Hidden in Sight

by Julie E. Czerneda

  I had our carrysacks moved into a cabin on the ’Lass and joined them as soon as possible. Paul had covered our business lives with as many delays and confusions as he could imagine—a busy office being the best deterrent to curiosity in our employees. To avoid causing confusion of a highly suspicious nature, I decided to stay out of range of questions.

  An ephemeral lack of patience had nothing to do with it, I assured myself as I paced in very small, concentric circles. Exercise was important to any form. Well, there were some sessile forms where exercise was primarily a matter of constricting internal organs at the appropriate moments, but my Lishcyn-self could use a little more than that.

  But after an hour of such pacing, I was faced with an unpleasant truth.

  Paul and Wolla should have arrived by now.

  Punching in the com, I asked, nonchalantly enough: “Any word from Hom Cameron or Meony-ro?”

  “No, Fem Ki.” I knew the voice: Silv Largas—prone, as most newly minted captains, to forget he paid his crew for such menial tasks as answering the com. Then again, he was a being who tended to anxiety of his own. He didn’t need mine.

  “Thank you.” I hit the com button again. I’d planned it to be a controlled movement, but my strong Lishcyn fingers crumbled the outer casing. I’d have to make sure I compensated Largas for the damage.

  Inane thought. It was better than any alternative, starting with the one that I’d let Paul run a potentially dangerous errand because of my impatience.

  Ersh would have bitten a strip off me for such carelessness.

  Had I thought it would feel more painful, I would have done the same to myself.

  Otherwhere

  WEATHER on Picco’s Moon was a rare occurrence, unless one counted the daily fingering of valley rims by mineral-laden mist. There was the occasional breeze as cooling air sank down shadowed slopes. With almost no moisture outside the valleys, such breezes did little more than moan through cracks and crevices, a dirge taught to young Tumblers as the signal they were out too late for safety and must remain stationary until dawn relit the perils of the surface.

  This Tumbler heard the sigh of night air through the rocks’ wounds but didn’t dare stop. The Elders no longer understood their world; there was no longer safety in stillness.

  It tumbled a familiar path that soon became strange with shadow, each roll as slow as possible, each second a greater risk. It was brave, if such a term had meaning for the crystalline folk. It was determined to succeed, where others had not.

  There had been a message received, a request invoking the mighty name of Ershia, the Once Immutable. There was no doubt they would comply; no questions need be asked.

  There was no doubt the task was dangerous. This Tumbler, healthy and strong, was the fifth to be entrusted.

  It stopped, having heard a sound other than the wail of the coming night.

  There were trespassers on Ershia’s Mountain. The Tumbler had seen for itself the machines of the flesh-burdened, done its best to notice what might help identify those ravaging the peak. They moved by shifting two pillarlike structures, but so did many who came and went through Picco’s shipcity. Other body parts appeared to flap loosely, as if about to drop to the ground. Like many who were soft, they scampered about with unsettling speed and in erratic directions.

  They took from the ground.

  At the memory, the Tumbler chimed to itself, a single note of dismay. This was not the foolish trade in ritual leavings. These flesh-burdened used their machines to rip apart the living mountain, throwing what they stole into the maw of a starship somehow fastened to the cliffside. What rock they didn’t choose to keep was carelessly dumped over the side, a growing talus of desecration.

  The sound seemed closer. The Tumbler’s instinct was to freeze in place, to meld into the strength and power of the rock on all sides. But rock could no longer save itself. Somehow, the Tumbler forced itself to lean forward and roll away, not knowing what lay ahead in the path . . .

  But knowing death lay behind.

  6: Dump Afternoon

  “SO pay attention next time,” I muttered under my breath, wrestling the aircar back into its lane. I could see the driver of the other aircar making a very rude and improbable gesture at me through what remained of his forward windshield.

  I wasn’t fond of flying. Not like this, anyway, strapped into a machine inclined to overreact to the simplest commands. But I hadn’t been in the mood to explain to anyone who might drive for me why I wanted to go to the Dump, nor why I had to go immediately.

  There were enough lies floating around already.

  Which had meant taking myself, at an admitted risk to the rest of the flying public. A minor and mutual risk, I assured myself. I’d worry about repairing the bottom front shielding of the ’Lass’ aircar later. Not that anyone would ask for an explanation; I’d acquired an unfortunate reputation with moving vehicles over the years.

  Before and after the mishap, I was on course straight to the heart of Fishertown, the area that had once been its shipcity and was now something else entirely. The Dump.

  As landscapes went, this one lied more than most. In the Dump, grounded starships pretended to be buildings. Roadways concealed themselves under roofs. The very flatness of the scene misled, for the lava that had poured into this irregular valley, smoothing it with pillows of shiny black and red at the shoreline, raising the rest above sea level for the first time in aeons, was rotten to its core. Each outflow had added its own deceptively smooth and fragile crust, the result riddled with tunnels and hollow spaces where one expected strength. Sensible beings wouldn’t have built anything more than a road over it. Better yet, a bridge.

  It was, I’d told Paul more than once, simply another good reason not to linger when visiting the Dump.

  But ephemeral beings, seemingly incapable of leaving behind either dead ships or dreams, lingered their entire lives here, no matter the risk. Humans, as always, had the temerity to nickname the occasional failure of a lava tube—and inevitable collapse of any buildings above, with loss of life and livelihood—a “dive.”

  Dives occurred at least once a year, most often during the monsoon season, when the tunnels filled with runoff and already brittle walls were scoured thinner by sharp gravel washed from the heights. Starship captains, grounded or otherwise, appeared oblivious to such facts of nature.

  Perhaps, I decided, it was more that they chose to believe their ships would someday fly, preferring to be oblivious to reality itself.

  As for reality, I knew where Paul had expected to find Hom Wolla. I’d asked the crew member who’d prepared the aircar. I seemed to be the only being on Minas XII who didn’t know the Iedemad was addicted to salt. Mind you, I’d never have guessed it in a sluglike creature who required an osmo-suit to function in anything other than water-saturated air.

  I did know there was only one place in the Dump with enough salt on hand and a clientele who wouldn’t object to slobber or slime, being prone to it themselves.

  Dribble’s Trough. A popular watering hole for Ganthor, as well as our missing Iedemad.

  Paul was probably happily practicing his clickspeak with whichever herd was presently lurking around. He could lose hours that way.

  I certainly hoped so.

  Landing was a skill I’d made some effort to acquire, hauling Meony-ro to the rooftops on his mornings off. He seemed bemused by the entire exercise—though that could have been due to his frequent hangovers—but was an excellent teacher nonetheless. It was in my flesh to respect the knowledge of relatively older beings, so I did pay attention. It didn’t hurt that landing was patently more useful than lane holding or traffic regulations, particularly to my Lishcyn-self, which wasn’t fond of heights—or landings, for that matter.

  This time, my approach and touchdown were textbook perfection, something guaranteed by the total lack of an audience. No doubt any innocent passersby heard I was coming, I grumbled to myself, taking a moment to set the auto-sentry. Copi
ous signs in a variety of languages, all equally misspelled and all having been used for target practice of some type, served as ample reminder the Dump wasn’t a place to leave things unguarded.

  The parking lot for Dribble’s was on its roof. Or rather, was the roof. I climbed out of the aircar and put my foot down as though about to step on a relative’s eggs. My previous experience with the construction of such things in the Dump was, to put it mildly, memorable. This time, the roof held, accepting my other foot and full weight without so much as creaking. Well, it vibrated, but that seemed to be a feature of the building. I smoothed the silks of my third-favorite caftan over my ample thighs, settled my least-favorite beaded bag on my chest, and ran one fork of my tongue over my tusks for a final polish before taking the lift to street level. Dribble’s might be a seedy, disgusting bar where only the dregs of Dump society gathered, but it was a public place. My Lishcyn-self cared about appearances.

  Humans weren’t the only species with a predilection for gathering in noisy, inebriated groups—just among the more docile. Their bars thus tended to remain intact over the years, begrimed by memories of the stickier sort and any scars lovingly cherished as souvenirs of brawls some patrons claimed to remember later. This probably explained why Human-run establishments gradually spread throughout shipcities where Humans prowled in any numbers at all. It wasn’t that they were more successful barkeeps—their buildings simply out-survived more challenged establishments.

  Dribble’s, for example, wasn’t run by Humans. For that reason, among others, it was presently in its fifteenth incarnation, judging by the number of shiny “Open Since ...” plaques hammered into its somewhat cockeyed doorframe. The number of partial restorations would be much higher but such wouldn’t rate the pride of an opening ceremony. Rrhysers were a species who knew how to throw a party. And furniture. And customers.

  Things seemed reasonably peaceful this afternoon: no stretchers or repair crews in sight. I did watch where I put my feet as I negotiated the stairs. This wasn’t an unusual caution—my Lishcyn-self had rather generous feet—however, in this instance, my somewhat obsessive attention to the footing had more to do with what lay, squirmed, and otherwise coated most of the steps leading down to the main entrance. Rrhysers let their offspring play anywhere they chose.

  Offspring with very pointy teeth.

  Child safety was one reason for the Dribble’s location. The Dump might lie within the boundaries of Fishertown, but the city administration kept hoping if they ignored it, it would go away. So there were no servo street sweepers or disposal collectors to mistake a young Rrhyser for litter.

  Customers, I groused, forced to stretch precariously over the second-to-last step to miss a pair playing squirm-and-go-seek, evading a quick snap in my direction, fended for themselves .

  No children on the floor inside, which was just as well. They’d probably get lost in the debris. The bar must have enjoyed a rare amount of peace and tranquillity lately. I dropped a handful of chits into the waiting hand of the bouncer, who didn’t look up from whatever she was reading but, to her credit, did lift an older model weapon scanner vaguely in my direction. I wasn’t armed, but the thing couldn’t go off in any case—I could see its power pack on the floor beside her seat. More to the point, I’d seen the Rrhyser’s broad nostrils open and close, checking me for any illicit substance. You weren’t allowed to bring your own.

  Proprieties observed, I headed through the entrance to the bar itself.

  I’d unconsciously kept my hand on the bag around my neck, ready to snatch out the powerful lamp I carried with me whenever there was a chance of entering a room with lighting designed by beings with superior night vision than my present self’s. The old joke about losing a Lishcyn in a closet by closing the door was regrettably accurate. But Dribble’s was very well lit, even by my standards—a wise precaution in an establishment where blundering into someone in the dark could mean being mistaken for an appetizer.

  Well lit, but crowded. I was taller than some here, especially the nonbipedal, but it didn’t help. I tried to filter the din for Paul’s voice, but my exquisitely sensitive ears kept flattening against my skull in a futile attempt to protect themselves.

  The place was more a broad hallway than a room, with openings on either side. There was a bar at one end—at least, I assumed the lineup in front of me was for drinks—and musicians on an overhead scaffolding were pounding out the latest Rrhyser dance rhythms, explaining the vibration I’d felt on the roof.

  I made my way through the crowd, surprised by the number of species represented here. The Circle Club, Fishertown’s most successful multispecies’ restaurant, could hardly boast such variety—except on all-you-can-ingest nights. Maybe it was the music? I was no judge in this form. My Lishcyn ears were tone-deaf. I did know it was loud.

  The openings from the main room were large three-sided chambers; each was similar in size and shape to the others, but differed in their decor. Perhaps the Rrhyser had rebuilt those portions of Dribble’s at different times—or under the influence of different substances. The one to my left was an eye-damaging fluorescent orange, from wall hangings to blocklike seating; ahead to my right was another furnished with what appeared to be rotting wood, piled into irregular platforms. Regardless, the result was a sequence of drinking areas that appealed more to certain species than others. I shook off the uncharitable image of a zoo where the inhabitants paid the keepers for beer.

  I eased out of range of the pair of Rrhyser waiters arguing over which of them had seen me first. The adults might seem fairly standard tripeds, soft-voiced and peaceful, but their tempers were infamous. I had no time to be distracted by the thumping of chest plates, ritual or otherwise.

  I was here to find my Human.

  Of course, there were Humans to be found. Predictably, they weren’t conveniently all in one place, but instead had scattered like spilled noodles throughout gatherings of other species. When I was in a hurry, nothing was ever, I thought with growing disgust, ever easy.

  However, I didn’t need to look for Paul—one humanoid among the hordes. I should find him wherever this Wolla was sloshing about in salt, which meant a pool or tub large enough for an Iedemad. I kept moving among the semidrunk—the truly drunk apparently favoring the security of an inclined posture—and those attempting to join them. Since the means of achieving this blissful state differed with biology, I had to watch for errant puffs of intoxicating vapor as well as overfilled containers. My Lishcyn-self was reasonably invulnerable, unless there was a tub of steaming, bubbling water involved.

  The mere thought inspired a lengthy contemplation of blissful and rather naughty ideas, during which I likely stepped on a few limbs.

  Enough of that! I scolded myself. In another form, I would have blushed at those vivid memories, all stemming back to that embarrassing incident on D’Dsell. My Lishcyn-self fought the urge to flash a lecherous tusk or two.

  I continued forcing my conveniently large and robust self through the throng, muttering a running commentary that went something like: “Sorry. Excuse me. Not interested. Isn’t that your mate over there? Oh. Still not interested. Excuse me. Was that your—appendage? Sorry.”

  The sound of splashing brought up my ears. There. After struggling past another pair of trenchant, chest-thumping waiters—sharing of any sort, including tips, never having been a successful strategy in Rrhyser society—and the thirsty patrons awaiting the outcome, I found myself standing triumphantly by a pool. A round, raised, and very dark pool. With rows of gleaming black eyeballs floating on top. All looking at me.

  “My mistake,” I said, backing away slowly in case this wasn’t a male-only party of Carasians.

  I had no time for this, I complained to myself, then looked at the situation more rationally. If I was having trouble finding this Wolla, so would Paul and Meony-ro—not to mention what they faced trying to pry the being from his salt supply. If the Iedemad was thoroughly osmofied, it was unlikely he’d grasp the
concept of a planet, let alone a ship leaving one.

  My ship. Which was waiting to take me to Picco’s Moon and Ersh’s Mountain. My impatience and worry took a distinct turn toward irritation. How had I let Meony-ro talk us into this?

  I knew the answer. Guilt. The other side of secrets.

  “Es? What in the—What are you doing here?”

  I flicked both ears forward and open to capture every nuance of that most welcome sound: Paul yelling at me.

  He was safe!

  Then my now-opened ears picked up furious clickspeech from behind Paul. That was alarming, but not as much as the even more furious answer from behind me.

  I might have jumped to the conclusion about safety a little too soon.

  I didn’t need Skalet-memory to tell me the last place to be caught by surprise was between two herds of unhappy Ganthor.

  Otherwhere

  THEIR precision was pleasing.

  As was action after years of observation. This move had been planned and practiced, with variants calculated around setting and time—elements beyond control, but always offering unique advantages. The figure watching at the console nodded with satisfaction. This was better than anticipated.

  Efficient.

  She traced the edges of the display lightly, with one finger, interpreting the multiple feeds as if they were extensions of her own senses, all the while effortlessly predicting the next move by each of the individuals they represented. So far, she hadn’t intervened; not for their pride’s sake, but because it hadn’t been necessary. She’d trained them, after all.

  Her finger paused over a small square of yellow, then covered it for a moment.

  Time to grow up, Youngest.

  7: Dump Afternoon; Tunnel Afternoon

  THERE were moments I could swear I didn’t just remember Ersh, but could hear her voice ringing in my head. An ephemeral conceit, perhaps. Right now, that voice, imagined or not, was loud and aggrieved: And this is how you remain inconspicuous?