Hidden in Sight (42 page)

“Wait,” Rudy cautioned. The outer material gradually dissolved away to reveal the contents of the envelope: a single sheet of ordinary-looking plas, coated in a silvery dust. So it had been rigged.
Not with poison
, he realized with an inner chill.
This Kraal liked to make a statement
. The dust was all that remained of microscopic darts embedded throughout the envelope, the type able to burrow through clothing and into skin, through flesh and into vital organs. Not a pleasant or swift way to die.

When the reaction appeared over, Rudy used a pen to nudge the sheet until the dust slipped off the words, then read: “‘Bring the item from Sacriss XIII to Picco's Moon as quickly as possible. Someone will meet you at the shipcity. Be sure to bring the book I left in your care. I require it now.' Well. No fuss with codes and cryptic meaning—”

“She's going to kill me!” Cristoffen interrupted, pressing himself flat to the wall. “You were right, Project Leader! That's an assassin's mark and she's going to have me killed on Picco's Moon.”

“Who's going to have you killed?” Kearn snapped. “We can't protect you if we don't know.”

“I never saw her face!” the distraught ensign cried. “I don't know her real name! She called herself Sybil. That's all I know. You have to keep me safe. Please. You never know what they look like, where they'll be. They could be anyone. You have to . . . please ...” his pleas faded to mumbling.

Rudy understood the pity in Kearn's face, even if he didn't share it. But then, Kearn hadn't seen Cristoffen enjoy the death he'd caused. “I'll take Mr. Cristoffen to his new quarters,” he volunteered.

“Get crew to help you. And check on the bridge, Captain,” Kearn said. “I don't want any delays. You know the course.”

“Aye, sir,” Rudy said. Taking the unresisting Cristoffen by one arm, he began to leave. Then, on impulse, he turned and gave a seemingly casual salute.

The first he'd given Kearn and meant.

25: Shipcity Night

ONE has certain expectations when prowling the streets of an unfamiliar shipcity after dusk and storm. Garbage, vermin, and puddles come to mind. But Gathergo itself, like the Prumbins, tended to a clean shabbiness, even during Hops Fest. As I walked along the still-damp cobblestones, definitely wishing for sandals, I could hear music from my left, toward the Port City itself. To my right were the dark fronts of warehouses and trader offices, closed for the night—possibly for the week, depending on how much each business relied on sober Prumbins. No vermin or garbage in sight. Though my feet found enough puddles to make up the difference.

Straight ahead, cobblestones turned to pavement. I'd seen my share of shipcities and most were busy, exciting places reached by temporary roadways filled with beings in a hurry, dodging machines and each other. The roadways led to rows of starships, ephemeral buildings that came and went in the arms of docking tugs, the tugs in turn having their own roadways and traffic jams. Beyond all that, the field where starships could use their own wings to fly.

Shipcities were wonderful
, I sighed,
to an Esen with a boarding pass and luggage.
Esens without either, I'd noticed, tended to encounter unpleasantries such as guards, locked ports, and highly unsuitable accommodations.
There was a great deal to be said for traveling first class.
Something I doubted Paul or Skalet intended.

I didn't have much time before one or both awoke and started the tedious process of planning what to say to me when they found me, so I walked a little faster. Though my mouth watered at the thought of the Hops Fest and the charming, food-packed booths which would line every street in the city itself, my present self might be conspicuous. In the shipcity, however, I would have no trouble pretending to be just another Human child. Independent Traders referred, usually affectionately but not always, to their offspring as “ramp rats” for good reason.

I reached the end of the street and stopped.
So much for this plan,
I thought with disgust.

Rain-wet pavement, laced with its own puddles, reflected the starlight. A piece of plas, caught by the onshore breeze, tumbled past my feet; a small invertebrate clattered after it, perhaps as hungry as I was. A smattering of lights in the distance marked what I hoped might be larger freighters, still fin-down. Then I realized their even height meant I was looking at parked tugs.

The shipcity was empty—deserted.
Why?

I might have stood there, gaping, for a significant length of time—given the unappealing alternative of returning empty-stomached and shipless to my web-kin, followed by the requisite explanation and inevitable scolding—but a sound from the dark caught my attention.

Music, but from the shadowed edge of the shipcity warehouses, not Gathergo itself. And not any music. The whisper-soft, soulful wail of a kythen was as out of place here and now as a barefoot Human-seeming child.

Ersh knew, I'd come here alone in an attempt to be responsible.
And get a little time away from the others to think
, I admitted honestly. Responsible meant walking back to our shelter.
Thinking for myself?
That meant following those notes from the dark, which seemed to sink deeper into my body than any sound should.

The musician, as I'd surmised, was a Grigari. I found him squatting peacefully on the lowermost of a staggered group of crates, two pairs of feet and two tails dangling over the side of his chosen perch, his third, prehensile tail looped over an upper crate, perhaps for stability—although the species' ability to climb would make a primate take up swimming. As I approached, he continued to blow into his kythen, long-fingered hands stroking the keys and hovering over holes, supporting the long, thin instrument with his remaining two feet. The bell at the end was pointed down, muting the sound—an indication this musician played for himself, not the street.

He knew I was there. His magnificent mane was spread to collect sensory information about me: odor, temperature, other radiations. Its stripes were black and white in the dark, as were the patterns on its soft leather scales. In daylight, the dark portions of mane and hide would be revealed as some vivid, warning color: purple perhaps, with green and blue. Not that the species was poisonous; they were, in Ersh's terms, show-offs.

And talented ones. I half-closed my eyes, recognizing the piece he played now. Chariss Sonata #12. One of my favorites. It ended all too soon.

When he stopped, I thanked him in his own language. “An unanticipated delight, Serg Kythen.”

“I am no master player, Small One,” he replied, but seemed pleased. “You may have my name, since you did me the courtesy of listening. Z'ndraa.”

“Bess.”

“Are you acting within custom for your kind, Bess, to be out here alone? Did your parents send you searching for beer? It is that way.” The tip of his left-most tail pointed vaguely toward Gathergo.

“No.”
Although the thought had potential
. I hugged my knees, putting my chin on top of them, and considered his first question. The night breeze ruffled the now-dry edges of the oversized shirt I wore, but didn't chill my skin. It went off to look for starships. “I am often alone,” I decided.

“Ah. Different ways. I am not, usually, a seeker of solitude. My music likes an audience.”

“Then why are you here?”

He blew a trill like a laugh through the kythen. “The Prumbins have filled the streets with their music. It is a fine and cheerful tuning, well-suited to dancing and the drinking of beer. However, my poor kythen cannot compete. To hear myself, I had to find this place alone. Which had an audience after all! I am pleased, Small Bess.”

“It's just ‘Bess.'” I informed him, lifting my chin. “I am not small.”

“Ah! My mistake. So you are a wanderer, Not-Small Bess?”

“No.” Then, as he waited patiently, a shadow in a shadow. “Yes,” I said, hearing the bitterness in my own voice. For no reason except that he listened, I kept going: “I'm supposed to be. It's the nature of my kind, to roam throughout space.”

“You do not wish this life?”

“I thought I could be different and made a home. It's gone now. I don't know why. I don't know how to get it back—or if I'm supposed to even try. I don't know what will happen to me or those I care about—” I sighed and realized I'd been babbling nonsense. “I'm sorry, Z'ndraa. Please excuse me, I—”

“Ah,” he said a third time, but now with satisfaction. “Do not be sorry, Not-Small Bess. You have shown me a song. I will call it ‘Saturne's Dream.' Why Saturne? My muse, whom I appease with truth.”

Instead of playing, the Grigari put down his kythen and whirled around, climbing the wall above the crates where he turned to hang head down. Then, he began to sing, his voice soft and deep:

The song ended. Without saying another word, Z'ndraa flowed gracefully back down to his crate, picked up his kythen, and began to play another sonata.

None of my memories held the song he sang for me; they couldn't, since Z'ndraa had composed it as he sang, based on what he heard me say and sensed about me through his mane. It was a singular honor. The Grigari believed compositions inspired by chance encounters revealed inner truths to both musician and listener. I couldn't know what truths Z'ndraa found for himself in the song; I chose to avoid searching for my own, at least tonight, feeling unresolved enough. I stood and walked away from the musician and the deserted shipcity, accepting the unlooked-for gift with the thoughtful silence he expected.

I was greeted with silence as well. Mind you, that probably had more to do with Paul's and Skalet's reaction to finding bags filling the space that had been filled with Esen when they'd both fallen asleep.
Some moments in life
, I decided,
were worth remembering in exact detail.

Skalet and Paul squinted at me over the dim light of the glow I'd embedded in a crack. I waited until I saw them exchange a look and Paul begin to open his mouth, before saying calmly: “I bought new clothes. There's food as well.” Except for the portion now comforting my stomach.

I hadn't been the only one hungry, judging by the speed with which they reached for the bags. Over a roll of warm, meat-filled pastry, Skalet gazed at me doubtfully. “Bought?” she asked.

“Bought. I found a busy currency dealer and pretended my parents had sent me with their credit code to retrieve chits for the beer tent.”

There was a pregnant silence, then Paul chuckled. “Nice parents,” he said, pulling out the clothes. I grinned and reached for mine.

Skalet was less easily impressed, of course. “Were you followed?”

“Hopefully,” I informed my web-kin, reasonably sure my grin had turned other than friendly.

She tensed, looking past me into the darkness. “What do you mean?”

“The talk in Gathergo tonight isn't about this year's hops—it's about the Gem Rush on Picco's Moon. It seems the only starship on Prumbinat that hasn't already left belongs to your old friends, the Kraal. And you're going to get it for us.”

Seeing Skalet speechless twice in the same day went a long way toward keeping my back straight and my hands steady. But Paul's eyes on mine were worried.

He had a right to be. If independents from here were rushing to Picco's Moon, ships from Largas Freight would as well.

I hugged my new clothes and walked outside to find room to change. It didn't matter. Skalet wanted to go to Picco's Moon and so did I.

It was time to go home.

Otherwhere

 

 

THE flesh-burdened were incapable of understanding. The Tumblers withdrew to their valleys in frustration, satisfied they had made the correct decision.

Almost satisfied. There were debates and questions. One Elder expressed concern about the prompt departure of the Ganthor once the mercenaries had removed the other species. They had no wish to replace one soft problem with another. A message was crafted to alleviate that concern. It was a brilliant document, over five hundred pages in length, and all agreed it covered every possible argument.

The Ganthor Matriarch in charge of the first and second invasion waves gave the message to her Seconds to pass along to accounting. It obviously dealt with how to most quickly obtain full compensation after the fact. There were pleased ::!!:: throughout her Herd at this sign their new clients were so thoughtful.

Another Elder broached the distasteful topic of environmental contamination. A few had to leave the debate, too revulsed by the thought of fragmented soft-flesh. Three Tumblers had sturdy enough constitutions to draft a second message to the Ganthor, a message they decided must also be provided to the flesh-burdened at the Port City as well as those on Ershia's Mountain. It included gruesome details on how the battle scenes were to be thoroughly cleansed of any remains or liquids that might have originated within a living thing—one of the authors of the message having a very sturdy constitution and a rare imagination for a crystal being.