“A witch?” he asked. Then he shook his head. “I am no witch or…sorcerer. I am a traveler, seeking information.”
“That,” she said drily, “is the definition of a spy. Why should I not shoot you?”
“You could shoot me,” Tarl said. “Or have him do it.” He indicated Pinch Face, who rested his right hand on the weapon on his belt. “He’s ready to do it. But you wouldn’t learn anything.”
“You aren’t telling me anything,” she said. “Other than nonsense.”
“What else would a man from another world say?” he asked. “I am looking for evidence of intelligent machines.” He decided to be honest with her. He vaguely remembered that this went against doctrine, but his life was at stake here, and he didn’t care to gamble with that. “Do you have any of those?”
She looked at the man next to her, and they shared a glance. He raised an eyebrow and shook his head in disgust. “How can machines think?”
So, a dead end. He had thought so. “There are ways,” he said. “Maybe you don't know them.”
“Maybe in Alexandria,” she said. “They could have had such things. I never heard of them though. But they’re at the bottom of a crater full of the Middle Sea now. So maybe you are too late.”
He shrugged. It was possible. This was a concern of the Center, that worlds which developed Minds would destroy them, or destroy themselves after developing them. Or be destroyed by them. This was doctrine.
“Perhaps,” he said. “It’s a risk we run.”
“Who is ‘we’?” she asked sweetly. “Your comrades at this Center? Where is this place?”
“On the large peninsula of the northern continent,” he answered. “North of here I think.”
“How did you get here?” the man demanded. “There are alarms! Fences!” The man’s face was red, and veins stood out on the side of his neck as he barked his words at Tarl.
“I arrived in the park,” Tarl said. “Sorry about your fences. I didn’t come from the sea,” he said blandly. “Not that good a swimmer.”
“Kush is gone!” the man said. “Their navy is at the bottom of the ocean, and has been for sixty years.”
“Seventy-three,” she said, correcting him. She raised a hand to silence him again. “Leave it.” She gave him a meaningful glance. Exerting authority, Tarl thought. She was in charge, or at least held rank status over him.
She regarded Tarl again. “Let’s try this again,” she said. “I don’t believe your tale.” She raised a hand to silence him as he opened his mouth. “I think you are stalling for time with this fantasy.” She flared her nostrils, he saw, but otherwise remained composed.
“Why do you live aboard these rusting platforms?” Tarl asked. “They will sink eventually. There are children here,” he added, shaking his head. “Why raise them here?”
The man made a strangling noise in his throat, but she just cocked her head at him. “There is, or was, a plague on the land.” She looked closely at him, peering intently at him. “Is that your mission?” she said softly.
The man took a step backwards, hand reaching for his weapon again. “Wait,” Tarl said. “I am not from the land! I am telling you the truth.”
But the man was backing away steadily, pulling at her with his hand, covering his mouth. He plucked his communicator from his belt and babbled into it in the language he had used before with the woman. She just shook her head.
“If he carries anything, fool, we have it already. He’s been here for hours.” She pointed at Tarl. “He is not sick!”
“Are you a medic? There is protocol!” he barked at her. “We have violated it already. We will be quarantined for weeks!”
She sighed, looking back at Tarl. “We will speak again, and when we do, cut this nonsense.” She followed the man back out of corridor, through a doorway. She glanced over her shoulder at Tarl as she passed out of sight. He gave her a jaunty wave, as the door closed with a crash.
But they did not speak again. The Center brought him back an hour later.
Chapter Seven
The Center, at the Tree
Concurrent Present Timeline
A week had passed since his return from the Sea World, as he thought of it. He had walked out of the Seeker complex into a cold drizzle. Nobody had asked him for a report. His job was complete, per Seeker convention. They would review his mission, and would, he supposed, determine how to classify that world. He felt Sea World had been a dead end, but kept that to himself.
He had laughed with Jin and Mak on the platform under the Tree, where they ordered food and drink from shy girls fresh from the tribes. He’d told them his tale, as was Seeker custom. They drank the light wine—fireapple, sweet and yellow and crisp on the tongue—and ate the bao and skewered meat Jin was partial to.
“I can’t believe you told them you were from the Center,” Jin said, around a mouthful of bao. He shook his head. “That’s against the rules, isn’t it?”
Tarl shrugged. “Maybe it is. I was stalling for time, and that woman was sharp as a knife. She’d have sensed a lie.” He sipped his wine.
“They must have been sooo confused when you disappeared,” Mak said. “I wonder if that happens a lot, after we’re pulled out.”
Jin sniggered. “You said pulled out.” He was eyeing one of the serving girls. He motioned to her. “What’s your name,” he asked.
“Shale,” she said, keeping her eyes down. “Did you worthies require anything else?”
“So formal!” Jin exclaimed. “Please.” he leaned forward towards her, looking up into her face to catch her eyes. “No need to be formal with us. We’re just a few lonely Seekers celebrating our mate’s safe return.”
She looked them over. “I thought you were the garbagemen,” she said, smiling at him, gathering a platter. “From the smell.” She retreated from their platform.
Tarl and Mak laughed and pounded Jin on his back. He scowled after her. “I was going to invite her to stay with us,” he groused. “I liked her.”
“I think she gathered that,” Tarl told him. “And I think she gave you her answer.”
“So much for getting more of these,” Mak said, holding up the last of the meat skewers. “She won’t be back around to us soon.”
“It’s probably for the best,” Tarl said. “I’m tired. Doing the Work really takes it out of you. You should try it.” He and Mak laughed. Jin had not been out on a mission in almost two weeks. People were talking. He had, according to him, been involved with someone he met on his last mission. A man or a woman, his accounts varied each time he told it. He’d been doing training work, instructing the latest batch of youngers in the Library.
He stood up and then noticed the knot of robed figures approaching the Tree. Gray robes. Elders. “Head’s up,” he said to his companions. “Looks like they mean business.”
They watched as the group reached the entrance to the Tree's platforms. “He’s with them,” Mak whispered. Tarl saw it was true. The Boy was leading the group. His stomach dropped as the Boy vaulted onto one of the lower platforms, and pushed his way through the seated diners, a group of mid-level Archivists, who cried out in protest at the intrusion. They went silent as they realized who had just disrupted their meal.
The Boy reached the stairs that wound their way around the trunk of the great tree. Tarl felt the hair on the back of his neck rising. “He’s coming here, isn’t he?” Jin said. “I know he is.”
“You might be right,” Mak said. There was nothing they could do but wait, Tarl realized, though he saw Mak look down over the side of their platform’s railing, as if gauging the distance to the ground. But the knot of gray-robed Elders were there, watching. They would spot any escape. Plus, where could they go? The Boy wasn’t someone you could hide from.
Maybe he’s not here for us, Tarl was about to say, but then the Boy rounded the trunk, and skipping up the stairs, spotted Tarl. He grinned in recognition and hopped up onto the central deck of their platform. He paused, looking
around.
The other diners noticed him, in the other side-pods off their platform. The Boy clapped his hands, and after a few moments the other diners began to clear out, filing past him with scowling glances back their way. The Boy’s smile never left his face, nor did his eyes stray far from Tarl and his companions.
Tarl swallowed, as the last of the other diners on their level reached the stairs. “He’s here for us,” he said, unnecessarily. Jin groaned, and Mak remained silent as the Boy stepped lightly onto their platform.
“Tarlannan,” he piped. “Jin Boshong. Makallar.” He bowed slightly, more an inclination of his small, bald head. He perched on the edge of the railing, waving down at his entourage. He waved them away, and turned back to the three of them, who all stared back at him with trepidation.
“It has been awhile since we spoke,” he addressed them. “Always good to catch up. You three are bunkmates, correct?”
Tarl nodded. Bunkmates meant, in the rough slang of the Seeker cadre, more than just sharing an apartment. Bed mates. But the Boy might not know this. Or, Tarl reflected, he might and just not care. Or mean it as an insult. He dimly felt Jin and Mak nod. Perhaps they had the same thought, but they didn’t correct the Boy either.
The Boy looked their table over. He leaned forward and plucked a bun off its plate. Tarl noticed his fingers were as bony as the rest of him. He took a bite. “Probably wondering why I am here,” he said, smiling at them around a mouthful of bao.
They nodded in unison. “I’m here to talk to…” He paused, chewing, looking at them each in unison, first Mak, then Jin, then Tarl. “You,” he said, pointing at Tarl with the half-eaten bun. Tarl felt Jin and Mak sag with relief.
“But,” the Boy said, “you two jesters will stay and listen.” He smiled at them, and laughed his strange, chirping laugh. “You should see your faces. Such fear.” He shook his head. “And I am so small, compared to such strapping Seekers.”
Tarl felt sweat trickle down his side. His armpits were damp with it. The Boy smiled at him. “You recently returned from a mission. Yes or no?” He barked the command.
Tarl bristled. “Yes,” he said, “this is our celebration. It was private.” Tarl felt Jin jerk as if poked with a needle.
The Boy cocked his head. “Oh,” he said, “I am sorry to have intruded! Please forgive me!’ He tossed the half-eaten bun over the side of the platform. “Only the fate of the universe was at stake, or I would have let you complete your carousal. A little wine, good food, perhaps you could share one of the serving girls, eh?” He sneered at them.
“What do you mean?” Tarl demanded. Jin and Mak were dumbstruck, he saw. They would be no help to him here.
“About the girl?” the Boy asked. He smiled blandly at them. “Where did she go? Those bao were good.” He looked at Jin. “From your part of the world, aren’t they?”
Before Jin could answer Tarl interjected. “The fate of the universe,” he prompted. “We understood the bit about girls.”
The Boy studied him. “You know, when we found you in that tribe of mud-fishers, you were just a scared little boy. I wasn’t sure what they saw in you.”
“Who?” Tarl asked, confused. His people had been fisher-folk. He was proud of that. It was hard, honest work.
The Boy waved his question away. “The Dreamers,” he said absently. “But yes, the universe.” He waved again. “All the universes. The Tapestry,” he said, with sneering emphasis. “You”—he pointed a bony finger at Tarl—“put it at risk. That will not happen again.”
Tarl was dumbstruck now. He gaped, his mouth working. The Boy mimicked him, his jaw flapping. “Oh, not so cocky now, are we?” He laughed, shaking his head. “You should see yourself!”
“What do you mean? How?” Tarl said after a moment. He looked from one to the other. Jin looked at him with wide, white eyes. And Mak just glowered, looking down at the table, intent on the remnants of their feast.
“You told them,” the Boy said. “The woman in that place, with the stupid floating platforms. You told them about us. About the Work.” He looked at Tarl, anger narrowing his boyish face. “Are you stupid, Tarlannan? Did we somehow miss this about you?”
He spread his arms. “Perhaps that is it! Perhaps you’re just stupid, and you didn’t remember one of the cardinal rules of your job.” He looked at them. “But you aren’t stupid, are you? No, your problem is that you’re not stupid. You’re smart, damned smart. But you think you’re smarter than you are, smarter than the rest of us.” He looked at Tarl, locking eyes with him. “Are you smarter than the rest of us?” he asked softly.
Tarl shook his head. “No,” he mumbled. “I just didn’t think it mattered.”
The Boy flapped his hands in mock surprise. “No no no no!” he waved his hands at them. “You do not make this decision. You don’t get to. You do not decide what the dwellers in other threads know about us.” His little boy’s face pinched tight into a scowl.
He pointed a skinny finger at Jin.“You,” he ordered. “What is the first rule of the first lesson we give Seekers in the Red House?” The Red House was the lodge the new Seekers joined to prepare for their first missions. Tarl and his bunkmates had lived there for three months.
“Secrecy,” Jin whispered. “We must not reveal the Work to outsiders.”
“Did they explain why?” the Boy demanded. “Did Arwal fail us here, with Tarlannan the Intelligent?”
“Yes,” Jin mumbled. “They explained why.”
The Boy sat back and looked reprovingly at Tarl. “Why do we conceal our actions from outsiders, Tarl?” he demanded.
Tarl sighed. “Because we do not want anyone who doesn’t know about the Tapestry to learn of it,” he said. “It's a secret.”
“Why is this kept secret, Tarl?” The Boy demanded. “I’m thinking you may have been paying attention at some point.”
“Because,” Tarl stammered. “We don’t want the competition.”
The Boy’s eyes widened, and Tarl saw his nostrils flare, but beyond that he exhibited no reaction. “Insubordinate,” the Boy said flatly. “Knowledge of the Center and the Work is a threat to the Work.”
“They were a dead end!” Tarl exclaimed. “That place had no Minds. The idea shocked them.”
This time the Boy actually shook with anger. “Did you search every corner of that floating barge? All their barges? Did you visit the lands she spoke of? Kash, or whatever it was?” The Boy scowled at him. “No, you didn’t. You decided, on your own, to tell them about us.”
“But they don’t have any Minds, they can’t do anything to us, how could they?” Tarl objected. “The idea is ridiculous. Their platforms were rusting in the ocean.”
“Do you know how the Tapestry works, Tarlannan?” the Boy demanded. “Yes or no?”
“No,” Tarl said. “But…”
“Then don’t lecture me about potentialities. Mine. This is my domain, Seeker.” The Boy spat over the side of the platform. “Time flows differently from thread to thread. They could be here tomorrow, or a thousand years from now. Or they could never come, not believing what you told them.” He sighed. “Or they could come someday. They know. Or they could know. There is a non-zero chance that this could spark a chain of events that leads them here.” He looked at them. “Therefore concealment is our guiding principle. If we fail in that, direct action is the only recourse.”
He sat silent, looking at them, as if expecting them to react to his statement. Mak spoke up first. “Direct action?”
The Boy inclined his head. “One of you is listening,” he said curtly. “Yes. Rather than leave this little loose end hanging, we cut it out.”
“What do you mean?” Tarl said, realization slowly dawning on him. “Cutting it out how?”
The Boy looked at him. “Cauterization,” he said, waving a skinny hand at them. “Call it whatever you like. It’s done.”
Tarl gaped at him. “You killed her?” His teeth were dry in his mouth. “That seems excessive.”
/>
“Her?” The Boy seemed surprised. “Oh no, without you there, we lost your referent. We couldn’t get back to that exact place and time without a lot of very expensive hunting around, and even then no guarantee we’d get it right.” He shook his head. “No, we tweaked something in the sun on the fiber of threads we know that place was located in. There is an algorithm for it, some dampening to the triple-alpha process in their sun they dreamt up long ago. We applied it to all of them.”
“All of them?” Tarl stared at him. “You murdered them? All of them? You turned off their suns?”
The Boy smiled. “Me?” He clutched his skinny hands to his chest, sneering in mockery. “I don’t think we turned them off. Their suns are still there, just a lot bigger. And hotter.” He shook his head. “And I didn’t murder anybody.” His grin broadened, showing small, straight white teeth. “You did.”
Chapter Eight
Central Asian Continent, The Temple of the Dreaming Woman
Approximately AD 20,000
Tarl picked up his basket and carried it into the temple compound. The vine-covered stonework towered above him on either side. He kept his eyes down, following the skinny old man in front of him. The Archivists classified this world Occulted, but there seemed to be some technology here, despite this template. It pleased them that they had a good fix on the target. It wasn’t always like that, he knew, but they had been adamant. Find out what it was and see if you can get a good look at it.
Occulted cultures were common it seemed. Grandmother had lectured them on this pattern, he remembered. “Superstition,” she had said, looking down on them as they sat around her in her courtyard, “is threatened by science. It cannot withstand protracted investigation into how the world really works, into reality, so it reacts negatively against it.” She had paused. “We call these worlds Occulted, because their resistance blocks them from more promising paths of investigation that will lead to Maturity.”
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