Hidden in Sight

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The almost intimate arrangement of living quarters between species who couldn’t survive one another’s natural environment unprotected was all Ansky’s doing. Before falling to sleep, I remembered hoping I wasn’t going to have to explain “why” to Paul.

  When I awoke and looked around myself for the first time, I realized it was likely too late. The lowermost walls of my room were a ring of interesting objects. Oieta objects. I bent my oculars into my ventral surface, as if that would help. When I dared look again, the interesting objects were still there. When Ansky was running the place, such things had at least been discreetly inside an orange-and-black trunk. And what was that? I sculled into an upside-down position to try and comprehend the use of one I’d never seen before. It had these twisty fibers . . .

  “Good morning! Or is it night?”

  I scooted backward so quickly my dorsal ridge hit the mesh and I rebounded into the center of my bubble. “G-good morning,” I ventured, peering down at Paul.

  Clean, dressed, and smiling. Amazing recuperative powers, Humans. And already busy, I noted with satisfaction. Paul may have greeted me, but he was occupied with what he’d probably planned to do before falling asleep in the ’fresher—scouring his room for listening devices.

  “You don’t need to do that here,” I told him rather smugly. Esen the Clever. “The Brim takes privacy very seriously. Snoops and other devices are illegal.”

  He grunted and climbed on the oversized bed to check behind a painting. “They usually are. Doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “Then what might is that the Prumbin screen all incoming luggage—and bodies—in the processing area for anything that could be used to spy or record. Not to mention Ansky and Mixs took special care here, when they built the Happy House. Ansky wanted to be sure no other owner would be able to modify her building to eavesdrop on her guests.”

  “Why—” Paul began, then appeared to really look at the painting in front of him. I sculled closer to the floor to see him better. “Oh,” he said.

  “She was interested in relationships,” I said defensively.

  He tilted his head to one side and continued to study the painting. “I see that.”

  “She enjoyed her work,” I added, then blushed so dark a green I might have been black. “What I meant—”

  Paul looked up at me. His lips quirked and there might have been a twinkle in his eyes. “I did meet her, as you recall. A being of rare charm and warmth.”

  Since he could equally well have said: of rare appetite and boundless enthusiasm, and, from his apparent mood, probably would say that—or worse—if I let him continue, I quickly changed the subject: “There is room service, if you’re hungry.”

  “I’d rather go exploring.”

  Any remnants of green were swept from my shell by pleased amber and yellow. “Wonderful! This is a—”

  “On my own.”

  Ersh. I burped a bubble from my swim sac and settled to the floor, trying in vain to keep my shell from turning a confused mix of red and gray. I might as well hold up a sign, I scolded myself, imagining it saying: See Esen’s feelings! Now showing: resentful hurt.

  Still standing on the bed, Paul stretched up to press his hand against the ceiling under my limp arms. I thought I felt its warmth and rolled my oculars so I could see his face. “You are a goose,” the Human said inaccurately, but in that calm, gentle voice that implied he understood something I didn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time. “I only meant I want a chance to scout without attracting attention. Your idea of a Soft Companion was very clever, Esippet, but anyone hunting us will be looking for a Human paired with an alien. We’re conspicuous together.”

  “Not here,” I mumbled, flashing green again.

  A dark eyebrow lifted. Paul opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed to notice my color. He lowered his hand and rubbed his lean jaw, a habit when mulling over a new thought.

  I sighed and rose from the floor to a more dignified posture. It didn’t help, but I went on anyway, carefully not looking at Paul or the devices in my own room. “Ansky built this place for members of different species who wish to—experiment with their biological urges—but had—” if I’d had teeth, I would have gritted them myself here, “—technical difficulties. The Happy House is quite—renowned—in some circles for the capabilities of its staff.” Though not as much as it would have been if Ansky had permitted word to spread. She’d relied on the Prumbins’ desire to keep their undersea paradise from being overrun by air-breathing tourists. No one was ever turned away, but, to be blunt, Nirvana wasn’t on any maps.

  Lesy, the only one of my web-kin who’d been prone to giggle at the universe, had explained to me that it wasn’t so much that the Prumbins made an effort to keep the Abyss secret, as that other sentients tended to be confused by the entire concept of paying to tour Prumbin Heaven.

  One-way pilgrimage and interspecies’ confusion aside, Nirvana and the Brim had become popular destinations for the handful of adventurous and colorful aquatics like the Oietae who enjoyed the rarity of decent accommodations at abyssal depths. They didn’t appear to care that the Prumbin offered discounts for beauty—or that the Happy House offered them for ardor. Not that those individuals of varied species aware of the special opportunities offered by Anienka’s establishment were prone to discuss them with the uninformed. They were—too busy.

  It was, I realized, an apt name for a place where one being’s pleasure was literally another being’s joy. Or more. There were larger suites.

  “Oh,” Paul said finally, instilling the sound with a wealth of meaning. “Well, that does help explain the activity last night in the front lobby. I’d wondered if I was seeing things.”

  “They were after the group rate,” I mumbled. There was something else he should know. I sculled myself around to look down at him. “You don’t have to wish interaction to stay here,” I said, now well past embarrassment. “It is a hotel. But there are those who come here alone in search of—interested—partners of other species.”

  “So that’s why the Jylnic behind us kept slipping his tentacle around my feet?”

  “What?” I flared brilliant red from antennae to telson until Paul grinned and I knew he was teasing me. Subsiding to annoyed pink, I said with what I considered admirable restraint: “You are an attractive being. For a Human. Roaming about on your own will doubtless have you being accosted improperly—by Jylnics as well as who knows what. As long as I’m with you, this won’t happen. As often,” I amended, having surveyed my friend critically during this little speech and realizing, to my dismay, that Paul Ragem was probably more attractive now than at any stage in his life. I wasn’t counting those early months when, as a baby, he doubtless melted Human hearts at a considerable distance, given those eyes and thick lashes.

  Now, as he ran one hand through his tousled black hair and gave me another “Esen is a goose” look, I paid attention to the graceful strength shaped by bone and muscle, the intelligence and compassion molded by an expressive face, the unconscious nobility of every move and word . . .

  And was trapped by the mute vulnerability of grief-bruised eyes—which could probably melt a Prumbin’s sturdy hearts.

  We were in trouble, I thought with sudden and complete conviction, hearing Cosmic laughter already.

  So much for this plan.

  Otherwhere

  THE ribbon was the width of a finger and finer than a hair. She anchored the end of the first piece between her toes and began to wrap it around foot, then ankle, then calf, overlapping the edges with absolute precision. The material formed to her skin. As each new section warmed, it seemed to melt and re-form as skin. Satisfaction.

  The other leg, both arms, fingers, hands. There was no pause, no hesitation, as if she knew her body so well there could be no wasted motion.

  Torso, shoulders were sheathed in ribbon, skin replacing skin.

  She stood at this point and sought a mirror. Not because she couldn’t do this last step by t
ouch alone, but because she wanted to see if the results matched the claims. If they didn’t, she thought calmly, someone would die.

  Encased fingers laid a strip along the rise of throat, over the line of jaw, up the hollows of cheek and brow to lie over the scalp.

  Within a breath, it was as though a knife of flawless cream had slashed across her face, severing the marks of affiliation and trust.

  How—appropriate.

  16: Happy House Morning

  I’D underestimated my Human. Not for the first time. While there were a few incidents during our initial stroll through the corridors of Happy House, he managed to deflect would-be suitors before most did more than take notice. Being an expert in alien cultures did help, I supposed. He knew better than to ignore the batting eye covers of the Heezle, since inattention was a common “follow me” signal and we definitely didn’t want a hopeful pillar of ooze sloshing behind us all day. And I had to admit his strategy during our encounter with the Jylnic worked remarkably well. A pair had approached with their usual reckless speed through the wet corridor, quite rudely shoving me out of their way in their eagerness to check out the new arrival. Paul had lifted one arm, pretended it was a tentacle, then used the bend in his elbow to pantomime it being broken.

  They’d actually offered him condolences and the name of a reliable medic, before dashing away again.

  Through me.

  When I stopped spinning on my long axis, I swam back to Paul’s side. The illusion of walking together was almost perfect, thanks to the clearfoil between us, except for the fact that other pedestrian traffic affected only one of us at a time and I tended to bob. “You lied to those poor creatures,” I commented.

  “I waved.”

  Good point.

  We were finishing our first quick circuit of the facilities. The Happy House was a manageable size, despite its appearance on approach. New arrivals were given suites along the same thread of corridors, allowing the operators to shut down power to any unoccupied threads. Our arrival, luckily, had come during a typically slow season—harvest time for the major growing area on the surface, requiring all available Prumbins of manageable size to participate. As they were too busy for pleasure, they assumed—like many other species—that everyone else was too busy as well. So fewer Busfish were swimming their loads up and down and the Prumbinat shipcities were choked with freighters loading produce.

  I, for one, was pleased with our timing. Paul wasn’t, since he’d hoped for more opportunities to leave the planet at our own convenience. Wait until tomorrow, I sighed. Mind you, nothing seemed to please him today. I rolled an ocular his way. He’d ordered new clothes through room service, entailing a three-way battle between his desire for subdued and inconspicuous, my insistence that he at least look like a joyous being on vacation, and the choices available. The result, a classic black tunic and pants on which he somewhat defiantly displayed the silver pendant I’d given him, was not helping him avoid attention.

  But where another being might see an attractive Human out for a walk, I saw a being on a mission. He was hunting for something, and the number of closed corridors didn’t seem to be helping.

  I’d have helped, if he’d told me what he wanted. Hinting hadn’t worked. I presumed my Human viewed my assertion that we were safe from being overheard here as something not worth testing.

  Another good point.

  A call from behind us interrupted my thoughts. “Hom Gast?” Behind Paul, I corrected as I spun around to see a figure walking quickly in his direction.

  Paul smiled before he turned as though he recognized the voice. “Fem Cheatham.”

  “Wendy, please.” The figure arrived, holding out her hands which, I noted, Paul didn’t hesitate to take in his own in a warm greeting.

  While I stared at this apparition.

  I’d expect any being to look better outside those vile green suits the Prumbins inflicted on unknowing guests, but I hadn’t expected the Oietae’s Soft Companion to look this much better. Granted, I’d only seen her hunched over with exhaustion or surrounded by her charges in a lineup.

  Now? She was definitely no longer hunched. This version stood as tall as my Human and was as slender, though curved in those places appropriate for the other gender. I didn’t have to guess. She was clothed from neck to toe in a tight wrapping of gauze-thin white ribbon, overlaid by a transparent sheath of pale blue-silver that just happened to cling to those curves with every movement. Including breathing. Her face appeared to have the requisite features: flawless skin, expressive dark brows, bright green eyes. Braids of red and black streamed to her waist, flowing over her shoulders and back.

  The colors of rage.

  I distrusted her on sight.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked, her voice annoyingly high-pitched and soft. “I was on my way to lunch.”

  “I do not require intermittent feedings,” I informed her, trying not to extend any bristles, somehow staying a proper, if dull, blue.

  Paul didn’t bother glancing at me. “Wendy, I’d like you to meet Esippet Darnelli Swashbuckly. My Shelled Companion.”

  She turned to face me through the clearfoil. Her eyes went to the com attachment over my pre-gills and then rose to my oculars. “How odd. Usually Soft Companions don’t continue to provide service on the Brim. Unless—” One elegant brow rose. “But no. This Oieta is too young to have any more—interesting—requirements.” She glanced at Paul, then smiled.

  The next time I chose a form, I fumed to myself, it would be one where I didn’t turn a demeaning mix of red and green. If I had to reveal my reactions, I’d prefer to inflate a poison bladder or at least raise spines.

  And there was nothing wrong with a good snarl.

  “I promised to keep an eye on Esippet until her family arrives,” Paul explained, releasing her hands as if he’d forgotten they were still in his.

  “You are very kind.” Her hand strayed as if to touch the pendant. “Must your responsibilities as a babysitter preclude lunch with me?”

  “Babysitter!”

  Before Paul could intercede—most likely to scold me for losing my temper rather than to scold her for being insufferably rude—Wendy bowed in my direction. “My apologies, Fem Swashbuckly,” she said graciously. “I’ve had a difficult experience with the Oietae recently in my care, exhausting in fact, and, well,” she shrugged, which happened to send braids cascading over one shoulder. “I’m probably a little overprotective of other Soft Companions right now.”

  Now Paul did look at me. My first eight swimmerets drooped a little as I read in his face what he wasn’t about to say out loud.

  Who is the more civilized being here, Esen-alit-Quar?

  “No apology necessary, Fem Cheatham,” I said as politely as I could. “It is not my intention to monopolize the time of my Soft Companion.” I decided to impress Paul with my magnanimity. “I have some errands to swim. Paul? I’ll see you back in our rooms later.”

  At the same time, I forced my color into a mottled beige and white, the camouflage hardly functional in a coral-free corridor, but a display with specific meaning to other Oietae depending on the situation. Self-effacement and concern, always. But I hoped Paul remembered what this color pattern conveyed, when used between equals encountering a stranger: caution.

  I’d found I could release a bubble, if sufficiently coated in saliva, that would last long enough to almost reach the uppermost ceiling of my suite, before Paul returned from his lunch. I listened to his footsteps approaching as I watched my latest tiny globe struggle its way past the first inward curve, then the next.

  “Es.”

  It might have traveled free and clear, but I must have made some involuntary movement, however small, that sent a wave following the bubble. It lodged against the force mesh of the near wall, as if trying to find its way to the open ocean, then was gone.

  “I don’t believe it. You’re sulking. Of all the juvenile—”

  “I’m not.” Well, I might have been, but
that was hardly the issue. I sculled upright, then drifted to the floor where I could see him. Paul was staring up at me, his face stern and pale except for a flush over each cheek, proving that Humans had rudimentary color signaling of their own. “We are hiding,” I reminded him. “She is a stranger. It was too dangerous.”

  “You of all beings know Humans are social,” he snapped. “Nothing would be more suspicious than my refusing a friendly invitation to lunch, especially from the only other Human here doing the same work.”

  “You refused other friendly invitations.”

  He ran a hand over his face. “This wasn’t the same.”

  I bobbed up and down. “True. The Heezle was far more attractive.”

  Paul tried to keep looking angry, then his lips twitched. “I’m sure it takes another Heezle to appreciate that.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I said primly, turning a little more amber myself.

  “I don’t really want to know, thank you.” My Human sat on his bed, then lay back, hands behind his head, in order to gaze up at me in comfort. “Before you ask, yes, Wendy was a charming lunch companion and I enjoyed her company. And, yes, given our present circumstances, I spent the entire meal worrying what trouble you could stuff yourself into while I was gone.” He grinned, as if this was humor, but I was fairly sure Paul had done exactly that. I didn’t, I sighed to myself, have the most enviable record. “Of course I’d rather have stayed with you. Happier?”

  A rhetorical question, since I was by now bright amber. “I have never begrudged you time with your own species, Paul.”

  “And that’s the truth, Fangface.” Lightly, as we both shied away from the past. “At least Wendy introduced me to a new dish.”

  I turned an anxious beige. It wasn’t so much that my Oieta-self had minor difficulties with the concept of eating at specific moments in time and serious difficulties with the concept of cooking—which it did—as that I was concerned over what exactly had been in that dish.