The Memory of Sky

by Robert Reed

  This new realm was suffused with wonderful, endless colors.

  Day was day, complete with the blazing roar of a great fire fixed to the center of everything overhead. Their brother, the little Diamond boy, had made noise about the sun belonging overhead. That tidbit was remembered from one of the many intelligence files brought by friendly hands. Thinking about old allies brought one mood, while thinking about the Diamond boy caused shifting, conflicted moods.

  With Tritian in charge, the Eight would return to that other world.

  “To make amends,” he said to All.

  And Divers remained silent.

  By day, the edge of the world was a dome-shaped ceiling that ended only where the sun shoved its way into the Creation. The bottom of this world was vertical and coral-encrusted and difficult to navigate. The Eight considered climbing out on a long spur and falling, letting momentum punch them through the demon floor. But then the floor would pull at them again, and they would fall again and come back through again, and where was the point in that?

  Thought narrowed the hopes. The only possibility seemed to be crossing where there were hard surfaces on both sides of the floor. Fortunately the papio reef and corona reef were strongest here. It was possible to climb down safely. Four hundred and nine days after its latest birth, a strong Eight reach their goal, standing on a coral spur and looking at a roughly equal spur on the other side. And as shadow fell across both worlds, with shared excitement, they knelt and reached down, touching the shimmering home of demons with one hand, then both.

  The sensation was like touching very hot ice.

  With one foot and then both, they stepped down onto the barrier.

  In the world above, they would have melted through instantly. But the demons proved very strong, very stubborn. They didn’t break with a single fist or a hundred hard kicks. Night came with the Eight still pounding away at the shimmer. They used coral lumps and boulders and their shattered fists, and they used a great deal of rage, and they even tried a sharpened piece of steel that must have fallen through from the other side—steel turning to rust and flakes at a fantastic pace.

  This was not the same demon floor as above.

  In the darkness, the dense air was a little cooler, a little less selfish about its moisture. A mist fell at the bottom of this world, and then hard fat raindrops that danced on the floor and settled, becoming a lake that was deeper than the Eight were tall.

  The lake was no denser than the air, and it proved just as rich in oxygen.

  Finally, admitting the hopelessness, the Eight took that fine new body across the floor, hoping without reason that it would weaken farther from ground and the world’s edges. But if anything, the barrier grew stronger. Night was full. The last shred of hope was that the next day would bring rain to the human world, and maybe a tough young body could ride that storm a little ways, and maybe the swirling winds would prove lucky, flinging them against the papio reef.

  They walked inside hot pressurized water.

  The invincible shimmer was beneath them, and beyond the floor, they saw the soft ruddy glow of fire. The human forests were burning. Tritian wondered if a war was being fought, or maybe some other ordinary disaster had struck the tree-walkers. And he wondered if he was made of the same stuff as the demon floor. The Eight and the other Three could have been woven from that magical stuff, which could explain quite a lot, at least with the first glance. But no answer could be tested, and believing in magic left the mind heavier than ever, more questions and puzzles and feelings of deep stupidity riding on the next moments.

  Night in the corona realm was very different from the human world.

  Tritian cast those big eyes upwards, staring through the water, watching the sun’s disk swallowed by the fully grown jungle.

  Every night, the coronas hovered against the ink, sprinkling the Creation with pricks of light that spun around the center like a great silent wheel.

  Sometimes that wheel seemed familiar.

  Reassuring, even.

  They surely had a purpose for what they did, what they did without fail. But the Eight didn’t bother even dreaming up possible reasons.

  Tritian was thinking how the big coronas could pierce the floor at will. Plainly it was a matter of simple size and strength. He was wondering if the Eight could learn the coronas’ language and their desires, some sort of arrangement could be achieved. Then he laughed and told the others why he was amused. He imagined this body riding a corona up to the reef, to the trees. They were nearly dead once but born again, and they were stronger than ever, and the coronas were their new allies.

  In that fashion, in an instant, misery and punishment seemed to have been transformed, nothing before them but promise and endless potential.

  “But first, a taste of the cold thin air,” Tritian promised the others.

  Except the jungle exploded into fire, and the blast and steam broke through the floor without him. One moment, the water was all around, and then tiny pores opened up in the floor for no reason, it seemed, than to let out the flood and the wild energies that kept the trees alive, and the reef, and the human animals with their ancient grudges and small marvelous talents.

  Suddenly it was day again, and the Eight were standing on top of the demon floor, shamefully exposed.

  In a wild dash, they hurried back to the cover of the rocks.

  And the coronas went about their hot important lives.

  That was when the Eight finally, grudgingly began to study those languages of light and sound and scent.

  Any code can be broken, particularly if gifted minds have nothing else to do.

  Very quickly, the Eight realized that the aliens weren’t empty monstrous mysteries, but instead they were endlessly strange and perhaps even more interesting than anything they had dared to imagine.

  They learned about the old ones and the Firsts, and the Eight learned the Count of Days leading to these days.

  The age of the Creation was revealed.

  After that, a working voice was finally built.

  Corona words emerged from the new throat.

  A few curious babies came chasing the words, and the bravest stayed to talk, the coronas covering their bodies with swirling pictures, while the Eight drew simple, unlovely images on weeds and mossy corals.

  At least one of those babies mentioned to others what she/he had witnessed. At least a few adults listened to her. Then one night, late in the night, one of the Firsts honored the Eights by seeking them out. A creature older than this Creation hung overhead, obscuring that wheel of tiny, holy lights. Tritian intended to ask about the lights and their patterns, wanting to understand the significance of this deep old habit. But there wasn’t time that night. Instead, they managed a rough conversation with the greatest oldest grandest mind that they had ever met, and the Eight did their best to describe their first birth and first death, ending the tale with their rebirth here.

  Nearly six hundred days had passed since that last birth.

  Tritian promised to tell the rest of their story, as soon as there was time.

  Then the First left, saying nothing about his/her mood or intentions or any great old promises made to vanished creatures.

  Morning arrived.

  The sun found the Eight sitting inside a favorite crevice. In this place, the coral had grown like a tree thrusting sideways from the wall of the Creation. The demon floor lay spread out below like a great basin filled with magical water. The Eight could look straight up at the sunlight, but what mattered were the coronas. Unlike every other morning, the corona gathered in a sphere formation, each of them doing nothing but talking.

  One topic was fascinating to all.

  Nobody understood why, but long ago one of the Firsts had left this world. She/he went to visit the cold, and her body never returned, and now she lived only as memory and wisdom and the great songs woven inside all of their minds.

  Tritian and his siblings were parsing out the heart of the subject.


  “She was our mother,” each whispered to the others, to themselves.

  And then the sphere of light and song was announcing that another one of the Firsts had left. Giving no warning, it had gone to the other world, and the central opinion in the midst of that confusion was the simple inescapable sense that it must be his/her time to leave flesh and join its celebrated mate.

  Nobody inside this realm looked or sounded scared.

  Tritian wasn’t scared.

  He led the body out into the glare of the morning sun. The coronas’ everyday work had stopped, which was peculiar. Nobody was tending to the jungle. The day was as fiercely bright as it was after the jungle stopped burning. Squinting hard, the Eight spotted the last of the First—four giants hanging apart from the others, whispering with their bright high-purple lights.

  The missing First was the same giant with whom they had just spoken.

  Or it wasn’t.

  Tritian and his siblings still knew nothing about the Creation. In what was possible, they said very little, at least from their perspective. If nothing else came from their time trapped in this nightmare, it was to appreciate just how miserably slight their knowledge was.

  “We are eleven simple, stupid idiots,” Tritian muttered, speaking to the Seven but imagining the Three listening too. He imagined them so well that he saw Diamond and King and Quest standing at the lip of the crevice, tiny faces peering inquisitively down at them, taking his declaration to heart.

  Something about that moment felt magical, which was not an uncommon occurrence. Every day had its moments when meanings seemed to raise their heads from the chaos. But that happened to be the moment when day vanished without warning, and in the same instant, the Eight fell out of the crevice, tumbling wildly through the black air, spinning toward a sun that had ceased to be.

  “It’s out, it’s gone. The sun is gone.”

  Seldom shouted those words, and people laughed. Everybody was surprised and scared, and there was a lot of laughing, giggling and cackling with wild, mad voices making everyone feel even worse. Then an older voice, male and very deep, repeated Seldom’s last few words. Diamond didn’t recognize the man, but there was a defiant tone to the way he spoke, a booming dismissal meant for everyone to hear, and then the man delivered a string of withering curses, belittling and denying even the idea that anyone could sprout such a stupid thought. And the room that was on the brink of panic suddenly fell back to skepticism and sanity.

  Meeker’s shrill voice emerged, trying to gather control. He offered words that seemed to mean that the overhead windows had slammed shut, making ready for the papio attack. But darkness came in an instant. Diamond understood enough to know that windows couldn’t close so quickly. Yet he joined in with the giggling, which made him feel better. And maybe that new mood would have lasted, but then some practical hand thought to test the principle, striking an important switch, and the great room becoming quieter as everyone listened to the throbbing of an engine and the hard rattle of chains that were lifting plates of interlocking steel

  One of the giant access doors rose. Everyone could hear it lifting, and everyone felt the inside air flowing outdoors. But when light-adapted eyes stared at the door, nothing was visible, nothing waiting but a rich and perfect darkness that had claimed the entire world.

  Five or six measured breaths had passed.

  Time felt dense, leaden.

  The initial shock and near-panic from before was nothing. It was a mild emotion compared to the mayhem that followed, chaotic and incoherent and shrill. Every mind was taken, every heart. One portion of the crowd surged for what should be the open door, but at least as many tried to flee back into the facility’s hallways and safe rooms. No one could see past the wet depths of his own wide eyes. A small torch might be brought out of a pocket and lit, but that triggered ten hands grabbing for the treasure, and accidental collisions led to blind intentional battles, bodies dropping to the floor and a single gunshot—an accident, maybe, or warning shot, or somebody trying to win enough room to stand still and think.

  Diamond was struck from the side by an anonymous adult, and he shoved back with an elbow and then his entire body.

  King called his name, the voice tall but not as loud as it could be, and distinctly, richly frightened.

  “Here,” Diamond called out.

  A vast hand dropped on his head, little scales cutting into his scalp.

  Then Diamond called out, “Quest.”

  A dry angular hand brushed across his chest and his face, pinching shut the lips before he could say her name again.

  Her invisible face came close. An odor like old flowers and mold rode in with quiet sharp words. “I didn’t,” she said. “I did not.”

  Of course she hadn’t, no.

  From overhead, King said, “I want to see.” He was nearly begging, saying, “Sister . . . can you make a light . . . ?”

  But she already had, it seemed. He asked the question, and a second hand opened, revealing a pale red globe. The globe resembled the fruit of the fungi that lived at the gloomy top of the world. The nearest few people noticed, surging like moths. King let go of Diamond and pushed back the first wave, and the second, and then he picked both up by their waists, asking, “Where is that damned thing?”

  The gray ball wasn’t where it was just moments ago. To Diamond, nothing was more reasonable than the gray ball riding inside the corona for one purpose, and having finally done the job, it had vanished. Or it became the world’s darkness. Unless the ball sprouted legs and ran away . . . which was just as easy to accept . . .

  “Brighter,” King pleaded.

  Quest’s face was sprouting globes like sores and broad nocturnal eyes, and from the mouth that was still human, she said, “Put me on your shoulders.”

  Easily, yes. King dropped her behind his head, legs kicking his chest, and he turned once quickly, holding Diamond under his left arm.

  “I hear it,” he said.

  Something that wasn’t metal was being dragged and rolled along the clean floor of polished bone.

  King followed the sound.

  “Behind those soldiers,” Quest said.

  Half a dozen young men had surrounded the mysterious orb. The surging crowd must have kicked it to them. Maybe they didn’t realize where it was, but they were standing in a rough ring, accidentally protecting what they couldn’t understand. Then they saw an apparition wading through the crowd—massive below and glowing above—and one of the soldiers managed to lift his rifle and fire two shots before his rifle was flying across the room and one of his hands was shattered.

  The soldiers backed up and fell over, and King grabbed the prize with his right hand. But the ball was a little too large, and it was slick as glass, and falling free, it again gave off that faint ringing sound as it bounced.

  Diamond was dropped.

  King scooped up the prize with both hands and spun it. Then with desperate conviction, he held it up before his face, saying, “Put your finger back in. Go on, now.”

  Quest did exactly that.

  For a full breath, nothing changed. And then the room was bright again. Scared faces blinked and bodies started to pick themselves off the floor, and for a fine stupid moment Diamond could believe that the problem was both simple and solved. The sun had returned, and not only was it back, but if anything, its light was more brilliant than ever.

  He laughed.

  But King knew better. He cursed and said, “No, it’s just the lights.”

  The nearest big doorway was fully opened. The outside world was still black and mysterious, while the indoors was illuminated by a series of electric lights that hummed and sometimes flickered as their filaments grew white-hot.

  One soldier turned to another, asking, “What do we do?”

  King thought this was a fine question. Turning to his brother, he said, “Listen for the voice. The voice.”

  “Whose voice?” asked Quest.

  Neither boy answered.
>
  Quest was still riding King’s shoulders. Her eyes kept shifting forms, shifting talents. She was watching every face, and in the uproar, nobody noticed her stares.

  “Seldom,” said Diamond.

  King looked just at him. “What?”

  Diamond wanted to find his friend, and a good smart reason helped him. “Seldom’s wonderful with puzzles. This is a puzzle.”’

  That notion wore an appealing logic.

  The three of them shouted, “Seldom.”

  Someone closer to the door called out, “Here.”

  King cradled the orb in one arm and pushed, his other arm sweeping bodies aside.

  Diamond followed in his wake.

  Meeker was standing with generals, with List. He was giving orders to one officer, but that important thought was interrupted as King and the others moved past. The general waved and said, “Follow,” and obeying his own advice, he started out after them.

  Mother and Nissim were together, arms locked and feet apart. The Master’s size and strength had kept them very close to where they began, and Mother saw Diamond among the heads, her free arm lifting, a word or two shouted but not heard.

  “Seldom,” King roared.

  A long arm lifted up ahead, and it dropped.

  The crowd was flowing towards the open door. Sirens were screeching, as urgent as ever. But noise didn’t matter so much anymore. Would the papio continue their attack? In a world where night could arrive without warning, would their pilots and soldiers hold to the mission?

  King pushed slow people aside, and Diamond followed, and then King stepped over a row of bodies knocked off their feet.

  Some of those people weren’t moving.

  Diamond started to leap before he saw her. Falling to his knees, he pressed his face next to Elata’s face, blood from her nose bright under the lights.