* * *
OVER the next couple of days Jorl made several trips to various merchants, placing orders for foodstuffs, fuel, and bits of gear. He arranged for all of it to be delivered down through the Civilized Wood to the harbor where he kept the boat that Phloda, the provost at the university on Zlorka, had allowed him to retain some years back. He wasn’t much of a sailor and mostly only used it twice a year to meet Druz. By design, none of the edibles he’d arranged for were perishable. He’d pick up something fresh from Hearne, a vendor at the dock, before he took the boat out; rather, acquiring the supplies was an exercise in restocking what Pizlo had invariably acquired during his frequent raids.
Over these days, Druz sent regular updates, not just the final particulars of her report but also specifics of her progress traveling insystem. The final message had reached him late last night and specified the precise time of her arrival. In the morning, Jorl traveled by funicular from Keslo’s transit center down to the Shadow Dwell and the harbor beyond. He had the car to himself and used the slow trip from forest into rain to review what he knew about Raccoons. Based on the most recent census information he had downloaded from his senatorial archives, one variety or another of Procy could be found on fully half of the Alliance’s four thousand worlds. As a race, they tended to get along well with everyone, generally excelled at technological innovation and sculpture, and adapted their own diets to the regional or preferred cuisine of the dominant people wherever they lived. That last point came in handy as he exited the funicular at its base, stopping at a food stand. He’d long since established a traditional meal for these visits, finding a common assortment of shoots, buds, and leaves that both he and Druz favored. He added an assortment of nuts and berries—mostly for his uninvited Raccoon guest—before leaving the protection of overhangs and awnings and continuing on to the docks through the unrelenting deluge that defined the season of flood.
The harbormaster’s young son, a likable boy barely a year out of his mother’s house, had supervised the delivery of his ordered goods to the berth where his boat was moored, and as Jorl approached he observed the youth jumping nimbly back and forth from the surface of the pier to the boat’s deck, each time carrying a different mesh bag of supplies, heedless of the downpour.
Frowning, Jorl arrived in time to pick up one of the remaining bags. “Chisulo, you don’t have to do that. I’d have taken care of it.”
“No disrespect, sir, but that’s not so. You ordered all this, right? And paid for delivery?”
“Yes, but just to the dock. Getting them on my boat is my problem.”
Chisulo shook his head, ears flapping wildly with his denial. “I looked at the bills of lading. They all specify your boat as the address, not the dock’s main address.”
Jorl sighed. “That may be, but they’re not allowed to set foot on any of the boats. That’s your mother’s rules.”
“Too true, sir. Only owners and guests of owners can come and go, excepting of course my ma, or whoever she leaves in charge. And seeing as how that’s me just now, it falls to me to finish the delivery.”
“But…” Jorl let his words trail off. Chisulo had followed his own line of logic that didn’t have room for the alternate possibility of just leaving the stack of bags for a boat’s owner to handle once they arrived. The boy had likely spent more time on or around boats than in the meta-trees of the Civilized Wood, and knew the value of leaving nothing unsecured. Jorl settled instead for a gesture of his trunk and a muttered “Thanks” and boarded the boat himself.
“You want, I can stow everything below decks, sir. Get it all tied down for you.”
“That’d be a great help, thank you. The packaged food can go anywhere you find space for it in the galley. The other supplies can all go in the utility chest in one of the benches. I’ll keep the fresh food with me.”
“I’m on it.” Chisulo wrapped a hand around a third of the bags’ straps, did the same with his second hand, and grabbed the rest in his trunk. He nodded once and vanished below, leaving Jorl to step into the wheelhouse and upload Druz’s coordinates to the boat’s navigation system. As he finished, Chisulo popped up behind him.
“You taking her out far, sir? It’s a good craft, I know, and with lots more gadgets than most, but you don’t normally sail in flood.”
“Not far, Chisulo. Not even as far as another island. Just out into open water for a span. No need to worry, I’ll be back before nightfall.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep an eye out for you then. Safe travels.”
* * *
SEASONED sailors never traveled between archipelagos during flood. Fisherfolk cast their nets closer to their native islands. Even the traffic between adjacent islands dwindled in this kind of weather. Jorl knew better than to travel in this season and he intended to make sure Druz understood this, too. He had zero visibility, and if not for the navigational computer and Druz’s satellite coordinates he’d never have found the yacht until he’d rammed it.
The protocol they followed required Druz to set the yacht down in the water far enough away from Keslo that it would have been unseen by anyone on the shore in even the clearest weather. The pounding of rain on the wheelhouse and the gentle thrum of the engines provided the only sound, the roll of the open water the only sense of motion. A counter on the navigation display assured him he moved ever closer to his destination at good speed. A proximity alert gave him time to cut the boat’s engines and continue forward by momentum until the yacht loomed over him and he floated through the gate of its flooded cargo hold. He dropped anchor and moved to the deck, pausing to pick up the parcels containing their meal.
“Welcome, Senator!” Druz’s familiar voice called out to him. He fanned his ears, orienting on the sound, stepped to the bow and cast her a line. “Got it.” Moments later his boat rocked gently forward and came to rest at an internal mooring. Druz stood upon a gantry level with his deck and greeted him.
“Good to see you again, Senator.” She stood waiting with a bath sheet.
Jorl crossed from boat to ship, took the towel, and handed over their lunch. With a nod for her to lead the way, he followed his assistant out of the hold. “And you, of course. Now, what could possibly be so important to bring you here a season early?”
“I really think you should hear that from the Procy herself.”
“I gathered as much from the lack in your reports. What’s her status?”
“She awakened from suspension without incident. A touch groggy at first, but that passed after she’d hydrated.”
“And she’s where now?”
“Awaiting your pleasure in the guest parlor, sir.”
Seven years ago Jorl would have rolled his eyes and trumpeted at the absurdity of a spacecraft having a parlor, let alone the pair of them this ship enjoyed. His first experience with extra-planetary vessels had been the Patrol craft commanded by the first Sloth he’d ever met, and he seriously doubted if Brady-Captain Hrum had much more luxurious space for space’s own sake to her cabin than the spartan quarters he’d been required to squeeze into and share with a trio of ensigns. But that ship had claimed a crew of thirty and was less than half the size of the yacht he’d inherited from his predecessor.
Manners drilled into him since he was ear-high surfaced as they strode through the ship. “I hope you’ve made her comfortable, Druz. Unwelcome as I expect I’ll find her to be, she’s still a guest.”
“Yes, sir. I left her just a few moments ago. She’s preparing tea for the two of you.”
“Why is a guest preparing tea?”
“She insisted. I believe that now that she’s about to meet with you, the bluster that carried her this far has deserted her and she finds the rituals of preparation soothing.”
Tea wasn’t his favorite beverage, but the warmth of it would be welcome after the unseasonal trip, even so brief as it was. At the entrance to the guest parlor he handed the towel back to Druz. “This is beyond irregular, Druz. Is there anything useful yo
u care to tell me before I meet this Raccoon, or are you determined to keep the entire thing a mystery.”
“Her name is Abenaki. As for the rest, it’s hers to tell.”
Jorl snorted, shook his ears back, and stepped into the room leaving his unassisting assistant in the corridor.
The guest parlor was a simple room, even by the opulent standards of the yacht. A semi-circular couch faced the entrance, its broad seat and low back able to offer a comfortable place to any of the Alliance’s races. A low table hovered in front of the couch, suspended from the ceiling so as to accommodate long or short legs of the couch’s occupants. As expected, a tea service lay upon the table and a Procy sat upon the couch. The latter jumped to her feet before he’d finished closing the door behind him.
“Senator Jorl! An honor to meet you. Truly, a singular event in my life.” She rushed forward and caught herself barely a trunk’s length from him, clutching her right hand in her left, fingers dancing.
“My assistant tells me you’re called Abenaki. Is that right?”
“Perfectly correct.”
“Good. Good. Names are important things. Don’t you agree?”
“I do, yes. Critical things.”
“Yes, indeed. As are … policies and procedures. Mine include meeting petitioners in one of my planetary offices. And yet, here you are, an unexpected guest on my ship, having endured a most irregular passage, and arriving at an unexpected time. Tell me, Abenaki, why are you here instead of meeting with me in the proper way and the proper place?”
The Procy’s manual fidgeting increased. Among the materials Druz had forwarded him over the past days was a vidlog of several casual conversations she’d had with this guest prior to storing her in medical suspension. The logs allowed Jorl to become acquainted with Abenaki’s appearance, the timbre of her voice, the rhythm of her movements small and large. Those movements, from her general nervousness to a slump in her posture, were different in the moment. More obviously though was that sometime today since her awakening and before his arrival she had inexplicably powdered portions of her facial fur, blending the black mask pattern common to all Raccoons into a uniform silver grey. If it had significance, cultural or otherwise, Jorl didn’t understand it.
“May I speak frankly, Senator?”
“I wish you would. But please, let’s sit first. Some tea would be welcome.”
They stepped to the couch and sat, leaving plenty of space between them so each could partially turn and look at the other. Without waiting, Jorl took up the tea pot and poured for them both. They drank in silence, Jorl holding himself from saying anything further, certain that the Procy would not speak first even as whatever mainspring had driven her wound ever tighter and tighter. He finished his cup, felt the warmth lighten his mood, and refilled it as he settled in for the mystery that had so entranced Druz.
“Now then, tell me why this meeting isn’t taking place in one of my offices closer to your home.”
“Because you wouldn’t be there, Senator.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve done my research. I know you routinely meet with petitioners in offices throughout the Alliance, and I actually had put in for an appointment. But when I understood that the meetings wouldn’t really be face to face, I canceled the request.”
“How do you mean, not ‘face to face’?”
“Senator, were I to have met with you in your office on my homeworld of Caluma, it’s clear you wouldn’t have really been there. Not in that room, certainly not in the city, and arguably nowhere on Caluma at all.”
Jorl smiled, recalled that most non-Fant wouldn’t recognize the crinkling around the eyes and wouldn’t be watching the edges of his mouth as they avoided looking at his trunk. He set his teacup down and lifted his hands above the level of the table, palms upward, gesturing innocently. “Where do you imagine I would be then?”
The Procy lifted her own hands and delicately rubbed at her nose with tiny fingers. “The travel itineraries of senators is not public knowledge.”
“That’s a security protocol,” acknowledged Jorl. “It’s been that way for far longer than I’ve been in the senate.”
“Indeed. And having your own vessel suitable for interplanetary travel—” She paused, glanced around with approval at their surroundings before continuing. “—is likewise part of that protocol. As is the mandated service and inspection schedule for that vessel.”
“Service and inspection?”
The Raccoon waggled her fingers and cut him off. “That information, while not precisely public, can be inferred by tracking other data at licensed facilities and tracing ships that don’t enjoy senatorial security blackouts. Based on my analyses, your ship put in for a full diagnostic at a facility at Dawn some twenty-seven days before I boarded. Even assuming the most routine and brief of maintenance operations, this ship could not have delivered you from Dawn to Caluma prior to the day after tomorrow.”
“And how is that significant?”
“In two ways. First, that’s when my appointment was scheduled for, before I canceled it.”
Jorl made a mental note to alert the fellow members of his committee to the roundabout breach of the security protocols. His personal craft had been in an engineering bay on Dawn at the time the Procy referenced. He recalled speaking with Druz on that occasion, using the same technique that allowed him to take meetings on other worlds.
“And what makes you think that I couldn’t have arrived on Caluma before my ship went in for maintenance?”
“That’s the second reason. Twenty days ago you met with a colleague of mine in your office on Marbalarma. And even assuming you departed the moment that meeting ended and went straight through to Caluma, you’d still have needed a day more than the physics allows for.”
“I see. And so you conclude that I wouldn’t have been there for the scheduled meeting?”
She shrugged, hands fidgeting again and then stopping when she noticed them. “That’s my best guess, though I suppose it could be that you were never on Marbalarma, and thus could have arrived to Caluma prior to your ship’s trip to Dawn. Though, if that’s the case, parsimony would suggest that you weren’t there for that meeting, either. And of course, the fact that you’re here on Barsk, which is the opposite direction from both Marbalarma and Caluma, well that just provides further proof, however circumstantial.”
“I must say, this is the most interesting proposition anyone has brought before me in some time. But without regard to the veracity of it, is there a point? Surely you didn’t endure the rigors needed to get a meeting with me just to cancel it and travel to Barsk to tell me I wasn’t actually going to meet with you.”
“No, sir. All of this was just to get your attention. I’ve no doubt that you hear endless proposals, many of merit, but I wanted my pitch to stand out and capture your imagination.”
Jorl frowned. “I see. Well, you’ve achieved your goal. You’re here now, whether I like it or not. You have my undivided attention. What exactly is it you want from me?”
Abenaki nodded. Her hands danced, fingers flying almost faster than the eye could track. She took a deep breath and her entire body froze with a preternatural stillness. She let out her breath and just sat a moment, gazing at her cup. When she set it down, her movements were slow and deliberate, much as she’d shown on Druz’s vids. No trace remained of the nervous energy that had defined her since he’d stepped into the room.
“Senator Jorl, with respect, sir, I represent a consortium of Raccoons who want to emigrate to another planet, one where no Raccoon has ever been.”
Jorl’s ears fanned in surprise. With rare exception, and excluding the inhabitants of Barsk, Alliance citizens, whether individually or in groups, were free to relocate to whatever world they wished. “Emigration is hardly within the purview of the Committee of Information. I don’t see how I’m apt to be of much help.”
“On the contrary, you’re the only one who could help. You’re the only Fant with
any governmental involvement.”
“And what does my race have to do with your desire to move to a new world?”
“Everything, Senator. The world we want to move to is Barsk.”
After seven years of listening to lobbyists and representatives of every special interest group in the Alliance, Jorl had come to believe that nothing he heard in any of his offices could surprise him. The Procy had just proven him wrong. If this is what she’d told Druz, no wonder the Brady had brought her to him. But … revolutionary though the idea was, it was also pointless. He stared at her in silence for a moment as he recovered his wits and said, “Barsk is a closed world.”
“That’s exactly why we want to relocate there.”
Jorl waggled the tip of his trunk from side to side. “I don’t follow.”
“Senator, are you familiar with the Quality of Life Commission?”
The Fant nodded. The QLC had existed for hundreds of years, gathering long-range survey data across the thousands of planets of the Alliance. His predecessors on the Committee of Information had routinely authorized the minimal request for funding it submitted annually. “Is your consortium connected with that commission?”
“Not directly, no. Their work is purely descriptive, whereas my people have taken their data and performed extensive meta-analyses with respect to global satisfaction and social hypothesis testing.”
Jorl blinked. He understood all of the Raccoon’s words individually and in small groupings, but the entire phrase rang like something a graduate student might try to pass off as insight in the absence of substance during a dissertation defense. “Meaning?”
“Let me back up,” said the Procy. “Throughout the Alliance, approximately eighty percent of planets are what we call “mixed worlds,” containing cities in which ten or more different sapient races coexist. Of the remaining twenty percent, more than half are moving in that direction and have one or more cities with at least five merged populations. That leaves less than thirty planets with four or fewer distinct sapient races upon them, all of them worlds that have been settled sometime in the past millennium. Only five of these consist of a single people, and of these only Barsk has been inhabited for more than three hundred years.”
The Moons of Barsk Page 17