Barsk

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  He stepped into the surf, wading away from shore and pulling his boat after him. When he was in up to his waist he spun around and rolled over its side, landing on his back in the bottom. He let the tide carry him out while he got himself settled with his daypouch in his lap and a long-handled paddle gripped in both hands. Dipping the paddle into the water and his trunk into his daypouch where he’d stored the nuts from his shopping, he set out from his home island for the first time, a unique event in the entire history of Barsk.

  “I bet this would count toward an aleph,” he said, munching on some nuts as he paddled away.

  The meager afternoon light gave way to full dusk. The wind died down and the rain went from unfelt stinging to unnoticed patter. Dusk eased into gentle darkness. Pizlo kept paddling. At other times of day there would be dozens of rafts and boats in the water between Keslo and Telba, the next island to the north and a bit west, but the trip required a short span and rarely did anyone feel the need to complicate it by making landfall at night. Pizlo had the water to himself, sparing any other Fant the confusion and horror of encountering him in such an unimaginable place. He was well past Telba by midnight, keeping his course unerringly, as if the ocean’s swells themselves passed word to him.

  The rain increased again though the wind did not. Fat drops fell straight down and Pizlo had to divide his time between paddling and bailing as the tiny craft rode low with rainwater. He didn’t have a map in his head so much as a precise sense of where he was, where he’d been, and where he wanted to be. At a point roughly halfway between Telba and Zlorka the rain eased off and he could concentrate exclusively on paddling again.

  His palms and fingers had long since blistered, and the blisters broken open. Pizlo only noticed that the paddle slipped in his grip a bit more than before and attributed it to the rain.

  Well before dawn, Pizlo paused. He felt something. He had no sensation of pain from his bleeding hands nor any awareness of the strained muscles that had spread across his back. The cramps in his legs from sitting too long in place made him awkward but otherwise caused no discomfort. Rather, an insight had come upon him, like the moment when he’d understood that the glyphs Jorl had shown him could stand for sounds, or the time he finally realized that it wasn’t his difference that made Tolta talk to him but her own. Pizlo had arrived at the equator, and he knew it.

  Since rounding Telba, he had paddled northeast, aiming not to reach Zlorka at its nearest point, but to come upon it from the side and then circle around toward its northern face. The harbor of the space elevator awaited him. He turned his boat due west, paddling ahead in the dark, and soon after could make out light. A faint glowing strand rose up out of the mist, disappearing as it climbed. A bit later, he came ashore, the line between water and beach visible in the light from the elevator. His legs folded uselessly beneath him when he tried to climb out of the boat. He’d ruined his hands. Shreds of skin that had once been blisters hung from them and the tender flesh beneath bled freely. He gazed briefly at them, seeking patterns in their shape like an augur of flesh, but found nothing and shrugged. He smeared the blood across his thighs and calves as he pushed his hands across them, working cramps from the muscles. On his third attempt, Pizlo stood well enough to stumble from the boat. He slung his daypouch across his chest. He meant to grab his bags but since letting go of the paddle, his fingers still refused to move properly. He used his trunk instead. Standing in water to his waist, stomping back and forth to make his legs and feet work as they should, he pushed his boat back into the water.

  “Thank you,” he said to the boat, drawing out the moment, never having known a boat before, not knowing if he would again.

  He scrambled out of the surf and onto the beach, stumbling like a child who had discovered his parents’ liquor chest and sampled with the delight of a natural experimentalist. He pressed the fingers of both hands against his chest, forcing them to flex until he could make them do it of his own volition. Only when his body was working again more or less as it should, did he lift his gaze to the light of the elevator and examine his surroundings.

  The space elevator rose out of a complex of buildings. The nearer ones looked much like structures you might find in the Civilized Wood of any island, though built on a larger scale. Pizlo imagined they served as home to those Fant who labored here, day in and out, meeting the barges bringing the pharmaceuticals from those islands responsible for that sort of manufacturing, and loading them into the gleaming cargo pods that sat on nearby tracks leading into edifices like nothing else on Barsk. Each pod was as big as Tolta’s house, like a giant cube but with the corners cut off leaving flat triangles and no points. The pods and the tracks they rested upon showed more metal and plastic than Pizlo had ever imagined existing in one place. And the inner buildings rose up in angles not from nature, like monster houses seen only in a nightmare. The tracks flowed into the nightmare, even now with no workers attending them, creeping more slowly than he could walk, to what at first seemed the monster’s maw, but which Pizlo realized was only a passage to their true destination. He stared up at the shining beanstalk and counted. Every hundred heartbeats or so, another pod tumbled into the maw and out of sight, and a different one further along in the process rose up in the shaft of light, leaping upward into the sky like it had learned to fly.

  Pizlo stumbled to the far end of the tracks, his gait improving by the time he arrived. Dozens of pods sat on rollers, gradually drifting closer to a space where the tracks began, emerging from a housing in the ground. He could see a series of hooks that came up from below, rumbling like thunder as they pulled down the center of the tracks so they hooked on the pods and carried them along the tracks. Likely hundreds of cargo pods had been packed the previous day and left to slide one by one onto the tracks and await their turn up the beanstalk. These were the remaining ones from the day’s work. The process would begin again in the morning. Pizlo planned to be far away by then.

  He started poking at one of the waiting pods. His fingers still didn’t work well, but the sensitive nubs of his trunk were more than capable of working the latches on an access panel and he soon opened it. The inside of the hatch had a packet of pages. The light from the elevator made the headers legible. They read “inventory” in the circular glyphs of the Fant, and presumably the same thing in the boxy marks used by the Alliance. Pizlo braced his arms on either side of the hatch and pulled himself in, his bags banging against the sides before following him. He had enough room to stand up, but an adult would have had to hunch over. He stood in a narrow corridor made by the walls of stacked containers of assorted pharmaceuticals to left and right and underneath. He bumped to either side and jumped up and down but nothing moved. Either they were too heavy, or they’d been bolted in place, maybe both.

  Looking back out, he could see the buildings of the complex slowly sliding as his cargo pod edged ever closer to the track. He took some time to examine the inside surface of the hatch, making sure he could open it from within before closing it and shutting out the bit of light and the sound and smell of the ocean. In total darkness he explored his corridor, taking his time to turn at every junction and to double back again until he’d covered every pace. He imagined some Alliance sapient, probably from one of the smaller races like a Geom or Marmo, purposefully striding where he had roamed, comparing the cargo in the pod to some manifest in hand.

  He settled himself in a corner, his back against the intersection of two walls of containers, and put his bags down. Everything jolted once, and a faint rumbling echoed around him. His pod had arrived onto the main track at last and a hook was pulling it slowly closer to the entrance of the elevator. Now that he was here, the efforts of the long day caught up with him. He’d never been so tired, but as much as he wanted to close his eyes and sleep, he needed to deal with thirst and hunger first. His fingers felt all puffy, but at least his hands had stopped being slippery. He held a water container in place with the heels of his hands and opened it with his nubs, dr
opping his trunk into it as soon as the lid came free and slurping up the entire contents. Next he went through all the sweet grasses and succulent fruit from one of his mesh bags and ate until it was almost empty before putting it away. He set the empty bottle aside, carefully putting the cap back in place; he didn’t know how long he would have to be in here, but he didn’t want to make a mess for that hypothetical Marmo, and so he might be refilling the container before he left.

  Thirst quenched and belly full, Pizlo curled up tight, shoving his damaged hands into his armpits and tucking his trunk under his crossed arms. He dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep even before his cargo pod had worked its way to the elevator. The rumbling of the track stopped, and while he slumbered he entered the shaft of the beanstalk and began to climb, faster than anything he had ever imagined.

  SEVENTEEN

  DEAD VOICES

  TWENTY-SEVEN other Fant had been on the ship that abducted Rüsul—twenty-eight if he counted the young man who so clearly did not belong—and they had come from all different islands, from both the eastern and western archipelagos. Despite a long life, he hadn’t known any of them, though a few recognized his name or had known someone who had met someone who owned one of his carvings. The internment facility was different. Nearly two hundred others had been snatched up from the ocean on their respective voyages to what they’d imagined to be the final journey of their lives.

  He had no sooner finished being “processed” by a pair of utterly disinterested Feln when a trunk fell upon his shoulder and a familiar voice exclaimed “It is you! By my grandfather’s tusks, I swore I’d never forget the scar on your ear no matter the years that passed.”

  An ancient Eleph stood behind him, arms akimbo and as grim an expression on her face as any Rüsul had known. “Phas? Can it be? I’ve not seen you since—”

  “Since you jilted me and went off with another woman, you old bastard!”

  Never smart when it came to women, Rüsul didn’t even try to stop the laughter that came burbling out of him. “That was always your problem, confusing a man’s free choice with a personal attack. And I have to think I made the right choice. After two children and more years together than I ever deserved, my mate never once got mad enough to tear into me like you did.”

  The other Fant slapped Rüsul’s shoulder again and gave out a loud whoop, revealing her initial anger as mere pretense. “Two kids? Well, I should probably be thankful that she got you instead of me. I wasn’t ready for children for a long while, and I learned quick enough not to become involved with men who didn’t want to wait.”

  Rüsul’s nubs lightly grazed the mark on his left ear, his thoughts hurtling back to a foolish bachelor trying to woo the two prettiest women on Telba at the same time. “It’s been a long time since I thought back to that night. Probably just denial that I was ever so young and stupid.”

  “Maybe I scared some maturity into you. I confess, I was angry for days. But you actually did me a favor. I caught a boat headed to Zlorka and threw myself into my studies. I wouldn’t have had the career I did if you hadn’t broken my heart. But it’s all crumbled leaves, eh? It’s good to see a familiar face here. Not that any of us expected to see another soul.”

  “What is this place, Phas? How long have you been here?”

  “Time makes little sense anymore. The day goes on and on. The night comes and goes in less time than a midday nap requires. The company is depressing and the food’s terrible. And the outsiders, they’re the worst. The Feln aren’t so bad, they look down on everyone, but the Ailuros are indifferent and the Taxi are flat cruel. Not that any of it matters to most of these Fant, they’re so wrapped up in their own heads about having set off to die that not much gets to them.”

  “And what makes you so different?”

  Phas laughed. “A lifetime spent with the dead. I was a historian, and all of this feels like just another story to me, the only difference being I’ve been cast in the events this time around.”

  Before Rüsul could respond, the young Lox from the ship approached the older pair of Elephs, trunk down and ears still, like a reluctant child presenting himself after having shattered some bit of crockery in an ill-conceived game that should never have been played indoors.

  “Excuse me, I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I thought I recognized your voice and I heard you say you were a historian, yes?”

  Phas stumbled back, clearly startled by the presence of the young man even as her gaze locked onto his tattooed forehead. Rüsul saw recognition flash into his former lover’s eyes.

  “Jorl ben Tral! What in the world are you doing here?”

  The Lox shrugged and relaxed as he came closer. “In a way, I’m here because I went looking to ask you about a text, only you’d sailed off a season earlier. I tried to Speak to you, and couldn’t. And that put me in mind of Margda’s prophecy about the Silence and—”

  Nodding her head and fanning her ears, Phas interrupted. “And you’re the newest Aleph, of course.” She swept her trunk toward Rüsul. “Allow me to perform some introductions. Rüsul, may I present my colleague, Jorl ben Tral. And Jorl, this is Rüsul ben Shel, the boy that got away and whom I blame for a life spent in academia.”

  Rüsul opened his mouth to speak then stopped.

  Jorl nodded and sighed. “I’m sorry. My mark notwithstanding, it’s fine if you’re not comfortable talking to me.”

  “It’s not that,” said Rüsul, eyes focused over Jorl’s shoulder. “I was just distracted by that person rushing toward us.”

  Jorl turned around to see, recognizing the woman who sped up as she now clearly recognized him as well.

  “I might have known! Jorl ben Tral! No surprise to see you showing up when there’s oddness. You oaf, what did you do this time?”

  Phas’s head spun as she stared first at the swiftly approaching Lox and then to Jorl. “This is your doing?”

  “No, of course not,” said Jorl.

  “You said he was a colleague. I thought you meant a fellow historian, not that he also had a history of erratic behaviors,” said Rüsul.

  “What are you implying?” Phas’s trunk coiled defensively. “Erratic? I was scorned, and I—”

  “Oh my,” said Jorl. “Kembü?”

  “Kembü?” repeated Rüsul and Phas together.

  “The mother of my best friend. He and I, uh, used to get into a lot of trouble.”

  “Hrumph!” said Kembü, as she stopped her charge just short of knocking Jorl over. “My boy got into trouble. You, on the other hand, sowed chaos with your every breath. I swear, they gave you that mark for being contrary, if for anything at all. Now tell me what you did to cause all of this!” She threw out an arm, encompassing the entire yard.

  “Honestly, none of this is my doing. I doubt I know more of what’s going on than any of you.”

  “I don’t think that’s quite true,” said Phas. “The ship that abducted each of us, it’s a Patrol vessel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you served in the Patrol. And then there’s the matter of Margda’s prophecy of the Silence.”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “Relax, Jorl, I’m not accusing you of anything, but we both have studied too much history to ignore coincidence. Come on. There’s some folk I want you to meet. They’re not so deep being dead as most of the others here. I suspect you’ve a story to tell, and I want them to hear it. Rüsul, and uh, Kembü, you’re welcome to come, too.”

  Rüsul shrugged. “I’ve only got one other place to be, same as the rest of you, and I don’t imagine this will slow that trip one way or the other. Let’s go.”

  They made their way a short distance to a corner where two of the barracks halls met. Three other Fant, a woman and two men, sat on shallow cots, heads bowed in quiet conversation. Phas trumpeted at them as she approached, causing all three to lift their heads.

  “Seems my day to be doing introductions. The lady is Mlarma, the fellow on the left is Tarva and
the other is Abso. This handsome devil here is Rüsul, whom I haven’t seen since the world was young, and this woman is Kembü, whom I’ve only just met. The youngster, who is being ignored or shunned by all the right-thinking Fant in the yard is Jorl, a former colleague.”

  “You’re not Dying,” said Abso. He sat shoulder to shoulder with the other man, trunks lightly entwined. “Everyone else here was picked up on their last journey. How did the Dogs grab you?”

  Phas had vanished into a barracks while Abso spoke and reappeared now dragging a pair of cots. Rüsul set them up for himself and Kembü and Phas went back for more.

  Jorl captured his attention as he explained about how he had set out for the final island. He elaborated on the prophecy that Phas had mentioned, backtracked to explain how he’d acquired his mark of passage. Rüsul almost lost the thread of the story as the youngster rambled on about serving in the Patrol, but eventually he tied it all together and brought it through to the present moment.

  Mlarma nodded and said, “Phas has been telling us tales out of Barsk’s past and earlier before the Fant were brought all together. It seems to me, that the most unlikely events almost have to happen, or life would just be dull and no one would write anything down. Your experiences are no more bizarre than these two.” She jerked her trunk at the two men who responded by smiling at her.

  “Forty and some odd years ago, I was a poet,” said Abso. “I wandered over half of the islands of both archipelagos, finding inspiration in the strangest of places and never dreaming I might stop and settle down. Then I met this one and realized I’d found the muse I hadn’t known I’d been seeking.”

  Tarva blushed and picked up the tale. “I taught math,” he said. “Not the most popular of fields, nor the easiest. But it suited me. I’d also wandered, even more than him. There was always something in me that would not let me stay still. But I managed, for a time, after meeting Abso. It was wondrous, but after three seasons together I just couldn’t stay. You know how the wanderlust gets for some? And yet, in all the rest of my life’s wandering, I never met another person who spoke words to rival the beauty of mathematics.”