THERE were times when the fates smiled so broadly, I confidently anticipated disaster; cosmic cooperation like this had to have a price.
Logan knew where to find The Messenger and was taking me to it as his honored guest. He had the equipment to remove the weapon before it could be used against the Feneden. Safely, I hoped.
Paul was on Upperside, his cover intact and with Lefebvre in place on the Russell III to keep Kearn occupied. My friend might be furious with me for striking off on my own, but he knew what I was doing—well, I added honestly, he knew what I’d planned to do until the moment the Ganthor dropped in and forced some on-the-spot modifications. Anyway, at least I knew he was safe.
I’d taken advantage of the encounter with the parking attendant to forestall any lingering problems between the Ganthor and the Iftsen. By now, the art reviews I’d sent out under various names would have hit the newsmags on and off Iftsen, praising the adventurous and bold new exhibit by the Ganthor, a species finally showing their creative side to an admiring universe. I did like that one.
All of which meant far too many parts of my life were going far too smoothly for comfort, I reminded myself. Of course, it was like watching the majestic slide of a newly-birthed iceberg into the ocean. There wasn’t much one could do to alter the event except get out of the way.
I’d contacted the Feneden ship, as Logan requested. They’d been somewhat surprised to receive a call from someone fluent in their own language, but once I’d begun passing along Logan’s information—carefully, and all too easily, avoiding any reference to the Iftsen—that surprise had turned to outright panic. It was a response I’d expected—had counted on, in fact. Any calm consideration would lead to inconveniences, such as contacting Fened Prime for reinforcements or, worse, involving the local authorities and so alerting the Iftsen.
The Feneden, to Logan’s delight, had been ready to lift almost immediately, a speed suggesting plans already made—a point I didn’t make with Logan.
Meanwhile, I was experiencing a slight problem, which I hoped balanced the fates: one of those “owner’s manual” events that I should have considered. My Feneden-self was starving. The Black Watch had a marvelous galley, if an unhappy cook, but I didn’t dare try anything they offered, claiming a period of fasting—always a convenient excuse with aliens.
The truth was, I had no idea what was safe on the Human ship for my Feneden-self. Ersh’s memories were regrettably lacking in details beyond local delicacies currently out of reach. This form, despite its outward resemblance to theta-class humanoids, was anything but similar in physiology. For one thing, a large amount of my appetite seemed centered in the clusters of cilia bunched under my clothes, the ones forming lumps that, on a Human, would be substantial breasts.
I had a sense this form could withstand a reasonable amount of fasting; it would have to, because if I tried something poisonous to this body, I’d have to cycle to save myself. Not the ideal choice, given present company. I was never left alone, which ruled out trying for another rezt.
“Fem Tilesen. May I join you?” Logan bowed from the open doorway of the lounge, pausing in a polite fiction that my answer would make any difference.
“Certainly, Inspector,” I said, looking up from the reader they’d given me. It contained a series of travelogues from systems more or less neighboring the Feneden’s, implying Logan was being very careful with the information made available to me. They weren’t boring; I was always happy to collect any new data on living cultures, even when packaged for family fun. “These have been fascinating. Thank you.”
He looked nonplussed for a moment, then recovered. “My pleasure. Just let one of the crew know if you need anything.”
Since I doubted either of the burly, armed Humans standing at attention to either side of the door would dash off in search of my next whim, I didn’t bother to answer that. “How long until we reach the weapon?” I asked, kicking the swing into motion as though unconcerned.
“We’re there. I’ve come to ask you to accompany me to the facility.”
I’d had better invitations, I decided, fancying I heard the cold winds of disaster starting to test my ears. But this had been the target I’d aimed Logan toward; again, so far, so good. “Are there no—guards?” I ventured, trying not to sound eager. It was distressingly easy.
He came and sat, crossing his long legs and stretching his misproportioned arms over his head with a chilling bulge of muscle. Regardless of his intelligence and scheming, I suddenly realized, this was a being who defined himself in physical terms and preferred his battles that way. Perhaps that was why he discarded his Ganthor Herds after each use—their inborn strength might seem a direct threat to his own.
His thready, high voice always took me by surprise. “They appear to have relied on camouflage rather than defense, Fem Tilesen. There are no living guards we can detect. To our scans, the construction appears Panacian—which makes sense. The Iftsen adapt or buy Panacian tech for everything off-planet. It also makes our little visit easier. Since they used Panacian materials, they’d have to worry about corrosion. There’s a breathable atmosphere in place.”
“Where is our transport?” I’d fallen into the Human habit of naming ships, especially as Esolesy Ki, and found the Feneden lack of one for their starship almost as disconcerting as my growing hunger pangs. “Will we rendezvous with them before going to the asteroid?”
Logan’s brow rose. “I don’t think that would be wise, Fem Tilesen. Disarming an unknown weapon is fraught with uncertainties. We shouldn’t risk more than ourselves. Once we are back on the ’Watch with the weapon safely disarmed, you can instruct your ship to dock with us to receive the weapon.”
Once we were back, it would be a quick departure with the Feneden left to do any explaining—or to take the blame. I’d thought he was clever.
It remained to be proved if I was, too.