Transcending was
tailor-made, too, re-establishing the Power that had set the trap to begin
with.
We're not sure of the details, but a scenario such as this is
inevitable. What we must do is also clear. Straumli Realm is at the heart of
the Blight, obviously beyond all attack. But there are other human colonies.
We ask the Net to help in identifying all of them. We ourselves are not a
large civilization, but we would be happy to coordinate the information
gathering, and the military action that is required to prevent the Blight's
spread in the Middle Beyond.
For nearly seventeen weeks, we've been calling for action. Had you
listened in the beginning, a concerted strike might have been sufficient to
destroy the Straumli Realm. Isn't the Fall of Relay enough to wake you up?
Friends, if we act together we still have a chance.

Death to vermin.

The bastards even played on humanity's foundling nature. Foundling
races were rare, but scarcely unknown. Now these Death-to-Vermin creatures
were turning the Miracle of Nyjora into something deadly evil.
Death to Vermin were the only ones to call for pogroms, but even
respected posters were saying things that indirectly might support such
action:

Crypto: 0
As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc
Language path: Triskweline, SjK units
From: Sandor Arbitration Intelligence at the Zoo [A known military
corporation of the High Beyond. If this is a masquerade, somebody is living
dangerously.]
Subject: Blighter Video thread, Hanse subthread
Key phrases: limits on the Blight; the Blight is searching something
Distribution:
Threat of the Blight, Close-coupled Automation Interest Group, War Trackers Interest Group

Date: 11.94 days since Fall of Relay
Text of message:
The Blight admits that it is a Power that tele-operates sophonts in the
Beyond. But consider how difficult it is to have a close- coupled automation
with time lags of more than a few milliseconds. The Known Net is a perfect
illustration of this: Lags range between five milliseconds for systems that
are a couple of light-years apart -- to (at least) several hundred seconds
when messages must pass through intermediate nodes. This, combined with the
low bandwidth available across interstellar distances, makes the Known Net a
loose forum for the exchange of information and lies. And these restrictions
are inherent in the nature of the Beyond, part of the same restrictions that
make it impossible for the Powers to exist down here.
We conclude that even the Blight can't attain close-coupled control
except in the High Beyond. At the Top, the Blight's sophont agents are
literally its limbs. In the Middle Beyond, we believe mental "possession" is
possible but that considerable preprocessing must be done in the controlled
mind. Furthermore, considerable external equipment (the bulky items
characteristic of those depths) is needed to support the communication.
Direct, millisecond-by-millisecond, control is normally impractical in the
Middle Beyond. Combat at this level would involve hierarchical control.
Long-term operations would also use intimidation, fraud, and traitors.
These are the threats that you of the Middle and Low Beyond should
recognize.
These are the Blight's tools in the Middle and Low Beyond, and what you
should guard against for the immediate future. We don't see imperial
takeovers; there's no profit [sustenance] in it. Even the destruction of
Relay was probably just a byplay to the murder it was simultaneously
committing in the Transcend. The greatest tragedies will continue to be at
the Top and in the Low Transcend. But we know that the Blight is searching
for something; it has attacked at great distances where major archives were
the target. Beware of traitors and spies.

Even some of humanity's supporters sent a chill through Ravna:

Crypto: 0
As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc
Language path: Triskweline, SjK units
From: Hanse
Subject: Blighter Video thread, Alliance for the Defense subthread
Key phrases: Death Race Theory
Distribution:
Threat of the Blight, War Trackers Interest Group, Homo Sapiens Interest Group

Date: 18.29 days since Fall of Relay
Text of message:
I have obtained specimens from the human worlds in our volume. Detailed
analysis is available in the Homo sapiens interest group archive. My
conclusions: previous (but less intensive) analysis of human phys/psych is
correct. The race has no built-in structures to support remote control.
Experiments with living subjects showed no special inclination toward
submission. I found little or no evidence of artificial optimization. (There
was evidence of DNA surgery to improve disease resistance: drift timing
dated the hackwork at two thousand years Before Present. The blood of
Straumli Realm subjects carried an optigens, Thirault [a cheap medical
recipe that can be tailored across a wide mammalian range].) This race -- as
represented by our specimens -- looks like something that arrived from the
Slow Zone quite recently, probably from a single origin world.
Has anyone done such retesting on more distant human worlds?

Crypto: 0
As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc
Language path: Baeloresk-&gt;Triskweline, SjK units
From: Alliance for the Defense [Claimed cooperative of five
polyspecific empires in the Beyond below Straumli Realm. No record of
existence before the Fall of the Realm.]
Subject: Blighter Video thread, Hanse 1
Distribution:
Threat of the Blight, War Trackers Interest Group, Homo Sapiens Interest Group

Date: 19.43 days since Fall of Relay
Text of message:
Who is this "Hanse?" It makes objective, tough-sounding noises about
testing human specimens, but it keeps its own nature secret. Don't be fooled
by humans telling you about themselves! In fact, we have no way of testing
the creatures that dwell in Straumli Realm; their protector will see to
that.
Death to vermin.

And there was a little boy trapped at the bottom of the well. Some
days, no communication was possible. Other days, when the OOB antenna swarm
was tuned in exactly the right direction and when the vagaries of the zone
favored it -- then Ravna could hear his ship. Even then the signal was so
faint, so distorted, that the effective transmission rate was just a few
bits per second.
Jefri and his problems might be only the smallest footnote to the story
of the Blight (less than that, since no one knew of him), but to Ravna
Bergsndot these conversations were the only bright thing in her life just
now.
The kid was very lonely, but less so now, she thought. She learned
about his friend Amdi, about the stern Tyrathect and the heroic Mr. Steel
and the proud Tines. Ravna smiled to herself, at herself. The walls of her
cabin displayed a flat mural of jungle. Deep in the drippy murk lay regular
shadows -- a castle built in the roots of a giant mangrove tree. The mural
was a famous one; the original had been an analog work from three thousand
years ago. It showed life at an even further remove, during the Dark Ages on
Nyjora. She and Lynne had spent much of their childhood imagining that they
were transported to such a time. Little Jefri was trapped in the real thing.
Woodcarver's butchers were no interstellar threat, but they were a deadly
horror to those around them. Thank goodness Jefri had not seen the killing.
This was a real medieval world. A tough and unforgiving place, even if
Jefri had fallen in with fair-minded people. And the Nyjoran comparison was
only vaguely appropriate. These Tines were pack minds; even old Grondr
'Kalir had been surprised at that.
All through Jefri's mail, Ravna could see the panic among Steel's
people:

Mister Steel asked me again if theres any way we can make our ship to
fly even a little. I dont know. We almost crashed, I think. We need guns.
That would save us, at least till you get here. They have bows and arrows
just like in Nyjoran days, but no guns. Hes asking me, can you teach us to
make guns?
Woodcarver's raiders would return, and this time in enough force to
overrun Steel's little kingdom. Back when they thought OOB's flight would be
only thirty or forty days, that had not seemed great a risk, but now ....
Ravna might arrive to find Woodcarver's murdering complete.

Oh Pham, dear Pham. If you ever really were, please come back now. Pham
Nuwen of medieval Canberra. Pham Nuwen, trader from the Slowness.... What
would someone such as you make of this? Hmm.

.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush

CHAPTER 21

Ravna knew that -- under his bluster -- Blueshell was at least as much
a worrier as she. Worse, he was a nitpicker. The next time Ravna asked him
about their progress, he retreated into technicalities.
Finally Ravna broke in, "Look. The kid is sitting on something that
just might blow the Blight sky high, and all he has are bows and arrows. How
the long will it be till we get down there, Blueshell?"
Blueshell rolled nervously back and forth across the ceiling. The
Skroderiders had reaction jets; they could maneuver in free fall more
adroitly than most humans. Instead they used stick-patches, and rolled
around on the walls. In a way, it was kind of cute. Just now, it was
irritating.
At least they could talk; she glanced across the bridge to where Pham
Nuwen sat facing the bridge's main display. As usual, all his attention was
fixed on the slowly moving stars. He was unshaven, his reddish beard bright
on his skin; his long hair floated snarled and uncombed. Physically he was
cured of his injuries. Ship's surgeon had even replaced the muscle mass that
Old One's communication equipment had usurped. Pham could dress and feed
himself now, but he still lived in a private dreamworld.
The two riders twittered at each other. It was Greenstalk who finally
answered her question: "Truly, we're not sure how long. The quality of the
Beyond changes as we descend. Each jump is taking us a fraction longer than
the one before."
"I know that. We're moving toward the Slow Zone. But the ship is
designed for that; it should be an easy matter to extrapolate the slowing."
Blueshell extended a tendril from ceiling to floor. He diddled with the
matte corrugations for a second and then his voder made a sound of human
embarrassment. "Ordinarily you would be correct, my lady Ravna. But this is
a special case.... For one thing, it appears that the zones themselves are
in flux."
"What?"
"It's not that unheard of. Small shifts are going on all the time.
That's a major purpose for bottom-lugger ships: to track the changes. We're
having the bad luck to run through the middle of the uncertainty."
Actually, Ravna had known that interface turbulence was high at the
Bottom below here. She just didn't think of it in grandiose terms like "zone
shifting"; she also hadn't realized it was serious enough to affect them
yet.
"Okay. How bad can it get then? How much can it slow us?"
"Oh my." Blueshell rolled to the far wall; he was standing on starry
sky now. "It would be nice to be a Low Skroderider. So many problems my high
calling brings me. I wish I could be deep in surf right now, thinking on
olden memories." Of other days in the surf.
Greenstalk carried on for him: "It's not 'the tide, how high can it
rise?' It's 'this storm, how bad can it get?' Right now it is worse than
anything in this region during the last thousand years. However, we have
been following the local news; most agree that the storm has peaked. If our
other problem gets no worse, we should arrive in about one hundred and
twenty days."

Our other problem. Ravna drifted to the center of the bridge and
strapped onto a saddle. "You're talking about the damage we took getting out
of Relay. The ultradrive spines, right? How are they holding up?"
"Quite well, apparently. We've not tried to jump faster than eighty
percent of design max. On the other hand, we lack good diagnostics. It's
conceivable that serious degradation might happen rather suddenly."
"Conceivable, but unlikely," put in Greenstalk.
Ravna nodded. Considering all their other problems, there was no point
in contemplating possibilities beyond their control. Back on Relay, this had
looked like a thirty or forty day trip. Now ... the boy in the well might
have to be brave for a long time yet, no matter how much she wished
otherwise. Hmm. Time for Plan B then. Time for what someone like Pham Nuwen
might suggest. She pushed off the floor and settled by Greenstalk. "Okay, so
the best we can plan on is one hundred and twenty days. If the Zone surge
gets worse or if we have to get repairs..." Get repairs where? That might be
only a delay, not an impossibility. The rebuilt OOB was supposed to be to
repairable even in the Low Beyond. "Maybe even two hundred days." She
glanced at Blueshell, but he didn't interrupt with his usual amendments and
qualifications. "You've both read the messages we're getting from the boy.
He says the locals are going to be overrun, probably in less than one
hundred days. Somehow, we have to help him ... before we actually arrive
there."
Greenstalk rattled her fronds in a way Ravna took for puzzlement.
She looked across the deck at Pham, and raised her voice a trifle. Hey
you, you should be an expert on this! "You Skroderiders may not recognize
it, but this is a problem that's been seen a million times in the Slow Zone:
civilizations are separated by years -- centuries -- of travel time. They
fall into dark ages. They become just as primitive as the pack creatures,
these 'Tines'. Then they get visited from outside. In a short time, they
have technology back again." Pham's head did not turn; he just looked out
across the starscape.
The Skroderiders rattled at each other, then:
"But how can that help us? Doesn't rebuilding a civilization take
dozens of years?"
"And besides, there's nothing to rebuild on the Tines' world. According
to the child, this is a race without antecedents. How long does it take to
found a civilization?"
Ravna waved a hand at the objections. Don't stop me, I'm on a roll.
"That's not the point. We are in communication with them. We have a good
general library on board. Original inventors don't know where they're going;
they're groping in the dark. Even the archaeologist/engineers of Nyjora had
to reinvent much. But we know everything about making airplanes and such; we
know hundreds of ways of going at it." Now faced with necessity, Ravna was
suddenly sure they could do it. "We can study all the development paths,
eliminate the dead ends. Even more, we can find the quickest way to go from
medieval to specific inventions, things that can beat whatever barbarians
are attacking Jefri's friends."
Ravna's speech tumbled to a stop. She stared, grinning, first at
Greenstalk and then at Blueshell. But a silent Skroderider is one of the
universe's more impassive audiences. It was hard even to tell if they were
looking at her. After a moment Greenstalk said, "Yes, I see. And rediscovery
being so common in the Slow Zone, most of this may already be worked out in
the ship's library."
That's when it happened: Pham turned from the window. He looked across
the deck at Ravna and the Riders. For the first time since Relay, he spoke.
Even more, the words weren't nonsense, though it took her a moment to
understand. "Guns and radios," he said.
"Ah ... yes." She looked back at him. Think of something to make him
say more. "Why those in particular?"
Pham Nuwen shrugged. "It worked on Canberra."
Then damn Blueshell started talking, something about doing a library
search. Pham stared at them for moment, his face expressionless. He turned
back to watch the stars, and the moment was lost.

.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush

CHAPTER 22

"Pham?" He heard Ravna's voice just behind him. She had stayed on the
bridge after the Riders left, departing on whatever meaningless preparations
their meeting had ordained. He didn't reply, and after a moment she drifted
around and blocked his view of the stars. Almost automatically, he found
himself focussing on her face.
"Thank you for talking to us.... We need you more than ever."
He could still see lots of stars. They were all around her, slowly
moving. Ravna cocked her head, the way she did when she meant friendly
puzzlement. "We can help...."
He didn't answer. What had make him speak just now? Then: "You can't
help the dead," he said, vaguely surprised at his own speaking. Like eye
focussing, the speech must be a reflex.
"You're not dead. You're as alive as I am."
Then words tumbled from him; more than in all the days since Relay.
"True. The illusion of self-awareness. Happy automatons, running on trivial
programs. I'll bet you never guess. From the inside, how can you? From the
outside, from Old One's view -- " He looked away from her, dizzy with a
doubled vision.
Ravna drifted closer till her face was just centimeters from his. She
floated free, except for one foot tucked into the floor. "Dear Pham, you are
wrong. You've been at the Bottom, and at the Top, but never in between. ...
'The illusion of self-awareness'? That's a commonplace of any practical
philosophy in the Beyond. It has some beautiful consequences, and some scary
ones. All you know are the scary ones. Think: the illusion must apply just
as surely to the Powers."
"No. He could make devices like you and I."
"Being dead is a choice, Pham." She reached out to pass her hand down
his shoulder and arm. He had a typical 0-gee change of perspective; "down"
seemed to rotate sideways, and he was looking up at her. Suddenly he was
aware of his splotchy beard, his tangled hair floating all about. He looked
up at Ravna, remembering everything he'd thought about her. Back on Relay
she'd seemed bright; maybe not smarter than he, but as smart as most
competitors of the Qeng Ho. But there were other memories, how Old One had
seen her. As usual, His memories were overwhelming; about this one woman,
there was more insight than from all Pham's life experience. As usual, it
was mostly unintelligible. Even His emotions were hard to interpret. But ...
He had thought of Ravna a little like ... a favored dog. Old One could see
right through her. Ravna Bergsndot was a little manipulative; He had been
pleased/amused(?) by that fact. But behind her talk and argument, He'd seen
a great deal of ... "goodness" might be the human word. Old One had wished
her well. In the end, He had even tried to help. Insight flitted past him,
too fast to catch. Ravna was talking again:
"What happened to you is terrible enough, Pham, but it's happened to
others. I've read of cases. Even the Powers are not immortal. Sometimes they
fight among themselves, and someone gets killed. Sometimes, one commits
suicide. There's a star system, Gods' Doom it's called in the story: A
million years ago, it was in the Transcend. It was visited by a party of the
Powers. There was a Zone surge. Suddenly the system was twenty light-years
deep in the Beyond. That's about the biggest surge there is firm record of.
The Powers at Gods' Doom didn't have a chance. They all died, some to rot
and rusted ruin ... others to the level of mere human minds."
"W-what became of those?"
She hesitated, took one of his hands between hers. "You can look it up.
The point is, it happens. To the victims, it's the end of the world. But
from our side, the human side.... Well, the human Pham Nuwen was lucky;
Greenstalk says the failure of Old One's connections didn't do gross organic
damage. Maybe there's subtle damage; sometimes the remnants just destroy
themselves, whatever is left."
Pham felt tears leaking from his eyes. And knew that part of the
deadness inside had been grief for His own death. "Subtle damage!" He shook
his head and the tears drifted into the air. "My head is stuffed with Him,
with His memories." Memories? They towered over everything else. Yet he
could not understand them. He could not understand the details. He could not
even understand the emotions, except as inane simplifications -- joy,
laughter, wonder, fear and icy-steel determination. Now, he was lost in
those memories, wandering like an idiot in a cathedral. Not understanding,
cowering before icons.
She pivoted around their clasped hands. After a moment, her knee bumped
gently against his. "You're still human, you still have your own -- ", her
own voice broke as she saw the look in his eyes.
"My own memories?" Scattered amid the unintelligible he would stumble
on them: himself at five years, sitting on the straw in the great hall,
alert for the appearance of any adult; royals were not supposed to play in
the filth. Ten years later, making love to Cindi for the first time. A year
after that, seeing his first flying machine, the orbital ferry that landed
on his father's parade field. The decades aspace. "Yes, the Qeng Ho. Pham
Nuwen, the great Trader of the Slowness. All the memories are still there.
And for all I know, it's all the Old One's lie, an afternoon's fraud to fool
the Relayers."
Ravna bit her lip, but didn't say anything. She was too honest to lie,
even now.
He reached with his free hand to brush her hair away from her face. "I
know you said that too, Rav. Don't feel bad: I would have caught on by now
anyway."
"Yeah," she said softly. Then she was looking him straight in the eye.
"But know this. One human to another: You are a human now. And there could
have been a Qeng Ho, and you could have been exactly what you remember. And
whatever the past, you could be great in the future."
Ghostly echoes, more than memory and less than reason: For an instant
he saw her with wiser eyes. She loves you, foolish one. Almost laughter,
kindly laughter.
He slid his arms around her, drawing her tight against him. She was so
real. He felt her slip her leg between his. To laugh. Like heart massage,
unthinking reflex bringing a mind back to life. So foolish, so trivial, but,
"I -- I want to come back." The words came out strangled in sobs. "There's
so much inside me now, so much I can't understand. I'm lost inside my own
head."
She didn't say anything, probably couldn't even understand his speech.
For a moment, all he knew was the feel of her in his arms, hugging back. Oh
please, I do want to come back.

Making it on the bridge of a starship was something Ravna had never
done before. But then she'd never had her own starship before, either. They
don't call this a bottom lugger for nothing. In the excitement, Pham lost
his tiedown. They floated free, occasionally bumping into walls and
discarded clothing, or drifting through tears. After many minutes, they
ended up with their heads just a few centimeters off the floor, the rest of
them angled off toward the ceiling. She was vaguely aware that her pants
were flying like a banner from where they had caught on her ankle. The
affair wasn't quite the stuff of romance fiction. For one thing, floating
free you just couldn't get any leverage. For another.... Pham leaned back
from her, relaxing his grip on her back. She brushed aside his red hair and
looked into bloodshot eyes. "You know," he said shakily, "I never guessed I
could cry so hard my face hurt."
She smiled back. "You've led a charmed life then." She arched her back
against his hands, then drew him gently close. They floated in silence for
several minutes, their bodies relaxing into each other's curves, sensing
nothing but each other.
Then: "Thank you, Ravna."
"... my pleasure." Her voice came dreamy serious, and she hugged him
tighter. Strange, all the things he had been to her, some frightening, some
endearing, some enraging. And some she couldn't have admitted -- even to
herself -- till now. For the first time since the fall of Relay, she felt
real hope. A silly physical reaction maybe ... but maybe not. Here in her
arms was a guy who might be the equal of any story book adventurer, and
more: someone who had been part of a Power.
"Pham ... what do you think really happened back on Relay? Why was Old
One murdered?"
Pham's chuckle seemed unforced, but his arms stiffened around her.
"You're asking me? I was dying at the time, remember.... No, that's wrong.
Old One, He was dying at the time." He was silent for a minute. The bridge
turned slowly around them, silent views on the stars beyond. "My godself was
in pain, I know that. He was desperate, panicked.... But He was also trying
to do something to me before He died." His voice went soft, wondering. "Yes.
It was like I was some cheap piece of luggage, and He was stuffing me with
every piece of crap that he could move. You know, ten kilos in a nine kilo
sack. He knew it was hurting me -- I was part of Him, after all -- but that
didn't matter." He twisted back from her, his face getting a little wild
again. "I'm not a sadist; I don't believe He was either. I -- "
Ravna shook her head. "I ... I think he was downloading."
Pham was silent an instant, trying to fit the idea into his situation.
"That doesn't makes sense. There's not room in me to be superhuman." Fear
chased hope in tight circles.
"No, no, wait. You're right. Even if the dying Power figures
reincarnation is possible, there's not enough space in a normal brain to
store much. But Old One was trying for something else.... Remember how I
begged Him to help with our trip to the Bottom?"
"Yes. I -- He -- was sympathetic, the way you might be with animals
that are confronting some new predator. He never considered that the
Perversion might be a threat to him, not until -- "
"Right. Not until he was under attack. That was a complete surprise to
the Powers; suddenly the Perversion was more than a curious problem for
underminds. Then Old One really did try to help. He jammed plans and
automation down into you. He jammed so much, you nearly died, so much you
can't make sense of it. I've read about things like that in Applied Theology
-- " as much legend as fact. "Godshatter, it's called."
"Godshatter?" He seemed to play with the word, wondering. "What a
strange name. I remember His panic. But if He was doing what you say, why
didn't He just tell me? And if I'm filled with good advice, how come all I
see inside is ..." his gaze became a little like days past, "darkness ...
dark statues with sharp edges, crowding."
Again a long silence. But now she could almost feel Pham thinking. His
arms twitched tight and an occasional shudder swept his body. "Yes ... yes.
Lots of things fit. Most of it I still don't understand, never will. Old One
discovered something right there at the end." His arms tightened again, and
he buried his face against her neck. "It was a very ... personal ... sort of
murder the Perversion committed on Him. Even dying, Old One learned." More
silence. "The Perversion is something very old, Ravna. Probably billions of
years. A threat Old One could only theorize before it actually killed Him.
But ..."
One minute. Two. Yet Pham did not continue. "Don't worry, Pham. Give it
time."
"Yeah." He backed off far enough to look her square in the face. "But I
know this much now: Old One did this for a reason. We aren't on a fool's
chase. There's something on the Bottom, in that Straumer ship, that Old One
thought could make a difference."
He ran his hand lightly across her face, and his smile was sad where
there should have been joy. "But don't you see, Ravna? If you're right,
today may be the most human I'll ever be. I'm full of Old One's download,
this godshatter. Most of it I'll never consciously understand, but if things
work properly, it will eventually come exploding out. His remote device; His
robot at the Bottom of the Beyond."

No! But she made herself shrug. "Maybe. But you're human, and we're
working for the same things.... and I'm not letting you go."

Ravna had known that "jumpstarting" technology must be a topic in the
ship's library. It turned out the subject was a major academic specialty.
Besides ten thousand case studies, there were customizing programs and lots
of very dull-looking theory. Though the "rediscovery problem" was trivial in
the Beyond, down in the Slow Zone almost every conceivable combination of
events had happened. Civilizations in the Slowness could not last more than
a few thousand years. Their collapse was sometimes a short eclipse, a few
decades spent recovering from war or atmosphere-bashing. Others drove
themselves back to medievalism. And of course, most races eventually
exterminated themselves, at least within their single solar system. Those
that didn't exterminate themselves (and even a few of those that did)
eventually struggled back to their original heights.
The study of these variations was called the Applied History of
Technology. Unfortunately for both academicians and the civilizations in the
Slow Zone, true applications were a bit rare: The events of the case studies
were centuries old before news of them reached the Beyond, and few
researchers were willing to do field work in the Slow Zone, where finding
and conducting a single experiment could cost them much of their lives. In
any case, it was a nice hobby for millions of university departments. One of
the favorite games was to devise minimal paths from a given level of
technology back to the highest level that could be supported in the
Slowness. The details depended on many things, including the initial level
of primitiveness, the amount of residual scientific awareness (or
tolerance), and the physical nature of the race. The historians' theories
were captured in programs whose inputs were facts about the civilization's
plight and the desired results, and whose outputs were the steps that would
most quickly produce those results.
Two days later, the four of them were back on the OOB's bridge. And
this time we're all talking. "So we must decide what inventions to shoot
for, something that will defend the Hidden Island Kingdom -- "
"-- and something 'Mister Steel' can make in less than one hundred
days," said Blueshell. He had spent most of the last two days fiddling with
the development programs in OOB's library.
"I still say guns and radios," said Pham.

Firepower and communications. Ravna grinned at him. Pham's human
memories alone would be enough to save the kids on Tines World. He hadn't
talked any more of Old One's plans. Old One's plans ... in Ravna's mind
those were something like fate, perhaps good, perhaps terrible, but unknown
for now. And even fate can be weaseled. "How about it, Blueshell?" she said.
"Is radio something they can produce quickly, from a standing start?" On
Nyjora, radio had come almost contemporary with orbital flight -- a good
century into the renaissance.
"Indeed, My Lady Ravna. There are simple tricks that are almost never
noticed till a very high technology is attained. For instance, quantum
torsion antennas can be built from silver and cobalt steel arrays, if the
geometry is correct. Unfortunately, finding the proper geometry involves
lots of theory and the ability to solve some large partial differential
equations. There are many Slow Zoners who never discover the principle."
"Okay," said Pham. "But there's still a translation problem. Jefri has
probably heard the word 'cobalt' before, but how can he describe it to
people who don't have the referent? Without knowing a lot more about their
world, we couldn't even describe how to find cobalt- bearing ore."
"That will slow things down," Blueshell admitted. "But the program
accounts for it. Mr. Steel seems to understand the concept of
experimentation. For cobalt, we can provide him with a tree of experiments
based on descriptions of likely ores and appropriate chemical tests."
"It's not quite that simple," said Greenstalk. "Some of the chemical
tests themselves involve search/test trees. And there are other experiments
needed to check toxicity. We know far less about the pack creatures than is
usual with this program."
Pham smiled. "I hope these creatures are properly grateful; I never
heard of 'quantum torsional antennas'. The Tines are ending up with comm
gear that Qeng Ho never had."
But the gift could be made. The question was, could it be done in time
to save Jefri and his ship from the Woodcarvers? The four of them ran the
program again and again. They knew so little about the pack creatures
themselves. The Hidden Island Kingdom appeared fairly flexible. If they were
willing to go all out to follow the directions, and if they had good luck in
finding nearby sources for critical materials, then it looked like they
might have limited supplies of firearms and radios inside of one hundred
days. On the other hand, if the packs of Hidden Island ended up chasing down
some worst-case branches of the search trees, things might stretch out to a
few years.
Ravna found it hard to accept that no matter what the four of them did,
saving Jefri from the Woodcarvers would be partly a matter of luck. Sigh. In
the end, she took the best scheme the Riders could produce, translated it
into simple Samnorsk, and sent it down.

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CHAPTER 23

Steel had always admired military architecture. Now he was adding a new
chapter to the book, building a castle that protected against the sky as
well as the land around. By now the boxy "ship" on stilts was known across
the continent. Before another summer passed, there would be enemy armies
here, trying to take -- or at least destroy -- the prize that had come to
him. Far more deadly: the star people would be here. He must be ready.
Steel inspected the work almost every day now. The stone replacement
for the palisade was in place all across the south perimeter. On the
cliffside, overlooking Hidden Island, his new den was almost complete ...
had been complete for some time, a part of him grumbled. He really should
move over here; the safety of Hidden Island was fast becoming illusion.
Starship Hill was already the center of the Movement -- and that wasn't just
propaganda. What the Flenser embassies abroad called "the oracle on Starship
Hill" was more than a glib liar could dream. Whoever stood nearest that
oracle would ultimately rule, no matter how clever Steel might be otherwise.
He had already transferred or executed several attendants, packs who seemed
just a little too friendly with Amdijefri.
Starship Hill: When the aliens landed, it had been heather and rock.
Through the winter, there'd been a palisade and a wooden shelter. But now
construction had resumed on the castle, the crown whose jewel was the
starship. Soon this hill would be the capital of the continent and the
world. And after that.... Steel looked into the blue depths of the sky. How
much further his rule extended would depend on saying just the right thing,
on building this castle in a very special way. Enough dreaming. Lord Steel
pulled himself together and descended from the new wall along fresh-cut
stone stairs. The yard within was twelve acres, mostly mud. The muck was
cold on his paws, but the snow and slush were confined to dwindling piles
away from the work routes. Spring was well-advanced, and the sun was warm in
the chill air. He could see for miles, out over Hidden Island all the way to
the Ocean, and down the coast along the fjord country. Steel walked the last
hundred yards up the hill to the starship. His guards paced him on either
side, with Shreck bringing up the rear. There was enough room that the
workers didn't have to back away -- and he had given orders that no one was
to stop because of his presence. That was partly to maintain the fraud with
Amdijefri, and partly because the Movement needed this fortress soon. Just
how soon was a question that gnawed.
Steel was still looking in all directions, but his attention was where
it should be now, on the construction work. The yard was piled with cut
stone and construction timbers. Now that the ground was thawing, the
foundations for the inner wall were being dug. Where it was still hard,
Steel's engineers were injecting boiling water. Steam rose from the holes,
obscuring the windlasses and the diggers below. The place was louder than a
battle field: windlasses creaking, blades hacking at dirt, leaders shouting
to work teams. It was also as crowded as close combat, though not nearly so
chaotic.
Steel watched a digger pack at the bottom of one of the trenches. There
were thirty members, so close to each other that their shoulders sometimes
touched. It was an enormous mob, but there was nothing of an orgy about the
association. Even before Woodcarver, construction and factory guilds had
been doing this sort of thing: The thirty-member pack below was probably not
as bright as a threesome. The front rank of ten swung mattocks in unison,
carving steadily into the wall of dirt. When their heads and mattocks were
extended high, the ten members behind them darted forward to scoop back the
dirt and rocks that had just been freed. Behind them, a third tier of
members hauled the dirt from the pit. Making it work was a complicated bit
of timing -- the earth was not homogeneous -- but it was well within the
mental ability of the pack. They could go on like this for hours, shifting
first and second ranks every few minutes. In years past, the guilds
jealously guarded the secret of each special melding. After a hard day's
work, such a team would split into normally intelligent packs -- each going
home very well paid. Steel smiled to himself. Woodcarver had improved on the
old guild tricks -- but Flenser had provided an essential refinement
(actually a borrowing from the Tropics). Why let the team break up at the
end of a work shift? Flenser work teams stayed together indefinitely, housed
in barracks so small they could never recover their separate pack minds. It
worked well. After a year or two, and with proper culling, the original
packs in such teams were dull things that scarcely wanted to break away.
For a moment Steel watched the cut stone being lowered into the new
hole and mortared into place. Then he nodded at the whitejackets in charge,
and walked on. The foundation holes continued right up to the walls of the
starship compound. This was the trickiest construction of all, the part that
would turn the castle into a beautiful snare. A little more information via
Amdijefri and he would know just what to build.
The door to the starship compound was open just now, and a whitejackets
was sitting back to back in the opening. That guard heard the noise an
instant before Steel: two of its members broke ranks to look around the side
of the compound. Almost inaudibly, there came high screams, then honking
attack calls. The whitejackets leaped from the stairs and raced around the
building. Steel and his guards weren't far behind.
He skidded to a stop at the foundation trench on the far side of the
ship. The immedia