Changing Vision (23 page)

Lefebvre grunted something Timri could interpret however she liked. He closed his eyes as if taking that advice, anxious for her to leave. The moment he heard the door whoosh shut, he fought his way to his feet and staggered over to his discarded clothing. His eyes watered from the searing pain as he desperately ran his
hands over the mud-crusted fabric, digging into the various pockets.

The Ervickian’s cubes were gone. Lefebvre knelt by the stool, supporting himself on his elbows as his entire body shook uncontrollably, every nerve protesting.
Maybe
, he told himself dully,
I can find Able Joe again, buy another copy.

Leave the
Russ’?
Not likely, with what Timri said about Kearn.

Fearing the worst, Lefebvre forced his fingers deep inside that one pocket, despite the sensation of poking his hand into fire.
They hadn’t found it.
His key. Somehow, he worked it free. Having nowhere safer to hide it, he made himself find some medplas and affixed the tiny scrap with its priceless information to his ribs.

Only then, did Lefebvre gave himself permission to collapse back on the cot and start cursing.

THE Iftsen had been favorites of Lesy, for more reasons than their broad-minded gallery policies.

For one thing, they didn’t bother with social niceties. Any of them. Paul and I had been able walk right into what probably constituted the official Iftsen Embassy on D’Dsel—having donned the e-rigs hanging in the air lock—and become two more in the crowd without causing any stir whatsoever.

Not that the current crowd was in much shape to notice our arrival
, I decided, doing my best to assess the situation through the curling smog of sulfur dioxide and just about anything else noxious an oxy-breather could imagine, all components of what the Iftsen considered fresh air. Technically, they did breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide, so by definition were theta-class beings; the Iftsen had merely evolved within a more challenging mix than most. There were very good reasons why certain industries preferred Iftsen workers over any other. When they could get the Iftsen to pay attention, that is.

Which was one of the other things Lesy had loved. To the Iftsen, life appeared to be one long drawn-out party. Paul and I stepped over bodies rolling on the floor, dodged what might have been a fight but was more likely an argumentative dance, and finally wedged ourselves as far from the air lock as possible.

Paul touched his helmet to mine, gray eyes reflecting silver
from its interior light. “This ought to slow them down anyway.”
Them
, I assumed,
including just about everyone else in the School.
His voice was muffled, but clear enough. We’d agreed to avoid the com systems in the e-rigs, just in case.

I nodded, trying to spot the First Citizen. There was always one Iftsen stuck with the job of remaining sensible and in charge while the others cavorted.

“How’s the molt?” Paul asked, poking a finger in the general vicinity of my abdomen. The extra two arms on his suit stuck out, courtesy of having the former contents of Paul’s carrysack shoved into them. It gave him a certain rakish look for a Panacian, somewhat appropriate given our hosts.

“Fine,” I said, feeling no more than a pleasantly weary tingle, as though I’d stretched all of my muscles at once.
Which
, I supposed,
I had.

An Iftsen rocked past, waving a gallant pseudolimb in our direction. Judging by its protruding forehead, it was presently male—a variable state among this species—and Nabreda. Due to the fragmented geography of their world, and their own good nature, the Iftsen had managed to preserve several side branches of their species, unlike the evolutionary carnage of my Human companion’s lineage. Some Iftsen branches were more stunted than others, as the expression went, and several subspecies spent most of their time dodging into holes in the ground whenever startled.

None of that lot here
, I concluded, losing count again when a stack on a nearby couch dispersed into seven frillfaced Mobera instead of the three I’d assumed.

There was, of course, an identifiable Iftsen body plan. I’d worn the form myself, thoroughly enjoying the full-bodied taste of their atmosphere filtering through my bladder. As for their appearance, well, I’d once heard an Iftsen described with remarkable accuracy, if not much respect, as a lump of dough thrown against a wall. Regardless of subspecies, an Iftsen had a perfectly flattened front and back, while his, her, or the transitional its other edges protruded sideways or up in soft irregular lumps more dependent on
mood than structure. Their appendages were equally variable in size, function, and number; much like Quebits, they could produce these at will. Since they also produced a variety of sexual appendages in a similarly unpredictable manner, Humans quickly learned to forgo their ritual of shaking hands.

Helpfully, to those species who relied on faces for conversation, the Iftsen did have heads, topped with a forehead—characteristically lumpy or frilled, depending on subspecies—concluded with a pointy chin, and the middle filled in with an eye, three nostrils, and a very tiny mouth. Less than helpfully, these heads also manifested themselves at various locations along the body’s sides and top. I could see three Iftsen from where I stood, and two of them had new head buds growing under what were presently pseudo armpits.

All this was wrapped in a thick, corrosion-resistant skin which flaked off almost constantly, so the floor and any furniture was covered in crinkled disks of yellow-brown.

I’d heard Ersh, who avoided value judgments, refer to the Iftsen as the ugliest things to ever learn to think for themselves. She also sent one of us to Iftsen Secondus regularly, as if afraid to miss memorizing even the slightest achievement of their varied and rich cultures. I stood among them, for a moment savoring web-memories of epic songs and organic towers, art forms whose beginnings were buried in time and whose creation wouldn’t end as long as an Iftsen breathed.

“There.” Paul had spotted the First Citizen, a forlorn-looking individual adding selections to a table of sweets and various other intoxicants. We made our way through the revelers, having to wait our turn to reach the table itself.

“First Citizen?” I asked, switching on my e-rig’s external speaker.

There was something about the role that sucked the cheerfulness right out of an Iftsen. This one was no exception. “What do you want?” she sighed in comspeak, looking wistfully past us to where an assortment of her kind were apparently
trying to see how many of themselves they could pile up before reaching the ceiling. I turned away quickly, reasonably sure that wasn’t all they were doing.

“We have to speak to you. It’s an urgent matter, First Citizen.”

“You’ll get more attention in the morning,” she warned, one thin pseudolimb sliding almost unconsciously toward a plate of chocolate-covered berries. One of those and they’d have to hurry to sober up another First Citizen before this party ended, I thought, and said quickly:

“We need you to hide us from the Feneden.”

The sounds of music, gurgling laughter, and bodies in enthusiastic contact began to stop in concentric rings leading out from us until the entire room was as still as a grave.

Paul leaned his helmet against mine. “Subtle,” the dryness of his tone coming through quite clearly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

The Iftsen didn’t bother building starships. The Panacians had visited them first, after all, and in space-proven vehicles. Why duplicate effort? So I sat, facing Paul, in a third or fourthhand Panacian freighter, trying to make the best of things.

He was, predictably, not making that easy. “Stowage. We’re in stowage.”

“We couldn’t be up there,” I waved a claw overhead to indicate the rest of the ship, “without keeping the e-rigs on.”
I, for one, didn’t care for that option.
“This will do nicely. You’ll see.”

“What I’m seeing is the result of trying to talk sense with sixteen drunk Iftsen,” he retorted. “Okay,” this when I drew air through my spiracles to continue arguing, “okay. I concede this was probably the only way we could have left the School unnoticed.”

I doubted the departure of the Iftsen had gone unnoticed. They’d had their own aircar, specially outfitted to protect them from D’Dsel’s acid-starved air, docked directly to their floor of the School. Even drunk, the Iftsen—particularly the quite-sober First Citizen—had been anxious to avoid confrontation
with the Feneden.
To their credit, the option of tossing us back out the air lock hadn’t seemed to occur to them.
All of them had rushed us to the aircar, safely within our e-rigs, and packed themselves in tightly to make sure we had room. It could have been a discreet trip to the shipcity, but the two Iftsen at the controls took turns flying in great loops through swarms of hoverbots, gurgling happily as the Panacian craft dodged out of their way.

Once at the shipcity and snugged up to the Iftsen’s freighter, the
Didjeridoo
, Paul and I had been given the entire lower deck to ourselves and told to expect lift by morning. Given the pace of events through the last few hours, most reasonable beings would sit and wait.
Of course, reason and a Human didn’t always inhabit the same space
, I told myself, watching Paul bounce up again the instant our hosts left us alone.

The Human tossed the e-rig he’d worn onto the table between us and reached into one of the sleeves. He began pulling out its contents, starting with a dark woven shirt he took the time to don before continuing his bizarre unpacking. The shirt wasn’t something I’d seen him wear before; it rose up to his chin and had a hood, just now hanging loose down his back. I tilted my head, focusing both eyes. The fabric was uncomfortable to view directly, especially when he moved his arms and muscle shifted underneath. I recognized the technology: it was a masker, a garment used by night-hunters or worse.

I cleaned my feeding palps, a nervous, secretive movement. “Paul?” I ventured cautiously.

His lean features were set in a expression I also recognized: equal parts “don’t ask” and “won’t answer.” Not surprisingly, he hadn’t smiled since the Queen’s audience.
Typical ephemeral shortsightedness
, I concluded, knowing better than to try and point this out to the Human. Surely, he knew as well as I that P’Lka’s accusation wasn’t the threat it would have been from another being. It was unthinkable the inward-focused and highly private Hive would allow a Queen to expose herself or her concerns to outsiders; worse, to have her name become embroiled in an
interspecies’ scandal—as would happen if P’Lka tried to contest the Commonwealth’s ponderous evidence of Paul’s “death” based solely on her memory of his much younger, very alien face. Once we were outsystem from Panacia, P’Lka had few options, beyond canceling her family’s contracts with Cameron & Ki Exports.
Fortunately
, I thought,
hiring assassins wasn’t something a D’Dsellan would do.

Kearn was a different menace altogether. If he found out Paul Ragem lived and learned our new identities, we would have to start again. Perhaps that was what compressed my Human’s lips and made him intent on his task: sliding various small objects into a pouch wrapped around his flat middle under the masker shirt.

“Kearn was with the Feneden,” I reminded my friend, searching his face. “Knowing him, he’ll be so distracted he won’t bother to see the Ambassadors. Since you’ve escaped, P’Lka won’t embarrass herself to contact him about you—”

Paul’s eyes burned into mine. “We can’t make decisions based on guesswork, Esen.” He pulled out one last device, checking it with unusual care before sliding it inside his shirt.

A biodisrupter.
Its sole function was to kill other living beings. There was no stun setting, no way to merely cause a flesh wound. What Paul cradled next to his heart and my gift was death.

Or its threat.
“That’s not energized,” I said, gesturing relief with all four limbs. “Is it?” I found myself insisting.

His fingers brushed over the weapon’s hiding place, as if tempted to remove it, then fell away. “There are times, Es—” Paul began, his gray eyes almost black with distress. “I won’t lie to you. Yes, it’s energized. I could kill someone with it. I don’t want to—but I may have to, before we are safe. Can you understand that?”

I curled my limbs around myself, rocking back and forth despondently. “The Web of Esen protects all intelligent life—you are of that Web,” I reminded him numbly. “You know that’s not our way.”

“In this one thing, Esen-alit-Quar,” Paul said ever-so-gently, “our ways differ. I will do what I must to protect
you.” Then he forced a smile. “Enough gloom. I’m just going out to pick up the mail before lift—hardly life and death.”

“The mail?” I asked, rolling my head almost completely on its side as though the shift in perspective might make better sense of him. “What mail? It’s the middle of the night! What’s so important—”

He touched one of my clawtips. “The mail,” he said again, as if that was some kind of explanation. “Don’t let this scow leave before I’m back—it might need a push.” This time his smile was genuine. “And no heroics, old bug. One sniff of your beautiful self, and the entire planet will know where we are. So stay put.”

“In stowage,” I tried to mimic his scornful tone from before in an effort to lighten the mood.
I didn’t like any of this.

Abruptly, Paul reached out and held my head so that his face filled each and every facet of my eyes. “Promise me, Esen. You’ll lift with this ship, no matter what. If I’m not back before she goes, you go and wait for me on Iftsen Secondus.”

“I—”

“Promise.”

I clicked my mandibles together in something much too crude for a D’Dsellan of my apparent breeding. “I promise.”

His face brightened. “Good. I’ll see you soon.” With that, Paul slipped the hood over his head and face, turning from my friend into something immediately darker and more deadly. He strode to the smaller port inset in the main stowage doors and let himself out. Before the port finished closing itself, I caught a glimpse of him, more shadow than substance, as he ran down the night-dimmed ramp.