Regeneration (Czerneda)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “There you are, Norcoast!”

  Mudge was climbing the stairs toward them, his cane banging every step. He looked flushed and irritated.

  And alive.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Mac told him.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me.” He squinted at her through his good eye, the line from scalp to jaw over the other being covered with the Sinzi’s wonderful bandaging. He wouldn’t lose it.

  Others on the Joy hadn’t been so lucky.

  Mudge looked from Nik to Mac. He harrumphed uneasily. “I’m interrupting—”

  Mac swallowed and stood straighter. “No. What is it?”

  “My lev to Vancouver’s arrived early. I came to say good-bye.” He hesitated and studied her face for an instant. “There’s room, Norcoast,” this in a gentle voice, “if you’re ready to go home.”

  Home.

  “Unless this is a bad time—”

  “No,” Mac said unsteadily, not looking at Nik. “It’s the perfect time.”

  Time to return to who and what she was.

  31

  RESUMPTION AND REWARD

  LATE SEPTEMBER PAINTED the upper forest slopes with orange and yellow, poplar and tamaracks showing off their colors. Eagles and ravens gathered to argue over river shoals. Bears grew fat. And mice collected the velvet from antlers, in anticipation of the cold.

  Deeper in the valleys, all remained green and lush, as if to belie winter’s approach, while sleek-sided Coho sported heavy jaws and attitude as they rushed up the rivers to spawn.

  “You’re sure the scanner’s in place?” Mac leaned out over the cliff, one hand on the edge.

  A dizzying distance below, a Frow danced along the loose rock, humming to ne-self. “You worry too much, Mac,” ne called up. “I’ve checked it twice.”

  She was sorely tempted to drop something. The Frow would only enjoy catching it. She grinned. Hadn’t lost a tool since her latest grad student’s arrival.

  And once she’d let Ne Drysolee pitch ne’s tent on the cliff face above the field station, she’d slept much better. Something Mudge didn’t need in a report.

  He’d been touchy since Fourteen’s last visit. Mac winced slightly. Though she did see his point. The now child-sized offspring hadn’t grasped that picking her flowers wouldn’t go over well—and they’d picked quite a few before she’d noticed. Including a number of small trees. Mudge had produced so many forms for her to complete, she’d insisted on finishing at the restaurant. On his bill.

  Mac got to her feet and headed for her tent. There was rain on the way as much as salmon. She’d left her coat off, the day having been warm and pleasant. One of those gifts.

  “You expecting company?” Case asked, standing behind the console, wrench in hand. He’d come for the week to help install a modified version of the Mamani Tracer. Twitchy in two days. She wasn’t sure if it was the Frow’s fascination with his freckles or the cliffs.

  “Not unless you’ve called a ride,” she told him, glancing down the valley. It was a skim from Base. With Ty driving, by the look of it.

  “Why would I do that? Because you’re a slave driver and expect everyone to exist on food through a straw?” He chuckled as she pretended to scowl. “I’m used to it.”

  Ne Drysolee’s two-pointed hat appeared above the cliff edge. “Perhaps they send us pizza, Case! Or ribs! Ribs, Mac!”

  No matter the species, students always ganged up on her. Mac shook her head. “Don’t even start. Help unload whatever it is, but don’t waste time. They should be here today.”

  She ducked into her tent and retrieved her coat, catching sight of Wilson Kudla’s latest on the box by her cot. She winced. Dedicated to her; really should read the damn book, she thought guiltily. Later.

  Mac hunted and found the bag of moss she wanted sent back to her new garden. No point wasting the ride.

  When she came out, however, Mac let the bag drop.

  The skim had landed. Ty leaned against its side, grinning.

  And Nikolai Trojanowski was walking toward her, wearing his suit and cravat, carrying his office over one shoulder.

  No glasses. Unless she counted the pair in her tent, tucked in the velvet case along with the one lamnas she’d never brought herself to view, having said good-bye enough for one lifetime.

  All she could think of was, “You do know it’s going to rain.” For proof, she lifted her coat.

  He stopped just out of reach. “Hello, Mac.”

  What was she supposed to say now?

  Case nonchalantly tossed his wrench over the cliff to keep Ne Drysolee occupied, then went to talk to Ty.

  Fine, desert her.

  “What are you doing here?” Mac blurted out.

  Nik reached into his pocket and drew out an envelope, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Oh, no,” she warned. “Don’t you even think about it.”

  Paying no attention, he opened and held out a piece of ordinary mem-paper. “This is a formal complaint, Dr. Mackenzie Connor,” in his most official voice. “I suggest you pay attention.”

  “Complaint?” She frowned. “From who? About what?”

  “From the Oversight Committee of the Castle Inlet Wilderness Trust. To the Interspecies Consulate. Regarding the presence of unauthorized aliens within an Anthropogenic Perturbation Free Zone. Class Three.”

  “He’s a registered student!” She snatched at the sheet and crumpled it into a ball. “Oversight’s gone too far.” She’d even sent a new pot for his damn plant. “You can just take this back and—”

  Nik’s eyes were smiling. “You didn’t read it.”

  She muttered something anatomically unlikely, but opened the ball and gave its contents a quick glance.

  Then a look.

  Then a longer look.

  “If that’s okay with you, Dr. Connor?”

  It was a request for a permanent on-site liaison from the consulate, to ensure any nonterrestrials interested in pursuing studies with the famed Dr. Connor would be supervised by someone knowledgeable. In other words, watched like a hawk so they didn’t break Oversight’s rules.

  “This better not come out of my budget,” she said, carefully not looking up. Did he see her hands tremble?

  “Not at all.”

  “And this—liaison—stays out of the way.”

  “Absolutely. He’ll even cook.”

  At this, Mac finally raised her eyes. “I thought you were gone,” she said very quietly. She pointed up.

  “I tried,” Nik said just as quietly, stepping closer. “Then I realized it was time to come home.”

  Mac opened her arms to bring him the rest of the way.

  Below, dorsal fins sliced the dark water, disappeared, rose again with a muscular heave. Rose-black bodies jostled for position, moving ever forward, seeking their future.

  The salmon were back.

  CONTACT

  THE BEADS SLIPPED through slim fingers, one by one, the fingers at the end of smooth bare arms, skin a perfect match to the tanned olive tones of the woman’s face and neck. Her fingers stopped at the lone white bead and her teeth flashed in a grim smile. “I’d say we have a lock. Everyone in place, Zimmie?”

  Zimmerman checked his console then nodded. “You’re sure?”

  Emily Mamani let go of her necklace and stroked through the ’screen over the Tracer. “Oh, yes.”

  Riden IV’s ocean wind was more howl than tropical breeze, the air hot, humid, and always in your face. Zimmerman had shed his armor the first week. The big man now worked barefoot, in shorts topped by a fanciful shirt. That shirt was plastered by sweat against his big frame. He’d take it off, but Emily had distracting ways of commenting on the view.

  Not that she wasn’t distracting herself.

  She’d resumed singing in her not-quite Spanish language. He hid a relieved grin, knowing the signs of a successful hunt by now. About time. This planet gave him the creeps. The rest had been empty, lifeless. This—despite the sullen
dark waves and barren islands—this was something else.

  When they’d arrived, their team had conducted the usual assays, checking the results against those from an ill-fated Sencor survey. Something new had indeed appeared, right here, below where their lev hovered. Microscopic, colonial, all of a kind. Coating the rock of deep submerged ridges. Coming free to float beneath the surface. Sticking to the wave-scoured edges of the land.

  And it wasn’t alone.

  “Call the bait,” Emily said abruptly.

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s time.”

  Zimmerman nodded and lifted his wrist to his mouth, spoke once, then lowered his arm. “Done.” His hand dropped to the weapon belted over his shorts.

  She noticed. “They’re allies, now. Blame Mac.”

  “Right.” He moved his hand away, his massive shoulders giving a self-conscious shrug. “Habit.”

  Emily’s laugh blended with the wild wind. “We couldn’t do this without Her help,” she pointed out. “Nothing draws a Ro from its chamber but a Dhryn. I should know.” Her fingertip traced the necklace at her throat.

  Six more Wasted had been found clinging to life in ships adrift at Haven. Two had survived and grown to full health. A tenuous, but promising beginning for their species.

  As this was the end for another. There’d been no more ships, only dead worlds like Riden IV, each being prepared by an oblivious Ro. And only here had those preparations borne fruit.

  “You’d think the Ro would get a clue,” Zimmerman growled. “They must have noticed something was wrong by now.”

  “ ‘Now,’ when it comes to our quarry, is a slippery thing,” she said calmly, turning to look over the ocean, her shiny cap of black-and-white hair whipped by the wind. “We’ve been hunting for what . . . almost a year? In no-space, hardly time for a heartbeat. The Ro have taken advantage of what time does to us. It’s their turn, Zimmie, to feel the other side of that knife.” A chuckle. “Gotta love the irony. They built an entire world—a fleet of starships—all to keep their so-useful Dhryn safe and nearby. When the Dhryn turned on them the first time, they still saved as many possible. Even now, they blindly reach for the same tool, not noticing it’s turned on them again.”

  A Sinzi dart drew near, surrounded by five smaller silver ships. “Keep in mind, my friend,” she said quietly, “no one hunts the Ro with better reason than Her Glory. Not you. Not I. Now, to work.”

  She returned to the Tracer, her fingers moving rapidly through its hovering ’screen. Zimmerman watched the dart lower itself until ocean spray dotted its sides. Proof there was a Dhryn inside—otherwise, the Ro would react with one of its lightning attacks. They’d lost a few levs discovering that detail.

  “It’s on the move!” Emily shouted. “Get us up!”

  He lunged for the controls, sending their lev to join the small fleet of others hovering overhead. The dart did the same.

  “Catch of the day.” She didn’t need to point to the seething boil of water below. ’Bots were zipping from the water like chased fish. They circled once to locate the lev and began their return to their mistress. “Check the Sinzi have blocked the gate, then notify the team.”

  Zimmerman lifted his wrist again and spoke. The dart dipped once, as if in acknowledgment, then lifted out of the way.

  He joined Emily at the rail. They watched as five larger-than-usual levs plunged down to fire their harpoons, cables playing out with a whine louder than the howling wind. The tips disappeared into the froth.

  A froth suddenly stained with red.

  Three of the cables snapped taut. The other lev crews released their failed harpoons and fired another round, this time hitting their target. All five began to strain upward. A dark shape gradually formed beneath the surface, huge and struggling. More harpoons, these without cables, launched into its midst.

  “Messy,” Zimmerman commented. Another detail they’d discovered: each of the Ro was somehow rooted into its chamber; much of that structure biological as well. A vulnerability exploited by the Dhryn feeders, but the IU wanted more of the technology left intact for study. Messy worked.

  The struggle was over almost as soon as begun. More levs approached, sending down nets and divers. The limp shape shifted, but it was only the wind and waves; the cables held firm; the Ro was dead.

  “Well,” announced Emily. “That’s done.” She took the white bead in her fingers and pressed just so. Red flowed through it, until that bead matched its neighbors. “Eleven.”

  “How can we know that’s all of them?” Zimmerman stared at the hideous shape being pulled from the sea.

  “Here and now? I’m sure.” Another shrug. “Anywhere else? Don’t care. My job’s done. And very well done.” Emily slipped her arm around the big man’s waist. “Time to find the party.”

  “There’s a party?”

  “There’s always a party,” Emily said, her tone vastly content. “With dancing.” She laughed. “Don’t look so worried. I’ll behave. I promised Mac.”

  Zimmerman had scrunched up his forehead. Not so much a frown, as an indication of deep thought. “And after that?”

  “Oh, that’s when life gets interesting, Zimmie. What do you know about the Survivor Legend?”

  Life coated rock, broke free to rise and float, struck an edge and stayed. It busied itself with sunlight and chemical reactions.

  Bits failed. Bits survived. Of those, bits failed while others succeeded and grew and combined. Of those, some failed while others grew . . .

  Without a caretaker’s watchful eyes, the seeds of That Which Had Been Myrokynay became something else, many things else.

  All new.