Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Timri didn’t look pleased, but then again, no one on the Russell III was in a good mood. The crew they’d managed to find had returned grudgingly, noisily, and, in one case, with unfortunate consequences inside the air lock, most heading straight to the med room for anti-intoxicants or to their cabins to sleep.

  “Do you really want me to call Port Authority, sir?” she said with an effort, rubbing grit from her eyes. Much more of this, and none of them would be in a fit state to take the Russ’ offworld tomorrow—today, she corrected herself, with a dismayed glance at the chrono behind Kearn’s desk. “The Jellies who brought the Captain here after he was attacked probably haven’t finished their report yet.”

  Kearn, well-used to the results of looking the fool to the local authorities, almost cringed. “Yes. Yes. Good point, Comp-tech. Send someone—”

  Security Officer Sas, a silent mound of dirty white fur until now, made a hissing sound through his yellowed fangs. “To look where?” he demanded, the hiss and spit moderated into comspeak through the implant in his throat. “There’s no return address on the goods that arrived for the Feneden. The beings who delivered them say they don’t know Captain Lefebvre—they were sent to fill the list by some third party they didn’t know either.”

  “Quite conveniently,” Timri added, “to be paid by us.”

  “They would not have left the supplies otherwise,” Sas hissed, continuing the argument they’d brought into his quarters.

  “At least we know Captain Lefebvre was on the job,” Kearn said, cheered by this reminder that the fussier needs of his much-anticipated passengers would be met, if not by the implication of Lefebvre dealing in the shadier areas of the marketplace. “But he knows I can’t have him being late and holding up the ship. Remind me to put him on report when he shows. He’s probably at some bar, becoming useless.”

  Timri was frowning. “Or he could be lying in a pool of blood somewhere. Sir, may I remind you—the Captain was attacked once already.”

  Kearn’s hands sought the front of his desk drawer, as if seeking comfort from what lay within it. “Of course. There’s that.” He schooled his face to show concern.

  “Drunken Humans get robbed,” Sas growled without sympathy. “The Captain should have attended his duties to the Hunt, not his pleasures. Now he makes us late. We must keep our schedule, sir. Let Port Authority locate this deserter. If he turns up, you can discipline him later. In the meantime, by regulation, you should assume the post of Acting Captain.”

  Acting Captain. While Kearn couldn’t quite imagine Lefebvre as a deserter—or himself successfully disciplining the strong-willed captain, he did know opportunity when it struck.

  And with the support of the Feneden added to that of his backer, Kearn thought happily, maybe he could stay captain this time. Or at least find a new, respectful one.

  Maybe, this was all for the best.

  16: Starship Morning; Starship Night

  “THIS was the best you could do,” I complained, but Paul wasn’t listening anymore, a circumstance having more to do with my present location than any lack of sympathy on his part.

  I was in a bag.

  It was a large, clean bag—Paul’s carrysack, in fact—and well-padded with clothing. The Human had thoughtfully left an inconspicuous gap in the top fastener and carried this ensemble of Esen, clothing, and bag with irreproachable care.

  It was still a very undignified way to arrive on a ship. Paul’s insistence that it was also much safer—given we’d attracted so much attention, including the nastier sort such as Kraal—somehow didn’t seem appropriate from an individual who’d risked further exposure to bring what I could feel underpod to be my Lishcyn-self’s favorite outfit.

  On the plus side, I thought, pulling tiny fragments of lint out of a seam, my current self wasn’t easily bored. Quebits tended to be of-the-moment, busy creatures.

  I really hated being a Quebit.

  Although this ship could likely use a few of my sort. I extruded an extra ear to analyze the message contained in the faint squeal of mechanics in the lift. Probably hadn’t received proper maintenance in decades, if then. I knew precisely how to clean and lubricate those moving parts, and harbored dark suspicions of pitted bearings. I poked at the top of the bag suggestively with an upperpod only to have Paul tap quite firmly, and dismissively, back.

  I sighed and returned to the lint.

  Our transport was the independent trader Narcissus, and the entire ship’s complement was rolled up into the solitary, heaving bulk of a communal Cin named Marvin. Captain Marvin at that.

  I considered the entire situation. “Oh, dear.”

  “You’ve said that already,” Paul admonished, waving his finger at me. “It’s not helpful, Esen.”

  I was being helpful, if not sounding it, putting the last bits of soil and pot shards into the maw of the cabin’s recycler. Paul had arranged for a cartload of live plants to meet us on the Narcissus. Having assimilated most of the plant mass in order to escape Quebit-form for something much more comfortable—namely my sturdy, familiar, Lishcyn-self—I was determined not to leave any evidence lying around.

  Once finished, I sat down on the bunk—Paul might be a paying passenger, but on this tiny ship that meant the unused crew quarters—and sighed again. “A Cin. You know only a small percentage of them are even borderline sane. Most can’t agree on a working definition of reality within themselves, let alone walk in a straight line.” I pointed to the nearest bulkhead. “And this ship! Let me tell you, as a former Quebit, this scrap heap wouldn’t be safe on the ground, let alone translight.”

  “There weren’t many choices heading in the right direction,” he commented mildly. “Few ships are routing through Tly space, thanks to the enthusiasm of their inspectors. Besides, Captain Marvin appears remarkably in agreement with themselves at the moment.”

  “Small mercies,” I said. The Cin were one of two known communal intelligences in this part of space, the Rand being the other. Ersh remembered a few more, but as an evolutionary strategy, communals were prone to becoming static and self-absorbed, falling victim to any sudden change in their environment, such as a virus or climatic catastrophe, without appearing to notice the threat until it was too late to act.

  Rands were physically individuals, requiring close contact with at least twenty others to function. The Cin were a variable assortment of individual cognitions, all housed within one roughly humanoid body. A large, humanoid body.

  I could become Rand and had as part of my training. It was awkward, because one felt an insatiable need to bundle with other Rands, who didn’t always invite strangers into their intimate clusters. Ansky, my birth-mother, was predictably the most comfortable of the web-kin in the form. Mind you, she’d stayed Rand long enough to produce several generations of offspring who adored her, sting and all, so her bundle of joy was of her own making.

  The Cin were a different matter. It was one form I had never attempted to assume, although theoretically I could, since the essence of its shape and biology were in my web-memory. Ersh herself had forbidden it. All she would say on the subject was that one personality was all a being should have to deal with in a lifetime.

  So I had serious doubts about the quality of our transportation. Paul, on the other hand, seemed to find my concerns amusing—as if having lifted from D’Dsel, all our worries were somehow over.

  “Es, old friend,” he said lazily. “Relax before you upset your stomachs. As far as the Captain and D’Dsel Port Authority are concerned, you aren’t even here. And as of today, I’m Mitchell Kane, with no trace of Paul Cameron or Paul Ragem in sight. We’re safe.”

  “For now. As long as I stay in this cabin—or at least avoid the Cin—and you don’t step in front of a vid. Then what?”

  My friend, who’d reclined on one elbow to watch me clean up then restore Esolesy Ki, sat up and leaned forward, eyes intent and warm. “We’re going to be all right.”

  I brushed imaginary dust from the edg
e of the bunk over my head, distracted for a moment to wonder why such a small transport would be outfitted to carry so many crew. Then I considered its age and nodded to myself. Must be a former troop transport—something left over from one of the small, pseudo-elegant conflicts of the Kraal in which it wasn’t who won or lost, but who used the most elaborate tricks, that mattered.

  Thinking of tricks, I looked into my friend’s eyes and wondered something else. “Did you leave the Iftsen ship to get mail, Paul my friend, or these?” I ran a three-fingered hand down the silk covering my wide, scaled thigh. “And why did you take so long? You might have missed me.” He’d gambled, I thought, mystified. Paul never gambled. “You knew I wouldn’t leave D’Dsel if the Iftsen pulled out before you were back,” I accused him, suddenly sure I was right. “You didn’t believe me.”

  “Not for an instant,” he said, not looking the least perturbed to be found out.

  “Then why did you leave me there at all?” I controlled the urge to snatch the remaining plants and cycle into something larger. “You lied to me.”

  Paul shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I thought the Didjeridoo would stay docked until I came back for you. You had to wait somewhere safe. You know you couldn’t travel on D’Dsel as a Panacian and we didn’t have time for other…options. However—” his eyes softened as he smiled, “if there’s anything I count on in this life, Esen, it’s that you would never abandon me, promise or no promise. Although I hadn’t expected you to leap into midair on my behalf.”

  Somehow, Paul made my painful mistake sound almost admirable. I flashed a tusk weakly. Fine with me.

  “And here’s the mail,” the Human continued, flipping open an outer pocket on the carrysack and pulling out a small pouch. “I’d arranged for it to be dropped in the locker with our extra baggage from the Goddess.” He tossed the pouch on the bunk beside him, leaving his fingers on it.

  I hesitated, looking at the pouch as though it was about to grow fangs and launch itself at the scaleless patch under my chin. Lishcyns weren’t fond of fanged life, being passive by nature and prey by ecology. I hesitated, then deliberately met the intense gaze of my companion, the other part of my Web and my life. There were some things, I decided calmly, I didn’t want to know.

  Perhaps Paul read that in my face. I might have imagined disappointment flickering across his, as though he’d hoped to use my curiosity to open a subject difficult to broach. If so, I wasn’t planning to help. We had enough problems.

  Starting with our next move. “The Iftsen,” I said firmly. “Could they have left prematurely to avoid Kearn?”

  Paul laughed. “Wise beings, if so.” Then he sobered. “I don’t know. There’s nothing in the newsmags about their situation with the Feneden, but those are mostly humanocentric as well as out-of-date the moment they’re distributed anyway. I’ve kept away from our own data system while things are—a little unusual—here.” Ever the master of understatement. “But from what little the Queen told us, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that situation is coming to a head and fast.” The Human paused, looking quizzical. “Why? Does that concern you?”

  I half rose to my feet. “Concern me? Of course, it concerns me! The Iftsen could very well exterminate the Feneden in self-defense.”

  Evenly: “They’re thieves. You said so yourself.”

  “I don’t believe this,” I snapped, furious enough to add a rude gesture with my forked tongues. “Do you know how many billions live on Fened Prime? Do you have any idea of the repercussions on the Iftsen if they take that step, even to save themselves? It is the duty of the Web of Esen to protect intelligent life, Paul!”

  A twist of his lips—the one I knew as satisfaction. “Just thought I’d ask. old friend.”

  He was testing me, I realized with a shock, sinking back down and staring at a face I thought I knew better than any of my own. As my web-kin had done. Checking my belief in the Rules, in the fundamental purpose of our lives: the assessment of the Youngest and Least, Esen-alit-Quar, had gone on with monotonous regularity and the occasional sharp rebuke.

  Their reasons, I had understood.

  What were his?

  Paul, perhaps sensing my growing discomfort, chose to change the subject. “The Narcissus will be outsystem of Panacia shortly. I told Captain Marvin I would give them our course. So, Iftsen Secondus or Fened Prime?”

  I rarely felt the differences between Paul’s life and mine acutely. At unpredictable moments, I experienced an awareness of being both older in years and yet younger in self—usually following events when I would have preferred the reverse. Less frequently, as now, I faced the unyielding reality of our life spans. Within my flesh were memories that began long before his species walked upright; I could comfortably devote a hundred years to learning a new art form or language. Paul’s time was far more—precious. Did I have the right to risk him?

  “Kearn’s on our trail,” I began, keeping my voice matter-of-fact. “And there may be a war—”

  “Don’t, Es.”

  I arranged my features at their most innocent. “Don’t—?”

  Paul frowned and stabbed his finger at me. “I know that look. Don’t even think of leaving me out of this.”

  “Can you breathe on Iftsen Secondus?” I asked reasonably.

  “That’s not the issue and you know it,” he snapped. “I’m not some pet you tuck out of harm’s way, Esen.”

  My “Paul!” was sincerely horrified. Pet? “Is that what you think…?” My words trailed off into confusion, volatile first and third stomachs grumbling loud enough to be audible outside my body.

  He had the grace to blush, then pulled out his medallion. “Part of Esen’s Web. I know. But an equal part, Es. If there’s anything you and I can do to resolve this situation without bloodshed—we’re doing it together.”

  I gazed at my friend, seeing his determination and courage—traits which I’d found alternated between virtue and inconvenience depending on circumstance. “Of course,” I assured him. “Together.”

  And, if there was any risk to him, that was another promise he should know I couldn’t keep.

  A shame I didn’t think of that sooner.

  “We’ve gone insystem. Wake up, Es.”

  I grunted something threatening, but managed to open an eye. Despite burying my head in as many blankets and pillows as I could find without robbing those on Paul’s bed, it had taken me hours to fall asleep on the flat, exposed surface Humans considered a safe place to sleep. After two nights like this, my Lishcyn-self, to be kind, was as charming as week-old curdled milk. Paul, faced with my company or the confusion of Captain Marvin’s many selves, had spent a great deal of time on the bridge of the Narcissus.

  Then, what Paul’s urgent whisper hadn’t said brought me fully awake. “Insystem?” I repeated, looking up at a darker shadow I presumed was his face. “Iftsen Secondus?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Haven’t you asked the Captain?” Instead of waking me up, I added to myself, preparing to tunnel back down—or at least pull the pillows back over my head.

  There was one of those pauses. “The door’s locked.”

  “Maybe it’s stuck,” I suggested around my yawning tongues. “Nobody puts a lock on the crew’s quarters.”

  “Tell the Cin.”

  I shoved my coverings out of my way, sitting cautiously. Although I knew the ship’s lighting system was functioning, the night-dims weren’t enough to trigger a response from my present eyes. I hesitated to lose mass I might need later, just to see Paul’s face and the other side of a locked door.

  Then I was squinting. At first I thought Paul had found a control for the light, then I realized the lights had been upped by remote.

  While I worked my tired brain around all this, Paul went to the door and stood, pressing his ear flat to its surface. His hands were empty, but I knew he had brought his weapons on board. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, almost to himself, then turned to look at me. “Or th
is.” Paul reached into his pocket then tossed me a flattened black strip. It landed beside me on the bed. I didn’t touch it, recognizing the remnants of a tracer.

  “It was in my extra clothing,” Paul said, his voice flat. “Maybe from Minas XII. Or it could be a recent plant. Remind me to complain about storage security, if we’re ever back on D’Dsel. While you’re at it, remind me to pay a visit to the idiot who sold me that scanner.” He rubbed one hand over his face, then said abruptly: “You’d better hide, Esen. Do it now.”

  Hiding I was good at, I thought, trying not to be alarmed, the result of an extended childhood spent avoiding my Elders.

  My Human and I had made and discarded plans of one sort or another, most concerned with ways to find out why the Feneden were refusing to acknowledge the Iftsen. This particular situation hadn’t come up—it hadn’t needed to, since our life on Minas XII involved my routinely having to disappear at inconvenient moments.

  Shame to waste the mass, though, I sighed, releasing my hold on the Lishcyn-form.

  I paused in web-form, shedding drops of water from the perfection of my outer surface, senses extended beyond the dissonant complaints of the Narcissus’ engines to the thrumming depths of gravity tempting me this way and that.

  I turned a speck of web-mass into energy and rearranged my molecular structure into that of a species almost as amorphous as my true self: the Ycl. To my new vision, extended well into the infrared, Paul blazed like a beacon.

  Beacon was a poor choice of words. I oozed underneath the nearest bunk, flattening myself into what I hoped looked like a stain on the floor—given the tastes I was adsorbing under here, that should be believable enough. The Ycl, while admirable in many ways, had regrettable appetites that would likely keep their world quarantined for quite some time. A useful form, particularly for its stealth and predator’s sensitivity to sound, but one in which I didn’t dare become famished—at least not near any being I’d regret having for lunch.