Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “We shall dine together and talk of trade.”

  I heard the words without understanding as I came back to the here and now, feeling Paul’s grip tight on my arm. Thankfully, no one else appeared to have noticed my lapse of attention.

  Ersh had left me her private memories, stored as frozen flesh. Although by now I had consumed and assimilated this legacy, most of her memories surfaced only when triggered by events.

  As now.

  I looked into the golden eyes of Anisco the Feneden with complete and utter recognition. There was no problem with the translator. She asked strangers the question that revealed the terrible scars carried by her species, the fear that must have been passed from generation to generation, rearing its ugly head each time they encountered the unknown.

  Her ancestors had been a shifter’s prey. With a heave of nausea in all my stomachs, I remembered their taste.

  Thanks to Ersh.

  11: School Night; School Morning

  IT had been a long time, as Humans felt years, since I’d knowingly kept a secret from my one friend. This one settled around my hearts like a cancer.

  Dining with the Feneden had been a waking nightmare: a bizarre progression of polite, faintly confused small talk, a sequence of Panacian delicacies the Feneden ignored and I’d grimly rammed through to the safety of my fourth stomach. planning to retch it out in the privacy of my room, and—worst of all—seeing Paul’s innocent delight fading more and more into concern each time our eyes met.

  I rinsed out my mouth, wishing memories could be as easily removed.

  I’d known—I’d been forced to share and know—how Ersh had arrived in this galaxy as a barely-aware lump of appetite, seeking only to survive. In my flesh were images and sensations from that time, dull and safe until a starving Ersh had encountered her first non-Web being and consumed it without hesitation. From that moment, the pattern of Ersh’s life, and that of her Web, had been set—for once the web-flesh patterned itself after living intelligence, that need for awareness resounded through every choice of form. To cycle into unthinking matter was to feel suicide; to remain there, literally was.

  Over millennia came experience and learned skills; with learning, came control and conscience. The Ersh of my own past had been wise, calculating, full of caution, and determined to protect other intelligence from being lost.

  That this determination was rooted in what she had done to other species before learning such laudable restraint and compassion, was knowledge I could have cheerfully lived without.

  The Ersh of the Feneden’s past was something else entirely. I would have heaved again, but there was nothing left inside any of my stomachs. I ignored their contradictory complaints about this; nothing I gave them would stay.

  Ersh had stumbled on the Feneden’s world and chosen it as her private larder, living among them at times in secrecy, hunting from the darkness, and at times—and whim—becoming a plague to wipe out entire populations. Despite her cruel harvest, the Feneden had survived, grown in number and culture, developed technology. As they did, the hunter became the hunted. Ersh became cautious, protecting her precious web-self from vengeance. The First Rule of our Web, I thought cynically.

  The monster of the mountains—the Shifter—became a story told to children, a cultural archetype, a warning against strangers.

  A story Ersh remembered for me in numerous versions, having posed so many times as a Feneden child herself. If I wished, I could dredge up her first memory in Feneden form…a memory that included instinctively thrusting her face into the frontal cilia of the Feneden adult who found her, lying naked in the brush where Ersh had cycled to hide herself…a memory that included the taste of partially digested food, warm from the adult’s stomach, conveyed by gentle cilia between Ersh’s new lips—an experience so powerfully satisfying, she decided to stay.

  An act of kindness which doomed that Feneden’s village and others like it for generations to come.

  I twitched an ear, hearing the sound of my supposedly locked door opening, followed by a low, urgent: “Es. Es, where are you?”

  That hadn’t taken long, I thought with significant self-pity. “In here,” I called, unwilling to leave the ’fresher stall with its comforting pulses of water hitting all the right tension areas along my belly. I’d been careful to keep it cool and free of bubbles, though the thought had crossed my mind.

  I heard his footsteps; they went on and on until the Human must have paced around the entire sleeping area twice. I set the ’fresher to dry, keeping my ears twisted so the rush of air wouldn’t deafen me, so I didn’t hear him wander in to what the Panacians politely referred to as the “biological accommodation” until a knuckle rapped on the outside of the stall.

  Without a reasonable excuse to stay inside—having passed the point of excruciatingly clean long ago and my scales puffy with moisture—I shut off the air and leaned out to greet the Human.

  He put one finger in front of his lips, still concentrating on passing his sensor over the fixtures and walls. Explaining the multiple footsteps, I decided, if not why Paul suddenly suspected the Ambassadors of such unPanacian behavior.

  As if I’d asked out loud, Paul said quietly, “Panacians are no longer the only species here, are they?”

  I curled a lip. “Meaning if I can sneak around, so could the Feneden?”

  “Or others,” he agreed. “While you were exploring the top floor, I was—” Paul’s cheeks might have reddened slightly, or it could have been the warmth of the room. “—exploring elsewhere. This building houses several species—including Iftsen.”

  My Human’s curiosity had bested his manners, too? That deserved two tusks, and I shone them at him, meanwhile climbing out and draping my exceedingly clean self in a more conservative caftan. “Iftsen—funny our tour guides didn’t mention they had non-oxy facilities here, given how proud they were about the plumbing,” I said curiously, leading the way into the sleeping area and motioning Paul to sit on one of a pair of wooden blocks. For an instant, I was distracted by memories of how the decorative and heavy rectangular objects were actually used: as weights laid over the slumbering forms of Seitsiets, a species with a tendency to generate internal hydrogen during sleep and so prone to float off unless pinned safely in place.

  “It’s odd,” Paul agreed, hands around one upraised knee. His face was animated, as always when he faced some puzzle. “I knew this building was used as a meeting place for alien dignitaries—as well as a school—but it looks as though they’ve provided long-term quarters here.”

  “Embassies?” I ventured.

  He considered it, then nodded. “Makes sense. The Panacians have always resisted alien construction on D’Dsel, with the unavoidable exception of the shipcity and All Sapients’ District. Maybe this is their answer.” The Human leaned forward, putting both feet flat on the floor. “Es. The Ambassadors are hoping we can help with the Feneden. How quickly can you learn their language?” His lips tightened. “It might be important to us as well—I didn’t like that question about ‘shifters’ any more than you did.”

  I know several Feneden languages, I could have told him, but then would have had the awkward task of explaining why those were dialects so old they wouldn’t be understood by the modern versions on the top floor. Ersh’s last memory of the species was three thousand years older than I. “I need time with them,” I said instead, truthfully enough. That I didn’t want to have anything to do with the Feneden was equally true.

  Of course, Paul read that from my voice or face. His perceptiveness, I thought glumly, was rarely to my advantage. “You want to tell me what’s wrong, Es?” he asked gently.

  “No,” I told him honestly.

  He dropped his voice even lower, making me prick up my ears to hear. “Esen. If there’s something about this situation I need to know, don’t you think you should tell me?”

  I rocked a bit, wishing I’d chosen softer seating or a less determined partner. “There was no mistake in the
translation machine,” I admitted.

  He paled. “You mean—”

  “The Feneden have—met—shifters,” I said reluctantly and in a whisper, just in case Paul’s gadgets had missed some eavesdropping device. “I recognized their species after all.”

  Paul closed his eyes for a moment, as if needing the privacy of his own thoughts to consider the ramifications of this, then opened them. They’d darkened, as they did when the Human had made up his mind about something unpleasant. “We have to get you out of here,” he said firmly. He rose to his feet. “Now.”

  “If I run from them,” I argued, staying where I was despite my complete agreement and a rather sore behind, “they’ll suspect.” There was more at stake here than my identity—Paul Cameron had a full life, a family, a great deal to lose. I’d stolen that from him once already; I wouldn’t do it again. “I should learn more about them,” I added. “At least their language and intentions.”

  Paul stood silently, looking down at me. I forced a curl out of my lip. “If the deals don’t look profitable, Cameron & Ki will go home.” I insisted.

  “Translight,” he emphasized grimly. “I don’t like this, Es. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  I’d thought of nothing else since meeting the Feneden. Well, I added to myself. I’d also given a great deal of thought to cosmic irony and the laughter of uncaring gods. “I don’t believe the Feneden are looking for—real—shifters,” I said, searching for ways to reassure him as well as myself. “I suspect the question is a formality, a need to assure peaceful intentions.” I pulled myself to my feet. “C’Tlas told me N’Klet has arranged for me to meet with Hom Sidorae in the morning. Apparently, he’s brought samples of art they’re willing to export. I can work on the language with him.”

  “I’ll be with Anisco and the Panacian linguists, trying to improve the mechanical translator.” Paul didn’t appear particularly reassured. There were small lines around his eyes, a corresponding tightness to his lips. “Be damned careful, Es,” he added.

  “You know me, Paul,” I said with a debonair wink. “I’m always careful.”

  “Careful!” I admonished the Panacian who’d overzealously reached her fourth limb for yet another highly fragile ceramic. “A second trip would be wise,” I suggested more calmly, holding the treasure out of reach in case she disagreed.

  The Feneden, Sidorae, and I had met in a species-neutral room, one with long tables connected to the floor, not the ceiling. It was just as well, since the tables were filled with an eye-catching display of truly wonderful and varied art forms, most appearing unlikely to survive any rough handling whatsoever. With Sidorae’s permission, delivered via another mechanical translator, I’d begun sorting them into transport crates according to which markets best suited each style. Two young Ambassador caste students were helping—a bit too eagerly.

  I kept up a rattle of questions for Sidorae, my ears turned so I listened more to the language leaving his lips than the corresponding comspeak droning from the device in my hand. After an hour or so, I was relieved to be at last making clear sense of it. The modern Feneden were using one of the ancient dialects from Ersh-memory—the root words and underlying grammar were recognizable, but many descriptors had been modified into verbs, with changes to endings and tenses. I’d had centuries of practice catching up on language shifts in other species. If it weren’t for the unsettling combination of appetite and guilt overlaying every one of Ersh’s memories of this form, I would have enjoyed this return to my former life.

  The question “was I shifter?” came up, as I’d forewarned Paul, forming part of Sidorae’s initial greeting to me and to each of the Panacians. The machine translation into comspeak was accurate, if scanty. I now recognized the Feneden word, rosaki, as a derivative of the original: iroki sak, demon of shifting shape.

  That would be Ersh, I thought sadly. Not a monument she’d cherish, becoming a catch phrase for an insecure culture as it met the rest of the universe. Not a legend I wanted spread to other civilizations either, so I was relieved when Sidorae refused to elaborate on the term, saying only that it was “important to be polite.” I agreed with that.

  Ersh-memory, distasteful as most of it was concerning this species, was woefully incomplete. She’d left their world after the Feneden had come close to destroying themselves in a globe-spanning war, an unfortunate coming of age shared by many otherwise intelligent species. I had the genetic makeup of the Feneden, of course, and copious memories of their earliest history—but it wasn’t comprehensive, being focused on those accomplishments of interest to a very young Ersh, such as music and the flavors of sweets. I’d need several years of my own research, I decided, to determine what preoccupied adults of this species.

  By the time Sidorae and I had examined almost all of his display, I had to be meticulous in responding to the meanings contained in the comspeak uttered by the machine, no matter how some jarred against what I heard him say. Still, our time had been profitably spent. Cameron & Ki Exports now had some prime merchandise with which to tease our clients; I’d acquired a workable grasp of the modern Feneden tongue, as used by these representatives anyway; and, perhaps most importantly, I’d had a crash course in their culture. The latter I didn’t think would have pleased Sidorae, had he known, but it was unavoidable. The art of a culture was always a revelation of its heart, a sampling of its scope and interests. While I couldn’t conclude much about the Feneden themselves from these pieces, I did have a better idea of what affected the group represented by Sidorae and the others on Panacia.

  They were thieves.

  Elsewhere

  A FULL day and a half wasted. There had been no records. Or no records to be had, Lefebvre reminded himself dourly, following the path of a stray bubble as it launched itself from the inside of his beer glass and wobbled its way to join the froth on the surface. Another dead end. He’d had enough to drink to find that funny.

  It had been the same story at every other system. No genetic material, not even the quickcopy routinely made by customs. What rested in Lefebvre’s concealed pocket was the closest to the real Paul Ragem he’d been able to come without breaking into a Commonwealth data vault: a painstakingly complete collection of genetic markers from every biological relative he’d been able to track down, blended with some scientific hocus pocus and wishful thinking into what might be a key. Might be. First, he needed to match it to some Port Authority record for Ragem, some documented sighting. Then, he could be sure he had the right key to unlock where Ragem had been during those last fateful weeks.

  Confirmation would have been ideal, but Lefebvre was prepared, as always, to proceed without that reassurance. After all, why should his search be any easier than Kearn’s?

  The beer poured cold and bitter down his throat.

  “Hom Captain? ’cuse me. Hom Captain?”

  This bar—Lefebvre couldn’t recall its name at the moment: something about Flashy Gills—was in the All Sapients’ District, a narrow ring of non-Panacian development around the ever-changing shipcity itself. As such, its clientele could be any being, of any oxy-breathing species—rooms for the other sort were behind a plas wall, allowing at least visual interaction between those who otherwise couldn’t survive each other’s company without wearing an environmental suit, or e-rig. There was a hot and heavy game of rummy at the far end, a tentacle showing through a blue fog held a set of fluorescent cards, while the pair of Humans at the facing table glowered at those in their own hands.

  So Lefebvre wasn’t surprised to be accosted by an Ervickian here. He was slightly surprised to be accosted by an Ervickian in its ept-morph, an age at which barhopping was barely legal even on non-Ervickian worlds. The Human expression, wet behind the ears, applied nicely, the nervous young being standing too close to Lefebvre’s side having a steady drip of sweat passing down the slick yellow sides of its head. Two pairs of overly-earnest eyes stared up at him, all four eyeballs on the beady side. The body was a fair match, skin and bone
s within a too-large Human sweater, an extra hole cut from the chest area so the being could shovel food into its secondary mouth without lifting its garment.

  “Captain Lefebvre. My name to Humans is Able Joe. You can remember that, yes?” this with a wink that passed through all four eyes in sequence. Ervickians tended to assume one-brained species were all slightly simple. “I know it’s you, Hom Captain. I have an ident right here.” Able Joe began waving around a large, purple card. With more coordination than he’d have credited himself with, Lefebvre snatched it before the youngster attracted the wrong sort of attention. It wasn’t a particularly upscale bar.

  The card was his, all right: a plas version of a notice he posted every time the Russell III came insystem. This hadn’t been a place he’d expected a response, but Lefebvre had long ago separated his expectations from his quest. A grubby, eight-fingered hand stole it back. “Says here you want information on another Human. Named Megar Slothe.” The words were delivered in a whisper likely overheard by anything in the bar with auditory organs and still conscious.

  “Don’t waste my time,” Lefebvre said, turning his back on the annoying creature. Any Ervickian off its world was a con artist, the species congregating translight wherever a fast credit could be made. Their moral system was, to be kind, pliable.

  Able Joe didn’t object out loud. Instead a small holocube slid along the bar’s surface to kiss Lefebvre’s beer glass. Lefebvre glanced down at it, then stared, mesmerized.

  The cube contained an image taken, from the look of it, from a store’s internal security vid. It showed two beings.

  One was Panacian, by her color and size, a member of the Ambassador caste. Even in this still, her proud bearing implied she’d been trained on D’Dsel itself.