“Don’t worry, Nimal-Ket,” Ragem said immediately, concerned at my reaction, if misunderstanding it. “We do have a trajectory to follow and several tracker probes have been launched.”
“Where is it going, Paul-Human?” I asked, holding my voice steady.
And how?
Ragem frowned, but not at me. “That’s the puzzle, Nimal-Ket. If it holds a direct course, the thing will pass through the major arm of the Jeopardy Nebula. There are no inhabited planets along that route at all. Not even a regular shipping lane.”
No planets,
I thought numbly. Ersh’s unforgiven past was close enough to my consciousness now that I did know one taste of web-flesh would never be enough. And planets weren’t the only source of life. “There is an artist colony just outside this nebula, Paul-Human,” I said. “It’s very small. Very private.”
And Lesy lived there, painting rather badly, singing rather well, as she waited for Ersh to give her another culture to remember for us all.
Needless to say, Kearn wasn’t thrilled by my urging him to take his ship to protect a colony of perhaps forty beings. Artists, no less. At least he had no trouble accepting that I knew its location; Ket could be depended upon to have contacts in the most obscure places. There was less difficulty arranging to stay on the ship. Most of the crew, including Kearn, visited me regularly and were distraught at the mere thought I might leave, even though I was thoroughly Ketlike in my bookkeeping and the ship’s debt was climbing nicely.
“We haven’t completed our investigation here, Madame Ket,” Kearn said, plainly trying to find a way to say no without dismissing me too abruptly. He continued happily, “I’ve been granted an appointment this afternoon with Sec-ag P’Clor of the rememberer caste to discuss the pattern of disappearances—”
“We have all of the D’Dsellan’s pertinent data. sir.” This from my unexpected ally, Sas, the Modoren security officer. Sas twitched constantly as if the instinct to chase was literally painful to control. “I must agree with Madame Ket that our time is better spent in pursuit.”
“The local patrol has offered to forward any new information they collect to us, sir. After all, we aren’t investigators,” Ragem added unwisely.
Kearn’s happy mood evaporated and he began stroking his head—not a good sign, as I remembered well. But he really had no good reason to keep the
Rigus
rooted to the ground, beyond his ambition to personally visit every high official on Panacia’s Hiveworld. Not that I suspected him of such shallow motivation. No, Kearn had taken to the role of detective with an enthusiasm I found disquieting.
“Well, the main thing is not to lose this Esen character,” he said ponderously, needlessly confirming my worst fears.
He still believed I was the monster.
“We don’t know what the capabilities of her vessel may be.”
I made my fingers flutter. “You remain convinced these disappearances are being caused by this pup, Captain? This Ket does not understand.”
Kearn gave me a warm smile. “There are many things about Esen that you do not know, Madame Ket, and I am not at liberty to reveal. Trust me when I say she is more than capable of these actions. All the remains is to uncover her motive—then we’ll be able to predict her actions and capture her at last.”
I bowed my head in acceptance; Kearn was, oddly enough, right in a way. As a web-being I was capable of almost all that had happened. With one exception.
Of all that Ersh had shared with us, she had never taught us how to fly.
Later, I went in search of Ragem. He was in the nexus room, where he shared a research console with the ship’s protocol officer, Willify. I found them both deep in concentration over one of the screens; I chose to wait for them to notice me rather than interrupt, finding a quiet spot near a wall to crouch in comfort.
The nexus was one level below the operations bridge, where the astrogator and other officers controlled the ship’s movements. In many ways, the nexus was more important to the
Rigus’
function, since it contained the information on which any first contact would be based, from communications monitoring to linguistics, biosensors to defense. The room was easily three times as large as the bridge, yet seemed crowded. This perhaps had more to do with the casual attitude of those in it than numbers, since at the moment at least five conversations were going on, most across the entire room. Several hands and other appendages were waved at me.
Such excellent customers,
my Ketself preened.
As I moved my long-toed feet out of the way of a preoccupied Quebit, Ragem waved me over. “Hello, Nimal-Ket. I’ve got the pattern of disappearances on D’Dsel laid out now. Did you want to see for yourself?”
I allowed him to see my shudder. Besides, there was nothing there that would help their hunting or mine. I stood. “This Ket has come with a request, Paul-Human. If I may have your attention for a moment?”
“Of course.” Ragem nodded toward an area near the door which was marginally quieter.
“What can I do for you, Nimal-Ket?”
My toes found an imperceptible flaw in the flooring and rubbed at it. I made the rest of myself be still. This hadn’t been an easy decision, but I was wild with impatience. “I wish to send a message.”
“You are certainly welcome, Nimal-Ket, as long as our equipment is capable. To whom?” Ragem’s eyes had that disturbing keenness. I almost balked. But it was Lesy’s life.
“This Ket has a valued client in the artists’ colony.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Near the Jeopardy Nebula.”
I nodded. “May I send a message, Paul-Human? Your captain rightly has concerns about alarming the public before we are certain of danger. Yet this Ket has an obligation. You may see the contents of this message first.”
“Nimal-Ket—” he began, his head starting to shake.
“This Ket will pay any cost,” I added hurriedly, my fingers restless at the seams of my skirt, finally composing themselves in the hoobit’s comforting curve.
“It’s not necessary, Nimal-Ket. We’ve sent a general warning translight, recommending caution with unidentified vessels requesting dock, stepping up security, requests for reports of unusual activities.”
“Has Portula Colony responded to this message, Paul-Human?”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “No. But depending on their funding and tech, they could send their mail and com using scheduled bursts or even probes. We might not hear anything until we’re within a day of the outpost. You know the saying:
Only bad news travels translight.
”
I stopped, dropping my chin to my hoobit to put my eyes in line with his. “How long until we reach the Nebula, Paul-Human?”
Willify, who was passing by at that moment, sang out: “If we push her, five standard days, Madame Ket.” She kept on going.
“So long,” I whispered. “So much could happen by then.”
The Human didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes searched my face. “Nimal-Ket, my friend,” he said ever-so-softly. “How long until you tell me the truth?”
He wouldn’t have liked my answer to that.
Out There
THE tracker probe was inorganic. This did not mean it was without limited awareness. So when the moving dot of energy locked within its sophisticated sensors slowed and came about, the tracker hesitated. Its programming included remaining inconspicuous. It did not include defending itself against boarders.
Death tasted the knowledge of
construction
and
technology
that floated up within its consciousness as it touched the cold exterior of the probe. No life. No food. But opportunity. The one it hungered for would accept a message from such a machine.
And Mixs-memory supplied the words.
29:
Nebula Midnight
LIFT. Three days translight. Once convinced, Kearn was apparently pushing the
Rigus
to her limit. The engines howled between decks as if they knew their complaint would be unheard in space and were determined their effort be appreciated.
It didn’t matter.
I was going to be too late. I knew it. Lesy was going to die in the jaws of that thing. Another piece rent from my life without my being able to do a thing about it.
Damn Ersh.
My cabin door was locked. I could no longer marshal the proper calm detachment to let me service my clients. I’d probably leave bruises in even the Modoren’s tough hide.
I’d tried to think like the monster. It had been too easy. The nightmare returned just at the remembrance . . .
... forming jaws, jagged teeth, for one purpose. Web-flesh in my jaws. A thrill of pain from every molecule of the other. An explosion of taste far beyond mere appetite. I conquered. I seized.
Assimilation.
Disappointment. This was my flesh, shed for a purpose I only dimly remembered. Distraction. What was left fled, but I knew it was too little to survive. Disassociation would follow . . .
Ersh had tried to consume her first offspring and almost succeeded, despite the reason she’d fissioned. The instinct to consume and assimilate was that strong. No recollections had surfaced concerning the fission that had produced my sister beings. I hoped this meant Ersh had learned to control this particular taste; just as likely. Ersh thought it was none of my business. She had very specific things for me to learn from her memories.
If what I had learned was terrifying, what I suspected was worse. The monster would have some of Mixs’ memories, perhaps all. The explosion on Panacia was due to the transformation of web-matter into energy, but whose matter? And why? I didn’t know how one web-being might fight another, with the exception of cutting remarks and the odd fit of pique.
Running in the opposite direction could be my best move, and I was afraid enough to wish it were possible at least once an hour. But I was too angry at the loss of Mixs and the stalking of Lesy to do more than acknowledge it. It was a moot point anyway, given I was on a ship doing its utmost to gain on my Enemy.
A rhythmic humming sound brought me back to the here and now. The vibrations seem to emanate from the door.
This was a new tactic.
I’d refused to answer the polite chimes and com buzzes since yesterday, a not-unusual Ket tendency when seeking a respite from other species.
Curious in spite of myself, I placed my long fingers delicately on the door’s cool metal. The humming was quite melodic to my Ket tastes, the feel of what was truly music soothing to my hands. I allowed myself a few seconds to enjoy the sensation, then realized there was likely only one person on board who would use this method to get my attention.
Maybe he could take my mind off useless speculation. Either we would be in time to save Lesy, she would escape herself, or—I stopped thinking and cued the door to iris open.
“You sang, Paul-Human?”
Ragem looked around for somewhere safe to deposit the formidable-looking sonic wrench he was unsuccessfully hiding behind his back, then gave up. “Good evening, Nimal-Ket.”
I reached out my hands. He passed me the tool somewhat sheepishly. It was warm from his grip and from its recent use. “You weren’t answering your door. I was worried.”
My Ket hands were more than strong enough to heft the truly amazing tool. I would have to share this with Ansky; she knew several Ket musicians who were always looking for innovative instruments. The molding process had deposited some intriguing surface details on the wrench I explored while I considered what to do with Ragem. “Where on a ship like this do you use such a tool, Paul-Human—besides on the door of this Ket?”
“No idea,” he grinned. “Lawrenk had it in her locker.”
I stood to one side of the doorway, tacit invitation. “And what is so important you had to resort to this method of gaining my attention, Paul-Human?”
Ragem looked over his shoulder before entering, then closed and relocked the door. I didn’t need his sudden air of secrecy to know he was planning to grill me again on my true nature. I wrapped my fingers more firmly around Lawrenk’s pilfered tool and rather fondly calculated the range to his head.
What was it going to take to convince Ragem to leave me as a Ket?
“You look like one who could benefit from the services of this humble Ket, Paul-Human.” I offered, sure I was correctly gauging the tension in the set of his shoulders and neck.
“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here, Nimal-Ket.” Ragem’s hands were restless. As if uncomfortable in my presence, the Human paced the small room, making me turn my head almost fully around to keep watching him.
“And where else would I be, Paul-Human?”
He threw up his hands in an odd, angry motion. “In a drawer. Out there, chasing whatever we’re chasing. Invisible. How should I know?”
The wrench was too much temptation. I laid it gently on a shelf intended for personal possessions. As Ket, I had none but the hoobit. As Web, I had only my flesh and my link to those of my flesh—and this Human, difficult as he could be. I made my voice and posture as unruffled as his was barely controlled. “Paul-Human, if you have something to say to this Ket which will make sense, I would gladly hear it. Otherwise, I would appreciate returning to my contemplations.”
“Always the Ket.” Thankfully, he stopped his prowling about and sat on one of the two chairs in the room.
I didn’t even bother asking what else I could be—it would only give him an opening. “As you are always the Human,” I responded instead, fluttering the fingers of both hands as I crouched politely near him, though there was nothing funny at all about our continued fencing around the truth. “Have you heard anything further about the object of our pursuit, Paul-Human?”
“Bits and pieces from Panacia. Nothing we hadn’t surmised from the data on our own by now. But we’ve received a list of the artists and staff on Portula Colony.” Ragem passed me a slip of plas from his pocket. I took the slim thing between two fingers and glanced down at the names.
Lesy.
Her name on the list was Riosolesy-ki, her species’ Dokecian, something she had in common with about a third of the other artists. The Dokeci form had many advantages to her art, including a rare breadth of visual acuity and a brain capable of controlling the independent action of five extraordinarily mobile arms. Few Dokecians retained this mobility as adults, their strength fading at middleage, too weary to do more than languish on pillows, cared for by their smaller, stronger offspring while they themselves discussed the adventures of their own youth. Lesy, like other mature adults who wished to continue an un-Dokecian active lifestyle, sought out null or low gee environments.