Changing Vision Read online

  “I AM CALLED A LISHCYN, FEM ANISCO.

  “My species is from a system very distant from yours and this one.”

  “Why are you here, Lishcyn?”

  I put my hand on Paul’s shoulder. “We are interested in trade with your world.”

  She didn’t understand, I concluded from the way she reached for the main part of her translator and ran her fingers over some controls. Then she brought the device to her lips again.

  “Are you shifter?”

  It was only the unexpectedness of the question that kept me from reacting. Paul had stiffened under my hand. The Panacians folded their limbs in a posture that indicated resignation and patience.

  “I don’t understand the question,” I said reasonably, hoping I didn’t.

  “Are you shifter?” she asked again.

  “There’s an unidentified problem with the translation machine, Fem Ki,” C’Tlas offered. “Just say no and she’ll move on.”

  I looked at the Feneden, held the device to my lips, and numbly answered: “No. I am not a shifter.”

  The Feneden took the device from me and began to pass it to Paul. I closed my fingers around the memory of it, knowing the purity of my genetic disguise, trying to assure myself this was, as C’Tlas said, probably a glitch in the translation.

  On the other hand, “shifter” could refer to web-talents and the device about to be given to Paul could be some kind of detector. And Paul was wearing the medallion which held a little bit of me in my pure form.…

  The Finest in DAW Science Fiction

  by JULIE E. CZERNEDA:

  THE CLAN CHRONICLES:

  Stratification:

  REAP THE WILD WIND (#1)

  RIDERS OF THE STORM (#2)

  RIFT IN THE SKY (#3)

  The Trade Pact Universe:

  A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)

  TIES OF POWER (#2)

  TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)

  ***

  SPECIES IMPERATIVE:

  SURVIVAL (#1)

  MIGRATION (#2)

  REGENERATION (#3)

  ***

  WEB SHIFTERS:

  BEHOLDER'S EYE (#1)

  CHANGING VISION (#2)

  HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)

  ***

  IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS

  Julie E. Czerneda

  CHANGING

  VISION

  Copyright © 2000 by Julie E. Czerneda.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-64519-2

  Cover art by Luis Royo.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1160.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution 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, August 2000

  For Jennifer Lynn Czerneda

  This has been the hardest one yet to write, which seems only fair. It was an impossible task from the start. I can’t possibly distill the love and pride I feel for you into mere words. I’ve tried several times and failed. Perhaps if I had an immense and lovely lake into which I could toss diamonds…or some way to coat the near side of the Moon with sapphires…or…you can see my problem. The canvas isn’t remotely big enough.

  So I’ll just tell you this, Princess: your Dad and I knew you were something special from the moment you opened your wise blue eyes. You’ve grown into a spectacular woman: bright, loving, and marvelously brave. May you have joy and adventures as well as warm, comfy moments—and remember, the way home is through our hearts.

  Mom

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Book four. The most fun yet! I’d need a lot more room to respond to all the kindnesses done to me this year, but I’ll do my best.

  Thank you, Sheila Gilbert, for your extraordinary efforts to read manuscript during the millennium rollover, despite house construction and visitors. You caught all my lazy and shy spots, improving this story immensely. A special thanks to my alpha reader, Roxanne BB Hubbard, for thoughtful edits and thumping at the right moments.

  I’d like to thank the original Lefebvre, Chase, and Sandner for kindly letting me use their names, brave souls. I promised no maiming, but, for the record, your fictional characters have nothing to do with the real you (except any nice bits).

  I must single out a particular bunch for their wonderful support and encouragement this past year: my newsgroup. If I’d known all these talented and interesting folks would be there, I’d have jumped in sooner. While I can’t possibly fit you all, I’d like to thank Janet BF Chase, Annette Griessman, Jason FFTS Simcoe, Kim McLean, Beverley Meincke, Matt & Karen Cecile, Nicole Hare, Ruth Stuart, Samuel Paik, Iris Peace, David Brukman, Lara Herrera, Liz Bennefeld, Michael Picray, Tim Bowie, Don Bassie, and Alan Mietlowski. And Anne Bishop, who drops in to kindly share the fun and herself.

  My sincere thanks to all those who were so very excited for me during my run at the Campbell Award, including James Van Pelt, Nalo Hopkinson, Cindy Huckle, and Lyn McConchie.

  My thanks to everyone at DAW Books, especially Sean, Debra, and Amy. I’m very happy to finally acknowledge the most able and thoughtful work of Paula Greenberg, who copyedits all of my manuscripts, alien names and all. And Luis, you keep getting better. Wow!

  Thanks, Jennifer and Scott. Your encouragement and interest makes this a joy for me. (Not to mention your skill at sneaking into my office to see if I’m really working.)

  And thank you, Roger. For what this time? For everything.

  CONTENTS

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  Chapter 1: Office Morning; Warehouse Night

  Chapter 2: Office Afternoon

  Chapter 3: Cliff’s Edge Night

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  Chapter 4: Cliff’s Edge Night; Shipcity Morning

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  Chapter 5: Restaurant Morning

  Chapter 6: Conservatory Afternoon

  Chapter 7: Starship Night

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  Chapter 8: Starship Afternoon; Hiveworld Night

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  Chapter 9: School Morning; School Afternoon

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  Chapter 10: School Afternoon

  Chapter 11: School Night; School Morning

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  Chapter 12: School Morning; Sanctum Afternoon

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  Chapter 13: School Afternoon

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  Chapter 14: School Night; Starship Midnight

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  Chapter 15: Freighter Night; Shipcity Night

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  Chapter 16: Starship Morning; Starship Night

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  Chapter 17: Warship Morning

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  Chapter 18: Galley Morning

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  Chapter 19: Galley Afternoon; Cabin Night

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  Chapter 20: Warship Night

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  Chapter 21: Flight Deck Night

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  Chapter 22: Chartroom Night

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  Chapter 23: Brig Night: Flight Deck Night

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  Chapter 24: Flight Deck Morning; Shuttle Afternoon

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  Chapter 25: Freighter Morning

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  Chapter 26: Hold Night; Hydroponics Night

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&nb
sp; Chapter 27: Tank Afternoon

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  Chapter 28: Tank Night

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  Chapter 29: Hydroponics Morning

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  Chapter 30: Hydroponics Afternoon

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  Chapter 31: Hold Morning: Galley Afternoon

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  Chapter 32: Station Afternoon

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  Chapter 33: Festival Afternoon; Gallery Night

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  Chapter 34: Gallery Night

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  Chapter 35: Subbasement Night

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  Chapter 36: ’Digger Night

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  Chapter 37: Shipcity Morning

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  Chapter 38: Seaside Afternoon; Shuttle Afternoon

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  Chapter 39: Shuttle Night; Lounge Night

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  Chapter 40: Lounge Morning

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  Chapter 41: Asteroid Afternoon

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  Chapter 42: Asteroid Afternoon

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  Chapter 43: Asteroid Night

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  Chapter 44: Asteroid Midnight

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  Chapter 45: Asteroid Morning

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  Chapter 46: Asteroid Afternoon

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  Chapter 47: Med Room Afternoon

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  Chapter 48: Storeroom Afternoon; Hydroponics Afternoon

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  Chapter 49: Hydroponics Afternoon

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  Chapter 50: Office Morning; Dump Afternoon

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  Chapter 51: Warehouse Afternoon

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  Chapter 52: Cliff’s Edge Night

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  “FIFTY years.”

  A drop of sweat coalesced on the bald head of the Human standing at the end of the long table, a drop large enough to create its own runnel over his forehead, hesitate in a bushy eyebrow, then push through to land in one eye. The Human blinked involuntarily, but remained stiffly at attention, as if pinned in place by the glare of the lights aimed his way. “You don’t appreciate the circumstances, sir. There are…”

  “Fifty years without a trace, without a sign, without proof, Project Leader Kearn.” Out of the shadows, fingernails drummed a staccato on the table, a seven-part rhythm oddly disturbing to those accustomed to a different number of fingers per hand. “Five decades in which this monster of yours—this evil incarnate—hasn’t shown itself. In which you’ve been unable to convince any of our predecessors that the only one in existence didn’t die that day.” There was a pause as the fingers opened a file. “No one here denies your scholarly accomplishments, Project Leader Kearn. Your research into, ah, yes, into the commonalities of the folklore concerning such creatures—among what I find a frankly astonishing number of species and cultures—has added greatly to our understanding of one another. You are to be commended.” The file was snapped closed. “But even you must admit actually hunting for this Esen Monster is a criminal waste of time and resources.”

  “It’s just a matter of time, Hom Slatth,” the Human named Lionel Kearn offered numbly, finding it hard to control his wild impatience. It was Her fault he was embarrassed like this over and over again; Her fault he had to constantly remind these bureaucrats and their lackeys of the danger posed by such utter alienness.

  It was Her fault he’d lost his first and only command fifty years ago.

  “I’ll bring you the evidence,” Kearn continued, fighting the tendency of his voice to develop a whining note. Sector Commissioner Slatth, as most Niderons, tended to a regrettable aggression when faced with weakness of any sort—even this smooth and sophisticated diplomat had inflated his nostril hood in instinctive threat several times during Kearn’s briefing. And the others here—three Humans, the bagful of Rands spilling off a chair, and a doleful pile of crystal at the end of the table he was supposed to believe was the representative from Picco’s Moon—well, none of them were any better. They’d lost patience with him and with his quest even more quickly than the last set.

  As he’d done many times before, Kearn consoled himself with the fact that his meandering through Commonwealth space brought him into differing jurisdictions quite regularly, insuring a fresh stream of politicians and the chance to continue his work.

  It also meant the same old arguments and resisting the same skepticism. “You’ve admitted my research has been extensive. I’ve found shapeshifter legends and horror stories everywhere. There must be more than one creature. And the Esen Monster can’t hide what She is,” Kearn insisted firmly. “Not forever.”

  “Forever isn’t an issue, Kearn,” Slatth almost hissed. “Your funding and career lasting to this particular year’s end is. Do we understand one another?”

  The pause following Slatth’s words lengthened as Kearn fumbled for some meaningful rebuttal. Before he could speak, one of the other Humans from the meeting took advantage of his hesitation. “For all of this,” the committee member from Inhaven poked a stylo dismissively at the huge stack of plas disks and other reports Kearn had willingly supplied. “For all of this, Project Leader, I remain unconvinced you are correct in attributing the events you witnessed to some biological entity. How could such a being exist outside of fairy tales? Is it not more likely your so-called monster was a Kraal device: some new weapon tech being tested? You know how paranoid they can be about their military secrets. I’ve heard rumors of a so-called ‘Nightstalker’ device—a terrifying biological weapon the five major family clans abandoned as too dangerous, although I believe the term they used was ‘inelegant.’ Isn’t this device more likely than some mythological monster, Hom Kearn?”

  “Respectfully, sirs,” Kearn couldn’t help rolling his eyes and kept his hands at his side with an effort that left him feeling dizzy. “The Kraal have been most supportive of my search. They supplied several of the most detailed eyewitness accounts—”

  “My point exactly, Project Leader Kearn,” the speaker continued. Sandner, that was his name, a lean older Human who had been a merchant at one time and still claimed to have close ties in the Fringe. Then why didn’t he remember the panic? Kearn asked himself bitterly. The loss of life, the abandoned ships: it had all begun in the Fringe, moving from its almost unpopulated mining systems to the more concentrated worlds of its boundary with the Commonwealth. Or did those on humanity’s frontier have selective memories of their past? a suspicion Kearn almost said out loud, before closing his lips over what was wisely kept private.

  “All I’m asking is your permission to move through these next three systems,” Kearn said instead, blinking another drop of sweat from his eyes. “Some cooperation from local authorities, your approval to open the records I need—that’s all.”

  “And funding.” This from Slatth, who pushed a long plas sheet with a detailed supply list into the nearest circle of light on the dark table. There was a rustle as the rest reached for their own copies, followed by discouragingly discordant chimes and other sounds as they started to reread his requests.

  Requests? Those were the absolute essentials—the list a pared-down version of the minimum needed to keep his ship, crew, and search underway. Kearn swallowed. This group was going to be tougher than the last two; perhaps they’d already decided against him and were merely trotting out their excuses.

  There was no thought in his mind of ending his quest. He would find Esen and the rest of Her kind, even though they could travel through space, hide in any form, or rip apart a starship as casually as he might peel a piece of fruit. He would find them. They would no longer be a threat to the Commonwealth.

  Even if he had to do it alone.

  1: Office Morning; Warehouse Night

  FIFTY years.

  A teardrop in an ocean as my species experienced time.


  A quarter of a life span for the being whose image smiled back at me from the clutter on my desk. Through his eyes, it had been time enough for maturity, for a new generation to begin, for a swift series of years to bind us as close as the strands of my former Web.

  I cleared a space on my desk by the simple expedient of shoving the centermost pile of plas and tapes to the floor, then placed the small, carved box within the opening. Habit made me listen for sounds from the outer office, take a quick look around. I was alone. The rest of the staff of Cameron & Ki Exports would be coming in later; my friend and partner, Paul Ragem—now known as Paul Cameron—usually spent the morning over at the shipcity dickering with traders.

  I tapped the side of the box once. Its opaque sides folded open, revealing a small medallion inscribed with our company’s logo: our names entwined about a starship, the date added below. Tilting my head, I made myself examine it critically. Was the silver oval too plain or pleasing in its simplicity?

  Most importantly, would it perform its function? Only time, I thought, aware of the irony, would tell.

  I was still alone, but that privacy wouldn’t last. I didn’t so much have an office and run a business as I orchestrated within a pit usually filled with a cheerful pack of Humans and other beings, all of whom considered me less an employer than an eccentric and generous aunt they could cajole into almost anything. That their opinion was quite accurate and I had the business acumen of a Quebit was beside the point. The staff were bold and curious at the best of times. It was, oddly enough, a very good environment for someone with secrets.

  Such as this medallion, which I opened with no further hesitation.

  And what I did next.

  I released my hold on this body, discarding Esolesy Ki the Lishcyn but not the Esen of my core, warming the surrounding air slightly with the exothermic result, exulting in the expansion of sensation and relief of effort as my molecular self assumed its true configuration: the teardrop webform of my kind.

  My kind. I drifted in the luxury of perfect memory, reliving the time when I had been one of six, that six as much a single entity as different personalities and goals could become.