“Where?” I asked, trying to twist my ears to listen for following footsteps without being obvious.
“There’s a residence for the Ambassador caste at the edge of the All Sapients’ District. They’re willing to put us up—they don’t take in regular tourists, but as the founders of Cameron & Ki Exports, we have sufficient reputation to qualify. I’ve dealt with some shipments for them in the past. They’ve sent a ’bot to meet us at the end of this lane.”
“D’Dsellans don’t take aliens into their homes,” I protested, now having a comparison to make of something less likely than being hit by a careless hoverbot.
“This place is an exception,” Paul said, pulling me forward when my feet seemed inclined to plant themselves. “Something new. They use it as a training area for individuals going offworld, or who will be working directly with other species for prolonged periods. Should be fine. By tomorrow, our other arrangements should be straightened out and we can pick up the rest of our things.” He paused. “Aren’t you pleased?”
There were two layers of meaning to that, I realized abruptly, attuned to the inflections of his voice. More exactly, he was reminding me there could be two audiences for my response. Paul himself hoped this closer contact with the Panacians would please me—and it did. That he also wanted my enthusiasm for any eavesdropper was far less pleasant.
“It’s an amazing opportunity, Paul,” I enthused obediently, deciding to keep my last meal in the fourth stomach despite the hollowness of the others. “I’m very pleased. Thrilled, in fact. You could say I’m—”
A discreet tap on the scales of my arm ended what I admitted might have been a little too much enthusiasm, but the sun was definitely down now and my Lishcyn nature was populating the evening shadows with more than sufficient threat for calm. My friend must have known, because he picked up our pace to bring us to a widening in the walkway.
The area we entered was flooded with light, to my intense relief, the reason being a sizable number of purple-carapaced Builders ripping down the front of the building to our left. They were larger and bulkier than other Panacians—since the effective extinction of the warrior caste—and possessed incredible strength in each of their six limbs. Triple-hinged claws in the upper two pairs gripped an assortment of tools, most spouting flames of one color or another. They paid no attention to us, keeping their gleaming, faceted eyes on their task. As I watched, several clambered easily on the shoulders of others, even more repeating with their free claws locked between neighbors’ leg segments until the building was coated to its roof in a living scaffold, each component burning away at the existing wall until it appeared to be vanishing before my eyes.
The coordination of effort and ceaseless, glittering movement were breathtaking. Paul tugged on my arm. “Let’s go, Es. Our ride’s here.”
I looked where he was leading me and hesitated. There were three hoverbots suspended an easy step from the ground: one for each of us, and the other for our luggage. It shouldn’t have surprised me. Panacians, especially the more old-fashioned families on D’Dsel herself, did not allow more than one individual per ’bot. They told offworlders it was a safety precaution. In truth, it had significantly more to do with the joys of dancing in a swarm while totally anonymous. These calm, practical beings had their wilder side.
Which didn’t mean I relished the idea of being separated, especially with Paul’s suspicion we were being watched. I made a pretext of brushing construction dust from Paul’s shoulder, the proximity allowing me to sense the medallion. I’d need to be in web-form to find him at any distance, an exposure I couldn’t risk except as a last resort. But his wearing my gift reassured me enough to climb into the ’bot with only a slightly anxious: “Is it a long trip?”
Paul leaned in, checking what he could see of the hoverbot’s minimal controls. Apparently I wasn’t the only one concerned about being separated. “A few minutes, unless you have to wait for a spot,” he answered almost absently, then turned his head. At such close quarters I could only see him with one eye, and at that could only glimpse the downturned edge of his mouth. “If we get separated, Es, I’ll meet you at the usual place. Don’t start hunting around on your own. That’s how the tourist wound up going in circles until he passed out in a park—”
“And woke up inside the new steam bath,” I finished. “I told you that one, remember? The usual place goes for you, too. I’m more concerned about the luggage anyway. I have three new outfits in there.”
He smacked my knee companionably. “That explains the extra mass charges.”
The door of the hoverbot closed as Paul backed out, the vehicle immediately leaping upward. The Lishcyn, while not the best with heights, was a reasonably good traveler—especially with the internal antigrav working. I studiously avoided looking straight down, instead enjoying the way my ’bot jigged and danced its way into position within the seemingly random flow of aerial traffic. As all appeared identical, I didn’t bother trying to guess which one was Paul’s. There wasn’t much I could do at this point regardless.
The Human had been right. It wasn’t a long trip. Almost before I’d indented the cushioning, the ’bot dropped from the sky, sighing to a stop beside a well-lit balcony.
Interesting effect, I thought to myself, cautiously assessing my stomachs. The ’bot opened and the seat pushed me out. Fortunately it hovered sufficiently over the balcony that I wasn’t in immediate danger of free-falling, although I might have gripped the offered claws more firmly than was truly polite.
“Welcome, Fem Esolesy Ki of Cameron & Ki Exports,” this soft, accent-free comspeak from a slender Panacian of, predictably, the Ambassador caste. She was approximately one third the size of the Builders I’d seen, her carapace a shiny, almost iridescent blue flawed only by an unusual patterning etched into the left side of her abdomen. She was standing in the entranceway to the interior of the building. Two more Panacians stood at my side, one whose upper claw I released with a quick apology.
“I am N’Klet, Fem Ki,” the speaker continued. “I have been assigned to welcome you. Please let me know how we can help you enjoy our home.” She bowed, an incredibly gracious movement involving not one but two body divisions. The other two echoed her.
I returned the bow, an accomplishment for my Lishcyn-self involving a practiced compromise between a moment of semi-graceful balance and a swift recovery before tipping completely over. “I wish all honor to your home, N’Klet. Is my partner here yet? Hom Cameron?”
Another spoke, with an equally melodious voice. I began to feel like a rusty servo by comparison. “I am C’Tlas, Fem Ki. I have been assigned to your care. Hom Cameron is about to arrive, Fem Ki. We would ask you to move farther into the room now.”
That mildly delivered advice seemed wise to follow—I wasn’t worried about being swept from the railless balcony by the hoverbots dropping from the heavens, but if Paul was launched from his seat as abruptly as I’d been, the willing claws waiting to catch him could use my absence. I followed C’Tlas from the balcony.
I’d caught the merest glimpse of the exterior of this building, but enough to notice it was taller than most and unusually old. One didn’t ask questions about architecture except of the creators of an individual building—it was considered deeply offensive to discuss art without the artist present, leading, I recalled from Mixs’ memories, to some interesting semantic twists when debating what to do with the structures of deceased Builders. Perhaps that was where the Panacian belief in reincarnation in each generation had originated. Many of those newly emerged (or, in Mixs’ case, those pretending to be new) assumed the name of a famous ancestor of their family, in this culture thus gaining both the identity and the accomplishments of that individual.
It was certainly linked to the presence of the “old Queen,” the mummified corpse kept in the basement of every household to figuratively represent the rights and opinions of previous generations. On other Panacian worlds, the old queen was a statuette, often crafted in th
e likeness of an exalted forebear. On D’Dsel herself, the old queen was literally that.
Still, this building’s age was unusual. I recognized the style as being in use over a hundred planet years ago. By Panacian standards, did this mean the school had been housed in what passed for a slum? Or, I suddenly concluded with an inner grin, was this how the Ambassador caste dealt with the confusion of aliens? It had to be difficult to host meetings when your guests couldn’t recognize the building from visit to visit. If my supposition was correct, the Ambassador caste had made some significant advances in dealing with other cultures since my last visit. I was impressed. Of course, that’s what they’d been designed to do, from their smaller, starship-sized bodies to the suppleness of their vocal apparatus and quick, adaptive minds. Panacians were as boldly experimental with themselves as with their living space.
This particular living space was just as unique. Compliments were acceptable, if properly phrased. “This is most considerate of your guests, C’Tlas,” I said warmly, admiring the huge room with its assortment of furniture. It wasn’t pretty, or well-matched. In fact, I doubted there were two pieces of furniture from the same planet, let alone the same manufacturer. But, at a glance, there was something worth sitting, lying, oozing, or squatting on for almost every species known to the Commonwealth. Those missing were the ones who couldn’t have breathed the atmosphere here anyway—a practical and perfectly logical omission.
“I serve the Hive in all things,” C’Tlas murmured in a pleased tone. “There are sleeping accommodations through the passageway, Fem Ki. Food preparation,” she paused as if to frame a delicate topic, “and other biological needs are in different areas. All is within easy reach. Should you require anything we have not provided, you need only ask.”
“Exceptional courtesy,” this from Paul, whose gray eyes found me before looking around the room. I flashed a tusk at him as the Human entered with N’Klet, who must be his assigned guide, the remaining D’Dsellan in their wake carrying our few bits of luggage.
“Hom Cameron. Fem Ki,” said N’Klet. “Welcome to the School of Alien Etiquette. I express the extreme delight of our Queen and family that you so kindly accepted our invitation. Our Queen also wishes me to thank you for your discretion in this important matter.”
Invitation? I felt my ears try to touch the ceiling. Discretion? It was amazing how two words could so dramatically change one’s perception of certain recent events. I looked over at Paul, suddenly convinced I’d been thoroughly manipulated into leaving my work, coming to this place, and becoming involved in something yet to be revealed to me by the one being who knew me well enough to succeed.
A vacation, indeed.
Elsewhere
“FOR once, I agree with Kearn. You can’t leave now.” Timri folded her hands together neatly as she spoke; she’d explained the nervous habit years ago, in a bar they’d both forgotten, on a night they’d said too much to each other for comfort. She’d wanted to fit in to her father’s culture, which frowned on personal excesses such as the expressive hand gesturing of her mother’s upbringing. That culture had also frowned on military service, making it necessary for Timri to choose between planet and parent. The planet may have won, but the habit remained decades later.
“It’s not up for debate, Timri,” Lefebvre replied, unsurprised by her reaction. Sas hadn’t been impressed either. Enjoy yourselves, he thought, inclined to be amused. Misery loves company.
Lefebvre regretted the impulse to stop by the comp station and say good-bye. He could have left, been away for days, and returned before most of the crew, including Timri, noticed—particularly while the Russell III sat in the shipcity. They’d become used to his solitary ways, to a captain who wandered through the bridge when it suited him, a physical presence on the ship by virtue of a closed door when it didn’t.
“I’ll make you a bet,” Lefebvre announced impulsively, leaning back on the doorframe with his arms folded. He was out of uniform, barely, having chosen to pull on a nondescript pair of spacer overalls—the type worn by independent traders and used for rough work by almost everyone aboard this ship. If the crew assumed it was so he could cruise the shipcity bars, that was fine by him. “I’ll make you a bet,” he repeated. “If anything comes up—anything at all—worth finding while I’m gone, I’ll punch through that promotion you’ve been after.” He watched the calculating gleam appear in Timri’s dark eyes. They both knew Kearn’s tendency to sit on promotions in case the encouragement prompted a crewbeing to leave his ship for greener pastures. “He’s never going to okay it,” Lefebvre reminded her.
“And if nothing comes up?”
His smile changed his face. It should have made it warmer, but somehow the expression turned the lines around eyes and mouth into something dark and bitter, “Then nothing’s changed or changes—which is exactly what’s going to happen while I take my two days off this scow. You really should try it, Timri. You won’t miss a thing.”
Timri turned her back to him, her hands lifting to the boards. “I don’t intend to.”
Lefebvre walked away, a small carryroll in his right hand, and prepared to leave the Russ’. As he did, he said to himself: “Neither do I.”
9: School Morning; School Afternoon
PAUL’S obsession with the courier pouch—indeed everything about that final day on Minas XII—had finally started to make sense. Well, I admitted, it didn’t so much make sense as it lent itself to a conclusion.
There had been something for him in the pouch. Something he hadn’t wanted anyone else to find.
Not even me.
“More furrit slices, Fem Ki?”
I was thinking furiously, trying to follow what threads I had, and nodded absentmindedly until furrit slices built to a towering height on my platter and I realized what I’d done. “Forgive me, C’Tlas. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I’ll bring a larger platter,” she offered.
I squinted down at the pile of orange-red fruit and sighed. “Thank you,” I said, resigned to having to eat more than anyone should. Furrits were tasty enough; they just took a long time in the third stomach of this form—seriously cramping my room for dessert.
What did Paul want me to figure out? What were we doing here? Alone while C’Tlas hunted a way to keep my juicy mountain tidy, I turned my attention back to these and other questions.
There had been no clues during our evening here. The Panacians had swept my Human and me on a tour of their school, introducing us to what had to be every member of this novel extended family with the exception of its core: the Queen. There had to be one—no cohesive unit of Panacians, closely related or not, functioned without the guiding pheromones of their monarch. Neither Paul nor I required an explanation; meeting the Queen was out of the question. Access to Her Radiance was restricted even among her family.
The introductions themselves had been informative. We shared this portion of the building with a surprisingly small group: thirty-six females of assorted ages, including the three who had greeted us, and six adolescent drones who appeared to be contentedly confined to the kitchen amid absorbent B’Bklar plants—presumably to protect them in the event of pheromonal enticements from other houses. None had been introduced as Her Glory or Sec-ag, those titles reserved for those of accomplishments worthy of note outside the household. Since Panacians were not a humble species, this suggested none of that rank were present at the school—or willing to be known to us. Another oddity to add to a growing list about this place.
Apt students, beyond any doubt. The exchange of pleasantries had been in immaculate comspeak, with exquisitely perfect gestures appropriate to each of our species. While mimicking a Human handshake was typically straightforward for any being with limbs, I had to give them credit for finding a way to flash a tusk. At first, I’d assumed the Panacians had something stuck behind one of their food-handling palps, making it necessary to protrude that palp in my direction. Most thoughtful, I thought approvingly—once I’d r
ealized they were attempting to smile at me rather than prying food from their mandibles—and smiled back. Multiple exterior mouth parts were tricky things to read.
In turn, I had the distinct feeling we were an assignment—an alien culture field trip conveniently brought to the students. While I didn’t mind, I knew that wasn’t why Paul had brought us here.
Opportunity to question my partner about this didn’t arise. One moment we were surrounded by groups of curious Panacians, the next we’d been adroitly separated so Paul could be led to his quarters and I to mine. There was a wealth of meaning in the look he tossed back at me, which probably would have been helpful had I interpreted more from it than the usual, “behave.”
Advice I’d taken, I nodded to myself, tossing a handful of furrit into my mouth and chewing slowly. I’d behaved, weaving my way among beds of all shapes and sizes to the box of real grass they’d prepared for me, although momentarily tempted by a gently bubbling bowl of yellow ooze I knew was the way to really sleep if you happened to be a Whirtle. I’d been unable to stop myself from at least leaning on a spectacular post bed designed for a Skenkran. The hangers for those immense clawed feet looked perfect for my version of that form.
But I’d resisted all temptation to experiment, gaining a good sleep. Now, breakfasting alone except for the helpful services of C’Tlas, I was doing my best to decipher the rapid and mysterious events that had brought these furrits and my shaggy-scaled self to this table.
Paul had itemized most while we were on the Galaxy Goddess. I spread furrits out as markers: one for the Ganthor, one for Chase’s confrontation with the Tly, an especially thick slice for the pouch of mail and Paul’s reaction to it. A second row held a piece for the Feneden and one for the Ambassador School.
Changing Vision Page 11
