Zones of Thought Trilogy

by Vernor Vinge

  Belle stood up, pulled her cloaks tight around her bodies. As she filed out the house’s back door, she was already plotting just how she should put the situation to the neighbors. They were Children, a married couple. She didn’t remember their names. In fact, she had done her best to keep them out of Timor’s way. Now she would have to be nicey-nice.

  She latched the door behind her—and was immediately struck by the quality of the air. This cold might be deadly to an unprotected human, but it wasn’t that bad for a winter night. The clouds blocked out any possibility of aurora or starlight or moonlight, but she could feel a thick fog all around her, the humidity bringing a profound silence to all the upper reaches of sound. There was also a new sound, a hissing, low-pitched and mechanical. She had a moment of prideful insight. Maybe Oobii was still sending its ray to the local heater—but there was some leak that was stealing steam before it could get in the house. I might even be able to fix this!

  She walked around the side of their little house, trying to imagine just how a fix might be accomplished. Her negativity was complaining like it always did. She really didn’t know anything about steam technology, much less leak-fixing. But she could easily sound out the leak. Maybe she could just push a proper-sized rock into the hole.

  So dark, so silent in the higher sounds. Except for the hiss of the leak there were no sounds but her own breathing and her paws on the ice. Without echo location she was reduced to feeling her away along like some dumb deaf human.

  She slid down the gully on the north side of the house. The leak was just a yard or two ahead, almost at ground level. Right here there was faint illumination from a street lamp way up the street. It glinted off something stringy, hanging from the wall above her. It was the house telephone line. Cut.

  She took a step or two more before the implications hit her. Then for a second she froze in terror. Living with all this sky magic made you forget the life and death things you learned in your earlier life. Fog masks mindsound. In olden days, fog was weather’s arbitrary contribution to war and treachery. Now all that ambushers need do was puncture a steam pipe and they could have all the fog they wanted.

  Belle quivered with the effort to see and hear. What could she do? Killers could be all around. But they hadn’t acted. Maybe if she just ignored the silence they would let her be. Surely they didn’t care about a worthless pack of four.

  She turned, casually she hope it looked, though two of her started to turn in the wrong direction, straining to run off to the street below the house. As she returned to the back door, she played a human humming tune, sounds pitched low enough to pass through this fog. She strained for the echoes and at the same time listened way higher up for some telltale of Tinish thought. Now that she was searching, the clues all came together, the echoes of flesh and the faint skirling of mind. She could even see some silhouettes of heads against the dim white fields of the snows uphill. There was one pack nearby, though it might be as small as four. Perhaps one or two more packs lurked at the edge of the snow.

  And still they didn’t act. If she turned again, she could walk off into the street. They could get what they wanted.

  And what was that? The intruders circled the back of the little house. Timor? They wanted Timor? Why, why, why? But now they had him alone, and all she need do was walk away.

  Or she could scream so loud that everyone in the neighborhood would come running. Maybe would come running.

  She dithered a second more, slow of thought as always. Then one overriding thought united her. No one steals my Timor.

  She gave out a shriek so loud that it would have pierced the eardrums of any human standing nearby. “HELP HELP HELP,” were the Samnorsk words. As the nearest pack charged her, she realized that it was eight. The noise of her scream echoed back at her revealing the shapes and gaits of the attacker. It had been ten years, but she recognized the villain! Chitiratifor. She would have screamed that name aloud, a single Tinish chord, but something flashed and Orn dissolved in pain. Orn’s head flew down on the rocks. The rest of her was surrounded, awash in blood and noise. Maybe she was two. One.

  And could only think to scream, “TIMOR!”

  ─────

  That night, Ravna was in her office aboard Oobii until very late. To Nevil and his snoop programs, she was working hard on her farm assignment. In fact, she was using Oobii to check everything she could imagine about Flenser’s accusations. Even if Nevil had scams that didn’t involve using Oobii, she still knew his comings and goings and could monitor all the electromagnetic noise in the area. If he was relaying through the orbiter, there would be correlations. She drummed idly on her desk, watching the analysis for blockages and search decision requests. It was annoying to have the power to grab more computing resources—and not dare to do so. Another hour, though, should be enough. She’d have results to show Jo and Pilgrim. They should be back from the Cold Valley lab this evening with the latest from Scrupilo’s icy fab. Those results rated a big celebration. Instead, the three of them would probably spend the evening worrying about Flenser and Nevil.

  A little flag popped up. “Guidance request: Widen relevance window to include local anomalies?” One of the older heating towers up on Starship Hill was failing—at least in Oobii’s infrared view. The first-built towers had never been very reliable, and she had told the ship to track their decline. So why was it bothering her now? She brought up an explanation: Okay, no physical danger, but this was going to leave people in the cold unless somebody took action. It was the sort of thing Nevil & Co. should be on top of. Maybe she could handle it, just tell Nevil that the warning message had somehow been misrouted to her. Another flag appeared, reporting telephone failures. Strange. Ravna couldn’t imagine a connection between the two problems—

  She heard shouting downstairs; usually the ship suppressed game station noise better than that. Moments later, someone was pounding on her office door. Her displays automatically cut over to the agriculture research she was supposed to be doing.

  “Ravna, we need you!” Someone—it sounded like Heida Øysler—was slamming against the wall so hard that the wood fasteners were cracking.

  “Ravna!” That was Heida, and even louder than usual.

  It wasn’t till hours later that she remembered the perfection of Tinish mimicry; this was Heida or some pack. In the here and now, she simply popped open the door.

  It really was Heida. She grabbed Ravna’s arm and dragged her into the hallway.

  “You gotta help us. Right now!”

  “What? What?” said Ravna as Heida pulled her toward the stairs.

  “Geri Latterby, she’s gone!” said Heida.

  Down on the main floor now. The few kids present were clustered around someone bundled in outdoor clothing, sitting at one of the desks. Øvin Verring turned, saw Ravna. “You got her!”

  Now Ravna recognized the seated figure. It was Elspa Latterby. The kids parted before Ravna, letting her near. The girl’s head was bent forward. She had vomited all over the desk.

  Ravna touched her shoulder. “Elspa?”

  The girl looked up. The left side of her face was scraped and she was bleeding from near her eye. It looked like she had fallen on her face. “Geri … we were almost home. Bunch o’ raggedy Tines jumped us. They took Geri. Beasly ’n’ I chased ’em … I couldn’t keep up.”

  Ravna brushed her hand gently across Elspa’s hair. “We’ll get her back, Elspa.” She looked around at the angry, frightened faces. Run-ins with fragments were an occasional problem. There had even been a robbery three years ago. But an abduction? Okay then. “Lisl? You’re our favorite medic. Please help Elspa.”

  The young woman had been hovering in the background, too shy to push her way forward. But Lisl Armin was one of the few who had really believed Ravna’s rants about the importance of first aid. With Lisl, and Oobii’s diagnostics, Elspa should be okay. As for Geri, “Øvin, start phoning around. There should be an auto list at the top of Emergency Procedures.
We can set up a search—”

  “The landlines, they’re down.” Øvin was wall-eyed.

  Of course. “You’ve radioed Woodcarver and Nevil?”

  “Y-yes,” he said, “Woodcarver is sending out the city troops. Nevil is—”

  “Hei! Everybody!” It was Bili Yngva, standing at the outer entrance to the Meeting Place. He waved a radio at them. “I’m coordinating with Nevil. He’s spotted the Tropicals; they’re running south!”

  The Children swarmed toward the exit.

  ─────

  You can’t be two places at once. Ravna took a chance, and left the Oobii to accompany the Children.

  Queen’s Road ran parallel to the cliffs, gently descending toward the top of Margrum Climb. There were town houses along the road, their pole lamps bright circles of light. A trickle of Children joined their group, and soon they were overtaken by packs of Woodcarver’s city troops.

  The Children were full of rumors, stories of attacks all over town.

  Bili and his radio had something closer to hard facts—but not very many of them. “Yes, there’ve been several attacks on Children and city packs,” he said.

  “Who?” that was the shout from several corners of the crowd.

  “We don’t know yet! Geri and Elspa, but Elspa is okay. Edvi Verring and his Best Friend.”

  Up ahead, Øvin Verring stumbled. Edvi was his cousin. Øvin twisted around and pushed his way close to Bili. “Are they okay?”

  Bili lowered his voice. “We don’t know, Øvin. Both Edvi and Geri are missing. Parts of Dumpster and Beasly are dead or missing.”

  “Sons of bitches!” said someone. “Best Friend” packs ranged from opportunists to groupies—to truly best friends, very much like Pilgrim. Ravna remembered Beasly and Dumpster. They had been ideal companions for the youngest.

  “Look,” Bili shouted. “All the witnesses agree the attackers were Tropical nutcases. We’re on this. Nevil is almost down to the embassy.” The same direction the rest of them—and the Tinish troops around them—were going.

  They were leaving the area of newest construction. The last lamppost marked the south end of Ravna’s own house. There were no lights in the windows, and the agrav was missing from its customary place behind the house.

  Ravna stepped across the frozen ruts. “Let me borrow the radio for a moment, Bili.”

  Yngva stared down at the gadget clutched in his hand. “I have to keep in touch with Nevil.”

  She held out her hand. “Just for a moment.”

  The conversation had not slowed Bili down, but he looked around at the nearby Children. He was not as smooth as Nevil, but he could recognize an audience when he saw one. “Okay, but please keep it brief.”

  He handed the device to Ravna. It was one of Scrupilo’s analog radios, not a proper commset. Not that it mattered much now; Ravna only had to get through to the ship. Fortunately, what had to be done was well within the authority Nevil had granted her:

  She had Oobii ping all the existing radios, repeat back their locations. Yes, Nevil was already on the grounds of the Tropicals’ Embassy. Woodcarver was on a wagon, driving down the inner road. She’d reach the embassy before Ravna. Scrupilo was at North End, trying to get airborne. Johanna and Pilgrim … their agrav was still aground at the Cold Valley lab. She punched a message through to it, ending with “… and we’ll need some active search.” She asked Oobii to relay all priority items.

  “Please, Ravna. Nevil needs this radio for the rescue work and it’s already low on charge.”

  As she handed it back, Oobii’s voice began babbling from the device. Bili listened for a second, then announced. “Everybody! More casualties. Belle Ornrikak is dead. The Tropicals grabbed Timor!”

  Belle was the least known of the casualties. Half a year ago, Timor might have counted as the least of the human losses. Tonight … a groan went around the Children. Some of them started running, trying to keep up with the soldier packs who were steadily passing by. But the frozen, rutted ground was not kind to spindly two-legs who wanted to run. These kids were just causing a traffic jam. Ravna caught up, persuaded them to keep to a fast walking pace, at the edge of the road. Even Heida slowed down.

  They were beyond most of the town houses now. Only a few of the kids carried lamps, but Ravna persuaded one squad of packs to stay with them. Their oil torches lit the way.

  Tonight, that light was really needed, even by humans. The sky was completely dark, without aurora or moon or stars. She hadn’t checked the weather earlier, but the cloud cover must be thick and complete. They walked on about a thousand meters. Bili reported—actually Oobii relayed—that there were no more casualties; all the other Children were accounted for. Jo and Pilgrim were airborne and coming south.

  Now at the southern horizon, there might be a break in the clouds. There was light, shifting in much the same slow way as the aurora. The kids were pointing to it now, “Strange color!”

  Heida climbed the drifts by the road, stood precariously at the crest for a moment. “That light. It’s a fire!”

  There was only one large structure this side of the Margrum dropoff: the Tropicals’ embassy.

  ─────

  The fire had not been large. It looked like only one area near the top of the central tower had burned. In the troops’ torchlight, it was hard to see much damage. The main gate was open. Two packs in military line formation guarded the entrance. Four reserve packs were visible in the shadows. Numerous ordinary packs and some Children were already here. They milled around, blocked by the troops from going further.

  Ravna walked toward the gate, followed by Øvin and Heida and the others from Oobii.

  Bili strode ahead, talking on the radio. “Right. Okay.” He stopped just short of the guard line and waved everybody back. “I’m sorry guys, they’re still gathering clues in there.”

  Ravna took a step or two more, till she was face to face with Yngva. “What about Timor and Geri and Edvi? They could be in there.” The words just popped out; she really wasn’t trying to make trouble.

  Bili lowered his voice. “Help keep these people back, Ravna. Please. Be responsible.”

  “Let Ravna through, Mr. Yngva. The Queen asked especially to see her.” It was a pack in the shadows, behind the guard line. One of Woodcarver’s chamberlains.

  Maybe Bili frowned, but the light was dim and the expression quickly passed. He waved her through, then turned to shout to the crowd: “Okay, Ravna is going to help us out here. She’d really appreciate it if you’d all give us some room to work, folks.”

  Ravna didn’t stop to contradict him, but I could learn to dislike Bili Yngva.

  The chamberlain and Gannon Jorkenrud guided Ravna back into the depths of the embassy. Both had lamps, and Jorkenrud was waving his light all around. His voice seemed both angry and triumphant. “We nailed the bastards.” He had an axe—a bloody axe?—in his other hand.

  This was the first time she’d been in the so-called “embassy.” The sanctum was less and more than the stories. She saw random pieces of metal and polished stone, items chipped away from public buildings and turned into interior decorations. The walls were bare of acoustic quilting, scarred with holes that might mark recent removals. Trash lay in various depths. The ceilings were almost high enough for her to walk standing upright, but the paths through the trash weren’t wide enough for pack privacy and there were no turnouts for packs to courteously pass. Here and there, through openings in the walls, she could see Woodcarver’s troopers searching further corridors.

  They passed doors that had been smashed in. Here the air was warm and humid, smelling of body odor and incense. The chamberlain led them up a round of stairs that circled the central tower. Gannon came right behind, still talking angrily about how “we done ’em good tonight.”

  The stairs ended at a door with a shattered lock. The chamberlain pulled the door open a crack, and a breeze swept past them into the room beyond. There was a gobble of Interpack between
the chamberlain and some pack inside. Ravna thought she heard a chord that meant contradictorily “too crowded” and “come in.” The chamberlain waved snouts at Gannon and Ravna. “You two go in, please. I’ll stay out here.” Some of him streamed down the steps, the members spreading themselves as far as they could think. The one at the bottom of the stairs could talk to the troops on main floor.

  Ravna and Gannon stepped through. The draft slammed the door shut behind them.

  She looked around, taking in the broken windows and the burned fabric hangings. Once upon a time—up until a few minutes ago?—the ceiling had been much lower, with hanging silken canopies. No doubt the place had been as swampy-warm as the rest of the embassy. Now it was cold and smelled of smoke. Woodcarver stood around a pile of rubbish that had tumbled from an armoire. Still-glowing embers smouldered near her feet, but all of her—even the puppy—was looking in Ravna’s direction: “We’ll find Geri/Edvi/Timor.” She spoke the three names as a chord. “I promise, Ravna.”

  Nevil nodded. “We know who did this and we have a good idea where they are now.” He wore the ship’s remaining HUD tiara, but away from that, his face was sooty. Behind the tiara, his eyes were a little wide, the first time she had ever seen horror on his face. “The Tropicals must have been planning this for some tendays. They had perfect knowledge of the three kids’ habits and their Best Friends.” He kicked savagely at whatever was behind the papers, then recovered himself, brushing at his face with a faintly trembling hand. “I’m coordinating with Jo and Pilgrim. They have the agrav flying, looking for the kidnappers. Scrupilo says he’ll have Eyes Above in the air in another hour or so.”

  Ravna walked across the room, looked down at what Nevil had kicked: a pack member. Two pack members. One lay in an enormous pool of blood. The other was stretched out, as though in mid-leap. Now both lay motionless, beyond any punishment. In life, they had been part of something that thought well of itself. Few of the Tropicals dressed so royally. She glanced around at Woodcarver.