Changing Vision Page 7

  But I had heard and, regrettably for Chase, was physiologically incapable of forgetting a word. I smoothed the pleats of my issa-silk caftan over one broad thigh. However, I, at least, was civilized. Paul hadn’t signed any contract with this female, although I’d been disappointed by his lack of offense at her insults. To confuse me further, when he found out I’d listened to their argument, he’d been angry with me for a planetary week. Humans could be incredibly difficult.

  So, I thought, gathering my dignity, it was up to me to deal with this one. I passed the sheaf of plas sheets Chase gave me to Paul, not bothering to squint at them in this light, then turned my attention from her past faults to a suspicion I’d had since hearing of the Lass’s confrontation. “Was there any hint or sign that the Tly inspectors knew what you carried?” I asked her.

  Violet eyes narrowed in thought. “What do you mean?”

  We paused while the waiter gingerly placed a bowl of pyati in the middle of our table, a true feat to accomplish without sloshing the steaming liquid or its floating dollops of cream. Then the Octarian reached into a large pouch and rummaged noisily for a moment before bringing forth a cup for Paul, a long, troughlike spoon for Janet Chase, and a tall glass for me. With a satisfied-sounding mumble, the waiter left us.

  We sorted out the tableware. The spoon was for me, of course, and the glass a complete mistake: typical Circle Club service. Paul wrapped his hand towel—one hung from the side of each chair in lieu of napkins—around the glass to insulate it. Then we dipped our respective containers into the pyati and, with varying degrees of caution, took a reverent taste. It was, as always, superb. And one of the few beverages safe for almost all patrons, although it acted as a conveniently quick sedative to Carasians—something Ersh had assimilated for me from Ansky’s bar-hopping days in more biological detail than I’d required at the time.

  I licked cream from one tusk and continued: “Why the Vegas Lass? You’ve surely asked yourself that question—as have we.”

  “I’ve no idea.” Her eyes narrowed, her tone close to accusation. “Do you?”

  “What if they’d obtained your manifest?” I suggested mildly. It was one of many suspicions Paul and I had discussed before coming here this morning. “If so, perhaps the Tly confiscated your cargo not because of some violation, but because it contained exactly what they were after.”

  “That would be piracy,” Chase refuted, keeping her voice down, though I was intrigued to see one of her eyebrows move up. “The inspectors were authorized. I contacted the Office of the Tly Assembly myself before allowing them to grapple and board the Lass.”

  “Nicely done,” Paul said with approval and a glance at me.

  I’d never denied this Human’s abilities as a captain, although I found myself wondering what she’d planned to do in the event the inspectors hadn’t been authorized. Submit a complaint in triplicate before sucking vacuum? “What class vessel did you say they had?” I asked.

  Paul answered absently, having begun flipping through what looked to be over a hundred pages of very fine print. “Tly inspectors use Ultari scouts—fast, small, and cheap—the ones the Ultarians make in the thousands. Most of them even work.”

  “No,” Chase corrected him, her head tilting. She had yellow hair this visit insystem, and wore it in a series of cascading braids that reached to one shoulder. “That was another strange thing about this. They had one of the old military cruisers; it had to predate the disbanding. Sent a chill through the scan-techs, believe me, even if the weaponsbay was sealed.”

  Paul raised his head and looked at me. “Cargo space,” he commented dryly.

  “So the question becomes: was the Assembly after the cargo itself or to keep it from Inhaven Prime?” I didn’t have to include Chase in policy matters, and did so now less to include her, a spacer, in what was usually discussed planetside, than to impress Paul with my efforts to be diplomatic. From the attentive look on her face as she sipped more pyati, at least Chase appreciated the courtesy. “Any indication from the forms?” I asked Paul, seeing he’d stopped reading.

  “What we have here—” Paul answered grimly, setting his cup on top of the pile of sheets, “is a list of complaints filed by Tly against us, accompanied by a very strongly worded request for punitive action by Minascan Port Authority: improper stowage procedures, failure to pay customs, safety violations—” he waved one hand upward.

  “Trumped-up nonsense—”

  I held up my three fingers to silence the indignant captain. “Of course. But they are trying to tie us up with Port Authority. Again, why? To punish Cameron & Ki, and so Largas Freight? Or to hamper shipping to Inhaven Prime?”

  “What about your courier pouch? Did they take that as well?” Paul asked. I angled one ear his way, catching a carefully light tone in his voice, the one guaranteed to make me nervous.

  I reviewed my memories hastily. The Tly were quite welcome to read the business reports and merchandise offerings I’d put in the pouch—maybe they’d buy something from our latest catalog. What else could it be?

  Before I could ask the question or, better yet, find some excuse to be rid of our companion and ask Paul himself, Chase pulled a nondescript case from under her chair. It was the sort of carrier spacers everywhere used to bring personal items from ship to planetside accommodations. There were likely identical ones under most tables here. She answered Paul’s question as she arranged the case in front of her on the table: “Oh, they took the pouch. And the Quebit manuals filling it.”

  She flipped open the center flap of her bag, revealing its contents. Most looked familiar: our mail, some bundles wrapped around with red-and-white Largas’ tape—signifying ship-to-ship messages too personal, too silly, or too sensitive to trust to other means of communication, and an assorted pile that must be new mail the Vegas Lass picked up during her stopover at Panacia.

  I laughed before I could help it, but managed to turn my big head aside in time to protect my companions and the table from spraying pyati. She’d substituted Quebit manuals for our mail? Quebits took the art of manual writing to such extremes, legend held the first Human scholars who’d tried to decipher their written language had spent a lifetime working through what they’d hoped would be a definitive piece of Quebit culture. No one was quite ready to say it wasn’t, but the huge ancient text had proved to be a manual for installing a sewage system within a city. Quebits were methodical beyond a fault.

  Clever and vindictive. While I was by no means ready to forgive Chase’s past insults, this went a long way toward burying them.

  Oddly enough, Paul hadn’t so much as smiled. Instead he was staring at the bag of mail as though planning to grab it and run. What do you know that I don’t, my friend? I asked myself thoughtfully, saving the question for another time.

  Meanwhile, Chase didn’t seem to have noticed anything unusual about Paul’s behavior—a satisfying observation I charitably chose not to take further—instead reaching into the pile of Panacian mail to tug free one piece, a plain data cube such as we routinely used for reports having to travel through more than one system. One of the joys of a multispecies’ society was the lack of consistent communication between any given pair of technologies. These simple tap-and-store cubes were about as reliably transferable as a carving on a rock: the language would vary, but at least every species in the Commonwealth had the brute capability of extracting the script.

  “I knew how important this would be to Cameron & Ki—to you especially, Fem Ki,” Chase said, for once looking directly at me without a frown. Instead, she appeared unusually animated, as if what she held might make up for our past misunderstandings.

  Huh, I repeated to myself.

  Judging from Paul’s speculative look, this wasn’t what he’d been concerned about. I sensed he was still anxious. There was nothing overt in his behavior, unless it was how he made a bit too much of the challenge of dipping more pyati into his glass, but I could feel alarm doing a fine job on my insides.

&
nbsp; Nonetheless, I chose to be touched by Chase’s care for the message—whatever it was—or at least curious. “What is it?” I asked, making the logical assumption she knew enough about it to save me attempting to read it in this light.

  “It’s an announcement,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially and leaning forward. As if anyone could see us, let alone hear us back here, I thought with amusement, but leaned closer cooperatively, if unnecessarily. Obviously, Chase didn’t put much credit in the rumors of my hearing ability—which was just as well. “It’s about the Feneden,” Chase informed me almost breathlessly. “They’ve sent a delegation to D’Dsel. My contact’s heard they are interested in starting up some trade routes. No one expected anything like this so soon after first contact. It’s a fabulous opportunity for Cameron & Ki—”

  Unlike other species, a Lishcyn’s lower jaw could drop almost free on its lower elastic hinge; mine hit my chest with a clunk and a resultant spray of saliva my companions hastily mopped up with their towels.

  Feneden?

  An intelligent species I didn’t know?

  Something—someone—new in my universe? It had been seventy-four standard years, twenty-six days, and an irrelevant number of minutes since that had last happened, and the revelation had been contained in Ersh’s flesh as she shared that discovery, not bellowed in a restaurant by some arrogant Human female. I wasn’t sure if I was amazed or appalled. The latter, I decided numbly. One thing was clear, at least. The searching machines in my office had earned serious reprogramming.

  If this was true, the cube being toyed with in the Human’s slender fingers was the most significant thing to happen in my life in fifty years. What should I do?

  As if in answer, the cube was captured by a larger hand. “Thanks, Janet,” Paul said smoothly. “As you can tell,” this with a quelling look at me emphasized by a unnecessarily solid kick under the table, “my partner is overwhelmed by your thoughtfulness.”

  I used both hands—one would have been too unsteady—to lift my jaw into position. A snap of my head relocked the joint into its more customary and comfortable position. As I did so, I found my ears twisting every which way on my head, creating an annoying and distracting variation in sound as one moment, I was deafened by the clatter of utensils from the kitchen, and the next, felt my stomachs lurch in time with some being’s enthusiastic slurping. This form had never been so much trouble before. I could only blink apologetically at my dampened tablemates. “Overwhelmed,” I managed to echo. “That’s it.”

  Janet’s sudden absorption in her pyati implied she felt much the same. Or perhaps, like me, she was having trouble relating to the other life-forms around her. What, or rather who, were the Feneden? Had she not said first contact, I might have assumed the word was a derivative of some lesser-used term or even slang. Such appeared with as much warning as the purple domes of the local fungi after it rained.

  Thankfully, my self-absorption had stopped Paul’s assault on my feet. He made a show of stowing the cube in a chest pocket. “Our thanks again, Janet,” he said with more charm than I thought required. “We’ll let you know what happens with this. An incredible opportunity indeed.” Then, as she nodded and closed the case, preparing to replace it under her seat and out of the way, my friend reached out again and took a firm grip on the handle. “I’ll make sure these are taken care of,” he added, taking it away before she could open her mouth to object.

  “Captain,” I interjected, having no idea what Paul was up to, but presuming he wanted me to help deflect Chase from the apparently vital catalogs and other mail, “has Port Authority contacted you about the Tly’s charges since you came insystem?”

  “No, Fem Ki.” Chase pressed her lips together for an instant, glancing from one of us to the other with an expression that was too carefully polite to be called a scowl. So much for our moment of closeness, I thought without much regret. “They fired off that copy of the charges when we dropped out of translight. I’d made an appointment to meet with Trin som Lyt once planetside. Port Authority doesn’t make any decisions without her okay; we go way back, as you know. But Paul—Hom Cameron—told me to cancel it, so we could meet first.”

  At the moment, I could care less about Port Authority’s petty bureaucracy, the Tly’s piracy, or Captain Chase’s reaction to what she obviously viewed as our collusion against her. All were true. All were trivial compared to the word rolling under everything else: Feneden. A new species. If it hadn’t been for Paul’s strange concern for the mail pouch and its contents, I would have left already, pleading the usual: an upset in one or the other stomach. Being the only one of a species had distinct advantages when it came to making excuses to leave a shared table.

  This time, Paul beat me to it, tapping the credit slot on the table with a company chip to pay for what little we’d managed to enjoy, and making it clear we were about to cut the meeting short. “Leave it with us, Janet,” he said. “I’ll have Meony-ro go over these charges immediately—he’s our legal expert. By the end of the day, we’ll turn all this into a claim against Tly for your time and our losses. You’ll see.”

  Meony-ro? I managed to keep my ears and other body parts perfectly still this time, though what legal expertise Paul thought our clerk had, beyond a rumored familiarity with the wrong side of it, I couldn’t imagine. The Kraal was pleasant in a stoic way, and a good worker, if inclined to party with too much enthusiasm and expand my guest list to include his less-than-mannered friends. He was, I recalled, reasonably good at mechanical things. I squinted, wishing for enough light to read Paul’s eyes.

  I could, however, see him stand, and quickly followed suit. We should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

  “So that’s it,” Captain Chase said, staying seated, her voice about as warm as the eye of an Minascan ice hurricane. “I’m to go back to the ’Lass as if nothing’s happened. I’m to tell my crew—most of whom used to live on a certain world which no longer exists—that I knuckled under to the Tly, let them take our cargo, and came home to knuckle under again to this—” a fierce stab with her finger at the pile of plas sheets between us on the table.

  This was the Chase I knew and avoided whenever possible. I took a semi-discreet step backward, putting myself out of the ring of light and the debate. Paul did the opposite, stepping closer to her side and, putting one arm over her shoulders, bending to whisper so only she—and those beings present with extraordinary ears—could hear: “That’s exactly what you must do, Janet. I promise we’ll get to the bottom of it, but it’s not going to be fast and it’s not going to be clean. Understand me? There’s more going on here than the obvious. Let us do the hunting—for now.”

  Her voice was an edged whisper in return. I couldn’t see her face clearly from this distance and in this miserable excuse for lighting—I’d already bumped into another patron’s chair and had to mutter an apology. “Then you’d better be careful, Paul Cameron. What is it the locals say? If you toss a net into unknown waters, have your blaster ready.”

  He’d better be careful? I repeated to myself, somewhat miffed. How easily she ignored my role in everything done by Cameron & Ki.

  The light wasn’t too dim for me to see her reach up to Paul’s neck with one hand and start to pull his face toward hers. I deliberately and politely looked away. Somehow my oversized foot happened to snag the nearest leg of our table, jarring it so approximately half a bowl of cream-coated pyati became a tidal wave to flood the tabletop and most of its surroundings.

  “Es!”

  6: Conservatory Afternoon

  AS I matured—growing up not quite being accurate, since web-form did not perceptibly alter in physical structure with time—as I matured from birth to what passed as adulthood for my kind, I’d frequently experienced what Humans call “trouble.” It involved, with depressing consistency, some fairly innocent and usually well-intentioned act on my part followed by some unexpected or expected consequence to that act, wrapped up with someone important to my
life being really annoyed with me.

  For most of my life, that person had been Ersh. Ersh had been outstandingly effective at drawing guilt out of me that I’d never imagined existed. She didn’t argue, rarely shouted, and had all the soul-withering, conscience-racking dignity of a being who had lived long enough to believe, with justification, she had to have seen it all—until I arrived. The little surprises I’d unwittingly awarded her throughout our time together had never been particularly welcome.

  Nor, it seemed, was my little accident in the restaurant welcome to my now web-kin, Paul.

  I tore a little piece of leaf from the nearest duras plant and tucked it under a scale on my chest. It joined the dozens already so planted. At this rate, I’d soon be invisible within my own greenhouse. Just another oddly trimmed bit of shrubbery, I told myself, somewhat relishing the melancholy. That’s Esen.

  Not that I was hiding. Not I. Everyone, Paul included, knew I spent most of my afternoons, when business permitted, working with my plants in the conservatory. The almost barren ecosystem of Fishertown and its environs disappeared within these doors, replaced by the thriving growth of, at last count, three hundred and seven worlds. There was no order within the place except what my eye found pleasing and biology found acceptable. Plants obscured every visible surface, in greens, reds, yellows, purples, and any other color nature had found worked to turn sunlight into food or gain the attention of pollinators.

  My collection would have been a world-class attraction, given the lack of competition on Minas XII, had I allowed any but Paul’s family and trusted friends to know what lay inside the back third of our warehouse. The roof was the landing pad; the sunlight streaming past branch and leaf was natural enough, but drawn down through hidden collectors; the water and other nutrients were supposedly purchased and consumed by a local brewery. Perhaps it was an insignificant secret among so many others, but I’d grown selfishly attached to my privacy and this place over the years.