The Memory of Sky

by Robert Reed

  Why did she even risk stepping out into plain view?

  But then she happened across a crew lounge and its tall windows. As if she saw these scenes every day, she slowly crossed the open floor. The Ruler was approaching the first of the great bloodwoods, grand and powerful, dwarfing this assemblage of gas and corona parts, metal and more metal. The window was shaped to afford a fair view forwards, and for the first time in her life, Quest could see the center of the world up close, and her new heart slowed in response, fighting to keep her calm.

  Another soldier, a female with a similar rounded build, joined her at the window and said, “Hello.”

  Voices could be difficult, but human voices weren’t the hardest noises to mimic.

  “Hello,” Quest said.

  Then she turned her head, looking back beneath the forest. In the late day sunlight, very little was understood. A couple orange flickers might mark wildfires, or maybe they showed fighting on the ever-shifting front. Questions needed to be asked, but soldiers weren’t supposed to exchange information too freely. How could she phrase her curiosity and not end up in a wild chase?

  Then the strange woman said, “And now I have seen everything.”

  She was looking down.

  Quest followed the gaze with eyes that only looked human. The last light in the world rose up into her head and her mind, and she didn’t understand what she was seeing. What was there was obvious enough, yes. But what were they doing?

  With her new mouth, Quest asked, “What do they want?”

  “A spectacular question,” said her new friend.

  Above the demon floor, floating or flying back and forth, were thousands of coronas. There were small coronas and giants and even another one of the dark ancient creatures like the one that had given birth to her.

  “They’re doing nothing but watching us,” the woman said. “That’s as simple and true as any explanation I can think of.”

  Countless necks were twisting, heads lifting, eyes fixed on the forest above.

  “They know our hunters aren’t flying,” the woman said. “They’re safe, and a war is underway.”

  “You’re right,” said Quest. “To the coronas, this must be a very beautiful evening.”

  The room belonged to no one. That point was made by several people, first and last by the Archon. The palace had many unoccupied rooms, but the voices claimed that this was one of the finest rooms, claimed or unclaimed, and there was an implication in those statements—a reason for celebration and importance, or at least some careful pride.

  Diamond felt none of that.

  After so much, Diamond sensed no emotion as he was shown the room. But the space was enormous. Every wall was distant, and even though the day had been finished for a long while now, the ceiling was filled with lights that hummed and glowed, working as hard as possible to make every bare surface shine.

  Good walked to the middle of the room, looking hard for one thing.

  “Where’s the toilet?” Diamond asked.

  List wasn’t sure. He had to open three tall doors before he found the proper little room. But the bath was little only compared to this huge bright unclaimed empire of light and walls and curtain-covered windows.

  Diamond expected to be left alone at any time.

  But the Archon of Archons wasn’t leaving. In fact, he was staring hard at the boy, with energy and the strangest joy that the man had ever displayed. On arriving at the palace, several aides had taken List aside. Diamond assumed that there was another meeting about the war or the Eight or an equally massive topic. But since then that odd encounter, the man had been nursing a smile that didn’t seem to fit his face.

  Diamond looked at the distant bed and the furnishings and the bookshelves that were covered with volumes but still looked only half-filled.

  The Archon stepped closer.

  From the bathroom came the sound of water running, in the toilet and then in the sink, and again in the toilet.

  “I have news,” the Archon said.

  Diamond wanted him to leave.

  “I want to show you something, Diamond.”

  The monkey emerged from the bathroom soaking wet. In one hand was a bar of perfumed soap, and with great precision, Good heaved the soap at the nearest light, glass shattering, glittering shards raining down.

  Not even that violence bothered the smiling man.

  Diamond followed List, turning off the lights on the wall switch as he left, telling the monkey, “Make a nest.”

  Good looked at him.

  “Boy,” he said.

  Diamond stopped. “What?”

  “I forget the sack,” Good said. “I forget you putting me in the sack.”

  Diamond nodded.

  “I forgive you,” the monkey claimed.

  Diamond made himself walk. He was heavy and cold and too tired to ever sleep again. The hallway was wider than most rooms, and nobody else was in sight. As they walked, the Archon said something about leaving behind orders, instructions. “On the faint hope of good news,” he said.

  The boy barely listened.

  “A lot of things can’t be controlled,” said the man. “An Archon during war doesn’t have the same powers as in peace, no. But I promise you: I will protect the people that you want me to protect, as much as I can protect them, and I will keep you safe. And in return, I want and deserve your cooperation too. This will be a partnership, an alliance. Do you know what I mean?”

  Diamond wanted to be alone in a tiny room.

  But List drifted nearer, and then he almost giggled.

  “Refugees,” he said.

  What?

  “It was chaos during that first attack,” the Archon said. “Nobody was ready. A lot of civilian ships were pressed into rescue work. And then in the madness, people were carried to unexpected places. Some of these refugees were injured. Maybe they weren’t able to identify themselves quickly enough. But everybody received medical care, and someone happened to recognize an important face under the bandages.”

  Diamond glanced at his ally, in profile.

  “I left here with the fleet, and I left orders behind,” said the Archon. “Without my knowledge, a certain woman was brought here by a special flight, on my personal authorization, to receive the finest care available anywhere. Anywhere.”

  They were walking, and then Diamond had stopped.

  List found himself standing alone. His smile grew and he turned, and he winked, which was a decidedly unnatural gesture for the man. Then he came back to say, “She’s resting comfortably inside my small, excellent clinic. I’m afraid that she’s sleeping now, what with the sedatives helping her deal with the pains . . . ”

  The boy bolted down the hallway.

  List couldn’t match that speed, but he was happy to shout a last few directions.

  Despite the warning, Haddi was awake and alert enough to recognize her son, turning her body on the mattress and reaching for him with the hand that wasn’t buried inside a cast.

  She said his name.

  He stopped short of the bed.

  She said, “You don’t know how good it is, seeing you alive.”

  Diamond kneeled down. She couldn’t reach him, and he couldn’t touch her. Then from the floor he spoke with a steady flat voice, not crying, never crying, trying his best to explain just how wicked one boy could be.

  END BOOK TWO

  BOOK THREE

  THE GREAT DAY

  PROLOGUE

  She calls to her scions.

  The children.

  Her faded radiance and the divine, diminished music are still capable of saying quite a lot, including, “Let me see nothing but you.”

  This has always been a dramatic soul, certainly more public and passionate than the other Firsts. But the young ones do love her, or at least they love the idea that any meat and mind can be older than the world. Of course they obey, setting their lives aside the next little while. She waits inside the jungle, inside a bubble of still air.
That is where they gather, pressing against one another. Firsts and their eldest children hang nearest the sun, while all others form the bulk of the magnificent sphere. The center belongs to her alone: a creature more female than male, softened by time and scarred by time and smelling of death. Heads are feeble, tooth-poor and half-blind. Flesh is drained, blood gray and bone frail. But she is the First among Firsts, the core from which all have risen. Her soul has always been strong and will remain strong forever, her wise voices filling this small good world with courage and rare wisdom.

  The entire species waits for those voices.

  She says nothing.

  Youngsters and the stubborn begin to whisper among themselves. But those who know better use an irresistible scent to bring silence.

  Yet of course silence is never silent, and what seems empty is full of true wisdom. The wise mind contemplates, hunting for the eternal in the wind and the echoes and finally inside the mind itself.

  Now, at long last, the old one speaks, whispers and faint flashes of pale, exhausted light washing across her people.

  “ ‘The mouth feasts and the flesh grows,’ ” she begins.

  “ ‘Each of us is made from common meat,’ ” they chant, “ ‘and each of us wears the same body.’ ”

  “ ‘Our bodies are small,’ ” she says.

  “ ‘Our essences are great,’ ” they respond.

  “ ‘No head,’ ” she begins.

  And pauses.

  Others complete that good true thought.

  “ ‘No head reaches as far as the tiniest soul,’ ” they say. “ ‘When the youngster bursts from the egg, the inevitable, eternal spirit spills out from the body and across the Creation.’ ”

  The egg is a sphere. Life is born from a sphere, and life is greater than the flesh. Any other possibility is wrong, is foolish madness and wrong. And every worthy soul encompasses this spherical world, echon and memory influencing the living long after the fragile body dies.

  Holding the shape of an egg, the coronas remain steady.

  And the First falls back into silence, chewing on great thoughts. Unless she is confused, which is an acceptable possibility. She is old and exceptionally weak. Firsts often struggle to pluck their next words from everything that might be said. The youngsters feel ready to ignore bewilderment and any embarrassing nonsense. But no, the old one is merely gathering her energies, and now she breaks the silence with vigor and clear, brilliant purpose, the mouth and every head shouting while flashes of rich high-purple light wash over the coronas.

  “You must keep your work before you,” she says.

  All but newborns and the Firsts work. Noble, moral labor helps the mind survive this impoverished realm, and that has not changed since that day when the Firsts became the Firsts.

  Sloth and madness are the coronas’ only true enemies.

  “Work as if ten billion days lie ahead,” she commands. “But my flesh is leaving this world.”

  Including her, only five Firsts remain.

  “Live as if a trillion days wait, but I am departing.”

  The other Firsts and their old, old children absorb this great news, making no noise or meaningful light. Most of the other coronas assume they understand. They assume that the gray flesh is doomed. The youngest are secretly intrigued: a First’s demise makes for a very memorable day.

  The high-purple light fades. Bladders empty, and the sick old creature becomes smaller and denser and darker. And now she is dead, the youngsters assume. Of course, of course. But as she falls closer, they realize that no, she still breathes. The message heard wasn’t the message offered. Because leaving this world has two meanings, and what is she doing now? Descending. The Egg-of-all-eggs falls slowly and then quickly, and startled young coronas scatter beneath her.

  A second world exists. It is a lesser, deeply feeble place. None of the First ever make the crossing. Why would they? Yet she continues to shrivel and plunge, escaping from the midday jungle, gaining momentum until nothing in the Creation will stop her. That black body punches through the shimmering demon floor. Old necks stretch out. Thin air and cold embrace her. Surviving eyes gaze at the wasteland. Other coronas gather above the floor, watching as she becomes gigantic, every bladder filled with hot nothingness while great gasps of whispery air explode from her mouth. Even for the fittest coronas, flight is endless work in that other world. Prey is scarce, foul-tasting, and sometimes dangerous. Should the children follow? Should they battle for the chance to give encouragement and help?

  Four Firsts remain, and with high-purple words, they call out, “Leave our sister alone.”

  An ordinary day has become remarkably strange.

  The First talk among themselves with touches and small scents, hiding their thoughts from everyone, including their oldest, most trustworthy children.

  Secrecy is rare among the coronas, and unsettling.

  But more urgent is the old female flying in that savage realm. Monsters rule that other world. Some monsters are tiny, clinging to the pale cold forests and scampering along the ring-shaped reef. Others are enormous—roaring machines built from corona flesh and corona bones, each buoyed up with gas bags and pushed forwards by little, oxygen-starved fires. The little tree monsters ride the huge gas machines. Which monster is in charge, the tiny or the vast, is a matter of some debate. But machine and flesh work together, killing coronas so their bodies can be sliced into little pieces that they will stitch together and fuse together to make new machines—a state of affairs that has existed forever, nearly.

  That second world is thoroughly, appallingly mad.

  There is no doubt in that pronouncement.

  Yet the cold has value. Cross into that thin, nearly useless air. Let frigid winds flow past blood and furious hearts. Even a giant body like the First’s cools rapidly. Muscles slow and thoughts slow, and the wandering corona passes into near-hibernation, time stretching out and out until each moment feels endless.

  There is peace to be found inside that horrible second world. Clarity can arrive before the monsters, and most of the coronas survive the journey, the strong and worthy almost always spared.

  A good chill strengthens the good soul, it is said.

  Fly beyond the shimmering barrier, and the true world goes on living without you. The furious hot haste of jungle and words pass unnoticed. More than not, the pilgrim returns home energized, refreshed, more capable and self-assured. Some claim that the emptiness is a spiritual sanctuary—a place to be tested by solitude and monsters. But the old ones, particularly the Firsts, maintain that every place is a sanctuary. The monster realm mirrors some lost Creation, nothing more. On rare occasions, the Firsts describe days when both worlds were young and the coronas flew higher than anyone flies now. Back then, curious heads led the bodies up into that slow-growing forest, and they peered into the darkest reaches, and they ate creatures of every sort, just to know the taste of alien bones.

  In those times, no monster dared battle against the coronas, much less abuse their glorious bodies. That second world was theirs too, and the little red-blooded beasts could do nothing but cower in the high branches or scramble into the sharp crannies of a younger, much smaller reef.

  The Creation used to be a better, richer place.

  The Firsts claim so, and perhaps they believe what they say. But the Firsts are subject to many beliefs, and they refuse to speak about times and realms from before the Creation.

  The youngsters talk about every subject, and they watch the ancient female fly and glide through air that she hasn’t tasted for a very long while.

  Her body emits a weak golden light that normally means, “Help.”

  Against orders, several foolish bodies drag their souls through the barrier.

  She tells them to leave her.

  “You’re asking for help,” they point out. “We are helping.”

  “You don’t understand,” she warns. “The ‘help’ is not for me.”

  Baffled but compliant, they
carry away their embarrassment.

  Various monsters approach, mechanical and meat, but these enemies are still distant when the exhausted First returns to the true world.

  “Not now,” she says. “The proper moment still comes.”

  “Proper for what?” the youngest ask.

  “Be quiet, and feed me.”

  The First among Firsts is bizarre and possibly insane, but they feed her the best meats, the richest treats, and several mature coronas guide her to a quiet eddy where the wind won’t reach her, where she can float and sleep. Old flesh needs long rest, and meanwhile the coronas finish their work, cultivating the day’s jungle. Only then can they can return to their homes, relishing the purpose and beauty that flows through each of them.

  The sun is hidden behind jungle.

  Night reigns, and as always, a portion of the corona pretend to be tiny furious fires churning in the holy void, and after a healthy time, night draws the next day into existence

  The coronas do their work again. The jungle grows and every mouth is fed, and each day ends with them filling their homes with confidence, tending to private needs and private pleasures before passing into states that are not quite sleep.

  Day and night, everyone talks about the ancient creature and what she wanted in the other world.

  Bold voices find bold answers.

  “She has decided to punish the monsters,” they say. “One final battle for the flesh.”

  No other explanation seems likely for that kind of soul.

  Twenty-nine is a blessed number. One third is a lovely partial number. Twenty-nine and a third days pass, and she is half-strong again. And again, she pierces the shimmering barrier, emerging at the Creation’s center, working furiously to fly in a great slow circle. The monsters notice but they are too slow. Exhausted, she falls back through the barrier, and she eats again and rests, saying nothing about her mind or this crazed adventure. And the other Firsts never offer opinions about what their sister wishes. They want her left alone, and they talk quite a lot to one another, but always with private voices, wearing concern on their ancient bodies while they tell their scions to mind the jungles, to care for their own souls.