Nicola Griffith - Ammonite

“It’s a long journey from here to there. Will it wait until the weather’s better, until we can send by herd bird?”

“I should have sent word weeks ago.”

“I’ll talk to Hilt.“

Thenike pointed at the map on the wall of Rathell’s great room. “Hilt plans to leave for North Haven in the last third of this moon.” It was already the Moon of New Grass. Spring. “From there, her ship takes her south and east”—her fingernail swung out into the blue-painted Eye of Ocean—“through the Summer Island channels. Then south and west, past the Gray Horn, out into Silverfish Deeps and on, down to Pebble Fleet. From there, she’ll be able to find a messenger willing to travel north and west up the Huipil and over the hills to your Port Central.”

Marghe frowned, and studied the wide-swinging route. “Why doesn’t she sail through here?” She pointed to a narrow channel between the largest of the Summer Islands. “Wouldn’t that cut more than a few days off the voyage?”

“No ship could get through the Mouth of the Grave at this time of year.”

“And there’s no other way to get the message to Danner?”

Thenike shook her head. “The herd birds can only fly long distances when the air gets hot enough to lift them, let them glide.”

“When will that be?”

“Depends on the weather. Perhaps early during Lazy Moon. It would take… ten, fifteen days, maybe more, depending on who was herding where, and how much their birds were needed. If you’re in a hurry, sending a message with Hilt on her ship would be faster.”

Marghe sighed, and accepted the situation. “How much can I say with a message knot?”

”What do you want to say?” Thenike took a cord and several different threads from a bundle that lay on a shelf.

“That I stopped taking the vaccine. That I contracted the virus about a month later. That I’m here at Ollfoss, I’m well, and I’m pregnant.”

Thenike knotted rapidly, weaving sometimes one color, sometimes several, into elegantly shaped knots. When she ran out of cord, she took up another, tied it to the first, and continued.

“That’s it?” Marghe took the rope, ran the knots and colors through her fingers.

“You’d better teach me to do that.”

DANNER, THOUGH SHE would not have admitted it to another soul, was enjoying herself.

She stood on a slight rise, eight kilometers from what was left of the Port Central perimeter, and watched the four groups of Mirrors pacing off their marks, pausing a moment to wipe the sweat from their brows with wristbands, aiming, loosing the crossbow quarrels, and trudging back to check their accuracy. Now and again, the late spring breeze carried the dull chunk of quarrel hitting mark, then the drifting curses after a poor aim, or the crows of accuracy.

Her Mirrors.

She had thirty-two of them down below on the plain, shooting with a mix of differently tipped quarrels—ceramic, plastic, sharpened wood—and competing on a team basis. They seemed to be enjoying it.

Spring was spring on any world; soldiers got restless. Danner had talked to unit commanders, subs and higher: keep them busy, get their morale up. So here they were, being told only that they were testing the research of various specialists, Mirror and civilian, who were experimenting with the possibilities of local materials. As she overheard one of them say: crossbows were crazy when you had state-of-the-art firepower, but it beat standing pointless guard eight hours out of twenty-four.

Other specialists were busy, too. Botanists were roped in to select trees for their wood, and the geologists, dubious at first, were now happy to use their previously mothballed talents—one did not test-drill and core-mine around burnstone—to track likely deposits of clay and olla. They and the soil specialist were happily muttering about geest and marl, fuller’s earth and alluvium. Climatologists and ecologists were off with Ato Teng, surveying for possible resettlement sites. If Company abandoned them, they had to find a better place than Port Central, somewhere fertile and warm, with good access to trade routes. Somewhere defensible.

Danner breathed the soft warm air of Jeep and smiled. Right now there were probably several reports waiting to be downloaded for her attention, but she was happy to stay here, just be. Be herself, Hannah Danner, feeling sunshine and an alien breeze on her face.

South, just visible if she shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted against the sun, was the thready glint of the Huipil, the river that drained the Irern Swamplands.

West was the Ho valley, its wide bottom sliding with the river in its slow-moving middle phase; well over a thousand kilometers long, that river. East, half-a-day’s journey across the plain by sled—perhaps a week on foot—was the sea, Silverfish Deeps.

She turned north. Representative Marguerite Angelica Taishan was somewhere up there. Danner compressed her lips. She would give a great deal to have Marghe in her office right now, alive and healthy, answering questions. So much depended upon the health of one woman. If the FN-17 worked, then Company would simply vaccinate their employees and all the potential vacationers and real estate agents and miners who could turn Jeep from a financial embarrassment to a reasonable investment. Then all this surveying and crossbow practice and examination of local materials for possible practical use would be no more than an exercise in morale.

North was the direction Danner faced every morning, unconsciously waiting for news.

The wind died and the sun suddenly felt much stronger. Danner sighed. There was work to be done. Teng might have the preliminary site reports ready. Previous satellite surveys indicated several possibilities on the western bank of the Ho valley, both north and south. South would be better—warmer. Damn Marghe, Danner thought. She could have been useful, like that trata stuff, now. They could have used that to bargain some breeding animals from the locals, if she had stayed here instead of running off on a wild-goose chase.

Danner walked down the hill, moving slowly, wanting to savor the last few minutes of sunshine and fresh air before closing herself up in her office. A faint cry soared up the rise. She turned to look. A figure was jogging toward the Mirrors from the north. Past that she could see something, moving fast. Maybe a sled.

Down below, the jogger reached the clump of Mirrors in the foreground. One dropped her crossbow, raised her wrist to her mouth. Danner’s wristcom beeped.

“Commander, this is Sergeant Leap.”

“Go ahead.”

“Commander, one of my Mirrors reports there’s a sled approaching from the north. Four occupants.”

That would be Lu Wai and Letitia, with Day. But that made only three. “Four?

You’re sure?”

Danner watched as the tiny figures below conferred. “Yes ma’am. Four. That’s what the observer said.”

In the distance, the sled suddenly slowed. Danner nodded to herself: Lu Wai was giving them a chance to prepare a reception committee. She was glad that the lieutenant had had the sense not to comm ahead the identity of her passengers; Danner would not be able to keep Day’s presence unofficial if Company got to hear of it. And they would hear of it if the spy was still monitoring communications.

“Thank you, Sergeant. Select two officers, ones who look reasonably presentable if that’s possible, and detail them to meet me at the bottom of this hill. I want you to take the rest of your troop west two kilometers and continue weapons exercise.

Out.”

No point taking chances. Whoever that fourth passenger was, Danner wanted to know here, now, with only one or two witnesses.