He slammed his palms against the sides of the opening, leaving tiny red streaks, then turned away. Although every mouthful sickened him, Lefebvre forced himself to finish the meal tray brought earlier. There was nothing to be gained by weakening himself.
Mitchell hadn’t told him what he wanted done—but Lefebvre knew he would do it. There was something about Mitchell Kane that made him the kind of leader you would die for, the kind Lefebvre had believed didn’t really exist, the kind beings like Kearn couldn’t begin to imagine.
Lefebvre made himself think coolly, drawing on years of experience assessing vague and disconnected clues. Mitchell wasn’t dead—not yet. And there was something going on. Earlier, the intership had broadcast a child’s voice, singing a pretty little tune, something unfamiliar to Lefebvre, but which elicited a great deal of reaction from the Tly in Mitchell’s cell. One guard had apparently been dismissed, and Lefebvre had watched him running down the corridor—an expression of horror on his face. From a song?
The air quality had continued to diminish. The Tly must have noticed by now, but there hadn’t been any improvement. He and Mitchell had talked about this ship, about the possibility it was undercrewed for its size. Perhaps there were other problems on board—mechanical ones—problems he could use. If he could walk through walls.
They’d talked a long time before Logan’s return, in spite of the state of Mitchell’s throat, an easy conversation that wound its way around places they’d both seen, amusing stories, childhood dreams. They’d surprised each other: Mitchell had confessed to grand visions of a multispecies’ library, a collection of languages and cultures designed for use by anyone, not just experts—inspiring Lefebvre’s own admission of hoping to be an alien contact specialist, of joining one of the teams pushing the borders of Human knowledge about others.
He’d left the academy to join the Botharis patrol instead—to learn how to hunt other Humans. The conversation had faltered there, Lefebvre uncomfortable revealing more than the name of his target, until Mitchell changed the subject to his children, a grown daughter and son of whom he was obviously proud.
They’d never talked about his friend, Lefebvre remembered, both wary of the vids.
Yawning, he pushed the tray toward the opening, ready for the servo to retrieve on its rounds. There was nothing on it to use for a weapon, the tray itself being a spongy material about as dangerous as the mashed vegetables it had held. Lefebvre lay down on the blanketless cot, shivering in the damp chill, and threw an arm over his eyes to keep out the dimmed light.
The song was sweet, not so much because of the lyrics but because of the voice lifted in its melody. Lefebvre thought he was dreaming at first, then, as the song grew perceptibly louder, he took his arm from his eyes and realized the music was coming from the corridor.
He got to his feet quietly, making the movement casual for any Tly guard watching the vid, and walked over to the servo door.
She was there, almost floating down the night-dimmed corridor, a young Human, a girl dressed in what looked like bloodstained rags—which couldn’t be right, Lefebvre told himself numbly. There was nothing suggesting injury in her soft voice or the way her slim hand supported a bag over her shoulder. Her other held a long-handled broom she was using to gently mark time with her song.
He felt something cold slide down his spine, as if part of his mind tried to warn him this wasn’t real, that he saw an apparition or created one in his drug-abused thoughts.
She looked right at him.
Nothing prepared him for her eyes. Meeting them was like drowning in some bottomless ocean, like falling through aeons of time. He couldn’t have told their color or shape. He did know the emotion filling them—he shared it.
Desperation.
Without wondering how he knew this tiny slip of a being was the friend Mitchell protected, Lefebvre said quickly, “He’s alive. They took him to the med room.” Then he glanced meaningfully at the vid just behind her.
Still singing, she nodded her head, placing her bag on the floor. She began walking down the corridor, waving her arms about as though reaching for some invisible support. Lefebvre moved so he could watch her, again wondering if she was real or hallucination.
Then, she calmly drove the broom handle through the protective grate, into the nearest vid, destroying it with a hot shower of sparks that danced past her hair—a tactic she repeated until the corridor was monitor free.
Definitely, Lefebvre thought with relief, not a ghost.
23: Brig Night; Flight Deck Night
I BRUSHED sparks from my hair and shoulders as the last vid in range exploded overhead. This should allay any lingering doubts a ghost was on board, I sighed, but the disguise was wearing thin anyway. I wished I could say the same for the now-dried liquid I’d poured over my clothes and skin, scratching at my arm as I headed back to Lefebvre’s cell.
The lock was mechanical—perhaps a safety feature in case this outermost deck lost power during battle. I used the broom to help lever it open, grumbling to myself about the lack of strength in my current hands, but not prepared to do anything about it at the moment. Not with who was standing in front of me in the now-open door.
Lefebvre looked the worse for wear and definitely smelled it. Despite this, and his avowed task of hunting for Paul, I found his attempted smile the most encouraging thing I’d seen all day. He bent in order to look me in the eyes, then nodded to himself. “You’re Mitchell’s friend, aren’t you. So am I.”
I blinked at this, somehow finding it completely feasible Paul could charm even an archenemy, and nodded. “You said he’d been taken to the meds. Where?” Why? I kept to myself, able to guess and having enough to do keeping my temperature within Human norms.
Lefebvre didn’t bother pointing; he took the broom from me, which looked almost weaponlike in his larger hands, and led the way down the corridor. Given we had no time for explanations, this was fine by me. Given he was obviously hurrying for his own reasons, my mouth dried with fear and I snatched my bag to follow quickly.
“Wait,” I hissed, grabbing his arm as we turned the corner and I could see brighter light washing the floor ahead of us. “Let me go first.”
When the Human looked inclined to argue, I gave him my best glare. He’d better not, I said to myself, start treating me like a child. But Lefebvre closed his mouth and waved me ahead, taking up a position against the wall beside the open door to the med room. Perhaps, I thought, momentarily amused, he’d remembered in time who’d let him out of his cell.
Heart pounding, I started humming the song, promising myself I’d never sing it again once off this ship, and walked right into the med room.
I should have considered letting Lefebvre go first.
There were two things wrong with my entrance. First, I hadn’t thought of how I’d react to seeing Paul.
And second, I hadn’t thought at all about his seeing me. The Human me.
I froze just inside the door, song forgotten, staring at what only my instincts told me was my friend. He, in turn, was restrained upright in a chairlike bed, sipping liquid through a straw held to his swollen lips, staring back at me through slits between his puffed and blackened eyelids.
Lefebvre told me—later—there had been three Tly in the room. Two had run at the sight of me. The third, the med, whom I presumed was less inclined to believe in ghosts, had gone for the com panel and met the business end of Lefebvre’s broom.
I saw nothing of this. I must have stepped forward, since my hands took possession of Paul’s wrapped ones before my mind knew it. This close, I still couldn’t sense the medallion and my gift. Stolen. My lips pulled back from my teeth in what would have been dire threat in another me.
One of Paul’s hands freed itself from mine and sought my cheek, the bandaging rough and cold. “I—knew,” he whispered hoarsely, oddly triumphant under the circumstances. “I knew this would be you.” A flicker within the cavities holding his eyes. “And my friend.” His hand left
my cheek and raised itself. I felt warmth at my side as Lefebvre stepped up quickly, taking Paul’s hand ever so gently in his own, placing his other arm, unexpectedly, around my shoulders and drawing me against him.
This, I admitted to myself in total disbelief, had not been in my original plan. I was pleasantly surprised not to explode.
Maybe I was maturing. Paul needed me intact, I realized, assessing his condition as he and Lefebvre worked together to remove the bindings holding him to the bed.
“I—” my voice cracked, sounding foolishly young even to my ears. I coughed and made myself continue. “I’ve made arrangements to get off the ship. Can you walk—Mitchell?”
There was a low mutter that included “dance if I have to,” but I couldn’t hear the rest. I took that as a positive, grateful not to have to argue with either of them. Lefebvre put his shoulder under Paul’s better arm and passed me the broom. I looked up at them both doubtfully, unsure of many things.
Paul’s lips made a flinching motion, as if he tried to smile. “Let’s go, old lady,” he told me. “My friend Rudy and I need to file a complaint.”
Still, I paused. “Is there anything here you need?”
Lefebvre answered: “From the dispenser log, they’ve shot him up with everything available. The only thing more he could use is time in the trauma bed—better yet, a proper Commonwealth med unit. For that, I like your plan. Let’s get out of here.”
There was something shattered in his brown eyes, I noticed suddenly, and remembered the terse comments of the med to Logan about “the other one” who had succumbed to the drugs. Perhaps, I thought with a shudder, in that same chair. I touched the back of his hand, lightly, then nodded. “Follow me.”
The flight deck was directly outward from this one, something which probably explained how we made it to my hiding place before the Tly responded to the unghostlike activities in the brig corridor and med room. Lefebvre tried to ease Paul to where a heap of packing material made a reasonably clean bed. Paul refused, preferring to lean against a crate of heavy machine parts.
“You’ll need to find another one of these,” I instructed Lefebvre, showing him the space-ready suit I’d prepared for Paul. “Two more,” I corrected hastily. I hadn’t planned to need one.
While the Human began rummaging through the crates, quickly finding an assortment of gear to lay out on the floor, I went to Paul. His face looked even more battered and bruised through the moisture this form kept generating in its eyes. I blinked it away, embarrassed. “Are you damaged?” I asked, trying to hold my voice steady. My hands weren’t, trembling as they touched the bandaging covering one arm and shoulder, wrapping his abdomen. They were all he wore above the pants Lefebvre had taken from the unconscious med. I dumped the dying plants from my tablecloth, standing on my toes to wrap it around his semi-bare shoulders.
Paul’s lips stretched, an answering drop of blood oozing from one corner. “Only my looks—and they’ll improve. I wouldn’t have believed—” The lips lost their curve. “My interrogator was quite—accomplished.”
I reached up to put a gentle finger over his shattered mouth, shaking. My temperature soared until my heart pounded uncontrollably, this form trying to protect itself by dissipating the heat. “Logan,” I managed to say, so full of rage I could barely see, longing for a shape to express my hate. With teeth. And venom.
Paul gathered me to him with one arm, making a broken sound as he touched the blazing skin of my arm and knew how I struggled for control. “Careful, Esen,” he whispered into my hair. “Careful, please. It’s all right.”
“What did he want from you?” When Paul shook his head against mine, denying the question, I insisted. “I need to know.”
The words were halting, breathed into my ear. “Logan knew who I was, Es. He knew I was Ragem. Not you. He doesn’t know about you. He wanted to know about the attacks—he’s after what he thinks is a Kraal weapon. He asked the same questions, over and over again.” I shuddered in his grip, and Paul held me tighter. “Don’t lose it now. Logan’s not worth it—hear me? Es? Esen!” this whispered with a desperate edge to it.
“I hear you,” I said.
The deep voice from behind surprised us both. “He’ll be all right,” Lefebvre said to me, with a quick look at Paul’s face. “I’ve seen worse—mind you, that was following an aircar crash into the side of a mountain, but Carasians can take a fair amount of thumping.”
I couldn’t help smiling, the urge to destroy something difficult to maintain with the two of them chuckling. How bizarrely Human, to find humor in this.
“Did you find the suits?” I asked, stepping away from Paul. The air was increasingly foul; it was hard to catch my breath. Another good reason for the suits, I decided, worrying that the flight deck might suffer more from my meddling than the lower ones. Passing out was not going to help matters.
“Even in your size,” Lefebvre said proudly. He seemed to be improving with each moment of freedom, perhaps one of those personalities who suffered most when helpless.
I reached out my hand in the Human gesture. “I haven’t thanked you—” I waited politely for him to name himself.
“Lefebvre,” he said, capturing my fingers in a hand broader and shorter than Paul’s. The grip was pleasant, as Humans measured such things, warm and firm yet careful of my smaller hand. “As I recall, I’ve more to thank you for, Fem. You can call me Rudy, if you like.”
“And you may call me Bess,” I replied, giving him my best smile and ignoring a certain rigidity in Paul’s stance. The Human knew quite well it was traditional to keep the essential sound of one’s web-name, although that was less a Rule than the comfort of retaining some identity regardless of shape. Not that I intended to become used to either.
“Bess,” Lefebvre repeated with a smile. “So, what’s with the suits? You aren’t proposing we walk off the ship, are you?”
I raised one eyebrow.
“Close,” I replied. Then explained.
Elsewhere
“I REGRET you’ve been inconvenienced, Fem N’Klet—” Kearn began. He’d worn his best uniform for this inevitable and undesired meeting; it always helped his confidence.
“With all respect, Captain Kearn,” the Panacian said graciously, as if she hadn’t practically blackmailed her way into his office, “I believe you underestimate what I have endured while waiting for your disposition to—improve.”
“Have you been mistreated by my crew?” The note of outraged dignity was perfect, Kearn told himself, just perfect. It paid to rehearse.
She arranged her upper limbs in the position that meant composed determination. Kearn recognized it with dismay. “No, Captain. I have been mistreated by you. Why was I brought along when your ship lifted from D’Dsel? I was a messenger, not a passenger. My absence will distress my family and my Queen.”
“A regrettable misunderstanding, Fem N’Klet,” Kearn said smoothly, wiping his moist palms on his thighs. “Now, as my officer informed you, we’ve arranged a stopover at Hixtar Station—”
“I see no purpose in leaving this ship before I have delivered my message, Captain Kearn.”
He caught himself before his hands lifted to his scalp, instead, picking up some documents to rustle importantly. “Then, by all means, leave your message with me, Fem N’Klet and I’ll get to it as soon as I—”
“It is an oral message, for you only, from the Queen of my family. You had the honor of meeting her before her maturation.”
Despite the urgings of the Feneden to avoid any such messages, Kearn couldn’t help but be flattered. A Queen had remembered their acquaintance? Not that he could pull the name or face out of his own past to match, but that only proved the impact he must have made upon this individual. Kearn sat up straighter. Was he not the Captain? he reminded himself. Since when did Captains obey the orders of passengers? “Of course, I remember your magnificent Queen,” he said heartily. “Please, give me her message.”
“The Human traitor li
ves,” N’Klet stated, her faceted eyes on Kearn as if her instructions included memorizing his reaction to this news. “The individual you told my Queen was the one who brought the Esen Monster to D’Dsel, so it could murder Her Glory Sec-ag Mixs C’Cklet.”
“Ragem?” Kearn’s eyebrows rose, creasing his hairless forehead. “Impossible! My dear Fem— Your Queen’s mistaken—”
“Paul Ragem, the Traitor, stood before my Queen in audience the day before this ship left D’Dsel. He had been known to our kin-group for the past twenty-two standard years as Paul Cameron, a business associate of excellent reputation. He came at our invitation to give his aid, and that of his partner, the noted linguist Esolesy Ki, in our negotiations between the Feneden and the Iftsen. Am I speaking too quickly for you, Captain Kearn?”
Kearn was indeed waving at her to stop talking, but it had nothing to do with N’Klet’s measured and capable comspeak, and everything to do with the fact that he was trying not to choke over the name Esolesy Ki.
Esolesy, he thought, wildly. It could be shortened as Es.
Es. Ragem’s pet name for Esen.
“We have to go back,” Kearn muttered, fumbling for the com panel on his desk. “I have to find them.”
“You would be unsuccessful. They have left D’Dsel, Captain Kearn.”
“No!” he howled, leaping to his feet and flinging plas sheets everywhere. “No! I can’t have been so close and lost them!”
N’Klet tilted her beautiful head to watch him. When Kearn stopped shouting to draw another breath, she said calmly: “The Queen also wanted you to know that Paul Ragem and Esolesy Ki left D’Dsel on an Iftsen ship. According to Port Authority, this ship was bound for Iftsen Secondus.”
Kearn felt almost dizzy with joy. This was it! “Then we’ll catch them there!” He couldn’t wait to tell Timri. They’d have to discuss what to do. There had been some general ideas floating about concerning the best containment systems, weapons—but there must have been some new tech developed in the interim—Timri kept up to date on such things. Then there was that special package, the one from his backer, Kearn remembered.
Changing Vision Page 24