The trick was to keep Fourteen busy, or the two of them apart. Easier said than done.
“You can’t keep avoiding him,” Mac insisted aloud, despite her utter lack of success on this point with Mudge to date. “It only makes him worse.”
She couldn’t very well explain that what made Mudge such an irresistible target for the Myg wasn’t the Human’s gullibility or his tendency to bluster. Although they helped. It was Mudge’s constant, steady usefulness to her.
Not jealousy. She’d worried at the situation, observed their interaction long enough to believe she had it right. In their own species-specific and personally idiosyncratic ways, Fourteen and Mudge competed for the opportunity to serve her.
Mac frequently wanted to strangle them both.
Later. “Just give me the message, Oversight. Please.”
His eyes widened dramatically. “Here?”
“Why not here?”
Mudge lowered his voice. “Someone could be listening.”
On the verge of exasperation—the man had vidbots on the brain—Mac reconsidered. Mudge had a point. Given the open structure of this hall, and the variety of aural capabilities possessed by those roaming it, there was no way to know if someone could overhear them. And there were idiots.
“Fine. We’ll go—What time is it anyway?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve missed breakfast again.”
“When I want someone fussing over my eating habits,” Mac countered absently, “I’ll call my dad.” That late? She shoved the hand with its ring into a pocket. “Let’s take a walk.”
Mudge kept pace, even when Mac lengthened her stride. They were of a height, though he outmassed her by a few kilos. Less now—there wasn’t much time behind a desk for either of them, especially with the Sinzi’s predilection for distance between meeting places. Being needed had agreed with Mudge, put a sparkle in his eyes.
Being under threat of species annihilation had deepened the worry lines beside those eyes, and added gray to his already peppered hair.
Mac had some herself.
“What’s Lyle after now?” she asked once they reached the lift and sent it heading down.
Mudge gave the ball of mem-sheet in his hand a surprised look, as if it should have filed itself, then scowled at her. “Same as always. He wants to know when they can get back to that rock of his—claims the IU station on Myriam isn’t cooperating. This time he tried to go over your head to Director Hollans, whose secretary promptly sent everything back to me.” He grew smug. “Protocol has its purpose.”
Protocols. Politics. Mac was grateful to have someone who actually relished both on her side. “Use your power for good,” she advised as the doors opened on the main floor.
Mac didn’t say anything more until they stood outside on the terrace, overlooking the grounds of the consulate. Winter was losing the battle here, helped along by the eager efforts of a small army of gardeners. There were swathes of green beside the patio stones, color peeking shyly from the mulch. But in the distance, upslope, snow clung to ridge and treetop.
It wasn’t raining, but the feel was in the air. The sky sported flags of cloud, torn loose by the westerlies that raced straight from the Antarctic to this shore. They were protected by the consular building and by the shoulders of ridges higher than this, but the wind tossed debris around below them—to the frustration of the staff sweeping the stones.
The vast research complex called the Atrium lay deep beneath those same stones, quiescent now save for a cluster of irritable archaeologists and the usual groups studying the market impact of technology alien to Human and vice versa. The most active area was the Telematics section, where the Sinzi—and Earthgov—monitored comings and goings through the transects.
And watched for Dhryn.
Rooted above the bustle of science, giant graceful trees lined the sides of the patio, a tame forest laced with secluded paths and inviting entrances. Beyond them and the buildings, the cliff face plunged into the sound, where life usually found in mid-ocean depths came within reach of land.
No time left for exploring. Mac laid her hands on the cold, wide stone that topped the rail edging the terrace. “I’ll be back,” she vowed.
“Back from where?”
“The message, Oversight,” she reminded him.
He unfastened the upper of the two pockets that bulged at his waist, fumbling inside. Before he pulled whatever it was out, Mudge gave her a wary look. She knew that expression, very well. He was bracing for her reaction.
“What is it?” Nik had been discreet, hadn’t he?
Instead of answering, he finished the motion, passing her the result between two fingers. “Don’t blame me,” he said grimly. “It was that Myg.”
Mac pressed her lips firmly together, determined not to smile, and took the folded piece of glittery pink paper. She sniffed appreciatively. Lily of the Valley. Her favorite.
Saying anything would only make it worse.
She opened the folds. It was real paper, not a mem-sheet, inscribed in block letters. Fourteen remained convinced she found large type easier to read. At the moment, Mac didn’t care. She scanned the message three times to be sure, then stared at Mudge. “That’s it?” she protested, her voice rising. “ ‘Continuing as planned; situation nominal?’ What kind of a message is that?”
He gave a faint harrumph. “Succinct?”
Unable to say another word, Mac crumpled the fragrant pink paper in her hand and glared at Mudge, seriously considering where to put it.
Mudge threw up his hands. “See? This is exactly why I didn’t want to give it to you indoors. You do better with—space—to calm down. A great deal of space. I knew you’d be upset.”
“Upset!” Realizing she’d shouted, Mac took a deep shuddering breath. Then another. Fine. She had the lamnas on her finger, with Anchen’s promise it contained a private message from Nik. This? Mac straightened out the paper. “Why would I be upset?” she asked more calmly. “It does get the point across. But surely there was more than this in the com-packet.”
“Nothing I thought you’d want. Language modules for the translation project. Private mail from the others.” Mudge snorted. “Knowing Fourteen, he’s tucked away a copy of anything embarrassing for later use.”
Mac shocked herself by immediately wondering how she could gain access to any mail from Cinder, Nik’s partner, and what it might reveal. Not that she expected anything to have changed for the better. Cinder had admitted she wanted nothing more than a chance to kill Dhryn. Any Dhryn. Including the Vessel, on whom everything depended.
When she hesitated, Mudge frowned. “Was I wrong, Norcoast? Did you want the rest?”
Mac noticed he didn’t ask why she might. Gods, the spy mentality was contagious. She shook her head. “Let’s leave snooping to the pros. We have enough to do.”
Mudge gave her one of those too-keen looks. Mac thought her expression nicely neutral, but he harrumphed anyway. “Do? What’s going on?”
Moving offworld? Mac found herself not quite ready to say the words. Instead, she began: “It’s Emily—”
“I knew it!” Mudge pounced. “You shouldn’t have gone out alone last night. What were you thinking?”
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Mac’s lips twisted, but aloud she said: “It’s not about last night, Oversight.” Once she told him, there’d be no turning back. Mudge with a mission was a force of nature. So be it. “We’re leaving for Myriam. As soon as Anchen makes the arrangements.”
“Who’s ‘we?’ ” he demanded, unwittingly echoing the Sinzi.
Mac reached out to tap the ball of mem-sheet clutched in his hand. “Everyone. The entire team. You, me, Fourteen, the archaeologists. We’ll—”
“And when were you going to ask me, Norcoast?” Mudge drew himself up. “I don’t recall agreeing to this.”
She blinked. Go without him? The mere notion sat like a stone in her empty stomach. “You have to come,” she blurted.
“
I have to do no such thing.” He wagged his pudgy finger at her. “And neither do you.”
For a heartbeat, Mac believed she had that choice. She imagined returning to Base with Emily to stay, back to work, back to her life.
Home.
Then she imagined, all too easily, what the Dhryn could do.
Mac shook her head. “I’m not finished, Oversight. I’ve too many questions, questions only that planet can answer. But if you want to stay here,” she added evenly, “that’s fine.”
“You wouldn’t last a week without me,” he huffed.
She wasn’t sure if he meant her, or the Origins Team, or both. Probably right on all counts, Mac told herself. Didn’t matter. She shrugged. “I’ll manage. Fourteen can help me.”
Mudge frowned at her. “Don’t try to manipulate me, Norcoast.”
“I know better,” Mac assured him. She rested her elbows on the cool stone and turned her head to study him. “What do you want me to say, Oversight?” she asked quietly. “Admit I’m afraid? That returning to that world will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done? I’m still going.” She considered his face, cheeks blotched with angry red. “It would be easier with someone I trust along. To watch my back.”
A living friend when she faced the dead, she added to herself.
Brymn.
His harrumph sounded mollified, although his eyebrows still glowered at her. “Well, it doesn’t have to be me. The Ministry will send its lunkheads with you.”
“It’s IU jurisdiction. I don’t know if they can come.”
“What about Dr. Mamani?”
Mac ran her artificial fingers over the stone, finding some moss to poke. “Emily,” she said carefully, “will be returning to Base. To work on her Tracer device.”
“What? You can’t be serious. Whose stupid idea was that?” Mudge’s voice rose to a regrettable volume. A gardener glanced up.
“Shhh,” Mac hushed him, not bothering to be offended. He could be right. “Mine—and the Sinzi-ra’s. And it’s—Emily needs to be away from here, Oversight. It was the only way I could think of that would keep her safe.”
“It’s where you belong. You know it. You’re out of your league here, Norcoast. Offworld? The Chasm? It’s ridiculous. You can’t go. I certainly won’t.”
Mac pressed her lips together and returned glare for glare, willing to wait all day if necessary.
It took three and a half minutes. Then Mudge harrumphed . Twice. “I’ll have to round up some proper packing crates. The toss to orbit will wreak havoc with the equipment. You know who’ll complain about that,” he added, growing almost cheerful, a bundle of daunting efficiency about to be unleashed on his victims.
“Oversight—” Mac began, her voice unsteady. She straightened and turned to face him.
Mudge edged back, as if suspecting intent to hug. “I’ll confer with Anchen’s staff and book a meeting within the hour about the details—don’t miss it,” he warned. “We’ll keep things close to the chest until the schedule’s set.”
She had to be sure. “You’ll come with me?”
He feigned surprise. “Of course I’m coming, Norcoast. Who else could spot when you were about to fly off on some idiotic tangent? Or just wrong,” he added magnanimously.
Mac grinned. “I’m so comforted.”
“As you should be. Now. About the meeting. We should hold it—”
“Wait. Give me a chance to tell Emily before she hears the news from anyone else.”
Mudge’s mouth dropped open. “You mean—you went to the Sinzi—arranged this—without asking Dr. Mamani first?” He shook his head dolefully. “Norcoast. What were you thinking?”
“There was nothing to ask her about until I’d talked to Anchen,” Mac snapped.
He stared at her, then heaved a distinctly theatrical sigh as if the entire matter was beyond him. “I’ll go and get started with the rest, including Fourteen. It’ll be easier than what you’ll be doing.”
As Mudge walked away, Mac threw up her hands. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
Emily would love the plan.
4
OBSTACLE AND OBSCURITY
“ANCHEN LOVES THE PLAN.” Mac heard the pleading note in her own voice and winced. Not the right approach.
Sure enough, Emily spat out a frustrated string of Quechua Mac didn’t want translated. “Of course she does,” she finished in English, throwing her gloved arms skyward in emphasis. “Don’t you see, Mac? It splits us up. Means you’ll do whatever she wants.”
“No!” Mac protested. Her friend would have to rediscover physical expression for this conversation, she sighed to herself, neck sore from following Emily’s relentless pacing. Just as well they’d met in her quarters rather than outside. “That’s not true. She—to Anchen your returning to Base would be—” profoundly circular? Somehow, she doubted spouting alien philosophy was going to help, even if Emily could be convinced that she, Mac, had any idea what she was spouting. Not likely. “She loves the plan,” Mac repeated lamely.
“While I hate the plan. I’m not going. End of discussion.”
Anchen and Mudge had been right, Mac realized with some disgust. The way it stood, if she had a month, she couldn’t argue, cajole, or rationalize Emily into doing things her way. That left . . . Mac steeled herself. “You owe me, Em.”
Emily stood still. “Owe you?” A shapely dark eyebrow rose—curiosity, not offense. Yet.
“Yes. And I’m collecting. You’re going to Base. I need to know it’s running.” Mac didn’t bother adding: and you’re safe.
Here came the offense, right on cue—that proud flash of Emily’s eyes, the passionate outrage. “I don’t believe it. You—it’s revenge, isn’t it? Bizarre, twisted revenge! Aie! You’re abandoning me. To—you want me to work on your damned fish for you! Well, I won’t!”
“Good. Because I want you to work on your damned Survivors!”
They faced off, both furious. Then Emily’s expression shifted to shock. “What did you say?”
“You’ll have to rebuild your Tracer. But you’ll have every resource.” Mac considered this, then hastily qualified: “Short of interfering with the field season.”
“Heavens forbid I do that.” But Emily’s slowly expanding smile took the sting out of the words. “You actually talked the Sinzi-ra into this. Supporting my research. Now that I don’t believe.”
“She owes me, too,” Mac said succinctly.
“You always were dangerous in a corner, Mackenzie Connor.” Emily shook her head, her hands spreading in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. I love the plan.”
Mac tried not to sound smug. “I knew you would. Now. We don’t have much time.”
After sending Emily to prepare her “shopping list” for the Sinzi-ra—doubtless to be long and costly, judging by the other scientist’s intense air of concentration when she’d left Mac—Mac sat behind her desk and began a list of her own.
She’d committed herself now, she thought, studying the ’screen hovering before her eyes, drawing a finger through a lower quadrant to retrieve her field station inventory. Emily at Base; Mac in space.
There was a switch.
She’d learned a few things about travel offworld. Mac didn’t bother deleting any items, given she had no idea what she might face and now knew better than to believe anyone who said they did. Tools, dissection kits, syringes, specimen bottles, scales—anything might be useful. And they fit her hands. She’d become all too aware of the dearth of Human-oriented technology outside this system.
On that thought, she added a distillation kit and several collapsible jugs for water to her list.
Myriam was a desert. Never an overly moist world, lacking the large oceans cradling Earth’s continents, what water remained on the Dhryn planet ran through underground rivers and lodged in aquifers. This was, in fact, another and troubling facet of the Chasm puzzle: the dust-dry ruins. What they now knew of the Dhryn feeding—Mac shuddered—did not include the removal
of surface water. Oh, Dhryn didn’t care for the stuff. For some reason they’d done their best to drain their new home, Haven, and chosen colonies that were arid and desolate by Human standards. But that didn’t explain the rest of those worlds.
For a fleeting instant, Mac thought of Emily’s Survivors. What if they did exist? What if they were aquatic? Did the Ro remove any ocean that might have sheltered them?
Did the Ro fear them?
She shook her head. More likely the Ro had been their thorough selves and simply finished the sterilization of each world begun by the Dhryn.
Because it was nothing short of deadly, that hope there was a species out there with the answers, more advanced than the Sinzi, ready to save everyone else out of the goodness of whatever passed for their hearts.
It had seduced Emily into believing the Ro.
It threatened their efforts even now.
Mac closed her ’screen and pushed herself to her feet, thoroughly unsettled. “The sooner we’re away from here, the better,” she told the empty room.
The lamnas glittered on her finger, as if in reassurance she hadn’t lost it. Mac had a regrettable history with jewelry—something along the lines of her ability to keep dress shoes intact.
Was now the right time?
Mac glanced out the window. The sun was shining, doing its best to hurry spring along. Not quite as helpfully, the wind had picked up to a howl, and she didn’t need to walk out on her terrace to know its protective membrane would be in place. Where was the fun in that?
Sing-li had refused to show Mac how to turn it off. He’d insisted a safety feature designed to keep guests of little mass—or sense—from being blown out to sea or worse, given the rocks below, was not to be treated lightly.
She’d only wanted to feel the rain. Okay, and maybe toss her imp with the latest meeting notes into it.
Spoilsport.
Regeneration (Czerneda) Page 8