But all he said next was: “Locating the Ro home system is the priority, Mac. If it helps to keep it personal, remember that’s your best chance of finding Emily. We’ll stay in touch through regular, open channels, but be aware none of those can be trusted. Don’t initiate any contact.”
This wasn’t happening, Mac told herself. Knowing it was, she struggled to be practical. “I don’t suppose you put a Dhryn dictionary in that luggage? Anything to let me know what to expect?”
“Hopefully, most can speak Instella. I wish we had a sub-teach ready for Dhryn to send with you, but outside of a few entries in an encyclopedia, no one’s bothered to compile one. We’re working on it now, believe me. Mac—” This with a glance at his watch.
This was it, then. The last chance she had to drop to the floor, kicking and screaming that they couldn’t make her leave everything she knew, to go to where her only expertise was forbidden and her very species, the alien.
Emily had done it. She couldn’t imagine why.
Mac, at least, had Emily for a reason. Keep it personal, Nik had said. Good advice.
“Let’s not keep them waiting more than necessary,” Mac said calmly. “Give me five minutes. Clothes, please?” She took the bundle he produced from his pouch then, without another word or look, without another touch, headed for the shower.
Nik’s footsteps echoed hers, one for one. She didn’t dare turn around to see if he was following her, but when Mac reached the door to the stall, she heard the door to the corridor open and close.
She pressed her forehead against the cool metal.
“Emily,” she whispered, listening to the hammering of her heart. “What the hell just happened?”
- Portent -
THE CAVES WERE ancient, hallowed, and worn. Ancient, as measured in cycles of mineral and water; hallowed, as sites praised in prayer and storied memory; worn, as befitted the only practical shelter in these hills prone to violent wind. Throughout recorded time, the noblest and humblest cowered and wailed here together while nature unleashed her worst on the mountainside. It was said the caves refused no one.
Had such things mattered to him, Eah, night shepherd and litter runt, would have considered himself one of the humblest to ever set footpads within this, the nearest of the fabled caves to his pasture, the Cave of Serenity. But his was a simple soul, content to have a useful place within his kin-group, and, within that place, he felt all the pride of any Primelord.
No matter the fear raising the bones along his spine, no matter the nervous bleating of his flock, no matter the ominous strength of wind in the valley—that pride made Eah stop inside the entrance to light his torch and show proper respect. The ritual three spits into the dust at his footpads, a gift from his body. The ritual claw scrape along the tall stone godstooth, a gift of his might. The ritual howl—
Before Eah could properly prepare himself to howl, the great depth and resonance of his voice something which had always given him profound satisfaction, his flock, which had never appreciated his voice, bolted for the inside of the cave, running between his legs and past him on either side. They almost knocked him down in their haste. He would have chastened them, but they were mindless beasts, always finding ways to challenge his authority. Surely the gods understood such things and would not take offense. To be safe, Eah sprinkled three handfuls of sweetened grain from the bag at his side on the dust, clawed the stalagmite once more, then drew breath to howl.
A runnel of liquid green trickled toward him in the dust, like a finger reaching out of the darkness. Eah leaped sideways and away, clinging to the rock wall. His ability to jump was another that pleased him, if not his mothers, but this time he trembled. Did he now offend the gods by marking their soft glittering stone with his claws?
Before he could decide whether to drop down or remain, one of his flock staggered into the light of the torch, still burning where he’d dropped it in the dust. It was the Old One, whose ability to find water in the dry season was more valuable than her age-bleached hair or tough flesh.
Hair that had disappeared along with the skin beneath . . . flesh that was oozing away from the bones beneath. Her next and final step landed in the runnel of green, her sharp little toes melting so she fell forward.
And fell apart.
Eah trilled like a kit for its mothers, his claws digging deeper into the stone, hearts falling out of synchrony when he didn’t leap away and run, as instinct screamed he should.
But the runnel, having washed away the Old One as Eah might wash dirt from his hands, stretched out its fingers across the entrance. There wasn’t room for his footpads.
Eah was not one skilled with tool or words, but things he put his hands to usually moved. Now, he used that strength, holding himself with one hand as he stretched the other as far as he could reach along the wall in the direction of the cave opening. The coming windstorm would drive sand through clothing and skin, blind and deafen those without shelter, but it was a threat he knew, a threat sent by the gods themselves. He’d rather die there, where his kin-group would find his body and carry it home again so his mothers could wash him one last time.
He drove in his claws, released the other hand, then pulled himself closer to escape. Again. Again. One claw snapped, and he almost fell into the spreading pool of green.
Drive and pull. Again! This time, his arm was bathed in light. He was almost outside!
Even as Eah gasped with hope, he realized something was terribly wrong.
The storm winds had a new, strange sound.
As if they carried rain.
14
FAREWELLS AND FLIGHT
PERSEPHONE—’Sephe—was waiting for Mac when she stepped out of the shower stall, dressed though damp. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone quite that shade of pink before,” she said with a grin.
As every portion of Mac’s skin, scraped or whole, felt as though it had lost three layers then been soaked in salt, she considered several scathing replies, but restrained herself. “I take it my time’s up?”
“Skim’s waiting. Put this on,” the other woman ordered, “this” being a huge and hideous mottled brown cloak with a hood. “It’s Derelan,” she added, then, at Mac’s blank look, finished with: “—feels better than it looks.”
“That’s a relief.” Mac whipped her damp, slug-free hair into its normal braid before ’Sephe could offer, tying a loose knot with the result. Feeling that much closer to normal, she walked over and accepted the cloak, surprised by its light suppleness. ’Sephe helped arrange the unusual garment over her new clothes.
They’d fit, not that Mac had expected anything less. And they weren’t quite as plain as Nik’s description had suggested either. A blouse, white with a gathered bodice and hem, long sleeves with actual buttons, not mem-fabric, to hold them snug to her wrists. A skirt, shimmering blue and sleek, falling to her ankles with thigh-high slits on either side giving her legs freedom to move. A slim waist pouch that could lock relieved her mind on the issue of pockets, holding, with a bit of squeezing, both her imp and the abused, but not yet studied, piece of mem-paper with the results from Kammie.
There was even new footwear, shoes with a soft, studded sole of a type Mac had never seen before that molded comfortably to her feet. A relief after the boots.
She hadn’t expected to find frankly luxurious undergarments in the bundle, of the sort she’d never bothered buying for herself, though Emily would certainly know the labels. An intimate thoughtfulness Mac found somewhat distracting, given her last encounter with their source, but they’d provided a choice of secure locations in which to tuck her envelope.
The cloak rested on her shoulders and fell almost to the floor, the folds adding bas relief to the brown, so Mac felt disguised as a tree trunk. Derelan. The species was hopefully in her xeno text; it wasn’t in her brain. She’d look it up when the universe granted her time for things like breathing. ’Sephe was already at the door, her stance just short of foot tapping.
; Wrapping the Derelan cloak around herself, like hiding in a cocoon, Mac didn’t try to fool herself that it was only the Ro’s eyes she’d like to avoid.
“Put the hood up.”
Mac complied, only to find the hood drooped over her forehead and face to her mouth. “Don’t you think this is a little—obvious?” she asked, pushing up the hood so she could see Persephone.
The other woman looked serious. “Maybe to a Human. Hopefully not to our sneaky friends. We don’t know if they use scanners, but the cloak’s fabric is impregnated with a jigsaw puzzle of DNA fragments, which even our toys can’t sort into anything more sensible than a platypus crossed with a clam.”
Mac gathered the folds more tightly around herself. “I’m convinced. Now what.”
“Your chariot awaits, Mac. We just have to retrace our way in: three corridors and a lift, all guarded. Nik—Mr. Trojanowski’s in a mood, all right. We had to sweep them twice before he was satisfied.”
Aware that the other was giving her a more than curious look, Mac pulled down the hood. “Then we’d better go.”
It should have been easy—the walk through the corridors, the brief trip on the lift, all with ’Sephe’s tall, strong presence at her side, in sight of two or more armed guards at any time. Mac did feel safe.
But every few steps, a tear would sting her cheeks, the skin scalded twice now. She was grateful for the hood’s shadow.
These steps would be her last among Humans for the foreseeable future. Already the world she knew—of rocks, growing things, and water—seemed a dream, a vision of a paradise she’d lost. Here, nothing was irregular. Nothing struggled to survive. Nothing was alive but the people themselves—and they were encased in armor and caution.
Mac indulged in one final sniff, then stiffened her spine. She was, after all, a scientist. Here was a chance to add to a woefully neglected data set—the Dhryn. She had Brymn, if not a friend, then an ally, by his own words. And, as ’Sephe and another figure preceded her out the door of the building, she added to her list the backing, however many light-years removed, of the Ministry of Extra-Sol Human Affairs, in the person of Nikolai Trojanowski.
He was waiting for her, standing with feet spread and apparently relaxed between another Human guard and a Dhryn, with his suit, cravat, and glasses looking as bizarrely out of place in this gathering as she likely did in her ungainly cloak. Despite that, or perhaps because he hadn’t bothered with armor, Mac didn’t doubt he was the most dangerous one of them all.
As if rehearsed, the Dhryn stepped to the side of their skim and gave some signal that opened its side door. It was a bigger model than most, so a ramp slid out, clanging to a stop against the flooring.
Flooring. Mac peered up from under her hood, wanting another quick look at this amazing place. What she called a door in the building they’d just left could be an air lock, if the need arose. What she called a building was a portable stack of preconstructed forms, reassembled as needs changed. What she called a sky—Mac lifted her face to sunlight that wasn’t, imagining the far-off lines of traffic were clouds.
A touch on her elbow. Mac nodded in acknowledgment and began walking toward the skim, her eyes on Nik. He gave her a look he probably thought was encouraging. It was a little too haunted for that.
The touch on her elbow pushed harder, as if to say no, that way. Confused, Mac turned her head.
There was no one close enough to touch her.
Mac didn’t stop to think. She threw off the useless cloak and broke into a run, arbitrarily picking the direction opposite to the one the touch wanted. “They’re here!” she shouted to Nik, hoping he’d understand she hadn’t lost her mind.
He began to shout orders, was already in motion.
Spit! Pop!
The sound electrified the Dhryn. The skim roared into the air, ramp still extended and hanging loose. The one left abandoned unsheathed his weapons and stood ready.
Mac caught all this in quick glimpses over her shoulder as she ran, arms pumping and grateful for a skirt that got out of the way of her legs. The twanging rib she ignored. She dodged around a pillar displaying notices to find herself face-to-face with a tall yellow barricade marked “under construction” in black.
Cursing the predictability of Human cities, Mac turned to run along the fence, hoping for a way around it.
Her skin crawled at the thought of another touch; her ears strained for any sound. They must have cleared the area of passersby, Mac fumed, slowing to a jog as she hunted in vain for a crowd or even an open door. Nothing . The place was locked up tight. Given a choice between a shadowed gap between two buildings and a wide, plazalike space, she ran into the open, hoping to be spotted.
“Mac!”
Well, that worked, she congratulated herself, panting as she stopped to hunt the source of that reassuring shout. Her rib throbbed in reminder and she pressed her elbow into her side to shut it up.
Scurry . . . skittle . . . scurry!
Mac launched back into a full-out run, dodging from side to side as though trying to make her way through a crowded soccer field.
Or like a salmon, trying to work upstream through rocks—only to find the flash and power of grizzly claws waiting.
She was halfway across the deserted plaza, still hunting the voice, when a figure appeared in the shadow of a building in front of her, frantically beckoning to her. Mac sobbed with relief and found an extra burst of speed.
“No, Mac! Stop!”
That voice she knew. Nik, but from behind? Mac stared ahead. Then who was that? The figure began walking toward her.
“Mac! Stop! Wait for us!” Now she could hear the thud of footsteps, his and others.
Who—was that?
Mac slowed to a walk, the better to see.
That shape, its easy grace? It couldn’t be—
“Em . . . ?” The whisper tore its way up her throat as Mac started to believe her own eyes.
She was grabbed roughly from behind, held. “Mac, wait, dammit!” Nik shouted hoarsely.
She struck at him. “Let me go! That’s Emily!”
Spit! Pop!
A sudden whoompf of sound, like a punch in the air. Mac felt Nik’s body stiffen against hers, then go limp, slipping through her hands as she tried to support his weight. His eyes stared at hers, a terrible urgency in them. His lips moved. Nothing came out.
“He’s hurt!” Mac cried, looking up desperately for help as she eased Nik to the floor.
She saw something else. Emily, dressed from neck to toe in skintight black, walking toward them while continuing to aim what had to be some sort of weapon at Nik.
This had to be a dream, Mac told herself. A nightmare.
“I am helping you,” Emily insisted. “I told you I would. This isn’t going to work, Mac. You have to come with me. Now. We won’t hurt you.”
We?
Scurry . . . skittle . . .
“Hang on, Mac!” More voices. Closer, with pounding feet as an underscore.
Beyond terror, past despair was a kind of numbness, erasing urgency and muting self-preservation. Mac sank to her knees, doing her best to keep Nik’s head and shoulders off the floor. He’d lost consciousness. Or worse, that safe and detached part of her said. “What have you done?” she asked, as calmly as if she and Emily were still on that granite ledge, waiting for the first run.
“I’m trying to—Ai!” Emily dodged back as a huge shape descended on the plaza.
“Em!” A flash filled the air, bright enough to make Mac cry out in pain and close her eyes. She hunched over Nik’s body, hoping ’Sephe and the others were responsible.
But the hands that tore her away were both irresistibly strong and very familiar.
Dhryn.
15
BOXED AND BOTHERED
SOMEONE had flung jewels at the night, the largest sapphire Earth, with her diamond Moon. There were others, smaller yet brighter, as if handfuls of cut gem-stones had spilled over that black silk to catch sunlight a
nd return it as fire to the eye.
Mac’s fingers traced the cold metal outline of the vision. Her breath fogged the viewport and she wiped it clear. The Dhryn had given her this, a chance to watch as the Pasunah maneuvered from orbit into the appropriate orientation for the Naralax Transect.
She found a sharp burr on the metal and worried it with a fingernail.
They’d given her nothing more.
No comlink. No message.
No answers.
Mac drew her lower lip between her teeth, involuntarily remembering his taste, her tongue exploring the tiny cut along the inside of her mouth. Here she was, off on a mission whose primary goal—to her—was apparently safe, sound, and on the wrong side, not to mention back at the way station. And the Dhryn wouldn’t or couldn’t tell her if Nik was alive.
Well, Mac, she said to herself, bitterly amused, here you are. Same situation. Different box.
The transition from normal space into a transect might be worth watching, but they hadn’t told her when it would occur. From what she’d seen through the viewport, Mac guessed the Pasunah was being guided into the required orientation by tugs. Once aligned with the desired transect, her engines would fire, sending the ship curving toward the Sun.
Not suicide, Mac assured herself. Part of the journey. Every schoolchild learned that the transects were anchored a few million kilometers outside the orbit of Venus and why. Inward and far enough from system shipping lanes—and the teeming populations of Earth, Mars, and the moons of the gas giants—to satisfy the most paranoid; close enough to make the trip to and from any transect itself economical. That this orientation also put outgoing freight from the Human system at the top of Sol’s gravity well was a factor they didn’t teach in school, but travelers foolish enough to buy round-trip tickets soon became acquainted with that reality. Mac had endured Tie’s diatribe on that matter quite a few times following his first, and last, outsystem vacation.
Survival Page 25