The Children of the Sky zot-3

by Vernor Steffen Vinge

  The radio abruptly came to life. This was not the barely audible mumbling of overheard conversations. This was Tinish sent directly from Oobii or the orbiter: “Come land. Come land east. East.” Even Johanna could understood the chords.

  “There there there!” Cheepers’ association shouted in Samnorsk, pointing toward the inland cliffs, but north of the piers at Cliffside. She saw a narrow beach, backed by rugged talus. Humans were standing there, waving colored squares of cloth.

  Around Johanna, heads perked up. Tines shifted about on the various masts. Members on the deck were pulling at the multiple tillers. The whole craft began drifting toward the makeshift semaphores.

  Merto again: “Hei, that worked! They’re turning toward Rock Harbor.”

  To the south of Johanna’s raft, the rest of the formation was drifting right, all toward the narrow strip of Rock Harbor. She squinted for a better view. She hadn’t been down to Rock Harbor since the year two shipwreck, before the Tropical Embassy. The place was not so deadly anymore. The worst of the jaggedness had silted over and Woodcarver’s packs had used gunpowder to break the most dangerous rocks—but despite the name, it was not a proper harbor.

  Ah! Of course. That was the reason Nevil wanted the Tropicals to land there. Innocent observers could be kept at a distance. The Tropicals and their freight would be completely in the control of whoever Nevil and Vendacious had positioned there.

  And I will be caught before anyone knows I’m alive.

  The rocky shore was less than a thousand meters away. Johanna froze for a second or two. Then she grabbed the radio and raced up the familiar path to the top of the cargo jumble, the base of the tallest mast. After all these tendays, she had that worked out so the move was safe and fast—and every step was shielded from the orbiter’s lookdown.

  She would not be shielded from observers on the shore.

  “Hei, hei, listen up!” Johanna’s human voice was such a frail thing, but it was all she had. The Tines were looking toward Rock Harbor, or pulling on the sails to guide them eastwards. Johanna jumped up and down, waving. Cheepers and scattered heads turned in her direction; attention spread across the choir.

  “Go west. Go west!” She pointed first at Rock Harbor and then swept her arm around the horizon, jabbing at Hidden Island. It was her best imitation of the sort of gesturing that a singleton might do with its snout and neck. “Go west!”, and she repeated the gesture.

  The radio at her feet remained silent. Her luck was holding; she hadn’t been noticed by Nevil’s observers.

  The mob milled around for a moment. They’d gotten clear directions from the radio. This was the sort of situation where they might not play ball with her. By now she could even recognize their rippling dance as factions of mind dithered. But the radio remained silent, and more and more little clots of awareness were appearing in the mob, amplifying Johanna’s point.

  Then she saw coordinated unanimity. All around the raft, jaws tightened on ropes and tillers, pulling just so, responding to the result to correct and maintain the maneuver. The raft turned again, ponderously drifting westward across the straits.

  That got noticed. The radio came alive with two or three human voices:

  “Holy shit, the lead raft has lost control!” At Rock Harbor the hand-waved semaphores bounced frantically. Johanna could hear faint shouting coming from the shore, human voices all. Nevil might be consorting with Vendacious, but he remained a racist.

  “What’s gone wrong?” That was Tami’s voice. “Powers! Nevil, there’s something strange on that lead barge. There’s a bundle of rags flapping around by the main mast.” Thanks for the fashion comment, Tam. Johanna couldn’t resist: she stopped cheerleading the Choir long enough to face the cliffs. She could only guess where Tami was watching from, but she gave the rocks a cheery wave.

  Tami’s voice came immediately. “Uk! It’s alive, Nevil! There’s a human on that barge. It’s Johanna!… What do you mean? I know what I see. We can finally learn why she did all those terrible things.” Then the radio went silent. Jo waved again, but that didn’t provoke anything more from Tami. Johanna looked to the south. The raft behind them was copying her maneuver—and the one behind that! Maybe all ten would elude the cozy rendezvous Nevil had planned.

  Johanna’s raft was less than fifteen hundred meters from the piers of the South End of Hidden Island. She could see packs and humans there, a crowd forming.

  The radio at her feet came to life, gobbling Tinish. Here and there, Tinish heads came up. The chords sounded like the same demand as before. Hah! It was exactly the same, just a recording of the demand that the raft head for Rock Harbor. That was dumb, Nevil. The exact repeat would be recognized as unmindful. Sure enough, not more than a dozen of her mob paid any attention. And when the message repeated again, there was no visible response whatsoever.

  There were more people on the South End piers than a minute before. It was still too far away for her to recognize anyone, but there were lots of Children and lots of Tines. She stood tall and waved. Even if they didn’t have binoculars, they would know that some human was out here among the Tropicals.

  Johanna watched the perspective change as the raft slid toward Hidden Island. The tide was with them, and as the channel narrowed, the winds had picked up. The raft must be making three meters per second. All the rafts were following her. To the east, the semaphores by Rock Harbor waved desperately, ignored by all. Ahead of her on the mainland side, she could see the funicular’s steep path up the cliffs. Springtime waterfalls made little rainbows all along the sheer drop and at the top she could see the tiny silhouettes of houses against the sky. Starship Hill and Newcastle town were out of sight, but in another few seconds she would see Oobii.

  And vice versa!

  Even as she crouched low, Johanna caught a glimpse of iridescent green, one of Oobii’s ultradrive spines. She grabbed the radio and slid down the west side of the cargo pile, out of sight of the cliffs and the starship. She and Jef were the only Children who had seen the beam gun used for much more than warming residential hot-water tanks. Johanna remembered what it could do with its amplifier stage, the slagged metal, the exploded bodies. Surely, Nevil wouldn’t dare commit murder in front of so many witnesses? Maybe not. But how much had those on the South End really seen? He might chance it. He would make some slick, crazy explanation. After all, didn’t Tami say that the “something on the barge” looked like a rag mannikin?

  So play it safe, stay out of sight till she was ashore and everyone could see the undeniable truth. She tossed her radio into the water, just another red herring for Nevil.

  Johanna crawled around to the west side of the raft, taking little detours to keep out of the way of Tines who were busily managing the sheets and rudders. The mob’s attention was fixed on making a safe landing; the fact that she was no longer cheerleading had become irrelevant. She crawled onto one of the forward containers that she’d torn open in the search for heavy cloaks. From here, she had a clear view of the approaching piers.

  There was Ben Larsndot! He was part of the mixed crowd, humans providing just enough buffering that the packs didn’t get in each other’s space. They were armed with all manner of ad hoc weapons: timbers, cargo hooks, staves. Johanna waved as broadly as she could. “Hei, Ben! All of you. These Tines are friendly. Don’t hurt them.”

  Her voice was lost in the sea breeze. She felt a snout poking at her shoulder. It was Cheepers. Johanna swept her hand across his shoulders. “Say what I just said, okay?”

  A second later, her voice boomed across the water, the same words she had shouted the moment before. Other Tines on the raft picked up on it. The chant grew louder. She stuck her fingers in her ears to blunt the pain of it. The chant was mercifully brief, but as they swept closer, the echo of her voice came back from the inland cliffs. Denying her arrival had just gotten a lot harder!

  She didn’t say anything more. Her ears couldn’t take the reshouting. Instead she crawled forward along the “deck�
�� of freight containers.

  They were thirty meters from the pier. This close to shore normal packs would bring down the sails and use ground lines and mooring poles to ease the raft to a soft stop. The mob wasn’t into that. They were used to the crushable middens along the River Fell. The sails stayed up, but her crew was doing miracles with the breeze, slowing the craft as they slid closer and closer. Ashore, packs and humans were backing away, shouting at the mob to drop their sails.

  Johanna looked up and down the pier. She’d have no trouble getting off, and there were plenty of humans around. Once ashore, Nevil would have to kill lots of others to get at her. But he just might do even that. Somehow she had to get off the pier and hidden in town.

  How about going under the pier just ahead of the oncoming crash? This was getting crazier and crazier, but.… She looked into the shaded spaces below the pier. Maybe.

  “Cheepers!”

  Cheepers and several others moved closer. “You stay here. You all stay on the raft, okay? Everyone is friends here.”

  Then Johanna slipped down from the level of the top freight boxes, down below the line of sight of those on the pier. No one was going to see exactly where she was headed. Surely no one would think she was crazy enough to … she dove headfirst from under the overhang of cargo, aiming for a gap in the timber strutwork of the pier.

  Numbing agony. She floated back to the surface, all but paralyzed by the cold. This was springtime in the arctic. As she sank back down, scarcely able to wiggle, Johanna had a very clear recollection of when all the Children had been young and Ravna and Pilgrim had lectured them on how quickly humans could die swimming in this water.

  She forced her arms out, bumped into something solid. A diagonal timber. She hit another one with her foot, pushed herself up, grabbing at a horizontal beam. For a moment she just hung there, out of the water from her thighs up. Her legs were numb, and she was too weak to climb anywhere hand over hand. She bent her head against her arm, wiping hair out of her eyes. The barnacled strutwork was a zigzag pattern all around her. She had no place to stand and no way to move down the pier toward solid ground. Her grip slipped a centimeter or two. Where were the walkways!

  Yeah, there were walkways, and just now the nearest one was a meter to her left—flooded by the rising tide. She swung herself from side to side. Her good fortune was to lose her grip at just the right instant. She splashed down on hands and knees—onto something solid and flat. The walkway was under only ten centimeters of water.

  As Johanna struggled to her feet, her raft slid into the pier. The mob had slowed it down to under a meter per second, but the raft was so massive that that didn’t matter. Wood against wood, the front edge of the strutwork creaked and then snapped apart.

  She staggered along the walkway, holding onto the struts for balance.

  The raft had finally come to rest. The pier was still shaking, but the twist and tilt had stopped short of collapsing the entire structure. She heard shouts and even a few cheers from the Children. She picked up her pace. Shore was somewhere in the shadowed timbers ahead. Jefri and Amdi used to play on these piers; she’d had to come down here and apprehend them. There would be stairs at the far end of the pier, a covered passageway into the warehouses. What then? Maybe she should stay hidden for a few days until she could figure out what was going on, contact Woodcarver, Scrupilo, Jefri—if Jef had come to his senses.

  As she stumbled along, she heard human and packs running the length of the pier. There were shouts, some in Samnorsk, but too loud to be human. “Johanna! Where are you?” … “You say she dove into the water?”

  “So where is she now?”

  She reached the stairs and discovered an unexpected challenge. Normally, you took Tinish stairs three at time, but now Johanna had to lift her numbed legs with her hands, and carefully watch that she set her nerveless feet down. It was like climbing on stilts. Fortunately, the stairs were only member-wide, so she could lean against the walls as she lifted first one foot and then the other.

  She shrugged off the last of her icy cloaks. Sometime really really soon she needed to get dry and warm. For a few moments she forgot everything else as she negotiated the last few steps.

  Then she was at the top, in a covered passage. She saw a dirty glass window mounted in an external door. She got close and looked back—just to see how everybody was doing, she told herself. Never mind that she was too weak to do much else.

  Nowadays Scrupilo’s glassworks could turn out clear glass by the square meter. This little window was from the early years; for Johanna’s purposes, it was good enough. She could see humans and packs clustered around the raft. The second and third rafts were pulling in behind it. When the entire fleet arrived, the South End harbor would look like that jumble on the River Fell.

  She could step outside and wave to the kids on the pier. She’d still be out of Oobii’s sight. The hell with further paranoia. As she reached for the door handle, she noticed several Tropicals climbing onto the pier, approaching the Children. They had recovered the radio!

  No!

  The side blast from the beam gun sent shards of glass ripping past her face. The shuddering wall bounced her off her feet. She rolled to her knees, her ears ringing with the thunder. No need for a door or a window now. In places the wood panels had been blown away from the wall studs. Thirty meters down the pier a cloud of steam was rising from a hole punched through the pier itself.

  As Johanna struggled to her feet she tried to wipe the blood from her face, but the stuff kept dribbling. There were survivors, lots of wounded. She tottered a step or two toward the open pier. I should help! Yeah, and give crazy Nevil reason to shoot again.

  She turned the other way and staggered up the passage, into the warehouse.

  Chapter 38

  Vendacious’ airship was slightly smaller than Tycoon’s. Tycoon could believe that he was the star of this operation. Inside, of course … that was a different story. Tycoon did not come here; Vendacious could do as he pleased. Tycoon had staterooms and crew quarters. Vendacious had room for cargo and cages and weapons. Crew could sleep at their posts. Tycoon had his command deck high in the bow, unbalancing his ship and isolating him from his servants. Vendacious ruled from his ship’s control gondola with just enough quilting so the crew didn’t interfere with his thinking. Instant discipline could be exercised. None of those silly speaking tubes for Vendacious. He often thought that Tycoon’s command deck was what the eight imagined of human automation. Though Tycoon would have fiercely denied it, he was a slavish admirer of almost all things human. That was just one more reason to keep humans and Tycoon from getting friendly.

  “M’lord, the Pack of Packs is pulling away from us.” This news came from Vendacious’ ship’s captain, the sound focused so that only the nearest member of Vendacious could hear.

  “Very good,” Vendacious replied. As he’d directed, his airship was lagging behind, keeping relatively close to the ground. Vendacious was watching with binocular telescopes, following as Tycoon flew blissfully on into the jaws of the mantises. Vendacious really didn’t want to follow, but soon he would have to expose himself to those same jaws.

  He suppressed his trembling fear and concentrated on the audio from Ut. The singleton had its own perch, well away from the crew. Ut’s purpose in life had been very simple for some years now. He wore his prison around his shoulders, the radio cloak glistening black with hints of gold. Ut should be happy, though. He was treated better than most crew.

  Tycoon bragged endlessly about the Radio Cloaks network. In fact, it was Vendacious who had persuaded Nevil to supply the cloaks. It was Vendacious who had winnowed hundreds of singletons to find the few who could wear the cloaks and still survive. It was Vendacious who controlled the network. All eight lived in proper fear of him. Vendacious had trained them to speak only along the paths he directed, when he directed. And he was just as careful to keep them from ever getting all their heads together. Now they were his ears across the e
mpire: Earlier this day, he had spoken via the Ut/Ta/Fur/Il relay to Aritarmo down on the Tropical Reservation. An hour later he talked via Ut/For/Fyr to Dekutomon, on the mainland south of Hidden Island. Now he was simply listening via Ut/Zek as Tycoon used the network to make final preparations for the landing on Starship Hill.

  Tycoon’s various pronouncements and directions were mainly directed at his crew. Vendacious paid a small amount of attention to that; mainly he was interested in any trouble the Ravna maggot might stir up. Abruptly, he realized that Tycoon was talking to him: “Where in hell are you, Vendacious? My lookouts have lost sight of you.”

  Damn you, I’m not being a perfect target in the sky. But aloud, Vendacious said, “Sorry, my lord, sorry. We’ve had a bit of mechanical trouble, unable to make much altitude.” In fact, mountain walls loomed on either side of their path, thousands of feet of rock between his precious members and the maggots’ beam gun.

  “Are you going to crash then?” said Tycoon. “I’ve told you to be more careful about repairs. It’s stupid to have your own maintenance crews.”

  “Not to worry, sir. My people have a solution. You’ll be seeing us soon.” Vendacious glanced at the dataset display in front of him. The position map showed that he was running out of mountains to hide behind. He must soon decide between trusting Nevil Storherte and dropping out of the game.

  “Very good then!” Their conversation was in Interpack and thus free of maggoty smart remarks. “Another thing,” continued Tycoon. “I need to talk to Nevil directly. There’s final planning—”

  “I believe I’ve covered everything, my lord.” Vendacious did his best to be the middlepack in all contacts between Tycoon and humans, even—and especially—Nevil Storherte. Fortunately, Storherte really didn’t like to talk to packs. Keeping Tycoon from chatting with Nevil had been much easier than keeping the eightsome from talking to the various surviving prisoners.