by Larry Niven
“Does anyone ever…”
“What? Quit? Cheat? Alse jumped into the sky, a little after I joined, but nobody really knows why. That’s the only way to quit. If you get caught cheating, I can name some would tear you apart. Sal’s one.”
Tight lips and clenched teeth held back Minya’s secret. Now Smitta did notice. “Don’t get caught cheating,” she repeated. “Maybe you don’t know how citizens feel about us. They tolerate us. We won’t give the tribe babies, so we do the most dangerous jobs anyone can think of, and pay the debt that way. But you don’t ask any ordinary man to, you know, help you be in both worlds.”
Minya nodded. Lips pressed together, teeth clenched: if only she had kept them that way when she was with Mik! Mik had been impossible to get rid of, eight years ago. How had he changed so much? Would he tell?
“Smitta—”
“Drop it, Sal’s coming.”
Minya looked. There were four figures down there, four women rising on jets of sprayed gas and seeds; and they carried no water. Sal shouted something the wind snatched away.
“They’re wasting jet pods,” Smitta observed.
They were closer now and in range to snag the bark. This time Minya heard Sal’s joyful bellow.
“Invaderrrsss!”
Chapter Seven
THE CHECKER’S HAND
The two triads moved inward, staying in cracks in the bark where they could. Every minute or so Denisse, a tall, dark woman of Thanya’s triad, would pop up, look around fast, and drop back into the bark.
“We counted six of them around the tribemark,” Thanya said. “Dark clothes. Maybe they’re from the Dark Tuft.”
“Intruders on the tree.” Sal’s voice was eager, joyful. “We’ve never fought invaders! There were some citizens thrown out for mutiny, long ago…some of them killed the Chairman, and the rest went with them. Maybe they settled in the Dark Tuft. Mutineers…Thanya, what kind of weapons were they carrying?”
“We couldn’t go ask them, could we? Denisse says she saw things like giant arrows. I couldn’t even tell their sexes, but one had no legs.”
They veered to avoid a crack clogged with old-man’s-hair. Smitta said, “Six of them, six of us, you may have missed a few…shall we send someone back for Jeel’s triad?”
Sal grinned wolfishly. “No.”
“And no,” said Thanya for her triad.
Minya said nothing—her triad leader spoke for her—but she felt a fierce joy. Right now there was nothing she needed more than a fight.
Denisse dropped back from her next survey. Her voice was deadly calm. “Intruders. We have intruders, three hundred meters in and a hundred to port, moving outward. At least six.”
“Let’s go slow,” Thanya said suddenly. “I’d like to question one. We don’t know what they want here.”
“Do we care? What they want isn’t theirs.”
Thanya grinned back. “We’re not a debating team. We’re the Triune Squad. Let’s go look.”
They worked their way along the bark. Presently Denisse poked her head up, dropped back. “Intruders have reached the Checker’s Hand.”
Clearing the trunk of parasites was one of the Triune Squad’s duties. Fan fungi were dangerous to the tree and edible besides; but one large and perfect fan had special privileges. Found twenty-odd years ago, it had been left to grow even larger. Minya had only heard of the squad’s unusual pet. She eased her head above the bark…
They were there: men, women, looking entirely human. “More than six. Eight, nine, dressed like dirty civilians. Sooty red clothes, no pockets…they’re chopping at the stalk. They’re killing it, the Checker’s Hand—”
Smitta screamed and launched herself across the bark.
No help for it now. Sal cried, “Go for Gold!” and the Triune Squad leapt toward the intruders.
The fan fungus reached out from the trunk like a tremendous hand, white with red nails. Its stalk, disproportionately narrow and fragile-looking from a distance, was still thicker than Gavving’s torso. He set to chopping at it with his dagger. Jiovan worked the other side.
“We’ll get it down the trunk,” Jiovan puffed, “but how will we ever get it through the tuft to the Commons?”
“Maybe we don’t,” said Clave. “Bring the tribe to the fungus. Let them carve off pieces to suit themselves.”
“Tear the fringe off first,” Merril said.
The Grad objected. “The Scientist will want some of the red part.”
“And try it on who? Oh, all right, save some fringe for the Scientist. Not a lot, though.”
The stalk was tough. They’d made some progress, but Gavving’s arms were used up. He backed away, and Clave took over. Gavving watched the cut deepen.
Maybe they’d weakened it enough?
He pounded a stake into the bark and tethered his line to it. Then he leapt at the fungus with the full strength of his legs.
The great hand bent to his weight, then sprang back, flipping him playfully into the sky. Floundering, gathering in his line, he saw what the others had missed through being too close to the trunk.
“Fire!”
“What? Where?”
“Outward, half a klomter, maybe. Doesn’t look big.” The sun was behind the out tuft, leaving the trunk somewhat shadowed; he could see an orange glow within a cloud of smoke.
A flicker at the corner of his eye. He pulled hard at the line before his forebrain had registered anything at all…and a miniature harpoon zipped past his hip.
He yelled, “Treefodder!” Not specific enough. “Harpoons!”
Jiovan was stumbling, indecisive; a sharp point showed behind his shoulder blade. Clave was slapping shoulders and buttocks to send his citizens to cover. Something sailed past at a distance: a woman, a burly red-haired woman garbed in purple, with pockets clustered from breasts to hips, giving her a look of lumpy pregnancy. She flew loose through the sky while she pulled something apart with both hands. Something that glittered, a line of light.
Their eyes met, and Gavving knew it was a weapon even before she let it snap shut. He clutched the bark and rolled. Something came as a tiny blur, thudded into the bark alongside his spine: a mini-harpoon with gray and yellow flasher feathers at the butt end. He rolled again to put the fan fungus between them.
Clave was nowhere in sight. Purple-clad enemies sailed along the wall of bark, yelling gibberish and throwing death. The red-haired woman had a harpoon through her leg. She tore it loose, cast it away, and sought a target. She picked the easiest: Jiovan, who wasn’t even trying to seek cover. He took a second mini-harpoon through his chest.
They were using jet pods. A lean purple-clad man spotted Gavving; he pulled his weapon apart and a string snapped. He screamed in rage and opened a jet pod to hurl him down at Gavving. His other hand waved a meter’s-length of knife.
Gavving leapt out of his way, drew his knife, yanked at the line to pull himself back. The man smacked into the bark. Gavving was on his back before he could recover. He slashed at the man’s throat. Inhumanly strong fingers sank into his arm like a swordbird’s teeth. Gavving shifted his own grip and jabbed his knife into the man’s side. Hurry! The grip relaxed.
The tree shuddered.
Gavving didn’t notice at once. He was shuddering with reaction. He saw the great wall of bark shuddering too, decided it was the least of his problems, and looked for enemies.
The red-haired woman was coasting treeward not far out, ignoring the blood spreading across her pants; her eye was on the shuddering tree. Out of range? Gavving tried a harpoon cast and instantly dived behind the great fan.
Not necessary. He’d skewered her. She stared at him, horrified, and died.
Purple-clad enemies screamed to each other, voices drowned by a rising background roar. Jiovan was dead with two feathered shafts in him. Jinny held a smaller fan fungus in front of her, harpoon in her other hand. The Grad rolled out of a crevice in the bark, saw what Jinny was doing, and imitated her. A mini-harpoon th
udded into Jinny’s shield, and she bared her teeth and launched herself in that direction, followed by Jayan and the Grad.
Gavving reeled in his harpoon. The dead woman came with it, her arms and legs jerking. A wave of nausea clawed at his throat. He worked his harpoon loose, and was minded to examine the peculiar gleaming weapon still clutched in the woman’s hand. He wasn’t given time.
The tree shuddered again. The bass background roar continued, a sound like worlds ripping apart. Bark slid past Gavving; the red-haired corpse tumbled, falling. He was scrambling for a foothold when someone came at him from the side.
Dark hair, lovely pale heart-shaped face—purple clothing. Gavving thrust a harpoon at her eyes.
“The fire!” Thanya screamed. “It’ll block us from the tuft! We’ve got to get past it!” She blew jet pods and was skimming outward across the bark.
Minya heard, but she didn’t pause. Smitta was dead, and Sal was dead, and a single invader boy had killed them both. Minya stalked him.
The boy wore scarlet clothing, citizens’ garb; his blond hair curled tightly as a skullcap; his beard was barely visible. His face was set in a rictus of fear or killing-rage. He thrust at her, threw himself back from her sword’s counterthrust, lost his toe-grip on the bark. For an instant Minya was minded to go after him. Pierce him, kill him for the honor of Sal’s triad, then go!
There wasn’t time. Thanya was right. The fire could block them all, maroon them away from Dalton-Quinn Tuft…and there was Sal’s bow to be recovered. Minya whirled and leapt away, and fired a jet pod for extra speed.
Sal’s corpse floated free, her dead hand clutching the tribal treasure. Behind Minya the blond youth gripped bark to set himself and hurled his hand-arrow. Minya kicked to alter her course and watched the weapon whisper past her. She turned back as a shape popped up directly in front of her.
The shape was wrong, not human. It froze her for an instant. Minya hadn’t quite grasped what was happening when a fist exploded in her face.
Gavving had ignored the yells from the purple-clad women. Now two were fleeing, firing jet pods to carry them outward along the trunk. Another leapt in a zigzag pattern along the bark. But the dark-haired woman who had tried to kill him was now moving crosswise, back to where Gavving had left…left a burly red-haired corpse clutching a curve of silver metal.
Merril popped out of a crack just in front of her. Merril’s fist smacked into the stranger’s jaw with a sound Gavving heard even above the—
—bass ripping sound he’d been ignoring while he fought for his life: a sound like the sky tearing apart. Now he heard the Grad shrilling like a cricket, a sound of panic, the words drowned in the roar.
But Gavving didn’t need to hear. He knew.
“Clave! Claaave!”
Clave popped out of a deep crack and shouted, “Ready. What do you need?”
“We have to jump!” the Grad screamed. “All of us!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The tree’s coming apart! That’s how they survive!”
“What?”
“Get everyone to jump clear!”
Clave looked around. Jiovan was dead, floating tethered, but dead. The Grad was already loose in the sky, with line coiled! Gavving…Gavving moved across the shuddering bark, ripped something loose from a purple-clad corpse, continued in along the trunk. Jayan and Jinny weren’t visible. Alfin snarled as he watched his enemies disappear into the outward smoke cloud. Glory and Merril watched too, not believing it.
Make a decision. Now. You don’t know enough, but you’ve got to decide. It has to be you, it’s always you.
Gavving. Gavving and the Grad were old friends. Did Gavving know something? He’d captured an invader weapon, and now he was far in along the trunk…headed for the meat they’d left when they went after the mushroom. Of course, they’d need food if they were to cast loose from the tree.
The Grad’s mind could have snapped. But Gavving trusted him…and everything was happening at once: fire blazing on the tree, the trunk shuddering and moaning, strangers killing and then fleeing…There were jet pods in Clave’s pack. He could get his citizens back once things settled down. He bellowed, “Grad! Lines to the tree?”
“Nooo! Treefodder, no!”
“All right.” He bellowed above the end-of-the-world roar. “Jayan! Jinny! Glory, Alfin, Merril! Everybody jump! Jump away from the tree! Do not moor yourselves!”
Reactions were various. Merril stared at him, thought it over, pushed herself free. Glory only stared. Jayan and Jinny emerged from hiding like a pair of birds taking wing. Alfin clutched the bark in a deathgrip. Gavving? Gavving was working to free one thick leg of nose-arm meat.
The bark still shuddered, the sound filled tree and sky, the purple-clad killers were nowhere to be seen, and…nobody had gone after the fan fungus. Clave hurled himself at the stalk.
The fan bent under his weight, then tore loose and was turning end for end. Clave’s fingers were sunk into white fungus. The tumbling thing seemed to be picking up speed. Faster, the bark raced beneath the tumbling fan fungus, faster…a fiery wind rushed past him and was gone before he could draw breath.
It wasn’t possible. Bewildered, Clave saw tufts of flame receding in both directions. No tree. Citizens floundered in the sky. Even Alfin had jumped at last. But the tree, where was the tree? There wasn’t any tree. Fistfuls of fungus turned to mush in Clave’s closing fists, and he screamed and wrapped his arms around the stalk. They were lost in the sky.
Chapter Eight
QUINN TRIBE
Wood snapped explosively, spattering Gavving with splinters as he leapt across the bucking, tearing bark. A million insects poured from a sudden black gap that must have reached a klomter into the heartwood. Gavving cried out and waved his arms through the buzzing cloud, trying to clear enough air to breathe.
The tree was everything that was, and the tree was ending. If he’d stopped to think, his fear would have frozen him fast. He held to the one thought: Get the meat and get out!
The nose-arm legs tumbled loose within a cloud of burning coals. One haunch was in reach. Gavving caught a line to pull it free of the coals, then jumped to catch it against his shoulder. Hot grease burned his neck. He yelled and thrust himself away.
Now what? He couldn’t think in this end-of-the-world roar. He doffed his backpack, tied it against the nose-arm leg, braced against the pack, and pushed himself into the sky.
Clouds of insects and pulverized wood half hid the shuddering, thundering tree. Dagger-sized splinters flew past.
Gavving braced one of his jet pods against the pack and twisted the tip. Seeds and cold gas blasted past him. The pod ripped itself free of his hands, spat seeds into the flesh of his face, and was gone.
His hands shook. Beads of blood were pooling on his cheek and his neck. He dug out his remaining jet pod and tried again, his tongue between his teeth. This time the pod held steady until it had gone quiet.
The world came apart.
He watched it all while his terror changed to awe. Fiery wind swept past him and left him in the open sky. Two fireballs receded in and out, until the home tree had become two bits of fluff linked by an infinite line of smoke.
Awesome! Nobody could hope to live through a bigger disaster. All of Quinn Tribe must be dead…the idea was really too big to grasp… all but Clave’s citizens, and they’d lost Jiovan too, and who was left? He looked about him.
Nobody?
A cluster of specks, far out.
He’d used both his jet pods, and now he was lost in the sky. At least he wouldn’t starve…
Thrashing his arms didn’t stop the Grad’s spin. He wasn’t willing to use his jet pods for only that. He settled for spreading his arms and legs like a limpet star, which slowed him enough to search for survivors.
The left side of his face was wet. His fingertips traced a bloody gash that ran from temple to chin. It didn’t hurt. Shock? But he had worse to worry him.
&nbs
p; Three human shapes tumbled slowly nearby: purple marked with scarlet. His stomach lurched. It was their own doing; he hadn’t come here to kill.
The giant fan fungus floated free, turning, turning to reveal Clave clutching the stalk. Good. Clave still wore his backpack: very good. That was their store of fresh jet pods. Then why wasn’t Clave doing something about rescue?
Feet outward, Jayan and Jinny rotated slowly around their two pairs of clasped hands. It looked almost like a dance. Spreading out like that greatly reduced their spin. Good thinking, and no sign of panic.
Merril was a fair distance in. Her arms hadn’t pushed her far, and the tree’s wind-wake had caught her.
The world’s-end roar had dwindled, allowing lesser sounds. The Grad heard a thin wail. Alfin had leapt free after all. He was thrashing and spinning and crying, but he was safe.
The Grad couldn’t find Gavving, nor Glory, nor Jiovan. Jiovan’s corpse must have gone with the tree, but where were the others? And why wasn’t Clave doing something? He and the fan were drifting away.
The Grad sighed. He shrugged out of his backpack and searched out his jet pods. Old jet pods, from Quinn Tuft stores. Were they still active?
He’d never fired a jet pod. He knew nobody who had. Hunters carried them in case they fell into the sky; but no hunter lost in the sky had ever returned in the Grad’s lifetime. He did it carefully: he donned his pack again, then clutched a jet pod in both hands over his navel. When Clave was approximately behind him, he twisted the tip, smartly.
The pod drove into his belly. He grunted. He maneuvered the point, hoping to kill his spin. The push died; he released the pod, and it jumped away on the last of its stored gas.
Looking over his shoulder, he found the fan fungus drifting toward him. Clave still wasn’t doing anything constructive, and he hadn’t noticed the Grad.
The smoke of the disaster split the sky from end to end. Dense, flickering black clouds were pulling free of the paler smoke. The same insects that had eaten the tree apart were now casting loose to find other prey.
