Barsk

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  The Fant’s ears swiveled and lifted in reaction to his words, but Bish didn’t let show on his face any of the revulsion that those hideous and furless flaps of gray flesh evoked in him.

  “I’m not surprised that you don’t recognize me; the resemblance isn’t that strong and how many Bos have you seen, eh? But I’m not the first of my family to dedicate himself to public service. My mother’s father was also in the senate.”

  Jorl’s voice held both weariness and wonder. “Your grandfather also served on the Committee of Information?”

  “He did.”

  “I … I wrote a biography about him. It was the first thing I worked on after leaving the Patrol. I even Spoke with him, several times.”

  “I envy you that. It’s been many years since I’ve heard his voice. He died while I was still a child. That biography came to the committee, as all new media does, and a talented clerk pulled it from the slush of published works and tagged it for my attention. I was truly touched by the detail and fairness of your writing, though honestly I never expected that I’d get to meet the author. I have to tell you, after reading your words, the gentle way you spoke of my grandfather, I feel as though we are old friends already, Jorl. Do you mind if I call you Jorl?”

  “Honestly, Senator, I don’t feel as though whether I mind or not is going to make any difference here.”

  The Fant was shrewder than he’d expected him to be, and Bish chided himself for buying into his own racist stereotypes so deeply. No matter, though. One feint had failed, he had others at his disposal.

  “Don’t be like that, Son. This doesn’t have to be adversarial. Regardless of whatever happens next, speaking not as a senator but as a grandson, I wanted to thank you.”

  Jorl stood, slumped and silent. Bish had spent a lifetime reading his adversaries’ body language. Some things were universal, existing across all races. The Fant was beyond weary. The right argument would push him over the edge. And yet, as he watched, Jorl straightened. The weariness remained, but something had changed. He’d acquired a degree of hostility, unfocused for the moment, as if equally likely to lash out or be directed inward.

  “What exactly is going to happen next? You’ve already broken your own laws by coming to Barsk. You’ve used officers of the Patrol to abduct hundreds of civilians, interred them against their will, and executed them. And now you’ve taken me a second time, removing me from my planet and dropped me where none could possibly know to look for me.”

  Bish frowned at the anger. Had he lost his moment? “I don’t believe you appreciate the bigger picture here, Jorl. What we do, what we’ve been doing, has been for the greater good of the Alliance. Believe me, I sympathize with your perspective. The zeal with which the Urs-major carried out these things has blurred the real necessity behind them. But you have also seen the celerity with which I resolved the matter of his excess. Now, here, just the two of us, two civilized beings, I’m confident you will see the need for all that we do.”

  Jorl turned, and Bish noted how still his ears had become. The Lox crossed the room and seated himself on the sleeping platform on the far wall. On the voyage in, Druz had supplied him with a report suggesting that the movement, or lack, of a Fant’s ears was a window into the degree of tension they experienced. When Jorl began speaking, it was clear he had built up his guard again. Was he somehow drawing strength from the massacre at the base?

  “Who is the we in all of this, Senator Bish? Would you mind starting there?”

  Long practice allowed the senator to keep the smile from his face, but the Fant had handed him an opening any politician could run with. “Not at all. When I say we, I, of course, refer to the people who make up the Alliance. All of us, you, myself, all sapient beings on all the worlds of which we speak. More directly, I mean their representatives, their voices in the process of managing this immense Alliance. Lawmakers like myself who strive on behalf of ordinary citizens like you. That’s why I brought you here, Jorl, so you could help basic, decent people like yourself.”

  “I wasn’t aware these people needed my help. You already know that I’m just a historian. Surely anyone with an interest in my work has ready access to the films and books I’ve published. What more could I possibly do to affect so many?”

  Having maneuvered the Fant into asking the necessary question, Bish let the smile show. It was a friendly smile, warm and encouraging. A professional smile, built and earned, the work of a lifetime of public speaking and political gamesmanship. He stretched and briefly scratched behind his left horn before responding, knowing the value of a well-timed pause. When he did reply, it was with the patient tone that had won him landslide victories in election after election.

  “I trust you are merely being coy with me. While you, personally, do have a contribution to make, I am speaking more generally of your fellow Eleph and Lox. All the Fant, as they are generally known to the Alliance. Barsk’s government has enjoyed a special relationship with the rest of the galaxy. Among its other provisions, the Compact regulates the export of your many products. At the time of its creation, it was a great convenience for everyone. It assured the Alliance a continuous supply of thousands of items unique to Barsk, and it afforded the Fant the autonomy and privacy that had led them to Barsk in the first place.”

  The senator gestured at the Sloth who rose like an unbending tree branch, holding a tray with two cups of freshly poured tea. The Yak nodded once and she approached Jorl, offering him the first cup which he accepted. Bish helped himself to the remaining cup, raising it in a toast to Jorl, and draining the thing in a single gulp before handing it back to the Brady who then resumed her place in the background.

  “But that was centuries ago, Jorl. The situation has changed. The Alliance now depends on Barsk for more than a million exports. And the number of worlds comprising the Alliance has also grown. But through it all, the terms of your Compact have remained constant. Your government has steadfastly refused to share the knowledge behind its pharmaceutical wealth. You’ve declined all requests to allow other scientists to visit and study your techniques, and you’ve outright rejected even the merest hint of assistance from the rest of the Alliance.”

  “We wouldn’t have autonomy if we accepted assistance, Senator. Nor would we have privacy if we permitted visitors. Neither of those things have changed.”

  “But everything else has. And while it’s true that our researchers have reverse-engineered many of your products, it has been, as your own people might say, the merest raindrop in a storm. Your officials hide behind their precious Compact and refuse to acknowledge that we live in different times, that the past is indeed past. As a historian, you should appreciate this, Jorl. So I ask you, is this situation fair to the rest of the people living in the Alliance? To the many billions of ordinary souls spread out across four thousand worlds who have come to depend on these exports?”

  Jorl sipped his tea. “I suspect the matter is much more complex than you present it, Senator. And as you surely know, I am not part of Barsk’s government. I have no more voice than any other individual on such matters. But that’s not the real issue, is it? Major Krasnoi didn’t take all those people because he wanted to know how to harvest or refine millions of different drugs. He was only interested in one. He wanted to know about koph. Why that one, among so many others?”

  “Let me answer your question with another question. Tell me, Jorl, how much do you know about an Eleph called Margda?”

  He watched Jorl smile at his query, as he knew he would. The dolt had no idea he was being manipulated, not that his awareness would have changed things one iota.

  “Quite a bit. Her life was the focus of my research when I was at the academy. It’s why I ended up studying your grandfather, because he was the first person off Barsk to take a real interest in her life and legacy.”

  “He did,” said Bish. “He was particularly fascinated with her fits of clairvoyance, and how she bent those visions to her political will. It was such a novel
thing to do, and she proved herself quite effective at it. I assume you’ve read all of her formal papers regarding her visions?”

  Jorl nodded. “Those, as well as her journal entries, and what we have of her private correspondence.”

  “Good. That’s very good. I have a great respect for thorough research. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that, rare as her precognitive gifts may have been, in the vast population of the Alliance there is no shortage of individuals with similar abilities to your Matriarch. But prior to her, no one—certainly no one in the senate—had ever thought to harness that resource toward our own political prosperity. But such talents are a resource, one that belongs to the greater good of all people. Your Matriarch didn’t simply impress my grandfather, she inspired him. During his tenure in the senate, he began to use the Committee of Information as a means to structure that foresight.”

  “Is that how you’ve kept the outer colonies under control? You’ve had teams of psychic operatives scrying for you for three generations?”

  “In part. But because Barsk was the only other place to have used precognition in this way, we’ve also always kept an eye turned toward your world. This aspect of the committee is rather clandestine, it’s operation known in detail to only a small subset of senators, and for years now they have begrudged the expense, calling it a waste of time and resources. Barsk has continued on along the same course as always, quiet and calm. Recently though, that began to change. First one, and then another, and then several more of our precognitivists began reporting visions involving Barsk. They saw a change, a fast approaching critical juncture. They told us that it would involve the refinement of koph, a drug unlike any other of your pharmaceuticals. Not restorative, nor preventative, nor recreational. No, koph’s sole purpose is as the means to allow some individuals to become Speakers. In time, every single one of those assets reported that everything would change soon, and all because of koph.”

  “What about it? We’ve had koph only slightly longer than we’ve had the Compact. What’s changed?”

  Bish stepped closer, arms wide, palms open, and beamed at Jorl with his politician’s smile. “Not what, who. A new player in this vast game. My precognitivists brought me a name, the person they saw who could change everything. Tell me, Jorl, have you ever heard of someone called Arlo?”

  A muffled sound from the far side of the room broke the senator’s focus. Even before he could turn toward the source, Druz had shifted enough to point one arm toward the room’s closet and fired a device from up her sleeve. Three steel talons darted across the room to embed themselves in the closet door and yank it open as the Sloth pulled back on their attached cables. A small figure tumbled out and crashed to the floor headfirst. A young Fant, white-fleshed and even more hideous than the larger, gray-skinned versions.

  Bish stepped back, mind racing to assess the potential threat, even as Jorl jumped to his feet and gave a name to the creature with a voice of disbelief.

  “Pizlo?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  BLIND ENDGAME BEGINNING

  “I TAKE it you know this child?” said Bish.

  He’d tilted a horn in the direction of the Brady but otherwise kept his attention on the pair of Fant. The Sloth rose and started slowly across the room, the trio of cables withdrawing back up her sleeve with every step.

  Jorl had left his seat to kneel alongside Pizlo, confusion warring with fear in his mind. How had the child come to be hiding in the closet, let alone here on this station? But questions could wait; he ran hands and trunk over Pizlo, checking the boy for injuries beyond the usual collection of scrapes and bruises that defined his daily life. He paused to puzzle over the circles drawn on his chest long enough to confirm they were only ink and nothing more. His growing relief evaporated when he noticed the arm fitted in a makeshift sling. Real fear took its place as he discovered the ruins of the boy’s hands. Strips of white flesh hung from his palms. Somehow he’d torn through multiple layers of skin leaving behind weeping wounds. Hands and fingers had swollen to immobility, little more than fleshy blocks at the ends of his wrists. Even without the complications of likely infection, Jorl wondered if Pizlo could be saved the use of his hands at all.

  “He needs medical attention!”

  “Then he’ll have it, of course.” The senator sounded so much like his grandfather, a blend of decisive surety and familial kindness. Jorl doubted the sincerity but would worry about the cost later. All that mattered in this moment was helping Pizlo.

  “Jorl, we’re up in the sky! And I saw Telko, and that was after I saw Pemma.” Pizlo’s voice seemed breathy and his eyes didn’t quite track.

  “Hush now, it’ll be fine. You’ve hit your head.” Pizlo flailed a useless hand at the circles on his chest. “I have to fill in another of them.” His eyes gave up their attempt to focus and his head lolled to one side.

  “Allow me,” said the Sloth, suddenly beside him, her voice deeper than he’d expected. From her sleeve, she drew a small tube which she snapped open, pouring the contents into her hand. “It’s an anesthetic salve that will help with the pain until we can get him to the infirmary.”

  Jorl’s trunk whipped left and right in negation. “He doesn’t need it. He can’t feel pain. Use that time to get him treatment sooner, please.”

  “No pain?” repeated the Sloth, even as she slid her arms underneath Pizlo and began to rise. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “No, he’s abnor … his physiology is atypical. I don’t know if ordinary healing methods will be effective or do more harm—”

  “Have no fear,” said Druz. “Our infirmary is part of a larger, working lab with very discriminating diagnostic gear. I will proceed with caution.” She moved toward the exit with the boy in her arms. Bish stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

  “The major’s telepath should have reached the station before us. Have one of the guards find her and escort her to this room.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Pizlo stirred. “Jorl … the moon … it told me you’ll see Arlo soon. Say hello for me, ’kay?”

  The door opened and closed and Jorl was alone in the room with the Yak.

  “He seems to know the name. And from his remark, dazed as he obviously was, he believes you know the name, too. That seems too unlikely a thing to be mere coincidence, don’t you think? And more, what is the boy doing in this place at all?”

  “Pizlo,” said Jorl. “His name is Pizlo.”

  “I see. And who is Pizlo?”

  The Fant shook his head, trying to make sense of events. “He’s … he’s Arlo’s son.”

  “Indeed?” The sound of avarice had replaced the senator’s kindly tone. “You and young Pizlo clearly know one another, which begs the question: what is Arlo to you?”

  Jorl was still on his knees. He looked up at Bish, the events of the past day cascading through his mind. The Dying wandering the yard, the Lutr who had protected him from an Ailuros, the Matriarch summoning him and asking about Arlo, Krasnoi slaughtering the Dying before his eyes, the Brady executing the major at the senator’s command, and now Pizlo here on the station high above the world. One improbable event after another. What wouldn’t he give to trade it all away?

  “Arlo is my best friend,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “I see. Then perhaps we can expect your friend to also make a surprise appearance and come for his son?”

  He fanned himself with his ears but made no move to stand up. If anything, he wanted to sink into the floor, through the station, and tumble back down to the world below, but even that bargain was denied him. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. He’s been dead for close to two years now.”

  The Bos stood over him, saying nothing. Jorl didn’t care anymore. This wasn’t how history was made. None of the events he’d studied at the academy had been so predetermined. None of the principals he’d Spoken to had been such helpless pawns. Was there anything he had done, any decision he’d ma
de in his entire life, that hadn’t been preordained, just another step that ultimately led him down the path the Matriarch had foreseen centuries before? And was Bish any better? Or the Yak’s grandfather for that matter? Despite commissioning his own team of precognitivists, here he was at the same moment that Margda had seen. Was all of the universe a fixed game, if one only knew where and how to look?

  The door opened. Someone entered from the hallway, but Jorl didn’t look up.

  “Senator? A pleasure to meet you at long last.”

  Jorl recognized the voice. The Lutr who had spoken with him back in the yard. Krasnoi had sent her away before killing the Dying, before Bish had arrived.

  “I’ve read your reports; fruitless but thorough. You’re a very talented young woman.” Jorl could hear the grandfatherly smile in his voice. “I have one final need of your abilities. The Fant and I are about to have a very serious chat. Monitor him. I need to know that he understands and believes what I tell him. None of us have the luxury of allowing him anything less than total clarity.”

  Hands gripped him under each arm and hauled Jorl to his feet. The senator carried him back to the sleeping platform and dropped him there. Behind the Bos, Jorl could see the Lutr watching him, her eyes bright.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Bish, still speaking in his politician’s tone of voice. “My experts have told me to expect a new type of koph, but none of them can tell me what comes next. They did tell me that if we investigated koph, it would serve as a means to the unknown end we sought. That’s what the Urs-major’s operation was for and, regrettably why a closer eye wasn’t kept on him. It was never about whether or not he would succeed, only that some part of our actions in pursuing an answer would lead us to where we needed to be. And so we’ve come up on what they call a choice point, and it involves the new drug all of this has been pointing to. What’s not clear is who gets to do the choosing. Maybe it will be me, but maybe it will be you, Jorl. If it’s me, I’ll choose what serves the greater good of the Alliance. But if it’s you, well, I don’t know that I can rely upon you to make the right choice. And I can’t abide that kind of uncertainty.”