Zones of Thought Trilogy

by Vernor Vinge

  Pham ran toward the new flames. Agony. He raised his arms across his face and felt the skin on his hands blistering. He backed away.

  “This way, this way!” Pilgrim’s voice came from behind him, guiding him out. He ran back, stumbling. The pack was in a shallow gully. It had shifted its shields around to face the new stretch of fire. Two of the pack moved out of his way as he dived behind them.

  Both Johanna and the pack were slapping at his head.

  “Your hair’s on fire!” the girl shouted. In seconds they had the fire out. The Pilgrim looked a bit singed, too. Its shoulder pouches were tucked safely shut; for the first time, no inquisitive puppy eyes peeked out.

  “I still can’t see anything, Pham.” It was Ravna from high above. “What’s going on?”

  Quick glance behind him. “We’re okay,” he gasped. “Woodcarver’s packs are tearing up Steel’s. But Blueshell—” He peered between in the shields. It was like looking into a kiln. Right by the castle wall there might be a breathing space. A slim hope, but—

  “Something is moving in there.” Pilgrim had tucked one head briefly around the shield. He withdrew it now, licking his nose from both sides.

  Pham looked again through the crack. The fire had internal shadows, places of not-so-bright that wavered … moved? “I see it too.” He felt Johanna stick her head close to his, peering frantically. “It’s Blueshell, Rav… By the Fleet.” This last said too softly to carry over the fire sound. There was no sign of Jefri Olsndot, but—“Blueshell is rolling through the middle of the fire, Rav.”

  The skrode wheeled out of the deeper oil. Slowly, steadily making its way. And now Pham could see fire within fire, Blueshell’s trunk flaring in rivulets of flame. His fronds were no longer gathered into himself. They extended, writhing with their own fire. “He’s still coming, driving straight out.”

  The skrode cleared the wall of fire, rolled with jerky abandon down the slope. Blueshell didn’t turn toward them, but just before he reached the landing boat, all six wheels grated to a fast stop.

  Pham stood and raced back toward the Skroderider. Pilgrim was already unlimbering his shields and turning to follow him. Johanna Olsndot stood for a second, sad and slight and alone, her gaze stuck hopelessly on the fire and smoke on the castle side. One of the Pilgrim grabbed her sleeve, drawing her back from the fire.

  Pham was at the Rider now. He stared silently for a second. “…Blueshell’s dead, Rav, no way you could doubt if you could see.” The fronds were burnt away, leaving stubs along the stalk. The stalk itself had burst.

  Ravna’s voice in his ear was shuddery. “He drove through that even while he was burning?”

  “Can’t be. He must have been dead after the first few meters. This must all have been on autopilot.” Pham tried to forget the agonized reaching of fronds he had seen back in the fire. He blanked out for a moment, staring at the fire-split flesh.

  The skrode itself radiated heat. Pilgrim sniffed around it, shying away abruptly when a nose came too close. Abruptly he reached out a steel-tined paw and pulled hard on the scarf that covered the hull.

  Johanna screamed and rushed forward. The forms beneath the scarf were unmoving, but unburned. She grabbed her brother by the shoulders, pulling him to the ground. Pham knelt beside her. Is the kid breathing? He was distantly aware of Ravna shouting in his ear, and Pilgrim plucking tiny dogthings off the metal.

  Seconds later the boy started coughing. His arms windmilled against his sister. “Amdi, Amdi!” His eyes opened, widened. “Sis!” And then again. “Amdi?”

  “I don’t know,” said the Pilgrim, standing close to the seven—no, eight—grease-covered forms. “There are some mind sounds but not coherent.” He nosed at three of puppies, doing something that might have been rescue breathing.

  After a moment the little boy began crying, a sound lost in the fire sounds. He crawled across to the puppies, his face right next to one of Pilgrim’s. Johanna was right behind him, holding his shoulders, looking first to Pilgrim and then at the still creatures.

  Pham came to his knees and looked back at the castle. The fire was a little lower now. He stared a long time at the blackened stump that had been Blueshell. Wondering and remembering. Wondering if all the suspicion had been for naught. Wondering what mix of courage and autopilot had been behind the rescue.

  Remembering all the months he had spent with Blueshell, the liking and then the hate—Oh, Blueshell, my friend.

  The fires slowly ebbed. Pham paced the edge of receding heat. He felt the godshatter coming finally back upon him. For once he welcomed it, welcomed the drive and the mania, the blunting of irrelevant feeling. He looked at Pilgrim and Johanna and Jefri and the recovering puppy pack. It was all a meaningless diversion. No, not quite meaningless: It had had an effect, of slowing down progress on what was deadly important.

  He glanced upwards. There were gaps in the sooty clouds, places where he could see the reddish haze of high-level ash and occasional splotches of blue. The castle’s ramparts appeared abandoned, and the battle around the walls had died. “What news?” he said impatiently at the sky.

  Ravna: “I still can’t see much around you, Pham. Large numbers of Tines are retreating northwards. Looks like a fast, coordinated retreat. Nothing like the ‘fight-to-the-last’ that we were seeing before. There are no fires within the castle—or evidence of remaining packs either.”

  Decision. Pham turned back to the others. He struggled to turn sharp commands into reasonable-sounding requests. “Pilgrim! Pilgrim! I need Woodcarver’s help. We have to get inside the castle.”

  Pilgrim didn’t need any special persuasion, though he was full of questions. “You’re going to fly over the walls?” he asked as he bounded toward him.

  Pham was already jogging toward the boat. He boosted Pilgrim aboard, then clambered up. No, he wasn’t going to try to fly the damn thing. “No, just use the loudspeaker to get your boss to find a way in.”

  Seconds later, packtalk was echoing across the hillside. Just minutes more. Just minutes more and I will be facing the Countermeasure. And though he had no conscious notion what might come of that, he felt the godshatter bubbling up for one final takeover, one final effort to do Old One’s will. “Where is the Blighter fleet, Rav?”

  Her answer came back immediately. She had watched the battle below, and the hammer coming down from above. “Forty-eight light-years out.” Mumbled conversation off-mike. “They’ve speeded up a little. They’ll be in-system in four-six hours… I’m sorry, Pham.”

  Crypto: 0

  Syntax: 43

  As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc

  Language path: Triskweline, SjK units

  Apparently From: Sandor Arbitration Intelligence [Not the usual originator, but verified by intermediate sites. Originator may be a branch office or a back-up site.]

  Subject: Our final message?

  Distribution:

  Threat of the Blight

  War Trackers Interest Group

  Where Are They Now, Extinctions Log

  Date: 72.78 days since the Fall of Sjandra Kei

  Key phrases: vast new attack, the Fall of Sandor Arbitration

  Text of message:

  As best we can tell, all our High Beyond sites have been absorbed by the Blight. If you can, please ignore all messages from those sites.

  Until four hours ago, our organization comprised twenty civilizations at the Top. What is left of us doesn’t know what to say or what to do. Things are so slow and murky and dull now; we were not meant to live this low. We intend to disband after this mailing.

  For those who can continue, we want to tell what happened. The new attack was an abrupt thing. Our last recollections from Above are of the Blight suddenly reaching in all directions, sacrificing all its immediate security to acquire as much processing power as possible. We don’t know if we had simply underestimated its power, or if the Blight itself is somehow now desperate—and taking desperate risks.

  Up to 3000 se
conds ago we were under heavy assault along our organization’s internal networks. That has ceased. Temporarily? Or is this the limit of the attack? We don’t know, but if you hear from us again, you will know that the Blight has us.

  Farewell.

  Crypto: 0

  Syntax: 43

  As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc

  Language path: Optima->Acquileron->Triskweline, SjK units

  From: Society for Rational Investigation [Probably a single system in the Middle Beyond, 7500 light-years antispinward of Sjandra Kei]

  Subject: The Big Picture

  Key phrases: The Blight, Nature’s Beauty, Unprecedented Opportunities

  Summary: Life goes on

  Distribution:

  Threat of the Blight

  Society for Rational Network Management

  War Trackers Interest Group

  Date: 72.80 days since the Fall of Sjandra Kei

  Text of message:

  It’s always amusing to see people who think themselves the center of the universe. Take the recent spread of the Blight [references follow for readers not on those threads and newsgroups]. The Blight is an unprecedent change in a limited portion of the Top of the Beyond—far away from most of my readers. I’m sure it’s the ultimate catastrophe for many, and I certainly feel sympathy for such, but a little humor too, that these people somehow think their disaster is the end of everything. Life goes on, folks.

  At the same time, it’s clear that many readers are not paying proper attention to these events—certainly not seeing what is truly significant about them. In the last year, we have witnessed the apparent murders of several Powers and the establishment of a new ecosystem in a portion of the High Beyond. Though far away, these events are without precedent.

  Often before, I have called this the Net of a Million Lies. Well, people, we now have an opportunity to view things while the truth is still manifest. With luck we may solve some fundamental mysteries about the Zones and the Powers.

  I urge readers to watch events below the Blight from as many angles as possible. In particular, we should take advantage of the remaining relay at Debley Down to coordinate observations on both sides of the Blight-affected region. This will be expensive and tedious, since only Middle and Low Beyond sites are available in the affected region, but it will be well worth it.

  General topics to follow:

  The nature of the Blight Net communications: The creature is part Power and part High Beyond, and infinitely interesting.

  The nature of the recent Great Surge in the Low Beyond beneath the Blight: This is another event without clear precedent. Now is the time to study it.…

  The nature of the the Blighter fleet now closing on an off-net site in the Low Beyond: This fleet has been of great interest to War Trackers over the last weeks, but mainly for asinine reasons (who cares about Sjandra Kei and the Aprahant Hegemony; local politics is for locals). The real question should be obvious to all but the brain damaged: Why has the Blight made this great effort so far out its natural depth?

  If there are any ships still in the vicinity of the Blight’s fleet, I urge them to keep War Trackers posted. Failing that, local civilizations should be reimbursed for forwarding ultrawave traces.

  This is all very expensive, but worth it, the observations of the aeon. And the expense will not continue long. The Blight’s fleet should arrive at the target star momentarily. Will it stop and retrieve? Or will we see how a Power destroys the systems which oppose it? Either way, we are blessed with opportunity.

  FORTY-ONE

  Ravna walked across the field toward the waiting packs. The thick smoke had been blown away, but its smell was still heavy in the air. The hillside was burned-over desolation. From above, Steel’s castle had looked like the center of a great, black nipple, hectares of natural and pack-made destruction capping the hill.

  The soldiers silently made way for her. More than one cast an uneasy glance at the starship grounded behind her. She walked slowly past them toward the ones who waited. Eerie the way they sat, like picnickers but all uneasy about each other’s presence. This must be the equivalent of a close staff conference for them. Ravna walked toward the pack at the center, the one sitting on silken mats. Intricate wooden filigree hung around the necks of the adults, but some of those looked sick, old. And there were two puppies sitting out front of it. They stepped precisely forward as Ravna crossed the last stretch of open ground.

  “Er, you’re the Woodcarver?” she asked.

  A woman’s voice, incredibly human, came from one of the larger members. “Yes, Ravna. I’m Woodcarver. But it’s Peregrine you want. He’s up in the castle, with the children.

  “Oh.”

  “We have a wagon. We can take you inwards right away.” One of them pointed at a vehicle being drawn up the hillside. “But you could have landed much closer, could you not?”

  Ravna shook her head. “No. Not … anymore.” This was the best landing that she and Greenstalk could make.

  The heads cocked at her, all a coordinated gesture. “I thought you were in a terrible hurry. Peregrine says there is a fleet of spacers coming hot on your trail.”

  For an instant Ravna didn’t say anything. So Pham had told them of the Blight? But she was glad he had. She shook her head, trying to clear it of the numbness. “Y-yes. We are in a great hurry.” The dataset on her wrist was linked to the OOB. Its tiny display showed the steady approach of the Blight’s fleet.

  All the heads twisted, a gesture that Ravna couldn’t interpret. “And you despair. I fear I understand.”

  How can you? And if you can, how can you forgive us? But all that Ravna said aloud was, “I’m sorry.”

  The Queen mounted her wagon and they rolled across the hillside toward the castle walls. Ravna looked back once. Down slope, the OOB lay like a great, dying moth. Its topside drive spines arched a hundred meters into the air. They glistened a wet, metallic green. Their landing had not been quite a crash. Even now, agrav cancelled some of the craft’s weight. But the drive spines on the ground side were crumpled. Beyond the ship, the hillside fell steeply away to the water and the islands. The westering sun cast hazy shadows across the islands and on the castle beyond the straits. A fantasy scene of castles and starships.

  The display on her wrist serenely counted down the seconds.

  “Steel put gunpowder bombs all around the dome.” Woodcarver swept a couple of noses, pointing upwards. Ravna followed her gesture. The arches were more like a Princess cathedral than military architecture: pink marble challenging the sky. And if it all came down, it would surely wreck the spacecraft parked beneath.

  Woodcarver said that Pham was in there now. They rolled indoors, through dark, cool rooms. Ravna glimpsed row after row of coldsleep boxes. How many might still be revivable? Will we ever find out? The shadows were deep. “You’re sure that Steel’s troops are gone?”

  Woodcarver hesitated, her heads staring in different directions. So far, pack expressions were impossible for Ravna to read. “Reasonably sure. Anybody still in the castle would need to be behind lots of stone, or my search parties would have found them. More important, we have what’s left of Steel.” The Queen seemed to read Ravna’s questioning expression perfectly. “You didn’t know? Apparently Lord Steel came down here to blow all the bombs. It would have been suicide, but that pack was always a crazy one. Someone stopped him. There was blood all over. Two of him are dead. We found the rest wandering around, a whimpering mess… Whoever did Steel in is also behind the rapid retreat. That someone is doing his best to avoid any confrontation. He won’t be back soon, though I fear I’ll have to face dear Flenser eventually.”

  Under the circumstances, Ravna figured that was one problem that would never materialize. Her dataset showed forty-five hours till the Blight’s arrival.

  Jefri and Johanna were by their starship, under the main dome. They sat on the steps of the landing ramp, holding hands. When the wide doors opened and Woodcarver’s wagon drove
through, the girl stood and waved. Then they saw Ravna. The boy walked first quickly then more slowly across the wide floor. “Jefri Olsndot?” Ravna called softly. He had a tentative, dignified posture that seemed much too old for an eight-year-old. Poor Jefri had lost much, and lived with so little for so long. She stepped down from the wagon and walked toward him.

  The boy advanced out of the shadows. He was surrounded by a near mob of small-size pack members. One of them hung on his shoulder; others tumbled around his feet without ever seeming to get in his way; still others followed his path both in front and behind. Jefri stopped well back from her. “Ravna?”

  She nodded.

  “Could you step a little closer? The Queen’s mind sound is too close.” The voice was still the boy’s, but his lips hadn’t moved. She walked the few meters that still separated them. Puppies and boy advanced hesitantly. Up close she could see the rips in his clothing, and what looked like wound dressings on his shoulders and elbows and knees. His face looked recently washed, but his hair was a sticky mess. He looked up at her solemnly, then raised his arms to hug her. “Thank you for coming.” His voice was muffled against her, but he wasn’t crying. “Yes, thank you, thank poor Mr. Blueshell.” His voice again, sad but unmuffled, coming from the pack of puppies all around them.

  Johanna Olsndot had advanced to stand just behind them. Only fourteen is she? Ravna reached a hand toward her. “From what I hear, you were a rescue force all by yourself.”

  Woodcarver’s voice came from the wagon. “Johanna was that. She changed our world.”

  Ravna gestured up the ship’s ramp, at the glow of the interior lighting. “Pham’s up there?”