Forget interspecies communication.
This, she understood.
“Emily’s sister can’t stay, but she plans to come back next month for a few days. We’ll arrange quarters for her. Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, we’re thinking of putting Em into your old quarters and office.”
Mac did her best to pay attention to Kammie’s briefing, but it wasn’t easy. Music and laughter permeated the entire pod, not to mention the aroma of grilled salmon. And pizza. Second breakfast or lunch. Her stomach was willing, given it would be early afternoon back at the consulate. Tomorrow. Time zones weren’t such an issue traveling to other worlds.
“Mac. Does that cover it?”
“Oh. What? Yes, yes. Thanks, Kammie. I appreciate all this, more than I can say.” To her surprise, Kammie Noyo had proved more than the Sinzi-ra’s equal in grace. If she’d been the one asked to accommodate changes in August, Mac admitted, she’d have dug in and resisted with all her might. “But—”
“But?”
She couldn’t help it. “Why is everyone here? Shouldn’t someone be working? It’s only August. Surely . . .” Mac stopped, mildly offended when the tiny chemist burst into laughter, clapping her hands together.
“Oh, Mac. Dear Mac,” Kammie sputtered as she caught her breath. “If I needed any proof you were yourself again, that would be it. Honestly. People can take a day off. Even here. The world won’t end.”
Mac frowned doubtfully. “The salmon don’t.”
“There are monitors. Relax. This is your celebration. Enjoy it!”
“I am,” Mac admitted. “But this interruption—”
“Stop, already. We needed it, too,” the other told her, abruptly serious. “Seeing you. Seeing Emily. It’s beyond wonderful. And after all that terrible business with the Dhryn, the earthquake—well, it’s good to know things are back to normal. I can’t tell you how much.”
Normal? Mac stood and paced around Kammie’s office. Hers—hers was gone. She’d peeked in, thinking to show her father and brothers the garden at least, but all that remained was the gravel bed along the floor, like the memory of a dried-up river.
This space was itself again. Piles of paper adorned every surface except for the benches in the attached lab. Even the soil samples Kammie had always insisted line her walls were back, so once more her view outside the pod had been replaced by ranks of silvered vials. Idly, Mac looked to where Kammie had first put the one she’d given her, the one from the Ro landing site.
It was there.
It couldn’t just be sitting here, on a shelf, after all that had happened.
Mac had to know. She walked around Kammie’s desk, and the curious chemist, to reach and take down the little thing.
It looked the same. Then again, they all did. Mac turned the vial to read the fine precise script on the label. The right date. Collected by Dr. M. W. Connor. Location unknown.
The location had been the outer arm of Castle Inlet, where an invisible Ro ship had touched down, and its passenger had paused before climbing the ramp, perhaps to look at the Human cowering behind a log. A mark in the disturbed moss and mud. A trace. Physical proof the unseen existed.
“Do you need it back?” Kammie asked.
The natural question.
Mac’s lips were numb; she strained to hear the scurry . . . Pop! of a Ro walker amid the vintage rock and roll from outside. Her brother Owen would be enjoying that. “Yes, please,” she said, as calmly as possible. “If you don’t mind.”
Her hand, the real one, wanted to clench around the vial. She’d never meant for this to stay at Base, to be a possible lure for the Ro. She’d believed Nik or his agents here had removed it, to bring to the Gathering and get it safely away.
Why hadn’t they?
Mac’s eyes strayed to the shelf with Kammie’s deepwater sailing trophies. There was a new one taking pride of place. To buy time to think, she went close to puzzle out the print. The Millennium Cup. A regatta across Auckland’s Hauraki Gulf.
Last year.
“You were in New Zealand,” Mac heard herself say in a strangely normal voice.
“Don’t you remember? I went for my holiday in February. Great sailing. I go as often as I can.”
Where people went when they left Base had never mattered to Mac. It was how long until they returned to work that she noticed. She should have paid attention. “On second thought, you might as well keep this one with the rest. I know you prefer that. Here.” She passed the vial back to Kammie. “I have your analysis.”
Whatever was in that vial now, Mac had no doubt the soil she’d originally collected was at the IU consulate, where it had doubtless been examined by the experts of the Gathering. Before she’d gone there herself.
Kammie had wanted her to take a vacation—had known she was going to the cottage. The cottage where Fourteen and Kay, the Trisulian, had turned up almost immediately because, they’d said, the IU’s informant at Base had told them where to find Mac.
How blind had she been? Mac asked herself. No wonder Kammie had accepted any and all changes to have Emily here with such uncharacteristic calm. Anchen had made sure of it.
Kammie stood very still, holding the vial. “Mac,” she said slowly. “What’s wrong? You look as though you’ve bitten a lemon.”
There would be listeners. She knew it, even without a vidbot hovering quietly in a corner of the ceiling.
And what evidence did she have? Only that the vial was here, after Nik had assured her it had been removed.
Spies, Mac reminded herself, told such flexible truths.
Did it matter if Kammie Noyo watched Base for the IU? She had, Mac freely admitted, superb and disciplined eyes.
Nik had known who that watcher was. He hadn’t told her, so she wouldn’t have to pretend.
She was better at it now.
Mac grinned easily. “Just time creeping up on me, Kammie. The lack of, that is,” she clarified. “I’d best get back to the party. My dad and brothers leave after lunch. If there’s nothing else?” she looked around almost hungrily. “You can contact me by com. I’ll leave the—”
“Go,” Kammie smiled back. “We’ve managed fine without you—it’s been tough, but I think another few weeks won’t sink the place. Although I’m still not sure why they’re insisting you go to this planet Myriam. And what kind of a name is that for an alien world?”
Mac made herself shrug. “Free trip. Chance to tie up some loose ends. Broaden my horizons.”
The look Kammie gave at this was akin to the ones Mac had already collected from her family members; she met it without blinking. A twinge of embarrassment, however, she couldn’t avoid.
She’d done such a thorough job of ignoring the universe until lately.
“Hallo, Princess.”
Mac almost shook her head at the incongruity—not of her father and brothers sitting at a table in the gallery, since all three had visited her at Base before now—but of them sitting with Charles Mudge III.
Who looked, she thought, altogether too pleased to be surrounded by Connors.
“You haven’t been spreading stories about me to Oversight,” she warned her brothers as she sat.
Owen was eldest, the male incarnation of the mother they’d lost when Mac was a baby, complete with premature gray at his temples, a wonderful laugh, and sparkling green eyes. He’d responded to the production of his own family by somehow growing younger himself. Mac enjoyed his company when she could pry him away, which was seldom. Not that she didn’t adore her nephew William, but her visits seemed to augment his boundless energy. Her eyes would glaze over by the second day. Nairee, William’s mother, was one of those calm, utterly competent people; Mac kept trying to lure her away for a field season, but somehow Owen always caught wind of her attempts before they succeeded. “We’d never tell stories,” he said.
“Not and admit it,” corrected Blake, their middle sibling. He took after their father in his slight build, being more wire than muscle. He had
yet to age or discover responsibility, having a blithe attitude toward life and his own genius that alternately exasperated and charmed the rest of the family. Mac, prone to stick at exasperation, refused to believe her father’s frequent assertion they were alike.
She was the responsible one.
Though she’d never forget how Blake had stayed with her after the news came about Sam, not saying a word, not offering futile comfort, just there. As she knew they’d all be, any time she needed them.
On Earth, anyway.
“Oversight?”
Mudge spread his hands. “A gentleman never tells.”
Mac dropped into her seat, laughing in surrender. “As long as you didn’t mention that damn cat.”
Norman Connor chuckled. “You returned just in time,” he admitted. “Blake was working up to it.”
“Blake!”
“Cat?” inquired Mudge.
“The food smells great,” this from Owen, the peace-maker. “I can’t imagine why you’d complain about it.”
“I like cats,” Mac said quickly, to forestall any ideas. Then she nodded at the kitchen, staffed by this year’s crop of Harvs. “August. They’ve learned to cook by this point or given up.”
“Mac.” Her father lowered his voice. “How’s Emily taking all this?”
From here, Mac could see where Emily sat, or rather perched, on a table edge, presiding over a noisy group she’d been told included not only Emily’s younger sister Maria, but three aunts, a great-uncle on her father’s side, and two cousins, all from Venezuela. They were speaking Quechua, a language perfectly suited to vivid gestures and dramatic expressions. She hadn’t a clue what they were talking about.
“I haven’t had time to find out,” she admitted. Or the chance. Emily’s sister, Maria, had turned her back when Mac had approached to say hello in person. She didn’t blame her. Too many calls with bad news or evasion. “Em’s—I think she’s lost her taste for surprises.”
“Hopefully not for parties.”
Mac smiled as she swung around to greet the newcomer. “John! How have you been?”
“Hi Mac, Dr. Connor. Owen, Blake. Nice to see you again. Mr. Mudge.” Her former postdoc, now on staff with his own small department, returned her smile as he took the seat the senior Dr. Connor offered. Mac was impressed. When he’d first arrived, Emily’s outspoken nature could send John Ward bolting from a room—her record was under five seconds. Mac didn’t think that would happen now. He’d somehow grown into himself when she wasn’t looking.
Or she was finally looking, Mac chided herself. “Keeping busy,” she said. “And you? How’s the new department?”
He shrugged. “I’ll let you know once Dr. Stewart settles back in. Pretty disruptive, having her take off just when classes were starting at UBC. Kammie doesn’t seem worried about a repeat, but I’ve let her know she’s on probation with me.”
John wouldn’t have been told how his new statistics prof, Dr. Persephone Stewart, had been recalled from Norcoast to act in her other specialty at the consulate, nor would he know, with luck, that ’Sephe was back to help Emily. Luckily for both agent and budding department head, ’Sephe was delighted to return to academia. Probation? With luck, that would be the most danger ’Sephe would need to overcome.
How much of the Human side of things did Kammie know?
To avoid that labyrinth, Mac focused on John. “See?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I knew you’d enjoy all that power over people.”
“Mac!” John protested, and proved he could still blush.
She took pity and let her father proceed to ask interested questions about John’s new program. She listened, but not only to the conversation at her table. Her eyes half-closed, Mac let herself bask in chatter, returning to a world where vying approaches to the remote assay of smolt stomach contents were as eagerly debated as the latest hockey trade. The inside of Base, its heart, hadn’t changed.
Outside? She gazed through the transparent wall behind Blake’s head. Base had been towed from this site, opposite the mouth of the Tannu, almost sixteen years ago. The layout of the pods was the same as before. Mac could believe no time had passed at all, that this was her first field season at Norcoast and her family here to check out the place.
Almost.
Blake’s eyes met hers and locked, brimming with questions. Mac deliberately ran the fingers of her new hand over the tabletop. “Let’s take a walk, guys.”
“Surely we can eat first,” Owen objected. His playful expression changed when he looked at her. He understood. She had things to tell them. Difficult things.
“Ah, Mac?” This from John. “After eating, there’s some other—well—stuff. You know. You should stick around.”
Her heart sank. Mac glanced over her shoulder and winced. Sure enough, the head table, usually empty unless there was a game on, was set for the senior staff. And, she sighed inwardly, there were flowers. Somewhat wilted and prone to lean, but definitely flowers.
She gave John a pleading look. “Tell me I don’t have to make a speech.”
“You don’t have to . . .” John let his voice trail away.
Her brother chuckled deep in his throat. “Oh, this should be good,” he predicted. “Remember that time up at the cottage, Mac, when you climbed on the table to lecture all of us about—”
“She’s got that look, Blake,” Owen warned. “You’d better watch it.”
“They haven’t served lunch yet.” Blake smiled angelically. “She’s got nothing to throw.”
“Norcoast, no!” this from Mudge as Mac pulled her imp from its pocket. She merely smiled back at her brother as she tossed the device up and down in one hand. “Really, Norcoast.”
“Don’t worry, Charles,” Norman Connor said serenely. “Well, unless shoes come off. Then you might want to duck.”
Family, Mac thought, suddenly beyond content.
“Not bad.”
Mac, mulling through what she needed to say, gave Blake a surprised look. The two of them were walking ahead, Owen and her father close behind. “The speech?” She’d thought it had gone as poorly as such things usually did. She’d said the expected as quickly as possible and hoped she hadn’t sounded like an idiot.
The thank-yous, get-on-with-your-work part had been easy. The brief, supposedly safe announcement about her being temporarily seconded to an offworld research program, and not-quite-desperate plea to keep her updated from Base while she was gone, had brought a startling ovation, with no few tears and horrifyingly proud nods.
She was one of them, she’d thought in a panic. She hadn’t changed; she wouldn’t change.
As a consequence, she’d fumbled introducing Emily’s new role as visiting scholar, but Emily herself had stood at the perfect moment to warm applause, thanking everyone here, and Mac, for the opportunity. Em hadn’t lost her touch with a crowd.
Her brother rubbed her head. “The haircut. I like it. What’s his name?”
The ocean was only a rope rail away. Shame there wouldn’t be time to dry him off, Mac grumbled to herself. The lev taking the Connors back to Vancouver was already docked, doors open, at the end of the adjoining walkway. She scuffed the toe of her shoe into the mem-wood instead. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?”
Blake laughed. “I know I’m smart. So? Do we get to meet him?”
Mac slowed, trailing her hand along the rope. “I don’t know,” she admitted finally, looking up at her brother. “He’s not in a safe place.”
He lost the teasing smile. “I’m sorry, Mac.”
She shrugged. “Nik’s like you. Smart. He’ll manage.” She found the spot she wanted and stopped, putting her back to the rail.
Sing-li, whose idea of discreet had turned out to be staying politely out of earshot, stopped too, as inconspicuous as a bear on a beach. He shrugged off her glare, but sat down on the walkway, pretending to study a passing gull.
Her father didn’t miss much. “Should I be grateful you have a watchdog or wo
rried, Princess?”
“Both.”
At this, the three exchanged looks. “What can we do?” Owen asked simply.
Anchen had given her this, too, Mac realized. No messages to be misunderstood or intercepted. No fake recordings to offer equally false reassurance. These few minutes to talk to her own.
The alien’s predisposition with meeting face-to-face had its merits.
“Maybe nothing,” she answered bluntly. “I can’t see—not yet—how this is going to go. Forget the media release—most of the Dhryn Progenitor ships aren’t accounted for. There could be over two hundred more hiding out there. They’re still a threat—” She hesitated. Honesty now, if ever. “The Dhryn are capable of consuming all life on a planet.”
Owen’s face set into harsh lines she’d never seen before, likely thinking of William and Nairee. “Can we defend ourselves?”
Mac thought of them, too. Her real hand strayed to the artificial one. Her wrist dissolving in fire . . . If the Dhryn returned in numbers?
She shook her head, once, unable to speak.
“Can we stop them?” her father asked, after exchanging looks with her brothers.
“No,” Mac found her voice. “Not alone. That’s what’s worse.”
“Gods, Mac,” Blake said. “What could be worse than the Dhryn?”
For an instant, she didn’t see the faces of her family, or the surrounding landscape she loved almost as much. For an instant, all Mac could see was a seething darkness, reaching for her; all she could feel was that voice ripping through every nerve. She shuddered free of memory. “The Ro—the Myrokynay—you’ve seen some of the reports. They exist. It’s true they killed the Dhryn who tried to attack Earth. What isn’t being told is that the Ro called the Dhryn here in the first place. When the Dhryn failed to attack us, the Ro destroyed their ships. There’s more.” She took a deep breath. “I believe the Ro made the Dhryn into what they are. Made them to serve a purpose. More than a weapon—I’m sure of it. The Chasm worlds were sterilized for a reason. I don’t know why. Not yet. I plan to.”
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