"I'm going to miss my transport, Uncle Rudy," I used a rising tonal variant I'd seen make Human parents wince and observed a similar effect on Lefebvre. Interesting.
He made a show of checking his wrist chrono. "Why, you're right." Lefebvre's hitherto friendly tone developed a captain's snap. "Med-tech Vidbruk, while I appreciate your—zeal—I have to insist. If you haven't found any medical problems, my niece and I need to be on our way."
The Odarian sputtered—quite effectively, since this involved the expulsion of moist air through its trunk. "There are no specific identifiable problems, Horn Lefebvre. But your companion does not fit within the standards set by my sensitive and modern—"
Lefebvre managed to nod an acknowledgment, press what looked suspiciously like a credit chip into the med-tech's elbow pouch, and sweep me from the med bench all in one smooth series of movements that were impressively irresistible.
"Short," I muttered when we were out in the main ship-way. "I am not short."
Lefebvre coughed; I looked up at him, suspecting Human humor. It hadn't, I assured myself, been funny.
His face was reassuringly serious. "Thanks," I offered. "I thought he'd keep me in there until I somehow stretched."
"Can you?"
We were isolated within a busy crowd, mostly spacers, some tourists and art critics—the usual assortment that disembarked at Upperside and milled around waiting for room on a planet-bound shuttle bus, most lining up to rent e-rigs. It still didn't seem private enough, but this Human had been remarkably helpful for someone running on trust. "I am always Esen," I informed him quietly. "This is the Human version. This—me—will grow taller as my true self ages. Eventually I'll fit into his standard parameters for adulthood." Although not soon enough to look you in the eyes, I calculated, but didn't think Lefebvre needed to know that particular detail. I was striving for the respect due my age as Eldest of the Web of Esen; emphasizing my youth was unlikely to help.
Paul, in what I could only assume was another of those inexplicable moments of prescience he'd been increasingly exhibiting, had booked temp quarters using one of our more secret accounts while we were still on Panacia. I hadn't been part of all of the planning—this form demanding more sleep than either Paul or Lefebvre seemed to require now that they'd recovered from Logan's ill-treatment—but I knew Paul was to look after the e-rigs. We were to meet him there.
Upperside might not be as large as Hixtar or other ship-city stations, but it took time to walk its girth. All was fine, and I was enjoying the chance to stretch my legs, until we passed the posting board for ship arrivals and departures.
There were too many assorted backs, shoulders, heads, and carapaces for me to read it. Lefebvre, veteran spacer, automatically craned his neck to see, then muttered something that sounded anatomically impossible under his breath and began moving much faster through the crowd.
"We could," I suggested after a few minutes of a decidedly ungraceful series of hopping steps, Lefebvre's lengthening strides covering the equivalent of one and a half of mine, "take a taxi if there's a rush."
"It's only a third spinward," he said, slowing for at least ten paces before speeding up again.
I hauled on his arm, making him stop. "Short," I reminded him sternly. "What's the hurry? What did you see on the board?"
Lefebvre kept looking around us, rather than at me. I could see he was frowning in concentration, surveying the continuously noisy bustle of strangers around us as though seeking one face in particular. Not good, I realized. Not good at all.
"What's wrong?" I demanded.
"Let's keep going, Es. Okay?"
Humans. "Not," I said imperiously, not an easy thing to do with my current voice, "until you tell me what's happening."
Perhaps anticipating my reaction, Lefebvre wrapped his fingers around my arm, gently tugging me forward as he said, "The Russ' docked yesterday. Kearn's here, Es."
As if that was a surprise, I told myself, wondering, as I often did lately, why the cosmic fates so enjoyed complicating my life. "Kearn does get around," I replied calmly, more for Lefebvre's sake than mine. After all, the Human had been living with my secret for a couple of days—he didn't have the perspective of almost six hundred years of hiding in plain sight, not to mention fifty dealing with this particular nuisance. "Given all you know about Kearn and his search for me, Lefebvre, do you honestly expect him to pick me—this me?—out of the crowd just like that?"
"He might not be not alone this time. Can the Feneden recognize you in other forms?"
I blinked. Ersh-memory, which usually roused unpleasantly at that name, remained uncommonly silent—not, I decided, a good sign either. She'd lived among the Feneden and hunted them for hundreds of their generations. Had some of those who survived her done so because they'd sensed her presence? Could Ersh have influenced their evolution? "Impossible," I told him, this time more for my sake than his. "The med scans read me as Human. I am Human—at the moment," I added truthfully.
"So am I—and recognizable to anyone from the crew. I'd rather not try out my story in the middle of this concourse—especially with you to explain away as well."
A valid concern, I agreed, finally extending my legs as far and fast as they would go without breaking out into a gallop. I wasn't at all fond of Lefebvre's planned explanation. It made sense, of a Human sort, to claim he'd found a clue to the infamous Paul Ragem on Panacia and desperately jumped the first available freighter—the Vegas Lass—to follow it. Kearn, understanding obsession as well as he did, should fall for that one. As to the fine details of their supposed pursuit, including how the 'Lass mysteriously changed captain and crew in deep space, Lefebvre had shrugged, saying he'd come up with something if asked. Since the truth drugs were gone from Lefebvre's system, and neither Janet Chase nor Able Joe was available to testify differently, it was a simple enough fabrication.
The trouble with his story was how close it came to the truth, I warned myself, not as ready as Paul to completely trust a being who, until recently, spent every waking moment trying to uncover our secrets.
There were times when the virtue of self-sufficiency paled beside the proof of how nice it was to know someone truly thoughtful.
A silk caftan and trousers, in my favorite bronze tone, lay across the table, the ensemble completed by a beaded bag for anything I might choose to carry and already loaded with a portable lamp. Beside it was a broad deep box, filled past its brim with soft, artificial grass. A lightbox stood guard atop a tray of lush, growing duras plants.
I knew, without having to ask, that this room and the ones attached to it had been scanned for eavesdroppers and recording devices—likely before we docked at Upperside and undoubtedly since Paul's arrival. With the most modern tech available here.
I went to the mirrored surface of the fresher stall to say good-bye to my Human-self. She looked back at me, hair tumbled out of order already, eyes spilling moisture for no reason I could name—unless it was the fleeting, unguarded look I'd surprised on Paul's face as he watched me enter this room. He'd worn the same expression of inevitable loss as the ship carrying his son and daughter sliced upward into the clouds over Minas XII those many years ago.
I rubbed my eyes and strode almost angrily to the plants, sweeping up the two nearest pots in my arms even as I loosed my hold on this treacherous form, assimilating their mass into more of the true Esen, the real Esen. The Esen, I told myself, perilously close to forgetting who and what she was in order to please one ephemeral.
I put such thoughts behind me as I rediscovered my Lishcyn-self, concentrating on the delightful slipperiness of clean silk along my hairy scales, and assessing my physical state. A bit hungry, a little overtired. Nothing a snack and nap wouldn't cure, I thought wistfully, knowing they'd both have to wait.
It was time to find out what was happening on Iftsen Secondus.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
"ACTING Captain Kearn. Captain."
Kearn added another f
olded strip of plas to the top of the delicate tower on his desk. Steady, he told himself. Steady.
"Captain!"
There. He held his breath as the structure almost toppled, then steadied. He selected another urgent message and creased it into a v-shape.
The nagging voice went away. Kearn sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them wide, staring at the door which had begun to glow around one edge. "What do you think you're—" he shouted, spilling the entire mass to the floor as he leaped to his feet.
Before he could finish objecting, the door whooshed open as far as it could, sticking on the white-hot remnants of its locking mechanism. Timri stood in the opening and tucked her blaster into its holster. They'd been issued lethal weapons in anticipation of their capture of the Esen Monster, not to use against his door, Kearn thought apprehensively.
"Ah," she said calmly, stepping forward and giving a light salute. "There you are, Captain." Her dark eyes narrowed slightly as they took in the collapsed stack of folded plas. "Busy?"
"Which p-part of 'Do Not Disturb' escaped you, Officer Timri?" Kearn hadn't been able to come up with a suitable title for his comp-tech since assigning her virtual control of the Russell III.
"I thought you'd like to know, sir, that the Feneden have taken the e-rigs you provided and left the Russ'."
Kearn settled back down into his chair, feeling every bone in his body relax until he couldn't help but smile. "Why didn't you say so, instead of breaking down my door? Which will come out of your pay, Timri, make no mistake about—"
"The Feneden left the Russ', sir," Timri continued as if she hadn't heard him at all, "to board the Feneden starship which landed an hour ago. It set down close enough to scorch our fins. Security Chief Sas has kept watch and reports a considerable amount of activity. Several beings have left the ship."
Kearn's smile struggled to stay in place. "Maybe they have business with the Iftsen," he suggested.
"They don't believe in the Iftsen. Sir." She took another step toward him; Kearn tried not to cringe, but lost the smile completely. Timri was such a very—imposing person when agitated. "It is our opinion that the Feneden have taken the search for the Esen Monster into their own hands."
Letting him off the hook, Kearn thought immediately, and wondered if the scornful look on her face meant she had read it in his expression. He put his hands together, lacing the fingers to keep them still. "Officer Timri. This is very serious. We must inform the Iftsen that they may have armed and dangerous aliens—yes, very dangerous aliens—entering Brakistem."
"It's the Festival of Living Art, sir. There won't be more than a handful of sober Iftsen in the city."
"Well, if the Feneden don't believe in the Iftsen, and the Iftsen are too drunk to be offended by the Feneden—we should have no problems, right, Officer Timri? Perhaps," Kearn added pompously, quite impressed with his own reasoning, "you could arrange for repairs to my door."
Timri, her mouth hanging open as though whatever she'd imagined couldn't come close to this piece of brilliant deduction, was shoved to one side as Com-tech Resdick, usually a very placid, reserved individual, came careening into Kearn's office at a full run.
"Is my door wide open to everyone now, Timri?" Kearn snapped, aggrieved beyond measure.
Resdick saluted, the effect spoiled as he used Kearn's desk to stop his forward momentum. "Sir, Sir. He's back. The Captain!"
"Lefebvre?" Timri almost shouted, grabbing the other by his nearest shoulder as if she had to look into his face. "What do you mean—back?"
"He means," said the deep, commanding voice Kearn remembered all too well, "I'm back and reporting for duty. Sir." Lefebvre had lost none of his ability to look and act totally respectful, while immediately conveying the opposite.
Kearn closed his eyes. If he did it long enough, maybe this would turn out to have all been another nightmare.
Chapter 33: Festival Afternoon; Gallery Night
« ^ »
ALWAYS look a gift horse in the mouth was one of Paul's favorite expressions. Although the original Human axiom, as held in Ersh-memory, urged the recipient of a free equine to politely refrain from checking its true age as determined by its teeth—at least until out of range of the giver—Paul's version was more along the lines of exercising caution before accepting the unexpected. It was a sensible paranoia, I'd found, especially when preparing to open one of Paul's little surprises.
So, I told myself in disgust, why hadn't I learned by now that the unexpected gift was rarely to be trusted?
In this case the gift had been an unexpected chance to leave Paul behind on the shipcity. Well, here I was. Alone. I loosened the belt of my e-rig, wondering why I'd ever thought this was a good idea. This was also something rapidly becoming habit.
The original plan—Paul's plan—had been for us to take the seventh hour shuttle to Brakistem. There wasn't much choice in destination or time: all shuttles went from Upperside to Underside, and from there to Brakistem's ship-city; anything earlier had been booked. It was, we were informed by amused shipcity staff, the opening day of the Festival. We'd considered taking the Vegas Lass down, but it seemed cruel and unusual punishment to Largas Freight to subject their lovely ship to Iftsen Secondus' challenging atmosphere. She had, I'd remarked, enough to live down already. Paul hadn't taken my comment well.
What he did take remarkably well was the news that the Russell III was already findown—for some mysterious reason, outside the shipcity. Obviously, this wasn't the revelation to Paul that Lefebvre and I thought it might be. Lefebvre had used a significant number of our credits to purchase an off-schedule flight down. He was, by a bizarre twist of fate I had yet to reconcile with our usual luck, to act as our being on the inside.
I looked at the chrono's green gleam within the helmet, below and to the left of the tip of my broad nose. Lefebvre should have made Kearn's day about three hours ago.
Paul had had the e-rigs ready and our tickets purchased. He'd introduced the new me, Esolesy Ki, to Lefebvre with every look of a being delighted to see an old friend. Lefebvre, I'd noticed, had a certain amount of difficulty adjusting—prone to taking second glances at me, as if to surprise me cycling into something else.
There was movement ahead. I crouched lower, longing to switch on the lamps on either shoulder.
So it was supposed to have been Paul and I, just like old times, ready to investigate the Feneden together. Which, as any being realized, was a needless duplication and a significant risk to him. I'd persisted in my arguments with him, as Lishcyn having gained both confidence and a more impressive voice with which to present my case. Paul, completely unaffected by either reasoned argument or bellowing, had said he didn't care if the rig pinched my ears, there was no way I was going down to the planet without him, and would I stop spitting.
I watched the next group of Feneden enter and did my best to look like a lumpy sculpture.
My golden opportunity had come when we were leaving our rooms. An incoming message had chimed for attention. Paul had frowned at me, as if it were my fault, then went back inside to answer it. He'd pointed out the door, indicating I was to go ahead to the shuttle.
It had probably been a ploy to stop my arguments. But when Paul hadn't arrived by the time the shuttle conductors were busy asking for last minute boarders, I'd seized the opportunity. My ticket having two seats on it, I'd simply smiled and grabbed the nearest Human waiting in the line for the next shuttle. She hadn't argued.
So here I was: on Iftsen Secondus, without Paul—which was about the only part of my scheme working properly. I was still in the e-rig, because I'd had no chance to cycle into Iftsen form. It was now distressingly dark outside. And I was surrounded by Feneden thieves.
Next time, I promised myself, I would not only look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, I'd dissect it first.
I'd visited Brakistem during other Festivals—the Iftsen, not surprisingly, found innumerable reasons to celebrate—and knew what to expect w
hen I'd arrived in the late afternoon. The living towers of stacked Iftsen were everywhere, busy doing what they enjoyed most. As usual, those subspecies with incompatible frills found this a little tricky, resorting to artificial wedges to help their mixed stacks stay vertical. I walked past these quickly, knowing such stacks were about as stable as the mind-set of their members and not planning to spend time under a pile of happily squirming Iftsen as the flattened beings sorted themselves out.
Those not so occupied were milling around food carts. In pretech days, the serving of food and drink during any gathering required a large number of First Citizens delegated to miss the fun; needless to say the Iftsen had adopted Human servos in as many capacities as possible and there were almost no First Citizens in sight. Among its other virtues, my e-rig insulated me, and more accurately my tender stomachs, from any interaction with food odors I remembered as rivaling the poisonous nature of Iftsen Secondus' atmosphere.
During the Festival of Living Art, there were always singers. Actually, there were singers for every festival. This particular event, the streets and courtyards hosted meandering choirs, mostly Nabreda, attempting to convince any being who would listen that they had completed a worthy new stanza for the epic song commemorating the history and significant events of First Citizens' Gallery of Brakistem.
My magnificent and highly sensitive ears had to be folded in order to fit within the helmet. Listening, especially through the indignity of an external com pickup, was no way to do any song, epic or otherwise, justice. But I lingered beside the singers, making sure I caught every word. It wasn't pleasant.
Epic song, for the Iftsen, was the equivalent of Human newsmags, political debate, and historical record rolled into one. The Nabreda were singing with intense passion about the pillaging of their magnificent Gallery by aliens. Depending on the choral group, these aliens were portrayed as evil and stupid, incomprehensible and stupid, or simply art thieves with really bad taste. The climax of this particular stanza hadn't been completed—the singers would wait for a consensus from the crowd to help decide that—but that wouldn't take long. The most enthusiastic response I heard from those Iftsen currently paying attention had been to a straightforward set of rhymes with a haunting undertone of regret and a chillingly triumphant fanfare.
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 30