Changing Vision Page 8

  Another piece of leaf went into my disguise. By now, all the easy scales had their companion greenery, making me have to twist gingerly to reach my sides. Some of the first transplants had started to wither and slip free. I clicked my tonguetips with annoyance and reached for more.

  “So, Es. What did you do this time?” The rich, gravelly voice originated from somewhere behind a wall of cascading vines.

  It could belong to only one being. My ears struggled into a happier position, then settled back into their droop. “Does it matter?” I countered morosely, tucking in another leaf and wondering if I should add a flower or two for variety.

  Joel Largas shouldered his way through the greenery, pulling a grav cart behind him loaded with trays of seedlings. After Paul, this was my favorite Human—something else I’d have been scolded by Ersh for in the past. I sighed, my thick lips making very effective blubbery noises as I did so. I might have known I wouldn’t be left to mope on my own. Since his self-imposed retirement last year, the former spacer had taken to gardening with a passion. This being the only garden on Minas XII, it had been only reasonable to give him unlimited access. Both Human and plants had benefitted; in all honesty, I did as well. Joel was important to Esolesy Ki, the Lishcyn: a judgment-free companion who cheerfully ignored me when I wanted to be alone but somehow decided on his own when I didn’t.

  “That’s going to take a while,” he commented instead of answering my question, gesturing to my accomplishment of having leafed the center third of my chest scales and a little farther.

  “I’ve time.” Considering web-life span, barring accidents, that was an understatement. I watched him from the corner of my eye.

  Joel Largas was always worth watching. A greatgrandfather—likely more than that by now—he remained perfectly capable of charming females of his kind, and a few others, to incoherence in under three standard minutes. I’d seen it done. But there was much more to him than mere physical presence. Resolute and determined, Joel had found himself the leader of a refugee convoy, the last to flee Garson’s World before the end. He’d coaxed, cajoled, and outright bullied spacers into action, then brought the whole assortment of private vessels and independent traders, with their human cargoes, safely to Minas XII with no ambition but to find a haven for his family and friends. When that meant creating a freighter company out of what remained of their fleet and almost single-handedly seeing to its success, he’d done that, too.

  The grav cart contained a battered stool, which Joel pulled out and put beside where I sat in the moss. He settled himself on it, then began casually plucking leaves from the nearest duras plant and passing them to me, one by one. “Paul’s no fool, Es,” the Human said, nothing casual in his voice this time, although his blue eyes contained a suspicious twinkle. “You usually trust him to handle his own relationships.”

  Word spread translight around here, I realized, unsurprised my escapade this morning at the Circle Club was already known to Joel. In my experience, anything worth knowing seemed to head to him first, whether my discomfiture or fuel prices. Another leaf. Two more. Then I held up one foot, balancing awkwardly on a rear not intended for such a position, and wiggled my broad, webbed toes. “It could have been an accident,” I said, finding the whole thing funny again.

  His abundant growth of curling gray facial hair hid what might have been a smile. “You have a lot of those around Captain Chase,” Joel observed wryly. “It’s no wonder you make the woman nervous.”

  I’d like to make her disappear, I told myself, but halfheartedly as I again lost the humor of it. My true self preferred harmony with those around me, a state of community in which I was either liked, tolerated, or benignly ignored. It was safer, for one thing. It was much closer to the arrangement within my Web, for another. Discord, even when it was my choice, made me uncomfortable for days. “She—” I tilted my snout so I didn’t have to look at him, pretending to talk to myself. “She makes me afraid.”

  I couldn’t see Joel’s face, but the hand ready to pluck another leaf reached instead to my forearm. The pattern of age spots on the back of his still-strong hand echoed those of my scales. His grip was firm and warm. “You can’t believe she could affect your friendship with Paul. Es, you and he are—you’re family.” This last was said with all the meaning Joel himself placed on the concept. There was nothing higher, no bond tighter to the head of the Largas clan.

  I flashed a tusk at him, turning my big head so he could see it. “I know,” I said, accepting his answer as my own. “But the other females—your daughter among them—accepted that. They understood I had no intention of interfering between Paul and his own kind. Chase—speaks to Paul of being rid of me, of breaking up Cameron & Ki. It’s not malice,” I admitted heavily. “She sincerely believes it best for him.”

  Joel Largas had learned some interesting terminology in his long career as a spacer. I flicked my ears back and forth, adding a few more to memory. When he was finished, he patted my arm again. “Don’t worry about Chase,” he said finally, his face flushed with outraged anger. “I’ll have a talk—”

  “No!” I said quickly, standing up and, in the process, shedding leaves like some tree at the approach of winter. “That will only convince her she’s right.”

  “Then I’ll speak with Paul,” Joel offered, still with that glint of battle in his eyes. I felt warmed to my core as I looked at him and recognized this was the other side of humanity, this caring and willingness to sacrifice for another when there was no gain, no prize. It was what had originally drawn me to Paul’s aid, made me break Ersh’s Rules and reveal myself.

  A seductive, dangerous feeling as well. Despite our deep friendship, Joel Largas was one Human to whom I could never reveal my true self. Fifty years ago, within reach of safety, the Largas’ convoy had been attacked by a monster. Joel had been an eyewitness, watching the web-being—though he had no name for it then or now but Death—rip apart the ships of friends, helpless to prevent more carnage as it stalked others for the pleasure of consuming the life within. I’d been told he sobbed in his sleep for years afterward, reliving his frustrated fury and grief.

  No Human, including Paul, could possibly tell my web-form from that of any other of my kind; even we required taste or scent to be sure of identity. Should Joel see me as I was, his nightmare would be back. I had no desire to ever inflict that pain.

  “I appreciate your willingness to help. And your vocabulary,” I told him, deliberately damping all emotions to the best of my ability, but letting a note of amused resignation enter my voice. “Let’s face it. I haven’t helped the situation. She has cause—”

  He wasn’t convinced. “I don’t want you to be afraid of anyone, Esolesy Ki. That’s not right, no matter what little tricks you’ve played now and then.”

  “I’m sure my fears are groundless—just my stomachs overreacting to conflict. I should know better than to listen to their complaints by now.” He should believe that, I thought, remembering several instances from our past in which my participation in an argument had had immediate and embarrassing repercussions. I really wished I could find a form to live in that wasn’t ruled by its insides. I went on: “I do trust Paul.”

  His expression lightened, as I’d hoped. “As I said you should. He’s a good man, Es. He’s not going to listen to any nonsense.”

  Well, he did, I told myself bitterly, then was honest enough to wonder if it had been so he could learn the full extent of Chase’s feelings on the subject. Wasn’t the proof in the result? I began to notice that other, depressingly familiar feeling: guilt. Would Paul have refused her solicitation for lip contact, and its possessiveness, had I kept my feet to myself? I felt my ears sink as I realized I’d probably been wrong about my friend twice in the same morning. This wasn’t going at all well.

  “Where is Paul?” I found myself asking. I’d literally run from the restaurant. There had been something unnerving about the stupefied stare of both Humans, clothing and skin streaked with black py
ati and sagging blobs of cream. The stuff had missed me completely, which hadn’t seemed to help the situation. So I’d ducked my head in mute apology before hurrying out.

  Well, I’d tried to hurry. The lighting, or lack thereof, made my rush to the exit a series of spectacular collisions in the semidarkness with everything possible, including, I winced at the memory, a waiter whose tray arched completely over my head before arriving at the wrong table, a Poptian who wound up wearing its salads, and a group of tourists who scattered from underfoot just in time. I hoped they didn’t think I was running from the food.

  Joel didn’t think it odd that I expected him to know. “Paul? He’s busy dropping your luggage shipside. You two are due to lift for D’Dsel tonight, aren’t you?” When I stared at him, one hand under my jaw as it threatened to loosen for the second time today, the Human looked suddenly contrite. “Es. I’m sorry. I thought you knew—this must have been part of the surprise with your tickets. Don’t tell Paul I let it slip, okay?”

  I sat down, very slowly, and picked up a leaf to tuck under another scale, hoping my stomachs would mind their own business.

  I hadn’t left Minas XII for fifty years. I hadn’t encountered an intelligent species I hadn’t assimilated at least in part from my web-kin in half again as long.

  Joel silently passed me another leaf as I contemplated both its position and what to say to my erstwhile partner. Planning to surprise me, was he? I wondered if he thought it some bizarre punishment.

  Surely Paul, of all beings, knew I hated surprises.

  7: Starship Night

  “I THOUGHT you’d like a surprise.”

  I didn’t bother replying to that, too busy trying to judge the best moment to plant my feet on the conveyor belt leading into the Galaxy Goddess. It was a ridiculous name for a passenger ship and I felt even more ridiculous wearing this hat. Paul’s hand pressed against my shoulder, urging me forward. Fine for him, with feet sized to fit the device. I scampered into position, having to tuck one set of toes under the other and grab the handrail for dear life.

  “The surprise,” I muttered, “is that I’m here at all.” Well, to be honest, I’d pretended to innocently fall in with his plans from the moment I’d found him back at the office in fresh clothes and with his anger apparently on hold, ready to spring his surprise on me in front of the assembled staff. It seemed the appropriate move on my part—and there was always the chance the starship would have technical difficulties on the launch field.

  Paul laughed, tugging at the tassel that hung by my ear. The hat fit; that was all I could say for it.

  At least I wasn’t the only one forced to look silly as we approached the Goddess. The flamboyant headgear, with its glowing, tasseled fringe and flat, outstretched brim, was part of the package—some Human concoction to embarrass the passengers into a prevacation euphoria. The free (or rather prepaid) mugs of spurl had been more effective in that regard, I thought. In case anyone, such as myself, wisely had second thoughts about their upcoming adventure and wanted to bolt at the last minute, we were being shuttled directly inside the starship’s ornate port by this automated walkway.

  Most of our fellow passengers looked Human, although the huge hats made this conclusion no better than an educated guess. The ship’s complement, lined up ahead to greet us as we arrived at the ship’s port, was a broader spectrum. Of the thirty or more there, almost all were paying no attention to their living payload but instead were looking to the horizon with expressions, depending on species, ranging from astonishment to terror.

  Paul noticed: “I take it this lot hasn’t been here before.”

  I nodded, following the crewbeings’ line of sight to see the usual evening bank of storm clouds draped over the shoulders of the Sweet Sisters and heading this way. If you hadn’t survived a winter here, those black, heaving, wind-ripped clouds could resemble the end of the world.

  Since no one else on the conveyor belt appeared interested in the weather, I felt safe in assuming they were all from Fishertown. As long as the belt brought us under cover within the next half hour, they’d be happy. The daily summer storms didn’t kill too many locals, although they did have a negative impact on what tourism Minas XII didn’t lose to fishing.

  The travel organizers’ timing was excellent. Although near the end of the line—I had delayed our arrival as much as possible, but Paul had factored that into his timing—we were greeted, cheerily exhorted to consume more free spurl, and sent to our cabins to await the docking tug and lift before the first tornadic howl wrapped itself around the hull.

  “Aren’t you glad you came?” Paul asked the moment we were alone, sending his hat across the room to join mine.

  “Not particularly,” I said bluntly, then repented as he grinned at me. “All right. Now that the hats are off, I’m prepared to endure it.” I looked around our accommodations. It didn’t take long. Economy Standard—it had been a staff gift, after all. I thought wistfully of the Preferred Deck, with all its luxury and space. We could have afforded it, but only in terms of cost.

  I began unpacking the small carryall which had arrived before us. The rest of our luggage would be stowed in the Goddess’ cargo hold, along with a limited amount of very high-end goods and secure mail. Passenger ships were preferred couriers, partly because they were too heavily armed for most pirates, but mainly because their profit margins depended on getting their clients to their destinations as quickly as possible. The joke in freighter circles was that if tourists could ever be persuaded to travel in trip boxes, requiring no food, care, or entertainment, everyone would want to convert their starships to the trade. I, for one, shuddered at the mere thought.

  There was room to turn around, barely, but I managed to keep out of Paul’s way as he performed a task that, by now, was second nature to us both, although it would have caused raised eyebrows—or the corresponding expression—among others on the ship. He climbed with primate agility on the furniture, running an extremely sensitive detector over the ceiling and upper walls. It would take him only seconds to establish if we were being watched or recorded. There was a small, little-known company in the Dump whose specialists stood by their work—these detectors—with their lives. It came with the clientele, most unnoticed by any authorities and relying on their privacy to be sure this pleasant situation continued unabated. Paul had taken careful steps to conceal our identities as customers, including arranging for payment from Commonwealth, not Fringe, accounts, viewing it as unlikely anyone would believe Cameron & Ki had legitimate reasons for such paranoia. And, I’d thought wryly at the time, it diminished the chances of inappropriate business referrals.

  “Clean,” the Human pronounced, returning the detector to its hiding place in his shirt, then dropping down to check out the bed opposite my box. It might be Standard accommodations, but suiting a being’s sleep needs was only good business sense. “How’s yours? Going to be comfortable, Es?”

  “It’s only a day translight to Panacia,” I reminded him. Unpacking done, since I hadn’t brought much for such a short time shipside—well, three stunning outfits for the evening’s Captain’s Supper, but I hadn’t been in the mood to make up my mind before coming—I wrestled myself into the pile of pseudo-grass. It was rougher and less fragrant than I was used to, though acceptable. I snuggled in a bit, resting my snout on the padded box side so I could see my companion. Supper would be post-lift, so we had a couple of hours to kill. I didn’t know about the Human, who had endless recuperative powers, but I was distinctly aware of two sleepless nights in a row. “Not bad,” I decided, my forked tongue spreading in a yawn that muffled the words but probably conveyed the meaning on its own.

  Paul lay on his back, still in his coat as though he’d forgotten to take it off, arms behind his head. He appeared content to gaze at the ceiling. I listened to his breathing for a minute or two, then couldn’t take it any longer. As I opened my mouth to speak, he anticipated me, saying calmly: “It’s okay, Es.”

  “What�
��s okay?” I said, feeling quite affronted by what sounded like forgiveness in his voice. The Human should have been expecting me to complain vigorously about his bullying me on board. Certainly scope for a tirade or two. Then I remembered how I’d felt in the conservatory. It could be, I decided reluctantly, my turn for some sincere groveling.

  Before I could say another word, the Human had rolled his head to look at me. “I meant, it’s okay to be nervous about leaving home. It’s been a long time.”

  I closed my mouth, holding in the quick denial that suddenly didn’t feel right at all. I blinked at my friend, reading—I thought correctly—a look of understanding sympathy in his face. Why? “Minas XII isn’t home,” I said slowly, as much to myself as to him. “Home is—home is—” I found myself unable to finish. To my kind, home was where the Web gathered as one. It had last been Picco’s Moon, where I’d lived with Ersh. Then I relaxed, having an answer that pleased me. “I’m home now. Home is the Web—wherever we are together.”

  The Human appeared to hesitate, then smiled. “Home this is, then, Es,” he agreed, freeing one hand to wave around our tiny stateroom.

  I regarded him carefully, sensing he’d intended to say more than that, but had decided to hold back. Well, it was past time to clear some of the mysteries between us, if only so we could get this haphazard vacation underway. “I’m sorry I spilled pyati on you,” I said as sincerely as I could. That probably wouldn’t be enough, I realized, swallowing. “And on Captain Chase.”

  Again, he reacted unpredictably, frowning and making a sharp gesture of negation as if I’d embarrassed him. “Don’t apologize, Es.”

  I blinked at him, trying to puzzle this out.

  “Skalet didn’t speak very well of me in the beginning, did she?” Paul’s voice dropped to become almost inaudible. It was a habit when we were in strange surroundings and he had things to say to me no one else should hear, trusting my ears.