“I have the highest respect for you, Project Leader Kearn. You know that.” Cristoffen’s skin was like transparent porcelain, flawless but quick to suffuse with blood. “That’s what happened, sir. I was lucky.”
Kearn pursed his lips. He’d given a copy of the Port Authority analysis to Comp-tech Timri. He loathed the necessity, but needed someone with the expertise to understand it. He trusted Timri more than anyone else on board, which was barely, but she’d been trusted by Lefebvre, who’d never been a fool. Kearn didn’t want to know if Timri, in turn, sought other help among the crew. He did want to know what she had to say before disputing Cristoffen’s earnestness.
“You must be more cautious in future,” Kearn told his assistant, watching how the suggestion pleased Cristoffen. Not that he’d found such suggestions were ever followed by anyone under his command. He pretended to relax, flipping the pages, aware Cristoffen flinched whenever one was creased by his fingers. Something in here is dangerous, Kearn decided, wondering glumly if he really wanted to find out what. He’d had so few months to enjoy the peaceful life of a researcher, taking the Russell III—now fully provisioned and funded—wherever whim struck him; being welcomed with open arms—or whatever limbs were appropriate—by academics of every species. There had been luncheons.
Until Michael Cristoffen had begun pushing his notions of where to look for shapeshifter folklore, becoming so insistent Kearn had had no choice but to give in, notions that sent them traveling from place to place seemingly at random, without so much as time for civil conversation. If Lefebvre had still been captain, well, things would have been different. Rudy wouldn’t have stood for such nonsense, Kearn thought wistfully, even from him. But the Commonwealth had installed replacement after replacement, each less content than the one before to stay on such an erratic ship. Hardly a situation to instill command presence on the bridge. Kearn hadn’t bothered to meet the latest one, leaving such things to Timri.
“Was there anything else, sir?”
Kearn rubbed one hand over his face. “Yes, of course, there is.” He scowled at Cristoffen. “Why did you go to such lengths to meet this—Zoltan Duda? He was just a student. What possible connection to our work did he have?”
For the first time, Kearn thought he saw a hint of fear in Cristoffen’s eyes. “It’s in my report—”
“Yes.” The Project Leader made a show of flipping pages, then stopped at one. It was at random, but he covered the document with both hands so the other wouldn’t be able to tell. “You cross-referenced several interesting factors here, starting with any connection to Paul Ragem before he—died. Not matter how remote. It must have been helpful to find that list in the Russell ’s comp.”
“Yes, sir.” Confidence. Perhaps Cristoffen felt he was about to be praised.
“And these other factors. Quite the selection.” Kearn pretended to consult the report; he knew the disturbing list by heart. “You specifically looked for Humans, without close family, healthy, who regularly traveled from their systems on business, who spoke one or more non-Human languages as well as comspeak, and—now this is particularly insightful—who had received highly illegal anti-truth drug treatments.” Kearn looked up. “And you found ten names?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve listed them—”
“I see that.” Kearn dropped his gaze to his desk, then pressed his lips together. He could do this. He lifted his head to stare directly at Cristoffen. “What I don’t see is someone capable of performing this level of analysis or of obtaining restricted data.” Kearn was faintly surprised by the firmness of his own voice, and continued before he lost it. “Who gave you these names? And why?”
Cristoffen had half-risen from his chair, hands clamped to the armrests. He hung there as if Kearn’s question had pinned him in place. “No one gave them to me, Project Leader. I found them—”
“AmI a fool, Ensign?”
“No, sir! You’re the hero of Iftsen Secundus—the Shifter Hunter of the Feneden—Project Leader. You—” Cristoffen seemed to run out of titles and sank back into his seat, looking, Kearn thought without pity, very young indeed.
“Let me take a guess, Ensign.” Kearn stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against it. He’d tried propping himself on one hip, the way Lefebvre used to, but his legs were too short. “You’ve been receiving messages from an unknown informant who shares our goal of gathering information about the Shifter species. Detailed, credible, very helpful messages. You’ve been told—” Kearn put up his hand when Cristoffen made to speak. The other closed his mouth, his eyes wide and astonished. “—told that if you reveal the existence of these messages, they will stop.”
“How did you—”
Kearn scowled again, his most reliable command expression. His face wanted to collapse in dismay. Oh, he’d received similar messages, messages that had led him perilously close to Paul—to the Monster. From a Kraal. “It doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is what you’ve been told about these ten Humans.” And why you wanted to kill one, Kearn added to himself.
“It’s too dangerous for you to know, Project Leader Kearn. I can’t let you risk your life.” The younger Human had the gall to look smug at this, as though he’d found the ultimate argument.
And, not so long ago, he might have.
But Kearn didn’t think very much about his own life, these days. And he’d acquired, if not courage itself, then a hearty dislike for the way things happened around him when lives were endangered. “Tell me,” he snapped. “Or spend what little time you’ll have left on this ship confined to your quarters. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir!” The admiration on Cristoffen’s face at the rebuke was vaguely offensive, like the salivating of a hungry Ervickian on the footwear of anyone with credit. “According to my—informant, they are part of a secret organization formed by Paul Ragem before he was killed. Their purpose is to protect the Esen Monster and her kind. As you saw in my report, they are willing to use any means to that end, including murdering Commonwealth personnel. I can’t imagine what they seek to gain—unless it’s their own safety from attack when the multitudes of Shifters invade this part of space.”
Kearn walked around his desk and sank into his chair, feeling somewhat short of breath. “Multitudes,” he repeated.
Cristoffen’s face took on a fanatic’s glow. “The Esen Monster isn’t the only one here. She and others—they’ve been scouting our weaknesses, locating the best sources of—of food. More of their kind are on the way. It’s only a matter of when—and if we’re ready to defend ourselves.”
“Your informant told you all of this?”
“There was no need. I’ve known about the threat of invasion since I first heard about the Monster and your brave hunt. Why do you think I was so eager to join you, Project Leader Kearn?”
A true believer. Kearn began gathering pages, scooping up Cristoffen’s report in the process. “That will be all for now,” he said with the air of distracted purpose he’d perfected years ago. “I trust you will keep this to yourself?”
“I—yes, sir.” Cristoffen leaped to his feet and saluted, an unwelcome gesture Kearn acknowledged with the briefest of nods.
When the door closed, Kearn stopped fussing with plas sheets. He stared at nothing, seeing everything.
Of course Paul Ragem had arranged for help.
He should have guessed, should have known. Ragem had had friends and family, not to mention an uncanny ability to gain the trust of strangers, regardless of species. Kearn had seen him do it. Tough, determined Rudy Lefebvre, who’d poured years into their search for the Monster, had cheerfully abandoned a promising career—and Kearn—when he’d found Ragem alive.
Lefebvre, Kearn nodded to himself, was probably one of Ragem’s Group by now. Maybe leading it.
At what terrible risk? No one in their right mind would accept treatment against truth drugs, unless willing to die for a cause. Because of his deluded assistant, someone had already paid that price for Ragem’s
desperate secret.
A secret Kearn had spent fifty years trying to expose.
Her secret.
Kearn dropped his face into his hands. “Esen,” he whispered, “what have we done?”
10: Greenhouse Night
WHEN confronted by a superior force, and running or hiding, always preferable, weren’t viable options, I had my own, non-Skalet, approach.
As now.
I drew myself to my not-inconsiderable size; though completely naked, I had the confidence of being remarkably clean. My swollen scales covered any biologically curious parts anyway. “Look what you’ve done! Who is in charge here?” I said as fiercely as possible. My left ear caught the absence of an expected breath as Paul held his. I raised my hand to point, a movement that swiveled twenty-three muzzle tips in my direction, and indicated what remained of my fystias. “You realize these are virtually irreplaceable. I had to order them three years in advance, then wait while the rootstocks went through their preliminary fermentation. Now look at them! Crushed. Every stem! And who let you in here anyway?”
My right ear detected the slightest movement of Joel’s fingers on his weapon, still in his hand, though aimed downward. I flicked the ear furiously, as if to dislodge an insect, hoping he’d pay attention. We couldn’t win a fight. My only problem was credibility. Joel didn’t know me as “Esen the Wise and Intrepid Adventurer.” He only knew me as “Esolesy Ki the Well-Meaning Importer,” who took pink mud baths, generally caused more trouble than she avoided, and never forgot his birthday.
Whether or not my warning was understood, the lack of further finger shifting let me turn my full attention to those surrounding us.
Humans. An educated guess, though that body form was common enough to have spawned cross-species’ fashion trends. To my trained eye, there was something telling about how they stood, how their arms bent. Bent arms with weapons at the holding end. Nasty, highly sophisticated energy rifles. Unnecessary in a greenhouse at any time.
They were uncharacteristically identical in dress and size: heads covered in elaborate hoods that doubtless contained sensing equipment; ammunition, equipment, and ropes hanging where such things traditionally hung. I supposed there weren’t too many options that left joints free to move, unless you were Carasian and could bolt your gear wherever you chose on your carapace, preferably in jaunty patterns.
Identical Humans in disguise, interchangeable until one spoke, a male voice, distorted through a mechanical interface. I glumly suspected surveillance vids would record neither image nor sound from our “guests.”
“You won’t need to replace the plants,” the invader said. A gloved hand produced a bone-white tube, etched with designs—a pretty little thing Skalet-memory informed me was a Kraal remote control. Usually the remote part was a large and unpretty container of explosives. Or tubes of poison gas. Or boxes set to release sharp objects. Or . . .
I stopped remembering her list. “What do you have against plants?” I asked reasonably enough, doing my utmost to hold shape.
“Es—” Paul protested almost under his breath.
Not quietly enough. The one who’d spoken turned in his direction. “You are Paul Cameron.” A squeaking distracted me as Largas tightened his grip, preparing to raise his weapon. I flapped my ears again, forcefully enough to make it seem I was trying to fly. “I was told to relay a message to you.”
I approved of conversation in general, especially instead of shooting. I hoped Largas felt the same way. Paul’s answer was steady and cool. “A message from whom?”
“You do not need to know.”
One dark brow lifted. “What’s the message?”
“Good-bye, Paul Ragem.” With those words, every weapon turned on my friend.
There was no time to consider, weigh odds, or think. Ersh, for all her aeons of life and experience, hadn’t prepared me for split-second decisions. She’d done all she could to train me not to react quickly.
I hadn’t always paid attention.
Regardless of the consequence, I took the only action I could. As they prepared to fire, I surrendered my hold on my Lishcyn-form with what I trusted would be a blinding flash of exothermic energy, even as I launched myself in front of Paul.
It certainly felt wonderful.
Web-form. Blind and deaf. The core of Minas XII had more substance to this Esen than the beings standing near me, though I tasted their organics in the atmosphere pressed against my surface. As my true self, I was a being more energy than matter, and capable of manipulating both. So when five bolts of searing energy converged on what would have been Paul, but was now a teardrop of web-mass, I absorbed the death they aimed at him, changing it into more innocuous forms I could release without harm to anyone.
Had all twenty-three fired at once, I might not have succeeded. Had they used projectiles or simply jumped on Paul with shovels, I couldn’t have stopped every attacker in time. It was as well for my peace of mind there hadn’t been time to think of such potential problems with my plan. I’d acted.
Had I succeeded? Regardless of risk, I had to know. I shed mass in a spray of newly formed water, gaining eyes, ears, and an elegant muzzle.
And stood in the midst of destruction. Flames were failing to take hold among the too-moist remains of my garden. Between the stench of scorched earth and bruised leaves, spices from hundreds of different plants, different worlds, my sensitive nose was thoroughly offended. I blinked at the irritation. The tiles had cracked from the heat and telltale lines of soot from my uncontrolled cycling led outward from my paws.
What I didn’t see was anyone else.
Oh, dear.
No bodies. No one. Without taking time to worry why our attackers had left so abruptly, except to hope it didn’t involve clearing the way for something worse, such as a remote-controlled something, I began hunting Paul and Joel.
A groan from beneath a deep coil of fallen vines led me to the former. I pulled frantically at the mass of vegetation. “Paul! Paul!”
To my relief, his head and shoulders appeared almost like magic. After a quick look around to assess the situation, a look that ended in an expression of stunned surprise that probably mirrored my own, Paul heaved his way free of the vines. My Human seemed none the worse for wear, I decided, studying his face.
“You’ve been practicing,” he said with a nod at the mess, the words a little shaky, as if he’d only just regained his breath.
Humor? Not being equipped to deal with life-threatening situations with a smile and wink, I ignored this in favor of a more pressing question: “Who were—”
Paul’s eyes slid past me and suddenly widened. With no more warning than that, he thrust me violently to one side, shouting hoarsely: “No, Largas!”
A crackle of energy discharge passed through the air where we’d both stood the instant before. I whirled in time to see Paul tackle the older Human, pinning him to the floor. He seized Joel’s weapon and tossed it into my wallow. Perhaps it sank in the pink sand. I didn’t watch, my eyes on the two who had been family—before I revealed who and what I was.
I’d seen that look, the one on Joel Largas’ face as he lay panting at Paul’s feet, the one he was giving me. The fear pulling his lips from his teeth in a dreadful parody of a smile. I’d never forget that look; knowing it, I felt my tail slide between my legs.
But the hate in his eyes was a brand new horror. For both of us.
Paul took a step away, then another—staggering, drunken steps, as though Largas’ blast had managed to wound him after all. I squeezed my eyes shut for an instant, unable to bear the sight of my friend’s grief, then opened them.
This was my doing.
“I am still Es,” I told Joel Largas, doing my utmost to keep my voice from a whine. “In this form, Esen-alit-Quar, Esen for short, Es-Es to my friends.”
Joel Largas’ mouth lost its rictus to spit at my feet.
“Let’s go.” At first, I didn’t recognize the thickened voice as Paul’s. He put his h
and on my shoulder. I don’t think he was aware of pressing down so heavily I had to brace myself.
Meanwhile, Joel was struggling to get to his feet, trying and failing. For the first time since I’d met him, he moved like someone very old, in large awkward sweeps of arm and leg as if his joints no longer understood him. Paul didn’t offer to help. Instead he used his grip to jerk me back a step, setting his body between us as though Joel could somehow still be a threat.
I didn’t see how.
“Go. Run.” Joel’s harsh words were said to us both, but I thought he meant them more for Paul, the father of his grandchildren, contract husband of his favorite daughter, business associate—friend. Human bindings, now cut. “It won’t matter.” Joel finally reached his feet, wavering but steady enough. What he lacked in coordination, he made up for in sheer determination. “I’ll find you wherever you hide.”
Cords stood out on the sides of Paul’s neck, as if he’d fought to keep himself from helping the other being. “You have to leave, too,” he told Largas, his voice flat and hard. “They’ve probably left explosives. You know what they did to our house.”
“Oh, you’ll let me leave?” Joel’s face twisted. “But haven’t I seen too much? And isn’t—It—hungry?” The last words were coated in the venom of decades spent waiting for revenge.
I leaned past Paul, the words pouring out in a torrent I could no more stop than I could change my true nature. “Joel. That wasn’t me. It was another of my kind, yes, I admit it, but a mindless monster. You know me—”
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