It was the second figure that held Lefebvre speechless. Human. Tall, slim, that face he almost knew better than his own, despite not having seen it for over fifty years.
Ragem.
Lefebvre reached for the cube, but Able Joe’s hand was there first to snatch it back. Lefebvre tapped his credit chip on the bar, then beckoned the Ervickian to follow him. The little being was quivering with anticipation—or was starving, something Lefebvre would rather not know. The remnants of former meals decorated most of the sweater as it was; Ervickians weren’t famed for their table manners. The taller Human led the way to a private booth, tapping his chip on its entry panel.
Once inside, Lefebvre straightened, willing to reveal he was much less drunk than he’d appeared while nursing his beer at the bar. “An interesting image. What makes you think this Human is Megar Slothe?” He felt as taut as a wire about to snap. It couldn’t just fall into his lap like this—or could it?
“You gonna pay me or what?” Able Joe said, feigning outrage. Lefebvre held up his credit chip but refused to touch it to the being’s receiver.
“Prove it.”
“Sure. Sure.” The youngster’s bushy paired eyebrows drooped at the edges. “The vid’s from a store my créche operates on Ultari Prime. Every member of my litter carries a copy. We don’t forget cheats—everyone knows that about us; you know that, right?—and this Slothe cheated our family in a big way. He’s gonna pay.” A pause while four eyes examined Lefebvre in the gloom of the booth and the receiver was lifted hopefully. “So, are you? Gonna pay me?”
“Cheated you how?”
“Bought a load of stuff from my créche parent—a starship, supplies, high-tech stuff—all prime, high-end goods. Nothing shabby, y’know? Then there was a cancel sent by remote to reclaim every credit paid. Just about ruined my parent, that did.” This with a note of almost sanctimonious pride.
“Slothe sent the cancel?” When the Ervickian’s primary mouth remained closed in a stubborn oval, Lefebvre touched his chip to the being’s receiver, tipping in a generous amount without result. He repeated his donation.
A gleam from vestigial teeth—the really useful ones resided lower down and Lefebvre was as glad not to see them. “Yeah. My sibs and me, we think so,” Able Joe said cheerily. “Who else?”
“That depends. When was this image taken? The exact date—standard time, not local.”
The Ervickian held up the holocube, pressing a control to bring up the security vid record. Lefebvre scanned it. An older model but still in use today, being as tamperproof as such things could be.
Lefebvre’s lips moved soundlessly as he repeated the date to himself. A full week, he calculated numbly. A full week after Paul Ragem had been reportedly killed on Artos—his death activating the emergency warning from the implant under his skin before its signal inexplicably cut off—this vid captured him on Ultari Prime.
Kearn was too blinded by his obsession with monsters and shapeshifters to see what had been under his nose all along. Lefebvre had always suspected Ragem’s death as too convenient, especially when Artos became a closed system immediately afterward, preventing any retrieval of a body or investigation.
And Councillor Sandner had gone to such pains to emphasize that point.
The Ervickian might have slipped him a stim shot, from the way Lefebvre felt his heart pounding more heavily and quickly, until his pulse rushed in his ears like ocean waves. Paul was alive?
So much for hunting the truth of his final days, digging out scraps of evidence, following leads that vanished in his fingers as rapidly as the whorls of smoke in the bar. This, Lefebvre realized, changed everything.
With a supreme effort, Lefebvre kept his hands off the small box.
“Do you have a list of the goods he bought?” When Able Joe hesitated, Lefebvre went on persuasively: “Look—I know some things Slothe had with him before he disappeared. That way we can settle if this is the same Human. If it is—” Lefebvre waved his chip suggestively.
An hour later, and three months’ pay lighter, Lefebvre left the bar a much happier Human. And why not? he told himself, one hand possessively over the cube in his pocket, a cube containing an eccentric and expensive shopping list including a mammoth comp system, a portable greenhouse, and sufficient exotic salad greens to feed—or more likely poison—an army.
Best of all, it contained the sales slip for a starship—a used taxi designated Speedy InterSys Transit No. 365, registered to a Megar Slothe—the very same ship found abandoned by Kearn fifty years ago on the former Inhaven colony, Ag-413.
Lefebvre smiled to himself in a way that made an approaching pair of spacers choose the other side of the walkway. Ag-413 was the location of the final recorded sighting of the Esen Monster, and its supposed destruction by the Kraal.
Now a Kraal Protectorate—perfect Kraal logic: if you’ve saved a planet, why not keep it?—Ag-413 had also been the source of a mysterious message Kearn received from an unidentified Human, a Human claiming to know all about the monster and possessing the right emergency codes to demand immediate rescue. A rescue, Lefebvre learned, Kearn had delegated to some civilian freighters named Largas with typical cowardice. The Largas crew had maintained they’d found no one, returning to their course and ultimately leaving Commonwealth space for the outskirts of the Fringe, well beyond reach of authority.
Lefebvre felt pieces falling into place all around him. All those years of fruitless searching—he could almost be grateful to Kearn for bringing him here now.
And in his other pocket, an image of the not-so-dead Paul Ragem and his accomplice.
A Panacian who traveled outsystem with a Human? Not common. Not common at all. Even the Ervickians had realized that; Able Joe, tongue well-lubricated by Lefebvre’s credit chip, admitting to being the fifth in its créche litter to journey to D’Dsel to try and find her, without success.
They’d been fools to try, Lefebvre judged. Ervickians, like most of the intelligent species encountered by Humans thus far, were constrained in their dealings with others by biology and temperament. Any one species managed to communicate very successfully with a few others, muddled through somehow with several more, and were hopelessly confused or offended by the rest. With each new species encountered for the first time, the Human Commonwealth became even more of a glue to hold the loose, yet expanding, economic association of various species together. Only Humans seemed to possess the right combination of optimism, open-mindedness, and a surely species-specific obstinacy to work with just about any beings if necessary.
Of course, there was that saying, that Humans had thicker skins than Ganthor.
The shipcities that sprang up wherever starships docked, and their associated All Sapients’ Districts, were very often hosts to planned or unplanned mediation by whatever Human could be found by the aggrieved non-Humans trying to understand one another. Since these usually involved bar bills or trade disputes, it didn’t seem to matter that the Humans involved were occasionally semiconscious.
There were rumors that the more diverse limb of the Commonwealth, months away translight and so effectively its own entity, had abandoned its Human-centered government system altogether and moved toward some sort of pact between trading species. He’d believe that one when he saw his first shapeshifter in person.
The truth remained, the Ervickian needed a Human to communicate with the Panacians and help find those who had cheated its parent. Lefebvre and Able Joe hadn’t so much formed a partnership as arranged to share information in the future, Able Joe quite clear on the advantage of credits on its chip as opposed to chasing them in the street. Lefebvre left the quivering being with a prepaid menu and a mutual promise to keep in touch.
Not that either of them planned to honor that promise, Lefebvre thought contentedly.
Finders, keepers.
12: School Morning; Sanctum Afternoon
“EVERY piece?” Paul asked, brows lifting almost to his hairline.
I tilted my he
ad up and down in the Human gesture. “Most of it. There were a few items in the collection I’d say were Feneden, but no guarantees how they were obtained.”
“And the rest were Iftsen. You’re certain we’re dealing with theft? They’re neighbors, after all.” His lips curved up, as if to acknowledge the irony of the Feneden learning they were not the only intelligent species in the universe, simultaneously with the discovery their particular corner of space was the most crowded in the quadrant. Had the Feneden wanted to colonize within a day translight, they would have had to rent something small.
“Sidorae claimed all of it was from his homeworld,” I told Paul, “but last night I handled two hundred and forty-four pieces of art from the First Citizens’ Gallery of Brakistem, on Iftsen Secondus. I don’t recall hearing the Gallery had closed and broken up its collection.”
I paused, momentarily deflected from the present to when Lesy had proudly taken me to that same Gallery, to see her work exhibited for the first time. I’d kept private the thought that Ersh likely paid to have our web-kin’s sculptures displayed—Lesy was the sort of artist whose passion for her muse vastly exceeded the result. She’d been so happy. Since her death, I’d arranged to buy all of her work and have it stored safely, for no reason I could justify to myself or Ersh’s training. “It was pretech,” I continued my explanation, “the sort of thing the Iftsen never display for aliens. You know how touchy they are about being—less developed. I doubt they even posted an alert about the theft.”
“So the Feneden should feel safe trying to sell it on the open market.” Paul snorted. “Harve Tollen. I’d say we’ve found out why he’s on D’Dsel.”
“C’Tlas tells me the Feneden haven’t made any other arrangements for their merchandise.” I chuckled. “Perhaps Harve wasn’t able to impress them.”
Otherwise, it wasn’t a laughing matter. I tilted my head downward, examining the scales on my belly and running a finger across their pattern. Had there been leaves nearby, I’d have started tucking some, right about there.
Paul knew that stance. He came over to where I sat, then crouched in front of me with his hands on my knees for balance. “You’ve thought of something.”
I pressed my thick lips as closely together as they would go, then nodded, meeting his gaze. “Whatever’s going on between the Feneden and Iftsen, I don’t think it’s simply petty theft, Paul. Sidorae asked me about establishing markets; he wanted details about the maximum number of units each could bear without dropping the price. Unless it was all for my benefit—and I don’t think so—the Feneden must believe they have access to an almost unlimited supply of Iftsen art, as well as the gall to think they can get away with selling it indefinitely. How?”
Paul thumped my knee. “Why don’t we talk to our hostess?”
“The Feneden—and the Iftsen?” C’Tlas’ voice was oddly strained. “What makes you ask about their relationship?”
“We anticipate overseeing a great deal of trade between their species, Fem C’Tlas, and wish to be as well informed as possible,” Paul explained.
Our meeting with the Panacians was being held in the chamber we’d first entered by hoverbot. Morning sunlight gleamed through the open windows to warm and brighten the room, reflected by predesign from the surfaces of neighboring buildings. N’Klet was there, along with C’Tlas, her pitted carapace perceptibly smoother to my practiced eye. Damage almost repaired, I judged. But damage from what? She noticed my attention and stepped slightly behind C’Tlas—a subtle avoidance I realized she’d been doing every time I looked directly at her. Self-conscious or not fond of shaggy-scaled aliens? Regardless, I made a mental note to be careful not to stare.
“Trade?” N’Klet repeated. Panacians didn’t laugh, but they had a body gesture to express incredulity, consisting of stiffening the joints of the upper arms so the elbows swung out and up. It made them look as though they thought they could fly, but had misplaced their wings.
“Forgive our presumption, Fem N’Klet,” I said. “It was something Hom Sidorae said to me during our meetings—”
“Are you sure you understood him?” She was still amused. More than that, I decided, perhaps inclined to be oversensitive. But she sounded almost mocking, as though it was my ability she doubted.
Oddly on the defensive, I spoke before I considered, one of those traits I seriously needed to outgrow: “Their language is hardly that complex.”
Paul closed his eyes in an unguarded wince. Oh, well, I told myself fatalistically. At least I wouldn’t have to carry around the annoying translator anymore.
N’Klet and the others bowed deeply. “Your fame as a linguist had preceded you, Fem Esolesy Ki,” N’Klet said. “We’d hoped for a quick breakthrough, but this—this is truly remarkable.” She straightened and clicked her slender upper claws as though faintly alarmed. “Indeed, such a feat is difficult to imagine.” For once, N’Klet seemed to have no hesitation aiming her faceted eyes my way. I curled up a lip in a weak smile.
“You may not be aware, Fem N’Klet, that we have been preparing for this encounter since our first contact with the Feneden was announced,” Paul improvised immediately, a talent I valued highly in him. “There were recordings, other works to consult,” he added vaguely, waving his arms about to admirable effect. “This is hardly a sudden breakthrough. Fem Ki has labored for weeks and weeks—months, really—”
The supposed time span of my labors thus established beyond doubt, or at least repeated, the Panacians seemed calmer. “Our gratitude, Fem Ki,” C’Tlas said with an air of relief. “At last we have a way to communicate with the Feneden no longer reliant on their machine’s limited and often flawed interpretations.”
“News worthy of the Queen’s notice,” N’Klet said, faceted eyes glinting. “I will recommend an audience.”
Although she bowed immediately, as did we at the mention of the ruler of this kin-group, C’Tlas and the other D’Dsellans in the room appeared startled. An appropriate reaction, I decided, feeling much the same emotion. Aliens were so rarely allowed within a Queen’s sanctum that such events—usually involving heads of state from other worlds—predictably made the newsmags on several systems.
Otherwise, Queens were only seen at the Spring Emergence, protected from approach by watchful ranks of their own relatives, while those around them were protected by pheromone-absorbing B’Bklar plants. Physical proximity to any Queen of unknown motivation, I remembered Ersh’s lecture, was something to be avoided at all costs.
Paul’s face had settled into the politely intent mask it assumed when he was seriously disturbed. No need to guess why, I told myself, feeling an echoing upheaval threatening my breakfast. I quickly swallowed the remnants into my next, and sturdier stomach. My Human might not have the same vulnerability to chemically-influenced mood swings as a web-being in Panacian form, but Queens posed a special, more personal risk to him. Esolesy Ki hadn’t visited D’Dsel before, but a certain Commonwealth alien culture and linguistics specialist named Paul Ragem had been in this very city fifty years ago. And hardly circumspect about it, I remembered quite vividly. The problem was, only a Queen could recognize him all these years later.
Unlike other systems and species Paul avoided with care, he’d eventually been able to travel freely on D’Dsel without concern. After all, not only were Panacians typically lax in distinguishing one set of humanoid features from another, but D’Dsellans lived a maximum of thirty standard years. Except, I reminded myself, their Queens, whose adjusted hormonal systems provided a longevity up to four times that of their kin.
Meaning Paul’s identity had been safe, since no Human met a Queen face-to-face. Until I came with him. Fortunately, I could rely on Paul getting us out of this with his usual diplomacy. I hoped.
“We appreciate the honor you wish to offer us,” I heard my partner say with the utmost sincerity. “But it’s not necessary to disturb your Queen—”
At that name, the Panacians bowed again, as did we. “A great honor,” I
echoed, ignoring Paul’s warning look. Well, it was, I told myself somewhat petulantly. “One we surely don’t deserve,” I added.
Apparently, someone else agreed. C’Tlas canted her head at N’Klet in uncharacteristic disapproval as she said: “A personal message of thanks from Sec-ag K’Tak, Her Radiance’s Chief Rememberer, would suffice.”
N’Klet dismissed this idea with a snap of her claw. “Nonsense, C’Tlas. Fem Ki’s accomplishments may save us from war. What could be more worthy of our Queen’s attention than that?” She hung one limb possessively around Paul’s shoulders. “I will take great joy in introducing you to Her Radiance.”
Beyond arm-waving laughter and certain extremes of body posture, there was little a Panacian used to visually express emotion. They didn’t need it, having receptors for chemical messages both voluntary and involuntary. Within the limitations of my Lishcyn-self’s senses, I studied N’Klet, feeling suddenly very unsure about many things. But I did know the scarred D’Dsellan wasn’t excited or grateful, despite her words.
She was determined.
N’Klet’s determination meant our protests, something awkward in the extreme to voice without offering profound insult, were completely ignored. Within too short a time and without opportunity to simply remove ourselves, Paul and I were traveling downward in a lift with C’Tlas, who appeared as shocked as we were by this turn of events.
“I really think a message would have sufficed,” she repeated, looking to us as if for confirmation.
We both nodded. “More than enough,” I assured her fervently.
“Is your Queen in the habit of granting audiences such as this?” Paul ventured, with that tenacious look I knew perfectly well meant his curiosity was rousing. Unwise, I decided, but then couldn’t recall the Human ever acknowledging the benefits of timely ignorance. Why, I thought, would he start now?
In response, C’Tlas stopped the lift, but didn’t open the doors. “I mean no offense, Hom Cameron, Fem Ki, but my Queen would never grant you audience,” she said with unmistakable pride, standing as tall as she could so the top of her head carapace was level with Paul’s shoulder and my chin. “You are to see the Queen of the School of Alien Etiquette.” She lifted a graceful clawtip in a mute gesture of acceptance. “Her Radiance has been known to admit a variety of worthy beings to her Sanctum.”
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