She caught herself turning the ring around and around on her finger. Not going there again. Not soon. Anchen hadn’t really looked into her own lamnas while demonstrating its use, something Mac now thought she understood. That experience, if at all comparable to hers, was disturbing on every level.
Intimate didn’t begin to cover it.
Perhaps explaining why the rings stayed on Anchen’s long fingers?
She refused to speculate about what Anchen—or any of her disparate personalities—saw or felt.
“And I’m not sharing either,” Mac decided aloud.
Problem was, this close to leaving? She couldn’t sit still. Especially in an empty room. Mac grabbed the small round bag Two had left for her in the washroom. Time to go. Somewhere.
After one last peek.
She pulled Nik’s glasses from her pocket—it had become a habit, carrying them with her—and held them in front of her eyes. They’d fall off her nose if she tried to wear them properly.
Through the innocuous-seeming lenses, the walls of her sitting room revealed themselves as anything but plain and white. Lines, varying in thickness, scrolled over their surface like intricately woven threads. Among those threads, some behind, some in front, gleamed creatures small and large. Mac knew many, or their Terran equivalents. Shrimp and hydra, corals and urchins, sea cucumbers and squirts, curly-shelled oysters. Others were hauntingly strange. Floating orbs with tentacles spiraled around their girth. Eyes that glittered in their threes and sixes. Ribbons and segments, differently proportioned from any on Earth. The artist who created this had loved sea life, and known more oceans than hers.
Mac had never thought to wonder why she’d been assigned this room, of all the rooms in the guest wing, until seeing it through Nik’s glasses.
It hadn’t been for her benefit—the Sinzi-ra knew Humans couldn’t see this range of color unassisted. A recognition of her specialty, perhaps, or her interests. A visual signal to inform the staff of what might suit this particular Human best.
Regardless, her being housed here held a subtle rightness of the sort Mac was coming to believe Anchen enjoyed for its own sake, a generosity without the Human need for a recipient. Important, she decided, to remember that.
And unfair—having to leave when she was finally making some progress.
Mac tucked the glasses away and the room was white on white once more.
Since arriving, she’d kept a mental list of all the things she would do before leaving the Interspecies Consulate. With an impossibly few hours left, Mac sat under a dripping tree and tallied what she’d missed, which was most of it. “The aquatic delegates,” she sighed, taking a bite of tart apple. Not that they’d cooperated. Their portion of the consulate had been out-of-bounds to air breathers, they’d left meeting attendance to representatives who did breathe air, and, to be frank, spent much their time sightseeing in the ocean itself. She’d hoped to casually bump into one of their groups doing just that. “Seen any groupers?” she grinned to herself, imagining herself trying to communicate underwater.
She pulled the hood of her raincoat farther over her head, strangely content despite her list. The storm had abated, but the leaves held sufficient drops to be a nuisance for a while yet. Moisture polished tile and stone; there were busy new brooks alongside the paths. With the settling wind, a chill mist rising under the trees added a nice touch of drama.
She couldn’t imagine why staff had put up such a protest to her spending time out here. She grinned. In the end they’d provided both raincoat and picnic, almost shooing her into the garden.
Not that Mac had initially planned anything so restful while waiting for the lev to Base. No, she’d intended to be useful.
There’d been only one problem.
“No one needs me.” She tossed the core into a shrub large enough to hide it from frantic gardeners, but not, she trusted, from anything hungry. “Imagine that.”
Like old times, having Emily wave a distracted greeting from where she stood surrounded by crates and attentive staff, giving instructions in a staccato blur. Although at Base, Mac thought with amusement, those in attendance would have been worshipful students and a certain tidal researcher. The wave sent the same message. Later, Mac. I’m busy.
Mudge and Lyle had been much the same, and the Sthlynii downright stammering in their panic. She could have hung around to watch, but the harried looks of those still packing weren’t as amusing as she’d hoped.
“You’d think they’d never expected to move from here,” Mac told the chubby pigeon, or whatever, pecking near her feet. Another miss on her to-do list for this amazing place: learn the birds.
Picnic finished, she lay back on the bench, using her bag for a pillow. Most of her fit. She didn’t mind leaving her feet on the ground. For now, at least.
The leaves overhead were tossing this way and that in the gusty wind, revealing glimpses of cloud doing the same. “That’s me,” Mac whispered, squinting upward. “Macthisaway , Macthaddaway, Macwhoknowswhichaway.” Who’d have guessed the day would come when she’d be more anxious about a quick trip to Base than an indefinite stay on an alien world?
With Mudge. “Good old Oversight,” she murmured, catching a cold drop on her tongue. That much of home, she’d have.
She’d wanted to say good-bye to Anchen. To thank her. Maybe dare ask questions about the lamnas. But no staff would say where the Sinzi-ra could be found, and Mac had to trust the gracious alien would find her before she boarded the lev.
“So now I’m relaxing,” Mac reminded herself. “Everyone says I should. No one needs me right now. It’s a gift.”
She spent an eternity staring up at the leaves, determined to enjoy the peace and rustling quiet.
Then checked the time again.
“Gods. That was two minutes?”
She sat up and shrugged off her coat, tying it around her waist. The two bags, hers and the picnic remnants, she stuffed into the crook of a low branch. “Exploring this place,” she explained to the pigeon, “was on my list, too.”
Then Mac started walking.
She let her feet and the lay of the land dictate her choice of paths, which meant little more than avoiding the larger puddles. Two hadn’t packed extra shoes in her bag. As for getting lost, Mac was sure if she did, staff would appear from behind a tree to tactfully suggest the correct direction of the consulate. This wasn’t wilderness, despite the undergrowth and moss-coated trees. It was a politely dressed fortress, designed to protect those here as much as ensure their privacy.
Still, the illusion was pleasing, the footing deteriorating in a manner that promised something special to the intrepid hiker, be there two feet marching or more. Whistling happily under her breath, Mac came up with fourteen species she’d met who could manage this uneven ground without help, even if one didn’t have feet so much as a slime-bedecked undercarriage she’d tried to examine without success. Multispecies social events, she’d discovered to her chagrin, brought out the same annoying proprieties as any Human affair. Crawling under a chair while in evening finery, though in the interest of scientific curiosity, still collected disapproving frowns.
She ducked a low branch. The minor obstacle reduced her list to twelve. Mac grinned, almost wishing the chance to test her newfound ability to predict who she might meet, eyeball to nasal orifice, while enjoying the less tidy path. Almost.
There was something to be said for tramping alone, she admitted, taking a deep breath.
And gagging on a smell.
“What the—”
Stopping where she was, at the base of a small rise in the path, Mac took a more restrained, scientific sniff. Not one of her twelve. She scowled, knowing what, or in this case who, was responsible for that cloying, expensive musk. And the only way se could be here, was if se’d flown.
Mac didn’t mind Frow as a rule. Except this one.
“Se Lasserbee,” she shouted. “I know you’re here.”
The forest continued to rustl
e and drip overhead and to the sides. A bird, unseen but loud, expressed a similar opinion of the intruders. Quieter, more distant, Mac caught the low snarl and thump of breakers against the cliffs. She’d gone east then, away from the landing field.
She continued to watch the path ahead.
Se’s hat appeared first, a multipointed affair that marked, according to Mudge, both military rank and present dominance mind-set. If that was the case, Mac decided, seeing more points than usual, Se Lasserbee was going to be a royal pain.
The Frow were a stratocracy, their military forming the government as well as holding most civil service posts. This state had existed through so many generations of idyllic peace and prosperity that ranks were now inherited and uniforms were exaggerations of style totally without function in combat. The species itself was famed for its unique biochemistry and a certain unfortunate stress response, hence Emily’s joke. “Why don’t you put a Nerban and a Frow in the same taxi?” Mac mouthed the words. “Because the former sweats alcohol and the latter sparks when upset.”
Despite paying very close attention, she hadn’t seen any sparks fly yet. The day was young.
Under the unwieldy hat came the rest of Se Lasserbee, se’s uniform a somber blue bedecked with thumb-sized silver springs, each marking the appropriate spot for one of se’s family’s honors—said honors being kept safely in the family vault at all times. Two other Frow appeared over the rise behind the first, their hats having a mere three points. Lackeys, Mac judged, but kept part of her attention on them. A little too easy, in her opinion, to don a misleading hat.
Se Lasserbee’s cloud of musk proceeded se down the path and Mac sneezed before she could stop herself. Perfume, food choice, or medication, it had to interfere with more respiratory systems than hers. Just as well for interspecies’ tact this was the only Frow who wore the stuff. Why, no one would explain.
Probably covering up something personal. Or some type of olfactory camouflage, however overdone to Human senses. Or assault?
“Se Lasserbee. To what do I owe this effort?” Mac felt constrained to acknowledge the obvious. The Frow body form was far from ideal for a narrow, irregular footpath like this. There had to be a large custom-equipped lev on the other side of the rise. They should have waited for her to come to them.
But no. The three continued toward her, each with eyes fixed on the path. Every step had to be premeditated and carefully taken. It was like watching a slow-motion accident.
She found herself flattered. The Sinzi-ra must have rubbed off on her.
Mac had seen vids of Frow scampering down the vertical cliffs of their home world, long arms outstretched to grab the tiniest holds. The membrane of leathery skin and fine bone from finger to ankle joint made them the closest to a flight-capable sentient encountered by the IU, other than the Dhryn feeder form. Close, but not close enough. A Frow who lost a fingerhold fell to se, ne, or sene’s death as easily as the next being. She had noticed the membrane let Frow hide what they were eating from one another, presumably a critical need before they invented social dining or cooperative daycare.
Their heads sat on stiff necks that bore accordionlike ridges on either side. Those worked independently, in Mac’s limited experience, to tilt the head an extraordinary distance one way or the other. There were two eyes with slit-pupils, four nostrils, and a fanged mouth without lips but still capable of forming understandable Instella courtesy of a thin flexible tongue. These features were tightly grouped in the lower left quadrant of the front of the head, giving a Frow the appearance of never really looking right at you, even when doing so. The rest of the face and the top of the head was kept beneath a hat, itself secured by a strap below the protruding chin.
The head and neck were set below the shoulders, but where Sinzi shoulders rose with delicate flare, those of a Frow were great lumps studded with spines that shot from the base of the fine bones supporting their membrane. Mac kept waiting to see the spines move in some display—they seemed flexible—but the Frow of her acquaintance hadn’t done anything interesting with them. The fabric spikes on their hats mimicked the real thing. Already top-heavy in appearance, given their slender torsos, short legs, and long arms, the spikes made a Frow appear ready to tip over and impale the ground at any moment.
Which was the truth. On land, flat land, they moved on two widely splayed legs and only when forced to do so, greatly preferring to lurch into position when no one was looking to assume a dignified, upright posture as if they’d been there all along. It was only polite to let Frow arrive first to any meeting for this reason. As for chairs, they were pointless. The beings didn’t sit; their torsos couldn’t bend.
Or fit inside a taxi. Ruining a perfectly good joke.
Mac’s visitors kept their arms wrapped tightly around themselves, as if protecting their uniforms from a possible fall was more important than using them for balance. She couldn’t help putting her arms out in anticipation, though her chances of catching one if it toppled were remote. Provide a softer landing, maybe.
Se Lasserbee staggered to a halt, much to Mac’s relief and se’s own, then took a moment to compose se-self. As se wrapped se’s arms proudly around se-self, se’s membrane thus becoming a handsome mantle, the last of se’s companions planted a foot on an upturned root and began to leave the vertical. From that moment, disaster was inevitable. All three collided and went down in a mass of silver-sparkled blue, membraned arms flailing and hands clutching whatever was closest.
There was a plaintive rattle as they settled.
Mac froze, not knowing if it would be a breach to try and help, or if she should look into the distance until they pulled themselves apart. She compromised, staying close enough to assist if they asked, but looking, mostly, away.
Between peeks to see how they were managing.
Not well. One of the lackeys had a grip on a tree. Another had ne’s long, strong fingers wrapped over most of Se Lasserbee’s face, while that worthy had se’s hands firmly on the first lackey’s leg. They didn’t seem able to let go.
Great instinct for a cliff dweller, Mac thought with interest. “May I help?” she offered at last.
Se Lasserbee’s mouth wasn’t covered. “Ah. Dr. Connor,” se said in se’s metal in bucket voice, the words preceded by a breathless pant. “Ah. What a pleasant surprise. You might want to move away.”
About to comply, Mac noticed wisps of smoke coming from beneath the motionless tangle of aliens. “You’re sparking,” she commented and then winced, having floundered yet again on the rocks of interspecies’ protocol. Never mention bodily functions. “I don’t mean you personally,” she qualified. “But . . . there is something burning under—” an inclusive wave, “—you.”
“Yes. Ah. Most observant. We aren’t at risk, Dr. Connor. Please. A moment.”
Although this close their skin looked more like flexible blubber than leather, their uniforms didn’t appear flammable. Sensible precaution, Mac judged. Doing her best to keep a nonchalant expression, she tried to spot the source of the tiny sparks, clearly visible in the growing shadow of late afternoon. Particularly, she observed, around the poor Frow on the bottom of the pile.
The likeliest candidate appeared to be a narrow channel in the skin underneath the arms themselves, from which the tips of thick solitary hairs protruded like a comb’s teeth. Might be some kind of spark-generating organ.
Or it could really be a comb, Mac chided herself. The spikes on the shoulders looked to require a bit of buffing. Who knew what lay under the uniforms themselves?
Let alone the hats.
With agonizing deliberation, the three Frow sorted themselves out. Mac found a flatter root than most for a perch and watched, fascinated. They acted as if a false move could plummet them all into some abyss. The simplest shift of a finger involved a great deal of discussion, some of it loud, in their own language. Several times, one grip was replaced in favor of shifting another.
It took, from Mac’s surreptitious checks of
the time, seventeen minutes and twenty seconds before Se Lasserbee stood free and proud in front of her once more.
Better safe than sorry had to be a Frow maxim, she decided, adding that to her knowledge of their kind.
The other two spent an alarming few moments lurching around to stamp out any smoldering spots where they’d lain on the path. Not that there were many, due to the storm’s moisture. Mac held her breath until they were safely still again.
“Ah,” began Se Lasserbee, dignity reclaimed. “Dr. Connor. What a surprise to encounter you in this—” se glanced around at the forest, as if lost for the word in Instella, the IU’s common tongue, “—place.”
“Forest.” Mac stood, brushing shreds of bark from her pants. “What do you want, Se?” Not that she couldn’t guess.
“Want? Ah. A moment of discourse with you would be pleasing, as always, Dr. Connor.”
She did her best not to scowl. The beings were sadly out of their environment. The other two had unfolded their neck ridges to lean their heads left, in order to stare at the trees. Maybe they hoped some would be climbable. The occasional spark continued to flash.
“A private discourse,” the Frow elaborated. “On a matter of great importance.”
They might have watched for her to leave the consulate, or simply asked any staff where she was. Mac hadn’t left instructions to be undisturbed. Something to remember for next time. She should have expected to be contacted by someone from the idiot faction before leaving. A pithy message she couldn’t read, perhaps. An appointment she’d somehow miss.
Hardly this ambush by the woefully unable.
Clever, she acknowledged, and decided to oblige, curious despite good sense telling her it would be nothing she’d want to hear. “Of course, Se Lasserbee. Why don’t we go back inside, find a meeting room—”
Se drew se-self up to full height. “What is wrong with this fine place, Dr. Connor?”
Fair enough. “Nothing,” Mac said blandly. “Here it is. Now, what are we to discuss?”
Regeneration (Czerneda) Page 11