In Retrospect

  Merit, behind her easy smirk, groped to get her bearings. What had seemed so certain the night before had turned out to be fantasy. How could she have been so wrong? She must clear her mind of assumption and start again.

  “Okay. One, why do you want Zane dead? Two, what do you expect to gain from his death?” That was better. Textbook investigation. What else? Merit eyed Lena’s white-robed form. “And three, why the hell did Authority try to rehabilitate me if the plan was for me to dust on my first flex?”

  “Come out and I’ll tell you.”

  Think it through. Though it was what Merit had planned to do—had been certain she would do—the fact remained that if she made an unauthorized exit from the Vessel she would rip the security net and be torrified upon the reflex—a reflex that Lena would be able to initiate at any time. On the other hand, as Lena had pointed out, if the reflex was initiated with the door open, same result. She was at a crushing disadvantage. Lena and Eric had somehow anticipated her actions to a T, and she knew better than anyone the odds of her worming her way out of a situation that had already occurred in her home time-frame: zero. Whatever happened in the next forty-five minutes was her future and thus unknown to her. But in every other way that mattered, it had already taken place. Nothing she did could make a difference. Ergo, she concluded, she was free to do whatever she wished.

  “Okay.” Merit lowered her arms, raised a boot to the threshold, then stopped. “One condition. I want to see the look on your face, too.”

  “It is my honor to oblige.” Lena slipped off the shield and tossed it onto the settee.

  Her pale face had not changed much in the twelve years since Merit had seen it. Framed by the white cowl, it still looked young and innocent. Her eyes, large and clear blue, were the eyes of a woman who would never harm a soul.

  “Come on out,” Lena urged.

  Taking a deep breath, Merit stepped through the hatch.

  There was a closeness in the study not wholly attributable to the closed windows and the bricks of coal smoldering in the fireplace. The air was musty with the smell of human excretions and the stale incense that tried to cover it. Merit eyed Zane.

  “Can’t he hear us?”

  Keeping her thumb on the Vessel key and maintaining a cautious distance, Lena left the settee and went to stand behind Zane. She shook his massive shoulder with her tiny hand.

  “Zane!”

  Omari Zane, Governor Pro Tempore, Commander in Chief of the former Okuchan militia, turned awkwardly toward the Prioress. His thick neck and furrowed chin dragged his face down; the bags beneath his eyes were black; his brow was red and blistered. His yellow eyes focused for a moment on Lena’s stole, glanced off the Vessel key, then returned to the map on his desk.

  “Nope,” said Lena.

  Merit watched as Zane maneuvered something across the map. “What’s he doing?”

  “Waging epic battle.” Lena reached into the wooden box and pulled out a toy tank studded with plasma guns. “If you try to make him stop he throws a tantrum that would shock a cat. We have to drug him to get him to sleep.” She tossed the toy back into the box and backed away. “See for yourself.”

  Merit went to Zane’s side. Scattered across the map were dozens of war toys—soldiers, guns, miniature fortresses, helmets—all made of lead and painted in wonderful detail. Black and red. Green and white. She put a hand on his shoulder. He paid no attention to her.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Catastrophic toxic dementia,” said Lena now standing by the globe. “He’s been like this for a year.”

  The General rolled a tank down the long Chilean coast.

  “Poisoned,” said Merit.

  Lena reared her head back. “How did you know that?”

  “That old flair is kickin’ in.” It pleased Merit to see the open surprise on Lena’s face. It made her feel like she was on even ground. “Can you communicate with him at all?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed. He can’t hear anything softer than the slam of a door, he can’t walk unaided, and he can’t talk at all.”

  Merit glanced at the row of green books above the desk. “Of course the Steward—Lazar—knows about his condition.”

  “Of course.”

  “And the day staff?”

  “They only know he is deaf and ill,” said Lena, “and that they are bound to tell no one, to preserve the dignity of a great man.” She snorted.

  Eric had been right to point out that the lack of staff at the Priory was odd, thought Merit. “Why did you hide his illness? What’s the point?”

  “Don’t you want to guess? Too tough? Oh, all right.” Lena twirled the globe with her free hand. “The situation in the City was extremely volatile last spring. Riots. Resistance tribunals. The last thing the Oku needed to hear was that the sole remaining leader of their former state, the man who had promised them that surrender was the right thing to do, that he would protect them, had turned into a vegetable.”

  “I keep hearing that story,” said Merit. “It always sounds like an excuse.”

  “It’s not. The city was on a knife edge. The power vacuum would have been catastrophic! We couldn’t risk having some Resistance warmonger evade the hangman and step forward to fill it.”

  “Spoken like a dedicated pacifist.”

  “Benedicte.” Lena smiled. As a cat smiles when the mouse tries to bite its paw. “We needed Zane as a symbol of hope, however inconvenient it might have been on a personal level. And I don’t mind telling you it’s been quite inconvenient.” She looked at what was left of the General, her contempt transforming her once-sweet face. “I’m looking forward to the funeral. I’ve got it all planned. The great hall will be a bower of red hibiscus and jasmine.”

  “I’m having trouble keeping up,” said Merit. “Wasn’t Zane supposed to be your spiritual partner, your lover, the retired Mars to your nurturing Venus?” Merit spread her hands. “Didn’t you care about him?”

  “Oh, I suppose,” Lena said. “At first. But eventually. . . .” She shrugged, a coy look on her face.

  “You changed your mind,” said Merit.

  “No, my mind didn’t change.”

  “Meaning, his did.” Merit studied her face, and wondered how she could ever have been envious of this woman.

  Lena looked at the painting of Byzantion, at the tall figure of Zane, chin up, stern, beautiful. A wistful smile appeared on her doll-like face. “When I first met him I thought he was a god—larger than life, wise, all-powerful. There was no one better suited to help me lead Okucha into the postwar era. I was swept off my feet! Later I was disillusioned.” She sighed, then looked at the living Zane. “He had no skill at dissembling.”

  “Unforgivable in a great leader,” said Merit.

  “Yes. He couldn’t recognize or anticipate dishonesty in others. It cut him to the quick when the Rasakans failed so pathetically to deliver on what little they had promised at Byzantion. He fell into despair when he realized he had no real power as Governor Pro Tempore. Can you believe he thought the Rasakans would treat the Oku with the same benevolence with which the Oku had treated the Rasakans?”

  “How foolish,” said Merit.

  Lena tucked a wisp of brown hair beneath her cowl. “During the tribunals, he became angry. He talked about starting an uprising, re-forming the Resistance.”

  “Not much chance of that,” said Merit. “None of us—” She held up a hand. If what Lena said were true, Zane would have been a huge threat. Her eyes widened. “You poisoned him.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Cartoon amazement spread over Lena’s face. “I think it’s much more likely that you and your Resistance thugs were responsible, don’t you?”

  “Save it, Lena. You were honestly surprised to learn that I knew he’d been poisoned. You wouldn’t have been if you thought I was involved.” Merit tapped her temple.

  Lena smiled, teasing again. “Very clever. Yes, you’re perfectly right. I poisoned him.”

  Meri
t had thought she’d seen the worst of humanity. But this woman had been a fellow Prospective. A teacher at the Conservatory. This was inconceivable to her. “How could you!”

  “Choices were limited.”

  “It was a rhetorical question,” Merit jeered. “I get it. You couldn’t kill his body, because you needed your symbol. But you killed his mind so he couldn’t turn on you. To Lazar, you passed it off as a Resistance attack, and you counted on Lazar not to tell anyone that his beloved General was an imbecile. Let’s move on. Why do you want him dead now?”

  The fire snapped, and Merit jumped. But Lena never moved a muscle.

  “It’s been a good year for us,” she said. “Passions have cooled. The Oku have learned they can survive under the Protector-ate—not well, of course, but at least they’re not dropping like flies anymore.”

  The contrast between her cherubic expression and her words made Merit shiver. “Go on,” she said.

  “The people are ready to move on with their lives, Merit. They don’t talk about Zane so much these days—of course we’ve had to keep him out of the public eye. And, have you noticed? My own stature has risen significantly. I’ve worked hard on that.”

  “And of course the risk of discovery only increases with time,” observed Merit.

  “Indeed,” said Lena. She glanced at Zane. “Time for the lump to meet his saints, as dramatically as possible.”

  “So why did I get tagged to play the villain?”

  “This is the best part.” Lena’s eyes lit up and her dimples appeared. “We wanted it to be an Okuchan, preferably one with Resistance ties, so we could direct suspicion away from us and keep anti-Resistance sentiment high. You have all the credentials—plus the added bonus of the well-known death wish. No one will learn about the poisoning. Authority will appear blameless. And I will never have to touch Zane’s rotting carcass again. Everybody wins!”

  “Kudos.”

  Lena regarded Merit warmly. “This is exactly how I imagined it. Just like when we were girls. I was always there to explain things when you needed a hand, wasn’t I?”

  “No, not really. Mostly you made me feel like a failure.” Merit sniffed. The congestion in her head was increasing in the warmth of the room. “Look, I’m honored that you’d go to all this trouble just for me—bringing the Vessel into synchronicity, opening the hatch, taking the time to explain it all. But why not just give Zane a quiet overdose of whatever you use to get him to sleep? Why risk having something go wrong?”

  “Because this isn’t really about Zane.” Lena fingered the Vessel key. “I thought you realized that. We’re playing for higher stakes.”

  Merit snorted. “You’re defining my life as higher stakes?”

  Lena gave her the old patronizing smile. “You never could see beyond your own problems, and you always stumbled because of it. Let me spell it out for you. Whoever controls the flex technology possesses the ultimate power.”

  Uneasiness welled up in Merit’s breast. The Marshall had warned her of Authority’s intent. If she hadn’t been so distracted the night before, she might have met with him. Learned something about Eric’s plans.

  “Once you’re out of the picture,” continued Lena, “once it’s clear that the JCP can’t be trusted with the Vessel, the old ways will be abandoned, and a new age of retrospection will begin under Authority’s sole control. With a new Retrospector.”

  “Yeah, I heard your boyfriend tried some sort of hyper-attunement. Knocked off a few Rasakan girls in the process.”

  The smile on Lena’s face faded, replaced by a cautious frown. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Around.”

  “That wasn’t supposed to get out.”

  “And yet. You know it’s gonna be mighty hard to convince parents to let their daughters become Retrospectors now.”

  “Fortunately, the candidate has already been selected.”

  “Who is it?” asked Merit.

  “Who do you think?”

  “I think you’re bluffing.”

  “Hardly. Honestly, Merit.” Lena pressed the Vessel key to her breast. “I will take your place. I will become a Retrospector, as it was always meant to be.”

  Merit burst out laughing. “Sure. And you’re gonna flex in your favorite way—no need for the Vessel. Just close your eyes, tap your heels together three times and shazaam! You’re in the Continuum.”

  “That’s unkind,” said Lena. “And rather blasphemous. You wouldn’t want to talk that way in the presence of my disciples.”

  “You’re using them,” said Merit contemptuously. “You’re preying on their ignorance and desperation.”

  Lena nodded. “Something I learned by watching Authority stir up the Rasakan populace. Of course Rasakans have always distrusted intellectuals; the Oku taught them to do that with their arrogant, paternalistic ways. Now the roles are reversed. Science has failed the Oku, and mystical prophecies have taken its place.”

  “You’re so full of crap, Lena. I wish I could be around the first time you try to wish yourself into the Elemental Continuum. Like watching somebody trying to fly by jumping off a building and flapping their arms.”

  “Don’t be silly, Merit. It may be necessary for my disciples to believe in the power of the Elemental Continuum. But between you and me? I’ll use the Vessel, though no one will know.”

  Merit laughed again. “Good one. Hey! I have one for you. Why did the pianist’s attunement fail?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Because she played a piece in chronomatic syncopation. Get it?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve just never had any fun in your life, have you. The point is, if you get in the Vessel and enter the continuum your head will explode. Look Lena, I know your attunement didn’t take.”

  “Do you?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a secret. Everyone knew you had to leave the Prospectives School because of health issues.”

  Lena’s lips curled. “That was the most humiliating day of my life. To be rejected like that. Pitied. For nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My attunement was fine, Merit. I could have been selected. I should have been. It was my right. Well.” Her eyes flashed menacingly as she glanced at the Vessel. “In the end it’s their loss.”

  Could it be true? Merit strained to remember what the old Prioress had said about the matter. She had confirmed that it was attunement failure, hadn’t she? Or had she. Her attunement had unfortunate side effects.

  “Fortunately,” continued Lena, “even though the Conservatory didn’t want me, there were others who did.”

  “Saints, Lena. Are you actually working for Authority?”

  “I most certainly am not. Not for them. I don’t work for anyone. I work with them.”

  “For how long?” asked Merit uneasily.

  “Long enough.”

  “Since before the war?”

  Lena sat motionless, her blue eyes half closed. “Since the day I was told I would never be a Retrospector. It’s quite possible there never would have been a war if not for me. I had a lot of useful information.”

  “Oh, Lena!” Merit’s voice shook. “You knew the Rasakans were going to attack. You survived the attack on the Conservatory because you weren’t there. You knew and you didn’t warn them.”

  “Why should I have! Did they do anything for me when I needed them?”

  “You let a hundred Prospectives, all those teachers, and the Prioress, die? Just because you didn’t get selected?”

  The study was silent but for the rasp of Omari Zane’s labored breathing.

  Lena smoothed the folds of her robes, then turned her eyes to Merit. “Does that bring you up to date? Answer all your questions about what happened in the past? Good. Now we can deal with what will happen next. Would you like me to predict your future now?”

  Merit stared back at her, unable to wrap her mind around the enormity of Lena’s fall.

  “Well?” said Lena. “Wo
uld you?”

  Merit gestured helplessly. “Sure.”

  “Good. Once Zane is dead, you’ll get back in the Vessel. One way or the other. I will use the key”—she held it up—“to initiate the reflex. You will be atomized in the void between one nanosecond and the next. When the Vessel arrives at your home time-frame, the hatch will be found open, proving you had opportunity. Your plasma gun will be found on your body, with two bolts fired, proving you had means. And as for motive? Everyone will agree that Resistance operative Merit Rafi cashed in her life to kill Omari Zane, whom she blamed for the surprise attack on the captains at Abydos. Even a Rasakan investigator will be able to solve the mystery.”

  “You hope. It hasn’t happened yet.”

  “In this time-frame, no. But it has happened in your home time-frame. My future is locked in, because you’ve seen it. It’s history. And as you said, you can’t change history.”

  “Painfully amusing, because if there’s one thing I’ve always known I was right about, it’s that.” Merit took a step backwards. “But now I’m kinda hoping I was wrong, because I’m gonna do my damnedest to change it completely.”

  Lena’s insipid smile widened to a grin. “So, this is when you take your chance?”

  “Yep.” Merit slipped her fingertips under the flap of her shoulder holster and drew out the plasma gun. “You caught me off guard, but I’m catching up. I’ve worked it out. For one thing, my p-gun can’t be the murder weapon unless the bolts are real.” It had to be true—the frightened look on Eric’s face when she had pulled the gun on him the night before should have told her. “And for another, I’ve figured out what that pesky health issue was that kept you from being a Retrospector: you are fucking insane!”

  She pointed the plasma gun at Lena’s smiling face and pressed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  “Shit!” She stared at the gun, then reared back and threw it at Lena’s head.

  As Lena’s hands went up in defense, Merit sprang forward. Two strides and she launched herself, head first, into Lena’s midriff. They went down together in a heap of white satin and clawing fingers. The gun spun away in one direction, the Vessel key in another.