Zones of Thought Trilogy

by Vernor Vinge

  “That’s why Jo and I are checking this out,” said Pilgrim. “What we’re seeing makes us think that over the years, Tycoon may have accomplished much more than he advertised. Now the true operation is too big to be disguised. I think Tycoon—or Vendacious—has spies high in the Domain.”

  Woodcarver raised heads at this. Two of her—three if you counted her puppy, little Sht—were glaring at Flenser.

  “These are real technical innovations,” said Johanna. “I think the leaks have to originate in the North End labs.”

  “What!” Scrupilo’s interjection was an indignant squawk.

  “Have you met this Tycoon fellow?” said Ravna.

  “Not yet,” said Pilgrim. “Even his factory managers rarely see him. He doesn’t seem very involved in day-to-day operations.”

  “We’re being very cautious about this,” said Johanna. “And me, I’m staying completely out of sight.”

  “Good!” that was from both Ravna and Nevil, and very emphatic. There were things Johanna could do as a two-legs that gave the Pilgrim-Johanna team great advantages—that was Jo’s argument, anyway. Ravna was far from convinced that it justified her presence on a spy mission.

  “I wish you were back here,” said Nevil.

  “I’m fine, Nevil. Like I said, keeping a low profile.”

  A strange sound came over the radio link, probably a chord from Pilgrim. Ravna smiled, imagining the pack and the girl hunkered down by their commset. It would be early morning on the east coast now. She wondered just where they were hiding.

  Flenser-Tyrathect was shaking his heads, grinning.

  “What?” Ravna said to him.

  The pack gave a shrug. “Isn’t it obvious? There is no need for spies high in Scrupilo’s organization. Who stole the Oliphaunt computer? I know I could use Oliphaunt to engineer all—”

  Woodcarver’s shriek would have been downright painful but for Oobii’s sound damping. Three of her leaped partway onto the table, their claws clicking on the surface. “You confess to treason, do you now?” she said.

  Flenser showed lots of teeth even as he replied: “Don’t be an idiot. Ah, but I forgot, you’re already the idiot who didn’t kill Vendacious when you had the chance. You’re already the idiot who let him escape and who still blames me for stealing Oliphaunt.”

  This brought another of Woodcarver onto the meeting table. There was a time when Ravna could have been the peacemaker in such confrontations. Now? Ravna fleetingly wondered if Woodcarver might take a swipe at her if she tried to intervene.

  Nevil was braver, or faster, or perhaps just more foolish. As Woodcarver scrambled forward, he was already on his feet. “It’s okay, Your Majesty!” He started to extend a hand toward her, then seemed to realize he was cajoling someone who was seriously not human. “Um, this is just one of those burdens of a wise ruler.”

  The stilted, medieval approach seemed to work. Woodcarver didn’t retreat, but her forward surge subsided.

  “Flenser has a point,” said Johanna, sounding unperturbed, perhaps because the sounds of jaws and claws had not survived the low-quality radio transmission. “Tycoon may really be Vendacious plus Oliphaunt, but spies in Scrupilo’s labs could also explain his success.”

  That satisfied all except Scrupilo: “I do not have spies in any of my labs!” But not surprisingly, he was perfectly happy to talk about technical fixes to such nonexistent espionage. Monitoring user access to Oobii was relatively easy. The problem was to correlate that with exactly what inventions were appearing elsewhere.

  Nevil was looking more and more unhappy. “We have to get this nailed down. Surely there must be clues at the Tycoon end of this. You’re due to leave East Home almost immediately, aren’t you, Jo?”

  “That was the plan.” There was mumbled conversation between Johanna and Pilgrim, too scattered for Oobii to clean up. “Our equipment is in good shape and we have a safe hidey-hole outside of the city. We’re good to stay a while if it will help, especially if you can feed us some clues to follow up on.”

  Nevil was clearly torn. Ravna could guess how much he’d been looking forward to Johanna’s return.

  “Do we have any clues to feed them?” Ravna asked.

  Pilgrim said, “There’s Scrupilo’s lab logs. We could look for coincidences in detail.”

  Woodcarver—now back on her seats—had a different angle. “From what Johanna and Pilgrim say, Tycoon grows steadily more powerful. If they come back now, we may have hard time getting this close again.”

  “We should have a full-time gang of spies over there,” said Flenser-Tyrathect.

  Woodcarver shrugged agreement. The two were almost talking to each other.

  In the end, that meeting was almost the sort of Exec Council meeting they should be having these days—except that now Johanna and Pilgrim would be absent for at least another twenty days.

  ─────

  Twenty days. Johanna and Pilgrim wouldn’t be back till after Ravna’s big speech. Since that night by Pham’s grave, she had not had much chance to talk to Johanna. The younger woman had been off spying most of the time, and when she’d been back she’d been mainly with Nevil. Now Ravna would have virtually no chance to chat privately with her.

  And Woodcarver seemed to be in a bigger snit than ever.

  Ravna had written multiple drafts of her upcoming speech. There were so many issues to bring together. Some were joyously good news—how New Meeting Place could be used for increased participation, formal democracy. Some were hard truths—the Blighter threat that loomed in their future, the need to solve underlying technology problems before they took on prolongevity research. Some were proposals to make the hard truths more palatable. Without Woodcarver, now without Johanna and Pilgrim—it all came down to Ravna’s own best judgment and Nevil’s advice. Over and over, he showed her nuances that she would have missed on her own. For instance: “Arrange things so you can end the speech with the good news that gives realistic reasons to be optimistic about it all.” And: “We can merge this speech with your idea for a Public Council, Ravna. My Dad used to say that responsible people can deal with bad news if they have some control over the hardships.” So they would announce the meeting as occasion for her speech and as an opportunity for Children and Tines to feed back into the process. “I’ve talked to Woodcarver about this, Ravna. She thinks it will work.” And that was one of the best pieces of news. Woodcarver was still avoiding Ravna, but she was at least indirectly part of the planning.

  Nevil and company had figured how to make the New Meeting Place seem bigger, and he was showing her dozens of variations on how they might decorate the place. Finally she just offloaded all that onto him and concentrated on polishing her speech, doing her best to implement his final suggestions.

  And then it was the day before the “grand meeting.” Ravna was already thinking of the event in countdown terminology. They were at Meeting minus fifteen hours. She had a final chat with Nevil, going over what she would have to know about the physical setup of the New Meeting Place, rehearsing her presentation still again. “Don’t worry if the speech doesn’t come out one hundred percent perfect. I’ll be out there. The Public Council makes it easy for me to stand up, ask a question that gets things back on track—and just as easy for all your friends to show support.”

  “… You’re right,” said Ravna. “I’m just chewing on my own nervousness.” Ravna glanced at the little clock window she’d been using to time her speech rehearsals. It also showed the countdown: 14:37:33 till show time. She and Nevil were up on the bridge, but they’d set the displays to make it look like her lectern in the New Meeting Place would be in … well, in 14:36:55. She looked across at Nevil. His face had a certain earnest nervousness of its own—and she decided he was mainly worried about her being so obviously worried. Johanna was so lucky to have this guy.

  “Nevil, I want to thank you for everything. Without you, I would still be flailing.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t do
it all alone, Ravna. But what you are working toward is absolutely necessary. It’s what the rest of us, all the Children, should be helping with. If we pull together, we can’t lose.”

  That was something like the language in her speech, and suddenly Ravna realized that Nevil must really live those words, even as they had come to seem platitudes in her ears. Too much rehearsing, that’s for sure.

  She stood and walked carefully around the fake lectern, toward where the bridge entrance was tonight. She waved the door open and turned back toward him. “So I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She smiled. “In a bit less than 14:35:21.”

  Nevil stood. Maybe there was a little bit of relief in his smile. “That you will, my lady.”

  He stopped within arm’s length from her. “Sleep well and don’t worry,” he said.

  “Thanks, Nevil. G’night.”

  He smiled. “G’night.” And then he was gone.

  ─────

  Of course, it was no surprise that sleep didn’t come. In fact, Ravna didn’t even head for bed immediately. But I deserve a pat on the back for not doing another rehearsal. She retreated from the platform and lectern and settled down with her usual analysis tools. Nowadays, Oobii ran elaborate threat detection software all the time—sometimes so intensively that it slowed Scrupilo’s research programs. During the last tenday, Ravna had not kept up with the security monitoring as much as usual. That fact supported one of her Theories of Worry, namely that every worrywart has a natural Worry Max. When there are other concerns—such as preparing for this meeting—normal obsessions weaken.

  Nevertheless, she settled down for a bit of distracting logfile-surfing. Oobii had a system of prioritized alarms, but—as past debacles had shown—there was always the possibility it would miscategorize things.

  After some tedious time with the logs, she suddenly realized she wasn’t nearly as obsessed with her speech. Ha! And there really wasn’t all that much that was troublesome in Oobii’s logs either!… She browsed on, through lower priority results.

  Here was something interesting in the “old threats” department: Oobii was still watching for any sign of the stolen radio cloaks. Those gadgets were nothing like the Beyonder commset that Pilgrim and Johanna were using, or even the voice-band radios Scrupilo built nowadays. The cloaks made an analog smear of the wearer’s mindsounds across a big swath of the radio frequency spectrum. The resultant signal was fairly short range—and essentially impossible for Oobii to translate. Hate, fear, lust—those might be recognized, but mind reading was very much not possible.

  The ship had heard none of that. And yet, Oobii had detected something very like cloak noise. By correlating with the changing footprint of the aurora, Oobii guessed the source was high in the Icefangs, about seventy kilometers to the east. The signal was sporadic and at its loudest scarcely more than a suspicious correlation. If this was a radio cloak, there was only one. It was even fainter than a cloak should be at that distance, and it was being worn for only a few minutes in every day.

  Ravna played with the results for some minutes. There really wasn’t enough signal to do much analysis. If she asked for more, she might get another taste of Oobii’s wishful thinking. No thank you.… But what conceivable use was one radio cloak? Without the rest of a Tinish soul wearing the others, a single cloak was the sound of one hand clapping.

  She leaned back, imagining: a party of thieves sneaking out of the Domain, travelling through a steep-shouldered mountain pass. Those passes could be deadly, even in high summer. An avalanche could have killed them all. Or perhaps they’d been ambushed by ordinary bandits. One way or another, the cloaks were lost, all but one. The theory almost made sense. But this remnant cloak would need a wearer, and occasional light for power. So how about this: The cloaks were beautiful things, the solar cells as dark as velvet but with glints of gold. Maybe some primitive pack was wearing the remaining cloak as a trophy, totally ignorant of the magic it was making.

  What sad irony. She made a note. She should bring up this with the Executive Council—better yet, take it to Woodcarver directly. It might get them talking again. In any case, they should send a search party to the location before winter came crashing down.

  Now her countdown window said 13:25:14. She had frittered away an hour, not thinking about her speech once. I really should review it some more, maybe do another rehearsal. She had never been so nervous about talking to the kids. But in the past, it had always been one on one, to small groups; now she would be talking to them all. If she properly made the points that she and Nevil had worked so hard on, so many problems would be solved. But if I mess up …

  CHAPTER 11

  The morning was a dark and blustery thing, perhaps the last rainstorm of the year and autumn’s chill goodbye. Ravna had the bridge’s windows looking out on a panorama of the gloom, and she gave it all a kind of vague attention as she dressed. Down the hill toward the dropoff, there was a scudding fog, parting now and then for a gray-on-gray glimpse of the inner channel and Hidden Island. The rain came slanting in from the north. Ship’s sensors showed it was liquid water, not hail, but it froze as it splashed across Starship Hill, turning the streets of the New Castle’s town to ice.

  She could see the Children and Tines of the Domain were coming south from Newcastle town and north along the Queen’s Road. In the westward view, she could see others emerging from the fog at the top of the funicular. Ravna paused a second, zoomed in on those muffled figures, the clumped packs that accompanied them. They must have left Hidden Island almost an hour earlier—all to make it here on time for the beginning of Ravna’s speech. In just 00:25:43.

  At least they would be warm and comfortable once they got in their New Meeting Place.

  The sight gave her pause. Shouldn’t I be dressed as plainly? Not like this: She looked at herself front and back. Somehow the outfit had not seemed so much like a uniform when she and Nevil had decided on the design. Even though Woodcarver wasn’t talking to her, she had relayed her desires through Nevil: The Queen intended to wear all her crowns and regalia and she expected that Ravna would show a formal aspect as well. Okay. The Children of the Sky could surely see through such material spin—but if Woodcarver didn’t buy into the New Meeting Place as a kind of thrones room then her hostility might never melt.

  Ravna looked at herself for a moment more. In fact, this style had an honorable history—even if she was only person in the world who really understood. Blysse herself had worn something like this when she went out to win the support of the archeologists and software engineers.

  You look good. Hold onto that thought. She grabbed her hud/tiara and left the bridge.

  ─────

  00:03:51 till show time.

  The passage from the command deck currently opened onto a space above the cargo bay’s inner wall. Today that small place had the atmosphere of backstage at a classic live theater. For the moment, she was all alone. Ravna paced the length of the darkened space, not bothering to change the light level. On one side she had a window on her speech, especially the opening lines. Don’t botch the opening! On the other side, she had some windows Nevil had set up looking into the New Meeting Place itself. These were very temporary views, fisheye perspectives that were really more limited than was reasonable. Or maybe that was appropriate. She could peek out like an old-time performer gauging the crowd.

  All the seats that Ravna could see were filled. Nevil would be there, somewhere in the first rows. It was only Woodcarver and Ravna who were to come from within the ship. Nevil said that was Woodcarver’s desire, more royal psychology apparently.

  00:00:50. There was the faint metallic clatter of multiple tines on the floor behind her. Woodcarver. Ravna turned and bowed to her co-Queen. “Ready for the big day, Your Highness?” There was so much Ravna wanted to say to Woodcarver. If this day goes right, perhaps you will listen to me again, and be my friend once more.

  Some of Woodcarver’s heads bobbed. That was a smile, though in th
e semi-darkness there seemed something strange in it. “Oh yes, though it’s you who seem to have prepared the most.” She jabbed a snout at the wall, presumably pointing at the meeting place beyond. “What an … extraordinary … place you have made for yourself.”

  “For us, Woodcarver. For us all.”

  00:00:00. Her tiara chimed unnecessarily in her ear. Such precision. A minute or two more or less should make no difference. But Ravna was terribly afraid that if she didn’t move forward on a schedule, she might never get herself on stage. So she didn’t try to say any more, but simply bowed for Woodcarver to proceed through the doors that were now opening wide.

  Bright sunlight—totally artificial, of course—splashed down upon Woodcarver as the pack stepped through the doorway. The portal was as wide as a Tinish pack-level entrance. Woodcarver proceeded through, all abreast. For that matter, there was room for Ravna, too, but Nevil had learned that the co-Queen thought it best for her to appear and then Ravna separately.

  So she waited till Woodcarver had cleared the opening and disappeared toward where her thrones waited on the left. For an instant, Ravna just hesitated, terrified. This is what happens when you truly realize what a make-or-break situation you’ve created for yourself. But it was time, and she had a schedule to keep. She stepped forward. Strangely, the traditional uniform gave her a kind of strength, and a purposeful stride.

  As she stepped into the light, unseen trumpets blasted out a jaunty flourish. There was nothing Tinish about the music. It was the sort of honor that went to humans in old historicals. Oh no! That was Glitch Number 1. If there were to be any flourishes, they should have been for Woodcarver.

  Ravna turned to the right, started toward her own throne. Then she remembered that she’d intended to turn and bow toward Woodcarver first. Okay, that was Glitch Number 2, but a small one. She had always known there would be glitches.

  The stage was well above the level of the audience area. As Ravna walked across it, she looked out at the people and tried to give them a casual wave. It felt more like shaking a stick, but she heard friendly applause. Her eyes strayed upwards for a second and—my goodness what an enormous place this looked to be. She knew the precise dimensions of the latest build out, but Nevil and his friends had played clever little tricks with vision and perspective to make it seem even larger. Gone were the gaming nooks of days past. Today there were slender arches along the walls. They rose and rose into a ceiling so high that flying birds would not have been out of place. The fake sunlight spilled down through a crystal canopy. She recognized the style. This was rainforest architecture of the Middle Recovery on Nyjora. The Princesses had used building materials from the fallen ruins—hence the crystal skylight that would have been impossible for them otherwise. It was a scene that touched her heart, though it would mean nothing to most packs—and perhaps not much to Straumli children.