12: Basement Morning; Creekside Morning
WHILE Paul and Lionel continued to interrogate Pretty Bill—the saying “an Ervickian in hand is the only one you’ll catch” particularly appropriate, given he’d a starship waiting to take him beyond reach and we’d one on approach—I took the lift and went looking for Lambo on the lowermost floor of the Library basement. For reasons he hadn’t explained, he’d taken over two rooms down there, the doors marked with caution tags courtesy of Zel and Travis, who did night maintenance and preferred to avoid a surprise encounter with the surly giant.
I found our Carasian behind the second tag, in a storeroom recently switched from its original purpose of housing seasonal furnishings from the Garden to hold more new-to-the-collection artifacts.
Lambo hadn’t so much moved in as trashed the place. Correa’s snow blowing machine had been shoved into a corner. Broken and dismembered artifacts—his habit with worthless gemmies, though he hadn’t explained his reasons for that either—formed a pile halfway up one wall. But the destruction of what we’d thought to keep paled next to the sight before my astonished eyes.
Lambo was on a shelf.
He shouldn’t have fit, despite the badly bent metal of the shelf above, but there he was, looking like some monstrous growth of machine bits ready to break forth and conquer the planet. I’d watched that vid with Paul. Once he awoke, for the Carasian’s head plates were almost closed, barely pulsing, the row of black beady eyes withdrawn into the gap. Asleep?
Pretending. What gave Lambo away wasn’t so much that he’d left on the room lights, but the creaks as the shelf holding his mass reacted to uneasy shifts. He was fidgeting.
Carasians, by predilection and anatomy, weren’t fond of heights, though able to leap tidal rocks and clamber short cliffs. I supposed ours, having enjoyed perching in menace from our walkway, then on the train car shelf, might have picked up a new hobby. A disturbing one.
Conscious of the great claw hanging in midair like the functional end of a crane, and about the same size, I stepped close. “I know you’re awake.” Stretching up, I aimed the words at his nearest elbow, that being where auditory organs were found in the species. There were a number of other adaptations to this terrestrial phase of their life cycle and—
Before I distracted myself, I tapped the claw gently with the pad of my knuckle. “Lam—”
He erupted from the shelf, hitting the floor like a bin full of loose pots. I jumped, hair sticking out wildly in all directions, ready to run.
He came to rest in a smug, gotcha, posture.
Growling under my breath, I composed myself. First Duggs, now Lambo. What was I, a play toy? “That was unnecessary,” I informed him stiffly.
“You should knock,” Lambo countered, eyestalks in a coy wave.
“Knocking doesn’t work with you. You don’t answer.”
“Because I don’t want to be disturbed.” Eyestalks bent to converge on me. “This is my private place. Why are you disturbing me?”
I pointed at the artifacts he’d taken apart. “Those are—were—the Library’s.”
“This is my room,” he stated, giving a settling shake. “Therefore everything in it is mine.”
It certainly wasn’t, and we’d have to do something to make sure Lambo didn’t continue through the basements, claiming space at whim. At least he hadn’t destroyed the snow blower. Yet.
“Why did you break them?”
“Why do you keep them?”
I’d need a Human to answer that. “Why are you down here anyway?”
“So I won’t be disturbed.”
Ersh. I should know better than debate with an almost-female Carasian, especially one plainly enjoying the process. Putting aside my morbid curiosity about Lambo’s personal habits, not the priority, I refocused. “What can you tell me about Dresnet Shipyards?”
“Contact them. They also have stupid pamphlets. Go away.” A claw snapped near my nose.
To my chagrin, I flinched before controlling the reflex. Biology. I composed myself. “I’ll be more specific. Did Dresnet build the Sidereal Pathfinder?”
A disquieting pause. A surly, “I discuss such matters with the admirable Lionel, not you.”
Revealing, if unhelpful. I eyed the adhesive dispenser clamped to the wall, envisioning gluing Lambo’s head plates together—briefly, of course. Maturity being overrated.
“Lionel’s busy,” I said at last. And, we’d decided for our friend’s sake, busy he’d remain till Esolesy Ki arrived to take over the touchier aspects of Carasian relations. “Paul needs this information. He’s busy too,” I said to forestall Lambo’s logical comeback, then went on. “There’s been an important new development. Regarding the Framers—”
I stopped.
A trick I’d learned from Paul. Who’d use it shamelessly to keep me asking questions—the point being intelligent minds—and, despite his habits, Lambo had one of the better ones—craved input as ravenously as an Ycl craved living flesh. My hint would be irresistible. I waited expectantly.
Lambo shook as if ridding himself of a pest and lumbered around to present his back.
Well, that was annoying.
I could be annoying too. Thanks to his molt, I could see my reflection in his shiny nethers, at least where there weren’t streaks of dried condiments. Watching myself, I began to flip my ears up and down. Up. Down. Up. Down. This me had such excellent ears, tall and tufted. Much better ears than a Lishcyn’s—
An eyestalk peered over his carapace, aimed at me. “What are you doing?” Suspiciously.
“Nothing.” Up. Down. Up. Down.
Lambo clattered back around, catching me mid-Up. “Stop that.”
I paused, then resumed. Down. Up. Down. Up.
“You are a dreadful mannerless creature. Yes. Yes, Pathfinder was built there. All Stellar Explorers were. Stop! Along with fifteen other classes of Survey starships. STOP!”
I halted my ears at perked with interest. “How many Explorer Class were built since Pathfinder?”
Lambo’s eyestalks shifted evasively, as if he couldn’t decide if the ceiling or floor was more fascinating. I began, slowly, to dip my ears. All eyes converged on me again. “Please. They’re so—so—bendy. Stop.”
I felt a rush of shame. What was I thinking? Well, yes, that this was the most fun I’d had in a while—and a pleasant change not to be the brunt of someone else’s teasing—but I’d come on the most serious business imaginable. Why was I fooling around?
Classic Esen. I did it to avoid what was terrifying to contemplate, and I’d plenty of that, thank you, from an ancestral predator in the neighborhood to a shattered world, let along mysterious Framers and poor Evan and being a spacesick Lanivarian in a starship even if Rudy promised I could be Bess/Grace—
I could almost hear Ersh’s scathing, Where’s your courage, Youngest? At the time, referring to my continued inability to hold form without exploding, but applicable now. Though exploding had its appeal.
“A scholar brought us that question, Lambo, along with—” I paused to swallow. “—a Framer image of a planet, recently destroyed. We need to—”
“A world?” All at once, Lambo’s posture altered, slumping into a limp you have my attention, so I’ll get comfy. Carasians were refreshingly non-subtle. “Curator, I request access to the image and all data pertaining.”
“You’ll have it as soon as Paul and Lionel are done,” I promised. “About the ships?”
“Only one thing matters now, the Passerby. I must contact the Mistral with this information. We’re tracking the Pathfinder implant—”
“Stop.” My ears flattened. “What are you talking about?” The Mistral? Pathfinder implant? “Start with who’s ‘we’? It isn’t us, is it?” Hairs rose on my neck. “Making you someone else.”
“Yes.” Lambo gave himself a dainty shake, resting his great claws on the floor in a confusingly conciliatory posture. When he replied, his voice had dropped, reverberating inside this me’s chest cavity. Not the most pleasant sensation. “Curator, given the increased urgency to the situation, we must work together. It is time I told the truth.”
His eyestalks sagged and he heaved a melodramatic clatter. “I am not a qualified food dispenser operator.”
Hardly a revelation, but— I sat abruptly, staring at the giant being. “Or a stardrive engineer?”
“I am that, Curator, which is why I was selected.” As abruptly as I’d sat, the Carasian’s vocal patterns altered almost unrecognizably. “What will seem egregious transgressions to you, given our perceived relationship, were functions of my duty, yet I am despondent to have deceived such extraordinary beings as yourself, Lionel, and Paul.” To demonstrate, not only did his eyestalks resume sagging, but a great claw rolled over, limp, as if Lambo had no strength left to hold it.
“Deceived us how?”
“I’m a Commonwealth operative, working for Survey. A spy, in the Human vernacular.”
I blinked. “In the All Species Library of Linguistics and Culture. On Botharis.” It was ridiculous.
Unless it made too much sense.
“Not only here. My original assignment was on Dresnet, where I investigated a splinter group channeling Survey funds into forbidden research, research used in the Sidereal Pathfinder.”
It was as if Paul whispered in my ear. “The Intrepid Few.”
“That’s classified at the highest level.” Lambo tensed which for the species involved a spasm ending in rigid eyestalks and open claws. “How did you know?” said in a dramatic whisper.
“I didn’t. Not till now.” Either Lambo wasn’t a particularly good spy, or his kind faced serious disadvantages in the role. Focus. “Lionel showed me their invitation before he tossed it.”
“Lionel Kearn.” Eyestalks flexed. “A person of interest.”
Part of me was ready to leap to all fours and show serious teeth in Lionel’s defense, which wasn’t as futile a threat as it might seem since I could grab an eyestalk before Lambo crushed me in a claw. Maybe.
Of course, if there was imminent crushing I’d cycle—or explode—Not helpful. I’d stick to words.
“We know you’re interested in Lionel,” I retorted. “You want him to build a pool. For the female you.”
Claws hit the floor. “What? With a—a squishy SNACK—? Never!”
Though I’d a certain empathy, I didn’t let it show. “He’ll be disappointed.”
“And you are deliberately evasive.” Lambo’s eyestalks formed a skeptical row. “The splinter group is a dangerous faction within the Intrepid Few, unknown to the rest. With Kearn’s Survey record—what is it, Curator?”
I lowered the paw I’d raised to interrupt. “Lionel’s record—” was my fault, “—is that of an officer seeking the truth, and I assure you the only contact he’s had is to refuse their overtures.” I was starting to talk like our spy. “Lionel Kearn has my complete trust.” And, more impressively, Skalet’s.
An eyestalk bent. “He named a monster after you.”
“A mistake, rectified.” People kept bringing that up. “Back to Paul’s mother’s ship. So you did come for her logbook.”
“I did not. We already had it.” A dismissive rumble. “With the coordinates Veya had been supplied by her captain, but not her implant-driven translight course to get there, a course she was, upon recapture by the faction, ordered to repeat on the Azimuth Explorer. Which is what provoked the Passerby.”
“Provoked who?” I held up my paw again. “Wait. Let’s start with what’s not possible—Veya died on the Smokebat.” Lionel’d looked into the accident reports. Rudy and Paul’s Group had searched for evidence, understandably minimal when ships collided in orbit, the remnants burning up in atmosphere. Paul had gone quiet. The unhappy quiet I couldn’t fix—
“Veya Ragem sold her ident years before the accident.”
And the only surprise was we hadn’t seen it, though now I had to suspect Skalet had and failed to share. Family. We’d some excuse. “Veya” had left behind a spotty but clear trail, supported by what Stefan had told her son.
Based on what the real Veya told Stefan two years after Pathfinder’s accident. Hadn’t he described her as afraid, desperate, and angry?
Meaning she’d been running from the faction while we’d been safe and happy on Minas XII. How did I tell my friend?
“How did they find her?” I asked numbly. But I knew, didn’t I. Veya had kept searching for Paul. Had risked leaving her message for him where those hunting her—as I’d hunt a mousel—had lain in wait.
“It doesn’t matter.” A claw snapped, making an ominous low ring. “To hide what they’d done, the faction intercepted incoming Passerby messages from the authorities as long as they could.” Eyestalks focused on me. “By the way, referring to them as Framers? Silly name. Too obvious.”
Bad Thing. Still the best. I waved him past it.
“When at last those images were leaked to Survey, we learned the first Passerby message—an image of the Sidereal Pathfinder—had come to the faction at Dresnet’s research facility after the Azimuth Explorer entered translight. That ship was never seen again and is presumed lost. That’s when my mission—all missions—changed from a focus on the faction’s activities to learning what—who—they’d disturbed.”
The Null. Not the moment to introduce our extradimensional space monster with lightning tentacles to Lambo.
Who hadn’t stopped talking anyway. “Others undertook different avenues of investigation. I was tasked with clarifying Veya Ragem’s history and her connection to those two ships. The Azimuth’s mission didn’t take place until she was found, confirming the importance of her implant to the faction. When the person most important to Veya in life reappeared, I came here to find out.”
“Paul.” There might have been the hint of a snarl.
“I wasn’t the only one,” Lambo rumbled righteously. “Lionel Kearn arrived—whom you say you trust—followed by the Johnsson criminal sent by the faction’s cleaner.”
“Their what?” I needed more spy terms. Not that I wanted them.
“One or more individuals charged with preemptively destroying evidence. I see you require proof, Curator.”
Lionel would. I didn’t. I believed Lambo because he’d answered our most troubling question: why the Commonwealth, that conglomeration of disparate Human interests, had stayed silent about the images sent by the Framers—the Passerby. They hadn’t known.
Because a tiny self-absorbed faction had decided to hide the truth to protect their petty interests.
Ersh-memory held an abundance of small groups of nasty-minded Humans who hid in plain sight within organizations and governments until caught with digits where they didn’t belong. Not to say Humans were the only species infested with conspiracies, selfish behaviors, or poor manners—just visit a Queeb spa—but according to the Eldest of us, who should know, Humans had maintained an exceptional talent for it since rising to balance on two feet.
At least now Survey was on to them, though I wasn’t impressed their first move had been to plant a spy in our Library.
Whatever were we to do with him?
Meanwhile, the Carasian had lumbered to the broken gemmies for my “proof.” He began disassembling the pile by rapidly tossing gemmies over his carapace with all four claws.
To avoid being buried under a rain of plas and metal pieces, I jumped onto the shelf he’d vacated. The door out of reach, this also gave me some distance from those claws if Lambo had, as his actions suggested, gone berserk. Safety first.
Then I glimpsed what the pile had been hiding. A console of the Skalet-variety, black and ominous, with a thick pipe leading into a jagged hole in the wall that looked regrettably familiar. “Better fix that before Duggs finds out,” I warned.
A terse rattle answered, Lambo preoccupied with tapping controls. Controls he wasn’t letting me see, positioning himself in front. Two eyestalks bent to watch me in case I tried sneaking up for a peek.
Professional paranoia.
If Lambo thought to remain the Chow’s operator and our sometime head of security—which was beyond ironic—we’d have to treat him as before, but Paul knew I wasn’t very good at—
Lambo spun on the spot, crushing gemmie bits, and thrust out a handling claw. “Here. Take this.” Pinned between his clawtips was a flexible sheet of plas.
I stayed on the shelf. “Does it blow up?”
“I’m not that kind of operative,” he said stiffly. “Take it.”
There were kinds? I wondered if Lionel knew anything about spies, knew Skalet did, then decided I’d better run the question by Paul first. Along with everything else.
I jumped down, landing without a sound to demonstrate it was possible, and rose to take the sheet, expecting another dreadful Framer image.
It was an image, but unframed and unposed: an instant captured as a Human female looked back from within a group of similarly uniformed individuals, moving up a dockside gangway. Older than the rest, the right side of her face bubbled with scars from midcheek to hairline, the eye covered in a patch, lips thin and twisted.
I wouldn’t have recognized her but for her left eye. It was the gray of her son’s and stared out at me, its expression so bleak and hopeless I whined.
Veya Ragem.
“Lambo, go to Lionel’s office and wait for him there,” I ordered with commendable calm. “You’ll apologize when you see him and report everything you know.”
He rattled into an aggressive stance, claws out. “I must contact the Mistral!”
I flattened my ears in threat at the enormous, armored creature. “Either you work for us, or you work for them. I suggest you choose who you think can stop another planet being destroyed, because that’s what’s at stake, Lambo. Not Human squabbles.”
Ears still flat, mostly because I wasn’t sure I could lift them but also to add dignity, I stalked around him and left.
I figured the odds were fifty-to-fifty he’d choose us.
But Lionel could tip the scale.
Paul spotted me across the bustling Lobby, head lifting as he read trouble in what he saw. I didn’t waste time trying to come to him. After a quick word to Lionel, who couldn’t help but glance in my direction before returning his attention to our Ervickian, my friend headed for me.
I wished I could be glad he was. Wished I’d anything but the news I brought, but such wistful thinking, as Ersh would say, was because I was Youngest.
As I’d be forever unless I budded in some unimaginable future. I certainly didn’t see Lesy or Skalet giving it a try—
“I’m here,” Paul said, interrupting my inner babble.
Instead of speaking, I angled my ears in a follow me and led him from the crowd.
The first Ragems, either inordinately fond of their name or feeling the vast aloneness of a new planet, had bestowed it upon a number of local landmarks. Most notably, there was Ragem Farm, but also a Ragem Hill, Ragem’s Last Valley—named after an adventurer who’d gone into the nearby mountains only to die of starvation—and, running cheerfully alongside the Library, the delightful little Ragem Creek.
During snowmelt, Ragem Creek gained pretensions of riverhood, snarling at its banks and generally misbehaving. Before the Library opened, I’d had its surging waters to myself. Not this me. Another me altogether, and Lesy wasn’t wrong to want to swim as a Rrabi’sk. The pure joy of it—
—wasn’t worth the risk, now that we’d busy foot and groundcar traffic on Ragem Road, which ran alongside the creek, as well as people lingering on Ragem Bridge to admire the sparkling water. Awkward enough to explain a pair of aliens gamboling in it, without those being of a species gone extinct before there were Ragems at all.
Where the creek curled around the edge of the Garden, however, was a place no one casually roamed—mostly because of lurid signs warning of the perils of approaching the Library’s bio-eliminator field. It was to protect the Garden’s residents from spreading over Botharis and vice versa, and we’d told Skalet to set it not to fry stray livestock or children. In case she’d thought we were joking, Duggs erected a fence to mark its outer limit.
You had to walk along the fence, past more dire signs, to reach the spot where Ragem Creek widened and slowed into a pond. There’d been a mill here once, and on part of its stone ruin perched an ominous gray metal box. Those who didn’t know assumed it was part of the field generator and thus even more reason to avoid the spot entirely, but the box, despite appearances, was harmless. Other than its contents, for inside were stored the nets and sticks and shoes with knife edges and whatever else Humans required for the game of hockey, this portion of Ragem Creek, when safely frozen, being claimed for that purpose by our staff. And Paul.
Today, in the sultry warmth of late spring, the banks were soggy with the remnants of flooding and the air full of what liked to bite anything with blood. Paul followed me without a word, but his concern was palpable, knowing how much this me detested both damp and biters—unless I could catch them in my teeth. To bring him here meant I’d something to say I didn’t want anyone to overhear or record.
I hoped that was true, that this place, with its memories of stone and water, was truly private. My only other choice had been to go under the barn into the collection, which had all the pleasant atmosphere of a giant comp bank, being one.
Reaching the first foundation stone, I jumped lightly to the next, and sat.
Paul stood on the soft ground in front of me, putting our eyes on the same level. He was thoughtful like that. Or wanted a good view of my expression. Also likely. He was framed in soft greens and browns, the pond behind him reflecting the leaves and branches arched overhead, and looked no longer as much worried as patient. Kind.
Meaning he’d concluded this was about me and my unwieldy family, and was ready to comfort and offer help.
Sure enough. “Lionel heard from Skalet. She’s all right, Old Blob,” Paul assured me. “Her place among the Kraal remains strong. She’s in a position to influence fleet movements and plans to mount a defense against the Null. Who she believes is working with the Framers.” He clapped, *!!*mementos*!!*
Trust my cynical web-kin to leap immediately to the conclusion that everything was out to get us. Might not be wrong. We’d have to deal with what Skalet meant by “mount a defense” later.
“Skalet’s not why I brought you here.” I lowered my ears.
Paul tensed. “Why did you?”
“Your mother,” I said. “I know what happened to her. Most of it, anyway. Lambo told me. He’s a spy.”
“I was right?” Incredulously.
“You knew?” With the same note in my voice.
Paul shook his head. “No. I—I was talking to Lionel—go on. Tell me about Lambo the spy.”
“It doesn’t matter—well, it does, but you need to hear this first.” And rather than drag it out bit by painful bit, as Lambo had, I told my friend what I’d learned from the Carasian. Should Paul decide to check aspects of the story later, he could do so. For me, what mattered was telling Paul what might finally be the truth.
Whatever went wrong, the crew did abandon the Pathfinder, the ship was lost—until the Framers/Passerby/Bad Thing found it—and Veya?
What we hadn’t known, what Paul hadn’t until I sat on a stone to tell him, was that his mother had been a fugitive. Whether she’d fled because she discovered she was working for an illegal faction or not, we couldn’t know.
From the scars on her face, she’d been desperate to remove their implant and, when she couldn’t, decided to vanish. Not a speculation I shared. Paul could reach his own.
I told Paul how Veya had put her ident and credentials on the black market. Comprehension flashed across his dear face: it hadn’t been his mother who died on the ill-fated Smokebat. It wasn’t a comfort, given the rest I had to say.
At some point, the real Veya came to Botharis to leave Starfield the Very Strange Pony, wrapped in her space fabric, in the family oak for her son, left a message with his father, then prepared to vanish again.
The middle of the story—where else she’d gone, who else she’d been—was missing, but we’d the end. Veya was found, her implant intact, and forced on board the Azimuth Explorer, a ship identical to the Pathfinder.
A ship never seen again, lost with all hands.
Paul didn’t interrupt, his expression changing from dismay to hope to horror.
He didn’t speak when I finished and gave him her picture.
I kept still to wait for him to process it all—which wasn’t easy as various annoying small things took advantage to dig through my fur and bite—knowing the last thing my friend needed right now was me twitching. Or scratching. Or rotating a hip—
He folded the plas sheet, slipping it inside his shirt. “Someone gave the order to chase her down.” His hands folded into fists. “I want that name.”
I’d been prepared for anguish and grief, even a deserved amount of anger at our Carasian, who’d taken his sweet time telling us what was Paul’s right to know. This—I struggled to hold form, seeing in my dearest friend’s face what I’d never seen there before. Hate.
It didn’t belong. Rising to all fours, I curled my lips and flattened my ears at him, ready to bite if necessary. “No.”
“Esen—”
“Don’t you growl at me,” I snapped, ears still flat. “People behaved badly and your mother suffered. Ersh knows, people are always behaving badly and others suffer for it. Not just Human people,” I added, to be fair and having Skalet in my Web. “What’s rare and precious are those who help. Who care. People like you.”
His hands stayed fists, his face in harsh strange lines, but he was listening. After a too-long pause, he gritted out, “We can’t let them get away with this.”
The “we” eased some of the tension from my spine. “We don’t know they have,” I pointed out. “Everyone on the Azimuth Explorer was lost.”
“Because they made her do it again—follow Pathfinder’s course—straight to the Null—” All at once, his voice changed. “Gods, Es, how did I miss it . . .”
Ears less flat, I tilted my head. “Miss what?”
Paul staggered forward, his feet having sunk into the mud, and buried his fingers deep in my neck ruff, using that less than comfortable grip to bring our noses close. His eyes were wild. “Why Pathfinder? Why that image first? Why the struggle between this way and Sacriss—don’t you see, Es? It’s my mother!”
“It’s her eyeball,” I said, as cautiously as I’d step on the first fragile skin of ice on the pond behind him. Not that I would, but the awareness of imminent disaster was distressingly the same.
“No. Listen to me. Skalet’s wrong. When the Null caught their ship, the crew could have been rescued by the Passerby. That could be why they’ve sent the images—to tell us there are survivors! Es—what if—what if she’s alive?”
So now we were using Survey’s word? Did Paul think it somehow made what was out there more reasonable? Body bits in bulkheads—I stifled a whine in my throat.
One thing I did know. My friend wasn’t thinking clearly and it was my turn to help him. “If they’d saved the crews,” I said gently but firmly, “why not send images of people instead of ships?”
His grip eased. He pressed his forehead to mine and the eye I could see was squeezed shut. His voice was almost too quiet for even my ears. “You think I’m a fool, wishing for the impossible.”
“You’re Human,” I reminded him. “It’s a species’ trait.” Then I stretched my tongue to lick his chin. “We won’t learn the truth here. Lambo told me the Mistral has a way to track the Passerby, so that’s where we’ll go, together.”
An eye opened, gray and shining. “Dear Old Blob. How do you do it?”
Paul being overwrought, I didn’t try to puzzle out what I’d done this time. It didn’t appear to be wrong.
“We’re friends.” I poked my cold nose into his neck to make him jump.
Failing to remember what poor comfort the truth could be.
Pretty Bill was on the train back to the landing field, Lionel reported by com sometime later, along with one of Skalet’s minuscule tracking devices firmly stuck inside a neck crease should we need to find him again. I’d a feeling he’d done it more so my web-kin could find him again, but we’d each had our loyalties.
Mine was clear. I followed Paul to his office—where I watched him do things at his desk he didn’t explain—and followed him out again, determined to keep following until convinced my friend was over the shock and himself again.
To be thwarted by his turn into the staff accommodation. Undaunted, I tried to sneak through the door only to meet his hip, strategically blocking the opening. “I can manage on my own,” Paul informed me. “Why don’t you check on the Response Room?”
As if we hadn’t learned terrible things and drawn dreadful conclusions. I regarded him suspiciously. “What will you be doing?”
A finger tapped my nose gently. “Don’t worry, Fangface. I’ve set some things in motion ahead of us. We’ll be ready.” About to close the door, Paul hesitated, glancing around as if to be sure we were alone.
That never boded well. “What is it?”
“The Largas Swift has landed. We’ll lift as soon as Nia can get the cargo to the field. Tonight, with luck. Esen—”
I stepped back, unsure why, unless it was because we’d run out of time. Esolesy Ki’s arrival. Our journey out there. All to start within hours. “I’d better check on Lesy.”
“I’m sorry there won’t be a goodbye party.”
It was like Paul, to think of such things. “I didn’t enjoy the last one,” I confessed. “Don’t tell Henri,” I added hastily. Having staff celebrate one me being replaced by another me had brought a decidedly pleasant opportunity to indulge in treats, but the event had been deeply confusing. As before, I’d still be here.
Just not as the me some of them, being Human, liked better, making it a goodbye to their confidences and affection, even trust.
Paul nodded. “I understand.”
I knew he did, as I knew something else. I stepped close again to lick his chin. “I’m glad you don’t have a favorite me.” Even if I did.
“Es—” He stopped, looking past me. “What is it, Henri?”
She stopped so fast curls bounced on her forehead, grinning joyfully. “Our Evan’s on the com! It’s shunted to your office.”
I looked at Paul, he looked at me.
We both set off at a run.
Having four legs, I’d get there first.