Changing Vision (48 page)

“This has nothing to do with our search or—personal differences, Captain,” Kearn said with startling accuracy. He held out a trip tape. “Set this course. Then I’d like you, Comp-tech Timri, and Engineering Specialist Warner to join me for a briefing.”

No one seemed to breathe, except Kearn, who stood waiting for obedience with unusual patience. Lefebvre studied him, trying to figure out how a person could change so completely, or if he’d somehow missed this Kearn all those years. The worried look was still there, only deeper, more concerned. The receding forehead gleamed with sweat, and the hands trembled. But there was a certainty of purpose, a steadiness Lefebvre had never seen before.
This Kearn
, he realized,
could be worth hearing.
“Aye, sir.” He took the tape and handed it to the nav officer. “Get us moving, Nav. We’ll be in the Project Leader’s quarters.”

“Yessir.”

“Sir?” This from Resdick just as they entered the lift. “You asked to be notified about any change in the Feneden.”

Kearn pushed past him. “What is it?” he demanded. “What are they doing? How do you know?”

“We left a remote vid,” Lefebvre explained, moving with Kearn to the com-tech’s post. “Report?”

“Here, sir,” Resdick cued the vid on the small screen set into the upper right of his control panel. The ship’s surveillance gear went via the security station on the
next level down from the bridge. “See? They’ve had a visitor.”

Lefebvre saw. A private shuttle, one of the expensive sort, sat to one side. Its occupant, a lone e-rigged figure impossible to identify by species, let alone as an individual, walked to the Feneden ship and headed up the ramp as though expected. Then the picture went black.

“They launched, sir,” Resdick explained, then added unnecessarily: “Guess it fried the vid.”

Lefebvre turned his head and met Kearn’s eyes. “Is this good news, sir?” he asked.

Kearn rubbed one hand over his face. When it came away, he looked like someone seeing the odds mounting against him, but determined nonetheless. “I don’t know, Captain,” he said flatly. “But I find it hard to imagine it is. For anyone. Let’s get underway.”

Lefebvre nodded, wondering to himself:
who had left with the Feneden?

And why?

THERE were times when the fates smiled so broadly, I confidently anticipated disaster; cosmic cooperation like this had to have a price.

Logan knew where to find The Messenger and was taking me to it as his honored guest. He had the equipment to remove the weapon before it could be used against the Feneden.
Safely
, I hoped.

Paul was on Upperside, his cover intact and with Lefebvre in place on the
Russell III
to keep Kearn occupied. My friend might be furious with me for striking off on my own, but he knew what I was doing—
well
, I added honestly,
he knew what I’d planned to do until the moment the Ganthor dropped in and forced some on-the-spot modifications.
Anyway, at least I knew he was safe.

I’d taken advantage of the encounter with the parking attendant to forestall any lingering problems between the Ganthor and the Iftsen. By now, the art reviews I’d sent out under various names would have hit the newsmags on and off Iftsen, praising the adventurous and bold new exhibit by the Ganthor, a species finally showing their creative side to an admiring universe.
I did like that one.

All of which meant far too many parts of my life were going far too smoothly for comfort
, I reminded myself. Of course, it was like watching the majestic slide of a newly-birthed iceberg into the ocean. There wasn’t much one could do to alter the event except get out of the way.

I’d contacted the Feneden ship, as Logan requested. They’d been somewhat surprised to receive a call from
someone fluent in their own language, but once I’d begun passing along Logan’s information—carefully, and all too easily, avoiding any reference to the Iftsen—that surprise had turned to outright panic. It was a response I’d expected—had counted on, in fact. Any calm consideration would lead to inconveniences, such as contacting Fened Prime for reinforcements or, worse, involving the local authorities and so alerting the Iftsen.

The Feneden, to Logan’s delight, had been ready to lift almost immediately, a speed suggesting plans already made—a point I didn’t make with Logan.

Meanwhile, I was experiencing a slight problem, which I hoped balanced the fates: one of those “owner’s manual” events that I should have considered. My Feneden-self was starving.
The Black Watch
had a marvelous galley, if an unhappy cook, but I didn’t dare try anything they offered, claiming a period of fasting—always a convenient excuse with aliens.

The truth was, I had no idea what was safe on the Human ship for my Feneden-self. Ersh’s memories were regrettably lacking in details beyond local delicacies currently out of reach. This form, despite its outward resemblance to theta-class humanoids, was anything but similar in physiology. For one thing, a large amount of my appetite seemed centered in the clusters of cilia bunched under my clothes, the ones forming lumps that, on a Human, would be substantial breasts.

I had a sense this form could withstand a reasonable amount of fasting; it would have to, because if I tried something poisonous to this body, I’d have to cycle to save myself.
Not the ideal choice, given present company.
I was never left alone, which ruled out trying for another rezt.

“Fem Tilesen. May I join you?” Logan bowed from the open doorway of the lounge, pausing in a polite fiction that my answer would make any difference.

“Certainly, Inspector,” I said, looking up from the reader they’d given me. It contained a series of travelogues from systems more or less neighboring the Feneden’s, implying Logan was being very careful with the information made
available to me. They weren’t boring; I was always happy to collect any new data on living cultures, even when packaged for family fun. “These have been fascinating. Thank you.”

He looked nonplussed for a moment, then recovered. “My pleasure. Just let one of the crew know if you need anything.”

Since I doubted either of the burly, armed Humans standing at attention to either side of the door would dash off in search of my next whim, I didn’t bother to answer that. “How long until we reach the weapon?” I asked, kicking the swing into motion as though unconcerned.

“We’re there. I’ve come to ask you to accompany me to the facility.”

I’d had better invitations
, I decided, fancying I heard the cold winds of disaster starting to test my ears. But this had been the target I’d aimed Logan toward;
again, so far, so good.
“Are there no—guards?” I ventured, trying not to sound eager.
It was distressingly easy.

He came and sat, crossing his long legs and stretching his misproportioned arms over his head with a chilling bulge of muscle. Regardless of his intelligence and scheming, I suddenly realized, this was a being who defined himself in physical terms and preferred his battles that way. Perhaps that was why he discarded his Ganthor Herds after each use—their inborn strength might seem a direct threat to his own.

His thready, high voice always took me by surprise. “They appear to have relied on camouflage rather than defense, Fem Tilesen. There are no living guards we can detect. To our scans, the construction appears Panacian—which makes sense. The Iftsen adapt or buy Panacian tech for everything off-planet. It also makes our little visit easier. Since they used Panacian materials, they’d have to worry about corrosion. There’s a breathable atmosphere in place.”

“Where is our transport?” I’d fallen into the Human habit of naming ships, especially as Esolesy Ki, and found the Feneden lack of one for their starship almost as disconcerting
as my growing hunger pangs. “Will we rendezvous with them before going to the asteroid?”

Logan’s brow rose. “I don’t think that would be wise, Fem Tilesen. Disarming an unknown weapon is fraught with uncertainties. We shouldn’t risk more than ourselves. Once we are back on the
’Watch
with the weapon safely disarmed, you can instruct your ship to dock with us to receive the weapon.”

Once we were back, it would be a quick departure with the Feneden left to do any explaining—or to take the blame. I’d thought he was clever.

It remained to be proved if I was, too.

THE vid tape hadn’t been helpful. Neither had Sas, their expert in interpreting the remote feeds, currently unavailable as he languished in a Port Authority holding cell on burglary charges.
Kearn had been badly surprised by that
, Lefebvre remembered, as though he’d expected the Modoren to beat him back to the
Russ
’. That part of the story he hadn’t bothered to explain.

Lefebvre had rerun the tape several times, telling himself it was his imagination trying to convince him this was Paul Ragem. There had been no replies to his messages for Mitchell—but that might just be Paul’s common sense.
Why would Paul go to the Feneden?
On the other hand, if Human, the figure was half again taller than Esen as Bess.

That much he could be sure of, and, unlikely as it would have seemed a few brief hours ago, he could be sure of Kearn. The transformation had been startling to say the least and Timri, for one, stubbornly refused to credit it. But strangely, Lefebvre did. Kearn’s obsession with Esen welled from his fear—he truly believed she posed a danger to innocent beings. Faced with a more immediate threat—the Iftsen’s planet-killer—Kearn couldn’t help but turn from his hunt in order to protect the billions on Feneden.

In many ways, Kearn’s had always been the more noble chase
, Lefebvre confessed to himself, feeling a burning shame each time he remembered his own obsession. He’d thought he’d been after the truth, to restore
the tarnished reputation of his childhood hero, doing something worthy. Perhaps, in part, but once he’d found Paul, Lefebvre had seen the ugly thing inside himself, the need to make Paul pay for his desertion. It had been for that anger’s sake, not the truth, that Lefebvre had left his family behind, warded away friendships. He’d been lucky enough to find both again.
With
, he thought ruefully,
the knowledge of how little he’d known about what he’d chased.

It was an experience he didn’t envy Kearn.

Lefebvre sipped his cooling sombay, loath to leave the bridge even to grab some breakfast. The information Kearn had about the asteroid was precise. Fuzzy-haired, young, and altogether shy, Engineering Specialist Warner, bewildered by the sudden attention, turned out to have made a hobby of exotic weaponry. He wasn’t an expert, but he was more qualified than anyone else on the
Russ
’. Kearn, it seemed, had extensive background information on everyone on board. For once, his paranoia had been useful.

For now, they were on the same side. Lefebvre knew Timri was right, that they had to be prepared to run for it, or somehow defend themselves from the recordings Kearn must have of their conversation. She’d offered to search for them, an offer he hadn’t outright rejected, instead convincing her to wait. Kearn had been right about one thing, this situation was theirs to handle until the Commonwealth could send help.

Then, it could get very interesting
, Lefebvre thought, taking another slow sip.

LOGAN had called this Panacian. I gazed around me and thought I recognized several Human touches as well.
There were always congruencies
, Mixs-memory reminded me. Keeping in atmosphere and heat on an asteroid usually produced some version of a dome. Body mass and machinery determined door shapes and sizes.
There were
, I sighed to myself,
very few concessions to aesthetics in such utilitarian buildings by any species.

The air locks had been secured by a code. Logan had ordered one of his crew to burn out the lock—simple and effective, if extraordinarily dangerous. The builders could easily have left a surprise or two. Any alarm would be delayed in its impact by the time a response would take—but a booby trap, that would be immediate.
So
, I thought to myself,
this Human sought to risk his own life.
I wasn’t surprised, although I’d been poised to run for it.

There might have been an alarm shattering the peace of some Iftsen First Citizen, but no traps showed themselves as we—Logan, ten of his larger crew, and I—entered what could have been any smallish mining dome, an unmaintained, older dome at that. We removed our helmets, leaving on the rest of the bulky space gear as a precaution. The air was breathable, but left a dead, metallic taste on my tongue.

I stepped thoughtfully over the remains of construction debris no one had bothered to collect, looking around with my forward-facing eyes like the Humans, processing star patterns with my upper eyes—the incoming light polarized
nicely by the dome’s plas layer. I derived an intense and pleasant feeling of placement, a knowledge of where I was and where I was going that had nothing at all to do with rational thought about my situation.

The Messenger wasn’t hidden. It stood beneath the highest reach of the dome, a tall, ugly, and thoroughly odd-looking device festooned with curls of pipe and wires. I blinked as we came closer, trying to determine exactly what type of weapon it was. There were no matches within my assimilated memories.
I needed to get out more
, I fussed to myself.

Logan’s crew knew their jobs, most hurrying forward with tools and hand sensors, while a pair drew the grav cart closer. There wasn’t much gravity to speak of here—without the extra mass around our waists, we would bounce off the clear ceiling with each step—but The Messenger appeared massive enough to have significant inertia. I stood back, quite happy to let others disturb what looked implacably dangerous sitting still.

Still, I was curious. There was some text down one side of the weapon.
Why?
Instructions on its use? I eased over that way, keeping my distance, and started reading. It was an obscure Iftsen dialect, probably Peoteran, and, typically, set in rhyme.