Lawrence Schoen - Barsk - The Elephants' Graveyard

The second day began much as the first, though the rain fell with a bit more force. The boat’s instruments assured him he was making good time toward the open bit of water he insisted was his destination. The day’s sun was halfway to its zenith and he’d already mapped out a pair of wrestling Prairie Dogs, the front door to Tolta’s home, the glowering face of the Matriarch, and a bucket overflowing with ink bamboo from the roiling clouds overhead. Through it all the boat’s engine had been a faint but constant hum, more felt than heard. Jorl’s reveries ended as the background sound rose to a shrill wine, alerting him that the boat had crested the last swell and not fallen back but continued to rise.

Jorl spun in place and saw the reason, his experience giving name to the color he saw, a shade of gray he knew intimately from many an afternoon pointlessly painting the outer hull of his own Patrol ship, punishment for one or another imagined offense on those occasions when they’d dipped into an atmosphere and docked at some welcoming port. A larger craft had risen up beneath his boat, so broad that he could have put a couple dozen of the Tenure Redeemed side by side and still not fallen off the edge. Its depth had to be at least as big, suggesting many levels or a series of huge cargo holds. He didn’t have enough detail to guess which of several ship designs lay there, but even the smallest required a length ten or more times its width. Not a scout ship, and too big for a survey vessel. Something this big went into space for years at a time, ferrying important people between worlds or executing deep space missions or responding to unstable colonies on the fringes of Alliance space.

As if in response to this last thought, he saw a gate open further up where the gray hull rose in a lazy curve from horizontal to vertical and three red-clad figures poured out.

Contamination troops, he thought. He’d worn the same garb once himself, his trunk tucked uncomfortably down the front of his translucent mask. He’d sweated a pool in all that plastic, investigating an abandoned ship left adrift, its atmosphere vanished and its skeleton crew dead at their stations. A malfunction of its systems had left it vulnerable to a hull breach that had killed everyone, but the Patrol had taken no chances and the investigation team had suited up expecting some kind of plague. When in doubt, the Patrol always prepared for the worst, which probably explained the gear worn by the trio striding toward him. He recognized their race by their gait before they came close enough to identify through the windows of their masks. He stood to meet them, giving voice to the first question to form in his mind. “What are Cans doing on Barsk?”

An instant later they had boarded his boat. One Dog grabbed hold of his left arm, another took the right. The third glared at him as if Jorl had insulted his mother so frequently and thoroughly that no retribution imaginable could be enough.

“A better question might be, what is a Fant in the prime of his life doing out on the open water like an imbecilic and suicidal elder?”

Jorl’s head turned so quickly toward this voice that his trunk nearly slapped the third Dog in front of him, causing that one to flinch, duck, and fall onto his ass. Jorl frowned. Cans were fiercely loyal and disciplined; they made up the bulk of the Patrol, but they were almost never in charge. Standing now in the gate, the source of the responding question, was a Cheetah. Unlike the Dogs, she wore neither hood nor mask. The blue of her gear proclaimed her officer status, and the molded insignia at her elbows, distinct to the initiated but easily missed if you didn’t know to look, marked her rank.

“I’ll have to disagree with you, Captain. I’m well within the patterns of my culture to be here. Whereas your presence is a violation of the Compact we have with the rest of the Alliance.”

“Interesting and more interesting still,” said the Cheetah. “Perceptive and well educated. Let us hope you’re smart enough not to offer any trouble. I am Nonyx-Captain Selishta, and my mission here grants me exemption from your precious Compact and permits me to detain you for investigatory purposes.”

Jorl frowned, and pulled his trunk close, coiling it for action. “I know enough to recognize when I’m being lied to, Captain. There are no exemptions. I learned that in my own time in the Patrol.”

The Captain strode across the hull with a swift fluidity, and the third Can who had only just regained his feet scurried out of the way. The Nonyx stood half a head taller than the Lox and stared down with an expression that clearly showed she did not respond well to contradiction.

“You’re that one, are you? I understood one of your kind had served a partial tour.” She flicked a finger at Jorl’s forehead without actually touching it. “What’s that paint?”

“A cultural marking,” said Jorl. “It grants me free passage, anywhere and anytime. Its sanctity, like all of our customs, is also guaranteed under the terms of the Compact. Your troops holding me against my will is another violation.”

With a smile, the Cheetah gestured to the pair of Dogs holding him. “Release him. The lot of you go and prepare the tertiary hold for his vessel; it’s obviously not going to dismantle like the others so we’ll take it whole.”

The nearer two Dogs couldn’t let go fast enough, and quick-timed back toward the open gate. The third whined a query. “Ma’am?”

“That’s an order. Relax, it’s not as though he has anywhere to go.”

“You can’t take my boat.”

The Cheetah waved the statement away. “Identify yourself, Fant.”

“Lox-Ensign Jorl. Retired.”

“Damn me, an officer? Well, then ensign-retired, let me adjust your world view. As I said, I know all about your precious Compact and I don’t care. I’m authorized to ignore it, every line and provision. Which means, among other things, I am free to be here on your soggy planet, and I will detain you as I please. You can argue the legalities if you want to waste your breath, but look at your situation and acknowledge the pragmatics before you. You are my prisoner.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say or do to change your mind about that?”

The Cheetah laughed. “On the contrary, ensign-retired. You can make this easier on both of us. I am justifiably weary of my time on your world. Give me your word as an officer that you’ll behave, and you’ll avoid a visit to the brig.”

“You’d accept my word?”

“Why not? Years from now, it will make an amusing anecdote. And again, it’s not like you can go anywhere. This way my people have one less isolation cell to disinfect, which should please both sides. I assume you’ll also be less inclined to whine and cry than the others.”

“Others?” His trunk hung lax as he realized the probable answer to his own question.

“All in good time, Lox-Ensign. First, your word?”

“Yes, Captain, you have it. For now.”

“Amusing. Now then, step lively, back into the ship. We were returning to base when the helm spotted you, and the sooner I’m free of this damn rain the happier I’ll be.”

“But why are you here, Captain?”

“Have you been retired so long? Orders, of course.”

THEprevious night Pizlo had a hunch that he’d want porridge when he awoke. He acknowledged that it had been several days since he’d visited Tolta, let alone slept in the bed she kept prepared for him. He admitted that he liked the softness of its coverings, but he’d seen the unhappy look on her face when he’d last stayed over and left the stains of his recent travels upon the linens. Life was just simpler on his own; then again, there was the matter of the porridge.