The Sons of Heaven (2 page)

Baby knew what to do then, all right; the Memory served her well. With just a little coaxing the man yawned, got up and opened the door to her, and never even saw her as she walked in at knee level and followed her nose to where he kept his food. She wandered through his kitchen, poking into things, nibbling idly, helping herself to what was nice, spitting out what wasn’t. She carried away a bright printed paper box of biscuits, marching back to the big man where he still stood, staring vacantly out at the night through the half-open door.

Before she left, however, Baby spotted something else she wanted: there on the back of the big man’s chair was a crocheted afghan, made long ago, pink and green acrylic fiber. Baby thought it was beautiful. She took it, wrapping it about her little shoulders as she left the house.

The big man closed the door after her and returned to his chair, where he yawned again and frowned at the holo program, thinking he must have nodded off for a moment.

Baby stopped on her way back, diverted by the big beasts in the cattle pen. They were even easier to coax than the big man, and it took her only a minute to find the right ones and get a nice hot drink.

Full and warm and very pleased with herself, she started back to the hill as the eastern sky was paling. She could do everything now! Really, she ought to have a proper name, the way Uncle Ratlin and Quean Barbie had. What was the grandest possible name for such a clever little girl? The Memory helpfully served up fragments of talk, big words with a vague sense of meaning.

She decided on Princess Tiara Parakeet.

But later, huddled in her own private warren, Tiara had to admit that she didn’t have it all yet. A Quean didn’t curl up alone in her chamber, all by herself. A Quean had lots of kin around her, and a bright-glowing holoset to watch, and Uncles and the occasional big man to talk to. When Queans cried, they cried proudly, noisily and angrily, because they hadn’t been given enough presents, and not because they were little and alone in the dark.

It was the Memory that sent Tiara poking through the trash rooms, where the panel light was dimmed because of all the piled clutter. One of these rooms had been, long ago, where the Queans’ big men were thrown away when they died. Tiara knew you couldn’t talk to big men anymore when they turned into bones, but she might play that they were still alive and talking to her, telling her how clever and pretty she was.

All thought of this particular game vanished, however, when Tiara finally pushed the door open and got into the bone room.

There were plenty of old bones, nasty rattly pieces of big men that Tiara didn’t much like the look of, and she saw at once that they wouldn’t do at all for pretend kin. But there was also a whole big man sprawled there, discarded like the rest!

No … not exactly a big man. Tiara stood and stared at him, and gradually the Memory told her everything: this was one of the big people’s slaves, the clever immortal machines that looked just like them.
Cyborgs
. They worked for the Uncle of all the big people, who was called
Dr. Zeus Incorporated
.

The slaves were evil; the big people sent them to plunder poor little kin and steal their clever works. They had always done this, and the kin hadn’t ever been able to stop them until one day, at last, a clever Uncle had devised a way to break the slaves. He’d even succeeded in catching one; though the slave had gotten away after. Such a long time, then, the Uncles had hunted for the slave, trying to catch him again, and many Uncles had been lost. It had become one of the epic stories of their race.

Though he had been finally captured, of course; kin never gave up when they wanted something. It was one of the things that made them better than the big people.

Why, it had been Tiara’s own kin who had captured the slave at last, famous Uncle Zingo! Though he was dust now, poor old thing, but famous dust anyhow. And Uncle Ratlin himself had been the one to kill the slave, trying and trying with the different inventions until he’d made one that was deadly enough to do the job. Tiara didn’t understand the big words and concepts that the Memory gave her, about
biomechanicals
and
electromagnetic pulses
and
disruption
, but it had been a great day indeed for Uncle Ratlin when he’d finally killed the slave.

Ever since, Uncle Ratlin had gone more and more among the big people, about his business in broad daylight even, and brought home wonderful presents for Quean Barbie. There was a great plan that was going to make them all very happy one day, that would avenge the kin and bring about the ruin of the big people and their slaves forever, and it all hinged on Uncle Ratlin’s invention.

But in the meantime, the dead slave had been thrown in here and utterly forgotten. Kin never wasted thought on that for which they had no further use. That was another of the things that made them better than the big people.

Tiara picked her way into the room and stood looking down at the dead
slave critically. Really, he didn’t look very bad; much nicer than all those old bones. He would do, she decided, for pretend kin.

But what could you play with a thing that couldn’t talk back to you? Tiara thought about it and her little face brightened. She ran off to her own hiding place and returned in a moment, carrying the pink and green acrylic afghan and a beer bottle she had filled with spring water. Sitting down beside the dead slave, she pulled his head and shoulders into her lap and awkwardly wrapped him in the afghan; then she tilted the bottle to his lips, pretending to feed him, spilling water down his waxen face.

“Pretty little baby, pretty little baby,” Tiara crooned. “Drink your nice milk and go to sleep.”

She had, like all the rest of her race, the power of absolute concentration on what interested her at the moment, fixation to a degree that would baffle one of the big people. So intent on her game was she, it mattered nothing to her that the dead slave trembled abruptly, that his mouth opened and fastened on the neck of the bottle, that he proceeded to gulp down the water.

“Good
little baby,” Tiara sang approvingly. “Such a good baby, he drinks it all gone. Isn’t he clever! Mummy’s very pleased with him.”

The slave lay still, gasping for breath. She lifted the bottle away and he moved his lips as though he were speaking, but Tiara couldn’t hear anything. “Oh, he’s parched, he’s parched and dry, he needs a whiskey to tell that story!” she sang. “Does he want a whiskey, then?”

The slave might have nodded, or it might have been a shiver. Tiara decided to play it for a nod and jumped up, running off to the spring for more water. She returned in triumph and settled back down, lifting his head and holding the bottle for him. “Drink, drink!” she chanted. “And grow up big and strong.”

He finished the water and sighed, and his head sagged back on her arm. His lips moved again and this time she heard him speak, distinctly, a whisper of thanks.

“He can talk to me,” she squealed in delight. “Talk to me more, slave!”

His eyes opened. She exclaimed, and leaned down to peer into them. They were a lovely shade of twilight blue, the prettiest eyes she had ever seen. All the kin had eyes like black water, except for some of the smarter Uncles; none such a nice color as this slave’s eyes. They did not seem to see her, though. His lips moved again and the voice was clearer:

“… I have been a word in a book
,

I have been an eagle
,

I have been a ship on the sea
,

I have been the string of a harp
,

I have been bespelled a long year inthe foam of the sea … “

“Oh, no you haven’t, silly,” said Tiara. “You’ve been only here for years.”

The slave blinked, looked confused. At last, “Little girl?” he inquired.

“You have to call me Princess Tiara,” she informed him.

“Princess Tiara,” he repeated. “Where are we?”

“You’re in my hill, slave-baby,” she said.

His face screwed up as though he were going to cry. “God Apollo, help me,” he moaned, turning his face away. She took his chin in her hands and turned his face back.

“Don’t cry, little baby. Mummy will take care of you. And we can play kin and you can talk to me and get me presents.”

He took a deep breath, blinking his eyes. “Why, I would love to, Princess Tiara,” he said at last. “But I’m hurt, you see. I can’t move my arms or legs, and I’m afraid I can’t see you, not in any spectrum.”

“Oh!” Tiara dropped the game. “You know why? Because Uncle Ratlin killed you.” She leaned back and studied him, puzzled. “How did you come alive again, slave?”

He appeared to be thinking about it. “I must have reset, or rerouted, and I’ve been in fugue all this time,” he guessed, as though he were talking to himself. He turned his head in her direction. “Little girl? Princess Tiara. Are we in your uncle Ratlin’s room?”

Tiara shook her head and then remembered he couldn’t see. “Oh, no. We’re in the room where the dead big people get thrown away.”

“Ah,” he said, shuddering. “So I’ve been thrown away? How long have I been in here?”

“Always,” Tiara said. Her tiny brows drew together in a frown. “Uncle Ratlin will be mad. You were supposed to be dead.”

“Oh, but—” How rapid the slave’s breathing became. “You don’t want him to be mad, do you? And if you tell him I’m still alive, he’ll want to kill me again. And if he does that, I won’t be able to talk to you. You see?”

Tiara saw. “It’s a secret,” she decided.

“Oh, yes, Princess Tiara, it’s our secret. Please?” The slave’s voice shook. “You won’t tell anyone I’m alive in here, and I can talk to you, and play all the games you like.”

“But you’re broken,” Tiara pointed out.

“Well, that’s true, but I might get better. I’m sure I would, if I had enough time,” the slave argued earnestly. “I couldn’t even talk or think before, and then you gave me water to drink, and just listen to me now! I’m talking and thinking like mad.”

“I’ll get you more water,” Tiara announced.

She got up and ran from the room, not noticing his cries of: “Wait! Little girl! Princess! Oh, please, for gods’ sake, don’t leave me!” When she came back after refilling the bottle, he turned his face at once as he heard her come in. “Princess Tiara?” he called desperately.

“Don’t cry, little baby,” she said, putting the bottle to his mouth. He gasped and drank again, so quickly some of the water spilled and ran down like his tears.

“Thank you, sweet little princess,” he gasped.

“I like that.” She smiled. “Tell me I’m a sweet little princess again.”

“Oh, you are! You’re the dearest, sweetest little princess there’s ever been.”

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you!”

“And I love you,” she emoted, clasping her hands together and tossing her head back. “You are my perfect treasure, and I die for wanting you!”

The slave’s mouth worked oddly. “My dearest love, you must never die,” he cried. “Surely if you die the stars will all go out!”

“That’s
nice,”
she told him, her eyes shining. “You talk beautiful.”

“I will always talk beautifully for you, Princess, I promise,” said the slave. “I just wish I could sit up and play, too. If only I could see! Will you look for me, dear little princess, and tell me: have I still got both my legs?”

Dutifully Tiara leaned over and looked, though she knew perfectly well. “Yes,” she sang. “Ten fingers and ten toes, why, he’s perfect!”

“Both my feet are still there, then? And my arms and hands?”

“Yes, my treasure.”

“Apollo be thanked. Am I cut, my dearest? Have I wounds anywhere?”

“My poor brave hero.” Tiara pretended to weep. “They have murdered you entirely, there is blood in your beautiful golden hair.”

“Is there?” The slave blinked, frowning. “Yes. I remember that. He tried to open my skull. So there’s a wound in my head, my love?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ha. Well, don’t trouble your heart, my darling.” The slave ran his tongue over his lips. “If you’ll look after me—if you’ll bring me water and food—my body will have what it needs to begin repairing itself. I don’t know how badly
I’m damaged, but if I can regain some function—any function—” The slave began to tremble, and calmed himself. “Why, what a grand time we’ll have. And I can tell you stories—do you like stories, Princess Tiara?”

“Oh, yes,” she assured him.

“Well then! Do you know, I was a Literature Preservation Specialist—” The slave’s voice broke. He swallowed hard and went on, “And what that means is, I know every story in the wide world. I will be your own storyteller, princess dear, and nobody else will have such fine stories told. Only to you will I tell them. Will you like that?”

“More than anything, my prince,” said Tiara and sighed. Then, in a completely sensible voice, she added, “Except you aren’t really a prince. You’re just my slave.”

“Ah! Yes, but only
your
slave,” he insisted. “I would be slave to none but the beautiful Princess Tiara. I’m afraid if you tell anybody I’m here, they’ll come take me away from you.”

“Nobody will do that,” Tiara told him, patting his cheek. She knew how to keep secrets.

There was no time, inside the hill; except in Quean Barbie’s chamber, where there was a chronometer of ingenious design to remind everyone when her favorite programs were on. With that exception there was no day or night, no sense of days or weeks passing or what that might mean.

But there were the stories, and the little rhymes the slave knew. For a long while there was Cinderella and Puss in Boots and Hickory Dickory Dock, intoned in his weary patient voice from the moment Tiara yawned and sat up until the moment she’d yawn and snuggle down beside him. She had dragged her scraps of blanket and dead-leaf nesting into the bone room and made a cozy place there against the slave’s body. She left it only to find food and drink for them.

Plenty of water from the spring, and pale fish blind as the slave was blind from the dark pool under the rock. From the world outside there were berries, and hazelnuts, and bird eggs. There were snails. The slave had shuddered at these, at first, and then made a game that they were
escargot with garlic butter in white wine sauce
. Sometimes Tiara would creep down to the farm and take anything that appealed to her from the big man’s kitchen, and sometimes things from his yard. Once there were towels left out to dry on the line overnight, and Tiara carried them away gleefully; for as her slave began to get
better he could feel the cold, and she liked to wrap warm things about his shivering body, or wad them between him and the stony floor.