Lawrence Schoen - Barsk - The Elephants' Graveyard

“No, though I meant that, too. The agonist enhances the Speaker’s abilities. The simulations were inconsistent as to the extent of the power, but the potential was too great. No one should be able to do what it would allow. The other thing, the burning out of the ability entirely, I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe, just maybe, this could end things. That your senator would take the drug back to the Alliance and spread it far and wide, happily believing he was freeing all of their Speakers from the chains of Barsk. And then, in a few seasons, at most a local year, one by one they’d go blind to the nefshons and stop being able to Speak. Back before I died, when I first realized what I’d created, I thought about that same prophecy of the Matriarch’s, the one that had you so bothered? ‘ When the dead will not answer, the Silence is at hand, and the fate of all Barsk will soon hang in the balance. ’ I thought maybe that’s what I’d stumbled on.”

Jorl gasped. Arlo’s interpretation of that line of prophecy changed everything! “Maybe you did. Maybe that’s what the Silence is, and not a couple hundred Fant stolen away instead of Dying.”

Arlo smiled. “Maybe. Prophecy is tricky stuff, I think. I wish I’d thought to ask her when I had the chance, but you know how it is when she’s talking. All other thoughts go right out of your head. Which reminds me, that Brady? She did a scan of Pizlo and said his brain shows the same patterns as Bish’s precogs.”

“Huh. That might explain a lot, like how he knew where the Dying had gone, and how he got up here in the first place.”

“The thing is, that’s what changed my mind, Jorl. I saw my son, helpless and hurt, and I heard that Brady suggest that he could end up working for the senator, and it all just came together. I knew that giving Bish the drug wouldn’t work. This is the same monster you said killed all the old Fant right in front of you.”

Jorl bit his lip, the unwanted memory flooding in again. “Not exactly. He was in charge of the Urs-major who did that. I only saw him give the order to kill that Bear, but he did it so casually, not out of anger or with any emotion.”

“Okay, but my reasoning still holds. Wiping out the Alliance’s Speakers wouldn’t defeat or cripple him, it would only enrage him. The Sloth’s comment about Pizlo’s abilities cleared it up for me. All of this is personal to him. What kind of man can contemplate torturing a child or just as easily save him because he’s a potentially valuable resource? Giving him the drug would be a horrible mistake in the long run.”

“But you made it anyway.”

“Because … I could be wrong. What if I’m blinded by my own fears? By the emotions that well up when I think of my son? What if the Matriarch is right?”

“Ar, you know your drug and you’ve had more time to think about its ramifications than anyone else. Do you think she’s right?”

“No, I think she’s blind, too, that she’s the same kind of monster as Bish, and like him she rushes ahead believing everything she sees is all there is to see, and forcing reality to bend to her will. But here’s the thing. We’re not hypothesis testing. Maybe I’m right, or maybe Margda’s right. This isn’t just a simple thought experiment to play with in the lab. It’s real and will affect every living Fant. That’s not the kind of decision that should be left to two dead ones. I’m really, really sorry, Jorl, but I re-created the drug to put the choice in your hands. It’s your decision to make.”

“I can’t—”

“No, you’re the only one who can. You have the tools. You’re a Speaker, you’ve studied all of the Matriarch’s prophecies, you’ve researched other critical moments in history and seen how individual decisions have rippled to produce both intended and unexpected outcomes.”

“I really think you’ve over—”

Arlo vanished in an eyeblink, and Jorl’s home with it. He sat on a stool in the lab on senator Bish’s ship, his back against a transparent wall. The senator’s aide had a tight, three-fingered grip on his right ear. She had entered the clean room and stood over him, round face surprisingly close to his own.

“—stated my abilities.”

“What abilities are those?” said the Sloth.

“I … never mind. It’s nothing. Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“You were asleep. Understandable, I’ve seen how diligently you’ve been working, and I know how taxing it must be. But the senator has already queried me twice, and while he can be mollified by my sharing how hard you labor, he will have no patience for napping. Are you finished?”

“Finished? Um, no, not quite. Soon. I’m down to the last few steps of the process. You can tell him that I’ll be done very soon. But, uh, even so, he still needs to be patient. He’ll have to wait another day, for the drug to … set.”

“It needs to set?”

“To work right, yes. Like … like a pie you’ve just baked, you need to let it cool. Not the best analogy, but you understand, right?”

She let go of his ear and eased her way to the exit. “Finish your work. I’ll inform the senator.”

ITdidn’t help Lirlowil at all, knowing that everything around her was just a mental construct. She hadn’t made it, and she couldn’t unmake it. Couldn’t so much as strike a light. Instead she’d been trapped in the dark for … days? She couldn’t tell; couldn’t sense her physical body at all. All she had was her mind, that magnificent mind that had always served her so well until that stupid Urs-major had upended her life. But no, even he hadn’t truly done more than inconvenience her. The real blame belonged to that horrible Fant!

Margda had locked her up in a closet within her own mind. And not even a proper closet, more like a pantry with papered shelves and sealed, glazed pots of dried herbs and vegetables. And all of it bound in finished wood, floor and walls and ceiling. She’d smashed a few of the pots, testing the edges of her volition and marveling at the details the Fant had included in what would have been false props in her own constructions. Why include sensory specifics for the contents of sealed pots tucked away in a cupboard that was never intended to be opened — let alone occupied — in the first place? A grudging respect colored the edges of her hatred. Clearly she had failed to develop her Speaker’s skills to their fullest, relying on her telepathic talents instead. And yet Margda, no telepath herself and only a nefshon construct, had taken control over Lirlowil’s own talent and thrust her into this imaginary closet.

And it was killing her.

Her prison didn’t have to stay completely dark. Her telepathy had been co-opted, her control of nefshons overwhelmed by the Fant, but some perception remained. She could, if desired, perceive her own nefshons, that glowing, golden blanket that every Speaker learned to dismiss from awareness in her very first lesson. Except, she had no such blanket. The construct of the pantry in Margda’s nonexistent home overlay any image she might have had of her physical body. Instead she perceived only a single golden thread, one end connecting with the mental image she had of herself in this place. The thread ran a short distance in the darkness and then disappeared, right where Lirlowil could feel the pantry’s locked door. But if she touched the thread, she could sense the Fant on the other end. It connected them, mind to mind, and try as she might she could not sever it.

But as she gripped it and tugged and twisted, Lirlowil could feel Margda on the other end, could taste both the fatigue of that evil mind and the weariness of the body she’d stolen. And that was her hope.