I MIGHT have been masquerading as a strategist—somewhat of a trend, since I’d already been a diplomat, ghost, spy, and any number of things I was not—in order to gain the Matriarch’s confidence. That hadn’t let me avoid a difficult choice. The easy part had been convincing the Ganthor her current employer was a bad risk. The account I’d accessed through the ’digger’s com system had perhaps softened the blow of dropping a supposedly lucrative contract, although I thought it probable this exceptionally worldly Matriarch recognized Logan could be killing his mercs—at least in part—as a cost-cutting method. It did nothing to moderate their reaction to my disclosures.
Once they’d calmed, and I could descend from the precarious safety of an upper shelf, we discussed—more or less without bruising—what to do next. Understandably, the Seconds were all for a frontal assault. Unfortunately, all they had was a location to meet their transport offworld. I didn’t see Logan risking himself in person, however convenient. Nor did I expect he’d really send a transport capable of retrieving the Herd, in case they attempted to commandeer it—a detail confirmed by the simple expedient of having two of the Herd exit the ’digger, shoot a climbing rig up the nearest tall structure with the necessary orientation, and launch a servoscope from the top. It was illegal, intrusive, and broke any number of regulations about how Commonwealth species acted toward one another.
It also improved my credibility with the Ganthor a thousandfold when the ’scope panned the seashore in the direction of the so-called transport and found only an automated one-person shuttle.
So the next move was up to me. The Herd dealt with its inner turmoil by lining up so they could connect each in turn to the Matriarch’s e-rig, a reassurance I could have used myself. My Feneden-self apparently craved the company of its own species as well, a craving my cilia tried to satisfy by sampling heat signatures from the e-rigged bodies near me. Needless to say, that instinctive searching merely confirmed I was the only one here without a thick hide and even thicker layer of insulating body fat.
If I’d had mass, and an expandable e-rig, I could have cycled into my Ganthor-self here in the ’digger. The Ganthor would be so consumed by the presence of a new individual, I doubted they’d register the disappearance of their Feneden guest for quite some time. And such a sturdy, brave form, I sighed.
But this elegant, timid form was the key, I told myself, and gathered what courage I could before announcing to the Second who waited, patiently for a Ganthor, for my command. *To the shipcity.*
“You’re parking—?” the Human repeated.
Since my comspeak was impeccable, I began to wonder if her hearing was somehow impaired and tried speaking louder. “Yes. We’d prefer an indefinite duration spot, if you have it. I’ll cover the charges.”
The Human leaned farther out of her booth, twisting her helmet so that she looked left, up, and then right, as if this was some necessary stage in assessing the dimensions of the ’digger relative to the available parking spots. I could see several that would do from here—obviously quite a few others had left the Festival early.
The Ganthor flanking me were uneasy without their weapons, no matter that they’d made a valiant effort to look somewhat more like tourists than troops. Their nervousness was barely noticeable in the Matriarch’s Second, but was patently a serious matter to the other, a less-experienced and so more aggressively postured youngster. He’d taken to thumping me in the back at inopportune moments—an unconscious reflex intended to determine our relative positions within the Herd.
As I had as much chance of returning the gesture with meaningful force as I had of moving the ’digger past this Human without her cooperation, I clicked impatiently at the Second: *!!Settle him!!* The Second reached behind me. The youngster gave a startled grunt but calmed.
This interchange had an effect on the Human gatekeeper. She started closing the gate—a decidedly flimsy affair compared to the heavily armored nose of the Ganthor vehicle.
“You don’t want to do that, Fem,” I said quickly. “Trust me. We only want to park it. There’ll be no trouble. I promise.”
She lifted her hand from the control. “Is this the ’digger that was in Brakistem last night?”
As it was barely dawn, I thought that an interesting lengthening of time, but didn’t comment. “Oh, you’ve heard of them?” I said, thinking rapidly. “I’m not surprised, considering the quality and innovation of their art.”
“Art?” Both her eyebrows went up, their inlaid feathers twisting with the movement. It wasn’t the most flattering adornment I’d seen on a Human face, but then there were as many cultural tastes among that species as there were groups of more than ten.
“Art,” I said firmly. “The Ganthor were—guests of the Festival of Living Art.” Which wasn’t completely false. “They were commissioned to produce an interactive piece for the Gallery. I thought everyone knew—this Herd is quite famous.”
She actually blushed brightly enough for the color to show through her helmet. “My mistake, Fem—?”
“Tilesen.” I’d already chosen the name to give the Ganthor, though having no way to gauge if it was too old-fashioned for today’s Feneden. Some names, I hoped, were timeless.
“Fem Tilesen. Please apologize to your guests for my ignorance. I usually keep up on visiting art groups. It’s really quite a passion of mine. You can direct the driver to park your—vehicle—in the fifteenth through seventeenth rows. That should be sufficient space. You know there’s a cover charge? And, Fem?” This in a suddenly conspiratorial tone that made the Ganthor stiffen. I smacked them both as hard as I could before they did anything else. “I think it’s simply wonderful you’ve been able to use the art of these talented beings to bridge the gap between your species and the Iftsen. I tell you, a lot of us were getting worried. Any chance of an autograph?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said rather numbly and hurried my escort of talented beings back into their newly christened object d’art.
Having settled the not-so-minor problem of getting rid of the conspicuous ’digger—which included adding the replacement cost of a new one onto the bill—I could then concentrate on what to do with fifteen unemployed Ganthor. The Herd couldn’t stay isolated in their e-rigs much longer. I gave this some thought as the driver managed to put the ’digger into a close enough approximation of the rows assigned, the cover arching over us with only a screech as it hit some of the more irregular protrusions out the aft gun ports. We waited until the parking attendant signaled that the air outside the ’digger had been replaced with the oxy-mix standard throughout the shipcity’s tunnelways, and then shed our rigs with pleasure.
Well, the Ganthor did. I gave them as much room as possible, anticipating disrobing would necessitate a period of shove and slobber. I hesitated about taking off my own e-rig, then decided that was more Feneden fussing. It would look odd to wear a helmet out there. I felt around for the release, not having bothered to find it earlier. There.
With the helmet off, my cilia writhed in delight. It was an automatic and irritating sensation, to have one’s hair waving indoors as if windblown. Get used to it, I reminded myself, disturbed to find myself making such a trivial judgment of a form’s characteristics. Too much time as Esolesy Ki. Lishcyns were known for hasty decisions and a fascination with appearances. I was going to have to reconsider how long I remained in a particular form, if I wanted to ensure my thought processes remained Esen-alit-Quar’s and so totally my own.
A new and uncomfortable thought. Had my web-kin chosen their favored forms because they enjoyed those more than others? Or had they spent more time in those forms and so begun to change in their very natures? No Ersh-memory, helpful or otherwise, bubbled up cooperatively to reassure me with an answer.
*We are ready, Fem Tilesen,* clicked one of the Seconds—his personal attention a continuing mark of the Matriarch’s favor.
I’d been trying to check my companions for implants, but gave up. It was impossible as long as they kept milling around. *Do any of your Herd have a vocalizing implant?* I clicked, using the fingersnap they’d provided. It was conceivable I was the only other being on Iftsen Secondus at the moment fluent in their speech. I didn’t want to leave them without at least one Ganthor who could communicate in comspeak.
*My predecessor at the Matriarch’s Left.* Left wasn’t the term he used, just its meaning; the term itself referred to an archaic weapon, somewhat like a battleax, wielded by the Matriarch as a practical symbol of her authority. The other Second would refer to himself as her Right; again, a term referring to a weapon—one with serrated edges able to penetrate a Ganthor’s hide. It symbolized her right to their lives and her responsibility for them.
I tugged at his huge, bristle-coated arm until he followed me a little distance from the others. Mucus streamed from his nostrils as he tried in vain to read my intentions. A handsome, not-too-scarred individual. Now that I paid closer attention, he did appear young for his position in the Herd, although he bulked at least twenty-five percent over most of the others. *This may be important,* I clicked. *What happened to your predecessor?* As he lowered his snout in threat, I added quickly: *I mean no offense. This is a matter of Herd safety.*
There was no higher priority for a Ganthor, though he was likely well-enough versed in the ways of other species to suspect I was using it as a ploy to gain his attention. *Explain.* His foot moved as though he had to stop it stamping.
*If there was anything—unusual—about your predecessor’s death, or if he died while the Herd was employed by Logan, I would see it as a deliberate attempt to reduce your Matriarch’s ability to communicate with others.*
*!!* with a whole body shudder that rattled his bandoliers and holstered weapons. This caught the attention of every Ganthor within earshot. I could see snouts wriggling as they picked up on the emotional state of the Second.
*Answer.* This click came from the Matriarch, who must have kept her ears directed our way after all. As I’d thought, a perceptive individual.
*Left was lost to the Herd during an accident as we boarded Logan’s transport. A failure within the air lock system.*
I didn’t need scent to know what rippled through the Herd’s consciousness at that moment. It was as well they didn’t know Logan’s present location or I’d never get their cooperation.
And I was counting on it.