For emphasis, Bealeen repeated, “Madam.”

“Enough,” Prima said, lifting a finger, tapping the man on his lips. “If they attack again, I’ll flee. But not until then.”

They were sharing a remarkable room where only maintenance crews and new Archons were typically allowed. Tens of thousands of days had passed since important noise had occupied this space. But the command post was now full of talk and busy bodies. Every chair was claimed, and more people crowded beside the various reinforced windows. The sitting people called to one another when they weren’t focused on crackling, wire-born voices. News was being gathered and shared. Those on their feet knew to whisper when they spoke, keeping the noise to manageable rumble. For people without jobs, the windows were the main attractions, and everybody had to defend their portion of the glass, staring out at what had swiftly become emptiness: a panorama of sun-pierced air that made eyes blink and tear, the occasional blimp or fletch gliding between the smoky bits of wreckage still tumbling from the highest reaches.

Bealeen moved closer. “But madam. For all we know, Hanner’s high trunk is burning.”

A stout woman filled the nearest chair. She was wearing a drab grayish-green militia uniform, half a dozen unplugged call-lines stuck between her fingers and two headsets pressed against her ears.

The Archon touched a broad shoulder. “Any word from the scouts?”

“Anytime,” the woman said.

That same answer was offered ten recitations ago. Since the elevators rising to the Hanner’s roots were waiting for repairs, one small fletch had been dispatched to investigate the blast zone. On the Archon’s explicit orders, every other available aircraft was saving people, or at least patrolling at the ready for survivors. Of course that scout might have been destroyed by falling debris, or the damage to Hanner proved hard to measure, and even if the mission went well, the crew would need a secure line that was still intact, leading back down the trunk to her.

Once again, the Archon asked, “Which trees?”

The sitting woman was tough as anyone, her adult life spent in the District’s small army and then the reserves. But the voice cracked when she said, “Rail.”

Rail was her home. Her sister and two nephews missing. Watching that tree fall into the sun, everybody assumed Hanner and the Ivory Station were next. This was the nerve center to the District; every enemy wanted it destroyed. But the explosions and subsequent fires had fanned out in the opposite direction.

“Marduk and Yali,” she said. “Hartton and Cast and Shandlehome.”

Then the bombs had finished, but the morning’s weak rains had left the forest ceiling as dry as possible. A dozen smaller, younger trees were still burning, still collapsing, following a widening, endlessly brutal arc.

Contemplating fire, the people at the windows looked up. But roots and the remnants of the severed trunks continued to smolder, and smoke always loved to gather in the highest reaches, hiding everything.

What kind of weapon could inflict so much horror?

And which enemy would be stupid enough to use it?

The suspects were few, and everybody understood who they were—so few that spare fingers would be left on the counting hand. But nothing was certain, including who should be cursed.

Prima gave the woman a comforting pat on a shoulder.

The nagging aide had given up on Prima. Moving down the window, he offered his sage advice to the very worst person.

“She needs to be safe,” said Bealeen. “If you insist, she’ll take the fletch that’s fueled and ready.”

“No,” said the anguished man. “I’m waiting with her.”

“But the Happenstance is waiting,” the young man said. “Think about it. The two of you could fly to safe places, hunting for your son from there.”

“Kill that notion,” Merit said.

But the aide believed that he had the rank as well as the urgency to tell the old man, “You aren’t in a position to dictate.”

Too late, the Archon considered interceding.

But Merit turned to stare at this busy runt. The poor man looked ancient, that scar on his face deeper than ever, blood making his cheeks glow. It was hard to imagine how someone so plainly miserable could muster the energy to remain on his feet. Yet the big eyes were full of scorn and conviction, and a matching voice said, “One little ship can’t do anything, hunting all of this space. The survivors are everywhere, and we’re here. If Diamond and Haddi are alive, they know to come here. Here. This is where the world can reach us and we can talk to the world, and this the best awful choice that I have.”

Instinct told Prima to do nothing.

Devoid of good sense, Bealeen said, “I am sorry, sir. But you surely know that your family is most likely dead.”

Merit understood quite a lot. The awful words had no effect. How could he suffer more than he was two moments ago, before this babe came by to pester him?

“My son is not dead,” he said.

That earned silence and a stiffened back.

“Diamond falls through, and I’ll go find him again,” said the slayer. “And if I don’t cut him from the belly of some corona, then someone else will do that job, in a thousand days or ten million.”

The crowded room had fallen quiet.

The aide found himself inside a box, and he didn’t like boxes. Feeling the pressure of eyes, he saw one last gambit. Very quietly, but with rage building, he said, “Well, but of course your son is the reason . . . ”

His voice fell away.

“Bealeen,” the Archon called out.

“The reason,” Merit said. “What do you mean by that?”

The young man couldn’t have stood taller. “This happened because of him,” he said, his voice fierce and shrill.

And again, the Archon called to him. Nobody could ignore what her tone meant.

The aide turned. “Yes, madam.”

“Go,” she said.

“Yes, madam?”

“Immediately,” she said.

“I’ll wait onboard the Happenstance,” he said hopefully.

“No, you’ll go home,” she said. “Or you’ll run to any other tree in the world. Or for all I care, you can leap out this window. I don’t want your company again. Do you understand me?”

The man waited to be sad or angry, but his emotions never rose to that level. This was his chance to escape, and Bealeen said, “Yes, madam,” before hurrying away.

Everyone else was staring at Merit. The room was thinking about nothing but the magical son.

Then the Archon walked over to the grief-stricken father and husband. “May I stand with you for now, sir?” she asked.

He said, “Of course.”

She raised a hand, resting her palm against his shoulder. Then with a voice that everyone would hear, she said, “I can’t promise much, sir. But I know this: one way or another, we’ll see the boy home again.”

Every school uniform started out too big for Karlan, but that never lasted long. There were larger men in the world, and perhaps some were naturally stronger, but the near-man had other gifts: he was the masterful bully, an expert in violence and the artful threat of violence. Students gave him money and he gave them peace, and certain teachers found it was easiest to bribe the giant, gaining ease of mind while winning tranquility in whatever classroom in which he sat. But despite the terrors, he had never been expelled from school or arrested for any crime. Investigated, yes, but not arrested.

Karlan wasn’t as smart as his little brother, but he was shrewder than ten Seldoms and a genius reading the signals displayed on any face. Long ago, he saw what was different about Diamond, calling him a monster before gutting him with a knife. That history was something that Tar`ro and the other guards never forgot. But since Diamond came to school, there hadn’t been any hostilities between them. Karlan knew better. The little creature didn’t matter anymore. Doing just enough to keep his reputation airborne, Karlan had capably kept himself in a place where he felt comfortable, and by his measures, in total control.