Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision

by Julie E. Czerneda

  "I swear to you," I said in complete honesty. "I am not the Shifter. You are making a terrible mistake. There really is a weapon—"

  "We are saving ourselves and our people from the only true threat," countered the male, waving a signal to the others. They backed to the air lock, one pausing to tear the helmet from Paul's fingers, another stopping at the air lock control panel for a moment before joining the others.

  This didn't look good at all. "Wait, Anisco," I pleaded quickly, careful not to move as my knowing her identity apparently startled them. "There's no reason to leave the Human here. You know who he is. This is Paul Cameron. The translator the Panacians brought to you." I thought feverishly. They were a nervous bunch. "He's important. He'd be missed. You'd be asked questions."

  She hesitated and might have listened to more, but Paul, somehow perceiving what I was up to, chose that moment to sabotage anything I'd gained. He surged to his feet, scooping up his medallion on the way, then came to stand, stiff and straight, at my side.

  Anisco spat out a name that translated somewhat literally as "picker of scraps" and urged the rest of the Feneden out. She turned back at the last minute to say in a terrible voice: "Then he can be your final prey, Shifter."

  The air lock closed with a rather final-sounding clang of metal to metal.

  In the following silence, I could hear a faint hissing over the dual, mismatched sounds of our breathing.

  They were venting the dome.

  Elsewhere

  « ^ »

  "I HAVE a call for Project Leader Kearn," Com-tech Res-dick told Lefebvre. "It's from the Feneden ship."

  Finally. "Patch it through," Lefebvre ordered briskly. When the com-tech hesitated, Lefebvre raised one brow. "Now."

  "Yessir."

  A high-pitched squeal arched through the com, making everyone cover their ears until Resdick switched off the speakers. "I've recorded it, sir," he said hurriedly.

  "What was that?" Lefebvre asked, still hearing a painful echo ringing in his ears.

  Timri spoke from her post. "The Feneden abandoned their mechanical translators. I presume this is whatever they used to make contact with the Commonwealth in the first place. I'll see if I have any information on it."

  "Quickly," Lefebvre said, staring at the vid display of the asteroid and its single, glittering dome. Any more delays, and he was taking the Russ' down, no matter who told him to stay put.

  "Captain?"

  "Yes?"

  Resdick was definitely thriving at the formerly quiet com station. "There's a message from Iftsen Secondus, sir, to the Russell III. Did you want to take it here or in your quarters?" At Lefebvre's impatient nod, Resdick brought up the com.

  The voice spoke comspeak with a soft burring around the consonants. Iftsen, for sure, Lefebvre identified, sitting up straighten "This is the present First Citizen of Brakistem, Russell III. Am I speaking with the being in charge of this ship?"

  "This is Captain Lefebvre, First Citizen."

  There was a long pause. "Are you in charge of this ship?" the Iftsen asked, sounding cautious. "Are you the decision maker?"

  "I am."

  "You are near our asteroid?"

  Lefebvre frowned. "Yes, First Citizen. As you requested, the Russell III has not yet taken any action toward the asteroid or the Feneden ship which landed there. But I must tell you, on behalf of the Commonwealth, we are prepared to forestall any attack—"

  "There can be no attack, Captain. Our instruments record that The Messenger has been taken from its place. We are now—" a definitely melancholy sigh,"—quite defenseless. I invite you and your crew to return and share our Festival, Captain Lefebvre. I can offer personal introductions to our most honored and innovative artists."

  Timri touched his elbow. "The Feneden just left the asteroid," she whispered.

  Lefebvre took a deep breath. "Thank you for informing us, First Citizen. And the invitation. I'll keep you posted." He drew a finger across his throat, and Resdick cut their transmission.

  "I never thought I'd say this," Lefebvre announced grimly. He stood, rising up a little on the balls of his feet as though preparing to rush forward.

  "Follow that ship."

  Chapter 43: Asteroid Night

  « ^ »

  "KEEP still, Es," Paul ordered, tight-lipped and obviously angry. He ignored the departure of the Feneden. Instead, he stood, fists on his hips, surveying the membrane they'd called Kearn's trap. "First things first."

  "It wasn't my fault—" I began, then closed my lips as he shook his head.

  "Keep still," my friend repeated. "What did they tell you about this thing?"

  I rolled my eyes, including the distorted ones on top of my head. "They got it from Kearn. They made some ridiculous claim it would stop me from changing form. I can't imagine how this could do anything but cause claustrophobia. I'd like to take it off, if you don't mind. It's bothering my oculars."

  "Just wait a minute." He prowled around me, using a piece of broken plas from the floor to gently prod at the glimmering stuff. "Patience, Es."

  I obeyed, more because I hadn't done much of that lately, than because I saw any sense to it, but fumed. We had a few more problems than my having a bag over my head. I reminded him of at least one. "They're venting the dome. Shouldn't we be looking after that?"

  "I noticed. But we can't take chances with this," Paul said. He'd moved around in front of me again, looking worried. "Es, this didn't come from Kearn—not directly. He doesn't have access to this type of tech. Might be Kraal; it's similar to their stealth cloaks."

  I went almost cross-eyed trying to see the stuff, then shrugged. It was so light, my cilia could ripple beneath the top. "I don't really care who cheated Kearn into buying it. It's just a bag, and I for one have had enough of it." My next move might have been due to my empty stomach, a Feneden dislike of having my upper eyes clouded, or simply impatience.

  Paul shouted "No!" at the same split second I reached out and grabbed handfuls of the stuff in order to throw it off.

  There was a blinding flash.

  "Esen."

  It wasn't morning. There hadn't been night, I assured myself smugly, so it definitely wasn't morning.

  "Es. Esen. Please?" The quiet, annoying voice became suddenly much louder: "Esen-alit-Quar!"

  Confused by memories of others using that tone, I opened my eyes, seeing Paul's face looking oddly pale and out of focus. Then I blinked, and his face became clear, with bright red spots on either cheek. "Morning?" I said doubtfully.

  Ouch. Everything hurt.

  His strong hands slid under my shoulders. Ah, I thought cleverly, I had shoulders. After a few uncomfortable tugs, I found myself more or less supported by one of Paul's arms, my cheek on his chest. Not every Esen had cheeks, I remembered.

  Which Esen was I?

  More to the point, why was I semicollapsed and semiconscious? "Wassh, what's happened?" I said, finding my mouth very stubborn about moving properly.

  Instead of answering, which would have been helpful, this evidence I was more or less awake apparently compelled the Human to crush me against the hard edges of his space suit with his other arm and start rocking back and forth.

  I mumbled a protest into a mouthful of flexible tubing.

  He was too busy talking to hear. As for what he was saying—I woke up the rest of the way realizing Ersh would never have used such language when scolding me. Humans.

  "I'll be okay," I gasped, when Paul stopped to take a breath. "Let me up."

  His ferocious grip loosened, so I lay back again, but he didn't let go. "You—"

  "I believe you've adequately covered that, my friend," I said, finding it easier to move my lips now, as though all of my muscles were shaking off some type of paralysis. "What happened? What—am I—?" I struggled to see myself, not feeling anything from this form that made sense yet. He helped me sit up.

  I knew those long legs. I was still Feneden. And hungry.

  "You touched the memb
rane," Paul explained, hoarsely. "It turned opaque, then disappeared. You—you dropped to the ground. Are you hurt?"

  "Stiff," I informed him. "Help me up, please." I clung to his shoulder once on my feet, needing his stability as the dome spun around uncooperatively for a few seconds. "How long was I out? How's me air?"

  "Long enough to scare me half to death," he said, under his breath. Louder: "The pressure alarms haven't sounded yet. Must be a pretty slow venting rate. The Feneden took the control rods with them. We can't repair it."

  I resisted the urge to start breathing more deeply, knowing it was purely psychological. Time for that later, I decided.

  Paul had other priorities as well, which including a typically stubborn desire for details. "Esen, the membrane, Kearn's trap, it worked, didn't it? You couldn't cycle to escape."

  Pulling free, I scowled up at him, feeling the cilia on my head lay flat as well. "I didn't have time," I corrected. "There was a flash of energy—something that overloaded the nerves and senses of this form. Maybe it would do the same to any form. I don't plan to test it again."

  "In other words," Paul said doggedly, "it did work as they intended. You couldn't cycle."

  "I didn't try," I objected, not sure why this mattered so much to him. "I see no reason the membrane alone would have stopped me. Now that I know its properties, I would simply cycle into web-form. As myself, I could absorb the energy. Why?"

  Paul's eyes were dark and somber. "Because, old friend, this means someone, somewhere, knows enough about a web-being to design a trap capable of subduing you—if only this once."

  "And gave it to Kearn," I added uncomfortably, thinking it through. "Kraal tech." There wasn't much doubt in my mind, and I could see echoing agreement on his face. Well, this couldn't get much worse, I told myself.

  "What else do they have?" Paul speculated, immediately proving me wrong.

  Elsewhere

  « ^ »

  LEFEBVRE'S eyes snapped open. There weren't too many things that could rouse him like this from an exhausted sleep, but a footstep in his supposedly empty cabin was one of them. He lay still, breathing easily, trying to identify the location of the intruder.

  There!

  He lunged over the side of his bed, sweeping out both arms. The unseen figure gave a sharp cry of pain as Lefebvre's momentum drove them both to the floor in a pile of covers and limbs. He kept one hand wrapped around what felt like a neck, reaching back with the other to snap on the light.

  Then Lefebvre let go. "Sir?" he exclaimed, squinting down at Kearn. "Are you all right? What are you doing in my quarters?"

  Kearn's eyes were watering, his mouth working without words coming out. Lefebvre offered his hand, but the other Human refused, pushing free of the tangle of covers as he stood up unsteadily. "I w-wanted," Kearn began, then rubbed his throat as though it helped. "I needed to talk to you, Captain. Privately." With a familiar trace of affronted dignity in his voice, he added: "I hardly expected to be assaulted trying to wake you up. That's a nasty habit. You could have killed me."

  "Sorry, sir," Lefebvre said, hiding a smile. He offered Kearn his desk chair, then, on a whim, grabbed two glasses and the half-bottle of Brillian brandy Timri had kept from the Feneden for him, before taking the remaining chair. "Drink, sir?"

  Kearn blinked slowly. Lefebvre took in the puffy, shadowed eyes, and sallow skin. Kearn looked pasty at the best of times, but now it was as if he hadn't slept for weeks. Without waiting for a reply, Lefebvre poured a generous dollop of brandy into each glass and pressed one into Kearn's unresisting hand.

  "Cheers, sir." Lefebvre tossed back his own drink in one gulp, welcoming the soothing bum on the back of his throat. Kearn followed suit, coughing as the alcohol hit, but keeping it down. Lefebvre refilled both glasses before asking: "What can I do for you, sir?"

  "Sir?" Kearn stared at the glass in his hand like someone suspecting poison, then downed the next shot in two quick swallows, barely wincing this time. "Sir." He gave a bitter laugh. "As my commission is unlikely to continue once our current mission ends, Captain Lefebvre," he said, matter-of-factly, "you might as well call me Lionel."

  Lefebvre didn't argue the point. As if my career will last any longer, he reminded himself, toasting the person most likely to destroy it. "Rudy," he invited, before draining his glass.

  "Rudy. Thank you." This as Lefebvre filled their glasses a third time. "Rudy, I have a question to ask you," Kearn continued. "Off the record. Just you and me."

  Lefebvre kept his face open and neutral, despite the alarm bells ringing in his head. "That's fine, Lionel," he said, "as long as 'off the record' means you aren't recording this."

  "This isn't a conversation I want recorded either." Kearn thumped his empty glass rather hard on the desk. "I dream about the Esen Monster every night, you know," he began slowly, heavily. "Fifty years, I've dreamed Her. Sometimes, I win—and everyone believes me. Sometimes," his pudgy fingers reached out into the air, "I almost catch Her, but she escapes, running away. But since I found out Ragem was alive, I've been losing, Rudy. I've been losing to Her—and She destroys everything." There was, Lefebvre decided, something appalling about the haunted look on Kearn's face. It was the look of a being who has faced his own death over and over again. No one deserved that.

  "Ask your question," Lefebvre said, knowing he was being a fool, but pitying Kearn nonetheless. He shared the last of the bottle, sucking out the dregs before tossing it behind him. "After all, this is just the two of us, Rudy and Lionel, chatting in the dark, having a few drinks." Fair warning, Lefebvre decided. He wouldn't promise the truth or future verification.

  Kearn nodded, as if acknowledging what was unsaid. "I thought She'd killed him, you know," he began, keeping his eyes on the glass in his hand, tilting it so the amber liquid flowed from side to side. "Ragem was like you—he didn't take orders, my orders, well. He was bright, smart, ambitious. A gifted linguist, mind you. Truly gifted. He was my second, but I knew he'd outrank me within a few years; less with luck. He seemed to have that, too." Kearn paused, then went on as if the brandy or Lefebvre's attentive silence was a goad. "I didn't like him, but I depended on him. Like you.

  "Then our Captain was murdered, and I was pushed into command. I needed Ragem more than ever, but that's when he brought Her aboard. It all changed. I could see it, we all could. She—this Esen—was everything to him. We were nothing." Kearn paused, taking a huge mouthful of brandy before going on. "He insisted She was harmless, innocent, well-meaning—even after the killings started. There was nothing I could say to convince him and, then, She killed him."

  "But she didn't," Lefebvre said very quietly, remembering a delicate, green-eyed face. "You know that now."

  "No," Kearn agreed. "She didn't. She's protected him, hasn't She? All these years." He looked up, straight at Lefebvre, a mute demand for the truth.

  Lefebvre nodded, once.

  Kearn squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds.

  Lefebvre waited, more curious than concerned. Maybe it was the brandy, he warned himself. Or the lack of sleep. He hadn't had much lately either.

  Kearn's eyes snapped open. "Has Ragem been Her pet?" he sounded bitter. "A plaything?"

  "You knew him," Lefebvre countered. "Do you believe that?"

  "Yes." The smaller Human rubbed his gleaming forehead, then sighed. "No, I don't. Ragem told me Esen was his friend. I thought, all this time, She'd betrayed him."

  "That's not what happened, is it?" Lefebvre's temper flared. "You're the one who betrayed him, Kearn. You branded Ragem a traitor, cost his family the memory of their son. You're the one who tried to charge him with crimes he didn't commit and, when that failed, spread rumors until no one could separate the truth from your lies."

  His outburst brought only a shrug from Kearn, deep in his contemplation of a now-empty glass. "Ragem could have defended himself," he said almost mildly, but his hands were perceptibly shaking. "He could have returned to his family. Instead, he chose to hide, to
leave everything—for Her. Why?"

  "I don't know," Lefebvre said, hearing the truth in it. Paul hadn't explained, not yet, maybe not ever. A tiny flicker of anger burned at that thought, then faded to resignation. "He had his reasons."

  "Does She control his mind? Does She rule him by fear?"

  "Those must be quite the dreams you've been having," Lefebvre snorted.

  "I don't recommend them," Kearn replied, without irony. "Then what is it? What is it about the Esen Monster that could draw such loyalty from someone like Ragem? That's my nightmare, Captain Lefebvre. That I—that I—" Kearn seemed to lose his voice.

  "That you've been wrong for fifty years?" Lefebvre finished for him, unsure what was more dangerous: Kearn's vulnerability or his.

  Again the urgent glance, this time from eyes filling with tears. "Can you tell me that, Captain—Rudy?" Kearn pleaded. "Have I been wrong? Or is Esen a monster? I'm going to catch her. What will I be facing when I do? My destruction? Do you know?"

  "What I know—what I know is that we're both overtired and need to be fit to deal with the Feneden in the morning. Anything else, you'll have to find out for yourself. Sir." Lefebvre took back the glass, hating himself as he watched the desperate hope on Kearn's face fade to despair alone.

  Paul warned there'd be a price for keeping Esen's secret, Lefebvre reminded himself.

  He hadn't expected it to be Kearn.

  Chapter 44: Asteroid Midnight

  « ^ »

  WE'D explored the entire dome and taken turns staring gloomily at the sabotaged vent control. All we had to show for our efforts was a pile of packing material to sit on and, certainly on my part, a greater appetite for what was not present—lunch.

  We'd caught up on some news, most of it deteriorating into arguments about which of us should have listened to the other before leaping into situations alone. On the whole, I decided, we were remarkably even.