Changing Vision (16 page)

Such as this one.
Lishcyns don’t sneak very well, so I was using bold “I belong here” body language as I traveled the deserted hall. Approximately five steps from my assigned quarters, I’d recognized this as one of those brilliant impulses that entitled Paul to use his “behave” look so often.

Not that it mattered, once I realized the door had somehow locked itself behind me.

With a fatalistic shrug, I continued on my way, remembering the requisite turns without difficulty, until I reached the area with lifts to the other floors of the School. The Panacians may have thought to fool us during the tour into thinking we’d seen it all, but I’d noticed we’d been kept to three levels and to lifts without settings to reach anywhere else in the building.

I didn’t bother hunting for signs of automated surveillance. Panacians in general abhorred the practice, and D’Dsellans were the most traditional of them all. A reasonable prejudice, since individual Panacians left scent trails wherever they went, leaving abundant information on mood and health for any other Panacian who might be interested. If they wished to know more about your actions, they simply stayed with you.

Of course, by making it virtually impossible to travel any distance on their world without using preprogrammed hoverbots—which did have abundant internal and external sensors in the name of safety—they kept track of visitor movements fairly easily. It was only within their homes and buildings that alien biology allowed concealment, hence the rarity of invitations to visit. Mixs-memory informed me that the oft-used excuse of not liking the physical habits of the messier sort of aliens, such as Humans, was really a way to avoid having to interpret beings who couldn’t share their mood with every step.

In a very real sense,
I thought, idly tapping a tusk with one finger while considering which lift to try first,
the predominantly Human Commonwealth and its associated non-Human species failed to enter the true awareness of Panacians.
Perhaps the new caste, the Ambassadors, interacted with non-Panacians with a belief in their existence. I knew, from my experiences and those shared by Mixs, that the vast majority on D’Dsel and the other heavily-populated worlds of this system were convinced alien intelligences were somehow nonbiological. I’d read learned papers, naturally kept species-private, postulating everything from non-Panacians being some type of machine to an exhaustive theory that others were from another dimensional reality, only partially impinging on this one.
A personal favorite.

It was a tribute to their ability to learn and mimic polite behavior that so many other species viewed Panacians as friendly and approachable. Truth be told, it didn’t matter in everyday life whether the average Panacian believed in the rest of the universe or not.
I frequently,
I chuckled to myself,
had my own doubts.

I’d chosen correctly. The door of the third to last lift—there were six in a row—sighed open at my touch, revealing a panel of controls much more extensive than the ones we’d used last night.

Not down,
I thought. The lowermost floors would be the Queen’s chambers—close to the street level so her offspring could easily be moved by ground transport to one of the mass emergence areas when the time came. There would
be controlled air-locks at every entrance from her area, intended to seal in and concentrate her pheromones. These would freely move throughout this building and be packaged for sending by hoverbot or courier to any of her family not within reach. This included starships, making the few unfortunate Panacians serving the Hive offworld prone to mental and emotional stress when they received pheromonal information at inappropriate moments and, worse, arrived home to be months out of sync with their Queen anyway.

What would be inappropriate and potentially dangerous,
I reminded myself,
would be any attempt to approach the Queen unless invited and escorted.

The lift’s settings offered eighty-one choices. From my memory of the exterior—from that regrettably brief glance as I’d arrived by hoverbot—the School of Alien Etiquette was located eighteen down from the topmost. So I was on the sixty-third floor. What we’d been shown as the remainder of the School extended two floors below me.

If I assumed everything below that was the Queen’s territory—better to overestimate than risk annoying our charming hostesses—that left an intriguing eighteen floors above me to explore.

I used a dessert fork I’d saved from lunch to press the indented button for the top floor, on the principle that running downstairs would be easier if I were caught. Not that every Panacian building contained stairs—some designs incorporated intestinelike slides I rather enjoyed, depending on my form.

The lift headed upward obediently, and I assumed a carefully neutral expression. My present smile, however, warmly intended, was no way to start a conversation with strangers.

I also, somewhat belatedly, began practicing my greeting to my very first, completely new aliens.

A shame,
I would realize later,
that I was wrong.

IN Lefebvre’s experience, Port Authority, regardless of species, world, or the size of the crisis, tended to behave in a manner reminiscent of a Human staring at his or her own navel, awaiting divine revelation—especially when confronted with credentials that, in theory and by treaty, gave outsystem officials access to their records.

The D’Dsellans were no exception.

Lefebvre stifled a yawn, then sat straighter.
Finally.
There was movement behind the frosted door panels: two figures walking past in silhouette, pausing as though trying to see him in the dimly lit and classically unwelcoming waiting room, before limbs reached for a handle. He slouched back down as their shadows faded again, the two apparently deciding actually talking to him in person was a bad idea.

His fingers slipped into the pocket of his coat, pushing deeper within its emptiness until he could feel the inner seam, reaching along that until he touched the other pocket concealed within it. His key was there, safe, ready for use. All he needed was a lock. Which required some cooperation from the other side of those doors.

“Captain Lefebvre?” Another Human had entered the waiting room through the same entrance he’d used, from outside. No Port Jelly uniform here. This individual wore inner system fashions, the type that meant cost was not an issue in his life. They didn’t suit him, Lefebvre judged, despite excellent tailoring. The stranger was lean, weathered, with an air of no-nonsense competence; Lefebvre
could more easily picture him in a faded pair of spacer coveralls like his, working on an engine—certainly a better match for the faded spacer tan of face and hands. The Human’s eyes were keen and his expression that of someone who didn’t intend to waste his own precious time. “Sandner,” he introduced himself. “Councillor Sandner from Inhaven Prime. What’s this about Paul Ragem?”

Sandner.
Lefebvre recognized the name, keeping any reaction from his face: one of the committee who’d granted the
Russell III
access to this sector, and not just any member. Kearn had railed for some time about how the Inhaven representative had sabotaged their funding, as well as almost skewing the vote against them.
What was he doing here?
“I’m conducting research,” Lefebvre said, deliberately keeping his tone and bearing official, despite the disadvantage of having been caught seated and in obviously nonregulation garb. “As I believe you are aware is the mandate of the
Russell III
and her crew, sir.”

“And that research includes sending Port Authority scrambling after genetic records for a dead Human? From a three-day visit, fifty years ago? Do you realize what a waste of resources and time this represents? Let alone—” Sandner, to Lefebvre’s surprise, stopped his almost passionate tirade and sat abruptly, looking like a parent confronted by his child’s misdeeds at school and a bit embarrassed by it all. “Captain, forgive my outburst. This isn’t your fault. I suspected Kearn was off in his own dreamworld, but this—this is simply crazy. Don’t you agree?”

Lefebvre’s patroller instincts were sending chills down his spine. “It’s not my place to question orders, Councillor Sandner,” he answered evenly, “only to follow them to the best of my ability. As I was attempting to do here. Am I to assume you have asked D’Dsel’s Port Authority not to respond to our request? Is this what I should report to my Project Leader?”

Sandner’s startled look was perfect, Lefebvre thought,
perhaps too perfect.
“I have nothing to do with law enforcement
in the shipcity,” the Councillor said. “If you are experiencing problems, I suggest you take them up with Sec-ag T’Pleck. Her Glory is the System Coordinator for Panacia’s Port Authority.”

“But you don’t support this line of inquiry, sir,” Lefebvre dared press the other. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To persuade the Project Leader to abandon his search?”

“Talk to Kearn about his nonsense? I wouldn’t waste a minute on it.” Sandner’s thin lips stretched into an outright grin. He leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink. “I’m here to meet the Feneden.”

“The Feneden.” At Lefebvre’s blank look, Sandner drew back as if affronted.

“Does Kearn have the newsmags censored on your scow, Captain?” this with what seemed sincere indignation. “Of course, the Feneden! First Contact, Lefebvre! They’ve come here to meet with the Commonwealth as well as investigate trade possibilities. Councillors from all the affected regions are coming to D’Dsel this week for talks. Where have you been?”

“I’m aware of the existence of the Feneden, Councillor. They are hardly my concern at the moment.” Lefebvre gestured to the frosted doors. “Getting the cooperation your committee promised us in our search—that’s my concern.”

“And that search has somehow expanded to include a dead Human? Good thing Kearn didn’t try that on the Committee.” Sandner appeared to come to some decision. He stood again, and Lefebvre politely followed suit. “I’d wish you luck in your efforts, Captain, but I still believe the entire business a waste.”

“Assuming for a moment it wasn’t a waste, sir, where would you look?” Lefebvre asked, suddenly curious if he’d get an answer. Sandner wasn’t a typical politician.

Nor was Sandner’s appraising gaze that of someone as disinterested as he made himself appear to be. “Where would I look—for Kearn’s monster? As I tried to tell him, the Kraal were involved up to their tattooed necks. There’s where your answers are, although it’s
likely we’ll all be long dead before that bunch admits any involvement.” Sandner gave a hearty laugh. “If then.”

“And Ragem?”

The laugh stopped. “Persistent, aren’t you?”

“I have my orders, sir,” Lefebvre said, careful to add a tinge of resignation to his voice.

“Then you’ll need permission to break the quarantine on Artos, along with a shovel and a lifetime, Captain, if you expect to find what’s left of Paul Ragem—assuming the bone hunters haven’t found him first and cemented him to an altar. I can’t help you there. Perhaps divine intervention?” Sandner paused. “Tell me. What possible interest can finding Ragem’s corpse be to Kearn? Wasn’t the poor man slandered enough? Think of his family, if nothing else.

Careful,
Lefebvre told himself, definitely wary of underestimating this being. “I’m sure it is not Project Leader Kearn’s intention to reopen old wounds, Councillor. Perhaps he has some doubts about the veracity of that—slander—sir.”

Sandner looked startled. Lefebvre held his breath, but instead of replying, Sandner said: “Yes, Tomas?” to another Human who’d opened the door and stood waiting to be noticed, a chauffeur by the look of him.

“You asked to be reminded of your meeting, Councillor,” Tomas replied. He had a bright, friendly face, the sort that didn’t so much suggest intellect as a certain practical knowledge about the world. His red hair looked to have never seen a brush. Still, Lefebvre committed the face and voice to memory, a bit of his patrol training he’d found useful many times.

“Yes, yes. Thanks, Tomas. Pleasure meeting you, Captain Lefebvre,” he said with a firm handshake. Rather than letting go immediately, Sandner’s grip tightened momentarily as if to underscore what he said next. “You can transfer off that madman’s ship, you know. Officers of your ability have—options. Don’t waste your talents chasing fairy tales and ghosts.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Lefebvre sat back down, watching the door close to leave him alone again in D’Dsel’s Port Authority waiting room.

A high level hint to stop looking for Ragem?

Time he looked even harder.

THE lift doors opened. After checking to make sure my best formal silks weren’t bunched at the waist again, I took a bold step forward into a promisingly ornate lobby area, ready to make first contact with a new species.

Had anyone else been there, it would have been a perfect entrance.

I looked around almost frantically, all the nerve and calm I’d managed to develop on the ride up here spoiled by the anticlimax.

The lobby spread into four broad, tiled corridors from where I stood, each illuminated in differing intensity as if representing dawn, midmorning, noon, and dusk. It was an interesting conceit and one I didn’t remember in a Panacian design before. Still, I thought, it had been fifty years since I’d truly refreshed my knowledge of this culture. Images and reports were nothing compared to being here, as Paul frequently reminded me.

Wherever
here
was.

There were only two lift doors set into the wall behind me, implying—as I’d guessed—some limitations on who could reach this floor. There was a mirrored surface between them, allowing me to admire the fall of harvest-gold silk around my thick legs, generous slits in the fabric showing a decidedly handsome patterning of scales. I wore a bag, unwilling to be without my light, but it was finely beaded with gold thread to coordinate. Just the touch to complete the look of Esen, diplomat-at-large.