The Memory of Sky

by Robert Reed

  The boy remained a mystery to her, and a marvel, and like any object of fascination, he was a hazard best left alone.

  But there was another way to seek him out: sap-thieves were enormous and she let herself grow, and when her liquid flesh was large enough and mature enough, she sprouted hidden eyes and deep nostrils and too many ears to count. Those eyes absorbed great swaths of the world, and she could test the winds for any hint of scent, and even better were the forests of flowery ears tied into a mind that could pull the important whisper out from the roaring music of the world.

  This was what Quest was doing today.

  Today the boy was too distant to be seen or heard, and his distinctive farts would die before drifting this far. But tree-walkers were the loudest, most careless monkeys. Thousands of people had seen him with their own little eyes, or they knew people who claimed to know him. Diamond was rumor and story, the outlines of his life as clear as Quest’s own. She had learned quite a lot about his parents and two best friends, his various champions and the humans that he should fear. Just by listening, Quest could measure the relentless, ever-shifting flow of opinion. To some the boy was a wonder. Others considered him a monster, though many of his enemies considered him to be a marvelous monster. There was a second, far more frightening creature living in the District of Districts. Tales about King made Diamond appear small and weak. The local Archon liked to travel throughout her home, singing about this gift, this baby destined to be found by the best people, and within the hoots and proud postures of every citizen were a few simple rules:

  Humans were supreme in the Creation.

  Tree-walkers were superior to the papio, and the Corona District was blessed by the honor of having Diamond while the other Districts surely were jealous.

  Of course the fierce papio had to be watched every moment and without trust. Every average citizen in the forest knew that their close cousins were envious and crafty, and being dangerous brutes, they would do whatever was necessary to serve their interests.

  That toxic noise was always in the air.

  Quest was thankful for being invisible. Alone, she could move where she wished, relying on nothing but her unparalleled talents, and regardless what rumors swirled around her existence, she felt safe enough and powerful enough to withstand assaults from either one of these half-smart monkeys.

  In that fashion, Quest was utterly different from her two famous siblings.

  Yet on that particular morning, when the air was damp but clear—when an angry man’s voice might carry a long ways—she heard nothing worrisome.

  The tree-walkers seemed unusually happy.

  From her hiding perch, Quest sewed together the chattering and the jokes, people fighting about tiny matters and celebrating tiny victories. Meanwhile a troop of magic sloths was climbing unaware down the branch of an old dobdob tree, and she couldn’t ignore them. She was very close to shucking off pieces of her great new body, pulling what lived into a fresh invisible form and racing after this easy meal.

  But that’s when a single voice found her.

  She felt the voice as much as she heard it. Washed within the ordinary mayhem was a shrill and distant scream, male and very loud. “Now now now,” the man yelled. “We have to get out of here now!”

  The screamer didn’t offer any reasons, and the forest took no notice of his warning. Birds and monkeys, always ready for any excuse to panic, remained at peace, and Quest thought that this was a little peculiar, and that’s why she remained where she was. She was curious, hundreds of ears turning slowly toward the mouth that had caught her attentions.

  Moments later, a nearer, louder voice found her.

  The woman sounded big—a creature of meat and wind—and she was screeching at other people, telling them to hurry and leave those damned things, to get themselves into the air now.

  “There’s no more time,” she swore.

  Quest tried to guess why time was done, and then a blimp engine roared, wiping away the woman’s voice.

  Quest began hunting for a third voice.

  There might have been dozens of heart-seared warnings. She never heard them. But with her attention fixed on everything nearby and everything above, Quest noticed a few hard noises almost washed out of existence by distance and the intervening trees. Far overhead, in places where few creatures went, machines of a particular size and character were at work. Maybe they had been at work for a little while, and she hadn’t noticed. Generators were coughed as they fired along, and capacitors hummed with a high keening noise. Measuring directions, estimating distances, Quest made careful counts until she was certain from where each sound was falling. But she still didn’t understand. Experience hadn’t prepared her for this puzzle. Only fear had. The fear that never stopped tugging at Quest was suddenly a vast weight, malicious and sharp, eager to yank her into the oblivion below.

  She couldn’t imagine what was happening, and neither could the forest.

  The magic sloths continued dancing along their branch, and human babies complained with tears, and a few more aircraft than usual were flying quickly. Then each of the capacitors gave a tone, loud and almost pretty, signaling to someone that they were fully charged. And since fear was a good enough reason, Quest spawned a thousand new arms, grabbing hold of her dobdob branch.

  The first explosion was enormous.

  But the next detonations made that first blast seem like the dry pop of a cricket rubbing his favorite legs together.

  The forest outside her skin was changing its shape.

  And the forest inside her terror-stricken mind could only struggle to keep pace.

  The monkey bit down on Diamond’s nose, bringing blood, and then Good slapped the boy’s cheek, shouting, “Leave go fast go.”

  Every bird in Creation was flying. Save for the frantic beating of wings, there was no sound. The world had turned furious and silent. Every insect, from speck to thunderfly, was flinging itself into the open air. Wild monkeys and bark rats and broad little ribbon snakes abandoned their homes, giving up nests and treasured hiding places, eggs and babies. Thought was left behind. Speech too. Breath fed muscle, nothing else. Consideration and fear were abandoned. What mattered was an instinct riding on thousands of surviving generations—leaping into the air before Doom won.

  Having given his warning, Good jumped back to the window, desperately kicking at the screen. The children stared at him. An instant passed when nobody moved. Then the classroom floor began to slowly tilt, the well-loved tree swinging just enough that even stupid humans had to notice.

  Diamond was sitting at his desk, bleeding.

  Seldom rose slowly, and Elata was already on her feet.

  “No,” said Seldom, staring at his feet. As if arguing with the floor, he said it again. “No.”

  The other students were finding their feet.

  But Master Nissim remained behind his desk. He looked strangely passive—affected but unresponsive. Just from his expression, it was possible to believe that this was an elaborate drill and he already knew about it and he had stubbornly decided not to play along. His hands were spread on top of his desk, flanking the opened book. The Master’s eyes were fixed on the green thunderfly chrysalis. He looked ready to speak to somebody, to give directions or small encouragements. But he said nothing. Then in a subtle way, the man appeared almost angry. That was Diamond’s next thought. Nissim’s morning lesson had been interrupted, and someone would have to be reprimanded.

  The boy grabbed hold of his shredded nose, pressing the bloody edges close, trying to make his mind believe that this was nothing but a foolish training exercise.

  Above the classroom door was a bell, and the bell began to rattle.

  Bits was on his feet, walking rapidly while shouting, “Calm calm calm. We know what to do.”

  Good was attacking the screen, trying to reach the open air. His little hands were bleeding, sliced by torn wires, and using incisors, he started yanking at the edges of a tiny useless hole.
r />   The screen had an emergency latch. Seldom grabbed the latch, but his hands forgot what to do.

  Elata was beside him. The other children began pushing behind them. With two fingers, Elata neatly freed the screen, and then she thought to grab Good by an arm. The monkey started to fall and came back again. Springs drove the screen away from the window frame, out where the next breeze ripped it loose—a rectangle of dark wire and bright air tumbling from view, and gone.

  The school’s emergency bells could rattle in different ways. This was the very worst sound, very loud and faster than a racing heart.

  “Today is no exercise,” said the bells.

  Bits was standing beside Diamond. The big hand felt warmer than the boy expected, and the man’s voice was quick and sure of itself. “Let’s stand back,” he said. “Let the others pull out the drop-suits.”

  “We don’t need suits,” Seldom said.

  There was a horn perched on the bow of the small black blimp, and it had a different voice. That horn sounded once, the clear shrill roar of it tearing at the air, at the exposed ears. Its warning fell and rose again, fell and rose quickly, and the blimp’s two engines coughed and came awake, propellers carved from corona bones beginning to spin.

  “We won’t jump,” Seldom said. “We have the blimp.”

  The Master still sat behind his desk. His hands were out of sight. He was working with something, using both hands as he looked at everybody, dragging his tongue across his lower lip.

  His tongue stopped. His hands stopped.

  Then Nissim called out, “But others might need our suits. Get them ready, children. Get busy.”

  The red sacks were easy to yank open. Bright clothes spilled out in folded heaps, each size wearing its special color. Every student knew how to put on a drop-suit. On his second day in class, a school-wide drill was held on Diamond’s behalf, and he learned which suit to wear and how to jump through the open window. The drills were universally enjoyed—the one time when students were required to be fearless. The little fabric wings under the arms helped steer them to safer air. Of course inhabited trees never fell, not that anyone could remember. The likeliest danger was fire. Schools were full of dried wood and careless people. Everybody knew that Marduk was strong, healthy and sound. Classmates told the new boy not to worry, that the great tree would outlive them and their children’s great-grandchildren too.

  But despite every promise, the tree was suffering. The massive trunk swung like the slow pendulum inside a gigantic metronome, relentless stresses shifting and the bark shredding while the heartwood screeched in misery. Storms made Marduk sway, but this was no storm. Violent blows were coming from above, not below. Diamond felt each impact. One blow and another and then two more pummelings rolled down from the darkness where gigantic roots clung to the roof of the Creation.

  The blimp’s engines were running strong, propellers becoming blurred white discs, and the machine pulled out and then bounced back again, still firmly moored to the school and the tree.

  Bits yanked at Diamond’s shoulder.

  “Step back more,” he said.

  Almost no time had passed since Good went wild. Every event happened inside the same recitation, and even Diamond had trouble following the rapid, overlapping actions.

  The monkey was perching on the windowsill, cursing with his voice and fingers. The moorings kept the blimp from moving. Four policemen were crowded together in the nose, pushing a flexible walkway toward the window, but the morning breeze was putting up a fight. Every bird had vanished, but the tiny insects were thick as a fog. Alarms were screaming up and down the school, and sometimes a young voice shouted louder than all the others, and sometimes people laughed with a weird joyless sound, out of nerves, and then suddenly quick legs were running in the hallway, coming their way.

  Diamond thought of Sophia and Tar`ro.

  Bits must have thought the same. He turned, looking at the open doorway. But the person was a teacher, and she ran past their door, racing for her own classroom.

  Diamond watched the back of the teacher’s head, and then he glanced down, discovering the gun that filled Bits’ right hand.

  Drop-suits lay in heaps. Two older students made it their job to sort the suits according to size. There were always more suits than people. Nobody would be left behind. The blimp was tiny, barely enough room available for this class, but if the worst happened and Marduk fell, other children and teachers could slide into these suits and leap, throwing open their arms and legs while gliding away from the trunk.

  Various adults had explained that emergency plan with brash confidence. But his parents didn’t share their faith, and neither did Nissim. The Master admitted that falling trees loved to spin and often tumbled end over end. Lucky people existed. Some avoided every hazard and broke only bones when they finally struck the canopy dangling from the neighboring tree. A few landed on an airship floating nearby, or on rare occasions, they grabbed a dangling net or rope. There were even cases where people fell past the canopy, and then ignoring the long odds, they were plucked from the air before dropping into the superheated realm where the corona ruled.

  Diamond had made that long fall, saved by his father. But he didn’t need his father because the blimp was outside the window. Four black-clad police officers had turned into six, and they were making another attempt to shove the obstinate walkway into the window, aiming for nobody but Diamond.

  Master Nissim was still sitting.

  Diamond stood beside his guard, which was what he was supposed to do. But they kept backing away from the open window, which wasn’t expected.

  Good had a special name for the police.

  “Go go go turd-men!” he shouted.

  Elata spun around. She wanted to say something to Diamond, and it surprised her to see him standing in front of the animal cages.

  She put a hand beside her open mouth.

  Then a single shout began. People across the school were screaming. So many voices poured from every classroom that the emergency bells and the blimp horn seemed to grow quieter.

  Elata turned back to the window, looking outside.

  The Master was holding a tiny knife in his hand. The large green chrysalis was in the middle of desk, pulled open at the seam, gray fluids slowly seeping across clean paper and old books, and the Master didn’t notice the mess, looking at Bits and at Diamond and then back at Bits.

  Every other student in the class was standing beside the open window, staring into the distance. Seldom’s face was twisted, eyes crying and the mouth shouting, “No it can’t be no no . . . !”

  Diamond followed those eyes.

  The next nearest tree was Rail. Rail was half-again larger than Marduk and exceptionally strong.

  But Rail seemed to be moving.

  How could that be?

  For no fathomable reason, that great ancient tree was plunging towards the floor of the world.

  Two dozen guards had been chosen to protect Diamond. Brave talk said that the special unit was pulled from a thousand eligible candidates, but Nissim never believed in large, easily rounded numbers. There were only so many retired soldiers with the training, the clearances, enough youth, and open-minded attitudes. What’s more, every guard had to be local, loyal to the Corona District and to its Archon, with a family history that didn’t cross its pollen with the wrong kinds of humans.

  Papio, in other words.

  There were probably less than a hundred potential bodies to fill out questionnaires and endure the tedious interviews and endless background checks, and a surprising portion of them had made it through the gauntlet.

  But knowing your own soul was impossible enough. What about people dedicated to protect a half-human child? That’s why the duty rosters were intentionally complicated and sometimes blatantly random. Each shift varied in length, and schedules could be replaced without warning, and individual guards couldn’t be certain that they would work tomorrow. Since trust wasn’t tested until there was an
attack, no guard was ever permanently teamed up with colleagues. Sometimes an armed man sat inside Nissim’s classroom and then outside the boy’s home, and then he wasn’t seen again. Twenty days later, Nissim mentioned the missing guard. He tried to sound glancingly curious, as if the matter was barely worth the breath. Of course nobody explained anything to him. But a person could learn a lot from the way stern faces wouldn’t quite look at him, dismissively telling the empty air, “You’re just the teacher. This is a personnel matter. Don’t ask.”

  In those early, learn-as-you-go days, guards came to school in pairs. Two guns seemed like plenty with the police floating outside and nothing but children and rule-hungry adults inside. But the job was evolving. Rumors of threats and rumors of spies kept finding their way to Nissim. The papio had spies everywhere and ten different plans to steal the boy. And the District of the Districts wanted him in their giant hands too. And meanwhile, a hundred little tribes of scared people were talking about abominations and what must be done to save this sorry wicked world.

  One day someone inside the Archon’s office decided that three guards was the superior number, which puzzled the Master until he gave it a little thought.

  Picking his moment and his target, he said, “I want to ask a question.”

  “I won’t talk about the job,” said the guard, flat out.

  “I wouldn’t dream of trying,” Nissim said.

  Tar`ro was sitting near classroom’s front door. The other guards were at their stations, beside the window and in the back. The students and one monkey were standing and kneeling in front of the biggest cage. A young fire spider was being fed, except Nissim had already fed it, in secret. A terrified scurry-champ was running away from its fears, but the hairy blue spider showed little interest in this uncooperative second meal.

  “You wouldn’t dream, huh?”

  They were sitting close, talking quietly. Tar`ro had a narrow mouth and chin but bulging cheek bones, making it appear as if two dissimilar faces had been glued together. A master at the art of looking everywhere and seeing just enough, Tar`ro was usually the first guard to notice when something new was brought into the classroom or when an artifact had been taken away. And sometimes he showed lesser talents, like traces of sarcasm, and even better, a tiny capacity for doubt.