Jim Baen's Universe

8.

“Keep moving,” said the guy jabbing a stake into my back. It didn’t feel all that sharp—just a pointed stick. But I knew that the other end fit snugly into some kind of arbalest or shooting device, capable of propelling the shaft with considerable force.

Any weapon that could terminate a blood-sucking vampire was powerful enough to inconvenience a poor Earthman like me, stranded and isolated on a strange—make that bizarre—alien world. Nor did I feel protected by the crowd surrounding us, in a huge and garishly-lit atrium.

“Don’t try to draw attention,” growled my captor, prodding me forward through a bustle of tourists and gamblers, who thronged the lobby of the Golden Palace—willing victims in a commercial version of the predatory lifestyle that pervaded this planet. If the word “lifestyle” applied to a place where much of the population consisted of walking dead.

Still, even as my captor shoved me forward, I gave the crowd a quick scan for a pair of figures—two “recent” zombies who had been my only friends, so far, here on Oxytocin 41c. But if I really had glimpsed Sully and Moulder a moment ago, pushing luggage carts while dressed as bellboys, there was no sight of them now. Instead, I nearly got trampled by crowd of lycanthrope families on holiday, gnashing their tusks and baying at scantily-dressed succubi. Beyond them, a row of dapper dracula-types stood transfixed before flashing slot machines, pulling coin after glittering coin out of their silken capes to keep feeding those fanged, mechanical maws.

I guess it’s true that everybody has a weakness, I pondered, feeling a bit detached and hardly fearful at all. Perhaps there is only so much that a nervous system can take before going numb, after several days of being pummeled by every variety of undead creature imaginable. And now, amid all the lights and noise, there was that added poke in the spine. It sent me stumbling toward a curtain that partly concealed a narrow side door, like a broom closet, where things were sure to get no better.

“Where’s a cop when you need one?” I murmured, quite tired of being pushed around, ever since I slurried down to this benighted world.

“It is funny you should mention that,” said the trench-coated figure propelling me along. “I am the police. And you are under arrest.”

****

My new predicament came accompanied by one blessing. As soon as that door closed behind us, some of the casino cacophony subsided. Especially that continuous, hypnotic jangling sound of one-arm bandits, robbing the population without prejudice over such minor matters as race, creed or pulse. The sudden release of pressure on my abused eardrums provoked an overwhelming, irresistible need to yawn.

A voice spoke from my left. “We are so sorry to bore you, Alvin Montessori.”

Turning, I saw that we were now in a statuary vestibule, lined with effigies in a variety of poses. And across the hallway, standing next to one larger-than-life figure, was a gaunt, almost fleshless man, holding a strange weapon aimed at my midriff.

“Dr. Katske,” I acknowledged with a nod, while covering my mouth for another yawn. “Forgive me . . . for not being surprised. After that encounter in the museum hallway, I figured we might meet again.”

“Never mind that,” the old man said. This is a semi-public gallery. Someone may come through at any moment. Quickly, pull this finger.”

Blinking, I answered. “I beg your pardon?”

He gestured at the sculpture next to him—evidently an early-type vampire with a visionary look in his eyes, pointing at a dim tomorrow. “The finger,” Katske urged, brandishing his gun. “Pull it now!”

“Pull it yourself!” I growled back at him, then snapped at the fellow behind me. “And the next time you poke me with that thing, I will take it from you and cram it where you’ll need a sonogram to find it!”

Both of them seemed surprised and nonplussed for a moment. Then Katske shrugged. Reaching up to grab the mannequin’s digit, he give it a sharp tug. I cringed a little, breathing shallowly. But there was only a soft, blatting hiss . . . and suddenly a wall panel slid open behind it, revealing a hidden chamber.

“Move,” the fellow behind me urged. But I noticed that there was no shove, this time, as we hurried through and the panel slid closed again, behind us . . .

. . . and I found myself in a laboratory of some sort, lined with all the requisite items, from clean-air hoods to heater flames and glassware that frothed with bubbling mixtures.

“Well, he is a cool one, I’ll give him that,” commented the man in the trenchcoat, who came around to face me at last, plopping onto a stool and dropping his fedora onto a nearby table. His face was very humanoid, like most of the “standard” denizens of this world—those who weren’t undead in one manner or another. After several days in the city of Squid, I knew what signs to look for—like tusks, or pointy canines, or the aroma of gradual decomposition. This fellow had a scent of living sweat and tension.

“Did you say you’re a policeman?” I asked.

“Inspector Coalshack, of the Cal’mari Cops,”he said, with a shallow nod.

“Coalshack?” I gave the side of my head a rap, to inform the pesky nanomite translators that I was onto their game. As if that would do any good. “I thought there wasn’t much civil authority left, around these parts.”

“There isn’t. We are a commercial enterprise,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Police work has been left to the free market, ever since most government collapsed, a century ago.”

“Wait a minute,” I snapped my fingers. “I saw you, yesterday . . . or was it the day before . . . nosing around an alley near the city gate. Just before crewman Wems appeared and gave me a whack—” I reached up and felt one of the many bumps on the back of my head.

“Recruit Wems was supposed to take you to a holding cell for questioning. But apparently he had something else in mind. I’d like to know where he took you. And why.”

“You aren’t the only one. I don’t suppose Wems is unavailable, to provide answers?”

“He has gone missing.”

“Hm, yes. Wems apparently has a knack for doing that. Well, okay then, officer. I mean inspector. You say that I am under arrest. What’s the accusation?”

Despite affecting a casual slouch, the fellow had been keeping his stake-thrower leveled at my chest. Now he jutted it forward a bit.

“Alien invasion.”

Ah. That accusation. I kept a blank expression, while pondering my options. On the basis of technological achievement alone, Oxytocin was over sixteen on the Polanski scale, so I could admit the truth without violating their innocence, under the Consent Imperative. On the other hand, innumerable botches and disasters have ensued, whenever fools rush in to say “Take me to your leader.” And this society seemed fragile enough, without taking another shock.

Hence, I felt some reluctance. An impulse to evade.

“Alien . . . invasion?”

“That’s right.”

“And . . . that’s an official crime?”

“Oh, yes,” Dr. Katske answered, while keeping his little gun aimed at my midriff. “I can show it to you in the law books.”

“Fascinating. Do aliens invade often?”

“As far as I know, this is the first time. At least where there’s proof.”

“But if it never happened before, how could there be a law?”

“Ah, good question!” Grinning, the little man clearly enjoyed any opportunity to show off some historical erudition. “It was the infamous Paranoid Congress of 30952 that passed eight thousand, three hundred and twelve just-in-case ordinances, banning everything from time travel to summoning demons from the planet’s core. From turning yourself invisible to spontaneous combustion. From national totem-burning to making mountains out of molehills.”

How much of this absurdity was being mistranslated by my badly programmed ear-nanos? A lot, I figured, adding that I really must speed up learning the local dialect, the old-fashioned way, in order not to depend on them.

“Of course,” Katske added, “the very next year, the people rose up en masse and voted to declare legislation an act of extreme moral turpitude. Nevertheless, those laws have never been repealed. They remain on the books.”

“Including the one against aliens landing without permission,” interjected Inspector Coalshack.

“And you think I have committed this crime, because—”

“Because I told them.”

A figure stepped through the far doorway. And I let out a low sigh.

“Nuts.”

Despite wearing native clothing—a long, magisterial gown, complete with glittering spikes on a high collar—she was instantly recognizable. Those pointy little Demmie teeth weren’t vampirized, the way Lieutenant Morrel’s had been. Still, they glittered, as the Clever Gamble’s Chief Engineer grinned at me, without any trace of friendliness.

“That’s Commander-Artificer Nomlin to you, Advisor Montessori. I have always found my peoples’ penchant for nicknames so immature, don’t you agree? And with the Captain not around—”

“Where is he?” I demanded, taking several steps toward her, my hands suddenly clenched, ignoring the two men, who jabbed me with their weapons. “Where is Olm! And Guts and the others? Do you know what happened to the ship?”

Her smirk faded into a look of passing concern. “The Gamble? I haven’t a clue. In fact, I’ve heard nothing since that night in the sub-urb, when we were attacked and I got separated from the others. I remember getting knocked under some bushes, then wandering around in a daze, till morning, when I finally stumbled into town and asked a friendly policeman for help.” She nodded to Coalshack. “I can only assume that the Gamble had to leave suddenly. Or she was destroyed.”

“Your uniform, does it still transmit and receive?” Mine had been shredded, after violent attacks by everything from werewolves to zombies. I had hoped that would explain the silence.

“Beats me.” Nuts shrugged. “I traded my tunic for these clothes. They’re pretty, don’t you think? I mean, for prison duds.”

“Prison. But. . . .” I stammered. “You mean you’re—”

“Also under arrest? Of course! I’m an alien invader too, just like you. Only they’ve promised to be lenient. Haven’t you, boys?” She smiled as Katske and Coalshack nodded. “If I help them solve a little problem.”

“What problem?”

“The problem, you dense Earthling. The crazy condition of this poor planet! The sickness that brought their civilization to the brink of collapse and filled the world with monsters.”

I turned back to the old man. “It’s a sickness?”

Dr. Katske nodded. “The affliction is called Leininger’s Disease, after its discoverer, who diagnosed the first wave of walking dead. Amid the ensuing panic, and because it bore many hallmarks of a weapon, the nations of that time accused each other of biological warfare. They even hurled a few bombs back and forth, destroying several cities, before everyone realized—that this tragedy transcended all borders, even death.”

“But—” I couldn’t help arguing. “Didn’t people adapt? At least for a while? Those exhibits in the hallway—”

“—don’t tell the whole story.” Katske shook his head. “Yes, for a little while, people seemed willing to adjust to new conditions. Even to redefine ‘life’ in a more inclusive way.”

“I saw relics of that era. But the time of tolerance collapsed, didn’t it?”

“Spinning into distrust, madness, and finally a virtual state of war among the different castes—except for in truce zones, like this giant palace of parasitism that we’re standing in.”

I wanted to learn more, but it was time to focus on the practical. “So you knew who I was, even there in the hallway?”

“Not at first. Running into you there, spotting your exceptional curiosity about this world, was a stroke of luck. Of course, I hurried to notify the Cal’mari Cops, who sent over the inspector here, to rope you in. But I was actually there, in the Hall of Heroes, to do research.”

“Research.”

“For clues to a special, secret place,” Nuts cut in, with a hushed tone of relish and mystery that was typically Demmie. “They say it holds the key. And if I help them, they promise not only a pardon, but a big reward.”

“What key? Helping them to do what?”

“The key to Leininger’s disease,” answered Dr. Katske. “And helping us to find a cure.”

****

Nuts led me into the next room, where several lab benches were stacked high with equipment, much of it archaic looking and rather dusty.

“The best I been able to figure,” she explained, “The people of this world have been in a dark age for quite some time, centuries at least. But they didn’t go down without a fight! Across the globe, people mounted efforts to study what was happening to them, in secret labs like this one.”

“I see. But why in a giant casino?”

“Because that was where the money was, especially toward the end. Universities and governments collapsed, but the law of supply and demand—catering to vice—seems to have greater staying power. In fact,” she motioned to some ledgers that lay spread open on a table. “According to these notebooks, work on a cure continued here—and a number of other places—until just a hundred or so years ago.”

Dr. Katske carefully opened one of the volumes and ran his fingers along some lines of writing, in the local language. “Near the end, they were excited about something big. Researchers in one of the hidden labs made a breakthrough, decoding the essence of the ailment! Even ways to change it, or heal it. Only then—”

His hand stopped, where the writing did, halfway down a page.

“Let me guess,” I asked. “Management lost interest. By then, aristocratic vampires had taken charge of places like this.” I jerked my thumb backward, toward the main part of the building, where jangling tones sang an endless and monotonous song of predatory profit. “I don’t imagine they much relished the idea of a cure.”

“Well, it was complicated. But something like that.”

I could well imagine, there would be a variety of opinions concerning what the word “cure” meant, in a case like this. Should the right to act and move and enjoy existence be restricted to the living? There were some artificial and simulated intelligences of my acquaintance, who might demur. On the other hand, something really ought to be done about the state of terror that the “standard” population of Oxytocin—the child-bearing core of the species—suffered every day, and especially every night.

“So, you want to re-start the research?” I turned to Katske and Coalshack. “Fine! Help us get in touch with our ship. By now, Commander Nomlin must have told you our peaceful intentions. We can assist in countless ways, scientific, cultural and financial. As new members of the Interplanetary Alliance, you can call upon immense resources! Why, even our ship’s doctor, Commander-Healer Paolim, could probably crack this nut, with facilities aboard the Clever Gamble. Meanwhile, skilled mediators can initiate an open dialogue among all your different types and castes . . .”

This time, it was the police inspector who spoke up. “I’ll answer that,” said Coalshack.

“First, we’re still not at all sure that we can trust you aliens. Second, from what I gather, your ship seems to have troubles of its own. You folks are hardly able to take care of yourselves, let alone others.

“And finally, we don’t need outsiders to find us a cure! One already exists. They talk about it, right here!” He slammed his fist down upon the nearby journal. “Somebody found it, in Obtainia!”

“Ob . . . tainia? What’s that?”

“You mean where,” Nuts murmured. “And that seems to be the problem. One that calls for my abilities, not those of a mere bone-setter and purveyor of herbs!”

She stepped aside and, with a flourish, offered my first view of a gleaming apparatus that was under fabrication, on a nearby bench. Roughly spherical in shape—an ornate concatenation of wires, tubes and gears—it shimmered under the surface reflection of several nearby mirrors and lamps, but also with a constantly-shifting array of inner glows. Soft, clickety sounds emitted, as wheels turned within wheels.

“Of course I’ve been limited to the primitive parts and tools available here, on a backward world,” Nuts commented with her usual tact, making the two natives frown. “Still, I think you’ll agree, Advisor, that I’ve made pretty good progress.”

I stared at the compact ball, about the size of my head and clearly designed to be portable. The florid style couldn’t be more Demmie, as I marveled at a mixture of elegant efficiency and madly ingenious overconstruction. Pondering the little machine’s purpose, it came to me, all at once, with a gasp.

“You’re . . . making them a finder!”

Nuts smiled. “Indeed. And spare me any of your prissy objections, that