Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Well, if the Feneden don’t believe in the Iftsen, and the Iftsen are too drunk to be offended by the Feneden—we should have no problems, right, Officer Timri? Perhaps,” Kearn added pompously, quite impressed with his own reasoning, “you could arrange for repairs to my door.”

  Timri, her mouth hanging open as though whatever she’d imagined couldn’t come close to this piece of brilliant deduction, was shoved to one side as Com-tech Resdick, usually a very placid, reserved individual, came careening into Kearn’s office at a full run.

  “Is my door wide open to everyone now, Timri?” Kearn snapped, aggrieved beyond measure.

  Resdick saluted, the effect spoiled as he used Kearn’s desk to stop his forward momentum. “Sir, Sir. He’s back. The Captain!”

  “Lefebvre?” Timri almost shouted, grabbing the other by his nearest shoulder as if she had to look into his face. “What do you mean—back?”

  “He means,” said the deep, commanding voice Kearn remembered all too well, “I’m back and reporting for duty. Sir.” Lefebvre had lost none of his ability to look and act totally respectful, while immediately conveying the opposite.

  Kearn closed his eyes. If he did it long enough, maybe this would turn out to have all been another nightmare.

  33: Festival Afternoon; Gallery Night

  ALWAYS look a gift horse in the mouth was one of Paul’s favorite expressions. Although the original Human axiom, as held in Ersh-memory, urged the recipient of a free equine to politely refrain from checking its true age as determined by its teeth—at least until out of range of the giver—Paul’s version was more along the lines of exercising caution before accepting the unexpected. It was a sensible paranoia, I’d found, especially when preparing to open one of Paul’s little surprises.

  So, I told myself in disgust, why hadn’t I learned by now that the unexpected gift was rarely to be trusted?

  In this case the gift had been an unexpected chance to leave Paul behind on the shipcity. Well, here I was. Alone. I loosened the belt of my e-rig, wondering why I’d ever thought this was a good idea. This was also something rapidly becoming habit.

  The original plan—Paul’s plan—had been for us to take the seventh hour shuttle to Brakistem. There wasn’t much choice in destination or time: all shuttles went from Upperside to Underside, and from there to Brakistem’s shipcity; anything earlier had been booked. It was, we were informed by amused shipcity staff, the opening day of the Festival. We’d considered taking the Vegas Lass down, but it seemed cruel and unusual punishment to Largas Freight to subject their lovely ship to Iftsen Secondus’ challenging atmosphere. She had, I’d remarked, enough to live down already. Paul hadn’t taken my comment well.

  What he did take remarkably well was the news that the Russell III was already findown—for some mysterious reason, outside the shipcity. Obviously, this wasn’t the revelation to Paul that Lefebvre and I thought it might be. Lefebvre had used a significant number of our credits to purchase an off-schedule flight down. He was, by a bizarre twist of fate I had yet to reconcile with our usual luck, to act as our being on the inside.

  I looked at the chrono’s green gleam within the helmet, below and to the left of the tip of my broad nose. Lefebvre should have made Kearn’s day about three hours ago.

  Paul had had the e-rigs ready and our tickets purchased. He’d introduced the new me, Esolesy Ki, to Lefebvre with every look of a being delighted to see an old friend. Lefebvre, I’d noticed, had a certain amount of difficulty adjusting—prone to taking second glances at me, as if to surprise me cycling into something else.

  There was movement ahead. I crouched lower, longing to switch on the lamps on either shoulder.

  So it was supposed to have been Paul and I, just like old times, ready to investigate the Feneden together. Which, as any being realized, was a needless duplication and a significant risk to him. I’d persisted in my arguments with him, as Lishcyn having gained both confidence and a more impressive voice with which to present my case. Paul, completely unaffected by either reasoned argument or bellowing, had said he didn’t care if the rig pinched my ears, there was no way I was going down to the planet without him, and would I stop spitting.

  I watched the next group of Feneden enter and did my best to look like a lumpy sculpture.

  My golden opportunity had come when we were leaving our rooms. An incoming message had chimed for attention. Paul had frowned at me, as if it were my fault, then went back inside to answer it. He’d pointed out the door, indicating I was to go ahead to the shuttle.

  It had probably been a ploy to stop my arguments. But when Paul hadn’t arrived by the time the shuttle conductors were busy asking for last minute boarders, I’d seized the opportunity. My ticket having two seats on it, I’d simply smiled and grabbed the nearest Human waiting in the line for the next shuttle. She hadn’t argued.

  So here I was: on Iftsen Secondus, without Paul—which was about the only part of my scheme working properly. I was still in the e-rig, because I’d had no chance to cycle into Iftsen form. It was now distressingly dark outside. And I was surrounded by Feneden thieves.

  Next time, I promised myself, I would not only look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, I’d dissect it first.

  I’d visited Brakistem during other Festivals—the Iftsen, not surprisingly, found innumerable reasons to celebrate—and knew what to expect when I’d arrived in the late afternoon. The living towers of stacked Iftsen were everywhere, busy doing what they enjoyed most. As usual, those subspecies with incompatible frills found this a little tricky, resorting to artificial wedges to help their mixed stacks stay vertical. I walked past these quickly, knowing such stacks were about as stable as the mind-set of their members and not planning to spend time under a pile of happily squirming Iftsen as the flattened beings sorted themselves out.

  Those not so occupied were milling around food carts. In pretech days, the serving of food and drink during any gathering required a large number of First Citizens delegated to miss the fun; needless to say the Iftsen had adopted Human servos in as many capacities as possible and there were almost no First Citizens in sight. Among its other virtues, my e-rig insulated me, and more accurately my tender stomachs, from any interaction with food odors I remembered as rivaling the poisonous nature of Iftsen Secondus’ atmosphere.

  During the Festival of Living Art, there were always singers. Actually, there were singers for every festival. This particular event, the streets and courtyards hosted meandering choirs, mostly Nabreda, attempting to convince any being who would listen that they had completed a worthy new stanza for the epic song commemorating the history and significant events of First Citizens’ Gallery of Brakistem.

  My magnificent and highly sensitive ears had to be folded in order to fit within the helmet. Listening, especially through the indignity of an external com pickup, was no way to do any song, epic or otherwise, justice. But I lingered beside the singers, making sure I caught every word. It wasn’t pleasant.

  Epic song, for the Iftsen, was the equivalent of Human newsmags, political debate, and historical record rolled into one. The Nabreda were singing with intense passion about the pillaging of their magnificent Gallery by aliens. Depending on the choral group, these aliens were portrayed as evil and stupid, incomprehensible and stupid, or simply art thieves with really bad taste. The climax of this particular stanza hadn’t been completed—the singers would wait for a consensus from the crowd to help decide that—but that wouldn’t take long. The most enthusiastic response I heard from those Iftsen currently paying attention had been to a straightforward set of rhymes with a haunting undertone of regret and a thrillingly triumphant fanfare.

  The lyrics, unfortunately, sang of the need to eradicate this scourge by destroying the aliens’ birthplace.

  Any non-Iftsen I’d encountered as I passed through the throng had looked decidedly uncomfortable by this point, and there were eddies here and there as the more alarmed individuals decided to head back to Und
erside—presumably to leave before anything more hostile than emphatic rhyming took place.

  I, on the other hand, had cleverly decided to head to the Gallery and confirm the singers’ complaints for myself.

  They’d been justified, I now sighed, very quietly, watching from my post inside the main public entrance to the Gallery.

  Amber lights made swaths through the murky air, pinpointing rare works so they seemed to float before one’s eyes. Not all of the art was comprehensible, even to the Iftsen, and several of the illuminated pieces weren’t technically art at all, being exposed parts of the Gallery’s cooling and plumbing systems. No matter: the Gallery’s mandate was to be inclusive and it contentedly accepted any and all works to exhibit, explaining why this building would have been visible from Upperside’s orbit, had the cloud cover ever broken.

  There were some local clouds indoors, particularly here in the entrance, where the warm humid night air puffed inside with each upward swing of the doors. As each puff met the cooler air of the Gallery, drops of acid condensed and ran down almost every surface, including the outer skin of my e-rig. The surface of the sculpture forming part of my hiding place was succumbing to corrosion. There were schools of art here in which this effect contributed to a deliberate, somewhat shocking impermanence, but most of the damaged works were contributions from offworld artists who hadn’t done their research.

  There were no visitors in sight, at least within my Lishcyn-self’s sight. This might have been due to the attraction of the Festival outside, to the time of day, or the simple fact that a fifth of the planet’s population could hide in this maze of floors, hallways, and viewing rooms, I reminded myself, remembering an interesting week spent lost somewhere between the three hundred and thirteenth and three hundred and fiftieth subfloors because Lesy decided to explore Iftsen cave art.

  I thought it more likely the visitors chose not to enter, given the steady procession of Feneden streaming in and out through this door.

  No trouble spotting them. E-rigs, especially the rented sort available at the Upperside shipcity, tended to a certain flexibility of design. The basic shape was humanoid, most renters being Human, but, to accommodate a broader clientele, the suits had zips running up the dorsal, ventral, and sides sealing various pouches. The pouches in turn contained your choice of extra sleeves for those body parts that just wouldn’t tuck inside a round, expandable torso. Rented suits turned offworlders into a uniform lumpiness that I’d heard occasionally confused younger Iftsen into believing they were all one species. Reasonable guess, given the rigs muffled a wide variety of alien shapes into something much less varied than the Iftsen themselves.

  The Feneden, however, had brought their own e-rigs. They were skintight, shiny affairs—whether intentionally or not—amply displaying all of the slender grace I remembered. The helmets were even more unusual, being completely transparent although illuminated from within. I could see the rhythmic waving of cilia as each Feneden passed my hiding place. Having a clear view where one didn’t have eyes seemed unnecessary, but I was reluctant to summon Ersh’s past to enlighten my present.

  They were clearly robbing the place by any definition—the ones marching from the depths of the gallery and emerging from the lifts across from me were burdened with bags and crates, while the ones entering were empty-handed save for what looked very much like the handle of some type of weapon being carried by every other one.

  Not bad, I congratulated myself. I’d confirmed that the Feneden were stealing from the Iftsen along with very vocal proof the usually easygoing Iftsen weren’t planning to take much more of it. Other species might have confronted the Feneden here and now, and once in a while I did notice an Iftsen peering in the doorway, but then other species had invented locks along the way. Theft was unknown here—since everything was created by all living Iftsen, everything belonged to all living Iftsen. Lesy had run head-on into that aspect of their philosophy, discovering Iftsen artists routinely adding to her work in the years following its display. Ersh had wisely advised the rest of her Web not to look at the changes, probably fearing they’d been improvements and we’d inadvertently share that with Lesy.

  Time for the part of my plan Paul hadn’t liked. I eased farther into the shadows and cycled, assimilated the mass from the plants I’d stuck into the generous allowance of the rig as well as the rig’s inorganics. I automatically shed the latter on the floor in a stencil of myself as I hurried from web-form and became Iftsen.

  The Gallery was immediately brighter, the air sweetly thick, and the arrangement of walls, roof, and flooring made complete sense to the paired echo-locatory organs in my rump. A magnificent and vibrant building. I filtered appreciatively through my bladder, detecting a lovely metallic tang that likely came from some aromatic delicacy being cooked outside. Bridklestet flounder roe! I was halfway back out the door before remembering the Feneden and my mission here.

  There were, I could hear Ersh now, some disadvantages to this form. The only way to keep my present brain on track was to convince myself I was the assigned First Citizen here. Being the only Iftsen here didn’t help much. I recited the First Citizen’s litany to myself: I am responsible. I am the designate. The safe joy of others depends on me. It’s my turn next time.

  That last bit wasn’t part of the official mantra, but I’d always found it helped.

  I felt my urge to join the Festival fading to manageable levels. At the same time, and not by coincidence, most of the enthusiastic protrusions along my outer edge sagged unhappily back into themselves.

  I rotated until I faced the line of Feneden and moved from the shadows. They didn’t react to my sudden appearance or somehow sense my split-second in web-form, the latter a new nightmare I owed to Lefebvre’s imagination.

  Time to get some answers. I rocked myself back and forth until I was completely blocking the path of the next Feneden attempting to leave the Gallery with a bag.

  The Feneden stepped around me and continued on his way.

  I rubbed my forehead pensively, having found it located around my midriff. An improvement over my first time in this form, when I’d stared at my knees for months and had to lie flat to eat anything.

  I took a deep, satisfying breath, refilling my bladder, and put myself in the way of another Feneden. Before this one, female by the shape, could go around me, I greeted her, saying: “Greetings, far traveler. Ease and comfort to you.” The language was as close to colloquial as my brief experience with modern Feneden allowed, meaning my accent was likely as archaic as the phrase itself. Considered ventrally, it was the best I could come up with on short notice. All I wanted was to have at least one Feneden acknowledge the existence of one Iftsen. It would be the first step to a diplomatic solution. Paul would be so proud.

  What I didn’t want, I thought numbly, was to see every Feneden within range of my voice run screaming in any direction that took them away from me as quickly as possible, including one who managed to climb The Transformation of Joy—the famous, intricate, and decidedly erotic sculpture which formed the centerpiece of the entranceway.

  I changed my mind. I was very glad Paul wasn’t here. He hadn’t liked my plan at all.

  I hated it when he was right.

  Elsewhere

  “THERE’S a priority call for you, Captain Lefebvre. You’ll—” Com-tech Resdick paused as he came up beside Lefebvre and joined him in surveying what was left of his quarters, finishing lamely: “I guess you’ll have to take it somewhere else, sir.”

  Lefebvre nodded. “Thank you, Resdick. I’ll be up to the bridge in a moment.” Once the com-tech hurried away, Lefebvre gingerly stepped inside the door.

  The carpeting, whether it had been alive before or not, was definitely dead now. The ship’s scrubbers were hitting overtime attempting to clear the results from the air. A crew detail had been about to remove the stuff, but Lefebvre had asked them to wait until he’d had a chance to inspect what the Feneden had left behind.

  Not much, h
e said to himself. Kearn had almost climbed into his lap in his eagerness to unburden himself about the Feneden, their plots, their attempts to take over his ship, their evil influence, their—about the only thing Kearn hadn’t accused the Feneden of was disbelief. They’d believed all too well in the Esen Monster.

  So, of course, did he—now, Lefebvre thought with a wry grin, pushing a swing out of his way as he continued his examination. Which he couldn’t exactly tell Kearn. Lefebvre had listened to his commander’s babble with unusual patience, reevaluating everything from his own preconceptions to the desperate, glazed look in those close-set eyes.

  Strange as it seemed, Lefebvre now recognized something heroic in how Kearn, despite his flaws and weaknesses, had kept up his quest to save the universe for so long, alone and disbelieved.

  And tragic, Lefebvre thought. Kearn had wasted a career and much of his life because he so feared and misunderstood Esen, an Esen Lefebvre couldn’t seem to picture as other than that mere slip of a girl, with faded freckles and infectious smile. This, despite knowing she was the literal personification of everything alien.

  He walked as lightly as possible, but each footfall threw up more of the putrid smell. Lefebvre put his hand over his nose in self-defense and kept looking. At one point, something crunched under his foot: something that, on closer examination, looked alarmingly like the decomposing haunch of a rat.

  In the end, it wasn’t what the Feneden had taken or the condition of his quarters that made Lefebvre’s heart start pounding, although he knew they’d stolen e-rigs and some device Kearn ranted was crucial to trapping his monster.

  It was what they’d left behind.

  Their translators.

  34: Gallery Night

  PERHAPS the phrase lost something in the translation, I theorized, standing alone in the midst of discarded bags, crates, and weapons. The Feneden climbing the sculpture had slipped and dropped to the floor—I assumed unhurt, from the way he scampered after the others.