None of that lot here, I concluded, losing count again when a stack on a nearby couch dispersed into seven frillfaced Mobera instead of the three I’d assumed.
There was, of course, an identifiable Iftsen body plan. I’d worn the form myself, thoroughly enjoying the full-bodied taste of their atmosphere filtering through my bladder. As for their appearance, well, I’d once heard an Iftsen described with remarkable accuracy, if not much respect, as a lump of dough thrown against a wall. Regardless of subspecies, an Iftsen had a perfectly flattened front and back, while his, her, or the transitional its other edges protruded sideways or up in soft irregular lumps more dependent on mood than structure. Their appendages were equally variable in size, function, and number; much like Quebits, they could produce these at will. Since they also produced a variety of sexual appendages in a similarly unpredictable manner, Humans quickly learned to forgo their ritual of shaking hands.
Helpfully, to those species who relied on faces for conversation, the Iftsen did have heads, topped with a forehead—characteristically lumpy or frilled, depending on subspecies—concluded with a pointy chin, and the middle filled in with an eye, three nostrils, and a very tiny mouth. Less than helpfully, these heads also manifested themselves at various locations along the body’s sides and top. I could see three Iftsen from where I stood, and two of them had new head buds growing under what were presently pseudo armpits.
All this was wrapped in a thick, corrosion-resistant skin which flaked off almost constantly, so the floor and any furniture was covered in crinkled disks of yellow-brown.
I’d heard Ersh, who avoided value judgments, refer to the Iftsen as the ugliest things to ever learn to think for themselves. She also sent one of us to Iftsen Secondus regularly, as if afraid to miss memorizing even the slightest achievement of their varied and rich cultures. I stood among them, for a moment savoring web-memories of epic songs and organic towers, art forms whose beginnings were buried in time and whose creation wouldn’t end as long as an Iftsen breathed.
“There.” Paul had spotted the First Citizen, a forlorn-looking individual adding selections to a table of sweets and various other intoxicants. We made our way through the revelers, having to wait our turn to reach the table itself.
“First Citizen?” I asked, switching on my e-rig’s external speaker.
There was something about the role that sucked the cheerfulness right out of an Iftsen. This one was no exception. “What do you want?” she sighed in comspeak, looking wistfully past us to where an assortment of her kind were apparently trying to see how many of themselves they could pile up before reaching the ceiling. I turned away quickly, reasonably sure that wasn’t all they were doing.
“We have to speak to you. It’s an urgent matter, First Citizen.”
“You’ll get more attention in the morning,” she warned, one thin pseudolimb sliding almost unconsciously toward a plate of chocolate-covered berries. One of those and they’d have to hurry to sober up another First Citizen before this party ended, I thought, and said quickly:
“We need you to hide us from the Feneden.”
The sounds of music, gurgling laughter, and bodies in enthusiastic contact began to stop in concentric rings leading out from us until the entire room was as still as a grave.
Paul leaned his helmet against mine. “Subtle,” the dryness of his tone coming through quite clearly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
The Iftsen didn’t bother building starships. The Panacians had visited them first, after all, and in space-proven vehicles. Why duplicate effort? So I sat, facing Paul, in a third or fourthhand Panacian freighter, trying to make the best of things.
He was, predictably, not making that easy. “Stowage. We’re in stowage.”
“We couldn’t be up there,” I waved a claw overhead to indicate the rest of the ship, “without keeping the e-rigs on.” I, for one, didn’t care for that option. “This will do nicely. You’ll see.”
“What I’m seeing is the result of trying to talk sense with sixteen drunk Iftsen,” he retorted. “Okay,” this when I drew air through my spiracles to continue arguing, “okay. I concede this was probably the only way we could have left the School unnoticed.”
I doubted the departure of the Iftsen had gone unnoticed. They’d had their own aircar, specially outfitted to protect them from D’Dsel’s acid-starved air, docked directly to their floor of the School. Even drunk, the Iftsen—particularly the quite-sober First Citizen—had been anxious to avoid confrontation with the Feneden. To their credit, the option of tossing us back out the air lock hadn’t seemed to occur to them. All of them had rushed us to the aircar, safely within our e-rigs, and packed themselves in tightly to make sure we had room. It could have been a discreet trip to the shipcity, but the two Iftsen at the controls took turns flying in great loops through swarms of hoverbots, gurgling happily as the Panacian craft dodged out of their way.
Once at the shipcity and snugged up to the Iftsen’s freighter, the Didjeridoo, Paul and I had been given the entire lower deck to ourselves and told to expect lift by morning. Given the pace of events through the last few hours, most reasonable beings would sit and wait. Of course, reason and a Human didn’t always inhabit the same space, I told myself, watching Paul bounce up again the instant our hosts left us alone.
The Human tossed the e-rig he’d worn onto the table between us and reached into one of the sleeves. He began pulling out its contents, starting with a dark woven shirt he took the time to don before continuing his bizarre unpacking. The shirt wasn’t something I’d seen him wear before; it rose up to his chin and had a hood, just now hanging loose down his back. I tilted my head, focusing both eyes. The fabric was uncomfortable to view directly, especially when he moved his arms and muscle shifted underneath. I recognized the technology: it was a masker, a garment used by night-hunters or worse.
I cleaned my feeding palps, a nervous, secretive movement. “Paul?” I ventured cautiously.
His lean features were set in a expression I also recognized: equal parts “don’t ask” and “won’t answer.” Not surprisingly, he hadn’t smiled since the Queen’s audience. Typical ephemeral shortsightedness, I concluded, knowing better than to try and point this out to the Human. Surely, he knew as well as I that P’Lka’s accusation wasn’t the threat it would have been from another being. It was unthinkable the inward-focused and highly private Hive would allow a Queen to expose herself or her concerns to outsiders; worse, to have her name become embroiled in an interspecies’ scandal—as would happen if P’Lka tried to contest the Commonwealth’s ponderous evidence of Paul’s “death” based solely on her memory of his much younger, very alien face. Once we were outsystem from Panacia, P’Lka had few options, beyond canceling her family’s contracts with Cameron & Ki Exports. Fortunately, I thought, hiring assassins wasn’t something a D’Dsellan would do.
Kearn was a different menace altogether. If he found out Paul Ragem lived and learned our new identities, we would have to start again. Perhaps that was what compressed my Human’s lips and made him intent on his task: sliding various small objects into a pouch wrapped around his flat middle under the masker shirt.
“Kearn was with the Feneden,” I reminded my friend, searching his face. “Knowing him, he’ll be so distracted he won’t bother to see the Ambassadors. Since you’ve escaped, P’Lka won’t embarrass herself to contact him about you—”
Paul’s eyes burned into mine. “We can’t make decisions based on guesswork, Esen.” He pulled out one last device, checking it with unusual care before sliding it inside his shirt.
A biodisrupter. Its sole function was to kill other living beings. There was no stun setting, no way to merely cause a flesh wound. What Paul cradled next to his heart and my gift was death.
Or its threat. “That’s not energized,” I said, gesturing relief with all four limbs. “Is it?” I found myself insisting.
His fingers brushed over the weapon’s hiding place, as if tempted to remov
e it, then fell away. “There are times, Es—” Paul began, his gray eyes almost black with distress. “I won’t lie to you. Yes, it’s energized. I could kill someone with it. I don’t want to—but I may have to, before we are safe. Can you understand that?”
I curled my limbs around myself, rocking back and forth despondently. “The Web of Esen protects all intelligent life—you are of that Web,” I reminded him numbly. “You know that’s not our way.”
“In this one thing, Esen-alit-Quar,” Paul said ever-so-gently, “our ways differ. I will do what I must to protect you.” Then he forced a smile. “Enough gloom. I’m just going out to pick up the mail before lift—hardly life and death.”
“The mail?” I asked, rolling my head almost completely on its side as though the shift in perspective might make better sense of him. “What mail? It’s the middle of the night! What’s so important—”
He touched one of my clawtips. “The mail,” he said again, as if that was some kind of explanation. “Don’t let this scow leave before I’m back—it might need a push.” This time his smile was genuine. “And no heroics, old bug. One sniff of your beautiful self, and the entire planet will know where we are. So stay put.”
“In stowage,” I tried to mimic his scornful tone from before in an effort to lighten the mood. I didn’t like any of this.
Abruptly, Paul reached out and held my head so that his face filled each and every facet of my eyes. “Promise me, Esen. You’ll lift with this ship, no matter what. If I’m not back before she goes, you go and wait for me on Iftsen Secondus.”
“I—”
“Promise.”
I clicked my mandibles together in something much too crude for a D’Dsellan of my apparent breeding. “I promise.”
His face brightened. “Good. I’ll see you soon.” With that, Paul slipped the hood over his head and face, turning from my friend into something immediately darker and more deadly. He strode to the smaller port inset in the main stowage doors and let himself out. Before the port finished closing itself, I caught a glimpse of him, more shadow than substance, as he ran down the night-dimmed ramp.
“I promise I will never abandon you, Paul Ragem,” I finished to myself, and prepared to wait.
Elsewhere
“SHIFTER.”
“Yes, yes. Isn’t it amazing? Isn’t it wonderful? All these years—hundreds of systems, thousands of worlds—and here they are. Right here.” If Kearn became much happier, Lefebvre thought critically, he’d order him sedated. He’d never expected a successful Kearn could be more difficult to endure than Kearn the failure.
It didn’t help Lefebvre’s disposition that this meeting was taking place while blister burn continued to roar at random through the nerves of his face, hands, and legs. Kearn had been warmly concerned—until he’d launched into his story about the Feneden and effectively forgot all about his captain’s misadventures.
Which was just as well, Lefebvre told himself. Without proof, he wasn’t about to bring up the subject of Paul Ragem. Kearn smelled blood—or at least whatever might pass for it in the large amorphous blob of jelly he’d described as the monster’s natural form. The proof was as obvious as the newly polished rank insignia on Kearn’s collar. Lefebvre hadn’t seen Kearn in his Commonwealth uniform since his first day on board, the Human preferring what he considered a more scholarly look, almost living in a brown-toned jacket with overly large pockets kept stuffed with important-looking sheets and extra stylos. Not today. Other than a slight stretching of the fabric around his middle, Kearn looked ready for inspection.
His speech was snappier as well. “They have some specific needs—dietary and climate. I’ve given all that to Timri—she’s recalling the crew from their stopovers. They can get quarters ready for the Feneden by noon, can’t they? Fem Anisco was very eager not to inconvenience me—us—and agreed to as early a start as possible.”
“Start? To what, sir?” Lefebvre wondered if he wanted the answer. He knew he didn’t want to be the one facing the crew when they began staggering back to the ship from whatever bar or bed they’d found. There’d be a desertion or two for sure, this time.
“Our search—we are heading to Fened Prime, Captain Lefebvre. The ancestral home of the Esen Monster!”
He had to be on something, Lefebvre thought. Before he could draw breath to object, Kearn pressed a crumpled piece of plas into his hand, saying: “These are some supplies—the Feneden didn’t know where to get them, but you do, don’t you, Captain? You know your way around every shipcity—surely there are dealers, traders with surplus. I’ll leave it all in your capable hands.”
Stunned, Lefebvre could only raise an eyebrow. “You want me to go back out to the shipcity, sir, tonight? Now?” It couldn’t be this easy.
“You’re up to it, aren’t you?” Kearn demanded in a tone that said Lefebvre had better answer yes.
“Of course, sir.”
“Keep an eye out for robbers this time, Captain. Honestly, that’s the sort of mistake I’d expect from a newbie, not you. You have to be bold with these Port scum. You can’t look like a target.”
“Yes, sir. Good advice. I’ll be more careful.”
In fact, Lefebvre decided as he walked away, wincing with each step, he planned to look very carefully indeed for a certain robber.
And a certain Ervickian.
15: Freighter Night; Shipcity Night
THE stowage area of the Iftsen freighter was 432 paces long and 102.5 paces wide—if I didn’t count the cramped spaces under the overhead cargo racks. Those were mostly empty. I’d already climbed up and investigated any crates without seals, finding only personal effects, presents for the family, and a few jugs of chocolate syrup bound to cause some excitement back home. I spent some time pondering how to explain to a Human such as Paul what chocolate tasted like in the Iftsen atmosphere, but gave up. Not only was it inaccurate to relate what the Iftsen called taste to the similarly-named, but physiologically different, sense in Humans, the Iftsen didn’t actually consume chocolate. They combusted it in their respiratory bladder. With quite the pleasurable aftereffect.
Paul wasn’t back yet.
Once in a while, I could detect thumping and other unusual sounds coming from the deck above. Since my Panacian ears were quite ordinary, and the deck thick, I refused to speculate what the Iftsen were doing. I’d hoped they were becoming sober, but on second thought knew the hope came from my sensible Panacian-self. The Didjeridoo’s crew would report to stations in the morning, there were no tasks to be done beforehand, hence, to the Iftsen, it was perfectly reasonable to divorce themselves from whatever else was happening on or off the planet and have some fun.
I could, I thought with some disgust, fall dead and rot down here before they’d notice. If then.
If I could find some living mass to increase my own, I could be up there and cheerfully oblivious, too, instead of alone in the drafty stowage and worrying about just about everything possible.
I examined the notion fondly, but without any real intention of following it. For one thing, there wasn’t any living mass down here, unless I could catch the rat I’d surprised behind some crates. For another, I had no desire to abandon Ersh’s teachings—not now, when they were all I had—and she’d drilled her conservative, safe approach firmly into me: if the current form can manage, use it.
I was currently Panacian, and a lovely one at that, I decided, admiring anew my freshly-minted carapace. I was also, as Paul had rightly noted, conspicuously unknown to others of this kind. There were literally no strangers on the Hiveworld. Every new adult Panacian was anointed with his or her Queen’s scent at the Spring Emergence, the scent ceremoniously reapplied after each molt.
Mixs had become expert at hiding among the resting cocoons, waiting her chance to cycle and simply walk out with the others to where the Queens waited. In the guise of reincarnation, she’d dared reclaim her name and house time after time. She’d brought me for visits, carefully scenting me with samples
stolen from remote families whose Queens were unlikely to travel to the cities.
Something else I was unlikely to find in the stowage compartment, I grumbled to myself. At the moment, my footprints left no trace of a Queen’s claiming scent, a glaring omission informing any Panacians who happened to cross my path that I didn’t belong—anywhere. Hiding my lack of scent in boots, I knew, would simply not work. There were strict laws against public obscenity on D’Dsel.
All of which brought me pacing back to the port which had closed behind Paul, confining me here. I glowered at it, then checked the chrono above again. He’d been gone for almost two hours.
This so-important mail of his had to be in another courier pouch, most likely sitting in the vault of another starship. Not necessarily a close neighbor, I thought. D’Dsel’s shipcity was the largest this close to the Fringe, its immaculately maintained shipways fluctuating ceaselessly as docking tugs moved incoming and outgoing vessels either to their assigned dock or into position for lift. At a rough estimate, there would be several thousand larger freighters and passenger ships fins down and open for business, with triple that number of smaller traders making quick stopovers in search of profitable crumbs.
All of the docked ships would have ramps run out to the nearest shipway, creating a city more temporary than anything the Panacians themselves built—a charming feature to my Panacian-self, although the shipcity’s overall design was exceedingly dull and fixed. Matching offworld tech had its downside.
I couldn’t begin to guess which ship was Paul’s destination. Several here likely carried goods for Cameron & Ki—once a shipment left our primary carrier at a distribution point, it could be taken up by any number of registered short- or long-haul companies. Largas Freight came here, but the bulk of their routes went deeper into the Fringe, carving new territory rather than competing for a share within established systems. Joel’s choice was one I’d long suspected had less to do with profit than with avoiding well-intentioned but cumbersome Commonwealth bureaucracy.
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