"Med-tech," Lefebvre said, moving soundlessly, up on the balls of his feet. "Captain's orders. I'm here to guard her guest."
"I thought we agreed that wouldn't be necessary if I put him in stasis—I mean, how does she think he's going to—" The tech looked over his shoulder with an aggrieved expression in time to see Lefebvre's fist arrive.
"You know officers," Lefebvre said quietly, catching the man as he slumped, and putting him down to one side.
The box was already humming to itself, its interior clouded as the atmosphere within was rapidly being exchanged for the preservatives and sedatives used to hold a body in suspended animation for prolonged periods. Lefebvre had no idea which controls would safely halt the process, so he simply grabbed the nearest metal stool and brought it smashing down on the surface of the box, coughing as the acrid gases mixed with the room air.
There was an echoing cough. Eyes smarting from the fumes, Lefebvre brushed away hunks of plas until he reached something warmer and firmer. An arm. As he tugged at it, a hand reached out and fastened on his shoulder, surprising Lefebvre into an involuntary gasp. He felt suddenly dizzy as he inhaled remnants of the sedative, and panicked, grabbing what he hoped was Mitchell and heaving them both away from the box as quickly as he could.
They landed on the floor, Lefebvre trying to take most of the impact and receiving a stinging blow from an elbow in his face for his efforts. He sputtered out a protest and found, to his amazement, the form lying sprawled on top of him was shaking with laughter.
"Quite—the—the—rescue," a voice gasped cheerfully, no longer hoarse with pain, a voice and laughter he knew "—thought you were trying to kill me—How's your nose?"
"Who—?" Lefebvre thrust the other away, rolling over so his hands pinned the other Human with brutal force to the floor. He blinked, desperate to clear his eyes, then, suddenly, could see.
Paul Antoni Ragem, his face restored so only the jagged purple outlines of its punishment remained, looked up at him. There wasn't any humor left in his gray eyes—only resignation. "Or are you going to kill me now, Rudy?"
Chapter 28: Tank Night
« ^ »
LINGERING in web-form wasn't the lazy, danger-avoiding tactic it might seem to any other being. I had a reason—and it paid off much sooner than I'd hoped.
I was waiting for a response to my call.
Without leaving the ship to taste the clarity of out there, I couldn't know the direction The Black Watch had taken since leaving the Narcissus. I had a rough idea of range, which wasn't particularly helpful by itself, but allowed me to invent reasons for continued patience.
So I was relieved to detect the power signature of a ship approaching—a ship I hoped came from Largas, something difficult to tell by the song of its energy alone, and a ship I hoped was capable of standing up to the 'Watch. My assurances that the Tly cruiser was unarmed had come from a source I now wouldn't trust for the price of marfle tea.
The jets rippling the water ceased abruptly, once-suspended cells sinking until they began coating my upper surface, forming a thick layer I hoped would disguise my unfortunately vivid and beautiful blue. It interfered slightly with my ability to sense what was nearby—which wasn't outstanding at best, fine distinctions not being too necessary in a form originally devoted to harvesting the glowing dust of protostars and other rather easily distinguished food sources. I thinned as much as I could, sending extensions of myself creeping up each corner of the tank until clear of the cell broth but still safely underwater. Maybe, I told myself optimistically, they'll think I'm caulking.
This did improve my awareness of the tank room. I coupled the information being collected by my web-self with my Human-self memories of the place—a trick Ersh had taught me, since otherwise one had very little chance of making sense of what the movements of cohesive masses meant.
So I knew there were four Humans searching the hydroponics area, concentrating on the deck and areas behind the machinery and tubing. I didn't expect they'd do a particularly thorough job. It was a warm, always damp place, with a tendency to mold and a very unshiplike scent many spacers claimed made them ill. Each took a turn bending over the now-stilled water in the main tank, as well as climbing up and opening the lids on the secondaries. Then they were gone.
The jets kicked back in, freeing me from my living burden. At the same time, Ersh-memory welled up and spun me away from this place…
… until I rushed through the void as Ersh had done, soaring through the wonder of vacuum, rising and falling in waves of radiation in pursuit of streams of light, spending web-mass as energy until I was more energy than mass, driving forward until space itself dropped away and I moved aside.
Freedom.
Others accumulated mass, refusing to use it, hoarding it like some treasure until their movement slowed and they were snagged in orbit around some star or planet. Ersh passed them… scorn… There had to be more…
Curiosity. Leaving the others to the familiar and the safe, seeking the empty spaces… spending mass until she was almost gone…
… I surged up out of the memory, knowing how it ended and having no desire to relive the taste of Feneden or any other life-form.
I did, however, feel a considerable longing to dip back into those memories of flight. I'd done it once, thrown away mass and escaped a planet's gravity, experienced the intense passion of my flesh for vacuum. It was, I reminded myself, something Ersh had wisely forbidden herself and her
Web. As I forbade myself. Civilized beings, trustworthy, safe beings, used starships; I intended to be one.
Exactly which part of civilized behavior involved lurking at the bottom of a pool of algae was not an issue I cared to examine at the moment.
The approaching ship should be within the range of the sensors on the 'Lass soon, I judged. Given its past and present, I thought it prudent to assume the corresponding instruments on The Black Watch would be even more sensitive.
With every minute, I grew more anxious. Was this ship our rescue or Logan's reinforcements? I checked again for signs of Humans—or a hungover Ervickian—within range of this room. None. The web-mass within Paul's medallion sang its forlorn, siren call. By its location, I judged Logan to be on an upper deck.
I pulled myself into the proper teardrop shape of my kind, feeling energized by the condensing of my mass. Then I oozed up onto the platform, not wanting algae on my feet, and cycled.
And shivered. I wrapped my new arms around my bare self and quickly went to the storage locker. There, again through suggestions from Cameron & Ki to the easygoing ear of Largas Freight, was a set of coveralls to be used when cleaning out any contaminated tanks. It was a reasonable precaution against spreading harmful organisms from one tank to another—although that happened so rarely as to be almost unknown. It was also a very reasonable way to insure warm, dry clothing for a visiting web-being without a wardrobe.
I looked down at myself and sighed. Warm, dry, and only five sizes too large. I started rolling up the cuffs, then froze.
The door was opening again.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
"WELL, cousin?"
Lefebvre stared down, hardly daring to breathe. The face was older, of course; those fifty years looked back from his mirror, too. The voice was deeper, more resonant. There were fine lines beside the eyes and mouth, some newly etched by pain.
He hadn't thought so much would be the same: the almost fierce intelligence sparkling in the intense eyes, the lean expressive features, the way that lock of hair curled rebelliously over the brow—the despair of Ragem's mother before every family event.
He hadn't imagined what would change, that this face he thought he knew better than his own would mature into something commanding, something compassionate and wise.
This, this wasn't the face he'd hunted. Where was the guilt, the remorse?
Where were all his urgent questions? Now that he could ask them, Lefebvre discovered he couldn't speak, instead cho
king on an anger so beyond his control that his hands grappled Paul's throat before he could stop them, fingertips digging deep into faded bruises.
Bruises? He felt his thoughts and emotions reel with confusion. This was Mitchell. His companion in hell, who'd willingly suffered to hide a child from a monster.
Lefebvre released his death grip, throwing himself up and back until he half-leaned on a desk. "I don't understand," he whispered in horror, feeling the deck ready to open under his feet as he watched Paul take a wheezing breath.
Paul Ragem.
Paul rose as well, every movement cautious and planned as though the outward healing masked inward damage that hadn't been repaired. Or maybe it was the memory of pain—the accelerated healing of a med unit sometimes fooled the mind.
No, realized Lefebvre, it was to give him time to adjust. Paul had always been good at communicating with others, alien or Human. Now it was as if he'd spent the past years honing that skill, learning to control every part of his body, every expression, even the timbre of his voice. Why?
He didn't realize he'd asked that out loud until Paul repeated gently. "Why? Which one, Rudy? I'd think you'd have quite a few for me by now."
Lefebvre shook his head. "For me," he said, faintly surprised by the normal sound of his voice. "I've spent all this time trying to find the truth—trying to clear your name and memory." He faltered. "Why do I—"
"—feel like killing me?" Paul finished, not appearing alarmed, though he gingerly rubbed his neck. "I'd say it was a natural reaction, Rudy. You've every right to be furious. I've deceived you and everyone else. I abandoned you fifty years ago. On D'Dsel, I did it again, leaving you unconscious and so this—" he waved his hand as though indicating the ship, "—happened."
Lefebvre made a short, violent gesture of negation. "Logan would have found some other way to trap me." Even as he said the words, his heart pounded with frustrated rage, rage that seemed all at once to have too many targets, including himself. "He'd have done anything to get at you." Lefebvre's fists clenched. "And I helped, didn't I? He couldn't have known it was you for sure without my key, without what I told him. He wouldn't have—"
"Enough," Paul said sternly. "Nothing would have changed, Rudy." He dipped his head, then raised it, saying somberly: "Logan—and the rest of this—it all comes back to my actions, not yours. I let them spread lies about me—and let you believe them."
"I never did. I knew they were lies," Lefebvre found himself almost tripping over the words to say them quickly enough, as if they could atone for his actions of a moment before. "You'd never endanger your ship, your crew-mates."
Paul's face grew pale and determined. "They weren't all lies, Rudy. I didn't harm anyone, but I did have a choice to make. Part of that choice was to let Paul Ragem die—to leave you and everyone else. I made it willingly."
"Why?" Lefebvre breathed. "What could matter to you that much?" More than your family, he added to himself, aching with the hurt of that loss as if it were fresh and not buried in their pasts.
Paul slowly reached out his hand. "I had a good reason, Rudy," he said simply. "And I have a good reason now. Trust me."
Lefebvre stretched out his own hand to meet and grip Paul's, then closed his eyes and pulled the other into a rough embrace. "I still think I should kill you," he decided as he let go.
"I think you just did," Paul said, wheezing, but with a feather of a laugh in his voice, one hand keeping hold of Lefebvre's shoulder as though he needed the support. "I wouldn't want to wrestle you these days, cousin."
"So what's changed? You couldn't beat me when I was a kid," Lefebvre retorted, then found his gaze trapped and held by Paul's, his mind caught by memories of a kitchen filled with friendship and wondrous stories. "Trust you, is it?" he said, hearing the ragged edge in his own voice. "Just like that? No explanations."
"Just like that, Rudy," Paul repeated, not pleading, the way Lefebvre imagined some mythical king would demand an oath of loyalty before battle. There was no doubt in Paul's voice or expression: none of himself, none of his right to ask, and, Lefebvre realized with an inner shock, no doubt of Lefebvre's answer.
Lefebvre gave a sigh that felt as if it came from his very soul, shuddering its way through his body until it washed the burn of anger and tension away, leaving something closer to control. "As I said," he offered not-quite-casually, "what's changed?" He took another, steadying breath and felt the universe firm itself around him. "We've been here too long already. You able to move around? Bess will want to see you."
Not quite smiling, Paul nodded once, as if hearing more. His grip on Lefebvre's shoulder tightened briefly before letting go. "Is she all right?" he asked almost lightly, except for the intensity of his gaze. "Do you know where she is?"
"I believe, Horns, I can help in that regard," Logan said from behind them both. Lefebvre whirled, then froze, the biodisrupter in Logan's giant hand looking as familiar and deadly as it had on D'Dsel, if smaller. Noticing his attention, Logan waved the weapon casually. "A gift from my good friend here—Paul Ragem." When Lefebvre didn't react, Logan pretended to scowl. "Not a surprise, I see. And no blood on the floor. How thoroughly disappointing, Captain Lefebvre. You really don't know how to properly hold a grudge, do you?"
"Try me," Lefebvre said, even though he knew better than to bait Logan.
"Perhaps, later, Captain. Right now we are all going to meet a young lady." Logan's attention shifted to Paul. "Who may have had a little accident, I'm afraid."
"If she did, you'd better be, Logan," Paul said, as if oblivious to which hand held sudden death, his face grown so ashen its skin showed fingerprints within the bruises.
Lefebvre remembered that voice, with its utter and convincing undertone of threat, whispering into his own ear. Then, Paul had been protecting his Panacian companion and his own identity from Lefebvre. It was ironic, Lefebvre found time to tell himself, that Paul's act had indirectly brought them back together. Now, they were both desperate to protect another of Paul's friends.
Some thoughts were the slippery, fish-underbelly sort—the kind that tried to surface at moments when other things, including saving one's life, should have been paramount.
Lefebvre had that kind of thought now, a bizarre thought attempting to coalesce three names into meaning: Ragem. Kearn.
And a young girl Paul was willing to die for, named-Bess.
Lefebvre refused to think it.
It was easy, when Logan began to smile.
Chapter 29: Hydroponics Morning
« ^ »
TWO of my latest nightmares walked through the open door together: Logan being the one and Lefebvre in the presence of a completely recognizable Paul Ragem being the other.
Interesting how the cosmic gods worked overtime, just for me.
I hid behind the meager protection of the open locker door, and watched through the crack between the hinges.
Paul looked much better, something I would have found vastly more encouraging if there hadn't been a biodisrupter pressed into his cheek. There were reasons, I said to myself in frustration, not to carry lethal weapons when traveling. I trusted he'd listen to me next time.
The three of them were alone. Logan reached back to close the door and lock it. With anyone else, I would have thought this gave us the advantage.
I trembled.
Paul's eyes were searching; I saw them linger over the hydroponics tank, then move on quickly as though afraid to reveal too much.
Lefebvre's eyes were riveted on Logan, which surprised me. I'd have thought he would focus on his long-sought prey, so close at hand. There was something fragile about him, as though he'd had one too many shocks lately. I could sympathize.
AH of us jumped when Logan said, "Call her." His precise voice was frayed around the edges. "Now."
Of the three Humans, Paul was the most composed—perhaps the closest to falling flat on his face as well, but he'd always been good at hiding that sort of thing from me. "You know I won't," he answe
red as if humoring a madman. Careful, I said to myself.
"Then I will," Logan said easily, though his sweating face was anything but calm. He tightened his free hand into a fist the size of my head and swung it at Lefebvre. The Human ducked, but not in time to miss all of the blow. It sent him against the railing. He whirled, crouched as if to spring, but stilled as Logan stepped back and waved the biodisrupter between them both.
"Which one, Ghost?" Logan said loudly, the words echoing around the pipes and dampness. "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to kill your Paul later—he and I haven't finished our conversations."
"You're talking about a little girl, Logan," Lefebvre objected, his face flushed. "She's no ghost."
"Ah, but only ghosts can disappear. Am I not correct, Horn Ragem?"
Paul was wonderful. "You're the expert on vengeful spirits, Inspector," he said, with just the right touch of sincerity. Keep him uncertain, I agreed silently.
"An expert. Perhaps." Logan kept the weapon aimed as he walked over to the tank controls and killed the jets. The water seethed, then calmed. The comparative silence rang in my ears. "I pushed this little girl of yours. She fell into the tank. And disappeared. Is this how a spirit behaves?"
Lefebvre said something incoherent and turned to look frantically into the water. Paul reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "He's baiting us, cousin. She's not in there."
Cousin? I almost fell out of the locker.
"Ghost girl!" Logan called, sweeping the room with his pale eyes. "You'd better show up soon. I won't wait here all night." He pulled out a small stick from his pocket. "Unless I have something to do," he corrected, as if a child offered a new toy.
I couldn't tell from here what the stick might be, but I could read enough in the abrupt way Lefebvre moved to stand in front of Paul to understand it wasn't anything pleasant. Not that it would be, I chided myself, with Logan looking happy about it.
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 27