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Authors: Vernor Vinge

The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge (63 page)

BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
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“You don’t understand: the
Science
people aren’t hostages. The only reason they’re still alive is that an appropriate method of execution hasn’t been decided on. The local bosses tell us that no ransom will save the prisoners. They won’t even tell us what ‘blasphemy’ the poor suckers committed. The whole matter is closed. And you know, I think the gooks actually expect to continue business as usual with the rest of us!”
“Hmm.” Rey had dealt with the Village’s rulers. Their interest in certain types of pulp fiction had always made them seem relatively civilized. They had not seemed religious—and now he saw that was just a sign of how damned secretive their religion must be. He stared through the binocs a moment more. Beyond the edge of that pit were some good people. “We’ve got to do something, Brailly.”
“I know. Ked knows.” The Printmaster shrugged. After a moment,
the two men walked back to the command bridge. Inside, Rey saw that the tension had drained from the meeting; consensus had finally been reached. Brailly smiled sourly and whispered, “But we also know how it’s going to turn out, don’t we?”
Rey looked around, and with a sinking feeling he understood. The Tarulle Publishing Company had existed for seven hundred years. Few island-bound companies were that old—and yet Tarulle had been sailing the oceans of Tu all that time, contending with tempests and pirates and religionists and governments. There had been disasters; three hundred years earlier, the old Barge was burned to the waterline. Yet the Company had survived, and prospered. One doesn’t last seven hundred years by rushing into everyone else’s fight. The Barge and its hydrofoils were well-armed, but given a choice they simply avoided trouble. If a village or even an island chain turned to religious nuttery, they lost Tarulle’s business. The years would pass, and the regime would fall—or decide that it needed trade more than its crazy convictions.
Kederichi Maccioso had done his subtle best to bring another outcome, but it was not to be: the talk now was of delivering a few threats and, if that did not help the
Science
people, weighing anchor and sailing off.
There must be some way to stop this!
Then he had it: Brailly said the Termite Folk wanted business as usual. For the second time in fifteen minutes, Rey interrupted the meeting. “We can’t simply take off; we have magazines to sell here, and customers who want to buy.”
This outburst was greeted with the same silence as before. Only this time, it was not Ked Maccioso who responded. There was a croaking sound from somewhere behind the Tarulle in-laws. The owners looked nervously at each other, then stood aside. Out of the shadows came a very old man in a wheel chair: Jespen Tarulle himself. He rolled far enough past his relatives to get a look at Rey Guille. It was only the third time Rey had seen the man. He was wrapped in blankets, his hands clasped and shivering in his lap. Only one eye tracked and it was starred with a cataract. His voice was quavery, the delivery almost addled. “Yes. These folk haven’t done us harm, and our business is to
do business
.” He looked in Rey’s direction. “I’m glad someone still understands this.”
Maccioso didn’t sound quite so enthusiastic. “It’s risky, sir, not your average sales landing … but I could go along with it, if we can get the volunteers.” Volunteers who might wangle the prisoners’ freedom, or at least discover their exact situation; Rey imagined the wheels turning in the Barge Captain’s head.
“Sirs. I volunteer for the landing.” It was Brailly Tounse, barely hiding a smile.
“I-I volunteer.” The words were coming from Rey’s own mouth. He mumbled the rest, almost as a rationalization to himself: “I’ve handled sales landings here before.”
Old Man Tarulle tilted his head at the other owners. “Are we agreed?” It was not quite a rhetorical question; the explicit recommendation of Jespen Tarulle counted for a lot, but he was not a majority stockholder. After a moment, there came mumbled acquiescence. Tarulle looked across the deck. “Operations? Are there any objections from them?”
“I have a question.” It was Svektr Ramsey. He looked at Guille. “Have you finished your work on the first Osterlai issue of
Fantasie?
”
“My assistant can handle what remains, Master Ramsey.” He had just finished the rewrite of “Pride of Iron.”
“Ah.” A smile split the gaunt Overeditor’s face. “In that case, I have no objections.” And if things didn’t work out, there would plenty of time to put a black border around the editorial page.
THEY DIDN’T GO ASHORE UNTIL TEN HOURS LATER, IN THE NIGHT WAKE PERIOD. It had been a busy time. The landing was to look like the previous ones here. There would only be one boat, less than a dozen people. Except for Rey—who was probably known to the locals—those twelve were not the usual sorts for a commercial landing. Maccioso picked people with military and naval backgrounds. The Barge Captain had imagined many contingencies. Some involved simple gathering of information, perhaps an attempt at diplomacy; others would mean quick violence and a frantic effort to get back to sea ahead of the Termite People. From the beginning, it was agreed that no obvious weapons would be taken. Brailly Tounse produced explosive powder that could be carried in their jackets; that should pass any inspection the Termiters might make.
Though it was probably a futile contribution, Rey Guille took his telescope. It had impressed Tatja Grimm; it might have some effect on the locals. (On the other hand, such high technology might be what got the
Science
in trouble. Rey broke the scope into its components and stored them in different parts of the landing boat.)
Coronadas Ascuasenya had been furious. She wanted to take her Barbarian Princess act ashore and pretend that Tatja Grimm was
truly
Hrala. Maccioso rejected the plan—and Rey agreed with him. Ascuasenya claimed the girl had absorbed the role these last couple of days, that she was the most convincing Hrala ever produced. It really didn’t matter. Rey doubted that the local rulers believed the Hrala stories. In any case, using the act to intimidate could cause the prompt massacre of both prisoners and would-be rescuers.
So Cor stayed behind, and Guille found himself on the landing boat
surrounded by some very competent fighters. Except for Brailly, he knew none of them.
They were only a hundred yards from the shore. Seraph was at first quarter, and its blue light lay serene across everything. The loudest sounds were the splash of oars into water, and the occasional grunt of a rower. Beach bats and flying fish swooped low around the lighter. The smell of char and oil was stronger than the salt tang of the water. They were passing a ragged jungle of black glass—what was left of the
Science
. The bats swarmed through the twisted rigging: one creature’s catastrophe is another’s new home.
The termite mounds were awesome at this distance. Hundreds of airholes lined their sides. A few of the towers actually broadened with height so that they hung over the water. It was like some artist’s vision of a city of the future. Even knowing what the towers really were, it was hard not to feel intimidated.
Early seafarers thought the Termite Folk were nonhuman. Alas and fortunately, this was not the work of gods. The locals were normal humans, using mounds that occurred all through this region. They brought in extra materials for the termites, then guided and pruned the structures. Basically the Termite People were Hurdic folk taking advantage of local circumstance. And strangely, they had no special pride in the towers. They seemed much prouder of the heritage they imagined having lost when they left the Interior.
Brailly Tounse kicked at the crate that was their cargo. “Still don’t see why the gooks are interested in
Fantasie
.”
Rey shrugged. “We don’t sell them the whole thing, just stories of the Interior. My guess is, they see themselves as a great people fallen on hard times. Stories about Inner Kingdoms stoke that vision. We don’t sell more than a few dozen copies per visit, but they pay several coppers for each.”
Tounse whistled softly. “Gods, if only our other customers were that eager.” He turned to look at the towers. On the other hand, the Barge’s usual customers bought in much larger quantities … and didn’t incinerate visitors.
The landing boat slid up to a crude pier. Some thirty guards stood along its length, their spears held in salute. The local bosses were in a group just above the landing point. As the Tarulle people climbed from the boat, low-ranking priests came down to help carry Rey’s crate. So far everything seemed normal.
The tallest of the locals advanced on Rey, and gabbled something in a singsong cadence. This was the priest they usually dealt with; the guy had an excellent reading knowledge of Spräk but little chance to speak
it. His vocabulary was straight out of an old-time adventure novel. After a second Rey got the avalanche of mispronounced words sorted out: “Master Guille, happy we are to see you again.” The priest bowed in the direction of the magazines. “And happy we are to learn more Ancestor Truth. You and your crew are welcome in the Hall. We will examine the new truth and decide on fair payment.”
Rey mumbled something appropriately pompous, and they walked toward the Village, Guille and the Termiter priests in the lead. Behind him, the landing party hung together, their tenseness obvious. This was the third time Rey had been here. He marveled that he had not been afraid before. In fact, the place had been a comic relief.
Then
when the locals spoke of “Ancestor Truth” it seemed a light turn of phrase.
Now
he had the wild impulse to run: What if there was some blasphemy in the stories? It put him in a cold sweat to think how casually he published new twists on traditional themes, or allowed small inconsistencies into story cycles. And just few days ago, he’d looked forward to testing the Hrala skit with these people!
The tall priest’s tone remained friendly: “You have come at an appropriate moment, Master Guille. We have confronted blasphemers—who may be harbingers of the Final Battle. Now is a time when we must consult all sources of Truth.” Another priest, an older fellow with a limp, interrupted with something abrupt. The tall guy paused, and looked faintly embarrassed; suddenly Guille knew that he was more than an interpreter, but not one of the high priests. “It will be necessary to inspect both your boat and your persons. More blasphemers may come in fair forms … . Don’t be angered; it is but a formality. I, we recognize you from before. And if the writings you bring speak to our questions, you can expect payment even more generous than usual.”
Away from the pier, the smell of burned petroleum products faded, replaced by a barnyard smell and the acrid stench of the tiny insects that built the mounds. Up close, the tower walls were not smooth sweeps. Glabrous patches were surrounded by warty growths. The “windows” were holes hacked in the irregular surface. Even Seraph’s blue light could not make such things beautiful. Behind the front tier of mounds, stone corrals held a few dozen skoats—the source of the farm smell. The place really was a village, similar to backward villages the world over. Without modern science, they had no way of making strong or hard materials. Their spearheads were fire-hardened wood and obsidian. Where the termites did not build for them, their structures were simple piles of stone. It was no wonder travelers had seen no danger from these people; a squad of crossbow armed troops could take them over. No one guessed they had access to petroleum or the knowledge to produce flammables.
They walked some distance through the shadows between the towers. The Great Hall was cut into the side of one of the largest mounds. The resulting talus was pressed into steps as broad as in front of any government building in Crownesse. At the top of the steps, carved wooden barricades blocked the entrance. Rey’s guide called something Hurdic and ceremonial-sounding. Spear-toting priests slid the barricades aside.
Their porters carried the crate of
Fantasies
toward the altar at the back of the Hall. The place was exactly as Rey remembered it: at least one hundred feet from entrance to altar, but with a ceiling that was nowhere more than seven feet high. It seemed more like a mine than a building. Twelve-foot-wide pillars stood in a rectangular grid across the floor. The pillars were native moundstuff, painted white. The only light came from ranks of candles that circled each of them. As the Tarulle people walked toward the altar, they saw hundreds of Termite Folk standing quietly between the farther pillars. The room couldn’t be more than one hundred feet across, but the pillars seemed to go on forever. On his last visit, Rey had walked to the side of the Hall (an act of unknowing bravado, he realized now), and discovered that the pillars there were smaller, more closely spaced, and the walls were painted with the image of more pillars stretching off to a faked infinity; cleverly placed flecks of glass simulated hundreds of faraway candles. Like a lot of primitive folk, the Termiters had their own subtleties.
Rey expected the threatened body searches would come next. Instead, the Tarulle people were gestured to sit before the altar. There was a moment of near silence after Guille was asked to open the crate. Now he could hear a faint buzzing that came from all around, the sound of the real termites. They were, after all, inside an enormous hive. He pulled up the lid of the crate, and the insect sound was lost behind the Villagers’ soft chanting.
The high priests lifted the top sheets from the crates. These were color illustrations that would be inside/outside covers on normally bound editions. The color didn’t show well in the candlelight, but the Termiters didn’t seem to mind; the best pictures from previous issues were mounted in the walls behind the altar. The priests poured over the illos, just like ordinary fans thrilled with the latest issue of their favorite magazine. Before, Rey would have smiled at their enthusiasm. Now he held his breath. At least one of those pictures showed Hrala carrying a springgun; could that be blasphemy?
BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
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