Hidden in Sight (29 page)

The tip of my tail thumped on the carpet. “Use them or lose them.”
My clever Human.

“I try.”

“So we have one hundred and ten duplicate machines, waiting to help us make sense of the universe. Not a coincidence, is it, that those machines are the best way for us to find out if their owners betrayed us?” I considered the concept and wrinkled my snout. “I do believe even Skalet would have approved. You are a devious being, Human.”

“Me?” The flash of a grin. “Just trying to be ready for anything, although you do make that difficult, Old Blob. Life with you is—well, it's never dull.”

“And I suppose you'd prefer boring and predictable?” I teased, then regretted the words immediately.

Paul merely lifted his hand and measured a small distance with his finger and thumb. “I could use a smidge,” he confessed.

I pretended I'd found room for more of the brownie. “I'll see what I can do,” I promised my first friend, doing my best to force down the mouthful I truly hadn't needed. “We'll rest here for a few weeks, then surface and get to a translight com. You can start investigating—”

Paul reached over and ruffled the hair behind my right ear. “Web-thinking,” he said in a light voice, but his gray eyes were serious. “Ephemeral trails grow cold much faster, Esen. We act more quickly, too. Days may count, if we need to be warning those in danger. I don't think either of us wants safety at the expense of others.”

Well
, I thought morosely,
one of us might give it serious consideration.
“Tomorrow, then.” I leaned into his hand as he switched to my left ear. “As long as all this isn't just to spend more time with that female. You did say she'll be taking that Busfish. I,” I reminded him virtuously, “have a perfect memory.”

Paul grinned. “Unnecessary. We're meeting for supper—hey, don't bite!”

As I'd only sat up quickly, with my mouth firmly closed, I thought this admonishment uncalled for and didn't dignify it with a response.

Otherwhere

 

 

THE trouble with being a law-abiding, peaceful species was the difficulty convincing others of your intention to act in a lawless and forceful manner.

The Tumblers sent what they considered an intimidating ultimatum to all flesh-burdened aliens on their world, stating, in no uncertain terms and three hundred pages of comscript, that “the climactic moment of departure will echo in a pleasing and memorable harmony for which all Tumblers shall be forever grateful.”

Most aliens filed it under religious dogma, though there was some amused debate about rocks and sexual cycles among the Ervickians. A trio of Human traders, having overheard this debate—being at the same bar and, while not as affected by juice, definitely not tracking on all channels—paid for translight transmission of the ultimatum to several pharmaceutical companies, hoping to be first to corner the market for gem dust aphrodisiacs.

Frustrated, the Tumblers sent a delegation of Elders to chime in ominous and telling discord around the shipcity.

There was an undignified rush of the flesh-burdened from their ships to follow the delegation and collect their ritual leavings, followed by notes professing gratitude and hoping for a similar delegation every day.

The unauthorized throwing of ritual leavings at the flesh-burdened by younger Tumblers only produced more messages of goodwill and happiness. There was also a flood of outgoing coded messages similar in tone to that from a Largas freighter captain, exhorting friends and relatives to hurry and join the rush. As a result, not only did every ship remain, but more arrived every day.

Distraught, the Tumblers leaned to necessity and decided to do what so many misunderstood and distressed species had done before them: fight fire with fire.

Or, in this case, call for Ganthor.

18: Restaurant Night; Happy House Night

It hadn't required the memory of Ersh's disapproval or of Paul's reproachful gray eyes from similar occasions to make me aware. This time, I knew my transgression well beforehand.

Sculling more with my left set of swimmerets than my right aimed me at a pair of suited Prumbins. By their substantial waistlines, these were permanent residents enjoying a well-planned and vigorous retirement. They probably never used the dry corridors, where they'd have to attempt to walk for themselves, and stayed in the pond-style suites where they could float without need of suits. I spared a moment to wonder if elderly Prumbins ever missed the sun, or if it was such a relief to be able to move they were willing to pay that price.

The issue of cost was something on my mind a great deal lately. The cost of friendship; the cost of trust.
What was it about this female that made Paul willing to risk such things again?

It wasn't attraction. Not that my Human was immune to seduction, but he was too wise to fall into that particular trap. I'd learned that to my chagrin when I'd tried to “help” him resist the infamous Janet Chase.

No, Paul sought this Wendy Cheatham's company—or allowed her to seek his—in order to learn something.

The Prumbins moved more slowly than I'd have liked, but their bulk provided admirable cover as the current swept us all closer to the restaurant where Paul and this female were dining. There was nothing more I could do to disguise myself. I'd looked for other Oietae, hoping to avoid Paul's notice in a crowd, but so far I'd found only mating groups uninterested in anyone Too-Young. Plus, form-memory had reproduced the Greeter's address on my shell in demeaning detail. I might as well carry a sign saying: Runaway Child—take me home!

I wanted home. Home was my web-kin, or as close as I could possibly get to Paul without being caught.

I was
, I feared,
acting precisely my age.

I sculled faster to keep up as my Prumbins began to hurry, perhaps sensing they were close to a source of more mass to accumulate. It didn't help me escape my conscience, but I was used to ignoring it.

No matter where you were, restaurants for airbreathers seemed to contain plant growth as well as pillars or archways. I remained uncertain how the combination helped the digestion of anything but a herbivore fearing aerial predation, but was grateful this one followed tradition, since I hoped either pillar or plant might hide one small Oieta from view. It was a new section of the Happy House; the Grub Grotto wasn't a name Ansky would have chosen for a dining area—another indication, had I needed it, that this restaurant had been added by its Prumbin caretakers after my birth-mother had died as an Artican.

Skalet had judged Ansky's death proof of the folly of interacting with ephemerals, and had dared threaten Paul.
The only argument I'd ever won with my web-kin had to be moments before her own death.
Yet, I thought, because of Paul, I alone had survived.

Despite its pragmatic Prumbin name, the Grub Grotto deserved its billing as the most sophisticated and elegant dining establishment along the Brim. Its ceiling was deeply concave; the floor bubbled up in the center as if eager to meet it. Both were clearfoil, opaqued only where tables and chairs ringed the floor—presumably so those seated could find their napkins when they dropped.
Mine always did.
The plunging sides of the fissure beneath the restaurant were bathed in gentle ultraviolet light, so diners could gaze down at the luminescent wildlife of the Abyss as it dined as well. Few bothered, because by looking up at the ceiling one could gaze into an area where brilliantly orange- and-black Oietae were, well, not dining.

From the wet corridor that circled the restaurant and led to its several air locks, I could see very well for myself that they weren't dining—not one of what could be over a hundred individuals, depending on when you looked.

Technically, they were eating. I ate with every pulse of water directed past my mandibles.
What else could you expect from filter-feeders?
These Oietae, however, also were busily engaged in the most sensual aquatic ballet imaginable. I'd have turned orange myself just from watching, if I hadn't had other things on my mind. As it was, I stared long enough to lose my Prumbin escort and had to swim furiously to catch up to a sled of luggage being towed by an attendant.

There!
I did my best to stop quickly, which isn't easy when you are in a current to start with and that current is filled with other beings using it to move around you as quickly as possible.

Paul and his companion weren't hard to spot. Both were tall and, I had to admit, admirable specimens for their species. They were also the only Humans in the Grub Grotto, something, I also had to admit, that made the task of finding them easier.

As I'd hoped, their table was partially and conveniently screened from the wet corridor by a fystia bush—a specimen with a highly unlikely number of blossoms. I supposed the Prumbins tied on extra blooms so their deep, dark paradise gave visitors the requisite aura of plenty. Still, the plant was more than large enough to hide one Oieta—given I could reach it without being noticed, and resist the current in order to keep in place once I did.

The luggage sled served the first task admirably, although the Prumbin towing it had begun to look over its shoulder at me as if growing worried about my intentions.

It might have worried more, had it realized what I was doing while alongside.

I'd found very few advantages to being young in form, while mature in mind. Put another way, few forms allowed me to interact with other adults as the adult I was.
Or would be soon,
I added, inclined to self-honesty. Rarest of all was a form where being young was to my advantage, as now.

Newly-hatched Oietae were sessile creatures, staying glued to their original kin cluster for several molts. Old Oietae retired to this peaceful lifestyle, although they then had to suffer the attachment and attitude of every new generation until calcification. I was young enough to have the remnants of my holdfast under my second-to-last segment. By scraping away the accumulated keratin, which I managed to do while swimming with the luggage—
multiple limbs came in handy
—I was able to expose some of its sticky surface.

Ready, I waited until the current brought luggage, sled, Prumbin, and me opposite the fystia bush, then launched myself at the clearfoil between us, bottom-first.

It did work. The current tugged at me, but I was firmly glued to the clearfoil and not going anywhere.

Unfortunately, I'd missed the bush entirely and was now glued, head down, mid-limbs widespread, and antennae flailing, ocular-to-eyeball with Paul.

The Prumbins had, eventually and painfully, managed to scrape my nether end off the outside wall of their restaurant. Naturally, they'd ignored everything I said and proceeded to escort me to the office of Greeter Neram Marenelli Holdswisely, since her stamp showed so marvelously well against the glowing green of my humiliation.

Paul and his companion had been given another table. The only reaction from my Human had been to cover his mouth with one hand, quickly. I presumed he'd stifled a laugh; I didn't expect to find him still amused when I returned to our suite.

The Greeter hadn't been amused at all. She'd flared a solid crimson as the Prumbins had explained the situation and apparently intended to remain that color for the rest of the night. In its way, the red was every bit as intimidating as one of Ersh's famed silences while deciding what to do with me.

At least the water let me dump heat without any problems, though I had to be careful to stay down current from the Greeter. As this was only polite, given the situation, I felt in no danger of being exposed as anything but an utter disgrace to the Oietae species.

“If you were that interested in watching others mate,” Greeter Holdswisely said, for the seventh time, “you could have gone to the upper level and joined the other aquatics in the wet half of the restaurant, sparing us this embarrassment.”

“Yes, Greeter.” I found it amusing the Oieta hadn't considered for a moment that I might have been more interested in watching a pair of air-breathers, mating or otherwise, but kept the reaction to myself.
It never paid to show you were entertained by those scolding you, especially if the scolding was for your own good.

“However,” she continued furiously, “such interest is completely unseemly in the Too-Young. You should still be attached to your cluster!”

“Yes, Greeter.”