Vernor Vinge - The Children of the Sky

Pilgrim gave a general nod of agreement. “Not sure that can be helped.”

“Hei, it sure as hell can be helped!” Johanna pointed at the coils of rescue rope that the shore patrol packs had brought. “Grab those ropes! Get the shore patrol to do the important stuff first!”

Pilgrim was normally a very forward fellow. Now he hung back for a second, then ran along behind the shore patrol packs, gobbling loudly. Even after three years of listening to Interpack, Johanna found the language mostly unintelligible. The words got stacked up in chords, some them too high pitched to hear. By the time you got the sounds separated out, you were trying to make sense of the next chord. Just now, Pilgrim was shouting some kind of demand. The sounds of “Woodcarver” popped up several times. Okay, so he was invoking higher authority.

Two of the shore patrol packs left their posts and helped Pilgrim drag unused loops of rope away from the rocks. More packs were running toward them from Cliffside harbor. These didn’t look like shore patrol. Most of them avoided Johanna and Pilgrim. Like the rest, they seemed mostly interested in the raft. Well, there were more lives at stake there, but the ones who needed immediate help were out in the water. In all, only three packs—counting Pilgrim—were now working to save them. Over and over again, the packs would whirl about, tossing floater-tipped ropes out into the sea. The struggling singletons leaped from the water, desperately reaching. They looked almost like seamals when they moved like that. In warmer, quieter water they would have been quite safe. Here, the rescue ropes were essential; when a singleton managed to snatch a throw, it was quickly dragged into a stretch of flat pebbly beach. Johanna and the others managed to save a dozen of the swimmers, but there had been at least thirty heads out there before. The others must have been lost to the cold or been swept further north.

Meantime, the rest of the packs had dragged in what remained of the raft. The Tropicals on board came streaming off as the shore patrol and local citizens climbed on the junk heaps and began rooting around. Johanna belatedly realized that the main purpose of the “rescue” was to get at the wreck’s cargo.

There were no more survivors visible in the straits. Except for Pilgrim, the packs who had been helping with the rescue tosses had joined the other salvage maniacs. Along the flat stretch of beach, the surviving Tropicals were clumped together in shivering groups. The smallest of those was at least twenty Tines. These weren’t packs; they were just singletons hunkered together for warmth.

Johanna walked to the edge of the crowd, listening for Interpack speech. There was nothing that she recognized. After all, there were no real packs here. She could feel an occasional buzzing sensation, though; these creatures were not silent in the range that the packs called mindsound—about forty to two hundred fifty kilohertz.

Pilgrim was pacing her progress, but staying fifteen meters or more away from the nearest of the Tropicals. “You’re not too popular right now,” he said.

“Me?” replied Johanna, keeping her eyes on the strange mob. Scarcely any of them had clothing, but their pelts were just as mangy as the stories had claimed. Some of the creatures were almost hairless except down near their paws. “We saved these fellows.”

“Oh, they aren’t the ones you’re unpopular with,” said Pilgrim. Johanna drifted a little nearer the mob. Now there were dozens of heads following her, jaws snapping nervously. Pilgrim continued, “Hei, I didn’t say the Tropicals like you either! I’ll wager that none of them realize you helped save them.”

Necks lunged in her direction, and one or two of the critters tumbled down from atop the others. For a moment, she thought this was an attack, but when the Tines reached the ground, they just looked startled. Johanna backed away a step or two. “Yes, I see what you mean. These are like battle fragments. They’re scared and mindless.” And they could go into attack mode if something spooked them.

“That’s about right,” said Pilgrim. “But keep in mind that these fellows are not the remains of packs. Most likely they have never been part of a coherent pack. Their mindsound is just a pointless choir.”

Johanna continued along the edge of the mob. There was a certain distance the crowd seemed comfortable with. If she got inside that, they would begin to come at her. Pilgrim was right. These weren’t like war casualties. Battle fragments she had known longed to be part of coherent packs. They would react with friendliness toward Pilgrim, trying to entice him close. If they had known humans before they were damaged, they would be quite friendly to her. “So what’s going to happen to them?” she said.

“Ah well, that’s why you’re a bit unpopular with the shore patrol. You know we get a shipwreck like this every few years. The cargo is mostly junk, not the sort of things you’d find if serious trade were intended.”

Johanna looked across the misty beach. There really weren’t enough shore patrol packs to contain the rescuees. The Tropicals wobbled around weakly and most seemed intimidated by the coherent packs, but there was a steady trickle of mangy seafarers who took advantage of the gaps in the shore patrol cordon and ran off along the beach. When a pack pursued, then there was a concerted rush by five or ten of the other refugees. Not everyone could be corralled and brought back. She looked at Pilgrim, “So the patrol would prefer that more of them had drowned?”

Pilgrim cocked a couple of heads at Johanna. “Just so.” He might be consort to a Queen of the Realm, but he was not the least bit diplomatic. “Woodcarver has enough trouble with local fragments. These will just be trouble.”

Inside herself, Johanna felt something colder than the water. The packs’ treatment of fragments was her most unfavorite thing about Tines World. “So what happens to them, then? If anyone tries to force them back into the sea—” Her voice rose, along with her temper. Ravna Bergsndot would not put up with that, Johanna was sure. Not if Johanna got to her in time. She turned and began walking quickly back to the agrav flier.

All of Pilgrim turned about and trotted along beside her. “No, don’t worry about that happening. In fact, Woodcarver has a longstanding decree that any survivors be allowed the run of Cliffside village. These patrol packs are waiting for reinforcements, to chivvy the mob into town.”

About a third of the seafarers had already disappeared, trotting off as singletons and duos. They might do better than the fragments Johanna was used to. Frags of coherent packs were generally anxious mental cripples; many starved to death even if they were basically healthy. Elderly singletons, the castoffs, lasted only a short time. Johanna didn’t slow down. An idea was percolating up.…

“You’re planning something crazy, aren’t you?” said Pilgrim. Sometimes he claimed he stayed with her because in a year she did as many weird things as he would see in ten anywhere else. Pilgrim really was a pilgrim, so that was an extreme claim indeed. His memories went back centuries, hazing off into unreliable history and myth. Few packs had traveled their world so much, or seen so much. The price of the adventuring was that Pilgrim was more a surviving point of view than an enduring mind. It was Johanna’s great good fortune that that point of view was currently embodied in someone whose attitudes were so basically decent. Of all the Tines in the world, Pilgrim and Scriber had been the first she’d known. That bit of luck had saved her. Ultimately, it had saved all the remaining Children.

“You’re not going to tell me your plan, eh?” said Pilgrim. “But I bet you want me to fly you someplace.” That was not a difficult thing to guess, considering that Johanna was still walking toward the flier, which was parked—crashed—at the base of a cliff so steep and smooth that no pack or unaided human could hope to climb it.