Hidden in Sight

Table of Contents

 

“Julie Czerneda's novels ignite my sense of wonder, from the amazing worlds she creates, to the fully realized aliens and likable characters. I eagerly await her next.”—Kristen Britain, author of
Green Rider

“The plot of
Beholder's Eye
will strike chords with readers familiar with the work of C. J. Cherryh or Hal Clement, but Czerneda stamps this with her own style, proving that a story told from the viewpoint of an alien race is worth reading when properly handled.”—
Starlog

“It's all good fun, a great adventure following an engaging character across a divertingly varied series of worlds, with just a bit of unfulfilled romantic tension for spice.”
—Locus

“The unusual premise and excellent writing combine to make . . . a wonderfully entertaining book. Czerneda uses the opportunity to create widely different species, a far cry from the cookie-cutter critters found in so much science fiction.”
—SF Site

 

IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS

Web Shifters:
BEHOLDER'S EYE (#1)
CHANGING VISION (#2)
HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)
The Trade Pact Universe:
A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)
TIES OF POWER (#2)
TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)

Copyright © 2003 by Julie E. Czerneda.

eISBN : 978-1-101-46467-0

 

 

 

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First Printing, April 2003

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES —MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.

S.A.

For Mistybrig's Kobayashi Maru

 

(March 12, 1989—November 11, 2002)

Hi Kobay. I know I'll reach down and expect to sink my fingers into your sun-warmed fur when I write by the pond next spring. You've snoozed beside me through all my books, after the required theatrical sigh whenever I appeared with paper in hand. I know I'll forget and call you when I'm heading for the garden. You were never convinced this was a reasonable activity, but would always try to help, as long as your paws stayed clean and no hose was in sight. I know above all I'll miss your beautiful face—how your eyes would light up when we asked you to do a trick (“Boulder!”) or herd squirrels, and how you'd tilt your head just so when listening to us talk, quite willing and able to hum in answer.

In memory of long walks, Christmas presents, and soccer balls, to the best dog a family could love.

Go to bed, Kobay. Good boy.

And thank you.

My seventh novel! My third about a certain blob's attempts to understand humanity. DAW's thirtieth anniversary and my fifth as one of their authors. Numbers are amazing things, especially when behind them stands the amount of support, enthusiasm, and friendship I've received while writing this book.

My thanks to Sheila Gilbert for “loving” the ending. I'm saving that message. I'd like to thank Kim McLean for her help causing mayhem with volcanic tubes and Dr. Isaac Szpindel for confirming some nose work. Thanks, Roxanne Hubbard, for speedy reading! And thank you, Luis Royo, for another stunning cover. I'd also like to acknowledge Wendy Cheatham (G'leep) for Z'ndraa, her wonderful alien and his music, and Saturne, for the poem which formed the lyrics.

Several kind folks lent their names to this story. As usual, there is no resemblance intended to the real owners of these names, although they are welcome to claim any nice bits. My thanks to Zoltan Duda (who I hear is a terrific pilot), Maren (Neram) Henry, Ruth Stuart, Susan Lehman, M.T. O'Shaughnessy (Uriel), and Pat Lundrigan (on behalf of his father, Alphonsus Lundrigan).

I do sneak in tributes to the work I love by other authors or filmmakers. This time, however, I would like to especially thank all those involved in making
Farscape
. You've set a new standard for storytelling in our genre, as well as inspired my own writing every week.

My sincere thanks to all those who hosted me at events this past year. While I can't mention them all, I must thank Donna Young and the staff of the Wright's Center, as well as Dr. Tom Easton and the enthusiastic educators who attended
Space Science XVII: Cosmology.
My thanks also to Rhonda Normore, Robin McQueen, and Vick Steel, as well as all the students and teachers in Fort McMurray, for valuing science fiction and my work.

Scott? Knowing you've been happy has been a tremendous help, believe me, as were your emails of encouragement. Jennifer? I hope you like this one too, and thank you for all the times you took over and looked after us while I was story-bound. Roger? I've no idea how you put up with me as I finish a story, but you always know what to do to make it easy. Thank you.

Otherwhere

FINGERS stroked death. They ran lightly along its edge, explored its flawless surface, caressed its hilt. Finally, they opened. The knife fell on the tabletop with an angry ring of metal to stone.
Failure was inefficient.

“I was expecting more—progress.” The voice was like the knife, flawless, smooth, and as deadly.

The one bringing the report nodded. “As were we. There is an admirable level of paranoia in our subjects, Eminence.” The Kraal touched the tattoos on both cheeks, bowing deeply. “We regret our lack of success.”

“As do I.”
Inconvenient, to find the Youngest this careful. Yet reassuring.

Another sat at the stone table, reflected by its polished black surface; her hands, almost as dark as the stone, pressed themselves flat on the tabletop. Pa-Admiral Mocktap, tattoos glowing white against her skin, waited with unusual patience. Her ships did the same. The tattoos were marks of loyalty and obedience; the patience—perhaps—came from familiarity. Trust wasn't a word used by Kraal.
A comforting congruence.

An ally of her own would be
expedient
. The trap into which foolish Esen had fallen—continued to fall.

She
would not make that mistake

“Time to flush our prey from its lair,” the deadly, flawless voice decided.

1: Cliffside Afternoon

“YOU made that up,” I accused.

“It's the truth, Es. I swear on my father's grave.”

I eyed my Human friend with deep suspicion, all too familiar with that too-innocent look. “Your father isn't dead,” I reminded him.

“Picky, picky,” he grinned. “Okay. I swear on my grandmother's grave. Noah and I really did swim in the Chidtik Ocean without suits.”

“The body of your paternal grandmother was sent into the sun of her birth system, Hendrick,” I countered. “That of your maternal grandmother was recycled, by her wish, into an exact replica of her favorite sofa. She is now gathering dust in your Uncle Sam's attic because no one in the family can bring themselves to sit on her. So you can't use their graves either.” I paused to scowl. “No Human—even one so reckless as you seem to have been in your youth—would swim in the Chidtik without an environment suit.”

The fine lines at the corners of Paul Cameron's eyes crinkled ever so slightly. “How do you remember all that trivia—No, stop. Dumb question. You remember everything.” He leaned back, stretching his arms up to cushion his head against the stone. We were enjoying a rare moment of peaceful weather—in other words, the wind curling the clouds in front of our porch was whining instead of howling—and Paul was relishing every moment. Including this latest effort to persuade me of yet another impossible feat from his past. If he'd actually done all the things he claimed, it was quite remarkable he'd lived long enough to meet me, Esen-alit-Quar, Esen for short, Es in a hurry, or between dear friends.

“There may have been some mitigating circumstances,” Paul ventured peacefully.

“Such as?” I rolled over on my stomach to better watch his face.

“A night of rain, a surfboard, and a keg of local beer.” He paused, then nodded. “And some tall boots. I distinctly remember there were boots. I've no idea whose, but they did come in handy.”

I was growing convinced despite my common sense, and shivered though the sun was warm on my shoulders and back. A temporary layer of fresh water on top of that caustic ocean, a board to keep most of his body from the depths, boots to protect his feet from the scalpel-sharp crystals that passed as beach sand to the unwary visitor. It was possible after all.