Migration: Species Imperative #2

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Anchen’s doing. During breakfast, Mac learned that last night the Sinzi had sent everyone a copy of the report the consulate had received on her experiences with the Dhryn. She’d held a faint hope not all had taken the time to read it, but, from the looks now—and given their original attitude toward her—it seemed everyone had.

  Personally, while Mac had planned to give her colleagues any information that might trigger a connection or produce an idea, she hadn’t planned to share every detail of the events themselves. Not going to guess, Em, what these people think now.

  She supposed she should relax and be grateful her team no longer believed she’d been imprisoned as a murderous traitor to her kind.

  “Someone die?”

  At the sound of Fourteen’s voice, Mac started, then smiled and shook her head. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

  “Idiot.”

  “Probably. Did you want something? I was going to talk to Lyle.”

  “Talk to me first. Outside.”

  He wasn’t happy about something. Mac gave a discreet sniff, detecting nothing but mint. Without argument, she followed Fourteen from the Origins room out to the Sinzi version of a corridor, which consisted of a broad ramplike balcony that wound around a central opening, eventually reaching every floor of the building. A few pigeons perched on the edges, taking full advantage of the practice of wide-open doors every morning. Mac presumed they’d find their way out again or be fed. Then again, she thought, amused, maybe they’d be fed to some of the delegates.

  “Well?” asked Mac when they were out of earshot of the room. “Quickly, please, Fourteen. I’d like to get back.”

  “Your Dhryn, Brymn Las. You said he’d published work on the Chasm, correct?”

  “Yes, of course.” She frowned. “What’s this about?”

  “Significant work?”

  “Yes,” Mac said again. “I believe some are considered definitive on the subject. Core texts. Why?”

  The Myg’s answer sent her marching straight back into the research room, straight to Lyle Kanaci. He looked up as Mac approached, then stood with alarm as her expression registered.

  Good, Mac thought. Despite an overwhelming urge to shout and tear hair, not necessarily hers, she toned her voice to quiet fury. “How dare you refuse to use the work of the foremost expert on Chasm archaeology?”

  Lyle’s face settled into stubborn lines. Silence spread in ripples from them. So much for subtle, Em. “You lost your wife,” she snapped. “Are you willing to lose everyone in this room—everyone and everything alive on this planet—the same way?”

  He opened his mouth, face ashen. Mac quelled whatever he was about to say with a sharp upward gesture of her hand. “Use your grief and rage however you want,” she continued just as angrily, meaning them all to hear. “But don’t let it blind you. Don’t ever let it think for you.”

  She took a ragged breath. “Brymn spent his life seeking the truth about what destroyed the worlds of the Chasm. I hope none of us ever feels how he must have felt, to learn it was his own kind, to have his own body betray everything he believed.” Mac’s eyes never left Lyle’s. “I will not permit his life’s work to be lost or ignored. How dare you . . .” She lost her voice somewhere in fury, then regained it. “I will supply complete sets of Brymn’s work to everyone on the Origins Team. If you or anyone is unwilling to use it, find somewhere else to be. I won’t work with you.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mac spun on her heel and left.

  “No one left.”

  Mac’s fingers tightened their grip on the terrace railing, but she gave no other indication she’d doubted the outcome. “Lyle?”

  “Staying, Norcoast, but not happy.” Mudge leaned on his elbows beside her, shaking his head. He reached out to touch the invisible barrier protecting them both from the blustery northwest wind and the driving rain it carried. “He’ll be looking for flaws in the Dhryn’s research, questioning every piece of data, suspecting hidden motives. Could be difficult.”

  She turned her head to grin at him. “Sounds familiar.”

  Mudge pretended to be shocked. “If you are implying a comparison to my annual reviews, the word you want is ‘thorough.’ ”

  “Not ‘obsessive’?” she chuckled, then relented. “Thanks for bringing me the news. I knew the consulate had everything I needed. It’s already been sent to their imps and consoles. Now all I have to do is unpack.”

  “Your belongings arrived?”

  In a manner of speaking. Mac straightened. “Let me show you.”

  She led Mudge back through her bedroom and the sitting room, to where a new door had appeared—or rather been revealed, since Mac didn’t doubt it had always been there—since she’d left this morning. She pushed it open and waved Mudge to precede her. “Watch your head,” she cautioned as she followed.

  Behind the door was, for lack of a better term, the Sinzi version of a closet. It was more like a warehouse. Larger than the sitting room, but with a floor constructed of the same weatherproof material as the terrace, the closet had no window on the outer wall. Instead, that wall was sectioned and fitted with a mechanism to both open and extend its panels into what Mac assumed was a landing pad for a t-lev. A rope of bright light ran along the junction of walls and ceiling.

  The three inner walls, other than the entranceway, were studded with hooks, as was the ceiling. From each hook hung a large bag, roughly the length of a Human being, but varying in width. There were dozens, the ones from the ceiling swaying gently.

  “When I first saw this, I thought it was a Sinzi nursery,” Mac said. Mudge, who’d gone to the center of the closet and was poking at a bag above his head, quickly withdrew his hand. “It isn’t,” Mac laughed. She grabbed a strap attached to a bag hanging near the door, using it to pull down both bag and hook. The assembly paused where she stopped it, and Mac tugged open the bag, stepping to one side as she did.

  Boxes and boots tumbled out on the floor. Her boots, still caked with mud from the pod roof. Mac regarded them fondly. Such a homey touch in an alien closet.

  “You mentioned the word ‘thorough,’ Oversight?” Mac flung her arm at the bags on every side. “This would appear to be an example. They must have—” she paused to grunt with the effort of pulling down two more bags at once, “—brought everything that wasn’t attached.”

  Mudge helped her free the bags’ contents. Sure enough, they were shortly surrounded by a mix of sweaters, wooden salmon, and an eclectic variety of lab equipment. “Wrong—some things were attached,” he offered, holding up the end support of Mac’s desk for inspection.

  She shook her head in astonishment. Sing-li, or whoever he’d sent, was a literal sort.

  The floor was soon littered with the contents of Mac’s office and lab. Nothing was in order, but it was all intact. They began taking turns moving items to the other room to leave space for more. On one such trip, Mac returned to find Mudge hurriedly closing the bag he’d just brought down from the ceiling. “What is it?” she asked, curious. He hadn’t flinched when her underwear had come flying out past his head.

  “Stuffed llama. With sunglasses.” Mudge gave her a wide-eyed look. “Is that yours?”

  Emily’s things. “Of course. I don’t need it now. Please close it up, Oversight.” Mac looked up at the rest of the bags hanging from the ceiling.

  They had brought everything.

  He looked, too. “Let’s stop here,” he suggested reasonably, arms limp at his sides. Sweat beaded his forehead and cheeks. The bags had held heavy equipment as well as pressed leaves. “You can’t need all of this immediately. You probably don’t need any,” this opinion with a scowl at her curtain beads, piled around his feet. “We should get back to the team.”

  “I want to give them some time to go over Brymn’s material without me breathing down their necks. Or whatevers.” Mac kept digging through a stack of promising reference works. They’d been near her desk. Her desk had had her imp. Mind you, dismantling her desk h
adn’t helped in using it as a locator. The parts were spread among fifteen bags so far. “Have to find my imp,” she insisted.

  “You have one.”

  “That?” Mac shook her head, burrowing deeper. Inside a bag she’d thought empty was a small assortment of objects, difficult to see and too deep to reach. She half climbed inside. “One of Fourteen’s,” she said, voice muffled by fabric. “I want mine.”

  It wasn’t just her voice that was muffled. She could barely make out Mudge saying something. “Can’t hear you,” she muttered, feeling the end of a promising cylinder. “Aha!” Sample bottle. Mac put it down and leaned in farther.

  Another voice answered Mudge’s, deeper and familiar.

  Mac squirmed out of the bag, hands clutching whatever they’d last grabbed, and half staggered to her feet. A guest?

  In her closet?

  “Norcoast, meet my friend at the consulate, Stefan Young, the one who helped arrange for me to stay. We’ve known each other for years.” Mudge beamed, his hand on the shoulder of the man he was introducing. “Stefan stopped by to see how I was doing. Stefan, this is Dr. Mackenzie Connor.”

  The suit and cravat were immaculate. The glasses gleamed. The brown hair was neatly trimmed above the collar, the skin of cheek and chin free of beard. Perhaps the smile was a bit forced, the eyes caught by her bandaged scalp.

  But otherwise, Mac decided, Nikolai Trojanowski appeared in fine form.

  “Hello, Dr. Connor.”

  - Encounter -

  THE GREAT JOURNEY must continue. That which is Dhryn cannot falter. All that is Dhryn must move.

  That which is Dhryn . . . starves.

  That which is Dhryn remembers this place, knows its Taste, rushes forward.

  Then stops. There is not enough here to sustain the Journey. That which is Dhryn cannot afford waste of effort.

  But it is the way of the Great Journey, that all must follow the Taste.

  That which is Dhryn . . . moves.

  “Did you check the L-array, David? It’s been acting up.”

  “Yes, Mom, I checked the L-array.”

  The woman alone in the operations booth winced at the patience in his tone. “Asked already, have I?”

  “Twice, but who’s counting?”

  “Obviously you. A little respect for your commander, young man, if you please, or I’ll make you wait to park your shuttle until Maggie’s brought the freighter up.”

  “Fine by me. Sooner I park, the sooner I’m back cleaning tubes.” A pause. “Just kidding, Mom.”

  “I know. C’mon in. You should be in time for supper. Thanks for the check, David.”

  “Shuttle coming in, Commander Mom.”

  His laugh lingered, warming ops. Even so, her eyes wandering ceaselessly over the remote feeds, Anita Brukman lost her smile.

  She couldn’t ask often enough. They couldn’t be careful enough.

  They’d survived once—if surviving was blowing clear of the station as her seals dissolved and hatches breached to vacuum—if surviving was listening to the desperate, futile struggles of those too late to escape pods or shuttles—if surviving was returning to make repairs and go back to the work and ship out ore as if everyone else who should be there, be part of your life forever . . . wasn’t gone.

  Anita drew a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. They’d survived and they were careful. Fact was, the station was close to shipping at sixty percent capacity again, or would be once Maggie’s freighter was filled and on her way. A tribute to Human determination, the company rep called it. Bonuses all around by tour’s end.

  As if fate heard her, two-thirds of the remote feeds flared red at once.

  The com crackled with overlapping shouts: “Incoming!” “Dhryn everywhere.” “They’re heading for the station!”

  Then, one voice, with a calmness that made her proud: “Mom, get to the shuttle bay. I’m coming for you.”

  “It’s too late, David,” Anita said gently. “Go. Everyone in a ship. Go.”

  Seals began to breach. A claxon would sound as long as air carried it.

  “Mom.”

  “David.” Anita put her hand on the cold metal of the station wall and closed her eyes.

  “I love you,” she told him.

  One last time.

  - 14 -

  ACQUAINTANCE AND ANGUISH

  “THIS ISN’T A SOCIAL call, Charles,” Stefan/Nik informed them both. He’d acquired a faint accent Mac couldn’t place; it changed his voice significantly. More annoying spy stuff, Em. She frowned, mind racing with questions, none pleasant, about ‘Stefan’s’ connection to Mudge. But he didn’t give her time to say anything at all. “Dr. Connor, I’m to escort you to reception. There’s someone to see you. Please come with me.”

  Mac’s hands lost their grip, the objects in them falling to the floor with a clatter. She couldn’t help the hope.

  She couldn’t utter it.

  Mudge harrumphed. “Dr. Mamani?” he asked, for her sake. A kindness. “Is she here?”

  Even through the glasses, Mac could read the flash of pity in those hazel eyes. “No,” she answered, for him.

  To recover, she bent to pick up what she’d dropped. Another sample bottle, this filled with salmon otoliths from three years ago, a hairbrush she didn’t use anymore, and . . . her imp. Well, Em, Mac told herself, feeling hollow, something positive. She clutched it in her hand and tossed the other items back in the bag.

  “Dr. Connor. If you’d come with me, please? We’re pressed for time.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said quietly. Mudge puffed out his cheeks and Mac shook her head at him. “You should get back to the group.”

  A disapproving look. “What about all this?”

  Mac held up her imp. “Now it can wait. Thanks for your help, Oversight. I’ll check in later.”

  Mudge patted Stefan/Nik on the shoulder. “You’re in good hands, Norcoast.” To Nik, “Make sure she gets lunch, Stefan. Something nourishing.”

  This, Mac decided, was too bizarre for words. Both Nik and Mudge had some explaining to do.

  It wasn’t going to be now. Nik was already out of the closet and through the sitting room, walking so quickly Mac was reasonably sure he’d have sand in his shoes. With a last look and an apologetic shrug at Mudge, who was stepping his way free of her beads, Mac followed.

  She caught up with Nik as he led the way down the corridor ramp to the nearest lift. The suit disguised any tension in his shoulders or posture—convenient, that—but she felt it coming in waves from him anyway. Something wasn’t right.

  Mac grimaced. Nothing new there, Em.

  Once in the lift, Nik waited for the door to close. The Sinzi-built device responded to voice or an input pad with five choices, corresponding to the four aboveground floors and the roof. He didn’t use any of these, instead placing his hand flat on the wall beside the pad and pressing it there. “This will work for you as well, Dr. Connor,” he said, still with the accent. The lift began to drop. There was no sensation, but lights coursed down the sides to indicate movement, a brief ring of green announcing every floor. Three. Two. One.

  “ ‘Stefan?’ ” she commented, watching the lights.

  “Long story.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  They kept going. The flashes reflected from Nik’s glasses as he looked at her, hiding his expression.

  She’d been sure there was a basement. Just never planned to go there, Em.

  They kept going, floors blinking by so rapidly Mac lost count at seven below ground.

  They kept going.

  Finally, Nik removed his hand and the lift stopped.

  “Reception?” Mac asked dubiously as the doors opened on a white, featureless corridor, flat and long.

  “In a sense. Please hurry.”

  Hurry? Mac swallowed and kept up with Nik, giving a little hop every three steps to match his longer ones.

  The corridor ended at another, perpendicular to the first. A figure stepped o
ut from the left in front of them. With astonishing quickness, Nik pushed her to that wall and down, using the effort to dodge right and to the floor himself, his hand swinging up to aim before Mac knew he’d drawn his palm-sized weapon.

  And before she had time to be more than shocked, Nik was putting his weapon away again. “What happened to patience?” he asked, accent gone.

  It was a Trisulian. Mac automatically counted eyestalks—two upper, no lower—as the being answered: “Patience, my good Nikolai, is a virtue without value at this time. Dr. Connor. Forgive my partner’s deplorable reflexes. Are you all right?”

  Partner? One hand on the wall, Mac rose to her feet. By the feel, she’d have a bruise on her shoulder, another on her hip. As for her head? Bah. “Mac. And yes, I’m fine, thanks.” She couldn’t help herself. “Partner?”

  Nik gestured to the alien. “Meet Cinder. Who usually knows better than to surprise me.” This with a glare.

  An eyestalk coyly bent in his direction. “You haven’t shot me yet.”

  “Day’s young.”

  “I thought we were in a hurry,” Mac commented dryly.

  Nik gave her the strangest look before he nodded brusquely, motioning her to follow the Trisulian.

  Recognizing the look, Mac felt a chill as she obeyed. Why sympathy, Em? Who or what was waiting for her?

  Whatever it was, it was well-protected. They took the left corridor as it gradually bent to the right. Following the cliff and coastline, not the building, Mac deduced. Along the way, Nik and Cinder escorted her through three checkpoints, set equidistant along the plain white hall, the last two within sight of each other.

  The checkpoints appeared an afterthought. At each, a member of the consular staff waited at a table set to block half the width of the corridor. The remaining gap was guarded by an assortment of aliens, also in the yellow consular uniform, but with armor showing beneath—those who didn’t have their own natural version. After the second of these pauses, during which the staff courteously inquired after their needs and clearances, questions Nik answered for her, Mac decided the choice of guards wasn’t completely random. No two of the same species were present at one checkpoint. IU policy? she wondered as they passed the third. To prevent collusion—or share some risk?