Beholder's Eye (16 page)

A revealing choice, should an expert in alien cultures such as Kearn or Ragem see me, but I had no intention of being seen. I was also in no mood to sit here until morning, attempt to argue with the living or servo gatekeeper when it chose to come to work, and likely end up being caught in some search for Esen anyway.

It was a lovely form, however; and I paused a moment to admire myself—an admiration made easier by a neck capable of swinging my head completely out and turning it to face my long, sinuous self.
Elegant,
I thrummed to myself,
glorious. Indeed, beautiful beyond mere words.

And so incredibly self-centered and vain,
I reminded myself, breaking the spell becoming Acepan always cast. I dropped down on to my hundred-and-six tiny legs, scurrying forward with that blinding speed humanoids found so troubling in the multilegged. The snow flew under my clawed feet and the vertical wall of the gate, slippery with hoarfrost, was no obstacle whatsoever.

I ran down the other side of the wall headfirst, racing for convenient shadows, well aware even the most peaceful of planets tended to protect its spaceport with more than walls and a gate. The Acepans had been artful dodgers and hiders, but this form shivered at the mere notion of some guard beast left on patrol. I made myself dash across the open pavement, counting on the flurry of snow my passage caused to hide me from any vids.

There were dozens of ships docked along the roadway, or rather shipway, for the only traffic using this pavement would be the docking tugs as they brought each ship from the landing area to place it on its reserved spot among the others. All appeared abandoned to the night’s silence and cold, their crews most likely part of the Christmas revelry beyond the fields at my back. I hurried past them all. Dawn was approaching and I didn’t expect Kearn to allow me much time to pick and choose.

Ah
! I exclaimed to myself in relief. In the distance, a massive shape loomed up in the center of the shipway, motionless, tied to the ground by sleek drifts of snow: a tug, with what looked to be an intersystem freighter cradled in its ungainly arms. It was facing toward the landing field, first in line for lift tomorrow.
Perfect.

I blinked ice crystals from my long lashes, attempting with limited results to clear the distortion prisming the view from my central ocular.
Oh, well. It was best for objects within claw reach anyway.
I closed the ocular, relying on the less precise but motion-sensitive outer ring of six.

Beside the tug and its cargo, last ship in line at the field rim, was the
Rigus.
I could never forget her silhouette. More to the point, the
Rigus
had more than enough surveillance equipment, as they’d amply and distressingly demonstrated to me.

Time for some serious sneaking,
I decided. I bent my legs until my knees were higher than my spine and the entire length of my belly immediately numbed from contact with the cold pavement.
It was going to get worse.
I took a final look at my target, fixing its direction as best I could, then pushed my head under the snow.

Ersh, it was cold!
The planet must be bleeding all of its heat into space tonight. I avoided the temptation to raise my body temperature; that release of energy could well trip the sensors on the
Rigus.
I longed briefly for the triple fur pelt of the Crougk form, if not its conspicuous size. I moved slowly, to prevent any patterning of the thin layer of snow now slipping over my back. The circulation in every third foot shut down involuntarily, preserving my core temperature while adding the resistance of each newly immobile limb to the difficulty of this passage, an unnecessary reminder that this form’s survival physiology for extreme cold would eventually shut me down completely in a curl of winter hibernation if I let it.

Made it.
My claws drummed like tiny castanets against the metal as I climbed over the lower brace leg of the tug. My Acepan noses, conveniently located in the front third of my feet and two even more sensitive spots near my posterior segment for physiological reasons no longer significant in an extinct species, detected volatile hydrocarbons and a tinge of musk: the tug’s protectants against corrosion, I guessed, since it was hardly necessary to grease a starship.

In that I wasn’t quite right. One of the hydrocarbon sources moved out of my way.
Ah, yes,
I realized, taking a moment to reprocess what I was seeing through my ring of, by some standards, currently indifferent oculars.
Rats.

No time for snacks, though I had to admit the wee things smelled tasty. The ship within the tug’s grip had a patchwork appearance this close, a shabbiness that made me hesitate, an Acepan-aversion to the less-than-secure temporarily overruling my personal sense of satisfaction at something far easier to break into than I’d expected. All I wanted at this moment was space-ready
(if her crew was willing to gamble, so was I)
and no questions
(given I made the entrance I hoped, that wouldn’t be a problem).

Under a strut, twist between cables, squeeze and barely make it between the clamp and a thoughtlessly-positioned atmospheric maneuvering fin—I did all I could to make my way up to the ship’s side without revealing myself to the
Rigus,
so overwhelmingly close. There was a point at which I had to risk showing at least part of myself. I made that part small, and moved it as irregularly as Acepanly possible, judging that while a stealthily moving life-form might be noticed, a quick scurry, pause, and scurry again might not, being mistaken perhaps for a blur of snow caught in an errant breeze and tossed upward in a perverse fling at gravity.

Although the ship would be locked tight, I was reasonably confident of finding one or more of her vents exchanging air. The owner of a ship this decrepit should prefer to take advantage of a port where the atmosphere was free, and Rigel II’s wintry air, I inhaled appreciatively, was of excellent quality. Of course, there was the outside chance that the crew weren’t oxy-breathers, but I doubted it in a wreck willing to land on a world with rather basic facilities.

Still, the thought gave me pause, which entailed locking thirty-six pairs of legs around a docking clamp, the seventeen numb pairs dangling loose, while I twisted my neck to look for identification. None, unless the recent scarring of what could have been blaster damage along her underside was indicative of where this ship hadn’t been lately—anywhere safe.

Better and better.
A war zone wasn’t in my plans, but this wasn’t a warship. Instead, she was looking like a smuggler, or, to be more gracious to beings I hadn’t met, an adventurer. Such would head to the Fringe rather than to Inner Systems. The Fringe and closer to home.

And Ersh
. I trembled from more than the frigid night and carefully unlocked my grips, one pair at a time. I began climbing over the hull.

I found an air intake.
Or the intake had found me,
I thought, disgusted, my belly plates sucked flat against the grille. Pulling free involved a certain amount of discomfort.

The air intake was not an Esen-intake; even this scow would pass incoming air through biocontamination filters.
Uncomfortable at the least.

The air vents, however, should be very accessible. There were supposedly regulations about what could and couldn’t be vented, but by far older custom, if a ship was permitted to land, its captain expected the planet to be willing to share air. It had long been considered an individual planet’s responsibility to maintain its ecosystem, not its visitors. Sensitive worlds—or rich ones—maintained biofilters and scans around their shipcities or ports. Others, such as Rigel II, hoped for the best, recorded arrivals and departures, and kept a cat or its equivalent on spaceport grounds for the odd runaway.

A rank smell of moldy fruit drew me to what I needed. The vents were paired here, running in two parallel slots about a meter in length and almost half that in width. The air rushing out was not only fragrant, but moist. A lumpy chain of ice had already formed, wrapping the edges of the vents in a thick coating that would likely cause some delays in the departure if the space-proof doors couldn’t close properly. A suspicious amount of warping around the vents implied the usual method of clearing such deposits consisted of repeatedly slamming the doors against the frame.

I clambered up the side of the ship, positioning myself so that I hung head down over the top of the nearest vent. The condensing water vapor hid me nicely as I prepared to cycle into something that could fight its way in past the howl of air. I tried to ignore the condensation coating my oculars as I considered the problem.

Ersh was fond of reminding me that a conservative approach was always best. If the current form could manage, use it. I experimented with my first six pairs of claws, flattening myself against the outer slope of the icy buildup and driving each chisellike claw tip deep into the frozen mass for purchase. As I moved into the path of the air, it slid over my smooth back, offering relatively little resistance to my next steps. A false security since if I lost most of my grips even for an instant, I’d be blown off the side of the ship and likely land flat against the
Rigus.
I found the ability to drive my claws in a bit deeper than I’d thought possible.

What a stink.
Rigel II would not appreciate this particular donation to its environment. The timing of the venting, in the darkest hours of the one night everyone was away from their post, seemed a bit too convenient. However, I did appreciate the warmth, feeling life restart in the limbs gone cold-dormant. The wind whistled out any chance of detecting the warning sounds of machinery and it was black as the heart of a tax collector inside the vent itself. I counted my successes in centimeters, content to make progress without risking more than a claw tip if I encountered the blades of a turbine or whatever archaic device they were using.

After a few seconds, which oddly passed more like hours, I felt my rearmost claw tips leave the ice rim and meet the metal of the interior of the vent. Relieved to be safe at last from the
Rigus’
vids, I paused, pressed almost flat against the side of the vent both by inclination and the force of the air, the latter a pressure that contrarily sought to lift me away when I incautiously curled any portion of my long spine outward. I settled myself more firmly to wait.

No telling how much deeper the vent extended.
The outer walls of the ship would be honeycombed with conduits for biohazardous materials such as fuel and sewage, the inner wall strengthened to hold against vacuum and provide a last hope for the crew in case of a breach. Some species designed their ships so that each interior compartment was actually a separate entity, capable of disassociation once free of atmosphere and the need for a sleek outer hull. But this felt and certainly smelled Human. And Human designs were reasonably straightforward.

My chance would come when the crew shut down the exhaust before launch. I pressed harder against the cold metal, trying to ignore the shrieking of the air as it tore past me, and hoped it wouldn’t be long. Much of this and I’d have nightmares for sure.

Have no nightmares of me, friend Ragem,
I whispered to myself sadly. An unlikely wish, I thought, remembering the last sight I’d had of his face.

I’D dozed for a while until startled awake again. The wall under my claws suddenly began to vibrate out of synch with the throbbing of the exhaust motors. I fought panic, Acepans tending to a paranoid flight response to alarm, and tried to figure out what was happening.

The tug was heading for the field at last,
I decided almost at once, the abrupt lurching from side to side being another clue. It must be morning, a fact I couldn’t verify with my head and all its oculars rammed as far as possible down into the vent. The air rushing over me was as clean as Rigel II’s own, which by now it was. I waited for the exhaust motor to stop, readying myself to scurry forward as soon as it did.

That wasn’t what happened. Later, when I had time to think, I realized the true sequence of events and knew the ship hadn’t really grown teeth, clamped down on the rear five segments of my body, and then sucked the rest of me forward in a pain-filled blur of heat and explosion. But that was later.

Whirrrr, thud.
Pain!
Cycling was involuntary and rapid enough to scorch the inside of the vent. Propelled by my own release of energy, my web-form shot deeper into the vent, my consciousness literally torn as I
knew
I was leaving part of myself behind, imprisoned in the vent doors, part of me too small for independent life, part of me already dying. There was nothing I could do to save it.

The rest of me was in trouble enough. I hit the fans an instant before they shut down, my velocity sufficient (I decided when once again capable of coherent thought) to destroy most of the vanes, permitting me to pass more-or-less intact.
Less,
I cried to myself.

If there was a cosmic figure playing with the lives and fates of sentient beings, it must have chosen to intervene—or else had finished toying with my life and gone on to torment someone else. I found myself floating in a tank of creteng: nice, mature, full-grown creteng. Meal-size creteng. It was the work of an instant to snatch the few dozen finny things I needed to rebuild my essential mass.

Then I let myself sink to the bottom and spread to fill the available area, hoping the crew would assume the water displaced on the deck was due to rough handling by the tug, and the reason the remaining creteng were hysterically clustered at the surface was simply their usual mindless dithering.

 

I was left alone, as I’d expected, granted much-needed time and solitude to heal myself by the simple practicalities of prepping a ship for lift. Duties multiplied when a ship left port, and the Christmas celebration would undoubtedly impair the efficiency of the crew. This assumed the crew was efficient. Their cavalier treatment of the living beings in their hold certainly left that open to debate. The cretengs decided that the chance of my converting more of them to web-mass was preferable to being sloshed out on to the deck and several grew quite daring in their approach to the bottom of the tank. I tried not to eat too many; they had saved me, after all.