The Memory of Sky

by Robert Reed

  Slayers had always hunted the margins.

  The best hunting was beneath the Corona District, which was a respectable reason for the papio to burn blackwoods and burn hunter-ships and kill every human clinging to any burnt out tree trunk, in hopes of dispatching just one more slayer.

  Survivors retreated into the District of Districts, finding sanctuaries where new hunters could be trained, building shops and hangers where military weapons could be lashed to their last ships. But the early days of the war didn’t have much serious noise about chasing the coronas again. Fighting monsters was already difficult work, but it was familiar and halfway predictable. Slayers were not soldiers. Bullets and flame made the smallest hunt into a suicidal dash, and one little carcass wouldn’t be worth any risk. Besides, the Archon and his wise ancestors had stockpiled corona parts, stuffing warehouses full of bladders and scales and skins and iron—a cache that would surely outlast the anger that had already eaten away at lives and wealth.

  But then again, maybe there weren’t as many warehouses as rumored. And there definitely was a shortage of visionaries—people who had imagined full-scale war being waged for six hundred days. Both sides were suffering from shortfalls, and both species were making brash plans. The papio had built ugly gas airships that hid inside bunkers by day, slipping out at night to hunt the margins of the reef. And meanwhile, the tree-walking generals had pulled some of their precious military fletches from service, adapting them to chase the coronas and fight the papio at the same time.

  The young man was happy to learn how to hunt like a slayer.

  But he already knew how to fight.

  “Wake up,” he told his roommate, shaking the bunk before giving the lazy boy one little twist of a fist.

  Like a pill bug, the boy pulled himself into a ball, trying to protect his belly.

  “So what, there’s sirens,” he complained.

  Slayers didn’t fire cannons with the ordinary troops.

  “It’s not the damn sirens,” Karlan said. Then he dragged the boy off the high bed, watching him fall to the floor.

  The boy was named Ticker, and he didn’t like to fight.

  “What’s this about?” Ticker asked.

  “Something’s been spotted, and we’ve got to go.”

  They didn’t hunt unless a worthy corona was flying directly beneath the District of Districts. Otherwise it was a sure loss of equipment and probably lives, and no spoils would come home in the end.

  Pulling on trousers, Ticker asked, “How big?”

  “Barely big enough,” Karlan lied.

  The boy did love to hunt though, which was the only reason he didn’t find himself thrown him back with the common soldiers.

  “Faster,” Karlan said.

  Clean shirts were too much of a challenge. Ticker threw on yesterday’s shirt and then started lacing into the armor.

  Then a voice pushed through the wail of sirens. One of the original slayers was down in the hanger, shouting, “The prize won’t linger.”

  “Is it?” Ticker asked.

  “They think so,” Karlan said.

  “Damn, you could have told me,” the boy said, bursting through the door with his battle gear only halfway secured.

  At his own pace, Karlan dressed. The armor was special-made for him, oversized and half again thicker than anyone else’s. A fortune in corona scales had been fused together, and the helmet was a marvel of tiny interlocking scales harvested from the tiniest coronas. Karlan wasn’t shy about using favors to get the best for himself. The hero who killed the Eight the first time deserved a lot more than accolades. Nobody else put an end to the rampage that murdered Merit, and he certainly didn’t start any wars in the process. Merit’s adopted son generated a lot of opinions among slayers, but in these ranks, Karlan was always offered free drinks and his pick of duties, and the women slayers had granted him a lot more than wine and the ship’s prime gun.

  The ship was a fletch called Tomorrow’s Girl.

  Once a warship, it had been reconfigured to hold double duties. The front high-hand turret had been dragged clear up to the nose, affording its gunner a grand view of everything. The harpoon gun was a marvel when it came to killing—a combination of the explosives to stun the prey and wires leading back to a bank of capacitors that would cook any corona to death. But that gun wasn’t brought out until there was some beast to shoot. For the rest of the flight, Karlan was the master of a cannon that threw out fountains of hard rounds mixed with bursts of explosive rounds. Three shattered wings had been credited to his marksmanship, and he was confident that others had flown away injured, probably dropping through the demon floor before they got home.

  Dressed for his day, Karlan was the final crewmember to stride into the hanger.

  The captain considered words but didn’t risk them. Whatever he thought about his big spoiled hero, he had learned not to complain too openly about these flashes of independence.

  Besides, the Girl wasn’t ready to fly. The big engines were running hard, but half of the crew was helping overfill the special ballast tanks, including Ticker. Too many hands were as bad as too few, and that’s why the rest of the crew stood beside the open door. Karlan joined those admiring the new day. The morning light was even more staggering than normal, the rain having washed the air clear while the coronas’ realm was less yellow than usual, slightly more transparent.

  “See it?” one man asked.

  Another man said, “Yes,” and then, “No.”

  The prettiest woman smiled at the newcomer, offering him the smoked glass so he could stare down at the sun.

  “Wait,” said the first man. “Here it comes again.”

  What was coming?

  Karlan wasn’t often startled. But then the shadow swept over them. It wasn’t total, and it certainly wasn’t like the stories told from before. Night didn’t come when the giant eclipsed the sun. But the sun’s raw brilliance faltered for a blink, and inside the grayness were odd hints of motion and design, swirling according the titanic motions of what was possibly the largest entity in the Creation.

  Karlan never had time to look through the darkened glass.

  “Launch,” the captain called out on the loudspeaker.

  They broke into running gaits, taking their stations faster than they ever managed during the drills.

  Karlan’s oversized seat had extra belts and a piece of fur from a royal jazzing that everyone insisted would bring luck. But even when he was buckled in place, the Girl remained in its berth. Intercom noise was about new orders. Ticker waved at him from inside one of the back turrets, and the two men opened a gunner’s line.

  “We’re with the second wave,” the boy said.

  More than that was obvious. Karlan could still hear the sirens over the roaring engines, and a lot of planning and more rambling conversations pushed into his thoughts.

  “We won’t get our shots,” Ticker said.

  “We will,” Karlan said. “Don’t worry.”

  But other fletches were already plunging out of the station’s hangers, one and then another diving past their open door. If they left with their first chance, they already would have made it a long ways to the target.

  “That other giant,” Ticker said. “She was slow and didn’t fight. Killing her was nothing. So yeah, the first wave is going to have this one dead and trussed up before we even get close.”

  “Trust me,” Karlan said. “We’re lucky people, and get your head ready.”

  And just like that, the Girl rose off the hanger’s floor, the engines erasing every other sound in the world. That big fletch was ridiculously heavy, and most of its ballast wasn’t even pulling yet. With Karlan at the nose, leading the way, the ship pushed into the scrubbed and blazing air. A thin trickle of rainwater hit the backside of the turret, splattering and then pooling against the flat scale-covered hull. Then the swollen ballast bags were dragged out behind them—six bags made from woven growler hides. Each bag was secured by short strong
ropes, and each was filled with the cheapest, most disposable product in the world. Water leaked at the seams, but that wasn’t important. The bags didn’t have to hold together for more than a few recitations. The target was far below, probably flying weakly over the demon floor, and this was what slaying was today: drop hard and fast, making the kill without wasting a breath, and then fight to secure the carcass and bring it home again before the papio decided to attack.

  Except today was different.

  Karlan knew it.

  The ballast bags were dragged across the hanger’s floor, and then they fell, dragging the Girl downward at a staggering, wondrous pace.

  Everybody screamed, at least inside themselves.

  Karlan yelled heartily for a full recitation, loving the sense of motion and how the ship trembled at its core, and that was before he spotted the round black blotch of a corona that already looked huge from up high with a long way to go.

  War loved secrets, and here was one of the big secrets that everybody talked about when they thought nobody was listening: what if someday, with warning or without, another giant corona surfaced?

  One of those old beasts surrendered four dangerous children to the world. Another litter of cherubs could be hiding inside the next giant, which made everybody hungry and scared, and in ways that were definitely not normal, it made them smart. That first giant was just one of an ancient generation of coronas. Her peers were old and dying, and each one of them would emerge at the end. If one lady had a belly full of indigestible monsters, then all of them could be bearing gifts. Or curses. Whichever they were.

  There was a point to all of this shrewd clarity: whoever won the next prize might win every war to come. That’s why Karlan heard rumors and smart guesses about special plans for days exactly like this. It was even said that the generals who oversaw the war—the silk uniforms that controlled the world—were gathering around tables, playing elaborate kid games. They were testing what they should do when an ancient monster surfaced, and they guessed what their enemies might attempt in response, and they were trying to figure out the very best way to use whatever the carcass surrendered.

  The fine long plunge continued.

  The first wave was already approaching the target. Binoculars showed Karlan the blackish corona leaking its weak golden light, begging for someone’s help, and then a single fletch dove into the scene, its ballast discarded and the big engines trying to coax it close enough for one clean killing shot. But those maneuvers were abandoned moments later. Suddenly the fletch tried to climb, banking hard to let its high-hands aim at other targets, and then came a bright flash as twin rockets struck it and detonated, the impact and blasts throwing the machine downwards, spinning as it fell.

  The airship struck the demon floor, skimming for an instant before punching through and turning to flame.

  Ticker cursed, complaining, “The papio never come this fast.”

  Why would they? They never had a worthwhile target.

  “Do you see that, Karlan? There’s got to be twenty wings below us.”

  More than twenty, and that didn’t count aircraft still coming from other bases scattered along the reef. Karlan made one slow circle with his turret and cannon, getting a sense of the mayhem that had only just begun.

  The papio were smart.

  He had no doubts about that.

  Smart meant coming here with at least two ways to win. The weak victory would be killing the corona, sending it back under the demon floor. Let it die with its own kind while keeping any treasures from being captured by the enemy. That wouldn’t be the worst end. But the strong victory—the reason for parades and medals and maybe a few statues in the bargain—involved claiming the carcass for themselves and then against long odds, somehow dragging it home again.

  At first glance, that was as impossible as any task could be.

  But Karlan had already invested time wrestling with the problem. And seeing what was happening—the numbers of wings coming and their fantastic speed—he had a clear sense of what had to happen next.

  To Ticker, he said, “Stow your cannon. Deploy the harpoon, now.”

  “But we’re going to be under fire,” the boy complained.

  Arguing would waste time. Karlan stowed his cannon instead and pulled up the pneumatic gun, locking it into position.

  Ticker noticed, and proving his stupidity, he called the bridge to warn the captain what the lead high-hand was doing.

  Karlan’s com-line started buzzing.

  The Girl had dropped as far as the pilot dared take them, and with a single wrenching motion, the extra ballast was released. Massive sacks continued falling, bursting against the demon floor, and the water dribbled through, instantly turning to steam. But the ship continued to descend, slower now but willing to spend the last of its altitude. More water and soaked timbers came out of the belly as the machine and the men onboard tried to remember the magic of floating in one place.

  The com-line fell silent.

  They were following an arc, approaching the corona from above. The giant body was gray and yellow and perfectly round, inflated until it looked ready to burst. The mouth couldn’t be seen, but no doubt the corona was pushing bursts of hot air out of its mouth, fighting for any lift. All that effort, but the demon floor lay just below, and the animal was plainly struggling not to fall back into its world.

  The Girl’s first officer appeared beneath Karlan’s turret. A young high-hand needed to suffer a good yelling, it seemed. “Kill the enemy first,” the officer said. “Then we’ll kill the corona.”

  “But look,” said Karlan. “The monster’s ready to fall back under.”

  “Ensign,” the officer shouted. “Follow orders.”

  Harpoons were stowed on racks behind his seat. It was a clumsy, messy system put in place because the turret had two jobs. Gauging speed, Karlan guessed they were going to catch the corona in another half-recitation. Ticker had his turret opened up. He was firing at the papio, and it looked as if he was trying to kill all of them, filling the air with holes.

  That voice below kept nagging.

  Looking between his feet, Karlan said, “The cannon’s jammed, sir. Come here, please. I need help.”

  The officer started climbing into the turret.

  Karlan struck him with a fist, not particularly hard, and then the man was sitting in the hallway below, nursing a broken nose.

  The Girl moved from falling into a climb, accelerating all the while. Somebody wanted to get them into position to defend their claim, which was stupid. Karlan spun his chair, digging into the harpoon stash. One harpoon was different from all others. It lacked explosives and the killing electrical line. Nothing rode that shaft but springs and barbed hooks that were folded tight, waiting to bite hold of the meat, and only that harpoon was coupled to a thick steel cable that fed straight from the fletch’s bow.

  Karlan loaded that harpoon and popped the compressor button.

  A thousand deep breaths were squeezed into a tiny steel chamber, and the breech began to hiss.

  Only then did he yank open the turret’s canopy.

  The corona was beside him—a vast looming dome-shaped piece of life. Dangling from the underside was a forest of long necks and heads, but every neck was limp, heads looking weak and sloppy. Only a few of those heads bothered glancing at the Girl. Scales were missing from the body, and bulges and discolored splotches showed where cancers had taken root. Plainly, the beast was on its final days. Karlan couldn’t guess its mind. He shouldn’t bother trying. But he suspected madness, maybe senility, watching the corona conjure the last dregs of its energies, trying hard not to fall back through the floor, perhaps lost forever.

  Fletch engines throttled up, and the bow began to lift.

  The high-hand aimed and the harpoon burst free. Steel screamed as the cable flew off the drum inside the ship’s nose. Then the metal shaft pierced the old scales, weak and frail as paper, and the springs fired and the long hooks deployed inside a ma
ss of ancient scar tissue.

  The drum felt the slack line and automatically pulled in the tension.

  In an instant, the Girl had been fused to its quarry, and feeling the weight, its nose dipped, unable to climb any farther.

  The bloodied officer was standing again, pulling at one of Karlan’s boots while screaming about this gross insubordination.

  As if picking up a half-cup of tea, Karlan grabbed the man by his neck, lifting him into the turret while his dry steady voice said, “I’m giving you a present.”

  The officer struggled.

  Karlan gave him a rough shake.

  “You want the cannon?” he asked. “Deploy it yourself.”

  The officer managed to ask, “Why?”

  “Because I’m insubordinate, and you relieved me from my duties.”

  Taking a sidearm and binoculars, Karlan went straight to the bridge.

  The pilot and captain were sharing the controls. The captain looked miserable and a little lost, but seeing the high-hand gave him purpose.

  “You aren’t on station,” he said.

  “It’s the corona,” Karlan said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The corona wants to stay up here with us. We need to put balloons inside it, give it all our help. Every ship needs to lash on and use their balloons.”

  The captain saw no reason to believe this noise. He seemed barely able to understand even the words, shaking his head as he asked, “How do you know what the creature wants?”

  With a stern, certain voice, Karlan lied. “Merit was my neighbor. He taught me everything about coronas.”

  That name always had purchase among slayers. The captain wasn’t sure how to debate the point.

  Then the pilot interrupted, announcing, “They aren’t firing on us, sir.”

  “What?”

  “The papio are standing back,” the pilot said, trying to be happy about the news.