Mac blew nutmeg-scented steam from her mug and narrowed her eyes. “So how do the aliens get here in the first place?”
Cat winked. “At night, using one of those pricey stealth levs—the kind that no one notices.” A sip of cider. “No complaints yet.” She laughed at Mac’s expression. “Don’t look so scandalized, Mac. As if it’s never been done before!”
Only in a bloody emergency! Mac thought, then her own lips twitched. “Sam used his skim more often than not,” she relented. “He couldn’t stand how long the ferry took.” She’d tease him about being impatient; he’d counter about wasting time. The memory was like pulling on old slippers found in a closet, comforting and warm. Startled, Mac took too big a bite of her bun, syrup running down her chin, eyes smarting. Her only worry coming here had been facing the pain of such memories.
Not that the pain would be gone.
“He had plans,” Cat said matter-of-factly. “Places to go.” Her fingers touched Mac’s, once, with understanding. “And he got there. That’s more than many can say.”
Swallowing, Mac wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin embroidered with mosquitoes, another craft success, then blinked hard to clear her eyes. “You take aliens canoe-tripping,” she pointed out. “I doubt anyone else can say that.”
If her voice showed any strain, Cat kindly pretended not to notice. “Probably not,” she smiled. “You should come on the next trip. Be fun. We could use you.”
“Thanks anyway,” Mac said firmly. “But I’m up for some peace and quiet, not looking to shepherd novices through the bush—any kind of novice.”
“C’mon,” coaxed Cat. “You get along with aliens.”
“I do?”
“Didn’t you get pretty close to that—what was he called—Dhryn? We heard how he helped you during that attack, the one at that place you work. Everyone was so worried.”
Mac’s blood turned to ice. Here, she thought desperately. Even here. Like a contamination spreading through her life.
Cat misunderstood Mac’s silence. “Ma pauvre petite,” she breathed, eyes wide. “What was I thinking, to mention that terrible time, to upset you? I’m so sorry. Here, have more cider. Let us talk of other things, happier things. The bears are awake. I saw a sow with three fat cubs just yesterday. Mac? Mac, don’t go.”
Mac had stood. “I’ll be back for my supplies,” she managed to say. “Thank you for—for the cider and dessert.”
Cat stood also. She nodded, lips together in an unhappy line, but didn’t speak. Another of her gifts, to know when silence was the only answer.
Mac went out the door, pulling it closed behind her. She ignored the clouds of hungry black flies competing to land on her face and ears.
She went straight to her canoe, launched it.
And paddled as if the Ro were behind her.
Three days passed. Mac aired the bedding on lines strung between the pines, keeping an eye on the squirrels to be sure none decided to snatch pillowcases for themselves. She flipped the mattresses in all nine bedrooms, twelve in total, and found only one more nest, this of mice and most certainly occupied, thank you. After relocating the litter and aggrieved mom to a new home in a box of rags, Mac swept the floors.
She tackled the shelves and rafters next, tying together some fishing rods and more rags to reach as high as possible. The windows had to be washed three times on both sides before recovering any sparkle. Cleaning the eaves troughs required a shovel and snips, since they’d acquired not only debris but healthy clumps of goldenrod and several optimistic tree seedlings. She caulked the gap under the doorsill leading into the kitchen, likely the entry for most of her current room-mates.
The kitchen and indoor washrooms were in the best shape, likely because both had been used more recently than the rest. Still, Mac spent a morning scrubbing until every surface gleamed.
By the afternoon of the third day, she’d run out of chores. The powered systems had functioned normally from the moment she’d arrived, receiving a feed from North Bay Generation as well as solar backups contained in a pine that wasn’t anything of the sort, the device so well camouflaged it hosted a raven’s nest every year. Not that much in the cabin required power: a few lights, a boxed furnace which could sit in the fireplace and heat the main room if necessary, water pumps for the washrooms and kitchen, a huge walk-in chiller—presently empty—and a stove, though old, that would have been the envy of the cooks at Base. Dr. Connor Sr. liked to cook.
Not something she’d inherited, Mac grinned as she sat on the swing, now made cozy with clean cushions, and popped the top of a self-heating chili.
There was also a receiver. With an effort of will, Mac had left it wrapped and in its cupboard. The weather station on the outhouse roof would give ample warning of natural and programmed storms. Out here, anything else she’d need to know would be announced by shout from a passing canoe—eventually. She’d spent too many hours trying to eavesdrop on the universe. It could function without her attention for three weeks.
Besides, how could she trust the news? Ascendis had been attacked without a ripple of attention. Better, she decided, not to try and sort lie from truth.
As Mac ate, she admired the porch, brightened by rugs, its screens now free of years of pollen and dust so the breeze from the lake moved lightly through. Black flies and their ilk beat helplessly against those screens, attracted by her warmth and breath but unable to enter. No matter. They could afford to wait. She’d be going out again.
Mac curled her spine deeper into the cushions, feeling the pleasant burn of well-used muscles along with the occasional twinge. A swim before bed would be just the thing, she decided.
Tomorrow? Back to the store to apologize and get her supplies. She’d overreacted. “Hard to find peace in a place if you don’t bring some with you,” Mac informed the black flies.
She’d found a measure of it, tidying the place. Dirt and grime put things into perspective. They didn’t belong; effort removed them. The final result was comfort for herself and pride of accomplishment. Not to mention sheets free of eight-legged friends.
The sun, about to dip below the southwest shore of the lake, touched fire to water and turned tree trunks to gold.
“Nice one,” Mac approved.
Then, while the light lasted, as she’d done every quiet moment alone, Mac pulled a folded sheet of mem-paper from her pocket. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to have a copy of Emily’s message, if it was from Emily at all and not the Ro using her friend’s face as some sort of signature. Or extortion.
Technically, the message had been erased the moment ’Sephe had wiped Mac’s imp. Who hadn’t been able to promise she could tell Mac its meaning, or if it could be understood by anyone at the Ministry.
Mac opened the sheet, holding it to the remaining light. The red symbols, aligned in columns, each intricate and no two obviously alike, meant nothing to her. From the onset, it had dashed that faintest of hopes, that the damage to the language center of her brain might actually be useful. She had no other resources or knowledge to even try to decipher whatever it said.
But making a clandestine copy for herself the moment she’d returned to Base? Nothing easier. “The Ministry should have enlisted students, Em,” Mac said aloud.
No to mention have more respect for print.
Mac refolded the sheet and tucked it away. Silly, to feel better having it. “Probably a grocery list gone astray.”
Or, finally, word from the lost.
The lake breeze was starting to carry a chill. Mac picked up her empty container of chili and went inside.
The moon was below the horizon when Mac walked down the hill to the cove. She didn’t need its light anyway. The stars were enough to pick out the familiar path and her bare feet quite adequately informed her of the difference between moss, wood, and stone.
And they found sand.
Dropping her towel, Mac brushed away the solitary mosquito singing in her ear. Early for them. She’d waited until the
black flies settled for the night, the chill air of May more than they’d tolerate, but there was always something hungry out here.
She walked into the water, blood-warm at the very edge from the day’s sun. Her first few steps were through fine floating debris, the black sawdust and old leaves that drifted up against the narrow beach. Her next steps, the water cooling as it rose to her calves, were over small, sharp pebbles and the occasional larger, smooth stone that she avoided, knowing how slippery each would be.
Thigh-high and out of the shadow of the trees. Bitter here. Her skin tightened in reflex, hairs rising, and Mac’s feet began to numb, though the upper water remained warm to the touch. She stretched out her arms, dappling the still water with her fingertips, real and otherwise, watching the ripples stir the stars laying in the lake.
For the water was more than calm. Except for where she touched it, the lake might have vanished, replaced by perfect reflection. Mac stood in the center of a sphere of stardust, divided only by the utter black silhouette of forested hills.
There’d be mist in the morning. She could taste it starting to curl into the air.
In a single swift motion, Mac drew her hands over her head and dove.
She kept it shallow, wary of rocks below. And no more than an arm’s length below the surface, the lake was winter-cold. The lightless chill of it drove the air from her lungs and set her heart hammering. It was like some potent liquor, heat following the shock of taste. The water became satin to her skin, slipping between her fingers, catching on her palms, sliding along her sides and legs.
Mac rose with a sputtering gasp. Awake now, she grinned and rolled over to catch her breath, leaning her head back in the water so more of its heat escaped, taking tension with it. It was just possible to float with most of her in the relatively warmer layer. She relaxed and looked up at the stars . . .
. . . only to see them blotted out by the hull of a rapidly descending and very silent lev.
- 6 -
CANOES AND CONVICTIONS
“SHE’S OOZING red liquid. Is that normal?” “Idiot. It’s internal fluid. Blood.”
“What about the oozing? Is that normal?”
Mac lifted her head to glare at her new guests. “Yes. No thanks to you.” She went back to picking gravel from her right knee, thoroughly scraped when she’d swum frantically toward shore to evade the landing lev and managed to beach herself like a deafened whale. There was, she shifted uncomfortably, gravel elsewhere, but she wasn’t removing her towel to find it.
Not in front of the three sitting in the common room, staring at her.
Well, Russell Lister wasn’t staring. He was doing his utmost to demonstrate that not only wasn’t he staring at Mac now, he most certainly hadn’t been staring at Mac when the lev’s floodlights had pinned her as she climbed out of the water.
At least the lights had helped her find her towel.
The lev, a monstrous self-important beast too large to land anywhere on the sloping land around the cabin, presently floated in the cove, its driver staying with it. Mac, wrapped in towel and dignity, had tried to ignore it as she limped up the path. But the others had followed her up here anyway, without invitation. Or warning about the eroded section. There’d been a fall or two.
Shame the porch door didn’t lock.
“A light was on, Mac,” Russell began. “I didn’t think you’d be—” He blushed crimson, something that appeared to fascinate his companions.
So much for not looking.
North woods protocol: a light meant an open door and willing host. Mac couldn’t very well argue the point, having left a small lamp aglow in a window in case she’d needed a guide on her return through the trees. “I’m here now,” she said, taking pity on the man’s obvious distress.
Like his wife, Cat, Russell was a fixture on Little Misty. The couple had operated their store and guided canoe trips into the various connected waterways for over seventy years. A little weathered by time, like cedar grayed by the sun, but Mac had no doubt both could still outpaddle, outhike, and outlast any incoming camper, including herself.
Gracious, gentle people. Friendly, with a quiet reserve.
Mac finished cleaning her knee and glanced at Russell suspiciously. Not to mention insatiable gossips with a wicked sense of humor. It wouldn’t be long before the man’s embarrassment faded and the night’s little exposé was thoroughly embellished—and shared all over the lake.
“It’s okay, Russ,” Mac gave in. “What can I do for you?” Her eyes slid to the two sitting together on the biggest couch and she automatically switched from English to Instella, the common language of the IU. “What can I do for all of you? My name is—” she hesitated, well aware cultural norms varied. Then again, this was her family’s cabin. “—Mac.”
The alien to the right gave a deep bow, its trisegmented torso letting it fold a disturbing amount while seated. It wore a beautifully embroidered caftanlike garment in shades of browns and golds, large and billowy enough to reupholster the couch. It did a great job of concealing anatomy, Mac thought curiously. Shorter of the two, the fabric-covered alien possessed a broad face, wider than it was high—Mac supposed she could call it a face, though there were no features showing through the mass of shaggy gray hair that covered head, neck, and shoulders. A pair of jointed eyestalks protruded from the hair on either side of the head, a purple beadlike eye at each tip. The upper eyes on both sides were looking at Mac. The lower “eyes” were lidded and to all appearances taking a nap.
Its voice was a smooth, immaculate tenor. “We are pleased to make your acquaintance. We are Mr. Kay and Mr. Arslithissiangee Yip, respectively. And how are you today, Mr. Mac?”
Before Mac could do more than blink, the other alien belched and announced loudly: “Fourteenth. You never introduce me properly. It’s Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth.” This alien was close enough to humanoid norm to be wearing a Little Misty Lake General Store cap and sweatshirt, extra large, complete with leering moose on the chest. Close, but not that close. The alien’s eyes were side by side, but too small, almost embedded in folds of sallow skin. The nose stuck out a little too far, and had a hard shiny surface. The mouth, however, had full lips, shaped like a Human ideal of sensual beauty. Well, thought Mac, they would have been the Human ideal except for their color. They were either naturally beige or the alien had made an unfortunate choice in cosmetics, given they parted over four yellowed teeth and a forked white tongue.
Mr. Kay produced a pair of gloved hands from within the voluminous caftan outfit he wore and proceed to groom the hair down the front of his “face” in an agitated manner. “Having a number as part of your name is ridiculous. Mr. Mac does not. I do not. Mr. Lister does not. Mr. Carlson does not. Mr.—”
“Irrelevant. Irrelevant! IRRELEVANT!”
Mac and Russell exchanged looks as the aliens bickered. He shook his head and shrugged. She sniffed as a pungent odor that had nothing to do with pine trees, chili, or cleaning fluids began filling the room, then glared at the aliens. One of them, Mac decided, had released something.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t stain the couch.
“Excuse me.”
The two ignored her. “Fourteen!” “Do you require I give out your ident number too?” “Idiot!” “You’re the idiot!”
Mac tightened the towel across her chest and stood up. “QUIET!”
The one who’d called itself Kay managed to look smug despite the hair.
“My name is Mac, with no ‘mister,’ ” Mac told them. “I’ve got your names, including the number,” she added quickly when Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth opened its mouth. “Now, I’d like to know why you’re here.” Her look of inquiry included Russell Lister, whose fault this most likely was.
Sure enough, he was the one who answered. “These gentlemen booked a trip with us.”
“Gentlemen” either answered the gender question, Mac thought, or Russell was guessing.
“So?”
“Fi
ve days and four nights. We’re portaging into Crow Lake then taking the Sagani River over to that fabulous stand of—” Russell stopped as Mac frowned at him. “It was a last minute booking. They’ve arrived too early. We can’t head in until Friday morning, so—”
“Oh, no,” Mac interrupted, aghast. “Don’t you even—”
“It’s only two nights, Mac. We don’t have room at the store and you have all these beds. Cat sent you supplies . . .” This last was delivered with a pleading look.
Two purple eyeballs on stalks and two beady ones did their best to copy it.
Mac gripped her towel and eased her weight off the leg with the throbbing and skinned kneecap.
“The place looks great,” Russell added. “You’ve really cleaned it up.”
A hairy head and a becapped one nodded.
If only there wasn’t a standing tradition on Little Misty of sending overflow guests to the bunkhouse-style cabin of the Connor family. If only locals like Russell, lonesome after the winter, comprehended that not everyone wanted company.
If only she didn’t owe Cat a few dozen favors, including an apology for her abrupt departure . . .
She was going to regret this.
“Fine,” Mac growled. “Two days.”
“Our thanks, Mac.” Mr. Kay reached into his caftan and pulled out a small box, holding it up triumphantly. “And look! I obtained a game of cards from the store in anticipation of our time together.”
The second alien gave a hum that sounded downright blissful. “There are numbers.”
Okay, Mac thought, scowling at Russell, who was trying—and failing—to keep a straight face.
Already regretting it.
Mac threw her pillow into the air. She’d tried putting it over her head. Hadn’t helped. Was it some kind of rule that aliens had to snore? Loudly, arrhythmically, and with alarming pauses as if one or the other had suddenly died? She should have known better than to put them at opposite ends of the cabin. The two front corners might be the largest, best rooms. It didn’t matter an iota when she was the one inflicted with stereo snoring.
Migration: Species Imperative #2 Page 12