Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Delayed how? Lefebvre, having spent so much time hunting Ragem, had a great respect for how effectively his cousin had preserved his secrets while living a fairly exposed life. Since coming back on the ship—and retrieving his comp system from an unrepentant and curious Timri—Lefebvre had done some checking. The Russell III had even used the reputable firm of Cameron & Ki Exports to broker supplies out on the Fringe, no one the wiser.

  Or was that the case? Lefebvre's patroller instincts had been aroused. How had he managed to miss Ragem all these years? He could understand missing Esen—her "disguise" as the Lishcyn trader was so perfect as to have him still shaking his head in disbelief. He could understand Kearn's failure as well, since, until Panacia, Kearn had adamantly believed Ragem dead.

  But once he'd started looking? Lefebvre shook his head, amazed he'd been so blind. It wasn't vanity to know your own skills. Ragem should have tripped across any number of traps and trip lines Lefebvre had left for him all through this edge of the Commonwealth, but hadn't. At the very least, the fact of his still being alive should have come up before D'Dsel. The conclusion was plain: Ragem had had help.

  And, Lefebvre told himself grimly, there was only one individual who could have sent out warning; only one on the Russell III with both training and access to interfere with him.

  Holding Paul's message, with its unspoken plea for help, tightly in his fist, Lefebvre looked up at the person he'd summoned to his temporary office.

  "Ah, Comp-tech Timri," he said easily, almost lightly. "I'd like your assistance with something that's just come up."

  "Of course, Captain."

  Lefebvre studied her, remembering the first time they'd met. She had been a welcome breath of expertise and credibility on this ship of fools, living up to every one of Kearn's extravagant claims about her ability to make sense out of seemingly unconnected data, to dig stubbornly resistant patterns out of what appeared random events.

  She'd also been as personally welcoming as a chill, winter wind. There was no denying Timri would have turned heads when younger—even now, she had the high cheekbones, long bones, and fine skin that defined many Human perceptions of beauty, regardless of age. Unfortunately, her customary expression whenever forced to communicate with anyone or anything but her comp system was a forbidding combination of impatience and disdain.

  "Close the door, please," he ordered, seeing that expression now as she obviously tallied the time wasted by his not coming right to the point.

  Sure enough, she closed the door and turned to say: "Will this take long, sir? I have—"

  "Something I believe you want to tell me, Comp-tech." Lefebvre used his iciest tone.

  Her eyes darted to the system hastily patched together on the table serving him for a desk. "If it's about your comp, sir, I did explain to you why it had to be removed before the Feneden took over your quarters. It seemed reasonable to put it with mine. Was I in error?" There was a hint of anxiety in her voice.

  She was good, Lefebvre thought, even more convinced he was right about her. "No. After all, none of you knew if I'd be back. This is about something else," he began, switching to a more casual tone that brought a confused frown to her face. "I met someone during my time away from the Russ' who has—changed—some of my opinions about our search."

  "Did you find some evidence, sir?" This with visible eagerness. "You do remember our bet," Timri continued boldly, before he could respond. "If anything came up while you were on leave, you said you'd put through my promotion. Sir."

  Damn good. He had to smile at that, but hid it behind one hand while pretending to cough. "We'll discuss that later, Timri," Lefebvre said. "Have a seat."

  "If it's nothing immediate, sir, I—"

  "Sit."

  Her lips tightened as she obeyed, her posture managing to convey an impression of enduring what she must.

  Lefebvre had thought very carefully how to approach this; the risk he was about to take wasn't his alone. "You know I've had my own interests since coming aboard the Russ' as Captain, Timri, and you've quite capably spied on them." He raised a hand to silence her protest before it was more than an indrawn breath and a look of righteous wrath. "I'm not concerned. We are on the same side, aren't we?" She subsided, but her eyes narrowed.

  "Or are we?" Lefebvre stood up and walked around to her side of his desk, propping one hip on an edge. He leaned forward. "I think we both know that Paul Ragem faked his own death in order to escape with the Kraal's Nightstalker weapon. And we both know he's been living in the Fringe under an assumed identity ever since."

  "If you are implying I have some secret source of information about Ragem, you are mistaken, Captain," she said flatly. "I knew nothing of his—survival—until the Panacians informed Acting Captain Kearn and he saw fit to tell me. I would be interested to know if you have corroborating evidence to back up that claim." She glared. "I certainly don't see why you think I've been spying on you—or why you think I would—"

  "Come now, Timri," Lefebvre said with a patroller's scathing cynicism; remarkable how easily the bearing and attitude of a professional interrogator came back to him after all these years. Or maybe it had been more recent events. "You must realize I discovered your searches through my comp."

  "As I traced yours long ago!" Timri snapped. Her wide nostrils flared. "Did you consider me a fool, Captain? Or were you like Kearn—so terrified of what we hunted that you couldn't even trust those under your command?"

  "I've never trusted you," Lefebvre replied comfortably. "Or anyone else on the Russ'. Why should I? I'm here because the Commonwealth saw fit to pay me to follow a madman."

  "You're here for blood—Ragem's blood," she disagreed, then closed her mouth tightly as if that had been more than she'd meant to say.

  "There's that," Lefebvre agreed. He sat back on his hip, letting one leg swing, adding a little triumphant smile. "And now I have it." Lefebvre spoke this last with the heartfelt satisfaction of someone seeing the end of a quarter lifetime's quest. No need to tell her his quest had never been to harm Ragem. Not yet.

  He could see she believed him. "What do you mean?" Caution in her eyes, no matter how Timri's expression altered to one of pleased expectation. "You've found Ragem," she breathed. "How? Where is he?"

  "Here. More exactly—" Lefebvre pointed a blunt forefinger upward. He made a show of consulting his chrono. "I should hear from Port Authority any time now. Why don't you wait here with me and we can share the moment together?"

  "What about Kearn?"

  No, "sir," Lefebvre noticed. "What about him?" he replied. "Once we have Ragem, he will take us to his weapon. There's no such thing as Kearn's Esen Monster."

  "There is," she said with an edge to her voice. "I saw what it did."

  "With all respect, Comp-tech, what you claim to have witnessed—" Lefebvre tapped his comp system to remind Timri her testimony was on record, "—what you saw bears no relationship to anything caused by a living organism. There is nothing in your statement to prove what attacked your ships wasn't simply an unfamiliar and devastating weapon. You don't mention seeing any living thing. Come on. I would have thought someone of your intelligence would have admitted this to herself long before now."

  She didn't look convinced, but he hadn't expected her to—it was his own belief Lefebvre wanted to establish. "What makes you think Ragem will just tell you what you want to know?" Timri asked, an odd note to her voice. Her eyes were fastened on him now, no doubt of their expression. She was alarmed.

  Lefebvre reached into his pocket and pulled out the blister stick, activating it with a snap of his wrist. Even now, the angry buzz drew sympathetic flashes of pain along his cheek, a reflex he turned into what he hoped was a look of vengeful anticipation. "He'll talk."

  Timri's lips tightened into a thoroughly disapproving line. "Torture, Captain Lefebvre? This is a Commonwealth research vessel; we aren't some band of criminals."

  "What Ragem has done puts him outside the protection of law. His crimes
demand retribution, not delays in the courts."

  Timri stood.

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  "To tell Kearn," she said defiantly, but stopped as if held by his tone.

  Lefebvre considered the tip of the blister stick. "Funny. I thought you might be going to make another call to Upperside. To our mutual friend Mitchell—or should I say Ragem? That is who you called after my—unexpected—return to the Russell III, isn't it? The logs were quite clear," he said, looking up at her. "Careless or in a hurry, Timri? My guess is the latter, since you've never been careless before."

  Timri no longer looked impatient or disdainful. She retraced the step she'd taken toward the door, taking another in order to stand so close he felt warmth from her body. There was none in her voice. "'Mutual friend,'" she repeated, disbelief plain on her face. She had height on him, and used it to glare down. "Are you implying I'm somehow in league with Ragem? That I warned him? Captain or not, you'll answer for that—"

  Lefebvre closed the blister stick. "I have many things to answer for, Timri, but being wrong about you? I don't think so. Being wrong about Paul Ragem? Yes. Being unable to stop the slander about a good, decent being? Absolutely."

  With her rich complexion, it was impossible to tell if she paled, but he saw her swallow before saying: "You've changed your mind about the Traitor? Why? What's happened?"

  Lefebvre met her eyes and told her the truth. "I met him—and discovered the Traitor never existed except as a lie. Ragem has never meant harm to any living thing."

  Her hands fastened on his arm with unexpected strength, as if to pin him in place. "Why are you telling me this, Lefebvre?" she almost whispered, her words fast and furious. "Don't you realize I can go straight to Kearn? I've proof you've been snooping through my research for him. Now you admit to meeting Ragem? That he's convinced you—as easy as that—to take his side? Did that blister stick to the head unravel something?"

  Lefebvre kept himself perfectly still. "Paul needs our help," he said quietly, aware he might be wrong about her, sincerely hoping he wasn't. There weren't, he thought darkly, too many options if he was.

  Timri thrust herself away from him, as if the force helped distance them more than physically. "Help him? Sure. If he tells us where the Esen Monster is. Or have you conveniently forgotten why we are all here?"

  Lefebvre sensed his opening. "Forgotten? How could I? At least now I know what we've been chasing. Not fables. Not some superweapon. And not a beast."

  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.

  Chapter 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 Night-stalker, 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 non-issue."

  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.