Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  My friend was sitting beside me, his face obscured behind another mask, his hand groping in my direction. I caught it with my free one, and only then looked up to see what trouble we’d traded death to meet.

  There were four figures, in Commonwealth issue ’rigs, Human from the way those suits molded to their forms. I could see the face of the nearest one through his helmet as he held the mask on Paul. He was looking at me, smiling broadly, and, when he saw I was aware of him, winked.

  I hadn’t seen Paul’s friend and former crewmate from the Rigus II in fifty years. What was Tomas doing on the Iftsen’s asteroid?

  And why was he winking at me?

  Elsewhere

  WHILE it made no sense at all, Lefebvre wanted to get out and push—anything, he decided, to make the Russell III go a little faster. Not that it wasn’t a fast ship. When Kearn’s project had started, he’d insisted on it, citing the astonishing abilities of the Esen Monster in space. But even translight could be too slow when friends were dying.

  Still, Lefebvre thought, they’d done what they could. They were retracing their path to the Iftsen asteroid at better than best speed, and they weren’t alone. If he glanced toward the proximity monitor, it would be bright red. He’d ordered the piercing alarm shut down, but the visual display couldn’t be stopped. Lefebvre shook his head, quite impressed with the gutsy captain of the Vigilant. She’d been the one to suggest they link ships, combining their engines for a more than theoretical gain in speed—although they could well be ripped apart in the process. He’d heard Lawrenk Jen had worked up through the ranks as an engineer and sincerely hoped this meant she knew what they were doing.

  How long would it take for the dome to vent—how long before the air thinned to uselessness, before the beings trapped within lapsed into unconsciousness and then—? Lefebvre relaxed his grip on the railing. It was only hurting his hand and making his impatience obvious to crew who didn’t know Paul Ragem and Esen, who thought this was a rescue of strangers caught in a tragic misunderstanding with the Feneden.

  Five of the Feneden were on the Russell III right now, confined—politely—to the upper crew galley. Two had eagerly strapped on the translators they’d left behind in order to share their almost hysterical joy, insisting on cheering Kearn as the hero of their kind. The Iftsen weapon was a subject they bluntly refused to discuss. Vigilant crew had already boarded and searched their vessel without success before the Russell III had arrived—a case of interspecies diplomacy taking a definite second to which ship had the greater armament.

  It was painfully clear the Feneden were close to irrational on the subject of the Shifter. The only reason the Russ’ and Vigilant were on their way was because the Feneden had confessed what they’d done—not out of guilt but because they weren’t sure a lack of air would kill their monster, and demanded Kearn finish the job.

  The lift opened, and Timri stepped onto the bridge. Lefebvre summoned her to his side with a look. She’d been studying Kearn’s Kraal device; another piece of the puzzle, Lefebvre thought. “Well?” he asked quietly, trusting the busyness of the crew to give them privacy.

  “It’s beyond anything I’ve seen or heard of,” she told him, her dark eyes troubled. “At a minimum, it was a location tracer. I think Kearn was right to suspect it also eavesdropped, but for the life of me, I can’t tell you how something so small could transmit—without our detecting it—let alone send translight bursts. Quite the knife.”

  “Were you able to disable it?” Lefebvre kept scanning the bridge, checking on each station in turn, making no effort to look casual about it. There was nothing casual about the situation or destination.

  When she didn’t answer immediately, he turned his head. Timri’s face wore a permanent frown these days, as well as new creases at the corners of her eyes. That frown had deepened. “Too risky,” she admitted. “I took a thorough scan, then melted it down before we went translight.”

  Lefebvre’s lips twitched. “I believe our good Project Leader was hoping to keep the pretty thing, Comp-tech.”

  “Then he’s still a fool,” she snorted. “If I’d made something like that, I would have built in either a trigger to warn me the device was compromised or some sort of destruct mechanism. Or both.”

  “Dropping out of translight, sir,” the nav-tech called in warning.

  “Understood. Call Project Leader Kearn to the bridge, Com-tech.”

  Lefebvre whispered a rusty prayer as the Russ’ settled herself into real time with an unusual whine. He hadn’t quite believed Jen’s assurances this would work.

  “Status,” he snapped, hearing the lift and waving one hand to acknowledge Kearn’s arrival.

  The reports came in order.

  “We’ve arrived at the asteroid, sir,” nav asserted promptly.

  Resdick chimed in. “Vigilant signals disconnection complete, sir. And, ah, mentions something about setting a record. Sir.”

  Not that they could claim it, if either captain wanted to keep their posts, Lefebvre thought distractedly, waiting for what mattered. “Scan-tech?”

  “Sir, I have the dome. It’s—there’s no atmosphere registering inside, sir.”

  They hadn’t had helmets, Lefebvre thought numbly. Esen would survive—perhaps she’d already escaped somehow. Who knew what she could do? But Paul? Lefebvre felt a sudden helpless anger. Couldn’t she have helped him—protected him from the Feneden? What good was her ability to change form if she couldn’t save her friend?

  “We have a ship on the surface, sir.”

  “Com-tech?” Lefebvre asked, keeping his voice level and calm.

  “Yessir.” Resdick huddled over his panel, then straightened. “It’s a freighter, sir. They’ve identified themselves as Vegas Lass. Largas Freight Lines.” Kearn stepped forward, but didn’t speak. “They have two survivors, sir.”

  “Send our congratulations,” Lefebvre ordered. Kearn was quivering—whether from eagerness or in fear, Lefebvre could only guess. Keep it by the book, he decided, knowing the situation was anything but. “Ask if they need medical assistance.”

  Kearn had his Monster in reach, witnesses on board, and a warship standing by. Lefebvre met Timri’s look and understood its meaning completely.

  This was it.

  47: Med Room Afternoon

  THIS was everything I’d feared: a clear sign of Paul’s tampering with my secret, an even clearer sign that I had no way to control it. We’d been rescued by the Vegas Lass, although I’d yet to see Meony-ro. Tomas, who didn’t belong on the ’Lass any more than my erstwhile office clerk, was back in my life—or was he?

  Beyond the wink—a commonplace gesture from this easygoing, friendly Human, one I recognized from our shared past—I had no proof Tomas knew who or, more to the point, what I was. That he was here argued collusion with Paul, since, I thought wryly, even the cosmic fates weren’t this obvious when meddling. And how much had Paul told Meony-ro? It wasn’t something I could just ask. Excuse me, but do you belong to the Web of Esen?

  My Web, I thought with significant self-pity, was supposed to have defined me, to be a sustained sharing between beings of total trust, to be my accomplishment over time. It was definitely not to be dropped piecemeal into my lap, or to contain beings whose very belonging was a mystery.

  Paul, as befitted someone so thoroughly and deliberately devious, had come with me to the ’Lass’ med room, then abandoned me without a word to the tentative ministrations of a crewbeing who had never seen a Feneden, never heard of a Feneden, and was patently terrified I’d turn green and die if he did anything wrong. At least I was reasonably certain this person wasn’t in my Web. If he was, I decided after five minutes of indecision over an oxygen feed I certainly didn’t need, I didn’t want him.

  Finally. I couldn’t stand it any longer. “What I really need.” I told the Human as kindly as possible, “is something to eat. Please. I’m starving.”

  He stopped dithering over a selection of stimulants, and looked at me
in surprise. “Fem? I’m so sorry. No one—”

  “Told you.” I completed. “Yes, I’m aware of that. If I could just go to the galley?”

  “I’ll have a tray brought—right away.” He turned as if to run out the door, then stopped and came back. “Ah, diet?”

  Not again. I blinked twice, seeing him start each time at the sight of the red lids. “I don’t know what’s compatible,” I admitted with a long, slow sigh. “My physiology doesn’t fit within the parameters of what you refer to as theta-class beings. But I’m very, very, very hungry.” I didn’t think that was adequate to describe the gulf encompassing the left side of my body. “Very.”

  His face went an interestingly mottled color, as though he saw his first bona fide famous patient dying beneath his hands. “I’ve done a prelim blood workup. I’ll bring a selection that looks safe. But—”

  “That would be fine. Right now,” I admitted, “even you are starting to look appetizing.” My cilia waved as if in agreement, detecting a sudden drop in the temperature of his face and extremities.

  “Oh, my,” he said faintly, then literally ran out the door.

  I started counting under my breath, reaching three before Paul Ragem walked in and shut the door behind him.

  “Fem Tilesen. In all the commotion, I don’t believe we were introduced. I’m Paul Cameron, of Cameron & Ki Exports.”

  I narrowed my eyes, lids flickering with stress. So, like that was it? I glanced around the med room, as though I could pick out a listening device that easily.

  “Hom Cameron,” I acknowledged, modeling my voice and expression on the cool, noncommittal grace of a real Feneden. “I trust you have recovered?”

  My Human looked better, his skin so pink I assumed the med had shot him up with everything in the cabinet. Quick, if likely to cause a metabolic crash later. “Fully, Fem. And yourself?”

  “I will expire within seconds,” I informed him, “unless I get something to eat.”

  His generous mouth lifted at one corner. “Try this,” he said, offering me a small, yellowish bar. I took it in my fingers. It looked as appetizing as soap. “Go on. Take a bite. Trust me.”

  At those words, I put the bar back in his hand.

  Had I struck him, I thought coldly, there might have been a similar look of hurt on his face. Since, at the moment, I would have preferred the blow to come from a larger, stronger me, I wasn’t sympathetic. “I’ll wait for the med, thank you, Hom Cameron,” I said, politely.

  “Of course, Fem Tilesen. My mistake.” Paul’s level, controlled voice was so at odds with his stricken look, I was certain he believed we were overheard. “I only hoped to help you get ready for our visitors.”

  Visitors? I stared at him, wishing—not for the first time—that I could nibble a bit of him and learn what I needed to know. There were some advantages to how web-beings shared information.

  The opening door made us both jump, but it was only the med, balancing a tray loaded with more of the small, yellow bars and several full glasses of what appeared to be beer. “I was told these were safe, Fem, so I brought as many as we had,” the little Human said cheerfully. “These are Engullan crabcakes. There’s quite a bit of protein in them. I can’t say much about the taste.” This last somewhat doubtfully as he put the tray beside me on the examining bench. “Have you eaten, Hom Cameron?” the med asked worriedly.

  I dipped one of the cakes into what appeared to be beer, judging they had to taste better that way. Both Humans watched me; the med with a look of anxious anticipation. Paul? He’d schooled his face back to neutral interest, an expression familiar from countless negotiations with greedy traders and entrepreneurs. I knew him well enough to recognize impatience and growing temper, emotions I could match quite easily.

  Relying on Ersh-memory—and making a mental note to never be this ignorant about a form before using it again—I ran my fingers down the front of the e-rig to expose the mounds of feeding cilia where a Human had breasts. The med made a funny noise in the back of his throat, and I glanced up. “I said I wasn’t theta-class,” I reminded him, breaking off a piece of the dampened cake and offering to my left mound. The cilia reached out greedily, like the warm fingers of a hungry child, collecting every crumb to convey to my feeding mouth. As I’d feared, the cakes were foul-tasting and dry, while the beer was warm and, to this form, had a heavy aftertaste. Regardless, I shoved a glass of beer as deeply into my right mound as I could manage without spilling it—Human containers leaving a great deal to be desired—and absorbent cilia slipped reluctantly into the liquid.

  It was probably the worst meal I’d ever had, but I felt my Feneden-self strengthening with each morsel and sip, so I kept at it with the grim determination of a soldier on the march. Paul, realizing I wasn’t about to talk to him anymore, and so without reason to stay, watched my gluttony for a few moments before running a hand through his thick hair like a being driven to distraction and took his leave.

  The med, visibly distressed by my eating habits, was even worse company. I sent him on an errand to find fresh clothing, leaving me alone to finish the remaining three dozen crabcakes and four glasses of warm beer.

  I waited, giving both Humans ample time to clear the corridor, then put aside the tray with relief and stood up. Before I closed my suit, I shoved a handful of cakes inside the front for my feeding cilia to worry at—this body being far from satisfied. I was ready to go.

  Of course, I hadn’t thought at all about who else might be outside the door.

  Elsewhere

  KEARN hesitated, surprised by the being who seemed to just appear in his way. The bedraggled Feneden was as lovely, or more so, than Anisco, despite wearing the remains of what looked to be an e-rig more appropriate for strolling around Iftsen Secondus’ market street than a starship’s corridors. He hadn’t known any of the species was on board the freighter.

  She was shorter than the others, peering directly at him through clouds of reddish-brown cilia, and appeared charmingly shy. A nice change, he thought, from other, somewhat difficult members of this species. He bowed, a bit stiff in his dress uniform, and smiled reassuringly.

  The Feneden’s eyelids flashed red, then she bowed as well, rising with a smile. “Greetings, Hom Kearn,” she said in accent-free comspeak, her tone low and soft.

  “Greetings—” Kearn stopped. She had no translation machine. “I didn’t know any Feneden could—”

  She made the universal gesture for quiet, one slender finger over her lips, and slipped her other hand beneath his elbow. Numbly, he let her draw him down the corridor. After taking a look inside, she pulled him into the next room, a storage space barely large enough for them both. “Hom Kearn,” she whispered quickly. “The Feneden—my people—need your help.”

  He sighed theatrically, oddly disappointed. “Please don’t start, my dear Fem. I haven’t even confirmed if the survivors are who your people say they are. And I’ve heard enough from Fem Anisco about how much you want me to make sure the Shifter is finally dead.”

  She seemed to stop breathing for a moment. “And this is why you are here?” she asked finally, her face inexplicably troubled. His arm felt warm under her small hand.

  “The Shifter is important and dangerous,” Kearn began, tired of the argument and claustrophobic in the tiny room, then, suddenly, released his pent frustration. If only he could get one of them to understand! “But the Shifter isn’t as important or dangerous as a war. I’m here to make sure the Iftsen—why can’t you hear the name!—stop a terrible mistake. You people have to start listening.”

  Her other hand crept to his arm, resting there lightly, as if a tiny bird dared to trust him. “The Iftsen,” she said, her mouth working as though the word burned her lips. “I am listening, Hom Kearn.”

  His head whirled with relief. “Thank goodness. You have to tell the others. You can’t keep robbing the Iftsen. You have to communicate with them. You must stop immediately—and return what you’ve taken—before the Iftsen fin
d another weapon to threaten Fened Prime.” He put one hand over hers, feeling its warmth and the subtle pebbling of subcutaneous scales. “Please. The Iftsen have never been warlike. You—the actions of a few of your people—are driving them to this. There have even been Ganthor involved!” Kearn searched her face, trying to impose some meaning to her thoughtful expression.

  “I hadn’t thought to find someone so—impassioned—among your kind, Hom Kearn. I believe you are the one I have sought.”

  Kearn hardly breathed. “Me?” he said faintly.

  “You. Did you know, Hom Kearn, that my species sees polarized light?” the strange Feneden asked him. “We see the night stars in the sky, and literally sense our place on our world and within our communities.”

  Kearn was confused. “What does that—?”

  “This ability separates the sentient species of our world from the nonsentient, Hom Kearn. It is the basis of many of our legends. You know of the—Shifter, but do you know of the older beliefs? That all demons come from a land without stars—void of obligations to each other, outside of rules, because they can never feel where they are or where they belong. It is our Hell, Hom Kearn. And one must never talk about demons or admit they exist, lest they hear and take you there.”

  Kearn felt his eyes widening. “The Iftsen,” he breathed, playing the ramifications over in his mind. The smallest things, he thought, remembering innumerable such mistakes between species, though none as intense as this. Impulsively, he grabbed the strange Feneden and hugged her. “This is marvelous. This is—”

  “A little uncomfortable,” she said, easing out of his hold.

  “My apologies, Fem. I must go. I must arrange a meeting—Upperside would be best, don’t you think?” Kearn rambled, not really expecting an answer. “Somewhere neutral, but with stars. Yes. Lots of stars. But through an atmosphere. A projection, perhaps.”

  “There’s that Iftsen saga about the constellations,” she suggested. “The one the Moberans use at their Birthing Moon Festival. That should help prove the Iftsen know astronomy.”