She turned when the Captain, now quite distressed, was done. “Can we disperse this crowd? They hamper our finding these primates.”

The Captain gave an efficient flutter of feather-arcs: agreement. “I can use standard suffering methods.”

“Do so.”

The Captain gave orders and the great belly of the skyfish began its laborious turn. Memor circled the observation deck, scattering small crew before her, to see how the Sils were moving. Streams of them came from all directions. Such crowds! Many walked, some ran with a dogged pace, others rode animals. They looked up at the skyfish. Some stopped and shook themselves, their rage evident. At what? Their target was the Longline station.

“Captain! When might the primates arrive here?”

“They could get here soon, Astronomer. It is possible. But we do not expect them to follow a simple route, staying on the same line. That would be too obvious.” This last sentence provoked an involuntary submission-flutter of amber and brown as the Captain saw the implications.

“They may realize we expect evasion.”

“Our strategy command thinks that unlikely—”

“Humor me.”

“These Sil have no way of knowing—”

“There are always betrayers, Captain. Information crosses patchwork boundaries, though we try to stop it.”

“I wonder, Astronomer, why your esteemed presence came here. Surely the primate invaders would not take a simple route—”

“Do not presume to estimate the rationality of aliens. Nor their clever nature.”

“Surely you do not expect them—”

“These Sils gather for a reason.”

“But how could—? Of course, these Sils have given us trouble since my grandmother’s time. They see this as another device to—”

“You are wasting time.”

The Captain hurried off to alter his commands. The skyfish eased lower as it wallowed across the air, toward the stony ridges that marked the Longline here.

Memor took some moments to review on her private mind-feed the background of these Adopted, the Sil. The Bowl had passed near their star as the Sil were still in hunter-gatherer stages. The Bird Folk found Sil promising, and brought many aboard. Those early Sil were long since left behind genetically—crafty they had been, yes, but not that smart. Something close to the far older Bowl primates, but with ambition, tool-making and better social skills, developed through group hunting. As usual, their first tools had been weapons. This always led to a spirited species, which could be positive—but not, alas, for the Sils. They made their periodic rebellions, and were periodically reinstructed, often genetically.

These Sils evolved first in trees—often a source of later troubles, for it gave them dexterous use of several limbs. Thus the Bird Folk bred quite deliberately for higher intelligence and tool use, by increasing artificial selection, testing the results, and directing their mating to enhance the effects. The Sil were domesticated and made smarter, suiting them better for the technological jobs needed to tend the Bowl. Troubles came when these wily ones rebelled, or worse, tried to expand their territory. The tragic solution was to be avoided, of course, but even that didn’t always work.

“Crews! Begin firing!” the Captain called.

Memor braced herself. This was the inevitable problem with using living beings to fly in the Bowl’s deep atmosphere. Of course, they could not use chemical fuels for every aircraft, as that would tax the farming regions beyond their endurance. Electrodynamic flight was preferred for long stays aloft, but was too delicate for the long skirmishes that regional patrol officers had to carry out. Skyfish, though, could bear up under the typically archaic weaponry Adopted species could bring to bear. Further, its immense vault of hydrogen made it ferocious in close air support.

As Memor watched, the crew used their flame guns on scattered Sil groups on the ridgeline. These were apparently spotters, for they were armed with simple chemical explosive weapons. As the skyfish slewed slowly to the left, it brought its flame spouts to bear. Gouts of rich golden flame raked the ridge. They were so close, Memor could hear angry shouts from the burning ridge, often followed by shrieks and screams as their last agony came to them. Not a delicious sound, but reassuring, yes.

Then the pain projectors came into play. Memor watched as the Captain adroitly directed the assaults, driving the Sil. The running, struggling Sil looked like herd animals in a panic. Then the green laser pulses destroyed them in densely packed groups. It slashed down, annihilating in fire and ferment. The Sil broke into fleeing remnants.

But the skyfish was taking hits as well. The simple Sil had fixed artillery set up with surprisingly mischievous warheads that blew shredding blasts into the underbody. Memor felt the floor vibrate as the great beast reacted, flinching from the wounds. A deep bass note rang and the wall membranes fluttered. In answer the gun crews poured on more pain projector power. Soundless, this was the standard weapon to terrify opponents.

Yet the artillery fire did not abate, even under maximum power. “The Sil surely cannot withstand—” Memor broke off as she saw on the viewer the gun crews. Primates!

The Late Invaders had come. “Captain, use your lasers.”

The male displayed a corona of dismay. “Their fire has disabled our forward batteries, Astronomer. I apologize for—”

The skyfish writhed as shrapnel struck it. Long rolling waves warped the moist walls. Equipment smashed down from their perches. Crew ran by, babbling of emergencies. Memor ignored this and said, “Your sting does not take with these primates. They have different neurons. You must use the gas-fed lasers.”

“We will get them up and running. A few moments—”

A volley from below slammed into the great beast. Memor carefully descended, feet seeking a balance as the floor shifted—down a great curving stair and through a polished plate glass dilating door into the skyfish bridge. Chaos.

The Captain turned and bowed. “We have taken many hits, Astronomer. Perhaps we relied on the agony projectors too much—”

“Perhaps?” Memor scarcely thought it necessary to point out that the skyfish was floundering, spewing fluids from multiple wounds, losing altitude, veering erratically. “Perhaps?”

“I propose we withdraw—”

“If you can.”

“We can mend and rearm at higher altitude—”

“If you can reach it.”

Skyfish had all the advantages of living technologies, but they had their own life cycles as well. The marriage of life with material was a great ancient success that made the Bowl biosphere work, but of course with drawbacks. Life-forms needed rest and could self-repair, and even with help could reproduce—and all that took time. In battle, at times knowing the organism’s limits meant having the wisdom to withdraw.

“This beast is badly damaged. It’s frightened—feel it?” The floor and walls were vast lapidary membranes that now shook with a neurological spasm. Smoldering fumes rose amid the clanging discord.

“We relied too much perhaps on the agony projectors. In future—”

“You have no future. We are so close to these primates, yet they prevail.”

“I can—”

“Get me to my pod.”

“I believe we have the situation in hand, or soon will,” the Captain persisted. “My crews can quickly bring the laser—”

“If the hydrogen vaults are breached, we shall have no further disputes. I will have my pod now.”

Memor loved the moist, fragrant membranes of skyfish, but prudence demanded that she not risk herself while this great being floundered and perhaps even failed. She swiftly followed the running escorts, down a long ramp and to the side farthest away from the rattling battle. Here her pod waited, with crew looking anxious. “Depart,” she said, “with speed.”