Lefebvre shut the door, but stayed inside the cabin. Kearn felt his pulse begin to race but clamped his lips together as he turned. "What is it, Captain?" he snapped, quite pleased with the firm sound of his voice. There was, he firmly believed, great benefit in a full dress uniform on important occasions. It didn't hurt to know a secret or two.
Unfortunately for Kearn's confidence, Lefebvre didn't look like a someone intimidated by gilt or guilty secrets. "Sir. I'd like to know what you're planning to do."
"About you? And Comp-tech Timri?" Kearn asked, sitting behind his desk and hiding a wince as he did. There were, alas, disadvantages to a uniform donned once every decade or so.
Lefebvre shook his head, then pulled up a chair of his own. Kearn stiffened. "About Esen," Lefebvre said. "And Paul."
Kearn wove his fingers together, controlling the urge to run them over his scalp. "Are you going to provide me with any useful information, Captain Lefebvre? Information that has a bearing on my disposition toward either—individual?"
Lefebvre's eyes glinted warningly. "I've always provided you with whatever credible information is in my possession, sir. You know that."
"Yes. Yes, of course you have. Then," Kearn pulled open the desk drawer and brought out the Kraal knife, not needing to watch Lefebvre to sense his sudden attention on the deadly, ornate thing, "then we have nothing more to discuss at this time. I really do think, Lefebvre, that you would learn not to waste my valuable time." As Kearn continued to ramble along, slipping into the familiar phrases of the lecture he'd given to every new arrival to the Russ', his hands were busy twisting the handle from the blade.
He slid both pieces across the desk, soundlessly, and looked at Lefebvre. "So you see, Captain. I'm much too busy for these little chats of yours right now. I'd like you to think for yourself on occasion."
Kearn's mouth was dry. Would Lefebvre understand what he couldn't say out loud? They didn't know one another, not in ways that could help now. He heard himself continue babbling, saying the usual meaningless drivel he'd always used to build a safe wall of regulation and rank between them. All the while, Kearn—as fearful and fascinated as when he was forced to watch an Urgian snake handler dance with sixteen cloud vipers amid its tentacles—watched as Lefebvre's blunt, competent fingers lifted the handle, turning it slowly so he could look inside.
Lefebvre immediately glanced up at Kearn, meeting his eyes with an expression of shock and dismay. He pantomimed tossing the handle over his shoulder, obviously believing, as now did Kearn, that the device within was some type of recorder and transmitter.
"I'm glad you are paying attention, Captain," Kearn continued, while he brought together both fists, then snapped them apart. Destroy it, but keep the evidence, he tried to say with his eyes alone. "Now, I think you'd best let me get back to my work, and you look after your end."
Lefebvre's brisk, approving nod was the friendliest gesture Kearn could remember seeing in a long time. He sagged with relief, covering his face with his hands for a moment.
Kearn might have imagined it, but he thought Lefebvre's hand brushed his shoulder before the captain left with the knife handle.
Chapter 46: Asteroid Afternoon
« ^ »
PAUL was asleep, his head cradled on some filthy material I'd folded into a pillow on my lap. It was sleep, I reassured myself, thoughts heavy and slow, running my gloved fingers lightly across his hair. I wasn't entirely sure I could wake him up; on the other hand, remaining conscious held little that was attractive.
It was growing harder to hold form. I'd opened the fasteners on the arms, thighs, and front of my Human-fitted space suit to allow some of my heat to escape. My Feneden-self, while a nuisance in many ways, was considerably more tolerant of a raging fever than most.
Under those conditions, I wasn't surprised to have a hallucination or two. Still, the figure waving at me through the frosted air lock did appear more substantial than I'd been told such things would be.
Paul would know best, I told myself, nudging the sleeping Human. When he didn't stir, and the figure began pounding on the door with a rock, I reached for the control on Paul's suit that would pump out another short burst from the little remaining in his reserve tank.
The air—or the banging—did more than my physical approach. "What? Es?" Paul coughed, then drew three deep breaths from the fresher air rising from the neck of his suit. Awareness flooded back into his eyes and he climbed to his feet, pulling me with him.
This seemed to relieve the hallucination, who stopped pounding and began pointing at something behind me. I looked around, but saw nothing but the other door. Then, I understood and, grabbing Paul's arm, tried to tug him toward the inner air lock control. "They can't come in, Paul, until we get out of here," I explained, surprised when my Human resisted my urging, standing like a statue.
"Who are they?" he said, hoarsely, breaking free of my grip and taking my arm instead. Who was holding up whom? I thought, as we both staggered. "I'm not leaving until we know, Es. If they break in—"
"If they break in, you'll die in the vacuum!" I said in horror. The hallucination had started pounding again.
"If they are willing to break in, they don't plan to let me live, do they?" Paul looked down at me, eyes sunken and blue-tinged, cheeks almost hollowed, lips already losing the pink tinge provided by the burst of suit air, and smiled faintly. "Sweet Esen. You know what to do then."
"I won't leave you."
He ignored my protest. "I want you to go to any of the faces—there's contact information in our system. Please, Es. The pass phrase is: 'Ersh wouldn't approve.' It's also the code to identify yourself to them. Remember that."
Remember it? In spite of everything, my friend could make me laugh. I must have said that a thousand times, only to him, only in private. As for going to one of my so-called Web? That, I decided, was something I couldn't promise. Not yet and certainly not in the grip of emotion.
"How do we find out who this is, beyond dying in front of them?" I asked practically. The helmets had our com equipment; the dome appeared to have very little working gear except the venting system and some lighting. Of course, it had only been a warehouse for a planet-destroying work of art, not a shelter.
The question was answered, not by Paul, but by the hallucination outside. The suited figure's pounding changed to something varied in tempo and force.
It wasn't click speech, I decided, puzzling a moment. Then I recognized a pattern. "Paul, isn't that—?"
He didn't waste time discussing the message, for that's what it had been, nor bother telling me what it meant. "Hurry, Es!" was all Paul spared breath to say as he urged us both to the inner door. Well, I thought, this was a positive sign.
Paul rested his hand on the control, then put one arm around my slender, Feneden shoulders. "You know—"
"It's likely almost vacuum in the dome?" I finished, and nodded grimly. If the being who'd tapped in a Commonwealth code was a friend—or a rescuer intending to succeed in that profession—I hoped they knew as well.
There was no point in taking a deep breath; the atmosphere in the air lock was almost poisonous now. We pulled sheets of packaging over our heads against the cold and to keep in what breath we took with us, and plunged through as Paul keyed the door open. He whirled to shut it behind us.
We lay flat, hoping what air remained was cold enough to be dense and settle to the floor I waited as long as I could bear before trying to breathe. When I couldn't help but gasp, the air seemed to be leaving my lungs rather than entering it. My heart hammered in my ears, ready to burst with effort. I could feel Paul shuddering against me. Shunting my fear and grief to where I would feel them later—and forever—I prepared to cycle, readying myself to wait for the cessation of his life so I could accept Paul's final gift—and leave this place of death.
Before I could relax my hold on this form and free myself, a large, warm mask covered my face. I hadn't thought air could seem as thick, rich, and absolutely int
oxicating as hot spurl, but this was. I heaved in as much as I could hold, feeling new life circulating throughout this form.
Paul? I clung to the mask, pressing my hand over what felt like someone else's, and sat up.
My friend was sitting beside me, his face obscured behind another mask, his hand groping in my direction. I caught it with my free one, and only then looked up to see what trouble we'd traded death to meet.
There were four figures, in Commonwealth issue 'rigs, Human from the way those suits molded to their forms. I could see the face of the nearest one through his helmet as he held the mask on Paul. He was looking at me, smiling broadly, and, when he saw I was aware of him, winked.
I hadn't seen Paul's friend and former crewmate from the Rigus II in fifty years. What was Tomas doing on the Iftsen's asteroid?
And why was he winking at me?
Elsewhere
« ^ »
WHILE it made no sense at all, Lefebvre wanted to get out and push—anything, he decided, to make the Russell III go a little faster. Not that it wasn't a fast ship. When Kearn's project had started, he'd insisted on it, citing the astonishing abilities of the Esen Monster in space. But even translight could be too slow when friends were dying.
Still, Lefebvre thought, they'd done what they could. They were retracing their path to the Iftsen asteroid at better than best speed, and they weren't alone. If he glanced toward the proximity monitor, it would be bright red. He'd ordered the piercing alarm shut down, but the visual display couldn't be stopped. Lefebvre shook his head, quite impressed with the gutsy captain of the Vigilant. She'd been the one to suggest they link ships, combining their engines for a more than theoretical gain in speed—although they could well be ripped apart in the process. He'd heard Lawrenk Jen had worked up through the ranks as an engineer and sincerely hoped this meant she knew what they were doing.
How long would it take for the dome to vent—how long before the air thinned to uselessness, before the beings trapped within lapsed into unconsciousness and then—? Lefebvre relaxed his grip on the railing. It was only hurting his hand and making his impatience obvious to crew who didn't know Paul Ragem and Esen, who thought this was a rescue of strangers caught in a tragic misunderstanding with the Feneden.
Five of the Feneden were on the Russell III right now, confined—politely—to the upper crew galley. Two had eagerly strapped on the translators they'd left behind in order to share their almost hysterical joy, insisting on cheering Kearn as the hero of their kind. The Iftsen weapon was a subject they bluntly refused to discuss. Vigilant crew had already boarded and searched their vessel without success before the Russell III had arrived—a case of interspecies diplomacy taking a definite second to which ship had the greater armament.
It was painfully clear the Feneden were close to irrational on the subject of the Shifter. The only reason the Russ' and Vigilant were on their way was because the Feneden had confessed what they'd done—not out of guilt but because they weren't sure a lack of air would kill their monster, and demanded Kearn finish the job.
The lift opened, and Timri stepped onto the bridge. Lefebvre summoned her to his side with a look. She'd been studying Kearn's Kraal device; another piece of the puzzle, Lefebvre thought. "Well?" he asked quietly, trusting the busyness of the crew to give them privacy.
"It's beyond anything I've seen or heard of," she told him, her dark eyes troubled. "At a minimum, it was a location tracer. I think Kearn was right to suspect it also eavesdropped, but for the life of me, I can't tell you how something so small could transmit—without our detecting it—let alone send translight bursts. Quite the knife."
"Were you able to disable it?" Lefebvre kept scanning the bridge, checking on each station in turn, making no effort to look casual about it. There was nothing casual about the situation or destination.
When she didn't answer immediately, he turned his head. Timri's face wore a permanent frown these days, as well as new creases at the corners of her eyes. That frown had deepened. "Too risky," she admitted. "I took a thorough scan, then melted it down before we went translight."
Lefebvre's lips twitched. "I believe our good Project Leader was hoping to keep the pretty thing, Comp-tech."
"Then he's still a fool," she snorted. "If I'd made something like that, I would have built in either a trigger to warn me the device was compromised or some sort of destruct mechanism. Or both."
"Dropping out of translight, sir," the nav-tech called in warning.
"Understood. Call Project Leader Kearn to the bridge, Com-tech."
Lefebvre whispered a rusty prayer as the Russ' settled herself into real time with an unusual whine. He hadn't quite believed Jen's assurances this would work.
"Status," he snapped, hearing the lift and waving one hand to acknowledge Kearn's arrival.
The reports came in order.
"We've arrived at the asteroid, sir," nav asserted promptly.
Resdick chimed in. "Vigilant signals disconnection complete, sir. And, ah, mentions something about setting a record. Sir."
Not that they could claim it, if either captain wanted to keep their posts, Lefebvre thought distractedly, waiting for what mattered. "Scan-tech?"
"Sir, I have the dome. It's—there's no atmosphere registering inside, sir."
They hadn't had helmets, Lefebvre thought numbly. Esen would survive—perhaps she'd already escaped somehow. Who knew what she could do? But Paul? Lefebvre felt a sudden helpless anger. Couldn't she have helped him—protected him from the Feneden? What good was her ability to change form if she couldn't save her friend?
"We have a ship on the surface, sir."
"Com-tech?" Lefebvre asked, keeping his voice level and calm.
"Yessir." Resdick huddled over his panel, then straightened. "It's a freighter, sir. They've identified themselves as Vegas Lass. Largas Freight Lines." Kearn stepped forward, but didn't speak. "They have two survivors, sir."
"Send our congratulations," Lefebvre ordered. Kearn was quivering—whether from eagerness or in fear, Lefebvre could only guess. Keep it by the book, he decided, knowing the situation was anything but. "Ask if they need medical assistance."
Kearn had his Monster in reach, witnesses on board, and a warship standing by. Lefebvre met Timri's look and understood its meaning completely.
This was it.
Chapter 47: Med Room Afternoon
« ^ »
THIS was everything I'd feared: a clear sign of Paul's tampering with my secret, an even clearer sign that I had no way to control it. We'd been rescued by the Vegas Lass, although I'd yet to see Meony-ro. Tomas, who didn't belong on the 'Lass any more than my erstwhile office clerk, was back in my life—or was he?
Beyond the wink—a commonplace gesture from this easygoing, friendly Human, one I recognized from our shared past—I had no proof Tomas knew who or, more to the point, what I was. That he was here argued collusion with Paul, since, I thought wryly, even the cosmic fates weren't this obvious when meddling. And how much had Paul told Meony-ro? It wasn't something I could just ask. Excuse me, but do you belong to the Web of Esen?
My Web, I thought with significant self-pity, was supposed to have defined me, to be a sustained sharing between beings of total trust, to be my accomplishment over time. It was definitely not to be dropped piecemeal into my lap, or to contain beings whose very belonging was a mystery.
Paul, as befitted someone so thoroughly and deliberately devious, had come with me to the 'Lass' med room, then abandoned me without a word to the tentative ministrations of a crewbeing who had never seen a Feneden, never heard of a Feneden, and was patently terrified I'd turn green and die if he did anything wrong. At least I was reasonably certain this person wasn't in my Web. If he was, I decided after five minutes of indecision over an oxygen feed I certainly didn't need, I didn't want him.
Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. "What I really need," I told the Human as kindly as possible, "is something to eat. Please. I'm starving."
He stopped dithering over a selection of stimulants, and looked at me in surprise. "Fem? I'm so sorry. No one—"
"Told you," I completed. "Yes, I'm aware of that. If I could just go to the galley?"
"I'll have a tray brought—right away." He turned as if to run out the door, then stopped and came back. "Ah, diet?"
Not again. I blinked twice, seeing him start each time at the sight of the red lids. "I don't know what's compatible," I admitted with a long, slow sigh. "My physiology doesn't fit within the parameters of what you refer to as theta-class beings. But I'm very, very, very hungry." I didn't think that was adequate to describe the gulf encompassing the left side of my body. "Very."
His face went an interestingly mottled color, as though he saw his first bona fide famous patient dying beneath his hands. "I've done a prelim blood workup. I'll bring a selection that looks safe. But—"
"That would be fine. Right now," I admitted, "even you are starting to look appetizing." My cilia waved as if in agreement, detecting a sudden drop in the temperature of his face and extremities.
"Oh, my," he said faintly, then literally ran out the door.
I started counting under my breath, reaching three before Paul Ragem walked in and shut the door behind him.
"Fem Tilesen. In all the commotion, I don't believe we were introduced. I'm Paul Cameron, of Cameron & Ki Exports."
I narrowed my eyes, lids flickering with stress. So, like that was it? I glanced around the med room, as though I could pick out a listening device that easily.
"Horn Cameron," I acknowledged, modeling my voice and expression on the cool, noncommittal grace of a real Feneden. "I trust you have recovered?"
My Human looked better, his skin so pink I assumed the med had shot him up with everything in the cabinet. Quick, if likely to cause a metabolic crash later. "Fully, Fem. And yourself?"
Webshifters 2 - Changing Vision Page 40
