Zones of Thought Trilogy

by Vernor Vinge

  As Ravna and Scrupilo ran across the quarry terrace, Scrupilo muttered a constant stream of Samnorsk. The profanity was a bizarre combination of translations of pack cursing and Samnorsk naughty words: “Get of bitches! I should have realized it was the fuckall Tropicals. I was just too damned pissed about the cameras. I thought you and Woodcarver were dumping on me again.”

  Shouts came from ahead: “We got them!” The packs and humans in the quarry were not armed, but they had formed a barrier around … somebody.

  Scrupilo wriggled through the crowd of mindsounds, Ravna close behind. Ambassador Godsgift and its gang were still in the quarry. They had been inspecting the most spectacular part of the laboratory, where much of the dull planning and experimentation finally led to miracles.

  There was an open space between the crowd and the suspected thieves. Godsgift and his people were backed up against Scrupilo’s flying machine, the Eyes Above. This was not an antigravity craft, but something weirder, at least to Ravna’s mind: a propeller and basket hung from a pointy balloon.

  Scrupilo spent a moment pacing back and forth in front of the crowd, gobbling in Tinish. Ravna couldn’t really understand, not without Oobii analysis. He seemed to be asking everybody to cut the high-sound screaming. In cold dry air—say, like here, today—such sounds could carry a number of meters, and if every pack went into a tizzy at the same time, things could get very confusing for them.

  Ravna took a few steps in the direction of the Tropicals, then thought better of it. These Tines looked frightened and edgy, eyes wide. They stood close among themselves, pressed hard back against the airboat’s crew basket. The self-styled “Ambassador” was the only clearly-defined group, but there was sharp steel visible on more than one forepaw. These fellows might be loosely minded but they had been in the North long enough to pick up many Northern habits.

  Scrupilo shouted in Samnorsk and Tinish. The Samnorsk was: “Anybody see what these scum were up to?” Part of him was looking at the airboat, and it suddenly occurred to Ravna that the Tropicals might actually have been moments from flying away!

  A human fifteen-year-old, Del Ronsndot, stepped forward. “I—I was just showing them around the Eyes Above. I thought they were allowed.”

  “It’s okay, Del,” said Ravna. Such tours were standard policy.

  “Did they ask to see the airboat?” said Scrupilo.

  “Oh, yes, sir. All the visitors like to see it. Once we get some practice, maybe we could even give them rides.” His eyes slid across to the Tropicals, and he seemed to realize that perhaps such generosity would be postponed.

  “Did they ask to let any of their packs aboard?”

  There was a loud chord or two from the Tropical side of the confrontation, and then a human voice: “Ah, Master Scrupilo, if you suspect evildoing you should talk to me directly.” The ambassador stepped forward. It had taken the name “Godsgift,” and today it was huge. Some of it dated from the founding of the Embassy, and it was often fluent. Just as often, it behaved more like a club for singletons who liked to swagger and pose. It wore mismatched jackets, some quite elegant. It was hard not to smile at the buffoon. Right now … well, there was something deadly in its gaze. Think back, Ravna. Remember the butterflies in jackboots? She’d seen enough aliens to know how misleading physical appearance could be.

  Scrupilo was still too angry to be cautious. He sent two of himself forward, crowding the Ambassador’s personal space. “Fair enough, Mister Ambassador. What have you done with my radio cloaks?” The two snapped their jaws in Godsgift’s direction, and though the adversaries were still three meters apart, the gesture was very much like one human poking a finger into the chest of another.

  Godsgift was not impressed. “Ha. I’ve heard of those cloaks. Surely they can find themselves?” It pointed a snout in the direction of Starship Hill. “I haven’t seen your precious cloaks since that amusing demonstration you gave at Springtime’s Last Sunset.” He spread into an aside. “What wonderful holidays you Northerners have. For us, the springtime is just more rain—”

  “Be quiet!” Scrupilo turned a head toward his assistants, both human and Tinish. “Bring me some soldiers with long pikes. We’re putting these thieves to the question.”

  The Tropicals surged toward Scrupilo, steel glittering on their claws. They would lose any battle, but Scrupilo’s two forward members would likely get their throats slashed.

  Ravna stepped forward and raised her arms in the way that most packs seemed to find intimidating. “Wait!” she shouted, as loud as she was able. “No one’s going to be put to the question. We’ll either respect your embassy or boot you out of the Domain.”

  Scrupilo settled back, gobbling to himself.

  The Ambassador had edged away from the mob, no doubt to keep a clear mind. Now he gave a little warble, and the others relaxed a fraction. Godsgift bobbed heads in Ravna’s direction. “Ah, so blunt and yet—how do I say?—so full of the common sense. I am grateful, Your Highness. I came today expecting a happy and friendly tour. At least it will not become a bloodbath.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Scrupilo muttered back.

  Ravna lowered her arms and leaned forward so her eyes were more at the level of Godsgift’s. “Our radio cloaks went missing just in the last hour, Mr. Ambassador. So, how interested are you in maintaining your embassy here? Will you and your people submit to a search?” She waved at Godsgift’s mob and their suspiciously numerous panniers.

  The Ambassador’s heads flipped up, probably a dismissive gesture. “Perhaps the question should be, how much does your Domain value continued trade with the Tropics?”

  In the past, the trade with the Tropics had been an almost unrecognized silent barter, where bid and response were spread across years of occasional shipwrecks. The “Tropical Embassy” had begun as a charity for shipwrecked singletons, a joke of an embassy. Now the joke had a life of its own and—maybe—some influence in the South.

  Ravna crossed her arms and gave the ambassador a look. It was amazing the effect the soundless stare of a two-legs could have on some packs.

  Whatever the reason, the ambassador gave a shrug. “Oh, very well. We, of course, have nothing to hide.”

  Ravna gave an inward sigh of relief. Now to find who really did the thieving. She turned to the crowd behind her. A couple of dozen humans stood nearby, looming tall over the packs. And one at the back—

  “Hei, Nevil! How long have you been here?”

  Johanna’s fiancé trotted forward, a couple of his friends close behind. “Just got here. I was at the top of the quarry when I saw everybody go berserk.” Nevil stopped beside her. He was still breathing heavily. “I heard the last part though. You want these fellows searched?”

  Scrupilo was nodding. “Yes. You humans can get in close without upsetting our delicate guests.” He jabbed sarcastically in the direction of the Tropicals, but his gesture lacked spirit. “I was so sure it was them,” he grumbled to himself.

  Nevil squatted down so he could speak more privately. No human could direct sotto voce mutterings as well as a pack. Ravna leaned closer. “Godsgift did give in a bit easily,” said Nevil. “Are you sure you have all his entourage here?”

  Scrupilo’s eyes widened. He poked a head up and gave the Tropicals a long look. “They’re so hard to count.” He did a double take. “God’s Choir, Nevil, do you think they split off an extra pack?”

  Ravna looked at the visitors. The Tropicals always seemed a bit strange, with their patchy fur, body paint, and mismatched clothing. Now that they weren’t jammed against the airship, they had separated into something like packs, mostly foursomes. If they had come in with extra members, then split to make an additional pack.… It was the sort of playing with souls that would have left Domain packs dazed and disoriented.

  Scrupilo looked back and forth at the Tropicals. “I don’t know how many came in, but … look at that body paint. Don’t you think there are gaps within those two fellows at the end? These are Tropi
cals. There’s no end to their perversions.”

  Godsgift might be hearing every word. In any case, it was becoming restive: “I say, Your Highness. We’ve agreed to be searched. Be about the indignity, if you please!”

  “Just a moment more, Mr. Ambassador.” Ravna dropped back into her head-to-heads with Nevil and Scrupilo. “I have no idea, Scrupilo. Those paint jobs mean less to me than anyone.” I wish Pilgrim were here. Pilgrim would know just what the Tropicals could do with themselves.

  Nevil turned, waved one of his friends forward. Then he continued, whispering. “Actually, Bili saw something weird when we were up on top of the quarry.”

  Bili Yngva dropped to his knees beside them and nodded. “Yeah. There was a fivesome skulking around the quarry hoists. Its panniers were stuffed. When I tried to get a closer look, the critters took off for the boat landings. And the strangest thing—I think there were blue smudges on its pelt, like these fellows’ body paint, but rubbed off.”

  Scrupilo let out a hoot of triumph. “I knew it!” Then he dithered. In a second more, orders would be flying in all directions.

  Nevil stood up, gave Ravna a look. “Your Highness?”

  Yes, Ravna abruptly realized, it’s time to act the co-Queen. She put a restraining hand on one of Scrupilo’s heads. “Please bear with me, Mr. Science Advisor.” Then she stood and turned to the crowd, which itself was milling uncertainly about. “People! People!” Well, that worked in the classroom. And goodness, it got everyone’s attention here, too! “We’re going ahead with the property search the Ambassador just agreed to. Scrupilo will advise, but I want humans to do the close-in.” Who? She was suddenly even more grateful that Nevil had shown up. He was on good terms with all the kids, and was a born leader. “Nevil Storherte will supervise.”

  She said, in an aside to Nevil: “Is Johanna close by?”

  “Sorry, she’s on the mainland this afternoon.”

  “Okay, check out our visitors.”

  Nevil nodded, and began to gather a proper crew. Ravna glanced at Godsgift. “We’ll have you out of here very soon, Mr. Ambassador.”

  The Tropical leader smiled broadly. “Excellent.” Quite evidently, it had no worries about its guilt being proven here.

  Scrupilo was dancing with frustration. His gobbling chords broke into a hissed Samnorsk whisper. “This is all useless! I should phone the boat moorage, put out an island-wide alarm, and contact Oobii.”

  They also needed some aerial surveillance.… She looked up at the airboat that had been the backdrop for this confrontation. “Is the Eyes Above flyable?” She pointed at the aircraft. “And does it have a radio on board?”

  “What? No radio, but the motor is charged … hmm, grmm! Yes!” He started shouting to his ground crews, chords and Samnorsk all mixed together, in various loudnesses and different directions. What she could understand was: “Phone Woodcarver!”, “Nevil, move your investigation away from the Eyes Above! I have use for it.” And a whisper for her ears: “The craft is fully prepped. I wonder if Mr. Crapheads knew that.” He ran to the wicker basket as two of his helpers approached from the other side. They were fiddling with a row of gas valves, arguing with Scrupilo about details.

  Nevil’s people and the Tropicals had moved twenty meters off. The suspects were grudgingly removing their panniers and jackets. Huh, the intricate body painting covered much of their bare skin. Some of the Tropicals were watching the airboat curiously, but they didn’t seem the least disconcerted by Scrupilo’s activity.

  One of Scrup’s assistants came rushing out with the lab’s loose radio. The nearest of Scrupilo grabbed the box and passed it to himself, up the gangplank. Then he hesitated, looking around as though he had forgotten something critical. “Oh, if only Johanna were here. This will go better with a combo crew.” That is, a pack and a human. “Nevil!” he shouted.

  Ravna put a foot on the gangplank. “That’s okay, I can help you as well was anybody here.” That was probably true; she’d been up with Scrupilo a number of times. Besides, she didn’t want to stay here and second-guess Nevil.

  Nevil Storherte had started back in their direction. For a second, Ravna thought he was going to object. The boy—no, the man; he was only eight years younger than she—was always going on about her indispensable role in high planning. This time, he seem to realize that he already had a job and that seconds counted. He hesitated, then gave her a little wave. “Okay. Good hunting.”

  She waved back, then shooed the rest of Scrupilo up the ramp, into the airboat’s narrow basket.

  For once, Scrupilo was not arguing. He scrambled aboard, all the while shouting to his ground crew. The basket did its usual disconcerting wobble as Ravna climbed across into the chair at the stern. She wasn’t quite tied down when the ground crew cut the tethers and the balloon drew them firmly skywards.

  This was almost like agrav—but steadier then Pilgrim’s flier. The ground simply fell away. Looking over the edge of the basket, she could see all the Tropicals’ gear laid out. No way that an entire set of radio cloaks could be hidden in that.

  Scrupilo powered up the boat’s propeller and turned the rudder. They were over the dark ponds that filled the old mining pits and covered the lab’s tanks of stabilized hydrogen. The placid waters reflected the towering walls of the quarry. If she leaned further out, she’d be able to see the reflection of the airboat.

  … But not just now. Ravna tied onto a safety harness and began crawling around the aft end of the basket. There were a number of equipment cabinets, mostly waterproofed wicker, with latches that could be released by hands or paws or jaws. She opened one after another, glancing in each: a heliograph (not enough radios to go around), maps, two telescopes. It suddenly occurred to her that there was something to check before anything else. She set the spyglasses down and turned to the stern cover.

  “Highness,” Scrupilo shouted to her. She looked out, saw that they had cleared the top of the quarry. “Please handle the driving. I’m best with the telescopes.” Then he noticed that Ravna was trying to pull up the stern ballast cover. “Highness? The telescopes, please … What are you doing?”

  “It just occurred to me—what if they stuffed the cloaks in the ballast tanks?”

  “Uck.” The pack thought a second, no doubt imagining how this chase could wreck what they were trying to recover. It was a long shot, but—”I’ll check the bow and mid tanks.” A pair at a time, Scrupilo’s members released the various controls they had jaws on and poked around in the water tanks that were set along the length of the hull. The main rudder slid free and the propeller slowed till you could see its three blades. The Eyes Above slowly turned in the nearly still afternoon air, now pointing toward the outer islands, now at the north channel, now at Starship Hill. They were high enough that she could see the dome of the New Castle.

  “There’s nothing in these tanks but water,” he said returning to his controls.

  “Same back here.”

  “Very well then. Time is wasting.” He angled both horizontal and vertical rudders and spun up the screw. Eyes Above’s stern gently bobbed upwards, and the airboat angled down, turning toward the island’s North End boat landings. “Can you circle us around the North End while I take a look?”

  “Yes.” Flying was easy in air this placid. The backseat controls included two jaw levers by her chair and another pair set far enough forward that she could use them as foot pedals. Together they provided control of the rudders and propeller. It wasn’t as simple as a point-and-move interface, but Ravna had practiced.

  Scrupilo hauled the two telescopes forward. The eyepieces were curved masks that could be rotated to fit either side of a member’s head. Midway down each barrel was a clasp suitable for the usual shoulder strap on Tinish jackets. In a matter of seconds, he had the scopes mounted on two of himself, and two of his other members were looking around for things to spy on. “Okay. Take us a little north.… Hah. Except for my construction barge, the moorage is almost deserted.”


  The North End moorage had been mostly taken over by Scrupilo’s serious aircraft project, the creation of a rigid airship. The superstructure of the Eyes Above 2 was already evident in the spars and ribs rising from the construction barge. When completed, in another half year or so, the EA2 would be more than two hundred meters long, capable of transporting a dozen packs across the continent nonstop.

  Most of Scrupilo was maneuvering the two telescopes like binoculars, sweeping across the piers and boat shelters. The rest of him lay together in the bottom of the basket, as if asleep. More likely, they were busy with the others, bringing all that two of them were seeing into a single, analyzed vision.

  Scrupilo was humming to himself; at least the chords meant nothing to Ravna. “Ha! I see the pitter-patter of wet paws along the quay. See the gap in the moorage? Some pack was down here recently, departing in one of the single-hulled day fishers. So we know what to look for!” The two telescope bearers stood down. The others spread out to the ballast dumps. “Let’s get upstairs quickly, Your Highness!” He dumped some water. One way or another, they were going up.

  Ravna angled them northwest, across the outer straits. The channel islands were numerous, forested, and largely uninhabited. If the thief made it there he could probably get away.

  Scrupilo glanced at the gear-driven clock he kept on White Head’s jacket. “Take us to Ridgeline, that’s the only place the thief could have reached in this direction.” He was on his telescopes again, scanning the open water, all the way to where sea mist hung round the furthest islands. “Hmm, a couple of twinhulls, nothing like our fellow.”

  They drove along for a few seconds, the propeller pushing them along at about five meters per second. The wicker basket was a cold, shadowed place, but at least the air stream was diverted by the basket’s bow cowling.

  Ravna locked down the rudders and rummaged around for the radio that Scrupilo had brought aboard. These radios were one of the stranger of Oobii’s reinventions. Of course, the device had no onboard processors; it was totally analog, indiscriminately spewing across the entire radio spectrum. No matter. The starship monitored all aspects of the space around it.