried to bring it up.

Horth saw the pain spitter appear, knew his time was short, and
sprang into the air.

The flechette thrower thumped, a stream of darts hit the overhead, and Horth got in the way. The scream sounded like a woman in pain. Jepp released the trigger.

Horth fell through the cold metal deck, through the ship’s hull, and into the blackness beyond. Or did he?

Horth felt something pinch the back of his neck and opened his eyes. The ground swayed back and forth as the female carried her errant offspring back to the den from which it had so recently escaped. It would be safe there, while she returned to the hunt.

Jepp saw the disembodied head jerk as the flechettes tore through its soft abdominal flesh, heard a thump as the animal hit the deck, and watched the body fade into view.

The beast had light green shimmery skin, a long, supple body, and six muscular legs. Jepp noticed the animal’s paws were equipped with suction cups in addition to the wicked-looking claws. Now he knew what had watched him and how the ambush had been laid.

The knowledge sent a shudder through the prospector’s body. He made it to his knees, winced as the pain made itself known, and climbed to his feet. He reached back, confirmed that the back of his jumpsuit was wet, and took a look at his fingers. They were covered with blood.
His
blood—
his
life—leaking away. He felt a wave of nausea.

Jepp pushed the feeling away and forced himself to retrieve the spray paint. It, like the rest of his belongings, was irreplaceable.

The Thraki robot had arrived in time to witness the battle between the two-legged and six-legged biologicals. The outcome was to the machine’s liking, since the creator had been bipedal—and the construct had an inborn preference for tool users. Servos whined as the robot entered the “fetch and carry” mode. An arm telescoped, and the can went with it.

Jepp stepped backward as the robot went through some sort of transformation and offered the can. “Where did
you
come from?”

“Where did
you
come from?” the robot echoed, storing the words for future reference.

Jepp felt a momentary sense of dizziness, knew he needed to reach his medical kit, but was reluctant to leave. This particular robot was not only different from all the rest, it had acknowledged his existence
and
proved that it could communicate. “I’m going home... Would you like to come?”

The robot transformed itself into “roamer” mode and fed the sound back to its source. “I’m going home... Would you like to come?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jepp replied, and he headed down the passageway. He was half a mile away... and the wound hurt like hell.

The robot propelled itself through a pool of blood, experienced a momentary loss of traction, and made the necessary adjustment. “I’ll take that as a yes. Where did
you
come from?”

 

 

The village blacksmith waited for the farmer to inspect the newly healed metal, accepted payment with a courtly bow, and watched the tractor growl away. Ancient though the equipment was, the blacksmith was even older, and more machine than man.

Sergi Chien-Chu had played many roles throughout his long and productive life, including those of son, brother, husband, father, uncle, friend, industrialist, politician, strategist, artist, and, for the last five decades, village blacksmith.

His biological body had died years before, which explained why, with the notable exception of his brain and some spinal cord, the rest of Chien-Chu was synthetic.

Nor was this the first such body. After being forced to occupy a blue-eyed monstrosity immediately after his “death,” the businessman had commissioned bodies that looked a lot like the original had. Pleasant but portly. His Chinese-Russian ancestors would have been proud.

Not only of the body in which he had chosen to dwell, but of his decision to return home, to a village not far from the Mongol city of Hatga. The place where, thanks to a new identity, he had lived and worked in blissful obscurity since the conclusion of the second Hudathan war.

Sergi Chien-Chu waited for the farmer to turn the corner at the far end of the lane, waved a final good-bye, and backed into the shadows.

The double doors were made of weather-aged wood and squealed as he pulled the well-worn ropes. They closed with a thud and were easily locked in place.

Three shafts of sunshine plunged down through skylights to throw rectangles onto the oil-blackened clay. Dust motes chased each other through the light and fell toward the floor.

A long, sturdy workbench lined one wall, its surface cleared of clutter, tools racked above. Tanks of acetylene lined the opposite wall, along with racks of filler rods, the robotic assistant that he never found time to repair, and his latest piece of freeform sculpture. Similar objects, some of which were fairly good, dotted the grounds. The old-fashioned forge, which he still used from time to time, was cold and dark.

Though empty now, the one-time warehouse had been full of projects when the news regarding Maylo had arrived.

Knowing he could no longer watch from the sidelines, and determined to keep his promises, the industrialist had worked a string of twelve-hour days. Customers, be they large or small, must be honored.

Chien-Chu took one last look around, hung the leather apron on a nail, and left through the back door.

The garden was Nola’s pride and joy. Enclosed between high brick walls, and visited by an honored few, it felt like an older version of the world. Carp patrolled the shallows of a long, kidney-shaped pond. Chien-Chu crossed the bridge, passed through the moon gate, and bowed before the ancestral shrine.

His home was a modest structure no higher than the neighboring houses and made of wood. The edifice gave no hint of the fact that its owner had been a high government official, led a fleet into battle, and owned a couple of rim worlds.

Nola heard the door open and came to meet her husband. The synthetic version of her body appeared to be about sixty—and was still breathtakingly beautiful. To Chien-Chu, at any rate, which was all that mattered. They kissed. “Your bag is packed. The small one. So it won’t slow you down.”

Chien-Chu raised an eyebrow. “Who said I was going anywhere?”

“Don’t be silly,” Nola answered confidently. “I’ve been married to you for more than a hundred years. I know what you’ll do before
you
do. The decision was made the moment they took Maylo. I could see it in your eyes. It won’t stop there, though—you’ll try to straighten things out. That’s how you wound up as President. Remember?”

The industrialist kissed the center of his wife’s plastiflesh forehead. Some men are lucky in love—and he’d been one of them.

Chien-Chu made his way through the plain, nearly spartan living area, touched a print-sensitive button, and waited for a section of floor to move.

The house had been built on land Chien-Chu had inherited from his grandfather and incorporated unique features that would have surprised his venerable ancestor.

Not the least of these features was the rather extensive basement and access to an underground cavern, the same cavern his father had used to store contraband merchandise.

It had taken a good deal of time, patience, and money to install the bombproof shelter, fusion power plant, and high-tech communication system without his neighbors taking notice, but money can accomplish wonders.

Chien-Chu made his way down the stairs and headed for the ornate desk that his great-great-grandmother had commissioned as a gift for her son.

The desk sat on a platform with screens arrayed in front of it. The first was tuned to the Planetary News Network (PNN), a once-independent organization that functioned as the center-piece of Governor Pardo’s propaganda machine.

The second carried Radio Free Earth, which had not only survived countless attempts to close it down, but seemed to thrive on adversity. Chien-Chu was just in time to catch the latest regarding the loyalist victory in Djibouti. He made some mental notes, watched the video dip to black, and waited to see what would surface next.

Everyone had seen the clip by now, had seen Matthew Pardo pull the trigger, but the video played round the clock. Kenny used it as a buffer between longer stories, as what amounted to a station break, and any other time when it was convenient. It was the teenager’s way of needling Pardo—and reminding the resistance of what they faced.

The scene shivered and came apart as government engineers tried to jam the feed. It was restored three minutes later. Chien-Chu looked up from his computer and smiled. Kenny had a lot of support—from the mysterious J.J. and the rest of Chien-Chu Enterprises as well.

A third screen, which registered nothing but snow, was hooked to the company’s com net—a fully encrypted system that enabled Chien-Chu to communicate with offices all around the world. Although some of his staff had been arrested and placed in prison, the vast majority had escaped, and were back in business. After all, what is a company beyond the people who run it? Records? Those were duplicated and sent off-prem once every fifteen minutes. Processes? There were backups for those as well. The company had been attacked before.

So, in spite of the facts that the muties had cost him some money, and that Noam Inc. had obtained some valuable intelligence, Chien-Chu Enterprises was very much alive.

The blacksmith sat at the ancient desk and started to type. Not because he had to, but because he enjoyed the kinesthetic feedback.

Thousands of miles away, in the basement of an old church, words jerked across a screen. Kenny read them and grinned. It seemed that the mysterious J. J. had thrown even more resources into the fray. Cool. The teenager wiped his nose on his hand, wiped his hand on his shirt, and composed his reply.

The top floor of the building was reserved for Noam Inc. executives. It was quiet as a tomb. A broad, heavily carpeted hallway led to Conference Room 4.

Qwan knew he should let the underlings wait for a while, knew that a mere ten minutes wasn’t long enough for someone of his seniority, but couldn’t muster the necessary discipline.