Time to deal with Oversight.
Back in the bedroom, Mac found Mudge, to all outward signs, still asleep in his raincoat. And if she believed that? She sat on the bed, briefly startled by its ability to immediately form to her body. “That can’t be comfortable, Oversight,” she observed.
Silence. Then, a faint hoarse whisper: “You’d be surprised.” He didn’t move. She might be talking to a stuffed yellow ball. Wearing boots. “Are we alone now?”
“I doubt it.”
More silence, then a slightly mortified: “I didn’t see any ’bots.”
The innocence of those used to legal surveillance, obvious and familiar. “I was going to order lunch.” Mac glanced at the long rays of sunlight on the terrace. “Breakfast,” she amended.
“You’re sure? Bother.” Mudge unfolded with a groan, pulling off his raincoat. Beneath, his shirt was wrinkled and sweat-stained. He glared at the room as if its crisp surfaces were to blame for his condition. “And it’s supper. New Zealand. We arrived around midnight local time and you’ve been out of it for almost fifteen hours. It’s now four in the afternoon. Fall, by the way, not spring. Nippy.” He rubbed his eyes and peered at her. “And tomorrow, not today.”
Mac snorted. “I can do the conversions, Oversight. Don’t tell me you’ve been in that chair the entire time.”
“No.” His tone did not encourage curiosity. Nor did his expression, with its classic Mudge-stubborn clench to the jaw.
She ignored both. “What happened?”
“It’s not important. Order the food. I haven’t eaten since getting here.”
Mac smoothed the fabric over her knees. “I can wait.”
“You can—” he started to bluster, then grimaced. “And you would, too. Very well.” He slid lower in the jelly-chair, heels digging lines into the sand of the floor. “After they carried you out of the lev, they tried to leave me in it.” Mudge stretched his hands over his head. “I didn’t agree,” he said simply.
Which doubtless meant numerous threats to contact authorities of every ilk, all delivered at significant volume. She had heard some of it. Mac shook her head in wonder. “And that worked?”
“No. They locked me in the hold and ignored me for quite some time. Luckily, someone already at the consulate who knew me heard I was being forced to leave against my will. He straightened your friends out in a hurry, found out where you’d been taken, brought me along. So here I am.”
Leaving Mac with two pressing questions. One Mudge couldn’t answer. Why had that someone helped him stay where the IU was hosting a very secret meeting? One he could. “Why didn’t you go?” she asked.
His round face reddened. “How can you ask me that, Norcoast?” Mudge objected gruffly. He got to his feet and shook his finger at the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. “Think I’d let you carry her off to who knows where, hurt and unconscious?” he told it. “Think I’d take a chance you meant to finish the job the Trisulian started?” He looked back to Mac, his eyes round with distress. “What kind of old friend would do that?”
Old friend? There was a novel interpretation of fourteen years of conflict. It had led to a certain depth of mutual understanding, Mac conceded. But not to expect Mudge to stand up for her as though she was part of his Wilderness Trust. Proving him a better friend than some, her inner voice whispered.
It didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. Mac fought the warmth of having someone think of her first, aware above all else that Mudge didn’t belong here. It wasn’t just the IU. She could hear Nik’s warning: “Don’t let anyone close.” It wasn’t meant for her protection alone. Mudge could have been safely, if angrily, on his way back to house arrest by now.
Of course, then she’d be without a friend.
“I suppose hugging is out of the question,” Mac said, smiling at his alarmed look. “Thought so. Supper do?”
Despite her good intentions, which included regaining her strength as quickly as possible, supper was wasted on Mac. Her stomach rebelled the instant the steaming platters arrived—brought by courteous staff of some humanoid-type species she didn’t know, clad in pale yellow uniforms. They set it out on the table on the terrace, where Mac spent the meal watching enviously as Mudge ate his portion, then accepted most of hers.
“Splendid,” he informed her when done, wiping his lips and sipping the last of his wine. “You’re sure you don’t want anything else?”
Mac assessed the status of the few spoonfuls of soup she’d forced down. Uncertain. “Quite sure.” She gazed into the distance, estimating there wasn’t much time until full sunset. The view was of water, with perhaps the hint of islands on the horizon. She’d taken a quick dizzying look over the rail to confirm they were on land. A great granite cliff, to be exact, sheer enough that incoming waves struck and rose in gouts of foam. She’d have to check the tides. This building was a white curved tower, four stories high as Humans measured, the curve another s-bend like the mirror, following the edge of the cliff. These rooms were on what Mac estimated was the third floor, though she assumed the building extended below ground, into the rock itself.
She was no closer to knowing what to do about Mudge, Mac admitted to herself. Nik might help, but she’d have to wait for him to contact her. His people had brought them here, presumably willingly, so he either knew where she was, or would find out. Didn’t mean she’d hear from him anytime soon.
Or at all.
“What do you know about the consulate—this place?” Mac asked Mudge, not hopeful.
He surprised her. “I applied for a job here once, so I made sure I was pretty familiar with it.”
“Let me guess,” she smiled. “Shuttle pilot.”
“I was young, Norcoast. Alien worlds sounded more interesting. What I know isn’t up-to-date, though.”
“Tell me about it. Anything,” Mac pressed. She’d learned to value knowing her surroundings.
According to Mudge, who tended to describe things with as many numbers as possible, the consulate occupied a stretch of coast five kilometers long and three wide, along the southwestern edge of New Zealand’s South Island, occupying the tip of one of many fjords that fingered the Tasman Sea. No roads or walking trails led here. The only docking facilities were for consular traffic, and those only by air. The complex itself had grown over time into a sprawl of connected buildings, a few Human-built, most contributed by those handful of species interested in a more substantial presence on Earth, the rest being the original constructions of the Sinzi themselves.
The nearest Human habitation was the town of Te Anau, the hub for those seeking the vast wilderness preserved along the coast, the Te Whipounamu. Accustomed to tourists tramping through in all seasons, few residents took much notice of the consulate or its visitors. In fact, local New Zealanders were so accustomed to aliens wandering their streets that most shop signs were in both English and Instella.
There had been many obvious reasons for setting the consulate here: a temperate climate, if you didn’t mind meters of rain per year; nearby mountain ranges offering microclimates from lush forest to desert to snow-pack; even the lease arrangement between New Zealand and the Ministry of Extra-Sol Human Affairs, who acted as titular landlord to the IU. Less obviously, the area was off the beaten track and sparsely populated, making it easier to isolate alien from Human and vice versa. And, though no one said it out loud, if anything nonterrestrial was released and spread, it wouldn’t be the first time New Zealand had had to deal with foreign biologies.
Mudge stopped, rubbing his face self-consciously. “You let me talk too much, Norcoast.”
Mac gestured to her head. “With this? I’m more than happy to listen to someone else. Interesting stuff. Thanks, Oversight.”
He harrumphed, managing to sound pleased. “Did I mention the trout fishing? It’s quite famous here. I’d assume at least some visitors to the consulate indulge.”
Mac contemplated a fast-flowing stream filled with aliens in paisley shorts and fly-fishing
hats. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” she chuckled, “but it might the trout.”
“Norcoast. I know you should rest, but . . .” She recognized that anxious wrinkle between his eyes. Mudge was preparing to fuss over something.
Warily. “But what?”
“Why did they bring us here? Why the consulate?”
Right to the heart of it. Again, typical. Not that Mac had ever had reason to doubt Mudge’s intelligence. He probably knew as much about the research underway at Base as she did.
Lie or evade, Em?
Evade, Mac decided. It wasn’t a moral choice—her head was too fuzzy to attempt anything as profoundly complicated as falsehood. “The IU must have questions about Emily’s message—and the Trisulian, Kay.” Or not-Kay. Once-Kay? Mac wasn’t sure how one referred to an abandoned symbiont.
“But they didn’t bring you here for questioning after the Chasm.”
“No,” Mac answered, wondering where Mudge was going with this. “The IU had people on the ship that brought me back. I answered their questions—” for days on end, hazed with grief and pain, repeating the same details over and over and over, “—and they have copies of everything I know. I’m sure the Ministry kept them informed since.” Easy to picture Nikolai Trojanowski in this place, delivering the latest recordings of her dreams into Anchen’s long fingers. Mac shivered.
She hadn’t intended it as a distraction, but it worked. “You’re getting cold,” Mudge noted with a scowl. “Let’s go inside.”
“I’m warm enough,” said Mac truthfully. The terrace floor was warm underfoot; she suspected it generated heat to combat the chill of evening. As for herself, the Sinzi’s gown was either insulating or warming; regardless, it kept the skin it sheltered at a comfortable temperature. “I like it out here.” It was home, she thought, the familiar scent of salt and seaweed, the tireless argument of wave against stone so normal she felt as though her bones had melted into the chair. Probably couldn’t stand if I wanted to, Em.
Mudge muttered under his breath and then went inside for a moment, returning with his raincoat. “The blanket’s part of the bed,” he explained, putting the coat over Mac’s shoulders despite her protest.
It was heavy and somewhat redolent, but it did feel good on her bare arms. Almost as good as the gesture itself . Mac looked up at Mudge. “Thank you.”
He harrumphed again, but a fleeting smile escaped before he sat again himself. “There’s something going on here, Norcoast,” he insisted, earnest and determined. “Something other than normal consulate business. When we came in, you probably didn’t notice, the pilot hovered for some time—my guess is there was traffic landing ahead of us. I’ve kept watch most of the day and there was a steady flow of incoming levs with very few departures this morning.”
After their arrival? Not good, Em. “They entertain,” Mac said, aware how flimsy it sounded. “Really big supper parties. Famous for it.” He didn’t need to respond; Mudge’s face, she’d often thought, might have been set on skeptical at birth. Or else she brought that out in him. “What else have you seen?”
Mudge’s expression went from skeptical to grim. “The security here. I’m no expert, but it’s as though they expect to be attacked at any minute. They even searched me. I will spare you the details, Norcoast, but I have,” this with the gusto of one truly offended, “written a memo.”
She didn’t doubt it. Mac tucked herself more snugly in his raincoat. “It might have been better if you’d left when they gave you the chance. You still can.” Maybe, Mac added, honest with herself at least.
“Not without you.” Stubborn as his trees.
Don’t make promises. Mac made herself smile. “You make it sound as though I’m in some kind of danger here.” Light, confident. “Nothing could be farther from the truth. They’ve taken care of me, offered their hospitality. As for being here, meeting the Sinzi? What an amazing opportunity! I intend to take full advantage of it. It’s that, or fix the cabin door and wait for Base to be running again. I think there’s no—what?”
He’d puffed out his cheeks, now adding a frown just shy of thunderous. “Tell me it’s the concussion.”
“Too much?” Mac pulled a face herself. “The bit about the door, wasn’t it? A little over the top, I know.”
“This is no joking matter, Norcoast! They wouldn’t let me contact anyone outside the consulate. I’m sure they won’t let you either. That’s hardly benign.”
“No,” Mac sighed. “But since the Dhryn, it’s become business-as-usual, Oversight.”
He put both elbows on the table and leaned forward, eyes harder than Mac had ever seen before. “I’ll tell you what I think is going on, Norcoast. I think there’s some kind of secret meeting being held here, something the IU doesn’t want the rest of Earth to know about. I think those incoming levs are bringing others like you, who’ve had some experience with the Dhryn. You’ve been coerced—kidnapped—and you’re trying to protect me by not telling me the truth.”
Now he’d done it.
Mac closed her eyes, unable to decide if she’d let anything slip or if Mudge had put his foot in it all alone, estimating how long it was going to take for someone in authority to show up on the terrace. Not long.
“Well?” he demanded hoarsely.
She looked at him. “What do you want me to say, Oversight? That your usual blend of mistrust and cleverness just cost you the chance to leave here anytime soon? That you should have stayed in Vancouver? That you should have repotted that damned aloe plant by now?”
Sure enough, over his shoulder Mac saw the doors to the bedroom open, helmeted figures in all-black uniforms following those in yellow. “I wasn’t kidnapped. I was invited,” she told Mudge in an urgent, low voice as the others approached. “Don’t you understand? Working with these people is the only way I can do anything, the only hope I have. It could be the only hope any of us have. Yes, I’ve tried to keep you out of it—for your own good—”
Too late.
They’d lined up behind Mudge, four who appeared identical to the Ministry agents she’d seen before, visors down, plus three consular staff. Only now realizing he was essentially surrounded, Mudge lunged to his feet, his eyes wide.
“Would you come with us please, Mr. Mudge?” Respectful, proper. Somehow looming over the poor man spoiled the effect, Mac thought resentfully. “Dr. Connor needs her rest.”
“Dr. Connor,” she informed the one who’d spoken, “wants to know where you are taking her friend and colleague. And how to reach him there.”
One of the yellow-clad humanoids, consular staff, bowed so deeply Mac had an excellent view of how her short bristly hair was trimmed in tidy brown spirals from crown to the base of her neck. Not that she cared at the moment. “To his quarters, Dr. Connor. You will have ample opportunity to visit tomorrow, I assure you. But Noad, your physician, left firm instructions as to rest. Please. We must insist.”
“Noad?” Mac didn’t recall the name. Then again, she didn’t recall being seen by a physician either.
“It’s okay, Norcoast,” said Mudge, making a valiant effort to take this in stride.
“It is not okay.” Mac rose to her feet, taking off Mudge’s raincoat and folding it carefully as she spoke. Her voice was the one she reserved for negligent students and unreliable skim salespersons. Mudge probably recognized it too, given their history. “I will not let these—these people—push you around. You came to help me.” She put the raincoat on the table, her hands flat on top. The gesture nicely covered the need to hold on to the table in order to stay on her feet. “Oversight can stay right here. There’s plenty of room.”
The consular staff began whispering among themselves in another language, as if she’d proposed something scandalous. Three of the four in black turned their visor-covered faces toward the one who’d spoken to her. Their leader? Good to know. Mac kept her eyes on that one, standing as straight as she could. The cool sea breeze tugged at her hair and gown, but she ignored it. The po
unding above her eye was another matter. Any minute now, Em, she was going to throw something or throw up.
“Well?”
“Such an arrangement would not be acceptable to our hosts.” Before Mac could protest, the Ministry agent continued: “But there’s an apartment across the hall. Will that be close enough, Dr. Connor?”
She caught Mudge’s look of relief out the corner of her eye. She shared it, but waited for the rest. Concessions from such people always involved something in return. Sure enough, the agent held out his hand for Mudge’s raincoat. To pass it to him—or perhaps her, given the armor—Mac would have to lift her hands from the table.
Something she couldn’t do without falling on her face.
Mr. Ministry Agent could wait forever before she’d ask for help on those terms.
He appeared prepared to do so.
Stalemate. At least until she passed out.
Then Mac noticed his left forefinger tapping the side of his holster.
“Across the hall would be perfect. It’s good night, then, Oversight,” she said cheerfully, sitting down and shoving the raincoat across the table. “Talk to you in the morning.”
Mudge took his coat, giving her a puzzled look. “In the morning, Norcoast.”
“But I’ll talk to you now,” Mac said, pointing at the agent who’d tapped.
The cant of his helmet shifted and he gave a signal to the others. Without a word, the remaining agents and three consular staff escorted Mudge through her bedroom and out the door, although Mudge looked back at the last minute as if about to object. Mac waved reassuringly.
They were alone. Mac could see her reflection in his helmet. She looked rather smug. “ ’Sephe told me you were short-staffed, but this?” said Mac, shaking her head. “You can take that thing off, Sing-li Jones. I know it’s you.”
“Hi, Mac.” Jones tucked the now-pointless headgear under one arm, then took a seat, shifting to accommodate his weaponry. His expression was more rueful than embarrassed. “How are you doing? That’s—” he looked at her scalp, “nasty.”
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