Economics couldn’t change where time was consumed in an intersystem trip. Travel through the transects was outside space-time itself. Mac couldn’t quite imagine it, but she did know they’d leave this system and arrive in another with no perceptible passing of subjective time. The captain would enter the desired exit into the ship’s autopilot just before they entered the transect—a crucial step since, in some manner fathomable only to cosmologists and charlatans, the act of specifying a particular exit created that exit.
Mac had read a popular article on the transects that compared their initial construction to training a worm to burrow outside space itself, leaving holes through which ships could slide. By that way of thinking, the Interspecies Union wasn’t so much a political entity as it was a worm trainer, the result being the greatest collaboration of technology and effort ever conceived by any, or all, of its member species.
Conceived might be too strong a word. The transects owed their beginning to a discovery made hundreds of years ago, and millions of light-years away. The details tended to blur between various species’ historical records—every species having members ready to claim they’d been about to make the crucial breakthrough themselves—but no one disputed that finding a key portion of the required technology, buried in the ancient rubble of a once-inhabited moon in the Hift System, had moved that breakthrough ahead by lifetimes.
Academics would probably always argue what might have happened if any species other than the Sinzi had made the initial discovery. But the coolheaded, cooperative, and highly practical Sinzi had been the ones to shape the Interspecies Union into its present form, perhaps due to their having multiple brains per adult body. The Sinzi had set the initial criteria for any species to receive a permanent transect exit, which was still in use today: desire for contact with other species, an independently developed space-faring technology, a demonstrated absence—or, at minimum, reliable control—of aggressive tendencies which might impact other species, and the willingness to adopt a mutual language and technical standards for interspecies’ interactions outside their own systems.
All so most alive today in this region of space, including Mac, could take the ability to slip from system to system for granted.
Slip—through a nonexistent tunnel dug by unreal worms burrowing outside normal space?
On second thought, Mac decided, maybe she should miss that highly unnatural portion of the trip entirely with a well-timed cough.
Meanwhile, Mac had to endure the trip to the transect. No one had told her where the exit to the Naralax Transect was in relation to Earth but, being one of the less traveled and her luck staying its stellar self, it might be on the far side of the Sun right now. At minimum, they had about forty million kilometers to cover to reach Venus’ orbit, and, to her knowledge, ships still obeyed the physics that involved staying below the speed of light. Maybe a week at sublight?
She had to read more, Mac decided. But it was like knowing the inner workings of a skim engine. You needed the knowledge most when the damn thing broke down, leaving you stuck where you couldn’t possibly gain the knowledge you needed. And you had to walk home as a result.
Face it, Mac, she scolded herself. You have no good idea how long you’ll be in this box.
Though calling her accommodations on the Pasunah a “box” was a trifle unfair, Mac admitted, finally relaxed enough to explore her new quarters. Her first observation proved she wasn’t on a Human-built ship, had there been any doubt. There wasn’t a truly square corner in sight, the Dhryn, or their ship designers, having built everything at what appeared closer to seventy degrees. Considering how the aliens themselves stood at an angle, this seemed a reasonable consequence. The lack of perpendicular didn’t bother Mac. When she wasn’t in a tent, she was in her office at Base, where the pod walls curved down one side.
Where there had been casualties. Plural. Pod Six had sunk. Who had been trapped inside?
Not Emily. She was alive.
Emily had shot Nik.
Was he a casualty, too?
As if it could quiet her thoughts, Mac pressed the heels of both hands against her closed eyes. The damn Dhryn could have told her. They could have let her contact those who did know. They could have told her where they were taking her.
But no. They’d brought her to their ship without a single word, either in answer to her frantic questions or to give her orders. They hadn’t needed the latter. A Dhryn had picked her up as if she’d been a bag of whatever Dhryn carried home in bags, and only put her down here. While Mac had been sorely tempted, she’d kept her mouth closed over her objections and did her best to cling to the Dhryn, rather than struggle to be free. She’d preferred not to test her ability to splint her own limbs—or truly crack that bruised rib.
The skim ride had been fast and, from the frequent and violent changes of direction experienced by those within, probably broke every traffic regulation on the way station. If they had such things. Instead of stopping to argue with any authorities, the Dhryn must have flown right into their ship, because when the door of the skim had dropped open, Mac had found herself carried through a cavernous hold. The Dhryn had continued to carry her, reasonably gently yet with that ominously silent urgency, through tunnel-like ship corridors to this room.
While such treatment alone might be construed as a rescue, there was the troubling aspect of the door the Dhryn had closed behind her—a door with no control on this side that Mac had been able to find.
That door, Mac corrected herself, slowing her breathing, consciously easing the muscles of her shoulders and neck. There were two others. She picked the door on the wall to her left, relieved to spot a palm-plate, similar to the Human version but set much lower. It was colored to match the rest of the room, a marbled beige. Inconspicuous to a fault.
The plate accepted her palm, the door opening inward in response. Mac looked into what was patently a space for biological necessities. She’d assumed that much physiological congruence, since Brymn had stayed in her quarters without requesting modifications. Still, she took it as a positive note that the Dhryn had made provision for her comfort.
The remaining door was on the opposite wall. Mac found herself taking a convoluted path to reach it, forced to detour around the main room’s furnishings. She did a tally as she went: one table, six assorted chairs, ten lamps of varying size and color, and other, less likely items, such as a footbath and a stand made from some preserved footlike body part holding an already dying fern. Judging by the combination and haphazard arrangement, someone had shopped in a hurry. The Dhryn might as well have posted a sign outside the Pasunah saying: “Human passenger expected.”
Not her problem.
It occurred to Mac that unsecured furniture meant the Pasunah maintained internal gravity throughout her run, not common practice on economy-class liners if she was to believe Tie’s vacation story. That, or the Dhryn had a peculiar sense of humor. She tugged a chair closer to the table as she passed. While she was curious about Dhryn furniture, Mac was grateful for something suited to her anatomy. At least it looked more suited than the one in Mudge’s waiting room.
The door opened into what the Dhryn must intend her to use as a bedroom, judging by the irregular pile of mattresses occupying its center. Spotting luggage on top, Mac wasted no time climbing up to see what had been provided for her.
Trying to climb up. She wedged her foot between two mattresses, but the ones above slid sideways each time she tried to pull herself up. Taking a step back, Mac frowned at the stack.
Five high, each mattress about thirty centimeters thick and soft enough to lose the proverbial princess and her pea, the sum between Mac and her luggage.
“Bring the mountain,” she muttered, then grabbed the nearest corner of the topmost, and yanked. The result owed more to pent-up frustration than power. She dodged out of the way as both mattress and luggage joined her on the floor.
The two cases bounced to a rest, a mismatched pair of the type so common on
Earth that frequent travelers on transcontinental t-levs knew to pack short-range ident beacons.
Mac kicked off her slippers, flipped up the ends of her long skirt, and sat cross-legged on the mattress, pulling the smaller case toward her. Her hands lingered on its so-ordinary handle. She had to take on faith that it contained the very long-range beacon Nik had promised, believe that beacon could identify the destination the Pasunah chose, and trust that identification would reach only those who—
Cared?
Such a dangerous, seductive word, fraught with risk even among Humans. Even between friends.
What had Nik said? “A threat to the species, Dr. Connor . . . Where on the scale of that do you and I fall?”
Mac drew an imaginary line along the handle, then circled her finger in the air above it. “We’re not even on it, Mr. Trojanowski.”
Oddly, the image steadied her. She may not have paid sufficient attention to astrophysics, but Mac understood the nuts and bolts of biological extinction, in all likelihood better than Nik—or most of humanity, for that matter. She was accustomed to attacking problems at the species’ level, not dealing with betrayal and violent death among those close to her.
Nik had warned her not to let anyone close. A little late.
The luggage’s lock was set to her thumbprint—easy enough to obtain from Base. Once she had it open, Mac gaped at the contents. Someone was obsessed with neatness. Each article was individually wrapped in a clear plastic zip, varying in size from the dimensions of her closed fist to the length of the luggage’s interior. Picking a smaller one at random, Mac unzipped it, hearing a tiny poof. Almost instantly the contents expanded to several times its original size, startling her into dropping what turned out to be a yellow shirt.
Not neatness. Saving space to give her the most they could.
Maybe she shouldn’t unzip too many items until safely off the ship, Mac decided, wondering how to get the shirt back into the case.
She took out each small packet, turning it over in her hands as she puzzled at what might be inside. Some, clothes, were easy enough. Lightweight, soft. Those Mac tossed behind her on the mattress.
A narrow hard packet claimed her attention. She unzipped it cautiously, giving it room to grow, but it stayed the same size.
“So there you are.” The imp Nik had told her about. Mac wasn’t the least surprised when it accepted her supposedly private code and a small workscreen indistinguishable in format from her own appeared in the air over her lap. “Snoop.”
Well, it was his business.
She waved up a list of most recent files—nothing newer than her last link to her desk workstation—then shut it down.
So. Emily’s private logs were still hers alone.
As if it mattered now, Mac thought. The Ministry staff had seen Emily shoot their leader, likely had her in custody within moments. They’d use whatever drugs it would take to obtain an explanation; somehow Mac doubted ’Sephe and her colleagues required warrants or permission.
Mac tucked a wisp of hair behind one ear. “Or did you elude them, Dr. Mamani?” she asked aloud.
Another question no one would answer. Not that she was in a hurry to know, Mac decided, given the lack of any good outcome.
She took her own imp from the waist pouch beneath her blouse and compared the two. Identical to anyone else’s, at least on casual inspection. Her fingers unerringly found the dimpling along one edge of hers where she’d used a knife to pry off hardened drops of pine resin. Fair enough.
Mac put hers safely away again, then activated the other. Nik had said any recordings she made would be transmitted whenever the Pasunah entered a transect. If this was true—when had she begun to doubt everything she was told?—she had a chance to communicate that mustn’t be wasted.
Mac sat a little straighter, a few plastic-packed clothes sliding off her lap as a result, then poked the ’screen to accept dictation.
“This is Mackenzie Connor,” she began self-consciously, stifling the urge to cough. “The Dhryn have taken me on their ship, the Pasunah, and we’re heading for the Naralax Transect. Well, I don’t know it’s the Pasunah—or the Naralax—but I’ll assume so until I have evidence to the contrary.” Her voice slipped automatically into lecture mode as she went on to describe her quarters and give what details she could see.
Then, data recorded, Mac hesitated. Who would hear this? She had no way of knowing.
She had no choice.
“Please tell my father I’m okay. Lie about where I am if you have to, but don’t let him worry. That’s Norman Connor. Base—Norcoast Salmon Research Facility—will have his contact information.
“Please tell Nik—Nikolai Trojanowski—that I have my luggage.” Blindingly obvious, since she was using their imp to send this, but it was easy to say. “And tell him . . .” Having reached the hard part, Mac paused the recording. Tell him what?
That he should have protected her from the Ro? From the Dhryn? Mac shook her head. He’d never said he could.
That he shouldn’t have kissed her? She frowned at the display. As kisses went, it had been spontaneous and as much her doing as his. An impulse brought on by stress or something more? Probably best forgotten.
Easier said than done.
Mac restarted the recording. “. . . tell him I wish him well.”
“Now this is a problem.”
Mac lined her water bottles—one half empty since she’d decided to drink first from a source she knew and two full—in front of her small pyramid of yellow-wrapped nutrient bars, then rested her chin on the table to check the result. She’d found the supplies in the larger luggage, along with boots, outerwear, and a daunting medical kit. Oh, there were self-help instructions on her new imp. They didn’t make owning needles and sutures any less intimidating.
That wasn’t the problem.
Mac rolled her head onto her left cheek, the better to see her predicament.
Beside her attempts at reconstructing an Egyptian tomb, the table held what Mac presumed was either supper, breakfast, or lunch. She’d lost physiological track of time hours past. It had been waiting here when Mac came out of her bedroom. She’d immediately looked for the provider, but the door to the corridor was closed and still apparently locked.
She studied the six upright, gleaming black cylinders. Brymn had said they ate cultivated fungus, but these looked like no fungus—or food, for that matter—she’d ever seen. They were arranged on a tray of polished green metal, each sitting within a small indentation—presumably so they wouldn’t topple while being carried. Thin, hairlike strands erupted from the tops. At the right angle of light, the cylinders exhibited traces of iridescence, as if oil coated the outer surface. When she poked one with a cautious finger, it jiggled.
Mac squinted. It didn’t make the cylinders any more appetizing.
She sat up, grabbing a nutrient bar from the top of her pyramid. Unwrapping it, she broke it into three pieces, popping one in her mouth with a grimace. Oversweet, overfat, over everything. Emily always carried a dozen in her pack. Mac couldn’t stand the things. But they could keep you alive if you were lost in the bush.
Or worse, she thought, with an uneasy glance at the cylinders.
She started to wash down the crumbs of the bar with a drink but stopped with the bottle at her lips. How much worse?
Mac put the bottle down, capping it with deliberate care, and lined it up with the other two. A moment later, she stood in the Dhryn bathroom, her mouth already feeling dry. The “biological accommodation,” as the Instella term generically put it, was of the suck and incinerate variety. The sink, lower and much wider than Mac was used to, presumably to fit all seven Dhryn hands at once, had no drain or faucet. She lowered her left hand into it cautiously, feeling a vibration that warmed her skin. Sonics. The shower stall, sized for a Dhryn with a friend, looked to be the same.
No water.
Maybe this was something done on ships, she assured herself. After all, water would tak
e up precious cargo space, so minimizing its use might be a priority. Then Mac thought back to the dinner at Base. Brymn had toasted her with a glass of water. She hadn’t seen him drink any.
Off the top of her head, she could name fifteen Earth species who obtained all the water their bodies required from their food. What if the Dhryn were the same?
“Great,” Mac said aloud. Humans weren’t. Worse, the nutrient bars were concentrated by removing water from their components. Digesting them would only add to her thirst. The three bottles from her luggage contained barely a day’s worth of water.
There were mirrors on two walls, sloping toward the middle of the room. Mac licked her lips and watched her elongated reflections do the same. “Our friends will be in for an unpleasant surprise if they leave me here too long,” she informed them.
Not to mention Mac, herself.
After a quick search of her quarters to see if she’d missed a water outlet or container, studiously avoiding the hairy, black sticks, Mac spent a few minutes reminding the Dhryn they had a guest. When shouting and knocking on the door to the corridor failed to elicit a response, she chose likely objects and began pelting the door with them.
Smash! Lamp with a ceramic base.
Crunch! Chair.
Shatter! Statue of three entwined bodies created by an artist with outstanding optimism concerning Human anatomy. Mac blushed as she threw it.
Clang! Footbath. Which wasn’t going to do her much good without water to fill it.
Mac stopped, having run out of disposable objects and temper. She waited, listening to her blood pounding in her ears, her breathing, a low hum that might be the ship, and hearing nothing more.
The Dhryn weren’t deaf—particularly to the lower frequencies caused by objects hitting a metal door. They were ignoring her.
Or the Ro had killed or bound all the Dhryn and they were ignoring her.
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