A Fire Upon the Deep

by Vernor Vinge

  Note 480

  “Oh, yeah?” Ravna’s arms went akimbo, and she cocked her head to one side. It was just a bit too much, when his whole existence was a fraud. “You’re the little prince who grew up with intrigue and assassination, and then flew away to the stars with the Qeng Ho…. Do you ever really think about that past, Pham Nuwen? Or is that something Old One tactfully blocks you from doing? After our charming evening at The Wandering Company, I did think about it. You know what? There’s only a few things you can know for sure: You really were a Slow Zone spacer — probably two or three spacers, since none of the corpses was complete. Somehow you and your buddies got yourselves killed down at the nether end of the Slowness. What else? Well, your ship had no recoverable memory. The only hardcopy we found seemed to be written in some Earth Asian language. That’s all, all, that Old One had to go on when he put together the fraud.”

  Note 481

  Pham’s smile seemed a little frozen. Ravna went on before he could speak. “But don’t blame Old One. He was a little rushed, right? He had to convince Vrinimi and me that you were real. He rummaged around in the archives, slapped together a mishmash reality for you. Maybe it took him an afternoon — are you grateful for the effort? A snip from here and a snip from there. There really was a Qeng Ho, you know. On Earth, a thousand years before space flight. And there must have been Asia-descended colonies, though that’s an obvious extrapolation on his part. Old One really has a nice sense of humor. He made your whole life a fantastic romance, right down to the last tragic expedition. That should have tipped me off, by the way. It’s a combination of several pre-Nyjoran legends.”

  Note 482

  She caught her breath and rushed on. “I feel sorry for you, Pham Nuwen. As long as you don’t think about yourself too hard, you can be the most confident fellow in space. But all the skill, all the achievement — do you ever look at it up close? I’ll bet not. Being a great warrior or an expert pilot — those involve a million subskills, all the way down to kinesthetic things below the level of conscious thought. The Old One’s fraud needed just the top level recollections, and a brash personality. Look under the surface, Pham. I think you’ll find a whole lot of nothing.”A dream of competence, too closely confronted.

  Note 483

  The redhead had crossed his arms and was tapping his sleeve with a finger. When she finally ran out of words, his smile grew broad and patronizing. “Ah, silly Ravna. Even now you don’t understand how far superior the Powers are. Old One is not some Middle Beyond tyranny, brainwashing its victims with superficial memories. Even a Transcendent fraud has more depth than the image of reality in a human mind. And how can you know this really is a fraud? So you looked through the Relay archives, and didn’t find my Qeng Ho.”My Qeng Ho. He paused. Remembering? Trying to remember? For an instant Ravna saw a gleam of panic on his face. Then it was gone, and there was just the lazy smile. “Can any of us imagine the archives of the Transcend, all the things Old One must know about humanity? Vrinimi Org should be grateful to Old One for explaining my origins; they could never have learned that by themselves.

  “Look. I am truly sorry I can’t help. Even if it’s otherwise a fool’s errand, I’d like to see those kids rescued. But don’t worry about the Blight. It’s near maximum expansion now. Even if you could destroy it, you wouldn’t make things better for the poor wights who’ve been absorbed.” He laughed, a little too loudly. “Well, I have to go; Old One has some other errands for me this afternoon. He wasn’t happy about this being face-to-face, but I insisted. The perks of detached duty, y’know. You and I … you and I had some good times, and I thought it would be nice to chat. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

  Pham cut in his agrav and floated off the sand. He waved a laconic salute. Staring up, Ravna lifted her hand to wave back. His figure dwindled, acquired a faint nimbus as he left the Docks’ breathable atmosphere and his space suit cut in.

  Ravna watched a few moments more, till the figure became one more commuter in the indigo sky. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Behind her there was the sound of wheels crunching across sand. Blueshell and Greenstalk had rolled out of the water. Wetness glistened on the sides of their skrodes, transforming their cosmetic stripes into jagged rainbows. Ravna walked down to meet them. How do I tell them there’s no help coming?

  With someone like Pham Nuwen fronting for it, Old One had seemed so different from what she imagined in her classes back at Sjandra Kei. She’d almost thought she could make a difference just by talking. What a joke. She had caught a glimpse just now, behind the front: of a being who could play with souls the way a programmer plays with a clever graphic, a being so far beyond her that only its indifference could protect her. Be happy, little Ravna moth. You were only dazzled by the flame.

  Note 484

  Note 485

  Note 486

  Chapter 16

  Note 487

  The next few weeks went surprisingly well. Despite the Pham Nuwen debacle, Blueshell and Greenstalk were still willing to fly the rescue. Vrinimi Org even kicked in some extra resources. Every day, Ravna took a tele-excursion out to the repair yards. The Out of Band II might not be getting any Transcendent enhancements, but when the refitting was complete, the ship would be something extraordinary: Now it floated in a golden haze of structors, billions of tiny robots regrowing sections of the hull into the characteristic form of a bottom lugger. Sometimes the ship seemed to Ravna like a fragile moth … and sometimes an abyssal fish. The rebuilt ship could survive across a range of environments: It had the spines of an ultradrive craft, but the hull was streamlined and wasp-waist — the classic form of a ramscoop ship. Bottom-luggers must troll dangerously near the Slow Zone. The zone surface was hard to detect from a distance, even harder to map; and there were short-term position changes. It was not impossible for a lugger to be trapped a light-year or two within the Slowness. It was then you’d thank goodness for the ramscoop and the coldsleep facilities. Of course, by the time you returned to civilization, you might be completely out of date, but at least you could get back.

  Ravna floated her viewpoint through the drive spines that spread out from the hull. They were broader than on most ships that came to Relay. They weren’t optimal for the Middle or High Beyond, but with appropriate (i.e., Low Beyond) computers, the ship would fly as fast as anything when it reached the Bottom.

  Grondr let her spend half-time on the project, and after a few days Ravna realized this was not just a favor. She was the best person for this job. She knew humans, and she knew archive management. Jefri Olsndot needed reassurance every day. And the things Jefri was telling her were immediately important. Even if everything went according to plan — even if the Perversion stayed completely out of it — this rescue was going to be tricky. The kid and his ship seemed to be in the middle of a bloody war. Extracting them would mean making instantly correct decisions and acting on them. They would need an effective onboard database and strategy program. But not much could be expected to work at the Bottom, and memory capacity would be limited. It was up to Ravna to decide what library materials to move to the ship, to balance the ease of local availability against the greater resources that would be accessible over the ultrawave from Relay.

  Note 488

  Grondr was available on the local net, and often in real time. He wanted this to work: “Don’t worry, Ravna. We’ll dedicate part of R00 to this mission. If their antenna swarm works properly, the Riders should have have a thirty Kbps link to Relay. You’ll be their prime contact here, and you’ll have access to our best strategists. If nothing … interferes, you should have no trouble managing this rescue.”

  Even four weeks ago, Ravna wouldn’t have dared to ask for more. Now: “Sir, I have a better idea. Send me with the Skroderiders.”

  All of Grondr’s mouth parts clapped together at once. She’d seen that much surprise in people like Egravan, but never in the staid Grondr. He was silent for a moment. “No. We need you here. You are our best sanity
check when it comes to questions about humankind.” The newsgroups interested in the Straumli Perversion carried more than one hundred thousand messages a day, about a tenth of that human-related. Thousands of messages were old ideas rehashed, or patent absurdities, or probable lies. Marketing’s automation was fairly good at filtering out the redundancy and some of the absurdity, but when it came to questions on human nature Ravna was without equal. About half her time was spent guiding that analysis and handling queries about humankind at the archives. All that would be next to impossible if she left with the Skroderiders.

  Over the next few days, Ravna kept pushing her boss on the question. Whoever flew the rescue would need instant rapport with humans — human children, in fact. Very likely Jefri Olsndot had never even met a Skroderider. The point was a good one, and it was gradually driving her to desperation — but by itself it would not have changed old Grondr’s mind. It took some outside events to do that: As the weeks passed, the Blight’s expansion slowed. Just as conventional wisdom (and Old One via Pham Nuwen) claimed, there seemed to be natural limits to how far the Perversion could extend its interests. The abject panic slowly disappeared from High Beyond communication traffic. Rumors and refugees from the absorbed volumes dribbled toward zero. The people in the Blighted spaces were gone, but now it was more like death in a graveyard than death from contagious rot. Blight-related newsgroups continued to babble about the catastrophe, but the level of nonproductive rehashing was steadily increasing. There simply was very little new going on. Over the next ten years, physical death would spread through the Blighted region. Colonization would begin again, cautiously probing through the ruins and informational traps, and residue races. But all of that was a ways off, and for the moment Relay’s Blight “windfall” was a shrinking affair.

  Note 489

  … And Marketing was even more interested in the Straumli refugee ship. None of the strategy programs — much less Grondr — believed the ship’s secret could hurt the Blight, but there was a good chance it might bring commercial advantage when the Perversion finally got tired of its Transcendent game. And the Tines pack-minds had caught their interest. It was very appropriate that a maximum effort be made, that Ravna give up her Docks job and go to the field.

  So, for a wonder, her childhood fantasy of rescue and questing adventure would actually come true. And even more surprising, I’m only half-terrified by the prospect!

  * * *

  Note 490

  Target[56]: Im sorry I diddnt anser for a while. I dont feel good a lot. Mister Steel says I should talk to you. He says I need more friends to make me feel better. Amdi says so too and hes my best friend of all…. like packs of dogs but smart and fun. I wish I could send pictures. Mister Steel will try to get ansers for all your questions. He is doing everything he can to help, but the bad packs will be back. Amdi and I tried the stuff you said with the ship. I am sorry, it still doesnt work…. I hate this dumb keybord….

  Org[57]: Hi, Jefri. Amdi and Mr. Steel are right. I always like to talk, and it will make you feel better…. There are inventions that might help Mister Steel. We’ve thought of some improvements for his bows and flamethrowers. I’m also sending down some fortress design information. Please tell Mister Steel that we can’t tell him how to fly the ship. It would be dangerous even for an expert pilot to try….

  Target[57]: Ya, even Daddy had a hard time landing it. ikocxljikersw89iou43e5 I think Mister Steel just doesnt understand, and hes getting sorta disparate…. Isnt there other stuff, though, like they had in oldendays. You know, bombs and airplanes that we could make?…

  Org[58]: There are other inventions, but it would take time for Mister Steel to make them. Our star ship is leaving Relay soon, Jefri. We’ll be there long before other inventions would help….

  Target[58]: Your coming? Your finally coming!!! When do you leave? When will you get here???

  Note 491

  Ordinarily Ravna composed her messages to Jefri on a keyboard — it gave her some feeling for the kid’s situation. He seemed to be holding up, though there were still days when he didn’t write (it was strange to think of “mental depression” having any connection with an eight-year-old). Other times he seemed to have a tantrum at the keyboard, and across twenty-one thousand light-years she saw evidence of small fists slamming into keys.

  Note 492

  Ravna grinned at the display. Today she finally had something more than nebulous promises for him: she had a positive departure time. Jefri was going to like message [59]. She typed: “We’re scheduled to leave in seven more days, Jefri. Travel time will be about thirty days.” Should she qualify that? Latest postings on the Zone boundary newsgroups said the Bottom was unusually active. The Tines World was so close to the Slow Zone … If the “storm” worsened, travel time would suffer. There was about a one percent chance the voyage would take more than sixty days. She leaned back from the keyboard. Did she really want to say that? Damn. Better be frank; these dates could affect the locals who were helping Jefri. She explained the “ifs” and “buts”, then went on to describe the ship and the wonderful things they would bring. The boy usually didn’t write at great length (except when he was relaying information from Steel), but he really seemed to like long letters from her.

  Note 493

  The Out of Band II was undergoing final consistency checks. Its ultradrive was rebuilt and tested; the Skroderiders had taken it out a couple of thousand light-years to check the antenna swarm. The swarm worked great, too. She and Jefri would be able to talk through most of the voyage. As of yesterday, the ship was stocked with consumables. (That sounded like something out of medieval adventure. But you had to take some supplies when you were headed so far down that reality graphics couldn’t be trusted.) Sometime tomorrow, Grondr’s people would be loading the ship’s hold with gadgets that might be real handy for a rescue. Should she mention those? Some of them might sound a bit intimidating to Jefri’s local friends.

  * * *

  Note 494

  That evening, she and the Skroderiders had a beach party. That’s what they called it, though it was much more like the human version than an authentic Rider one. Blueshell and Greenstalk had rolled well back from the water, to where the sand lay dry and warm. Ravna laid out refreshments on Blueshell’s cargo scarf. They sat on the sand and admired the sunset.

  It was mostly a celebration — that Ravna had gotten permission to go with the OOB, that the ship was almost ready to depart. But, “Are you really happy to be going, my lady?” asked Blueshell. “We two will make very good money, but you—”

  Ravna laughed. “I’ll get a travel bonus.” She had argued and argued for permission to go; there wasn’t much room left to haggle about the pay. “And yes. This is what I really want.”

  “I am glad,” said Greenstalk.

  Note 495

  “I am laughing,” said Blueshell. “My mate is especially pleased that our passenger will not be surly. We almost lost our love for bipeds after shipping with the certificants. But there is nothing to be frightened of now. Have you read Threats Group in the last fifteen hours? The Blight has stopped growing, and its edges have become sharply defined. The Perversion is settling into middle age. I’m ready to leave right now.”

  Note 496

  Blueshell was full of speculations about the Tinish “packs”, and possible schemes for extracting Jefri and any other survivors. Greenstalk interjected a thought here and there. She was less shy than before, but still seemed softer, more diffident than her mate. And her confidence was a bit more realistic. She was glad they weren’t leaving for another week. There were still the final consistency checks to run on the OOB— and Grondr had gotten Org financing for a small fleet of decoy ships. Fifty were complete so far. A hundred would be ready by the end of the week.

  The Docks drifted into night. With its shallow atmosphere, twilight was short, but the colors were spectacular. The beach and the trees glistened in the horizontal rays. The scent of evening flowers mix
ed with the tang of sea salt. On the far side of the sea, all was stark bright and dark, silhouettes that might have been Vrinimi fancies or functional dock equipage — Ravna had never learned which. The sun slid behind the sea. Orange and red spread along the aft horizon, topped by a wider band of green, probably ionized oxygen.

  The Riders didn’t turn their skrodes for a better view — for all she knew, they had been looking that way all along — but they stopped talking. As the sun set, the breakers shattered it into a thousand images, glints of green and yellow through the foam. She guessed the two would have preferred to be out there just now. She had seen them often enough around sunset, deliberately sitting where the surf was hardest. When the water drew back, their stalks and fronds were like supplicants’ arms, upstretched. At times like these she could almost understand the Lesser Skroderiders; they spent their whole lives memorizing such repeated moments. She smiled in the greenish twilight. There would always be time enough later to worry and plan.

  They must have sat like that for twenty minutes. Along the curving line of the beach, she saw tiny fires in the gathering dark: office parties. Somewhere very nearby there was the crunch crunch of feet on sand. She turned and saw that it was Pham Nuwen. “Over here,” she called.

  Pham ambled toward them. He’d been very scarce since their last confrontation; Ravna guessed that some of her jibes had struck deep. This once, I hope Old One made him forget. Pham Nuwen had the potential to be a real person; it hadn’t been right to hurt him because his principal was beyond reach.

  “Have a seat. Galaxy-rise in a half hour.” The Skroderiders rustled, so deep into the sunset that they were only now noticing the visitor.

  Pham Nuwen walked a pace or two beyond Ravna and stood arms akimbo, staring across the sea. He glanced back at her, and the green twilight gave his face an eerie fierceness. He flashed his old, lopsided smile. “I think I owe you an apology.”