Changing Vision (15 page)

“It’s not up for debate, Timri,” Lefebvre replied, unsurprised by her reaction. Sas hadn’t been impressed either.
Enjoy yourselves,
he thought, inclined to be amused.
Misery loves company.

Lefebvre regretted the impulse to stop by the comp station and say good-bye. He could have left, been away for days, and returned before most of the crew, including Timri, noticed—particularly while the
Russell III
sat in the shipcity. They’d become used to his solitary ways, to a captain who wandered through the bridge when it suited him, a physical presence on the ship by virtue of a closed door when it didn’t.

“I’ll make you a bet,” Lefebvre announced impulsively, leaning back on the doorframe with his arms folded. He was out of uniform, barely, having chosen to pull on a nondescript pair of spacer overalls—the type worn by independent traders and used for rough work by almost
everyone aboard this ship. If the crew assumed it was so he could cruise the shipcity bars, that was fine by him. “I’ll make you a bet,” he repeated. “If anything comes up—anything at all—worth finding while I’m gone, I’ll punch through that promotion you’ve been after.” He watched the calculating gleam appear in Timri’s dark eyes. They both knew Kearn’s tendency to sit on promotions in case the encouragement prompted a crewbeing to leave his ship for greener pastures. “He’s never going to okay it,” Lefebvre reminded her.

“And if nothing comes up?”

His smile changed his face. It should have made it warmer, but somehow the expression turned the lines around eyes and mouth into something dark and bitter, “Then nothing’s changed or changes—which is exactly what’s going to happen while I take my two days off this scow. You really should try it, Timri. You won’t miss a thing.”

Timri turned her back to him, her hands lifting to the boards. “I don’t intend to.”

Lefebvre walked away, a small carryroll in his right hand, and prepared to leave the
Russ’.
As he did, he said to himself: “Neither do I.”

PAUL’S obsession with the courier pouch—indeed everything about that final day on Minas XII—had finally started to make sense.
Well,
I admitted,
it didn’t so much make sense as it lent itself to a conclusion.

There had been something for him in the pouch. Something he hadn’t wanted anyone else to find.

Not even me.

“More furrit slices, Fem Ki?”

I was thinking furiously, trying to follow what threads I had, and nodded absentmindedly until furrit slices built to a towering height on my platter and I realized what I’d done. “Forgive me, C’Tlas. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I’ll bring a larger platter,” she offered.

I squinted down at the pile of orange-red fruit and sighed. “Thank you,” I said, resigned to having to eat more than anyone should. Furrits were tasty enough; they just took a long time in the third stomach of this form—seriously cramping my room for dessert.

What did Paul want me to figure out? What were we doing here?
Alone while C’Tlas hunted a way to keep my juicy mountain tidy, I turned my attention back to these and other questions.

There had been no clues during our evening here. The Panacians had swept my Human and me on a tour of their school, introducing us to what had to be every member of this novel extended family with the exception of its core:
the Queen. There had to be one—no cohesive unit of Panacians, closely related or not, functioned without the guiding pheromones of their monarch. Neither Paul nor I required an explanation; meeting the Queen was out of the question. Access to Her Radiance was restricted even among her family.

The introductions themselves had been informative. We shared this portion of the building with a surprisingly small group: thirty-six females of assorted ages, including the three who had greeted us, and six adolescent drones who appeared to be contentedly confined to the kitchen amid absorbent B’Bklar plants—presumably to protect them in the event of pheromonal enticements from other houses. None had been introduced as Her Glory or Sec-ag, those titles reserved for those of accomplishments worthy of note outside the household. Since Panacians were not a humble species, this suggested none of that rank were present at the school—or willing to be known to us. Another oddity to add to a growing list about this place.

Apt students, beyond any doubt. The exchange of pleasantries had been in immaculate comspeak, with exquisitely perfect gestures appropriate to each of our species. While mimicking a Human handshake was typically straightforward for any being with limbs, I had to give them credit for finding a way to flash a tusk. At first, I’d assumed the Panacians had something stuck behind one of their food-handling palps, making it necessary to protrude that palp in my direction.
Most thoughtful,
I thought approvingly—once I’d realized they were attempting to smile at me rather than prying food from their mandibles—and smiled back. Multiple exterior mouth parts were tricky things to read.

In turn, I had the distinct feeling we were an assignment—an alien culture field trip conveniently brought to the students. While I didn’t mind, I knew that wasn’t why Paul had brought us here.

Opportunity to question my partner about this didn’t arise. One moment we were surrounded by groups of curious Panacians, the next we’d been adroitly separated so Paul could be led to his quarters and I to mine. There was a
wealth of meaning in the look he tossed back at me, which probably would have been helpful had I interpreted more from it than the usual, “
behave.
”

Advice I’d taken,
I nodded to myself, tossing a handful of furrit into my mouth and chewing slowly. I’d behaved, weaving my way among beds of all shapes and sizes to the box of real grass they’d prepared for me, although momentarily tempted by a gently bubbling bowl of yellow ooze I knew was the way to really sleep if you happened to be a Whirtle. I’d been unable to stop myself from at least leaning on a spectacular post bed designed for a Skenkran. The hangers for those immense clawed feet looked perfect for my version of that form.

But I’d resisted all temptation to experiment, gaining a good sleep. Now, breakfasting alone except for the helpful services of C’Tlas, I was doing my best to decipher the rapid and mysterious events that had brought these furrits and my shaggy-scaled self to this table.

Paul had itemized most while we were on the
Galaxy Goddess.
I spread furrits out as markers: one for the Ganthor, one for Chase’s confrontation with the Tly, an especially thick slice for the pouch of mail and Paul’s reaction to it. A second row held a piece for the Feneden and one for the Ambassador School.

Thoughtfully, and slowly, I added one more, representing Paul’s gift.

I had,
I decided, gazing at the array of fruit for a lengthy and profound moment of deep contemplation,
made a mess of my breakfast.

To hide the evidence, I began capturing the slippery things and popping them between my teeth as quickly as possible, ears aimed back to listen for the soft footfalls of my hostess. I chomped down on Paul’s mail and the Ambassador School.
They might go together,
I told myself pensively. Maybe he’d arranged this, and the mail was confirmation. Maybe it was something to help us get closer to the Feneden, since only the Panacian Ambassador caste would deal with aliens. Then, secrecy was understandable. We had many
business rivals, and I couldn’t imagine a more tempting morsel to dangle before them.

Too tempting.
Cameron & Ki Exports were in the business of staying too small to notice, not trying to corner a spectacular new market.

I added the Ganthor and Tly pieces to my mouthful, suspecting—as did Paul—that those two were somehow related, and not to our benefit. But neither seemed to matter here and now. I swallowed.

I chewed on the Feneden’s piece. There was a mystery I sincerely hoped would start resolving itself today. The mere thought of their existence, possibly in this same building, though our hostesses hadn’t so much as hinted at that, was enough to cost me my appetite.

Which left Paul’s gift forlorn and alone on the table. Gingerly, I put the furrit slice back on the corner of my platter.
There were questions,
I admitted to myself,
I wasn’t ready to ask.

After breakfast, the School of Alien Etiquette learned something they apparently hadn’t thought to ask about the Lishcyn. That was all right.
I hadn’t known either.

“You needn’t apologize,” I kept saying faintly, leaning on a pair of my deceptively fragile-looking hostesses. “I’m the one who should—”

“What happened?” This alarmed cry came from my Human, rushing toward our little procession with N’Klet at his side. He looked considerably more flushed than usual, and wore a robe similar to the one draped around my narrow shoulders, although it was a smaller size. “What’s wrong?”

“Fem Ki didn’t react well to the steam bath,” C’Tlas said quickly as Paul reached us and, for some unknown reason, thought it useful to peel back the lid of my nearer eye and peer into it. My reflex blink was powerful enough to pinch his fingers.

I attempted a toothy smile. “I reacted too well to the steam bath,” I corrected, trying to lighten the Panacians’ mood of incipient panic. Several were finding it necessary
to stop in their tracks and wrap their upper limbs about their thoraxes, a bit extreme, given the object of their grief was up on two feet and essentially mobile. “I’m a little wobbly, that’s all.”

“Your—ah—stomachs?” Paul asked, the corners of his lips not quite rising. He looked down at my rotund front as if to diagnose me by sight.

“They’re fine,” I replied with dignity. My Lishcyn-self didn’t always embarrass itself that way, and I saw no reason for him to further concern our hostesses. “The bath was a little too warm for me.”

C’Tlas took it upon herself to grab my arm firmly, give it a shake, and tell Paul her version: “Fem Ki lost consciousness and slipped beneath the surface. She might have drowned had it not been for those watching. We had to drain the bath to save her.”

There was a sharpness to Paul’s sudden look at me. He knew if my life was seriously threatened in a form, I couldn’t help but cycle from it into something safer or into my web-self.

I winked at him. “It was a very—comfortable—unconsciousness,” I explained, grateful this form couldn’t blush. The hot water and bubbly steam had created an interesting mix of semisleep and euphoric fantasy, a state completely enthralling to my Lishcyn-self. The Panacians had not found me a cooperative or easy body to rescue. “I’ve tried to explain to these dear beings: Lishcyns have amphibious heritage. I can doze underwater for some time. Right, Paul?”

His brows lifted, gray-eyed gaze considering me. “Let’s avoid the steam baths from now on, Esolesy Ki,” my friend suggested. “I’ll take over.” This was directed to the pair of Panacians bravely trying to take some of my weight on their bent backs, not having shoulders of their own. The Human muttered something dire about diets under his breath as he began helping me to my sleeping quarters. I pretended not to hear. The Panacians remained huddled in a group, discussing something among themselves, providing the first chance we’d had to talk in reasonable privacy since arriving on Panacia.

“This so-called vacation of ours: you set it up to get me here—to meet the Fenedens—didn’t you?” I whispered.

His voice was somewhat strained, but improved once I took back most of my weight. Although I was feeling better by the moment, floating had been ever-so-much easier.
And those steamy, seductive bubbles under my scales.
I caught myself drifting again and made myself turn an ear to catch his reply: “—both, actually,” he was saying, a wry note of humor coming through. “I knew you’d want to meet them. It was intended to be the highlight of our holiday—but you really didn’t help me there. Still, it got us here, where it seems your skills are very much needed, old friend.”

“For what? Not trade.” The Panacians were hurrying to catch up to us. We didn’t have much time.

“I expected to have some trouble arranging a meeting with the Feneden—every trader in this Sector is lining up—but we were granted one almost immediately. Turns out the Fenedens are causing our hostesses some translation problems and the Panacians were looking for some discreet assistance. I don’t have details,” Paul said quickly, “not yet. But you know how Panacians prefer to deal with knowns—especially when it involves offworld contacts. That’s us, apparently. Or me. You haven’t been here before, remember?”
Of course I had,
I almost protested, then realized with a start it had been not just another time, but another form.
Sometimes,
I thought to myself,
that sort of thing confused even a perfect memory.

I shook off the lingering sensations of the steam bath, removing my arm from Paul’s shoulder. The Human straightened with an unnecessarily fervent groan of relief. I ignored him, turning in time to almost collide with my six rescuers.

“You have recovered, Fem Ki!” observed C’Tlas. My hearing discerned a quivering under the words, as though the breath she had drawn through her thoracic spiracles to speak had shuddered in passing. I was fully aware her concern was based on her responsibility to the Hive for my care. It was no less real or personal.

“Due to your swift action on my behalf, C’Tlas,” I returned, doing my best to bow and feeling Paul grab one
arm just as I recognized I wasn’t yet as stable as I’d thought. “My thanks.”

“And mine,” Paul added, patting me heartily on the shoulder once I was safely upright. “I couldn’t imagine succeeding in any endeavor without my partner. Especially,” he stressed, “anything that involved understanding a new species.”

A message for me,
I wondered,
or a reminder to the Panacians to keep my necessary self away from household hazards such as alluring bubbles?

The steambath episode was another of those experiences I promised myself I’d repeat in, oh, another century. There were some things one really should be mature to appreciate, most of these, I’d found, included intoxication and corresponding lapses in judgment. I was capable of the latter on my own.