Barsk (27 page)

He leaned his head against it to trigger the door and entered. It looked like the other room he'd explored, the one with the holo of the waving Pandas, except this one didn't have any Pandas. Nothing hung from the hooks on the wall. The lavatory and the closet were also in the same place, although both were empty. No one lived in this room. He sat in the middle of the floor and emptied out his sacks, making a feast of everything he had left. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he began eating. After his appetite had abated, he realized he hadn't noticed the hunger because he'd been scared. Just a little. Even with what Pemma had told him, so much had been strange and new. Being afraid had been new, too. He didn't much like it.

Finished with his meal, Pizlo gathered up rinds and other debris and disposed of them in the lavatory. He took each of the bags that had held his supplies and knotted the mesh to create a sling and secure his useless arm across his chest. He fanned himself with his ears for a few moments and then stood up and went to the closet. Using his trunk and good arm he hauled himself to a seat atop the dresser to wait. He slid the closet door closed and settled back against the wall. Telko had told him he'd meet up with Jorl near and soon. He'd resolved the matter of near, and in the process used up most of the soon.

 

TWENTY-SIX

CONCURRENCE OF VISION

ONCE
his ship had docked with the station, Bish sent his aide, Druz, on ahead. The facilities there were more than adequate to secure one Fant, and the sooner he had the freak off his own vessel, the better. The senator considered himself enlightened, and recognized his reaction as simple bigotry, but that calm knowledge in no way eliminated the emotional reaction of being near this Jorl ben Tral.

The incident at the polar base had rattled him. The Urs-major's colossal bungling of what should have been a simple mission had necessitated his instant removal, and while dispensing justice in front of the Lox had added to his profile as a benevolent figure, subsequently threatening the Fant had been a mistake. The Yak had realized the error the instant after the words had left his lips, and spent the trip to the station attempting to rectify things. Still, his mistake need not be irrevocable. The Fant was clearly in shock from witnessing the immolation of his elders, and the cocktail of drugs Druz had administered imparted a certain malleability.

Upon boarding his ship, Bish had placed Jorl in an opulent cabin, sublimated his own disgust for the man by indulging his culinary hobby and crafting from his own hands an unparalleled meal. But he drew the line at sharing a table with him. Instead, he left his reluctant guest to enjoy the food alone, the better to rest and recover from his ordeal. The senator had set Druz to work at the same time, learning everything possible about the surviving Fant. For all her slow movement, the Sloth had as keen a mind as any being the Yak had encountered. She'd prepared and presented a report both thorough and surprising; best of all it gave Bish a starting point for establishing a fresh connection.

Soon after docking, the senator took it upon himself to escort Jorl through the station. In this instance, the limited facilities worked in his favor. The Lox had nowhere to run, which meant he needed no guards and thus no reminder that he was obviously a prisoner. It helped, too, that the room he'd selected for Jorl was in no way different from any of the station's crew quarters, though by now Druz had recoded its door to lock from the outside.

When he entered, he found the Sloth already settled in at a small desk, her equipment recording everything that happened in the room. He gestured for Jorl to precede him and followed closely.

“I apologize for the sparse accommodations, but this station wasn't designed for visitors. Per the terms of your own Compact, the Alliance keeps only a minimal presence here, just what's necessary to oversee your world's exports. Most of the transfer protocols are fully automated, both from down below and to the delivery vessels that carry everything to other worlds.”

The senator watched Jorl look around the room. The Fant hadn't spoken more than a handful of words since leaving the planet. The meds had dulled the immediacy of his experience, but Bish saw the horror of it yet lingered. It showed in his posture, the softness of his voice, and most vividly in Jorl's eyes.

“It's fine, sir,” replied Jorl. “Though you still haven't told me why I'm here.”

“We'll get to that, I promise. But first, I wanted to share something my aide discovered while we were en route. She looked into your background a bit, nothing invasive mind you, all public record material. I had known from the Urs-major's reports that you had the distinction of serving in the Patrol, but I was unaware of your prolific work as a historian. I actually feel a debt to you, curious as that may seem.”

The Fant's ears swiveled and lifted in reaction to his words, but Bish didn't let show on his face any of the revulsion that those hideous and furless flaps of gray flesh evoked in him.

“I'm not surprised that you don't recognize me; the resemblance isn't that strong and how many Bos have you seen, eh? But I'm not the first of my family to dedicate himself to public service. My mother's father was also in the senate.”

Jorl's voice held both weariness and wonder. “Your grandfather also served on the Committee of Information?”

“He did.”

“I … I wrote a biography about him. It was the first thing I worked on after leaving the Patrol. I even Spoke with him, several times.”

“I envy you that. It's been many years since I've heard his voice. He died while I was still a child. That biography came to the committee, as all new media does, and a talented clerk pulled it from the slush of published works and tagged it for my attention. I was truly touched by the detail and fairness of your writing, though honestly I never expected that I'd get to meet the author. I have to tell you, after reading your words, the gentle way you spoke of my grandfather, I feel as though we are old friends already, Jorl. Do you mind if I call you Jorl?”

“Honestly, Senator, I don't feel as though whether I mind or not is going to make any difference here.”

The Fant was shrewder than he'd expected him to be, and Bish chided himself for buying into his own racist stereotypes so deeply. No matter, though. One feint had failed, he had others at his disposal.

“Don't be like that, Son. This doesn't have to be adversarial. Regardless of whatever happens next, speaking not as a senator but as a grandson, I wanted to thank you.”

Jorl stood, slumped and silent. Bish had spent a lifetime reading his adversaries' body language. Some things were universal, existing across all races. The Fant was beyond weary. The right argument would push him over the edge. And yet, as he watched, Jorl straightened. The weariness remained, but something had changed. He'd acquired a degree of hostility, unfocused for the moment, as if equally likely to lash out or be directed inward.

“What exactly is going to happen next? You've already broken your own laws by coming to Barsk. You've used officers of the Patrol to abduct hundreds of civilians, interred them against their will, and executed them. And now you've taken me a second time, removing me from my planet and dropped me where none could possibly know to look for me.”

Bish frowned at the anger. Had he lost his moment? “I don't believe you appreciate the bigger picture here, Jorl. What we do, what we've been doing, has been for the greater good of the Alliance. Believe me, I sympathize with your perspective. The zeal with which the Urs-major carried out these things has blurred the real necessity behind them. But you have also seen the celerity with which I resolved the matter of his excess. Now, here, just the two of us, two civilized beings, I'm confident you will see the need for all that we do.”

Jorl turned, and Bish noted how still his ears had become. The Lox crossed the room and seated himself on the sleeping platform on the far wall. On the voyage in, Druz had supplied him with a report suggesting that the movement, or lack, of a Fant's ears was a window into the degree of tension they experienced. When Jorl began speaking, it was clear he had built up his guard again. Was he somehow drawing strength from the massacre at the base?

“Who is the
we
in all of this, Senator Bish? Would you mind starting there?”

Long practice allowed the senator to keep the smile from his face, but the Fant had handed him an opening any politician could run with. “Not at all. When I say
we
, I, of course, refer to the people who make up the Alliance. All of us, you, myself, all sapient beings on all the worlds of which we speak. More directly, I mean their representatives, their voices in the process of managing this immense Alliance. Lawmakers like myself who strive on behalf of ordinary citizens like you. That's why I brought you here, Jorl, so you could help basic, decent people like yourself.”

“I wasn't aware these people needed my help. You already know that I'm just a historian. Surely anyone with an interest in my work has ready access to the films and books I've published. What more could I possibly do to affect so many?”

Having maneuvered the Fant into asking the necessary question, Bish let the smile show. It was a friendly smile, warm and encouraging. A professional smile, built and earned, the work of a lifetime of public speaking and political gamesmanship. He stretched and briefly scratched behind his left horn before responding, knowing the value of a well-timed pause. When he did reply, it was with the patient tone that had won him landslide victories in election after election.

“I trust you are merely being coy with me. While you, personally, do have a contribution to make, I am speaking more generally of your fellow Eleph and Lox. All the Fant, as they are generally known to the Alliance. Barsk's government has enjoyed a special relationship with the rest of the galaxy. Among its other provisions, the Compact regulates the export of your many products. At the time of its creation, it was a great convenience for everyone. It assured the Alliance a continuous supply of thousands of items unique to Barsk, and it afforded the Fant the autonomy and privacy that had led them to Barsk in the first place.”

The senator gestured at the Sloth who rose like an unbending tree branch, holding a tray with two cups of freshly poured tea. The Yak nodded once and she approached Jorl, offering him the first cup which he accepted. Bish helped himself to the remaining cup, raising it in a toast to Jorl, and draining the thing in a single gulp before handing it back to the Brady who then resumed her place in the background.

“But that was centuries ago, Jorl. The situation has changed. The Alliance now depends on Barsk for more than a million exports. And the number of worlds comprising the Alliance has also grown. But through it all, the terms of your Compact have remained constant. Your government has steadfastly refused to share the knowledge behind its pharmaceutical wealth. You've declined all requests to allow other scientists to visit and study your techniques, and you've outright rejected even the merest hint of assistance from the rest of the Alliance.”

“We wouldn't have autonomy if we accepted assistance, Senator. Nor would we have privacy if we permitted visitors. Neither of those things have changed.”

“But everything else has. And while it's true that our researchers have reverse-engineered many of your products, it has been, as your own people might say, the merest raindrop in a storm. Your officials hide behind their precious Compact and refuse to acknowledge that we live in different times, that the past is indeed past. As a historian, you should appreciate this, Jorl. So I ask you, is this situation fair to the rest of the people living in the Alliance? To the many billions of ordinary souls spread out across four thousand worlds who have come to depend on these exports?”

Jorl sipped his tea. “I suspect the matter is much more complex than you present it, Senator. And as you surely know, I am not part of Barsk's government. I have no more voice than any other individual on such matters. But that's not the real issue, is it? Major Krasnoi didn't take all those people because he wanted to know how to harvest or refine millions of different drugs. He was only interested in one. He wanted to know about koph. Why that one, among so many others?”

“Let me answer your question with another question. Tell me, Jorl, how much do you know about an Eleph called Margda?”

He watched Jorl smile at his query, as he knew he would. The dolt had no idea he was being manipulated, not that his awareness would have changed things one iota.

“Quite a bit. Her life was the focus of my research when I was at the academy. It's why I ended up studying your grandfather, because he was the first person off Barsk to take a real interest in her life and legacy.”

“He did,” said Bish. “He was particularly fascinated with her fits of clairvoyance, and how she bent those visions to her political will. It was such a novel thing to do, and she proved herself quite effective at it. I assume you've read all of her formal papers regarding her visions?”

Jorl nodded. “Those, as well as her journal entries, and what we have of her private correspondence.”

“Good. That's very good. I have a great respect for thorough research. So it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that, rare as her precognitive gifts may have been, in the vast population of the Alliance there is no shortage of individuals with similar abilities to your Matriarch. But prior to her, no one—certainly no one in the senate—had ever thought to harness that resource toward our own political prosperity. But such talents
are
a resource, one that belongs to the greater good of all people. Your Matriarch didn't simply impress my grandfather, she inspired him. During his tenure in the senate, he began to use the Committee of Information as a means to structure that foresight.”