The Children of the Sky

Here and there, Amdiranifani’s heads dipped in trembling acknowledgment. Just last night, Vendacious had thrown one of his own crew’s members out that hatch—and made sure that Amdiranifani had witnessed the discipline. Whether dealing with a single member or a whole pack, Vendacious always enjoyed such punishment. Usually the victim was a prisoner, but killing an occasional malingering bit of crew did wonders to encourage good performance from the rest.

Cargomaster was bringing in the foursome, all that was left of my lord Steel. This prisoner was not so manageable. It was enraged beyond fear, and not very intelligent—ordinarily not an entertaining combination. This remnant of Steel had become steadily more killing crazy as the days passed, perhaps recalling its old hatreds. Its insanity exploded whenever it came within ear- or eyeshot of Amdiranifani. The four bounced off the walls of its cage, searching for some way out, shrieking murder at the eightsome. Remnant Steel and Amdiranifani’s own imagination kept Amdiranifani forever at the edge of collapse.

If only I had this strong a hold on the humans with Tycoon. Vendacious eyed Amdiranifani speculatively. Avoiding Nevil’s “worst case” might come down to whether maggots Jefri and Ravna would keep silent if the alternative was to see pieces of their dear friend raining from the sky.

•  •  •

Now Ravna could see Newcastle town and Oobii. Both Tycoon (with his telescopes) and Jefri claimed there were crowds on the heather southeast of town.

“I have them in sight, too,” came Vendacious’ voice. His airship was rapidly catching up. “That’s where the great meeting is to be, my lord. Nevil has constructed a stage there and cleared a landing field, just as we agreed.”

“And he’ll call the moment he arrives?” said Tycoon.

“Yes, my lord, direct to your ordinary radio. Do you have—”

“Hello? Hello?” That was Nevil’s voice, coming from an analog radio by Tycoon’s thrones. In the background there were human voices, and the sound of whipping wind.

Tycoon leaned toward the radio box and said, “Greetings, Lord Nevil.” The portentous words sounded incongruous in his frightened little girl voice.

“Yes. Well … Greetings to you, too.” Nevil’s voice clipped in and out. She heard snippets of confident-sounding advice he was giving to someone near him. Ah. Nevil must be wearing the single remaining HUD, using it to maintain two conversation streams. “Okay, I’m back. Everybody can see your airships now. They’re waving. I’m about to go up on stage, give everybody a pep talk. Woodcarver is already up there, but she’s cooperating. Too many other people really want this alliance. Everything is under control and per our previous discussions.” Ravna almost smiled. She had never heard Nevil Storherte sound, well, frazzled. “So, um, are you ready for our meeting, sir?”

“We are on schedule as well,” said Tycoon, “but I have several questions.”

“Yes, sir?”

“First, are you hiding Johanna Olsndot?” The whole pack was watching Ravna and Jefri.

“What? No!” Nevil’s voice clipped out for a second. “Why in heaven’s name would you ask me that? Haven’t I—”

“You’ve been very helpful on this issue in the past. I thank you for that.” Tycoon was still watching Ravna and Jef. “But at the same time I know you were—mutually promised? sex-involved?—with Johanna. Even humans must have some forms of loyalty, so I wanted to ask.”

“Mister, I assure you that after what Johanna did, I have no loyalty towards her!”

“Very well then. I just wanted to ask.”

“Are your other questions as interesting?”

“You can be the judge of that,” said Tycoon, and proceeded into the fine points of who would be seated where onstage, and where Woodcarver might have security packs, and how they were armed. Vendacious would circle overhead while Lord Tycoon was on the ground. Finally, Tycoon said, “This all sounds very good, my lord Nevil. Thank you. I will see you on the ground in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” said Nevil, “I look forward to making our alliance official.” He was sounding something like his normal diplomatic self. “Ah, one other thing, my lord Tycoon. For best effect, I recommend that you not speak with your human voice. Use Tinish. More dignified, don’t you think?”

Tycoon cocked his heads. “My use of your language is poor?”

“Not at all!” protested Nevil. In fact, Tycoon spoke better Samnorsk than most Starship Hill packs. Nevil must be worried about the Geri voice; that by itself would betray Nevil’s lies. “It’s just that … um … speaking Tinish will seem so much more dignified. More powerful, too.”

Vendacious put in, “I’ll be happy to translate, anonymously of course.”

Tycoon admired himself for a moment. “Yes … I see your point. Very well.”

“Excellent. I must go onstage now. Talk to you in person soon.”