With a supreme effort, Lefebvre kept his hands off the small box.
"Do you have a list of the goods he bought?" When Able Joe hesitated, Lefebvre went on persuasively: "Look—I know some things Slothe had with him before he disappeared. That way we can settle if this is the same Human. If it is—" Lefebvre waved his chip suggestively.
An hour later, and three months' pay lighter, Lefebvre left the bar a much happier Human. And why not? he told himself, one hand possessively over the cube in his pocket, a cube containing an eccentric and expensive shopping list including a mammoth comp system, a portable greenhouse, and sufficient exotic salad greens to feed—or more likely poison—an army.
Best of all, it contained the sales slip for a starship—a used taxi designated Speedy InterSys Transit No. 365, registered to a Megar Slothe—the very same ship found abandoned by Kearn fifty years ago on the former Inhaven colony, Ag-413.
Lefebvre smiled to himself in a way that made an approaching pair of spacers choose the other side of the walkway. Ag-413 was the location of the final recorded sighting of the Esen Monster, and its supposed destruction by the Kraal.
Now a Kraal Protectorate—perfect Kraal logic: if you've saved a planet, why not keep it?—Ag-413 had also been the source of a mysterious message Kearn received from an unidentified Human, a Human claiming to know all about the monster and possessing the right emergency codes to demand immediate rescue. A rescue, Lefebvre learned, Kearn had delegated to some civilian freighters named Largas with typical cowardice. The Largas crew had maintained they'd found no one, returning to their course and ultimately leaving Commonwealth space for the outskirts of the Fringe, well beyond reach of authority.
Lefebvre felt pieces falling into place all around him. All those years of fruitless searching—he could almost be grateful to Kearn for bringing him here now.
And in his other pocket, an image of the not-so-dead Paul Ragem and his accomplice.
A Panacian who traveled outsystem with a Human? Not common. Not common at all. Even the Ervickians had realized that; Able Joe, tongue well-lubricated by Lefebvre's credit chip, admitting to being the fifth in its creche litter to journey to D'Dsel to try and find her, without success.
They'd been fools to try, Lefebvre judged, Ervickians, like most of the intelligent species encountered by Humans thus far, were constrained in their dealings with others by biology and temperament. Any one species managed to communicate very successfully with a few others, muddled through somehow with several more, and were hopelessly confused or offended by the rest. With each new species encountered for the first time, the Human Commonwealth became even more of a glue to hold the loose, yet expanding, economic association of various species together. Only Humans seemed to possess the right combination of optimism, open-mindedness, and a surely species-specific obstinacy to work with just about any beings if necessary.
Of course, there was that saying, that Humans had thicker skins than Ganthor.
The shipcities that sprang up wherever starships docked, and their associated All Sapients' Districts, were very often hosts to planned or unplanned mediation by whatever Human could be found by the aggrieved non-Humans trying to understand one another. Since these usually involved bar bills or trade disputes, it didn't seem to matter that the Humans involved were occasionally semiconscious.
There were rumors that the more diverse limb of the Commonwealth, months away translight and so effectively its own entity, had abandoned its Human-centered government system altogether and moved toward some sort of pact between trading species. He'd believe that one when he saw his first shapeshifter in person.
The truth remained, the Ervickian needed a Human to communicate with the Panacians and help find those who had cheated its parent. Lefebvre and Able Joe hadn't so much formed a partnership as arranged to share information in the future, Able Joe quite clear on the advantage of credits on its chip as opposed to chasing them in the street. Lefebvre left the quivering being with a prepaid menu and a mutual promise to keep in touch.
Not that either of them planned to honor that promise, Lefebvre thought contentedly.
Finders, keepers.
Chapter 12: School Morning; Sanctum Afternoon
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"EVERY piece?" Paul asked, brows lifting almost to his hairline.
I tilted my head up and down in the Human gesture. "Most of it. There were a few items in the collection I'd say were Feneden, but no guarantees how they were obtained."
"And the rest were Iftsen. You're certain we're dealing with theft? They're neighbors, after all." His lips curved up, as if to acknowledge the irony of the Feneden learning they were not the only intelligent species in the universe, simultaneously with the discovery their particular corner of space was the most crowded in the quadrant. Had the Feneden wanted to colonize within a day translight, they would have had to rent something small.
"Sidorae claimed all of it was from his homeworld," I told Paul, "but last night I handled two hundred and forty-four pieces of art from the First Citizens' Gallery of Brakistem, on Iftsen Secondus. I don't recall hearing the Gallery had closed and broken up its collection."
I paused, momentarily deflected from the present to when Lesy had proudly taken me to that same Gallery, to see her work exhibited for the first time. I'd kept private the thought that Ersh likely paid to have our web-kin's sculptures displayed—Lesy was the sort of artist whose passion for her muse vastly exceeded the result. She'd been so happy. Since her death, I'd arranged to buy all of her work and have it stored safely, for no reason I could justify to myself or Ersh's training. "It was pretech," I continued my explanation, "the sort of thing the Iftsen never display for aliens. You know how touchy they are about being—less developed. I doubt they even posted an alert about the theft."
"So the Feneden should feel safe trying to sell it on the open market." Paul snorted. "Harve Tollen. I'd say we've found out why he's on D'Dsel."
"C'Tlas tells me the Feneden haven't made any other arrangements for their merchandise." I chuckled. "Perhaps Harve wasn't able to impress them."
Otherwise, it wasn't a laughing matter. I tilted my head downward, examining the scales on my belly and running a finger across their pattern. Had there been leaves nearby, I'd have started tucking some, right about there.
Paul knew that stance. He came over to where I sat, then crouched in front of me with his hands on my knees for balance. "You've thought of something."
I pressed my thick lips as closely together as they would go, then nodded, meeting his gaze. "Whatever's going on between the Feneden and Iftsen, I don't think it's simply petty theft, Paul. Sidorae asked me about establishing markets; he wanted details about the maximum number of units each could bear without dropping the price. Unless it was all for my benefit—and I don't think so—the Feneden must believe they have access to an almost unlimited supply of Iftsen art, as well as the gall to think they can get away with selling it indefinitely. How?"
Paul thumped my knee. "Why don't we talk to our hostess?"
"The Feneden—and the Iftsen?" C'Tlas' voice was oddly strained. "What makes you ask about their relationship?"
"We anticipate overseeing a great deal of trade between their species, Fem C'Tlas, and wish to be as well informed as possible," Paul explained.
Our meeting with the Panacians was being held in the chamber we'd first entered by hoverbot. Morning sunlight gleamed through the open windows to warm and brighten the room, reflected by predesign from the surfaces of neighboring buildings. N'Klet was there, along with C'Tlas, her pitted carapace perceptibly smoother to my practiced eye. Damage almost repaired, I judged. But damage from what? She noticed my attention and stepped slightly behind C'Tlas—a subtle avoidance I realized she'd been doing every time I looked directly at her. Self-conscious or not fond of shaggy-scaled aliens? Regardless, I made a mental note to be careful not to stare.
"Trade?" N'Klet repeated. Panacians didn't laugh, but they had a body gesture to express i
ncredulity, consisting of stiffening the joints of the upper arms so the elbows swung out and up. It made them look as though they thought they could fly, but had misplaced their wings.
"Forgive our presumption, Fem N'Klet," I said. "It was something Horn Sidorae said to me during our meetings—"
"Are you sure you understood him?" She was still amused. More than that, I decided, perhaps inclined to be oversensitive. But she sounded almost mocking, as though it was my ability she doubted.
Oddly on the defensive, I spoke before I considered, one of those traits I seriously needed to outgrow: "Their language is hardly that complex."
Paul closed his eyes in an unguarded wince. Oh, well, I told myself fatalistically. At least I wouldn't have to carry around the annoying translator anymore.
N'Klet and the others bowed deeply. "Your fame as a linguist had preceded you, Fem Esolesy Ki," N'Klet said. "We'd hoped for a quick breakthrough, but this—this is truly remarkable." She straightened and clicked her slender upper claws as though faintly alarmed. "Indeed, such a feat is difficult to imagine." For once, N'Klet seemed to have no hesitation aiming her faceted eyes my way. I curled up a lip in a weak smile.
"You may not be aware, Fem N'Klet, that we have been preparing for this encounter since our first contact with the Feneden was announced," Paul improvised immediately, a talent I valued highly in him. "There were recordings, other works to consult," he added vaguely, waving his arms about to admirable effect. "This is hardly a sudden breakthrough. Fem Ki has labored for weeks and weeks—months, really—"
The supposed time span of my labors thus established beyond doubt, or at least repeated, the Panacians seemed calmer. "Our gratitude, Fem Ki," C'Tlas said with an air of relief. "At last we have a way to communicate with the Feneden no longer reliant on their machine's limited and often flawed interpretations."
"News worthy of the Queen's notice," N'Klet said, faceted eyes glinting. "I will recommend an audience."
Although she bowed immediately, as did we at the mention of the ruler of this kin-group, C'Tlas and the other D'Dsellans in the room appeared startled. An appropriate reaction, I decided, feeling much the same emotion. Aliens were so rarely allowed within a Queen's sanctum that such events—usually involving heads of state from other worlds—predictably made the newsmags on several systems.
Otherwise, Queens were only seen at the Spring Emergence, protected from approach by watchful ranks of their own relatives, while those around them were protected by pheromone-absorbing B'Bklar plants. Physical proximity to any Queen of unknown motivation, I remembered Ersh's lecture, was something to be avoided at all costs.
Paul's face had settled into the politely intent mask it assumed when he was seriously disturbed. No need to guess why, I told myself, feeling an echoing upheaval threatening my breakfast. I quickly swallowed the remnants into my next, and sturdier stomach. My Human might not have the same vulnerability to chemically-influenced mood swings as a web-being in Panacian form, but Queens posed a special, more personal risk to him. Esolesy Ki hadn't visited D'Dsel before, but a certain Commonwealth alien culture and linguistics specialist named Paul Ragem had been in this very city fifty years ago. And hardly circumspect about it, I remembered quite vividly. The problem was, only a Queen could recognize him all these years later.
Unlike other systems and species Paul avoided with care, he'd eventually been able to travel freely on D'Dsel without concern. After all, not only were Panacians typically lax in distinguishing one set of humanoid features from another, but D'Dsellans lived a maximum of thirty standard years. Except, I reminded myself, their Queens, whose adjusted hormonal systems provided a longevity up to four times that of their kin.
Meaning Paul's identity had been safe, since no Human met a Queen face-to-face. Until I came with him. Fortunately, I could rely on Paul getting us out of this with his usual diplomacy. I hoped.
"We appreciate the honor you wish to offer us," I heard my partner say with the utmost sincerity. "But it's not necessary to disturb your Queen—"
At that name, the Panacians bowed again, as did we. "A great honor," I echoed, ignoring Paul's warning look. Well, it was, I told myself somewhat petulantly. "One we surely don't deserve," I added.
Apparently, someone else agreed. C'Tlas canted her head at N'Klet in uncharacteristic disapproval as she said: "A personal message of thanks from Sec-ag K'Tak, Her Radiance's Chief Rememberer, would suffice."
N'Klet dismissed this idea with a snap of her claw. "Nonsense, C'Tlas. Fem Ki's accomplishments may save us from war. What could be more worthy of our Queen's attention than that?" She hung one limb possessively around Paul's shoulders. "I will take great joy in introducing you to Her Radiance."
Beyond arm-waving laughter and certain extremes of body posture, there was little a Panacian used to visually express emotion. They didn't need it, having receptors for chemical messages both voluntary and involuntary. Within the limitations of my Lishcyn-self's senses, I studied N'Klet, feeling suddenly very unsure about many things. But I did know the scarred D'Dsellan wasn't excited or grateful, despite her words.
She was determined.
N'Klet's determination meant our protests, something awkward in the extreme to voice without offering profound insult, were completely ignored. Within too short a time and without opportunity to simply remove ourselves, Paul and I were traveling downward in a lift with C'Tlas, who appeared as shocked as we were by this turn of events.
"I really think a message would have sufficed," she repeated, looking to us as if for confirmation.
We both nodded. "More than enough," I assured her fervently.
"Is your Queen in the habit of granting audiences such as this?" Paul ventured, with that tenacious look I knew perfectly well meant his curiosity was rousing. Unwise, I decided, but then couldn't recall the Human ever acknowledging the benefits of timely ignorance. Why, I thought, would he start now?
In response, C'Tlas stopped the lift, but didn't open the doors. "I mean no offense, Horn Cameron, Fem Ki, but my Queen would never grant you audience," she said with unmistakable pride, standing as tall as she could so the top of her head carapace was level with Paul's shoulder and my chin. "You are to see the Queen of the School of Alien Etiquette." She lifted a graceful clawtip in a mute gesture of acceptance. "Her Radiance has been known to admit a variety of worthy beings to her Sanctum."
I'd never heard of a Panacian kin-group tolerating more than one Queen—living, that is. Some basements had quite the collection of mummified Old Queens, all carefully labeled so their descendants knew which ones to consult about various matters. I could use some consultation, I thought "Forgive me, Fem C'Tlas, if my question is too forward," I said, "but I admit to confusion. Are we not to see your Queen?"
Her eyes glinted. "Her Radiance is my Queen only while I am physically within the School," she explained, although the Ambassador had to be aware we'd know how vast a departure from Panacian custom this represented. The situation must have shaken C'Tlas more than I'd realized, or her sense of propriety was so offended she was willing to vent her feelings with anyone, including us. "Most of the students, including N'Klet and myself," she continued, "are Visitors here, as yourselves. Her Radiance grants us dispensation to stay; our own Queens willingly free us from their Influence so we may dwell here for an interval and then return with shared knowledge for our kin-group. It is the New Way." From her overly precise tone, I decided "New" in this context had at least something in common with a Panacian's disgust with careless building design.
I'd known the Ambassador caste was constantly being pushed in new directions to help the Hive better coexist in a multispecies economy, but this was such a drastic change I carefully put a hand under my jaw and exerted significant upward pressure, just in case.
"Why this particular Queen?" Paul asked, then added quickly, "if I may ask."
C'Tlas restarted the lift, then drew her limbs tightly against her body as though distressed. Paul opened his mouth, I presume
d to apologize, but she spoke very quietly before he could utter a sound: "I rely on your discretion, Horn Cameron, Fem Ki."
"Of course," we said together.
"Her Radiance breeds true-to-caste. I believe you know enough about our kind to appreciate this is a rare and valued trait. As Ambassadors, it is an honor to be under Her Influence, even briefly."
What it meant, I thought to myself, swallowing hard and watching the echoing comprehension shadow Paul's eyes, was that we were about to meet not just any Queen, but the one who was presently establishing the future of the Ambassador caste and, through them, the Hive.
C'Tlas left us standing outside the Queen's Sanctum for, as she put it, a moment of privacy to gain composure for our audience.
There wasn't much chance of that, I thought, minutes later, gazing at the vaulted ceilings, festooned with draperies in the form of exotic flowers, several hanging in languid folds almost to the floor. I didn't envy the beings who had to dust up there.
"When they open the door, Es," Paul insisted for the third time, regaining my attention, "you go in. I'll have some good reason not to join you. Maybe a faint…" he pondered out loud.
"A faint." I flipped my ears back and forth disdainfully. "You'll hit your head on the floor. Not to mention send the students into hysterics."
"I'm merely feeling faint," the Human countered, placing the back of his hand somewhat theatrically against his own forehead. I began to suspect his sense of humor of taking over the more rational part of his brain. It had, I knew, happened in the past. "It could be the start of some illness," Paul insisted. "They shouldn't admit a sick being into Her presence. Or my stomach could be upset." This last with a totally innocent look I didn't believe for a second.
I refused to be amused. "Or the Queen could be so insulted she'll insist on having us brought before Port Authority—and neither of us need that right now, do we? Honestly, Paul," I chided him. "It's going to be very brief and formal. We'll be lucky if She notices we're there."
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 15