Changing Vision (13 page)

Humanoid in plan. Convenient, given the prevalence of that body scheme among other species and the sheer number of the Human version in this quadrant of space.

Sensory organs located on the head, grouped into the features of a distinct face. Not all humanoids were as obliging. The pale, almost translucent-blue skin—what showed of it beyond encompassing and disappointingly plain, drab robes—appeared faintly mottled as though either pebbled in texture or colored that way. There was a shiny red-brown growth from the top, sides, and back of the head, as well as around the neck. Too thick for hair, much finer than any
antennae or tentacles I’d encountered. I had no idea what it was.

To my very core I longed for a taste—to learn this new form’s biochemistry, its biological patterns, its essence. It was an appetite deeper than hunger, certainly stronger than anything I’d felt from merely looking at another species before. It could have been an instinct, a need to add this new camouflage to my repertoire, but I preferred to think I was being true to my upbringing. Here was a new intelligent species. It was my duty to learn its true nature and preserve its accomplishments forever.

It didn’t hurt that the Feneden looked every bit as tall, elegant, and dignified as I could have wished. I sincerely hoped they had a digestive system to match.

“How long to D’Dsel?” I asked, lifting my chin with a soft grunt of apology. My head was too heavy to leave on a Human’s shoulder for more than an instant, although he hadn’t complained. I thought he looked as fascinated as I felt.

“We’ll be there tonight.” He turned to grin at me. “Do you want me to tell you where we’re staying or surprise you again?”

Ignoring the gibe, I stretched a three-fingered hand to cover the image. “As long as it’s close to them,” I said longingly.

“Hom Cameron? Is that you?” This sudden, deafening coo made me fold down my ears and attempt not to glare over my shoulder at the Human bearing down on us at a near-trot. Paul cleared the tabletop screen with a casual sweep of his fingers. “Fancy meeting you on the
Goddess.
Ah, Fem Esolesy Ki,” this greeting somewhat belated, as Harve Tollen blinked in too-obvious surprise at my presence. “I was not aware you ever traveled.”

Tollen was a broker, dealing in artifacts of dubious history and even more dubious authenticity. Once he’d discovered Paul and I couldn’t be fooled by his fakes, the logical reaction should have been for the Human to give Cameron & Ki Exports a wide berth. There were plenty of other traders of less experience or scruples, especially in
the Dump. Instead, Tollen made a pastime of dropping in without warning to show us his latest acquisitions. While he occasionally tried to slip us a replica, as if to test me, he frequently also brought something truly rare and breathtaking. If he hadn’t had the manners and smell of a fish dead for several days, I’d have welcomed his visits.

He certainly wasn’t welcome now. I struggled to show some tusk. Paul didn’t bother with that much courtesy. “We’re on vacation, Harve,” he said in a no-nonsense voice. “Not business. You can see us back at the office—”

“Me, too!” Tollen said with an expansive wave, showing off the garish colors of his own shirt—as well as the stains under each thick arm. He stole a chair from the next table, apparently as oblivious to the scowls from its inhabitants as to ours, and dropped into it with a thud that probably resounded to the deck below. “What a coincidence.”

There were no such things,
I remembered, suddenly chilled. This Human, from all we’d learned, was harmless enough if one kept one’s nostrils compressed. But he attracted attention like carrion attracted flies. We were on our own out here, helpless in this metal hull, at the mercy of her crew and chance itself.
Attention was something we didn’t need.

My stomachs, contentedly ruminating over lunch until now, chose that moment to object to the aroma now settling over our table like some invisible smog. I had never been able to determine if it was some flaw in this being’s physiology or a cologne he mistakenly thought appealing, although I suspected the latter. It could conceivably be a positive sensation to another form, perhaps even my Lanivarian-self. I made a mental note to look into Tollen’s client list for clues and increase the ventilation rates in the office before his next visit.

“We have to pack up,” Paul said, wiping his eyes surreptitiously. “Not long till we’re insystem at Panacia. The crew will want everyone in their staterooms.”

“Plenty of time for that. What are they going to do—drag us out? Let me buy you another of—whatever that is.” Tollen waved at a passing crewbeing. “This is great,” he
continued in an irresistible stream of enthusiasm. “You know, I missed your annual party again. The invitation keeps arriving late. Maybe next year, you can remind your staff?”

“Of course, Hom Tollen,” I said. I didn’t look at Paul, knowing he could read guilt on any of my faces.

Tollen had a square-jawed, reasonably pleasant face, with small green eyes tucked within smooth doubled rolls of flesh that would be the envy of any Ganthor. To web-memory, this variation on the Human theme suggested his origin was Ruductan XIII, one of the fabulously wealthy inner system worlds. Whether attempting to cheat other beings or trying to impress me, Tollen displayed a breadth of knowledge about things ancient that a Human could only gain from many years of study, unnecessary confirmation of his birth. Such facilities were, as yet, still confined to those worlds which could afford them, including Ruductan and her neighbors.

So why was he out here, wasting time pushing his hours-old antique pots on naive Fringe dwellers?
I’d never bothered to wonder before.

As I’d worked on moving my lunch to safety within my fourth stomach, the one I used as temporary nondigestive storage—and, truth be told, a handy spot for carrying valuables—Paul had given up the struggle to leave, accepting Tollen’s offer of a refill with practiced, if unwilling, courtesy.

“So, where are you staying insystem?” Tollen asked. “C’Chypp or D’Dsel herself?”

“D’Dsel,” Paul said, prompting me to attempt to reach his foot under the table. Unfortunately, mine wouldn’t fit between the legs of the table and almost became stuck. I wiggled my toes and freed myself, settling for a disgusted flip of an ear. “But,” he added smoothly, “you knew that, Harve. The
Goddess
is only licensed for the shipcities of the Hiveworld itself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the other Human laughed. “Just trying to catch you, Hom Cameron. Hey, since we’re both on vacation, can I call you Paul?”

“Where are you staying, Hom Tollen?” I asked quickly,
reading Paul’s likely response to that, I thought, quite correctly.
Besides, it was one way to know where not to travel.

Tollen waggled one thick finger near my snout. “‘Fraid I can’t say, Fem Ki. I’ve been invited to lend my skills as an antiquarian to a project underway by some members of the Rememberers’ caste. Their mandibles to my ears only stuff. Sorry.”

I wasn’t, although I felt an immediate pity for the poor D’Dsellans forced to assume this position. They were a pheromone-influenced society and, to handle Tollen’s ambience, would likely have to wear robes with filters over each orifice and breathing spiracle. Still, I was a little curious. Panacians, as a whole, were breathlessly eager to buy any new technology, and just as eager to avoid working alongside the species which produced it. They weren’t exactly xenophobic, but communicated so much more effectively with one another, they felt it inefficient to include non-Panacians in their functional groups. They’d only do so if the non-Panacian was essential, which to my mind didn’t quite fit anything I knew of Harve Tollen.

Well,
I thought to myself,
if he’s planning to cheat them out of something valuable, he’s in for a surprise.
Everything I knew of that form and its culture ruled out any likelihood of a Human winning their trust. The best one could do, as Paul had over the years, was to establish a reputation as a worthwhile business contact. Even then, as the expression went, Panacians counted their change.

“So you’re not really on vacation, Harve,” Paul said cheerfully. “Shame. We left work behind us, didn’t we, Esolesy Ki? We’re after some well-deserved rest and relaxation.”

A noisy group of Humans with children in tow passed by, their excited voices shrill enough to flatten my ears to my head once more. More and more passengers were migrating from the lobby now, carryalls and drinks in hand, responding to the polite urgings of the crew. One was coming in our direction—an unexpected but welcome rescue. “Must be heading insystem,” I commented, rising to my
feet with a rush of my own anticipation.
The Feneden.
I couldn’t wait to see one.

“So, planning to meet with the Feneden?” Tollen’s oily voice echoed my thoughts so closely I almost dropped my jaw again. “Word is they’re looking for trade deals—as well as some border help.”

Humiliated, I glowered at Paul as though it was his fault this odious, uninvited Human knew more about the new species than I.

“Their system’s out of our profit range,” Paul replied, standing himself and offering a hand to his fellow Human. I was fortunately spared the need to echo the gesture of familiarity and lack of weapons, by virtue of a hand too thick to fit comfortably within a Humans’ grasp, but weakly showed both tusks. “As I told you, we’re here on vacation.”

We waved away the crewbeing, who winced theatrically one last time at Paul’s belt before smiling and moving to the next group of passengers. “Our thanks for the drinks, Harve,” my friend said. “See you back on Minas XII.” This last a command delivered in so pleasant a voice even Tollen couldn’t take offense.

“Good luck with your treasure hunt,” I added, rewarded by the not-quick enough look of denial on Tollen’s face.

On the way back to our cabin, a shuffling process involving too many other beings intent on using my feet as carpeting, Paul looked down and winked at me. “Nicely done, Fem Ki,” he said with a grin. “Treasure hunting, is he? I think I’ll send a message or two concerning the activities of our friend. No reason Harve should keep all this to himself, now, is there?”

“You are a devious being, Paul Cameron,” I told him past the glow of two fully revealed—one gorgeously accessorized—tusks.

That my full Lishcyn smile had the effect of opening up our path and so sparing my feet was completely unintentional.

Panacia.
A system unaffected by the settlement of the adjacent Fringe by Human and other mining concerns, secure
in its civilization and place within the Commonwealth. Three planets of the fifteen circling its swollen star buzzed with life, beginning with Panacia’s Hiveworld, the heavily populated D’Dsel, birthplace of Panacia’s insectoid intelligence and our vacation paradise.

A roof over our heads would have helped,
I grumbled to myself and felt my second stomach agree. I’d been standing guard over our luggage cases long enough to view with alarm the approach of sunset. It was beginning to look entirely possible I’d see the sunrise as well, so I made sure I had a clear line of sight to the eastern horizon to be safe. My personal and extraordinarily powerful lamp hung in a pouch around my neck—no Lishcyn traveled to night-afflicted worlds unprepared.

D’Dsel the magnificent. D’Dsel the utterly confusing. Both aspects lay before me. Once, this had been the home of my web-kin Mixs. She’d preferred the Panacian form and the buildings she designed with her adopted family—not that they’d ever known she was anything but the reincarnation of the famous Mixs of their past, of which there had been a convenient, and not unrelated, number—to the point where even Ersh accepted this as Mixs’ chosen work outside the shared tasks of the Web. A significant amount of what I was gazing upon was doubtless Mixs’ fault. I experienced the stirrings of distinctly un-Web-like pride in her tampering with this world.

As far as the eye could see, the landscape was urban: towering buildings and elevated roadways, gardens and plazas. Far from a blending of styles, the look was cultivated, almost organic, as if new building designs blossomed in place, spreading out at their edges like invading plants on virgin soil. I could easily spot the results of the innovative Skenkran framing technology Mixs had introduced to her family and this society. Despite fifty years, it was evident in the dizzying height of walkways and unlikely tilt of towers.
She would have been satisfied,
I thought, then shook my head.
No, she’d have changed it all by now.

For every completed structure, there were as many or more under deconstruction. Panacians favored any technique
that allowed them to disassemble as readily as build. In a species which disdained clothing or personal adornment, buildings grew overnight to reveal the current fashion, roads and parkways were defined by the traffic of the previous month, and anyone who thought they knew the place was truly no better off than the bemused tourists flooding from starships that morning.

Including Paul and me. Delighted as I would have been to cycle into my Panacian self and immerse myself in this vibrant, ever-evolving culture, a Human and Lischcyn arrived and should be seen. Being seen in a hotel or similar facility would have been a distinct improvement over being seen waiting in line outside D’Dsel’s shipcity’s Port Authority office. There had been, apparently, a failure to communicate and our rooms in the All Sapients’ District weren’t ours at all.

My forked tongue spread in an involuntary yawn. I stayed out here, admiring the scenery, while Paul was in the building behind me for one simple reason. When it came to arguing with bureaucratic nonsense, he had the stomach for it and I assuredly did not.

More fun here anyway,
I thought mischievously, watching the line of Humans and other non-native beings duck in unconscious synchrony every time a hoverbot streaked by—the latest with perhaps the width of my finger to spare above the tallest of us. I didn’t budge, feeling the wind flutter the tips of my ears and flex the brim of my unfortunate hat—a grimly cheerful token we were supposed to wear until leaving the facility. I knew the automated personal transports were less likely to crash into any of us than the pavement was to liquefy underfoot within the next minute. The hoverbots flitted throughout the sky, behaving alarmingly unlike the aircars these being were used to seeing: which said a great deal, considering how many were from Minas XII. The group ducked again.