A Fire Upon the Deep zot-1, page 48
part #1 of Zones of Thought Series
Flenser with Steel sprawled as though unconscious, his convulsions subsiding. Let Steel think him incapacitated. It would give him time to think of the most advantageous explanation.
Flenser with Rangolith came slowly to his feet, though the two members were still in a posture of confusion. Flenser pulled them together. No explanations were due here, but it would be best if Farscout didn’t suspect soulstrife. “The cloaks are powerful tools, dear Rangolith; sometimes a bit too powerful.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Flenser let a smile spread across his features. For a moment he was silent, savoring what he would say next. No, there was no sign of the weak-willed one. This had been her last, best try at domination—her last and biggest mistake. Flenser’s smile spread further, all the way to the two with Amdijefri. It suddenly occurred to him that Johanna Olsndot would be the first person he had ordered killed since his return to Hidden Island. Johanna Olsndot would therefore be the first blood on three of his muzzles.
“There’s one more item for Craddleheads, Farscout. An execution…” As he spoke the details, the warmth of a decision well-made spread through his members.
CHAPTER 35
The only good thing about all the waiting had been the chance it gave the wounded. Now that Vendacious had found a way past the Flenserist defenses, everyone was anxious to break camp, but…
Johanna spent the last afternoon at the field hospital. The hospital was laid off in rough rectangles, each about six meters across. Some of the plots had ragged tents—those belonging to wounded who were still smart enough to care for themselves. Others were surrounded by stranded fencing; inside each of those was a single member, the survivor of what had once been an entire pack. The singletons could easily have jumped the fences, but most seemed to recognize their purpose, and stayed within.
Johanna pulled the food cart through the area, stopping at first one patient and then another. The cart was a bit too large for her, and sometimes it got caught in the roots that grew across the the forest floor. Yet this was a job that she could do better than any pack, and it was nice to find a way she could help.
In the forest around the hospital there was the sound of kherhogs being coaxed up to wagon ties, the shouts of crews securing the cannons and getting the camp gear stowed. From the maps Vendacious had shown at the meeting, it was clear the next two days would be an exhausting time—but at the end of it they would have the high ground behind unsuspecting Flenserists.
She stopped at the first little tent. The threesome inside had heard her coming and was outside now, running little circles around her cart. “Johanna! Johanna!” it said in her own voice. This was all that was left of one of Woodcarver’s minor strategists; once upon a time, it had known some Samnorsk. The pack had originally been six; three had been killed by the wolves. What was left was the “talker” part—about as bright as a five year old, though with an odd vocabulary. “Thank you for food. Thank you.” Its muzzles pushed at her. She patted the heads before reaching into the cart and pulling out bowls of lukewarm stew. Two of them dug in right away, but the third sat back for a moment and chatted. “I hear, we fight soon.”
Not you anymore, but “Yes. We are going up by the dry fall, just east of here.”
“Uh, oh.” It said. “Uh, oh. That’s bad. Poor seeing, no control, ambush scary.” Apparently the fragment had some memories of its own tactical work. But there was no way Johanna could explain Vendacious’s reasoning to it. “Don’t worry, we will make it okay.”
“You sure? You promise?”
Johanna smiled gently at what was left of a rather nice fellow. “Yes. I promise.”
“Ah-ah-ah… Okay.” Now all three had their muzzles stuck into stew bowls. This was one of the lucky ones, really. It showed plenty of interest in what went on around it. Just as important, it had childlike enthusiasms. Pilgrim said that fragments like this could grow back easily if they were just treated right long enough to bear a puppy or two.
She pushed the cart a few meters further, to the fenced square that was the symbolic corral for a singleton. There was a faint odor of shit in the air. Some of the singletons and duos were not housebroken; in any case, the camp latrines were a hundred meters away.
“Here, Blacky. Blacky?” Johanna banged an empty bowl against the side of the cart. A single head eased up from behind some root bushes; sometimes this one wouldn’t even do that much. Johanna got on her knees so her eyes weren’t much higher than the black-faced one. “Blacky?”
The creature pulled himself out of the bushes and slowly approached. This was all that was left of one of Scrupilo’s cannoneers. She vaguely remembered the pack, a handsome sixsome all large and fast. But now, even “Blacky” wasn’t whole: a falling gun had crushed his rear legs. He dragged his legless rear on a little wagon with thirty centimeter wheels… sort of like a Skroderider with forelegs. She pushed a bowl of stew toward him, and made the noises that Pilgrim coached her in. Blacky had refused food the last three days, but today he rolled and walked close enough that she could pet his head. After a moment he lowered his muzzle to the stew.
Johanna grinned in surprised pleasure. This hospital was a strange place. A year ago she would have been horrified by it; even now she didn’t have the proper Tinish outlook on the wounded. As she continued to pet Blacky’s lowered head, Johanna looked across the forest floor at the crude tents, the patients and parts of patients. It really was a hospital. The surgeons did try to save lives, even if the medical science was a horrifying process of cutting and splinting without anesthetics. In that regard, it was quite comparable to the medieval human medicine that Johanna had seen on Dataset. But with the Tines there was something more. This place was almost a spare parts warehouse. The medics were interested in the welfare of packs. To them, singletons were pieces that might have a use in making larger fragments workable, at least temporarily. Injured singletons were at the bottom of all medical priorities. “There’s not much left to save in such cases,” one medic had said to her via Pilgrim, “And even if there was, would you want a crippled, loose-bonded member in your self?” The fellow had been too tired to notice the absurdity of his question. His muzzles had been dripping blood; he’d been working for hours to save wounded members of whole packs.
Besides, most wounded singletons just stopped eating and died in less than a tenday. Even after a year with Tines, Johanna couldn’t quite accept it. Every singleton reminded her of dear Scriber; she wanted them to have a better chance than his last remnant had. She had taken over the food cart and spent as much time with the wounded singletons as she did with any of the other patients. It had worked out well. She could get close to each patient without mindsound interference. Her help gave the brood kenners more time to study the larger fragments and the uninjured singletons, and try to build working packs from the wreckage.
And now maybe this one wouldn’t starve. She’d tell Pilgrim. He’d done miracles with some of the other match ups, and seemed to be the only pack who shared some of her feelings for damaged singletons. “If they don’t starve it often means a strength of mind. Even crippled, they could be an advantage to a pack,” he’d said to her. “I’ve been crippled off and on in my travels; you can’t always pick and choose when you’re down to three and you’re a thousand miles into an unknown land.”
Johanna set a bowl of water beside the stew. After a moment, the crippled member turned on his axle and took some shallow sips. “Hang on, Blacky, we’ll find someone for you to be.”
Chitiratte was where he was supposed to be, walking his post exactly as expected. Nevertheless, he felt a thrill of nervousness. He always kept at least one head gazing at the mantis creature, the Two-Legs. Nothing suspicious about that posture either. He was supposed to be doing security duty here, and that meant keeping a lookout in all directions. He shifted his crossbow nervously about from jaws to field pack and back to jaws. Just a few more minutes…
Chitiratte circled the hospital compound once more. It was soft duty. Even though this stretch of wood had been spared, the drywind fires had chased the bigger wildlife downstream. This close to the river, the ground was covered with softbush, and there was scarcely a thorn to be found. Pacing around the hospital was like a walk on Woodcarver’s Green down south. A few hundred yards east was harder work—getting the wagons and supplies in shape for the climb.
The fragments knew that something was up. Here and there, heads stuck up from pallets and burrows. They watched the wagons being loaded, heard the familiar voices of friends. The dumbest ones felt a call to duty; he had chased three able-bodied singles back into the compound. No way such feebs could be of any help. When the army marched up Margrum Climb, the hospital would stay behind. Chitiratte wished he could too. He’d been working for the Boss long enough to guess whence his orders ultimately came; Chitiratte suspected that not many would be coming back from Margrum Climb.
He turned three pairs of eyes toward the mantis creature. This latest job was the riskiest thing he’d been a part of. If it worked out he might just demand that the Boss leave him with the hospital. Just be careful, old fellow. Vendacious didn’t get where he is by leaving loose ends. Chitiratte had seen what happened to that easterner who nosed a little too close into the Boss’s business.
Damn but the human was slow! She’d been grunting at that one singleton for five minutes. You’d think she was having sex with these frags for all the time she spent with them. Well, she’d pay for the familiarity very soon. He started to cock his bow, then thought better of it. Accident, accident. It must all look like an accident.
Aha. The Two-legs was collecting food and water bowls and stowing them on the meal cart. Chitiratte made unobtrusive haste around the hospital perimeter, positioning himself in view of the Kratzi duo—the fragment that would actually do the killing.
Kratzinissinari had been a foot trooper before losing the Nissinari parts of himself. He had no connection with the Boss or Security. But he’d been known as a crazy-headed get of bitches, a pack that was always on the edge of combat rage. Getting killed back to two members normally has a gentling influence. In this case—well, the Boss claimed that Kratzi was specially prepared, a trap ready to be sprung. All Chitiratte need do was give the signal, and the duo would tear the mantis apart. A great tragedy. Of course, Chitiratte would be there, the alert hospital warden. He would quickly put arrows through Kratzi’s brains… but alas, not in time to save the Two-Legs.
The human dragged the meal cart awkwardly around root bushes toward Kratzi, her next patient. The duo came out of its burrow, speaking half-witted greetings that even Chitiratte could not understand. There were undertones though, a killing anger that edged its friendly mien. Of course, the mantis thing didn’t notice. She stopped the cart, began filling food and water bowls, all the time grunting away at the twosome. In a moment, she would bend down to put the food on the ground… For half an instant, Chitiratte considered shooting the mantis himself if Kratzi were not immediately successful. He could claim it was a tragic miss. He really didn’t like the Two-Legs. The mantis creature was a menacing thing; it was so tall and moved so weirdly. By now he knew it was fragile compared to packs, but it was scary to think of a single animal so smart as this. He shelved the temptation even faster than he had thought it. No telling what price he might pay for that, even if they believed his shot was an accident. No altruism today, thank you very much; Kratzi’s jaws and claws would have to do.
One of Kratzi’s heads was looking in Chitiratte’s general direction. Now the mantis picked up the bowls and turned from the meal cart -
“Hei, Johanna! How is it going?”
Johanna looked up from the stew to see Peregrine Wickwrackscar walking along the edge of the hospital. He was moving to get as close as possible without invading the mind sounds of the patients. The guard who had stopped there a moment before retreated before his advance and stopped a few meters further on. “Pretty good,” she called back. “You know the one on wheels? He actually ate some stew tonight.”
“Good. I’ve been thinking about him and the threesome on the other side of the hospital.”
“The wounded medic?”
“Yes. What’s left of Trellelak is all female, you know. I’ve been listening to mind sounds and—” Pilgrim’s explanation was delivered in fluent Samnorsk, but it didn’t make much sense to Johanna. Brood kenning had so many concepts without referents in human language that even Pilgrim couldn’t make it clear. The only obvious part was that since Blacky was a male, there was a chance that he and the medic threesome might have pups early enough to bind the group. The rest was talk of “mood resonance” and “meshing weak points with strong". Pilgrim claimed to be an amateur at brood kenning, but it was interesting the way the docs—and even Woodcarver sometimes—deferred to him. In his travels he had been through a lot. His matchups seemed to “take” more often than anybody’s. She waved him to silence. “Okay. We’ll try it soon as I’ve fed everybody.”
Pilgrim cocked a head or two at the nearby hospital plots. “Something strange is going on. Can’t quite ‘put my finger on it’, but… all the fragments are watching you. Even more than usual. Do you feel it?”
Johanna shrugged. “No.” She knelt to set the water and stew bowls before the twosome patient. The pair had been vibrating with eagerness, though they had been quite polite in not interrupting. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the hospital guard make a strange dipping motion with its two middle heads, and—The blows were like two great fists smashing into her chest and face. Johanna fell to the ground, and they were on her. She raised bloody arms against the slashing jaws and claws.
When Chitiratte gave the signal, both of Kratzi leaped into action -crashing into each other, almost incidentally knocking the mantis on her back. Their claws and teeth were tearing at empty air and each other as much as the Two-legs. For an instant, Chitiratte was struck motionless with surprise. She might not be dead. Then he remembered himself and jumped over the fence, at the same time cocking and loading his bow. Maybe he could miss the first shot. Kratzi was shredding the mantis, but slow—Suddenly, there was no possibility of shooting the twosome. A wave of snarling black and white surged over Kratzi and the mantis. Every able-bodied fragment in the hospital seemed to be running to the attack. It was instant killing rage, far wilder than anything that could come from whole packs. Chitiratte fell back in astonishment before the sight and the mindsound of it.
Even the pilgrim seemed caught up in it; the pack raced past Chitiratte and circled the melee. The pilgrim never quite plunged in, but nipped here and there, screaming words that were lost in the general uproar.
A splash of coordinated mindsound boomed out from the mob, so loud it numbed Chitiratte twenty yards away. The mob seemed to shrink in on itself, the frenzy gone from most of its members. What had been near a single beast with two dozen bodies was suddenly a confused and bloody crowd of random members.
The pilgrim still ran around the edge, somehow keeping his mind and purpose. His huge, scarred member dived in and out of the remaining crowd, clawing at anything that still fought.
The patients dragged themselves away from the killing ground. Some that had gone in as threesomes or duos came out single. Others seemed more numerous than before. The ground that was left was soaked with blood. At least five members had died. Near the middle, a pair of prosthetic wheels lay incongruously.
The pilgrim paid it all no attention. The four of him stood around and over the bloody mound at the center.
Chitiratte smiled to himself. Mantis splatter. Such a tragedy.
Johanna never quite lost consciousness, but the pain and the suffocating weight of dozens of bodies left no room for thought. Now the pressure eased. Somewhere beyond the local din she could hear shouts of normal Tinish talk. She looked up and saw Pilgrim standing all around her. Scarbutt was straddling her, its muzzle centimeters away. It reached down and licked her face. Johanna smiled and tried to speak.
Vendacious had arranged to be in conference with Scrupilo and Woodcarver. Just now the “Commander of Cannoneers” was deep into tactics, using Dataset to illustrate his scheme for Margrum Climb.
Squalls of rage sounded from down by the river.
Scrupilo looked up peevishly from the Pink Oliphaunt. “What the muddy hell—”
The sounds continued, more than a casual brawl. Woodcarver and Vendacious exchanged worried glances even as they arched necks to see among the trees. “A fight in the hospital?” said the Queen.
Vendacious dropped his note board and lunged out of the meeting area, shouting for the local guards to stay with the Queen. As he raced across the camp, he could see that his roving guards were already converging on the hospital. Everything seemed as smooth as a program on Dataset… except, why so much noise?
The last few hundred yards, Scrupilo caught up with him and pulled ahead. The cannoneer raced into the hospital and stumbled over himself in abrupt horror. Vendacious burst into the clearing all prepared to display his own shock combined with alert resolve.
Peregrine Wickwrackscar was standing by a meal cart, Chitiratte not far behind him. The pilgrim was standing over the Two-Legs in a litter of carnage. By the Pack of Packs, what happened? There was too much blood by far. “Everybody back except the doctors,” Vendacious bellowed at the soldiers who crowded at the edge of the compound. He picked his way along a path that avoided the loudest-minded patients. There were a lot of fresh wounds, and here and there speckles of blood dark on the pale tree trunks. Something had gone wrong.
