Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  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 Horn 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 overlay
ing 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.

  "Horn Captain? 'cuse me. Horn 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 bones 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, Horn 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.

  It was the second figure that held Lefebvre speechless. Human. Tall, slim, that face he almost knew better than his own, despite not having seen it for over fifty years.

  Ragem.

  Lefebvre reached for the cube, but Able Joe's hand was there first to snatch it back. Lefebvre tapped his credit chip on the bar, then beckoned the Ervickian to follow him. The little being was quivering with anticipation—or was starving, something Lefebvre would rather not know. The remnants of former meals decorated most of the sweater as it was; Ervickians weren't famed for their table manners. The taller Human led the way to a private booth, tapping his chip on its entry panel.

  Once inside, Lefebvre straightened, willing to reveal he was much less drunk than he'd appeared while nursing his beer at the bar. "An interesting image. What makes you think this Human is Megar Slothe?" He felt as taut as a wire about to snap. It couldn't just fall into his lap like this—or could it?

  "You gonna pay me or what?" Able Joe said, feigning outrage. Lefebvre held up his credit chip but refused to touch it to the being's receiver.

  "Prove it."

  "Sure. Sure." The youngster's bushy paired eyebrows drooped at the edges. "The vid's from a store my creche operates on Ultari Prime. Every member of my litter carries a copy. We don't forget cheats—everyone knows that about us; you know that, right?—and this Slothe cheated our family in a big way. He's gonna pay." A pause while four eyes examined Lefebvre in the gloom of the booth and the receiver was lifted hopefully. "So, are you? Gonna pay me?"

  "Cheated you how?"

  "Bought a load of stuff from my creche parent—a starship, supplies, high-tech stuff—all prime, high-end goods. Nothing shabby, y'know? Then there was a cancel sent by remote to r
eclaim every credit paid. Just about ruined my parent, that did." This with a note of almost sanctimonious pride.

  "Slothe sent the cancel?" When the Ervickian's primary mouth remained closed in a stubborn oval, Lefebvre touched his chip to the being's receiver, tipping in a generous amount without result. He repeated his donation.

  A gleam from vestigial teeth—the really useful ones resided lower down and Lefebvre was as glad not to see them. "Yeah. My sibs and me, we think so," Able Joe said cheerily. "Who else?"

  "That depends. When was this image taken? The exact date—standard time, not local."

  The Ervickian held up the holocube, pressing a control to bring up the security vid record. Lefebvre scanned it. An older model but still in use today, being as tamperproof as such things could be.

  Lefebvre's lips moved soundlessly as he repeated the date to himself. A full week, he calculated numbly. A full week after Paul Ragem had been reportedly killed on Artos—his death activating the emergency warning from the implant under his skin before its signal inexplicably cut off—this vid captured him on Ultari Prime.

  Kearn was too blinded by his obsession with monsters and shapeshifters to see what had been under his nose all along. Lefebvre had always suspected Ragem's death as too convenient, especially when Artos became a closed system immediately afterward, preventing any retrieval of a body or investigation.

  And Councillor Sandner had gone to such pains to emphasize that point.

  The Ervickian might have slipped him a stim shot, from the way Lefebvre felt his heart pounding more heavily and quickly, until his pulse rushed in his ears like ocean waves. Paul was alive?

  So much for hunting the truth of his final days, digging out scraps of evidence, following leads that vanished in his fingers as rapidly as the whorls of smoke in the bar. This, Lefebvre realized, changed everything.