Bloodhype (4 page)

“I thought I read that the Hyperion forests on Annubis were sterilized and wiped out ten years ago,” Kitten said.

“As indeed they were,” the intelligence officer continued. “Naturally, that was the first place the Service checked. We found nothing to indicate that any of the plants had survived the holocaust. At that time it was believed that the Hyperion plant could grow only on Annubis. Transplanting was attempted for scientific purposes, but the seedlings and mature plants died rapidly as soon as they were removed from the planet. Fertilized seeds likewise transshipped did not sprout. In wiping out the supply it turned out that the species had been effectively exterminated for
all
purposes!”

“I wouldn’t imagine anyone raising a fuss over
that,”
said Porsupah.

“Other than a few masochistic botanists, no one did.”

“It seems, though, that someone, somewhere, has gotten hold of some seeds and found a way to make them sprout, and worse, reproduce.”

“What sort of . . . of creature, would want to restart the traffic in bloodhype?” said Kitten, shuddering.

“Soft-angles, I remember you to be a brilliant student. Someday I hope you will make an even better agent, but in many ways you are still an immature grub. The galaxy contains a high volume of pure loathsomeness. Of which I have seen far more than is good for one’s sleep. There are plenty of beings nominally labeled ‘intelligent’ who would sell their own eggs, and worse, for a few credits. The thing here that makes me marvel is not the perpetrators, but their science.

“I don’t have to tell you what bloodhype addiction does. These new users display the same symptoms and reactions as those of over a decade ago. Which means that this new strain is at least as powerful as the original. It affects any living creature with a complex neural system and circulating liquid in its body. This includes every known intelligence, with the exception of a few silicon-based primitives on restricted planets. Direct injection is the most common method of application, but inhaling the drug in sufficient quantities is also effective.

“Concentrating on the neurons, the drug produces an extremely pleasurable sensation. The thing about bloodhype is that most drugs work only on the mind, by distorting and affecting the images it creates and the information it receives. Bloodhype, on the other hand, is more in the nature of direct neutral stimulation. In other words, instead of producing distortions in the information-interpreter (the brain), the original information is distorted right at the beginning, at the original nerve pickups in hands, feet, liver—everywhere the blood can carry it. The effect has been described many ways. One addict said it was like being the highest-pitched wire on a stringed instrument. It’s many, many times more powerful than anything that works just on the mind, acting as it does directly on the nerve cells rather than the brain. A moderate dose produces a ‘fire-fit’, an intense burning sensation that seems to add to the overall pleasure.

“Withdrawal symptoms commence anywhere from 60hh or 72 t-standard hours after the last injection. Coordination begins to go, accompanied by a speed-up in involuntary muscular reactions. Breathing can speed up or slow, as can the heart and other self-regulating muscles. The senses are badly confused and feed false reports to the brain, which is itself undergoing severe emotional changes, from depression to exaltation and so forth. The body goes downhill like an unhatched egg with insufficient yolk. It’s possible to be in excellent physical shape and be dying—until the final moment, when everything seems to jump on you at once.

“You go slowly insane, aware of what’s taking place all the time. ‘Dying by inches,’ I believe a terran author called something far less extreme. The only way an addict can survive, once hooked, is if the medics can get to him fast. A lot of very complicated and expensive equipment supports the being’s nervous system until the drug has burned itself out. Very painful and not always successful. If the brain itself has been too badly damaged, nothing can be done. In such cases, mercy killings are not unknown.

“If 120hh or 144 t-standard hours have passed, there is a ninety-eight and something percent chance of an excruciatingly painful death occurring. In such cases even the best of medical treatment is useless. There is, of course, nothing like a simple antidote.”

“And the shipments are coming through Repler?” said Kitten.

“It is thought to be so. We intercepted one, just one, by accident. No persons were taken. The best evidence we have is that every planet where new addicts have appeared was visited shortly before by a vessel that stopped to change or exchange cargo on Repler. There are a few suspects here, whom we’re being very careful not to warn off. And this is not the only planet that’s being carefully checked out. But at this stage it seems like Repler is the best of several thin possibilities—Everything about the operation suggests professional planning with plenty of brains behind it. There’s a lot of experience behind this setup.”

“I don’t wish to minimize our abilities, sir,” interrupted Kitten, “but if all this is true, why send for two fairly inexperienced agent-students instead of a hundred pros?”

“One, your very inexperience is your best asset. You will be equally unknown to the runners. The one thing we fear more than anything else is that they might become aware that we suspect their operations here. And with something of this magnitude running smoothly, it’s a likely bet that the pros handling things would stay quiet and shut down until they could shift their base elsewhere. We don’t want to start over again somewhere a hundred parsecs down the Arm. We might not be fortunate enough to intercept another shipment. And the traffic hasn’t assumed the proportions . . . yet . . . where an investment of that kind would justify the risk. A large sweep would be likely to catch up a lot of the small fry. The moguls usually manage to slip away and start raising hell somewhere else. You two stand a chance of cutting through a lot of opaque membrane and latching onto them before they have a chance to get suspicious. At least, that’s the theory. If you’re caught, the worst that can happen is we lose two agents.”

“You frame things so delicately,” murmured Porsupah.

“The covers we’ve prepared for you don’t require a lot of effort to maintain. Barring,” he said, staring hard at Kitten, “unforseen complications! Lieutenant Porsupah is listed as a wealthy tree-farmer’s nephew from Tolus Prime. Your covers provide you with a number of common interests. A shared interest in mildly dangerous sports, for one thing. It means you have reasons for wanting to jet all over the place—and incidentally, for carrying sidearms. Sport pistols. Licenses will be issued to the both of you on your way out. Your ‘sporting weapons’ each pack a much greater wallop than their appearance will suggest. So for Hive’s sake, be circumspect with them—Look around, take your time, and honestly try to have fun. I don’t believe in miracles, but ‘erecting the proper superstructure facilitates acquiring interior trappings.’ ”

“Mathewson, twenty-third edict, section four,” said Kitten.

“ ‘Accidents and miracles will happen if you can find the proper place in space’; yes, you’re right, my dear,” replied Orvenalix. “I never knew theology interested you.”

“Only the juicy parts. For example . . .”

Porsupah elected to chew the upholstery.

Malcolm Hammurabi was counting his money. The awkward fact that he didn’t have it yet failed to interrupt the pleasure he took in the mathematics.

It had been the kind of trip that ship-masters drink over: no muss, no fuss, and plenty of profits. Even the drive had been trouble-free. Who’d have thought that those attenuated seals on Largess would be crazy for imported
alva
—let alone Replerian
alva.
Granted, though, the stuff was tasty enough. Even if Rodriguez wouldn’t program the stuff for the galley. Mal’s share of the profits would be, well, healthy. Might even be enough to refinish that verdammt upper right quarter of the
Umbra’s
KK drive projector screen. Not that it was an essential job . . . not yet. But it would boost her favorable energy conversion ratio by a good thirty percent. That would convert to a savings of, oh, so and so much in ignition radioactives. Not to mention reducing wear and increasing efficiency in the engine systems.

He’d been told, often, that his habit of making a personal, solitary survey of ship’s cargo the night after it had been shuttled down was just a little peculiar. The excuse he offered in return was that he wanted to be certain of the cargo’s proper alignment for redistribution, etc., etc., right up to the moment of transfer.

In actuality, the fascination of standing alone with tons and tons of goods from the far reaches of the galaxy, piled high in rainbow-hued plastic and metal containers, was one he had carried from childhood. Then he used to wander through similar warehouses (which towered so much greater in his childhood memories) and dream of the days he might visit planets with magic names like Terra, Hivehom, Almaggee, Long Tunnel, Horseye and Entebbe.

He’d had little idea that one day he’d be transporting similar goods himself. Too often the planets had proven dull and unattractive. But there was enough spice in the life to make things interesting. (Besides, you crazy hypocrite, you hated pro ball. Being the best goalie who ever maintained parallax with a ball was hardly fit epitaph for a man.)

Anyhow, it was important that the luxury goods be easily accessible for tomorrow, in case that old pirate Chatham and the others wanted an early look.

A good percentage of the cases were emblazoned with the CK crest of arms, customs stamps, impression of destination and planet of origin. A few were consigned to small dealers on Repler, some to members of the crew, and a number were sealed in the crimson of the Commonwealth. There was even one small aquamarine case of holy goods for the Church. Mostly biochemical and oceanographic instrument parts, plus a few specimens of Largessian life.

Another section of the gigantic warehouse was filled with a massive shipment headed off-planet. Idly, he wondered who’d pulled off that job.

Old Chatham’s success had been due in large part to his policy of hiring free-lance cargo vessels or those of small companies to transport his goods, rather than acquiring his own fleet. It was a risky way to do business, since he was entirely dependent on the will of men who were not beholden to anyone. Cargos could disappear with sobering swiftness on short or nonexistent notice. And a merchant or trader who operated in such fashion built nothing in the way of transportation equity.

At the same time, the system offered unequaled flexibility without fear of loss in manpower or ships. Some few men could make a success of the arrangement, while those with a huge investment in ships and men might go broke in spectacularly short periods of time. Chatham was one who’d spent a lifetime mastering the first system.

The huge outgoing shipment sat there, its noble immobility staring back at him. Maybe Scottsdale had landed the job. Or crazy Alapka N’jema. He’d heard rumors that Al’s ship, the
Simba,
had been operating this far out. Although the last he’d seen of her she’d been headed Centerward. There was always the possibility that the merchant or merchants involved hadn’t contracted with anyone yet.

And the possibility that they had their own ship, idiot.

Still, it was an appealing thought. If the cargo were available and he could sign it, maybe they’d give him an advance on estimated profit. That, coupled with what he would make off the Largess expedition, ought to provide enough to refinish the entire screen. Plus getting an ultrawave booster for Ben, the
Umbra’s
comm operator. Ben would give his left arm and part of his soul for even a pre-war booster. For a new one from, say, GC, his shouts of pleasure would be heard all the way to Alpha C.

The silver plastic of an especially bright casing caught his eye. He saw himself reflected in the moulding and smiled, running the revised balance for the ship over again in his mind.

Reflected in the plastic, Mal Hammurabi was a big man. Not particularly tall, he was structured much like a number twelve symbo-speech printed dictionary—unabridged. Or a collection of children’s blocks, tossed together in a haphazard rectangular shape and dipped in half-wet glue. Sandy-brown hair was cut square in back and receded slightly from the high forehead, which overshadowed deep-set amber eyes. The remainder of that face was an insane collection of rough angles, juts and points. The only honest curve in the whole assemblage was the thick walrus mustache which drooped from beneath the nose. Combined with a rather remarkable build, the ship-master looked like a surreal cross between a land-tank and a basset hound.

Equally incongruous was the group of peppermint sticks which protruded from the left pocket of his leather jacket. Hammurabi neither smoked nor flashed. His vices were confined to milder liquors such as ale, fine ones like brandy, and sweets . . . not all of them peppermint, nor in stick form.

There was a lot of cargo; the lanes of crates and casings were long, high, and shadowed. So he didn’t notice the thieves until he was right on top of them.

There were two, totally absorbed in rifling the contents of a yellow-orange plastic case bound with metal strips. The container was the size and shape of a coffin, which it wasn’t. Mal would remember loading a stiff. Melted plastic showed at one end where the seal had been burnt away.

Mal could have done several things. He might have taken another two steps forward and inquired in his most sepulchral ship-master’s tones as to the object of the gentlemen’s intrusion. He could have walked over and offered casual, even flippant commentary. He could have slipped quietly away and buzzed for the port police.

However, men who spend their lives riding the saddle of an artificial field with the mass of a sun (a) know when men will and when they will not react favorably to orders, (b) are aware that the derring-do of tri-dee heroes, when attempted in real life, seduces suicide, and (c) do not run for help.

So what Hammurabi did was put his hundred and twenty-five kilos under a crate not quite as big as himself and heave it in the direction of the two preoccupied paracreds. This by way of getting them off-balance.