have passed without such help from a Power. The answer is
... complex. Like many sensible developments, this one has a high threshold.
On one side of that threshold, the development appears impossibly unlikely;
on the other, inevitable. The symbiosis of the Helping depends on efficient,
high-bandwidth communication between myself and the beings I Help. Creatures
such as the one now speaking my words must respond as quickly and faithfully
as a hand or a mouth. Their eyes and ears must report across light-years.
This has been hard to achieve -- especially since the system must
essentially be in place before it can function. But, now that the symbiosis
exists, progress will come much faster. Almost any race can be modified to
receive Help."
Almost any race can be modified. The words came from a familiar face,
and in Ravna's birth language ... but the origin was monstrously far away.
There was plenty of analysis. A whole news group had been formed:
Threat of the Blight was spawned from Threats Group, Homo Sapiens Interest
Group, and Close-Coupled Automation. These days it was busier than any five
other groups. In this part of the galaxy, a significant fraction of all
message traffic belonged to the new group. More bits were sent analyzing
poor Øvn Nilsndot's mouthing than had been in the original. Judging
from the flames and contradictions, the signal-to-noise ratio was very low:
Crypto: 0
As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc
Language path: Acquileron->Triskweline, SjK units
From: Khurvark University [Claimed to be habitat-based university in
the Middle Beyond]
Subject: Blighter Video
Summary: The message shows fraud
Distribution:
War Trackers Interest Group, Where are they now Interest Group, Threat of the Blight
Date: 7.06 days since Fall of Relay
Text of message:
It's obvious that this "Helper" is a fraud. We've researched the matter
carefully. Though he is not named, the speaker is a high official in the
former Straumli regime. Now why -- if the "Helper" simply runs the humans as
teleoperated robots -- why is the earlier social structure preserved? The
answer should be clear to any idiot: The Helper does not have the power to
teleoperate large numbers of sentients. Evidently, the Fall of Straumli
Realm consisted of taking over key elements in that civilization's power
structure. It's business as usual for the rest of the race. Our conclusion:
this Helper Symbiosis is just another messianic religion, another screwball
empire excusing its excesses and attempting to trick those it cannot
directly coerce. Don't be fooled!
Crypto: 0
As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc
Language path: Optima->Acquileron->Triskweline, SjK units
From: Society for Rational Investigation [Probably a single system in
Middle Beyond, 5700 light-years antispinward of Sjandra Kei]
Subject: Blighter Video thread, Khurvark University 1
Key phrases: [Probable obscenity] waste of our valuable time
Distribution:
Society for Rational Network Management, Threat of the Blight
Date: 7.91 days since Fall of Relay
Text of message:
Who is a fool? [probable obscenity] [probable obscenity] Idiots who
don't follow all the threads in developing news should not waste my precious
ears with their [clear obscenity] garbage. So you think the "Helper
Symbiosis" is a fraud of Straumli Realm? And what do you think caused the
fall of Relay? In case your head is totally stuck up your rear [ <--
probable insult], there was a Power allied with Relay. That Power is now
dead. You think maybe it just committed suicide? Look it up, Flat Head [
<-- probable insult]. No Power has ever fallen to anything from the
Beyond. The Blight is something new and interesting. I think it's time that
[obscenity] jerks like Khurvark University stick to the noise groups, and
let the rest of us have some intelligent discussion.
And some messages were patent nonsense. One thing about the Net: the
multiple, automatic translations often disguised the fundamental alienness
of participants. Behind the chatty, colloquial postings, there were faraway
realms, so misted by distance and difference that communication was
impossible -- even though it might take a while to realize the fact. For
instance:
Crypto: 0
As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc
Language path: Arbwyth->Trade24->Cherguelen->Triskweline, SjK
units
From: Twirlip of the Mists [Perhaps an organization of cloud fliers in
a single jovian system. Very sparse priors.]
Subject: Blighter Video thread
Key phrases: Hexapodia as the key insight
Distribution:
Threat of the Blight
Date: 8.68 days since Fall of Relay
Text of message:
I haven't had a chance to see the famous video from Straumli Realm,
except as an evocation. (My only gateway onto the Net is very expensive.) Is
it true that humans have six legs? I wasn't sure from the evocation. If
these humans have three pairs of legs, then I think there is an easy
explanation for --
Hexapodia? Six legs? Three pairs of legs? Probably none of these
translations was close to what the bewildered creature of Twirlip had in its
mind. Ravna didn't read any more of that posting.
Crypto: 0
As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc
Language path: Triskweline, SjK units
From: Hanse [No references prior to the Fall of Relay. No probable
source. This is someone being very cautious]
Subject: Blighter Video thread, Khurvark University 1
Distribution:
War Trackers Interest Group, Threat of the Blight
Date: 8.68 days since Fall of Relay
Text of message:
Khurvark University thinks the Blight is a fraud because elements of
the former regime have survived on Straum. There is another explanation.
Suppose the Blight is indeed a Power, and that its claims of effective
symbiosis are generally true. That means that the creature being "Helped" is
no more than a remotely controlled device, his brain simply a local
processor supporting the communication. Would you want to be helped like
that? My question isn't completely rhetorical; the readership is wide enough
that there may be some of you who would answer "yes". However, the vast
majority of naturally evolved, sentient beings would be revolted by the
notion. Surely the Blight knows this. My guess is that the Blight is not a
fraud -- but that the notion of surviving culture in Straumli Realm is.
Subtly, the Blight wanted to convey the impression that only some are
directly enslaved, that cultures as a whole will survive. Combine that with
Blight's claim that not all races can be teleoperated. We're left with the
subtext that immense riches are available to races that associate themselves
with this Power, yet the biological and intellectual imperatives of these
races will still be satisfied.
So, the question remains. Just how complete is the Blight's control
over conquered races? I don't know. There may not be any self-aware minds
left in the Blight's Beyond, only billions of teleoperated devices. One
thing is clear: The Blight needs something from us that it cannot yet take.
And so it went. Tens of thousands of messages, hundreds of points of
view. It was not called the Net of a Million Lies for nothing. Ravna talked
with Blueshell and Greenstalk about it every day, trying to put it together,
trying to decide which interpretation to believe.
The Riders knew humans well, but even they weren't sure of the deadness
in Øvn Nilsndot's face. And Greenstalk knew humans well enough to see
that there was no answer that would comfort Ravna. She rolled back and forth
in front of the News window, finally reached a frond out to touch the human.
"Perhaps Sir Pham can say, once he is well."
Blueshell was bustling, clinical. "If you're right, that means that
somehow the Blight doesn't care what humans and those close to humans know.
In a way that makes sense, but ..." His voder buzzed absentmindedly for a
moment. "I mistrust this message. Four hundred seconds of broad-band, so
rich that it gives full-sense imagery for many different races. That's an
enormous amount of information, and no compression whatsoever.... Maybe it's
sweetened bait, forwarded by us poor Beyonders back to our every nest." That
suspicion had been in the News too. But there were no obvious patterns in
the message, and nothing that talked to network automation. Such subtle
poison might work at the Top of the Beyond, but not down here. And that left
a simpler explanation, one that would make perfect sense even on Nyjora or
Old Earth: the video masked a message to agents already in place.
-=*=-
Vendacious was well-known to the people of Woodcarvers -- but for
mostly the wrong reasons. He was about a century old, the fusion offspring
of Woodcarver on two of his strategists. In his early decades, Vendacious
had managed the city's wood mills. Along the way he devised some clever
improvements on the waterwheel. Vendacious had had his own romantic
entanglements -- mostly with politicians and speech-makers. More and more,
his replacement members inclined him toward public life. For the last thirty
years he had been one of the strongest voices on Woodcarvers Council; for
the last ten, Lord Chamberlain. In both roles, he had stood for the guilds
and for fair trade. There were rumors that if Woodcarver should ever
abdicate or wholly die, Vendacious would be the next Lord of Council. Many
thought that might be the best that could be made of such a disaster --
though Vendacious's pompous speeches were already the bane of the Council.
That was the public's view of Vendacious. Anyone who understood the
ways of security would also guess that the chamberlain managed Woodcarver's
spies. No doubt he had dozens of informants in the mills and on the docks.
But now Scriber knew that even that was just a cover. Imagine -- having
agents in the Flenser inner circle, knowing the Flenser plans, their fears,
their weaknesses, and being able to manipulate them! Vendacious was simply
incredible. Ruefully, Scriber must acknowledge the other's stark genius.
And yet ... this knowledge did not guarantee victory. Not all the
Flenser schemes could be directly managed from the top. Some of the enemy's
low-level operations might proceed unknown and quite successfully ... and it
would only take a single arrow to totally kill Johanna Olsndot.
Here was where Scriber Jaqueramaphan could prove his value.
He asked to move into the castle curtain, on the third floor. No
problem getting permission; his new quarters were smaller, the walls rudely
quilted. A single arrow loop gave an uninspired view across the castle
grounds. For Scriber's new purpose, the room was perfect. Over the next few
days, he took to lurking in the promenades. The main walls were laced with
tunnels, fifteen inches wide by thirty tall. Scriber could get almost
anywhere in the curtain without being seen from outside. He padded single
file from one tunnel to the next, emerging for a few moments on a rampart to
flit from merlon to embrasure to merlon, a head poking out here, a head
poking out there.
Of course he ran into guards, but Jaqueramaphan was cleared to be in
the walls ... and he had studied the guards' routine. They knew he was
around, but Scriber was confident they had no idea of the extent of his
effort. It was hard, cold work, but worth the effort. Scriber's great goal
in life was to do something spectacular and valuable. The problem was, most
of his ideas were so deep that other packs -- even people he respected
immensely -- didn't understand. That had been the problem with Johanna.
Well, after a few more days he could go to Vendacious and then....
As he peeked around corners and through arrow slots, two of Scriber's
members huddled down, taking notes. After ten days, he had enough to impress
even Vendacious.
Vendacious's official residence was surrounded by rooms for assistants
and guards. It was not the place to make a secret offer. Besides, Scriber
had had bad luck with the direct approach before. You could wait days for an
appointment, and the more patient you were, the more you followed the rules,
the more the bureaucrats considered you a nonentity.
But Vendacious was sometimes alone. There was this turret on the old
wall, on the forest side of the castle.... Late on the eleventh day of his
investigation, Scriber stationed himself on that turret and waited. An hour
passed. The wind eased. Heavy fog washed in from the harbor. It oozed up the
old wall like slow-moving sea foam. Everything became very, very quiet --
the way it always does in a thick fog. Scriber nosed moodily around the
turret platform; it really was decrepit. The mortar crumbled under his
claws. It felt like you could pull some of the stones right out of the wall.
Damn. Maybe Vendacious was going to break the pattern and not come up here
today.
But Scriber waited another half hour ... and his patience paid off. He
heard the click of steel on the spiral stairs. There was no sound of
thought; it was just too foggy for that. A minute passed. The trapdoor
popped up and a head stuck through.
Even in the fog, Vendacious's surprise was a fierce hiss.
"Peace, sir! It is only I, loyal Jaqueramaphan."
The head came further out. "What would a loyal citizen be doing up
here?"
"Why, I am here to see you," Scriber said, laughing, "at this, your
secret office. Come on up, sir. With this fog, there is enough room for both
of us."
One after another, Vendacious's members hoisted themselves through the
trapdoor. Some barely made it, their knives and jewelry catching on the door
frame; Vendacious was not the slimmest of packs. The security chief ranged
himself along the far side of the turret, a posture that bespoke suspicion.
He was nothing like the pompous, patronizing pack of their public
encounters. Scriber grinned to himself. He certainly had the other's
attention.
"Well?" Vendacious said in a flat voice.
"Sir. I wish to offer my services. I believe that my very presence here
shows I can be of value to Woodcarver's security. Who but a talented
professional could have determined that you use this place as your secret
den?"
Vendacious seemed to untense a little. He smiled wryly. "Who indeed? I
come here precisely because this part of the old wall can't be seen from
anywhere in the castle. Here I can ... commune with the hills, and be free
of bureaucratic trivia."
Jaqueramaphan nodded. "I understand, sir. But you are wrong in one
detail." He pointed past the security chief. "You can't see it through all
this fog, but on the harbor side of the castle there is a single spot that
has a line of sight on your turret."
"So? Who could see much from -- ah, the eye-tools you brought from the
Republic!"
"Exactly." Scriber reached into a pocket and brought out a telescope.
"Even from across the yard, I could recognize you." The eye-tools could have
made Scriber famous. Woodcarver and Scrupilo had been enchanted by them.
Unfortunately, honesty had required to him to admit that he bought the
devices from an inventor in Rangathir. Never mind that it was he who
recognized the value of the invention, that it was he who used it to help
rescue Johanna. When they discovered that he did not know quite how the
lenses worked, they had accepted his gift of one ... and turned to their own
glass makers. Oh well, he was still the best eye-tool user in this part of
the world.
"It's not just you I've been watching, my lord. That's been the
smallest part of my investigation. Over the last ten days I've spent many
hours on the castle walks."
Vendacious's lips quirked. "Indeed."
"I daresay not many noticed me, and I was very careful that no one saw
me using the eye-tool. In any case," he pulled his book from another pocket,
"I've compiled extensive notes. I know who goes where and when during almost
all the hours of light. You can imagine the power of my technique during the
summer!" He set the book on the floor and slid it toward Vendacious. After a
moment, the other reached a member forward and dragged it toward himself. He
didn't seem very enthusiastic.
"Please understand, sir. I know that you tell Woodcarver what goes on
in the highest Flenser councils. Without your sources we would be helpless
against those lords, but -- "
"Who told you such things?"
Scriber gulped. Brazen it out. He grinned weakly. "No one had to tell
me. I'm a professional, like yourself; and I know how to keep a secret. But
think: there may be others of my ability within the castle, and some might
be traitors. You might never hear of them from your high-placed sources.
Think of the damage they could do. You need my help. With my approach, you
can keep track of everyone. I would be happy to train a corps of
investigators. We could even operate in the city, watching from the market
towers."
The security chief sidled around the parapet; he kicked idly at stones
in the rotted mortar. "The idea has its attractions. Mind you, I think we
have all Flenser's agents identified; we feed them well ... with lies. It's
interesting to hear the lies come back from our sources up there." He
laughed shortly, and glanced over the parapet, thinking. "But you're right.
If we are missing anyone with access to the Two-legs or Dataset ... it could
be disastrous." He turned more heads at Scriber. "You've got a deal. I can
get you four or five people to, ah, train in your methods."
Scriber couldn't control his expression; he almost bounced in
enthusiasm, all eyes on Vendacious. "You won't regret this, sir!"
Vendacious shrugged. "Probably not. Now, how many others have you told
about your investigation? We'll want to bring them in, swear them to
secrecy."
Scriber drew himself up. "My Lord! I told you that I am a professional.
I have kept this completely to myself, waiting for this conversation."
Vendacious smiled and relaxed to an almost genial posture. "Excellent.
Then we can begin."
Maybe it was Vendacious's voice -- a trifle too loud -- or maybe it was
some small sound behind him. Whatever the reason, Scriber turned a head from
the other and saw swift shadows coming over the forest side of the parapet.
Too late he heard the attacker's mind noise.
Arrows hissed, and fire burned through his Phan's throat. He gagged,
but kept himself together and raced around the turret toward Vendacious.
"Help me!" The scream was a waste of speech. Scriber knew, even before the
other drew his knives and backed away.
Vendacious stood clear as his assassin jumped into Scriber's midst.
Rational thought dimmed in a frenzy of noise and slashing pain. Tell
Peregrine! Tell Johanna! The butchering continued for timeless instants and
then --
Part of him was drowning in sticky red. Part of him was blinded.
Jaquerama's thought came in ragged fragments. At least one of him was dead:
Phan lay beheaded in a spreading pool of blood. It steamed in the cold air.
Pain and cold and ... drowning, choking ... tell Johanna.
The assassin and his boss had retreated from him. Vendacious. Security
chief. Traitor-in-chief. Tell Johanna. They stood quietly ... watching him
bleed to death. Too prissy to mess their thoughts with his. They'd wait.
They'd wait ... till his mind noise dimmed, then finish the job.
Quiet. So quiet. The killers' distant thoughts. Sounds of gagging,
moaning. No one would ever know....
Almost all gone. Ja stared dumbly at the two strange packs. One came
toward him, steel claws on its feet, blades in its mouth. No! Ja jumped up,
slipping and skidding on the wet. The pack lunged, but Ja was already
standing on the parapet. He leaped backwards and fell and fell...
... and shattered on rocks far below. Ja pulled himself away from the
wall. There was pain across his back, then numbness. Where am I? Where am I?
Fog everywhere. High above him there were muttering voices. Memories of
knives and tines floated in his small mind, all jumbled. Tell Johanna! He
remembered ... something ... from before. A hidden trail through deep brush.
If he went that way far enough, he would find Johanna.
Ja dragged himself slowly up the path. Something was wrong with his
rear legs; he couldn't feel them. Tell Johanna.
.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush
-=*=-
CHAPTER 19
Johanna coughed; things just seemed to go from bad to worse around
here. She'd had a sore throat and sniffles the last three days. She didn't
know whether to be frightened or not. Diseases were an everyday thing in
medieval times. Yeah, and lots of people died of them, too! She wiped her
nose and tried to concentrate on what Woodcarver was saying.
"Scrupilo has already made some gunpowder. It works just as Dataset
predicted. Unfortunately, he nearly lost a member trying to use it in a
wooden cannon. If we can't make cannon, I'm afraid -- "
A week ago, Woodcarver wouldn't have been welcome here; all their
meetings had been down in the castle halls. But then Johanna got sick -- it
was a "cold", she was sure -- and hadn't felt like running around out of
doors. Besides, Scriber's visit had kind of ... shamed her. Some of the
packs were decent enough. She had decided to try and get along with
Woodcarver -- and Pompous Clown too, if he'd ever come around again. As long
as creatures like Scarbutt stayed out of her way.... Johanna leaned a little
closer to the fire and waved away Woodcarver's objections; sometimes this
pack seemed like her eldest grandmother. "Assume we can make them. We have
lots of time till summer. Tell Scrupilo to study the dataset more carefully,
and quit trying shortcuts. The question is, how to use them to rescue my
star ship."
Woodcarver brightened. The drooler broke off wiping its muzzle to join
the others in a head bob. "I've talked about this with Peregr -- with
several people, especially Vendacious. Ordinarily, getting an army to Hidden
Island would be a terrible problem. Going by sea is fast, but there are some
deadly choke points along way. Going through the forest is slow, and the
other side would have plenty of warning. But great good luck: Vendacious has
found some safe trails. We may be able to sneak -- "
Someone was scratching at the door.
Woodcarver cocked a pair of heads. "That's strange," she said.
"Why?" Johanna asked absently. She hiked the quilt around her shoulders
and stood. Two of Woodcarver went with her to the door.
Johanna opened the door and looked into the fog. Suddenly Woodcarver
was talking loudly, all gobble. Their visitor had retreated. Something was
strange, and for an instant she couldn't figure what it was. This was the
first time she had seen a dogthing all by itself. The point barely
registered when most of Woodcarver spilled past her, out the doorway. Then
Johanna's servant, up in the loft, began screaming. The sound jabbed pain
through Johanna's ears.
The lone Tine twisted awkwardly on its rear and tried to drag itself
away, but Woodcarver had it surrounded. She shouted something and the
screeching in the loft stopped. There was the thump of paws on wooden
stairs, and the servant bounded into the open, its crossbows cocked. From
down the hill, she heard the rattle of weapons as guards raced toward them.
Johanna ran to Woodcarver, ready to add her fists to any defense. But
the pack was nuzzling the stranger, licking its neck. After a moment,
Woodcarver caught the Tine by its jacket. "Help me carry him inside, Johanna
please."
The girl lifted the Tine's flanks. The fur was damp with mist ... and
sticky with blood.
Then they were through the doorway and laying the member on a pillow by
the fire. The creature was making that breathy whistling, the sound of
ultimate pain. It looked up at her, its eyes so wide she could see the white
all around. For an instant she thought it was terrified of her, but when she
stepped back, it just made the sound louder and stretched its neck toward
her. She knelt beside the pillow. It lay its muzzle on her hand.
"W-what is it?" She looked back along its body, past the padded jacket.
The Tine's haunches were twisted at an odd angle, one legged dangling near
the fire.
"Don't you know -- " began Woodcarver. "This is part of Jaqueramaphan."
She pushed a nose under the dangling leg, and raised it onto the pillow.
There was loud talk between the guards and Johanna's servant. Through
the door she saw members holding torches; they rested their forepaws on
their fellows shoulders, and held the lights high. No one tried to come in;
there'd be no room.
Johanna looked back at the injured Tine. Scriber? Then she recognized
the jacket. The creature looked back at her, still wheezing its pain. "Can't
you get a doctor!"
Woodcarver was all around her. She answered, "I am a doctor, Johanna."
She nodded at the dataset and continued softly, "At least, what passes for
one here."
Johanna wiped blood from the creature's neck. More kept oozing. "Well,
can you save him?"
"This fragment maybe, but -- " One of Woodcarver went to the door and
talked to the packs beyond. "My people are searching for the rest of him....
I think he is mostly murdered, Johanna. If there were others ... well, even
fragments stick together."
"Has he said anything?" It was another voice, speaking Samnorsk.
Scarbutt. His big ugly snout was stuck through the doorway.
"No," said Woodcarver. "And his mind noise is a complete jumble."
"Let me listen to him," said Scarbutt.
"You stay back, you!" Johanna's voice was a scream; the creature in her
arms twitched.
"Johanna! This is Scriber's friend. Let him help." As the Scarbutt pack
sidled into the room, Woodcarver climbed into the loft, giving him room.
Johanna eased her arm from under the injured Tine and moved aside,
ending up at the doorway herself. There were lots more packs outside than
she had imagined, and they were standing closer than she had ever seen.
Their torches glowed like soft fluorescents in the foggy dark.
Her gaze snapped back to the fire pit. "I'm watching you!"
Scarbutt's members clustered around the pillow. The big one lay its
head next to the injured Tine's. For a moment the Tine continued its breathy
whistling. Scarbutt gobbled at it. The reply was a steady warbling, almost
beautiful. From up in the loft, Woodcarver said something. She and Scarbutt
talked back and forth.
"Well?" said Johanna.
"Ja -- the fragment -- is not a 'talker'," came Woodcarver's voice.
"Worse," said Scarbutt. "For now at least, I can't match his mind
sounds. I'm not getting sense or image from him; I can't tell who murdered
Scriber."
Johanna stepped back into the room, and walked slowly to the pillow.
Scarbutt moved aside, but did not leave the wounded Tine. She knelt between
two of him and petted the long, bloodied neck. "Will Ja" -- she spoke the
sound as best she could -- "live?"
Scarbutt ran three noses down the length of the body. They pressed
gently at the wounds. Ja twisted and whistled ... except when Scarbutt
pressed his haunches. "I don't know. Most of this blood is just splatter,
probably from the other members. But his spine is broken. Even if the
fragment lives, he'll have only two usable legs."
Johanna thought for a moment, trying to see things from a Tinish
perspective. She didn't like the view. It might not make sense, but to her,
this "Ja" was still Scriber -- at least in potential. To Scarbutt, the
creature was a fragment, an organ from a fresh corpse. A damaged one at
that. She looked at Scarbutt, at the big, killer member. "So what does your
kind do with such ... garbage?"
Three of his heads turned toward her, and she could see his hackles
rise. His synthetic voice became high-pitched and staccato. "Scriber was a
good friend. We could build a two-wheel cart for Ja's rear; he'd be able to
move around some. The hard part will be finding a pack for him. You know
we're looking for other fragments; we may be able to patch something up. If
not ... well, I have only four members. I will try to adopt him." As he
spoke one head patted the wounded member. "I'm not sure it will work.
Scriber was not a loose-souled person, not in any way a pilgrim. And right
now, I don't match him at all."
Johanna slumped back. Scarbutt wasn't responsible for everything that
went wrong in the universe.
"Woodcarver has excellent brood kenners. Maybe some other match can be
found. But understand ... it's hard for adult members to remerge, especially
non-talkers. Single fragments like Ja often die of their own accord; they
just stop eating. Or sometimes.... Go down to the harbor sometime, look at
the workers. You'll see some big packs there ... but with the minds of
idiots. They can't hold together; the smallest problem and they run in all
directions. That's how the unlucky repacks end...." Scarbutt's voice traded
back and forth between two of his members, and dribbled into silence. All
his heads turned to Ja. The member had closed his eyes. Sleeping? He was
still breathing, but it sounded kind of burbly.
Johanna looked across the room at the trapdoor to the loft. Woodcarver
had stuck a single head down through the hole. The upside-down face looked
back at Johanna. Another time, her appearance would have been comical.
"Unless a miracle happens, Scriber died today. Understand that, Johanna. But
if the fragment lives, even a short time, we'll likely find the murderer."
"How, if he can't communicate?"
"Yes, but he can still show us. I've ordered Vendacious's men to
confine the staff to quarters. When Ja is calmer, we'll march every pack in
the castle past him. The fragment certainly remembers what happened to
Scriber, and wants to tell us. If any of the killers are our own people,
he'll see them."
"And he'll make a fuss." Just like a dog.
"Right. So the main thing is to provide him with security right now ...
and hope our doctors can save him."
They found the rest of Scriber a couple of hours later, on a turret of
the old wall. Vendacious said it looked like one or two packs had come out
of the forest and climbed the turret, perhaps in an attempt to see onto the
grounds. It had all the markings of an incompetent, first-time probe:
nothing of value could be seen from that turret, even on a clear day. But
for Scriber it had been fatally bad luck. Apparently he had surprised the
intruders. Five of his members had been variously arrowed, hacked,
decapitated. The sixth -- Ja -- had broken his back on the sloping stonework
at the base of the wall. Johanna walked out to the turret the next day. Even
from the ground she could see brownish stains on the parapet. She was glad
she couldn't go to the top.
Ja died during the night, though not from any further enemy action; he
was under Vendacious's protection the whole time.
Johanna went the next few days without saying much. At night she cried
a little. God damn their "doctoring". A broken back they could diagnose, but
hidden injuries, internal bleeding -- of such they were completely ignorant.
Apparently, Woodcarver was famous for her theory that the heart pumped the
blood around the body. Give her another thousand years and maybe she could
do better than a butcher!
For a while she hated them all: Scarbutt for all the old reasons,
Woodcarver for her ignorance, Vendacious for letting Flenserists get so
close to the castle ... and Johanna Olsndot for rejecting Scriber when he
had tried to be a friend.
What would Scriber say now? He had wanted her to trust them. He said
that Scarbutt and the others were good people. One night, about a week
later, she came close to making peace with herself. She was lying on her
pallet, the quilt heavy and warm upon her. The designs painted on the walls
glimmered dim in the emberlight. All right, Scriber. For you ... I will
trust them.
.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush
CHAPTER 20
Pham Nuwen remembered almost nothing of the first days after dying,
after the pain of the Old One's ending. Ghostly figures, anonymous words.
Someone said he'd been kept alive in the ship's surgeon. He remembered none
of it. Why they kept the body breathing was a mystery and an affront.
Eventually the animal reflexes had revived. The body began breathing of its
own accord. The eyes opened. No brain damage, Greenstalk(?) said, a full
recovery. The husk that had been a living being spoke no contradiction.
What was left of Pham Nuwen spent a lot of time on the OOB's bridge.
From before, the ship reminded him of a fat sowbug. The bugs had been common
in the straw laid across the floor of the Great Hall of this father's castle
on Canberra. The little kids had played with them. The critters didn't have
real legs, just a dozen feathery spines sticking out from a chitinous
thorax. No matter how you tumbled them, those spines/antennas would twitch
the bug around and it would scuttle on its way, unmindful that it might be
upside down from before. Yes, the OOB's ultradrive spines looked a lot like
a sowbug's, though not as articulate. And the body itself was fat and sleek,
slightly narrowed in the middle.
So Pham Nuwen had ended inside of a sowbug. How fitting for a dead man.
And now he sat on the bridge. The woman brought him here often; she
seemed to know it should fascinate him. The walls were displays, better than
he had ever seen in merchantman days. When the windows looked out the ship's
exterior cameras, the view was as good as from any crystal-canopy bridge in
the Qeng Ho fleet.
It was like something out of the crudest fantasy -- or a graphics
simulation. If he sat long enough, he could actually see the stars move in
the sky. The ship was doing about ten hyperjumps per second: jump, recompute
and jump again. In this part of The Beyond they could go a thousandth of a
light-year on each jump -- farther, but then the recompute time would be
substantially worse. At ten per second that added up to more than thirty
light-years per hour. The jumps themselves were imperceptible to human
senses, and between the jumps the were in free fall, carrying the same
intrinsic velocity they'd had on departing Relay. So there was none of the
doppler shifting of relativistic flight; the stars were as pure as seen from
some desert sky, or in low-speed transit. Without any fuss, they simply slid
across the sky, the closer ones the faster. In half an hour he went farther
than he had in half a century with the Qeng Ho.
Greenstalk drifted onto the bridge one day, began changing the windows.
As usual she spoke to Pham as she did so, chatting almost as if there were a
real person here to listen:
"See. The center window is an ultrawave map of the region directly
behind us." Greenstalk waved a tendril over the controls. The multicolored
pictures appeared on the other walls. "Similarly for the other five points
of direction."
The words were noise in Pham's ears, understood but of no interest. The
Rider paused, then continued with something like the futile persistence of
the Ravna woman.
"When ships make a jump ... when they reenter, there's a kind of an
ultrawave splash. I'm checking if we're being followed."
Colors on the windows all around, even in front of Pham's eyes. There
were smooth gradations, no bright spots, no linear features.
"I know, I know," she said, making up both sides of the conversation.
"The ship's analyzers are still massaging the data. But if anyone's pacing
us closer than one hundred light-years, we'll see them. And if they're
farther than that -- well, then they probably can't detect us."
It doesn't matter. Pham almost shut the question out of his mind. But
there were no stars to look at; he stared at the glowing colors and actually
thought about the problem. Thought. A joke: no one Down Here ever really
thought about anything. Perhaps ten thousand starships had escaped the Fall
of Relay. Most likely, the Enemy had not cataloged those departures. The
attack on Relay had been a minor adjunct to the murder of Old One. Most
likely, the OOB had escaped unnoticed. Why should the Enemy care where the
last of Old One's memories might be hiding? Why should it care about where
their little ship might be bound?
A tremor passed through his body; animal reflex, surely.
Panic was slowly rising in Ravna Bergsndot, every day a little
stronger. It was not any particular disaster, just the slow dying of hope.
She tried to be near Pham Nuwen part of every day, to talk to him, to hold
his hand. He never responded, not even -- except perhaps by accident -- to
look at her. Greenstalk tried too. Alien though Greenstalk was, the Pham of
before had seemed truly attracted to the Riders. He was off all medical
support now, but he might as well have been a vegetable.
And all the while their descent was slowing, always a little worse than
what Blueshell had predicted.
And when she turned to the News ... in some ways that was the most
horrifying of all. The "death race" theory was getting popular. More and
more, there were folk who seemed to think that the human race was spreading
the Blight:
Crypto: 0
As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc
Language path: Baeloresk->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
Distribution:
Threat of the Blight, War Trackers Interest Group, Homo Sapiens Interest Group Date: 17.95 days since Fall of Relay Text of message:
So far we've processed half a million messages about this creature's
video, and read a goodly fraction of them. Most of you are missing the
point. The principle of the "Helper's" operation is clear. This is a
Transcendent Power using ultralight communication to operate through a race
in the Beyond. It would be fairly easy to do in the Transcend -- there are a
number of stories about thralls of Powers there. But for such communication
to be effective within the Beyond, truly extensive design changes must be
made in the minds of the controlled race. It could not have happened
naturally, and it can not be quickly done to new races -- no matter what the
Blight says.
We've watched the Homo Sapiens interest group since the first
appearance of the Blight. Where is this "Earth" the humans claim to be from?
"Half way around the galaxy," they say, and deep in the Slow Zone. Even
their proximate origin, Nyjora, is conveniently in the Slowness. We see an
alternative theory: Sometime, maybe further back than the last consistent
archives, there was a battle between Powers. The blueprint for this "human
race" was written, complete with communication interfaces. Long after the
original contestants and their stories had vanished, this race happened to
get in position where it could Transcend. And that