I extruded a hair-thin portion of myself, sorting memory as I did so. This was something I'd learned from Ersh, the Senior Assimilator of my former Web and the first of my kind to gain a conscience.
Sorting done, I braced myself, then touched the interior of the medallion with the tip of the pseudopod. Automatically, its tiny lid snapped shut at the contact, neatly nipping exactly the portion of myself I'd planned to sacrifice. I transferred another, immeasurably smaller, portion of mass, carefully memory-free, into energy and used it to twist and re-form my molecules—to cycle—back into the Lishcyn form fast enough to be able to witness the medallion sealing its edges.
I held it up to the light. Beneath the silver was a muted blue glow, almost undetectable. The metal warmed to my touch, but if all worked as it should, the inside would be cooling, its miniature cryounit sucking the last heat from that tiny piece of me. Preserving it. Preserving the memories biochemically stored within.
Fifty years, I repeated to myself as I wrapped Paul's anniversary present in a truly lurid gift wrap I knew he'd like—carpeted with images of quaint little rodents in neckties—it had taken fifty years for me to find this gift.
And to find a way to share with my first friend.
Share. My imagination painted that scent over the wild-berry tang of the air-conditioning, a molecular message of trust and willing sacrifice. Once, I had been part of a greater whole, the Web of Ersh. Share. Her message on the wind would command us to offer our flesh-borne memories to one another, an exchange as precise as it was physically uncomfortable. There was, I thought pragmatically, a lot to be said for simply writing things down.
But it was the nature of my kind to form jagged teeth, to consume living flesh, and to assimilate the biochemical information locked within. Literacy was something we'd—acquired—over the millennia.
Today was today. Paul's gift was ready, one I knew perfectly well he and he alone in this area of space could appreciate for what it contained. A vulnerability, to have revealed my true self to an ephemeral those fleeting decades ago; my greatest strength, to have gained him as my friend.
Time to celebrate.
"You should have seen… seen his… face when he saw the shipment covered in… covered in—" the remainder of the words vanished into incoherence; Meony-ro, as usual, laughing so hard at his own stories the complete punch line seldom arrived until well after the flow of wine ended. My eartips twitched in echoing mirth. It was undeniably funnier to watch the otherwise dignified Kraal try to complete a sentence than to hear its ending.
I'd noticed a tendency for many Humans to display unique behavior at social events—one reason I so enjoyed such things. For his kind, Meony-ro took this tendency to an extreme. In the office, he went through his clerical duties with the sort of grim-faced, cold efficiency I could imagine of a soldier on some battlefield. The tattoos on his angular features, marks of loyalty and affiliation now faded to faint scars, were a reminder that Meony-ro could well have been in the Kraal military before his self-imposed exile in the Fringe. Here, one didn't ask. On Minas XII, it was enough that, given access to wine and an audience for his jokes, Meony-ro was the life of the party.
And, as parties went, this one was well underway, I concluded contentedly, looking around for the one guest still missing.
"More spurl, Fem Esolesy Ki?" asked the small, dark Human who approached from my left, Silv Largas, joining us tonight on behalf of Largas Freight, our preferred transport firm. He waved a steaming pitcher encouragingly and, from his tendency to lean forward as he spoke, I thought had probably sampled this batch quite thoroughly.
I slid my cup safely out of reach, flexing an upper lip in a pleasant smile at the same time. Silv immediately beamed in return. With strangers, I usually exercised more subtlety and less spontaneity of expression—many biological heritages included a misunderstanding of the congenial tusk flashing of the Lishcyn, a peaceful species uncommon along the underbelly of the Commonwealth and represented solely by my presence in this part of the Fringe. I rubbed the forks of my tongue fondly over the smooth curve of my left tusk, enjoying the feel of inset carving—an indulgence not quite a planet year old—relaxing in the glow of companionship.
But not enough to risk losing my good sense in a cup of sneakily delicious spurl, I decided, continuing to scan the tightly packed crowd for any sign of Paul. He was late, but then he had planned to visit the shipcity to verify some arrivals before coming here. My gift bumped into my chest whenever I moved, its small box suspended in the beaded neck bag I wore on special occasions.
"My father sends his regards on your anniversary, Fem Esolesy Ki," Silv shouted into my ear, which I flattened in a protective reflex. The Human had stayed nearby, despite my refusal of a refill. I swiveled my big head back to where he stood, his expression somewhat abashed as he realized there had certainly been no need for volume, despite the happy din of music and voices in the office lobby. My current form was fabled for its ability to detect the faintest whisper—a partially accurate fable I did nothing to discourage among my staff or customers. Few would care that I was not only tone-deaf but completely unable to hear into the ultrasonic. "Sorry," he said in an almost whisper.
I flashed a tusk. "No need to be, my dear Silv. Your father bellows at me all the time, does he not? And we remain friends." And Joel Largas had proved a good friend, I thought as I gently teased this youngest sprout of that remarkably productive Human. And more. The patriarch of the influential and continually growing Largas family was also the grandfather of Paul's own offspring, Luara and Tomas Largas. The twins wouldn't be here tonight. They'd inherited their spacer mother's wanderlust as well as their father's curiosity, leaving home almost twenty standard years ago to pair up as pilot and ships' nav on a freighter. The last Paul had heard, they were plying the profitable inner systems of Omacron space.
As if thinking about the Web my friend had forged for himself among these beings was a summons, I saw a turning of heads and heard cheerful hellos near the main doors, open to the night air. My hand involuntarily crept to my gift, three supple fingers curling around its edge. Would he like it?
It seemed unlikely I'd find out any time soon. Not only was the hospitable milling that signaled the tall, slender Human's entrance not moving any closer to where I waited, it began to seem as though Paul was attempting to leave without joining the party. Something was wrong, I decided, moving myself. The faces around me grew momentarily puzzled as their owners gave me room.
Paul Cameron, despite his tendency to dress conservatively and stay out of the limelight, was not a Human easily missed, a useful characteristic as I relied on his dark, perennially rumpled hair as a marker to guide me through the mass of taller and shorter beings, all intent on wishing me the best. There was something about the graceful way he carried himself, the way his gray eyes fixed with intensity on anything of interest—as they did once he spotted me. He smiled easily, and usually sincerely, so the falseness of that expression on his face this time was fair warning.
"We have a problem," Paul confirmed quietly, my ears well-tuned to his low voice despite the babble as I drew near. I spared an instant to wonder if he meant our tradition of an open bar when entertaining clients and staff, noticing more than a few individuals hanging around the entryway who were definitely not on my original invitation list. The more the merrier, I believe had been the Human expression Meony-ro had used when taking that responsibility from me at what, I now admitted, had been a weak moment.
More than uninvited guests, I realized almost at once, reading my friend's face with the ease of long practice. His smiles for the well-wishers on every side didn't warm the somber look in his gray eyes, eyes that met and held mine with a clear message.
The kind of trouble we had to handle on our own.
I pressed my cup of well-nursed spurl into the nearest willing appendage. "Excuse us," I said to no one in particular, forcing my sensitive ears up and open in a relaxed gesture despite the almost painful de
cibel level in the lobby. "Always business. I keep telling the Human: if it's not on a collision course for the bank, it can wait." There was the expected round of chuckles and amused grunts. Paul was widely considered the serious half of our business, despite the respect given to my expertise in evaluating merchandise and predicting trends. All true.
Cue and excuse given, Paul didn't waste any time heading back out the doors, not bothering to check I was behind. In a hurry, then, I thought uneasily, following as quickly as politeness and the width of my present feet allowed. Fortunately, no one seemed to care that the hosts, and so the erstwhile reasons for the party, were leaving—something I supposed could also be attributed to Meony-ro's expanded guest list and our largesse behind the bar. I shunted the appropriate memo to a part of my private memory I would access tomorrow.
Paul led the way around the rear of the squat utilitarian building housing the offices of Cameron & Ki Exports at the edge of the Minas' shipcity. The shipcity itself made up more than two thirds of the area of Fishertown, a reasonable proportion, since almost everyone in Fishertown worked at the shipcity or provided some service to the spacers and their ships, from freighter fleets such as the Largas' to smaller independents. Ours wasn't the best location—we hadn't paid premium price or tax for one of the newly glamorous areas of extra conveniences. Paul had agreed it would arouse suspicion to live beyond our obvious means. Over time, Cameron & Ki Exports had come to turn a decent profit, albeit not a huge one. It was our inclination. And it was safer.
Although, I sighed to myself, considering the stark, practical ugliness of the colonial-era architecture looming ahead, it would have been nice to dip into the vast store of credits and other currency I'd inherited as last of my Web and at least plant an imported shrub or two. Minas XII's charming climate, at its best, encouraged a mind-numbing variety of low-to-the-ground bushes and flowers that burrowed into the soil to meet their pollinators.
"In here," the Human said unnecessarily as he waved his right hand before the lock pad of the warehouse side door, our private entrance. "I've put him in the customs-pending vault."
"Put who? And why in the vault?"
"Not here," was his cryptic and most-unhelpful reply, considering we were the only beings currently not inside enjoying the party, the sounds of which still came quite clearly to my ears. Paul tended to err on the side of caution. He was beginning, I thought dourly, to sound more like Ersh every decade.
We entered the warehouse without turning on the interior lights, a move that seemed more in keeping with potential burglars than owners. Who or what had Paul put in the vault? What, I hoped for its sake, since, as storage, the claustrophobic box was far more suitable for a few cases of brandy than anything living and aware.
Paul closed and locked the door behind us, only then activating a hand light. I stood perfectly still until he passed me a second light—the night vision of this form being so poor as to be a joke on several planets and a source of quite real danger on most, if only in terms of collisions with various objects.
"This couldn't wait?" I asked impatiently, although I went after him as he strode to the back corner of the vast, and to me invisible, room. I focused queasily on the dim oval of light aimed in front of my feet, determined not to cycle simply to best him at this trekking about in the perilous dark.
"No, Es. Sorry about the party. But you'll see."
"A few lights would help that," I muttered under my breath.
As it turned out, I didn't need them. My ears involuntarily pricked up and swung forward in response to an almost subvocal moan from somewhere ahead. There were vibrations to the edges of the sound, as though air had passed through a thin layer of moisture. "Paul?" I whispered anxiously. "Who—"
"I don't know his name," my friend said in a heavy voice. "I just know he needs help."
We must have been closer to our destination than my impoverished vision informed me, for suddenly a light came on overhead and, after blinking painfully for a moment, I could see Paul standing in the doorway to the vault itself. He must have left it open: kindness for its occupant and a sensible safety measure, given the regularity with which its cumbersome time lock forgot the date and required the efforts of a locksmith to open during reasonable working hours.
I stepped past him, then halted in the doorway, the fingers of my left hand seeking the comfort of Paul's shoulder in a movement foreign to this form, yet so part of my inner nature by now, I rarely noticed the discrepancy. "I had to bring him to you," Paul said as if in apology. "No one else could help."
The Ganthor male lay facing the door, eyes closed into barely perceptible slits, his snout hanging half over the side of the ramshackle cot Paul must have pulled here from the staff room. He was naked, bearing none of the belts or bandoliers usually seen on Ganthor traveling offworld. By the way his thick bristled skin hung in rolls, gathering like so much fabric over each joint of leg and arm, he hadn't eaten properly in weeks. But it was the huge oozing burn stretching from throat to abdomen that should have killed him by now, despite the fact that it showed signs of decent emergency care. Blasterfire, and at close range. A mercenary.
No need to ask why Paul hadn't taken the poor being to a hospital. On a Fringe world such as Minas XII, settled by refugees from conflicts fought largely by paid soldiers, there would be little or no sympathy. In fact, there was a high likelihood merely bringing this being here would land us on the wrong side of the authorities, such as they were, explaining Paul's caution. But there was a larger issue.
"Where is his Herd?" I asked very quietly. The Ganthor looked unconscious, and from what I could see, didn't have one of the implanted devices to allow him to vocalize in comspeak, the trade tongue of the Commonwealth and Fringe. The glistening streaks of drying mucus coating his snout and nostrils were signs that, awake, he must have continued desperate attempts to pick up the scent of others of his kind, an expenditure of moisture his damaged body could ill afford.
Paul's voice was strained—I could hear the helpless anger in it. "No one knows—or will admit it. There must have been action in one of the closed zones. He was transferred through two Inhaven freighters I could trace before ending up on one of ours, the Largas Loyal. Her Captain said all they were told was that this was a crash survivor needing to go to the nearest facility. He contacted me on approach, and I met the ship."
"None of them wanted his corpse on their ship's manifest," I said, unable to stop the feather of a growl under my words. Even the otherwise easygoing Lishcyn form could be outraged by such behavior toward an injured being. "I'm amazed he survived this long." Amazed, but not surprised: the herd instinct of the Ganthor was incredibly powerful. Somehow, this dying soldier's desperate need to reach his Herd—not to die alone—must have kept him breathing. It was an innate heroism Ganthor mercenaries all too often paid for as dearly as this.
"There are no Ganthor on Minas XII," I said sadly. "I'd know." In fact, almost anyone would. Hiding the presence of a Ganthor Herd, especially one intent on celebrating a victory or commiserating a defeat, was virtually impossible. Not only were they large and noisy, they tended to break things. Other people's things. To be fair, this tendency was not particularly deliberate, merely a consequence of certain aspects of their hardwiring.
As if he could understand, and perhaps he could, the soldier roused.
Roused was too strong a word. The eyes remained almost shut—probably he didn't have the energy, or will, to try and break the dried crust gluing his lids closed. But one hand shifted listlessly, toes uncurling so their percussive surfaces contacted one another. It wasn't a word. It was only a sound, like a heart breaking.
Paul turned to look at me, his hand reaching out and then dropping, utter anguish on his face. "Es, I've never asked this of you before—"
"No need to ask now, my friend," I replied. When I'd first met Paul, he'd been an alien culture and language specialist—part of a Commonwealth First Contact Team. During our time together, he'd continued his exp
loration of other living intelligences with the same intense and compassionate interest. Paul knew, as well as any being could who lived outside the imperative of the Herd, the only possible comfort of meaning to the dying Ganthor.
And he knew only I could offer it.
Without hesitation, I passed Paul my beaded bag and slipped out of the issa-silk burnoose I'd donned for the party. I walked over to where a long table bore a set of crates marked perishable. Opening one, I found, as I'd expected, the shipment of rootstocks ordered by Atty Fresk, a local florist and plant dealer. Most of the order was probably for me, I reassured myself with a twinge of guilt. My Lishcyn-self could provide more than enough mass, especially since my recent discovery of fudge, but I had to be able to return to this form as well. Foresight, I told Ersh in my thoughts, was something I'd learned the hard way. There had been a very uncomfortable ride home in Paul's luggage the last time I hadn't been prepared. So I selected the thickest, juiciest specimen, hoping it wasn't an irreplaceable rarity—something I had no time to check anyway—and put it carefully aside.
I released the tight grip needed to maintain my form as the slightly rotund Lishcyn, feeling the warm pulse of energy released at the same time. Pausing less than a fraction of one of Paul's heartbeats in web-form was enough for me to sense the throbbing of gravity beneath us, the overlapping music of electromagnetism drawn from atom and star. It was also enough to let me detect the byproducts of decay in the air: the Ganthor's breath. I cycled into what I had to become.
As Ganthor, the stench of imminent death was almost more than I could bear. Worse was the overscent of abandonment. I rushed forward, ramming my snout roughly into the side of the soldier, using the bulk of my healthy body to shove at his with complete disregard for any physical pain. His eyes opened at the same time as fresh mucus bubbled joyously from his snout; it was stained pink with blood. My alarm and concern filled the air between us, broadcast without any need to will it so. Herd-friend, it sent. Not alone, it affirmed.
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 2