Beholder's Eye (26 page)

“You assume the occupant is looking outside,” Ragem chuckled. “The ’bots are automatics. I’ve heard the Panacians use their travel time to catch up on correspondence and other reading. They’re busy folks. Speculation is that’s why they came up with the hoverbots in the first place, so they can keep working while they move from place to place.”

I gazed into Hiveworld’s amber sky, already settling itself into night, decorated with hundreds of speeding globes of light dancing here and there, some tiny and distant as stars. I could explain more to Ragem. I could tell him how it felt to fly that way, to swarm with your kind in the still air of dusk, to be haunted by an evolutionary past left behind with wings and instinct.

However, that kind of insight could definitely fuel his suspicions further. I would tell him another day, perhaps. For now, we needed to find some grounded locals to talk to about the headlines. And specifically about their missing neighbors.

“Let’s try the mineral baths on the next street,” I suggested.

 

The baths were a reliable place to find Panacians interested in gossip. They were, in general, a reticent species—polite and reserved with others, especially the messier sorts such as mammals. Tucked into their favorite cubbyholes at the community spa, however, most adults succumbed to an urge to chat. We found a pair of older drones, well into their soak by the limp look of their appendages floating on the steaming water. I let Ragem and Tomas strip and gingerly join them. The attendant was unlikely to let the Humans overdo the pleasure. Still, I made note of the time.

I wandered as nonchalantly as I could over to the public vidphone on one wall. Mixs had passed me her most recent memories of this world in our last sharing, so I knew exactly where she was, or at least how to reach her. She was still using the last identity I remembered, Sec-ag Mixs C’Cklet, master architect and neuter of the planning caste, and business head of her chosen kin-group. She was so fond of this life that Ersh had reprimanded her for preying on the suggestibility of the Panacians with regard to reincarnation. I did admire Mixs’ persistence. She’d convinced the bureaucrats of her favorite city to declare her dead, then acknowledge her reincarnation three times in a row. It had to be a record. Fortunately for the security of the Web, whether one believed in reincarnation or not, it was not uncommon for newly morphed Panacians to present themselves as a famous ancestor.

Ersh was not amused, but she chose to humor Mixs. Mixs’ weakness was architecture. To her, this world, coated with willing builders, was a canvas on which to satisfy her wildest imaginings. Permanent buildings were unknown throughout the Panacian System. Panacians built, but always with the intention of rebuilding as soon as a better idea came along. They favored any construction technique that allowed them to disassamble as readily as build in the first place. In a species which disdained clothing or personal adornment, buildings blossomed overnight into ardent expressions of current fashion, roads and parkways were defined by the traffic of the previous month, and living space was never static.

And how they loved new technology. Traders from a thousand other worlds brought in cargoes of hardware, gadgetry, and new materials. The smart ones also brought ideas to sell, for the Panacians were very sensitive to the criticisms of others, and especially loved being thought of as up-to-date by other species.

The vidphone accepted my credit. There was no public access to any of the Sec-ag rank; they were by custom approached through intermediaries of low and trivial accomplishment. I keyed in the code Mixs kept for her own use, still cautious of using my newly-healed fingers, and requested a voice-only connection; I kept an eye on my companions in the bath.

“Who is this?”

The voice on the other end of the link was not Mixs’. It was also decidedly officious. Another reason I’d chosen the Ket form was its facility with pronunciation. The Panacian whirs and soft clicks were no challenge to this tongue and palate. It helped that Mixs maintained an ongoing fiction to pass any of her real kin through the social barriers raised by her multilevel and extremely protective family. “This is Nimal-Ket, a servant in the employ of Her Glory-D’Dsellan, Sec-ag Mixs C’Cklet-D’Dsellan. This Ket has the information Her Glory-D’Dsellan requested concerning the wondrous new roofing material developed on Epsilon XX.”

“We have instructions from Her Glory to accept your communications with joy and anticipation, Madame Ket,” the voice responded with appreciable enthusiasm. The arrival of a favored off-world contact was always an event for the entire family, since who knew what new construction technology would arrive at the same time. The incredibly strong and delicate modular framing struts of the Skenrans had inspired the total reconstruction of at least 50,000 buildings. The fad lasted an unprecedented three years, long enough to establish the family fortunes of Mixs’ chosen kin-group and its Queen.

“. . . please wait only a moment, Madame Ket. I delight to personally bring Her Glory’s attention to you.”

I stroked the cool casing of the vidphone, then the rough texture of the wall behind it, trying not to look obvious as I checked on Ragem and Tomas. They were still deep in conversation and steam.

“Nimal-Ket? How unexpected.”

I clutched my hoobit in relief at the sound of that coldly precise and familiar voice.
When had my fear for her reached that level?
“Your Glory-D’Dsellan. This Ket has news of great urgency to give you.”

“Give it.” No questions, no revelations. Mixs was one of the best at protecting her cover. I’d always envied that about her.

“This Ket is on a public vid. I regret the need, but we must meet in private, Your Glory-D’Dsellan.”

There was a series of clicks and a snap. Mixs wasn’t happy; I hadn’t thought she would be. She didn’t like the unexpected. Actually, she didn’t like me much either, despite our molecular-deep bond through the Web. But by any measurement that mattered, we were essential to each other. She wouldn’t refuse.

And she didn’t. A meeting place and time arranged, I stepped away from the vidphone and surveyed my remaining problem: how to move independently of my companions, without rousing Ragem’s suspicions further?

As if he could hear my thoughts, Ragem’s head turned to look at me. I fluttered fingers, the intact ones at least, at him and saw his answering grin. I hoped they’d learned something worthwhile; what I could see of their skin appeared unusually wrinkled and verging on red.

“Madame Ket?” I turned to the polite voice at my side. Panacians varied widely in their body form, and I was pleased to see the voice belonged to one of the ambassador caste. This slender, multlimbed, and graceful shape, rising almost to my shoulder, was a duplicate of the one I would wear as a Panacian. She was too young to be reproductive, but her shimmering blue carapace signaled her likely maturation as a producer—possibly even a future Queen within her family.

Of course, as a Ket I should show no sign that I recognized her beauty or rank. “How may I help you, young-D’Dsellan?” I replied in her language.

“My use name is P’Lka-D’Dsellan, Madame Ket.” She offered one shapely, triple-hinged claw for my touch. It was cool and slick under my fingertips, like fine, polished marble. “I have been assigned as guide and liaison to your ship’s complement. As you are the first crewmembers to disembark, I was notified of your location. Please let me know how I can help you enjoy our home.” P’Lka bowed.

Liaison or spy.
Likely both,
I reasoned without disapproval. It was typical Hive thinking. P’Lka was also the perfect ally. It was inconceivable she would place any Human concerns or questions above the merest whim of her own kind. “I do require your assistance, P’Lka-D’Dsellan,” I began, keeping an eye on my companions to be sure they stayed out of earshot. “I need some help arranging a private meeting.”

 

“And she gave us these seats. Just like that.”

I let my fingers race lightly over Ragem’s coat sleeve, a delightful woven garment I suspected he’d chosen to attract my attention. “Her task is to please visitors, Paul-Human. Are you not pleased?”

“I’d be pleased if I knew why.”

“Don’t listen to him, Nimal-Ket,” Willify said cheerfully from her seat in the row behind us. “Ragem’s becoming much too glum for his own good. I swear he’ll see a conspiracy in his next pay raise—if he gets one!”

There was a chorus of agreement from the dozen other crewmembers around us. P’Lka had been as good as her word, delivering this block of seats to one of the truly memorable spectacles on Panacia. The crew, and Ragem, appreciated the rare honor they were being granted.

We were at one end of the newly constructed amphitheater, its roof open to the night air. Rows of seats curved away from us on both sides to almost touch at the other side of the oval. There were easily a hundred rows above us, and as many below. Every seat was filled, most with Panacians of every caste, but a considerable number with aliens such as ourselves. I’d managed to wedge my long legs and arms between my Human companions with a minimal amount of good-natured collision.

There was the usual provision for the presence of Queens in a crowd: certain seats were set within barriers of living B’Bklar plants. I’d overheard Ragem explaining to Tomas how the plants were chosen both for their lovely flowers and their ability to absorb airborne organics, helping to neutralize the impact of each Queen’s pheromones on her hapless neighbors.

The amphitheater itself had been constructed with great care around the event we were to see. It was a magnificent structure, curving back at its height as if encouraging the witness of the stars blazing in the cloudless night sky. Yet the amphitheater was merely a frame for what it cradled between its walls of spectators. It was the Spring Emergence.

The floor of the amphitheater was patterned in a mosaic of color and pattern that at first bewildered the eye. There were spirals and other curved forms. There were areas that seemed abstract, then resolved into meaning which slid away again as your eyes tried to encompass it. Panacians believed that aspects of the future could be predicted from analysis of the patterns. Already, those in the audience who had not seen the mosaic until tonight were entering their speculations on notepads or dictating memos. The result was a low roar of sound, more like the rise and fall of waves on an ocean shore than conversation.

The mosaic was composed of all the pupae ready to emerge this season, many from the surrounding countryside as well as the city itself. The timing was precise, predictable to the hour. The whitish-gray pupae were brought to this place months in advance, arranged in plain straight lines by neuters of every caste until the reed-strewn floor of the amphitheater-to-be was covered completely. Then, as construction of the viewing stand went on around the sleeping offspring, the color of each pupal case began to change. Some darkened to the purple of the builder caste, and enlarged to accommodate the last growth spurt to produce the requisite size and shape. Others took on the gold of harvesters, or the russet of rememberers. The proportion within each caste—and indeed the number of castes themselves—would be known only when all the pupae were mature.

There was one tear in the brilliant pattern below, a harshly angled hole revealing dull brown reeds below. I could hear the Humans around me asking about its significance. They were not answered. I could have told them the gap would have contained a cluster of pupae that had turned the warning orange of the warrior caste. The Panacians were capable of a coordinated ruthlessness beyond what Humans would find comfortable. Fifteen generations ago, the Hive had come to a simultaneous and largely unconscious decision, reinforced by the Queens’ pheromones, that the warrior caste was no longer necessary in a peaceful, multispecies universe. In one day, not only had any warrior pupae been killed, but neighbor had turned on neighbor until all warriors were gone, on the colony worlds and ships, as well as on Hiveworld itself. The bloodshed was minimized solely by the fact that the warriors also accepted this decision and died willingly.

Although I deplored loss of life, nothing in me found this act of genocide offensive. It was the way of the Hive, to cull what wasn’t necessary to the whole. It was equally their way to nurture the new, as witnessed by the evolution of the newest caste, the ambassadors, small enough to be comfortable in a starship, with mouthparts more capable of foreign speech, and a nature at once secretive and friendly. This development was quite deliberate, the Hive being as expert in engineering themselves as their buildings. It worked for them.

As the current spectacle worked for my purpose. A quiver, like the twitch of a dreaming child, started in the middle of the pupael cluster. There was a hint of movement suddenly across the floor of the entire amphitheater. The audience stopped its chatter and speculation, instead starting up an involuntary trilling sound, something all castes were capable of producing with an organ on their thorax; multiplied by hundreds of thousands the trill made speech quite impossible.

I tugged at Ragem’s sleeve. When I had his attention, I made a grimace and held my hands against the sides of my head. The trill was pleasantly pitched to Human ears, but I was counting on Ragem not knowing my expression of discomfort wasn’t real. I gestured that I was leaving. He cast a longing look at the now-incredible view of the thousands of pupael cases starting to crack in unison, then got up as if to accompany me. I smiled and pushed him firmly back in his seat, before making my awkward exit across laps, knees, and far too many feet.

When I glanced back, Ragem and his crewmates were gazing with rapture at the simultaneous birth of forty thousand adult Panacians.

 

P’Lka met me at the end of the row, her trill noticeable, but so automatic that she didn’t seem to notice the music under her words. “A programmed hoverbot is waiting for you at the end of this corridor, Madame Ket. When you are finished your meeting with Sec-ag C’Cklet, it will return you directly to the shopping concourse. It is only a brief walk from there to your ship. Do you need directions?”