Changing Vision (58 page)

PRIVATE messages by translight were hideously expensive.
The com-techs in Upperside Shipcity had seemed very impressed
, Kearn thought.

He himself certainly was, his hands almost shaking as he cued the message cube to play back in the privacy of his quarters on the shipcity. Tonight was the meeting between the Feneden and Iftsen. There had been quite a few messages, as well as art arrangements, offers of temporary liaisons of several types, and assorted wines, all from those hoping he could somehow help settle this conflict. Many were from art dealers whose livelihoods were potentially threatened by the Feneden dumping stolen Iftsen art into a lucrative and expensive market.

But nothing like this
, Kearn thought. It would take his year’s salary to send this one message. He sat forward, eyes intent.

“Dear Lionel,” he read.
Dear Lionel?
From a friend? He couldn’t recall any rich ones—at least none he hadn’t thoroughly antagonized long ago searching for funds for his quest.

“Dear Lionel, I want to wish you luck. It has always seemed a regrettably necessary part of interspecies’ negotiation. I also wish to share something with you. The Iftsen’s Messenger was a bluff. They have never built or owned a planet-killing weapon; I do not believe they are capable of doing so. Only you need know this. The Iftsen’s false weapon was stolen, but, if they believe its
secret remains intact, they will replace it with something equally harmless, and lie about it equally well. And species like the Feneden are young enough to need a reason to respect the rights of others.”

Kearn stopped reading, awed by the trust this message implied, excited by its implications. He wondered again who could have sent it.
Perhaps I’ve been noticed at last by someone high in the government
, he told himself, dizzy with delight.
A Deputy Minister—or better!
With this information, combined with his own dream-driven insights, he had every chance to be successful tonight.
He could save lives.

It wasn’t wrong to want more than that
, Kearn assured himself. His superiors had been silent concerning his indiscretion with the
Russell III.
Finding Lefebvre had helped, but he’d known they were simply waiting to pounce.
Maybe this message was a sign that, if he could pull the Feneden and Iftsen together, he could save his career at the same time.

“I am young as well, Lionel,” the message continued, confounding all his hopes and preconceptions at once.
Who was this?
Kearn asked himself, suddenly fearing the answer.

“I make mistakes, but when I do, I do my best to fix them. I believe I have made such a mistake in hiding from you. When you are ready to find me, I will be there. If you ever need me, I will come. Esen-alit-Quar.”

Kearn’s lips repeated the name without sound as the message faded and disappeared.

It hadn’t been a dream, after all.

“Mediator Kearn?”

Kearn started, only then aware he’d been sitting and staring at the now-empty cube long enough to have cramped his back. “Yes?” he said to the steward standing in his doorway, a young Human.

“The facilities await your inspection, Mediator Kearn. May I escort you?”

“I know the way, Steward,” Kearn said impatiently, his mind reeling with unexpected possibilities and equally
unlooked-for disasters, finding it difficult to focus back on his task. “Let the decorators know I’ll be there in a moment.”

The steward hesitated. “What is it?” Kearn demanded.

The young Human colored, then smiled shyly. “I wanted to say, sir, I’ve admired you for years. I’ve followed your hunt for the Esen Monster in the newsmags—not that I think they’d carry all the real facts, sir. I wanted you to know, sir, that I believe in what you are doing. I hope you find it and kill it. You’ll save us all.”

It was Kearn’s turn to hesitate, overcome by a rush of pleasure as heady and uncontrolled as though some drug had flooded his veins.
Fifty years
, he thought, wildly.
I’ve waited fifty years for this.
“Thank you, Hom—”

“Cristoffen, sir. Michael Cristoffen.”

“I appreciate your zeal, Hom Cristoffen. Perhaps you’d consider applying as crew on my ship when you’ve completed your apprenticeship here.”

Kearn used one finger to tip the empty message cube into the recycle slot on the table.

“I can always,” he added, “use more true believers.”

I CYCLED as I fell within the rain of broken tiles and rotting sheets of presswood, a reflex adjustment to conditions totally unsuited to my Lishcyn-self.
Here’s hoping it stayed dark
, I warned myself, tightening into a ball before impact.

I struck what was likely the top of a ceiling. It held for barely a heartbeat, then groaned and gave way under me. I dropped again, finally landing on something that gave but didn’t break.

Well
, I decided, checking out various body parts,
that was fun
—an opinion possible to my Ganthor-self. My current hide was even thicker than my Lishcyn-self’s and, although I massed slightly less, my form was more dense and heavily boned. The impact had felt roughly equivalent to a boisterous greeting between Herd mates at a bar.

I tested the air, mucus bubbling from my nostrils as I savored the dissolved aromas.
Herdscent
drifted down to me through the hole in the roof, alluring and almost irresistible. Considering the present state of the Ganthor above me, I had no intention of answering its call.
They wouldn’t
, I reminded myself,
take well to a stranger.

There were other organics. I turned, sampling in every direction: stale Human overlaid everything, including the cinnamon tang of an Engullian and a bitter bouquet of what Ersh-memory labeled as banned drugs of several sorts.
Well, it was the Dump.

I grunted, catching a fresher, hotter taste in the air.
Human
. Web-memory bubbled up, its molecular discrimination totally precise:
Logan
.

Ganthor were brave and loyal.
They weren’t the brightest.
That was my excuse later for what I did next—namely, start running in the almost total darkness toward that scent.

Luckily, there were no holes or walls in my path, since I didn’t plunge into the one or run snout-first into the other. The notion of such obstacles did help cool my Ganthor enthusiasm. The thought of who I was running to slowed me even more. But I didn’t stop, hearing new sounds from behind that I feared meant Paul had followed me down here, with or without Meony-ro.

I had to reach Logan first.

By rough estimate, I was almost under the shuttle before I tasted blood in the air. It had an interesting effect on my Ganthor-self, being a herbivorous species that instinctively gathered in a group for defense. This blood, though not Ganthor, suggested a predator; my lone Ganthor-self felt the urge to wait for others. I ignored it.

I took two more steps, then heard a click. It wasn’t a word in clickspeak, but I knew its meaning. Ahead of me, in the pitch dark, someone had armed a disrupter. I stopped and tried to be quiet, but it wasn’t exactly a feature of this form. In the otherwise silent warehouse, I panted and wheezed like a bellows, and there were soft popping noises as my breath passed through the mucus coating my nostrils.

A small light came on, its immediate circle of brightness empty of all but a long arm and a trail of red droplets, casting rays that reached to my legs. Above, the light reflected from the metal of the shuttle. Paul and Meony-ro must have undermined the entire ship.

“A War Hog,” said a high-pitched voice I knew too well. “Alone, unarmed, and mute. Well, you certainly aren’t of any use to me.”

I cycled before Logan could fire, standing before him in Human-form, shedding excess mass as a puddle of water around my small bare feet. “I wouldn’t call them that to their snouts,” I advised him.

Logan crawled into his own light. He’d been injured, badly, I thought. Blood soaked the neck, shoulder, and chest of his uniform, running down one arm and huge hand to
drip over the barrel of the weapon he aimed at me. There was nothing in his glittering blue eyes to show he was anything less than ready to use it; though wounded, the massive Human looked more dangerous than ever. “It appears I face a disturbing choice,” he observed calmly, as though we sat across from one another at some dinner table. “I can believe in the dead. Or I can believe in you, shapeshifter. I’d prefer not to believe in either.”

“Yet you believe in a mythical weapon. And over the evidence of your own eyes. You wouldn’t be here, on Minas XII, otherwise,” I said as calmly.

“True, true.” Unbelievably, Logan heaved himself up, becoming a silhouette the size of a mountain. I swallowed and stood my ground.
Clothes would have been nice.
“Where’s Ragem, little ghost? Such a clever man, with his secrets upon secrets. Too clever. Do you know, he tricked me into stealing a pile of junk? Then he turned the Hogs against me? No matter. You are quite right about what I believe.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, deepened with what I took for excitement as much as pain.
For Logan, maybe they were one and the same.
“I believe your Ragem has the real Kraal superweapon, right here. He or the Kraal with him.”

Logan didn’t miss much
, I thought with disgust. Meony-ro’s presence on the
’Lass
had been just one more confirmation of his pet theory.

Paul could walk in range of this madman’s voice at any second. “There is no Kraal weapon,” I told Logan. “Everything you think this weapon did—was done by one of my kind. You don’t need Paul to find that out.”
What I needed was some way to get the Ganthor involved.

His free hand snaked out after my arm, but his own blood lubricated the grip so his fingers slipped off my skin. I took a step to put myself out of reach, halting as the weapon’s tip moved deliberately into the light as a reminder. “I need you, little ghost,” Logan disagreed, as if not hearing a word I said. “You are my key to Ragem. He has the Nightstalker. With it, I will take Tly back to her rightful place. With it, I will rule.”

Madness was something I’d always found difficult to assess, there being so many different perceptions and patterns of thought between species—let alone the honestly eccentric. Like Ersh and my former web-kin, I considered all ephemerals a little mad, obsessed with hurrying through their lives when they should by rights hoard every minute. But what looked back at me now, blood-streaked and ominous, was the real thing.

So much for talking my way out of this
, I thought with disgust. I chanced a step to the right. Logan’s weapon tracked the motion with menacing smoothness, implying nothing wrong with his reflexes. Judging by the blood pooling around his feet, I could wait for him to pass out. Since any other Human would have done so by now, I had no idea when that would be.

And it wouldn’t be soon enough
, I realized. I didn’t need to look around to know we were no longer alone.

Logan knew it, too. He smiled, keeping his attention on me, and called out: “Come where I can see you, my friend.”

“We’ve been through all this before, Human,” I said with deliberate sarcasm, talking more to the one I couldn’t see, than Logan. “I thought you’d learned you can’t use me as a hostage. Fire your weapon. You can’t harm me—Paul knows it and so do you.”

Of course, I wasn’t so sure about that
, I said to myself, holding my breath. I should be able to cycle before his finger pressed the firing mechanism—and I should be able to thin myself so the burst went through my web-flesh. It was a lot of “should bes” I wasn’t planning to test.
If the Iftsen could bluff
, I thought,
so could Esen.

Logan might have believed me. Unfortunately, it seemed Paul did not. He stepped out of the darkness, empty-handed, his face a mask of dust and sweat.

Three things happened simultaneously. I began to frantically think of something else, Logan smiled with satisfaction, and Paul spoke one word:

“Now.”

Lights kicked in from either side, blinding me at first, pinning Logan in their midst. They appeared to confuse him.
He dropped his weapon, putting his better hand up to shade his eyes.

To my left was the Matriarch of the Herd from Iftsen Secondus, flanked by her Seconds, each bearing enough armament to take out the entire building, let alone subdue one Human.

To my right, no less deadly, stood Meony-ro, Rudy Lefebvre, and Joel Largas.

I looked suspiciously at my dear Human friend, whose mask had cracked into an immense grin.
Likely relief
, I thought, then added, less charitably and more honestly,
of course, Paul would know perfectly well how I’d feel standing here wearing gooseflesh and nothing else in front of his father-in-law.

“Gloria, are you all right?” This from the ever-quick Lefebvre, who rushed forward with his arms open.

I decided it was a very reasonable moment to let myself be hustled away.

After all, Paul had added himself—and half the planet—to what otherwise would have been an excellent and charmingly discreet plan.

It was
, I thought, with a pleasant sense of having the shoe, as Humans would say, on the other appendage,
only fair he tidy up the result.

LEFEBVRE lifted his glass, then paused, deep in thought.
Strange. It was getting hard to think of a new toast.
“To women!” he exclaimed, sure this one could be repeated indefinitely.

“To women,” his drinking companion concurred. “So Rudy. How’s your niece?”

Lefebvre peered at Joel Largas. “She’s fine, thanks. On her way home.”

“Smart work. She’s lucky to have you, Rudy. To you!”

Lefebvre accepted the toast, not entirely sure it was deserved.
It had been a satisfying sequence of events
, he thought, but at any point, things could have gone sour. An informant’s report on
The Black Watch;
his conviction that Logan was capable of daring an incursion on Minas XII; getting here in time. He shuddered. “We were lucky.”