The 'Watch had stopped Captain Chase and the Vegas Lass. Under other circumstances, I would have enjoyed a look inside the ship's holds to see how much of her so-called contraband carried Cameron & Ki labeling.
But cargo was hardly my concern. Paul was.
After boarding The Black Watch, we'd been separated: Paul being led down a corridor Skalet-memory told me led to the outer decks of the ship, likely on his way to a cell in her brig. Officers and crew on a Tly vector-class cruiser were housed within the safety of its core. That's where Paul's carrysack, and its passenger, were heading. I clung with every cell, thinking inconspicuous and optimistic thoughts, hoping not to be dropped too heavily to the floor when we reached our destination. It wouldn't hurt, but it could attract unwanted attention if my edges jarred free and I landed on someone's foot.
We arrived. The Tly guard deposited the carrysack with reassuring care on top of a long table. I tasted food residue as well as the bitter tang of a caustic cleanser. A galley, but which one? There would have been three in the old days: one for the captain and senior officers, one for the remaining officers, and the largest for the crew, sometimes shared with any troops on board. We hadn't passed very many individuals on our way here, implying the 'Watch carried less than her potential complement of two thousand plus.
"This was all he had on the Narcissus, sir," reported the guard to someone beyond the visual range of this form. "In the way of personal belongings, that is. The Captain said Kane ordered a crate of houseplants." This last was included with every indication of doubt.
"Houseplants, you say," repeated a very precise, very careful voice, male yet pitched almost in a falsetto, like a child's. "Odd."
"Yessir. But we didn't find any sign of them."
"Is that, in your estimation, suspicious?"
"No, sir. The Captain of the Narcissus—well, sir. A Cin, sir? I wouldn't myself put much reliability into their testimony on the matter. It could have been another passenger altogether, frankly, sir, or the Cin's imaginations."
The voice appeared to consider this. "Thank you—Guardsman Turner, isn't it? Manuel Turner?"
"Why, yessir. Thank you, sir."
"That will be all, Manuel. Please have the med-techs contact me when the prisoner has received his treatment."
What treatment? I drove my temperature up, holding form with a discipline Ersh herself might have envied, knowing that my only hope of helping Paul lay in self-control. This was no place or time for my usual impulsive approach.
The guard named Manuel left. Footsteps approached. There.
If I had had eyelids, I would have blinked. From the voice, I'd deduced Human, male, middle-aged. From the diction, I'd assumed educated, civilian, mannered.
This Human was male. I'd been right there. But the body illuminating itself to me in heat and reflected light was gigantic, at the extreme range for most populations of this species, especially among the lightly-built Tly. He was unusually proportioned as well, with arms reaching almost to his knees and hands three times the size of Paul's. His face beneath a shock of white hair was placid and almost dull, until I observed his blue eyes. I'd seldom seen eyes as coldly . intelligent as these.
Great, I grumbled to myself. Just what I deserved for an opponent: a giant genius. I caught myself longing for Kearn.
The giant wore a Tly inspector's uniform, custom-tailored with a high collar, as if in a vain attempt to disguise a neck thicker than Paul's thigh. This inspector had not boarded the 'Lass, I decided. Captain Chase would have definitely mentioned this being.
He reached one of those mammoth hands toward the carrysack. I began to think furiously, and futilely, of a way to casually plop to the floor when he lifted the bag. Before it came to that, the com panel chirped: "Inspector Logan. We have a problem."
The hand retreated, taking its shadow with it. I would have sighed if I could. As Logan walked over to the panel, I relaxed my adhesion to the bag and oozed off the table to the floor. Just my luck. This was the captain's galley and the floor was carpeted in lush proto-grass—a not-quite living material that felt wonderful to Human feet and formed an endless-seeming obstacle course to me. Grimly, I thinned myself as much as possible and began forcing my way through the dense network of fibers toward the kitchen entrance to this room, making sure to stay beneath the long table. Meanwhile, I listened intently.
"The new subject you brought—he's not going to be as straightforward to deal with as the other one."
Other one? I wrapped a filmy pseudopod around a chair leg as I paused to listen and rest.
"May I inquire as to the reason, Med-tech Burroughs?" I still found the giant's voice chillingly incongruous. In my expert opinion, it was both higher-pitched and softer than should have issued from those outsized body parts. It was either an affectation or the result of some internal defect. No matter which, although the words were polite, there was nothing about the voice itself that was pleasant.
"This one's had the full set of anti-measures, sir. We've nothing that will get answers without killing him first."
Skalet-memory rolled up, dispassionate in its experience, letting me decipher their cryptic terms into meanings too terrible for Esen alone. They had planned to use truth drugs on Paul; they couldn't, because Paul's body had been altered to suicide automatically in response.
When had Paul done this to himself? I compressed myself into a dense little ball of dismay.
I did know why: to keep our secrets.
To protect me.
"Thank you for your report," Logan said in his soft, terrible voice. "Please have my guest transferred to the waiting area. And, Med-tech Burroughs?"
The voice from the comp sounded cautious, perhaps expecting to be blamed for failure. "Yes, sir?"
"Please insure there is a trauma bed and the appropriate staff available at all times until you hear otherwise."
"But that's only done during battle sims—sir."
I could see Logan's feet. He tapped the right one, just once, as if this was the only physical expression of a vast impatience he would allow himself. His voice, as before, was carefully precise and even. "I do not wish to lose this particular guest. We will be proceeding with less traditional methods. Your services may thus be required at some point, Med-tech Burroughs. Urgently. I trust you and your staff will be ready?"
"Yes, sir. I apologize for the misunderstanding, Inspector. We will be at your disposal."
"Thank you."
I didn't need Skalet's dark knowledge to interpret this exchange for me. Many otherwise intelligent cultures devoted time and effort to learning how to take one another apart as slowly and painfully as possible. Humans were not alone in that despicable accomplishment. They were, I thought bitterly, among the more proficient.
I could hear Inspector Logan beginning to go through the contents of Paul's carrysack. I had no idea what he'd make of the combination of Lishcyn-sized silks and biodisrupter, but the longer he puzzled over it the better. I did know that Paul dropped the mail pouch and its contents into the cabin's recycler before he was taken from the Narcissus.
No time to think of him now, I admonished myself, peeling my pseudopod from the chair leg and pushing my tissues through the sticky morass of carpet. My goal was ahead of me. I had to pass unnoticed into the kitchen.
What I'd do after that, I refused to consider.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
"THEY wouldn't have cleared the Russell III for launch, otherwise, sir."
Kearn caught his fingers drumming on his desktop and clenched them together fiercely. Almost of their own accord, his hands broke free from one another and began rubbing over the skin of his smooth head, as if searching for nonexistent hair to punish. "I don't want her snooping around, Timri. You know the Ambassador caste are no more than spies for the Hive. I don't see why we had to allow N'Klet on board at all."
"Sec-ag T'Pleck insisted, sir," Timri said louder, as if for some reason the comp-tech thought Kearn was hard of hea
ring.
He heard perfectly well. He felt oppressed, as if the ventilators weren't working properly and his office was short of air. Her attitude wasn't helping. "What is N'Klet doing now?" he worried out loud. "What is she up to?"
"She's waiting to talk to you, sir. As she has since coming on board."
"Then she can keep waiting! I'm Acting Captain and very busy. Lefebvre's desertion has left everything to me—at a very difficult time—at a moment of crisis!"
Timri shifted but remained silent. Kearn looked up at her suspiciously, wishing she'd sit down instead of making him crane his neck. Probably deliberate.
The Feneden—the glorious Fem Anisco herself—had urged him, tactfully and with respect, not to speak to any Panacian, especially those from the School. The poor beings were clearly being persecuted by the Panacians, who were out to take advantage of their ignorance of the Commonwealth and the alien civilizations around them. Anisco had confessed they feared Kearn, the Shifter Hunter, would be influenced against them.
Kearn had no intention of listening to lies about his newfound friends, so it was with complete dismay he learned that Timri had taken advantage of the nap he'd desperately needed to allow N'Klet on the Russell III.
All he could do was pretend she wasn't there—which he had done for over a day now—destroying any messages and refusing to see the upstart D'Dsellan.
"How are the Feneden?" he asked, feeling less alone the moment he spoke the name. At last, true believers had joined his quest. Kearn shivered. Although they'd brought shattering confirmation of his worst nightmares about the Esen.
So far, only he and Timri knew the Feneden's legend of the Shifter: the monster of many shapes who appeared as a stranger to consume the unwary. At first, Timri had refuted any connection, having witnessed the destruction caused by the Esen Monster in space and convinced it had nothing in common with another old tale. Then the Feneden had showed them both an illustration from one of the ancient texts they had brought as sample goods: an illustration of a cobalt-blue teardrop, its surface split into a gaping maw, lined with horrific fangs and stuffed with the heads of still screaming victims.
Then Timri had agreed.
"The Feneden haven't left their quarters, sir. I've stationed someone at their door at all times. In case they have requirements," Timri added smoothly, before Kearn could protest her posting what amounted to a guard on his special friends.
"Very good," he said, as if she wanted his approval. Although Kearn had officially appointed himself Acting Captain the moment the Russell III lifted from D'Dsel, leaving Lefebvre planetside, he knew perfectly well the crew had unofficially appointed Timri. It was tacitly understood that Kearn could remain Acting Captain as long as he didn't try to run the ship. Sas, who might otherwise have supported Kearn's authority in some things, had taken to his quarters—inconveniently and violently allergic to their new guests. Apparently, the Feneden gave him a rash. As the Modoren aged, Kearn had noticed, more things did.
Timri could run the ship, Kearn told himself, just as glad to avoid dealing with the minutiae of crew assignments and complaints. Until they reached Fened Prime and he began the glorious task of gathering evidence.
Evidence to prove once and for all the existence of the Esen Monster.
Chapter 18: Galley Morning
« ^ »
MY former Web had existed as six distinct personalities, separate most of our lives yet connected by the sharing of web-mass and memory. I felt the loss of the others as an amputation might feel to those with permanent limbs—only a ghost remained of what had been mine, a memory of ability and substance.
My memories were, however, perfect. At a whim, I could be embarrassed—and moved—by Ansky's parade of love affairs, know her passion to understand the interactions between thinking organisms; I could gaze in awe at Mixs' designs and feel her cold, clear patterns of thought; I could hear and almost share Lesy's laughter. Underlying what they had been and what I was, I carried within my flesh memories of Ersh, first of us all.
But what I needed now were the least comforting memories, those of Skalet. She had found her niche with those species compelled to war and struggle, a specialty suited to her logical and detached mind. Until her death, she had lived among the Kraal, earning and enjoying a reputation as one of their greatest military theorists. I had been Skalet's punishment whenever Ersh felt our web-kin in danger of straying too far from our great purpose. She'd be summoned by Ersh to teach me this or that about our Rules, under the guise of drilling some of her vast store of knowledge about strategy and planning into my frivolous young mind.
I would never know which of us resented those lessons more; I certainly learned how to hide well. Fortunately, Skalet didn't seem to be called to account as frequently once I hit my four hundredth birthday, either because she adhered better to the Rules or Ersh had other things for me to learn.
At the moment, I was hiding quite well, and not accomplishing much by it. I'd managed to enter the kitchen undetected and stretch myself underneath the cupboards. What would Skalet do now? I wondered.
I had two problems, one related to the other. I couldn't stay Ycl much longer without feeding. And I couldn't leave this form without gaining mass.
Well, I reminded myself, I could become a Quebit again. And likely end up living happily as a mechanic on The Black Watch, which, while appealing on one level, wouldn't help Paul in the least.
Thinking of Paul sent a tide of despair along my body, a longing that was growing significantly more like hunger with each exertion. Moving myself through the carpet had used up almost all my stored energy.
So I needed mass—preferably before my Ycl-self found something moving, warm, and prone to screaming. While my web-self assuredly didn't have the moving, warm, or screaming requirement, it had to be living mass if I was going to make more of myself from it. The kitchen had seemed the most logical place to look.
Except that all of its counters were spotless and empty, and the cupboards contained nothing but dishes, cleaning supplies, and a selection of mediocre wines probably left here in hopes of being forgotten.
I sighed and pressed a little harder against the cupboard. Waiting was something else Ersh had tried to teach me, I thought wistfully. I deliberately avoided thinking about Paul—or the other prisoner in the hands of Inspector Logan. If ever there was a time when I must remember who and what I was, it was now.
Since all I dared do was wait.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
THEY'D brought someone else. Motionless on his cot, Lefebvre strained to hear more than overlapping footsteps and a curt order from a guard. A low voice responded. Lefebvre couldn't catch any words, but the tone seemed unusually calm for a prisoner.
His cell, low-ceilinged and possessing a curved outer wall as if to deliberately remind inmates of their proximity to the outer hull and hard vacuum, had two doorways, side-by-side. The first, save for its massive locking mechanism, might have been any portal in the ship. The second was for servos only, being too narrow for a Human to pass through and—if Lefebvre's recollection of the specs for such things served—rigged with force blades set to react to Human tissue. He didn't plan to find out.
But its opening gave a view, of sorts, into the corridor. If he stood to one side, he could see three cells to the left of his, one directly across. Lefebvre didn't look to the right. That way, the corridor turned to the emergency med area—where he'd babbled away everything that mattered to him at the prick of four needles.
The monitoring vids along the walls seemed superfluous.
Lefebvre waited until all was quiet, then went to the servo door. "Psst," he hissed softly between his teeth. "Who's there?"
"Kane. Mitchell Kane. Do you know what's going on here?" the voice was the one he'd heard, still low, still calm—not the calm of indifference or bravery, Lefebvre suddenly decided, but the calm of someone totally in control of their reactions. The kind of control developed with practice. "What are the
Tly up to—kidnapping honest traders?" There was just the right hint of honest outrage in the voice.
"What makes you think these are the Tly?" Lefebvre asked, trying to see into the other cell. The voice came from the one directly across from him. Why wasn't his fellow prisoner standing where he could see and be seen?
A matching tone of surprise from the voice: "They identified themselves. I see no reason they'd lie about it. This ship is The Black Watch, assigned to the Tly inspectors in this quadrant. They boarded us to look for contraband. Personally, I think they were shopping." This last piece of information was delivered with a wry chuckle that brought an involuntary twitch to Lefebvre's lips. "So, why are you stuck here, Horn—?"
Lefebvre looked up at the vid in his cell; the Tly hadn't bothered disguising the things. "Why am I here, Horn Kane?" he repeated. "I'd dearly love the answer to that. And I'm sure so would the Commonwealth! Kidnapping and interrogating a Captain on active service is going to be noticed—you can be sure of that!" Lefebvre closed his mouth, abruptly afraid he'd sounded almost desperate. Kearn would file a missing being report, he told himself, refusing to doubt it. Or Timri. Despite their personal differences, they were all officers who knew their duty to one another. Weren't they?
"Interrogating?" There was a pause, and Lefebvre steeled himself for meaningless sympathy, mortified he'd revealed so much to this stranger, but Mitchell Kane simply asked: "They keep it clean?" There were those who used the truth drugs to expose more than information, uncaring how that damaged both mind and personality.
"I'm all right. It was all very professional," Lefebvre answered bitterly. "Very thorough."
"What are they after, Captain? I told you, I'm just a trader. I don't know any military secrets."
Lefebvre shook his head. "Neither do—neither did I. They didn't ask about such things, Horn Kane. Mitchell. They—" he choked on the words, then tried again. "I couldn't—"
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 21