The Children of the Sky

The Tropical walked up to them with the ease of a pack who knew humans—or who didn’t fear losing its mind in others. In either case, it had none of the aggressive posture of Tycoon or Vendacious. “Our secret weapon has been all around you. The Choir.” It gestured through the high windows at the mountain range of pyramids.

“And your god is speaking through you?” Sarcasm edged Jefri’s voice.

The godsgift cocked a head. “Oh no. Or only indirectly. But by this evening the Choir will know everything that is being said here now.” The creature pointed again at the pyramids. “Surely you see the gathering?”

Ravna looked through the crudely made plate glass. Sunlight was coming almost straight down, mottling the golden surface of the grand pyramid.

Jefri’s voice was soft and wondering: “Those shadows, Ravna—I think they’re mobs of Tines.” Individual members were visible as dots on the closest of the second-degree pyramids. On the great pyramid, the thousands were a finely mottled discoloration, creeping higher and higher. This surpassed Pilgrim’s most extreme Choir tales.

“Are you impressed?” said Tycoon. “I’m impressed, and that is not easy to do.”

Ravna looked way from the windows. “… Yes,” she said. “But just how does this make a secret weapon? I know the Tropical Choir has existed at least as long as the northern civilizations, but it has never mattered except as a barrier to land travel between the north and the south. There’s no way that the Choir could be any smarter than an individual pack or human.” Not down here in the Slow Zone. There were group minds in the Beyond, but even they were never more than witless hedonists. You had to go into the Transcend to do better—and there large group minds were just one of a number of paths to real Power.

“Ha ha!” said Tycoon, his high-pitched voice like a child teasing. “They doubt your Choir’s godhood.”

Godsgift had settled itself on the carpet around the humans. Now it laughed. “You doubt the Choir’s godhood, too, O Tycoon.” The pack shifted around in its harlequin cloaks. Its mangy pelt had big bare patches, altogether consistent with the ragamuffin clothing. Ravna wondered how uncomfortable the fellow was with Tycoon’s air conditioning.

Godsgift continued with a kind of sly diffidence: “In truth, all I remember from the Choir is an enormous feeling of well-being. I pity you Northern packs who won’t give yourself to it. I pity the humans even more that they can never become part of it, even if they wished. Both you and they are so upset about the murders the humans committed. How little you have to lose that you squabble over a member here, a pack there.” But now it paused. “I suspect that as a matter of cold fact, Ravna Bergsndot is right about us. The Choir is not smarter than a unitary pack. But there are places and times—millions of places and times every day—where it is almost as smart. And sometimes, the Choir’s gifts—those such as myself—last longer. It is a sacrifice, since for a time I am left as limited as you.

“So yes, the Choir as a whole may not have what you call intelligence, but it is a happier way to know reality than is your stunted existence.” Godsgift was silent for a moment, most of the fellow staring out at the pyramid—doing a good imitation of thoughtful yearning. Abruptly the pack gave a start. “It just occurs to me that you two humans could satisfy your curiosity about the Choir in a way that no unitary pack ever could.”

Tycoon leaned forward. “What can they do that I cannot?”

“Well, sir,” replied the godsgift, “you could experience the Choir, but it’s unlikely your parts would ever reassemble into that unitary self you value so much. On the other, um, hand,” he waved a paw in an artificial flourish, “these two humans could ascend with the crowds. They could witness the highest pinnacle of the Choir, where myriads stand within the diameter of a single song, where even such as I would dissolve. Their minds would survive—by the fact that, alas, they can never be more—and they could report back on the experience!”

Vendacious perked up. “I think that is a capital idea!”

Tycoon had his heads together, apparently giving the suggestion serious thought. “I don’t think it is as simple as you say. A few years ago, I had Remasritlfeer build a closed and padded rickshaw wagon, one that he could propel from the inside. The idea was similar to what you’re suggesting but without the humans—and of course the rickshaw couldn’t have climbed any pyramids. Even so, the project was a failure. Remasritlfeer wasn’t more than twenty meters outside the Reservation when the mobs attacked his rickshaw and tipped it over.” Tycoon was watching Ritl, but the singleton just continued grooming its claws, oblivious. “He would have died in the experiment, except that we had a cable attached to the wagon and were able to drag it back before the mob could get to him.”