Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  20: Warship Night

  I’D outdone myself this time, I decided cheerfully. The very first crewbeings I’d encountered had run away, shrieking at the top of their lungs.

  This was not a typically Human response to their children—but, I looked down at myself with satisfaction—I was not your typical child.

  I’d pieced together cast-off clothing to create a shabby nondescript outfit, something that emphasized how small I was, how young. I’d chosen white, then found the perfect accessory: a beaded belt such as was once given as harvest gifts on Garson’s World. A bit of creative damage completed the costume, such as shredding the sleeves and adding some bright red stains to cloth and my skin courtesy of a bottle of some liqueur I’d found.

  The Tly, as I knew very well, were among the most superstitious of Humans. The stories of missing ships and the mass guilt following the tragic attack on Garson’s World had only fueled their fixation with the dead. You couldn’t travel on Tly without seeing evidence of charms and potions for sale on every corner. Most citizens were convinced they had to protect themselves from vengeful spirits, or at least thought it wise to be prepared.

  So no one on this bloodstained ship should take the impossible appearance of a child from Garson’s World as anything less.

  I had a plan, now that I had the means. Skalet- and Mixs-memory contained the information I’d need to tamper with the ’Watch. The door in front of me should open into the environmental control room.

  I gathered up all of my courage—having remembered at the last minute that I wasn’t actually the bravest creature and this form had no defenses whatsoever—and knocked on the door.

  The door whooshed open before I could seriously rethink my actions and I stepped in, moving quickly to one side. Then I simply stared at them.

  There were two females and one male at their stations, dressed in the same simplified version of the old Tly military uniform as the guard, Manuel. They stared back at me. None of us so much as blinked.

  This wasn’t going well, I decided. I shifted my cloth-wrapped bundle of plants on my shoulder and did the first thing that came to mind.

  I sang.

  It was too old a song to have originated on Garson’s World—colonists had brought it—but they’d adapted the ancient melody to their needs. It was a simple thing, a rhyme comparing love to the sowing and reaping of hops.

  After a verse or two, tears were running down all of their cheeks, but they still hadn’t budged.

  Now what? I wondered. Frustrated beyond caution, I took a step toward them.

  That did it. All three leaped to their feet and surged past me out the door, one screaming at the top of his lungs.

  There was something intensely satisfying about a plan that not only worked, I congratulated myself, but was fun.

  Once my ghostly self had removed the crew, it took hardly any effort to lower the temperature, raise the humidity, and decrease the effectiveness of the carbon dioxide scrubbers. Nothing major: I wanted the atmosphere inside the ship to become unsettling, not dangerous. But I made sure my tampering wouldn’t be easy to find or correct.

  For a moment, I rested my hands on the controls, so familiar to my memory. This type of ship had been known to my web-kin; I understood its workings exactly as well as they had. What if this had been newer? Abruptly, I saw Paul’s urgings to have me travel with him, to see the universe beyond Minas XII, in a completely different light. Had he realized I needed to upgrade my knowledge? That I was wasting invaluable opportunities watching my machines watch the stars? He’d brought me everything he could record, but it was a pebble compared to the mountains of information the Web collected and shared. How much had I already missed? How much did I need to learn?

  How could I do it all, when there was only me left?

  A droplet hit the back of my hand. I looked up, thinking moisture had already condensed on the cooling metal, then saw it had been a tear.

  I couldn’t, I told myself, hearing Ersh in the harsh, sensible truth of it. I could only do my best.

  Starting with haunting The Black Watch.

  Elsewhere

  KEARN stared at the message in his hands, noticing the trembling of his fingers as a distant phenomenon, unrelated to the way his breath wheezed in and out through his lips, or the way his heart was trying to pound its way into his mouth, bringing the taste of his supper with it.

  “You’ve confirmed—this.”

  “Yessir. It came in on a secured beam. Codes read intact.” Com-tech Resdick stood near the door, as if he’d taken a step or two in that direction while Kearn was reading. “Will there be a reply, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Sir?”

  Kearn waved one hand irritably: “All right, then. Yes. But later. Can’t you give me a moment of peace? I have important matters to think about—I can’t waste my time talking to you.”

  Resdick nodded and left. He missed salutes, Kearn thought. There was something so—reassuring—about a salute. Of course, Paul Ragem had been expert at giving the bare minimum, a subtle flick of his fingers that showed his scorn while never stepping beyond the bounds of acceptable behavior in front of others. Until Ragem allied himself with the Esen Monster and joined her reign of terror. Kearn pulled his thoughts to the present with an effort, not sure why he’d remembered a dead man.

  The message was from the Commonwealth—the Deputy Minister of Research, in fact. It was the one Kearn had always feared. A recall. Some trumped-together nonsense about his responsibility for Captain Lefebvre, reported attacked and now officially listed as missing on D’Dsel. As if it was Kearn’s fault the Human had chosen to desert his ship.

  They were stopping his search.

  When he was closer than ever?

  Kearn checked the lock on his door, then pulled out the Kraal knife. With uncharacteristic force, he plunged the tip through the message and into his desk.

  They’d have to catch him first.

  21: Flight Deck Night

  BY the time the lights automatically dimmed in the corridors to mark shipnight, I’d made my way through six decks, terrorized over forty crew, and witnessed three unfortunate physiological reactions. Floors could be cleaned. I wasn’t exactly proud of my efforts, but they were beginning to accumulate nicely.

  A particularly effective moment had been when I’d located a node in the intership com system and sang into it, making sure to break off with a suggestive sob. The next node I tried had been deactivated. Well, if I couldn’t use it, neither could they.

  The changes I’d made to the ship’s internal systems accumulated as well. The walls were damp to the touch, the air perceptibly chill, and the amount of carbon dioxide close to levels that should affect Human ability to think clearly. This last was a minor concern to me, as I felt thinking clearly was likely to matter, so I took the precaution of grabbing an emergency air supply and using it whenever I felt my respiration increasing.

  It was almost time to dare the brig corridor and find Paul.

  Almost. Despite my impatience, I knew if I were to save my friend, it wouldn’t be enough to free him. I needed a way to get us off this ship and away. In entertainment vids, this was apparently a trivial task for any hero worth watching. In reality, I knew this was the most difficult task of all.

  A vector-class cruiser couldn’t land on a planet’s surface. It was a distance killer, functioning as a mobile base of operations in times of war. The Tly Defender would have carried hundreds of shuttles and doorcrashers—the one-way stealth gliders used to deliver whatever the military wanted dropped, from biologics to Ganthor troops. The Black Watch, I found as I haunted the flight deck, currently carried three shuttles, one antique aircar being restored, and fourteen lifepods, the latter obviously an afterthought to ferry the skeleton crew to safety if necessary.

  None of these would do. The shuttles had translight capability, but were locked into launching grids controlled from the bridge. Somewhat ambitious for a ghost child. The lifepods
would only drift and yell for help.

  I didn’t think about Paul. He would survive and wait for me to save him. Anything else was not acceptable.

  The flight deck was the largest on the ship and completely open, wrapping around the circumference of the huge ship so its edges bent downward at the limits of my field of view, perspectives marked by lines of structural pillars curving up to the shadowed ceiling. I wished for slippers—as a costume choice, bare feet were a definite detriment on the cold metal floors—but kept moving, looking for anything helpful.

  Then, over the curve of the far horizon, I saw it. When I was close enough to know what I was seeing, I stood gaping at my find in disbelief.

  They’d stacked the cargo stolen from traders here; crates made a wall taller than I, stretching to the limits of what I could see of the deck. A lot of it had been food, judging by the smell and long runnels of white-streaked green liquid reaching out in all directions. The crates had been tossed together, not stacked. Most of their contents had to be damaged by the treatment. There was a fortune here, treated like so much garbage.

  I thought of my porcelains, indifferent or not, and was horrified at the waste.

  Why?

  Why steal all of this, only to destroy it? Why hide it, if destruction was the goal?

  Inspector Logan. I might have been jumping to ephemeral conclusions, but this seemed like his style—to take, because he could. To destroy, because it suited him.

  I went closer, trying to see if I could identify any of the shipments. I pushed aside a pile of packing plas, seeking a label on the nearest crate. It wasn’t ours—but it was destined for Inhaven Prime.

  Perhaps they all were, I thought. This was by no means all of the shipping heading for Inhaven—but it could represent a significant amount. I couldn’t tell without going through every crate, but if the Tly—if Inspector Logan, because I couldn’t help putting him at the center of whatever plot this was—wanted to harm the Inhaven economy, there were key goods, strategic needs which could be stopped. Chase’s shipment of reduxan 630, for example. If other reduxan shipments had been intercepted by Logan, it could cripple several industries. I could replay in web-memory thousands of cultures conquered from within by such methods.

  Just what I needed, I thought with significant self-pity. Another war to stop.

  There was that nagging little detail of escape in the way.

  I kept looking.

  Covered shapes formed a line beyond the dumped cargo. I hurried to the nearest, believing that anything well kept in this place had to be important, and tugged the plas sheet from it with one grab.

  Not all of the Tly Defender’s armament had been removed, as the Tly claimed. I put out my hand and touched the flat black side of a doorcrasher—the size used for troop deployment, not weapons. I took a quick count without moving. There were enough here to send down several waves—empty spaces evoking those already used.

  I felt my hands begin to shake. The Black Watch didn’t carry enough shuttles to retrieve any number of troops.

  Or was it convenient? I thought of the Ganthor, dying against me, his click speech warning of betrayal and abandonment.

  The Tly—or more specifically Inspector Logan—were beginning to have a great deal to explain.

  The minor detail of escape kept getting in the way.

  Then, under a split-open bag of rancid meat, I found something that might do. I could almost guarantee Paul wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t see other choices leaping my way.

  I began my preparations.

  Elsewhere

  “MITCHELL.” Lefebvre stood in front of the servo door, staring across the corridor as if he could will the other to stir. “Are you asleep?”

  “I wouldn’t call it sleeping,” the voice answered quietly, as if husbanding his strength. “What’s the matter? Did they decide to feed us at last?”

  “Something’s up with the environmental controls.” Lefebvre sniffed again, ran his hand along a damp wall for unnecessary confirmation. He knew starships—the system wasn’t failing, it had been reset to these parameters. Sabotage? he wondered with a bite of hope. “Your—” he remembered the vids in time to stop and say instead: “Haven’t smelled air this foul since the bar on D’Dsel.”

  “It’s an older ship. Are you sure?” This a shade too casual. So Mitchell felt it, too.

  Lefebvre nodded to himself. “Humidity’s up; temp’s below norm. Something’s not right with the oxygen/carbon dioxide balance either. Tipped. Odd combination.”

  “These things happen. I’m sure they’ll fix it.”

  “If they don’t get on it,” Lefebvre commented, “the crew’s likely to get a bit groggy. Might even start hallucinating.”

  “Then let’s hope everyone is careful.”

  Lefebvre was sure he hadn’t imagined the stress on “everyone.” Did Mitchell have a contact among the crew? Was this friend he protected with his life here?

  He chewed his lip pensively, staring at the vids, then sat down on the cot.

  Lefebvre knew how to wait. The only concern he had now was how soon Logan would be back for his appointment with Mitchell. How much more could Mitchell Kane’s body endure, even with the med’s help? That cough could be a sign of some internal damage they hadn’t bothered to repair. There could be more.

  If Mitchell had a friend on board, Lefebvre told himself, that friend better hurry.

  22: Chartroom Night

  I HAD to hurry, now that I had the components of our escape ready. There was no telling what the crew was up to, but I was sure the rumors of my otherworldly presence must have spread through the officers’ deck by now. Whether they were discounted or not, there would be some action taken—a search or, better yet, a meeting. Both would keep more Tly crew occupied and out of my way.

  The rumors were certainly helping among the lower ranks, as I found when I walked into the secondary chartroom. Or it could have been the air.

  “The Child! The Child!” gibbered the poor Human who’d been cleaning the floor, before dropping in a dead faint.

  He landed in a contorted heap, gasping for breath. The muscles of my Human-self were woefully inadequate when it came to trying to rearrange his bulk into something more comfortable. Finally, I tucked some dry cleaning rags under his head and hoped for the best.

  The chartroom, memory suggested, should have access to internal records. I examined several comp boards before locating the right one, making myself move with care. The last time I’d rushed had resulted in dents. This time, the consequences of a mistake were doubtless more permanent.

  Anything detailed would likely be encrypted, if only to some officer’s ident. What I sought should be more accessible—aha! I cued the internal power schematics to show the outer decks. As I’d suspected, most were on minimal, perhaps sealed as well. The greatest usages were clustered on the officers’ deck, the bridge, a few connecting corridors, and one section of the brig.

  And the closest med room to that section.

  I cleared the display, keeping myself focused on my task. I called up the vid displays, hoping for something useful. The machine requested my ident, flashing a threatening red bar across its screen as I hesitated. Immediately I canceled, hoping I’d been fast enough.

  Time to leave, I decided. I didn’t know if the Tly were sufficiently gullible to believe in ghosts who tried to access their security comps, but I wasn’t planning to chance it.

  Not when I had to make my way through almost one quarter of this ship to reach Paul.

  Elsewhere

  THE scoring from the blister stick on his palms was almost gone. Lefebvre turned his hands over, flexing the fingers, involuntarily clenching them into tight fists on his knees. Otherwise, he was motionless, breathing in short, hard pants, muscles locked until they threatened to spasm.

  This, he did for Mitchell, and for himself. He sat, making no move, no sound of his own, doing nothing to give them reason to stun him into blissful insensibility. He liste
ned to the torment of a friend, making the only offering he could—he stayed.

  There were never understandable words. The inspector’s voice was too soft, too high-pitched to carry across the corridor. Mitchell’s wordless voice not only carried, it echoed—it must have been audible throughout the deck and, by rights, should have penetrated the hull—a desperate yet proud incoherence Lefebvre judged the bravest thing he’d ever heard.

  Then, nothing. Lefebvre opened his fists, unsurprised that he’d driven bloody holes into the palms with his fingernails. He held his breath.

  The silence was shattered by the thudding of booted feet, moving rapidly. Lefebvre lunged up and hurried to the servo door, craning to see. A body on a grav sled sped by, heading toward the med room, surrounded by guards and followed by Inspector Logan. Logan paused in front of the opening to look down at Lefebvre.

  Lefebvre couldn’t help himself. He spat, watching the liquid flash to steam as it was intercepted by the servo door’s automatics. “You won’t get away with this, Logan! You hear me? If you’ve killed him, I’ll make sure you pay!”

  “Do you enjoy irony, my good Captain Lefebvre?” the giant Human said mildly, as though they engaged in polite, dinner conversation. “I don’t, as a rule. It so rarely lives up to its potential. But in your case?” Logan’s lips thinned in a satisfied smile. “The irony is so rich, it’s almost—painful. Sleep well.”

  “What about—?” Lefebvre couldn’t finish. He sagged, every muscle burning.

  “A foolish, stubborn individual. Don’t worry, Captain. I have scheduled my next appointment with your—friend—for tomorrow morning. I’m sure the med-techs will have him ready to join me. Again, good night.” The inspector turned and walked away down the corridor, his back easily as wide as any two of the guards who preceded him. He would have been intimidating at any size, Lefebvre admitted to himself. Evil usually was.