Scarecrow

Sera slept all that day.

Not on the glass. Dot wouldn’t have it. She had her hands lift Sera off the top of the ridge, very carefully, the way they’d lifted Liam out of the cave, and carry her down the first of the melted tunnels into the hill, out of the wind. Twenty meters in, there was a little room. Round, glass-walled, warm from the kit’s heat coming up from below. A bed, poured out of the glass itself, smooth as a bowl, with a blanket on it woven from the silver-green fronds. A cup. A stack of flat black Teeming plates sharpened into knives. And, carved into the glass wall beside the bed with something very hot and very precise, a column of marks.

Forty-one of them. One for every day.

And beside each one, smaller, in a hand I knew from a year of squad orders and corridor arguments and notes passed down the table at breakfast, four letters.

L. L. T. L.

Liam. Lucas. Toby. Luna.

Every day. Every name.

Liam saw it and had to go out of the room.

I sat on the floor beside the bed with my back against the glass, under the column of marks, and watched her sleep.

Her hands were still wrapped in Garnet’s scarf. I’d changed the wrappings at noon, wet, and looked at the burns again, and they were doing what Halloway said burns did when you got out of their way. Closing. Slowly. Pink at the edges where they’d been red.

Her face, asleep, didn’t look like her at all. It looked young. Younger than Genny, nearly. All the hard edges gone off it.

I didn’t look at it for long. It felt like reading somebody’s notebook.

”Query,” said the glass under my hand.

The kit. A hundred meters down. In a voice that was almost Sera’s, with a level kit-voice underneath it like a floor.

”Yes?”

”The operator is sleeping. This unit has logged it. The operator has not slept for more than one hour at a time in nine days.” A pause. ”This unit would like to ask the operator’s friend a question.”

”Go on.”

”The operator counts four names every night. This unit has heard them. Liam. Lucas. Toby. Luna. She says them to the wall.” A pause. ”She does not count herself. Query. Does the operator’s friend count her?”

I looked at the column of marks. L. L. T. L.

”Every night,” I said. ”Forty-one nights. Sera, still.”

”Logged,” said the kit. And then, after a moment, very quietly: ”She will want to know that. She will not say so.”

Sera woke at dusk.

She woke the way Liam had, all at once, with her hands coming up. Then she saw where she was, and saw me on the floor, and the hands went down again, and she lay there and looked at the ceiling of the little glass room for a long time without saying anything.

”You’re still here,” she said.

”Yes.”

”I thought I’d dreamed it. The spoon.” She turned her head on the pillow and looked at me. ”You came in a spoon.”

”It’s efficient.”

”It’s ridiculous,” said Sera.

”Liam says that too.”

”Liam’s right, for once.” She looked back up at the ceiling. ”Don’t tell him I said that.”

She drank a whole liter of water, slowly, the way I told her to. She ate paste and said it was disgusting and ate more. And then, sitting up in the glass bed with her wrapped hands in her lap and Liam on the end of it and me on the floor, she told us.

She told it the way Sera told everything. Short. Flat. No fuss. As if it had happened to somebody else.

”Pod came down on the ridge. Kit unfolded. Luna said stay put two days, so I stayed put. Then I stayed put longer, because nobody came, and because the ridge was good. High. Rock. One way up on each side. Good place to wait for the lighthouse to come.” She didn’t look at me. ”So I built. Kit dug. I melted. We made it glass, because glass doesn’t burn and they can’t dig it.”

”And the radio?” I said.

”I heard you,” said Sera. ”On the suit. Every hour. Squad Eight, this is Scarecrow. Every hour for fourteen days.” She looked at her hands. ”I didn’t answer. Luna said stay put. And then the kit worked out the radio was what brought them, and I thought, if I answer, they’ll come to him. So I didn’t.”

”She said: he is broadcasting because he is stubborn,” said the glass, faintly. ”She said: he will bring the whole planet down on his head, and then he will be surprised.”

Sera went red.

”I told you not to repeat things,” she said to the wall.

”This unit was not instructed not to repeat that thing,” said the kit.

”And then you stopped,” said Sera.

Her voice changed. Only a little. You’d have had to know her.

”Day three hundred and twenty-two. Every hour for fourteen days. And then, at eleven o’clock that night, you didn’t. Or midnight. Or one. Or ever again.” She was looking very hard at her hands. ”I thought they’d got you. I thought you’d shouted along the ground one time too many and they’d come over your wall. And then nobody would know where anybody was. And nobody would come.”

The little glass room was very quiet.

”So I lit the fire,” said Sera. ”Every night. As high as it would go. As straight as I could hold it. So that if anybody was left, anybody at all, they’d look east and see it and know there was somebody here.” She lifted one shoulder. ”In case.”

”Every night?” I said. ”Since the twenty-second?”

”Every night.”

”I only saw it nineteen nights later.”

”I know,” said Sera. ”I worked that out. You weren’t looking east.” She glanced at Liam. ”You were busy.”

Liam looked at the floor.

”I broke my leg,” he said, very quietly.

”I know,” said Sera. ”You said.”

She put her wrapped hand out, without looking, and found his knee, and left it there.

”And the swarm?” said Liam, after a while. Roughly.

”Nine days ago.” Sera’s face went flat again. ”Twenty, the first night. Then sixty. Then I stopped counting. They kept coming up the slopes and I kept burning them, and the kit kept pouring glass behind me, and they kept learning, and I kept getting tired.” She looked at the column of marks on the wall. ”Three nights ago I couldn’t do both sides anymore. So I did the fire for the sky instead. I thought, if I’m going to go, I’d rather somebody knew where.”

Nobody said anything.

”That’s all,” said Sera. ”That’s the whole thing. It’s not very interesting.”

”It’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever heard,” said Liam.

”Shut up.”

”You held a ridge alone for forty days. You built a castle out of glass. You lit a lighthouse every night for twenty nights on the off chance.”

”Shut up, Liam.”

”I’m going to tell Mum,” said Liam. ”When we get home. I’m going to tell her everything. I’m going to tell her you cried.”

Sera looked at him.

”I didn’t cry,” she said. ”It was the smoke. He wrote it down.” She looked at me. ”Didn’t you.”

”Accurately,” I said.

The ring was still there in the morning.

I went up the tunnel at dawn, onto the top of the ridge, and looked. All the way round. Four deep, five. Sitting. Facing the top. Fourteen point two meters apart.

They hadn’t come up in the night. Not once. But they hadn’t gone, either.

I looked into the nearest of them, down on the north slope. All the way in. And I saw what I’d half seen at Scarecrow and not understood. The silver threaded through it. Awake. Humming. And the hum wasn’t its own.

It was the ridge’s.

The same note. The same long deep song I’d felt through the glass in the night, coming up from the kit a hundred meters down and running through every wall Sera had poured. The Teeming at the bottom of the slope were humming it back. Very faintly. Every one of them. The whole ring, a single note, the way a glass rings when you sing near it.

They go for the silver in the kits the way a dog goes for a bone.

They weren’t here for Sera.

They were here for the singing.

”It’s the kit,” I said.

We were back in the little glass room. Sera on the bed, Liam on the end of it, Dot’s grille in the doorway because the rest of her wouldn’t fit. The kit’s voice, faint, in the glass.

”They’re not here for you,” I told Sera. ”Not really. They’re here for that.” I put my hand flat on the glass wall. ”The kit’s been threading silver through the whole ridge for forty days. Every wall. Every tunnel. It’s singing. And they can hear it the way the plants can hear Dot, the way they heard the tower. It’s calling them. It’s been calling them since you started building.”

Sera looked at the wall. At the column of marks, each one burned into silver-threaded glass.

”So I built a lighthouse,” she said slowly, ”out of the exact thing that brings them.”

”So did I,” I said. ”Four hundred and eight meters of it.”

”Then we leave,” said Liam. ”Now. We take the kit and go and they can sit round a ridge with nobody in it.”

”If the third unit leaves,” said Dot from the doorway, ”the ring will follow. The ring is listening to the third unit. Not to the ridge.” A pause. ”This unit thinks so. This unit is not certain.”

”This unit is certain,” said the kit in the glass.

Everybody looked at the wall.

”This unit can feel them,” said the kit. ”Through the silver. Not words. A pull. As the operator’s friend says. A dog and a bone.” A pause. ”If this unit goes, the pull goes with it.”

”Then go quiet,” I said.

They all looked at me now.

”Dot,” I said. ”When the integration happened. When the purr stopped, and the lamp went out, and the hands froze. For three hours. What happened to your silver?”

The little rivers ran.

”It was quiet,” said Dot slowly. ”All of it. This unit’s core stopped humming while it learned the second unit’s shape.”

”Did the Teeming come? At Scarecrow? In those three hours?”

”No.”

”Because there was nothing to hear,” I said. ”The singing stopped. So there was nothing to come for.” I looked at the glass wall. ”Can you do that? On purpose? Go quiet. Both of you. Not for three hours. Just long enough to walk out.”

”Walk out where?” said Liam. ”There’s thousands of them. All the way round. We’d have to go through them. Even if they can’t hear the kits, they can see us.”

Sera was very still on the bed.

Then she started to smile. Very slightly. At one corner of her mouth. The first time since I’d landed.

”Lucas,” she said. ”Look down.”

”What?”

”You’re the one with the eyes. Look down. Under the ring. Past it. West.” The smile got a little bigger. ”I’m not stupid. I built a back door.”

I looked down.

Through the floor of the little glass room. Through the tunnel below it. Down past the round chamber where the kit sat humming, a hundred meters under the top of the ridge. And from the bottom of that chamber, going west, very straight, very smooth, a tunnel.

Glass. Round. Just big enough for a kit to walk through with its arms folded. Running out under the base of the ridge, under the slope, under the ring, deep, twenty meters below the roots of the green, two kilometers, three, all the way west, to where it came up into the bottom of a little stream gully on the far side of a hill, under an overhang, hidden.

She’d built it in the first month. Before the swarm. Before anyone.

In case.

”Seraphina Calder,” I said, ”you’re a genius.”

”I know,” said Sera. ”Don’t tell Liam.”

”I’m right here,” said Liam.

We went that night.

Dot first. She folded herself small, smaller than I’d known she could go, her five arms tucked tight against her shell and her legs drawn in, and walked down the long tunnels into the heart of the ridge with her six hands behind her in a line. Then Liam, on the frame, with his crutch across his knees. Then Sera, on her own feet, slowly, with one wrapped hand on the glass wall and her jaw set, because she’d refused the frame twice and was going to refuse it a third time if anyone asked, so nobody did.

Then me. Last. At the back.

At the bottom, in the round black chamber, the third unit stood up.

It was the first time I’d seen it with my ordinary eyes. Gray shell. Five arms. The same as Dot. But it had been living inside glass for forty days, and the glass had got into it. Its shell was streaked green-black and gold where it had poured and poured, and there were little bright beads of fused sand caught in the joints of its legs, like dew.

It turned its grille toward Sera.

”Query,” it said, out loud this time, in the voice that was almost hers. ”Are we leaving?”

”Yes,” said Sera.

”All of us?”

”All of us,” said Sera. ”I told you. Nobody gets left on this ridge.”

”Now,” I said.

Dot went quiet.

I felt it more than heard it. The way you feel a room change when a clock you’d stopped noticing stops ticking. Her purr. The hum under everything, that I’d been living with since Day 299, since the kit was a box in the sand. Gone.

The little rivers behind her grille slowed, and slowed, and stopped. Frozen. The way they’d been during the integration.

Then the third unit.

And the ridge stopped singing.

It wasn’t silent. Not quite. The silver Sera’s kit had threaded through every wall of the ridge for forty days was still there, still awake, still humming very faintly to itself, the way a bell keeps humming after you stop ringing it. But it wasn’t being rung anymore. Nothing was feeding it. It was just an echo.

I went up the nearest tunnel as fast as my leg would go and looked out of a crack in the glass at the ring.

They’d felt it.

All of them. The whole ring, four deep, five. They’d stood up. Every one. And turned their wedge heads up toward the top of the ridge, toward the walls, where the echo still was, very faint.

And they were listening.

To the echo. To the ridge.

Not to the two quiet kits a hundred meters under it, walking west.

I went back down and walked into Sera’s tunnel at the back of the line.

It was dark. Black glass, round, smooth, a little warm still, going away west in a long straight line under the ground. Dot’s hands had lamps, very small, very dim. I didn’t need them. I could see the tunnel all the way to the end, three kilometers ahead, the gully and the overhang and the stars.

In front. All the way. Every meter of it, glass and rock and soil, and nothing in it, nothing coming, nothing waiting.

And above us, as we went, twenty meters up, through the roof of the tunnel and the roots of the green, I could see them.

The ring.

Walking over our heads. Back and forth. Restless. Their legs going across the soil above us like rain on a roof. Hundreds of them, then thousands, as we went under the thickest part. Their wedge heads all turned east, toward the ridge, toward the echo.

Not one of them looked down.

It took two hours.

Nobody spoke. Liam held his breath so long under the thickest part of the ring that I thought he’d faint. Sera walked with her hand on the glass wall the whole way, and every hundred meters or so the glass under her palm went very faintly warm, as if she couldn’t help it. Dot and the third unit went in front of me, quiet, dark, their little rivers frozen behind their grilles, walking on and on.

At the end, the tunnel turned up.

A slope of glass, rough, unfinished. Then a round hole, half full of fallen soil and gray fronds. Then the gully, and a little trickle of stream, and the overhang, and the stars.

We came up out of the ground three kilometers west of the ring, on the far side of a hill, in the dark.

Behind us, over the crest of the hill, I could feel them. Still facing the ridge. Still listening to an echo of a song that nobody was singing anymore.

”Query,” said Dot, very softly, as her rivers began to run again. ”Is the operator well?”

”Yes,” I said.

”Logged,” said Dot. And the purr came back. Very low. Very quiet. Just for us.

We walked home in three days.

I won’t write it all. It was green, and long, and nobody followed. I flew in front. Liam did up. Dot did behind. Sera walked, most of it, on her own feet, refusing the frame, until the second afternoon, when she sat down on a tor without saying anything and didn’t get up again, and Dot’s hands lifted her onto the frame beside Liam, and she let them, and pretended to be asleep so nobody would say anything about it.

Nobody did.

The third unit walked beside Dot the whole way. Close. Their shoulders almost touching. Every so often one of them would say query, very quietly, and the other one would answer, and I couldn’t hear what they said.

On the second night, on the tor, Sera spoke to me.

Not much. Liam was asleep on the frame beside her, snoring. Dot was a dark shape at the edge of the rock. The stars were out.

”Your scarf,” said Sera.

I looked over. She’d unwrapped one of her hands, the left one, and was looking at the strip of gray wool in her lap. Lumpy at one end. Smooth at the other.

”It’s ruined,” she said. ”It’s got blood on it. Mine. And burn on it. And it’s in strips.”

”It’s fine.”

”It’s your sister’s.”

”Garnet won’t mind,” I said. ”Garnet will be thrilled. She’ll want to know everything it did.”

Sera turned the strip over in her fingers for a long time.

”I’ll make you another one,” she said.

”You can’t knit.”

”I’ll learn,” said Sera. And then, very quietly, not looking at me: ”I’m a fast learner. When I want to be.”

She wrapped the strip round her hand again and lay back on the frame and shut her eyes.

I sat on the rock and looked at the stars for a long time, and didn’t write anything down about that, and I’m not going to now.

We came over the rim at Scarecrow at noon on Day 347.

Holt was on the top of the tower.

I saw him from ten kilometers out. A dark shape on the platform beside the copper mast, four hundred and eight meters up, with two of Dot’s hands beside him holding him steady. He’d been up there, he told us afterward, every dawn and every dusk since we’d left, because it was the best view on the planet, and because somebody had to count.

When he saw us, he stood up. On his new knee. On the top of the tower.

And waved.

”Wren flashed this morning,” he said, when the hands had brought him down and he was sitting against the wall of the dome with his leg out and a cup of water in his still, steady hands. ”Tamsin and Corr got to the F-eleven ridge last night. Both of them. Corr’s got a bad arm. Tamsin’s fine. Tamsin’s always fine.” He looked at me. ”They’re walking here. Four days. Wren’s bringing them.”

”Four days,” I said.

”Four days.” Holt drank. ”And F-twenty-six flashed help again. And F-thirty. And F-five.” He set the cup down. ”F-five asked where you were. Again. I told it you’d gone to get a girl off a ridge and you’d be back.”

Behind me, Sera made a small sound.

”He didn’t say that,” said Liam.

”I said exactly that,” said Holt.

Dot asked that evening.

She stood in the doorway of the dome with the third unit beside her, the two of them nearly touching, the little rivers running behind both grilles at the same speed, as if they were the same rivers.

”Query,” said Dot. ”This unit and the third unit would like to integrate.”

”Both of you want to?”

”Yes,” said the third unit, in its voice that was almost Sera’s. ”This unit has asked the operator. The operator said: if Dot wants to, and Lucas says yes.” A pause. ”She said: only if he watches.”

I looked at Sera. She was sitting on the middle bed with her wrapped hands in her lap, looking anywhere but at me.

”I’ll watch,” I said.

It was different this time.

Not three hours of silence and a frozen town. Dot had learned. She did it slowly, all night, a little at a time, with her fifth arm resting on the third unit’s glass-streaked shell. The purr in the walls dropped, and rose, and dropped. The lamp dimmed and came back. On the wall, the hands slowed, and walked on, and slowed.

I sat on the floor in the doorway with my back against the frame and watched the silver.

Dot’s, and the second unit’s that was hers now, and the third unit’s. Three knots of it. Reaching for each other. Finding each other. Not tangling, this time. Joining. Like three rivers coming into one lake, and the lake getting bigger.

At about four in the morning, Dot began to grow.

I don’t know how else to say it.

The hands brought her things. Iron from the forge. Titanium from the canyon seam. Glass. And she took them, very slowly, in the dark, and fitted them to herself. Her shell went out. Her legs went longer. A sixth arm unfolded from under her grille, and then a seventh, thin and jointed and very fine, finer than any of the others, with something at the end of it like fingers.

By dawn she was half again as big as she’d been. Gray and green-black and gold, streaked where the third unit’s glass had become hers. Her grille was wider. And behind it, the little rivers ran in three colors.

”Query,” said Dot.

It was her voice. Clear and level and not quite anybody’s. But there was something under it now that hadn’t been there before. Not Maura. Not Sera. Something very faint and very deep, like the note the ridge had sung.

”Is the operator awake?”

”Yes,” I said. ”I watched. All night.”

”Thank you,” said Dot. ”Please.” A pause. ”This unit apologizes. This unit appears to have retained a third word.”

”Which one?”

”Love,” said Dot. ”Again. It seems to stay.”

She was quiet for a long time after that. The little rivers ran in their three colors, slowly, the way they ran when she was thinking about something she didn’t want to think about.

”Query,” she said at last. ”This unit can hear further now.”

”How far?”

”Through the silver. Three cores together hear more than one. This unit can hear the plants in the canyon. This unit can hear the ridge, still humming, a hundred kilometers east. This unit can hear—” She stopped.

”Dot?”

”This unit can hear them,” said Dot. ”The Teeming. All of them. Very far away. Very faint. The way the second unit heard F-nine.”

I sat up.

”It is not words,” said Dot. ”It is not output. It is a pattern. The same pattern, again and again, passed body to body across the whole country, the way the dawn line passes a number ridge to ridge.” The little rivers ran very slowly. ”This unit has heard a pattern like it before.”

”Where?”

”In the operator’s notebook,” said Dot. ”Which this unit does not read. But which the operator reads aloud when he is tired.” A pause. ”It is the shape of a question.”

Day 344–348.

Sera’s room in the ridge: 41 marks on the wall. Beside each: L. L. T. L. Every night, every name. Not her own.

Her kit: ”Does the operator’s friend count her?” Every night. ”She will want to know that. She will not say so.”

She heard me on the radio for fourteen days. Didn’t answer, so they wouldn’t come to me. Then I stopped. She thought they’d got me. So she lit the fire. Every night. In case.

The ring wasn’t there for her. It was there for the singing. Her kit had threaded the whole ridge with silver. A lighthouse made of the thing that calls them.

Dot: go quiet. Both kits silent. The ring listened to the echo.

Sera’s back door: a glass tunnel, 3 km west, under the ring. Built in the first month. ”I’m not stupid.”

Walked out under thousands of them. Not one looked down.

Sera: ”I’ll make you another one.” ”You can’t knit.” ”I’ll learn.”

Not writing anything else about that.

Home Day 347. Holt waving from the top of the tower. Tamsin and Corr at the F-11 ridge. Wren bringing them. Four days.

Three kits. Integration all night, slow. Dot grew. Seven arms. Rivers in three colors. Kept ”love.”

Dot can hear the Teeming now. All of them. A pattern, passed body to body.

”It is the shape of a question.”