Barsk (13 page)

“We experienced a complication,” said the Cynomy.

“You are scrying the future timelines. They vary in probability, not clarity. There should be no complications.”

“Normally, no, especially when we work in concert as we do. But in this instance, there is an Observer Effect, someone else attempting to study the same future and that very act prevents any of us from a clear perception of it.”

Another precog interfering? Now? His grandfather had never had to deal with such incompetence. “Have you identified the source?”

“Yes, Senator. Fairly completely.”

“And? Why wasn't I informed? Do you know how easily I could have sent a Patrol vessel to deal with this interloper?” Bish's voice had become strained with resentment at having to pull information from this pathetic creature.

“No, sir, that isn't a viable option. The source occurred in the past and is long dead.”

“What? Where?”

“Barsk, sir. One of the first generation activists who forged their government had a powerful clairvoyant faculty, though largely untrained. She appears to have been quite interested in pursuing the koph development as well.”

“Let me see if I understand this. You told me to pursue koph, which meant engaging in covert operations against the inhabitants of a sovereign planet in clear violation of established Alliance law. This was supposed to bring our goal into sharp focus. And now, I'm to understand that some ancestor of the same Fant that my people have been working on has instead blocked your vision? What options does that leave?”

The Prairie Dog shrunk in upon itself and stared at the carpeted floor of the vestibule. Its reply came as a whisper. “Continue to pursue koph.”

“Continue?” Bish roared even as Druz presumed to place a hand on his arm. And yet, the audacity of her action restored his composure. She knew him well. He'd been just seconds away from wringing the life out of the worthless precog. Had the others seen that possible outcome? Had they sent Brekki as a sacrifice to appease his wrath. If so, he would not give them that satisfaction.

“Senator?” The Brady's hand remained on his arm.

Bish thought of his grandfather, the consummate urbane statesman and projected that impression outward. His aide's hand fell away.

“Continue to pursue koph? If doing so hasn't already yielded the desired result, why continue?”

“But it has, Senator. The foreseen probabilities are lining up as predicted, only the resulting specifics are clouded from us. Continuing after the drug will cause competing futures to fall aside.”

“And this will reveal the development we seek?”

The Cynomy shrugged. “In a sense. Once a single timeline is inevitable, events will play out and the thing will be out in the open for anyone to see.”

Bish's hands closed into fists as he stared down at the precog. “How is that helpful? If others can see it, what's to keep them from taking advantage when it becomes known?”

“Oh. We know where it will happen. And we know you'll be there.”

“What?”

“We can't see what happens there, but that's where the timelines converge. You need to go to Barsk yourself.”

Bish sputtered. “I … when?”

“Now, Senator. That's why I didn't bother with refreshments.”

He spun toward his aide, the tip of his horn coming dangerously close to gouging her head. “Druz! Is my ship ready?”

“As always, Senator.”

He paused and eyed the Prairie Dog. Had he just been played by the team of scryers assembled by his grandfather three generations ago, or did it just feel that way? Would it do any good to make an example of the spokesman they clearly were willing to sacrifice, or was this simply how they communicated with a world they didn't fit with? But in the end, none of that mattered. The key to being an effective senator lay in pragmatism. The results they'd handed him were more important than his ego.

“Time to go then,” he said, dismissing the Cynomy from his plans. At least for now.

 

TWELVE

ANCESTRAL LANDS

IT
had taken Jorl most of the morning to acquire a small boat that didn't surpass his understanding of sailing. Under other circumstances, the irony would have amused him. During his time in the Patrol he had passed his preliminary exams to sit a conditional third board to his vessel's pilot, but here at home he had never learned to navigate anything bigger than the simple craft needed to cross to the next nearest island. Unlike most men of his age, and especially since his return from offworld, he hadn't felt the urge to travel from island to island.

He'd visited more than a dozen of Keslo's shipwrights, but in every case some secret shibboleth slipped into the conversation had betrayed his ignorance and he'd been sent on his way. More than once he'd considered invoking his aleph and simply walking aboard an available vessel, but the realization that he'd be hard pressed to take it from its docking, let alone avoid knocking himself overboard or becoming hopelessly entangled in rigging prevailed. Near noontime, inspiration struck and he returned to the Civilized Wood and visited the academy. The provost asked few questions, both in deference to the mark on Jorl's brow and his reputation as a serious scholar, and generated the necessary paperwork that would secure him a boat that fit his needs and abilities. It had belonged to an oceanographer with the academy. That scholar had set sail two seasons ago, taking a much simpler craft and leaving behind a research vessel that had the distinction of possessing a motor and gyrocompass, thereby freeing Jorl of the need to understand how to tack or trim a sail, read the wind, or navigate despite cloud-covered skies.

None of it felt real, but he had finally accepted that the Matriarch had indeed intended him to fulfill some part of her prophecy.
When the dead will not answer, the Silence is at hand, and the fate of all Barsk will soon hang in the balance. The newest Aleph must do what has never been done though it is almost always done
. There was no question any longer. The nefshons of Fant that had sailed off, that should have come to the summoning of any Speaker on Barsk, were not responding. They were out there, he had felt them himself, but instead of rushing to his summons he'd felt a resistance where none should be. The Silence. And the last part of the prophecy, to do what hadn't been done but was always done, what else could that be but for a Fant who wasn't Dying to set sail? Pizlo had given him directions that he couldn't possibly possess, and his aleph gave him permission to travel anywhere, even to a place that every Fant ever born on Barsk would flinch at as a premature destination.

But he had to know. As a historian, he understood that what in hindsight were taken to be grand events really consisted of a myriad of tiny, seemingly inconsequential choices. Often as not, great moments hung on coincidences and random luck. And yet … What if prophecy caused all of that to get thrown away? What if everything in his life and the lives around him, from his wanting to join the Patrol to Arlo's death, what if all of it had all occurred just to bring him to this moment? What if doing this was his destiny?

Jorl stopped that train of thought and asked aloud, “What if the academy hears you talking to yourself like the island's idiot and strips away your standing as a historian?” The answering silence provided slight reassurance.

His next stop involved picking up supplies for the trip. He visited his local grocery and bought an assortment of fruit and sufficient leafy greens and containers of water to cover him for the trip there and back, and a few extra days just to be safe. For an extra fee they loaned him the use of a small cart and promised to send a child down to the academy docks to retrieve it before dusk.

Men, young and old, routinely left their homes, sometimes visiting friends and relatives on other islands for a season, sometimes just wandering for years on end. Nor did they tend to tell anyone before going; formal goodbyes were more the province of women and children, both known for forming deeper attachments. When he'd joined the Patrol and left the planet, he'd done so without fanfare, sending a short note to his family and mentioning it in passing to Arlo. But this felt different, less like a personal decision and more an act that had been preordained.

Towing the little cart behind him, Jorl stopped first at Tolta's, but his friend's widow was not at home. He pinned a note to her visitor's board, saying only that he was going away, that he wouldn't be gone long, and that he'd resume his lessons with Pizlo upon his return.

He saved the most difficult visit, that of his family's home, for last. Like most women's dwellings, it housed upwards of fifty people: grandmothers and aunts, female cousins, and underage children of both sexes. It boasted multiple stories, elaborate sleeping balconies, and a sprawling wrap-around porch on three sides. Jorl had no sooner knocked upon the entrance when several enthusiastic children threw the door wide and all but pulled him into the house's guest parlor. Female Fant were social by nature, and frequently traded visits in clusters that mystified their male counterparts. The house's parlor already held two small gatherings of adults, with children running back and forth to fetch refreshments or attend to errands as directed. Jorl had come prepared. He dipped his trunk into a sack of candied fruit bits from the grocery and distributed them with mock solemnity to each of the children in turn.

Two of his sisters were part of one of the groups already in the parlor and both noticed the candy. One uttered a snort of disapproval, and the other, Adri, his youngest older sister, disengaged from her friends and approached.

“Where are you going this time? You told us you were done traveling off planet. You promised!”

“Who said I was going anywhere? Can't I just come by and visit my sisters?”

“You could, but you don't. Not during social hours. You show up when you can slip into an open seat at the breakfast table, or when you know Gran is making one of her special dinners. Otherwise, the only time you ever popped in unannounced was to tell Mother that a season earlier you'd secretly filed a petition to be allowed military service and that a shuttle was taking you away that night.”

Jorl frowned. Was he really so predictable? He fanned his ears with embarrassment and soldiered on. “Relax, I'm not leaving Barsk. Because, like you said, I promised.”

“But you are going somewhere?”

“Well, yes.”

“Just tell me why,” Adri demanded. “Why do you get these ideas to leave. Not to travel like other men, you make it mean something different. You
leave
.”

He sighed, giving up any hope for a sisterly hug, let alone a packet of well-wishes and homemade snacks to brighten up his other supplies. His sister towered over him, just as she'd always done since childhood. Was she really only a few years older?

“It's something I have to do. There are questions I want to ask, and I can't ask them here. But honestly, it's not half so bad as you think, not like before. And remember, I came back, right?”

Adri only scowled. Her trunk twitched with a retort but she said nothing. She didn't have to; he could read her well enough. She was just searching for the right words to wither him there in the parlor. He didn't dare give her the chance. He abandoned his carefully rehearsed speech and lumbered forward before she could stop him.

“Look, I know you don't understand, that no one in the family does. But you at least have always tried to be on my side. Maybe you can explain it to the rest, in any way you think will work. This is something I have to do.”

His sister's trunk stopped twitching and she drew herself up. She'd formulated at least the start of a response. It wouldn't accomplish anything, other than to leave them both frustrated, and it was the last thing Jorl wanted to endure. Turning from her he tossed the remainder of his bag of sweets into the air, shouting “Candy!”

The children who had dropped back to give him and Adri space came dashing forward now, and a dozen more who had been within earshot poured in from adjacent rooms. Jorl used the chaos to let himself out of the front door. Taking hold of his cart from where he'd left it on the porch, he moved on, mentally crossing off this last errand from his list and heading at last to the boat that would take him away once more.

*   *   *

THE
provost had supplied directions and a map, and Jorl had no trouble finding the late oceanographer's boat. It lay moored at a small dock, one of half a dozen craft bearing such names as
Grant Money
and
Office Hours
and
Peer Review
. Afternoon had since arrived and then some, and while Jorl didn't relish traveling in the dark, he hoped to at least slip out past the last of the islands on the eastern end of the archipelago and be out on the open ocean. On the way down the dock he passed a small kiosk. An attendant sat inside, slumped over in sleep, chin on chest. He didn't have the heart to wake her, and went past and began to stow his supplies. After several minutes the attendant, a stocky young woman probably working her first job fresh out of school, came running, down the dock, waving and trumpeting like the place was on fire.

“Here now, you can't be messing with these boats. Owners and guests only. Get off of there now, before I toss you off.”

Jorl's back had been to her and he turned at her approach. The woman continued barreling his way, seemingly intent on hauling him from the boat and perhaps heaving him into the water. She staggered abruptly, halting herself as she came close enough to see him. Or more accurately, see his forehead.

“Um … that's not your boat.”

“No,” agreed Jorl. “It's the academy's.”

“Well, it used to belong to Grummel. I guess ownership reverted to the academy, but they didn't tell me about anyone borrowing it.”