Джулия Чернеда - Changing vision

I tapped the side of the box once. Its opaque sides folded open, revealing a small medallion inscribed with our company's logo: our names entwined about a starship, the date added below. Tilting my head, I made myself examine it critically. Was the silver oval too plain or pleasing in its simplicity ?

Most importantly, would it perform its function? Only time , I thought, aware of the irony, would tell .

I was still alone, but that privacy wouldn't last. I didn't so much have an office and run a business as I orchestrated within a pit usually filled with a cheerful pack of Humans and other beings, all of whom considered me less an employer than an eccentric and generous aunt they could cajole into almost anything. That their opinion was quite accurate and I had the business acumen of a Quebit was beside the point. The staff were bold and curious at the best of times. It was, oddly enough, a very good environment for someone with secrets.

Such as this medallion, which I opened with no further hesitation.

And what I did next.

I released my hold on this body, discarding Esolesy Ki the Lishcyn but not the Esen of my core, warming the surrounding air slightly with the exothermic result, exulting in the expansion of sensation and relief of effort as my molecular self assumed its true configuration: the teardrop web-form of my kind.

My kind . I drifted in the luxury of perfect memory, reliving the time when I had been one of six, that six as much a single entity as different personalities and goals could become.

Enough . The past, however clear to my inner vision, was not what mattered now, nor did I dare risk staying in this form in any place so insecure. Not only did the First Rule of my Web forbid revealing web-form to aliens, with the notable exception of Paul, I had no intention of letting anyone see me struggling to stay in the seat of this chair as a large glob of cobalt-blue jelly. Paul's response the last time had been memorable, to say the least.

I extruded a hair-thin portion of myself, sorting memory as I did so. This was something I'd learned from Ersh, the Senior Assimilator of my former Web and the first of my kind to gain a conscience.

Sorting done, I braced myself, then touched the interior of the medallion with the tip of the pseudopod. Automatically, its tiny lid snapped shut at the contact, neatly nipping exactly the portion of myself I'd planned to sacrifice. I transferred another, immeasurably smaller, portion of mass, carefully memory-free, into energy and used it to twist and re-form my molecules—to cycle—back into the Lishcyn form fast enough to be able to witness the medallion sealing its edges.

I held it up to the light. Beneath the silver was a muted blue glow, almost undetectable. The metal warmed to my touch, but if all worked as it should, the inside would be cooling, its miniature cryounit sucking the last heat from that tiny piece of me. Preserving it. Preserving the memories biochemically stored within.

Fifty years , I repeated to myself as I wrapped Paul's anniversary present in a truly lurid gift wrap I knew he'd like—carpeted with images of quaint little rodents in neckties—it had taken fifty years for me to find this gift.

And to find a way to share with my first friend.

Share . My imagination painted that scent over the wild-berry tang of the air-conditioning, a molecular message of trust and willing sacrifice. Once, I had been part of a greater whole, the Web of Ersh. Share . Her message on the wind would command us to offer our flesh-borne memories to one another, an exchange as precise as it was physically uncomfortable. There was , I thought pragmatically, a lot to be said for simply writing things down .

But it was the nature of my kind to form jagged teeth, to consume living flesh, and to assimilate the biochemical information locked within. Literacy was something we'd—acquired—over the millennia.

Today was today . Paul's gift was ready, one I knew perfectly well he and he alone in this area of space could appreciate for what it contained. A vulnerability, to have revealed my true self to an ephemeral those fleeting decades ago; my greatest strength, to have gained him as my friend.

Time to celebrate.

"You should have seen… seen his… face when he saw the shipment covered in… covered in—" the remainder of the words vanished into incoherence; Meony-ro, as usual, laughing so hard at his own stories the complete punch line seldom arrived until well after the flow of wine ended. My eartips twitched in echoing mirth. It was undeniably funnier to watch the otherwise dignified Kraal try to complete a sentence than to hear its ending.

I'd noticed a tendency for many Humans to display unique behavior at social events—one reason I so enjoyed such things. For his kind, Meony-ro took this tendency to an extreme. In the office, he went through his clerical duties with the sort of grim-faced, cold efficiency I could imagine of a soldier on some battlefield. The tattoos on his angular features, marks of loyalty and affiliation now faded to faint scars, were a reminder that Meony-ro could well have been in the Kraal military before his self-imposed exile in the Fringe. Here, one didn't ask. On Minas XII, it was enough that, given access to wine and an audience for his jokes, Meony-ro was the life of the party.

And, as parties went, this one was well underway , I concluded contentedly, looking around for the one guest still missing.

"More spurl, Fem Esolesy Ki?" asked the small, dark Human who approached from my left, Silv Largas, joining us tonight on behalf of Largas Freight, our preferred transport firm. He waved a steaming pitcher encouragingly and, from his tendency to lean forward as he spoke, I thought had probably sampled this batch quite thoroughly.

I slid my cup safely out of reach, flexing an upper lip in a pleasant smile at the same time. Silv immediately beamed in return. With strangers, I usually exercised more subtlety and less spontaneity of expression—many biological heritages included a misunderstanding of the congenial tusk flashing of the Lishcyn, a peaceful species uncommon along the underbelly of the Commonwealth and represented

solely by my presence in this part of the Fringe. I rubbed the forks of my tongue fondly over the smooth curve of my left tusk, enjoying the feel of inset carving—an indulgence not quite a planet year old—relaxing in the glow of companionship.

But not enough to risk losing my good sense in a cup of sneakily delicious spurl , I decided, continuing to scan the tightly packed crowd for any sign of Paul. He was late, but then he had planned to visit the shipcity to verify some arrivals before coming here. My gift bumped into my chest whenever I moved, its small box suspended in the beaded neck bag I wore on special occasions.

"My father sends his regards on your anniversary, Fem Esolesy Ki," Silv shouted into my ear, which I flattened in a protective reflex. The Human had stayed nearby, despite my refusal of a refill. I swiveled my big head back to where he stood, his expression somewhat abashed as he realized there had certainly been no need for volume, despite the happy din of music and voices in the office lobby. My current form was fabled for its ability to detect the faintest whisper—a partially accurate fable I did nothing to discourage among my staff or customers. Few would care that I was not only tone-deaf but completely unable to hear into the ultrasonic. "Sorry,"

he said in an almost whisper.

I flashed a tusk. "No need to be, my dear Silv. Your father bellows at me all the time, does he not? And we remain friends." And Joel Largas had proved a good friend , I thought as I gently teased this youngest sprout of that remarkably productive Human. And more . The patriarch of the influential and continually growing Largas family was also the grandfather of Paul's own offspring, Luara and Tomas Largas. The twins wouldn't be here tonight. They'd inherited their spacer mother's wanderlust as well as their father's curiosity, leaving home almost twenty standard years ago to pair up as pilot and ships' nav on a freighter. The last Paul had heard, they were plying the profitable inner systems of Omacron space.