Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  I was being helpful, if not sounding it, putting the last bits of soil and pot shards into the maw of the cabin's recycler. Paul had arranged for a cartload of live plants to meet us on the Narcissus. Having assimilated most of the plant mass in order to escape Quebit-form for something much more comfortable—namely my sturdy, familiar, Lishcyn-self—I was determined not to leave any evidence lying around.

  Once finished, I sat down on the bunk—Paul might be a paying passenger, but on this tiny ship that meant the unused crew quarters—and sighed again. "A Cin. You know only a small percentage of them are even borderline sane. Most can't agree on a working definition of reality within themselves, let alone walk in a straight line." I pointed to the nearest bulkhead. "And this ship! Let me tell you, as a former Quebit, this scrap heap wouldn't be safe on the ground, let alone translight."

  "There weren't many choices heading in the right direction," he commented mildly. "Few ships are routing through Tly space, thanks to the enthusiasm of their inspectors. Besides, Captain Marvin appears remarkably in agreement with themselves at the moment."

  "Small mercies," I said. The Cin were one of two known communal intelligences in this part of space, the Rand being the other. Ersh remembered a few more, but as an evolutionary strategy, communals were prone to becoming static and self-absorbed, falling victim to any sudden change in their environment, such as a virus or climatic catastrophe, without appearing to notice the threat until it was too late to act.

  Rands were physically individuals, requiring close contact with at least twenty others to function. The Cin were a variable assortment of individual cognitions, all housed within one roughly humanoid body. A large, humanoid body.

  I could become Rand and had as part of my training. It was awkward, because one felt an insatiable need to bundle with other Rands, who didn't always invite strangers into their intimate clusters. Ansky, my birth-mother, was predictably the most comfortable of the web-kin in the form. Mind you, she'd stayed Rand long enough to produce several generations of offspring who adored her, sting and all, so her bundle of joy was of her own making.

  The Cin were a different matter. It was one form I had never attempted to assume, although theoretically I could, since the essence of its shape and biology were in my web-memory. Ersh herself had forbidden it. All she would say on the subject was that one personality was all a being should have to deal with in a lifetime.

  So I had serious doubts about the quality of our transportation. Paul, on the other hand, seemed to find my concerns amusing—as if having lifted from D'Dsel, all our worries were somehow over.

  "Es, old friend," he said lazily. "Relax before you upset your stomachs. As far as the Captain and D'Dsel Port Authority are concerned, you aren't even here. And as of today, I'm Mitchell Kane, with no trace of Paul Cameron or Paul Ragem in sight. We're safe."

  "For now. As long as I stay in this cabin—or at least avoid the Cin—and you don't step in front of a vid. Then what?"

  My friend, who'd reclined on one elbow to watch me clean up then restore Esolesy Ki, sat up and leaned forward, eyes intent and warm. "We're going to be all right."

  I brushed imaginary dust from the edge of the bunk over my head, distracted for a moment to wonder why such a small transport would be outfitted to carry so many crew. Then I considered its age and nodded to myself. Must be a former troop transport—something left over from one of the small, pseudo-elegant conflicts of the Kraal in which it wasn't who won or lost, but who used the most elaborate tricks, that mattered.

  Thinking of tricks, I looked into my friend's eyes and wondered something else. "Did you leave the Iftsen ship to get mail, Paul my friend, or these?" I ran a three-fingered hand down the silk covering my wide, scaled thigh. "And why did you take so long? You might have missed me." He'd gambled, I thought, mystified. Paul never gambled. "You knew I wouldn't leave D'Dsel if the Iftsen pulled out before you were back," I accused him, suddenly sure I was right. "You didn't believe me."

  "Not for an instant," he said, not looking the least perturbed to be found out.

  "Then why did you leave me there at all?" I controlled the urge to snatch the remaining plants and cycle into something larger. "You lied to me."

  Paul shook his head. "No, I didn't. I thought the Didjeridoo would stay docked until I came back for you. You had to wait somewhere safe. You know you couldn't travel on D'Dsel as a Panacian and we didn't have time for other… options. However—" his eyes softened as he smiled, "if there's anything I count on in this life, Esen, it's that you would never abandon me, promise or no promise. Although I hadn't expected you to leap into midair on my behalf."

  Somehow, Paul made my painful mistake sound almost admirable. I flashed a tusk weakly. Fine with me.

  "And here's the mail," the Human continued, flipping open an outer pocket on the carrysack and pulling out a small pouch. "I'd arranged for it to be dropped in the locker with our extra baggage from the Goddess." He tossed the pouch on the bunk beside him, leaving his fingers on it.

  I hesitated, looking at the pouch as though it was about to grow fangs and launch itself at the scaleless patch under my chin. Lishcyns weren't fond of fanged life, being passive by nature and prey by ecology. I hesitated, then deliberately met the intense gaze of my companion, the other part of my Web and my life. There were some things, I decided calmly, I didn't want to know.

  Perhaps Paul read that in my face. I might have imagined disappointment flickering across his, as though he'd hoped to use my curiosity to open a subject difficult to broach. If so, I wasn't planning to help. We had enough problems.

  Starting with our next move. "The Iftsen," I said firmly. "Could they have left prematurely to avoid Kearn?"

  Paul laughed. "Wise beings, if so." Then he sobered. "I don't know. There's nothing in the newsmags about their situation with the Feneden, but those are mostly humanocentric as well as out-of-date the moment they're distributed anyway. I've kept away from our own data system while things are—a little unusual—here." Ever the master of understatement. "But from what little the Queen told us, I wouldn't be surprised to find that situation is coming to a head and fast." The Human paused, looking quizzical. "Why? Does that concern you?"

  I half rose to my feet. "Concern me? Of course, it concerns me! The Iftsen could very well exterminate the Feneden in self-defense."

  Evenly: "They're thieves. You said so yourself."

  "I don't believe this," I snapped, furious enough to add a rude gesture with my forked tongues. "Do you know how many billions live on Fened Prime? Do you have any idea of the repercussions on the Iftsen if they take that step, even to save themselves? It is the duty of the Web of Esen to protect intelligent life, Paul!"

  A twist of his lips—the one I knew as satisfaction. "Just thought I'd ask, old friend."

  He was testing me, I realized with a shock, sinking back down and staring at a face I thought I knew better than any of my own. As my web-kin had done. Checking my belief in the Rules, in the fundamental purpose of our lives: the assessment of the Youngest and Least, Esen-alit-Quar, had gone on with monotonous regularity and the occasional sharp rebuke.

  Their reasons, I had understood.

  What were his?

  Paul, perhaps sensing my growing discomfort, chose to change the subject. "The Narcissus will be outsystem of Panacia shortly. I told Captain Marvin I would give them our course. So, Iftsen Secondus or Fened Prime?"

  I rarely felt the differences between Paul's life and mine acutely. At unpredictable moments, I experienced an awareness of being both older in years and yet younger in self—usually following events when I would have preferred the reverse. Less frequently, as now, I faced the unyielding reality of our life spans. Within my flesh were memories that began long before his species walked upright; I could comfortably devote a hundred years to learning a new art form or language. Paul's time was far more—precious. Did I have the right to risk him?

  "Kearn's on our trail," I began, keeping my voice matt
er-of-fact. "And there may be a war—"

  "Don't, Es."

  I arranged my features at their most innocent. "Don't—?"

  Paul frowned and stabbed his finger at me. "I know that look. Don't even think of leaving me out of this."

  "Can you breathe on Iftsen Secondus?" I asked reasonably.

  "That's not the issue and you know it," he snapped. "I'm not some pet you tuck out of harm's way, Esen."

  My "Paul!" was sincerely horrified. Pet? "Is that what you think… ?" My words trailed off into confusion, volatile first and third stomachs grumbling loud enough to be audible outside my body.

  He had the grace to blush, then pulled out his medallion. "Part of Esen's Web. I know. But an equal part, Es. If there's anything you and I can do to resolve this situation without bloodshed—we're doing it together."

  I gazed at my friend, seeing his determination and courage—traits which I'd found alternated between virtue and inconvenience depending on circumstance. "Of course," I assured him. "Together."

  And, if there was any risk to him, that was another promise he should know I couldn't keep. A shame I didn't think of that sooner.

  "We've gone insystem. Wake up, Es."

  I grunted something threatening, but managed to open an eye. Despite burying my head in as many blankets and pillows as I could find without robbing those on Paul's bed, it had taken me hours to fall asleep on the flat, exposed surface Humans considered a safe place to sleep. After two nights like this, my Lishcyn-self, to be kind, was as charming as week-old curdled milk. Paul, faced with my company or the confusion of Captain Marvin's many selves, had spent a great deal of time on the bridge of the Narcissus.

  Then, what Paul's urgent whisper hadn't said brought me fully awake. "Insisted?" I repeated, looking up at a darker shadow I presumed was his face. "Iftsen Secondus?"

  "I don't know."

  "Haven't you asked the Captain?" Instead of waking me up, I added to myself, preparing to tunnel back down—or at least pull the pillows back over my head.

  There was one of those pauses. "The door's locked."

  "Maybe it's stuck," I suggested around my yawning tongues. "Nobody puts a lock on the crew's quarters."

  "Tell the Cin."

  I shoved my coverings out of my way, sitting cautiously. Although I knew the ship's lighting system was functioning, the night-dims weren't enough to trigger a response from my present eyes. I hesitated to lose mass I might need later, just to see Paul's face and the other side of a locked door.

  Then I was squinting. At first I thought Paul had found a control for the light, then I realized the lights had been cupped by remote.

  While I worked my tired brain around all this, Paul went to the door and stood, pressing his ear flat to its surface. His hands were empty, but I knew he had brought his weapons on board. "I don't like this," he muttered, almost to himself, then turned to look at me. "Or this." Paul reached into his pocket then tossed me a flattened black strip. It landed beside me on the bed. I didn't touch it, recognizing the remnants of a tracer.

  "It was in my extra clothing," Paul said, his voice flat. "Maybe from Minas XII. Or it could be a recent plant. Remind me to complain about storage security, if we're ever back on D'Dsel. While you're at it, remind me to pay a visit to the idiot who sold me that scanner." He rubbed one hand over his face, then said abruptly: "You'd better hide, Esen. Do it now."

  Hiding I was good at, I thought, trying not to be alarmed, the result of an extended childhood spent avoiding my Elders.

  My Human and I had made and discarded plans of one sort or another, most concerned with ways to find out why the Feneden were refusing to acknowledge the Iftsen. This particular situation hadn't come up—it hadn't needed to, since our life on Minas XII involved my routinely having to disappear at inconvenient moments.

  Shame to waste the mass, though, I sighed, releasing my hold on the Lishcyn-form.

  I paused in web-form, shedding drops of water from the perfection of my outer surface, senses extended beyond the dissonant complaints of the Narcissus' engines to the thrumming depths of gravity tempting me this way and that.

  I turned a speck of web-mass into energy and rearranged my molecular structure into that of a species almost as amorphous as my true self: the Ycl. To my new vision, extended well into the infrared, Paul blazed like a beacon.

  Beacon was a poor choice of words. I oozed underneath the nearest bunk, flattening myself into what I hoped looked like a stain on the floor—given the tastes I was adsorbing under here, that should be believable enough. The Ycl, while admirable in many ways, had regrettable appetites that would likely keep their world quarantined for quite some time. A useful form, particularly for its stealth and predator's sensitivity to sound, but one in which I didn't dare become famished—at least not near any being I'd regret having for lunch.

  I could have used a set of vocal cords, however, in order to tell my partner—from the sounds above, now busily repacking his case and otherwise attempting to conceal any sign he wasn't alone in his captivity—that he'd been right to suspect we weren't where we were supposed to be.

  My web-self had thoroughly sampled the energy fields around the Narcissus and beyond, deciphering the complexities of electromagnetism and gravity as a Human would hum to a melody played by an orchestra.

  There wasn't a planet or even a star nearby.

  Just the well-tuned power signature of a Tly battle cruiser.

  Elsewhere

  « ^ »

  TORTURE would have been so much easier, Lefebvre thought wearily. He could have fought, reviled his tormentors, gained a moral victory from however long he'd resisted. He might have even held out until they believed his protestations of ignorance—not that he considered himself a hero, but surely time wasn't on anyone's side. Surely he'd been missed by now.

  His fingers traced the pattern left behind by the dispenser in the skin of his forearm, marks of his betrayal. Torture, at least among Humans, had been abandoned as a means of obtaining information except on entertainment vids, where a villain's threat of physical or mental pain still captivated a certain naive audience. In reality, there were drugs to unlock the tightest lips. The only defense was to prime the individual with a self-destruct—a suicide keyed to the presence of certain foreign substances in the blood.

  Significantly less than legal, unless government sanctioned. And, understandably, not an option most career spacers considered.

  Lefebvre ground the palms of his hands into his eyes until he saw spots, trying to ease the residual headache. They'd politely offered him painkillers after he'd told them everything they'd wanted to know, given him clean coveralls to replace the uniform that smelled like some distillery—all perfectly professional, nothing personal.

  He took it all very personally, from being interrogated under drugs to being held without explanation in this cell, and would have welcomed any chance to express his feelings. There was nothing worth punching in what Lefebvre recognized as a ship's brig and likely no opportunities in the near future. He'd known from the deepening vibration when they'd shifted to translight.

  So close! Lefebvre lunged to his feet and, unsteadily at first, began pacing. After all the years of searching, of dead ends and blind alleys, he'd had Ragem within reach. The Panacian had been the one on the vid—no doubt about that—and it was a Human who'd come to her aid. Had it been Ragem, himself? No way to be sure, Lefebvre admitted, his assailant had been too careful. But Lefebvre knew, thanks to the Ervickian's information, that Ragem had been using the alias Megar Slothe. The Panacian had known it, too, he'd swear to that. If the Human hadn't been Ragem himself, Lefebvre was certain the two of them knew where Paul could be found.

  All of which, he reminded himself with disgust, was now known to his captors as well. They'd been Human—that much he'd been able to tell, though they'd hidden their identities as individuals behind med-tech hoods and germ-free robes.

  Was he being kidnapped by Ragem and his allies? Or by
others chasing the Human for reasons of their own?

  Lefebvre had a feeling neither group would place any value on his continued existence. But if Ragem was on this ship, he thought with an unsteadying rush of anticipation, he'd find him.

  And ask the questions he'd hoarded all these years, starting with: Why?

  Chapter 17: Warship Morning

  « ^ »

  FROM my web-kin, I possessed a flesh-born legacy beyond price, an awareness of the life around me in the most exquisite detail, a heritage to protect that was vastly more than my life experiences alone.

  From the only other one of my kind I'd encountered, Death, I'd gained a legacy of loss, an awareness of my own mortality, and a sickening heritage of hate I seemed unable to avoid no matter where I went.

  Such as now. We were on a Tly ship—not just any Tly ship, but one built originally for war and kept, as far as I could tell, much readier for that use than any informant had revealed. Thanks to Death, this society had consumed itself with guilt until all that remained was hollow, driven, and lawless.

  I'd come on board simply enough: the Ycl was an ambush hunter, well able to cling as an inconspicuous layer under objects such as Paul's carrysack. They'd brought us from the Narcissus together, the weight of the bag puzzling the Tly guard assigned to carry it.

  Captain Marvin had watched us exit their ship, hands writhing about as though they argued with one another. The debate had obviously not ended in their passenger's favor for, when Paul attempted one quick appeal as he was pushed toward the air lock, the Cin had turned their broad back on him.

  I would remember.

  The Tly warship had been renamed The Black Watch, a cheery reference, I presumed, to her supposed function of preventing smuggling. In other words, she carried Tly inspectors whose mission in life, according to Joel Largas, was to aggravate all shipping moving through Tly space and confiscate what they considered contraband—or, to call it what it was, the beginnings of legalized piracy.