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Authors: Julie E. Czerneda
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between bold and suicidal. Flying over the shipcity itself, technically forbidden by the practices of worlds with kinder climates and more forgiving landscapes, required a keen eye for the arrival and departure of ships which rarely bothered to inform the Port Authority of Minas XII of their intentions.
I also kept an eye, and several sensitive devices, turned to the Sweet Sisters. Despite their name and innocuous snowcaps, the seven nearby volcanoes ringing the shipcity were something I, for one, did not trust at all. Their combined past eruptions had produced Fishertown’s conveniently level floor and, as the locals sometimes quipped,their next would be one way to clean up the Dump and start over. I did not find the concept amusing, despite Paul’s attempts to explain why Humans did.
“You’re quiet.” Paul observed as he toggled on the approach warning. Below, the roof over our landing pad retracted in welcome and I readied myself for my least-favorite maneuver, locking into the automated system to land. Suddenly, our aircar swung sickeningly to one side as the vehicle’s warding system veered us to avoid colliding head-on with another craft rising up into our level of traffic. “Ah,” said Paul. “The mail’s in.”
The driving habits of the local courier service were one more thing I hadn’t grown accustomed to in fifty years. It would have been easier if their drivers didn’t have such short life spans and correspondingly brief safety records. “Maybe Chase sent her report?” I ventured hopefully.
Once the aircar was caught by the pad controls, floating down lightly and rapidly, my friend turned to look at me with a frown. “And maybe you two can get along while we deal with this?”
I didn’t answer, for a moment toying with the memory of other faces: father, brothers, uncles. There appeared to be a stubborn line to the jaw repeatedly cropping up in the Ragem genome. “Of course,” I replied smugly. “It’s Port Authority we need to deal with—and the Tly.”
Of course I’d behave
, I repeated to myself, in a much better mood. I planned to be the perfect, dignified professional. Which left open several dignified ways to annoy Captain Chase, if she chose to annoy me.
Elsewhere
“SO he’s annoying. That will never change.” Lefebvre leaned back in his chair, aware that talking to himself wasn’t a benchmark of sanity, but in the ten-plus years he’d spent on this ship he’d become less worried about such things. The
Russell III
had had four captains before his arrival: three had requested transfer as soon as it wouldn’t harm their careers, while one had left the service altogether. He’d spoken to that individual before taking the assignment, finding the Modoren in a bar rolling in herbal teas and quite thoroughly drunk. “And the more fool I,” he mused, “concluding the being deserted because its predatory mind-set couldn’t stand serving a glorified trivia library.”
That conclusion hadn’t survived Lefebvre’s first moments shipside. Kearn’s most trusted officer was another Modoren, a scar-faced, tight-lipped male named Sas. Sas was apparently the only living being, besides Kearn himself, to see this Esen Monster in person. He left no doubt of his conviction they were on a worthy hunt, regardless of method.
“As if that makes it all believable,” Lefebvre grunted to himself, putting his hands behind his head. He’d spent too many years in law enforcement to fall for the testimony of a potentially lunatic Modoren and a definitely obsessed Human.
Shapeshifters.
He’d credit that part of the tale when he could see it with his own eyes, not watch some confusing vid or listen to Kearn’s horrified whispers.
Oh, something had happened fifty years ago. And some
thing
had undeniably attacked and killed without compunction or remorse, out there in vacuum as well as planetside. “But a being that can become any form it likes?” Lefebvre muttered, reaching out to scroll
I also kept an eye, and several sensitive devices, turned to the Sweet Sisters. Despite their name and innocuous snowcaps, the seven nearby volcanoes ringing the shipcity were something I, for one, did not trust at all. Their combined past eruptions had produced Fishertown’s conveniently level floor and, as the locals sometimes quipped,their next would be one way to clean up the Dump and start over. I did not find the concept amusing, despite Paul’s attempts to explain why Humans did.
“You’re quiet.” Paul observed as he toggled on the approach warning. Below, the roof over our landing pad retracted in welcome and I readied myself for my least-favorite maneuver, locking into the automated system to land. Suddenly, our aircar swung sickeningly to one side as the vehicle’s warding system veered us to avoid colliding head-on with another craft rising up into our level of traffic. “Ah,” said Paul. “The mail’s in.”
The driving habits of the local courier service were one more thing I hadn’t grown accustomed to in fifty years. It would have been easier if their drivers didn’t have such short life spans and correspondingly brief safety records. “Maybe Chase sent her report?” I ventured hopefully.
Once the aircar was caught by the pad controls, floating down lightly and rapidly, my friend turned to look at me with a frown. “And maybe you two can get along while we deal with this?”
I didn’t answer, for a moment toying with the memory of other faces: father, brothers, uncles. There appeared to be a stubborn line to the jaw repeatedly cropping up in the Ragem genome. “Of course,” I replied smugly. “It’s Port Authority we need to deal with—and the Tly.”
Of course I’d behave
, I repeated to myself, in a much better mood. I planned to be the perfect, dignified professional. Which left open several dignified ways to annoy Captain Chase, if she chose to annoy me.
Elsewhere
“SO he’s annoying. That will never change.” Lefebvre leaned back in his chair, aware that talking to himself wasn’t a benchmark of sanity, but in the ten-plus years he’d spent on this ship he’d become less worried about such things. The
Russell III
had had four captains before his arrival: three had requested transfer as soon as it wouldn’t harm their careers, while one had left the service altogether. He’d spoken to that individual before taking the assignment, finding the Modoren in a bar rolling in herbal teas and quite thoroughly drunk. “And the more fool I,” he mused, “concluding the being deserted because its predatory mind-set couldn’t stand serving a glorified trivia library.”
That conclusion hadn’t survived Lefebvre’s first moments shipside. Kearn’s most trusted officer was another Modoren, a scar-faced, tight-lipped male named Sas. Sas was apparently the only living being, besides Kearn himself, to see this Esen Monster in person. He left no doubt of his conviction they were on a worthy hunt, regardless of method.
“As if that makes it all believable,” Lefebvre grunted to himself, putting his hands behind his head. He’d spent too many years in law enforcement to fall for the testimony of a potentially lunatic Modoren and a definitely obsessed Human.
Shapeshifters.
He’d credit that part of the tale when he could see it with his own eyes, not watch some confusing vid or listen to Kearn’s horrified whispers.
Oh, something had happened fifty years ago. And some
thing
had undeniably attacked and killed without compunction or remorse, out there in vacuum as well as planetside. “But a being that can become any form it likes?” Lefebvre muttered, reaching out to scroll
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