Hidden in Sight (12 page)

Her finger paused over a small square of yellow, then covered it for a moment.

7: Dump Afternoon; Tunnel Afternoon

THERE were moments I could swear I didn't just remember Ersh, but could hear her voice ringing in my head. An ephemeral conceit, perhaps. Right now, that voice, imagined or not, was loud and aggrieved:
And
this
is how you remain inconspicuous?

Since I was presently diving for cover along with a barful of drunken beings, or those still conscious, while trying to keep my eyes and ears fixed on Paul as he did the same, I thought it a bit much to have my subconscious scold me for the effort. But I conceded the point. There wasn't much inconspicuous about a huge lump of Lishcyn crashing through furniture in search of a hiding place. It might have helped had there been another Lishcyn within three systems.

The Rrhysers, waiters and all, were remarkable in their absence, obviously conceding Dribble's Trough was due for thorough reconstruction. The Ganthor were still talking, though with the amount of steamy mucus being flung about, it seemed unlikely they'd restrain themselves for long.

“It seems to be a case of *Herd-theft!*” Paul shouted and clicked, having made his way to where I crouched.

“Where's Meony-ro?”

“With Hom Wolla.” His arm shot past my snout to point at the end of the main room, where what appeared to be a large chartreuse bag was draped across part of the bar, displacing the arrangement of varied consumables in large bowls. I could just make out a Humanish figure beside it. Ah. Our missing Kraal.

No wonder I hadn't found the Iedemad,
I thought with disgust. He was still in his osmo-suit. Wolla must be one of the semi-insane and understandably rare salt addicts who preferred to take his fix through his digestive tract.
Ersh.

“We can't stay here,” Paul insisted, reasonably. As if knowing reason wasn't enough, he was also pulling at my arm. I didn't budge. “Esen, let's go!”

“Just a moment,” I requested, studying the Herds.
Something wasn't right.

The Herd which must have entered Dribble's right behind me consisted of a Matriarch, her Second, and three others. All were heavily armed, with ammunition-filled bandoliers crisscrossing their chests. Mercenaries.

Fine-looking ones at that. Successful, by the investment they carried on their bodies and the healthy rolls of fat rippling beneath their hides. The Matriarch, though scarred around her snout and over both shoulders, was of magnificent size. All five held their right hands curled before their chests, horned digits from that hoof ready to click. That they'd stopped clicking was ominous. Mucus bubbled from every snout as they strained information about one another from the polluted air of the bar.

I looked at the second Herd. No doubt as to the culprits in the *Herd-theft!* A dozen individuals: another Matriarch, two Seconds, underlings busy pushing at one another but staying in a protective circle. A poorer Herd: armed with secondhand gear; members thin, pockmarked, and, in one case, missing an arm that should have been replaced. No wonder they'd stolen their prize.

The object of dispute and desire stood in the center of their circle, taller than the others, a strapping, unscarred youth in his early prime. Without smelling him, I couldn't be sure, but his body posture seemed confused. He should be accepting his new Herd or struggling to return to what must be his own; instead, he rocked slowly from one foot to the other, snout aimed downward. He wasn't even smelling the air.

“He's been drugged,” I said to Paul, suddenly sure. Not a Ganthor tactic. The oddness of his behavior was the key here, unsettling both his kidnappers and rescuers. Neither knew what to do beyond click insults at one another. For now.

Unsettled Ganthor were the deadly kind. What should be resolved by a bit of bump and bruise, followed by snouts deep in beer and sly liaisons between the higher ranks, could well turn into a firefight—especially between Herds with sufficient ordnance to level this part of the Dump. While that might not be a waste, in terms of urban renewal, it definitely wasn't something to stay around and watch. My usually shaggy scales began to swell and close, an admirable defense against bug bites and surly relatives, if ridiculously ineffective against disrupter or blast globe.

Paul obviously agreed, having continued to tug at me, now digging in his feet and using both hands. “Let's get out of here, Esen. Now!”

Finally, I let him pull us into the general stampede for the main doors. It didn't get very far. There was an obstruction—something happening at the entrance. I was tall enough to make out what appeared to be a scuffle. Several Rrhysers were trying to prevent Humans in black battle gear from entering. The authorities? In the Dump? Whoever they were, the patrons of Dribble's able to see these new arrivals reacted with predictable paranoia, cursing as they turned and began pushing back toward us. Which meant toward the enraged Ganthor.

Somehow I held onto my Lishcyn-form as well as Paul, frantically dumping heat as I fought the instinct to cycle into something better able to struggle to safety through the now-panicked crowd. My broad, semiwebbed feet probably crushed as many toes as stepped on mine. I gave up trying to apologize.

“This way.” Somehow I heard Paul's calm voice through the bedlam. He was taking us into one of the chambers, the one decorated in lurid orange.

I protested: “The roof—I brought an aircar—”

“Too late. They'll be—” I missed all but: “—take the lava tubes.”

Then Paul was torn from my grip.

I cleared my line of sight by the simple expedient of picking up the being closest to me and flinging him, with another apology, into the group of Humans blocking my view. They went down in a heap.

Meony-ro!
I sagged with relief, now able to see the Kraal hurrying Paul through a previously hidden door—explaining the former location of a large and truly vile wall hanging. That must be the way into the underground tubes and tunnels. No sign of Hom Wolla; likely the blissed Iedemad hadn't noticed the impending riot.

Now a war.
My famed hearing caught the unmistakable whine of a disruptor charging to fire. I flung myself on top of the groaning Humans as some tried to rise, quite sure they'd thank me later. Better bruises and a temporary loss of lung capacity than Ganthor cross fire. I covered my ears, grateful Paul and Meony-ro were safe.

Otherwhere

 

 

... was all Lionel Kearn had wanted from life, not so long ago. To hear that someone believed him, to have someone share his fear of the Esen Monster and the terrible danger she and her predatory kind—Shifters—were to intelligent life. To see his commitment to end that threat reflected in another's eyes.

His hands, soft and pale, clenched around one another until his nails left bright red marks in the skin.

Under his hands was a report, as precise and wordy as any of the academic papers filling Kearn's shelves and piled by his desk. A report from his new assistant, Michael Cristoffen.

Assistant?
Kearn's hands flew apart and rubbed over his shiny scalp.
Disciple. Goad. Nightmare.

The report outlined actions taken, meetings held, next steps. Kearn's eyes squeezed shut as if he could erase the truth between those sickening layers of euphemism.

His fawning, talented protégé had committed murder and would expect him to be pleased.

Oh, not that Cristoffen could be accused or convicted.
It had been self-defense. No doubt Zoltan Duda had threatened, then fired a weapon. Cristoffen had appended the Port Authority findings concerning the event, having quite properly, if anonymously, alerted them.

Nothing on the plas pages on Kearn's desk suggested Cristoffen had gone to that meeting hoping for exactly that outcome, had orchestrated Zoltan's death before leaving the
Russell III
, had committed the perfect murder.

But Kearn feared it was so.

He forced his hands from his head, hopefully before the rubbing inflamed the rashes on his scalp again. A new cream was helping, but only when he could control the nervous habit.
Given Cristoffen's presence on board,
Kearn sighed,
it was likely to get worse
.

The Human stood, turning away from his desk, and stared at himself in the mirror, wondering why the changes there hadn't changed anything else. The ill-fitting uniform he'd worn every day for fifty years was gone, replaced by dark blue tunic and pants of Iftsen-weave, the plain fabric pleasingly soft. He stood straighter and ran one hand down his chest and belly, feeling the firmness there; drew a breath, and felt the smooth movement of air through lungs that served him well during his runs with Timri, when only a year ago he'd had trouble lasting minutes. His face?

Kearn scowled and watched the expression wipe the haunted weariness from his eyes, tuck away the new lines around his mouth, and fail to make him look the least bit intimidating.

Nothing really changes
, he told himself, letting the scowl fade to confusion. He still needed to fear and suspect the goals of everyone around him.

8: Tunnel Afternoon

THE Humans hadn't thanked me. Not that I cared.
I had more to worry about.

I was in Paul's tunnel. I hadn't found Paul, or Meony-ro, or even the reprehensible Wolla—a being I chose to blame for everything happening around me.
A target made muttering more satisfying
. The tunnel had been the easy part, since most of the occupants of Dribble's not involved in fighting with one another or dodging battle-mad Ganthor had run, leaped, hopped, slithered, or bulled their way into it.

I'd only to follow along.

I'd followed, wedged between a singing Ervickian and a sullen, limping Human, down crude stairs that showed all the design foresight of an accident, into this maze. Behind us, the sounds of what should have been a more-or-less friendly barroom brawl began to include screaming as well as concussive explosions.

I should have cycled into anything but this form before coming to Dribble's; I should have listened when Paul wanted to leave in the first place; I should have—I focused on the beam of light as it fought its way along the floor. Floor? It was a pool of stygian black, slick and deadly cold beneath my feet. I—

Ersh
, I pleaded inwardly, as if she could hear me—or would do anything but chime her scorn if she did—
let me hold myself together for another minute.

I'd found it wise not to ask for too much at once.

My ears flicked back and forth constantly. It wasn't all terror at the darkness on every side, at what lurked there—though my night-blind Lishcyn-self knew beyond doubt that anything dimmer than twilight held creatures with teeth: hungry, Lishcyn-eating creatures, with long, needlelike teeth. Venom-oozing fangs were always a distinct possibility. No, I listened to more than my imagination and the roiling sounds of my stomachs. I listened to my train of followers. Having the only light—and refusing to surrender it in no uncertain terms—had put me in charge.

I could really learn to detest that slug of an Iedemad.

By such careful listening, in the rare moments when someone wasn't snarling threats, ejecting bodily fluids intentionally or otherwise, or singing in complete oblivion to danger, I'd determined I was now escorting eight soggy drunks beneath the Dump.

Coms didn't work down here; whether jammed deliberately by those in the buildings over our heads or by nature, didn't matter. Fortunately for the eight, and unfortunately for me, I did know where I was going. These tubes ran parallel to one another, more or less, having formed as lava poured down the seaward slope of the valley floor. The outer shell of lava had cooled first, while the inner stream kept flowing through and past, leaving these hollow cavities behind. The intersecting tunnels we kept passing had nothing to do with volcanism, being dug by those who thought they'd found the perfect hiding place or, more likely, escape routes.

Adding random tunneling to the recorded tendency of this roof to join the floor? I steadied the lamp in my hand and tried not to think in terms of stability and structural strength. After all, the Dump itself was an exercise in building by what remained standing, so one could hardly expect better in its basement.

Basement?
An unmarked, deliberately deceitful labyrinth. At least my gaggle of inebriants could follow me to safety. My Human had detailed maps of the maze. He judged them reliable, though the source was one of Diale's cronies and I had serious reservations about anyone who'd claim that lawless and quite impolite tech dealer as friend. Paul, however, had an obsession for escape routes and insisted I look at the maps. For a web-being of perfect memory, once seen was enough.

This way, I decided, would take us to the nearest surface exit to Cameron & Ki. We were already walking slightly uphill.

Unfortunately for me, I couldn't abandon the others, tempting as the thought grew each time one of them started arguing about the direction, or ejected more bodily fluids. But Paul would not approve.