There was no doubt the Ro knew about the Dhryn and the Chasm worlds. And that knowledge was now the most important commodity in the Interspecies Union.
For regardless of anyone’s guesses as to their actions or motivations, one thing seemed clear: the Ro had been about to destroy the Dhryn Progenitors once and for all. But in a classic case of misunderstanding, the IU, with abundant and clever help from humanity, had managed to grant the Dhryn the means to expose their ancient enemy by defeating the Ro’s stealth technology.
The Dhryn? They’d vanished into the unimaginable depths of space encompassed by the transects and the planetary systems those pathways connected.
The Ro? They hadn’t been heard from since, despite what Mac was sure were frantic efforts by any culture with communications technology to reach them.
Aliens should come with labels, she grumbled to herself. “Friend / Useless / Planning to Eat You” would cover the current possibilities nicely.
Were the Ro friends? Not by any standard Mac accepted. The enemy of my enemy? She knew the logic. She didn’t believe it for an instant.
Actions mattered.
As now. Mac didn’t bother asking questions. The entrance was transparent—from inside, anyway—and she could see the reason for Jones’ and Selkirk’s “she’s not going to like this” looks for herself. Though why they’d chosen this poor soul to lock outside was anyone’s guess.
The rain was striking so hard that each drop bounced back up from the mem-wood walkway, as if simply falling from the sky wasn’t insult enough to the solitary figure standing in its midst. Miniature waterfalls poured from every crease of his yellow coat and hood, giving him something of the look of a statue abandoned in a fountain. A hunched, thoroughly miserable statue, staring at the shelter so near and yet so unattainable.
“For the—Let him in,” Mac snapped. Instead of waiting for her order to be obeyed—or debated—she headed for the entrance control herself.
Jones and Selkirk scowled in unison. “He’s not authorized—” the latter began.
“And you started caring about this when?” Mac asked in disbelief. “Need I remind you about certain tourists? Or Ms. Ringles, the Census Queen?”
The two managed to look abashed and determined at the same time. “We have our orders, Dr. Connor.”
“Here’s your new one. Authorize him once he’s out of the rain.” Knowing full well neither would stop her, although both shifted automatically to loom in the appropriate direction, hands closer to weapons, Mac keyed open the door.
Without hesitation, the figure stomped inside, ignoring the looming guards and instantly creating his own small pond as water from rainsuit and hood puddled around his boots. Then he yanked back that hood to glare at her.
“About bloody time, Norcoast.”
Should have listened to Selkirk, Mac sighed to herself. Aloud, and before either guard could do more than look interested, she said quickly: “It’s all right. I know this man.” Then Mac frowned. “Since when do you make house calls, Oversight?”
Charles Mudge III, the man who was the Oversight Committee for the Castle Inlet Wilderness Trust, which made him her—and Norcoast’s—personal demon, stood shivering with cold and damp. His eyes were no less fierce than his voice. “When I revoke a license to enter the Trust. Your license.”
Fresh-caught and grilled salmon, geoduck chowder, fiddleheads, new potatoes bursting their skins, wild rhubarb pies—a promising menu, though tasting would be the proof. Spring meals tended to alternate between triumph and disaster. This year they’d added a brand new kitchen to the equally new cooks. Mac was fond of the irony that by the time any given set of student cooks gained enough experience to be reliable in the kitchen, everyone, including those cooks, would be too busy to make or eat anything but cold pizza and oatmeal.
Despite today’s tantalizing aromas, Mac found herself with no more appetite than her “guest,” who’d brusquely refused her offer of lunch. Nevertheless, she’d brought Mudge to the gallery, hoping the sheer volume of voices and clattering utensils would keep him from shouting at her immediately. At least until she knew what was going on and could justifiably shout back.
She hoped his threat was simply to get her attention. Surely revoking their license would require hearings, presentations, proof. Not that proof would be hard to obtain, Mac thought glumly, staring uneasily at her visitor. It might not have been her fault, or Norcoast’s, that the Wilderness Trust lands had been disturbed so profoundly on the ridge overlooking Base. That didn’t matter. They’d joined in the lie that nothing had happened, agreed to a silence that sat on Mac’s stomach as an uneasy weight, on her conscience as a stain.
She’d hoped not to face Mudge. Not this soon. Kammie had handled the applications for the spring/summer research before Mac’s return, saying the approvals had been given. Everything was routine.
Nothing in the haggard face watching her warily from the other side of the table agreed with that assessment.
“What’s this about, Oversight?” Mac asked, bringing her imp on top of the table, ready to call up the active research proposals. The imp, or Interactive Mobile Platform, could use its own data or access that held within Norcoast’s main system. In use, it projected a workscreen almost as powerful as her desk’s. Given the number of people currently eating lunch through hovering workscreens of their own, imps were likely the most common portable technology in the gallery after forks.
“Can we talk here?” he whispered. “Talk freely, I mean.”
Was everyone around her going to act like a damn spy? Mac glowered at him. “We don’t have vidbots hovering everywhere, if that’s what you mean. No budget and no point.” Not to mention it was illegal to put surveillance on private individuals inside their homes, which Mac considered Base to be. She’d threatened her new security force on that issue until their eyes glazed.
“If that’s so . . .” Mudge paused and leaned forward, eyes intent. “Where have you been, Norcoast?” Quiet and quick, like a knife in the dark.
“Didn’t Dr. Noyo tell you? In New Zealand—at the IU’s consulate.”
Quieter still. “Why are you lying?”
Mac tapped her imp against the table, then put it away in its pocket. She knew what she was supposed to say; she’d said it often enough. To her father and brothers. Her friends. Total strangers. Somehow, this time, the words stuck in her throat. Maybe it was the innocent din from all sides, people in her care as much as the land nearest them was in this man’s care. Their care. When neither she nor Mudge had any real power to protect them.
“You didn’t come here and stand in the rain to ask about my trip,” she said instead. “What did you mean, revoke our license?”
Mudge hadn’t removed his rainsuit. Not camouflage, since the only other person at Base who knew him on sight would be Kammie. The students and staff likely thought he was another insurance adjuster. No, Mac decided, he stayed rain-ready in case she had him tossed back outside. Tempting, that.
As he laid his arms on the table, the fabric made a wet rubber protest. His face, usually flushed, was mottled and pale. Gave up the beard, she noticed, with that distressingly familiar jolt of missed time. “Please.” Again, a whisper. “No one will tell me what’s been going on. No one. I waited for you, Norcoast, but they wouldn’t let me talk to you. I still can’t believe I made it this far.”
“What are you talking about?” Mac resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, but couldn’t help lowering her voice to match. “I’ve been right here. You haven’t called me. You’ve been dealing with Kammie—Dr. Noyo—”
“Pshaw! I’ve dealt with no one. And yes, Norcoast, I called you. They’d connect me with some nameless fool who’d prattle on about how busy you were. So I came in person. Twice.” He stabbed at the tabletop with a thick finger. “The first time, I made the mistake of using the trans-lev from Vancouver like a normal visitor. They stopped me at the dock and sent me back. This time, I didn’t tell anyone where I was
going. I bribed some of your students to bring me here with them. I wouldn’t give a name or ident until you showed up at the door. Wouldn’t let them have a chance to send me away again.” He stopped to catch his breath, managing to look outraged and smug at the same time.
They. Them. Mac didn’t doubt who’d been keeping Mudge away from her. The Ministry. The arm of Human government that dealt with offworld issues of interest to humanity, now patently interfering on Earth.
Answering the question of how much they relied on her willing silence, Mac told herself, feeling cold. If they could impede the movement of a government official, however annoying, who knew what other powers they’d been granted since declaring the Dhryn a threat to the Human species? Obviously no paralysis of jurisdictions in the way. Given the circumstances, Mac supposed such streamlining was reasonable, probably even commendable.
She just preferred her bureaucracy a little more on the cumbersome side, with things like forms, delays, and names attached.
Mudge was distracted by students with trays crowding past him, forced to lean sideways to avoid a close encounter with chowder; distracted by her own thoughts, Mac was grateful for the reprieve.
She’d drawn too much comfort in the lack of news, believed it impossible to keep something as noteworthy as attacks on entire worlds a secret, assured herself she’d be among those to know. Had she been naïve?
What might be happening?
Enough, Mac scolded herself, reining in her imagination. It wasn’t as if knowing would make any difference in her life. She was packed for the field; she had experiments to run. So what if the Ministry had reserved to itself, and presumably key leaders of Earthgov, the right to decide how much truth to release about the Dhryn? That was their job. The press releases had been masterworks of reassurance. “The Dhryn posed an unspecified hazard.” Late-night comics joked about explosive alien flatulence. “The Dhryn had gone missing.” Enterprising, if unscrupulous, individuals advertised colonization rights on their abandoned worlds. “System approach controls were to report any sightings.” Shipping schedules and security hadn’t changed.
Avoiding panic, keeping order in space-bound traffic, concealing needful preparations for defense or attack. Those were valid reasons.
Weren’t they?
The truth might come out in years, never, or this afternoon. Mac feared the timing would depend more on how soon the crisis grew out of control than on anything more sensible. But she wasn’t a politician.
She was someone who understood the need to protect others. Maybe secrecy was the best way. It wasn’t hers, mind you. But they hadn’t asked her opinion.
“Pardon? What did you say?” Mudge demanded. His rainsuit squeaked as he turned to face her.
“Nothing.” Mac pressed her fingertips, real and artificial, against the tabletop. It resisted without effort, being as hard as the truth. Truth. She licked her lips, trying to think of the best approach. “It was a mistake to come here, Oversight,” she told him at last. “You have to leave. Now.”
He settled deeper into his chair.
Oh, she knew that look. Growing roots and planning to be as stubborn as one of his damned trees.
As easily cut down.
Mac closed her eyes briefly, then gave in. “Let’s continue this in my office.”
She’d picked one of the smaller tables, off to the side. It didn’t share the ocean view afforded by the rest of the room, though it made a decent spot for watching hockey or vids when those were playing. It was, however, close to an exit. Mac had grown convinced of the value of such things. Now, spotting the intent pair approaching them as Mudge stood up, she was even more grateful. “Don’t talk to anyone,” she hissed. “Out this door, left to the end of the hall. Take the lift to the third floor, last office on the right. Wait for me there. And don’t touch anything,” she added hastily, suddenly beset by the image of Mudge rampaging through her drawers. “Go!”
He walked away as John Ward came up to introduce his companion, a companion who not only gave the departing Mudge a curious look, but was also someone Mac hadn’t expected to meet again—and certainly not here.
“Mac. This is Dr. Persephone Stewart, my—our new theoretical statistician. She arrived ahead of schedule.” To say John was beaming was an understatement. He practically radiated joy. His companion smiled at him, then at Mac.
Emily would say this Dr. Stewart had done her homework, Mac decided. An older, but athletic figure, their new statistician was dressed to blend in a casual, not-too-trendy shirt and skirt. An interesting personality was hinted at by intricate rows of red, bronze, and turquoise beads braided scalp-tight over the top of her head like a tapestry cap, dense black hair below framing her ears and neck like ebony mist. Slung casually over one shoulder was a well-used portable keyboard. No wonder the students in the gallery were tracking Dr. Stewart’s every move. John, hovering at her side, was patently smitten.
So much for his complaint about Kammie’s high-handed decision-making.
“Call me ’Sephe,” invited the tall dark woman, her smile as magic and mischievous as Mac remembered. “Everyone does.”
Oh, she remembered the smile. And the name. And more. Mac remembered the weapons, ready in each hand, as this woman guarded her against the Ro. ’Sephe might well be a statistician.
She also worked for the Ministry, not Norcoast. Why was she here? Why now?
Mac’s mouth dried. Something had changed.
“Everyone calls me Mac. Nice to meet you,” she said calmly, offering her hand.
But Mac wasn’t sure if it was in welcome or self-defense.
- 2 -
SECRETS AND STEALTH
THE OUTER RIDGE of Castle Inlet curled its arm against the Pacific, hoarding an expanse of coastline virtually untouched by Human intervention for over three hundred years. It was a steep, tree-encrusted coast, where eagles perched at the bottom of clouds and rivers gnawed the growing bones of mountains.
The land might trap the eye, but water defined it. Waves alternately slapped aside cliffs or gently lipped fallen logs to shore; mist, rain, or snow filled the air more often than sunlight. Water, locked in glaciers and snow-cap, even set the distant peaks agleam by moon or star.
Today’s downpour had eased to the point where Mac, looking out her window, could see the toss of waves and the mauve-gray of cliffs, if not the trees above and beyond. She didn’t need to—those trees were the heritage of the man standing beside her. In a sense, Charles Mudge III was the Wilderness Trust.
In all the years they’d tussled, spat, and outright battled over scientific access to this Anthropogenic Perturbation Free Zone, she’d always respected that. Now? “They’ve promised me privacy here,” Mac said finally, turning to look at Mudge. “If that’s a lie, I’ve no way to know. I can only warn you.”
“The same ‘they’ who wouldn’t let me talk to you.”
Mac nodded.
The Ministry of Extra-Sol Human Affairs. An office on each Human settlement, station or colony, two or three local staff. Census-takers. Bureaucrats who arranged travel visas and sent inoffensive messages of congratulations or condolences as necessary, keeping somewhat neglectful track of humanity’s widespread offspring. Mediators, when Human expectation collided with alien reality. There was a central office on Mars, ostensibly to be close to the transects anchored outside Venus orbit, but also because matters within Sol’s system, or on Earth herself, hadn’t been part of the Ministry’s jurisdiction.
Until aliens came to live and work here as well, and that jurisdiction began to blur. For who better to forestall any interspecies’ confusion, than the component of Human government accustomed to dealing with it daily?
Mac had been brought home on a Ministry ship. On the journey, as her arm had healed, as she’d grieved, as she’d answered their interminable questions and received few answers to her own, she’d made a pact with herself. She’d think the best of those who’d taken control of things, do her utmost to believe they m
eant her well and could do their jobs—at least until there was clear evidence to the contrary.
On those terms, Mac tolerated guards on her door and accepted ’Sephe as staff—assuming the woman’s work as a scientist measured up to Norcoast standards—even though that acceptance meant ignoring the other aspect of their new statistician.
Mudge’s complaint, however, was another matter.
He appeared uneasy. Perhaps he hadn’t believed her assurance of privacy. Mac wasn’t sure she believed it either. She watched Mudge pace around her office, pausing beside her rebuilt garden—presently receiving an overdose of chill mist which made the floor nearby somewhat treacherous. Its weather mirrored that of Field Station One: last to feel summer, first to freeze again. Of course, since the floor near the garden consisted of fist-sized hunks of gravel embedded as if the bottom of a river, walking with care was a given. Her staff had worked hard to restore what the Ro—and, to be honest, the Ministry’s investigators—had torn apart. The reconstruction had been a pleasant but unsettling surprise upon her return, Mac remembered. Unsettling, because she could look over there and believe nothing had changed.
Almost. Mudge didn’t glance up at her collection of wooden salmon, swaying on their threads below the rain-opaqued curved ceiling. If he had, he would have seen that not all were carvings. Between the stylized Haida renderings, the realistic humps of pinks and the dramatic hooked jaws of coho and chum, hung slimmer, more nondescript fish, fish with hollow bodies filled with motion sensors and alarms.
It was likely Mudge also missed the significance of the reed curtains beside both doors into Mac’s office. At night, she pulled them across. Not for privacy: the walls themselves could be opaqued at will. No, like the false carvings, the reeds were hollow and contained metal chimes. When touched they made, as Tie bluntly put it, “enough noise to wake the dead.” Low-tech security, perhaps, but comforting nonetheless.
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