by Robert Reed
“Bealeen,” the Archon called out.
“The reason,” Merit said. “What do you mean by that?”
The young man couldn’t have stood taller. “This happened because of him,” he said, his voice fierce and shrill.
And again, the Archon called to him. Nobody could ignore what her tone meant.
The aide turned. “Yes, madam.”
“Go,” she said.
“Yes, madam?”
“Immediately,” she said.
“I’ll wait onboard the Happenstance,” he said hopefully.
“No, you’ll go home,” she said. “Or you’ll run to any other tree in the world. Or for all I care, you can leap out this window. I don’t want your company again. Do you understand me?”
The man waited to be sad or angry, but his emotions never rose to that level. This was his chance to escape, and Bealeen said, “Yes, madam,” before hurrying away.
Everyone else was staring at Merit. The room was thinking about nothing but the magical son.
Then the Archon walked over to the grief-stricken father and husband. “May I stand with you for now, sir?” she asked.
He said, “Of course.”
She raised a hand, resting her palm against his shoulder. Then with a voice that everyone would hear, she said, “I can’t promise much, sir. But I know this: one way or another, we’ll see the boy home again.”
Every school uniform started out too big for Karlan, but that never lasted long. There were larger men in the world, and perhaps some were naturally stronger, but the near-man had other gifts: he was the masterful bully, an expert in violence and the artful threat of violence. Students gave him money and he gave them peace, and certain teachers found it was easiest to bribe the giant, gaining ease of mind while winning tranquility in whatever classroom in which he sat. But despite the terrors, he had never been expelled from school or arrested for any crime. Investigated, yes, but not arrested.
Karlan wasn’t as smart as his little brother, but he was shrewder than ten Seldoms and a genius reading the signals displayed on any face. Long ago, he saw what was different about Diamond, calling him a monster before gutting him with a knife. That history was something that Tar`ro and the other guards never forgot. But since Diamond came to school, there hadn’t been any hostilities between them. Karlan knew better. The little creature didn’t matter anymore. Doing just enough to keep his reputation airborne, Karlan had capably kept himself in a place where he felt comfortable, and by his measures, in total control.
Diamond was watching Karlan.
The survivors had been ushered inside a never-big cabin in the blimp’s belly. Every seat had been heaved overboard—for weight and for room. But there wasn’t one piece of empty floor bigger than a handprint. People sat hip-to-hip, limbs often woven together. Little daggers of light came through the gaps in the curtains. One dagger kept catching the biggest face, round and imposing and drenched with tears. Like everybody else, the tyrant was weeping.
Karlan made no sound when he cried, Diamond noticed.
Seldom sat in front of his brother, tall but still tiny between the giant legs. Deep sobs ended with sniffles and panting breaths, and then after regaining his strength, Seldom would let the sobs begin all over again.
The big face looked at Diamond, and Diamond looked away. Then the face looked at the Master and finally at Tar`ro, and one of his hands attacked the tears on Seldom’s face, not his own, wiping them away as his sturdy voice said, “Yeah, this is shit. Shit, shit.”
Tar`ro sat with his back straight, wet eyes watching everyone. Or maybe his training kept him in that pose, letting him pretend to be alert even when his mind was lost in its private miseries.
Master Nissim seemed shrunken, ill. One arm was thrown over Diamond, as if trying to lend comfort. But as much as anything, he was leaning on the boy, inviting the warmth of that body into places cold and dark.
Good was curled up in Diamond’s lap.
Elata and Prue clung to each other, talking.
“I want my mommy,” said the little girl.
“I want mine,” said Elata.
Seldom took a long breath, rebuilding his strength. “Do you think our mom got away?” he asked.
“Quiet,” Elata said.
“Karlan,” said Seldom. “What do you think?”
“That you need to shut up,” said his brother, the voice flat and hard, but not angry, not strained.
The blimp’s engines were running fast. They were climbing slowly and making sharp turns, the daggers of sunlight constantly shifting positions.
Tar`ro was staring at Karlan.
Diamond was paying close attention to both of their faces.
Prue kept saying, “Mommy.”
There were moments when Diamond stopped thinking about his mother. But those were aberrations, coming when his brain was too full with too much and something had to be shoved aside. Suddenly Mother wasn’t sitting behind him or floating over him or wishing him a very good day. He was busy reliving the gunfight and clinging to the walkway, and children with faces and names were dying all over again, and with perfect clarity, he saw trees dropping out of this world again. Each tree was severed at the top and burning, and every person trapped on the branches and inside the trunk was turned to fire. Even those riding inside airships weren’t safe. How many blimps and fletches had been torn to scrap by falling debris? Diamond counted those he had witnessed. There was no way to forget what he knew, and no thought remained lost for long. Shutting his eyes, the boy willed his mother to appear, and Haddi was standing over him just as she had when he was little, cool fingers gingerly touching the forehead that always felt as if it had just come out of the oven.
Forgetting his mother was a failure, perhaps even a crime.
Each time he forgot, Diamond bent forward, focusing every thought on the woman, forcing her to seem as real as ever, which put him in a mood where he was certain that the old woman had survived. A creature that vivid, that rich, must have jumped free of Marduk, or maybe she was shopping on Rail but ran to Hanner in time, or she fell a little ways but then grabbed hold of one of the commuter airships that survived. Each of those unlikely scenes was equally plausible, and in those moments, doubting nothing, the only worry in him was the idea that his poor mother was sick worrying about him.
Diamond was alive, and Father, and Mother too.
In secret, the boy smiled, and that was when his thoughts turned wild again.
Tar`ro continued watching Karlan.
After another two recitations of silence, the giant returned the man’s gaze. “Staring is impolite,” he said.
“I’m curious,” Tar`ro said.
“Good for you,” said Karlan.
“About this morning,” the guard said.
Karlan shifted his weight, and after the silence built, he used a hand to wipe his own face, making it a little drier.
“You weren’t doing anything, were you?”
“In class? No.”
“But we got that call asking for help,” Tar`ro said. “Bits said you were beating up teachers.”
“Was I?”
“No.”
“Well,” said Karlan. “Bits was a liar.”
“Except the call-line did ring.” Tar`ro shifted his legs. “Even if you’re innocent, someone made that happen.”
“I’m sitting in the back of the room, pretending to read,” Karlan said. “Then you come flying in, and you give me how much of a look? Barely any. What I remember, you blinked and turned to Miss Ulla and started to ask her . . . I don’t know what, probably what was the trouble or if I had been bad . . . and that’s when Marduk started shaking . . . ”
“You don’t know anything,” Tar`ro said.
“That’s what I do at school,” Karlan said. “I sit and know nothing.”
Tar`ro cursed.
“But I followed you back,” said Karlan.
Most of the survivors watched Karlan, but Nissim and then Diamond star
ed at the guard, studying his face and the one hand that was out of sight, holding the butt of his little reserve pistol.
“The tree was breaking, and sure I chased you,” Karlan said. “Why the hell wouldn’t I? This bag was my best hope to get out of school alive.”
Tar`ro sighed.
“I saw your partners’ brains,” Karlan said.
The engines throbbed and the blimp started climbing again.
Karlan made a laughing face. “Which one made you the fool?”
Tar`ro said, “Quiet.”
“Because you’re an idiot,” Karlan said.
Tar`ro breathed deeply through his nose, his hand still massaging the unseen gun.
Karlan held still, ready for whatever happened next.
What happened next was a door opening and a policeman shouting down into the darkness.
“Ivory Station is open for business,” he called out. “And the Archon herself is waiting for us.”
FOUR
No district was eternal. Borders and names found ways to shift, as did the allegiances between seats of power. But the coronas had always lived beneath these trees, and Father knew every guess why: the creatures congregated below them out of habit or superstition, or this was where they preferred to hunt, or there was no better place to breed and raise their young. Or perhaps these were just the weakest members pushed out of an overpopulated realm. But even as he offered those possibilities, the retired slayer reminded his son that hunting and killing the coronas had taught him only how little he knew. It didn’t matter why the bravest or weakest or the most foolish coronas rose out of their realm, up into the cold whispery-thin air. They came to this world and both species of humanity thrived, and lucky slayers grew old enough to sit at their dinner table, explaining their ignorance to their sons.
There had always been an Ivory Station, regardless of its name or precise location. Today’s Station was a complex of buildings, fletch hangers, and critical offices fitted to together like blocks against Hanner’s giant trunk. A wide platform lay at its base, paved with silver corona scales, and twin pillars had always stood at the landing’s main entranceway. The pillars were built from corona teeth, predating Hanner as well as several long-dead trees. After the attack, brave souls took upon themselves to save those treasures, using power saws to cut them free of the wooden planks below. One of them was already on its side, ready to be shoved into a rude sling that would be carried off by the first available blimp. But the would-be heroes were noticed, reprimanded and ordered to more valuable posts. Later the police blimp appeared, towlines dangling, the spent, overheated engines leaking black fumes. Diamond was standing in the nose. Amplified voices and a set of bright flags ordered the blimp to one end of the landing, and a dozen big men grabbed the lines and tied them down. An audience had gathered near the tree trunk—soldiers and government workers, and the Archon, and standing beside Prima, one retired slayer.
“Father,” said the boy.
Tar`ro stood on one side, Nissim the other. It was the teacher who put a strong hand on Diamond’s shoulder, squeezing as he said, “We’ll be down in another recitation, don’t worry.”
Perched on his boy’s head, Good clucked softly.
“Why aren’t we at the hangers?” Elata asked.
“They want us where we can take off fast,” Seldom said.
“Why would we take off?”
“Hanner might fall,” Seldom guessed, making everyone uneasy, including the boy who made the claim.
But Tar`ro said, “No, the tree’s strong enough. They don’t want this little balloon in one of their berths.”
“I suppose they wouldn’t,” said Nissim.
“Why not?” asked Elata.
The adults pretended not to hear. But from the back, Karlan said, “They’re saving space for the warships. District reserves are going to fuel up and arm up, and then we’ll launch the counterattack.”
There was a pause.
Then his brother asked, “Who will we attack?”
“Whoever we want,” Karlan said, buoyant enough to laugh. “Anyone who gives us reason gets smashed and burned.”
That’s when Diamond and Good leaped out the doorway.
Falling through the sunshine was a pleasure. Falling had a beginning and some inevitable end, but there was the great middle where a mind could concentrate, drawing out details and slowing time until it felt as if there was nothing in Creation but the busy sound of wind in the ears and wind against the clothes, hands twisting like tiny wings, dancing with the air that was trying its best to make the plunge last forever.
Legs bent, the boy struck the landing with as much luck as grace.
The crowd immediately pressed towards him.
Then the monkey landed and bounced, ending up on Diamond’s right shoulder, showing the world how bravery looked with its orange fur fluffed wide and every tooth shining.
Diamond ran for Father, and Father ran before falling back into a quick shuffle, arms crossing on his chest, squeezing once before the hands lifted, wiping at his miserable, joyous face.
The two called to each other.
Good shouted, “Merit.”
Tar`ro’s colleagues formed a protective ring around the boy.
Father was allowed through, smothering his son with shaking arms, and the same as when he was falling, his son struggled to make the next breaths last forever.
Good hissed at the unknown faces.
Standing at a polite distance, the Archon spoke to a younger woman. With an urgent voice, the aide said, “The scout ship’s reporting.”
“Reporting what?” Prima asked.
“I wish I knew, madam. The captain wants to speak to you, alone.”
The Archon nodded, eyes fixed on Diamond.
And just like that, time charged ahead, and the boy could do nothing but watch the world doing everything at once.
“For the time being, you’re me,” Prima told the aide. “Welcome each survivor, make everybody comfortable, and make certain, please, that Diamond and his people remain together. Understood?”
“Yes, madam.”
The little woman walked away.
Diamond didn’t want to speak, and he wished that he could stop thinking. But he heard himself ask, “Where’s Mother?”
Dripping eyes looked at him. Fingertips touched the bullet holes in the school uniform’s chest, and Merit said nothing. His face seemed weak, and then his face changed. Diamond couldn’t name what changed. But Father had stopped crying, gazing out at the emptiness and inviting his son to do the same. Hanner was solid enough to trust, but many of the named branches had been sheered away by Rail’s collapse. A dozen mature trees had been lost, fires roaring far above and one giant hole ripped into the forest, and the sun-washed air couldn’t seem more vacant or anymore dead, reaching for a fantastic distance until the trees began all over again.
Three old men wearing green silk uniforms and fur busbies stood at attention, speaking about their competence and their innocence, and with blood shining beneath naked faces, single mouths cursed the enormous evil that had brought this day’s treachery.
King listened from a distance, and sitting much closer, Father listened.
Father used nods and little winks, assuring his generals that he understood their words and respected them deeply. Indeed, he was walking with them down this very ugly branch.
That subterfuge made the old warriors courageous.
Of course the generals had to promise their Archon that the bloodwood forest was secure. Scouts and assorted fortifications saw no evidence of intrusions, much less sabotage, and no full-scale attacks were in the offing. What happened in the distant Corona District could never happen here.
“Besides, our trees are stronger,” said Father.
“And far less flammable,” said the general of generals, rocking slightly as his legs weakened. “Blackwoods and fire like each other far too well.”
His colleagues said nothing, nodding in ways that m
ight mean anything.
“What did our allies do wrong?” Father asked.
Possibilities were offered, and they came too quickly. Quickness signaled reflexes at work, which was different from level, rational thought. These military creatures knew what was expected, and their speculations chased the premise that the Corona District was ruled by incompetents and possibly worse.
“You think they have traitors in their ranks,” said Father, speaking from behind his large bloodwood desk.
The three generals were in sad agreement; that awful possibility was very much in play.
“Traitors who want Diamond dead,” said Father, glancing at King. “Or at least they’d like to put him out of our reach again, I suppose.”
“But the boy has survived,” one general reminded everyone.
“And so the Creators have blessed us again.” Father nodded. “Now I have another foolish question. Blackwood burns, you say. That seems like a critical detail.”
Three faces nodded agreeably.
“But I know those trees. I’ve seen Marduk for myself. It isn’t a bloodwood . . . it wasn’t . . . but that trunk was massive, a proven survivor. Yet you seem to claim that an ordinary fire can tear a pillar of wood out of the world’s ceiling.”
“This was no natural fire,” said the youngest general. “That kind of blaze requires special explosives, very powerful, with almost supernatural heat.”
The general of generals nodded enthusiastically, happy to finally say the words everyone was thinking: “The papio are certainly involved.”
Father shrugged. “I don’t know much about bombs. My apologies.”
The ranking officer was happy to teach. “Our enemy has stockpiled many kinds of weapons, and destroying our trees would be one of their immediate goals.”
“And we have nothing like this?”
The generals hesitated.
“If I recall, there are some enormous, coral-shattering weapons in our armories,” said Father, flashing a proud smile. “You showed me those stockpiles once, right after I won this office. I remember rockets as long as this room, and you explained how those corona-bone tips would let them burrow deep inside the reef before detonating.”