o
spectrum.  It  might  be  enough to  scare off  the local  animals.  Johanna
followed her father,  her eyes on the  landscape, her nervousness giving way
to awe. It was so beautiful, so cool. They were standing on a  broad  field,
high  in hills. Westward the hills fell toward straits and islands.  To  the
north the ground ended abruptly at the edge of a wide valley; she  could see
waterfalls on the other side. The ground felt spongy beneath her feet. Their
landing field was puckered  into  thousands of  little  hillocks, like waves
caught  in  a still picture. Snow  lay in  timid patches  across the  higher
hills. Johanna squinted north, into the sun. North?
     "What time is it, Daddy?"
     Olsndot  laughed, still looking  at the underside  of the cargo  shell.
"Local midnight."
     Johanna had been brought up in  the middle latitudes of Straum. Most of
her school  field trips had  been to space, where odd sun geometries were no
big deal. Somehow she  had never  thought of  such things  happening  on the
ground.... <I>I mean, seeing the sun right over the top of the world.</I>






     The first  order of business was to get  half  the coldsleep  boxes out
into the  open,  and  rearrange  those left aboard.  Mom  figured  that  the
temperature problems would  just  about disappear  then, even for the  boxes
left  on  board:  "Having  separate power  supplies and venting  will  be an
advantage now. The kids will all be safe. Johanna, you check Jefri's work on
the ones inside, okay?..."
     The second  order of business would  be to start  a tracking program on
the  Relay system,  and to set  up ultralight  communication.  Johanna was a
little afraid of  that step. What  would they learn? They  already  knew the
High Lab had gone wicked and the disaster Mom predicted had begun.
     How  much of Straumli  Realm was dead now? Everyone at the High Lab had
thought  they were doing so  much good, and  now  .... <I>Don't think about it.</I>
Maybe the Relayers  could help. Somewhere there must be people who could use
what her folks had taken from the Lab.
     They'd  be rescued,  and  the rest of the kids would be revived.  She'd
been feeling guilty about that. Sure, Mom  and  Dad needed extra hands right
at the  end of the flight -- and Johanna was one  of the oldest  children in
the school. But it seemed wrong that she and Jefri were the only  kids going
into this with their eyes open. Coming down, she had felt her mother's fear.
<I>I bet they  wanted us  together, even if it was only  for one last time.</I> The
landing had  been truly  dangerous,  however easy  Dad made it look. Johanna
could see where  the backsplash had  gouged  the hull;  if any  of that  had
gotten past the torch and into the exhaust chamber, they'd all be vapor now.
     Almost half the coldsleep boxes  were  on  the ground  now, by the east
side of the boat. Mom  and Dad were spreading  them out so the coolers would
have no problem. Jefri was  inside, checking  if there were any  other boxes
that needed attention.  He was a good kid when he wasn't a brat.  She turned
into the sunlight, felt the cool breeze flowing across  the  hill. She heard
something that sounded like a birdcall.
     Johanna was  out  by  one  of  the  sound  projectors  when the  ambush
happened. She had her dataset plugged to its control, and was busy giving it
new  directions. It showed  how  little  they  had left, that even  her  old
dataset was important now. But Dad wanted something that would sweep through
the  broadest possible bandwidth, making plenty  of  racket all the way, but
with big spikes every so often; Pink Olifaunt could certainly manage that.
     "Johanna!"  Mom's  cry came  simultaneous  with the  sound of  breaking
ceramic. The  projector's  bell came  shattering  down beside  her.  Johanna
looked up.  Something ripped through  her  chest just  inside  her shoulder,
knocking her down. She stared stupidly  at  the shaft that stuck out of her.
An <I>arrow!</I>
     The  west edge of their landing area was swarming with ... things. Like
wolves or dogs, but  with long  necks,  they  moved quickly forward, darting
from  hummock  to  hummock. Their  pelts  were  the same  gray green of  the
hillside, except near the haunches  where she saw white  and  black. No, the
green was clothing,  <I>jackets</I>. Johanna was in shock, the pressure of the bolt
through her chest  not  yet registering as  pain.  She had been thrown  back
against uptilted turf and for the moment had a view of the whole attack. She
saw more arrows rise up, dark lines floating in the sky.
     She could see the archers now. More dogs! They moved in  packs. It took
two of them  to  use a bow -- one to hold it and one to draw. The third  and
fourth carried quivers of arrows and just seemed to watch.
     The archers hung back, staying mostly under  cover. Other packs swirled
in from the  sides, now leaping over the  hummocks. Many carried hatchets in
their  jaws. Metal  tines gleamed on their  paws.  She heard the <I>snickety</I> of
Dad's pistol. The wave of attackers staggered as  individuals collapsed. The
others continued forward,  snarling  now. These  were sounds of madness, not
the barking of dogs.  She felt the sounds in  her teeth, like  <I>blasti</I>  music
punching from a large speaker. Jaws and claws and knives and noise.
     She twisted on her  side, trying to see back to the boat.  Now the pain
was real. She screamed, but the sound was lost in the madness. The mob raced
around  her, heading for Mom and  Dad. Her  parents were  crouched  behind a
rendezvous  pylon.  There  was a constant  flicker from the  pistol in  Arne
Olsndot's hand. His pressure suit had protected him from the arrows.
     The  alien  bodies  were  piling  high.  The  pistol,  with  its  smart
flechettes, was deadly effective. She saw him hand the pistol to Mom and run
out from under the boat, toward her. Johanna  stretched her free arm towards
him and cried, screamed for him to go back.
     Thirty meters. Twenty-five.  Mom's covering  fire  swept  around  them,
driving the wolves back. A flurry of arrows descended on Olsndot  as he ran,
arms upheld to shield his head. Twenty meters.
     A wolf  jumped high over Johanna.  She had a quick glimpse of its short
fur  and scarred rear end. It raced straight for Dad. Olsndot weaved, trying
to  give  his wife a clear shot, but the wolf was too  quick. It jinked with
him,  sprinting across  the gap. It  leaped, metal  glittering on  its paws.
Johanna  saw red  splash from  Daddy's neck, and then the  two  of them were
down.
     For a moment, Sjana  Olsndot stopped shooting. That was enough. The mob
parted and a large group ran purposefully toward the boat. They had tanks of
some kind on their backs. The lead animal  held a hose in  its mouth. A dark
liquid jetted out ... and vanished  in  an explosion of fire.  The wolf pack
played  their crude  flamethrower across the  ground, across the pylon where
Sjana Olsndot stood,  across the  ranks  of  school children  in  coldsleep.
Johanna saw  something moving,  twisting in the  flames and tarry smoke, saw
the light plastic of the coldsleep boxes slump and flow.
     Johanna  turned her  face to the earth,  then  pushed herself up on her
good arm and tried to  crawl toward the boat,  the flames. And then the dark
was merciful, and she remembered no more.



     .Delete this paragraph to shift page flush





     -=*=-



        CHAPTER 4


     Peregrine  and  Scriber watched the ambush  preparations throughout the
afternoon: infantry arrayed  on  the slope west of the landing site, archers
behind them, flame troopers in  pounce formation. Did the Lords of Flenser's
Castle understand what they  were up against? The  two  debated the question
off and on. Jaqueramaphan thought the  Flenserists did, that their arrogance
was so great that they simply expected to  grab the prize. "They  go for the
throat  before  the other  side even  knows  there's  a fight.  It's  worked
before."
     Peregrine  didn't  answer  immediately. Scriber could be right. It  had
been  fifty  years since he had been in this part  of  the world. Back then,
Flenser's  cult had been obscure  (and not that interesting compared to what
existed elsewhere).
     Treachery  did sometimes befall  travelers, but  it was rarer than  the
stay-at-homes would believe.  Most people were friendly and enjoyed  hearing
about  the world beyond  -- especially if  the  visitor was not threatening.
When treachery did occur, it was most often after an initial  "sizing-up" to
determine just how  powerful the visitors were and what could be gained from
their  death. Immediate attack, without conversation, was very rare. Usually
it  meant you  had run into  villains  who were both  sophisticated  ... and
crazy. "I don't know. That <I>is</I> an ambush formation, but maybe the Flenserists
will hold it in reserve, and talk first."
     Hours passed; the  sun  slid sideways into the  north.  There was noise
from the far side of the fallen star.  Crap. They couldn't see anything from
here.
     The  hidden  troops made no move. The minutes passed ...  and they  got
their  first view of the visitor from  heaven, or part of him  anyway. There
were four legs  per member,  but it  walked on its  <I>rear</I> legs  only. What  a
clown! Yet ... it used its front paws for holding  things.  Not once  did he
see  it use  a mouth; he  doubted if the flat jaws could  get a  good  hold,
anyway. Those forepaws were wonderfully agile. A single member  could easily
use tools.
     There  were  plenty  of  conversation  sounds,  even though  only three
members were visible. After  a  while, they  heard  the much  higher pitched
tones of  organized thought; God, the creature was noisy.  At this distance,
the sounds were muffled and distorted.  Even so,  they were like no mind  he
had ever heard, nor like the confusion noises that some grazers made.
     "Well?" hissed Jaqueramaphan.
     "I have  been all around the  world -- and this creature is not part of
it."
     "Yeah. Well, it reminds me of mantis bugs. You know, about this high --
" he  opened a mouth  about  two inches wide. "Great for keeping your garden
free of pests ... great little killers."

     <I>Ugh.</I>  Peregrine hadn't thought of  the resemblance. Mantises were  cute
and harmless  -- as  far as  people were concerned.  But he knew the females
would eat  their  own mates. Imagine such creatures grown to giant size, and
possessed  of pack mentality. Maybe it  was just was  well they  couldn't go
prancing down to say hello.
     A  half  hour  passed. As the alien brought  its  cargo  to ground, the
Flenser archers  moved closer; the  infantry  packs  arranged themselves  in
assault wings.
     A flight of arrows arched across  the gap between  the Flenserists  and
the alien. One of the alien  members went down immediately, and its thoughts
quieted. The rest  moved out of sight beneath the flying house. The troopers
dashed forward, spaced in identity preserving formations; perhaps they meant
to take the alien alive.
     ...  But the assault line  crumpled,  many yards short of the alien: no
arrows, no flames -- the troopers just  fell. For a moment Peregrine thought
the Flenserists might have  bit  off  more  than they  could chew.  Then the
second wave ran over the  first. Members continued to fall, but they were in
killing frenzy now,  with only  animal discipline left.  The assault  rolled
slowly  forward,  the rear climbing over  the fallen.  Another alien  member
down.... Strange, he could still hear wisps  of the other's thought. In tone
and tempo, it sounded the same as before the attack. How could anyone be  so
composed with total death looming?
     A combat whistle  sounded, and the mob parted. A  trooper raced through
and  sprayed  liquid  fire. The  flying house looked like meat on a griddle,
flame and smoke coming up all around it.
     Wickwrackrum swore to himself. Good-bye alien.






     The wrecked  and  wounded  were  low on  the Flenserist  priority list.
Seriously wounded  were  piled onto travoises and pulled far  enough away so
their  cries would not cause  confusion. Cleanup squads bullied the  trooper
fragments  away  from the  flying  house. The  frags  wandered  the hummocky
meadow; here and there they coalesced into ad hoc packs. Some  drifted among
the wounded, ignoring the screams in their need to find themselves.
     When the tumult  was quieted, three packs of whitejackets appeared. The
Servants of the Flenser walked under the flying house. One was out of  sight
for a  long while;  perhaps it  even got inside. The charred  bodies  of two
alien members were carefully placed on travoises -- more carefully  than the
wounded troopers had been -- and hauled off.
     Jaqueramaphan  scanned the  ruins with his eye-tool.  He had  given  up
trying to hide it from Peregrine. A whitejackets carried something down from
the flying house. "Sst! There are other dead ones. Maybe from the fire. They
look  like pups." The small figures had the mantis  form. They were strapped
into travoises, and hauled  out of sight over the hill's edge. No doubt they
had kherhog-drawn carts down there.
     The Flenserists set a sentry ring  around  the  landing site. Dozens of
fresh troopers  stood  on the  hillside beyond it. No one was going to sneak
past that.
     "So it's total murder." Peregrine sighed.
     "Maybe  not....  The first member they  shot, I don't think  it's quite
dead."
     Wickwrackrum squinted his  best  eyes.  Either  Scriber was  a  wishful
thinker, or  his tool gave him amazingly sharp sight. The first  one hit had
been  on the other side of the  craft. The member had stopped thinking,  but
that wasn't a sure sign of  death. There  was a whitejackets standing around
it now. The whitejackets put the creature  onto  a travois and began pulling
it away from the landing site, towards  the southwest ... not quite the same
path that the others had taken.
     "The thing <I>is</I>  still alive! It's got an arrow in the chest,  but I  can
see it breathing." Scriber's heads turned toward  Wickwrackrum. "I  think we
should rescue it."
     For a moment Peregrine couldn't think of anything to say; he just gaped
at  the other. The center  of Flenser's worldwide cabal was just a few miles
to  the northwest.  Flenserist  power  was  undisputed for  dozens  of miles
inland,  and  right now they were  virtually surrounded  by an army. Scriber
wilted a little before Peregrine's astonishment, but it was clear he was not
joking. "Sure, I know it's risky. But that's  what life is all about, right?
You're a pilgrim. You understand."
     "Hmf." That  was  the  pilgrim reputation, all right. But  no soul  can
survive  total  death -- and  there were  plenty  of opportunities for  such
annihilation on a pilgrimage. Pilgrims do know caution.
     And yet, and  yet this was  the  most  marvelous encounter  in all  his
centuries of pilgrimage. To know these  aliens, to <I>become</I> them  ... it was a
temptation that surpassed all good sense.
     "Look,"  said Scriber, "we  could  just  go down  and  mingle with  the
wounded. If we  can  make it across  the  field, we might get a look at that
last  alien member,  without risking too  much."  Jaqueramaphan was  already
backing down from his observation point, and circling around  to find a path
that wouldn't put him in silhouette. Wickwrackrum was torn;  part of him got
up to follow and part of him hesitated. Hell, Jaqueramaphan had admitted  to
being  a spy; he carried an invention that  was probably  straight  from the
Long Lakes sharpest intelligence people. The guy had to be a pro....
     Peregrine  took a  quick look around their side of the hill and  across
the  valley.  No sign of  Tyrathect or anyone else. He  crawled  out  of his
various hidey holes and followed the spy.
     As  much  as possible, they  stayed in  the  deep  shadows  cast by the
northering  sun,  and slipped from  hummock  to  hummock where there was  no
shade. Just before  they got  to  the first  of  the wounded,  Scriber  said
something more, the scariest words of the afternoon. "Hey, don't worry. I've
read all about doing this sort of thing!"






     A  mob  of  frags  and  wounded  is a terrifying,  mind-numbing  thing.
Singletons,  duos, trios,  a  few quads: they  wandered  aimlessly,  keening
without  control.  In  most  situations, this many people packed together on
just a few  acres  would have been  an instant choir. In fact, he did notice
some sexual  activity  and some organized  browsing,  but  for the most part
there was still  too much pain for  normal reactions.  Wickwrackrum wondered
briefly if --  for all  their  talk of rationalism  -- the Flenserists would
just leave the wreckage  of their troops to reassemble  itself. They'd  have
some strange and crippled repacks if they did.
     A  few  yards  into the  mob  and  Peregrine  Wickwrackrum  could  feel
consciousness slipping  from him. If he  concentrated really hard, he  could
remember who  he was and that he  must  get to the  other side of the meadow
without attracting attention.
     Other thoughts, loud and unguarded, pummeled him:

     <I>... Blood lust and slashing ...</I>

     <I>Glittering  metal  in  the alien's hand ...  the  pain in her chest ...
coughing blood, falling ...</I>

     <I>... Boot camp and before, my merge  brother was so good  to me ... Lord
Steel said that we are a grand experiment....</I>

     <I>Running across the heather toward the stick-limbed monster. Leap, tines
in paw. Slash the monster's throat. Blood spouts high.</I>

     <I>... Where am I? ... May I be part of you ... please?</I>
     Peregrine  whirled  at that last question. It was pointed and  near.  A
singleton  was sniffing at him. He screeched  the fragment off, and ran into
an open  space. Up  ahead, Jaque-what's-his-name  was scarcely  better  off.
There was little chance they  would be spotted here, but he was beginning to
wonder if  he could make it  through. Peregrine was only four and there were
singletons everywhere. On his right a quad was raping,  grabbing at whatever
duos and  singles happened by. Wic and Kwk and Rac and Rum tried to remember
just why they  was  here  and where  they was going.  <I>Concentrate  on direct
sensation;  what is really here:</I> the sooty smell of the flamer's liquid fire
... the midges swarming everywhere, clotting the puddles of blood all black.
     An awfully long time passed. Minutes.
     Wic-Kwk-Rac-Rum  looked ahead. He was almost out of  it; the south edge
of the wreckage. He dragged himself to a patch of clean ground. Parts of him
vomited, and he  collapsed. Sanity slowly  returned. Wickwrackrum looked up,
saw Jaqueramaphan  just inside the mob. Scriber was a big fellow, a sixsome,
but he was having  at least as  bad a time as Peregrine. He  staggered  from
side to side, eyes wide, snapping at himself and others.
     Well, they had made it a good way across the meadow, and fast enough to
catch up with  the  whitejackets who was pulling the  last  alien member. If
they wanted to see anything more, they'd have to figure how to leave the mob
without attracting attention. Hmm. There were plenty  of Flenserist uniforms
around  ...  without living owners. Peregrine walked two  of himself over to
where a dead trooper lay.
     "Jaqueramaphan!  Here!"  The great  spy looked in his direction, and  a
glint of intelligence returned to his  eyes. He stumbled out of the mob  and
sat  down  a  few  yards from  Wickwrackrum.  It was far nearer  than  would
normally  be  comfortable, but after  what they'd  been  through, it  seemed
barely close. He lay for a moment, gasping. "Sorry, I never guessed it would
be  like  that. I lost part of me  back there ... never thought I'd get  her
back."
     Peregrine  watched the progress of the whitejackets and its travois. It
wasn't  going with  the others; in a few seconds it would  be out of  sight.
With  a  disguise, maybe they <I>could</I> follow and -- no, it was just too risky.
He was beginning  to think like the great spy. Peregrine pulled a camouflage
jacket  off a corpse. They would still need disguises. Maybe they could hang
around here through the night, and get a closer look at the flying house.
     After a moment,  Scriber saw  what he was doing,  and  began  gathering
jackets for  himself. They  slunk between the piled bodies, looking for gear
that  wasn't too  stained  and  that  Jaqueramaphan  thought had  consistent
insignia. There were plenty of paw claws  and battle axes around. They'd end
up  armed to the teeth, but they'd have to dump  some of their backpacks....
One more jacket was all he needed, but his Rum was so broad in the shoulders
that nothing fit.
     Peregrine didn't really  understand  what happened till later:  a large
fragment,  a threesome, was lying doggo  in the pile of dead. Perhaps it was
grieving, long after its member's  dying  dirge; in any case,  it was almost
totally  thoughtless until Peregrine began  pulling the jacket off  its dead
member. Then, "You'll not rob from  mine!" He heard the buzz of nearby rage,
and then there was slashing pain across  his Rum's gut. Peregrine writhed in
agony, leaped upon the attacker. For a moment of mindless rage, they fought.
Peregrine's battle  axes slashed again and again, covering his muzzles  with
blood.  When he  came  to his senses one of the three  was dead,  the others
running into the mob of wounded.
     Wickwrackrum huddled around the  pain in his Rum. The attacker had been
wearing  tines. Rum was slashed from ribs to  crotch. Wickwrackrum stumbled;
some of his  paws  were caught in his  own guts. He  tried to nose the ruins
back  into his member's abdomen. The pain was fading, the sky in Rum's  eyes
slowly darkening. Peregrine stifled the screams he felt climbing within him.
<I>I'm only four,  and one of me is dying!</I> For years he'd  been warning himself
that four was just too small a number for a pilgrim. Now he'd pay the price,
trapped and mindless in a land of tyrants.
     For a moment,  the pain eased and his  thoughts  were clear.  The fight
hadn't really caused much notice amid the dirges,  rapes, and simple attacks
of  madness. Wickwrackrum's fight had only been a little bigger and bloodier
than usual. The whitejackets by the flying house had looked briefly in their
direction, but were now back to tearing open the alien cargo.
     Scriber was sitting  nearby, watching in horror. Part of him would move
a  little  closer, then pull  back.  He was fighting with himself, trying to
decide  whether to help. Peregrine almost pleaded  with  him, but the effort
was too great. Besides, Scriber was no pilgrim. Giving part  of  himself was
not something Jaqueramaphan could do voluntarily....
     Memories came flooding now, Rum's  efforts to sort things out  and  let
the rest  of him know all that had been before. For a moment, he was sailing
a twinhull across the South Sea, a  newby with Rum as a pup; memories of the
island  person who had born Rum,  and of  packs before that. Once around the
world they had traveled, surviving the slums of a tropic collective, and the
war of the Plains Herds. Ah, the stories they had heard, the tricks they had
learned, the people they had met.... Wic  Kwk Rac Rum  had been  a  terrific
combination,  clear-thinking, lighthearted, with a strange ability  to  keep
all the memories in place; that had been the real reason he had gone so long
without growing to five or six. Now he would pay perhaps the greatest  price
of all....
     Rum sighed,  and could  not  see the sky  anymore.  Wickwrackrum's mind
went, not  as  it does in the heat of  battle  when the sound of  thought is
lost, not  as  it  does in  the  companionable  murmur of sleep.  There  was
suddenly no fourth presence,  just  the three, trying to make a person.  The
trio stood and patted nervously at itself. There was  danger everywhere, but
beyond its  understanding.  It  sidled  hopefully toward  a  sixsome sitting
nearby  --  Jaqueramaphan? -- but  the  other  shooed  it  away.  It  looked
nervously  at  the  mob of wounded.  There was  completeness  there  ... and
madness too.
     A huge male with deeply scarred haunches sat at the edge of the mob. It
caught the threesome's eye, and  slowly crawled across the open space toward
them.  Wic and Kwk and Rac back  away, their pelts puffing up  in fright and
fascination; the scarred one was at least half again the weight  of  any  of
them.

     <I>...  Where  am I? ...  May I be  part of you ...  please?</I>  Its  keening
carried memories, jumbled and mostly inaccessible, of blood and fighting, of
military training before that. Somehow,  the creature  was as  frightened of
those early memories as of  anything. It lay its  muzzle -- caked with dried
blood -- on the ground and belly crawled toward them. The other three almost
ran; random  coupling was something that scared all of them. They backed and
backed,  out onto the clear  meadow. The  other followed, but slowly,  still
crawling.  Kwk  licked her lips and walked back  towards  the  stranger. She
extended  her  neck  and sniffed along  the  other's  throat.  Wic  and  Rac
approached from the sides.
     For an instant  there  was a partial join. <I>Sweaty, bloody, wounded -- a
melding made in hell.</I> The thought seemed to come from nowhere, glowed in the
four for  a moment of cynical humor.  Then the unity was lost, and they were
just three animals licking the face of a fourth.






     Peregrine  looked  around  the  meadow  with  new  eyes.  He  had  been
disintegrate for just a  few  minutes: The  wounded  from  the  Tenth Attack
Infantry were just as  before.  Flenser's Servants were still busy with  the
alien  cargo.  Jaqueramaphan  was  slowly  backing  away, his  expression  a
compound of wonder and horror. Peregrine lowered a head  and hissed  at him,
"I won't betray you, Scriber."
     The spy froze. "That you, Peregrine?"
     "More or less." Peregrine still, but Wickwrackrum no more.
     "H-how can you do it? Y-you just lost...."
     "I'm  a pilgrim,  remember?  We live with  this  sort of thing  all our
lives." There  was sarcasm  in his  voice; this was more  or less the clich&eacute;
Jaqueramaphan had been spouting earlier. But there was  some  truth  to  it.
Already  Peregrine Wickwrack...scar  felt  like  a person.  Maybe  this  new
combination had a chance.
     "Uk. Well, yes....  What should we do now?" The spy looked nervously in
all directions, but his eyes on Peregrine were the most worried of all.
     Now it  was Wickwrackscar's turn to be puzzled. What <I>was</I> he doing here?
Killing  the strange enemy... <I>No</I>. That's what the Attack Infantry was doing.
He  would have nothing  to do  with that, no  matter what the scarred  one's
memories. He and  Scriber had come here to ... to rescue  the alien, as much
of  it as  possible.  Peregrine  grabbed hold  of  the  memory  and  held it
uncritically;  it  was  something  real,  from the  past  identity  he  must
preserve.  He glanced towards where he had last  seen  the alien member. The
whitejackets and  his travois were no  longer visible, but he'd been heading
along an obvious path.
     "We can still get ourselves the live one," he said to Jaqueramaphan.
     Scriber stamped and sidled.  He was not quite the enthusiast of before.
"After you, my friend."
     Wickwrackscar straightened  his combat jackets  and brushed some of the
dried blood off. Then he  strutted  off across the meadow,  passing  just  a
hundred  yards from  the Flenser's Servants around  the  enemy -- around the
flying  house.   He   flipped  them  a  sharp  salute,  which  was  ignored.
Jaqueramaphan followed, carrying two crossbows. The other was doing his best
to imitate Peregrine's strut, but he really didn't have the right stuff.
     Then they were past the military crest of the hill  and descending into
shadows. The  sounds of  the  wounded  were muted. Wickwrackscar  broke into
double time, loping from  switchback to switchback as he descended the rough
path. From here he could see the harbor; the boats  were still at the piers,
and  there  wasn't  much  activity. Behind him, Scriber  was talking nervous
nonsense. Peregrine just ran faster, his confidence  fueled by general newby
confusion. His new member, the scarred  one, had been  the muscle behind  an
infantry officer. That pack  had  known  the layout of the  harbors and  the
castle, and all the passwords of the day.
     Two  more  switchbacks  and  they  overran the  Flenser Servant and his
travois. "Hallo!" shouted Peregrine.  "We bring new instructions  from  Lord
Steel." A chill went down his spines at the  name, remembering Steel for the
first  time.  The Servant  dropped  the  travois and turned  to  face  them.
Wickwrackscar  didn't  know  his  name,  but  he remembered  the guy: fairly
high-ranking, an arrogant  get-of-bitches. It  was  a  surprise to  see  him
pulling the travois himself.
     Peregrine   stopped  only   twenty   yards   from   the   whitejackets.
Jaqueramaphan was looking down from the switchback above; his bows  were out
of sight. The Servant looked nervously at Peregrine and up at Scriber.
     "What do you two want?"
     Did  he  suspect them already? No matter. Wickwrackscar braced  himself
for a  killing charge ... and  suddenly he  was seeing  in  fours, his  mind
blurred with newby dizziness. Now that he  needed to kill, the scarred one's
horror  of  the  act  undid him.  Damn! Wickwrackscar cast wildly  about for
something to say. And now  that murder was out of his mind, his new memories
came easily: "Lord Steel's will, that the creature be brought with us to the
harbor. You, ah, you are to return to the invader's flying thing."
     The  whitejackets  licked  his  lips.  His  eyes swept  sharply  across
Peregrine's uniforms, and  Scriber's.  "Impostors!" he screamed, at the same
instant lunging one  of his members toward the travois. Metal glinted in the
member's forepaw. <I>He's going to kill the alien!</I>
     There was a  bow snap from above, and  the runner fell, a shaft through
its eye. Wickwrackscar charged the others, forcing his scarbacked member out
front. There  was  an instant of dizziness  and  then  he  was  whole again,
screaming death at the four. The two packs crashed together, Scar carrying a
couple of  the Servant's members  over the edge of  the path.  Arrows hummed
around  them.  Wic  Kwk  Rac  twisted,  slashing axes  at whatever  remained
standing.
     Then things were quiet, and Peregrine had his thoughts again. Three  of
the Servant's members twitched on the path, the earth around them slick with
blood. He  pushed them  off  the  path, near where  his  Scar had killed the
others. Not one of  the Servant had survived; it was total death, and he was
responsible. He sagged to the ground, seeing in fours again.
     "The alien. It's still alive," said Scriber. He was standing around the
travois,  sniffing  at  the  mantis-like  body. "Not  conscious  though." He
grabbed  the  travois poles in his jaws  and  looked at Peregrine. "What ...
what now, Pilgrim?"
     Peregrine lay in the  dirt, trying to put his mind back together.  <I>What
now, indeed.</I> How had he gotten into this mess? Newby  confusion was the only
possibility. He'd  simply  lost track of  all the  reasons why rescuing  the
alien was impossible. And now he was stuck with it. Pack  crap. Part of  him
crawled  to the edge of the path, and looked around:  There was no sign they
had attracted attention. In the harbor, the boats  were still empty; most of
the infantry was up in  the hills.  No  doubt the  Servants were holding the
dead ones  at the  harbor fort.  So when  would they  move them  across  the
straits to Hidden Island? Were they waiting for this one's arrival?
     "Maybe we  could grab some boats, escape south," said Scriber.  What an
ingenious fellow. Didn't he know that there would be sentry lines around the
harbor? Even  knowing  the  passwords, they'd be  reported  as soon as  they
passed one. It  would be  a  million-to-one shot.  But  it had  been a  flat
impossibility before Scar became part of him.
     He studied the creature lying on the travois. So strange, yet real. And
it  was more  than just  the creature,  though that was the most spectacular
strangeness.  Its bloodied clothes were a finer  fabric than the Pilgrim had
ever  seen.  Tucked in  beside the  creature's body was  a pink  pillow with
elaborate stitchery.  With  a twist of perspective  he realized it was alien
art, the face of a long-snouted animal embroidered on the pillow.
     So  escape  through the harbor  was a million-to-one  shot; some prizes
might be worth such odds.
     "...We'll go down a little farther," he said.






     Jaqueramaphan pulled the travois.  Wickwrackscar  strode ahead  of him,
trying to look important and officerly. With Scar along, it wasn't hard. The
member was the picture of martial competence; you had to be on the inside to
know the softness.
     They were almost down to sea level.
     The path was wider now and roughly  paved. He knew the  harbor fort was
above them, hidden  by the trees. The sun was well  out of the north, rising
into  the eastern sky.  Flowers were everywhere, white and  red and  violet,
their tufts floating thick  on  the breeze -- the arctic plant  life  taking
advantage  of its  long day of  summer. Walking on sun-dappled cobblestones,
you might almost forget the ambush on the hilltops.
     Very soon, they'd  hit a  sentry line. Lines  and rings are interesting
people; not  great minds, but about  the  largest effective pack you'd  find
outside  the  tropics.  There  were stories of lines  ten  miles  long, with
thousands of members. The largest Peregrine had ever  seen had less than one
hundred: Take a group of ordinary people  and train  them to string out, not
in packs but as individual members. If each member stayed just  a few  yards
from its nearest neighbors, they could maintain something like the mentality
of a trio. The group as a whole was scarcely brighter -- you can't have much
in the way of deep thoughts  when it takes <I>seconds</I>  for an idea to percolate
across your mind. Yet the line had an excellent grasp of what was  happening
along itself.  And if  any members were attacked, the entire line would know
about it with the  speed of sound. Peregrine had  served on lines before; it
was a strung out existence, but not nearly  as dull as ordinary sentry duty.
It's hard to be bored when you're as stupid as a line.
     There! A lone member  stuck its neck around a tree and challenged them.
Wickwrackscar  knew  the  password of course, and  they were past the  outer
line. But that  passage  and their description was known to the  entire line
now -- and surely to normal soldiers at the harbor fort.
     Hell. There was  no  cure for  it;  he  would  go  ahead with the crazy
scheme. He  and Scriber  and the alien  member passed through  the two inner
sentries. He could smell  the sea now. They  came  out of the trees onto the
rock-walled  harbor. Silver sparkled off  the  water in  a million  changing
flecks. A  large multiboat  bobbed  between two piers. Its masts were like a
forest of tilting, leafless trees. Just a mile across the  water they  could
see Hidden Island. Part of him dismissed the sight as a commonplace; part of
him  stumbled  in awe.  This  was the center  of  it, the worldwide  Flenser
movement. Up in  those  dour  towers,  the  original  Flenser had  done  his
experiments, written his essays ... and schemed to rule the world.
     There  were a  few people on the  piers. Most  were  doing maintenance:
sewing  sails,  relashing twinhulls.  They watched  the  travois with  sharp
curiosity,  but  none approached. <I>So all we have  to do is amble down to the
end of the  pier,  cut the  lashings on  an outside twinhull,  and take off.</I>
There were  probably enough packs on the  pier alone to  prevent that -- and
their cries would surely draw the troops he saw by the harbor fort. In fact,
it was a little surprising  that no one up there had taken serious notice of
them yet.
     These boats  were  cruder  than  the  Southseas  version.  Part of  the
difference  was  superficial: Flenser doctrine  forbade idle  decoration  on
boats.  Part of it was functional: These craft were designed for both winter
and  summer seasons, and  for troop hauling. But he was  sure  he could sail
them given the chance. He walked to the end of the pier. Hmm. A bit of luck.
The  bow-starboard twinhull, the one  right next to him by  the pier, looked
fast and well-provisioned. It was probably a long-range scout.
     "Ssst. Something's going on up there." Scriber jerked a head toward the
fort.
     The troops were closing ranks -- a  mass salute? Five Servants swept by
the  infantry, and  bugles sounded  from  the fort's towers.  Scar  had seen
things like this, but Peregrine didn't trust the memory. How could --
     A banner of red and  yellow rose over the fort.  On the piers, soldiers
and  boatworkers dropped to their bellies. Peregrine  dropped and  hissed to
the other, "<I>Get down!</I>"
     "Wha -- ?"
     "That's Flenser's flag ... his personal presence banner!"
     "That's impossible."  Flenser had been assassinated in the Republic six
tendays earlier. The mob that tore  him apart  had killed dozens of his  top
supporters  at the same time.... But it was  only the word of the Republican
Political Police that all Flenser's bodies had been recovered.
     Up by the fort, a single pack pranced between the ranks of soldiers and
whitejackets.  Silver and gold  glinted on  its  shoulders. Scriber  edged a
member behind a piling and surreptitiously brought out his eye-tool. After a
moment: "Soul's end ... it's <I>Tyrathect</I>."
     "She's no  more  the  Flenser than  I  am,"  said  Peregrine.  They had
traveled  together from  Eastgate all  the way  across the Icefangs. She was
obviously  a newby,  and not well-integrated.  She had  seemed reserved  and
innerlooking, but there had been rages. Peregrine knew there  was  a  deadly
streak  in  Tyrathect....  Now he guessed whence  it came. At  least some of
Flenser's members had  escaped assassination, and he and  Scriber  had spent
three tendays in its presence; Peregrine shivered.
     At the fort's gate, the pack called Tyrathect turned to face the troops
and  Servants.  She gestured,  and bugles  sounded  again. The new Peregrine
understood that signal:  an  Incalling.  He  suppressed  the sudden  urge to
follow the others on the pier as they walked belly-low toward the  fort, all
their  eyes  upon  The  Master. Scriber looked  back at  him,  and Peregrine
nodded. They had needed a miracle, and here <I>was</I> one -- provided by the enemy
itself! Scriber moved slowly toward the end of the pier, pulling the travois
from shadow to shadow.
     Still  no  one looked back. For  good reason; Wickwrackscar  remembered
what  happened  to those  showing  disrespect  at  an Incalling.  "Pull  the
creature on the bow-starboard boat," he said to Jaqueramaphan. He leaped off
the  pier and scattered  across the multiboat. It was  great to  be  back on
swaying decks, each member drifting a different  direction! He sniffed among
the bow catapults, listened to the hulls and the creak of the lashings.
     But Scar was  no  sailor, and had no recollection of what might  be the
most important thing.
     "What are you looking for?" came Scriber's Hightalk hiss.
     "Scuttle knockouts." If  they  were  here, they looked nothing like the
Southseas version.
     "Oh," said  Scriber, "that's  easy. These are Northern  Skimmers. There
are swingout panels  and a  thin hull behind." Two of him dropped from sight
for a second  and there was a banging sound.  The  heads reappeared, shaking
water off.  He grinned surprise,  taken aback by his own success. "Why, it's
just like in the books!" his expression seemed to say.
     Wickwrackscar found  them now; the panels had looked like  crew  rests,
but they were easily pulled out and the wood behind was easy to break with a
battle  axe. He  kept a  head  out,  looking  to see if  he  were attracting
attention, while at the same time  he hacked at the knockouts. Peregrine and
Scriber worked their  way  across the bow  ranks of the multiboat;  if those
foundered, it would take a while to get the twinhulls behind them free.

     <I>Oops.</I>  One  of the boat workers was looking back  this way. Part of the
fellow continued up the hillside,  part strained to  return to the pier. The
bugles sounded their imperative once more,  and the pack  followed the call.
But his whining alarums were causing other heads to turn.
     No time