Perception
RIGHTLY concerned by the SNAPSNAP of claws behind him, Evan dropped the heavy pan and dashed down the hallway—leaping over the disgustingly stained rug—and out the door through which he’d arrived.
Evan kept running, having momentum not to be wasted and the lane sloped gently down toward the Library, speeding his pace. In fact, he might have run all the way to the Library, having determined to get help, if it hadn’t been for the mousel.
When the malignant speck of brown darted across his path, Evan leaped and twisted away, instead of sensibly jumping over it. He came down with his legs in a tangle, landing on his back hard enough to drive the breath from his already gasping lungs.
Sprinting and, to be honest, any form of sweaty fitness hadn’t seemed important to his career as a diplomat. He’d have to amend that, he thought, rather dizzy and unable to move. He stared at the sky, pleasantly full of sun-kissed clouds, and decided, since there were no sounds of clattering pursuit, he should stay like this a while longer.
Until he felt something slip up his pant leg. A squirmy, SOFT SOMETHING!
Evan was on his feet in an instant, hopping in wild circles. Something brown bounced on the ground and squeaked in outrage.
Puffed up, it scurried toward him.
So he ran.
And ran—paying attention to nothing but the ground and what might be on it—until an unfamiliar pain in his side brought him to a staggering stop.
Hands on his knees, heaving for air and quite certain he couldn’t run another step, Evan looked warily around, embarrassed to have fled from something smaller than his hand, but relieved, too. No mousels.
No Library!
His relief vanished under waves of self-disgust. In blindly fleeing the mousel, he’d managed to turn himself around and run most of the way back to the farmhouse, instead of toward help.
Great Gran Gooseberry could cite a wealth of anecdotes from The Lore involving Gooseberrys of the past who’d taken desperate chances for some cause or other because they’d left themselves no other choice, and he’d best be smarter or—unspeakable horror and blame!—fail to produce the next new Gooseberry.
Esen was in the farmhouse with an enraged Carasian. In his present state, he’d take too long to reach the Library and be too late bringing help.
Out of choices, Evan found himself suddenly sympathetic to his antecedents. He’d have to be that help.
So in he went.
Evan walked on the revolting carpet because it deadened his footsteps. Rather than pick up his pan, he elected a longer weapon, pulling one of the filthy implements—a shovel—from its fellows in the bucket, moving very slowly, sweating until it cleared without a sound. Shovel in hand, the business end over his shoulder but angled to clear the odd low-hanging lights, the Human edged forward.
A subdued rattle made him freeze in place.
Nothing.
What now?
No doubt there were tried and tested official diplomatic protocols for those skulking through a house infested by a Carasian, along with other hazardous activities; he’d neglected to find them, that was all. On his return to the embassy, Evan vowed as he eased into the small room, not only would he sprint daily, he’d ask Lisam and Lynelle for lessons. The security pair might tease him, but anything was better than this—this fumbling inadequacy.
He’d a shovel. What he thought was a shovel, anyway. Without the slightest idea how to use it.
Admittedly, he’d once chased a thief through a crowd, but in hindsight he hadn’t caught anyone, being himself kidnapped by Bess. Evan held in a wistful sigh, wishing he had Bess with him right now. The fearless child would skulk through this farmhouse with calm confidence.
“Who’s there?” The voice was low and deep—and anxious. “I know you’re there. Grasis’ Sucking Scum! You won’t get away with this. Authority’s com’n!”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Evan proclaimed and started to put down the shovel.
At the thunderous BOOM shaking the walls, he picked it up again. “It’s all right,” he said hastily. “I’m—” not the authorities, and “a diplomat” hardly seemed likely to appease the Carasian. “I’m Evan. Evan Gooseberry. Don’t be afraid.”
“WHO’S AFRAID!?”
A forlorn chunk of plaster tumbled down the staircase, landing near his feet.
Ready to jump back, Evan eased to where he could peek up the stairs, squinting to see through air filled with motes of settling plaster dust. It looked as though someone had rammed a dented, black freightcar into an opening too small for it by half, a freightcar now firmly wedged into what remained of the walls to either side.
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.