Beholder's Eye

by Julie E. Czerneda

  "Why did you give us this purpose, Ersh?" I said, careful to keep my voice low.

  "To atone."

  Modorens tended to react physically. I didn't notice scrambling backward until the back of my right heel struck a rock. Hopping on the other foot, I hissed and spat for a moment, trying to salvage some composure. This wasn't fair. I was the youngest and already in trouble enough. Why should I have to listen to terrifying revelations after everyone else was sensibly asleep?

  I must have been complaining out loud. Ersh was on me in an instant. Her powerful form knocked me to the hard ground. I froze beneath her weight, stuck between submission and struggle. Her breath was warm and slightly garlic in my face. Then her tongue rasped my nose in a quick kiss.

  "You still react like an ephemeral. Excellent! Another reason I need you and not the others," Ersh said, thoroughly confusing me as she stood and then reached down to help me up. My back throbbed in at least a dozen places, each one where my flesh had been ground into the rock.

  "We'll continue this in my chambers," she ordered. "There's much more you have to hear and it must be done privately." So she'd heard the Tumblers' grumbling.

  "What if I don't want to listen?" But I spoke to empty space. Ersh was already a shadow bounding down the stairs.

  Picco was pushing at the horizon, staining the edge of the night sky with orange. I eyed it, then cocked the tiny excuse for a tail this form had and carefully aimed a stream of highly scented urine. It hit the boulder where Ersh had been sitting, spreading with an intensely satisfying splash. Physical species had their points.

  Rebellion done, I began to walk slowly down from Ersh's mountaintop, taking the stairs in morose little two-footed hops. Ersh would tell me what she wanted to, she would change me into what she needed, and she would undoubtedly send me on some revolting task for the Web's sake.

  But I didn't have to like it.

  In the morning, the kitchen smelled sour. The sombay had been waiting too long for customers, bubbling to bitterness in its pot. Maybe Skalet and Lesy had left last night. I hoped so. I knew if I looked at any of the others, talked to them, I would feel like a stranger. My Web was gone—I'd been ripped loose from it as surely as if Ersh had excised me. All that remained was one strand, a strand of secrets.

  Ersh was somewhere down the slope, in Tumbler-form, talking to her new guests. She wouldn't be back before I left. I wasn't surprised to feel grateful.

  My tongue touched the burns inside my mouth, a good enough reason to avoid breakfast. It was a Lanivarian the aircab had delivered; a Lanivarian had to leave. This morning all the old cautions and Rules were hysterically sharp in my mind, the way a drowning person perceives a rope floating just beyond reach.

  Later, in the ground-to-orbit shuttle, I hunched beside a port, sucking on a piece of ice the steward found for me. He'd also brought a disposal bag in case I reacted to space in true Lanivarian fashion. I was too wrapped in my thoughts to be queasy.

  Noble purpose. I stared at my companions—a Human, two Poptains, and a cluster of Rands, likely all gem dealers—tasting my utter knowledge of them, from their genetic heritage to their current cultures and languages. Out of habit, I added the new slang phrase the Rands were using to describe the Human to my memory.

  I wanted to whine. Guilt Ersh's noble purpose was rooted in it; no, root was the wrong image. Our great and noble purpose was a bubble bursting from a pocket of rot.

  I owned Ersh's guilt now, beyond any ability to give it back. She'd shared with me throughout the entire night—if sharing's what it's called when one decides to give and the other is forced to accept. I'd listened, consumed, assimilated over and over until Ersh memory had crowded mine to some outer limit where it clung, barely, to remembering Esen-alit-Quar.

  Memories older than I'd thought possible kept washing through me like waves of fever. I moved the ice to another sore spot in my mouth, my mind's eye witnessing the beginnings of a new galaxy. I slipped away from the here and now…

  … becoming part of an organized appetite, instinct, rushing through the void, attracted by a cluster of new matter, raw energy, feeding through the millennia.

  When sated, fission into two, renewed vigor. Sensing others failing to divide, each growing to a gluttonous mass that slowly died, solidifying into stone, drifting until snagged into orbit around a star.

  Then, self aware, beginning to chose a path, moving away from the others, drawn from the feast by a different hunger. Call it curiosity.

  Almost death, that journey away from the blazing richness of the new galaxy, a journey through space empty of all but wisps of matter, blown by solar winds.

  Almost death, but just in time drawn by the energy-rich glow of gamma radiation marking the edge of another galaxy. Starving, straining to find food, but this galaxy is older, more formed, with less free debris to feast upon. Wait, a pulse of energy approaches, trapped within a shell of concentrated matter. Feeding, a frenzy spurred by the need to survive. The shell cracks. Within is—life…

  … I shifted uneasily, knowing my thoughts were private, but wondering if I now carried some kind of brand to mark me murderer. I popped another piece of ice on my tongue, trying to view Ersh-memory as more myth than heritage. But the memory-borne sensations were too intimate to push away…

  … the shell-full-of-life was delicious, complex, satisfying, the best feeding ever. Hunting for more, insatiable after near-starvation. Another shell, but this one flees too quickly to follow. Disappointment. Time passes. Another shell, larger, bristling with sharp protrusions, approaches. Pain as energy from the shell touches…

  Quicker than any thought, transform into resistant matter, hide in rock form, shudder in fear. The shell leaves. Assimilated memory surfaces and merges with cunning. Cycle into the shell-form…

  Disaster. The form-memory is only of that which lived, not its inert shell. The life-form cannot survive in space. Almost death, almost death, almost…

  … I couldn't breathe. Some being thoughtfully thumped my back, dislodging the ice stuck in my throat with the first blow, continuing until I snarled in protest. I managed not to bite the Human only because I was more concerned with regaining my breath. I gasped out my thanks, waving away the hovering steward.

  The cluster of Rands pointedly ignored my convulsion and recovery. They had conceptual trouble with beings that didn't live in groups larger than twenty individuals. They must be regular travelers on this line; the steward knew enough to use a net to hold them together during lift—trying to sort the crawling mass into separate seat belts would have caused an outburst of hysteria. And quite a few stings.

  The Poptains, however, regarded me with grave interest, their gloved tentacles tightly wrapped over the cases they'd insisted on carrying to their seats, their green eyes as faceted and beautiful as the crystals they bought from the Tumblers. Every once in a while, an honest Tumbler would try to explain to a Poptain that these particular gems were Tumbler excretions, and wouldn't they prefer something of true value. The Poptain would unfailingly look suspicious, as if the Tumbler was trying to distract them from their treasure. Different worlds.

  An ache reminded me to loosen my jaw. I was developing a tendency to grind my back molars together. Damn Ersh. The thought of her dredged loose more memory, and I spun helplessly back…

  … Time passing in heavy, hungry waves. But cunning was firmly in place. This space held a wealth of places to go, bodies with surfaces rich with the taste of life, waiting for the eating. Move slowly, watch for shells. Slip within the cloak of an atmosphere. Others would have fed on gases or minerals; others would have been satisfied. This one's appetite was whetted for more.

  Night was best, suggested a memory. Here, said another, where the rooted growing things surrounded a rooted version of the shell. Hard to catch. Wonderful tastes everywhere. Hard to eat fast enough to satisfy the hunger. Two, three, four, a dozen, more.

  Lights, noises, fear! Cycle instinctively, shed mass, blend with those near
est. Noises becoming soft. The novel sensation of being touched, of being carried by other life. Warmth. A different kind of food, rich in taste. Satisfaction. For now…

  … The shuttle docked, jarring me loose from Ersh's memories. I gathered my belongings, numbed as always by the thought of Ersh as a baby.

  * * *

  20: Station Afternoon

  « ^ »

  "TAKE it or leave it."

  I narrowed my eyes at the dealer. He narrowed all six of his eyes back at me, then stuck out a forked tongue for good measure. "Won't find better."

  Won't find them at all, was the truth, I thought, staring down at the various hoobits on the counter. It had taken credits enough to persuade the owner of this so-called souvenir shop that it would be worthwhile to show me his private wares. Grave robbing was an offense to most civilized species. Not to this Queeb, obviously. Most of the merchandise crowding the shelves, floor, and even hanging from the ceiling of his back room looked to have spent time underground. My hood collected the mustiness near my nose, and I sneezed periodically.

  "How much?" I said, pointing to the cleanest hoobit of the four.

  The Queeb named an astronomical amount. I looked that gullible? Probably. I weighed the odds on bargaining and sighed. I entered the amount on my credit chip and passed it to him to encode whatever clandestine account would nibble at Ersh's funds.

  The being whistled cheerfully to himself as he put my purchase into a senso-screen bag. As well he might. "Mind you don't take this out until you're off-station, Customer," he warned. "Gropers don't take kindly to aliens having their sacred objects. They'll shoot you first, then explain to station authority."

  I glanced around his storehouse of sacred, forbidden things and wondered if this possible consequence ever bothered the Queeb. Likely not. I tucked the hoobit, secure in its bag, under my cloak, peeled my credit chip from a tentacle that was loath to part from it, and gladly left.

  A half hour later, I stuffed my cloak into a recycler. The machine reminded me to insert my chip for a refund, but I didn't intend to leave any further trails, electronic or otherwise. I surveyed the long, pensive lines of my new face in the restroom mirror, satisfied, then went back to washing the hoobit in the sink.

  My long supple fingers with their disklike tips deftly removed the bits of lint and dirt caught in the hoobit's many crevices. My hands were the strongest part of this form, quite capable of bending this or many other metals. Fortunately, I didn't need their strength for this task. Three applications of the metal cleaner I'd purchased earlier today had removed the last traces of mourning paint. There.

  I held the now-gleaming circlet in my hands. Perhaps its previous owner would rest more quietly in that pilfered grave, his or her sacred burden passed safely to another of its kind instead of sold to an alien collector as a curiosity or doorstop.

  That I wouldn't stay a Ket forever was a point I'd consider later, soothing my conscience with the intention of couriering the hoobit back to Ket-Prime along with a discreet comment about a certain Queeb.

  I strung the leather braid through the hoobit's ring and put it around my neck. The disk hung exactly at the center of my slightly concave chest. Perfect. My fingers fluttered over the complex textures embedded on its surface, sending sensual thrills along my arms.

  I hadn't explained to the Queeb that it wasn't being caught with a hoobit that worried me—it was being caught without one. No Ket would willingly set foot in public without his or her hoobit sparkling and in plain view.

  This tall humanoid form with its outlandishly large hands, body willow-slender and just as supple, was not the least conspicuous choice for my mission, but it would do nicely, I assured myself, checking the fall of the skirt I'd also bought around my legs. The plain woven garment was the standard offworld clothing for both sexes, at least where the climate was warm enough. The hoobit was all the ornamentation considered necessary by the greatly misunderstood Ket.

  "Gropers," I said to myself, admiring what was a healthy and vigorous body for a Ket. My skin was like the palest of leathers, its fine-grained texture a trait considered quite attractive within the species. I met my new eyes in my reflection, their warm yellow almost glowing in the stall lights. All the while, my hands restlessly explored the quite remarkable smoothness of the sink, then the soothing ridges of the woven skirt. Born with a hand in someone else's pocket was the expression used by other species to refer to Ket. True, it was almost impossible for a Ket to keep its beautiful hands to itself. But that was simply because touch was their favored sense, texture their greatest pleasure.

  I fastened my curious fingers on the reassuring curve of the hoobit in the proper dignified manner. Humans were particularly offended by the Ket propensity to fondle whatever was of interest. Of course, this didn't stop them from also being the Kets' best customers. Ket masseuses were in demand everywhere, traveling so frequently in Human space and worlds that one more should scarcely be noticed. A disguise and profession in one.

  Now I was ready to leave Hixtar Station and attempt the first task Ersh had set me. To find out what happened after my disappearance from Rigel II.

  Hixtar's orbiting station had a reputation as a place where you can eventually buy anything, legal or otherwise. That reputation had suggested, rightly, that I could find what I needed to carry off my form. It also explained why such an inconsequential world was a popular stopover for various ships both from the Commonwealth and the uncommitted systems of the Fringe. I should have had little difficulty finding a ship outbound for Rigel II, or at least that sector of space.

  But the glittering script of the posting board was unusually brief. Few ships were due to leave Hixtar in the next couple of days. There were no listings at all destined for the Fringe. How odd. Trade usually poured in both directions from the outposts. The miners of the Fringe frequently outnumbered the resident station population.

  They were outnumbered at the moment. I'd taken one walk in the noisy expanse of Hixtar's loading arena, bundled against the bitter cold, and been amazed by the activity there. Even more remarkable, those crowding on-station were not the usual Human mining crews and Denebian prospectors. As many beings used the green tubes reserved for non-oxy breathers as rode the climbers to the various entry levels. There were family groups, too many of them for coincidence. And the expressions of those around me had ranged from annoyance to outright fear.

  What were they all afraid of? I wondered again as I stared at the unhelpful board. New taxes?

  "Are you available, Groper?"

  I gripped my hoobit and turned to see who the low voice belonged to. Ah. An old spacer stood just out of reach, holding a worn-looking credit chip in my direction. His rheumy eyes were wistful as he looked up at me.

  Of course I was available, I reminded myself sharply. Kets never refused a chance to touch another species. And, in this form, I was Ket enough to feel a pleased anticipation. Time to find a ship out later.

  By the evening meal, I'd soothed enough backs, shoulders, and other body parts to cover half the cost of the hoobit; I'd probably scared the life out of the Queeb by spreading the news that a Ket was on-station—though it was quite incorrect in assuming any Ket would use violence against a grave robber, the species preferring litigation; and I'd missed the only outbound ship traveling remotely in my direction that afternoon.

  But my fingers tingled with pleasure. And—given the rumors my clients had shared with me—I was grateful Ersh hadn't sent me any closer to the Fringe.

  "War is breaking out," said the Human officer from a survey ship, whose uniform made me remember old friends. "Casualties are mounting. Tensions are rising even faster, fueled by talk of some secret weapon. Things are going to get worse."

  "Something's out there," whispered the old spacer, peering around at me through his bushy gray eyebrows, "Something that appears and disappears. Something that consumes whatever lives. First ships, then Fringe mining domes, who knows what might be next? Fools won't listen,
but spacers know. Smart captains are keeping their ships bellied-up to Hixtar Station."

  There were other versions of both tales. Combined, they added up to a crisis building in an area of space where species were already close to blaster point over ephemeral issues: ownership, rights, access to supposed wealth.

  Which, while fascinating, wasn't helping me find out more about Rigel II. Rumors from that direction hadn't a chance in this place, where ships were being found empty and adrift.

  I folded myself to fit into a chair meant for beings with shorter legs and larger hips, quite ready to rest my poor feet. Ket had evolved within a lesser gravity than that operating within the station—doubtless an average suited to no one in particular but bearable by most. It didn't take much exertion to make me grateful to wriggle my long toes in the air and let another part of my anatomy take the strain. Ket rarely used such furnishings, preferring to crouch comfortably with knees and shoulders touching. Under these circumstances, I was content with the chair.

  Its other advantage was location. Once I managed to somehow wedge my knees properly under the table, I glanced up to confirm this portion of the food court lay within sight of the main posting board. All I needed now was patience. Eventually, someone would decide even Hixtar was too close to the Fringe and choose to head in the direction I needed.

  Three bottles of the tea later, I was halfway through a Braille book (such a sensuous pleasure, reading), when the public address system announced a ship arrival with a suspiciously relieved tone. Shortly afterward, the posting board flashed on a green-backed and quite lengthy supply request, sending some merchants scurrying from tables to see who could reach their consoles first—not a trading ship then, more likely a transport or government vessel. I moved to another table, more in the shadow of an entrancingly rough-barked tree, and watched the debarkation gate. What were the odds?