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 him 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.”