“You know what we have to do,” he said softly. Now that he understood what must be done, the godshatter eased its grip. Its will would be done.
“What is that?” said Ravna, as if she didn’t know.
“Two things: Post this to the Net.”
“Who would believe?” The Net of a Million Lies.
“Enough would. Once they look, most folk will be able to see the truth here… and take the proper action.”
Ravna shook her head. “No,” barely audible.
“The Net must be told, Ravna. We’ve discovered something that could save a thousand worlds. This is the Blight’s hidden edge,” at least in the Middle and Low Beyond.
She just shook her head again. “But screaming this truth would itself kill billions.”
“In honest defense!” He bounced slowly toward the ceiling, pushed himself back toward the deck.
There were tears in her eyes now. “These are exactly the arguments used to kill m-my family, my worlds… A-and I will not be part of it.”
“But the claims are true this time!”
“I’ve had enough of pogroms, Pham.”
Gentle toughness… and almost unbelievable. “You would make this decision yourself, Rav? We know something that others—leaders wiser than either of us—should be free to decide upon. You would keep them from making that choice?”
She hesitated, and for an instant Pham thought the civilized rule-follower in her would bring her around. But then her chin came up, “Yes, Pham. I would deny them the choice.”
He made a noncommittal noise and drifted back toward the command console. No point in talking to her about what else must be done.
“And Pham, we will not kill Blueshell and Greenstalk.”
“There’s no choice, Rav.” His hands played with the touch controls. “Greenstalk was perverted; we have no idea how much of that survived the destruction of her skrode, or how long it will be before Blueshell goes bad. We can’t take them along, or let them go free.”
Ravna drifted sideways, her eyes fixed on his hands. “B-Be careful who you kill, Pham,” she said softly. “As you say, I’ve had thirty hours to think about my decisions, thirty hours to think about yours.”
“So.” Pham raised his hands from the controls. Rage (godshatter?) chased briefly through this mind. Ravna, Ravna, Ravna, a voice saying goodbye inside his head. Then all became very cold. He had been so afraid that the Riders had perverted the ship. Instead, this stupid fool had acted for them, voluntarily. He drifted slowly toward her. Almost unthinking, he held his arm and hand at combat ready. “How do you intend to prevent me from doing what has to be done?” But he already guessed.
She didn’t back away, even when his hand was centimeters from her throat. Her face held courage and tears. “W-what do you think, Pham? While you were in the surgeon… I rearranged things. Hurt me, and you will be hurt worse.” Her eyes swept the walls behind him. “Kill the Riders, and… and you will die.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, measuring. Maybe there weren’t weapons buried in the walls. He probably could kill her before she could defend. But then there were a thousand ways the ship could have been programmed to kill him. And all that would be left would be the Riders… flying down to the Bottom, to their prize. “So what do we do, then?” He finally said.
“As b-before, we go to rescue Jefri. We go to recover the Countermeasure. I’m willing to put some restrictions on the Riders.”
A truce with monsters, mediated by a fool.
He pushed off and sailed around her, back down the axis corridor. Behind him, he heard a sob.
They stayed well clear of each other the next few days. Pham was allowed shallow access to ship controls. He found suicide programs threaded through the application layers. But a strange thing, and reason for chagrin if he had been capable of it: The changes dated from hours after his confrontation with Ravna. She’d had nothing when she stood against him. Thank the Powers, I didn’t know. The thought was forgotten almost before he formed it.
So. The charade would proceed right to the end, a continuing game of lie and subterfuge. Grimly, he set himself to winning that game. Fleets behind them, traitors surrounding him. By the Qeng Ho and his own godshatter, the Perversion would lose. The Skroderiders would lose. And for all her courage and goodness, Ravna Bergsndot would lose.
CHAPTER 30
Tyrathect was losing the battle within herself. Oh, it wasn’t near ended; better perhaps to say that the tide had turned. In the beginning there had been little triumphs, as when she let Amdijefri play alone with the commset without even the children guessing she was responsible. But such were many tendays past, and now… Some days she would be entirely in control of herself. Others—and these often seemed the happiest—would begin with her seeming in control.
It was not yet clear the sort of day today would be.
Tyrathect paced along the hoardings that topped the new castle’s walls. The place was certainly new, but hardly yet a castle. Steel had built in panicky haste. The south and west walls were very thick, with embedded tunnels. But there were spots on the north side that were simply palisades backed by stony rubble. Nothing more could be done in the time that Steel had been given. She stopped for a moment, smelling fresh-sawn timber. The view down Starship Hill was as beautiful as she had ever seen it. The days were getting longer. Now there was only twilight between the setting and the rising of the sun. The local snow had retreated to its summer patches, leaving heather to turn green in the warmth. From here she could see miles, to where bluish sea haze clamped down on the offshore islands.
By the conventional wisdom, it would be suicide to attack the new castle—even in its present ramshackle state—with less than a horde. Tyrathect smiled bitterly to herself. Of course, Woodcarver would ignore that wisdom. Old Woodcarver thought she had a secret weapon that would breach these walls from hundreds of feet away. Even now Steel’s spies were reporting that the Woodcarvers had taken the bait, that their small army and their crude cannon had begun the overland trek up the coast.
She descended the wall stairs to the yard. She heard faint thunder. Somewhere north of Streamsdell, Steel’s own cannoneers were beginning their morning practice. When the air was just right, you could hear it. There was to be no testing near the farmlands, and none but high Servants and isolated workers knew of the weapons. But by now Steel had thirty of the devices and gunpowder to match. The greatest lack was gunners. Up close the noise of firing was hellish. Sustained firing could deafen. Ah, but the weapons themselves: They had a range of almost eight miles, three times as great as Woodcarver’s. They could deliver gunpowder “bombs” that exploded on impact. There were places beyond the northern hills where the forest was gouged bare and slumping landslides showed naked rock—all from sustained barrages of gunfire.
And soon—perhaps today—the Flenserists would have radio, too.
God damn you, Woodcarver! Of course Tyrathect had never met the Woodcarver, but Flenser had known that pack well: Flenser was mostly Woodcarver’s offspring. The “Gentle Woodcarver” had borne him and raised him to power. It had been Woodcarver who taught him about freedom of thought and experiment. Woodcarver should have known the pride that lived in Flenser, should have known that he would go to extremes his parent never dared. And when the new one’s monstrous nature became clear, when his first “experiments” were discovered, Woodcarver should have had him killed—or at the very least, fragmented. Instead, Flenser had been allowed to take exile… to create things like Steel, and they to create their own monsters, ultimately to build this hierarchy of madness.
And now, a century overdue, Woodcarver was coming to correct her mistake. She came with her toy guns, as overconfident and idealistic as ever. She came into a trap of steel and fire that none of her people would survive. If only there were some way to warn the Woodcarver. Tyrathect’s only reason for being here was the oath she had sworn herself to bring Flenser’s Movement down. If Woodcarver knew what awaited her here, if she even knew of
