Lawrence Schoen - Barsk - The Elephants' Graveyard

“He’ll recover then?” It was all he could do to keep his voice from cracking. Tears were building up behind borrowed eyes and he blinked them back.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He has the most amazing immune system I’ve ever encountered. And his cortical scans display the kind of patterns I’ve only seen in adult precognitivists. I’ve no doubt the senator will be pleased to offer him a home.”

Only the Matriarch’s suddenly tightening on his arm kept him from replying. He could feel the Sloth’s eyes on him and he had to remind himself that she saw Jorl, not him, and even then had no reason to believe there would be any connection between the child and the man. He nodded in response, and when he could speak without giving himself away asked, “May I see him?”

“Certainly. He’s only lightly sedated. I have him under simple restraints to keep him from upsetting the dressing on his hands.”

The Otter leaned in and hissed in his ear. “We don’t have time for this!”

He ignored her and crossed to his sleeping son.

Pizlo had been four and a half when Arlo had last seen him, articulate and curious, a born scientist who had already amassed an insect collection that would have astonished adult entomologists. He’d been so small and had grown so much. He would be six now. Jorl had said he’d taken on responsibility for the boy’s education. Arlo hadn’t reflected on what that meant, what a historian’s sensibilities would do to the keen edge of his son’s hunger for learning. No matter, it was just one of the many things he had sacrificed when he had weighed all the options and made his choice. Except, standing here now, alive again, gazing upon his son … he wanted nothing more than to wallow in selfishness and ignore the consequences.

Pizlo stirred in his sleep. He murmured, lips barely parting. “Druz … I had a dream about Tolta and Arlo. He’d come back to tell her goodbye…” His eyelids fluttered open and he stared upward.

“Dad?”

Arlo brought both of Jorl’s hands tightly down on the end of his trunk, forcing himself to smile through the sudden pain. Never once in his life had his son called him by anything but his name.

“Shhh. You hit your head. It’s me, Jorl.”

“Well, yeah, I know that. But does he know you’re in there, too?”

“I have inventory access ready for you,” said the Brady from another workstation.

“Right.” Arlo twined his trunk with Pizlo’s, one final time more than he knew he deserved. “I have to go. There’s something I have to do. I love you, Piz.”

The boy grinned, a wide smile as full of innocence as the morning rain. “It’s all right. You’re going to make sure that Jorl can fill this whole room.”

Arlo returned the smile. “You always were such a strange boy. Don’t ever let anyone take that away from you. And try to listen to your mother. She loves you, too.”

Pizlo yawned, squeezed Arlo’s trunk with his own and then let it go limp as his eyes closed. “I will. I love you too, Dad.”

A moment later, Arlo took a seat at the workstation; the Sloth hovered over his shoulder, offering assistance though he found the interface familiar enough. The orbital station contained seventeen warehouses; five had been emptied by recent transports but twelve more waited, bulging with thousands of cargo pods containing all the riches created in Barsk’s rain forests. The interface let Arlo sort by content rather than by warehouse or individual container contents. He began by compiling a list of the few components he needed, then added three times that amount of other unrelated and useless items, including some that even on a recording would be hard to distinguish from the necessary bits. To save his son, to save all of Barsk, he would give them the finished drug, but maybe he could also manage to keep them from learning how to create it for themselves.

* * *

TIMEseemed to pass more slowly as he worked; it had always been so. Throughout all the years of his life with Tolta, Arlo had come home late for dinner seven out of every eight times. His wife hadn’t complained, instead finding it the secret to their successful cohabitation. Unlike most males, the urge to wander from home had never claimed him. His work kept him away enough. The time he spent as a pharmer ran differently than the rest of time, rewarding and engrossing and ever fresh.

He’d moved into the clean room when his supplies arrived and gone immediately to work. Glancing up and through the wall, he studied the lab. The Brady sat at a workstation as though stone, one three-fingered hand curled in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the screen in front of her. His son lay on the med table, sleeping and healing. And yet Arlo did not doubt that a dozen eyes watched him. Watched and recorded.

Margda had left, whispering to him while the Sloth had supervised a pair of arriving Ailuros in the placement of his supplies. The Matriarch needed to retreat and let her borrowed body rest. He hadn’t met an Otter before, but even he could see signs of exhaustion. She’d rested a hand on his arm, less to reassure and more to hide a tremor that she could not dismiss as easily as she had her host’s consciousness.

Despite the awkward wrongness of Jorl’s body, Arlo’s years of practice in the lab proved to be as much a matter of experience as physicality; he managed his task adequately, owing in large part to the elaborate provisioning of the clean room. The senator had provided every conceivable bit of pharmaceutical apparatus, and not even Jorl’s untrained hands could counter such an advantage. Clearing his mind of thoughts about his son, about the fate of all Fant on Barsk, about the other thing he’d neglected to mention to the Matriarch, Arlo threw himself into the work and let the rest of the world fall away. That focus, more than any telepathic trick from Margda, kept him in Jorl’s body and allowed him to complete the work. Over the course of half a day, he re-created the taww derivative that had been his last great achievement in life.

When he had finished, he held a single slim phial of the stuff. Margda would have him give it to Bish, and maybe it would resolve the threat hanging over Barsk, but only for a time. In the end, the drug would not be seen as a boon, but as a betrayal, and from what Jorl had said of the senator, Arlo knew his reaction would be brutal. He didn’t understand the scope of galactic politics nearly well enough to guess if the result would be the destruction of his people, or an increase in the Alliance’s dependence on Barsk. Either way, being dead, it wouldn’t touch him. And that was the point. Even with the threat to Pizlo, the choice wasn’t his to make; it would have to be Jorl’s.

Now that he had finished, his concentration began to slip away. He could feel Jorl, like a pressure against the inside of his skull. Lightheaded, he sealed the phial before he inadvertently spilled it. The Brady still hadn’t moved, frozen like a statue, that one. All the same, he took a flask of water from a stand where moments earlier he had set it to heat and waved at her.

“I need a quick break,” he said. “I’m feeling a bit dizzy. Would you like some tea? I find it very refreshing during labwork.”

The Sloth’s head came up. In an instant she was staring right at him.

“I’d wondered when I saw that among your supplies. Thank you for the offer. I have no need of refreshment, but I wish you enjoyment of yours.”

Her focus returned to her work station and she returned to her stillness.

Arlo simply shrugged. It had been a burst of inspiration to add the expensive tea leaves to his list when he saw it amidst the inventory of items. Fanning both ears, he added what he needed to the water, steeping it even as he moved a bench closer to the wall so he could sit and lean.