I put my claws on the door, idly testing if it was firmly shut. For a being who had been content to spend twenty years waiting for a hand to regrow—the result of combining the unexpected fragility of my crystalline Tumbler form with an admittedly desperate effort to climb back into my room without being spotted by Skalet—I was discomfited to find each and every minute crawling like parasitic worms under my carapace. Living with Humans, I sighed to myself, had a way of doing that.
Suddenly, the waiting was over—not, I realized with dread, for the better—as the entire ship resounded with an alarm. Seconds later, I felt the heavy shudder through my feet and grabbed for the door handle. In lieu of a quake, there was only one possible explanation: the Didjeridoo had just been picked up by a tug.
The Iftsen, it appeared, were in more of a hurry than we’d been told.
I could have marshaled several good reasons for what I did next—given time to think of them—but reasonable thought had very little to do with the alacrity with which I switched off the safety lock on the port, hauled open the door, and flung myself out into the air.
Although reasonable thought might have prepared me for the discovery, as I continued to fall, that the ship’s ramp had already been withdrawn.
This early, an hour before dawn, was when the tidy Panacians insisted cleaner servos run through every nook and cranny of their cities, following the solemn passage of the Rememberers, an insistence enforced by Port Authority on D’Dsel. As a result, it was probably the cleanest shipcity in the settled galaxy, although from what I’d seen, not too clean for rats and other wildlife to make a living.
I hadn’t, I thought gratefully, broken anything except my pride. My body had been soft enough from my recent molt not to crack when I’d hit the pavement, although I had some painful dents in my thorax and abdomen likely to remain until I molted again. As a consequence, I’d be wearing the evidence of my stupidity in this form for many years to come, unless I paid for some reconstructive surgery. I was probably better off keeping the dents as a lesson, I scolded myself. I’d been lucky not to be caught under the grinding treads of the tug itself.
All that remained of our meeting place now was an empty stretch of darkened pavement, littered with packing and other debris the servos were consuming with machine enthusiasm. I heard bottles being crunched and wondered if the partying Iftsen were aware of their own departure.
Servos were one thing—the variety of sweepers, suckers, and odd ones with spikes moved around me without interest in living litter. The inhabitants of the shipcity were another matter altogether. Even had I known where to start looking for Paul in this maze, I would have stuck to shadows. It didn’t matter that this was a civilized jungle consisting of starships and all the trappings of technology—in the bowels of night, the shipcity had its own assortment of hunters and hunted. Explanation enough, I supposed, for Paul’s desire to be armed, if not his choice of weaponry.
Not that I was worried for myself. It was just best—more of Ersh’s wisdom—to avoid situations where one’s relative invulnerability might actually be tested. And I disliked angry voices.
Such as those accompanying the two figures moving toward me along the shipway, stepping in and out of the circles of ramp lights at a very rapid walk for the Human male, and—I trailed the polishing inner edge of my lower arm over my eyes in case they were fogging in the predawn damp—what was a flat-out run for his Ervickian companion.
I began stepping back toward the hiding place I’d noted earlier—one of the servicing columns festooned like some giant tree with pipes for everything from atmosphere replenishment to fuel, an unimaginable luxury to one used to Minas XII’s approach to service—slowly, so my own motion shouldn’t be obvious, careful to hold my limbs to avoid reflecting glints of betraying light. I slipped under the cover of a cable broader than my shoulders, ducking as low to the ground as possible before trying to look out. After all, the Human might be Paul, in which case I wanted to gauge his mood before confronting him with my creative interpretation of my promise. Best to ease into such things.
Within seconds, they were close enough that I could make out what was being said, not just its furious tone. “I’m beginning to think you planned this, too. You’d better not be lying to me, Able Joe, or your crèche will be emptier by one.”
I didn’t need the deep voice to tell me this Human wasn’t mine; I could see that for myself in the lights cast by neighboring ships as the pair stopped right in front of my hiding place. Perfect, I told myself. Just perfect.
The Human stood, fists on his hips, looking around the gap where the Iftsen freighter had stood. I increased my body temperature, resisting an impulse to change into something less conspicuous, or at least something that could scamper away unnoticed. The Ervickian, a young one, was kicking the tiny servos out of his way as he circled the Human, as though pretending to search for something. If it was a starship, I smiled to myself, he was definitely out of luck.
The Human was younger than Paul, I decided, studying him, maybe by twenty standard years, though his face appeared older. An artifice of the night and his equally dark mood, perhaps, since otherwise I would have judged it a face that should smile easily: not handsome, as Humans went, but with blunt, open features. His frame was considerably shorter than Paul’s yet more massive, without exceeding Human norms. When the Human reached out to grab the Ervickian’s ear, possibly exasperated by the being’s pointless and noisy torment of the servos, he winced and let go almost immediately, as though his hand was damaged. What was so important here?
As I wondered feverishly, the Ervickian cringed and I heard it say quite plainly: “Slothe and his accomplice boarded the Didjeridoo. My source was reliable. Did you remember that? I told you—I don’t get messages from that Kraal and ignore them, see.”
Kraal? I dumped the disturbing but not surprising tidbit into memory—the conspiracy-loving Kraal were prone to having spies in every shipcity, even peaceful ones such as D’Dsel—focusing instead on that name.
Slothe. On any other night, after any other sequence of events, I might not have made the connection between the word and the alias Paul had used on Ultari Prime. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my memory immediately showed me the face of a certain despicable Ervickian shopkeeper, a face with a definite resemblance around its four beady eyes to the shining example of its race in front of me now.
Oh, dear, I sighed to myself. Perhaps getting my credits back hadn’t been the wisest move—satisfying as it had been at the time. I should have known the being would take it personally; I had, having witnessed Paul’s poignant reaction when our brand-new starship turned out to be an ancient taxi.
Of course, Paul’s reaction would be even more memorable when he found out about this. If, I added. There was a distinct advantage to selective memory sharing with my Human web-kin. I found myself hoping he’d take a long time to retrieve his mail.
The Human stood with his feet wide apart, as though needing the stability. “Listen, my repulsive little friend,” his voice sounded remarkably as though forced through gritted teeth. “I’m supposed to be filling my ship’s hold, not standing in an empty dock.”
The Ervickian threw its hands into the air. “You worry too much. I told you: my crèche has copies of what was stolen. As for your shopping: my friends back at the ’Gills have doubtless found all you needed. Did you forget all this?” The concern sounded sincere—Ervickians predictably assumed other species were missing half a brain. Which would be a more reasonable prejudice, I reminded myself, if Ervickians ever used both of theirs. “Wasn’t it lucky for you?” Able Joe continued happily.
“What? Finding you again?” Definite menace now. “Let’s hope it’s luckier than last time.”
The smaller being danced back out of range, hands protectively over its second mouth as though used to low blows. “How many times can I tell you, Hom Captain? Able Joe’s no cheat—I didn’t send any rats on your trail. You found those on your own.”
> Captain? I pushed my head out a little farther, curious in spite of myself. Any being with a ship could claim that title, but there was something in the way this Human carried himself that suggested the rank was more than self-assumed. Sure enough, the Human wore some type of uniform under that shapeless coat.
“I’d like to find them again,” the captain growled as if to himself. Not a happy individual, I thought, and not one to have for an enemy.
The Ervickian I could see chasing rumors of Megar Slothe, especially if it thought there was a chance to gain credits out of it. What was this Human’s interest?
A question I had no intention of asking, relieved when the Human said: “Enough of this. We’ve been misled or we’ve missed him. Either way, I have to report in. Let’s get back to the bar and see if your so-called friends have salvaged anything of tonight.”
The two of them started retracing their steps. On one claw, I was relieved they were going. I’d had visions of Paul marching into the two of them, although to give my Human his due, I doubted he’d be that careless. That was usually my job.
On the other claw (or three), I remained curious. Were these two some threat to Paul or just fortune hunters? I made a mental note to quietly replace the credits I’d canceled from the Ervickian’s crèche at my first opportunity.
They disappeared from sight. I waited another long moment before straightening, two more before walking out to where they’d stood. I carefully retraced some of their steps, my feet tasting nothing but the inorganic background of pavement and solvent, plas and metal.
My peripheral vision caught a flash of movement, giving me enough warning to duck as the Ervickian launched himself at me from his concealment beneath the neighboring starship’s ramp. My Panacian-self, while stiff-bodied, had two very flexible body joints; ducking put me considerably lower than my attacker expected. He flew completely over my head, landing with a doubled grunt on top of a group of servos cleaning up a pile of some moist, oozing material. He wasn’t hurt, as far as I could tell, but didn’t look particularly comfortable either.
I wasn’t planning to stay and find out, but as I turned to run, two powerful arms wrapped around me from behind, pinning all four upper limbs to my sides and lifting me partly off my feet. No guesses who, I thought with disgust.
“It’s her! The one in the vid! The one from our store! The cheat! The cheat!” The Ervickian scrambled to its feet, rushing toward me with a very nasty look in all its eyes and its eight-fingered hands out as though to tear me limb from limb. That might have been helpful earlier tonight, I found myself thinking, but was unlikely to do more than break his nails now that I’d hardened.
To my surprise, the Human turned so his shoulder was between us. “Back off,” he warned his companion. “I’ve got her.” This with an unnecessary squeeze, as though to remind me of my own capture.
I drew a very deep breath through all my spiracles at once. “Hoodlums!” I bellowed. “Murderers!” The volume a Panacian could achieve with air-filled tracheae had to be heard to be believed. “Robbers!”
It was a very effective strategy, sending the Ervickian running down the shipway as fast as he could shuffle and the Human desperately trying to find some way to shut me up without hurting his apparently already sore hands. As my vocal organs were located behind four sets of feeding mandibles—serrated feeding mandibles—he wasn’t doing very well. He cursed almost as loudly as I was shouting, then started shaking me.
This wasn’t pleasant, but wasn’t much of a deterrent to this form either—especially when I realized he was carefully controlling the force he used. I began to enjoy myself, and drew in air for another set of loud pleas for hopefully nonexistent help.
Which I didn’t make, having the business end of a stunner suddenly pressed against the dome of my right eye. The Human took advantage of my sudden silence to say in a ragged, desperate voice: “Please stop shouting. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m looking for someone—”
“Then maybe I’ll do,” said a voice I hardly recognized as Paul’s. The stunner fell away as my captor obviously felt its value somewhat limited compared to the biodisrupter caressing his cheek. “Don’t turn around.”
My captor obeyed, standing perfectly still, face-to-face with me. This close, I could see the fine lines pain, and the effort of fighting it, had drawn around his eyes and lips. There was a narrow, feather-edged band of red slashing from his hairline and down to follow a cheekbone—blister burn, I realized, wincing in sympathy. It didn’t seem to matter. There was a hot gleam in his eyes as he looked back at me and mouthed a word that might have been “Ragem.”
I stepped beyond his reach, then couldn’t help wrapping my limbs around my thorax. This was, I decided, one of those times when being rescued was probably the worst thing that could happen.
Paul stood behind the stranger, his face hidden in the masker hood, the hand holding the deadly weapon servo-steady. Then, it started to shake, something that made me—and from the look on his face, Paul’s captive—understandably anxious. “What did he do to you?” Paul demanded. “Are you all right?”
At first, I assumed he was reading the distress in my posture—for his species, Paul was superb at interpreting body language—and straightened to reassure him, a movement which involved my dented body parts. I clicked several mouth parts, the equivalent to a Human’s wince.
Paul swore and pushed the Human violently to the pavement. The Human didn’t struggle—no sane being did when threatened by what my friend carried.
“Oh,” I said with sudden understanding. I looked down at my damaged carapace and would have blushed in several other forms. Or regurgitated. The physiological signs of embarrassment were typically demeaning. “No. He didn’t do this. I—had a little accident earlier. I’m fine. In fact,” I added slowly, “he protected me from his partner.”
The Human at my feet lifted his face to gaze up at me, his expression—what I could see of it—oddly puzzled. What had he expected, I thought irritably to myself. That I’d demand his head or other body parts?
“You’re sure,” Paul persisted, tipping his own head from side to side as though trying to figure out what kind of accident I could have had since he’d left by examining the pattern of bumps. “That looks—awful.”
Such honesty, I didn’t need. I waved all four upper arms in proof. “Yes. I’m fine! Can we get out of here?”
Paul nudged our prisoner with his toe. “We’ll have to do something to make sure he’s not on our tails,” he said, in a return to that cold, ruthless voice. I’d have been alarmed, but I could see my friend putting away the deadly biodisrupter, exchanging it for the stunner he’d taken from the Human’s hand.
The Human continued to stare up at me, such implacable determination in his eyes I couldn’t have looked away if I’d tried. He spoke, but his words were directed at the one he couldn’t see: “Paul Antoni Ragem. The Traitor. Kill me, if that’s what you’ve become, but the time for secrets is over. Someone else will track you down—” he slumped as Paul fired the stunner.
Paul immediately knelt beside him, turning the limp Human over so he could see the face. “Thought so,” he said grimly.
“You know him?” I asked, bending myself to try unsuccessfully to match this face to a memory. There were, I thought practically, too many Humans to meet even in my lifetime.
Paul pulled off his hood, his face reassuringly normal as he looked at me: annoyed and slightly frustrated. “This is Rudy Lefebvre. Captain Lefebvre.”
I knew the name. Kearn’s captain. I curled involuntarily into a tight ball of misery. “First the Feneden. Now this. How is Kearn getting so close to us all of a sudden? What’s happening? We were safe!”
“And you were going with the Iftsen,” Paul reminded me unnecessarily. He glanced around, adding the stunner to the arsenal in his shirt. We were alone, the servos chattering whimsy to themselves as they adjusted their paths to avoid us and Lefebvre’s crumpled body. “We’ll have to leave him here
. He’ll be all right.” Paul went over to a large carrysack he must have tossed to one side when he saw me being shaken by Lefebvre.
“But—” I stopped, unable to say it out loud.
Paul’s teeth caught some of the nearby light as he smiled at me. “Stop worrying. Lefebvre was guessing—fishing for your reaction. He didn’t see me. He doesn’t know you. There’s no evidence. The best thing we can do is leave him to try and explain to Kearn what—ah.” The soft exclamation accompanied his pulling a large bottle from the sack. He opened it and began pouring its contents over Lefebvre’s clothing. I straightened and stood, backing up so the alcohol fumes wouldn’t scald my spiracles. “Sorry about this,” Paul said to the unconscious Human, before holding the bottle to Lefebvre’s lips and pouring some of the drink into his mouth until Lefebvre gagged and swallowed by reflex.
“Let’s go. And while we do,” Paul said to me sternly, taking his carrysack under one arm and putting the other firmly around my shoulders to urge me in his chosen direction, “I’ll give you a choice, old bug. You can start by explaining how—after I leave you safe and sound on a ship—that ship’s not here and you still are. Or, you can tell me how, marvelous hider that you are, you wind up in the clutches of our enemy. Or,” he paused and sighed theatrically.
“Maybe you’d best begin with this little accident.”
Not my first choice, I thought glumly.
Elsewhere
“WHAT do you mean, he’s not back yet?” Kearn knew something would happen. It always did. Just when everything was starting to go his way, when things were finally moving in the right direction, someone deliberately and maliciously sabotaged him. This time it was Lefebvre. “Find him!”
Changing Vision Page 19
