Migration: Species Imperative #2

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Parymn wrapped his free arms around his middle and rocked gently. Mac could feel thrums of distress through the floor. “He could not have changed yet. Even if he had . . . our final form is known to Her,” he whispered. “During grathnu, she tastes what we will be. I carry that knowledge. Brymn Las . . .” His eyes winked open and closed repeatedly, their blue covers flashing like strobes. “I had to learn his fate. Brymn Las was to be one of the glorious ones. Not—not mere hands and mouths—a mindless, servile beast. He was to be one of our lights, our guides to the Return. Our future.” He rocked harder. “It is impossible. Impossible. Impossible.”

  “Brymn . . . a Progenitor?” Involuntarily, Mac’s hand rose to her mouth, as if to hold in the word. “What—what could have gone wrong?” She grabbed the Dhryn’s nearest elbow, gave it a sharp tug. “Parymn Ne Sa Las. Please. That’s not what happened. I swear it to you. Is there anything that can change the final form? Could the Progenitor have been wrong?”

  “IMPOSSIBLE!” His arm flung outward, sending Mac skidding across the floor.

  She rolled to her hands and knees, reassuring Nik and the others with a look, then stood, rubbing one hip. Not good for the head either, she told herself, shaking off a wave of dizziness. Should have seen that coming, Em.

  Parymn was huddled on the floor again. Stepping over the remains of the tray and its contents, Mac knelt by his head. She rested her hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm and dry; it quivered at her touch as if to shake her off. “I will find this truth for the Progenitor,” she promised. “I will learn what happened to Brymn Las. Rest, Parymn Ne Sa Las.”

  Mac collected the tubes and tray, then went to the cage door. Nik opened it for her, his face pale and set. He’d trusted her judgment. Grateful, she held out her hand and Nik took it in his, using that hold to draw her from the cage. Someone else, One, took the tray.

  “Are you injured, Mac?” Cinder asked, eyestalks bent forward at her.

  “From that?” she forced a chuckle, but didn’t let go of Nik. “Parymn wasn’t trying to hurt me—just get rid of me. He’s a little shaky at the moment. I went a bit farther than I should.”

  “What did you find out?”

  For a fleeting moment, Mac had the unsettling impression that worlds upon worlds of beings suddenly hushed, waiting for her answer to Nik’s question. Foolish, Em?

  Still, for all she knew, the Sinzi were broadcasting what was viewed from this room.

  “Mac?”

  Brymn. She couldn’t talk about him, not yet, not here, not to all those listening.

  Not when she didn’t understand.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Quieter, with an undertone of concern.

  If Brymn Las should have Flowered into a Progenitor— how was it possible that he’d changed into the feeder form instead?

  “Mac,” sharper.

  Mac gave Nik a smile. “Sorry. I was trying to remember the names of the foods Parymn wanted. He’s on the mend. We should have a good session once he’s rested a bit more.” She looked at those she could see, One, Two, and Cinder, and thought of those she couldn’t, then deliberately put weight on her hand in Nik’s, as if needing his support.

  “Time for you to rest as well,” he said immediately. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

  “Mr. Hollans awaits your report, Nik,” Two disagreed.

  One added: “We will escort Mac to her rooms.” Two continued: “And discuss with her the importance of absolute discretion.”

  Mac snorted and Nik smiled. “No need for that,” he informed both staff before she could make an acid comment.

  She squeezed Nik’s hand once, then released it, letting her eyes say what she couldn’t. “Then I’ll see you later, Mr. Trojanowski.”

  But it was the huddled Dhryn she glanced back to see before the door closed between them.

  And the question he’d given her was what kept her silent during the trip back to the surface.

  Why had Brymn transformed at all?

  - Encounter -

  THAT WHICH IS DHRYN has followed the Taste, followed the path. There is harmony. Concordance. The Great Journey must be completed.

  That which is Dhryn resists change.

  That which is Dhryn resists . . . resists . . . resists . . . . . . succumbs. Obedience to the Call is the Way as well. Change.

  That which is Dhryn follows the new path.

  At night, even without moonlight, jungles aren’t quiet. This one was no exception, although the babble of voices was an addition that startled most inhabitants into hiding.

  It attracted others.

  Movement began, high in the canopy. Stealthy, cautious movement. The kind that let one watch for rivals as well as predators.

  Not that predators were allowed here. This was, after all, a civilized jungle, with wide paths to prevent the snagging of fine cloth on a rough branch; paved, to protect expensive shoes. It even boasted landing fields, so visitors needn’t exhaust themselves reaching . . . here.

  The voices were closer. There was laughter. The sort of nervous laughter that meant some weren’t sure being here was such a good idea. Maybe some weren’t as ready as others. It wouldn’t matter.

  Movement reached the tree trunks, became a climb downward. Always careful. Always ready.

  Always . . . hungry.

  A rival came too close. The battle joined, loud and urgent. The voices were silenced by it; footsteps ceased.

  Movement continued.

  As if only now realizing the nature of this place and their purpose in it, the voices began again, but lower, more . . . eager. The need to be here, in the dark, had supplanted any other.

  The voices drifted apart, not to seek, but to be found.

  The movement became quicker, came from every direction. Battle raged at each trespass, but more kept coming. The hunger was upon them all.

  The jungle night rang with startled cries of ecstasy.

  Until the rain began to fall.

  And the cries became screams.

  Then silence.

  - 16 -

  CONUNDRUM AND CHANGE

  MAC SHOOED One and Two from her bedroom, feeling as if she was back at Base and dealing with overly helpful grad students. Despite Nik’s assurance, they’d been unable to resist “briefing” her on the Sinzi’s requirements for secrecy all the way to her quarters. Only those approved by the Sinzi-ra could know about the Dhryn. Only information assessed by the Sinzi-ra could be passed along to those who knew about the Dhryn. And so on.

  Rubbing her throbbing temples, Mac avoided so much as a look at the extraordinary bed, walking through to the sitting room with the intention of splashing water on her face, then heading down to meet her team. New questions to ask; hard ones.

  But two steps into what had been the sitting room, Mac stopped. “Oh my,” she whispered.

  The Sinzi’s fish table was still there, its improbable contents moving in and out of rays of sunlight that didn’t match those shining through the windows. The jelly-chairs remained, and the sand on the floor.

  Everything else was hers.

  Her desk, reassembled complete with clutter, was in front of the rain-streaked window, her chair where she liked it. There were new shelves on one wall, white, but filled with her things. The silly screen stood guard by the curved Sinzi mirror, complete with an old sweater tossed over it, while salmon . . .

  Salmon hung everywhere. Wood glowed where light caught an edge. Potent lines of black and red outlined fins, eyes, and gave meaning. Their shadows schooled across the white walls and ceilings, oblivious to gravity, intent on life.

  Her salmon.

  “You’re early!” Mudge gasped as he came out of the closet and saw her. He was carrying an armload of beads which he promptly dropped on his feet. As he bent to retrieve his burden, he muttered something she couldn’t hear over the rattle and clank of the beads.

  “You did this?” Mac asked incredulously.

  Feet rescued, Mudge fumbled the beads into
a mass against his chest and stood looking at her with charming despair. His hair, what there was, was sweat-soaked to his scalp, and he was out of breath. “Ah. Norcoast. Back so soon. How was your meeting?”

  “You did this?” she repeated.

  He gave an offended-sounding harrumph and actually scowled at her. “You’d left a mess in there.” A jerk of his head to the closet behind him came close to freeing the beads again. “And we have to do something with these,” he said anxiously, struggling to contain the noisy things.

  Mac didn’t know whether to laugh or burst into tears. As either reaction would no doubt embarrass her benefactor, she merely blinked a couple of times and asked: “What did you have in mind?”

  It turned out that he wanted them on the terrace. Mac followed Mudge outside, and helped hold the mass of beads while he climbed on chairs and affixed the end of each strand above the French doors. She was impressed. He’d obtained some type of glue from the staff that was delivered by spray. It seemed to hold well. Probably need a chisel to get them off again, Mac judged.

  Her hair danced against her face in the light breeze allowed through the Sinzi’s screen. The air was cool enough Mac was glad of her jacket. Better than the basement, she thought. “Why outside?” she asked him, passing up the next strand.

  Mudge glanced down at her, one hand pressed against the door for support. He’d already left a series of sweaty palm prints on the glass—or whatever the transparent material was. The staff would not be pleased. They obsessed about her footprints in the sand, raking them away every time she left. As if a person could float to the washroom. “Outside?” he repeated. “Where else do you expect the Ro to come from—the basement?”

  As this was far too close to her own notions for comfort, Mac wisely shut up and kept helping.

  “That’s the last of them,” Mudge said with distinct pride as he stepped down from the chair a few moments later. Mac managed to save both from tipping over. The chair was more grateful, Mudge shaking her hand free with an annoyed harrumph.

  The strands weren’t evenly spaced. They didn’t even all hang straight down, a couple having a decided list. They did, however, thoroughly fill the space left when the doors opened. The noisemakers within the beads were heavy enough they wouldn’t sound at the harmless touch of a sea breeze.

  It would take a body trying to push past them, or a hand trying to move them aside, to sound the alarm.

  When they finished, instead of “Thank you,” Mac merely asked: “You hungry, Oversight?”

  But she wouldn’t forget. What Mudge had done was an act of friendship as pure and real as anything she’d have expected from Emily.

  Nik had known, when she had not.

  “You’re late.”

  “Lunch meeting. Anything come up?” As she waited for Lyle to open his imp—implying something had—Mac let her eyes wander the Origins’ room, noticing nothing unusual, unless she counted a second Myg. “Who’s that?” she asked.

  Lyle glanced up. “Who? Oh. Ueen-something. Nope, Uneen-something. Unensela, that’s it. I have an awful memory for Myg names. All the vowels. She’s your xenopaleoecologist.”

  “Just Unensela . . .no number?” Mac asked.

  “Number?” His pale eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. “You were expecting a number? She’s female.”

  Would every single Human she’d meet here know more about aliens than she did? Mac asked herself with exasperation. “Any good?”

  “Your friend thinks so. Hasn’t been more than three steps away since she arrived.”

  Sure enough, Fourteen was hovering behind his fellow Myg like Lee used to hover around Emily—until that worthy would send him on an errand or four. “This Unensela better know her stuff,” Mac muttered under her breath.

  She brought her attention back to the archaeologist, who was, rightly, wondering why she wasn’t looking at the display hovering between them over the conference table. He’d commandeered it as a very large desk, shoving what appeared the remains of the communal lunch to one end. “Sorry. What am I looking at, Lyle?”

  “This is from Sergio’s most recent assays of Dhryn ceramics from the ruins on their home world. I’ve correlated them against the references you gave us yesterday—Brymn Las’ work—and the results are, well, you can see it’s quite remarkable.”

  Mac dutifully examined the complex three-dimensional chart, then turned back to Lyle. “Salmon,” she reminded him. “I know ceramics are in tiles and mugs, that’s it. Tell me what this means.”

  “Biologist.” He had the gall to grin at her, then put his hand inside the chart, pulling at a serpentine mass until it expanded to reveal more, to Mac, incomprehensible detail. “Ceramics is an entire field of engineering. You can build a civilization around it. Several in the IU have. Dhryn were very good ceramic engineers. Were,” he emphasized. “A long time ago, over a relatively short period of time, ceramics virtually disappear from their technology. There’s a massive switch to other materials. Plastics. Metals. Spun glass. Microgravity crystals. Now your friend didn’t have access to our fieldwork. All he had to go on were artifacts from within the Chasm purported to be Dhryn. From before the event. None were ceramic, Mac. None.”

  “Imports,” Mac guessed. “You’re thinking the change in the Dhryn materials came when the Dhryn home system was first opened to others by a transect. New technology arrives, better than the old. We see it here.”

  Lyle bit his lip and closed the display with a quick gesture. “No, we don’t. Here we take alien technology and blend it with the best or most popular of our own. Half the time, no one remembers what came first, but you can find the roots if you look. This? The Dhryn abandoned everything they had and replaced it. That’s not a natural pattern, Mac.”

  “The Haven Dhryn had tile mosaics on their buildings.” Lovely ones, she remembered, as well as outright jokes on passersby.

  “Alien technology, Mac. Sergio’s already determined the Dhryn imported their ceramics from other species after joining the IU.”

  “Give me a time line.” A moment later, Mac stared at the resulting display. “That’s . . . old.”

  Lyle leaned so close to the display that millennia played over his pale cheekbones. “We estimate the Chasm was home to a thriving interspecies culture like the IU when our particular ancestors had pointed noses and hunted bugs.”

  “Connected by transects made by the Ro.”

  A few more had come up to listen. One volunteered: “We don’t know that.”

  Another: “Of course they were. The Chasm transects were reactivated when the Sinzi re-initialized the Naralax Transect from the Hift System.”

  “All of them?” Mac asked, curious. “What if some were destroyed—or connected in other ways?”

  “The Sinzi sent probes designed to generate random destinations into every transect they encountered, Mac, probes that could multiply and send copies of themselves through any additional gates. All returned to their starting point in the Hift. The Chasm transects form a closed network. Everyone knows that.”

  Everyone? Mac didn’t protest.

  “Why?” She frowned at the now larger half circle of researchers.

  “That’s how many systems were ready for the technology,” someone offered.

  Mac held her hands up, palms together, fingertips touching. “I meant, why a bottle?”

  Mutters of “Bottle?” “What bottle?” “What’s she talking about?” went around the group.

  With a look to get Lyle’s permission, Mac replaced his imp with hers and set the screen high enough so that all could see it. She pulled up a map of the Tannu River watershed. “If I wanted to count all of the salmon born and ready to migrate from every one of these lakes and streams, I could wait here.” She pointed to the mouth of the Tannu, where it opened into the Castle Inlet. “It’s like a bottle, with only one opening. So is the Chasm, if I understand you correctly. Why build something with only one opening? Control over what moves in or out.”
>
  “But the Dhryn were already inside,” Lyle protested.

  “Yes,” Mac agreed. “They were.”

  A buzz of conversation started around the edges of the now-complete group, much of it involving jargon that didn’t translate in Instella or any language Mac knew. A pair sat at one end of the table to argue with each other. She waited.

  The Sthlynii, Therin, had sat beside her. Sure enough, he found an inconsistency. “If there was only one ‘opening’ to the Chasm, and it led only to the Hift System, how did the Dhryn escape? You said they claimed to be pursued by the Myrokynay until they found a hiding place in the Haven System. But how did they get there?”

  “I’m not sure even the Progenitors know,” Mac said.

  “Sublight?” this from one of the Chasm Ghoul followers.

  “They’d still be in transit,” from Therin, with disapproval. “We’re talking no more than three thousand years.”

  “The IU connected the Naralax Transect to the Dhryn’s new home,” observed Lyle. No frowns or remarks followed, a testament, Mac judged, to the respect the Sinzi had earned with their care in choosing new species to invite into the union.

  If any other species had let the Dhryn out of their system, there would have been blame enough to start wars.

  “I don’t know about you,” one of the Humans looked around at the rest, “but I really don’t like the idea that the Dhryn ships might have the capability to form their own passages.”

  “We haven’t seen it,” Therin said calmly.

  “Yet.”

  “If they could do it, they wouldn’t risk using transects.”

  “What if they do?”

  The room filled with speculation. Mac let it go a while, finding and meeting Lyle’s eyes. She waited until she saw them widen with comprehension, then she stood to get everyone’s attention. When they were quiet, she asked: “What is a planetary system without a transect?”