The Children of the Sky zot-3

by Vernor Steffen Vinge

  Chitiratifor forced a chuckle. “This is the brilliant solution Tycoon has been hinting at? And you’ll honestly report what happens?”

  Remasritlfeer ignored the patronizing tone. “Of course,” he said.

  “Well then, let’s land these fish!” Chitiratifor honked laughter.

  Okay, little friends. I wish you well. From a thousand feet up, the last few feet were always tricky, but Remasritlfeer had had plenty of practice. The little guys would come to no harm from the Choir’s mindsound; the cuttlefish minds were as silent as the dead. The real question was how the Choir would react to the presence of non-Choir talkers. The parts of him that were watching the edge of the open space could see a strange kind of tension spreading out through the mob. Remasritlfeer had seen this sort of thing before. The Choir was not a coherent mind, and yet small parts of it clearly thought to one another, and those mindsounds percolated for hundreds of feet, creating patterns of attention that were wider than he had ever seen except in sentry lines.

  “The Choir’s mindsound,” came Chitiratifor’s voice, filled with overtones of awe. “It’s getting louder!” Chitiratifor was shifting around on the passenger platform, beside himself with fear. He was causing the entire gondola to bounce and sway.

  Remasritlfeer hissed, “Get ahold of yourselves, fellow!” But in fact, the mindsound of the Choir did seem louder, a mix of lust and rage and pleasure and intense interest, a rising madness. If all those Tines below could think together … well then maybe they could focus this high. And destroy them even aboard the Sea Breeze. Then he realized that although the mindsounds were louder and more unified, something else had changed. Almost all low-frequency sounds had ceased. Gone were the moaning and fragments of Interpack language that had been a ceaseless churn from the mob. It was so quiet in the low sounds that he could hear the sigh of the River Fell as it swept past the mudbanks and grass trees of the delta.

  Even the cuttlefish—both here in the kettle and down below in the trade basket—had ceased their tinkling chatter. It was as if the entire world had taken a moment to watch and see what would happen.

  Remasritlfeer’s wide-spaced eyes told him that the trade basket must be on the ground. At the same time, the cord he’d been paying out went slack in his jaws. Yes, touchdown!

  Now as clear as tiny bells, he could hear the cuttlefish chattering at the three Tines who stood by the landing spot. They were saying exactly the sales pitch that Tycoon had worked out for them, exactly what Remasritlfeer himself would have said if he had the courage to land in the middle of this hell (though Remasritlfeer would have spoken with a single voice rather than the dozen spouting from the little cuttlefish).

  The three Tines by the basket didn’t immediately react. The eerie, low-sound silence continued a moment more. Then there came a spike of mindsound that near froze Remasritlfeer’s hearts, anger so loud it seemed to come from his own mind. From all directions, the myriad Tines broke the fragile protocol Remasritlfeer had worked so long to construct, rushing inwards upon the trade basket.

  The lash of anger numbed Remasritlfeer’s mind, but he saw and remembered what happened next: The mob surged in like some monstrous wave, five and ten Tines deep. They came in from all directions, the open space vanishing in less than two seconds. Somewhere under the mob was the trade basket. Myriad voices screamed. The frenzy lasted almost a minute, so that for a time the attackers were piling up on themselves. Finally the mob retreated, leaving something like the agreed-upon open space. By some miracle, the Sea Breeze’s tiedown line remained in place, but the trade basket was reduced to splinters.

  “What happened? Where are they now? What happened?” came the voices of the rest of the cuttlefish in their bannerwood kettle.

  “I … I’m sorry, guys.” The trading space was almost restored, those who remained in the space were limping back toward their fellows. He could see no signs of cuttlefish in the churned-up mud.

  Chitiratifor gave out a satisfied laugh. “An excellent test. It’s exactly as I predicted. Okay, fellow. It’s time to drop the tiedown line and get ourselves back to sanity.”

  • • •

  Four hours later, Remasritlfeer, the surviving cuttlefish, and Chitiratifor were safely back on Tycoon’s steamship. Three of those hours had been spent fighting through the worst afternoon storm Remasritlfeer had seen so far. Even now, the wind was lashing across the deck of the Pack of Packs, making the balloon recovery job almost impossible. Hell, the landing crew had better cut it loose before the lightning finally set its remaining lift gas afire.

  Remasritlfeer had his heads down, pushing the bannerwood kettle across the deck toward shelter. The rain had long ago soaked him; it was amazing he could think at all.

  The cuttlefish were still complaining: “Why-why-why didn’t you let us try again? again?”

  “You shut up!” Remasritlfeer hissed back. Multiple tries had been part of Tycoon’s orders. Before the storm came up, at least four of Remasritlfeer would have sacrificed the rest of these suicidal maniacs; the fifth of him had some weird maternal sympathy for the cuttlefish. Between that and the storm and Chitiratifor, they had not done quite all Tycoon planned. Leaving early had probably saved all their lives.

  He tied down the kettle and sprinkled the water with fish food. Behind him, he could see most of Chitiratifor clustered at the railing, barfing into the sea. Far beyond the railing the swamplands of the coast were a dark shadow behind the rain. These last few tendays, Remasritlfeer had accomplished more than any explorer in the history of the Tropics, but now he knew he would never stand on the ground there. No pack would, not and live to tell the tale.

  Remasritlfeer shook himself. Now to get cleaned up, dried off. There remained the toughest job of the day—to convince Tycoon that no matter how big the market, no matter how great the desire, there were some dreams that were just not going to come true.

  Chapter 05

  Woodcarver’s Domain stretched along the continent’s northwest coast. The Domain’s northern part, the lands around Starship Hill, had been taken in the conquest of Flenser’s empire. That was two hundred kilometers north of the arctic circle. Tines World was a mellow and beautiful place, very much what Old Earth had been for humankind’s first civilization. Of course “mellow and beautiful” were relative terms. The arctic winters, even on the coast with its warming ocean stream, were frightful things. The islands were lost in the ice, the snow piled deep, and night was unending, usually so stormy that you couldn’t even see the stars.

  The summers, however … Ravna Bergsndot had not imagined there could be such contrast in a natural place. The snow mostly went away, or hid in the higher hills and the glaciers above them. This year there had been plenty of spring rain, and bright green spread across the forests and heather and farmers’ fields, across all the world below the tree line. And today, today was beautiful beyond that. The rains had ended, and the sky was clean, with only a few chunky white clouds hanging beyond the seaward islands. Here, on a clear day in summer, the sun was above the horizon for the dayaround. At noon, it climbed almost halfway up the sky and the rest of the day was like an endless afternoon.

  It was warm! It was even hot!

  More by luck than anything else, Ravna and Johanna chose this day for a visit to the markets on the South End of Hidden Island. They’d taken the funicular down from Starship Hill and then the ferry across the fifteen-hundred-meter inner channel that separated Flenser’s old capital from the mainland. Now they were walking down wide, cobbled streets, just enjoying the sun and the light and the warmth.

  Most of the town packs had taken off their jackets and leggings. A work gang of three packs was in a line along one side of the street, digging up the gutter drainage. On a task as simple as ditch digging, the three packs could work with a kind of superpack coordination, the dirt being hoisted from ground to shovel, into buckets and then away, in perfect synchrony.

  These weren’t the slaves of the time of Flenser and Steel. When Ravna
and Johanna came strolling along, the super-pack seemed to notice and for a moment resumed its three coherent identities, shouting greetings with human voices. Ravna recognized the one in the middle as Flenser-Tyrathect’s city planner.

  Johanna chatted with the two who didn’t speak very good Samnorsk. Ravna had a few words with the city planner, learning what these repairs were all about, answering the pack’s question about the tools that had been promised for more than a year. “It’s the power supplies we’re having trouble with, of course. But you’ll see them in time to help with the snow.”

  And then the two humans continued on, toward Hidden Island’s very own high street. “Johanna, I think this may be the most beautiful day we’ve ever had.” Beyond low roof lines, the inland hills stood tall. The New Castle on Starship Hill might have been something out of a fairy tale, and downslope from the castle, the hull of Oobii sparkled greenfly bright.

  The younger woman was smiling. “It’s a winner, all right.”

  Packs walked past them in both directions, avoiding each other as much as they could. Wagons and kherhog traffic were banned in this part of town, leaving just enough room for the packs. There were even a few humans up ahead, the oldest of the refugee children, now adults and working in local businesses. For a moment, Ravna could almost imagine … “It’s almost like something back in civilization.”

  Johanna was still smiling, but now her look was puzzled. “The High Lab was nothing like this.” From what Ravna knew, the High Lab had been a grid of barracks on the airless planet of a red dwarf star. “And before that,” Johanna continued, “well, we were mostly on Straum. That was cities and parks. This? I’m more used to it now than anywhere else, but how does it remind you of civilization?”

  Ravna had her own opinion of Straumer civilization; she’d had ten years of practice in keeping that opinion to herself. So all she said was, “Some are little things, some are big. There are both humans and aliens here; outside of civilization, that can rarely happen. The streets are clean and quaintly wide. I know the packs need the extra space, but … this place looks almost like some historical city park on a multi-settled world. I can pretend the technology is just hidden away, perhaps in those little shops we’re visiting today. This could be at Sjandra Kei, kind of a happy tourist trap.”

  “Well, that’s fine then, because I’ve come to shop for a birthday present!”

  Ravna nodded. “Then we have a constructive purpose for this trip.” The Children took their “birthday” parties seriously. However arguable the calendar dates, birthdays gave them a bridge to their past. She hesitated. “So whose birthday are we talking about?”

  “Who do you think?” There was something about Jo’s look that made the answer obvious.

  “Nevil?”

  “Yup. He’s out of town today, checking out trade prospects on the East Streamsdell. Nevil has such a wonderful way with humans; I know he’d like to be just as good with Tines. In any case, we can get him a present without his ever knowing.”

  Ravna laughed. She had been so patient with these two, but Jo was twenty-four, and Nevil would be twenty-six as of this birthday. They were the most perfect couple she could imagine among the older Children. “So, what are you thinking to get him?”

  “Something princely and charming, of course.” Actually Johanna had several ideas. It turned out she had been down here more often than Ravna, and she’d quizzed both Woodcarver and Pilgrim about the things that might be available from far parts of the world. Hidden Island was not the imperial capital the Old Flenser had planned, but it had come to be the heart of Woodcarver’s Domain—and this side of the Long Lakes, it was the place to go for exotica.

  So the two of them visited one after another of the high street shops, as well as the summer markets that occupied the cobblestone plazas. Johanna had a list, not just from Woodcarver and Pilgrim, but also from her friends Rejna and Giske—themselves already married—and partly from Nevil himself. Johanna bought some mosaic fabric that showed landscapes that could be separately viewed by each of the wearer’s members.

  “This is not really very human,” said Ravna.

  “Ah, but Nevil might like the pointillist staining. It reminds me of Ur-digital.”

  In another shop, they looked at semiprecious gems set in statuary of gold and brass. Ravna was technically royalty, but there were no free gifts, nor even requests to be “officially sponsored” by the co-Queen of the Domain. For a medieval ruler, Woodcarver was something of an economic innovator.

  “You could have something made special, maybe out of the mosaic cloth.”

  “Yeah!” said Johanna. They turned down Wee Alley. At the back was Larsndot, Needles & Co. The store was a two-story affair, now extended out on tent poles into the street. Wenda Larsndot Jr. was on her knees, pinning velvet around a customer’s new puppies.

  “Hei, Johanna! Hei, Ravna!” The seven-year-old was full of cheer, but she didn’t get up. “Can’t talk now. The slavedrivers are riding me hard.” Then she chirped something at her customer, some kind of reassurance.

  “But you’ll be at school tomorrow, right?” said Ravna.

  The little girl—oldest of all the second generation—rolled her eyes. “Yup, yup. This is my day off. I like tailoring better’n multiplication. Dad’s over there. Mummy’s in back.” Those would be Ben and Wenda Larsndot, Junior’s chief “slavedrivers.”

  Ben was even busier than Junior. The place was so crowded that—for packs—it must be mind-numbingly noisy. Was it beautiful days like this that brought on a buying frenzy?

  They gave Ben a wave and walked through the tent toward the back. Larsndot, Needles & Co. had Tinish employees. In fact, “Needles” was a mostly young sixsome who had been the original owner. Needles had done quite well by the partnership, for tailoring was one of the “problematical professions.” If standing close to another pack is mind-numbing, then there are only a few things that packs could easily do at such close quarters—chiefly, make war, make love, or just generally blank out. Humans were ideal for close-up work. Each human was as smart as a pack, and each could work mindfully even right next to the customer. It was the perfect combination—though Ravna was afraid the Larsndots had gone too far. Fitting in, being needed by the locals, that was terribly important. At the same time, the humans should be building a tech civilization, not measuring cloth to fit.

  Today there was far more business than the humans could help with. The company’s three Tinish tailors sat on thickly padded platforms. On the floor, each of the customers had a single tailor member doing its best with fitting. To human eyes, the process was comical. The isolated members were decked out in flamboyant uniforms studded with big-handled needles, and tailor’s measuring tapes looped from spools on their collars. They were not quite mindless—the rest of their packs were up on the pallets, peeking down, trying to maintain contact without numbing the customers. The groundside members had a lot of practice and significant guidance from above—but physically they were not much more adept than dogs. The lips at the tip of their jaws could squeeze like a pair of weak fingers. Their paws and claws were what you’d expect of dumb animals, though the creatures often wore tools or metal claws—hence the human name for the race: Tines.

  These tailors had plenty of experience. Their groundside parts could pull measuring tape from their shoulder spools, could pass it to the customer. With spoken directions from the tailor above, the customer—if not too befuddled by having a foreign snout in its midst—could hold tape properly while the tailor marked the measurement. In other circumstances the customer held the draped fabric and the tailor’s groundside member grabbed a pinhandle in its jaws and carefully inserted it.

  Ravna and Johanna passed through an older section of the building that had not been built with humans in mind. They bent low to clear the ceiling and walked awkwardly down a short hallway toward the sewing room. Indoors, in a Tinish building, the whiff of packs was overpowering. Ravna had dealt with many races in the Hig
h Beyond—but with good air control. Here there were no such amenities.

  She heard Wenda Sr.’s laughter right ahead. Wenda Sr. handled most of the business management, except for the accounting. Like most of the refugees, she was no good at manual arithmetic.

  “Hei Johanna! Ravna!” Wenda was standing by one of the sewing tables. Those were lined up below high windows of smoky glass. Sunlight fell on the work tables. Larsndot, Needles & Co. had three seamsters; right now all were busy. Wenda moved back and forth, adjusting the measures, rolling in additional bolts of cloth, some of it the precious Oobii weave, the last functional output of the starship’s reality graphics display.

  Wenda’s younger child, Sika, was sitting on the table beside her, evidently “helping to supervise.”

  “Hei Wenda! I’m looking for advice.” Johanna laid the mosaic cloth down on a display table. “I want to get something for Nevil. His birthday, you know. Would this look too silly on a human?”

  “Sika, you stay put, okay?” said Wenda, Sr. For a wonder, the three-year-old did as requested. Whatever the Tinish seamster was doing fascinated her.

  Wenda came over to their table, turning sideways to fit between the heavy wooden stools. She nodded respectfully at Ravna, then lifted Johanna’s fabric sample, turning it in the sunlight. “Ah, this is the real Down Coast stuff, isn’t it, Johanna?”

  The two woman chattered about the fabric. Wenda had been sixteen when the kids escaped from the High Lab, and one of the first to be wakened. That made her as old as any of the refugees, as old as Nevil Storherte. She was twenty-six. Her face and her voice were happy, but there was gray in her hair, the beginnings of age in her face. Ravna had read human histories obsessively since their exile began. In a state of nature, untreated humans began to decline almost immediately upon reaching adulthood. Wenda had never complained, but more than most—certainly more than the boys her age—she bore the burden of living Down Here. And yet she was luckier than some. She was old enough that, before the escape, she had almost completed the usual prolongevity treatments. Most of her cohort would last a couple of centuries.