By my second century, I had mastered the techniques necessary to hold an alien form for several minutes, with little or no discomfort. Frustratingly, my Elders in the Web seemed able to exist indefinitely in any form they chose. Some rarely appeared in web-form at all, finding life more convenient in a shape with hands, tentacles, or other digits to handle the local technology.
Driven by their amused contempt (or worse, their “it will come to you” attitude), I gradually learned a finer control of the energy holding my changed body together. There were ways to reduce the strain, some as simple as holding body temperature above species norm, especially on cold nights, draining tiny amounts of excess energy. Another hundred years of practice, and I was rarely driven from form until I was ready.
It was about this time in my life, having worked and suffered for such a worthy goal, that I discovered my omnipotent Elders were actually cycling in closets or when they thought I wasn’t around in order to encourage my efforts.
By my fourth century, I’d perfected my art. I could slip in and out of any remembered form and hold it indefinitely. And Ersh, Senior Assimilator of the Web, grudgingly admitted that though I was Most Recent (and she hoped I would stay that way, with Ansky under her watchful eye), I was now qualified to serve the Web. I could have a job.
And so I was on Kraos to do my duty to my Web—to obtain molecular samples of the intelligent species on this world and memorize all matters of its behavior and culture. When my task was done, the information would be assimilated by my Web, adding a new species to our shared memory. Ersh would at last be proud of me.
Given I could pull myself, literally, back together.
Hunger was what finally cured my fright. Each attempt to cycle had, of course, cost me mass. The only way to replace that mass was to assimilate other living matter into web-mass.
A wind-bent shrub grew conveniently into the front of my hiding place. I thinned myself, coating the branches and leaves I could reach easily, and coaxed the plant molecules to reform into more of me.
It was when I used up the last remaining vegetation around the cave that I suddenly realized I was out of options.
I could ignore this particular hunger, as long as I didn’t need to cycle into a form of equivalent size. Which was the problem.
The Lanivarian form so necessary to my work on Kraos was my birth form. I knew instinctively when my web-mass was equivalent to it—or when I was too small for that particular change. Given the mass I’d expend to cycle again, I was much too close to the limit I needed to keep. If I couldn’t hold the Lanivarian form in my next attempt, I would be forced to abandon that shape until I could locate and convert more living mass somewhere on this mountain.
I did have the choice of staying in web-form—a choice that included hiding in this cave for the next planet decade, or risk breaking the Web’s first and inviolate Rule: never expose the true form to aliens. I shuddered.
Ersh would have a lot to say about that.
I cycled, gripped form memory more tightly than I ever had before, and found myself panting after a few minutes, panting, but whole.
I stretched one hand out of the darkness to sample the sunlight outside the cave. Warmth, no more. Still, this limited form had excellent scent and vision. I took a tentative step forward, then another. The air was cool and fresh in my lungs. So far, so good.
Now for my disguise. I carefully curled the fingers of both hands, exposing their broad padded knuckles. Every second of stability in this form gave me more confidence.
I can do this,
I thought. I realized, belatedly, that Ersh had not doubted me. I had doubted myself.
I dropped forward, my long front arms easily matching my legs for length. Lanivarians reserved this posture for distance running and the odd theatrical event. I swung my jaw upward and laughed at the wind as it carried news of the unsuspecting city below.
An actor I would be.
3:
Market Morning
I’D licked the problem of holding form. And six hundred days later, I’d accomplished the first half of my task: deciphering the molecular structure of the Kraosians. I’d scrounged hair and nail clippings from several hundred different individuals simply by hanging around the rear of barbershops for a couple of months. That information was safely chewed, swallowed, and incorporated into my biochemical memory. I was a success.
I spat out a flea.
The tricky bit was learning what Kraosians did with their biochemistry. Ersh was right, again. Formal training just hadn’t prepared me for Kraos.
“Welcome! Come! Come Here!” the shrill singsong from somewhere over my head was immediately smothered by a multitude of others, each attempting to broadcast its greeting to shoppers first—or at least loudest. You’d have to be deaf to sleep past dawn within earshot of Suddmusal’s Marketplace.
Or be comfortably tucked under a thick pile of fabric scraps, which blocked sound as effectively as it kept away the evening’s damp. Worming my head through the stiff layers, I peered up at the fading stars. Definitely morning. I’d overslept.
Not the first time either,
I thought with a twinge of conscience. I turned the twinge into a stretch, trying to pull the kinks out of my spine.
Ah, that was better.
A little rotation on the left hip eased another tight spot.
A long but worthwhile night,
I consoled myself, working free of my warm nest. More dry bits of information discovered and carefully remembered—duty first, everything carefully shunted to the memory core I would share with my Web.
I briefly closed my eyes to better recall last night, easily summoning the images of overlapping circles of streetlight and torch, pavement glistening with dew, figures moving from shadow to puddled light, ramshackle booths unfolding like midnight blossoms. The only sounds had been the occasional muffled word or the snick of a clip to its ring. Even the ongoing game of cheat inches from your neighbors’ space had seemed choreographed for my entertainment.
Daydreaming again—the path to a short and inglorious life. Embarrassed, I opened my eyes and began to pay proper attention to my surroundings.
The market was as loud in the brightening daylight as it had been silent at night. Unmindful of the barrage of voices, shoppers struggled good-naturedly with each other to reach the merchant of their choice. Everyone knew the pavement would be bare again in another hour or so, every booth collapsed and swept into its cart as if the market was evaporated daily by the punishing heat of this season. Kraosians were nothing if not sensible folk about weather.
I surveyed today’s edition of the market, its confusion already well in place. Scents ranging from delicious to rancid forced their way into my nostrils and stuck on my tongue. “Welcome! Come! Come here!” shrilled that voice again. I flattened my ears against the noise, but it was of little use.
I was surrounded by singers.
The Kraosian version of tourists loved Suddmusal’s market—more precisely, they loved its singers. Every booth, regardless of its size or the value of its goods, boasted a living signpost—a hired singer perched precariously atop a makeshift pole; this pole typically a vital support for the booth itself. In the predawn coolness, it was rather charming to listen to the first, fresh voices caroling out their wares: a soprano from the plumbing dealer gateward, a warbling tenor from the pottery shop closer at hand.
Unfortunately, volume was more valuable than tune when singers were rubbing elbows. Once the market was packed, both voices and tempers quickly wore thin. The woman clinging to the pole above me mercifully stopped for a moment, but it was only to swirl water in her mouth from the flask hanging round her neck. She spat accurately at her nearest neighbor, then began to shriek again. “Welcome—”
I launched myself away from the fabric dealer, seeking the safest route among the dust swirls kicked up by heavy feet, dodging through a forest of wool-clad legs. Course, I wasn’t the only one down here.
From my chosen vantage point, a meter or so from the ground, the market had a second set of visitors: small, shelled, and multilegged, or larger and sinuous on four legs such as I. I counted and cataloged each automatically, for myself taking special note of the occasional groomed and perfumed beasts. The well-fed pets which accompanied their Kraosian masters and mistresses to market were unpleasantly eager to sink their teeth into the haunches of freer creatures.
Finding a temporary haven beneath the bed of a cart, I sprawled out and amused myself briefly by pulling a mat of spiny seeds from between my longest toes. It was a precise procedure: teeth had to be placed just so, then a gentle squeeze and sharp tug. I chewed the tasteless lump thoughtfully before spitting it out.
I was definitely living my appearance. I permitted myself a grin. Old Ersh would probably have cycled before sinking her teeth into my last meal of fish bones followed by fruit rinds furred with mold. “All in a day’s work for those in the field,” I dared to mimic her didactic tones to myself. “Field observers must be inconspicuous.” I’d learned for myself that being inconspicuous usually translated as uncomfortable and bored.
I stretched again, pulling the last knots out of rangy muscles and feeling lazy pleasure in the suppleness of my spine. A quick glance up at the too-bright sky. I really was late for work. I spent a moment yawning, then flicked my mind into alertness. I was, after all, a professional.
Well, not quite, but I would be one day. I would succeed here and then—well, anything was possible then. I knew this was pride, or at least ambition, and therefore highly improper. However, no one here cared, and I certainly wasn’t about to worry.
Why was summoning that pride this morning unexpectedly hard?
I found myself wondering. Perhaps it was because today marked my six hundredth day on Kraos. My six hundredth day of talking to myself.
I sneezed dust from my nostrils and tried to twitch that useful pride.
What had I expected?
As youngest, a dubious distinction as I was frequently reminded, I was expected to appreciate my assignment for what it was—a way to keep me out of trouble while I matured.
Well, it didn’t matter. I would make the best of this place and my time here. If the path of advancement meant a slow, lonely march up each strand of the Web, so be it. I might suffer from the impatience of youth, but I was determined enough to match anyone’s centuries of experience.
I stood, checked my path with practiced care, and stepped back into the dust-filled maze of legs.
Ah.
My first destination, reached without incident. I surveyed the area from the shadows behind the strident inventory of a rug merchant’s booth before venturing out. The open-air café, although just as short-lived as any of the booths, had a customary spot which boasted the shade of a misshapen, drought-denuded tree. It also had a clientele which often as not included highly placed officials and land-owners. The gossip here was frequently worth committing to memory.
It was, of course, completely irrelevant to a professional such as myself that the table scraps were of exceptional quality. I slipped into my own customary spot, safely out of sight of the serving staff, and cocked my over-sized ears wistfully.
“Hey, Cradoc, your friend’s shown up after all.” This announcement came from the group at the table nearest me. I didn’t need my nose to tell me what was available today; I could see the crisp brown tips of fat little sausages overlapping a yellow platter near the table’s edge. I let the tip of my tongue hang delicately.
Cradoc, a good-natured if coarse fellow I had singled out for attention several mornings recently, tossed one of the sausages to me with a laugh. I caught it deftly in my teeth, careful as always to keep my betraying front paws covered by a curl of tail. It wouldn’t do here to seem different from the curs freely accepted as scavengers in the market and city.
Little risk of such exposure this morning,
I thought, saliva running freely and shamelessly from my open jaws.
What a delightful beginning to my day.
“—not me . . . nothing he’s said makes sense . . . I’ll not—” the voice rising from behind and to one side of my benefactor was hotly defensive. It struck a jarring note in the calm bustle of the eatery; some people turned, seeking the source, then went back to their own conversations.
I missed the rest of what was said, occupied with holding the sausage cautiously, if awkwardly, in my jaws. I didn’t dare bite down, since its tasty interior was hot enough to scald my tongue. My predicament amused Cradoc, who slapped the back of his neighbor and pointed my way.
The partly overheard conversation was probably an insignificant quarrel, not worthy of my time. I swallowed around the sausage, the taste making me drool even more. But I was curious. Were I totally honest, never a worthwhile pursuit, I would have admitted to restlessness—a worse trait than ambition. I was here to learn the normal, not be distracted by the odd or unusual.
Perhaps because it was the six hundredth day of nothing but normal happenings, I quickly suppressed my guilt, straining to hear more of the unusual conversation, grateful for the huge ears I could imperceptibly shift to center on the sound.
“Invaders. Thieves at best . . . likely worse . . .” I lost the thread then caught it again. “. . . tell you. The Protark has been bewitched to allow them to approach the city!” This was the worried voice again. I slid my gaze in that direction and this time found the man immediately. Absently, I sank my teeth deeper into the still-hot sausage.
The worried voice belonged to a soldier of some kind, wearing a uniform I hadn’t seen before. Once bright with typical Kraosian gaudiness, it was currently marred by the dirt and creases of hard use.
Intriguing.
Kraos was free of conflict, at least presently. Such military as existed appeared to be part of the ceremonial trappings of government. So why did this soldier, and his companion, look to have just completed a forced march?