Changing Vision (41 page)

Time for the part of my plan Paul hadn’t liked. I eased farther into the shadows and cycled, assimilated the mass from the plants I’d stuck into the generous allowance of the rig as well as the rig’s inorganics. I automatically shed the latter on the floor in a stencil of myself as I hurried from web-form and became Iftsen.

The Gallery was immediately brighter, the air sweetly
thick, and the arrangement of walls, roof, and flooring made complete sense to the paired echo-locatory organs in my rump.
A magnificent and vibrant building.
I filtered appreciatively through my bladder, detecting a lovely metallic tang that likely came from some aromatic delicacy being cooked outside.
Bridklestet flounder roe!
I was halfway back out the door before remembering the Feneden and my mission here.

There were
, I could hear Ersh now,
some disadvantages to this form.
The only way to keep my present brain on track was to convince myself I was the assigned First Citizen here. Being the only Iftsen here didn’t help much. I recited the First Citizen’s litany to myself:
I am responsible. I am the designate. The safe joy of others depends on me. It’s my turn next time.

That last bit wasn’t part of the official mantra, but I’d always found it helped.

I felt my urge to join the Festival fading to manageable levels. At the same time, and not by coincidence, most of the enthusiastic protrusions along my outer edge sagged unhappily back into themselves.

I rotated until I faced the line of Feneden and moved from the shadows. They didn’t react to my sudden appearance or somehow sense my split-second in web-form,
the latter a new nightmare I owed to Lefebvre’s imagination.

Time to get some answers.
I rocked myself back and forth until I was completely blocking the path of the next Feneden attempting to leave the Gallery with a bag.

The Feneden stepped around me and continued on his way.

I rubbed my forehead pensively, having found it located around my midriff. An improvement over my first time in this form, when I’d stared at my knees for months and had to lie flat to eat anything.

I took a deep, satisfying breath, refilling my bladder, and put myself in the way of another Feneden. Before this one, female by the shape, could go around me, I greeted her, saying: “Greetings, far traveler. Ease and comfort to you.” The language was as close to colloquial as my brief experience
with modern Feneden allowed, meaning my accent was likely as archaic as the phrase itself. Considered ventrally, it was the best I could come up with on short notice. All I wanted was to have at least one Feneden acknowledge the existence of one Iftsen. It would be the first step to a diplomatic solution. Paul would be so proud.

What I didn’t want
, I thought numbly, was to see every Feneden within range of my voice run screaming in any direction that took them away from me as quickly as possible, including one who managed to climb
The Transformation of Joy
—the famous, intricate, and decidedly erotic sculpture which formed the centerpiece of the entranceway.

I changed my mind. I was very glad Paul wasn’t here. He hadn’t liked my plan at all.

I hated it when he was right.

“THERE’S a priority call for you, Captain Lefebvre. You’ll—” Com-tech Resdick paused as he came up beside Lefebvre and joined him in surveying what was left of his quarters, finishing lamely: “I guess you’ll have to take it somewhere else, sir.”

Lefebvre nodded. “Thank you, Resdick. I’ll be up to the bridge in a moment.” Once the com-tech hurried away, Lefebvre gingerly stepped inside the door.

The carpeting, whether it had been alive before or not, was definitely dead now. The ship’s scrubbers were hitting overtime attempting to clear the results from the air. A crew detail had been about to remove the stuff, but Lefebvre had asked them to wait until he’d had a chance to inspect what the Feneden had left behind.

Not much
, he said to himself. Kearn had almost climbed into his lap in his eagerness to unburden himself about the Feneden, their plots, their attempts to take over his ship, their evil influence, their—about the only thing Kearn hadn’t accused the Feneden of was disbelief. They’d believed all too well in the Esen Monster.

So, of course, did he—now
, Lefebvre thought with a wry grin, pushing a swing out of his way as he continued his examination.
Which he couldn’t exactly tell Kearn.
Lefebvre had listened to his commander’s babble with unusual patience, reevaluating everything from his own preconceptions to the desperate, glazed look in those close-set eyes.

Strange as it seemed, Lefebvre now recognized something
heroic in how Kearn, despite his flaws and weaknesses, had kept up his quest to save the universe for so long, alone and disbelieved.

And tragic
, Lefebvre thought. Kearn had wasted a career and much of his life because he so feared and misunderstood Esen, an Esen Lefebvre couldn’t seem to picture as other than that mere slip of a girl, with faded freckles and infectious smile. This, despite knowing she was the literal personification of everything alien.

He walked as lightly as possible, but each footfall threw up more of the putrid smell. Lefebvre put his hand over his nose in self-defense and kept looking. At one point, something crunched under his foot: something that, on closer examination, looked alarmingly like the decomposing haunch of a rat.

In the end, it wasn’t what the Feneden had taken or the condition of his quarters that made Lefebvre’s heart start pounding, although he knew they’d stolen e-rigs and some device Kearn ranted was crucial to trapping his monster.

It was what they’d left behind.

Their translators.

PERHAPS the phrase lost something in the translation
, I theorized, standing alone in the midst of discarded bags, crates, and weapons. The Feneden climbing the sculpture had slipped and dropped to the floor—I assumed unhurt, from the way he scampered after the others.

Just wonderful.
I had succeeded in drawing the Feneden’s attention to a member of the hitherto-invisible Iftsen. I was reasonably sure Paul would agree the result was an abysmal failure.

As if responding to my mood, a deep vibration suddenly coursed through the floor, as though the mass of voices singing outside had coincided on a bass note.
Now what?
Intrigued, but still muttering
It’s my turn next time
, under my breath, I rocked over to the doorway and looked out.

It wasn’t singing, I discovered. It was the tortured sound of a huge aircar never designed for Iftsen Secondus coping with this atmosphere. As the aircar touched the tiles in front of the Gallery, a side door opened and a Herd of e-rigged Ganthor mercenaries charged out.

There are moments when I seriously doubt the senses of a given form, having an innate distrust of other biologies.
This was definitely one of them.

I rotated to orient my dorsal side toward what I doubted, preferring echo-location over what could be fooled by holos and projections.

The Ganthor didn’t cooperatively disappear or—another thought I’d had—turn into costumed Feneden.

I rotated to face them again, concentrating on presenting
a noncombative silhouette.
Never run from stampeding Ganthor
was a useful piece of Skalet-memory under the circumstances.

Don’t stand in their way
, was another I remembered in time to roll myself to one side, barely escaping their booted feet. The Ganthor, a smallish Herd of thirteen, crowded and bumped behind a larger individual who had to be their Matriarch as she led them up the steps of the Gallery. They thundered past me to disappear inside.

I winced at the sound of breaking glass and snapping wood, among other things. The Herd must have run right through the art the Feneden had dropped in the entranceway.

Not sure what I could do to either improve or worsen the situation, I opted for trying to understand it.
Knowledge
, as Ersh never tired of reminding me,
was the only thing separating rocks from sentience.
Mind you, she used the same expression to refer to the continuing debate among the crystalline Tumblers over the morality of selling their excretions to offworlders as gemstones. I dropped to my slick ventral surface and coasted down the stairs to the side of the aircar.

Only it wasn’t one. I added Human interpretations to my Iftsen vision and knew what stretched in front of me, engines self-destructing at the end of its mission. A ’crasher—identical to those I’d lately seen on
The Black Watch.

Logan?
I asked myself, wondering if the heady atmosphere was generating a few extra reactions in my bladder.
What in the seventeen icy hells of Urgia was he doing dropping mercs on an art gallery?

This was beyond curious. I rocked my way back up the stairs, mumbling dark things about Moberan designers who thought only of appearances and made stairs to impress offworlders with their fancy knees and other joints.

The Ganthor stood back-to-back in the middle of the huge opening hallway, a position I judged had more to do with their need to exchange scent-information through the u-shaped connectors on their e-rigs than defense, since they, and I, were the only beings presently occupying what had
been the most magnificent room in the most magnificent building on Iftsen Secondus. I felt my serpentine hearts triple their beats in dismay, this being one of the few emotions an Iftsen designated as First Citizen was allowed to indulge.

Not that Ganthor were big on defense at the best of times, being suited by temperament to a rather blunt, straight-at-the-enemy approach.

Clang!

I fell flat on my dorsal surface in surprise as this new sound reverberated through every cell of this form.
Now what?

The Ganthor must have known—they remained in their positions like some new piece of art added to the Gallery’s collection, the glitter from the huge disrupter rifles each carried at the ready simply part of the illusion.

I got up and went to the door again, almost afraid to look out this time.

The ’crasher had disassembled itself, revealing what else it had brought to the Festival of Living Art: a Ganthor All-Terrain Assault Vehicle, known by refugees from various conflicts as a hog-hauler and more politely—or safely, depending on company—referred to as a gravedigger.

Organized warfare was a blight of too many intelligences
, I reminded myself, as always finding it difficult to imagine the mind-set that would trap the formidable natural armament of a Herd into a metal box on treads.

Four huge treads that were, I noticed in horror, starting to move. Those on this side clanked and creaked themselves backward—the others must have moved in the opposite direction, because the gravedigger ponderously spun on its axis. The machine paused as though sniffing for direction, then headed for the staircase. The first few stairs were crushed into sand beneath its treads, then the ’digger caught hold and began its slow climb, tilting its beard of weapon barrels upward in anticipation of the width of the doorway.

My Iftsen-self responded with debilitating confusion, both at the destruction and at the Esen-based anger I couldn’t help but feel, a confusion demonstrating itself in the appearance
and retraction of various appendages, most pointed or clawed. I drove up my temperature to maintain control, careful of the very limited range acceptable to this body. I’d have to cycle into something sturdier as soon as possible.

Sturdier, yet still able to breathe here
, I reminded myself. That was going to be a neat trick, since nothing suggested itself with the exception of web-form.
Not my preference.

I rocked myself behind
The Transformation of Joy
, standing sideways to be as small and inconspicuous an Esen as possible. Some of the Iftsen in the streets would definitely notice the immense machine currently ramming itself through what had been an elegantly arched doorway. Only the First Citizens among them would pay any attention and, among those, it was doubtful any would bother to react. They were very philosophical when it came to accepting that others were larger and meaner.

Unless
, I thought with a rise in internal temperature that blurred my vision and produced a very unfortunate reaction in my gas bladder,
unless the Iftsen had more than one planet-killing Messenger ready to send.
This entire episode was getting out-of-appendage translight. The Ganthor’s homeworld was hardly vulnerable, being girdled by a defensive system paid for by their many offworld clients—in particular the Kraal. This didn’t make me feel any better about the possibility of the peace-loving Iftsen becoming murderers in retaliation for petty theft, property destruction, and bad manners.

I’d been ready to bury in memory what Logan had done to Paul, accustomed to considering species’ needs over those of individuals, however dear to me. Of course, I would have enjoyed seriously annoying the Tly sometime in the future, when the source of that annoyance was less easily deduced.

I wasn’t prepared to put up with one lunatic’s disruption of entire worlds.

So. Why assault the First Citizens’ Art Gallery of Brakistem?

PAUL’S message had been cryptic. Lefebvre read it out loud to himself to see if there was more to be gleaned from it than the terse: “Been delayed. Our friend went to the Festival on her own. Will follow as quickly as possible. Looking forward to that beer you promised. Mitchell.”

Delayed how?
Lefebvre, having spent so much time hunting Ragem, had a great respect for how effectively his cousin had preserved his secrets while living a fairly exposed life. Since coming back on the ship—and retrieving his comp system from an unrepentant and curious Timri—Lefebvre had done some checking. The
Russell III
had even used the reputable firm of Cameron & Ki Exports to broker supplies out on the Fringe, no one the wiser.