Hidden in Sight (11 page)

Before and after the mishap, I was on course straight to the heart of Fishertown, the area that had once been its shipcity and was now something else entirely. The Dump.

As landscapes went, this one lied more than most. In the Dump, grounded starships pretended to be buildings. Roadways concealed themselves under roofs. The very flatness of the scene misled, for the lava that had poured into this irregular valley, smoothing it with pillows of shiny black and red at the shoreline, raising the rest above sea level for the first time in aeons, was rotten to its core. Each outflow had added its own deceptively smooth and fragile crust, the result riddled with tunnels and hollow spaces where one expected strength. Sensible beings wouldn't have built anything more than a road over it. Better yet, a bridge.

It was, I'd told Paul more than once, simply another good reason not to linger when visiting the Dump.

But ephemeral beings, seemingly incapable of leaving behind either dead ships or dreams, lingered their entire lives here, no matter the risk. Humans, as always, had the temerity to nickname the occasional failure of a lava tube—and inevitable collapse of any buildings above, with loss of life and livelihood—a “dive.”

Dives occurred at least once a year, most often during the monsoon season, when the tunnels filled with runoff and already brittle walls were scoured thinner by sharp gravel washed from the heights. Starship captains, grounded or otherwise, appeared oblivious to such facts of nature.

Perhaps, I decided, it was more that they chose to believe their ships would someday fly, preferring to be oblivious to reality itself.

As for reality, I knew where Paul had expected to find Hom Wolla. I'd asked the crew member who'd prepared the aircar. I seemed to be the only being on Minas XII who didn't know the Iedemad was addicted to salt. Mind you, I'd never have guessed it in a sluglike creature who required an osmo-suit to function in anything other than water-saturated air.

I did know there was only one place in the Dump with enough salt on hand and a clientele who wouldn't object to slobber or slime, being prone to it themselves.

Dribble's Trough.
A popular watering hole for Ganthor, as well as our missing Iedemad.

Paul was probably happily practicing his clickspeak with whichever herd was presently lurking around. He could lose hours that way.

Landing was a skill I'd made some effort to acquire, hauling Meony-ro to the rooftops on his mornings off. He seemed bemused by the entire exercise—though that could have been due to his frequent hangovers—but was an excellent teacher nonetheless. It was in my flesh to respect the knowledge of relatively older beings, so I did pay attention. It didn't hurt that landing was patently more useful than lane holding or traffic regulations, particularly to my Lishcyn-self, which wasn't fond of heights—or landings, for that matter.

This time, my approach and touchdown were textbook perfection, something guaranteed by the total lack of an audience.
No doubt any innocent passersby heard I was coming,
I grumbled to myself, taking a moment to set the auto-sentry. Copious signs in a variety of languages, all equally misspelled and all having been used for target practice of some type, served as ample reminder the Dump wasn't a place to leave things unguarded.

The parking lot for Dribble's was on its roof. Or rather, was the roof. I climbed out of the aircar and put my foot down as though about to step on a relative's eggs. My previous experience with the construction of such things in the Dump was, to put it mildly, memorable. This time, the roof held, accepting my other foot and full weight without so much as creaking. Well, it vibrated, but that seemed to be a feature of the building. I smoothed the silks of my third-favorite caftan over my ample thighs, settled my least-favorite beaded bag on my chest, and ran one fork of my tongue over my tusks for a final polish before taking the lift to street level. Dribble's might be a seedy, disgusting bar where only the dregs of Dump society gathered, but it was a public place. My Lishcyn-self cared about appearances.

Humans weren't the only species with a predilection for gathering in noisy, inebriated groups—just among the more docile. Their bars thus tended to remain intact over the years, begrimed by memories of the stickier sort and any scars lovingly cherished as souvenirs of brawls some patrons claimed to remember later. This probably explained why Human-run establishments gradually spread throughout shipcities where Humans prowled in any numbers at all. It wasn't that they were more successful barkeeps—their buildings simply out-survived more challenged establishments.

Dribble's, for example, wasn't run by Humans. For that reason, among others, it was presently in its fifteenth incarnation, judging by the number of shiny “Open Since ...” plaques hammered into its somewhat cockeyed doorframe. The number of partial restorations would be much higher but such wouldn't rate the pride of an opening ceremony. Rrhysers were a species who knew how to throw a party. And furniture. And customers.

Things seemed reasonably peaceful this afternoon: no stretchers or repair crews in sight. I did watch where I put my feet as I negotiated the stairs. This wasn't an unusual caution—my Lishcyn-self had rather generous feet—however, in this instance, my somewhat obsessive attention to the footing had more to do with what lay, squirmed, and otherwise coated most of the steps leading down to the main entrance. Rrhysers let their offspring play anywhere they chose.

Offspring with very pointy teeth.

Child safety was one reason for the Dribble's location. The Dump might lie within the boundaries of Fishertown, but the city administration kept hoping if they ignored it, it would go away. So there were no servo street sweepers or disposal collectors to mistake a young Rrhyser for litter.

Customers,
I groused, forced to stretch precariously over the second-to-last step to miss a pair playing squirm-and-go-seek, evading a quick snap in my direction,
fended for themselves
.

No children on the floor inside, which was just as well. They'd probably get lost in the debris. The bar must have enjoyed a rare amount of peace and tranquillity lately. I dropped a handful of chits into the waiting hand of the bouncer, who didn't look up from whatever she was reading but, to her credit, did lift an older model weapon scanner vaguely in my direction. I wasn't armed, but the thing couldn't go off in any case—I could see its power pack on the floor beside her seat. More to the point, I'd seen the Rrhyser's broad nostrils open and close, checking me for any illicit substance. You weren't allowed to bring your own.

Proprieties observed, I headed through the entrance to the bar itself.

I'd unconsciously kept my hand on the bag around my neck, ready to snatch out the powerful lamp I carried with me whenever there was a chance of entering a room with lighting designed by beings with superior night vision than my present self's. The old joke about losing a Lishcyn in a closet by closing the door was regrettably accurate. But Dribble's was very well lit, even by my standards—a wise precaution in an establishment where blundering into someone in the dark could mean being mistaken for an appetizer.

Well lit, but crowded. I was taller than some here, especially the nonbipedal, but it didn't help. I tried to filter the din for Paul's voice, but my exquisitely sensitive ears kept flattening against my skull in a futile attempt to protect themselves.

The place was more a broad hallway than a room, with openings on either side. There was a bar at one end—at least, I assumed the lineup in front of me was for drinks—and musicians on an overhead scaffolding were pounding out the latest Rrhyser dance rhythms, explaining the vibration I'd felt on the roof.

I made my way through the crowd, surprised by the number of species represented here. The Circle Club, Fishertown's most successful multispecies' restaurant, could hardly boast such variety—except on all-you-can-ingest nights.
Maybe it was the music?
I was no judge in this form. My Lishcyn ears were tone-deaf. I did know it was loud.

The openings from the main room were large three-sided chambers; each was similar in size and shape to the others, but differed in their decor. Perhaps the Rrhyser had rebuilt those portions of Dribble's at different times—or under the influence of different substances. The one to my left was an eye-damaging fluorescent orange, from wall hangings to blocklike seating; ahead to my right was another furnished with what appeared to be rotting wood, piled into irregular platforms. Regardless, the result was a sequence of drinking areas that appealed more to certain species than others. I shook off the uncharitable image of a zoo where the inhabitants paid the keepers for beer.

I eased out of range of the pair of Rrhyser waiters arguing over which of them had seen me first. The adults might seem fairly standard tripeds, soft-voiced and peaceful, but their tempers were infamous. I had no time to be distracted by the thumping of chest plates, ritual or otherwise.

I was here to find my Human.

Of course, there were Humans to be found. Predictably, they weren't conveniently all in one place, but instead had scattered like spilled noodles throughout gatherings of other species.
When I was in a hurry, nothing was ever,
I thought with growing disgust,
ever easy.

However, I didn't need to look for Paul—one humanoid among the hordes. I should find him wherever this Wolla was sloshing about in salt, which meant a pool or tub large enough for an Iedemad. I kept moving among the semidrunk—the truly drunk apparently favoring the security of an inclined posture—and those attempting to join them. Since the means of achieving this blissful state differed with biology, I had to watch for errant puffs of intoxicating vapor as well as overfilled containers. My Lishcyn-self was reasonably invulnerable, unless there was a tub of steaming, bubbling water involved.

The mere thought inspired a lengthy contemplation of blissful and rather naughty ideas, during which I likely stepped on a few limbs.

Enough of that!
I scolded myself. In another form, I would have blushed at those vivid memories, all stemming back to that embarrassing incident on D'Dsell. My Lishcyn-self fought the urge to flash a lecherous tusk or two.

I continued forcing my conveniently large and robust self through the throng, muttering a running commentary that went something like: “Sorry. Excuse me. Not interested. Isn't that your mate over there? Oh. Still not interested. Excuse me. Was that your—appendage? Sorry.”

The sound of splashing brought up my ears.
There.
After struggling past another pair of trenchant, chest-thumping waiters—sharing of any sort, including tips, never having been a successful strategy in Rrhyser society—and the thirsty patrons awaiting the outcome, I found myself standing triumphantly by a pool. A round, raised, and very dark pool. With rows of gleaming black eyeballs floating on top. All looking at me.

“My mistake,” I said, backing away slowly in case this wasn't a male-only party of Carasians.

I had no time for this,
I complained to myself, then looked at the situation more rationally. If I was having trouble finding this Wolla, so would Paul and Meony-ro—not to mention what they faced trying to pry the being from his salt supply. If the Iedemad was thoroughly osmofied, it was unlikely he'd grasp the concept of a planet, let alone a ship leaving one.

My ship.
Which was waiting to take me to Picco's Moon and Ersh's Mountain. My impatience and worry took a distinct turn toward irritation.
How had I let Meony-ro talk us into this?

I knew the answer. Guilt. The other side of secrets.

“Es? What in the—What are you doing here?”

I flicked both ears forward and open to capture every nuance of that most welcome sound: Paul yelling at me.

Then my now-opened ears picked up furious clickspeech from behind Paul. That was alarming, but not as much as the even more furious answer from behind me.

I didn't need Skalet-memory to tell me the last place to be caught by surprise was between two herds of unhappy Ganthor.

Otherwhere

 

 

As was action after years of observation. This move had been planned and practiced, with variants calculated around setting and time—elements beyond control, but always offering unique advantages. The figure watching at the console nodded with satisfaction. This was better than anticipated.

She traced the edges of the display lightly, with one finger, interpreting the multiple feeds as if they were extensions of her own senses, all the while effortlessly predicting the next move by each of the individuals they represented. So far, she hadn't intervened; not for their pride's sake, but because it hadn't been necessary. She'd trained them, after all.