Hidden in Sight (14 page)

Minas XII boasted some trees, waist-high to a Human but only knee-high to a Screed, and a few genera of grasses and moss. Its plant life had struggled onto land, only to be beaten into sullen toughness by the extremes of weather the Humans so enjoyed complaining about. But here?

I stepped into a jungle, my shoulders stroked by fronds of lush purple-green, my eyes soaking in the bright colors on every side, crisscrossed by sunbeams drawn inward by concealed collectors. My wide, webbed feet left no lasting impressions on the moist turf that made up much of the floor at this end of my greenhouse. My sanctuary.

My safe and secret place, where I could recover my poise while waiting for Paul. My stomachs growled in sequence, from first to fifth, reminding me of the other very good reason to be here. It might seem I'd chosen the plants by their appearance, but most, if not all, had other uses.
Aha.
I plucked a nicely ripe cluster of liliming nuts, tossing them to the back of my mouth and unhinging my jaw so my rearmost teeth could crack their shells. A quick swallow moved them into my first stomach, already grinding in anticipation. Another cluster beckoned and I made equally swift work of it.

“Esolesy Ki!” That voice, with its rich depth and warmth, was as nourishing to my spirit as the nuts now in my second stomach.

I swallowed more quickly, and rehinged my jaw. “Joel. Have you heard from Paul?”

“He told me to watch for you.” The Human abandoned the trimmer he'd been guiding through the shrubbery to hurry up to me, hands outstretched. He stopped short of touching me, which was probably wise. “What have you done now?” This with the confident suspicion of someone who knew me well indeed.

Joel Largas. Second only to Paul as a dear friend. Grandfather to Paul's twins. A thoroughly admirable being who had built a life on one world, seen it destroyed, then stubbornly gone on to build what boded to be a lasting dynasty on a new one. As he stood there fussing over my disheveled and smelly self, scolding me on general principle, I shone my tusks at him happily, sure everything would now be right with the world.

I should have been listening for laughter
.

 

“Paul's on his way.” Joel delivered this welcome news with a straight face, then chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “I told him to hurry if he wanted to catch you in there. You're a sight, Es, you really are. I should take a vid for the twins.”

Between full stomachs and the reassuring news that Paul and Meony-ro had arrived safely at the office, knew everything, and were dealing with it, I merely lifted a tusk and rolled on my stomach within the mud wallow, another delightful aspect of this sanctuary. It wasn't dirty mud. This was a warm concoction of pink-hued sand and fragrant oils, with a hint of naughty carbonation. Warmer than usual—I'd needed to release some of my built-up tension as heat, since cycling was out of the question. Joel, grimly aware of what had happened at the bar—and to our home—hadn't stayed with me out of a wish for companionship. Paul had asked him to watch for me, a job Joel took as meaning watch over me as well.

And if there was anyone who must never see me as anything but Lishcyn, it was this Human. Joel Largas had witnessed the slaughter of friends and family in the jaws of a Web-being, unable to do anything but watch as ships were breached, lives stolen. He'd come away as scarred by that attack as if Death's teeth had ripped his own flesh.

Worse, as if that were conceivable, my mindless kin had already incited the obliteration of Garson's World by the Tly, the act which had turned the Largas clan into homeless refugees.

A terrible debt, I and my kind owed this forthright and capable being. My friendship couldn't begin to repay it, not that Joel would ever know.

I shook off the past, then flattened my ears, closed my eyelids, and shoved my entire head beneath the surface, feeling no guilt whatsoever at the soothing luxury of sand rubbing away the last evidence of my dreadful day. I'd share, but Humans developed unpleasant rashes. The time I'd pushed Paul in—well, suffice it to say even Ersh hadn't made me feel quite that much remorse.

Good to know he was finally coming. Paul had been stuck at the office past the supper hour, fending off apologetic officials and newsmag writers. Not much happened outside the Dump on Minas XII, missing tourists being too common for a headline. There had been a pair of opportunistic contractors—Fringe worlds were well-endowed with those looking for profit in tragedy. Not to forget the lawyer—Paul had refused to press a suit against the Ganthor for willful endangerment.

Joel had relayed the last with a disgusted look, the lawyer being one of his many younger relations, a being obviously possessed of more enthusiasm than sense. I imagined she'd get an earful from the family patriarch over supper. No one sued Ganthor. As well sue the windstorm now rattling the warehouse roof plates.

Our home wouldn't have rattled
.

I resurfaced and began skimming the oily sand from my scales with the rubbery paddle Joel passed me, finding it impossible to grasp what had happened no matter how perfect the image in memory.
It was a sign
, I told myself with significant self-pity,
that I'd grown too ephemeral in my way of thinking
. But it was hard for my Lishcyn-self to stop grieving over those lovely silk caftans, with matching beaded bags, all reduced to sooty bits in the wind.

My true self, Esen-alit-Quar, had no need for possessions. I'd collected the odd trinket over the years.
But I didn't need them
, I thought, skimming my left arm, something that was probably fortunate under the circumstances. Paul? Since our new life together, he'd avoided acquiring what might have to be abandoned with a zeal worthy of Ersh herself.

I didn't know how he felt about needing a new wardrobe, but my own mood began to improve dramatically at the thought of shopping.

“Excuse me,” I warned Joel, turning my head politely to one side before violently blowing the last trace of sand from my nostrils. Stepping over the tiled side of the wallow, I reached for a strap of polishing leather and began rubbing my scales. The front was easy, but my thick arms and reinforced joints made doing a thorough job on my back a definite struggle.

“Here, let me.” Joel took the leather and began burnishing my shoulders, stopping now and then to shake accumulated sand from the strap. I poked my toe into the growing pile of pink and eyed the nearest duras plant. Before I could succumb to temptation, Joel snapped the leather against my backside. “Don't go sticking leaves in yourself—you're finally clean,” he chided, as he would to any of his grandchildren or their offspring.

My backside was quite invulnerable to leather, but my sensitive ears flattened at the snapping sound. “I wasn't going—” The completely insincere protest faded as I spotted the figure pushing through a grove of fine-needled trees toward us. Paul! I showed both tusks.

More rattling. I'd thought it had been the wind, but as I brought up my ears to better hear Paul's approach, I swiveled them uneasily, puzzling at an odd echo to his steps. There, to the left, where vines trailed from the ceiling in a curtain of flower-encrusted green. No, there, to the right, behind the tiled depression of the wallow, where ranks of fystia bushes impersonated amber flame.

Humans might have relatively impoverished hearing, but Joel Largas was no fool. One hard look at me, and he had a disrupter in his gnarled fist. Where he'd hidden it until now I couldn't begin to guess.

Paul began to run toward us, silently, desperately, thrusting plants out of his way. As if that had been a signal, every leaf started to shake. The surface of the mud wallow developed ripples even as I felt the heavy vibration through my feet.

These were impressions I sorted out later, overwhelmed by sound. Breathing: heavy, fast, irregular, on all sides. The breaking of stems, the sick wet sound of ruined flowers as bodies came crashing toward us through the growth. How they'd been so silent before I couldn't guess. Now, I could hear what had to be dozens approaching.

“Es!” Paul reached my side, his eyes wild, a weapon free in his own hand. Perhaps he said something more to me, made some foolish request for me to leave. I ignored him.

Besides, it was too late to run.

We were surrounded by figures in black armor, identical to that worn by those who had tried to enter Dribble's. And probably to that worn by those who had destroyed our home, so I would come here, where Paul would follow.

Skalet-memory was right. There was no such thing as coincidence
.

Otherwhere

 

 

“YES, sir. It's all in my report.”

Cristoffen sat the way he wrote. His feet, not that Kearn could see them from his side of the desk, were always aligned; his knees would be together; and his back? Ramrod straight, as though bending his spine might be grounds for dismissal.

By the book
. Kearn tapped his fingers soundlessly and considered the sad truth that, once upon a time, he'd longed for crew members as precise and committed to regulations as this one. He'd judged Ragem and Lefebvre insubordinate louts at best, dangerous mutineers at worst.

But regardless of whether he'd agreed with their motivations or not, both considered the consequences of their actions before they acted. He could have ordered them to do anything, without fear they'd actually do it.

“Sir?”

For a horrible moment, Kearn thought he'd spoken out loud, then realized Cristoffen was, as usual, impatient. This time he had cause. Kearn had delayed this meeting as long as he could, unable to decide what to do. Finally, he'd run out of excuses.

Kearn coughed before saying, in his most stern voice: “I'm concerned about what isn't in your report, Ensign.”

“Sir?” Cristoffen's dark eyes widened. “Everything's—”

“I am not a fool,” Kearn said, ruffling the document with what he hoped seemed offended dignity and not dread. “You were shot at with a blaster, point-blank, no farther away from your assailant than you are from me now. Putting aside, for the moment, why you were there in the first place to risk such an attack—without consulting me, your superior officer, before taking such rash action—I want to know how you survived. Do you expect me to believe you not only had the foresight to purchase and wear a personal shield, but that his weapon misfired? I am not a fool,” Kearn repeated, a firm believer in emphasizing the key parts of any speech.

“I have the highest respect for you, Project Leader Kearn. You know that.” Cristoffen's skin was like transparent porcelain, flawless but quick to suffuse with blood. “That's what happened, sir. I was lucky.”

Kearn pursed his lips. He'd given a copy of the Port Authority analysis to Comp-tech Timri. He loathed the necessity, but needed someone with the expertise to understand it. He trusted Timri more than anyone else on board, which was barely, but she'd been trusted by Lefebvre, who'd never been a fool. Kearn didn't want to know if Timri, in turn, sought other help among the crew. He did want to know what she had to say before disputing Cristoffen's earnestness.

“You must be more cautious in future,” Kearn told his assistant, watching how the suggestion pleased Cristoffen. Not that he'd found such suggestions were ever followed by anyone under his command. He pretended to relax, flipping the pages, aware Cristoffen flinched whenever one was creased by his fingers.
Something in here is dangerous
, Kearn decided, wondering glumly if he really wanted to find out what. He'd had so few months to enjoy the peaceful life of a researcher, taking the
Russell III
—now fully provisioned and funded—wherever whim struck him; being welcomed with open arms—or whatever limbs were appropriate—by academics of every species. There had been luncheons.

Until Michael Cristoffen had begun pushing his notions of where to look for shapeshifter folklore, becoming so insistent Kearn had had no choice but to give in, notions that sent them traveling from place to place seemingly at random, without so much as time for civil conversation. If Lefebvre had still been captain, well, things would have been different.
Rudy wouldn't have stood for such nonsense
, Kearn thought wistfully,
even from him
. But the Commonwealth had installed replacement after replacement, each less content than the one before to stay on such an erratic ship. Hardly a situation to instill command presence on the bridge. Kearn hadn't bothered to meet the latest one, leaving such things to Timri.

“Was there anything else, sir?”

Kearn rubbed one hand over his face. “Yes, of course, there is.” He scowled at Cristoffen. “Why did you go to such lengths to meet this—Zoltan Duda? He was just a student. What possible connection to our work did he have?”

For the first time, Kearn thought he saw a hint of fear in Cristoffen's eyes. “It's in my report—”

“Yes.” The Project Leader made a show of flipping pages, then stopped at one. It was at random, but he covered the document with both hands so the other wouldn't be able to tell. “You cross-referenced several interesting factors here, starting with any connection to Paul Ragem before he—died. Not matter how remote. It must have been helpful to find that list in the
Russell
's comp.”

“Yes, sir.” Confidence. Perhaps Cristoffen felt he was about to be praised.

“And these other factors. Quite the selection.” Kearn pretended to consult the report; he knew the disturbing list by heart. “You specifically looked for Humans, without close family, healthy, who regularly traveled from their systems on business, who spoke one or more non-Human languages as well as comspeak, and—now this is particularly insightful—who had received highly illegal anti-truth drug treatments.” Kearn looked up. “And you found ten names?”