Search image, p.20
Search Image, page 20
This Carasian wasn’t chasing anyone, at least for the moment.
“Please accept my apologies.” Evan put down the shovel. “Are you injured?” He couldn’t tell. Part of the massive body was inside the right-hand wall; presumably those claws were, too. The top and bottom chitinous plates of the being’s head pulsed slightly, but with a steady rhythm, which Evan took for a positive sign, though the edges had already scraped away layers of colored paper and were into the plaster. Despite Esen’s claim it would take explosives to renovate this sturdy old building, he had to wonder—
An eyestalk wobbled into view. “I’m stuck, you fool.”
That he was. The giant’s efforts to free himself had made it worse. Evan bent to take a look. As he feared, the Carasian’s thick legs had broken through the stairs. Splinters of wood that would have impaled anything softer had shattered against armor plate. That didn’t mean he’d escaped harm. Fresh gouges crisscrossed existing ones, and it’d take a molt to remove the damage.
Still, this was the being who’d grabbed poor Esen in one enormous claw, then dangled her, paws running in midair. Who might have done worse, if not for his frying pan—
Where was Esen? What if, after he’d run from the house, the Carasian had pursued her up these stairs?
She couldn’t come down again.
So, still upstairs. But had Esen found the source of the noise? Or—he licked dry, dusty lips, had the source found her? What should he do now? Shout to let her know he was here, or keep quiet in case she was hiding?
Briefing notes. He needed notes. Did security have—
“Hey, Gooseberd,” the Carasian rumbled suspiciously. “Whatcha up to back there? Huh?”
He’d no choice. “Esen!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “It’s Evan. I’m down here!”
A disgusted rattle. “Seventeen Sandy Hells, Human. They’re long gone.”
He’d ask about “they” later. “To get the authorities?”
“How should I know?” Another rattle. “We didn’t discuss it.” With considerable sarcasm.
Evan supposed he’d be testy also, if their places were reversed. First things first, then. Botharis was a Human planet; it wasn’t part of the Commonwealth, but as the Commonwealth’s—therefore Human—representative on the spot, he was responsible for interspecies’ relations.
Can’t leave the poor thing like this. “I’m coming up. Hold still.”
Before the startled Carasian could do more than grunt, Evan was climbing. He’d liked climbing the cliffs near home, until Great Gran caught him at it and made him watch gruesome vids of falls. Who knew she’d been prepared to avert such recklessness in the Gooseberry line?
This climb was easier, the carapace roughened with wear and speckled with finger-sized scars. Why? Where had the Carasian been?
Where he was being the more crucial at the moment, Evan focused on his task. He stopped short of the head. “Please retract your eyes, Hom.”
The body beneath him shuddered with violent effort, not to help, but to shake him off. Wood creaked and cracked, plaster rose in choking clouds, and Evan clung to what he could until the Carasian went still again. He spat out dust before saying, as patiently as possible, “I can’t see past you, so I have to get to the stairs above. I really don’t think anyone can help until your situation is properly assessed.”
Evan took the ensuing silence for permission and reached for the head, trying to avoid the eyestalks.
A claw larger than his body appeared above him, coated in dust that only added to its menace. He froze in place, gripping the Carasian with both hands. “I won’t tell any—”
The claw closed terrifyingly near to his face, the tips meeting. Past the tips, the ridges were so worn, there was a considerable gap. “Hurry up, then.”
Evan collected himself, and his nerve, then took hold of the claw. The Carasian lifted him up and over with ease. Given the circumstances, he forgave being shaken off like lint once clear of the creature, even if he did drop painfully to the stairs.
A row of dusty black eyeballs regarded him, the stalks of a couple badly twisted, and Evan thought he detected a certain wild desperation in that gaze.
Little wonder. From this end, matters were worse. The Carasian was entombed, his right side and claws deep in one wall, his left not so deeply in the other but with that handling claw punched through a bit higher, giving a nasty twist to the whole.
They’d have to tear the farmhouse apart, if they could, and even then—
“We’ll have you out of here in no time,” Evan said firmly, on the tried and true tenet that under no circumstances did you upset a Carasian. Especially one with a claw in reach. Most especially one whose continued struggles could conceivably cause the staircase and associated structure to collapse around them both.
He sat on a stair, deliberately in reach. “So, tell me about yourself.”
Eyestalks whirled in confusion. “What?”
“If Esen isn’t here, help’s on the way.” Of that he was convinced. The Lanivarian struck him as a being who cared for others. Then there was Paul—Evan switched thoughts immediately, feeling his face grow warm. “We just have to wait.” He casually brushed dust from his sleeve. “I work on Dokeci-Na—or did.” He always seemed to have to qualify that. “I’m here to consult the Library. You work there, don’t you? As—a cook?” The unlikely apron he’d seen on the Carasian in the lobby was now a shredded rag pinned by a splinter the size of his wrist to a stair.
The eyes had settled, a disquieting but attentive fix on his face. “I operate the food dispenser. My name’s Lambo Reomattatii.”
Progress. The Carasian understood the seriousness of his predicament; that didn’t protect them from instinct and reflexes evolved to do battle. “It looks like a very complicated device.”
“It’s not.” A grunt, almost amused. “I’m a drive engineer.”
Making the intellect within those dented head plates a remarkable one indeed. “Then why did you grab Esen?” Evan asked, too worried to care about the abrupt change in the Carasian’s speech patterns.
“I was to stop her going upstairs.” Eyestalks bent up. “Someone dangerous was there.” They lowered to gaze at him. “Then you hit me.” With approval.
“‘Dangerous’?” Evan echoed, barely managing not to squeak. “Is Esen all right?”
“The director arrived,” with satisfaction. “He did as you did. Climbed up and over me and, from what I overheard, he and Esen dealt with the intruders. They’ve left. But—” Lambo subsided with a creak of wood. “I told the director I only pretended to be stuck.”
Evan stared at him. “So they might not send help.”
A sigh like rain on a ’brella. “They might not. The director is sensible. He’ll take the intruders to the Library first and contain the threat. He’ll expect me to return to the Chow. Perhaps I will be missed. Perhaps not for some time.”
“Then we—eek!” Evan squeaked as the staircase beneath them lurched! He grabbed the claw Lambo offered for support, his heart pounding. The movement stopped. “We can’t wait.”
“I concur. You must leave at once, Evan Gooseberry,” Lambo said all too calmly. “Go! Hurry! Bring back assistance.” His claw opened. Moved closer.
“No!” Evan scrambled backward on hands and feet up the next stairs, stopping out of reach. “You have to molt, Lambo. Now!”
The Carasian became a statue, gray-black and streaked with debris.
“You’re due,” Evan insisted. “Past due.” The new chitin would be pliable—for a short time, but they didn’t have more. “You can climb out yourself. Of yourself, I mean.”
“I won’t,” Lambo said very quietly. “If I do, I won’t be the same.”
He’d never heard of a Carasian afraid to molt before. Cautious about doing so on beaches, where there could be sand fleas able to burrow through the temporarily soft carapace, but this? Of course, there was the too-obvious reason. “What,” he said half-jokingly, “You’ll be a mature female and eat me?”
When Lambo didn’t answer, Evan felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh. You will.”
“It must happen,” quietly, surely. “Soon. If not this molt, then my next. I shall grow and become superb—but there is a cost. I lose this.” The great claw moved gently between them. “I’m not ready, Evan, to assume the proud mantle of my sex. I haven’t accomplished what I intend. I haven’t found what I seek. I cannot continue the search myself if I’m—” The claw SNAPPED near his foot with nightmarish speed.
Somehow, Evan managed not to pull it back. Lambo’s new chitin was compressed inside that hard outer case, like a spring. “If the stairs collapse,” he reasoned quickly, “or you’re damaged when they try to get you out, you could—” no tactful way to say it, “—crack and molt anyway. Isn’t it better to do it now, when it’s the two of us? I promise to run,” he added, with emphasis.
“You sound as though you know us, Human.” An intimidating rattle. “How can you?”
He’d read a great deal? Carasians being fascinating and, for a change, a species that didn’t trigger any of his FEARS—which was why he’d decided to work with the Dokeci, who did. Only struggle moved you forward—Great Gran understood. Evan focused. “I’ll tell you later. Please, Lambo. Trust me.”
“Prove what you know. Come close,” in a voice so deep, dust danced in the air. Lambo’s eyestalks parted, and two needle-tipped jaws emerged.
Reading about this ritual didn’t help a bit. Evan rose slowly, getting his balance. That ominous waiting claw didn’t help either. If he failed, Lambo would toss him down the stairs and he’d have no choice but to run for help. He’d be too late.
Nothing to worry about, Evan told himself, trembling to his core. Basic diplomacy. Respect the customs of others—even if they could kill you. He stepped down. One stair, two, until he stood in the Carasian’s shadow, his face between those threatening jaws.
The tips pressed his cheeks, once, as lightly as a butterfly wing. Tears of joy—and probably relief, but mostly an incredible, undeniable warmth—filled his eyes.
The jaws retracted, and Lambo gently pushed him back with that great claw. “Very well, Evan Gooseberry,” the giant said. “I will do as you suggest.”
He blinked, feeling moisture track down his face, knowing he’d never forget this moment. “How can I help?” There’d been something about peeling, the need for a starting point—a crack. Why hadn’t he kept the shovel, or the pan?
Lambo’s eyes retracted, her head plates slamming close. “Get as far from me as you can,” she ordered, her voice muffled.
The great claw rose, then swiveled the wrong way on a joint with a horrible tearing protest, but it kept moving, opening to grip the front of her head—
Evan turned and ran up the stairs. He staggered into the room above, behind him a CRACK-CRUNCH!! which would have been disturbing—but the Carasian’s impassioned HOWL wiped everything but flight from his brain.
17: Greenhouse Afternoon
OUR design for the All Species’ Library of Linguistics and Culture hadn’t included provision for Chase or her cronies. Perhaps we’d been, as Skalet put it, “foolishly optimistic”; nonetheless, we’d refused to add a dungeon just to make her happy.
However handy it might be now.
We’d abandoned Evan Gooseberry and Lambo, taking a secret lift to a secret hanger implausibly above the secret hidden room—where a roof appeared to be—to pile into a sleek aircar and zip to, yes, my Garden.
Through a Kraal field that didn’t turn us into harmless ash, implying either collusion with a certain Web-being, or a devious work-around that shouldn’t exist.
And who knew that secluded patio so dear to Paul’s heart and plans was a landing pad, too? Certainly not me.
Unsettling described it. Three hours ago, I’d planned to put tables on it for his family, complete with the sacrifice of flowers. Just as well they hadn’t come, I decided, considering how our day was going.
Now we gathered in the greenhouse, steps from the aircar and patio-now-landing pad. I’d have indulged in some self-pity at the intrusion if Paul hadn’t suffered a far deeper indignity.
Still, this was my space. The Garden spread over fifty rolling acres, in Botharan terms, cupping the Library within one edge. Paths for clients so far accessed only a quarter. Even with the largest specimens we could import, it would take a Human lifetime for every part to grow together in the natural-as-possible scheme I’d set out—and at no point could what grew here be neglected. The more “effortless” the Garden, the harder the work behind it, and this sturdy, practical greenhouse was the heart of it all.
That it was usually warm and mostly dry and always fragrant in here, through the varied local seasons, was simply good planning on my part.
If the Library was the current Botharan ideal of exotic, alien architecture, my greenhouse was the opposite. Built in Paul’s great-great grandparents’ time, Skalet-memory remembered a glittering conservatory—the jewel of Grandine’s brand new park—built as a nostalgic tribute to the original settlers.
In other words, a place to exhibit those fabled plants Humans hadn’t been able to grow here—no matter how they’d tried—so future generations could see, smell, but please, not touch, what they were missing.
Generations later, tastes and needs having changed along with agricultural accomplishments, the Botharans found themselves with a conservatory full of plants no longer relevant and in fact slightly embarrassing. Why admire a “rose” when the modified native version was twice as lovely? Needless to say, what Humans called “roses” wasn’t the same plant on any two planets; roses on Yelldyn 732 migrated on spiny little feet and were not plants at all—
The conservatory went from beloved landmark to forgotten to, after decades of neglect, so much scrap. Duggs found most of it in a twisted pile, waiting to be recycled, and I’d had the pieces brought here. The original plans were on record, letting Duggs replicate whatever was missing.
Thick metalwork arched overhead, supporting real glass between clawlike clamps. Ventilation was achieved by twisting ornate handles that turned panels along whatever side brought a breeze. It glistened in sunlight like an enormous gem left among the surrounding trees and ferns, filled with urgent seedlings and the earthy smell of compost.
When it rained, seams leaked and the entire structure attracted lightning, hence the rods and wires to the ground. At the height of summer, the inside sizzled; in winter’s chill, clouds of condensation, with occasional icicles, formed. Colonies of tiny Botharan bats slept in the lofty twinned peaks of the roof—and how they got in and out with the vents closed I’d yet to discover—and while we’d gone with a perfectly modern floor and plumbing, I’d yet to keep out mousels.
I loved it.
And shared it. During the Garden’s formative months, there’d been a succession of ground crews and hired specialists to do the major preparation and planting. Now a rotating staff of interns mulched, tidied, and observed, it being more useful for all concerned, and safer for the plants, to have them ask me about anything alien. At the moment, I’d fourteen graduate students from the four universities of the Botharan capital, Grandine, interested in alien flora, plus the first apprentice from “down the valley” who didn’t cringe at what I’d done with the place. All were free to wander in and out of the greenhouse as required.
Unless I’d hung the flag.
It was a paw towel Paul had given me, printed with red shrimp things. Smiling shrimp things. With Humanish teeth. After much use, it was more rag than towel, but I refused to part with it. I’d hang this distinctive if improbable flag on its hook by the greenhouse entrance to warn others when I was communing with the plants and under no circumstances to be disturbed.
Not a lie—appropriate phrasing, as Ersh would say. Assimilating plant mass into more of my own was arguably a communion of a sort and I’d a healthy crop of duras in pots throughout the greenhouse for that purpose.
Being safely unaware of the truth, I imagined some of those who worked for me snickered behind my back. I didn’t care. Others took the appearance of the flag as their signal to read on a bench or visit the Chow between breaks.
Also, not my concern. I tested my flag’s effectiveness often enough to catch any new arrivals inclined to peek inside.
It hung outside now.
We’d moved inside, to a clean stretch of counter. On it, Paul had spread a portable access screen and was busy doing something with it. He’d summoned Skalet, that much I knew.
I watched our guests.
Chase behaved, standing peacefully where she’d been told, in my dim view a sign she was pleased by the direction of events. I’d have been pleased by how Jumpy Lyn clung to the Human like a shadow, the pungent aroma of its digesting meal hovering around them like a cloud, except it seemed more a demonstration of Chase’s imperturbability.
Unless she’d no sense of smell.
My Lanivarian-self possessed a predatory fixed stare I liked to think was intimidating and Rudy, when I’d tried it on him, kindly said it made me look hungry. Which I usually was, so I wasn’t entirely convinced, but right now, I’d that remembered urge to BITE behind my stare. It made Jumpy Lyn anxious, adding to its odor, but Chase?
I might not have existed. Her augmented gaze never left Paul. A convenient stack of recently emptied compost bags were in reach under the counter and I’d have happily put one over her head.
But Paul didn’t appear concerned. His fingers raked back a tumbled lock of hair absently, his focus on whatever showed on the screen.
I was concerned, enough for us both. What could be in this mysterious logbook worth all this? If it existed, I cautioned myself, well aware we’d only Chase’s word. A being devious to the core.
