by Vernor Vinge
Now Ravna was nodding back. That next step was the distillation of a thousand civilizations’ processor designs, optimized for their grotesquely primitive situation at Cold Valley. “Of course,” she said, “that will be even more tedious to wire up.”
“Yup, like tying good rug knots. Thousands of hours. But in a year we’ll have ten or twenty of our own processors. By then we’ll be making vision chips. There will be even more tedious work for paws and hands—”
“But in ten years, we’ll have local automation.” The machines would be doing the wire-ups. It was the beginning she’d promised the Children. It would stink, but it would be enough: “Then we can start shrinking the feature size.” That was the transition point that had always marked the beginning of technological civilization.
“Yup, yup,” said Scrupilo; he had long ago brought into the histories he’d read in Oobii’s archives. For a moment they just stood grinning at each other like idiots. Very happy idiots. She would so much like to play with these connectors, set up her own automatic addition. It was the sort of thing that by itself would not impress any of the Children, except maybe Timor. He—
Timor would have loved this. The thought brought her back to their current awful situation. Play with the gear later. She stepped back from the miracle, her smile leaking away. “You seemed to have other things you wanted to talk about, Scrupilo?”
The pack’s heads continued to bob for a moment, but Scrupilo eventually came down to earth too. He wandered to the window, looked down into the quarry, maybe at the actinic flashes coming from the shed where his crews were forging ribs and spars. Work had begun on a second huge airship, apparently to be called Eyes Above 3; Scrupilo had no imagination when it came to names.
But when Scrup turned back from the window, it wasn’t to talk about EA3. “You know Nevil’s miniature cannon idea is really stupid.”
That was Nevil’s main technological response to the kidnappings, an even higher priority than another airship. “Personal protection for all,” was his slogan for the project. Most of the Children were very much in favor of the idea. Of course, Ravna had always known that very small cannon could be made; such were a commonplace in early civilizations. The trouble was, they were so easy to make and copy, and the Domain already had military superiority in this part of the world; better not to give other nations a clue before it was necessary. Besides, Oobii had ideas for making much more effective personal weapons once the Domain became a little more technically advanced. “But Scrupilo, you know Woodcarver favors the notion of personal cannons.” As of the most recent twice-a-tenday meeting.
The pack made an irritated noise. “You and I have discussed such weapons before. In principle, they are a moderately foolish idea, perhaps necessary in the current emergency. What is stupid is the actual design.” He sent a member across the room to fetch an engineering drawing and thrust it into Ravna’s hands.
The graphic was done by Ravna, from Nevil’s overall description. She stared at it for a moment. “Um, I did include a flash and noise suppressor,” which hadn’t been on Nevil’s wish list. “Did you want a longer barrel?”
“Well, yes! Would you want this going off in your face?” Scrupilo had damaged his White Head’s hearing in experiments with the first field artillery. “But that’s the least of it. Look at the, what do you call it, the stock.”
That part was also Nevil’s idea, but it had seemed rather clever to Ravna. “That’s modeled after the handle on a Tinish jaw-axe, Scrupilo.” But turned sideways, the lower half looked much like the handgrip of Pham’s long-gone pistol.
“Foolishness!” All but one of Scrupilo came over and grabbed the paper out of her hands. “For a human with arms and hands, this would be easy to hold and fire and reload. But for a pack—look, helper members have to come around on the sides and stick snouts forward of the gunner. The idea of cartridges and cartridge boxes is nice enough, but I can’t imagine scrambling around beneath the muzzle to insert a reload.”
Ravna stared at the picture; she really should have fed Nevil’s suggestion through Oobii’s multi-species designer. This was a weapon for humans. “Do you have some changes to suggest?”
“I could put my mind to it.” Again, he glanced down through the windows. “If we have to waste time, at least we can do it right.” He pulled blank paper from one of his panniers and began sketching. “Hmm, a longer barrel would improve accuracy and make the gun easier to shoot and hold and service.…”
Over the next ten minutes the two of them—mainly Scrupilo, since Ravna was a dunce at design without Oobii—worked out a number of features. Not surprisingly, what they came up with looked a lot more like a crew-served weapon than a hand gun. “But I’m sure a single human would be quite proficient with it. Then—” He looked up, as if listening. All Ravna heard was the continuing bang of the drop forge—but the one of Scrupilo still by the window was scrunched against the glass, trying to look straight down.
Okay, he was waiting for someone. Ravna crossed the room and leaned close to the glass, blocking the reflected room lighting with her hands. The flashes from the forge shone through the rain. Freezing water glittered as it fell from the lab’s eaves. Looking down in the direction of Scrupilo’s gaze, she could see the flight of rickety wooden stairs that zigzagged up the quarry wall to Scrupilo’s office. Twilight showed dark shapes ascending single-file. It looked like three packs. A flash of light from the forge revealed that the middle pack was a sevensome, all in heavy raincloaks, including one wee member who rode the shoulders of the largest. Queen Woodcarver.
Woodcarver’s first bodyguard emerged on the landing just outside Scrupilo’s door. Ravna didn’t recognize the pack. After a moment it spread around the outside of the building, watching in all directions. Then, one at a time, Woodcarver popped up. She stood for a moment under the portico, removing her raincloaks and shaking off the water that had made it through to her pelts. She gave Ravna a sharp look, then came indoors, bringing a frigid bloom of air with her.
“Spring is the worst season,” she said. “It shouldn’t visit us in winter.” Two of her were looking directly at Ravna. The Puppy from Hell was staring at Scrupilo’s labware, a destructive gleam in its eye. “But you have much more extreme environments aspace, don’t you, Ravna?”
“Yes, though they’re so extreme that adequate protection generally means visitors don’t suffer the way we do here.” We’re actually having a civil conversation!
Scrupilo had moved to stand at the far end of the lab, behind quilted screens that were thick enough to allow him to remain in the conversation without getting in the way of Woodcarver’s thoughts.
Woodcarver nodded in his direction. “Are we in private?”
“Yes, my Queen. And anything that could hear us is temporarily disabled.”
The puppy hopped onto a lab bench and sniffed around at the connectors and charge holders. The rest of Woodcarver spread out around Ravna. “You were so much simpler to deal with than Nevil.”
Ravna nodded.
Woodcarver thought a second. “Sorry, I meant that as a compliment. Even an apology. I know I have become difficult to deal with. Surely, my—Pilgrim—has gossiped enough about my state of mind?”
How to respond to that? Ravna tried for something like honesty: “Pilgrim said that your new addition was … distracting.”
Woodcarver chuckled. “What delightful understatement.” Her six adult members were all looking at little Sht. The Puppy from Hell looked back with innocent, what’s-the-fuss body language. Surely that was just Ravna’s human interpretation. After a moment, Woodcarver continued: “A century ago, I would not have gone this road. I certainly wouldn’t have accepted Harmony Redjackets’ crackpot broodkennery. But that was before dear Pilgrim made me adventurous. Now I’m in a bigger mess than I have any clear memory of in my entire existence. Sht came close to undoing me, all before I realized the danger. I’m still searching for balance. Pilgrim has made suggestions, but in the meantime…
”
Woodcarver was mostly looking at Ravna now. “Just so you know, even when we disagree, I will trust you and Johanna and Pilgrim more than anyone.”
Ravna nodded. Powers above! “Thank you.”
“Meantime, we have a dangerous situation to deal with.” She stopped, seemed to be thinking.
From across the room, Scrupilo said, “You mean Nevil and all the scheming he’s up to.”
Two of Woodcarver looked up. “Yes. I’ve watched Nevil carefully since he disposed of Ravna. He intends to take over the Domain, but he’s not as clever as he thinks he is. The question is…” Woodcarver’s voice faded into thoughtfulness.
Scrupilo helpfully put in, “The question is, is Nevil someone’s puppet, some pack much cleverer than he is.”
This time all of Woodcarver’s heads came up. “Scrupilo! Will you please stop interrupting! It’s bad enough having your obsessive mindsound rattling around the room.”
“Sorry! Sorry.”
Her heads turned back toward Ravna, the puppy’s last of all. “The murders and the kidnappings have played perfectly into Nevil’s claws. Was that accidental? If it is, we—you and I together, Ravna—should have no trouble with Nevil’s grand ambitions. But you know Flenser hints around that this is Vendacious’ work. If it is that—or worse, if this is Flenser in some double treason, then we may have been outplayed.” She thought quietly for a moment. “Nevil would have us believe that the Tropicals were behind the attack. I’ve watched that embassy mob for almost ten years. It’s very hard to believe that they could organize this attack.”
“Godsgift was smart enough,” said Ravna, “in an erratic way. Johanna thinks that maybe our trade over the last ten years has made some difference in the Tropics.”
Woodcarver made a little hooting sound. “What difference could it make to a Choir of a hundred million Tines?”
Ravna smiled. “That’s more or less Pilgrim’s reaction to the idea.”
“I know. I talked to both of them earlier this afternoon. Today is my day to grovel apologies and attempt reconciliation. But if Nevil is somebody’s puppet, Godsgift and his mob were key to the operation. For at least five years, we’ve been sniffing around the East Coast, trying to learn more about Tycoon or Vendacious or whoever. Have we been looking in the wrong place? If there is anybody behind Godsgift, that would explain a lot. I think we should actively test the possibility.”
Scrupilo said, “Send Jo and Pilgrim to the Tropics! Oops, sorry.”
Woodcarver waved a head in Scrupilo’s direction. “Just as he says. It’s something we should have done long ago. Even now, Jo and Pilgrim are overflying the mouth of the River Fell.”
Ravna knew how enormous the continental tropics were, even not counting the Great Sandy. “Negative results wouldn’t really prove anything,” she said.
Little Sht snapped at the empty air, but the pack’s tone of voice remained reasonable. “That’s true. But it’s a start. Given what’s happened, we should be paying as much attention to the Tropics as we do the Long Lakes and East Home.”
“Yes.”
“And I wanted some reconnaissance undertaken before Nevil and his friends know that we are about it. Johanna and Pilgrim felt the same way. Nevil thinks they’re headed to Smeltertop today—instead they’re going much much farther.”
One trip was about sixty kilometers and the other was several thousand—but to the agrav, they were about equally difficult. Nevertheless, “I—I wish all of us had had a chance to talk about this. Woodcarver.”
“Why? Both of them wanted to take a look. This first trip will just be a day or two, not like some of the East Coast missions. They’ll stay silent until they’re on the way back.”
“I think there’s a good chance Nevil will know of the mission in any case.”
“So?” said Woodcarver. “That would also argue for us acting quickly. I was completely outmaneuvered by the murders and the kidnappings. And since then, Nevil’s been pushing and shoving. I want to know who we’re up against before they surprise us all again.” She looked around. “And that’s another reason we had to talk. You really must stop acting like a fool. Nevil needs your technical advice, but once he realizes we’re working together, that might not protect you. If he is the tool of Vendacious, then expect the reaction to be violent. I want you to start using bodyguards. I’ve got four packs here who will take you home—that’s in addition to ones you apparently have not even noticed.” She smiled at the look on Ravna’s face. “And as of tonight, I’m increasing the coverage.” All her heads were bobbing, including little Sht’s.
─────
Three hours later, Ravna was finally back at her town house on Starship Hill. More had happened this day than any day since the Battle on Starship Hill—and not a single person harmed in the process! Her mind was working overtime, a combination of triumph and planning and worries: Very shortly, there would be thousands of processor and video components available from the Cold Valley lab—far more than could be immediately wired up to the devices that Scrupilo was building. There would be several years of hard manual labor before the combination of integrated devices and Oobii’s software designs would make a difference, but then life for the Children and the Domain would be transformed. It would be such an enormous win for everyone. So maybe the question was: Just how evil was Nevil? If he was not a partner in the murders and the kidnappings, surely some real compromises would be possible, compromises that would not humiliate him but would still allow the projects Ravna wanted.
And if Nevil was a puppet of Vendacious or whoever? Maybe he could be persuaded to renounce the association. If not … perhaps it all came down to what Jo and Pilgrim discovered once they started looking in the right places. I wish I could talk to them now. That would have to wait, probably for a day or two, to keep this mission secret. But what could they really find in one overflight, even if that was of the heart of the Choir? Mostly likely, this was the beginning of a number of flights—and no way could those be kept secret.
Ravna roamed the town house as she cycled through the possibilities. Outside, she could see the new guards that Woodcarver had assigned. Nothing covert about these fellows. The Queen’s change of heart—or her success in controlling her heart—was almost as big a triumph as anything else that had happened this day. It was also one of the worries that nibbled around the edges of the day’s optimism. So much depended on Woodcarver’s favor and her stability. The Queen still had flashes of anger, failures of attention and memory. The battle to control Woodcarver’s paranoia wasn’t really over.
Ravna’s own thoughts were skittering off in all directions: new insights, new worries. If only she had access to Oobii from here. I should have gone there tonight. There were things that she was missing.
An hour passed. Two. Beyond her second-story windows, she could see that the drizzle had frozen to glassy ice, a veneer that glittered and gleamed beneath the occasional streetlight. Get some sleep. Tomorrow she’d chat with Oobii, maybe find a way to talk with Johanna and Pilgrim. Ravna finally dragged herself off to bed.
She lay in the darkness, listening to the house settle into the subfreezing cold of the night. All these houses were so noisy. In Ravna’s childhood, the indoors and outdoors had been indistinctly separated, and the only sounds one heard were deliberately engineered into the environment. Normally those were the sounds of living things, bats and birds and kittens prowling. Of course, you could make the sounds and the environment whatever you wanted. Her sister Lynne had been big on Silence, just another of the endlessly annoying things about Lynne as a youngster. The two had engaged in sound wars all the time.
Here in the wilderness—Ravna counted all of Tines World as wilderness—sound was the sometime domain of the Tines with their preternatural acoustics. Where the Tines were not involved, sound was a feral thing. Her first few tendays in this town house, before Pilgrim and Johanna arrived as housemates, Ravna could scarcely sleep. There were these thumps in the night.
There were clicks and groans, and no matter how she rationalized them they seemed very threatening. Night after night they repeated. Some of them had come to be almost comforting.
Maybe she slept for a time.…
There was a new creaking. It almost sounded like someone was on the front stairs.
She quietly moved into the living room. Quietly? If it was a pack coming up the stairs, she would surely be heard! On the other hand, if she cried out, the guards on the street would be in here in a moment. She slipped close to the windows, being careful not to stand in silhouette. Outside was still and glittering—
—and no sign of even a single guard pack.
No more creaking on the front stairs. She turned her head a fraction; from here she could see partway down the stairwell. A pack might keep itself quiet to her ears—but human eyes could make up for human ears:
The walls were not utterly dark, and … she saw shadows that looked very much like the heads of two Tines. A pack was sneaking up the stairs.
Surely it can hear that I moved my head, hear the flat of my face. She turned and dove for the backstairs door.
There was a muted screech and the sound of paws pounding up the front stairs. Ravna pulled open the door, leaped through, and slammed it shut. Now the intruder’s hissing was loud. An instant later its bodies slammed into the door. She leaned against the panel; the door couldn’t be locked from this side. It was just her weight and strength that was keeping it shut. Somehow, she had to jam it closed. She flailed around, found the light switch. The stairs were just shoulder wide, and even though this was a house-for-humans, the ceiling was only one meter fifty high. The steps were piled deep with camping equipment and junk that Pilgrim and Johanna had brought back from their expeditions. They bragged about how they traveled light, but they always seemed to have souvenirs.
Just beyond her reach was a bundle of staves, each tipped with a short, wicked blade. She kicked at it, taking some of her weight off the door. The pack was ramming in unison now. The door sprang ajar and a paw full of claws extended through the opening. Ravna slammed back at the door. Something crunched. The member gave a sharp whistle of pain and the paw was withdrawn. There was an instant of peace, presumably while the other side had an “ow ow ow” moment. Ravna swiveled the staves around, jamming their butt ends into the stair railing. She stabbed two or three of the blades into the door. The rest of the bundle came loose in her hands. Okay! She sank all but one of the other staves into various points on the door. Now, when the pounding resumed, the door was jammed shut more securely than all her pushing had accomplished.
