Beholder's Eye (11 page)

Ersh would hardly accept that as an excuse. My planning so far revolved around how to avoid facing Ersh at all. I was sure I could hide somewhere on the
Rigus.
I was pretty sure I could sneak off at her next planetfall. Trouble was, I wasn’t the least bit sure how to make my way back to Kraos, now that the Commonwealth had proof visitors were not welcomed by the locals.

Plans come, plans go.
I felt the tremors begin in Ragem’s flesh; tremors followed by a growing rigidity signaling his return to consciousness. I wasn’t the only one to notice. A warning tone from nearby machinery brought a figure to lean over our casing. With a gentle hiss, the lid and side released, floating upward to a resting place against the wall.

“Aiee!” The force of Ragem’s scream sent ripples of pain through me. His abdomen heaved, sucking air in through the breathing tube, then another scream tore out of his lungs. Alarms shrilled as Ragem sat up, fingers clawing at me, fighting the restraining hands of the person striving to calm him, to hold him still.

Ragem’s terror horrified me. Quickly I gathered my dispersed tissues, pulling free of his skin, even in my desperate haste knowing a tinge of reluctance to leave his warmth. With a shudder, I slid away, plopping onto the floor.
There.
A crack beneath the bed beckoned. Somehow I pushed my tissues through in a rush and huddled inside what must be a drawer or cupboard.

I could hear Ersh now: After all I had done, what was the point of quivering under someone’s spare clothes? I was beyond worrying about her opinion, however. It was that held by the two now-ominously silent beings outside which concerned me.

A slit of light appeared. I touched the hard slickness of the material forming the rear of my refuge and knew it would be far more difficult to pass through than the porous door in the Protark’s prison cell—even if I knew where I would find myself on the other side. The slit widened. I felt a warm breath, tasted familiar scents.

“Es. Is that you?” No more than a hoarse, incredulous whisper.

I had never been so astonished by anything in the whole of my life, short as it had been by Web standards.
What was this Ragem?
Humans were much more adaptable than I had appreciated. Or was this acceptance part of Human friendship?

I extruded a filmy pseudopod, firmed it with an effort, and lightly pushed at the cupboard door. More light came through, almost immediately thrust away by shadow as Ragem’s face filled the opening. “It’s all right, Es,” he said very softly, as though not to be overheard. “Please come out.”

This form, regardless of its many other talents, couldn’t sigh; I contented myself with a mental version. I flowed out into the almost painfully bright light of what I could now recognize as an ordinary ship’s cabin—probably Ragem’s own. The sleeping bench on this side was overhung by some complex medical apparatus, blinking frantic warnings to itself as if the medic had neglected to inform it that its patient was again on two feet and independent.

Two feet, independent, and pink verging on red, would be a complete description. My somewhat ruthless first aid, combined with the meds’ removal tactics, had stripped away several layers of Ragem’s skin. Despite this, I thought he looked well, if tired. His companion, obscured within his shield, seemed less relaxed. “Ragem?” he began, voice cracking on the word. “What—?”

“Who,” Ragem corrected, never taking his eyes off me. “Her form is unusual, Tomas, but this gentle, intelligent being has saved my life. And,” he added very slowly, “I think she may have saved all of our lives.” He held out one hand to me.

I excised the harmless residue of the disease-spores as discreetly as possible before extruding a thinner, wavering pseudopod to touch his fingers briefly. Ragem’s intent was clearly to establish my harmless nature immediately, before alarm could spread among his crewmates.
Good plan,
I thought, but for both our sakes, I hoped no one on board was better acquainted with the Ycl.

“We’re on the
Rigus,
” Ragem said to me with a sigh of relief, as if for him that solved all things.
I supposed it did.
Then he glanced down at his glowing skin. “What did you do to me?” He touched his feet, still red-looking but now free of blisters. “Or do I want to know?”

The man called Tomas laid a gloved hand on Ragem’s shoulder, removing it at Ragem’s wince. “Can we talk, Paul?” Tomas ventured cautiously, eyes on me.

Ragem took his friend’s hand in both of his own. “Tomas—the Kraosians planned to kill every one of us—they’d planned it all along. Their leader, the Protark, told me—” here Ragem’s quick intense delivery faltered. “They caught me, you see, trying to get back, to warn you. The Protark gloated of how he could defeat us despite our technology. He said they were going to infect me with the spores of a native fungus, something we couldn’t be vaccinated against, something our devices wouldn’t detect in time. Judging by what happened to the other ships’ crews, it would have been quite—lethal.” Ragem pointed to me. “My friend here must have removed the spores from my skin somehow before you or the others could be infected.”

“We thought you were infected by—” Tomas broke off, apparently finding it difficult to complete his sentence.
I could understand that.

“By my friend?” Ragem laughed, but I could sense a feather of remembered panic in the sound. This second time, I was certain he was avoiding the use of my name.
Such a clever being,
I thought warmly, then chilled as I wondered what he was anticipating in the future. I’d need my name as a Lanivarian; if Ragem expected me to cycle into that form on demand, he was going to be waiting a few lifetimes.

“I’m not surprised,” Ragem continued as I fussed to myself. “I was—startled. But my friend has a habit of finding unusual solutions to problems.” His attention shifted back to me. “Did you leave me any clean clothes?”

By way of answer, I flowed to one side, allowing him access to the cupboard. Tomas stared from one to the other of us,
unsure who was more alarming,
I decided. Meanwhile, Ragem gingerly eased a loose shirt over his head, following this with a footed pair of sleek red pants similar to those worn by his crewmate but bearing modifying stripes denoting his specialty. His skin seemed to cause him less discomfort than its redness suggested. Ragem caught Tomas’ stare and stopped in the midst of wrapping a belt about his lean middle. “Don’t look so worried. I’m all right, Tomas. And I want to talk to Senior Specialist Kearn right away.”

“It’s Acting Captain now. And he’s been in and out a dozen times,” Tomas said with a wan smile. “Took it as a personal affront that his own second was unconscious when the waves are burning with orders to report. Everyone will be glad to hear you’ve—recovered.” A slide of his eyes in my direction. “I—” Tomas’ voice faded. His next words had nothing to do with me.

“Ragem,” he said somberly. “The Kraosians brought out two bodies before you—unidentifiable bodies. With no word from you or Captain Simpson, Kearn wouldn’t open the ship; policy was clear enough. Once we had you on board, he ordered lift to parking orbit. But we’ve all been wondering if there was any chance—if we should have stayed grounded—” Tomas’ face was pale and agonized.

Ragem flinched but moved to take his friend’s shoulders in his hands. “They were both killed,” he said awkwardly. “Luara and Shen felt nothing—it was too sudden, too unexpected. There was nothing I, nothing we, could do to save them. Believe me, Tomas.”

“I do,” Tomas acknowledged sadly. “I’d hoped for the best, the way one has to, until I saw you, alone and like death itself on that stretcher—then I guess we all knew.”

I pressed myself into a small sphere, sharing their grief. It had been a useless waste of life—the Humans, the soldiers at the prison, the serlets, any Kraosians caught in this ship’s blast. I found myself consumed by longing for the companions of my Web, for the cleansing ceremonies that acknowledged those whose lives were cut short of their natural end. If we had a worship, it was of the struggling brilliance of life—regardless of form or purpose.

If we had a primeval terror, it was of being the cause of ending that brilliance. I went still to my very core, looking up at the suddenly foreign shapes of the Humans. I was unsure which chilled me more: fear for myself, or fear for what they might force me to do.

“Ragem!” This cry of delight announced a new arrival on the scene.
Great,
I thought to myself,
why not invite the whole crew to meet me, Ragem?
“You’re better! Thank the—” The joyous smile on the face of the slender woman in the doorway settled into something fixed and unnatural as her eyes fell on me. I waved a pseudopod graciously.

“Thanks to my friend,” Ragem announced with an echoing gesture in my direction. Warned by what seemed a note of challenge in his voice, I watched her more closely. “Willify Guire, I’d like you to meet my fellow refugee from the Kraosians. And my rescuer.”

Willify recovered her poise with commendable speed. “Welcome to the
Rigus.
” To my currently shifted vision, her face registered a marked drop in temperature. I was curious whether this meant Willify was shocked into paleness by my presence, or was merely in a cold sweat.

It was an academic difference. I could no more respond to her greeting, sincere or not, than I could read her thoughts. Being a loose coalition of cells was a distinct disadvantage. Humans simply weren’t equipped with the sensory apparatus to comprehend the chemical voice of this form, however beautiful and eloquent.

I was also feeling decidedly weaker. It was hunger: a need I would not be able to satisfy until cycling into some other shaping. The only food my present body could accept came alive, warm-blooded, and tended to scream. I felt sickened by the quick anticipation which accompanied the thought. No need for Ersh to remind me of the trap this otherwise useful form could become.

Without a voice, I certainly couldn’t explain. I also wasn’t about to cycle in front of any more aliens. Huddled down into an energy-conserving shape, undignified from a Ycl’s point of view, but no one here would notice, I focused my attention on the closest of the three Humans. It was Ragem’s turn to take action. As a matter of fact, I was going to leave everything to Ragem—I didn’t have much of an alternative.

AS a Human would put it, I’ve been on the carpet before Ersh (or some web-sister) a few times;
well, maybe more than a few.
Being familiar didn’t mean that I cherished the feeling, even secondhand. Mind you, there was somewhat more dignity to Ragem’s position, square-footed and at attention before his superior’s desk, than my current one.

I was in a box.

It was a nice box, clean enough to have been used for storing food or other perishables, and just now two-thirds full of my present, somewhat condensed, alien form. While I appreciated the relaxation of letting the box determine my shape, and the privilege of watching Ragem’s dressing-down from my vantage point on his superior’s desk, I was less than enthusiastic about the lid resting near Kearn’s elbow.

“I haven’t denied Kraos was a disaster, sir,” Ragem was saying, still obstinate though his stiff posture was beginning to sag at the edges.
Good,
I thought. The combination of Kraos and disaster made perfect sense to me.

“And Kraos wasn’t enough for you, Specialist Ragem?” Senior Specialist and Acting Captain Kearn asked with a voice that could have been heavy with sarcasm if it weren’t for its resemblance to a petulant whine.

There wasn’t much personality in his office either. Judging by the shelfload of image cubes on the wall behind the desk, each showing a smiling Kearn with some dead aquatic animal, Kearn hadn’t taken over the quarters of his dead captain yet, which was a minor point in his favor. A truly desperate-looking plant clung to life and a strip of artificial bark in one corner of the room.
It might have been lush once,
I thought. I wondered why he cherished it enough to bring it on the ship if he couldn’t care for it.

Kearn rocked his chair back and forth, sending irregular and annoying vibrations through the desk supports. I oozed up the side of my container, wishing I could glare back at him in a way he’d recognize.

Ragem’s superior officer was of average height, indeterminate age, probably male, and looked as though he’d borrowed his current clothing from several different people. To be charitable, I was not seeing Kearn at his best. His being rumpled and irate was partly our fault, I admitted to myself, but this hardly justified his behavior.

Kearn didn’t have Ersh’s ponderous—and earned—air of authority.
In fact, he was not an impressive creature at all,
I decided. But then, I was inclined to dislike anyone with close-set eyes and a tendency to diminish major problems into personal affronts.

Kearn had been tearing verbal strips off Ragem’s hide for almost an hour now. The theme hadn’t changed much. This was the second time he’d circled back with peevish persistence to an apparent belief that Ragem had somehow sabotaged the mission in an attempt to ruin Kearn’s own career. To my perception, Ragem’s face had long since faded from a heated glow to an unhealthy mottled hue.