The Children of the Sky

Um. What a smart and deflating question. Geri could do that. He remembered the four-year-old he’d known back in the Domain. Back then, she’d been inquisitive all the time! “I haven’t actually talked to her yet. I’m going down to Tycoon right now. Maybe I can help her.”

Another pause, but Geri didn’t look away. “Can I come? Can Edvi come? We can help too.”

She liked Tycoon, but this was the first time she’d ever talked of going to see him. Unfortunately, Edvi was almost certainly dead. “Not this time, Geri. I have to get down to Tycoon right away. But I’ll tell him that you need Ravna.”

Interest dimmed, but after a moment Geri replied, “Okay.”

•  •  •

The stairs extended downwards only as far as the veranda at mid-tower. When Timor got there and emerged into the heat, it was like diving into a pool of very warm water.

The veranda was the only way in or out of the tower—and that only if you could convince two gun-toting guards to let you pass. One of those packs stood around the door now, watching Timor impassively. Timor gave him a wave and limped a few meters around the curve of the tower to where the other pack—it was Mr. Sharpshooter this morning—sat by the elevator dock. “Hei, Sharpsie. I want to go down. Must see Tycoon.”

Sharpsie rolled his heads in an officious, irritated way. He exchanged some hooting and gobbling with the pack by the door. The gunpacks really didn’t like to leave just the one guard here. On the other hand, it was Tycoon’s rule that Timor was not to be allowed to run around by himself. In the end—no big surprise—Sharpsie caved in. The four of him came to their feet. One of him slid open the elevator gate, while two others grabbed Timor’s shirt and pants to make sure he didn’t fall through the space between the veranda and the elevator carriage. These guys thought Timor’s tremor was much more dangerous than it really was. He had only fallen that once, and that was on the stairs.…

The elevator cable extended from the tower dock, diagonally down to a point on the palace dome. The ride was always exciting, the carriage slightly swaying, nothing but thirty meters of empty air between them and the dome below. Tycoon claimed that elevators were just another of his long-lost brother’s inventions. Maybe, but the thin little cable was made by char-burning woven reeds in just the right way—surely that was another trick stolen from Ravna’s starship.

Five minutes later, he was safely at the dock on Tycoon’s own residential level. Mr. Sharps didn’t object when Timor took the shortcut through the aquarium room, though he insisted on walking both in front and behind.

They weren’t more than five steps into the room before the cuttlefish spotted him. “Hei Timor! Timor! Hei Ti’Timor! Hei—hei—h’h’h’hei!” The squeaky voices started nearby, sweeping away from the door he had just come through, along the walls of the aquarium, all the way to the far end of the hall—where the little squeakers could not even have seen him yet.

Timor moved as fast as he could down the aisle between the leaky glass tanks. Any other time he would have stopped in wonder, and stayed to chat. The aquarium had a water ladder down to the pools and streams of the airfield, so there was often news here from very far away. The cuttlefish were such marvelous creatures. The torpedo-shaped bodies were just thirty centimeters long. Their eyes covered one end; their tentacles extended the rest of their body length. Hundreds of them tumbled and turned as they swarmed to follow his progress. I don’t have time, little ones! Their greetings had shifted into questions. The cuttlefish were not mindless, but they were differently minded. The cuttlefish were scatterbrained and careless of their own lives. But they spoke Interpack. Tycoon claimed that they had spoken a Southseas version of pack talk when they were first discovered. They had learned a little Samnorsk just since he had started talking to them.

Two of Sharps ran a little way ahead. One looked around the corner in the direction of Tycoon’s audience hall—and suddenly the whole pack seemed to go on parade, all its steel claws clacking on the floor in unison. Something strange was going on ahead. Timor slowed down, provoking an irritated hiss from Sharps’ two behind him.

He reached the corner, and peeked around. The audience room doors were shut! Tycoon hardly ever did that. He liked to wander back and forth and schmooze with the cuttlefish. Not today. He must be running the air-conditioning a lot, like he did when he really wanted to impress someone. Okay, that was good.