The Children of the Sky

“Thanks.” Mr. Radio seemed to realize better than Tycoon how important Johanna’s hobbies might become. He also had his own ideas. This morning, those were about what to do with the coming glut of analog cameras, and how they might process the output without shipping it via Nevil. She looked down at the twosome and tried to hide her smile. Mr. Radio Cloaks was unique. Here, physically, it was just a twosome, what should have been a mental cripple. But Mr. Radio’s real mind was spread across hundreds of kilometers, managing an enterprise as complex as major business ventures in early civilizations. She had no trouble dealing with that; there would be several more such packs if Scrupilo could build safer cloaks. There could be millions more once they had digital versions with user multiplexing. But Ritl gave this creature a special strangeness; Ritl was not wearing a radio cloak. To be part of this pack, she had to keep her head very close to Zek’s, or better, Zek had to let her under his cloak. The result was a kind of fragmented communication. It was a small miracle that the pack could tolerate such a frail and sometime marriage. No wonder Ritl was training so hard to use Ut’s cloak.

They were almost to the reservation’s main gate. Like the fence, the gate was a flimsy thing, essentially a symbol. Sometimes the Choir would swarm across the boundary in what looked like a mad attack, an animal tsunami that would end all Tycoon’s grand plans—but the swarmings weren’t really attacks; the Choir had simply forgotten itself, and a wave of its excitement had brushed across the edge of the reservation. Afterwards, Tycoon’s folks would repair the tattered cords and timbers, and all was as before.

Today, the mob looked placid, with only a few Tines coming nearer than five meters to the boundary. Beyond ten meters, the mob surged as thick as ever, but there were no stampedes in sight.

“The Choir is watching us,” said Mr. Radio.

Johanna shrugged and waved to Tycoon’s guards to slide open the gate.

Mr. Radio continued, “This isn’t like when I come down here with Tycoon. This morning, the mob is watching intentionally, almost like a pack.” The twosome stood a little apart from itself; Ritl had slipped partway out from under the cloak. Her tympana were free to listen to the mindsounds from beyond the fence. Mr. Radio continued, “I—I can hear the Choir. It’s making more sense than usual. It’s watching you.”

“It’s really okay,” said Johanna. The sounds she could hear were just a cacophony of gobbling and hissing, sounds that animals might make—but she could tell that Mr. Radio was right. This happened whenever she approached the gate. Her gaze swept across the foothills of the fractal pyramid. What looked to the inexperienced eye like disorganized jostle, was repeated on different scales. She had learned to recognize mood and sometimes even intention in those patterns. What she was seeing here was a vast … anticipation.

She walked toward the opening gate, ignoring the way Tycoon’s guard packs hunkered down on themselves. They were always nervous when the gate was open, choosing to imagine that when closed it gave them some protection.

Behind her, Mr. Radio Cloaks emitted an imperative squeak that meant something like “You come back here!”

She turned to see that Ritl had broken free of Zek and was walking purposefully toward Johanna and the gateway. Except in bloody hospitals, Johanna had rarely seen such impudence in a singleton aspiring to membership. Ritl was one tough customer. Normally that endeared her to Johanna; just now, it made her fear for Ritl. Johanna stopped in the middle of the gateway, ignoring the myriads watching her. She jabbed her hand at the critter, doing her best to imitate a Tinish warning wave. “Stop! You can’t go out there, Ritl. It’s safe for me, but not for you.” At the very least Ritl would never return from the adventure.

The singleton kept coming, ignoring Radio’s gobbling and Johanna’s Samnorsk. Jo would have never thought this particular singleton would be susceptible to the Choir’s siren call. No, Ritl seemed to be forcing herself forward. Mr. Radio hadn’t moved but he sounded very worried. Ritl ignored them both. All her attention was forward, staring into the Choir. She moved slower and slower, as if the mob’s mindsound were physical opposition. Finally she stopped, standing right on the boundary of the reservation. She’d lift a paw as if to take another step, then hesitate, then try again. The creature was shivering with the effort.

Finally Ritl said in very loud, very clear Samnorsk, “Well, crap! Double crap!” She lunged forward and tapped her snout on the ground beyond the gate, very clearly in the territory of the Choir. It reminded Johanna of a human child counting coup. And now that she had her claim to triumph, she scuttled back into the reservation.

Johanna gave the duo a little wave. Then she turned and walked into the open space beyond. Behind her, the guards quickly closed the gate.