Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  If he’d ever seen utter stillness in a living thing, he saw it now. Timri might have been carved from stone. “What do you think Esen is, Captain Lefebvre?” she asked, a question posed almost as if she were simply curious, except for that air of listening to more than his words.

  What had Esen said to him? Lefebvre remembered exactly. “A sensible, civilized being.”

  “Sensible.” The lines at the corners of her generous mouth deepened. Mirth or scorn? he wondered anxiously. Then Timri’s face creased in a broad smile, redefining her into someone not only relieved but welcoming. “That had to be Esen’s opinion.”

  Lefebvre let go the breath he’d unconsciously held, beginning to smile back. “As a matter of fact,” he admitted, “it was.”

  Kearn toggled off the device and sat without seeing for a long moment. He’d expected to use this, and the other recorders hidden throughout the Russell III, as evidence to allay any future doubts of what had happened during their pursuit and hopeful capture of the Monster.

  Even at his most paranoid, he’d never expected to hear his two most senior officers conspiring against everything he believed.

  35: Subbasement Night

  THE arrival of the ’digger had shaken my belief in myself and my ability to cope with the situation. I’d almost left the Gallery and headed for the nearest com link to contact Paul.

  Almost. Just in time. I gathered the tatters of my pride. I was the Eldest of the Web of Esen. What kind of Eldest ran to an ephemeral for advice?

  A scared one, I admitted, watching the Ganthor. The Herd was now larger than the original thirteen I’d managed to avoid. Those must have come ahead to scout safe passage for their armored transport through the deadly maze of modern and postmodern sculpture, and the occasional bench.

  Now that it was here, those in the ’digger lost no time making contact with the others. Literally. The side doors dropped down, allowing the five mercs who’d been operating the machine to rush out. I winced at the considerable amount of body contact which ensued as the Herd reestablished the comfort of who was allowed to knock whom to the floor. In a bunch of young Humans, it would have been sport. In an edgy bunch of hair-trigger mercenaries, this habit of urgent violence was another reason why Ganthor often won battles for their clients by simply showing up.

  They were quick about it; the Matriarch, through her Seconds, stamped orders and the entire group squeezed back inside the ’digger. The doors thudded shut.

  What were they up to now? I leaned forward.

  A hammer’s blow threw me backward along with a whirl of dust and debris, to land flat against the nearest wall. Undamaged, if startled, I rocked back to where my former protective statue had stood.

  The statue was gone. More significantly, so was the ’digger. In its place gaped a huge, glowing hole in the floor. I rocked cautiously to its edge and looked down.

  I could see the top of the ’digger below, quite intact. They were cutting their way down through the subbasements. There was another blast as the next floor gave way and the ’digger dropped with it. I had to admit, it was a novel way around the problem of fitting their oversized transport into a lift.

  The Ganthor were searching for something. What?

  If Logan had believed Paul about the Kraal superweapon now belonging to the Iftsen, this literally mythical Nightstalker, he could have sent the Ganthor to retrieve it. In an Art Gallery?

  I rocked as quickly as I could to the lifts, then into the first one that opened, cuing it to descend. The only thing Ganthor were good at finding on their own were living things—being scent-driven, much of their technology dealt with enhancing their ability to trail and interpret biochemical traces.

  Which living things were of this much interest to Logan?

  They’d gone right past me, an Iftsen.

  Who else was in the Gallery tonight? I asked myself. And also making nuisances of themselves? The Feneden.

  It made some sort of logic, especially in Human terms. They were prone to seek alliances to gain numbers and strength. If Logan was on his own, with one ship, he might well seek such allies to help him find this weapon and take it once found. The Feneden, being the supposed target, seemed the obvious choice. To those who didn’t know them better, I said to myself. And if those allies were impossible to contact discreetly, he might well choose this somewhat forthright approach to arrange a meeting.

  It was the type of devious scheming Skalet always loved. She probably would have preferred the giant, twisted Human as a student, I grumbled to myself, keeping my right appendages pressed against the door of the moving lift. When the door shook violently, indicating the floor presently receiving its visit from the ’digger, I went to the next one down and stopped the lift to look out. Everything looked normal: no cowering Feneden or signs of theft.

  I repeated, checking three more floors before I found what I expected.

  The Feneden, Sidorae, had tried to sell me Iftsen pretech art. This floor and the ones below were jammed to the ceiling with the stuff, along with an assortment of bags, crates, and other thieves’ paraphernalia. My Iftsen-self paused to admire a nearby bench, clearly made by some more recent talent by welding together several pieces—definitely the kind of thing that had troubled Lesy.

  There they were. The Feneden were huddled in a far corner, staring up at the ceiling. I felt sorry for them until one caught sight of me and they all started screaming and running again. This was decidedly counterproductive with Ganthor literally overhead.

  “I mean you no harm!” I shouted, trying to be heard over their combined bedlam. An Iftsen’s bladder has properties in common with a Human instrument known as a bagpipe, so there was no doubt I’d succeed.

  I succeeded a little too well. They bolted through the nearest open doorway just as the ceiling began raining down little bits of itself in preparation for dropping great, jagged hunks.

  Then I spied something I thought could potentially solve almost every problem at once, a conclusion I later came to thoroughly regret.

  It was a spare Feneden e-rig.

  Elsewhere

  LEFEBVRE leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. On the surface, and if one could disregard the somewhat aggressively clean smell, his quarters and life were back to where they’d been before going insystem at Panacia.

  The real change was inside. Used to keeping his own counsel, and his own secrets, Lefebvre found himself burning with the desire to shout out what he’d learned, to clear Paul Ragem’s name, to let everyone—especially Kearn—know about the wondrously strange Esen.

  “I felt that way at first,” Timri said quietly. “Dying to tell someone—anyone.” The Feneden’s eating habits had ruined Lefebvre’s jelly-bed, so she was lying on her stomach on a standard issue cot, chin supported by her hands as she watched him. Her long dark eyes were still guarded, despite her relaxed position. He wasn’t sure she trusted him at all, even after admitting she knew Paul Ragem and had conspired to keep his new identity secret all this time.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.” Her lips tightened. “After that moment passed, I realized what I owed them both and it was a nonissue.”

  What she owed them, Lefebvre repeated to himself, Paul and Esen. There were remarkably few lies in Timri’s past—merely a convenient omission or two. She had been part of the Tly blockade and witnessed firsthand the attacks of a monster. He’d heard her descriptions before, but this time they meant more since he finally understood she was talking about a real, living creature.

  A creature that ripped into the side of starships as if biting into fruit, consuming everyone aboard before moving on; able to move translight or cling motionless to asteroid or ship. It stalked living beings as intelligently and remorselessly as any predator had ever stalked its prey but, by the end, had enjoyed the hunt.

  This time, however, Timri went beyond the horror of those days and completed the story. Esen, at terrible risk, had lured the monster after her. To
gether with Paul, she’d planned an ambush—for the creature could be hurt, the Tly had proved that. Esen had used her own body as bait, holding the creature long enough for Kraal heavy cruisers to find and destroy it.

  Timri had been there. She’d used her contacts and talents to hunt the monster after it attacked the Tly, determined to enact vengeance and end its threat. She and her companions had almost been its prey instead. The monster had chased them, almost caught them, before inexplicably changing course. Timri had followed, and they’d hung at the limits of their sensor range. They’d observed a single ship leaving before the monster’s arrival, and noted its designation.

  Then they’d witnessed what happened, wondering at what they couldn’t interpret. One thing Timri had been sure of—the creature had attacked another of its kind, and in so doing, had been destroyed itself.

  But there had been no way for Esen to prove herself innocent of being the very monster they’d destroyed. It had been a renegade of her kind, another web-being. With it gone, and she the last of her kind, her only wish had been to flee scrutiny and hide herself away in peace.

  Esen had done her best to lose Paul as well, giving him an opportunity to clear his name and return to his ship. He’d known she shouldn’t be alone, that she needed and deserved a friend. It had been during his determined search for Esen that Timri’s equally determined search had found him.

  “You followed the freighter back to Minas XII and tracked down the stranger who’d been on the Inhaven colony,” Lefebvre repeated wonderingly. “Why didn’t you turn him over to the Commonwealth then and there?”

  Timri raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met him,” as though this would be sufficient explanation. It was, Lefebvre thought. “Anyway, I can’t say I found Paul. He didn’t wait for that. He found me first. I already knew the rumors about some weapon were lies. What he told me, however wild, had to be the truth.” She twisted up to a sitting position. “Are you sure the call went straight out? I don’t like how long this is taking.”

  “I’m sure,” Lefebvre said, but he began wondering himself. Paul should have sent a reply by now, letting them know which shuttle he was catching. Their meeting place was prearranged—the “beer” of Paul’s earlier message had referred to the All Sapients’ Tavern on the main road into Brakistem, a popular open-air facility overlooking the sea. Since enjoying the view meant staying in one’s e-rig, it was as anonymous as could be imagined.

  Lefebvre reached for the com on his desk, one finger pressing the button to connect to the bridge. Nothing happened.

  He sat straighter, pressing more firmly. Nothing.

  Timri, who’d watched, hurried to the cabin door. It didn’t open as she approached. She slammed her hand on the control panel. Nothing. She turned to face him, mouthing one word: Kearn.

  It was, Lefebvre told himself savagely, a little late to worry about being overheard.

  36: ’Digger Night

  *WAIT here without movement.*

  I clicked my wholehearted agreement, having no intention of testing this remarkably fragile body against even a courteous prodding from a Ganthor. The Ganthor, oddly less formidable in its e-rig—an opinion which probably constituted wishful thinking from my Feneden-self—took up a station where it could watch me. Since my back was against one wall of the ’digger and I was literally squeezed in between the other Ganthor sharing this bench with me, I thought the precaution overdone. I doubted I could move if I tried.

  The Ganthor were cautious but obviously delighted. There had been a considerable amount of thumping—fortunately not including me—in response to my arrival among them. Skalet-memory made it quite clear that the Ganthor and their ungainly machine were vulnerable as long as they were hemmed inside this building, a condition the Ganthor were hardwired to dislike intensely.

  They were also a species that was rarely if ever surprised, and so hadn’t shown any reaction at all to my being fluent in their percussive language. Mind you, I thought, they were also a species that didn’t talk a great deal at the best of times, making do with the plentiful information usually detected by scent. The sense-constraining e-rigs, despite their hookups to allow individuals to exchange air, were another reason the Herd was more than ready to declare their mission a success. They’d been after, as I’d surmised, a Feneden to speak to their commander.

  I didn’t think I’d bother trying to explain their chosen representative had only been Feneden for approximately fifteen standard minutes.

  I still wasn’t used to my new self and could only be thankful the Ganthor wouldn’t notice any mistakes I made. Every other form I’d assumed until now had been first assimilated and tried by the other, older, members of the Web. This form hadn’t been shared within the Web by Ersh—understandably—and the memories of it she had given me were not all helpful. They were certainly incomplete.

  The first surprise had been the truly painful experience of feeling the atmosphere of Iftsen Secondus eating at my new skin, prompting me to set a record donning the Feneden e-rig. Or had it swallowed me? I recalled, amused now by what had been somewhat alarming a few minutes ago. The instant I’d inserted my feet and hands, the fabric had softened and stretched as though an active participant, climbing of its own accord over every inch of my skin. Only the helmet had behaved like it should, requiring me to lift it into place as my eyes watered and my nose stung. The immediate relief of fresh, breathable air went a long way toward reassuring me I’d made the right decision.

  In hindsight, I should have expected some period of adjustment. What actually happened was that I stood paralyzed while my Esen-self tried in vain to correlate what I urgently needed to know about my surroundings with the barrage of input the Feneden-me was providing. The Feneden, for all they looked humanoid, were definitely anything but.

  At least I hadn’t provoked the Ganthor by running, I reminded myself, prepared to look for anything positive at this point.

  Once I began sorting out my perceptions, things became clearer. Not quite clear, but better. The room flashed blue-green each time I blinked, reminding me of the red translucent lid. I realized the cilia wrapping my head and shoulders were infrared sensitive as well as expressive of my mood, making the ’digger and the damaged ceiling glow almost painfully bright. I now possessed a pair of flat, oddly unfocused ocular organs on the top of my head, and spent a few moments worrying if my Feneden-self needed corrective lenses. There was a sense of smell, currently suffering from its brief exposure to the fragrances of the Gallery, touch through the quite delicate lining of the e-rig, and, I licked something caustic from my lips, taste. Hearing appeared to be without a definitive location at the moment—I blamed the e-rig—so I wasn’t sure where or what my ears were.

  I’d achieved this much accommodation with my Feneden-self at about the same instant the main doors of the ’digger clanged open and the Herd thundered out, most in my direction. I was flooded by a rush of hormones, all intended to enable me to run for my life—the sooner the better. Well, I thought, this certainly explained a few things.

  I held still, my brain definitely aware how unhealthy running from armed Ganthor was likely to be, but my limbs trembled with the effort required and cilia lashed around my face.

  Just what I needed, I told myself with disgust, another cowardly body.

  So now I sat, lurching from Ganthor to Ganthor in the dark claustrophobic machine, as the ’digger winched its way back up, floor by floor, and hoped I knew what I was doing.

  Not, I realized, that there was much I could do about it at the moment.

  Confidence is something you feel before you truly understand the situation. Ersh had drilled that into me during innumerable attempts to instill the requisite caution of a Web observer among aliens into my thought processes. As observer, I was to do exactly nothing, while remembering everything. It’s not that she thought I was stupid. Far from it. Her greatest fear was that I would think for myself.

  So I wisely distrusted any sense of growing confidence, k
nowing from past experience it was a chancy feeling at best. As for being inventive—I’d grown to disagree with Ersh. Sometimes, thinking quickly could be a vast improvement over hiding and hoping the situation would resolve itself.

  To be fair, I told myself, Ersh had expected all members of her Web to simply outlive ephemeral situations. Another case of confidence lacking facts.

  The ’digger had pulled itself back to ground level and left the Gallery, negotiating the stairs—or what was left of them—with a combination of jolts and jerks that drove my small teeth into my thick, raspy tongue if I wasn’t careful. Since then, we’d maintained what I guessed to be a steady pace out of the city, mainly on roads judging from the smoothness of our travel. As we’d done more than enough damage to local architecture already, I was just as pleased.

  The Ganthor around me kept nodding into a light sleep, obviously unconcerned about my Feneden-self. Even my guard was leaning back against the wall, rifle hung on a sling, and looked about to snore. Good, I thought, and squirmed until I could free one numb shoulder and then the next from the Ganthor now using them as pillows. I might not know much about this form, including the annoying fuzziness of the image I was getting from overhead, but I did know Ganthor. It was time for a female-to-female conversation.

  *Waste of effort.* The Ganthor Matriarch paused to vent mucus from her helmet. Judging from the gloss over the floor, she’d been doing a lot of it. It was a sign of her personal distress at not being able to scent the members of her Herd directly. If this had been a longer campaign, they would have used a pressurized ’digger, shedding the e-rigs in its air lock. As it was, they would need to leave the ’rigs as soon as possible. No wonder they were delighted to have found their target so quickly, although the Matriarch wrinkled her snout at me through her misted helmet in distaste. Not at me. At their client.