The Golden Specific by S. E. Grove Page B

“that I am a liar of the worst sort. And there is no doubt that I have lied to you. But I would beg you to keep in mind, as you learn of my deceit, that the deceit is not only perpetuated for a very good reason, it is required of me—by my government, by the League of Encephalon Ages, and by my own sense of honor.”
    Bronson and I shared an astonished look. A knock on the door announced the arrival of our dinner.
    Wren served us roasted chicken, broiled potatoes, and carrots with minted butter. We’d had no cause to complain of the meals aboard the Roost
.
They were always exceptional, if mysterious—I had never been able to get a straight answer about where all the fresh vegetables came from. But though Wren encouraged us to eat, we could not. Our food sat there, getting cold, as he began his account.
    â€œI am not from New Occident at all,” Wren began, looking each of us straight in the eye in turn. “I am from Australia. My entire crew is from Australia. We are carefully—meticulously, even—outfitted to resemble a ship and crew from New Occident. Each of us has been trained in the history, customs, and speech of your Age. But, as you have discovered, Minna, our training is not perfect. In point of fact, we are not permitted to have contact with anyonefrom your Age without approval, so there are few occasions to test the adequacy of our training.”
    â€œThen why the deceit?” I asked, utterly perplexed. “Why go to so much effort if you do not even speak to us?”
    â€œThere are circumstances,” Wren continued, “in which communication is permitted. One is the circumstance that allowed me to take you on board: when a person’s life is at risk. The second, more common circumstance, relates to our mission aboard the Roost : to infiltrate and gather information about your Age.”
    We digested this. “Information?” Bronson said.
    And I said, at the same time, “Then you are spies?”
    â€œYes,” Wren sighed. “I expected you to see it that way. Yes, we are spies. But let me explain further; I promise you that our intentions—at least the intentions of those aboard this ship—are entirely benign. A moment earlier, I mentioned to you the League of Encephalon Ages. Our Age, Australia, belongs to it, as do the other Ages that lie temporally beyond New Occident.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” asked Bronson.
    â€œYour cartologers and historians have begun to map the ‘new world,’ as you call it, is that right?” We nodded. “If the new world were to be ordered by place in linear time according to the pre-Disruption world, some places would lie behind New Occident and others would lie before it. So the Prehistoric Snows are in the distant past, and New Occident in the nineteenth century.” We nodded once again in agreement.“The Ages that lie beyond your Age, beginning with ours, Australia—which experienced the Disruption in the twentieth century—form an alliance: the League of Encephalon Ages.”
    Wren paused, as if he had reached a difficult point in his narration. He looked down at his food and, apparently seeking a distraction, took two or three mouthfuls of chicken and potatoes. “Have you never wondered,” Wren asked, putting down his fork and reluctantly continuing, “why you have not received envoys from what you consider ‘future’ Ages?”
    This left us momentarily dumbstruck. “Of course we have. The challenges of travel are forbidding,” I suggested.
    Wren shook his head. “Not for everyone. In certain Ages, travel is less of a challenge. Australia would be easily able to send hundreds, thousands of people to your shores—every week.”
    â€œFuture Ages would have no interest in dwelling on the past,” Bronson argued. “For the same reason that we do not pack up and move to the Papal States, where they are on the