Survival

by Julie E. Czerneda

  What could she say to that? Mac stared at him, feeling as though her feet were sinking. Which could well be, part of her acknowledged.

  He leaned forward. “I don’t want to do that to you. But I will, if I have to—no matter how beautiful your eyes are at sunset. Your word, Dr. Connor, please, that you won’t tell anyone.”

  Mac could only nod. Trojanowski’s face was replaced by the black sheen of his visor. The lev shot toward the forest and vanished.

  Her eyes were beautiful?

  A squirrel complained furiously and Mac snorted, feeling—she wasn’t sure what she felt. Angry, maybe. “Losing your temper never helps,” she advised the squirrel. “Trust me.”

  She’d been about as effectual as the tiny creature. Worse, Mac realized with dismay, she’d been wrong. Trojanowski hadn’t lied. There were secrets to protect, even if she hated being part of them. And it was her fault, no one else’s, that she was part of them now.

  She could already hear Emily’s voice, providing a scathingly complete list of why she, Mac, should leave secrets and the pursuit of invisible aliens to professionals.

  Like Trojanowski.

  “Then she’ll want to know how he looked without glasses,” Mac told the squirrel. “Sorry, Em. I forgot to notice.” But he’d noticed her eyes.

  She made her way back through the clearing, dodging shattered stumps and piles of leafy debris. This couldn’t possibly be overlooked by the Wilderness Trust and their satellite monitors.

  “Who am I kidding?” Mac grumbled, about to step over another scar in the ground. “He probably has authority over Mudge, too. I’m so far out of my league it’s . . .”

  She paused. This scar was another that was too regular, forming an indentation longer than it was wide. Unlike the others, it was marked along one edge in a pattern of narrow scrapes similar to the one Mac had seen near the pillar, where the creature had dropped to the ground.

  Mac sank on her heels to look out across the clearing. The other large depressions she’d judged the imprints of landing gear were at even distances from this one. She twisted on her heels to check behind her. The log where she’d crouched under the alien was in a direct line from this point. “I’ll be . . .” she breathed. “This must have been the hatch.”

  They’d literally watched the creature enter its ship, and seen nothing.

  Mac whistled between her teeth. “Now, that’s camouflage.” She unzipped the right-hand pocket of her slicker and shoved its contents—tissues, pencil remnants, and an unused t-lev ticket—into the left with the lantern. Taking a piece of torn bark, she removed soil from the longest of the scrapes, putting as much into her empty pocket as she could fit. A little present for Kammie.

  Mac smiled, wincing as it stretched the tender skin of her cheek. Now to see if Trojanowski’s fancy scanner was as good as one of the top soil chemists on Earth.

  Maybe she wasn’t a professional whatever, with a fancy lev and helmet, Mac told herself. But she was used to looking for answers—and finding them.

  The shadows cast by ruined branches and trampled ground abruptly lost their edges. The forest, already dim under the canopy, became as inviting as the door of an unlit basement and Mac heard the rain approaching through the trees. “Perfect,” she said aloud, then pulled her hood over her head in time to keep her hair only damp, and stood.

  Time to go home.

  “Why sneak around my . . . omphf . . . office?” Mac muttered to herself as she slid down the next dip on her rump, grabbing whatever handholds she could find. It might not be dignified, but between the rain-slick slopes and her growing fatigue, she judged it safer than trying to climb down on her feet.

  On reaching the next patch that was more or less level, she levered herself to her feet, casting an eye to what lay ahead. A choice between vertical rock or slightly less than vertical rock covered in wet roots. “This was all so much easier on the way up—and in the dark, so I couldn’t see what an idiot I was.” Time to catch her breath. Mac leaned on the nearest tree to mull the question troubling her. “Em,” she decided, “your radar was off for once.” She gave a lopsided grin, avoiding the damaged side of her face. The figure on the terrace last night hadn’t been Trojanowski—he’d been here. But if the spy on the terrace had been the creature—or its more visible accomplice—then its search of her office later made an ironic kind of sense.

  Mac shook her head. Had it thought the bag with the soufflé contained some secret Brymn had brought her? “Well, that must have been a shock,” she told the finger-long banana slug climbing the bark near her ear. An unhappy thought, an accomplice on Base, but it would have been easy enough. After all, they’d been invaded by fifteen kayak-loads of local media folk disguised as badly dressed tourists. Even she could have infiltrated that group.

  Trojanowski’s insistence on secrecy, however uncomfortable it made her trip home, suddenly seemed more reasonable.

  The thought of more spies wandering around Base got Mac moving again, not to mention a distinct longing for the simple things in life. Although Mac couldn’t make up her mind. “Shower, then breakfast,” she decided, checking for the next foothold. “No. Strip and sleep, then shower. No. Breakfast, then more answers from that Dhryn.”

  She’d have plenty of time to work out the order. The return trip was less straightforward than the one up. For one thing, the trails she and the creature had left had been obliterated by the rain. For another, landmarks looked remarkably different viewed from above. Oh, she wasn’t lost. Mac knew the overall shape of the landscape well enough to be sure she was heading toward the arm’s inner curve, not the Pacific side. She intended to follow the ridge that led to the arm’s tip, which should bring her out of the forest near one of the three walkways or perhaps the gate itself.

  “With luck, Oversight will never know I was here,” she reassured herself before starting her next, cautious descent. Mac wasn’t proud of such a hope. She hung on tight, reaching with her boots for a foothold, and promised herself that despite Trojanowski’s oath of secrecy she’d document every bruised leaf for Mudge, in case a researcher ever climbed this ridiculous excuse for a—

  As if paying attention, the root clutched in her right hand chose that moment to pop free of the rock, ripping away with it an appalling number of connecting rootlets, ferns, and moss clumps. Mac wedged her boot in a crack in time to save herself from joining them at the bottom of the tiny cliff. “Oops,” she said, staring down at what was undeniable proof of anthropogenic interference.

  Then again, she could hope that Mr. Trojanowski had every bit of the authority he claimed when threatening her. He’d need it. The amount of damage she’d done climbing up and back would be enough to rescind Norcoast’s land access permanently. It wouldn’t matter that the alien ship had smacked a hole the size of a transport lev in the forest.

  She was supposed to know better.

  “Aliens,” Mac muttered darkly.

  Hours later, Mac pressed her hand to the door release of Pod Three with a relief so close to pain she couldn’t tell the difference. She’d half expected to find the walkways crowded despite the driving rain, but she’d staggered to the pod without seeing anyone but a family of orcas, breaching in the inlet. All she wanted from life at this moment was a roof and dry floor. And to get her boots off, if humanly possible. Everything and everyone else could wait.

  Unfortunately, everyone else was waiting inside Pod Three.

  Mac blinked stupidly at the sight that greeted her as the door opened. The corridor was lined three deep with people on each side, most shouting in confused, though joyful, unison when they saw her.

  One shout penetrated the rest. “Mac! Where the hell have you been? We’ve got search parties out—the police—”

  It took a second before Mac could put a name to the almost hysterical voice. Kammie? The unflappable? She winced with guilt as that worthy burst through the crowd toward her, arms flailing and eyes wild. “Ah. Sorry to alarm everyone,” Mac said. “I’m fin
e. I’ll explain later.” Once she found the energy to dream up a plausible story. “Was Brymn okay through the excitement?”

  “Brymn? Excitement?” Kammie seemed stuck on repeat.

  Another voice interjected helpfully: “Still snoring.”

  Mac found herself grateful for the support of the doorframe. “Glad someone was.”

  The rising babble of concerned, relieved voices made it impossible to carry on a conversation. Several hands took over the work of the frame and her sagging muscles, guiding Mac forward into the blissfully dry and warm, if noisy, building. But why were they all here? She fought to stand still so she could search their faces, dismayed by what she saw.

  And by who she didn’t see.

  “Em?”

  She might have dropped a stone into a tidal pool, the way silence rippled outward from her question. The few faces turned her way seemed those of strangers.

  “Where’s Emily Mamani?” Mac demanded, shaking free of her caretakers.

  Kammie, who looked to have aged a decade since yesterday, stared up at her. “We’d hoped she was with you, Mac.”

  8

  DISPUTE AND DECISION

  IT WAS A nightmare from which no one would let her wake. Mac turned herself into an automaton, answering questions in the order they arrived, steeling herself against any emotion, hers or those around her. As if authorizing a barnacle survey, she sent divers to search under the pods, and skims to follow the tide. As if making arrangements for the delivery of fresh fruit, she called Emily’s younger sister and gave the story as it stood: Emily is missing. There’s been no contact from a kidnapper. Yes, you’ll be kept informed.

  Mac didn’t mention the slime coating every surface of Emily’s quarters, the smashed furniture, or the blood. Kammie’s report had been graphic. She’d been the only one inside Em’s quarters and, given what she’d seen, it was no wonder she’d immediately called the local police. They’d ordered Em’s quarters and Mac’s office sealed. A forensics team had arrived and set up at dawn, their warn offs extending to corridor and terrace.

  Mac had no doubt Trojanowski would be allowed to cross; she could not.

  There was nothing more for her to do but wait. She didn’t do that well.

  As if she’d lost her dearest friend, those around her lowered their voices and hovered when they obviously had other places to be. To be rid of them, Mac finally agreed to be escorted to the Base nurse.

  Because she refused to believe she’d lost her dearest friend, Mac left the nurse the moment her face was treated for its burn.

  Now, she stood before the door to her quarters, seeking answers in the only place left. Emily had tried to warn her. Emily had known there was danger, that something was coming, that this wasn’t about risks to aliens at distances Mac couldn’t imagine, but to them, here, now.

  Emily had been afraid, last night. She’d asked not to be alone and Mac hadn’t understood even that much.

  What kind of friend was she?

  It wasn’t locked. Mac hesitated, afraid Brymn wouldn’t be able to help, afraid of losing hope. Recognizing the weakness, she raised her fist and knocked.

  No answer.

  Mac pressed her palm on the entry. For no reason she could name, she let the door open fully before she took a step inside.

  Her hands covered her mouth, a painful pressure on the mem-skin now coating her burn.

  They’d said Brymn was snoring. She should have realized that none of them would know if a Dhryn snored in the first place.

  From somewhere, Mac found the strength to snap the paralysis holding her in the doorway, taking three slow steps into the room. The form hanging in the middle of her living room was Brymn. She could tell that much by the patches of blue skin showing between the glistening threads wrapped around him, if little more. The threads led upward to form a thick knot stuck to the ceiling.

  He was alive. That much was clear from the regular, low moaning. It did sound a bit like snoring, Mac decided numbly.

  By rights, she should call the police immediately.

  Instead, Mac locked the door behind her, then went to the com, leaning her back against the wall beside it. “Dr. Connor. Is Mr. Trojanowski back yet?”

  “What are you doing out of bed?” Tie was back on com duty—a rock in a storm.

  Mac rolled her head toward the familiar voice, her problem solver when skims failed to run or pods developed a list, but said only: “Trojanowski.”

  Tie knew better than to argue. “Yes, he’s back. He’s been with the forensics guys. I’ll hunt him up for you, Mac.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in my—in Brymn’s quarters.”

  “There’s been no more word about Dr. Mamani,” he said, almost making it a question.

  “Keep me posted, Tie.”

  Mac stayed propped against the wall beside the com, studying the Dhryn. The one eye she could see was closed. Unconscious—or pretending to be. The netting that held him had an artificial look, but she was no expert.

  Emily had told her to take that xeno course from Seung.

  Mac wasn’t a fool. She understood she was experiencing shock, made worse by physical exhaustion. She understood her calm was a brittle coating over emotions she wasn’t ready to face. It didn’t matter, as long as it let her find Emily.

  Then, she’d let herself feel.

  Meanwhile, there was the problem posed by the netted Dhryn. Mac examined the threads. They looked sticky as well as moist. Stepping closer at last, she could see that each length had adhered to whatever it touched, puckering his skin into thick, tight creases.

  “Explains the moaning,” she said to herself. His silks were on the floor, but laid out neatly, as if the Dhryn had been undressed before the attack. It wasn’t that his assailants had been tidy. Other than the fabric, the contents of Mac’s quarters showed the same disarray as Emily’s.

  The same trails of slime coated ceiling and walls.

  A knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” she asked without moving.

  “Trojanowski. You sent for me, Dr. Connor. I’ve been trying to find you—” A pause. “May I come in?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.” Another pause. “What’s that noise?”

  “The Honorable Delegate.”

  His voice lowered a notch. “What’s going on, Dr. Connor? Let me in.”

  Mac crossed her arms and stood beside the hanging Dhryn to wait.

  Seconds later, her locked door opened. Trojanowski took a quick step in, then another to one side, slapping the door closed behind him. “Practiced that, have you?” Mac commented, noticing he was back to his student garb: T-shirt and jeans, complete with glasses. The so-harmless look didn’t play well anymore.

  “What the—?” His expression went from shocked to guarded. “Is he conscious?”

  “I don’t know.” The “I don’t care” was in her tone.

  “Have you tried to find out?”

  “I don’t know anything about alien physiology, remember? I called you.”

  He took what looked like a pen from his pocket and used it to poke one of the threads holding Brymn.

  “What’s that?” Mac asked. “A weapon?”

  “It’s a pen.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure why she was surprised. Too many old movies with Em.

  His lips quirked to one side. “This,” he pulled a black flattened disk from the same pocket, “is a weapon.” It disappeared against the palm of his left hand. Then he raised that hand and pointed two fingers at the ceiling, where the threads combined into the holdfast.

  A narrow beam of intense blue shot up. Where it touched the threads, they shriveled and broke apart, to become bits of soot drifting through the air. Trojanowski played the beam over the massive knot, flaking away more and more until Brymn’s body shifted downward a few centimeters.

  He stopped and put away the weapon. “He’s going to fall. Help me put the mattress under him.”

  “That’s my bed,
” Mac protested, although she moved to help. “Was my bed,” she amended. It looked as though someone had attempted to shred the surface of the mattress, then glue it back together with slime.

  They flipped it over before dragging it under the Dhryn. It was the work of seconds for Trojanowski to cut him down completely. He fell like a salmon, Mac decided, limp but firm.

  Once Brymn was down, Trojanowski used his strange weapon to singe the ends of the threads wrapped around the being, careful not to ignite the mattress itself. Mac stood back and watched, her arms wrapped around her middle. She didn’t remember breakfast. She thought she’d gulped something handed to her while she’d been at her desk. Her stomach wasn’t happy about it.

  Ungrateful organ.

  Each singed thread continued to flake away along its entire length, as if losing some inner cohesion. Where they’d adhered to Brymn, the small dark pits of his skin oozed a clear liquid, presumably the source of an almost palpable odor, musklike and with a hint of sulfur, that began to fill the room. Mac took tiny breaths through her nose. She’d smelled and seen worse. Walking on bloated salmon corpses in July came to mind. No matter how carefully you put your feet, one would always pop.

  “Good thing you checked on him,” Trojanowski said, continuing to work. He’d been watching her, too. She’d seen his eyes slip her way every few seconds, their expression inscrutable. “I might not have for another hour or so—might have been too late.”

  “I wanted—how long until he wakes up? Until he can answer questions?”

  The last thread fell away. “No idea. Is there any clean bedding? A blanket?”

  Mac pointed to a cupboard. Trojanowski rummaged inside and returned with a sheet, which he laid over Brymn with care.

  Then, he looked at her. “I’m sorry about your friend, Dr. Mamani.” His eyes were presently more hazel than green, lending them an unexpected softness. Mac doubted she could look away of her own volition. She also doubted she could so much as flex her fingers without throwing up.