by Robert Reed
There had always been a Grand University clinging to the bloodwoods, and the University typically kept a powerful telescope lashed to its great trees. Forever pointing downwards, the giant tube and crystalline lenses had one target, one subject. When night was young—when ordinary souls saw nothing beneath but ink and the senseless glimmer of the demon floor—a Master’s eye, ruined by a life of hard reading, would be set against a round disk of glass, gaining the best possible view of the sun.
There were other methods of study. Any fire could be safely cast onto screens or trapped inside sealed boxes where its rich, complicated light might be carved into myriad flavors. Yet that flawless, perfect circle let itself be seen plainly only for brief times. That was when its qualities had been calculated. Lying at the bottom of Creation’s sphere, its size had proven to be changeless, its brightness fixed and eternal. Night was the shadow cast by the corona jungle. The jungle grew thick in a day and thicker through the night. Every night, the blackness won, alien weeds pressing against the brilliance until even young eyes with their lenses could see nothing but velvety blackness marred only by the coronas—a scattering of tiny brilliances thriving inside that fiery sodden alien realm.
King’s eyes were only a little sharper than human eyes.
But his vision was invincible.
Very late one night, the Archon’s son visited the telescope. Using his most polite voice, he begged the Masters for the honor to peer through their fancy glass. How could they refuse? Playing the curious boy, King linked his hands behind his back and bent low. The sun was invisible behind the forest. There was nothing below but ink and twenty thousand tiny glimmers. He counted the coronas. He asked old questions about light and demons and how the coronas managed to thrive in those depths. The Masters told him what they knew, and because they were paid to be smart, they spoke too much. Invincible problems always led to conflicting theories, and every theory had flaws that were patched with guesses. Calm, reasoned conversation ended with two old men falling into a much-loved argument about how much pressure the demon floor absorbed before it let the dawn rise. The other Masters stood back, enjoying these dried-out passions. Only King noticed when the corona jungle suddenly turned to flame, and he instantly wrapped both hands around the eyepiece, locking his grip on the tube, the right eye staring down at a blaze indistinguishable from a vast explosion.
Father was standing in an adjacent room. He was watching the arguing men when the first red flicker of dawn came through a distant window.
Instinct always rules over knowledge.
That was particularly true with humans.
The Archon yelled a warning and wave his arms, making a fool of himself before he remembered. And then every Master panicked. Those very smart men forgot what King was, or maybe they never understood. The new day washed over the world, finding a dozen weary bodies tugging and cursing at a child who couldn’t be moved, who had no intention of turning away from this marvel. Inner eyelids helped kill the glare. What a view, what a raw fine gorgeous spectacle! Then that eye was burnt and dead, and King calmly moved his face, placing the left eye against warm glass, watching one of the genuine marvels of Creation.
King was reliving that moment of sunshine, as he often did before rising. The soldier’s cot was too small for his body. Every eyelid was closed, armored hands folded across his bare belly, and his quick thoughts slipped from the sun to Father and Father to Diamond before leaping to the papio living on their coral ring.
Then the bedroom door opened, someone standing close.
“We caught her,” said the voice.
King wasn’t asleep or awake. But he sat up instantly, eyes still closed.
“Her little fleet is tied to the canopy, waiting for rain,” Father said.
Smiles could be worn outside, but he had to force both mouths to put on human smiles. Nobody appreciated how much work that took. He had to dress like a young man, even though his hard body was more impressive than any wardrobe. Talking with his eating mouth was rude—a rule that felt instinctively true to everyone, including King. With his polite mouth, he used polite words. “Thank you for telling me, Father.”
The little man remained beside the cot.
King opened his eyes.
The human face was looking up at him, and its expression was talking.
“What’s wrong, Father?”
“Very little, I hope.”
This day deserved the best clothes. Father’s tailors had used the toughest fabrics and thickest leather, and thirty days ago they built trousers and a shirt, boots and a wide belt, every article too big for the boy. But their target was a future child, today’s boy, and King acted happy with the clothes and he genuinely liked the heavy leather belt decorated with the heavy copper circles. Putting on the useless boots, he asked, “Is the crazy woman talking to us?”
Father grinned. “And she’s being clever.”
King wiggled the six toes inside their prison. “You said she’d be clever.”
“We’ve pulled up beside her ship, the Panoply Night,” Father said. “She’s invited me to cross over and meet with her.”
“This is your fleet,” the boy said.
Father stepped back. “It is mine,” he said.
This was a test. King liked this kind of test. He said, “You should order her to come over here.”
“Perhaps I already have.”
An idea teased. King smiled, asking, “How soon will the rain come?”
“We have five recitations, perhaps less.”
Dawn and the ruddy first light were rising. King smiled so that his teeth shone. “Make her cross in the rain. Make her wet and soggy.”
“She won’t,” Father said. “I insisted, but she instantly refused me.”
“You’re the Archon of Archons.”
The man lifted a hand, checking the lay of the bright bronze scales on his son’s magnificent chest. “Prima has her excuse,” he said.
This was a fun test. “Is it a good one?”
“The very best. She says she has a prisoner, a young aide from her office. The man is a traitor, and after some hard interrogations, he has unveiled a string of names and various intrigues. She has a clear picture about who organized the first attack and what we should do once morning arrives.”
“You should see this prisoner for yourself,” King said.
“Indeed, I should.”
“Tell her to wrap him in chains and drag him to your bridge.”
“Except there’s a risk,” said Father. “Her prisoner has survived this long inside the Panoply, which means that he must be safe there. But the traitor has powerful allies, and she isn’t convinced that he would survive the walk.”
Both mouths snarled. “The woman wants you to cross to her ground, on her terms.”
“And I should have already gone.”
“What about me?”
Father looked at his eyes, the mouths.
“She doesn’t want me with you,” King said.
“Prima said a few words about you, and my sense here . . . yes, she’d prefer me to leave you in bed, asleep.”
Father’s narrow face smiled, tiny teeth showing.
“You can’t leave me behind,” said King.
“If I thought otherwise, I’d have left you dreaming.” Father opened the door, walking into the suite’s main room. “And since the gangway is uncovered and I don’t want to arrive at this meeting dressed in a drippy rubber poncho, I think we should leave immediately.”
But King had made one decision about himself. He kicked off the first boot, and with a few hard jerks of the arms, he tore away the new trousers and the shirt. Short trousers made from growler hide was perfect for this kind of day, and he kept the belt on and left his feet bare, and in case Father had doubts about his uniform, King got fine smiles ready with both mouths, plus flattering words about being the good son happily standing at a great man’s side.
Eyes open, standing on the long tarmac while waiting for dawn
, sleep took hold of her and she was dreaming.
Nothing about the moment was surprising or sudden. Maybe she had been dreaming a long while but didn’t realize it. Every mind kept secrets, particularly from itself. Whatever the circumstance, Divers found herself feeling warm inside a special old dream, the dream where she was tiny again. She was a frail voice inside other voices that were scared like her and lost like her. The hand doesn’t name its fingers and thumbs. None of the Eight wore names. Yet each voice was unique, and they were forgotten and frightened together, nothing outside the rounded shared body but darkness and heat, stomach acids and the roaring of a beast that carried them back and forth.
The nameless Divers couldn’t move. She couldn’t envision being mobile. Trapped and miniscule, she had nothing to do with her thoughts but share them, and the others shared what they thought, and nothing changed outside. Nothing was new. But the unrelenting sameness drove them to invent fresh notions, injecting what was new into a conversation that had gone on for thousands and millions of days.
“I belong here,” she thought.
With seamless ease, she thought, “I am happy.”
Happiness was what shook her, alerted her. The attack had begun, and there might have been a moment when inroads were possible. But Divers saw the truth and roused herself, discovering that the giant body had taken only two full strides without her being aware.
Divers was standing in the middle of the long smooth tarmac, in the final blackness of night. The hanger’s long door had been closed since the sun vanished, but a smaller access hatch was propped open, revealing lights and the shadows riding on the lights, and she heard the bright hard whine of a corona-tooth drill cutting a precise hole through some fresh piece of corona bone.
The Eight were alone, nobody watching them.
Divers studied the rising slopes of the reef on her left and her right, dark and a little cool after the brief night. This was the world’s quiet time. No nocturnal animal wanted to walk in the open, exposed at dawn. Without orders or some deep personal need, no sane human would risk the storm.
Aloud, she said, “Tritian.”
Inside her, Tritian’s voice said, “Yes.”
“You tried,” she said with her mouth.
“I tried very little,” he whispered.
“You wanted to scare me, did you?”
“Are you scared?”
“Not even a little.”
“Then the game’s a miserable failure,” Tritian said.
She agreed but said nothing.
Other voices began to flow, and recognizing each speaker and the connotations, Divers hunted for codes in the ordinary words and any implications and the hints of emotion that should worry her or make her happy.
Tritian had sympathizers. Yet Divers had allies and genuine power, inside the body and across the world without.
“Attacking me now,” she said. “Is this the best time to seed chaos? Everything at stake and you launch an assault?”
“That accomplished nothing,” said her enemy.
Diver’s eyes—their eyes—were gazing down the long black runway. Where the pavement ended the reef fell away, and beyond the reef was open air and the first hints of red light. A giant fire was blazing under the demon floor, turning alien plants into volatile steam, and she intended to stand here, motionless as coral, allowing the hot first waves of rain to wash across the long potent body.
A child said her name.
Zakk said, “Divers.”
And she woke again.
The Eight were standing where she imagined the body to be, and the scene in her dream was the same as reality—the hanger behind her, full of noise and frantic shadows, the sleeping reef and the tarmac, and the air and fire beyond, great waves of water poised to rise like a wave over the world. The trick of the dream had been masterful. But the mastery was wasted; the body was hers and hers alone.
The boy called to her again, asking, “Is something wrong?”
“You aren’t sleeping,” she said.
“I couldn’t. I’m excited.”
“Did you ever meet the other children?” Divers waved at the village hiding higher up on the reef.
“Not yet. I was watching mechanics repairing the wing.”
“That is fun,” she agreed.
“I’ll meet the other children today,” he said.
She couldn’t care any less. What mattered was the gnawing urge to be suspicious of everything.
“I have an errand for you,” Divers said.
“Good,” Zakk said.
“In the hanger, ask someone for a mid-length pry bar. Find one with a sharpened end and bring it straight to me.”
The boy broke into a nervous laugh.
“Are you going to hit me with it?” he asked.
“Maybe that too,” said Divers. “But no, my plan is to stab myself. The bar is a tool, and pain is an even better tool. You see, I could be lying in a hole, sleeping and stupid. But more likely, I’m trapped in a sleepwalking state, which is an even worse prospect.”
Zakk had the largest eyes that she had ever seen on such a tiny, young face. He stared at Divers and at all of them, and then he said, “Yes,” as he turned, running quickly for the open hatch.
Something about that boy was wrong. In subtle, persistent ways, he made no sense, and she couldn’t decide why, and she watched him until he vanished and then turned to look at the brightening glare.
Little time passed before feet came back across the landing, aiming for her.
She pivoted, ready to compliment Zakk on his speed.
But it was a local soldier—an officer and one of the Eight’s first caretakers—and he had news that might already be too late.
“Bountiful,” he said.
The name meant something. But three other voices remembered the corona-hunting ship before Divers could.
“They found Bountiful hiding in the wilderness, and Diamond hiding inside her,” the young man said. Then a smile burst loose, and he added, “They’ve also found an open lane through the trees and signaled ahead, just a little while ago. As soon as the rain quits, Bountiful drops below the trees and sprints to the reef.”
“Putting the boy where?” she asked. “Here?”
But that was too much to hope for. “No, they’re going to the far side of Bright River, to the installations at High Coral Merry.”
That was a long distance. Covering the rough ground would take speed and focus, but she had both in abundance.
But what if this was a dream?
The officer—one of the allies who lived outside her body—was very much interested in whatever Divers said next.
“That boy,” she said. “I sent him for a tool.”
“We don’t trust him,” the man confessed. “We sent him chasing nonsense.”
“Very good,” she said.
“Should we do something more than mislead him?”
“Whatever you think reasonable.”
The officer nodded, saying nothing.
“Thank you for this news,” she said.
Her ally smiled, rocking side to side, watching in amazement as Divers began to run away at an amazing pace.
Stopping beside the first slope, she picked up a great chunk of hard blue coral. Then the left hand struck the right hand, crushing two fingers and a thumb.
Pain drew a map of her body. Yes, she was awake. She was certain that she was awake. Then the first drops of rain found her—the cool brave rain that always preceded the hot and helpless—and Divers started to gallop, hands helping the feet climb, the first sharp ridge soon behind her and nothing ahead but hazards and doubts and little voices whispering too loudly while floating through their own dreams.
Towlines lashed Panoply Night to a big fletch, and a hundred straps secured both vessels to the overhead canopy. A long gangway had been erected between Night’s stern and the Ruler of the Storm. Soldiers in bright parade uniforms walked before the Archon of Archons and soldiers in green m
ilitia garb met them in the middle, protocol and routine duties delaying their progress. The ranking Corona officer insisted that the honor guard retreat to their ship. But the man who mattered had no patience for clumsy tactics, and pushing to the front, List said, “Enough concessions. My people are coming with me, and with my son.”
King stepped up, letting the pests have one long glance at him. Then because it was so easy, so tempting, he planted an arm on the biggest shoulder and drove that fellow to his knees.
Bright uniforms took the lead.
And the wind rose, making a keening, sorrowful music with the tightening straps. But then the gusts softened just as quickly, and the world had a calm quiet moment before the first gouts of rain hammered at the gangway’s belly.
Father made it inside before being soaked—one tiny victory.
Prima was waiting indoors. She looked like every tired, furious human. King assumed that her rage was going to be pointed at Father or maybe at him. His armor reflexively tilted, ready to impress. But Prima ignored King, and she barely nodded at the Archon. The eyes were bright fiery and distinctly crazed, fixed on those left behind on the gangway. She was dressed for no purpose but comfort, her clothes ordinary, even bland. “I’m sorry, that was stupid,” she screamed across the taller heads, apparently addressing the drenching gale. “Give me a moment, sir. Please.”
The next recitation was amusing, educational, and thoroughly bizarre. King would have known that just from his father’s expression or anyone else left standing inside the Panoply’s entranceway. Every face watched the Archon stride straight into the storm. Neither of her hands used the railing as the extended, increasingly strained gangway was buffeted in several directions at once. A few trailing men had to be ignored if not exactly pushed aside. It would be simple to call the woman fearless or brave—two very different natures—yet she was neither. Mostly she was transfixed by one matter that was so simple, narrow and vital and pure, that it would take more than a gale of bathwater-hot rain to make her rational heart throb at all.
