The Memory of Sky

by Robert Reed

  The crew began racing each other around the shop.

  Holding his gun by its handles, the harpooner was taking aim at something that nobody else could see, something that was moving.

  “Tell the captain,” Merit yelled.

  But the captain already knew. Bountiful’s main engines came awake, driving as hard as possible, and the floor was rising beneath them, pushing at Diamond’s legs as various alarms began to screech. Yet those noises were nothing compared to the burly wrenching roar that lifted another ship into view. Narrow through its body and bristling with propellers set at odd angles, the newcomer looked like strange bird—a giant bird with a glass body and a belly full of papio.

  The papio looked through the Bountiful’s open door, staring at the tree-walkers. Their faces were made from long jaws and long yellow teeth with candy-bright red gums, and their smiles were very much like Good’s smile. And everything in view seemed to make them exceptionally happy.

  “ ‘A wind moves all leaves but one,’ ” her father liked to quote. “ ‘And which leaf does the eye notice?’ ”

  Prima was the motionless leaf, and the forest was being thrashed by the gale.

  “The central fleet’s gathering inside the Hole, madam,” said Sondaw.

  “The Hole” was the District’s gaping wound, and everyone had embraced that grossly inadequate name.

  “They found a working call-line,” the Lieutenant continued. “Your colleague’s at the other end, and he wants to speak to you, madam.”

  “Is it secure?”

  “The line is civilian,” the young man said.

  “Not secure, in other words.”

  Sondaw saw the problem in its simplest terms. “Two people can discuss quite a lot, if they know and accept that limitation. If neither of you mentions troop displacements or timetables, of course.”

  The little office was crowded with uniforms. Every high-ranking soldier made approving noise about the lieutenant’s assessment.

  She cut off discussion with a slash of her hand.

  When every eye was fixed on her, she said, “You don’t understand. List is not our priority. Our priority is to make ready for what comes next.”

  Seeing her opportunity, another officer stepped forward. “Madam Archon. You wanted our resources and dispersals.”

  “Show me.”

  The young woman offered a thin stack of papers. Most of the Corona fleet was hiding in the nearby forest. “The District mobilization is complete,” she said. “Including ships lost in the attacks and the reservists who are presumed to have died before, we’re short eighteen percent of our total forces.”

  “And we have our allies,” Prima said. “From other Districts, but not counting the behemoths inside the Hole.”

  A second, far smaller stack was laid on top of the first.

  The Archon nodded while reading. Two friendly Archons had sent important airships, particularly the neighboring District of Mists. The other five outliers had handed over control of certain commercial freighters. The Coronas had their own commercial fleet, plus the corona hunters, and those were just the easiest ways to milk promise out of these numbers and impressive names.

  The audience stood at attention, but focuses were wavering.

  She ignored them. The rest of the world had to vanish, nothing existing but an army of calculations battling for dominance.

  The still leaf suddenly wasn’t quite still; her right hand began to tremble.

  Noticing, Sondaw said, “Madam.”

  “I need air,” she said. “I want to walk.”

  People emptied into the narrow hallway. Critical orders had been promised, but the Archon was still not relinquishing details, much less goals.

  Did she have any plans yet?

  Prima walked beside the woman officer. “We sent two fletches after Merit,” she began.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Not enough. Send another pair.”

  In one fashion or another, every face was concerned.

  Only one general was onboard, and he willingly rose to the bait. “I can’t help but notice, madam. You’re playing a very active role in these matters.”

  “I am,” she said.

  He said, “We are here to help you, Madam Archon.”

  “And I’m not shy about asking for advice.” A massive locked door led into the Panoply’s belly. Looking back at her audience, she used a flat stern voice to ask, “Have we declared war?”

  “No, madam,” the general allowed.

  “Have the papio declared?”

  The man sighed. “No.”

  “Peacetime means that civilian leaders hold the first and last word in matters of defense. This is a good smart policy, perhaps. Or it’s a lousy, clumsy tradition that makes us slow and stupid. Either way, this is what every District does. Ours and List’s too, judging by my colleague’s prominent status in his fleet.”

  Nobody spoke.

  Looking at the woman officer, she said, “Send two more fletches from our ranks. And there’s a fast freighter, courtesy of the Bluetear District. It carries oversized fuel tanks, am I right? Load it up and send it too, as support for the mission.”

  “Yes, madam,” the woman said.

  “We need to find our friends,” she said.

  “Of course, madam.”

  “And we will find them, yes, madam,” the general muttered by instinct.

  Once again, Prima looked at the papers in her hand. She knew every ship by its name and designation, its manpower and munitions, and that was a surprise. The fatigue that she expected hadn’t arrived. Yet the calm leaf didn’t want to read another word. That’s why she handed the papers to Sondaw. Then to no one in particular, she said, “We can’t allow Diamond to be delivered to the papio. Not much is certain, but that is. They don’t get the boy. And no cost is too great.”

  People nodded, trying to agree with her foggy platitude.

  “Come with me,” she told Sondaw. “The rest of you, make the fleet ready to embark. Soon.”

  “To meet up with Archon List and the main fleet,” the general guessed, concerned but hopeful.

  “One way or another, of course.”

  She struck the steel door. A soldier on the other side looked through the tiny window, slowly twisting the locks.

  Prima and her lieutenant entered, and the door was locked again as they walked downstairs. Every interrogation room was occupied, but the quality of prisoners was generally poor. Two papio pilots wore chains strong enough to restrain giants. Neither had offered anything but curses and the desire to rescue one helpless boy. Several office workers had always lived beyond their means. They were now sharing the same cell, but besides selling a few harmless secrets to the enemies, they seemed to be blind little nothings living inside moldy wood. Merit was right about one bitter fact: this nightmare wasn’t about the papio government or papio intrigues. The reef-humans didn’t want to fling Diamond back to where he came from, and they certainly wouldn’t bring down trees and lives, risking total war to make their point.

  A different beast had killed the trees. Criminals from both species working together seemed most likely. They seemed like a deep wicked enemy, evil beyond measure, and that’s why a handful of foresters and occasional smugglers had been shoved inside the biggest cell. These were the people who could carry the fuel and explosives from the reef to Rail and to Marduk and the rest of their targets. But more credible suspects had vanished, including an explosives expert and the bodyguard dispatcher who placed Bits where he needed to be yesterday morning. Were they dead innocents or enemies in hiding? And how many papio knew, condoning or at least ignoring the plot’s horrible progress?

  Time and patience would normally wring out clues. But time and patience were luxuries. Worse still, the Ivory Station had burned, destroying all kinds of records. From birth, Prima was taught to believe in good ends waiting after the greatest tragedies. She couldn’t stop imagining sanity and stability, both kinds of humanity sitting at the
traditional Table of Accord: polished coral and polished wood in equal measure. One day, perhaps in her lifetime, the scope of this wicked conspiracy would become apparent. Maybe not the full details and not every guilty name, but the Creation was built on true principles, and nothing as horrific as yesterday could fully vanish.

  She could only do what she could imagine doing, today and tomorrow and no farther than that.

  Protecting her species was what mattered. Saving the world was the only priority, and that’s why she came down to this place. Prima wanted the room behind the final wire door. A hard stool was standing in the hallway outside, and sitting on the stool was a specialist who was talking to the prisoner. A powerfully built man of no particular age, the interrogator was bland in appearance and manners. As the Archon approached, he stood up. His right hand was scraped. Someone else’s blood gave his white trousers their color. Reading her face, he stepped back from his post, saying, “I could stand a break, if you’d like to keep watch for me.”

  “Thank you, we will,” said Prima.

  He left, and she touched the wire door. Sondaw was standing on her right. Both looked into the little room. A steel cot once stood in the back, but that indulgence had been wrenched loose and stolen away. There was a tiny bucket for shit and an electric light that was too powerful for the overhead fixture. The prisoner had no place to sit but the floor, but heating coils had been woven inside the bone tiles, keeping the surface too hot for exposed skin. The man’s left arm was hanging at an unnatural angle. He had two bare feet and nothing for clothes except oversized underwear, intentionally filthy, and he stood on one foot for a long moment before rocking to the other, and after the pain built too much, he returned to the first foot.

  “His statement,” she said. “Show it to me again.”

  The lieutenant handed her an important piece of paper.

  The trees just begun falling when an old woman in the dispatch office announced that one very suspicious man once stood at her counter. Was it twenty days ago, or thirty? She described the suspect to her colleagues. They didn’t remember him. She claimed that they weren’t paying attention to their jobs, and why didn’t anyone else see that he was evil? But the woman had developed a sloppy memory, the sort of mind where yesterday was lost while the deep past was vivid and close. There might have been a suspicious visitor once. Who knew? But the woman was close to retirement, and her colleagues liked her well enough to help her search the recent files, and that’s why the recent permission form was discovered—a thoroughly routine document allowing one survey team and one airship to fly through the highest, darkest reaches of the forest, coring out samples of the living trees to determine their health. That was a routine project. But the flight was happening ahead of the published schedule, and the airship wasn’t only several times larger than necessary, but it was last stationed in the wilderness, working for foresters living on the brink of papio air.

  The prisoner’s signature lay at the bottom of that form.

  The barefoot man confessed to writing his name on the appropriate line. How could he deny it? But he also claimed no special knowledge or evil design. The form was a duty. As a member of the Archon’s staff, his duty was to tend to hundreds of forms that slid over his desk every day. Making official business happen: that was what he did, and that’s all that he had ever done.

  The prisoner was brought here and the interrogation commenced. Again, Prima read the bold words and studied the eerily neat signature. The confession didn’t take long, and it admitted to very little. The man was guilty of nothing but a rank principle, an ugly belief. This young man told his interrogator that the Diamond creature was no child, and it wasn’t human either. He claimed that the Archon and her government were coddling a soulless beast that was only pretending to be human, and as such, the corona’s spawn was even more dangerous and vile than the armored King.

  Bealeen was the prisoner.

  Her one-time aide had admitted to nothing but hatred, pure and rich.

  About the surveying airship, he knew nothing. But Bealeen did mention that if he were given the chance and half a measure of courage, he would have done exactly what others had tried to do. On that ordinary stationary, he wrote that ten thousand dead was no great loss when the world and Creation were at stake, and he was proud. His loathing was majestic and it was just, and against some long odds, he had kept his thoughts hidden from foolish eyes.

  The Archon put her fingers through the wires, watching her prisoner.

  She didn’t know this man. This Bealeen was silent, eerily composed. He hadn’t made any noise since she arrived, his face damp from sweat but genuinely impassive—despite the arm hanging from the shoulder, out of joint, the collarbone presumably shattered.

  It was the stare that she came to see. She studied those hard fixed eyes and the face carved from unfeeling wood, and the man’s silent rage. There was enough rage to spread thick across time, making the next twenty generations ache.

  The one leaf had recovered, standing still in the blowing forest.

  Prima dropped the confession, watching the useless page twist and curl on its way to the floor. And then to her lieutenant, she said, “He knows a lot more than we realize, I think.”

  “Madam,” Sondaw said.

  “I can see it in him,” she said.

  The officer stared at the same face, seeing very little.

  “There must be ways,” she said. “On a day like this, with so much at stake, we have to take every measure.”

  Bealeen made a raw little sound.

  “I am no expert,” Prima continued. “But I can’t help but notice that our suspect has that second arm, his writing arm, still sitting happy in its socket.”

  In little places, where boughs and foliage made tangles, there lived pretty little creatures named whiffbirds. The papio aircraft was named after them. Like their namesake, the machine was ferociously hungry, able to fly only brief distances before gulping down more fuel. Diamond had read about them. He remembered a big book and the specific page. This whiffbird’s body was tilting, long bone propellers carrying it closer to the corona-hunter, and three papio soldiers filled its open hatch, guns pointed at the machine shop and the crew inside.

  None of the crew moved now, everybody staring at the apparition. Diamond was staring. The soldiers were big papio, two women and a man. In the last moments their smiles had become something else, more toothy and much more serious. They wore identical uniforms, blotchy gray fabrics and tall boots and glass masks over their long-jawed faces. Rubber cords kept their bodies pinned to the cabin floor. Every soldier was shouting. They were shouting in a language they barely knew. Bountiful was still rising and the odd craft was keeping pace, propellers screaming in the air, and Father shouted something to someone—an order, maybe—as the whiffbird slipped around an overhanging limb and then moved closer, offering the harpooner one perfect shot.

  The long spear leapt out of the barrel, out through the open air. The papio had no time to react. They screamed commands that couldn’t be heard over the roar of engines, and the world felt thick and slow, and Father was turning, turning fast and shouting, “Don’t fight don’t fight,” as one hand started to wave at his son.

  The steel shaft plunged into the cabin. A fourth papio soldier was standing back from the hatches, and then he was gutted and dying, and the bright razor nose of the harpoon dug into the hull behind him, that jarring impact detonating a charge meant to kill one gigantic creature.

  The whiffbird’s backside was shredded.

  Diamond watched the force of the blast shove the doomed machine towards them. It seemed as if the whiffbird might get shoved against the airship’s body. But Bountiful kept rising while the other ship began to fall, its tail dropping fastest while the propeller on the nose tilted until it was nearly vertical.

  That propeller had four blades of carefully shaped bone, mounted on a metal hub and spinning toward the opened doorway.

  Merit was running for Diamond.


  The boy knew what would happen. In perfect detail, he saw everybody being sliced apart. His legs made the decision. On instinct, in panic, he turned and started to run, maybe to do nothing but save himself. Except he couldn’t die, not this way, and that simple thought pushed away the ugly rest in what he was thinking.

  Tar`ro had his pistol out.

  Master Nissim was standing beside Tar’ro, reaching for the running boy. But the butcher’s hand had already missed.

  Elata was standing with Seldom. They weren’t moving. His friends looked as if they were posing for a fancy picture, the kind of image taken with cameras and expensive chemicals, with sunlight focused on the children while tense invisible parents begged them to surrender their feelings and smile.

  The propeller struck the open doorway and the rubberized floor, its hub shattering with a hard sharp crash. Each blade had been carved to cut at the air, and now every shard flew across the shop.

  Diamond managed several full strides, arms outstretched.

  Too late, his friends began reacting to the catastrophe.

  The racket was enormous and much too complicated to decipher. The only good fortune was how the blades smashed into the floor and ceiling and back into the floor again, losing momentum. The ceiling was armored. The shop was built to contain accidental explosions. Bone and fancy alloyed metal exploded, and Diamond collided with Elata and grabbed Seldom, shoving them down hard on the floor as a bright white piece of corona spun through the air, perfectly aimed to cut off every head but too slow, missing all of them in the end.

  Diamond was on top of Elata, and then big hands pulled him up.

  Father had grabbed him.

  “You’re all right,” said Diamond.

  Father cursed. He looked tearful, touching himself, sure that he would find blood. Except he was fine, and Tar`ro was on the floor, alive, and so was Master Nissim. But the harpooner was in two big pieces, and part of his head was missing. Two other crewmen were dead, another man had one leg, while the young man who flew with Father was cut through the middle and noisily bleeding to death.

  Fret called out to somebody.