The Children of the Sky

Jefri laughed. “You don’t have to spell that one out. Yeah, Tycoon isn’t Flenser, either Old or New. But he’s accomplished far more.” He glanced at Ravna. “What I’d like to know is how he wedged a snout into the Choir in the first place. Packs have been trying to penetrate the Tropics for—well, for centuries. Explorers went in, frags and singletons and small mobs dribbled out. Their stories were full of madness and member sacrifice and ecstasy—but never a hint of reason. The closest thing to trade was the occasional wreckage that drifted into the Domain. Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised that the Choir can manage complex procedures when it is convinced of future payoffs—but how did Tycoon get close enough to do the convincing in the first place?”

“A human could have done it.”

“Hah. No human we know, not if this operation is as old as Tycoon claims.”

Ravna hesitated, wondering whether to voice her suspicions about the “cuttlefish.” Finally she gave a shrug. “Okay, there are still mysteries. I may just ask him straight out. I think that despite all his”—bragging—“all his pride and confidence, Tycoon really does value human technical knowledge.”

“Yes! And your expertise in particular!” Jef grinned. “You can thank Timor for some of that.”

Ravna sighed. “Timor has done better than any of us. You talked to him more today than I did.” The boy had been whisked away at the end of the afternoon, an ugly finish to a very strange day. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“Yeah, I really do. He was less upset than you when Tycoon dragged him off. I think he wanted to get back to Geri.… I don’t think she is doing nearly so well.”

“We have to see her,” said Ravna. She hesitated, did her best not to look at the walls. I hope this doesn’t sound like a planned statement: “You know Jefri, after what I’ve seen today, I think I could work with Tycoon. What he’s achieved here—well, if we could use it to assemble the output of Scrupilo’s Cold Valley lab, the combination would give us one hundred years of progress in ten. On the other hand, if we can’t see Geri, if we can’t return all the stolen kids, then I’m not sure that it makes sense to hire on with Tycoon and, um,”—a tip of the hat to the main monster, in case he was listening too—“Vendacious.”

The terrifying thing about her little speech was that it was mostly true.

•  •  •

The factory they visited the next day was almost ten kilometers away. This time their wagon was drawn by kherhogs, the first large animals they had seen in the Tropics. They rolled past the airfield, past the south end of dozens of factory halls, and through one morning rainstorm. Immediately to the left of their path, the ground was an urban marsh, much like what they’d seen on their flight in. In the east, behind them, the palaces and hangars were lost to sight. The great pyramid stood above the mists like a distant mountain.

When they finally disembarked, they found Tycoon and company already waiting for them. The eightsome was talking even while Ravna was still greeting Timor: “You think this was a far ride, do you? Maybe a year or two ago it was, but the factory count is still doubling. I have smaller reservations a hundred kilometers from here. We’d have to take an airship to get them. Come along now, stop fussing with Timor. I have so much to show you.”

He dragged them through another rain shower to look at a coal-fired power plant. This rank of factory halls needed no steam engines. The equipment inside was entirely driven by electrical gear of various sorts. The factory next to where they had stopped seemed to be running some sort of drop forge. Tycoon claimed the one on the other side was for electroplating. Ravna thought all this must be the reason for the long trip—until she got indoors and discovered what this particular factory made:

Radios.

The devices were stacked at the output end of the factory. Tycoon snagged one from a departing pallet, then stood on his shoulders to put it in Ravna’s hands. Ravna turned the boxy contraption around, not immediately recognizing it. Perhaps that was because it seemed to be gold plated, a mirror-perfect job. She turned it over, saw the dark glossiness of an ordinary solar cell, the same as on radios built up north. Okay. Leaving aside the useless gold plating, this was the analog radio design she had created from Oobii’s archives. Scrupilo must have made dozens of the devices over the last few years. Ah. She looked past Tycoon. The bin he was standing in front of could easily contain a thousand radios.

All she could think to say was, “So why the gold plating?”

Tycoon suddenly was looking lots of places besides at her. “Yes, well, my local market likes them gold plated.”

Ravna raised an eyebrow. “The Choir?”

Godsgift was watching; it seemed amused: “Who but the Choir can know what is truly valuable?”