A Fire Upon the Deep by Vernor Vinge Read Free Book Online Page A

slick with blood. He pushed them off the path, near where his Scar had killed the others. Not one of the Servant had survived; it was total death, and he was responsible. He sagged to the ground, seeing in fours again.
    "The alien. It's still alive," said Scriber. He was standing around the travois, sniffing at the mantis-like body. "Not conscious though." He grabbed the travois poles in his jaws and looked at Peregrine. "What ... what now, Pilgrim?"
    Peregrine lay in the dirt, trying to put his mind back together. What now, indeed. How had he gotten into this mess? Newby confusion was the only possibility. He'd simply lost track of all the reasons why rescuing the alien was impossible. And now he was stuck with it. Pack crap. Part of him crawled to the edge of the path, and looked around: There was no sign they had attracted attention. In the harbor, the boats were still empty; most of the infantry was up in the hills. No doubt the Servants were holding the dead ones at the harbor fort. So when would they move them across the straits to Hidden Island? Were they waiting for this one's arrival?
    "Maybe we could grab some boats, escape south," said Scriber. What an ingenious fellow. Didn't he know that there would be sentry lines around the harbor? Even knowing the passwords, they'd be reported as soon as they passed one. It would be a million-to-one shot. But it had been a flat impossibility before Scar became part of him.
    He studied the creature lying on the travois. So strange, yet real. And it was more than just the creature, though that was the most spectacular strangeness. Its bloodied clothes were a finer fabric than the Pilgrim had ever seen. Tucked in beside the creature's body was a pink pillow with elaborate stitchery. With a twist of perspective he realized it was alien art, the face of a long-snouted animal embroidered on the pillow.
    So escape through the harbor was a million-to-one shot; some prizes might be worth such odds.
    "...We'll go down a little farther," he said.
     
     
    Jaqueramaphan pulled the travois. Wickwrackscar strode ahead of him, trying to look important and officerly. With Scar along, it wasn't hard. The member was the picture of martial competence; you had to be on the inside to know the softness.
    They were almost down to sea level.
    The path was wider now and roughly paved. He knew the harbor fort was above them, hidden by the trees. The sun was well out of the north, rising into the eastern sky. Flowers were everywhere, white and red and violet, their tufts floating thick on the breeze -- the arctic plant life taking advantage of its long day of summer. Walking on sun-dappled cobblestones, you might almost forget the ambush on the hilltops.
    Very soon, they'd hit a sentry line. Lines and rings are interesting people; not great minds, but about the largest effective pack you'd find outside the tropics. There were stories of lines ten miles long, with thousands of members. The largest Peregrine had ever seen had less than one hundred: Take a group of ordinary people and train them to string out, not in packs but as individual members. If each member stayed just a few yards from its nearest neighbors, they could maintain something like the mentality of a trio. The group as a whole was scarcely brighter -- you can't have much in the way of deep thoughts when it takes seconds for an idea to percolate across your mind. Yet the line had an excellent grasp of what was happening along itself. And if any members were attacked, the entire line would know about it with the speed of sound. Peregrine had served on lines before; it was a strung out existence, but not nearly as dull as ordinary sentry duty. It's hard to be bored when you're as stupid as a line.
    There! A lone member stuck its neck around a tree and challenged them. Wickwrackscar knew the password of course, and they were past the outer line. But that passage and their description was known to the entire line now -- and surely to normal