by Ellen Larson
“Please do. I’ve always wanted to see how you manage to eat wearing one of those things.”
“We don half-shields for public meals,” he said, sitting opposite her. “But I’m not here to dine.”
“Wise choice.”
“I want your report on the day’s activities.”
“So you came looking for me? Did the orderly get run over by a truck?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but no. I needed the exercise. So how did it go?”
“Tops.” She sipped her tea. It was weak and it was cold, but drinking it gave her something to do.
“I understand the Vessel is on schedule to be moved to the Priory tomorrow. Everything ready at this end?”
“Will be. My crew’s at the VCC now.”
“Why aren’t you with them?”
“I’ve never been much good with the tech. Traditionally, the Retrospector just goes along for the ride.”
The Marshall pushed at the crumbs on the table. “You know I’ve read the syllabus for the Prospectives School. You could do all their jobs, better than any of them.”
“Caught me. Again.”
“Why do you downplay your skills? I think your people could use your guidance.”
“Did you come here for my report or to talk management styles?”
“I think I’m stating the obvious. Your Unit is already understaffed.”
“Yeah.” She picked up the pita and dusted it off. “Authority should have thought of that before they barricaded the previous crew into the VCC and fumigated it with cyanide.”
There was no sound but the swoosh of the mop across the floor. Merit tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the humus.
The Marshall dropped his voice. “I don’t disagree with you.”
She lowered the pita without tasting it. “Okay. That’s different.”
“At last I get your attention.” He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. “In fact I don’t care how you run your Unit. But I want you in the VCC. You need to keep an eye on Agent Torre.”
Her heart beat five, six times. “Why?”
The gold shield inched closer as Marshall Frey leaned forward. “He was brought in on someone’s order—I don’t know whose—supposedly to perform maintenance on the Artifice. But his reports never cross my desk.”
“And this means what to me?”
“Don’t trust him.”
“No problem.” She took a bite. “He’s a Rasakan. Hey!” She swallowed rapidly. “Come to think of it, so are you!”
“He’s Authority. I’m army.”
“I never pay much attention to inter-Rasakan distinctions.”
“Well, maybe it’s time you did.”
Merit licked a dab of humus from her thumb. Since the day the bombs had fallen on the Conservatory, she had hated all Rasakans with an equal and undiscriminating passion. But it was true that the sight of the gray and black affected her in ways that John Frey’s russet uniform never did.
The Marshall nodded, as if he had seen what he wanted on her face. “Perhaps you are unaware that Authority has instituted a new Science and Research Section in Usak.”
“Authority does research now? I thought they mostly ran prisons and blew up all the tech they could find.”
“Your information is out of date.”
“Yeah, well—”
“It’s true Authority once feared Okuchan science,” said the Marshall. “And yes they blew up the Conservatory Artifice so it could not be used against them. But things changed after Byzantion. When control of Oku City fell into Authority’s hands, they finally realized the value of what they had been trying to destroy. They preserved the Artifice here and started looking for a Retrospector to use it.”
Merit raised her cup. “And I live in hope of someday wrapping my hands around the neck of the snitch who ratted me out.” She drank deeply, then wiped her mouth. “I don’t suppose you know who it was?”
“No.”
“Too bad. With that little piece of information you could have bribed me to do anything.” She waved it aside. “So, you were saying: Authority has renounced violence and is pursuing the scholarly life.”
He gave a short laugh. “Hardly. I’m saying that playing such a huge role in running Okucha has increased Authority’s power base. The Rasakan Civil Council is worried.”
“Better late than—Well, no. I guess it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late.” His voice fell to a whisper. “The Rasakan Civil Council failed to rein in Authority before the war. Now they’re scrambling just to maintain what power they have, let alone get back what they lost. Authority counters by bringing in their flex expert who walks around like he owns the place.”
“So, you think Torre is, what, here to steal the Artifice?”
“Nothing so simple. Until fourteen months ago, Torre was an obscure soldier in the Rasakan army, lucky to be alive given the general sentiment about scientists. When Authority changed its tune, they sought him out and snatched him up. He’s moved up the ranks fast. And I think I know why. I’ve gotten copies of his old papers. They’re full of suggestions on how to ‘improve’ flex technology—without any regard for the safeguards.”
How well Merit remembered Eric fretting over the constraints imposed by the Vessel. At the time she had taken it as an academic exercise, just the endless ruminations of a brilliant mind in love with theory. At the time.
The Marshall glanced around again. The canteen was empty but for the dishwasher, snoozing in a chair by the door. “This is top secret, so think very carefully before you repeat it to anyone. Authority’s Research Section has been running a New Retrospective Program, which is attempting to attune Rasakan Prospectives. They’re working on a way to shorten the attunement process from ten years to three. Rumor has it that four girls were killed during the alpha test.”
Merit raised her face to his gold shield.
“My family lives in Usak,” said the Marshall. “My daughter is seven, and very small for her age.”
Merit laid a hand on her breast, aware of the pendant beneath her shirt. Since the moment seven years before when she had heard that the Rasakans had taken over the CPF Artifice, she had feared that they would misuse this precious science for their own malignant purposes. Just as they would misuse her ability, any way they could—if she let them. But she had never thought of this.
“Six months ago,” said the Marshall, “when we kindled the Third Continuum here, I gave a speech to the JCP.You weren’t here, so I’ll give you the gist. I said that the kindling was a milestone along the road to the integration of Oku and Rasakan society. I said that as we reconstituted the Retrospection Unit, it was important to use this treasure preserved from the Ancient Era safely, because the time would come for Rasakans to assume responsibility for—”
Merit stood, knocking over her chair. “You’re gonna kick out my crew! This flex is just a test run to make sure everything’s working. If it’s safe, the Rasakans will move their people in! You son of a—”
“Sit down,” the Marshall hissed. “You don’t listen! Come on! I want your crew to stay—for a very long time. It’s Authority that is trying to push the Oku out, not me! Is that what you want? No? Then sit down and pay attention!”
Merit righted her chair and sat. She had to, for the dizziness had come again. She put her elbows on the table and rested her head in the palms of her hands.
“The Rasakan people must be involved, all of us, not just Authority.” His tone was urgent, forceful. “Oku City has become the center of the power struggle between Authority and the Rasakan Civil Council. If Authority succeeds in removing the elected Council from Okucha, they will try to remove it in Rasaka too.”
“Are you talking about civil war—in Rasaka?”
“No. Am I? No. I’m talking about political and socioeconomic power.”
She raised her head. “Yes, but why are you talking about it to me?”
“I need your help.”
“Sure, because I owe you such a debt of gratitude.”
“Don’t be a fool! You need my help too. You just said so.” He glanced around again, then leaned toward her. “Look. The JCP is bending over backwards to include Oku members in its ranks, no matter how questionable their previous history. We’re fighting to preserve what’s left of your culture. Authority, as you should know, is not interested in sharing or discussion. Can you imagine how powerful Authority would be if it had sole control of the flex? What it could do? Would do?”
Merit knew the answer to that: Anything it wanted. Spying on people, undermining those with opposing views, using the knowledge they gleaned for personal gain. Her heart raced again. What he said seemed to make sense. But what could she possibly do about it?
Her jaw worked. “What can I do?”
“You’re already doing a lot by agreeing to do this flex.”
Merit ducked her head, heat flooding her cheeks. It disgusted her to think she might truly collaborate with him; give in to him.
“The next task,” continued the Marshall, “is to find out why Torre is here and who brought him. Use your acquaintance with him to get past his guard. Certainly as a Retrospector you have every reason to quiz him about the New Retrospection Program. Find out what they’re planning.”
“I suppose I could—” She stopped, choking on the words. What was she doing?
She put her hands on the edge of the table and pushed her chair back. Why should she trust the Marshall any more than she trusted Authority? She would never help him! Or was she already helping by sitting and listening to him talk, letting him see her reactions to his words upon her face?
She stood fast—too fast. “I have to go.” The room swayed and her ears began to ring.
“We’ll talk again tomorrow,” he said.
She dashed through the door, and flung herself up the stairs.
A steady wind buffeted her as she stood halfway down the broad stairs at the front of the JCP Building. She breathed in the cool air. Above the City, the stars shone bright in a pitch sky. When the queasiness passed, she continued to the bottom of the stairs and turned right onto the sidewalk. For fifty paces she kept her eyes on the pavement, then she stopped and looked up.
Ahead of her, jutting out from behind the south wing of the JCP, was the Vessel Control Center, an imposing block of concrete two stories high and seventy meters long, without windows or ornamentation.
Even in the dark she could spot the recent repairs: smooth gray walls, an array of antennae on the flat roof, a new front section to replace the one that had been blown to smithereens by the Rasakans. The new entrance was well lit, and well guarded by sentries. Authority sentries, dressed in gray and black with silver half-shields. She shivered and turned away from them, walking back past the JCP building along a broad boulevard whose once mighty eucalyptus trees had been replaced by a row of solar streetlights.
She was tired, dead tired, as she was most evenings, thanks to the constant struggle to stay on the tightrope that was her life. Yet she could not look forward to a good night’s sleep. For however harrowing that daily struggle was, it did at least provide a distraction from the bombardment of her psyche by her own treacherous thoughts. The nights, when she was alone, were much, much worse.
Already her mind churned like a stormy sea.
Eric. Saints, it had been painful to see him. She could admit that now, since there was no one around. She cringed as she remembered the things she had said to him, driven not just by a desire to hurt him, to pay him back, but by her overpowering need to keep him away from her. To keep him from seeing the full weight of her abasement.
At the first corner she turned right, allowing herself to be swallowed up by the blue-black darkness of the unlit streets. Walking helped, a little.
Marshall Frey. He must be insane to confide in her as he had. If she reported him to Authority, they would destroy him. Or was he was merely coaxing her, one step at a time, toward her own destruction? Well, she wouldn’t turn him in, either way. She was no snitch. Besides, there was always the chance that their encounter had been a test of her “rehabilitation.” What if her psychotherapist stepped out of the darkness to tell her she had failed? She shuddered and quickened her pace.
No, the Marshall’s words had rung true; he was afraid of what Authority would do to his homeland if they became too powerful. He considered Authority to be his enemy. Never in her wildest dreams had she considered that possibility! Nor had she ever imagined that John Frey would try to recruit her as an ally. That terrified her more than anything, that he would honestly think he had a chance of convincing her to help him. And yet, she thought bitterly, what difference would it make if she did? She was already three quarters of the way down the garden path to collaborator; the only difference between her and the orderly was that she had waited longer before realizing it. Yet she clung to that invisible distinction: hating the loathsome snitch because he reminded her of herself—of what she had become, of the things she feared she might find herself doing.
Everyone had a breaking point. Even Zane, whom she had once thought to be the strongest man on Earth. But his world had collapsed at Zagor’s Cross, where both his children had died. She would have understood if he had given up in despair and walked away from the militia; she could even have forgiven him for his pacifism. But she would never, ever forgive him for Abydos. To betray his own captains; to use their graves as stepping stones to a unilateral truce with a pack of bloodthirsty Rasakans in search of nothing but total domination. She had trusted Zane, and look what he had done.
Omari Zane. For the first time that day, she thought about it, really thought about it. Zane was dead. Murdered. Someone had gotten to him—someone who had once been a member of the Resistance, she had no doubt. But who was left with a mind to do the job? No one she could think of—other than herself, of course. And Authority wanted her to identify the killer. Now there was a thick slice of irony. Though no one seemed to appreciate it except the Steward.
Ben Lazar. Like her, he had few doubts that the Resistance was responsible for the General’s death. But what was she to make of his news that an attempt had been made to poison Zane a year ago? That had been a complete surprise. Despite the Steward’s assumptions, she had known nothing about that. Not that anyone would believe her if she denied it, considering.
From her hip pocket she pulled out the wooden disc she had found on the railing beneath Zane’s desk. In the dim light, she could not see the set of scales carved into its surface, but she could feel them with her fingers. And as she rubbed the smooth edge, she came across a deep scratch.
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Eighteen months earlier
Someone jostled her arm.
“Hey, watch it!” She laid a hand on the piece of wood in the vise. “You made me do a mistake.”
“Sorry, Reb. Didn’t mean to ruin your—Uh, what’s that s’posta be?”
She turned her head and found herself face to face with a handsome, well-built man with admiring brown eyes. “It’s an ancient symbol of justice.” She wiped the chisel and turned back to her work.
“Oh, yeah?” He leaned in close again. “What’cha gonna do with it?”
“I’m gonna shove it down your throat if you don’t back the hell off.” She addressed a man on the other side of the abandoned barn that had been their hideout for a month: “Genghis, my dear, who is this muscle and why is he crowding me?”
“Be nice to him, Sparrow.” The small man seated on a stool on the other side of the room pulled an oily rag through the barrel of a projectile rifle. “He’s a good fella. Worked construction for me back in the days when we used to construct things instead of blowing them up. Besides, he’s on this mission, so he has a right to know.”
“Yeah,” said the handsome man. “So?”
She said nothing, laying the chisel against the wood and focusing on her work.
Genghis grinned. “It’s called a tondo. Af
ter you do the job, you leave it somewhere it’ll be found.”
The handsome man leaned his rump against the table, obviously more interested in observing her than her work. “Why?”
“You’re jiggling again!”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” He stood up and went to watch Genghis. “So what’s the point of leaving it behind?”
“The Oku are a people of law, and this shows that we followed the rule of law. When someone commits a crime, they get a trial and a sentence—whether they’re present or not.”
“I thought it was like a court and a judge that did that,” said the big man.
Genghis shook his head. “Since the militia was disbanded, the Resistance is the only legitimate arm of Oku law left. We may not have the big courthouse or the fancy barristers, but we believe in due process.”
“Oh, yeah? Seems kinda buggy to me. Offing a big guy like the General and leavin’ like a calling card behind saying, ‘Oh yeah, by the way, we did it.’ I’d rather do the job and let ’em try and figure it out. But, hey,” he said as he caught the carver’s eye, “whatever you guys say. Where’d you learn to do that, Reb? Carve stuff.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She blew away the tiny curls of wood that had gathered on the disc, and studied the outline of the scales with a critical eye.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Saturday, 15 April 3324, 11:40 p.m.
Joy. It was just as she imagined it would be. For eight years, she had dreamed of this. Of seeing a tall figure in the distance, of shivering with fear—was it him, or was it not—of watching him come closer, till there could be no doubt. Of seeing his face when he recognized her, the light in his blue eyes when she took his hand, the desire on his freckled face. His fingers intertwining with hers. The sound of his voice saying her name. Touching him again; feeling his touch. For years she had clung to this dream as a wanderer lost in the blackest cave clutches her lamp; even when she had been ashamed of her need for such a puerile fantasy; even when life had come to so resemble death that all other dreams had forsaken her. But this time it was real. This was his voice, telling her he had searched the world for her; telling her he, too, had dreamed of this day, that it was all a bad dream, that he still loved her, would always love her, over and over and over again. His voice enflamed her, as it always had, made her wild for him, so that she had to kiss and touch him madly till she forced him to speak again. To be one with him again was to go back to a time of innocence and joy, cleansed of the horrors she had seen and had herself begotten. She was soaring, free and weightless. His body melded with hers—