The Children of the Sky (16 page)

“Y-yes.” Hopefully the world beyond Scrupilo’s office had not made sense of this exchange, state secrets being betrayed in a temper tantrum.

Scrupilo climbed down from himself. For a moment he just circled around, glaring. Scrupilo could be an officious twit. On the other hand, he was a genius and a true engineer. As long as you could keep him pointed in the right direction, and keep him from getting too jealous of the perks of others, he was a treasure.

“Honest, Scrupilo,” Ravna continued in a soft voice. “This is an emergency. We’ll get those cams back to you as soon as possible. I know—at least as well as you—how important they are.”

The Science Advisor continued his angry pacing, but now his voice was level. “I don’t doubt that. It was the only reason I went along with the confiscation and the cover story I’m supposed to tell everyone.” Jaws snapped a couple of times, but not in her direction. “But I fear we are talking at cross-purposes. The video cams were lawfully confiscated by Your Highnesses and with some explanation. So then, you and Woodcarver had nothing to do with the disappearance of the
radio cloaks?
”

“What? No!” The cloaks would have been practically useless for surveillance, and wearing them was dangerous to boot. “Scrupilo, that was never our plan.”

“Then I was right. There is treachery afoot.”

“How could the cloaks disappear? You keep them in your private vaults, right?”

“I took them out of the vault after the Queen’s agents made off with my cameras. I had this idea for using the cloaks … a clever idea really, a way I might wear them without getting killed in the process. Y’see, maybe if only part of me wore them, and off-the-shoulder, then—” Scrupilo shook himself free of geekish distraction. “Never mind. The point is, I had the cloaks laid out in the experiment factory, ready for use. I was still afume about Woodcarver’s confiscation, and there were way too many other distractions this morning. Let’s see…” Scrupilo brought all his heads together for a moment, the very picture of Tinish concentration.

“Yes. You know how the experiment factory is set up.” Long rows of simple wood benches. Hundreds of experiment trays, each a simple combination of reagents, all designed by the planning programs on the
Oobii
as the ship matched the reality of Tinish resources with the archival data that it possessed. Some of the rooms would go for hours without any pack or human presence—and then the starship automation would issue a flurry of wireless requests to the scheduling receivers in the dispatch room. Scrupilo’s helpers would sweep through, removing some experiments entirely, shifting some to new stations, placing some under cameras for
Oobii
’s direct observation.

“I was alone with the radio cloaks, quite distracted by my new idea.” Scrupilo’s heads all look up. “Yes! Those clowns from the Tropical madhouse showed up.”

“They came in among the experiments?”

“No. That used to happen, but nowadays we keep them in the visitor area. Heh. I’ve fobbed them off with junk like unconnected landline telephones.… Anyway, I had to go out and chat with their ‘Ambassador.’” Scrupilo jostled together. “I’ll bet that’s it! I was out of the room for almost fifteen minutes. I wish we didn’t have to be nice to that guy. Do we really need gallite that much? Never mind, I know the answer.

“Anyway, today they were louder and more numerous than usual, the whole gang painted up like the loose things they are.” Some of Scrupilo was already edging toward the door, outpacing the conscious stream of his surmise. “The scum. While they distracted my people, one of them must have swiped the cloaks!

“Damn! C’mon, milady!” And the rest of him was out the door, White Head bringing up the rear. The pack clattered down the outside stairs, shouting chords of alarm in all directions.

Ravna would have had a hard time keeping up with some packs, but White Head had arthritis, and Scrupilo was not running completely amok. The pack wouldn’t leave him behind.

Scrupilo was also shouting in Samnorsk, “Stop the Tropicals! Stop the Tropicals!” The guards at the top of the exit stairs had already lowered the gates.

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
Tropicals. 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.”