With luck, he’d pass for crew, assuming those on this ship were mostly hired mercs who might not all know each other on sight. Depending on the progress Mitchell had made in the med unit over the past hours, Lefebvre thought he could do the same. Once the swelling and bruising were gone, he’d be hard-pressed himself to recognize his new friend. This all assumed Chase had put Mitchell into treatment and that Lefebvre could somehow retrieve him unnoticed—gambles he was prepared to take.
Bess. She was the biggest problem, Lefebvre realized grimly. There was no way to make her inconspicuous.
27: Tank Afternoon
ONE of the many joys of being totally inconspicuous was no longer being interrupted by events or ideas over which I had no control. I let the hydroponics tank dictate my outer edges and let my mind drift through various Esen-saves-Paul scenarios—all of which had a common theme of teeth, Logan’s flesh, and a significant amount of screaming. And, I added to myself, chocolate.
Not that I held with screaming or biting. They were simply therapeutic fantasies, a way to pass the time while part of me raged with impatience to find Paul and be sure he was all right.
The rest of me was more reasonable, knowing my escape and the call for help I’d sent, coupled with my disappearance under Logan’s nose, had to be keeping the ship’s sapient inhabitants occupied with more than tormenting my Human about a weapon that might not exist.
I was less sure about Logan’s reaction to our encounter. Had he admitted seeing me? Perhaps. I suspected he hadn’t told anyone about my disappearance in this tank: since he’d left, no one else had so much as opened the door. Which relieved the nagging worry of their flushing the tank to search its depths. I’d survive it, but I didn’t plan to leave the ship without Paul.
Or the other one, I admitted, sloshing back and forth in sudden melancholy. The more time Paul and I spent in Lefebvre’s pleasant company, the more likely we’d face a very unpleasant end to our budding friendship. As usual, I grumbled. Humans made my life even more complicated.
Not that I’d abandon Lefebvre to Logan and Chase. For one thing, I saw no reason why they’d kept Lefebvre alive this long, beyond having forgotten to kill him. Despite an unworthy desire to bend one or two Humans into uncomfortable shapes, I wished no harm to any intelligent being.
Especially, I admitted, to one who held my hand in front of enemies and claimed to be kin. That had been brave and unasked, a warm memory I used to keep several other recent ones at bay.
I sampled a bit of the living mass touching me, tasting fresh and vibrant cells, growing at the maximum efficiency this Human technology could sustain. Largas had insisted all of the company’s new ships be hydroponics-capable, an expense most other freighters out of Minas refused. Paul and I offered subtle encouragement, planning against such a day as this, but it hadn’t been needed. Joel knew firsthand the importance of self-sufficiency in space.
It was certainly important to me, I thought, slightly uncomfortable now, as then, with the knowledge of what Joel would think of this version of his good friend, Esolesy Ki.
Abundant living mass and, so far, privacy. I could cycle into any form in web-memory tolerant of this atmosphere, and I knew a number with significant advantages—including teeth. Just perfect, I thought, and would have sighed had I the lungs for it. How often in my recently hectic life had that combination occurred?
Of course, Lefebvre would doubtless refuse to leave the ship without the me he knew.
Equally of course, I was not about to show him how flexible that particular identity could be.
So there was really no choice at all. It would be my unimpressive and essentially fangless Human-self to the rescue.
I thought I’d stay in the tank a while longer and enjoy those fantasy triumphs while I could.
Elsewhere
“I SEE he has made a remarkable recovery. Of course I approve, my dear Janet. As always, you anticipate my every need—”
Logan.
Lefebvre kept his head up and his eyes straight ahead as he walked past the open door to the med room, the image of someone following orders. Inside, his guts twisted, as if that snake-soft, high-pitched voice had some power over his body. What was Logan doing on the ’Lass?
The next opening led to the galley, empty while the crew searched for the missing child. Lefebvre took a chance and ducked inside to think.
So far, his imposture had passed with flying colors. In fact, the first crewbeing he’d encountered had ordered him to search the lower decks. He’d nodded obediently, somehow keeping a straight face as the Human, apparently the com-tech, vented his justifiable ire about trader brats everyone knew grew up with antique com equipment—so why was it his fault she’d known how to punch out a message?—the incompetence of officers of any ilk, and the general state of a universe that would give any responsibility to an Ervickian.
Now, Lefebvre leaned back against the wall, listening for any sign Logan and Chase were leaving the med room. Bess had sent a message and somehow continued to give a shipload of mercs the slip. Better than he’d accomplished so far, he thought, as proud as if she’d been his own flesh and blood and not someone he’d met yesterday.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Bess’ face as it had looked when they’d taken Mitchell away and he’d gripped her hand hard enough to hurt, afraid she’d throw herself after her friend and reveal how important he was to her. He couldn’t let them have that weapon to use, Lefebvre thought grimly. Mitchell would break. He’d no doubt Mitchell would agree to anything, do anything, to save the child.
Her pale cheeks had been streaked with tears and dirt; her eyes, locked on his, had been an incredible blue-green, darkened by despair at first, then warming with trust as she must have realized why he held her back.
A trust he planned to deserve.
Footsteps. Lefebvre counted under his breath, estimating how many steps it would take to reach the bend and be out of sight. There.
He stepped back out into the corridor, moving swiftly in case someone decided at the last minute to turn back, and entered the med room, closing the door behind him.
“What can I do for you?” the tech hadn’t turned around, busy adjusting some controls above an opaque med unit.
“Med-tech,” Lefebvre said, moving soundlessly, up on the balls of his feet. “Captain’s orders. I’m here to guard her guest.”
“I thought we agreed that wouldn’t be necessary if I put him in stasis—I mean, how does she think he’s going to—” The tech looked over his shoulder with an aggrieved expression in time to see Lefebvre’s fist arrive.
“You know officers,” Lefebvre said quietly, catching the man as he slumped, and putting him down to one side.
The box was already humming to itself, its interior clouded as the atmosphere within was rapidly being exchanged for the preservatives and sedatives used to hold a body in suspended animation for prolonged periods. Lefebvre had no idea which controls would safely halt the process, so he simply grabbed the nearest metal stool and brought it smashing down on the surface of the box, coughing as the acrid gases mixed with the room air.
There was an echoing cough. Eyes smarting from the fumes, Lefebvre brushed away hunks of plas until he reached something warmer and firmer. An arm. As he tugged at it, a hand reached out and fastened on his shoulder, surprising Lefebvre into an involuntary gasp. He felt suddenly dizzy as he inhaled remnants of the sedative, and panicked, grabbing what he hoped was Mitchell and heaving them both away from the box as quickly as he could.
They landed on the floor, Lefebvre trying to take most of the impact and receiving a stinging blow from an elbow in his face for his efforts. He sputtered out a protest and found, to his amazement, the form lying sprawled on top of him was shaking with laughter.
“Quite—the—the—rescue,” a voice gasped cheerfully, no longer hoarse with pain, a voice and laughter he knew “—thought you were trying to kill me— How’s your nose?”
“Who—?” Lefebvre thrust the other away
, rolling over so his hands pinned the other Human with brutal force to the floor. He blinked, desperate to clear his eyes, then, suddenly, could see.
Paul Antoni Ragem, his face restored so only the jagged purple outlines of its punishment remained, looked up at him. There wasn’t any humor left in his gray eyes—only resignation. “Or are you going to kill me now, Rudy?”
28: Tank Night
LINGERING in web-form wasn’t the lazy, danger-avoiding tactic it might seem to any other being. I had a reason—and it paid off much sooner than I’d hoped.
I was waiting for a response to my call.
Without leaving the ship to taste the clarity of out there, I couldn’t know the direction The Black Watch had taken since leaving the Narcissus. I had a rough idea of range, which wasn’t particularly helpful by itself, but allowed me to invent reasons for continued patience.
So I was relieved to detect the power signature of a ship approaching—a ship I hoped came from Largas, something difficult to tell by the song of its energy alone, and a ship I hoped was capable of standing up to the ’Watch. My assurances that the Tly cruiser was unarmed had come from a source I now wouldn’t trust for the price of marfle tea.
The jets rippling the water ceased abruptly, once-suspended cells sinking until they began coating my upper surface, forming a thick layer I hoped would disguise my unfortunately vivid and beautiful blue. It interfered slightly with my ability to sense what was nearby—which wasn’t outstanding at best, fine distinctions not being too necessary in a form originally devoted to harvesting the glowing dust of protostars and other rather easily distinguished food sources. I thinned as much as I could, sending extensions of myself creeping up each corner of the tank until clear of the cell broth but still safely underwater. Maybe, I told myself optimistically, they’ll think I’m caulking.
This did improve my awareness of the tank room. I coupled the information being collected by my web-self with my Human-self memories of the place—a trick Ersh had taught me, since otherwise one had very little chance of making sense of what the movements of cohesive masses meant.
So I knew there were four Humans searching the hydroponics area, concentrating on the deck and areas behind the machinery and tubing. I didn’t expect they’d do a particularly thorough job. It was a warm, always damp place, with a tendency to mold and a very unshiplike scent many spacers claimed made them ill. Each took a turn bending over the now-stilled water in the main tank, as well as climbing up and opening the lids on the secondaries. Then they were gone.
The jets kicked back in, freeing me from my living burden. At the same time, Ersh-memory welled up and spun me away from this place …
…until I rushed through the void as Ersh had done, soaring through the wonder of vacuum, rising and falling in waves of radiation in pursuit of streams of light, spending web-mass as energy until I was more energy than mass, driving forward until space itself dropped away and I moved aside.
Freedom.
Others accumulated mass, refusing to use it, hoarding it like some treasure until their movement slowed and they were snagged in orbit around some star or planet. Ersh passed them …scorn. …There had to be more …
Curiosity. Leaving the others to the familiar and the safe, seeking the empty spaces …spending mass until she was almost gone …
…I surged up out of the memory, knowing how it ended and having no desire to relive the taste of Feneden or any other life-form.
I did, however, feel a considerable longing to dip back into those memories of flight. I’d done it once, thrown away mass and escaped a planet’s gravity, experienced the intense passion of my flesh for vacuum. It was, I reminded myself, something Ersh had wisely forbidden herself and her Web. As I forbade myself. Civilized beings, trustworthy, safe beings, used starships; I intended to be one.
Exactly which part of civilized behavior involved lurking at the bottom of a pool of algae was not an issue I cared to examine at the moment.
The approaching ship should be within the range of the sensors on the ’Lass soon, I judged. Given its past and present, I thought it prudent to assume the corresponding instruments on The Black Watch would be even more sensitive.
With every minute, I grew more anxious. Was this ship our rescue or Logan’s reinforcements? I checked again for signs of Humans—or a hungover Ervickian—within range of this room. None. The web-mass within Paul’s medallion sang its forlorn, siren call. By its location, I judged Logan to be on an upper deck.
I pulled myself into the proper teardrop shape of my kind, feeling energized by the condensing of my mass. Then I oozed up onto the platform, not wanting algae on my feet, and cycled.
And shivered. I wrapped my new arms around my bare self and quickly went to the storage locker. There, again through suggestions from Cameron & Ki to the easygoing ear of Largas Freight, was a set of coveralls to be used when cleaning out any contaminated tanks. It was a reasonable precaution against spreading harmful organisms from one tank to another—although that happened so rarely as to be almost unknown. It was also a very reasonable way to insure warm, dry clothing for a visiting web-being without a wardrobe.
I looked down at myself and sighed. Warm, dry, and only five sizes too large. I started rolling up the cuffs, then froze.
The door was opening again.
Elsewhere
“WELL, cousin?”
Lefebvre stared down, hardly daring to breathe. The face was older, of course; those fifty years looked back from his mirror, too. The voice was deeper, more resonant. There were fine lines beside the eyes and mouth, some newly etched by pain.
He hadn’t thought so much would be the same: the almost fierce intelligence sparkling in the intense eyes, the lean expressive features, the way that lock of hair curled rebelliously over the brow—the despair of Ragem’s mother before every family event.
He hadn’t imagined what would change, that this face he thought he knew better than his own would mature into something commanding, something compassionate and wise.
This, this wasn’t the face he’d hunted. Where was the guilt, the remorse?
Where were all his urgent questions? Now that he could ask them, Lefebvre discovered he couldn’t speak, instead choking on an anger so beyond his control that his hands grappled Paul’s throat before he could stop them, fingertips digging deep into faded bruises.
Bruises? He felt his thoughts and emotions reel with confusion. This was Mitchell. His companion in hell, who’d willingly suffered to hide a child from a monster.
Lefebvre released his death grip, throwing himself up and back until he half-leaned on a desk. “I don’t understand,” he whispered in horror, feeling the deck ready to open under his feet as he watched Paul take a wheezing breath.
Paul Ragem.
Paul rose as well, every movement cautious and planned as though the outward healing masked inward damage that hadn’t been repaired. Or maybe it was the memory of pain—the accelerated healing of a med unit sometimes fooled the mind.
No, realized Lefebvre, it was to give him time to adjust. Paul had always been good at communicating with others, alien or Human. Now it was as if he’d spent the past years honing that skill, learning to control every part of his body, every expression, even the timbre of his voice. Why?
He didn’t realize he’d asked that out loud until Paul repeated gently. “Why? Which one, Rudy? I’d think you’d have quite a few for me by now.”
Lefebvre shook his head. “For me,” he said, faintly surprised by the normal sound of his voice. “I’ve spent all this time trying to find the truth—trying to clear your name and memory.” He faltered. “Why do I—”
“—feel like killing me?” Paul finished, not appearing alarmed, though he gingerly rubbed his neck. “I’d say it was a natural reaction, Rudy. You’ve every right to be furious. I’ve deceived you and everyone else. I abandoned you fifty years ago. On D’Dsel, I did it again, leaving you unconscious and so this—” he waved his hand as though
indicating the ship, “—happened.”
Lefebvre made a short, violent gesture of negation. “Logan would have found some other way to trap me.” Even as he said the words, his heart pounded with frustrated rage, rage that seemed all at once to have too many targets, including himself. “He’d have done anything to get at you.” Lefebvre’s fists clenched. “And I helped, didn’t I? He couldn’t have known it was you for sure without my key, without what I told him. He wouldn’t have—”
“Enough,” Paul said sternly. “Nothing would have changed, Rudy.” He dipped his head, then raised it, saying somberly: “Logan—and the rest of this—it all comes back to my actions, not yours. I let them spread lies about me—and let you believe them.”
“I never did. I knew they were lies,” Lefebvre found himself almost tripping over the words to say them quickly enough, as if they could atone for his actions of a moment before. “You’d never endanger your ship, your crewmates.”
Paul’s face grew pale and determined. “They weren’t all lies, Rudy. I didn’t harm anyone, but I did have a choice to make. Part of that choice was to let Paul Ragem die—to leave you and everyone else. I made it willingly.”
“Why?” Lefebvre breathed. “What could matter to you that much?” More than your family, he added to himself, aching with the hurt of that loss as if it were fresh and not buried in their pasts.
Paul slowly reached out his hand. “I had a good reason, Rudy,” he said simply. “And I have a good reason now. Trust me.”
Lefebvre stretched out his own hand to meet and grip Paul’s, then closed his eyes and pulled the other into a rough embrace. “I still think I should kill you,” he decided as he let go.
“I think you just did,” Paul said, wheezing, but with a feather of a laugh in his voice, one hand keeping hold of Lefebvre’s shoulder as though he needed the support. “I wouldn’t want to wrestle you these days, cousin.”
Changing Vision Page 27