Great Sky River

by Gregory Benford

  “Ummm,” Jocelyn said doubtfully, fingering a stray tuft of glossy hair, coiling it around her thumb. “Right, we used get couple days clear ride. But now?”

  Ledroff said, “Our strike was good. The best.”

  Killeen thought it was pretty routine, but he said nothing. Let the new Cap’n crow.

  Cermo-the-Slow blinked owlishly. “Could use the break.”

  Killeen asked, “What’s on?”

  Ledroff made a little dramatic pause out of putting his helmet on a nearby lever. He was sitting on top of the blocky, alum-edged pyramid-machine, and control levers sprouted around him. “We’re discussing holing up here,” he said down to them.

  Killeen snorted. “We got a step or two still in us.”

  “I think we’re still tired,” Ledroff said reasonably. “In the past, no higher mechs showed up ’n’ checked a deadheaded factory for three, four day. I say we use that, rest up.”

  Jocelyn said, “Mantis might’ve called some Marauders, try trackin’ us.”

  Ledroff nodded, his bushy beard like a frothy explosion beneath the severity of his stiffhaired ridge. Killeen noticed that the scalping around Ledroff’s backchopped hair was fresh. The slick, walnut skin stretched tight and shiny. He was paying more attention to his appearance now. “Yeasay—in the open. Here they not look.”

  “Whosay?” Killeen demanded as he climbed up a tier on the big silent machine. From there he got a view of the whole ’plex. Navvys still went about their mutedumb rounds. A perpetual machine hum bathed the area. Among the steady, efficient trajectories of the mechs, Family moved on their own paths, taking whatever they could find.

  Ledroff eyed him. “Isay. Is custom! Family hangs out after a raid.”

  Cermo-the-Slow nodded, his big eyes amiable and warm. “We need time, do some ’sploring. Might find more servos, even maybe stimjacks.”

  Jocelyn laughed. “Cermo, no stimjacks in a fact’ry.”

  Cermo shrugged. “Could be. Dunno till you look.”

  Something in the middle distance caught Killeen’s eye and at first he did not understand.

  Ledroff smiled. “Yeasay you, then? Isay we bed down in the big fac’try, post—”

  “Wait. See that?” Killeen pointed.

  Jocelyn squinted. “Navvy. So?”

  “Ever see one like it?”

  Cermo said slowly, “Maybe once. Can’t be sure.”

  Jocelyn said, “I ’member one somewhere….”

  “Earlier today. And I think it was near where the Mantis hit us, too,” Killeen said.

  Ledroff eyed the navvy as it approached on crawler treads. It had crosshatched side panels and, though it veered aside to a factory entrance, its fore-eyes peered at the brassglass pyramid until it vanished. “So?” he said.

  “I think it’s a scout,” Killeen said.

  Ledroff squinted down from his perch. “Could be different navvy each place.”

  Jocelyn said flatly, “Could be not, too.”

  “New kind navvy,” Cermo said. “Maybe there’re lots.”

  “Scout for what?” Ledroff asked.

  Killeen said, “Marauders.”

  “Marauders not use scouts, I know of,” Cermo said.

  “So what?” Jocelyn asked sarcastically. “Just ’cause you dunno, don’ mean isn’t.”

  Cermo bristled. “Fanny knew.”

  “Yousay. We got no Fanny Aspect to ask,” Jocelyn said sourly.

  “Gotta go by ’perience!” Cermo spat back.

  “Gotta use heads!” Jocelyn said.

  Ledroff said, “I believe we have to use both.”

  Killeen frowned and said, “Listen to Jocelyn, Isay.”

  Jocelyn acknowledged this with a curt nod, its energy revealing a contained tension. She had learned Fanny’s ways, too, but had not missed the old woman’s central and hardwon lesson: Anticipate. Savvy the mechthink before it savvys you.

  Killeen saw in her slow-smoldering eyes a resentment of Ledroff. Surprised, he saw that Jocelyn had wanted to be Cap’n. He had been too meshed in himself to see that.

  “Navvys could be backpackers for a Marauder,” Jocelyn insisted. She had started finger-curling her hair again. Then she smoothed it back carefully, getting the curls set in the right overlapping waves behind her ears.

  Cermo shrugged. “That navvy wasn’t carryin’ anything.”

  “Not now, no. Could’ve dumped it,” Jocelyn said.

  “For what?” Ledroff asked.

  “See what we’re doing,” Killeen said.

  “Fanny naysay anything about such,” Ledroff said. Then, hearing how lame the words sounded, he added, “Marauders too fast for navvy. They’d clean leave ’em ’way behind.”

  “Mantis might be slow,” Killeen said. “We never saw it move much.”

  Ledroff frowned. Killeen had seen Ledroff on long marches and in battle and knew him to be a cautious, savvy man. Now suddenly Cap’n, Ledroff was trying to balance the views of the others and find a communal consensus. Maybe that was the right thing to do. But Killeen felt in Jocelyn and even Cermo a slowbuilding irritation. Ledroff would have to defuse that fast. A Family should not march or rest while it brewed an anger.

  Ledroff was now beset by the inevitable legacy of any Cap’n: the whines of the Family, swirling about him as a natural vortex. They were a small, steady drain. The pressure of this rain of complaint was always to rest, to allow the older and less hardy a respite. And any Cap’n, seeing the incremental damage that the Family’s constant forced marching exacted, was prone to listen to these well-meaning and in fact almost pitiful voices. It was a kindness to let the Family knit up its soreness and strains. But it was often not smart.

  Ledroff said slowly, “I was hoping you’d all be of one mind.”

  “Jocelyn and me, we saw that navvy with the Mantis. We’re sure,” Killeen said sharply, half to let out steam and half to signal to Ledroff that he, as Cap’n, had to do something.

  “Your memory’s alky-fogged,” Ledroff said cuttingly.

  “That’s past.” Killeen felt himself redden.

  Cermo teased, “Killeen, you should be on our side. We stay here, you slurp some more tonight.”

  “I don’t have your honeyroll fat, sop up the alky with, is all,” Killeen said sarcastically. Cermo carried a slight roll at his belt, visible through the silver tightweave. No matter how hard times were for the Family, Cermo’s meager bulge stayed, and was in fact a source of some pride for him.

  “Marchin’, this honeyroll’ll leave you eatin’ dust,” Cermo said with a harsh edge.

  “Not so long’s you run like your boots are tied together,” Killeen retorted.

  “You boys mooded for rankin’?” Ledroff said evenly.

  This was a signal that only the Cap’n could give and that no Family ignored. Killeen realized that this was what he had half-wanted. They needed to free the vexings that had mounted since Fanny’s loss.

  “Heysay,” Killeen began the ranking. “Smells like you converting that honeyroll to gas.”

  Cermo responded, “Then ’least I got some art in my fart.”

  “Gas bomb the Marauders, then, let me stay with the old folks,” Killeen said.

  Ledroff came in with, “Only thing you blow up is your belly,” directed at Cermo.

  “Blow up your mother real good, you watch,” Cermo answered.

  “She couldn’t find it, dribblin’ down under that belly,” Ledroff spat out, picking up the rhythm.

  “It telescopes out, fella. Way out,” Cermo said. “Next time I’m gonna show it off, you stick ’round, hear the joints pop.”

  Jocelyn smiled at this and came in. “I think I can see through that telescope, easy.”

  “You can look for free!” Cermo cried with glee. He remembered to cover his mouth, but even such basic politenesses weren’t required in the ranking.

  “You mean microscope, it’s so small!”

  They went through more rounds, each throwing in a quick dash of cuttin
g humor. The Cap’n could always order a round of ranking to defuse the tensions that perpetually came up and, if carried, would fester. The quick-shot talk could abuse or amuse—ideally, both. As the jibes laced across the group, each person performed and the others responded with answering barbs or releasing hoots of applause.

  “Can’t tell Cermo’s fart from his talk.”

  “You mean he can talk?”

  “His ass knows more words than his mouth does.”

  “Pronounces better, too.”

  “Don’t drool as much either.”

  “It’s your mother can’t talk, when I’m telescopin’ her.”

  “Heysay, ’least I’m kind. I give your mother somethin’ nice and fresh to eat.”

  “Soundin’, you are!”

  “Your wife, she like a doorknob, ever’body gets a turn.”

  “Damnsight right!”

  “Your father never try. He so ugly, he crawl up to your mother, she think it’s a navvy.”

  “Yours, he got so many wrinkles in his head, he has to screw his helmet on.”

  “Well, ’least he can screw that.”

  “Sad man, screw his helmet.”

  “You rankin’ right!”

  “Your dad, he so ugly, when he cries tears run down his back.”

  “Oooooo!”

  “Heysay! Heysay!”

  If the rounding did not channel the aggression of a particular pair, the group would force the two to confront each other. By using passing-phrases, or encouraging calls, they could finesse competition onto the pair. This time the anger Killeen felt for Ledroff—suppressed and slowbuilding for days—came out in a few moments of flashing jibes, ending with Killeen’s holding his hands up, palms forward, and shaking his head wisely.

  “Let’s get off the subject of mothers, Ledroff… ’cause I just got off yours.”

  “Oooo-ee!”

  “Rankin’!”

  “Drive that nail!”

  —and they all got up, chuckling and slapping one another on the shoulder in a bittersweet calm of aired troubles. Family members who had drifted in to witness said nothing. They embraced others in turn, laughing and joshing still, the chatter now aimless and merrily undirected in purpose yet no less effective in healing. The Family could not afford unaired anger. The ranking round, once a pleasant social convention in the Citadel, was as unremarkable and vital in the Family as a handshake.

  When Ledroff came to Killeen in the embracing, he said easily, “Could be you’re right. Let’s get clear this ’plex.”

  Killeen nodded, grinned, slapped the man hard on the back, and for the first time honestly thought of Ledroff as his Cap’n.

  Killeen found it easier to talk to Ledroff, once they were on the move.

  —You think that fact’ry means the mech’re using the Splashes now?— Ledroff asked as they puffed along, skip-walking with a low line of hills between them.

  Toby was on Killeen’s right, holding one space in from the edge of the moving triangle. They were crossing a brown plain of dried mud. Giant flakes of it reared up, curled by the searing glare of the Eater overhead. The great clay-red fans were thinner than a man’s wrist, yet reared taller than a building. Killeen had the sensation of walking over a brown, storm-shredded lake, somehow frozen as it tossed. He came down on one huge mud sheet and it crumbled around him like a rotten leaf. He spilled through the dissolving cloud and landed with a thump, boot-deep in cloying dust.

  He sneezed violently and called, “Arthur says everything we saw in that ’plex was made from plants.” He leaped out of the dust-hollow into clear, thin, dry air.

  —And I found some navvys loading seeds,— Toby broke in. —’Member that.—

  Ledroff’s voice sounded troubled. —So maybe mechs’re moving into the Splashes, too?—

  “Looks like.”

  —Damnall! Why can’t they stay in their fart-fat cities?—

  “Arthur thinks they plan take over all Snowglade.”

  Ledroff said, —Yeasay, one my Aspects been sayin’ that, too. Damn Aspects worry ’n’ talk, worry ’n’ talk, that’s all they got time for.—

  Killeen sent an agreeing grunt. “Mechs may be just gettin’ ready for when the Eater gets closer.”

  Toby asked, —Closer? Will it stay in the sky?—

  “Remember the orbits I drew?” Killeen reminded him.

  —Some.— The boy was not used to his interior world of projected images, lines and curves hanging in air, cascades of once-intelligible data bequeathed by forefathers who had never imagined that their descendants would see it as nonsense. Toby preferred the grip of the real.

  “Arthur says things’re changing. Eater’ll get bigger.”

  —So?—

  “The mechs’re changin’, too.”

  Toby laughed derisively. —Aw, that Arthur’s an old fart.—

  Killeen chuckled. Let the boy stay that way for a while. No harm.

  Since leaving the looted factory he had been telling his son Arthur’s information. Better to put it in simple terms than to have Toby get it in the stilted talk of the Aspects. That would come soon enough.

  Killeen did not want Toby to carry an Aspect yet, though he was of an age when the Family would permit it. Aspects rode a young mind harder. In the old Citadel days, the Family would have waited until Toby was full-grown. Now every adult carried the maximum Aspect load. These living presences kept their covenant with the past, made them the heirs of a grand race, and not merely a ravaged, fleeing band. This now loomed as the practical opening to past lore and crafts. Continuity with humanity’s prouder days meant more, since few Family had time to learn from their Aspects and Faces while on the run.

  Ledroff panted as he kept up their long-leaping, trotting pace, —If we knew what they’re doin’, why… aghhh!—

  The wordless grating sound that came from Ledroff needed no interpretation for Killeen. The Family had never known why the mechs suddenly destroyed the Citadel, just as in earlier ages the Clan had never suspected what the mechs planned for Snowglade.

  All attempts to reach the higher levels of mechs, to talk, to negotiate, had failed. Few humans knew how to communicate with mechs in even crude fashion. Moase, an old woman now riding on the transporter mech, had done some translating while a girl. The Family had not had opportunity to use her craft for a long time; they were too occupied with the simple task of running and eating and running again.

  Killeen had an older presence, a Face named Bud, who had been a master translator long ago. But Killeen had never used Bud that way, relying on the ancient engineer only for simple tasks. He called up the Face and asked, “You know anything ’bout weather changes?”

  The Bud Face’s reply came in stubby units, since Faces had only limited chunks of the original personality.

  In my day air warmer.

  I translate once for Crafter.

  Crafter say Snowglade get cooler.

  Need me translate again?

  “Naysay, sorry,” Killeen answered the Face gently, touched by the plaintive small voice as it volunteered. He had not called on Bud for a long time. It was hard to release even a simple Face and remain alert, while on the move.

  He pondered Bud’s question. He called up Arthur and got a rapid summary of ancient methods of talking to mechs. Much of it was incomprehensible.

  When humanity had been forced from the sprawling Arcologies, it had tried shrewdly to market its scavenging skills among the mech cities. Teams would raid far cities, then leave the best loot outside a nearby mech enclave. Done regularly, such peace offerings enticed the neighbor enclave to stop assaulting the human Citadels. This policy worked for a while. Humans thought their Citadels, smaller and less conspicuous than the large Arcologies, were safe.

  Some Family Citadels built upon this, specializing in talking to mech envoys and arranging trades. Family King had been best at it, but even their expert translators had been betrayed and killed at times. It was a risky life.

  I wo
uld do again though.

  Let me work.

  Killeen noted wryly that it would be his skin risked this time. Bud caught this and retreated, cowed. Aspects and Faces had a curious isolation from the consequences of their advice, since they did not feel Killeen’s pain or hardship. But they would die if he did.

  Undaunted, a biting, acerbic Aspect piped up. Killeen gritted his teeth.

  The unholy trafficking with mechs met the fate it deserved. Compromise with the unliving is impossible. Surely history has taught you that!

  The Aspect named Nialdi forked through Killeen’s sensorium like yellow storm lightning, releasing its years of pent-up frustration. Nialdi was truly ancient, from the days when humanity had spread effortlessly over the temperate zones of Snowglade. He had been a famous priest of that era’s religion.

  “I’m tryin’ think of ways savin’ our ass, you old bastard!” Killeen blurted out loud. He mentally grasped at the Aspect but it slipped away, fanning out like a flock of angry orange birds.

  You reject the Word? Has not the savage mech fury taught you at last that there can be no staying of our hand? The Grail speaks through me!

  “Get back in!” Killeen shouted. He snatched after flapping threads of Nialdi. The Aspect kept hurling religious jargon at him, fluttering through his sensorium. Killeen was so intent on snaring the Aspect that he himself stumbled. Fell. His curved helmet plate was thrown back and he got a mouthful of sand. He came up swearing.

  —Can’t keep your Aspects down?— Ledroff sent derisively.

  —Man’s got feet like rocks,— Jocelyn jibed.

  Irked, Killeen forced Nialdi back into a far cranny of his mind and slammed the hornet’s buzz into a silencing, encapsulating crack. Aspects were getting harder and harder to control for everyone in the Family. Another reason not to burden Toby with one, he thought sourly.

  They left the mud plain and mounted an eroded ridge-line. Denix and the Eater cast their stark, separate glares on the land. Bushes dotted the shadows. They were pushing farther into the Splash. Creekbeds were damp, as though rain had come within the last few days. Occasional puffball clouds skated high up, pushed by fast winds. Great fans of smoothed pebbles and sand spoke of torrents which had once rushed down from the slumping clay hills.