A gentle touch became an anchor, a focus to draw my mind from the confusion within this body. The touch was a stroke along the scale-free, highly sensitive oval of skin under my chin: a holdover from youth, a place that would one day host the wiry thatch of beard marking an older Lishcyn—I was hoping for a distinguished auburn, but there'd been no sign of any growth yet. Aunts quieted unsettled infants by stroking this spot—much the way Human adults rocked their young. I myself was much too old for such treatment, though I found it hard to resist rubbing the area when alone and needing comfort.
As now. I couldn't bring myself to object to the caress, feeling my physical self relax involuntarily, the soothing sensation holding me safely in this form and otherwise keeping my dignity intact. I opened my ears the tiniest crack in time to hear him singing something nonsensical I remembered from Paul's days as a new father, awake night after night with his twins. From other forms, I knew he had a reasonable voice, true in pitch, with a pleasant depth to it. His music was wasted on these ears, if not on my soul.
He must have seen. Without stopping the tiny, slow movements his fingers made under my chin—which was wise, as my stomachs were still barely under control—his song changed to words, equally soft. "Es. Esen. It's all right. I want you to listen to me. Okay? Just listen and try to understand, please."
"This is my fault, not yours. I've shoved too much at you, too quickly: the Ganthor, my gift, that nonsense with Chase, this trip. I'm very sorry. I forget sometimes how it all adds up on you: to be what you aren't, to deal with all of the rest of us. You do it so very well, Es."
It might have been the words. Certainly the stroking was hypnotic. I let my body temperature slip below its fever pitch, no longer having to fight the urge to leave this form, back in charge of its tendencies. Almost, I told myself honestly, reasonably sure I was no longer about to redecorate everything in range, including Paul, with my breakfast, hasty snack, lunch, and that wee bite I'd grabbed on the way out of the office.
His voice went on, the barest whisper of sound. I opened my ears further to hear it, twitching free of some of the grass. "Ersh would be proud. I know I'm proud of you."
I gave a deep, shuddering sigh to cue my stomachs to rearrange their contents, feeling them finally respond normally, and yawned again. Then I opened one eye: "It was a pretty great exit, wasn't it?"
"One of your best."
I opened the other eye, but only a crack. "Long day, too."
"A couple of long days," I heard him agree, the voice so faint now he might have been in another room, fingers lifting away. "A rest wouldn't be a bad idea, Es."
Way ahead of you on that, I thought, my eyes and ears closing as I burrowed my head under the prickly but warm fibers, taking with me into sleep the warm glow of being home within my Web.
The Galaxy Goddess lifted on schedule, her multitude of passengers asleep or in a pleasant stupor, with only two near-misses as she rose into the stormy skies of Minas XII. Had I known, I would not have been at all surprised that one of those misses was the same courier who'd almost collided with us this morning. As I'd noticed, they didn't tend to lengthy careers.
I might have been surprised to learn the other near-miss was with a private aircar hurrying to the Dump—then again, that destination alone was dangerous enough to insure the driver was unlikely to worry about a close call with one starship.
The same, unfortunately, was true about us.
Images of the Hiveworld swam behind my closed eyelids as I drifted into peace, an uneasy combination of wonder and grief.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
"I'VE decided to take the ship to D'Dsel, Captain Lefebvre," Kearn ordered briskly. "It's time we paid a visit and found out what they've been hiding from our investigation. And," he tried the smile he'd practiced earlier in a mirror, an expression filled with confidence and verve, "it's perfect for the crew's stopover."
"A stopover on the Hiveworld?" Lefebvre sounded incredulous. "Are you serious, sir?"
Smile crumbling, Kearn ran one hand over his head, feeling the moist slick of sweat. Lotions or sprays never helped: they left sticky patches behind and their scents usually fought with the cologne he used liberally every day. "Are you hard of hearing this morning, Captain?" he said in a tone he hoped was brusque. "I thought you wanted a break for the crew. There you go. D'Dsel."
Normally well-groomed, for some reason this morning Lefebvre looked as if he hadn't slept the preceding night, making the excuse of a bout of sickness. Although Kearn doubted this and would have accused any other member of the Russell's crew of indulging in drug or drink, it was impossible to express any such suspicions to a face this composed and confident, no matter how exhausted-looking. Lefebvre's voice had a matching roughness to it, although he remained flawlessly official. Kearn would have heard it. He always listened for a hint of patronage or insult. Just because he couldn't hear any, Kearn reminded himself anxiously, was no reason to assume it wasn't there.
Lefebvre answered wearily, but politely: "It's on our route, sir. But it's not exactly set up for a rest—"
"It will do fine. Just fine. More importantly, it doesn't waste any of the Russell's schedule. If you insist I justify myself to you, Captain," Kearn puffed his cheeks in aggravation, "it's vital we verify the Rememberers have supplied everything they've collected." Kearn scowled. "I hope you aren't suggesting the crew wait for the next feasible option. I can tell you now: that won't be for a long while. And we have to keep them happy and healthy, don't we?"
"No, sir, and yes, sir," Lefebvre answered without so much as a scornful twitch on his lips. "I've heard D'Dsel is—fascinating. But you've been there."
Oh, yes. He'd been to D'Dsel. Kearn's lips tightened into a thin, bitter line. And the Esen Monster had been there with him, in her clever disguise as a harmless, concerned passenger. He'd been Acting Captain, then, with a ship of his own. Kearn didn't need the vids from his files to see Esen's doleful face as a Ket; his flesh crawled at the thought of her long fingers probing his skin, pretending to give one of the famed Ket massages but all the while mapping weaknesses in the Human physique. He'd thought Nimal-Ket to be Esen's spy, at first, only later putting the pieces together to learn he'd been duped along with the rest of them.
D'Dsel's Rememberers had cooperated during that first hasty search for the Monster, deeply concerned by the pattern of unexplained deaths on their normally placid world. Since that day, they'd closed all records, saying he'd received all they knew. As if that was likely to be true, Kearn thought. The Russell III had returned twice more—never receiving a warmer welcome. But then, he hadn't had the persuasive Lefebvre in the captain's seat—or a personal invitation.
Kearn pretended to busy himself with some sheets of plas on his desk. When Lefebvre continued to stand at ease in front of his desk, Kearn looked up with annoyance. "That was all, wasn't it, Captain?"
"If D'Dsel's our last stopover for a while, I'd like to take some leave as well, sir."
"What?" Kearn's hands clenched, with the dismaying result of creasing several important documents. He stared up at his captain, seeing the exhaustion but suspicious of its existence, hearing the politeness, but knowing there had to be contempt beneath it. "I don't see how that's possible, Captain," Kearn protested almost feverishly. "I need you on the Russell. Timri's staying. You have to stay. We're going to be combing records, investigating, dealing with Port Authority—"
"Only a couple of days, sir, once we're findown and stable. That's all." Lefebvre rubbed one hand over his eyes, an uncharacteristic gesture. "You should consider a bit of time away from all this yourself, sir, if you don't mind the suggestion."
"You may be willing to play the tourist while the Esen Monster remains a threat to every living thing!" Kearn shouted, launching himself to his feet and still, regrettably, having to look up to glare at Lefebvre. "I know where my duty lies!"
"Yessir." A meaningful pause. "Two days."
Kearn subsided, knowing that
mild, firm tone of voice as well as he knew the respectful yet unyielding look on Lefebvre's face. He wasn't exactly sure, as usual, when he'd lost any chance of winning the argument.
"Two days, then," he grumbled, his head down, straightening the crumpled sheets on his desk. "And not a minute more."
The door closed.
Kearn looked up to be sure he was alone, then slowly pulled open the top drawer of his desk. Inside were two objects. The first, an ordinary remote recorder, blinked to show it continued to function normally. Its shelf life was supposedly a hundred years. Kearn had a dozen elsewhere in the ship. No problems with testimony after the fact, he assured himself, stroking the tiny servo with one finger. No lies to protect the reputations of dead friends and obstruct justice.
The second object was a knife, needle-sharp, gleaming with the expensive and pain-filled promise of a finely crafted weapon. Kearn lifted it out reverently, with repeated anxious glances at the door. It should have locked behind Lefebvre, awaiting Kearn's voice or touch to reopen, but he'd never been convinced of the reliability of automatics.
The workmanship was Kraal, given away by the exquisite etchings on the blade itself and the heavy ornate handle. The sophistication of the designs belied the first impression of gaudy excess. There was no doubt Kearn's sweating hands clutched a work of art as well as death.
As if fearing a watcher, Kearn reached for a sealed courier pouch from the box beside his desk, the box almost overflowing with requests from academics of several species, then used the knife to pierce the pouch and open it. He took care, having nicked himself more than once while using this gift so crudely. But there was no other excuse for him to own such a blade and he was always careful of appearances. After all, he thought proudly, hadn't he fooled them all? The academics thought him some sort of messiah, spilling valuable, hard-to-obtain research into whatever appendages reached for it. They'd have been horrified by his real quest.
But those who knew his real quest, Kearn thought angrily, those who should have supported it—they thought him mad. All except the giver of this gift. That one had known the truth about him, believed then and believed now.
With one last stealthy flick of his eyes to the door, Kearn deftly twisted the handle from the blade, putting the business end safely on the desk. The inside of the handle was almost hollow, except for the tiny gemlike reflections of light from within, sparked from metal and crystal. He'd discovered this secret while fidgeting with the knife, his ever-restless hands prone to finding the limits of anything they held for too long. Kearn remembered his horror when the blade dropped off into his lap, assuming at first he'd been attacked by a remote-controlled weapon, then convinced with almost equal terror he'd broken the irreplaceable, frantically trying to think of excuses in case he ever met the giver in person.
Then, a look inside the handle had reassured him on those points and brought up another: what was it? Keep this token with you at all times, the note had said before consuming itself. It will bring you luck in your hunt.
Kearn peered inside, wishing he knew more about technology. Knowing the source, he guessed the device hidden inside was some sort of weaponry—perhaps a force blade to replace the real one should it break, even though he couldn't find any controls.
But the knife was lucky, he knew it, if only as a reminder that his quest had support from the outside, a powerful backer. This backer communicated rarely and then only via cryptic messages such as the latest: an invitation urging him to take the Russell III to D'Dsel with all speed, for reasons too secret to send. Other than such hints, his mysterious benefactor remained quiescent, yet Kearn knew he could count on aid should he find his target.
Not should, he admonished himself, reaffixing blade to handle and watching them join together without a visible seam.
When.
Chapter 8: Starship Afternoon; Hiveworld Night
« ^ »
FENEDEN.
"Feneden," I repeated out loud, rolling the strange word around in my mouth. "The Feneden. Or is it Fenedenians?" Comspeak had a useful, although sometimes frustrating, pliability when it came to names.
Paul must have heard the not-quite panic in my question. "Refreshing to have you not know something for a change," he said mildly, keeping his attention on the display scrolling under the table's surface, occasionally tapping one finger to bring up detail on something of particular interest.
"It is not," I retorted, then flashed an agreeable tusk. "Well, maybe it is. Feneden. Gives me the most delicious sense of mystery." Not that I wanted it to continue. "Did you find any references?" It hadn't seemed necessary or wise to allow remote control of our data-collecting machines back on Minas XII, since any potential sighting of a web-being would trigger a coded signal to Paul. This was a lack I now firmly intended to remedy the moment I returned. I was, I confessed to myself, becoming far too dependent on technology.
Fortunately, Paul always arranged for some news to reach him as he traveled. He was sorting incoming lists now, hence my impatience, and he grunted a negative.
I looked down the sweeping lobby, looking for distraction. There wasn't much. The Galaxy Goddess, like most passenger ships of her class, boasted two of these flamboyant corridors, running in parallel. Expansive portholes lined the supposed outer wall, attracting no one's attention but mine. They were vids, as passengers were protected deep within the bowels of the ship, but the crew pretended they were real windows into space with anyone gullible enough. To the ship's credit, the vid was live-feed from the exterior. I could have sat gazing out there for the entire journey except for two things: it made me far too noticeable among this space-jaded crowd and I was too interested in the puzzle to come.
"I want to know everything you can find," I told my friend, likely not for the first time today. "What do they look like? Are they humanoid? Or something really exotic?"
"What would you prefer?"
I suspected Paul of humoring me, but didn't care. "Tall, elegant, dignified," I said, leaning back and resting my long jaw on my chest. "A few extra limbs would be nice." I lifted my flask in one hand, a pastry in the other, and pointed my chin at the remaining treats on the lunch tray with a sigh of mock dismay.
My ears flicked lazily, mostly to avoid picking up random snips of conversation from the multitude of beings sitting, like us, at one of the tables set in intimate clusters under plas umbrellas, or walking about in straggly groups for exercise. Maybe, I said to myself hopefully, some of them were lost. On a vessel this size, even the most knowledgeable beings might need to roam the length of the passenger section in hopes of a clue from the ship's decor as to the nearest restaurant or their rooms. Several times, perhaps. That hadn't been my excuse for being late to our table, although it might be related to why it now felt wonderful to sit.
"Tall, elegant, and dignified?" Paul chuckled. "Extra limbs? Sounds like a tree." We were both back to our normal selves—the end result of a sleep that, for me at least, had lasted from liftoff until waking alone well past ship-morning. I'd missed the chance to dress for the Captain's Supper, which was likely just as well.
The Human looked as rested as I felt, a change reflected in his choice of a bright-colored shirt and pants, belted with a sash of such vibrant yellow it made the Engullan crew-being wince each time she showed up to refresh our drinks. In any other crowd, Paul would have been visible from the horizon and glowed from beyond it. Here, he blended in with the many other Humans well into the vacation spirit.
For a moment, just a moment, I thought: so it's a disguise. Then I shook off the feeling, preferring to accept an adventure for its own sake.
"Ah, here's something."
I leaned forward, resting my chin lightly on Paul's shoulder so that I could see the screen.
The physical parameters of a new species were of interest to almost everyone, from clothing manufacturers to emergency medical technicians, so it wasn't surprising this was the information now filling the table's screen, part of a news release fro
m Panacia.
I couldn't take my eyes from the slowly rotating image.
"Don't take this too much to heart, Esen," I heard Paul say. "They drew it up in a hurry from vids, not data provided by the Fenedens—it does seem to be Feneden, by the way. This could simply represent one age group or possibly one subspecies. Remember the Oastessii. Or the Panacians themselves, for that matter, with their multiple castes."
On one level, I understood him completely. On another, more intimate one, I heard nothing, saw nothing but this form captured and displayed.
Humanoid in plan. Convenient, given the prevalence of that body scheme among other species and the sheer number of the Human version in this quadrant of space.
Sensory organs located on the head, grouped into the features of a distinct face. Not all humanoids were as obliging. The pale, almost translucent-blue skin—what showed of it beyond encompassing and disappointingly plain, drab robes—appeared faintly mottled as though either pebbled in texture or colored that way. There was a shiny red-brown growth from the top, sides, and back of the head, as well as around the neck. Too thick for hair, much finer than any antennae or tentacles I'd encountered. I had no idea what it was.
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 9
