In Retrospect

by Ellen Larson

  At the top of that stair they entered an octagonal landing with open arches in each wall. They looked over the green tile rooftop to the courtyard below, with its empty benches and silent fountain.

  The Steward stopped as a sentry clothed in russet barred the way to the next staircase.

  “Papers,” snapped the sentry.

  The Steward’s narrow lips tightened. “We’re not accustomed to armed guards inside the Priory. This is meaningless bureaucracy.”

  “Nothing to be done about it,” said Eric brusquely, reaching into his breast pocket.

  The sentry studied the papers Eric handed him, then waved them through.

  At the top of the next staircase they were challenged by another sentry, whom Eric again dealt with. Satisfied, the sentry opened the door to Omari Zane’s study: a large room shaped like a chunky L, one bay looking east, the other south.

  Thick, dark rugs covered most of the floor. The pale green walls were dotted with maps of Oku, Rasaka, and the postmodern Mediterranean basin. The furniture was massive and well-made, as suited a man known for the size of his body as well as his personality. Black-lacquered cabinets, inlaid with gold tracery after the fashion of Ancient China, and a heavy desk dominated the room. Bookshelves, a wooden settee, and a large globe completed the impression of applied intellectualism and gravitas.

  Donny wandered into the south bay and stood there, hands on hips. He looked first at the bookshelves, then at the silver face of the grandfather clock. “How ’bout in here?”

  Artie’s gentle eyes twinkled. “And to think you once took a class on how to determine the most propitious site for the Vessel.”

  “Now, Artie, I just said ‘how ’bout.’ Just gettin’ us started.”

  “Guess you didn’t notice this big ol’ chandelier,” said Artie, pointing.

  “What, that li’l trinket? That’s nothin’. We’ll just take ’er down.”

  “Good thinking,” said Artie. “And which of us is gonna go back to Friday night and take ’er down then?”

  Donny pooched out his lips and stared upward.

  Celia sidled over to the globe and peered with the one eye she had at the brown, featureless smudge that marked what was left of North America. Eric and the Steward, engaged in conversation, drifted to the fireplace set in the angle of the L.

  Merit’s gaze wandered to the painting above the fireplace. The Signing of the Treaty of Byzantion, featuring Omari Zane. Dressed in full military regalia and wearing a faceted sky-blue shield in the shape of a falcon. Surrounded by Rasakans in military red and black.

  “Celia?” said Eric, gesturing for the girl to join him. Celia crab-walked around the settee, clutching her workbag.

  Merit’s gaze drifted to the desk. Upon it lay an oilskin map, its corners held down by brass candlesticks, and a book with a green cover. Above it was a shelf holding a dozen similarly bound books. She sauntered closer.

  The map was of Ancient Earth, with its smaller seas and distinctively shaped landmasses. A brown stain, as if some thick liquid had recently spilled and dried, spread from South America to Antarctica then flowed onto the surface of the desk and over its front edge. Merit squatted down. The brass handle of the central drawer was cast in the shape of cobra’s head. Its hood and eyes were streaked with drip marks and there was a dark stain on the floorboards below.

  She squatted to look at the stain—and spotted something. Something flat and round sitting on the railing that ran under the back corner of the desk. Stretching her arm as far as she could she was just able to reach it.

  Her fingers closed around a wooden disk, carved on one side. As her fingers traced the carving, the back of her neck tingled, and she experienced a wave of anxiety. Palming the disk without looking at it, she pretended to search the carpet beneath the chair.

  Donny’s voice came from the east bay. “Or, we could put ’er over here.”

  “Won’erful,” said Artie. “Of course, the surround of the fireplace will ram into the corner of the Vessel, but what’s a little cold fusion among close friends?”

  Merit rose, sliding the disk into her hip pocket. Her chest had tightened, squeezing her heart painfully, but she continued her perusal of Zane’s desk.

  She picked up the green-bound book. A journal of some sort. The General she had known was a man of action, aware of historical implications but not the type to theorize, let alone sit and write, night after night. She hadn’t really believed the report that he had spent his evenings writing. But here was the evidence to the contrary. She opened the book.

  And was greeted by page after page of a slanting hand, the hand of a mature man of disciplined habits, a man with a message to convey and no time for compromise or artistic flourish. Each entry was dated, and there was an entry for each day; some contained only a few sentences, most were longer. Words sprang up at her as the pages riffled beneath her fingers: duty, lessons of history, sacrifice, the greater good, fidelity.

  She began to read:

  “For it is only a man’s fidelity to his own educated convictions, acted upon or not according to the necessities of his times, by which he can be judged. What we call history—immutable, impartial, imperious history—is not fully utilized unless we face up to it and learn the lessons it teaches, however hard those lessons might seem when viewed in the tiny speck of illuminated existence we call the present.”

  The words touched her like the embrace of a beloved parent returning after a long absence, with pleasure, warmth, and a sense of security that banished loneliness and doubt. She read on.

  “History teaches that there were once great civilizations on our world. The peoples of Ancient Earth knew no want; their science, their art, their physical prowess—each of these soared to what must be described as the pinnacle of perfection. Yet even they could not find the science or the art or the prowess to live in peace. The Annihilation that ended their civilization was—predictably, inevitably—a thing of perfection.

  “Ninety percent of the habitable Earth, ninety-nine percent of its population, consigned to the charnel heap of indurate history. What conclusion can we draw, then, other than that war is the ultimate human evil and must thus be avoided at all cost—however high that cost may seem to climb?”

  Waves of sadness washed over her, for the majestic civilizations forever lost; for the bloody fall of her own Okuchan state two years before. She had never imagined that Zane could use words like that; could lay out the historical argument with simple academic detachment. So far, his words echoed her own beliefs. So far. She sank into his chair and read cautiously on. Not to learn the story which every schoolchild knew, but for insight into the writer’s upcoming change of heart.

  “In the Post-modern Era, it fell upon the Oku (a gentle, peace-loving folk who rose from the ashes of Ancient East Europe and fled to that land once known as Thrace) to salvage and preserve what could be salvaged and preserved of the best of humanity—indeed of the Earth itself, so scarred and paralyzed as it had become.

  “For centuries the city-state of Okucha persevered in this, its self-imposed and clear duty: promoting a tradition of peace, prosperity, beautification, and wisdom; seeking to help those few scattered less-fortunate populations that had also survived. This we, the Oku, did, until that fine summer day when our Rasakan brethren and their engines of destruction crossed the Straits of Bosporus in anger and despite.

  “Was this unexpected? The horrified Oku Council thought so. The great thinkers of our time thought so. I thought so myself—until that chill winter’s day at Zagor’s Cross when I watched two thousand men, women, and children, friends and family, die a needless death in a single hour. And thus, in retrospect, I say the real question is this: How was it possible for anyone fitted with a sound mind and the merest sliver of an education to overlook the fiery warning signs, when we were schooled from infancy in the reality that even the fabled comforts and learnings of the Ancient Era were not enough to stamp out the human urge for violence?

&nbs
p; “Thus it is that the incident at Abydos, unpleasant though it is to contemplate, was the only way to put an end to the madness.”

  There. There it was. The words on the page shivered and blurred. A sudden coldness on her shoulders and back made her shiver. She raised a hand to her eyes. Unpleasant though it is to contemplate.

  “Should we check the walls for plasma burns?”

  “Huh?” She looked up to find Eric standing over her.

  “To make sure there weren’t more plasma bolts fired.”

  She closed the book and dropped it on the map. “Waste of time.”

  “But—”

  “I said no!” The sight of his black and gray uniform, of his silver shield, made her nauseated. She hunched forward in the chair, staring at the dried blood on the edge of the desk, fighting the sudden dizziness. “The Documentation Team already searched the room and took scans.”

  “The Compendium says we should do a tour of the premises.”

  “Do you see me stopping you?”

  “My orders are for us to stick together.”

  The cobra that lived in the brass drawer handle opened its mouth to reveal its fangs. Blood streamed from its eyes. Merit jerked her gaze away, back to Eric’s blank face.

  Her ears began to ring. She had to make him go!

  “Agent Torre.” She kept her voice low, so that no one could hear her but him. “I know you’re the Saints’ gift to flex theory, but you’re missing the basic principle of forensic retrospection. The Team sets up the Vessel at the scene of the crime, the Retrospector flexes back to watch it happen, then reflexes and files her report. Looking for clues is for dilettantes. Now leave me alone!”

  He spun around and stalked away.

  “Now that’s the first bright idea you’ve had today,” came Artie’s voice.

  Merit’s head jerked toward the sound. Donny stood on a chair in the east bay, a measuring tape in his hands, triumph on his large face. Artie grinned up at him. “I always wanted to use the antigrav.”

  Merit pushed herself from Zane’s chair and walked unsteadily to the far end of the south bay. Standing in the bow of the oriel window, she reached into her jacket pocket for the little pillbox and snuck a small yellow pill into her mouth.

  The window afforded a good view of the southern expanse of the Wood and beyond. Three kilometers to the south lay the remains of the old barrage and water works, and below them, the River, running swiftly through gray scrub land that should have been plowed and planted but was not, nor likely to be any time soon. To the west lay the expanse of rubble that had once been the Conservatory. Not a single building remained intact. And yet she knew it. That twisted wreck of steel had been the gymnasium, that blackened pit of refuse the planetarium, and that massive stump of concrete, still faintly blue in color, had been the old clock tower.

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  Twenty-five years earlier

  Merit swiveled her eyes as far to the left as she could, taking exquisite care not to move her head. But still she could not quite see the clock tower through the open window. She inched her chin sideways.

  “Merit,” said a gentle voice. “This is meditation time.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  She turned face front and closed her eyes. I am never alone. I am one with the physical universe; I am one with the light. The universe and the light interweave with one other and with me. Or at least they will when I’m attuned—if I ever am attuned, which I hope I am. Boys can’t be attuned unless you practically kill them, because their metabolism is wrong and their cells would explode like a bug when you squish it. Only girls, the littlest girls with just the right specific absorption rate can be Prospectives. I am a prospective selective. Retrospect, respect, suspect, expect, inspect, prospect, insect, introspect. She hummed happily to herself, swaying on her mat.

  “Merit. You’re disturbing the other girls. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Merit rolled up her mat, glancing around contritely. She hadn’t meant to disturb the others.

  The pale girl on the far side of the room was watching her. Merit hadn’t spoken to her in the month she’d been at the Prospectives School, but she knew who she was: Lena Salim. She was two years older, and famous for her devotion to study and willingness to help new girls who had trouble keeping up. She had broken all the records for scholastic achievement, and everyone said she was the top prospect of her year. Merit met her gaze. Lena’s blue eyes overflowed with sympathy, concern, and something else. Pity. Merit didn’t like it.

  The Prioress smoothed the folds of her white robes as she sat. “I heard you had trouble meditating again today, Merit. Is that right?”

  Merit, having expected a lecture on the selfishness of her bad behavior, was instinctively reassured by the Prioress’s sympathetic words. She looked fearlessly at the white, double-heart shield, with its lotus crest. “Yep.”

  “Why is that?” The Prioress’s tone was more curious than critical. That was reassuring, too.

  Merit raised her shoulders around her ears. “I’m okay for about twenty minutes. Just can’t seem to keep at it.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can find out why that is. Could it be that you’re missing your parents?”

  Merit thought about that. “I miss my dad, ’specially after supper, when we would read together. But he writes long letters every week, and I’ll see him at Yule. Nope, I don’t think that’s it.”

  “All right. Well, there are a few other things it might be. The drugs for the attunement make some girls feel funny, or a little sick.”

  “They do?” asked Merit uneasily. “What happens then?”

  “We do our best to treat the side effects and make them go away.”

  “What if they don’t go away?”

  “Then the Prospective can’t be attuned.”

  Merit knew what that meant. “And if the attunement doesn’t take, a girl can’t be selected.”

  “That’s right.”

  Merit shivered. She was hazy on the details of being a Retrospector, but she knew it was a great honor and people would admire her a lot. Her dad would be so proud, and her maman would be able to buy all the nice things she wanted.

  “Are you feeling sick?” asked the Prioress.

  “Not a bit,” Merit said cheerfully. She was glad she didn’t have side effects.

  “Do you feel restless sometimes, for no particular reason, or unhappy?”

  Merit pondered that. “Nooo, not unhappy. I just get kinda restless when I’m sitting still with nothing to do.”

  “I see.” The Prioress was silent for a moment. “Do you like meditating?”

  Merit wrinkled her lower lip. She didn’t want to say it, but she knew she had to be honest with the Prioress. It was her duty as a Prospective, and she had vowed to do her duty and uphold the principles of the School. “Not so much.”

  “What are the types of things you do like to do?”

  That was unexpected. And easy. Merit liked to do so many things. “Swimming in the River is great fun. Playing kick ball. Working in the garden. Building a campfire and having a cookout is good too. And playacting on a stage, of course. I want to be an actor—at least I did before I wanted to be a Retrospector.”

  The white shield nodded approvingly. “I like your ideas of fun. I think you’re the type of girl who likes to be active. I’m like that, too.”

  Merit was happy. She was like the Prioress.

  “I have an idea.” The Prioress stood and held out her hand. “Come with me.”

  Merit had never been to the Priory. The high ceilings and the fancy furniture made her feel even smaller than usual—and she was very tiny for her nine and a half years. But she was curious, too. She followed the Prioress through the courtyard to a shady workroom that overlooked a little garden. Inside there were wooden tables and benches and many, many shelves. So many shelves! Full of big rocks and coiled copper wire and dozens and dozens of wooden boxe
s that held she did not know what. That was not what she had expected at all.

  The Prioress pulled a box from a shelf and put it on a table. Inside was an assortment of chisels which Merit instantly recognized as cutting tools. The Prioress brought down two more boxes. One contained small chunks of wood—beautiful wood, all different colors, some engrained with swirling patterns. The other box contained a mouthwatering assortment of painted beads and faceted glass gems of every color.

  Enchanted, Merit reached her hand toward the beads, then, remembering her manners, pulled it back.

  “Do you think learning how to make things with your own two hands would be fun?” asked the Prioress.

  She could hardly believe her ears. She nodded eagerly, lest the Prioress change her mind. “Yep. I think it would be great fun.”

  “If you’re willing to mind me, you can come here to the Priory and be my apprentice while the other girls are at meditation. We’ll start with wood, and as you progress, you can move to metal. Would you like that?”

  “I’d like that a lot!” Merit’s eyes flicked from the Prioress’s shield to the box of treasures and back. “But should I be playing when the other girls are meditating?”

  “This isn’t playing, Merit. This is learning to focus in a different way. If you are diligent, you will learn as much about your inner self as you would from meditation.”

  “But if I wanna be selected I have to be able to meditate so I don’t get syncope in the Continuum.” She wasn’t too sure what syncope was, but she knew it was bad.

  “That’s years away,” said the Prioress. “And long before then you’ll have another go at meditating, and you will be surprised to discover how easy it is, and that you like it. A Retrospector must not only be strong and wise, but trusting too.”