"Thanks to my friend," Ragem announced with an echoing gesture in my direction. Warned by what seemed a note of challenge in his voice, I watched her more closely. "Willify Guire, I'd like you to meet my fellow refugee from the Kraosians. And my rescuer."
Willify recovered her poise with commendable speed. "Welcome to the Rigus." To my currently shifted vision, her face registered a marked drop in temperature. I was curious whether this meant Willify was shocked into paleness by my presence, or was merely in a cold sweat.
It was an academic difference. I could no more respond to her greeting, sincere or not, than I could read her thoughts. Being a loose coalition of cells was a distinct disadvantage. Humans simply weren't equipped with the sensory apparatus to comprehend the chemical voice of this form, however beautiful and eloquent.
I was also feeling decidedly weaker. It was hunger: a need I would not be able to satisfy until cycling into some other shaping. The only food my present body could accept came alive, warm-blooded, and tended to scream. I felt sickened by the quick anticipation which accompanied the thought. No need for Ersh to remind me of the trap this otherwise useful form could become.
Without a voice, I certainly couldn't explain. I also wasn't about to cycle in front of any more aliens. Huddled down into an energy-conserving shape, undignified from a Ycl's point of view, but no one here would notice, I focused my attention on the closest of the three Humans. It was Ragem's turn to take action. As a matter of fact, I was going to leave everything to Ragem—I didn't have much of an alternative.
* * *
Out There
ALARM over an empty ship here, a deserted mining dome there, did not make the newsmags. Life on the Fringe had its risks as well as rewards. So Death went relatively unnoticed at first.
But the toll mounted. Supplies were disrupted as freighters were found drifting. Blame was passed, refuted, debated. Armed ships began to patrol key routes, watching eagerly for their foe, expecting to face a familiar enemy.
What they faced had no name, appeared on no scans, gave no warning. Death stalked the gleaming corridors of armed ships as easily as the rock-lined mine shafts.
Ships began to cut their losses and pull back. There seemed only one certainty.
Intelligent life was now prey.
* * *
10: Starship Afternoon
« ^ »
AS a Human would put it, I've been on the carpet before Ersh (or some web-sister) a few times; well, maybe more than a few. Being familiar didn't mean that I cherished the feeling, even secondhand. Mind you, there was somewhat more dignity to Ragem's position, square-footed and at attention before his superior's desk, than my current one.
I was in a box.
It was a nice box, clean enough to have been used for storing food or other perishables, and just now two-thirds full of my present, somewhat condensed, alien form. While I appreciated the relaxation of letting the box determine my shape, and the privilege of watching Ragem's dressing-down from my vantage point on his superior's desk, I was less than enthusiastic about the lid resting near Ream's elbow.
"I haven't denied Kraos was a disaster, sir," Ragem was saying, still obstinate though his stiff posture was beginning to sag at the edges. Good, I thought. The combination of Kraos and disaster made perfect sense to me.
"And Kraos wasn't enough for you, Specialist Ragem?" Senior Specialist and Acting Captain Kearn asked with a voice that could have been heavy with sarcasm if it weren't for its resemblance to a petulant whine.
There wasn't much personality in his office either. Judging by the shelfload of image cubes on the wall behind the desk, each showing a smiling Kearn with some dead aquatic animal, Kearn hadn't taken over the quarters of his dead captain yet, which was a minor point in his favor. A truly desperate-looking plant clung to life and a strip of artificial bark in one corner of the room. It might have been lush once, I thought. I wondered why he cherished it enough to bring it on the ship if he couldn't care for it.
Kearn rocked his chair back and forth, sending irregular and annoying vibrations through the desk supports. I oozed up the side of my container, wishing I could glare back at him in a way he'd recognize.
Ragem's superior officer was of average height, indeterminate age, probably male, and looked as though he'd borrowed his current clothing from several different people. To be charitable, I was not seeing Kearn at his best. His being rumpled and irate was partly our fault, I admitted to myself, but this hardly justified his behavior.
Kearn didn't have Ersh's ponderous—and earned—air of authority. In fact, he was not an impressive creature at all, I decided. But then, I was inclined to dislike anyone with close-set eyes and a tendency to diminish major problems into personal affronts.
Kearn had been tearing verbal strips off Ragem's hide for almost an hour now. The theme hadn't changed much. This was the second time he'd circled back with peevish persistence to an apparent belief that Ragem had somehow sabotaged the mission in an attempt to ruin Kearn's own career. To my perception, Ragem's face had long since faded from a heated glow to an unhealthy mottled hue.
"What were you thinking when you came on board, Ragem?" Kearn accused. Not much, as I recalled events. Kearn fortunately was not privy to my internal commentary. "And what," he demanded darkly, "am I going to do with this—stowaway?" Kearn paused just long enough for Ragem to jump in again.
"My friend saved our lives," he said, not for the first time. I cringed. Being a hero and famous was not turning out well.
"Bah." Kearn then screwed his tiny mouth into an impossible tightness, as if for our sakes he chose to hold in language inappropriate to an acting captain. His stubby, well-manicured fingers were less controlled, drumming compulsively on the desktop.
I waited, expectantly, for the rest of the routine. Sure enough, Kearn seemed to notice his hands all at once, and smoothly folded them together. This lasted about ten seconds before he began running his hands rather violently through the few wisps of hair clinging desperately above his ears. I was quite taken with the notion that Kearn's anxiety of the past few days had already scoured the rest of his hair from his head, or at least was responsible for its shine.
"Okay, Ragem. According to you—" doubt about Ragem's reliability as a witness dripped from Kearn's voice. I'd heard that tone before. "You say that without the aid of this creature we'd be all dead by now."
"Yes." I could tell Ragem was becoming stubborn. "Sir," he added.
"Where's your proof?" Kearn chose to ignore Ragem's tone and his voice switched suddenly to calm reason. "Isn't it just as likely we're dealing here with some kind of outcast, maybe even a criminal?" He glanced at me with suspicion. "I read you the report on the Ycl. These creatures eat people! Who knows what this one was up to on Kraos!"
I had to give Ragem credit. He made the switch from stubborn to reasonable smoothly. "What more proof do you need, sir? We shared the same prison cell. Surely if she'd wanted to—feed—she'd hardly have needed to come on board the Rigus."
"I haven't forgotten that," Kearn snapped. "Did it occur to you she might not have been hungry? Yet?"
Good point. Actually, I was a bit peckish. I rose slightly, oozing up in order to taste the air and immediately wished I hadn't. Kearn's choice of perfume did nothing to enhance his basic organics.
Ragem smacked the side of my box, turning some of his frustration into action. I slumped down, letting the resulting wave action slosh me back and forth, wishing I was somewhere else—somewhere boring. Somewhere with sausages.
"I'm the alien culture specialist," Ragem insisted, for about the twelfth time since we arrived in Kearn's quarters. "I asked for her help—"
"You asked a Ycl for help?" Kearn repeated, eyes wide. If this was an attempt to ridicule Ragem, it was a failure. I'd been ridiculed by experts in my time, and I could tell by the glint in his eye that Ragem's opinion of Kearn's ability was on a par with my own. "And how did you become expert in communicating with a species the Commonweal
th considers too alien for contact?" Kearn tapped a red-banded cube in front of him. "A species so obscure that only one report exists in the memory banks?" Kearn drew a deep breath. "Let's forget for the moment that the Survey Team making the 'no contact' recommendation donated several members to the palates of these—these—" words failed him.
I could only compress myself so far. The organized memories of machines were dangerous. Their shared knowledge and its transmission were similar to the assimilation of shape knowledge within the Web. Given time with such machines, and the right questions, Kearn could find out too much about the Ycl—and possibly about me as well.
"She is my friend," Ragem said flatly, and put his hand on the edge of my box again. I overlapped to touch him, reassurance being all I was capable of at the moment. I withdrew from the contact, watching my appetite.
"Med-tech Crandall saved you from choking to death, or did we misunderstand your friend's intention in suffocating you?" Before Ragem could protest, Kearn continued. "Your duty is to the crew of the Rigus." He stopped and lowered his voice with an effort. "Your friends are here, Paul." Very species-centric, I thought scornfully.
At that moment, the door irised open, letting some of the heat out of the room and admitting a visitor. I studied the creature with professional interest, finding no match in my memory. Its large round eyes flickered from Kearn to Ragem, finally settling on me, or rather my box.
The alien was two-armed and -legged, quite humanoid, in fact. The features of its face were subtly different, the jaw heavier and the nostrils flattened and enlarged. The portion of its skin which showed beyond its uniform jacket was delicately furred. To my broad spectrum sense this fur was dappled by subtle violets of warmth. Human eyes would perceive the being as dirty white.
The nostrils were able to flare, as they were doing now, as if the creature was testing for my scent. Lips parted to reveal weaponry suited to a carnivore. It spoke, a soft snarl and spit rendered into comspeak by a small device almost hidden in the fur of its throat. "Do you know what have you brought on board, Specialist Ragem?"
I froze, which as a Ycl meant dampening kinetic movement at the molecular level. There's a saying in the Web: what's seen depends on the beholder's eye. Could this being see some inconsistency in my current form? I fretted to myself. Did he know? Ragem's fingers drummed softly, yet I thought in warning, on the side of my box. The vibration distracted me.
"Old news, Sas," Kearn said impatiently, obviously irritated by the interruption. "Liaison's database is every bit as good as Security's."
"Really, Acting Captain Kearn?" Keeping teeth exposed in that carnivore's grin, a sign of nervous tension if nothing more, the new arrival moved past Ragem and me to push a small disk into a slot on the wall across from Kearn's desk. "You must understand that there was no time to check the remotes before lift. I thought to do so before going offshift. What you'll see will startle you, sir. Be prepared."
I tasted salty moisture in the air; Ragem had broken into a sweat. In a tense puddle of my own, I turned my attention to the images on the screen. There was the Kraosian camp as seen through a lens that had to be high atop the ship. The scene played itself out once more: the appearance of the queu-pulled stretcher, the seemingly insane attack of what looked to be a serlet, ending with a crisp and unmistakable image of the beast blurring, melting, pouring itself into a clear, gleaming mass of plasm over Ragem's convulsing form.
Having never watched myself before, I spared an instant to be impressed. Ansky herself, a self-acknowledged expert on the shapeless Ycl, couldn't cycle more smoothly than that.
Thud. Down came the lid.
My box vibrated with the aftershock. Four separate clicks marked the locks on each side being closed.
This was an interesting twist. I could conceivably pass through the crack between the sides and the lid, but I really didn't expect Kearn or Security Officer Sas to watch me ooze forth without taking some even more regrettable action.
Of course, given another few minutes, the lack of oxygen in the box would change matters again. I would not be able to hold form once my life was truly threatened. And my current energy load would ruin Kearn's desk at the very least. On the plus side, I might destroy that damning recording.
Suddenly my world, the box, turned sideways and rose. Someone must have picked up my prison. Before I could be more than a bit dizzy, the locks clicked, the lid vanished from sight, and I was poured out on to the deck.
And on Ragem's boots. I eased myself clear and looked around.
Kearn was behind his desk. Literally. I could only see the shiny top of his head and the knuckles of his hands. Sas was, for who knows what reason, on the desk—snarling and spitting so quickly it wasn't translating into comspeak. Ragem was waving his hands. "It's all right!" he was shouting.
Fanged mouth open on a roar, Sas, leaped at us, scattering what was left of Kearn's careful piles of plas on the floor. Kearn squealed something incomprehensible. Ragem threw up his hands in a futile reflex.
I blew up.
I couldn't help it. Fortunately for Sas, his leap had been somewhat short of me. He wound up back on the desk, where he blinked like an owl through soot-blackened fur.
The smoke and soot also hid my grab for the only nonsapient living mass in the room. I hoped Kearn would forgive me. Need satisfied, I cycled faster than ever before. I turned to Ragem. He was trying to sit up, having been thrown to the carpet near one wall; he rubbed one shoulder absently. "Sorry," I said, going over to him. My tail had a tendency to curl between my legs. "Stress reflex."
Kearn let out a whimper. I twitched my nose, suspecting he'd experienced a reflex of his own.
Things were definitely not going well.
* * *
11: Galley Evening
« ^ »
"I HOPE you appreciate your galley techs, Ragem. That was an excellent meal," I said an hour or so later, eyeing the remains on my plate with slightly uncomfortable satisfaction.
"First thing to make a crew grumble is poor food. But you're right—I'll definitely congratulate Max next time I see him. Feels like the first meal I've had in days." Ragem stretched back in his chair and groaned with contentment. "How's the belt? Still fit after all that?"
I dropped my paws to cover the band locked around my middle. I might have mistaken its display of subtle colors for decoration, except I'd been told to wear it next to my skin, concealed under clothing. "You know this is pretty silly."
Ragem sighed. "Be grateful Kearn went for the telltale instead of trying to lock you up in one of the storage holds." He gave me a sudden, suspicious look. "You'll keep it on, won't you? If the alarm goes off, it's my job—"
"Trust me. I have no intention of cycling out of this form. Things are bad enough already." And having redecorated Kearn's office, I shouldn't feel compelled to release more energy for weeks. Shame Kearn hadn't taken the disappearance of his plant well, but he hadn't been able to think of a reasonable way to blame me for it.
Ragem seemed about to say something, but instead stood to refill his cup of sombay from the galley dispenser. He took his time, appearing fascinated by the steam coming up from it. I knew stalling when I saw it. "What's on your mind, Specialist?" I said, carefully tucking leftovers in my pocket for later.
"Nothing. Why?" Ragem came back to the table and put down his cup. Liquid slopped over the top. He grabbed a napkin and blotted at the resulting puddle. When he finally sat down and looked at me, I curled my lip to show a tooth.
"You're not a good liar."
He put his hands around the cup, as if to protect it from further loss. "I don't know about that," Ragem said lightly. "The eavesdroppers in the dungeon believed everything I said."
Did I imagine the emphasis on the word "eavesdroppers?" Probably not, judging by the intentness of Ragem's expression. If ever there was a being trying telepathy without success, it was this Human across from me. I glanced around the galley, then realized there was no need to hunt for hidden d
evices. My paws clenched over the belt locked around me. Ragem nodded once, slowly. Great.
I controlled a snarl. Best to take advantage of this time we remained alone. I snatched Ragem's cup from his hands and poured the rest of its contents over the table. Working with one toe, I spread the warm liquid into words. Audio only?
He nodded again. I let out the breath I'd unconsciously held. While I licked the taste of sombay from my toe, Ragem smeared the spilled liquid with his hand quickly, then wrote: fear u.
I stared at his pale face, seeing the red spots rising on each cheekbone. I pointed at the words, then slowly raised my toe to him. Ragem shook his head vigorously, then took my paw quite gently in his hand. His other hand smeared the evaporating spill, writing: Kearn.
I reclaimed my paw and pulled in a deep breath. We were being overheard, so we should be talking. What would be more suspicious: meaningless conversation or failing to ask what mattered to me most? I wasn't sure. I reached for the napkin to wipe up our conversation. Ragem put out a hand to stop me and found just enough sombay left to write: ask wher.
Ask where, indeed. I locked eye-to-eye with the determined-looking Human. Let a bit of concern into the voice, I decided. "Where's the ship heading, Ragem?"
"We're still in orbit about Kraos. The Rigus is waiting to take you home, Esen-alit-Quar."
Home? "The southern continent of Kraos—" I started to suggest, already thinking about the Ganthor and trying to decide if it was safe to travel as a domestic meat animal.
Ragem interrupted me. "Your home. Whatever world or system that may be." He leaned forward, eyes full of warning. "The acting captain is willing to follow any course you provide."
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