Hidden in Sight (16 page)

Cords stood out on the sides of Paul's neck, as if he'd fought to keep himself from helping the other being. “You have to leave, too,” he told Largas, his voice flat and hard. “They've probably left explosives. You know what they did to our house.”

“Oh, you'll let me leave?” Joel's face twisted. “But haven't I seen too much? And isn't—It—hungry?” The last words were coated in the venom of decades spent waiting for revenge.

I leaned past Paul, the words pouring out in a torrent I could no more stop than I could change my true nature. “Joel. That wasn't me. It was another of my kind, yes, I admit it, but a mindless monster. You know me—”

“I don't know you. I don't know either of you! Did you think you could simply lie to me all this time, call yourselves friends—” He spat again, as if the word seared his mouth. “Did you think you could insinuate yourselves into my family? Do you dare believe I won't kill you for this?”

Well, yes, I had hoped for better,
I sighed to myself, but there was nothing to reason with in his contorted face.

If I was babbling in my distress, Paul might have turned to ice, unmoving and silent. I couldn't tell if he breathed. Had he'd lived out this scene so many times in his imagination nothing Largas said now could touch him? Or was he mesmerized by the hate in the other Human's eyes?

It didn't matter. We couldn't stay here.
Paul was right. Only fools would waste the chance to escape whatever doom our attackers planned. But we stood, frozen, as if the binding of betrayal was somehow stronger than that of love.

I should have known Paul would break free first. Muttering curses, no few involving blue blobs and empty brain-cases, my Human took Largas' arm in a grip from which the other couldn't fight free, using that hold to pull his protesting father-in-law over the vines and toward the back wall.

I loped behind, hopping over damaged vegetation and shattered pots without a word, knowing where Paul was taking us. He'd insisted on hidden exits in our office and home. Here, as well, there was a doorway leading to a secret passage, with a fueled and ready aircar concealed at its end. Where he thought we'd go after that, I didn't know. No where on Minas XII—not any more. This world belonged to Joel Largas and his kin.

When we stopped for Paul to enter the codes releasing the camouflaged section of wall and opening the revealed door, I moved to one side and cycled, flowing among my wounded plants, assimilating any still-living cells into more of myself. When I had enough, I cycled . . .

... and, under the hate-filled gaze of her dear friend, Joel Largas, Esolesy Ki sat on the floor and proceeded to tuck bits and pieces of dying leaves between her scales, one at a time.

It seemed
, I sighed to myself,
as fitting a way to say good-bye to my greenhouse, this form, and this life as any.

Otherwhere

 

 

“THEY must have died in the explosion, Eminence.”

The figure in black and chrome raised a brow and waited.

The Kraal officer standing before her shivered. Her quarters were set several degrees below ship norm.
Convenient.
In this instance, however, she judged his reaction to be other than physical. “We will scour the wreckage of all three buildings again, Eminence, look for any trace—”

“No.” Pa-Admiral Mocktap tapped the tabletop dismissively. “Port Authority will be watching each incursion site. The risk of exposure has grown unacceptably high. If you concur, Your Eminence,” she added more temperately, as if realizing speaking out of turn at this table was unwise.

The figure nodded, once, then spoke, her voice velvet over steel: “A search for remains serves no purpose. Their deaths were not part of my strategy.”

The Kraal officer did his best to hold his face expressionless, but the tattoos curling over his forehead compressed. The beginning of a disapproving frown.

“You doubt me?” The steel more prominent.

Another officer, standing to one side and behind, dared take a step to bring himself level with the one being questioned. A request. She raised her brow again, this time in invitation. “What is it?”

“Your pardon, Eminence, but our orders did include the execution of Paul Ragem.”

Thin lips stretched in what might have been the faintest of smiles. “Did they?”

“I swear it.”

“Did you succeed?” At his flush, she lifted a finger dismissively.
Offended pride was tiresome.
“They've left the system sometime in the last few hours. A report on all outbound traffic, immediately.” The two officers touched fingertips to their tattooed cheeks and left the room.

“Minas XII is a busy port.” Mocktap commented dryly. The Kraal leaned back in her chair, abandoning her rigid posture now that subordinates of indirect affiliation were no longer present to notice and report.
Ephemerals—pathetically worried about the signs of age and its consequence.
The previous Mocktap to hold the rank of Admiral had been the same, until assassination ended her concerns. “I've checked the time frame,” Mocktap continued. “Over seventy departures were listed with Fishertown Port Authority. Let alone what's not on that list. This is a Fringe system, after all.” An unspoken, possibly automatic challenge. Kraal nobility expected results and detested failure.
Irrelevant.

Where will you run, Youngest? Not home. I haven't left you that option.
“Make sure our list is complete. When I see the destinations of those ships, I will know where they have fled.”

11: Freighter Night

THERE had been times, innumerable ones at that, during which I was convinced my reason for being was merely to provide a hearty laugh for the Cosmic Gods, should such deities exist. At others, I'd been just as sure they ignored me completely.
Esen who?

Both were the misconceptions of youth
, I decided, spitting a morose bubble from my swim sacs and watching it float by my oculars. Whatever forces shaped this particular universe were neither ignoring me nor amused.

“Esippet.”

It had been so peaceful while he was pacing around the compartment. I twitched a forelimb—hopefully sufficient reaction to reassure Paul about his flawless pronunciation of my formsake's name without encouraging conversation. It wasn't. “Don't you ignore me, Es! Where in the Sixty Frozen Hells of Urgia are we going?”

While it was gratifying on some level to have my friend and partner finally take an active interest in events, since that implied he might also take responsibility for doing something about them, shouting at me was hardly necessary. I turned color, knowing the e-suit would express the purple hues of dignified displeasure quite efficiently, if with less than perfect tonal accuracy. One could only do so much with plas, syntha-cable, and a color wheel.

My Human wasn't color-blind, just persistent. “You aren't the only one less than happy at the moment, Fangface,” the Human reminded me, crouching for a better look inside my helmet.
As if he could read an expression from folded mouthparts and a rosette of shiny oculars
. “It isn't helping having you wait it out as—as seafood.”

My purple morphed to a furious red without any conscious thought on my part. “That's disgusting,” I informed him, feeling the translator in my e-suit turn the vibrations from my pre-gills into something Paul could hear. “I am not food of any sort!” Well, perhaps the Ycl and multiple denizens of this form's home planet might argue that point, but the Human was being deliberately offensive. The Oieta was a fine form, dignified and expressive. Well, to be honest, the suit diminished those characteristics somewhat. But it did enhance others.

For instance, my present self, Esippet Darnelli Swashbuckly—the latter two names being those Lesy had picked for me from her favorite Oietae novel during my first excursion to the oceans of Oietai Tierce—gained significant stature from the suit. I was the same height, standing, as Paul, though more slender. Inside the suit, my Oieta-self was no more similar to his preferred seafood, Mendley Shrimp, than the Human was to a Terran platypus.

I supposed there were some similarities in design. My tender body was protected along back and sides by a flexible segmented shell, though mine was encased within a thick, soft integument studded with chromatophores and bioluminescent glands, as one would expect in a species reliant on visual signals.

I possessed delicate, long antennae and twenty-three sets of gill-fringed legs, the first eighteen being swimmerets while the lattermost and larger pairs were for walking. Preceding them all were several highly functional appendages: three pairs of specialized arms, each with a comb on the inner surface of their second joint so I could groom any part of me that required it. Handsome, fastidious beings, the Oietae. The combs were also very useful when it came to urging delectable living things toward the filtering brushes lining my mouthparts.

From the outside, thanks to the suit, I appeared to be something significantly different—almost humanoid, if you overlooked a few oddities. There was that smooth bulge where a spine should be and my wonderful antennae, presently imprisoned down my back in long, immobile tubes. The suit did a better job of accommodating my arms, having supple sleeves fitted to my clawtips. All three pairs of arms. There was, however, a distinctive flare of material, forward-directed, extending from under my lowermost arms, down both sides of my slim torso, to the bottom of the suit. My remaining appendages had to be fitted in somehow, with room to move. The swimmerets needed to keep beating—the suit recycled water over my gills, so there was no need to augment the mechanics, but it felt more natural to breathe on my own.

Moving I couldn't do on my own, being completely adapted to a marine lifestyle. So any independently mobile Oieta-suit came with an antigrav unit, allowing me to float a very small amount above any surface. The sleeves covering my lowermost and strongest pair of arms ended in telescoping poles that I could use to push myself along.

Or to poke an obnoxious Human in the ribs. “Not seafood,” I stated firmly. “And we're going to Prumbinat. I told you before we boarded.”

“You didn't tell me why.”

Another advantage of the suit was being able to magnify the images reaching my oculars. Too much! I hastened to reduce my view to a close look at Paul's face, rather than into his pores. “You're still upset about having to squeeze into one of these, aren't you?” I'd considered it a very clever idea—two suited Oietae casually boarding a freighter. What could be less like a Human and Lishcyn fleeing for their lives?

He ran one hand through his hair, as if I needed him to point out the streaks of bright yellow-green now lacing its black. At least his skin had kept its light tan color—where it wasn't pink from scrubbing. “Be grateful you can't smell,” Paul said, mildly enough. Our present accommodations didn't include luxuries like 'fresher stalls. The Human had compulsively rinsed himself and his clothes using the outlet for drinking water. Several times, in fact.

I still thought it had been a brilliant plan. Paul had worn an artificial gill, so his lungs could exchange gases with the fluid inside the suit. But there had been one, small miscalculation. That fluid, though vital and pleasantly tasteful to my Oieta-self, had turned out to react in various unfortunate ways with Human physiology.
And so quickly, too
. “Well, you've stopped vomiting,” I offered helpfully.

He gave me that look. “Esen. Please. I didn't argue your choice of transport, or the suit—”

“Because I was right,” I said, wishing I could preen myself properly with one of my lower arms. “Right, right, right.”

For some reason, Paul ran one hand over his face. Perhaps he felt an urge to preen for me. “How long are you planning to use this form?” he surprised me by asking.

I blew another bubble and watched it float by my face. Maybe he'd be quiet if I ignored him.

“Esippet?”

Or maybe not
. “Yes, Paul?” I asked.

“Damn it, Esen-alit-Quar!” His voice was inconsiderately loud. “I need you. Do you understand me? You can't be like this. You can't—” The Human's lips shut tight and he seemed to study me. Something in his expression changed. I didn't bother trying to interpret it. “Maybe you have to be. At least for now. Forget I asked.”

“Of course,” I agreed, going back to semi-morose bubble gazing while contemplating the Cosmic Gods, aware but not acknowledging that Paul had returned to pacing our compartment.

Our escape from the greenhouse was well-timed. A series of explosions ripped the warehouse apart moments after Paul piloted the aircar out of its hidden hangar. As we sped away, my Human glanced at me and shook his head once, eyes somber. I understood. The explosions were too well-timed. They'd wanted us out and on the run, not dead. Whoever
they
were.