Hidden in Sight (7 page)

Well, not that Paul would approve of this particular activity
, Rudy told himself ruefully.

Not that Paul would ever know, if Esen had her way. Rudy didn't enjoy being between them; he appreciated the necessity. Es was powerful, wealthy, and utterly vulnerable. Paul had tried to ensure she would be protected after he was gone by choosing others to share his knowledge of her, others who promised to keep faith, to become part of Esen's future.

Paul was an idiot.
Rudy wished for room to shake his head. A noble, well-intentioned, blindly optimistic idiot. A harsh judgment, but relatives were expected to speak it as they believed. Sure, Paul could charm a Carasian out of its carapace. Beings wanted to rise to his level, to be what he saw in them.

Rudy did.

But once Paul left the room?
Rudy rolled a hip joint to ease a growing stitch in his left side. Beings began thinking for themselves. Paul's trusted Group became no more than a collection of scattered individuals wondering what they'd agreed to do and why, worrying at a dangerous secret.

Esen had turned to him for help. She understood, as Paul apparently didn't—or couldn't—how terrifying her species would seem to others. Semi-immortal shapeshifters known to have an appetite for intelligent life? Who could turn any living matter into more of their own mass with a touch? Who, though Esen denied she would, could travel through space as easily as the most advanced starship, not to mention rip apart the hull of that ship if the mood struck?

Rudy clung to his chosen image of Esen for good reason. Her frail Human-form was very reassuring.

Those he watched, however, didn't have that advantage.

The two met in what they assumed was guaranteed secrecy, from without and from recordings made by each other, that desire alone arousing Rudy's patroller instincts. He knew both, though they had made a modest attempt to disguise themselves by donning local clothing. It would have helped had either worn Urgian dress properly, starting with the sorpi. A sorpi was supposed to hang freely over the left shoulder and down the back, instead of being tied so each wore what appeared to be a ridiculous yellow-and-black-striped noose around his neck.

The first to enter the room had been the subject of Rudy's meticulous attention these past weeks. Esen had met this member of Paul's Group—part of her mission to reassure each of her peaceful nature. She'd come away uneasy for reasons she hadn't or couldn't explain. Not that Rudy needed details. If Esen felt Zoltan Duda couldn't be trusted, he would find out why for himself.

Slim, intense, with dark eyes and hair, given to gesturing with his hands during conversation, Zoltan was one of Paul's newer recruits, related in a murky way through Paul's father's third temp-contract, which had turned permanent. An illegally thorough dossier resided in Rudy's comp, containing such privileged information as the instructors' notes labeling Zoltan as a promising pilot and psych tech reports using words like: stable, methodical, and ambitious. Reading between the lines, Rudy imagined the shock of a multispecies' classroom on a youngster from Senigyl III, a predominantly Human planet, not to mention Zoltan's first roommate, who'd possessed a seemingly sentient parrot. Some situations altered lives.

Sure enough, halfway through his training, Zoltan had changed his mind about his future and unknowingly begun to retrace Paul Ragem's, enlisting in the Commonwealth military, selecting a specialty in alien cultures, outspokenly aiming to be a member of a First Contact Team.

To Paul, Zoltan must have seemed perfect—especially his youth. Many in the Group wouldn't naturally outlive Paul himself, a serious concern given Esen's virtual immortality, if she could keep out of trouble.

So, Zoltan,
Rudy asked himself,
if you are so perfect, why doesn't the ever-trusting Esen-alit-Quar trust you? Could it have something to do with why you agreed to meet her newest Enemy in secret?

Another intense Human. Another one remarkable for his ambition and interest in the unknown. Oh, Rudy knew Michael Cristoffen very well indeed.

Kearn's protégé.

 

Lionel Kearn. There was a résumé filled with contradictions. Senior Alien Culture Specialist on the Commonwealth starship
Rigus,
in charge of the First Contact Team and Paul Ragem's superior officer when a certain naïve shapeshifter had blundered on the scene. Forced to become Acting Captain when his own was murdered by a local population paranoid about aliens. An unhappy symmetry, as Kearn became equally paranoid about Esen-alit-Quar. In the years that followed, Kearn became Project Leader on the
Russell III
, in charge of a space-wide search for the Esen Monster, a threat Kearn refused to believe dead, despite Esen's valiant effort to leave that impression.

Rudy had joined Kearn's hunt for the web-being in its forty-eighth year. Kearn had worried his way through system after system, dedicated to his obsession, blind—perhaps willingly so—to how it turned his career into a mockery. He collected folklore about shapeshifters in every culture he contacted. “The enemy disguised as us.” His frequent success didn't help him sleep nights. In a way, Rudy had been his mirror image—only he didn't believe in shapeshifting aliens and his nightmares were of betrayal and loss. Rudy's hunt had been for Paul Ragem, for evidence to prove his dead cousin's innocence—or guilt—once and for all.

Rudy had used Kearn for his own purposes. Most of Kearn's superiors had thought him a raving lunatic with a talent for collecting obscure data. Paul? He'd ensured Kearn's, and so Rudy's, hunt would be fruitless, using the resources of his Group to intercept any real clues, toss out false trails, and frustrate them from within.

Esen?

Other beings would have abandoned Kearn to inevitable failure and obscurity. Others might have done their utmost to hurry the process. But Esen, Rudy had learned, wasn't like other beings. Kearn's obsession, his fear, had made her deeply unhappy. She'd taken—steps.

Something else Paul didn't know.
Rudy did, but not because Esen had confided her risk-taking in him either. No, he'd just happened to be there when Kearn arrived, babbling hysterically about Esen and how she'd revealed herself to Kearn—apparently to give him the key to critical negotiations between the Feneden and Iftsen.

Apparently, because to Rudy's way of thinking, a prudent, secretive being such as Esen could have easily found another, safer way. No, she'd shown herself to Kearn because she'd hoped to change his mind about her. A dangerous gamble.

Too dangerous. Rudy had done his best to convince the overwrought Kearn that he'd suffered a hallucination, that it was his own unappreciated genius coming to the forefront to solve the problem.

Kearn appeared to believe. He went on to avert catastrophe and become a hero, however briefly. The perfect moment to retire, to anyone less motivated.

But Kearn had no intention of abandoning his mission. His heroics unfortunately restored sufficient credibility with his superiors that he had no further problems obtaining support for his search for the Esen Monster.

 

Including being able to request any crew member he wanted,
Rudy told himself glumly. Michael Cristoffen had been with Kearn since the Feneden/Iftsen negotiation, arriving shortly after Rudy's own departure. What Cristoffen thought of Esen was straightforward enough: she and her kind were deadly threats, to be hunted and destroyed.

What Kearn thought of Esen now was anyone's guess.
Rudy sincerely hoped the web-being restrained her own curiosity in that regard, but nothing, he suspected, was beyond her. He was in no position to find out. He and Kearn had shared too many secrets about each other for comfort; distance seemed not only polite, but safer.

Paul?
Rudy pushed aside thoughts of his cousin, especially the look he imagined on his cousin's expressive face should he ever learn how many secrets were growing around him.
Some things were best left unsaid.

Such as the conversation in this room.

Zoltan had taken only a couple of strides into the room before saying: “Meeting here seems a bit extreme, Hom Cristoffen. Surely—”

“Forgive the theatrics, Hom Duda,” the other said warmly. “Rest assured, anyone who sees us will think us simply traders, conducting business in the usual manner. I hardly wish to tip my hand to others about our—negotiations—before I have a chance to go over the details with you. I'm very pleased—very pleased—that you agreed to see me. Sit.” Cristoffen obeyed his own command, then steepled his fingers as the other Human hesitated. “Come. Sit. What harm can it do?”

Inside a wall, their watcher tensed.
What harm, Zoltan Duda? If you plan to betray Esen or Paul?
He had the answer ready, strapped to his hip.

4: Kitchen Afternoon; Home Evening

ALTHOUGH Paul was exceptionally good at abusing the truth when the need arose—a skill honed by life with me, as he never failed to mention—that didn't mean he enjoyed it. I knew he'd come back from spreading the latest essential untruths around the office somewhat, well, bent.

There was no other word for it. The Human hated lying, which was why he preferred the gray areas that approached the line but didn't quite cross it: distraction, misdirection, confusion, and outright exaggeration. Whenever backed into the necessity—again, something he usually ascribed to me, which technically wasn't always true either—he'd grow quiet for a significant while afterward. It wasn't melancholy. It was as if Paul felt the need to remember who he really was, to return to his proper shape.

A not-unfamiliar feeling to a web-being, but the bent version of my friend was lousy company. And, to be honest, I felt some small guilt in the matter.

Which was why I was taking steps to hurry the unbending process before Paul arrived home. I wasn't much of a cook in any form, a lack I couldn't very well blame on my web-self's appetite for living matter. Ansky and my other web-kin would delve into assimilated memory, take over Ersh's kitchen for days, and create the most fabulous meals on a regular basis. Meals I'd enjoy, without doubt, but ones I found ridiculously time-consuming. Not to mention they'd make me wait for hours before allowing me to taste anything, then insist I clean up.

Now that I was Senior Assimilator of my own Web, I took full advantage of civilized conveniences such as synthesizers and restaurants. Not to mention delivery.

Paul liked to, as he put it, putter in the kitchen. He wasn't a great chef either, but every so often I'd hear him rise unreasonably early and start opening cupboards. I'd try burrowing my head deeper into the fragrant syntha-grass of my box, but it was hopeless. Not only did Paul make no effort whatsoever to be quiet, but I'd learned what such behavior meant. He'd be preparing more food than the two of us could possibly consume in a day, a clear signal he expected company. The Human had an instinct for when our peace was in jeopardy. Not that I minded visits; I just preferred more notice than an ovenful of delectable biscuits I was supposed to share.

Tonight, however, I was the one poking my paws into cupboards and drawers to assemble what I needed as cook. Between additions to my collection, I eyed the oven. It eyed me back, looking as innocent as any appliance could look that was capable of reducing a juicy piece of meat to crisped carbon without warning.

Not that I was working with anything so appetizing. No, what lay on the countertop was a bag of rock-hard noodles—the sort no restaurant would serve—and a swollen tube of a yellow-orange substance claimed by the lurid label to have once been cheese. From a mammal's milk.

Those didn't stop me from pouring the entire bag of noodles into the pot of boiling water, and setting the lurid tube close enough to warm and soften.

The next ingredient was harder to locate. Paul tended to hide his snacks, as if I'd eat them when he wasn't looking. There might have been one or two instances in which his suspicions were justified—after all, discovering fudge when one was looking for cleanser made it very difficult to remember the finer points of ownership—but this time I was impatient with his secrecy. Fortunately, my present nostrils were more than up to the task of locating an opened bag of pickle chips.

I reached behind the D'Dsellan dictionary and grinned, letting my tongue hang out one side of my jaw. Just enough . . .

Just then, an alarming popping sound alerted me to the peril of leaving any appliance unsupervised. I loped back to the kitchen, chips in one paw, only to find the pot of noodles had grown an intimidating mushroom of foam, fingers of it dripping down to the hot surface to spatter, pop, and hiss. As I hurried to contain the disaster, the tube of pseudo-cheese ruptured with the heat and sprayed over the side of the pot, forming a rapidly blackening crust. Some landed on my snout and arm, repulsively sticky.

First things first.
I grabbed the handles and yanked the pot from the heat. The foam grumbled as it subsided, but no longer threatened to spill over the entire kitchen. I remembered, belatedly, to turn off the unit, adding a tang of scorched fur to the ambience as the attractive fringe under my forearm failed to clear the heating surface.
Formerly attractive,
I whined to myself, using a damp towel to extinguish any still-smoldering hairs while assaying the damage. I'd have to trim the rest to match. On both arms. I could hear Ersh now:
A waste of good mass.

Meanwhile, the pseudo-cheese had completed its escape from the tube and formed a nauseating puddle on the countertop. And down the front. The resulting combination of smells overpowered my presently sensitive nose. I cycled reluctantly . . .