Changing Vision
Page 34
*Sends down a Battle Herd to fetch a spy,* she complained, clicking with one hoof. The Ganthor hoof spread into two capable digits, opposed by a third, longer one extending from the back of the wrist. The inner surface of each digit was spongelike and sensitive, the outer, a bony shell ideal for their clicking speech. Her e-rig, as those of all the Ganthor, came equipped with small metal disks at the tip of each digit, so their clickspeech was a disarming tinkle of tiny bells. Coming from a creature who massed at least three of me and whose e-rig was wrapped in bandoliers studded with shells and explosives, this was a little disconcerting.
I was tapping the blades of two rather formidable knives to hold up my end of the conversation, knives belonging to the Matriarch’s Second. He stood right at my shoulder, close enough that his breathing kept sending the nozzle of his rifle into my back. Inadvertently, I hoped.
*I am honored to have such an escort,* I clicked respectfully, *while appreciating this is a waste of your Herd’s bravery and skill, Matriarch.*
There were pleased thumps from all present, including the remaining six Ganthor in the ’digger’s control room: the Matriarch’s other Second, three taciturn individuals seated on a bench who wore sufficient land mines strung over their bulk to take out most of the city—probably the Herd’s more experienced officers, inherited by default when this Matriarch assumed control—and the two operating the controls.
*Well-spoken, spy.* This click from the Second lurking behind me. There was a plop of mucus and something oozed between my feet. Stressed, was he?
I couldn’t stamp in my soft-soled boots, but I brought the knives together as loudly as I could. *!!No* *I am not a spy,* I clicked firmly. *I am the greatest military strategist of my kind.* Had Skalet been in a grave, I grinned to myself, she should now roll over in it, as Paul would say.
Mind you, it was a gamble. Ganthor usually had one of two reactions to the concept of strategy: they ignored it completely or they nursed deep grudges against those not-so-brilliant planners responsible for their losses on the battlefield.
I judged this Matriarch as too clever for either. Her plan to find the Feneden with the ’digger, while typically destructive of the landscape, had been nonetheless effective and quick. Such a being should comprehend the value of the knowledge I pretended to possess.
*The Tly need advice,* she clicked, her tense body posture signaling an underlying meaning.
I thought I could guess, and felt sudden anger. This form didn’t care for the emotion—my cilia distracted me by coursing across the back of my neck in draft-causing waves. I was careful in phrasing my question: *There has been waste?*
*!!Too much!!* stamped the Matriarch. She smacked the Second nearest her.
He clicked what dignity would not permit her to tell me. *Two Herds have been lost. Every member. The Tly Commander, Logan, says this is due to poor strategy by Ganthor.* There’s an oxymoron, I thought, but squashed it guiltily. We were talking about lives. *This is,* he clicked morosely, chiming in almost a minor key, *difficult to accept.*
*!!Retribution!!* The Matriarch’s opinion of the matter was plain.
I had worse news for them, convinced Logan would repeat his tricks and eliminate this Herd as well, once their usefulness ended. The last clicks of the dying Ganthor on Minas XII haunted me. The Matriarch was betrayed. Abandoned. No Herd. That tactic wouldn’t work on Iftsen Secondus—the Iftsen wouldn’t harm them. But, unless he was ready to be exposed, Logan couldn’t risk having them questioned by Port Authority or Commonwealth officials. Ganthor were constitutionally incapable of holding in the truth. It was, I thought, a significant part of their charm.
The hard part was going to be warning this Herd without sending them into a vengeance-fueled frenzy or winding up a blue smear on the floor before I could explain how I knew.
Confidence, I told myself, was something you needed to show others before revealing how wrong they’d been. Especially really large, well-armed, hot-tempered, others.
Elsewhere
“SIRS?”
The tentative and worried voice on the formerly dead com system was not the one Lefebvre had expected. He turned and met Timri’s glance. She shrugged, but took a stance to one side of his door.
“Yes, Com-tech Resdick?” Lefebvre snapped in his best, don’t-bother-me tone. He had no idea what Kearn might have said to the crew to explain why the captain and comp-tech were locked in the captain’s quarters. Knowing Kearn, Lefebvre reminded himself, he might not have said anything at all, fearing a mutiny.
The worry deepened. “We have a—situation on the bridge, sir.”
Lefebvre forgot all about Kearn, sitting up straight. “What kind of situation?”
“Port Authority is on the com, sir. They want to speak to a senior officer. You, sir.”
“Did they say what it’s about?”
There was a slight pause, as though Resdick—only two years from retirement—was considering exactly what might get him in the least trouble. Then, when he spoke, Lefebvre realized he’d misjudged the being. Resdick had merely hesitated to find the words: “Sir, there’s a Ganthor assault vehicle approaching the shipcity, Underside. It’s already attacked the—the Brakistem Art Gallery. Sir.”
“Where’s Kearn? Security Head Sas?”
“They’ve left the ship, sir. A half an hour ago. I’m not getting a response to my calls. I believe they were trying to catch the next Upperside shuttle.”
Timri spat out a quiet curse.
Lefebvre drew a long, slow breath in through his nostrils, letting it out again slowly, feeling his mind and body settle into the calm readiness he knew he’d need more than any adrenaline.
First things first.
“My door’s jammed, Resdick,” he said calmly. “Send someone down here to open it.”
37: Shipcity Morning
I MIGHT have been masquerading as a strategist—somewhat of a trend, since I’d already been a diplomat, ghost, spy, and any number of things I was not—in order to gain the Matriarch’s confidence. That hadn’t let me avoid a difficult choice. The easy part had been convincing the Ganthor her current employer was a bad risk. The account I’d accessed through the ’digger’s com system had perhaps softened the blow of dropping a supposedly lucrative contract, although I thought it probable this exceptionally worldly Matriarch recognized Logan could be killing his mercs—at least in part—as a cost-cutting method. It did nothing to moderate their reaction to my disclosures.
Once they’d calmed, and I could descend from the precarious safety of an upper shelf, we discussed—more or less without bruising—what to do next. Understandably, the Seconds were all for a frontal assault. Unfortunately, all they had was a location to meet their transport offworld. I didn’t see Logan risking himself in person, however convenient. Nor did I expect he’d really send a transport capable of retrieving the Herd, in case they attempted to commandeer it—a detail confirmed by the simple expedient of having two of the Herd exit the ’digger, shoot a climbing rig up the nearest tall structure with the necessary orientation, and launch a servoscope from the top. It was illegal, intrusive, and broke any number of regulations about how Commonwealth species acted toward one another.
It also improved my credibility with the Ganthor a thousandfold when the ’scope panned the seashore in the direction of the so-called transport and found only an automated one-person shuttle.
So the next move was up to me. The Herd dealt with its inner turmoil by lining up so they could connect each in turn to the Matriarch’s e-rig, a reassurance I could have used myself. My Feneden-self apparently craved the company of its own species as well, a craving my cilia tried to satisfy by sampling heat signatures from the e-rigged bodies near me. Needless to say, that instinctive searching merely confirmed I was the only one here without a thick hide and even thicker layer of insulating body fat.
If I’d had mass, and an expandable e-rig, I could have cycled into my Ganthor-self here in the ’digger. The Ganthor would be so
consumed by the presence of a new individual, I doubted they’d register the disappearance of their Feneden guest for quite some time. And such a sturdy, brave form, I sighed.
But this elegant, timid form was the key, I told myself, and gathered what courage I could before announcing to the Second who waited, patiently for a Ganthor, for my command. *To the shipcity.*
“You’re parking—?” the Human repeated.
Since my comspeak was impeccable, I began to wonder if her hearing was somehow impaired and tried speaking louder. “Yes. We’d prefer an indefinite duration spot, if you have it. I’ll cover the charges.”
The Human leaned farther out of her booth, twisting her helmet so that she looked left, up, and then right, as if this was some necessary stage in assessing the dimensions of the ’digger relative to the available parking spots. I could see several that would do from here—obviously quite a few others had left the Festival early.
The Ganthor flanking me were uneasy without their weapons, no matter that they’d made a valiant effort to look somewhat more like tourists than troops. Their nervousness was barely noticeable in the Matriarch’s Second, but was patently a serious matter to the other, a less-experienced and so more aggressively postured youngster. He’d taken to thumping me in the back at inopportune moments—an unconscious reflex intended to determine our relative positions within the Herd.
As I had as much chance of returning the gesture with meaningful force as I had of moving the ’digger past this Human without her cooperation, I clicked impatiently at the Second: *!!Settle him!!* The Second reached behind me. The youngster gave a startled grunt but calmed.
This interchange had an effect on the Human gatekeeper. She started closing the gate—a decidedly flimsy affair compared to the heavily armored nose of the Ganthor vehicle.
“You don’t want to do that, Fem,” I said quickly. “Trust me. We only want to park it. There’ll be no trouble. I promise.”
She lifted her hand from the control. “Is this the ’digger that was in Brakistem last night?”
As it was barely dawn, I thought that an interesting lengthening of time, but didn’t comment. “Oh, you’ve heard of them?” I said, thinking rapidly. “I’m not surprised, considering the quality and innovation of their art.”
“Art?” Both her eyebrows went up, their inlaid feathers twisting with the movement. It wasn’t the most flattering adornment I’d seen on a Human face, but then there were as many cultural tastes among that species as there were groups of more than ten.
“Art,” I said firmly. “The Ganthor were—guests of the Festival of Living Art.” Which wasn’t completely false. “They were commissioned to produce an interactive piece for the Gallery. I thought everyone knew—this Herd is quite famous.”
She actually blushed brightly enough for the color to show through her helmet. “My mistake, Fem—?”
“Tilesen.” I’d already chosen the name to give the Ganthor, though having no way to gauge if it was too old-fashioned for today’s Feneden. Some names, I hoped, were timeless.
“Fem Tilesen. Please apologize to your guests for my ignorance. I usually keep up on visiting art groups. It’s really quite a passion of mine. You can direct the driver to park your—vehicle—in the fifteenth through seventeenth rows. That should be sufficient space. You know there’s a cover charge? And, Fem?” This in a suddenly conspiratorial tone that made the Ganthor stiffen. I smacked them both as hard as I could before they did anything else. “I think it’s simply wonderful you’ve been able to use the art of these talented beings to bridge the gap between your species and the Iftsen. I tell you, a lot of us were getting worried. Any chance of an autograph?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said rather numbly and hurried my escort of talented beings back into their newly christened object d’art.
Having settled the not-so-minor problem of getting rid of the conspicuous ’digger—which included adding the replacement cost of a new one onto the bill—I could then concentrate on what to do with fifteen unemployed Ganthor. The Herd couldn’t stay isolated in their e-rigs much longer. I gave this some thought as the driver managed to put the ’digger into a close enough approximation of the rows assigned, the cover arching over us with only a screech as it hit some of the more irregular protrusions out the aft gun ports. We waited until the parking attendant signaled that the air outside the ’digger had been replaced with the oxy-mix standard throughout the shipcity’s tunnelways, and then shed our rigs with pleasure.
Well, the Ganthor did. I gave them as much room as possible, anticipating disrobing would necessitate a period of shove and slobber. I hesitated about taking off my own e-rig, then decided that was more Feneden fussing. It would look odd to wear a helmet out there. I felt around for the release, not having bothered to find it earlier. There.
With the helmet off, my cilia writhed in delight. It was an automatic and irritating sensation, to have one’s hair waving indoors as if windblown. Get used to it, I reminded myself, disturbed to find myself making such a trivial judgment of a form’s characteristics. Too much time as Esolesy Ki. Lishcyns were known for hasty decisions and a fascination with appearances. I was going to have to reconsider how long I remained in a particular form, if I wanted to ensure my thought processes remained Esen-alit-Quar’s and so totally my own.
A new and uncomfortable thought. Had my web-kin chosen their favored forms because they enjoyed those more than others? Or had they spent more time in those forms and so begun to change in their very natures? No Ersh-memory, helpful or otherwise, bubbled up cooperatively to reassure me with an answer.
*We are ready, Fem Tilesen,* clicked one of the Seconds—his personal attention a continuing mark of the Matriarch’s favor.
I’d been trying to check my companions for implants, but gave up. It was impossible as long as they kept milling around. *Do any of your Herd have a vocalizing implant?* I clicked, using the fingersnap they’d provided. It was conceivable I was the only other being on Iftsen Secondus at the moment fluent in their speech. I didn’t want to leave them without at least one Ganthor who could communicate in comspeak.
*My predecessor at the Matriarch’s Left.* Left wasn’t the term he used, just its meaning; the term itself referred to an archaic weapon, somewhat like a battleax, wielded by the Matriarch as a practical symbol of her authority. The other Second would refer to himself as her Right; again, a term referring to a weapon—one with serrated edges able to penetrate a Ganthor’s hide. It symbolized her right to their lives and her responsibility for them.
I tugged at his huge, bristle-coated arm until he followed me a little distance from the others. Mucus streamed from his nostrils as he tried in vain to read my intentions. A handsome, not-too-scarred individual. Now that I paid closer attention, he did appear young for his position in the Herd, although he bulked at least twenty-five percent over most of the others. *This may be important,* I clicked. *What happened to your predecessor?* As he lowered his snout in threat, I added quickly: *I mean no offense. This is a matter of Herd safety.*
There was no higher priority for a Ganthor, though he was likely well-enough versed in the ways of other species to suspect I was using it as a ploy to gain his attention. *Explain.* His foot moved as though he had to stop it stamping.
*If there was anything—unusual—about your predecessor’s death, or if he died while the Herd was employed by Logan, I would see it as a deliberate attempt to reduce your Matriarch’s ability to communicate with others.*
*!!* with a whole body shudder that rattled his bandoliers and holstered weapons. This caught the attention of every Ganthor within earshot. I could see snouts wriggling as they picked up on the emotional state of the Second.
*Answer.* This click came from the Matriarch, who must have kept her ears directed our way after all. As I’d thought, a perceptive individual.
*Left was lost to the Herd during an accident as we boarded Logan’s transport. A failure within the air lock system.*
And I was counting on it.
Elsewhere
KEARN looked worriedly down the corridor. Sas was huddled over the stateroom’s locking mechanism, looking every bit the burglar if, in Kearn’s opinion, acting anything but. For a security officer with his expertise, you’d think he could break into a room without rousing the dead, Kearn fumed to himself.
Port Authority on Upperside had not been helpful—not in the least. They seemed to think some scuffle planetside was more important than Kearn’s urgent request to examine the quarters of any Human named Mitchell who’d boarded the shipcity within the last week. They’d almost physically removed them from the office.
Kearn would have filed an immediate complaint, but one of the officials had followed them out, slipping them a list of addresses. Kearn planned to combine his complaint with a report against the being for accepting a bribe, the instant he was off this sordid excuse for a station.
Their problems had only begun. Who’d have thought there would be fourteen Humans with some version of Mitchell in their name staying on Upperside? Sas had hissed in disgust.
But he’d agreed, Kearn reminded himself. They couldn’t trust anyone on the ship—not with Lefebvre and Timri against him. They had no one but each other.
And one clue. That the infamous and dangerous Paul Ragem, the Traitor, was somewhere on Upperside. Port Authority had laughed at his demand they halt downward shuttle traffic and quarantine ships already in dock. This Festival, coupled with some other nonsense about the Feneden and Iftsen, took precedence over his investigation. Investigation! Hah!
Kearn wiped his sweaty palms against his pant legs. They’d dressed as tourists to avoid alarming Ragem; Kearn deplored the necessity, convinced the shapeless, soft clothing robbed him of any remaining presence. He should have stayed in uniform. Then they might have taken him seriously. “Aren’t you done yet?” he asked the Modoren. “What’s taking so long? You’ve had enough practice.” This was the fifth door they’d tried. All the other cabins had been empty except for the furnishings supplied by Upperside.