by Vernor Vinge
“Okay.” What else could she say?
Pilgrim’s Scar had crawled forward, edging his snout out to look at their pursuers. He froze, and Jo felt Llr tense. “Heh. You gotta see this, Jo.”
She set Llr down and crawled out behind Scar, all but hugging the slimy stone. She saw four packs about fifty meters away. One of them managed the electric arc light. It was a miracle that the contraption had not electrocuted anybody. The pack was swinging the arc around. Jo got a good view of the others. Two of the packs bristled with strange-looking pikes, all pointed at the ground. Huh! Those looked like miniature cannons, though nothing like Nevil’s design. A numerous pack stood in a commanding posture in the middle of all this. Its speech was almost inaudible, but clipped and demanding. What was so familiar about that one? Can it be?… The arc light swept carelessly across the packs. The leader was wearing lightweight cloaks, barely more than pockets on harnesses. One member was turned so she could see its complete right side, the white streak that extended from haunch to snout.
Ten years ago, that one’s teeth had hissed along Jo’s throat, while another poked a knife into her side, and its pack gloated at the prospect of torturing her to death.
Pilgrim must have noticed the recognition startle through her. His secret voice said. “That looks like Vendacious, doesn’t it?”
Johanna nodded. She had absolutely no doubt. So it really was Vendacious, pulling the strings. Whose strings exactly?
Pilgrim gave her a tap on the shoulder. “They’re dazzled. Let’s sneak across.” He pointed at the gap in the timbers ahead.
It might not have worked with human pursuers, but the light was turned away from Jo and Pilgrim, and the Tines probably were bedazzled. Vendacious seemed to be complaining about something, maybe that very abuse of the arc light.
Jo slithered across the flagstones. Pilgrim was all around her. He was probably generating sound-damping noise; Pilgrim was more clever than most packs at such synthesis. In a matter of seconds they were out of eyeshot of the searchers. “Quiet and slow,” said Pilgrim. Quietly, slowly, they crawled forward. Llr had no trouble keeping up. The buildings around them were still of the northern style, but the wood was rotted and buckled. In the pale violet light of her handlamp, she could see that some timbers were almost consumed by mossy fungus. Now the water carried a miasma of smells: food, sewage, rot, the body odor of myriad Tines. Was it her imagination or was that chanting ahead?
Pilgrim seemed to sense her unease.
“You can hear something, too,” he said. “They’re making noise all the way down.”
“How can you stand it?”
“The rain and mist is damping mindsound to almost nothing, but we’re moving toward something … enormous.” Johanna had seen Pilgrim react to a starship coming down from the sky. Even that he had taken on with enthusiastic curiosity, but tonight there might be fear in his words. Then he urged her forward and seemed to recover some of his usual spirit: “I can get a lot closer. Closer, I bet, than Vendacious and company can come.”
In fact, their pursuers seemed to have lost them. Johanna saw an occasional flash from the arc light but that was way to her left. She also heard quiet conversations, but those seemed to be on the right. The searchers were moving forward, but not straight toward her and Pilgrim. Were they scared of triggering a response from the Choir? Maybe the biggest mystery was how Vendacious and his pals could survive in this environment at all. What kept the Choir from sweeping across this area and destroying all coherent packs?
Jo swept her violet light across the rubble ahead. This wasn’t the decay of Northern-style buildings. The soaking mess looked like garbage, organized here and there into structures that might have been nests. She had seen a weasel nest once, briefly, when its inhabitants were trying to kill her. “Weasels” were about the size and appearance of gerbils. She quailed at the thought of what such monsters would be like if they were as big as Tines.
She angled her light upwards. The violet drowned in the falling rain, showing nothing but misty backglow beyond a few meters. Right at the limit of her vision, there was something—it looked almost like a long, low spider web.
It was a fence! The “spider threads” were cords hung between wooden posts. Vertical strands dropped from the top cord to tie to each of the cords below. How could this stop anything? Were the cords poisoned? As they got closer, Johanna could see how frayed and ripped the network was, especially near the ground, where it was clear that critters at least the size of small Tines had broken through.
Pilgrim tugged at her sleeves, drawing her down to the ground. A moment later, the arc light swept along the fence.
“Sorry,” she said softly. Then, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Let’s see if Vendacious and company dare follow us beyond that fence.”
The ground immediately beyond the fence was flat and open. Even if Vendacious wouldn’t chase them, he could still see—and shoot—them. At the limit of her vision she saw piles of … something, maybe the true form of Tropical buildings. The thrum of Choir voices murmured loudly and yet she saw no Tines.
She and Pilgrim reached the fence. The cords were just woven plant fiber. Tearing a hole would be easy. They crawled along the fence line.…
Their pursuers had spread out. They must know that Pilgrim and Jo were at the fence, even if they didn’t know precisely where.
“They’re going to find us,” she whispered.
“Yeah, yeah,” was all Pilgrim said. He was still searching for the perfect breakthrough point. At least here, the open area beyond the fence was not as wide as before. They skulked another three meters. Abruptly, Pilgrim jabbed a snout upwards, pointing. A sign medallion hung from the top fence rope. The patterned ceramic disks were a style of announcement that dated from long before the humans landed. Day or night, a pack would hear the echoes from it. By the pale light of her handlamp, Johanna could see the design that was painted on the surface: the death symbol, a pentagram of skulls. Someone thought it was a really bad idea to go beyond this fence.
─────
“And I don’t want any shooting.” Vendacious glared around at his trigger-happy minions. “We’re not in my territory anymore.”
The crowd of packs straightened and looked properly obedient. They might be trigger happy, but they weren’t crazy enough to cross him. Normally, these fellows patrolled the west side of the Reservation, making sure that no one crossed the boundary. Of course, no pack would voluntarily walk off the Reservation, but there was a constant dribble of Tropicals coming in. The creatures were dumb singletons. That was the thing about the Choir: it wasn’t a proper tyranny. Its behavior was describable only in the mean. There was always a tiny fraction of outliers who were confused enough or ornery enough do almost anything. Guards like these working for him tonight were supposed to pick up such and take them to the convocation bourse. That was a pain. It was much easier just to shoot disobedient intruders. On the far side of the Reservation, that was easy to do. It was good sport, Vendacious thought. On this side, such shooting would be heard by Tycoon people who would loyally report the behavior, raising all sort of problems for Vendacious. Tonight of all nights, thought Vendacious, I don’t want Tycoon’s guns out here, nosing around.
Having made his point, Vendacious eased off on the homicidal glare. He wanted his people to be at the top of their form this evening. “The two I want are somewhere between us and the fence. Don’t worry about exactly where. Push forward along a broad front. Eventually we’ll flush them out.” Two of the gunpacks broke into uneasy smiles. They had been on similar outings before. Killing dumb singletons was one thing. Forcing a thinking pack into Choir territory was a different matter entirely. “Go quietly. Listen for my signals.” They would have to stay quiet till the next density of the Choir swept through. When that happened, they could probably make as much noise as they wanted.
Vendacious watched as the packs spread out in a ragged skirmish line and started toward the fenc
e. The lamp manager stayed somewhat back, sweeping its light toward likely shapes and sounds.
Vendacious followed his people forward, unlimbering his own small rifle as he did so. At the same time, he reached into one of his pockets and unmuted the commset hidden there, but at such a low volume that even he could scarcely hear it.
He complained into his pocket: “They didn’t come down where you said.” And they survived the crash.
There was the half-second delay and then Nevil’s voice came back. As usual, the human was full of cocky rejoinders: “You’re just lucky I noticed them sneaking down your way. You’re even more lucky I’d prepped their aircraft. I crashed them right where you said.”
Vendacious didn’t reply immediately. He found that silence often provoked Nevil Storherte into informative elaboration. And after a moment Nevil came up with something interesting: “You know the, um, targets took a commset with them when they escaped from the skiff.”
What! Can they hear us talking then? Vendacious stifled the question. He had come to know that the starfolks’ “commsets” were nothing like radio cloaks. Unless Nevil reprogrammed the devices, each would have a separate “channel” through his orbital relay. So aloud, he just said, “That’s interesting. I assume you’re blocking their calls.”
“Of course, though at the moment they’re just carrying the device. The interesting fact is that I can tell you where they are.”
Vendacious’ current plans depended on two incredibly powerful, incredibly infuriating tools. One was Nevil Storherte. I’m so glad Nevil is far away. I don’t think I could keep from killing him otherwise. Nevertheless, Vendacious was pleased at his own mild response: “And where is that?”
“Thirty-one meters from you—your commset—on a bearing of forty-seven degrees.” You could hear the smirk in the two-legs’ techno-speak. Nevil was supposedly a master of guile, but that was with other humans. His contempt for Tines was strong and obvious.
Fortunately, Vendacious had spent much of the last ten years learning everything he could about humans and the Beyond. There was vast power in their knowledge, even though the religious nuttery sometimes made it hard to tell what was real. In any case, Vendacious could reason with numbers better than any unaided “Child of the Sky.” He looked out at where the Reservation fence stood in his spotlight. Johanna and Pilgrim would be at the fence now, near the right end of his searchers. He squeaked pointedly at the various packs, shifting them to converge on the pile of rubble where his quarry must be hiding.
Tonight should still be a major triumph, but it had turned out riskier than the original plan. He’d expected to find his two greatest enemies crushed and dead in their aircraft. Instead he was skulking through the dark after them, hoping that neither his light nor his noise would attract Tycoon’s interest. And yet, there was a thoroughly delicious side to this. At this very moment, Pilgrim and Johanna were squeezed up against the fence. To cross that fence would mean certain death, torn apart physically or mentally or both. But if they stayed where they were, Johanna would be back in his claws. This time she would not be rescued by Pilgrim’s clever, humiliating lies, for Pilgrim himself would be just as helpless as the human. Either way, I win.
Vendacious maneuvered himself closer to his searchers. Normally he loathed every second here in the Tropics, even more when he had to work in the filthy outdoors. Tonight … tonight he was truly enjoying himself.
─────
“I think they know where we are,” said Pilgrim.
Johanna nodded. Even though he was looking into the spaces beyond the fence, she knew he was talking about their pursuers. Looking over her shoulder, she could see occasional members of the searcher packs. They seemed closer, and now the search light was spending most of its time centered almost exactly over her head. The light glittered off the death-heads medallion. “Most of them are on the side we came from. Maybe we could sneak back the other way … flank them.” It was a forlorn suggestion.
“No,” said Pilgrim. “You know, you might not have any trouble with the Choir, mindless as you are.” That was a bit of Pilgrim humor. Johanna doubted the serious point behind his statement. There were stories about what happened to animals in the Tropical cities. Everything here was consumed, in mind or flesh.
Nevertheless she tried to match him. “You might be okay, too, near mindless as you are.” He didn’t reply, and after a moment Johanna was reduced to miserable reality. “I can’t see looking for mercy from Vendacious.” He will never get his claws on me again.
“Me neither.” Pilgrim’s voice was no longer bantering, but it didn’t have the miserable tone that Johanna had heard in her own. But then Pilgrim was a pilgrim and such as he bragged about their fearlessness. “You know,” the pack continued, “all my life, even back to the myths of earlier me’s, the stories about the Tropics have been the same, that the place is deadly to mind, that you only go there if you want to dissolve in joy. But look at what we’re not seeing.” He pointed a snout into the rain that glittered in Vendacious’ spotlight. “Scarcely a single Tropical member. We hear chanting, but this rain and this humidity damps the real sounds of thought down to nothing. Look at how hunched together each of Vendacious’ packs are. I’ll bet this rain is having even more effect on the Choir, and the chanting we hear is the Choir cooped up, out of the wet! I could probably run right across this street and find us a hidey-hole on the other side.”
“If you don’t get shot by Vendacious’ goons—”
“Piffle.” Pilgrim waved dismissively. Johanna guessed that Wicky didn’t believe any of what he was saying, and was dying to get her out of harm’s way. On the other hand, his voice had that intrigued, calculating tone he used when he was planning something over-the-top. “Honestly, Johanna, this doesn’t look as crazy as when Scriber and I rescued you on Murder Meadows. And … I’ve always wondered what the Choir was like. Imagine getting in, and returning alive.” His Scarbutt member was pulling at a tear in the fence, making it large enough so the pack could sprint through.
“Oh, Pilgrim!” Her whisper was loud enough that even she could hear it. Not that that really mattered any more. She reached out, trying to hold him back. This was way too much like being a little orphan girl again.
“Hei, don’t worry. We’ve gotten through worse.” He wriggled loose from her, but did not immediately rush off. Maybe he was waiting for the arc light to drift away from their part of the fence. “Use your invisible light. Try to see where I end up on the other side. I’ll find some place safe, and wave.”
“Okay.” She gave him a pat. Wicky was right, even if he was blowing smoke. She pulled the commset and other gear close and then shone her violet light out into the space beyond the fence.
A moment passed. The glare of the arc light shifted away, leaving blinding afterimages. That didn’t stop Pilgrim. He sprinted out through the widened hole in the fence. She squinted into the afterimages and—the big light came back, shining right on the running foursome. Pilgrim zigged and zagged. Apparently the gun packs couldn’t get a bead on him, for no one fired.
The chanting of the Choir was growing. Hopefully, the mind sounds were still attenuated by the wetness, but what Johanna could hear sounded like a mob at close quarters. An ambush on top of Vendacious’ ambush? She swung her pale light to the right. There was a trickle of shapes in the rainglow. They were moving past her position, in the general direction of Pilgrim. The trickle became a crowd, a mob, members shoulder to shoulder as she had never seen before among the Tines.
Pilgrim turned, was running away, but all along the far edge of the open space, Tropicals were pushing into the open. They weren’t running. The Tines strolled along almost parallel to the fence. Their numbers grew. Somehow Pilgrim Wickllrrackscar kept his mind. He was running all together, but Llr’s limp kept him from full speed. It didn’t matter. The Tropicals were a mob now, sweeping along the fence like the edge of some giant scissor blade, the cutting point of contact moving faster than any pack
could run. Rac fell to slashing claws. The last Jo saw of Pilgrim was little Llr’s body tossed into the air, like a tidbit for some vast carnivore.
“Pilgrim!” Maybe she screamed the name aloud.
Pilgrim was gone, but the mob did not overrun the fence. As a whole, they were sweeping parallel to the barrier. Avoidance wasn’t perfect; the crowd was too jammed together for that. Here and there, Tropical members were rammed through the barrier. Most of them wriggled back; some wandered aimlessly further inward.
The Choir racket was a roar, even to her ears. The higher frequencies would be tearing at Vendacious’ goons, but when she looked behind her: There was a pack with guns on one side. The arc light lit the rain on the other.
A human-sounding voice spoke conversationally. “Run, Johanna, run. Into the Choir. I want to see this.” Vendacious.
It seemed like good advice, even considering the source. Johanna tore through the fence and ran into the Choir.
─────
Well damn! So much for reverse psychology. The two-legs was running. Without thinking, Vendacious whipped up his rifle and aimed at her back. At the same time he was shouting to his troops “Don’t shoot!”
His lips tightened on the trigger just as sense finally percolated all the way through him. There was a reason why he had threatened the others with death if they started shooting on this side of the Reservation. The work of eight years would be in jeopardy … but oh, I could figure out a lie to cover it; Tycoon believes so many bigger lies. He stifled the thought. He had taken enough chances tonight. He must be content to enjoy this from a distance.
It was her good fortune that Johanna Olsndot had sprinted through the fence just as the passing mob became slightly thinner. She made it twenty feet into Choir territory, forty feet. Now the mob came thick again, the mindsounds even louder than when they had destroyed Pilgrim. Vendacious and his comrades hugged the ground, each pack holding all its own heads together. If not for the rain, some of them might have been destroyed, even on this side of the Reservation boundary.