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Wedgewood
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The walk-lanterns were lit, as were ladder and porch lights in the tree houses and forts. Seen from afar, they looked like giant will-o’-the-wisps hovering high in the trees. Baryy stood at the front window of his cabin. The low ceiling gave him scant room to stand, but he’d become used to it.
Outish turned to wave as he headed out on the path from the cabin, and Baryy grimaced as the intern backed into the low gate and fell over it. “Oh, smokes—” he reached for the door when Outish quickly sprang up and signaled, “I’m okay!” He dusted himself off under the walk-lamp. “Nothing broken!” He waved again and hurried off into the night.
“What did he do?” Achelous asked, pulling his muse from the fire.
“Oh, nimrod turned to wave and fell over the gate.”
The chief inspector sniffed in humor.
“He smacked his head hard. Those Halorites are tough.” Baryy took a chair in front of the fire; his rigid posture and the way he raised his heels belied his tension. “Well, at least he’s gone for a while; we won’t have to worry about him.”
Achelous pursed his lips and gave the barest nod. They’d sent Outish to Murali’s to play dice with Mergund and Lettern with strict orders to drink spiced cider only, to which he fervently agreed. The trio had taken to wandering Wedgewood together, Lettern the de facto chaperone, or at least steady rudder. “You have the bots ready?”
“I do.” Baryy eased off his elbows. “Atch, is there no other way to do this?”
Achelous continued to stare into the low fire taking the chill out of the cabin as the thin mountain air surrendered its heat to the spring night. “Probably, but I think this is the easiest and maybe the most accurate.” He gave the agent a smirk, the firelight reflecting in his brown eyes, “It is certainly the most creative. Besides,” he reached for the iron poker, “we have a deal. I get to test Cordelei, and you get to guide Mbecca.”
Baryy let out a long sigh, bouncing his heels. The fire popped, and a log hissed, steam bubbling out its end. Achelous let him stew with his thoughts. Baryy needed to reconcile their situation to his own satisfaction, at least to his own grudging avowal. Baryy could continue to suffer through his angst, watching passively as people he knew suffered and died around him while he held the knowledge to cure their ill, or he could do something. Helping Daryan's father had been simple enough. A dose of plaque-eating bacteria followed by a dose of the arresting agent cleared his heart blockage. The former Warden of the Seventh had returned to the practice field for the first time in a year, cutting and stacking with his axe like he'd never left. Unfortunately, Daryan's mother, a woman of only forty years, was a different story. Firmly in the grips of the Timber's Curse, she languished in their blacked-out lodge, hiding from the blinding daylight. She was dying, and Daryan knew it. When her mother died—and die of the tumor she most certainly would—how could he look Daryan in the eyes?
Achelous was offering the opportunity, opening the door for him to help Daryan's mother and all the Timberkeeps, and yet he was bound by the same oath that Achelous had taken: to uphold ULUP and protect native societies from outside influence and the depredations of extrasolars. However, Fate had thrust two opposing needs at his singular set of values. He believed deeply that saving human lives from disease on Dianis was equal to saving humans from Turboii food factories. Perhaps more so as death by a curable disease was a waste of life, a travesty upon the human conscience. Whereas death by Turboii harvesting was, unfortunately, often not within human power to avoid. On the one side, the Avarian Federation spent huge sums of money to fight the Turboii, and on the other side, they spent significant resources enforcing ULUP, and ULUP essentially said if the provincials couldn’t care for themselves, let them die. It could be argued the Avarian Federation’s cause, the prevention of human extinction, was superior. But Barry was powerless against the Turboii, whereas he had power against cancer.
Where, how, do I draw the line? He thought. On primitive worlds whose populations are at odds with each other, how do you prevent aid to one society from causing the detriment of the other? Rather than establish a court to manage a complex set of laws to weigh and balance actions for the total benefit of all life on the planet, ULUP imposed an infinitely more workable and harsh system of complete isolation. The imposition of free will without interference. Let nature take its direction; let the strongest survive. The problem was Baryy could not, would not sit idly by as someone died when he had the power to save them.
So, Achelous had struck a bargain with Baryy. Achelous needed Baryy’s help, and Baryy needed him. Achelous would cover for Baryy while the agent worked with Mbecca to surreptitiously expose the cause of the Timber’s Curse and develop a cure. Treating the cancer was curing the symptom. They needed to cure the disease.
In return for Achelous’ assistance, they would visit Cordelei Greenleaf.
“Okay,” said Baryy, looking straight at Achelous. “It’s dark now. I’m sure she’s waiting for us.”
An owl piped in the evening. A promising mate answered back with a warble. Baryy listened as they waited below the eves of Cordelei’s cottage, away from the well of illumination cast by her walk-lantern. A light showed through the shutters in her windows. Achelous toggled through the displays in his multi-func, flipping pages in the Auro Na bible as he did so. He set the aural signifier to scan and found three aural signatures in the target radius: his, Baryy’s, and a female target whom he assumed was Cordelei. He zoomed in on the female subject and set the signifier to “Monitor.” He waited while the signifier calibrated to the woman’s steady state. Her aural readings were nominal: well within the parameters for a calm, unalerted person, with – according to the scan – a mild case of depression. Her biorhythms were down but nothing of concern. Tapping the Transmit to Embed icon, he closed the bible. “All set.” In the dark, he noted the bob of Baryy’s head. The multi-func was now programmed to monitor the female within the cottage and transmit to Achelous a variety of signals indicating the target’s emotional state. The embed in his thigh picked up the signal and would vibrate when the woman’s baseline state changed. Achelous knew most of the signals by heart, particularly the ones that indicated lying or concealment. Admittedly, and with some shame, he’d used the practice on Marisa. He was an undercover agent in a potentially hostile environment, and he could not risk being double-crossed.
They knocked on the door and made their introductions. Cordelei Greenleaf fit her nickname: Sour Dour. The corners of her mouth were turned down in severe arcs, her lips thin, and her jaw set in a firm clamp. Sadness veritably wept from her eyes as if all the world’s sorrows bore witness through their lenses. She had a slow, deliberate manner as she crossed to her viewing table and sat, carefully arranging her long woolen skirt. In stark contrast, and in some odd attempt to obviate her character, she wore a colorful Doroman scarf over her white linen blouse. If Achelous were to guess, he’d say she was fifty years native, though life on Dianis was harder than on a federation world, so he could be wrong. She could be much younger. Sour Dour, I bet you are.
She came straight to the point, “Baryy tells me you have need of a reading?”
“I am,” said the chief inspector. He withdrew the required coins from his purse and placed them on the table.
She reached her hand out to his, stopping him. “Please, I will collect my payment afterward.”
He shrugged. In the adjoining kitchen, a lamp turned low emitted a feeble flame; only coals glowed in the fireplace, and one single, tall candle in an elaborate glass holder sat on the viewing table off to one side. Otherwise, the cottage was dark. Incense, a rich aromatic version he’d never smelled before, burned in an incense pot somewhere. Baryy’s chair creaked as he shifted beside him. “Yes, well, before we get started, do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
Her eyebrow gave the barest twitch. “That is why you are here. You come bearing questions; I divine their answers. It belongs to you to issue questions worth my fee.”
“State your name for me.”
She arched her eyebrow but answered, “Cordelei Greenleaf.”
“Where do you live?”
The eyebrow stayed in place, “Wedgewood.”
Achelous needed to ask a series of calibration questions to make sure his multi-func interpreted her answers correctly.
“Have you ever seen me in any of your dreams before?” He was concerned about what the diviner may already know about them. Her auguries could potentially wander anywhere, in Wedgewood or the galaxy, and according to Gail, they may even be able to expose the IDB.
“No,” she said perfunctorily as if he were bothering her with useless questions. The attitude tone in his thigh shifted up, reflecting her mild annoyance.
“Give me your hand.” He reached out, and she grasped it. Her fingers were cold.
“Tell me a lie.” He asked, “I need to know how you react. Tell me you are going on a voyage tomorrow and try to make me believe you.”
This time the tone in his hip elevated to mild agitation, but her only visual cue was a shift in her jaw. She complied, painting a remarkably vivid picture of a sailing ship leaving the Sea Haven League. At first, his embed buzzed with distinct tones of lying and untruths, but as she went on, the tones started to mute. “Okay, that's good,” he didn’t want her to get carried away with a flight of fancy. Apparently, she was a dreamer in more than one fashion. He deliberately paused to let the hum settle back to baseline and then asked, “Have you ever dreamed of Baryy.”
The agent shifted uncomfortably in his chair, not liking the potential implications of his boss’s question.
Cordelei looked hard at Baryy but made no move to retrieve her hand from his grasp. “Yes.”
“What was the dream about?”
She backed off; her face became cloudy in the glow of the candle. If possible, her jaw tightened further, and she gave a brief shake. “I don’t remember.”
The embed tone changed. Cordelei wasn’t exactly lying, but she wasn't trying to answer. Perhaps she couldn't express what the dream contained. Achelous would have to ponder the implications later. “Thank you.” He let her hand go. "Your patience is appreciated. Now for my questions about the future. I have four to start with.” Cordelei charged by the half-hour, not the number of questions, and she gave no guarantee that she could or would see the future on behalf of the client. If she became exhausted by the client’s questions before the half-hour was up, the client still paid the full fee. In the dim light, Achelous noticed an hourglass on the dresser behind the woman. Judging by the sand in the bottom glass, she had turned it when she answered the door. Hmm, no loose bookkeeping here.
From his satchel, he withdrew five pieces of parchment and sat them face down on the table, blank sides up. Cordelei’s attention riveted on them. He felt the buzz in his thigh spike to something akin to a mixture of fear and excitement. By the way her eyes danced across the blank pages, even though the drawings were face down, the woman saw through them. Genuine, she is a real sensitive, he thought, relieved. At least Baryy is on target so far. But what kind of sensitive is she? And how good?
She lifted an arm and turned her shoulders to the dresser. In a practiced motion, not taking her eyes from the parchment, she retrieved a pipe, a taper, and a leather pouch. Opening the pouch, she extracted a pinch of a dried green herb and packed her pipe. Tearing her gaze from the paper, she held the taper over the candle until it caught. Bringing the pipe to her mouth, she lit it with the taper and puffed. Smoke curled out of her nostrils as she absently shook out the taper. The smell assailed him. He leaned over to Baryy. “Marsh cat.”
Her eyes flickered between them, grey orbs in the glimmer.
“Shall we begin?” Achelous held the corner of the first page, and Cordelei gave a quick nod.
He turned the page over, revealing a stylized, hand-painted picture of an object Cordelei would not know, the company logo of an obscure equipment manufacturer. It was a control glyph, the icon of a real entity, but the probability of the dreamer having seen it or anything similar would be minuscule.
The prescient’s brows knit, and a frustration hum registered in his thigh. That’s interesting, he thought. “Do you recognize this drawing? It is a rendering of a company shingle; it is like a coat of arms. It represents the firm and its interests.” She looked up from the glyph. “I’m not a child; I know what it is. And no, I have not seen this one. Please continue.”
Achelous glanced askance at Baryy, who shrugged.
He turned the next page. It was a picture of an emblazoned comet flying through a stylized compass against a black background dusted with silver stars, the logo of Celestial Navigations.
Cordelei picked it up and scrutinized it. At length, she handed it back. “These will come later.”
It was the chief inspector’s turn to knit his brows. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Baryy looking at him. “What do you mean, later?”
She shook her head impatiently, “Not now, later. They are of no concern.” He mulled the implication of Celestial Navigations becoming involved on Dianis, either now or later. It fit with a plan he stewed over, but he couldn't decide whether that was good or bad.
As Achelous made to turn the third page, the prescient took another hit of her pipe. Smoke drifted in the air like a marsh wraith, irritating his eyes. He flipped the page over.
She shook her head. “These come in name only. This image, but not the men behind it.” She tapped the logo of three intermeshed gears and the menacing maw of a mechanical beast. Baryy's rendition of an ore extractor.
“This image, but not the men behind it?” Achelous repeated, almost to himself. She glanced up as if a new thought came to her. “Imposters.”
“You mean someone will come posing as them?”
Her gaze stared past him, the permanent frown deepening to a hard grimace. “Replacements. No—” she shook her head, the distant gaze unwavering. “Agents, mercenaries. Paid men.” The tingle in his thigh told him she was giving it to him straight, unfiltered, as best she could interpret what the combined vision of the marsh cat and her skill unveiled. The embed even added tones of excitement and expectation.
“Fine,” he said, turning over the fourth page revealing a strange sailing ship at anchor in the background, and a man in armor, holding a sword standing on a beach. A provincial, similar to a Plains Doroman farmer, stood facing the warrior. “What about them?" He pointed to the soldier, "Do you see them in the future? Do you see them here on Isuelt?” He knew the graphic, depicting a scene and not an object, was interpretive, but he was prepared to offer more hints of a corsair. Regardless, it was important for Baryy to hear what Cordelei had to say with as little prompting as possible.
She lifted the page and then took the page with the gears. “These,” the prescient said of the ship and soldier, will come as these,” and she waved the glyph of the gears.
“You mean those,” and he pointed, “will come masquerading as those?” Again he pointed but to the gears.
She nodded tentatively. The buzz in Achelous’ hip told him she spoke the truth but still struggled with what she saw.
“When do they come, and where? Can you tell us that?”
She set them down and picked up her pipe, puffing thoughtfully. The fog drifted to the candle, then swirled up and away. “Soon.”
“What is soon?” he demanded, a note of exasperation creeping in.
She stared at the drawing as if it held her spell bound. Dreams, drug-induced, danced before her vision. Breaking her trance, facing Achelous directly, “Soon, but not as soon as you would like. Much will change and happen before then.” A shudder ran through her.
Achelous sat back. Then Baryy asked, “Can you tell us where? Where will they land?”
Prying her eyes from the page, she looked at him with newfound interest as if he were finally worthy of attention. “North. In Mestrich.”
Finally, a definitive answer. Baryy hissed at Achelous, “The false coordinates. The bastards have access to our data system. We set the coordinates for the abandoned silver mine in Mestrich.”
Achelous riveted on Baryy. “Cordelei sees the future, a possible outcome of the future. A thread of Fate. But even Fate can be changed. I've not yet filed the exact geo-coordinates for our little ruse.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because with only a regional coordinate, it forces the extrasolars to search a wider area and gives us time to prepare. Time to set the trap. She sees what will happen after we post the exact coordinates. Now that we know they will take the bait, I will update the reports with precise data and alert Clienen.”
“And here,” she said.
Achelous looked at the voyant. “And here what?”
“They will come here as well,” she said simply, her gaze off in the dark, the candle casting her to a yellow hue.
“Here? Come here as well?” He was stumped.
She slowly swiveled her unfocused eyes to him and narrowed their aperture. “Wedgewood.”
“Shiren,” Baryy cursed heavily.
This was going too far. Achelous made to retrieve the fifth and last page, but Cordelei slapped her hand down. Her index finger pinioned the paper. Achelous looked up. She stared hard at him, unyielding. The buzz in his thigh told him anger, and she looked at him and Baryy as if seeing new images; the embed hum turned to sorrow, sadness. Achelous noted the sand in the hourglass drain to the last grain. She kept her gaze on him, boring in.
Achelous leaned far back in his chair, half expecting a violent outburst. The buzz in his thigh gave off a confusing array of signals. “Baryy—”
“Yes?”
“Arm the bot.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. Time's up.” Achelous held the stony gaze of Cordelei as she said, “You haven’t asked any questions about this one.” Ice dripped from her tongue as she pinioned the page beneath her finger.
Baryy got a clue something was seriously amiss. Puzzled, it dawned on him he didn't know what was on the fifth chart. Achelous had added it just before they left the cabin. Baryy stood, shoving back his chair and opening his purse. He heard Achelous say, “What question should I ask?”
She took the image of the gears and placed it beside the sheet under her finger. She could not see its image with her eyes. She didn't need to. “Will you live to fight Nordarken Mining?”
Baryy fumbled his purse, dropping it on the floor. “Nordarken Mining?” he hissed. “No one said that name.”
In the dim light, Achelous knew he’d gone pale. A deep-seated paranoia about learning his future gripped his heart. He fervently believed no one should ever learn their future, whether they lived, loved, cried, or died. “Baryy, trigger the blasted bot,” his voice came out a croak. If he leaned back any further, he’d tip the chair over. To keep her distracted while Baryy set and armed the Probuteral bot, he sought to say something, and by some morbid volition, he asked, though his instincts screamed not to, “Will I live to fight Nordarken Mining?”
Cordelei squinted into the gloom. “There is a woman; you love her. She will plead for your life with another far, far away.” Achelous could hear the tiny whine of the nanobot’s wings spinning up.
“I see a ship in the heavens,” and she pointed at the ceiling. “A silver cup and sticks that shoot fire.” The bot was airborne. “Many will die. She will—-” Cordelei jerked upright, held stock still for an instant, then collapsed with a thunk of her forehead on the table.
The transition so sudden both Achelous and Baryy remained rooted.
“Uh, what was that about you dying?”
“Oh no. Oh no.” Achelous shook his head. That’s not right! She needed to finish! He stared at the unconscious form of the prescient, her head, shoulders, and arms sprawled out across the viewing table. “She didn’t get a chance to finish that part!”
Baryy let out an exasperated groan. There was no chance of asking her now. The probuteral would wipe her memory and short circuit her aural repository going back at least a day. When she woke, she would find herself with a nasty bruise on her forehead, four silver durkets richer, and no clue as to how she came by them. They could, of course, try to rerun the test, but sixthsense was a quirky thing. Her readings of the charts would be different because she had already seen them, even if she didn’t remember them.
Achelous retrieved the five drawings and tossed them one by one unto the coals of the brazier, where they flared, casting a garish light across the gloom. He was about to throw in the last one when Baryy asked, “I know the logos we agreed to; what was the fifth?”
The inspector paused, his hand halfway to the fire, “It was another control glyph, but it turns out I didn’t need to show it to her. She read all of them face down before I flipped them.”
“What is it?”
He turned it over. The image was of two fists, a lightning bolt in one and a twisting vine in the other. Between them was the figure of a farmer guiding an ox-drawn plow. Emblazoned above the farmer were the initials I.D.B. “I wanted to know, given the right trigger or clues, if she could augur us. Apparently, Gail was right. The Dianis sensitives can see us.”
Baryy’s eyes were wide and black in the fire light. “She went from the IDB control glyph to Nordarken Mining without you turning the chart.”
Achelous said nothing.
Baryy said it for him, “That’s not good. We’re not the only thing they can see.”
