Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  It protected my identity in thousands of forms, but it was a perilous ignorance. No matter how much they believed Paul—who was, beyond doubt, exceptionally persuasive—I knew each needed to see me in order to believe, to understand. It was the unknown that bred nightmares in ephemeral species; I’d had enough of being a monster. It wouldn’t be necessary or wise to show all I could do or become. I wasn’t, I’d argued relentlessly, being foolish.

  In the end, to convince Paul, I’d cycled into my Human-self. He’d stared at me for a long time, as if I were some apparition, ultimately forced by his own innate honesty to admit that it was this form, this Esen, that no Human could fear. Underestimate, yes. Become annoyingly overprotective, quite possibly. But these were judgments I could live with, if it meant those who knew my secret felt safe from me.

  Besides, I thought, a good night’s sleep later, peering out at the clouds rubbing the shoulders of the Sweet Sisters, it was going to be a great excuse to travel. Minas XII, however interesting, no longer felt quite enough.

  “So, Esen,” Paul said in that dogged tone that meant he was determined to get an answer, “why did you try to leave me behind this time?”

  I was surprised he’d waited this long, and showed a tusk in amusement. “Leave you behind?”

  “Es.” His eyes were darkening. Not, I decided, a good sign.

  A little honesty usually helped. “I don’t care to risk others anymore, Paul-friend,” I told him, knowing he’d hear the sincerity in that. My ears flicked back and forth. “The Dump isn’t a safe place. I’d have left Meony-ro, too, but he’s about as easy to shake off as a Carasian sandtick.”

  His lips tightened. “Since when was the Dump safe for you?”

  “For Esolesy Ki?” I shook my head. “But that’s not all I am, is it? If I’ve learned anything from our—vacation—it’s that it’s easier to look after myself without you.” I heard the words fall between us and knew I’d caused him pain. “Paul, I’m—”

  “For a being of your advanced years,” he said matter-of-factly, “you still have so much to learn, Es.” Surprisingly, he didn’t look upset. His fingers stroked feather-soft under my chin, settling my stomachs. I leaned into the caress, half-closing my eyes. “You can’t leave friends behind, just to keep them safe. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I sighed.

  Paul took his hand away and pulled open his coat to show me the weapon holstered underneath. “Let me take care of myself,” he suggested dryly. “Besides, I bargain better than you do.”

  I blinked. “You do not.”

  Before Paul could reply, there was a tremendous concussion. I squealed with pain and covered my ears with my hands as the aircar tipped to one side and began to fall, feeling my scales swell and close together in a protective reflex. Paul clawed free of his safety harness and strained forward to slide open the driver’s hatch, revealing Meony-ro, thankfully still conscious, fighting the controls.

  I looked up for some reason. Where there should have been a roof was now the underbelly of another aircar, a poorly-maintained and rusty one at that, dripping oils on my head. We spiraled down together, a sickening motion that slowed and finally calmed into something resembling flight.

  I drew a shuddering breath, only just realizing I was holding on to Paul’s arm with all of the considerable strength of my Lishcyn-self. For comfort, I told myself, refusing to believe I might have instinctively reached for the nearest living mass, unable, in honesty, to dismiss the thought either. I released him with a muttered and fervent apology.

  It wasn’t really the time for one. I took back all of my complaints to the fates, overwhelmingly thankful Meony-ro was driving; if we were going to land as anything but a projectile, it would be completely due to his talent. I wiped another drip of oil from my snout and braced myself, holding form with a strength that would surely have impressed Ersh.

  What impressed me was how Meony-ro not only brought us down with merely a bouncing lurch to the side that landed Paul on top of me for a strangled minute, but how quickly the Kraal freed himself from his seat to climb up to the other aircar, weapon in his hand. Humans didn’t react to accidents well at all, I thought, dazedly.

  “C’mon, Es,” Paul said, hauling at my greater mass without success. He had, I realized, his weapon out as well.

  “Not an accident,” I concluded unhappily, stirring myself to move, my body—especially my stomachs—complaining vigorously.

  “I seriously doubt it,” Paul agreed, looking out before jumping through what had been a viewing window.

  Jumping. I sighed, considering my present form’s capabilities in that regard, which were nil. The aircar above me chose that instant to sink further with a horrendous grind and screech of metal on metal. I didn’t wait to find out if that was a natural settling process or if Meony-ro was bouncing around overhead. I squeezed through to the window, looked down to be sure Paul was out of my flight path, and launched myself.

  The drop was no more than my height and half again, however there was something about a massive hunk of scales meeting the already shattered surface of a rooftop that meant something had to give. I pulled my right foot free as Paul hurried to help. “You okay?” he asked, letting me balance against his shoulder while I tugged at my left foot. That one had gone completely through the roofing material, somehow making a hole narrower than the foot itself. I wasn’t having much luck.

  Meony-ro dropped lightly beside Paul. Must be their primate heritage, I grumbled to myself, but accepted his help as well. Between the three of us, we managed to free my foot.

  I took a minute to wriggle my toes cautiously, keeping an ear tuned to the Humans’ conversation. From their relaxed, but wary stance, we weren’t in immediate danger. The aircar that rammed us had been empty.

  “It was to bring us down, Hom Cameron,” Meony-ro was arguing. “If they wanted you dead, they could have simply packed the aircar with explosives.”

  At this rate, my scales were going to stay swollen, I thought, envisioning trying to run while my body was wrapped in its version of armor plating. Paul was rubbing his arm absently. I’d likely left some bruises, but at least nothing worse. Under the circumstances, I was rather proud of my self-control.

  As for my falling into the roof, shoddy workmanship was definitely a factor—unsurprising, since, once I looked around and noticed, we had crashed almost in the center of the Dump, on one of the long, flat warehouses connecting the grounded starships.

  “Why here?” I asked, stepping carefully on a surface that begrudged my mass. The intermittent howls of wind, fortunately dry, seemed frustrated they couldn’t push me around as they did the Humans, although what remained of my silks would soon be in tatters. I kept my ears folded to keep out the draft. “If they didn’t want us dead—a happy circumstance we owe completely to your skill, Meony-ro—they must have wanted us somewhere.”

  Meony-ro looked uneasy. The Dump, I thought, did that to reasonable beings. “The com’s functional, Hom Cameron,” he offered.

  Paul was staring at me. I returned his suspicious look with my most innocent expression. “Let’s not put out specifics until we know who’s listening,” Paul decided. “The crash will be reported anyway.” I didn’t bother to point out that crashes were reported over Fishertown with remarkable frequency and little result. “There will be someone sent out—if only to check for salvageable parts.”

  “Like that?” I said, pointing at the sleek, black aircar dropping out of the clouds. I couldn’t make out much detail. A cloudy day here was twilight dim to my Lishcyn-eyes. Of course, I really didn’t need to see. I’d been expecting something—I’d just planned to meet it on my own.

  Paul used some very colorful language. He and Meony-ro armed and raised their weapons with what might have been practiced synchrony. “I take it this isn’t good news?” I asked, ducking under the only existing shelter—the tail end of the tangled pair of aircars wedged into the warehouse roof.

  “
It’s Tly,” the Kraal grunted as he and Paul joined me.

  “So much for your dream of Chase and Logan, my friend,” I couldn’t help saying.

  Paul tore his eyes from the now-hovering vehicle, definitely no aircar but a shuttle identical to those on The Black Watch, and glared at me. His expression changed from grim to an interesting mix of speculation and dismay. “You’re finding this funny.”

  “I am not.” Still, it was hard to keep my tusk under my lip.

  He began to frown. “Esen. What have you done?”

  “We have a situation here, Hom Cameron,” Meony-ro interrupted testily, patently thinking both his employers were crazy.

  Considering the number of uniformed Tly pouring out of the now-landed shuttle and heading in our direction, the Kraal had a point. Paul stiffened as a second group stepped out, one of them head and shoulders taller than the rest. “Logan,” he said, in as close to a growl as I’d ever heard from a Human.

  I began looking around impatiently. The difficulty with ephemerals. I reminded myself, was their sense of timing.

  Ah!

  A fresh burst of wind sent some of the Tly tumbling, but it wasn’t from Minas XII’s incorrigible weather. This wind, I noted with intense satisfaction, came from the two large craft rising from either side of this building as they angled their jets to move inward, flanking the Tly.

  “Esen?” Paul sounded as though unsure whether to stomp on my foot or hug me. It was, I noted, a conflict he frequently seemed to experience. “Who is—” His words were buried by the ear-piercing thrum of the machines as they landed. I hoped the roof could hold them.

  I reached out and pulled both Humans farther back, toward me, a precaution against the wind as well as what might occur in a moment. “You aren’t the only one with friends, Paul Cameron,” I shouted triumphantly into his ear. “And you aren’t the only one with gadgets!” I waggled my bag at him.

  Meanwhile, the craft—now clearly visible as Ganthor aerial assault carriers—had stopped moving. Their pilots hadn’t trusted the roof either, holding just above the surface. Huge doors along the carriers’ sides slammed opened, much like those of a ’digger, revealing row upon row of heavily armed, snout-twitching Ganthor.

  They didn’t move.

  The next sound was the Tly dropping their weapons as quickly as they could, some tossing them right off the roof.

  I did enjoy a good surprise, I decided, standing up to see better.

  “No, Es!” shouted Paul and tackled me. As this had about as much effect as his running into the side of the wrecked aircar, I obligingly fell over in the direction I presumed he wanted me to go. Humans. Then I started as a bolt of energy splashed harmlessly overhead, immediately returned by something throatier issuing from Meony-ro’s weapon.

  “No one was supposed to shoot at us,” I complained to Paul. “Who shot at us?”

  Paul leaned his elbows on my chest to aim his weapon and fire it. “Not now, Esen,” he grunted.

  Being flat on my back and unable to see was bad enough, I thought. But to be a table? “Get off me,” I said, pushing at him.

  “No. You—” he bit off the word angrily, then continued, “you just stay down. Logan’s wedged himself in and is shooting at us. He knows the Ganthor won’t interfere in a private fight and I’m not about to fire at them in order to get them interested. Happy?”

  He needn’t blame me, I decided, shifting to move my hip out of a growing hole in the roof.

  “Paul.”

  “Not now, Es.” Paul returned fire. It didn’t sound very successful.

  “Paul,” I insisted. “This is a lousy roof.”

  The Human looked down at me, frowning, then a smile spread across his face. “Yes, it is, isn’t it. Meony-ro.” He moved over to the Kraal, who kept up a return fire as Paul spoke urgently in his ear.

  I edged myself up so I could see what the Humans would do. The Tly were either flat on their stomachs or crouched out of the line of fire. The Ganthor were shoving each other in prebattle frenzy, mucus glistening like sweat on their upper bodies. I didn’t think the Seconds would be able to hold their Herds much longer—no matter how they disliked interrupting what Paul correctly deduced they’d view as a personal, hierarchical dispute. I did know none of the Ganthor would leave without Logan. After all, there was a hefty bonus, as well as Herd honor, involved. The Matriarch, I recalled, drove a hard bargain.

  Paul and Meony-ro wasted no time redirecting their blasts from where bright flashes marked Logan’s position alongside the ramp leading from the ’Watch’s shuttle, to the section of roof underneath. Almost immediately, the shuttle tilted as it lost support.

  Before I could applaud their success, Logan’s next blast took out most of the roof in front of me and I tumbled down into the dark.

  Elsewhere

  PRIVATE messages by translight were hideously expensive. The com-techs in Upperside Shipcity had seemed very impressed, Kearn thought.

  He himself certainly was, his hands almost shaking as he cued the message cube to play back in the privacy of his quarters on the shipcity. Tonight was the meeting between the Feneden and Iftsen. There had been quite a few messages, as well as art arrangements, offers of temporary liaisons of several types, and assorted wines, all from those hoping he could somehow help settle this conflict. Many were from art dealers whose livelihoods were potentially threatened by the Feneden dumping stolen Iftsen art into a lucrative and expensive market.

  But nothing like this, Kearn thought. It would take his year’s salary to send this one message. He sat forward, eyes intent.

  “Dear Lionel,” he read. Dear Lionel? From a friend? He couldn’t recall any rich ones—at least none he hadn’t thoroughly antagonized long ago searching for funds for his quest.

  “Dear Lionel, I want to wish you luck. It has always seemed a regrettably necessary part of interspecies’ negotiation. I also wish to share something with you. The Iftsen’s Messenger was a bluff. They have never built or owned a planet-killing weapon; I do not believe they are capable of doing so. Only you need know this. The Iftsen’s false weapon was stolen, but, if they believe its secret remains intact, they will replace it with something equally harmless, and lie about it equally well. And species like the Feneden are young enough to need a reason to respect the rights of others.”

  Kearn stopped reading, awed by the trust this message implied, excited by its implications. He wondered again who could have sent it. Perhaps I’ve been noticed at last by someone high in the government, he told himself, dizzy with delight. A Deputy Minister—or better! With this information, combined with his own dream-driven insights, he had every chance to be successful tonight. He could save lives.

  It wasn’t wrong to want more than that, Kearn assured himself. His superiors had been silent concerning his indiscretion with the Russell III. Finding Lefebvre had helped, but he’d known they were simply waiting to pounce. Maybe this message was a sign that, if he could pull the Feneden and Iftsen together, he could save his career at the same time.

  “I am young as well, Lionel,” the message continued, confounding all his hopes and preconceptions at once. Who was this? Kearn asked himself, suddenly fearing the answer.

  “I make mistakes, but when I do, I do my best to fix them. I believe I have made such a mistake in hiding from you. When you are ready to find me, I will be there. If you ever need me, I will come. Esen-alit-Quar.”

  Kearn’s lips repeated the name without sound as the message faded and disappeared.

  It hadn’t been a dream, after all.

  “Mediator Kearn?”

  Kearn started, only then aware he’d been sitting and staring at the now-empty cube long enough to have cramped his back. “Yes?” he said to the steward standing in his doorway, a young Human.

  “The facilities await your inspection, Mediator Kearn. May I escort you?”

  “I know the way, Steward,” Kearn said impatiently, his mind reeling with unexpected possibilities and equally unlook
ed-for disasters, finding it difficult to focus back on his task. “Let the decorators know I’ll be there in a moment.”

  The steward hesitated. “What is it?” Kearn demanded.

  The young Human colored, then smiled shyly. “I wanted to say, sir, I’ve admired you for years. I’ve followed your hunt for the Esen Monster in the newsmags—not that I think they’d carry all the real facts, sir. I wanted you to know, sir, that I believe in what you are doing. I hope you find it and kill it. You’ll save us all.”

  It was Kearn’s turn to hesitate, overcome by a rush of pleasure as heady and uncontrolled as though some drug had flooded his veins. Fifty years, he thought, wildly. I’ve waited fifty years for this. “Thank you, Hom—”

  “Cristoffen, sir. Michael Cristoffen.”

  “I appreciate your zeal, Hom Cristoffen. Perhaps you’d consider applying as crew on my ship when you’ve completed your apprenticeship here.”

  Kearn used one finger to tip the empty message cube into the recycle slot on the table.

  “I can always,” he added, “use more true believers.”

  51: Warehouse Afternoon

  I CYCLED as I fell within the rain of broken tiles and rotting sheets of presswood, a reflex adjustment to conditions totally unsuited to my Lishcyn-self. Here’s hoping it stayed dark, I warned myself, tightening into a ball before impact.

  I struck what was likely the top of a ceiling. It held for barely a heartbeat, then groaned and gave way under me. I dropped again, finally landing on something that gave but didn’t break.