I reached behind the D’Dsellan dictionary and grinned, letting my tongue hang out one side of my jaw. Just enough . . .
Just then, an alarming popping sound alerted me to the peril of leaving any appliance unsupervised. I loped back to the kitchen, chips in one paw, only to find the pot of noodles had grown an intimidating mushroom of foam, fingers of it dripping down to the hot surface to spatter, pop, and hiss. As I hurried to contain the disaster, the tube of pseudo-cheese ruptured with the heat and sprayed over the side of the pot, forming a rapidly blackening crust. Some landed on my snout and arm, repulsively sticky.
First things first. I grabbed the handles and yanked the pot from the heat. The foam grumbled as it subsided, but no longer threatened to spill over the entire kitchen. I remembered, belatedly, to turn off the unit, adding a tang of scorched fur to the ambience as the attractive fringe under my forearm failed to clear the heating surface. Formerly attractive, I whined to myself, using a damp towel to extinguish any still-smoldering hairs while assaying the damage. I’d have to trim the rest to match. On both arms. I could hear Ersh now: A waste of good mass.
Meanwhile, the pseudo-cheese had completed its escape from the tube and formed a nauseating puddle on the countertop. And down the front. The resulting combination of smells overpowered my presently sensitive nose. I cycled reluctantly . . .
My Human-self didn’t care for the smells of burned starch, singed fur, and liberated cheese product either, but its duller olfactory sense let me ignore the combination. However, this form wasn’t as large or strong as my birth one. Wiping droplets of water from my skin, I considered the now ominously large pot of boiling water, noodles, and dying foam. A little protection was probably in order before attempting the next stage.
After making sure everything but the empty oven was safely off, and damming the runaway pseudo-cheese behind a line of spice jars, I went to my room and pushed through the double row of silk caftans filling my closet. Behind was a wall, as one might expect, but unlike those at the back of most closets, mine was a second, concealed door. I keyed in the code, worrying what the pseudo-cheese was doing in my absence, and didn’t delay any longer than it took to reach in somewhat blindly and grab some clothes suited to this form.
Back in my room, I realized I’d grabbed my winter coat and a pair of shorts, but had no time to pick anything else. Cooking was dangerous stuff.
For a wonder, the cheese had behaved. The noodles, however, were now a sullen mass at the bottom of the pot. I shoved my sleeves out of the way, already too warm in the coat, and stood on tiptoe to decant most of the water. Steam immediately billowed up from the sink and I blew frantically to keep my line of sight free. The noodles didn’t budge, even when I shook the pot.
I wasn’t going to be defeated by pasta. My steam-dampened hair trailed into my face as I heaved the pot down to the floor, somehow keeping it from crushing my toes. The noodles were too hot to touch. No problem. I found the utensil in one of the drawers that Paul used to pick up and turn animal parts on the grill. The toothed edges bit into the lumpy mass in a most satisfactory manner.
I was able to pry loose enough noodles to fill the bottom of the fluted Iftsen baking dish we’d been given by a grateful client. The rest appeared permanently attached to the pot and I wasn’t about to argue. Outside it went. Let’s see how you like the weather, I told it, only to discover conditions outside as close to balmy as Minas XII could provide. At least I could be sure that would change.
Meanwhile, the puddle of pseudo-cheese had cooled and thickened, but I scraped and pushed until most fell onto the noodles in the dish, forming little mountains of yellow-orange. The next step was, in my opinion, the only reason to make this particular meal. Making sure the top of the bag of chips was sealed, I put it on the floor, gathered myself, then leaped as high as I could before landing with both feet on the bag. It made a most pleasing sound.
I sprinkled some now-flattened chips on the noodles and cheese, then critically examined the result. It didn’t look quite right. In fact, the bits of green between the yellow-orange looked more nauseating than food probably should. I poured chips over the dish until all the offending cheese was covered.
Into the oven. Which I planned to watch very carefully indeed.
I dropped into the nearest chair, postponing the need to deal with the devastation around me for a moment. Cleaning the kitchen was going to take more energy than cooking, and I’d have to be done before Paul arrived home. Done, and with the revolting dish on the table. I shrugged off the winter coat and sagged a little more.
Would it work? I’d watched Paul make this before. More to the point, I’d seen when he made this. Humans had a term for it: comfort food. Paul’s was this—he called it Auntie Ruth’s Quick Macaroni, and claimed a distant cousin named Susan had added chips to the treasured recipe.
I didn’t consider the concoction remotely edible, regardless of how many talented Ragems had contributed to its creation. Yet I’d seen how any tension eased from my Human’s face and shoulders when he pulled it from the oven, how his eyes crinkled at the corners as if he was holding in a laugh. He’d offer me a share, almost apologetically, then be quite visibly pleased when I refused.
I nibbled on a fingernail—a habit appropriate to my birth-form and less so to this one—and pondered being Human. This reaction to a particular meal was not something I understood. As Ersh would doubtless remind me, I was probably too young.
Whether I understood it or not, I was counting on it. Paul was web-kin and friend. He needed unbending. And, I sighed to myself, it went a little distance toward an apology for making him lie—again—for me.
Keeping an eye on the seemingly cooperative oven, I went in search of a mop.
My offering went well, though Paul insisted we retrieve the pot. I’d hoped he’d let it sit outside until the next sandstorm, which would either scour it clean or remove it altogether, but had to concede his point. It wasn’t nice to add flying kitchenware to the navigation hazards facing our visitors. Minas XII was challenging enough for those who dared her skies without the risk of dead noodles soaring through the clouds.
“So, Old Blob,” Paul said peacefully, leaning in the doorway to watch me chip away at the mess. “Any problems arranging our passage to Picco’s Moon?”
“None,” I said, grunting as I worked.
“Ah,” he said. “You called Joel.” I swiveled my head so I could glance over my shoulder at him, amazed.
Then I lowered my ears. “Bah. You’ve been eavesdropping.” The Human had become quite adept at avoiding observation; I’d long suspected that sort of expertise went both ways. He certainly knew whenever I’d had a misadventure and thus had to courier myself home in a box, no matter how circumspect I’d been. Not that those incidents were as frequent lately, I told myself, having learned the hard way to arrange a source of extra mass near me at all times. Our clients assumed the multitude of potted plants in my office meant I’d prefer those as holiday gifts. Fudge. I really preferred fudge.
Paul’s laugh rumbled in his chest. He came away from the door to join me at the sink. “Here,” he said, nudging me aside with his shoulder and hip. “Let it soak a while.” As he filled the pot with hot suds, he continued: “I don’t need to eavesdrop, Old Girl. You are a little predictable when it comes to asking for help. And we both know Joel can’t say no to your charming, tusky self.”
“Or to you,” I countered, happily abandoning the pot to chemistry in order to follow Paul into our main living area.
This was my favorite part of our home, cheerfully crowded by chairs of varying size and shape—supposedly as a courtesy to any nonhumanoid guests, but in reality to provide comfort to any nonhumanoid me. Paul had arranged them to offer a choice of view. Either window overlooked the front of our home, which as often as not meant staring at the massive shutters saving those windows from Minas XII’s hyperactive weather. The other focal point was the fireplace, with its stone mantel host to my collection of
images of Paul’s offspring sitting on my broad Lishcyn knees at several pivotal moments of their growth, nestled around a set of large, never-used gift candles whose fragrance made both of us sneeze, and, newest addition, a three-dimensional close-up of a truly stunning tusk inlay I desperately wanted but Paul considered a bit extreme for the office.
I was wearing him down.
There were shelves loaded with readers, vids, and puzzles. A tall stand in one corner sprouted chilled bottles of wine and beer instead of vegetation. And somewhere, on the floor, I distinctly remembered we’d put down some expensive and colorful Whirtle carpets a while ago—now lost beneath what was a cozy, albeit crowded, place meant for living.
There were no secrets here, no dictionaries for languages unknown to the Human Commonwealth, no collections of information that would be impossible for Cameron or Ki to explain. Such wealth was safely stored within my mass; any I’d shared with Paul locked either in his memory or in our hidden machines. Yet, given enough wine or a melancholy mood—or both—my Human would talk to me for hours about the library we could build, if we dared. At such times, I believed he truly understood how incomplete my life sometimes felt, without the sharing and assimilation of mass.
Not that it felt that way now, I thought contentedly, heading for the waiting chessboard. But Paul didn’t take his seat, as I’d expected. Instead, he went straight to the closet beside the fireplace and pulled out our carrysacks, tossing one in my direction. “Packing,” I objected firmly, “gives me indigestion.”
“Being awake gives you indigestion.”
Possibly true, but hardly polite. “Fine.” Perhaps if I gave in to his efficiency, we’d have time for a game. “Pass out my other sack.”
“One is all you’ll need.”
“One!” I sputtered indignantly. “One?? I’ll need at least two. Maybe,” I scowled, “three.”
Paul shook his head, grinning at my outrage. “We’ll be in one of Largas’ freighters or climbing rocks for the entire trip. Not to mention we’ll be carrying our own baggage, Fem Ki, which means you’ll be carrying yours. I presume you’ll want one hand free in case it’s night when we disembark?”
My shudder wasn’t completely theatrical. My Lishcyn-self, having no night sight worth mentioning—unless one wished to say something derogatory to an otherwise peace-loving being covered in tough hairy scales and possessed of a body that could splinter most furniture just by accident—had a healthy aversion to dim light, let alone full darkness. Paul was right, as usual. I must be able to carry my lamp. “One sack,” I sighed. Then brightened. “But I’ll have to go shopping. For the return trip.”
His lips twitched. “On Picco’s Moon?”
I’d already thought of that. “The freighter makes another stop on the way home. Urgia Prime!” Low standards, great shopping. Despite my anxiety about what was happening on Ersh’s mountain, I showed Paul both tusks. “Might as well enjoy ourselves.” The first thing I’d buy, I promised myself, would be a new set of matched luggage. Ready-to-fill luggage.
Apparently Paul didn’t share my enthusiasm. His grin faded and a look of growing suspicion was wiping any remaining humor from his eyes. “Let me get this straight, Esen,” he said in that voice. “You asked Joel to not only find you a ship to Picco’s Moon, but arrange a stopover—there of all places? How did you manage that?”
“I said you’d been working very hard,” I said defensively. “You needed a vacation. Joel agreed with me. That’s all.”
My Human sat down on the couch. His eyes didn’t leave mine for an instant. “What else did he say?”
My third stomach lurched slightly as I perceived I may have been a little quick to assume Human responses would match my own in this instance.
As I hesitated, Paul added firmly: “Exactly.”
Exactly? I cleared the contents of the unruly stomach, shunting them into my fourth with a gulp I was reasonably sure even a Human could hear, and sat as well. “Which ‘exactly’ do you mean? We talked about a few things.” Relationships between ephemerals were such complex and tricky things. I’d had some problems in this area before. But I really couldn’t see what I’d done wrong this time. Joel was our friend.
And more. Joel Largas was the recently retired founder of Largas Freight, which owned most of the starships worth using on Minas XII or anywhere in this part of the Fringe. By any reasonable measure, he still ran the company—it just looked as though his plentiful offspring were in charge. In practical terms, this made Joel Largas almost a partner in Cameron & Ki Exports, since we relied on his ships above all others. A powerful being, by Minas XII thinking. It was a fairly common belief that what Joel Largas didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing.
As that included the truth about us, I heartily agreed. Joel Largas, his family, and friends had escaped the destruction of their homeworld only to be attacked by Death, a web-being with a taste for intelligent flesh. Their survival and new life here owed everything to Joel’s grim determination to make them a new, safer home.
That his daughter, Char Largas, had found Paul Cameron in that home, and together they’d added two grandchildren to the Largas’ dynasty, simply reinforced the need for secrecy. Easily done—refugees understood a desire to look ahead rather than to the past. Joel had welcomed Paul into his extended family with a keen appreciation of my Human’s sterling qualities, taking me as part of the package. Over the years, we’d come to enjoy one another’s company in the way of old friends who find the rest of the universe occasionally perplexing. He was the one being I could talk to when Paul and I disagreed. To Joel, I was never so much in trouble as troubled—a refreshing attitude I valued highly.
“Esen. What did Joel say about our leaving, now, during all these negotiations?”
I hunted for something neutral. “He was sure you knew what you were doing.”
Paul ran both hands through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than usual. “Dare I ask what you told him that was?”
“Well, I couldn’t, could I?” I said primly. “You were the one making the excuses at the office.”
“So what did you say?”
I noticed the edge to his voice, but for some reason I went on happily, much the way migrating tendren once plunged over the walls of the Assansi Valley: “Oh, you know Joel. He agreed family always comes first.”
“Pardon?” Paul, like Ersh, could instill one word with a positive wealth of consequences. Negative consequences.
I cycled before my stomachs could embarrass me completely, leaving warm damp spots on the furniture and floor as I shed both excess heat and mass. Better than the alternative. “I might have hinted you planned to visit the twins,” I admitted in a voice made higher in pitch and softer by virtue of a smaller set of lungs, snatching enough of the woven blanket from the back of my chair to cover most of my now-shivering self.
Paul ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, surely an uncomfortable procedure, then glared at me. “We agreed long ago there would—never—be lies about my family. Esen. You promised.”
“I didn’t lie,” I protested, confused by his distress. “I only hinted. I said it had been too long since we’d seen Luara and Tomas. That’s true—it has been years. And their ship does the Urgia run from Omacron—you told me that. I’d like to see them, too. They’re so much older now—they must be different. I thought ...” Something quite desperate in his face stopped the words in my throat. I swallowed, hard, knowing what I hadn’t until now. “You don’t want to see your offspring again.”
My web-kin turned over one empty hand; his eyes seemed just as hollow. “I said good-bye, Esen, when they left home. That wasn’t for a week, or a year, or a handful of years. It was forever.”
“Why?” Aghast, I stood up, clutching the blanket because my Human-self needed the comfort, trying to make some sense of what Paul was saying. I’d helped raise the twins—a very pleasant series of memories. And more. “How can you say that?” I heard my voice cracking. “You love them—I lo
ve them! Why?”
“I have my reasons, Es,” Paul said heavily, getting to his feet. “I’m going to pack.”
A younger me would have let him leave, afraid of the truth. I counted it as the penalty of maturity that I reached for his arm and grabbed it with my too-small hand, that I looked up into his troubled gray eyes and insisted: “Why?”
“Because—” Paul hesitated, studying my face—a version he could read all too easily—before coming to a decision. “I don’t mean to upset you, Es,” he said in a low voice. “But it’s because when they left, they were beginning to ask questions. Questions I couldn’t answer.”
There was such a thing as too much truth. I dropped my hand and backed away, but my Human continued as if he hadn’t noticed, or as if he felt further mercy unnecessary to us both: “It’s bad enough I lie to everyone else. Did you think I could bear to lie to my own children?”
“About—me.” This Esen had an annoying habit of leaking fluid from her eyes. And hiccuping.
“No, Es,” Paul said very gently, though his face had grown pale and stern. “About me. They wanted to know my past. It’s what Humans do, at the age when we start to contemplate our own futures. It gives us continuity . . . and a way to measure our own accomplishments. We talk to the older members of our family, gather the threads of their lives, make sense of our place in its history. But Paul Cameron has no past. I couldn’t, for their own safety, give them Paul Ragem’s.” He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, then said, almost lightly. “For all my practice with lies, I couldn’t utter one to answer them.”
“Paul, I—”
“It’s all right,” he interrupted, as if it was his turn to fear what I’d say. “I keep track: where they are, how they are doing. It isn’t hard. They’ve become good, strong people, busy with their own successes. I’ve simply—faded—from their lives. It’s all right,” he repeated, more quietly. “They have their mother’s heritage. That’s something to be proud of, being a Largas.”
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