She put the fine tips of two marblelike claws together. “I have ensured that Port Authority has purged your arrest record. The Hive is prepared to further compensate you for this misunderstanding, Hom Kearn, beginning with the—damages—incurred during your pursuit of Ragem on this station.”
She doesn’t know, Kearn realized suddenly, lowering his eyes to hide the glee he feared would be readable even to this non-Human. Somehow, Ragem had succeeded in tricking P’Lka, but the Panacians didn’t know about Timri and Lefebvre, the evidence he had gained. Meaning N’Klet hadn’t played his tapes. He clutched the bag on his lap, with its still-secure secrets. “You said ‘beginning with the damages,’ Fem N’Klet,” Kearn acknowledged, suddenly bold. “Is the Hive prepared to assist my search for the Esen Monster? The Russell III is badly in need of updated equipment and supplies.”
His pulse raced as she nodded. “Of course. Funds will be made available to you. I believe you will find them adequate. Should you need additional support, you have only to contact us.” When he started to thank her, N’Klet interrupted. “First, we need your help.”
Kearn had been waiting for the catch. “Help?”
N’Klet’s limbs folded inward, an expression of grief and sadness. Sometimes, Kearn remembered uncomfortably, it was how Panacians requested forgiveness for bearing ill news. “Hom Kearn, you represent the military might of the Commonwealth in the Iftsen System.”
Kearn shook his head almost frantically. “No, no, Fem N’Klet. You overestimate my position. I’m the project leader on a research vessel—not even her Captain.” Especially at the moment, he thought miserably. “There’s a Commonwealth Deputy Minister at Engulla Terce and surely at least one cruiser within a day translight.” He stopped and asked very slowly. “Why do you want the military?”
“There is a crisis here. The Iftsen are about to destroy Fened Prime.”
Kearn couldn’t help laughing out loud. “The Iftsen? My dear N’Klet. Aside from the dangers of their atmosphere, the Iftsen are the most inoffensive and harmless of creatures—you should know that.”
“What I know,” N’Klet said coldly, her tone wiping any laughter from Kearn’s lips, “is what the Iftsen have revealed to my Queen. These harmless creatures own a planet-killing weapon they call The Messenger. They have sent three warnings to the Feneden and received no satisfaction. You know the Feneden do not believe in the Iftsen. They refuse to acknowledge any and all communication, while continuing to take whatever they wish from Iftsen Secondus. As of this afternoon, Brakistem time, The Messenger has been armed and a final ultimatum delivered.”
“Wh-what have the Feneden done?” They were unpleasant—and Kearn feared he’d always have nightmares about their carpet—but hardly offensive. Besides, they’d only just met the Iftsen.
“There has been a report they’ve hired Ganthor mercenaries to pillage Brakistem and disrupt the Festival. So far, I’ve been able to stop the Iftsen from sending a similar ultimatum to the Ganthor—you and I both know how that would be received.”
Ganthor? Kearn was grateful to be sitting down. Ganthor! “Where is this weapon?” he asked numbly. “Have they told you?”
“Not directly.” N’Klet’s head tilted. “You must realize that such a matter between our Treaty-partner and another species is of paramount concern to the Hive. Should the Iftsen destroy the Feneden, we would have to assume some of their guilt. Should the Iftsen fail to destroy the Feneden, and the Feneden defend themselves, we would be embroiled in the conflict.” She unfolded her limbs. “There were Panacian contractors and ships involved in constructing The Messenger’s asteroid facility. They, of course, serve the Hive in all things.”
“Good,” Kearn heard himself say. Any other time, he would have been surprised at the sudden ring of authority in his voice, but not now, not when his mind was filled with visions of dead and dying Feneden, of worlds at war. “I’ll need the location of this weapon. We can’t allow the Iftsen to launch it under any circumstances.” He stood, pushing his chair back roughly. “Fem N’Klet, I would also ask you to send for the Deputy Minister, and arrange for additional support.”
“Of course.” N’Klet stood also. “Where are you going, Hom Kearn?”
Kearn drew in a deep breath, not quite believing what he was doing, but finding a certain reckless freedom in knowing he was absolutely right. “To contact Captain Lefebvre. I’m going to need my ship.”
There would be time to find Paul Ragem, Kearn assured himself, and to pursue and end the threat of the Esen Monster—later.
39: Shuttle Night; Lounge Night
THE trip up on the shuttle had been inspiring. My Feneden-self relished being freed from the e-rig almost as much as being able to see stars on the vid screen. There wasn’t a polarized light source within the cabin, so my upper eyes were again distressingly blind. But now that I understood the reason for the lack of image, I found it quite easy to ignore. It was merely a reminder, I told myself, of how simple a thing could separate cultures from understanding. But first, there was the little matter of disarming the Iftsen.
The com had been silent. I hadn’t tried to use it, knowing it would be monitored even if they allowed me to transmit. I judged the lack of communication due to Logan’s need to control the conversation. There wasn’t much bullying or bribing to be accomplished by remote, especially when he couldn’t know what to expect from me. On many levels, I thought, with some relish.
I was making an effort to be unemotional and logical—for the most part succeeding quite well—except that, every so often, I’d pull out my perfect memory of the bruises and cuts on Paul’s skin.
My Feneden fingers were slim, long, and delicate. I ran them over the lightly pebbled skin of my face, enjoying the tactile sensation on both fingertip and cheek, but was unable to suppress the sudden flare of gruesome memory telling me how this skull crushed so easily between my web-form’s jagged teeth, how delicious the taste of bone and tissue would be as I assimilated it into more of me.
Oh, I knew the danger. Paul hadn’t needed to warn me during our confrontation with Logan. Ephemeral cultures could overcome their darker natures, forgive their own cruelties, as simply as the birth of a new generation. I didn’t have that luxury. Today’s Esen was tomorrow’s Esen. If I ever crossed the line and harmed others, it would be a stain I carried always. As had Ersh.
Seek my revenge on Logan for the harm he did my web-kin? If it brought me a breath closer to becoming what Ersh had been, I was better off dead myself.
“Do you understand comspeak?”
Logan had dressed for the occasion in what I guessed to be a uniform from one of the original officers from Tly Defender—or he’d been one, since the uniform fit his immense frame as though tailored to it. I would have thought him too young for that, but a great deal was possible with the right medical staff and sufficient motivation.
The lounge of the ’Watch was dressed for the occasion as well. He’d done his homework, or had bribed someone. The climate control was set almost cool enough to please this form. There were two swings set up over a patch of the slimy carpet the Feneden on D’Dsel had in their quarters. He probably didn’t realize the carpet was carnivorous and used to keep small pests out of homes; the swings kept one’s feet and furnishings from prolonged contact with it. The Feneden, I’d discovered, were very fastidious beings, especially when staying in strange locations with hosts of unknown habits.
There were guards, twenty of them, leading me to wonder what unknown habits Logan suspected me to have. As they were arranged as if in my honor, it was difficult to take offense.
So I inclined my head to Logan, seeing little of him through my upper eyes but gaining a fair bit of information about his emotional state through my cilia. Flushed, warm, all indications of excitement and stress. I felt some of that myself as I said: “Yes, Human. I can converse with you in this language. I would like to begin by asking why you had me captured by those terrifying creatures. They threatened my life
if I didn’t obey them and come here.” I had no intention of revealing to Logan that this particular Herd of terrifying creatures knew all about his ambush. Let him worry about the change in plan, I thought contentedly.
Logan gestured to one of the swings. He was too large to safely take the other, no matter how I privately hoped he’d try, settling his bulk into one of the chairs arranged nearby. One of the other Humans, a grim-faced older female I assumed to be the captain of the ’Watch, took another seat but didn’t speak. Her ship orbited one of Iftsen Secondus’ three icy moons, carefully avoiding the direct gaze of Upperside Shipcity and its Port Authority. I thought it quite likely they’d used this tactic many times before to scout departing ships.
There were tables, set with trays of delicacies likely stolen from such other ships. Probably the trays as well as the food, I decided, noting the quality. None of the porcelains recently shipped by Cameron & Ki, but then I wouldn’t have the stuff on my own table.
“My intermediaries had instructions not to harm or alarm you in the least, Fem—?”
“Tilesen, Inspector Logan,” I told him, staring right into Logan’s glacier-blue eyes. Find the truth in the name, I dared him, but just to myself. “There was harm done in interrupting me, in taking me from my—kin-group. I trust you will explain yourself?”
“Fem Tilesen, I brought you here because of a vastly urgent matter of concern to both your people and mine.” Logan leaned forward, intimidating even when seated. I kicked my long legs to start the swing moving. Once each swing we were farther apart; at the other end of my arc he visibly restrained himself from flinching back, so altogether I was pleased.
“And this matter would be?”
“The Iftsen weapon.”
How very odd, I told myself, hearing the words and yet almost not understanding them. It was as if this form resisted wrapping its thoughts around the reality of the Iftsen. Merely thinking about them, which I realized abruptly I hadn’t done for some time, was difficult. What was going on? Suddenly I felt oddly trapped, imprisoned by flesh that wasn’t being reasonable, and my rising heat sent my cilia outward until I must have looked to be wearing spines instead of hair. Iftsen. Iftsen. Iftsen. I kept up the litany until I found it comfortable to say. Iftsen.
“What about this weapon, Inspector Logan?” I managed to ask. “Why is it of concern to me?”
“If I were you,” he said bluntly, although his eyes strayed to my cilia with a somewhat puzzled look, “I’d be concerned about something threatening my homeworld.”
I slowed the swing. “Why would there be this threat to Fened Prime, Inspector? Is this your threat?” Iftsen, I reminded my Feneden-self.
“No. Of course not. It’s the Iftsen who have the weapon aimed your way, Fem Tilesen. I represent the Commonwealth.” Rather than choke on that claim, I pumped the swing again. Logan, not noticing, continued: “As you know, our government, while predominantly Human, is responsible for keeping peace between signatory species, as well as protecting the rights of newly-met species such as yourselves. Mistakes happen,” he said with commendable humility, shaking his massive head from side to side like some Ganthor testing for scent. “We do our best to prevent them.”
“Most reassuring,” I said with an effort.
“I wouldn’t be reassured, Fem Tilesen. While we are doing our utmost to negotiate a truce with the Iftsen concerning your people, they are being unusually resistant to a diplomatic solution. I fear your world is in the gravest and most immediate danger. We have to act.”
Time to show a little emotion, I decided, and arranged my Feneden-face into a Human-similar expression of growing dread. “What can we do?”
Logan was too good to let his own satisfaction show, but I caught a glimmer of it in the captain’s face. “We must find and remove the Iftsen’s weapon of destruction before they can use it against Fened Prime.”
Finders, keepers, I recited to myself, knowing exactly what Logan hoped to accomplish. I was more than willing to help, as long as our purposes coincided with saving the Feneden and Iftsen. Out loud I asked, “Do you know where to find it?”
The captain spoke for the first time, her voice rough-edged as though worn from bellowing at fools. I looked at her, assessing her stony features and downturned mouth. This was doubtless one of the career military abandoned and reviled by the Tly as they sought to erase their past, ripe for Logan’s approach to diplomacy. “The Iftsen are not used to keeping secrets, Fem Tilesen,” she informed me. “We have a very good idea, yes.”
“Why do you require me, then, if this is your responsibility?” I demanded, stopping the swing and touching my toes to the floor. “I am an art dealer. I have no desire to be on a military mission.”
“We need your ship, Fem Tilesen, to accompany us,” Logan said, trying to lower his high-pitched voice to something persuasive. It wasn’t working. “That way, the Iftsen will realize this is not an action by the Commonwealth alone, but that you are taking justifiable steps to protect yourselves from a preemptive strike.”
Thus making that strike ourselves and starting a war. How much did Logan know about the Feneden? Did he truly expect me to be that gullible? I had a sudden feeling of caution. He wasn’t a being to suffer fools for long. I stood, and so did they. “Inspector Logan. Unless you can assure my people that these—aggressors—” I couldn’t form the word Iftsen without obvious effort, “have no other means of attacking us, I will not cooperate in any scheme to involve us directly. That is an open invitation to disaster. For all I know,” I ranted, warming up to my point nicely, “for all I know, these beings have allies surrounding our system, ready to attack us from many points, not just this one. Do you expect me to believe there is only one weapon aimed our way? Do you take me for a fool?”
Logan flushed, but his look down at me was sharper, more intent. Almost respectful. “Of course not,” he said. “But we know there is only one of these weapons in their possession. It’s an appalling device, capable of destroying ships, colonies, and most likely entire worlds. It’s independently mobile and self-directing—you won’t see it coming—you won’t be able to defend against it.” He smiled and I felt a chill run down my spine. “Wouldn’t it be safer for the Feneden if you owned it, rather than your avowed enemy?”
Definitely, I told myself, keeping any triumph from my face. I sat back on the swing, kicking out to start it moving again. “Tell me, Inspector, more about your plan to ensure the safety of the Feneden.”
Elsewhere
“WHO?”
“It’s Project Leader Kearn, sir. He’s on a secure channel.”
No one turned from their posts, but he knew they were listening. The bridge crew had been wound tight since he had reappeared; tighter still since his upping their ready status to a preflight alert. They’d all received military training, despite their posting to a research and contact ship. There was a different feel to the air, knowing Ganthor were involved. They were hard enough to handle as tourists, Lefebvre thought glumly.
He tapped the arms of his chair, once, twice.
“Comp-tech Timri.” Lefebvre didn’t look behind to where he knew she stood waiting, a reassuring aura of competence about her. “Take over here. I’ll receive the call in my quarters.”
“Yessir.”
Once in his quarters, safely alone, Lefebvre accepted the call. “Lefebvre here.” Maybe Kearn would assume he was still locked up.
“Kearn,” said an unfamiliar voice. “I know you are in command, Lefebvre. You can stay there. Just get the Russell III up here. Now. Port Authority has a priority docking arranged for you.”
“Sir?” The word was involuntary. Lefebvre realized why. It was the first time he could recall Kearn snapping an order at him.
“We have a problem,” the voice continued. “What are the Feneden doing?”
Lefebvre hadn’t paid much attention to their neighbor. “All quiet. There’s been no activity since a large group arrived back at the ship. What’s wrong?”
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br /> “I’ll brief you when you are here.” As if Kearn could sense Lefebvre’s immediate resistance, he continued, his tone suddenly dropping into something filled with foreboding: “We don’t have much time to save them, Lefebvre. And we have to. Hurry.”
The docking was priority one, as Kearn promised. The station didn’t clamp holds on the hull, leaving them free to leave without notice. A wartime precaution Lefebvre didn’t like in the least. What was going on?
Lefebvre stopped pacing by the com station. “Any more from Port Authority on Underside, Com-tech?”
“They say—well, this has to be wrong, sir.” Resdick’s voice hadn’t lost its note of strain. “I’ve requested confirmation.”
Lefebvre braced himself with one hand on the back of Resdick’s chair. “Let’s hear it.”
Resdick swiveled his head to look up at his captain, obviously more puzzled than alarmed. Lefebvre relaxed slightly. “It’s the Ganthor, sir. They’ve parked their ’digger in a shipcity lot. Apparently, sir—apparently they’re claiming to be artists, participating in the Festival of Living Art. The Iftsen are raving about their contribution to the Gallery. There’s a reception underway.”
Lefebvre had one thought. Esen. He didn’t know why he saw her hand in this and he certainly couldn’t imagine how she’d done it, but he laughed out loud, clapping Resdick on the back. “Get that confirmed, Com-tech. But if it’s verified, I want clearance from Port Authority to return to Underside immediately.”
“Belay that, Captain.”
Lefebvre whirled, again not recognizing the stern voice. It was Kearn, dressed in what had to be the most garish assortment of ill-fitting casual wear he’d ever seen, rushing in from the lift with Timri in tow. He’d sent her to meet Kearn at the entry port, knowing she could handle him if necessary. Her expression was one of absolute amazement, and she waved her hands at him as if trying to convey helplessness.
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