Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision
Page 37
It remained to be proved if I was, too.
Elsewhere
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THE vid tape hadn't been helpful. Neither had Sas, their expert in interpreting the remote feeds, currently unavailable as he languished in a Port Authority holding cell on burglary charges. Kearn had been badly surprised by that, Lefebvre remembered, as though he'd expected the Modoren to beat him back to the Russ'. That part of the story he hadn't bothered to explain.
Lefebvre had rerun the tape several times, telling himself it was his imagination trying to convince him this was Paul Ragem. There had been no replies to his messages for Mitchell—but that might just be Paul's common sense. Why would Paul go to the Feneden? On the other hand, if Human, the figure was half again taller than Esen as Bess.
That much he could be sure of, and, unlikely as it would have seemed a few brief hours ago, he could be sure of Kearn. The transformation had been startling to say the least and Timri, for one, stubbornly refused to credit it. But strangely, Lefebvre did. Kearn's obsession with Esen welled from his fear—he truly believed she posed a danger to innocent beings. Faced with a more immediate threat—the Iftsen's planet-killer—Kearn couldn't help but turn from his hunt in order to protect the billions on Feneden.
In many ways, Kearn's had always been the more noble chase, Lefebvre confessed to himself, feeling a burning shame each time he remembered his own obsession. He'd thought he'd been after the truth, to restore the tarnished reputation of his childhood hero, doing something worthy. Perhaps, in part, but once he'd found Paul, Lefebvre had seen the ugly thing inside himself, the need to make Paul pay for his desertion. It had been for that anger's sake, not the truth, that Lefebvre had left his family behind, warded away friendships. He'd been lucky enough to find both again. With, he thought ruefully, the knowledge of how little he'd known about what he'd chased.
It was an experience he didn't envy Kearn.
Lefebvre sipped his cooling sombay, loath to leave the bridge even to grab some breakfast. The information Kearn had about the asteroid was precise. Fuzzy-haired, young, and altogether shy, Engineering Specialist Warner, bewildered by the sudden attention, turned out to have made a hobby of exotic weaponry. He wasn't an expert, but he was more qualified than anyone else on the Russ'. Kearn, it seemed, had extensive background information on everyone on board. For once, his paranoia had been useful.
For now, they were on the same side. Lefebvre knew Timri was right, that they had to be prepared to run for it, or somehow defend themselves from the recordings Kearn must have of their conversation. She'd offered to search for them, an offer he hadn't outright rejected, instead convincing her to wait. Kearn had been right about one thing, this situation was theirs to handle until the Commonwealth could send help.
Then, it could get very interesting, Lefebvre thought, taking another slow sip.
Chapter 41: Asteroid Afternoon
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LOGAN had called this Panacian. I gazed around me and thought I recognized several Human touches as well. There were always congruencies, Mixs-memory reminded me. Keeping in atmosphere and heat on an asteroid usually produced some version of a dome. Body mass and machinery determined door shapes and sizes. There were, I sighed to myself, very few concessions to aesthetics in such utilitarian buildings by any species.
The air locks had been secured by a code. Logan had ordered one of his crew to burn out the lock—simple and effective, if extraordinarily dangerous. The builders could easily have left a surprise or two. Any alarm would be delayed in its impact by the time a response would take—but a booby trap, that would be immediate. So, I thought to myself, this Human sought to risk his own life. I wasn't surprised, although I'd been poised to run for it.
There might have been an alarm shattering the peace of some Iftsen First Citizen, but no traps showed themselves as we—Logan, ten of his larger crew, and I—entered what could have been any smallish mining dome, an unmaintained, older dome at that. We removed our helmets, leaving on the rest of the bulky space gear as a precaution. The air was breathable, but left a dead, metallic taste on my tongue.
I stepped thoughtfully over the remains of construction debris no one had bothered to collect, looking around with my forward-facing eyes like the Humans, processing star patterns with my upper eyes—the incoming light polarized nicely by the dome's plas layer. I derived an intense and pleasant feeling of placement, a knowledge of where I was and where I was going that had nothing at all to do with rational thought about my situation.
The Messenger wasn't hidden. It stood beneath the highest reach of the dome, a tall, ugly, and thoroughly odd-looking device festooned with curls of pipe and wires. I blinked as we came closer, trying to determine exactly what type of weapon it was. There were no matches within my assimilated memories. I needed to get out more, I fussed to myself.
Logan's crew knew their jobs, most hurrying forward with tools and hand sensors, while a pair drew the grav cart closer. There wasn't much gravity to speak of here—without the extra mass around our waists, we would bounce off the clear ceiling with each step—but The Messenger appeared massive enough to have significant inertia. I stood back, quite happy to let others disturb what looked implacably dangerous sitting still.
Still, I was curious. There was some text down one side of the weapon. Why? Instructions on its use? I eased over that way, keeping my distance, and started reading. It was an obscure Iftsen dialect, probably Peoteran, and, typically, set in rhyme.
There was simply, I decided with sudden, deep contentment, nothing better than a good education.
"There." Logan grunted with effort as he helped heave the weapon on to the grav cart, keeping one hand on it as though the hideous thing was a treasure beyond price. "You might not be the Kraal Nightstalker or even the Esen," he murmured to it soothingly, "but you'll do. You'll certainly do." It was just as well his attention was on The Messenger, as I had no control over my startled expression when I heard my name.
"Get her loaded!" Logan ordered, before coming to loom over me. "Now, Fem Tilesen. I have one last task for you."
Before I could so much as blink in surprise, Logan's long arm reached past my head and I felt a sharp tug. His hand came away with my reserve air tank. "You won't need this," he said in that cheerful voice I remembered disliking intensely. He kept my helmet tucked under one arm, adding, "I'll keep this, too, if you don't mind. A souvenir of our time together."
"What are you doing?" I protested. I knew perfectly well, but predictable villains such as Logan expected victims to follow protocol.
"Your fellow Feneden are almost in range of the asteroid, my dear Fem," Logan explained, ripping the gauge off the top of the tank with a wasteful display of strength. "I'd like you to stay and welcome them."
"You want them to enter the dome and be caught as thieves. I could warn them. I can prove it was you. Why not just kill me?" I really hadn't meant to say that, but, Ersh knew, my curiosity sometimes got the better of me.
He ran a finger along my chin, sending shivers of heat through neighboring cilia. "Do you think I mind if you tell them the Commonwealth took this amazing weapon? You go right ahead. As I told you, it's our job to take care of new species."
Fortunately, I did know better than to answer that. There was no benefit whatsoever in having Logan know I knew exactly who he was—especially if it cast any doubt on who, or rather what, he thought I was.
I sat back down, slumping as though he'd won, watching the triumphant smile spread across his face while restraining my own with difficulty.
Assured I wasn't going to present a problem—which I was sure would have resulted in an uncomfortable and potentially awkward attempt to actually kill me—the Tly made quick work of removing themselves and their prize from the dome. I spotted the flash of reflection from their shuttle as it left the asteroid's shadow and was caught by the Iftsen sun. Then it was gone, presumably to dock with The Black Watch.
Being alone was fine with me, especial
ly when the alone part removed Logan from my life. I settled myself where I could see the dome's port and thought wistfully of foods I'd enjoyed in other forms and in other places. With any luck—I sat up straighter. Another flash in the black sky.
It had to be the Feneden. I had two fond hopes for this meeting. One, I could straighten out the confusion about the Iftsen.
And two, they'd bring lunch.
So it wasn't surprising I was standing, almost trembling with anticipation, by the time I spotted suited figures marching toward the dome. I went over my planned speech, really hoping there wouldn't be any complications from my being a stranger to them—some species were incredibly awkward about introductions, including the Ganthor who were simply incredibly painful about it—and held my breath as the inner door of the air lock swung open.
I hadn't expected the first individual through the door to be Paul. He went to his knees as though pushed from behind.
And I certainly didn't expect the next two individuals through to throw some sort of scintillating membrane over my head before I could so much as complain.
I kept very still, waiting for the next surprise with some fatalism.
This definitely implied no lunch.
Elsewhere
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"HOLD our position, Captain. She said we had to wait."
She. N'Klet. Enough was enough. Lefebvre paced away, then back again, putting his fists knuckle-down on the top of Kearn's desk and leaning on them. "N'Klet lied to you about Sas. I don't see why we should trust anything else she told you."
To Lefebvre's surprise, Kearn didn't flinch. He merely nodded as if weary. "Yes, she did. I can't tell you why. But she sent us here, where we had to come—"
"Conveniently leaving Upperside on the next transport."
"What more could we ask her? You know I've verified the situation with Port Authority and the Deputy Minister. This is where the Iftsen weapon is hidden. N'Klet told us the truth about that."
Lefebvre pushed himself back with an oath. "The Feneden are already findown on the asteroid. They beat us here."
"Another reason to wait," Kearn urged, wringing his hands absently. "The Russell III isn't armed. Who knows what they're capable of?"
"That's another thing," Lefebvre shot back at Kearn. "What's with the Iftsen? They want us to simply observe the situation? They forbid hostile action within their system? Are these the same beings advertising how they are going to blow a planetful of beings into atoms over some stolen art?" He paused to collect himself. "What are we missing from this picture, Kearn? Who's lying to us the most?"
Kearn put his chubby fingertips together, appearing to consider them thoughtfully. "Who indeed, Captain?" he said as if to himself, then looked up. "Strike that. I promised to put aside that other business until this situation was resolved. And you've been—" he paused, as if knowing what he wanted to say, but unsure.
Lefebvre took a deep breath and dropped back into the seat he'd exploded from moments before. "And I've been acting like a captain for the first time since boarding the Russ'" he said, completing Kearn's sentence. "You can say it, Kearn. It's the truth." Lefebvre hesitated, then realized he owed some truth of his own. "I'm not proud of it."
Kearn stared at Lefebvre for a long time, his expression caught between anguish and decision. Decision seemed to win as he unlocked a drawer in his desk and began pulling out record cubes. The pile grew until half of his desk was covered, then Kearn stopped, sorted out twelve, and shoved them toward Lefebvre. "These are the ones from—from your quarters. And Comp-tech Timri's. And from the crew areas." Without meeting Lefebvre's quizzical gaze, Kearn swept the rest back into his drawer and locked it. His voice defensive, he added: "I'm keeping the records from my cabin and the bridge. I'll need them one day, when my search is successful. There will be a need for clear records, for corroboration."
"Yes, sir," Lefebvre said very quietly, picking up the cubes. "I do understand, sir."
"That will be all, Captain. Please notify me of any change."
"Yessir," Lefebvre repeated. He stood to leave, then looked down at the smaller Human, still dressed in his rumpled tourist clothes. Kearn looked up, a frown growing between his eyes.
"Yes?"
Lefebvre drew himself up and saluted smartly with his free hand. "Thank you, sir."
Chapter 42: Asteroid Afternoon
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IT could have been a comical exhibit of living art for the Iftsen Festival. None of us moved for a truly astonishing amount of time, a tableau of crouched Human and erect Feneden, facing one another under a starry dome. It might have gone on longer, but the unusual membrane the Feneden had tossed over me, although air-light and transparent, interfered with my upper eyes, causing a touch of disorientation. I estimated it would feel worse to a true Feneden and began to sway as if becoming mildly dizzy.
I desperately wanted to go to Paul, make sure he was all right, then return one of his scathing lectures about being in the wrong place at the wrong time—preferably over a cold beer. But that wouldn't have been the reaction of a true Feneden.
My reaction must have reassured them, for suddenly the two Feneden who had covered me, and the three behind them, removed their helmets. Their noses twitched at the smell of the air.
"Greetings," I said in Feneden, cautiously leaving out the rest of the salutation. It hadn't, I recalled, been well-received in the Art Gallery. "Is this necessary?" I continued, pushing with one finger at the membrane.
"Are you a shifter?" The word came out with intonations of demon and baby-killer.
"Are you a shifter? Or you?" I repeated back, keeping to my role but making my tone more polite—suited to a modern, practical Feneden who didn't believe in me.
"We are not shifters." The assurance came from one of the Feneden standing behind the first two. Anisco. Without her translator, I noticed, wondering how they'd managed to communicate with Paul. After my one quick glance at him, I'd deliberately kept my eyes away. I doubted he could recognize me in this form, although I was sure he suspected. Who else could manage to be stranded on a secret weapon's base, without a helmet, com link, or air supply? Outwardly, my Feneden-self looked remarkably like Anisco, the relative age difference, if one existed, perhaps marked by my slightly lesser height.
Paul and I had arranged codes between us long ago, so I could confirm my identity—none, however, in Feneden. An outburst in an alien language, I reminded myself, was unlikely to help right now.
What I hoped would help was this form, despite my inexperience with it, but knew I could be wrong. I could sense their emotional states through my cilia. Two had body heat patterns indicating they were conflicted, perhaps puzzled but not obviously fearful. Unfortunately, the other three, including Anisco, flared to my inner sight as beacons of terror and anger, a reaction I didn't understand or expect.
Perhaps some good news, I thought. "Fened Prime is safe from—the aggressors." I found the word Iftsen stuck in my throat again. "If you check out the center of this place, you'll find the weapon has been removed."
As if the word "weapon" had been a cue, all five pointed something at me that looked distressingly like Paul's biodisrupter, although much smaller. They blinked in unison as well, eyes flashing that disconcerting red. My Feneden-self followed suit, why I didn't know.
"We have no interest in more lies about weapons and threats to Fened Prime," Anisco said, her soft voice almost harsh. "We knew you lived, Shifter, from the moment your servant arrived at our ship on the demon planet." She held up her free hand, then tossed Paul's medallion at my feet.
Since I had good reason, I took the chance and looked at Paul. He'd removed his helmet, but had stayed on his knees, gloved hands on the rock floor. He knew me, I decided. His eyes burned beneath that rebellious lock of hair, and there was no mistaking the meaning of his tense posture or tightly compressed lips.
We were in very, very big trouble.
And it was my fault, I sighed to myself. Again.
"Stop!" Anisco's hand shook as she raised her weapon higher. I stopped instantly. "Do not try to attack us! You cannot change form in Kearn's trap, Shifter."
Cycling was the last thing I planned to do, so it didn't matter if her threat was some of Kearn's wishful thinking or the flimsy membrane might actually have some real effect on me. "Change form?" I said with disdain. "Of course I can't. Nothing can. You've been tricked by children's fables. I'm ashamed of you all—chasing a legend when our world has been threatened."
"Legend?" said a Feneden I didn't know, an older male at Anisco's shoulder. His body patterns were almost painfully hot; it had an effect like a strong wind blowing through all of our cilia at once. "Tell me this, Legend," he growled. "How did you leave Fened Prime, when only we were permitted to do so?"
Anisco jumped in: "And where are your life-companions? No true Feneden would be alone, whether they believe or not. That custom is too deeply ingrained in all of us—we learn it from birth. To be alone is to tempt the Shifter." Her eyelids flashed red twice. "Any Feneden alone, any Stranger among us, is the Shifter. You."
Thanks, Ersh, I told her memory, tasting the bitterness of it. An entire civilization primed to weed out imposters. No wonder she'd left.