by Vernor Vinge
The back-looking part of him saw that Jefri had drifted off toward the inner cabin. Reluctantly, Amdi followed.
They stayed in the ship only an hour that first time. In the inner cabin Jefri turned on magic windows that looked out in all directions. Amdi sat goggle-eyed; this was a trip to heaven.
For Jefri it was something else. He hunched down in a hammock and stared at the controls. The tension slowly left his face.
“I—I like it here,” said Amdi, tentatively, softly.
Jefri rocked gently in the hammock. “…Yes.” He sighed. “I was so afraid … but being here makes me feel closer to…” His hands reached out to caress the panel that hung close to the hammock. “My dad landed this thing; he was sitting right here.” He twisted around, looked at a glimmering panel of light above him. “And Mom got the ultrawave all set… They did it all. And now it’s only you and me, Amdi. Even Johanna is gone… It’s all up to us.”
Vrinimi Classification: Organizational SECRET. Not for distribution beyond Ring 1 of the local net.
Transceiver Relay00 search log:
Beginning 19:40:40 Docks Time, 17/01 of Org year 52090 [128.13 days since the fall of Straumli Realm]
Link layer syntax 14 message loop detected on assigned surveillance bearing. Signal strength and S/N compatible with previously detected beacon signal.
Language path: Samnorsk, SjK:Relay units
From: Jefri Olsndot at I dont know where this is
Subject: Hello. My names Jefri Olsndot. Our ships hurt adnd we need help. pPlease anser.
Summary: Sorry if I get some of this wrong. This keybord is STUPID!!
Key phrases: I dont know
To: Relay anybody
Text of message: [empty]
FIFTEEN
Two Skroderiders played in the surf.
“Do you think his life is in danger?” asked the one with the slender green stalk.
“Whose life?” said the other, a large rider with a bluish basal shell.
“Jefri Olsndot, the human child.”
Blueshell sighed to himself and consulted his skrode. You come to the beach to forget the cares of the everyday, but Greenstalk would not let them go. He scanned for danger-to-Jefri: “Of course he’s in danger, you twit! Look up the latest messages from him.”
“Oh.” Greenstalk’s tone was embarrassed. “Sorry for the partial remembering,” remembering enough to worry and nothing more. She went silent; after a moment he heard her pleasured humming. The surf crashed endlessly past them.
Blueshell opened to the water, tasting the life that swirled in the power of the waves. It was a beautiful beach. It was probably unique—and that was an extreme thing to say about anything in the Beyond. When the foam swept back from their bodies, they could see indigo sky spread from one side of the Docks to the other, and the glint of starships. When the surf came forward, the two Riders were submerged in the turbid chill, surrounded by the coralesks and intertidal creatures that built their little homes here. And at high “tide” the flexure of the sea floor held steady for an hour or so. Then the water cleared, and if in daylight, they could see patches of glassy sea-bottom … and through them, a thousand kilometers below, the surface of Groundside.
Blueshell tried to clear his mind of care. For every hour of peaceful contemplation, a few more natural memories would accumulate… No good. Just now he could no more banish the worries than could Greenstalk. After a moment, he said, “Sometimes I wish I were a Lesser Rider.” To stand a lifetime in one place, with just a minimum skrode.
“Yes,” said Greenstalk. “But we decided to roam. That means giving up certain things. Sometimes we must remember things that happen only once or twice. Sometimes we have great adventures: I’m glad we took the rescue contract, Blueshell.”
So neither of them were really in the mood for the sea today. Blueshell lowered the skrode’s wheels and rolled a little closer to Greenstalk. He looked deep into his skrode’s mechanical memory, scanning the general databases. There was a lot there about catastrophes. Whoever created the original skrode databases had considered wars and blights and perversion very important. They were exciting things, and they could kill you.
But Blueshell could also see that in relative terms, such disasters were a small part of the civilized experience. Only about once in a millennium was there a massive blight. It was their bad luck to be caught near such a thing. In the last ten weeks a dozen civilizations in the High Beyond had dropped from the Net, absorbed into the symbiotic amalgam that now was called the Straumli Blight. High trade was crippled. Since their ship was refinanced, he and Greenstalk had flown several jobs, but all to the Middle Beyond.
The two of them had been very cautious, but now—as Greenstalk said—greatness might be thrust upon them. Vrinimi Org wanted to commission a secret flight to the Bottom of the Beyond. Since he and Greenstalk were already in on the secret, they were the natural choice for the job. Right now, the Out of Band II was in the Vrinimi yards getting bottom-lugger enhancements and a huge stock of antenna drones. In one stroke the OOB‘s value was increased ten-thousand-fold. There had been no need even to bargain!… and that was the scariest thing of all. Every addition was a clear essential for the trip. They would be descending right to the edge of the Slowness. Under the best of circumstances this would be slow and tedious exercise, but the latest surveys reported movement in the zone boundaries. With bad luck, they might actually end up on the wrong side, where light had the ultimate speed. If that should happen, the new ramscoop would be their only hope.
All that was within Blueshell’s range of acceptable business. Before he met Greenstalk, he had shipped on bottom-luggers, even been stranded once or twice. But—“I like adventure as much as you,” said Blueshell, a grumpy edge creeping into his voice. “Traveling to the Bottom, rescuing sophonts from the claws of wildthings: given enough money, it’s all perhaps reasonable. But … what if that Straumer ship is really as important as Ravna thinks? After all this time it seems absurd, but she’s convinced Vrinimi Org of the possibility. If there’s something down there that could harm the Straumli Blight—” If the Blight ever suspected the same, it could have a fleet of ten thousand warships descending on their goal. Down at the Bottom they might be little better than conventional vessels, but he and Greenstalk would be no less dead for that.
Except for a faint daydreamy hum, Greenstalk was silent. Had she had lost track of the conversation? Then her voice came to him through the water, a reassuring caress. “I know, Blueshell, it could be the end of us. But I still want to venture it. If it’s safe, we make enormous profit. If our going could harm the Blight … well, then it’s terribly important. Our help might save dozens of civilizations—a million beaches of Riders, just in passing.”
“Hmpf. You’re following stalk and not skrode.”
“Probably.” They had watched the progress of the Blight since its beginning. The feelings of horror and sympathy had been reinforced every day till they percolated into their natural minds. So Greenstalk (and Blueshell too; he couldn’t deny it) felt stronger about the Blight than about the danger in their new contract. “Probably. My fears of making the rescue are still analytical,” still confined to her skrode. “Yet … I think if we could stand here a year, if we could wait till we truly felt all the issues … I think we would still choose to go.”
Blueshell rolled irritably back and forth. The grit swirled up and through his fronds. She was right, she was right. But he couldn’t say it aloud; the mission still terrified him.
“And think, mate: If it is this important, then perhaps we can get help. You know the Org is negotiating with the Emissary Device. With any luck we’ll end up with an escort designed by a Transcendental Power.”
The image almost made Blueshell laugh. Two little Skroderiders, journeying to the Bottom of the Beyond—surrounded by help from the Transcend. “I will hope for it.”
The Skroderiders were not the only ones with that wish. Further up the beach, Ravna Berg
sndot prowled her office. What gruesome irony that even the greatest disasters can create opportunities for decent people. Her transfer to Marketing had been made permanent with the fall of Arbitration Arts. As the Blight spread and High Beyond markets collapsed, the Org became ever more interested in providing information services about the Straumli Perversion. Her “special” expertise in things human suddenly became extraordinarily valuable—never mind that Straumli Realm itself was only a small part of what was now the Blight. What little the Blight said of itself was often in Samnorsk. Grondr and company continued to be vitally interested in her analysis.
Well, she had done some good. They had picked up the refugee ship’s “I-am-here”, and then—ninety days later—a message from a human survivor, Jefri Olsndot. Barely forty messages had they exchanged, but enough to learn about the Tines and Mr. Steel and the evil Woodcarvers. Enough to know that a small human life would be ended if she could not help. Ironic but natural: most times that single life weighed more on her than all the horror of the Perversion, even the fall of Straumli Realm. Thank the Powers that Grondr had endorsed the rescue mission: It was a chance to learn something important about the Straumli Perversion. And the Tinish packs seemed to interest him, too; group minds were a fleeting thing in the Beyond. Grondr had kept the whole affair secret, and persuaded his bosses to support the mission. But all his help might not be enough. If the refugee ship was as important as Ravna thought, there could be enormous perils awaiting any rescuers.
Ravna looked across the surf. When the waves backed down the sand, she could see the Skroderiders’ fronds peeping out of the spray. How she envied them; if tensions annoyed them, they could simply turn them off. The Skroderiders were one of the most common sophonts in the Beyond. There were many varieties, but analysis agreed with legend: very long ago they had been one species. Somewhere in the off-Net past, they had been sessile dwellers of sea shores. Left to themselves, they had developed a form of intelligence almost devoid of short-term memory. They sat in the surf, thinking thoughts that left no imprints on their minds. Only repetition of a stimulus, over a period of time, could do that. But the intelligence and memory that they had was of survival value: it made it possible for them to select the best possible place to cast their pupal seeds, locations that would mean safety and food for the next generation.
Then some unknown race had chanced upon the dreamers and decided to “help” them out. Someone had put them on mobile platforms, the skrodes. With wheels they could move along the seashores, could reach and manipulate with their fronds and tendrils. With the skrode’s mechanical short-term memory, they could learn fast enough that their new mobility would not kill them.
Ravna glanced away from the Skroderiders—someone was floating in over the trees. The Emissary Device. Maybe she should call Greenstalk and Blueshell out of the water. No. Let’em bliss out a little longer. If she couldn’t get the special equipment, things would be tough enough for them later…
Besides, I can do without witnesses. She folded her arms across her chest and glared into the sky. The Vrinimi Org had tried to talk to the Old One about this, but nowadays the Power would only work through its Emissary Device … and he had insisted on a face-to-face meeting.
The Emissary touched down a few meters away, and bowed. His lopsided grin spoiled the effect. “Pham Nuwen, at your service.”
Ravna gave a little bow in return, and led him to the shade of her inner office. If he thought that face-to-face would unnerve her, he was right. “Thanks for the meeting, sir. The Vrinimi Organization has an important request of your principal,” owner? master? operator?
Pham Nuwen plunked himself down, stretching indolently. He’d stayed out of her way since that night at The Wandering Company. Grondr said Old One had kept him at Relay though, rummaging through the archives for information about humanity and its origins. It made sense now that Old One had been persuaded to restrict Net use: the Emissary could do local processing, i.e., use human intelligence to search and summarize and then upload only the stuff that Old One really needed.
Ravna watched him out of the corner of her eye as she pretended to study her dataset. Pham had his old, lazy smile. She wondered if she would ever have the courage to ask him how much of their … affair … had been a human thing. Had Pham Nuwen felt anything for her? Hell, did he even have a good time?
From a Transcendent point of view, he might be a simple data concentrator and waldo—but from her viewpoint he was still too human. “Um, yes. Well … the Org has continued to monitor the Straumli refugee ship even though your principal has lost interest.”
Pham’s eyebrows raised in polite interest. “Oh?”
“Ten days ago, the simple ‘I-am-here’ signal was interrupted by a new message, apparently from a surviving crewmember.”
“Congratulations. You managed to keep it a secret, even from me.”
Ravna didn’t rise to the bait. “We’re doing our best to keep it secret from everyone, sir. For reasons that you must know.” She put the messages to date on the air between them. A handful of calls and responses, scattered across ten days. Translated into Triskweline for Pham, the original spelling and grammar errors were gone, yet the tone remained. Ravna was responsible for the Org side of the conversation. It was like talking to someone in a dark room, someone you have never seen. Much was easy to imagine: a strident, piping voice behind the capitalized words and exclamation marks. She had no video of the child, but through the humankind archive at Sjandra Kei, Marketing had dug up pictures of the boy’s parents. They looked like typical Straumers, but with the brown eyes of the Linden clans. Little Jefri would be slim and dark.
Pham Nuwen’s gaze flicked down through the text, then seemed to hang on the last few lines:
Org[17]:
How old are you, Jefri?
Target[18]:
I am eight. I mean I am eight years old. I AM OLD ENOUGH BUT I NEED HELP.
Org[18]:
We will help. We are coming as fast as we can, Jefri.
Target[19]:
Sorry I couldn’t talk yesterday. The bad people were on the hill again yesterday. It wasn’t safe to go to the ship.
Org[19]:
Are the bad ones that close by?
Target[20]:
Yes yes. I could see them from the island. I’m with Amdi on shipboard now, but walking up here there were dead soldiers all around. Woodcarver raids here often. Mother is dead. Father is dead. Johanna is dead. Mister Steel will protect me as much as he can. He says that I must be brave.
For a moment, his smile was gone. “Poor kid,” he said softly. Then he shrugged and jabbed his hand at one of the messages. “Well, I’m glad Vrinimi is sending a rescue mission. That is generous of you.”
“Not really, sir. Look at items six through fourteen. The boy is complaining about the ship’s automation.”
“Yeah, he makes it sound like something out of a dawn age: keyboards and video, no voice recognition. A completely unfriendly interface. Looks like the crash scragged almost everything, eh?”
He was being deliberately obtuse, but Ravna resolved to be infinitely patient. “Perhaps not, considering the vessel’s origin.” Pham just smiled, so Ravna continued to spell things out. “The processors are likely High Beyond or Transcendent, snuffed down to near brainlessness by the current environment.”
Pham Nuwen sighed. “All consistent with the Skroderiders’ theory, right? You’re still hoping this crate is carrying some tremendous secret that will blow the Blight away.”
“Yes!… Look. At one time, the Old One was very curious about all this. Why the total disinterest now? Is there some reason why the ship can’t be the key to fighting the Perversion?” That was Grondr’s explanation for the Old One’s recent lack of interest. All her life Ravna Bergsndot had heard tales of the Powers, and always from a great remove. Here, she was awfully close to questioning one directly. It was a very strange feeling.
After a moment Pham said, “No. It’s unlikely,
but you could be right.”
Ravna let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Good. Then what we’re asking is reasonable. Suppose the downed ship contains something the Perversion needs, or something it fears. Then it’s likely the Perversion knows of its existence—and may even be monitoring ultradrive traffic in that part of the Bottom. A rescue expedition could lead the Perversion right to it. In that case, the mission will be suicide for its crew—and could increase the Blight’s overall power.”
“So?”
Ravna slapped her dataset, resolutions of patience dissolving. “So, Vrinimi Org is asking Old One’s help to build an expedition the Blight can’t knock over!”
Pham Nuwen just shook his head. “Ravna, Ravna. You’re talking about an expedition to the Bottom of the Beyond. There’s no way a Power can hold your hand down there. Even an Emissary Device would be mostly on its own there.”
“Don’t act like more of a jerk than you are, Pham Nuwen. Down there, the Perversion will be at just as much a disadvantage. What we’re asking for is equipment of Transcendent manufacture, designed for those depths, and provided in substantial quantities.”
“Jerk?” Pham Nuwen drew himself up, but there was still the ghost of smile on his face. “Is that how you normally address a Power?”
Before this year, I would have died rather than address a Power in any manner. She leaned back, giving him her own version of an indolent smile. “You have a pipeline to god, Mister, but let me tell you a little secret: I can tell whether it’s open or closed.”
Polite curiosity: “Oh? How is that?”
“Pham Nuwen—left on his own—is a bright, egotistical guy, and about as subtle as a kick in the head.” She thought back to their time together. “I don’t really start worrying until the arrogance and smart remarks go away.”
“Um. Your logic is a little weak. If the Old One were running me direct, he could just as easily play a jerk as,” he cocked his head, “as the man of your dreams.”
