Trapped

'Just between you and me, I hate the way aliens can predict the future. It's fucking spooky.'

'How do they do it?'

'According to them, superior brainpower. One of them gave me this analogy: suppose you see a rock perched on the edge of a cliff. You're smart enough to know the rock will fall sooner or later; a wind will blow it over, rain will erode the ground underneath, some kid will shove it off just for kicks… however it happens, you have no doubt the rock will plummet eventually. But lesser intelligences can't make that connection — a dog or a cat or something similar just can't see what's bound to happen.'

'And these aliens compare us to dogs? We're surrounded by rocks on the edges of cliffs and we're too stupid to recognize the inevitable?'

'Exactly,' Vanessa said. 'Also too stupid to recognize our limitations. When someone else says, 'This is obvious,' we don't believe it. We think it's a trick. We call it unfair or illogical… when really, it's ridiculous to regard ourselves as the ultimate judges of what intellect can do. Our brains are only a few million years ahead of a dog's; and some alien races evolved billions of years before we did. On the ladder of intelligence, we're barely off the ground — but it sure is a bitch living in a universe where so many species are smarter than you.'

So the Explorer went where she was told. To the Feliss Academy. She didn't believe anything important could happen in such a backwater… but one should never bet against the Spark Lords.

Opal spread her hands, then let them fall into her lap. 'And that's the end of my story. Or the beginning of someone else's. Take your pick.'

Annah and I didn't speak for several seconds after Opal finished. I was overwhelmed by the thought that this woman I knew had come from outer space; but when I considered her scientific knowledge — and those moments during past conversations when she'd catch her breath to correct me, then fall silent like someone afraid to reveal too much — I could believe she had been born on some world more advanced than Earth.

Even more boggling was the idea that she'd been assigned to our school in anticipation of some crisis. Five years ago, when Opal became chancellor, how could anyone foresee Rosalind's arrival and the use of a bioweapon? Could Spark Royal's alien allies really be that smart?

It was Annah who finally broke the silence. 'It's an amazing story, chancellor,' Annah said. 'But I'm… it's… why did you tell us?'

Opal gave a humorless laugh. 'Because I've been dying to tell someone for years. And because a sort of a prophecy kind of thing says Phil is going on a quest. I was an Explorer once; I don't like people heading into danger when they don't know all the facts. So I thought I should tell you what I could.' She paused. 'But remember, Phil; it's still secret. Don't go blabbing to those drinking buddies of yours.'

'I'll keep it quiet,' I said, 'unless it really becomes necessary to tell my friends.'

'Fair enough,' Opal agreed. 'And let's hope that never happens. Maybe your quest will go in some completely different direction.'

'At the moment, we don't have a quest,' I said. 'What great deed needs doing? What sacred treasure has been lost?'

'I suppose we'll find out eventually.' Opal shrugged. 'Meanwhile, our next move is obvious.'

'What is it?'

'Call the Sparks,' she said. 'Let them sort out this damned mess.'

5: LOCAL BOYS

Opal had no direct way of contacting Spark Royal; she could only relay a message through Governor Niome in Feliss City. While Annah helped Opal write a note, I went to fetch the school's emergency courier — a seventeen-year-old with the unfortunate name of Wallace Wallace. He was a strapping local farm boy from a strapping local farm, the latest in a line of Wallace Wallaces stretching back two centuries to an ancestor with an unfortunate sense of humor. Like most of his predecessors, the newest Wallace Wallace swore he'd never burden his own son with such a ridiculous name… but considering how consistently his forefathers had surrendered to the weight of tradition, I wondered if our own Wallace-squared would stick to his resolve.

Perhaps he would. This Wallace had a distinction that set him apart from previous generations: a full scholarship at Feliss Academy. He'd earned his place through brains and discipline, not parental wealth. Each year the academy accepted a few exceptional teenagers from the Simka district, without charging a cent for tuition or board. Partly this was a ploy to placate people in the region by helping their best and brightest. Bringing in smart-and-hungry kids also increased energy levels in our classrooms, which otherwise would be populated by well-bred but second-rate plodders who'd grown accustomed to depending on family largesse rather than their own initiative. Added to that, our normal (i.e., rich) students benefited from having floormates who knew the seedier aspects of town — which tattooists used clean needles, which butcher shops sold the best lamb's-skin for condoms, which herbalists kept a supply of jinkweed hidden under the counter. Lastly, the school liked having a few spare hands who could be called upon to run errands in crises… like riding to Feliss City with a message for the governor. It was Wallace's turn to answer the call, which is why I fumbled my way through the pitch-dark corridors and tapped on his door.

He answered immediately… holding a candle and flashing a triumphant grin. The grin faltered instantly. 'Dr. Dhubhai!' he said with a surprised yelp.

'Expecting someone else?' I asked.

'No, no,' he answered in a transparent lie. 'No, no,' he said again, in case I missed his guilt the first time.

Considering the circumstances, I didn't have time to interrogate the boy… but my teacherly instincts couldn't help wondering which of our female students Wallace had expected to find knocking at his door. I couldn't remember seeing him with anyone in particular. Then again, the girl might want to keep their relationship secret; snooty elements of the student body considered kids like Wallace to be 'peasant charity cases' and would mercilessly snub any high-born girl who sullied herself with a 'barnyard beau.' Plenty of girls would still fall for Wallace's charms — he was a smart, pleasant kid, good-looking in a fresh-from-the-cow-pen way — but the stigma of his 'commoner' background might make a blue-blooded belle keep her feelings out of the public eye. The result: she'd sneak into Wallace's room at 2:00 A.M. rather than openly neck with him behind the stables. To be honest, I didn't much care if Wallace conducted a discreet cuddle session with some duchess/countess/heiress… but a horrid possibility crossed my mind.

'Just tell me,' I said, 'you weren't waiting for Rosalind Tzekich.'

'Rosalind? Of course not. She's taken.'

'Who took her?'

'Sebastian.'

By which he could only mean Sebastian Shore, another local boy: son of a successful metalsmith, prosperous by Simka standards but nowhere near the wealth of most students in our academy. Sebastian was a quiet sixteen-year-old who excelled in class but seldom socialized with his peers. He lived in his own head, having little contact with the world around him. When I thought about it, Sebastian might click perfectly with Rosalind Tzekich: both were self-isolated dreamers, staring out that classroom window.

'Doctor,' said Wallace, 'was there something you wanted?'

I shook off my reverie. 'You're the courier on call, aren't you?'

He nodded, not looking happy about it.

'Then get dressed,' I said. 'You're going to Governor Niome, so wear something respectable. Something warm too — it's cold in the open wind. When you're ready, go to the kitchen and pack food for the trip. Then see the chancellor in her room. Got it?'

'Chancellor's room. Yes, sir.' Wallace's face had brightened considerably; on the downside, he was going to miss his midnight tryst… but a jaunt to see the governor obviously struck him as acceptable compensation. He could take one of the school's best horses, see the famous Feliss Government House (home of the largest prison system in the world), and enjoy some time on his own. The city was a good ten hours' ride from Simka — maybe more, depending how snowy the roads were. Wallace would have a pleasant adventure to brag about to his friends when he got home.

'Get going,' I told him. 'The chancellor will expect you in… oh, twenty minutes.' That would give Wallace time to get dressed and packed, plus (if he was smart) a few minutes to write a note apologizing to whichever girl he was standing up.

I've never liked ruining my students' love-lives.

I started back to the chancellor and Annah… then changed my mind and headed for the room of Sebastian Shore. If Sebastian had been close to Rosalind, perhaps he'd visited her earlier in the evening. Perhaps he'd seen something unusual in her room, some indication of an intruder. And perhaps (the thought made me shudder), he was lying dead in his bed with white curds dribbling from his nose. If Rosalind had been infected and Sebastian had kissed her good-night…

I didn't want another corpse on our hands.

Even if Sebastian hadn't been infected, the next few minutes wouldn't be pleasant. I'd have to tell the boy his sweetheart was dead. As a don, I wasn't a stranger to giving students bad news — over the years, there'd been several occasions where I'd had to sit down with someone and say, 'We've received a letter from your home…' — but this was the first time I'd have to tell one of my charges about the death of a fellow student. For a moment, I hesitated outside Sebastian's door, trying to compose appropriate words of sympathy in my mind. I failed utterly. In the end, I took a deep breath and knocked before I slunk away like a coward.

Seconds passed. The boy didn't answer my knock.

I knocked again, louder. Still no answer. I told myself Sebastian was just sound asleep; heaven knows, some teenage boys can sleep through anything. But I couldn't help remembering poor Rosalind lying sprawled in her silent room. With my mouth dry, I gave one more knock… then got out my pass key.

There was no wretched smell when I opened Sebastian's door — just the usual fusty mix of unwashed laundry, cheap lamp oil, and apple cores rotting in an unseen wastebasket. 'Sebastian?' I whispered. 'It's Dr. Dhubhai.'

I hadn't brought a lamp of my own and the room was inky dark, curtains drawn to shut out the tiniest glimmer of starshine. 'Sebastian,' I said more loudly, 'sorry to disturb you…'

No response. When I held my breath, I couldn't hear a sound — definitely no snores or rustles from the bed. Feeling nausea grow in my stomach, I moved forward in the blackness, expecting any moment to trip over books or clothes or badminton rackets: the debris that boys perennially leave on the floor. But I found no obstacles until I bumped into the bed itself.