Changing Vision (34 page)

While I didn’t have to worry about Logan finding his mythic weapon any time soon—since the only thing comparable was currently sitting on the edge of a bed listening to a drunken Ervickian snore off-key—I did have to worry about his attempts to do so. Whatever this key of Lefebvre’s
had been, Logan must have already used it to prove Mitchell Kane and Paul Cameron were in fact Paul Ragem. And the name Ragem was inextricably linked to the supposed biological weapon, thanks to Kearn.

Lefebvre
. I didn’t know what to think or plan about him, and Paul hadn’t helped. Paul called him friend—something he never did lightly. It had been a message to me that I was to trust Lefebvre.

Trust him?
On D’Dsel, Lefebvre called Paul a traitor, with enough anger in his voice for a hundred Kearns.
Humans were so confusing.

I did know that an intelligent, resourceful being like Lefebvre was more dangerous to our secret than Kearn could ever be. If Lefebvre ever believed in my existence— I stopped the thought before risking my hold on this form.

Whatever game Logan and Chase were playing with us, pretending Paul was Mitchell, it couldn’t last much longer. When it ended, I had to be ready to stand between the two of them. I would never let Lefebvre harm Paul.

Other than that
, I told myself sadly,
I might have counted him a friend, too.

THE difficulties of treating a prisoner poorly were compounded when all you had to use for a cell was a decent cabin complete with private fresher and someone’s belongings. Without compunction, Lefebvre dressed in that someone’s clean coveralls after washing.

He went to the cot farthest from the door. A few pillows, a rolled-up blanket or two—he hadn’t used this trick since his youth on Botharis, when he’d sneak out to visit the Ragems’ farm when their famous son came insystem.

Lefebvre ran one hand to smooth the top cover, no longer seeing the cabin, instead remembering what it had been like before the betrayal, when he and others—cousins mostly—had made their way inside the big kitchen. It had always been filled with the smells of food and the voices of people. A busy, crowded, welcoming place.

And, every so often, the news would spread through the small community that a trader or other starship had brought Paul home for a visit. There were mock fights in the barn among his brothers to see who’d get to pick him up; it took Paul a few hours to become part of Botharis again and, until then, talking to him was like meeting someone from another world, as though something of his travels linked him to the stars so he could bring them home. His mother, the only one at home who had lived in space, would look into his eyes before hugging her son, and nod in complete understanding.

He wasn’t the greatest storyteller, but after the greetings ended and the eating was done, the kitchen would steadily absorb more and more people to listen to Paul’s latest adventures. There had been something about his voice—eager, fresh, never jaded by what he’d seen—it brought alien worlds to life right there and then, for everyone. Lefebvre could almost hear it now, if he closed his eyes.

Instead, he made himself remember the other voices, the accusing ones who’d arrived before they’d had time to grieve, the ones who questioned everything and everyone. They’d brought with them the final story from Paul’s life: how he’d betrayed them by siding with the Monster.

The kitchen had never filled with voices again. The Ragems had locked their doors the very next night and moved away without a word.

Lefebvre shook off memory. It wasn’t helpful. Right now, his focus was on Mitchell and the child they both wanted to protect. He gathered up an armload of clothing from the cupboard and made himself a nest behind the door. Then he used someone’s lucky coin to access the lighting control panel, plunging the room into darkness.

Hands outstretched, Lefebvre found his nest and made himself comfortable. It might be a matter of minutes, or days, until they came for him.

He’d be ready.

THE Ervickian, possibly wary of any Human or, more likely, simply paranoid as were many of its kind, had locked the door. Fortunately, it had locked the door from the inside.

This ship, I knew. Before Chase—who had never made Esolesy Ki welcome on board—the
Vegas Lass
had been in the friendlier hands of Joel’s son Denny Largas. Denny, uncle to Paul’s children and without offspring of his own, had doted on his niece and nephew and considered me part of his family. He’d died on this ship, victim of a rare disease, slipping away in his sleep as though forgetting how important he was to us all.
I would remember him.

I could almost hear Denny’s voice echoing down the night-dimmed corridors. He wouldn’t be happy about what his precious ship was doing. I found a pleasing symmetry in my being the one to do something about it.

This form, while relatively weak and prone to emotion, was remarkably good at moving around noiselessly. I also relished having Human-sized hands for once. They made accessing the secondary com system in the hold so much easier. The system was used when the
’Lass
was findown and the hold was a hive of activity, but, as Denny had told me, there was no reason it couldn’t be used in space, only spacer habit and the comfort of the primary com on the warm bridge.

The translight burst would be noticed by the bridge crew—you didn’t pull that kind of power from the ship
without setting off detectors—so it had to be a once-out, no reply kind of message. That meant I needed the most trouble I could rouse with one yell.

Joel Largas.

The moment I hit the switch, I ran from the hold area and headed for hydroponics, my chosen hiding place, a place filled with living mass just ready to become more Esen.

As I ran, I congratulated myself.
This was more like it.

Esen the sneak. Esen the clever.

I turned a corner and ran straight into what felt like a wall. I staggered back, looking up, then up again.

Esen the idiot.

Inspector Logan was definitely larger, seen through these Human eyes.

He wore the medallion. I didn’t need to feel the presence of that piece of me; Logan wore it openly, like some trophy. I kept my eyes from it with an effort. Of course, there was very little else to see in the corridor beyond two metal walls and the Human one before me.

Neither of us moved for what began to seem a rather long time, although likely it was a matter of seconds. Finally, I dared lift my eyes to his face.

It was ashen. His lips were pulled back in some horrible rictus and his eyes were as close to bulging as I’d ever seen in a Human. It didn’t improve his appearance.

I’d seen that look before
, I realized, at first incredulous that this Human monolith could be terrified by the ghost of a child. Then I didn’t find it strange at all.
If ever a being should expect to be haunted by vengeful spirits
, I reminded myself,
it was this one.

All I needed to do was pass Logan while his surely temporary paralysis lasted, get out of range of those extraordinarily long arms,
then run like crazy.
Fearing my voice would crack, I started humming the love song from Garson’s World under my breath and moved my right foot forward very slowly.

He shuddered—an awe-inspiring reaction from a Human
who massed enough for six of me—and moved back one step.

I moved forward, always humming, never taking my eyes from his.

Another step back. It was as though we were partners in some bizarre dance in stopped time,
a favorite form of the Urgians
, Ansky-memory unhelpfully added.

Just a few more—

That, of course, was the instant the ship’s internal alarm sounded. On the
’Lass
, the deafening shriek warned of imminent disaster, such as fire or hull breach, but I was reasonably sure this was Chase’s reply to my message. Logan gave a great shuddering gasp, as though shaking off a nightmare, then lunged at me, those arms I’d planned to avoid sweeping out like immense claws to grab me.

I wasn’t there, having thrown myself to the floor the moment his eyes snapped into reason again. I crawled between his legs—for once grateful this particular Human was oversized—scrambled to my feet, and ran.

This form was more agile and I knew exactly where I was going, including being able to hit the door control without breaking stride. Logan was faster than anyone his bulk should have been. His hands met my back, shoving me forward instead of gripping. I wasn’t sure whether that had been his intention or not, and didn’t care. It accomplished everything I’d hoped.

I ducked and rolled with the force, my body fitting perfectly under the railing around the main floor tank, plunging myself into the thick broth of living plant cells with a relief close to hysteria.

Web-form.

I consumed and shed the inorganics that had been my clothing, sinking to the bottom to become a layer marginally more viscous than that floating over me, giving up the Human senses of touch, hearing, sight, and smell for other, more intimate ways of knowing. Logan, painted now as a cohesive mass of organized chemical structure I recognized as Human—with the arresting glow of my frozen web-mass attached—moved along the railing as if searching. Connecting
us were the sweet harmonies of electromagnetism and gravity, beyond, the elegant song of stars and atoms as they spun in and out of pure energy, punctuated by the throbbing power sources of this ship and the others within my inner sight.

Lovely
, I admitted to myself, but knew much of the joy I experienced was the relief of being safe from alien eyes.

It was high time I did what my kind did best
, I ordered myself sternly.

Wait.

THE alarm had ended Lefebvre’s wait. He’d barely started to react, feeling the roar of adrenaline as his spacer nerves interpreted the sound as trouble with the ship, when the door of his cabin whooshed open.

Lefebvre held absolutely still. It was one of the guards who’d brought him here. The being hesitated, perhaps suspicious of the unmoving figure on the bed when nothing with ears could avoid the alarms. That pause, however brief, was more than enough for Lefebvre.

“Hard head,” he commented a second later, rubbing his knuckles contentedly. Then he pulled the unconscious guard into the cabin, closing the door after making sure it wouldn’t lock automatically.

A quick search produced a tidy little arsenal, the sort of mayhem one could safely use shipside: a knife, stunner, and, last, but not least, a blister stick.
A common enough weapon
, Lefebvre reminded himself, wincing as the alarm continued to howl.

Maybe something really was wrong with this ship.
He hoped so. It would make whatever he could accomplish that much easier.

As long as it didn’t kill them all first.

Lefebvre’s first thought was that the Ervickian was dead.
Not a loss
, he told himself, then changed his mind as the ungentle nudge of his foot produced a definite twitch from the body stretched out on the floor.

Someone had mercifully killed the alarm, which didn’t
explain what Able Joe was doing asleep. Reluctantly, Lefebvre bent closer and sniffed. The still-moist stains around the second mouth were pleal juice.

Able Joe would not knowingly intoxicate itself without others of its crèche in range.
A resourceful young Fem
, Lefebvre thought with approval, as well as considerable relief. He hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate what an Ervickian’s idea of caring for a Human child might include—everyone knew the rumors about the survival rates in their crèches, but who believed all the interspecies’ gossip? Especially when the subject was already held in pretty low esteem.

He took a quick look around, but found no other clues in the cabin, identical to the one he’d just left—in the same corridor, in fact. He’d tried it first as it was the only other locked door.
So Bess had managed to free herself.
Lefebvre’s relief faded.
Now what?

The alarm. He’d hoped for a good old-fashioned hull breach, but that now appeared unlikely. Given the child’s handiwork with the environmental systems on the
’Watch
, he suspected the alarm had something to do with her freedom and worse, ceased because she’d been recaptured.

Lefebvre’s grip on the blister stick tightened.
Surely they wouldn’t harm a little girl
, he assured himself, knowing the opposite was true. He’d seen enough in his years as a patroller on Botharis. Then, there was Logan.

He glanced in the mirror. He’d taken time to clean up and shave, but nothing could be done about the shadows under his eyes or the new lines at the corner of his mouth.
Given this crew
, Lefebvre thought wryly,
those would probably help.
He tightened the fastenings on the coveralls he’d found—the guard had worn the same, emblazoned with the Largas Freight logo. The belt he’d taken from the guard wasn’t standard spacer issue, having holsters for the stunner and blister stick.

With luck, he’d pass for crew, assuming those on this ship were mostly hired mercs who might not all know each other on sight. Depending on the progress Mitchell
had made in the med unit over the past hours, Lefebvre thought he could do the same. Once the swelling and bruising were gone, he’d be hard-pressed himself to recognize his new friend. This all assumed Chase had put Mitchell into treatment and that Lefebvre could somehow retrieve him unnoticed—gambles he was prepared to take.

Bess. She was the biggest problem
, Lefebvre realized grimly.
There was no way to make her inconspicuous.

ONE of the many joys of being totally inconspicuous was no longer being interrupted by events or ideas over which I had no control. I let the hydroponics tank dictate my outer edges and let my mind drift through various Esen-saves-Paul scenarios—all of which had a common theme of teeth, Logan’s flesh, and a significant amount of screaming.
And
, I added to myself,
chocolate
.