Changing Vision (46 page)

My body temperature rose involuntarily, the dump of energy helping me control my instincts to change. This had the surprising effect of sending my cilia flailing wildly about, responding to the heat rising from my skin: a conclusion I arrived at somewhat later. My first reaction was to thump the side of my helmet to settle them down.

While that didn’t happen, something else did. The helmet, formerly completely transparent, suddenly displayed an arc of tiny, brilliant specks over my head.
Stars
, I realized, completely distracted by finally receiving a meaningful image through my upper oculars. It blended within my awareness of my surroundings as the rumble of distant thunder could be recognized while listening to music.
Polarized light
, recited something that tasted of Ersh in my thoughts. Other memories floated past: this was how the Feneden oriented themselves on their world, a sense so vital to their awareness of place and self that I guessed the e-rig’s helmet was preset to display stars where none could be seen.

Where none could be seen.
I tucked the thought away, aware of connections making themselves in my innermost memories, not ready to be distracted.

I did feel better
, I admitted. As I cooled, the currents through my cilia eased as well. There were other displays, starting to fade. I tapped the helmet again, very lightly, and the depictions of various gauges and controls brightened immediately. I shook my head, chagrined at this proof of one of Ersh’s many rules, namely: Never use unfamiliar technology.
As if there’d been an owner’s manual
, I grumbled, but took a moment to examine what the suit was telling me. Other than the stars, which only showed to my upper eyes, the rest was reasonably standard stuff. One thing relieved me. This e-rig appeared to have been serviced recently, implying I didn’t need to worry about running out of breathable air.

Because the air outside the suit was anything but, and getting worse. It was growing darker—something this form apparently didn’t mind, now that I could show it some fake starlight—and the corrosive evening mists were beginning to drift down from the treetops. The forest was ready, the edges of each huge leaf already perceptibly curling into their protective night roll, inadvertently protecting their parasitic house guests along with their own tender undersides.

I climbed out of the groundcar and headed for the shuttle, examining the ground carefully before each step. I hadn’t
yet spotted Logan’s welcome for the Herd, which didn’t reassure me at all.

In unnecessary confirmation I was being watched, the shuttle’s engines powered up, startling in the silence, and the door whooshed open. Given the proximity of the rising water to the craft, and the approaching nightfall, I got the hint. They wanted me to hurry.
Fine
, I thought, but kept to my deliberate pace.
If they wanted a Feneden this badly, they could wait.

My care paid off. As I stepped on the ramp, my cilia collected a burst of heat energy. I paused, looking upward, my Feneden-sense revealing a ring of hovering warm objects my eyes couldn’t see.
Antipersonnel mines
, Skalet-memory cataloged and explained.
Hidden when dormant. Deadly when activated.

They could
, I remembered with a shudder,
be set to hunt by species.
Had the Ganthor refused to listen to me and come along— I stopped my imagination in its tracks.

As I entered Logan’s shuttle and the door closed behind me, I began to seriously doubt my ability to deal with such a being.

It was, of course, too late to change my mind.

“YOU!”

Of all the beings who might have interceded with Port Authority, not that he’d expected any rescue, Kearn had never imagined N’Klet. Yet he’d been freed from the holding brig almost immediately, whisked through procedures with a speed that implied very high level interference indeed. The Port Jellies hadn’t been pleased, but they’d been disturbingly cooperative.

And there the Panacian stood in the waiting room, her limbs primly folded. “My dear Fem N’Klet,” Kearn began after his initial hesitation, hurrying forward. “This is most embarrassing. How ever did you—?”

She inclined her head graciously. “Upperside Shipcity has obligations to the Hive as well as the Iftsen, Hom Kearn. It is Port Authority’s pleasure to serve. Now, we have urgent matters to discuss, Hom Kearn.” This suggestion came more softly. “Please come with me.” She gestured to the exit.

Kearn stared at her glistening blue form, wondering why he found it impossible to move his feet, wondering how he could be afraid of this small, courteous being. They’d had their disagreements, but there was no reason to suddenly think her more a threat than the ominous figure of a still-alive Paul Ragem—who had certainly been the one to arrange their arrest.

But his apprehension was real enough to make him ask: “Fem N’Klet? My officer, Sas? Has he been released as well?”

A wave of an upper claw indicating agreement. “He demanded a shuttle to Underside, Hom Kearn, apparently to rejoin your starship. I assumed this was on your orders and made the arrangements. Was this incorrect?”

Was this a lie?
Kearn asked himself, finding no clues in her impeccable comspeak or polite body language.
Or
, the horrifying thought occurred to him,
was Sas in league with Lefebvre—gone to free his co-conspirator and act while he couldn’t protect himself?
Kearn felt short of breath.

N’Klet bowed, passing him a plas sack. “Your belongings, Hom Kearn.”

Kearn took the bag and opened it, trying unsuccessfully not to sag with relief. He’d brought his precious recordings with him, as well as the Kraal knife—not daring to leave them anywhere else.
All here.
His weapon as well. Surely if she intended him harm, she wouldn’t return it.

And if she wanted his secrets
, she hardly needed to talk to him with these in her possession, he realized, closing the bag with numb fingers. “What do you want from me, Fem N’Klet?” Kearn asked.

Her compound eyes caught the light as she inclined her head toward the office door, opening and closing as a variety of beings, official and otherwise, conducted their business. “Not here.”

Kearn swallowed. He had no choice.

N’Klet had austere quarters for a Panacian representing a Queen, almost bare. Kearn knew the Ambassador caste prided themselves on suiting their meeting areas to make the best impression on their guests, whatever the species.
This didn’t feel right
, he fussed to himself as he took the only other chair in the room and faced her across a thin, plas-topped table. The interrogation room at Port Authority had been more welcoming.

N’Klet had arranged herself on a Human-suited chair with effortless grace, her every movement flawless and
supple. Kearn felt all of his clumsiness as he watched her. The scarring along her side was almost completely gone now, leaving no more than faint impressions.
What could have happened?
he wondered, distracted. She’d never said.

N’Klet tilted her head as if following his gaze and looked down at herself, then back up at him. “An accident, Hom Kearn,” she offered unexpectedly, as though sharing a confidence to put him at ease. “I am actually not a member of the Family which operates the Ambassador’s School on D’Dsel. Rather, I’m attached to the Iftsen delegation. Their well-being during their visit to D’Dsel and the School was a responsibility I assumed gladly for the Hive. There was a regrettable—incident—during our arrival on D’Dsel in which I was exposed to their atmosphere for a time.”

Kearn winced. Had it been a long enough exposure, N’Klet’s entire carapace would have dissolved, costing her life.
An agonizing death.
“My sympathy, Fem N’Klet.”

“Her Radiance was most gracious,” N’Klet continued, bowing an acknowledgment. “I had been damaged and, of course, suffered a distressing loss of my former Queen’s scent. But, as you see, I am fully recovered—which is fortunate, as this desperate situation requires someone familiar with the Iftsen as well as yourself.”

“I don’t understand. I’m here to find Paul Ragem—”

“Ah.” She made the gesture of extreme mortification, then passed a message cube across the table to him. “That is the first matter we must discuss, Hom Kearn. My most gracious and honorable Queen has sent this message of apology to you as well as to the offices of Cameron & Ki Exports. She wishes you to know she was in error. The Human known as Paul Cameron is not Paul Ragem.”

Kearn dropped the cube. “What did you say?” he blurted. “What’s this nonsense? Of course he is. I—” he closed his mouth, somehow not wanting to say:
I saw him with my own eyes.

The Panacian stiffened. “There is no nonsense here,
Hom Kearn. My Queen regrets any confusion her misidentification may have caused. She has reviewed the tapes as well as genetic information I obtained from Paul Cameron’s quarters. There is no doubt. The resemblance is striking, but Cameron is not Ragem. Please understand that you Humans are a very uniform species to us, and identifying individuals is fraught with uncertainty. My Queen anticipates you will accept her apology. And cause no further disruptions on Upperside.”

Kearn felt his face grow hot and knew he was likely glowing red from his neck to the top of his head. Somehow he managed to grind out, “Please inform your Queen that I accept her apology and understand completely.” He paused to collect himself. “This is very disappointing and embarrassing news, Fem N’Klet.”

She put the fine tips of two marblelike claws together. “I have ensured that Port Authority has purged your arrest record. The Hive is prepared to further compensate you for this misunderstanding, Hom Kearn, beginning with the—damages—incurred during your pursuit of Ragem on this station.”

She doesn’t know
, Kearn realized suddenly, lowering his eyes to hide the glee he feared would be readable even to this non-Human.
Somehow, Ragem had succeeded in tricking P’Lka, but the Panacians didn’t know about Timri and Lefebvre, the evidence he had gained. Meaning N’Klet hadn’t played his tapes.
He clutched the bag on his lap, with its still-secure secrets. “You said ‘beginning with the damages,’ Fem N’Klet,” Kearn acknowledged, suddenly bold. “Is the Hive prepared to assist my search for the Esen Monster? The
Russell III
is badly in need of updated equipment and supplies.”

His pulse raced as she nodded. “Of course. Funds will be made available to you. I believe you will find them adequate. Should you need additional support, you have only to contact us.” When he started to thank her, N’Klet interrupted. “First, we need your help.”

Kearn had been waiting for the catch. “Help?”

N’Klet’s limbs folded inward, an expression of grief
and sadness.
Sometimes
, Kearn remembered uncomfortably,
it was how Panacians requested forgiveness for bearing ill news.
“Hom Kearn, you represent the military might of the Commonwealth in the Iftsen System.”

Kearn shook his head almost frantically. “No, no, Fem N’Klet. You overestimate my position. I’m the project leader on a research vessel—not even her Captain.”
Especially at the moment
, he thought miserably. “There’s a Commonwealth Deputy Minister at Engulla Terce and surely at least one cruiser within a day translight.” He stopped and asked very slowly. “Why do you want the military?”

“There is a crisis here. The Iftsen are about to destroy Fened Prime.”

Kearn couldn’t help laughing out loud. “The Iftsen? My dear N’Klet. Aside from the dangers of their atmosphere, the Iftsen are the most inoffensive and harmless of creatures—you should know that.”

“What I know,” N’Klet said coldly, her tone wiping any laughter from Kearn’s lips, “is what the Iftsen have revealed to my Queen. These harmless creatures own a planet-killing weapon they call The Messenger. They have sent three warnings to the Feneden and received no satisfaction. You know the Feneden do not believe in the Iftsen. They refuse to acknowledge any and all communication, while continuing to take whatever they wish from Iftsen Secondus. As of this afternoon, Brakistem time, The Messenger has been armed and a final ultimatum delivered.”

“Wh-what have the Feneden done?” They were unpleasant—and Kearn feared he’d always have nightmares about their carpet—but hardly offensive.
Besides, they’d only just met the Iftsen.

“There has been a report they’ve hired Ganthor mercenaries to pillage Brakistem and disrupt the Festival. So far, I’ve been able to stop the Iftsen from sending a similar ultimatum to the Ganthor—you and I both know how that would be received.”

Ganthor?
Kearn was grateful to be sitting down.
Ganthor!
“Where is this weapon?” he asked numbly. “Have they told you?”

“Not directly.” N’Klet’s head tilted. “You must realize that such a matter between our Treaty-partner and another species is of paramount concern to the Hive. Should the Iftsen destroy the Feneden, we would have to assume some of their guilt. Should the Iftsen fail to destroy the Feneden, and the Feneden defend themselves, we would be embroiled in the conflict.” She unfolded her limbs. “There were Panacian contractors and ships involved in constructing The Messenger’s asteroid facility. They, of course, serve the Hive in all things.”

“Good,” Kearn heard himself say. Any other time, he would have been surprised at the sudden ring of authority in his voice, but not now, not when his mind was filled with visions of dead and dying Feneden, of worlds at war. “I’ll need the location of this weapon. We can’t allow the Iftsen to launch it under any circumstances.” He stood, pushing his chair back roughly. “Fem N’Klet, I would also ask you to send for the Deputy Minister, and arrange for additional support.”

“Of course.” N’Klet stood also. “Where are you going, Hom Kearn?”

Kearn drew in a deep breath, not quite believing what he was doing, but finding a certain reckless freedom in knowing he was absolutely right. “To contact Captain Lefebvre. I’m going to need my ship.”

There would be time to find Paul Ragem
, Kearn assured himself,
and to pursue and end the threat of the Esen Monster—later.