The Moons of Barsk

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  Kneeling on a pier in a heavy downpour she held a malformed infant in her arms, knew it for an abomination, and trembled with an ache greater than any she had ever known that it had died and she had been powerless to save it. She stood in front of Dabni, a Caudex field agent who nonetheless spoke to her, and held the index and understood all that it contained. She stared out the observation port in the Alliance’s space station in orbit above Barsk, saw the rising of Telko and felt several lifetimes of knowledge and wisdom pour from it into her every cell. She felt rejection and hate and loathing but never pain. And from a handful, a meager few, she felt love and understanding and acceptance.

  * * *

  KLARCE came back to herself. She was on the floor behind her desk. Pizlo stood over her, concern on his face, weak eyes strained with worry. She ached, and while she’d felt that soreness before it felt new and fresh and oddly exciting. Her hands trembled, spasmed, and a part of her wondered if Temmel might be near with her meds and, too, if she was beyond their ability to help. She opened her mouth to speak and paused, tasting the scent of urine on the air, feeling the wetness of her clothes. She’d pissed herself, but it didn’t matter. She tried to sit up and discovered the left half of her body had stopped working. Had she had a stroke? It didn’t matter. None of it did, she knew that now. She raised her trunk up to reach out to the young man before her, wronged by her and by so many others. A gentle and gifted spirit vilified by folklore and ignorance.

  “I’m sorry, Pizlo. I … I didn’t know. I couldn’t … but no, no excuses.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, and his easy forgiveness burned her more than any epithet he might have righteously thrown at her.

  “It’s not, but it will be. I cannot change the past, but I will write you a new future.”

  “No, really. It’s fine. Are you okay? You were having some kind of seizure. I’ve never given my echo to a stranger before. I didn’t know it would do that to you. I’m really sorry. I just wanted you to understand me so you would maybe understand Jorl better and realize you’re on the same side. So you could choose for yourself.”

  She pulled herself upright using her trunk and her right arm, ignoring her sodden clothes. “Yes, I suppose I see that, but Jorl doesn’t matter. I have to fix the wrong I’ve done to you—”

  “No, really, I’m fine. Don’t—”

  “—that we’ve all done to you.”

  Klarce slipped back into the mindspace of her office, and sent a call out to a former classmate who now held responsibility for the teams of Speakers distributing the Death meme throughout Barsk.

  “I have a meme for you. In a moment, I will pass it to you, and after I have, I need you to pass it on. Share it with each of your assistants to pass on to each member of their squads. Spread it to everyone, every man, woman, and child on Barsk. Do it now. Nothing is more important.”

  She passed along the meme Pizlo had given her that he called his echo, and let her connection slip. Back in the real world she slumped back beyond exhaustion.

  “What did you do?”

  She rubbed at her eyes with the nubs of her trunk. Was he upset? No, no, she had to reassure him.

  “I love you, Pizlo. I’m sorry about before. But I’ve fixed it. I’ve set it in motion. Your echo is going out to everyone. Before the day is done, everyone will know you as the person you are, not an abomination. I’ve set you free.”

  She slumped backwards. Her vision blurred and unconsciousness beckoned. Why did Pizlo still look unhappy, horrified even.

  “Free,” he said. “At the expense of everyone’s choice.”

  That made no sense. He’d understand. She’d explain it, later, after she’d slept and recovered. Was someone pounding on her door?

  THIRTY-THREE

  HEALING RINA

  RINA opened her eyes and knew she must be dreaming. Why else were so many people there in her bedroom? She turned her head and there was Kokab right where he belonged, perched on her pillow above and to the right. So, that was fine, but why all these other people? Mama was there, talking to Papa in the corner of her bedroom room and they both looked so worried. Except, Papa was also standing, closer to her arguing with a short furry person, a Prairie Dog? And he was also over by the door angrily waving his trunk at … a Badger? That didn’t make sense. She’d learned about the Compact in gymnasium; other races couldn’t come to Barsk. Wasn’t that why she’d had to go onto Papa’s ship to meet the Sloth and Raccoon?

  She smiled a bit as she remembered meeting Druz and Abenaki. So wonderful. But … back to her room, why was there three of Papa? Oh, right. Because she was dreaming. That was it.

  Closest to her, the Cynomy glanced her way then looked back at her father. He looked old and kind of sad. Or, maybe not. Did Prairie Dogs look sad the way Fant did? She thought so, she’d studied, about how people were people and all showed sad and happy and scared and other things the same way. So, yeah, he looked sad.

  “This is ludicrous, Jorl. I haven’t practiced medicine since I joined the senate thirty years ago.”

  “I didn’t bring you here to have you practice. Your speciality on the Committee of Information is medicine and related life sciences, Welv. You know every development, every experimental technique, every disease that’s been written up in an article or a grant proposal. What’s happening to her?”

  “Look, I understand. You’re hurting. You feel helpless. And she’s getting worse. But it’s not as though I can perform an examination. As you explained it, all I’m seeing is your unconscious mind’s description of how she appears to you. I can’t properly take her pulse, let alone draw blood or perform any kind of scan.”

  “But you think you know what’s happening?”

  “Yes, precisely because as you say I’ve seen all the articles. The imminent physicality cascade, that very phrase, appeared in a paper about a virus called Martinase-VI, written by Burkl there.” He gestured toward the Badger. “While you were finding her, I instructed your wife to soak your daughter in cold water and administer a gastric lavage using warm saline. The differential between the submersion and the irrigation should slow the progress of onset, if it is this virus. But it doesn’t make sense. There’s no way your daughter could have contracted it.”

  The version of Papa arguing with the Badger looked back at the one talking to the Prairie Dog and both said the same thing at the same time.

  “That’s what he says, but that’s not important. Go with the idea that she could be infected.”

  “And I’m telling you that’s impossible,” said the Badger, her head turning to look by turns at each of Jorl. “My seven times great-grandmother engineered the virus for the ill-conceived Taxi rebellion on the Martin colony. She crafted a designer disease profoundly narrow in scope. It wasn’t just limited to the Taxi race, it targeted a specific family line with very little genetic generalizability. There is no possibility a Lox could have any of the necessary genetic markers. Do you understand? Not a one of them.”

  “Genetic markers don’t matter,” said Dabni. She looked up from Jorl and Rina saw her mother was crying. “There’s a technique that takes the idea of the disease, the memory of it within the body. That memory can be duplicated and passed to anyone. The actual virus isn’t needed, the memory is enough to teach the new victim what the virus would do, and the body responds.”

  “Even if such a thing was possible—and I don’t believe it is—the last sample of Martinase-VI was destroyed a century and more ago.”

  Papa grabbed the Badger’s chin with his trunk. “Were any of the targeted family members Speakers?”

  “Maybe … ye—yes, now that I think of it. There was one. How did you know?”

  He turned to Dabni. “If a Taxi Speaker had the disease, the Caudex could have retrieved the memory of it, secure in the knowledge no one would ever learn of it because no other Speaker would ever summon them.”

  She nodded. “That makes sense.”

  Jorl whirled back to the Badger. “S
o what’s the cure?”

  “What? There’s no cure, because no one’s contracted the disease in ages, and back then those who did didn’t know they had it in time to do anything about it.”

  “But you said samples used to be kept.”

  “Well, yes, for study—”

  “And, as part of that study, did someone develop a cure?”

  “No, not per se. But a treatment. But it only worked if the disease was caught in its earliest stages.”

  Papa seemed to smile. “Which is where we are. So what is it?”

  “Not something you’re going to have on Barsk. It involves administering a complicated series of retroviruses in a precise order to convince the afflicted organs that they need to stop tearing themselves apart. The only place set up for that is on Haven.”

  “Your ship!” cried Mama. “You could take her there in your ship.”

  “My ship is on Ulmazh,” said Papa. “And even if it were here, there’re no direct routes between Barsk and Haven. The trip would take several seasons.”

  The Badger shook her head. “I don’t know how long the seasons run where you are, but Martinase-VI runs its course in less than five days.”

  The room fell silent. The three of Papa all looked so sad. Mama was crying again. Even the Prairie Dog and the Badger looked unhappy. This was a bad, bad dream.

  Rina coughed and her parents turned to her.

  “Kokab says…,” she trailed off. It hurt to talk. And now that she realized that, it seemed like everything hurt and it occurred to her that despite the bits that made no sense, maybe this wasn’t a dream at all. Except, she was so tired. It would be so easy to shut her eyes and then maybe she’d have real dreams. Better dreams. But her doll was being so bossy and insistent. That didn’t seem fair, but sometimes he got that way and there was nothing for it but to give in or he’d go on and on and on. So she tried again.

  “Kokab says, tell Pizlo to hurry.”

  “Who’s Pizlo?” said the Prairie Dog.

  Kokab stopped nagging her. Rina smiled as she imagined Pizlo getting to meet someone new. He’d love that. It was a nice thought to hold on to as she let her eyes close and drifted off to sleep.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  DEPARTURES AND RETREATS

  PIZLO raced through Ulmazh’s inverted city, bounding along the boardways of the underground Civilized Wood that were achingly familiar but completely new, as if they conspired to mislead his every step. He bowled over frightened Fant who could not remove themselves from his path fast enough. Their reaction to him had changed. Instead of fleeing at the first unconscious recognition of an abomination, each sensorium processed additional bits and pieces, recognized the feel of him from the fresh distribution of his nefshon echo. He saw it in their faces as he rushed past. Their fear and disgust had vanished. Instead their eyes welled up with adoration. They loved him and more, wanted him to know they did. With no hesitation they followed and flowed after him. The chorus of their voices called his name, praising him, apologizing for their blind, senseless disregard, begging forgiveness, urging him to see each of them as individuals, as they now saw him.

  Pizlo ran faster.

  Somewhere far ahead lay an elevator to an airlock to the shielded opening he’d used to enter this place. Everything around him murmured directions to him, precognitive whispers of the fastest way to return to Druz and Jorl’s yacht. Trusting to the voices that had guided him all his life, he barreled toward a dead end, a blank wall of living green. He left the growing mob that trailed his heels and dove into the tight foliage that every resident of this city knew to be an impenetrable surface. Leaves and branches tore at him, slowed him slightly, broke before his insistence and gave way. Several Fant tried to follow him even here, cried out as their larger, adult bodies met more resistance, as wood lacerated their skin and blood flowed. One shouted after him, “Pizlo, we feel the pain you’re denied!” And further behind that, a murmur of voices crying plaintively, “We love you!”

  A route through the uncivilized portions of Ulmazh’s much younger forest called to him and he left his followers behind.

  He scrambled and climbed, desperation fueling his speed. Rina was hurt. Rina was dying. It was his fault, his doing, and he’d foreseen none of it. In hindsight though, the obviousness of it threatened to paralyze him. If he hadn’t come here, hadn’t confronted Klarce, hadn’t been an abomination, his best friend would be fine. This was what all the moons had been warning him of, not danger to Jorl’s person but to his daughter. This now was his damn hero’s journey. Not the ink for tattoos, not traveling inside a moon, not meeting and transforming Klarce, not saving Jorl. This. The struggle to save the innocent girl his blindness had put in danger.

  Already nauseated from ingesting so much koph in one day, Pizlo nonetheless pulled a last wafer from his bandolier as he headed ever outward to the airlock. At the first hint of his own nefshons he shunted that awareness aside and reached for familiar particles that he’d never summoned before. Calling to them brought him a living thread from Druz above him in the ship on the moon’s surface. He pulled the sight and scent and feel of her surroundings from her recent memories and spun them into the mindspace. He didn’t know if Jorl had ever spoken to her like this and needed to keep her distraction to a minimum.

  “Druz! Druz! Prepare for launch. Hurry!”

  “Little Prince? I didn’t see you come onboard. How did you evade the sensors in the lock?”

  “I didn’t. I’m not there yet. But soon. Don’t worry about it, I’ll explain. But this is an emergency. We need to leave the very instant I’m onboard. You understand?”

  “I don’t, but I can comply. I trust your explanation will be detailed.”

  “Yes, when I’m there. For now, do what you need to do so we can get downworld as fast as possible. Get us as close to Keslo as you can. Do you have maps of the island?”

  “Of course.”

  “Right, right. You’re going to need to land closer to shore than you usually do. Right in the harbor. Find an open portion of a pier and snug up against it. Oh, and open the airlock for me.”

  “That’s not prudent.”

  “Maybe not, but it will save time. None of the people following me can get there before I do.”

  “Following you? Why are people following? Are you in danger?”

  “Druz, please, focus. Do what I ask. I promise I’ll sort it all when I’m there and we’re underway.”

  Pizlo severed the contact and focused on finding the path the moon was sharing. The infrastructure of its Civilized Wood had never been explored by Ulmazh’s residents. The meta-trees here had grown strangely in the artificial and upside-down gravity, thicker but not denser. Wood shattered as he forced a path forward and in retaliation his flesh tore. It didn’t hurt, but even so he’d slowed, which meant, pain or not, he’d done himself some real damage. His left arm had stopped working. Glancing down he saw a red gash in the skin and a jagged bit of living bone poking through. It didn’t matter. Druz could probably fix that once he got to the ship. And he had to, so he could locate Jorl and then get Rina to the ship. He reached again for nefshons, Jorl’s threads, and gasped as he connected not with just one but a trio of him. They spoke as one, their resonance murmured to him, each piece little more than a whisper.

  “Not now, Pizlo—”

  “I know, Rina’s in danger. I’m coming to help.”

  “You can’t—”

  “No, you can’t. Not by yourself, not completely. You need to trust me on this. All the moons are in agreement. You can’t save her without me.”

  Unspoken emotions from past discussions and arguments rippled through his connection, triggered associations that would never have slipped through, revealing the strain on Jorl. “Precognition is probabilistic. You can’t fully know the future.”

  “You say that because you’re on the outside looking in. You’re partly right and you’re partly not. We can have this debate some other time. But if you want to talk pr
obabilities, then I’m telling you the odds of you saving Rina on your own—regardless of how many of you are involved—are just short of infinite.”

  “I won’t give up!”

  “Don’t!” Pizlo shouted through the link and rushed along an open branch ever nearer the edge of metal and artificial soil that existed here in lieu of a Shadow Dwell. “Keep doing what you’re doing until we get there.”

  “We?”

  “Druz and me. We’re bringing your ship back.”

  “That won’t help. Nothing on Barsk can and the ship can’t get her to Haven in time.”

  “It can,” said Pizlo. “It will. The ship’s infirmary has a stasis bed. It will keep Rina stable, but only if you keep the cascade from progressing too far. Keep fighting, we’re coming.”

  He felt a pause and then a change. Amidst the strain and fear and rawness, a piece of Jorl’s mind reorganized and fell into place. In that moment, in a context of gratitude and weariness, his mentor stopped seeing him as a child.

  “Pizlo … hurry!”

  He ended the connection as he ran/fell down the massive bole of a meta-tree, its surface roots angling toward the horizontal. A moment later he was running over dense packed earth towards a metal rim and the scaffolding beyond. He vaulted the edge and landed without pause upon a gantry, knowing the route through the hexagonal pattern of giant pots to the maintenance gate. He climbed a loop and up became down as the artificial gravity fell away and the moon pulled him in its own direction. He stumbled, his injured arm flailing uselessly and ran on. Ahead, he saw the same bored sentry who had let him pass as if being an abomination carried the same weight as Jorl’s aleph. The guard stood at his duty station. This time his face broke out in an expression of awe and delight. He rushed to meet him halfway, babbling the while.