The Memory of Sky

by Robert Reed

  THE MEMORY OF SKY

  A GREAT SHIP TRILOGY

  ROBERT REED

  To the memory of Bette Boellstorff

  Copyright © 2014 by Robert Reed.

  Cover art by Benoit Penaud.

  Cover design by Sherin Nicole.

  Ebook designed by Neil Clarke.

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-429-4 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-426-3 (trade paperback)

  PRIME BOOKS

  www.prime-books.com

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  For more information, contact Prime Books at prime@prime-books.com.

  BOOK ONE

  DIAMOND

  PROLOGUE

  “Standing on two feet and calling yourself human does not make you so,” says the man. “True humans are a noble, glorious species—an eternal family that has always been mortal and flawed, but keenly beautiful in that multitude of hearts.”

  Then he pauses for a moment, forcing the numbers and nothingness to listen to silence.

  “Ages ago, humanity stood against miserable odds,” he says. “Yet we managed to defeat a host of enemies as well as our own worst natures. As a prize, we were given a rich corner of the Creation and one long deceptive peace. But war is an endless business. War always returns, and not every battle will be won. A new enemy arose, rising straight from the souls of humans: immortal monsters, perfect and astonishingly lovely. Those monsters only pretended to be human. Instead of violence, they used smart words and charm and musical, intoxicating voices that unleashed every kind of wild promise. Bullets and nuclear plumes were nothing compared to those endless corruptions, and worst of all, the false humans could make every promise come true.

  “Immortality was the most bewitching lure. Traditions and scruples were helpless against one soothing voice offering endless life and perfect health. A young man might listen to the siren call and then drift away before breakfast, never to return. Old women would pack their bags at midday, shamelessly limping off to claim vibrant new bodies. Fathers and mothers picked up their little ones, entire families slinking off in the night, repudiating honorable life to claim ten thousand years of monstrous existence.

  “Ageless bodies demand superior minds. There are kinds of knowledge and knowing that only dense, eternal machines can master, and the lost people shamelessly mated with those machines—another abomination in the endless, one-sided struggle.

  “The colossal war was unleashed, and true humans were losing.

  “But the shreds of humanity gathered, and with old-fashioned minds, they decided on a bold strategy. Creation was full of places. One or two little corners had to exist where an honorable species could find its well-earned peace. This was why people joined together, marching into long forgotten realms. Humanity passed through and around and over and beneath every obstacle. Accidents killed many. New attritions came with every temptation. But the solemn, clear-eyed survivors arrived in a place that seemed nothing but perfect, and the last best souls settled down to make their final home.

  “Except the Creation was relentless, and after a long age of safety, the great sanctuary grew porous, imperfect.

  “Good souls stood on honorable legs, discussing and debating their miserable options. For three generations, wise scholars offered every moral solution. None were accepted. Then the fourth generation fell into an ugly slow war, the species collapsing into tribes, the tribes murdering one another with the age-old relish.

  “And that was when one small boy drowned.

  “His name and circumstances would soon be forgotten. True humans have brief perishable memories, which is as it should be. But the bare facts are that he slipped beneath a volume of chilled water, his last breath lost in a panic of bubbles. Blood grew purple and cold inside that shell of flesh. His mind fell away into darkness. Then a parent or perhaps an uncle grabbed a handful of hair and dragged him to the surface and pushed fresh air into his lungs, and somehow that cold dead mind remembered to live and came back from the Afterlife.

  “Smothering water came up with the phlegm.

  “His first words were, ‘I heard a voice.’

  “ ‘You heard my voice,’ his savior agreed. ‘I was shouting at you, you careless shit.’

  “ ‘No, I heard a new voice . . . while I was dead and gone,’ the boy said. ‘The voice told me what has to be done to save my people.’

  “True humans can be intense believers, shamelessly superstitious to the brink of foolish. Yet it had been ages since any of them were instinctive followers of gods or wise demons. Suspicious citizens had gathered in a circle, watching and listening. ‘So whose voice was it?’ one bystander asked. ‘Do you know who was talking?’

  “The boy nodded weakly, but he said nothing.

  “ ‘And what did this voice tell you?’ another person asked.

  “The boy wasn’t known as being especially bright or well-spoken, but the voice must have said quite a lot because he spoke without interruption, laying out a new journey and a fresh destination that none in the audience, not even the oldest wisest scholar could have imagined.

  “Nobody believed him.

  “Obviously the drowning had made him crazy. But the body quickly recovered its health, and as boys did in that day, he trained as a warrior, preparing to defend his tribe and his personal honor. But he never forgot the voice or its very clear message. On the eve of his first adult battle, he stole away fifty children and left the enclave. No great journey is easy. That little band endured forgotten adventures, defeating and confounding a host of monsters, but in the end, as their reward, they were allowed inside a place too remote to be named.

  “This would be their home, just as the voice promised.

  “ ‘But who was talking to you?’ asked one little girl. ‘When you were dead in the cold, who told you about this hiding place?’

  “For the first and only time, the boy named their benefactor.

  “ ‘The Great Ship spoke to me,’ he said with a soft voice.

  “It was an unexpected joke, and it seemed funny. Everyone else laughed while the boy smiled patiently, and then everyone joined together in a communal embrace, and ten generations later, nobody could remember that day or any day that came before.”

  ONE

  The boy was real and his room was real but nothing else was. Other rooms and spaces larger than any room stood somewhere beyond the walls, but he couldn’t believe in what refused to be seen. He was the one authentic person and the one true life. Even Mother and Father existed only when they stood beside him, their giant faces covered with silken white masks, gloved hands cradling his tiny misshapen body. They told him that he was a beautiful baby despite his appearance. They wanted him to relish a long pleasant life, despite frailties and the endless fever. Their words began as slow senseless noise, but there was no mistaking the devotion and fear woven through their voices. Learning to love those giants, the boy grieved when they left him and he wished they could be real even if he was alone, and one day his door was closed and locked and he let himself imagine his parents standing inside a second room just like his own—an inspiration, an epiphany, born from his growing love.

  Then he wasn’t a baby anymore. The boy was walking and discovering his own urgent voice and how words were attached to ideas. The first lesson taught to him was that the world was dangerous and often horrible but he was blessed with a fine sweet life. Good sons needed to remain behind the door that almost never opened, and regardless how unfair this existence might seem, he was told that those same good sons needed to obey every rule.

  Disease was the first enemy. Germs rode on fingers and breath, ready to kill
what was weak. Other than his parents, the most frequent visitor was the doctor—a man smaller than his parents, dressed in a white gown and white mask and thin gloves that stank of disinfectant. The doctor always smiled, even when he was worried. The smile showed in the watchful eyes and musical voice. Every examination began with the question, “How do you feel today, Diamond?” Diamond felt the same every day, but adults never believed that answer. So he claimed he was better here and worse there. The doctor nodded, carefully writing down each lie, and he took his patient’s temperature and listened to the malformed heart and slow lungs, and he might measure a hand and short arm, or he would put a long leg into the air, studying the arched foot and stubby, nearly useless toes. Nothing important would change between visits, but at least the doctor felt certain of that before he gathered up his tools and wished his patient well, locking the great door behind him.

  Diamond’s parents always waited in the hallway, and the boy always jumped off the bed, putting an ear to the heavy wood, listening to three adults using quiet, serious voices. This was how he learned that children born tiny usually died. His modest fever was an old problem, but at least his breathing and pulse didn’t seem any worse. And he was managing to grow, though slowly. Sluggish growth was another sure sign of weakness, like his odd skin and the narrow bones. But at least the quarantine was working, and the doctor congratulated his parents for their vigilance. Even the best people sometimes had odd babies, he reminded them. The Creators’ hands were at work, and who could say why? Their son was surviving and seemed content enough despite his infirmities. There were fine reasons to celebrate. And if Diamond found the strength, he could someday visit other rooms inside the house, and should he become an adult—unlikely as that seemed—he might risk little journeys into the open air, feeding his soul with the beauty and perfection of the world.

  The boy grew a little older and a little taller, and people came to visit the house—friends and neighbors wanting to wish the old couple well, and if possible, catch a glimpse of their remarkable, doomed child. Some spoke about the Creators and what was wanted for this boy. Sometimes they stood outside his door, reciting ancient words that might or might not bring blessings to the suffering. The best friends let his parents speak about the burdens and joys that came with sharing their lives with this small quiet gift of a child. Those good people were most likely to meet Diamond. If they were free of sniffles and fevers, and if they washed their hands and faces and dressed properly and touched nothing, they were allowed inside his room, if only for a very brief visit.

  One lady was especially nice.

  “Diamond,” she said. She always said his name lovingly. “It is so good to see you,” she said, her eyes smiling above the mask. “What have you been doing today?”

  Unlike every other visitor, she acted patient, remaining quiet while the boy named his toys and told their life stories while explaining the furious little games that he had invented for himself.

  The woman was younger than his parents, but she had two boys of her own. Diamond never asked about anyone’s children. There was still too much baby inside him, and even though he was curious, he couldn’t find the best words. But he listened intently when she mentioned her youngest son, how smart and special he was, and once, in an offhand fashion, she suggested that the two of them should meet and play games together.

  That it would never happen. But being so young, Diamond accepted his solitude just as he knew that tomorrow or the next day some horrible sickness would find him, and his scrawny weak body would perish. That was the way of the world, and that was the Creators’ will, and in the meantime he loved his toys and adored his parents, and each day had its little pleasures and trusted routines—a happy creature by nature, and why should Diamond question any portion of his great little life?

  One day the young mother came to the house and spoke to the boy for a pleasant while and then left again. She shut the door but neglected to lock it, and Diamond sat on the floor and played with soldiers. A hand knocked lightly before trying the heavy brass latch. Then the door swung inward and a stranger entered. The stranger didn’t wear any mask or gloves, or for that matter, any kind of smile. He was the lady’s older son—a very big boy pulled into the room by curiosity. Saying nothing, he watched the toddler set down a block and a wooden soldier and then stand up, remaining where he was. The large boy studied Diamond’s ugly long legs and that wrong-shaped face with the tiny nose and those odd pale eyes and the teeth that were too white to be real.

  Diamond said, “Hello.”

  With a dismissive sneer, the stranger said, “You don’t sound right either.”

  The little boy decided to say nothing.

  “You aren’t sick,” the stranger said. “That’s just a story, isn’t it? I know what you really are. You’re some kind of monster.”

  Diamond shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wishing this person would leave.

  Then the stranger came close, and when Diamond backed away, the big boy said, “Don’t. Stay where you are. I mean it.”

  The boy’s voice was angry, and it was happy. He sounded both ways at once, unlikely as that seemed. And he was smiling now, except it wasn’t a normal smile.

  “Guess what I’m going to do,” the stranger said. “Guess.”

  Diamond said nothing and did nothing.

  “All right, I’ll show you.” Then he reached into a pocket riding his trouser leg, pulling out a long bright knife, and he drove the blade into Diamond’s belly, watching the tiny boy squirm and bleed, using a quiet happy voice when he told him, “This is what you do with monsters. You kill them.”

  After that day, people were forbidden to see Diamond, and very few friends visited the house anymore. The only other guest was the doctor, but there were fewer examinations after the stabbing. The boy didn’t seem to require the same exhaustive care. And the doctor used a new voice with the parents, hard and skeptical and sometimes loud. There was no good explanation for these phenomena, he warned. He was doing quite a lot of research, and certain old writings mentioned strange births and ancient children displaying the occasional odd power. But he doubted that his patient was like anyone ever born before.

  One day, the doctor demanded to be left alone with his patient. That final examination lasted a long while. Little knives and steel hooks were involved, as well as gruff warnings to be quiet, and the tests might have continued all day if Father hadn’t come through the door.

  Stepping away from the bed, the doctor pulled off one his gloves.

  “What are you doing?” Father asked.

  “What I should have done hundreds of days ago,” said the doctor. Then he put the surgical tools back into their case, and in front of Diamond, he warned that disease might kill eventually the boy, but that wasn’t the worst problem. What his parents needed to fear, honestly and with all of their heart, were the mysteries wrapped around the creature living in their midst.

  Mother stood beside Father now, her hands wrestling with one another.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Diamond.

  “I’m fine,” he said, sitting up, showing them marks that weren’t even wounds anymore.

  Then the doctor said, “I’ve asked before. But maybe this time, you’ll convince me. Was the pregnancy normal?”

  Mother muttered a few soft words.

  Turning toward Father, the doctor said, “I want to examine your wife. A careful, thorough assessment would only help.”

  Father stepped forward, towering over the doctor. And with a voice louder than Diamond had never heard, he told the little man, “We’ve seen enough and heard enough from you, sir. Before I throw you on your ass, leave. Climb away, and don’t come back, and if you talk about this to anybody, I’ll gut you. I will gut you while you live, which is what you deserve. Believe me.”

  Nobody visited anymore, and that wasn’t the only change. Diamond’s parents stopped wearing masks and gloves, though they were still careful about dirt and sniffles.
His mother boiled his drinking water and cleaned his clothes in scalding, soapy water and fed him nothing but thoroughly cooked food. Nervous enough to tremble, his parents sat on his bed, explaining that he wasn’t sick in normal ways but it would be best for him to remain inside the room. New dangers were on the prowl, but Diamond was safe when the door was closed and locked. They told him that people would soon forget what they couldn’t see, and with time, the story about the knife and wound would seem too wild to believe. Their shared dream was that Diamond would grow out of this phase, and though they never said it to him, those two old people could imagine no greater blessing than an ordinary boy, happy like he was today, but unremarkable by every other measure.

  They never stopped apologizing for his circumstances, and they never stopped asking what they could do to make his home better. And Diamond was almost honest, telling them that he couldn’t think of anything that would improve his room. His room was supposedly the largest in the house. Storage chambers had been linked, creating a complex landscape full of hollows and corners, little tunnels and dead-end holes. The walls were living wood, dark and fragrant. The furniture was built from dead wood that had been cut and shaped carefully, joined together with glue and heavy pins. There were chairs too large for his body and chests full of heavy drawers, and strong shelves were fixed to the smoothest walls, the highest shelves holding dusty books left behind by people who lived long ago. Tubes of polished metal brought light from outside, each tube ending with a round plate of glass that changed color and brightness as day passed to night. Diamond’s bed—a wide platform woven from soft silken fibers—stood within sight of the door. On the bed were his best friends, including a big lump of pale brown cloth and stuffing with jeweled eyes and a smiling mouth made from black thread and white insect shells. For some reason the doll was called Mister Mister, and the boy loved him and held tight to him when he felt most alone, and Mister Mister spoke to him with those quiet staring eyes and the grin that was like his grin, including the many white teeth.