Hidden in Sight (24 page)

And, not insignificantly, grow larger than any Prumbins before them.

“Paradise,” my Human repeated, staring up into the black of what I calculated wasn't a night sky at all, given Prumbinat's spin, despite the occasional starlike twinkling as a Busfish or other transport moved within visual range. “Is that why you brought us here?”

Anger?
Perhaps my receiver was failing to convey his tone properly. His suit didn't help—no subtleties of body language, no expression. If anything, its repugnant green made me judge him suicidal. I paddled myself into a position that more or less corresponded to standing beside the Human. I didn't bother saying:
I wanted you to see this.
Instead, I said: “We needed to hide.”

“And you think being at the bottom of an ocean is good enough?” No mistaking the anger now. “If we can get here, Es, anyone can. You should have listened to me. We should have hopped another freighter from the shipcity, started to confuse our trail. Worst of all, you've trapped me in this—” I was impressed with the suppleness of his suit. Paul could swing his arms in fury despite the water pressure.

“Paul—” I stopped and waited as another group of Busfish passengers either swam or walked by where we stood. Ansky-memory didn't overwhelm me the way Ersh's could, but I drew upon her pleasure in this place, her fondness for its inhabitants, in order to stay calm myself. It wasn't easy. If I hadn't been blissed most of the trip here, I'd have seen what I only now realized.

Paul's anger wasn't at being confined to the suit or where I'd taken us. It wasn't so new. This was how he'd felt every moment since we were attacked in the greenhouse.

We were alone again. I turned a confused and unhappy blue-blue. “Are you angry with me?”

“I—” he seemed to hesitate. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you, Esippet. I'm filthy. I'm tired to my very bones—that's all. I trust your judgment. And you did promise there would be a bed, a nice, Human-suited bed.” This last sounded charmingly wistful.

I wasn't fooled. “You're angry at what happened on Minas XII. So you are angry with me.”

Paul held out his hands. So invited, I let four of my dainty clawtips grip the fabric of his gloves, using the contact to anchor me in place. It had the feel of maturity, to be stilled despite the drift of current. Yet all that held me here, in this moment, was this Human and his boots, designed to grip the balcony flooring. “Don't mistake the two, Esen,” he said. “Yes, I'm angry. It's a natural Human reaction to being betrayed, to being attacked, to being forced to abandon everything and run like this. But not at you. For you. I'm angry for us both.”

As a denial, it left much to interpretation.
My integument settled into an eloquent, if motley, combination of lilac with beige patches: anxious confusion.
Sometimes,
I thought with disgust,
a form could be a little too revealing.
“We have rooms waiting,” I promised, deciding to avoid the topic of Human anger and its potential targets for now.

Although I knew enough about this particular Human to realize it couldn't be avoided forever.

Otherwhere

 

 

“WHEN were you going to tell me?”

Kearn blinked at the onslaught of light as much as at the low, angry voice. “Timri? Tell you what?” He levered himself on his elbow and squinted reproachfully at his door.
Which seemed
, he sighed,
only effectively locked when he was outside and had forgotten the latest code.

She was crouched at the side of his bed, hands gripping the blankets as though planning to toss them—and him—out an air lock. “About Cristoffen working with the Kraal.”

He laid back and closed his eyes.
Of course, she'd overheard.
They maintained a polite fiction on board the
Russell III
, one in which he was in command and no one spied on his every move.
He must
, Kearn supposed,
hold up his end.
Or things would change. He didn't like change. “How did you know?”

“You gave me that report to read. Didn't you think I'd figure it out? He had to be using their stinking tech.” Smooth and without hesitation.
Years of practice
, he thought. The mattress shifted violently. “Don't you think of going back to sleep on me, Lionel. I'm not leaving until we talk about this.”

“I know.” Kearn opened his eyes to gaze up at his comp-tech and second-in-command. He almost smiled, which wouldn't have helped her temper. But her fine-boned face—with its high glowing cheeks and elongated eyes, expressive mouth and rich dark skin— had become endlessly fascinating to him, whether impatient, puzzled, or, most typically, completely unaware of him.
Even when brimming with fury at him
, he decided,
it was a face worth watching.

Timri gave him room to slide out of bed and stand. Kearn pulled a robe over his shoulders and tied it around his waist—not that she'd notice if he'd been naked.

“Brandy?” he asked, heading for the cupboard. Taking silence for a no, he poured himself a small glass, pausing to stare into the amber liquid and remember another late night visit. Then, he'd been the one seeking answers.
Now?
“I don't know all the answers,” Kearn said evenly, turning to face Timri. “But you're right. He admitted it to me yesterday, when we discussed his report.”

She sat on the end of his bed, hands precisely folded together on her lap, fury replaced by something darker. “What are we going to do about it?”

Action was her way
, he thought, knowing it wasn't his. His strength, if he had one, was patience, the ability to keep his goal in view for a lifetime if necessary. Kearn took a swallow, feeling the smooth burn of the liquor down his throat, the warmth in his stomach. He'd learned not to cough. “Do you have a suggestion?” As Timri leaned forward eagerly, he held up a hand. “A suggestion that won't alert the Kraal or involve Cristoffen's disappearance.”

Her lips twisted as if on something sour. “He killed Zoltan Duda.”

“You're sure. You finished your analysis—”

She snorted. “Didn't take long. The Port Jellies on Urgia Prime came to the very convenient conclusion that Duda's weapon misfired in a robbery attempt. Case closed. Oh, they'd like to talk to the intended victim, but they respect that being's right to private commerce. So they won't be looking.”

“But you don't think it was a misfire.”

“According to the technical evidence in the report? Not a chance. Incompetent fools or well-paid ones, makes no difference. That weapon fired properly—then every bit of its energy was reflected back at Duda. You know what that means. Cristoffen must have been wearing a shield. A very special one.”

Kearn took another, larger swallow. “So, it was self-defense.”

“I'm not absolving the dead,” Timri countered. “They both intended murder that day. But you can't call it self-defense simply because Cristoffen succeeded.”

“No.” Kearn sank into a chair, careful not to disturb the stack of abstracts he'd left on the arm last night, reading material that wasn't about death. “I believe Cristoffen went into that room knowing he'd survive and Zoltan Duda would die. Something we'll never be able to prove.”

“What are we going to do?” Timri repeated. “Don't you tell me to wait while Cristoffen meets his next victim—did you know he's set us on course for Picco's Moon already? That dolt of a captain didn't so much as blink.”

“I didn't know,” Kearn admitted. “But I'm not surprised.”
Fourth down on Cristoffen's list
, he thought.
Alphonsus Lundrigan.

They were close enough that Timri could rest her hand on Kearn's knee. “Lionel. I've never pried into your—dealings—with the Kraal. I've never asked about that time. But—do you think they ordered Zoltan's death? Were you ever told to-to—”

“Kill someone for them? No!” Kearn shoved his chair back to stand and move away, his reports tumbling to the floor in protest. Timri stood also, forcing him to look up to meet her level gaze.

“We all have secrets,” she said, her voice harsher than he'd ever heard. “We're all capable of terrible things.”

Kearn stiffened. “You think I'm capable of murder?”

“Did you think it of Cristoffen, before you gave him virtual control of this ship?”

“He wasn't my friend.”

His unthought protest, half wish and half plea, hung between them. Kearn sat back down and poured himself another drink, pretending he hadn't seen her sudden confusion, pretending she couldn't see how his hand shook. “We'll go to Picco's Moon,” he told the glass. “But not directly. Relay my order to Captain What's-his-name to take us to Sacriss XIII first. If he objects, tell him I want to exchange information with the local universities. Buys us time.”

Very quietly. “Time for what, sir?”

“Time for you to send tracers through the logs of Cristoffen's communications since coming aboard. Use my authorization code and go deep.”

“What about his comp? I could get into his files. He'd never know—”

“No,” Kearn said firmly, hiding his panic at the mere thought of her being more involved. “His ‘friends' are very careful, even if he's not. Stay clear. But make up some excuse to keep Cristoffen from sending any new messages—wreck the com system if you must. I'm sure Resdick would be glad to help. He's been bored lately.”

“Lionel. What I said. I was only—”

Kearn didn't look up. “I don't trust any translight com from this ship, my office, or the bridge, not with Kraal involved. When we reach Sacriss, I'll need access to a secure system there, no questions asked.” A long pause. Kearn waited until he heard her indrawn breath, then added: “I know you can arrange such things, Timri. I know you have your own ‘friends' and resources.”

He cradled his glass in both hands, refusing to rub his scalp, refusing to learn what expression filled the face he so loved to watch. “I'm only a fool sometimes.”

“I—”

“Dismissed.”

15: Abyss Afternoon; Happy House Night

“I TOLD you. I really don't care where we stay, Es, as long as I'm out of this as soon as possible.” Paul was either gritting his teeth or one of our coms had some static. The “this” to which he referred was his suit. It wasn't the quality of the Prumbin garment that so perturbed my Human. He appeared to have reached some limit of tolerance for his own odor—or his suit's air scrubber had given up. Though a peaceful being, I was reasonably sure he entertained thoughts of violence if he didn't get into a 'fresher soon.

“Patience,” I told him, finding it odd to be the one using the word. “It's not far now. We must stay at Anienka's Happy House. I promised my cluster.”

It wasn't quite a lie, since Ansky—technically my mother—had insisted I stay with her on each of my visits to Prumbinat. She owned a piece of property of the sort commonly referred to as “unique.” As one might expect, this meant a place where no sane being would choose to build a permanent structure, although if one could . . .

... and Ansky, in her Prumbin persona of Anienka, had. Mind you, she'd had some help. Mixs had been intrigued by the challenge presented by our web-kin and spent several years on the project.

We were approaching the result on a towsled, the Prumbin version of an underwater aircar. It was, as the name stated, a flat sled with hand/claw/sucker holds on its dorsal surface— presently being used by myself, Paul, and thirty-seven members of varied species—towed by Busfish fry. Since the fry were too young to have lost their urge to school, the Prumbin driver used reins connected to the harness of an individual swimming in the midst of the others. The rest of the fry were harnessed directly to the sled. The result wasn't particularly straight travel, but speed made up the difference.

A pretty, if intimidating means of locomotion, I thought, watching the flickers of bioluminescence coming from the mouths of our Human-sized fry as they lured close any unfortunate creatures swimming along our path, then snapped them up.

A dangerous place to swim no matter where one looked. Our sled was among hundreds moving along the Brim, a sight that mimicked the appearance of the small shoals which seemed to fly above a reef. Just replace the varied colors of coral with the gemlike lighting from the Prumbins' city, and move the source of all this life into the Abyss.

Our sled veered out, as if following my thoughts. I swung over the side to admire the depths, holding on with all six arms as I passed outside the shelter of the coning plas and faced the substantial current being produced by our passage. Except where massive, down-directed lights from the Brim painted the walls in drifts of grayed sediment and black rock, vision was of no use here. But my Oieta-self could taste the richness of the life below, however strange its chemistry compared to that where a sun could reach. Here, the planet's core heat started the binding of energy within molecules.

“Is that it?” Paul asked.

I was about to answer, having stayed hanging over the side to enjoy the suspended smorgasbord being delivered to my mouth, when Ersh-memory surged through me and I saw where we were going . . .