The Ringworld Throne r-3 Read online

  They were lost to him already, in a sense. The Hindmost controlled Needle’s medical facilities. If they saw that he used his power for extortion, they saw nothing but the truth. But he had been too direct. Chmeee and Louis had both refused medical attention.

  They were walking briskly down a shadowed corridor, Louis Wu and Chmeee. Reception was poor in so little light, but they wouldn’t see the web. The Hindmost caught only part of the dialogue. He played it back several times afterward.

  Louis: “—dominance game. The Hindmost has to control us. We’re too close to him, we could conceivably hurt him.”

  Chmeee: “I’ve tried to see a way.”

  Louis: “How hard? Never mind. He left us alone for a year, then interrupted himself in the middle of an exercise routine. Why bother? Nothing about that broadcast looked urgent.”

  Chmeee: “I know how you think. He overheard us, didn’t he? If I can return to the Patriarchy, I won’t need the Hindmost to recover my properties. I have you. You do not exact a price.”

  Louis: “Yeah.”

  The Hindmost considered interrupting. To say what?

  Chmeee: “By my lost lands he controlled me, but how did he control you? He had you by the wire, but you gave up your addiction. The autodoc in the lander was destroyed, but surely the kitchen has a program to make boosterspice?”

  “Likely enough. For you, too.”

  Chmeee dismissed that with a wave. “But if you allow yourself to grow old, he has nothing.”

  Louis nodded.

  “But would the Hindmost believe you? To a puppeteer … I do not insult you. I’m sure you speak the truth, Louis. But to a puppeteer, to let yourself grow old is suicide.”

  Louis nodded, silent.

  “Is this justice for a trillion murders?”

  Louis would have broken off conversation on another night. He said, “Justice for us both. I die of old age. The Hindmost loses his thralls … loses control of his environment.”

  “But if they lived?”

  “If they lived. Yeah. The Hindmost did the actual programming. I couldn’t go into that section of the Repair Center. It was infested with tree-of-life. I made it possible for him to spray a plasma jet from the sun across five percent of the Ringworld. If he didn’t do that, then I can … live. So the Hindmost owns me again. And that’s important, if I’m the reason he doesn’t own you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So show Louis an old recording and say it’s a live broadcast—”

  The wind was rising, gusts drowning the voices. Chmeee: “What if … numbers …”

  “… Hindmost to drop it …”

  “… brain is aging faster than the rest of you!” The Kzin lost patience, dropped to all fours and bounded away down the deck. It didn’t matter. They were out of range.

  The Hindmost screamed like the world’s biggest espresso device tearing itself apart.

  In his scream were pitches and overtones no creature of Earth or Kzin could hear, with harmonics that held considerable information. Lineages for two species barely out of the veldt, down from the trees. Designs for equipment that would cause a sun to flare, then cause the flare to lase, a cannon of Ringworld scale. Specs for computer equipment miniaturized to the quantum level, sprayed across the Hindmost’s cabin like a coat of paint. Programs of vast resiliency and power.

  You twisted rejects from half-savage, half-sapient breeds! Your pitiful protector, your luck-bred Teela, hadn’t the flexibility or the understanding, but you don’t even have the wit to listen. I saved them all! I, with software from my ship!

  One shriek and the Hindmost was calm again. He hadn’t missed a step. Back one, bow, while the Moment’s Leader engages the Brides in quadret: a chance to get a drink of water, badly needed. One head lowered to suck, one raised to watch the dance: sometimes there were variations.

  Was Louis Wu going senile? So quickly? He was well over two hundred years old. Boosterspice had kept some humans hale and sapient for half a thousand years, sometimes more. But without his medical benefits, Louis Wu might age fast.

  And Chmeee would be gone.

  No matter. The Hindmost was in the safest place imaginable. His ship was buried in cubic miles of cooled magma near the center of the Ringworld Repair Center. Nothing was urgent. He could wait. There were the librarians. Something would change … and there was the dance.

  Part One

  The Shadow Nest

  Chapter 1

  A War of Scents

  A.D. 2892

  Cloud covered the sky like a gray stone plate. The yellow grass had a wilted look: too much rain, not enough sun. No doubt the sun was straight overhead and the Arch was still in place, but Valavirgillin hadn’t seen either for twenty days now.

  The cruisers rolled through an endless drizzle, through high grass, on wheels as tall as a man. Vala and Kay rode the steering bench; Barok rode above them as gunner. Barok’s daughter Forn was asleep under an awning.

  Any day now—any hour—

  Sabarokaresh pointed. “Is that what you’ve been looking for?”

  Valavirgillin stood up in her seat. She could just see where the vastness of grass turned to a vastness of stubble.

  Kaywerbrimmis said, “They leave this pattern. We’ll be seeing sentries or a harvesting party. Boss, I don’t understand how you knew they’d be Grass Giants here. I’ve never been this far to starboard myself. You, you’re from Center City? That’s a hundred daywalks to port.”

  “Word came to me,” Valavirgillin said.

  He didn’t ask more. A merchant’s secrets were her own.

  They rolled into the stubble and turned. The cruisers rolled faster now. Stubble to right, shoulder-high grass to the left. Far ahead, birds were wheeling and diving. Big dark birds: scavengers.

  Kaywerbrimmis touched his handguns for reassurance. Muzzle-loading, the barrel as long as his forearm. Big Sabarokaresh eased back into the turret. The top of the payload shell housed the cannon, and that might be needed. The other wagons were swinging left and right, covering Kay’s wagon so that he could investigate in safety.

  The birds wheeled away. They’d left black feathers everywhere. Twenty big birds, gorged until they could hardly fly. What might feed so many?

  Bodies. Little hominids with pointy skulls, lying some in stubble, some in uncut grass, stripped of most of their meat. Hundreds! They might have been children, but the children among them were even smaller.

  Vala looked for clothing. In strange terrain you never knew which hominids might be intelligent.

  Sabarokaresh dropped to earth, gun in hand. Kaywerbrimmis hesitated; but nothing sudden popped out of the grass, and he followed. Foranayeedli popped a sleepy head through the window and gaped. She was a girl of sixty falans or so, just reaching mating age.

  “Since last night,” Kay said presently.

  The smell of corruption wasn’t strong yet. If Ghouls hadn’t arrived before the birds, then these victims must have been slain near dawn. Vala asked, “How did they die? If this is local Grass Giant practice, we want none of it.”

  “This could’ve been done by birds. Cracked bones, see? But cracked by big beaks, for marrow. These are Gleaners, Boss. See, this is how they dress, in feathers. They follow the harvesters. The Gleaners hunt smeerps, firedots, anything that digs. Cutting the grass exposes the burrows.”

  –Feathers, right. These feathers were black and red and purple-green, not just black. “So what happened here?”

  Forn said, “I know that smell.”

  Beneath the corruption: what? Something familiar, not itself unpleasant … but it made Foranayeedli uneasy.

  Valavirgillin had hired Kaywerbrimmis to lead the caravan because he was local, because he seemed competent. The rest were his people. None had ever been this far to starboard.

  Vala knew more of this place than any of them … if she was right about where she was.

  ***

  “Well, where are they?”

  “Watching us, maybe
,” Kay said.

  Vala could see a long way from her perch at the bow of the cruiser. The veldt was flat, the yellow grass was chopped short. Grass Giants stood seven and eight feet tall. Where grass stood half their height, could they hide in that?

  The traders pulled their cruisers into a triangle. Their midday dinner was fruit and roots from stores on the running boards. They cooked some local grass with the roots. They’d caught no fresh meat.

  They took their time. Most hominids were more approachable after feeding. If Grass Giants thought like Machine People, they would let strangers eat before they made contact.

  No ambassador came. The caravan rolled on.

  Three cruisers rolled sluggishly across the veldt with no animal to pull them. Big square wooden platforms rode four wheels at the corners; the motor, centered aft, turned two more drive wheels. The cast-iron payload shell rode ahead of the motor, like an iron house with a fat chimney. Big leaf springs were under the bow, under the steering bench. A savage might wonder at the tower on the payload housing, but what would he think if he had never seen a cannon?

  Harmless.

  Shapes the color of the golden grass, shapes too big to be men: two big humanoids watched from the crest of a far hill. Vala saw them only when one turned and loped away across the veldt. The other ran along the crest, toward where the cruisers would cross.

  He waited in their path, watching them come. He was nearly the color of the golden grass: golden skin, golden mane. Big. Armed with a great curved sword.

  Kaywerbrimmis walked to meet the giant. Valavirgillin set the cruiser following him like a friendly ridebeast.

  Distance put strange twists in the trade dialect. Kaywerbrimmis had tried to teach Vala some of the variations in pronunciation, new words and altered meanings. She listened now, trying to make out what Kay was saying.

  “We come in peace … intend to trade … Farsight Trading … rishathra?”

  The giant’s eyes flicked back and forth while Kay talked. Back and forth between their jaws, Forn and Vala and Kay and Barok. The giant was amused.

  His face was hairier than any Machine Person’s! Pretty Forn’s jawline fringe of beard just growing, just long enough to take a curl at the corners. Vala’s was turning elegantly white, two points at the chin. Other hominids were too often distracted by Machine People beards, especially on the women.

  The giant waited out Kay’s chattering, then strode past him and took a seat on the cruiser’s running board. He leaned against the payload shell and immediately jerked away from the hot metal. Recovered his dignity and waved the cruiser forward.

  Big Barok held his post above the giant. Forn climbed up beside her father. She was tall, too, but the giant made them both took stunted.

  Kaywerbrimmis asked, “Your camp, that way?”

  The giant’s dialect was less comprehensible. “Yes. Come. You want shelter. We want warriors.”

  “How do you practice rishathra?” It was the first thing any trader would want to know, and any beta male, too, if these were like Grass Giants elsewhere.

  The giant said, “Come quick, else learn too much of rishathra.”

  “What?”

  “Vampires.”

  Forn’s eyes widened. “That smell!”

  Kay smiled, seeing not a threat, but an opportunity. “I am Kaywerbrimmis. Here are Valavirgillin, my patron, and Sabarokaresh and Foranayeedli. In the other cruisers they are Machine People, too. We hope to persuade you to join our Empire.”

  “I am Paroom. Our leader you must address as Thurl.”

  Vala let Kay do the talking. Grass Giant sword-scythes had too little reach. Farsight Trading’s guns would make short work of a vampire attack. That should impress the Bull, and then—business.

  ***

  Grass Giants, scores of them, were pulling wagons filled with grass through the gap in a wall of heaped earth.

  “This isn’t normal,” Kaywerbrimmis said. “Grass Giants don’t build walls.”

  Paroom heard. “We had to learn. Forty-three falans ago the Reds were fighting us. We learned walls from them.”

  Forty-three falans was 430 rotations of the star patterns, where the sky rotated every seven and a half days. In forty falans Valavirgillin had made herself rich, had mated, had carried four children, then gambled her wealth away. These last three falans she had been traveling.

  Forty-three falans was a long time.

  She asked or tried to ask, “Was that when the clouds came?”

  “Yes, when the old Thurl boiled a sea.”

  Yes! This was the place she sought.

  Kaywerbrimis [sic—should be Kaywerbrimmis] shrugged it off as local superstition. “How long have you had vampires?”

  Paroom said, “Always there are some. In this last few falans, suddenly they are everywhere, more every night. This morning we found nearly two hundred Gleaners, all dead. Tonight they will hunger again. The walls and our crossbows hold them back. Here,” said the sentry, “bring your wagons through the gap and prepare them to fight.”

  They had crossbows?

  And the light was going.

  ***

  It was crowded inside the walls. Grass Giant men and women were unloading their wagons, pausing frequently to eat of the grass. They looked up as the Machine People moved among them; they gaped, then returned to work. Had they ever seen self-propelled cruisers? But vampires were a more urgent concern.

  Already men in leather armor lined the wall. Others were heaping earth and stones to close the gap.

  Vala could feel the Grass Giants staring at her beard.

  She could count roughly a thousand of them, as many women as men. But women outnumbered the men among Grass Giants elsewhere, and she didn’t see any children. Add a few hundred more, then, for women tending children somewhere in the buildings.

  A great alien silver shape strode down the slope to meet them.

  It lifted its crested helm to reveal a golden mane. The Thurl was the biggest of Grass Giant males. The armor he wore bulged at every joint; he looked like no hominid Vala had ever seen.

  “Thurl,” Kaywerbrimmis said carefully, “Farsight Trading has come to help.”

  “Good. What are you, Machine People? We hear of you.”

  “Our Empire is mighty, but we spread through trade, not war. We hope to persuade your people to make fuel for us, and bread, and other things. Your kind of grass can make good bread; you might like it yourselves. In return we can show you wonders. The least are our guns. These handguns, they’ll reach farther than your crossbows. For close work we have flamers—”

  “Killing-things, are they? Our good luck that you have come. Yours, too, to reach cover. You should move your guns to the wall now.”

  “Thurl, the big guns are mounted on the cruisers.”

  The wall stood twice the height of a Machine Person. But Valavirgillin remembered a local word. “Ramp. Thurl, is there a ramp that leads up the wall? Will it carry our cruisers?”

  The day’s colors were turning charcoal-gray. It was starting to rain. Far above these clouds, the shadow of night must have nearly covered the sun.

  And there wasn’t any ramp, until the Thurl bellowed his orders. Then all the huge males and females broke from their labor and began moving earth.

  Vala noted one woman climbing, guiding, shouting. Big, mature, with a voice to shatter rocks. She caught a name: Moonwa. Perhaps the Thurl’s primary wife.

  Metal payload shell and metal motor, and wide timber running boards a hand thick: a cruiser was heavy. The ramp tended to crumble. The cruisers went up one by one, with the wall brushing their right sides and ten Grass Giant males lifting and steadying on the left. How would they get the cruisers down?

  The top was as wide as a cruiser wheelbase. Sentries guided them. “Face your weapons starboard-spin. Vampires come from there.”

  The wagonmasters placed their vehicles, then met to confer. Kay asked, “Whand, Anth, what do you think? Shrapnel in the cannon? They might bunch
up. They often do.”

  Anthrantillin said, “Have the giants gather some gravel. Save our shot. This will be handgun work, though. Spread out?”

  Whandernothtee said, “That’s what the giants want.”

  “Me, too,” Kaywerbrimmis said.

  Vala said, “The Grass Giants have crossbows. Why are they worried? Crossbows won’t have the reach of guns, but they’ll outreach vampire scent.”

  The wagonmasters looked at each other. Anth said, “Grass eaters—”

  “Oh, no. Elsewhere they’re considered scary fighters,” Whand said.

  Nobody answered.

  Whandernothtee’s cruiser and Anthrantillin’s rolled off in opposite directions. They were almost invisible in the rain and dark before the Grass Giant warriors stopped them.

  Kaywerbrimmis said, “Barok, you on the cannon, but keep your guns handy. I’m on handguns. Forn, reload.” She was too young to be trusted to do more. “Boss, do you like the flamer?”

  Vala said, “They’ll never get that close. I throw pretty good, too.”

  “Flamer and fistbombs, then. I hope we do get to use the flamer. It’d help if we could show them another use for alcohol. Grass Giants don’t need our fuel, they pull their own wagons. Vampires aren’t intelligent, are they?”

  “The ones near Center City aren’t.”

  Forn said, “In most languages it’s vampires, not Vampires. They take the prefix for animals.”

  Language wasn’t Kay’s interest. “Do they charge, Boss? One big wave?”

  “I only fought vampires once.”

  “That’s one more than me. I hear stories. What was it like?”

  “I was the only survivor,” Valavirgillin said. “Kay? Just stories? Do you know enough to use towels and fuel?”

  Kay’s brow furrowed. “What?”—and Vala’s head whipped around at a sentry’s bass call.

  All was shadows now, and a sound that might be wind through taut cords, and the whisper of crossbows. The Grass Giants were being chary of their bolts. Bullets weren’t replaceable, either, where there was no client race to make more.