Beholder's Eye

by Julie E. Czerneda

  While the Ganthor part of my psyche understood and envied, I found nothing to admire in this herd. I sat down on my haunches to watch them. The Matriarch and two who must be her Seconds bent their heads over a series of diagrams on a crate-turned-table, clicking almost soundlessly among themselves on the tabletop. The rest returned to a variety of tasks, some dismantling what appeared to be artillery pieces and putting these in packs, others making an inventory of energy cubes and other supplies.

  Mercenaries. The Web understood warfare as part of the culture—and in a few cases the biology—of a multitude of otherwise intelligent species. Understanding didn't mean approval. Our purpose, the core of our existence, was to preserve the accomplishments of intelligence. War so often achieved the opposite.

  Though Ganthor made excellent foot soldiers, I acknowledged to myself. The herd instinct worked in their favor on the battlefield, inciting them to heroics most beings took drugs to emulate. Individual herds, like this one, operated under contract to other species—the Ganthor themselves resolved their conflicts on a more personal level. I wondered who held the contract for this group.

  Uneasily, I recalled the scarring on the outside of the freighter. Where was this ship going?

  More to the point: where was it taking me?

  Sometime later, when the dimming of lights beyond those used by the Ganthor indicated the cleanup crew was finished in the hold at least for now, I collected my wits and clicked for the Matriarch's attention. She pushed a shoulder into that of her nearest Second and that worthy looked up at me, a good indication the herd had assigned me some place above least, though I was now too far beneath their leader for her casual notice.

  *Speak* he clicked.

  It was an older male, scarred as were most of them, something in his eyes eloquent of conflicts held under distant suns for causes likely even more foreign. I felt both respect and revulsion, emotions he disregarded with a wrinkling of his snout.

  *Where goes this ship* I clicked, adding a tactful "to a superior" flourish at the end.

  *To battle* the aroma rising from all of them echoing satisfaction. I saw their preparations in a new light. The freighter's departure from Rigel II must mark the final leg of this journey for them. Worse news for me.

  *Where* I repeated.

  *Tly System*

  The Fringe! And a system near enough to the area of space I wanted to sound almost like home. I'd done better than I'd hoped getting on this ship, even if it had cost me dearly. I shivered at the memory, the broadcast of my emotion diffusing downward and causing a rise in anxiety in the Ganthor, distracting several from their tasks.

  *Calm*!!* That emphatic stamp from the Matriarch, who glared up at me. *Hide here*Wait here*Herd will return*

  I'd had no intention of participating in their battle anyway, but saw no value in trying to explain that to her. So I could stay hidden on the freighter while they disembarked? Odds were good that would be a quick process, done in the dark and somewhere much less legal than a spaceport. I clicked a gracious acceptance and went back to my spot on the shelf floor to rest, nibbling on a cotylmelon to sooth my nerves. Now all I had to do was think of a way to convince this ship to make a small detour.

  An afternoon's nap put me no nearer to a solution than before. I certainly didn't plan to wait here until the Ganthor finished their "battle" and hopefully survived it. For one thing, I thought the Matriarch hopelessly naive if she expected the captain of this scow would stay insystem, let alone on the ground, to wait with a potential conflict brewing to endanger his or her ship. Far more likely the ship would agree to return at a specified time. And might even do so, if the price was guaranteed.

  Where would it go in the meantime? I felt a wave of loneliness so intense I knew it would spread below. To calm myself, I licked the sticky cotylmelon juice from my skin, something a prehensile tongue was admirably suited to accomplish.

  Translight travel still consumed subjective time. I spent the next few days exploring the hold, though it grew more and more disconcerting to leave the proximity of the Ganthor. They would click anxiously whenever I left, something I always announced in advance to prevent them taking alarm if my scent faded without explanation. Not compassion or caring as Ragem would have expressed it; I was wanned by their concern nonetheless.

  Lars and Smithers had expended most of their cleaning efforts around the crew entrance to the hold, probably correct in assuming no one would bother coming farther in to check on their work. The smell of ripe cotymelon was something few but the Ganthor and several small insects could relish.

  However, the captain of the freighter—Serendipity's Luck, Omacron registry (if one were to trust any plas-work attached to this ship)—had braved the odor daily since our departure from the Rigellian System. Her name was Serean Croix, something I thought also subject to change, and she came for reassurance from her passengers: reassurance the Ganthor seemed uninterested in providing.

  Croix's last visit had been typical. One of the Matriarch's Seconds had an implant and could produce comprehensible, if heavily accented, comspeak. He translated at a snail's pace, something I could tell from her expression the Human took as an insult. I couldn't very well explain the poor Ganthor vainly sought clues from her scent as to the emotional content of her words. What I could smell of her indicated a fixation with attar of roses and a poor diet. Her own accent was tricky to place; the more I heard it, the more it labeled Croix as someone who'd been well-educated and raised but deliberately let that part of her life go.

  "Would thee ask thy Commander if there's been any word from the contact ship?"

  The Matriarch's response, carrying an undertone of impatience, was negative. Her clicks translated roughly as: "Call them yourself."

  Croix glanced around the hold area, assessing the unloaded crates and well-loaded packs. "The 'Dip doesn't have a two-way translight com. Surely thee do." The Ganthor translator waited, not taking the statement as a question to pass along. The captain realized her mistake and added: "Would thee ask thy Commander if thee can call the ship? Remind thy Commander that our contract is for transport to this meeting point, not any closer to the Tly blockade."

  The Ganthor started clicking, his scent conveying a distinct pride in his ability to so serve the herd. The Human broke in, saying urgently, "I won't wait either. Tell thy Commander that."

  Captain Croix turned on her heel and left without waiting for a reply, a rudeness that ignited bouts of stamping and general mayhem in the herd, though precautions weren't neglected. The force field was reinstated and the now-mortified Second completed the translation. Not bad, I thought to myself. He conveyed Croix's ultimatum very clearly.

  The Matriarch was also impressed. She quickly ordered the message sent, a decision that agreed with my own assessment of both Croix's willingness to strand them somewhere unpleasant and the futility of using this scow to try and pass a military blockade. It also spoke volumes about the funding for the mercenary group. Translight equipment was not cheap.

  I settled back into my corner, working on keeping my emotions under my own control; I'd no need to be drawn into the herd's fervor for the battle ahead. Judging from their passion, and state of readiness, the contact ship would take them straight into action. It would be without me, I reminded myself firmly.

  * * *

  17: Warship Night; Planet Morning

  « ^ »

  THE contact ship never arrived, and the Serendipity's Luck ran out halfway through shipnight, announced by the ringing shudder of her hull plates, transmuted instantly into a shelf-quake that shook my shelter into chaos. Had we been rammed? I used my muscular shoulders to pry myself free of the mass of crates and snapped net, grateful for the Ganthor-instincts insisting I think of the herd's safety before contemplating the vacuum so appallingly near.

  *Gather*!!*Danger to the herd*!!*Gather*!!* came the order from below as the Matriarch and her Seconds reacted to the disaster. The command and need were so strong, I almost threw mys
elf off the shelf. I grabbed the edge instead, looking down at the mass of packs, weapons, and crates now spilled across the deck like so many playthings. But it wasn't play. Briefly, the Ganthor gathered around a split-open container of what looked to be cast metal globes, clicking mournfully as they gave up trying to free the two bodies pinned beneath. Mines, I realized, once again torn between the magnetism of the herd and my feelings about mercenaries.

  *!!*Down*!!* stamped the Matriarch, her tiny eyes fixed on me. Her scent was overpowering, redolent of concern, determination, and her right to rule. Her Seconds clicked furiously, ordering four other troops to clasp hands, forming a living net. *!!*Down*!!* she repeated.

  Jump? I didn't like this one bit. The ship shuddered again, and this time the hull breach klaxon began to shrill. If I didn't jump, they wouldn't leave. I knew it. Even if I cycled into some other form and left, they'd keep waiting for the return of their mysterious comrade. It was their strength and their weakness.

  Moving as quickly as possible, I pulled the torn net from the toppled crates and tested its remaining hold on the wall with a hard tug. Good enough. I tossed the net over the shelf edge, gripped it tightly in both hands, and swung myself over. The net stretched alarmingly then held firm. I started breathing again and, finding it easier if I kept my hooves away from the net, climbed down as far as possible using only the strength in my arms.

  Hands reached up and seized my legs, pulling me down into a mass of warm concern. All of them, including the Matriarch, tried to touch me at once, to make certain I was safe. I closed my eyes for a moment in bliss and inhaled their welcome.

  The ship made a sound I'd never heard from metal and plas before. One of the Ganthor clicked *Grapples*!!*

  The herd broke away from me to lunge for their weapons. I found myself looking up at the Matriarch; she alone hadn't moved. *Safety* she clicked, her scent adding the overtone that meant I belonged in the herd core, surrounded by those older and stronger—and in this case, armed and capable of herd defense. Her snout flared, mucus dripping as she assessed both my response and the emotional state of her herd.

  The lights faltered, going to emergency backup systems, cut in brilliance by half. The force field isolating this section from the rest of the hold dropped at the same time. The door burst open and fourteen weapons hummed like angry insects ready to protect a hive.

  I couldn't see past the Ganthor encircling me like a living wall, but since they didn't fire I assumed the intruder belonged to the 'Dip. In confirmation, a hoarse Human voice rang out. "We're being boarded by the Tly warship Avenger. Captain wants you to put down your weapons. The Tly promise immunity to noncombatants. Do you understand me? Put down your weapons!"

  The Matriarch clicked and stamped immediately, her Second translating almost simultaneously. *I accept terms for this herd. We disarm*!!*

  I wasn't certain if this meant these Ganthor were under contract to the Tly and so had nothing to fear, or if they considered this situation to negate their contract with the Tly's enemies and were confident the Tly would agree—not something I'd assume with Humans. However, judging by the continuing wail of the klaxon and the now-flickering emergency lighting, Serendipity's Luck didn't seem worth fighting for anyway. I let out a scent of relief that I didn't care if the other Ganthor shared.

  The Matriarch had been right in her assessment. The Avenger's captain was quite willing to confiscate the weapons and other military hardware in the 'Dip's hold in exchange for safe passage for the Ganthor, myself, and the 'Dip's crew to the nearest neutral system, Ultari. No one commented on Ultari's myriad worlds and lax laws making its central spaceport, located on Ultari XIV, a logical place for the Avenger to sell off the contents of the 'Dip's hold without question, turning the flavor of the deed closer to polite piracy than protecting a blockade. But then, Ganthor vastly preferred a barter system, and the 'Dip's crew knew not to question the mellow good nature of a captain who could as easily have them charged and executed for transporting mercenaries. Or left them on their cracked-open ship—which would have been just as certain a death.

  I wasn't inclined to complain either. Once I knew we'd be dropped on Ultari XIV, the greater part of my problems were solved. I'd be able to access Ersh's account and buy passage direct to Picco's Moon without any difficulty.

  Except the one surrounding me. The herd was still anxious, the Ganthor rightly suspicious of any communication with beings who couldn't clarify their meanings by scent. Anxious Ganthor meant stubborn, herd-preoccupied Ganthor.

  Just my luck, I thought, when the Avenger's port opened at last, allowing us to exit onto Ultari XIV—all of us: myself jostled into the core position almost involuntarily by the others. I had a great view of Ultari's beige-and-russet morning sky and that was about it.

  Fortunately, I had been able to convince the Matriarch I'd been a victim of *herd theft!!* that is, ceremonial kidnapping. It was commonplace among Ganthor to coax or outright steal promising offspring from other herds to join their own. The system was an admirable solution to in-breeding and it was considered an honor to be stolen by a herd of accomplishment. If one was stolen by a lesser herd, one could protest by trying to leave that herd and journey back to one's own—a task so difficult for the average Ganthor as to be almost legendary. I fabricated a tale of suffering and effort so convoluted it convinced them all, my conscience assuaged by the knowledge my entire story was based on one of their own folktales.

  As result, this herd was willing to help me return to my home, though there was continuing gentle effort to coax me to change my mind and stay with them. I admitted to temptation, but held firm.

  At last. I settled my long spine deeper into the passenger seat—first class, having deserved it by this point—and allowed myself to believe the worst was over. The Ganthor had bid their farewells to me at the spaceport, intent on seeking another mere contract. I'd made the moment of separation quick and in a crowd, so the scents of other beings would immediately disguise my own. Then I ducked into the humanoid section of the restrooms by the gate, cycled in privacy, donned the clothing I'd bought earlier, and stepped out, Lanivarian and independent once more.

  At last, I repeated to myself, carefully chewing on the spacesickness lozenges the attendant brought, and holding the bag that came with them nearby. I didn't care if I did get sick. It was a short hop now to Picco's Moon. A short hop with no blockades or suspicious Humans in the way.

  My stomach spasmed ominously, but it wasn't the flight.

  I'd just remembered it was a short hop until I saw Ersh. And had to explain, somehow, why I was no longer on Kraos performing the duties of my very first mission, but was instead fleeing the attention of the Commonwealth government.

  Perhaps I should have taken the longer way home.

  * * *

  Out There

  DEATH had passed other dead ships lately. The conflict was wasting life, life Death could have put to better use. Still, it paused at this one, tasting. Once there had been a tiny bit of life left, huddled in a life pod, waiting for rescue. The experience had been—rewarding.

  Hesitation. Some dead ships had traps set; some living ones could cause pain. Death had learned vulnerability and approached this latest quarry with the utmost care.

  No energy traces. No traps. No life. Hungry, Death slowed and prepared to follow more promising prey.

  Wait!

  An irresistible something. Death flung itself on the side of the drifting hulk, tearing at the metal, ripping away until it found what it sought.

  Blue flesh glistened along the rim of what had been a door.

  When Death had consumed all it could find, there was only one desire left.

  More!

  * * *

  18: Moon Night

  « ^ »

  I SHUDDERED myself free of memory. What was done, was done. I'd exposed my kind to the dangerous attention of humanity and its allies. And, to my mind far worse, I'd managed to terrify the one Human who could have spoken fo
r us. All that remained was to see if Ersh could come up with a punishment equal to the crime. I doubted it.

  The memories I'd eaten and assimilated were quickly becoming mine. Skalet had added another dialect to the language of her favorite avian form. As if any species needed forty-three hundred and seventeen ways to express itself, I thought with a mental snort. Lesy-memory contained the pattern for Security Officer Sas' species, the Modoren. A bit late for that to be useful. Ansky had spent the last year composing rather shocking love poetry to a trio of Urgians she'd met. Mixs had mostly gossip and little more. So my accomplishment of the Kraosian form was not shabby at all.

  I cycled into the Modoren form. My vision was nicely enhanced, extending well into the ultraviolet. Ersh needed to wash her tablecloth. Unfortunately this form's sense of smell was dead compared to my nose as a Lanivarian. Well, it explained how Sas tolerated Kearn's choice of cologne.

  "You look ridiculous," Skalet burst out laughing. "Better wait for that one, 'tween."

  I walked over to the mirror and hissed at my reflection. The translation of relative species' age was not in my favor. I was maturing unusually quickly for my kind, but never quickly enough to suit Ersh or myself. Lesy-memory in mine labeled me perfectly. I was an overgrown kitten.

  "But it works nicely for me," Ersh said from behind. She cycled, her change so rapid that I could barely catch the moment. As a Modoren, Ersh was in her prime: powerful, sleek, with a distinguished peppering of gray on her facial fur. She batted at me playfully. Though we were close to the same size, the blow knocked me off my feet.