King’s eyes were only a little sharper than human eyes.
But his vision was invincible.
Very late one night, the Archon’s son visited the telescope. Using his most polite voice, he begged the Masters for the honor to peer through their fancy glass. How could they refuse? Playing the curious boy, King linked his hands behind his back and bent low. The sun was invisible behind the forest. There was nothing below but ink and twenty thousand tiny glimmers. He counted the coronas. He asked old questions about light and demons and how the coronas managed to thrive in those depths. The Masters told him what they knew, and because they were paid to be smart, they spoke too much. Invincible problems always led to conflicting theories, and every theory had flaws that were patched with guesses. Calm, reasoned conversation ended with two old men falling into a much-loved argument about how much pressure the demon floor absorbed before it let the dawn rise. The other Masters stood back, enjoying these dried-out passions. Only King noticed when the corona jungle suddenly turned to flame, and he instantly wrapped both hands around the eyepiece, locking his grip on the tube, the right eye staring down at a blaze indistinguishable from a vast explosion.
Father was standing in an adjacent room. He was watching the arguing men when the first red flicker of dawn came through a distant window.
Instinct always rules over knowledge.
That was particularly true with humans.
The Archon yelled a warning and wave his arms, making a fool of himself before he remembered. And then every Master panicked. Those very smart men forgot what King was, or maybe they never understood. The new day washed over the world, finding a dozen weary bodies tugging and cursing at a child who couldn’t be moved, who had no intention of turning away from this marvel. Inner eyelids helped kill the glare. What a view, what a raw fine gorgeous spectacle! Then that eye was burnt and dead, and King calmly moved his face, placing the left eye against warm glass, watching one of the genuine marvels of Creation.
King was reliving that moment of sunshine, as he often did before rising. The soldier’s cot was too small for his body. Every eyelid was closed, armored hands folded across his bare belly, and his quick thoughts slipped from the sun to Father and Father to Diamond before leaping to the papio living on their coral ring.
Then the bedroom door opened, someone standing close.
“We caught her,” said the voice.
King wasn’t asleep or awake. But he sat up instantly, eyes still closed.
“Her little fleet is tied to the canopy, waiting for rain,” Father said.
Smiles could be worn outside, but he had to force both mouths to put on human smiles. Nobody appreciated how much work that took. He had to dress like a young man, even though his hard body was more impressive than any wardrobe. Talking with his eating mouth was rude—a rule that felt instinctively true to everyone, including King. With his polite mouth, he used polite words. “Thank you for telling me, Father.”
The little man remained beside the cot.
King opened his eyes.
The human face was looking up at him, and its expression was talking.
“What’s wrong, Father?”
“Very little, I hope.”
This day deserved the best clothes. Father’s tailors had used the toughest fabrics and thickest leather, and thirty days ago they built trousers and a shirt, boots and a wide belt, every article too big for the boy. But their target was a future child, today’s boy, and King acted happy with the clothes and he genuinely liked the heavy leather belt decorated with the heavy copper circles. Putting on the useless boots, he asked, “Is the crazy woman talking to us?”
Father grinned. “And she’s being clever.”
King wiggled the six toes inside their prison. “You said she’d be clever.”
“We’ve pulled up beside her ship, the Panoply Night,” Father said. “She’s invited me to cross over and meet with her.”
“This is your fleet,” the boy said.
Father stepped back. “It is mine,” he said.
This was a test. King liked this kind of test. He said, “You should order her to come over here.”
“Perhaps I already have.”
An idea teased. King smiled, asking, “How soon will the rain come?”
“We have five recitations, perhaps less.”
Dawn and the ruddy first light were rising. King smiled so that his teeth shone. “Make her cross in the rain. Make her wet and soggy.”
“She won’t,” Father said. “I insisted, but she instantly refused me.”
“You’re the Archon of Archons.”
The man lifted a hand, checking the lay of the bright bronze scales on his son’s magnificent chest. “Prima has her excuse,” he said.
This was a fun test. “Is it a good one?”
“The very best. She says she has a prisoner, a young aide from her office. The man is a traitor, and after some hard interrogations, he has unveiled a string of names and various intrigues. She has a clear picture about who organized the first attack and what we should do once morning arrives.”
“You should see this prisoner for yourself,” King said.
“Indeed, I should.”
“Tell her to wrap him in chains and drag him to your bridge.”
“Except there’s a risk,” said Father. “Her prisoner has survived this long inside the Panoply, which means that he must be safe there. But the traitor has powerful allies, and she isn’t convinced that he would survive the walk.”
Both mouths snarled. “The woman wants you to cross to her ground, on her terms.”
“And I should have already gone.”
“What about me?”
Father looked at his eyes, the mouths.
“She doesn’t want me with you,” King said.
“Prima said a few words about you, and my sense here . . . yes, she’d prefer me to leave you in bed, asleep.”
Father’s narrow face smiled, tiny teeth showing.
“You can’t leave me behind,” said King.
“If I thought otherwise, I’d have left you dreaming.” Father opened the door, walking into the suite’s main room. “And since the gangway is uncovered and I don’t want to arrive at this meeting dressed in a drippy rubber poncho, I think we should leave immediately.”
But King had made one decision about himself. He kicked off the first boot, and with a few hard jerks of the arms, he tore away the new trousers and the shirt. Short trousers made from growler hide was perfect for this kind of day, and he kept the belt on and left his feet bare, and in case Father had doubts about his uniform, King got fine smiles ready with both mouths, plus flattering words about being the good son happily standing at a great man’s side.
Eyes open, standing on the long tarmac while waiting for dawn, sleep took hold of her and she was dreaming.
Nothing about the moment was surprising or sudden. Maybe she had been dreaming a long while but didn’t realize it. Every mind kept secrets, particularly from itself. Whatever the circumstance, Divers found herself feeling warm inside a special old dream, the dream where she was tiny again. She was a frail voice inside other voices that were scared like her and lost like her. The hand doesn’t name its fingers and thumbs. None of the Eight wore names. Yet each voice was unique, and they were forgotten and frightened together, nothing outside the rounded shared body but darkness and heat, stomach acids and the roaring of a beast that carried them back and forth.
The nameless Divers couldn’t move. She couldn’t envision being mobile. Trapped and miniscule, she had nothing to do with her thoughts but share them, and the others shared what they thought, and nothing changed outside. Nothing was new. But the unrelenting sameness drove them to invent fresh notions, injecting what was new into a conversation that had gone on for thousands and millions of days.