The Children of the Sky

Vendacious replied in Interpack. Ravna only recognized the name “Johanna,” superposed on a connection marker.

Jefri must have understood: “Yes, I’m Johanna’s brother,” he said.

Tycoon leaned forward, all of his eyes on Jefri. He stared for a full ten seconds while Vendacious gobbled on, urging Tycoon to do … something. Finally, Tycoon shook his heads, an irritable negation. Some of him looked at Ravna; one of him was watching Ritl. “You two humans should have been here seven tendays ago. Instead you murdered Vendacious’ best assistant. You murdered most of Remasritlfeer. Then you managed to trek almost all the way back to your precious starship. Was this magic technology, or are you simply much deadlier than even my friend Vendacious has always claimed?”

Jefri’s face clouded. “Neither, and you are full of lies. We—”

Ravna interrupted: “What does Ritl say happened?”

The singleton in question was glaring at Vendacious, a low-level faceoff. A strangely large percentage of Vendacious was glaring right back. It occurred to Ravna that Ritl might be one of the few creatures with whom Vendacious had no leverage.

Tycoon reached down and focused a soft hooting sound on the singleton. As Ritl twisted to look up at him, he said, “Poor Ritl. I tried to question her before this meeting. She is a talker, but not very smart. It’s quite possible that she doesn’t remember exactly how the rest of her pack died.”

Vendacious gobbled something.

“Speak human,” said Tycoon. “I want these two to understand what we’re saying.”

“Yes sir. I just said, we’ll eventually figure out what these two humans did. After all, I still have their servants to question.”

The eightsome waved dismissively. “However you humans escaped, you only hurt your cause by doing so. Events have passed you by.”

Jefri: “We’d be dead now if we hadn’t escaped.”

“Nonsense!” said Vendacious. “My lord Tycoon’s purpose in this expedition was to show Ravna that cooperation was her only choice.”

Ravna had the feeling that murder and conspiracy were piled in very deep layers here. She touched Jefri’s arm. Put the Olsndot temper in a bottle, okay? After a moment, he settled back on the bench, seeming to get the unspoken message.

She looked up at Tycoon. “You say events have passed us by. What is it that you want from us now?”

“I want nothing from the Johanna sibling.” Perhaps Tycoon didn’t notice that he was clawing the thrones as he said that. “But from you … I want to convince you that opposing my wishes and those of”—he glanced at Vendacious—“what’s the stooge’s name?”

“Nevil Storherte, my lord.”

“Yes. Opposing me and Nevil is suicide. You and Woodcarver must accept the coming alliance—ah, but you don’t know about that either, do you?”

Ravna tried to smile. “As you say, we’ve been out of touch. Why would my opposition matter?”

“You still have the loyalty of many of the two-legs. You may have technical knowledge that will help us manage two-legs machines. And you may have influence with Woodcarver.”

I bet Woodcarver is still the Queen, and Nevil has his back to the wall. Nevil is so desperate he’s finally gone public with his foreign allies. She tried sit up a little straighter, act like she had some kind of power in the world. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but how did you intend to convince me?”

Tycoon looked back and forth at himself, nonplussed. “Didn’t you look out the windows as you flew here?”

“Yes. We saw hundreds of kilometers of chaos, and then this reservation you’ve built in the middle of it all. Is there some secret weapon that we missed?”

“I suppose I’m the secret weapon.” The voice came from the other side of room, from the harlequin-cloaked Tropical. “Or in proper terminology, I should say that I represent the secret weapon. I am the Choir’s gift.”

“Godsgift?” said Ravna. “We ran into another of you up North.”

“You murdered another of him up North,” said Tycoon.

Next to her, Jefri was all but shaking with outrage. Lies and truth, how to untangle them?

The local version of Godsgift was watching them intently. “Don’t bother to deny the murder,” it said smoothly. “Some of that godsgift escaped, enough to tell us how it left part of itself behind to attempt negotiating. We know what happened.” It waved the issue away. “It’s not a great matter. We gifts come and go, rather like a feeding clump in a city square, though we are rarer and globally significant.” The pack slid off its seats and strolled around the other packs to come closer to the humans. The gunpack had to retreat to make room.

The Tropical walked up to them with the ease of a pack who knew humans—or who didn’t fear losing its mind in others. In either case, it had none of the aggressive posture of Tycoon or Vendacious. “Our secret weapon has been all around you. The Choir.” It gestured through the high windows at the mountain range of pyramids.

“And your god is speaking through you?” Sarcasm edged Jefri’s voice.

The godsgift cocked a head. “Oh no. Or only indirectly. But by this evening the Choir will know everything that is being said here now.” The creature pointed again at the pyramids. “Surely you see the gathering?”

Ravna looked through the crudely made plate glass. Sunlight was coming almost straight down, mottling the golden surface of the grand pyramid.

Jefri’s voice was soft and wondering: “Those shadows, Ravna—I think they’re mobs of Tines.” Individual members were visible as dots on the closest of the second-degree pyramids. On the great pyramid, the thousands were a finely mottled discoloration, creeping higher and higher. This surpassed Pilgrim’s most extreme Choir tales.

“Are you impressed?” said Tycoon. “I’m impressed, and that is not easy to do.”

Ravna looked way from the windows. “… Yes,” she said. “But just how does this make a secret weapon? I know the Tropical Choir has existed at least as long as the northern civilizations, but it has never mattered except as a barrier to land travel between the north and the south. There’s no way that the Choir could be any smarter than an individual pack or human.” Not down here in the Slow Zone. There were group minds in the Beyond, but even they were never more than witless hedonists. You had to go into the Transcend to do better—and there large group minds were just one of a number of paths to real Power.

“Ha ha!” said Tycoon, his high-pitched voice like a child teasing. “They doubt your Choir’s godhood.”

Godsgift had settled itself on the carpet around the humans. Now it laughed. “You doubt the Choir’s godhood, too, O Tycoon.” The pack shifted around in its harlequin cloaks. Its mangy pelt had big bare patches, altogether consistent with the ragamuffin clothing. Ravna wondered how uncomfortable the fellow was with Tycoon’s air conditioning.

Godsgift continued with a kind of sly diffidence: “In truth, all I remember from the Choir is an enormous feeling of well-being. I pity you Northern packs who won’t give yourself to it. I pity the humans even more that they can never become part of it, even if they wished. Both you and they are so upset about the murders the humans committed. How little you have to lose that you squabble over a member here, a pack there.” But now it paused. “I suspect that as a matter of cold fact, Ravna Bergsndot is right about us. The Choir is not smarter than a unitary pack. But there are places and times—millions of places and times every day—where it is almost as smart. And sometimes, the Choir’s gifts—those such as myself—last longer. It is a sacrifice, since for a time I am left as limited as you.

“So yes, the Choir as a whole may not have what you call intelligence, but it is a happier way to know reality than is your stunted existence.” Godsgift was silent for a moment, most of the fellow staring out at the pyramid—doing a good imitation of thoughtful yearning. Abruptly the pack gave a start. “It just occurs to me that you two humans could satisfy your curiosity about the Choir in a way that no unitary pack ever could.”

Tycoon leaned forward. “What can they do that I cannot?”

“Well, sir,” replied the godsgift, “you could experience the Choir, but it’s unlikely