except through me. We have to show him
that we can be trusted."
"I guess."
"If you and I could get the radios working, that might help. I know my
teachers haven't figured them out. Mr. Steel has one, but I don't think he
understands it either."
"Yeah. If we could get the other one to work..."
That afternoon the guards got a break: their two charges came in from
the cold early. The guards didn't question their good fortune.
Steel's den had originally been the Master's. It was very different
from the castle's meeting halls. Except for choirs, only a single pack would
fit in any room. It was not exactly that the suite was small. There were
five rooms, not counting the bath. But except for the library, none was more
than fifteen feet across. The ceilings were low, less than five feet; there
was no space for visitor balconies. Servants were always on call in the two
hallways that shared a wall with the quarters. The dining room, bedroom, and
bath had servant hatches, just big enough to give orders and to receive food
and drink, or preening oils.
The main entrance was guarded on the outside by three trooper packs. Of
course, the Master would never live in a den with only one exit. Steel had
found eight secret hatches (three in the sleeping quarters). These could
only be opened from within; they led to the maze that Flenser had built
within the solid rock of the castle's walls. No one knew the extent of that
maze, not even the Master. Steel had rearranged parts of it -- in particular
the passages leading from this den -- in the years since Flenser's
departure.
The quarters were nearly impregnable. Even if the castle fell, the
rooms' larder was stocked for half a year; ventilation was provided by a
network of channels almost as extensive as the Master's secret passages. All
in all, Steel felt tolerably safe here. There was always the possibility
that there were more than eight secret entrances, perhaps one that could be
opened from the other side.
And of course choirs were out of the question, here or anywhere. The
only extrapack sex that Steel indulged was with singletons -- and that as
part of his experiments; it was just too dangerous to mix one's self with
others.
After dinner, Steel drifted into the library. He relaxed around his
reading desk. Two of him sipped brandy while another smoked southern herbs.
This was pleasure, but also calculation: Steel knew just what vices, applied
to just which members, would raise his imagination to its keenest pitch.
... And more and more he was coming to see that imagination was at
least as important as raw intelligence in the present game. The desk between
him was covered with maps, reports from the south, internal security memos.
But lying in all the silkpaper, like an ivory slug in its nest, was the
alien radio. They had recovered two from the ship. Steel picked the thing
up, ran a nose along the smooth, curved sides. Only the finest stressed wood
could match its grace -- and that in musical instruments or statuary. Yet
the mantis claimed this could be used to talk across dozens of miles, as
fast as a ray of sunlight. If true ... Steel wondered how many lost battles
might have been won with these, and how many new conquests might be safely
undertaken. And if they could learn to make far-talkers ... the Movement's
subordinates, scattered across the continent, would be as near as the guards
by Steel's den. No force in the world could stand against them.
Steel picked up the latest report from Woodcarvers. In many ways they
were having more success with their mantis than Steel with his. Apparently
theirs was almost an adult. More important, it had a miraculous library that
could be interrogated almost like a living being. There had been three other
datasets. Steel's whitejackets had found what was left of them in the
burnt-out wreckage around the ship. Jefri thought that the ship's processors
were a little like a dataset, "only stupider" (Amdi's best translation), but
so far the processors had been useless.
But with their dataset, several on Woodcarver's staff had already
learned mantis talk. Each day they discovered more about the aliens'
civilization than Steel's people could in ten. He smiled. They didn't know
that all the important stuff was being faithfully reported to Hidden
Island.... For now he would let them keep their toy, and their mantis; they
had noticed several things that would have slipped by him. Still he damned
the luck.
Steel paged through the report.... Good. The alien at Woodcarvers was
still uncooperative. He felt his smile spreading into laughter: it was a
small thing, the creature's word for the Packs. The report tried to spell
out the word. It didn't matter; the translation was "claws" or "tines". The
mantis had a special horror for the tine attachments that soldiers wore on
their forepaws. Steel licked pensively at the black enamel of his manicured
claws. Interesting. Claws could be threatening things, but they were also
part of being a person. Tines were their mechanical extension, and
potentially more frightening. It was the sort of name you might imagine for
an elite killer force ... but never for all the Packs. After all, the race
of packs included the weak, the poor, the kindly, the naive ... as well as
persons like Steel and Flenser. It said something very interesting about
mantis psychology that the creature picked tines as the characterizing
feature of the Packs.
Steel eased back from his desk and gazed at the landscape painted
around the library's walls. It was a view from the castle towers. Behind the
paint, the walls were lined with patterns of mica and quartz and fiber; the
echoes gave a vague sense of what you might hear looking out across the
stone and emptiness. Combination audiovisuals were rare in the castle, and
this one was especially well-done; Steel could feel himself relaxing as he
stared at it. He drifted for a moment, letting his imagination roam.
Tines. I like it. If that was the alien's image, then it was the right
name for his race. His pitiful advisors -- and sometimes even the Flenser
Fragment -- were still intimidated by the ship from the stars. No question,
there was power in that ship beyond anything in the world. But after the
first panic, Steel understood that the aliens were not supernaturally
gifted. They had simply progressed -- in the sense that Woodcarver made so
much of -- beyond the current state of his world's science. Certainly the
alien civilization was a deadly unknown right now. Indeed, it might be
capable of burning this world to a cinder. Yet the more Steel saw, the more
he realized the intrinsic inferiority of the aliens: What a bizarre abortion
they were, a race of intelligent singletons. Every one of them must be
raised from nothing, like a wholly newborn pack. Memories could only be
passed by voice and writing. Each creature grew and aged and even died as a
whole. Despite himself, Steel shivered.
He had come a long way from the first misconceptions, the first fears.
For more than a thirty days now he'd been scheming to use the star ship to
rule the world. The mantis said that ship was signaling others. That had
reduced some of his Servants to incontinence. So. Sooner or later, more
ships would arrive. Ruling the world was no longer a practical goal.... It
was time to aim higher, at goals even the Master had never imagined. Take
away their technical advantages and the mantis folk were such finite,
fragile beings. They should be easy to conquer. Even they seemed to realize
this. Tines, the creature calls us. So it will be. Some day Tines would pace
between the stars and rule there.
But in the years till then, life would be very dangerous. Like a
newborn pup, all their potential could be destroyed by one small blow. The
Movement's survival -- the world's survival -- would depend upon superior
intelligence, imagination, discipline, and treachery. Fortunately, those had
always been Steel's great strengths.
Steel dreamed in the candlelight and haze.... Intelligence,
imagination, discipline, treachery. Done right ... could the aliens be
persuaded to eliminate all of Steel's enemies ... and then bare their
throats to him? It was daring, almost beyond reason, but there might be a
way. Jefri claimed he could operate the ship's signaler. By himself? Steel
doubted it. The alien was thoroughly duped, but not especially competent.
Amdiranifani was a different story. He was showing all the genius of his
bloodlines. And the principles of loyalty and sacrifice his teachers drilled
into him had taken hold, though he was a bit ... playful. His obedience
didn't have the sharp edge that fear could bring. No matter. As a tool he
was useful beyond all others. Amdiranifani understood Jefri, and seemed to
understand the alien artifacts even better than the mantis did.
The risk must be taken. He would let the two aboard the ship. They
would send his message in place of the automatic distress signal. And what
should that first message be? Word for word, it would be the most important,
most dangerous thing any pack had ever said.
Three hundred yards away, deep in the experiment wing, a boy and a pack
of puppies came across an unexpected piece of good luck: an unlocked door,
and a chance to play with Jefri's commset.
The phone was more complex than some. It was intended for hospital and
field work, for the remote control of devices as well as for voice talk. By
trial and error, the two gradually narrowed the options.
Jefri Olsndot pointed to numbers that had appeared on the side of the
device. "I think that means we're matched with some receiver." He glanced
nervously at the doorway. Something told him they really shouldn't be here.
"That's the same pattern as on the radio Mr. Steel took," said Amdi.
Not even one of his heads was watching the door.
"I bet if we press it here, what we say will come out on his radio. Now
he'll know we can help.... So what should we do?"
Three of Amdi raced around the room, like dogs that couldn't keep their
attention on the conversation. By now, Jefri knew this was the equivalent of
a human looking away and humming as he thought. The angle of his gaze was
another gesture, in this case a spreading and mischievous smile. "I think we
should surprise him. He is always so serious."
"Yeah." Mr. Steel was pretty solemn. But then all the adults were. They
reminded him of the older scientists at the High Lab.
Amdi grabbed the radio and gave him a "just watch this" look. He nosed
on the "talk" switch and sang a long ululation into the mike. It sounded
only vaguely like pack speech. One of Amdi translated, next to Jefri's ear.
The human boy felt giggles stealing up his throat.
In his den, Lord Steel was lost in scheming. His imagination -- loosed
by herbs and brandy -- floated free, playing with the possibilities. He was
settled deep in velvet cushions, comfortable in the den's safety. The
remaining candles shone faintly on the landscape mural, glinting from the
polished furniture. The story he would tell the aliens, he almost had it
now....
The noise on his desk began as a small thing, submerged beneath his
dreaming. It was mostly low-pitched, but there were overtones in the range
of thought, like slices of another mind. It was a presence, growing. Someone
is in my den! The thought tore like Flenser's killing blade. Steel's members
spasmed panic, disoriented by smoke and drink.
There was a voice in the middle of the insanity. It was distorted,
missing tones that any normal speech should have. It howled and quavered at
him, "Lord Steel! Greetings from the Pack of Packs, the Lord God Almighty!"
Part of Steel was already out the main hatch, staring wide-eyed at his
guards in the hallway beyond. The troopers' presence brought a bit of calm,
and icy embarrassment. This is nonsense. He tipped a head to the alien
device on his desk. The echoes were everywhere, but the sounds originated in
the far-talker.... There was no pack speech now, just the high-pitched
slices of sound, mindless warbling in the middle range of thought. Wait.
Behind it all, faint and low ... there were the coughing grunts he
recognized as mantis laughter.
Steel rarely gave way to rage. It should be his tool, not his master.
But listening to the laughter, and remembering the words.... Steel felt
black bloodiness rising in first one member and then another. Almost without
thought, he reached back and smashed the commset. It fell instantly silent.
He glared at the guards ranged at attention in the hallway. Their mind noise
was quiet with stifled fear.
Someone would die for this.
Mr. Steel met with Amdi and Jefri the day after their success with the
radio. They had convinced him. They were moving to the mainland. Jefri would
have his chance to call for rescue!
Steel was even more solemn than usual; he made a big thing about how
important it was to get help, to defend against another attack from the
Woodcarvers. But he didn't seem angry about Amdi's little prank. Jefri
breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Back home, Daddy would have tanned his hide
for something like that. I guess Amdi is right. Mr. Steel was serious
because of all his responsibilities and the dangers they faced. But
underneath he was a very nice person.
-=*=-
Crypto: 0
As received by: Transceiver Relay03 at Relay
Language path: Firetongue->Cloudmark->Triskweline, SjK units
[Firetongue and Cloudmark are High Beyond trade languages. Only core meaning is rendered by this translation.]
From: Arbitration Arts Corporation at Firecloud Nebula [A High Beyond
military[?] organization. Known age ~100 years]
Subject: Reason for concern
Summary: Three single-system civilizations are apparently destroyed
Key phrases: scale interstellar disasters, scale interstellar warfare?,
Straumli Realm Perversion
Distribution:
War Trackers Interest Group, Threats Interest Group, Homo Sapiens Interest Group
Date: 53.57 days since the fall of Straumli Realm
Text of message:
Recently an obscure civilization announced it had created a new Power
in the Transcend. It then dropped "temporarily" off the Known Net. Since
that time, there have been about a million messages in Threats about the
incident -- plenty of speculations that a Class Two Perversion had been born
-- but no evidence of effects beyond the boundaries of the former "Straumli
Realm".
Arbitration Arts specializes in treckle lansing disputes. As such, we
have few common business interests with natural races or Threats Group. That
may have to change: sixty-five hours ago, we noticed the apparent extinction
of three isolated civilizations in the High Beyond near Straumli Realm. Two
of these were Eye-in-the-U religious probes, and the third was a Pentragian
factory. Previously their main Net link had been Straumli Realm. As such,
they have been off the Net since Straumli dropped, except for occasional
pinging from us.
We diverted three missions to perform fly-throughs. Signal
reconnaissance revealed wideband communication that was more like neural
control than local net traffic. Several new large structures were noted. All
our vessels were destroyed before detailed information could be returned.
Given the background of these settlements, we conclude that this is not the
normal aftermath of a transcending.
These observations are consistent with a Class Two attack from the
Transcend (albeit a secretive one). The most obvious source would be the new
Power constructed by Straumli Realm. We urge special vigilance to all High
Beyond civilizations in this part of the Beyond. We larger ones have little
to fear, but the threat is very clear.
Crypto: 0
As received by: Transceiver Relay03 at Relay
Language path: Firetongue->Cloudmark->Triskweline, SjK units
[Firetongue and Cloudmark are High Beyond trade languages. Only core meaning is rendered by this translation.]
From: Arbitration Arts Corporation at Firecloud Nebula [A High Beyond
military[?] organization. Known age ~100 years]
Subject: New service available
Summary: Arbitration Arts to provide Net relay service
Key phrases: Special Rates, Sentient Translator Programs, Ideal for
civilizations in the High Beyond
Distribution:
Communication Costs Interest Group, Motley Hatch Administration Group
Date: 61.00 days since the fall of Straumli Realm
Text of message:
Arbitration Arts is proud to announce a transceiver-layer service
especially designed for sites in the High Beyond [rates tabulated after the
text of this message]. State of the Zone programs will provide high quality
translation and routing. It has been nearly one hundred years since any High
Beyond civilization in this part of the Galaxy has been interested in
providing such a communication service. We realize the job is dull and the
armiphlage not in keeping with the effort, but we all stand to benefit from
protocols that are consistent with the Zone we live in. Details follow under
syntax 8139. ... [Cloudmark:Triskweline translator program balks at handling
syntax 8139.]
Crypto: 0
As received by: Transceiver Relay03 at Relay
Language path: Cloudmark->Triskweline, SjK units
[Cloudmark is a High Beyond trade language. Despite colloquial rendering, only core meaning is guaranteed.]
From: Transcendent Bafflements Trading Union at Cloud Center
Subject: Matter of life and death
Summary: Arbitration Arts has fallen to Straumli Perversion via a Net
attack. Use Middle Beyond relays till emergency passes!
Key phrases: Net attack, scale interstellar warfare, Straumli
Perversion
Distribution:
War Trackers Interest Group, Threats Interest Group, Homo Sapiens Interest Group
Date: 61.12 days since the fall of Straumli Realm
Text of message:
WARNING! The site identifying itself as Arbitration Arts is now
controlled by the Straumli Perversion. The Arts' recent advertisement of
communications services is a deadly trick. In fact we have good evidence
that the Perversion used sapient Net packets to invade and disable the Arts'
defenses. Large portions of the Arts now appear to be under direct control
of the Straumli Power. Parts of the Arts that were not infected in the
initial invasion have been destroyed by the converted portions: Fly-throughs
show several stellifications.
What can be done: If during the last thousand seconds, you have
received any High Beyond protocol packets from "Arbitration Arts", discard
them at once. If they have been processed (then chances are it is the
Perversion who is reading this message and with a [broad smile]), then the
processing site and all locally netted sites must be physically destroyed at
once. We realize that this means the destruction of solar systems, but
consider the alternative. You are under Transcendent attack.
If you survive the initial peril (the next thirty hours or so), then
there are obvious procedures that can give relative safety: Do not accept
High Beyond protocol packets. At the very least, route all communications
through Middle Beyond sites, with translation down to, and then up from,
local trade languages.
For the longer term: It's obvious that an extraordinarily powerful
Class Two Perversion has bloomed in our region of the galaxy. For the next
thirteen years or so, all advanced civilizations near us will be in great
danger.
If we can identify the background of the current perversion, we may
discover its weaknesses and a feasible defense. Class Two Perversions all
involve a deformed Power that creates symbiotic structures in the High
Beyond -- but there is enormous variety of origins. Some are poorly-formed
jokes told by Powers no longer on the scene. Others are weapons built by the
newly transcendent and never properly disarmed.
The immediate source of this danger is well-documented: a species
recently up from the Middle Beyond, Homo sapiens, founded Straumli Realm. We
are inclined to believe the theory proposed in messages [...], namely that
Straumli researchers experimented with something in Shortcuts, and that the
recipe was a self-booting evil from an earlier time. One possibility: Some
loser from long ago planted how-to's on the Net (or in some lost archive)
for the use of its own descendants. Thus, we are interested in any
information related to Homo sapiens.
-=*=-
The next day Amdi went on the longest trip of his young life. Bundled
in windbreakers, they traveled down wide, cobbled streets to the straits
below the castle. Mr. Steel led the way on a chariot-cart drawn by three
kherhogs. He looked marvelous in his red- striped jackets. Guards dressed in
white fur rolled along on either side, and the dour Tyrathect brought up the
rear. The aurora was as brilliant as Amdijefri had ever seen, brighter in
sum than the full moon above the northern horizon. Icicles grew down from
buildings' eaves, sometimes all the way to the ground: glittering,
green-silver pillars in the light.
Then they were on the boats, rowing across the straits. The water swept
like chill black stone around the hulls.
When they reached the other side, Starship Hill towered over them,
higher than any castle could ever be. Every minute brought new visions, new
worlds.
It took half an hour to reach the top of that hill, even though their
carts were pulled by Kherhogs, and nobody walked. Amdi looked in all
directions, awed by the landscape that spread, aurora-lit, below them. At
first Jefri seemed just as excited, but as they reached the hilltop, he
stopped looking around and hugged painfully hard at his friend.
Mr. Steel had built a shelter around the starship. Inside, the air was
still and a little warmer. Jefri stood at the base of the spidery stairs,
looking up at the light that spilled from the ship's open doorway. Amdi felt
him shivering.
"Is he frightened of his own flier?" asked Tyrathect.
By now Amdi knew most of Jefri's fears, and understood most of the
despair. How would I feel if Mr. Steel were killed? "No, not scared. It's
the memories of what happened here."
Steel said gently, "Tell him we could come again. He doesn't have to go
inside today."
Jefri shook his head at the suggestion, but couldn't answer right away.
"I've got to go on. I've got to be brave." He started slowly up the stairs,
stopping at each step to make sure that Amdi was still all with him. The
puppies were split between concern for Jefri and the desire to rush madly
into this wonderful mystery.
Then they were through the hatch, and into Two-Legs strangeness. Bright
bluish light, air as warm as in the castle ... and dozens of mysterious
shapes. They walked to the far side of the big room, and Mr. Steel stuck
some heads in the entrance. His mind sounds echoed loudly around them. "I've
quilted the walls, Amdi, but even so, there isn't room for more than one of
us in here."
"Y-yes," there were echoes and Steel's mind sounded strangely fierce.
"It's up to you to protect your friend here, and let me know about
everything you see." He moved back so that just one head still looked in
upon them.
"Yes. Yes! I will." It was the first time anybody except Jefri had
really needed him.
Jefri wandered silently about the room full of his sleeping friends. He
wasn't crying any more, and he wasn't in the silent funk that often held
him. It was as if he couldn't quite believe where he was. He passed his
hands lightly across the caskets, looked at the faces within. So many
friends, thought Amdi, waiting to be wakened. What will they be like?
"The walls? I don't remember this ..." said Jefri. He touched the heavy
quilting that Steel had hung.
"It's to make the place sound better," said Amdi. He pulled at the
flaps, wondering what was behind: Green wall, like stone and steel all at
once ... and covered with tiny bumps and fingers of gray. "What's this?"
Jefri was looking over his shoulders. "Ug. Mold. It's spread. I'm glad
Mr. Steel has covered it up." The human boy drifted away. Amdi stayed a
second longer, poked several heads up close to the stuff. Mold and fungus
were a constant problem in the castle; people were always cleaning it up --
and perversely so, in Amdi's opinion. He thought fungus was neat, something
that could grow on hardest rock. And this stuff was especially strange. Some
of the clumps were almost half an inch high, but wispy, like solid smoke.
The back-looking part of him saw that Jefri had drifted off toward the
inner cabin. Reluctantly, Amdi followed.
They stayed in the ship only an hour that first time. In the inner
cabin Jefri turned on magic windows that looked out in all directions. Amdi
sat goggle-eyed; this was a trip to heaven.
For Jefri it was something else. He hunched down in a hammock and
stared at the controls. The tension slowly left his face.
"I -- I like it here," said Amdi, tentatively, softly.
Jefri rocked gently in the hammock. "... Yes." He sighed. "I was so
afraid ... but being here makes me feel closer to ..." His hands reached out
to caress the panel that hung close to the hammock. "My dad landed this
thing; he was sitting right here." He twisted around, looked at a glimmering
panel of light above him. "And Mom got the ultrawave all set.... They did it
all. And now it's only you and me, Amdi. Even Johanna is gone.... It's all
up to us."
-=*=-
Vrinimi Classification: Organizational SECRET. Not for distribution
beyond Ring 1 of the local net.
Transceiver Relay00 search log:
Beginning 19:40:40 Docks Time, 17/01 of Org year 52090 [128.13 days
since the fall of Straumli Realm]
Link layer syntax 14 message loop detected on assigned surveillance
bearing. Signal strength and S/N compatible with previously detected beacon
signal.
Language path: Samnorsk, SjK:Relay units
From: Jefri Olsndot at I dont know where this is
Subject: Hello. My names Jefri Olsndot. Our ships hurt adnd we need
help. pPlease anser.
Summary: Sorry if I get some of this wrong. This keybord is STUPID!!
Key phrases: I dont know
To: Relay anybody
Text of message: [empty]
.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush
CHAPTER 15
Two Skroderiders played in the surf.
"Do you think his life is in danger?" asked the one with the slender
green stalk.
"Whose life?" said the other, a large rider with a bluish basal shell.
"Jefri Olsndot, the human child."
Blueshell sighed to himself and consulted his skrode. You come to the
beach to forget the cares of the everyday, but Greenstalk would not let them
go. He scanned for danger-to-Jefri: "Of course he's in danger, you twit!
Look up the latest messages from him."
"Oh." Greenstalk's tone was embarrassed. "Sorry for the partial
remembering," remembering enough to worry and nothing more. She went silent;
after a moment he heard her pleasured humming. The surf crashed endlessly
past them.
Blueshell opened to the water, tasting the life that swirled in the
power of the waves. It was a beautiful beach. It was probably unique -- and
that was an extreme thing to say about anything in the Beyond. When the foam
swept back from their bodies, they could see indigo sky spread from one side
of the Docks to the other, and the glint of starships. When the surf came
forward, the two Riders were submerged in the turbid chill, surrounded by
the coralesks and intertidal creatures that built their little homes here.
And at high "tide" the flexure of the sea floor held steady for an hour or
so. Then the water cleared, and if in daylight, they could see patches of
glassy sea-bottom ... and through them, a thousand kilometers below, the
surface of Groundside.
Blueshell tried to clear his mind of care. For every hour of peaceful
contemplation, a few more natural memories would accumulate.... No good.
Just now he could no more banish the worries than could Greenstalk. After a
moment, he said, "Sometimes I wish I were a Lesser Rider." To stand a
lifetime in one place, with just a minimum skrode.
"Yes," said Greenstalk. "But we decided to roam. That means giving up
certain things. Sometimes we must remember things that happen only once or
twice. Sometimes we have great adventures: I'm glad we took the rescue
contract, Blueshell."
So neither of them were really in the mood for the sea today. Blueshell
lowered the skrode's wheels and rolled a little closer to Greenstalk. He
looked deep into his skrode's mechanical memory, scanning the general
databases. There was a lot there about catastrophes. Whoever created the
original skrode databases had considered wars and blights and perversion
very important. They were exciting things, and they could kill you.
But Blueshell could also see that in relative terms, such disasters
were a small part of the civilized experience. Only about once in a
millennium was there a massive blight. It was their bad luck to be caught
near such a thing. In the last ten weeks a dozen civilizations in the High
Beyond had dropped from the Net, absorbed into the symbiotic amalgam that
now was called the Straumli Blight. High trade was crippled. Since their
ship was refinanced, he and Greenstalk had flown several jobs, but all to
the Middle Beyond.
The two of them had been very cautious, but now -- as Greenstalk said
-- greatness might be thrust upon them. Vrinimi Org wanted to commission a
secret flight to the Bottom of the Beyond. Since he and Greenstalk were
already in on the secret, they were the natural choice for the job. Right
now, the Out of Band II was in the Vrinimi yards getting bottom-lugger
enhancements and a huge stock of antenna drones. In one stroke the OOB's
value was increased ten-thousand-fold. There had been no need even to
bargain!... and that was the scariest thing of all. Every addition was a
clear essential for the trip. They would be descending right to the edge of
the Slowness. Under the best of circumstances this would be slow and tedious
exercise, but the latest surveys reported movement in the zone boundaries.
With bad luck, they might actually end up on the wrong side, where light had
the ultimate speed. If that should happen, the new ramscoop would be their
only hope.
All that was within Blueshell's range of acceptable business. Before he
met Greenstalk, he had shipped on bottom-luggers, even been stranded once or
twice. But -- "I like adventure as much as you," said Blueshell, a grumpy
edge creeping into his voice. "Traveling to the Bottom, rescuing sophonts
from the claws of wildthings: given enough money, it's all perhaps
reasonable. But ... what if that Straumer ship is really as important as
Ravna thinks? After all this time it seems absurd, but she's convinced
Vrinimi Org of the possibility. If there's something down there that could
harm the Straumli Blight -- " If the Blight ever suspected the same, it
could have a fleet of ten thousand warships descending on their goal. Down
at the Bottom they might be little better than conventional vessels, but he
and Greenstalk would be no less dead for that.
Except for a faint daydreamy hum, Greenstalk was silent. Had she had
lost track of the conversation? Then her voice came to him through the
water, a reassuring caress. "I know, Blueshell, it could be the end of us.
But I still want to venture it. If it's safe, we make enormous profit. If
our going could harm the Blight ... well, then it's terribly important. Our
help might save dozens of civilizations -- a million beaches of Riders, just
in passing."
"Hmpf. You're following stalk and not skrode."
"Probably." They had watched the progress of the Blight since its
beginning. The feelings of horror and sympathy had been reinforced every day
till they percolated into their natural minds. So Greenstalk (and Blueshell
too; he couldn't deny it) felt stronger about the Blight than about the
danger in their new contract. "Probably. My fears of making the rescue are
still analytical," still confined to her skrode. "Yet ... I think if we
could stand here a year, if we could wait till we truly felt all the issues
... I think we would still choose to go."
Blueshell rolled irritably back and forth. The grit swirled up and
through his fronds. She was right, she was right. But he couldn't say it
aloud; the mission still terrified him.
"And think, mate: If it is this important, then perhaps we can get
help. You know the Org is negotiating with the Emissary Device. With any
luck we'll end up with an escort designed by a Transcendental Power."
The image almost made Blueshell laugh. Two little Skroderiders,
journeying to the Bottom of the Beyond -- surrounded by help from the
Transcend. "I will hope for it."
The Skroderiders were not the only ones with that wish. Further up the
beach, Ravna Bergsndot prowled her office. What gruesome irony that even the
greatest disasters can create opportunities for decent people. Her transfer
to Marketing had been made permanent with the fall of Arbitration Arts. As
the Blight spread and High Beyond markets collapsed, the Org became ever
more interested in providing information services about the Straumli
Perversion. Her "special" expertise in things human suddenly became
extraordinarily valuable -- never mind that Straumli Realm itself was only a
small part of what was now the Blight. What little the Blight said of itself
was often in Samnorsk. Grondr and company continued to be vitally interested
in her analysis.
Well, she had done some good. They had picked up the refugee ship's
"I-am-here", and then -- ninety days later -- a message from a human
survivor, Jefri Olsndot. Barely forty messages had they exchanged, but
enough to learn about the Tines and Mr. Steel and the evil Woodcarvers.
Enough to know that a small human life would be ended if she could not help.
Ironic but natural: most times that single life weighed more on her than all
the horror of the Perversion, even the fall of Straumli Realm. Thank the
Powers that Grondr had endorsed the rescue mission: It was a chance to learn
something important about the Straumli Perversion. And the Tinish packs
seemed to interest him, too; group minds were a fleeting thing in the
Beyond. Grondr had kept the whole affair secret, and persuaded his bosses to
support the mission. But all his help might not be enough. If the refugee
ship was as important as Ravna thought, there could be enormous perils
awaiting any rescuers.
Ravna looked across the surf. When the waves backed down the sand, she
could see the Skroderiders' fronds peeping out of the spray. How she envied
them; if tensions annoyed them, they could simply turn them off. The
Skroderiders were one of the most common sophonts in the Beyond. There were
many varieties, but analysis agreed with legend: very long ago they had been
one species. Somewhere in the off-Net past, they had been sessile dwellers
of sea shores. Left to themselves, they had developed a form of intelligence
almost devoid of short-term memory. They sat in the surf, thinking thoughts
that left no imprints on their minds. Only repetition of a stimulus, over a
period of time, could do that. But the intelligence and memory that they had
was of survival value: it made it possible for them to select the best
possible place to cast their pupal seeds, locations that would mean safety
and food for the next generation.
Then some unknown race had chanced upon the dreamers and decided to
"help" them out. Someone had put them on mobile platforms, the skrodes. With
wheels they could move along the seashores, could reach and manipulate with
their fronds and tendrils. With the skrode's mechanical short-term memory,
they could learn fast enough that their new mobility would not kill them.
Ravna glanced away from the Skroderiders -- someone was floating in
over the trees. The Emissary Device. Maybe she should call Greenstalk and
Blueshell out of the water. No. Let'em bliss out a little longer. If she
couldn't get the special equipment, things would be tough enough for them
later....
Besides, I can do without witnesses. She folded her arms across her
chest and glared into the sky. The Vrinimi Org had tried to talk to the Old
One about this, but nowadays the Power would only work through its Emissary
Device ... and he had insisted on a face-to-face meeting.
The Emissary touched down a few meters away, and bowed. His lopsided
grin spoiled the effect. "Pham Nuwen, at your service."
Ravna gave a little bow in return, and led him to the shade of her
inner office. If he thought that face-to-face would unnerve her, he was
right. "Thanks for the meeting, sir. The Vrinimi Organization has an
important request of your principal," owner? master? operator?
Pham Nuwen plunked himself down, stretching indolently. He'd stayed out
of her way since that night at The Wandering Company. Grondr said Old One
had kept him at Relay though, rummaging through the archives for information
about humanity and its origins. It made sense now that Old One had been
persuaded to restrict Net use: the Emissary could do local processing, i.e.,
use human intelligence to search and summarize and then upload only the
stuff that Old One really needed.
Ravna watched him out of the corner of her eye as she pretended to
study her dataset. Pham had his old, lazy smile. She wondered if she would
ever have the courage to ask him how much of their ... affair ... had been a
human thing. Had Pham Nuwen felt anything for her? Hell, did he even have a
good time?
From a Transcendent point of view, he might be a simple data
concentrator and waldo -- but from her viewpoint he was still too human.
"Um, yes. Well ... the Org has continued to monitor the Straumli refugee
ship even though your principal has lost interest."
Pham's eyebrows raised in polite interest. "Oh?"
"Ten days ago, the simple 'I-am-here' signal was interrupted by a new
message, apparently from a surviving crewmember."
"Congratulations. You managed to keep it a secret, even from me."
Ravna didn't rise to the bait. "We're doing our best to keep it secret
from everyone, sir. For reasons that you must know." She put the messages to
date on the air between them. A handful of calls and responses, scattered
across ten days. Translated into Triskweline for Pham, the original spelling
and grammar errors were gone, yet the tone remained. Ravna was responsible
for the Org side of the conversation. It was like talking to someone in a
dark room, someone you have never seen. Much was easy to imagine: a
strident, piping voice behind the capitalized words and exclamation marks.
She had no video of the child, but through the humankind archive at Sjandra
Kei, Marketing had dug up pictures of the boy's parents. They looked like
typical Straumers, but with the brown eyes of the Linden clans. Little Jefri
would be slim and dark.
Pham Nuwen's gaze flicked down through the text, then seemed to hang on
the last few lines:
...
Org[17]: How old are you, Jefri?
Target[18]: I am eight. I mean I am eight years old. I AM OLD ENOUGH
BUT I NEED HELP.
Org[18]: We will help. We are coming as fast as we can, Jefri.
Target[19]: Sorry I couldn't talk yesterday. The bad people were on the
hill again yesterday. It wasn't safe to go to the ship.
Org[19]: Are the bad ones that close by?
Target[20]: Yes yes. I could see them from the island. I'm with Amdi on
shipboard now, but walking up here there were dead soldiers all around.
Woodcarver raids here often.
Mother is dead. Father is dead. Johanna is dead. Mister Steel will protect me as much as he can. He says that I must be brave.
For a moment, his smile was gone. "Poor kid," he said softly. Then he
shrugged and jabbed his hand at one of the messages. "Well, I'm glad Vrinimi
is sending a rescue mission. That is generous of you."
"Not really, sir. Look at items six through fourteen. The boy is
complaining about the ship's automation."
"Yeah, he makes it sound like something out of a dawn age: keyboards
and video, no voice recognition. A completely unfriendly interface. Looks
like the crash scragged almost everything, eh?"
He was being deliberately obtuse, but Ravna resolved to be infinitely
patient. "Perhaps not, considering the vessel's origin." Pham just smiled,
so Ravna continued to spell things out. "The processors are likely High
Beyond or Transcendent, snuffed down to near brainlessness by the current
environment."
Pham Nuwen sighed. "All consistent with the Skroderiders' theory,
right? You're still hoping this crate is carrying some tremendous secret
that will blow the Blight away."
"Yes!.... Look. At one time, the Old One was very curious about all
this. Why the total disinterest now? Is there some reason why the ship can't
be the key to fighting the Perversion?" That was Grondr's explanation for
the Old One's recent lack of interest. All her life Ravna Bergsndot had
heard tales of the Powers, and always from a great remove. Here, she was
awfully close to questioning one directly. It was a very strange feeling.
After a moment Pham said, "No. It's unlikely, but you could be right."
Ravna let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Good.
Then what we're asking is reasonable. Suppose the downed ship contains
something the Perversion needs, or something it fears. Then it's likely the
Perversion knows of its existence -- and may even be monitoring ultradrive
traffic in that part of the Bottom. A rescue expedition could lead the
Perversion right to it. In that case, the mission will be suicide for its
crew -- and could increase the Blight's overall power."
"So?"
Ravna slapped her dataset, resolutions of patience dissolving. "So,
Vrinimi Org is asking Old One's help to build an expedition the Blight can't
knock over!"
Pham Nuwen just shook his head. "Ravna, Ravna. You're talking about an
expedition to the Bottom of the Beyond. There's no way a Power can hold your
hand down there. Even an Emissary Device would be mostly on its own there."
"Don't act like more of a jerk than you are, Pham Nuwen. Down there,
the Perversion will be at just as much a disadvantage. What we're asking for
is equipment of Transcendent manufacture, designed for those depths, and
provided in substantial quantities."
"Jerk?" Pham Nuwen drew himself up, but there was still the ghost of
smile on his face. "Is that how you normally address a Power?"
Before this year, I would have died rather than address a Power in any
manner. She leaned back, giving him her own version of an indolent smile.
"You have a pipeline to god, Mister, but let me tell you a little secret: I
can tell whether it's open or closed."
Polite curiosity: "Oh? How is that?"
"Pham Nuwen -- left on his own -- is a bright, egotistical guy, and
about as subtle as a kick in the head." She thought back to their time
together. "I don't really start worrying until the arrogance and smart
remarks go away."
"Um. Your logic is a little weak. If the Old One were running me
direct, he could just as easily play a jerk as," he cocked his head, "as the
man of your dreams."
Ravna gritted her teeth. "That's true, but I've got a little help from
my boss. He's cleared me to monitor transceiver usage." She looked at her
dataset. "Right now, your Old One is getting less than ten kilobits per
second from all of Relay... which means, my friend, that you are not being
tele-operated. Any crass behavior I see today is the true Pham Nuwen."
The redhead chuckled, faint embarrassment evident. "You got me. I'm on
detached duty, have been ever since the Org persuaded Old One to back off.
But I want you to know that all those ten Kbps are dedicated to this
charming conversation." He paused as if listening, then waved his hand. "Old
One says 'hi'."
Ravna laughed despite herself; there was something absurd about the
gesture, and the notion that a Power would indulge such trivial humor.
"Okay. I'm glad he can, um, sit in. Look, Pham, we're not asking for much by
Transcendent standards, and it could save whole civilizations. Give us a few
thousand ships; robot oneshots would be fine."
"Old One could make that many, but they wouldn't be much better that
what's built down here. Tricking -- " he paused, looking surprised by his
own choice of words, "tricking the Zones is subtle work."
"Fine. Quality or quantity. We'll settle for whichever the Old One
thinks -- "
"No."
"Pham! We're talking about a few days work for the Old One. It's
already paid more to study the Blight." Their single wild evening might have
cost as much -- but she didn't say that.
"Yes, and Vrinimi has spent most of it."
"Paying off the customers you stepped on! ... Pham, can't you at least
tell us why?"
The lazy smile faded from his face. She took a quick glance at her
dataset. No, Pham Nuwen was not possessed. She remembered the look on his
face when he read the mail from Jefri Olsndot; there was a decent human
being lurking behind all the arrogance. "I'll give it a try. Keep in mind --
even though I've been part of Old One -- I'm remembering and explaining with
human limitations.
"You're right, the Perversion is chewing up the Top of the Beyond.
Maybe fifty civilizations will die before this Power gets tired of screwing
around -- and for a couple of thousand years after that there'll be 'echoes'
of the disaster, poisoned star systems, artificial races with bloody-minded
ideas. But -- I hate to say it this way -- so what? Old One has been
thinking about this problem, off and on, for more than a hundred days.
That's a long time for a Power, especially Old One. He's existed for more
than ten years now; his minds are drifting fast toward ... changes ... that
will put him beyond all communication. Why should he give a damn about
this?"
It was a standard topic in school, but Ravna couldn't help herself.
This time it was for real. "But history is full of incidents where Powers
helped Beyonder races, sometimes even individuals." She had already looked
up the Beyonder race that created Old One. They were gasbag creatures. Their
netmail was mostly jabberwocky even after Relay's best interpretation.
Apparently they had no special leverage with Old One. The direct appeal was
about all she had. "Look. Turn the thing around: Even ordinary humans don't
need special explanation to help animals that are hurting."
Pham's smile was beginning to come back. "You're so big on analogies.
Remember that no analogy is perfect, and the more complex the automation the
more complex the possible motivations. But ... okay, how about this for an
analogy: Old One is a basically decent guy, with a nice home in a good part
of town. One day he notices he has a new neighbor, a scruffy fellow whose
homestead is awhiff with toxic sludge. If you were Old One, you'd be
concerned, right? You might probe around beneath your properties. You'd also
chat with the new fellow and check on where he came from, try to figure out
what's going on. The Vrinimi Org saw part of that investigation.
"So you discover the new neighbor is unwholesome. Basically his
lifestyle involves poisoning swamp land and eating the sludge produced.
That's an annoyance: it smells and it hurts a lot of harmless animals. But,
after investigating, it's clear the damage will not affect your own
property, and you get the neighbor to take measures to reduce the stink. In
any case, eating toxic sludge is a self-defeating lifestyle." He paused. "As
analogies go, I think this one's pretty good. After some initial mystery,
Old One has determined that this Perversion is one of the common patterns,
so petty and banal that even creatures like you and I can see it's evil. In
one form or another, it's been drifting up from Beyonder archives for a
hundred million years."
"Damn it! I'd get my neighbors together, and run the pervert out of
town."
"That's been talked about, but it would be expensive ... and real
people might get hurt." Pham Nuwen came smoothly to his feet, and smiled
dismissingly at her. "Well, that's about all we had to say to you." He walk
out from under the trees. Ravna hopped up to pursue.
"My personal advice: don't take this so hard, Ravna. I've seen it all,
you know. From the Bottom of the Slowness to the inside of a Transcendent
Power, each Zone has its own special unpleasantness. The whole basis of the
Perversion -- thermodynamic, economic, however you want to picture it -- is
the high quality of thought and communication at the Top of the Beyond. The
Perversion hasn't touched a single civilization in the Middle Beyond. Down
here, the comm lags and expense are too great, and even the best equipment
is mindless. To run things here you'd need standing navies, secret police,
clumsy transceivers -- it would be almost as awkward as any other Beyonder
empire, and of no profit to a Power." He turned and saw her dark expression.
"Hey, I'm saying your pretty ass is safe." He reached down to pat her rear.
Ravna brushed the hand away and stepped back. She'd been working on
some clever argument that might set the guy to thinking; there were cases
where Emissary Devices had changed their principal's decision. Now the
half-formed ideas were blown away, and all she could think to say was -- "So
how safe is your own tail, hmm? You say Old One is about ready to pack it
in, go wherever overage Powers wander off to. Is he going to take you along,
or maybe just put you away, a pet that's now inconvenient?"
It was a silly shot, and Pham Nuwen just laughed. "More analogies? No
... most likely he'll just leave me behind. You know, like a robot probe
flying free after its last use." Another analogy, but one to his liking. "In
fact, if it happens soon enough, I might even be willing to take on this
rescue expedition. It looks like Jefri Olsndot is in a medieval civlization.
I'll wager there's no one in the Org who understands such a place better
than I. And down at the Bottom, your crew could scarcely ask for a better
mate than an old Qeng Ho type." He spoke breezily, as though courage and
experience were givens for him -- even if other people were cowardly scuts.
"Oh, yeah?" Ravna's arms went akimbo, and she cocked her head to one
side. It was just a bit too much, when his whole existence was a fraud.
"You're the little prince who grew up with intrigue and assassination, and
then flew away to the stars with the Qeng Ho.... Do you ever really think
about that past, Pham Nuwen? Or is that something Old One tactfully blocks
you from doing? After our charming evening at The Wandering Company, I did
think about it. You know what? There's only a few things you can know for
sure: You really were a Slow Zone spacer -- probably two or three spacers,
since none of the corpses was complete. Somehow you and your buddies got
yourselves killed down at the nether end of the Slowness. What else? Well,
your ship had no recoverable memory. The only hardcopy we found seemed to be
written in some Earth Asian language. That's all, all, that Old One had to
go on when he put together the fraud."
Pham's smile seemed a little frozen. Ravna went on before he could
speak. "But don't blame Old One. He was a little rushed, right? He had to
convince Vrinimi and me that you were real. He rummaged around in the
archives, slapped together a mishmash reality for you. Maybe it took him an
afternoon -- are you grateful for the effort? A snip from here and a snip
from there. There really was a Qeng Ho, you know. On Earth, a thousand years
before space flight. And there must have been Asia-descended colonies,
though that's an obvious extrapolation on his part. Old One really has a
nice sense of humor. He made your whole life a fantastic romance, right down
to the last tragic expedition. That should have tipped me off, by the way.
It's a combination of several pre-Nyjoran legends."
She caught her breath and rushed on. "I feel sorry for you, Pham Nuwen.
As long as you don't think about yourself too hard, you can be the most
confident fellow in space. But all the skill, all the achievement -- do you
ever look at it up close? I'll bet not. Being a great warrior or an expert
pilot -- those involve a million subskills, all the way down to kinesthetic
things below the level of conscious thought. The Old One's fraud needed just
the top level recollections, and a brash personality. Look under the
surface, Pham. I think you'll find a whole lot of nothing." A dream of
competence, too closely confronted.
The redhead had crossed his arms and was tapping his sleeve with a
finger. When she finally ran out of words, his smile grew broad and
patronizing. "Ah, silly Ravna. Even now you don't understand how far
superior the Powers are. Old One is not some Middle Beyond tyranny,
brainwashing its victims with superficial memories. Even a Transcendent
fraud has more depth than the image of reality in a human mind. And how can
you know this really is a fraud? So you looked through the Relay archives,
and didn't find my Qeng Ho." My Qeng Ho. He paused. Remembering? Trying to
remember? For an instant Ravna saw a gleam of panic on his face. Then it was
gone, and there was just the lazy smile. "Can any of us imagine the archives
of the Transcend, all the things Old One must know about humanity? Vrinimi
Org should be grateful to Old One for explaining my origins; they could
never have learned that by themselves.
"Look. I am truly sorry I can't help. Even if it's otherwise a fool's
errand, I'd like to see those kids rescued. But don't worry about the
Blight. It's near maximum expansion now. Even if you could destroy it, you
wouldn't make things better for the poor wights who've been absorbed." He
laughed, a little too loudly. "Well, I have to go; Old One has some other
errands for me this afternoon. He wasn't happy about this being
face-to-face, but I insisted. The perks of detached duty, y'know. You and I
... you and I had some good times, and I thought it would be nice to chat. I
didn't mean to make you mad."
Pham cut in his agrav and floated off the sand. He waved a laconic
salute. Staring up, Ravna lifted her hand to wave back. His figure dwindled,
acquired a faint nimbus as he left the Docks' breathable atmosphere and his
space suit cut in.
Ravna watched a few moments more, till the figure became one more
commuter in the indigo sky. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Behind her there was the sound of wheels crunching across sand.
Blueshell and Greenstalk had rolled out of the water. Wetness glistened on
the sides of their skrodes, transforming their cosmetic stripes into jagged
rainbows. Ravna walked down to meet them. How do I tell them there's no help
coming?
With someone like Pham Nuwen fronting for it, Old One had seemed so
different from what she imagined in her classes back at Sjandra Kei. She'd
almost thought she could make a difference just by talking. What a joke. She
had caught a glimpse just now, behind the front: of a being who could play
with souls the way a programmer plays with a clever graphic, a being so far
beyond her that only its indifference could protect her. Be happy, little
Ravna moth. You were only dazzled by the flame.
.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush
CHAPTER 16
The next few weeks went surprisingly well. Despite the Pham Nuwen
debacle, Blueshell and Greenstalk were still willing to fly the rescue.
Vrinimi Org even kicked in some extra resources. Every day, Ravna took a
tele-excursion out to the repair yards. The Out of Band II might not be
getting any Transcendent enhancements, but when the refitting was complete,
the ship would be something extraordinary: Now it floated in a golden haze
of structors, billions of tiny robots regrowing sections of the hull into
the characteristic form of a bottom lugger. Sometimes the ship seemed to
Ravna like a fragile moth ... and sometimes an abyssal fish. The rebuilt
ship could survive across a range of environments: It had the spines of an
ultradrive craft, but the hull was streamlined and wasp-waist -- the classic
form of a ramscoop ship. Bottom-luggers must troll dangerously near the Slow
Zone. The zone surface was hard to detect from a distance, even harder to
map; and there were short-term position changes. It was not impossible for a
lugger to be trapped a light-year or two within the Slowness. It was then
you'd thank goodness for the ramscoop and the coldsleep facilities. Of
course, by the time you returned to civilization, you might be completely
out of date, but at least you could get back.
Ravna floated her viewpoint through the drive spines that spread out
from the hull. They were broader than on most ships that came to Relay. They
weren't optimal for the Middle or High Beyond, but with appropriate (i.e.,
Low Beyond) computers, the ship would fly as fast as anything when it
reached the Bottom.
Grondr let her spend half-time on the project, and after a few days
Ravna realized this was not just a favor. She was the best person for this
job. She knew humans, and she knew archive management. Jefri Olsndot needed
reassurance every day. And the things Jefri was telling her were immediately
important. Even if everything went according to plan -- even if the
Perversion stayed completely out of it -- this rescue was going to be
tricky. The kid and his ship seemed to be in the middle of a bloody war.
Extracting them would mean making instantly correct decisions and acting on
them. They would need an effective onboard database and strategy program.
But not much could be expected to work at the Bottom, and memory capacity
would be limited. It was up to Ravna to decide what library materials to
move to the ship, to balance the ease of local availability against the
greater resources that would be accessible over the ultrawave from Relay.
Grondr was available on the local net, and often in real time. He
wanted this to work: "Don't worry, Ravna. We'll dedicate part of R00 to this
mission. If their antenna swarm works properly, the Riders should have have
a thirty Kbps link to Relay. You'll be their prime contact here, and you'll
have access to our best strategists. If nothing ... interferes, you should
have no trouble managing this rescue."
Even four weeks ago, Ravna wouldn't have dared to ask for more. Now:
"Sir, I have a better idea. Send me with the Skroderiders."
All of Grondr's mouth parts clapped together at once. She'd seen that
much surprise in people like Egravan, but never in the staid Grondr. He was
silent for a moment. "No. We need you here. You are our best sanity check
when it comes to questions about humankind." The newsgroups interested in
the Straumli Perversion carried more than one hundred thousand messages a
day, about a tenth of that human-related. Thousands of messages were old
ideas rehashed, or patent absurdities, or probable lies. Marketing's
automation was fairly good at filtering out the redundancy and some of the
absurdity, but when it came to questions on human nature Ravna was without
equal. About half her time was spent guiding that analysis and handling
queries about humankind at the archives. All that would be next to
impossible if she left with the Skroderiders.
Over the next few days, Ravna kept pushing her boss on the question.
Whoever flew the rescue would need instant rapport with humans -- human
children, in fact. Very likely Jefri Olsndot had never even met a
Skroderider. The point was a good one, and it was gradually driving her to
desperation -- but by itself it would not have changed old Grondr's mind. It
took some outside events to do that: As the weeks passed, the Blight's
expansion slowed. Just as conventional wisdom (and Old One via Pham Nuwen)
claimed, there seemed to be natural limits to how far the Perversion could
extend its interests. The abject panic slowly disappeared from High Beyond
communication traffic. Rumors and refugees from the absorbed volumes
dribbled toward zero. The people in the Blighted spaces were gone, but now
it was more like death in a graveyard than death from contagious rot.
Blight-related newsgroups continued to babble about the catastrophe, but the
level of nonproductive rehashing was steadily increasing. There simply was
very little new going on. Over the next ten years, physical death would
spread through the Blighted region. Colonization would begin again,
cautiously probing through the ruins and informational traps, and residue
races. But all of that was a ways off, and for the moment Relay's Blight
"windfall" was a shrinking affair.
... And Marketing was even more interested in the Straumli refugee
ship. None of the strategy programs -- much less Grondr -- believed the
ship's secret could hurt the Blight, but there was a good chance it might
bring commercial advantage when the Perversion finally got tired of its
Transcendent game. And the Tines pack-minds had caught their interest. It
was very appropriate that a maximum effort be made, that Ravna give up her
Docks job and go to the field.
So, for a wonder, her childhood fantasy of rescue and questing
adventure would actually come true. And even more surprising, I'm only
half-terrified by the prospect!
Target[56]: Im sorry I diddnt anser for a while. I dont feel good a
lot. Mister Steel says I should talk to you. He says I need more friends to
make me feel better. Amdi says so too and hes my best friend of all.... like
packs of dogs but smart and fun. I wish I could send pictures. Mister Steel
will try to get ansers for all your questions. He is doing everything he can
to help, but the bad packs will be back. Amdi and I tried the stuff you said
with the ship. I am sorry, it still doesnt work.... I hate this dumb
keybord....
Org[57]: Hi, Jefri. Amdi and Mr. Steel are right. I always like to
talk, and it will make you feel better.... There are inventions that might
help Mister Steel. We've thought of some improvements for his bows and
flamethrowers. I'm also sending down some fortress design information.
Please tell Mister Steel that we can't tell him how to fly the ship. It
would be dangerous even for an expert pilot to try....
Target[57]: Ya, even Daddy had a hard time landing it.
ikocxljikersw89iou43e5 I think Mister Steel just doesnt understand, and hes
getting sorta disparate.... Isnt there other stuff, though, like they had in
oldendays. You know, bombs and airplanes that we could make?...
Org[58]: There are other inventions, but it would take time for Mister
Steel to make them. Our star ship is leaving Relay soon, Jefri. We'll be
there long before other inventions would help....
Target[58]: Your coming? Your finally coming!!! When do you leave? When
will you get here???
Ordinarily Ravna composed her messages to Jefri on a keyboard -- it
gave her some feeling for the kid's situation. He seemed to be holding up,
though there were still days when he didn't write (it was strange to think
of "mental depression" having any connection with an eight-year-old). Other
times he seemed to have a tantrum at the keyboard, and across twenty-one
thousand light-years she saw evidence of small fists slamming into keys.
Ravna grinned at the display. Today she finally had something more than
nebulous promises for him: she had a positive departure time. Jefri was
going to like message [59]. She typed: "We're scheduled to leave in seven
more days, Jefri. Travel time will be about thirty days." Should she qualify
that? Latest postings on the Zone boundary newsgroups said the Bottom was
unusually active. The Tines World was so close to the Slow Zone ... If the
"storm" worsened, travel time would suffer. There was about a one percent
chance the voyage would take more than sixty days. She leaned back from the
keyboard. Did she really want to say that? Damn. Better be frank; these
dates could affect the locals who were helping Jefri. She explained the
"ifs" and "buts", then went on to describe the ship and the wonderful things
they would bring. The boy usually didn't write at great length (except when
he was relaying information from Steel), but he really seemed to like long
letters from her.
The Out of Band II was undergoing final consistency checks. Its
ultradrive was rebuilt and tested; the Skroderiders had taken it out a
couple of thousand light-years to check the antenna swarm. The swarm worked
great, too. She and Jefri would be able to talk through most of the voyage.
As of yesterday, the ship was stocked with consumables. (That sounded like
something out of medieval adventure. But you had to take some supplies when
you were headed so far down that reality graphics couldn't be trusted.)
Sometime tomorrow, Grondr's people would be loading the ship's hold with
gadgets that might be real handy for a rescue. Should she mention those?
Some of them might sound a bit intimidating to Jefri's local friends.
That evening, she and the Skroderiders had a beach party. That's what
they called it, though it was much more like the human version than an
authentic Rider one. Blueshell and Greenstalk had rolled well back from the
water, to where the sand lay dry and warm. Ravna laid out refreshments on
Blueshell's cargo scarf. They sat on the sand and admired the sunset.
It was mostly a celebration -- that Ravna had gotten permission to go
with the OOB, that the ship was almost ready to depart. But, "Are you really
happy to be going, my lady?" asked Blueshell. "We two will make very good
money, but you -- "
Ravna laughed. "I'll get a travel bonus." She had argued and argued for
permission to go; there wasn't much room left to haggle about the pay. "And
yes. This is what I really want."
"I am glad," said Greenstalk.
"I am laughing," said Blueshell. "My mate is especially pleased that
our passenger will not be surly. We almost lost our love for bipeds after
shipping with the certificants. But there is nothing to be frightened of
now. Have you read Threats Group in the last fifteen hours? The Blight has
stopped growing, and its edges have become sharply defined. The Perversion
is settling into middle age. I'm ready to leave right now."
Blueshell was full of speculations about the Tinish "packs", and
possible schemes for extracting Jefri and any other survivors. Greenstalk
interjected a thought here and there. She was less shy than before, but
still seemed softer, more diffident than her mate. And her confidence was a
bit more realistic. She was glad they weren't leaving for another week.
There were still the final consistency checks to run on the OOB -- and
Grondr had gotten Org financing for a small fleet of decoy ships. Fifty were
complete so far. A hundred would be ready by the end of the week.
The Docks drifted into night. With its shallow atmosphere, twilight was
short, but the colors were spectacular. The beach and the trees glistened in
the horizontal rays. The scent of evening flowers mixed with the tang of sea
salt. On the far side of the sea, all was stark bright and dark, silhouettes
that might have been Vrinimi fancies or functional dock equipage -- Ravna
had never learned which. The sun slid behind the sea. Orange and red spread
along the aft horizon, topped by a wider band of green, probably ionized
oxygen.
The Riders didn't turn their skrodes for a better view -- for all she
knew, they had been looking that way all along -- but they stopped talking.
As the sun set, the breakers shattered it into a thousand images, glints of
green and yellow through the foam. She guessed the two would have preferred
to be out there just now. She had seen them often enough around sunset,
deliberately sitting where the surf was hardest. When the water drew back,
their stalks and fronds were like supplicants' arms, upstretched. At times
like these she could almost understand the Lesser Skroderiders; they spent
their whole lives memorizing such repeated moments. She smiled in the
greenish twilight. There would always be time enough later to worry and
plan.
They must have sat like that for twenty minutes. Along the curving line
of the beach, she saw tiny fires in the gathering dark: office parties.
Somewhere very nearby there was the crunch crunch of feet on sand. She
turned and saw that it was Pham Nuwen. "Over here," she called.
Pham ambled toward them. He'd been very scarce since their last
confrontation; Ravna guessed that some of her jibes had struck deep. This
once, I hope Old One made him forget. Pham Nuwen had the potential to be a
real person; it hadn't been right to hurt him because his principal was
beyond reach.
"Have a seat. Galaxy-rise in a half hour." The Skroderiders rustled, so
deep into the sunset that they were only now noticing the visitor.
Pham Nuwen walked a pace or two beyond Ravna and stood arms akimbo,
staring across the sea. He glanced back at her, and the green twilight gave
his face an eerie fierceness. He flashed his old, lopsided smile. "I think I
owe you an apology."
Old One's gonna let you join the human race after all? But Ravna was
touched. She dropped her eyes from his. "I guess I owe you one too. If Old
One won't help, he won't help; I shouldn't have lost my temper."
Pham Nuwen laughed softly, "Yours was certainly the lesser error. I'm
still trying to figure out where I went wrong, and ... I don't think I have
time now to learn."
He looked back at the sea. After a moment, Ravna stood and stepped
toward him. Up close, his stare looked glassy. "What's wrong?" Damn you, Old
One. If you're going to abandon him, don't do it in pieces!
"You're the great expert on Transcendent Powers, eh?"
More sarcasm. "Well -- "
"Do the big boys have wars?"
Ravna shrugged. "You can find rumors of everything. We think there's
conflict, but something too subtle to call war."
"You're pretty much right. There is struggle, but it has more angles
than anything down here. The benefits of cooperation are normally so great
that.... That's part of the reason I didn't take the Perversion seriously.
Besides, the creature is pitiful: a wimpy cur that fouls its own den. Even
if it wanted to kill other Powers, something like that never could. Not in a
billion years...."
Blueshell rolled up beside them. "Who is this, my lady?"
It was the sort of Riderish conversation-stopper that she was only just
getting used to. If Blueshell would just get in synch with his skrode
memory, he'd know. Then the question truly hit her. Who is this? She glanced
at her dataset. It was showing transceiver status, had been ever since Pham
Nuwen arrived. And ... by the Powers, three transceivers had been grabbed by
a single customer!
She took a quick step backwards. "You!"
"Me! Face to face once more, Ravna." The leer was a parody of Pham's
self-assured smile. "Sorry I can't be charming tonight." He slapped his
chest awkwardly. "I'm using this thing's underlying instincts.... I'm too
busy trying to stay alive."
There was drool coming down his chin. Pham's eyes would focus on her
and then drift.
"What are you doing to Pham!"
The Emissary Device stepped toward her, stumbled. "Making room," came
Pham Nuwen's voice.
Ravna spoke Grondr's phone code. There was no response.
The Emissary Device shook its head. "Vrinimi Org is very busy right
now, trying to convince me to get off their equipment, trying to screw up
their courage and force me off. They don't believe what I'm telling them" He
laughed, a quick choking sound. "Doesn't matter. I see now that the attack
here was just a deadly diversion.... How about that, Little Ravna? See, the
Blight is not a Class Two perversion. In the time I have left, I can only
guess what it is.... Something very old, very big. Whatever it is, I'm being
eaten alive."
Blueshell and Greenstalk had rolled close to Ravna. Their fronds made
faint skritching noises. Some thousands of light-years away, well into the
Transcend, a Power was fighting for its life. And all they saw of it was one
man turned into a slobbering lunatic.
"So that's my apology, Little Ravna. Helping you probably wouldn't have
saved me." His voice strangled on itself, and he took a gasping breath. "But
helping you now will be a measure of -- vengeance is a motive you would
understand. I've called your ship down. If you move fast and don't use
agrav, you may survive the next hour."
Blueshell's voice was timid and blustery at the same time. "Survive?
Only a conventional attack could work down here, and there is no sign of
one."
A maniac surrounded by the soft, quiet night. Ravna's dataset showed
nothing strange except for the diversion of bandwidth to Old One.
Pham Nuwen made a coughing laugh. "Oh, it's conventional enough, but
very clever. A few grams of replicant disorder, wafted in over weeks. It's
blossoming now, timed with the attack you see.... The growth will die in a
matter of hours, after it kills all of Relay's precious High automation....
Ravna! Take the ship, or die in the next thousand seconds. Take the ship. If
you survive, go to the Bottom. Get the...." the Emissary Device pulled
itself straighter, and smiled its greenish smile a last time. "And here is
my gift to you, the best help I have left to give."
The smile disappeared. The glassy look was replaced by a wonder ... and
then mounting terror. Pham Nuwen dragged in a great breath, and had time for
one barking scream before he collapsed. He landed face down, twitching and
choking in the sand.
Ravna shouted Grondr's code again, and ran to Pham Nuwen. She pulled
him over on his back and tried to clear his mouth. The fit lasted several
seconds, Pham's limbs flailing randomly about. Ravna collected several solid
hits as she tried to steady him. Then Pham went limp, and she could barely
feel his breath.
Blueshell was saying, "Somehow he's grabbed the OOB. It's four thousand
kilometers out, coming straight for the Docks. Wail. We're ruined."
Unauthorized flight close to the Docks was cause for confiscation.
Somehow Ravna didn't think it mattered anymore. "Is there any sign of
attack?" she said over her shoulder. She eased Pham's head back, made sure
he had a clear breathing passage.
Random rustling between the Skroderiders. Greenstalk: "Something is
strange. We have service suspension on the main transceivers." So Old One is
still transmitting? "The local net is very clogged. Much automation, many
employees being called to special duty."
Ravna rocked back. The sky was night dark, punctuated by a dozen bright
points of light -- ships guiding for the Docks. All very normal. But her own
dataset was showing what Greenstalk reported.
"Ravna, I can't talk right now." Grondr's clickety voice sounded out of
the air beside her. This would be his associate program. "Old One has taken
most of Relay. Watch out for the Emissary Device." A little late, that!
"We've lost contact with the surveillance fence beyond the transceivers. We
are having program and hardware failures. Old One claims we are being
attacked." A five second pause. "We see evidence of fleet action at the
domestic defense boundary." That was just a half light-year out.
"Brap!" From Blueshell. "At the domestic defense boundary! How could
you miss them coming in?" He rolled back and forth, pivoted.
Grondr's associate ignored the question. "Minimum three thousand ships.
Destruction of transceivers immin -- "
"Ravna, are the Skroderiders with you?" It was still Grondr's voice,
but more staccato, more involved. This was the real guy.
"Y-yes."
"The local network is failing. Life support failing. The Docks will
fall. We would be stronger than the attacking fleet, but we're rotting from
the inside.... Relay is dying." His voice sharpened, clattering, "but
Vrinimi will not die, and a contract is a contract! Tell the Riders, we will
pay them ... somehow, someday. We require ... plead ... they fly the mission
we contracted. Ravna?"
"Yes. They hear."
"Then go!" And the voice was gone.
Blueshell said, "OOB will be here in two hundred seconds."
Pham Nuwen had calmed, and his breathing was easier. As the two Riders
chittered back and forth, Ravna looked around -- and suddenly realized that
all the death and destruction had been reports from afar. The beach and the
sky were almost as placid as ever. The last of the sun's rays had left the
waves. The foam was a dim band in the low green light. Here and there,
yellow lights glowed in the trees and the farther towers.
Yet the alarum had clearly spread. She could hear datasets coming on.
Some of the beach fires guttered out, and the figures around them ran into
the trees or drifted upwards, headed for farther offices. Now starships
floated up from their berths across the sea, falling higher and higher till
they glittered in the departed sunlight.
It was Relay's last moment of peace.
A patch of glowing dark spread across the sky. She gasped at light so
twisted it should have gone unseen. It shone more in the back of her head
than in her eyes. Afterwards she couldn't think what made it objectively
different from blackness.
"There's another!" said Blueshell. This one was near the Decks'
horizon, a blot of darkness perhaps a degree across. The edges were an
indistinct bleeding of black into black.
"What is it?" Ravna was no war freak, but she'd read her share of
adventure stories. She knew about antimatter bombs and relativistic KE
slugs. From a distance such weapons were bright spots of light, sometimes an
orchestrated flickering. Or closer: a world-wrecker would glow incandescent
across the curve of a planet, splashing the globe itself like a drop of
water, but slow, slow. Those were the images her reading had prepared her
for. What she saw now was more like a defect in her eyesight than a vision
of war.
Powers only knew what the Skroderiders saw, but: "Your main
transceivers ... vaping out, I think," said Blueshell.
"Those are light-years out! There's no way we could see -- " Another
splotch appeared, not even in her field of view. The color floated,
placeless. Pham Nuwen spasmed again, but weakly. She had no trouble holding
him still, but ... blood dribbled from his mouth. The back of his shirt was
wet with something that stank of decay.
"OOB will be here in one hundred seconds. Plenty of time, there's
plenty of time." Blueshell rolled back and forth around them, talking
reassurance that just showed how nervous he was. "Yes, my lady, light-years
out. And years from now, the flash of their going will light the sky for
anyone still alive here. But only a fraction of the vape-out is making
light. The rest is an ultrawave surge so great that ordinary matter is
affected.... Optic nerves tickled by the overflow.... So much that your own
nervous system becomes a receiver." He spun around. "But don't worry. We're
tough and quick. We've squeezed through close spots before." There was
something absurd about a creature with no short-term memory bragging up its
lightning reflexes. She hoped his skrode was up to this.
Greenstalk's voice buzzed painfully loud. "Look!"
The surf line was drawing back, further than she had ever seen it.
"The sea is falling!" shouted Greenstalk. Water's edge had pulled back
a hundred meters, two hundred. The green-limned horizon was dipping.
"Ship's still fifty seconds out. We'll fly to meet it. Come, Ravna!"
Ravna's own courage died cold that second. Grondr had said the Docks
would fall! The near sky was crowded now as dozens of people raced for
safety. A hundred meters away the sand itself was shifting, an avalanche
tilting toward the abyss. She remembered something Old One had said, and
suddenly she knew the fliers were making a terrible mistake. The thought cut
through her terror. "No! Just head for higher ground."
The night was silent no more. A bell-like moaning came from the sea.
The sound spread. The sunset breeze grew to a gale that twisted the trees
toward the water, sending branches and sand sweeping past them.
Ravna was still on her knees, her hands pressing down on Pham's limp
arms. No breath, no pulse. The eyes stared sightlessly. Old One's gift to
her. Damn all the Powers! She grabbed Pham Nuwen under the shoulders and
rolled him onto her back.
She gagged, almost lost her grip. Underneath his shirt she felt
cavities where there should be solid flesh. Something wet and rank dripped
around her sides. She struggled up from her knees, half-carrying and
half-dragging the body.
Blueshell was shouting, "-- take hours to roll anywhere." He drifted
off the ground, driving his agrav against the wind. Skrode and Rider twisted
drunkenly for an instant ... and then he was slammed back to the ground,
tumbled willy-nilly toward the wind's destination, the moaning hole that had
been the sea. Greenstalk raced to his seaward side, blocking his progress
toward destruction. Blueshell righted himself and the two rolled back toward
Ravna. The Rider's voice was faint in the wind: "... agrav ... failing!" And
with it the very structure of the Docks.
They walked and wheeled their way back from the sucking sea. "Find a
place to land the OOB."
The tree line was a jagged range of hills now. The landscape changed
before their eyes and under her feet. The groaning sound was everywhere,
some places so loud it buzzed through Ravna's shoes. They avoided sagging
terrain, the sink holes that opened on all sides. The night was dark no
more. Whether it was emergency lighting or a side-effect of the agrav
failure, blue glowed along the holes. Through those holes they saw the
cloud-decked night of Groundside a thousand kilometers below. The space
between was not empty. There were shimmering phantoms: billions of tonnes of
water and earth ... and hundreds of dying fliers. Vrinimi Org was paying the
price for building their Docks on agrav instead of inertial orbit.
Somehow the three were making progress. Pham Nuwen was almost too heavy
to carry/drag; she staggered left and right almost as much as she moved
forward. Yet he was lighter that she would have guessed. And that was
terrifying in its own way: was even the high ground failing?
Most of the agravs died by failure, but some suffered destructive
runaway: clumps of trees and earth ripped free from the tops of hillocks and
accelerated upwards. The wind shifted back and forth, up and down ... but it
was thinner now, the noise remote. The artificial atmosphere that clothed
the Docks would soon be gone. Ravna's pocket pressure suit worked for a few
minutes, but now it was fading. In a few minutes it would be as dead as her
agravs ... as dead as she would be. She wondered vaguely how the Blight had
managed this. Like the Old One, she would likely die without ever knowing.
She saw torch flares; there were ships. Most had boosted for inertial
orbits or gone directly into ultradrive, but a few hung over the
disintegrating landscape. Blueshell and Greenstalk led the way. The two used
their third axles in ways Ravna had never guessed at, lifting and pushing to
clamber up slopes that she could scarcely negotiate with Pham's weight
dragging from her back.
They were on a hilltop, but not for long. This had been part of the
office forest. Now the trees stuck out in different directions, like hair on
a mangy dog. She felt the ground throbbing beneath her feet. What next? The
Skroderiders rolled from one side of the peak to another. They would be
rescued here or nowhere. She went to her knees, resting most of Pham's
weight on the ground. From here you could see a long ways. The Docks looked
like a slowly flapping flag, and every immense whip of the fabric broke
fragments loose. As long as some consensus remained among the agrav units,
it still had planar aspect. That was disappearing. There were sink holes all
around their little knob of forest. On the horizon, Ravna saw the far edge
of the Docks detach itself and turn slowly sideways: a hundred kilometers
long, ten wide, it swept down on would-be rescue ships.
Blueshell brushed against her left side, Greenstalk against her right.
Ravna twisted, laying some of Pham's weight on the skrode hulls. If all four
merged their pressure suits, there would be a few more moments of
consciousness. "The OOB: I'm flying it down!" he said.
Something was coming down. A ship's torch lit the ground blue white,
with shadows stark and shifting. It's not a healthy thing to be around a
rocket drive hovering in a near-one-gee field. An hour earlier the maneuver
would have been impossible, or a capital offense if accomplished. Now it
didn't matter if the torch punched through the Docks or fried a cargo from
halfway across the galaxy.
Still ... where could Blueshell land the thing? They were surrounded by
sinkholes and moving cliffs. She closed her eyes as the burning light
drifted down before them ... and then dimmed. Blueshell's shout was thin in
their shared atmosphere. "Let's go together!"
She held tight to the Riders, and they crawled/wheeled down from their
little hill. The Out of Band II was hovering in the middle of a sinkhole.
Its torch was hidden from view, but the glare off the sides of the hole put
the ship in sharp silhouette, turned its ultradrive spines into feathery
white arcs. A giant moth with glowing wings ... and just out of reach.
If their suits held, they could make it to the edge of the hole. Then
what? The spines kept the ship from getting closer than a hundred meters. An
able-bodied (and crazy) human might try to grab a spine and crawl down it.
But Skroderiders had their own brand of insanity: Just as the light --
the reflected light -- became too much to bear ... the torch winked out. The
OOB fell through the hole. This didn't stop the Riders' advance. "Faster!"
said Blueshell. And now she guessed what they planned. Quickly for such an
awkward jumble of limbs and wheels, they moved up to the edge of the
darkened hole. Ravna felt the dirt giving way beneath her feet, and then
they were falling.
The Decks were hundreds -- in places, thousands -- of meters thick.
They fell past them now, past dim eerie flickers of internal destruction.
Then they were through, still falling. For a moment the feeling of wild
panic was gone. After all this was simply free fall, a commonplace, and a
damnsight more peaceful than the disintegrating Docks. Now it was easy to
hold onto the Riders and Pham Nuwen, and even their commensal atmosphere
seemed a little thicker than before. There was something to be said for hard
vacuum and free fall. Except for an occasional rogue agrav, everything was
coming down at the same acceleration, ruins peacefully settling. And four or
five minutes from now they would hit Groundside's atmosphere, still falling
almost straight downwards.... Entry velocity only three or four kilometers
per second. Would they burn up? Maybe. Flashes pricked bright above the
cloud-decks.
The junk around them was mostly dark, just shadows against the sky show
above. But the wreckage directly below was large and regular ... the OOB,
bow on! The ship was falling with them. Every few seconds a trim jet fired,
a faint reddish glow. The ship was closing with them. If it had a nose
hatch, they would land right on it.
Its docking lights flicked on, bright upon them. Ten meters separation.
Five. There was a hatch, and open! She could see a very ordinary airlock
within....
Whatever hit them was big. Ravna saw a vague expanse of plastic rising
over her shoulder. The rogue was slowly turning, and it scarcely brushed
them -- but that was enough. Pham Nuwen was jarred from her grasp. His body
was lost in shadow, then suddenly bright lit as the ship's spotlight tracked
after him. Simultaneously the air gusted out of Ravna's lungs. They were
down to three pocket pressure fields now, failing fields; it was not enough.
Ravna could feel consciousness slipping away, her vision tunneling. So
close.
The Riders unlatched from each other. She grabbed at the skrode hulls
and they drifted, strung out, over the ship's lock. Blueshell's skrode
jerked against her as the he made fast to the hatch. The jolt twisted her
around, whipping Greenstalk upwards. Things were getting dreamy now. Where
was panic when you needed it? Hold tight, hold tight, hold tight, sang the
little voice, all that was left of consciousness. Bump, jerk. The Riders
pushed and pulled at her. Or maybe it was the ship jerking all of them
around. They were puppets, dancing off a single string.
... Deep in the tunnel of her vision, a Rider grabbed at the tumbling
figure of Pham Nuwen.
Ravna wasn't aware of losing consciousness, but the next she knew she
was breathing air and choking on vomit -- and was inside the airlock. Solid
green walls closed in comfortingly on all sides. Pham Nuwen lay on the far
wall, strapped into a first aid canister. His face had a bluish cast.
She pushed awkwardly across the lock toward Pham Nuwen's wall. The
place was a confused jumble, unlike the passenger and sporting ships she'd
been on before. Besides, this was a Rider design. Stickem patches were
scattered around the walls; Greenstalk had mounted her skrode on one
cluster.
They were accelerating, maybe a twentieth of a gee. "We're still going
down?"
"Yes. If we hover or rise, we'll crash," into all the junk that still
rains from above. "Blueshell is trying to fly us out." They were falling
with the rest, but trying to drift out from under -- before they hit
Groundside. There was an occasional rattle/ping against the hull. Sometimes
the acceleration ceased, or shifted in a new direction. Blueshell was
actively avoiding the big pieces.
... Not with complete success. There was long, rasping sound that ended
with a bang, and the room turned slowly around her. "Brrap! Just lost an
ultradrive spine," came Blueshell's voice. "Two others already damaged.
Please strap down, my lady."
They touched atmosphere a hundred seconds later. The sound was a barely
perceptible humming beyond the hull. It was the sound of death for a ship
like this. It could no more aerobrake than a dog could jump over the moon.
The noise came louder. Blueshell was actually diving, trying to get deep
enough to shed the junk that surrounded the ship. Two more spines broke.
Then came a long surge of main axis acceleration. Out of Band II arced out
of the Docks' death shadow, drove out and out, into inertial orbit.
Ravna looked over Blueshell's fronds at the outside windows. They had
just passed Groundside's terminator, and were flying an inertial orbit. They
were in free fall again, but this trajectory curved back on itself without
whacking into big hard things -- like Groundside.
Ravna didn't know much more about space travel than you'd expect of a
frequent passenger and an adventure fan. But it was obvious that Blueshell
had pulled off a near miracle. When she tried to thank him, the Rider rolled
back and forth across the stick-patches, buzzing faintly to himself.
Embarrassed? or just Riderly inattentive?
Greenstalk spoke, sounding a little shy, a little proud: "Far trading
is our life, you know. If we are cautious, life will be mostly safe and
placid, but there will be close passages. Blueshell practices all the time,
programming his skrode with every wit he can imagine. He is a master." In
everyday life, indecision seemed to dominate the Riders. But in a crunch,
they didn't hesitate to bet everything. She wondered how of that was the
skrode overriding its rider?
"Grump," said Blueshell. "I have simply postponed the close passage. I
broke several of our drive spines. What if they do not self-repair? What do
we do then? Everything around Groundside is destroyed. There is junk
everywhere out to a hundred radii. Not dense like around the Docks, but of
much higher velocity." You can't inject billions of tonnes of wreckage into
buckshot orbits and expect safe navigation. "And any second, the
Perversion's creatures will be here, eating whoever survives."
"Urk." Greenstalk's tendrils froze in comical disarray. She chittered
to herself for a second. "You're right ... I forgot. I thought we had found
an open space, but ..."
Open space all right, but in a shooting gallery. Ravna looked back at
the command deck windows. They were on the dayside now, perhaps five hundred
kilometers above Groundside's principal ocean. The space above the hazy blue
horizon was free of flash and glow. "I don't see any fighting," Ravna said
hopefully.
"Sorry." Blueshell switched the windows to a more significant view.
Most of it was navigation and ultratrace information, meaningless to Ravna.
Her eye caught on a medstat: Pham Nuwen was breathing again. The ship's
surgeon thought it could save him. But there was also a communication status
window; on it, the attack was dreadfully clear. The local net had broken
into hundreds of screaming fragments. There were only automatic voices from
the planetary surface, and they were calling for medical aid. Grondr had
been down there. Somehow she suspected that not even his Marketing ops
people had survived. Whatever hit Groundside was even deadlier than the
failures at the Docks. In near planetary space, there were a few survivors
in ships and fragments of habitats, most on doomed trajectories. Without
massive and coordinated help, they would be dead in minutes -- hours at the
outside. The directors of Vrinimi Org were gone, destroyed before they ever
figured out quite what had happened.
Go, Grondr had said, go.
Out-system, there was fighting. Ravna saw message traffic from Vrinimi
defense units. Even without control or coordination, some still opposed the
Perversion's fleet. The light from their battles would arrive well after the
defeat, well after the enemy arrived here in person. How long do we have?
Minutes?
"Brrap. Look at those traces," said Blueshell. "The Perversion has
almost four thousand vessels. They are bypassing the defenders."
"But now there is scarcely anyone left out there," said Greenstalk. "I
hope they're not all dead."
"Not all. I see several thousand ships departing, everyone with the
means and any sense." Blueshell rolled back and forth. "Alas! We have the
good sense ... but look at this repair report." One window spread large,
filled with colored patterns that meant less than zip to Ravna. "Two spines
still broken, unrepairable. Three partially repaired. If they don't heal,
we'll be stuck here. This is unacceptable!" His voder voice buzzed up
shrilly. Greenstalk drove close to him, and they rattled their fronds at
each other.
Several minutes passed. When Blueshell spoke Samnorsk again, his voice
was quieter. "One spine repaired. Maybe, maybe, maybe...." He opened a
natural view. The OOB was coasting across Groundside's south pole, back into
night. Their orbit should take them over the worst of the Docks junk, but
the ride was a constant jigging as the ship avoided other debris. The cries
of battle horror from out-system dwindled. The Vrinimi Organization was one
vast, twitching corpse ... and very soon its killer would come snuffling.
"Two repaired." Blueshell became very quiet.... "Three! Three are
repaired! Fifteen seconds to recalibrate and we can jump!"
It seemed longer ... but then all the windows changed to a natural
view. Groundside and its sun were gone. Stars and dark stretched all around.
Three hours later and Relay was a hundred and fifty light-years behind
them. The OOB had caught up with the main body of fleeing ships. What with
the archives and the tourism, there had been an extraordinary number of
interstellar ships at Relay: ten thousand vehicles were spread across the
light-years around them. But stars were rare this far off the galactic plane
and they were at least a hundred hours flying time from the nearest refuge.
For Ravna, it was the start of a new battle. She glared across the deck
at Blueshell. The Skroderider dithered, its fronds twisting on themselves in
a way she had not seen before. "See here, my lady Bergsndot, High Point is a
lovely civilization, with some bipedal participants. It is safe. It is
nearby. You could adapt." He paused. Reading my expression is he? "But --
but if that is not acceptable, we will take you further. Give us a chance to
contract the proper cargo, and -- and we'll take you all the way back to
Sjandra Kei. How about that?"
"No. You already have a contract, Blueshell. With Vrinimi Organization.
The three of us -- " and whatever has become of Pham Nuwen "-- are going to
the Bottom of the Beyond."
"I am shaking my head in disbelief! We received a preliminary retainer,
true. But now that Vrinimi Org is dead, there is no one to make good on the
rest of the agreement. Hence we are free of it also."
"Vrinimi is not dead. You heard Grondr 'Kalir. The Org had -- has --
branch offices all across the Beyond. The obligation stands."
"On a technicality. We both know that those branches could never make
the final payment."
Ravna didn't have a good answer to that. "You have an obligation," she
said, but without the proper forcefulness. She had never been good at
bluster.
"My lady, are you truly speaking from Org ethics, or from simple
humanity?"
"I-- " In fact, Ravna had never completely understood Org ethics. That
was one reason why she had intended to return to Sjandra Kei after her
'prenticeship, and one reason the Org had dealt cautiously with the human
race. "It doesn't matter which I speak from! There is a contract. You were
happy to honor it when things looked safe.