Changing Vision (11 page)

“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.

His mention of my web-kin made me uneasy, as always. I found myself raising my body temperature to bleed away excess energy, a trained resistance to the reflex to cycle into something less prone to emotional response.

“She did tell you to end our association, didn’t she?” Paul prompted, when I didn’t respond.

Skalet wanted you safely dead,
I answered, but only to myself. Out loud, I whispered so his Human hearing could detect it: “Yes. What is your point with this, Human?”

“You listened to her, but didn’t take that advice, Es. You kept your friendship with me, an alien, despite the urging of your own kind.” He paused and raised himself up on an elbow to face me more directly. “I don’t want an apology from you about the pyati. I owe you one.”

“So Joel told you,” I said glumly. Largas was quite capable of sidestepping any promise made to me, if he thought it in my best interest.

Paul’s brows went up. “Told me what?” he asked, in that tone which expected an answer.
His persistence when curious was,
I recalled,
a trait which hadn’t changed since we’d met.

My fifth stomach gurgled warningly. “Captain Chase—” I found my voice fading to nothing.

“That she’d pretty thoroughly spooked you? No, Joel didn’t tell me. I finally figured that out for myself this morning,” Paul admitted. “You made an unforgettable exit, you know. I tried to catch up, but you’d snagged the last aircar outside.

“Esen,” he continued very quietly, eyes intent. “I’m the one who must apologize to you. I am sorry. I didn’t realize how deeply you were being affected by Janet’s onesided campaign—and that’s all it was. I should have seen it and reassured you long ago. I’d assumed you know I’d never accept anyone who couldn’t understand our friendship.” His generous mouth curved upward. “So. Am I forgiven?”

I hadn’t expected a relief so intense it threatened my control over this form on every level, although, knowing the proclivities of an overtired and stressed Lishcyn, I might have guessed. I squeezed my eyes, ears, and mouth shut, holding the position until the muscles of my jaw began to throb, then spasm. My temperature soared as I concentrated on convincing my stomachs to behave. There was no point cycling into my birth-form even had I dared risk it on this ship. The Lanivarians were a marvelously civilized culture and a fascinating species on the ground; unless thoroughly tranked and in a trip box, they were miserable spacefarers. I’d reason to know. So I had to fight the inclinations of three of my five stomachs to clear themselves for action while grappling desperately at my own equilibrium.
This was going to be most embarrassing,
I concluded with the conviction of experience. Not to mention potentially nasty in such a small room.

A gentle touch became an anchor, a focus to draw my mind from the confusion within this body. The touch was a stroke along the scale-free, highly sensitive oval of skin under my chin: a holdover from youth, a place that would one day host the wiry thatch of beard marking an older Lishcyn—I was hoping for a distinguished auburn, but there’d been no sign of any growth yet. Aunts quieted unsettled
infants by stroking this spot—much the way Human adults rocked their young. I myself was much too old for such treatment, though I found it hard to resist rubbing the area when alone and needing comfort.

As now.
I couldn’t bring myself to object to the caress, feeling my physical self relax involuntarily, the soothing sensation holding me safely in this form and otherwise keeping my dignity intact. I opened my ears the tiniest crack in time to hear him singing something nonsensical I remembered from Paul’s days as a new father, awake night after night with his twins. From other forms, I knew he had a reasonable voice, true in pitch, with a pleasant depth to it. His music was wasted on these ears, if not on my soul.

He must have seen. Without stopping the tiny, slow movements his fingers made under my chin—which was wise, as my stomachs were still barely under control—his song changed to words, equally soft. “Es. Esen. It’s all right. I want you to listen to me. Okay? Just listen and try to understand, please.

“This is my fault, not yours. I’ve shoved too much at you, too quickly: the Ganthor, my gift, that nonsense with Chase, this trip. I’m very sorry. I forget sometimes how it all adds up on you: to be what you aren’t, to deal with all of the rest of us. You do it so very well, Es.”

It might have been the words. Certainly the stroking was hypnotic. I let my body temperature slip below its fever pitch, no longer having to fight the urge to leave this form, back in charge of its tendencies.
Almost,
I told myself honestly, reasonably sure I was no longer about to redecorate everything in range, including Paul, with my breakfast, hasty snack, lunch, and that wee bite I’d grabbed on the way out of the office.

His voice went on, the barest whisper of sound. I opened my ears further to hear it, twitching free of some of the grass. “Ersh would be proud. I know I’m proud of you.”

I gave a deep, shuddering sigh to cue my stomachs to rearrange their contents, feeling them finally respond normally, and yawned again. Then I opened one eye: “It was a pretty great exit, wasn’t it?”

“One of your best.”

I opened the other eye, but only a crack. “Long day, too.”

“A couple of long days,” I heard him agree, the voice so faint now he might have been in another room, fingers lifting away. “A rest wouldn’t be a bad idea, Es.”

Way ahead of you on that,
I thought, my eyes and ears closing as I burrowed my head under the prickly but warm fibers, taking with me into sleep the warm glow of being home within my Web.

The
Galaxy Goddess
lifted on schedule, her multitude of passengers asleep or in a pleasant stupor, with only two near-misses as she rose into the stormy skies of Minas XII. Had I known, I would not have been at all surprised that one of those misses was the same courier who’d almost collided with us this morning. As I’d noticed, they didn’t tend to lengthy careers.