Джулия Чернеда - Changing vision

No need to ask why Paul hadn't taken the poor being to a hospital. On a Fringe world such as Minas XII, settled by refugees from conflicts fought largely by paid soldiers, there would be little or no sympathy. In fact, there was a high likelihood merely bringing this being here would land us on the wrong side of the authorities, such as they were, explaining Paul's caution. But there was a larger issue.

"Where is his Herd?" I asked very quietly. The Ganthor looked unconscious, and from what I could see, didn't have one of the implanted devices to allow him to vocalize in comspeak, the trade tongue of the Commonwealth and Fringe. The glistening streaks of drying mucus coating his snout and nostrils were signs that, awake, he must have continued desperate attempts to pick up the scent of others of his kind, an expenditure of moisture his damaged body could ill afford.

Paul's voice was strained—I could hear the helpless anger in it. "No one knows—or will admit it. There must have been action in one of the closed zones. He was transferred through two Inhaven freighters I could trace before ending up on one of ours, the Largas Loyal . Her Captain said all they were told was that this was a crash survivor needing to go to the nearest facility. He contacted me on approach, and I met the ship."

"None of them wanted his corpse on their ship's manifest," I said, unable to stop the feather of a growl under my words. Even the otherwise easygoing Lishcyn form could be outraged by such behavior toward an injured being. "I'm amazed he survived this long." Amazed, but not surprised: the herd instinct of the Ganthor was incredibly powerful. Somehow, this dying soldier's desperate need to reach his Herd—not to die alone—must have kept him breathing. It was an innate heroism Ganthor mercenaries all too often paid for as dearly as this.

"There are no Ganthor on Minas XII," I said sadly. "I'd know." In fact, almost anyone would. Hiding the presence of a Ganthor Herd, especially one intent on celebrating a victory or commiserating a defeat, was virtually impossible. Not only were they large and noisy, they tended to break things. Other people's things. To be fair, this tendency was not particularly deliberate, merely a consequence of certain aspects of their hardwiring.

As if he could understand, and perhaps he could, the soldier roused.

Roused was too strong a word. The eyes remained almost shut—probably he didn't have the energy, or will, to try and break the dried crust gluing his lids closed.

But one hand shifted listlessly, toes uncurling so their percussive surfaces contacted one another. It wasn't a word. It was only a sound, like a heart breaking.

Paul turned to look at me, his hand reaching out and then dropping, utter anguish on his face. "Es, I've never asked this of you before—"

"No need to ask now, my friend," I replied. When I'd first met Paul, he'd been an alien culture and language specialist—part of a Commonwealth First Contact Team.

During our time together, he'd continued his exploration of other living intelligences with the same intense and compassionate interest. Paul knew, as well as any being could who lived outside the imperative of the Herd, the only possible comfort of meaning to the dying Ganthor.

And he knew only I could offer it.

Without hesitation, I passed Paul my beaded bag and slipped out of the issa-silk burnoose I'd donned for the party. I walked over to where a long table bore a set of crates marked perishable. Opening one, I found, as I'd expected, the shipment of rootstocks ordered by Atty Fresk, a local florist and plant dealer. Most of the order was probably for me , I reassured myself with a twinge of guilt. My Lishcyn-self could provide more than enough mass, especially since my recent discovery of fudge, but I had to be able to return to this form as well. Foresight, I told Ersh in my thoughts, was something I'd learned the hard way. There had been a very uncomfortable ride home in Paul's luggage the last time I hadn't been prepared. So I selected the thickest, juiciest specimen, hoping it wasn't an irreplaceable rarity—something I had no time to check anyway—and put it carefully aside.

I released the tight grip needed to maintain my form as the slightly rotund Lishcyn, feeling the warm pulse of energy released at the same time. Pausing less than a fraction of one of Paul's heartbeats in web-form was enough for me to sense the throbbing of gravity beneath us, the overlapping music of electromagnetism drawn from atom and star. It was also enough to let me detect the byproducts of decay in the air: the Ganthor's breath. I cycled into what I had to become.

As Ganthor, the stench of imminent death was almost more than I could bear.

Worse was the overscent of abandonment. I rushed forward, ramming my snout roughly into the side of the soldier, using the bulk of my healthy body to shove at his with complete disregard for any physical pain. His eyes opened at the same time as fresh mucus bubbled joyously from his snout; it was stained pink with blood. My alarm and concern filled the air between us, broadcast without any need to will it so.

Herd-friend , it sent. Not alone , it affirmed.

A rapid series of clicks, comprehensible words, as though he knew time was running out. *The Herd is dead. The Matriarch was betrayed. Abandoned on the battlefield. No Herd.* This last with a scent of pure despair that tore at my soul.

*Herd!!* I insisted, stamping one foot against the floor in emphasis. I wasn't mature enough as a Ganthor to impress him as a Matriarch, the senior female and undisputed ruler of her Herd's association of males, related and otherwise, and nonreproductive females, related or forcibly adopted. But I was here and all he had.

*Join this Herd!!* I ordered him. *Join!!*

I drove my shoulder and thigh against his again, inadvertently collapsing the cot beneath us both and doubtless gaining a bruise or two in the process. His body was mostly gristle and bone. He gave way, admitting his subordinate role within our Herd of two with a scent of pure relief. There was a rush of belonging, of identification blurring and melding into one. I couldn't get close enough to him.

"Es." The sound meant nothing. I refused to open my eyes, clinging to a cooling comfort.

*Es!!* The clickspeak was muffled, delivered by the rapping of a knuckle on metal and punctuated by a stamp part of me knew better than to ignore. *He's gone.*

I pulled myself away from what had been a member of my Herd, an effort agonizing beyond comprehension to a non-Ganthor, possible solely because I owed greater allegiance to the being standing anxiously to one side. Thankfully, Paul had known better than to try and touch me. Ganthor were foremost a physical species and my present form outmassed the Human's by a significant and dangerous amount.

I cycled, shedding the excess mass as drops of moisture clinging to my fur. To the senses of this form, the Ganthor was simply dead, the passionate responses of Herd and need merely an echo in memory.

"Es. Are you all right?" Paul's voice was soft and a bit anxious. When I looked over at him, I realized why.

My vision was predator-keen, and my eyes met Paul's down the length of an elegant, smoothly-shaved muzzle. Without meaning to, or wanting to, I'd cycled, not into the form I lived in on this world and in this place, but into the more comforting one of my birth. I didn't need to dredge up memory to hear what Ersh would have said, doubtless something about my being Youngest and so prone to such emotional lapses in judgment.

Right now, I didn't care, feeling myself entitled to a little emotional lapse or two.

"I need a few minutes," I answered truthfully, letting my jaw hang in a sigh.

My web-kin Skalet had made a hobby, more accurately an obsession, of military strategy. One of her favorite sayings, particularly when she felt I was being deliberately obtuse, had been: There is no such thing as coincidence .