Diamond nodded.
“I forgive you,” the monkey claimed.
Diamond made himself walk. He was heavy and cold and too tired to ever sleep again. The hallway was wider than most rooms, and nobody else was in sight. As they walked, the Archon said something about leaving behind orders, instructions. “On the faint hope of good news,” he said.
The boy barely listened.
“A lot of things can’t be controlled,” said the man. “An Archon during war doesn’t have the same powers as in peace, no. But I promise you: I will protect the people that you want me to protect, as much as I can protect them, and I will keep you safe. And in return, I want and deserve your cooperation too. This will be a partnership, an alliance. Do you know what I mean?”
Diamond wanted to be alone in a tiny room.
But List drifted nearer, and then he almost giggled.
“Refugees,” he said.
What?
“It was chaos during that first attack,” the Archon said. “Nobody was ready. A lot of civilian ships were pressed into rescue work. And then in the madness, people were carried to unexpected places. Some of these refugees were injured. Maybe they weren’t able to identify themselves quickly enough. But everybody received medical care, and someone happened to recognize an important face under the bandages.”
Diamond glanced at his ally, in profile.
“I left here with the fleet, and I left orders behind,” said the Archon. “Without my knowledge, a certain woman was brought here by a special flight, on my personal authorization, to receive the finest care available anywhere. Anywhere.”
They were walking, and then Diamond had stopped.
List found himself standing alone. His smile grew and he turned, and he winked, which was a decidedly unnatural gesture for the man. Then he came back to say, “She’s resting comfortably inside my small, excellent clinic. I’m afraid that she’s sleeping now, what with the sedatives helping her deal with the pains . . . ”
The boy bolted down the hallway.
List couldn’t match that speed, but he was happy to shout a last few directions.
Despite the warning, Haddi was awake and alert enough to recognize her son, turning her body on the mattress and reaching for him with the hand that wasn’t buried inside a cast.
She said his name.
He stopped short of the bed.
She said, “You don’t know how good it is, seeing you alive.”
Diamond kneeled down. She couldn’t reach him, and he couldn’t touch her. Then from the floor he spoke with a steady flat voice, not crying, never crying, trying his best to explain just how wicked one boy could be.
END BOOK TWO
BOOK THREE
THE GREAT DAY
PROLOGUE
She calls to her scions.
The children.
Her faded radiance and the divine, diminished music are still capable of saying quite a lot, including, “Let me see nothing but you.”
This has always been a dramatic soul, certainly more public and passionate than the other Firsts. But the young ones do love her, or at least they love the idea that any meat and mind can be older than the world. Of course they obey, setting their lives aside the next little while. She waits inside the jungle, inside a bubble of still air. That is where they gather, pressing against one another. Firsts and their eldest children hang nearest the sun, while all others form the bulk of the magnificent sphere. The center belongs to her alone: a creature more female than male, softened by time and scarred by time and smelling of death. Heads are feeble, tooth-poor and half-blind. Flesh is drained, blood gray and bone frail. But she is the First among Firsts, the core from which all have risen. Her soul has always been strong and will remain strong forever, her wise voices filling this small good world with courage and rare wisdom.
The entire species waits for those voices.
She says nothing.
Youngsters and the stubborn begin to whisper among themselves. But those who know better use an irresistible scent to bring silence.
Yet of course silence is never silent, and what seems empty is full of true wisdom. The wise mind contemplates, hunting for the eternal in the wind and the echoes and finally inside the mind itself.
Now, at long last, the old one speaks, whispers and faint flashes of pale, exhausted light washing across her people.
“ ‘The mouth feasts and the flesh grows,’ ” she begins.
“ ‘Each of us is made from common meat,’ ” they chant, “ ‘and each of us wears the same body.’ ”
“ ‘Our bodies are small,’ ” she says.
“ ‘Our essences are great,’ ” they respond.
“ ‘No head,’ ” she begins.
And pauses.
Others complete that good true thought.
“ ‘No head reaches as far as the tiniest soul,’ ” they say. “ ‘When the youngster bursts from the egg, the inevitable, eternal spirit spills out from the body and across the Creation.’ ”
The egg is a sphere. Life is born from a sphere, and life is greater than the flesh. Any other possibility is wrong, is foolish madness and wrong. And every worthy soul encompasses this spherical world, echon and memory influencing the living long after the fragile body dies.
Holding the shape of an egg, the coronas remain steady.
And the First falls back into silence, chewing on great thoughts. Unless she is confused, which is an acceptable possibility. She is old and exceptionally weak. Firsts often struggle to pluck their next words from everything that might be said. The youngsters feel ready to ignore bewilderment and any embarrassing nonsense. But no, the old one is merely gathering her energies, and now she breaks the silence with vigor and clear, brilliant purpose, the mouth and every head shouting while flashes of rich high-purple light wash over the coronas.
“You must keep your work before you,” she says.
All but newborns and the Firsts work. Noble, moral labor helps the mind survive this impoverished realm, and that has not changed since that day when the Firsts became the Firsts.
Sloth and madness are the coronas’ only true enemies.
“Work as if ten billion days lie ahead,” she commands. “But my flesh is leaving this world.”
Including her, only five Firsts remain.
“Live as if a trillion days wait, but I am departing.”
The other Firsts and their old, old children absorb this great news, making no noise or meaningful light. Most of the other coronas assume they understand. They assume that the gray flesh is doomed. The youngest are secretly intrigued: a First’s demise makes for a very memorable day.
The high-purple light fades. Bladders empty, and the sick old creature becomes smaller and denser and darker. And now she is dead, the youngsters assume. Of course, of course. But as she falls closer, they realize that no, she still breathes. The message heard wasn’t the message offered. Because leaving this world has two meanings, and what is she doing now? Descending. The Egg-of-all-eggs falls slowly and then quickly, and startled young coronas scatter beneath her.
A second world exists. It is a lesser, deeply feeble place. None of the First ever make the crossing. Why would they? Yet she continues to shrivel and plunge, escaping from the midday jungle, gaining momentum until nothing in the Creation will stop her. That black body punches through the shimmering demon floor. Old necks stretch out. Thin air and cold embrace her. Surviving eyes gaze at the wasteland. Other coronas gather above the floor, watching as she becomes gigantic, every bladder filled with hot nothingness while great gasps of whispery air explode from her mouth. Even for the fittest coronas, flight is endless work in that other world. Prey is scarce, foul-tasting, and sometimes dangerous. Should the children follow? Should they battle for the chance to give encouragement and help?