“Hand,” was what the Eight said first.

“Hand hand hand hand . . . hand hand . . . ”

One word grew into a toddler’s vocabulary, and the Eight begged for more children to help it learn and grow.

The papio searched their world for bright patient youngsters. A secret village was built underground, and to help maintain security, none of the helpers were allowed to return home again.

Soon the Eight grew one mouth and four clumsy limbs, and each mind learned to speak. Names were given to the Eight. The doctor had her favorite, and every child had his or hers. Hundreds of busy days passed; nothing substantial changed. The Eight remained divided and chaotic. The Eight spoke in riddles and nonsense, although the children were adept at guessing moods, and better than any adult, they could separate their favorite’s words from the mayhem.

The oldest children became adults. They were thanked and replaced, and with nervous anticipation, they began to dress in adult lives. But the old rules remained in force. Each had to remain in the vicinity, working where they could, and in one case marrying one another. It seemed inevitable that their future children would eventually take up this great work, and their grandchildren.

But then Diamond came to the reef, and King, both running wild among the furious, horrified papio.

After that, nothing was the same. King went back to the middle of the world, living inside his father’s giant house of wood and sap. The strange human child was sleeping in his old room, pretending to be a happy normal tree-walker rich with friends, school, and peace. And there were whispers about some magical beast with no shape and no weight, living free in the wilderness between the two human worlds.

Suddenly the Eight seemed like the weakest child. Powerful voices regretted their patience, and meanwhile, the old doctor who had studied them and protected them returned home, and as promised, she and her cancer died.

New doctors assembled in a distant city, making plans.

Throughout those troubles, the children kept vigil, bringing food and drink, news and rumors. And sometimes one of the Eight would take charge of the mouth, speaking to a favorite child with a clear voice, or washing all of them with bent little riddles.

King and Diamond had been home for forty days. The oldest child—the same young boy who taught the monster to talk—was now a young soldier serving in the local militia. One afternoon he left his post to run up into the reef’s shadows, nothing in his hands but still full of news. The doctors had arrived, bringing tools and odd machines. They wouldn’t discuss their plans, but it was obvious what was coming, perhaps as early as the day after tomorrow.

One voice took the mouth long enough to say, “I want a basher nut. Bring me one basher nut.”

Moments later, the Eight collapsed on the favorite dash-and-ash mat, eyes blind and the mouth wide.

Each entity was at war with its siblings.

King and Diamond had strong little bodies. But the Eight was a giant, divided and useless so long as each of them ruled just a few pieces. War was inevitable, and silent. Blood was the weapon of necessity, and their blood came in eight distinct shades. Three were red: smoky red or bright pink or red like a man. Two forms were violet, while one was black and another a cold blue. And the final blood was a scalding, flame-worthy orange. Each had its taste and temperature, its consistency and limits. Each carried cells that might have once fought diseases but now battled foreign organs. Some were strongest in the day, others at night. The bloods flowed where they could, and when every course was blocked, they would pool inside friendly hearts and livers, gathering energy, waiting to attack whatever new weakness was revealed.

Blood could change its color, pretended to be another.

On occasions the blood scattered until it was too thin to notice. What was invisible slipped past barriers, attacking like poison, like cancer, killing the enemy from within.

Fouling the siblings’ meat was a common tactic.

Cutting nerves and food to the enemies were equally valid.

Through the night and during the following long day, the giant body was wracked by endless violence. Children brought food that wasn’t eaten and water that wasn’t sipped, and they sat on the coral dusts, watching nothing change. Meanwhile the new doctors approached cautiously, taking temperatures and samples of flesh, scribbling elaborate notes while ignoring what the children told them. The Eight were fighting for control and all the doctors needed to do was to wait for someone to win the last battle. But as a group, those smart doctors decided that war wasn’t the smart conclusion. The corona’s largest child had fallen ill. The eight creatures had lost their equilibrium. Yes, the body was in turmoil, and it was hard to see which part belonged to which creature. But the eight brains were distinct, and doctors understood knives and surgery. To people like them, only one plan made any sense.

Divers had the reddest blood, and her muscle was red and her bones were white, and Diver’s cells and tissue resembled human cells and human tissue.

The old woman doctor had commented on the similarities several times. But even once would have been too often. Divers’ siblings saw the implications. The papio were imagining a human cousin floating between the monstrous Seven. What would be their value once another Diamond was hacked free of her prison?

And there was a second advantage that Divers held—innate talents for managing her organs and blood, and for manipulating the complex, chaotic nervous system strung between each of her siblings. She was the strongest when war began. But everybody else saw the value in stomping on Divers, making her feeble. As the second night arrived, she was the seventh strongest power—her brain pushed to the top of the skull while her surviving body was a ribbon of red meat running down the body’s long back.

But what is small can be strong, in the right circumstances.

Night arrived, and the doctors had made their decision. Long knives and cauterizing loops were laid out on the adjacent mat. By every measure, the giant body was helpless, eyes shut and the breathing fitful. One last battery of tests had to be carried out. A thousand bits of flesh were taken from everywhere, and the Eight’s body was painted as the doctors worked, each patch of skin given an owner and rough borders.

Just then, five caretakers appeared.

Two of the children were nearly adults, while the others belonged to the youngest class. Each shouldered a covered basket or polished gray jar. Sober, serious faces went unnoticed. Children normally chattered with one another, but not this group. The doctors mapping the body reacted by waving at the air, telling them that they were needed anywhere but here. Yet the caretakers claimed orders and duties. Reaching the edge of the Eight’s mat, they set down the baskets and tall jars, and instead of leaving, they stood shoulder to shoulder, pulling guns out from the baskets and jars.

The finest surgeons in the world were told to sit on their hands and do nothing, and they did just that.

Then the oldest children grabbed the long razor-edged surgical blades, and following the brightly colored ink lines, they opened twin gouges down the Eight’s long back.

Divers was tiny because her plan was to be tiny.

Losing every battle, she had retreated purposefully until she was as small as Diamond and easy to reach.

The plan—her simple brutal perfect plan—began long ago. Through riddles and codes, she spoke to her favorite papio children. She explained just enough to make them understand what she wanted. Then she gave the signal, the code words, “Basher nut,” and the one young soldier went back to the armory to collect weapons and make ready.