Chapter 3: Phony Logic

Bjorn’s father, Captain Radoon Gydlin, head trades delegate to Below, was among one of the few citizens the imperial council authorized for negotiations with surface folk. Today the Captain would travel to Below. Today he would also introduce Bjorn to the process of trading.

Bjorn had never been on one of his father’s trade journeys, not even when the Captain had but sailed to a neighboring nest. Just two seasons back, Captain Gydlin visited Ulou to meet Bjorn’s aunt and enjoy a festival. He had refused Bjorn an opportunity to partake in that journey.

“Increased burden on the security team,” his father had said. “The intensity of current political disagreements stirs a strange and brooding rage between parties.”

Bjorn flew on, pondering the angles of governmental disputes, the mystery of dreams, and wondering what might be yet to see in Below. Otherwise, he would have noticed the attack that came in from his rear.

A shadow darted out from the above right and behind a large cluster of drifting Nardoo. Bjorn looped left and then swerved back, doing a flip through the Nardoo that stirred up an odd dusting of discolored mauve-tinged spores in his wake.

“That's getting old, don't you think," he said, pulling to a halt before drifting near and bumping his friend Harold on the pectoral with his caudal fin. But he was careful. Harold's thin body injured often; a bandage around his left thumb-claw attested to one of their earlier illegal romps.

"Never." Harold laughed, his vertical eyes blinking as quivers raced along his oddly protruded mid-dorsal ridge. Then he paused, acknowledging Bjorn's HB mantle. "Wow. That looks stuffy."

"Worth it," Bjorn said. He brushed away the spores that had settled on his gill slits. "I’m headed to the docks now.”

“Race you.” Harold flapped his pectorals while scooting back and up.

“Oh, you are on.” Bjorn lifted above a thorn fence that marked a barrier between levels. Then he was in the wind, his pectorals pressing against the damp air, pushing upward until he hovered high above the prime level.

“Hey, you cheated.” Harold pressed hard to follow.

Bjorn flew fast while Harold paced him just off his right caudal fin. Although he could never feel the motion of the nest while drifting near the surface, at this height and speed, he sensed the magnificent city swaying to-and-fro in pulsing air currents.

He glided over a misty flower garden, darted down and under a bamboo bridge, between two buildings, and then passed through Perd Van’s worm farm. Old citizen Van looked up and shook a fist high, his lateral tail fold vibrating in frustration.

The worm beds stank of rotted garlic, and a syrupy yellowed film laced the dirt. Although still alive, some of the worms on the surface had shriveled to less than two feet in length. Dragonflies swarmed above, mating and dropping eggs all through the organic seeder crop. Not good news for Perd, but none of it could keep Bjorn from enjoying this day.

“Angry, wasn’t he.” Harold glanced back as they fluttered away from the farm.

“Something’s wrong with the crop,” Bjorn said, then took a sudden sharp nosedive. “Down.”

Harold ducked, turned, and dropped.

Two nest guards on patrol passed in front of the public library. These two would do much more than shake fists and grumble. Guards carried stunners and didn’t mind tapping youngsters with a minor wake-up call. For Bjorn and Harold, it would be more than a mild stun. They had a reputation as troublemakers. It was nothing excessive, but getting caught would mean another ticket for high-flying within city limits. Even Bjorn’s status as the head surface trader’s son wouldn’t sway judgment. The Captain seldom ignored foolish behavior.

But they were young and aroused to the thrill of soaring above the city’s rooftops. So, they hid out until the guards moved on, and then it was back up and into the hustle and bustle of Middle Cloud. But they avoided the marketplaces, reaching instead to attain the highest branches of the nest.

Three pack volitans came on quick, pectorals fanning. Bjorn ducked just in time to avoid colliding with a fourth. “Hey! Watch it!” he shouted.

The volitans winked, whistled, and grinned. They carried important packages to eminent clients and had no time for mere Airborne children.

“I don’t like these smug creatures.” Bjorn waved a backhand toward the pack. “They don’t give two thoughts for authority and position.”

“How come these mockers are allowed to soar without restrictions while we’re regulated,” Harold said. “This is messed up. I can’t even figure how their furry fins enable liftoff, much less controlled flight.”

Bjorn didn’t need to remind his friend of the answer. Already his mind was going dizzy and his body heavy like dead weight. They were too far above the city, near the top of Cloud where the moisture was thin and the oxygen in short supply.

—

They landed on a six-tier community roosting structure near a vacant submersibles garden. Bjorn lighted on a nearby thorn perch. Even with the HB protection, his exposed pectorals and dorsals were turning blue. Harold settled on the vines, expanding his sack for buoyancy, his quivering pectorals and spiny legs too weak to support even his feather-light body weight.

“We lingered too,” Bjorn said. “Insufficient oxygen intake like to ended with both of us in for emergency treatment.”

“That assuming someone found us,” Harold said, heaving and sucking air through his skin. “That’s a thin wisp of moisture up there.”

“Yeah. And we know better.” Bjorn focused his gaze across the fields, the city, and the surrounding beauty of Mother Tree. “She looks dry and brittle this far out.”

“Hum.” Still fighting for breath control, Harold looked a mite lost in understanding.

Bjorn let it slide. Maybe he imagined the problems.

“Windmills, gliders, and drifters were all built by the techistorists,” he said. The cloak had already normalized his oxygen level. “They are devices from the old times, no longer understood by our scientists yet kept functional by machines that we never see or hear.”

“Greatest civilization that ever lived, they are called,” Harold said, as his energy returned. “Yet disease killed them all in a handful of decades.”

“Not disease,” Bjorn said. “Predators. My teachers say they used living metal to create beasts of war, but the creatures turned against the creators and destroyed their environment. Building the nests was an act of survival.”

“With tech-magic,” Harold said, his tone dripping sarcasm. “They created monsters by using skills and machines that we don’t understand. Why couldn’t they use the same magic to eliminate the beasts? It’s phony logic.”

“We go Below and excavate the ancient ruins to help us unravel the old secrets.” Bjorn couldn’t fathom Harold’s anger. “Just think how they had to live on a surface overwhelmed by millions upon millions of warring Walkers.”

“I don’t care about Walkers, or machines, or old secrets,” Harold said. “I want to act in theater. All these other things clutter my path. First, my parents say, learn carpentry. Take up a reliable skill to make money even if the acting career never comes to pass. I must pretend that life will be better if I ignore my heart’s desire. It’s like claiming tech-magic is limited to creative processes. The statement lacks common sense.” Although moist beyond normal, his eye membranes went tight and protective.

“I’ve heard that the techistorists no longer get funded.” Bjorn fumbled with a shift in the conversation. “Due to the increase in sinkholes, all current financial support has been diverted to the mega construction projects. This excess rain needs to end.”

“Then I become a carpenter, and you must become a trader of goods,” Harold said. “Like your father. Neither of us enjoys the freedom to pursue our desires.”

The clang of a giant bell vibrated in the air. Bjorn leaped from his roost. “Wow. The time went quickly. I have to go.”

“Goodbye, then,” Harold said, making no fuss in the farewell. “When will you return?”

“I don’t know yet. Let us plan a reunion for the end of the first cycle.”

—