Zones of Thought Trilogy

by Vernor Vinge

  Just beyond the nearest uphill trees she could see a gray tide. The wolves. Each furry lump looked innocent enough. All together … Johanna froze for an instant, watching them tear out the throat of a trooper’s member.

  Johanna was the only sane person left, and all it would mean is she would know she was dying.

  Kill the nest.

  On the gun cart beside her only one of Scrupilo was left, old White Head. Daffy as ever, it had pulled down its gunner’s muffs and was nosing around under the gun tube. Kill the nest. Maybe not so daffy after all!

  Johanna jumped up on the wagon. It rolled back toward the dropoff, banging against a tree; she scarcely noticed. She pulled up the gun barrel, just as she had seen in all the drills. The white headed one pulled at the powder bag, but with just his one pair of jaws he couldn’t handle it. Without the rest of its pack it had neither hands nor brains. It looked up at her, its eyes wide and desperate.

  She grabbed the other end of the bag, and the two of them got the powder into the barrel. White Head dived back into the equipment, nosing around for a cannon ball. Smarter than a dog, and trained. Between them, maybe they had a chance!

  Just half a meter beneath her feet, the wolves were running by. One or two she could have fought off herself. But there were dozens down there, worrying and tearing at random members. Three of Pilgrim were standing around Scarbutt and the pups, but their defense was unthinking slashing. The pack had dropped its mouth knives and tines.

  She and White Head got the round down the barrel. White Head whipped back to the rear, began playing with the little wick-lighter the gunners used. It was something that could be held in a single mouth, since only one member actually fired the weapon.

  “Wait, you idiot!” Johanna kicked him back. “We gotta aim this thing!”

  White Head looked hurt for an instant. The complaint wasn’t completely clear to him. He had dropped the standoff wand, but still held the lighter. He flicked on the flame, and circled determinedly back, tried to worm past Johanna’s legs. She pushed him back again, and looked uphill. The dark thing. That must be the nest. She tilted the gun tube on its mounting and sighted down the top. Her face ended up just centimeters from the persistent White Head and his flame. His muffed head darted forward, and the flame touched the fire-hole.

  The blast almost knocked Johanna off the cart. For a moment she could think of nothing but the pain that stabbed into her ears. She rolled to a sitting position, coughing in the smoke. She couldn’t hear anything beyond a high-pitched ringing that went on and on. Their little wagon was teetering, one wheel hanging over the dropoff. White Head was flopping around under the butt of the cannon. She pushed it off him and patted the muffed head. He was bleeding—or she was. She just sat dazed for a few seconds, mystified by the blood, trying to imagine how she had ever ended up here.

  A voice somewhere in the back of her head was screaming. No time, no time. She forced herself to her knees and looked around, memories coming back painfully slow.

  There were splintered trees uphill of them; the blond wood glinted among the leaves. Beyond them, where the nest had been, she saw a splash of fresh turned earth. They had “killed” it, but … the fighting continued.

  There were still wolves on the path, but now they were the ones running in all directions. As she watched, dozens of them catapulted off the edge of trail into the trees and rocks below. And the Tines were actually fighting now. Pilgrim had picked up his knives. The blades and his muzzles dripped red as he slashed. Something gray and bleeding flew over the edge of the cart and landed by Johanna’s leg. The “wolf” couldn’t have been more than twenty centimeters long, its hair dirty gray brown. It really did look like a pet, but the tiny jaws clicked with murderous intent at her ankles. Johanna dropped a cannon ball on it.

  During the next three days, while Woodcarver’s people struggled to bring their equipment and themselves back together, Johanna learned quite a bit about the wolves. What she and Scrupilo’s White Head did with cannon had stopped the attack cold. Without doubt, knocking out the nest had saved a lot of lives and the expedition itself. The “wolves” were a type of hive creature, only a little like the packs. The Tines race used group thought to reach high intelligence; Johanna had never seen a rational pack of more than six members. The wolf nests didn’t care about high intelligence. Woodcarver claimed that a nest might have thousands of members—certainly the one they’d tripped over was huge. Such a mob couldn’t be as smart as a human. In terms of raw reasoning power, it probably wasn’t much brighter than a single pack member. On the other hand, it could be a lot more flexible. Wolves could operate alone at great distances. When within a hundred meters of the home nest they were appendages of the “queen” members of the nest, and no one doubted their canniness then. Pilgrim had legends of nests with almost packish intelligence, of foresters who made treaties with nearby nests for protection in return for food. As long as the high-powered noises in the nest lived, the worker wolves could coordinate almost like Tine members. But kill the nest, and the creature fell apart like some cheap, star-topology network.

  Certainly this nest had done a number on Woodcarver’s army. It had waited quietly until the troopers were within its inner loudness. Then outlying wolves had used synchronized mimicry to creat sonic “ghosts”, tricking the packs into turning from the nest and shooting uselessly into the trees. And when the ambush actually began, the nest had screamed concentrated confusion down on the Tines. That attack had been a far more powerful thing than the “stink noise” they’d encountered in other parts of the forest. To the Tines, the stinkers had been painfully loud and sometimes even frightening, but not the mind-destroying chaos of the wolf-nest attack.

  More than one hundred packs had been knocked out in the ambush. Some, mostly packs with pups, had huddled. Others, like Scrupilo, had been “blasted apart”. In the hours following the attack, many of these fragments straggled back and reassembled. The resulting Tines were shaken but unharmed. Intact troops hunted up and down the forested cliffs for injured members of their comrades. There were places along the dropoff that were more than twenty meters deep. Where their fall wasn’t cushioned by tree boughs, members landed on naked rock. Five dead ones were eventually found, and another twenty seriously injured. Two carts had fallen. They were kindling, and their kherhogs were too badly injured to survive. By great good luck, the gunshot had not started a forest fire.

  Three times the sun made its vast, tilted course around the sky. Woodcarver’s army recovered in a camp in the depths of the valley forest, by the river. Vendacious had posted lookouts with signaling mirrors on the northern valley wall. This place was about as safe as any they could find so far north. It was certainly one of the most beautiful. It didn’t have the view of the high forest, but there was the sound of the river nearby, so loud it drowned the sighing of the dry wind. The lowland trees didn’t have root flowers, but they were still different from what Johanna had known. There was no underbrush, just a soft, bluish “moss” that Pilgrim claimed was actually part of the trees. It stretched like mown parkland to the edge of the river.

  On the last day of their rest, the Queen called a meeting of all the packs not at guard or lookout. It was the largest collection of Tines Johanna had seen in one place since her family was killed. Only these ones weren’t fighting. As far as Johanna could see across the bluish moss, there were packs, each at least eight meters from its nearest neighbor. For an absurd instant she was reminded of Settlers Park at Overby: Families picnicking on the grass, each with its own traditional blanket and food lockers. But these “families” were each a pack, and this was a military formation. The rows were gently curving arcs all facing toward the Queen. Peregrine Wickwrackscar was ten meters behind her, in shadow; being Queen’s consort didn’t count for anything official. On Woodcarver’s left lay the living casualties of the ambush, members with bandages and splints. In some ways, such visible damage wasn’t the most horrifying. There were also what Pilgrim calle
d the “walking wounded”. These were singletons and duos and trios that were all that was left of whole packs. Some of these tried to maintain a posture of attention, but others mooned about, occasionally breaking into the Queen’s speech with aimless words. It was like Scriber Jaqueramaphan all over again, but most of these would live. Some were already melding, trying to make new individuals. Some of these might even work out, as Peregrine Wickwrackscar had done. For most, it would be a long time before they were fully people again.

  Johanna sat with Scrupilo in the first rank of troopers before the Queen. The Commander of Cannoneers stood at Tinish parade rest: rumps on the ground, chest high, most heads facing front. Scrup had come through it without serious damage. His white head had a few more scorch marks, and one of the other members had sprained a shoulder falling off the path. He wore his flying cannoneer muffs as flamboyantly as always, but there was something subdued about him—maybe it was just the military formation and getting a medal for heroism.

  The Queen was wearing her special jackets. Each head looked out at a different section of her audience. Johanna still couldn’t understand Tinish, and would certainly never speak it without mechanical assistance. But the sounds were mostly within her range of hearing—the “low” frequencies carried a lot better than higher ones. Even without memory aides and grammar generators she was learning a little. She could recognize emotional tone easily, and things like the raucous ark ark ark that passed for applause around here. As for individual words—well, they were more like chords, single syllables that had meaning. Nowadays, if she listened really carefully (and Pilgrim weren’t nearby to give a running translation) she could even recognize some of those.

  … Just now, for instance, Woodcarver was saying good things about her audience. Approving ark ark‘s came from all directions. They sounded like a bunch of sea’mals. One of the Queen’s heads dipped into a bowl, came up with a small carven doodad in its mouth. She spoke a pack’s name, a multichord tumptititum that if Johanna heard often enough she might be able to repeat as “Jaqueramaphan”—or even see meaning in, as “Wickwrackscar”.

  From the front rank of the audience, a single member trotted toward the Queen. It stopped practically nose to nose with the Queen’s nearest member. Woodcarver said something about bravery, and then two of her fastened the wooden—broach?—to the member’s jacket. It turned smartly and returned to its pack.

  Woodcarver picked out another decoration, and called on another pack. Johanna leaned over toward Scrupilo. “What’s going on?” she said wonderingly. “Why are single members getting medals?”And how can they stand to get so near another pack?

  Scrupilo had been standing more stiffly at attention than most packs, and was pretty much ignoring her. Now he turned one head in her direction. “Shh!” He started to turn back, but she grabbed him by one of his jackets. “Foolish one,” he finally replied. “The award is for the whole pack. One member is extended to accept. More would be madness.”

  Hmm. One after another, three more packs “extended a member” to take their decorations. Some were full of precision, like human soldiers in stories. Others started out smartly, then became timid and confused as they approached Woodcarver.

  Finally Johanna said, “Ssst. Scrupilo! When do we get ours?”

  This time he didn’t even look at her; all his heads faced rigidly toward the Queen. “Last, of course. You and I killed the nest, and saved Woodcarver herself.” His bodies were almost shaking with the intensity of their brace. He’s scared witless. And suddenly Johanna guessed why. Apparently Woodcarver had no problem maintaining her mind with one outside member nearby. But the reverse would not be true. Sending one of yourself into another pack meant losing some consciousness and placing trust in that other pack. Looking at it that way … well, it reminded Johanna of the historical novels she used to play. On Nyjora during the Dark Age, ladies traditionally gave their sword to their queen when granted audience, and then knelt. It was a way to swear loyalty. Same thing here, except that looking at Scrupilo, Johanna realized that even as a matter of form, the ceremony might be damn frightening.

  Three more medals bestowed, and then Woodcarver gobbled the chords that were Scrupilo’s name. The Commander of Cannoneers went absolutely rigid, made faint whistling noises through his mouths. “Johanna Olsndot,” said Woodcarver, then more Tinish, something about coming forward.

  Johanna stood up, but not one of Scrupilo moved.

  The Queen made a human laugh. She was holding two polished broaches. “I’ll explain all in Samnorsk later, Johanna. Just come forward with one of Scrupilo. Scrupilo?”

  Suddenly they were the center of attention, with thousands of eyes watching. There was no more ark ing or background chatter. Johanna hadn’t felt so exposed since she played First Colonist in her school’s Landing Play. She leaned down so that her head was close to one of Scrupilo’s. “Come on, guy. We’re the big heroes.”

  The eyes that looked back at her were wide. “I can’t.” The words were almost inaudible. For all his jaunty cannoneer muffs and standoffish manner, Scrupilo was terrified. But for him it wasn’t stage fright. “I can’t tear me apart so soon. I can’t.”

  There was murmured gobbling in the ranks behind them, Scrupilo’s own cannoneers. By all the Powers, would they hold this against him? Welcome to the middle ages. Stupid people. Even cut to pieces, Scrupilo had saved their behinds, and now—

  She put her hands on two of his shoulders. “We did it before, you and I. Remember?”

  The heads nodded. “Some. That one part of me alone … could never have done it.”

  “Right. And neither could I. But together we killed a wolf-nest.”

  Scrupilo stared at her a second, eyes wavering. “Yes, we really did.” He came to his feet, frisked his heads so the cannoneer muffs flapped. “Yes!” And he moved his white-headed one closer to her.

  Johanna straightened. She and White Head walked out into the open space. Four meters. Six. She kept the fingertips of one hand lightly on his neck. When they were about twelve meters from the rest of Scrupilo, White Head’s pace faltered. He looked sideways, up at Johanna, then continued more slowly.

  Johanna didn’t remember much of the ceremony, so much of her attention was on White Head. Woodcarver said something long and unintelligible. Somehow they both ended up with intricately carven decorations on their collars, and were headed back toward the rest of Scrupilo. Then she was aware of the crowd once more. They stretched as far as she could see under the forest canopy—and every one of them seemed to be cheering, Scrup’s cannoneers loudest of all.

  Midnight. Here at the bottom of the valley there were three or four hours of the dayaround when the sun dipped behind the high north wall. It didn’t much feel like night, or even twilight. The smoke from the fires to the north seemed to getting worse. She could smell it now.

  Johanna walked back from the cannoneers section toward the center of camp, and Woodcarver’s tent. It was quiet; she could hear little creatures scritching in the root bushes. The celebrating might have gone on longer, except that everyone knew that in another few hours they would be preparing for the climb up the valley’s north wall. So now there was only occasional laughter, an occasional pack walking about. Johanna walked barefoot, her shoes slung over her shoulders. Even in the dry weather, the moss was wonderfully soft between her toes. Above her the forest canopy was shifting green and patches of hazy sky. She could almost forget what had gone before, and what lay ahead.

  The guards around Woodcarver’s tent didn’t challenge her, just called softly ahead. After all, there weren’t that many humans running around. The Queen stuck out a head, “Come inside, Johanna.”

  Inside, she was sitting in her usual circle, the puppies protected in the middle. It was quite dark, the only light being what came through the entrance. Johanna flopped down on the pillows where she usually slept. Ever since this afternoon, the big award thing, she had been planning to give Woodcarver a piece of her mind. Now … we
ll the party at the cannoneers had been a happy thing. It seemed kind of a shame to break the mood.

  Woodcarver cocked a head at her. Simultaneously, the two puppies duplicated the gesture. “I saw you at the party. You are a sober one. You eat most of our foods now, but none of the beer.”

  Johanna shrugged. Yes, why?“Kids aren’t supposed to drink before they’re eighteen years old.” That was the custom, and her parents had agreed with it. Johanna had turned fourteen a couple of months ago; Dataset had reminded her of the exact hour. She wondered. If none of this had happened, if she were still back at the High Lab or Straumli Realm: would she be sneaking out with friends to try such forbidden things? Probably. Yet here, where she was entirely on her own, where she was currently a big hero, she hadn’t tried a drop… Maybe it was because Mom and Dad weren’t here, and following their wishes seemed to keep them closer. She felt tears coming to her eyes.

  “Hmm.” Woodcarver didn’t seem to notice. “That’s what Pilgrim said was the reason.” She tapped at her puppies and smiled. “I guess it makes sense. These two don’t get beer till they’re older—though I know they got some second-hand partying from me tonight.” There was a hint of beer breath in the tent.

  Johanna wiped roughly at her face. She really did not want to talk about being a teenager just now. “You know, that was kind of a mean trick you pulled on Scrupilo this afternoon.”

  “I—Yes. I talked to him about it beforehand. He didn’t want it, but I thought he was just being … is stiff-necked the word? If I had known how upset he was, well—”

  “He practically fell apart out there in front of everybody. If I understand how things work, that would have been his disgrace, right?”