Lawrence Schoen - Barsk - The Elephants' Graveyard

Only then would he open his eyes.

He knew time had passed, in the way that someone knew that breathing made sense or wind could not be captured and put in your pocket. How much time, or what had occurred during it — for others, not for him — was not part of his awareness. He’d experienced every summoning as a distinct event, always intending to ask Jorl about that effect and never getting to it. And so here he was again, but as Arlo glanced around he found himself in a strange place. It differed from anywhere he’d been before, both from the familiar settings his friend always provided or the long-vanished home the interloper had created. And yet, there she was in front of him.

“You, again.” Arlo glared at the Matriarch. “Did you forget something?” Then his gaze shifted and took in the figure of his friend. “Jorl? Did she bring you here, too? No, that’s not possible. Did you both summon me?”

“Actually, it’s quite possible, but not what’s happened,” said Margda. “You are here as Jorl’s conversant. But anyone who can perceive nefshons can witness a summoning. How else do you imagine old Speakers train new ones?”

Arlo frowned. Jorl looked … off. Tired, underfed, but also broken somehow. Despite Margda’s presence, his first instinct was to comfort his friend, but it wasn’t the time. This wasn’t one of Jorl’s regular summonings, a blend of nostalgia and longing; he’d never have included the Matriarch. They’d brought him back for a purpose.

His ears drooped and his trunk swung from side to side as he studied his surroundings with wide eyes. “I can’t say I care for this place. Not something that a Fant would make. Not from materials anyone on Barsk would build with. What’s going on, Jorl? Where are we?”

His friend grinned shyly. “You’ve finally joined me in leaving Barsk. We’re in orbit above the planet.”

“The export station? Seriously? Most of my life’s work passed through there. But it’s neither a destination nor a way station for Fant. Even when you joined the Patrol, they sent an automated shuttle down for you. How do you even know what the station looks like?”

“I’m there now. In this room. And, in a way, so is the Matriarch.”

Arlo’s frown deepened. “We’ve met, and it wasn’t the highlight of my being dead. So, let me ask again, what’s going on?”

“Your friend is here to ask you to reconsider your earlier decision,” said Margda.

“I don’t know how much time has passed for you, but nothing is different for me since I gave you my answer.”

Margda’s trunk whipped across her body in denial. “Everything is different. I’m not relying solely on a vision from centuries before your birth. I have met the madman who threatens our planet and people. He’s a Bos, complete with the stereotypic stubbornness of his race and the power of a senior member of the Alliance senate. He knows you have created a more powerful version of koph, and he will have it or destroy us all.”

Jorl’s head spun side to side as he flipped his focus between the two dead Fant. “What are you talking about? How is the new koph more powerful? Is that why you died, Arlo?”

He kept his focus on the Matriarch. “How does this Yak know such a thing? What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t need to. He knows of it the same way I came to suspect it. But where I was limited to just my own visions, he has been employing multiple prognosticators for three generations.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Arlo. “It doesn’t change a thing. The drug is too powerful if taken by someone with the bioluminescent factor in their systems.”

Margda swore. “What makes you think they’ll start using your damn bugjuice? Does Barsk even export it? Is anyone in the Alliance using it? Certainly not to create tattoos on their furry bodies.”

Arlo said nothing. He tucked his ears down, crossed his arms over his chest, and lowered his trunk as he glared at the Matriarch.

“You don’t know, do you?” Margda scoffed and waggled her trunk toward Jorl. “He never asked the question.”

Arlo sighed. “I didn’t want to stir up interest in the chemical compound by doing a search. I know we export a small amount of the insects themselves. The Cynomy consider them a delicacy. But as far as I know, no one has broken them down or analyzed them further.”

“So, it’s possible.” The Matriarch smiled. “You could give them the improved drug. And they’ll have little incentive to demand to know how it’s made because in every generation each person will only need a single dose. Yes, the Alliance will still be relying on Barsk for the drug, but much less so than they currently do. That will appease them.”

“That’s it? You killed yourself because a Speaker would only have to take the drug once?” Jorl looked stricken.

“No, it’s more than that.”

“Yeah, I get that, there’s a different effect on people with an aleph. What happens to them?”

Arlo jerked his trunk toward Margda. “I already told her, but I’m not going to tell you.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because she’s dead, and you’re not. Look, even if the Matriarch’s idea could work, there isn’t anyone who can make the drug. I destroyed all my notes. No one else knows how to create the thing, and in case it’s slipped everyone’s mind, I’m also dead.”

“Arlo, we have to find a way. I don’t know if Senator Bish could actually destroy everyone on Barsk, but I’ve seen him order one of his own people killed. He murdered a senior officer right in front of me with no hesitation and—”

“Jorl, you can’t wipe out hundreds of thousands of people by pulling a trigger. Do you imagine I didn’t think about my wife and son down on Barsk when the Matriarch first told me about this?”

“You didn’t let me finish. Like I said, I don’t know if he could do that or not, but it doesn’t matter. Pizlo isn’t back home in Keslo. He’s here, on this station, right now.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know how he got here. He was here before I arrived. But Bish has him. And he’s threatened to hurt him—”

“He can’t be hurt, you know that—”

“Not cause him pain, really hurt him. Maim him and worse. He’ll kill your son if he doesn’t get your drug, and he thinks I can give it to him.”

Dead or not, it was like having his feet go out from under him while he trod a boardway in the canopy on Keslo. Like having his trunk yanked one way while his stomach dropped in another direction. His son, the boy that should never have been, who had defied all odds to live and grow up, at risk now because of his discovery? No, he couldn’t dwell on that. What else had Jorl said? The Yak expected his friend to hand him the drug?

“How? You said he’s a senator, not an imbecile. You’re not a pharmer, Jorl. Does he think you can Speak to me and I’ll give you a cookbook recipe and that’s all it takes?”

“It’s because he is a senator that he’s blinded to the pragmatics,” said Margda. “He’s used to making decisions, setting plans in motion, and acquiring the resources and talented personnel to manage the details for him. I understand him perfectly well; he is ambitious and convinced beyond any dissuasion that he is right. It’s a special kind of monster that would torture a child to achieve his ends.”

Arlo paced the room, much as he’d often seen Jorl do when anxious, his ears flapping with each step. The space wasn’t big and it didn’t take long to complete the circuit several times. He stopped in front of the Matriarch, brought his trunk up to grasp her chin. He jerked her into place and stared into her eyes.

“That’s the heart of this, isn’t it? You believe this senator could do all of this, harm my boy, destroy a world, all because in his head he knows he’s right. You believe it, because you’re the same kind of monster.”