Shipstar (37 page)

Bemor added, “That is the scale we now confront with you Late Invaders.”

“Huh? We’re just stopping by.”

Bemor huffed in amusement. “Not so. You are important at this juncture as we approach Glory.”

“Who says?”

“The Ice Minds,” Memor injected, though she knew the primate did not know the term, much less the substance.

Asenath finished and resumed command of this skyfish with quick, darting orders. Squads rushed off to prepare for battle, a rolling bass note summoned crew to stations, and an electric intensity shot through the air—a zippy ion augmentation to stimulate. A wall flushed from its solemn gray to a stunning view of the region the skyfish commanded.

Needles of spiral rock forked up, moss-covered and home to many flapping species. The skyfish had recently fed there, from server species that brought arrays of food to be easily ingested as the skyfish moored on the peaks. These erections stood beside bays and lagoons, where waves reflecting the jet and star winked up at them. Here and there in the complex landscape, white snakes curved, highways like lines drawn on a lush green paper.

To the side, fluttering fast, was a silvery mote. Their target, just as the Kahalla had said.

“What’s the battle?” Tananareve asked, watching the many minions scurry around.

“We expect little fighting,” Memor said. “We are to capture the rest of you.”

“Be careful,” Tananareve said. “They’ve been on the run here a long time. And they bite.”

Memor found this amusing and sent a subtle fan-display of this to Bemor. “As if we had cause to fear them!” she said in Folk.

“Yes, perhaps this primate has a sense of humor,” Bemor said, distracted, his big eyes looking into the distance.

Suddenly Memor felt a tremor from her Undermind. It was a cool trickle of apprehension, not of actual fear, yet its icy fingers crept into her thinking. She paused a moment to do her inward-turning, letting the Undermind gradually open. She found a swamp. Fresh, gaudy notions and worries laced through fetid dark pools of ancient fears, all beneath a sullen sky. Trepidations wrapped around a locus, like tendrils of gray fog settling on a hill. The darting slips of anxiety seemed to orbit that hill. What was in it? Under it? She did not recall ever seeing this rising bulge before. Yet she knew it was not new, but old. She knew the bodies of congested uneasiness might be thrust down for a while, into the recesses of the Undermind. But this was a large bolus of somber dark emotions, and it drove fresh fears into her conscious layers.

Yet she had no time for this now. Action drew near. “Asenath, how might we assist?”

“Keep your Late Invader close. We will need her to interpret nuance and the other Invaders’ nonverbal signaling.”

Bemor seemed uneasy. Memor gave him a flurry of feathers that bespoke concern, but he shook it off with a rustle. She saw from his distant gaze that he was tapped into his comm and studying information.

He breathed quicker, a low rumble of thought. Memor respected Bemor’s ability to go beyond the Bowl’s constant data flood, mediated through its incessantly collecting local Analyticals. Those artificial minds monitored Bowl data on local scales, then sent it upward through an ascending pyramid of minds both wholly artificial and natural—though, of course, all minds had been bred and engineered for optimal performance, far long ago. Then the smoothed product of much mastication came to such as Bemor, to make sense nuanced of mind-numbingly complex situations. Digested data could help compensate for Folk overconfidence in their own intuitions, thus reducing the distortion of perception by desire. Natural minds were unable to deal with avalanches of data and mathematics, but were excellent at social cognition. Bemor could draw from his deep knowledge of history and the higher intellects. He was good at mirroring others’ emotional states, such as detecting uncooperative behavior, and at assigning value to things through emotion. Was he dealing with new ideas from the Ice Minds now? Something in his posture told Memor that he was deeply concerned about some matter far distant from their pursuit of these Late Invaders.

Abruptly Bemor broke off and spat at Asenath, “We need those Late Invaders captured immediately. No delay! But handle them carefully. Loss of even one of their lives could endanger us all.”

Asenath knew enough to take this command without question. She turned and ordered a nearby Kahalla, “Do not chance a glancing shot.”

“But we planned—,” the Kahalla began.

“Ignore all that came before. A shot to compel them might do damage to the tadfish. Especially if you miss by even a fraction.”

“Madam, we have already dispatched the sharpwings,” the Kahalla said, going into a bowing posture of apology.

“I did not so order!”

“It was explicit in your attack plan, timed to occur as we first sighted the tadfish.”

Memor could see that Asenath had no ready reply to this, so she turned away with a rebuking ruffle-display of red with scarlet fringes.

They all moved close to the observation wall. The tadfish drew nearer and now a school of angular birds came forking in toward the silvery shape. They were big in wing and head. Memor knew these sharpwings as pack birds who could harry and bring down far larger prey.

Bemor was alarmed enough to be distracted from his comm. “Stop them. Now.”

Asenath obeyed. Memor knew that here, nearer to the Knothole, craft such as tadfish had a natural utility. Great circulating cells of warm air cycled across the zones and life used these free rides. Skyfish were a transport business in the long voyages and tadfish had been bred from them, long ago, to traverse the shorter routes. In its constant restless way, evolution had spawned species of sharpwings to prey on tadfish. Most often they swarmed the prey, as Memor now watched them do.

Asenath shouted, “I said to turn them back!” to the Kahalla who backed away from her, head bent deep in contrition.

“They do not respond,” the Kahalla whispered. “They are hirelings, and hard to deflect once engaged in their ancient battle rites.”

“So they make for the meaty passengers,” Memor said dryly.

“Their spirits are up,” the Kahalla said. “Difficult to countermand.”

Now the sharpwings circled the tadfish. The great fish fired its hydrogen jets at them. Great plumes of ignited gas forked out and burned sharpwings black in an instant. Bodies tumbled away but more sharpwings came arrowing in. Their long jaws with razor teeth sliced at the working fins to disable navigation. The orange tongues licked more sharpwings.

They were drawing nearer, and Asenath ordered external ears to pick up the battle sounds. Memor could make out the anguish cries of those being burned. Sharpwing song-calls also laced the air, vibrant and shrill. Beneath that came the deep bass roll of the tadfish’s agony. It echoed across the diminishing distance.

Now sharpwings dove along the tadfish flanks, going for the gut. Their spiked wings ripped along and into the scaly flesh. It was, Memor reflected, as though the attackers were writing on the lustrous flesh their own messages, in long lines that soon brimmed red. These species had evolved to a stable predator–prey balancing, now governed by their betters—but only when their passions could be blunted.

“Bring your lancing shots to bear,” Asenath ordered.

“Please note, we cannot be so accurate at this range,” the Kahalla said. “I fear—”

“Do it.” Asenath was stern. “Otherwise they will bring down the tadfish and devour its passengers.”

The Kahalla did not attempt to argue. It turned and gave orders. Over the amplified booming, shrieks, and cries, Memor could scarcely hear the sharp
psssstt!
of the pellet guns. These hit the sharpwings with shattering blows. Next came the rattling laser batteries, picking off the great birds with quick stabs of green brilliance. All these weapons had to hit the sharpwings as they banked away from the tadfish, to avoid wounding it, so those sharpwings already close in on the attack escaped for a while. Orange jets from the tadfish belly licked at flights of the sharpwings. Squawks and screeches rose in an anguished crescendo. The thuds of pellets firing slowed as targets became scarce. A rain of blackened and shattered bodies tumbled, turning slowly in the long descent toward the green forests and glinting lakes below.

The remaining few sharpwings broke off the attack and flapped away, sending mournful long songs forth. “Very good,” Asenath said.

“Let us escort the tadfish down, then,” Memor said. “We can land and take possession.”

Asenath conferred with the Kahalla, then turned to address Bemor, ignoring Memor. “We can swallow such a small tadfish. No need to land. We can continue to higher altitudes and catch the fast winds toward the upper Mirror Zone.”

Bemor sent approval-displays, but his eyes did not move from his comm plate. “Good. Do so. We need the other Late Invaders.”

Memor felt shunted aside. She had been pursuing these vagrant primates for a great while, and now Bemor—and even worse, Asenath—would get credit for their apprehension. But at least it was done. “Why are they so useful? I am happy to have them in hand, of course, but—”

Bemor gave a low, bass growl. “The Ice Minds command it. Events proceed elsewhere. A crisis threatens. We must get the primates.”

“We have this one here—” A gesture at Tananareve.

“We may need more. The Ice Minds want to use them to converse in an immersion mode.”

Memor stirred with misgivings. Her Undermind was fevered and demanded to be heard, but there was no time now. “Immersion? That can be destructive.”

Tananareve seemed to be following this, but wisely said nothing.

“That is why we need several pathways. The connection may be too much for them, and we will need replacements.”

Memor said softly, feeling a tremor from her Undermind, “What crisis?”

“It goes badly in the jet.”

PART XII

T
HE
W
ORD
OF
C
AMBRONNE

It was at Waterloo that General Cambronne, when called on to surrender, was supposed to have said, “The Old Guard dies but never surrenders!” What Cambronne actually said was, “Merde!” which the French, when they do not wish to pronounce it, still refer to as, “the word of Cambronne.” It corresponds to our four-letter word for manure. All the difference between the noble and the earthy accounts of war is contained in the variance between these two quotations.

—E
RNEST
H
EMINGWAY
,
M
EN
AT
W
AR

THIRTY
-
SIX

The first sight of the Folk commanding the big skyfish was daunting. Cliff had seen these Folk aliens when his team came through the lock, in what seemed a very long time ago. Later he had heard fragments about the Folk from the scattered
SunSeeker
transmissions.

But now these before him seemed different—larger, with big heads on a leathery stalk neck. Their feathers made the body shape hard to make out. The Folk back at the air lock had feathers, but not nearly so large, colorful, and vibrant. As Cliff’s team and Quert’s Sil entered, the three big Folk rattled their displays, forking out neck arrays that flashed quick variations in magenta, rose, and ivory. Their lower bodies flourished downy wreaths of brown and contrasting violet.

“They’re … giant peacocks,” Irma whispered.

Cliff nodded. Back Earthside, peacocks used their outrageously large feathers to woo females. But these rustling, constantly shifting feather-shows had far more signaling capacity. Beneath the layers, he could glimpse ropy pelvic muscles. Loose-jointed shoulders gave intricate control to the feathers. “More like, those flaunt unspoken messages, I’d guess.”

Quert gestured and said, “Quill feather gives mood. Tail fan on neck cups sound to ears. Fan-signals are many. Rattle and flap for more signal. Color choice gives messages, too.”

Aybe said, “Structural coloration, I’d say. Microfibers, fine enough to interfere with the incoming light, reflect back the color the creature wants.”

Cliff watched the beautiful iridescent blue green or green-colored plumage shimmer and change with viewing angle. “Reflections from fibers, could be.”

They all stood bunched together, humans and Sil, as the Folk came slowly into the big room, passing nearby with a gliding walk before settling on a place. The big things loomed over them and rattled out a long, ordered set of clattering sounds. “What’s that sound say?” Terry whispered.

“Greet to visitor. But visitors inferior and should say so.”

“Say so?” Irma whispered. “How?”

Quert gave the other Sil quick sliding words, a question. They all responded with a few other short, soft words. Quert’s face took on a wrinkled, wry cast. “Sil not say, you not either.”

“Good,” Aybe said, and the others nodded. No tribute, no submission.

Cliff regarded the Folk’s unmistakable piercing eyes, big though now slitted and slanted beneath heavy, crusted eyelids. Their pupils were big and black, set in bright yellow irises. There was something going on behind those eyes. Cliff had an impression of a brooding intelligence measuring the small band of humans and Sil. The tall, feathered Folk held the gaze of humans and Sil as they settled back on their huge legs and tails and gestured, murmuring to each other while still peering down at the humans. Cliff felt a prickly, primitive sensation, an awareness of a special danger. His nostrils flared and he automatically spread his stance, fists on his hips, facing the three aliens fore square.

The three Folk settled into the high room bounded by pink, fleshy walls. Attendants flanked the three, and others scurried off to unknown tasks. There were small forms with six legs and plumed heads, carrying burdens and arranging the flesh-pink walls with quick energy. Constant motion surrounded the Folk, who went slowly, almost gliding. It was like watching an eerie parade with three big, frightening floats.

“Irma! Cliff!” Suddenly Tananareve Bailey appeared from behind one of the Folk. She ran toward them.