Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Just wonderful. I had succeeded in drawing the Feneden’s attention to a member of the hitherto-invisible Iftsen. I was reasonably sure Paul would agree the result was an abysmal failure.

  As if responding to my mood, a deep vibration suddenly coursed through the floor, as though the mass of voices singing outside had coincided on a bass note. Now what? Intrigued, but still muttering It’s my turn next time, under my breath, I rocked over to the doorway and looked out.

  It wasn’t singing, I discovered. It was the tortured sound of a huge aircar never designed for Iftsen Secondus coping with this atmosphere. As the aircar touched the tiles in front of the Gallery, a side door opened and a Herd of e-rigged Ganthor mercenaries charged out.

  There are moments when I seriously doubt the senses of a given form, having an innate distrust of other biologies. This was definitely one of them.

  I rotated to orient my dorsal side toward what I doubted, preferring echo-location over what could be fooled by holos and projections.

  The Ganthor didn’t cooperatively disappear or—another thought I’d had—turn into costumed Feneden.

  I rotated to face them again, concentrating on presenting a noncombative silhouette. Never run from stampeding Ganthor was a useful piece of Skalet-memory under the circumstances.

  Don’t stand in their way, was another I remembered in time to roll myself to one side, barely escaping their booted feet. The Ganthor, a smallish Herd of thirteen, crowded and bumped behind a larger individual who had to be their Matriarch as she led them up the steps of the Gallery. They thundered past me to disappear inside.

  I winced at the sound of breaking glass and snapping wood, among other things. The Herd must have run right through the art the Feneden had dropped in the entranceway.

  Not sure what I could do to either improve or worsen the situation, I opted for trying to understand it. Knowledge, as Ersh never tired of reminding me, was the only thing separating rocks from sentience. Mind you, she used the same expression to refer to the continuing debate among the crystalline Tumblers over the morality of selling their excretions to offworlders as gemstones. I dropped to my slick ventral surface and coasted down the stairs to the side of the aircar.

  Only it wasn’t one. I added Human interpretations to my Iftsen vision and knew what stretched in front of me, engines self-destructing at the end of its mission. A ’crasher—identical to those I’d lately seen on The Black Watch.

  Logan? I asked myself, wondering if the heady atmosphere was generating a few extra reactions in my bladder. What in the seventeen icy hells of Urgia was he doing dropping mercs on an art gallery?

  This was beyond curious. I rocked my way back up the stairs, mumbling dark things about Moberan designers who thought only of appearances and made stairs to impress offworlders with their fancy knees and other joints.

  The Ganthor stood back-to-back in the middle of the huge opening hallway, a position I judged had more to do with their need to exchange scent-information through the u-shaped connectors on their e-rigs than defense, since they, and I, were the only beings presently occupying what had been the most magnificent room in the most magnificent building on Iftsen Secondus. I felt my serpentine hearts triple their beats in dismay, this being one of the few emotions an Iftsen designated as First Citizen was allowed to indulge.

  Not that Ganthor were big on defense at the best of times, being suited by temperament to a rather blunt, straight-at-the-enemy approach.

  Clang!

  I fell flat on my dorsal surface in surprise as this new sound reverberated through every cell of this form. Now what?

  The Ganthor must have known—they remained in their positions like some new piece of art added to the Gallery’s collection, the glitter from the huge disrupter rifles each carried at the ready simply part of the illusion.

  I got up and went to the door again, almost afraid to look out this time.

  The ’crasher had disassembled itself, revealing what else it had brought to the Festival of Living Art: a Ganthor All-Terrain Assault Vehicle, known by refugees from various conflicts as a hog-hauler and more politely—or safely, depending on company—referred to as a gravedigger.

  Organized warfare was a blight of too many intelligences, I reminded myself, as always finding it difficult to imagine the mind-set that would trap the formidable natural armament of a Herd into a metal box on treads.

  Four huge treads that were, I noticed in horror, starting to move. Those on this side clanked and creaked themselves backward—the others must have moved in the opposite direction, because the gravedigger ponderously spun on its axis. The machine paused as though sniffing for direction, then headed for the staircase. The first few stairs were crushed into sand beneath its treads, then the ’digger caught hold and began its slow climb, tilting its beard of weapon barrels upward in anticipation of the width of the doorway.

  My Iftsen-self responded with debilitating confusion, both at the destruction and at the Esen-based anger I couldn’t help but feel, a confusion demonstrating itself in the appearance and retraction of various appendages, most pointed or clawed. I drove up my temperature to maintain control, careful of the very limited range acceptable to this body. I’d have to cycle into something sturdier as soon as possible.

  Sturdier, yet still able to breathe here, I reminded myself. That was going to be a neat trick, since nothing suggested itself with the exception of web-form. Not my preference.

  I rocked myself behind The Transformation of Joy, standing sideways to be as small and inconspicuous an Esen as possible. Some of the Iftsen in the streets would definitely notice the immense machine currently ramming itself through what had been an elegantly arched doorway. Only the First Citizens among them would pay any attention and, among those, it was doubtful any would bother to react. They were very philosophical when it came to accepting that others were larger and meaner.

  Unless, I thought with a rise in internal temperature that blurred my vision and produced a very unfortunate reaction in my gas bladder, unless the Iftsen had more than one planet-killing Messenger ready to send. This entire episode was getting out-of-appendage translight. The Ganthor’s homeworld was hardly vulnerable, being girdled by a defensive system paid for by their many offworld clients—in particular the Kraal. This didn’t make me feel any better about the possibility of the peace-loving Iftsen becoming murderers in retaliation for petty theft, property destruction, and bad manners.

  I’d been ready to bury in memory what Logan had done to Paul, accustomed to considering species’ needs over those of individuals, however dear to me. Of course, I would have enjoyed seriously annoying the Tly sometime in the future, when the source of that annoyance was less easily deduced.

  I wasn’t prepared to put up with one lunatic’s disruption of entire worlds.

  So. Why assault the First Citizens’ Art Gallery of Brakistem?

  Elsewhere

  PAUL’S message had been cryptic. Lefebvre read it out loud to himself to see if there was more to be gleaned from it than the terse: “Been delayed. Our friend went to the Festival on her own. Will follow as quickly as possible. Looking forward to that beer you promised. Mitchell.”

  Delayed how? Lefebvre, having spent so much time hunting Ragem, had a great respect for how effectively his cousin had preserved his secrets while living a fairly exposed life. Since coming back on the ship—and retrieving his comp system from an unrepentant and curious Timri—Lefebvre had done some checking. The Russell III had even used the reputable firm of Cameron & Ki Exports to broker supplies out on the Fringe, no one the wiser.

  Or was that the case? Lefebvre’s patroller instincts had been aroused. How had he managed to miss Ragem all these years? He could understand missing Esen—her “disguise” as the Lishcyn trader was so perfect as to have him still shaking his head in disbelief. He could understand Kearn’s failure as well, since, until Panacia, Kearn had adamantly believed Ragem dead.

  But once he’d started looking? Lefebvre sho
ok his head, amazed he’d been so blind. It wasn’t vanity to know your own skills. Ragem should have tripped across any number of traps and trip lines Lefebvre had left for him all through this edge of the Commonwealth, but hadn’t. At the very least, the fact of his still being alive should have come up before D’Dsel. The conclusion was plain: Ragem had had help.

  And, Lefebvre told himself grimly, there was only one individual who could have sent out warning; only one on the Russell III with both training and access to interfere with him.

  Holding Paul’s message, with its unspoken plea for help, tightly in his fist, Lefebvre looked up at the person he’d summoned to his temporary office.

  “Ah, Comp-tech Timri,” he said easily, almost lightly. “I’d like your assistance with something that’s just come up.”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  Lefebvre studied her, remembering the first time they’d met. She had been a welcome breath of expertise and credibility on this ship of fools, living up to every one of Kearn’s extravagant claims about her ability to make sense out of seemingly unconnected data, to dig stubbornly resistant patterns out of what appeared random events.

  She’d also been as personally welcoming as a chill, winter wind. There was no denying Timri would have turned heads when younger—even now, she had the high cheekbones, long bones, and fine skin that defined many Human perceptions of beauty, regardless of age. Unfortunately, her customary expression whenever forced to communicate with anyone or anything but her comp system was a forbidding combination of impatience and disdain.

  “Close the door, please,” he ordered, seeing that expression now as she obviously tallied the time wasted by his not coming right to the point.

  Sure enough, she closed the door and turned to say: “Will this take long, sir? I have—”

  “Something I believe you want to tell me, Comp-tech.” Lefebvre used his iciest tone.

  Her eyes darted to the system hastily patched together on the table serving him for a desk. “If it’s about your comp, sir, I did explain to you why it had to be removed before the Feneden took over your quarters. It seemed reasonable to put it with mine. Was I in error?” There was a hint of anxiety in her voice.

  She was good, Lefebvre thought, even more convinced he was right about her. “No. After all, none of you knew if I’d be back. This is about something else,” he began, switching to a more casual tone that brought a confused frown to her face. “I met someone during my time away from the Russ’ who has—changed—some of my opinions about our search.”

  “Did you find some evidence, sir?” This with visible eagerness. “You do remember our bet,” Timri continued boldly, before he could respond. “If anything came up while you were on leave, you said you’d put through my promotion. Sir.”

  Damn good. He had to smile at that, but hid it behind one hand while pretending to cough. “We’ll discuss that later, Timri,” Lefebvre said. “Have a seat.”

  “If it’s nothing immediate, sir, I—”

  “Sit.”

  Her lips tightened as she obeyed, her posture managing to convey an impression of enduring what she must.

  Lefebvre had thought very carefully how to approach this; the risk he was about to take wasn’t his alone. “You know I’ve had my own interests since coming aboard the Russ’ as Captain, Timri, and you’ve quite capably spied on them.” He raised a hand to silence her protest before it was more than an indrawn breath and a look of righteous wrath. “I’m not concerned. We are on the same side, aren’t we?” She subsided, but her eyes narrowed.

  “Or are we?” Lefebvre stood up and walked around to her side of his desk, propping one hip on an edge. He leaned forward. “I think we both know that Paul Ragem faked his own death in order to escape with the Kraal’s Nightstalker weapon. And we both know he’s been living in the Fringe under an assumed identity ever since.”

  “If you are implying I have some secret source of information about Ragem, you are mistaken, Captain,” she said flatly. “I knew nothing of his—survival—until the Panacians informed Acting Captain Kearn and he saw fit to tell me. I would be interested to know if you have corroborating evidence to back up that claim.” She glared. “I certainly don’t see why you think I’ve been spying on you—or why you think I would—”

  “Come now, Timri,” Lefebvre said with a patroller’s scathing cynicism; remarkable how easily the bearing and attitude of a professional interrogator came back to him after all these years. Or maybe it had been more recent events. “You must realize I discovered your searches through my comp.”

  “As I traced yours long ago!” Timri snapped. Her wide nostrils flared. “Did you consider me a fool, Captain? Or were you like Kearn—so terrified of what we hunted that you couldn’t even trust those under your command?”

  “I’ve never trusted you,” Lefebvre replied comfortably. “Or anyone else on the Russ’. Why should I? I’m here because the Commonwealth saw fit to pay me to follow a madman.”

  “You’re here for blood—Ragem’s blood,” she disagreed, then closed her mouth tightly as if that had been more than she’d meant to say.

  “There’s that,” Lefebvre agreed. He sat back on his hip, letting one leg swing, adding a little triumphant smile. “And now I have it.” Lefebvre spoke this last with the heartfelt satisfaction of someone seeing the end of a quarter lifetime’s quest. No need to tell her his quest had never been to harm Ragem. Not yet.

  He could see she believed him. “What do you mean?” Caution in her eyes, no matter how Timri’s expression altered to one of pleased expectation. “You’ve found Ragem,” she breathed. “How? Where is he?”

  “Here. More exactly—” Lefebvre pointed a blunt forefinger upward. He made a show of consulting his chrono. “I should hear from Port Authority any time now. Why don’t you wait here with me and we can share the moment together?”

  “What about Kearn?”

  No, “sir,” Lefebvre noticed. “What about him?” he replied. “Once we have Ragem, he will take us to his weapon. There’s no such thing as Kearn’s Esen Monster.”

  “There is,” she said with an edge to her voice. “I saw what it did.”

  “With all respect, Comp-tech, what you claim to have witnessed—” Lefebvre tapped his comp system to remind Timri her testimony was on record, “—what you saw bears no relationship to anything caused by a living organism. There is nothing in your statement to prove what attacked your ships wasn’t simply an unfamiliar and devastating weapon. You don’t mention seeing any living thing. Come on. I would have thought someone of your intelligence would have admitted this to herself long before now.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but he hadn’t expected her to—it was his own belief Lefebvre wanted to establish. “What makes you think Ragem will just tell you what you want to know?” Timri asked, an odd note to her voice. Her eyes were fastened on him now, no doubt of their expression. She was alarmed.

  Lefebvre reached into his pocket and pulled out the blister stick, activating it with a snap of his wrist. Even now, the angry buzz drew sympathetic flashes of pain along his cheek, a reflex he turned into what he hoped was a look of vengeful anticipation. “He’ll talk.”

  Timri’s lips tightened into a thoroughly disapproving line. “Torture, Captain Lefebvre? This is a Commonwealth research vessel; we aren’t some band of criminals.”

  “What Ragem has done puts him outside the protection of law. His crimes demand retribution, not delays in the courts.”

  Timri stood.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To tell Kearn,” she said defiantly, but stopped as if held by his tone.

  Lefebvre considered the tip of the blister stick. “Funny. I thought you might be going to make another call to Upperside. To our mutual friend Mitchell—or should I say Ragem? That is who you called after my—unexpected—return to the Russell III, isn’t it? The logs were quite clear,” he said, looking up at her. “Careless or in a hurry, Timri? My gue
ss is the latter, since you’ve never been careless before.”

  Timri no longer looked impatient or disdainful. She retraced the step she’d taken toward the door, taking another in order to stand so close he felt warmth from her body. There was none in her voice. “ ‘Mutual friend,’ ” she repeated, disbelief plain on her face. She had height on him, and used it to glare down. “Are you implying I’m somehow in league with Ragem? That I warned him? Captain or not, you’ll answer for that—”

  Lefebvre closed the blister stick. “I have many things to answer for, Timri, but being wrong about you? I don’t think so. Being wrong about Paul Ragem? Yes. Being unable to stop the slander about a good, decent being? Absolutely.”

  With her rich complexion, it was impossible to tell if she paled, but he saw her swallow before saying. “You’ve changed your mind about the Traitor? Why? What’s happened?”

  Lefebvre met her eyes and told her the truth. “I met him—and discovered the Traitor never existed except as a lie. Ragem has never meant harm to any living thing.”

  Her hands fastened on his arm with unexpected strength, as if to pin him in place. “Why are you telling me this, Lefebvre?” she almost whispered, her words fast and furious. “Don’t you realize I can go straight to Kearn? I’ve proof you’ve been snooping through my research for him. Now you admit to meeting Ragem? That he’s convinced you—as easy as that—to take his side? Did that blister stick to the head unravel something?”

  Lefebvre kept himself perfectly still. “Paul needs our help,” he said quietly, aware he might be wrong about her, sincerely hoping he wasn’t. There weren’t, he thought darkly, too many options if he was.

  Timri thrust herself away from him, as if the force helped distance them more than physically. “Help him? Sure. If he tells us where the Esen Monster is. Or have you conveniently forgotten why we are all here?”

  Lefebvre sensed his opening. “Forgotten? How could I? At least now I know what we’ve been chasing. Not fables. Not some superweapon. And not a beast.”