Changing Vision (21 page)

There wasn’t much sign of anything going wrong at first.
After the door opened, there was more bowing, of course, including a rather awkward moment in which we had to bow deeply while walking through the Queen’s force field. Paul and I had practiced this maneuver ahead of time, enough to decide I’d better not tip over because he couldn’t possibly hold me up. I was successful, if not impressively graceful, perhaps because I was distracted by the tingle of the field. It wasn’t meant to stop anything large; it concentrated the Queen’s pheromones for transport to her diffuse family. We waited to be noticed.

All of this was a new experience for Paul, and I regretted he was too tense to treat it with the fascination it deserved. Without making it obvious to anyone but me, he stayed slightly behind me, using my bulk as a shield to keep out of the Queen’s direct sight. The first moment was the worst. We both relaxed when there was no sudden cry of recognition.
I had,
I thought rather smugly,
been right.

The Queen was a magnificent being, in her full prime, her carapace a gleaming blue almost too bright to look at directly. I might have met her before, but it was difficult to tell. Among the changes which accompanied sexual maturity were alterations in the shape of the head as well as an enlargement of the abdomen, although this particular Queen’s lower anatomy would have been dwarfed by the truly awe-inspiring mass of Ansky’s in this form.
An unfair comparison,
I reminded myself.
Members of the Builder caste started larger.

The Ambassador Queen reclined in splendor atop a dais carefully engineered to whisk away any eggs laid during conversation. Too young to tolerate the physical—more accurately pheromonal—presence of her successor, she nonetheless was Ambassador enough to insist her successor witness and learn. A holo image of the youngster sparkled in the shadows, her curious faceted eyes on us from the moment we entered.

Four drones, bigger, heavier and—to be truthful—more emotionally fragile beings, lay at the Queen’s feet. One continuously stroked her legs with a long feather, while another
replenished a green liquid contained in a tall vase at her side from a gilded pitcher.

“Fem Esolesy Ki and Hom Paul Cameron. N’Klet has brought you to Us as deserving Our gratitude.” The Queen’s voice was strong and vibrant, suited to a being who was the undisputed leader of her family, member of the most widespread caste of her kind. There were other Ambassador Queens on D’Dsel, even more on the remaining worlds orbiting Panacia, but this individual, I realized, having been selected to run this School for her caste, could very likely control the decisions made by the rest.

According to C’Tlas, Her influence was even more direct,
I thought. As a rule, queens produced a variety of castes within their offspring, the exact proportions of each being determined by the needs of the Hive—those needs in turn communicated through the pheromones of the Rememberer Queens prior to Spring Emergence. When a Queen bred true, producing only offspring of Her caste, it was believed a sign the Hive had a greater need for that caste than any other. The Ambassadors, from what I’d seen, were definitely becoming more predominant among their species.

And this Queen would be the acknowledged mother of most.

We bowed again. Paul and I had been granted time to dress for this audience. He’d wisely brought a jacket styled to suit the D’Dsellan concept of formality, namely any garment with flashy and complex embroidery running down its front.
It looked very bright on him,
I thought charitably, but wisely kept this opinion to myself.

The Lishcyn taste for elegant, simple designs wouldn’t impress a D’Dsellan Builder, let alone a Queen, so I’d tossed all five of my beaded bags around my neck, hoping for the best from the combination of clashing patterns and shapes. C’Tlas had nodded her approval. Paul had grinned, making me regret my own tact.

The Queen continued, waving one claw in elegant emphasis: “With your assistance as interpreter, Fem Ki, perhaps
we may yet avert this conflict before it escalates into war.”

“War, Your Radiance?” I asked, not needing Paul’s quick intake of breath in my ear to prompt my alarmed question. “We weren’t aware of hostilities.”
And if we had been,
I grumbled to myself,
I, for one, wouldn’t have set either foot on the
Galaxy Goddess.

A melancholy click, obediently echoed by the other Panacians in the room. The Queen must have exuded a bit of despondency in her scent with the gesture. “Few are,” she said. “The Iftsen have claimed our assistance—there is an agreement of long standing between our systems.”

“The Treaty of P’Gkot,” I said automatically. The Iftsen system had been discovered by Panacian explorers before the arrival of Human ships in this sector. Although their atmospheres were poisonous to one another, Iftsen buildings had fascinated the Panacians, leading to a systems-wide reconstruction phase often referred to by the Rememberer Caste as a golden age.

“You know our past exceptionally well, Fem Ki,” the Queen acknowledged with some surprise.
I could just imagine Paul’s expression behind my shoulder.
“We are honored. Yes, the Treaty. It binds us to the aid of the Iftsen, should any other species attempt to destroy their magnificent world. You can appreciate our ancestors had no idea there would be so—many— others joining us in space. And we no longer possess the capability to offer any aid beyond that of negotiation.” A clever sidestep around the Panacian decision, made in the first year of peaceful contact with other species, to rid their worlds of the too-easily provoked Warrior caste. The continued culling during Spring Emergence was something the Panacians kept very much to themselves. The Queen went on: “Our efforts in that regard have been unsuccessful thus far, as we’ve had to rely on the Feneden’s translator for the truth.”

“May I ask the source of this—conflict?” I ventured, torn between the quick exit Paul was hoping for and the need for more information. I was reasonably sure we were being deliberately briefed on something the Panacians
wanted us to know, but it was risky asking questions.
Never push the boundaries of good manners,
as Ersh would say: a matter of both courtesy and survival when on a planet not your own.

The Queen tapped the shoulders of the nearest drone. He looked up brightly and elaborated without hesitation. “The Feneden say they don’t recognize the Iftsen.”

“In what way?” I asked, hearing Paul muttering much the same question under his breath, apparently as confused as I. “You mean the Iftsen claim to their world, Iftsen Secondus?” My web-memory obediently offered up innumerable examples of ephemerals fighting over rocks, planetary or otherwise.

“No,” said the drone. “The Feneden don’t recognize the existence of the Iftsen themselves. As far as we can determine, the Feneden have been landing on Iftsen Secondus whenever and wherever they wish, completely ignoring the local population. They take what they like from buildings and have begun several mining operations. The Iftsen,” he added with immense understatement, “are not happy.”

“The Iftsen are a civilized and patient species,” the Queen continued, tilting her beautiful head toward us. “But even they must respond to such affronts. Unfortunately, like us, the Iftsen have few options.” She sighed suddenly; from the immediately grief stricken postures of the drones and our escort, the Queen’s despair was intense. “The Iftsen may feel forced to make an ultimate response.”

I cringed. Beside me, Paul might have turned to stone. “What does that mean?” he almost whispered.

“Iftsen Secondus has only one real defense against offworld assault,” I answered when the Queen remained silent, curled in her own tangle of shiny blue limbs. “Generations ago, after first contact with the Panacians and others, they built a weapon called The Messenger. It lies concealed within their system’s asteroid belt.”

“All true, Fem Ki. The Messenger is a terrible device,” the Queen whispered. “A planet-killer. The Iftsen believe possessing it deters others from attacking them. It has worked that way in the past—but the Feneden won’t listen.
Since they don’t believe the Iftsen exist, how can they believe an Iftsen threat?”

“You hope Fem Ki’s understanding of their language will help you convince the Feneden otherwise,” Paul said slowly. “Of course, we’ll help you any way we can.”

“We are grateful, Hom Cameron,” the Queen replied, tilting her great head. “N’Klet has told me you are an exceptional Human. Approach me. My eyes are not what they used to be, and I would see you more clearly.”

I didn’t need to glance sideways at Paul to know he was smiling at the Queen as he obeyed and walked forward, all charm and grace; nor did I need to touch his arm to feel his pulse racing and his muscles rock-hard with tension. Instead, on some impulse, I looked to where N’Klet had been standing. She was no longer in the room.

Odd, when she was the one who’d arranged all this.

“Stop there.” The drones bolted upright, then stood in front of Her Radiance, their arms interlaced in a posture of defense. I heard an echoing slither of claw against carapace from the escort beside us. The Queen must be broadcasting anxiety or alarm.
Not fear,
I reassured myself,
or we’d already be under attack.
I shunted my stomachs’ contents into the fourth.

The Queen was leaning forward over her worried drones, her own claws agape, her faceted eyes fixed on Paul as he stopped midstep, waiting. I looked at her, puzzled, then looked harder. Age and maturity had made a difference, but suddenly I knew her.

I could hear the cosmic gods laughing now.
P’Lka.
The D’Dsellan who had been assigned to keep an eye on the crew of the
Rigus,
fifty years ago. The Panacian who had helped my Ket-self meet with Mixs, while keeping a certain Human occupied.

Her next words, delivered with a hard, threatening edge, were unnecessary confirmation that she remembered that Human all too well.

“Paul Ragem,” said the Queen. “Why aren’t you dead?”

“ARE you shifter?”

Kearn felt his hands shaking and he gripped the case he’d brought more tightly to compensate.
I’m First Contact expert
, he told himself firmly.
Trained to handle such situations.

That training had been too long ago and he’d had a staff, including Paul Ragem, to step forward in hazardous situations. Kearn realized he was about to faint and decided courtesy was less important than a chair.

“No,” he managed to gasp as he searched for one. “I’m not a shifter. I hunt them. I’m a hunter.”

The new aliens, the Feneden, stopped pretending to be interested in anything else. This appointment had been arranged by a nameless third party—Kearn had his suspicions—and he’d been conveyed directly to their rooms by hoverbot. During his first few moments, Kearn had been rendered close to speechless by the exotic beauty of these beings, admiring everything about them except their choice of flooring material. Then the question posed by the individual carrying the translator had driven any thought but one from his mind:
these beings knew the Esen Monster.

There had been other species with tantalizing stories to tell, Kearn told himelf, trying not to tremble, trying to be skeptical. But none used a precautionary greeting like this. His pulse hammered in his ears.

The Feneden appeared flustered, confused. They spoke among themselves in trills and convoluted sentences
that sounded completely unrelated to any language Kearn understood.

“The device fails at times,” the Feneden who’d introduced herself as Anisco expressed her doubts to Kearn, a wave of her hand silencing the other four. “You know of the Shifter here? No others have told us this.”

Kearn sat gingerly on a chair suspended from the ceiling, holding himself still with one toe on the slimy floor. “Not here,” he declared, feeling most delightfully in charge. “Not as far as I know. But we’ve been tracking a shifter and her kind for years. I’ve killed one.”

The Feneden conferred among themselves once more, this time with a great deal of agitated hand gesturing. Then Anisco silenced them with a sharp command.

A second Feneden approached him and held out a ball of what might have been food or might have been modeling clay. It was a vivid blue. “Shifter,” Anisco proposed, touching the ball with one long, slender finger. The male holding the ball proceeded to quickly reshape it into something vaguely humanoid. “Shifter,” she repeated, her voice trembling in her own language, the word machine-steady from the translator. The male reshaped the ball into a winged creature. “Shifter,” Anisco said again, looking at Kearn past the bright red flashes of her inner eyelids.

Kearn held out his hand for the clay, feeling the moment wrap itself around him with glory. He flared his nostrils and straightened his spine as much as he could. “Shifter Hunter,” he declared, crushing the material between his palms until it oozed out between his fingers, some dropping to the floor.

As one, so did the Feneden, pressing their foreheads into the soft, moist covering, moaning.

Kearn smiled.

THERE were moments of choice in a life, as in cultures. Ersh had taught me so, with abundant illustration, and I’d experienced such moments for myself—mostly since introducing myself to a Human.

There had been one in P’Lka’s Sanctum, a moment in which time slowed cooperatively, allowing me to delve into the dreadful consequences of this choice or that, to see clearly what might happen depending on how I acted. I’d felt gripped by an unimaginable comprehension of everything at once.

Or by hysteria
, I admitted to myself, given that I’d been frozen in place as the drones dragged Paul away.

The Panacians, taking my lack of reaction for shock—which it was—and innocence—which it wasn’t—had fussed over me, assuring me I was in no further danger from the Human. They’d carefully escorted me back to my rooms. And locked the door.

To give the beings credit, they expected me to stop a war and save them from having to join it. Any guilt associated with the Ki half of Cameron & Ki could be put into perspective, or at least aside until later.