Questions have Claws Chapter 1, draft

Prologue

"Everything is just a symbol, isn't it Amanda?"
"Just? I would think that symbols are very important."
"The meaning of a symbol can be, but the symbol itself...?"
"Why are you asking me this?"
"I can't make sense of what our young prospect has been writing about, what his symbols mean."
"So you think perhaps they don't mean anything?"
"I don't know. You know him better than I, what do you think?"
"I think he is on a precipice, about to fall one way or another."
"Well we had better make sure he falls into our arms. Start stringing some bait."
"We can't afford for him to fall into the arms of others, especially if he has the histories found by the old wolf."
"Exactly, and those secrets should be revealed as this plays out. Something was washed up during the Tide, something was found, we're sure of it."
"A threat to us?"
"Everything can be a threat, which is why we must find it first. But perhaps what might have been used by others as an axe to fell this great tree can instead be wielded by us."
"You mean the Eye, don't you? The Eye in the Sky."
"It's always watching, we just need the key. Maybe the old wolf found something."
"I'll commence with surveillance and see when we can begin laying bait. Is that all?"
"Actually, we might be able to multiply the results of this. Someone uninvited has been leaving footprints on our floors and their fingers have been ruffling our papers."
"I've heard. So how does it multiply?"
"Circulate a memo, easy to find, indicating that something critical was found all those years ago. This bait might draw more than just a wolf."

Chapter 1

Beyen wound through tight lanes which burrowed between the tall, terraced buildings of the Sun Hills. They were nice enough, well built centuries ago and restored well enough since, the lower one or two floors built of massive earthen bricks or reconstituted geo-polymer and the remaining two or three floors of wooden boards or ligna-polymer printed to look like wooden boards. The buildings weren’t claustrophobic, the tenant committees made sure that their neighbours didn’t block views or look into bedrooms, but the tight feeling in the streets came from the massive eaves as they stretched out into the void to catch as much sun and rain as they could. “Blessed be the eve makers.” Beyen mumbled as he turned a corner and out of the shade.
He passed a withered olive tree in the tiny park at a crossroads. These streets told a lot, each corner had a story, to someone, and he knew they said something different to everyone. What did it tell other people? To him that sad tree was a tragic memorial to the twins, friends he'd joked with hours before the Talons of Fable found them. After they’d found their bodies Beyen and his siblings had taken their vengeance to the Talons, invading Fable’s winding laneways and swooping warehouses, cutting out one claw at a time.
Beyen had properly seen her that night. Before then, Jules had just been a cute girl. But the fire that they lit together in Fable had danced across her green eyes and it drew him like a moth. The two of them had fought side by side, kicking in doors, slashing with long knives and gruesome picks, and for the first time he’d loved it.
That was a long time ago. Beyen shook his head against the threat of an ache at his temples. Businesses like that were a childish pursuit, usually formed out of friend groups trying to make their own way in the city. But they never lasted, a most eventually found their calling and grew up, finding an apprenticeship or mentor to help Society survive and grow. Those who didn’t grow up were usually forced to by the grown-up. Beyen glanced at the tree again as he passed it, the twins wouldn't get to grow up. He shrugged and moved on. It’s inevitable in a city like Society.
Further down the lane the urbanity receded for a moment as the Iron Pine Gardens spread its sculpted garden beds and bright orchards. He crossed to the gigantic namesake of a tree stretching at least a hundred paces up and swung up into the lower branches, climbing until he reached a small wooden platform strapped to the top of the pine. He had brought Jules here not long after their night in Fable, and while the fire in her eyes had attracted him, the way she balanced deep conversation with easy laughter made blood prickle against his skin. They'd watched the sunset with a basket of mulberries, licking purple juice of their fingers as the sky went from yellow to mauve. Now, only a few years later, the sky was gray as he sat on the same platform, alone. How was nothing as bright or flavoursome without her?
Trying to ignore the ache in his temples Beyen took out his mother's booklet, the only thing he had of hers, hoping he’d written an answer for himself somewhere in the past. He let the booklet fall open and glanced down, a page from a few months ago.
When did I stop asking questions? I came across some of my old diaries today, from when I was just a kid, and they were filled with questions. I got answers for some of them, but others are so wild that surely no one could give me an answer. What kind of twelve year old wants to know whether it's possible to become a trans-dimensional celestial being? What kind of twelve year old knows what that is? Me, apparently. That was what had powered me once, engines fuelled by impossible dreams and oiled with a thirst for answers.
Beyen looked up at the view from the deck and a wind chilled his nose and cheeks, blowing through the pages of the booklet with a repetitive rustle. That oil had dried up long ago and those engines lay rusting. Beyen raised a hand to his temples and looked out, the vista engulfing those tired thoughts.
Despite the grey sky threatening to fall since morning there was a clear view from the top of the pine and he dropped his hand to soak it in. Below him spread the Sun Hills, his home, three and four storey buildings rose and fell with the gentle hills, flat roofs bright and rustling with flax and rain-season greens. He could trace his path through cracks in the roofs towards his own tenement, and further still to the Hub, its unique dome buildings swelling over the horizon of the Sun Hills. The Hubs ran through the Districts, bustling commercial avenues were most business chose to settle. The precincts, like the Sun Hills, grew to either side of the Hubs, fanning out until they hit the Growzones.
Beyen's eyes coasted over a wide wedge of swaying fields and small woods dotted with soaring glass domes. Beyen could see small figures, like tiny toys, out in the Growzone tending to the herds on the pastures or harvesting from the greenhouses. The Growzones continued out to the edges of the city, each one as large as its partnering District.
Fifth District's rough borders jagged out into the Growzone and over that hazy urban mire Beyen could see the slow river's edge tracing down to the port of Call. He knew that while the pattern was repeated, alternating wedges of District and Growzone, each slice of the city was unique in its flavour, all encircled by the protective crust of marshes and murderditches at the city limits.
A sheet of rain was heading towards the pine from across the dark river and as Beyen turned to climb back down he spied the centre of the urban pie through the green spines of the tree. All Hubs led towards the massive buildings of Society High which towered above the surrounding city. Beyen froze, entranced by the smooth angle of the white walls of the Stormtower which, with the shroud of rain, looked lost in the clouds as it soared above even the tallest spires of the other buildings. He felt the first droplets on his cheek and abandoned the view to be engulfed by the tree.

---

The view of Society made Beyen think about his city as he stood under the dry protection of the pine, rainsheets falling an arms-length away. Despite being born and raised here, despite fighting and killing for it, he felt a distance between him and Society. He flicked through his mother’s booklet. He’d had that thought before, there, printed out neatly.
I've been holding everything away. My friends, brothers, the Wolves, all those pretty women my friends set me up with. But Society - beyond its people who live out their lives, day to day - there has been nothing to embrace. No history, no identity, just the anarchy.
Beyen frowned as he read the next part.
I'm not holding it away, I am the one being held at arm's-length. I want to learn more but can’t. But why? And by whom?
What do I really know about Society? Anarchy reigns, and it always will, the natural way of things blah blah blah. But it hasn't always been the way of things, has it? We’ve all been told the Origin, the saga of our city’s birth. Where tyrants siezed our city under the claws of power but of course, the anarchy prevailed. Why is that history known, however vaguely, yet so many others are hidden without hope of being found? Where is the rest of our history? I know Society so little…
Beyen looked up, staring through the pine's canopy towards the platform he had just sat on, obscured by the leaves and branches. He glanced back down only to feel the crushing truth of the next line.
...but it's still more than I know myself.
Beyen snapped the booklet shut and stuffed it into his cloak, rubbing at his temples and looking out over the gardens as the heavy rain got lighter. His younger brother had poked fun at Beyen when he’d shared that sentiment after writing that entry.
‘How can you not know yourself big brother?’ Caldus had asked.
‘I can’t explain it, like there’s this me that acts like me. Likes things, dislikes others. Makes me want, laugh and cry. Talks to you. But there’s something behind it, beyond it.’ Beyen had replied, brows furrowed as if they’d been ploughed with concern and sewn with confusion.
‘Aside from those thoughts, those things that are you, what else could there be in you? Some god? Some spirit?’ He’d chuckled. Inquisitors were like that. ‘My boyfriend calls me a god in bed sometimes, so there’s a god in him at least part of the time.’ He’d grinned again ‘When we go out I usually have at least one kind of spirit in me too. So maybe I understand.’ He’d chuckled again. Caldus was never mean, but his mischief could sometimes be taken as cruel.
Beyen had shaken his head, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. He’d failed and Caldus had smiled appreciatively, graciously accepting payment for his jokes in the glint of teeth Beyen let out in a grin.
Now Beyen just tensed his lips pulled up his hood and crossed a small lawn to a long white shed roofed in wooden shingles. People had not yet braved the rain and the shed, simple with rammed earth floors and exposed posts and rafters painted in black to contrast against the white board walls, was empty except for bags, buckets and baskets of food from the surrounding gardens. Beyen pulled a cloth bag from a cavernous cloak pocket and shovelled in handfuls of almonds before picking up a small basket of mandarins and walking over to a whitewashed trade desk. A heavy set blonde man stood up and leaned on the desk, tree-root tattoos growing out from under his shirt sleeves and down each of his fingers. His hair was cropped into a short buzz and faded down to the sides before slowly growing in length to form a full beard.
Beyen had met Offen at the same time as Jules, and they had traded ideas and skills which soon developed into a solid friendship. He was amiable and warm but his great frame was marbled with cold streaks of dissatisfaction and righteous ideals. Today, a toothsome smile split his blonde beard when he saw Beyen.
“How is the trading shed today sibling?” Beyen asked. He and Offen still used language from their early days, an important link in their long chain of friendship.
“Lonely, ha!” Came the jolly, solid reply. “Either you are a little braver than the others, or they are far more cowardly and afraid of a little rain, eh?” He grinned.
Beyen smiled. “I hid under the pine, so I had an advantage."
“Ah, the pine. Was there a good view today?” Offen knew how Beyen enjoyed the climb.
Beyen nodded. “Very. I saw the rain coming from across the river.”
“So today you predicted the weather better than our illustrious Cloudcallers. You should apprentice at the Stormtower!” Offen’ s eyes widened with the joke for effect.
Beyen shook his head. “I don’t think so, I don’t fancy climbing all those stairs at the tower every day. Besides, working rotations here I can plant a seed and can watch it grow. At the Stormtower I’d be guessing that rain will come and then sit dumbfounded as the sun pours in. I ’d rather let that seed soak up the rain and sun.”
“I’m sure they have lifts in the tower." Offen said factually. "But I too prefer planting seeds eh. ” He nodded and crossed his arms proudly. “Besides, who wouldn’t prefer to grow food over trying to guess at rain while getting sun?"
Beyen looked through the open door at the empty fields and streets. “I don't know, but I'm sure the Sun Hills would appreciate it if they got it right. These 'cowards' need all the help they can get." He joked.
Offen relaxed his arms. “Do you think people have always been afraid of rain?” Offen loved discussing people, but he wasn't a gossip. He didn't talk about individual people, but the people.
“Where would we find that out huh?” Beyen asked heavily, both of them aware that such answers would only come anecdotally in this city.
Offen concentrated, considering the question as he weighed the food. “You know Society sibling, don’t question the past, look only forwards. 'Remember the lesson, not the event', as they say eh. No clue where we’d find it.” Offen glanced up. “What will you give for this?”
“I’ll turn the compost at Site Four the day after next. ”
"All the heaps? We’d be in your credit ”
Beyen shrugged. “I’ll turn them all and take some eggs too.”
“Deal.”
Offen tapped the transaction into a console fitted into the trade desk as Beyen tapped his punch-card to the screen to record the deal. Punch-cards were much easier than writing out contracts and receipts or bartering on the spot, and more authentic than ‘acorns’ or other locally-adopted currencies. Beyen nodded firmly at the thought as he took back the card. Trade was transparent, currency was deceptive.
Offen continued their conversation as he finished up on the console. “I’ll meet you after my rotation at the wet bar tonight? Maybe we can figure something out about this city.”
Beyen's heart palpitated as it pumped new oil through those forgotten engines, gears crunching through the oxidation of disuse.
“And ourselves...” Beyen added after he’d turned to leave the shed. He was terrified of that possibility, terrified that someone would notice that terror in his eyes.
Offen only grunted before calling out, just as Beyen crossed the threshold. “A collection notice came from the workshop for you today.”
Beyen nodded in thanks and sung his laden bag over a shoulder.
He walked past garden beds shaded by fruit trees, the orange was in blossom and its tiny flowers mingling aromatically with the recent rain. Jules had loved orange blossoms. They had shared one another for the first time in an orange orchard out in the Growzone, only the trunks and leaves had seen the way she rolled her hips as the grass was bruised beneath him. He’d never feel that again, the way her breaths tightened, and the more they tightened the tighter she clenched...Beyen looked up at the sky. Grey was better than black. When would the next black winter would come, what he was going to lose to it? He clenched his jaw and felt it in the throbbing at his temples as he picked a thin bough of blossoms and passed through the gate onto the rinsed street.
A few lights had been turned on against the darkness of the passed rain. But they’d be off soon, no tenement had eaves big enough to leave lights on carelessly. A few people were hazarding the wet streets, locking their doors securely before leaving.
“Get outa here!” Came a yell as a skinny man threw a kick at a shape wrapped in a bulky coat and scarf lurking in a doorway. They stumbled out and slipped on the geo-polymer street, hunching over as they scurried around a corner.
Beyen shrugged and kept moving, waving to skinny Demros who smiled merrily and waved back. Anarchy is pragmatic, you offered a kind hand in the hope that you’d received one when you needed it. Part of that pragmatism though is that you are responsible for managing your own situation, your problems. There were no government services to replace the sovereignty of one’s right to survive, no babysitter to clean up your messes.
Demros had clearly decided that a stranger huddling in the doorway to his tenement was more of a problem than someone worth offering a hand to. Beyen didn’t agree, but it’s the anarchy, so what was his place to tell Demros how to manage the building he lived in?

---

Beyen stepped through the door of the workshop and onto the trading floor, welcoming the the sensory overload. The workshop was set in one of the larger domes of the Fourth District Hub and the trading floor occupied a corner of it, the curved walls-roof soaring above until it met wall partitions at abrupt anlges. The floors had just been polished shiny but the wax was lost in the medley of smells leaking from the furnaces and forges further down the hall. People flocked and squabbled as smoky apprentices bartered with clients at desks littered with wires, casings, screens and all other kinds of tech.
He moved through the brusque shouts and brushed shoulders to an available trade desk and handed his punch-card to the waiting apprentice. She looked tired in her creased apron and she twisted the card between nimble calloused fingers before placing it on the console screen set into the desk. Three bright bubbles of blue swelled from beneath the card on the dark screen, the contract between Beyen and the workshop appearing in one of them. The apprentice nodded, barely, and stepped back through a secure door into the depot. She returned within moments, the locks of the depot hissing behind her, carefully carrying an angular bundle wrapped neatly in soft grey cloth and set it on the desk.
“Specially attended to by Alsenks." The apprentice said and animated with pride. "The best tech here I reckon." The passion vanished and the tired rings returned to her eyes. "The other half.” She asked mechanically.
Beyen didn’t mind the bluntness, rotations out here would be dull compared to the work Alsenks would be up to. "A whole stoneweight of ferrous piping." He confirmed as he hoisted and clunked a small sack onto the counter next to the gray parcel. "Ripped from a house during demolition." He added.
The apprentice glanced at a reading from the pressure sensors set beneath the desk's resin surface. "That's it." She pushed the cloth parcel towards Beyen and tapped Deal Met on the console screen before sweeping the sack off the desk and taking it back into the depot.
Outside, the Hub was busy. Domed buildings rose up along either side of the boulevard and a long park of soft grasses and shady trees separated the two lanes of the street. The parks were gathering people who lounged and talked as they left their workplaces for an afternoon break as the grey clouds of the passed rain drifted away, many of them passing round pipes or sharing swigs from bottles. Beyen rubbed his temples as he turned and glanced up at the dome where he’d come from, the Spey Technix Workshop, wrapped in a pressed dark metal which glimmered in the weak sun. Spey was apparently one of the best engineers and designers in the city, and his workshops could be found in every district.
Beyen took a seat on a flat stone in the long park opposite a geo-polymer bench printed to look like it was carved from the same stone, the sprig from the orange tree slowly dropped from his grip onto his lap.
He had asked Jules to mate him on this bench and they had shared a gigantic bottle of pear and rosemary cordial in celebration, knowing that no sugar crash would affect the elation and affectionate energy that had seized them and propelled them home. The way her green eyes had sparkled, how he’d brushed those auburn locks from her face as he lay her down. He’d never orgasmed like that before - waves of pleasure that seemed to fill his body more with each thrust as his mind scrambled into ecstatic emptiness - or since.
Pain wracked his temples, coming in waves as his mind clung to memories, contrasting some, hiding others, so he Beyen pulled the booklet from his cloak pocket along with a sleek stylus. It was jet black, and shaped like two elongated cones set base to base, one twice as long as the other, with a thin silver band connecting the two, rather like an ink pen.
Writing had been prescribed as a part of his therapy, a way to reflect on and make some progress with his memories, or at least distract him from them for a while. Secretly he liked having a use for his mother’s booklet and the stylus, the only useful memento from his father. He sighed as he lay the booklet on his lap, he missed his parents.
But not as much as Jules. He grunted in frustrated sadness, angry at how that thought still affected him so much, and twisted the tip of the stylus to activate it and pressed it to the paper. Ink didn't flow from the tip but rather gyroscopes within understood the movements and recorded them as words to be printed out later. He distracted himself with mundane writing.
The Fourth District Hub distinctly uses domes as an architectural feature. Domes require fewer materials to build than cubes or rectangles and are cool in the annual baking summers and safe in the irregular black winters. Their designs differ depending on the purpose they serve, workshops are minimal and functional, senariums are soft and homely to speed healing, while trade centres are open and loud.
Anger muted, Beyen snapped the booklet shut and wove towards a lane which led beyond the domes of the Hub to a splatter of smaller workshops, stores and his home, the Sun Hills. Another figure ambled there, wrapped in a bulky coat and scarf. Sloppy, Beyen thought, they were bad at tailing him.

---

Despite the murky skies Beyen’s flat was flooded with light, well-angled windows drawing in what rays they could. He peeled his soft boots from his feet and toes in the hall and paused at a small mirror there. Gray eyes stared back at him vacantly, he thought they looked dull but Jules had always assured him they were as fine as marble. His nose was round and small set above a tight mouth. It used to be full and open, he remembered, ready to smile or laugh. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, at least that was well formed and solid. Not enough to be a model, he’d been told before, but definitely heading to that end of the spectrum. That gave him no consolation, now. He looked into those eyes, cold as marble. It was like the emptiness he felt, the sorrow it could bring on, was slowly spreading to consume him and soon all that would be left would be some habitual preferences - coffee over tea, dry days over wet, cloaks over coats - but sometimes those too seemed distant, less and less relevant. The emptiness was surrounded and announced by numbness, put there by some primitive corner of his mind to protect it from the sorrow that would inevitably follow.
He brushed his dark hair away from his forehead and walked into the main room, dropping the mandarins and the grey bundle he had picked up from the Spey workshop. He carefully placed the orange flowers in an empty vase on the heavy ebony table surrounded by stools, not bothering to add water.
The main room was plastered in a soft earthy colour, a dark ochre, with the floors coated in a bouncy resin film printed to look like striated rocks. The space was occupied by a lounge of low seats facing a full-height window with views out into the street, the topography of the Sun Hills allowing him some views of the sky and horizon beyond the city. Some districts in Society, like Fable, were built in a ramshackle way, each building or even room put together with whatever resources were available and made to fit into the urban landscape. Others, like the Sun Hills, were much older and had been built by a community choosing materials, styles and methods of organisation. Turning from the view he slid open a wide door, more a moveable wall, and entered the kitchen he shared with the other tenants on his floor. Two of the other walls of the kitchen were like the one he’d stepped through, entrances to flats, and the remaining one was fitted with a patchwork of drawers and cupboards while a large island bench in the middle of the kitchen housed a large sink, oven and stove. He slid open one of the resin drawers marked with his name and poured in the almonds before stepping back into his flat, shrugging out of his cloak to let it drop onto the back of one of the lounge seats as he slumped down next to to it, sinking into the soft fabric.
Perhaps he knew why he’d stopped asking questions, had the weight of his memories crushed shut the valve which oiled those engines? But even that thought didn’t give him the strength to push the weight off and frustration at his weakness only added to the load. He sat, staring at tiny white flowers over on the table as the heaviness of those memories pressed him into the seat.
Before the throbbing at his temples could consume him the doorbell's pleasant rhythm rung through the apartment. Jules had chosen that melody and he’d never changed it. Beyen sighed and rocked forwards onto his feet to go open the door to find a shape wrapped in a bulky coat and scarf on the threshold, dark eyes peering from above a once dark beard flecked with grey.
"You followed me from the Hub, didn't you?" Beyen asked unhesitatingly. He was relaxed but ready, his forward foot ready to kick the middle-aged man's knee if needed and push them further apart.
The man nodded fervently. "I'm not too good at that sort of thing, but I'm glad I found you without startling you."
Beyen cocked his head. "Why are you looking for me?"
"I, erm, knew your father, sort of, many years ago." The visitor looked back over his shoulder into the courtyard below.
Beyen eyed him, sizing him up. "If you're looking for him I have to sadly tell you that Septis died years ago." Beyen ran a finger over one of the tattoos on his forearm, thinking of his father.
The man turned back to Beyen. "I know, I was there when he died." Beyen's sadness was swallowed by curiosity and he widened the door slightly. The stranger glanced over his shoulder again and continued. "He left me a private message, for his sons. Can I come in?"
“I'll put on some coffee."
“You’re much friendlier than your neighbour down the road.”
"So you were out in the wilderness?" Beyen asked, pouring two shallow cups of rich black coffee. He slid one across the ebony table to the visitor who still hadn't introduced himself. Beyen could wait to ask who the stranger was, what he had to say was more interesting to him right now. The line between no hesitation and patience was fine, but walked properly it always gave up the best, in time.
"For many years." The man looked down slowly, eyes unfocused as he picked up the cup. "He saved me you know."
Beyen smiled. How many people had said that about Septis? His smile slipped as the story continued. How many opponents had not been saved from his father?
"His comrades lay dead and he alone fought until it was just us two. He gripped my hand, coughing blood, eyes searching the wide sky."
"Did he say anything?" Beyen asked, both hands gripping the cup until the porcelain creaked.
The man bit his lower lip and nodded. "That's mainly why I'm here. Your father whispered to me 'Watch over my litter'."
Beyen squinted, recognising the words. His father had often called their family that.
"And I have to add that it has taken me this long to find you, but I owe him my life so here I am." He kept talking, before Beyen could comment. "Your father also said that there was something that 'they need to hear. Tell them to think of our family when using the gift from Dirth'." The man sighed. "But I'm not sure what that means." He glanced up like a curious owl. "Do you know what the gift from Dirth is?" He asked offhandedly and took a long slurp, coffee staining his moustache.
Beyen avoided the question, aware of the stylus in his cloak pocket. "It sounds like him. But what were you doing out there with him?" Beyen looked up, suddenly suspicious. Had this man gripped the hand of a dying saviour, or fallen adversary?
"I had been held captive and your father rescued me."
Beyen looked back into his cup, treacly streaks lining the inside. "I think I need some time, to absorb all this.” He was unsure what to make of this stranger and his stories, but really he was itching to inspect the stylus. “My father's death was a sad moment." He added.
The man pursed his lips quickly as if annoyed before standing. "I understand. If you need anything or want to talk about this more, come see me at Room Sixteen at the Flying Feather over in Fable. Knock six times fast so I know it’s you."
"Thanks, I will." Beyen finished his coffee.
"I can show myself out."
As soon as the electric latch buzzed shut Beyen leaped from the table to the soft low seat and rummaged through his cloak to pull out the stylus. He pinched the two ends and twisted. A full turn forwards, a full turn backwards, backwards again but only a half turn, and a final full turn forwards. Nothing happened. Beyen slumped a little, disappointed in that first moment, only to roll from the seat to the sideboard skirting the wall in the next. The stylus never did anything, no beeps or lights or indicators, it needed to connect with a console to show its records. He flipped up a wooden panel on the sideboard and swore. "Law!"
He dashed across the room to the gray bundle from the workshop and hurriedly unwrapped it, slotting his repaired console into its niche in the sidebench. He plugged in the loose wiring, pausing for a moment as he reconnected the data-feed, strange for a new plug to be so much larger than the old. He shrugged, impatient, and finished the install, the console screen now lying flush with the sideboard. He rolled the stylus from the board onto the blank screen and two discs, one blue and one green, bubbled out onto the screen from the stylus and floated to rest either side of the black rod. Recorded was picked out in clean white letters on the familiar blue disc, while Saved adorned the green one. The stylus only ever brought up one bubble, the blue one. Beyen shook his head in frustration. Why hadn't he tried this before? He tapped on the green bubble and it grew to fill the screen, letters flowing in white. Beyen rolled the stylus out of the way and began to read, curious.