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. Together 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.
Chapter 36: 'Digger Night
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*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, knowing 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.
*Sends down a Battle Herd to fetch a spy,* she complained, clicking with one hoof. The Ganthor hoof spread into two capable digits, opposed by a third, longer one extending from the back of the wrist. The inner surface of each digit was spongelike and sensitive, the outer, a bony shell ideal for their clicking speech. Her e-rig, as those of all the Ganthor, came equipped with small metal disks at the tip of each digit, so their clickspeech was a disarming tinkle of tiny bells. Coming from a creature who massed at least three of me and whose e-rig was wrapped in bandoliers studded with shells and explosives, this was a little disconcerting.
I was tapping the blades of two rather formidable knives to hold up my end of the conversation, knives belonging to the Matriarch's Second. He stood right at my shoulder, close enough that his breathing kept sending the nozzle of his rifle into my back. Inadvertently, I hoped.
*I am honored to have such an escort,* I clicked respectfully, * while appreciating this is a waste of your Herd's bravery and skill, Matriarch.*
There were pleased thumps from all present, including the remaining six Ganthor in the 'digger's control room: the Matriarch's other Second, three taciturn individuals seated on a bench who wore sufficient land mines strung over their bulk to take out most of the city—probably the Herd's more experienced officers, inherited by default when this Matriarch assumed control—and the two operating the controls.
*Well-spoken, spy.* This click from the Second lurking behind me. There was a plop of mucus and something oozed between my feet. Stressed, was he?
I couldn't stamp in my soft-soled boots, but I brought the knives together as loudly as I could. *!!No* *I am not a spy,* I clicked firmly. *I am the greatest military strategist of my kind.* Had Skalet been in a grave, I grinned to myself, she should now roll over in it, as Paul would say.
Mind you, it was a gamble. Ganthor usually had one of two reactions to the concept of strategy: they ignored it completely or they nursed deep grudges against those not-so-brilliant planners responsible for their losses on the battlefield.
I judged this Matriarch as too clever for either. Her plan to find the Feneden with the 'digger, while typically destructive of the landscape, had been nonetheless effective and quick. Such a being should comprehend the value of the knowledge I pretended to possess.
*The Tly need advice,* she clicked, her tense body posture signaling an underlying meaning.
I thought I could guess, and felt sudden anger. This form didn't care for the emotion—my cilia distracted me by coursing across the back of my neck in draft-causing waves. I was careful in phrasing my question: *There has been waste?*
*!!Too much!!* stamped the Matriarch. She smacked the Second nearest her.
He clicked what dignity would not permit her to tell me. *Two Herds have been lost. Every member. The Tly Commander, Logan, says this is due to poor strategy by Ganthor.* There's an oxymoron, I thought, but squashed it guiltily. We were talking about lives. *This is,* he clicked morosely, chiming in almost a minor key, *difficult to accept.*
*!!Retribution!!* The Matriarch's opinion of the matter was plain.
I had worse news for them, convinced Logan would repeat his tricks and eliminate this Herd as well, once their usefulness ended. The last clicks of the dying Ganthor on Minas XII haunted me. The Matriarch was betrayed. Abandoned. No Herd. That tactic wouldn't work on Iftsen Secondus—the Iftsen wouldn't harm them. But, unless he was ready to be exposed, Logan couldn't risk having them questioned by Port Authority or Commonwealth officials. Ganthor were constitutionally incapable of holding' in the truth. It was, I thought, a significant part of their charm.
The hard part was going to be warning this Herd without sending them into a vengeance-fueled frenzy or winding up a blue smear on the floor before I could explain how I knew.
Confidence, I told myself, was something you needed to show others before revealing how wrong they'd been. Especially really large, well-armed, hot-tempered, others.
Elsewhere
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"SIRS?"
The tentative and worried voice on the formerly dead com system was not the one Lefebvre had expected. He turned and met Timri's glance. She shrugged, but took a stance to one side of his door.
"Yes, Com-tech Resdick?" Lefebvre snapped in his best, don't-bother-me tone. He had no idea what Kearn might have said to the crew to explain why the captain and comp-tech were locked in the captain's quarters. Knowing Kearn, Lefebvre reminded himself, he might not have said anything at all, fearing a mutiny.
The worry deepened. "We have a—situation on the bridge, sir."
Lefebvre forgot all about Kearn, sitting up straight. "What kind of situation?"
"Port Authority is on the com, sir. They want to speak to a senior officer. You, sir."
"Did they say what it's about?"
There was a slight pause, as though Resdick—only two years from retirement—was considering exactly what might get him in the least trouble. Then, when he spoke, Lefebvre realized he'd misjudged the being. Resdick had merely hesitated to find the words: "Sir, there's a Ganthor assault vehicle approaching the shipcity, Underside. It's already attacked the—the Brakistem Art Gallery. Sir."
"Where's Kearn? Security Head Sas?"
"They've left the ship, sir. A half an hour ago. I'm not getting a response to my calls. I believe they were trying to catch the next Upperside shuttle."
Timri spat out a quiet curse.
Lefebvre drew a long, slow breath in through his nostrils, letting it out again slowly, feeling his mind and body settle into the calm readiness he knew he'd need more than any adrenaline.
First things first.
"My door's jammed, Resdick," he said calmly. "Send someone down here to open it."
Chapter 37: Shipcity Morning
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I MIGHT have been masquerading as a strategist—somewhat of a trend, since I'd already been a diplomat, ghost, spy, and any number of things I was not—in order to gain the Matriarch's confidence. That hadn't let me avoid a difficult choice. The easy part had been convincing the Ganthor her current employer was a bad risk. The account I'd accessed through the 'digger's com system had perhaps softened the blow of dropping a supposedly lucrative contract, although I thought it probable this exceptionally worldly Matriarch recognized Logan could be killing his mercs—at least in part—as a cost-cutting method. It did nothing to moderate their reaction to my disclosures.
Once they'd calmed, and I could descend from the precarious safety of an upper shelf, we discussed—more or less without bruising—what to do next. Understandably, the Seconds were all for a frontal assault. Unfortunately, all they had was a location to meet their transport offworld. I didn't see Logan risking himself in person, however convenient. Nor did I expect he'd really send a transport capable of retrieving the Herd, in case they attempted to commandeer it—a detail confirmed by the simple expedient of having two of the Herd exit the 'digger, shoot a climbing rig up the nearest tall structure with the necessary orientation, and launch a servoscope from the top. It was illegal, intrusive, and broke any number of regulations about how Commonwealth species acted toward one another.
It also improved my credibility with the Ganthor a thousandfold when the 'scope panned the seashore in the direction of the so-called transport and found only an automated one-person shuttle.
So the next move was up to me. The Herd dealt with its inner turmoil by lining up so they could connect each in turn to the Matriarch's e-rig, a reassurance I could have used myself. My Feneden-self apparently craved the company of its own species as well, a craving my cilia tried to satisfy by sampling heat signatures from the e-rigged bodies near me. Needless to say, that instinctive searching merely confirmed I was the only one here without a thick hide and even thicker layer of insulating body fat.
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 33
