by Vernor Vinge
The ruins were bigger than the modern version of the town, but nothing like the promise of the LA Basin, where kilometer after kilometer of ruins—much of it unlooted—stretched as far as a man could walk in a week. And if one wanted some more exciting, more profitable way of getting rich, there were the Jonque mansions in the hills above the Basin. From those high vantage points, Los Angeles had its own fairyland aspect: Horizon to horizon had sparkled with little fires that marked towns in the ruins. Here and there glowed the incandescent lights of Jonque outposts. And at the center, a luminous, crystal growth, stood the towers of the Peace Authority Enclave. Wili sighed. That had all been before his world in the Ndelante Ali had fallen apart, before he discovered Old Ebenezer’s con. . . . If ever he returned, it would be a contest between the Ndelante and the Jonques over who’d skin him first.
Wili couldn’t go back.
But he had seen one thing on this journey north that made it worth being chased here. That one thing made this landscape forever more spectacular than LA’s. He looked over Santa Ynez at the object of his wonder.
The silver dome rose out of the sea, into the moonlight. Even at this remove and altitude, it still seemed to tower. People called it many things, and even in Pasadena he had heard of it, though he’d never believed the stories. Larry Faulk called it Mount Vandenberg. The old man Naismith—the one who even now was whistling aimlessly as his servant drove their wagon into the hills—he had called it the Vandenberg Bobble. But whatever they called it, it transcended the name.
In its size and perfection it seemed to transcend nature itself. From Santa Barbara he had seen it. It was a hemisphere at least twenty kilometers across. Where it fell into the Pacific, Wili could see multiple lines of moon-lit surf breaking soundlessly against its curving arc. On its inland side, the lake they called Lompoc was still and dark.
Perfect, perfect. The shape was an abstraction beyond reality. Its mirror-perfect surface caught the moon and held it in a second image, just as clear as the first. And so the night had two moons, one very high in the sky, the other shining from the dome. Out in the sea, the more normal reflection was a faint silver bar lying straight to the ocean’s horizon. Three moons’ worth of light in all! During the day, the vast mirror captured the sun in a similar way. Larry Faulk claimed the farmers planted their lands to take advantage of the double sunlight.
Who had made Vandenberg Dome? The One True God? Some Jonque or Anglo god? And if made by man, how? What could be inside? Wili dozed, imagining the burglary of all burglaries—to get inside and steal what treasures would be hidden by a treasure so great as that Dome. . . .
When he woke, they were in the forest, rolling upward still, the trees deep and dark around them. The taller pines moved and spoke unsettlingly in the wind. This was more of a forest than he had ever seen. The real moon was low now; an occasional splash of silver shouldered past the branches and lay upon further trees, glistening on their needles. Over his head, a band of night, brighter than the trees, was visible. The stars were there.
The Anglo’s servant had slowed the horse. The ancient concrete road was gone; the path was scarcely wide enough for the cart. Wili tried to face forward, but the blankets and remaining effects of the cop’s stunner prevented this. Now the old man spoke quietly into the darkness. Password! Wili doubled forward to see if the cops had discovered his other knife. No. It was still there, strapped to the inside of his calf. Old men running labor camps were something he knew a lot about from LA. He was one slave this old man was not going to own.
After a moment, a woman’s voice came back, cheerfully telling them to come ahead. The horse took up its former pace. Wili saw no sign of the speaker.
The cart turned through the next switchback, its tires nearly soundless in the carpet of pine needles that layered the road. Another hundred meters, another turn, and—
It was a palace! Trees and vines closed in on all sides of the structure, but it was clearly a palace, though more open than the fortresses of the Jonque jefes in Los Angeles. Those lords usually rebuilt pre-Crash mansions, installed electrified fences and machine-gun nests for security. This place was old, too, but in other ways strange. There was no outward sign of defenses—which could only mean that the owner must control the land for kilometers all around. But Wili had seen no guardian forts on their trip up here. These northerners could not be as stupid and defenseless as they seemed.
The cart drove the length of the mansion. The trail broadened into a clearing before the entrance, and Wili had the best view yet. It was smaller than the palaces of LA. If the inner court was a reasonable size, then it couldn’t house all the servants and family of a great jefe. But the building was massive, the wood and stone expertly joined. What moonlight was left glinted off metal tracery and shone streaming images of the moon’s face in the polish of the wood. The roof was darker, barely reflecting. There were gables and a strange turret: dark spheres, in diameters varying from five centimeters to almost two meters, impaled on a glinting needle
“Wake up. We are here.” Hands undid the blankets, and the old man gently shook his shoulder. It took an effort to keep from lashing out. He grunted faintly, pretended he was slowly waking. “Estamos llegado, chico,” the servant, Morales, said. Wili let himself be helped from the cart. In truth he was still a little unsteady on his feet, but the less they knew of his capabilities the better. Let them think he was weak, and ignorant of English.
A servant came running out of the main entrance (or could the servants’ entrance be so grand?). No one else appeared, but Wili resolved to be docile until he knew more. The woman—like Morales, middle-aged—greeted the two men warmly, then guided Wili across the stone flagging to the entrance. The boy kept his eyes down, pretending to be dopey. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw something more—a silver net like some giant spider web stretched between a tree and the side of the mansion.
Past the huge carven doors, a light glowed dimly, and Wili saw that the place was the equal of anything in Pasadena, though there were no obvious art treasures or golden statuary lying about. They led him up (not down! What sort of jefe put his lowest servants on an upper floor?) a wide staircase, and into a room under the eaves. The only light was the moon’s, coming through a window more than large enough to escape by.
“¿Tienes hambre?” the woman asked him.
Wili shook his head dumbly, surprised at himself. He really wasn’t hungry; it must be some residual effect of the stunner. She showed him a toilet in an adjoining room and told him to get some sleep.
And then he was left alone!
Wili lay on the bed and looked out over the forest. He thought he could see a glint from the Vandenberg Dome. His luck was almost past marveling at. He thanked the One God he had not bolted at the entrance to the mansion. Whoever was the master here knew nothing of security and employed fools. A week here and he would know every small thing worth stealing. In a week he would be gone with enough treasure to live for a long, long time!
Flashforward
Captain Allison Parker’s new world began with the sound of tearing metal.
For several seconds she just perceived and reacted, not trying to explain anything to herself: The hull was breached. Quiller was trying to crawl back toward her. There was blood on his face. Through rents in the hull she could see trees and pale sky. Trees?
Her mind locked out the wonder, and she struggled from her harness. She snapped the disk pack to her side and pulled down the light helmet with its ten-minute air supply. Without thinking, she was following the hull-breach procedures that had been drilled into all of them so many times. If she had thought about it she might have left off the helmet—there were sounds of birds and wind-rustled trees—and she would have died.
Allison pulled Quiller away from the panel and saw why the harness had not protected him: The front of the shuttle was caved in toward the pilot. Another few centimeters and he would have been crushed. A harsh, crackling sound came clearly through the t
hin shell of her helmet. She slipped Quiller’s in place and turned the oxygen feed. She recognized the smell that still hung in her helmet: The tracer stench that tagged their landing fuel.
Angus Quiller straightened out of her grasp. He looked around dazedly. “Fred?” he shouted.
Outside, the improbable trees were beginning to flare. God only knew how long the forward hull would keep the fire in the nose tanks from breaking into the crew area.
Allison and Quiller pulled themselves forward . . . and saw what had happened to Fred Torres. The terrible sound that had begun this nightmare had been the left front of the vehicle coming down into the flight deck. The back of Fred’s acceleration couch was intact, but Allison could see that the man was beyond help. Quiller had been very lucky.
They looked through the rent that was almost directly over their heads. It was ragged and long, perhaps wide enough to escape through. Allison glanced across the cabin at the main hatch. It was subtly bowed in; they would never get out that way. Even through their pressure suits, they could now feel the heat. The sky beyond the rent was no longer blue. They were looking up a flue of smoke and flame that climbed the nearby pines.
Quiller made a stirrup with his hands and boosted the NMV specialist though the ragged tear in the hull. Allison’s head popped through. Under anything less than these circumstances she would have screamed at what she saw sitting in the flames: an immense dark octopus shape, its limbs afire, cracked and swaying. Allison wriggled her shoulders free of the hole and pulled herself up. Then she reached down for the pilot. At the same time, some part of her mind realized that what she had seen was not an octopus but the mass of roots of a rather large tree which somehow had fallen downward on the nose of the sortie craft. This was what had killed Fred Torres.
Quiller leaped up to grab her hand. For a moment his broader form stuck in the opening, but after a single coordinated push and tug he came through—leaving part of his equipment harness on the jagged metal of the broken hull.
They were at the bottom of a long crater, now filled with heat and reddish smoke. Without their oxygen, they would have had no chance. Even so, the fire was intense. The forward area was well involved, sending rivulets of fire toward the rear, where most of the landing fuel was tanked. She looked wildly around, absorbing what she saw without further surprise, simply trying to find a way out.
Quiller pointed at the right wing section. If they could run along it, a short jump would take them to the cascade of brush and small trees that had fallen into the crater. It wasn’t till much later that she wondered how all that brush had come to lie above the orbiter when it crashed.
Seconds later they were climbing hand-over-hand up the wall of brush and vines. The fire edged steadily through the soggy mass below them and sent flaming streamers ahead along the pine needles imbedded in the vines. At the top they turned for a moment and looked down. As they watched, the cargo bay broke in half and the sortie craft slumped into the strange emptiness below it. Thus died all Allison’s millions of dollars of optical and deep-probe equipment. Her hand tightened on the disk pack that still hung by her side.
The main tank blew, and simultaneously Allison’s right leg buckled beneath her. She dropped to the ground, Quiller a second behind her. “Damn stupidity,” she heard him say as debris showered down on them, “us standing here gawking at a bomb. Let’s move out.”
Allison tried to stand, saw the red oozing from the side of her leg. The pilot stooped and carried her through the damp brush, twenty or thirty meters upwind from the crater. He set her down and bent to look at the wound. He pulled a knife from his crash kit and sawed the tough suit fabric from around her wound.
“You’re lucky. Whatever it was passed right through the side of your leg. I’d call this a nick, except it goes so deep.” He sprayed the area with first-aid glue, and the pain subsided to a throbbing pressure that kept time with her pulse.
The heavy red smoke was drifting steadily away from them. The orbiter itself was hidden by the crater’s edge. The explosions were continuing irregularly but without great force. They should be safe here. He helped her out of her pressure suit, then struggled out of his own.
Quiller walked several paces back toward the wreck. He bent and picked up a strange, carven shape. “Looks like it got thrown here by the blast.” It was a Christian cross, its base still covered with dirt.
“We crashed in a damn cemetery.” Allison tried to laugh, but it made her dizzy. Quiller didn’t reply. He studied the cross for some seconds. Finally he set it down and came back to look at Allison’s leg. “That stopped the bleeding. I don’t see any other punctures. How do you feel?”
Allison glanced down at the red on her gray flight fatigues. Pretty colors, except when it’s your own red. “Give me some time to sit here. I bet I’ll be able to walk to the rescue choppers when they come.”
“Hmm. Okay, I’m going to take a look around. . . . There may be a road nearby.” He undipped the crash kit and set it beside her. “Be back in fifteen minutes.”
4
They started on Wili the next morning. It was the woman, Irma, who brought him down, fed him breakfast in the tiny alcove off the main dining room. She was a pleasant woman, but young enough to be strong, and she spoke very good Spanish. Wili did not trust her. But no one threatened him, and the food seemed endless; he ate so much that his eternal gnawing hunger was almost satisfied. All this time Irma talked—but without saying a great deal, as though she knew he was concentrating on his enormous breakfast. No other servants were visible. In fact, Wili was beginning to think the mansion was untenanted, that these three must be housekeeping staff holding the mansion for their absent lord. That jefe was very powerful or very stupid, because even in the light of day, Wili could see no evidence of defenses. If he could be gone before the jefe returned . . .
“—and do you know why you are here, Wili?” Irma said as she collected the plates from the mosaicked surface of the breakfast table.
Wili nodded, pretending shyness. Sure he knew. Everyone needed workers, and the old and middle-aged often needed whole gangs to keep them living in style. But he said, “To help you?”
“Not me, Wili. Paul. You will be his apprentice. He has looked a long time, and he has chosen you.”
That figured. The old gardener—or whatever he was—looked to be eighty if he was a day. Right now Wili was being treated royally. But he suspected that was simply because the old man and his two flunkies were making illegitimate use of their master’s house. No doubt there would be hell to pay when the jefe returned. “And . . . and what am I to do for My Lady?” Wili spoke with his best diffidence.
“Whatever Paul asks.”
She led him around to the back of the mansion where a large pool, almost a lake, spread away under the pines. The water looked clear, though here and there floated small clots of pine needles. Toward the center, out from under the trees, it reflected the brilliant blue of the sky. Downslope, through an opening in the trees, Wili could see thunderheads gathering about Vandenberg.
“Now off with your clothes and we’ll see about giving you a bath.” She moved to undo the buttons on his shirt, an adult helping a child.
Wili recoiled. “No!” To be naked here with the woman!
Irma laughed and pinned his arm, continued to unbutton the shirt. For an instant, Wili forgot his pose—that he was a child, and an obedient one. Of course this treatment would be unthinkable within the Ndelante. And even in Jonque territory, the body was respected. No woman forced baths and nakedness on males.
But Irma was strong. As she pulled the shirt over his head, he lunged for the knife strapped to his leg, and brought it up toward her face. Irma screamed. Even as she did, Wili was cursing himself.
“No, no! I am going to tell Paul.” She backed away, her hands held between them, as if to protect herself. Wili knew he could run away now (and he couldn’t imagine these three catching him)—or he could do what was necessary to stay. For now he wanted to
stay.
He dropped the knife and groveled. “Please, Lady, I acted without thought.” Which was true. “Please forgive me. I will do anything to make it up.” Even, even . . .
The woman stopped, came back, and picked up the knife. She obviously had no experience as a foreman, to trust anything he said. The whole situation was alien and unpredictable. Wili would almost have preferred the lash, the predictability. Irma shook her head, and when she spoke there was still a little fear in her voice. Wili was sure she now knew that he was a good deal older than he looked; she made no move to touch him. “Very well. This is between us, Wili. I will not tell Paul.” She smiled, and Wili had the feeling there was something she was not telling him. She reached her arm out full length and handed him the brush and soap. Wili stripped, waded into the chill water, and scrubbed.
“Dress in these,” she said after he was out and had dried himself. The new clothes were soft and clean, a minor piece of loot all by themselves. Irma was almost her old self as they walked back to the mansion, and Wili felt safe in asking the question that had been on his mind all that morning: “My Lady, I notice we are all alone here, the four of us—or at least so it appears. When will the protection of the manor lord be returned to us?”
Irma stopped and after a second, laughed. “What manor lord? Your Spanish is so strange. You seem to think this is a castle that should have serfs and troops all around.” She continued, almost to herself, “Though perhaps that is your reality. I have never lived in the South.
“You have already met the lord of the manor, Wili.” She saw his uncomprehending stare. “It’s Paul Naismith, the man who brought you here from Santa Ynez.”
