by Robert Reed
The old woman doctor had commented on the similarities several times. But even once would have been too often. Divers’ siblings saw the implications. The papio were imagining a human cousin floating between the monstrous Seven. What would be their value once another Diamond was hacked free of her prison?
And there was a second advantage that Divers held—innate talents for managing her organs and blood, and for manipulating the complex, chaotic nervous system strung between each of her siblings. She was the strongest when war began. But everybody else saw the value in stomping on Divers, making her feeble. As the second night arrived, she was the seventh strongest power—her brain pushed to the top of the skull while her surviving body was a ribbon of red meat running down the body’s long back.
But what is small can be strong, in the right circumstances.
Night arrived, and the doctors had made their decision. Long knives and cauterizing loops were laid out on the adjacent mat. By every measure, the giant body was helpless, eyes shut and the breathing fitful. One last battery of tests had to be carried out. A thousand bits of flesh were taken from everywhere, and the Eight’s body was painted as the doctors worked, each patch of skin given an owner and rough borders.
Just then, five caretakers appeared.
Two of the children were nearly adults, while the others belonged to the youngest class. Each shouldered a covered basket or polished gray jar. Sober, serious faces went unnoticed. Children normally chattered with one another, but not this group. The doctors mapping the body reacted by waving at the air, telling them that they were needed anywhere but here. Yet the caretakers claimed orders and duties. Reaching the edge of the Eight’s mat, they set down the baskets and tall jars, and instead of leaving, they stood shoulder to shoulder, pulling guns out from the baskets and jars.
The finest surgeons in the world were told to sit on their hands and do nothing, and they did just that.
Then the oldest children grabbed the long razor-edged surgical blades, and following the brightly colored ink lines, they opened twin gouges down the Eight’s long back.
Divers was tiny because her plan was to be tiny.
Losing every battle, she had retreated purposefully until she was as small as Diamond and easy to reach.
The plan—her simple brutal perfect plan—began long ago. Through riddles and codes, she spoke to her favorite papio children. She explained just enough to make them understand what she wanted. Then she gave the signal, the code words, “Basher nut,” and the one young soldier went back to the armory to collect weapons and make ready.
Surgical blades slashed deep into the hot rainbow blood. A war-torn body tried in vain to heal, but there was too much weakness, too much damage. With the skull suddenly exposed, the biggest child yanked an iron hammer out of his water jar and swung hard ten times before exposing the brains. Each brain was remarkably similar. They had the same size and a similar elongated shape, covered with tiny hairs that had infiltrated every other brain. They wore the same glossy gray color of something that wasn’t metal or stone, that couldn’t be shattered by human force and that was alive without belonging to the living world.
Divers’ brain was on top, attached to a long armful of ruddy wet meat.
And Divers had won.
Her siblings felt it, knew it. Another pair of cuts, graceless and savage, and she would have popped free from the body, torn loose from her siblings’ minds. But the children with the knives did nothing more. Obeying instructions, they stepped aside while the wounds struggled to heal, and that was the moment when Divers said to her sisters and brothers, “No, I won’t leave you.”
No one else spoke, not with any kind of voice.
The minds had always known how to talk silently to their neighbors, and that was the voice she used then.
“We’ll stay as one and die as one,” she promised.
Decisions were made in those next quiet moments.
Then after more healing, Divers took hold of the mouth, the long tongue, announcing, “We are done.”
The children put down the knives and guns. By the time soldiers arrived, the ravaged body was halfway recovered. An event resembling an election or chemical reaction had run its course. One soul was granted full control over the mouth and motor functions as well as the largest share when it came to decisions and plans. And that soul lifted the gouged body off the mat, telling the papio, “We are finished.”
The doctors were too flustered to think clearly. But all of the children smiled—even those temporarily wearing chains.
“I’m in total charge,” said the new voice, lucid and strong. “But if you should ever try to harm any of us, now or tomorrow—if you raise a blade against us for any reason—none of us will help you again. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
The doctors claimed to understand, and so did the various leaders who arrived over the next days, paying their respects to the reborn child.
And for hundreds of long days, Divers had walked about the world with a measure of freedom, and Divers spoke to whomever she wished, and life became such a pleasure that the Seven inside her began to love everything that they shared.
The man’s words were being dragged through long reaches of secure copper, making his voice even less impressive than usual. Sounding like a shrill boy reading a script, the Archon of Archons told her, “My condolences for you and for your suffering people.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Then aiming for a caring tone, he said, “Prima.”
She bristled whenever the ambitious little man used her given name.
“This is a grave tragedy, a supreme crime,” List continued. “You know I’m not a man given to idle promises, but I swear, there will be justice, Prima.”
Prima was standing at the back of the command center. What was it that made a simple sound into your name, and why did you hate your opponents mangling your identity with their unworthy lips?
“Thank you,” she repeated.
“What have you heard from the other Districts?” he asked.
“Every Archon is promising every resource. And their offices and mine are coordinating our united response.”
“Wonderful.” List didn’t ask for specifics. No sane leader could spell out what “united” meant.
“Every District is on full alert,” she said.
“Naturally,” he said, papers shuffling near his microphone. “In fact, Baffle District has front-line ships patrolling the fringe of papio airspace.”
Prima hadn’t heard that news. With two curling fingers, she caught the attention of a young lieutenant, bringing him close.
“I only wish we had our forces stationed in your District,” he continued.
“They’ll arrive soon enough,” she said.
What might have been a click of the tongue came into the earpiece. “This is the not the time for doubts. But if you’d allowed us to base a portion of our forces inside your territory—”
“Destroying precedents older than any tree,” she said, invoking that hoary cliché.
“A mixed force, a balanced force. Every District would have a picked contingent.”
But Baffle District and the Mists, Bluetear and the rest of her allies would send only an elderly scout ship or two. Only the District of Districts had the resources and buffer zones to station forces outside their home berths. List was making noise for its own sake, and Prima had her own fine reasons to say nothing, jotting a question down on privacy paper, folding it and sealing it before handing the slip to the waiting officer.
The lieutenant nodded, put the slip into a pocket and left.
“How many wings have you seen?” asked List.
“Three wings patrolling near the reef,” she said. “Other machines were running on their landings. But they’ve been put back to bed again.”
“And the papio,” he began.
“Yes?”
“Have you had been in contact with them?”
Prima threw her gaz
e out the long windows, but all she saw was a small man made sick with ambition.
“Just tell me,” she said. “What are you hunting here?”
Laughter was the response, or the wires invented that noise out of the random vibrations. Either way, List seemed to enjoy himself. “The coral-shitters are making outrageous claims. They’re innocent, they are blameless, and we’re fools for thinking whatever it is we’re thinking.”
The tone was peculiarly aggressive, and important.
“Our local consulate sent everybody to my door,” Prima admitted. “Maybe they’re lying, but these diplomats seem terrified. The same as you, they claim to be helpless spectators to this ugliness.”
“Of course,” List said.
“I insisted on their help. I want to understand who would gut my district, brutally murdering so many, all in the useless attempt to kill one of my citizens.”
“How did the papio respond?” List asked.
“They showed incisors and claimed my best allies were responsible.”
The hiss of the wire ended with a curt, “Nonsense.”
“Of course I told them that they were mistaken,” said Prima. “Our allies and our friends of convenience have no motivation here. But the papio assured me that my species is afraid of the boy, that certain old notions don’t relish what he represents. And that’s why they want him burnt up and lost to our world.”
Suddenly loud, seemingly close, the Archon of Archons said, “That’s not my wish, madam. Not in the least.”
“I understand that. Believe me, I do.”
“You know my feelings. The boy’s a treasure, and I’ve always thought he would be safe and happy living with me.”
“You can’t say anything else,” she said. “Not and remain believable.”
List sighed.
A second voice intruded, shouting with that hard distinct bark. “Is the little fellow safe?”
King was yelling.
“Diamond’s quite safe,” she said.
“The one blessing in this very miserable day,” said List.
Sad to think, she had doubts about this supposed blessing. Without the boy, the future would become more predictable. Not that anything in the world would ever find its way back to normal again, but the human mind kept searching for the expected and the boring—that’s where most of life’s blessings were waiting.
With a careful tone, List said, “Madam.”
A blackwood cabinet stood near Prima, sporting rows of important lights. A few lights were beginning to flicker.
“Where’s the boy now, if I might ask?”
“Sitting across from me,” she lied. “His father and his teacher are here, and his monkey is asleep on his lap.”
“I am glad to hear that,” he said.
“And what about your son?”
“King is well, thank you.”
“And safe, I trust?”
“As safe as anyone on this day.”
“Indeed,” said Prima.
Then the Archon of Archons ended their difficult conversation with remarkable honesty: “Give that young man your very best, Prima. Because I doubt he would ever accept mine.”
“I will do that,” she said gladly.
“And we’ll see one another soon,” he said.
The line went quiet before she could offer a polite response, her ear filled with static. Setting the receiver on the desk, she thought about King. Just hearing the voice in the background triggered memories, few of them pleasant. Each time she met the creature, he was noticeably bigger and more powerful. But what mattered more than strength or the hideous appearance was the slow transformation in the creature’s character. King could still yell like a monster and pout like a little boy, but he was learning how to stand in one place and carry on a civil conversation. The brute was maturing, or he pretended to be older and wiser while his nature remained the same. How could she judge? He was a puzzle. The armored face with its two ugly mouths and hard black eyes gave away nothing about his real thoughts. Politicians read emotions, but when that creature wanted, he could make himself into a statue, spitting out canned phrases along with silence.
List was vile, but he was a man. She accepted the Archon’s shrewdness and the craving for power, but Prima never doubted that she could piece together what was honest inside the fabrications, and where the big smile meant nothing but one mouth full of bright teeth.
The lieutenant had returned with a fresh slip of privacy paper.
Prima broke the seal. The sloppy hand of a fletch captain had written, “Happenstance fully loaded, at the ready.”
She nodded and dropped the note into a fire tank.
The lieutenant waited.
“Your name is Sondaw,” she said.
“Yes, madam.”
Sondaw was a member of the Regulars. The youngster had a pleasant face, a man’s features drawn over a boy’s bones, nothing behind the eyes but nervous energy and an instinctive need to please his superiors.
She said, “When I was little, your grandfather visited our home for dinner.”
“My father’s father. Yes, madam.”
“He was the great general charged with rebuilding our fleet, and needing the best materials, he was building good relations with my parents.”
The lieutenant was thrilled for the attention, but he still chewed at a lip, unsure where this moment would lead.
“I want to use you, Sondaw.”
“How, madam?”
“I need certain files,” she explained. “Start with our Intelligence Department. Tell Lady Rankle that the merchant’s daughter wants to see everything she has about the King entity. I want observations and speculations, and if there are any prophetic dreams, leave them at the bottom of the stack, please.”
The officer was willing but puzzled.
To focus his attentions, Prima added, “This is your only priority.”
Sondaw nodded and then walked away, and seeing an opportunity, other officers and aides converged on their boss. Prima dealt with refugees and power outages, and she looked at fuel stocks and ammunition manifests. Then she started to address the ongoing problems with Hanner and the tree’s slow death, her mind making the inevitable turn, praying to the Creators that this endless awful day would end.
That was when the blackwood cabinet began to buzz.
She heard the warning before noticing that half of the red lights were flashing slowly and then faster. There wasn’t much room left inside her for fear, but there was still enough curiosity to make her heart skip. She approached the cabinet and the lights. Suddenly two colonels pushed past her, their fears soaring.
Hundreds of days ago, these same men had explained this machine to their new Archon, mixing expert words with rigid poise. Details were lost, but Prima retained the image of microphones set in far places, scattered across the wilderness between her District and the reef. Each sensor sent home the most common forest noises. Only the loudest, shrillest tones caused the lights to come alive, and then only when a fletch passed nearby, or maybe a single papio wing making a reconnaissance sweep. But even the loudest roar normally produced just one or two slow flashes from adjacent bulbs. But these flashes were rapid, which was significant, and the officers were plugging headsets into the portals under the busiest lights, numbly listening to noises beyond their experience.
Prima stepped past the box, using her rank to find space at the window, and she stared at a day that was rapidly drawing to a close.
Behind her, panic danced closely with duty and training.
The poise that had served her in public life was surviving. The Archon stared at the empty air and the occasional airship heavy with survivors, shaking her head slowly. A smart voice behind her—not one of the colonels with headsets—was laughing at everyone. “It’s a malfunction, a surge,” he said. “This is nothing, forget it.”
The logic had its charms.
Of course this was a malfunction. If the papio were coming in large numbers, she
would hear the sounds of those engines for herself.
With fingertips, the Archon gently touched the reinforced window.
Vibrations played with the glass.
“Quiet,” Prima shouted.
And the command center fell into a forced calm, and everyone listened to a hundred horrible roars washing across them, still distant but already loud, and in another few moments, the papio had arrived.
The Happenstance had served its District for a long while, suffering few failures while enjoying no celebrated distinctions. But then Merit and Haddi produced their sickly baby, and wishing to help that good man, the fletch’s captain sacrificed a pair of royal jazzings. Some voices claimed that the baby wasn’t sick at all, but that didn’t stop the captain from openly taking credit for the child’s survival. Why should any decency remain secret? And as if to prove him right, almost a thousand days later Diamond arrived at the captain’s berth, searching for quick transport to find his father.
The Happenstance and Diamond were lashed together in the public mind. What had been a minor fletch enjoyed its celebrity, and the superstitious captain was judged either an agent of history or the idiot recipient of the worst kind of luck—depending on what those jazzings had bestowed to the world.
The ficklest of the Destinies, Happenstance was a beautiful and treacherous lady spirit. She saw to it that when Rail fell and Marduk fell, her fletch was on duty at the Ivory Station. There was scared talk about abandoning Hanner, and that’s why the ship’s tank was full of alcohol, her corona bladders bulging with hydrogen gas. The crew worked hard throughout that awful day, keeping their vessel ready to fly at a breath’s notice. Eventually the boy’s bodyguard delivered a flight plan that was to remain sealed until night. Tar`ro met privately with the captain, and a little later the captain emptied the hanger’s berth before herding his worn-out crew to their fletch’s bridge, warning them that secret passengers were coming onboard and they needed to keep their eyes on each other, not below.
Of course the boy had to be one of their passengers. Cover the cabin’s rubber windows and demand secrecy, but some truths were apparent. To keep the ship trim and ready, the hiding people’s weight had to be share. Diamond and his friends and the one guard and his teacher, plus Merit, were onboard. There was also one very large second guard. So the secret wasn’t secret, and nobody meant harm when the day was growing old and one or two of the crew mentioned “the famous boy” to the mechanics working on the ship, and to the soldiers protecting them, and maybe a spy or two were standing in their midst.