by Vernor Vinge
“What happened to you is terrible enough, Pham, but it’s happened to others. I’ve read of cases. Even the Powers are not immortal. Sometimes they fight among themselves, and someone gets killed. Sometimes, one commits suicide. There’s a star system, Gods’ Doom it’s called in the story: A million years ago, it was in the Transcend. It was visited by a party of the Powers. There was a Zone surge. Suddenly the system was twenty light-years deep in the Beyond. That’s about the biggest surge there is firm record of. The Powers at Gods’ Doom didn’t have a chance. They all died, some to rot and rusted ruin … others to the level of mere human minds.”
“W-what became of those?”
She hesitated, took one of his hands between hers. “You can look it up. The point is, it happens. To the victims, it’s the end of the world. But from our side, the human side… Well, the human Pham Nuwen was lucky; Greenstalk says the failure of Old One’s connections didn’t do gross organic damage. Maybe there’s subtle damage; sometimes the remnants just destroy themselves, whatever is left.”
Pham felt tears leaking from his eyes. And knew that part of the deadness inside had been grief for His own death. “Subtle damage!” He shook his head and the tears drifted into the air. “My head is stuffed with Him, with His memories.” Memories? They towered over everything else. Yet he could not understand them. He could not understand the details. He could not even understand the emotions, except as inane simplifications—joy, laughter, wonder, fear and icy-steel determination. Now, he was lost in those memories, wandering like an idiot in a cathedral. Not understanding, cowering before icons.
She pivoted around their clasped hands. After a moment, her knee bumped gently against his. “You’re still human, you still have your own—”, her own voice broke as she saw the look in his eyes.
“My own memories?” Scattered amid the unintelligible he would stumble on them: himself at five years, sitting on the straw in the great hall, alert for the appearance of any adult; royals were not supposed to play in the filth. Ten years later, making love to Cindi for the first time. A year after that, seeing his first flying machine, the orbital ferry that landed on his father’s parade field. The decades aspace. “Yes, the Qeng Ho. Pham Nuwen, the great Trader of the Slowness. All the memories are still there. And for all I know, it’s all the Old One’s lie, an afternoon’s fraud to fool the Relayers.”
Ravna bit her lip, but didn’t say anything. She was too honest to lie, even now.
He reached with his free hand to brush her hair away from her face. “I know you said that too, Rav. Don’t feel bad: I would have caught on by now anyway.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. Then she was looking him straight in the eye. “But know this. One human to another: You are a human now. And there could have been a Qeng Ho, and you could have been exactly what you remember. And whatever the past, you could be great in the future.”
Ghostly echoes, more than memory and less than reason: For an instant he saw her with wiser eyes. She loves you, foolish one. Almost laughter, kindly laughter.
He slid his arms around her, drawing her tight against him. She was so real. He felt her slip her leg between his. To laugh. Like heart massage, unthinking reflex bringing a mind back to life. So foolish, so trivial, but, “I—I want to come back.” The words came out strangled in sobs. “There’s so much inside me now, so much I can’t understand. I’m lost inside my own head.”
She didn’t say anything, probably couldn’t even understand his speech. For a moment, all he knew was the feel of her in his arms, hugging back. Oh please, I do want to come back.
Making it on the bridge of a starship was something Ravna had never done before. But then she’d never had her own starship before, either. They don’t call this a bottom lugger for nothing. In the excitement, Pham lost his tiedown. They floated free, occasionally bumping into walls and discarded clothing, or drifting through tears. After many minutes, they ended up with their heads just a few centimeters off the floor, the rest of them angled off toward the ceiling. She was vaguely aware that her pants were flying like a banner from where they had caught on her ankle. The affair wasn’t quite the stuff of romance fiction. For one thing, floating free you just couldn’t get any leverage. For another… Pham leaned back from her, relaxing his grip on her back. She brushed aside his red hair and looked into bloodshot eyes. “You know,” he said shakily, “I never guessed I could cry so hard my face hurt.”
She smiled back. “You’ve led a charmed life then.” She arched her back against his hands, then drew him gently close. They floated in silence for several minutes, their bodies relaxing into each other’s curves, sensing nothing but each other.
Then: “Thank you, Ravna.”
“…my pleasure.” Her voice came dreamy serious, and she hugged him tighter. Strange, all the things he had been to her, some frightening, some endearing, some enraging. And some she couldn’t have admitted—even to herself—till now. For the first time since the fall of Relay, she felt real hope. A silly physical reaction maybe … but maybe not. Here in her arms was a guy who might be the equal of any story book adventurer, and more: someone who had been part of a Power.
“Pham … what do you think really happened back on Relay? Why was Old One murdered?”
Pham’s chuckle seemed unforced, but his arms stiffened around her. “You’re asking me? I was dying at the time, remember… No, that’s wrong. Old One, He was dying at the time.” He was silent for a minute. The bridge turned slowly around them, silent views on the stars beyond. “My godself was in pain, I know that. He was desperate, panicked… But He was also trying to do something to me before He died.” His voice went soft, wondering. “Yes. It was like I was some cheap piece of luggage, and He was stuffing me with every piece of crap that he could move. You know, ten kilos in a nine kilo sack. He knew it was hurting me—I was part of Him, after all—but that didn’t matter.” He twisted back from her, his face getting a little wild again. “I’m not a sadist; I don’t believe He was either. I—”
Ravna shook her head. “I … I think he was downloading.”
Pham was silent an instant, trying to fit the idea into his situation. “That doesn’t makes sense. There’s not room in me to be superhuman.” Fear chased hope in tight circles.
“No, no, wait. You’re right. Even if the dying Power figures reincarnation is possible, there’s not enough space in a normal brain to store much. But Old One was trying for something else… Remember how I begged Him to help with our trip to the Bottom?”
“Yes. I—He—was sympathetic, the way you might be with animals that are confronting some new predator. He never considered that the Perversion might be a threat to him, not until—”
“Right. Not until he was under attack. That was a complete surprise to the Powers; suddenly the Perversion was more than a curious problem for underminds. Then Old One really did try to help. He jammed plans and automation down into you. He jammed so much, you nearly died, so much you can’t make sense of it. I’ve read about things like that in Applied Theology—” as much legend as fact. “Godshatter, it’s called.”
“Godshatter?” He seemed to play with the word, wondering. “What a strange name. I remember His panic. But if He was doing what you say, why didn’t He just tell me? And if I’m filled with good advice, how come all I see inside is…” his gaze became a little like days past, “darkness … dark statues with sharp edges, crowding.”
Again a long silence. But now she could almost feel Pham thinking. His arms twitched tight and an occasional shudder swept his body. “Yes … yes. Lots of things fit. Most of it I still don’t understand, never will. Old One discovered something right there at the end.” His arms tightened again, and he buried his face against her neck. “It was a very … personal … sort of murder the Perversion committed on Him. Even dying, Old One learned.” More silence. “The Perversion is something very old, Ravna. Probably billions of years. A threat Old One could only theorize before it actually killed Him. But…
”
One minute. Two. Yet Pham did not continue. “Don’t worry, Pham. Give it time.”
“Yeah.” He backed off far enough to look her square in the face. “But I know this much now: Old One did this for a reason. We aren’t on a fool’s chase. There’s something on the Bottom, in that Straumer ship, that Old One thought could make a difference.”
He ran his hand lightly across her face, and his smile was sad where there should have been joy. “But don’t you see, Ravna? If you’re right, today may be the most human I’ll ever be. I’m full of Old One’s download, this godshatter. Most of it I’ll never consciously understand, but if things work properly, it will eventually come exploding out. His remote device; His robot at the Bottom of the Beyond.”
No! But she made herself shrug. “Maybe. But you’re human, and we’re working for the same things … and I’m not letting you go.”
Ravna had known that “jumpstarting” technology must be a topic in the ship’s library. It turned out the the subject was a major academic specialty. Besides ten thousand case studies, there were customizing programs and lots of very dull-looking theory. Though the “rediscovery problem” was trivial in the Beyond, down in the Slow Zone almost every conceivable combination of events had happened. Civilizations in the Slowness could not last more than a few thousand years. Their collapse was sometimes a short eclipse, a few decades spent recovering from war or atmosphere-bashing. Others drove themselves back to medievalism. And of course, most races eventually exterminated themselves, at least within their single solar system. Those that didn’t exterminate themselves (and even a few of those that did) eventually struggled back to their original heights.
The study of these variations was called the Applied History of Technology. Unfortunately for both academicians and the civilizations in the Slow Zone, true applications were a bit rare: The events of the case studies were centuries old before news of them reached the Beyond, and few researchers were willing to do field work in the Slow Zone, where finding and conducting a single experiment could cost them much of their lives. In any case, it was a nice hobby for millions of university departments. One of the favorite games was to devise minimal paths from a given level of technology back to the highest level that could be supported in the Slowness. The details depended on many things, including the initial level of primitiveness, the amount of residual scientific awareness (or tolerance), and the physical nature of the race. The historians’ theories were captured in programs whose inputs were facts about the civilization’s plight and the desired results, and whose outputs were the steps that would most quickly produce those results.
Two days later, the four of them were back on the OOB‘s bridge. And this time we’re all talking.“So we must decide what inventions to shoot for, something that will defend the Hidden Island Kingdom—”
“—and something ‘Mister Steel’ can make in less than one hundred days,” said Blueshell. He had spent most of the last two days fiddling with the development programs in OOB‘s library.
“I still say guns and radios,” said Pham.
Firepower and communications. Ravna grinned at him. Pham’s human memories alone would be enough to save the kids on Tines World. He hadn’t talked any more of Old One’s plans. Old One’s plans … in Ravna’s mind those were something like fate, perhaps good, perhaps terrible, but unknown for now. And even fate can be weaseled.“How about it, Blueshell?” she said. “Is radio something they can produce quickly, from a standing start?” On Nyjora, radio had come almost contemporary with orbital flight—a good century into the renaissance.
“Indeed, My Lady Ravna. There are simple tricks that are almost never noticed till a very high technology is attained. For instance, quantum torsion antennas can be built from silver and cobalt steel arrays, if the geometry is correct. Unfortunately, finding the proper geometry involves lots of theory and the ability to solve some large partial differential equations. There are many Slow Zoners who never discover the principle.”
“Okay,” said Pham. “But there’s still a translation problem. Jefri has probably heard the word ‘cobalt’ before, but how can he describe it to people who don’t have the referent? Without knowing a lot more about their world, we couldn’t even describe how to find cobalt-bearing ore.”
“That will slow things down,” Blueshell admitted. “But the program accounts for it. Mr. Steel seems to understand the concept of experimentation. For cobalt, we can provide him with a tree of experiments based on descriptions of likely ores and appropriate chemical tests.”
“It’s not quite that simple,” said Greenstalk. “Some of the chemical tests themselves involve search/test trees. And there are other experiments needed to check toxicity. We know far less about the pack creatures than is usual with this program.”
Pham smiled. “I hope these creatures are properly grateful; I never heard of ‘quantum torsional antennas’. The Tines are ending up with comm gear that Qeng Ho never had.”
But the gift could be made. The question was, could it be done in time to save Jefri and his ship from the Woodcarvers? The four of them ran the program again and again. They knew so little about the pack creatures themselves. The Hidden Island Kingdom appeared fairly flexible. If they were willing to go all out to follow the directions, and if they had good luck in finding nearby sources for critical materials, then it looked like they might have limited supplies of firearms and radios inside of one hundred days. On the other hand, if the packs of Hidden Island ended up chasing down some worst-case branches of the search trees, things might stretch out to a few years.
Ravna found it hard to accept that no matter what the four of them did, saving Jefri from the Woodcarvers would be partly a matter of luck. Sigh. In the end, she took the best scheme the Riders could produce, translated it into simple Samnorsk, and sent it down.
TWENTY-THREE
Steel had always admired military architecture. Now he was adding a new chapter to the book, building a castle that protected against the sky as well as the land around. By now the boxy “ship” on stilts was known across the continent. Before another summer passed, there would be enemy armies here, trying to take—or at least destroy—the prize that had come to him. Far more deadly: the star people would be here. He must be ready.
Steel inspected the work almost every day now. The stone replacement for the palisade was in place all across the south perimeter. On the cliffside, overlooking Hidden Island, his new den was almost complete … had been complete for some time, a part of him grumbled. He really should move over here; the safety of Hidden Island was fast becoming illusion. Starship Hill was already the center of the Movement—and that wasn’t just propaganda. What the Flenser embassies abroad called “the oracle on Starship Hill” was more than a glib liar could dream. Whoever stood nearest that oracle would ultimately rule, no matter how clever Steel might be otherwise. He had already transferred or executed several attendants, packs who seemed just a little too friendly with Amdijefri.
Starship Hill: When the aliens landed, it had been heather and rock. Through the winter, there’d been a palisade and a wooden shelter. But now construction had resumed on the castle, the crown whose jewel was the starship. Soon this hill would be the capital of the continent and the world. And after that… Steel looked into the blue depths of the sky. How much further his rule extended would depend on saying just the right thing, on building this castle in a very special way. Enough dreaming. Lord Steel pulled himself together and descended from the new wall along fresh-cut stone stairs. The yard within was twelve acres, mostly mud. The muck was cold on his paws, but the snow and slush were confined to dwindling piles away from the work routes. Spring was well-advanced, and the sun was warm in the chill air. He could see for miles, out over Hidden Island all the way to the Ocean, and down the coast along the fjord country. Steel walked the last hundred yards up the hill to the starship. His guards paced him on either side, with Shreck bringing up the rear. There was enough room that the worker
s didn’t have to back away—and he had given orders that no one was to stop because of his presence. That was partly to maintain the fraud with Amdijefri, and partly because the Movement needed this fortress soon. Just how soon was a question that gnawed.
Steel was still looking in all directions, but his attention was where it should be now, on the construction work. The yard was piled with cut stone and construction timbers. Now that the ground was thawing, the foundations for the inner wall were being dug. Where it was still hard, Steel’s engineers were injecting boiling water. Steam rose from the holes, obscuring the windlasses and the diggers below. The place was louder than a battle field: windlasses creaking, blades hacking at dirt, leaders shouting to work teams. It was also as crowded as close combat, though not nearly so chaotic.
Steel watched a digger pack at the bottom of one of the trenches. There were thirty members, so close to each other that their shoulders sometimes touched. It was an enormous mob, but there was nothing of an orgy about the association. Even before Woodcarver, construction and factory guilds had been doing this sort of thing: The thirty-member pack below was probably not as bright as a threesome. The front rank of ten swung mattocks in unison, carving steadily into the wall of dirt. When their heads and mattocks were extended high, the ten members behind them darted forward to scoop back the dirt and rocks that had just been freed. Behind them, a third tier of members hauled the dirt from the pit. Making it work was a complicated bit of timing—the earth was not homogeneous—but it was well within the mental ability of the pack. They could go on like this for hours, shifting first and second ranks every few minutes. In years past, the guilds jealously guarded the secret of each special melding. After a hard day’s work, such a team would split into normally intelligent packs—each going home very well paid. Steel smiled to himself. Woodcarver had improved on the old guild tricks—but Flenser had provided an essential refinement (actually a borrowing from the Tropics). Why let the team break up at the end of a work shift? Flenser work teams stayed together indefinitely, housed in barracks so small they could never recover their separate pack minds. It worked well. After a year or two, and with proper culling, the original packs in such teams were dull things that scarcely wanted to break away.