Lawrence Schoen - Barsk - The Elephants' Graveyard

Jorl hesitated. Nothing could justify Krasnoi’s crime, but was it possible to retrieve some good from it? “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Your dead friend, Arlo, is the key. That much is abundantly clear. And here you are, his best friend, and a Speaker, too. Summon him. Explain the reality of the situation to him. I have a fully equipped lab aboard my ship and this station’s warehouses have every possible substance Barsk has to offer available at your request. Persuade your friend to give me the new drug that has all my precognitivists in such a panic, and perhaps we can avoid the need to destroy your world and your people.”

“You don’t understand. Arlo’s a pragmatist, always was. He killed himself to prevent his secret from getting out. He won’t necessarily believe or be swayed by abstract threats.”

“Then offer him a real one,” said Bish, and the grandfatherly façade fell away. “I have his son. And while you say the boy does not feel pain, I’m sure that Druz is so intrigued by your statement that she wants nothing more than to test it to the fullest extent of her abilities. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps she would be able to peel away his skin, break each and every one of his bones, wrench his tusks from his face, tear off his ears and trunk, cut out his eyes and tongue, and he’ll not feel any of it. But whether or not I allow her to test such a hypothesis rests with you and Arlo.”

The Bos’s speed leaping from rational explanation to deadly threat did not surprise Jorl. Outrageous as it was, it still paled alongside the searing memory of the Dying’s execution. He was nearly numb to Bish’s threats, and wished he could disconnect entirely. Was this a bluff? The Brady had struck him as compassionate, but then, too, she’d swiftly killed Krasnoi. Bluff or not, the ease with which the senator imagined each detail was more cruelty than Jorl could subject Arlo to. “I won’t summon him. I won’t ask him to make such a choice again.”

The Yak turned and reached out to the Otter, waving her to come and stand in front of him. “One way or another, he will have to choose. This woman is not just a telepath, but also a Speaker. She’s quite adept at combining the two skills to allow her to summon even those she’s never met. Whether he is instructed by her or by you, one way or another, Arlo will learn that if he does not give me what I want, I will destroy all of Barsk, but not until after I have his son tortured to death.”

To Jorl’s surprise, the Lutr Speaker scowled. Bish regarded her.

“You have an opinion to express? You think anything in your silly, pleasure-seeking head has any bearing on these events? The needs of the citizens of the Alliance will not be defeated by the members of a lesser race, nor the confused emotionality of a foolish girl who has forgotten that she is a resource now and no longer a person.”

Her scowl deepened, and a moment later was replaced by a look of surprise. A hum rippled from the senator’s robes, too faint for anyone but Jorl to hear. The Yak looked down upon the Otter and sneered.

“Stupid. I am a ranking member of the senate; I’ve assembled the most powerful team of precognitivists and specialized talents in history. Do you imagine I would share breath with a telepathic resource and not have myself protected? I won’t punish the attempt. Truly, I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t tried. Taste the futility of your actions and focus on being useful. Tend to the Fant. If he won’t Speak to his dead friend then pull what you need from his mind so you can. That new drug unlocks everything, and I will have that key!”

Jorl rose from the bunk, hand and trunk both reaching out, but the senator had already turned. A handful of strides took him out the door. He vanished into the corridor leaving the Fant alone with the Otter. He couldn’t tell which of them was more stunned.

“What will you do, Jorl ben Tral?”

“Do?”

“Will you Speak once more with your friend?”

“No. He made his choice. I’ve asked him to explain his reasons more than a few times. Whatever he discovered he’s adamant that the secret end with him. So, what now? Is that why you talked with me at the polar camp? Will you pull details about Arlo from my mind? Try to summon him yourself?”

Lirlowil took a seat on the sleeping platform. She reached up and slipped one hand around the back of Jorl’s ear and pulled him down. The familiarity of the gesture surprised him so much he didn’t resist and sat beside her.

“He’s already refused me.”

“You Spoke to him?”

“I did. Of my own accord, earlier today, and not at the senator’s behest. I only just met that pathetic excuse for a public servant. He reminds me of the head of the delegation that came to Barsk to negotiate the last details of the Compact. A slippery, two-faced Aplodon who could chew rancid butterleaf and still breathe sweetness in your face with his words. Bish would doubtless have embraced him as a brother.”

“The Compact? You’re—”

“Yes, and you’re welcome. No need to thank me.”

“How are you here? How are you wearing the body of a Lutr telepath? Why doesn’t the senator know? And why by every tree in the world would I thank you?”

“Don’t whine like a petulant child, Jorl. You owe me for the course your life has taken, for the aleph I had placed upon your brow.”

Indignation rose and he barely restrained himself from lashing out at her with his trunk. He jumped up instead and glared down at her, trumpeting in frustration.

“You’ve manipulated my entire life like a piece in some game, all so you could get to Arlo!”

“In part, that’s true. I never knew why I couldn’t see your friend’s part directly. It never occurred to me that others would be scrying our people’s future. The group that Bish has had looking stirred things up, blinding us all to the details. So yes, I set events in motion because what I was able to see revealed a round-about path that would bring me close to the goal. But it wasn’t enough. I could not persuade Arlo. I shared the threat of the destruction of our race with him, and he countered with an argument of a potentially greater horror.”

“What are you talking about now?”

The Matriarch inside the Otter shook her head. “It’s not mine to tell if he hasn’t shared it with you. You’re right, Jorl, I have used you like a piece in a game. But no more. We’ve passed the limit of my sight and the cruel truth is that I am blind to the endgame. But you heard Bish. If our people are to survive you must Speak with Arlo, get him to give up his secret.”

“Why? You already put the question to him. Nothing has changed.”

“You’re wrong. Everything has changed. The threatened destruction of a world and its people is vast and abstract. It’s far enough removed that a man like Arlo can cling to his beliefs. But the brutal murder of his own son hanging in the balance, that danger may yet save us all.”

Jorl shook his head, stomped halfway across the room feeling like the ghosts of the Dying rushed after him, looming, haunting his every decision. He turned back to her, seeing through the phantoms of his imagination as well as the false face Margda wore. “I can’t ask him to make that choice. It’s not right.”

“It’s not right for you to deny him the choice. But you won’t have to do it alone. I’ll come with you. Here, take this.”

She held out a hand. Resting on her upturned palm was a pellet of koph. He stared at her. Stared at the pellet. Once, he had been excited at learning he could perceive nefshons, to gain access to figures from history and interview them personally. When had it all become something else, something heavy and dark? His feet carried him back and he snatched the pellet from her hand with the nubs of his trunk, bringing it to his mouth and swallowing it all with the same gesture.