A Fire Upon the Deep

CHAPTER 1

The coldsleep itself was dreamless. Three days ago they had been getting ready to leave, and now they were here. Little Jefri complained about missing all the action, but Johanna Olsndot was glad she’d been asleep; she had known some of the grownups on the other ship.

Now Johanna drifted between the racks of sleepers. Waste heat from the coolers made the darkness infernally hot. Scabby gray mold grew on the walls. The coldsleep boxes were tightly packed, with narrow float spaces every tenth row. There were places where only Jefri could reach. Three hundred and nine children lay there, all the kids except herself and her brother Jefri.

The sleep boxes were light-duty hospital models. Given proper ventilation and maintenance, They would have been good for a hundred years, but… Johanna wiped her face and looked at a box’s readout: Like most of the ones on the inside rows, this was in bad shape. For twenty days it had kept the boy inside safely suspended, and would probably kill him if he stayed one day more. The box’s cooling vents were clean, but she vac’d them again—more a prayer for good luck than effective maintenance.

Mother and Dad were not to blame, though Johanna suspected that they blamed themselves. The escape had been put together with the materials at hand, at the last minute, when the experiment turned wicked. The High Lab staff had done what they could to save their children and protect against still greater disaster. And even so, things might have worked out if—"Johanna! Daddy says there’s no more time. He says to finish what you’re doing an’ come up here.” Jefri had stuck his head down through the hatch to shout to her.

“Okay!” She shouldn’t be down here anyway; there was nothing more she could do to help her friends. Tami and Giske and Magda and… oh please be safe. Johanna pulled herself through the floatway, almost bumped into Jefri coming from the other direction. He grabbed her hand and hung close as they drifted toward the hatch. These last two days he hadn’t cried, but he’d lost much of the independence of the last year. Now his eyes were wide. “We’re coming down near the North Pole, by all those islands and ice.”

In the cabin beyond the hatch, their parents were strapping themselves in. Trader Arne Olsndot looked up at her and grinned. “Hi, kiddo. Have a seat. We’ll be on the ground in less than an hour.” Johanna smiled back, almost caught by his enthusiasm. Ignore the jumble of equipment, the odors of twenty days’ confinement: Daddy looked as dashing as any adventure poster. The light from the display windows glittered off the seams of his pressure suit. He was just in from outside.

Jefri pushed across the cabin, pulling Johanna behind him. He strapped into the webbing between her and their mother. Sjana Olsndot checked his restraints, then Johanna’s. “This will be interesting, Jefri. You will learn something.”

“Yes, all about ice.” He was holding Mom’s hand now.

Mom smiled. “Not today. I’m talking about the landing. This won’t be like an agrav or a ballistic.” The agrav was dead. Dad had just detached their shell from the cargo carrier. They could never have landed the whole thing on one torch.

Dad did something with the hodgepodge of controls he had softwired to his dataset. Their bodies settled into the webbing. Around them the cargo shell creaked, and the girder support for the sleep boxes groaned and popped. Something rattled and banged as it “fell” the length of the shell. Johanna guessed they were pulling about one gravity.

Jefri’s gaze went from the outside display to his mother’s face and then back. “What is it like then?” He sounded curious, but there was a little tremor in his voice. Johanna almost smiled; Jefri knew he was being diverted, and was trying to play along.

“This will be pure rocket descent, powered almost all the way. See on the middle window? That camera is looking straight down. You can actually see that we’re slowing down.” You could, too. Johanna guessed they weren’t more than a couple of hundred kilometers up. Arne Olsndot was using the rocket glued to the back end of the cargo shell to kill all their orbital velocity. There weren’t any other options. They had abandoned the cargo carrier, with its agrav and ultradrive. It had brought them far, but its control automation was failing. Some hundreds of kilometers behind them, it coasted dead along their orbit.

All they had left was the cargo shell. No wings, no agrav, no aero shielding. The shell was a hundred-tonne carton of eggs balanced on one hot torch.

Mom wasn’t describing it quite that way to Jefri, though what she said was the truth. Somehow she had Jefri seeming to forget the danger. Sjana Olsndot had been a popular archaeologist at Straumli Realm, before they moved to the High Lab.

Dad cut the jet, and they were in free fall again. Johanna felt a wave of nausea; ordinarily she never got space sick, but this was different. The image of land and sea in the downward window slowly grew. There were only a few scattered clouds. The coastline was an indefinite recursion of islands and straits and inlets. Dark green spread along the coast and up the valleys, shading to black and gray in the mountains. There was snow—and probably Jefri’s ice—scattered in arcs and patches. It was all so beautiful… and they were falling straight into it!

She heard metallic banging on the cargo shell as the trim jets tipped their craft around, aligning the main jet downwards. The right-hand window showed the ground now. The torch lit again, at something like one gravity. The edge of the display darkened in a burnout halo. “Wow,” said Jefri. “It’s like an elevator, down and down and down and…” One hundred kilometers down, slow enough that aero forces wouldn’t tear them apart.

Sjana Olsndot was right; it was a novel way to descend from orbit, not a preferred method under any normal circumstances.

It was certainly not intended in the original escape plans. They were to meet with the High Lab’s frigate—and all the adults who could escape from the High Lab. And of course, that rendezvous was to be in space, an easy transfer. But the frigate was gone now, and they were on their own. Her eyes turned unwillingly to the stretch of hull beyond her parents. There was the familiar discoloration. It looked like gray fungus… growing out of the clean hull ceramic. Her parents didn’t talk about it much even now, except to shoo Jefri away from it. But Johanna had overheard them once, when they thought she and her brother were at the far end of the shell. Dad’s voice almost crying with anger. “All this for nothing!” he said softly. “We made a monster, and ran, and now we’re lost at the Bottom.” And Mom’s voice even softer: “For the thousandth time, Arne, not for nothing. We have the kids.” She waved at the roughness that spread across the wall, “And given the dreams… the directions… we had, I think this was the best we could hope for. Somehow we are carrying the answer to all the evil we started.” Then Jefri had bounced loudly across the hold, proclaiming his imminent entrance, and his parents had shut up. Johanna hadn’t quite had the courage to ask them about it. There had been strange things at the High Lab, and toward the end, some quietly scary things; even people who were not quite the same.

Minutes passed. They were deep in the atmosphere now. The hull buzzed with the force of the air stream—or turbulence from the jet? But things were steady enough that Jefri was beginning to get restless. Much of the down-looking view was burned out by airglow around the torch. The rest was clearer and more detailed than anything they had seen from orbit. Johanna wondered how often a new-visited world had been landed upon with less reconnaissance than this. They had no telescopic cameras, and no ferrets.

Physically, the planet was near the human ideal—wonderful good luck after all the bad.

It was heaven compared to the airless rocks of the system that had been the prime rendezvous.

On the other hand, there was intelligent life here: from orbit, they could see roads and towns. But there was no evidence of technic civilization; there was no sign of aircraft or radio or intense power sources.

They were coming down in a thinly populated corner of the continent. With luck there would be no one to see their landing among the green valleys and the black and white peaks—and Arne Olsndot could fly the torch right to ground without fear of hurting much more than forest and grass.

The coastal islands slid past the side camera’s view. Jefri shouted, pointing. It was gone now, but she had seen it too: on one of the islands an irregular polygon of walls and shadow. It reminded her of castles from the Age of Princesses on Nyjora.

She could see individual trees now, their shadows long in slanting sunlight. The roar of the torch was as loud as anything she had ever heard; they were deep in atmosphere, and they weren’t moving away from the sound.

“…things get tricky,” Dad shouted. “And no programs to make things right… Where to, love?”

Mom look back and forth between the display windows. As far as Johanna knew, they couldn’t move the cameras or assign new ones. “… that hill, above the timber line, but… think I saw a pack of animals running away from the blast on… west side.”

“Yeah,” shouted Jefri, “wolves.” Johanna had only had a quick glimpse of moving specks.

They were in full hover now, maybe a thousand meters above the hilltops. The noise was painful, unending; further talk was impossible. They drifted slowly across landscape, partly to reconnoiter, partly to stay out of the plume of superheated air that rose about them.

The land was more rolling than craggy, and the “grass” looked mossy. Still Arne Olsndot hesitated. The main torch was designed for velocity matching after interstellar jumps; they could hang like this for a good while. But when they did touch down, they’d better have it right. She’d heard her parents talking that one over—when Jefri was working with the coldsleep boxes and out of earshot. If there was too much water in the soil, the backsplash would be a steam cannon, punching right through the shell. Landing in trees would have some dubious pluses, maybe giving them a little cushioning and a standoff from the splash. But now they were going for direct contact. At least they could see where they were landing.

Three hundred meters. Dad dragged the torch tip through the ground cover. The soft landscape exploded. A second later their boat rocked in the column of steam. The down-looking camera died. They didn’t back off, and after a moment the battering eased; the torch had burned through whatever water table or permafrost lay below them. The cabin air grew steadily hotter.

Olsndot brought them slowly down through it, using the side cameras and the sound of the backsplash as his guide. He cut the torch. There was a scary half-second fall, then the sound of the rendezvous pylons hitting ground. They steadied, then one side groaned, giving way a little.

Silence, except for heat pinging around the hull. Dad looked at their ad hoc pressure gauge. He grinned at Mom. “No breach. I bet I could even take this baby up again!”

CHAPTER 2

An hour’s difference either way and Peregrine Wickwrackrum’s life would have been very different.

The three travelers were headed west, down from the Icefangs towards Flenser’s Castle on Hidden Island. There were in his life when he couldn’t have borne the company, but in the last decade Peregrine had become much more sociable. He liked traveling with others nowadays. On his last trek through the Great Sandy, there had been five packs in his party. Part of that had been a matter of safety: some deaths are almost inevitable when the distance between oases can be a thousand miles—and the oases themselves are transient. But aside from safety, he had learned a lot in conversation with the others.

He was not so happy with his current companions. Neither were truly pilgrims; both had secrets. Scriber Jaqueramaphan was fun, an amusing goofball and fount of uncoordinated information… There was also a good chance he was a spy. That was okay, as long as people didn’t think Peregrine was working with him. The third of their party was the one who really bothered him. Tyrathect was a newby, not all together yet; she had no taken name. Tyrathect claimed to be a school teacher, but somewhere in her (him? gender preference wasn’t entirely clear yet) was a killer. The creature was obviously a Flenserist fanatic, standoffish and rigid much of the time. Almost certainly, she was fleeing the purge that followed Flenser’s unsuccessful attempt to take power in the east.

He’d run into these two at Eastgate, on the Republican side of the Icefangs. They both wanted to visit the Castle on Hidden Island. And what the hell, that was only a sixty-mile detour off the main trail to Woodcarvers; they all would have to cross the mountains. Besides, he had wanted to visit Flenser’s Domain for years. Maybe one of these two could get him in. So much of the world reviled the Flenserists. Peregrine Wickwrackrum was of two minds about evil: when enough rules get broken, sometimes there is good amid the carnage.

This afternoon, they’d finally come in sight of the coastal islands. Peregrine had been here only fifty years before. Even so, he wasn’t prepared for the beauty of this land. The Northwest Coast was by far the mildest arctic in the world. In high summer, with unending day, the bottoms of the glacier-reamed valleys turned all to green. God the carver had stooped to touch these lands… and His chisels had been made of ice. Now, all that was left of the ice and snow were misty arcs at the eastern horizon and remnant patches scattered on the near hills. Those patches melted and melted through the summer, starting little creeks that merged with one another to cascade down the steep sides of the valleys. On his right, Peregrine trotted across a level stretch of ground that was soggy with standing water. The chill on his feet felt wonderful; he didn’t even mind the midges that swirled around him.

Tyrathect was across the valley, paralleling his course, but above the heather line. She’d been fairly talkative till the valley curved and the farmland and the islands came into view. Somewhere out there was Flenser’s Castle, and her dark appointment.

Scriber Jaqueramaphan had been all over, mindlessly running around on both sides of the valley. He’d collect in twos or threes and execute some jape that made even the dour Tyrathect laugh, then climb to a height and report what he saw beyond. He’d been the first to see the coast. That had sobered him some. His clowning was dangerous enough without doing it in the neighborhood of known rapists.

Wickwrackrum called a pause, and got himself together to adjust the straps on his backpacks. The rest of the afternoon was going to be tense. He’d have to decide whether he really wanted to enter the Castle with his friends. There are limits to an adventurous spirit, even in a pilgrim.

“Hey, do you hear something bass?” Tyrathect called from across the valley. Peregrine listened. There was a rumbling—powerful, but almost below his range of hearing. For an instant, fear crossed his puzzlement. A century before, he’d been in a monster earthquake. This sound was similar, but the ground was still beneath his feet. Would that mean no landslides and flashfloods? He hunkered down, looking out in all directions.

“It’s in the sky!” Jaqueramaphan was pointing.

A spot of glare hung almost overhead, a tiny spear of light. No memories, not even legends came to Wickwrackrum’s mind. He spread out, all eyes on the slowly moving light. God’s Choir. It must be miles up, and still he heard it. He looked away from the light, afterimages dancing painfully in his eyes.

“It’s getting brighter, louder,” said Jaqueramaphan. “I think it’s coming down on the hills yonder, on the coast.”

Peregrine pulled himself together and ran west, shouting to the others. He would get as close as was safe, and watch. He didn’t look up again. It was just too bright. It cast shadows in broad daylight!

He ran another half mile. The star was still in the air. He couldn’t remember a falling star so slow, though some of the biggest made terrible explosions. In fact… there were no stories from folks who had been near such things. His wild, pilgrim curiosity faded before that recollection. He looked in all directions. Tyrathect was nowhere in sight; Jaqueramaphan was huddled next to some boulders ahead.

And the light was so bright that where his clothes did not protect him, Wickwrackrum felt a blaze of heat. The noise from the sky was outright pain now. Peregrine dived over the edge of the valley side, rolled and staggered and fell down the steep walls of rock. He was in the shade now: only sunlight lay upon him! The far side of the valley shone in the glare; crisp shadows moved with the unseen thing behind him. The noise was still a bass rumble, but so loud it numbed the mind. Peregrine stumbled past the timberline, and continued till he was sheltered by a hundred yards of forest. That should have helped a lot, but the noise was been growing still louder…

Mercifully, he blacked out for a moment or two. When he came around, the star sound was gone. The ringing it left in his tympana was a great confusion. He staggered about in a daze. It seemed to be raining—except that some of the droplets glowed. Little fires were starting here and there in the forest. He hid beneath dense-crowned trees till the burning rocks stopped falling. The fires didn’t spread; the summer had been relatively wet.

Peregrine lay quietly, waiting for more burning rocks or new star noise. Nothing. The wind in the tree tops lessened. He could hear the birds and crickers and woodborers. He walked to the forest edge and peeked out in several places. Discounting the patches of burnt heather, everything looked normal. But his viewpoint was very restricted: he could see high valley walls, a few hilltops. Ha! There was Scriber Jaqueramaphan, three hundred yards further up. Most of him was hunkered down in holes and hollows, but he had a couple of members looking toward where the star had fallen. Peregrine squinted. Scriber was such a buffoon most of the time. But sometimes it just seemed a cover; if he really was a fool, he was one with a streak of genius. More than once, Wicky had seen him at a distance, working in pairs with some strange tool… As now: the other was holding something long and pointed to his eye.

Wickwrackrum crept out of the forest, keeping close together and making as little noise as possible. He climbed carefully around the rocks, slipping from hummock to heather hummock, till he was just short of the valley crest and some fifty yards from Jaqueramaphan. He could hear the other thinking to himself. Any closer, and Scriber would hear him, even bunched up and quiet as he was.

“Ssst!” said Wickwrackrum.

The buzzing and muttering stopped in an instant of shocked surprise. Jaqueramaphan stuffed the mysterious seeing tool into a backpack and pulled himself together, thinking very quietly. They stared at each other for a moment, then Scriber made silly squirling gestures at his shoulder tympana. Listen up. “Can you talk like this?” His voice came very high-pitched, up where some people can’t make voluntary conversation, where low-sound ears are deaf. Hightalk could be confusing, but it was very directional and faded quickly with distance; no one else would hear them. Peregrine nodded, “Hightalk is no problem.” The trick was to use tones pure enough not to confuse.

“Take a look over the hill crest, friend pilgrim. There is something new under the sun.”

Peregrine moved up another thirty yards, keeping a lookout in all directions. He could see the straits now, gleaming rough silver in the afternoon sunlight. Behind him, the north side of the valley was lost in shadow. He sent one member ahead, skittering between the hummocks to look down on the plain where the star had landed.

God’s Choir, he thought to himself (but quietly). He brought up another member to get a parallax view. The thing looked like a huge adobe hut mounted on stilts… But this was the fallen star: the ground beneath it glowed dull red. Curtains of mist rose from the moist heather all around. The torn earth had been thrown in long lines that radiated from a spot beneath it.

He nodded at Jaqueramaphan. “Where is Tyrathect?”

Scriber shrugged. “A couple of miles back, I’ll bet. I’m keeping an eye out for her… Do you see the others though, the troopers from Flenser’s Castle?”

“No!” Peregrine looked west from the landing site. There. They were almost a mile away, in camouflage jackets, belly crawling across the hummocky terrain. He could see at least three troopers. They were big guys, six each. “How could they get here so fast?” He glanced at the sun. “It can’t be more than half an hour since all this started.”

“Their good luck.” Jaqueramaphan returned to the crest and looked over. “I’ll bet they were already on the mainland when the star came down. This is all Flenser territory; they must have patrols.” He hunkered down so just two pairs of eyes would be visible to those below. “That’s an ambush formation, you know.”

“You don’t seem very happy to see them. These are your friends, remember? The people you’ve come to see.”

Scriber cocked his heads sarcastically. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t rub it in. I think you’ve known from the beginning that I’m not all for Flenser.”

“I guessed.”

“Well, the game is over now. Whatever came down this afternoon is worth more to… uh, my friends than anything I could have learned on Hidden Island.”

“What about Tyrathect?”

“Heh, heh. Our esteemed companion is more than genuine, I fear. I’d bet she’s a Flenser Lord, not the low-rank Servant she seems at first glance. I expect that many of her kind are leaking back over the mountains these days, happy to get out of the Long Lakes Republic. Hide your behinds, fellow. If she spots us, those troopers will get us sure.”

Peregrine moved deeper into the hollows and burrows that pocked the heather. He had an excellent view back along the valley. If Tyrathect were not already on the scene, he’d see her long before she would him.

“Peregrine?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a pilgrim. You’ve traveled the world… since the beginning of time, you’d have us believe. How far do your memories really go back?”

Given the situation, Wickwrackrum was inclined to honesty. “Like you’d expect: a few hundred years. Then we’re talking about legends, recollections of things that probably happened, but with the details all mixed and muddled.”

“Well, I haven’t traveled much, and I’m fairly new. But I do read. A lot. There’s never been anything like this before. That is a made thing down there. It came from higher than I can measure. You’ve read Aramstriquesa or Astrologer Belelele? You know what this could be?”

Wickwrackrum didn’t recognize the names. But he was a pilgrim. There were lands so far away that no one spoke any language he knew. In the Southseas he met folk who thought there was no world beyond their islands and who ran from his boats when he came ashore. Even more, one part of him had been an islander and had watched that coming ashore.

He stuck a head into the open and looked again at the fallen star, the visitor from farther than he had ever been… and he wondered where this pilgrimage might end.

CHAPTER 3

It took five hours for the ground to cool enough for Dad to slide the ladder-ramp to ground. He and Johanna climbed carefully down, hopped across the steaming earth to stand on relatively undamaged turf. It would be a long time before this ground cooled completely; the jet’s exhaust was very “clean", scarcely interacting with normal matter—all of which meant that some very hot rock extended down thousands of meters beneath their boat.

Mom sat in the hatchway, watching the land beyond them. She had Dad’s old pistol.

“Anything?” Dad shouted to her.

“No. And Jefri doesn’t see anything through the windows.”

Dad walked around the cargo shell, inspecting the misused docking pylons. Every ten meters they stopped and set up an sound projector. That had been Johanna’s idea. Besides Dad’s gun, they really had no weapons. The projectors were accidental cargo, stuff from the infirmary. With a little programming, they could put out wild screeching all up and down the audio spectrum. It might be enough to scare off the local animals. Johanna followed her father, her eyes on the landscape, her nervousness giving way to awe. It was so beautiful, so cool. They were standing on a broad field, high in hills. Westward the hills fell toward straits and islands. To the north the ground ended abruptly at the edge of a wide valley; she could see waterfalls on the other side. The ground felt spongy beneath her feet. Their landing field was puckered into thousands of little hillocks, like waves caught in a still picture. Snow lay in timid patches across the higher hills. Johanna squinted north, into the sun. North?

“What time is it, Daddy?”

Olsndot laughed, still looking at the underside of the cargo shell. “Local midnight.”

Johanna had been brought up in the middle latitudes of Straum. Most of her school field trips had been to space, where odd sun geometries were no big deal. Somehow she had never thought of such things happening on the ground… I mean, seeing the sun right over the top of the world.

The first order of business was to get half the coldsleep boxes out into the open, and rearrange those left aboard. Mom figured that the temperature problems would just about disappear then, even for the boxes left on board: “Having separate power supplies and venting will be an advantage now. The kids will all be safe. Johanna, you check Jefri’s work on the ones inside, okay?…”

The second order of business would be to start a tracking program on the Relay system, and to set up ultralight communication. Johanna was a little afraid of that step. What would they learn? They already knew the High Lab had gone wicked and the disaster Mom predicted had begun.

How much of Straumli Realm was dead now? Everyone at the High Lab had thought they were doing so much good, and now… Don’t think about it. Maybe the Relayers could help. Somewhere there must be people who could use what her folks had taken from the Lab.

They’d be rescued, and the rest of the kids would be revived. She’d been feeling guilty about that. Sure, Mom and Dad needed extra hands right at the end of the flight—and Johanna was one of the oldest children in the school. But it seemed wrong that she and Jefri were the only kids going into this with their eyes open. Coming down, she had felt her mother’s fear. I bet they wanted us together, even if it was only for one last time. The landing had been truly dangerous, however easy Dad made it look. Johanna could see where the backsplash had gouged the hull; if any of that had gotten past the torch and into the exhaust chamber, they’d all be vapor now.

Almost half the coldsleep boxes were on the ground now, by the east side of the boat. Mom and Dad were spreading them out so the coolers would have no problem. Jefri was inside, checking if there were any other boxes that needed attention. He was a good kid when he wasn’t a brat. She turned into the sunlight, felt the cool breeze flowing across the hill. She heard something that sounded like a birdcall.

Johanna was out by one of the sound projectors when the ambush happened. She had her dataset plugged to its control, and was busy giving it new directions. It showed how little they had left, that even her old dataset was important now. But Dad wanted something that would sweep through the broadest possible bandwidth, making plenty of racket all the way, but with big spikes every so often; Pink Olifaunt could certainly manage that.

“Johanna!” Mom’s cry came simultaneous with the sound of breaking ceramic. The projector’s bell came shattering down beside her. Johanna looked up. Something ripped through her chest just inside her shoulder, knocking her down. She stared stupidly at the shaft that stuck out of her. An arrow!

The west edge of their landing area was swarming with… things. Like wolves or dogs, but with long necks, they moved quickly forward, darting from hummock to hummock. Their pelts were the same gray green of the hillside, except near the haunches where she saw white and black. No, the green was clothing, jackets. Johanna was in shock, the pressure of the bolt through her chest not yet registering as pain. She had been thrown back against uptilted turf and for the moment had a view of the whole attack. She saw more arrows rise up, dark lines floating in the sky.

She could see the archers now. More dogs! They moved in packs. It took two of them to use a bow—one to hold it and one to draw. The third and fourth carried quivers of arrows and just seemed to watch.

The archers hung back, staying mostly under cover. Other packs swirled in from the sides, now leaping over the hummocks. Many carried hatchets in their jaws. Metal tines gleamed on their paws. She heard the snickety of Dad’s pistol. The wave of attackers staggered as individuals collapsed. The others continued forward, snarling now. These were sounds of madness, not the barking of dogs. She felt the sounds in her teeth, like blasti music punching from a large speaker. Jaws and claws and knives and noise.

She twisted on her side, trying to see back to the boat. Now the pain was real. She screamed, but the sound was lost in the madness. The mob raced around her, heading for Mom and Dad. Her parents were crouched behind a rendezvous pylon. There was a constant flicker from the pistol in Arne Olsndot’s hand. His pressure suit had protected him from the arrows.

The alien bodies were piling high. The pistol, with its smart flechettes, was deadly effective. She saw him hand the pistol to Mom and run out from under the boat, toward her. Johanna stretched her free arm towards him and cried, screamed for him to go back.

Thirty meters. Twenty-five. Mom’s covering fire swept around them, driving the wolves back. A flurry of arrows descended on Olsndot as he ran, arms upheld to shield his head. Twenty meters.

A wolf jumped high over Johanna. She had a quick glimpse of its short fur and scarred rear end. It raced straight for Dad. Olsndot weaved, trying to give his wife a clear shot, but the wolf was too quick. It jinked with him, sprinting across the gap. It leaped, metal glittering on its paws. Johanna saw red splash from Daddy’s neck, and then the two of them were down.

For a moment, Sjana Olsndot stopped shooting. That was enough. The mob parted and a large group ran purposefully toward the boat. They had tanks of some kind on their backs. The lead animal held a hose in its mouth. A dark liquid jetted out… and vanished in an explosion of fire. The wolf pack played their crude flamethrower across the ground, across the pylon where Sjana Olsndot stood, across the ranks of school children in coldsleep. Johanna saw something moving, twisting in the flames and tarry smoke, saw the light plastic of the coldsleep boxes slump and flow.

Johanna turned her face to the earth, then pushed herself up on her good arm and tried to crawl toward the boat, the flames. And then the dark was merciful, and she remembered no more.

CHAPTER 4

Peregrine and Scriber watched the ambush preparations throughout the afternoon: infantry arrayed on the slope west of the landing site, archers behind them, flame troopers in pounce formation. Did the Lords of Flenser’s Castle understand what they were up against? The two debated the question off and on. Jaqueramaphan thought the Flenserists did, that their arrogance was so great that they simply expected to grab the prize. “They go for the throat before the other side even knows there’s a fight. It’s worked before.”

Peregrine didn’t answer immediately. Scriber could be right. It had been fifty years since he had been in this part of the world. Back then, Flenser’s cult had been obscure (and not that interesting compared to what existed elsewhere).

Treachery did sometimes befall travelers, but it was rarer than the stay-at-homes would believe. Most people were friendly and enjoyed hearing about the world beyond—especially if the visitor was not threatening. When treachery did occur, it was most often after an initial “sizing-up” to determine just how powerful the visitors were and what could be gained from their death. Immediate attack, without conversation, was very rare. Usually it meant you had run into villains who were both sophisticated… and crazy. “I don’t know. That is an ambush formation, but maybe the Flenserists will hold it in reserve, and talk first.”

Hours passed; the sun slid sideways into the north. There was noise from the far side of the fallen star. Crap. They couldn’t see anything from here.

The hidden troops made no move. The minutes passed… and they got their first view of the visitor from heaven, or part of him anyway. There were four legs per member, but it walked on its rear legs only. What a clown! Yet… it used its front paws for holding things. Not once did he see it use a mouth; he doubted if the flat jaws could get a good hold, anyway. Those forepaws were wonderfully agile. A single member could easily use tools.

There were plenty of conversation sounds, even though only three members were visible. After a while, they heard the much higher pitched tones of organized thought; God, the creature was noisy. At this distance, the sounds were muffled and distorted. Even so, they were like no mind he had ever heard, nor like the confusion noises that some grazers made.

“Well?” hissed Jaqueramaphan.

“I have been all around the world—and this creature is not part of it.”

“Yeah. Well, it reminds me of mantis bugs. You know, about this high -” he opened a mouth about two inches wide. “Great for keeping your garden free of pests… great little killers.”

Ugh. Peregrine hadn’t thought of the resemblance. Mantises were cute and harmless—as far as people were concerned. But he knew the females would eat their own mates. Imagine such creatures grown to giant size, and possessed of pack mentality. Maybe it was just was well they couldn’t go prancing down to say hello.

A half hour passed. As the alien brought its cargo to ground, the Flenser archers moved closer; the infantry packs arranged themselves in assault wings.

A flight of arrows arched across the gap between the Flenserists and the alien. One of the alien members went down immediately, and its thoughts quieted. The rest moved out of sight beneath the flying house. The troopers dashed forward, spaced in identity preserving formations; perhaps they meant to take the alien alive.

… But the assault line crumpled, many yards short of the alien: no arrows, no flames—the troopers just fell. For a moment Peregrine thought the Flenserists might have bit off more than they could chew. Then the second wave ran over the first. Members continued to fall, but they were in killing frenzy now, with only animal discipline left. The assault rolled slowly forward, the rear climbing over the fallen. Another alien member down… Strange, he could still hear wisps of the other’s thought. In tone and tempo, it sounded the same as before the attack. How could anyone be so composed with total death looming?

A combat whistle sounded, and the mob parted. A trooper raced through and sprayed liquid fire. The flying house looked like meat on a griddle, flame and smoke coming up all around it.

Wickwrackrum swore to himself. Good-bye alien.

The wrecked and wounded were low on the Flenserist priority list. Seriously wounded were piled onto travoises and pulled far enough away so their cries would not cause confusion. Cleanup squads bullied the trooper fragments away from the flying house. The frags wandered the hummocky meadow; here and there they coalesced into ad hoc packs. Some drifted among the wounded, ignoring the screams in their need to find themselves.

When the tumult was quieted, three packs of whitejackets appeared. The Servants of the Flenser walked under the flying house. One was out of sight for a long while; perhaps it even got inside. The charred bodies of two alien members were carefully placed on travoises—more carefully than the wounded troopers had been—and hauled off.

Jaqueramaphan scanned the ruins with his eye-tool. He had given up trying to hide it from Peregrine. A whitejackets carried something down from the flying house. “Sst! There are other dead ones. Maybe from the fire. They look like pups.” The small figures had the mantis form. They were strapped into travoises, and hauled out of sight over the hill’s edge. No doubt they had kherhog-drawn carts down there.

The Flenserists set a sentry ring around the landing site. Dozens of fresh troopers stood on the hillside beyond it. No one was going to sneak past that.

“So it’s total murder.” Peregrine sighed.

“Maybe not… The first member they shot, I don’t think it’s quite dead.”

Wickwrackrum squinted his best eyes. Either Scriber was a wishful thinker, or his tool gave him amazingly sharp sight. The first one hit had been on the other side of the craft. The member had stopped thinking, but that wasn’t a sure sign of death. There was a whitejackets standing around it now. The whitejackets put the creature onto a travois and began pulling it away from the landing site, towards the southwest… not quite the same path that the others had taken.

“The thing is still alive! It’s got an arrow in the chest, but I can see it breathing.” Scriber’s heads turned toward Wickwrackrum. “I think we should rescue it.”

For a moment Peregrine couldn’t think of anything to say; he just gaped at the other. The center of Flenser’s worldwide cabal was just a few miles to the northwest. Flenserist power was undisputed for dozens of miles inland, and right now they were virtually surrounded by an army. Scriber wilted a little before Peregrine’s astonishment, but it was clear he was not joking. “Sure, I know it’s risky. But that’s what life is all about, right? You’re a pilgrim. You understand.”

“Hmf.” That was the pilgrim reputation, all right. But no soul can survive total death—and there were plenty of opportunities for such annihilation on a pilgrimage. Pilgrims do know caution.

And yet, and yet this was the most marvelous encounter in all his centuries of pilgrimage. To know these aliens, to become them… it was a temptation that surpassed all good sense.

“Look,” said Scriber, “we could just go down and mingle with the wounded. If we can make it across the field, we might get a look at that last alien member, without risking too much.” Jaqueramaphan was already backing down from his observation point, and circling around to find a path that wouldn’t put him in silhouette. Wickwrackrum was torn; part of him got up to follow and part of him hesitated. Hell, Jaqueramaphan had admitted to being a spy; he carried an invention that was probably straight from the Long Lakes sharpest intelligence people. The guy had to be a pro…

Peregrine took a quick look around their side of the hill and across the valley. No sign of Tyrathect or anyone else. He crawled out of his various hidey holes and followed the spy.

As much as possible, they stayed in the deep shadows cast by the northering sun, and slipped from hummock to hummock where there was no shade. Just before they got to the first of the wounded, Scriber said something more, the scariest words of the afternoon. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve read all about doing this sort of thing!”

A mob of frags and wounded is a terrifying, mind-numbing thing. Singletons, duos, trios, a few quads: they wandered aimlessly, keening without control. In most situations, this many people packed together on just a few acres would have been an instant choir. In fact, he did notice some sexual activity and some organized browsing, but for the most part there was still too much pain for normal reactions. Wickwrackrum wondered briefly if—for all their talk of rationalism—the Flenserists would just leave the wreckage of their troops to reassemble itself. They’d have some strange and crippled repacks if they did.

A few yards into the mob and Peregrine Wickwrackrum could feel consciousness slipping from him. If he concentrated really hard, he could remember who he was and that he must get to the other side of the meadow without attracting attention.

Other thoughts, loud and unguarded, pummeled him:

…Blood lust and slashing…

Glittering metal in the alien’s hand… the pain in her chest… coughing blood, falling…

…Boot camp and before, my merge brother was so good to me… Lord Steel said that we are a grand experiment…

Running across the heather toward the stick-limbed monster. Leap, tines in paw. Slash the monster’s throat. Blood spouts high.

…Where am I?… May I be part of you… please?

Peregrine whirled at that last question. It was pointed and near. A singleton was sniffing at him. He screeched the fragment off, and ran into an open space. Up ahead, Jaque-what’s-his-name was scarcely better off. There was little chance they would be spotted here, but he was beginning to wonder if he could make it through. Peregrine was only four and there were singletons everywhere. On his right a quad was raping, grabbing at whatever duos and singles happened by. Wic and Kwk and Rac and Rum tried to remember just why they was here and where they was going. Concentrate on direct sensation; what is really here: the sooty smell of the flamer’s liquid fire

…the midges swarming everywhere, clotting the puddles of blood all black.

An awfully long time passed. Minutes.

Wic-Kwk-Rac-Rum looked ahead. He was almost out of it; the south edge of the wreckage. He dragged himself to a patch of clean ground. Parts of him vomited, and he collapsed. Sanity slowly returned. Wickwrackrum looked up, saw Jaqueramaphan just inside the mob. Scriber was a big fellow, a sixsome, but he was having at least as bad a time as Peregrine. He staggered from side to side, eyes wide, snapping at himself and others.

Well, they had made it a good way across the meadow, and fast enough to catch up with the whitejackets who was pulling the last alien member. If they wanted to see anything more, they’d have to figure how to leave the mob without attracting attention. Hmm. There were plenty of Flenserist uniforms around… without living owners. Peregrine walked two of himself over to where a dead trooper lay.

“Jaqueramaphan! Here!” The great spy looked in his direction, and a glint of intelligence returned to his eyes. He stumbled out of the mob and sat down a few yards from Wickwrackrum. It was far nearer than would normally be comfortable, but after what they’d been through, it seemed barely close. He lay for a moment, gasping. “Sorry, I never guessed it would be like that. I lost part of me back there… never thought I’d get her back.”

Peregrine watched the progress of the whitejackets and its travois. It wasn’t going with the others; in a few seconds it would be out of sight. With a disguise, maybe they could follow and—no, it was just too risky. He was beginning to think like the great spy. Peregrine pulled a camouflage jacket off a corpse. They would still need disguises. Maybe they could hang around here through the night, and get a closer look at the flying house.

After a moment, Scriber saw what he was doing, and began gathering jackets for himself. They slunk between the piled bodies, looking for gear that wasn’t too stained and that Jaqueramaphan thought had consistent insignia. There were plenty of paw claws and battle axes around. They’d end up armed to the teeth, but they’d have to dump some of their backpacks… One more jacket was all he needed, but his Rum was so broad in the shoulders that nothing fit.

Peregrine didn’t really understand what happened till later: a large fragment, a threesome, was lying doggo in the pile of dead. Perhaps it was grieving, long after its member’s dying dirge; in any case, it was almost totally thoughtless until Peregrine began pulling the jacket off its dead member. Then, “You’ll not rob from mine!” He heard the buzz of nearby rage, and then there was slashing pain across his Rum’s gut. Peregrine writhed in agony, leaped upon the attacker. For a moment of mindless rage, they fought. Peregrine’s battle axes slashed again and again, covering his muzzles with blood. When he came to his senses one of the three was dead, the others running into the mob of wounded.

Wickwrackrum huddled around the pain in his Rum. The attacker had been wearing tines. Rum was slashed from ribs to crotch. Wickwrackrum stumbled; some of his paws were caught in his own guts. He tried to nose the ruins back into his member’s abdomen. The pain was fading, the sky in Rum’s eyes slowly darkening. Peregrine stifled the screams he felt climbing within him. I’m only four, and one of me is dying! For years he’d been warning himself that four was just too small a number for a pilgrim. Now he’d pay the price, trapped and mindless in a land of tyrants.

For a moment, the pain eased and his thoughts were clear. The fight hadn’t really caused much notice amid the dirges, rapes, and simple attacks of madness. Wickwrackrum’s fight had only been a little bigger and bloodier than usual. The whitejackets by the flying house had looked briefly in their direction, but were now back to tearing open the alien cargo.

Scriber was sitting nearby, watching in horror. Part of him would move a little closer, then pull back. He was fighting with himself, trying to decide whether to help. Peregrine almost pleaded with him, but the effort was too great. Besides, Scriber was no pilgrim. Giving part of himself was not something Jaqueramaphan could do voluntarily…

Memories came flooding now, Rum’s efforts to sort things out and let the rest of him know all that had been before. For a moment, he was sailing a twinhull across the South Sea, a newby with Rum as a pup; memories of the island person who had born Rum, and of packs before that. Once around the world they had traveled, surviving the slums of a tropic collective, and the war of the Plains Herds. Ah, the stories they had heard, the tricks they had learned, the people they had met… Wic Kwk Rac Rum had been a terrific combination, clear-thinking, lighthearted, with a strange ability to keep all the memories in place; that had been the real reason he had gone so long without growing to five or six. Now he would pay perhaps the greatest price of all…

Rum sighed, and could not see the sky anymore. Wickwrackrum’s mind went, not as it does in the heat of battle when the sound of thought is lost, not as it does in the companionable murmur of sleep. There was suddenly no fourth presence, just the three, trying to make a person. The trio stood and patted nervously at itself. There was danger everywhere, but beyond its understanding. It sidled hopefully toward a sixsome sitting nearby—Jaqueramaphan?—but the other shooed it away. It looked nervously at the mob of wounded. There was completeness there… and madness too.

A huge male with deeply scarred haunches sat at the edge of the mob. It caught the threesome’s eye, and slowly crawled across the open space toward them. Wic and Kwk and Rac back away, their pelts puffing up in fright and fascination; the scarred one was at least half again the weight of any of them.

… Where am I?… May I be part of you… please? Its keening carried memories, jumbled and mostly inaccessible, of blood and fighting, of military training before that. Somehow, the creature was as frightened of those early memories as of anything. It lay its muzzle—caked with dried blood—on the ground and belly crawled toward them. The other three almost ran; random coupling was something that scared all of them. They backed and backed, out onto the clear meadow. The other followed, but slowly, still crawling. Kwk licked her lips and walked back towards the stranger. She extended her neck and sniffed along the other’s throat. Wic and Rac approached from the sides.

For an instant there was a partial join. Sweaty, bloody, wounded—a melding made in hell. The thought seemed to come from nowhere, glowed in the four for a moment of cynical humor. Then the unity was lost, and they were just three animals licking the face of a fourth.

Peregrine looked around the meadow with new eyes. He had been disintegrate for just a few minutes: The wounded from the Tenth Attack Infantry were just as before. Flenser’s Servants were still busy with the alien cargo. Jaqueramaphan was slowly backing away, his expression a compound of wonder and horror. Peregrine lowered a head and hissed at him, “I won’t betray you, Scriber.”

The spy froze. “That you, Peregrine?”

“More or less.” Peregrine still, but Wickwrackrum no more.

“H-how can you do it? Y-you just lost…”

“I’m a pilgrim, remember? We live with this sort of thing all our lives.” There was sarcasm in his voice; this was more or less the cliche Jaqueramaphan had been spouting earlier. But there was some truth to it. Already Peregrine Wickwrack…scar felt like a person. Maybe this new combination had a chance.

“Uk. Well, yes… What should we do now?” The spy looked nervously in all directions, but his eyes on Peregrine were the most worried of all.

Now it was Wickwrackscar’s turn to be puzzled. What was he doing here? Killing the strange enemy… No. That’s what the Attack Infantry was doing. He would have nothing to do with that, no matter what the scarred one’s memories. He and Scriber had come here to… to rescue the alien, as much of it as possible. Peregrine grabbed hold of the memory and held it uncritically; it was something real, from the past identity he must preserve. He glanced towards where he had last seen the alien member. The whitejackets and his travois were no longer visible, but he’d been heading along an obvious path.

“We can still get ourselves the live one,” he said to Jaqueramaphan.

Scriber stamped and sidled. He was not quite the enthusiast of before. “After you, my friend.”

Wickwrackscar straightened his combat jackets and brushed some of the dried blood off. Then he strutted off across the meadow, passing just a hundred yards from the Flenser’s Servants around the enemy—around the flying house. He flipped them a sharp salute, which was ignored. Jaqueramaphan followed, carrying two crossbows. The other was doing his best to imitate Peregrine’s strut, but he really didn’t have the right stuff.

Then they were past the military crest of the hill and descending into shadows. The sounds of the wounded were muted. Wickwrackscar broke into double time, loping from switchback to switchback as he descended the rough path. From here he could see the harbor; the boats were still at the piers, and there wasn’t much activity. Behind him, Scriber was talking nervous nonsense. Peregrine just ran faster, his confidence fueled by general newby confusion. His new member, the scarred one, had been the muscle behind an infantry officer. That pack had known the layout of the harbors and the castle, and all the passwords of the day.

Two more switchbacks and they overran the Flenser Servant and his travois. “Hallo!” shouted Peregrine. “We bring new instructions from Lord Steel.” A chill went down his spines at the name, remembering Steel for the first time. The Servant dropped the travois and turned to face them. Wickwrackscar didn’t know his name, but he remembered the guy: fairly high-ranking, an arrogant get-of-bitches. It was a surprise to see him pulling the travois himself.

Peregrine stopped only twenty yards from the whitejackets. Jaqueramaphan was looking down from the switchback above; his bows were out of sight. The Servant looked nervously at Peregrine and up at Scriber.

“What do you two want?”

Did he suspect them already? No matter. Wickwrackscar braced himself for a killing charge… and suddenly he was seeing in fours, his mind blurred with newby dizziness. Now that he needed to kill, the scarred one’s horror of the act undid him. Damn! Wickwrackscar cast wildly about for something to say. And now that murder was out of his mind, his new memories came easily: “Lord Steel’s will, that the creature be brought with us to the harbor. You, ah, you are to return to the invader’s flying thing.”

The whitejackets licked his lips. His eyes swept sharply across Peregrine’s uniforms, and Scriber’s. “Impostors!” he screamed, at the same instant lunging one of his members toward the travois. Metal glinted in the member’s forepaw. He’s going to kill the alien!

There was a bow snap from above, and the runner fell, a shaft through its eye. Wickwrackscar charged the others, forcing his scarbacked member out front. There was an instant of dizziness and then he was whole again, screaming death at the four. The two packs crashed together, Scar carrying a couple of the Servant’s members over the edge of the path. Arrows hummed around them. Wic Kwk Rac twisted, slashing axes at whatever remained standing.

Then things were quiet, and Peregrine had his thoughts again. Three of the Servant’s members twitched on the path, the earth around them slick with blood. He pushed them off the path, near where his Scar had killed the others. Not one of the Servant had survived; it was total death, and he was responsible. He sagged to the ground, seeing in fours again.

“The alien. It’s still alive,” said Scriber. He was standing around the travois, sniffing at the mantis-like body. “Not conscious though.” He grabbed the travois poles in his jaws and looked at Peregrine. “What… what now, Pilgrim?”

Peregrine lay in the dirt, trying to put his mind back together. What now, indeed. How had he gotten into this mess? Newby confusion was the only possibility. He’d simply lost track of all the reasons why rescuing the alien was impossible. And now he was stuck with it. Pack crap. Part of him crawled to the edge of the path, and looked around: There was no sign they had attracted attention. In the harbor, the boats were still empty; most of the infantry was up in the hills. No doubt the Servants were holding the dead ones at the harbor fort. So when would they move them across the straits to Hidden Island? Were they waiting for this one’s arrival?

“Maybe we could grab some boats, escape south,” said Scriber. What an ingenious fellow. Didn’t he know that there would be sentry lines around the harbor? Even knowing the passwords, they’d be reported as soon as they passed one. It would be a million-to-one shot. But it had been a flat impossibility before Scar became part of him.

He studied the creature lying on the travois. So strange, yet real. And it was more than just the creature, though that was the most spectacular strangeness. Its bloodied clothes were a finer fabric than the Pilgrim had ever seen. Tucked in beside the creature’s body was a pink pillow with elaborate stitchery. With a twist of perspective he realized it was alien art, the face of a long-snouted animal embroidered on the pillow.

So escape through the harbor was a million-to-one shot; some prizes might be worth such odds.

“…We’ll go down a little farther,” he said.

Jaqueramaphan pulled the travois. Wickwrackscar strode ahead of him, trying to look important and officerly. With Scar along, it wasn’t hard. The member was the picture of martial competence; you had to be on the inside to know the softness.

They were almost down to sea level.

The path was wider now and roughly paved. He knew the harbor fort was above them, hidden by the trees. The sun was well out of the north, rising into the eastern sky. Flowers were everywhere, white and red and violet, their tufts floating thick on the breeze—the arctic plant life taking advantage of its long day of summer. Walking on sun-dappled cobblestones, you might almost forget the ambush on the hilltops.

Very soon, they’d hit a sentry line. Lines and rings are interesting people; not great minds, but about the largest effective pack you’d find outside the tropics. There were stories of lines ten miles long, with thousands of members. The largest Peregrine had ever seen had less than one hundred: Take a group of ordinary people and train them to string out, not in packs but as individual members. If each member stayed just a few yards from its nearest neighbors, they could maintain something like the mentality of a trio. The group as a whole was scarcely brighter—you can’t have much in the way of deep thoughts when it takes seconds for an idea to percolate across your mind. Yet the line had an excellent grasp of what was happening along itself. And if any members were attacked, the entire line would know about it with the speed of sound. Peregrine had served on lines before; it was a strung out existence, but not nearly as dull as ordinary sentry duty. It’s hard to be bored when you’re as stupid as a line.

There! A lone member stuck its neck around a tree and challenged them. Wickwrackscar knew the password of course, and they were past the outer line. But that passage and their description was known to the entire line now—and surely to normal soldiers at the harbor fort.

Hell. There was no cure for it; he would go ahead with the crazy scheme. He and Scriber and the alien member passed through the two inner sentries. He could smell the sea now. They came out of the trees onto the rock-walled harbor. Silver sparkled off the water in a million changing flecks. A large multiboat bobbed between two piers. Its masts were like a forest of tilting, leafless trees. Just a mile across the water they could see Hidden Island. Part of him dismissed the sight as a commonplace; part of him stumbled in awe. This was the center of it, the worldwide Flenser movement. Up in those dour towers, the original Flenser had done his experiments, written his essays… and schemed to rule the world.

There were a few people on the piers. Most were doing maintenance: sewing sails, relashing twinhulls. They watched the travois with sharp curiosity, but none approached. So all we have to do is amble down to the end of the pier, cut the lashings on an outside twinhull, and take off. There were probably enough packs on the pier alone to prevent that—and their cries would surely draw the troops he saw by the harbor fort. In fact, it was a little surprising that no one up there had taken serious notice of them yet.

These boats were cruder than the Southseas version. Part of the difference was superficial: Flenser doctrine forbade idle decoration on boats. Part of it was functional: These craft were designed for both winter and summer seasons, and for troop hauling. But he was sure he could sail them given the chance. He walked to the end of the pier. Hmm. A bit of luck. The bow-starboard twinhull, the one right next to him by the pier, looked fast and well-provisioned. It was probably a long-range scout.

“Ssst. Something’s going on up there.” Scriber jerked a head toward the fort.

The troops were closing ranks—a mass salute? Five Servants swept by the infantry, and bugles sounded from the fort’s towers. Scar had seen things like this, but Peregrine didn’t trust the memory. How could—A banner of red and yellow rose over the fort. On the piers, soldiers and boatworkers dropped to their bellies. Peregrine dropped and hissed to the other, “Get down!”

“Wha -?”

“That’s Flenser’s flag… his personal presence banner!”

“That’s impossible.” Flenser had been assassinated in the Republic six tendays earlier. The mob that tore him apart had killed dozens of his top supporters at the same time… But it was only the word of the Republican Political Police that all Flenser’s bodies had been recovered.

Up by the fort, a single pack pranced between the ranks of soldiers and whitejackets. Silver and gold glinted on its shoulders. Scriber edged a member behind a piling and surreptitiously brought out his eye-tool. After a moment: “Soul’s end… it’s Tyrathect.”

“She’s no more the Flenser than I am,” said Peregrine. They had traveled together from Eastgate all the way across the Icefangs. She was obviously a newby, and not well-integrated. She had seemed reserved and innerlooking, but there had been rages. Peregrine knew there was a deadly streak in Tyrathect… Now he guessed whence it came. At least some of Flenser’s members had escaped assassination, and he and Scriber had spent three tendays in its presence; Peregrine shivered.

At the fort’s gate, the pack called Tyrathect turned to face the troops and Servants. She gestured, and bugles sounded again. The new Peregrine understood that signal: an Incalling. He suppressed the sudden urge to follow the others on the pier as they walked belly-low toward the fort, all their eyes upon The Master. Scriber looked back at him, and Peregrine nodded. They had needed a miracle, and here was one—provided by the enemy itself! Scriber moved slowly toward the end of the pier, pulling the travois from shadow to shadow.

Still no one looked back. For good reason; Wickwrackscar remembered what happened to those showing disrespect at an Incalling. “Pull the creature on the bow-starboard boat,” he said to Jaqueramaphan. He leaped off the pier and scattered across the multiboat. It was great to be back on swaying decks, each member drifting a different direction! He sniffed among the bow catapults, listened to the hulls and the creak of the lashings.

But Scar was no sailor, and had no recollection of what might be the most important thing.

“What are you looking for?” came Scriber’s Hightalk hiss.

“Scuttle knockouts.” If they were here, they looked nothing like the Southseas version.

“Oh,” said Scriber, “that’s easy. These are Northern Skimmers. There are swingout panels and a thin hull behind.” Two of him dropped from sight for a second and there was a banging sound. The heads reappeared, shaking water off. He grinned surprise, taken aback by his own success. “Why, it’s just like in the books!” his expression seemed to say.

Wickwrackscar found them now; the panels had looked like crew rests, but they were easily pulled out and the wood behind was easy to break with a battle axe. He kept a head out, looking to see if he were attracting attention, while at the same time he hacked at the knockouts. Peregrine and Scriber worked their way across the bow ranks of the multiboat; if those foundered, it would take a while to get the twinhulls behind them free.

Oops. One of the boat workers was looking back this way. Part of the fellow continued up the hillside, part strained to return to the pier. The bugles sounded their imperative once more, and the pack followed the call. But his whining alarums were causing other heads to turn.

No time for stealth. Peregrine hotfooted it back to the bow-starboard twinhull. Scriber was cutting the braid-bone fasteners that held the twinhull to the rest of the ship. “You have any sailing experience?” Peregrine said. Foolish question.

“Well, I’ve read about it—”

“Fine!” Peregrine shooed him all into the twinhull’s starboard pod. “Keep the alien safe. Hunker down, and be as quiet as you can.” He could sail the twinhull by himself, but he’d have to be all over to do it; the fewer confusing thought sounds, the better.

Peregrine poled their boat forward from the multiboat. The scuttling wasn’t obvious yet, but he could see water in the bow hulls. He reversed his pole and used its hook to draw the nearest boat into the gap created by their departure. Another five minutes and there’d be just a row of masts sticking out of the water. Five minutes. No way they could make it… if not for Flenser’s Incalling: up by the fort, troopers were turning and pointing at the harbor. Yet still they must attend on Flenser/Tyrathect. How long would it be before someone important decided that even an Incalling can be overridden?

He hoisted canvas.

The wind caught the twinhull’s sail and they pulled out from the pier. Peregrine danced this way and that, the shrouds grasped tightly in his mouths. Even without Rum, what memories the taste of salt and cordage brought back! He could feel where tautness and slack meant that the wind was giving all it could. The twin hulls were sleek and narrow, the mast of ironwood creaking as the wind pulled on the sail.

The Flenserists were streaming down the hillside now. Archers stopped and a haze of arrows rose. Peregrine jerked on the shrouds, tipping the boat into a left turn on one hull. Scriber leaped to shield the alien. To starboard ahead of them the water puckered, but only a couple of shafts struck the boat. Peregrine twisted the shrouds again, and they jigged back in the other direction. Another few seconds and they’d be out of bowshot. Soldiers raced down to the piers, shrieking as they saw what was left of their ship. The bow ranks were flooded; the whole front of the anchorage was a wreck of sunken boats. And the catapults were in the bow.

Peregrine swept his boat back, racing straight south, out of the harbor. To starboard, he could see they were passing the southern tip of Hidden Island. The Castle towers hung tall and ominous. He knew there were heavy catapults there, and some fast boats in the island harbor. A few more minutes and even that wouldn’t matter. He was gradually realizing just how nimble their boat was. He should have guessed they’d put their best in a corner bow position. It was probably used for scouting and overtaking.

Jaqueramaphan was piled up at the stern of his hull, staring across the water at the mainland harbor. Soldiers, workers, whitejackets were crowded in a mind-numbing jumble at the ends of the piers. Even from here, you could see the place was a madhouse of rage and frustration. A silly grin spread across Scriber as he realized they really were going to make it. He clambered onto the rail and jumped into the air to flip a member at their enemies. The obscene gesture nearly cast him overboard, but it was seen: the distant rage brightened for a moment.

They were well south of Hidden Island; even its catapults could not reach them now. The packs on the mainland shore were lost to view. Flenser’s personal banner still whipped cheerfully in the morning breeze, a dwindling square of red and yellow against the forest’s green.

All Peregrine looked at the narrows, where Whale Island kissed close to the mainland. His Scar remembered that the choke point was heavily fortified. Normally that would have been the end of them. But its archers had been withdrawn to participate in the ambush, and its catapults were under repair.

…so the miracle had happened. They were alive and free and they had the greatest find of all his pilgrimage. He shouted joy so loud that Jaqueramaphan cowered and the sound echoed back from the green and snow-patched hills.

CHAPTER 5

Jefri Olsndot had few clear memories of the ambush and saw none of the violence. There had been the noises outside, and Mom’s terrified voice, screaming for him to stay inside. Then there had been lots of smoke. He remembered choking, trying to crawl to clear air. He blacked out. When he woke, he was strapped onto some sort of first-aid cot, with the big dog creatures all around. They looked so funny with their white jackets and braid. He remembered wondering where their owners were. They made the strangest noises: gobbling, buzzing, hissing. Some of it was so high-pitched he could barely hear it.

For while he was on a boat, then on a wheeled cart. Before this, he had only seen pictures of castles, but the place they took him was the real thing, its towers dark and overhanging, its big stone walls sharply angled. They climbed through shadowed streets that went skumpety skumpety beneath the cart’s wheels. The long-necked dogs hadn’t hurt him, but the straps were awfully tight. He couldn’t sit up; he couldn’t see to the sides. He asked about Mom and Dad and Johanna, and he cried a little. A long snout appeared by his face, the soft nose pushing at his cheek. There was a buzzing sound he felt all the way down to his bones. He couldn’t tell if the gesture was comfort or threat, but he gasped and tried to stop the tears. They didn’t befit a good Straumer, anyway.

More white-jacketed dogs, ones with silly shoulder patches of gold and silver.

His cot was being dragged again, this time down a torch-lit tunnel. They stopped by a double door, two meters wide but scarcely one high. A pair of metal triangles was set in the blond wood. Later Jefri learned they signified a number—fifteen or thirty-three, depending on whether you counted by legs or fore-claws. Much, much later he learned that his keeper had counted by legs and the builder of the castle by fore-claws. Thus he ended up in the wrong room. It was a mistake that would change the history of worlds.

Somehow the dogs opened the doors and dragged Jefri in. They clustered around the cot, their snouts tugging loose his restraints. He had a glimpse of rows of needle-sharp teeth. The gobbling and buzzing was very loud. When Jefri sat up, they backed off. Two of them held the doors as the other four exited. The doors slammed shut and the circus act was gone.

Jefri stared at the doors for a long moment. He knew it was no circus act; the dog things must be intelligent. Somehow they had surprised his parents and sister. Where are they? He almost started to cry again. He hadn’t seen them by the spaceship. They must have been captured, too. They were all being held prisoner in this castle, but in separate dungeons. Somehow they must find each other!

He climbed to his feet, swayed dizzily for a moment. Everything still smelled like smoke. It didn’t matter; it was time to start working on getting out. He walked around the room. It was huge, and not like any dungeon he’d seen in stories. The ceiling was very high, an arching dome. It was cut by twelve vertical slots. Sunlight fell in a dust-moted stream from one of them, splashing off the padded wall. It was the room’s only illumination, but more than enough on this sunny day. Low-railed balconies stuck out from the four corners of the room just below the dome. He could see doors in the walls behind them. Heavy scrolls hung by the side of each balcony. There was writing on them, really big print. He walked to the wall and felt the stiff fabric. The letters were painted on. The only way you could change the display was by rubbing it out. Wow. Just like olden times on Nyjora, before Straumli Realm! The baseboard below the scrolls was black stone, glossy. Someone had used scraps of chalk to draw on it. The stick-figure dogs were crude; they reminded Jefri of pictures little kids draw in kinderschool.

He stopped, remembering all the children they had left aboard the boat, and on the ground around it. Just a few days ago, he’d been playing with them at the High Lab school. The last year had been so strange—boring and adventurous at the same time. The barracks had been fun with all the families together, but the grownups hardly ever had time to play. At night the sky was so different from Straum’s. “We’re beyond the Beyond,” Mom had said, “making God.” When she first said it, she laughed. Later when people said it, they seemed more and more scared. The last hours had been crazy, the coldsleep drills finally for real. All his friends were in those boxes… He wept into the awful silence. There was no one to hear, no one to help him.

After a few moments he was thinking again. If the dogs didn’t try to open the boxes, his friends should be okay. If Mom and Dad could make the dogs understand…

Strange furniture was scattered around the room: low tables and cabinets, and racks like kids’ jungle gyms—all made from the same blond wood as the doors. Black pillows lay around the widest table. That one was littered with scrolls, all full of writing and still drawings. He walked the length of one wall, ten meters or so. The stone flooring ended. There was a two-by-two bed of gravel where the walls met. Something smelled even stronger than smoke here. A bathroom smell. Jefri laughed: they really were like dogs!

The padded walls soaked up his laughter, echoless. Something… made Jefri look up and across the room. He’d just assumed he was alone here; in fact, there were lots of hiding places in this “dungeon.” For a moment, he held his breath and listened. All was silent… almost: at the top of his hearing, up where some machines wheep, and Mom and Dad and even Johanna couldn’t hear—there was something.

“I—I know you’re here,” Jefri said sharply, his voice squeaking. He stepped sideways a few paces, trying to see around the furniture without approaching it. The sound continued, obvious now that he was listening to it.

A small head with great dark eyes looked around a cabinet. It was much smaller than the creatures that had brought Jefri here, but the shape of the muzzle was the same. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Jefri edged slowly toward it. A puppy? The head withdrew, then came further out. From the corner of his eye, Jefri saw something move—another of the black forms was peering at him from under the table. Jefri froze for a second, fighting panic. But there was no place to run, and maybe the creatures would help find Mom. Jefri dropped to one knee and slowly extended his hand. “Here

… here, doggy.”

The puppy crawled from beneath the table, its eyes never leaving Jefri’s hand. The fascination was mutual; the puppy was beautiful. Considering all the thousands of years that dogs have been bred by humans (and others), this could have been some oddball breed… but only just. The hair was short and dense, a deep velour of black and white. The two tones lay in broad swaths with no intermediate grays. This one’s entire head was black, its haunches split between white and black. The tail was a short, unimpressive flap covering its rear. There were hairless patches on its shoulders and head, where Jefri could see black skin. But the strangest thing was the long, supple neck. It would look more natural in a sea’mal than a dog.

Jefri wiggled his fingers, and the puppy’s eyes widened, revealing an edge of white around the iris.

Something bumped his elbow, and Jefri almost jumped to this feet. So many! Two more had crept up to look at his hand. And where he had seen the first one there were now three, sitting alertly, watching. Seen in the open, there was nothing unfriendly or scary about them.

One of the puppies put a paw on Jefri’s wrist and pressed gently downward. At the same time, another extended its muzzle and licked Jefri’s fingers. The tongue was pink and raspy, a round narrow thing. The high-pitched wheeping got stronger; all three moved in, grabbing at his hand with their mouths.

“Be careful!” Jefri said, jerking back his hand. He remembered the grownups’ teeth. Suddenly the air was full of gobbling and buzzing. Hmp. They sounded more like goofy birds than dogs. One of the other pups came forward. It extended a sleek nose toward Jefri. “Be careful!” it said, a perfect playback of the boy’s voice… yet its mouth was closed. It angled its neck back… to be petted? He reached out; the fur was so soft! The buzzing was very loud now. Jefri could feel it through the fur. But it wasn’t just the one animal who was making it; the sound came from all directions. The puppy reversed direction, sliding its muzzle across the boy’s hand. This time he let the mouth close on his fingers. He could see teeth all right, but the puppy carefully kept them from touching Jefri’s skin. The tip of its snout felt like a pair of small fingers closing and opening around his.

Three slipped under his other arm, like they wanted to be petted too. He felt noses poking at his back, trying to pull his shirt out of his pants. The effort was remarkably coordinated, almost as if a two-handed human had grabbed his shirt. Just how many are there? For a moment he forgot where he was, forgot to be cautious. He rolled over and began petting the marauders. A surprised squeaking sound came from all directions. Two crawled beneath his elbows; at least three jumped on his back and lay with their noses touching his neck and ears.

And Jefri had what seemed a great insight: The adult aliens had recognized he was a child; they just didn’t know how old. They had put him in one of their own kinderschools! Mom and Dad were probably talking to them right now. Things were going to turn out all right after all.

Lord Steel had not taken his name casually: steel, the most modern of metals; steel, that takes the sharpest edge and never loses it; steel, that can glow red hot, and yet not fail; steel, the blade that cuts for the flenser. Steel was a crafted person, Flenser’s greatest success.

In some sense, the crafting of souls was nothing new. Brood kenning was a limited form of it, though mainly concerned with gross physical characteristics. Even kenners agreed that a pack’s mental abilities derived from its various members in different measures. One pair or triple was almost always responsible for eloquence, another for spatial intuition. The virtues and vices were even more complex. No single member was the principal source of courage, or of conscience.

Flenser’s contribution to the field—as to most others—had been an essential ruthlessness, a cutting away of all but the truly important. He experimented endlessly, discarding all but the most successful results. He depended on discipline and denial and partial death as much as on clever member selection. He already had seventy years of experience when he created Steel.

Before he could take his name, Steel spent years in denial, determining just what parts of him combined to produce the being desired. That would have been impossible without Flenser’s enforcement. (Example: if you dismissed a part of yourself essential for tenacity, where could you get the will to continue the flensing?) For the soul in creation, the process was mental chaos, a patchwork of horror and amnesia. In two years he had experienced more change than most people do in two centuries—and all of it directed. The turning point came when he and Flenser identified the trio that weighed him down with both conscience and slowness of intellect. One of the three bridged the others. Sending it into silence, replacing it with just the right element, had made the difference. After that, the rest was easy; Steel was born.

When Flenser had left to convert the Long Lakes Republic, it was only natural that his most brilliant creation should take over here. For five years Steel had ruled Flenser’s heartland. In that time he had not only conserved what Flenser built, he extended it beyond the cautious beginnings.

But today, in a single circling of the sun about Hidden Island, he could lose everything.

Steel stepped into the meeting hall and looked around. Refreshments were properly set. Sunlight streamed from a ceiling slit onto just the place he wanted. Part of Shreck, his aide, stood on the far side of the room. He said to it, “I will speak with the visitor alone.” He did not use the name “Flenser". The whitejackets groveled back and its unseen members pushed open the far doors.

A fivesome—three males and two females—walked through the doorway, into the splash of sunlight. The individual was unremarkable. But then Flenser had never had an imposing appearance.

Two heads raised to shade the eyes of the others. The pack looked across the room, spotting Lord Steel twenty yards away. “Ah-h… Steel.” The voice was gentle, like a scalpel petting the short hairs of your throat.

Steel had bowed when the other entered, a formal gesture. The voice caused a sudden cramp in his guts, and he involuntarily brought bellies to the ground. That was his voice! There was at least a fragment of the original Flenser in this pack. The gold and silver epaulets, the personal banner, those could be faked by anyone with suicidal bravado… But Steel remembered the manner. He wasn’t surprised the other’s presence had destroyed discipline on the mainland this morning.

The pack’s heads, where they were in sunlight, were expressionless. Was a smile playing about the heads in shadow? “Where are the others, Steel? What happened today is the greatest opportunity of our history.”

Steel got off his bellies and stood at the railing. “Sir. There are some questions first, just between the two of us. Clearly, you are much of Flenser, but how much—”

The other was clearly grinning now, the shadowed heads bobbing. “Yes, I knew my best creation would see that question… This morning, I claimed to be the true Flenser, improved with one or two replacements. The truth is… harder. You know about the Republic.” That had been Flenser’s greatest gamble: to flense an entire nation-state. Millions would die, yet even so there would be more molding than killing. In the end, there would exist the first collective outside of the tropics. And the Flenser state would not be a mindless agglomeration grubbing about in some jungle. The top would be as brilliant, as ruthless as any packs in history. No people in the world could stand against such a force.

“It was an awesome risk to take, for an even more awesome goal. But I took precautions. We had thousands of converts, many of them people with no understanding of our true ambition, but faithful and self-sacrificing—as they should be. I always kept a special group of them nearby. The Political Police were clever to use mob assassination against me, the last thing I had expected—I who made the mobs. No matter, my bodyguards were well trained. When we were trapped in Parliament Bowl, they killed one or two members of each of those special packs… and I simply ceased to exist, dispersed among three panicky, ordinary people trying to escape the blood swamp.”

“But everyone around you was killed; the mob left no one.”

The Flenser-thing shrugged. “That was partly Republican propaganda, and partly my own work: I ordered my guards to hack each other down, along with everyone who was not me.”

Steel almost voiced his awe. The plan was typical of Flenser’s brilliance, and his strength of soul. In assassinations, there was always the chance that fragments would get away. There were famous stories of heroes reassembled. In real life such events were rare, usually happening when the victim’s forces could sustain their leader through reintegration. But Flenser had planned this tactic from the beginning, had envisaged reassembling himself more than a thousand miles from the Long Lakes.

Still… Lord Steel looked at the other in calculation. Ignore voice and manner. Think for power, not for the desires of others, even Flenser. Steel recognized only two in the other pack. The females and the male with the white-tipped ears were probably from the sacrificed follower. Very likely only two of Flenser really faced him. Scarcely a threat… except in the very real sense of appearances. “And the other four of you, Sir? When may we expect your entire presence?”

The Flenser-thing chuckled. Damaged as it was, it still understood balance-of-power. This was almost like the old days: when two people have a clear understanding of power and betrayal, then betrayal itself becomes almost impossible. There is only the ordered flow of events, bringing good to those who deserve to rule. “The others have equally good… mounts. I made detailed plans, three different paths, three different sets of agents. I arrived on schedule. I have no doubt the others will too, in a few tendays at most. Until then,” he turned all heads toward Steel, “until then, dear Steel, I do not claim the full role of Flenser. I did so earlier to establish priorities, to protect this fragment till I am assembled. But this pack is deliberately weak-minded; I know it wouldn’t survive as the ruler of my earlier creations.”

Steel wondered. Half-brained, the creature’s schemes were perfect. Nearly perfect. “So you wish a background role for the next few tendays? Very well. But you announced yourself as Flenser. How shall I present you?”

The other didn’t hesitate. “Tyrathect, Flenser in Waiting.”

Crypto: 0

As received by: Transceiver Relay03 at Relay

Language path: Samnorsk-»Triskweline, SjK:Relay units

From: Straumli Main

Subject: Archive opened in the Low Transcend!

Summary: Our links to the Known Net will be down temporarily

Key phrases: transcend, good news, business opportunities, new archive, communications problems

Distribution:

Where Are They Now Interest Group, Homo Sapiens Interest Group, Motley Hatch Administration Group, Transceiver Relay03 at Relay, Transceiver Windsong at Debley Down, Transceiver Not-for-Long at Shortstop

Date: 11:45:20 Docks Time, 01/09 of Org year 52089

Text of message:

We are proud to announce that a human exploration company from Straumli Realm has discovered an accessible archive in the Low Transcend. This is not an announcement of Transcendence or the creation of a new Power. We have in fact postponed this announcement until we were sure of our property rights and the safety of the archive. We have installed interfaces which should make the archive interoperable with standard syntax queries from the Net. In a few days this access will be made commercially available. (See discussion of scheduling problems below.)

Because of its safety, intelligibility, and age, this Archive is remarkable. We believe there is otherwise lost information here about arbitration management and interrace coordination. We’ll send details to the appropriate news groups. We’re very excited about this. Note that no interaction with the Powers was necessary; no part of Straumli Realm has transcended.

Now for the bad news: Arbitration and translation schemes have had unfortunate clenirations[?] with the ridgeway armiphlage[?]. The details should be amusing to the people in the Communication Threats news group, and we will report them there later. But for at least the next hundred hours, all our links (main and minor) to the Known Net will be down. Incoming messages may be buffered, but no guarantees. No messages can be forwarded. We regret this inconvenience, and will make up for it very soon!

Physical commerce is in no way affected by these problems. Straumli Realm continues to welcome tourists and trade.

CHAPTER 6

Looking back, Ravna Bergsndot saw it was inevitable that she become a librarian. As a child on Sjandra Kei, she had been in love with stories from the Age of Princesses. There was adventure, a time when a few brave Ladies had dragged humankind to greatness. She and her sister had spent countless afternoons pretending to be the Greater Two and rescuing the Countess of the Lake. Later they understood that Nyjora and its Princesses were lost in the dim past. Sister Lynne turned to more practical things. But Ravna still wanted adventure. Through her teens, she had dreamed of emigrating to Straumli Realm. That was something very real. Imagine: a new and mostly human colony, right at the Top of the Beyond. And Straum welcomed folk from the mother world; their enterprise was less than one hundred years old. They or their children would be the first humans anywhere in the galaxy to transcend their own humanity. She might end up a god, and richer than a million Beyonder worlds. It was a dream real enough to provoke constant arguments with her parents. For where there is heaven, there can also be hell. Straumli Realm kissed close to the Transcend, and the people there played with “the tigers that pace beyond the bars.” Dad had actually used that tired image. The disagreement drove them apart for several years. Then, in her Computer Science and Applied Theology courses, Ravna began to read about some of the old horrors. Maybe, maybe… she should be a little more cautious. Better to look around first. And there was a way to see into everything that humans in the Beyond could possibly understand: Ravna became a librarian. “The ultimate dilettante!” Lynne had teased. “It’s true and so what?” Ravna had grumped back, but the dream of far traveling was not quite dead in her.

Life in Herte University at Sjandra Kei should have been perfect for someone who had finally figured out what they wanted from life. Things might have gone on happily for a lifetime there—except that in her graduation year, there had been the Vrinimi Organization’s Faraway Prentice contest. Three years work-study at the archive by Relay was the prize. Winning was the chance of a lifetime; she would come back with more experience than any local academician.

So it was that Ravna Bergsndot ended up more than twenty thousand light-years from home, at the network hub of a million worlds.

Sunset was an hour past when Ravna drifted across Citypark toward Grondr Vrinimikalir’s residence. She’d been on the planet only a handful of times since arriving in the Relay system. Most of her work was at the archives themselves—a thousand light-hours out. This part of Groundside was in early autumn, though twilight had faded the tree colors to bands of gray. From Ravna’s altitude, one hundred meters up, the air had the nip of frosts to come. Between her feet she could see picnic fires and gaming fields. The Vrinimi Organization didn’t spend much on the planet, but the world was beautiful. As long as she kept her eyes on the darkening ground, Ravna could almost imagine this was someplace in her home terrane on Sjandra Kei. Look into the sky though… and you knew you were far from home: twenty-thousand light-years away, the galactic whirlpool sprawled up toward the zenith.

It was just a faint thing in the twilight, and it might not get much brighter this night: Low in the western sky, a cluster of in-system factories glowed brighter than any moon. The operation was a brilliant flickering of stars and rays, sometimes so intense that stark shadows were cast eastwards from the Citypark mountains. In another half hour, the Docks would rise. The Docks weren’t as bright as the factories, but together they would outshine anything from the far stars.

She shifted in her agrav harness, drifting lower. The scent of autumn and picnics came stronger. Suddenly, the click of Kalir laughter was all around her; she had blundered into an airball game. Ravna spread her arms in mock humiliation and dodged out of the players’ way.

Her stroll through the park was just about over; she could see her destination ahead. Grondr ’Kalir’s residence was a rarity in the Citypark landscape: a recognizable building. It dated from when the Org bought into the Relay operation. Seen from just eighty meters up, the house was a blocky silhouette against the sky. When factory lights flashed, the smooth walls of the monolith glowed in oily tints. Grondr was her boss’s boss’s boss. She had talked to him exactly three times in two years.

No more delay. Nervous and very curious, Ravna floated lower and let the house electronics guide her across the tree decks toward an entrance.

Grondr Vrinimikalir treated her with standard Organization courtesy, the common denominator that served between the several races of the Org: The meeting room had furniture suitable for human and Vrinimi use. There were refreshments, and questions about her job at the archive.

“Mixed results, sir,” Ravna replied honestly. “I’ve learned a great deal. The ’prenticeship is everything it’s claimed to be. But I’m afraid the new division is going to require an added index layer.” All this was in reports the old fellow could have seen at the flick of a digit.

Grondr rubbed a hand absently across his eye freckles. “Yes, an expected disappointment. We’re at the limits of information management with this expansion. Egravan and Derche—” those were Ravna’s boss and boss’s boss “— are quite happy with your progress. You came well educated, and learned fast. I think there’s a place for humans in the Organization.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ravna blushed. Grondr’s assessment was casually spoken but very important to her. And it would probably mean the arrival of more humans, perhaps even before her ’prenticeship was up. So was this the reason for the interview?

She tried not to stare at the other. She was quite used to the Vrinimi majority race by now. From a distance the Kalir looked humanoid. Up close, the differences were substantial. The race was descended from something like an insect. In upsizing, evolution had necessarily moved reinforcing struts inside the body, till the outside was a combination of grublike skin and sheets of pale chitin. At first glance Grondr was an unremarkable exemplar of the race. But when the fellow moved, even to adjust his jacket or scratch at his eye freckles, there was a strange precision to him. Egravan said that he was very, very old.

Grondr changed the subject with the clickety abruptness. “You are aware of the… changes at Straumli Realm?”

“You mean the fall of Straum? Yes.” Though I’m surprised you are. Straumli Realm was a significant human civilization, but it accounted for only an infinitesimal fraction of Relay’s message traffic.

“Please accept my sympathy.” Despite the cheerful announcements from Straum, it was clear that absolute disaster had befallen Straumli Realm. Almost every race eventually dabbled in the Transcend, more often than not becoming a superintelligence, a Power. But it was clear by now that the Straumers had created, or awakened, a Power of deadly inclination. Their fate was as terrible as anything Ravna’s father had ever predicted. And their bad luck was now a disaster that stretched across all that had been Straumli Realm. Grondr continued: “Will this news affect your work?”

Curiouser and curiouser; she would have sworn the other was coming to the point. Maybe this was the point? “Uh, no sir. The Straumli affair is a terrible thing, especially for humankind. But my home is Sjandra Kei. Straumli Realm is our offspring, but I have no relatives there.” Though I might have been there if it hadn’t been for Mother and Dad. Actually, when Straumli Main dropped off the Net, Sjandra Kei had been unreachable for almost forty hours. That had bothered her very much, since any rerouting should have been immediate. Communication was eventually established; the problem had been screwed-up routing tables on an alternate path. Ravna had even shot half a year’s savings for an over-and-back mailing. Lynne and her parents were fine; the Straumli debacle was the news of the century for folks at Sjandra Kei, but it was still a disaster at great remove. Ravna wondered if parents had ever given better advice than hers!

“Good, good.” His mouth parts moved in the analog of a human nod. His head tilted so only peripheral freckles were looking at her; the guy actually seemed hesitant! Ravna looked back silently. Grondr ’Kalir might be the strangest exec in the Org. He was the only one whose principal residence was Groundside. Officially he was in charge of a division of the archives; in fact, he ran Vrinimi Marketing (i.e., Intelligence). There were stories that he had visited the Top of the Beyond; Egravan claimed he had an artificial immune system. “You see, the Straumli disaster has incidentally made you one of the Organization’s most valuable employees.”

“I… don’t understand.”

“Ravna, the rumors in the Threats newsgroup are true. The Straumers had a laboratory in the Low Transcend. They were playing with recipes from some lost archive, and they created a new Power. It appears to be a Class Two perversion.”

The Known Net recorded a Class Two perversion about once a century. Such Powers had a normal “lifespan"—about ten years. But they were explicitly malevolent, and in ten years could do enormous damage. Poor Straum.

“So you can see there’s enormous potential for profit or loss here. If the disaster spreads, we will lose network customers. On the other hand, everyone around Straumli Realm wants to track what is happening. This could increase our message traffic by several percent.”

Grondr put it more cold-bloodedly than she liked, but he had a point. In fact, the opportunity for profit was directly linked with mitigating the perversion. If she hadn’t been so wrapped up in archive work, she’d have guessed all this. And now that she did think about it: “There are even more spectacular opportunities. Historically, these perversions have been of interest to other Powers. They’ll want Net feeds and… information about the creating race.” Her voice guttered into silence as she finally understood the reason for this meeting.

Grondr’s mouth parts clicked agreement. “Indeed. We at Relay are well-placed to supply news to the Transcend. And we also have our own human. In the last three days we’ve received several dozen queries from civilizations in the High Beyond, some claiming to represent Powers. This interest could mean a large increase in Organization income through the next decade.

“All this you could read in the Threats news group. But there is another item, something I ask you to keep secret for now: Five days ago, a ship from the Transcend entered our region. It claims to be directly controlled by a Power.” The wall behind him became a window upon the visitor. The craft was an irregular collection of spines and limps. A scale bar claimed the thing was only five meters across.

Ravna felt the hair on her neck prickling. Here in the Middle Beyond they should be relatively safe from the caprice of the Powers. Still… the visit was an unnerving thing. “What does it want?”

“Information about the Straumli perversion. In particular, it is very interested in your race. It would give a great deal to take back a living human…”

Ravna’s response was abrupt. “I’m not interested.”

Grondr spread his pale hands. The light glittered from the chitin on the back of his fingers. “It would be an enormous opportunity. A ’prenticeship with the gods. This one has promised to establish an oracle here in return.”

“No!” Ravna half rose from her chair. She was one human, more than twenty thousand light-years from home. That had been a frightening thing in the first days of her ’prenticeship. Since then she had made friends, had learned more of Organization ethics, had come to trust these folk almost as much as people at Sjandra Kei. But… there was only one halfway trustable oracle on the Net these days, and it was almost ten years old. This Power was tempting Vrinimi Org with fabulous treasure.

Grondr clicked embarrassment. He waved her back to her chair. “It was only a suggestion. We do not abuse our employees. If you will simply serve as our local expert…”

Ravna nodded.

“Good. Frankly, I had not expected you to accept the offer. We have a much more likely volunteer, but one who needs coaching.”

“A human? Here?” Ravna had a standing query in the local directory for other humans. During the last two years she had seen three, and they had just been passing through. “How long has she—he?—been here?”

Grondr said something halfway between a smile and a laugh. “A bit more than a century, though we didn’t realize it until a few days ago.” The pictures around him shifted. Ravna recognized Relay’s “attic,” the junkyard of abandoned ships and freight devices that floated just a thousand light-seconds from the archives. “We receive a lot of one-way freight, items shipped in the hope we’ll buy or sell on consignment.” The view closed on a decrepit vessel, perhaps two hundred meters long, wasp-waisted to support a ramscoop drive. Its ultradrive spines were scarcely more than stubs.

“A bottom-lugger?” said Ravna.

Grondr clicked negation. “A dredge. The ship is about thirty thousand years old. Most of that time was spent in a deep penetration of the Slow Zone, plus ten thousand years in the Unthinking Depths.”

Up close now, she could see the hull was finely pitted, the result of millennia of relativistic erosion. Even unpiloted, such expeditions were rare: a deep penetration could not return to the Beyond within the lifetime of its builders. Some would not return within the lifetime of the builders’ race. People who launched such missions were just a little weird; People who recovered them could make a solid profit.

“This one came from very far away, even if it’s not quite a jackpot mission. It didn’t see anything interesting in the Unthinking Depths—not surprising given that even simple automation fails there. We sold most of the cargo immediately. The rest we cataloged and forgot… till the Straumli affair.” The starscape vanished. They were looking at a medical display, random limbs and body parts. They looked very human. “In a solar system at the bottom of the Slowness, the dredge found a derelict. The wreck had no ultradrive capability; it was truly a Slow Zone design. The solar system was uninhabited. We speculate the ship had a structural failure—or perhaps the crew was affected by the Depths. Either way, they ended up in a frozen mangle.”

Tragedy at the bottom of the Slowness, thousands of years ago. Ravna forced her eyes from the carnage. “You figure on selling this to our visitor?”

“Even better. Once we started poking around, we discovered a substantial error in the cataloging. One of the deaders is almost intact. We patched it up with parts from the others. It was expensive, but we ended up with a living human.” The picture flickered again, and Ravna caught her breath. In the medical animation, the parts floated into an orderly arrangement. There was a complete body there, torn up a little in the belly. Pieces came together, and… this was no “she". He floated whole and naked, as if in sleep. Ravna had no doubt of his humanity, but all humankind in the Beyond was descended from Nyjoran stock. This fellow had none of that heritage. The skin was smoky gray, not brown. The hair was bright reddish brown, a color she had only seen in pre-Nyjoran histories. The bones of the face were subtly different from modern humans. The small differences were more jarring than the outright alienness of her coworkers.

Now the figure was clothed. Under other circumstances, Ravna would have smiled. Grondr ’Kalir had picked an absurd costume, something from the Nyjoran era. The figure bore a sword and slug gun… A sleeping prince from the Age of Princesses.

“Behold the Ur-human,” said Grondr.

CHAPTER 7

“Relay” is a common place-name. It has meaning in almost any environment. Like Newtown and Newhome, it occurs over and over when people move or colonize or participate in a communication net. You could travel a billion light-years or a billion years and still find such names among folk of natural intelligence.

But in the current era there was one instance of “Relay” known above all others. That instance appeared in the routing list of two percent of all traffic across the Known Net. Twenty thousand light-years off the galactic plane, Relay had an unobstructed line of sight on thirty percent of the Beyond, including many star systems right at the bottom, where starships can make only one light-year per day. A few metal-bearing solar systems were equally well-placed, and there was competition. But where other civilizations lost interest, or colonized into the Transcend, or died in apocalypse, Vrinimi Organization lasted. After fifty thousand years, there were several races of the original Org in its membership. None of those were still leaders—yet the original viewpoint and policies remained. Position and durability: Relay was now the main intermediate to the Magellanics, and one of the few sites with any sort of link to the Beyond in Sculptor.

At Sjandra Kei, Relay’s reputation had been fabulous. In her two years of ’prenticeship, Ravna had come to realize that the truth exceeded the reputation. Relay was in Middle Beyond; the Organization’s only export was the relay function and access to the local archive. Yet they imported the finest biologicals and processing equipment from the High Beyond. The Relay Docks were an extravagance that only the absolutely rich could indulge. They stretched a thousand kilometers: bays, repair holds, transhipment centers, parks, and playgrounds. Even at Sjandra Kei there were habitats far larger. But the Docks were in no orbit. They floated a thousand kilometers above Groundside on the largest agrav frame Ravna had ever seen. At Sjandra Kei the annual income of an academician might pay for a square meter of agrav fabric—junk that might not last a year. Here there were millions of hectares of the stuff, supporting billions of tonnes. Just replacements for dead fabric required more High Beyond commerce than most star clusters could command.

And now I have my own office here. Working directly for Grondr ’Kalir had its perks. Ravna kicked back in her chair and stared across the central sea. At the Docks’ altitude, gravity was still about three-quarters of a gee. Air fountains hung a breathable atmosphere over the middle part of the platform. The day before, she had taken a sailboat across the clear-bottomed sea. That was a strange experience indeed: planetary clouds below your keel, stars and indigo sky above.

She had the surf cranked up this morning—an easy matter of flexing the agravs of the basin. It made a regular crashing against her beach. Even thirty meters from the water there was a tang of salt in the air. Rows of white tops marched off into the distance.

She eyed the figure that was trudging slowly up the beach toward her. Just a few weeks ago she would never have dreamed this situation. Just a few weeks ago she had been out at the archive, absorbed in the upgrade work, happy to be involved with one of the largest databases on the Known Net. Now

… it was almost as if she had come full circle, back to her childhood dreams of adventure. the only problem was, sometimes she felt like one of the bad guys: Pham Nuwen was a living person, not something to be sold.

She stood and walked out to meet her red-haired visitor.

He wasn’t carrying the sword and handgun of Grondr’s fanciful animation. Yet his clothes were the braided fabric of ancient adventure, and he carried himself with lazy confidence. Since her meeting with Grondr, she had looked up some anthropology from Old Earth. The red hair and the eyefolds had been known there, though rarely in the same individual. Certainly his smoky skin would have been remarkable to an inhabitant of Earth. This fellow was, as much as herself, a product of post-terrestrial evolution.

He stopped an arm’s length away and gave her a lopsided grin. “You look pretty human. Ravna Bergsndot?”

She smiled and nodded up at him. “Mr. Pham Nuwen?”

“Yes indeed. We seem both to be excellent guessers.” He swept past her into the shade of the inner office. Cocky fellow.

She followed him, unsure about protocol. You’d think with a fellow human there would be no problems…

Actually, the interview went pretty smoothly. It was more than thirty days since Pham Nuwen’s resuscitation. Much of that time had been spent in cram language sessions. The fellow must be damned bright; he already spoke Triskweline trade talk with a folksy slickness. He really was rather cute. Ravna had been away from Sjandra Kei for two years, and had another year of her ’prenticeship to go. She’d been doing pretty well. She had many close friends here, Egravan, Sarale. But just chatting with this fellow brought a lot of the loneliness back. In some ways he was more alien than anything at Relay… and in some ways she wanted to just grab him and kiss his confident grin away.

Grondr Vrinimikalir had been telling the truth about Pham Nuwen. The guy was actually enthusiastic about the Org’s plans for him! In theory, that meant she could do her job with a clear conscience. In fact…

“Mr. Nuwen, my job is to orient you to your new world. I know you’ve been exposed to some intense instruction the last few days, but there are limits to how fast such knowledge can sink in.”

The redhead smiled. “Call me Pham. Sure, I feel like an over-stuffed bag. My sleep time is full of little voices. I’ve learned an awful lot without experiencing anything. Worse, I’ve been a target for all this ‘education’. It’s a perfect setup if Vrinimi wants to trick me. That’s why I’m learning to use the local library. And that’s why I insisted they find someone like you.” He saw the surprise on her face. “Ha! You didn’t know that. See, talking to a real person gives me a chance to see things that aren’t all planned ahead. Also, I’ve always been a pretty good judge of human nature; I think I can read you pretty well.” His grin showed he understood just how irritating he was being.

Ravna looked up at the green petals of the beachtrees. Maybe this boob deserved what he was getting into. “So you have great experience dealing with people?”

“Given the limitations of the Slowness, I’ve been around, Ravna. I’ve been around. I know I don’t look it, but I’m sixty-seven years old subjective. I thank your Organization for a fine job of thawing me out.” He tipped a non-existent hat in her direction. “My last voyage was more than a thousand years objective. I was Programmer-at-Arms on a Qeng Ho longshot -” His eyes abruptly widened, and he said something unintelligible. For a moment he almost looked vulnerable.

Ravna reached a hand toward him. “Memory?”

Pham Nuwen nodded. “Damn. This is something I don’t thank you people for.”

Pham Nuwen had been frozen in the aftermath of violent death, not as a planned suspension. It was a near miracle that Vrinimi Org had been able to bring him back at all—at least with Middle Beyond technology. But memory was the hardest thing. The chemical basis of memory does not survive chaotic freezing well.

The problem was enough to shrink even Pham Nuwen’s ego by a size or two. Ravna took pity on him. “It’s not likely that anything is completely lost. You just have to find a different angle on some things.”

“… Yes. I’ve been coached about that. Start with other memories; work sideways toward what you can’t remember straight on. Well… it beats being dead.” Some of his jauntiness returned, but subdued to a really quite charming level. They talked for long while as the redhead worked around the points he couldn’t “remember straight on".

And gradually Ravna came to feel something she had never expected in connection with a Slow Zoner: awe. In one lifetime, Pham Nuwen had accomplished virtually everything that was possible for a being in the Slowness. All her life she had pitied the civilizations trapped down there. They could never know the glory; they might never know the truth. Yet by luck and skill and sheer strength of will, this fellow had leaped barrier after barrier. Had Grondr known the truth when he pictured the redhead with sword and slug gun? For Pham Nuwen really was a barbarian. He had been born on a fallen colony world—Canberra he called it. The place sounded much like medieval Nyjora, though not matriarchal. He’d been the youngest child of a king. He’d grown up with swords and poison and intrigue, living in stone castles by a cold, cold sea. No doubt this littlest prince would have ended up murdered—or king of all—if life had continued in the medieval way. But when he was thirteen years old everything changed. A world that had only legends of aircraft and radio was confronted by interstellar traders. In a year of trading, Canberra’s feudal politics was turned on its head.

“Qeng Ho had invested three ships in the expedition to Canberra. They were pissed, thought we’d be at a higher level of technology. We couldn’t resupply them, so two stayed behind, probably turned my poor world inside out. I left with the third—a crazy hostage deal my father thought he was putting over on them. I was lucky they didn’t space me.”

Qeng Ho consisted of several hundred ramscoop ships operating in a volume hundreds of light-years across. Their vessels could reach almost a third of the speed of light. They were mostly traders, occasionally rescuers, even more rarely conquerors. When Pham Nuwen last knew them, they had settled thirty worlds and were almost three thousand years old. It was as extravagant a civilization as can ever exist in the Slowness… And of course, until Pham Nuwen was revived, no one in the Beyond had ever heard of it. Qeng Ho was like a million other doomed civilizations, buried thousands of light-years in the Slowness. Only by luck would they ever penetrate into the Beyond, where faster-than-light travel was possible.

But for a thirteen-year-old boy born to swords and chain mail, the Qeng Ho was more change than most living beings ever experience. In a matter of weeks, he went from medieval lordling to starship cabin boy.

“At first they didn’t know what to do with me. Figured on popping me into cold storage and dumping me at the next stop. What can you make of a kid who thinks there’s one world and it’s flat, who has spent his whole life learning to whack about with a sword?” He stopped abruptly, as he did every few minutes, when the stream of recollection ran into damaged territory. Then his glance flicked out at Ravna, and his smile was as cocky as ever. “I was one mean animal. I don’t think civilized people realize what it’s like to grow up with your own aunts and uncles scheming to murder you, and you training to get them first. In civilization I met bigger villains—guys who’d fry a whole planet and call it ‘reconciliation’—but for sheer up-close treachery, you can’t beat my childhood.”

To hear Pham Nuwen tell it, only dumb luck saved the crew from his scheming. In the years that followed, he learned to fit in, learned civilized skills. Properly tamed, he could be an ideal ship master of the Qeng Ho. And for many years he was. The Qeng Ho volume contained a couple of other races, and a number of human-colonized worlds. At 0.3c, Pham spent decades in coldsleep getting from star to star, then a year or two at each port trying to make a profit with products and information that might be lethally out-of-date. The reputation of the Qeng Ho was some protection. “Politics may come and go, but Greed goes on forever” was the fleet’s motto, and they had lasted longer than most of their customers. Even religious fanatics grew a little cautious when they thought about Qeng Ho retribution. But more often it was the skill and deviousness of the shipmaster that saved the day. And few were a match for the little boy in Pham Nuwen.

“I was almost the perfect skipper. Almost. I always wanted to see what was beyond the space we had good records on. Every time I got really rich, so rich I could launch my own subfleet—I’d take some crazy chance and lose everything. I was the yo-yo of the Fleet. One run I’d be captain of five, the next I’d be pulling maintenance programming on some damn container ship. Given how time stretches out with sublight commerce, there were whole generations who thought I was a legendary genius—and others who used my name as a synonym for goofball.”

He paused and his eyes widened in pleased surprise. “Ha! I remember what I was doing there at the end. I was in the ‘goofball’ part of my cycle, but it didn’t matter. There was this captain of twenty who was even crazier than I… Can’t remember her name. Her? Couldn’t have been; I’d never serve under a fem captain.” He was almost talking to himself. “Anyway, this guy was willing to bet everything on the sort of thing normal folks would argue about over beer. He called his ship the, um, it translates as something like ‘wild witless bird’—that gives you the idea about him. He figured there must be some really high-tech civilizations somewhere in the universe. The problem was to find them. In a strange way, he had almost guessed about the Zones. Only problem was, he wasn’t crazy enough; he got one little thing wrong. Can you guess what?”

Ravna nodded. Considering where Pham’s wreck was found, it was obvious.

“Yeah. I’ll bet it’s an idea older than spaceflight: the ‘elder races’ must be toward the galactic core, where stars are closer and there are black hole exotica for power. He was taking his entire fleet of twenty. They’d keep going till they found somebody or had to stop and colonize. This captain figured success was unlikely in our lifetime. But with proper planning we could end up in a close-packed region where it would be easy to found a new Qeng Ho—and it would proceed even further.

“Anyway, I was lucky to get aboard even as a programmer; this captain knew all the wrong things about me.”

The expedition lasted a thousand years, penetrating two hundred and fifty light-years galactic inward. The Qeng Ho volume was closer to the Bottom of the Slowness than Old Earth, and they were proceeding inwards from there. Even so, it was plain bad luck that they encountered the edge of the Deeps after only two hundred and fifty light-years. One after another, the Wild Witless Bird lost contact with the other ships. Sometimes it happened without warning, other times there was evidence of computer failure or gross incompetence. The survivors saw a pattern, guessed that common components were failing. Of course, no one connected the problems with the region of space they were entering.

“We backed down from ram speeds, found a solar system with a semi-habitable planet. We’d lost track of everybody else… Just what we did then isn’t real clear to me.” He gave a dry laugh. “We must have been right at the edge, staggering around at about IQ 60. I remember fooling with the life support system. That’s probably what actually killed us.” For a moment he looked sad and bewildered. He shrugged. “And then I woke up in the tender clutches of Vrinimi Org, here where faster-than-light travel is possible… and I can see the edge of Heaven itself.”

Ravna didn’t say anything for a moment. She looked across her beach into the surf. They’d been talking a long time. The sun was peeking under the tree petals, its light shifting across her office. Did Grondr realize what he had here? Almost anything from the Slow Zone had collector’s value. People fresh from the Slowness were even more valuable. But Pham Nuwen might be unique. He had personally experienced more than had some whole civilizations, and ventured into the Deeps to boot. She understood now why he looked to the Transcend and called it “Heaven". It wasn’t entirely naivete, nor a failure in the Organization’s education programs. Pham Nuwen had already been through two transforming experiences, from pre-tech to star— traveler, and star-traveler to Beyonder. Each was a jump almost beyond imagination. Now he saw that another step was possible, and was perfectly willing to sell himself to take it.

So why should I risk my job to change his mind? But her mouth was living a life of its own. “Why not postpone the Transcend, Pham? Take some time to understand what is here in the Beyond. You’d be welcome in almost any civilization. And on human worlds you’d be the wonder of the age.” A glimpse of non-Nyjoran humanity. The local newsgroups at Sjandra Kei had thought Ravna radically ambitious to take a ’prenticeship twenty thousand light-years away. Coming back from it, she would have her pick of Full Academician jobs on any of a dozen worlds. That was nothing compared to Pham Nuwen; there were folks so rich they might give him a world if he would just stay. “You could name your price.”

The redhead’s lazy smile broadened. “Ah, but you see, I’ve already named my price, and I think Vrinimi can meet it.”

I really wish I could do something about that smile, thought Ravna. Pham Nuwen’s ticket to the Transcend was based on a Power’s sudden interest in the Straumli perversion. This innocent’s ego might end up smeared across a million death cubes, running a million million simulations of human nature.

Grondr called less than five minutes after Pham Nuwen’s departure. Ravna knew the Org would be eavesdropping, and she’d already told Grondr her misgivings about this “selling” of a sophont. Nevertheless, she was a bit nervous to see him.

“When is he actually going to leave for the Transcend?”

Grondr rubbed at his freckles. He didn’t seem angry. “Not for ten or twenty days. The Power that’s negotiating for him is more interested in looking at our archives and watching what’s passing through Relay. Also… despite the human’s enthusiasm for going, he’s really quite cautious.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He’s insisting on a library budget, and permission to roam anywhere in the system. He’s been chatting with random employees all over the Docks. He was especially insistent about talking to you.” Grondr’s mouth parts clicked in a smile. “Feel free to speak your mind to him. Basically, he’s tasting around for hidden poison. Hearing the worst from you should make him trust us.”

She was coming to understand Grondr’s confidence. Damn but Pham Nuwen had a thick head. “Yes sir. He’s asked me to show him around the Foreign Quarter tonight.” As you well know.

“Fine. I wish the rest of the deal were going as smoothly.” Grondr turned so that only peripheral freckles were looking in her direction. He was surrounded by status displays of the Org’s communication and database operations. From what she could see, things were remarkably busy. “Maybe I should not bring this up, but it’s just possible you can help… Business is very brisk.” Grondr did not seem pleased to report the good news. “We have nine civilizations from the Top of the Beyond that are bidding for wide band data feeds. That we could handle. But this Power that sent a ship here…”

Ravna interrupted almost without thinking, a breach that would have horrified her a few days earlier. “Just who is it, by the way? Any chance we’re entertaining the Straumli Perversion?” The thought of that taking the redhead was a chill.

“Not unless all the Powers are fooled, too. Marketing calls our current visitor ‘Old One’.” He smiled. “That’s something of a joke, but true even so. We’ve known it for eleven years.” No one really knew how long Transcendent beings lived, but it was a rare Power that stayed communicative for more than five or ten years. They lost interest, or grew into something different—or really did die. There were a million explanations, thousands that were allegedly from the Powers first hand. Ravna guessed that the true explanation was the simplest one: intelligence is the handmaiden of flexibility and change. Dumb animals can change only as fast as natural evolution. Human equivalent races, once on their technological run-up, hit the limits of their zone in a matter of a few thousand years. In the Transcend, superhumanity can happen so fast that its creators are destroyed. It wasn’t surprising then that the Powers themselves were evanescent.

So calling an eleven-year Power “Old One” was almost reasonable.

“We believe that Old One is a variant on the Type 73 pattern. Such are rarely malicious—and we know from whom it Transcended. Just now it’s causing us major discomfort, though. For twenty days it has been monopolizing an enormous and increasing percentage of Relay bandwidth. Since its ship arrived, it’s been all over the archive and our local nets. We’ve asked Old One to send noncritical data by starship, but it refuses. This afternoon was the worst yet. Almost five percent of Relay’s capacity was bound up in its service. And the creature is sending almost as much downlink as it is receiving uplink.”

That was weird, but, “It’s still paying for the business, isn’t it? If Old One can pay top price, why do you care?”

“Ravna, we hope our Organization will be around for many years after the Old One is gone. There is nothing it could offer us that would be good through all that time.” Ravna nodded. Actually, there were certain “magic” automations that might work down here, but their long-term effectiveness would be dubious. This was a commercial situation, not some exercise in an Applied Theology course. “Old One can easily top any bid from the Middle Beyond. But if we give it all the services it demands, we’ll be effectively nonfunctional to the rest of our customers—and they are the people we must depend on in the future.”

His image was replaced by an archive access report. Ravna was very familiar with the format, and Grondr’s complaint really hit home. The Known Net was a vast thing, a hierarchical anarchy that linked hundreds of millions of worlds. Yet even the main trunks had bandwidths like something out of Earth’s dawn age; a wrist dataset could do better on a local net. That’s why bulk access to the Archive was mostly local—to media freighters visiting the Relay system. But now… during the last hundred hours, remote access to the Archive, both by volume and by count, had been higher than local! And ninety percent of those accesses were from a single account—Old One’s.

Grondr’s voice continued from behind the graphics. “We’ve got one backbone transceiver dedicated to this Power right now… Frankly, we can’t tolerate this for more than a few days; the ultimate expense is just too great.”

Grondr’s face was back on the display. “Anyway, I think you can see that the deal for the barbarian is really the least of our problems. The last twenty days have brought more income than the last two years—far more than we can verify and absorb. We’re endangered by our own success.” He made an ironic smile-frown.

They talked a few minutes about Pham Nuwen, and then Grondr rang off. Afterwards, Ravna took a walk along her beach. The sun was well down toward the aft horizon, and the sand was just pleasantly warm against her feet; the Docks went round the planet once every twenty hours, circling the pole at about forty degrees north latitude. She walked close to the surf, where the sand was flat and wet. The mist off the sea was moist against her skin. The blue sky just above the white-tops shaded quickly to indigo and black. Specks of silver moved up there, agrav floaters bringing starships into the Docks. The whole thing was so fabulously, unnecessarily expensive. Ravna was by turns grossed out and bedazzled. Yet after two years at Relay, she was beginning to see the point. Vrinimi Org wanted the Beyond to know that it had the resources to handle whatever communication and archive demands might be made on it. And they wanted the Beyond to suspect that there were hidden gifts from the Transcend here, things that might make it more than a little dangerous to invaders.

She stared into the spray, feeling it bead on her lashes. So Grondr had the big problem right now: how do you tell a Power to take a walk? All Ravna Bergsndot had to worry about was one overconfident twit who seemed hell-bent on destroying himself. She turned and paralleled the water. Every third wave it surged over her ankles.

She sighed. Pham Nuwen was beyond doubt a twit… but what an awesome one. Intellectually, she had always known that there was no difference in the possible intelligence of Beyonders and the primitives of the Slowness. Most automation worked better in the Beyond; ultralight communication was possible. But you had to go to the Transcend to build truly superhuman minds. So it shouldn’t be surprising that Pham Nuwen was capable. Very capable. He had picked up Triskweline with incredible ease. She had little doubt that he was the master skipper he claimed. And to be a trader in the Slowness, to risk centuries between the stars for a destination that might have fallen from civilization or become deadly hostile to outsiders… that took courage that was hard to imagine. She could understand how he might think going to the Transcend was just another challenge. He’d had less than twenty days to absorb a whole new universe. That simply wasn’t enough time to understand that the rules change when the players are more than human.

Well, he still had a few days of grace. She would change his mind. And after talking to Grondr just now, she wouldn’t feel especially guilty about doing it.

CHAPTER 8

The Foreign Quarter was actually about a third of the Docks. It abutted the no-atmosphere periphery—where ships actually docked—and extended inwards to a section of the central sea. Vrinimi Org had convinced a significant number of races that this was a wonder of the Middle Beyond. In addition to freight traffic there were tourists—some of the wealthiest beings in the Beyond.

Pham Nuwen had carte blanche to these amusements. Ravna took him through the more spectacular ones, including an agrav hop over the Docks. The barbarian was more impressed by their pocket space suits than by the Docks. “I’ve seen structures bigger than that down in the Slowness.” Not hovering in a planetary gravity well, you haven’t.

Pham Nuwen seemed to mellow as the evening progressed. At least his comments became more perceptive, less edged. He wanted to see how real traders lived in the Beyond, and Ravna showed him the bourses and the traders’ Local.

They ended up in The Wandering Company just after Docks midnight. This was not Organization territory, but it was one of Ravna’s favorite places, a private dive that attracted traders from the Top to the Bottom. She wondered how the decor would appeal to Pham Nuwen. The place was modeled as a meeting lodge on some world of the Slow Zone. A three-meter model ramscoop hung in the air over the main service floor. Blue-green drive fields glowed from the ship’s every corner and flange, and spread faintly among patrons sitting below.

To Ravna the walls and floors were heavy timber, rough cut. People like Egravan saw stone walls and narrow tunnels—the sort of broodery his race had maintained on new conquests of long ago. The trickery was optical—not some mental smudging—and about the best that could be done in the Middle Beyond.

Ravna and Pham walked between widely-spaced tables. The owners weren’t as successful with sound as with vision: the music was faint and changed from table to table. Smells changed too, and were a little bit harder to take. Air management was working hard to keep everyone healthy, if not completely comfortable. Tonight the place was crowded. At the far end of the service floor, the special-atmosphere nooks were occupied: low pressure, high pressure, high NOx, aquaria. Some customers were vague blurs within turbid atmospheres.

In some ways it might have been a port bar at Sjandra Kei. Yet… this was Relay. It attracted High Beyonders who would never come to backwaters like Sjandra Kei. Most of the High Ones didn’t look very strange; civilizations at the Top were most often just colonies from below. But the headbands she saw here were not jewelry. Mind-computer links aren’t efficient in the Middle Beyond, but most of the High Beyonders would not give them up. Ravna started toward a group of banded tripods and their machines. Let Pham Nuwen talk with creatures who teetered on the edge of transsapience.

Surprisingly, he touched her arm, drawing her back. “Let’s walk around a little more.” He was looking all around the hall, as if searching for a familiar face. “Let’s find some other humans first.”

When holes showed in Pham Nuwen’s cram-education, they were gapingly wide. Ravna tried to keep her face serious. “Other humans? We’re all there is at Relay, Pham.”

“But the friends you’ve been telling me about… Egravan, Sarale?”

Ravna just shook her head. For a moment the barbarian looked vulnerable.

Pham Nuwen had spent his life crawling at sublight between human-colonized star systems. She knew that in all that life he had seen only three non-human races. Now he was lost in a sea of alienness. She kept her sympathy to herself; this one insight might affect the guy more than all her arguing.

But the instant passed, and he was smiling again. “Even more an adventure.” They left the main floor and walked past special-atmosphere nooks. “Lord, but Qeng Ho would love this.”

No humans anywhere, and The Wandering Company was the homiest meeting place she knew; many Org customers met only on the Net. She felt her own homesickness welling up. On the second floor, a signet flag caught her eye. She’d known something like it back at Sjandra Kei. She drew Pham Nuwen across the floor, and started up the timbered stairs.

Out of the background murmur, she heard a high-pitched twittering. It wasn’t Triskweline, but the words made sense! By the Powers, it was Samnorsk: “I do believe it’s a Homo Sap! Over here, my lady.” She followed the sound to the table with the signet flag.

“May we sit with you?” she asked, savoring the familiar language.

“Please do.” The twitterer looked like a small ornamental tree sitting in a six-wheeled cart. The cart was marked with cosmetic stripes and tassels; its 150-by-120-centimeter topside was covered with a cargo scarf in the same pattern as the signet flag. The creature was a Greater Skroderider. Its race traded through much of the Middle Beyond, including Sjandra Kei. The Skroderider’s high-pitched voice came from its voder. But speaking Samnorsk, it sounded homier than anything she’d heard in a long time. Even granting the mental peculiarities of Skroderiders, she felt a surge of affectionate nostalgia, as if she had run into a old classmate in a far city.

“My name is—” the sound was the rustling of fronds, “but you can easier call me Blueshell. It’s nice to see a familiar face, hahaha.” Blueshell spoke the laughter as words. Pham Nuwen had sat down with Ravna, but he understood not a word of Samnorsk and so the great reunion was lost on him. The Rider switched to Triskweline and introduced his four companions: another Skroderider, and three humanoids who seemed to like the shadows. None of the humanoids spoke Samnorsk, but no one was more than one translator hop from Triskweline.

The Skroderiders were owners/operators of a small interstellar freighter, the Out of Band II. The humanoids were certificants for part of the starship’s current cargo. “My mate and I have been in the business almost two hundred years. We have happy feelings for your race, my lady. Our first runs were between Sjandra Kei and Forste Utgrep. Your people are good customers and we scarcely ever have a shipment rot…” He wheeled his skrode back from the table and then drove forward—the equivalent of a small bow.

All was not sweetness and light, however. One of the humanoids spoke. The sounds could almost have come from a human throat, though they made no sense. A moment passed as the house translator processed his words. Then the broach on his jacket spoke in clear Triskweline: “Blueshell states you are Homo sapiens. Know that you have our animosity. We are bankrupt, near-stranded here by your race’s evil creation. The Straumli Perversion.” The words sounded emotionless, but Ravna could see the creature’s tense posture, its fingers twisting at a drink bulb.

Considering his attitude, it probably wouldn’t help to point out that though she was human, Sjandra Kei was thousands of light-years from Straum. “You came here from the Realm?” she asked the Skroderider.

Blueshell didn’t answer immediately. That’s the way it was with his race; he was probably trying to remember who she was and what they were all talking about. Then: “Yes, yes. Please do excuse my certificants’ hostility. Our main cargo is a one-time cryptographic pad. The source is Commercial Security at Sjandra Kei; the destination is the certificants’ High colony. It was the usual arrangement: We’re carrying a one-third xor of the pad. Independent shippers are carrying the others. At the destination, the three parts would be xor’d together. The result could supply a dozen worlds’ crypto needs on the Net for—”

Downstairs there was a commotion. Someone was smoking something a bit too strong for the air scrubbers. Ravna caught a whiff, enough to shimmer her vision. It had knocked out several patrons on the main level. Management was counseling the offending customer. Blueshell made an abrupt noise. He backed his skrode from the table and rolled to the railing. “Don’t want to be caught unawares. Some people can be so abrupt…” When nothing more came of the incident, he returned. “Uh, where was I?” He was silent a moment, consulting the short-term memory built into his skrode. “Yes, yes… We would become relatively rich if our plans work out. Unfortunately, we stopped on Straum to drop off some bulk data.” He pivoted on his rear four wheels. “Surely that was safe? Straum is more than a hundred light-years from their lab in the Transcend. Yet—”

One of the certificants interrupted with loud gabble. The house translator kicked in a moment later: “Yes. It should have been safe. We saw no violence. Ship’s recorders show that our safeness was not breached. Yet now there are rumors. Net groups claim that Straumli Realm is owned by perversion. Absurdity. Yet these rumors have crossed the Net to our destination. Our cargo is not trusted, so our cargo is ruined: now it is only a few grams of data medium carrying random—” In the middle of the flat-voiced translation, the humanoid lunged out of the shadows. Ravna had a glimpse of a jaw edged with razor-sharp gums. He threw his drink bulb at the table in front of her.

Pham Nuwen’s hand flashed out, snatching the drink before it hit -before she had quite realized what was happening. The redhead came slowly to his feet. From the shadows, the two other humanoids came to their feet and moved toward their friend. Pham Nuwen didn’t say a word. He set the bulb carefully down and leaned just slightly toward the other, his hands relaxed yet bladelike. Cheap fiction talks about “looks of deadly menace". Ravna had never expected to see the real thing. But the humanoids saw it too. They tugged their friend gently back from the table. The loudmouth did not resist, but once beyond Pham’s reach he erupted in a barrage of squeals and hisses that left the house translator speechless. He made a sharp gesture with three fingers, and shut up. The three swept silently down the stairs and away.

Pham Nuwen sat down, his gray eyes calm and untroubled. Maybe he did have something to be arrogant about! Ravna looked across at the two Skroderiders. “I’m sorry your cargo lost value.”

Most of Ravna’s past contacts had been with Lesser Skroderiders, whose reflexes were only slightly augmented beyond their sessile heritage. Had these two even noticed the interruption? But Blueshell answered immediately, “Do not apologize. Ever since our arrival, those three have been complaining. Contract partners or not, I’m very tired of them.” He lapsed into potted-plant mode.

After a moment, the other Rider—Greenstalk, was it?—spoke. “Besides, our commercial situation may not be a complete failure. I am sure the other thirds of the shipment went nowhere near Straumli Realm.” That was the usual procedure anyway: each part of the shipment was carried by a different company, each taking a very different path. If the other thirds could be certified, the crew of the Out of Band might not come away empty-handed. “In—in fact, there may be a way we can get full certification. True, we were at Straumli Main, but—”

“How long ago did you leave?”

“Six hundred and fifty hours ago. About two hundred hours after they dropped off the Net.”

It suddenly dawned on Ravna that she was talking to something like eyewitnesses. After thirty days, the Threats news was still dominated by the events at Straum. The consensus was that a Class Two perversion had been created—even Vrinimi Org believed that. Yet it was still mainly guesswork… And here she was talking to beings who had actually been there. “You don’t think the Straumers created a perversion?”

It was Blueshell who replied. “Sigh,” he said. “Our certificants deny it, but I see a problem of conscience here. We did witness strangeness on Straum… Have you ever encountered artificial immune systems? The ones that work in the Middle Beyond are more trouble than they’re worth, so perhaps not. I noticed a real change in certain officers of the Crypto Authority right after the Straumli victory. It was as if they were suddenly part of a poorly calibrated automation, as if they were somebody’s, um, fingers… No one can doubt they were playing in the Transcend. They found something up there; a lost archive. But that is not the point.” He stopped talking for a long moment; Ravna almost thought he was finished. “You see, just before leaving Straumli Main, we—”

But now Pham Nuwen was talking too. “That’s something I’ve been wondering about. Everybody talks as though this Straumli Realm was doomed the moment they began research in the Transcend. Look. I’ve played with bugged software and strange weapons. I know you can get killed that way. But it looks like the Straumers were careful to put their lab far away. They were building something that could go very wrong, but apparently it was a previously-tried experiment—like just about everything Up Here. They could stop the work any time it deviated from the records, right up to the end. So how could they screw up so bad?”

The question stopped the Skroderider in its tracks. You didn’t need a doctorate in Applied Theology to know the answer. Even the damn Straumers should have known the answer. But given Pham Nuwen’s background, it was a reasonable question. Ravna kept her mouth shut. The Skroderider’s very alienness might be more convincing to Pham than another lecture from her.

Blueshell dithered for a moment, no doubt using his skrode to help assemble his arguments. When he finally spoke, he didn’t seem irritated by the interruption. “I hear several misconceptions, My Lady Pham.” He seemed to use the old Nyjoran honorific pretty indiscriminately. “Have you been into the archive at Relay?”

Pham said yes. Ravna guessed he’d never been past the beginners’ front end.

“Then you know that an archive is a fundamentally vaster thing than the database on a conventional local net. For practical purposes the big ones can’t even be duplicated. The major archives go back millions of years, have been maintained by hundreds of different races—most now extinct or Transcended into Powers. Even the archive at Relay is a jumble, so huge that indexing systems are laid on top of indexing systems. Only in the Transcend could such a mass be well organized and even then only the Powers could understand it.”

“So?”

“There are thousands of archives in the Beyond—tens of thousands if you count the ones that have fallen into disrepair or dropped off the Net. Along with unending trivia, they contain important secrets and important lies. There are traps and snares.” Millions of races played with the advice that filtered unsolicited across the Net. Tens of thousands had been burned thereby. Sometimes the damage was relatively minor, good inventions that weren’t quite right for the target environment. Sometimes it was malicious, viruses that would jam a local net so thoroughly that a civilization must restart from scratch. Where-Are-They-Now and Threats carried stories of worse tragedies: planets kneedeep in replicant goo, races turned brainless by badly programmed immune systems.

Pham Nuwen was wearing his skeptical expression. “Just test the stuff at a safe remove. Be prepared for local disasters.”

That would have brought most explanations to a stop. Ravna had to admire the Skroderider: he paused, retreated to still more elementary terms. “True, simple caution can prevent many disasters. And if your lab is in the Middle or Low Beyond, such caution is all that is really needed—no matter how sophisticated the threat. But we all understand the nature of the Zones…” Ravna had virtually no feel for Rider body language, but she would have sworn that Blueshell was watching the barbarian expectantly, trying to gauge the depth of Pham’s ignorance.

The human nodded impatiently.

Blueshell continued, “In the Transcend, truly sophisticated equipment can operate, devices substantially smarter than anyone down here. Of course, almost any economic or military competition can be won by the side with superior computing resources. Such can be had at the Top of the Beyond and in the Transcend. Races are always migrating there, hoping to build their utopias. But what do you do when your new creations may be smarter than you are? It happens that there are limitless possibilities for disaster, even if an existing Power does not cause harm. So there are unnumbered recipes for safely taking advantage of the Transcend. Of course they can’t be effectively examined except in the Transcend. And run on devices of their own description, the recipes themselves become sentient.”

Understanding was beginning to glimmer across Pham Nuwen’s face.

Ravna leaned forward, caught the redhead’s attention. “There are complex things in the archives. None of them is sentient, but some have the potential, if only some naive young race will believe their promises. We think that’s what happened to Straumli Realm. They were tricked by documentation that claimed miracles, tricked into building a transcendent being, a Power—but one that victimizes sophonts in the Beyond.” She didn’t mention how rare such perversion was. The Powers were variously malevolent, playful, indifferent—but virtually all of them had better uses for their time than exterminating cockroaches in the wild.

Pham Nuwen rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Okay, I guess I see. But I get the feeling this is common knowledge. If it’s this deadly, how did the Straumli bunch get taken in?”

“Bad luck and criminal incompetence,” the words popped out of her with surprising force. She hadn’t realized she was so bent by the Straumli thing; somewhere inside, her old feelings for Straumli Realm were still alive. “Look. Operations in the High Beyond and in the Transcend are dangerous. Civilizations up there don’t last long, but there will always be people who try. Very few of the threats are actively evil. What happened to the Straumers… They ran across this recipe advertising wondrous treasure. Quite possibly it had been lying around for millions of years, a little too risky for other folks to try. You’re right, the Straumers knew the dangers.” But it was a classic situation of balancing risks and choosing wrong. Perhaps a third of Applied Theology was about how to dance near the flame without getting incinerated. No one knew the details of the Straumli debacle, but she could guess them from a hundred similar cases:

“So they set up a base in the Transcend at this lost archive—if that’s what it was. They began implementing the schemes they found. You can be sure they spent most of their time watching it for signs of deception. No doubt the recipe was a series of more or less intelligible steps with a clear takeoff point. The early stages would involve computers and programs more effective than anything in the Beyond—but apparently well-behaved.”

“… Yeah. Even in the Slowness, a big program can be full of surprises.”

Ravna nodded. “And some of these would be near or beyond human complexity. Of course, the Straumers would know this and try to isolate their creations. But given a malign and clever design… it should be no surprise if the devices leaked onto the lab’s local net and distorted the information there. From then on, the Straumer’s wouldn’t have a chance. The most cautious staffers would be framed as incompetent. Phantom threats would be detected, emergency responses demanded. More sophisticated devices would be built, and with fewer safeguards. Conceivably, the humans were killed or rewritten before the Perversion even achieved transsapience.”

There was a long silence. Pham Nuwen looked almost chastened. Yeah. There’s a lot you don’t know, Buddy. Think on what Old One might have planned for you.

Blueshell bent a tendril to taste a brown concoction that smelled like seaweed. “Well told, My Lady Ravna. But there is one difference in the present situation. It may be good fortune, and very important… You see, just before leaving Straumli Main, we attended a beach party among the Lesser Riders. They had been little affected by events to that point; many hadn’t even noticed the destruction of independence at Straum. With luck, they may be the last enslaved.” His squeaky voice lowered an octave, trailing into silence. “Where was I? Yes, the party. There was one fellow there, a bit more lively than the average. Somewhere years past, he had bonded with a traveler in a Straumli news service. Now he was acting as a clandestine data drop, so humble that he wasn’t even listed in that service’s own net…

“Anyway, the researchers at the Straumli lab—a few of them at least—were not so incautious as you say. They suspected a perverse runaway, and were determined to sabotage it.”

This was news, but—"Doesn’t look like they had much success, does it?”

“I am nodding agreement. They did not prevent it, but they did plan to escape the laboratory planet with two starships. And they did get word of their attempt into channels that ended with my acquaintance at the beach party. And here is the important part: At least one of these ships was to carry away some final elements of the Perversion’s recipe—before they were incorporated into the design.”

“Surely there were backups—” began Pham Nuwen.

Ravna waved him silent. There had been enough grade-school explanations for one night. This was incredible. She’d been following the news about Straumli Realm as much as anyone. The Realm was the first High daughter colony of Sjandra Kei; it was horrifying to see it destroyed. But nowhere in Threats had there been even a rumor of this: the Perversion not whole? “If this is true, then the Straumers may have a chance. It all depends on the missing parts of the design document.”

“Just so. And of course the humans realized this too. They planned to head straight for the Bottom of the Beyond, rendezvous there with their accomplices from Straum.”

Which—considering the ultimate magnitude of the disaster—would never happen. Ravna leaned back, oblivious of Pham Nuwen for the first time in many hours. Most likely both ships had been destroyed by now. If not -well, the Straumers had been at least half-smart, heading for the Bottom. If they had what Blueshell thought, the Perversion would be very interested in finding them. It was no wonder Blueshell and Greenstalk hadn’t announced this on the news groups. “So you know where they were going to rendezvous?” she said softly.

“Approximately.”

Greenstalk burred something at him.

“Not in ourselves,” he said. “The coordinates are in the safeness at our ship. But there is more. The Straumers had a backup plan if the rendezvous failed. They intended to signal Relay with their ship’s ultrawave.”

“Now wait. Just how big is this ship?” Ravna was no physical-layer engineer, but she knew that Relay’s backbone transceivers were actually swarms of antenna elements scattered across several light years, each element ten-thousand kilometers across.

Blueshell rolled forward and back, a quick gesture of agitation. “We don’t know, but it’s nothing exceptional. Unless you’re looking precisely at it with a large antenna, you’d never detect it from here.”

Greenstalk added, “We think that was part of their plan, though it is desperation on top of desperation. Since we came to Relay, we’ve been talking to the Org—”

“Discreetly! Quietly!” Blueshell put in abruptly.

“Yes. We’ve asked the Organization to listen for this ship. I’m afraid we haven’t talked to the right people. No one seems to put much credence in us. After all, the story is ultimately from a Lesser Rider,” Yeah. What could they know that was under a hundred years old? “What we’re asking would normally be a great expense, and apparently prices are especially high right now.”

Ravna tried to curb her enthusiasm. If she had read this in a newsgroup, it would’ve been just one more interesting rumor. Why should she boggle just because she was getting it face-to-face? By the Powers, what irony. Hundreds of customers from the Top and the Transcend—even Old One—were saturating Relay’s resources with their curiosity about the Straumli debacle. What if the answer had been sitting in front of them, suppressed by the very eagerness of their investigation? “Just who have you been talking to? Never mind, never mind.” Maybe she should just go to Grondr ’Kalir with the story. “I think you should know that I am a—” very minor! “-employee of the Vrinimi Organization. I may be able to help.”

She had expected some surprise at this sudden good luck. Instead there was a pause. Apparently Blueshell had lost his place in the conversation. Finally Greenstalk spoke. “I am blushing… You see, we knew that. Blueshell looked you up in the employees’ directory; you are the only human in the Org. You’re not in Customer Contact, but we thought that if we chanced upon you, so to speak, you might give us a kindly hearing.”

Blueshell’s tendrils rustled together sharply. Irritation? Or had he finally caught up to the conversation? “Yes. Well, since we are all being so frank, I suppose we should confess that this might even benefit us. If the refugee ship can prove that the Perversion is not a full Class Two, then perhaps we can convince our buyers that our cargo has not been compromised. If they only knew, my certificant friends would be groveling at your feet, my lady Ravna.”

They stayed at The Wandering Company until well past midnight. Business picked up at the circadian peak of some of the new arrivals. Floor and table shows were raucous all around. Pham’s eyes flickered this way and that, taking it all in. But above all he seemed fascinated by Blueshell and Greenstalk. The two were starkly nonhuman, in some ways even strange as aliens go. Skroderiders were one of the very few races that had achieved long— term stability in the Beyond. Speciation had long ago occurred, varieties heading outward or becoming extinct. And still there were some who matched their ancient skrodes, a unique balance of outlook and machine interface that was more than a billion years old. But Blueshell and Greenstalk were also traders with much of the outlook that Pham Nuwen had known in the Slowness. And though Pham acted as ignorant as ever, there was new diplomacy in him. Or maybe the awesomeness of the Beyond was finally getting through his thick skull. He couldn’t have asked for better drinking buddies. As a race, the Skroderiders preferred lazy reminiscence to almost any activity. Once delivered of their critical message, the two were quite content to talk of their life in the Beyond, to explain things in whatever detail the barbarian could wish. The razor-jawed certificants stayed well lost.

Ravna got a mild buzz on, and watched the three talk shop. She smiled to herself. In a way, she was the outsider now, the person who had never done. Blueshell and Greenstalk had been all over, and some of their stories sounded wild even to her. Ravna had a theory (not that widely accepted, actually) that where beings have a common fluency, little else matters. Two of these three might be mistaken for potted trees on hotcarts, and the third was unlike any human in her life. Their fluency was in an artificial language, and two of the “voices” were squawky raspings. Yet… after a few minutes’ listening, their personalities seemed to float in her mind’s eye, more interesting than many of her school chums, but not that different. The two Skroderiders were mates. She hadn’t thought that could count for much; among Riders, sex amounted to scarcely more than being next-door neighbors at the right time of year. Yet there was deep affection here. Greenstalk especially seemed a loving personality. She (he?) was shy yet stubborn, with a kind of honesty that might be a major handicap in a trader. Blueshell made up for that failing. He (she?) could be glib and talkative, quite capable of maneuvering things his way. Underneath, Ravna glimpsed a compulsive personality, uncomfortable with his own sneakiness, ultimately grateful when Greenstalk reined him in.

And what of Pham Nuwen? Yes, what’s the inner being you see there? In an odd way, he was more of a mystery. The arrogant boob of this afternoon seemed to be mostly invisible tonight. Maybe it had been a cover for insecurity. The fellow had been born in a male-dominated culture, virtually the opposite of the matriarchy that all Beyonder humanity descended from. Underneath the arrogance, a very nice person might be living. Then there was the way he had faced down razor-jaw. And the way he was drawing out the Skroderiders. It occurred to Ravna that after a lifetime of reading romantic fiction, she had run into her first hero.

It was after 02:30 when they left The Wandering Company. The sun would be rising across the bow horizon in less than five hours. The two Skroderiders came outside to see them off. Blueshell had switched back to Samnorsk to regale Ravna with a story of his last visit to Sjandra Kei -and remind her to ask about the refugee ship.

The Skroderiders dwindled beneath them as Ravna and Pham rose into the thinning air and headed toward the residential towers.

The two humans didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. It was even possible that Pham Nuwen was impressed by the view. They were passing over gaps in the brightly lit Docks, places where they could see through the parks and concourses to the surface of Groundside a thousand kilometers below. The clouds there were whorls of dark on dark.

Ravna’s residence was at the outer edge of the Docks. Here the air fountains were of no use; her apartment tower rose into frank vacuum. They glided down to her balcony, trading their suits’ atmosphere for the apartment’s. Ravna’s mouth was leading a life of its own, explaining how the residence was what she’d been assigned when she worked at the archive, that it is was nothing compared to her new office. Pham Nuwen nodded, quiet-faced. There were none of the smart remarks of their earlier tours.

She babbled on, and then they were inside and… She shut up, and they just looked at each other. In a way, she’d wanted this clown ever since Grondr’s silly animation. But it wasn’t till this evening at The Wandering Company that she’d felt right about bringing him home with her. “Well, I, uh

…” So. Ravna, the ravening princess. Where is your glib tongue now?

She settled for reaching out, putting her hand on his. Pham Nuwen smiled back, shy too, by the Powers! “I think you have a nice place,” he said.

“I’ve decorated it Techno-Primitive. Being stuck at the edge of the Docks has its points: The natural view isn’t messed up by city lights. Here, I’ll show you.” She doused the lights and pulled the curtains aside. The window was a natural transparency, looking out from the edge of the Docks. The view tonight should be terrific. On the ride from The Company, the sky had been awfully dark. The in-system factories must be off line or hidden behind Groundside. Even ship traffic seemed sparse.

She went back to stand by Pham. The window was a vague rectangle across her vision. “You have to wait a minute for your eyes to adjust. There’s no amplification at all.” The curve of Groundside was clear now, clouds with occasional pricks of light. She slipped her arm across his back, and after a moment felt his across her shoulders.

She’d guessed right: tonight, the Galaxy owned the sky. It was a sight that Vrinimi old hands happily ignored. For Ravna, it was the most beautiful thing about Relay. Without enhancement, the light was faint. Twenty thousand light-years is a long, long way. At first there was just a suggestion of mist, and an occasional star. As her eyes adapted, the mist took shape, curving arcs, some places brighter, some dimmer. A minute more and… there were knots in the mist… there were streaks of utter black that separated the curving arms… complexity on complexity, twisting toward the pale hub that was the Core. Maelstrom. Whirlpool. Frozen, still, across half the sky.

She heard Pham’s breath catch in his throat. He said something, sing-song syllables that could not have been Trisk, and certainly not Samnorsk. “All my life I lived in a tiny clump of that. And I thought I was a master of space. I never dreamed to stand and see the whole blessed thing at once.” His hand tightened on her shoulder, then gentled, stroking her neck. “And no matter how long we watch, will we see any sign of the Zones?”

She shook her head slowly. “But they’re easily imagined.” She gestured with her free hand. In the large, the Zones of Thought followed the mass distribution of the Galaxy: The Mindless Depths extending down to the soft glow of the galactic Core. Farther out, the Great Slowness, where humankind had been born, where ultralight could not exist and civilizations lived and died unknowing and unknown. And the Beyond, the stars about four-fifths out from the center, extending well off-plane to include places like Relay. The Known Net had existed in some form for billions of years in the Beyond. It was not a civilization; few civilizations lasted longer than a million years. But the records of the past were quite complete. Sometimes they were intelligible. More often, reading them involved translations of translations of translations, passed down from one defunct race to another with no one to corroborate—worse than any multihop net message could ever be. Yet some things were quite clear: There had always been the Zones of Thought, though perhaps they were slightly inward-moved now. There had always been wars and peace, and races upwelling from the Great Slowness, and thousands of little empires. There had always been races moving into the Transcend, to become the Powers… or their prey.

“And the Transcend?” Pham said. “Is that just the far dark?” The dark between the galaxies.

Ravna laughed softly. “It includes all that but… see the outer reaches of the spirals. They’re in the Transcend.” Most everything farther than forty thousand light-years from the galactic center was.

Pham Nuwen was silent for a long moment. She felt a tiny shiver pass through him. “After talking to the wheelies, I—I think I understand more of what you were warning me about. There’s a lot of things I don’t know, things that could kill me… or worse.”

Common sense triumphs at last. “True,” she said quietly. “But it’s not just you, or the brief time you’ve been here. You could study your whole life, and not know. How long must a fish study to understand human motivation? It’s not a good analogy, but it’s the only safe one; we are like dumb animals to the Powers of the Transcend. Think of all the different things people do to animals—ingenious, sadistic, charitable, genocidal -each has a million elaborations in the Transcend. The Zones are a natural protection; without them, human-equivalent intelligence would probably not exist.” She waved at the misty star swarms. “The Beyond and below are like a deep of ocean, and we the creatures that swim in the abyss. We’re so far down that the beings on the surface—superior though they are—can’t effectively reach us. Oh, they fish, and they sometimes blight the upper levels with poisons we don’t even understand. But the abyss remains a relatively safe place.” She paused. There was more to the analogy. “And just as with an ocean, there is a constant drift of flotsam from the top. There are things that can only be made at the Top, that need close-to-sentient factories—but which can still work down here. Blueshell mentioned some of those when he was talking to you: the agrav fabrics, the sapient devices. Such things are the greatest physical wealth of the Beyond, since we can’t make them. And getting them is a deadly risky endeavor.”

Pham turned toward her, away from window and the stars. “So there are always ‘fish’ edging close to the surface.” For an instant she thought she had lost him, that he was caught by the romance of the Transcendent deathwish. “Little fish risking everything for a piece of godhood… and not knowing heaven from hell, even when they find it.” She felt him shiver and then his arms were around her. She tilted her head up and found his lips waiting.

It had been two years since Ravna Bergsndot left Sjandra Kei. In some ways the time had gone fast. Just now her body was telling her what a long, long time it had really been. Every touch was so vivid, waking desires carefully suppressed. Suddenly her skin was tingling all over. It took marvelous restraint to undress without tearing anything.

Ravna was out of practice. And of course she had nothing recent to compare to… But Pham Nuwen was very, very good.

— =*=

Crypto: 0

As received by: Transceiver Relay01 at Relay

Language path: Acquileron-»Triskweline, SjK:Relay units

From: Net Administrator for Transceiver Windsong at Debley Down

Subject: Complaints about Relay, a suggestion

Summary: It’s getting worse; try us instead

Key phrases: communications problems, Relay unreliability, Transcend

Distribution:

Communication Costs Special Interest Group, Motley Hatch Administration Group, Transceiver Relay01 at Relay, Transceiver Not-for-Long at Shortstop,

Follow-ups to: Windsong Expansion Interest Group

Date: 07:21:21 Docks Time, 36/09 of Org year 52089

Text of message:

During the last five hundred hours, Comm Costs shows 9,834 transceiver-layer congestion complaints against the Vrinimi operation at Relay. Each of these complaints involves services to tens of thousand of planets. Vrinimi has promised again and again that the congestion is a purely temporary increase of Transcendent usage.

As Relay’s chief competitor in this region, we of Windsong have benefited modestly from the overflow; however, until now we thought it inappropriate to propose a coordinated response to the problem.

The events of the last seven hours compel us to change this policy. Those reading this item already know about the incident; most of you are the victims of it. Beginning at [00:00:27 Docks Time], Vrinimi Org began taking transceivers off-line, an unscheduled outage. R01 went out at 00:00:27, R02 at 02:50:32, R03 and R04 at 03:12:01. Vrinimi stated that a Transcendent customer was urgently requesting bandwidth. (R00 had been previously dedicated to that Power’s use.) The customer required use of both up— and down-link bandwidth. By the Org’s own admission, the unscheduled usage exceeded sixty percent of their entire capacity. Note that the excesses of the preceding five hundred hours—excesses which caused entirely justified complaint—were never more than five percent of Org capacity.

Friends, we of Windsong are in the long-haul communication business. We know how difficult it is to maintain transceiver elements that mass as much as a planet. We know that hard contract commitments simply cannot be made by suppliers in our line of work. But at the same time, the behavior of Vrinimi Org is unacceptable. It’s true that in the last three hours the Org has returned R01 through R04 to general service, and promised to pass on the Power’s surpayment to all those who were “inconvenienced". But only Vrinimi knows how large these surpayments really are. And no one (not even Vrinimi!) knows whether this is the end of the outages.

What is to Vrinimi a sudden, incredible cash glut, is to the rest of you an unaccountable disaster.

Therefore Windsong at Debley Down is considering a major—and permanent—expansion of our service: the construction of five additional backbone transceivers. Obviously this will be immensely expensive. Transceivers are never cheap, and Debley Down does not have quite the geometry enjoyed by Relay. We expect the cost must be amortized over many decades of good business. We can’t undertake it without clear customer commitment. In order to determine this demand, and to ensure that we build what is really needed, we are creating a temporary newsgroup, Windsong Expansion Interest Group, moderated and archived at Windsong. Send/Receive charges to transceiver-layer customers on this group will be only ten percent our usual. We urge you, our transceiver-layer customers, to use this service to talk to each other, to decide what you can safely expect from Vrinimi Org in the future and how you feel about our proposals.

We are waiting to hear from you.

CHAPTER 9

Afterwards, Ravna slept well. It was halfway through the morning when she drifted back toward wakefulness. The ring of her phone was monotonously insistent, loud enough to reach through the most pleasant dreams. She opened her eyes, disoriented and happy. She was lying with her arms wrapped tightly around… a large pillow. Damn. He’d already left. She lay back for a second, remembering. These last two years she had been lonely; till last night she hadn’t realized how lonely. Happiness so unexpected, so intense

… what a strange thing.

The phone just kept ringing. Finally she rolled out of bed and walked unsteadily across the room; there should be limits to this Techno Primitive nonsense. “Yes?”

It was a Skroderider. Greenstalk? “I’m sorry to bother you, Ravna, but—are you all right?” The Rider interrupted herself.

Ravna suddenly realized that she might be looking a little strange: sappy smile spread from ear to ear, hair sticking out in all directions. She rubbed her hand across her mouth, cutting back laughter. “Yes, I’m fine.” Fine! “What’s up?”

“We want to thank you for your help. We had never dreamed that you were so highly placed. We’d been trying for hundreds of hours to persuade the Org to listen for the refugees. But less than an hour after talking to you, we were told the survey is being undertaken immediately.”

“Um.” Say what? “That’s wonderful, but I’m not sure I—who’s paying for it, anyway?”

“I don’t know, but it is expensive. We were told they’re dedicating a backbone transceiver to the search. If there’s anyone transmitting, we should know in a matter of hours.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, Ravna gradually becoming more coherent as she parceled the various aspects of the last ten hours into business and pleasure. She had half expected the Org to bug her at The Wandering Company. Maybe Grondr just heard the story there—and gave it full credit. But just yesterday, he’d been wimping about transceiver saturation. Either way, this was good news—perhaps extraordinarily good. If the Riders’ wild story were true, the Straumli Perversion might be less than Transcendent. And if the refugee ships had some clues on how to bring it down, Straumli Realm might even be saved.

After Greenstalk rang off, Ravna wandered about the apartment, getting herself in shape, playing the various possibilities against each other. Her actions became more purposeful, almost up to their usual speed. There were a lot of things she wanted to check into.

Then the phone was ringing again. This time she previewed the caller. Oops! It was Grondr Vrinimikalir. She combed her hand back through her hair; it still looked like crap, and this phone was not up to deception. Suddenly she noticed that Grondr didn’t look so hot either. His facial chitin was smudged, even across some of his freckles. She accepted the call.

“Ah!” His voice actually squeaked, then returned to its normal level. “Thank you for answering. I would have called earlier, except things have been very… chaotic.” Just where had his cool distance gone? “I just want you to know that the Org had nothing to do with this. We were totally taken in until just a couple of hours ago.” He launched into a disjointed description of massive demand swamping the Org’s resources.

As he rambled, Ravna punched up a summary of recent Relay business. By the Powers that Be: Sixty percent diversion? Excerpts from Comm Costs: She scanned quickly down the item from Windsong. The gasbags were as pompous as ever, but their offer to replace Relay was probably for real. It was just the sort of thing Grondr had been afraid might happen.

“— Old One just kept asking for more and more. When we finally figured things out, and confronted him… Well, we came close to threatening violence. We have the resources to destroy his emissary vessel. No telling what his revenge might be, but we told Old One his demands were already destroying us. Thank the Powers, he just seemed amused; he backed off. He’s restricted to a single transceiver now, and that’s on a signal search that has nothing to do with us.”

Hmm. One mystery solved. Old One must have been snooping around The Wandering Company and overheard the Skroderiders’ story. “Maybe things will be okay, then. But it’s important to be just as tough if Old One tries to abuse us again.” The words were already out of her mouth before she considered who she was giving advice to.

Grondr didn’t seem to notice. If anything, he was the one scrambling to agree: “Yes, yes. I’ll tell you, if Old One were any ordinary customer, we’d blacklist him forever for this deception… But then if he were ordinary, he could never have fooled us.”

Grondr wiped pudgy white fingers across his face. “No mere Beyonder could have altered our record of the dredge expedition. Not even one from the Top could have broken into the junkyard and manipulated the remains without our even suspecting.”

Dredge? Remains? Ravna began to see that she and Grondr were not talking about the same thing. “Just what did Old One do?”

“The details? We’re pretty sure of them now. Since the Fall of Straum, Old One has been very interested in humans. Unfortunately, there were no willing ones available here. It began manipulating us, rewriting our junkyard records. We’ve recovered a clean backup from a branch office: The dredge really did encounter the wreck of a human ship; there were human body parts in it—but nothing that we could have revived. Old One must have mixed and matched what it found there. Perhaps it fabricated memories by extrapolating from human cultural data in the archives. With hindsight, we can match its early requests with the invasion of our junkyard.”

Grondr rattled on, but Ravna wasn’t listening. Her eyes stared blindly through the phone’s display. We are little fish in the abyss, protected by the deep from the fishers above. But even if they can’t live down here, the clever fisherfolk still have their lures and deadly tricks. And so Pham -"Pham Nuwen is just a robot, then,” she said softly.

“Not precisely. He is human, and with his fake memories he can operate autonomously. But when Old One buys full bandwidth, the creature is fully an emissary device.” The hand and eye of a Power.

Grondr’s mouthparts clattered in abject embarrassment. “Ravna, we don’t know all that happened last night; there was no reason to have you under close surveillance. But Old One assures us that its need for direct investigation is over. In any case, we’ll never give him the bandwidth to try again.”

Ravna barely nodded. Her face suddenly felt cold. She had never felt such anger and such fright at the same time. She stood in a wave of dizziness and walked away from the phone, ignoring Grondr’s worried cries. The stories from grad school came tumbling through her mind, and the myths of a dozen human religions. Consequences, consequences. Some of them she could defend against; others were past repair.

And from somewhere in the back of her mind, an incredibly silly thought crawled out from under the horror and the rage. For eight hours she had been face to face with a Power. It was the sort of experience that made a chapter in textbooks, the sort of thing that was always far away and misreported. And it was the sort of thing no one in all of Sjandra Kei could come near to claiming. Until now.

CHAPTER 10

Johanna was in the boat for a long time. The sun never set, though now it was low behind her, now it was high in front, now all was cloudy and rain plinked off the tarp covering her blankets. She spent the hours in an agonized haze. Things happened that could only have been dreams. There were creatures pulling at her clothes, blood sticking everywhere. Gentle hands and rat snouts dressed her wounds, and forced chill water down her throat. When she thrashed around, Mom rearranged her blankets and comforted her with the strangest sounds. For hours, someone warm lay beside her. Sometimes it was Jefri; more often it was a large dog, a dog that purred.

The rain passed. The sun was on the left side of the boat, but hidden behind a cold, snapping shadow. More and more, the pain became divisible. Part of it was in her chest and shoulder; that stabbed through her whenever the boat wobbled. Part of it was in her gut, an emptiness that was not quite nausea… she was so hungry, so thirsty.

More and more, she was remembering, not dreaming. There were nightmares that would never go away. They had really happened. They were happening now.

The sun peeked in and out of the tumble of clouds. It slid slowly lower across the sky till it was almost behind the boat. She tried to remember what Daddy had been saying just before… everything went bad. They were in this planet’s arctic, in the summer. So the sun’s low point must be north, and their twin-hulled boat was sailing roughly southwards. Wherever they were going, it was minute by minute farther from the spacecraft and any hope of finding Jefri.

Sometimes the water was like open sea, the hills distant or hidden by low clouds. Sometimes they passed through narrows, and swept close to walls of naked rock. She’d had no idea a sailboat could move so fast or be so dangerous. Four of the rat creatures worked desperately to keep them off the rocks. They bounded nimbly from mast platform to railing, sometimes standing on each other’s shoulders to extend their reach. The twin-hulled boat tilted and groaned in water that was suddenly rough. Then they’d be through and the hills would be at a peaceful distance, sliding slowly past.

For a long while, she pretended delirium. She moaned, she twisted. She watched. The boat hulls were long and narrow, almost like canoes. The sail was mounted between them. The shadow in her dreams had been that sail, snapping in the cold, clean wind. The sky was an avalanche of grays, light and dark. There were birds up there. They dipped past the mast, circled again and again. There was twittering and hissing all around her. But the sound did not come from the birds.

It was the monsters. She watched them through lowered lashes. These were the same kind that killed Mom and Dad. They even wore the same funny clothes, gray-green jackets studded with stirrups and pockets. Dogs or wolves she had thought before. That didn’t really describe them. Sure, they had four slender legs and pointy little ears. But with their long necks and occasionally pinkish eyes, they might as well be huge rats.

And the longer she watched them, the more horrible they seemed. A still image could never convey that horror; you had to see them in action. She watched four of them—the ones on her side of the boat—play with her dataset. The Pink Oliphaunt was tied in a net bag near the rear of the boat. Now the beasts wanted to look it over. At first it looked like a circus act, the creatures’ heads darting this way and that. But every move was so precise, so coordinated with all the others. They had no hands, but they could untie knots, each holding a piece of twine in its mouth and maneuvering its necks around others. At the same time, one’s claws held the loose netting tight against the railing. It was like watching puppets run off the same control.

In seconds they had it out of the bag. Dogs would have let it slide to the bottom of the hull, then pushed it around with their noses. Not these things: two put it onto on a cross bench, while a third steadied it with its paw. They poked around the edges, concentrating on the plush flanges and floppy ears. They pushed and nuzzled, but with clear purpose. They were trying to open it.

Two heads showed over the railing on the other hull. They made the gobbling, hissing sounds that were a cross between a bird call and someone throwing up. One of those on her side glanced back and made similar sounds. The other three continued to play with the dataset’s latches.

Finally they pulled the big, floppy ears simultaneously: the dataset popped open, and the top window went into Johanna’s startup routine—an anim of herself saying “Shame on you, Jefri. Stay out of my things!” The four creatures went rigid, their eyes suddenly wide.

Johanna’s four turned the set so the others could see. One held it down while another peered at the top window, and a third fumbled with the key window. The guys in the other hull went nuts, but none of them tried to get any closer. The random prodding of the four abruptly cut off her startup greeting. One of them glanced at the guys in the other hull; another two watched Johanna. She continued to lie with her eyes almost closed.

“Shame on you, Jefri. Stay out my things!” Johanna’s voice came again, but from one of the animals. It was a perfect playback. Then a girl’s voice was moaning, crying, “Mom, Daddy". It was her own voice again, but more frightened and childish than she ever wanted it to sound.

They seemed to be waiting for the dataset to respond. When nothing happened, one of them went back to pushing its nose against the windows. Everything valuable, and all the dangerous programs, were passworded. Insults and squawking emerged from the box, all the little surprises she had planted for her snooping little brother. Oh Jefri, will I ever see you again?

The sounds and vids kept the monsters amused for several minutes. Eventually their random fiddlings convinced the dataset that somebody really young had opened up the box, and it shifted into kindermode.

The creatures knew she was watching. Of the four fooling with her Oliphaunt, one—not always the same one—was always watching her. They were playing games with her, pretending they didn’t know she was pretending.

Johanna opened her eyes wide and glared at the creature. “Damn you!” She looked in the other direction. And screamed. The mob in the other hull were clumped together. Their heads rose on sinuous necks from the pile. In the low sunlight, their eyes glinted red. A pack of rats or snakes, silently staring at her, and for heaven knew how long.

The heads leaned forward at her cry, and she heard the scream again. Behind her, her own voice shouted “Damn you!” Somewhere else, she was calling for “Mom” and “Daddy". Johanna screamed again, and they just echoed it back. She swallowed her terror and kept silent. The monsters kept it up for a half minute, the mimicking, the mixing of things she must have said in her sleep. When they saw they couldn’t terrorize her that way any more, the voices stopped being human. The gobbling went back and forth, as if the two groups were negotiating or something. Finally the four on her side closed her dataset and tied it into the net bag.

The six unwrapped themselves from each other. Three jumped to the outboard side of the hull. They gripped the edge tight in their claws and leaned into the wind. For once they almost did look like dogs—big ones sitting at a car window, sniffing at the airstream. The long necks swept forward and back. Every few seconds, one of them would dip its head out of sight, into the water. Drinking? Fishing?

Fishing. A head flipped up, tossing something small and green into the boat. The other three animals nosed about, grabbing it. She had a glimpse of tiny legs and a shiny carapace. One of the rats held it at the tip of its mouth, while the other two pulled it apart. It was all done with their uncanny precision. The pack seemed like a single creature, and each neck a heavy tentacle that ended in a pair of jaws. Her gut twisted at the thought, but there was nothing to barf up.

The fishing expedition went on another quarter hour. They got at least seven of the green things. But they weren’t eating them; not all of them, anyway. The dismembered leavings collected in a small wood bowl.

More gobbling between the two sides. One of the six grabbed the bowl’s edge in its mouth and crawled across the mast platform. The four on Johanna’s side huddled together as if frightened of the visitor. Only after the bowl was set down and the intruder had returned to its side, did the four in Johanna’s hull poke their heads up again.

One of the rats picked up the bowl. It and another walked toward her. Johanna swallowed. What torture was this? Her stomach twisted again… she was so hungry. She looked at the bowl again and realized that they were trying to feed her.

The sun had just come out from under northern clouds. The low light was like some bright fall afternoon, just after rain: dark sky above, yet everything close by bright and glistening. The creatures’ fur was deep and plush. One held the bowl towards her, while the other stuck its snout in and withdrew… something slick and green. It held the tidbit delicately, just with the tips of its long mouth. It turned and thrust the green thing toward her.

Johanna shrank back, “No!”

The creature paused. For a moment she thought it was going to echo her. Then it dropped the lump back into the bowl. The first animal set it on the bench beside her. It looked up at her for an instant, then released the jaw-wide flange at the edge of the bowl. She had a glimpse of fine, pointy teeth.

Johanna stared into the bowl, nausea fighting with hunger. Finally she worked a hand out of her blanket and reached into it. Heads perked up around her, and there was an exchange of gobble comments between the two sides of the boat.

Her fingers closed on something soft and cold. She lifted it into the sunlight. The body was gray green, its sides glistening in the light. The guys in the other hull had torn off the little legs and chopped away the head. What remained was only two or three centimeters long. It looked like filleted shellfish. Once she had liked such food. But that had been cooked. She almost dropped the thing when she felt it quiver in her hand.

She brought it close to her mouth, touched it with her tongue. Salty. On Straum, most shellfish would make you very sick if you ate them raw. How could she know, all alone without parents or a local commnet? She felt tears coming. She said a bad word, stuffed the green thing into her mouth, and tried to chew. Blandness, with the texture of suet and gristle. She gagged, spat it out… and tried to eat another. Altogether she got parts of two down. Maybe that was for the best; she’d wait and see how much she barfed up. She lay back and saw several pairs of eyes watching. The gobbling with the other side of the boat picked up. Then one of them sidled toward her, carrying a leather bag with a spigot. A canteen.

This creature was the biggest of all. The leader? It moved its head close to hers, putting the spout of the canteen near her mouth. The big one seemed sly, more cautious about approaching her than the others. Johanna’s eyes traveled back along its flanks. Beyond the edge of its jacket, the pelt on its rear was mostly white… and scored deep with a Y-shaped scar. This is the one that killed Dad.

Johanna’s attack was not planned; perhaps that’s why it worked so well. She lunged past the canteen and swung her free arm around the thing’s neck. She rolled over the animal, pinning it against the hull. By itself, it was smaller than she, and not strong enough to push her off. She felt its claws raking through the blankets but somehow never quite cutting her. She put all her weight on the creature’s spine, grabbed it where throat met jaw, and began slamming its head against the wood.

Then the others were on her, muzzles poking under her, jaws grabbing at her sleeve. She felt rows of needle teeth just poking through the fabric. Their bodies buzzed with a sound from her dreams, a sound that went straight through her clothes and rattled her bones.

They pulled her hand from the other’s throat, twisting her; she felt the arrowhead tearing her inside. But there was still one thing she could do: Johanna push off with her feet, butting her head against the base of the other’s jaw, smashing the top of its head into the hull. The bodies around her convulsed, and she was flipped onto her back. Pain was the only thing she could feel now. Neither rage nor fear could move her.

Yet part of her was still aware of the four. She had hurt them. She had hurt them all. Three wandered drunkenly, making whistling sounds that for once seemed to come from their mouths. The one with the scarred butt lay on its side, twitching. She had punched a star-shaped wound in the top of its head. Blood dripped down past its eyes. Red tears.

Minutes passed and the whistling stopped. The four creatures huddled together and the familiar hissing resumed. The bleeding from her chest had started again.

They stared at each other for a while. She smiled at her enemies. They could be hurt. She could hurt them. She felt better than she had since the landing.

CHAPTER 11

Before the Flenser Movement, Woodcarvers had been the most famous city-state west of the Icefangs. Its founder went back six centuries. In those days, things had been harder in the north; snow covered even the lowlands through most of the year. The Woodcarver had started alone, a single pack in a little cabin on an inland bay. The pack was a hunter and a thinker as much as an artist. There had been no settlements for a hundred miles around. Only a dozen of the carver’s early statues ever left his cabin, yet those statues had been his first fame. Three were still in existence. There was a city by the Long Lakes named for the one in its museum.

With fame had come apprentices. One cabin became ten, scattered across Woodcarver’s fjord. A century or two passed, and of course the Woodcarver slowly changed. He feared the change, the feeling that his soul was slipping away. He tried to keep hold of himself; almost everyone does to one extent or another. In the worst case, the pack falls into perversion, perhaps becomes soul-hollow. For Woodcarver, the quest was itself the change. He studied how each member fits within the soul. He studied pups and their raising, and how you might guess the contributions of a new one. He learned to shape the soul by training the members.

Of course little of this was new. It was the base of most religions, and every town had romance advisors and brood kenners. Such knowledge, whether valid or not, is important to any culture. What Woodcarver did was to look at it all again, without traditional bias. He gently experimented on himself and on the other artists in his little colony. He watched the results, using them to design new experiments. He was guided by what he saw rather than by what he wanted to believe.

By the various standards of his age, what he did was heresy or perversion or simple insanity. In the early years, King Woodcarver was hated almost as much as Flenser was three centuries later. But the far north was still going through its time of heavy winters. The nations of the south could not easily send armies as far as Woodcarvers. Once when they did, they were thoroughly defeated. And wisely, Woodcarver never attempted to subvert the south. Not directly. But his settlement grew and grew, and its fame for art and furniture was small beside its other reputations. Old of heart traveled to the town, and came back not just younger, but smarter and happier. Ideas radiated from the town: weaving machines, gearboxes and windmills, factory postures. Something new had happened in this place. It wasn’t the inventions. It was the people that Woodcarver had midwifed, and the outlook he had created.

Wickwrackscar and Jaqueramaphan arrived at Woodcarvers late in the afternoon. It had rained most of the day, but now the clouds had blown away and the sky was that bright cloudless blue that was all the more beautiful after a stretch of cloudy days.

Woodcarver’s Domain was paradise to Peregrine’s eyes. He was tired of the packless wilderness. He was tired of worrying about the alien.

Twinhulls paced them suspiciously for the last few miles. The boats were armed, and Peregrine and Scriber were coming from very much the wrong direction. But they were all alone, clearly harmless. Long callers hooted, relaying their story ahead. By the time they reached the harbor they were heroes, two packs who had stolen (unspecified) treasure from the villains of the north. They sailed around a breakwater that hadn’t existed on Peregrine’s last trip, and tied in at the moorage.

The pier was crowded with soldiers and wagons. Townspeople were all over the road leading up to the city walls. This was as close to a mob scene as you could get and still have room for sober thought. Scriber bounced out of the boat and pranced about in obvious delight at the cheers from the hillside. “Quickly! We must speak with the Woodcarver.”

Wickwrackscar picked up the canvas bag that held the alien’s picture box, and climbed carefully out of the boat. He was dizzy from the beating the alien had given him. Scar’s fore-tympanum had been cut in the attack. For a moment he lost track of himself. The pier was very strange—stone at first glance, but walled with a spongy black material he hadn’t seen since the Southseas; it should be brittle here… Where am I? I should be happy about something, some victory. He paused to regroup. After a moment both the pain and his thoughts sharpened; he would be like this for days yet, at least. Get help for the alien. Get it ashore.

King Woodcarver’s Lord Chamberlain was a mostly overweight dandy; Peregrine had not expected to see such at Woodcarvers. But the fellow became instantly cooperative when he saw the alien. He brought a doctor down to look at the Two-Legs (and incidentally, at Peregrine). The alien had gained strength in the last two days, but there had been no more violence. They got it ashore without much trouble. It stared at Peregrine out of its flat face, a look he knew was impotent rage. He touched Scar’s head thoughtfully… the Two-Legs was just waiting for the best opportunity to do more damage.

Minutes later, the travelers were in kherhog-drawn carriages, rolling up the cobblestone street toward the city walls. Soldiers cleared the way through the crowd. Scriber Jaqueramaphan waved this way and that, the handsome hero. By now Peregrine knew the shy insecurity that lurked within Scriber. This might be the high point of his whole life till now.

Even if he wanted it, Wickwrackscar could not be so expansive. With one of Scar’s tympana hurt, wild gestures made him lose track of his thoughts. He hunkered down on the carriage seats and looked out in all directions:

But for the shape of the outer harbor, the place was not at all what he remembered from fifty years ago. In most parts of the world, not much changed in fifty years. A pilgrim returning after such an interval might even be bored by the sameness. But this… it was almost scary.

The huge breakwater was new. There were twice as many piers, and multiboats with flags he had never seen on this side of the world. The road had been here before, but narrow, with only a third as many turnoffs. Before, the town walls had been more to keep the kherhogs and froghens in than any invaders out. Now they were ten feet high, the black stone extending as far as Peregrine could see… And there had been scarcely any soldiers last time; now they were everywhere. That was not a good change. He felt a sinking in the pit of Scar’s stomach; soldiers and fighting were not good.

They rode through the city gates and past a market maze that spread across acres. The alleys were only fifty feet wide, narrow where bolts of cloth, furniture displays, and crates of fresh fruit encroached. Smells of fruit and spice and varnish hung in the air. The place was so crowded that the haggling was almost an orgy, and dizzy Peregrine almost blacked out. Then they were on a narrower street that zigzagged through ranks of half-timbered buildings. Beyond the roofs loomed heavy fortifications. Ten minutes later they were in the castle yard.

They dismounted and the Lord Chamberlain had the Two-Legs moved to a litter.

“Woodcarver, he’ll see us now?” said Scriber.

The bureaucrat laughed. “She. Woodcarver changed gender more than ten years ago.”

Peregrine’s heads twisted about in surprise. Precisely what would that mean? Most packs change with time, but he had never heard of Woodcarver being anything but “he". He almost missed what the Lord Chamberlain said next.

“Even better. Her whole council must see… what you’ve brought. Come inside.” He waved the guards away.

They walked down a hall almost wide enough for two packs to pass abreast. The chamberlain led, followed by the travelers and the doctor with the alien’s litter. The walls were high, padded with silver-crusted quilting. It was far grander than before… and again, unsettling. There was scarcely any statuary, and what there was dated from centuries before.

But there were pictures. He stumbled when he saw the first, and behind him he heard Scriber gasp. Peregrine had seen art all around the world: The mobs of the tropics preferred abstract murals, smudges of psychotic color. The Southseas islanders had never invented perspective; in their watercolors, distant objects simply floated in the upper half of the picture. In the Long Lakes Republic, representationism was currently favored, especially multiptychs that gave a whole-pack view.

But Peregrine had never seen the likes of these. The pictures were mosaics, each tile a ceramic square about a quarter inch on a side. There was no color, just four shades of gray. From a few feet away, the graininess was lost, and… they were the most perfect landscapes Peregrine had ever seen. All were views from hilltops around Woodcarvers. Except for the lack of color, they might have been windows. The bottom of each picture was bounded by a rectangular frame, but the tops were irregular; the mosaics simply broke off at the horizon. The hall’s quilted wall stood where the pictures should have shown sky.

“Here now, fellow! I thought you wanted to see Woodcarver.” The remark was directed at Scriber. Jaqueramaphan was strung out along the landscapes, one of him sitting in front of a different picture all down the hall. He turned a head to look at the chamberlain. His voice sounded dazed. “Soul’s end! It’s like being God, as if I have one member on each hilltop and can see everything at once.” But he scrambled to his feet and trotted to catch up.

The hall opened on one of the largest indoor meeting rooms Peregrine had ever seen.

“This is as big as anything in the Republic,” Scriber said with apparent admiration, looking up at the three levels of balconies. They stood alone with the alien at the bottom.

“Hmf.” Besides the chamberlain and the doctor, there were already five other packs in the room. More showed up as they watched. Most were dressed like nobles of the Republic, all jewels and furs. A few wore the plain jackets he remembered from his last trip. Sigh. Woodcarver’s little settlement had grown into a city and now a nation-state. Peregrine wondered if he—she—had any real power now. He trained one head precisely on Scriber and Hightalked at him. “Don’t say anything about the picture box just yet.”

Jaqueramaphan looked puzzled and conspiratorial all at once. He High Talked back, “Yes… yes. A bargaining card?”

“Something like that.” Peregrine’s eyes swept back and forth across the balconies. Most packs entered with an air of harried self-importance. He smiled to himself. One glance into the pit was enough to shatter their smugness. The air above him was filled with buzzing talk. None of the packs looked like Woodcarver. But then, she’d have few of her members from before; he could only recognize her by manner and bearing. It shouldn’t matter. He had carried some friendships far longer than any member’s lifespan. But with others the friend had changed in a decade, its viewpoints altering, affection turning to animosity. He’d been counting on Woodcarver being the same. Now…

There was a brief sound of trumpets, almost like a call to order. The pubic doors of a lower balcony slid open and a fivesome entered. Peregrine felt a twitchy thrill of horror. This was Woodcarver, but so… misarranged. One member was so old it had to be helped by the rest. Two were scarcely more than puppies, and one of those a constant drooler. The largest member was white-eyed blind. It was the sort of thing you might see in a waterfront slum, or in the last generation of incest.

She looked down at Peregrine, and smiled almost as if she recognized him. When she spoke, it was with the blind one. The voice was clear and firm. “Please carry on, Vendacious.”

The chamberlain nodded. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” He pointed into the pit, at the alien. “That is the reason for this hasty meeting.”

“We can see monsters at the circus, Vendacious.” The voice came from an overdressed pack on the top balcony. To judge from the shouting that came from all sides, this was a minority view. One pack on a lower balcony jumped over the railing and tried to shoo the doctor away from the alien’s litter.

The chamberlain raised a head for silence, and glared down at the fellow who had jumped into the pit. “If you please, Scrupilo, be patient. Everyone will get a chance to look.”

“Scrupilo” made some grumbling hisses, but backed off.

“Good.” Vendacious turned all his attention on Peregrine and Scriber. “Your boat has outrun any news from the north, my friends. No one but I knows anything of your story—and what I have is guard codes hooted across the bay. You say this creature flew down from the sky?”

An invitation to speechify. Peregrine let Scriber Jaqueramaphan do the talking. Scriber loved it. He told the story of the flying house, of the ambush and the murders, and the rescue. He showed them his eye-tools and announced himself as a secret agent of the Long Lakes Republic. Now what real spy would do that? Every pack on the council had eyes on the alien, some fearful, some—like Scrupilo—crazily curious. Woodcarver watched with only a couple of heads. The rest might have been asleep. She looked as tired as Peregrine felt. He rested his own heads on his paws. The pain in Scar was a pulsing beat; it would be easy enough to set the member asleep, but then he’d understand very little of what was being said. Hey! maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. Scar drifted off and the pain receded.

The talk went on for some minutes more, not making a whole lot of sense to the threesome that was Wickwrack. He understood the tones of voice though. Scrupilo—the pack on the floor—complained several times, impatiently. Vendacious said something, agreeing with him. The doctor retreated, and Scrupilo advanced on Wickwrack’s alien.

Peregrine pulled himself to full wakefulness. “Be careful. The creature is not friendly.”

Scrupilo snapped back, “Your friend has already warned me once.” He circled the litter, staring at the alien’s brown, furless face. The alien stared back, impassive. Scrupilo reached forward cautiously and drew back the alien’s quilt. Still no response. “See?” said Scrupilo. “It knows I mean no harm.” Peregrine said nothing to correct him.

“It really walks on those rear paws alone?” said one of the other advisors. “Can you imagine it, towering over us? One little bump would knock it down.” Laughter. Peregrine remembered how mantis-like the alien had seemed when upright. These fellows hadn’t seen it move.

Scrupilo wrinkled a nose. “The thing is filthy.” He was all around her, a posture that Peregrine knew upset the Two-Legs. “That arrow shaft must be removed, you know. Most of the bleeding has stopped, but if we expect the creature to live for long, it needs medical attention.” He looked disdainfully at Scriber and Peregrine, as if they were to blame for not performing surgery aboard the twinhull. Something caught his eye and his tone abruptly changed: “By the Pack of Packs! Look at its forepaws.” He loosened the ropes about the creature’s front legs. “Two paws like that would be as good as five pairs of lips. Think what a pack of these creatures could do!” He moved close to the five-tentacled paw.

“Be—” careful, Peregrine started to say. The alien abruptly bunched its tentacles into a club. Its foreleg flicked out at an impossible angle, ramming its paw into Scrupilo’s head. The blow couldn’t have been too strong, but it was precisely placed on the tympanum.

“Ow! Yow! Wow. Wow.” Scrupilo danced back.

The alien was shouting, too. It was all mouth noise, thin and low-pitched. The eldritch sound brought up every head, even Woodcarver’s. Peregrine had heard it many times by now. There was no doubt in his mind -this was the aliens’ interpack speech. After a few seconds, the sound changed to a regular hacking that gradually faded.

For a long moment no one spoke. Then part of Woodcarver got to her feet. She looked at Scrupilo. “Are you all right?” It was the first time she had spoken since the beginning of the meeting.

Scrupilo was licking his forehead. “Yes. It smarts is all.”

“Your curiosity will kill you some day.”

The other huffed indignantly, but also seemed flattered by the prediction.

Queen Woodcarver looked at her councillors. “I see an important question here. Scrupilo thinks one alien member would be as agile as an entire pack of us. Is that so?” She pointed the question at Peregrine rather than Scriber.

“Yes, Your Majesty. If those ropes had been tied within its reach, it could easily have unknotted them.” He knew where this was going; he’d had three days to get there himself. “And the noises it makes sound like coordinated speech to me.”

There was a swell of talk as the others caught on. An articulate member can often make semi-sensible speech, but usually at the expense of dexterity.

“Yes… A creature like nothing on our world, whose boat flew down from the top of heaven. I wonder at the mind of such a pack, if a single member is almost as smart as all of one of us?” Her blind one looked around as it made the words, almost as if it could see. Two others wiped at her drooler’s muzzle. She was not an inspiring sight.

Scrupilo poked a head up. “I hear not a hint of thought sound from this one. There is no fore-tympanum.” He pointed at the torn clothing around the creature’s wound. “And I see no sign of shoulder tympana. Perhaps it is pack smart even as a singleton… and perhaps that’s all the aliens ever are.” Peregrine smiled to himself; this Scrupilo was a prickly twit, but not one who held with tradition. For centuries, academics had debated the difference between people and animals. Some animals had larger brains; some had paws or lips more agile than a member’s. In the savannahs of Easterlee, there were creatures that even looked like people and ran in groups, but without much depth of thought. Leaving aside wolf nests and whales, only people were packs. It was the coordination of thought between members that made them superior. Scrupilo’s theory was a heresy.

Jaqueramaphan said, “But we did hear thought sounds, loud ones, during the ambush. Perhaps this one is like our unweaned, unable to think—”

“And yet still almost as smart as a pack,” Woodcarver finished somberly. “If these people are not smarter than we, then we might learn their devices. No matter how magnificent they are, we could eventually be their equals. But if this member is just one of a superpack…” For a moment there was no talk, just the muted underedge of her councillors’ thoughts. If the aliens were superpacks, and if their envoy had been murdered—then there might not be anything they could do to save themselves.

“So. Our first priority should be to save this creature, to befriend it and learn its true nature.” Her heads lowered, and she seemed lost within herself—or perhaps just tired. Abruptly, she turned several heads toward her chamberlain. “Move the creature to the lodge by mine.”

Vendacious started with surprise. “Surely not, Your Majesty! We’ve seen that it is hostile. And it needs medical attention.”

Woodcarver smiled and her voice turned silky. Peregrine remembered that tone from before. “Do you forget that I know surgery? Do you forget… that I am the Woodcarver?”

Vendacious licked his lips and looked at the other advisors. After a second he said, “No, Your Majesty. It will be as you wish.”

And Peregrine felt like cheering. Perhaps Woodcarver did still run things.

CHAPTER 12

Peregrine was sitting back to back on the steps of his quarters when Woodcarver came to see him next day. She came alone, and wearing the simple green jackets he remembered from his last visit.

He didn’t bow or go out to meet her. She looked at him coolly for a moment, and sat down just a few yards away.

“How is the Two-Legs?” he asked.

“I took out the arrow and sewed the wound shut. I think it will survive. My advisors were pleased: the creature didn’t act like a reasoning being. It fought even after it was tied down, as though it had no concept of surgery… How is your head?”

“All right, as long as I don’t move around.” The rest of him—Scar -lay behind the doorway in the dark interior of the lodge. “The tympanum is healing straight, I think. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Good.” A wrecked tympanum could mean continuing mental problems, or the need for a new member and the pain of finding a use for the singleton that was sent into silence. “I remember you, pilgrim. All the members are different, but you really are the Peregrine of before. You had some great stories. I enjoyed your visit.”

“And I enjoyed meeting the great Woodcarver. That is the reason I returned.”

She cocked a head wryly. “The great Woodcarver of before, not the wreck of now?”

He shrugged. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, they sat and looked across the city. It was cloudy this afternoon, with rain coming. The breeze off the channel was a cool stinging on his lips and eyes. Woodcarver shivered, and puffed her fur out a bit. Finally she said, “I held my soul six hundred years—and that’s counting by foreclaws. I should think it’s obvious what has become of me.”

“The perversion never hurt you before.” Peregrine was not normally so blunt. Something about her brought out the frankness in him.

“Yes, the average incest degrades to my state in a few centuries, and is an idiot long before then. My methods were much cleverer. I knew who to breed with whom, which puppies to keep and which to put on others. So it was always my flesh bearing my memories, and my soul remained pure. But I didn’t understand enough—or perhaps I tried the impossible. The choices got harder and harder, till I was left with choosing between brains and physical defect.” She wiped away the drool, and all but the blind one looked out across her city. “These are the best days of summer, you know. Life is a green madness just now, trying to squeeze the last bit of warmth from the season.” And the green did seem to be everywhere it could be: featherleaf down the hillside and in the town, ferns all over the near hillsides, and heather struggling toward the gray crowns of the mountains across the channel. “I love this place.”

He never expected to be comforting the Woodcarver of Woodcarvers. “You made a miracle here. I’ve heard of it all the way on the other side of the world… And I’ll bet that half the packs around here are related to you.”

“Y-yes, I’ve been successful beyond a rake’s wildest dreams. I’ve had no shortage of lovers, even if I couldn’t use the pups myself. Sometimes I think my get has been my greatest experiment. Scrupilo and Vendacious are mostly my offspring… but so is Flenser.”

Huh! Peregrine hadn’t known that last.

“The last few decades, I’d more or less accepted my fate. I couldn’t outwit eternity; sometime soon I would let my soul slip free. I let the council take over more and more; how could I claim the domain after I was no longer me? I went back to art—you saw those monochrome mosaics.”

“Yes! They’re beautiful.”

“I’ll show you my picture loom sometime. The procedure is tedious but almost automatic. It was a nice project for the last years of my soul. But now—you and your alien have changed everything. Damn it! If only this had happened a hundred years ago. What I would have done with it! We’ve been playing with your ‘picture box’, you know. The pictures are finer than any in our world. They are a bit like my mosaics—the way the sun is like a glowbug. Millions of colored dots go to make each picture, the tiles so small you can’t see them without one of Scriber’s eye-tools. I’ve worked for years to make a few dozen mosaics. The picture box can make unnumbered thousands, so fast they seem to move. Your aliens make my life less than an unweaned pup’s scratching in its cradle.”

The queen of the Woodcarvers was softly crying, but her voice was angry. “And now the whole world is going to change, but too late for such wreckage as I!”

Almost without conscious thought, Peregrine extended one of his members toward the Woodcarver. He walked unseemly close: eight yards, five. Their thoughts were suddenly fuzzy with interference, but he could feel her calming.

She laughed blearily. “Thank you… Strange that you should be sympathetic. The greatest problem of my life is nothing to a pilgrim.

“You were hurting.” It was all he could think to say.

“But you pilgrims change and change and change—” She eased one of herself close to him; they were almost touching, and it was even harder to think.

Peregrine spoke slowly, concentrating on every word, hoping he wouldn’t forget his point. “But I do keep something of a soul. The parts that remain a pilgrim must have a certain outlook.” Sometimes great insight comes in the noise of battle or intimacy. This was such at time. “And—and I think the world itself is due for a change of soul now that we have Two-Legs dropping from the sky. What better time for Woodcarver to give up the old?”

She smiled, and the confusion became louder, but a pleasant thing. “I

… hadn’t… thought of it that way. Now is the time to change…”

Peregrine walked into her midst. The two packs stood for a moment, necking, thoughts blending into sweet chaos. Their last clear recollection was of stumbling up the steps and into his lodge.

Late that afternoon, Woodcarver brought the picture box to Scrupilo’s laboratory. When she arrived Scrupilo and Vendacious were already present. Scriber Jaqueramaphan was there too, but standing farther from the others than courtesy might demand. She had interrupted some kind of argument. A few days before, such squabbling would have just depressed her. Now—she dragged her limper into the room and looked at the others through her drooler’s eyes—and smiled. Woodcarver felt the best she had in years. She had made her decision and acted on it, and now there were new adventures to be had.

Scriber brightened at her entrance. “Did you check on Peregrine? How is he?”

“He is fine, fine, just fine.” Oops, no need to show them how fine he really is! “I mean, there’ll be a full recovery.”

“Your Majesty, I’m very grateful to you and your doctors. Wickwrackscar is a good pack, and I… I mean, even a pilgrim can’t change members every day, like suits of clothes.”

Woodcarver waved an offhand acknowledgment. She walked to the middle of the room, and set the alien’s picture box on the table there. It looked like nothing so much as a big pink pillow—with floppy ears and a weird animal design sewed in its cover. After playing with it for a day and a half, she was getting pretty good… at opening the thing up. As always, the Two-Legs’s face appeared, making mouth noises. As always, Woodcarver felt an instant of awe at seeing the moving mosaic. A million colored “tiles” had to flip and shift in absolute synchrony to create the illusion. Yet it happened exactly the same each time. She turned the screen so Scrupilo and Vendacious could see.

Jaqueramaphan edged toward the others, and craned a pair of heads to look. “You still think the box is an animal?” he said to Vendacious. “Perhaps you could feed it sweets and it would tell us its secrets, eh?” Woodcarver smiled to herself. Scriber was no pilgrim; pilgrims depend on goodwill too much to go around giving the needle to the powerful.

Vendacious just ignored him. All his eyes were on her. “Your Majesty, please do not take offense. I—we of the Council—must ask you again. This picture box is too important to be left in the mouths of a single pack, even one so great as you. Please. Leave it to the rest of us, at least when you sleep.”

“No offense taken. If you insist, you may participate in my investigations. Beyond that, I will not go.” She gave him an innocent look. Vendacious was a superb spymaster, a mediocre administrator, and an incompetent scientist. A century ago she would have the likes of him out tending the crops, if he chose to stay at all. A century ago there had been no need for spymasters and one administrator had been enough. How things had changed. She absentmindedly nuzzled the picture box; perhaps things would change again.

Scrupilo took Scriber’s question seriously. “I see three possibilities, sir. First, that it is magic.” Vendacious winced away from him. “Indeed, the box may be so far beyond our understanding, that it is magic. But that is the one heresy the Woodcarver has never accepted, and so I courteously omit it.” He flicked a sardonic smile at Woodcarver. “Second, that it is an animal. A few on the Council thought so when Scriber first made it talk. But it looks like a stuffed pillow, even down to the amusing figure stitched on its side. More importantly, it responds to stimuli with perfect repeatability. That is something I do recognize. That is the behavior of a machine.”

“That’s your third possibility?” said Scriber. “But to be a machine means to have moving parts, and except for—”

Woodcarver shrugged a tail at them. Scrupilo could go on like this for hours, and she saw that Scriber was the same type. “I say, let’s learn more and then speculate.” She tapped the corner of the box, just as Scriber had in his original demonstration. The alien’s face vanished from the picture, replaced by a dizzying pattern of color. There was a splatter of sound, then nothing but the mid-pitch hum the box always made when the top was open. They knew the box could hear low-pitched sounds, and it could feel through the square pad on its base. But that pad was itself a kind of picture screen: certain commands transformed the grid of touch spots into entirely new shapes. The first time they did that, the box refused any further commands. Vendacious had been sure they had “killed the little alien". But they had closed the box and reopened it—and it was back to its original behavior. Woodcarver was almost certain that nothing they could do by talking to it or touching it would hurt the thing.

Woodcarver retried the known signals in the usual order. The results were spectacular, and identical to before. But change that order in any way and the effects would be different. She wasn’t sure if she agreed with Scrupilo: The box behaved with the repeatability of a machine… yet the variety of its responses was much more like an animal’s.

Behind her, Scriber and Scrupilo edged members across the floor. Their heads were stuck high in the air as they strained for a clear look at the screen. The buzz of their thoughts came louder and louder. Woodcarver tried to remember what she’d been planning next. Finally, the noise was just too much. “Will you two please back off! I can’t hear myself think.” This isn’t a choir, you know.

“Sorry… this okay?” They moved back about fifteen feet. Woodcarver nodded. The two members were less than twenty feet from each other. Scrupilo and Scriber must be really eager to see the screen. Vendacious had kept a proper distance, and a look of alert enthusiasm.

“I have a suggestion,” said Scriber. His voice was slurred from the effort of concentrating over Scrupilo’s thoughts. “When you touch the four/three square and say—” he made the alien sounds; they were all very easy to do “— the screen shows a collection of pictures. They seem to match the squares. I think we… we are being given choices.”

Hm. “The box could end up training us.” If this is a machine, we need some new definitions. “… Very well, let’s play with it.”

Three hours passed. Toward the end, even Vendacious had moved a member nearer the screen; the noise in the room verged on mindless chaos. And everybody had suggestions; “say that", “press this", “last time it said that, we did thus and so". There were intricate colored designs, sprinkled with things that must have been written language. Tiny, two-legged figures scampered across the screen, shifting the symbols, opening little windows… Scriber Jaqueramaphan’s idea was quite right. The first pictures were choices. But some of those led to further pictures of choices. The options spread out—tree-like, Scriber said. He wasn’t quite right; sometimes they came back to an earlier point; it was a metaphorical network of streets. Four times they ended in cul de sacs, and had to shut the box and begin again. Vendacious was madly drawing maps of the paths. That would help; there were places they would want to see again. But even he realized there were unnumbered other paths, places that blind exploration would never find.

And Woodcarver would have given a good part of her soul for the pictures she had already seen. There were starscapes. There were moons that shone blue and green, or banded orange. There were moving pictures of alien cities, of thousands of aliens so close that they were actually touching. If they ran in packs, those packs were bigger than anything in the world, even in the tropics… And maybe the question was irrelevant; the cities were beyond anything she ever imagined.

Finally Jaqueramaphan backed off. He huddled together. There was a shiver in his voice. “T-there’s a whole universe in there. We could follow it forever, and never know…”

She looked at the other two. For once, Vendacious had lost his smugness. There were ink stains on all his lips. The writing benches around him were littered with dozens of sketches, some clearer than others. He dropped the pen, and gasped. “I say we take what we have and study it.” He began gathering the sketches, piling them into a neat stack. “Tomorrow, after a good sleep, our heads will be clear and—”

Scrupilo dropped back and stretched. His eyes had excited red rims. “Fine. But leave the sketches, friend Vendacious.” He jabbed at the drawings. “See that one and that? It’s clear that our blundering gets us plenty of empty results. Sometimes the picture box just locks us out, but much more often we get that picture: No options, just a couple of aliens dancing in a forest and making rhythm sounds. Then if we say—” and he repeated part of the sequence, “— we get that picture of piles of sticks. The first with one, the second with two, and so on.”

Woodcarver saw it too. “Yes. And a figure comes out and points to each of the piles and says a short noise by each.” She and Scrupilo stared at each other, seeing the same gleam in each others’ eyes. The excitement of learning, of finding order where there had seemed only chaos. It had been a hundred years since she last felt this way. “Whatever this thing is… it’s trying to teach us the Two-Legs’ language.”

In the days that followed, Johanna Olsndot had lots of time to think. The pain in her chest and shoulder gradually eased; if she moved carefully, it was only a pulsing soreness. They had taken the arrow out and sewed the wound closed. She had feared the worst when they had tied her down, when she saw the knives in their mouths and the steel on their claws. Then they began cutting; she had not known there could be such pain.

She still shuddered with remembered agony. But she didn’t have nightmares about it, the way she did about…

Mother and Dad were dead; she had seen them die with her own eyes. And Jefri? Jefri might still be alive. Sometimes Johanna could go a whole afternoon full of hope. She had seen the coldsleepers burning on the ground below the ship, but those inside might have survived. Then she would remember the indiscriminate way the attackers had flamed and slashed, killing everything around the ship.

She was a prisoner. But for now, the murderers wanted her well. The guards were not armed—beyond their teeth and tines. They kept well away from her when they could. They knew she could hurt them.

They kept her inside a big dark cabin. When she was alone she paced the floor. The dogthings were barbarians. The surgery without anesthetics was probably not even intended as torture. She hadn’t seen any aircraft, or any sign of electricity. The toilet was a slot carved in a marble slab. The hole went so deep you could scarcely hear the plop hit bottom. But it still smelled bad. These creatures were as backward as people in the darkest ages on Nyjora. They had never had technology, or they had thoroughly forgotten it. Johanna almost smiled. Mom had liked novels about shipwrecks and heroines marooned on lost colonies. The big deal was usually to reinvent technology and repair the spacecraft. Mom was… had been… so into the history of science; she loved the details of those stories.

Well, Johanna was living it now. But with important differences. She wanted rescue, but she also wanted revenge. These creatures were nothing like human. In fact, she couldn’t remember reading of anything quite like them. She’d have looked for them in her dataset, except they had taken that. Ha. Let them play with it. They’d quickly run into her booby traps and find themselves totally locked out.

At first there were only blankets to keep warm. Then they’d given her clothes cut like her jump suit but made of puffy quilting. They were warm and sturdy, the stitching neater than anything she imagined a nonmachine could do. Now she could comfortably walk around outside. The garden beyond her cabin was the best thing about the place. It was about a hundred meters square, and followed the slope of a hillside. There were lots of flowers, and trees with long, feathery leaves. Flagstoned walks curved back and forth through mossy turf. It was a peaceful place if she let it be, a little like their backyard on Straum.

There were walls, but from the high end of the garden, she could see over them. The walls angled this way and that, and in places she could see their other side. The windows slits were like something out of her history lessons: they let you shoot arrows or bullets without making a target of yourself.

When the sun was out, Johanna liked to sit where the smell of the feather leaves was strongest, and look over the lower walls at the bay. She still wasn’t sure just what she was seeing. There was a harbor; the forest of spars was almost like the marinas on Straum. The town had wide streets, but they zigged and zagged and the buildings along them were all askew. In places there were open-roofed mazes of stone; from up here, she could see the pattern. And there was another wall, a rambling thing that ran for as far as she could see. The hills beyond were crowned with gray rock and patches of snow.

She could see the dogthings down in the town. Individually, you could almost mistake them for dogs (snake-necked, rat-headed ones). But watch them from a distance and you saw their true nature. They always moved in small groups, never more than six. Within the pack they touched, cooperated with clever grace. But she never saw one group come closer than about ten meters to another. From her distant viewpoint, the members of a pack seemed to merge… and she could imagine she was seeing one multilimbed beast ambling cautiously along, careful not to come too close to a similar monster. By now, the conclusion was inescapable: one pack, one mind. Minds so evil they could not bear to be close to one another.

Her fifth time in the garden was the prettiest yet, a coercion toward joy. The flowers had sprayed downy seeds into the air. The lowering sunlight sparkled off them as they floated by the thousands on the slow breeze, clots in an invisible syrup. She imagined what Jefri would do here: first pretend grownup dignity, then bounce from one foot to the other. Finally he would race down the hillside, trying to capture as many of the flying tufts as he could. Laughing and laughing—"One, two, how do you do?” It was a child’s voice, behind her.

Johanna jumped up so fast she almost tore her stitches. Sure enough, there was a pack behind her. They—it?—was the one who had cut the arrow out of her. A mangy lot. The five were crouched, ready to run away. They looked almost as surprised as Johanna felt.

“One, two, how do you do?” The voice came again, exactly as before. It might as well have been a recording, except that one of the animals was somehow synthesizing the sound with the buzzing patches of skin on its shoulders, haunches and head. The parrot act was nothing new to her. But this time… the words were almost appropriate. The voice was not hers, but she had heard that chant before. She put hands on hips and stared at the pack. Two of the animals stared back; the others seemed to be admiring the scenery. One licked nervously at its paw.

The two rear ones were carrying her dataset! Suddenly she knew where they’d gotten that singsong question. And she knew what they expected in response. “I am fine and how do you do?” she said.

The pack’s eyes widened almost comically. “I am fine, so then are we all!” It completed the game, then emitted a burst of gobbling. Someone replied from down the hill. There was another pack there, lurking in the bushes. She knew that if she stayed near this one, the other wouldn’t approach.

So the Tines—she always thought of them by those claws on their front feet; those she would never forget—had been playing with the Pink Oliphaunt, and hadn’t been stopped by the booby traps. That was better than Jefri ever managed. It was clear they had fallen into the kindermode language programs. She should have thought of that. When the dataset noted sufficiently asinine responses it would adapt its behavior, first for young children, and—if that didn’t work—for youngsters who didn’t even speak Samnorsk. With just a little cooperation from Johanna, they could learn her language. Did she want that?

The pack walked a little nearer, at least two of them watching her all the time. They didn’t seem quite so ready to bolt as before. The nearest one dropped to its belly and looked up at her. Very cute and helpless, if you didn’t see the claws. “My name is—” Johanna heard a short burst of gobble with an overtone that seemed to buzz right through her head. “What is your name?”

Johanna knew it was all part of the language script. There was no way the creature could understand the individual words it was saying. That “my name, your name” pair was repeated over and over again between the children in the language program. A vegetable would get the point eventually. Still, the Tines pronunciation was so perfect…

“My name is Johanna,” she said.

“Zjohanna,” said the pack, with Johanna’s voice, and splitting the word stream incorrectly.

“Johanna,” corrected Johanna. She wasn’t even going to try saying the Tines name.

“Hello, Johanna. Let’s play the naming game!” And that was from the script too, complete with silly enthusiasm. Johanna sat down. Sure, learning Samnorsk would give the Tines power over her… but it was the only way she could learn about them, the only way she could learn about Jefri. And if they had murdered Jefri, too? Well then, she would learn to hurt them as much as they deserved.

CHAPTER 13

At Woodcarvers and then—a few days later—at Flenser’s Hidden Island, the long daylight of arctic summer ended. At first there was a little twilight just around midnight, when even the highest hill stood in shadow. And then the hours of dark grew quickly. Day fought night, and night was winning. The featherleaf in the low valleys changed to autumn colors. Looking up a fjord in daylight was to see orange red on the lower hills, then the green of heather merging imperceptibly to the grays of lichen and the darker grays of naked rock. The snowpatches waited for their time; it would come soon.

At every sunset, each day a few minutes earlier, Tyrathect toured the ramparts of Flenser’s outer wall. It was a three-mile walk. The lower levels were guarded by linear packs, but up here there were only a few lookouts. When she approached, they stepped aside with military precision. More than military precision; she saw the fear in their look. It was hard to get used to that. For almost as far back as she had clear memories—twenty years -Tyrathect had lived in fear of others, in shame and guilt, in search of someone to follow. Now all that was turned on its head. It was not an improvement. She knew now, from the inside, the evil she had given herself to. She knew why the sentries feared her. To them, she was Flenser.

Of course, she never gave any hint of these thoughts. Her life was only as safe as the success of her fraud. Tyrathect had worked hard to suppress her natural, shy mannerisms. Not once since coming to Hidden Island had she caught herself in the old bashful habit of heads lowering, eyes closing.

Instead, Tyrathect had the Flenser stare—and she used it. Her passage around the top wall was as stark and ominous as Flenser’s had ever been. She looked out over her—his—domain with the same hard gaze as before, all heads front, as if seeing visions beyond the petty minds of the disciples. They must never guess her real reason for these sunset sweeps: for a time, the days and nights were like in the Republic. She could almost imagine she was still back there, before the Movement and the massacre at Parliament Bowl, before they cut her throats and wed pieces of Flenser to the stumps of her soul.

In the gold and russet fields beyond the stone curtains, she could see peasants trimming the fields and the herds. Flenser ruled lands far beyond her view, but he had never imported food. The grain and meat that filled the storehouses were all produced within a two-day march of the straits. The strategic intent was clear; still, it made for a peaceful evening’s view and brought back memories of her home and school.

The sun slid sideways into the mountains; long shadows swept the farm lands. Flenser’s castle was left an island in a sea of shadow. Tyrathect could smell the cold. There would be frost again tonight. Tomorrow the fields would be covered with false snow that would last an hour past sunrise. She pulled the long jackets close around her and walked to the eastern lookout. Across the straits, one of the near hilltops was still in the sun. The alien ship had landed there. It was still there, but now behind wood and stone. Steel began building there right after the landing. The quarries at the north end of Hidden Island were busier now than ever in Flenser’s time. The barges hauling stone to the mainland made a steady traffic across the straits. Even now that the light was not dayround, Steel’s construction went on nonstop. His Incallings and lesser inspections were harsher than Flenser’s had used to be.

Lord Steel was a killer; worse, a manipulator. But since the alien landing, Tyrathect knew that he was something else: deathly afraid. He had good reason. And even though the folk he feared might ultimately kill them all, in her secret soul she wished them well. Steel and his Flenserists had attacked the star people without warning, more out of greed than fear. They had killed dozens of beings. In a way the murders were worse than what the Movement had done to her. Tyrathect had followed the Flenser of her own free will. She had had friends who warned her about the Movement. There had been dark stories about the Flenser, and not all had been government propaganda. But she had so wanted to follow, to give herself to Something Greater… They had used her, literally as their tool. Yet she could have avoided it. The star people had had no such option; Steel simply butchered them.

So now Steel labored out of fear. In the first three days he had covered the flying ship with a roof: a sudden, silly farmhouse had appeared on the hilltop. Before long the alien craft would be hidden behind stone walls. Ultimately, the new fortress might be bigger than the one on Hidden Island. Steel knew that if his villainy did not destroy him, it would make him the most powerful pack in the world.

And that was Tyrathect’s reason for staying, for continuing her masquerade. She couldn’t go on forever. Sooner or later the other fragments would reach Hidden Island; Tyrathect would be destroyed and all of Flenser would live again. Perhaps she wouldn’t survive even that long. Two of Tyrathect were of Flenser. The Master had miscalculated in thinking they could dominate the other three. Instead the conscience of the three had come to own the brilliance of the two. She remembered almost everything the great Flenser had known, all the tricks and all the betrayals. The two had given her an intensity she had never had before. Tyrathect laughed to herself. In a sense, she had gained what she had been so naively seeking in the Movement; and the great Flenser had made exactly the mistake that in his arrogance he thought impossible. As long as she could keep the two under control, she had a chance. When she was all awake, there wasn’t much problem; she still felt herself a “she", still remembered her life in the Republic more clearly than the Flenser memories. It was different when she slept. There were nightmares. The memories of torment inflicted suddenly seemed sweet. Sleep-time sex should soothe; with her it was a battle. She awoke sore and cut, as if she had been fighting a rapist. If the two ever broke free, if she ever awoke a “he"… It would take only a few seconds for the two to denounce the masquerade, only a little longer to kill the three and put the Flenser members aboard a more manageable pack.

Yet she stayed. Steel meant to use the aliens and their ship to spread Flenser’s nightmare worldwide. But his plan was fragile, with risks on every side. If there was anything she could do to destroy it and the Flenser Movement, she would.

Across the castle, only the western tower still hung in sunlight. No faces showed at the window slits, but eyes looked out: Steel watched the Flenser Fragment—the Flenser-in-Waiting as it styled itself—on the ramparts below. The fragment was accepted by all the commanders. In fact, they accorded it almost the awe they had given to the full Flenser. In a sense, Flenser had made them all, so it wasn’t surprising they felt a chill in the Master’s presence. Even Steel felt it. In his shaping, Flenser had forced the aborning Steel to try to kill him; each time Steel had been caught and his weakest members tortured. Steel knew the conditioning that was there, and that helped him fight it. If anything, he told himself, the Flenser Frag was in greater danger because of it: in trying to counter the fear, Steel might just miscalculate, and act more violently than was appropriate.

Sooner or later Steel had to decide. If he didn’t kill it before the other fragments reached Hidden Island, then all of Flenser would be here again. If two members could dominate Steel’s regime, then six would totally erase it. Did he want the Master dead? And if he did, was there any surely safe way…? Steel’s mind flickered lightly all around the issue as he watched the black-frocked pack.

Steel was used to playing for high stakes. He had been born playing for them. Fear and death and winning were his whole life. But never had the stakes been as high as now. Flenser had come close to subverting the largest nation on the continent, and had had dreams of ruling the world… Lord Steel looked to the hillside across the straits, at the new castle he was building. In his present game, world conquest would follow easily on victory, and the destruction of the world was a conceivable consequence of failure.

Steel had visited the flying ship shortly after the ambush. The ground was still steaming. Every hour it seemed to grow hotter. The mainland peasants talked of demons wakened in the earth; Steel’s advisors could not do much better. The whitejackets needed padded boots to get close. Steel had ignored the steam, donned the boots, and walked beneath the curving hull. The bottom was vaguely like a boat’s hull, if you ignored the stilts. Near the center was a teat-like projection; the ground directly underneath burbled with molten rock. The burned-out coffins were on the uphill side of the ship. Several of the corpses had been removed for dissection. In the first hours his advisors had been full of fanciful theories: the mantis folk were warriors fleeing a battle, come to bury their dead…

So far no one had been able to take a careful look inside the craft.

The gray stairs were made of something as strong as steel yet feather light. But they were recognizably stairs, even if the risers were high for the average member. Steel scrambled up the steps, leaving Shreck and his other advisors outside.

He stuck a head through the hatch—and winced back abruptly. The acoustics were deadly. He understood what the whitejackets were complaining about. How could the aliens bear it? One by one he forced himself through the opening.

Echoes screamed at him—worse than from unpadded quartz. He quieted himself, as he had so often done in the Master’s presence. The echoes diminished, but they were still a horde raging in the walls all around. Not even his best whitejackets could tolerate more than five minutes here. The thought made Steel stand straighter. Discipline. Quiet does not always mean submission; it can mean hunting. He looked around, ignoring the howling murmurs.

Light came from bluish strips in the ceiling. As his eyes adjusted, he could see what his people had described to him: the interior was just two rooms. He was standing in the larger one—a cargo hold? There was a hatch in the far wall and then the second room. The walls were seamless. They met in angles that did not match the outer hull; there would be dead spaces. A breeze moved fitfully about the room, but the air was much warmer than outside. He had never been in a place that felt more of power and evil. Surely it was only a trick of acoustics. They would bring in some absorbent quilts, some side reflectors, and the feeling would go away. Still…

The room was filled with coffins, these unburned. The place stank with the aliens’ body odor. Mold grew in the darker corners. In a way that was comforting: the aliens breathed and sweated as other living things, and for all their marvelous invention, they could not keep their own den clean. Steel wandered among the coffins. The boxes were mounted on railed racks. When the ones outside had been here, the room must have been crammed full. Undamaged, the coffins were marvels of fine workmanship. Warm air exited slots along the sides. He sniffed at it: complex, faintly nauseating, but not the smell of death. And not the source of the overpowering stench of mantis sweat that hung everywhere.

Each coffin had a window mounted on its top side. What effort to honor the remains of single members! Steel hopped onto one and looked down. The corpse was perfectly preserved; in fact, the blue light made everything look frozen. He cocked a second head over the edge of the box, got a double view on the creature within. It was far smaller than the two they had killed under the ship. It was even smaller than the one they had captured. Some of Steel’s advisors thought the small ones were pups, perhaps unweaned. It made sense; their prisoner never made thought sounds.

Partly as an act of discipline, he stared for a long while at the alien’s queer, flat face. The echo of his mind was a continuing pain, eating at his attention, demanding that he leave. Let the pain continue. He had withstood worse before, and the packs outside must know that Steel was stronger than any of them. He could master the pain and have the greater insight… And then he would work their butts off, quilting these rooms and studying the contents.

So Steel stared, almost thoughtless, into the face. The screaming in the walls seemed to fade a little. The face was so ugly. How could the creature eat? He had looked at the charred corpses outside, noticed their small jaws and randomly misshapen teeth.

A few minutes passed; the noise and ugliness mixed together, dream-like… And out of his trance, Steel new a nightmare horror: The face moved. The change was small, and it happened very, very slowly. But over a period of minutes, the face had changed.

Steel’s fell from the coffin; the walls screamed back terror. For a few seconds, he thought the noise would kill him. Then he regained himself with quiet thought. He crawled back onto the box. All his eyes stared through the crystal, waiting like a pack on hunt… The change was regular. The alien in the box was breathing, but fifty times more slowly than any normal member. He moved to another box, watched the creature in it. Somehow, they were all alive. Inside those boxes, their lives were simply slowed.

He looked up from the boxes, almost in a daze. That the room reeked of evil was an illusion of sound… and also the absolute truth.

The mantis alien had landed far from the tropics, away from the collectives; perhaps it thought the Arctic Northwest a backward wilderness. It had come in a ship jammed with hundreds of mantis pups. These boxes were like larval casings: the pack would land, raise the small ones to adulthood—out of sight of civilization. Steel felt his pelts puff up as he thought about it. If the mantis pack had not been surprised, if Steel’s troops had been any less aggressive… it would have been the end of the world.

Steel staggered to the outer hatch, his fears coming louder and louder off the walls. Even so, he paused a moment in the shadows and the screams. When his members trooped down the stairs, he moved calmly, every jacket neatly in place. Soon enough his advisors would know the danger, but they would never see fear in him. He walked lightly across the steaming turf, out from under the hull. But even he could not resist a quick look across the sky. This was one ship, one pack of aliens. It had had the misfortune of running into the Movement. Even so, its defeat had been partly luck. How many other ships would land, had already landed? Was there time for him to learn from this victory?

Steel’s mind returned to the present, to his eyrie lookout above the castle. That first encounter with the ship was many tendays past. There was still a threat, but now he understood it better, and—as was true of all great threats—it held great promise.

On the rampart, Flenser-in-Waiting slid through the deepening twilight. Steel’s eyes followed the pack as it walked beneath the torches, and one by one disappeared down stairs. There was an awful lot of the Master in that fragment; it had understood many things about the alien landing before anyone else.

Steel took one last look across the darkening hills as he turned and started down the spiral stair. It was a long, cramped climb; the lookout sat atop a forty-foot tower. The stair was barely fifteen inches wide, the ceiling less that thirty inches above the steps. Cold stone pressed in from all around, so close that there were no echoes to confuse thought—yet also so close that the mind was squeezed into a long thread. Climbing the spiral required a twisting, strung-out posture that left any attacker easy prey for a defender in the eyrie. Such was military architecture. For Steel, crawling the cramped dark was pleasant exercise.

The stairs opened onto a public hallway, ten feet across with back-off nooks every fifty feet. Shreck and a bodyguard were waiting for him.

“I have the latest from Woodcarvers,” said Shreck. He was holding sheets of silkpaper.

Losing the other alien to Woodcarvers had once seemed a major blow. Only gradually had he realized how well it could work out. He had Woodcarvers infiltrated. At first he’d intended to have the other alien killed; it would have been easy to do. But the information that trickled north was interesting. There were some bright people at Woodcarvers. They were coming up with insights that had slipped past Steel and the Master -the fragment of the Master. So. In effect, Woodcarvers had become Steel’s second alien laboratory, and the Movement’s enemies were serving him like any other tool. The irony was irresistible.

“Very good, Shreck. Take it to my den. I’ll be there shortly.” Steel waved the whitejackets into a back-up nook and swept past him. Reading the report over brandy would be a pleasant reward for the day’s work. In the meantime, there were other duties and other pleasures.

The Master had begun building Hidden Island Castle more than a century earlier; it was growing yet. In the oldest foundations, where an ordinary ruler might put dungeons, were the Flenser’s first laboratories. Many could be mistaken for dungeons—and were by their inhabitants.

Steel reviewed all the labs at least once a tenday. Now he swept through the lowest levels. Crickers fled before the light of his guard’s torches. There was a smell of rotting meat. Steel’s paws skidded where slickness lay upon the stone. Holes were dug in the floor at regular intervals. Each could hold a single member, its legs jammed tight to its body. Each was covered by a lid with tiny air holes. It took the average member about three days to go mad in such isolation. The resulting “raw material” could be used to build blank packs. Generally, they weren’t much more than vegetables, but then that was all the Movement asked of some. And sometimes remarkable things came from these pits: Shreck for instance. Shreck the Colorless, some called him. Shreck the stolid. A pack who was beyond pain, beyond desire. Shreck’s was the loyalty of clockwork, but built from flesh and blood. He was no genius, but Steel would have given an eastern province for five more of him. And the promise of more such successes made Steel use the isolation pits again and again. He had recycled most of the wrecks from the ambush that way…

Steel climbed back to higher levels, where the really interesting experiments were undertaken. The world regarded Hidden Island with fascinated horror. They had heard of the lower levels. But most didn’t realize what a small part those dark spaces played in the Movement’s science. To properly dissect a soul, you need more than benches with blood gutters. The results from the lower levels were simply the first steps in Flenser’s intellectual quest. There were great questions in the world, things that had bothered packs for thousands of years. How do we think? Why do we believe? Why is one pack a genius and another an oaf? Before Flenser, philosophers argued them endlessly and never got closer to the truth. Even Woodcarver had pranced around the issues, unwilling to give up her traditional ethics. Flenser was prepared to get the answers. In these labs, nature itself was under interrogation.

Steel walked across a chamber one hundred yards wide, with a roof supported by dozens of stone pillars. On every side there were dark partitions, slate walls mounted on tiny wheels. The cavern could be blocked off, maze-like, into any pattern. Flenser had experimented with all the postures of thought. In the centuries before him, there had been only a few effective postures: the instinctive heads together, the ring sentry, various work postures. Flenser had tried dozens more: stars, double rings, grids. Most were useless and confusing. In the star, only a single member could hear all the others, and each of those could only hear the one. In effect, all thought had to pass through the hub member. The hub could contribute nothing rational, yet all its misconceptions passed uncorrected to the rest. Drunken foolishness resulted… Of course, that experiment was reported to the outside world.

But at least one of the others—still secret—worked strangely well: Flenser posted eight packs around the floor and on temporary platforms, blocked them from each another with the slate partitions, and then put members from each pack in connection with their counterparts in three others. In a sense, he created a pack of eight packs. Steel was still experimenting with that. If the connectors were sufficiently compatible (and that was the hard part), the resulting creature was far smarter than a ring sentry. In most ways it was not as bright as a single heads-together pack, yet sometimes it had striking insights. Before he left for the Long Lakes, the Master had developed a plan to rebuild the castle’s main hall so council sessions could be conducted in this posture. Steel hadn’t pursued that idea; it seemed just a bit too risky. Steel’s domination of others was not quite as complete as Flenser’s had been.

No matter. There were other, far more significant, projects. The rooms ahead were the true heart of the Movement. Steel’s soul had been born in these rooms; all of Flenser’s greatest creations had begun here. During the last five years, Steel had continued the tradition… and improved upon it.

He walked down the hall that linked the separate suites. Each bore its number in inlaid gold. At each he opened a door and stepped partway through. His staff left their report on the previous tenday just inside. Steel quickly read each one, then poked a nose over the balcony to look at the experiment within. The balconies were well-padded, and screened; it was easy to observe without being seen.

Flenser’s one weakness (in Steel’s opinion) was his desire to create the superior being. The Master’s confidence was so immense, he believed that any such success could be applied to his own soul. Steel had no such illusions. It was a commonplace that teachers are surpassed by their creations—pupils, fission-children, adoptions, whatever. He, Steel, was a perfect illustration of this, though the Master didn’t know it yet.

Steel had determined to create beings that would each be superior in some single way—while flawed and malleable in others. In the Master’s absence, he had begun a number of experiments. Steel worked from scratch, identifying inheritance lines independent of pack membership. His agents purchased or stole pups that might have potential. Unlike Flenser, who usually melded pups into existing packs in an approximation of nature, Steel made his totally newborn. His puppy packs had no memories or fragments of soul; Steel had total control from the beginning.

Of course, most such constructions quickly died. The pups had to be parted from their wet nurses before they began to participate in the adult’s consciousness. The resulting pack was taught entirely in speech and written language. All inputs could be controlled.

Steel stopped before door number thirty-three: Experiment Amdiranifani, Mathematical Excellence. It was not the only attempt in this direction, but it was by far the most successful. Steel’s agents had searched the Movement for packs with ability for abstraction. They had gone further: the world’s most famous mathematician lived in the Long Lakes Republic. The pack had been preparing to fission; she had several puppies by herself and a mathematically talented lover. Steel had had the pups taken. They matched his other acquisitions so well that he decided to make an eightsome. If things worked out, it might be beyond all nature in its intelligence.

Steel motioned his guard to shield the torches. He opened door thirty-three and soft-toed one member to the edge of the balcony. He looked down, carefully silencing that member’s fore-tympanum. The skylight was dim, but he could see the pups huddled together… with its new friend. The mantis. Serendipity, that was all he could call this, the reward that comes to a researcher who labors long enough, carefully enough. He had had two problems. The first had been growing for a year: Amdiranifani was slowly fading, its members falling into the usual autism of wholly newborn packs. The second was the captured alien; that was an enormous threat, an enormous mystery, an enormous opportunity. How to communicate with it? Without communication, the possibilities for manipulation were very limited.

Yet in a single blind stroke, an incompetent Servant had shown the way to solve both problems. Now that his eyes were adjusted to the dimness, Steel could see the alien beneath the pile of puppies. When first he’d heard that the creature had been put in with an experiment, Steel had been enraged beyond thought; the Servant who made the mistake had been recycled. But the days passed. Experiment Amdiranifani began showing more liveliness than any time since its pups were weaned. It quickly became obvious—from dissecting the other aliens, and observing this one—that mantis folk did not live in packs. Steel had a complete alien.

The alien moved in its sleep, and made a low-pitched mouth noise; it was totally incapable of any other kind of sound. The pups shifted to fit the new position. They were sleeping too, vaguely thinking among themselves. The low end of their sounds was a perfect imitation of the alien… And that was the greatest coup of all. Experiment Amdiranifani was learning the alien’s speech. To the pack of newborns this was simply another form of interpack talk, and apparently its mantis friend was more interesting than the tutors who appeared on these balconies. The Flenser Fragment claimed it was the physical contact, that the pups were reacting to the alien as a surrogate parent, thoughtless though the alien was.

It really didn’t matter. Steel brought another head to the edge of the balcony. He stood quietly, neither member thinking directly at the other. The air smelled faintly of puppies and mantis sweat. These two were the Movement’s greatest treasure: the key to survival and more. By now, Steel knew the flying ship was not part of an invasion fleet. Their visitors were more like ill-prepared refugees. There had been no word of other landings, and the Movement’s spies were spread far.

It had been a close thing, winning against the aliens. Their single weapon had killed most of a regiment. In the proper jaws, such weapons could defeat armies. He had no doubt the ship contained more powerful killing machines—ones that still functioned. Wait and watch, Steel counseled himself. Let Amdiranifani show the levers that could control this alien. The entire world would be the prize.

CHAPTER 14

Sometimes Mom used to say that something was “more fun than a barrel full of puppies.” Jefri Olsndot had never had more than one pet at a time, and only once had that been a dog. But now he understood what she meant. From the very first day, even when he had been so tired and scared, he had been entranced by the eight puppies. And they by him. They were all over him, pulling at his clothes, unfastening his shoes, sitting on his lap, or just running around him. Three or four were always staring at him. Their eyes were completely brown or pink, and seemed large for their heads. From the beginning the puppies had mimicked him. They were better than Straumli songbirds; anything he said, they could echo—or play back later. And when he cried, often the puppies would cry too, and cuddle around him.

There were other dogs, big ones that wore clothes and entered the room through doorways high up on the walls. They lowered food into the room, sometimes making strange noises. But the food tasted awful, and they didn’t respond to Jefri’s screaming even by mimicking him.

Two days had passed, then a week. Jefri had investigated everything in the room. It wasn’t really a dungeon; it was too big. And besides, prisoners don’t get pets. He understood that this world was uncivilized, not part of the Realm, perhaps not even on the Net. If Mom or Dad or Johanna weren’t nearby, it was possible that there was no one here to teach the dogs to speak Samnorsk! Then it would be up to Jefri Olsndot to teach the dogs and find his family. Now when the white-jacketed dogs came onto the corner balconies, Jefri shouted questions at them. It didn’t help very much. Even the one with red stripes didn’t respond. But the puppies did! They shouted right along with Jefri, sometimes echoing his words, sometimes making nonsense sounds.

It didn’t take Jefri long to realize that the puppies were driven by a single mind. When they ran around him, some would always sit a little way off, their graceful necks arching this way and that—and the runners seemed to know exactly what the others saw. He couldn’t hide things behind his back if there was even one of them to alert the others. For a while he thought they were somehow talking to each other. But it was more than that: when he watched them unfasten his shoes or draw a picture—the heads and mouths and paws cooperated so perfectly, like the fingers on a person’s hands. Jefri didn’t reason things out so explicitly; but over a period of days he came to think of all the puppies together as a single friend. At the same time he noticed that the puppies was mixing up his words—and sometimes making new meanings.

“You me play.” The words came out like a cheap voice splice, but they generally preceded a mad game of tag all around the furniture.

“You me picture.” The slate board covered the lowest meter of the wall, all around the room. It was a display device like Jefri had never seen in his life: dirty, imprecise, imperfectly deletable, unstorable. Jefri loved it. His face and hands, and most of Puppies’ lips, got covered with chalk stains. They drew each other, and themselves. Puppies didn’t draw neat pictures like Jefri’s; Puppies’ dog figures had big heads and paws, with the bodies all smudged together. When he drew Jefri, the hands were always big, each finger carefully drawn.

Jefri drew his family and tried to make Puppies understand.

Day by day, the sunlight circled higher on the walls. Sometimes the room was dark now. At least once a day, packs came to talk to Puppies. This was one of the few things which could pull the little ones away from Jefri. Puppies would sit below the balconies, screeching and croaking at the adults. It was a school class! They’d lower scrolls for him to look at, and retrieve ones he had marked.

Jefri sat quietly and watched the lessons. He fidgeted, but he didn’t shout at the teachers anymore. Just a little longer, and he and Puppies would really be talking. Just a little longer and Puppies could find out for him where Mom and Dad and Johanna were.

Sometimes terror and pain are not the best levers; deception, when it works, is the most elegant and the least expensive manipulation of all. Once Amdiranifani was fluent in the mantis language, Steel had him explain about the “tragic death” of Jefri’s parents and brood-sibling. The Flenser Fragment had argued against it, but Steel wanted quick and unquestioned control.

Now it seemed that the Fragment might have been right; at least he should have held out the hope that the brood-sibling lived. Steel looked solemnly at the Amdiranifani Experiment. “How can we help?”

The young pack looked up trustingly. “Jefri is so terribly upset about his parents and sister.” Amdiranifani was using mantis words a lot, often unnecessarily: sister instead of brood-sibling. “He hasn’t been eating much. He doesn’t want to play. It makes me very sad.”

Steel kept watch on the far balcony. The Flenser Fragment was there. It was not hiding, though most of its faces were out of the candlelight. So far its insights had been extraordinary. But the Fragment’s stare was like old times, when a mistake could mean mutilation or worse. So be it. The stakes were higher now than ever before; if fear at Steel’s throats could help him succeed, he welcomed it. He looked away from the balcony, and brought all his faces to an expression of tender sympathy for poor Jefri’s plight. “You just have to make it—him—understand. No one can bring his parents or sister back to life. But we know who the murderers are. We’re doing everything we can to defend against them. Tell him how hard this is. Woodcarvers is an empire that has lasted hundreds of years. In a fight, we are no match for them. That’s why we need all the help he can give us. We need him to teach us to use his parents’ ship.”

The puppy pack lowered a head. “Yes. I’ll try, but…” The three members by Jefri made low-pitched grunting noises at it. The mantis sat head bowed; it held its tentacled paws across its eyes. The creature had been like this for several days, and the withdrawal was getting worse. Now it shook its head violently, made sharp noises a little higher pitched than its normal register.

“Jefri says he doesn’t understand how things work in the ship. He’s just a little…” the pack searched for a translation. “… he is really very young. You know, like me.”

Steel nodded understandingly. It was an obvious consequence of the aliens’ singleton nature, but weird even so: Every one of them started out all a puppy. Every one of them was like Steel’s puppy-pack experiments. Parental knowledge was transmitted by the equivalent of interpack speech. That made the creature easy to dupe, but it was a damned inconvenience now. “Still, if there’s anything he can help explain.”

More grunting from the mantis. Steel should learn that language. The sounds were easy; these pitiful creatures used their mouths to talk, like a bird or a forest slug. For now he depended on Amdiranifani. For now that was okay; the puppy pack trusted him. Another piece of serendipity. With a few of his recent experiments, Steel had tried love in place of Flenser’s original terror/love combination; there had been a slim chance that it might be superior. By great good luck Amdiranifani fell into the love group. Even his instructors had avoided negative reinforcement. The pack would believe anything he said… and so, Steel hoped, would the mantis.

Amdiranifani translated: “There is something else; he has asked me about it before. Jefri knows how to wake the other children—” the word literally meant “pack of puppies", “— on the ship. You look surprised, my lord Steel?”

Even though he no longer dreamed in terror of monster minds, Steel would just as soon not have a hundred more aliens running around. “I hadn’t realized they could be wakened so easily… But we shouldn’t do it right now. We’re having trouble finding food that Jefri can eat.” That was true; the creature was an incredibly finicky eater. “I don’t think we could feed any more right now.”

More grunting. More sharp cries from Jefri. Finally, “There is one other thing, my lord. Jefri thinks it may be possible to use the ship’s ultrawave to call for help from others like his parents.”

The Flenser Fragment jerked out of the shadows. A pair of heads looked down at the mantis, while another stared meaningfully at Steel. Steel didn’t react; he could be cooler than any loose pack. “That’s something to think about. Perhaps you and Jefri could talk more about it. I don’t want to try it till we’re sure we won’t hurt the ship.” That was weak. He saw the Fragment twitch a muzzle in amusement.

As he spoke, Amdiranifani was translating. Jefri responded almost immediately.

“Oh, that’s okay. He meant a special call. Jefri says the ship has been signaling… all by itself… ever since it landed.”

And Steel wondered if he had ever heard a deadly threat uttered in such sweet innocence.

They began letting Amdi and Jefri outside to play. Beforehand Amdi was nervous about going out. He was unused to wearing clothes. His whole life -all four years of it—had been spent in that one big room. He read about the outside and was curious about it, yet he was also a little afraid. But the human boy seemed to want it. Every day he’d been more withdrawn, his crying softer. Mostly he was crying for his parents or sister, but sometimes he cried about being locked up so deep away.

So Amdi had talked to Mr. Steel, and now they got out almost every day, at least to an inner courtyard. At first, Jefri just sat, not really looking around. But Amdi discovered that he loved the outdoors, and every time he got his friend to play a little more.

Packs of teachers and guards stood at the corners of the yellowing moss and watched. Amdi—and eventually Jefri—got a big kick out of harassing them. They hadn’t realized it down in the room, where visitors came at the balconies, but most adults were nervous around Jefri. The boy was half again as tall as a normally standing pack member. When he came close, the average pack would clump together and edge away. They didn’t like having to look up at him. It was silly, Amdi thought. Jefri was so tall and skinny, he looked like he might topple over at any moment. And when he ran it was like he was wildly trying to recover from a fall and never quite succeeding. So Amdi’s favorite game those first days was tag. Whenever he was the chaser, he contrived to run Jefri right through the most prim looking whitejackets. If he and Jefri did it right they could turn the tag into a three-way event, Amdi chasing Jefri and a whitejackets racing to stay away from both of them.

Sometimes he felt sorry for the guards and whitejackets. They were so stiff and grownup. Didn’t they understand how much fun it was to have a friend that you walk right next to, that you could actually touch?

It was mostly night now. Daylight hovered for a few hours around noon. The twilight before and after was bright enough to dim the stars and aurora, but still too faint to show colors. Though Amdi had spent his life indoors, he understood the geometry of the situation, and liked to watch the change of light. Jefri didn’t much like the dark of winter… until the first snow fell.

Amdi got his first set of jackets. And Mr. Steel had special clothes made for the human boy, big puffy things that covered his whole body and kept him warmer than a good pelt would have done.

On one side of the courtyard the snow was just six inches deep, but elsewhere it piled into drifts higher than Amdi’s head. Torches were mounted in wind shields on the walls; their light glittered golden off the snow. Amdi knew about snow—but he’d never seen it before. He loved to splash it on one of his jackets. He would stare and stare, trying to see the snowflakes without his breath melting them. The hexagonal pattern was tantalizing, just at the limit of his vision.

But tag was no fun anymore; the human could run through drifts that left Amdi swimming in the white stuff. There were other things the human could do, wonderful things. He could make balls of snow and throw them. The guards were very upset by this, especially when Jefri plinked a few members. It was the first time he ever saw them get angry.

Amdi raced around the windswept side of the courtyard, dodging snowballs and keening frustration. Human hands were such wicked, wicked things. How he would love to have a pair—four pairs! He circled round from three sides and sprinted right at the human. Jefri backed quickly into deeper snow, but too late. Amdi hit him high and low, tipping the Two-Legs over into a snowdrift. There was a mock battle, slashing lips and paws against Jefri’s hands and feet. But now Amdi was on top. The human got paid back for his snowballs with plenty of snow stuffed down the back of his jacket.

Sometimes they just sat and watched the sky for so long that rumps and paws went numb. Sitting behind the largest snow drift, they were shaded from the castle torches and had a clear view of the lights in the sky.

At first Amdi had been entranced by the aurora. Even some of his teachers were. They said this part of the world was one of the best places to see the sky glow. Sometimes it was so faint that the torchlight glimmering off the snow was enough to blot it out. Other times it ran from horizon to horizon: green light trimmed with hints of pink, twisting as though ruffled by a slow wind.

He and Jefri could talk very easily now, though always in Jefri’s language. The human couldn’t make many of the sounds of interpack speech; even his pronunciation of Amdi’s name was a scarcely recognizable. But Amdi understood Samnorsk pretty well; it was fun, their own secret language.

Jefri was not especially impressed by the aurora. “We have that lots at home. It’s just light from—” He said a new word, and glanced at Amdi. It was funny how the human couldn’t look in more than one place at time. His eyes and head were always moving. “— you know, places where people make things. I think the gas and waste leaks out, and then the sun lights it up or it gets—” unintelligible.

“Places where people make things?” In the sky? Amdi had a globe; he knew the size of the world and its orientation. If the aurora were reflecting sunlight, it must be hundreds of miles above the ground! Amdi leaned a back against Jefri’s jacket and made a very human whistling sound. His knowledge of geography was not up to his geometry, but, “The packs don’t work in the sky, Jefri. We don’t even have flying boats.”

“Uh, that’s right, you don’t… I don’t know what that stuff is then. But I don’t like it. It gets in the way of the stars.” Amdi knew all about the stars; Jefri had told him. Somewhere out there were the friends of Jefri’s parents.

Jefri was silent for several minutes. He wasn’t looking at the sky anymore. Amdi wriggled a little closer, watching the shifting light in the sky. Behind them the wind-sharpened crest of the drift was edged with yellow light from the torches. Amdi could imagine what the other was thinking. “The commsets from the boat, they really aren’t good enough to call for help?”

Jefri slapped the ground. “No! I told you. They’re just radio. I think I can make them work, but what’s the use? The ultrawave stuff is still on the boat and it’s too big to move. I just don’t understand why Mr. Steel won’t let me go aboard… I’m eight years old, you know. I could figure it out. Mom had it all set up before, before…” His words guttered into the familiar, despairing silence.

Amdi rubbed a head against Jefri’s shoulder. He had a theory about Mr. Steel’s reluctance. It was an explanation he hadn’t told Jefri before: “Maybe he’s afraid you’ll just fly away and leave us.”

“That’s stupid! I’d never leave you. Besides, that boat is real hard to fly. It was never meant to land on a world.”

Jefri said the strangest things; sometimes Amdi was just misunderstanding—but sometimes they were literal truth. Did the humans really have ships that never came to ground? Where did they go then? Amdi could almost feel new scales of reference clicking together in his mind. Mr. Steel’s geography globe represented not the world, but something very, very small in the true scheme of things.

“I know you wouldn’t leave us. But you can see how Mr. Steel might be afraid. He can’t even talk to you 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]

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.

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. Well, things turned deadly—but that possibility was part of the deal.” Ravna glanced at Greenstalk. She had been silent so far, not even rustling at her mate. Her fronds were tightly held against her central stalk. Maybe—"Listen, there are other reasons besides contract obligation. The Perversion is more powerful than anyone thought. It killed a Power today. And it’s operating in the Middle Beyond… The Riders have a long history, Blueshell, longer than most races’ entire existence. The Perversion may be strong enough to put an end to all of that.”

Greenstalk rolled toward her and opened slightly. “You—you really think we might find something on that ship at the Bottom, something that could harm a Power among Powers?”

Ravna paused. “Yes. And Old One himself thought so, just before he died.”

Blueshell wrapped even tighter around himself, twisting. In anguish? “My Lady, we are traders. We have lived long and traveled far… and survived by minding our own business. No matter what romantics may think, traders do not go on quests. What you ask… is impossible, mere Beyonders seeking to subvert a Power.”

Yet that was a risk you signed for. But Ravna didn’t say it aloud. Perhaps Greenstalk did: her fronds rustled, and Blueshell scrinched even more. Greenstalk was silent for a second, then she did something funny with her axles, bumping free of the stickem. Her wheels spun on nothing as she floated through a slow arc, till she was upside down, her fronds reaching down to brush Blueshell’s. They rattled back and forth for almost five minutes. Blueshell slowly untwisted, the fronds relaxing and patting back at his mate.

Finally he said. “Very well… One quest. But mark you! Never another.”