"I will expire within seconds," I informed him, "unless I get something to eat."
His generous mouth lifted at one corner. "Try this," he said, offering me a small, yellowish bar. I took it in my fingers. It looked as appetizing as soap. "Go on. Take a bite. Trust me."
At those words, I put the bar back in his hand.
Had I struck him, I thought coldly, there might have been a similar look of hurt on his face. Since, at the moment, I would have preferred the blow to come from a larger, stronger me, I wasn't sympathetic. "I'll wait for the med, thank you, Horn Cameron," I said, politely.
"Of course, Fem Tilesen. My mistake." Paul's level, controlled voice was so at odds with his stricken look, I was certain he believed we were overheard. "I only hoped to help you get ready for our visitors."
Visitors? I stared at him, wishing—not for the first time—that I could nibble a bit of him and learn what I needed to know. There were some advantages to how web-beings shared information.
The opening door made us both jump, but it was only the med, balancing a tray loaded with more of the small, yellow bars and several full glasses of what appeared to be beer. "I was told these were safe, Fem, so I brought as many as we had," the little Human said cheerfully. "These are Engullan crabcakes. There's quite a bit of protein in them. I can't say much about the taste." This last somewhat doubtfully as he put the tray beside me on the examining bench. "Have you eaten, Horn Cameron?" the med asked worriedly.
I dipped one of the cakes into what appeared to be beer, judging they had to taste better that way. Both Humans watched me; the med with a look of anxious anticipation. Paul? He'd schooled his face back to neutral interest, an expression familiar from countless negotiations with greedy traders and entrepreneurs. I knew him well enough to recognize impatience and growing temper, emotions I could match quite easily.
Relying on Ersh-memory—and making a mental note to never be this ignorant about a form before using it again—I ran my fingers down the front of the e-rig to expose the mounds of feeding cilia where a Human had breasts. The med made a funny noise in the back of his throat, and I glanced up. "I said I wasn't theta-class," I reminded him, breaking off a piece of the dampened cake and offering to my left mound. The cilia reached out greedily, like the warm fingers of a hungry child, collecting every crumb to convey to my feeding mouth. As I'd feared, the cakes were foul-tasting and dry, while the beer was warm and, to this form, had a heavy aftertaste. Regardless, I shoved a glass of beer as deeply into my right mound as I could manage without spilling it—Human containers leaving a great deal to be desired—and absorbent cilia slipped reluctantly into the liquid.
It was probably the worst meal I'd ever had, but I felt my Feneden-self strengthening with each morsel and sip, so I kept at it with the grim determination of a soldier on the march. Paul, realizing I wasn't about to talk to him anymore, and so without reason to stay, watched my gluttony for a few moments before running a hand through his thick hair like a being driven to distraction and took his leave.
The med, visibly distressed by my eating habits, was even worse company. I sent him on an errand to find fresh clothing, leaving me alone to finish the remaining three dozen crabcakes and four glasses of warm beer.
I waited, giving both Humans ample time to clear the corridor, then put aside the tray with relief and stood up. Before I closed my suit, I shoved a handful of cakes inside the front for my feeding cilia to worry at—this body being far from satisfied. I was ready to go.
Of course, I hadn't thought at all about who else might be outside the door.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
KEARN hesitated, surprised by the being who seemed to just appear in his way. The bedraggled Feneden was as lovely, or more so, than Anisco, despite wearing the remains of what looked to be an e-rig more appropriate for strolling around Iftsen Secondus' market street than a starship's corridors. He hadn't known any of the species was on board the freighter.
She was shorter than the others, peering directly at him through clouds of reddish-brown cilia, and appeared charmingly shy. A nice change, he thought, from other, somewhat difficult members of this species. He bowed, a bit stiff in his dress uniform, and smiled reassuringly.
The Feneden's eyelids flashed red, then she bowed as well, rising with a smile. "Greetings, Horn Kearn," she said in accent-free comspeak, her tone low and soft.
"Greetings—" Kearn stopped. She had no translation machine. "I didn't know any Feneden could—"
She made the universal gesture for quiet, one slender finger over her lips, and slipped her other hand beneath his elbow. Numbly, he let her draw him down the corridor. After taking a look inside, she pulled him into the next room, a storage space barely large enough for them both. "Horn Kearn," she whispered quickly. "The Feneden—my people—need your help."
He sighed theatrically, oddly disappointed. "Please don't start, my dear Fem. I haven't even confirmed if the survivors are who your people say they are. And I've heard enough from Fem Anisco about how much you want me to make sure the Shifter is finally dead."
She seemed to stop breathing for a moment. "And this is why you are here?" she asked finally, her face inexplicably troubled. His arm felt warm under her small hand.
"The Shifter is important and dangerous," Kearn began, tired of the argument and claustrophobic in the tiny room, then, suddenly, released his pent frustration. If only he could get one of them to understand! "But the Shifter isn't as important or dangerous as a war. I'm here to make sure the Iftsen—why can't you hear the name!—stop a terrible mistake. You people have to start listening."
Her other hand crept to his arm, resting there lightly, as if a tiny bird dared to trust him. "The Iftsen," she said, her mouth working as though the word burned her lips. "I am listening, Horn Kearn."
His head whirled with relief. "Thank goodness. You have to tell the others. You can't keep robbing the Iftsen. You have to communicate with them. You must stop immediately—and return what you've taken—before the Iftsen find another weapon to threaten Fened Prime." He put one hand over hers, feeling its warmth and the subtle pebbling of subcutaneous scales. "Please. The Iftsen have never been warlike. You—the actions of a few of your people—are driving them to this. There have even been Ganthor involved!" Kearn searched her face, trying to impose some meaning to her thoughtful expression.
"I hadn't thought to find someone so—impassioned—among your kind, Horn Kearn. I believe you are the one I have sought."
Kearn hardly breathed. "Me?" he said faintly.
"You. Did you know, Horn Kearn, that my species sees polarized light?" the strange Feneden asked him. "We see the night stars in the sky, and literally sense our place on our world and within our communities."
Kearn was confused. "What does that—?"
"This ability separates the sentient species of our world from the nonsentient, Horn Kearn. It is the basis of many of our legends. You know of the—Shifter, but do you know of the older beliefs? That all demons come from a land without stars—void of obligations to each other, outside of rules, because they can never feel where they are or where they belong. It is our Hell, Horn Kearn. And one must never talk about demons or admit they exist, lest they hear and take you there."
Kearn felt his eyes widening. "The Iftsen," he breathed, playing the ramifications over in his mind. The smallest things, he thought, remembering innumerable such mistakes between species, though none as intense as this. Impulsively, he grabbed the strange Feneden and hugged her. "This is marvelous. This is—"
"A little uncomfortable," she said, easing out of his hold.
"My apologies, Fem. I must go. I must arrange a meeting—Upperside would be best, don't you think?" Kearn rambled, not really expecting an answer. "Somewhere neutral, but with stars. Yes. Lots of stars. But through an atmosphere. A projection, perhaps."
"There's that Iftsen saga about the constellations," she suggested. "The one the Moberans use at their Birthing Moon Festival.
That should help prove the Iftsen know astronomy."
"Ideal. Yes, ideal. Part of a formal occasion. It will have to be planned very carefully so the Feneden feel safe." Then, it was as if the universe had shifted on every axis possible. What Feneden would be familiar with Iftsen sagas? Kearn could sense the blood draining out of his face and head as he looked into her impossibly blue eyes and knew.
He was in a closet with his worst nightmare.
"Thank you, Lionel," his Monster said ever so gently.
Everything went black.
Chapter 48: Storeroom Afternoon; Hydroponics Afternoon
« ^ »
I LEFT the storeroom door ajar, having no wish to see the poor Human suffocate while he recovered from what I hoped was a simple fainting spell and not a major failure of some body part.
It was, I hummed to myself, another pleasing symmetry—a state of balance I always attempted in my life, but rarely managed. The fates were so seldom cooperative.
Walking right into Kearn had been a serious shock, not to mention I hadn't been overly pleased to find the Feneden had sent him to kill me, if they hadn't already. But I'd always regretted becoming Kearn's personal demon. Likely I still was, I thought rather sadly.
That didn't matter. Kearn had redeemed himself in my eyes the moment he showed he would leave the chase when a true crisis arose. With any luck at all, he would now be able to redeem himself to his superiors and any doubters by finding a solution to the dispute between the Iftsen and their starry-eyed Feneden thieves. A pleasing symmetry, indeed.
Ah. The central freight lift was empty. I slipped inside and sent it down. One level. Two. Three. I hit the stop and stood to one side as the doors opened. All clear.
The hydroponics room. I almost ran, eager to shed this form and return to Esen, to be invisible, hidden, safe. To be where I could gam the mass I needed without sacrificing a friend.
I keyed open the door, looking over my shoulder. The corridors were conveniently empty. If it hadn't been for the lighting, I'd have assumed it was shipnight and most of the crew were off-station. Perhaps, I thought with a shudder, they were gathered on the bridge discussing what to do with their Shifter.
Or, I realized numbly as I entered the tank room and listened to the door close behind me, they could all be here.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
"I SAID, wake him up!"
Lefebvre waved aside the mutely protesting med—from the look of him, more likely an engine-room-tech on temp assignment, typical trader economy—and shook Kearn's shoulders, careful not to bend the silver epaulettes. "Sir?"
Kearn's eyes cracked open. Almost instantly, his hands fastened like claws above Lefebvre's elbows and he pulled hard, drawing Lefebvre down so their faces almost touched. "I saw her!" he whispered desperately. "I saw her!"
That certainly explained finding the Project Leader in a dead faint in a storeroom, Lefebvre thought with some disgust. What had Esen been thinking? He broke Kearn's hold with an easy motion, nodding at the med. "Leave us. And close the door, please."
"Are you all right, sir?" Lefebvre then asked, keeping his voice neutral. "I found you passed out in the hallway. Has this happened before?"
"Yes, I'm fine. No. It wasn't the hallway," Kearn said roughly, struggling up. Lefebvre helped him sit, then stand. "And no, of course it hasn't happened before. Help me up!"
"Are you sure you should—so soon?"
Kearn scowled furiously at him. "Are you deaf, Lefebvre? Didn't you hear what I said? I saw her! Esen's on this ship! Now!" He began walking to the door, then staggered; Lefebvre steadied him before he toppled to the floor.
"Now, sir," Lefebvre said in his most persuasive voice, "you know that's impossible. She's not here."
"Not here?" Kearn looked ready to faint again. "Of course she's here. They found her—they found Ragem in the dome—"
"No, sir," Lefebvre said in his most reasonable voice. "The Vega Lass came after two of her own crew—they'd been on Iftsen Secondus for the Festival and were caught up by the Feneden. The crewmen aren't pressing any charges. Timri's looking into why the Feneden would have mistaken them for—"
"No!"
"Please calm yourself, sir. I spoke to them just now. They're a bit shaken, but none the worse for the experience. I was on my way to inform you when I found you unconscious." Lefebvre paused. "Maybe you were dreaming."
"I was not! The Esen Monster was as close to me as—as you are now! She took me into the storeroom."
"The storeroom? Sir, you were in the hallway." Lefebvre almost choked. Esen!
Kearn frowned. "I was?" He shook his head, looking troubled. "I remember. I was in the hallway, then she led me into the storeroom."
"Why would she do that, sir?"
"Do what?"
Lefebvre began easing Kearn back to the cot. "Why would she take you into the storeroom, sir? Are you quite sure that's what happened? After all, I found you lying in the hallway, alone. You gave me a scare, sir."
"The hallway?" Kearn seemed numb as he acquiesced, his hands fluttering about as though he'd forgotten them. Lefebvre wondered guiltily if he should call back the med. "It—it all seemed so real—" Kearn's voice trailed away. "And She was a Feneden, Captain. A beautiful Feneden, with tiny hands and eyes the bluest blue."
"Such things can appear very real," Lefebvre said soothingly. "I think you should rest, sir. Perhaps the med can give you a sedative. Things might seem clearer if you relax."
Kearn nodded, lying back and closing his eyes. His pursed lips moved in and out, as though he was replaying something said in his sleep. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide and he lunged up, grabbing Lefebvre by the front of his uniform.
"No time! We have to hurry!" Kearn said almost frantically. "I must arrange an immediate meeting on Upperside between the Feneden and the Iftsen. I've learned what's causing the difficulty between their cultures. It's imperative they be dealt with promptly."
"Learned? How?"
Kearn's expression worked its way from pride to shame and settled on deeply perplexed. "My dream," he admitted. "In my dream, the Esen Monster spoke to me. She had unique insights into the—the physical nature of the Feneden and why it was preventing them from dealing with the Iftsen." He paused and shook his head, then looked at Lefebvre pleadingly. "I—I don't understand how or what happened. Why would she tell me—me, of all beings? Why would she do that?"
"Anything can happen in a dream, or hallucination," Lefebvre told him, both amazed and appalled by the risk Esen had taken. "Maybe your subconscious used this—image—to pull the facts together from your research. No matter how you've done it, sir, this could be the breakthrough in understanding we've all been waiting for. Congratulations."
"Congratulations?" It was as if a new person was climbing out of the shell of Lionel Kearn, Lefebvre thought, watching the transformation with awe. Kearn sat up, his shoulders rose and straightened, his head lifted. "Captain Lefebvre."
"Yessir."
"Have the Feneden meet me on the Vigilant," Kearn ordered sternly. "We'll be going directly to Iftsen Secondus to get to the bottom of this mess. Meanwhile," he hesitated, then went on, "meanwhile, I want an immediate and complete search of this ship and the dome for the Esen Monster and her accomplice. I know. I know," Kearn said, forestalling Lefebvre's protest. "It had to be some sort of hallucination—I've been under a lot of stress, lately. Too much for any one being to bear. But we have to satisfy the Feneden and find out what's been happening here. You'll be in charge of it, Captain, until I'm finished with my diplomatic duties. Then I'll be back on the Russ'." There was a definite gleam in Kearn's eye. "Count on it, Captain."
"Yes, sir," Lefebvre said, saluting crisply, hardly daring to hope it was going to work, abruptly wondering if it was like this all the time for Esen and Paul.
Kearn took a couple of steadying breaths, then stood. Gathering himself, he went to the door. Lefebvre opened it for him and stood to one side. As Kearn passed, he slowed, then st
opped. "On occasion," he said very quietly, not looking at Lefebvre, "I have received messages—information—from an unknown supporter in my search. This information has always been very accurate."
Explaining a few things, Lefebvre thought. "Should I be watching for more of these in your absence, sir?" he ventured.
Kearn shook his head, once. "With the—theft—of my supporter's 'gift,' I imagine those messages will stop. But I thought you should know, Captain, just in case. I leave how you deal with any future contact to your discretion." He rose to his full height, "I have a war to prevent."
Chapter 49: Hydroponics Afternoon
« ^ »
THERE were five Humans waiting for me in the hydroponics room of the Vegas Lass. Those to my left had faces which swam up from my memories of Paul's gift. One was an older male, lean, with the look of a working spacer despite being dressed like a diplomat or politician about to greet royalty. The other was female, perhaps the same age, tall and dark, wearing a Commonwealth uniform with comp specialist bars on sleeves and legs, and inscribed on one pocket: Russell III. I found myself pitying Lefebvre and Kearn, carrying a spy with them. I wondered, among so many questions, if either knew.
Two more stood to my right, these faces from my own past: Tomas and Lawrenk Jen, crewmates from Paul's original ship, the Rigus III. Tomas wore civilian garb as if planning a night out in some insystem bar. His face matched my memory almost perfectly, though its cheerfulness was suggested only by the creases that usually marked dimples. Lawrenk Jen was now a captain, Commonwealth military, with the Vigilant written in small silver script along her collar. Her hair had silvered along both sides and her face looked less open than I remembered, as though more than my secret had burdened her heart.
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