Blood and Fire Page 2

  “I never do.”

  “How’s your itch?”

  “Ferocious.”

  “Good. Carry on.”

  Korie felt comfortable with Captain Parsons—the first time he’d felt comfortable with a captain in a long time. It was a pleasant change to have his abilities not only respected, but depended upon. He nodded his assent and turned back to his headset to complete an earlier discussion with HARLIE, the starship’s intelligence engine. He and HARLIE had been sorting through the appropriate procedure books and manuals for dealing with medical emergencies, especially those involving possible contamination by unknown toxic substances. When he finished that, he headed forward to the Med Bay to confer with Chief Surgeon Molly Williger.

  Dr. Williger was notorious as the shortest, ugliest woman in the known universe, but few people who served with her ever noticed that; all they saw was one of the best doctors in the fleet. Williger was just finishing a routine medical check on Crewman Brian Armstrong when Korie entered. Armstrong, a side of beef with a grin, flashed his smile at Korie as he pulled his shirt back on. “Hiya, sir.”

  Korie nodded a curt acknowledgment. He rarely smiled. “Armstrong.”

  “Sir?” Armstrong began eagerly. “I’d like to volunteer for the Mission Team. Dr. Williger says I’m in good shape. I can carry things. And I’m certified for security duties—”

  “I can see you’re in good shape.” Korie noted Armstrong’s well-developed body. “But we’re going to need specialists for this operation.” Noting Armstrong’s immediate disappointment, Korie added, “But—I haven’t made any final decisions yet. I’ll keep you in mind.”

  “Thanks, sir. Thanks Dr. Williger.” Armstrong grinned again and left. Williger and Korie exchanged amused glances.

  “Gotta give him credit,” Korie said. “He wants to work.”

  “He’s bored,” Williger said. “And he’s got this thing going with the Quillas.”

  “I thought he was over that.”

  Williger jiggled her hand in an “iffy” gesture. “Armstrong doesn’t understand intimacy. The Quillas are a fascinating mystery to him.” She added, “He knows how to be friendly, not close. He uses friendliness as a defense against intimacy. But apparently, the Quillas got to him anyway.”

  “I saw your report.”

  When he had first come aboard, Armstrong had enjoyed a quick liaison with Quilla Delta, not realizing that all of the other Quillas were telepathic participants. The discovery of a male Quilla—Lambda—had startled him. Later Armstrong and Lambda had become friendly, if not exactly friends. Then Lambda was killed in action—

  “Armstrong hurts,” said Williger. “And he has no one to talk to about it. He’s taking it a lot harder than he shows. All this energy and enthusiasm is ... denial and sublimation and overcompensation.” She sighed. “And then we brought two more Quillas aboard, one male, one female, and ... well, Armstrong is jealous—”

  “Jealous?” Korie looked incredulous.

  “Of the male Quilla. Of the closeness the Quillas have. How much do you know about Quillas?”

  Korie shrugged. “Haven’t really given it too much thought. They’re a religious order, dedicated to serving others, aren’t they?”

  “Well, you should give it more thought than that,” Williger said. “They’re not just a religious order, they’re a conjoined mind in multiple bodies.”

  “So? What does this have to do with Armstrong?”

  “The Quillas had a private welcoming ceremony—and Armstrong was left out of it. How could he be included? When Quillas take a new member into the cluster, there’s a whole ritual of joining—very spiritual, but very physical as well. They have to tune themselves to each other. Usually it’s only a matter of a few days. This time it took over a week. Armstrong felt like they were shutting him out. On top of Lambda’s death—well, he’s confused and he’s hurting.”

  Korie made a face. This was not something he wanted to deal with.

  Williger glowered up at him. “I know—you don’t think self-esteem issues are your concern, they’re supposed to be mine. Or the Quillas’. But it is your concern, because he’s part of your crew. Armstrong needs something to do that lets him feel essential. Right now—he doesn’t.” The little doctor looked to Korie sharply. “That’s why he’s trying so hard to be everyone’s best friend. That’s all he knows how to do. He needs something else to be good at.”

  “The problem is, he doesn’t have any skills. He’s not our smartest crewmember.”

  “I thought you had him in a training program.”

  Korie sighed. “He passes his tests, but his scores are always just barely passing. He’s doing just enough to get by. I need more than that. I can’t risk putting him anywhere essential. That’s why I keep rotating him.”

  “Maybe you should trust him with a little responsibility. Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

  “I don’t see any evidence to suggest it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Williger said sharply. “And maybe he’s feeling the same thing you are, Commander. All you want is your chance too.”

  Korie glanced over at her. He did not like being reminded of the fact that he was not yet wearing captain’s stars on his collar. He held back his immediate response, exhaled instead. “That’s not what I came down here for, Doctor. We need to finalize our plans for the medical mission team. We need to plan their training—we have to assume the Norway is an extremely toxic environment.”

  Williger noted Korie’s deliberate change of subject with a curt “Fine.” Then she added, “I’m going with you. And I’ll want Brian Armstrong too.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Korie said. “The captain doesn’t want to risk you.”

  “But she’ll risk you ...?”

  “I’m expendable. You’re not. You’ll monitor from the Bridge, or from Med Bay. You can still have Armstrong, if you want.”

  “I suppose this is not negotiable.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well ... all right.” She sighed acceptance. “I tried. Listen, if the situation is really bad over there, we’ll need to use the forward bay as an auxiliary receiving room. I assume you’ll be docking at the nose?”

  “That’s the recommended procedure.”

  “I want enhanced scanners on your helmets, with high-med software. I’ll give you Chief Pharmacist’s Mate Berryman as your senior corpsman. Hodel and Easton are also certified. Take them. You won’t reconsider Armstrong?”

  “Not this time, no. I was thinking Bach and Shibano.”

  Williger frowned. “Shibano’s a cowboy—and Bach hasn’t been certified yet for medical missions.”

  Korie ran a hand through his hair. How to say this without sounding paranoid? There was no way, so he just said it. “We don’t know what’s over there. I need security people.”

  “Yeah, I heard about your itch. Half a dozen people came in asking for skin-rex lotion.” Her expression was wry. “It must be catching, eh?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Lambda

  Armstrong sat alone in the mess room. Thinking. His cup of chocolate sat cold and forgotten in front of him. On some unspoken level, he understood what his problem was. And now, today, for some reason, he was almost ready to speak it—if not to anyone else, at least to himself.

  It wasn’t loneliness. It was that thing on the other side of loneliness.

  He could talk to people, he could make friends, he could get people to spend time with him, and he usually didn’t have any problems with women either. He’d had more than his share of sexual exercise. And even a relationship or two. So, no, it wasn’t loneliness.

  It was that other thing. About belonging. About being a part of something—not just a plug-in module, replaceable, discardable—but something more essential. Something with identity. He wanted to know that what he did was useful and important, and even necessary to the success of the ship. And the war.

  It was a need that he couldn’t explain, and he fel
t frustrated every time he thought about it—this feeling that he had to be something more. But there was nothing particularly special about Brian Armstrong. He was big, good-looking, a little goofy, likable, mostly capable, and just like several billion other men in this part of the galaxy. If he died right now, there would be no evidence that he was ever here, except a few records in the Fleet rolls. There would be no artifact, no object, no person, no heritage, nothing remarkable to indicate that Brian Armstrong had passed this way; nothing to say that Brian Armstrong had left the universe a better place than he found it. And despite his genial, easy-going nature, Brian Armstrong found this thought intolerable. It wasn’t death he feared; it was being insignificant.

  He just wanted to ... make a difference. That was all.

  Quilla Delta sat down opposite him. She placed one blue hand on top of his. He glanced up, met her eyes, forced a half-smile, pulled his hand away, then looked back down at his lap.

  “You are not happy, Brian,” she said. “That makes us sad.”

  Armstrong didn’t answer. To answer would have meant discussing the things that he didn’t discuss with anyone. If Lambda had lived, maybe he would have. He had thought about it a lot, what he wanted to say to Lambda. Lambda had seemed to know something of his confusion—

  “Lambda is not dead,” Delta said. “Everything that Lambda was, everything that Lambda knew—it still lives inside us. Only the body is gone. Not the soul. Not the spirit.”

  “I can’t believe that,” said Armstrong. “I’ve studied a little bit about Quillas. About massminds. I know that there’s a kind of synergy that happens. But there’s no way the soul of an individual can leave a body and take up residence in a networked collection of other bodies. It’s just not possible.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Delta in a different voice. A voice that Armstrong recognized in spite of himself, and he looked up with a start. “Everything that I was when I was alive I still am. I’m just living inside a different body now. I told you that Quillas are immortal, Brian. This is why I became one. Because I was like you. And I was unhappy that way.”

  Armstrong started to lower his eyes again, then changed his mind and looked into Quilla Delta’s face. Her skin was the most beautiful shade of blue. Her eyes were shadowed with magenta; her lips were almost the same shade. Her quills were a bright red Mohawk across her bald blue scalp. She had a slim, boyish quality and yet she was as feminine as a rosebud. He thought she was the most beautiful and the most irresistible female he had ever seen. She was also the most affectionate—he knew that there were no personality differences between one member of a Quilla cluster and another, but nevertheless he still felt she was the most affectionate. Maybe he was projecting his own feelings, maybe not. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t deny her anything.

  He licked his lips uncomfortably. They were dry. His whole mouth was dry. “I, um, have to go.” He started to rise. But as he did, he saw that they were no longer alone. Quilla Beta, Quilla Alpha, Quilla Gamma and the two new ones, Quilla Theta and Quilla Omega.

  Omega was a tall, blue man, taller even than Lambda had been. He stepped forward now. “Brian Armstrong, we know the source of your unhappiness. We are sorry for having caused you pain.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Armstrong said.

  “But it is our responsibility. We know that you felt distanced when we expanded our cluster. We know that you felt shut out of our closeness. This makes us sad. Our closeness should not be a barrier. It is not a prize that we keep to ourselves; it is a gift that we share with others.”

  “You can’t help it,” Armstrong said to all of them, trying to avoid looking at Omega. “It’s just the way you are. You’re all one mind. And I’m not. I’m not part of you. I’m just me. So just by existing the way you are, I’m automatically shut out. It’s my fault for presuming that I could ever be anything more than another John. I was stupid.”

  “No,” said Delta. “Not stupid.”

  “Whatever. Listen, thanks for all the ... attention. It was fun, okay? But like the song says ... I was looking for love on all the wrong planets. It was a mistake. I’m sorry that Lambda’s gone. I liked him. I like all of you, but uh ... can’t we just be friends now, something like that?”

  Omega blocked his exit. “Lambda lives in me too, Brian. Listen. This is what Lambda wants to say to you. ‘Ever since the first day you have been running from us. Your few conversations with Lambda were the only time you stopped running. It was the only time you treated any of us like a person. The rest of the time you acted like we were bodies, here only for your sexual pleasure. Did you think your callous behavior wasn’t hurtful to us? Perhaps it is you who owe us an apology.’”

  “Yeah, well—maybe I do. I’m sorry for treating you all like—like objects. Sex toys. Freaks. I dunno. Whatever. I was wrong. May I go now?”

  “Brian—” This time Gamma stepped in front of him. “We ask only one thing. Just please stop running from us.”

  “Okay. I’ll stop running. May I go now?”

  Quilla Delta stepped in close. “We miss Lambda too,” she said. “His body fit right. Almost as nice as yours. Sometimes we cry for him—for that missing piece of ourselves. Do you cry for him, Brian? I think you want to. If you do, it’s all right.” Without waiting for his answer, she put her arms around him and gently pulled him to her. He stiffened, but she refused to let go. He closed his eyes, but she still refused to let go. Instead she held him—and held and held and held him. Did she want him to cry? He didn’t know. He didn’t feel like crying now. He didn’t know what he felt—this wasn’t a familiar situation.

  The other Quillas wrapped their arms around them, and now Armstrong felt himself being passed from body to body. He couldn’t tell which of them was holding him. He opened his eyes only once and saw that he was being hugged by Omega, then closed them again until it didn’t matter anymore whose arms were wrapped around him. And still they passed him around.

  “Listen to me,” a soft voice whispered in his ear. It sounded like Lambda again. “When you’re ready to talk ... we’ll be ready to listen. Give us that chance, Brian? Please?”

  Despite himself, he nodded.

  And that was enough. That was all he needed to do. When they finally let him go, he felt different—and he was different. He looked from one to the other of them and realized he’d taken on a terrifying new responsibility. Honesty.

  History

  Contrary to popular expectations, the invention of faster-than-light travel did not create an age of enlightenment. Quite the opposite.

  Imagine the human species as a vast stew of ideas, opinions, neuroses, ideologies, beliefs, religions, pathologies, illnesses, cults and paradigms—a sea of competing world-views, models of reality at war with each other; an ecology of memes, each one struggling for living space in the heads and hearts of human beings.

  The introduction of cost-effective FTL access to other worlds gave each of these memes access to the living space it wanted. The result was an explosion of humanity in all directions: each ship filled with idea spores and belief cuttings and world-view seed-carriers—all those little ships filled with infectious opinions and belief systems, each and every person a host for his part of the larger energizing meme. It wasn’t humanity that emigrated to the stars; it was the memes.

  Humans live and breed for their beliefs; often they sacrifice everything for the thoughts they carry. History is a chronicle of human beings dying for their convictions, as if the continuance of the idea is more important than the continuance of the person. The ideology becomes more important to the carrier than his own ability to be human.

  All the disparate models of reality, each one demanding its own space to dominate and thrive, drove their bearers outward—the memes drove men like parasites riding in their minds—and the human species spread its motes across space like a field of dandelions exploding in a tornado, creating a million new places for memes to thrive and a billion new memes to live in them.


  Interstellar travel fractured and fractionated the human race. A thousand new religions. A hundred thousand new schools of scientific thought. A million new worlds, each one with its own dominant meme. Most of the memes were benign: “Love one another. Judge not, lest ye be judged. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” Some were not: “Our book is the only true book. Our God is the only true God. Our belief is the only true belief. All others are false ... and must be eradicated.” Some were untested: “We need a place to live where we won’t have the oppressions of others keeping us from being who we really are.”

  The problem that each of these colonizing memes ran into was reality . Every single world that human beings stepped out onto presented its own particular set of challenges—capping the volcanoes for geothermal energy, cracking the ice to make oceans, releasing water from the mantle to make air, mining heavy metals for industry, securing a power supply from the wind and the water and the sun, getting enough oxygen into the air, cooling the atmosphere with shadow fields, warming the seas with core taps, designing crops that could survive, dealing with hostile organisms, determining both long- and short-range weather patterns, constructing safe shelters, putting up satellites, establishing global communications, designing a working government.... Compared to the last challenge, of course, all the others were easy. You could always tell when a planet was viable—but nobody was ever convinced that a government was fine. Any government.

  And as each set of memes left the pure ideological vacuum of space and collided with the hard soil of reality, the laws of evolution kicked in. Each new world worked its own conditions, and the memes were given the same choice as every other survival-oriented entity: adapt or die. Those that adapted, evolved. And, inevitably, mutations occurred. The planets themselves added their own flavors to the mix, creating new memes in the ecology of ideas. Over time, the rigors of the environment always took precedence—in every case, the flavor of the planet eventually overwhelmed everything else, becoming the dominant taste in the stew.