Why hadn’t Sybil simply told him her enemy’s name, since she obviously knew it? Why hire him to find her, instead of using her own guards?
Rudy picked up the scorched cube. He didn’t believe in coincidence.
It was time to talk to Michael Cristoffen.
And he wasn’t at all surprised that the supposedly confidential flight itinerary for the Commonwealth Research Ship Russell III was one of Sybil’s “gifts.”
17: Happy House Afternoon
I STRETCHED my tongue to its utmost, reaching almost to the outer corner of my left eye, and was rewarded with what had to be the last speck of syrup on my muzzle. What that said about my eating habits, I didn’t want to know. But once the syrup was removed from my fur—a tasty bit of grooming—I looked at the remaining tower of dessert and sagged back in my chair, admitting defeat. “There is something to be said for intermittent meals,” I told my companion, who’d given up some time earlier in favor of watching me attempt to conquer our plate. Mind you, he’d had lunch.
“I was thinking there was something to be said for never being hungry,” Paul said, glancing meaningfully at the ceiling.
I shuddered. “And miss chocolate?”
“You have me there.” A long, comfortable pause. “That was quite the brownie.”
We spent a reverent moment contemplating the remains, our spoons sticking upright from the topmost layer as if we’d planted flags. Or, more accurately, climbing poles. “Do you think they always make it that size?” I asked at last. “Or was this an aberration?”
Paul gave a short laugh. “I dare you to order another one tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. The word was a thief, stealing the ease of the moment. My ears drooped for all I tried to keep them up. Yet, I had to think about the future, make plans to keep our Web safe. . . .
“We have to make plans, Es.”
I should have known Paul would be thinking the same. “Ansky—Anienka—made provision for any web-kin who might stay here,” I assured him. “I used her code to check in. It lets us stay indefinitely without questions, buries information about our being here so it can’t be accessed even by staff. Our room service is paid through a series of blind, unrelated accounts. We’re safe here.”
My Human was shaking his head before I’d finished, a lock of hair tumbling into his eyes that he raked back impatiently. “Doesn’t matter. We have to go.”
“No—” I started to object, then read something in his face that changed it to: “Why?” If there was a hint of a whine beneath, he did me the courtesy of ignoring it.
“Wendy told me she had to leave tomorrow because it would be the last regularly scheduled Busfish to the surface. After that, there are only emergency and supply runs for three weeks. We’ll be trapped here.”
I didn’t need to search my memory for the Prumbin calendar. “Hops Fest,” I nodded, dropping my lower jaw in a satisfied grin. “There won’t be any new arrivals either.”
He gave me that look. “You knew?”
Given his reaction, this seemed one of those questions unlikely to have a right answer. I closed my jaw and gazed back at him in silence.
Paul gently pushed the table aside, then moved his chair so close to mine I could easily have licked his ear—or bitten his nose. “Esen,” he began in a low voice, “I know you are upset—that your instincts tell you we must hide. But unless we can get access to a secure translight com down here, we have to leave. It’s very—” He suddenly broke off and stared at me. “There isn’t one, is there? That’s why you picked Prumbinat and dropped us at the bottom of its ocean.”
“Why would I do that?” I said, trying and likely failing to keep my tone light. Was it my fault that the Prumbins had very firm ideas about how one interacted with their paradise? And one of those was that all communications must be part of a physical pilgrimage in the mouth of a fish?
“You’d do it to keep me from contacting any of the Group. But I don’t understand. Don’t you see? We have to warn them—”
“Why?” I snapped.
“They could be in danger—”
My lips curled back from my teeth in threat, but not at Paul. “Or they could be the danger!”
“Ah.” Instead of looking angry, Paul pursed his lips and eyed me thoughtfully. Finally, he said: “We need to know, don’t we?”
I fought the urge to leap up and pace—the Lanivarian response to stress being an often inconvenient urge to chase down prey—by pressing one foot over the tip of my tail. Hard. “How? Scour their communications and credit ratings? Trace their movements? Find out who they’ve met? We’ve lost the comps and library. Where would we start?”
Counted against the loss of home and family, our hidden machines and their capabilities hadn’t seemed to matter until now. But I had no doubt why our home and warehouse had been targets, but not our office. Our assailants understood as well as any web-being the value of stored information. They were welcome to whatever they found, I thought, wrinkling my snout. Paul had installed devices to melt the interior of every comp and auxiliary, including data storage, in the event of any flesh but ours entering that secret room, or any voices but ours entering the codes. I’d worried at first if even this would be sufficient protection, in part because he’d bought the equipment for this destruction from Diale the impolite and never-trusted-by-Esen tech dealer. But Paul had reassured me: he’d had Rudy add his own touches during one of his infrequent visits.
So if anyone had found our secret room, it would be empty of all but hollow cases and barren shelves. “We have no resources,” I finished.
“That’s not entirely true, Old Blob.”
I gave him my own version of that look. “If you think I’ll be spending the next hundred years or so dictating everything I remember from our files—” I knew Paul cared deeply about the data we’d collected over the past fifty years about other species, but there was a limit.
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
There were moments when I floundered in my efforts to understand my Human, and felt a deep frustration; there were others when I understood him completely, and felt exactly the same way. “You could have told me you made a copy,” I growled, “and saved me worrying about your precious lost data—”
“You weren’t exactly open to the idea, as I recall.”
For what it was worth now, I could recite every word and nuance of our argument over whether it was safer to keep those revealing records in paw’s reach or permit a duplicate set to exist beyond our control. I’d thought I’d won it.
“So I’m not always right.” As his lips quirked at what was a grand understatement, I went on: “Where is it?”
“Well,” Paul hesitated and had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. “There’s more than one. And before you blow up—” interpreting my sudden and noisy panting correctly, “—the data’s secure. I arranged for host systems, each twinned separately with ours on Minas XII so that every bit of information we received was archived by all. But only our system could access the data. Feel better? I can get another up and running, whichever one we choose, by sending a code via translight com. Then we can start hunting for a change.”
I ignored how the word “hunting” lifted the hair along my spine and filled my mouth with saliva; Paul was shamelessly using my form’s nature to divert me from a key point. “How many choices do we have, Paul? Where are they?”
I was right. My Human’s face took on that guarded look, the one he used when considering the possible consequences of telling me something. “One hundred and ten.”
“The Group.” I decided to pace. It was more civilized than biting. He watched me, not denying it, perhaps giving me time to think it through.
I knew his first motivation for sharing knowledge of my existence with these other Humans: Paul accepted his nature as an ephemeral being. He wanted to ensure I had companionship and help after he was gone. Care for such continuity mattered to Humans; I no longer tried to argue the poin
t that I’d outlive them, too. His other motivation? To protect Humans from me or my kind. I never doubted Paul’s friendship; I never doubted his species’ loyalty. I would never betray either, but I knew, better than any of them, how dangerous my kind could be.
I could follow Paul’s reasoning now, and lost the reflex to snarl. His friends were among those who added information to our system—and, because of their understanding, even I had to admit their information was superior to any other source. Who else could appreciate my real need for details on Dokecian art trends or Poptian slang, as well as reports of overdue starships along the Fringe?
Who else would appreciate Paul’s need to preserve what he’d learned?
Even if Paul didn’t share my compulsion to secrecy, he did share my fierce protectiveness of knowledge. In me, it was a treasuring of mass. I was, in a sense, what I knew. The knowledge Paul treasured was in those machines. I shouldn’t be surprised he’d found a way to protect it.
Or that he’d find a way to turn that to our advantage.
“How—no, that doesn’t matter.” I sank back down on my haunches, pretending I didn’t see the relief on his face. “Although please tell me Timri’s isn’t on Kearn’s ship.”
Paul raised one brow. “I said one hundred and ten. Timri doesn’t have one in her care. It seemed wise to have a system outside the Group. So Rudy has one.”
Somehow, I didn’t laugh. Poor Rudy, beset with secrets from both of us. He must wonder if we ever told each other the truth. “Knowing your cousin, I don’t want to know where he put it,” I said, glad my Lanivarian face was less readable than the Human version.
“Ah, but you have to know this, Droolycheeks.” Paul tapped me lightly on the muzzle, as if claiming my full attention. “A signal from either of us will erase the data from any or all the systems. I’ll give you the code. And they’ll self-destruct if no data is accessed in a year.”
The tip of my tail thumped on the carpet. “Use them or lose them.” My clever Human.
“I try.”
“So we have one hundred and ten duplicate machines, waiting to help us make sense of the universe. Not a coincidence, is it, that those machines are the best way for us to find out if their owners betrayed us?” I considered the concept and wrinkled my snout. “I do believe even Skalet would have approved. You are a devious being, Human.”
“Me?” The flash of a grin. “Just trying to be ready for anything, although you do make that difficult, Old Blob. Life with you is—well, it’s never dull.”
“And I suppose you’d prefer boring and predictable?” I teased, then regretted the words immediately.
Paul merely lifted his hand and measured a small distance with his finger and thumb. “I could use a smidge,” he confessed.
I pretended I’d found room for more of the brownie. “I’ll see what I can do,” I promised my first friend, doing my best to force down the mouthful I truly hadn’t needed. “We’ll rest here for a few weeks, then surface and get to a translight com. You can start investigating—”
Paul reached over and ruffled the hair behind my right ear. “Web-thinking,” he said in a light voice, but his gray eyes were serious. “Ephemeral trails grow cold much faster, Esen. We act more quickly, too. Days may count, if we need to be warning those in danger. I don’t think either of us wants safety at the expense of others.”
Well, I thought morosely, one of us might give it serious consideration. “Tomorrow, then.” I leaned into his hand as he switched to my left ear. “As long as all this isn’t just to spend more time with that female. You did say she’ll be taking that Busfish. I,” I reminded him virtuously, “have a perfect memory.”
Paul grinned. “Unnecessary. We’re meeting for supper—hey, don’t bite!”
As I’d only sat up quickly, with my mouth firmly closed, I thought this admonishment uncalled for and didn’t dignify it with a response.
Otherwhere
THE trouble with being a law-abiding, peaceful species was the difficulty convincing others of your intention to act in a lawless and forceful manner.
The Tumblers sent what they considered an intimidating ultimatum to all flesh-burdened aliens on their world, stating, in no uncertain terms and three hundred pages of comscript, that “the climactic moment of departure will echo in a pleasing and memorable harmony for which all Tumblers shall be forever grateful.”
Most aliens filed it under religious dogma, though there was some amused debate about rocks and sexual cycles among the Ervickians. A trio of Human traders, having overheard this debate—being at the same bar and, while not as affected by juice, definitely not tracking on all channels—paid for translight transmission of the ultimatum to several pharmaceutical companies, hoping to be first to corner the market for gem dust aphrodisiacs.
Frustrated, the Tumblers sent a delegation of Elders to chime in ominous and telling discord around the shipcity.
There was an undignified rush of the flesh-burdened from their ships to follow the delegation and collect their ritual leavings, followed by notes professing gratitude and hoping for a similar delegation every day.
The unauthorized throwing of ritual leavings at the flesh-burdened by younger Tumblers only produced more messages of goodwill and happiness. There was also a flood of outgoing coded messages similar in tone to that from a Largas freighter captain, exhorting friends and relatives to hurry and join the rush. As a result, not only did every ship remain, but more arrived every day.
Distraught, the Tumblers leaned to necessity and decided to do what so many misunderstood and distressed species had done before them: fight fire with fire.
Or, in this case, call for Ganthor.
18: Restaurant Night; Happy House Night
I WASN’T behaving well.
It hadn’t required the memory of Ersh’s disapproval or of Paul’s reproachful gray eyes from similar occasions to make me aware. This time, I knew my transgression well beforehand.
And didn’t care.
Sculling more with my left set of swimmerets than my right aimed me at a pair of suited Prumbins. By their substantial waistlines, these were permanent residents enjoying a well-planned and vigorous retirement. They probably never used the dry corridors, where they’d have to attempt to walk for themselves, and stayed in the pond-style suites where they could float without need of suits. I spared a moment to wonder if elderly Prumbins ever missed the sun, or if it was such a relief to be able to move they were willing to pay that price.
The issue of cost was something on my mind a great deal lately. The cost of friendship; the cost of trust. What was it about this female that made Paul willing to risk such things again?
It wasn’t attraction. Not that my Human was immune to seduction, but he was too wise to fall into that particular trap. I’d learned that to my chagrin when I’d tried to “help” him resist the infamous Janet Chase.
No, Paul sought this Wendy Cheatham’s company—or allowed her to seek his—in order to learn something.
Which meant I needed to learn it, too.
The Prumbins moved more slowly than I’d have liked, but their bulk provided admirable cover as the current swept us all closer to the restaurant where Paul and this female were dining. There was nothing more I could do to disguise myself. I’d looked for other Oietae, hoping to avoid Paul’s notice in a crowd, but so far I’d found only mating groups uninterested in anyone Too-Young. Plus, form-memory had reproduced the Greeter’s address on my shell in demeaning detail. I might as well carry a sign saying: Runaway Child—take me home!
I wanted home. Home was my web-kin, or as close as I could possibly get to Paul without being caught.
I was, I feared, acting precisely my age.
I sculled faster to keep up as my Prumbins began to hurry, perhaps sensing they were close to a source of more mass to accumulate. It didn’t help me escape my conscience, but I was used to ignoring it.
No matter where you were, restaurants for airbreathers seemed to contain plant
growth as well as pillars or archways. I remained uncertain how the combination helped the digestion of anything but a herbivore fearing aerial predation, but was grateful this one followed tradition, since I hoped either pillar or plant might hide one small Oieta from view. It was a new section of the Happy House; the Grub Grotto wasn’t a name Ansky would have chosen for a dining area—another indication, had I needed it, that this restaurant had been added by its Prumbin caretakers after my birth-mother had died as an Artican.
Skalet had judged Ansky’s death proof of the folly of interacting with ephemerals, and had dared threaten Paul. The only argument I’d ever won with my web-kin had to be moments before her own death. Yet, I thought, because of Paul, I alone had survived.
Despite its pragmatic Prumbin name, the Grub Grotto deserved its billing as the most sophisticated and elegant dining establishment along the Brim. Its ceiling was deeply concave; the floor bubbled up in the center as if eager to meet it. Both were clearfoil, opaqued only where tables and chairs ringed the floor—presumably so those seated could find their napkins when they dropped. Mine always did. The plunging sides of the fissure beneath the restaurant were bathed in gentle ultraviolet light, so diners could gaze down at the luminescent wildlife of the Abyss as it dined as well. Few bothered, because by looking up at the ceiling one could gaze into an area where brilliantly orange- and-black Oietae were, well, not dining.
From the wet corridor that circled the restaurant and led to its several air locks, I could see very well for myself that they weren’t dining—not one of what could be over a hundred individuals, depending on when you looked.
Technically, they were eating. I ate with every pulse of water directed past my mandibles. What else could you expect from filter-feeders? These Oietae, however, also were busily engaged in the most sensual aquatic ballet imaginable. I’d have turned orange myself just from watching, if I hadn’t had other things on my mind. As it was, I stared long enough to lose my Prumbin escort and had to swim furiously to catch up to a sled of luggage being towed by an attendant.
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