Logan gestured to one of the swings. He was too large to safely take the other, no matter how I privately hoped he'd try, settling his bulk into one of the chairs arranged nearby. One of the other Humans, a grim-faced older female I assumed to be the captain of the 'Watch, took another seat but didn't speak. Her ship orbited one of Iftsen Secondus' three icy moons, carefully avoiding the direct gaze of Upperside Shipcity and its Port Authority. I thought it quite likely they'd used this tactic many times before to scout departing ships.
There were tables, set with trays of delicacies likely stolen from such other ships. Probably the trays as well as the food, I decided, noting the quality. None of the porcelains recently shipped by Cameron & Ki, but then I wouldn't have the stuff on my own table.
"My intermediaries had instructions not to harm or alarm you in the least, Fem—?"
"Tilesen, Inspector Logan," I told him, staring right into Logan's glacier-blue eyes. Find the truth in the name, I dared him, but just to myself. "There was harm done in interrupting me, in taking me from my—kin-group. I trust you will explain yourself?"
"Fem Tilesen, I brought you here because of a vastly urgent matter of concern to both your people and mine." Logan leaned forward, intimidating even when seated. I kicked my long legs to start the swing moving. Once each swing we were farther apart; at the other end of my arc he visibly restrained himself from flinching back, so altogether I was pleased.
"And this matter would be?"
"The Iftsen weapon."
How very odd, I told myself, hearing the words and yet almost not understanding them. It was as if this form resisted wrapping its thoughts around the reality of the Iftsen. Merely thinking about them, which I realized abruptly I hadn't done for some time, was difficult. What was going on? Suddenly I felt oddly trapped, imprisoned by flesh that wasn't being reasonable, and my rising heat sent my cilia outward until I must have looked to be wearing spines instead of hair. Iftsen. Iftsen. Iftsen. I kept up the litany until I found it comfortable to say. Iftsen.
"What about this weapon, Inspector Logan?" I managed to ask. "Why is it of concern to me?"
"If I were you," he said bluntly, although his eyes strayed to my cilia with a somewhat puzzled look, "I'd be concerned about something threatening my homeworld."
I slowed the swing. "Why would there be this threat to Fened Prime, Inspector? Is this your threat?" Iftsen, I reminded my Feneden-self.
"No. Of course not. It's the Iftsen who have the weapon aimed your way, Fem Tilesen. I represent the Commonwealth." Rather than choke on that claim, I pumped the swing again. Logan, not noticing, continued: "As you know, our government, while predominantly Human, is responsible for keeping peace between signatory species, as well as protecting the rights of newly-met species such as yourselves. Mistakes happen," he said with commendable humility, shaking his massive head from side to side like some Ganthor testing for scent. "We do our best to prevent them."
"Most reassuring," I said with an effort.
"I wouldn't be reassured, Fem Tilesen. While we are doing our utmost to negotiate a truce with the Iftsen concerning your people, they are being unusually resistant to a diplomatic solution. I fear your world is in the gravest and most immediate danger. We have to act."
Time to show a little emotion, I decided, and arranged my Feneden-face into a Human-similar expression of growing dread. "What can we do?"
Logan was too good to let his own satisfaction show, but I caught a glimmer of it in the captain's face. "We must find and remove the Iftsen's weapon of destruction before they can use it against Fened Prime."
Finders, keepers, I recited to myself, knowing exactly what Logan hoped to accomplish. I was more than willing to help, as long as our purposes coincided with saving the Feneden and Iftsen. Out loud I asked, "Do you know where to find it?"
The captain spoke for the first time, her voice rough-edged as though worn from bellowing at fools. I looked at her, assessing her stony features and downturned mouth. This was doubtless one of the career military abandoned and reviled by the Tly as they sought to erase their past, ripe for Logan's approach to diplomacy. "The Iftsen are not used to keeping secrets, Fem Tilesen," she informed me. "We have a very good idea, yes."
"Why do you require me, then, if this is your responsibility?" I demanded, stopping the swing and touching my toes to the floor. "I am an art dealer. I have no desire to be on a military mission."
"We need your ship, Fem Tilesen, to accompany us," Logan said, trying to lower his high-pitched voice to something persuasive. It wasn't working. "That way, the Iftsen will realize this is not an action by the Commonwealth alone, but that you are taking justifiable steps to protect yourselves from a preemptive strike."
Thus making that strike ourselves and starting a war. How much did Logan know about the Feneden? Did he truly expect me to be that gullible? I had a sudden feeling of caution. He wasn't a being to suffer fools for long. I stood, and so did they. "Inspector Logan. Unless you can assure my people that these—aggressors—" I couldn't form the word Iftsen without obvious effort, "have no other means of attacking us, I will not cooperate in any scheme to involve us directly. That is an open invitation to disaster. For all I know," I ranted, warming up to my point nicely, "for all I know, these beings have allies surrounding our system, ready to attack us from many points, not just this one. Do you expect me to believe there is only one weapon aimed our way? Do you take me for a fool?"
Logan flushed, but his look down at me was sharper, more intent. Almost respectful. "Of course not," he said. "But we know there is only one of these weapons in their possession. It's an appalling device, capable of destroying ships, colonies, and most likely entire worlds. It's independently mobile and self-directing—you won't see it coming—you won't be able to defend against it." He smiled and I felt a chill run down my spine. "Wouldn't it be safer for the Feneden if you owned it, rather than your avowed enemy?"
Definitely, I told myself, keeping any triumph from my face. I sat back on the swing, kicking out to start it moving again. "Tell me, Inspector, more about your plan to ensure the safety of the Feneden."
Elsewhere
« ^ »
"WHO?"
"It's Project Leader Kearn, sir. He's on a secure channel."
No one turned from their posts, but he knew they were listening. The bridge crew had been wound tight since he had reappeared; tighter still since his upping their ready status to a preflight alert. They'd all received military training, despite their posting to a research and contact ship. There was a different feel to the air, knowing Ganthor were involved. They were hard enough to handle as tourists, Lefebvre thought glumly.
He tapped the arms of his chair, once, twice.
"Comp-tech Timri." Lefebvre didn't look behind to where he knew she stood waiting, a reassuring aura of competence about her. "Take over here. I'll receive the call in my quarters."
"Yessir."
Once in his quarters, safely alone, Lefebvre accepted the call. "Lefebvre here." Maybe Kearn would assume he was still locked up.
"Kearn," said an unfamiliar voice. "I know you are in command, Lefebvre. You can stay there. Just get the Russell III up here. Now. Port Authority has a priority docking arranged for you."
"Sir?" The word was involuntary. Lefebvre realized why. It was the first time he could recall Kearn snapping an order at him.
"We have a problem," the voice continued. "What are the Feneden doing?"
Lefebvre hadn't paid much attention to their neighbor. "All quiet. There's been no activity since a large group arrived back at the ship. What's wrong?"
"I'll brief you when you are here." As if Kearn could sense Lefebvre's immediate resistance, he continued, his tone suddenly dropping into something filled with foreboding: "We don't have much time to save them, Lefebvre. And we have to. Hurry."
The docking was priority one, as Kearn promised. The station didn't clamp holds on the hull, leaving them free to leave without notice. A wartime precautio
n Lefebvre didn't like in the least. What is going on?
Lefebvre stopped pacing by the com station. "Any more from Port Authority on Underside, Com-tech?"
"They say—well, this has to be wrong, sir." Resdick's voice hadn't lost its note of strain. "I've requested confirmation."
Lefebvre braced himself with one hand on the back of Resdick's chair. "Let's hear it."
Resdick swiveled his head to look up at his captain, obviously more puzzled than alarmed. Lefebvre relaxed slightly. "It's the Ganthor, sir. They've parked their 'digger in a shipcity lot. Apparently, sir—apparently they're claiming to be artists, participating in the Festival of Living Art. The Iftsen are raving about their contribution to the Gallery. There's a reception underway."
Lefebvre had one thought. Esen. He didn't know why he saw her hand in this and he certainly couldn't imagine how she'd done it, but he laughed out loud, clapping Resdick on the back. "Get that confirmed, Com-tech. But if it's verified, I want clearance from Port Authority to return to Underside immediately."
"Belay that, Captain."
Lefebvre whirled, again not recognizing the stern voice. It was Kearn, dressed in what had to be the most garish assortment of ill-fitting casual wear he'd ever seen, rushing in from the lift with Timri in tow. He'd sent her to meet Kearn at the entry port, knowing she could handle him if necessary. Her expression was one of absolute amazement, and she waved her hands at him as if trying to convey helplessness.
The clothes and Timri's waving faded from Lefebvre's sight as he met Kearn's eyes. For the first time, Kearn didn't glance away or become defensive. Instead, Lefebvre saw confidence there, the look of someone victorious. Paul, he thought with sudden, heart-stopping dread. Kearn caught him.
"This has nothing to do with our search or—personal differences, Captain," Kearn said with startling accuracy. He held out a trip tape. "Set this course. Then I'd like you, Comp-tech Timri, and Engineering Specialist Warner to join me for a briefing."
No one seemed to breathe, except Kearn, who stood waiting for obedience with unusual patience. Lefebvre studied him, trying to figure out how a person could change so completely, or if he'd somehow missed this Kearn all those years. The worried look was still there, only deeper, more concerned. The receding forehead gleamed with sweat, and the hands trembled. But there was a certainty of purpose, a steadiness Lefebvre had never seen before. This Kearn, he realized, could be worth hearing. "Aye, sir." He took the tape and handed it to the nav officer. "Get us moving, Nav. We'll be in the Project Leader's quarters."
"Yessir."
"Sir?" This from Resdick just as they entered the lift. "You asked to be notified about any change in the Feneden."
Kearn pushed past him. "What is it?" he demanded. "What are they doing? How do you know?"
"We left a remote vid," Lefebvre explained, moving with Kearn to the com-tech's post. "Report?"
"Here, sir," Resdick cued the vid on the small screen set into the upper right of his control panel. The ship's surveillance gear went via the security station on the next level down from the bridge. "See? They've had a visitor."
Lefebvre saw. A private shuttle, one of the expensive sort, sat to one side. Its occupant, a lone e-rigged figure impossible to identify by species, let alone as an individual, walked to the Feneden ship and headed up the ramp as though expected. Then the picture went black.
"They launched, sir," Resdick explained, then added unnecessarily: "Guess it fried the vid."
Lefebvre turned his head and met Kearn's eyes. "Is this good news, sir?" he asked.
Kearn rubbed one hand over his face. When it came away, he looked like someone seeing the odds mounting against him, but determined nonetheless. "I don't know, Captain," he said flatly. "But I find it hard to imagine it is. For anyone. Let's get underway."
Lefebvre nodded, wondering to himself: who had left with the Feneden?
And why?
Chapter 40: Lounge Morning
« ^ »
THERE were times when the fates smiled so broadly, I confidently anticipated disaster; cosmic cooperation like this had to have a price.
Logan knew where to find The Messenger and was taking me to it as his honored guest. He had the equipment to remove the weapon before it could be used against the Feneden. Safely, I hoped.
Paul was on Upperside, his cover intact and with Lefebvre in place on the Russell III to keep Kearn occupied. My friend might be furious with me for striking off on my own, but he knew what I was doing—well, I added honestly, he knew what I'd planned to do until the moment the Ganthor dropped in and forced some on-the-spot modifications. Anyway, at least I knew he was safe.
I'd taken advantage of the encounter with the parking attendant to forestall any lingering problems between the Ganthor and the Iftsen. By now, the art reviews I'd sent out under various names would have hit the newsmags on and off Iftsen, praising the adventurous and bold new exhibit by the Ganthor, a species finally showing their creative side to an admiring universe. I did like that one.
All of which meant far too many parts of my life were going far too smoothly for comfort, I reminded myself. Of course, it was like watching the majestic slide of a newly-birthed iceberg into the ocean. There wasn't much one could do to alter the event except get out of the way.
I'd contacted the Feneden ship, as Logan requested. They'd been somewhat surprised to receive a call from someone fluent in their own language, but once I'd begun passing along Logan's information—carefully, and all too easily, avoiding any reference to the Iftsen—that surprise had turned to outright panic. It was a response I'd expected—had counted on, in fact. Any calm consideration would lead to inconveniences, such as contacting Fened Prime for reinforcements or, worse, involving the local authorities and so alerting the Iftsen.
The Feneden, to Logan's delight, had been ready to lift almost immediately, a speed suggesting plans already made—a point I didn't make with Logan.
Meanwhile, I was experiencing a slight problem, which I hoped balanced the fates: one of those "owner's manual" events that I should have considered. My Feneden-self was starving. The Black Watch had a marvelous galley, if an unhappy cook, but I didn't dare try anything they offered, claiming a period of fasting—always a convenient excuse with aliens.
The truth was, I had no idea what was safe on the Human ship for my Feneden-self. Ersh's memories were regrettably lacking in details beyond local delicacies currently out of reach. This form, despite its outward resemblance to theta-class humanoids, was anything but similar in physiology. For one thing, a large amount of my appetite seemed centered in the clusters of cilia bunched under my clothes, the ones forming lumps that, on a Human, would be substantial breasts.
I had a sense this form could withstand a reasonable amount of fasting; it would have to, because if I tried something poisonous to this body, I'd have to cycle to save myself. Not the ideal choice, given present company. I was never left alone, which ruled out trying for another rezt.
"Fem Tilesen. May I join you?" Logan bowed from the open doorway of the lounge, pausing in a polite fiction that my answer would make any difference.
"Certainly, Inspector," I said, looking up from the reader they'd given me. It contained a series of travelogues from systems more or less neighboring the Feneden's, implying Logan was being very careful with the information made available to me. They weren't boring; I was always happy to collect any new data on living cultures, even when packaged for family fun. "These have been fascinating. Thank you."
He looked nonplussed for a moment, then recovered. "My pleasure. Just let one of the crew know if you need anything."
Since I doubted either of the burly, armed Humans standing at attention to either side of the door would dash off in search of my next whim, I didn't bother to answer that. "How long until we reach the weapon?" I asked, kicking the swing into motion as though unconcerned.
"We're there. I've come to ask you to accompany me to the facility."
I'd had better
invitations, I decided, fancying I heard the cold winds of disaster starting to test my ears. But this had been the target I'd aimed Logan toward; again, so far, so good. "Are there no—guards?" I ventured, trying not to sound eager. It was distressingly easy.
He came and sat, crossing his long legs and stretching his misproportioned arms over his head with a chilling bulge of muscle. Regardless of his intelligence and scheming, I suddenly realized, this was a being who defined himself in physical terms and preferred his battles that way. Perhaps that was why he discarded his Ganthor Herds after each use—their inborn strength might seem a direct threat to his own.
His thready, high voice always took me by surprise. "They appear to have relied on camouflage rather than defense, Fem Tilesen. There are no living guards we can detect. To our scans, the construction appears Panacian—which makes sense. The Iftsen adapt or buy Panacian tech for everything off-planet. It also makes our little visit easier. Since they used Panacian materials, they'd have to worry about corrosion. There's a breathable atmosphere in place."
"Where is our transport?" I'd fallen into the Human habit of naming ships, especially as Esolesy Ki, and found the Feneden lack of one for their starship almost as discon-certing as my growing hunger pangs. "Will we rendezvous with them before going to the asteroid?"
Logan's brow rose. "I don't think that would be wise, Fem Tilesen. Disarming an unknown weapon is fraught with uncertainties. We shouldn't risk more than ourselves. Once we are back on the 'Watch with the weapon safely disarmed, you can instruct your ship to dock with us to receive the weapon."
Once we were back, it would be a quick departure with the Feneden left to do any explaining—or to take the blame. I'd thought he was clever.
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 36
