Hidden in Sight (28 page)

I understood what Paul hadn't said and why.

Otherwhere

 

 

“SACRISS XIII, it is.”

Rudy picked up the Kraal blade, turning it over and over in his strong, scarred hands. Sybil had given him this token, plus a pouchful of data cubes containing bureaucratic mundania: shipping records, genealogies, tax rolls, property transfers, military records. As the names had been replaced with codes, the former patroller did wonder how she expected him to ferret out her traitor. Especially with only these clues.

He'd scanned much of it, his attention caught by two items that likely didn't tell him anything about Sybil's target, but did reveal more about the Kraal. First had been a newsmag report describing a fabulous find: a household's-worth of artifacts, hundreds of years old, recovered from an Ervickian warehouse on Dranaris, several months ago, presumably without the new owner's approval. The artifacts would remain in a communal vault while the varied claimants sorted out ownership. From what Rudy knew of the Kraal and their obsession with family history, that translated as a flood of attempted thefts and assassinations, probably enough to lock entire Tribes in bitter and violent dispute for another few generations, and possibly sufficient to redefine affiliations—the equivalent of toppling governments.
Some treasures
, he thought,
were better left unfound.

More telling were the criminal records: remarkably few for a Human culture, unless Sybil had been selective. Rudy didn't think so. To his understanding, very little was illegal among Kraal. However, what was tended to be punishable by loss of life or, what was essentially the same, loss of affiliation. Without affiliation, an individual became a legitimate target for any and all Kraal, whether the intent was theft or simply to test the potency of a new weapon before buying it. Without affiliation, that individual's family lost status with every day of his or her continued existence, making suicide the preferred means of removing such contamination from the family line.

Which meant the Kraal living on Minas XII, Meony-ro, either retained his affiliations despite the effort to remove his tattoos, or was not only a lawbreaker, but a dishonorable one.
Interesting
. Rudy tapped the knife blade against the scorched data cube in front of him, included with the others now that he was safely on his own. Having spent a considerable portion of his adult life pretending to be what he was not, Rudy was willing to gamble the Kraal could be as well.
A spy within arm's reach of Paul and Esen.

The knife began to shake in his hand. Rudy carefully put it aside, as carefully as he put aside any emotion that might distract him. The weapon had been sealed against contamination when he received it. He'd already extracted fingerprints, protein and heat signatures, and DNA. There'd even been a trace of dried blood on the tip.

Before being sealed, the knife had been handled by only one individual: a Human female, presumably Kraal, approximately middle-aged, give or take a decade. No genetic disorders or diseases detected, so his comp had generated an image based on optimum health. Tall, long-boned, strong featured. If athletic, the musculature would be rope-thin and wiry rather than tend to bulk. Thin lips. Eyes wide-set and slanted slightly upward under a high brow, their irises so dark a blue as to appear black. The type of eyes that saw distance and kept secrets. Pale blond, fair-skinned—relatively rare traits, the easiest to alter.

Rudy had memorized the face and form, then erased all data from his system. The image wouldn't be enough to identify her, not if she'd made any effort to change her appearance, not if her life had taken a different path. He could imagine a hundred ways that same face could alter over time. The tattooing of a Kraal was only one.

Why hadn't Sybil simply told him her enemy's name, since she obviously knew it? Why hire him to find her, instead of using her own guards?

Rudy picked up the scorched cube. He didn't believe in coincidence.

It was time to talk to Michael Cristoffen.

And he wasn't at all surprised that the supposedly confidential flight itinerary for the Commonwealth Research Ship
Russell III
was one of Sybil's “gifts.”

17: Happy House Afternoon

I STRETCHED my tongue to its utmost, reaching almost to the outer corner of my left eye, and was rewarded with what had to be the last speck of syrup on my muzzle. What that said about my eating habits, I didn't want to know. But once the syrup was removed from my fur—a tasty bit of grooming—I looked at the remaining tower of dessert and sagged back in my chair, admitting defeat. “There is something to be said for intermittent meals,” I told my companion, who'd given up some time earlier in favor of watching me attempt to conquer our plate.
Mind you, he'd had lunch.

“I was thinking there was something to be said for never being hungry,” Paul said, glancing meaningfully at the ceiling.

I shuddered. “And miss chocolate?”

“You have me there.” A long, comfortable pause. “That was quite the brownie.”

We spent a reverent moment contemplating the remains, our spoons sticking upright from the topmost layer as if we'd planted flags. Or, more accurately, climbing poles. “Do you think they always make it that size?” I asked at last. “Or was this an aberration?”

Paul gave a short laugh. “I dare you to order another one tomorrow.”

Tomorrow
. The word was a thief, stealing the ease of the moment. My ears drooped for all I tried to keep them up. Yet, I had to think about the future, make plans to keep our Web safe. . . .

“We have to make plans, Es.”

I should have known Paul would be thinking the same. “Ansky—Anienka—made provision for any web-kin who might stay here,” I assured him. “I used her code to check in. It lets us stay indefinitely without questions, buries information about our being here so it can't be accessed even by staff. Our room service is paid through a series of blind, unrelated accounts. We're safe here.”

My Human was shaking his head before I'd finished, a lock of hair tumbling into his eyes that he raked back impatiently. “Doesn't matter. We have to go.”

“No—” I started to object, then read something in his face that changed it to: “Why?” If there was a hint of a whine beneath, he did me the courtesy of ignoring it.

“Wendy told me she had to leave tomorrow because it would be the last regularly scheduled Busfish to the surface. After that, there are only emergency and supply runs for three weeks. We'll be trapped here.”

I didn't need to search my memory for the Prumbin calendar. “Hops Fest,” I nodded, dropping my lower jaw in a satisfied grin. “There won't be any new arrivals either.”

He gave me that look. “You knew?”

Given his reaction, this seemed one of those questions unlikely to have a right answer. I closed my jaw and gazed back at him in silence.

Paul gently pushed the table aside, then moved his chair so close to mine I could easily have licked his ear—or bitten his nose. “Esen,” he began in a low voice, “I know you are upset—that your instincts tell you we must hide. But unless we can get access to a secure translight com down here, we have to leave. It's very—” He suddenly broke off and stared at me. “There isn't one, is there? That's why you picked Prumbinat and dropped us at the bottom of its ocean.”

“Why would I do that?” I said, trying and likely failing to keep my tone light.
Was it my fault that the Prumbins had very firm ideas about how one interacted with their paradise?
And one of those was that all communications must be part of a physical pilgrimage in the mouth of a fish?

“You'd do it to keep me from contacting any of the Group. But I don't understand. Don't you see? We have to warn them—”

“Why?” I snapped.

“They could be in danger—”

My lips curled back from my teeth in threat, but not at Paul. “Or they could be the danger!”

“Ah.” Instead of looking angry, Paul pursed his lips and eyed me thoughtfully. Finally, he said: “We need to know, don't we?”

I fought the urge to leap up and pace—the Lanivarian response to stress being an often inconvenient urge to chase down prey—by pressing one foot over the tip of my tail.
Hard
. “How? Scour their communications and credit ratings? Trace their movements? Find out who they've met? We've lost the comps and library. Where would we start?”

Counted against the loss of home and family, our hidden machines and their capabilities hadn't seemed to matter until now. But I had no doubt why our home and warehouse had been targets, but not our office. Our assailants understood as well as any web-being the value of stored information.
They were welcome to whatever they found,
I thought, wrinkling my snout. Paul had installed devices to melt the interior of every comp and auxiliary, including data storage, in the event of any flesh but ours entering that secret room, or any voices but ours entering the codes. I'd worried at first if even this would be sufficient protection, in part because he'd bought the equipment for this destruction from Diale the impolite and never-trusted-by-Esen tech dealer. But Paul had reassured me: he'd had Rudy add his own touches during one of his infrequent visits.

So if anyone had found our secret room, it would be empty of all but hollow cases and barren shelves. “We have no resources,” I finished.

“That's not entirely true, Old Blob.”

I gave him my own version of that look. “If you think I'll be spending the next hundred years or so dictating everything I remember from our files—” I knew Paul cared deeply about the data we'd collected over the past fifty years about other species, but there was a limit.

“Thank you, but that won't be necessary.”

There were moments when I floundered in my efforts to understand my Human, and felt a deep frustration; there were others when I understood him completely, and felt exactly the same way. “You could have told me you made a copy,” I growled, “and saved me worrying about your precious lost data—”

“You weren't exactly open to the idea, as I recall.”

For what it was worth now, I could recite every word and nuance of our argument over whether it was safer to keep those revealing records in paw's reach or permit a duplicate set to exist beyond our control.
I'd thought I'd won it.

“So I'm not always right.” As his lips quirked at what was a grand understatement, I went on: “Where is it?”

“Well,” Paul hesitated and had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. “There's more than one. And before you blow up—” interpreting my sudden and noisy panting correctly, “—the data's secure. I arranged for host systems, each twinned separately with ours on Minas XII so that every bit of information we received was archived by all. But only our system could access the data. Feel better? I can get another up and running, whichever one we choose, by sending a code via translight com. Then we can start hunting for a change.”

I ignored how the word “hunting” lifted the hair along my spine and filled my mouth with saliva; Paul was shamelessly using my form's nature to divert me from a key point. “How many choices do we have, Paul? Where are they?”

I was right.
My Human's face took on that guarded look, the one he used when considering the possible consequences of telling me something. “One hundred and ten.”

“The Group.” I decided to pace.
It was more civilized than biting.
He watched me, not denying it, perhaps giving me time to think it through.

I knew his first motivation for sharing knowledge of my existence with these other Humans: Paul accepted his nature as an ephemeral being. He wanted to ensure I had companionship and help after he was gone. Care for such continuity mattered to Humans; I no longer tried to argue the point that I'd outlive them, too. His other motivation? To protect Humans from me or my kind. I never doubted Paul's friendship; I never doubted his species' loyalty. I would never betray either, but I knew, better than any of them, how dangerous my kind could be.

I could follow Paul's reasoning now, and lost the reflex to snarl. His friends were among those who added information to our system—and, because of their understanding, even I had to admit their information was superior to any other source. Who else could appreciate my real need for details on Dokecian art trends or Poptian slang, as well as reports of overdue starships along the Fringe?

Even if Paul didn't share my compulsion to secrecy, he did share my fierce protectiveness of knowledge. In me, it was a treasuring of mass. I was, in a sense, what I knew. The knowledge Paul treasured was in those machines. I shouldn't be surprised he'd found a way to protect it.

“How—no, that doesn't matter.” I sank back down on my haunches, pretending I didn't see the relief on his face. “Although please tell me Timri's isn't on Kearn's ship.”

Paul raised one brow. “I said one hundred and ten. Timri doesn't have one in her care. It seemed wise to have a system outside the Group. So Rudy has one.”

Somehow, I didn't laugh. Poor Rudy, beset with secrets from both of us.
He must wonder if we ever told each other the truth.
“Knowing your cousin, I don't want to know where he put it,” I said, glad my Lanivarian face was less readable than the Human version.

“Ah, but you have to know this, Droolycheeks.” Paul tapped me lightly on the muzzle, as if claiming my full attention. “A signal from either of us will erase the data from any or all the systems. I'll give you the code. And they'll self-destruct if no data is accessed in a year.”