by Robert Reed
Diamond backed away, but not far.
Divers began to weep, and she dropped the sword, ripping at the wound with both hands, making a gap wide enough to insert four fingers and then the thumb, and that was the moment when the metronome stopped counting. That was when the harpoon’s explosive charge turned to gas and a white flash of light that left Diamond on his back.
He blinked.
Sore everywhere, he sat up.
Above him, the airships were firing salvos of three white flares at a time—the universal appeal for a truce.
From someplace close, Master Nissin called out Diamond’s name.
And then a figure came out from the rain of coral grit and airborne blood. A huge and fearless and infinitely capable soul strolled into sight. The launcher pulled from Bountiful was cradled in his arms, and the hair was burnt but the blistered face was grinning, and with a rough and very pleased voice, Karlan said, “Shit.”
Staring at the shredded body, he said, “Now that’s what I call a monster.”
THIRTEEN
The Creation kept unleashing new tricks and ugly twists to make the next moments impossible. Alarms were sounding. Officers shouted conflicting orders, and civilians shouted for no reason but rank terror. A passing wing threw a burst of cannon fire at the Ruler of Storms, and against orders, three of the Ruler’s batteries returned fire. But those were little matters. On the reef, Diamond was being attacked by the Eight when the smoke floating behind him suddenly congealed into a second marvel. Every face with rank was pressed against the pilot’s window. Prima propped her elbows on the glass, binoculars pressed against her exhausted eyes. The window glass was armored. The armored walls and floor would shatter before the window. But she felt utterly exposed, and her hands shook, and what she saw in the binoculars made her shake even more.
Ten times at least, she had demanded a general truce.
Every truce lasted for a breath or two, then fell away into mayhem.
And now a fresh papio squadron had appeared. A dozen Hawkspurs came from a distant base—narrow gray slips of metal and fire pushing at maximum velocity—and every onboard alarm found fresh urgency. The Ruler was the destination, the sole target. Slashing past the rest of the fleet, the wings ignored gunfire and every livid insult, reaching that perfect point in space where their munitions were released. But there were no cannons, no rockets. The enemy carried nothing but the brilliant white flares that tumbled away in threes—someone in the papio high-command just as desperate for peace as Prima was.
For the eleventh time, she demanded a fleet-wide truce.
And in that mayhem, an aide came forward with a file brought from the Panoply Night. The official document had been plucked from a tall pile of forms and scribbles and officious stamps. Ignoring the papers, Prima looked at the aide. This wasn’t Sondaw, but Sondaw made it into her thoughts, and she wondered about his progress.
She didn’t have to ask. A moment later, emerging from the turmoil, one of List’s generals strode up to the little woman, explaining how furious he was about the latest miscarriage of authority.
“Your lieutenant is taking over our battleworks,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
“A lieutenant and other soldiers . . . all yours . . . claim they have full authority to act as they want with our best weapons . . . ”
“Not as they want,” she said. “They’ll follow my orders, no one else’s.”
The officer stood tall inside his glossy fine uniform.
And Prima said, “Listen.”
Now at least four of the Ruler’s batteries were shooting at the enemy, the floor shivering with each sturdy blast.
“Are those gunners following your orders?” she asked.
The general couldn’t look more imposing.
“I know what’s inside the battleworks,” she said. “The biggest, harshest weapons in existence, I know. But honestly, do you want to leave that power and so much misery in the hands of eager recruits?”
The general started to answer.
“There’s no doubt,” she interrupted. “Your flock of warriors needs a lot more training and a lot less fur on their legs, if you know what I mean.”
“I resent that,” he said.
“As you should,” she said, once more gazing through the binoculars. The reef was closer and less visible. Real smoke mixed with vapors that might be something else, and there were countless long trails of white smoke too. And in the midst of it all was Diamond—a child standing between two very tall men, one of them cradling what looked like a harpoon gun.
She let the binoculars drop, landing hard on the floor.
“I trust my lieutenant,” she told the general.
The general blinked and said nothing.
“Show me where I can speak to him, with a secure line. Then you can continue doing what matters.”
“Which is what, madam?”
“Building this truce,” she said. “And then maintaining the peace until everybody gives up this idiot dance.”
List appeared. Or maybe he was never far from Prima. Either way, his voice was formal and loud.
“The Corona’s Archon has the authority,” he grudgingly told the general. “Give my colleague whatever she believes she needs.”
A critical bank of controls stood in the middle of the bridge. A call-line to the front battleworks was opened, and Prima was handed the microphone and a headset so new that it was still wrapped in white paper.
“Sondaw,” she said.
“Yes, madam.”
The lieutenant’s voice was clearer than any other in the room. And because the best lies wore smiles, she smiled.
“You know your duty,” she said.
“Yes, madam.”
“And that is?”
“Acquire the target, and hold the aim,” she had told him earlier.
But wary of other ears, he lied now, quietly saying, “We’ll keep the reef-hammers sheathed and safe.”
“Very good,” she said.
A young soldier was sitting at the adjacent controls. Her duty was to control the rear battleworks, but she was also eavesdropping on the conversation. Prima pretended not to notice. Smiling warmly, sister to sister, she said, “So that I know. Which button can I never push?”
The woman glanced at her general and then List. Then with all the scorn she could muster, she said, “The big red knob. But it doesn’t matter if nothing’s armed.”
Playing the fool, Prima asked, “Is the knob a signal?”
“No, no. It’s a straight wire to the weapons. Except in emergencies, firing mechanisms remain here, with our fleet commander in charge.”
Prima began to examine the complicated panel with its one exceptionally red knob. Then she remembered that something else needed her immediate attention. What was it? She had honestly forgotten. King was still standing at the telescope. The armored boy was avoiding both Archons. She looked at List, and seeing confusion, he called out for the latest intelligence. Spectacular news was easy to find. The fighting had ebbed significantly. Truce flares were being launched by both fleets and from the reef too. Even the stubborn onboard batteries had stopped firing, and the fletches were finally in position to rescue Bountiful’s survivors.
“And where is the Eight?” she asked.
List asked King, but he didn’t react. List’s son said nothing and stood motionless as a statue, and then the officer beside him reported that nothing had come out of the narrow gully where she last saw Merit’s killer. But several whiffbirds had landed nearby, and that miserable ground was teeming with papio.
She repeated that news to the microphone, to Sondaw.
“What about the Ghost?” List asked.
Everyone had one opinion, and the opinions were either that the creature was dead or it had fled.
Prima listened to the speculations, and turning, she noticed a civilian man standing nearby, not especially eager to be noticed. She set down the headset and walked to hi
m without hurrying, smiling out of habit, and with a careful soft voice, she asked one of his ears, “What is it?”
The most important paper was on top.
But as he began to hand over the evidence, she said, “No. Just tell me.”
Nobody seemed to be watching them. Everybody had important work or at least urgent worries, and every voice seemed busy, and she didn’t want to test her eyes or nerves by trying to parse the handwriting of some blood-spattered torturer.
“We do have one prisoner on the Night,” said the aide. “He might know something of value.”
“Who and what?”
“It’s a forester,” the aide said. “And also a smuggler with long ties to the papio. Ten days before the attack, he met with a papio officer in an abandoned wilderness camp. He says they shared drinks, and the papio let himself get drunk. That’s when our smuggler heard something about a creature called the Eight. The Eight had goals and a brilliant plan. The Eight was going to rid the Creation of that hated boy, and a lot of other bad souls would die too.”
“The Eight,” she repeated.
“Or a woman named Divers. Our prisoner’s story keeps changing.”
“Why wasn’t I told this before?”
“Because our people assumed that the prisoner was drunker than the papio, and nobody trusted the testimony.”
“The Eight did all of this,” she said. “The Eight and Divers are the enemy.”
“According to one alcoholic witness, maybe.”
Except List had told her about the Eight, and she knew what was true. Nodding, Prima straightened her shirt and her smile before returning to the control panel. Then she stared at the red knob, imagining Sondaw and the other soldiers sitting inside the battleworks, acquiring targets as best as they could with machines that they had never handled before.
Prima had asked too much of the man.
To prove her humanity, she let herself feel a moment of sorrow.
Then came the hatred, fixated and relentless and pure. The trees were falling around her again. Thousands were dying, and the guilty remained free. Prima looked at the knob and made her fingers resist. No. The boy had to be rescued, and the other survivors had to be safe onboard, and then maybe another little while should pass just to earn some distance, a chance for perspective. But the Eight were inside that smoke and she couldn’t stop believing that this was a remarkable moment:
Nothing would ever make the last days worthwhile.
But if she wished, one good woman could wring a measure of justice out of this madness . . .
The children sat with him. Some obligation was being fulfilled, or maybe they didn’t have anything else to do. Diamond was neither happy nor sad about the company. He rarely looked at them, even when they asked harmless questions or offered a hopeful phrase or two. Sometimes he reacted to what they said. Occasionally his words were appropriate. But when he did look at their faces, it was as if for the first time. Names had to be summoned, by force. He had to remind himself that she was Elata and the boy was Seldom, and there was a long shared history between the three of them where nothing much had happened. In reflection, nothing about those lives seemed unpleasant or special. Then the nightmare descended. It descended, and what was leftover was a ragged jumble. Diamond felt sick inside, in places that didn’t have names. Again and again, he looked at those faces while feeling deeply, eternally forgetful, and the confusion always ended with revelations that left him wishing that he could become lost all over again. Because whenever Diamond saw his two friends, he again remembered how both of them had just become orphans, and he was an orphan too.
The monkey sat on the coral dust, alone, eyes closed and the bruised body rocking back and forth. Master Nissim was injured, the pain inside his bones twisting his weathered face. Healing had never seemed so unfair. Diamond wished he could leave his skin cut, his ribs and fingers shattered. But he was whole and intact when everyone else was broken, and he caught himself wondering why his blood or the touch of his hands couldn’t heal everyone. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? It seemed wonderful until another memory was unleashed: Father claiming that the trick had been tried and didn’t work . . . and again, without fail, the boy found himself looking about the reef, wondering where his father had gone . . .
He hadn’t forgotten that one death, no.
But so many horrors lived inside him, and he didn’t want to think about any of them.
Diamond scanned the terrain, and Karlan noticed. The huge boy had made it his job to stand guard over the survivors. Stepping close, Karlan dropped the gun’s barrel and offered a broad smile that was just a little short of mocking, and with a man’s rough voice, he said, “You don’t have to thank me again. Once was enough.”
“I didn’t thank you,” Diamond said.
“For saving your life. No, I guess you didn’t.” Karlan laughed and pointed the harpoon’s tip at the fletches. “Anyway, they’re lowering cages. At most, you’ll be out of here in three recitations.”
A Bloodwood fletch was hovering overhead, cages dangling from its belly. Wings were screaming in the distance but not nearby. Only a few whiffbirds were close, and most of them were resting on the higher slopes, surrounding the gully where Karlan saved Diamond. Meanwhile papio soldiers were walking the coral, talking with hands as much as words, and sometimes picking up pieces of Divers’ wet flesh.
“Thank you,” said Diamond.
“For which part?”
“Killing her,” he said.
“Oh, your sister’s not dead,” he said, laughing in a slow awful way. “I just made her angrier, if that’s possible.”
Elata and Seldom always tried to find brave, hopeful words. Not Karlan. Karlan ground the truth until it had a keen edge, and Diamond had never appreciated the boy more than now.
Horns sounded, and human soldiers began dropping out of the fletch, riding the lines down to where they felt safe enough. Then they let go and fell, landing with guns in hand and packs bouncing and a few curses to lift their focus and practiced courage.
An officer looked at everyone before asking Nissim, “Any other survivors?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” said the Master.
The officer gave his squad orders to search the wreckage below and then the burnt remains higher up.
Fighting various aches, Nissim stood and waved the officer closer. “There’s one body that has to be recovered.”
Diamond looked away, but he couldn’t stop listening.
“Merit,” whispered his teacher. Then louder, he said, “I won’t leave until you find him. Understood?”
“Clearly,” the officer said. “And I want you to understand something, sir. We have a truce with the papio and it lasts as long as it lasts. If they block us, we back away. Once we get the boy, everything else is negotiable.”
The cages began to arrive, rattling on impact.
Two soldiers came at Diamond from the opposite sides, lifting him and carrying him without ceremony.
Diamond said, “Bring the others.”
“First you,” one man said.
He could have struggled, shouted or begged. But Diamond went limp, feeling as if he was floating over the hard ground. Then he heard a grunt and a familiar voice saying, “No no.”
Good landed on his head, clinging tight to the dense filthy hair.
The first cage had room for several people, and most of them were soldiers. The prize stood in the middle, legs and torsos pressing in on all sides. An electric winch yanked the cable, and the reef fell beneath them, and almost too late, Diamond thought to look out between the uniforms, catching a brief glimpse of whiffbirds and papio soldiers carrying pink meat back into a gully covered with tent fabric.
Divers was hidden, and Diamond was glad for that.
Then he was inside the fletch, and two more fletches swept close, ready to loan covering fire, if necessary. Voices called out on loudspeakers, every mouth mangling the enemy’s language. The air shivered with commands to stay
back and honor the truce and honor the long peace, the status quo and the good lives of unborn children; and rolling inside Diamond was the idea that somebody would have to put every game piece back on the shelves where they belonged.
The other cages were chasing after him.
Diamond wanted to wait. He needed to speak to Master Nissim, though the best words kept slipping out of his grip. And he wanted to be near Karlan too, which was so unexpected. Elata needed to go home, wherever that was, and so did Seldom, and somebody should offer them a few encouraging words. But the soldiers were suddenly carrying him, almost running. They swept him into the hanger, and with no warning or explanation, Diamond was dropped into a little airship. Good climbed into his lap, feeling fit enough to snap at a careless finger. The new ship was tiny like the one that Fret and Father had ridden, but it was much quicker, engines roaring at the beginning and then screaming as he soared up and out into the sunshine.
Good cursed, and the pilot behind them echoed each word.
The Ruler of the Storm began large and swiftly became huge, covering half of Creation before they dove inside its enormous, heavily armored hanger.
More soldiers were waiting for the prize, but this time the boy evaded them, breaking into an easy sprint, diving under a pair of arms and reaching the hallway in the lead. Yet suddenly the strength in his legs was gone. His lungs refused to breathe, and his heart was a lazy muscle, and feeling as if he was weeping, he lifted one hand and then the other, wiping at the dry cheeks and dry unfeeling eyes.
Good caught him, barking some general complaints.
The quickest soldier fell in beside him, saying, “The boss wants to see you on the bridge.”
“List,” said Diamond.
“Not today,” the young man said, smiling nervously. “Tomorrow, sure. But today, we’ve got your girlfriend ordering us around.”
For no good reason, he remembered that little girl from school.
Prue was in charge of the world.
But of course his Archon was at the front of the pack. List was behind her, smiling as if his life depended on it, and various generals and aides took the trouble to look the boy over. The brown school uniform was in shreds, his feet bare and distorted by freshly grown callus, but the rest of his flesh and everything beneath the flesh was perfect. Not a scar to be found. Prima got down on one knee, which made her shorter than Diamond, and with concern and pain, she said, “I am so very sorry about your mother and your father. Those good people will always be missed.”