Hidden in Sight

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Expensive—and one-sided,” Skalet added almost under her breath. The bridge crew, each within a force field and locked to his or her station for battle, were following her stalk around the display with their eyes. Trained, but not experienced, I decided, and hoping for news they were on the side with the Ganthor and not otherwise.

  I hoped so, too. But as I couldn’t imagine any side of anything that could need this many Ganthor, it didn’t seem likely.

  Skalet, as befitted a Kraal noble, wasn’t giving her affiliates any hints. She was, I knew, enjoying their efforts to second-guess her.

  “Any further signals?”

  “More warn-offs from Port Authority, Your Eminence. They are getting quite vehement about it. Nothing from the Ganthor.”

  “They aren’t talkers.” Skalet stopped moving in front of Paul. She tilted her head in question. “And your sources?” She’d let him make one more call once we arrived on the bridge. Monitored, this time.

  “You heard Port Authority. They’re too busy to shoot us down, if that’s what you’re worried about. They don’t need to, do they?”

  “They need our help,” I said quietly, unable to avoid daring this much in a room full of strangers.

  “One scoutship?” Skalet’s laugh was low and rich. She was back in her element again. “What help do you imagine that would be?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Do I?” Archly. “Let me tell you the usefulness of this ship, little one. It’s going to take us where we need to be, then lift us away again with what we’ve come to find. Before the Ganthor shatter this miserable rock into dust and memories.” She turned away from me and snapped: “Take us down, Captain.”

  Whatever else you could say about the Kraal, their way of life fostered an ability to follow the most ridiculous orders, when delivered by a superior in whom they had belief. Arzul-ro didn’t even flinch. “Do you have a specific landing site in mind, Your Eminence?” Challenge offered.

  “You have the coordinates.” Challenge accepted. I took a discreet step away from my web-kin, not being one of those present in battle armor.

  The two faced each other, both tall, thin, and dressed in black, both living weapons. Arzul-ro may have thought himself to have the edge in weight and reach. It didn’t matter. He lasted five seconds before dropping his eyes from Skalet’s and lifting his hands to his tattoos. Challenge withdrawn. “Of course, Your Eminence. The admiral awaits you at the mine.” The bridge lighting began to dim, replaced by a rise in that of the tactical display and from each control panel. A flurry of orders and directions circled the room. I didn’t bother paying attention to either. There was a more pressing issue.

  “S’kal-ru, may I have a moment please?” I said calmly, resisting the temptation to either walk up behind her and poke her in the back—unwise when my web-kin was so thoroughly aroused—or to shout—also unwise on a bridge where all but two individuals were armed to the teeth and contemplating Ganthor.

  And outnumbered one hundred and thirteen to one. I didn’t bother counting the individuals within each ship, since it was unlikely to matter in space, although I was quite sure everyone here was aware that a battalion carrier could hold upward of ten thousand stamping and excited Ganthor plus their gear.

  Quite a sight, really. Not to mention the drooling and bumping.

  Not that I wanted to see it for myself. Skalet-memory was enough. She’d spent many years as a Ganthor Matriarch on behalf of the Web, and Ersh had made sure I’d assimilated all of them. She was fond of the species herself. As I was—usually.

  “What do you want?”

  I stepped close enough that our conversation had some chance of not being overheard by everyone present. “Suits. For Paul at least.”

  Skalet put her hand against my cheek. An affectionate gesture to those who didn’t know better, or who couldn’t see the wicked gleam in her eyes. “Dear Bess. Don’t worry so—this is the easy part. Now be a good child and keep yourself out of the way.”

  “Out of—” words failed me.

  There was no point attempting to argue. I went up the stairs, noticing absently they were inlaid with freshwater shells from Jylnicia and edged with wood carved into playful waves. Kraal ships abounded with paradoxes.

  “I’m to stay out of the way,” I informed my Human as he made room for me on the bench, sitting in a position that would be comfortable if its restraint field engaged without warning.

  “I heard.” Paul’s eyes didn’t leave the display, now showing the Octos Ra as a tiny yellow dot. It looked like a Mendley shrimp heading for a school of Busfish. A suicidal shrimp. “S’kal-ru sounds confident,” he said, as if hearing my thoughts.

  “She always does.” I hoped it was loud enough to carry. “Child,” was I? “Dear Bess?”

  I had some idea of what Skalet was planning, or more precisely, I knew what she knew about the Ganthor. It remained to be seen if she knew as much about the Kraal.

  “Let’s make this a quick approach,” Skalet ordered, her lovely voice raised just enough to penetrate every corner of the bridge. “No point wasting time.”

  The pilot looked to his captain. Arzul-ro spoke up immediately: “Best speed that lets you maneuver around the—”

  “No,” she countered happily. “Straight ahead. Ignore their ships. If they get in our way, they can move.”

  Paul was nodding to himself. The Kraal seemed stunned.

  “I don’t have all day, Captain.”

  It hung on the moment. I leaned my chin on the rail to watch, reluctantly admiring Skalet’s command of Human body language as she stood waiting for them to obey. There was no doubt, no fear in that spine or shoulders. Nothing but confident anticipation on her face. Slowly, she raised one eyebrow.

  No coincidence that eyebrow was etched with the affiliation binding her to the House of Arzul and it to her.

  Captain Arzul-ro bowed his head slightly and said: “Pilot, take her in.”

  It took the Octos Ra five minutes to reach the outer ring the Ganthor had established, passing close enough to a cruiser that it occluded two viewscreens until the tech adjusted. No reaction. Except for the sweat I saw furtively wiped from some brows.

  “Steady,” Skalet crooned.

  Twenty of this form’s heartbeats until we passed another; ten to another; then we seemed to pass so many they blurred together. No reaction. We disappeared from the display, too close to other, larger ships to be resolved as distinct by the scoutship’s device.

  I was quite sure we hadn’t disappeared from the Ganthor’s scanners.

  “Keep going,” Skalet sang softly. The Kraal were beginning to relax, perhaps believing the Ganthor were letting us through.

  I could have corrected that impression. It was more that the Ganthor were too busy rousing themselves into battle frenzy to bother. But this image hardly reassured me, so I didn’t think I’d share it with anyone else.

  Our brave little dot showed again, almost clear of the waiting fleet. Then, suddenly, a lone ship appeared, moving directly into our path.

  Skalet was actually humming under her breath. “Stay on course,” she told the pilot.

  “But—”

  “She’ll move—or you’ll make her move.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.” His reply seemed to come through gritted teeth.

  Our dots grew closer and closer. Then were one. Collision alarms tolled. The lighting switched to reserve, plunging portions of the bridge into darkness. The restraint field sucked me into the bench even as I felt Paul take my hand. Skalet stood in the display’s glow, her head up and back, smiling. She’d hooked her arm through the railing, in case the grav failed.

  “Make it clear to them,” she said. “Push harder.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence!” From the fierce joy in his voice, the Kraal seemed to have caught whatever disease inflicted my web-kin.

  There was a gonglike ringing through the hull, then nothing.

  The display showed two dots, the yellow
one leaving the other behind.

  “Three orbits,” Skalet said, her voice deep with satisfaction. “Make sure we’re not bringing company on our tail, then land. You two—with me.”

  Otherwhere

  TUMBLERS, as befitted a species dependent upon the accumulation of mineral salts for growth, lived within their environment, spending day and night where they could be bathed at any moment by the nourishing mists of their valleys. There were no Tumbler homes or buildings, no shelters. Having never hidden from weather or predators, they needed none. The fruits of their society were etched in stone or traveled as sound. Accident, landslide, or moonquake had been their only enemy, avoided when possible but accepted as part of the cycle of life, until the recent and regrettable behavior of the flesh-burdened.

  If concealment was a difficult concept for the average Tumbler to grasp, it proved even harder to accomplish. Remaining motionless and hoping intruders would go away hadn’t worked. The flesh-burdened had a disconcerting ability to spot a Tumbler and, worse, would continue to return at random intervals until the Tumbler moved—in which case they would follow until the Tumbler entered one of the sacrosanct valleys.

  Wedging oneself into a crack proved distressingly permanent for at least three individuals, who, following a period of mineral accumulation, were unable to extricate themselves.

  The Elders were forced to resort to extreme measures. They ordered the ramps into their valleys blocked, and forbade any Tumbler to engage in bliss until the Ganthor had cleansed their Moon of the flesh-burdened. And hopefully any revoltingly organic consequences.

  Within the gentle, corrosive mists, an entire species stood and waited to be understood.

  While overhead, the Matriarch of the Fleet stomped and waited to be ordered to the attack.

  Not that she could wait much longer. One of the reasons Ganthor made such excellent mercenaries was also the reason they made such lousy ones.

  Their infamous battle frenzy was a matter of precise timing. Not long enough, and they’d be as likely to bicker among themselves as attack the enemy. Too long?

  And nothing could stop them.

  29: Orbit Morning

  THE antechamber to the bridge was done in whites, shocking to the eye after the dim lighting of the battle bridge. The furniture rose out of the carpeting, its shadows forming a confusion of stark lines and angles along the walls. The only color was the tray of essentials and a blood-red bottle of serpitay on the glossy tabletop, white glasses arranged around it.

  For once, Skalet ignored the Kraal niceties. The instant the door closed, she turned to us. “We don’t have much time. Here.” She took off the belt holding her weapon and knife and pressed them into Paul’s hands. “Now. You. What to do with you.”

  As I was helping myself to a handful of appetizers—this form being constantly famished—I wasn’t immediately sure if she was commenting on my manners or something else, and pulled my hand back. “Sorry.”

  “Not the food, Youngest. Eat if you must. But the orbits give us breathing space and I intend to make the best of it.” She watched Paul strapping on the weapon and waved his hands out of her way impatiently, making the final adjustments around his waist herself. She touched one of the compartments on the belt. “The hood is in here. You’ll need it to hide your face when you rejoin the others.”

  I stopped chewing. “What are you planning? A mutiny?”

  “Hardly. This crew is mine now. It’s what Mocktap might have waiting that we prepare for.”

  “What about the Ganthor? And who hired them?” My Human-self’s voice had an unfortunate tendency to become shrill. “You know the only beings who could afford this many Ganthor are the Tumblers.”

  “Or web-beings,” added Paul, well aware of the fortune Ersh had amassed for us. Several, if you counted the fact that she’d invested as a member of every species that valued personal wealth.

  Skalet glared at me. I spread my open hands, after hastily brushing the crumbs from both. “He had to know,” I reasoned for her. “We live together. There was shopping.”

  “If I didn’t know you’ve been appropriately cautious in your spending over the years, Youngest, other than a predilection for tasteless silk, I’d be distinctly—unhappy—with this turn of events. Tell me, Human, is there anything you don’t know about us?”

  Given the look on Paul’s face, the answer wasn’t going to improve Skalet’s temper. “We don’t have time for this,” I reminded them. “Did you hire the Ganthor or not?”

  Her nostrils flared with distaste. “I wouldn’t do anything so flagrantly obvious.”

  If she’d told me once during our lessons, she’d told me ten thousand times: Finesse, Esen. Never use a sword when the scratch of a pin will do. “If it wasn’t you, then it had to be the Tumblers.”

  “Nonsense. They can hardly bear the concept of blood, let alone the idea of it spilling over their Moon.”

  “Life defends itself.” This from Paul. “There was a Tumbler killed on Ersh’s mountain. There could have been more since.”

  “Who would—?” For a split second, Skalet’s face seemed oddly vulnerable. I understood. Not only were the Tumblers gentle, fragile creatures—for all their mineral composition—but it was Ersh’s chosen form. We’d rarely seen her as anything else.

  For a while, I’d wondered if Ersh lived as rock because of me. Surely it helped her endure—or ignore me—for long periods. Tumblers had emotions, primarily the calm, slow sort you’d expect from beings who could converse for a month about microfissures. Another reason Ersh liked the form. They had, according to her, a proper time scale for living. Their feelings were usually related to their surroundings rather than a reaction to the behavior of others. As a Tumbler in her own home, Ersh tended to feel calm and relaxed. Until something I did happened to change things. Then, I remembered nostalgically, she’d become the only Tumbler on Picco’s Moon to have a temper and lose it.

  I shook myself free of memory to hear Paul say: “Then you agree. We have to do something—”

  Skalet raised her hand to stop him. “I do not. You think we can make any difference in what’s happening here? We’ll be lucky to escape ourselves.”

  “We have to try.”

  “No, we don’t. You see, Youngest? This is ephemeral thinking at its worst.” She walked around Paul, who went stiff and angry under this mock-inspection. “Try. Meddle. Change. Affect. Corrupt. These aren’t our ways, Human. We don’t interfere. We let time pass and nature take its course. We—remember. And we endure.”

  This would have been more impressive coming from Ersh. I stuffed the remaining appetizers into my pockets for later and scowled at my web-kin. “Looked in a mirror lately, ‘S’kal-ru’? You’ve been meddling with these Humans all along.”

  “You made a home for yourself, Youngest. Do you begrudge me the same?”

  Snick. Just like that, everything became as clear to me as if her flesh were part of mine. “You.” I stepped away from the table, feeling my hands form fists. Small, but tight. “You started all this. You were here first. This war is your fault.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been back to Picco’s Moon. I told you that.”

  “Hired help.” This from Paul, never slow to make connections. “You sent your affiliates to dig out the artifacts you’d hidden on the mountain. Why wait until now?”

  “Ersh forbade it,” I said very quietly.

  “Along with this form for two generations,” Skalet admitted freely, tracing a path from her throat to her waist with the fingers of one hand. “But when she—left us, it was necessary to make other plans for the future. I watched you, Esen, make a life for yourself. I knew I could do better. I would found a House of my own.” She shrugged. “For which I needed the artifacts in my possession. I didn’t send miners. I hired a gem smuggler to retrieve them. He told me the cave was empty.” Skalet’s smile was one to give any being nightmares. I felt sorry for the smuggler. “It was possible. Plau
sible, in fact. Ersh hadn’t been—pleased. She could well have destroyed the crates and their contents three hundred years ago.”

  “Someone stayed to mine the mountain.” The peak, where we’d met to share; Ersh’s home, where I’d learned to hold the varied and beautiful forms of living intelligence; the diamond-dust of Tumbler children. I regretted the rich delicacies in my stomach. “To disturb Ersh’s rest.”

  Her eyes were sober. “Esen. I would never have permitted it. I didn’t know about the mining until you and Paul told me. I first learned the smuggler had lied to me—that the artifacts still existed—when they appeared on the doorstep of an obscure little museum on Signat, the homeworld for Conell and Bract, my most powerful affiliates. No House claimed credit for their recovery. Clearly a Kraal move; potentially one against me. What could I do then? I’d lost control of the game, or it had new players. It was time to pay attention to another.”

  “Me.” I glanced at Paul. He was leaning against the table, arms folded across his chest, that intent look on his face.

  “You, indeed.” Skalet’s smile faded. “My failure to obtain the artifacts was—inefficient. It conceivably put this form at risk, if my link to them—if my past—had been exposed. It was time to obtain what you had, Youngest, in order to protect myself. The ability of web-form to move through space. Ersh’s secret.”

  “Which you don’t have yet,” Paul stated. “And now someone—Mocktap—stands in your way. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  Skalet’s attention was a dangerous thing to draw. I’d practiced for years to avoid it. Mind you, my motivation had been to limit the number of boring problems she could assign me. She considered my Human now, as if weighing his future value against the impertinence of his question. “How did you know it was Mocktap?” I asked to divert her.

  It was scarcely more comfortable having her glare down at me. Still, she answered. “I needed to learn what had happened on Picco’s Moon. Not all the artifacts had reappeared. But I didn’t dare go myself. I ordered my most trusted affiliate—see, I admit my folly, Youngest, will you?—to check several mountains, including Ersh’s, for any activity. A training exercise. I know the capabilities of my people, Esen. If there’d been an empty ration tube on the mountain, they’d have found it. Mocktap’s report said they found nothing. She lied. And ‘lies don’t live alone.’” The last seemed a quote, but the source wasn’t in my memory. Her face became pensive. “Only we do, Esen-alit-Quar.”