Mac watched a bubble struggle toward the surface and knew why. It wasn’t learning about Emily’s sources, or her poor choice in obsessions.
This time, she was the one with a secret.
Why was the Origins Team still on Earth? Because she’d refused to let them leave with the rest. Those in charge wanted Emily close to medical treatment and protection. Then there was the ever-hopeful wait for Emily’s brain to process anything useful about no-space and the Ro.
And if Emily had to stay, so would Mac.
Something plaid got in the way of the dance floor, and Mac waved impatiently until it was gone. She spotted Emily in the arms of Mr. Ruggedly and relaxed.
Mac yawned again and sat up, wondering if it was time to order coffee instead.
She smiled at a familiar laugh, loud and abandoned. Points to Mr. Ruggedly.
It wasn’t only the attractive stranger willing to tango to anything. As realization hit, Mac’s smile faded. It was this thoroughly Human place bringing the old Emily back, from the stale air to the seats worn comfortable by the personal attention of generations of posteriors shaped like theirs. Okay, some several sizes larger, Mac corrected absently, shifting on the lumpy bench. Emily had needed—
“Watchit!”
The outcry was a signal for pandemonium to break loose. Mac snatched her beer glass to safety as a body, in plaid, landed on the table in front of her. She blinked as Mr. Plaid scrambled to his feet, teeth bared in a wild grin and shouting something highly improbable about someone else’s mother. He vanished into the mêlée.
For that’s what now filled the pub as far as Mac could see. Beer in hand, she climbed to stand on the bench, wrapping her other arm around the post behind it in case Mr. Plaid flew her way again. Or someone else. She tried to spot Emily in the press of bodies.
As barroom brawls went, this was starting out an orderly affair. Everyone seemed happily paired with a sparring partner of equal gusto, and the furniture was staying on the floor. Mind you, Mac hadn’t bothered to check if the chairs and tables were bolted down as a precaution. No sign of what had started it. There rarely was.
As a precaution, she finished her beer in three quick gulps and, gently, rolled the empty glass under the table where it could keep her sandals company and not become a weapon if things turned nasty. She lurched over the table to grab Emily’s shawl, a move involving a somewhat precarious dance with one foot on the table and the other planted firmly in sagging upholstery.
With a crow of success, Mac stood upright on the bench again, absently rolling her prize into a tube to tie snugly around her waist. She craned her neck.
There! Mac caught sight of glossy black hair and shouted: “Em! Over here!”
Somehow, Emily heard. She waved her arm, pointing at the door. Mac nodded and grinned. She considered the pair currently wrestling beside her table, albeit with little success and significant grunting, and chose to swing her legs over the back of the bench, dropping into the next booth.
Which wasn’t empty.
“ ‘Just a quiet evening out,’ ” Sing-li Jones quoted mildly.
Mac almost fell, keeping herself upright only by quickly sitting on the narrow rail dividing the booths. “This,” she informed him with what dignity she had left, gesturing at the brawl, “is not our fault.” The belch that punctuated the last word wasn’t her fault either. Chugging beer did it every time.
The Ministry agent was slouched comfortably in the shadowed corner, for all the world like someone too drunk to care about the fight. He coughed a couple of times before saying: “I see.”
“And I’m not drunk,” she informed him. Mac eyed the half full glass in front of Sing-li. “Yet,” she clarified. A shame, that. She could feel the weight of responsibility sliding back, as inevitable as the morning after. Despite being perched on the back of a bar bench, surrounded by the good-natured thump and crash of Humans being themselves, her mind helplessly began to ticktock through means to avoid tomorrow’s meetings while setting priorities for the day’s research.
“You’ve lost your shoes.”
What else was new? Mac wiggled her bare toes, eyes searching the dark room for the door and Emily. Odd the bartender hadn’t upped the lights to illuminate the fight. “Emily’s heading for the exit,” she said, abruptly uneasy. Sliding down to the bench, Mac scooted sideways to the edge of the table, preparing to launch herself into the crowd.
“Wait.” Gone was the slouching, casual Sing-li, replaced by the version she knew better—tough, capable, and determined above all else that if he couldn’t keep Mac out of trouble, he’d at least get there first.
On the scale of recent troubles, a bar fight barely registered so far as she was concerned, but Mac let the man do his job. Bare feet were a disadvantage. Not that sandals would have been much better. Next trip out? Solid sensible boots, she decided.
Sing-li was a good size by most Human standards, although Mac noticed The Feisty Weka was overly endowed with large men. Very large, annoyed men. Maybe being annoyed only made them seem larger, she thought hopefully, sticking close to Sing-li as he made his way after Emily. She winced as the Ministry agent took a low blow, then winced again as the person who’d struck him mysteriously faded to the floor with a shocked look on his face. “That’s hardly fair,” she hissed to his back.
Fair or not, her companion cleared their path. Mac stayed up on the balls of her feet as much as possible, grimacing as she stepped on, or in, who knew what. Hopefully not glass, she told herself, firmly banishing thoughts of Grimnoii and their reaction to cider.
Ugh. Slimy.
The wide door was open to the night, although stuffed with patrons enjoying the spectacle from its safer perspective. Sing-li lowered his shoulder as if to ram his way through, but the others parted amicably, pushing back into the doorway the instant Mac squeezed through.
“Well, that was fun—” she began cheerfully, looking around for Emily.
The road and sidewalk were deserted, except for a trio supporting each other as they stumbled away.
“Em?” Mac’s eyes widened. “Sing-li!”
“You stay here. Right here.” Sing-li’s tone brooked no argument. He didn’t wait for her nod as he strode off, his wrist to his mouth as he gave orders, doubtless bringing others into the hunt. Mac wrapped her arms around her waist and waited, standing within the overlapping circles of light at the entrance to the Weka. The sporadic bedlam from within made the outside world colder and too quiet.
No. No. No. Mac realized she was shaking her head repeatedly and stopped. She did her best not to think either, knowing she’d only blame herself for bringing Emily out too soon, which meant assuming the worst. And the worst meant . . .
No.
A few people passed her where she stood, on their way into the Weka, where the sounds of brawling had been replaced by music, loud and danceable. Must be a typical Saturday night here, Mac decided. An older woman hesitated, giving her a searching look. Mac did her best to look fascinated by the street.
“Are you all right?”
Mac the Transparent, Em called her.
“Waiting for a ride,” she said, hoping to forestall any questions.
As if on cue, Sing-li was back. He took her elbow, offering the other woman a smile. “And the wait’s over,” he announced with just the right mix of chagrin and cheer. “I’ve found the skim. You were right, dear, I’d parked it down that alley. Good night.” This to the woman, who hadn’t left, still not convinced about Mac’s situation.
Mac forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said, meaning it. “But I’m really all right. Have a nice evening—just stay out of the washroom.”
The woman rolled her eyes, relaxing. “Again? Appreciate the tip.” She went into the bar.
Sing-li bent to put his lips to Mac’s ear. “I found her. Steady—” This with concern as she sagged, his grip firm on her arm in support. “She’s okay, Mac. C’mon.”
He led Mac into the shadows along one side of the
building, around a corner to where overgrown shrubbery formed an arborlike opening. Seeing two silhouettes within that shelter, Mac stopped. “Wait,” she whispered. “It’s Mr. Ruggedly.”
“Who?”
Mac could feel the blush heating her cheeks and was once more grateful for the dark. “We should probably leave them be,” she suggested. “For a while.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he protested.
She snorted, albeit quietly. “And you don’t know Emily Mamani.”
“No wonder she gets along with Fourteen.”
Mac nodded. “Don’t I—Wait.” Something was wrong.
One of the figures had broken away, now coming toward them: the taller one, walking quickly as if about to break into a run. Mr. Ruggedly?
He didn’t appear to see them, so Sing-li stepped in front of Mac at the last minute, preventing a collision. “Out of my way!” the man ordered, despite being startled. He tried to get past; the Ministry agent persuaded him otherwise. Amazing, Mac thought distractedly, what an ability to loom intimidatingly could do, even in dim light.
“We’re Emily’s friends,” she said with haste. “We’ve been looking for her.”
“Good. I was coming to find you.” The relief in his voice sent an alarm through Mac. “Something’s—something’s wrong with her. It’s nothing I did, I swear—”
Mac pushed by both men, hurrying to the unmoving form in the shadows. Sing-li’s reassuring: “We’ll take care of her,” as he dealt with Mr. Ruggedly barely registered.
Emily was like a statue, staring at her gloved hands, their fingers outstretched and rigid before her face.
“—I tell them,” she was saying. “They missed one. This isn’t right.”
Mac caught her friend’s hands in hers. Emily resisted, making a fretful sound, but Mac held on until the other woman was still. “Time to go, Em,” she said then, keeping her voice light with an effort, aware of Sing-li as a silent, distressed shadow at her side.
Making another of those lightning recoveries, Emily tugged her hands free and laughed. “We can’t go home,” she asserted, whirling in place. Her skirt brushed Mac’s legs. “The dancing’s started again. C’mon, Mac. Night’s young!”
Suddenly, everything about this night and Emily crystallized in Mac’s mind. She considered the result. Could it really be that simple? she asked herself with wonder.
First, to get Emily away from The Feisty Weka. “Mr. Jones insists,” she claimed, knowing Sing-li would have already done so, if he’d thought it would work.
Next?
It remained to be seen if “simple” translated into Sinzi.
CONTACT
“IT’S A GHOST.” Meme spread his aural folds, a dismissive display to imply that no matter how much of his Human scan-tech’s verbal utterances he collected to process, they would never make sense. His predecessor had failed to convince Meme such species-specific gestures were not comprehended by the aliens.
Meme was sure this lack of comprehension had more to do with his predecessor’s unusually small aural folds. During the entire change of command ceremony, he’d needed all of his self-discipline not to stare.
Meme’s own aural folds were magnificently broad, their skin kept well-oiled and supple. He had brought—
“Or maybe it’s not.”
The Human’s strident voice intruded on Meme’s pleasantly semidormant state. Worse, she—the matter of the creature’s gender having been settled contrary to expectation, costing a fair sum in wagers—did not appear to have noticed Meme’s display. Nothing for it, the Ar sighed, but to actually pay attention. “What are you mumbling about, Scan-tech?”
“Oh. You’re awake?” The Human sat straighter and appeared confused. “Sorry, Captain. I’ve been following a tick in the aft sensor. Might be something.”
“Define ‘something.’ ”
“A ship, sir. Shadowing us.”
“No. There is no ‘something.’ No ship.” Meme closed his aural folds. Annoying Human. Their patrol area was days out from the transect gate—well beyond the orbit of what remained of the Dhryn world. Nice and safe and boring. No one and nothing came here. As if anything could get past the eager clusters of ships farther in.
Peaceful. Just the way he liked it.
“Captain?” Merciful silence. Then: “You can’t just ignore this!”
He certainly could.
What Meme couldn’t ignore was the shocking pain of his left aural fold being yanked open. “Captain! We must investigate any intrusion!”
Eyes watering, mouth working, Meme gestured helplessly at his tormentor.
She released his fold and Meme shuddered with relief. But the Human wasn’t done. She leaned forward until her hideous eyeballs almost touched his. “Or should I contact the Trisulian?”
Meme shuddered. At last count, there were fifteen hundred and sixty-four ships orbiting Haven’s sun, courtesy of the anxious governments of systems along the Naralax. Most were like this, quick, sensor-laden scouts capable of squealing a near-light com signal to the packet ships waiting by the gate, crewed by those willing to sit in the darkness and wait.
The Trisulian warship was the exception, a bristling mass of threat that gave the Ar hives to even contemplate. As for her grim captain? “Let’s not contact them unless we’re sure,” he pleaded, well versed in the reckless nature of females.
The Human gave him one final glare, then returned to her station. Meme took several calming breaths as he fingered his abused fold. Obviously Human females were no more stable than Trisulian. He could only hope she was capable. The Ar weren’t a wealthy or adventurous race. When the call had come for ships to watch Haven, the Sinzi-ra of the IU consulate on Arer had thoughtfully hired this Human ship and its crew, asking only that the Ar provide a volunteer of their species to captain.
Meme was the fourth Ar to so serve, while the three Human crew remained unchanged. It was as if they didn’t need a captain at all.
“Gotcha,” the scan-tech announced. “Transferring to the bridge monitor. And yours, Captain.”
Meme’s aural folds clenched in dread at the sight of the large ship floating almost in his lap. He drew up his toes and began crooning to himself, the sound echoing inside his skull and nicely drowning out any Human voice.
He’d underestimated the decibels available in a Human’s lungs. “IT’S DEAD!”
Meme paused in his croon, letting his folds unfurl slightly. “You’re sure?”
“Scans read null,” the scan-tech confirmed at a more reasonable volume. “Relax, Captain. Munesh is going to squeal a pulse about our claim while I collect as much data as possible.”
“ ‘Claim?’ ” Meme frowned.
“Sorry.” The Human turned an interesting pink hue. “Old habit. We operated a salvage operation—before the Dhryn. I meant, Munesh is notifying the other ships.”
Meme kept his toes close, away from the black hulk slowly spinning in front of him. “Is this—is it one of theirs?”
The Human pressed a control, studied the result, then stroked another. With that, a placid voice began to speak in Instella, the common tongue.
“This is an automated distress call from the freighter Uosanah, registered out of Cryssin Colony. Any ship receiving this message is required to render assistance under the provisions of the Interspecies Union. This is an automated distress call from the freighter Uosanah, registered out of Cryssin Colony. Any ship receiving this message is required to render assistance under the provisions of the Interspecies Union. This is—”
The Human lifted her hand from the control, silencing the voice, and turned to look at Meme. “Cryssin was a Dhryn colony. If this ship came to join the other Dhryn, why is it still here?”
“Ships break down all the time,” Meme replied with the innocent conviction of someone who had no idea how his oil warmer worked. “Probably junk they left behind.”
She shrugged. “The experts’ll check the logs.”
Feeling this s
ettled matters nicely, Meme stretched out his toes and stood, edging around the display the Human had left wheeling in front of his chair. It wasn’t easy. The bridge was cramped compared to where the navigator/pilot and com-tech worked. Meme often wondered why the captain’s chair was here instead of there. Likely a Human design flaw. The nearby galley, however, was most ample and their success deserved a celebration.
“Another contact, Captain,” the scan-tech said, interrupting Meme’s happy consideration of appropriate treats.
“One of the others, come to see our prize,” he guessed, flaring his folds triumphantly. “Who is it?” If it was Me’o, the Cey, there was a distinct possibility of young nerbly cheese. Its nip would go very well with—
“Not ours. Another drifter. Freighter. Dead like the first.”
The Ar considered two an alarming number, fraught as it was with change. And unresolvable arguments. Not that he’d lured a female into argument yet, but . . . “Are you sure?” Meme demanded. “Two? Check again.”
She did, then gave him a stranger look than usual. “You aren’t going to believe this,” she said. “I don’t believe this.”
Meme couldn’t imagine what a Human would find unbelievable—he had to ask. “What don’t you believe?”
“You’re right. There aren’t two.”
His aural folds spread with pride. “You see—”
“Captain. There must be dozens, maybe more, along this vector.” She put her hands flat on the console, then stood, turning to face him.
“We’re in a Dhryn graveyard.”
3
PROPOSAL AND PROMISE
THE INTERSPECIES CONSULATE for Sol System sat on a coast where mountains plunged into abyssal depths, part of a system of fjords that rivaled any on Earth for breathtaking beauty, in a country so remote from any other on Earth its residents were like a model for humanity within the IU itself: vaguely interested in what went on “outside,” but believing themselves both isolated and self-contained.
None of them had a right to believe any such thing, Mac fumed to herself, for once oblivious to the view from her ocean-side terrace.
Regeneration (Czerneda) Page 5
