Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [112]
“There is also a Desvengapur who is not only the right age, but also shows an interest in formal composition for purpose of performance.”
“Is that the real person, the one we are talking about?” a shaky Jhywinhuran heard herself asking.
The supervisor gestured negativity. “Desvengapur is a mid-age female.”
The younger of the pair took over, his speech becoming harsh and accusatory, the clicks sharper, his whistles shriller. “No living representative of the Hive Ba bears the name Desvenbapur. But on Willow-Wane there was an aspiring young poet sufficiently accomplished to be assigned the designation of soother. He managed to have himself appointed to the human outpost at Geswixt.”
The human male chipped in. “Apparently this individual, for reasons we still do not know, desired contact with my kind.”
“His name,” the supervisor continued, “was Desvendapur. A real, existing person, according to all personnel background checks and official records.”
A poet, she found herself thinking. A designated soother. No wonder her friend’s “amateur” efforts had struck her as so wonderfully accomplished. There had been nothing amateurish about them, or about him, she reflected bleakly.
“He changed his name and his records.” Her voice was dull, methodical, the words rising without difficulty to her mandibles. “He falsified his history and learned the trade of assistant food preparator. But why?”
“Apparently, in hopes of gaining assignment to the colony there,” the female human responded. “Why he did this we still don’t know. We’d certainly like to.”
“Truly,” declared the senior supervisor, “an explanation of his motivation would be most welcome. This Desvendapur is an individual who has been driven to take extreme measures.”
Jhywinhuran indicated assent. “To make up a false identity, to equivocate repeatedly…” A sudden thought made her hesitate. “Wait. I can see how he could remake himself as an assistant food preparator named Desvenbapur, but what about his original self? Wouldn’t it be missed, not only at Geswixt but elsewhere?”
“This Desvendapur’s cleverness extends well beyond a talent for concocting agreeable phrases.” The supervisor’s tone was dark. “He participated in a short but unauthorized flight from Geswixt to the project outpost on Willow-Wane. On the return flight, the lifter that had conveyed him crashed in the mountains. It was presumed that everyone aboard perished in the fiery crash. Shortly thereafter, the name of one Desvenbapur appeared on the work rolls of the human outpost as an assistant food preparator.”
She gestured astonishment. “How fortunate he was. That must have been a remarkable stroke of luck for him and for his plans, for I assume based on what you have told me that he must have been intending something like that for a long time.”
“Certainly he was,” the other supervisor readily agreed, “however there is now some question as to how ‘lucky’ he might have been.”
“What are you implying, Venerable?” she stammered.
“The crash of his transportation on its return journey to Geswixt, leaving him an illegal and therefore unrecognized presence in the project outpost, is simply too convenient to be any longer considered a coincidence. Though much time has passed since this incident occurred, the appropriate authorities are even now reviewing the relevant records.” He gestured with all four hands. “It is considered a distinct possibility that your friend contrived the crash of his transportation on its return flight to Geswixt in order to obliterate his old identity while providing an opportunity for him to create and adopt a new one.”
While she was digesting this inconceivable volley of information, the female human commented, in that terse, tactless fashion for which humans were both famed and notorious, “What Eirmhenqibus is saying is that your absent friend, in addition to putting in jeopardy everything we have worked to achieve here, may also be a murderer.”