A Fire Upon the Deep

by Vernor Vinge

  The cold and wet blew into the room along with her visitor. Johanna retreated to the other side of the fire while Scriber took off his rain slickers. The pack members shook themselves the way dogs do, a noisy, amusing sight — and you didn’t want to be near when it happened.

  Note 547

  Finally Scriber sauntered over to the fire pit. Under the slickers he wore jackets with the usual stirrups and the open spaces behind the shoulders and at the haunches. But Scriber’s appeared to be padded above the shoulders to make his members look heavier than they really were. One of him sniffed at her plate, while the other heads looked this way and that … but never directly at her.

  Johanna looked down at the pack. She still had trouble talking to more than one face; usually she picked on whichever was looking back at her. “Well? What did you come to talk about?”

  Note 548

  One of the heads finally looked at her. It licked its lips. “Okay. Yes. I thought to see how do you do? I mean …”gobble. Her servant answered from upstairs, probably reporting what kind of mood she was in. Scriber straightened up. Four of his six heads looked at Johanna. His other two members paced back and forth, as if contemplating something important. “Look here. You are the only human I know, but I have always been a big student of character. I know you are not happy here—”

  Pompous Clown was also master of the obvious.

  “— and I understand. But we do the best to help you. We are not the bad people who killed your parents and brother.”

  Note 549

  Johanna put a hand on the low ceiling and leaned forward. You’re all thugs; you just happen to have the same enemies I do.“I know that, and I am cooperating. You’d still be playing the dataset’s kindermode if it weren’t for me. I’ve shown you the reading courses; if you guys have any brains, you’ll have gunpowder by summer.” The Oliphaunt was an heirloom toy, a huggable favorite thing she should have outgrown years ago. But there was history in it — stories of the queens and princesses of the Dark Ages, and how they had struggled to triumph over the jungles, to rebuild the cities and then the spaceships. Half-hidden on obscure reference paths there were also hard numbers, the history of technology. Gunpowder was one of the easiest things. When the weather cleared up, there would be some prospecting expeditions; Woodcarver had known about sulfur, but didn’t have quantities in town. Making cannon would be harder. But then…. “Then your enemies will be killed. Your people are getting what they want from me. So what’s your complaint?”

  Note 550

  “Complaint?” Pompous Clown’s heads bobbed up and down in alternation. Such distributed gestures seemed to be the equivalent of facial expressions, though Johanna hadn’t figured many of them out. This one might mean embarrassment. “I have no complaint. You are helping us, I know. But, but …” Three of his members were pacing around now. “It’s just that I see more than most people, perhaps a little like Woodcarver did in oldendays. I am a — I’ve seen your word for it — a ‘dilettante’. You know, a person who studies all things and who is talented at everything. I am only thirty years old, but I have read almost every book in the world, and—” the heads bowed, perhaps in shyness? “— I’m even planning to write one, perhaps the true story of your adventure.”

  Johanna found herself smiling. Most often she saw the Tines as barbarian strangers, inhuman in spirit as well as form. But if she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that Scriber was a fellow Straumer. Mom had a few friends just as brainless and innocently self-convinced as this one, men and women with a hundred grandiose projects that would never ever amount to anything. Back on Straum, they had been boring perils that she avoided. Now … well, Scriber’s foolishness was almost like being back home again.

  Note 551

  “You’re here to study me for your book?”

  Note 552

  More alternating nods. “Well, yes. And also, I wanted to talk to you about my other plans. I’ve always been something of an inventor, you see. I know that doesn’t mean much now. It seems that everything that can be invented is already in Dataset. I’ve seen many of my best ideas there.” He sighed, or made the sound of a sigh. Now he was imitating one of the pop science voices in the dataset. Sound was the easiest thing for the Tines; it could be darn confusing.

  “In any case, I was just wondering how to improve some of those ideas—” four of Scriber’s members bellied down on the bench by the fire pit; it looked like he was settling in for a long conversation. His other two walked around the pit to give her a stack of paper threaded with brass hoops. While one on the other side of the fire continued to talk, the two carefully turned the pages and pointed at where she should look.

  Note 553

  Well, he did have plenty of ideas: Tethered birds to hoist flying boats, giant lenses that would concentrate the sun’s light on enemies and set them afire. From some of the pictures, it appeared he thought the atmosphere extended beyond the moon. Scriber explained each idea in numbing detail, pointing at the drawings and patting her hands enthusiastically. “So you see the possibilities? My unique slant combined with the proven inventions in Dataset. Who knows where it could lead?”

  Johanna giggled, overcome by the vision of Scriber’s giant birds hauling kilometer-wide lenses to the moon. He seemed to take the sound for approval.

  “Yes! It’s brilliant, okay? My latest idea, I never would have thought it except for Dataset. This ‘radio’, it projects sound very far and fast, okay? Why not combine it with the power of our Tinish thoughts? A pack could think as one even spread across hundreds of, um, kilometers.”

  Note 554

  Now that almost made sense! But if gunpowder took months to make — even given the exact formula — how many decades would it be before the packs had radio? Scriber was an immense fountain of half-baked ideas. She let his words wash over her for more than an hour. It was insanity, but less alien than most of what she had endured this last year.

  Finally he seemed to run down; there were longer pauses and he asked her opinion more often. Finally he said, “Well, that was certainly fun, okay?”

  “Unh, yes, fascinating.”

  “I knew you would like it. You’re just like my people, I really think. You’re not all angry, not all the time….”

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Johanna pushed a soft muzzle away and stood. The dogthing rocked back on its haunches to look up at her.

  “I, well … you have much to hate, I know. But you seem so angry at us all the time, and we’re the ones who are trying to help you! After the day work you stay here, you don’t want to talk with people — though now I see that was our fault. You wanted us to come here but were too proud to say it. I have these insights into character, you see. My friend, the one you call Scarbutt: he is truly a nice fellow. I know I can tell you that honestly, and that as my new friend you will believe. He would very much like to come to visit you, too…. urk.”

  Johanna walked slowly around the fire pit, forcing the two members to back away from her. All of Scriber was looking up at her now, the necks arching around one another, the eyes wide.

  Note 555

  “I’m not like you. I don’t need your talk, or your stupid ideas.” She threw Scriber’s notebook into the pit. Scriber leaped to the fire’s edge, desperately reached for the burning notes. He pulled most of them back and clutched them to his chests.

  Johanna kept walking toward him, kicking at his legs. Scriber retreated, backing and sprawling. “Stupid, dirty, butchers. I’m not like you.” She slapped her hand on a ceiling beam. “Humans don’t like to live like animals. We don’t adopt killers. You tell Scarbutt, you tell him. If he ever comes by for a friendly chat, I-I’ll smash in his head; I’ll smash in all of them!”

  Note 556

  Scriber was backed into the wall now. His heads turned wildly this way and that. He was making plenty of noise. Some of it was Samnorsk, but too high-pitched to understand. One of his mouths found the door pole. He pushed open the door, an
d all six members raced into the twilight, their rain slickers forgotten.

  Note 557

  Johanna knelt and stuck her head through the doorway. The air was a wind-driven mist. In an instant, her face was so cold and wet that she couldn’t feel the tears. Scriber was six shadows in the darkening grayness, shadows that raced down the hillside, sometimes tumbling in their haste. In a second he was gone. There was nothing but the vague forms of nearby cabins, and the yellow light that spilled out around her from the fire.

  Note 558

  Strange. Right after the ambush, she had felt terror. The Tines had been unstoppable killers. Then, on the boat, when she smashed Scarbutt … it had been so wonderful: the whole pack collapsed, and suddenly she knew that she could fight back, that she could break their bones. She didn’t have to be at their mercy…. Tonight she had learned something more. Even without touching them, she could hurt them. Some of them, anyway. Her dislike alone had undone Pompous Clown.

  Johanna backed into the smoky warmth and shut the door. She should feel triumph.

  Chapter 18

  Note 559

  Scriber Jaqueramaphan didn’t tell anyone about his meeting with the Two-Legs. Of course, Vendacious’s guard had overheard everything. The fellow might not speak much Samnorsk, but he had surely gotten the drift of the argument. People would hear about it eventually.

  He moped around the castle for a few days, spent a number of hours hunched over the remains of his notebook, trying to recreate the diagrams. It would be a a while before he attended any more sessions with Dataset, especially when Johanna was around. Scriber knew he seemed brash to the outside world, but in fact it had taken a lot of courage to walk in on Johanna like that. He knew his ideas had genius, but all his life unimaginative people had been telling him otherwise.

  Note 560

  In most ways Scriber was a very fortunate person. He had been born a fission pack in Rangathir, at the eastern edge of the Republic. His parent had been a wealthy merchant. Jaqueramaphan had some of his parent’s traits, but the dull patience necessary for day- to-day business work had been lost to him. His sibling pack more than retained that faculty; the family business grew, and — in the first years — his sib didn’t begrudge Scriber his share of the wealth. From his earliest days, Scriber had been an intellectual. He read everything: natural history, biography, brood kenning. In the end he had the largest library in Rangathir, more than two hundred books.

  Even then Scriber had tremendous ideas, insights which — if properly executed — would have made them the wealthiest merchants in all the eastern provinces. Alas, bad luck and his sib’s lack of imagination had doomed his early ideas. In the end, his sib bought out the business, and Jaqueramaphan moved to the Capital. It was all for the best. By this time Scriber had fleshed himself out to six members; he needed to see more of the world. Besides … there were five thousand books in the library there, the experience of all history and all the world! His own notebooks became a library in themselves. Yet still the packs at the university had no time for him. His outline for a summation of natural history was rejected by all the stationers, though he paid to have small parts of it published. It was clear that success in the world of action was necessary before his ideas could get the attention they deserved, hence his spy mission; Parliament itself would thank him when he returned with the secrets of Flenser’s Hidden Island.

  That was almost a year ago. What had happened since — with the flying house and Johanna and Dataset — went beyond his wildest dreams (and Scriber granted that those dreams were already pretty extreme). The library in Dataset contained millions of books. With Johanna to help him polish his ideas, they would sweep Flenserism from the face of the world. They would regain her flying house. Not even the sky would be a limit.

  Note 561

  So to have her throw it all back at him … it made him wonder about himself. Maybe she was just mad at him for trying to explain Peregrine. She would like Peregrine if she let herself; he was sure of it. But then again … maybe his ideas just weren’t that good, at least by comparison with humans’.

  * * *

  That thought left him pretty low. But he finished redrawing the diagrams, and even got some new ideas. Maybe he should get some more silkpaper.

  Peregrine stopped by and persuaded him to go into town.

  Note 562

  Jaqueramaphan had made up a dozen explanations why he wasn’t participating in the sessions with Johanna anymore. He tried out two or three as he and Peregrine descended Castle Street toward the harbor.

  After a minute or two, his friend turned a head back. “It’s okay, Scriber. When you feel like it, we’d like to have you back.”

  Scriber had always been a very good judge of attitude; in particular, he could tell when he was being patronized. He must have scowled a little, because Peregrine went on. “I mean it. Even Woodcarver has been asking about you. She likes your ideas.”

  Comforting lies or not, Scriber brightened. “Really?” The Woodcarver of today was a sad case, but the Woodcarver of the history books was one of Jaqueramaphan’s great heroes. “No one’s mad at me?”

  “Well, Vendacious is a bit peeved. Being responsible for the Two-Legs’ safety makes him very nervous. But you only tried something we’ve all wanted to do.”

  Note 563

  “Yeah.” Even if there had been no Dataset, even if Johanna Olsndot had not come from the stars, she would still be the most fascinating creature in the world: a pack-equivalent mind in a single body. You could walk right up to her, you could touch her, without the least confusion. It was frightening at first, but all of them quickly felt the attraction. For packs, closeness had always meant mindlessness — whether for sex or battle. Imagine being able to sit by the fire with a friend and carry on an intelligent conversation! Woodcarver had a theory that the Two-Legs’ civilization might be innately more effective than any Packish one, that collaboration was so easy for humans that they learned and built much faster than packs could. The only problem with that theory was Johanna Olsndot. If Johanna was a normal human, it is was a surprise that the race could cooperate on anything. Sometimes she was friendly — usually in the sessions with Woodcarver. She seemed to realize that Woodcarver was frail and failing. More often she was patronizing, sarcastic, and seemed to think the best they could do for her insulting…. And sometimes she was like last night. “How goes it with Dataset?” he asked after a moment.

  Note 564

  Peregrine shrugged. “About like before. Both Woodcarver and I can read Samnorsk pretty well now. Johanna has taught us — me via Woodcarver, I should say — how to use most of Dataset’s powers. There’s so much there that will change the world. But for now we have to concentrate on making gunpowder and cannons. It’s that, the actual doing, that’s going slow.”

  Scriber nodded knowingly. That had been the central problem in his life too.

  “Anyway, if we can do all that by midsummer, maybe we can face Flenser’s army and recapture the flying house before next winter.” Peregrine made a grin that stretched from face to face. “And then, my friend, Johanna can call her people for rescue … and we’ll have all our lives to study the outsiders. I may pilgrimage to worlds around other stars.”

  It was an idea they had talked of before. Peregrine had thought of it even before Scriber.

  Note 565

  They turned off Castle Street onto Edgerow. Scriber was feeling more enthusiastic about visiting the stationer’s; there must be some way he could help. He looked around with an interest that had been lacking the last few days. Woodcarvers was a fair-sized city, almost as big as Rangathir — maybe twnety thousand packs lived within its walls and in the homes immediately around. This day was a bit colder than the last few, but it wasn’t raining. A cold, clean wind swept the market street, carrying faint smells of mildew and sewage, of spices and fresh-sawn wood. Dark clouds hung low, misting the hills around the harbor. Spring was definitely in the air. Scriber kicked playfully at the slus
h along the curb.

  Note 566

  Peregrine led them to a side street. The place was jammed, strangers getting as close as seven or eight yards. The stalls at the stationer’s were even worse. The felt dividers weren’t that thick, and there seemed to be more interest in literature at Woodcarvers than any place Scriber had ever been. He could hardly hear himself think as he haggled with the stationer. The merchant sat on a raised platform with thick padding; he wasn’t much bothered by the racket. Scriber kept his heads close together, concentrating on the prices and the product. From his past life, he was pretty good at this sort of thing.

  Eventually he got his paper, and at a decent price.

  Note 567

  “Let’s go back on Packweal,” he said. That was the long way, through the center of the market. When he was in a good mood, Scriber rather liked crowds; he was a great student of people. Woodcarvers was not as cosmopolitan as some cities by the Long Lakes, but there were traders from all over. He saw several packs wearing the bonnets of a tropic collective. At one intersection a redjackets from East Home was chatting cozily with a labormaster.

  Note 568

  When packs came this close, and in these numbers, the world seemed to teeter on the edge of a choir. Each person hung near to himself, trying to keep his own thoughts intact. It was hard to walk without stumbling over your own feet. And sometimes the background thought sounds would surge, a moment where several packs would somehow synchronize. Your consciousness wavered and for an instant you were one with many, a superpack that might be a god. Jaqueramaphan shivered. That was the essential attraction of the Tropics. The crowds there were mobs, vast group minds as stupid as they were ecstatic. If the stories were true, some of the southern cities were nonstop orgies.

  Note 569

  They had roamed the marketplace almost an hour when it hit him. Scriber shook his heads abruptly. He turned and walked in lockstep off Packweal, and up a side street. Peregrine followed, “Is the crowd too much?” he asked.