Pitiful? Mac stared at the table, with its imprisoned life. She wasn’t so sure. Many living things staked out territories, defended what they viewed as theirs; Humans could do it with a look. What would the Ro think of the Sinzi’s shrimp, Em? Would they have the proud attitude of parents who see their children strive to exceed them? Or might they see trespass—a challenge to their supremacy over no-space itself from those who still walked planets?
Mac shivered. “You want a great deal more than help with the Dhryn.”
“Of course,” with that lift of the head indicating surprise. “In our wildest imaginings, we never expected to find the creators of the transects still lived. To work with them? To learn from them? The Sinzi aspire only to be worthy.”
“If I were you,” Mac said dryly, “I’d aspire to find out what they’ll want in return and be sure you can afford it.”
Anchen’s head tilted to bring another set of eyes closer to Mac. Whose attention did she have now? “First contact is by its very nature doomed to misunderstandings, Mac.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “We can only proceed in this by stepping from known to known. The Dhryn feared the Myrokynay. For good reason, since the Myrokynay tried to destroy their Progenitors before they could launch their ships. All we know about the Dhryn is that they pose a devastating and terrifying threat to life. Surely the Myrokynay, who possess knowledge and technology far beyond any other species within the Interspecies Union, know more. We need them as allies. We will pay their price, if one is asked.”
This was the being who represented the IU on Earth. Nothing she says, Em, Mac told herself uneasily, would be less than policy for all.
Still, she couldn’t keep completely silent. “I urge caution in every dealing with the Ro, Anchen. We know even less about them than about the Dhryn.”
“An insight of value, Mac, which is why you are here.” Anchen brought out her imp and put it on the table. “Please, if you are ready, eat your meal and share any thoughts you have from your first day.” She made motions with her fingers, implying a workscreen in existence over the device, but Mac couldn’t see one—unless that shimmer when she tilted her head marked a portion. Differing visual range? Interesting.
If things hadn’t gone so well today—after that appalling start, Mac admitted—she might have been stuck with nothing to tell the Sinzi, but as it was, her food grew cold as she described the potential of her group of researchers. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she finished, waving her fork in emphasis, “to have interesting results as early as tomorrow.”
The Sinzi had listened without comment until now. “Why do you expect this, Mac? They had nothing to contribute yesterday, beyond what was recorded about the death of their fellow scientists. Today, they have requested data on you, not on the Dhryn.”
“The information about me will restore trust. As for my expectations?” Mac tilted her head, trying to decide which of Anchen’s paired eyes were most intent on her. “They don’t know what they know,” she said at last. “It’s about context, Anchen. I’ve given them a new one. I think it will shake some things loose.”
“Ah yes. Migration. You believe the Dhryn are on such a journey. That their motive may be biological. That they act, at least in part, out of instinct rather than conscious plan. A novel approach.”
Fourteen had made a full report, Mac smiled to herself. Aloud: “Believe? No. Not yet. I simply see value to assessing what we know about the Dhryn in those terms. That could be the prejudice of my own specialization. I admit that. But consider this, Anchen. At least since the Chasm, Dhryn Progenitors have outlawed the study of living things, including their own physiology. Why?”
“Is this an important question?”
“Any question we can’t answer about the Dhryn is an important question.”
The Sinzi lifted her fingers, touching them tip to tip to form a hollow ball before her complex eyes. “I concur, Mac. I will share your insights with the other delegates in hopes of granting them a new ‘context.’ ” She lowered her fingers and smiled. “I am personally gratified by your behavior with the Human-ra since this morning. You exceeded the expectations of some of myselves for you, and those were already high.”
Given the time of night, and a mind this side of putty, Mac wisely avoided trying to understand that, accepting the implied compliment. “The Human-ra—” the term must be loose enough, she decided, to include Kanaci’s non-Human colleagues, “—lacked the information it required about me. I’ve begun to rectify that. Call it a misunderstanding during first contact. We have a common purpose, after all.”
“We do. Ah. I am reminded.” By what, Mac wondered. One of the group minds? A deft finger stroke through empty air, away from where Mac had assumed the invisible-to-her workscreen hung. Separate ’screens for each mind? “There is a query for you. It comes from the team correlating our data on the Myrokynay.”
“Me? I don’t have anything new to add to my original statements,” Mac reminded the Sinzi. “And I made those when things were fresher in my mind.”
“We have your very useful information, Mac. This query concerns a more esoteric interpretation of your experience. Yes. I see it is posed in mathematical terms which, while elegant and succinct, do not translate into Instella. If you will permit me to approximate?” At Mac’s nod, she continued: “Did you observe anything about Emily Mamani implying the passage of biological time in no-space?”
“Biological time.” While several possibilities came to mind, Mac chose not to guess. “I don’t understand.”
“The state of being alive is postulated to require time that at least appears to move linearly, from what was to what is, thus permitting growth and metabolism to take place in sequenced steps. There are other modes of time which do not support this state. Within our tank,” a gesture to the glittering fish, “there is movement and thus the impression of biological time, is there not? We are divided in interpretation. Is this true biological time or its echo, since what passes for life here is, in real space, already dead?”
Mac gamely attempted to wrap her brain around the philosophical connections between linear time and death, other than the one being at the end of the line. After a moment, she gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry, Anchen. Salmon researcher, not physicist. What’s the point to this?”
“If we accept that the Myrokynay truly live within no-space, the answers to questions of time have significance to our hope for mutual understanding.”
“If they live in time as we do,” Mac narrowed her eyes, “they’re like us. I get that part. But as opposed to what?”
“Some other state of being.” The Sinzi brought two fingertips closer and closer together as if to touch, only to have them miss each other at the last instant. “An alarming possibility, Mac. You and your fellow Humans experience misunderstandings, as does any species within itself, despite shared biology and history. Negotiations between IU species involves more effort to sort through unintended confusion than all other deterrents to agreement combined. This, despite a shared language and technology.” Anchen shuddered, her hundreds of tiny rings tinkling. “Imagine the difficulty communicating with beings who don’t share the very experience of life itself with us.”
They’d have a better chance explaining Trisulian sex to a salmon through a straw. Mac became acutely conscious of her heart beating, the air passing in and out of her nostrils, the way her head ached. A body plan reasonably similar to the Sinzi’s. The same ability to exchange complex ideas. “Puts my problems with the Origins Team into perspective,” she said at last. “I wouldn’t worry too much yet. After all, Emily’s managed to deal with the Ro.”
Anchen’s small mouth formed a smile. “A comforting observation to end the day.” Putting away her imp, the Sinzi rose from the jelly-chair without a wasted motion. Mac stood up as well, feeling as though she flopped in every direction possible before finding level ground. “Good night, Mac, and thank you for your insights. I will return tomorrow evening—late again, I assu
me.”
Mac smiled. “Good thing you sleep in shifts, Anchen.”
By early the next morning, the now officially named Origins Team was well underway. They skipped the mill and swill, as Mac called it, in the garden in favor of getting to work. Not to mention being set out as mass enticement for the Ro was the last thing she felt like doing, no matter how determined the Sinzi. Fourteen showed his approval by showing up sans wig and in those paisley shorts, clean at least. As for the others, it hadn’t hurt that she’d arranged for breakfast to be served here, then refused to let the staff clean up, knowing perfectly well they’d be grazing the leftovers before lunch.
The room itself had a completely different look from yesterday. The research consoles had been moved into five clusters, Lyle suggesting those to be included in each. The big conference table had been shoved against one wall to provide the expanse of empty floor space archaeologists apparently required. Mac didn’t ask.
Fourteen had brought in three large tables of his own, setting these up in a u-shape so he had his back to the window—Mac presumed so he could see what everyone else was doing, curiosity being one of the Myg’s traits. Each time she looked at what he himself was doing, there were more small objects scattered over the tables, each new acquisition placed with the rapt concentration of a chess master. Objects like other people’s writing implements, combs, and buttons. And a shoe.
She’d better send around a memo, Mac decided.
Mudge had taken a corner for himself, adding a desk. He’d stayed up most of the night, by the bags under his eyes, managing to send their initial supply requests through in time for the first arrivals to accompany the catering staff.
It had been a toss-up which had been more warmly received, coffee or image extrapolation wands. Whatever they were.
Mac wandered over to Mudge, leaning on the wall behind him to survey the bustle, mug in hand.
“Do you,” he asked acerbically, “have the slightest idea what they’re doing?”
“Not a clue.” She took a sip and sighed contentedly. Cold already. “How about you?”
“I’ve placed requisitions for equipment I didn’t even know existed, let alone how it could possibly be used by—by archaeologists!”
Mac smiled down at him. “They aren’t all archaeologists.”
“Don’t,” he growled, “get me started.”
There was now a curtained-off section of the room, behind which the author of the ever-popular “Chasm Ghouls: They Exist and Talk to Me” and his trio of followers were apparently conducting chats with the departed. “Here I shared a sandstorm with the famous man and didn’t even know it,” Mac mused.
“I wish I didn’t.”
“We’re all talking to the dead here,” she pointed out, taking another sip. “I don’t care who gives me the answers.”
“You’ve never settled for other people’s before, Norcoast.”
Mac half smiled. “I’ve never asked these questions before.”
Mudge fussed with his workscreen. “Kirby and To’o are qualified climatologists, but according to your list, we need a xenopaleoecologist.”
“I know. Fourteen’s working on it. Says he knows one.”
“There’s another thing. Why is a cryptologist working with us? We have translators.” He consulted his workscreen. “An even dozen. There must be other groups who could use him.”
She could see the Myg from here; he’d abandoned his object arranging and was deep in conversation with Lyle. “Probably. But he’s attached himself to—” me, she almost said, “—us for now and no one’s objected. He may come in handy.”
Especially if Emily tried to send her another message. Something Mac was quite sure had occurred to the Sinzi, and whomever else was in charge.
“Mac, do you have a minute?”
The question, asked in that hesitant “don’t know you yet” tone, was so familiar, Mac was smiling before she turned to answer it. “Of course.”
It was To’o, the Cey climatologist. Or Da’a, the other Cey. They dressed like twins, and Mac hadn’t seen enough of their species to pick out the physical features that distinguished individuals. Or, she told herself honestly, she couldn’t get past the heavy wrinkles of their faces. The dark brown, pebble-textured skin hung in great, limp folds, starting with small ones at the top of the head to free-swinging cascades by the elbows. It was as if each Cey wore another organism like a veil.
For all she knew, they did. Mac shuddered, thinking of the Trisulian symbionts. She’d been very happy not to have to converse with another of that species quite yet.
The problem wasn’t that the folds were ugly—okay, Mac confessed, grotesque came to mind—but the ones on the face itself gave each Cey a perpetually miserable look, as if nauseous. It might have helped if they’d had less Human-like features between the folds.
“If you’ll come?”
Quite sure she’d been staring, Mac waved the Cey to proceed her.
Moments later, Mac seriously considered finding a wrinkle to kiss. “This is—this is splendid work, To’o, Kirby. I hadn’t expected anything so soon.”
Kirby, Human male and probably no older than most of Mac’s first-year grad students, grinned up at her from his seat at the console. “It wasn’t soon. We’d looked into longer cyclic events with respect to climate for over two Earth years. The research didn’t point us anywhere, so we moved on to another topic. Till you. I have to admit, yesterday I thought you were nuts, Mac.”
“I get that,” she replied absently, leaning over the display with one hand on the console for support. “Why were you looking at cyclic events in the first place?”
To’o replied, “My home world experiences long-term climatic shifts, though none so dramatic as this world’s. When you mentioned migration, Kirby and I began to reexamine our old data, looking specifically at the livability of the northern hemisphere relative to the south. We had some more recent data as well from the IU’s team back on Myriam.”
“ ‘Myriam?’ ”
The two exchanged guilty looks. “Sorry. Slipped out,” To’o said quickly. “We’re not supposed to call it that here.”
Mac had no idea of the protocol involved in naming planets—especially planets doubtless named by those who’d evolved there. Still. She shot a troubled glance at Lyle, preoccupied with his work, then looked back to the climatologists.
Who were, just like her grad students, holding their breath.
“You named the Dhryn home world after his wife?” she asked, keeping her voice steady but low. “She died there.”
“We all agreed.” Kirby shrugged. “Lyle’s—well, he felt she’d have liked it. And we renamed our research station after Nicli Lee. She died in the storm.”
“We keep saying their names, that way,” To’o volunteered. “It’s important to speak of those we’ve lost—not to forget them.”
She could hardly disagree. “It’s shorter than ‘Dhryn Home World’,” she commented, tacit approval. “Now, what did you want to show me?”
Kirby took over. “We’d collected data on the Dhryn System, including planetary orbits, solar intensity, and so forth. You have to keep in mind we went to—” he seemed at a loss for the name.
“Myriam,” Mac helped without thinking. Damn. She knew better than to encourage this.
But his smile was so heartfelt and sincere Mac knew she’d committed herself for good. Another memo, she sighed inwardly, so the Sinzi-ra isn’t perplexed by reports on planet ‘Myriam.’ Kirby had continued, meanwhile. “We went to Myriam to answer questions about the destruction occurring throughout the Chasm. Our initial results showed climate change wasn’t implicated, although plenty took place following. Last few months, To’o and I were pretty much left to predicting sandstorms.” He surveyed their display with possessive pride. “Wobbly little orbit, isn’t it?”
“One way to put it.” Mac traced the line without letting her finger invade the active portion of the image. “It doesn’t take much,�
� she murmured. “How would this affect the planet?”
“We’ll have to do more detailed models,” explained To’o, “but my preliminary estimate is that before whatever happened to cause the Chasm-effect, Myriam cycled through polar desertification every five hundred plus orbits.”
“At the same time as one pole baked dry, the opposite pole may have experienced near ice age conditions,” Kirby offered. “We’re not sure. It’s a tight orbit. Might have been enough solar radiation transmitted throughout the atmosphere to keep the entire planet above freezing. If so, it would likely have been very wet in temperate zones, ocean currents would have shifted, upper air movements be affected.” His voice conveyed awe. “Frankly, an Earth-type seasonal change would have been trivial compared to this. I don’t know how a culture would cope.”
“More to the point,” Mac said, straightening, “how would life?”
“You said migration—but can this fit the bill?” Kirby sounded doubtful suddenly. “I’m no biologist, but aren’t migrations annual? Running from winter, that sort of thing. Five hundred year cycles?” He shook his head. “I dunno, Mac.”
Mac didn’t quite smile. “Nothing is that simple. There are species on Earth, like my salmon, who only migrate when their bodies are ready to reproduce, however many years that takes. There are others whose individuals never complete a migration, having generations born, reproduce, then die as steps along that journey. Look at us,” Mac put a hand on Kirby and To’o’s shoulder, feeling the differences in the joints beneath her fingers. “If there’s anything biologists have learned, it’s that life offers a variety of ways to get the job done. Survival first.”
“We’ll get on a model for you,” To’o offered. “Should let us infer what conditions existed over evolutionary time lines.”
“I look forward to it. Good work, you two.”
Mac left the climatologists and began wandering the large room, listening to conversations and the hum of equipment. There were no looks of condemnation today. If anything, there were a few more sympathetic smiles than she liked, each of which she had to acknowledge with a polite nod.
Migration: Species Imperative #2 Page 30