Beholder's Eye

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Gone were the blue ensign coveralls. Ragem was back in uniform, complete with an upgrade to his alien specialist bars. The tunic was snug enough to prove he no longer wore a telltale underneath. Still too thin, his face was much more like the one I remembered, with a familiar glint of curiosity and interest in his eyes.

  Ket were typically unaware of the significance of clothing or rank to other beings, so instead of commenting directly, I reached my hand, very carefully, toward his face. Ragem moved closer so I could travel my intact fingers over his cheeks and brow. "Your life has improved, Paul-Human," I announced with satisfaction after this examination. "Is it because of your brave action to save this Ket?"

  Ragem ever-so-lightly touched the hoobit, then perched on the cot across from mine. "If a Ket calls me brave, I consider that a great honor."

  I laughed, which as a Ket entailed a painful amount of finger fluttering, so I stopped almost at once. "Every being knows we are not brave, Paul-Human. How does the expression go? 'Gropers are afraid of everything, but most especially bad credit?'"

  "I know better, Madame Ket."

  "Perhaps." I paused. "Or perhaps you simply witnessed that point beyond which I, as a Ket, was unable to go. Every species has its limit, Paul-Human, including yours."

  I took a moment to curl most of my fingers around the hoobit for comfort. The three broken ones were artificially stiffened to encourage correct healing, but I did what I could to achieve the proper positioning.

  "True. But I reserve the right to my own opinion, Nimal-Ket. And I have only once met someone with your courage."

  Ragem's lips tightened briefly, then he went on, his voice oddly flat, eyes intent on me. "Her name is Esen-alit-Quar."

  "The one you denied was a friend?" I countered, suddenly unable to avoid temptation.

  "Esen was and is my friend. A good friend."

  "Then why do you hunt her with this ship?"

  His hands curled into fists on his knees. "I don't command the Rigus."

  "Yet you hunt her, too," I pointed out.

  "I have something to tell her, Nimal-Ket. That's all."

  Tell me what? All I wanted in that moment was to ask him. I could feel my double hearts pounding a confused beat as my Ket body did its best to interpret my turmoil.

  And, suddenly, I knew. Ragem suspected. How or why, I didn't know, but I could see it in his eyes, in the way he leaned slightly toward me, the tilt of his head. He suspected, but wasn't sure. I couldn't allow his suspicion to become anything more.

  Concentrating on being no more or less than a true Ket, I pulled a plas cube from under my pillow and showed it to him. "Has the station located the Queeb and his accomplices yet, Paul-Human? This Ket would like to file suit against their property as soon as possible."

  "No. There's no sign of them beyond some traces of Human blood in the room where we were held. They must have had some bolt-hole ready we didn't notice." He took the cube. "I'll see if Station Claims will look after this for you. After all, they should be responsible for your safety."

  "This Ket is grateful, Paul-Human. Between my own suffering and inability to service my clients, you can imagine my state of mind."

  Ragem wrapped his hands around one knee, rocking back in a deceptively easier position. "Do you remember any more about what happened?"

  Tenacity was one of Ragem's less useful virtues. "The Humans in the pay of the coarse Queeb tried to capture this Ket, no doubt to force you to release their benefactor," I repeated what I'd said earlier to authorities, as well as once already to Ragem. "They must have collided with sharp objects in the pile you left."

  He wasn't satisfied. "Nimal-Ket," Ragem said earnestly, leaning forward again. "I really need to talk to my friend."

  "We Ket value friendships, Paul-Human. I consider you and I to share that. Do you?"

  He nodded, eyes gleaming as though he believed I was about to confess.

  "Then let me advise you, Paul-Human," I said evenly. "There is a wise saying among Ket, 'To chase friendship is to lose it.' If your friend Esen prefers not to be found, you risk much by this pursuit."

  He bowed his head, hiding his face from me. Then he said in a low, intense voice. "You spoke of a point, the limit beyond which none of us can go because of our very natures. Have I pushed Esen to that point already?"

  "I am Ket, Paul-Human. I know only my limit."

  "Answer me!" He flung up his head and I was stunned by the frustration in his face. "I've driven Es away once. I won't do it again."

  "I have no answer for you."

  "Yes, you do!" he almost shouted. "Why won't you give it?"

  I stroked the hoobit. "Are you this difficult with all your friends, Paul-Human?"

  "The ones I care about."

  It was my turn to bow my head, to collect my thoughts and emotions before I made another mistake with this being. Then I looked at him. "Perhaps you should try trusting, as well as caring, Paul-Human."

  Ragem stood, and gazed down at me. His eyes were troubled. "If I'm wrong in what I believe, someday I'll explain all this to you, Nimal-Ket."

  I fluttered one hand in a careful chuckle. "This Ket would appreciate that, Paul-Human."

  He touched the side of my long face gently. "But if I'm not wrong, my friend, please think about what I've said. It's a sad and dangerous thing to be alone."

  Ragem left.

  I repeated his words to myself as I lay back in my healing bed: "A sad and dangerous thing." He was right. Which didn't change a thing.

  * * *

  25: Starship Evening

  « ^ »

  THOUGH we were no longer roommates—as a guest I rated my own cabin, particularly so I could ply my trade among the crew once my hands healed sufficiently—Tomas considered me his responsibility. His attachment didn't surprise me, knowing his kindly nature. He wasn't the only one to attempt to lure me into friendship. I'd noticed the tendency of this tightly-knit crew to rapidly engulf newcomers into their social life. My Ketself was considerably discomfited by so much affection, and I often found it necessary to retreat to this private space.

  Tonight, Tomas had thoughtfully supplied me with the latest station newsmag along with my supper. The headline read: Mysterious Disappearances Haunt Panada; Government Refuses to Name Cause. I read the article below, wincing at the number of missing, and nodded to myself. Unlike the Panacian Hive Government, I had no doubts about the cause. And neither did the reporter. "The monster from the Fringe has not left or been destroyed, " the article continued with the appropriate note of barely concealed panic. "It is now a killer right in our midst. And it will continue taking lives unless the Commonwealth acts!"

  So, the Enemy was becoming almost subtle. "Not reassuring at all," I muttered to myself. A quieter carnage implied a need for concealment, perhaps even secrecy. Why? I had a uncomfortable certainty it was to allow the thing time to search for specific prey. I worried even more about Mixs. If this thing was Ersh's Enemy, as I was beginning to suspect, it was distressingly adaptable.

  Ersh memory bubbled up through my consciousness of this room, the paper I read, and myself…

  Pain.

  Need.

  Too large. Too slow. Too much of me.

  I writhed in remembered agony, facing with Ersh her first crisis. She hadn't known to control her appetite, to leave those she lived with in peace. She sensed the distinction between nonsentient tissue and that which thought, but didn't yet care…

  … Murderer, I thought, feeling again the guilt Ersh gave me as well as the exquisite taste of the deed. Parasite. Such names had no meaning to the life I shared through memory…

  … Appetite. I felt sick and excited by the hunger. Something's wrong! Can't cycle any more into the safe form. Fear. Too much of me. Hide!

  Wise in the ways of her hosts, if not her own body, Ersh disappeared from their view, hiding in web-form, lurking in out-of-the-way places: feeding, growing, feeding, hoarding her mass like treasure. And finally, growing too large to
survive.

  Too much!

  Pain. Fear. What is happening? The body demands a choice; the mind must loosen its hold and permit the escape of mass, or accept the death which beckons. Divide, or become solid, thoughtless, a rock: death by density as web-mass collapses permanently into itself.

  I must live! Survival is all that matters. Selection begins on a microscopic scale. I shudder, reliving the battle of flesh against flesh, consciously experiencing reproduction for the first time both as Ersh and as myself. How much stays to maintain the parent? What escapes to a life of its own? Which will have the advantage…

  … I found myself Ket again, a species whose reproduction seemed uncommonly civilized after the self-centered passion of Ersh. Relaxing my grip on the hoobit, I kept my lips pursed in a frown. Why that memory? Ersh's gifts to me resurfaced at the oddest moments, but I had no doubt there was a reason here, if only I was clever enough to spot it.

  Deliberately, I closed my eyes and sought out that disturbing past, thousands of years older than my own…

  … keep what's mine! Preserve self-awareness. Grasp and hold form memory. The battle wages, tormenting at every point.

  It's done.

  Tremble. Learn the new size. Perfection.

  Not alone. Another web-form, smaller still, trembles nearby, sending confusing messages into the wind, troubling.

  And incredibly appetizing…

  I jerked myself free of the memory. Too late. Saliva made a cold runnel down my chin.

  Ersh had remembered for me. The sweetest taste of all was torn from web-flesh.

  Had Ersh-memory just shown me the true nature of our Enemy?

  * * *

  26: Hiveworld Twilight

  « ^ »

  "LOOK OUT!"

  I didn't blink at Tomas' alarmed cry. A blur of speed, the hoverbot raised itself just in time, and just enough, to clear my head without so much as a breeze on my bare scalp. The personal transports were everywhere on D'Dsel, the Panacian Hiveworld; I hoped the Humans would hurry up and learn that they were more likely to collide with the local shrubbery.

  "Glad to have such an experienced guide, Nimal-Ket," Ragem commented. The three of us had been sent out to sample the opinions of the local population, Acting Captain Kearn unconvinced by the assurances of staff from the ambassador caste, the only group authorized to contact other governments, that nothing was wrong and why didn't his crew simply enjoy a shore leave?

  I wore a cloak here, sufficient to keep the, to a Ket, chill evening air from my bare shoulders and upper body. "This Ket's experience here, Paul-Human, is simply due to the fact that D'Dsel is worthy of several visits," I answered calmly. "Given the civilized and gentle nature of its inhabitants." Ragem rarely missed any chance to question me, to probe for something hidden behind whatever I said or did. Even Tomas, otherwise totally oblivious to anything subtle, was beginning to notice something odd in Ragem's manner toward me. Secure in my disguise of flesh, I found myself enjoying the game.

  "Incoming!" Tomas seemed unlikely to appreciate the precision avoidance controls of the hoverbots either. His latest unnecessary lunge to the pavement left his normally pink complexion rather pale. "Don't they see me?" he complained, dusting off his knees and glaring at the receding globe.

  "You assume the occupant is looking outside," Ragem chuckled. "The 'bots are automatics. I've heard the Panacians use their travel time to catch up on correspondence and other reading. They're busy folks. Speculation is that's why they came up with the hoverbots in the first place, so they can keep working while they move from place to place."

  I gazed into Hiveworld's amber sky, already settling itself into night, decorated with hundreds of speeding globes of light dancing here and there, some tiny and distant as stars. I could explain more to Ragem. I could tell him how it felt to fly that way, to swarm with your kind in the still air of dusk, to be haunted by an evolutionary past left behind with wings and instinct.

  However, that kind of insight could definitely fuel his suspicions further. I would tell him another day, perhaps. For now, we needed to find some grounded locals to talk to about the headlines. And specifically about their missing neighbors.

  "Let's try the mineral baths on the next street," I suggested.

  The baths were a reliable place to find Panacians interested in gossip. They were, in general, a reticent species—polite and reserved with others, especially the messier sorts such as mammals. Tucked into their favorite cubbyholes at the community spa, however, most adults succumbed to an urge to chat. We found a pair of older drones, well into their soak by the limp look of their appendages floating on the steaming water. I let Ragem and Tomas strip and gingerly join them. The attendant was unlikely to let the Humans overdo the pleasure. Still, I made note of the time.

  I wandered as nonchalantly as I could over to the public vidphone on one wall. Mixs had passed me her most recent memories of this world in our last sharing, so I knew exactly where she was, or at least how to reach her. She was still using the last identity I remembered, Sec-ag Mixs C'Cklet, master architect and neuter of the planning caste, and business head of her chosen kin-group. She was so fond of this life that Ersh had reprimanded her for preying on the suggestibility of the Panacians with regard to reincarnation. I did admire Mixs' persistence. She'd convinced the bureaucrats of her favorite city to declare her dead, then acknowledge her reincarnation three times in a row. It had to be a record. Fortunately for the security of the Web, whether one believed in reincarnation or not, it was not uncommon for newly morphed Panacians to present themselves as a famous ancestor.

  Ersh was not amused, but she chose to humor Mixs. Mixs' weakness was architecture. To her, this world, coated with willing builders, was a canvas on which to satisfy her wildest imaginings. Permanent buildings were unknown throughout the Panacian System. Panacians built, but always with the intention of rebuilding as soon as a better idea came along. They favored any construction technique that allowed them to disassamble as readily as build in the first place. In a species which disdained clothing or personal adornment, buildings blossomed overnight into ardent expressions of current fashion, roads and parkways were defined by the traffic of the previous month, and living space was never static.

  And how they loved new technology. Traders from a thousand other worlds brought in cargoes of hardware, gadgetry, and new materials. The smart ones also brought ideas to sell, for the Panacians were very sensitive to the criticisms of others, and especially loved being thought of as up-to-date by other species.

  The vidphone accepted my credit. There was no public access to any of the Sec-ag rank; they were by custom approached through intermediaries of low and trivial accomplishment. I keyed in the code Mixs kept for her own use, still cautious of using my newly-healed fingers, and requested a voice-only connection; I kept an eye on my companions in the bath.

  "Who is this?"

  The voice on the other end of the link was not Mixs'. It was also decidedly officious. Another reason I'd chosen the Ket form was its facility with pronunciation. The Panacian whirs and soft clicks were no challenge to this tongue and palate. It helped that Mixs maintained an ongoing fiction to pass any of her real kin through the social barriers raised by her multilevel and extremely protective family. "This is Nimal-Ket, a servant in the employ of Her Glory-D'Dsellan, Sec-ag Mixs C'Cklet-D'Dsellan. This Ket has the information Her Glory-D'Dsellan requested concerning the wondrous new roofing material developed on Epsilon XX."

  "We have instructions from Her Glory to accept your communications with joy and anticipation, Madame Ket," the voice responded with appreciable enthusiasm. The arrival of a favored off-world contact was always an event for the entire family, since who knew what new construction technology would arrive at the same time. The incredibly strong and delicate modular framing struts of the Skenrans had inspired the total reconstruction of at least 50,000 buildings. The fad lasted an unprecedented three years, long enough to establish the family fortunes of Mixs'
chosen kin-group and its Queen.

  "… please wait only a moment, Madame Ket. I delight to personally bring Her Glory's attention to you."

  I stroked the cool casing of the vidphone, then the rough texture of the wall behind it, trying not to look obvious as I checked on Ragem and Tomas. They were still deep in conversation and steam.

  "Nimal-Ket? How unexpected."

  I clutched my hoobit in relief at the sound of that coldly precise and familiar voice. When had my fear for her reached that level? "Your Glory-D'Dsellan. This Ket has news of great urgency to give you."

  "Give it." No questions, no revelations. Mixs was one of the best at protecting her cover. I'd always envied that about her.

  "This Ket is on a public vid. I regret the need, but we must meet in private, Your Glory-D'Dsellan."

  There was a series of clicks and a snap. Mixs wasn't happy; I hadn't thought she would be. She didn't like the unexpected. Actually, she didn't like me much either, despite our molecular-deep bond through the Web. But by any measurement that mattered, we were essential to each other. She wouldn't refuse.

  And she didn't. A meeting place and time arranged, I stepped away from the vidphone and surveyed my remaining problem: how to move independently of my companions, without rousing Ragem's suspicions further?

  As if he could hear my thoughts, Ragem's head turned to look at me. I fluttered fingers, the intact ones at least, at him and saw his answering grin. I hoped they'd learned something worthwhile; what I could see of their skin appeared unusually wrinkled and verging on red.

  "Madame Ket?" I turned to the polite voice at my side. Panacians varied widely in their body form, and I was pleased to see the voice belonged to one of the ambassador caste. This slender, multlimbed, and graceful shape, rising almost to my shoulder, was a duplicate of the one I would wear as a Panacian. She was too young to be reproductive, but her shimmering blue carapace signaled her likely maturation as a producer—possibly even a future Queen within her family.