The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge (13 page)

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Authors: Vernor Vinge

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Behind him he heard Jagit, and turned to see the peddler climbing slowly down the few steps to the ground. From outside, the magician’s chamber was the shape of a truncated rifle bullet. Jagit carried the guard’s stolen rifle, leaning on it now like a walking stick. “Well, my navigation hasn’t failed me yet.” He rubbed his eyes, stretched.
Wim recalled making a certain comment about flying over the moon on a broomstick, too long ago, and looked again at the dawn, this time progressing formally and peacefully up a lightening sky. “We flew here. Didn’t we, Mr. Jagged?” His teeth chattered. “Like a bird. Only … we f-flew right off the world.” He stopped, awed by his own revelation. For a moment a lifetime of superstitious dread cried that he had no right to know of the things he had seen, or to believe—The words burst out in a defiant rush. “That’s it. Right off the world. And … and it’s all true: I heard how the world’s round like a stone. It must be true, how there’s other worlds, that’s what you said back there, with people just like here; I seen it, the sun’s like all them other stars, only it’s bigger … .” He frowned. “It’s—closer? I—”
Jagit was grinning, his teeth showed white in his beard. “Magician, first-class.”
Wim looked back up into the sky. “If that don’t beat all—” he said softly. Then, struck by more practical matters, he said. “What about them ghosts? Are they going to come after us?”
Jagit shook his head. “No. I think I laid those ghosts to rest pretty permanently. I changed the code words in their communications system. A good part of it is totally unusable now. Their computer net is broken up, and their space defense system must be out for good, because they didn’t destroy Fyffe. I’d say the World Government is finished; they don’t know it yet, and they may not go for a few hundred years, but they’ll go in the end. Their grand ‘stability’ machine has a monkey wrench in its works at last … . They won’t be around to use their magic in these parts anymore, I expect.”
Wim considered, and then looked hopeful. “You going to take over back there, Mr. Jagged? Use your magic on them Flatlanders? We could—”
But the peddler shook his head. “No, I’m afraid that just doesn’t interest
me, Wim. All I really wanted was to break the hold those other magician sorts had on this world; and I’ve done that already.”
“Then … you mean you really did all that, you risked our necks, for nothing? Like you said, because it just wasn’t right, for them to use their magic on folks who couldn’t stop them? You did it for us—and you didn’t want
any
thing? You must be crazy.”
Jagit laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. I told you before: All I want is to be able to see new sights, and sell my wares. And the World Government was bad for my business.”
Wim met the peddler’s gaze, glanced away undecided. “Where you going to go now?” He half expected the answer to be, Back beyond the sky.
“Back to bed.” Jagit left the ballistic vehicle, and began to climb the rubbly slope up from the lake; he gestured for Wim to follow.
Wim followed, breathing hard in the thin air, until they reached a large fall of boulders before a sheer granite wall. Only when he was directly before it did he realize they had come on the entrance to a cave hidden by the rocks. He noticed that the opening was oddly symmetrical; and there seemed to be a rainbow shimmering across the darkness like mist. He stared at it uncomprehendingly, rubbing his chilled hands.
“This is where I came from, Wim. Not from the East, as you figured, or from space as the governor thought.” The peddler nodded toward the dark entrance. “You see, the World Government had me entirely misplaced—they assumed I could only have come from somewhere outside their control. But actually I’ve been here on earth all the time; this cave has been my home for fifty-seven thousand years. There’s a kind of magic in there that puts me into an ‘enchanted’ sleep for five or ten thousand years at a time here. And meanwhile the world changes. When it’s changed enough, I wake up again and go out to see it. That’s what I was doing in Sharn, ten thousand years ago: I brought artworks from an earlier, primitive era; they were popular, and I got to be something of a celebrity. That way I got access to my new items of trade—my Sharnish magics—to take somewhere else, when things changed again.
“That was the problem with the World Government—they interrupted the natural cycles of history that I depend on, and it threw me out of synch. They’d made stability such a science they might have kept things static for fifty or a hundred thousand years. Ten or fifteen thousand, and I could have come back here and outwaited them, but fifty thousand was just too long. I had to get things moving again, or I’d have been out of business.”
Wim’s imagination faltered at the prospect of the centuries that separated
him from the peddler, that separated the peddler from everything that had ever been a part of the man, or ever could be. What kind of belief did it take, what sort of a man, to face that alone? And what losses or rewards to drive him to it? There must be something, that made it all worthwhile—
“There have been more things
done
, Wim, than the descendants of Sharn have
dreamed.
I am surprised at each new peak I attend … . I’ll be leaving you now. You were a better guide than I expected; I thank you for it. I’d say Darkwood Corners is two or three days journey northwest from here.”
Wim hesitated, half afraid, half longing. “Let me go with you—?”
Jagit shook his head. “There’s only room for one, from here on. But you’ve seen a few more wonders than most people already; and I think you’ve learned a few things, too. There are going to be a lot of opportunities for putting it all to use right here, I’d say. You helped change your world, Wim—what are you going to do for an encore?”
Wim stood silent with indecision; Jagit lifted the rifle, tossed it to him.
Wim caught the gun, and a slow smile, filled with possibilities, grew on his face.
“Good-bye, Wim.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Jagged.” Wim watched the peddler move away toward his cave.
As he reached the entrance, Jagit hesitated, looking back. “And Wim—there are more wonders in this cave than you’ve ever dreamed of. I haven’t been around this long because I’m an easy mark. Don’t be tempted to grave-rob.” He was outlined momentarily by rainbow as he passed into the darkness.
Wim lingered at the entrance, until at last the cold forced him to move and he picked his way back down the sterile gray detritus of the slope. He stopped again by the mirror lake, peering back past the magician’s bullet-shaped vehicle at the cliff face. The rising sun washed it in golden light, but now somehow he really wasn’t even sure where the cave had been.
He sighed, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and began the long walk home.
LORD BUCKRY SIGHED AS MEMORIES RECEDED, AND WITH THEM THE GNAWING desire to seek out the peddler’s cave again; the desire that had been with him for thirty years. There lay the solutions to every problem he had ever faced, but he had never tested Jagged’s warning. It wasn’t simply the risk, though the risk was both deadly and sufficient—it was the knowledge that however much he gained in this life, it was ephemeral, less than nothing, held up to a man whose life spanned half that
of humanity itself. Within the peddler’s cave lay the impossible, and that was why he would never try to take it for his own.
Instead he had turned to the possible and made it fact, depending on himself, and on the strangely clear view of things the peddler had left him. He had solved every problem alone, because he had had to, and now he would just have to solve this one alone too.
He stared down with sudden possessive pride over the townsfolk in the square, his city of Fyffe now ringed by a sturdy wall … . So the West and the South were together, for one reason, and one alone. It balanced the scales precariously against plenty of old hatreds, and if something were to tip them back again—A few rumors, well-placed, and they’d be at each other’s throats. Perhaps he wouldn’t even need to raise an army. They’d solve that problem for him. And afterward—
Lord Buckry began to smile. He’d always had a hankering to visit the sea.
I confess I don’t know Jagit’s real motives. I can imagine the character, what he said and did, but as for motive … Jagit’s explanation for destroying the current civilization is certainly reasonable: the World Government was frustrating whatever reason Jagit had for traveling down time. Maybe he was just a merchant with a desire to see new things, but I think he had an additional agenda: Perhaps he wondered why the Singularity never occurred, and was searching for a civilization that would finally break free from the wheel of fate. Perhaps all the previous civilizations
had
ended in Singularities, leaving Jagit to make sure that it could happen again. Rereading the story, I feel very much like Wim at the end, awed … and a little afraid to learn the truth.
Did you guess where I stopped writing and Joan began? The last thing I did was the rescue from Axl Bork’s gang. I wrote my part of the story over a summer, one page per day (for me, a strange way to write—but fun). Beyond the rescue scene I had only general ideas, and things stagnated; finishing the story was a fortunate and interesting collaboration.
At least four of the stories in this collection take place in the aftermath of a catastrophic war. A couple of them use the setting as a stage for admonishment. But there is another reason for some post-catastrophe stories: such a war could postpone the Technological Singularity and leave the world intelligible to us mere humans. Lots of writers have earned their fortunes “in the aftermath” when high tech and medievalism can be jumbled in many different ways.
It’s hard to know the long-range consequences of a general war. Conceivably it could mean the end of the human race. The war and the years immediately after would be as terrible as advertised. But the race would probably survive. Such a war would be a great detour into darkness, but as the years passed and the survivors grew old, and their children’s children became adults … the bad times would be remembered as a distant misfortune. There could be happiness and bright times for those descendants; the war might be the end of our world, but not of theirs. Most of our informational heritage exists in a million libraries, even more robust than humanity. And I don’t buy the arguments that technology couldn’t restart because our civilization has consumed all the easily accessible resources. With the exception of petroleum, post-debacle civilizations might well find Earth’s resources
more
accessible than before. (Non-poisoned urban ruins make great open pit mines.)
In some scenarios, the post-war civilization might have high levels of education and a clear vision of the past. This is the sort of background I have in the next story: I suppose that luck finally runs out for our current civilization, that we have a general war and worse times than I can describe (or want to imagine). Yet at the far end of it all there is another opportunity for prosperity and progress. I especially wanted to investigate two questions in this story: What sort of government might exist in such an era? How would the new civilization deal with nuclear weapons, and the possibility that everything gained could be lost again? The story’s title reveals my answer to the first question. My answer to the second is equally radical.
A
l’s Protection Racket operated out of Manhattan, Kansas. Despite the name, it was a small, insurance-oriented police service with about 20,000 customers, all within 100 kilometers of the main shop. But apparently “Al” was some kind of humorist: His ads had a gangster motif, with his cops dressed like twentieth-century hoodlums. Wil Brierson guessed that it was all part of the nostalgia thing. Even the Michigan
State Police—Wil’s outfit—capitalized on the public’s feeling of trust in old names, old traditions.
Even so, there’s something more dignified about a company with a name like “Michigan State Police
,” thought Brierson as he brought his flier down on the pad next to Al’s HQ. He stepped out of the cockpit into an eerie morning silence: It was close to sunrise, yet the sky remained dark, the air humid. Thunderheads marched around half the horizon. A constant flicker of lightning chased back and forth within those clouds, yet there was not the faintest sound of thunder. He had seen a tornado killer on his way in, a lone eagle in the far sky. The weather was almost as ominous as the plea East Lansing HQ had received from Al’s just four hours earlier.
A spindly figure came bouncing out of the shadows. “Am I glad to see you! The name’s Alvin Swensen. I’m the proprietor.” He shook Wil’s hand enthusiastically. “I was afraid you might wait till the front passed through.” Swensen was dressed in baggy pants and a padded jacket that would have made Frank Nitti proud. The local police chief urged the other officer up the steps. No one else was outside; the place seemed just as deserted as one might expect a rural police station to be early on a weekday morning. Where was the emergency?
Inside, a clerk (cop?) dressed very much like Al sat before a comm console. Swensen grinned at the other. “It’s the MSP, all right. They’re really coming, Jim. They’re really coming! Just come down the hall, Lieutenant. I got my office back there. We should clear out real soon, but for the moment, I think it’s safe.”
Wil nodded, more puzzled than informed. At the far end of the hall, light spilled from a half-open door. The frosted glass surface was stenciled with the words “Big Al.” A faint smell of mildew hung over the aging carpet and the wood floor beneath settled perceptibly under Wil’s 90-kilo tread. Brierson almost smiled: maybe Al wasn’t so crazy. The gangster motif excused absolutely slovenly maintenance. Few customers would trust a normal police organization that kept its buildings like this.
Big Al urged Brierson into the light and waved him to an overstuffed chair. Though tall and angular, Swensen looked more like a schoolteacher than a cop—or a gangster. His reddish-blond hair stood out raggedly from his head, as though he had been pulling at it, or had just been wakened. From the man’s fidgety pacing about the room, Wil guessed the first possibility more likely. Swensen seemed about at the end of his rope, and Wil’s arrival was some kind of reprieve. He glanced at Wil’s nameplate and his grin spread even further. “W. W. Brierson. I’ve heard of you. I knew the Michigan State Police wouldn’t let me down; they’ve sent their best.”
Wil smiled in return, hoping his embarrassment didn’t show. Part of his present fame was a company hype that he had come to loathe. “Thank you, uh, Big Al. We feel a special obligation to small police companies that serve no-right-to-bear-arms customers. But you’re going to have to tell me more. Why so secretive?”
Al waved his hands. “I’m afraid of blabbermouths. I couldn’t take a chance on the enemy learning I was bringing you into it until you were on the scene and in action.”
Strange that he says “enemy,” and not “crooks” or “bastards” or “hustlers.”
“But even a large gang might be scared off knowing—”
“Look, I’m not talking about some punk gang. I’m talking about the Republic of New Mexico. Invading. Us.” He dropped into his chair and continued more calmly. It was almost as if passing the information on had taken the burden off him. “You’re shocked?”
Brierson nodded dumbly.
“Me, too. Or I would have been up till a month ago. The Republic has always had plenty of internal troubles. And even though they claim all lands south of the Arkansas River, they have no settlements within hundreds of kilometers of here. Even now I think this is a bit of adventurism that can be squelched by an application of point force.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, no matter how important speed is, we’ve got to do some coordinating. How many attack patrols are coming in after you?”
He saw the look on Brierson’s face. “What? Only one? Damn. Well, I suppose it’s my fault, being secret-like, but—”
Wil cleared his throat. “Big Al, there’s only me. I’m the only agent MSP sent.”
The other’s face seemed to collapse, the relief changing to despair, then to a weak rage. “G-God d-damn you to hell, Brierson. I may lose everything I’ve built here, and the people who trusted me may lose everything they own. But I swear I’m going to sue your Michigan State Police into oblivion. Fifteen years I’ve paid you guys premiums and never a claim. And now when I need max firepower, they send me one asshole with a ten-millimeter popgun.”
Brierson stood, his nearly two-meter bulk towering over the other. He reached out a bearlike hand to Al’s shoulder. The gesture was a strange cross between reassurance and intimidation. Wil’s voice was soft but steady. “The Michigan State Police hasn’t let you down, Mr. Swensen. You paid for protection against wholesale violence—and we intend to provide that protection. MSP has
never
defaulted on a contract.” His grip on Alvin Swensen’s shoulder tightened with these last words. The two eyed each other for a moment. Then Big Al nodded weakly, and the other sat down.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m paying for the results, not the methods. But I know what we’re up against, and I’m damned scared.”
“And that’s one reason why I’m here, Al: to find out exactly what we’re up against before we jump in with our guns blazing and our pants down. What are you expecting?”
Al leaned back in the softly creaking chair. He looked out through the window into the dark silence of the morning, and for a moment seemed to relax. However improbably, someone else was going to take on his problems. “They started about three years ago. It seemed innocent enough, and it was certainly legal.” Though the Republic of New Mexico claimed the lands from the Colorado on the west to the Mississippi on the east, and north to the Arkansas, in fact, most of their settlements were along the Gulf Coast and Rio Grande. For most of a century, Oklahoma and northern Texas had been uninhabited. The “border” along the Arkansas River had been of no real concern to the Republic, which had plenty of problems with its Water Wars on the Colorado, and of even less concern to the farmers at the southern edge of the ungoverned lands. During the last ten years, immigration from the Republic toward the more prosperous north had been steadily increasing. Few of the southerners stayed in the Manhattan area: most jobs were farther north. But during these last three years, wealthy New Mexicans had moved into the area, men willing to pay almost any price for farmland.
“IT’S CLEAR NOW THAT THESE PEOPLE WERE STOOGES FOR THE REPUBLIC GOVERNMENT. They paid more money than they could reasonably recoup from farming, and the purchases started right after the election of their latest president. You know—Hastings Whatever-his-name-is. Anyway, it made a pleasant boom time for a lot of us. If some wealthy New Mexicans wanted isolated estates in the ungoverned lands, that was certainly their business. All the wealth in New Mexico couldn’t buy one-tenth of Kansas, anyway.” At first, the settlers had been model neighbors. They even signed up with Al’s Protection Racket and Midwest Jurisprudence. But as the months passed, it became obvious that they were neither farmers nor leisured rich. As near as the locals could figure out, they were some kind of labor contractors. An unending stream of trucks brought raggedly dressed men and women from the cities of the south: Galveston, Corpus Christi, even from the capital, Albuquerque. These folk were housed in barracks the owners had built on the farms. Anyone could see, looking in from above, that the newcomers spent long hours working in the fields.
Those farms produced on a scale that surprised the locals, and though
it was still not clear that it was a profitable operation, there was a ripple of interest in the Grange journals; might manual labor hold an economic edge over the automatic-equipment rentals? Soon the workers were hiring out to local farmers. “Those people work harder than any reasonable person, and they work dirt cheap. Every night, their contract bosses would truck ’em back to the barracks, so our farmers had scarcely more overhead than they would with automatics. Overall, the NMs underbid the equipment-rental people by five percent or so.”
Wil began to see where all this was leading. Someone in the Republic seemed to understand Midwest Jurisprudence. “Hmm, you know, Al, if I were one of those laborers, I wouldn’t hang around in farm country. There are labor services up north that can get an apprentice butler more money than some rookie cops make. Rich people will always want servants, and nowadays the pay is tremendous.”
Big Al nodded. “We’ve got rich folks, too. When they saw what these newcomers would work for, they started drooling. And that’s when things began to get sticky.” At first, the NM laborers could scarcely understand what they were being offered. They insisted that they were required to work when and where they were told. A few, a very few at first, took the job offers. “They were really scared, those first ones. Over and over, they wanted assurances that they would be allowed to return to their families at the end of the workday. They seemed to think the deal was some kidnap plot rather than an offer of employment. Then it was like an explosion: They couldn’t wait to drop the farm jobs. They wanted to bring their families with them.”
“And that’s when your new neighbors closed up the camps?”
“You got it, pal. They won’t let the families out. And we know they are confiscating the money the workers bring in.”
“Did they claim their people were on long-term contracts?”
“Hell, no. It may be legal under Justice, Inc., but indentured servitude isn’t under Midwest—and that’s who they signed with. I see now that even that was deliberate.
“It finally hit the fan yesterday. The Red Cross flew a guy out from Topeka with a writ from a Midwest judge: He was to enter each of the settlements and explain to those poor folks how they stood with the law. I went along with a couple of my boys. They refused to let us in and punched out the Red Cross fellow when he got insistent. Their chief thug—fellow named Strong—gave me a signed policy cancellation, and told me that from now on they would handle all their own police and justice needs. We were then escorted off the property—at gunpoint.”
“So they’ve gone armadillo. That’s no problem. But the workers are still presumptively customers of yours?”
“Not just presumptively. Before this blew up, a lot of them had signed individual contracts with me and Midwest. The whole thing is a setup, but I’m
stuck
.”
Wil nodded. “Right. Your only choice was to call in someone with firepower, namely my company.”
Big Al leaned forward, his indignation retreating before fear. “Of course. But there’s more, Lieutenant. Those workers—those slaves—were part of the trap that was set for us. But most of them are brave, honest people. They know what’s happening, and they aren’t any happier about it than I am. Last night, after we got our butts kicked, three of them escaped. They walked fifteen kilometers into Manhattan to see me, to beg me
not
to intervene. To beg me
not
to honor the contract.

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