Barsk Read online

  His command grew as season passed season on Barsk. Under the authority of the Bos senator, he visited several worlds to acquire needed or assigned assets for the work ahead. Work crews constructed a durable albeit temporary base anchored upon a century or more of hard-packed snow. The bored crew of the mostly automated orbital station had been reassigned to perform whatever tasks he deemed necessary. A Patrol vessel began making scheduled visits, bringing naked, aged Fant who variously claimed to be already dead or seeking some ordained demise. Supplemental staff, everything from cooks to guards to an interrogation squad, reported in as the mission’s needs unfolded.

  The interrogators had brought his thoughts back to his original concern over illegal orders. Personally, he loathed the Fant. Something about them, maybe their trunks, maybe their vast hairless bodies, made him truculent. He’d quickly given up attempts to engage any of his charges, after the first few encounters had left him belligerent regardless of the conversational content. He didn’t like that about himself, and prior to the arrival of the interrogators—a squad of Badgers from Scrothe, a world on the barely habitable edge of the spectrum—he hadn’t imagined anyone would. He hadn’t met any of that race before, though he’d been aware of the stereotype of Taxi being anti-social. Even on long-established and well-mixed worlds, they kept to themselves. He stood now in front of the vid-wall in his office, watching a live feed as they practiced their craft on one of his captive Fant, an old woman whose sickly gray, wrinkled flesh elicited his own aggression.

  It did more for the Badgers.

  They circled around her, none standing more than waist-high to her. The Taxi took turns, not so much making inquiries as screaming questions at their victim. Before she could complete a response to one, another on the other side of the circle demanded an answer about something else. As Krasnoi watched, the Fant became disoriented, spinning in place to face and answer each current interrogator. After several minutes of this, she stopped responding at all. The Urs-major appreciated the strategy; what point when the interrogators obviously weren’t listening?

  The Badgers took it differently. They started over, the same range of questions about koph, what it was derived from, how it was manufactured, but this time they punctuated their queries with jabs from electrified batons!

  The Fant resumed speaking, but no matter how forthcoming her responses, as Krasnoi watched the Taxi became anxious, or frustrated, or perhaps simply irritated with the quality of her answers. Each held a baton, each baton possessed an apparently limitless supply of charges. The Badgers unleashed these from behind the Fant, against calf or knee or thigh, occasionally reaching up to attack the stomach or back, making their victim whirl and spin all the faster. But always the smaller interrogators danced back out of reach of a rare swinging fist or flailing trunk, and always another of the squad darted in from a different direction with another baton.

  In the end, the batons failed to elicit the desired answers. The Fant simply accepted the attacks as one more kind of pain, not so different than the aching cold or the smell of plastic that they all had complained of from their first days. After she had crumpled to the floor, either exhausted or unconscious, the Badgers had delivered a few more jabs before giving up and retreating from the room.

  Some among the Fant referred to themselves as the Dying. Perhaps the harsh physical interrogation and torture dispensed by the Taxi counted as something the living suffered, making it just one more thing that the Dying could endure.

  Was this Fant an isolated case or a representative one? Were the females more resistant than the males, the Lox more than the Eleph? Or did the interrogation fail because she simply didn’t have the answers to the questions Krasnoi had been charged to pursue?

  The Badgers had a yard full of prisoners upon which to test these questions. The Urs knew that none among the squad would be at all troubled that their tasks marked yet another violation of Barsk’s Compact, the execution of another unlawful command.

  A pair of Ailuros guards borrowed from the orbital station entered the room and dragged the Fant to her feet. Krasnoi shut off the vid. He put the details out of his mind but could not shake the brutal inefficiency of what he’d seen.

  SEVEN

  PARENTAL DISAPPOINTMENT

  SOON after he became a Speaker, the quality of Jorl’s dreams changed. The skills he developed in crafting a venue for his conversations were what his unconscious used every night to create the images of sight and sound and touch in his dreams, same as everyone. It was obvious, in hindsight, that as he became a better Speaker his dreams would become more vivid. So, too, his recurring nightmare.

  He was back in the Patrol. Jorl knew he was dreaming because he remembered being sent home to Barsk soon to stand Second at Arlo’s planting. He had to be dreaming because his friend hadn’t yet died. He and his crewmates had arrived in a system beyond the edge of known space to perform a routine mission of cataloging and mapping. The Alliance wouldn’t be seeding any colonies there. It wasn’t a place where anyone could live comfortably; the only planets were gravitationally challenged gas giants, all too far away from their star. But a couple of these had moons, and one of these satellites looked like it might do. An outpost could survive, albeit only with regular supply drops. Unlikely ever to happen, but making that decision wasn’t the purview of the mission, just data collection.

  Missions change.

  As Jorl’s ship approached the moon for a closer look they heard the voice. A message originating where no one from the Alliance had ever traveled.

  Kengi, the Myrm communications officer, looked up from her screens, her tongue tasting the air as she announced, “That was a targeted scan, Captain. Telemetry suggests the signal originates beneath the ice sheath.” Jorl had wanted to like Kengi; her long and narrow snout bore the closest resemblance to a trunk of any of the races in the Alliance. That, more than anything, was probably the reason she’d distanced herself from him when he joined the crew.

  From his duty station, he glanced at the Anteater and counted off the seconds before the captain replied. On a typical day, a full minute could pass. One learned to live with the delays when one’s captain was a Sloth. Brady-Captain Hrum’s quick response just confirmed he was dreaming.

  “An automated signal? Something we’ve tripped? Seems far-fetched. That ice must be thousands of years old. Morth, do you concur?”

  Brady-Lieutenant Morth was the cousin of Hrum’s sister-in-law, but a fine science officer despite the obvious nepotism that garnered him the best work shifts. “More like tens of thousands,” he said, “I mark the origin point as a small hollow about half a kilometer down that might once have been a cave, back before the moon’s magnetic pole last moved and everything got buried.”

  “Ah, the rigors of cataloging. Well, never let it be said that a little bit of frozen water deterred the Patrol from exploring a mystery.” Hrum waved a long arm in a languid command. “Bring the beamers online. Drill me a hole wide enough to drop a shuttle through, even with that cave. Let’s go see what’s buried out there where nothing should be.”

  Jorl stood back from his station. Hrum always picked him for shuttle missions. Maybe it was just the tradition of scut work for the newest crew, and maybe not. The captain gave him a nod, and then to his surprise said, “I’ll lead this one. Kengi, you come, too. Maybe we’ll find some frozen bugs for you.”

  The Anteater rolled her eyes at Hrum’s back, but rose from her station as well.

  When all of this had really happened, Jorl had had to wait nearly an hour for the meticulous Morth to finish drilling a passage for them. In the dream, though, Jorl walked from the ship’s bridge to the shuttle and then instantly exited the hovering craft out onto the edge of a cave mouth.

  The icy floor of the cave gave way to irregular stone and then a level ceramic tile. The three crew all wore environment suits fitted to their differing physiques, though Jorl’s helmet was easily twice the size of the others. Before putting it on, he’d had to
fold his ears in on themselves three times. His suit lacked a sleeve for his trunk, requiring him to keep it wrapped around his neck like a muffler. All the suits included headlamps. The floor continued on into the cave beyond the range of their lights.

  “Remind me to have a conversation with Morth about using relativistic terms like small,” said Brady-Captain Hrum. Her short legs set a slow marching pace as they traveled deeper into the cave.

  Only the tile floor was artificial. The regular shape of the cave suggested it had been created with an energy beam not unlike what they’d used to drill. The walls were native rock.

  “By my uncle’s tongue, what the heck is that?” said Kengi. A massive box blocked further passage.

  Jorl stopped. “Could that be some form of life-support unit built to sustain whoever sent the signal?”

  “If it is, they’re doubtless long dead,” said Hrum.

  He couldn’t squeeze past it on either side, but Jorl could see the depth of the thing. It stood nearly twice his height, a cube rather than a box. Boxes had lids. If this thing had an opening it had to be on the back end where they couldn’t see. It was all gray metal and plastic and cloudy glass. In the beams from their headlamps Jorl could see something on the other side of the glass, slow swirls that danced with hidden meaning.

  Kengi consulted her gear. “This is the source of the signal, but I can’t tell you where the power is coming from or what’s driving it. It just … is.”

  The captain waved Jorl over. “Lox-Ensign, stand in front of the thing and touch it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do I have to repeat myself?”

  Jorl shook his head and followed orders. He pressed a palm flat against the glass surface of the cube. Another set of swirls began dancing. Before the captain could tell him not to he began following after them with the tips of his fingers, tracing their movement on the glass. Hrum grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him backwards. Too late.

  Lights came on, deep inside, shining through the smoky glass in more complicated patterns.

  “I’m measuring an increase in power,” said Kengi.

  “Dangerous?”

  “No, Captain, not at these levels. More like a system coming online. Whatever it is, we’ve woken it up.”

  The swirls rushed together behind the glass, forming a rough, humanoid shape, losing color until they were a dull black, like the shadow of someone of indeterminate race leaned against the glass on the inside regarding them.

  “Gilgamesh,” said the shadow or the wall, or maybe the cube.

  “What?” said Hrum.

  “I’m recording,” affirmed Kengi.

  “The Pendragon.”

  Jorl stared at the silhouette, mouthing the unfamiliar syllables.

  “Kal-El.”

  The thing had a rich and resonant voice. Something in the rhythm or timbre of it suggested that Jorl and the others should recognize the words. He didn’t.

  “Boxes do not talk!” said Hrum, and Jorl saw her shiver. “Kengi, abort recording. Back to the shuttle, both of you. Double time!”

  The first lesson Jorl had learned in the Patrol was about following orders. He fled. Kengi, despite the weight of her communications gear, outraced him. The cube continued to speak.

  “I am these and more. I am the Archetype of Man and from slumber such as you have never known have I awoken. Speak, friend, and I shall hear you.”

  Bradys never hurry. Jorl saw panic in Hrum’s eyes as she shouted commands through her comm unit. “Max us out the instant we’re aboard! Full power to the beamers. Fire once we’re clear. I want nothing but vapor where this cave is.” Somehow, she ran past him.

  The voice echoed after them. “I am the hero. I am the young warrior, the dreamer, the quest taker. I am the sum of mankind’s symbol of this aspect of himself. I am the past sent forward.”

  The trio tumbled through the open portal of the waiting shuttle. Hrum slapped the control for an emergency close of the airlock and shouted to the pilot. “Fly!”

  Jorl clutched at the portal latch for stability as the ship accelerated. He slammed against a bulkhead, banging an elbow hard. Hrum and Kengi both lost their footing and piled up against the closed portal. Kengi let out a squeak of pain as the captain’s boot caught her in the back.

  Morth’s voice echoed through the shuttle as Jorl and the others righted themselves and settled into their seats. “Powering beamers, sir.”

  A flash of brilliance and the dream shifted forward several days.

  Jorl stood at attention in Brady-Captain Hrum’s ready room, eyes focused on the wall behind her head.

  “Say what you have to say, Ensign. I have real work to do.”

  “Sir, it was my understanding that, among the missions of the Patrol, was the recovery of artifacts from the ancient times Before.”

  “And?”

  “Surely the object we encountered qualifies.”

  Hrum paused, as was her way. She picked up a stylus nib from her desk and affixed it to the tip of one claw. She didn’t bother to look up as she answered. “What object are you referring to?”

  Jorl’s ears fanned with anxious dread. “The object you ordered destroyed. Sir.”

  “That incident is behind us, Ensign. I suggest you let it go.”

  “I can’t do that, sir.”

  “Ah? And what will you do instead then?”

  “I’ve written up a report. My personal observations of the mission. I intend to send it in to HQ.”

  That made Hrum look up. A slow smile spread across her face, an expression Jorl had not thought his captain capable of. Another wonder followed. She laughed; long and slow, like only a Sloth can laugh. To his horror, she kept on laughing for several minutes, finally raising a hand to her face to wipe at her eyes.

  As quickly as it had come, all amusement fled her face. Her brows dropped and her jaw tightened, and Jorl found himself facing anger like he’d never experienced from his captain before. She rose from behind her desk, rumbling upward like an earthquake and advanced on him. He knew it was a dream, that the violence surfacing in the Brady couldn’t actually harm him, but as he had in life and in every previous version of the nightmare he backpedaled until the office’s wall stopped him. Despite her shorter stature, she pressed herself against the Fant, craning to shove her face up against his.

  “We were never there, Dicknose, we were never there.”

  The dream shifted again, a flickering of scenes. Every other member of the crew coming forward with affidavits supporting Hrum’s version of events. Hrum’s report of a routine stop at an unmapped moon. Jorl’s report coming back with a stamp of unverifiable and a black mark in his personnel file. And speaking faintly in the background of it all, its powerful voice sounding now like a helpless wail, the cube from Before, the past sent forward, lost to them now forever.

  Somehow that loss was his fault. He could hear it in the ache of that thing’s voice.

  With a cry, Jorl struggled with his sheets and blankets to sit up in bed. He half expected to see the tiny cabin from his Patrol vessel. A hand went to his chest, the pounding of his heart threatening to burst through. The nightmare, again. Real as the waking world. It always filled him with a sense of his own limitations. Would the loss of the artifact seem so vast if he weren’t a historian? Would the helplessness haunt him?

  He hadn’t caused the thing’s destruction, and short of mutinying how could he have saved it? Should he, a mere ensign, have countered his superior’s orders? Should he have relieved Brady-Captain Hrum of her command? Was he to blame?

  The persistent recurrence of his nightmare suggested that he believed so, at least at some level. It had begun days after his return to Barsk, and his subsequent training as a Speaker had sharpened it. After the fifth repetition he’d sought the assistance of an oneirist, a respected Eleph who never asked him about the specific content of his dream but kept poking at him for what he thought it meant. He’d left her office more frustrated than when he’d entere
d. How was he supposed to know what any of it meant? It scared him witless, left him flinching for days. Episode by episode it had built an association between helpless and useless in his mind.

  After the twentieth repetition he’d found the best solution to be simply getting on with his work, let the sense of helplessness stay behind in the dream by focusing on his real productivity. Today would be no different. He had things to do, and they were too important to let the phantoms of his past delay them.

  In short order he left his bedroom and set about pouring a mug of morning beer with koph. The familiar routine of preparing for a summoning calmed him. Finishing the beer, Jorl sat at his work desk, feet planted firmly, his chair turned toward the right where a comfortable guest chair had lived until Pizlo accidentally set it on fire the previous season. No matter, he remembered the chair quite well, and as the morning’s nightmare so amply demonstrated, the strength of his imagination and memory could accomplish what came next.

  The koph had begun working its way through his blood and into his brain. He became aware of and banished the golden blanket of his own nefshons. A moment later he imposed his will upon the universe, summoning particles of familiarity. He pictured a face he had known all his life, and softly murmured “Tral ben Yarva.” His father’s nefshons rushed forward faster than when he had summoned them before. Tral had been his test as a Speaker. Dead more than ten years, he had come when called. Even now, Jorl could not say who had found the reunion to be more of a surprise.

  In his mind, Jorl’s study was little different from the reality. Stacks of papers still cluttered his desk, albeit slightly different ones. Spent sticks of ink bamboo lay scattered alongside full cups of the things. Printouts and partially completed manuscripts, both heavy with marginalia lay piled on both sides of his chair. The still-mourned guest chair faced him, empty at first and then suddenly full with the figure of a Lox of late-middle age that appeared older still, folded in upon himself with weariness and too many years of illness. The man smelled of sea salt and recent rain.