THOSE OF MY BLOOD.

Jacqueline Lichtenberg.

Acknowledgments.

To Chelsea Quinn Yarbro for the "good vampire" Saint Germain, who fears his hunger because he might kill, and reaches out in love for the strength he needs.

To George R. R. Martin for Fevre Dream, and Joshua York's struggle to use science to live with his vampirism without killing humans.

To Andre Norton who bought my story, "Through the Moon Gate," for her Witch World anthology, and thus let me add a vampire to the Witch World-only on condition that he wasn't "evil."

I want to acknowledge a variety of help with this novel.

Jean Lorrah-professor of English, and sometime co-author of my Sime/Gen books as well as creator of the Savage Empire universe-in her review of my first novel, the Sime/Gen novel House of Zeor, called one of my protagonists a "vampire in muddy boots"-which is true. The primary archetype behind the Sime/ Gen concept is the vampire archetype. After seven Sime/Gen novels, I decided I was ready to try the real thing because it finally struck me that Jean and I both love "Star Trek" for how it uses one minor component of the vampire archetype-dangerous relationships-with love rather than "evil" and "horror."

Diana Stuart, the romance writer who often deals in fantasy elements such as werewolves, gave me vital technical tips as did Jane Toombs, who works in romantic historicals as well as historical romances.

Claire Gabriel, a consummate professional in the general fiction field who has come to sf/f through "Star Trek," returned after a ten-year absence to let a later draft of this ma.n.u.script keep her up till 2 A.M.-repeatedly. Since she has a deep aversion to vampire novels but loved this one, and didn't get nightmares, I'm most especially pleased.

Judy Segal, science teacher, literary agent, and dear friend, who does not believe in nor enjoy stories about vampires, read and enjoyed a very early draft of this one.

Anne Pinzow, a professional video producer and sometime slush pile reader for publishers and agents, made time to read and comment on a later draft, as did Roberta Klein-Mendelson whose professionalism lies in stagecraft, but who is also writing a vampire novel. Katie Filipowicz, who has been deeply involved in Sime/Gen fanzine production, and has proofed many a ma.n.u.script for me, made time to go over this one while running her school library.

Marjorie Robbins, the current head of the Sime/Gen Welcommittee, has worked hard to reduce the workload of mail I handle so I'd have time to write this novel. Through the Sime/ Gen fanzines she publishes, Householding Chanel Inquirer and First Transfer, she has kept Sime/Gen fans in touch with the progress of Those of My Blood and kept me aware of how much they are looking forward to my vampire novel.

Susan M. Garrett, publisher of the Vampire Quarterly, has kept fannish interest in vampires alive and well fed.

Victor Schmidt introduced me to Frank Kurt Cylke, the director of the National Library Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped, the division of the Library of Congress that records books and which has recorded some of my novels. I have gained great respect for these people and their high professional standards, but from my readers, I have also gained a deep appreciation of the hunger among the users of the national service for total access to my writing as well as to other "Star Trek" and sf publications.

As a result of this, Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer, editor and publisher of the Sime/Gen fanzine Ambrov Zeor, Marjorie Robbins, Ellie Miller, and a host of other volunteers energized and organized by Karen Litman, editor and publisher of Companion in Zeor, have run an auction and book sale to raise money for a pair of the special tape recorders needed, and the Sime/Gen fans are now finishing the job of putting all the Sime/ Gen fanzines and many other materials on tape. Victor Schmidt, a quality a.s.surance technician for the national recording service, strives mightily to help us achieve the highest possible standards.

As we have struggled with this task, our admiration for Mr. Cylke's achievements at the National Library Service has grown daily. There is no subst.i.tute for the quality product his service turns out, and we can only hope that sighted readers will write their congressmen urging greater appropriations for the recording program. Of the over eight hundred t.i.tles in sf/f published last year, they could only record seventy-two, a colossal achievement but far short of adequate.

In another context, I have to thank my chiropractor, Larry Suchoff. Every writer with a bad back knows what I'm thanking him for.

For contact with any of the above-mentioned individuals, with Sime/Gen fandom, or its publications, or for current status and availability on Sime/Gen or any of my other novels, send a legal size self-addressed, stamped envelope to: Ambrov Zeor, Dept. B, P.O. Box 290, Monsey, New York 10952.

If this fails to reach me, I may be contacted through any of my publishers or in care of my agent, Russell Galen, at Scott Meredith Literary Agency, 845 Third Ave., New York, N.Y. 10022, who deserves an Award of Valor and the Grankite Order of Tactics Cla.s.s of Excellence for the heroic efforts he has put forth on behalf of this book.

Stuart Moore, my editor, who had the courage to make a leap of faith, has given me the courage to do what had to be done with this book. I am especially eager to hear from readers of this novel with comments, criticism, or questions because I am now working on a companion volume for this novel, t.i.tled Dream Spy.

And now I come to the foundation of all the efforts alluded to above. My husband, Salomon, does what husbands do and it works. Who'd dare to ask for more?

Chapter one.

The tarmac of the Quito s.p.a.ceport shimmered in the harsh sun. The group of scientists bound for Project Hail on Luna milled about within the red-painted circle under the sign reading, HIGH SECURITY Pa.s.sENGER PICKUP.

They all wore Project Hail flight suits. Most had stacked their identical flight bags, each stenciled with the Project logo, at the place where the people-mover would soon pick them up. Two armed guards flanked the pile.

Dr. t.i.tus Shiddehara, clutching his own flight bag, hovered at the edge of the crowd, with them but not of them. He scanned them, searching for the one who would be his adversary, reminding himself not to squint against the sun.

Remember to act human, Connie had admonished him, and whatever you do, this time keep your objectivity. t.i.tus intended to do just that. Connie had made it very clear when she'd chosen him for this mission that, this time, his life depended on his objectivity.

Far to his left reporters crowded up against a guarded fence. They formed a churning ma.s.s of humanity punctuated by the snouts of video and sound recorders. One reporter, wearing a fashionable red fedora and reflective sungla.s.ses like t.i.tus's, watched-a stillness amidst their motion.

All around, guards in World Sovereignties uniforms patrolled the fence and surrounded the press box. t.i.tus's adversary would be inside the guards' line.

Off to t.i.tus's right were cl.u.s.ters of squat buildings. Out on the field, launch pads held commercial skytrucks. Project Hail's skybus was on the main pad, fuming as workers swarmed over it. They'd be boarding soon. If anything was to happen, it would happen now. Yet all was still.

Behind t.i.tus was the civilian pa.s.senger terminal. Squinting despite himself, t.i.tus saw two stragglers emerge and cross the tarmac to join the group. He wished his group had not been told to stand out here, in the brutal mountain sun. He couldn't see any security advantage to loitering so near the fence, and even the layers of sunscreen he'd slathered over his skin didn't protect him from scorching.

He squatted down to search his bag for his gray silk scarf. It could shade the back of his neck.

"Dr. Shiddehara! Something wrong?" called one straggler. Her voice was rich and melodious, the accent French, and the tone that of an administrator who would now take over. t.i.tus rose to meet Dr. Mirelle de Lisle. She was in her mid-thirties, short and compact, with a healthy complexion. Her hair was bound up in a hat with the Project logo on the band, a hat just like t.i.tus wore except that hers bore the sigil of Cognitive Sciences. She had pushed it back rakishly so the brim framed her face. t.i.tus wore his pulled low on his forehead for maximum shade.

Behind her came an older man with receding white hair and a well-controlled paunch. He carried his flight bag, and with his other hand slapped his hat against his thigh as he walked. Neither of them was the adversary t.i.tus expected.

t.i.tus called, "There's nothing wrong that I know of."

Mirelle came right into his personal s.p.a.ce as the French were wont to do, negligently dropping her flight bag next to his. t.i.tus stepped back. She retreated, sketching a French shrug, then she changed nationalities right before his eyes by simply shifting her body language. "Nothing wrong? But you were scowling so. The reporters offend you, no?"

Occasionally, a reporter's voice was heard shouting a question or asking someone to turn for the camera. t.i.tus shook his head. "My thoughts were elsewhere."

She readjusted her manner and edged closer. "There are many better things to think about than reporters." She hardly seemed to be the same person who had lectured the group with such austere competency on the use of translators.

And as she advanced this time, t.i.tus found, to his amazement, that he didn't need to step back. Formality melted away, and he felt a warm intimacy toward this woman.

Abruptly on guard, he focused his attention on her. The adversary could be a woman-but no-Mirelle was human. Yet she was controlling his responses as surely as if she were using Influence-the power of his people.

A rich smile of pure admiration crept over his face. Obviously, Communications Anthropology wasn't just psychology or linguistics. It included applied kinesics developed into a social power to which even his kind were not immune.

She returned his smile, one hand on her hat as she looked up at him. He fought the warmth she roused in him, unsure which of the women she showed the world was the real Mirelle de Lisle. But he wanted to find out.

The man with her touched her elbow with a proprietary gesture. "Dr. Shiddehara," he said. "Didn't I hear you tell the press earlier that you're confident you can identify the alien s.p.a.ce ship's home star?"

Now t.i.tus placed the man: Abner Gold, a metallurgist from the Toronto Inst.i.tute of Orbital Engineering who had trained at Sandia on weapons research, before World Sovereignties banned such companies. Definitely not my adversary.

"Dr. Gold," greeted t.i.tus. "Yes, given sufficient data on the ship, its occupants, and its approach trajectory, I can narrow the field to a handful of stars-a.s.suming the ship came from its home star." But it couldn't have.

"So your best calculations could turn out to be wrong?"

"Oh, yes, there's always-"

"You see, Mirelle? I told you-the Project is a waste of money Earth can ill afford. There's a good chance we'll pick the wrong star to aim our message at. But even if Dr. Shiddehara guesses right, we've no business wasting money sending a probe out to beam those aliens a message. The ship's most likely from a long dead civilization, and now there's no one out there for us to "Hail.""

t.i.tus yanked at his hat brim, turning away to hide the mixed relief and grief that idea aroused. His eye fell on the red hat of the reporter who now stood in the press box, an area inside the gate defined by a rope barricade. He was sighting through his telephoto lens-directly at t.i.tus.

Adjusting the sungla.s.ses he needed in addition to his darkening contacts, t.i.tus turned his back on the reporter and agreed, "Mathematics supports your argument, Dr. Gold. We've all seen the calculations based on the galaxy's size, and the distribution of stars likely to have habitable planets. The odds are against two similar civilizations meeting." But we have met! Only I'm glad you don't know it. Humans would slaughter those of my blood.

Gold crowed triumphantly, "What did I tell you, Doctor! Even the Project's chief astronomer agrees with me."

Mirelle slanted an open smile at t.i.tus. "Call me Mirelle, both of you. Everyone here answers to Doctor!"

Gold grinned, offering his hand. "Call me Abner."

She shook with Gold, then gave t.i.tus her hand. Her touch warmed him in a way that only a human woman could, and he had to remind himself he'd just taken a good meal. "t.i.tus," he offered. Her handshake was firm, brief, and seemed honestly her own. Is this the real Mirelle?

Then she turned to Gold, all brisk, polite professional. "Abner. t.i.tus isn't an astronomer. He's an astrophysicist. And-I don't think you let him finish. Did he?"

"No, I hadn't finished," t.i.tus said. "If there are people out there, then there's no reason to a.s.sume we won't encounter each other-because we are looking for each other. And we'll be in a much stronger position if we go to them than if we wait for them to come to us." Maybe.

"You see, Abner, he does too believe in the Project! You're the only one who thinks it's a waste."

"The majority is rarely right." Eyeing t.i.tus, Gold made it a challenge. "I wouldn't expect an astrophysicist to believe the Project's hand-waving argument."

"Your problem, Abner Gold," Mirelle declared, "is that you have no faith in people. And if you have no faith in human people, how could you ever make friends with nonhuman people?" Suddenly, as if shocked by her own words, she glanced into t.i.tus's sungla.s.ses, weighing, measuring.

"Friends with an alien?" scoffed Gold, but Mirelle kept staring at t.i.tus.

t.i.tus entertained the paranoid notion that she knew he was exactly such an alien as Project Hail sought to contact. With her skills, she might have seen something unhuman in him. Was that what all her flirting was about? Testing me?

He recalled another of Connie's admonitions: The only live elderly agents are thoroughly paranoid agents. On the other hand, certain human women were attracted to his kind.

"Why would anyone want to make friends with an alien?" asked Gold. "Trade, maybe, but friends?"

Mirelle stared at Gold, and shrugged, "Why not?"

t.i.tus focused on Mirelle as he prepared to break the promise he had made to himself when he'd discovered his power-never to use it against a defenseless human. He'd known, when he took this mission, that he'd have to set aside his scruples-but now that the moment was on him, he shuddered.

He hadn't realized his shudder was visible until Gold grinned. "So you finally see it! If they're aliens they can't be friends. The best we can hope for, even if our message is received, is some very expensive trading and a nonaggression pact. But friends are best made at home."

"Au contraire. I have found some of my best friends-and more than friends-very far from home. t.i.tus only just realized how reluctant he is to break a promise."

She's reading my mind! t.i.tus swallowed his panic. Stage magicians used muscle reading to simulate telepathy and muscle reading was a primitive version of Mirelle's science. He focused his Influence on her, suggesting that he was just an unremarkable human, not worth such close scrutiny.

He expected a facile rationalization as her interest was shunted aside. Instead, she continued speculatively, "I am most curious-break what promise, t.i.tus?"

"Oh, nothing much." He redoubled his effort to Influence her, a.s.suming she was a Resistive, a human difficult to Influence. A puzzled look flitted across her face. For no apparent reason she glanced over her shoulder.

"t.i.tus, look over there. That reporter-the one in the red hat-is photographing us!" She waved sunnily, posing beside t.i.tus, then she dragged him toward the press box, and in that instant, he knew.

She was a susceptible. She'd already been Influenced heavily, but not marked to warn off others of his blood. She was being used-certainly without her knowledge. He could hardly control the disgust that twisted his lips at this abuse. All thought of his own safety was wiped from his mind as he focused all his strength to free her of that control.

She smiled and chattered brightly, grabbing t.i.tus's hand and towing him toward the reporter-who now slipped under the rope barricade, pointing his video unit at them.

As he came closer, t.i.tus felt the unmistakable throb of Influence and knew the reporter was controlling Mirelle. Older, more powerful than t.i.tus, he was mockingly declaring himself an enemy, a member of the Tourist faction who didn't consider themselves of Earth at all.

t.i.tus focused on one of the W. S. guards, an older man with a ruddy complexion and beefy jowls, and attracted his attention. The man took out his phonelink.

Sensing the use of Influence on the guard, the Tourist grinned knowingly at t.i.tus and played his role to the hilt, calling out. "Doctors, do you think it friendly to "hail" an alien civilization from a false location?"

All of earth had been debating that ever since the Project Hail compromise had been announced-to send an instrument package out of the solar system to a remote point from which it would signal the aliens and wait for a reply in order to establish contact without revealing Earth's location.

"Don't answer him, Mirelle," commanded t.i.tus, with Influence. "Look at the press pa.s.s in his hat band. You don't want to be quoted in that ."

It almost worked. The Tourist chuckled and said, his words so veiled in Influence that to nearby humans they were inaudible, "t.i.tus, you and all of Connie's Residents can't stop us. So you may as well save yourself the ordeal of starving on the moon."

It wasn't the words so much as the friendly tone that got to t.i.tus. The man believed t.i.tus couldn't stop the Tourists' agent from sending their SOS out with the humans' message, an SOS that would reveal Earth's location and ask for rescue. To underscore t.i.tus's helplessness, the Tourist reporter wrenched control of Mirelle from t.i.tus and she replied to the reporter's question, speaking right toward the Tourist's microphone. "It's a terrible duplicity, and when the aliens discover what we've done, they may never trust us."

Infuriated, t.i.tus blasted a shaft of Influence at the guard, summoning the man as if there were a riot brewing.

The guard ran, a hand on his sidearm holster. To t.i.tus's surprise, the Tourist didn't try for control of the guard. The guard barked at the reporter, "The last press conference was this morning! Get back or I'll have your pa.s.s lifted!" Then he added courteously to the scientists, "Look there! You're about ready to board now."

t.i.tus, still trying to break through the superior Influence controlling Mirelle, gasped as it cut off. With a grin, the Tourist turned back to the press box and became lost in the crowd, saying to t.i.tus alone, "I don't know about you, but I'm getting in out of this sun before it fries me."

Mirelle yielded to t.i.tus's guiding hand. He plucked up his bag from beside hers and Gold's, still shaking.

A people-mover had pulled up to the scientists and a Project transport officer stood beside it with an electronic clipboard and a bullhorn. "Compartments one through ten, rear cabin, now boarding. When you arrive at the skybus, please step to the inspection station. This will be your last formal inspection, folks, so please be patient with us."

People consulted their boarding cards, while some translated the barely intelligible, amplified words for those who hadn't understood. The flight bags were heaped on the rear deck of the vehicle. t.i.tus gingerly placed his in a side nook, and then sat where he could keep an eye on it.

They rolled smoothly out across the tarmac to where the gantry still surrounded their skybus. The bright light glancing off the brilliant hull nearly blinded him. His skin, even under layers of clothing, felt singed. He yearned for the shade around the skybus.

The bus would lift them to the Luna shuttle. In a few days, they'd be on the moon and working at Project Station, the lab built around the crashed starship. In a few moments, he'd be beyond the reach of his friends, beyond his supply lines. He still hadn't identified his adversary, the Tourist who would try to send that SOS to the home planet of his kind.

As they filed out of the people-mover, t.i.tus edged to the front of the line, stopping only when two others glared at him. Mustn't be conspicuous. He took a place just behind Mirelle and braced against more exposure to the sun.

t.i.tus wondered if his adversary was an Influenced human. A suggestion to plant the Tourists' device in the humans' instrument package could lie dormant in a human mind until the right moment. He could not control a shiver of disgust at the idea of using a human to destroy human civilization. When the Residents had called on him, he'd pledged to die rather than allow the Tourists' SOS to be beamcast, but perhaps his life wouldn't be enough. He couldn't get the reporter's pitying certainty out of his mind.

The line filed along a bright red carpet that led through a sensor arch, past a long white counter, then on to the gantry's elevator. A smartly uniformed Sovereignties s.p.a.ce marine guarded the elevator. The official photographer stood by to take pictures as each of them entered the lift.

t.i.tus had no time to savor the moment when the first of his blood would go back into s.p.a.ce at last. The final challenge was upon him. He had to concentrate.

Behind the counters two men and two women stood at computer terminals ready to process the scientists. Security was tight because of threats from humans opposing Project Hail. t.i.tus watched carefully as Mirelle went under the arch and paused on the weighing platform.

One attendant took Mirelle's flight bag and jacket to pa.s.s it under the scope, while another inserted her boarding card into the reader. No problem. t.i.tus's card would program the computers to register his special supplies as ground coffee and tobacco-old-fashioned vices common at his social level, and permissible cargo.