At least it had been a minor earthquake, 4.3 on the revised Barr-Richter scale, barely rattling cups in Prince Rupert, unnoticed in Vancouver or Anchorage. A local event. Hadn’t brought down anything more than this slope. Hadn’t seriously affected rivers beyond this side of the inlet.
Hah, thought Mac.
One of her first priorities would be to assemble a team of researchers to record the state of land and water, to monitor the successional stages as the ecosystems rebuilt. Some of the scientists were, very quietly, overjoyed by the opportunity. It was rare to have such access to the destruction of a well-studied area, to be the first to see life restore itself. Their work would have immense value.
Mac watched as a gull settled on a root now aimed skyward, perhaps attracted by the line of silent, unmoving tiggers perched on a nearby scar of rock. The servos were still on guard, protecting what was to come.
“Mac. Stuff happens.”
She looked at Tie. His weary face was streaked with drying mud and a line of grease. A bit of pink foam was stuck in his hair above his left ear. “That it does,” she agreed. “Let’s head back. I’ve seen enough.”
And if she believed this earthquake “happened,” Mac told herself, so far beyond mere fury she felt nothing but cold, she should invest in that fabled bridge across the Bering Strait.
A few meetings were actually fun—those rare events involved pizza, a tub of ice-cold beer, and the joyous task of celebrating a colleague’s latest success, whether publication or offspring.
Most, like this one, were thinly disguised battles, usually with the outcome predetermined and of no joy to anyone.
Mac planned to make it quick. Speed didn’t help when pulling off bandages, but she hoped in this case it would limit the fallout. With any luck, everyone would leave mad at her instead of each other.
She hated meetings.
“Let’s get started,” she ordered quietly, surveying the gallery from the centermost seat at the head table. That table was raised on a small dais, allowing the entire roomful of people a clear view of Mac, Kammie, and the other five senior scientists. Or guest speakers, hired bands, talent shows, and the like.
No one expected entertainment today, not with Pod Three reverberating each time a floating, dying tree bumped and scraped against its supports, not with the view out the transparent walls showing an ocean stained with the blood of a mountain.
“We’ve conferred with—” everyone possible, Mac almost said, then changed it to “—experts. The bottom beneath the pods is stable, but seriously disturbed. You’ve seen for yourselves the state of the shoreline. Rather than reinstall the permanent anchors and resume our work here—” The shock traveled across the room, mirrored in all of their faces. Did they think nothing would change? Mac raged—but kept it to herself. They didn’t need her pain as well as their own. “—Pods One, Three, Four, Five, and Six will be towed to a new site.”
From any other group, there might have been pandemonium or some protest. Not here, not now. Three hundred and fifteen faces looked back at her, many of them familiar, some new, very few she didn’t know on sight yet. Her eyes couldn’t find Persephone, but she took that as a positive. Someone better be investigating what had happened. Just as likely, ’Sephe hadn’t dared face her. Mac spotted Case, sitting with Uthami and John Ward. Everyone was silent, waiting.
They knew there was more to come.
“The process, barring storms or more rumblings from beneath, will take three weeks. Norcoast is sending haulers to tow the pods. We’ll have to secure all gear—move out what’s going to be needed during that time. Check your imps for details. The sooner we’re ready, the sooner we can get moving.”
“Where?” came a voice from the back.
Mac glanced at Kammie. That worthy stood, having learned long ago her soft, high-pitched voice needed all the help it could get to project past the first line of tables. She smoothed the front of her immaculate lab coat with both hands. A nervous habit. Who wasn’t on edge? Mac thought with sympathy. “We’re returning Base to its original home, beside the mouth of the Tannu River itself,” Kammie informed them. “It’s an ideal location. And was ideal, until the natural disaster before this one. I assume that when history repeats itself, Base will be towed back here again.” Her comment drew a laugh and Kammie smiled faintly as she sat down.
Mac resumed her part of the briefing. “Pod Two is being refitted as a self-contained research unit, to accommodate what will be an ongoing, multiyear, and very well-funded exploration of the successional recovery of the life in this area. Congratulations to those who will be staying. We look forward to your findings.” Martin Svehla, freshly minted head of the new unit, beamed beatifically at the world at large. Mac was reasonably sure he wasn’t hearing much else.
A hand rose.
“Yes, Case.”
He stood, glancing once around the room before looking up at her. “Dr. Connor. What does this mean for those of us packed and ready to head to the field?”
“It means—” Mac began answering.
Kammie stood so quickly her glass of water rocked on the table. “It means a temporary postponement,” she interrupted, steadying the tumbler. “You’ll have the choice of going home for three weeks, travel costs covered by Norcoast, or joining some of us on the University of British Columbia’s campus for course credit. I believe there will be four topics offered.”
So this was how it felt to be ambushed by a puma, Mac told herself. Only the cat had good reason for pouncing on you from behind and driving its fangs into your skull.
“Dr. Noyo is talking about some individual circumstances,” Mac said harshly. If you didn’t want to be lunch, you fought with whatever you had. “Each case will be decided on its own needs and merits—”
Unfortunately, tiny Kammie Noyo was more dangerous than a hungry puma. “Now, Dr. Connor,” she interrupted again. “We mustn’t confuse the issue. Norcoast will not be broadcasting power during the tow. The main system will not be operating. There will be no backup of data, no supplies, no—”
Mac leaped to her feet. “So bloody what? I don’t need all this—” she waved her hand around furiously, “—to do my work. I’ll use a pencil if I have to!”
But the others at the head table didn’t meet her eyes when she looked to them for support.
“Norcoast has been very clear, Dr. Connor,” Kammie said into the painful pause. “They won’t send anyone into the field until Base is up and running to support those efforts. It’s only three weeks—a month at most.”
“A month—” The first runs would be over. The first salmon would be dead, their legacy mere specks of eyeball and yolk left in the redds, the nests their mothers dug in the gravel upstream.
Mac closed her mouth, afraid of what might come out next, afraid she was wrong, that she was overreacting for reasons incomprehensible to both mystified students and troubled colleagues.
Most of all, she was afraid of staying here one more instant. What else would she lose if she did?
She sat, slowly. With an effort that left her dizzy, she nodded at Kammie, gesturing graciously that the other was to continue.
Mac didn’t hear another word that was said.
The foam wasn’t supposed to leave a residue. Maybe it was her imagination that everything she touched in her office was faintly sticky. Mac ignored the sensation as she ignored everything but the task at hand. She was packing. Quietly, quickly. One small bag. They’d been told to take only personal valuables, to leave everything else behind. For three weeks.
It wasn’t Kammie’s fault.
Kammie had anticipated Mac’s reaction to the “take a hike” order from Norcoast perfectly. She’d known better than to bring it up in private, giving Mac a chance to launch herself at those responsible, fly to the head office, make a pointless nuisance of herself and possibly lose her post here altogether. It wasn’t only potential students who were wondering about the qualifications and commitment of a particular salmon r
esearcher.
It wasn’t Kammie’s fault.
If she’d anger to spare, Mac thought as she zipped up her bag, she’d save it for those lackwits who’d forgotten how real scientists worked. Hands-on, with nets and serum syringes, scales and insta-freeze pouches. A zap-per to discourage bears who preferred her fishing techniques to theirs. She’d done it before.
Not that they’d listened.
There was temporary power throughout the pods, enough for lights and to run whatever systems needed to go through an off cycle before storage. Enough for coms to work, Mac noticed morosely, as hers gave a fainter-than-usual chime.
Listen to them? She grabbed her sweater instead.
A second chime. A third.
Fine. “Mac,” she said, thumping the control with the side of her fist. About as satisfying as slamming a door when no one else was there to appreciate the gesture.
“Hi, Princess. Going that well, is it?”
Oops. Mac sank down on the corner of her desk, shaking her head at herself. “Sorry, Dad. I should have called you back.” They’d all contacted family and friends after the earthquake, taking the time to give reassurances if no details. She’d really meant to call again. “Did an inspection. Held a meeting. Packed. It’s been hectic.”
There wasn’t power to waste on the vid screen—not that Dr. Norman Connor had ever needed to see her face to know. Sure enough. “What’s wrong?”
“Norcoast is shutting us down for three weeks.” Shutting me down, Mac told herself, penning in her now-familiar frustration. It wasn’t his fault. “They’re moving the pods back to the Tannu.”
“While you’re away in the field. Sounds like good timing.”
“You’d think so.” Mac sighed and stared out the window at the fittingly sullen sky. “But they won’t authorize any work until Base is up and running again.”
“That’s bloody ridiculous,” he exploded. She could picture him pacing angrily around his apartment, dodging the table he insisted belonged in the middle of the floor. “Since when do you need all that? This ridiculous nonsense of interactive data-feed. Voyeur-scientists, that’s what they are! Never get their feet wet or dirty, but oh, they want their input, oh, yes.”
Dr. Connor Sr. had spent most of a century doing fieldwork on owls, from an era when that meant disappearing for weeks at a time. His indignation, right on target, eased some of Mac’s own. “Trust me, Dad, I argued the point. But it’s a done deal. I—” A plan crystallized Mac hadn’t been aware of forming until now. “Is that guest room of yours ready? I haven’t been to your place since, well, since I came back.” When he didn’t answer immediately, she went on, feeling suddenly desperate: “We could take a trip, maybe even visit William. You could play granddad while I play aunt.”
“I’d love to have you here, Mac, you know that, but—” her father’s voice trailed away, then returned. “Now might not be a good time.”
“Why?” she asked, surprised into worry. “Is something wrong there?”
His “No. Nothing’s wrong,” came out too fast, too definite. Mac stared down at the com control, as if it could transform into his face.
“What is it, Dad?”
A pause, then, slowly: “There are vidbots hanging outside my building, Mac. Outside your brothers’ homes as well. All authorized and legal—we checked. Our guess is some nosy reporter hopes to catch you away from Base. I really don’t think you feel like giving interviews.”
Attract media attention? Oh, the Ministry would love that. Mac shuddered at the thought of black-armored Ministry agents trying to loom discreetly among her father’s geraniums. Bad enough she’d had to lie to her family already. How to explain that? She rubbed her hands over her face, as if to scrub away the image. “You’re right, Dad,” she agreed. “It was just a thought. I need a break from all this.” Mac realized how wistful that sounded and went on more firmly: “Don’t worry. I’m sure Kammie could use help with her courses.”
“That’s hardly taking a break,” he protested.
Mac shrugged, even though he couldn’t see. “Best I can do.”
“The ice is off the lake, Mac.”
The family cabin? She snorted. “I haven’t been there in—in a very long time. And neither have you.”
“Blake went up last month. He said the place was in great shape.”
“Have you seen Blake’s house lately?” Mac retorted. “His idea of great shape is knowing where the leaks are so he can avoid the puddles.”
Her father laughed, but went on, a warm, coaxing note to his voice. “Think about it, Mac. May at the lake. Peace and quiet.”
“I don’t need to think about it. I remember. Black flies. With occasional flurries. No thanks.”
“The birds will be coming back.”
Mac closed her eyes, tilting her head back, her hands tight around one knee for balance. “You know why I don’t like it there anymore, Dad.”
“Maybe it’s time. Things change. People.”
“I don’t.”
Mac imagined her dad shaking his head ruefully, that half proud, half exasperated look on his face she usually managed to elicit at least once a visit. “Fine. But it’s yours if you want it.”
“Kammie will need me—” Mac began.
“No, I won’t,” an unexpected voice interrupted, startling Mac’s eyes open. Kammie Noyo met her scowl with a wink. “Hi, Dr. Connor,” she added, approaching the desk. “It’s Kammie. How’re you?”
“Frustrated,” her father answered. “You ever try explaining the concept of a vacation to my daughter?”
“You’re a brave man.”
Was she invisible? “I don’t need a vacation,” Mac growled at them both. “I don’t want a vacation. I want to get to work.”
“Well, if you change your mind, Mac, the door’s open. Let me know what you decide.”
“I will. Bye, Dad.”
“Bye. Nice talking to you, Kammie.”
“You, too, Dr. Connor.” Mac turned off the com.
“Go.”
She glared at Kammie. “Pardon?” she said at last.
The chemist put her hands on her hips, a posture which combined with her oversize white lab coat to make her resemble a small bird ready to take flight. A whirlwind temporarily touching down was more accurate, Mac thought warily. “You heard me,” Kammie stated. “I want twenty-one days without you. Go.”
“That’s harsh.”
“The truth.”
Mac swung her leg back and forth, then gave the other scientist a thoughtful look. “I’ve been that bad?”
“You got a few hours?” Kammie’s stern expression faded into something worried, a little frightened. She touched Mac’s shoulder, let her hand drop. “Mac. You’re the strongest person I know. But even you can break. You’ve—it’s been hardest on you, these last months. We’ve all seen it. Listen to your father. Listen to me. You need some time. To look after yourself first for once.”
Mac stood and took a step away, stopping to study her garden, with its sprouts of growth through the melting snow. Plants had such optimism. She felt stiff and cold inside. “What I need is my work,” she said. It wasn’t Kammie’s fault.
“That’s not what Em—” The other’s voice broke.
Mac turned, catching the pain in Kammie’s eyes, meeting it with her own. Not forgotten after all.
“I know exactly what she’d say.” Mac shook her head, her lips twitching involuntarily. “But loud music and sex aren’t the answer to everything.”
“She’d argue it,” Kammie chuckled, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief now, instead of tears. Something had eased, Mac decided, but she wasn’t sure what. “So. You going to take that vacation?”
Mac grimaced. “Let me fight the concept a while longer.”
“And then you’ll go,” the tiny chemist nodded with satisfaction. “See you in three weeks, Mac.” With that, she sailed out of the room, lab coat snapping as if finding the perfect wind.
“If not
sooner,” Mac muttered under her breath. She bent to pick up her bag, wondering who’d won that little encounter.
“Mac . . . Dr. Connor? Do you have a minute?”
She straightened to find Case standing in the doorway to the terrace. Bother. Her own fault. She’d left the door ajar, open invitation to the sea breeze as well as anyone passing by.
Mac smiled a welcome. “Always. Come in, Case. I thought you were off to the family trawler.”
“I’m on my way. Getting a ride to Kitimat with some of the Preds,” he told her, stepping into the room, carefully avoiding the gravel section of the floor and giving her garden a bemused look as wet snowflakes began plopping down from its weather grid. May was a chancy month at Field Station One. “I wanted to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye? That sounds rather final. It’s only three weeks—so everyone keeps telling me,” Mac added darkly.
“I—well, that’s what I need to talk to you about, Mac. Unless you’re in a hurry.” He looked pointedly at her hand.
“Oh, this?” Mac dropped the bag, nudging it aside with her foot. “No rush. The haulers won’t connect until the wee hours of tomorrow morning. Besides, I haven’t made up my mind yet where I’m going. Have a seat.” While Case folded himself into one of her chairs, she took the other. The unhappy set of his mouth, the shadows under his eyes? Something was up. Though students, Mac reminded herself, could escalate a minor problem to a full-fledged life crisis if they worried hard enough. Which didn’t make the problem less real or painful.
She deliberately settled deeper, stretching out her legs. “So. Looking forward to some time at home?”
“Looking forward to it? Not really.” Case gave a strangled laugh. “But I need the open sea. I can’t hear myself think in a place like this.” This last, hurried and thoroughly miserable. His shoulders hunched.
“You don’t like it here,” she suggested, disappointed but not showing it. Hadn’t picked him as one of the terminally homesick.
His glance up at her was shocked, followed by a quick blush Mac didn’t try to interpret. “Of course I like it here. I love it. Base is great. Everyone’s—everyone’s great. That’s not it. I need time alone. I’ve a decision to make. I don’t want to make the wrong one.”
Migration: Species Imperative #2 Page 9