The Summer Thieves
PRAISE FOR PAUL DI FILIPPO
“Di Filippo is like gourmet potato chips to me.
I can never eat just one of his stories.”
—Harlan Ellison
“Di Filippo is the spin doctor of SF—and it is a powerful medicine he brews.”
—Brian Aldiss
“ Paul Di Filippo does dazzling new tricks with English.
And then he puts the wonderful language and the wild science togeither....”
—Rudy Rucker on Ribofunk
“An author who genuinely comes close to defying all attempts at description. A true original.”
—Infinity Plus
“In terms of composition, narrative description and voice, Di Filippo is well nigh masterful.”
—Sf Site on A Year in the Linear City
“An often genuinely funny mixture of Raymond Carver, Harry Harrison, and Douglas Adams.”
—Booklist on Fractal Paisleys
“Out of a rich impasto of language, a story that is sensual, sexual, and hot takes shape around one of the most engaging heroines since Southern and Hoffenberg’s Candy.”
—Samuel Delany on A Mouthful of Tongues
“Paul Di Filippo’s The Steampunk Trilogy is the literary equivalent of Max Ernst’s collages of 19th-century steel-engravings, spooky, haunting, hilarious.”
—William Gibson
Also by Paul Di Filippo
The Steampunk Trilogy
Ribofunk
Destroy All Brains!
Ciphers
Fractal Paisleys
The Steampunk Trilogy
Lost Pages
Ribofunk
Would It Kill You To Smile?
[Written with Michael Bishop as Philip Lawson]
Joe’s Liver
Muskrat Courage
Strange Trades
A Year in the Linear City
A Mouthful of Tongues
Little Doors
Babylon Sisters
Fuzzy Dice
Spondulix
Dreamland
Neutrino Drag
Fuzzy Dice
Harp, Pipe and Symphony
Families Are Murder
The Emperor of Gondwanaland
Shuteye for the Timebroker
Plumage from Pegasus
Top 10: Beyond the Farthest Precinct
Time’s Black Lagoon
Harp, Pipe and Symphony
Cosmocopia
Harsh Oases
Roadside Bodhisattva
A Princess of the Linear Jungle
Cosmocopia/After the Collapse
A Palazzo in the Stars
The 101 Best SF Novels: 1985-2010
[Co-authored with Damien Broderick]
More Plumage from Pegasus
Wikiworld
The Great Jones Coop Ten Gigasoul Party
A Palazzo in the Stars
Lost Among the Stars
Critical Survey of Science Fiction & Fantasy Literature [Editor: Paul Di Filippo]
Monarch of the Feast
The Big Get-Even
Infinite Fantastika
AEOTA
The Deadly Kiss-Off
Plumage from Pegasus: The All-New 25th Anniversary Collection
The Mezcal Crack-Up
THE
SUMMER THIEVES
A NOVEL OF THE QUINARY
THE
SUMMER THIEVES
A NOVEL OF THE QUINARY
HUGO AWARD-NOMINATED AUTHOR
PAUL DI FILIPPO
Copyright © 2021 by Paul Di Filippo.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Start Publishing LLC, 221 River Street, 9th Floor,Hoboken, NJ 07030.
Night Shade Books™ is an trademark of Start SF LLC.
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-949102-51-2
eISBN: 978-1-59780-655-8
Cover illustration by Fred Gambino
Cover design by Daniel Brount and Kai Texel
Printed in the United States of America
For Deborah, who makes summer last forever
“And good-bye, wanderer! Good luck to you,” she said to Casher O’Neill. “You will remain miserable as long as you seek justice, but when you give up, righteousness will come to you and you will be happy. Don’t worry. You’re young and it won’t hurt you to suffer a few more years. Youth is an extremely curable disease, isn’t it?”
—Cordwainer Smith, “On the Gem Planet”
CHAPTER 1
High atop the rocky Salazar Escarpment, Johrun Corvivios could see clear to the western horizon: a vista of undulating greensward pied with the slowly moving scattered forms of the giant herples that constituted the valuable cattle of Sweetmeats Pasturage. (The Corvivios family employed over five hundred transgenics, as domestics, herders, slaughterers, and packers, choosing not to rely on human workers or the simplex robot mechanisms that were the only type permitted them by the old Artilect Recension.) Massive as Gaian elephants, the sartorized creatures were dumb as a bag of pebbles, their only drive and function being the transformation of grass into succulent herple protein, a delicacy highly prized throughout the worlds of the Quinary.
The gustatory essence of the pale meat was deemed irreproducible even in this age of molecular fabricators that could build nearly anything to template from the atomic level on up. The term âmago was applied by philosophers and gourmets and regulators alike to any naturally raised organic product to denote its superior quintessence not found in the assembled version. Some critics and esthetes even went so far as to discern the âmago in a sculpture or painting that came straight from the unmediated hands of the artist, and not out of a fab hopper. Johrun was not one of these latter hypersensitive souls—he thought such high-flown fancies a lot of hooey—but he could definitely attest to the unmatched virtues of grass-fed herple steak over the molecularly accreted competitor. And he was not biased simply from eating the delicacy all his relatively young life!
Twenty-five years old, Johrun was the son of Landon and Ilona Corvivios. His grandparents, Xul and Chirelle, still living, had been the first to come into possession of uninhabited Verano, along with partners Brayall and Fern Soldevere. Halfway around the world, the elder Soldeveres still ran Danger Acres, a hunting preserve, with the help of their lone offspring, Arne, and his wife, Fallon.
And from Arne and Fallon, in the same year as Johrun’s birth, had sprung Minka Soldevere, to whom Johrun had been betrothed at their mutual infant christening—in honor of the demands of the Diminuendo Aleatorics, the sect in which the families had long been postulants.
A fey beauty of elfin physique and features, Minka was soon to return home from her education offplanet. And then she and Johrun would be wed, uniting the clans at last.
Anticipation of their wedding formed the undercurrent of Johrun’s thoughts as he regarded from on high his family’s slowly roving cattle—with undiminished appreciation, despite their familiarity. But now both Minka and Sweetmeats Pasturage faded into the background, for Johrun meant to fly.
Johrun flexed his powerskin wings and looked upwards. The pallid lavender sun of Verano—the star dubbed Wayward’s Spinel in the M68 globular cluster—seemed pinned at midpoint to the wide dome of the sky. Soft warm breezes, scented with traces of vetiver, clawbush, and the effluvia of the towering lakecrab colonies, ruffled Johrun’s chestnut hair, now longer than he really liked it, but neglected duri
ng the recent busy days of roundup, slaughter, packing, and shipping.
Despite all the brute work falling to the splices, the men of the Corvivios family—Grandpa Xul, his son Landon, and Johrun himself—still found themselves kept on the go in a supervisory and troubleshooting capacity. Nor were Grandma Chirelle or Johrun’s mother, Ilona, left as idlers. Gran ran every financial aspect of the family business, dealing with customers and the necessary Quinary officials, while Ilona kept the physical plant afloat, making sure the strangelet furnaces supplied all the needed power, repairing machines, jockeying the transport braneships in and out upon landing and takeoff. Yes, the Corvivios family might own half a planet, with an annual income on the order of a hundred megachains, matched likewise by the Soldeveres, but they did not coast on their vast fortune like the wealthy of other worlds. No ceaseless round of parties and galas such as the swells enjoyed on Patenaude, no lazing around the ranch with a Dandler’s Punch in hand, nor the preening costume displays and fevered gambling of the habitués of the continent-long racetracks of Mokshan.
So this was the first moment in many weeks that Johrun had had free. And no other use of his leisure time appealed to him more than flying. So up to the top of the high shaley bluff he had hiked, a pleasant walk of an hour or so from the ranch. He had arrived mildly sweaty and appreciative of a brief rest before the exercise ahead. He contemplated the beloved panorama while sipping boost water from a small hip flask. But now he was ready for flight.
The smart rig he wore featured fifth-force impellors and lifters carefully calibrated to diminish the wearer’s weight without negating it entirely. The point was not to float and cruise like some bulky utilitarian liftsled, but to emulate a graceful avian, insofar as human muscles and skills could comply. Achievement in the face of preset challenges, not a free ride. Thus constrained by the art, as in unmediated hang-gliding, one needed to launch from on high. Takeoff from the ground was not feasible, even given the technological reduction in the mass-to-muscle ratio of the flier.
With typical caution and mindfulness, Johrun ran one last set of diagnostics on his gear. He tapped at the soft textured vambrace on his forearm and saw it display the reassuring icons. As part of its background operations, the vambrace registered with muted pings the irregular but nearly continuous updates to the Indranet that occurred every time a branedrone popped out into the Wayward’s Spinel system and disseminated its updates in a burst of information. Given that interstellar travel and communications would always be less than instantaneous, the galactically scattered nodes of the Indranet could never be totally in sync. But as the branedrones shuttled continuously from star to star, satisfying some best solution to a travelling salesman’s algorithm, spreading and receiving the freshest reports from each system, the vast and vastly separated apparatus of the Indranet attained a surprising level of intersystem uniformity.
Johrun stretched a transparent protective jelly band across his eyes, where it stuck tight around the edges of his sockets. Information lurked at the corners of his vision. Flexing his knees, he launched himself from the scarp’s rim. Arms and tethered wings outspread, he fell, the wind combing his hair, then caught a thermal and soared high, aimed away from the ranch.
As always, he felt instantly accepted and welcomed by his maternal planet, a part of the whole global mechanism. Almost more than the physical joys of soaring, this feeling of being embraced by his world constituted the true allure of flying. The atmosphere was like a warm bath, the sunlight his mother’s gaze.
Verano was a Harvester-engineered world. Its entire improbable ecosystem, very close to a monoculture, and its climate of perpetual summer were the direct product of intervention by the unknown race of cosmic forerunners who had been seemingly long extinct by the time humanity arrived on the galactic scene. These enigmatic accomplished beings had sown myriad worlds with secret subterranean engines and distributed invisible agents, all beyond human unriddling, which worked to maintain the design of each planet—all for purposes unknown. Thus the endless desert world of Sandhill could function in an unlikely equilibrium, as could the snowball planet of Itaska and millions of other tailored planets.
And surely the Harvester nanomites of Verano had integrated themselves into Johrun’s physiology, rendering him as much a part of the biome as the grasses or lakecrabs, and giving him that feeling of inseparable belonging.
But the Harvesters had not earned their name through this planetary manipulation alone. Rather, the indisputable record of their galaxy-wide cull of every sophont and sapient species that had preceded man—leaving many civilizational relics and vestiges as confirmation of their several truncated existences–had earned the super-race its designation. For whatever reason, in a very short and concentrated span some ten million years ago, the dominant overlords had reaped their clients’ species without exception, then vanished from the galactic landscape, taking everyone to parts unknown. Perhaps a distant other galaxy, perhaps even another undiscovered brane.
Humanity now reigned as the only species of higher intelligence across the whole Milky Way and its satellites, as far as ships had explored, from Triangulum II to the Magellanic Clouds, from Fornax to the Sculptor, from Hercules to Barnard’s.
Were the Harvesters still lurking behind the scenes, awaiting the proper moment to gather up the human species as it had the others? By inhabiting these pleasant engineered worlds, had the human race placed itself in the equivalent of a corral or feed-lot? Neither big thinkers nor barstool philosophers provided any solid or satisfying answers, although debate was endless, and so mankind simply went about living as best it knew how, across all the niches previously occupied by other galactic races.
But such past and possible future apocalypses mattered not one whit to Johrun at this instant. Instinctively tilting his wings this way and that, he exulted in his easy movements, the flavor of the air, the warmth of the sun, his hair whipping in the wind. No matter what other wonderful planets existed in the universe, how could anyone desire to leave such a perfect place as Verano, except perhaps temporarily, as his father had, in search of a mate? But that quest did not apply to Johrun, for he had his preordained Minka.
Minka, who, despite her considerable charms and her identical upbringing, somewhat bafflingly did not feel the same as Johrun did about the all-sufficiency of Verano. Minka, who, at age twenty-one, on the very eve of their formal wedding, had expressed her sudden desire to attend the University of Saints Fontessa and Kuno on Loudermilk III. Minka, who had been generally absent from Johrun’s life for four years, except for brief return visits at the holidays. Minka, who, though still offworld at this moment, was due home for good in just three days, her schooling finally finished, the day of their wedding now imminent!
Spiralling higher and further out, the placid herples below him like ruminant city busses, Johrun contemplated his feelings for Minka, and their likely future together.
Although their families were separated by half a planet, the children, starting at age three, had grown up for long stretches side-by-side, sharing their daily routines. This was accomplished by the simple expedient of each youth swapping families for a stretch. Johrun would spend several months at Danger Acres, with Aunt Fallon and Uncle Arne, Grandpa Brayall and Grandma Fern, learning the ins and outs of the Soldevere life. Then Minka would journey with Johrun back to his home and become integral to the daily routine at Sweetmeats Pasturage. Lutramella, the beloved splice who had midwifed Johrun into the world and served thereafter as his nursemaid and companion and mentor, had monitored both children—although Minka, for inexplicable reasons, had never really cottoned to the transgenic.
In truth, the two clans really functioned as one extended family anyway. But the elders were careful to also enforce periods of separation on the children—ameliorated only by regular contact from household to household across the local Indranet— so as to break any patterns that might make the pair feel like siblings. Although the goal was to yoke the two dynasties, they wan
ted to preserve some of the independent traditions and outlooks of each clan. And besides, a happy union would be unlikely if Johrun and Minka thought of each other as sister and brother. Cousins, perhaps, would be a tolerable status.
And the tactic had worked—at least in Johrun. Familiarity had blended with distance and otherness to produce an ardent fascination with his betrothed. The notion of pleasing his elders by fulfilling a destiny that spanned generations contributed to the power of her attraction. Johrun could barely conceive of joining his future to any other mate.
And yet, and yet—this pleasant fatedness did not blind Johrun to some of Minka’s more jarring or less pleasing qualities.
She was in some sense flighty, her bright hummingbird mind flitting lightly from one topic to another, as though always dissatisfied or in search of some new thrill. Sometimes that search could manifest as a fascination with peril. On several safaris with Danger Acres clients, Johrun had witnessed Minka take incredible risks that had endangered not only her, but the customers in her care. Once when their party was stalking a willigorgon, Minka had deliberately broken cover and allowed the slavering monster to barrel at her, shouldering and firing her ceegee rifle only at the very last second. The tiny but powerful color-glass condensate charge killed the beast instantly, of course, exploding a giant gout of flesh from its back. But the willigorgon’s momentum laid it out nearly at Minka’s feet, causing her to hop coolly aside to avoid being crushed by its crashing bulk. Such forced dalliances with unnecessary extremes were alien to Johrun.
Almost equally foreign was Minka’s reluctance to take important matters seriously. Johrun understood how a person might rank different matters of importance in alternate orders from himself. But simply to deny that something as vital as, say, the future of Verano itself carried any weight—incredible! And yet Minka had asserted just such a sentiment.
They were both nineteen years old. Minka was currently living with the Corvivios family. She and Johrun were supervising a team of splices as they sowed a new sector with little herple spratlings. The creatures were still small enough to rest on one’s palm. They merely had to be spaced out on the prairie at regular grazing intervals. No predators would trouble them.