Zones of Thought Trilogy

by Vernor Vinge

  Farscout Rangolith was lounging about his signal mirrors, oiling the aiming gears. One of his subordinates lay with snouts stuck over the lip of the hill, scanning the landscape with its telescopes. He came to attention at the sight of Flenser, but his gaze wasn’t full of fear. Like most long-range scouts, he wasn’t completely terrorized by castle politics. Besides, Flenser had cultivated an “us against the prigs” relationship with the fellow. Now Rangolith growled at the group leader: “The next time you come prancing across the open like that, your asses go on report.”

  “My fault, Farscout,” put in Flenser. “I have some important news.” They walked away from the others, down toward Rangolith’s tent.

  “See something interesting, did you?” Rangolith was smiling oddly. He had long ago figured out that Flenser was not a brilliant duo, but part of a pack with members back at the castle.

  “When is your next session with Craddleheads?” That was the fieldname for Vendacious.

  “Just past noon. He hasn’t missed in four days. The Southerners seem to be on one big squat.”

  “That will change.” Flenser repeated Steel’s orders for

  Vendacious. The words came hard. The traitor within him was restive; he felt the beginnings of a major attack.

  “Wow! You’re going to move everything over to Margrum Climb in less than two—Never mind, that’s something I’d best not know.”

  Under his cloaks, Flenser bristled. There are limits to chumminess. Rangolith had his points, but maybe after all this was over he could be smoothed into something less … ad hoc.

  “Is that all, My Lord?”

  “Yes—No.” Flenser shivered with uncharacteristic puzzlement. The trouble with these cloaks, sometimes they made it hard to remember things. By the Great Pack, no! It was that Tyrathect again. Steel had ordered the killing of Woodcarver’s human—all things considered, a perfectly sensible move, but…

  Flenser with Steel shook his head angrily, his teeth clicking together. “Something the matter?” said Lord Steel. He really seemed to love the pain that the radio cloaks caused Flenser.

  “Nothing, my lord. Just a touch of the static.”

  In fact there was no static, yet Flenser felt himself disintegrating. What had given the other such sudden power?

  Flenser with Amdijefri snapped his jaws open and shut, open and shut. The children jumped back from him, eyes wide. “It’s okay,” he said grimly, even as his two bodies thrashed against each other. There really were lots of good reasons why they should keep Johanna Olsndot alive: In the long run, it assured Jefri’s good will. And it could be Flenser’s secret human. Perhaps he could fake the Two Leg’s death to Steel and—No. No. No! Flenser grabbed back control, jamming the rationalizations out of mind. The very tricks he had used against Tyrathect, she thought to turn against him. It won’t work on me. I am the master of lies.

  And then her attack twisted again, became a massive bludgeoning that destroyed all thought.

  With Flenser, with Rangolith, with Amdijefri—all of him was making little gibbering noises now. Lord Steel danced around him, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. Rangolith goggled at him in frank amazement.

  The two children edged back to touch him, “Are you hurt? Are you hurt?” The human slipped those remarkable hands under the radio cloak and brushed softly at Flenser’s bleeding fur. The world blurred in a surge of static. “No. Don’t do that. It might hurt him more,” came Amdi’s voice. The puppies’ tiny muzzles reached out, trying to help with the cloaks.

  Flenser felt his being pushed downwards, towards oblivion. Tyrathect’s final attack was a frontal assault, without rationalizations or sly infiltration, and…

  … And she looked out upon herself in astonishment. After so many days, I am me. And in control. Enough butchering of innocents. If anyone is to die, it is Steel and Flenser. Her head followed Steel’s prancing forms, picked out the most articulate member. She gathered her legs beneath her, and prepared to leap at its throat. Come just a little closer … and die.

  Tyrathect’s last moment of consciousness probably didn’t last longer than five seconds. Her attack on Flenser was a desperate, all-out thing that left her without reserves or internal defense. Even as she tensed to leap upon Steel, she felt her soul being pulled back and down, and Flenser rising up from the darkness. She felt the member’s legs spasm and collapse, the ground smash into its face…

  … And Flenser was back in control. The weakling’s attack had been astonishing. She really had cared for the ones who were to be destroyed, cared so much she was willing to sacrifice herself if it would kill Flenser. And that had been her undoing. Suicide is never something to hang pack dominance on. Her very resolve had weakened her hold on the hindmind—and given The Master his chance. He was back in control, and with a great opportunity. Tyrathect’s assault had left her defenseless. The innermost mental barriers around her three members were suddenly as thin as the skin of an overripe fruit. Flenser slashed through the membrane, pawed at the flesh of her mind, spattering it across his own. The three who had been her core would still live, but never again would they have a soul separate from his.

  Flenser with Steel sprawled as though unconscious, his convulsions subsiding. Let Steel think him incapacitated. It would give him time to think of the most advantageous explanation.

  Flenser with Rangolith came slowly to his feet, though the two members were still in a posture of confusion. Flenser pulled them together. No explanations were due here, but it would be best if Farscout didn’t suspect soulstrife. “The cloaks are powerful tools, dear Rangolith; sometimes a bit too powerful.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Flenser let a smile spread across his features. For a moment he was silent, savoring what he would say next. No, there was no sign of the weak-willed one. This had been her last, best try at domination—her last and biggest mistake. Flenser’s smile spread further, all the way to the two with Amdijefri. It suddenly occurred to him that Johanna Olsndot would be the first person he had ordered killed since his return to Hidden Island. Johanna Olsndot would therefore be the first blood on three of his muzzles.

  “There’s one more item for Craddleheads, Farscout. An execution…” As he spoke the details, the warmth of a decision well-made spread through his members.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The only good thing about all the waiting had been the chance it gave the wounded. Now that Vendacious had found a way past the Flenserist defenses, everyone was anxious to break camp, but…

  Johanna spent the last afternoon at the field hospital. The hospital was laid off in rough rectangles, each about six meters across. Some of the plots had ragged tents—those belonging to wounded who were still smart enough to care for themselves. Others were surrounded by stranded fencing; inside each of those was a single member, the survivor of what had once been an entire pack. The singletons could easily have jumped the fences, but most seemed to recognize their purpose, and stayed within.

  Johanna pulled the food cart through the area, stopping at first one patient and then another. The cart was a bit too large for her, and sometimes it got caught in the roots that grew across the the forest floor. Yet this was a job that she could do better than any pack, and it was nice to find a way she could help.

  In the forest around the hospital there was the sound of kherhogs being coaxed up to wagon ties, the shouts of crews securing the cannons and getting the camp gear stowed. From the maps Vendacious had shown at the meeting, it was clear the next two days would be an exhausting time—but at the end of it they would have the high ground behind unsuspecting Flenserists.

  She stopped at the first little tent. The threesome inside had heard her coming and was outside now, running little circles around her cart. “Johanna! Johanna!” it said in her own voice. This was all that was left of one of Woodcarver’s minor strategists; once upon a time, it had known some Samnorsk. The pack had originally been six; three had been killed by the wolves. What was left was the “talke
r” part—about as bright as a five year old, though with an odd vocabulary. “Thank you for food. Thank you.” Its muzzles pushed at her. She patted the heads before reaching into the cart and pulling out bowls of lukewarm stew. Two of them dug in right away, but the third sat back for a moment and chatted. “I hear, we fight soon.”

  Not you anymore, but“Yes. We are going up by the dry fall, just east of here.”

  “Uh, oh.” It said. “Uh, oh. That’s bad. Poor seeing, no control, ambush scary.” Apparently the fragment had some memories of its own tactical work. But there was no way Johanna could explain Vendacious’s reasoning to it. “Don’t worry, we will make it okay.”

  “You sure? You promise?”

  Johanna smiled gently at what was left of a rather nice fellow. “Yes. I promise.”

  “Ah-ah-ah… Okay.” Now all three had their muzzles stuck into stew bowls. This was one of the lucky ones, really. It showed plenty of interest in what went on around it. Just as important, it had childlike enthusiasms. Pilgrim said that fragments like this could grow back easily if they were just treated right long enough to bear a puppy or two.

  She pushed the cart a few meters further, to the fenced square that was the symbolic corral for a singleton. There was a faint odor of shit in the air. Some of the singletons and duos were not housebroken; in any case, the camp latrines were a hundred meters away.

  “Here, Blacky. Blacky?” Johanna banged an empty bowl against the side of the cart. A single head eased up from behind some root bushes; sometimes this one wouldn’t even do that much. Johanna got on her knees so her eyes weren’t much higher than the black-faced one. “Blacky?”

  The creature pulled himself out of the bushes and slowly approached. This was all that was left of one of Scrupilo’s cannoneers. She vaguely remembered the pack, a handsome sixsome all large and fast. But now, even “Blacky” wasn’t whole: a falling gun had crushed his rear legs. He dragged his legless rear on a little wagon with thirty centimeter wheels… sort of like a Skroderider with forelegs. She pushed a bowl of stew toward him, and made the noises that Pilgrim coached her in. Blacky had refused food the last three days, but today he rolled and walked close enough that she could pet his head. After a moment he lowered his muzzle to the stew.

  Johanna grinned in surprised pleasure. This hospital was a strange place. A year ago she would have been horrified by it; even now she didn’t have the proper Tinish outlook on the wounded. As she continued to pet Blacky’s lowered head, Johanna looked across the forest floor at the crude tents, the patients and parts of patients. It really was a hospital. The surgeons did try to save lives, even if the medical science was a horrifying process of cutting and splinting without anesthetics. In that regard, it was quite comparable to the medieval human medicine that Johanna had seen on Dataset. But with the Tines there was something more. This place was almost a spare parts warehouse. The medics were interested in the welfare of packs. To them, singletons were pieces that might have a use in making larger fragments workable, at least temporarily. Injured singletons were at the bottom of all medical priorities. “There’s not much left to save in such cases,” one medic had said to her via Pilgrim, “And even if there was, would you want a crippled, loose-bonded member in your self?” The fellow had been too tired to notice the absurdity of his question. His muzzles had been dripping blood; he’d been working for hours to save wounded members of whole packs.

  Besides, most wounded singletons just stopped eating and died in less than a tenday. Even after a year with Tines, Johanna couldn’t quite accept it. Every singleton reminded her of dear Scriber; she wanted them to have a better chance than his last remnant had. She had taken over the food cart and spent as much time with the wounded singletons as she did with any of the other patients. It had worked out well. She could get close to each patient without mindsound interference. Her help gave the brood kenners more time to study the larger fragments and the uninjured singletons, and try to build working packs from the wreckage.

  And now maybe this one wouldn’t starve. She’d tell Pilgrim. He’d done miracles with some of the other match ups, and seemed to be the only pack who shared some of her feelings for damaged singletons. “If they don’t starve it often means a strength of mind. Even crippled, they could be an advantage to a pack,” he’d said to her. “I’ve been crippled off and on in my travels; you can’t always pick and choose when you’re down to three and you’re a thousand miles into an unknown land.”

  Johanna set a bowl of water beside the stew. After a moment, the crippled member turned on his axle and took some shallow sips. “Hang on, Blacky, we’ll find someone for you to be.”

  Chitiratte was where he was supposed to be, walking his post exactly as expected. Nevertheless, he felt a thrill of nervousness. He always kept at least one head gazing at the mantis creature, the Two-Legs. Nothing suspicious about that posture either. He was supposed to be doing security duty here, and that meant keeping a lookout in all directions. He shifted his crossbow nervously about from jaws to field pack and back to jaws. Just a few more minutes…

  Chitiratte circled the hospital compound once more. It was soft duty. Even though this stretch of wood had been spared, the drywind fires had chased the bigger wildlife downstream. This close to the river, the ground was covered with softbush, and there was scarcely a thorn to be found. Pacing around the hospital was like a walk on Woodcarver’s Green down south. A few hundred yards east was harder work—getting the wagons and supplies in shape for the climb.

  The fragments knew that something was up. Here and there, heads stuck up from pallets and burrows. They watched the wagons being loaded, heard the familiar voices of friends. The dumbest ones felt a call to duty; he had chased three able-bodied singles back into the compound. No way such feebs could be of any help. When the army marched up Margrum Climb, the hospital would stay behind. Chitiratte wished he could too. He’d been working for the Boss long enough to guess whence his orders ultimately came; Chitiratte suspected that not many would be coming back from Margrum Climb.

  He turned three pairs of eyes toward the mantis creature. This latest job was the riskiest thing he’d been a part of. If it worked out he might just demand that the Boss leave him with the hospital. Just be careful, old fellow. Vendacious didn’t get where he is by leaving loose ends. Chitiratte had seen what happened to that easterner who nosed a little too close into the Boss’s business.

  Damn but the human was slow! She’d been grunting at that one singleton for five minutes. You’d think she was having sex with these frags for all the time she spent with them. Well, she’d pay for the familiarity very soon. He started to cock his bow, then thought better of it. Accident, accident. It must all look like an accident.

  Aha. The Two-legs was collecting food and water bowls and stowing them on the meal cart. Chitiratte made unobtrusive haste around the hospital perimeter, positioning himself in view of the Kratzi duo—the fragment that would actually do the killing.

  Kratzinissinari had been a foot trooper before losing the Nissinari parts of himself. He had no connection with the Boss or Security. But he’d been known as a crazy-headed get of bitches, a pack that was always on the edge of combat rage. Getting killed back to two members normally has a gentling influence. In this case—well, the Boss claimed that Kratzi was specially prepared, a trap ready to be sprung. All Chitiratte need do was give the signal, and the duo would tear the mantis apart. A great tragedy. Of course, Chitiratte would be there, the alert hospital warden. He would quickly put arrows through Kratzi’s brains … but alas, not in time to save the Two-Legs.

  The human dragged the meal cart awkwardly around root bushes toward Kratzi, her next patient. The duo came out of its burrow, speaking half-witted greetings that even Chitiratte could not understand. There were undertones though, a killing anger that edged its friendly mien. Of course, the mantis thing didn’t notice. She stopped the cart, began filling food and water bowls, all the time grunting away at the twosome. In a moment, s
he would bend down to put the food on the ground… For half an instant, Chitiratte considered shooting the mantis himself if Kratzi were not immediately successful. He could claim it was a tragic miss. He really didn’t like the Two-Legs. The mantis creature was a menacing thing; it was so tall and moved so weirdly. By now he knew it was fragile compared to packs, but it was scary to think of a single animal so smart as this. He shelved the temptation even faster than he had thought it. No telling what price he might pay for that, even if they believed his shot was an accident. No altruism today, thank you very much; Kratzi’s jaws and claws would have to do.

  One of Kratzi’s heads was looking in Chitiratte’s general direction. Now the mantis picked up the bowls and turned from the meal cart—

  “Hei, Johanna! How is it going?”

  Johanna looked up from the stew to see Peregrine Wickwrackscar walking along the edge of the hospital. He was moving to get as close as possible without invading the mind sounds of the patients. The guard who had stopped there a moment before retreated before his advance and stopped a few meters further on. “Pretty good,” she called back. “You know the one on wheels? He actually ate some stew tonight.”

  “Good. I’ve been thinking about him and the threesome on the other side of the hospital.”

  “The wounded medic?”

  “Yes. What’s left of Trellelak is all female, you know. I’ve been listening to mind sounds and—” Pilgrim’s explanation was delivered in fluent Samnorsk, but it didn’t make much sense to Johanna. Brood kenning had so many concepts without referents in human language that even Pilgrim couldn’t make it clear. The only obvious part was that since Blacky was a male, there was a chance that he and the medic threesome might have pups early enough to bind the group. The rest was talk of “mood resonance” and “meshing weak points with strong”. Pilgrim claimed to be an amateur at brood kenning, but it was interesting the way the docs—and even Woodcarver sometimes—deferred to him. In his travels he had been through a lot. His matchups seemed to “take” more often than anybody’s. She waved him to silence. “Okay. We’ll try it soon as I’ve fed everybody.”