Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [43]
For someone who had hoped only to meet another human or two in their own environment, events were moving along encouragingly indeed.
There were no signs to identify the station where they eventually disembarked, and no crowds to query. Insignia and attitude indicated that they had arrived at a military as opposed to a commercial facility, a supposition that further inspection and scrutiny confirmed.
Everything was going so well that Desvendapur was unprepared when the processor standing on the other side of the railing looked up from his readout to declare calmly but firmly, “Desvenbapur? There’s no Desvenbapur in this file.”
The poet’s blood went colder than it had on the day he had stumbled inadvertently outside the Geswixt hive and into the accumulated rilth above. The new identity he had worked so long and hard to construct seemed to evaporate like a puff of perfumed pleorin, leaving him standing exposed and revealed to every set of compound eyes in the facility. But no one was looking in his direction; no one was staring at him accusingly. Yet.
“There must be a mistake. I made a proper application and have been passed on through to this point without any difficulty.” He struggled to keep his antennae from twitching, fought to conceal the fear that was raging through him.
The processor was not impressed. He was a senior, his chitin shading heavily to purple, but he was still alert and in full possession of his faculties. He replied without looking up from the readout.
“That is why a hive has multiple layers of security. What slips past one can be caught by another.”
There was nothing Desvendapur could do but stand and wait. Having passed on to the next station, a puzzled Jhy walked back to see what was taking so long. When Des explained, she became irate.
“What nonsense is this? Of course this male belongs. He is one of four assigned to this duty. No—honored by this duty.”
“Really, Jhy.” He did his best to quiet her, looking around uneasily. Drawn to the commotion, the two scientists who had already been cleared had paused at the top of the landing to look back. The one thing Des did not seek in his present incarnation was attention. “I’m sure it will sort itself out.”
She gazed at him out of eyes that were a flaxen composite of shattered mirrors. “You shouldn’t let him treat you like this, Des. You are special now. All four of us are.” She eyed the processor sternly. “Regardless of our individual job classifications.”
The elderly drone remained unperturbed. “Procedures must be followed. Otherwise you do not have a hive: you have anarchy. If he is not in the file, then it admits of an irregularity. Irregularities must be resolved.”
“I am sure this one will be.” The poet made short, swooping, soothing gestures with both truhands. “It has to be some sort of administrative error.”
“No.” The processor was adamant. “There is no Desvenbapur registered here.” A truhand reached toward a communicator. “I will have to summon a superior—and Security.”
Tussling with a couple of warriors with oversized mandibles would not get him a cubicle on the waiting starship, Des knew. There was nothing he could do but stand and wait. Wait, he feared, for the inevitable—for that which he had succeeded in putting off for more than a year.
“I do not understand.” If Desvendapur was distressed, Jhywinhuran was openly baffled. “He has been working at Geswixt hive for some time. That is a security-sensitive area, and there has been no difficulty. Why should there be a confusion now? It’s not as if he is laboring for military intelligence or energy research. He works in food processing.”
“It does not matter,” declared the processor with finality. “A security breach is