Barsk

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  As night fell, Jorl dropped anchor and retired to the boat’s enclosure. By lamplight he read through what he gratefully considered an idiot’s guide to the boat’s state-of-the-art navigation system, as fine a piece of Alliance technology as any he’d seen on Barsk. With the exception of those who worked in the planet’s pharming industry, most Fant eschewed complex devices. Jorl could imagine the cognitive dissonance someone like Grummel must have endured in a vessel perfectly designed for a stereotypically absent-minded academician. If not for his own time in the Patrol, he’d probably be in similar straits.

  Over a dinner of citrus and sweet leaves, he reviewed the scrap of paper with Pizlo’s directions, as well as his own notes that he’d scribbled between lines. In the vast empty water that lay to the east, a mere three days journey given the speed of the Tenure Redeemed and far closer than distant Relfa lay his unnamed destination. He had no idea what he’d find there. As he lay himself down for sleep, his imagination served up a range of possibilities. Perhaps a beach overflowing with the rotting remains of rafts and boats that had carried their occupants on a final trip. Maybe the island held a rain forest like every other island on Barsk. Maybe the Dying had built their own version of a Civilized Wood filled with individual apartments where they enjoyed their last days. Or maybe he’d simply find a vast accretion of bones, the crumpled skeletons of eight centuries of Dying Fant, their flesh long since stripped away, strewn from one end of the island to the other, from its gravelly beach to the mud and streams of its Shadow Dwell. With images of animated corpses dancing in his head, Jorl wandered into sleep.

  He rose at first light, the clouds on the eastern horizon beckoning him with a rosy glow, the sky overhead showering him with a light rain. With a yawn and a stretch he eased himself over the boat’s side, splashed himself to full wakefulness and tended to the morning’s ablutions. Clambering back aboard, he returned to Pizlo’s page and converted the boy’s route into terms the boat’s hardware could understand. It quickly returned a declarative ping, and its display informed him of his options: barely two days if he left immediately and continued nonstop, a bit over three if he maintained his intention of cruising only during daytime. He hoisted anchor and engaged the engine. The Tenure Redeemed surged forward and he sat back to enjoy the warm rain and the vast open sky.

  Jorl had been too intent on beginning the voyage to give much thought of how he’d occupy himself during it. His focus had been on setting out, and now he had insufficient distractions for the trip, having failed to bring along so much as a book to help pass the time. Ironically, he had a collection of imramha he’d been meaning to read, written by a Speaker on Telba. Every few generations some young man went off in a boat and had a voyage filled with impossible adventures. The Speaker had summoned a dozen of them, one at a time of course, and compared their own experiences with the tales that had spawned.

  Lacking other diversion, he instead reviewed everything he could remember about the Matriarch’s prophecy regarding the Silence, seeking any insight or clue that might guide him once he reached that final island. What had she seen? Jorl couldn’t fathom how the simple act of arrival on its shore would resolve his or any Speaker’s inability to summon the recently dead. Which meant that somehow, his destination wasn’t the end of the journey but rather a necessary first step to something else. If Margda had known, she’d either given no indication in her prophecies, or had been far too cryptic for him or anyone else to have figured it out. Maybe it would be clear once he got there. Or maybe he had it all horribly wrong.

  Most of that first day he simply sat in the boat and gazed up at the overcast sky. The cloud cover was as complete as ever, but it moved far faster than his boat and he tracked the arrival and disappearance of individual clouds within the larger sheet that defined the sky in shades of ever lighter gray. The flight of the clouds and the movement of his boat lulled him into an easy trance state and soon his mind began giving meaning to the half-shapes of the clouds. There was an Alliance ship racing to some secret mission beyond the horizon; far to the right was that cute shopgirl who always flirted with him and never complained at even his most obscure book requests; directly ahead must surely be hiding a tree from his childhood, where he and Arlo had convinced themselves no adults could ever find them no matter how hard they searched. The clouds swept past, his mind formed new explanations for their shapes, and in this way, pausing only for the occasional nap or meal break, he passed his first full day at sea.

  The second day began much as the first, though the rain fell with a bit more force. The boat’s instruments assured him he was making good time toward the open bit of water he insisted was his destination. The day’s sun was halfway to its zenith and he’d already mapped out a pair of wrestling Prairie Dogs, the front door to Tolta’s home, the glowering face of the Matriarch, and a bucket overflowing with ink bamboo from the roiling clouds overhead. Through it all the boat’s engine had been a faint but constant hum, more felt than heard. Jorl’s reveries ended as the background sound rose to a shrill wine, alerting him that the boat had crested the last swell and not fallen back but continued to rise.

  Jorl spun in place and saw the reason, his experience giving name to the color he saw, a shade of gray he knew intimately from many an afternoon pointlessly painting the outer hull of his own Patrol ship, punishment for one or another imagined offense on those occasions when they’d dipped into an atmosphere and docked at some welcoming port. A larger craft had risen up beneath his boat, so broad that he could have put a couple dozen of the Tenure Redeemed side by side and still not fallen off the edge. Its depth had to be at least as big, suggesting many levels or a series of huge cargo holds. He didn’t have enough detail to guess which of several ship designs lay there, but even the smallest required a length ten or more times its width. Not a scout ship, and too big for a survey vessel. Something this big went into space for years at a time, ferrying important people between worlds or executing deep space missions or responding to unstable colonies on the fringes of Alliance space.

  As if in response to this last thought, he saw a gate open further up where the gray hull rose in a lazy curve from horizontal to vertical and three red-clad figures poured out.

  Contamination troops, he thought. He’d worn the same garb once himself, his trunk tucked uncomfortably down the front of his translucent mask. He’d sweated a pool in all that plastic, investigating an abandoned ship left adrift, its atmosphere vanished and its skeleton crew dead at their stations. A malfunction of its systems had left it vulnerable to a hull breach that had killed everyone, but the Patrol had taken no chances and the investigation team had suited up expecting some kind of plague. When in doubt, the Patrol always prepared for the worst, which probably explained the gear worn by the trio striding toward him. He recognized their race by their gait before they came close enough to identify through the windows of their masks. He stood to meet them, giving voice to the first question to form in his mind. “What are Cans doing on Barsk?”

  An instant later they had boarded his boat. One Dog grabbed hold of his left arm, another took the right. The third glared at him as if Jorl had insulted his mother so frequently and thoroughly that no retribution imaginable could be enough.

  “A better question might be, what is a Fant in the prime of his life doing out on the open water like an imbecilic and suicidal elder?”

  Jorl’s head turned so quickly toward this voice that his trunk nearly slapped the third Dog in front of him, causing that one to flinch, duck, and fall onto his ass. Jorl frowned. Cans were fiercely loyal and disciplined; they made up the bulk of the Patrol, but they were almost never in charge. Standing now in the gate, the source of the responding question, was a Cheetah. Unlike the Dogs, she wore neither hood nor mask. The blue of her gear proclaimed her officer status, and the molded insignia at her elbows, distinct to the initiated but easily missed if you didn’t know to look, marked her rank.

  “I’ll have to disagree with you, Captain. I’m
well within the patterns of my culture to be here. Whereas your presence is a violation of the Compact we have with the rest of the Alliance.”

  “Interesting and more interesting still,” said the Cheetah. “Perceptive and well educated. Let us hope you’re smart enough not to offer any trouble. I am Nonyx-Captain Selishta, and my mission here grants me exemption from your precious Compact and permits me to detain you for investigatory purposes.”

  Jorl frowned, and pulled his trunk close, coiling it for action. “I know enough to recognize when I’m being lied to, Captain. There are no exemptions. I learned that in my own time in the Patrol.”

  The Captain strode across the hull with a swift fluidity, and the third Can who had only just regained his feet scurried out of the way. The Nonyx stood half a head taller than the Lox and stared down with an expression that clearly showed she did not respond well to contradiction.

  “You’re that one, are you? I understood one of your kind had served a partial tour.” She flicked a finger at Jorl’s forehead without actually touching it. “What’s that paint?”

  “A cultural marking,” said Jorl. “It grants me free passage, anywhere and anytime. Its sanctity, like all of our customs, is also guaranteed under the terms of the Compact. Your troops holding me against my will is another violation.”

  With a smile, the Cheetah gestured to the pair of Dogs holding him. “Release him. The lot of you go and prepare the tertiary hold for his vessel; it’s obviously not going to dismantle like the others so we’ll take it whole.”

  The nearer two Dogs couldn’t let go fast enough, and quick-timed back toward the open gate. The third whined a query. “Ma’am?”

  “That’s an order. Relax, it’s not as though he has anywhere to go.”

  “You can’t take my boat.”

  The Cheetah waved the statement away. “Identify yourself, Fant.”

  “Lox-Ensign Jorl. Retired.”

  “Damn me, an officer? Well, then ensign-retired, let me adjust your world view. As I said, I know all about your precious Compact and I don’t care. I’m authorized to ignore it, every line and provision. Which means, among other things, I am free to be here on your soggy planet, and I will detain you as I please. You can argue the legalities if you want to waste your breath, but look at your situation and acknowledge the pragmatics before you. You are my prisoner.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say or do to change your mind about that?”

  The Cheetah laughed. “On the contrary, ensign-retired. You can make this easier on both of us. I am justifiably weary of my time on your world. Give me your word as an officer that you’ll behave, and you’ll avoid a visit to the brig.”

  “You’d accept my word?”

  “Why not? Years from now, it will make an amusing anecdote. And again, it’s not like you can go anywhere. This way my people have one less isolation cell to disinfect, which should please both sides. I assume you’ll also be less inclined to whine and cry than the others.”

  “Others?” His trunk hung lax as he realized the probable answer to his own question.

  “All in good time, Lox-Ensign. First, your word?”

  “Yes, Captain, you have it. For now.”

  “Amusing. Now then, step lively, back into the ship. We were returning to base when the helm spotted you, and the sooner I’m free of this damn rain the happier I’ll be.”

  “But why are you here, Captain?”

  “Have you been retired so long? Orders, of course.”

  THIRTEEN

  LEAVING HOME

  THE previous night Pizlo had a hunch that he’d want porridge when he awoke. He acknowledged that it had been several days since he’d visited Tolta, let alone slept in the bed she kept prepared for him. He admitted that he liked the softness of its coverings, but he’d seen the unhappy look on her face when he’d last stayed over and left the stains of his recent travels upon the linens. Life was just simpler on his own; then again, there was the matter of the porridge.

  He traveled to one of the Civilized Wood’s popular gathering spots, empty so late in the evening, and bathed in the fountain at its center, scrubbing at the mud streaks and leaf stains on his pale skin. He lost a few scabs in the process, and these scrapes bled a bit, but he washed that away, too, and applied pressure here and there until the tiny wounds clotted and he was as clean as he was ever apt to get. He’d washed his shorts at the same time as he bathed, and as he stepped from the fountain he removed them the better to squeeze the extra water from them. Still wet from head to toe, he put on the damp shorts and then strapped his daypouch across his chest again. He hurried to Tolta’s home, expecting to dry along the way. He climbed in through a window, snuck into the bed that she insisted was his, and went to sleep.

  He awoke to Tolta preparing breakfast, not just hot porridge but a serving of sweet leaves and several kinds of fruit juice, too. He slid onto a bench at the table and worked his way through two steaming bowls, three servings of leaves, and full glasses of all three juices (and refills of two), all the while nodding or shaking his head in response to his mother’s questions of if he was doing well and getting enough to eat and keeping himself out of trouble and staying clean and studying with Jorl.

  When he finished, he glanced up to smile and thank her, but stopped without a word. His mouth fell open and the memories of things he didn’t know he knew bubbled to the surface of his awareness.

  “You never got to say goodbye, did you?”

  “Hmm? You mean to Jorl? No, dear, I was out when he came by. He’ll be back in a few days, I think. He left a note though and—”

  “No, not Jorl. Arlo. He didn’t leave a note. And he knew he wasn’t coming back.”

  Tolta bit her lip and turned away, but not before Pizlo saw the beginning of tears. Keeping her back to her son, she busied herself with the porridge’s cooking pot. “No, Pizlo, he didn’t leave a note. But how could he? It was an accident and—”

  “It wasn’t.”

  Silence but for the scraping of a wooden spoon against a pot.

  “Jorl says—”

  “Jorl doesn’t know everything!” Tolta slammed the pot down. The wooden spoon scattered across the floor. “He may act like he does, but he doesn’t. He could be wrong sometimes. It happens.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not. Not about this. I know, cuz the moon told me. It said Arlo will say a proper goodbye.”

  “A proper … the moon?”

  “Yeah. I’d forgotten that part, but I just remembered and thought you’d want to know. I didn’t mean to make you sad. Anyway, I should go. Thanks for breakfast, Tolta.”

  “Pizlo, wait. What do you mean the moon told you?”

  “I saw it the other night. The second littlest, Pemma. It was my third moon. It told me lots, so much that I forgot bunches but I’m remembering now. That’s why I gotta go. Bye!”

  With no more warning, Pizlo slid off the breakfast bench and bolted for the door. He flung it open, leaping through as soon as the gap had widened enough. He heard Tolta rushing after, but in the time it took her to reach the door and lean through, hands to either side of the frame, Pizlo had already vanished into the surrounding green.

  He’d been thinking a lot about what the moon had said, and also what Jorl had told him about the aleph. It opened all doors, and he might need one himself if he was going to follow where he thought he needed to go. Even though he was only six, he felt certain he’d accomplished three things of such special merit that the traveling council would surely award him an aleph, even if they were usually stingy about it. Jorl had once said his was only the fifty-seventh aleph ever. If only they could be made to talk to him and acknowledge his existence. In fact, didn’t his existence count as an accomplishment? Even though they acted like he wasn’t there, he had heard how they spoke about him. Abomination was the description they most often used. Nature’s Mistake was a close second. His kind were considered soulless, but that was silly. Who among them had ever seen a sou
l, anyway? His situation was biological, not spiritual. He’d read about it in one of Jorl’s books, the genetic fluke of two Fant conceiving without a proper bonding. And how the resulting child most often arrived stillborn, and how most of the rest died within a year from missing organs or senses. It’d taken him days to realize his own inability to feel pain was part of that. But the unique thing was he had survived, six years now, longer than any other fluke. That had to be an accomplishment worthy of an aleph!

  And he understood things. Hadn’t he given Jorl directions to the place only the Dying knew? That had to count as a second one. It wasn’t something he could prove though, not like his being alive, not until Jorl came back and said he’d been right. But still, he knew he was right.

  Maybe the one about swinging on vines wouldn’t count, even though he did it so well. And maybe they wouldn’t be impressed by his insect collection, no matter how much better it was than anyone else’s; he’d already learned that not everyone shared his enthusiasm for bugs. But the fact that he talked with all of Barsk, from the mud in the Shadow Dwell to the clouds in the sky, that had to count. Jorl had never mentioned anyone else who could do that, and he hadn’t read about it anywhere. Just because he took it as given didn’t mean other people wouldn’t see it as special. Surely the way any of them could talk to anyone else was pretty special. Noisy and maybe pointless, but special. They chattered endlessly around him, but not much of it mattered or meant anything.