Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  To Lefebvre’s surprise, Kearn didn’t flinch. He merely nodded as if weary. “Yes, she did. I can’t tell you why. But she sent us here, where we had to come—”

  “Conveniently leaving Upperside on the next transport.”

  “What more could we ask her? You know I’ve verified the situation with Port Authority and the Deputy Minister. This is where the Iftsen weapon is hidden. N’Klet told us the truth about that.”

  Lefebvre pushed himself back with an oath. “The Feneden are already findown on the asteroid. They beat us here.”

  “Another reason to wait,” Kearn urged, wringing his hands absently. “The Russell III isn’t armed. Who knows what they’re capable of?”

  “That’s another thing,” Lefebvre shot back at Kearn. “What’s with the Iftsen? They want us to simply observe the situation? They forbid hostile action within their system? Are these the same beings advertising how they are going to blow a planetful of beings into atoms over some stolen art?” He paused to collect himself. “What are we missing from this picture, Kearn? Who’s lying to us the most?”

  Kearn put his chubby fingertips together, appearing to consider them thoughtfully. “Who indeed, Captain?” he said as if to himself, then looked up. “Strike that. I promised to put aside that other business until this situation was resolved. And you’ve been—” he paused, as if knowing what he wanted to say, but unsure.

  Lefebvre took a deep breath and dropped back into the seat he’d exploded from moments before. “And I’ve been acting like a captain for the first time since boarding the Russ’,” he said, completing Kearn’s sentence. “You can say it, Kearn. It’s the truth.” Lefebvre hesitated, then realized he owed some truth of his own. “I’m not proud of it.”

  Kearn stared at Lefebvre for a long time, his expression caught between anguish and decision. Decision seemed to win as he unlocked a drawer in his desk and began pulling out record cubes. The pile grew until half of his desk was covered, then Kearn stopped, sorted out twelve, and shoved them toward Lefebvre. “These are the ones from—from your quarters. And Comp-tech Timri’s. And from the crew areas.” Without meeting Lefebvre’s quizzical gaze, Kearn swept the rest back into his drawer and locked it. His voice defensive, he added: “I’m keeping the records from my cabin and the bridge. I’ll need them one day, when my search is successful. There will be a need for clear records, for corroboration.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lefebvre said very quietly, picking up the cubes. “I do understand, sir.”

  “That will be all, Captain. Please notify me of any change.”

  “Yessir,” Lefebvre repeated. He stood to leave, then looked down at the smaller Human, still dressed in his rumpled tourist clothes. Kearn looked up, a frown growing between his eyes.

  “Yes?”

  Lefebvre drew himself up and saluted smartly with his free hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  42: Asteroid Afternoon

  IT could have been a comical exhibit of living art for the Iftsen Festival. None of us moved for a truly astonishing amount of time, a tableau of crouched Human and erect Feneden, facing one another under a starry dome. It might have gone on longer, but the unusual membrane the Feneden had tossed over me, although air-light and transparent, interfered with my upper eyes, causing a touch of disorientation. I estimated it would feel worse to a true Feneden and began to sway as if becoming mildly dizzy.

  I desperately wanted to go to Paul, make sure he was all right, then return one of his scathing lectures about being in the wrong place at the wrong time—preferably over a cold beer. But that wouldn’t have been the reaction of a true Feneden.

  My reaction must have reassured them, for suddenly the two Feneden who had covered me, and the three behind them, removed their helmets. Their noses twitched at the smell of the air.

  “Greetings,” I said in Feneden, cautiously leaving out the rest of the salutation. It hadn’t, I recalled, been well-received in the Art Gallery. “Is this necessary?” I continued, pushing with one finger at the membrane.

  “Are you a shifter?” The word came out with intonations of demon and baby-killer.

  “Are you a shifter? Or you?” I repeated back, keeping to my role but making my tone more polite—suited to a modern, practical Feneden who didn’t believe in me.

  “We are not shifters.” The assurance came from one of the Feneden standing behind the first two. Anisco. Without her translator, I noticed, wondering how they’d managed to communicate with Paul. After my one quick glance at him, I’d deliberately kept my eyes away. I doubted he could recognize me in this form, although I was sure he suspected. Who else could manage to be stranded on a secret weapon’s base, without a helmet, com link, or air supply? Outwardly, my Feneden-self looked remarkably like Anisco, the relative age difference, if one existed, perhaps marked by my slightly lesser height.

  Paul and I had arranged codes between us long ago, so I could confirm my identity—none, however, in Feneden. An outburst in an alien language, I reminded myself, was unlikely to help right now.

  What I hoped would help was this form, despite my inexperience with it, but knew I could be wrong. I could sense their emotional states through my cilia. Two had body heat patterns indicating they were conflicted, perhaps puzzled but not obviously fearful. Unfortunately, the other three, including Anisco, flared to my inner sight as beacons of terror and anger, a reaction I didn’t understand or expect.

  Perhaps some good news, I thought. “Fened Prime is safe from—the aggressors.” I found the word Iftsen stuck in my throat again. “If you check out the center of this place, you’ll find the weapon has been removed.”

  As if the word “weapon” had been a cue, all five pointed something at me that looked distressingly like Paul’s biodisrupter, although much smaller. They blinked in unison as well, eyes flashing that disconcerting red. My Feneden-self followed suit, why I didn’t know.

  “We have no interest in more lies about weapons and threats to Fened Prime,” Anisco said, her soft voice almost harsh. “We knew you lived, Shifter, from the moment your servant arrived at our ship on the demon planet.” She held up her free hand, then tossed Paul’s medallion at my feet.

  Since I had good reason, I took the chance and looked at Paul. He’d removed his helmet, but had stayed on his knees, gloved hands on the rock floor. He knew me, I decided. His eyes burned beneath that rebellious lock of hair, and there was no mistaking the meaning of his tense posture or tightly compressed lips.

  We were in very, very big trouble.

  And it was my fault, I sighed to myself. Again.

  I ignored the medallion, with its betraying flesh. “I’m not a shifter; I’m an art critic,” I said, keeping my voice polite but firm, with an underlying humor as if dealing with the mentally feeble. “I don’t have a servant—let alone one of these untrustworthy aliens. My name is Tilesen. I’ve been kidnapped by hideous creatures, left here without supplies, all to supposedly save our world from destruction.” When they didn’t respond, I snapped: “I’m tired. I’m hungry. Can we go to your ship and contact Fened Prime?” I took a step in that direction.

  “Stop!” Anisco’s hand shook as she raised her weapon higher. I stopped instantly. “Do not try to attack us! You cannot change form in Kearn’s trap, Shifter.”

  Cycling was the last thing I planned to do, so it didn’t matter if her threat was some of Kearn’s wishful thinking or the flimsy membrane might actually have some real effect on me. “Change form?” I said with disdain. “Of course I can’t. Nothing can. You’ve been tricked by children’s fables. I’m ashamed of you all—chasing a legend when our world has been threatened.”

  “Legend?” said a Feneden I didn’t know, an older male at Anisco’s shoulder. His body patterns were almost painfully hot; it had an effect like a strong wind blowing through all of our cilia at once. “Tell me this, Legend,” he growled. “How did you leave Fened Prime, when only we were permitted to do so?”

  Anisco jumped in: “And where are your
life-companions? No true Feneden would be alone, whether they believe or not That custom is too deeply ingrained in all of us—we learn it from birth. To be alone is to tempt the Shifter.” Her eyelids flashed red twice. “Any Feneden alone, any Stranger among us, is the Shifter. You.”

  Thanks, Ersh, I told her memory, tasting the bitterness of it. An entire civilization primed to weed out imposters. No wonder she’d left.

  “I swear to you,” I said in complete honesty. “I am not the Shifter. You are making a terrible mistake. There really is a weapon—”

  “We are saving ourselves and our people from the only true threat,” countered the male, waving a signal to the others. They backed to the air lock, one pausing to tear the helmet from Paul’s fingers, another stopping at the air lock control panel for a moment before joining the others.

  This didn’t look good at all. “Wait, Anisco,” I pleaded quickly, careful not to move as my knowing her identity apparently startled them. “There’s no reason to leave the Human here. You know who he is. This is Paul Cameron. The translator the Panacians brought to you.” I thought feverishly. They were a nervous bunch. “He’s important. He’d be missed. You’d be asked questions.”

  She hesitated and might have listened to more, but Paul, somehow perceiving what I was up to, chose that moment to sabotage anything I’d gained. He surged to his feet, scooping up his medallion on the way, then came to stand, stiff and straight, at my side.

  Anisco spat out a name that translated somewhat literally as “picker of scraps” and urged the rest of the Feneden out. She turned back at the last minute to say in a terrible voice: “Then he can be your final prey, Shifter.”

  The air lock closed with a rather final-sounding clang of metal to metal.

  In the following silence, I could hear a faint hissing over the dual, mismatched sounds of our breathing.

  They were venting the dome.

  Elsewhere

  “I HAVE a call for Project Leader Kearn,” Com-tech Resdick told Lefebvre. “It’s from the Feneden ship.”

  Finally. “Patch it through,” Lefebvre ordered briskly. When the com-tech hesitated, Lefebvre raised one brow. “Now.”

  “Yessir.”

  A high-pitched squeal arched through the com, making everyone cover their ears until Resdick switched off the speakers. “I’ve recorded it, sir,” he said hurriedly.

  “What was that?” Lefebvre asked, still hearing a painful echo ringing in his ears.

  Timri spoke from her post. “The Feneden abandoned their mechanical translators. I presume this is whatever they used to make contact with the Commonwealth in the first place. I’ll see if I have any information on it.”

  “Quickly,” Lefebvre said, staring at the vid display of the asteroid and its single, glittering dome. Any more delays, and he was taking the Russ’ down, no matter who told him to stay put.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  Resdick was definitely thriving at the formerly quiet com station. “There’s a message from Iftsen Secondus, sir, to the Russell III. Did you want to take it here or in your quarters?” At Lefebvre’s impatient nod, Resdick brought up the com.

  The voice spoke comspeak with a soft burring around the consonants. Iftsen, for sure, Lefebvre identified, sitting up straighter. “This is the present First Citizen of Brakistem, Russell III. Am I speaking with the being in charge of this ship?”

  “This is Captain Lefebvre, First Citizen.”

  There was a long pause. “Are you in charge of this ship?” the Iftsen asked, sounding cautious. “Are you the decision maker?”

  “I am.”

  “You are near our asteroid?”

  Lefebvre frowned. “Yes, First Citizen. As you requested, the Russell III has not yet taken any action toward the asteroid or the Feneden ship which landed there. But I must tell you, on behalf of the Commonwealth, we are prepared to forestall any attack—”

  “There can be no attack, Captain. Our instruments record that The Messenger has been taken from its place. We are now—” a definitely melancholy sigh, “—quite defenseless. I invite you and your crew to return and share our Festival, Captain Lefebvre. I can offer personal introductions to our most honored and innovative artists.”

  Timri touched his elbow. “The Feneden just left the asteroid,” she whispered.

  Lefebvre took a deep breath. “Thank you for informing us, First Citizen. And the invitation. I’ll keep you posted.” He drew a finger across his throat, and Resdick cut their transmission.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” Lefebvre announced grimly. He stood, rising up a little on the balls of his feet as though preparing to rush forward.

  “Follow that ship.”

  43: Asteroid Night

  “KEEP still, Es,” Paul ordered, tight-lipped and obviously angry. He ignored the departure of the Feneden. Instead, he stood, fists on his hips, surveying the membrane they’d called Kearn’s trap. “First things first.”

  “It wasn’t my fault—” I began, then closed my lips as he shook his head.

  “Keep still,” my friend repeated. “What did they tell you about this thing?”

  I rolled my eyes, including the distorted ones on top of my head. “They got it from Kearn. They made some ridiculous claim it would stop me from changing form. I can’t imagine how this could do anything but cause claustrophobia. I’d like to take it off, if you don’t mind. It’s bothering my oculars.”

  “Just wait a minute.” He prowled around me, using a piece of broken plas from the floor to gently prod at the glimmering stuff. “Patience, Es.”

  I obeyed, more because I hadn’t done much of that lately, than because I saw any sense to it, but fumed. We had a few more problems than my having a bag over my head. I reminded him of at least one. “They’re venting the dome. Shouldn’t we be looking after that?”

  “I noticed. But we can’t take chances with this,” Paul said. He’d moved around in front of me again, looking worried. “Es, this didn’t come from Kearn—not directly. He doesn’t have access to this type of tech. Might be Kraal; it’s similar to their stealth cloaks.”

  I went almost cross-eyed trying to see the stuff, then shrugged. It was so light, my cilia could ripple beneath the top. “I don’t really care who cheated Kearn into buying it. It’s just a bag, and I for one have had enough of it.” My next move might have been due to my empty stomach, a Feneden dislike of having my upper eyes clouded, or simply impatience.

  Paul shouted “No!” at the same split second I reached out and grabbed handfuls of the stuff in order to throw it off.

  There was a blinding flash.

  “Esen.”

  It wasn’t morning. There hadn’t been night, I assured myself smugly, so it definitely wasn’t morning.

  “Es. Esen. Please?” The quiet, annoying voice became suddenly much louder: “Esen-alit-Quar!”

  Confused by memories of others using that tone, I opened my eyes, seeing Paul’s face looking oddly pale and out of focus. Then I blinked, and his face became clear, with bright red spots on either cheek. “Morning?” I said doubtfully.

  Ouch. Everything hurt.

  His strong hands slid under my shoulders. Ah. I thought cleverly, I had shoulders. After a few uncomfortable tugs, I found myself more or less supported by one of Paul’s arms, my cheek on his chest. Not every Esen had cheeks, I remembered.

  Which Esen was I?

  More to the point, why was I semicollapsed and semiconscious? “Wassh, what’s happened?” I said, finding my mouth very stubborn about moving properly.

  Instead of answering, which would have been helpful, this evidence I was more or less awake apparently compelled the Human to crush me against the hard edges of his space suit with his other arm and start rocking back and forth.

  I mumbled a protest into a mouthful of flexible tubing.

  He was too busy talking to hear. As for what he was saying—I woke up the rest of the way realizing Ersh would never have used such lan
guage when scolding me. Humans.

  “I’ll be okay,” I gasped, when Paul stopped to take a breath. “Let me up.”

  His ferocious grip loosened, so I lay back again, but he didn’t let go. “You—”

  “I believe you’ve adequately covered that, my friend,” I said, finding it easier to move my lips now, as though all of my muscles were shaking off some type of paralysis. “What happened? What—am I—?” I struggled to see myself, not feeling anything from this form that made sense yet. He helped me sit up.

  I knew those long legs. I was still Feneden. And hungry.

  “You touched the membrane,” Paul explained, hoarsely. “It turned opaque, then disappeared. You—you dropped to the ground. Are you hurt?”

  “Stiff,” I informed him. “Help me up, please.” I clung to his shoulder once on my feet, needing his stability as the dome spun around uncooperatively for a few seconds. “How long was I out? How’s the air?”

  “Long enough to scare me half to death,” he said, under his breath. Louder: “The pressure alarms haven’t sounded yet. Must be a pretty slow venting rate. The Feneden took the control rods with them. We can’t repair it.”

  I resisted the urge to start breathing more deeply, knowing it was purely psychological. Time for that later, I decided.

  Paul had other priorities as well, which including a typically stubborn desire for details. “Esen, the membrane, Kearn’s trap, it worked, didn’t it? You couldn’t cycle to escape.”

  Pulling free, I scowled up at him, feeling the cilia on my head lay flat as well. “I didn’t have time,” I corrected. “There was a flash of energy—something that overloaded the nerves and senses of this form. Maybe it would do the same to any form. I don’t plan to test it again.”

  “In other words,” Paul said doggedly, “it did work as they intended. You couldn’t cycle.”