“I—of course.”
“You know about exploitation, right?”
“Like on Nyjora, in the Age of Princesses?” She smiled.
Ravna didn’t return the smile. “I don’t want that to happen here, Jo.”
The girl looked puzzled for a moment, but then she nodded very seriously. “I promise, Ravna. The Choir will not be exploited.”
• • •
After Ravna left the Pack of Packs, Johanna remained on the bridge. It was late afternoon. The sun would be setting soon, but there was still enough light to see through the gauze quilting that she and the ship’s steward had hung behind the bow ports. If she leaned forward and looked to the side, she could see most of Ravna’s expedition. There was Jefri and Amdi. By now Jef knew she was okay. But there was Giske and Magda and Øvin. As long as Johanna continued this scam on Nevil, most of her friends must think her lost. That was a price Johanna was willing to pay, but she hadn’t counted the cost to others, the pain of waiting and waiting to learn the terrible truth.… She could see Øvin sitting beside Edvi’s little coffin. We should have risked sneaking word back to those who were really hurting. Instead, she and Tyco had only thought how to stick it to Nevil. That was a success, but now Johanna just wanted to flee this place.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Tycoon’s new voice: “I say we take off for home.” Johanna turned, saw Zek sitting on a throne right behind her.
Hooray! Aloud she said, “Ah. I thought you wanted to get a few more hours of intimidation out of this trip.”
“I did, but I don’t hear anything happening. Better to return my flagship to profit-making.”
“You’re leaving the troopship, right?” she said.
“Of course. Nevil can claim me as his ally, but never again is anybody going to murder people and then claim they were doing me a favor.”
“Okay. Let’s go.” Please!
Zek departed for the ship’s main hatch. A moment later Ta came up the spiral stairs, probably from the pilots’ gondola. There were two members of Mr. Radio aboard Pack of Packs. Ta used the bridge’s speaking tubes for some final directions to the crew; apparently he’d come up here in case Tycoon had something to say to her.
She heard the faint buzz of the steam induction engines, and a moment later—somewhat louder—Zek’s voice booming out from the main hatch. The official spokescritter for Tycoon was announcing their departure and asking for help from Nevil’s ground crews.
Ten minutes later, Johanna felt the last of the ties slip loose. Pack of Packs bobbed free, rising slowly from the valley floor. She had a last glimpse of Ravna’s expedition and Nevil’s group. The Deniers were waving solemn farewell. Most of Ravna’s people were just staring. Everyone was out of sight before she could spot Jefri and Amdi.
The ship turned after it was above the walls of the Streamsdell. They flew back along the north side of the great river valley. Ravna pulled down the quilting so Ta and Zek could get a good view.
“That slit in the side valley. Is that the entrance to Nevil’s cave system?” The voice belonged to Mr. Radio.
“Yup. If Woodcarver already knows about it, we should be able to get some maps.”
Tycoon’s voice grumbled: “I’m putting video senders at the top of my to-make list.”
In less than a minute, Nevil’s rat hole had slid beneath their view. The horizon ahead was an endless stretch of rock and snow and glaciers, lit by the setting sun. Flying at altitude, they had enough fuel for a nonstop return, but the trip would take all night and into the next day.
More than enough time to do one thing right. Johanna looked at Zek. “So where did you stow the commset?” she said.
Ta and Zek jabbed snouts at one of the low cabinets that lined the walls. It wasn’t locked. She pulled out the commset, one of just two that had finally fallen into Tycoon’s claws.
“What’s that you’re doing?” said Tycoon.
“I’m going to have a chat with Woodcarver.”
Mr. Radio emitted spluttering noises, no doubt from Tycoon. “Nevil will overhear!”
“Nope,” said Johanna. “Commset traffic is encrypted, and we’re so high that I can send direct to the coast. Nevil will not even know we’re talking.”
Tycoon was silent for a moment. Then: “Very well. Sooner or later we do need a detailed discussion with this Woodcarver.”
“That’s true.” Johanna put down the commset and looked at Ta and Zek. “But Tycoon, that’s not what I’m looking for in this chat. Woodcarver and I—we need to talk about personal things. If you refuse me, I won’t be mad, but … will you leave me alone for this, not even eavesdrop?”
It was a test Johanna had never intended to set. Truly, she didn’t expect Tycoon to trust her this much.
Tycoon was silent for a moment. “This is about the Pilgrim pack, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Another silence. “Very well.” Ta and Zek started toward the stairs. “But I want a full report on everything else!”
In just a few seconds, they were gone from the stairwell and the anteroom below. Johanna fiddled with the commset, trying to set up a session. Since the device didn’t know where it was, and she didn’t want it to ask the orbiter for a position, this was not entirely easy. But after a few minutes, she had clear green, and shortly after that—
“Woodcarver here. Johanna?”
“Yes. I said we should talk. Is now—?”
“Yes, now is fine. I’m alone in the thrones room.”
“I’m alone as well. I—I wanted to tell you about Pilgrim.…”
Johanna described the agrav’s last flight, the crash. Then there were the memories she tried not to think about. Maybe it was nuts to talk about each death now, to say all the things she had seen, but she did and Woodcarver listened. She wasn’t sure how anyone could make sense of her voice by the time that she finished. Woodcarver did. She asked questions, wanted to know everything.
When everything was said, and Johanna’s voice guttered to a stop, Woodcarver said, “He was dismembered, without a doubt.” Her own human voice sounded almost normal, maybe speaking a little slower than usual: “And is he totally dead? Probably. But this is Pilgrim. When you get back to Tycoon’s hideout in the Tropics—”
“I’ll keep watch, Woodcarver. I won’t give up.”
They talked of Pilgrim for some time more. They had other memories of him. Johanna’s went back ten years. Woodcarver’s were a patchwork of encounters that extended far longer.
They must have talked for two hours. Outside, the Icefangs had faded to dark and stars ruled the horizon. The Pack of Packs continued to climb as it approached the mountain passes. The air was steady and smooth, quite unlike Jo’s earlier passages over these peaks.
Reminiscence had turned into imagining how Pilgrim would have handled the present situation, and a general discussion of strategy. Johanna would definitely have things to report to Tycoon.
But strategy included discussing Tycoon himself: “Are you sure Tycoon is not snooping on this conversation?” said Woodcarver.
“I—” Johanna glanced at the speaking tubes. They were all capped. Where she was sitting, she had a good view of the stairs and the empty anteroom below. “Woodcarver, I truly believe he’s not eavesdropping, but that’s more a matter of trust than anything else—”
Woodcarver said, “In this case, what you believe may be the important thing. I’ve wondered for so long: what kind of creature is this crazypack?”
Oh! Johanna thought for a second. “He is weird. Numerous and weird. Sometimes he reminds me of Scriber, but he can be just as grumpy as Scrupilo. And then there’s the businesscritter side of him. Imagine what Flenser would be like if his goal in life was to sell you trinkets and used wagon parts.”
Woodcarver emitted a multi-hum that was surprised laughter. “Do you suppose I might have a chat with him?”
Chapter 44
Seven tendays passed.
The scam against Nevil continu
ed successfully, so Johanna remained stuck here in the Tropics. It was the most fascinating time of her life. Each time she went into the Choir, she found something new. She’d returned to the River Fell, watched the rafts come and go. (Cheepers and company returned just sixty days after she did!) She’d walked the floor of a wild factory. Someday, she would pole a twinhull up the Fell to the North One Reservation—but when she’d suggested that to Tycoon, the Big Guy had completely lost his bluff brutality. He’d begged her not to be so stupid. Okay, he might be right about that expedition … Ha, she’d make the trip with Cheepers’ riverboat sailors! Meanwhile, there was always the Great Pyramid of the Choir. Johanna loved to hike on the Pyramid. She had lots of reasons, including the whiff of danger.
On this day, she sneaked out of the House of Tycoon near sunrise, the coolest time of day. Heck, it wasn’t more than 38 degrees Celsius and the rains had magically cleared away. Of course, the main reason for getting out so early was that this was before Tycoon roused himself. Half of him was much too nervous about the danger in her jaunts off the reservation—and the other half was too envious of them. Better to simply avoid the inevitable arguments that caused.
Zek and Ritl ambushed her just as she thought she’d made a clean getaway. Mr. Radio was hard to fool when he had good connectivity … and when the perverse Ritl was onboard.
“Going up on the hill again, aren’t you?” said the twosome, speaking nearly perfect Samnorsk. Most of the pack must be participating.
“Yes. Don’t tell,” said Johanna. They walked through one of the myriad staff entrances and stood in the almost-cool morning. She waved at the sky, now mostly blue, but with cloud tops catching the first rays of the sun. “I think it’s a perfect day for a walk in the Choir.”
“For you, maybe.”
The twosome strolled companionably along with Johanna toward the edge of the reservation, for once not relaying complaints about her possibly unhealthful hobbies. “Actually, I wanted to ask you a favor,” said Mr. Radio. “We lost the video from the northern-looking camera last night.”
“Yes, I know. It got knocked over. I’m pretty sure that was an accident. I’ll reset it while I’m up there.”
“Thanks.” Mr. Radio seemed to realize better than Tycoon how important Johanna’s hobbies might become. He also had his own ideas. This morning, those were about what to do with the coming glut of analog cameras, and how they might process the output without shipping it via Nevil. She looked down at the twosome and tried to hide her smile. Mr. Radio Cloaks was unique. Here, physically, it was just a twosome, what should have been a mental cripple. But Mr. Radio’s real mind was spread across hundreds of kilometers, managing an enterprise as complex as major business ventures in early civilizations. She had no trouble dealing with that; there would be several more such packs if Scrupilo could build safer cloaks. There could be millions more once they had digital versions with user multiplexing. But Ritl gave this creature a special strangeness; Ritl was not wearing a radio cloak. To be part of this pack, she had to keep her head very close to Zek’s, or better, Zek had to let her under his cloak. The result was a kind of fragmented communication. It was a small miracle that the pack could tolerate such a frail and sometime marriage. No wonder Ritl was training so hard to use Ut’s cloak.
They were almost to the reservation’s main gate. Like the fence, the gate was a flimsy thing, essentially a symbol. Sometimes the Choir would swarm across the boundary in what looked like a mad attack, an animal tsunami that would end all Tycoon’s grand plans—but the swarmings weren’t really attacks; the Choir had simply forgotten itself, and a wave of its excitement had brushed across the edge of the reservation. Afterwards, Tycoon’s folks would repair the tattered cords and timbers, and all was as before.
Today, the mob looked placid, with only a few Tines coming nearer than five meters to the boundary. Beyond ten meters, the mob surged as thick as ever, but there were no stampedes in sight.
“The Choir is watching us,” said Mr. Radio.
Johanna shrugged and waved to Tycoon’s guards to slide open the gate.
Mr. Radio continued, “This isn’t like when I come down here with Tycoon. This morning, the mob is watching intentionally, almost like a pack.” The twosome stood a little apart from itself; Ritl had slipped partway out from under the cloak. Her tympana were free to listen to the mindsounds from beyond the fence. Mr. Radio continued, “I—I can hear the Choir. It’s making more sense than usual. It’s watching you.”
“It’s really okay,” said Johanna. The sounds she could hear were just a cacophony of gobbling and hissing, sounds that animals might make—but she could tell that Mr. Radio was right. This happened whenever she approached the gate. Her gaze swept across the foothills of the fractal pyramid. What looked to the inexperienced eye like disorganized jostle, was repeated on different scales. She had learned to recognize mood and sometimes even intention in those patterns. What she was seeing here was a vast … anticipation.
She walked toward the opening gate, ignoring the way Tycoon’s guard packs hunkered down on themselves. They were always nervous when the gate was open, choosing to imagine that when closed it gave them some protection.
Behind her, Mr. Radio Cloaks emitted an imperative squeak that meant something like “You come back here!”
She turned to see that Ritl had broken free of Zek and was walking purposefully toward Johanna and the gateway. Except in bloody hospitals, Johanna had rarely seen such impudence in a singleton aspiring to membership. Ritl was one tough customer. Normally that endeared her to Johanna; just now, it made her fear for Ritl. Johanna stopped in the middle of the gateway, ignoring the myriads watching her. She jabbed her hand at the critter, doing her best to imitate a Tinish warning wave. “Stop! You can’t go out there, Ritl. It’s safe for me, but not for you.” At the very least Ritl would never return from the adventure.
The singleton kept coming, ignoring Radio’s gobbling and Johanna’s Samnorsk. Jo would have never thought this particular singleton would be susceptible to the Choir’s siren call. No, Ritl seemed to be forcing herself forward. Mr. Radio hadn’t moved but he sounded very worried. Ritl ignored them both. All her attention was forward, staring into the Choir. She moved slower and slower, as if the mob’s mindsound were physical opposition. Finally she stopped, standing right on the boundary of the reservation. She’d lift a paw as if to take another step, then hesitate, then try again. The creature was shivering with the effort.
Finally Ritl said in very loud, very clear Samnorsk, “Well, crap! Double crap!” She lunged forward and tapped her snout on the ground beyond the gate, very clearly in the territory of the Choir. It reminded Johanna of a human child counting coup. And now that she had her claim to triumph, she scuttled back into the reservation.
Johanna gave the duo a little wave. Then she turned and walked into the open space beyond. Behind her, the guards quickly closed the gate.
• • •
Normally it took most of an hour to get to the top of the central peak. The way was a zigzag across the west face, more of a walk than a climb. The pyramid’s surface was everything from undressed granite to cut quartz and jade. There was a hectare of copper and silver and gold plating, but that was scattered across the greater and lesser mounds. Tycoon had studied the pyramid for seven years now (from the air and from his palace below). Except for the recursive nature of the thing, he had not discovered much pattern to it—though it had grown steadily more durable and huge. The original that Remasritlfeer surveyed had been a muddy midden by comparison.
There was much to see as she walked back and forth and up and up. The House of Tycoon and what had been the Vendacious Annex were larger than any palaces of the North, but they were dwarfed by the foothills of the Pyramid. The airfield stretched westward from the palaces. She could see riderlet ponds there, though the full network of ponds did not respect the reservation boundary. The modern Choir was very tolerant of the “talking cuttlefish.” That was fair, con
sidering that the riderlets were the link that had made all this possible.
One of Tycoon’s airships had just taken off, heading north. That was the personnel shuttle that touched down at every one of the far reservations. At the same time, she could see the daily flight from the Wild Principates coming in for landing. Most freight went by sea and river and caravan, but it was radio communications and those airships that kept Tycoon’s markets in synchrony.
Beyond the airstrip stood the long gray rows of Tycoon’s first Tropical factories. Nowadays they covered practically every square meter of the West Side. And beyond the western edge of the reservation she could see the Choir’s wild factories. Those ramshackle structures were continually being ruined and rebuilt. Tendays would go by with no output. Then just when you concluded that the copycat effort had failed, suddenly product would spew out, misshapen or miswoven and barely recognizable. Mostly, such items were junk … but sometimes, as with their mirrors and glasswork, there were real improvements.
Jo was on the third switchback now, more than one hundred meters above the reservation. The crowds here were as thick as ever, Tines swarming over the network of smaller paths that branched from the main path she was on. They kept an open space around her, but it wasn’t a well-respected boundary. Tines brushed against her, going this way and that. The sounds of the Choir pounded her, gobbling and hissing and honking, scraps of Interpack speech mixed with imitations of thunder and rain. Behind all this noise, there was the feeling of something louder, a buzzing in her chest and head—all a human could ever sense of mindsound.
Most of the creatures ignored her, but some gave Jo a squeak or a honk. There were little swirls of coherence, a godsgift that might last just for seconds. “Hei, Johanna!” was all those might say, but sometimes there was more, words that might have been relayed Tine to Tine from far away, even reminiscence of their time on the fleet of rafts. Perhaps one in five of these Tines was a full-pelted Northerner, but as often as not it was a hairless Tropical who claimed to remember Woodcarver’s Fragmentarium.
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