In Retrospect

by Ellen Larson

  “Merit, I know you. You—”

  “No.” She held up a hand, stopping him. Her voice lowered. “You don’t know me. If you actually knew me, you’d know that if I’d met you alone wearing that uniform up till a year ago, you never would have seen another dawn. These days I have no choice. I have to suck it up and breathe the same air as you Ratskies. But I’m warning you.” Her voice grew louder. “Don’t presume to know me; don’t think I can bear the sight of you.”

  She took the shield from his hand and shoved it against his chest. “You’re out of uniform.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Merit whirled, her heart in her mouth.

  The Steward stood in the open doorway. He turned his black half-shield with its many eyes to Eric. “Agent. The Prioress informs me that you now have no further interest in seeing her today. She also informs me that you will accept her proposal that the interview be postponed until tomorrow.”

  Eric stared a moment, then covered his stricken face with his shield. “Fine. Tomorrow is fine. At noon.” He walked past Merit without looking at her.

  “Hey!” She ran to the door and called after him. “I thought you had orders for us to stick together!”

  He flicked one hand at her without turning and disappeared.

  The clack of Eric’s footsteps reverberated down the stairs. And as the echoes died, her invigorating anger died too, leaving her empty and exhausted. She groped for a chair.

  The Steward cleared his throat. “I fear my arrival has further upset Agent Torre.”

  “Who cares what a Rasakan feels?” she muttered. The memory of Eric’s stricken face rose in her mind. She put her head in her hands.

  The Steward removed his triangular shield, revealing a bony nose and a pair of tired amber eyes. “Not even another Rasakan.”

  She looked up at him. “Hardly what I expected to hear in the house that reinvented the term unconditional unilateral surrender.”

  “Then your expectation was based upon a false premise.” He sat on a stool and ran a hand across his head, smoothing his dark hair where the band of the shield had lain. “Just because we pacifists believe it is the height of self-destruction to fight the Rasakans it does not follow that we have any deep love for them. We cooperate, but only as one might cooperate in a business arrangement. Personal opinion should be kept out of public life.”

  “Why didn’t I use that argument at my trial! It’s so simple!”

  “Not simple, no.” His lips curled in a bitter smile. “But synchronic pain should not stand in the way of doing what is diachronically right.”

  It took her a moment to find the meaning behind his words. “Well put.”

  “I thought I would cast the argument in a context that you—a former Retrospector—could relate to.”

  The Steward’s razor-sharp rhetoric was a confusing but welcome diversion. Hooking an arm over the back of the chair, she studied his angular face. Though dull from lack of sleep, his eyes were devoid of pain or grief. She had always and without question admired people of great intellect. And just as instinctively, she had mistrusted people who never showed or desired emotion.

  She adopted a conversational tone: “Is that why you told the Documentation Team you couldn’t think of anyone who would want to harm Omari Zane? For the long-term good of Okucha?”

  He answered without reservation—and without her superficial amiability. “I understood the Documentation Team to be speaking of the recent past. For the past year, we have led a very quiet life, with few visitors and no disagreeableness.”

  “And before that?”

  “I believe you know.”

  “Let’s pretend I don’t.”

  “As you wish,” he said, with easy patience. “Just under a year ago someone broke into the Priory and attempted to poison the General.”

  “Seriously?” Merit did not bother to hide her surprise. “That’s fascinating—speaking strictly as a criminologist, I hasten to add.”

  “If you feel you must. But it isn’t necessary for you to hide your personal opinions in this case. I know of your history with both the militia and the Resistance.”

  “Yeah, you’re an ex-historian, right?”

  “In fact I was a professor of history at the Varna Lyceum.”

  “So how did you end up as a glorified butler?”

  “The lyceum was destroyed in the first days of the war. My wife and children were killed. Like many others, I felt that joining the militia was the right thing to do. I am no soldier, but I have a head for detail. The General took me on as his personal secretary. I began by writing communiqués and keeping a record of his thoughts and campaigns. Eventually I believe he grew to value my professional opinion. He was fascinated by history and used my knowledge as a resource.”

  “So you were one of his closest advisors?”

  “I’d say so, yes. If one is attempting to change the course of history, as the General was, it is important to first understand it.”

  Merit cupped her chin in her hand. “You think it’s possible to change history?”

  “I think it is essential to try. Unfortunately only a very few individuals ever find themselves in the right position to do so, equipped with the means and the opportunity. And most of them are not up to the task.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s easy to make a popular change that looks good in the short run, even if it is obviously disastrous in the long run. But it takes unusual courage and conviction to make an unpopular change that will have long-lasting benefits.”

  “Ah. You’re talking about changing future history.”

  His eyebrows flicked. “Of course.”

  Merit picked up the toy soldier from Lena’s desk and stood it upright. It wobbled, so she pressed a finger on its base to steady it. “Don’t you ever wish you could change the past?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “You’re sure? Nothing at all?”

  He crossed his legs and sat the black shield upon his knee. “What are you driving at, Select?”

  “I think you know.”

  He eyed her coolly. “Let’s pretend I don’t.”

  “All right.” She peered into the toy soldier’s painted face. “Say you watch a war unfold from the vantage point of someone close to a powerful military man, say a general. Say you’re his secretary, for example. Receiving reports of casualties, struggling to keep the flow of supplies running, debating strategy. You’re a smart old mandarin, so you know that what you do and say may affect the lives of tens of thousands.” She glanced up. “I’m just wondering what you do the day you wake up and realize that the person you work for, the person you trusted with your life, has just turned traitor and chosen the path to hell? I mean, don’t you wish that you could go back to oh, say, Abydos, and prevent him from taking that path?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” He stood. “I haven’t had that experience.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “My answer stands, Select. I wish to change nothing.” He stepped away, then abruptly turned to face her. “And I must say, you have a hell of a nerve asking such questions, given that the General was savagely murdered in this house not twenty-four hours ago.”

  “I don’t give a hoot that he’s dead,” she said.

  “Select, you’re a misguided fool. Your despite—like that of all the Resistance—is wholly misplaced, and has been the cause of more misery than ever was seen at Abydos. In fact, what’s left of the world would be a better place if you had been so good as to die when you should have.”

  Merit cocked an eyebrow. “You won’t get an argument from me. Though I have to point out for the record that you also have a hell of a nerve to say so.”

  “As long as it’s done respectfully, I don’t mind upsetting an attempted poisoner any more than I do a Rasakan.”

  “Poisoner?” She laughed aloud. “You think it was me? That’s a very amusing thing for you to suggest.”

  “I’m delighted that we two villains of
society have been able to entertain one another,” said the Steward. “It helps us forget how far we’ve fallen, doesn’t it. For a little while.” He regarded her a moment, then settled his shield back over his eyes. “Unfortunately I must now return to my duties. May I escort you back to the General’s study?”

  “Afraid if you leave me here alone I’ll sneak upstairs and try to murder the Prioress too?”

  “No,” he said. “I admit I urged the Prioress to prevent you from entering her home, or at least to make sure you were watched every moment you were here. But she said you could not harm her if you tried. So you see, my offer of escort was merely another display of respect—a little nostalgia for simpler days, when we both thought we knew who our friends were. My mistake.” He bowed—the slightest of chilly nods to ceremony—and left.

  Alone, Merit slumped in her chair. Her mocking expression melted into sadness as she stared at the toy soldier in her hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Two years earlier

  The cellar on the outskirts of Abydos was cold, but well-built and well-hidden. That was important, given the devastating losses they had sustained at Zagor’s Cross. With barely enough troops left to continue the fight, the captains were loath to risk losing any more.

  A kerosene lantern flickered in the middle of a table. Four men and four women, the most experienced of the remaining militia captains, huddled around it, talking in subdued voices. A gnarled old man with a scarf wrapped around his head measured tea from a paper sack into cups. A tiny coal fire burned under an ancient kettle. There was no other light.

  Merit lay curled in the belly of a long-disused furnace, a wool blanket wrapped around her diminutive frame. Through the little doorway she watched the faces of the captains, so stern, so absorbed, yet so quick to joke and to praise. It was easy to follow their orders—to risk her life—for such as they.

  The sound of vehicles approaching brought the cellar to life. Dark figures appeared as if out of the walls, crowding around the entrance. The table was cleared, more chairs brought forward. Merit left her nest and seated herself atop the furnace where she would be able to see the goings-on.

  “He’s here,” they whispered. “Get back. Make way.”

  The crowd stepped back, making a corridor from the door to the table. A hush fell. Then a bright light flashed, and a tall man with a broad chest strode into the room. Others followed, but no one paid them any attention. All eyes were on Omari Zane.

  He shook hands with the captains. His face flashed in and out of the light: large, handsome features, confident, the expression of one accustomed to taking the lead. He introduced his lieutenants, then gestured for the captains to sit.

  The lower-ranking officers remained on their feet, ringing the table, listening as the leaders talked. Laughter erupted at some joke or other. The tea man squeezed in and out of the circle, delivering his concoctions.

  Merit watched their faces as they talked about how to best recover from the disaster at Zagor’s Cross; about how they must change their strategy to one of guerilla warfare. She didn’t need to hear the words—didn’t want to hear them. The less she knew the better, as long as she knew one thing: that they would fight together and never stop fighting till they won. But she never tired of seeing the belief in their eyes and their generous concern for one another. She wrapped the blanket closer around her shoulders. It had been a cold winter, and she had suffered a little. But she could endure anything, as long as she was with them.

  After an hour, the meeting ended. The captains stood, and the soft buzz of voices filled the cellar. But Zane wasn’t quite ready to go. He went around the room, flanked by his lieutenants, shaking the hand of everyone there, exchanging with each a word and a nod of encouragement.

  Her captain waved a hand at her. “Come down from your perch, little Sparrow.”

  Sparrow. That’s what they called her; even her captain didn’t know her real name. It would only bring them under threat if it got out who she was.

  Merit shed her blanket and dropped to the floor. Omari Zane held out his hand, and she gave him hers. He squeezed her fingers and looked into her eyes.

  “Sparrow led the way on the armory raid last month,” said her captain. “Crept in right under their noses and cracked the doors so the troops could follow.”

  Merit was filled with pride by his praise. Her ability to reason critically and to stay calm no matter what, both learned at the Conservatory, had served her well with the militia. That and her newfound skills at picking locks.

  Zane smiled, still holding her hand. “Sometimes the smallest among us make the biggest difference.”

  “She’s better than small,” said the captain. “She’s smart, and she’d give her life for anyone in this room.”

  “And that’s why we’ll win,” said Zane. He patted her hand. “You have to be willing to die to change history.”

  His words touched a place in her heart that had remained cold since she had last seen her father. Merit’s chest swelled with pride.

  After he had gone, the company talked it over in soft whispers. His bearing and presence were like no one else’s. Why, he was half a head taller than the tallest among them! And when he spoke to a gathering it was with great authority, yet when he spoke to you it was as a friend. He was a great man, indeed.

  Merit loved this kind of talk. It made the deprivation and the danger seem like nothing. Though she said the least, she was the last to give up and turn in, crawling back into the furnace with her blanket in the stillness of the night.

  The blast was so loud it seemed to come from inside her head. She awoke into a hell-world of noise, blackness, and concussion. Her mouth and nose were filled with sand and dust, her body buffeted by the cascading explosions. She clawed for the blanket and pulled it over her face, then waited for death to come. The rumbling and tearing went on for what seemed like an hour, then faded away, leaving a silence that was worse.

  Later, when the searchers shouted, she was the only one to answer. It took many hours to clear a path to the furnace and pull her out into the cold afternoon sun. She lay shivering beside a row of torn and broken bodies—the eight captains, the tea man, all her comrades, all dead. In a dream, she listened to the whispers of her rescuers: When he’d heard about the bombing, Zane had turned tail and run, headed for his camp at Byzantion. The cellar, the secret meeting—it had all been a setup to get the captains together so that the Rasakans could take them out. It was true. A mechanic on Zane’s staff had seen a pair of Rasakans sneaking out of the General’s tent under cover of darkness a couple of days before and had told what he’d seen. Zane. He’d sold them out. Zane was a murderer. A traitor.

  When the sun set, they took her to a safe house in the hills, and when she started to cry, a woman she did not know and never saw again held her and comforted her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  Saturday, 15 April 3324, 5:22 p.m.

  Late in the afternoon, Merit returned to Zane’s study, where she found the Site Team packing up to go. Tired and hungry but remarkably full of energy, they filled her in on their progress as they left the study and headed down the stairs.

  Donny and Artie had finished the site prep; the anchors had been set and were ready to receive the Vessel the next day. Celia, having completed her staff interviews, had, with Eric’s help, got the comm up and successfully communicated with Sarah in the VCC. Molt, also at theVCC, had input the temporal coordinates into the Artifice and was waiting for Eric to arrive so they could tie the spatial tether. It had been agreed that they would work on their separate tasks through the evening as long as it took and meet back in the Caseroom at eight in the morning.

  They walked in single file along the darkened hall, then straggled through the gardens to the auto. Merit, a short distance behind, was startled to hear a familiar voice.

  “Hey, Reb!”

  Squinting in the bright rays of the near-level sunlight, she turned t
o see a tall, well-built man walking toward her. He had a sentry’s badge on the shoulder of his sage uniform, and a gleam in his eye not caused by the setting sun.

  “Thad!” She put her hands on her hips. “What’cha doing here?”

  “Workin’.” He sauntered up to her, his body language speaking volumes. “I bagged Priory duty this month.”

  Her smile became a grin. “You’re kidding.”

  “One of life’s little, whadja call ’em—ironies.” He licked his bottom lip as he regarded her. “See you later, Reb, right?”

  “As long as later doesn’t mean late.” She hooked a finger in his belt, pulling him closer.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll hustle.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  He sucked in air through his teeth. “Oh, yeah.” He rocked against her for a moment. “Oh, yeah.” Detaching himself, he worked his eyebrows again, then jaunted away.

  Merit shaded her eyes with a hand to better admire his retreat.

  “C’mon Rafi!” shouted the orderly. “I been waitin’ here all damn day!”

  She turned to find Eric standing ten meters away, his shield turned toward her. She strutted past him to the auto without a glance.

  After the formation of Joint Civil Protection Force the previous year, a canteen had been set up for the Oku officers in a windowless subbasement of the JCP building. It was only temporary, the Oku were told. A new facility would be created when space and resources could be found. Fourteen months later, the Oku were still waiting.

  At nine-thirty that night the canteen was empty except for a couple of maintenance grunts drinking coffee and a dishwasher taking time out from her primary duties to swirl a stringy mop across the floor. Merit sat alone at a filthy table, staring into a tea cup, a bowl of humus covered by a round of pita at her elbow.

  “May I join you, Select?”

  Merit looked up to find Marshall Frey’s broad frame looming above her, his shield and medals still shining, his russet uniform still crisp. She did not attempt to hide her surprise. It was unheard of to see a Rasakan JCPer—let alone the top man—in such a dump.