Vernor Vinge - Tatja Grimm's World

“But Marget,” said Cor, puzzled. “You already say that we are poor fighters, even at fourteen thousand feet. We’ll be much worse at O’rmouth, and the observatory is nearly ten thousand feet above that. How can you expect success there?”

“You’ll see. I assure you, there will be nothing subtle about it. Jolle and I are sure it will work. In the meantime, we have a competent adversary down there below us. I’d give a lot to know what he is planning.”

So the conversation was back to that. She must speak now, Cor realized. Jolle would soon return from the front lines, and then it would be impossible to bring the matter up. Even if the alien didn’t kill them before they could finish the story, he could certainly persuade Tatja that it was a fabrication.

She tried to remember Tatja as she had been in her first days on the barge, when she hung on Cor’s every word, and her gratitude had been an obvious thing. Over the years, there had been occasional flickers of that, times when she was a confidante, almost a big sister … and not a pet. Was there anything left of that? When Cor finally spoke, the effect was strange—like listening to someone else talking or remembering a previous conversation.

“Tatja, you remember our talk yesterday morning at the watering stop?”

“Uh-huh.”

Cor didn’t lose stride. “We said the possibility that perhaps Jolle was lying, that Profirio was the gendarme, and Jolle the criminal.”

“Yes, I remember all that.” Tatja’s tone was good humored, if a bit distracted.

“You said that we must wait and watch. Well, Svir and I …

uh … we thought that the situation was so dangerous maybe more could be done. If Jolle were the evil one, maybe he lied about what he salvaged from his fight with Profirio. In fact, if these golems are so popular and if Jolle was the one who … uh … slaughters humans, then he might even have one with him.” There could be no more evasion. If she didn’t say it now, Grimm would get ahead of her.

“Tatja, this is exactly what we discovered. Jolle is the criminal. He has a golem with …”

“You were the one in the wagon.”

“We had to, Tatja! Jolle is the slaver. His golem can even talk, and no machine—”

“You peeping bitch, I’ll teach—” In the darkness Cor had no warning. The lower right side of her face went numb and splinters of pain spread through her head. Simultaneously Tatja’s other fist buried itself in her middle. The nylon webbing of Cor’s shrap vest could not protect her from the ramming force of the blow. It bowled her over the edge of the terrace and she tumbled down the slope. Ancho went flying off into space.

There was the sound of a body block, and Svir’s voice, “Don’t hit her again! It was me, me ! I’m the peeper.” Cor’s head struck a rock, and for a moment all she knew was tiny yellow lights floating lazily before her eyes. She was lying at the base of the terrace slope; Tatja and Svir were scrambling toward her. She coughed back blood and felt the beginnings of triumph. Tatja had used nothing but her fists—and those ineptly. If they could survive just a few more seconds, Tatja would cool off, and Cor might really have a chance to convince her.

From behind her, Cor heard men moving through the darkness. One of them was running. Running? In this dark? The footsteps stopped. Strong hands lifted Cor to her feet, and a calm voice sounded in her ear. “Say friend, what’s the problem?” It was Jolle.

To Svir’s amazement, they both still lived. He looked around dazedly. But for how long? This was Jolle’s territory:

Though the bunker had been hastily and crudely constructed, it was an effective job. The Crown’s Engineers had used a cleft in the terracing. It had been a simple matter to fill the open end with dirt-packed bags and to construct a roof of timber covered with three or four feet of dirt. The occupants of the bunker could survive all but a direct hit from a six-inch shell. Since the enemy was supposed to be without six-inch guns, the bunker should be safe unless it was overrun. There was no real floor to the room, just the curving rocky surface of the cleft. Despite the primitive aspect of the chamber, it was obviously a command post. A field table had been set in the middle of the chamber, and on it were detailed maps and overlays of the area. From the roof over the table hung a peculiar lamp that looked very much like the algae pots used in Crownesse and on the Islands. Its cool blue radiance lit the maps and the men standing around them. Underofficers moved back and forth through a curtained doorway. They were bringing information that was immediately posted on the overlays. Runners occasionally departed through the tunnel to the outside.

Svir felt distant amusement to see that even here, his curiosity was alive: The strange light, for instance. Algae pots were terribly hard to keep alive this far from resupply. Why not use an oil lamp? At night no smoke would be visible to give away their location.

Cor huddled against him, looking even more dazed than he. She had taken the brunt of Tatja’s rage. Svir had wiped the blood from her face, but there was a great bruise growing across her jaw. Ancho hung solicitously at her shoulder. No doubt his attention was both comforting and painful.

Cor looked at him, her eyes wide. “Have you seen her … or him?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Neither. I … I thought Jolle would kill us when he found us with Tatja like that. But he calmed her down, and had you carried here. I don’t know what he’s planning, but—”

At that moment the subject of their conversation pulled back the curtain and stepped into the room. In the dim light, Jolle’s face was shadowed. His black hair glinted metallically. He nodded casually at them and walked to the map table. There they could see his features more clearly. He seemed relaxed—as Tatja did in such situations. His uniform looked freshly pressed. To him, the officers at the table might have been discussing party plans.

Jolle addressed Imar Stark. “We just received a signal from Marget; she is at her command post. Our position is to be the prime command post unless it be knocked out by enemy action. As she mentioned before in your presence, she has delegated immediate command of all operations to me. You may check this reading of her message with your own signalman.” He nodded at the curtain.

Stark nodded stiffly. He obviously had no love for the situation, but the queen had been explicit, and besides, this bearded provincial hadn’t tried to control the minutiae of operations with the same prickliness that Marget often did.

Jolle continued. “I am putting the militia under you. My generals have already agreed to that, since you are my subordinate in this matter. If our scouts are to be believed—and I suspect some of the signal reports are fakes—the enemy is in position below us. I am saving my artillery until they mass for an assault. When that happens, we’ll use the plan discussed before.” He glanced at the map. “Good. I didn’t know the Celestial Servants were in position. General Stark, we can expect engagement at any moment.”

“Yes, sir.” The old military man didn’t salute, but his voice was respectful. The alien turned, and then walked to the curtain. As if by afterthought, he glanced at Svir. “I’d like to talk with you for a moment, please.” His words were mild, but they brought a chill to Svir’s spine. Where Tatja had raged, this creature calculated. If he wished them death, then he and Cor would die.

Jolle appeared to mistake the reason for Svir’s immobility.

“Miss Ascuasenya is welcome to come, if she feels up to it.” He gestured beyond the curtain.