The Children of the Sky

successful. In the meantime—well, there are several very different places her opinions dwell: She fully supports Nevil’s plans for tightening up security. Some of the time she sees Nevil as a proper ally in those plans. Sometimes she is as suspicious of him as we are, regarding him as a puppet of Vendacious—or Flenser. Of course, she can’t get her claws on Vendacious, but she’s toying with exactly your suggestion: putting Flenser to the question!”

•  •  •

Fifteen days passed. Flenser-Tyrathect was holed up in the Old Castle down on Hidden Island, under unacknowledged house arrest. Ravna wondered if—considering all the secret exits—Flenser was really there at all. One thing was certain: he still wasn’t talking to Ravna!

She continued her covert surveillance of Nevil’s online activity. Nevil and Bili were as clumsy and cautious as ever. Their attempts to spy on her would be laughable even if she didn’t have Command Privileges. On the other hand, Nevil had true control of the orbiter and the commsets he had appropriated. There were data links she couldn’t snoop on.

Despite the tragedy and paranoia, Ravna found minor good news: the maiden flight of Eyes Above 2. The behemoth had the size and appearance of a small interplanetary freighter, and even though it was limited to the lower atmosphere and could hoist less mass than the agrav skiff, it was still a safe and relatively fast transport. Nevil was right when he said that EA2 would revolutionize the Domain’s rescue capability.

Meantime she worked on her Cold Valley project and did the gun designing that was officially assigned her. Both projects involved working with Scrupilo. When he demanded she visit him down on the North End, it was almost like the good old days before the Disaster Study Group and Nevil and the murders.

Ravna’s town house was less than five thousand meters from the North End, but to get there, she’d had to walk to the funicular and trundle down it to the Inner Channel. The channel was still mostly frozen, but rain had covered it with centimeters of freezing water. Getting across was an ugly combination of boating and sleigh ride. The rest of the trip hadn’t been much better, though Flenser’s packs had cut drainage channels in the icy piles along the streets. So an hour and a half after leaving home, here she was in Scrupilo’s office at the North End quarry. She was still drying out from the trip when Scrupilo trooped out from his glassware and electronics.

“Hei, Scrupilo, so why did you need to see me in person? Is it the guns or the Cold Valley project?” And I so hope it’s Cold Valley. If not for the present dangers, that’s where all her attention would be.

“Both and neither,” said the pack grumpily. “Let’s start with the fun things. Are you quite dried out? I don’t want you dripping on this.”

“I’m dry.”

“Okay, then.” He led her to a test stand at the side of the room. There were connectors and cables, locally made batteries and voltage regulators—prehistoric tech that had taken Ravna and Scrupilo years to make. Almost hidden in the middle of the equipment was a one-centimeter-wide smudge of carbon on glass. Scrupilo and his helpers had carefully cut it out of the ten thousand array, then connected power and data leads appropriately. “We just finished the setup this morning,” said Scrupilo. “I’ve already done some testing, but I wanted you to see it.” He clustered around the equipment, tapping switches with his noses, then correcting his own mistakes. Parts of Scrup were getting very old. His White Head member was nearly deaf in the lower frequencies, and Ravna figured from the way it was always closely surrounded by its peers that it also had problems with the ultrasonic frequencies of mindsounds. Scrupilo claimed that if he messed around getting younger members, he’d just lose his dedication. Considering what had happened to Woodcarver, maybe he was right. “There! I got it right. See? Binary of twelve coded on the top leads, binary of seventeen on the bottom.” He waggled a nose at pattern of tiny lights, and then pointed at a third row of lights below the other two: the outputs. “Twelve plus seventeen is twenty-nine!”

“You did it, Scrupilo.” Ravna almost whispered the words.

Scrupilo preened, but then some honest core of him replied, “We did it. Me and you and Oobii’s design programs. We three and the teams up north and down here.” His heads were bobbing almost maniacally. “I’ve spent all day playing with this. I had Oobii sending down test settings at variable speeds, checking the results. Our little adder can reliably do one hundred thousand operations per second, second after second, for hours!” He looked up at her. “And the design we’re making at Cold Valley now,” —the one Johanna and Pilgrim had delivered just before the kidnappings— “that’s a giant step up from this, but I bet it’ll work too; it’s the same hundred-micron feature size. Imagine, we’ll have clock, and memory, and an instruction set all together.”

Now Ravna was nodding back. That next step was the distillation of a thousand civilizations’ processor designs, optimized for their grotesquely primitive situation at Cold Valley. “Of course,” she said, “that will be even more tedious to wire up.”

“Yup, like tying good rug knots. Thousands of hours. But in a year we’ll have ten or twenty of our own processors. By then we’ll be making vision chips. There will be even more tedious work for paws and hands—”

“But in ten years, we’ll have local automation.” The machines would be doing the wire-ups. It was the beginning she’d promised the Children. It would stink, but it would be enough: “Then we can start shrinking the feature size.” That was the transition point that had always marked the beginning of technological civilization.

“Yup, yup,” said Scrupilo; he had long ago brought into the histories he’d read in Oobii’s archives. For a moment they just stood grinning at each other like idiots. Very happy idiots. She would so much like to play with these connectors, set up her own automatic addition. It was the sort of thing that by itself would not impress any of the Children, except maybe Timor. He—

Timor would have loved this. The thought brought her back to their current awful situation. Play with the gear later. She stepped back from the miracle, her smile leaking away. “You seemed to have other things you wanted to talk about, Scrupilo?”

The pack’s heads continued to bob for a moment, but Scrupilo eventually came down to earth too. He wandered to the window, looked down into the quarry, maybe at the actinic flashes coming from the shed where his crews were forging ribs and spars. Work had begun on a second huge airship, apparently to be called Eyes Above 3; Scrupilo had no imagination when it came to names.

But when Scrup turned back from the window, it wasn’t to talk about EA3. “You know Nevil’s miniature cannon idea is really stupid.”

That was Nevil’s main technological response to the kidnappings, an even higher priority than another airship. “Personal protection for all,” was his slogan for the project. Most of the Children were very much in favor of the idea. Of course, Ravna had always known that very small cannon could be made; such were a commonplace in early civilizations. The trouble was, they were so easy to make and copy, and the Domain already had military superiority in this part of the world; better not to give other nations a clue before it was necessary. Besides, Oobii had ideas for making much more effective personal weapons once the Domain became a little more technically advanced. “But Scrupilo, you know Woodcarver favors the notion of personal cannons.” As of the most recent twice-a-tenday meeting.

The pack made an irritated noise. “You and I have discussed such weapons before. In principle, they are a moderately foolish idea, perhaps necessary in the current emergency. What is stupid is the actual design.” He sent a member across the room to fetch an engineering drawing and thrust it into Ravna’s hands.

The graphic was done by Ravna, from Nevil’s overall description. She stared at it for a moment. “Um, I did include a flash and noise suppressor,” which hadn’t been on Nevil’s wish list. “Did you want a longer barrel?”

“Well, yes! Would you want this going off in your face?” Scrupilo had damaged his White Head’s hearing in experiments with the first field artillery. “But that’s the least of it. Look at the, what do you call it, the stock.”

That part was also Nevil’s idea, but it had seemed rather clever to Ravna. “That’s modeled after the handle on a Tinish jaw-axe, Scrupilo.” But turned sideways, the lower half looked much like the handgrip of Pham’s long- gone pistol.

“Foolishness!” All but one of Scrupilo came over and grabbed the paper out of her hands. “For a human with arms and hands, this would be easy to hold and fire and reload. But for a pack—look, helper members have to come around on the sides and stick snouts forward of the gunner. The idea of cartridges and cartridge boxes is nice enough, but I can’t imagine scrambling around beneath the muzzle to insert a reload.”

Ravna stared at the picture; she really should have fed Nevil’s suggestion through